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‘Awakenings’ is Part Two of a multi-part series, ‘Journeys’ and follows ‘Promise to a Lady’. If you’ve not yet read that, you probably should, or parts of this as well as future parts may well confuse you. Some plot points from early Season 6, even some scenes, and an occasional direct line of dialogue, have been downright stolen by me and incorporated into ‘Awakenings’. I hope I’ve kept this to a minimum, but I’m sure there will be occasional eyebrow raising among readers, especially during Chapter One. A longer note from me following that chapter explains my reasoning in a little more depth, if anyone is remotely interested.
‘Journeys’ has angst, sex, blood play, and the occasional very bad word. Most of all, it has, I hope, love. However, the adult nature of this story does give it an overall rating of NC-17.
Feedback will not necessarily make the chapters appear any faster, but I’ve found it does inspire me to keep plugging away, and it is lovely to receive. In other words, please send. My e-mail address is: MKStatz@aol.com.
I’m going to try to continue to post at a sedate pace until I’ve completely finished the story. Then – watch out – because I promise I’ll be sending out chapters much more quickly.
Joss Whedon, ME, UPN, WB, blah, blah, blah...The television programs, Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel and all of the characters appearing in them belong to someone other than me. If they belonged to me, I’d – well, read and find out.
BY starlight and candle-light and dreamlight
She comes to me.
Screaming pain.
Wrenched away. Torn apart. Torn out.
No, no, no. Please. Please.
What? What?
Black.
Night.
Too black.
The complete absence of light.
Something soft, smooth.
Damp, musty smell.
Close.
Too close.
Too close, too close, too close. Too tight, can’t move,
can’t breathe, can’t see.
Trapped. Trapped.
Terror.
Devastating, uncontrollable terror. Terror so
overwhelming, so crippling in its intensity that thought was impossible. There
was only blind instinct. Push, punch, fight, claw.
Imprisoned.
Nails breaking, tearing away, wetness, blood.
Can’t breathe, can’t…breathe.
No air.
Dirt. Rocks, Falling. Into her face. Scream. Scream.
What? Where?
Why?
Why? Why?
Help me. Help me. Help me.
Oh help me. Please, please, help me…
Dirt in her mouth, filling her mouth.
Punch, claw, tear, rip, push.
Too much dirt. Too much. Falling on her. Covering her.
Burying her.
Can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t breathe.
Trapped. Imprisoned. Terror. Terror.
Buried, buried. No, No, please. Help me.
Reach. Which way? Where?
Out, out, out. Reach. Higher, harder.
Help me...
Please help me. Oh, please, please.
Air. There – air.
Air.
Breathe. Breathe.
Why? Why?
Gone. Lost. Oh, god, the loss. It was screaming through
every cell of her body.
And terror. Suffocating, soul destroying terror.
Terror that would haunt her for the rest of her – life.
~*~
Across town, at the base of an unstable tower, a small figure twitched.
It was dark. At
first he was so relieved to be out of the blinding light he’d been trapped in
that he only felt thankful. Until he realized why it was so dark.
He was blind.
And in pain.
Moving carefully, he guessed that about half the bones in his body were broken.
He used his long
dormant powers to take stock of his surroundings. He was somewhere familiar,
somewhere still humming with latent power. Ah, yes, the tower. The site of what
should have been his greatest victory, and had instead been witness to his most
ignominious defeat.
With painful
slowness he pulled his broken body across the rough ground until he came up
against something hard. Brick. A wall. Good enough. He would stay there,
huddled amid the general rubble and let his bones mend.
And he would plan.
~*~
She was scared. Really, really scared.
Spike had left her here, tucked safely out of sight.
He’d handed her a stake and a knife, and told her not to move, not to breathe.
He’d come right back. Two or three minutes. No more.
Don’t move. Don’t breathe.
Stay.
What kind of demons were those? They were awful.
Really scary. And totally gross.
Oh god, oh god, oh god.
