The Crypt: Out of Mind, Out of Sight by Phoebe

Rating/Content: Romance, angst, drama...my story has it all, wrapped up in a nice little R rating.

Pairing: Spike/Buffy

Spoilers: Everything up to Grave. There is the vaguest reference to something in Sleeper, a song used in that episode. But nothing spoilery after the end of season six.

Author's note: This story is a sequel to A Will, a Way, and a Woman, the clean version of which can be found on this site. If you haven't read that story it's a safe bet you won't understand this one, so I suggest you try that one on for size first. If you want the NC-17 version of that story, try either spuffy online (B/S Central) or copy and paste this link: http://ca.geocities.com/bloodluvingirl/AWillAWayAndAWoman1.htm

Summary: After much trial and error, Spike and Buffy are living and loving together in the Summers' home. But cohabitated bliss is interrupted by an old enemy seeking revenge.... *Work in progress.*

Laq was one of those typical, monster-of-the-week type demons. He was all bumpy skin and dark robes, red glowing eyes, and plans for an impending apocalypse. It was just another by-the-book Tuesday night demon hunt.

Maybe his very banality was what got her. Buffy was not expecting a challenge and therefore she did not give the fight her all. She fought half-heartedly, like a racehorse which wins without trying, breezing the course knowing that the others are too far behind to be a threat. She was overly confident. It was a mistake.

Laq let her beat on him awhile—perhaps in order to afford her the self-confidence, which would make her sloppy. He waited until her stake was raised, poised for the death-strike, and then he calmly raised his arm. His mottled gray hand was held palm out to her, and she stared at it, suddenly confused. She dropped the stake.

Laq's fingers wriggled slowly, pushing out, and then curving back in; they drew her toward him, hypnotizing her with their movements. When she was but a few inches away, his fingers stretched wide from the palm. Something fast and blinding-white shot from the heel of his hand, aiming right for her.

Before the flash could reach her, something charged Buffy from the side, knocking her down. She rolled several feet across the dirt floor of the cave before coming to rest against the rock wall.

"Should have done your homework, love," Spike told her. His lips brushed her forehead as he climbed off her, pulling her to her feet even as he rose.

Spike wiped a line of blood from his forehead. His eyes were darting around the cave, searching for the laq, which had retreated into the shadows at his arrival. He turned to her, examining her wounds as he answered her question.

"It's a laq demon. Nasty boogers, bit smarter than your average. They enthrall their victims then draw out their life-energy. It's what they live on, the aura of other creatures. He nearly bloody got you."

Before she could answer, he was gone, running down the narrow tunnel of rock in search of the demon.

Buffy followed as quickly as she could, but the heel of her shoe had broken when Spike threw her to the ground, and the lopsided gait caused by running with one two-inch heel and one flat one slowed her down considerably. By the time she reached them, Spike had already gotten control over Laq and was...

"See...your first problem lies in the fact you're a demon," Spike said, and his voice had the lilting note of laughter in it. He was smiling slightly, circling Laq with the slow, easy gait of a seasoned predator. He made a short leap to avoid something in his path and Buffy glanced down. He had cut off the demon's hand.

The laq kept turning, never allowing Spike to slip behind him, but he was on the losing end of this battle and he knew it. Both of them did.

"See...being a demon, I would've killed you anyway," Spike told the demon. "It's, well, it's kind of what I do now. It would have been short and painless—all business. But...you tried to feed off my girlfriend...and now it's not so businesslike...and not so quick. See now you've given me an excuse to enjoy it."

The demon crouched down as Spike completed another circle. He bounded forward suddenly, attempting to get past Spike and escape down the tunnel. Buffy readied herself to stop him, but there was no need. Spike threw out his arm, blocking Laq's path. The demon didn't have time to stop, so he hit Spike head on. Spike thrust his arm forward, heaving the laq to the dirt.

Blood spurted from the demon's wounded arms, spraying Spike. He wiped a hand across his face carelessly as he crouched over the demon.

"Well, look at you...all injured and helpless...Let me give you a hand." He picked up one of the demon's severed hands and threw it at him. It bounced off Laq's chest and Spike laughed at the demon's terrified expression. "Not so tough without the magic fingers are you?"

