Mountain Dew

Author: dutchbuffy2305, aka db2305

Story note: 10 years post-NFA

Rating: M

Betaed by: mommanerd

Feedback: I never tire of it! dutchbuffy2305@yahoo.co.uk

#5

Someone opens a curtain with the sound of cloth tearing and the light that penetrates Buffy's brain illuminates memories that make her cringe in shame. The other curtain opens too, and the world jerks into focus. She shouldn't have opened her eyes. On the other hand, it's cold enough to freeze her tits off, a real danger, as she seems to have mislaid her clothes. Wait, this is not a duvet cover, it's her jacket. This is not a mattress, it's Spike. Her heart skips and her hips flow against his. Tears of joy scatter the piercing daylight into dancing rainbows.

She closes her eyes again to try and make sense of her body's reactions. Where are they? What has happened between them to make her feel so...married? She must have lost her memory. Perhaps it's only temporary, and if her husband would just bestir his lazy ass and make her coffee.

Her mouth floods with saliva and her stomach joins in enthusiastically. Muesli and yogurt would go down well, but if she cares to indulge in bacon and eggs, or pancakes, it wouldn't say no.

Buffy shifts her arm out of a cramped position and hits her elbow hard against something hard. Her funny bone creates a tingle to her pinky finger. "Ouch!"

Beneath her, Spike stretches languidly, and the roll and glide of his body starts up a pleasant jiggle and tingle in other body parts. Spike knows her other funny bone.

"Buffy?"

"Hmmm." Buffy nuzzles his neck, and nips the cream skin lightly in that spot below his ear where he likes to be bitten hard.

"Now's not the time for that, sweetheart," he mumbles and strong hands try to pry her off.

"Spikespike says not," she says.

"Wha? Buffy. Wake up. Look around."

As she lifts her head to do that, limp, but willing to do as he asks because it's him, he takes advantage of the moment to slip her off and set them both upright. Something hard and pointy, and not in the good senses, pokes her ass.

Memory batters her levees and they give out against the floods gracelessly. Mountains. Blood red rock. They're lying on the not so comfortable floor of the cave where everything happened last night. Outside the sky is paling into an embarrassed dove gray. Okay, Spike still holds the record for guy-who's-always-there-in-the-morning, no matter how embarrassing the night before. Steve spent their wedding night puking in the bathroom, and she was kind of relieved he'd fallen asleep in the tub.

"Jesus, Spike, what the hell happened?"

Spike rubs his eyes. "Don't you remember?"

Buffy avoids his gaze as she busies herself with pulling on her clothes. "Sure. But what did it mean? We were like hand puppets in an evil Muppet show."

Spike grimaces. "Not quite. Yes, we were used. Avatars of the gods."

"Gods?! No kidding?"

"Dunno. Didn't feel evil. To me. You?"

Buffy wrinkles her nose to find the right definition of her feelings. "Maybe it was evil. Wicked is always kind of sexy, don't you think?" She backtracks at Spike's expression. "Maybe it's just you, okay?"

Spike is starting to look more and more naked as Buffy wrests her many layers of clothes from under and around him.

"Thanks, I reckon," he says. "Well. Only meant I don't think this was some kind of grand plan of demonic evil. Take over the world, kill all of humanity, rob a bank kind of evil."

Buffy agrees. "But then what was it for?" she tries to feel the proper amount of outrage. "Our bodies were used against their will. That's like-" the word she can never use when he's around. Only that's been over so long ago, that she's gonna try it out. "-rape."

Spike lifts an eyebrow. "You feel raped?"

"God, no. I think I redefined the phrase 'multiple orgasms'. You?"

"Emptied out, more like. Limp and spent. In a good way."

"It was good for you?"

"Oh yeah."

And now to go on from here. Buffy falters. She zips up her last zipper and yanks her cap over her ears.

"But again, why?"

Spike sighs. "Can I borrow that cap, Buffy?"

"Nothing I haven't seen before, but sure. You want everything else to burn?"

"No, but I can hear the Sherpas coming up the path."

Shoot, she's forgotten all about the Sherpas.