Hurry up, Spike. Hurry up.
There was a noise. She froze. She hadn’t moved a
muscle since Spike left, but she still froze, and the fear increased in
intensity, making her nauseous. She swallowed. Just take a deep breath. Oh, eeeww. So, okay, don’t take a deep
breath. Don’t breathe at all.
Oh, god.
Right there. It was right there. Just on the other
side of those garbage cans.
Right there.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Spike. Please
come. Please, please, please.
Save me.
Another noise.
A – sob?
Or, maybe – a moan?
Her eyes flew open. Was someone in danger? Had those
– things – hurt someone? Did someone
need help? How could she help? She was only fifteen! How could she –? How?
Her sister had been saving the world when she was
fifteen.
That’s different. She was the Slayer. Superpowers,
remember? You’re just a – well, a mystical blob of energy. But you don’t have
any special powers – at least none that you know of, or know how to use. And
how unfair was that, anyway? She bet if she knew how to control them, she would
have really cool powers, like, um, flying, or laser beam eyes, or breathing new
life into things with her golden breath, or mind reading, or something even
better that could totally save the world, and not have anything to do with
destroying it.
Don’t, Dawn! She yelled at herself, silently,
pushing away thoughts of her unknown past with Glory.
You’re not evil, you’re not evil, you’re not evil.
Even chanting it didn’t always help much.
Just focus, focus.
Couldn’t she at least have some kind of power that
could get her out of this alley and safely home? That whole flying thing would
be really handy to have right now.
Don’t be so bloody stupid! You don’t need any
superpowers. Just wait for Spike. And if someone is in trouble just a few feet
away from you, all you have to do is pull them in here with you ‘til Spike gets
back to save both of you. And you don’t need any lame-o superpowers for that!
Who was putting all these rescuey thoughts in her
head, anyway? And could she please make them stop doing it? Right now?
She peeked out. Nothing, nothing – oh, there. A
foot. Two feet. You’re laying on the ground in an alley. What did you think you
were going to see? Feet. Little feet. Like size four and a half or five or
something. Tiny feet wearing – wearing the same black shoes that Buffy had been
wearing when they’d buried her.
Dawn squeezed her eyes shut again, then reopened
them. There was another muffled sound, and – oh god, oh god, oh god.
It was Buffy.
Her dead sister had squatted down, huddling against
the wall not five feet from her, and Dawn could see her clearly. She’d never
seen that abjectly terrified and lost look on her sister’s face before, but it
was still her.
Buffy.
How could it possibly be Buffy? It couldn’t be,
could it?
Could it?
Get a grip, Dawn, she told herself. It’s not like
anything weird ever happens in your bizarro little corner of the world! You’re
the poster child for Anything-But-Normal.
But still, it couldn’t really be Buffy… Could it?
Dawn stared. Shoes, stockings, dress. She’d chosen
them herself. She should know.
Her sister glanced up, their eyes met, and Dawn knew.
Buffy.
Oh, god, it really was Buffy.
She heard the roar of a motorcycle, the yelling of
those demon bikers. They were coming closer. Spike wasn’t back yet. And Buffy
was not hidden. Oh god, oh god. She didn’t have time to think about the utter
impossibilities of the situation. She didn’t even know how she’d kept herself
from crying out when she’d recognized her sister.
Help me, help me, help me.
I can’t do this. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.
Please, oh-Great-and-Powerful-Inner-Conscience,
don’t make me. Don’t…
Just do it – go! Now!
Dawn darted out from her hiding place, grabbed her
apparently no-longer-dead sister’s hand and raced back into the movie theater
she and Spike had come out of not fifteen minutes ago, pulling an
uncommunicative Buffy along with her.
~*~
She heard the door slam shut, followed immediately
by Spike’s frantic voice calling for her.
“Dawn! Dawn!”
Oh god, she thought, he was sooo gonna die. He’d
been so – she was almost afraid of what his reaction would be. She needed to
warn him, prepare him.
