I'll Fly Away

4-11-02

Part 9: Suns and Daughters

To his own surprise, Spike dreamed of Dru---

"Give my button string to sister

I'll be on the Golden Shore…"

Dru paused in her playing. "It's too late now, my Spike. The buttons are all scattered…"

---For a moment, he could have sworn she was right there, in the room with them. The dream was that real. But it faded gradually, as dreams will, and he recognized that the scents, the vibrations, and the barely audible sleep-sounds in the bedroom belonged to a very human girl. He lay still for a moment, adjusting to his surroundings. The bed was new; the girl was not.

Buffy lay on her stomach, facing him, one foot tangled up with both of his. Spike kept looking at their feet. Somehow, this seemed more intimate than most of the lusty, exotic positions they'd worked themselves into. He breathed her in for a moment, relieved to be inhaling the scent of vanilla and grapefruit-flavored lip-gloss instead of Drusilla's beeswax and blackberry wine. He resisted the urge to touch her and ran his fingers through his hair instead. Flakes of dried blood drifted onto the pristine white bedding, and Spike winced. He had vague memories of the hallway incident, the bathroom, and two-concerned girl-faces peering down at him.

Reluctantly, he disentangled himself from Buffy and swung his feet to the floor. Tottering slightly, Spike reached for his shirt before moving toward the bathroom. No need to give Willow a second heart attack. Five minutes later, he stood under the shower spray staring up, open-mouthed, at the many bottles lining the edge of the stall. No wonder Buffy had money problems. She spent it all on shampoo. He ran his eyes over the labels, searching for something that didn't scream male interloper in a house of females! Strawberry Bouquet…Coconut and Vitamin E…Apple Blossom. No to all three. Herbal Essence seemed promising until he remembered that lady lawyer having orgasms in the courtroom over it, surrounded by dancing poofters. Finally, he just closed his eyes and grabbed a bottle, any bottle.

By the time he made his way back to the bedroom, Spike's head ached fiercely. All his senses were heightened. He closed his eyes. The scent of Joyce's dead roses drifting through an open window…the shag carpet under his bare feet, soft as cotton batting…the fine crack in the wall where he and it had become intimately acquainted…Willow's soft breathing as she dreamed witchy dreams…the trip-hammer of Buffy's heartbeat…

What the hell?

Spike resisted the urge to charge in immediately. Instead, he gently pushed the door open with one hand. He was coiling up like an attack dog, ready to take out whatever--or whoever--had scared her. His fingers itched for a weapon.

But when the door swung fully open, all he saw was her, hunched in the semi-darkness.

The bed seemed impossibly wide and she impossibly small, sitting with her knees drawn up, chin tilted stubbornly…yet still trembling. Her eyes were like saucers, big and shiny in the glow of a single lamp. That kissable mouth worked to form words.

"I thought you'd gone."

So that's the way the wind is blowing. He wanted to reassure her, to be comforting like every other man. But he wasn't every other man, and it was late, and he was so terribly worn down by his abiding and inescapable love for her. It was her false-frailty that first drew him, like a dark moth to a dancing flame. But the years of beating his wings against the wall of stubbornness around her affections had not left him undamaged. He felt drained, stripped of everything but heart.

So Spike bent down, rooted among the clothes on the floor, found what he was looking for. It had rolled out of his coat or hers; he wasn't sure which. And what did it matter anyway? They were approaching symbiosis, now. He finally understood his own crappy poetry--all that shit about two becoming one heart, one mind. It was all true. Yay, William, as Dawn would say.

He pressed the stake into her two hands, wrapped her small fingers around it. Then he cleared his throat and spoke.

"If that's what you think of me, you might as well finish what you started."

**************************************************************

Buffy stared down at the stake, wondered blankly how many times she'd held one. My life in the wood grain. When had she thought that? A day ago? Ten? A month? Bile rose in the back of her throat at how easily he placed his fate in her hands. She, with her temper, and her insecurities. She, who, for so long, lacked the grace to accept that she'd forever changed him.

He was still standing at the foot of the bed, shirt in hand, hair curling wetly over his forehead. She let her eyes roam over his features. The brooding pout of a mouth that spouted both truths and tall tales…the gritty integrity of his nose, broken many times in a century peppered with Slayer battles, back alley brawls, and mob justice…the delicate shape of the ears that listened to every thing she said, picked out the truths, and scattered her lies to the four winds…the eyes that could sparkle with little-boy enthusiasm for life, or flash with the petulance of a child not yet tall enough to reach beyond his darkest desires.

He knew, didn't he, that she didn't want his wild and precious life? That she didn't want to reduce him, as she had her other lovers, to a shadow or a beast? No, she didn't want his life--and his death, well, that had been promised her long ago, and she'd gracelessly declined. Judging by his posture, he knew none of this. Hadn't she told him? Probably not. He was the talker, not she.

He was rigidly silent, watching her watch the stake. Maybe waiting for it to clatter to the floor. Instead, Buffy rose to her knees and crawled over to him. In the darkness, his face was all pitiless planes and angles. His eyes reminded her of Angel's, too watchful and too old. When she was directly in front of him, Buffy reached out and grasped his chin, forced him to look at her when he flinched away.

