Fic: Five times Spike and Buffy were under the influence of… and one time they weren’t

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It’s my posting day, yay!

I was quite shocked when I saw garnigal ‘s entry (as much as there was still room for more shock, given her posting date), and even more so when I saw how really amazing it is. (If you haven’t read it, I strongly recommend you go do it!) But my awesome cheer-me-on beta thenewbuzwuzz  told me (unasked, I might add :) thank you for that, honey!) I shouldn’t worry, it was different enough from mine, so I stopped thinking about throwing it away and go into hiding on my posting day.

Mine lacks the total awesomeness that is garnigal’s almost poetic piece and is intstead more of a run-of-the-mill fic, but hey, I offer more words, that’s something, right?

A huge thanks to my two betas! While Thenewbuzwuzz was my first impression voice on the raw draft, encouraged me and pointed out some ‘huh?’-moments, my amzing long-time beta (well, it is more than a year now, is it?) seapealsh took care of all those preposition errors, the weird cases of ‘-ing’ or not to ‘-ing’, and generally all those things that happen when a non-native speaker butchers your wonderful language. I’d be lost without her. Thank you both so much!!!

I also want to thank the mods for all the work they put into making this amazing event possible, time after time!
So, here goes… enjoy!

Title: Five times Spike and Buffy were under the influence of…and one time they weren’t
Author: freecat15
Setting: s4 to post series
Rating: PG-13; contains canon typical violence and sex.
Length: ~ 3,500 words


Five times Spike and Buffy were under the influence of… and one time they weren’t

1. November 1999 – …a Spell

Mmmh, lips of Spike… having missed them already while fighting off these demons, she finally feels them on hers again, and she instantly forgets that she should keep helping her friends. All she is aware of is his arms tightening around her, holding her close, like he’s never letting her go again.

It feels heavenly.

She still can barely believe her luck. This wonderful, beautiful vampire loves her so much that he wants to share his life with her! Her heart melts a little when she thinks of how he was willing to help Giles, his enemy, with his stupid blindness problem. Just for her! She sighs happily into him, her hands wandering along his body, admiring the strength she can feel in his muscles.

Granted, he wants her to stop killing his kind in the near future; she’s irritated for a second, briefly stopping the exploration of his mouth, but the hint of anger is quickly replaced by the brightly shining images of their future life together, full of kisses like this one that makes her weak in the knees and tingly in the belly. She wriggles a little to get even closer to him, wishing she could melt into him. She hears some fighting noise somewhere beside them, then a voice she should know saying words she should understand, but nothing is important. Nothing else but him. Oh, how she loves him!

*~*~*~*

Her heat feels amazing. She crashes onto him with all her sweet weight, and all he can think of is how incredible her heat feels to him. She gives him this look so full of love then, a love he always longed for, and suddenly he’s not so sure anymore it’s really her heat, or if he’s just silently burning from the inside, for her.

His arms go around her of their own volition, wanting to keep her close. He will never let her go again, even when this means taking the whole Scooby package, too. The kiss deepens, he hears her sigh, oh Spike, and the heat inside turns searing. There’s commotion around them, but it barely registers with him, like they are in a bubble deep, deep under water. It’s none of their concern what happens on the outside. There’s nothing but this blazing heat of his love for this silly young girl.

*~*~*~*

“Let this harmful spell be broken!”

It rolls like thunder through them. A thunder that drowns the heat and scorches the tingling butterfly wings. It catapults them apart, yelling and spitting, trying to get rid of the tiniest trace of the hated person they loved just seconds ago.

And only for the tiniest moment they both wonder if the other also feels a smidgen of loss.

 

2. November 2001 – …Depression

“The pain! Is gone.”

He’s coming at her again, charging at her like he wants to kill her, when she knows he really, really doesn’t. It’s anger that is driving him forward, letting him lay into her, blow after blow, taunt after taunt. It’s not death what he’s after, though. It’s pain. Mostly with his words, and he does it oh so well.

“You came back wrong.”

He can hit her now. She must be some kind of demon.

She’s a thing. Evil like he is.

That explains a lot.

The world around her, gray on a good day, deeply black on most, has turned into a scorching red, just like hell fire. Freezing her to the bone still, but stirring something in her after all, something that propels her fists towards him. Giving him back as good as he gives.

“You’re wrong.”

He only grins.

She pushes him back, then grabs him by the lapels and wails on him some more, and they are suddenly surrounded by walls, but she doesn’t care, because he’s already speaking again, and it hurts.