“Stay here,” she said to Buffy. They’d found another
exit from the movie theater, and come straight home, avoiding the areas of town
that seemed to be under attack. Buffy hadn’t said a single word yet, not one,
and Dawn was starting to get a little freaked about that, about her. Could
she talk? Was she –? She was fine, fine.
Dawn couldn’t let herself think anything else. She couldn’t. “I’ll be right
back.”
As she dashed down the stairs, she could hear Spike
tearing through the downstairs rooms, calling for her. They almost collided at
the foot of the stairs as he rounded the corner from the dining room.
“I’m here” she assured him. “I’m okay!”
She wrapped her arms around him before he could even
speak, hugging him tightly to give him the reassurance she knew he would be
craving.
“Thank god,” he almost moaned into her hair, hugging
her back with more strength than he usually used.
She squeaked in protest, and he loosened his grip.
He kissed the top of her and released her, and she cringed as his face changed
from terrified relief to terrifying fury.
“I bloody well told you to stay put! Where the hell
did you go?”
“Spike.” Dawn tried to calm him.
“Don’t you ever pull a stunt like that again.”
“Spike.”
“Do you hear me? Do you know what I thought when I
couldn’t find you? Have you got any bleedin’ clue, you stupid bint?”
Oh-oh. He was calling her names. That was never a
good sign.
“Spike, please.”
He took a great shuddering breath and ran his hands
through his hair. She watched him, waiting, as he tried to bring himself under
control. She knew he must have been scared – okay, maybe more than scared – to
come back to the place he’d told her to stay, and to not find her.
“You wanna explain yourself?” he asked. “Now?”
His grating tone of voice told her he was still majorly pissed at her, but at
least he didn’t have that scary ‘I’m
gonna tear your head off!’ look on his face anymore, and she sighed inwardly
in relief. Sometimes she still wasn’t positive he’d be able to control his
temper. She trusted him, yeah, but still… Once he’d told her that controlling
himself, and holding onto his temper, after 120 years of not caring about doing
either of those things, was bloody hard. He had to work on it all the
time.
“Spike – I have to tell you something. Something
important. I want you to promise me you’ll stay calm.” Her blue eyes locked on
his. “Will you promise me?”
His eyes narrowed on her, and he seemed to be
absorbing her serious tone. He took another deep breath. “What is it, pet?”
“It’s something good,” she began, then smiled, and
her eyes lit up. “It’s something wonderful. It’s –” she broke off when his eyes
left hers. He’d caught a movement on the stairs out of the corner of his eye,
and, still on edge from his earlier fear, he did that whole protective thing
and shoved her behind him as his body pivoted in the direction of the movement,
poised to attack.
He froze.
Even though he was no longer looking at her, Dawn
tried a shaky smile, her eyes imploring him to stay calm, to see, to
understand. She touched his arm lightly, a familiar touch of support and
friendship. Just to let him know she was there. She moved to stand beside him
again.
He didn’t seem to move or react in any way at all
for a period of time that was probably very short, but seemed to drag out
endlessly. Then the completely stunned expression on his face changed, and his
features went soft as he tipped his head back and gazed up at her sister.
His lips moved, just a little, the merest shift of position, but no sound emerged.
Dawn looked from her sister to her best friend.
Buffy was still and silent, her face expressionless, and her eyes large and
dark. She was as pale as Spike. Spike looked – well, he still looked stunned,
and something more. Awed, maybe. His face was full of a kind of disbelieving
wonder, and even under these very weird circumstances, Dawn knew that, someday,
she wanted a guy, the guy, to look at her like that. After a minute or
so, she broke the silence.
“She's kind of – She’s been through a lot, with the...death. But she’s gonna be okay. I’m sure of it. She’ll be okay.” Dawn tried to reassure both of them. Maybe Buffy, too.
