herself_nyc (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} herself_nyc) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} herself_nyc_fic,@ 2008-02-13 09:51:00 |
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This section of the fic has been redacted. I've left it here as an out-take.
Note to my readers: I did that annoying but sometimes necessary thing of deciding that what I'd posted in the last chapter wasn't quite right. So I've altered the ending of part 57; some of what was there is now instead in part 58, and then there are new scenes. Hope this doesn't confuse anybody. Click the previously link to get caught up.
Previously
"You are my religion."
"A religion you fuck? Please."
"Only kind that's any good."
She giggled, a reflex; she took in that he was serious.
But the next moment he cracked a smile. "Mind you, in my religion, the little goddess does her share of worshippin' on the high priest as well."
"I wouldn't have it any other way. We're going to have such rites!" She laughed, and kissed him again, and sat up. "We really should get out of here. Anyway, it's freezing."
"Is it too late to go to Montevideo?"
She was getting up, assessing the scraps of her blouse. "Huh? I told you, someone else is taking care of that."
"We could take care of it."
"You want—now? But you're still—" There was alarm in her eyes, her fingers unconsciously fumbling with the blouse that was never going to be wearable again.
"Know it. Well, just thought ...."
"Really? Because I was going to suggest ... I thought maybe we could go somewhere together, like, somewhere beautiful with a big brass bed and room service, and just ... get reacquainted. For a while. No fighty, no slay-y. And no Spanish."
"Sure. Would like that."
"You ... you don't want to be alone with me?"
"Just said I would. Where would we go?"
She gave up on the blouse, fisted her hands.
"Really, love. Where would you like to go? Bet you haven't had a holiday in—come to think of it, don't think you've ever gone on holiday the whole bloody time I've known you."
"I went on spring break this year with Dawn, on Ibiza. Bikinis and beer and boys, and I was bored out of my mind." She looked miserable again. "We don't have to go anywhere. If you need to get to work right away—"
"We can go, we can go wherever you fancy." He threw her his teeshirt. "But maybe now we could have a bit of a spar, yeah? C'mon, you've woken me up, let's test me out."
"What, here?"
"Can go to the trainin' room, don't care. That's lady's choice. Choose your weapons too."
"Weapons? Spike, we just ... I don't want to fight you with weapons."
She'd been thinking they'd move this party upstairs to bed. With him, one fuck was never enough—one fuck was the amuse-bouche for a whole twelve-course ... course. But Spike was suddenly so animated, on his feet, moving around, like he'd had a shot of something, vampire adrenaline. It made her leery of refusing. Clearly he didn't want to be treated as a delicate flower. But did he really think he had to prove himself to her, even while his body still bore the marks—fading but yet visible—of the other dimensions he'd passed through?
He led the way, striding fast, down to one of the smaller training rooms off the main one. She'd changed into sweats, and made a point of braiding her hair, pinning the braids up into a knot at the back of her head, to give herself time to come up with some other excuse. On the other side of the room Spike had started in on the speed bag, punching with his bare hands. His stance reminded her so much of what he'd been like in the beginning, always boasting at her, threatening her, with his chin thrust out, shoulders squared. Amazing that she could find fondness even for that sinister and unreformed character; maybe that was a sign that she'd gone soft in the head over the years.
She went up behind him, passed her arms around his waist. She wanted to tell him that the absolutely last thing she wanted was to strike him—she was worlds away, thank heavens, from her mood of the day before, when she'd nearly smashed his face in for nothing. She pressed herself against his flexing back. Six quarts of slayer blood had restored him to his physical peak; he rippled, strong and springy, his rhythm unchanging even as she encroached.
She told herself that she'd brought this on, the love-making so good it roused him into confidence, made him want to show off. Didn't he always like showing off to her? Wasn't that what this was, Spike wanting to demonstrate, to reassure her of his prowess?
It was so unnecessary, but all right. There was nothing she could refuse him today.
"Sweetheart. Before we start, just give me one—"
His elbow caught her in the gut; the roundhouse sent her flying to crash into the wall.
"Supposed to always be ready, Slayer. You're not bloody ready."
The room swam. He was strong.
"Oh, is that how we have to play? Come on then."
She smiled. He didn't. He came at her like a freight train.
Even with this start, it took her a little time to realize that this was no mere demonstration. She'd started out pulling her punches; she hoped he'd get that and keep it light. But Spike had moves she'd never seen and learned only God knew where; without actually fanging out, he was fierce and somehow bitter cold, no quips, no glances meant for anything but intimidation. She had to work. And unlike their past fights, he wasn't interested in fleeing to fight another day; nor did her mother pop in wielding an axe to put an end to the proceedings. He defeated even her tricks to get herself past him and out the door.
"I get it," she puffed. "I get it, you're A1." He'd thrown her into the wall so often that despite the padding, she was starting to feel addled. None of her throws and punches seemed to faze him for more than a few seconds; his recovery amazed her.
Had he lost his memory again? Was he fighting her like this because he didn't know her, because she was nothing to him but a slayer?
A slayer he needed to kill?
It took her some time to think of the one thing she hadn't tried.
