| Title: Between Now And Never Author: Minx Trinket Rating: NC-17, finally! Disclaimer: Not mine. Never will be. Not dealing with it well. Spoilers and continuity: If you haven't seen 'em all, don't read this! This story takes place, oh, call it 39 and 3/4 days after "The Gift." It completes the trilogy (such a grand word for a bunch of six-page stories!) of "The End of the Line" and "Lines Get Crossed," by yours truly. Summary: Spike, long abroad, returns to Sunnydale for his Nibblet's sixteenth birthday and is surprised to discover what has changed and what has remained the same. Author's Notes: This takes place a little less than a year after the events of my "Line Trilogy" (see parts 1, 2, and 3) I think it's actually longer than all three previous bits put together! Sorry it took so long, but I was working on some stuff I've got a chance in hell of getting paid for, and for that reason, chapters will be coming slowly. You should also know, gentle reader, that I wrote this under duress. I'm not a fan of closure. But I got seduced by the idea of the scene in the Magic Box, and before I knew it my beta reader Aethyl was screaming that I had to post it and that it was part of the great tradition of community mythmaking and I don't know what-all. So here it is, but I'm grouchy about it! As to the birth name with which I christened Spike, it's a tribute to Arcadia by Tom Stoppard. Read it, revel in it, note the parallels! (No, I'm not getting a kickback from Amazon; it's just a convenient link.) Want a song for the dance scene in Chapter 1? Try "Ghost" by the Indigo Girls (lyrics available here). As for Spike cleaning the crypt in Chapter 3…hmm. Creed's My Own Prison seems about right. Acknowledgments: To my demanding readers, who drag it out of me, and to Mrs. O, for calls that last long after midnight, my thanks. Email: minxtrinket@yahoo.com *************************************** Spike found his crypt more or less as he'd left it, except for the dust and a family of rats living in his mattress. He'd left the Summers' place just after sunset, both afraid to see and afraid to miss Dawn when she got home. He'd picked up the DeSoto outside the Bronze and driven to the graveyard, whistling that damn lullaby to himself. Once back at home-dank-home, he'd kicked off his shoes, tore off his sweat- and whisky-soaked t-shirt, and set about cleaning the place with a frenzy. His old pirated electrical jacks still worked, and he cranked up the dilapidated boom box to drown out the question in his head: What now? What now? His tape ended with a whirr and a click, and Spike reached over to the box to flip it. Then he heard a familiar noise outside, the sounds of a scuffle. Crossing to the door, he poked his head outside and looked. One girl and two demons of unknown origin were having at it about twenty feet from his door. He'd thought for a second that it was Buffy, but realized, no, too tall, hair too dark, moves decent but not Slayer quality--then she turned around and said, "Hey, Spike, a little help here?" Spike rushed to Dawn's aid and dispatched the demons with two quick snaps of the neck. "Thank you," she panted, and threw off her backpack. She crouched, then, with a grimace, flicked a bit of yellow goo from the tip of the wicked, triangle-bladed dagger she'd been using to fight them and stuffed the weapon in her bag. "Swear to God, they get dumber and smellier every day." "What're you doing out here, Dawn?" he asked her. She grinned up at him. "Came to see you," she said. "Can I come in?" He pushed his hand through his hair, "Um, the place is still kind of a mess…" he began. Rolling her eyes, she stood, snatching up her backpack with one hand and grabbing one of his belt loops with the other. "Come on!" she said, and started dragging him back to the crypt. "You 'n' me, we gotta talk." Spike followed her, teetering between eager and reluctant, wanting to snatch her up and throw her on the grass and cover her with kisses and at the same time wanting to run screaming in the other direction. He'd broken her heart before, perhaps a hundred times. No good was going to come of being alone in his bedroom with her, not when he could barely control his hands. She shoved him inside and kicked the door shut behind them, tossing her backpack onto a pile of dirty clothes. He backed away, watching her warily. She folded her arms across her chest and pouted. "William the Bloody, I am still very pissed at you," she said. "My lady Key," he replied formally, bowing, sweeping the floor with his fingertips, "you have every right in the world. I am a bastard." "Yes, you are," she said. "And dumber than a whelk." "Yes." "Faithless, cowardly, and pigheaded." "Go on." "You should stake me right now and put an end to my miserable existence," he shrugged, and he started rooting through a pile of blankets, to see which might be useful to throw over his dirty, torn armchair and which were beyond redemption. He found a not entirely disgusting specimen and examined it. She shifted her shoulders. Her voice was tight as she asked, "So where've you been?" "Everywhere." "Everywhere else, you mean." "Yeah." "What were you doing?" There were too many answers to that question. There was the nest of vampires he'd put down in Toronto, and the Kechlaph terrorizing the Kenyan village, and the harrowing black comedy