Summary: A slayer barters with a demon to rescue her lover, and finds herself unwittingly projected nearly three hundred years into the future with no memory of the life she left behind.
He wasn’t used to having so many bloody houseguests, and he definitely wasn’t accustomed to the complete lack of silence. Not for the first time, Giles contemplated the wisdom of hosting Buffy’s metamorphosis under his roof. Logic argued there had been nowhere else, and as her watcher, it was his duty to oversee any sort of rituals. Especially rituals designed to render his slayer an immortal embodiment of her Calling.
Assuming it didn’t kill her first.
Giles sighed and tried to ignore how hard his hands were trembling, which proved slightly problematic as he was attempting to lift a coffee cup to his lips. His efforts earned him a scalding hand and blank looks at his reactionary yelp.
“Bloody hell,” he cursed, dropping the mug completely, uncaring when it shattered against his floor. The whole flat was a disaster; what was the purpose of worrying over spilt coffee?
“You should run that under cold water,” Willow observed, frowning at the steam rolling off his skin.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“I’ll get paper-towels,” Xander volunteered. He’d leapt to his feet before Giles could decline the implied offer and pushed his way into the small kitchen. “…I assume you have paper-towels.”
Giles was certain the words he meant to say were, ‘Thank you, but don’t bother.’ The words he spoke, however, were, “Under the sink.”
It was hard to be the uptight adult when the children were being so helpful. Not that he particularly cared for his reputation among Buffy’s friends, but there was an unspoken responsibility in his charge. He knew if he lost his head, they would lose theirs. If he broke down as he had last night, if he allowed them to see his anxiety or peek at his fear, they would realize how very much Buffy’s odds were riding on chance.
He wished they would be a little less helpful. He wished they would do the decent thing and annoy him a little. He wished they would give him a reason to yell and pitch a very English fit. He wished they would grant him cause to think of something that wasn’t his ailing slayer.
“It’s been a while,” Angel observed, looking to the second floor, from where he sat on a lonely stool in the corner. The vampire had practically put himself in timeout, which Giles would have found funny if he were in a position to care.
“H-how long does it usually take?” Willow asked, fidgeting.
“It depends on the…on the person, and the vampire who does the siring.” Angel sighed. “But this isn’t a siring, is it? This is something we’ve…this is something unprecedented. It’s…it’s a metamorphosis.”
Giles bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep his snide remark from knowing life. He didn’t need to create trouble just for the sake of it; everyone was as tense as he was.
Well, maybe not, but they were tense. Willow and Xander had predictably rushed over within ten minutes of their last class period, completely unmade by the absence of Buffy and approaching hysteria on the absence of Giles himself. Buffy often skipped class for missions and assignments on which he sent her—for Giles not to be there, they deduced, accurately, that something very large was in the works.
Explanations had been brief. He hadn’t the strength nor the motivation to delve into the mythology behind the Slayer’s power, what exactly was taking place upstairs, or why Buffy might not walk away with her life.
Every time he thought about the odds, he wanted to hang himself for approving this venue before thoroughly investigating every other option.
There weren’t other options.
Giles sighed and switched off the faucet, reaching for a dishrag and drying his hands. The sting had abated but he figured his skin would be tender for a few days.
There weren’t other options, but there might have been.
Had they looked hard enough, or had they just leapt at the first convincing argument?
Had they foolishly gobbled up the crumb while ignoring the rest of the feast?
Their source was a madwoman. A madwoman scorned, no less.
Bugger.
Giles pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled slowly. What was done was done. There was no going back now. There was only this—this insufferable nothing. The wait. The lull between life and death.
“Man,” Xander said, his voice oddly strained. He held up coffee-drenched paper-towels, his nose wrinkled in disgust. “I will never understand the unnatural attraction of adults to coffee. Eww with a side of yuck.”
Giles smirked in spite of himself, rearranging his glasses on his nose. “One of many adult concerns I’m sure will elude you completely,” he retorted, indicating the waste bin with a nod.
Either the slight went over Xander’s head or he was similarly too worried to care. There was no indignant, “Hey!” or a not-so-witty comeback. He merely disposed of the paper towels, washed his hands, and returned to the redhead’s side. Somehow, they all ended up in the front room of the flat, sitting in silence. The sort of silence where every noise was thunderous. The ticks of the clock. The drips of the kitchen faucet. The creaks of the floorboards. The sound of cars humming down the street.
Nothing from upstairs.
His upstairs might as well have been a tomb.
“Hey look, guys,” Xander said suddenly, making everyone, himself included, jump in reaction. “Willow’s actually twiddling her thumbs. She is a thumb twiddler.”
“I twiddle,” Willow agreed, holding up her hands to exhibit the feat. “I’ll have you know there’s nothing wrong with a good twiddle.”
“It kills time,” the boy pointed out with an enthusiastic nod. “A good twiddle can kill buckets full of time.”
Giles glanced up, not bothering to mask his boredom. “Yes. We have now time-jumped ten seconds. Well done, the both of you.”
Willow pouted and lowered her hands. “Sorry.”
“Sorry,” Xander echoed.
The silence resumed; it was louder than ever.
