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.
Author’s Note: Thank you all so much for the amazing response to
Chapter 1. I really can’t express how much it means to me, especially
since this story has been on the backburner so long…it’s surreal seeing
it come to life, and even more so to see it so well-received, but trust
me, in the best way possible. You all fueled my muse enough to crank
out another chapter in record time. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
And of course, thanks again to my irreplaceable betas: just_sue,
megan_peta , elizabuffy, dusty273, spikeslovebite,
and therealmccoy1. You guys are amazing.
Chapter Two
He saw her burning.
It wasn’t real. Even in the midst of a dream, he knew the difference
between fantasy and reality. However, knowledge could not prevent the
subconscious from twisting in agony. Buffy torn apart by fire. Buffy’s
flame-licked arms reaching for rescue that wouldn’t come. Buffy’s
tormented eyes pleading with him to find her. To pay penance for
failing her at the Tower by finding her, no matter the cost.
She was ripped by fire. Burning. Burning. And he couldn’t reach her. He
saw her, felt her, but couldn’t reach.
Couldn’t reach.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
It was the truth. Hell was the last place to seek a Champion. Buffy
jumped to save the world, and this was the way the world repaid her.
Sending her down to a blistering inferno the likes of which no one
before had ever dreamt. It was a special hell. It was her hell. One of
her design, her making, her worst nightmares spurred to new life. Did
she know the images were fake? Did she see the false prophets for what
they were? Was she waiting for him? For anyone? Did she trust them to
find her before she lost herself?
Or were they already too late?
“Spike…you shouldn’t be here.”
Resistance fortified as he tried to pry his eyes open. It had been so
long since he rested. However, when will overpowered desire, he found
himself staring blearily at a bland, cream ceiling, surrounded by her
scent. Her presence. Days old but not forgotten. And he remembered.
Her room. He’d come to her room. And apparently, he’d fallen asleep.
Spike sighed and glanced up. Giles crowded the doorway, his expression
stern but non-accusatory. Rather, compassion and understanding beyond
anything the vampire had ever received from the man poured from every
facet, and in that instant, they understood each other.
“Sorry,” Spike murmured, throwing his legs over the side of her bed. “I
din’t…I don’ remember what I needed, but I know I needed something.”
A wan smile stretched the watcher’s lips. “Apparently what you needed
was a nap,” he said, indicating the hallway with a nod. “Right now,
you’re needed downstairs.”
“Have you found anythin’?”
“Nothing that inspires much hope, but we are developing an
understanding of what…entering this dimension will entail.” Giles
exhaled a deep breath, his eyes heavy. “The more I learn, the more
convinced I am that…there is only one chance, you see. If we’re to get
her out, we can’t dally with semantics. For instance, I need to look
upon your lack of a soul as a blessing rather than a burden.”
Spike frowned. “How’s that?”
“It might be what saves her.”
*~*~*
He wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or shocked when Willow shoved a
glass of blood under his nose the second his foot hit the bottom step.
It wasn’t too long ago the witch had threatened to disinvite him from
every corner of Sunnydale, detailing the many ways Buffy would kick his
ass back to next Thursday if he didn’t let up on his obsession. Now she
was smiling kindly, her expression sad but hopeful. And she had blood
for him. Warm blood. Blood she’d poured because she cared.
“You’re eating,” she informed him.
“Am I?”
“I made it myself.”
Spike eyed the glass warily. “Smells like swine.”
“Well, I didn’t open a vein or anything, but I did make with the
pouring and the microwave and stuff.” She shoved the glass against his
chest. “Eat.”
A pause. His eyes bounced from the blood to her face and back again.
God, nothing in the world could have prepared him for this. He’d had a
family once. Angelus. Darla. Drusilla, yet they had never been kind.
Well, except Dru when she could manage it, but the eldest in his family
didn’t try to conceal their disdain for him and their disapproval at
his inclusion in the clan.
He wasn’t accustomed to concern over his well-being. It was something
he hadn’t experienced since the days when his heart pumped blood. Since
his mother entertained his poetry. And now Willow, the best mate of the
girl he loved, was looking at him with compassion and respect.
Respect from a human. Respect from one of Buffy’s best friends.
