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Annie Sewell-Jennings
E-MAIL: Auralissa@aol.com
SUMMARY: After the world is destroyed by nuclear apocalypse, Buffy and Spike meet up in Australia for what may be the last summer on Earth. Buffy/Spike
RATING: NC-17
SPOILERS: Post-"Restless"
Author's site: http://geocities.com/anniesjennings/index.html
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story was inspired by the story of "On the Beach" by Nevil Shute, as well as the updated version of the story as soon on Showtime, starring Armand Assante, Rachel Ward and Bryan Brown. The film is poignant, exquisitely shot, and subtly moving, as it displays the end of humanity in a very calm and remarkable way. I can't stop thinking about the movie. I dream about it. I contemplate it. I fear its possibilities. And I am inspired by it.
Thanks to Phillip-Morris, the unwitting sponsors of this work. Without my Marlboros, I don't know where I'd be. <plug plug> Also thanks to Alanna, for making me read "Iolokus" (XF genre by MustangSally and RivkaT, and a truly inspired piece of work) and therefore helping me acquire the bitterness that inspired Buffy and Spike's dysfunctional relationship in this piece. The Mooselet will always kick ass. Most of all, thank you Heather, for keeping me on the right track and keeping me writing this story, no matter what reservations I may have had about writing two fics inspired by the same film. This one is the fleshed-out version of what I truly wanted to write, and I'm glad that I could take the time to write this story in the way I wanted to write it.
Her hair moved as though it were a live being, consuming her,
flashing around her face, writhing like multicolored snakes as
she danced. Blue threads fell in her eyes as she slowly dipped
her head back, eyes closed in the lull of melody and breathless
soprano, hips swaying hypnotically back and forth, hands
stretched up towards the ceiling in a pulsing flash of color and
light. Dark cranberry leather pants rode low on her slender hips,
and a matching leather top that revealed her bejeweled belly
button clung tightly to the curve of her breasts. She was decked
out in her usual massive amounts of jewelry, beaded bracelets and
plastic necklaces, her skin dusted with a glittery lotion that
smelled like boysenberries, and her hair was wild around her face
in its long multicolored locks. Heavy eyeliner hid her eyes from
the world as she danced, and the sound of Portishead filled the
club.
"Cause nobody loves me, it's true... Not like you do..."
The glass filled with scotch was cool against his hand, never
warming because of his own cold skin, and he slugged back his
drink, mulling over the alcohol and the girl all at once. She
danced alone, slender limbs flashing in the lights, and she
looked excruciatingly exquisite. The belly button piercing that
she had gotten accentuated the slender perfection of her taut
abdomen, and he'd watched as she'd done it, even when she'd
punched him for smiling during her pain. Odd, how the world could
be ending and yet there were still tattoo artists and piercing
parlors doing good business. Perhaps permanence wasn't so
permanent anymore.
It was why she'd gotten the small circlet of thorns tattooed into
the small of her back, after all. The ink was still fresh and
raw, plain and black, but the small crown that forever made her
the failed martyr was visible in the low pants and leather
midriff. She'd made it sparkle tonight, bidding him to rub the
glitter over the small of her back, and he'd acquiesced. Now his
hands smelled of boysenberries and Buffy, and the faintest whiff
of cigarettes. The tattoo shimmered along with her hair, and her
fingernails were like molten cranberries.
He watched her and thought that he was insane for living with
her.
They'd returned to the warehouses out of boredom, out of the
acknowledgement that there was nothing better to do, and only one
thing had changed since her last visit - she was with him.
Neither one of them talked about it, not wanting to admit it or
confront it, but they both knew that neither one of them was here
for anyone else anymore. She wouldn't revert to her pattern of
fucking randomly, and Spike wasn't interested in picking up some
young girl to shag and drink. They worked well together, in their
dysfunctional function, and they were enough to make each other
feel.
It was better to hate her than to be empty.
She had wanted to dance; he had nothing better to do. So he
claimed an ashtray and sat on the end of the bar, watching her
dance, watching her hair move. She had told him about the first
time she had dyed it, how she had painstakingly tried to cover
her old self in case anyone looked for her once her plane landed
in Sydney. She'd also told him of going to the warehouses for the
first time after arriving in Melbourne, of finding a torn flyer
on the street and seeking escape from the pressures of the world.
