The
Writing on the Wall
Author: Holly (holly.hangingavarice@gmail.com)
Rating: NC-17 (For language, violent imagery, disturbing content, and
sexual situations)
Timeline: Post-The Gift, AU.
Summary: There was no body to bury. There was no funeral. There was
nothing but the three rules and the knowledge that a thousand years of
torment was nothing compared to a world without her in it. Spike
embarks on a journey through the Gates of Hell to rescue the one he
loves, but in order to save her, he must risk losing himself.
Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Joss Whedon and
Mutant Enemy. They are being used out of respect and affection, and not
for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: I’m working on the next
chapter. Promise!
Chapter Eighteen
“Hold still.”
Buffy wiggled with a grimace.
“If you don’t hold still, it’s just gonna hurt more.”
More wiggling, this time accompanied by a scowl. She looked too cute to
be threatening.
Spike paused and chuckled at that. If Buffy were actually with him, the
thought alone would have cost a black eye. As it was, he could barely
keep his chest from swelling every time his eyes caught hers in the
mirror. She wore nothing but the green tee he’d had on the day before,
which was at least a size too large…and while the clothes weren’t his,
he’d claimed them, and seeing her in something he’d worn was dangerous.
It stirred urges that hadn’t been stirred in years, marking her to the
satisfaction of the inner primal male and proclaiming her as his.
It was only a shirt; the wiser option, as it was either this or naked.
There was no way he was putting the clothes she’d worn back on her
back…not when there was a healthy supply for the taking.
Spike held her eyes in the mirror, trying and failing to suppress a
grin. “Never would’ve figured it,” he mused, jerking the brush’s
bristles through another tangle. “Toughest bird I know, defeater of
gods, an’ you’re afraid of a little hairbrush.”
She looked for a minute as though she resented the statement before her
expression melted into a whimper, effectively killing his mirth. Her
hair was in an unmanageable tangle, twisted and knotted through years
of neglect; making every stroke was more painful than the last. And
even though he was loath to cause her pain, he found this to be the
most familiar, easiest task he’d undertaken in three centuries. Taking
care of the woman he loved was something he knew. Something with which
he was intimately familiar…and something told him that Buffy at her
worst would still be buckets better than Dru at her best.
“Not sure what you do for fun around here,” he continued awkwardly. “’m
willing to take suggestions.”
Buffy whimpered and tried to duck away, only to be caught in Spike’s
arm.
“Ah, ah, ah,” he chastised. “Not so fast, love. Still got a few
tangles.”
She mewled again before settling into a firm sulk. It didn’t do much
good. Spike smiled and tightened his grip, though he couldn’t keep his
heart from melting. There was no force more powerful than the Buffy
pout. “I know it hurts, love,” he cooed encouragingly. “Just look at
me. Watch me.”
Her gaze locked with his again in the mirror. There was such
intelligence there—such fiery wit. Sparks of the real girl thrived well
within her eyes, trapped behind a barrier she couldn’t lift. It was so
strange having her with him and missing her at the same time. Buffy was
still far away, locked inside herself, and the one-sided conversation
he pursued with her reflection only strengthened the need to touch her
again.
Touch her…
Spike’s jaw tightened and he shook his head, turning his eyes to the
ground. No. No.
What had happened in the shower could not happen again. No matter how
wonderful it had been, how glorious it had been. How his mind couldn’t
help but drag him back to those few blissful seconds where he’d shown
her a world beyond misery. How he’d felt her gasp and pant, how he’d
felt her strangle and drench his fingers with her rich, tantalizing
honey. It was over, behind them, and it didn’t do any good to dwell on
what he couldn’t have.
Not until she was with him. Really with him.
“I miss you,” Spike murmured softly, nuzzling her hair. “Wherever you
are. God, I miss you so much.”
Buffy blinked and quirked her head. It wasn’t much, but it was enough
to stir him back to himself. In an easy second, he’d plastered on a
smile, as the brush in his grip unraveled another tangle.
“No worries, kitten,” he assured. “It’s all right.”
One thing at a time. Right now, his attention remained with her hair.
Next, it would be with catching the night’s meal. Buffy would emerge
when she emerged; wishing did little more than make the girl who needed
him feel inadequate, and he couldn’t bear making her more
self-conscious than she was for the simple crime of having lost herself
after a thousand years of silence.