"Swear to me," she hissed. "Swear on my blood that you won't go." Then she drew the sharp point of the stake across her own chest, making blood well up between her breasts. Not a lot, but enough to get his attention. Bingo. His nostrils flared and his eyes darkened.

"Stop teasing, " he muttered. Buffy couldn't help herself; a purely feminine thrill shot through her. She was skating along the fine edges of his control and they both knew it.

The rusty scent of blood permeated the air--her blood, Summers blood, Slayer's blood. Buffy imagined that it was intoxicating to him, as irresistible to the vampire as the odor of leather and cigarettes had become to her. For however long she lived, Buffy would associate those scents with the wicked combination of dark and light that was William the Bloody.

"I'm not teasing." Buffy leaned closer, nipped at his bare shoulder.

"I'm very.." Then at his neck.

"…very…" And his clavicle.

"…serious." She finished and sank her teeth into the baby-soft skin beneath his ear.

Spike yowled like a great cat and suddenly Buffy was toppling backwards. She bounced once on the mattress before he closed the gap between them. He stared down at her with desire-blackened eyes as he stopped the forward motion of her body by trapping her hips between his powerful thighs. Her hands were on his shoulder blades, but he pulled them down, held them prisoner against the rumpled sheets. Buffy squirmed against him, but he only leaned more heavily into her. Gold fireworks went off in his irises, heralding the arrival of the demon. No mortal man, this.

Buffy's heart was thundering wildly, and she could almost hear the blood rushing in her own veins. His words came back to her from some distant year. Love isn't brains, children, it's blood! Screaming inside you to work its will! Where did he get that ageless wisdom, that instinctive understanding of the crosscurrents in life? She surged upward, wanting to hit, wanting to bite, wanting to claim. Wanting to tear the rest of her clothes off and hurl herself onto him.

His whole body was quivering, but Spike studied her with a hint of sadness and a fair amount of arrogance.

"What does it take to convince you, Slayer? I'm no self-sacrificing git like Angel. I won't be leaving till you throw me out like yesterday's newspaper. When it happens, I'll come back. So you'll throw me out again. And I'll come back." Buffy was breathing hard enough for both of them as he buried his face in the side of her neck. His voice rumbled against her skin.

"Do I have to drain you dry and make you mine forever?"

Buffy's heart nearly went as silent as his. He wouldn't do it, would he? No, but there was always the risk that she might let him, perhaps on the day that she couldn't get close enough, when she could fall no deeper in love. And wasn't that alluring! Immortality was hers. She had only to ask.

He left her neck and dragged his face along her skin, down her chest, to where the tiny puncture wound was already beginning to heal. He lapped at the crimson droplets and she let him because it was heart's blood, her gift to him. It always came down to blood. Blood tied Dawn to Buffy and Buffy to Joyce. It tied Angel's fanged four to one another for more than two centuries. It was blood that bound them and blood that called.

Buffy managed to break Spike's grip. She reached down, grabbed him by the belt loops and dragged his hard mouth up to hers. She clamped her hand on the back of his neck and set his lips against hers with a hunger so intense that she shivered and he loosed one of those glorious subterranean growls. He was braced on his arms above her, but that was too far away. Buffy reached up, grabbed his shoulders, and pulled him down on top of her.

They struggled on top of the covers in fierce silence. He bruised her lips with the force of his kisses. She bit his mouth, then sucked at the wound. He tore her T-shirt in his haste. She fought against the denim that clung to his still-damp skin.

"I'm all wet," He managed to mutter.

"Like I give a shit, "she snarled, and attacked his zipper. Success!

Her panties sailed off in the direction of the closet. The sounds that rent the night were wild and guttural, punctuated by the occasional yelp. Thank God Willow was a deep sleeper.

She understood his hunger and his need and swung a leg over his heaving body. She straddled his belly and bent to kiss those benighted lips that were her undoing. He held her hips, put her where they both needed her to be. She found her own rhythm, matched it to his, and the dance was on. They moved to a song not yet written--as usual, they were the first of their kind--and Buffy thought that sex wasn't the right word for this. It was a celebration of life, death, and the flesh.

Just before her world went super nova, Buffy heard him mutter something. It might have been her name, or one of those obscure British curses he favored.

But it sounded, for all the world, like a prayer.

*************************************************************

Afterward, she lay tracing her name on the pale skin of his chest, invisible letters only she could see. Spike cracked one eye open and considered the room. Clothing lay flung this way and that. Buffy's underwear hung on the doorknob like a bizarre Do Not Disturb Sign. The bed looked bombed.

Buffy hitched herself up his body and sniffed delicately at his hair. "Mmmmm. You smell like jojoba."

Spike wondered if he should be insulted. "What the fuck is jojoba?"