of the horny female chaos demon over in Nepal. There were a hundred stories of the lives and un-lives that he'd saved as he ran away from Sunnydale and back to it again. Every day, lying awake and hidden from the light, he'd gathered up all of the tales and rehearsed their telling, stringing them like pearls in his memory as a gift for her, a peace offering, the spoils of his inner war. But in truth, there was only one story. "I was missing you," he said. He heard the beat of her footsteps running toward him, and he turned to embrace her, only to receive a stinging slap. "You promised you'd never leave me!" she shouted. "And you told me to go away," he snapped. "You know," she growled, voice and body trembling, "you know I didn't mean it like that." "Well, I didn't know what else to do!" Spike hurled the blanket across the room in frustration. He flailed his arms at her, and she flinched but didn't back down. "You made a hole inside me!" "I what?" "You made me feel empty!" he hollered. "You made me want things I can't have. I want sunshine, and, and innocence. I want to get old! I want my goddamn soul back! In a hundred years I'd never missed my soul for a second, until you, you!" Spike picked up the radio and hurled it against a wall, where it shattered, spewing transistors and wire. Unfazed, Dawn shook her head sadly. "But why?" "I don't know! Every time I see you, every time I touch you, I-- I just--" He choked, out of words. Slowly, as carefully as he had once reached out to her, she raised her hands to touch his face, letting his tears run over her fingers. He clutched at her wrists with a little sob, then tore her hands away. "Don't--" he growled, stomping away from her. Dawn, chin trembling, said, "Fine." She turned and hurried for the door. Spike swore and lurched for her, catching her on the threshold and holding her, struggling, in his strong arms. He buried his face in her hair. "This can't be right, you and me," he sighed. "The princess never winds up with the dragon, you know. He burns her or eats her alive. There's no happy ending there." She twisted around in his arms, facing him. "How can I show you you're not a monster?" she asked softly. He loosened his grip. "You can't. It's what I am." She shook her head, backing away. He let her slide from his arms. She reached for her bag and pulled out the dagger. Spike jumped back. "What the--" With a smile that danced between serene and wicked, Dawn cut open her own finger. Spike took another step backward. "Dawn--" "Drink!" she said, thrusting the finger at him. He scurried backward. His back hit the dirty stone wall. Dawn moved toward him, holding out her hand like a threat. He cringed. She grabbed his chin with her uncut hand. "Open your mouth." He shook his head furiously, wide eyed, staring at the red trickle before him. "Open it!" she said firmly, and squeezed his face until his lips parted. She shoved her finger inside. Her blood fell like rubies on his tongue. So sweet, so hot, and strange, human and not human, something more, something intangibly, inescapably more. His dead heart jumped, and he yanked his head away. He spat. Dawn smiled. "See?" she said quietly. Spike felt himself sliding down the wall, knees gone, sense gone, and he started to chuckle. Dawn crouched beside him. He felt high as a kite as he looked at her, realizing that he hadn't wanted to do it, and it wasn't about the chip, or about his duty, or anything else. He simply hadn't wanted her blood, no matter how powerful or sweet. Never before, not with Dru or Buffy or any other woman, had the lust been separate from the hunger. The desire to have her had been the desire to devour her, to drink and to have her inside, his meal, his prisoner. Now that thought, the thought of Dawn's body lifeless in his arms while her blood coursed through his veins, left him cold, disgusted. Shaking his head, he asked, "What does it mean, Bit?" She shrugged. "We'll figure it out." He touched her chin with his thumb. "Where do we start?" Dawn brought up her arm and glanced at her watch. She said, "Well, in about seven minutes, it'll be midnight, and I'll be sixteen years old." Spike blinked. "Uh…" "I'll be sixteen, and I've never been truly, properly kissed." Spike studied the face of his miracle. "I find that very, very hard to believe," he said sincerely. "Oh," she said lightly, with her patented Dawn Summers Eye Roll, "there've been little spin-the-bottle pecks, a couple of those sloppy, first date attempts at a real kiss, and of course, those times you and me almost…" She let the sentence trail away, blushing. "I remember," he said softly. "But never the real deal. Never the real, sparks flying, hearts pounding, perfect kiss. And I want one. Tonight. Before I turn sixteen." She leaned closer, compressing the air between them. "As good a place to start as any, right?" "Yeah…" he said, touching her lips with his fingertips, tracing their curves, taking her chin and drawing her toward him, nervous as a boy, wanting it and wanting it perfect, when it struck him, "No, wait," he said. Dawn jerked her head back, her eyes filling with hurt. "I mean," he said quickly, "not here, like this." "Why not?" "Well, if you want a proper kiss, you gotta have the proper spot," he said. *************************************** A few minutes later he'd managed to hoist