Chapter 27
Author's Notes: Thanks so much to dusty273 and spikeslovebite for looking over this for me.
The life of a sketchpad reminded her of a butterfly. In the beginning,
it was unremarkable, lifeless though not without its potential. The
beholder found value in its very existence; a fresh beginning, a new
start. She loved the musty scent of an untouched canvas. Loved what it
represented. Loved what it provided.
Loved the promise of hope.
The first strokes against the virgin parchment did nothing to rob it of
its intrinsic beauty. Even as cream-colored sheets turned crisp with
lines of charcoal, the thrill of creating something new overwhelmed her
with its simple grace. Especially when her inspiration came in the form
of her beautiful, naked husband.
Buffy smiled, running the end of her art pencil down her cheek. Her
hair had grown longer over the past few months, falling now over her
shoulders and curling at her waist. William preferred her hair long. He
played with it for hours—curling it around his fingers, inhaling its
scent, dragging it across his bare flesh…though there was little he
didn’t delight in exploring. The first year of their marriage had
washed away in a sea of passion since their whirlwind second
honeymoon—a whirlwind that had yet to stop.
It was worth it. The stress of the past few months, the terror of the
inquest, the dread which had threatened to rob her of her happiness the
second she had William’s love locked safely in her heart. There were
times when she had difficulty finding enough air to feed her lungs; now
she was floating among the clouds. Watching the man she loved stand
against the tide without batting an eye. Watching the rise of
everything she held dear survive without succumbing to the fall.
Watching…
William.
It hadn’t been easy getting where they were. Getting to this modest
hotel room in Florence, where the Duomo was visible across the hazy,
yellow glow of Italian sunlight—no, the journey had nearly compromised
the battle. After burying Drusilla, there had been the matter of
dealing with Mrs. Hart. Dealing with her coldly, brutally, and in
person.
With William at her side, Buffy had, at long last, confronted the old
woman. Told her, in no uncertain terms, exactly how she felt.
“Ever since I set foot on Manderley, you have regarded me as something
other than what I am. As something less than the mistress of this
house, and given my initial fear of the position, that would have been
understandable…were it not for the fact that you treated me as
something less than a human being, as well.” Buffy had stood firm,
ignoring the trembles seizing her insides and forcing all misgiving
from her voice. Though she was still gaining her footing—her
confidence—she knew she couldn’t have done it without William.
There was little she could have done without William.
“Manderley is not yours,” she had continued. There was no shame in
admitting how much she had enjoyed the stark astonishment in Mrs.
Hart’s eyes, as though the old woman hadn’t thought it possible for her
position to ever be questioned. As though her lifeline at Manderley was
indefinite, no matter what she did or who she hurt in the process.
“Mr. de Winter has never expressed dissatisfaction in my work.”
“That’s because my loving wife was too good to disclose your behavior,”
William had all but snarled. “For what you pulled, you’re fortunate I
don’t toss you down the bloody stairs.”
“I do not understand.”
“I don’t expect you would,” Buffy had coolly replied. “You don’t have
the capacity to understand. You would have to be human first.”
Mrs. Hart had disappeared soon after, her quarters cleaned, Drusilla’s
belongings in tow. William told Buffy it was grounds for pressing
charges, and though he would have loved to pin something on Mrs. Hart,
he couldn’t begrudge her for taking everything his demonic first wife
had touched out of Manderley forever. For the first time, the manor
felt whole—felt clean. Felt like it was truly hers. Truly theirs.
Manderley, however, was behind them. At least for now. Wesley, fresh
off his honeymoon with Winifred, had agreed to serve as caretaker for
the estate while William treated Buffy to the world. Since departing,
Manderley hadn’t crept into their discussions; if William’s plans were
indicative of anything, it would be at least another month before the
familiar grounds of home were under her feet. Buffy wouldn’t admit to
being homesick; home, for her, was at William’s side. And William
wanted to show her everything. Wanted to show her as much of the world
as he could—because she’d given it to him.