“Poor little lost girl.”

She delivers a punch.

“She doesn’t fit in anywhere.”

A blow, then a kick.

“She’s got no one to love.”

And there it is, finally – a spark. She hurries to fan the faint glow inside, bashing and thrashing him, flinging him through the rooms, and he responds in kind.

“Can’t be a human, can’t be a vampire.”

Punch.

“I’m in love with you.”

Smash.

“Who’s screwed up?”

He swings at her, but she blocks and punches. He grabs her, pulls her closer.

“ ‘m supposed to be treading on the dark side. What’s your excuse?”

Something boils up in her, furyfeararousal, and it feels so good. She welcomes it like a precious gift, this sliver of warmth around her heart, because she can feel it. She leaps at him, tearing him with her, and his closeness stokes the small flame. She punches him again, but it’s not enough. She needs more, more of him, and when her lips are crashing into his, her hands behind him tearing the wall down to make room for her arms pulling him closer, her body pressing against his, hard, she finally feels the fire burning inside. Hot, furious, bright, and she still needs more.

Isn’t she some kind of demon?

It frees her.

She sees the shock on his face as she takes him, takes him in completely, robs him of everything he might have wished for. Sees the glimmer of hope in his eyes, sees it cease as he looks at her and understands. Sees him giving in. She doesn’t care. The fire is strong enough to burn guilt, disgust and numbness all the same. She will keep it burning as long as she can, no matter the cost. Devouring him if need be.

Tomorrow will come soon enough.

3. February 2002 – …her Friends

It happens every time she lays eyes on him – the moment she sees him her pupils dilate and her heart skips a beat.

Every bloody time. But she averts her eyes instantly, carefully avoids his closeness, always finding excuses to leave the room.

Yet, she doesn’t insult him like she usually does. He wonders if the guilt he’s seen crossing her face the moment she first saw his bruises has anything to do with it.

And then he knows that’s not it.

He’s finally got her alone – no Scoobies, no sweet bloody Richard. He has her trapped between his arms, his hands braced against the kitchen counter, face to face. Close. He feels her melting a little towards him, can smell her arousal, but that’s nothing special. He knows she wants him, even if she doesn’t want to want him.

But the look she gives him is new.

Affection.

She smiles up at him, almost shyly, and he can feel her leaning toward him a tad. His one hand leaves the counter and glides down her arm, a tender move she usually doesn’t allow if not in the throes of passion, and he feels her shiver.

Her look changes; she frowns slightly, and he sees doubt sneaking in, but she doesn’t pull away. His hand reaches hers, and he slowly, slowly curls his fingers around hers. She still doesn’t pull back, instead her fingers begin entwining his. His eyes go wide – this is the most intimate touch they ever shared, more intimate than any of their sexcapades.

And then it’s over.

“Buffy, do you have any more coke?”

Soddin’ Xander. Bugger.

She jumps away from him like slapped.

“No, of course we don’t have any blood for you stored in the fridge, Spike,” she assures him, her voice a little too loud, a little too high.

Defeated by bleeding Xander Harris. He sighs.

4. May 2003 – …the Possibility that it’s their Last Night on Earth

She listens to the quiet of the night.

It never was so quiet before. There was always noise from the town, cars driving through the streets, the clattering of dishes, voices in the neighborhood, the sound of music through open windows. Even when the humans were asleep, deep at night when she got home from patrol, there were at least animals rustling in the brush and the occasional bat whirring through the balmy night air.

But now the silence is complete, as if even the wildlife has chosen to leave the area.

We’re not all gonna make it. You know that.

All day she’s not been able to shake her own words, spoken two long years ago; she knows that they are true as ever now. Maybe truer even.

She sighs heavily. She can’t save them all; she’s learned that by now. All she can do is fight as hard and as long and as well as she can, give everything she has. The rest…

Her insides contract painfully at the thought of all her loved ones who might not survive the next day. Dawn. Willow, Xander. Anya, Giles. Spike…

A jolt goes through her as she realizes there’s still so much he doesn’t know, so much she wants to tell him. So much has changed, and she never…

Does it have to mean something?

She straightens, and with a last glance to the starlit sky she turns on her heels and enters the house.

*~*~*~*

So many words are inside her, wanting out, and yet she doesn’t speak at all when their gazes meet downstairs. Maybe because he doesn’t either, and it frightens her to see the man who never shut the hell up back then now being so quiet.

