Author: BlueLight
Rating: R, NC-17? Not quite sure.
Disclaimer: The characters in this story belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy.
Blurb: Inspired by jypzrose's challenge on Crumbling Walls, even though I left out the song. Set the night after Wrecked but without the Willow/Dawn complications. Acknowledgement: Thanks and Hugs to LadyStarlight for her beta help. Her stories may be found at http://www.hereticstudios.com/fictionary/fic01.asp . Unfortunately you must click on each link to see who the writer is.
Distribution: Fine, just let me know where.
Reviews, constructive criticism requested.
Feedback: Please. So I learn what works and what doesn't.

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She felt dirty. She'd showered this morning. Within the last hour she'd bathed again, shampooed her hair, put on clean panties and a T-shirt and still she felt grimy. She'd rolled in the arms of an unclean thing and now she couldn't strip the memory of his flesh from her mind or the feel of it from her skin.

She slid between the fresh sheets she'd just put on the bed. They were clean and cool and smooth and reminded her of another cool embrace. Lying back on the pillow, she sighed restlessly then turned toward the open window as the streetlight crept in and painted a luminous mark on the floor. She glanced up and saw a pale rope of garlic. She could still smell the faint odor on her fingers despite having washed her hands more than once. Garlic wasn't very effective but it was the best she could do. A de-invite spell would have required explaining - to Willow and to Dawn - and she couldn't explain. What was she going to say, "I slept with Spike and don't want to be tempted to sleep with him again so I want him de-invited"?

She shuddered at the idea of her friends finding out that she had dirtied herself with Spike.

She twisted restlessly, half-expecting him to open her door at any moment. She hadn't felt so threatened since Angelus had left a picture on her pillow to taunt her, since Dracula had come into her room and fed.

She felt for the cross beside her, a talisman to protect her from herself.

It was wrong to sleep with Spike. It was wrong, it was dirty. No matter how good it felt.

She stretched and arched her body and shuddered, thinking about his body on hers, about his fingers buried in her hair, in her flesh, his lips on her lips, on her labia, tasting her like she was strawberries and ice cream.

It was just wrong. It made her feel dirty to want it, to want him, so much.

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It was so right. It made him feel clean to want it, to want her, so much.

Spike stood under a tree, under a streetlight, looking up at Buffy's window. Sheltered in night's black shade by the green leaves above him. Invisible. In double darkness.

He leaned against the tree, its moss clad surface as soft as flesh. He let his fingers brush over the fine green filaments and thought of the velvet of Buffy's skin. The air was still. The sounds of a distant highway bounced off low clouds and into his ears, the faint whine of trucks as their tires hummed on the road, as they made their own wind along it. The breeze picked up and the leaves chuckled to him and then quieted again. He wanted a cigarette, reached for the pack in his pocket, pulled it out and took one into his mouth. He stopped, thinking of her lips on his, her tongue tasting his mouth and the brief grimace when she tasted cigarettes. Tasted ashes. He held the image. Then put the cigarette back into the pack. Frowned some more. Then put the pack back into his pocket. Not like it mattered. She said it was over. "Freakshow," she'd said. But he didn't believe that. He could smell the garlic in her bedroom. He could smell it through her open window, through the yard, across the street to where he stood under a tree that glowed a magical green from the streetlight nestled among its leaves. If he walked through her door, up the steps, into her bedroom and got down on his knees and waited, what would she do? Would she wrap herself around him again? If she didn't crave him why had she strung that stuff around her room like Halloween garland?

She wanted him. He was sure of that.

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She wanted him. She was sure of that. She lay in her bed and thought of last night, thought of impaling herself on his flesh, crying out as he filled her, weeping with pleasure. She thought of tearing at him in the dark, biting his cheek, scratching, leaving an imprint, marks of ownership on his body.

But that was over. Last night she'd let herself be swept away, the fighting the fucking all blended together into one physical sensation, part aggression, part submission. Part exultation, part revulsion. Like some delectable concoction that sounded terrible but tasted wonderful, the touch the taste of his flesh had been like a Slurpy after a season in hell. Just what she needed.

She'd lost herself in the night, in the dark, and lost her darkness. Embraced by death she'd forgotten she didn't want to live. Drowning in pleasure she'd forgotten how painful, how unpleasant life was, forgotten everything but passion and release. Tomorrow had ceased to exist along with yesterday. The world had consisted of his hands on her, his mouth on her, his body on her, in her. Nothing else. And as existence focused down to sensation and flesh everything else had been left behind. Including pain. She was angry with him and disgusted with them both but she had felt more alive than she had since the moment she had leapt into the dimensional gate.

She twisted under the sheets. There was no rest in her cozy bed, no cleanliness between the fresh sheets. She'd slept in cool arms, on hard concrete and now her soft bed felt lined with rocks. She sat up, turned and punched the pillow several times then lay back down. He said she'd crave him like he craved blood and now she was tormented by lust, by her desire for more.

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He was tormented by lust and love, by his desire for more. He craved her more than he craved blood.

The long years of his death had not taught him patience but wanting Buffy had. Finally finally finally he had her, around him, under him, over him, gasping in pleasure, moaning as he caressed her, screaming as he made her come again and again. He'd felt smug the next morning. Self-satisfied knowing he'd satisfied her. Lazy and lethargic as she lay in his arms, he'd made plans that involved first person plural pronouns and the future tense. He thought he'd had her. He couldn't imagine it NOT mattering to Buffy, it not meaning that she was his. Then. She woke up. "The end of this Freakshow." More nasty words, more resistance, threats blows Buffy. But it wasn't over. It was just beginning.

