By Annie Sewell-Jennings
They didn't make it home.
Slow creeping of fingers, a dance of hips, brushing multicolored hair out of eyes that were coated in jewels and heavy with lust... She had started it, not him, the kiss that had made him pull over on the cliffs leading to her house on the beach, the Cadillac that she had stolen filtering moonlight through glass and somehow making the outside world even more surreal than it had become. Slow, sliding, needy in spite of how much she wanted to be alone and dead. Passion still existed inside of her, fire and heat, and he tasted the sparks and embers on his tongue when she slid her mouth across his. She was still alive.
And so was he.
Crashing waves from the beaches below collided onto the rocky cliffs, but Buffy wasn't concerned with these nighttime noises. She yearned for his touch, for touch in general, for his fingertips that contained the whorls and spirals of Sunnydale to etch themselves into her body until she bled American blood. Creating passion of a dead world here in this slowly fracturing remnant of humanity was important, and she kissed him with all of the breath in her body. Kissed him until his mouth hungered for other places, for the juncture of her neck and shoulder, for the sweet hollow of her throat, and then she would allow him her body. It wasn't like her body mattered anyway. Not anymore.
Hunger fueled his descent, his slow assault on her senses, escalating passion and heat emanating from her slender snakeskin- sheathed body. She was stretched out across the driver's seat, slender legs propped up on the steering wheel, ankles beaded with jewelry and feet strapped to platform sandals. The thin straps of her snakeskin dress were beginning to slide down her shoulders, revealing inches of skin that seemed to stretch for miles. Pale in moonlight but toned by summer light... He hungered for her beyond reason and craved to feel her skin on his.
The Cadillac's seats reclined far into the backseat, and Spike took advantage of that fact as he positioned himself over her, shedding his leather duster as she chuckled and reached to her side, unzipping the sheath of snakeskin that coated her petite form. It was insane, doing this on this cliff, but the world had gone crazy anyway. One brief excursion into insanity wouldn't complicate matters any more than they were already complicated. Fucking the Slayer when there was nothing left to slay wouldn't hurt him.
And not when she was all he knew in the world.
Multicolored threads of hair spilled over the seat as she tipped her head back and arched her hips, the dress sliding down her body and to the floor of the car. Her breasts were round and sweet, full enough but not in a voluptuous manner, like a Victorian woman painted in light. Silk panties remained, colored black, contrasting harshly with her skin. These slid off easily, down her thighs and pooled on the floor. The shoes were left on, those ankles so slender he thought he could break them with his bare hands. They glittered on the steering wheel, her legs slightly parted, and her fingers went to remove her panties when he stilled them. He wanted to touch them. Wanted to slide the silk off of her and reveal all that should be revealed.
Chipped black fingernails, bitten to the quick with worry, began to move down her hips. That was Spike, all right, wanting to polish his nails one minute and then tear them to shreds in the next in his unfocused lack of attention and thought. Haste and hormones propelled his actions, and now his fingernails slightly dug into her skin as he removed her underwear. "Draw blood," she murmured. "I don't really care."
Chuckling, the platinum vampire scratched behind her knees, and she moaned, feeling her blood rise to the surface of her skin. "You know, Slayer, I always knew that this would happen," Spike said lowly. "Knew you'd give in sooner or later."
A ghost of a smile flickered across her blackberry lips. "May as well be now then," she said softly. "Because there's really no later left." Time was filtering through the hourglass at a frightening pace, spilling to emptiness, and then the world would stop. And her fright consumed, her cloistering fear of death impossible, and she kissed him to drown out the screams of the dying world.
Black cotton followed her clothing as Spike pulled off his shirt, and he hastily unbuckled his black boots, abandoning her body to strip himself. She watched him, watched his elegant fingers and his taut, muscled abdomen, hard and contoured so well that she thought of scratching him to mar the perfection of his skin. The worn buttons on his black jeans complied easily with the vampire's demands, and she smirked when she saw that his pants were the last article he had to remove. "Living dangerously, Spike?" she asked, referring to his lack of underwear, and Spike grinned at her wickedly.
"Well, I'm here, aren't I?"
A moan escaped her lips as she felt his weight settle on top of her, silver and gold clashing and fighting underneath the light, as the waves from the sea screamed below them. Far, far away... The world was so far away, gone to her, disappearing underneath a cloud of haze and radiation. Black nails dug into her shoulders, and crimson ones grabbed his. She wasn't here in this car to have him make love to her. Nothing slow or possibly sweet. He would fuck the past into her, ramming memories of what Sunnydale had been into her body and her mind.
