Spike figured he’d at this point forgotten as much as he knows. Maybe more. He knows he was in Hell for awhile, but that’s a bit of a wash. Before that, he knows he stumbled and crawled his way from Africa to Sunnydale, the weight of his returned soul driving him mad. He remembers scraps of humanity, as though his previous life were a painting he’d been fond of as a child. He remembers Buffy.
The tense shifts in this paragraph.
No such luck That
Missing full stop between luck and that.
(MORE MORE MORE!)
Is it just me, or is Victor turning into Shererazade, coming in to feed us our nightly story?
(MORE MORE MORE!)
You heard the lady.
Is it just me, or is Victor turning into Shererazade, coming in to feed us our nightly story?
But that would mean that he's telling the story in order to avoid having sex with us. I'm not sure I like the sound of that.
Hee. That's true. I always forget that part of the real story, because my parents used to read us a censored version.
Victor, so. fucking. fabulous.
But you give the dateline as:
Part Nine: Memory
China, 2003:
...shouldn't it be 2023?
Either he's doing it to avoid having sex with us, or to avoid us killing him.
(not really here, just popping in to say mmmmm more, please!) and g'night.
from her sunrise to clockwise
(cont'd)
Making lists of what she missed was a lot more fun when safety and sex weren't heading it up. Well, in her altered and admittedly somewhat loose definition of the word, which had less to do with enjoyment and more to do with acceptable ways to pass the time. Buffy closed her eyes and tried to find the punching bag by instinct. Slayer reflexes were added to the list as her knuckles skimmed the edge of the bag, barely grazing the leather. Opening her eyes and focusing on the bag, she added one item per punch until her arms grew tired around the sense-of-purpose punch. Sweat trickled down her face, stinging her eyes and reminding her that she needed water.
"I miss endurance, too," she muttered as she uncapped the sports bottle with shaking fingers. There was definitely sleep in her future. Probably a shower as well. She glanced at the clock, startled to realize she'd been hitting inanimate objects for two and a half hours. Maybe the endurance was coming back after all.
She took her time cooling down, stretching carefully, torn between satisfaction at her returning flexibility and frustration at how weak she felt post-workout. With a soft grunt, she leaned against the wall and gave into the urge to collapse, letting her body slide slowly down until she was seated. Sipping her water, she watched the hands of the clock tick off the minutes until she felt ready to move again.
Wesley was asleep on the couch when she entered the living room. Buffy felt a brief stab of guilt as she noticed the book still clutched in his hands and the frown that hadn't been erased by slumber. She'd thought he spent a lot of time researching before, but over the last two weeks, she hadn't seen him do anything but research. He'd also been sleeping less than she did--which was no small feat--and refusing to talk about anything he'd found. She knew him well enough by now to know the implications.
The book was one he'd consulted frequently when she'd first shown up in L.A.; its almost flesh-colored leather binding with the stylized and gilded demons on the front was unmistakable. Research had never been her number one skill, but she'd done enough of it to understand that you didn't go back to the books you'd already looked at unless you were running out of options and hoping you'd missed something the first time.
There was still just enough money in her bank account to get her out of the city if it came to that, and it wasn't like she had a lot to pack, just her limited wardrobe, a photo album or two, and a handful of CDs. He might think he was safe, he might even be safe, but if there wasn't anything he could do, there was no sense in risking him. She'd give it another month, maybe two, then she'd go.
Trying to ignore the sick feeling that rose in her gut at the thought, she took the book from his hands, setting it aside before waking him.
"What time is it?" His voice was rough with fatigue, and for a second, she wished she'd just left him to sleep. But if she'd done that, she'd have sentenced herself to a night spent alone and staring at the ceiling. She'd have plenty of those soon enough, and she wasn't in any hurry to reacquaint herself with them.
"Almost midnight." Buffy tugged at him until he stood up. "Which is early for you, granted, but somehow? I think you'd be more comfortable in a bed."
He smiled slightly, something bleak flashing in his eyes so quickly that she was almost able to convince herself it wasn't there at all. "In all likelihood, yes."