Spike counts heartbeats. One less Sherpa. Presumably Jigme has indeed died. A sacrifice has been made. A marriage between Sky and Earth consummated? Or should it be demon and human? He needs to mull this over, preferably with a lot of pints and Andrew's company. He's not forgotten what Buffy said to him, radiantly, giving him the greatest gift she could think of. He's sure she meant it at the moment, which is a novelty to be cherished, but now in the cold light of morning she seems embarrassed and unsure. It's his own fault, too. He should just have kissed her, or even better, woken her up with a brisk morning shag.

There's too much happening at once for him to deal with. Buffy not only shagging him and telling him she loved him, but before that forcing him to drink her blood. He knows with his mind that it saved him, and probably, therefore, both of them, because where would that elemental energy have gone without a receptacle? Doom and destruction instead of revitalization and balance. Still, he resents having had no say in his rescue. Childish of him but he still feels it.

"Gonna get my clothes," he says quickly to Buffy and runs through the last morning shade to his cabin. It stands there as if nothing happened. He dons his reserve pair of clothing. No extra thermal outerwear, but then that was mostly for the Sherpas' benefit. Not as if he needs it.

He watches the Sherpas hesitate to take the final steps onto the plateau. But then they spot Buffy and as one, they kneel onto the rocky ground and prostrate themselves. Buffy stands and lets it happen, but Spike sees her quick look over her shoulder into his direction. Sorry, he doesn't know what's happening either. The Sherpas honoring Buffy does give him new food for thought. They seem to have expected this? He remembers Jigme's distinct lack of cheer. Maybe he knew he'd be sacrificed. Spike misses his mobile to hash this over instantaneously with Andrew, or Google the Net. He's been so thoroughly technologified it's sad.

The Sherpas don't have a lot to say, maybe because Spike only speaks a few words of Dzongkha. He gets obeisances too, wholeheartedly, their original reserve over his strangeness completely won over. The Sherpas indicate they want to leave the plateau. Spike can't think of a reason to stay and assents. Buffy takes no part in these negotiations, because her language skills are even more minimal than his are. Jigme, the dead Sherpa, was the only one with a bit of English. Poor bugger. His body is gone, and the Sherpas make vague motions when asked as to the whereabouts of the corpse.

Daylight forces Spike into his cabin. He can't help with the desultory packing they can do. in preparation. He waits. Buffy is comatose in her own tent. How did that happen? Has he been telegraphing so clearly he's in limbo about what he wants? Never did have a good poker face. Late that night, Buffy and the Sherpas nail Spike in his coffin.

Before the butt-crack of dawn, lit by torches, Buffy climbs up the roof of Spike's makeshift cabin and pries loose the planks one by one. They were all carried up here in the crate that protects Spike from sunlight. No trees up here. Spike accepts the planks from her without speaking and the Sherpas reassemble the crate quickly and competently. The foil blankets go inside and Spike lays down in the narrow space. Six feet long and two wide? Buffy doesn't get how he can stand to be cooped up in it. She knows he has the same experience as she has, waking up in a coffin after her death. Maybe time gives perspective.

When Spike is safe, and a gray, reluctant morning arrives, she and the Sherpas pack their tents and the rest of the camping gear. Her heart is thumping like it did the first week she came here. Why? Mission accomplished. Andrew-planned possession lived through. Maybe it's the gray skies that depress her. She hasn't seen anything but blue sky blaring down at her since she came here.

It starts snowing. That is not funny. She didn't much like climbing up the narrow mountain trails, and how will she get down them if they're slippery and she can't even see the path?

Two Sherpas help her in the climbing harness and start hooking her up. They're pretending she's going to climb down on her own, but she's leashed so tightly on both sides that she might as well be a blanket roll.

Within the hour they're set to go. The Sherpas have managed to pack about ten times the amount of luggage she and Aura have in about a tenth of the time. Does that make them a hundred times more efficient? Another Sherpa takes the lead now, because Jigme is dead.