It wasn’t until recently Spike had found himself in the precarious
position of not wanting to disappoint someone; Buffy, of course, for
whom he would have done anything…though even that hadn’t been enough.
Offering anything and everything hadn’t been enough. He hadn’t wanted
to fail her. He hadn’t wanted to disappoint.
And now Willow, whom he hadn’t realized until this second that he
liked. Liking Buffy—loving Buffy—had been revolutionary enough, but
even though he understood it, even though he’d made peace with it, he
hadn’t been prepared to extend his regard to her friends. There was
Dawn and Joyce, both of whom he loved as his own family…but without
their relationship to Buffy, they were just two people in a world of
millions. He didn’t want to like Willow or anyone else. They were a
means to an end. Means to saving Buffy.
God, it’d be so much easier if he could convince his twisted mind that
was the truth.
Spike sighed heavily, eyes glued to the cup pressed against his chest.
“Don’ know if I can,” he replied.
“You almost did earlier.”
“Yeah, an’ then I didn’t.”
“Well, you’re gonna try.” Willow smiled brightly, but the hard
determination in her eyes screamed it wasn’t an option. “Go ahead.”
Spike looked at her a minute longer before raising the glass to his
lips. And instead of the disgust he expected, he all but tripped over
himself in relief. Warm and thick, coppery and delicious. Absolute
perfection. His stomach growled and the demon purred, though not loud,
and the pain riddling his bones solidified at last to distinguish
something he hadn’t felt since the Tower. Hunger. He remembered hunger.
It returned from nowhere—hunger empowered by determination. Perhaps it
was the knowledge he needed strength. Perhaps it was starvation. He
didn’t know—all he knew was one drop had him aching for more. The bones
in his face shifted without warning, fangs clinking against the rim as
his jaw opened wider, gulping thunderous mouthfuls. Never before had
pig’s blood been so delicious. When all that was left was a red-caked
glass, he found himself licking the insides. Eager, ravenous, desperate
for more.
“Looks like someone wants seconds.”
He nodded eagerly and thrust the glass back into her hands. “Please.”
Willow made a face. “Eww. Not your waitress. Blood’s in the fridge.”
“Thought you were bein’ all hospitable.”
“I was. Don’t you remember me giving you the glass?” She smiled and
turned toward the living room. “We have some stuff to go over.”
Spike nodded, dipping a finger inside the cup and running it along the
bottom. “Blood can wait,” he replied somberly. “What’s going on?”
The answer came from Giles’s voice rather than Willow’s as the watcher
materialized from behind. “We have been researching hell dimensions all
day,” he said softly. “And while there are—”
“All day?” Spike frowned and whirled to face him. “How long did I
sleep?”
His answer came with a grim smile. “You went upstairs last night.”
“A whole bloody day?”
“You needed it,” Willow interjected swiftly. “And Dawn insisted—”
“You let me sleep while Buffy’s—”
“You needed your rest,” Giles affirmed, his shoulders dropping. “The
more we research, the more I’m convinced of it. There might be millions
of hell dimensions, but they all say the same thing.”
Spike arched a brow. “An’ that’s worth letting me snooze?”
Their scents hit him before Xander’s voice tickled the air. He and Anya
traipsed into the living room from the kitchen, joined at the hip as
always. It wasn’t a huge surprise; a good apocalypse typically made
people cling harder to those around them. The fact that the boy and his
demon bride were already inseparable only made their codependency more
apparent.
“I still say it’s a crap idea and we need to look harder.”
Giles sighed hard. “Xander…”
“This is the one shot we have at getting her back and we’re going to
trust—”
“Yes, we’re going to trust Spike.”
The vampire blinked and turned again. “Oh. So the lot of you came to
the conclusion that I was right after all, is that it?” He bulldozed
the watcher with a hard look. “It has to be me.”
There was no hesitance—only recognition. “Yes.”
Xander waved a hand. “You still haven’t convinced me that we shouldn’t
all saddle up and go in together. This is Buffy we’re talking about.”
“Yes, which is precisely why Spike must go alone.”
“It’s bogus.”
Anya heaved a deep breath and smiled apologetically. “I tried talking
to him,” she said with uncharacteristic modesty.
