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.
The first was the fact that cool, musty air was caressing her bare legs. The second was that Spike was perched attentively between said bare legs, his fingers seated deep within her pussy, his thumb poised over her clit. The third was that every nerve in her body was on fire in ways her body had never before been on fire. The fourth was the stark awareness that she was on intimate display, and her friends were crowded around the entryway, staring at her in numb shock.
Spike released a trembling breath against her, meeting her eyes in a swarm of furious confusion. He held her gaze, not speaking, not even reacting to the hurried shouts which exploded behind him. He just stared at her, lost, his fingers curled inside her, her wetness spilling over his hand. For endless seconds there was nothing but his eyes. The ocean of loss and bewilderment combating with outrage. As though he didn’t know whether he wanted to kill her or love her, and the toss between the two was driving him as crazy as it was driving her.
That wasn’t it, though. That was hardly it.
Beyond the shadows clouding her mind, one constant shone with brightness which couldn’t be denied.
She remembered. She remembered everything. Everything. It was so clear—so present in her mind that she had to remind herself to breathe. A backward history beginning before her birth. One which ended in a pool of blood on her first Watcher’s cabin floor—her true first Watcher. There was death and then renaissance. She’d been nothing but a memory, and now she lived again.
She was the Slayer still.
And she’d found him. The reason she was here at all. The reason for everything.
The man she loved. Truly. He looked the same yet so different. His eyes sparked with a need for recognition, and he looked at her as though he knew her. As though he knew her beyond the capacity of what this world offered. But Buffy knew Spike—knew William—well enough to recognize what he couldn’t.
In an instant she knew what she couldn’t have known before. Spike didn’t remember.
He didn’t remember but he still knew her. Somehow, he still knew her.
The spaces of her mind quickly compacted as the rest of her shot back to the immediacy of the present. She didn’t know how she’d come to the life she was currently living or why she hadn’t remembered anything of the life she’d once led until now. Nor did she know how Spike had barreled into town without so much as a smile and a nod and seemingly even less recollection than herself. She knew everything and nothing at all.
She didn’t have time to consider the sudden surge of love that consumed her entirely. Nor did she have the will to question it.
Her vision was suddenly clear—clear and cloudy all at once.
William—William or Spike, or whatever he was called these days—was the reason she was here. And whether or not he remembered her, whether or not he knew why, he was the same. He was the exact same man she’d left behind. The same man who had died in her arms, begging her not to cry for him. The same man she’d bargained with the devil to follow into oblivion.
And in a blinding flash of light, she loved him. Buffy and Elizabeth collided and she loved him.
“’m gonna pull out now, love,” Spike murmured with tenderness that made her heart sing. “Don’ move.”
Buffy sucked in a breath and nodded awkwardly, her hands gripping his forearms as he deftly slipped his fingers out of her pussy. They winced together at the wet suctioning sound which smacked the air as her body fought to keep him locked with her. Spike trembled hard, his breath crashing against her lower lip as his eyes searched hers for answers she didn’t have.
He recognized that her memory had returned—that she knew she was Buffy Summers, Vampire Slayer. He knew the girl whom had been here just minutes before was gone. Well…not gone. Not in any way which would make sense to him. Elizabeth wasn’t gone, she was just reborn. She and Buffy were one: their histories, their memories, their everything. She remembered who she was without a doubt. No matter that the wig atop her head was askew; tears were no longer scaling down her cheeks. She knew herself.
And she knew him. She knew him completely.
He just didn’t know it.
His mouth neared her ear, and she found herself inexplicably lost. “Whaddya say you don’ stake a bloke for thinkin’ you’re the most gorgeous creature he’s ever seen?” Spike murmured softly, his voice so low she could barely make out words from the unneeded breaths he took. “’Sides, pet, you came on to me.”
Buffy nodded blindly and watched in astonishment as he raised his fingers to his mouth and licked her juices off each glistening digit.
“Decent yourself up,” he murmured, nodding to her state of undress. “I’ll buy you a few seconds, savvy?”