“This,” he’d whispered in Paris, their bodies dwarfed by the magnificent shadow of The Louvre, “is all because of you.”
“What?”
“You gave me this, darling.”
Buffy had grinned and swatted at him. “I can hardly afford the Mona Lisa. Besides, it’d be with your money.”
“Our money,” he’d corrected, stealing a kiss from her lips.
“Everything I have is yours. You gave it to me.” His arm hooked around
her middle, snuggling her closer. “You’re everything.”
“I suppose I could always steal it. It has a nasty habit of getting
stolen.” Buffy’s grin had broadened. “Would you feel comfortable
harboring a felon?”
“I’d harbor you anywhere you liked.”
Paris had been weeks ago. Now they were in Florence, in a room with a
view of the Duomo. William was sprawled across the bed, his left hand
resting against his abdomen and the back of his right hand pressed to
his brow. He was a vision. Ruffled where he’d once been groomed. Wild
where he’d once been proper. A passionate, eager lover where he’d once
been contained. McGarry’s ruling at the inquest had not only put
Drusilla to rest; it had provided the beast Buffy had unleashed with
her uninhibited acceptance of his stormy past with a jolt of insatiable
energy. He was alive in ways she’d never before seen and could hardy
believe, even with her body aching with the evidence of his
unquenchable hunger.
Hunger for her. He wanted her. Always. In places that made
her blush. In ways that rendered her a blushing virgin with little more
than a suggestive wink. Her skin burned from the path his lips had
traveled. Her legs trembled when she tried to make them work as God
intended. And though she was limp and drained from their lovemaking,
she always wanted more. Always. She wanted what he did—to make up for
the months during which they’d been together but not. During which
they’d lived as husband and wife, but without this fiery zeal with
every wake.
A sleepy yawn dragged her attention from the memory of William she’d
transposed to paper. He blinked blearily, the hand at his stomach
blindly searching the empty space beside him until his eyes locked with
hers. A slow, predatory smile stretched his lips. One that had her
insides tingling and her thighs clenching all at once. That grin would
have her on her back with her legs in the air in careless seconds.
Once upon a time, Buffy would have thought herself quite the heathen. She could barely afford to care anymore.
Not now.
Not with William.
“Good mornin’,” he drawled rakishly, his voice rugged and tweaked with
the hint of a lowerclass accent that admittedly sent ripples across her
skin. “What are you doin’ all the way over there?”
Buffy’s eyes dropped shyly. “Drawing,” she replied.
“Anything special?”
“You.”
“Oh. While I sleep?” William grinned wickedly. “Pervy.”
She batted a hand, her cheeks warming. “You say that about everything I do.”
“Yeah, well, everything you do is pervy.” The twinkle in his eyes had
the power to melt glaciers. “What are you wearing, anyway?”
“Nothing. A robe.” Buffy gestured to the closet. “It was hanging in there.”
“It’s hideous.”
“I’ll be sure to tell the staff.”
“In my opinion, you’re better off without it.” His grin stretched wider
as he pulled himself onto his forearms, his unrepentant eyes roaming
the length of her body as she rose to her feet. “God, I love your hair
like that. You look so…like Eve. In the Garden.”
It still took courage to unwind her belt and bare her body to his
hungry eyes, especially when the glow of morning light did little to
hide the contours of her flesh. Intimacy with William had left every
bit of her explored with his hands and tongue; there was nothing about
her he hadn’t seen and touched. And even knowing that, she couldn’t
help but blush when he drank her in. When his eyes fixated on her small
breasts and he licked his lips as though anticipating tasting her
nipples. She felt every inch of her flush red under his scrutiny, but
he never made her feel awkward.
He made her feel like a goddess with a simple glance.
“Eve was docile,” Buffy observed softly.
“I don’t want you docile,” he countered, “I want you on fire. The image
of Eve, the soul of a tigress.” His eyes dropped to her sketchpad.