None of this was her fault.
None of it.
Spike sighed, his eyes dropping to the edge of the sink where he’d
placed the scissors. “Fancy a haircut?” he asked.
Buffy’s nose wrinkled.
“Bloody miracle you’re not Rapunzel,” he commented, running his fingers
through her freshly-combed hair. “Don’t worry, pet. I love your hair.
Jus’ gonna take off a few inches, is all.”
A foot or so was more like it, but words made little difference. Spike
inhaled sharply, draping her hair between the blade wedges and keeping
careful watch of her face the second he snipped her length away. Hair
was important to women—even the batty ones like Dru—and though it had
been lifetimes since he found himself in the position to intimately
care for anyone, his hands didn’t shake, his mind didn’t set traps for
him, and he didn’t second guess himself. He knew Buffy. He knew every
tendril, had a mental snapshot of the way her golden locks framed her
face, how her hair bounced in the middle of a fight. He knew every inch
of her so well.
His hand didn’t quiver. Didn’t hesitate.
He couldn’t doubt when he knew her better than he knew himself.
“There,” he murmured, brushing wisps off her shoulders. Her hair hit
her where it had when she jumped, best to his memory. It wasn’t the
best style she’d ever sported, but already she looked better than she
had the day before. She looked more like herself. “Pretty as a
picture.” He paused when her eyes met his, her hands exploring the job
he’d done. “Know it’s not what you’re used to, but I’m no bloody
stylist.”
Buffy’s fingers curled in her hair, her eyes shining at him.
“Come on,” he said, ushering her toward the adjoining bedroom. “Let’s
see if we can find somethin' other than my shirt for you to wear.”
Spike reckoned in all his life he’d never worked so quickly to put
clothes on a woman after taking them off. Given what had occurred in
the shower, he didn’t trust himself to keep her in any state of undress
too long. His senses were too keen, his body starved for touch—starved
for her—and
parading her around in all her glory was essentially waving a willing
meal before a ravenous man. In a flash, he had her covered in an
oversized long-sleeved navy cotton shirt and a pair of black leggings
which, much to his dismay, did little to sate his voracious appetite.
If anything, a wet-haired, wide-eyed Buffy, still flush from her orgasm
and dressed in men’s clothing was more lethally tempting than anything
for which he could have prepared himself.
There was no preparing for this. For the wonderful torment of
having her so close, so willing, yet so completely off limits.
Better to get his mind on a different track altogether. Spike whistled
a long sigh and shook his head. There was nothing more he figured on
doing here—the prime objectives conquered. Buffy looked brilliant and
smelled divine, and while she was still far from the picture in his
memory, she was closer than even he could have hoped.
“No frilly scents,” he observed. “You weren’t one to over-pamper, but I
know you fancied lavender. Used to spray it on before every patrol.”
Buffy smiled, entertaining herself with her oversized sleeves.
“Time to head back, then.” Spike moved forward and took her by the arm.
“See if we can find another roast for tonight.”
She nodded as though she understood and placed herself faithfully at
his side, mimicking the steps he took and the curves his body made as
she had when they first arrived. The empty streets appeared a shade
darker, marking the maturation of the day as the perimeters of the
dimension spun toward nightfall. He hadn’t planned on spending the
entire day at the warehouse, but somewhere between shaving Buffy’s legs
and cutting her hair, he’d lost track of the hours.
Somewhere between…
God, he’d really fucked himself over. Convincing himself he was acting
on her behalf, telling himself it was what she deserved—something she
needed after lifetimes without anyone to touch. Something that wasn’t
at all for him.
Only of course it was. It was entirely for him. The way she smelled.
The way she sighed. The way she whimpered and arched against him, her
soft, silky pussy around his fingers, drenching him with liquid desire.
Things he’d only imagined before—forbidden fantasies that had driven
him mad in life and death. In a blink, every pang, every twist, every
jerk his battered heart had ever endured, his overactive mind had ever
suffered, blasted through the walls solitude had built. His sex-drive
revived, his body pumped with harsh waves of crippling lust…and he’d
allowed himself a touch.