Harshly, she kissed him, a burning and smoldering one, wanting to light his dead skin aflame and set him on fire with the heat that her body emanated. She was fucking death right now, and Spike's long cock pressed between her legs, hesitating briefly. Understandable, this brief pause, as they both suddenly remembered the hatred and the battle, the past simmering and smoldering. How many times they'd tried to kill each other, only to be found preparing to screw each other into oblivion.
But Buffy knew. She knew what she needed. What she wanted. She wanted to remember Sunnydale and California, the Hellmouth and her friends, and Spike could give her that.
Forcefully, Spike entered her, and she screamed from the contact, from the length and the power of him, throwing her head back in a shower of rainbow-colored silk. He was sheathed in her heat, in the fire and hell that was her, coupled together in a mixture of frost and flame. It was better than he wanted it to be, her body glistening with sweat and brocaded in silvery light, as though she had been kissed by fairies rather than by a vampire. The Slayer's fingernails dug forcefully into his back, urging him to drive deeper, to forage everything, to push into her until she couldn't breathe.
And that was exactly what Spike wanted.
Greedy fingers scoured his back, and he kissed her as he pushed into her, his cool tongue colliding with her heated one, battling for dominance in a war that neither one of them would ever win. One hand tangled in her hair, the chipped fingernails devoured by her mass of multicolored hair, shining like a shattered prism in the strained silver. Faster and faster, the tempo built, and all the memories came flooding back to her in a deluge of drowned possibility.
The way that Willow smiled, really smiled, with all of her happiness curving her mouth in a matter that was absolutely charming. The constant courage of Xander, strong and capable, and how he could always make her fight laughter. A perfume of books and paper clinging to Giles's clothing, so that he always smelled beautifully of libraries and history, and Riley always smelled of honeydew and wheat. She felt a rush and mistook her impending orgasm for the power of battle.
And Angel's hands...
With a scream, she came, shattering into a thousand pieces, as though she had exploded like one of those dreaded disasters that had destroyed the world. He came behind her, not noticing that she was starting to cry, and not noticing that he was starting to cry as well. Both of them disintegrating from the hard shells that they had created into melted glass, frail and brittle, ebbed away by the wave of radiation and hell. "Oh, God," Buffy whispered, and they didn't separate.
They just remained there, silently weeping, tears streaking black eyeliner down her face as her mask melted.
Kaleidoscopic threads of hair fluttered behind her as she sat on the damp rocks, a cigarette placed carefully between her fingers, watching the tide come in. The cliffs were dangerous and deadly; she had read stories of cars veering off the winding roads and falling down on the rocks, some accidents and some suicide attempts, and yet the ocean was tranquil and beautiful to behold. Like liquefied gemstones topped with frills of lace, the waters lapped at the shores, waves crashing and exploding like fractured glass. The former Slayer contemplated life and death as she sat there, sandals abandoned but bejeweled in her fake glitter none the less, as the vampire sat next to her and smoked.
The wind blew his leather duster into a frenzy of black, dramatic and harsh around his elegant face, and Buffy leaned her body slightly into his, legs together except at the knees, spread apart for balance. Slender snakeskin fluttered in the sea breeze, and Spike found that he now saw the girl that he had once despised and grudgingly respected from before. Contemplation and sadness moved across her face in a fashion that made her difficult to hate, as Spike had always had something of a soft spot for her in pain. Not enough to spare her life, but enough to make him quiet. Perhaps it was just watching the majesty of her beautiful agony - like looking at fine art.
Sparks flew off of her cigarette as she flicked ash off the tip, and Spike turned his head to hers. "When did you begin to smoke?" he asked, and she shrugged slightly.
"Before the bombs," she said. "Waiting for the war to escalate to that point... I don't know. Too stressful, I guess. Everyone was smoking, watching the television set nonstop, on pins and needles or something pointy. And I was so afraid, so frightened of what could happen, that I started to smoke along with the rest of the world." A dry smile curved her mouth, the blackberry color smudged and swollen by kisses. "Of course, there's no reason not to now."
Wryly, Spike smiled. "Point taken."
Smoke was tossed on the wind as he falsely exhaled, his dead lungs expelling the cigarette smoke and throwing it at the mercy of a soulless breeze. These were the winds that would eventually bring hell and radiation down on them, the traitorous breeze tasting of saltwater and coconut. She flinched slightly, fearful of her silent murderer, and wondered what it had been like for her family and friends in Sunnydale. She wondered if their deaths had been silent. Wondered if they had been sweet.
"Did they know?" Buffy asked softly, and Spike shook his head.