He said nothing. His head had tilted slightly to his left, and his eyes were... Oh god, she’d never be able to describe the look in them.
~*~
“Spike? Are you okay?”
Dawn was talking to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that her lips were moving, and he heard sounds. He couldn’t interpret them, but…
Spike?”
He tried to pull his mind together, and absorb – this. “I'm... what did you do?”
“Me?
Nothing!” Dawn sounded defensive.
His
expression changed, and he nodded toward Buffy.
“Her
hands.”
“I
was gonna fix 'em. I don't know how they got like that.”
He
knew. Oh god, he knew.
“I
do. Clawed her way out of her coffin, that's how.” He met Buffy’s eyes. “Isn't
that right?”
Buffy’s
expression hardly changed, but she pushed her hands behind her back as if she
was trying to hide them from him, from them. From herself.
“Yeah.
That’s what I had to do.”
She’d
spoken.
O!
Speak again, bright angel!
“’ve
done it myself.”
He
couldn’t take his eyes off her. He couldn’t.
His
Slayer.
Alive.
Awe,
yes. Wonder, yes. Unutterable joy.
This
– oh god, this is too – it’s too... He couldn’t even call it happiness.
Either it wasn’t there yet, or it had gone so far beyond that simple emotion
that there weren’t even words…
Alive.
“We'll
take care of you. C'mere ...”
She
moved toward him, and he turned, his body silently directing her into the
living room. His hand hovered just over her shoulder, but he didn’t touch her.
He didn’t know if he could. His mind was operating on an entirely new and
unfamiliar level, but he thought he might be afraid to touch her. For just a moment he remembered the night in
the training room of the magic shop when he’d thought the bot was Buffy. If he
touched her now, would he discover again that she wasn’t real? He knew she was.
Knew it. He could smell her, hear her heart, the flow of her blood through
her veins, but the fear still ripped through him. What if…? He didn’t think he
could live through that again.
He
was pretty bleedin’ sure he couldn’t. If he hadn’t had
that vision in his Slayer’s bedroom that night, if she hadn’t told him she
needed him, that she was counting on him, made him give his word again to watch
out for the bit, he didn’t think he’d’ve been able to force himself through one
more empty day.
He
spoke to Dawn, but his eyes never left his Slayer.
“Get
some stuff, bit. Basin of water, mercurochrome, some bandages.”
“'Okay.”
Buffy
sat down on the sofa, and he sat on the ottoman, facing her. He was never going
to stop looking at her.
Alive.
His
Slayer was alive.
She
offered him her hands and, offered them, he instinctively accepted them.
He
could touch her.
For
a second he closed his eyes, feeling a warm glow where his flesh touched hers.
It seemed to momentarily soothe his fears. He gazed at the bloodied hands, the
broken knuckles, the torn fingernails, before his eyes returned again to her
face.
He
was touching her.
Touching
her. Her hands.
Buffy’s
hands.
His
Slayer was alive.
Alive.
His
eyes were on her face, riveted. Her face. She was here. Alive. And he was touching
her. Her hands were resting lightly in his. He could feel their warmth, the
living flesh.
Buffy.
“How
long was I gone?”
He
opened his mouth, and words came out.
“Hundred
forty-seven days yesterday... um, a hundred forty-eight today. 'Cept today
doesn't count, does it?” He looked at
their joined hands. A hundred and forty-eight days. One for every year he’d
existed, living or undead. The last hundred and forty-eight days had seemed
longer than the entire one hundred and forty-eight years. His eyes came back to
her face. “How long was it for you...where you were?”
Her
eyelids dropped. “Longer,” she murmured, before lifting her eyes to meet his
again.
Dawn
returned with a small basin of water, a cloth, and some medical supplies.
“Got the stuff.”
She knelt on the
floor next to them. Together, carefully, they began to clean Buffy’s hands.
Dawn offered the occasional comment, her tone young and nervous, but trying
very hard to be soothing, and other than those few words, none of them spoke.