He’d allowed those fantasies to take shape. He knew things now—things
he could only before imagine. True, he’d always known how she smelled
when she was hot; he’d sniffed her enough when they first met. From the
beginning, in good ole Sunnydale High that night they first came
together in battle. She’d been so warm, so fiery—her body spiced with
arousal and adrenalin. She couldn’t hide from him then—not as she
learned to in the years that followed. She’d been so young, virginal,
unschooled in ways girls didn’t appreciate until after adulthood had
seized them fully. And while, yes, she had grown up much sooner than
any teenager ever should, she’d possessed such precious innocence when
they first crossed paths—innocence that couldn’t be described.
Innocence that once lost was lost forever. And in the early days, she’d
let him know in a thousand ways how easily it would have been to take
the forbidden. How he could have claimed her without any struggle at
all. She might have loved Angel, but her teenage hormones left her a
time-bomb that would have gone off for anyone who gave it attention.
He'd enjoyed fusing and defusing her, especially knowing he could have
ignited her fuse any way he pleased. She might have hated him then, but
her mind was still open, curious, aroused by danger and anyone’s to
conquer. She would have let him have a taste if he’d pursued it.
The fantasies had started back when she barely qualified as a
pedophile’s wet-dream, and time had only strengthened his hunger. The
more he knew her, the more he wanted to know her. Her beauty and allure
increased with each day, flavored her life with experiences that had
made her into the woman with whom he’d fallen in love. Her soft girlish
skin had smoothed into a woman’s curves and the punches and kicks
they’d traded were exchanged for verbal skirmishes, not to mention more
pops in the nose than he cared to relive. She’d grown up before his
eyes, and while he’d always been obsessed with her, while he might have
loved her since the beginning, there was no match for the woman she’d
become. The woman he’d braved Hell to find.
The woman he’d had only vivid fantasies to call upon, until he let his
dick convince his brain that touching her when she couldn’t know what
it meant was the right thing to do. The thing she needed
when she couldn’t known right now what she truly needed. When she
didn’t know him beyond the understanding that his presence meant she
was no longer alone. He’d always had her scent in his nostrils and her
taste in his mouth, and he’d known how her skin felt beneath his
fingertips from the few times she’d allowed him to touch her. He’d had
those things before to bolster the fantasies. And now…
Now…
Now he had everything in his imagination filled in for him. Her moans.
Her sighs. Her gasps. Her honey. Her warmth.
He had everything.
Christ, he shouldn’t have touched her. He shouldn’t have allowed those
fantasies to know reality.
She’d unwittingly given him the most perfect moment of his life, and he
could never touch it again. Not like this. Not when the part of Buffy
he wanted the most was lost among the inner debris.
And that’s the rub. Spike glanced up, absorbing her sweet
face, her innocent eyes…those eyes that would follow him anywhere.
The part of her he wanted was gone, and he wouldn’t be satisfied with
anything else. And he sure as fuck wouldn’t take advantage of her.
Another time, another life, other circumstances…he’d been a soulless
prick and proud of it, but the ground on which he now trod was paved
far off the beaten track of anything he’d ever ventured. This was
different. He was different. And he loved her too much to make
it about him, and today, try as he might to convince himself otherwise,
had
been about him. Whatever he did, however he touched her, whatever
boundaries he broke were so broken because he wanted them gone. It
wasn’t because she needed it…no matter how hard he tried to convince
himself otherwise.
He’d find her. Somehow, some way, he would pull her from the shadows in
which she’d buried herself. He’d find her.
He had all the time in the world.
*~*~*
Spike couldn’t begin to imagine how bloody sick Buffy must be of pork.
Day in and day out, for a thousand years, experiencing nothing but the
mundane taste of roasted pig. She’d likely never again ask to carve the
Christmas ham once he had her home.
“About had your fill, love?” he asked, wiping her mouth with the corner
of his shirt. For something she ate every day, she gobbled it up with
all the enthusiasm of a woman who didn’t know from where her next meal
was coming. She’d exhibited surprise when he began the hunt for another
animal, which led him to believe she didn’t eat every day and likewise
went a long way in explaining why she was so thin. Buffy always had
been a tiny slip of a thing—more so toward the end than ever—but she
was similarly a girl who liked a good meal. She never starved herself
for the sake of vanity; Lord knows she didn’t need to for all the
exercise she got both in training and on the hunt. However, after
having lost herself and all semblance of what it was to be human, the
routine of eating had likely slipped into something she only did when
hunger pains mounted toward starvation.