"No," he said. "I got out of there pretty late in the game, and they were all still certain that it wouldn't come to this. Guess I was right all along about your team of imbeciles, wasn't I?" Harshly, Buffy whipped her head around and glared at the vampire, and he tilted his head, acquiescing to her point. "Well, I never said I was going to bloody well be *nice* afterwards." He grinned. "Drusilla and I would always-" His voice was interrupted by a waver that he didn't want to think of. Drusilla, draped in her outdated finery and old-fashioned mind, addled by the past and by their sire, was gone. Dead forever, annihilated by the dropping of the bombs on Rio. "She never had a chance."
Shortly, Buffy laughed. "None of us have a chance, Spike," she said. "We're all royally fucked. Up a creek without a canoe."
"Without a *paddle*, you ninny," Spike said, and Buffy glared at the vampire. "Well, if you can't use an expression properly, then don't use it at all."
Rolling her eyes, she turned her head, deciding not to argue semantics with him. It was pointless anyway. They were screwed, no matter how it was said. They were both lost in separate memories unified by their clash in life, and then she spoke, her voice hushed. "You remember the strangest details, don't you," she said aloud. "Like scents or favorite foods, or watching movies while eating burned popcorn."
Wistfully, Spike smiled. "Yeah," he said, a dreamy note in his voice. "I remember how Dru always liked to steal her dolls from the children she killed and then name them after their owners. She had the greatest sense of humor."
Wryly, Buffy stared at him. "You have strange memories."
Spike snorted sarcastically, picking up a coil of highlighted magenta and twirling her own hair in her eyes. "You have strange hair," he said.
Buffy arched a honey-colored eyebrow in his direction, eyeing his lightning-colored hair pointedly. "And *you're* one to talk, bleach-boy?"
Roughly, the vampire tugged on the stolen curl of magenta while her scalp ached. "Fuck you," he said obstinately, and she laughed, a little insanely, a little drunkenly, a little strangely. She was feeling all of those things. Mad, sloshed, and bizarre. Everything was disoriented and fucked beyond belief. Like glass was inside of her veins instead of blood. Perhaps that was why she had done what she had done - fucked Spike in her stolen Cadillac, and then cried after it was all over.
But she didn't know why he had fucked her and then shed post- coital tears.
"You're still daft, you know," Spike said, and Buffy hated that she was mildly charmed by his British slang. Spike could be charming, if a girl liked his brazen wit that was honed and sharpened like a scythe. He could be charming like broken glass was charming, dangerous but beautiful nonetheless. "We both are."
"I think that the real morons out there are the ones who started this whole mess to begin with," Buffy countered, and Spike laughed shortly at her.
"Yeah, and of what nationality are they again?" he reminded. Buffy flinched. It was true. America, home of the free and land of the brave, had fucked up royally as they were prone to do. Freedom and independence might have meant something before time had stopped so rapidly and ruthlessly, but apparently the definition had waned somewhat over the past few months. "You certainly didn't see the Brits getting involved in all that nonsense. It was you stupid Americans who had to go all John Wayne and step in."
Buffy bristled, her eyes flashing dangerously at him like electrified seawater. "You know, you're awfully quick to judge for someone who hasn't even been *back* to London since the Beatles broke up," she said snidely. "Come on, Spike - let's not lay the blame on the country. Let's blame the *men* and their testosterone-fueled politics that fucked the whole world up beyond any and all recognition. If they could just keep their penises out of their politics, then maybe I'd still have a home and a family and you might still have Dru!"
A fist connected solidly with her face, and Buffy took the blow easily, returning it harshly and cruelly. It didn't matter that he had just slept with her; she wouldn't take the blame for the end of the world. Not when she had saved it too many times to count. Not when she had given up everything that was her and had to suffer through a year of numbness because of her birthright. She had done her job as mankind's protectorate and no one had remembered that - and it was worse to hear it coming from someone who knew that she was the Slayer.
Even if it was a peroxide-blond vampire who needed to ash his cigarette.
Menacing eyes glared into hers, flickering like obsidian, and Buffy grinned at him malevolently and violently. The voice of Faith whispered inside of her head like a devil, low and sexy, predatory and cruel. Go on, B, Faith said. The violence is the best part. And somehow, it was good. Tenderness had just weakened her defenses; Spike tore them down and then tossed them back up at regular intervals. Now was a good time for those defenses to be fucked to hell, and it was also a good time for Buffy to get fucked to hell with them.
