SUMMARY: Spike/Buffy, Spike/Angel. NC-17 for both het and slashiness, and also religious desecration. Set somewhere vaguely around You're Welcome, though really no real spoilers for that ep. It's mostly a stream of consciousness thing. Takes place in dreams. My first attempt ever at real m/m slash-- omgmyhetishalfbroken-- and since I have no idea what I'm doing in that aspect, feedback will be squeed over and appreciated muchly.
I dream of fire
Those dreams are tied to a horse that will never tire
And in the flames
Her shadows play in the shape of a man's desire
--"Desert Rose," Sting
Spike’s in the desert, and he doesn’t quite know how that came to be. The sunlight pours over him, hot and unrelenting, and for some reason, he isn’t surprised when he doesn’t burn. Looking ahead, he sees her; she is walking underneath the hot beating sun, clothed in a flimsy slip of a dress, the thin straps baring bronzed and freckled shoulders. Wheat-colored strands of hair fall loosely down to her shoulders, framing her pretty face, and she stops, stares at him with wide green eyes. She looks frail, small. A delicate little girl. He doesn’t much remember delicate.
“Buffy,” he says, startled.
“You don’t belong here,” she tells him calmly.
“I know.” He squints against the blinding sun, raises a hand to shield the rays. Tries to smile disarmingly. “I got…turned around somewhere.”
She doesn’t smile back. “You can’t stay.” The hem of her dress flaps lazily in the breeze.
“Why not?” Patting his pockets for a smoke, some kind of distraction, he glances up at her. “Not so bad, here with you. Thought you might be--glad to see me.”
She looks at him as though he is speaking in foreign tongues. “I walk alone.”
“What about the others?” he asks. “Where are they at?” He turns to gaze into the horizon, nicotine craving momentarily forgotten, but she moves with swift speed and snatches his arm, whips him back around. Green eyes flash with something golden and there’s a thrumming in his chest, that pull of demon, drawing him to her.
“Do not look,” she hisses ominously. “You’re not supposed to see those things.”
“Cryptic doesn’t suit you well, pet,” he replies with an edge of uneasiness to his tone. He catches a flash of something dark moving to his right, but he keeps his eyes trained on Buffy. Looking down for a moment, he sees a bloody handprint left from where her fingers had wrapped around and clutched his arm. Her hands are streaked with red, and when he glimpses down at his own palms, he sees they are covered in blood too, dripping with it. He wipes them frantically on his jeans, scrubbing furiously, but to no avail.
“It won’t come off,” explains Spike helplessly.
“Of course not.” An amused smile flits across her lips; he’s close enough to count her eyelashes. “Don’t you remember?” She raises her own stained hands to her face, and she traces blood down her forehead to her chin, under her eyes and across her cheeks. War paint. “It’s always got to be blood.”
Before he can say anything, there is a shaft of golden light, and she is gone.
“You’re nothing, boy. Never have been, never will be.”
The familiar voice rings in his ears, a dull echo. Spike scrambles to his feet and looks around him, realizes he is in a church. The windows are covered in stained glass, the floor cold underneath his bare feet, an altar at the front. He squints into the shadows, sees the outline of a figure.
“You lose your soul again, mate?” Spike calls into the darkness. “You know, they’re practically giving them away in Africa these days. Maybe you should try and get yours exchanged for one that’ll bloody stick.”
“You still don’t get it, do you?” Angel emerges from the cloak of shadows, walks toward him at leisurely pace. “All these years and you’re still the same person you were the day Dru turned you. Even then I knew that you weren’t worth the effort.”
“Forgetting a few things, are we?” Spike retorts, anger rising in his throat, and he thumps a hand over his chest. “Saved the world, here.”
“For a girl,” Angel counters. “A girl who never could love you. Not like she loved me.” He saunters forward and smirks knowingly. “And that is what kills you. The fact that she’ll never give you what you want.” Slowly, the grin fades from his face. “But maybe I can.”
In a flash Angel is pressed up against him, his mouth descending onto Spike’s. A long, punishing kiss, pushing him back up against the wall of stained glass. Spike lets out a grunt of surprise, but he doesn’t move away, only closes his eyes and presses back fiercely.
Angel’s hands have aquired centuries of memory and erudition, and they know exactly how to make Spike shiver and shake as they curve around his shoulders, gripping the crinkled leather and holding him close. His kiss is cool, ice and ashes, and it reminds him that his grandsire is as cold and dead as he is, that Angel cannot mock him with warmth or life or heat, because he has none to give.