Buffy moved out of the shadows and Spike's amused expression changed, softened. "Spike..." she said.

She didn't have to say anything more; he understood what she meant perfectly. Shrugging his shoulders carelessly, he delved into his boot-top and produced a blood-encrusted knife, no doubt the same weapon used to amputate Laq's hands. He looked at the knife a moment, tested the sharpness against the pad of his thumb. Then he plunged it into the laq's chest.

Buffy shook her head slightly as Spike twisted the knife, pushing it in until the handle touched the demons breastbone. "You know, sometimes I think you enjoy this too much," she said.

Blood merged with the flowing water, spilling from his hands to stain pink the white porcelain of the sink. Spike had lived in the Summers' home for almost a month now, but he still had not come to terms with the guilt he felt every time he stepped into the bathroom. Buffy might have been more than generous in her ability to grant him an absolution, and she certainly seemed to feel no particular aversion to the room, but Spike could not help flashing back on that incident every time he walked into the bathroom at night. It was his habit to keep the lights off when he entered, a way to further cloak his sins in darkness.

Tonight was no exception. He hadn't turned on the light and the blood on his hands looked black in the dim glow of the nightlight. He scrubbed them with soap, scraping his skin and nails with a brush until they were raw, but he couldn't get clean. He was stained with the demon's blood.

After the adrenaline had ceased to flow, after the joy of death had left his nostrils, Spike had become frightened by his behavior. What was it in him that liked to kill? What was it about him that craved the feel of his foe's warm blood on his hands? He hadn't just wanted to kill the demon—he had wanted to hurt it. It had hurt her and all he could think about was revenge. Had Buffy not shown up he would have played with Laq all night, tortured him until he died of it. Because it was fun.

It wasn't wrong, was it? It couldn't be wrong—not if it was for her. It was the fear of losing her, that was all. The rage he had felt at seeing something evil and disgusting daring to take his beloved from him. It didn't mean he was still bad. He wasn't. She wasn't bad and she enjoyed it. Buffy had told him so. It was part of the game—hunter and hunted. You had to enjoy it somewhat if you were to survive.

Spike gripped the edges of the sink tightly, bowing his head and gritting his teeth. He was trying to force it away, the confusion. It pervaded his existence always, threatening the happiness he felt at being here with her. He had a soul; it was supposed to be enough. It was supposed to make everything easy, to show him right from wrong, and to keep him from enjoying things that were bad. Only it didn't. He still felt evil. A lot of the time, he still had to think about things before he could figure out if they were wrong or not. Sometimes Buffy would get mad at him for doing things that seemed perfectly natural and he didn't understand why. Why were certain things wrong? Why did the demon in him awake from its slumber and lust for blood during a fight? Why did he always insist on satisfying its desire? He was the demon—why couldn't he control it?

Everything felt muddled. His thoughts were moving too fast to capture and it made his head ache. He bit his lip and moaned softly because everything hurt.

Then her arms slid around him, smooth and cool as drifting snow. He felt her lips press into the back of his shoulder, heard her whisper, "It's okay."

"Everything." He shook his head slightly. "Everything I do—everything I feel—I have to think 'is this wrong' and I never know. I can't figure it out, Buffy. I do these things and it feels okay but it's not. I enjoyed hurting that demon. I liked the feel of his blood and the smell of his fear—I liked the power of death. It seemed right—he hurt you and it seemed right to hurt him back. But it wasn't."

"Spike..." She took him by the shoulders and turned him around to face her. "It's all right for you to be confused."

He looked at her with puzzlement. She hadn't turned the light on either. The room was dimly cast in blue from the nightlight plugged into the wall; it offered just enough light for him to see her. Her expression was soft and understanding.

"The rules have all changed for you...you need time to adjust, it's understandable." She reached up, gently touched the gash on his forehead. "You're hurt."

"I'm all right," he whispered. The warmth of her body reached him in perfumed waves, melting away the confusion and replacing it with something else. As long as she stayed this close, looked at him this way, he didn't think he would ever feel confused about anything again.