“Mind if I see my likeness? Did you draw my naughty bits?”
“They were under the blankets.”
William smirked, running his hand down his chest and bringing it to a
halt right above the aforementioned naughty bits. “I’m sure you
remember what they look like, love,” he drawled, leaning up and
snatching her sketchpad away in a blink. “You spent a good time down
there last night.”
If anything, the fire in her face only grew hotter. It was one thing to
love him with her mouth; it was quite another thing to have her nightly
deeds mentioned with the sun peeking over the horizon. “You’re wicked,”
she muttered, though little could keep the smile from her face.
Likewise, she couldn’t help the rush of empowerment that accompanied
her self-consciousness upon puddling the robe around her feet. She was
so different than she’d been just weeks before. New. Older, but not
without her innocence.
“You love it.” William grinned at her a second longer before his eyes
dropped to the drawing. Though his reactions were almost always
identical, there was something so remarkably singular in watching the
way his face softened and warmed all at once. As though he was
entrusted with something precious. Something truly remarkable.
He studied the drawing for an eternity before meeting her eyes. “Buffy…”
“It’s not—”
“You did this just this morning?”
“You looked so wonderful. I wanted to remember it forever.”
William smiled tenderly, his eyes again dropping to her breasts. “I’m
hardly wonderful, love. Whatever you see in me…you put it there.
Everything you see is because of you. Buffy…” He set her sketchbook
aside and reached for her, though she would have been in his embrace
anyway. Her legs cast astride him, her entire self confined to his
arms. She loved the feel of his heartbeat against her cheek. The way
his arms folded around her. The way his breath wove through her hair.
The way his fingers caressed her skin. She loved every second of it.
She loved everything.
And somehow, apart from all the chaos, they’d landed in a haven of
peace. Tranquility. This place so far from home, yet home all the same.
Home because they were together.
“Kiss me,” William whispered, confidence gone as though physical
closeness allowed for honesty denied by distance. She heard him, then,
as she’d heard him at Manderley. A man so magnificent. So unique. So
thoroughly wonderful, even if his ghosts refused to fully let him
sleep.
What peace freedom couldn’t give him, she hoped her lips could
compensate. She kissed him softly at first, but this wasn’t the time
for softness. Need ruled control and she soon found herself warring him
for custody of his tongue, found her hands roaming the broad expanse of
his shoulders before hooking around his neck, anchoring him into her.
His taste was something to which she’d never grow accustomed. The way
he purred and melted against her lips. The way he searched her mouth,
tasting her, whimpering desperately as though he had never held her
before. As though his body didn’t know hers, as though she had never
felt the warmth of his arms. As though silken kisses had never been
shared.
“Taste so good,” William murmured, his fingers sliding up her abdomen
until her breasts filled his palms. The feel of his skin against hers
made her insides sizzle, and then his thumbs found her nipples and
rolled them into taut, needy peaks. “How did I find you?” he asked,
dropping a kiss at the corner of her mouth before he began a southward
venture. “Out of every corner of this miserable world, you were the one
brightening—”
“You going to speak of how fortunate you are, again?” Buffy teased,
though there was no hiding how her heart took off at a gallop the
minute he began speaking of things she’d longed to hear.
William gazed upward slyly. “Don’t tell me you don’t love hearing it?”
he retorted in the same manner, his tongue curling around one of her
nipples. “Your body betrays you.”
“Damn my body.”
“No, no, no…” He licked her again and chuckled when she shivered and
moaned. “No, darling, that’s my job. Damning you again, and again, and
again…”
“William…”
His left hand found the appex of her thighs, fingers gliding deftly
through her thatch of curls and parting her secret lips to rediscover
her body’s secrets. “Heaven won’t have you after I’m done,” he
whispered. “My wickedness will affect you, my love. All the nasty
things—”
“Oh stop,” she berated softly. “I thought we agreed…”
“That you’re my salvation?”
“How can I, then, be damned if I am meant to save you?”
