Dwelling Ever
i. Wrecked
Buffy was moaning, and moaning, and moaning, and Spike thought he could die again, inside of her, and be perfectly satisfied.
Four and a half hours is nothing to a vampire, when he's going to live forever. When he's fucking the Slayer, however, it's not long enough. He'd think her a vampire, all claws and sweet pain, but for her beating heart.
The sun was climbing, he could feel it, and he wished for more time, even as she arched over him, pulsing against him and twisting her body to bring their lips together. He grabbed her hips and thrust, and thrust harder, and smiled when she yowled.
He felt the rising tide yet again, and nuzzled against her sweatslick skin, laving her collarbone as she begged for more. He ran his palms down her back, clutched at her, and grunted when she retaliated, grabbing his wrists and pinning them above his head. She growled incoherently into his ear, and hands bound and cock occupied, he craned his neck and bit at her neck, teeth blunt.
She was off him in a moment, fingers unforgiving as she picked him up and threw him against a broken support beam. She rubbed her hand against the mark, found no puncture, and glared at him.
He shrugged, and smirked. Still hard, and watched her notice. Watched her advance, skin flushed and lips parted. Watched her reach out to him.
Caught her wrists before she touched him, and whirled her about. Pressed her face-first against the beam, ignored her mewl as splinters chafed against her petal-soft skin. Placed her arms on the beam, above her head, and nudged her legs open with his knee. Listened as her mewls of pain changed to something else.
Plunged back into her, and raced the dawn.
ii. Destiny
After being intangible for three-off months, and being non-existent for who knows how long before that, Spike finds it disconcerting to be able to touch things again. It's something like how he felt newly turned, when he could hear bugs crawling, and feel the starlight prick at his eyelids.
Death feels like life, to him. It never ends.
Now, he's snuck into Gunn's office and hacked into his computer.
Username: CGunn
Password: hardcore
It's easier to break into things, he's found, if you've been a ghost beforehand.
None of the bints in Wolfram & Hart will give him the bloody Council's phone number, not even (especially not) Harmony, so Spike falls back on old tricks.
The company database is no different from a university one, and Spike navigates it easily. Finds Summers, Buffy and the cursor hovers by her name for a minute before he moves on to Watchers, Council of.
He scribbles the number down on the back of one of Gunn's business cards, marveling at the sleek of a $250 pen between his fingers, and logs off.
"Spike?"
He looks up and sees Fred standing in the doorway, stack of manila folders in arm. Decides being snuck up on by a twig doesn't besmirch his reputation at all. "Winifred." He smiles.
"Don't try and charm me, Spike," and she stalks forward, thumps the files onto Gunn's desk. "What are you doing in here?"
"Oh, you know." He ever-so-casually slips his hand into his pocket, card hidden in his palm. "Visiting old haunts. Leaving obscene messages on Gunn's voice mail. The usual."
"Right." She looks suspicious, and her eyes drill a hole through his coat, into his hand. "We keep a log of all calls made on the premises."
"Wouldn't be a good company if you didn't," Spike shrugs, cursing inwardly. "Not like I have anyone to call, anyway. You're the only ones who know I'm alive."
Her stern face melts at that, and she sighs. "Spike, you can't call her."
"I--" Sod it. "I wasn't going to call her. Going to call them, see how she is. See if she's," he hesitates. "Happy."
Fred smiles at that. "She is, Spike."
The last 200 years quiver to smoke for a second. "She is?"
"Yeah," Fred affirms. "We do keep in contact with the Council, just to make sure they're doing okay. Ask them about obscure spells, if we ever need to, which we never do." She twirls her fingers together, then apart. "They say she's fine. Safe, or as safe as she ever is."
"That's good," he sighs. "That's good."
A side door swings open, and Wesley enters, nose in book before he realizes that the room is occupied. "Oh. Hello, Fred." He closes the book. "Spike."
"Junior." And Spike's back to himself. Nods to Fred. "Thanks, Fred."
She gestures with her hands, helplessly. "Best I could do."
Spike swaggers from the room, crushing the slip of paper in his fist.
iii. Untitled
Years from now, Spike and Buffy will meet again.
They'll have known about each other's existence, certainly, but they won't have met. Through fear, through hope, and through circumstance, they will manage to avoid each other through several relationships and end-of-the-world crises.
It will be in a quiet room, in a quiet town, agreed upon by both parties. They will meet without anyone knowing, aside from Dawn, and a werewolf they both trust. They will plan to touch, to finally kiss again, but they won't know what else the other has planned.
They will be afraid, but in a good way.
They will stand at opposite ends of the room, staring in each other's eyes until one or the other breaks down. They will both cry, and they will reach for each other with blurry eyes and eager lips.
They will sink to their knees and hold each other for hours, and when they finally make love, they will count each other's scars.
They will vow never to part, knowing that they'll have to break those vows, time and again. They will promise each other everything, just because other lovers get to say the words, and they should, too, even if they can't promise anybody anything.
They will be together, again, and happy for those few precious hours of peace. They will not lose each other again, not until one or the other of them dies.
And when one dies, the other will soon follow. They will not bear it a second time.
Years from now, Spike and Buffy will meet again.
But not yet.