The day reaches a medium level of grayness and then stops brightening. By the time they're twenty feet down the path it's snowing, thick flakes that stick to her eyelashes and turn the world into a black and white vortex. It was pretty damn scary climbing up here, and Buffy discovers that climbing down is way, way scarier. She slides off the path about every five minutes, saved only by the ropes that tie her to the Sherpas. Soon she's wishing she was lying in a coffin, like Spike, because she's completely useless at staying on her feet. She also discovers she's never been truly, physically afraid like this. The heartstirring lurch you get when you're bungling over a chasm thousands of feet deep goes straight from the spine to the guts, no brains needed. It's not the same as fighting Glory or Angelus, because you can never become good enough to defeat gravity. Well, you could grow wings, and that is why humanity invented the helicopter, Buffy thinks bitterly. Next time she's going to insist Andrew springs for a Chinook or a Blackhawk. She leans almost vertically against the rockface because there is no room to sit down and drinks lukewarm greasy chai, cooling down rapidly because the snow keeps falling in. The Sherpas do not untie the ropes for tea breaks.

Ten thousand footsteps and two shaking thigh muscles later, the gray afternoon darkens into night. Midsummer in the Himalayas reminds Buffy strongly of December in Cleveland, where she did a short stint guarding the Hellmouth. She huddles in the half-ruined stone buildings of Camp 2 and stares into the darkness, already half asleep. Is this the end of the world? Snow in June? She knew Spike and she failed, but maybe it's worse than she thought.

Spike has not been unpacked from his snug travel box. He could kick the lid off, no problem, but what for? Even for a vampire there's too little ambient light to see anything, he knows by the smell it's snowing, nothing to eat here, and Buffy is deeply asleep, buried in her sleeping bag. Her heart beats slowly, evenly. Nothing going on there.

When Buffy wakes up the next morning, she has aged fifty years in one night. Her back and thighs have turned to rock and she can't move. It's the result of the possession, it has to be. Now would be the time to airlift her out and transport her to the nearest old people's home. She imagines Aura visiting her shriveled little mother and tears of self-pity inch from the corners of her eyes.

One of the Sherpas brings her the evil-smelling hot morning drink. He doesn't look any differently at her than usual. His heart is stone, like her legs.

Buffy worms herself upright until she's vertical enough to sip the tea. Her hands look pretty young for an eighty-year old. After the tea has warmed her insides, ("keep your core temperature up by drinking hot liquids") she assesses her present age as possibly only fifty something. Her legs still aren't cooperating. Who knew that descending the Himalayas would defeat Slayer thighs?

The thighs in question quiver at every step, and they take an hour to warm and loosen up. Buffy is not taking Aura hiking this year, or ever. Slayers are made for fights, short sharp runs, and not for this long-distance slogging, she decides.

Halfway through the morning the snow changes to sleet, and in the afternoon turns into rain. At ten to four the clouds break for three whole minutes, and the short glimpse Buffy gets of the valleys ahead is a startling bright green. She turns back for a last look at the Black Mountain and sees it's forbidding face has turned a glittering Aspen travelogue white, glorious against the patch of blue sky and grey clouds rushing in to fill the gap.

Spike wakes up when he feels the swaying of his coffin stop, and he's lowered down almost gently. He estimates they're at five or six thousand feet now. It will still be freezing at night, but for now, the air is almost mild. Tomorrow they'll descend into the warmer valleys, and Buffy and the Sherpas will eat something else than their own cooking. He'll still be confined to his coffin, of course. The trucks will be waiting at the end of that day, and he'll finally get to stretch his limbs.

The air is moister than he remembers it being for a long time, and he hears a gentle lapping. A stream? He doesn't think there were streams, on the way up.

Buffy is approaching. He lays back and closes his eyes, dark though it is, to savor her scent.

A soft tap on his coffin.

"You okay in there, Spike?"

How things change! When they were going up, Buffy never spoke to him when he was inside his six by two box, as if he was invisible. She sees him now.

He taps back. "For a coffin, this is pretty comfy."

"Wanna come out for a bit?"

How thoughtful. And it takes the Sherpas half an hour to nail him back in, but Buffy can probably do it in two minutes. Yes, he'd like to.

"Wouldn't mind a bit, love."