And then they’re down on the church floor, the interference of clothing mysteriously no longer an issue. The illumination of dim, flickering candlelight throws a soft glow over both their naked bodies, and he remembers this. Remembers Angelus pinning him down, fucking him against thin smoky white bedsheets, driving into him until he was numb from it, aching and bleeding but still Spike never made a noise, never would give him the satisfaction. He kept his mouth shut then and he keeps it shut now.
“She was never your girl,” Angel whispers in his ear, easing his cock out, and now he is pumping a long, thin wooden cross into Spike. Fucks him with it furiously. “And you were never a hero. Not to anyone.” He laughs aloud, an ugly sound. “Nothing but God’s garbage.” The thrusting is vicious and harsh, and it burns, singes the skin. A sharp hiss catches between Spike’s teeth, but he buries his face in the floorboards and chokes down the screams. Bucks against the elder vampire helplessly.
And then it’s over, and Angel is turning him around and staring at Spike with those eyes of his, eyes that are older than sin. But that is right, he thinks, because Angelus was sin, and fucking rubbed it off on everyone around him. Left his mark on all of his children. Tortured it into Dru and beat it into William and revelled in it, in the art of destruction. And Angelus is still apart of Angel, no matter how much the poofter tries to convince himself otherwise.
“Sloppy seconds is all you’ll ever get,” Angel says, but now his tone isn’t seething, only pitying. “William, you poor boy.” He shakes his head sadly, and touches Spike’s chin lightly, with surprising, unexpected gentleness, like he cares. Spike opens his mouth to speak, but then the floor is opening up beneath him, swallowing him in, and blackness blinds him.
He’s on his back, laying on pillows that are too soft, draped in too many blankets. The room is darkened, heavy curtains covering the windows. The mattress shifts and glancing over his shoulder he sees that she is there, curled up against him. She presses a kiss between his shoulder blades, rests her cheek in the hollow of his back.
Spike rolls over to face her. “Buffy…?”
“Shh,” she soothes, holds him closer. “This isn’t going to last.”
“What happened to your bed of bones?” he asks, glancing at the mountain of pillows.
“Not my dream,” she answers with a slight smile. She whispers her mouth across his then with a gentleness he cannot remember her ever sharing with him.
“Did you mourn for me?”
“Yes. No.” A pause. “Occupational hazard.”
“Emotional, more like.”
“Stop being insightful. This is your dream, not mine.”
Their mouths meet again, inexplicably.
“Will you wait for me?” she asks when he pulls away.
Spike awakens then, with a jolt, still tasting the memory of her lips. His head and cock throb achingly, and he lays back on the grungy mattress, the bed-made-for-one, and stares at the ceiling, slivers of dreams past still sliding through his mind. Voices whisper in his ear, memories drifting by indolently like cigarette smoke, and when he rolls over to try to rediscover sleep, he realizes that the pillow is stained with tears.
She used to dream of the fucking, of having her way with him up against hard, cold surfaces-- damp brick walls in alleyways, stony granite gravestones, that slab of concrete sarcophagus that was his own bed of bones. Buffy would dream of pounding into his cold, muscular body, nails digging half-crescents into his shoulders and legs wrapping around his narrow hips, screaming so hard that her cries became the howl of something feral, something inhuman. An animal, a demon, the Slayer.
She would awaken from those dreams, trembling and panties soaked through, feeling all alone and hating herself for wanting him. In the summer he was gone but not dead, she didn’t touch herself once, for fear that she would think of him. Thinking of him had been something she didn’t want to do.
But now she dreams of the desert again, of walking into the cold night, a sharp crescent moon hovering above in the dark ink blue sky. The silken sand is cool under her bare feet and stretches out in every direction, an infinite expanse of white. Spike is always waiting for her, and, as always, he is out of place.
“You went away,” she says to him tonight, kneeling on the sand. He sits with one leg sprawled out, the other up against his chest, and looks at her with mild interest. She stares. “How can you be here when you’re not?”
“Doesn’t matter where I go,” he answers softly. “I’ll always be with you. In your gut. Your throat.”
“I don’t drown,” she insists, angry.
“That’s no great matter.” He sighs and lights a cigarette, lifts it to his lips, but instead of inhaling he motions vaguely toward the desert. “There are still things out there. Will you know how to fight them?”