“Why didn’t she wait?” Willow asked suddenly. “She didn’t even say goodbye to us.”
“Or her mother,” Xander observed, nodding. “What are we gonna tell Joyce?”
A long sigh rolled off Giles’s lips. He’d actually been relieved when Buffy hadn’t mentioned needing to say her goodbyes. He’d worried she would talk herself out of the ritual if she had a few minutes with her loved ones. If she realized what exactly she was risking. If she realized she might not walk out after the door closed behind her.
Now he was cursing himself for his thoughtlessness. For being so bloody selfish.
What would he tell Joyce if she died? How would he even begin to explain this?
Thankfully, it wasn’t left up to him to answer. Angel cleared his throat. “That was my fault,” he said, his eyes on Giles, silently imploring him not to say anything. “She wanted to…to say goodbye. But we honestly have no way of knowing if Paimon is listening in on every conversation, as he’s boasted…if he is, he could have intervened or orchestrated an accident or done some other horrible thing, and we couldn’t risk it.” A pause. “Besides…it’s not goodbye.”
The certainty in the vampire’s voice provided much-needed comfort.
“Right,” Giles agreed. “It’s not goodbye. Buffy will wake up…I’ll burn my sheets…and life will go on.”
Xander made a face. “Yeah. Right there with you on the burning. I can’t believe you sacrificed your bed for…sexcapades starring the Buffster. There is no limit to the wrong.”
Angel grunted but didn’t say anything.
Giles went pink. “It’s…ahem…all for a good cause.”
“Sex for a good cause,” Xander mused, nodding pensively. “Say…do you think I could have a pivotal, world-saving role in the next apocalypse?”
“Hey,” Willow objected, wagging her finger at him. “It’s not all fun and games, Mister.”
“I know, Will. That’s why they call it sex.” Xander tossed a glance to the silent upper level of Giles’s flat, his face falling with a long sigh. “Have I mentioned how very wigged I am over Buffy and the having-of-the-sex?”
“You’re just wigged it’s not with you,” the redhead retorted.
“She’s…she’s sixteen!”
“And still not having sex with you.”
Giles moaned and sank back into his seat. He was rapidly coming to the conclusion that silence, no matter how strained, was golden.
“Still…I think underage romping is a wrong. I’m taking a stand.”
“She wasn’t a virgin,” Angel chimed in, his voice not nearly as dark as it had been a minute ago. Rather, even though the subject was far from one of his favorites, his demeanor seemingly lightened at the prospect of throwing something in Xander’s face, no matter how much that something bothered him. “Not really. If I’m to understand her…previous relationship with Spike, they…they knew each other rather well.”
Willow’s eyes went glassy. “Wow,” she said. “That’s intense. Losing your virginity…twice. You’d know everything but it’d be all…different and…no awkwardness. Just leaping in with the…” She trailed off when she realized she was at the receiving end of several incredulous stares. “I…uhhh…not that I’ve any experience losing my virginity twice. O-o-or once, for that matter. I am the Virgin Willow.”
“Wow, do we need to find a new topic, and fast,” Xander muttered.
“So says the Sex Boy,” the redhead grumbled, crossing her arms.
There was no reply to that, thus no one even tried. Rather, the air around them fell silent again.
The only thing which dared to defy the quiet was the clock. The infernal contraption in the corner, reminding them with every thunderous tick that they were running out of time.
Every second that passed without Buffy was another second lost.
Another second to worry.
Another second to doubt.
The clock wouldn’t let him forget. Even with the occasional blurb of conversation, Giles heard its ticks above all else.
He supposed he would the rest of his life, no matter the night’s outcome.
*~*~*
She didn’t moan. She didn’t scream. Her eyes didn’t flutter and her lips didn’t part. She didn’t call for him. She just lay there, pale as the moon and cold as death itself. She just lay there.
She didn’t moan, but she moved.
The convulsions were becoming easier to time. Every three minutes or so, she would jerk violently against the mattress, her neck craning back so far he was convinced the demon was trying to snap it clean. Her arms would flail and her legs would kick; she’d contort in ways that would make a gymnast flinch. Each fit lasted longer than the last, and they were coming quickly now. He felt them approach and suffered through them along with her, knowing simply by the way her body bent how much pain she was in. Pain he’d caused by feeding her his blood.
Pain he’d caused by loving her.
Spike did his bloody damndest to remain detached, but Christ, it was hard. Every time he felt the approach of another seizure, he had to fight the urge to scream and pound on his chest and rip the walls down with his bare hands. He wanted to piss off the Powers so bloody much they had no choice but to march their righteous arses down and deal with him face-to-face.
How they could sit aside and allow this to happen…
How they could allow her body to tear itself up as she fought to keep it.
He didn’t know if he was helping. If his demon was doing anything to battle for the girl he loved. He sure as hell didn’t feel tormented beyond the gut-wrenching agony ripping his heart apart—but that sort of pain was expected. He knew it. He’d felt it every second since she’d divulged the price. There was nothing new. He didn’t feel torn apart. He didn’t feel like his demon was fighting.
Spike’s eyes flooded with tears.
God. I’m losing her.