To stay down.
And that only when she found she couldn't immediately get up. Her right wrist sang with pain when she leaned on it.
He'd seized her shoulder, was in the act of dragging her up towards a fresh blow. She cried out, "Stop. Stop! You just broke my arm."
He loomed over her, and for a second she thought he was going to crash his fist through her face. His own was a sort of mask. She heard herself gasp. Then she kicked out.
Spike staggered, sliding to the floor. She scrambled up, not turning her back, debating with herself whether to grab up a bladed weapon, or hurtle to the door and get help.
"Buffy, wait. We're done. We're done. Oh Christ." He held up his open hands. Rose slowly, hands still up. "Didn't mean to take this so far."
"Spike?"
"Yeah."
"Did you ... did you forget again?" She halfway hoped he'd say yes. A black-out. An episode.
He shook his head.
It was hard to look at her. Before she hid it behind her back, he could see that her right wrist hung. He'd heard it snap.
Buffy took one step closer. "Spike? What just happened?"
"Let's get this fixed." She let him approach her now, though her eyes sparked with mistrust. She was in soldier mode, heartbeat steady, hard and intense. He saw her forcibly overcome it, as she permitted him to draw her arm out, to hold it in his hands. "Suppose you'd better get someone to take you to hospital."
"Suppose so. But first you'd better explain to me. You didn't mean to take it so far?"
He'd thought—it wasn't exactly clear what he'd thought. His demon had been clamoring, and it had seemed like a good idea to tip her off, and how better than by a fight, to his difference.
A good idea to the demon, anyway. Who after a couple of days in a houseful of slayers, was roused and roaring, louder and louder the more deeply he thrust it down. It wouldn't just go dormant, not when it had been in the ascendency for so long.
Couldn't be boxed off. It was him. It did his thinking, just as much as any other part of him.
No. More.
"Buffy ... listen. Don't really want to talk about where I've been, what I've done, gettin' back here. Not yet, anyhow. But ... might be I'm not so all right again as I seem. Might be some problems ... I can't keep down."
He didn't expect the stark relief that came over her face. "Well, duh." She drew him to the wall, sat him down. Took his hand in her whole one. "Whatever it is, we'll deal. Talk to me."
All his instincts screamed that it was time to vamp out and kill. He'd been living so long on instinct, ignoring it caused pain. He had to struggle, to sit still, to be a man again; she was watching him, controlling her own alarm, as he tried to pull himself together.
"Should've told you this earlier, but I thought ... Stupid. Thought I could keep a lid on it."
"On—?"
"What you said before. That little blood an' sleep doesn't fix me."
"Well of course—"
"Thought I could fake it 'til I make it ... but this proves that won't work. Maybe it's just as well you got the demo. Though I never wanted to hurt you. Please believe that. Wasn't in control."
Buffy looked at her hand in his, and at her other one, lying broken in her lap. Then she met his eyes.
"What are you telling me? Have you lost your soul?"
"Would you cast me out if I said yes?"
She didn't blink. "I would not."
Her certainty reverberated around them. Gave him courage. "My soul's in me still. It just may not ... may not always rule me."
"Okay. What does that mean?" Her glance was level.
"Been in hard places, where I had to do hard things, all the time. Harder places, harder things, than this world usually offers up. Even your world. The demon ran me, had to, to get through it alive."
"And now the demon doesn't want to stop."
He could scarcely believe it, how right there she was.
"He gloried in those brutal places. Was in his element, yeah? Almost didn't want the journey to end."
"But you did."
He shook his head. "The demon in me ... the demon is me."
"I know. I love him too. I love ... you. Demon, man, William Pratt, Spike, I know they're all braided together, they're one in the same. And I'm signed on for the whole integrated package, the lifetime supply."
His eyes burned. He lifted her hand to his mouth, pressed a kiss into her palm. Buffy laid her head against his, and for a moment they both just breathed, forehead to forehead.
"Demon's gotten so powerful. He's gotta have an outlet if soul's to come up trumps from now on."
"I know. I know how that is."
"You know?"
"I do. I am you, remember?"
"Oh Buffy. You are so not—"
"You grasped it before I did, Spike. Don't try to contradict it now, what you used to tell me. Just because I didn't want to hear it then didn't make it any less true."
"Used to tell you you belonged in the dark with me."
"You'd just begun your odyssey then. You didn't know how far you'd move, or how far I'd move. To the place where we'd meet. Where's there's light and shadow both. What you're telling me right now, about this battle in yourself ... I've lived that too. The slayer me, the woman me, they've clashed, they still do."
"Listen to you."
"I've had a lot of time to think, remember? To tell myself our story. I've told it over and over. Not just to myself. To the girls. To my friends. I know it by heart. I couldn't be who I am now, without you, your influence, your help. Your love." She patted his leg. "You're not the only one who's got a private little religion going here. You showed me yours, I show you mine."
"Buffy—"
"I don't doubt you'll gain control with time. I trust you Spike, and you've never let me down. Meanwhile, okay, we'll give your demon plenty of exercise. We'll take him places where he can let rip."
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