She had told him everything, confessed her sins, and Spike
refused to redeem her. Even if he knew a way, he wouldn't.
They worked better if they were both destroyed.
His freshly polished nails tapped the glass thoughtfully, and
Spike watched her, the silent figure alone on the dance floor,
dancing with a sensuality that radiated from every pore of her
lithe, leather-clad body. What they'd had between them in the
beginning was merely sex, and yet it had evolved into an odd
relationship of fighting, chain-smoking, passion and an odd sort
of understanding. She was coming alive, different from who she
had been in Sunnydale, and yet different from the girl he had
seen slowly numbing herself at the bar almost two weeks ago. He
refused to love her, and she refused to love him back, but the
fact was that he loved irritating her, loved provoking her and
annoying her, and loved being irritated and provoked by her.
It would do until the world was over.
Slowly, her head lifted upward, her eyes glinting at him
dangerously underneath layers of heavy eyeliner and glittering
eye shadow, like sparkling jewels, and she put her hands on her
hips, fingers dipping underneath the waistband of the leather
pants that hung low on her slender hips. Amber eyebrow arched
provocatively, Buffy smiled at him invitingly, shrugging her
shoulders from side to side, her mouth glossed and breathless as
she crooked one finger at him, the carmine nails glistening like
flames in the dark red lighting.
"Cor, I must've lost the plot," Spike muttered into his glass,
and he finished his drink, shrugging out of his coat and
abandoning it on the bar top, walking out to the dance floor and
to the wild woman who demanded his company.
Lights flickered as he walked onto the dance floor, and she
watched him approach, lean muscles and lithe body encased in
black, his freshly lacquered black nails glistening dangerously
underneath the light, and his hair shining with the malevolent
seduction of a razorblade. He was walking suicide, and she was
addicted to him. His ripe mouth curled into a smirk, eyes wicked
and wanting underneath a thick layer of eyelashes, too dark to
distinguish the deep lapis from his dark pupils. Shadows clung to
his cheekbones as he walked, a swagger in his step and a sneer on
his mouth.
The tempo was low and pulsing, throbbing as the song changed to
project Shirley Manson's velveteen purr. "You look so fine, I
want to break your heart, and give you mine," the singer
murmured, and Spike wrapped his hand around one slender wrist,
toying with the beads that twined around her bones. She flashed
her eyes at him, placing her hand on his hip, thumb moving
teasingly over the joint, eliciting a shiver from him.
Dancing with him was simple and sumptuous, and she brushed her
hips against his, tipping her head back so that her hair fell
back in a shower of multicolored locks. She looked into his eyes
as he danced with her, one hand splayed across the sparkling span
of her slender, taut abdomen, fingers brushing the undersides of
her breasts in a manner that made her blood accelerate through
her veins. Slowly, she lifted her arms over her head,
crisscrossing her wrists as though they were tied together by
sparkling chains, and she swayed her hips back and forth, never
letting her gaze leave his. To do so would be a surrender, and it
would break their contact.
Necklaces twined around her slender throat, accentuating the
inviting slope of her neck. Spike looked at it with dangerous
eyes, wanting to drink her and consume her, to swallow her taste
and let her flavor mull inside of him. But destroying her would
leave him alone with the greedy consumption, and enjoying her had
expanded from killing her. Merely killing her would be temporary
ecstasy - now Buffy-induced bliss was arguing with her, fighting
with her, taunting her and dancing with her, and fucking her
until he thought that he was going to die. It was drinking wine
with her and watching her steal his cigarettes. It was watching
her shower through misted glass, and listening to her breathing
when she slept during the daylight.
And he was going insane, but sanity wasn't a necessity when the
rest of the world was crashing down around him anyway.