He grinned in a manner that was entirely wicked, though
the lightness in his eyes could not be denied, no matter how fervently
he believed it didn’t exist. “It’s paradoxical, isn’t it?” he
whispered, his fingers slipping over her clitoris and rubbing her with
such tenderness she nearly came apart then. “You’re light, I’m dark.
Who corrupts who, do you think?”
“There is no corruption, Will.” It was amazing the words could ride out
so evenly. Shards of ecstasy crashed through her tired body, ecstasy so
potent she wondered how anyone, least of all herself, could contain it
without exploding. The notion that she was built to experience and give
this sort of pleasure made her head spin. Pleasure combined with
happiness the storybooks couldn’t describe. Happiness that seemed to
her too wonderful to be true, yet too grounded to be imagined.
They had fought for this and won. This morning was a celebration.
“No?” he asked. “No corruption? Even knowing…”
“Even knowing what, exactly?” Buffy stifled a gasp as two of his deliciously long fingers slipped inside her.
“What these hands have done.” His thumb remained on her slippery pearl,
manipulating it in slow, tortuous circles. “What they’re capable of.”
She grinned at him and kissed his lips, keeping her eyes open and fixed
on him. “I know precisely what they’re capable of,” she replied softly,
rolling her hips to maneuver him into a gentle rhythm mimicking
intercourse. “You do not frighten me. I love you. I love you.”
He growled his approval and quickly set to match her movements, hungry
eyes devouring the sight of her quim swallowing his fingers again and
again. “God, you’re glorious,” he rumbled, massaging her clitoris with
fierceness that offset gentility. “So glorious.”
“Oh, Will…”
“Need to…need you.” In a blink, his hand was gone and her body strained
in horrible limbo before she felt him pressing the head of his hard
length against her opening. “Need…oh God, yes.”
Buffy sighed contentedly and leaned over him, her breasts pressing
against his chest, her muscles flexing around him, tightening, drawing
him in as deep as she could. Capturing him where she wanted him always.
“You’re magnificent,” he whispered. “So magnificent.”
She cupped his cheeks impulsively and kissed him. “Look at me. Stay.”
“Always.”
They began rocking together. Grinding together. Moving toward that
luscious unknown. Flesh molded, connected, breaths mingled, eyes
locked. And all she could think to say was, “Stay—stay with me.”
“Sweetheart…” His hands glided up her skin, slippery now with
perspiration, until had her face captured between them. “There is
nowhere else for me. Nowhere but you.”
She saw him. And believed.
“I love you,” William said, his eyes open and wide. Locked on hers. Always with her. Always. “Buffy, I love you so much.”
Grief had abandoned her. No more worries. No more suffocation. The
tears she’d shed were behind her now. Only happy tears from now on. She
loved and was loved.
And she believed.
fin
Conclusive Note:
Admittedly, when I began toying with the idea in the fall of 2004 of
putting my beloved Buffy and Spike into the position of the unnamed
narrator and Mr. Maxim de Winter of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca, I didn’t expect it to go as far as it did. I often entertain the notion
of taking familiar storylines and fitting them to my favorite
characters, but never before have these whims seized and held me so
rigidly. The more I toyed with the idea, the more I liked it. The
pieces seemed to fit, particularly the role of Rebecca being filled by
Drusilla. However, the book is a literary work of art and I didn’t feel
comfortable touching it. I wanted to play but on my own terms—I wanted
the story to be mine, should I ever decide to partake. And perhaps the
idea would have died a lonely death in Natchez, Mississippi, where,
like so many of my ideas, it was born…had I not mentioned to Yani that
I was contemplating a Spuffy AU based on a book I’d read. It is because
of Yani that the idea did not die; an avid fan of AUs, she devoured Rebecca in much the same manner that I did, therein instigating what would
become a three year campaign to get me writing the story, and then
prodding me after I’d started writing to complete it.
I had four chapters of this story written two years prior to posting.