her onto the flat roof of his crypt and he leapt up after her. He took the blanket, and, spreading it out said, "There. Stars and moonlight, like it should be. I know it's not the Eiffel Tower, but you didn't give me much warning." He tossed himself down on the blanket, and she settled herself beside him, surveying the silver-dusted trees, smiling. "It's perfect," she said, and turned her smile on him. "You ready?" he asked, hearing his voice shake. "I am." "Well, then," he said, and reached up to touch her cheek. She waited, leaning ever so slightly into his touch. He hesitated, for just a moment, savoring the taste of desire on his own lips. Then he leaned forward, closed his eyes, and pressed his lips to hers. The hundred church bells of Sunnydale rang out in marvelous cacophony. Spike slid his hand to the nape of her neck, keeping her mouth pressed against his as he eased her lips open with his own. Trembling for control, he thought, Not too much, not for the first one, and he sucked gently on her upper lip, let his tongue flicker just a little against hers, and felt her arch against him, heard her perfect, perfect moan. He let the kiss linger, and then, in that moment when he most wanted to go on, he broke off, and pulled his face away. Dawn opened her eyes, blinking in shock. "That alright?" he asked. "Perfect," she sighed, and surged into his lap. It seemed to him that she was everywhere at once, overwhelming him, enveloping him. Her hands danced over his bare chest and back, her mouth pulled hungrily at his own, then at his cheeks, his neck, his shoulders. He felt her long legs tangling around him, and instinctively he grabbed them, sliding his palms up her thighs inside her little cotton dress. Dizzily, he kissed her again and again. He tasted her sweat, her lust. He tangled his fingers in the fine lace of her panties and tugged. In response, she ground her hips against him, sliding her hands down his back and her fingertips inside his waistband. Grabbing her shoulders, he growled and tumbled her back onto the blanket, and then suddenly was hit with a blinding blue shock that sent him rolling backward and nearly off the top of the tomb. "Spike, lookout!" Dawn cried, and he stopped himself, one leg dangling over empty air. He clutched at his burning head, curled himself up into a fetal ball, and wailed. Dawn scrambled over to him on hands and knees. "Spike? What? What is it?" "The chip!" he croaked. "The goddamn, bloody chip!" "I…I don't understand…" "It…it thought…" he gasped, "that I was…hurting…you!" "But you weren't, you weren't!" she said desperately. "Oh my God, you so weren't." A wave of defeat and despair washed over him. "It's no use, Bit…" "Spike!" she shouted. "Damnit, listen to me. Make the goddamn chip listen to me!" She grabbed his shoulders and yanked him into a sitting position. She shook him. "Tell it that I want you! Tell it that I love you! Tell it!" She pulled him close, and they clung to each other, rocking like children in a storm. "It won't believe me." Her lips brushed his ear. "Then it's gonna listen to me. You hear me chip?" she whispered. He sat still as she kissed him, lightly, teasingly along his cheek and around his mouth. Her hands popped open the buttons of his jeans, one by one, and she slid her hand inside. "Can it hear me?" she asked. "Yesssssss…" he hissed, as her hand closed around him, clumsy, unsteady, but sure. "I love him, chip," she told it, between kisses strung along his collarbone. Spike let his hand graze the inside of her thigh, until he reached the damp, hot lace of her panties again. He pushed them aside, and he brushed his thumb lightly across her clitoris. She quivered, and he slid a gentle finger inside her. Her hand on him became tighter, more urgent, as he stroked her inside and out. Tremors raced through her, and she pulsed and tightened around his finger. Her climax was so close, just seconds away, but despite the urgent throbbing of his own pleasure calling him, he slipped his hand gently away and took her and from him, kissing her palm, running his tongue along her fingers. He didn't want her to climax through accident and half measures. He wanted her first time to be like they all should be but almost never were: perfect. "Why are you stopping?" Her whisper was urgent, and her tongue followed it into his ear. "I'm not," he assured her, and moved himself around behind her. There were a dozen buttons holding the dress together across her spine, and he undid each of them, kissing each new inch of flesh as it emerged from the fabric, finally reaching the small of her back and pushing the dress from her shoulders. "Tell the chip what you want." He popped her bra open, and she shifted as if to slither out of the scrap of blue silk. He grabbed her shoulders, stopping her. "I…I want him…want Spike to…" Her words disintegrated into a shuddering exhale as he pushed first one strap, then the other, gently away, until the garment fluttered into her lap. Then he slid his hands down onto her breasts, rolling each straining nipple beneath his palms and feeling her jerk and shudder. Kissing her neck, he slid both hands down her ribs, no longer ticklish, and onto the soft curve of her belly, then hooked one finger into each side of the waist of her panties. He found the seam, and he tugged. Fabric tore, and Spike