~*~
There was noise
and voices, and too many people talking at once. He wasn’t taking it in. He
wasn’t comprehending it, them, this. None of it.
Since he’d
returned to the alleyway where he’d hidden Dawn while he went to steal a
motorbike in order to get them safely out of harm’s way, only to find her gone,
he wasn’t sure if he was really comprehending anything. And certainly not
Buffy, or this…
They’d known.
They’d done this.
They’d brought her
back.
They’d brought her
back.
They’d done some
spell. Willow had done some spell, and they’d brought her back.
And they’d left
her in the ground to claw her way out of her own coffin.
The dark. The
terror. Had she felt it?
Oh god. Of course
she had. He could still feel it.
One hundred and
twenty one years had passed, and he could still feel it.
“What did you do?”
he spoke, finally, his voice so quiet it was lost in the rabble of sound
filling the room.
They’d come in the
door, their faces drawn and stressed, and come face to face with Buffy. They
were clearly shocked, and at first he’d thought they hadn’t had anything to do
with her resurrection either. But their excitement and their babbling words had
soon disabused him of that notion.
They’d done this.
They’d grabbed at
her, hugging and squeezing her, voices going on and on, raised in excited
pitch, ignoring or not noticing that his Slayer was practically cringing away
from them.
He’d wanted to
tear her away from them, but it was Dawn who had rightly jumped in to defend
her big sis, insisting the others back away. She’d then guided a still silent
Buffy upstairs, where, she announced, she was going to put her sister to bed.
The gang hadn’t
stopped blithering on since, and he could make out more of the words now.
“Yes, she was quiet. Well, um, silent. She was probably tired. Or in shock. Oh, god, Willow, you did it! Remember how she’d described Angel’s behavior? We’re lucky she wasn’t clawing at us in feral mindlessness. She seemed okay. She would soon be back to normal. Willow, you were amazing – and really, really scary...Jet lag from hell. I did it. I got her out. This is wonderful. We did it. Pulled her out of hell. Saved her. Thank god, thank god. She’s back. She’s tired, and okay, she hadn’t said anything, and she seemed sorta shocky, but she’s back. She’ll be fine. A few days, a few weeks, maybe… Does anyone want pizza?”
He thought he was
going to explode.
“What did you do?”
It wasn’t a shout, but it was louder than his previous attempt, and the dark,
dangerous tone caught everyone’s attention.
They all turned to
him.
“A spell.”
Willow’s voice was still wildly excited. “I did a spell! Can you believe it?
Spike, she’s back. She’s back! I did it!” She took a few steps toward him,
smiling, and he could see she wanted him to share her excitement. “Isn’t it
wonderful, Spike? I got her back! Our Buffy!”
He looked at them
all. Willow’s grin, Anya’s bright eyes, Xander’s semi-happy, semi-sneering
expression. Even Tara was smiling her quiet, shy smile.
“Why did you leave
her?” he asked hoarsely. “Why did you leave her in the ground, alone?”
“In the ground?”
Xander asked. “What do you mean?”
“She had to claw
her way out of her own coffin, you stupid prats! You lot obviously planned this
all out, and if you were doing the soddin’ spell, then where the hell were you?
How could you leave her like that?”
There was gasping,
and shocked denials, and he wanted to scream at them for their carelessness,
their stupidity. Had they even been near her grave? Didn’t they know she was
most likely to return through her mortal remains? Wasn’t that common bloody
knowledge?
“Her hands,
they’re... That’s why they were bandaged,” Xander muttered. “Oh, god.”
Their excitement
dissolved into horror and guilt.
Spike forced
himself not to say more. He was far from sure of his ability to control himself
right now, and if he started shouting at them, Buffy would be disturbed.
“We d-didn’t know,
Spike,” Tara told him quietly. “We thought the spell had failed, and didn’t
realize we were wrong until we came in the door and found her here. We never
w-w-would have... left her grave, never would have left – her.”
