Sequel to Easier Said
Author's Notes: This is a sequel to my fic "Easier Said."
Beta: The wonderful Colleen.
Disclaimer: Joss is God. The characters are his. I'm merely having fun with them.
Summary: Spike takes off for places unknown only to find an unwelcome passenger along for the ride.
The road stretched before him like black glass, long and unending. He was moving fast, trying to escape her pull, her gravity. A burning surged within him as he pushed onward, scorching his dead lungs. Every drag of his cigarette added to the searing pain until he coughed smoke like exhaust. His skin crackled and burned as if on fire, consuming him from the inside out. Speed was his only release. He drove with the windows down, sucking the cold air in, letting it wash over him in icy waves. The air was manna. It cooled the burning of her eyes, the memory of her lips. A fleeting thought of her smile and he almost lost control of his car, jabbing the accelerator hard and clutching the wheel like a madman.
The tires of his DeSoto barely kissed the asphalt anymore. He was death on wheels, going fast. Faster. Wanting the distance to stretch the pain, pull it thin so the memory of her could be bearable again.
He found himself craving blood. The thermos full of butcher's blood that Dawn had given him, now as thirsty and hollow as he was.
How far? Spike thought. Mile marker. Three hundred miles. Three hundred miles from her and he still felt like retching.
He traveled only at night. He had made the mistake of leaving her during the day, of having the ruthless sun turn his car into an oven. He hadn't gotten far before he was forced to find shelter.
It was hot enough even now. Without the respite of the cool desert air, he would have collapsed at the wheel long ago, leaving some highway patrolman to find an abandoned car with a dusty front seat.
Blood was definitely becoming a problem. His thirst was profound. For a reason he couldn't fathom, drinking blood kept him from thinking of her. If he had realized why, how similar his sudden desire for blood mirrored her desire for him, he would have tossed the thermos and blood packets out the window, never touching a drop. But he couldn't think, couldn't grasp the meaning of the hunger that tormented him like a newly sired whelp. He had finished the thermos and all six packets of blood he'd packed before Spike realized what he was doing. He licked the bags clean, but the hunger was still there, insatiable.
A fleeting memory of her small fingers aimlessly tracing patterns on his chest, and he pounded the dash in frustration, gasping.
"Blood, I need blood."
At rest stops he searched for whatever made those small burrows in the sandy earth, finding nothing. The few people he saw he growled at, wishing the chip in his head would cease working for an hour so he could open them up like ripe watermelons--all red and pink and sweet inside. Quench the thirst and the dull pounding of blood in his ears.
She wouldn't like that.
The thought came to him sudden. He hadn't drunk enough blood. He could still hear her, inside him. Hungry, inside him. The blood kept her quiet.
He had no choice. He would have to move faster now. Speed was essential.
He drifted off again. He had just started out after sunset, after parking under a closed overpass during the day. Road construction was good. It kept him away from people. He didn't want anyone to see his pallid face and dark, dead eyes. He wanted no question or looks of pity. And he didn't want to smell the blood pumping under their skin.
However, when he started down the road again, he found that he was strangely at peace. The blood didn't seem so urgent, and the dull motion and steady sound his tires made going over the still cooling seams in the road, lulled him.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
It was a familiar rhythm. It felt like her heart beating against his chest, a sound he used to fall asleep to. Sometimes he had imagined it was the sound of his own heart pumping as he drifted off to sleep.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump...
He started, disoriented and on the wrong side of the road. He quickly moved back into his lane, gulping the panic down into his gut, his nerves as tight as guitar strings.
"It's about time you woke up," said a familiar voice beside him. Spike jumped, hitting his head against the roof of the car.
"Bugger!" he said, trying to keep control of the wheel. He looked at the seat beside him. She was there. Impossibly there, in a pleasant flowery dress, idly filing her nails.
"I don't know why you insisted on leaving, Spike," Buffy said plaintively. "We could be having so much fun right now."
"You're not here," Spike said, curious but defiant. I don't want her here.
"Yes I am, William. And stop being so rude. You used to like me..." she said petulantly, jutting her lower lip out. It was her playful invitation to kiss, one he rarely resisted.
I'm off my rocker, Spike thought, staring at her dumbfounded, glancing ahead every few seconds to keep from going off the road. She smiled at him like the bot used to with that big, white, apple slice smile. But this wasn't the bot. And he knew it wasn't her. He was moving to get way from her. She couldn't be here, looking at him like that. Smiling at him as if he mattered, as if she gave a damn...
"I do love you, Spike."
The words hit him like a cold, steel hammer. He gasped and clutched the wheel hard.
"Shut up," he rasped.
"What's wrong?" she asked innocently.
"Shut the hell up!" And she started to laugh. Pleasant at first, then mocking. The sound grated through him, causing hot slivers to course through his body, piercing him in every nook and cranny.
