Rush and Crunch
Rating: NC-17, AU S7, BTVS
Scenario: "One Good Day"
Author's Note: Was originally written for an angstathon. Tried to stick to the letter of one good day, but since the muse works in strange, if not irritating ways, that premise got, well, twisted. One good day still happened, kind of.
I will show you fear in a handful of dust
--T.S Eliot, The Waste Land
He'd been separated from her before. Sometimes the mission only called for one, and two was a crowd. She'd come home. Always did. But it never made the wait any easier. And with the impending battle on the horizon, he couldn't help but count the minutes until he saw her again. The First was going down, but until then there were vampires and demons to deal with. She was a big girl. Could take care of herself, kick butt, take names and all that rot.
"Spike?" her voice called from the back yard. "Are you inside?"
"Here, love," he called through the open window, a smile making its across his weary face.
For the first time in over a day, he could breathe a sigh of relief. Even being trapped by Mister Sunshine, he still managed to beat her home. The rendezvous. The one safe place left in Sunnydale where the hoards couldn't reach them. Willow's spell had held, and he'd waited impatiently in their little sanctuary even though every fiber in his body had screamed otherwise. But he had kept a promise to a lady, and he'd protected Dawn with his very life.
Making his way through the darkened kitchen, he stepped out to the back door. The trees cast shadows across the yard, their limbs swaying gently in the night breeze. The wooden boards creaked beneath his feet as he added, "Was going to send the dogs out for you. Had me worried, you did."
"Nothing to be worried about. I told you I'd be back by tonight," she replied. "Where's Dawn?"
"Upstairs. Finally convinced her to get some sleep," Spike answered. "You should think about doing the same. Car's gassed up. Xander and Willow are at the Magic Box getting supplies.. Big day tomorrow."
She played with her axe, twirling it back and forth from where she stood on the lawn. He heard her scoff before answering, "Should I pack supplies or gas up the car?"
"Very funny," he quipped back. "I meant it's time to come inside and get some sleep. I'll keep watch until the others get back."
She took a step closer. Her hair shimmered in the moonlight. Clearly a sight for sore eyes. "Thought you'd never ask," she purred.
A chill raced down his spine, and the tiny little hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Something about the way she answered, the glint in her eye turned his stomach. Dread gripped his innards and chilled him to the core. Of all the bloody stupid things he could say. He'd really fucked up this time. Even in the shadows, he could make out her smile as she made her way to the steps. Stupid, fucking Spike. Oh how could he have missed this? This was bad. Worse than bad.
He'd just given her an open invitation.
One more step and the single bulb from the porch light illuminated her face as well as the angry and bleeding gash on her neck. Bile filled his throat as her face changed before his eyes. Hazel yielded to saffron. Her flawless complexion erupted with ridges and valleys. Fangs twisted her Cheshire smile into a dangerous snarl.
She didn't stop until she pushed him into the door. The doorknob bit into the small of his back. She smelled dead. Like blood and grave dirt. Everything about her was different. Her scent, gone. Replaced by the unmistakable stench of ashes. "Hello, lover," she said, her lips ever so gently brushing against his.
Her body pressed against his, but there was no warmth to savor there. Spike reflexively went for the stake tucked in the back of his waistband, his fingers wrapping around its smooth and weathered hilt. But before he could draw his weapon, she grabbed his wrist and pinned it against the closed door. Her grip was stronger than he remembered. As a human, Buffy bested him in strength and agility. Now as a fledgling, she had an extra advantage.
"Tsk, tsk," she scoffed as the stake clattered against the wooden porch below, "is that any way to treat the woman you love?"
"You're not her," was all he could manage to spit out.
"No, I'm not," she whispered, her tongue sending shivers down his spine as it laved the length of his neck, "but neither was the bot. And we all know you did nasty things with Miss Black and Decker. Doesn't mean we can't have a little fun."
Her hand roamed down his chest. Pinned against the door, he could do little but shrink away from her touch. Sliding out of gameface, she looked like Buffy. And her moist kisses to the angle of his jaw, her nipping teeth nibbling at his earlobe felt like her as well. But the warmth, the spark that defined her blazed no more.
