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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.
A week passed, revealing a night glazed over with the remnants of
thicker cloud cover, draping the million stars with fine gauze of
cirrus clouds, filtering the light into an opaque glow. The
sliver of a moon provided little illumination, and cool light
poured softly through the glass wall, casting a cobalt paint onto
the two wine glasses filled halfway with dark red wine, sitting
on the rosewood table and slowly warming to room temperature.
Raspberry lipstick stained the slender rim of one glass, and the
other glass was a little more full than the other, not thirsting
this particular brand of crimson liquid, but it was a nice
dessert wine to follow the meal he'd devoured earlier.
Two figures with skin stained boysenberry from the distilled
light sat on the sofa. One figure, lean and strong, clothed in a
black that had become uniform with him, was sprawled out in a
careless scattering of limbs, legs spread and arms splashed
across the sofa. The head tipped backward, shadows descending
from his sharpened and cutting cheekbones, mouth pursed in
thought, eyelashes closing over nighttime eyes.
The other figure was hunched and drawn, wearing a black tee-shirt
that coated her body like his sheathed his, revealing a small
sliver of gold skin between the edge of her shirt and the
waistband of her slim black skirt. One slender arm crossed
protectively across her abdomen, the other holding a cigarette
thoughtfully, shapely legs pressed tightly together as she sat up
straight and tense, smoke unfurling and staining her hair with
its scent. A black clip held back half of the wild, peacock
threads, and the rest floated down her slender back in a lick of
color and silk.
Neither one spoke, neither one touched, and they simply looked
out the glass at the gilded world, listening to the distant
crashing of the waves on the sands, thinking of how quickly time
moved.
The slender green neck of the wine bottle sat accusingly on the
surface of the rosewood table, bereft of its contents, though she
had consumed more than he had. She was constantly trying to fill
herself, and he often wondered if her plan to make herself whole
through drinking, smoking and fucking was any better than his own
plan to lengthen his life through borrowed blood. Thus far, it
hadn't done a very good job. He would kill and she knew, and it
was just another indicator of how she had died in that she didn't
try to stop him. There was no point now. No need to fight a
battle when the end was drawing so near.
The first cases had been reported in Queensland, and it was only
a matter of time before the first died in Melbourne. For her own
sake, for the sake of cowardly mercy, she hoped to hold that
honor. Celebration, she'd ironically suggested, and he took her
up on the idea, devouring a girl with multicolored hair in the
hopes that it would someday make it easier for him to lose her.
And losing Buffy was suddenly frightening.
It wasn't that Spike loved her. Not in the traditional sense. He
would never buy her flowers or bring her trinkets, not as he had
done with Drusilla, but he loved the fire that she invoked. Loved
the inflaming arguments that sparked every day, loved the
violence of her that had been unleashed with the end of the
world, and almost loved how destructive she had become.
Destruction was something that Spike understood and loved, and
even if she only inflicted chaos in herself, Buffy was a master
of ruin. Watching her tear herself to shreds was as alluring as
it was heartbreaking, and she was a complicated mixture of self-
possession and emptiness. Like a broken glass slowly spilling
kerosene.
And screwing her had evolved. The sexuality between them was
blistering, and it was the only heat that he felt nowadays. He
had been living life in slow motion before he met her, with her
bruising remarks that she threw like daggers and her searing
kisses that left him feeling like lava, and he couldn't return to
the achromatic unlife where he waited for his demise with a
mixture of impatience and dread. Waiting was the worst. They were
more damned than their counterparts scattered across the world,
because they knew and were forced to wait.
Of course, she had known before the rest of them, and she still
refused to tell him about that.
Ash trickled down in a slow shower of whitened flame, clinging to
the slender tee shirt that clung to her skin, and she didn't move
to brush it away. She had been in Queensland a month ago, dancing
in a rave packed with youthful bodies strung out on an
innumerable variety of drugs, laughing and dancing with her hair
up in greens and golds. She had met a boy there and slept with
him in a hotel room, tasting his sweat and the remnants of
marijuana on her tongue, and now he was probably dying. Another
narrow escape, another life to regret. She had no more narrow
escapes now. Melbourne was the last.
The filter of her cigarette burned her fingertips when she
inhaled, and the taste was distorted and sour, but she inhaled it
anyway, smoking the filter until she winced and stubbed out her
cigarette in the ruby glass ashtray. Her black-painted
fingernails tapped the rim of her wineglass, polished and
lacquered where his were chipped and bitten to the quick. She
picked up her glass and took a cautious sip, letting the flavors
roll in her mouth and erase the flavor a cigarette that had been
smoked for too long and a life that hadn't been lived long
enough. "To Queensland," Buffy said darkly, and tipped back the
glass, her hair showering her shoulders in a cascade of china and
carmine. "May they rest in peace."