They both begin to move forward the same moment, drawn to each other like magnets, until they are so close that her whole view is filled with him, and for just right now, her heart is filled with nothing but them. They don’t move for a long while. She’s paralyzed by the fear of shattering the spell, until he slowly, cautiously takes her hand, a question in his eyes.

She can feel her face lighting up, her eyes smiling shyly like she knows she never smiled at him before, and it seems to be answer enough for him; enough to lead her to his cot, pull her down with him and take her in his arms.

Relief washes through her at his soft and tender touches. She feels safe in a way she never expected to feel ever again, especially not tonight, and her arms wind around him to give him back what he gives her – strength, safety. And more.

*

They lie like that for a long, long time, arm in arm. They don’t talk much; there aren’t many words important enough to disturb the quiet closeness they both savor, and those that are still don’t find their way out.

She tries, of course.

Spike…”

He gently silences her with a soft touch of his finger to her lips, and she’s not yet strong enough to resist.

She doesn’t give up, though. She turns a little in his arms a while later, shifts her head until her eyes meet his and they both sink in, and she dimly wonders how one can feel so deeply connected to someone, only by their eyes.

He soothes away the tremor that shivers through her with his hand firmly on her back. Her eyes fall shut and a sigh escapes her, but she opens them again – too precious is the sight of him now. She lays her hand on his cheek, but he stops her before she can move toward him.

“Don’t,” he whispers. She wonders how he could’ve known that she wanted to kiss him, and she feels her throat going tight in fear that if he doesn’t let her now, it could be too late. But he lays his own hand over hers on his cheek, strangely warm on the back of her hand and she realizes it’s the warmth she gave him. He gingerly takes her hand in his, pulls her closer with his other, her head gliding onto his shoulder, their hands resting securely between them now.

“Not tonight,” he whispers into her hair, “please,” and she can also hear what he doesn’t say, not because it may be our last night on earth.

A sense of dread surges through her, leaving every nerve end buzzing almost painfully. She takes in a deep breath, determined to not let him stop her with what she knows is so important to both of them, to not let this maybe last opportunity slip away, when his voice echoes in her head.

Please...

And she gives in.

5.  January 2005 – …a Spell. Again.

When she eventually enters the bar, shaking droplets of melting snowflakes out of her hair while taking in the whole establishment with her wandering eyes, he’s not one bit surprised.

He stops polishing the glass and slowly puts it on the bar, flinging the towel over his shoulder. It’s kind of funny, he thinks; he’s so far off her usual paths – so far up north that in fact most of his patrons are demons of a furry kind – that he was sure there’d never be any business for her to take care of in this god forsaken town. Demons choosing to live here from all places in the world are likely to be peaceful and friendly, and the few that aren’t he usually takes care of quietly. Lacking a hellmouth, the town just isn’t prone to be the target of any apocalyptic threats, and the lack of need for a slayer to show up is exactly the reason why he’s here.

Here he can be his own man. Living in peace.

Yeah, more like hiding, he thinks, snorting softly.

Because there’s no reason whatsoever for her to ever come here.

And yet here she is, and he realizes that part of him always knew she’d be here one day.

Sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, when only two or three old demons were left nursing their gin in the darker corners of the bar, he envisioned her coming in just like she did now, nose reddened by the cold, but eyes blazing with life. In his mind’s eye their gazes would meet – and that was usually the part when the bubble burst. He had no clue how she’d react, and neither did he have any idea what he would do.

And now what he dreamed of and feared in equal measures happens – her eyes land on him. He suddenly realizes his hands are shaking, and he desperately wishes he hadn’t let go of the towel. He spreads them flat on the bar instead, but it’s a poor substitute for something to keep his fingers busy with, so he shoves them into his pants pockets.

But despite his apparent focus on his hands, he doesn’t miss her eyes narrowing, then going almost comically wide. Emotions galore are shining in them with a wide range from shock to relief, from joy to anger, and more that he can’t place, before they return to normal, her face clouding over with indifference. A poker face at its best from the woman who never even played poker, as far as he knows.

It makes him nervous.

Or, more nervous.

Can’t she yell at him? Punch him, maybe, so that he can finally stop standing there awkwardly hanging his shoulders? Giving his hands something to do?

But she won’t, of course. She stopped doing that after he came back from Africa.

Her non-expression doesn’t change; it’s obvious she’s waiting for him to make a move.

He’s not ready for it, hasn’t been for one and a half years. What the hell is he supposed to say?