No way to evolve without others. She’d been alone, and stripped of the
ability to grow.
“Ready for a bit of kip, then?” Spike questioned, nodding at the
makeshift bed. “Figure today was all right, wasn’t it?”
A soft smile tickled her lips, her eyes brightening. And though it was
fleeting, he couldn’t help but feel that she understood him.
“Nothing too exciting, of course,” he continued, doing his best to keep
images of her hot body pressed against him, her pussy strangling his
fingers, at bay. The last thing he needed was another stiffy,
especially when his body was still tense from the stolen moments they
had enjoyed earlier. Anything more and he’d have to sneak off for a
wank, and given that it had been three centuries since the last time
he’d pleasured himself, he wasn’t sure that was the best of ideas. Not
at the moment, anyway. Not when Buffy could stumble upon him; not when
he didn’t know how long it would take to relieve this bloody edge…
Nothing too exciting. Who the fuck was he trying to fool?
“I’ll have to go to the river tomorrow,” he said. “Get somethin’ to
eat.”
Again, Buffy looked as though she understood. She even nodded.
Spike paused, his heart about leaping into his throat. While it didn’t
do well to get his hopes up, he couldn’t help but wonder for one
glorious second if it was possible. If he’d done more good by her than
even he could have anticipated…if a sensation had triggered a memory…if
she was fighting through the forest that was her mind to a place where
things made sense again.
Could she…
He held her gaze and swallowed hard. Such intelligence. Such strength.
All locked behind those emerald eyes.
Best not to get his hopes up.
Spike inhaled sharply and nodded at the bed. “Hop in, pidge.”
Buffy just looked at him.
He sighed. So much for wishful thinking. “Here,” he said,
stepping forward and taking her arm. “Let’s just—”
She stopped, shaking her head and hardening her stance.
Spike frowned. “What’s wrong?”
No response, of course, but he didn’t expect one. There was nothing
until she shook his hand off her arm and seized his wrist, and by the
time he realized she was guiding it to her pussy, it was too late. Her
warmth was pressed against him, tickling his nose with a fresh wave of
potent slayer arousal and dulling the sensors that guided him through
moral gray areas. All at once the insipid line between what was
right and what felt right melted into nothing.
Be strong.
Hard bloody words to live by when she looked at him like that.
“Buffy—”
She offered a fast, enthusiastic nod, sounds that could have been words
scratching at her throat.
Oh Christ.
“No,” Spike said harshly, fervently. “I can’t. We can’t. It’s—”
The fire in her eyes dimmed.
“It’s not you, kitten,” he swore. “I want this more than you can bloody
well imagine. I jus’ can’t take it, all right? What happened in the
shower was a one-time thing. A mistake. A…”
If he didn’t know better, he would have sworn she flinched. Perhaps mistake
was a universal term, understood only by women in whatever language it
was uttered. He didn’t know; all he knew was his heart wilted when she
blinked back tears. In an instant his world unraveled. The vows he’d
made to himself folded in favor of the same rationalization that had
possessed him before. The logic he’d used to pacify the conscience he
shouldn’t command; to justify touching her the way he had. Senses
dulled and reality faded. Buffy was pressed against him, her watery
eyes shining up at him, a wordless plea riding her muted lips for
something she didn’t know how to express.
It’s not her, his mind warned. It’s not her…
And it wasn’t. He knew it—for fuck’s sake, he’d repeated it mercilessly
to himself to keep this from happening again. But when he met her eyes,
Buffy was all he saw. The Buffy he knew; the Buffy he loved. There were
no lines, no boundaries, no clearly marked sign labeling a wrong turn.
Buffy might not be behind the wheel, but the girl in his arms was Buffy
where it mattered most.
He’d told himself no. He’d sworn a bloody oath.
But she hadn’t been touched in so long…
How could he deny her the one thing she’d asked of him?
“Promise me one thing,” Spike whispered, brushing his lips across her
cheek. “When you remember me, remember this, you’ll also remember I
tried.” A long breath shuddered through his body, hands gently guiding
her back until her ankles brushed the bed. This time when she stiffened
in protest, he shook his head, nuzzling her throat and rubbing soothing
circles into her shoulders as he guided her to the ground. “It’s all
right. I’m here. I’ll take care of you.”