Her kisses were hungry, possessive. Crushing and bruising in their intensity. It had been over a year since he last tasted them, and now they tasted like fresh blood. Heady and rich. He couldn't help but be aroused. Soul or not, it was about the blood. He couldn't deny what he was, no matter how much guilt he heaped upon himself. The demon within him screamed for more as her tongue flicked past his parted lips.
It was so easy to give in, and for a fleeting second he could pretend the monster groping him was still her. "Don't," he pleaded, weakly bucking against her in a half-hearted attempt to free himself. It was stop now or never.
"Shhh," Buffy answered, pressing her index finger to his lips and silencing his protests. A coy smile played across her face. "You don't want to wake Dawn, do you?"
"Leave her alone," he insisted, realizing he was the only thing between Buffy and the girl. To the end of the world. And that just might be tonight if he wasn't careful.
Her finger traced the curve of his lower lip, sending shivers down his spine. "Then give me what I want and she'll stay as snug a bug."
Stiffening at the thought, Spike let out a sigh. There was no way he could put his thoughts into words. It was his worst nightmare, only this time there was no waking up.
"Oh, come on," she pouted, that little lip of hers jutting out in mock indignation, "since when have you turned down a chance for a little roll with the slayer? We're vampires. We want and take. We have. So take me. I'm right here. It's what you want."
Before he could protest, her hands were roaming his body again, her teeth nipping at his flesh. She might be a monster now, but she still remembered all the secret spots that made him squirm for more. At one time he wouldn't have thought twice at such an advance. Hell, a year ago, he'd have had her half-way to happy town by now, pinning her against the door as she moaned loud enough to wake the neighbors.
It was wrong, he knew it. A whole truckload worth of wrong. The Buffy he loved no longer existed. But it felt so good. A year of loneliness, sleeping on a cot for one in a dark and sterile basement forgotten in a moment of tactile bliss. Her hands awakened feelings he'd long suppressed as they brushed against his cheek, his chest, his cock.
He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding as she taunted, "So tell me, Spikey, just when was the last time you fucked something that didn't involve your palm and five fingers?"
"A year," he heard himself whisper. Before Africa. Before everything had gone to hell and he'd become nothing more than a pathetic wanker living like a rat in a cellar. As much as it repulsed him, this monster before him, another part of him could not resist her attention, and he felt himself harden painfully in response.
Just a taste.
A second of paradise was all he asked for. He could stop before it got out of hand, he lied to himself.
Buffy's features softened for a moment. The pinched and determined lines around her mouth yielded to a gentle smile that reminded him of why he'd fallen in love with her in the first place. "That's it," she encouraged with words he'd longed to hear, her hands tugging at his belt buckle as he felt his knees turn to jelly. "Let yourself feel again, Spike. It's just you, and it's just me. Nothing else matters."
His eyes slid shut as her hands dipped beneath his t-shirt and her fingertips skimmed across his belly. He didn't need to see her drop to her knees to know what was next as she unzipped his fly while she tongued his navel.
And that's when the rest of the world simply fell away. The blood roared in his ears, and in the distance he heard himself let out a breathy sigh when her lips slipped around the head of his cock. Cold and wet, it was nothing like he'd remembered, but it still made him ache in all the right places. No longer pinned against the door, he found himself clutching to the doorframe for dear life.
Teeth, tongue, and lips, she teased him toward the brink one stroke at a time. His breath came in ragged gasps as he inched closer to climax. Yet she controlled the pace, agonizingly slow, drawing him taut like a bowstring. Tighter, tighter until he finally exploded. His head lolled back against the door and stars danced beneath his eyelids as he came with a groan.
After a moment, he slowly came back to earth. He opened his eyes and tucked himself back into his jeans. Buffy sat back on her heels and wiped her mouth with the back of one hand. "That's my boy," she announced proudly. "Once love's bitch, always love's bitch."
"No," he whispered, the word rolled lifelessly off his lips. His eyes widened in horror as the words sunk in. How could he have been so dumb? Disgust replaced desire in the blink of an eye. He should have seen it coming, but didn't. It was nothing more than another round of Kick the Spike, only this time the mindfuck was the weapon. It stung as much, maybe more, than any punch ever could.
"I'm not your boy," he snarled, feeling the ridges in his forehead ripple to life. "Now get the hell away from me!"
Innocently twirling a lock of hair around a finger, she replied, "What's wrong, Spike? I thought you liked it when I was Slutty the Vampire Slayer?"