“Well, I would
have,” Anya admitted without remorse. “Those demon bikers showed up, and they’d
have chopped us into tiny little pieces if we hadn’t run like gazelles. We
wouldn’t have been much help to Buffy after that, if you ask me.”
“Ahn…”
“What? It’s true!”
Anya was often a little more logical than some of the others.
Xander looked like
he might be physically ill at any moment. “I know it must have been bad. Okay,”
he amended off of Spike’s look. “Worse than bad. But it couldn’t’ve been worse
than what she was going through in some hell dimension.” His eyes met Spike’s.
“Right? I mean, this is really bad, but we got her back. She’s here with us,
alive again, and we have to focus on that. We can’t change how she came out,
but we can be grateful she did, right?” He looked around at the others,
seemingly seeking their agreement, before looking back at Spike. “Don’t try to
tell me this isn’t the best night of your entire existence, Spike.”
Spike looked at
them all again. They’d brought her back. He should be grateful. He just
hoped...
“Magic,” he said
quietly. “The thing is – with magic there’re always consequences. Always.”
When he went out
the door, no one tried to stop him, and no one called after him.
~*~
Spike sat silently on the roof, smoke curling around his
head from the burning cigarette he held loosely in his left hand. He’d spent
more than 120 years in the dark, and he still loved the sounds of the night.
But tonight he didn’t listen to the calls of the various birds that hunted
after dark, didn’t hear the chirping of crickets, which he normally found so
soothing. The cool, welcoming night air he’d loved even when he was alive made
no impact on him tonight. Unlike some vampires, he rarely missed the sun. There
was always much more to see in the night sky. Things he was blind to tonight.
Daylight was the not the kind of light he craved. The
light he craved lay just inside the windows of the two rooms he sat between.
He heard Dawn shift in her bed, heard her breathing
change slightly, and his body tensed as he listened for any sounds of distress.
None came, and her breathing evened out again. Buffy’s breathing was different,
and he knew she lay awake in her bed, unable to sleep. Perhaps there would be
no nightmares tonight, no need to go to either of them and offer comfort, as he
had so often with Dawn these past months.
But he remained in place, just outside their windows.
Guarding them, keeping watch, being there. Just in case either one of them
needed him.
~*~
Silent tears made tracks down sharply angled cheekbones.
Alive.
His Slayer was alive.
~*~
He was sitting on
the floor in front of the leather sofa he and Dawn had nicked from the mansion,
one knee drawn up, when she came in.
He’d been there a
good part of the day, torn between wanting to get dead drunk and wanting to
stay completely sober so that he could keep his mind focused clearly on the
fact that his Slayer was alive.
He’d hardly moved.
He was afraid hysteria was bubbling just under the surface, and he hoped that
by staying very still, he could avert it.
He’d had so many
dreams, so many visions, so many nightmares since her death that he wasn’t yet
sure if he could really believe last night’s events. They had seemed real, had
felt real; but so had a lot of the waking visions he’d had, so had so many of
the dreams.
He didn’t even
know for sure if he could separate fantasy from reality anymore.
She didn’t say
anything. She came in and sat down on the floor only a short distance from him,
facing him. She drew up both knees, wrapped her arms around them, and met his
eyes without speaking. Her eyes were wide and dark. They didn’t look hazel
anymore, and he missed the flashes of green and golden brown. They looked huge,
though; far too big for her face, and empty, the way they’d looked last night
as she stood on the stairs.
Looking at her now
didn’t really seem to be doing much to convince him she was real.
He opened his
mouth to say something, anything, and couldn’t. No sound came out.
Did she blame him?
Of course she did. She must. And why wouldn’t she? It was his fault, after all.
He pushed a hand into his hair, and lowered his head, unable to meet that
silent gaze. He’d been repeating that motion – pushing his hands into his hair
– fairly often during the day, and the blond strands were wildly disarrayed
now, standing up in short spikes and tight curls.