He told her to go fuck herself and she laughed harder.
"Why don't you do it for me?" she said, arching her back, jutting out her breasts as she stretched seductively, smiling at him. Always smiling.
"Can we get some ice cream? I'll lick it off you."
When he reached a small town and found what passed for a hospital, he pretended to donate blood. Under different circumstances he would have been amused as a young woman repeatedly dug a needle in his arm trying to find a workable vein.
Poor bint, Spike thought. It wasn't her fault. His vamp body simply refused to surrender a drop of the precious liquid. As she left in search of a more experienced hand, Spike liberated some packets of blood from a nearby cooler, stuffing them down his pants. Once outside, he gorged himself on the stolen booty. And waited.
Any second now.
"Did it work?" Buffy asked him sweetly.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Spike ran to his car and jumped into the driver's seat, pealing away in a screech of rubber.
"What," he replied wearily. He was forced by the rising sun to find a place to hide out. Another hole-in-the-ground town had something in his price range--The Starshine Motel. Cheap, dirty and not at all family oriented. The manager took his money and shoved it in a lock box.
That wouldn't have stopped me back in the day, Spike thought grimly, staring at the steel box. Heck, still wouldn't if he put his mind to it.
"I don't like it here," Buffy whispered.
"Good. Get the fuck away then," Spike muttered.
"Eh?" the manager said looking up.
"Nothing. Got ice?"
"Buckets over there. Machine's outside. Help yourself."
"Thanks," Spike said, trying to ignore the unpleasant odors emanating from the manager. Spike grabbed his key and an ice bucket and went to find his room.
The room was a dump. Certifiable, no good, sleazy, colorfully stained dump.
"Perfect," Spike said, grinning.
"You think I'll leave just because..." Buffy stopped, making a face while peering into the bathroom.
Spike flopped on the bed, the springs groaning in protest. Decidedly uncomfortable, he thought. Not at all what she would want. She never would've stepped foot inside a place like this.
Buffy, the not-so-real-fuck-I-think-I'm-crazy Buffy, sat down on the bed, frowning at him.
"I don't like it here," she repeated.
"Fine. Sod off." She didn't. She laid down next to him, putting her head on his shoulder. Shit, that felt real...
"Do you want to make love to me?"
"You never called it that, pet. If you're gonna pretend you're here, at least get it right." She stuck out her tongue then snuggled against him.
He felt hot. Unreasonably hot. And the motel didn't have air conditioning. Just then he remembered the ice bucket and got up, ignoring her sounds of protest.
He found the ice machine outside, several doors down. He opened the metal door and relished in the cool air released from within. He stood there, half-swooning from the cold, then slipped his bucket into the bin, filling it.
When he got to his room, he stripped naked and laid back on the bed again with the ice bucket on the floor next to him. Picking up a cube of ice, he ran it slowly over his face and chest. When that melted he picked up another. It was heaven. Cube after cube of heaven.
"Do you know how hot you look?" Buffy asked, standing at the foot of the bed.
"That's the idea, luv. Trying to fucking cool off."
"I mean, do you know how wet I am right now?"
"Suffer," he said petulantly. She grinned and in a fluid motion removed her dress and stood before him naked. Gloriously naked.
"I know you want to," she said, still smiling.
"We can't. For one, you're not here. Two, sod off."
"What's number three?" she asked, suddenly standing on one foot as she pulled her right leg up to the side of her head like a ballerina.
He was as hard as nails now, watching her as she grinned at him.
"Want me to dance for you?"
"No, pet," he gasped.
"Too late. I feel like dancing."
Spike woke to a distant scream. Instinctively he looked for Buffy next to him only to find the bed--and room--empty. Panic gripped him, clawing at his belly. Another faint scream and he ran to the door, flinging it open.
Several rooms down, under the flicker of fluorescent lights going bad, a vampire was feeding. It took a moment before he recognized the small blonde woman pinned against the wall as the large, male vampire drunk from her.
Spike crossed the distance in a flash. He couldn't remember what happened until later. Much later. What he did remember was beating the vampire repeatedly in the face. Smashing cartilage and bone until its vamp face caved like a hollow chocolate Easter bunny. Thankfully it dusted, taking most of the gruesome mess with it. It was then that he heard crying from behind him.
"It's okay, luv. I got him. Must've caught you from behind, eh?" Spike turned to console her and found a blonde woman he had never met before, trembling and crying in fear. Just then he realized he was still naked, his body covered in blood and dust.
"You'll be fine," Spike said hoarsely, his throat nearly gagging on the words.
Fine? What the fuck do I know of fine? he thought bitterly. No, you won't be fine. This will haunt you for years. You won't be able to sleep without thinking about it, won't dream without repeating it. Nothing's fine. It's all fucked up now. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry.
Continued in Road Tripp'n Part Two