Buffy just snorted, patted his face affectionately, and drifted off to sleep. But Spike lay awake, even as the first rays of dawn lightened the room. The dream of Drusilla kept running through his mind like a tape playing over and over. That song…

"Tell my sister when she's older,

All the pretty button string…"

When the clock struck seven, he rose and put on the least-wrinkled clothes he could find. Spike paused for a moment in the middle of the Slayer's happy, rainbow-colored room. The Slayer herself lay sleeping the sleep of the sexually satisfied. The sounds of Willow running water for coffee and turning on the radio drifted up from the kitchen.

Spike squared his shoulders, suddenly filled with a little terror and a lot of pride.

He pulled the covers over Buffy, then headed downstairs with Dru's lilting voice still ringing in his ears.

*******************************************

Buffy let the rise and fall of voices lead her to the kitchen. Chirpy Willow-tones undercut by a distinctive North London growl. Less dominant, but still present, was the gentle, earth-mother whispering of Tara.

Buffy crept up quietly, leaned against the door jamb, and observed the trio lined up at the counter like ducks in a row. They carried on, unaware of her presence.

"…it does too have a purpose!"

"Red, If you can explain the usefulness of a doily, I'd gladly let you sling me into another wall."

"What happened, Will?" Tara, as usual, looked worried.

"I thought some boogeyman had broken in to pillage and slaughter. But it was just Spike." Willow shrugged.

"Hey!" Spike looked offended.

Buffy slipped up behind him and slid her arm around his waist. "Hey, yourself."

He spun around to face her, a smile softening the sharp, intriguing lines of his face. His shirt was only half-buttoned, his hair looked finger-combed, and there was maple syrup smudged along the smoothness of his upper lip. Beautiful. Buffy noted, with fascination, that his bare feet were hooked into the bottom rungs of the stool. What woman could resist? Buffy moved between his knees, then hesitated for a moment. She could feel the curious gazes burning through the back of her bathrobe.

He tasted like maple, tobacco, and blood. A new combination. And it wasn't bad. Not bad at all.

Willow tore her eyes away and popped up. "Morning, Buffy! Can I make you a waffle? Please? Maybe make up for battering your boyfriend?"

Boyfriend! Buffy's heart executed a perfect flip.

"Sure, Will. Maple-filled?"

"You bet. Produced expressly for lazy consumers like us, so we don't have to go to the fridge for syrup." She pulled out a cooked waffle and dropped the frozen one into the empty slot.

"That's rot, " Spike opinionated as Willow expertly slid the waffle onto his plate. "The Nibblet has the right idea....double syrup." He tipped Mrs. Butterworth upside down and squeezed her plastic middle with a lascivious grin. A stream of syrup poured out of her head.

Buffy watched the whole exchange in silence. Only on the Hellmouth do we cook breakfast for vampires who once threatened to disfigure us. Thank you, Will. You are very, very good.

Buffy grabbed the bottle and passed it to Tara. "Enough! You're a pig, Spike."

Spike shrugged. "Have you seen Aunt Jemima lately? Hot mama, hot mama!" He dug into his waffle. Tara giggled into her hand.

Willow looked out the window. "Paper's here. I'll be right back." She headed for the front door.

Tara smiled indulgently at Spike, then turned that serene gaze on Buffy. "I'm very happy for you."

"Thanks. I'm happy for me, too." She looked over at the object of her affection, who was peering into the toaster slot impatiently. "I think." She leaned over and whispered. "It doesn't seem quite real yet, you know?"

Tara nodded. "I understand. If its not too personal, what made you change your mind?"

"No, I'll tell you. " Out of the corner of her eye, Buffy watched Spike rattle open a drawer. "It was when he--Spike, don't put that fork in the toaster!"

Too late.

************************************************

For the second time in twenty-four hours, Spike looked up into concerned girl-faces. This time there was a trio. He noted dazedly that Glinda was working to loosen his fingers from the fork handle while Willow waved her hand in front of his face, supposedly testing for lucidity. Buffy was smoothing down his hair, which was very nice. The shock stood it on end, according to the girls.

His humiliation was now complete.

In his lifetime, Spike had been hurled about by demons, punched by Slayers, chased by mobs, bullied by his own kind, tortured by a hell-goddess, experimented on by scientists, staked by Captain Cardboard, shot by Harmony, assaulted with an ax by Joyce, flattened with an organ by Buffy…and thrown across the kitchen by a toaster oven.

He noticed that the waffle had popped up.

****************************************************

Later, he limped into the hallway, skirting the pools of sunlight that had every right to fall there. He was the intruder here. If only the thought of going back to his dark, lonely crypt wasn't so repugnant. Skeletons were the only other occupants, and they didn't say much.

"You running away?"

Buffy stood behind him, a folded blanket in her hands. "I'd rather you take this than wind up in a jar on my dresser next to the alarm clock and Dawn's school picture."

"I'm not running away." He glanced ruefully at the front door. "I'm thinking about running away. And not liking the idea."

She pushed him gently back against the wall, away from the deadly light, and leaned into him. "So stay with me."

"For how long? " He whispered into her soft hair.

Buffy smiled into his coat. "How long have you got?" she breathed.

TBC