And despite what I told Yani and myself, I never thought I’d finish it.
Writing this story was a nonstop wrestling match. I have been in the Buffy the Vampire Slayer fandom now longer than I care to confess, and while I’ve encountered
bouts with writer’s block as all writers inevitably do, I’ve never
fought so rigidly with a story to make it work. All fanfic writers are
borrowing someone else’s creation, and I’ve always been comfortable
with that. However, taking a story I loved and characters I loved and
putting them together in such a manner where my artistic input was
almost nonexistent was beyond difficult. I wanted the story to be my
own, but it never could be, because it was du Maurier’s. I was merely
borrowing it, and this made writing very difficult. I wanted the story
to be accurate, but not merely Rebecca with characters bearing
different names. It wasn’t until I made the conscious decision to take
the story in a direction that felt natural to me that I became
comfortable enough to give it the attention it deserved. Though
admittedly, even with all the reviews this story has accumulated; the
nominations, awards, the emails, the demands for new chapters…none of
that has ever felt like it belonged to me. I’m always eternally
grateful for my readers and their enthusiasm, but I didn’t create the
atmosphere that had them so fascinated: that was, again, property of
Ms. du Maurier.
That being said, I have been so overwhelmed these past two years since
I began posting the story with the response it has garnered. I’ve lost
count of the readers who have told me they picked up Rebecca because they liked Tempesta.
I can’t detail the number of times I’ve responded to a letter from a
reader, or been overwhelmed at the review count at any of the sites at
which I post. I’ve received letters from fans of the book who confessed
they were at first resentful of my audacity, but ended up reading out
of curiosity and determined I was paying an homage, rather than ripping
off du Maurier’s work. Toward the end, despite all odds, it did feel
like the story could, in its own way, belong to me. Not entirely—never
entirely. Too much of what I wrote was stringently reliant on
preexisting material, but there were moments between Buffy and William
that were solely for me. Buffy’s relationship with Wesley was,
likewise, solely for me, as was Wesley’s relationship, barely mentioned
as it was, with Fred.
In the end, I owe the completion of this story entirely to Yani.
Through all my struggles and subconscious forfeits, she pushed me back
into the arena and demanded more. She talked me through my concerns,
offered her enthusiasm and criticism. She didn’t let me forget Tempesta, and that’s why the finished product is as much hers as it is mine. Without her, my version of Rebecca would not exist. Tempesta di Amore is dedicated to her.
I would remiss if I didn’t include my litany of betas who have worked
with me on this story. Mari, Tami, ElizaBuffy, Megan, Amy, Kimmie, and
a few others who betaed for me back when the story was in its
infancy—people who had never before betaed for me, people with whom I
lost contact between the first few chapters and the rest of the story,
which was truly instigated in 2006 after meeting with Yani at the Queen
Mary James&Friends con. She’d visited me just the month before, of
course, prepared to talk me into writing more of Tempesta when my life in fandom seemed particularly finite. By the time I saw
her again, I was in a much better place and ready to write. The story
did not take off, and there were long, grueling breaks during which my
muse was content to play with plotlines that belonged to me rather than
someone else, but Tempesta refused to wither away. I couldn’t
let it, even though there were times I very much wished it would…though
I can only now confess as much, since it’s complete.
Even toward the end, I doubted I would ever finish it. The story’s been
with me for four years, and somehow I managed to get it written.
Because of Yani, my betas, my readers…because of everyone. It’s not the
longest thing I’ve ever written, but it was certainly the most
difficult. Thank you all so much for your enthusiasm and persistence,
for failing to give up on me even when it seemed updates were not
forthcoming. Thank you for sticking with me these past couple years,
for believing it would have a finale even when I could not.
And again, thank you, Yani. Thank you for pushing me to finish it. She’s all yours.
- Holly
![[info]](http://stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
ghostgirl13's prompting. Therefore, I lovingly dedicate this story to her. She kept me on my toes, even when I didn’t want to be kept.