He waits while she rips off the coffin lid. He could easily kick it off himself, he's not a prisoner, but it's better when Buffy does it. She holds out her hand and its warmth shocks through him like when you touch a car door and you're on rubber soles. It's a lot less easy to clamp down on your feelings when you're not safely isolated in a coffin, with all the time in the world to think things through.

Buffy is silhouetted against the graying evening sky, short and lumpy in her thermal duds, but she's not wearing her cap. It is warmer this low, and the air feels thick and sweet when he inhales some so he can speak.

"Coming?" she says impatiently.

Right. He forgot to move.

When he's clambered out of his narrow playpen he freezes in surprise. The sloping valley of Camp 2 is unrecognizable. Instead of the sea of dusty grey rock he remembers, a shallow lake laps a pebbled beach close to the cabins.

Buffy fofllows his gaze. "I was thinking Amnesia Buffy when I saw this. The Sherpas act as if this is normal."

Spike shrugs. "Not that strange, what with all the rain and snow we've been having."

"What's up with that?" Buffy asks tensely and steps closer to him. "Apocalypse? Did we destroy the weather when the demons were using us?"

"Demons?" Spike says. "Andrew set us up, love. I'm thinking we were ridden by gods. And unless he's been undercover evil for the past thirteen years, it must have been for a good purpose."

Buffy says nothing. She bends over, picks up a rock as big as his head and hurls it two hundred yards over the lake. It breaks the surface of the water like a cannonball.

Spike lifts an eyebrow. "Anger management course?"

"Motherhood. There's nobody on earth can make you as mad as your own beloved offspring."

She takes a few deep breaths and cracks her neck. Self-control and thinking deeply are a pretty varnish over the old Buffy, but secretly he's stirred the original layer of unfettered feelings. She used him to take the edge of her frustration, and it wasn't all bad.

"Okay, let's park these thoughts until we know what we're talking about. Andrew, be afraid. Be very afraid."

Spike's sure Andrew made the decision he had to make. Meaning the Slayer and him were the best choice for the job. He has no idea what this says about the state of humanity's safety, but there it is. He hadn't counted on feeling like this again, but maybe Andrew has. Alright, he'll admit he's as angry as Buffy is.

Buffy's voice sounds much closer than he expected it to and his thigh muscles twitch in a mindless urge to jump away.

"So, we're not speculating about the cause anymore, but we can talk about how that night made us feel. I'm happy about it, Spike. Finding you again."

Spike jerks his head back as if he's been slapped. This is hitting below the belt.

"Buffy. This isn't real. We're marooned in strange country, with no one to talk to but each other. We've been thrown together. Doesn't mean this is going to hold together once we're back in London. Let's wait until we're home safe, okay?"

She grabs his T-shirt and yanks their heads close. "I can't' believe I'm hearing this from you, Spike. Where's the man who followed his heart? Who trusted it to tell him where to go?"

"That man is gone, Buffy. Remember what he used to do with those gut-feelings? Kill whoever he liked? I changed, Buffy. For the good."

"I don't believe that! You, cautious, making rational decisions? You're just afraid!"

No, she'd finally gotten him angry.

"AFriad? Well, Buffy, maybe I have reason to be afraid. I got burned pretty badly, remember."

"Now let me be Spock for a second," she says between clenched teeth, her nose less than an inch away from his. "One – you're happy that you are a changed man. Fine. But remember who caused you to change? That is two. Maybe you did get burned. Maybe I wasn't treating your widdle heart so well, but if that hadn't happened, you wouldn't be the spiek you are now. You can't have it both ways."

Spike grabs her shoulders, harder than he's been able to grab a woman in years.

"Yes I can. This is how I feel, and nobody, not even you is going to tell me otherwise."

Her lips mash into his and it's the perfect accompaniment to his anger. Spike crushes her slight body against his and pours all his pent-up longings into the kiss. He gaps like a fish when Buffy breaks loose.

"Don't lecture me about caution and true feelings, Spike. I spit on caution and common sense. And you be grateful that I'm not going to press my advantage. I'll give you time to think this over. Good night."
 

TBC

Feedback:dutchbuffy2305@yahoo.co.uk