There wasn’t an inch of her not trembling. She nodded again hurriedly, her hands immediately turning to her exposed pelvis. She tugged her panties up her thighs and straightened the fabric with a noisy shuffle.
All eyes were on her—most marked with disgust. She was too shaken to care.
She was a woman without a time.
Spike cast her one more meaningful glance before turning around, remaining purposefully situated between her thighs.
“’Lo all,” he said awkwardly. “Don’ s’pose the lot of you have ever heard of knocking?”
“Spike,” Angel growled, nostrils flaring. “Get away from her.”
Spike’s hands came up in some mock semblance of surrender. He tossed a wary look over his shoulder to size up the state of Buffy’s recovery, then turned back to those congregated at the entrance. “Some wonky night, yeah?”
The other vampire didn’t seem to be in the mood for small-talk. “What the hell are you playing at?”
“Jus’ makin’ conversation.”
“A-and you’re sure he’s William?” Xander asked, his eyes shooting nervously to Angel. “The one she—”
“He’s the only William I know,” Angel all but snarled.
Spike shrugged easily and felt around his breast-pocket for his cigarettes. “Only one worth knowin’, mate.”
“Why isn’t he ripping her throat out?” Cordelia demanded. “Isn’t anyone else wondering why he’s not ripping her throat out?”
The next thing anyone knew, the elder vampire had snarled something unintelligible and was marching forward, murder in his eyes. He might have been successful had Buffy not jerked herself out of her stupor and leapt to her feet. She moved like lightning—putting herself between Spike and her kinda-boyfriend, her arms outstretched.
“Stop it,” she said shortly. “Angel—”
Angel froze more out of astonishment than by command. “What?”
“What?” Cordelia and Xander echoed.
An excellent question to anyone who didn’t know she was Elizabeth Travers, love of William the Bloody.
Namely, an excellent question to anyone who wasn’t her.
Buffy swallowed hard, her mind racing. She knew she should think of a witty, if not intelligent response, but all she could summon was a weak, “He didn’t do anything wrong.”
The excuse was more than feeble, but she had nothing else. Instead she found herself in the awkward position of being on the receiving-end of Angel’s dubious glare. He stared at her as though he’d never seen her before—as though her face had just contorted into something hideous beyond all recognition.
“Are you high?” Cordelia demanded, gesturing emphatically. “He just had his hand in the cookie jar—and I mean that literally.”
“Yes, thank you, Cordy,” Xander said, “you again prove you are nothing if not valuable for useless commentary.”
“Oh bite me so hard.”
“Shouldn’t say that in the company of vamps, pet,” Spike piped up. “Jus’ an’ observation.”
“Shut up,” Angel growled, turning his gaze again to Buffy. “Look…I don’t know what you thought. You’re confused—”
“You got that right,” Buffy agreed as she took a step forward, forcing him to step back. “But now’s not the time.”
The vampire’s eyes widened incredulously. “How is this not the time?”
“Just…stop.”
“You’re gonna let him run?” Xander squealed.
She met her friend’s eyes but didn’t comment. There was nothing to say that would appease them. No words to offer clarity—nothing that would make sense. God, it barely made sense to her. Reality had torn around them and the ground beneath her feet was cracking apart. Her memories raced alongside reason. Everything existed in duality.
Angel couldn’t know that. Nor could Xander or Cordelia. None of them could know what she barely understood.
None of them could know what Spike didn’t.
And even if she tried to explain, they wouldn’t believe her.
She met Spike’s confused eyes and knew immediately that despite his lacking memory—despite everything—he was in her corner. Perhaps not tomorrow, perhaps not in five minutes, but he was now. He was more lost than she could ever be. He didn’t know that he existed solely due to a deal she’d brokered with the devil nearly three centuries ago. He didn’t know anything beyond whatever ties had brought them together tonight.
She yearned for his arms but reason kept her grounded.
This was a different life and the rules had changed.
Everything had changed.