His face was flecked with the demon's blood, but she was kissing it anyway, her lips tracing the curve of his jaw, the lines of his cheekbones. Her fingers combed through the short strands of his hair, petting and urging his head down toward hers.

He mouthed her name without sound, closing his eyes at the first gentle touch of her lips against his. This was the room where he had tried to force himself on her—the room that proved the downfall of their relationship, the entering into its lowest point. However, the soft touch of her lips, the lightest caress of her hands, showed him what he hadn't been able to see on his own. Everything bad that had happened—including the attempted rape—needed to happen in order for them to arrive in this place now.

His lips curved into a smile against hers as he drew her closer. One hand left her waist to reach behind him and flick the switch on the wall, flooding the room with light.

Early one morning, just as the sun was rising
I heard a maid sing in the valley below
"Oh don't deceive me, Oh never leave me,
How could you use, a poor maiden so?"

She was singing to him, her voice pure and soft and sweet. The moon was orange in the sky, and she was trailing through the field like a dark dove flying low. One slender hand was outstretched, her fingertips just brushing the tops of the sunflowers as she walked. When she reached the end of the row she looked over her shoulder at him, her lips curved into a smile.

"Hello, pretty Spike," she greeted him. One hand stroked the petals of a sunflower, the other stretched to him encouragingly.

Spike looked at the proffered hand longingly. She was so near—so beautiful. It would have been so easy...but...

The delicate dark eyebrows rose, the red-rose smile fading into a pout. "Can't...or won't?"

Before he could answer her, she had turned away again. She began moving down the stretch of grass beyond the field, singing softly:

Remember how tenderly you nestled close to me

Gay is the garland, fresh are the roses

I've culled from the garden to bind over thee.

Spike began to walk faster, following her almost against his will. The words quivered in her throat longingly as her head tilted back and she sang to the sky.

Why did you leave me to sigh and complain

I ask of the roses, why should I be forsaken,

Why must I here in sorrow remain?

She was moving so slowly—almost like a cloud that drifts across the sky. Yet he had to run to catch up to her, had to keep running to keep up. He grabbed for her hand, but his own barely grazed it, too far away to grasp her. "Wait—"

She smiled softly to herself, but did not pause in her movements. Her voice grew louder, the words of the long stronger and clearer now.

There you and I have so merrily played,

Kissing and courting and gently sporting

Oh, my innocent heart you've betrayed

"Wait!" he said again, louder this time. "Stop—I don't—I don't know what you want from me—"

She disappeared into a grove of trees and Spike followed her. Wet branches hit him in the face, leaves crunched under his feet as he searched for her. But the grove was dark and he couldn't see. There was nothing ahead of him but blackness—nothing around him but trees and the sound of her voice.

A pretty girl who loves you so dearly and warm?

Though love's folly is surely but a fancy,

Still it should prove to me sweeter than your scorn.

"I didn't slight you!" he shouted into the night. "You left me, remember? I didn't want you to go—I didn't ask for it—"

A stick whipped up between his legs and he stumbled, almost losing his balance. Quickly, he righted himself, picking up the jagged branch and waving it threateningly as he screamed into the night "SHOW YOURSELF!"

Some pretty maiden, you'll court her for a while;

Thus ever ranging, turning and changing

Always seeking for a girl that is new.

Suddenly, the trees disappeared and he was in a flat, empty field where nothing grew but grass. The sun was shining brightly in his eyes, making him squint. Some feet ahead of him stood the figure of a woman.

It was her—he knew it was her. He felt a sudden, killing rage sweep over him. What right did she have to haunt him when it had been she who had ended it? What right did she have to challenge his happiness with her songs and her questions?

He charged forward without thought. The hand that clutched the broken branch drew back and then plunged forward, driving the stick into her back so hard it pushed out the other side. His aim was true—he had reached the heart. Yet there was no explosion of dust, no quick fading of life. Warm blood gushed onto his hands; the figure turned around to face him.

He stared into her shocked, agonized face without comprehension. It wasn't until her hands curved around the stake just barely protruding from her chest that he realized what he had done. "Buffy—"

She fell forward into his arms, gasping and choking for breath. Her eyes were huge in her face, mirroring pain and disbelief. A single word passed her lips in a broken whisper: "Spike...?"