"I said get away from me!" he repeated, angry with her, furious with himself. He'd reached his limit. Scrubbing his face with his palms, he bit back the urge to scream in frustration before shoving her away as hard as he could. Everything she touched turned to shit, and he wanted nothing more to do with her.
Quickly she leapt to her feet with fangs matching his. The seductive smiles and the Lolita act traded in for a predatory snarl, the last vestiges of Buffy finally faded away. Even without a soul, a part of William had always remained. Humanity, he could always feel it in him. But Buffy? There was no humanity left, just an empty shell filled with a hateful demon.
There was no mistaking her fighting stance as she spat, "So did they give you a skirt and matching purse to go with that pansy-ass soul of yours? What are you gonna do next, Spike? Get weepy on me? Gotta tell you, it's not the usual response I get when I'm sucking someone off. FYI, it's kind of a buzzkill."
His eyes locked with hers. He saw nothing but unadulterated hatred. It's not her, he screamed to himself. She was a thing. A soulless, lifeless thing that only wanted to wound him. And finally, in a moment of perfect clarity, he knew he had to kill it. It was an abomination that needed to be put down like a rabid dog. He couldn't afford to let his love for a dead slayer get in the way. There would be time to mourn that loss later.
"Fuck off!" he hissed in reply. From the corner of his eye, he spotted the forgotten stake.
She kicked it away before he could lunge for the weapon. But that didn't stop him from throwing his full weight at her, and they went sailing off the porch. Fists and fangs, the melee began in earnest. He went at her with everything he had. A potted plant smashed against the wall. A punch cracked the wooden rail bordering the porch. Her blows were definitely stronger than he remembered, punishing in their intensity.
His head snapped back as her fist connected with his jaw. He staggered a step and tasted his own blood. That's when he saw her for the first time, the monster she'd become. Her features were serpentine, like a poisonous viper ready to strike. She wore the fresh bite mark on her neck proudly for all to see. Dried blood peeked from below her skirt and smeared her thighs. Someone else possessed her, destroyed her and left him with a twisted version of a woman he'd once known.
Someone else had slipped and had their one good day.
"Where is everyone?" a voice called from inside, stopping them both in their tracks.
Buffy's ridges smoothed away, and she flashed a heartless smile before calling out in a panic stricken voice, "Xander! Hurry, I can't ... Spike, no!"
The door flung open, and it didn't take long for the gears to be set in motion. "Get away from her, you son of a bitch!" Xander yelled as he cleared the porch in three steps.
Fat crocodile tears streamed down her face as she covered her mouth with one hand, sank to the grass and started to sob. Spike remembered that look. Frightened and fragile, surrounded by porcelain tiles and running water. Only that time, the fear was real.
He'd been set up. He was going to die, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. Xander had seen the blood on her neck, from her cunt. It matched nicely with the blood on his own mouth. Fucking git was always jumping to conclusions.
The next few seconds were a blur. Harris tackled him, and they landed together in a heap on the walkway. Xander smashed Spike's head once, twice, three times against the concrete below. Pain, worse than the chip could have ever created, exploded in its wake, and the back of Spike's head felt wet. His vision faltered as his blood seeped out onto the pavement below. His gameface finally melted away, and he clawed at the other man's arms.
"I swear," he gasped, pleading for a stay of execution, "I didn't touched her. That's not Buffy!"
The world grew dim, and suddenly two Xanders were straddling him. Spike didn't have the strength to fight back. He was tired, weary beyond belief. The urge to fight was gone, and all he wanted was for the end to come. No sense living a world that didn't have her in it. He'd done it once, and was sure as hell not going to do it again. Spike's struggling ceased, and he let go of Xander's arms. He was ready. No sense prolonging the inevitable.
"Take Dawn and run." A dying man's last wish. He stared at his executioner and awaited his fate.
The stake didn't hurt nearly as much as he'd imagined. Xander's aim was sure and fast. A single jab hit its target. The added thrust sent the business end home. A breath caught in his chest before everything faded away. The pain was gone, and for a brief moment, Spike felt himself wrapped in numbing warmth.
And as the world shifted to nothingness, he caught her out of the corner of his eye. Yellow eyes ablaze, she'd set her sights on her next target. Want. Take. Have.
"This is the way the world ends", he recalled Eliot in his last conscious thought. "Not with a bang..."
But a whimper.