These were the sort of thoughts he’d forced aside. The things he hadn’t wanted to feel, because unconscious—dead—as she was, he wanted to believe she could feel him.
That his being strong for her for was helping.
He needed to believe it, but as time ticked on, hope faded closer to despair.
“Use me,” Spike whispered fiercely, collapsing to his knees beside her. “For Chrissake, Buffy, use me!”
She twitched. There was no answer. He hadn’t expected one.
“Slayer—”
The walls spun. The floor shook. Desperation racked every fiber. He thought for a second she might have opened her eyes, but it was gone before he could collect himself.
And then all was gone. Gone. Spike’s body caved without a fight. Without even the pretense of a fight. A thousand hands grappled for gray matter and tugged in various directions. There was joining. He felt himself depart from his body. Felt himself projected into the heart of a nameless struggle. A roar tore through his lips even if the air around him remained silent. He was so dizzy he could barely remember his name.
He always, however, remembered hers. And as he collapsed on the bed beside her, it was the only thing he knew to say.
*~*~*
When he awoke, his body was infused in bliss.
“There you are,” a sweet, melodic voice singsonged, her tongue flicking a sensual path along the underside of his cock. “I seem to recall this is your favorite way to be woken up.”
“The one and very only.” Her hot, heavenly mouth closed around his silky tip. “And don’t you forget it, buster.”
“Where…where are we?”
“Giles’s room.” One of her hands suddenly made itself known, cupping his balls and favoring him with a tender, loving squeeze. “Look at me?”
It came back the second their eyes met. He glanced down the length of his body and found himself lost in green. Her moonlit skin was marked with angry, purple bruises. Her eyes were blackened but dancing with vivacity that had his heart singing. And he remembered, then. He remembered. He knew.
The battle. The fight. The turning.
She was awake. Buffy was awake.
She was awake and very alive.
“’S this real?” he asked, the words riding out on a gasp as she nipped playfully at his cock, his hips instinctively arching upward. “Tell…ohhh yeah…tell me this is…real.”
“It’s real.”
“You’re hurt.”
The tip of her tongue traced the sensitive dip of his head. “You are, too.”
“’m not. I—”
Buffy released him without warning and rose up on all fours, her mouth moving northward to caress a prominent bruise gracing his pale stomach. Spike frowned in confusion, his mind slowly moving to catch up. It wasn’t the only mark. Like her, his body was covered with them. Completely ravaged with swollen sores he didn’t remember receiving. He became aware of a knot on his head and the foreign heat inflicting his tender cheek. And more than that, he was completely knackered. There wasn’t apart of him which didn’t ache.
And sore as he was, pain was secondary to his blood’s burning need for her. Need which went beyond the physical—need which was purely primal. Something inside him howled and clawed and reached for her, and it wouldn’t be satisfied with merely touching.
He needed to feel her.
“Buffy…I…”
A watery, tender smile spread across her lips. “I’m here. It’s okay. I’m all…daimon girl.”
“It worked?”
Buffy nodded. “I’ll let you be the judge,” she said, offering her neck to his mouth.
Her intent could not be any clearer, and he was in a position to deny her nothing.
Spike licked her skin tenderly, then bit down. And the second her blood hit his tongue, a gate opened in his mind and he saw. He saw her. He saw her waking. Saw her panic. Saw her rolling over and seizing him by the shoulders, shaking him hard and demanding that he wake up. Saw her anxious eyes taking in the battered sight of his worn body, then realizing their marks were shared. Her body was just as effete as his. She was worn and tired, but she’d survived.
He felt her: warm, alive, and real.
Then he saw her dissolve in tears as the weight of realization came crumbling down.
They had fought together…
…And they had won.
Spike’s eyes fell shut. There were no words. There was nothing he could say. He wanted to cry but he was too tired. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her, but after everything, the words didn’t seem adequate. Instead, he cupped her breasts when she straddled him, her pussy licking the underside of his erection as she moved to take him inside. And immediately, the fire within sizzled.
The demon purred and strained. He needed to feel her.
“There’s so much,” he whispered.
“I know.” Buffy pressed a kiss to his lips as she sank down, swallowing his moan. “But now…”
“I need—”
“Me too.”
He was only half alive when he wasn’t with her.
And eventually, when whispers of knowledge solidified—when he knew finally that the nightmare was finally over—he was sure he would break down. That relief would crash and send him to his knees. But that moment wasn’t now.
Now was for them.
*~*~*
If he weren’t bursting with glee-riddled relief, he might have been more disturbed. As it was, the eruption of his mattress rocking against achy springs was perhaps the most welcome sound he’d ever heard.
For the first few seconds, anyway. Then he just felt dirty.
Dirty, and very aware that he was sitting in the living room of his own flat as his surrogate daughter engaged in explicit adult activities in his bed.
With a vampire.
And they didn’t seem prone to stop anytime soon. If anything, the thumping just grew louder.
“Burn the sheets, eh?”
The librarian favored Xander with a long, dry glance. He was appeased by the look of potent discomfort on the boy’s face.
He didn’t feature Xander would talk about sex again anytime soon.
“At this point,” Giles mused, “I think it might be easier to move.”