And over the dying beat of her heart, Spike could hear Dru chanting triumphantly:

Thus sang the poor maid in the valley below

"Oh don't deceive me, Oh never leave me,

How could you use, a poor maiden so?"

For a single, agonizing moment, he had no idea where he was. The dark room, the wide bed with its fluffy comforter, all seemed as foreign to him as his dream. Then, as his heartbeat slowed, as the cold sweat dried on his forehead, he remembered.

Beside him, Buffy was curled into a ball under the blankets, her small, warm body pressing into his side. She looked small and innocent, delicate, as she had never been. She was in love with him, in bed with him...

Careful not to wake her, he slipped out of bed. He needed to get out of here. He needed to be where the walls wouldn't close in on him. He needed to go somewhere to think.

It was cool outside, the air crisp with impending winter. The white glow of the streetlamps made the lawn look silver and cool in the early hours of pre-dawn. Everything was quiet and still. The world seemed dead, completely at peace.

Spike ignored the sharp wind that cut through his clothes and flopped down on the back step, staring out at the night sky. For a moment, he considered walking to the market to pick up a pack of smokes; it had been a while and it would calm his nerves. Buffy wouldn't like it, but what Buffy didn't know wouldn't hurt her.

There was a moment of quiet, a moment when he thought she might not answer. Then "I'm here."

He caught the slight strain in the words and immediately became contrite. "I'm interrupting you."

"No. It's okay. I'm supposed to be meditating—you know, healing myself inwardly. But I've been at it for a while and I could use a break."

"Oh...you know...too many good things on the telly. Really, digital cable offers the most temptations..."

He felt, rather than heard, her laughing. Yet when her thoughts reached him, they were sober. "Liar. You're not even near the television. You're outside, staring at the moon."

"I can see it," she told him. "The moon is beautiful there. Nights here aren't the same—it rains a lot."

He flinched. "I hate talking to you from such a distance. Makes my head hurt."

"Why are you even bothering to ask me? You know the answer already—if you can see the moon from there then I am sure you can see this. You're in here, all the time, aren't you? Poking around..."

"Maybe—maybe because I'm worried this won't end well. Everything is—it's all too perfect. Her and me...the Little Bit. We're a happy family here on fucking Walton's Mountain and it won't last. It can't last. I don't deserve the family, the happiness."

"She's happy. She deserves that. You're giving her what she needs. Whether you deserve it or not is irrelevant. It will last."

"I think you deserve to be happy. I think she deserves to be happy. Now both of you are happy and I don't understand why you are so worried."

"Nothing ever turns out well here. Especially not for us. These dreams, they have a sense of—" He stopped.

He sighed heavily, steam issuing into the cold air as though from a dragon's mouth. He stared up at the moon for a moment before he finally answered her.

"Coffee?" Anya asked brightly, offering her menu to Halfrek. "It's very rich with Columbian flavor."

Halfrek flopped down at the table and waved both Anya's menu and the approaching waitress away with an impatient hand. "Please, if I wanted to poison my body I would use cyanide; it's much quicker."

Halfrek sighed heavily. "D'Hoffryn refused to give me another amulet. He says it was my own carelessness that caused the loss of my powers and that I should live with the consequences of my actions for a while to learn my lesson."

"Yeah, well, sorry isn't really helping me now, is it?" Halfrek snapped. "I didn't ask you to meet me here so we could weep bitter tears over my desperate situation."

"Oh." Anya dismissed this statement with a shrug. "Don't be an idiot, Halfrek. I can't grant your wish. Vengeance demons can only grant the wishes of mortals, remember?"

"Anya, did you check your brain at the door or something?" Halfrek asked impatiently. "Listen to what I am telling you: D'Hoffryn refused to give me my powers back. I am a mortal now."

Anya opened her mouth then closed it just as quickly. For the first time in her life, she was speechless. Halfrek was right. Anya could grant her wish. Moreover, Anya would be obligated to grant Hallie's wish. Vengeance demons were not allowed the luxury of refusing the wishes of their patrons.