The inviting curve of her jaw tilted, and she looked into his
eyes, seafoam eyes covered with a fine fringe of black lashes,
the amber freckles dotting the bridge of her nose with a childish
innocence that she no longer possessed. Hair trailed down her
shoulders, spilling over with false rainbows, and she slowly
wrapped her hand around his cheek, her fingers brushing the
erogenous area behind his ear, and Spike felt arousal slam
through his body like a freight train at her whispering touch. He
hissed in a breath and arched his hips slightly, and she chuckled
until he got his revenge.
Sleekly painted black fingernails pushed upward and underneath
the cranberry leather encasing her breasts, and Buffy felt
Spike's cool fingertips trace the rounded slope of her breasts,
heavy and warm. Her fingernails suddenly dug into his shoulder,
throwing her head back with momentary ecstasy, eyes widening and
breath quickening inside of her. "Jesus," she tried to whisper,
but he had swallowed her words by crushing his mouth to hers,
filling her mouth with his tongue and sliding his hands upward to
cup her breasts completely. She arched against him, begging him
for more, and he fastened one hand in her hair, bunching up the
multicolored locks in his fist like a handful of confetti.
Red and magenta flashed over her cheek, and she looked like a
portrait of ecstasy as he danced with her, slowly teasing her by
brushing his hardened cock against her, and she snaked her hands
down his back, reaching underneath his tee shirt to rake her
fingernails down his spine. The pleasure-pain send him into waves
of ecstasy, and Spike moaned, reaching his hands down to squeeze
her firm, leather-clad buttocks. She released her moan into his
mouth, reaching up to snatch a kiss from him, and while he was
distracted in the warmth of her inviting little mouth, her agile
fingertips reached downward to stroke the hardened length of him
with her fingertips. The former Slayer smiled a wicked smile when
he hissed into her mouth and thrust against her.
Slowly, she pulled away from his mouth, licking his lower lip
with the tip of her tongue, and she looked at how easily she'd
made Spike, William the Bloody, dissolve into a mess of want in
front of her. Not that he hadn't gotten in his own blows; she was
fighting to keep from thrusting against the tight crotch of her
leather pants. Sparring through sex had replaced their old
physical battles, and it was much more pleasurable to take him on
in this manner.
"Never thought I had it in me, did you?" she asked tauntingly,
and Spike grinned lecherously. She thought that his arrogance was
so thick that it was almost palpable, and it tasted like Jack
Daniels and sweat. He leaned in close to her, trailing his
fingers against the frail bones of her clavicle.
"Well, Slayer, you don't have it in you yet," he said, the denim-
clad hardness pressing suggestively against her thigh, and she
laughed like bells chiming, wrapping her hand through his and
gesturing with her head to the door.
Smirking, Spike followed her, stopping by the bar to pick up his
coat and cigarettes. He shrugged into the duster and lit up a
cigarette, passing her the Marlboro Menthols that she smoked. She
picked up her own deep red leather coat and slipped into it, a
cigarette resting between her lips. A slender flame sparked in
front of her, and Buffy inhaled as Spike lit her cigarette for
her, inhaling the flame and exhaling slender tendrils and wisps
of smoke.
Just as they were preparing to leave the club, a gunshot sounded
and a scream ripped through the club.
The music continued for a beat before the deejay silenced it, and
the club fell into a dark, haunting quiet. The party had stopped
for the first time since it had begun, and Buffy dropped her
cigarette on the ground, extinguishing it as she ran into the
melee, red leather flying behind her like a cloak. Spike followed
her out of sheer curiosity rather than her concern.
In the middle of the dance floor, a young woman stood, her hair
dyed a frenetic lime green that twisted in a multitude of insane
braids down her back. Her right arm was outstretched, bracelets
and armlets spilling down her slender limb in a tumble of
multicolored cuffs and chains, and a plain revolver was in her
hand. A young black man lay on the floor in a pool of blood, the
dark liquid spreading out. A circle had parted around the young
girl with the grass-colored hair, and her eyes were dead, vacant,
as she unflinchingly held the gun in her palm. At the gasps and
cries of the terrified youths, the girl smiled at them all
maliciously, mindlessly. "We're all dead," she said, a low smile
on her face. "None of this matters anymore."