“I didn’t think to see you up here one day.”

Bloody hell! He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to spare himself the fallout from this utter stupidity falling from his lips. But only for a moment, then he reluctantly reopens them.

She still stares at him, seemingly unperturbed, but he sees a crack. She’s hurt. He sees her fighting to reign in the pain that suddenly is almost tangibly hanging between them, a feeling so familiar and yet so new. It’s then that another well-known feeling flares up in him, and he moves towards her without thinking, finally acting on instinct.

Seeing her in pain always did that to him, and still does.

So much has changed, but apparently some things never do.

He opens his mouth to say something, wanting so badly to soothe this pain, the pain he inflicted upon her, but she flinches, her face closing off.

(Some things never do.)

She turns on her heels, walks to the door, and leaves.

Leaves him behind, rooted to the spot, unable to decide if it’s a good thing that thanks to the bloody spell cast on the bar she won’t remember him and what happened here the second she went through the door, or if he’s just being a coward.

When he finally makes up his mind, he leaps to the door, towel still on his shoulder, and throws it open.

But she’s gone.

Only a faint trace of her scent still lingers.

And he’s alone.

6.  January 2005 – …- nope. Nothing. All Clear

It takes him half an hour to find her, but two whole days to finally face her.

Two days of back and forth, yes and no, want and shouldn’t and maybe. And in the end it’s what he’s seen in her eyes when she’s recognized him, the sheer amount of raw, unguarded feeling that sets him in motion.

To finally give her what he suddenly knows he’s robbed her of.

When he walks through the hallway to her hotel room his knees are wobbly, and the hand that rises to knock at her door trembles slightly, but he doesn’t hesitate. Somehow every second counts now.

He doesn’t notice he’s holding his breath when he hears her stepping closer, with these light and yet firm steps of hers that he would’ve recognized everywhere. And then she’s there, opening the door, standing in the doorway, stunned into silence. The same shock in her eyes as two days earlier at the sight of the man with the bleach blond hair standing in front of her.

He releases his breath; he needs to smell her scent. That scent that he so often dreamed of, so intensely that he almost could still smell it when he woke up, that he even looked around expecting to see her somewhere nearby sometimes. But of course she never was.

Now she is here, so close that he could touch her, caress the soft skin on her hand, if only his arm wasn’t paralyzed in anxiousness. Instead he watches her stare at him, and he can’t do anything but stare back, drink her in, and watch the same mixed emotions cross her face as two days ago. And yet not the same, because all of a sudden he knows what he couldn’t place at the time – betrayal.

It’s missing now. He’s here, at her door, because he wants to be.

He spent so much time thinking about what he would say to her, and here he stands, his tongue dry, his lips glued together, listening to her racing heart. What eventually tumbles from his mouth is as unexpected to him as it is to her.

“Hello cutie.”

Not as cocky as back then, not as self-assured. It comes out a little shaky, akin to what his legs still feel like, and his voice is so low and wary that it nearly sounds like a question. With his head tilted down a little, his eyes searching hers, he almost seems afraid; and he is, because so much hinges on what happens next, and he feels as if he already blew it with the reminder of how, once upon a time, he wanted to kill her.

Stupid git.

But it’s too late, and all that’s left is to wait for a reaction. Any reaction would be splendid right now, he thinks, but she doesn’t do him the favor. She’s completely silent, just gazing at him, wide eyed as if he’d grown horns.

No snappy comeback; that’s probably what scares him most.

She doesn’t move a muscle for a long time, until he starts shuffling his feet and fidgeting with his fingers. Just when he begins to think she’s gone catatonic, begins to debate in his mind whether to leave her alone or grab her by the shoulders for a good shake, she finally says something. Kind of.

“Wha – “

It’s not much more than a huge sigh, but at least it wakes her. Her eyes fall shut for a second, then snap back open, and she clears her throat half-heartedly and tries again.

“When?”

It’s a bit of a squeak, but it gives him something to do.

“584 days ago…”

His voice is even softer than before, and then he shrugs a little and casts a glance at her, not sure what else to say. But she can finally move again; she lifts her hand and touches him, lets her fingertips ghost over his cheeks for a moment; and then she draws her hand back only to slap him in the face, at exactly the place where before she had touched him. And all the while, tears are running over her face.

Then she moves back and holds the door wide open.

“Come in, Spike,” she says.

And he steps inside.

 

Originally posted at http://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/574766.html

freecat15

freecat15