“There are others to fight those battles,” Buffy explains. “I am not alone.”
“The Slayer is always alone,” Spike reminds her, and rises to his feet, exquisite in the silver moonlight that bathes him, softening the jaggedness of his features. She rises with him. “Living in the moment of death, and all that rot. Having more of you doesn’t change that.”
He sounds more like himself then, and she takes a moment to look, to drink him in with her gaze. The sharp inclines of his cheekbones, the bottomless blue of his eyes, swathed in black leather and pale moonbeams. He says nothing, only stands there and smokes thoughtfully on his cigarette, face lit up by the faint spark of embers, blowing trails of smoke from the side of his mouth. He is beautiful, in that sharp, dangerous way he’s always had about him.
“I miss you,” she blurts out with sudden bravado. “I miss… I miss having you walk in my world.” A hard swallow, and she shifts under his steady gaze, uncertain. “Is the dance over?”
His mouth twists into a wicked grin. “Not by a longshot, love.”
There is still sand under her feet, but water ahead. Scent of salt lingering in the air. The ocean.
Angel is beside her, not behind, not touching. This is different. She looks over at him and thinks to herself that he looks different, too, older than she remembered. Burden can do that to you.
“Something isn’t right,” she muses aloud.
“You’ve been here too long,” answers Angel, solemnly.
She looks at him, studies the tilt of his head, the curve of his jaw. “But I just got here.”
“You’re stuck,” he tells her, and smiles, bemused, as though she should know this.
She glances over her shoulder; the desert calls to her. “I should go back.”
“Yeah,” Angel agrees, “you should.”
She walks back into the desert and finds Spike again, hunkered down in the sand. His ragged black shirt is torn open, his hair is grown out, the color of golden sugar, springing into natural curls, and his eyes are flashing yellow. He glides across the ground on all fours, animalistic in his movements, no trace of the man he is.
“Spike.” Buffy stops and gazes down at him as he prowls, all demon. “What are you--”
“Quiet,” he silences in a gravelly tone, looking past her as he moves. “Hunting.”
“For what?” she asks.
“Come down to me,” he beckons, “and see.”
She looks at him, looks at herself, and realizes that the clothing is gone. Their skin is all they wear; his is stretched across his body, wrapping him in glinting marble, so pale in comparison to her golden glow. Slowly she crouches down beside him, bends her legs and places the palms of her hands in the gritty, sun-warmed sand. “This feels strange.”
“It’s what you are,” he tells her, voice still low, almost growling.
There’s a hunger in her, tugging in her gut, and it doesn’t seem so strange, this primal hunting underneath a darkened sky, the pull of a demon rumbling deep within her chest. Her head throbs and her heart pounds, and she moves in synchrony beside Spike, feeling a little less an animal, a little less savage.
She turns and looks at him, then, and there is an aching between her legs, something human and familiar. They both come to a stop, and everything around her melts, and she’s melting, melting into the sand and the sky and into him. Starving kisses and fingers tangled in her hair. He pushes into her with cock and tongue, and wrapping her smooth calves around the back of his legs, she arches into him, rides him for all he’s worth.
As they both come, the night fades, moon disappearing behind the horizon, blending into day.
“The sun is coming up,” she gasps, breathless, spread out beneath him like a starfish and staring up at the sky. “Won’t you--”
“Shh,” he hushes, kissing that soft spot under her ear, down her neck to the ridge of her collarbone. One hand roams its way up across her inner thigh, rubbing silent circles along her hipbone, and then the other is brushing across her cheek, gently. Tucking her straw colored hair behind her ear. The demon is gone from him, and now there is only the man, gazing at her with those impossibly blue eyes. “The dark will come soon enough.”
But the sun is emerging now, first rays of dawn filtering through. She wants to say something, but he silences her with another kiss, their limbs still entwined. When he pulls away she can see that he is beginning to burn, skin peeling back. A scream is caught in her throat but he only laughs, laughs, burns and laughs.
Before he can turn to dust, Buffy awakens, completely alone.
She wonders what that means, her dreaming, but already it is sliding from her like sand through the finger cracks. But she can still remember that it had to do with him, glimpses of familiarity ((desert sand demon blood hunt kill Slayer)), glimpses of memory ((nails scratching brutal kisses hard cock howling)), and glimpses of what she wishes could have been ((sweet lips gentle voice afterglow)).
And so she lays herself down amongst the pillows and sheets, and tries to lose herself once more to the dreamscapes.