Spike scoffed at her from beside her, and she didn't want to look
at him and see the callous disregard etched in his face. "Ha," he
said. "Rest in peace - that's the last thing I plan on doing when
my time comes."
Arching her honeyed eyebrow that was fresh with a new piercing,
Buffy turned her head to Spike and looked at him. "Well,
considering the fact that you're pretty much already dead, I can
say that you certainly haven't been the calmest of guys," she
offered, and Spike grinned maliciously at her, the familiar smirk
unfurling on his mouth.
"Well, practice makes perfect," he said. She shook her head and
took another sip of her wine, slowly relaxing on the couch,
sliding off her chunky black heels and resting her bare feet
dangerously close to his lap. "But I plan on going to Hell,
looking up the guy who tortured Angel for that century he spent
there, and giving him a little present. Maybe a gift certificate
or something."
Rolling her eyes, Buffy swallowed a smirk. "Never took you for a
suck-up, Spike," she said, and he glared at her when she grinned
wickedly at him in reply. The glass bracelets she wore on her
wrists chimed like bells when she tipped the glass back for
another drink, and she felt husky wine cling to her mouth as she
reclined against the arm of the couch. "Well, while you're
kissing Satan's fiery ass, put in a good word for me."
Spike snorted, lifting up his head and giving her a long look.
"Oh, *right*," he drawled with trademark sarcasm. "You're
*really* going to the big underground barbecue, Slayer. Saving
the world and all that - the angels will probably give you a
bloody medal."
Quietly, she gazed into the liquid pooling inside of her glass,
feeling oddly compelled to stir the wine with her fingertip, if
only to disturb the surface. "I don't think God exists," she said
softly, and Spike rolled his eyes at her, stealing her glass and
taking an alarmingly large gulp of her wine before finishing off
his own glass.
"What a shock," he said sarcastically, his scarred eyebrow
arched. "You're only figuring this out now?" The vampire shook
his head and swirled the wine around in his glass, creating a
miniature vortex constructed of maroon liquid. "I stopped
believing in God a *long* time ago. Thought it might get me out
of that whole crucifix-repellent thing, but apparently even a
good dose of atheism won't stop it. Big disappointment, let me
tell you."
Buffy ignored him, flicking ash from her cigarette into the
ashtray, and he picked up his own pack of smokes, starting a
Marlboro with his Zippo. There was something comforting in
smoking, even though he didn't need the nicotine that the
cigarettes packed. It was just the passage of time, measuring it
in hours and cigarettes. Watching her had become another way to
pass the time, hypnotized by her departures from reality, and how
elegantly she would jettison herself from the world and flee into
the depths of her mind. Distance grew in her eyes, and she would
forget where she was, her cigarette snaking into ash, and her
hair a troubled volume of rainbows. She sat there in the china
lighting, her eyes wide and empty all at once, like a well that
had dried up and become useless.
Irritated, Spike shook his head at her. "Go to bed," he said, and
she shook her head, her voice soft.
"Not interested," she said. The nightmares would follow her
there, hunt her down and stake her as their prey, before they
plagued her with memories of how she had effectively abandoned
her friends and loved ones in a world where their lives were over
before they knew it. She hadn't slept in two days, not since
she'd dreamed of Riley standing in a cornfield that was golden
and rich with fertility, sweat glistening off of his sculpted
body, watching the missiles fly over his family's farmhouse. He
whispered her name softly, and then the bomb hit, and he was
gone. "Sleep's not all it's cracked up to be."
"Well, you look like hell," Spike said, and she clenched her jaw
in frustration, hating his honesty and wishing for lies instead.
"Sweet talker," she said coldly, and ground her cigarette out in
the ashtray. He absently flicked ash onto the suede sofa, and she
glared at him. "See that ashtray? It's there for a reason."
Furiously, Spike kicked the ashtray with the heavy sole of his
boot, sending it to the floor with a crash. The ruby glass
shattered into pieces, the fragments glittering brightly and
catching the violet light, sparkling as though they had been
coated in diamonds. She sprang up from the sofa, crouching by the
glass, her hands reaching out protectively, hovering helplessly
over the broken ashtray. He rose from the couch in a flurry of
black leather, grabbing her shoulder roughly and pulling her to
her feet. "It's just *stuff*," he said maliciously, spitting the
words in her face. "It's not going to matter. Anyone who'd ever
appreciate it is going to be *dead* in a few weeks."
Jutting her jaw at him contemptuously, Buffy slapped him, her
hand stinging across his face. "It's *mine*!" she said. "Don't
fuck around with *my* things. This is my house, and my ashtray,
and my goddamn life!"