He would never understand how he could burn so brightly under her smile
without dusting, especially now when his hands shook and his knees
knocked and he did his best not to fumble like a schoolboy. She was so
beautiful. So open and trusting, warmth beyond anything he’d ever
tasted burning her eyes. And for an instant, he found himself back in
his crypt, lost in her eyes as they met each other with understanding.
He’d always been there for her. Even when they were enemies, he’d waved
a white flag and taken a stance at her side, no matter how rigidly his
demon protested. Even when his bones were at the mercy of an irate
hell-god, he held his head high and asked for more. Even when he had no
reason to keep fighting, his fists remained raised and ready to strike.
No matter the cause, he’d always been there. Always.
He wouldn’t stop now. Not when she needed him the most.
“It’s all right,” Spike said again, cursing the hands that trembled as
he fisted the hem of her over-sized shirt and drew it over her head.
Her nipples puckered the second they kissed air, dragging his eyes
downward and making his mouth water. Strange that she didn’t blush or
turn away; Buffy might have been a woman of the world, but she was
always so conscious of herself, of the way she looked to those around
her, both internally and externally. He’d never imagined her baring
herself with such unaccustomed openness, and though he wished he could
believe this was something she gave to him and him alone, the truth
wasn’t nearly as flattering. He could be anyone so long as he was with
her right now. So long as he saved her from silence.
Buffy inhaled sharply when he cupped a breast, eyes falling shut and
her head rolling back. And Spike was doomed to follow; his mouth
falling to her throat. “You’re perfect,” he murmured, stretching out
beside her. “So perfect.”
“Ahhh…”
“Always were to me, love. The perfect enemy. The perfect slayer. The
perfect woman. Perfect for me.”
He sighed, hands dropping to her leggings. “Bloody well perfect for me.
Lift your hips.” Spike tugged on her hemline to indicate intent, and
she obeyed without hesitation. God, it shouldn’t be so easy. Not with
Buffy. Nothing ever was. But just like that she was naked and beneath
him, her body open and inviting. And completely his.
Wrong.
“Mmm…” Her hips rolled upward in offering, betraying womanly expertise
which should have been lost to her. “Uhhh…”
Spike smiled softly and kissed her cheek, hand abandoning her breasts
and tracing down her abdomen. “So lovely,” he murmured, unable to keep
his head from dipping so his tongue could curl around one of her
nipples. God, she tasted sweeter than he could have imagined. Every
nerve in his body quivered. “It’s all right. Jus’ let me…”
The river that drenched his fingers when he slid his hand between her
legs was enough to render his balls a cold, hard blue, and he couldn’t,
with a good conscience, touch himself…not while he was doing this. As
long as he kept his pleasure separate from hers, there was some leeway
with his conscience. Blur that line and everything was lost. Not that
she made it easy. God, no. One touch, one simple caress, and her hot
nectar flowed over his fingers, tightened his every cell and compounded
the need for release. It had been so long. “Oh, Buffy,” he
murmured, gently caressing her labia before parting her completely. “So
warm. So fucking warm…let me…”
“Ahhh…”
“That’s it, darling,” he said encouragingly, unable to keep from
licking her nipple again. “Jus’ let it go.”
He teased her gently for a few mindless seconds, penetrating her
opening with a few shallow thrusts before turning his attention
completely to her clitoris. Weeks could be spent enjoying Buffy’s body,
exploring everything he’d only dreamt about for so long—he could stay
here happily and never tire. But this wasn’t about him, and he couldn’t
fool himself. She would cling and gasp, hold onto him as he introduced
her to levels of pleasure her mind had forgotten, but it wasn’t about
him. It could never be about him. He had to keep his distance, keep his
involvement minimal. He had to make sure she understood what it meant
when she returned to him.
He had to make sure Buffy knew he’d done this for her.
“I love you,” Spike murmured, drawing lazy circles around her clit. “I
love you, Buffy. You hear me?”
She gasped and scratched at him, and he pressed harder.
“I love you. Remember that.”
Perhaps it was too much to ask, but he didn’t care. It was something
that needed asking. Something he had to say.
He had to get the words between them so she knew. So when the day came
that she opened her eyes and saw him, she would recognize what had
passed.
If there was one thing he would take for himself, this was it.
He needed her to know it was about her—and always had been.
TBC