He wanted to cry
or scream. He wanted to fall on her, and feel her body against his, under his,
moving. Just moving. Alive. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and
bury his face against her throat, her breast. To sob out his relief that she
was here. Alive. To tell her of his
joy, his pain. To beg her forgiveness.
He so desperately
wanted, needed, to touch her.
And he couldn’t
even say her name.
So he just sat
there, only a few feet from her, staring at the floor between his legs, his
hand resting on the back of his head. He was so afraid of what he’d see in
those eyes if he looked into them again. He’d never felt fear like this before,
not in life or death. Fear mixed with sorrow, and guilt, and pain. He should
have known only she would ever be able to affect him this way. Almost since the
night he’d first stalked her at the Bronze, she’d had the ability to send his
emotions ricocheting in half a dozen different directions at once.
Neither one of
them spoke.
Long, silent
minutes passed. The only sound came from the electronic hum of the
refrigerator. The silence stretched out and out and out.
Finally, he took a
deep breath and raised his head, meeting her eyes. They were still focused on
him, and he had the impression they’d never left him since she’d entered the
crypt.
Waiting, he
thought. She was waiting.
When he spoke at
last, his voice was quiet, the tone somber and heartfelt.
“I do remember
what I said. The promise. To protect her. If I'd done that ... even if I didn't
make it, you wouldn't've had to jump.” He paused, swallowing. “I want you to
know I did save you. Not when it counted, of course. But after that. Every night after that. I'd see it all
again, do something different. Faster or more clever, you know? Dozens of times,
lots of different ways ... “His voice was still steady, and he wondered
somewhat that it hadn’t broken yet. It faded into a whisper, “Every night I
save you...”
She said nothing.
His body had tightened up a little, in anticipation. Of what? Blows, maybe –
physical, verbal, emotional. He felt sure they would be coming. But she
remained silent, and still. After a time, he realized she wasn’t going to
launch any sort of attack, and some of the tension left his body.
They continued to
sit there in silence, and as it lengthened, it somehow grew more comfortable.
Why had she come
here, he wondered? He’d thought she was going to accuse him of failing her, as
he knew he’d done, or perhaps... He wasn’t sure. But he’d been sitting there
all day, as if... Almost as if he was waiting for her, as if he’d known she
would appear.
His eyes were on
her again, touching on her hair, her face, her body. He was listening to her,
too. Listening to the beat of her heart, the soft in and out of her steady
breathing. Sounds he’d heard in a thousand dreams and visions. Sounds he’d
longed for. Sounds he’d been so sure he would never hear again.
“We
could sit on the furniture if you’d like,” he said at last. “The bit and
I redecorated. The downstairs, too. It’s quite posh.”
Her
eyes didn’t move about the room in exploration as he’d thought they might do.
Nor had she been distracted by his words, as he’d hoped. He waited, then spoke
very softly.
“Buffy?
Slayer? If you're in – if you're in pain. Or if you need anything... If I can
help you... I don’t know where you were, or what happened to you while you were
– gone. But if you’re in pain now... If you need me...”
“I
was happy.”
The
simple words fell into the room, softly spoken, but they felt heavy and hard.
“Wherever
I – was – I was happy. At peace. I knew that those I’d left behind were all
right. At least…” she frowned, looking slightly puzzled. Then the frown
smoothed out. “Yes, I knew it. Time was different – it didn't pass in the same
way, and nothing had form... But I was still me, you know? And I was warm and I
was loved... and I was finished. Complete.
“I
don't understand about dimensions or theology or any of... but I think I was in
heaven.”
Spike’s
eyes stayed on her, his face betraying his concern.
“And
now I'm not.”
“Buffy
–”
“I was torn out of there. I was there, where I belonged, and then I… wasn’t. They pulled me out. Them – my – friends. They think they pulled me out of hell, but…” She looked at him, her eyes full of questions and pain, and confusion.