A still beat settled over the room. And though irritated, Spike
couldn’t find it within himself to begrudge Xander his prejudice. The
boy cared about Buffy. He did. He was the proverbial big brother, and
he didn’t want anyone going near his sister without his say so. The
fact that Spike was Giles’s number one candidate sure didn’t sweeten
matters, but even if he weren’t the obvious option, Xander would
complain about anyone going after the Slayer if it meant he was left
behind. He wanted to be the rescue. He wanted to make it happen himself.
It was understandable, but ultimately a waste of time. There were
things larger than egos at play. “Boy doesn’t want me flyin’ solo,”
Spike murmured. “Doesn’ sound like there’s much in the way of options.”
Xander met his eyes. “I just don’t think—”
“Right,” Giles said sharply. “You don’t. This is unlike anything you
can imagine. It isn’t infiltrating the Initiative or blowing up a
school building. This is Hell. Human rules do not apply. Rules—”
“Rules schmools—”
“Exactly the sort of thinking which proves you wouldn’t survive.”
Harris sighed. “You don’t know that—”
“Yes, we do.” The finality in Giles’s tone wasn’t overly severe, yet
for whatever reason it didn’t earn another objection. There was a
considerable pause before the watcher turned back to Spike,
determination marking his face. “Dawn’s due home in a half hour. We
would like to have something to tell her.”
“Tara’s picking her up,” Willow offered. “I kinda feel bad, making her
be errand-runny girl, but she’s…” She trailed off and blinked, and
again the scent of tears slammed into the air. It was commonplace now,
and no one questioned her. “She’s…Dawn lost her sister and her mom
in…and Tara, with her mom. She’s just feeling extra…maternal.”
Xander cleared his throat. “You’re not making her do anything she
doesn’t want to, Will. She practically guards Dawn’s room at night.”
“Yeah, but she misses all the Scooby stuff.”
“Being there for Dawn is the best thing she can do right now,” Giles
reasoned softly, though there was a darkness in his eyes Spike wagered
only he could see. The part of the old man that had told Buffy
repeatedly before they headed into the final battle that killing the
girl was the only means of saving the world. The part which had
screamed at her, begged her to see reason. To realize, no matter the
memories, that Dawn was not her true sister. Buffy Summers had no
sister. She never had. Not until a group of holy gits decided to change
the rules.
Buffy had threatened to kill anyone who stood between her and Dawn. And
she meant it.
Chip or no chip, that crusade had become Spike’s. And he couldn’t help
but wonder if the watcher regretted his callousness.
Or perhaps he regretted his own failure at making Buffy understand.
It didn’t matter. Dawn was family to Buffy; therefore she was family to
Spike. It was the way it was.
“Every text we’ve found on hell dimensions has stated the same thing,”
Giles continued. “Human souls are entirely too fragile to withstand
Hell. The very strongest go mad within a few seconds, and spend
eternity attempting to piece together fragments of themselves in order
to remember who they are. Buffy’s…situation is rather unique.”
“Because she’s still alive,” Anya offered. “In Hell.”
Spike’s heart twisted and his stomach gurgled. Perhaps eating had been
a bad idea after all.
“Because she’s still alive,” the watcher agreed solemnly. He looked as
ill as the vampire felt. “She…the state of her soul while encased in a
human body…we don’t know what effect that will have. We know the impact
it had on Angel, but he had a demon to rationalize what he saw and
experienced. Buffy has…nothing.”
Spike’s jaw clenched. “An’ she’s still there. I don’ see why we’re
standing around here chatting if you kids have decided I’m the one for
the job.” He waved a hand. “All demon, no soul.”
Giles pursed his lips and nodded. “Precisely.”
“What about this business with Buffy making her own Hell,” Xander
asked, fight gone from his voice. “I still…I mean, I know she’s there
and she made it, but…I don’t get why.”
Willow nodded, motioning to the living room, where book after book lay
spread across the floor, open to various pages and likely all depicting
an interpretation of Hell. “Most Western ideals of Hell are similar in
their influence of Christian mythology. In the instance where a living
person is lost in Hell—or the equivalent—her mind might…I dunno, piece
together what she thinks Hell would look like, making that version of
Hell her Hell. Does that make sense?”