He sneered at her. "Not *really* your things, are they?" he
asked, and she flinched, turning away from him, her hair flying
behind her. Satisfied that he'd gotten to her, Spike followed
her, grabbing her waist and holding her back to him, leaning down
and whispering into her ear. "Who did they belong to, Buffy? The
last bloke who owned this place? Or do they *really* belong to
your Watcher?" She stiffened at the mention of him. "After all,
it *is* his money."
"Shut the *fuck* up," she whispered, but her voice was too
fragile to contain the venom she'd tried so desperately to
inject. "You don't know anything about that. I had no choice; I
couldn't stay there-"
"Too much of a coward to die with your own friends?" he asked,
breathing in the smell of peaches and old cigarettes that clung
to her hair. "Couldn't bear to stick it out with them for the
last days? Not very courageous, *Slayer*. Oh, but I forgot - you
retired."
"Shut up!" she screamed, whirling around and pressing him to the
wall, her fingernails clawing at his shoulders as she pressed
them there. Tears were welling up in her voluminous green eyes,
and yet she wasn't crying. She wouldn't cry, not in front o f
him. Not because of him. "You bastard, you have *no* idea-" Her
voice caught on her last word, and she couldn't help but cry
because of him. Tears streamed down her face, and her voice
hitched as she wept, crying because of how he had incited her
into thinking of her ultimate betrayal. She fell against his
body, fingernails digging painfully into his skin, and he ignored
the pain, uncomfortably responding when she wrapped her arms
around him, clinging to him as her uncertain anchor as she felt
the weary pain of mourning pass through her body.
Riley's golden smile... Willow's small hands... Xander's impish
eyes... Giles's warm arms... Angel's hushed murmurs... The
memories of the dead bombarded her and waged war on her, and she
accepted the responsibility for them all, taking the guilt and
allowing them to lay the blame at her feet. She wept
uncontrollably, resting her cheek against Spike's chest and
allowing the cotton of his tee shirt to absorb her tears.
"Spike," she whispered, and he suddenly felt guilty for this,
uncomfortable and awkward guilt, hating that he'd reduced her to
this.
"Sorry, baby," he muttered, and she sobbed until her tears ran
dry.
******
The sound of liquid pouring into glass was soft and comforting,
and he listened to the quiet noise as he poured her another glass
of wine, the dark liquid lukewarm and no longer chilled or
comfortable. She watched as she sat on the sofa, a cigarette
between her fingertips, bracelets catching the violet light and
releasing it in small prisms through the cut glass beads. A stray
braid of blue, magenta, red and gold fell in her eyes, just that
singular bit of braided hair, and he brushed out of her eyes as
he passed her the wineglass. "I'll steal you another ashtray," he
offered, and Buffy chuckled lowly, figuring that it was the best
that the vampire would ever do.
"Doesn't matter," she said. "You're right. It wasn't my ashtray
to begin with, and Giles would be upset if he found out I was
spending his money on cigarettes and ashtrays. Not good for the
Slaying, you know."
Spike scoffed at that. "Are you kidding? Rupert would be pissed
that you were smoking because the chap had a thing for you." At
her startled glance, Spike shook his head. "Not like *that*, you
ninny. He loved you, but he wasn't in line to get in your
knickers like the rest of them were." He snickered. "I think Red
might have wanted a go at you."
With a spark of her old mischief, Buffy flicked ash into his
wineglass, thus ruining the wine he'd poured for himself.
Irritated, Spike stole a sip of hers, and she smirked
triumphantly at beating him in one minor battle of wits. The
brief moment faded, and she flickered back to the old days, when
she'd had the world wrapped around her finger. "He trusted me,
you know," Buffy murmured, gazing out past the thin layer of
glass towards the ocean. "He trusted me and I betrayed him to
save my own ass, and I couldn't even get that right."
Spike tilted his head towards her, looking at the girl bound in
bracelets that served as plastic chains, her hair falling down in
a shimmering array of colors that increased with the passing
weeks. It was as though her frenetic chaos threatened to swallow
the purity of her gold hair, and he wondered if she would have a
trace of herself left by the time that she died. "I want to know
what happened," Spike said, and she narrowed her eyes at him
suspiciously, vivid green covered by thick mascara and outlined
by too-thick eyeliner. He knew that she didn't trust him, and so
he shrugged his shoulders. "Luv, who am I going to tell? It's not
like I have a wealth of friends left or a lot to gain from it.
You may as well tell somebody, and we've got another bottle of
wine to finish off."
She weighed the option. Her burden had been hers for so long that
she didn't know what would happen if she exposed it. Didn't know
what her life would be like if she exposed the depth of her
betrayal to Spike. She sighed and took another hit off of her
cigarette, grinding the remainder out in the ashtray. She picked
up her pack of Marlboros and opened the box, looking down at the
thirteen remaining cigarettes. "Okay," she murmured. "Fine."
A
little desperately, she laughed. "What do I have to lose now?"
And when he couldn't provide her with an answer, she began to
speak.
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