“And I – I think something got pulled out of me… I don’t know what, but I feel like something is missing, and,” her voice dropped to a pained whisper. “And I think it might be something I need. Everything is all… I can’t seem to – I can’t seem to…”
Her
eyes slid away from his, and she fell silent. Perhaps she felt she’d said
enough, maybe too much, but he had so many questions… Spike stared at her. He’d
never felt torn this way. She sounded so lost that he could barely feel
anything but pain for her. Yet, at the same time, he was glad she hadn’t been
in some hell dimension, undergoing who knew what forms of physical, mental and
emotional torture.
A
variety of emotions continued to rocket through him, and underlying them all
was a desperate rapture that she was back, that she was here, alive. And that now, at this moment, she was
physically close to him.
He
waited to see if she’d say more. When she didn’t, he moved at last, pushing
himself across the floor to sit close to her. He reached over and took one of
her hands in his. Head bowed, he brought it to his mouth and pressed a
lingering kiss to her palm. He said nothing, just sat there beside her,
offering her what little comfort he could with his closeness. Several minutes
later, she laid her head on his shoulder, and a little sigh went through her
body.
“I
can’t – they can’t know. I can’t tell them. Not yet.” Her head moved, and she
glanced into his eyes. “And you won’t, will you? Please?”
Of course she’d
think of protecting her friends, even if they bloody well didn’t deserve it.
She was still the soddin’ Slayer, wasn’t she?
He hesitated, but
at the appeal in her eyes, he nodded reluctantly, saying nothing. He wasn’t
gonna argue the point with her right now.
Her head fell back
onto his shoulder. Her hand stayed in his.
Spike pushed his
concerns down, forcing them out of his head. For now. Instead, he
allowed himself to enjoy – sensation. His eyes closed. His Slayer’s hand was in
his. Warm, living flesh. The softness of her hair brushed his cheek. He
listened to her, to the sounds of her living body, filled his nostrils with her
scent.
Warmth flowed
through him.
Buffy.
~*~
His bones had
healed. It had only taken a matter of days, and he was pleased by that. His
powers were still strong.
Better yet, it
seemed the blindness was not going to be permanent. He was able to make his way
to an abandoned building where his eyes and his body could continue to heal.
And where he could
continue to plan.
He still needed
the key. Glory had been destroyed, but there were two others, each just as
powerful, and just as hungry for destruction. The others had had disagreements
with the volatile Glory over execution, disrupting the flow of destiny, but the
multi-dimensional reign of horror and terror they’d all envisioned nearly two
thousand years ago could still be made reality. All he needed was some time to
prepare, to research. He needed to know just when the next alignment would
occur, and the next ceremony could be performed.
And the key.
He would need that
little girl. It was nothing personal. Just necessary.
But her guardian –
the Slayer. That was different. That was personal. The bitch had jumped. Right
into the portal, pulling him in with her. He didn’t know what had happened to
her. But he did know, that in the hundreds of years he had spent trapped in the
blinding light of the portal, twisting in agonizing pain, he hadn’t once sensed
her presence. And he’d had far too much time to think about that, and to
contemplate what he would do to her if he ever met up with her again.
When he’d heard
the magic, felt the powerful forces summoned by the words being spoken, he’d
known his time in the portal was almost over. And he’d felt the power of the
forces summoned flood him, altering his already fearsome strengths, and giving
him knowledge he hadn’t previously possessed. Knowledge it would be quite
valuable to have. His mind had gone on full alert. And just before his broken
body had been dropped unceremoniously onto the ground near the tower, he’d
sensed the Slayer’s presence, had smelled the unforgettable scent of her
strong, warrior’s soul.
She had been
somewhere nearby.
He had learned
patience over the nearly 3000 years of his existence. He could wait.
He’d let the Slayer
continue to protect the key, his
key now, until he was ready to use it. Then he would take his key, and the
Slayer would pay for what she had put him through.
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