Buffy had no grasp on how much time actually passed in those endless seconds. She was lost in a sea of stormy blue and she didn’t care if she was ever found. Spike had to leave before the power of her word ran dry and Angel took it upon himself to end her love’s life, and while she wanted more than anything to leave at his side, there were truths yet to be revealed.
Spike inhaled sharply and nodded. “See you around, Slayer.”
Then he turned and walked out. And she let him.
With nothing certain, with everything changed, she had to let him go.
It was the only way she’d ever be allowed to keep him.
*~*~*
The world had gone bonkers when he wasn’t looking.
Spike stormed out of the warehouse, a swarm of unidentifiable emotions darkening his every step and haunting his every thought. His hands still tingled from the feel of her skin. His mouth was an explosion of her flavor, the rich taste of her which he’d so foolishly licked off his fingers. He hadn’t the slightest idea what had just happened—what he’d allowed to happen.
What he’d done with the warmth of a slayer beneath him.
What he’d done…
A growl tickled his throat, his hands gripping either side of his face as he rounded the nearest corner. He’d betrayed everything. He’d betrayed his oath to Drusilla—the one he’d given her without her ever demanding it. The promise he’d made to not emulate the great sod who had broken his sire’s heart.
He wasn’t the sort of bloke to add notches to his bedpost. Dru was the only woman he’d ever wanted. From the second she discovered him sniveling in the alleyway, he’d had nothing more to demand from life.
He’d never desired anyone else.
No one save his night angel.
But that was the bitch, wasn’t it? His night angel wasn’t supposed to exist. His night angel was supposed to only live in his mind and never leak into reality. His night angel wasn’t supposed to break through his dreams and take over his life. His night angel was supposed to remain confined to the subconscious in which she’d been born. She wasn’t meant for this.
She wasn’t supposed to be a sodding slayer.
What the hell was wrong with him?
The cigarette he’d wedged between his lips remained unlit until he was near the factory’s main entrance. He struck a match along the doorway and inhaled a lungful of nicotine. It wasn’t much comfort but it was comfort enough.
He didn’t want to face Dru.
He didn’t want her to know what he’d done tonight. What he’d come so close to doing.
He didn’t want her to know how desperately he’d wanted another woman, no matter how often she wordlessly reminded him how much she wanted other men.
This wasn’t him. None of this was him. If he’d been any incarnation of himself, the bloody Slayer would be rotting and he’d be free of whatever spell she’d placed over him. The one which made him think he knew her beyond the call of her blood. The one which made him think she, in some twisted form, belonged to him.
More than anything, he wanted to regret what he’d done. What he’d failed to do. He wanted to regret something beyond the simple knowledge that he should.
It was easy knowing what he should feel.
Feeling it was a different matter altogether.
William, she’d called him. William.
She’d known him. Whatever spell she’d cast or whatever spell she’d deluded herself into thinking she’d cast had propelled her into some parallel universe in which she believed they were something to each other. In which she believed he was hers. She’d clung to him, begged his forgiveness, baptized him in the downpour of her tears and begged him to shag her delectable little body. She’d wanted him in every way a woman ever wanted a man.
The Buffy he’d encountered tonight had been all Slayer. From the second he saw her in the alleyway to the haunting look she’d given him before his departure. She was the Slayer. She had been all along.
But somehow she’d been two different people.
Two people who were conversely the same.
Bugger, he had a headache.
Spike sighed, propping himself against the factory’s outer wall.
He didn’t want to go inside. He didn’t want the night to end like this.
He didn’t want the night to end at all. What he wanted—what he truly wanted if he was honest with himself—was to hunt down the chit and demand what the fuck had happened between them tonight.
Demand how she’d known him without knowing him at all.
Demand how she had the balls to muck up his life.
Demand how she could leave him like this. Confused and frustrated. Lost and somehow found. Loathing her and wanting her. Hard and in need of her soft body, and whatever comfort she was prepared to give him.
His cock craved her pussy and his fangs yearned for her throat. But not for the kill.