They didn't move. Her breathing sounded abnormally loud in the silence, and she fidgeted, waiting for him to say or do something, anything, but he just looked at her, his face showing her nothing. Finally, she turned and started walking up the stairs, not caring if he followed or not. She was almost to the top before she heard his footsteps. When they stopped, she turned again to find him staring with the same lack of expression. Even with him standing two steps below her, their eyes were almost on a level.
He took another step, hands reaching out as if by habit alone to grip her shirt before tugging it over her head and discarding it, grabbing her shoulders, and pushing her backwards towards the bedroom. She felt herself start to tense up; whatever had gotten into him, Wesley was starting to scare her.
She hadn't imagined the bleakness; it slid back over his features, shadowing his eyes and tightening his mouth. Hard hands pulled down her pants and pushed her towards the bed. Wesley's mouth covered hers, needy and bruising. Buffy fought panic as his body did the same, his knee pushing between her legs to part them.
She didn't realize was struggling until he rolled off of her. When she reached out to touch him, he jerked away, but not before she felt him shaking uncontrollably.
"Wes?" When she reached out again, he flinched slightly, but other than that, didn't move. Her hand rested against his arm while she waited for him to answer, and she found herself shaking almost as hard as he was as the silence stretched.
"There's nothing I can do, again." When they came, the words were flat. "I can't save you, anymore than I could save Faith or Lilah."
The reason for both the bleakness and the desperation clicked into place, leaving her oddly relieved. He was admitting defeat sooner than she had thought he would. Another stab of guilt hit her; she shouldn't have come here, or she should have left when she realized they were tilting at windmills. And either way, she shouldn't be so selfishly glad that someone else cared if she lived or died, not that it stopped her. Buffy kissed him gently, curling up against him and offering what little comfort she could. "I know."
"You do?" He sounded so startled, she almost laughed. Almost. If she wasn't so thrown, she probably would have.
"I probably realized it before you did. But I don't want to think about that right now." Buffy paused, meeting his eyes. She'd be leaving soon enough, sooner than she'd expected, and she didn't want to think about that, either. "Actually, I don't think I want to think about anything right now." The laugh that had been threatening bubbled out, uneven and mirthless.
His own laugh was a little shaky as he pulled her closer. "Lord knows, that can be arranged."
She closed her eyes, trying to memorize the feel of his hands skimming her sides, firm and warm, the skin on his palms slightly rough where they rested on her belly. Blindly, she reached for him, wanting to feel more of his skin against hers. Her legs wrapped around his waist, and her arms around his neck, tightening their grip until there wasn't a gap between them.
Tangled together, they slid and shifted as if joined until they were, her thighs gripping his hips hard enough that she was pretty certain she'd have bruises on them in the morning. Dimly, she realized she was panicking again, just not in the same way. Even a month was going to be too long; she should be thinking in days or weeks. She clung to him, focusing on the harsh sound of his breathing, and willed herself not to fall apart.
The effort seemed to take an eternity in a moment that was over too quickly. Which probably made her greedy as well as selfish. Buffy pulled the sheets over them, watching as he settled in and let exhaustion start to take its course. Half asleep, he looked younger somehow, less hardened. She ran her fingers along the back of his arm, studying the texture of his skin while she tried to adjust to the idea of his personhood. Not that she hadn't thought of him as a person before, she'd just tried not to care about it. Maybe she should have tried harder.
She got up to turn out the light, where her hand hovered frozen over the switch until she was willing to take her eyes off of him. Which she wasn't. Which was not a good sign. Angry with herself, she turned her gaze to the floor and flipped the switch before making her way back to the bed.
His arms wrapped around her in the dark, tugging her closer until she felt his chin rest on her shoulder. "You smell like heliotrope," he murmured, the words coming out in drowsy breaths that tickled her neck.
Weaving her fingers between his, she brought his hand up to kiss it. "I smell like sweat."
Buffy felt him smile as his thumb brushed across her lips. "Then your sweat smells like heliotrope." He made the nonsensical statement sound like he was explaining the obvious.
