Now:
He comes here every year, for reasons even he himself doesn't fully understand.
Sunnydale, CA.
A little pit of a town a few hours from Los Angeles. Every year, the present Slayer watches his little ritual, wondering at it, but never interfering. And every year, he thinks back, remembering what instigated this duty; not daring to consider why he feels it must be carried out...
Then: The Bronze.
Buffy could feel him watching her across the club. Even after all these years, no one else's gaze had ever had the ability to physically touch her in that way; sending shivers of heat across the delicate skin at the back of her neck. She turned, casually, to confirm his presence. Yes, over there, shadowed by the balcony of the clubs second level. He hadn't changed at all since she'd last seen him, but then, she supposed it hadn't really been all that long. Only five years since they'd sent Angel to Hell, years which seemed to her as long, heavy and hard as centuries.
*Spike.*
She watched him, as, realising he'd been spotted, he stalked out of the shadows. The tall blonde moved with the grace of a jungle cat, that sinuous gait which she'd later learned to identify with vampires. Under the harsh fluorescent strobe, the entire scene seemed slightly surreal, as he walked towards her; the strobe punctuating his movements with flashes of white light.
The battle-worn black leather trench, his faded dark jeans- even the red silk shirt- *Just the same* she mused, oddly rooted to the spot. Strange how a familiar face, after all these years, even that of a sometime enemy; was a welcome sight to her. His skin and hair glowed pale, cheekbones standing out in sharp sculptured relief, eyes dark holes in that paleness, the light enhancing the contrast between the two. A dream of a demon walking towards her.
He halted a metre or so away from the table, head cocked, as if gauging her reaction. She realised she ought to be feeling some sort of panic, battle-readiness perhaps, but her insides were dead calm. There had been nothing to feel, nothing to be excited about, since the day she'd woken to find herself alone.
No pain came with that thought, not anymore; just a strange dull ache, which, in her frozen state, she banished. She was the Slayer. She was the one who was supposed to die young, not Xander, or Willow...or even Giles...or Mom...the sharp pain of grief rocketed through her, then; but it was unreal, a ghostlike rememberance of loss.
So easy to lose herself thinking about those days, the friendship; back when fighting the monsters of the world was still an adventure. She raised her head, her eyes meeting Spike's dark gaze. He was a part of that world, and it no longer mattered to her whether he had been friend or foe. She needed him to take her back there. To make her forget, to let her rest...
The pulsating bass beat of the dance music had lessened, whether in her head, or truly; she refused to guess. A slower song than was usually played here had come on, the singers voice a deep male one, like dark syrup melting into her bones as the noise washed over her. Rising, she closed the few steps between them, then waited; allowing him to make the next move.
Lover, lover, goodbye,
So slowly goes the night.
I trace the print of your body with my hand,
Like the map of some forbidden land-
I trace the ghosts of your bones
With my trembling hand.
Spike studied the Slayer closely, as she stood before him. At first glance she appeared not to have changed much in the five years since he'd last seen her. Close-up though... Physically she was still the strong golden creature who'd been his nemesis. But in her eyes ... in her eyes he read only emptiness. Weariness and sorrow. Yet also the pride of one who has borne tragedies without breaking.
Once her gaze met his, he couldn't look away. Hers was a beguiling mixture of strength and vulnerability, those huge eyes staring at you, negating the knowledge in your own mind that she could break every bone in your body. Without thinking about it, he raised his hand, lightly tracing a line from her cheekbone to her chin, tips of his fingers tingling under the forbidden softness of her skin. He expected her to flinch away, but instead she leaned into his touch, setting his logical mind afire with questions he didn't want to consider right now. Ostensibly he'd come here to kill her, but now he found himself extending his hand to her, wordlessly inviting her to dance; as the slow bass rumble of the singers voice spiralled around them.
Dark is my night,
but darker is my day.
I must've been blind, out of my mind
not to read the warning signs.
How goes it?
It goes lonely, goes slowly...
He pulled her out onto the dance floor, and she slid easily into his arms, not a word spoken between them. She was hot almost to burning compared to his chill marble skin, and he was painfully aware of the softness of her; her breasts, pressing against his hard chest, her thighs resting against his, hips cradled together as they swayed to the music. Buffy slid her hands around his neck, under the trench, wanting to feel the smooth coolness of his skin against hers, pressing herself even closer, delighting in the hard musclature of his body, pressing against hers through their clothes. For an instant, the coolness of him reminded her of another vampire, another body she'd pressed herself against this way... but she discarded the thought quickly, as it threatened to take her back to a time when she'd still been alive inside. She wanted a little death, wanted Spike's cold hands all over her, to burn out the freezing ache inside her.
Spike shivered as her hands slipped beneath his shirt, her short nails scraping the skin of his shoulders. Though all his instincts were screaming at him to stop whatever game she was playing at, a much larger part of him recognised it, and her. Recognised the pain and desperation in her, remembering it's mirror in himself, years ago, when he had lost Druscilla. His hands caressed her back, sliding under the white cotton tank she wore, and he bent his head, breathing in the scent of her hair, lips trailing a line of fire across the curve of her cheek. She shuddered against him, and pulled her head away to capture his mouth with her own. They kissed hard and long, lips moving against each other, tongues duelling. She felt the tremor that ran through him, a soft growl, as she dragged her teeth over his bottom lip, and it mirrored the moan she made into his mouth as his did the same to her.
So slowly goes the night...