There was no immediate response; Harris looked ill. “Way too much.”
“So when I get there,” Spike said, “I see Buffy’s worst nightmares.”
“That’s just…that’s the best theory we can come up with.” The redhead
sighed, looking, for an instant, very old. “The books don’t exactly
have an appendix for the living who get sucked into dimensions. But
with what Anya and Xander discovered yesterday… Buffy’s in a hell of
her own making, and not just any old corner of Hell, willy-nilly. One
of her own making would be her own fears come to life. So…yeah. She
would…the best guess would be…that.”
A dark, powerful shudder seized the vampire by the shoulders.
Buffy lost in a sea of her darkest fears.
He had to get to her. He had to get to her now.
“How does Spike get in?” Xander asked, though it was very apparent he
didn't want the answer.
“The Hellmouth,” Giles replied. His eyes were fixed on the vampire.
“It's our best bet. And as we are attempting to enter…” He sighed. “It
will be difficult earning access.”
Spike shrugged. Every nerve in his body twitched with the need to move.
The need to run. The need to be anywhere but here. It was the
Hellmouth, then. Fine. Didn't bloody matter to him so long as he didn't
have to wait for permission before going in. Every second in this
reality was God-knows-how-long for Buffy. If there was any chance at
getting her back, it became more and more dismal by the second.
“Brilliant,” he said shortly. “So let's get rollin'.”
“It won't be easy,” the watcher warned.
“To infiltrate Hell? You don't bloody say.”
A long sigh rolled off Giles's shoulders. “There will be trials,” he
continued. “You could die trying to get there…and even after you reach
her, there's no telling if she'll be…Buffy.”
“Or if you'll be able to get back out,” Willow added unhelpfully.
Spike shrugged again, undeterred. “Well, we won' know a sodding thing
if we jus' stand around an' chat about it all day, now will we? You say
you know how we're gonna get in, so let's stop blabbering an' get to
the getting. Buffy can't afford to wait.”
“She also can't afford to have us make rash decisions,” Giles replied
firmly. “We need to learn exactly what entering Hell entails. What to
expect once you are out of reach. Decisions made on a whim can cost us
what little hope we have. There is no way, of course, to know exactly
what you will face, but learning as much as possible will weigh the
scales in our favor.” Or so we hope.
The words didn’t need to spoken to have their punch. One look at the
watcher’s face spoke volumes. After a dramatic pause, Giles continued,
“I know you want to get to her now. We all do. But we want to make sure
we don't make any mistakes…this is a different world, Spike. The
slightest move, the smallest slip of judgment can have ramifications
the likes of which we have never considered. We love Buffy.” A pregnant
pause. The watcher swallowed hard, his eyes heavy. “You love
Buffy. With as much as we want her back, we need to make sure our
fervor doesn't cost her an eternity.”
If there was anything that could be said to slow the fire in Spike's
heart, this was it. No matter if he knew Giles didn't believe it—and he
didn't. While the vampire might have earned the man's respect, the road
to acceptance was a long one, and it took more than a day to move a
mountain. It was in the watcher's eyes; the firm belief in a demon's
inability to love, in Spike's inability to feel anything but
infatuation. However, an allowance—even a small one—was worth so much
more than its weight in gold. Giles might not believe Spike truly loved
the Slayer, but he knew Spike believed it. He knew what was at stake.
Giles didn't want to lose his daughter. The Scoobies didn't want to
lose their friend. Spike didn't want to lose the woman he loved.
The woman he was made to love.
And while Buffy's chums might not like him, they knew their cause was
his. They knew.
“All right.” Spike sighed heavily. “We wait.” He hated the idea, but
the wisdom behind it could not be denied. They needed time—they needed
to learn as much as they could. It made him feel idle and useless, but
it needed to be done. He needed to wait.
He needed to know what he was up against. He needed to know how to get
to her without losing her first.
Even as seconds ticked by in Hell.
Seconds that could be days for her. Seconds that could cost them
everything.
It was too important. This was too important. If Spike's impatience
cost him Buffy, he would never forgive himself.
So he would wait.
TBC