pulled the useless scraps lace from between her legs and tossed them aside. His hands continued moving, down her thighs, between her legs, up over her hot mound to her stomach and back again, lightly and then firmly, skimming edges, plumbing depths. Finally, with a moan that was torn from the deepest part of her, Dawn spun toward him and pushed him onto his back, crawling on top of him and rubbing her bare skin against his own. They both fumbled to rid him of his jeans, and finally, when they were both fully naked, Spike rolled himself on top of her and eased his hips between her thighs. His body urged him forward, but he suspended himself, barely pressed against her, slipping toward his goal, still holding back, holding back, covering her shoulders and her breasts with kisses, moving his legs against hers, but never pushing, never entering, never quite reaching the final line. Dawn writhed beneath him, and started muttering, "Please, please…" Touching her face, he said, "Look at me." She opened her eyes, liquid with wanting. "Spike," she said. "Now, tell me what you want." "I love you," she said. "I want you inside me." Released from fear at last, Spike pushed himself into her, slowly, his whole length. Dawn arched and cried out, but not in pain, and her muscles clenched around him. Spike froze at the peak of that moment, steadying himself, dragging himself back from the edge of explosion. When he felt steady again, he drew himself out carefully, feeling for each twitch of her pleasure, each place inside her that he could use to bring her ecstasy. Almost out, almost lost, he paused, and then he plunged forward again and kept moving in her, to the beat of that irresistible rhythm. He felt the pulsings of her orgasm almost instantly, heard her little cat cries, felt her nails bite into his back. She moaned his name, moaned nonsense words of love and desperation, and when her last cries faded and she collapsed around him, his own release came, and he fell onto her, into her, forever. When he raised his head from her shoulder, and looked up into her smiling eyes, he knew it had been perfect. For the rest of the night, Dawn startled him again and again with her passion, her fierceness. She wanted to do everything, try every position, her legs contorted and both of them laughing. He went down on her, again and again, never exhausting that spring of pleasure inside her. After his fourth or fifth go, he'd lost count, when he insisted he was spent and beyond use to her, she'd wrapped her mouth around him and brought him to hardness so quickly he'd cried out in shock, and when the moment came he tore her mouth from him and impaled her instead, his need tearing another orgasm from her as he smashed her hips against him, bursting into her. And between rounds they tumbled and wrestled and laughed and tickled, sweaty, sticky, and blissful, until Dawn, finally, noticed the lightening sky. "It's almost morning," she said. "The sun'll be up soon." "Night's candles are burnt out," he quoted, feeling silly, romantic, intensely alive, "and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountaintops. I must be gone and live, or stay and die." She grabbed his chin, and looking him fiercely in the eyes, said, "Spike? Romeo and Juliet: bad end. Not us." "Right," he said. "Sorry." She kissed his nose. "Let's go." They spent several hurried minutes fighting with tangled trouser legs and missing underclothes, and then Spike jumped to the ground and caught Dawn as she followed him. She hurried him into the crypt and snatched up her bag. "You'll be there tonight, right?" she asked him. Spike started, guiltily. "Ummm…" "I know about the party," she said. Another eye roll. "How did you--" "Willow. Still a lousy liar." "Oh," he laughed, and kissed her hard on the lips. "Yeah, I'll be there. Never fear." "Never will," she smiled, and she backed out the door, waggling her fingers at him. Then she turned and ran across the dew-streaked grass as the first rays of morning lit her like a star. *************************************** The Bronze was packed like a Japanese subway as Spike pushed his way through the crowd, guarding the little package under his arm. He saw the Scoobies in the corner, and it looked as though the celebration was in full swing. Dawn sat in their midst, a silly paper crown on her head, chattering and laughing with the others: Giles, Willow, Tara, Buffy, Anya, and yes, even Xander, whom Spike regarded warily. Dawn spotted him, and there was a moment when their eyes met like hands touching before she waved and signaled him over. He raised a hand to her and started pushing though the crowd. He was jostled aside, and suddenly, the floor lurched beneath him. He stumbled, arms out, and regained his balance. Bloody San Andreas, he thought, and resumed his push toward the empty table he saw in the distance. Empty? He stopped cold. Something was prickling at the back of his neck. He looked down at his empty hands. This isn't right…he thought. He looked around at the teeming masses and saw not one familiar face, but…he didn't know what face he was looking for. He couldn't remember what he was doing there. Something's wrong… An icy hole of dread yawned inside his chest. Something's missing… Next: Fading Fast| HOME | WHAT'S NEW | ABOUT | FANFICTION | BLOG | LINKS | VERBIS | NOMINATIONS | |