Ten lonely days, ten lonely nights,
I watch the moon get flayed anew,
until the moon becomes the skinning tool;
I send the skins of my sins out
to cover and comfort you.
She gasped at the sudden withdrawal, as he ended the kiss; but took his hand, realising his intent, as he walked them off the dancefloor and out the club's back entrance, his arm around her waist, holding her body snug against his as he did so.
The heat flooding her only increased in the seconds it took to reach the alley behind the Bronze, the full moon flooding in strongly here, it's pure white light so bright she could almost feel it on her skin. As Spike kicked the door shut behind him, she launched herself at him, needing to be as close as was physically possible, wanting the ice of him inside her, chilling her with its freezerburn, giving her its taste of death.
He responded with equal passion, shoving her up hard against the brick wall, the rough texture of the bricks at her back combining with the silkiness of his shirt to send her even wilder. Their lips met again with bruising intensity, thrusting tongues, sucking posessively. Feverishly, Buffy attempted to undo the buttons of his shirt, then, giving up, simply ripped it open, baring his lean-muscled body to her touch. She broke away from his mouth, licking her lips at the sight of the smooth paleness of his chest, bathed in the moonlight. Leaning forward she drew her mouth over his nipples, each in turn, nipping sharply; eliciting another purring, groaning growl of need from him.
Grasping her arms, he pulled her back up his body, feasting on the sight of her passion flushed face, her swollen lips. With one hand he grasped the front of her tank top, then pulled sharply, shredding it, leaving her clad only in a near-transparent bra, and her microscopic skirt. Her nipples were exquisite rosy nubs, visible through the thin material, and he leaned down, capturing one in his mouth, flicking it, teasing her with his tongue. Buffy moaned, her hands grasping at his head, keeping him there. Loving her whispers and moans, he pulled back for a second, ignoring her groan of protest, and tore away the thin nylon covering, leaving her bare for his touch.
Impatient for more, Buffy, hauled herself back up his body, crushing him to her, the heat of her naked breasts against his own bare chest arousing him beyond reason. Buffy felt much the same, his unnatural coolness whipping the fever under her own skin to even greater heights. Smoothly he lifted her against the wall, her legs coiling around his waist, her heated softness grinding against the hard pulsing length of him through the few barriers remaining between them.
As their eyes locked, passion darkened; she reached down between their bodies, caressing his hardness through the denim. He gasped airlessly, then buried his face at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, lips and teeth trailing hot kisses over her pulse points; even as his hands stole up the outside of her thighs, caressingly, teasingly slow, though such a pace was torturing him too.
Moaning in frustration, Buffy retaliated, her hand quickly releasing him from the confines of his jeans, closing over his silken rigidity. He shuddered against her as her small hand closed over him, drawing his hands further up her thighs to hook into the sides of her panties. Giving up all pretense of patience, she bucked against him, begging for that touch where she needed it most. Swiftly he ripped the last of the barriers between them away, his hardness rubbing against her wet cleft, making her moan in needy protest as he held off from entering her.
Instead one hand stole down from supporting her, between their bodies, to tease her, those long pale fingers stroking her from the inside, in her hot wetness, sending delicious shivers through her, her mind empty of all but this; and needing more...
"Please..."
It came as almost a shock to him to hear her voice, distorted with lust, loud in the quiet of the night air, filled only with the echo of music from the club, and the sounds of their bodies. Her plea echoed his own need though, and he entered her in one long smooth thrust, impaling her against the wall. Buffy cried out her pleasure, arching against him, legs locked around his waist. With no pretense at delicacy, they thrust together, hips arching to meet, ice and fire, each burning out of control, as they rocked together hard and fast. Lust-dark eyes meeting, wild.
"Spike!"
Her breathy shout of his name as he felt her convulse around him, climaxing, was enough to send him over the edge too, pleasure building, sending him spiralling out of control. As he came with a roar, demon to the fore, he buried his fangs in her neck, life flowing into him even as he was buried inside her.
Buffy leaned against the brick, surreally conscious of it's roughness on her skin. She could feel the moon on her, see it, dominating the sky behind Spike's head, as he fed on her. She smiled. So peaceful. She bathed in the languid glow of her orgasm, the final words of a song flitting through her head, remembered or heard, she didn't know; as a slow painless darkness, the endless sleep she'd expected from his kiss; encroached on her.
...Where it's lonely,
and black as the night,
come back, darling and put things right.
I hang my head and cry, darling, all night I try...
to cease on a reason for this mad, mad season.
The nights, they are so long now,
I can't remember it being light...
Finally coming back to himself, Spike gazed down at the Slayer, still cradled in his arms. His third slayer, now. Surely he should be feeling a little more jubilant? But no. Instead, all he felt was a strange undefiniable sense of loss. A feeling he didn't want to admit, even to himself. So he stood there, holding her body and stroking her hair; watching the way the moonlight lit up her dead face. There was only one ending to his games, and she'd known it all along. Still... a fragment of music caught his ear, telling him more than he wanted to know...
Call it sleep, call it death, call it what you like-
but only sleep, dear,
only sleep brings you back to life.
Now:
And so he stood at her grave, unsure of exactly what he was doing there, knowing only that it was something he had to do. He dropped the single scarlet blossom over her headstone, telling himself he left it as a tribute to a worthy opponent, refusing to consider anything else. And this year, as every year, the final lines played through his head:
The nights, they are so long now, and only sleep brings you back to life.
Only sleep brings you back to life.
~finis~
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