"You don't know anything about Dru," Spike said, his voice growling like hot velvet. Like a tiger in heat. "She was everything. Damaged, a little deranged, but still innocent and pure in a lot of ways. She didn't deserve what the world did to her."
Frustrated and furious, and oddly aroused by the anger inside of Spike's eyes, Buffy glared at him coldly and threw her cards down on the table. "Willow. Xander. Giles. My mother. Riley. Angel." Her voice could have frozen icicles on that last one. "Those are the people that care about me. Those are the people that love me. And you don't know *shit* about them, Spike, so don't think that your nutty girlfriend is the only victim of a cruel, cruel world."
It wasn't nice when it was over; Buffy knew that now. It didn't always have to be cuddles and kisses and pillow talk. It could be rocks and cigarettes and harsh barbs. These things were satisfactory as well. And they could also make her burn with anger and arousal in a way that was something as harsh as a nuclear blast, an atom bomb, or something as poetic and blistering as the war that had wrecked her mind beyond belief.
He looked into her seemingly sweet face for a second and saw nothing of the girl who had once giggled like a ninny and worn pastels at night. He only saw a girl in running mascara and snakeskin, a girl whose slender body was a little too thin, even thinner than she had once been, and a girl who was waiting for a death more physical than the one she had inflicted on herself. Buffy Summers was suicidal in a way, like one of those idiot cutters that they made bad television movies about, slicing into herself because she couldn't stand who she was. Resentment was a powerful drug.
But there was also something about this girl that was just as infuriating as the one from before, and something raw from her periods of numbness that had lifted just for tonight. Special occasion and all that - fucking good old Spike. "We're all victims, is that it?" Spike asked, tossing his cigarette in the rocks in a fashion that made her angry. Littering was a pet peeve of hers when the Australian beaches were so brutally beautiful. "I don't think I'm a victim."
Buffy laughed cruelly. "Well, duh," she said. "You hunted mankind for centuries. That would make you the predator, you shit."
His smile widened considerably in the dark, the moonlight glinting off of silver-white teeth that had killed thousands. Teeth that could sink in the ripeness of her slender neck and drink her dry if he wanted to do it. "Yeah," Spike said lowly, his eyes beginning to glow with burning amber. "I guess it would."
The sound of a growl broke through the air as his face changed and the demon possessed him, hunger and rage fueling the desire for her blood. But what he didn't expect, what he didn't foresee, was Buffy tilting her head to the side and exposing her neck, multicolored strands of hair clinging desperately to her sweaty and glittery skin, offering him her blood. She wasn't begging for death as some had done, not whining or pleading like a simpering schoolgirl. She just didn't care if he killed her. "Whatever" said the bend of her throat.
And, well, that wasn't any fun at all.
Irritated and somewhat saddened by the figure of this hollow girl who didn't give a rat's ass if her mortal enemy on, Spike swallowed his hunger and reverted to his more familiar façade, eyes dying from burning gold to a softer blaze of blue. "Oh, hell," he muttered, and Buffy looked at him with empty eyes as clear as the Australian sea, a haughty but meaningless smirk on her blueberry mouth. "You're not worth it anymore anyway."
A snide remark whipped from her tongue as she spoke. "Nope," she said. "Neither are you."
None of them were worth anything now, but she still thought that she might screw him again. He had been wonderful, exactly what she needed, pounding into her with the coldness of death and reminding her that she had once been someone. Reminded her of the Buffy who had worn pretty little designer outfits that revealed what others couldn't have and made smart-ass comments that others had wet dreams about. She liked that Buffy. She didn't know who this one was.
Maybe Spike could teach her.
So she kissed him again, wet mouth sliding over wet mouth, both tasting of burned tobacco and of each other. She thought that she tasted her kiss on his tongue as it tackled hers, and that she tasted of menthol and madness. It wasn't a bad flavor, but it wasn't as beautiful as she had once been. Her hands slid around to embrace the nape of his neck, fingers curling into the ends of his white-blond hair, too artificial to ever be real, but that was Spike in a nutshell. When she finished kissing him, her fingers stayed there, touching his hair that wasn't damaged by bleaching. Vampire perk, she supposed.
"I'm not done with you," Buffy said softly, and Spike shook his head. He wasn't done with her either. Not finished with the woman who had once tortured him both sexually and physically. He had plans for her, if only because it didn't matter whether or not she was the Slayer now. In months, they'd be corpses and dust, respectfully.
So Spike kissed her again, ferociously, using the teeth that she'd bowed to earlier and nipping playfully at her tongue, until she took him off the rocks and drove him to her place.
And she reminded herself that nothing mattered anymore.
(end part two)
Continued in Part Three