Slowly, carefully, Buffy stepped forward into the light, her
knee-high black leather boots stepping into the blood. She tossed
back her brightly colored hair and spoke cautiously to the girl
with the hair like poisoned limes. "Of course it matters," she
said softly, raising her hands upward to show that she wasn't
going to hurt her. "It always matters."
There was a silence as the girl looked into Buffy's eyes, gray
eyes glittering, and she spoke with a smile in her voice. "No, it
really doesn't."
With that, she lowered her arm, aimed at the leather-clad Slayer,
and fired.
Screams. Shouts. Cries. Pleas. She heard them all as the girl
fired the weapon at her, and prepared in that moment for the
bullet, for the final blast into eternity, when she felt weight
thrown on her and was knocked to the floor of the club. Her hair
flew around her face and blinded her, and her cheek was splashed
into the blood of the dead. She heard a cry of pain from behind
her, sudden and hissing, and she felt cold hands grabbing her
arms. Startled, she sat up, brushing her bloodstained hair out of
her eyes with her fingers, blinking as she realized that she had
survived. She had lived.
Because of Spike.
The vampire rose from the floor, blood coating his leather coat,
and she didn't have time to ask if he was okay. She scrambled to
get up and get the gun away from the girl with the braided green
hair, but didn't have the time to do it. The girl lifted the gun
to her temple, smiled viciously at Buffy, and pulled the trigger.
Blood spurted from her head in a fountain of vermilion, spewing
to the ground, and the girl fell to the ground, her green hair
stained with splashes of red like a ruined Christmas.
Numbly, Buffy sat on the floor, her hands sticky with still warm
blood, looking at the girl who had tried to kill her. The lights
were hit, flooding the club with plain white light, and the sound
of crying was audible in the crowd. Buffy felt like vomiting.
Smooth fingers wrapped around her upper arm, and Buffy looked
behind her to see Spike looking at her with absolute exhaustion.
"Let's go," he said, and she closed her eyes briefly, accepting
his hand up, her leather crackling like the tension and fear in
the room. Still shaking from the experience, Buffy allowed
herself to lean on him slightly for support, and he carelessly
gave it, wrapping arm around her waist and passing her her box of
cigarettes.
The crowd parted around her, and Buffy looked around, confused,
until she realized why they were looking at her with such fear
and shock. She had said something. She had done something. She
had tried to save herself, and no one else in the room cared.
They were more terrified of her and her desire for living than
they were of the hellish death that had been played out before
their eyes tonight. Panic bubbled up in Buffy's throat as she
looked at these colorful clusters of dyes and glitter, realizing
how close she had come to being another member of their sick
collection. She had been so numb, so futile, so helpless and
hopeless. Dead on the inside and anticipating her outer death.
These children were nothing more than brightly colored fragments
of fun, snorting coke and smoking pot in the hopes that they
would die in a drug-addled haze.
They were all cowards.
And then she looked at her lover, her lightning-colored lover who
had saved her life in spite of the fact that they were sworn
enemies, and realized that he was as terrified of dying as they
were. As she was. He cut glances at her underneath a fringe of
ebony, and in his eyes was the same wonder that she had tried to
save herself, even though he had ducked and saved her
nonetheless.
Slowly, she stopped him at the door, resting her palm square on
his chest, feeling the silence of his heartbeat. Softly, she
reached her hand back to cup the base of his neck in her palm,
looking into his sapphire eyes that glinted like confused jewels.
When she saw his terror, his agony over dying, she reached up and
kissed him with a softness that was foreign to them, unusual and
exotic. Their kisses were always predatory and prowling, not
gentle or understanding. But hers was, her mouth nipping softly
at his, tasting the cool flavor of wasted cigarettes and the
remnants of coppery blood.
When she pulled away, she looked up at him, and murmured to him
words he was surprised to hear. "I'm never coming back here," she
said, and he nodded his head slowly, closing his eyes and
swallowing in relief.
"Yeah, luv," he said. "There's no point in coming back here."
With that, she linked her hand in his and turned her back on the
vacuous youths who stared at her like she was a foreign creature,
and walked out of the warehouse, abandoning that world forever.
*****
The lyrics mentioned in the story are from Portishead's "Sour
Times" and Garbage's "You Look So Fine", respectively.
*****
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