Why did the bitch have to be …such a bitch. Give in, why don't you. He knew she loved it even if she didn't love him yet. He KNEW.

He circled around his memories of last night. Refreshed remembered recalled. Seared them into his brain again and again so he could replay them at will, so that not a second could be forgotten, nothing lost.

A plane, driven down by the clouds, roared overhead, the sound of its engines merging with the thunder's growl. Lightening on the horizon echoed the lights from the plane as both flashed on the clouds. He threw back his head and snarled in frustration, letting his game face fall into place, becoming one with the sounds, hiding his ferocity in the thunder.

The breeze picked up, cool and damp, a soft message from the approaching rain. His face smoothed and he turned back to her window, thinking of her in her bed, curled on her side, her knees drawn up, her feet bare, the pink toes as delicate as tightly furled rose buds. She didn't know how many times he'd seen her there, back when he was stalking her, when he used to sneak into her house, up the stairs, crack the door to her bedroom and stand for hours, a dark sentinel, watching her sleep. He had an image file of pajamas, the sushi flannel ones, warm and cuddly looking. The shortie ones, chiffon and frills, her legs bare, thrown outside the covers. Sometimes she slept just in an oversized T-shirt. Sometimes she slept nude, the moon peeping in the window like another voyeur, joining in him in his phantom caresses. She would hiss with anger if she knew. He'd even seen her in bed with Riley. Once. He thought he could take the memory and replace Riley's image with his own. But he never could. He just remembered the twist of pain he'd felt seeing her nude in bed next to another man. It was scant comfort that Buffy looked cold and uncomfortable, pushed to the edge of the mattress while the git took up most of the bed and all of the covers. Riley had still been in that bed. Where he wanted to be. Right now.

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Right now. Where she wanted him to be.

But she would never allow him in her house, in her room, in her bed. He didn't belong. Just because she wanted him didn't mean that it would ever be right, that he could ever belong. He was an evil thing, a dirty monster. He was a mistake she would never make again. She ran her hands from her breasts, down her stomach to her crotch, dissatisfied, aching.

Where was he? Right now? She could get up, slip into some jeans and go to his crypt and…no. No. Never again. She could hardly believe that she'd let it happen once. She slid her fingers under the elastic of her panties and rubbed her clitoris slightly, then pulled her hand away thinking of Spike's fingers on it, his lips, his tongue. Touching herself had made it worse. She wanted him, not some masturbatory substitution.

She listened to the sounds of the house. The refrigerator humming in the kitchen. The drip of water in the bath. Dawn turning in her sleep. The rustle of the sheets as she moved. Her own breath. The faint sigh of the breeze as it whispered in through the window. The yard sounds. The faint buzz of leaves outside her window. Wind chimes on a neighbor's porch. The barking of a dog down the street. Then a small white noise began to cloak them all, the impact of tiny drops of water thrown from the low clouds, their pings multiplying as night turned up its own shower, washing the world.

Thunder. Then more, closer, sounding like someone upstairs was pushing something enormous across an uneven floor. There was a deafening crack right over the house and her heart caught for a moment as the streetlights went out along with the display on her clock radio.

Buffy got up, went to the window and knelt beside it. The street was dark. She folded her arms on the window sill and listened to the symphony of the storm. Raindrops splashed and spattered in through the window, misting her face as she rested it on her forearms.

Outside a million drops applauded themselves as they played pattycakes on the surface of growing puddles, splashing as merrily as a child in the bath. The rain grew stronger and huge drops patted down on the street like small rocks, each throwing up six inches of spray. She could hear rain ringing in the gutters and sputtering in the downspouts and washing the world. A streetlight flickered on and off, briefly turning the wet street to pale gold.

The lightening flared again and she saw him standing, almost hidden, looking toward her window as the thunder growled against her chest. She could see his outline even in the darkness.

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He could still see her outline, even in the darkness, detect her scent through air dense with rain. He tried to listen for her breathing but instead heard the ring of a thousand minute bells, on the street, on the leaves, on the cars, on the roofs, on his coat, a million different tones and cadences, the pitter patter of water dancing on a million tiny toes.

He came out from under the tree and stood looking up at her. He stripped off his coat as if it wasn't his second skin and let it fall to the ground. It had been wet before. He closed his eyes and threw his head back so that water cascaded over his face and the rain pushed through his hair and rolled the wet strands into platinum curls. He was soaked. The warm rain explored each surface of his warming flesh, the water turning him to something shiny and new.

The rain washed him clean of everything but longing. He looked through the rain at his heart's desire, the focus of his life, his heart turning toward her, pulling him toward her like water running downhill. The goal of his life.

He wanted her.

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She wanted him.

She watched him standing in the rain, watched him turn his face up to the sky then turn toward her. Then she saw him turn to go and, like the water running down the sides of her house, she ran down the stairs, outside, leaving the door open, ran through the shower, ran toward him, her bare feet splashing through the puddles, her skin shining like rain.

He opened his arms and surrounded her, his body hard on hers, his lips cool and wet on hers, and she felt water and wetness in his embrace and Spike tasting like the rain and for a moment she let herself believe that she and Spike and the world were washed clean and fresh and that while there was darkness around them there was no darkness between them and that love could change even the darkest heart and wash it clean of all but love.

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