The Games They Play
Summary: The past
may be dead but certainly isn't buried.
Pairings / Warnings: This is
Spike/Buffy but it follows the original canon -- revisionist canon
just takes half the fun out of S/B. If the concept of slash offends you,
Timeline: Season 6,
between "Wrecked" and "Entropy". Before the attempted
rape, before the trip to Africa and before the soul.
fic. I'll take anything.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Blame Joss -- he's the one who puts these ideas in my head.
Thanks: I owe all
to Lara Dean-Brierley. She's the one who inspired this fic, beta read it and
assured me it was good enough to post. I could never have made it without
There's got to be more to
it than this, he thinks. But the cycle repeats itself with little variation.
Smartass responses and
vicious punches. Anger and violence. Desire flaring suddenly and hurling them
both in a downwards spiral of urgent kisses, bites and caresses until they're
lying broken on the bed or on the floor, almost unable to move. It's always like
There's also love, he tells
himself, even if she denies it. He's sure there's love.
He sometimes doubts it,
What he fears the most is
that what brings them together is that other thing they share but don't
Oh, he knows she thinks
about it too. He feels it at times, sees it in her eyes buried beneath the
intensity of their emotions for each other -- deep, deep beneath, in a place
where they don't have to look upon.
The same memory. The same
pain ("Why did you leave me?") and the same longing. Hidden
away but clinging to them nonetheless - He is there.
Master, maker, Sire.
* * *
They don't talk about it,
of course. They pretend He doesn't exist. She has mentioned Him once since the
whole thing began ("*A* vampire made me hot! One. But he's gone. You're
just convenient!"). He remembers the way pain coursed through his
body. It must have shown on his face too because she never uttered another word
If she didn't know before,
she knew then, he figures. He suspects she guesses most of the story. Not like
she's some sweet innocent virgin anymore and, after all, the Demon has come for
Her own story is no secret
to anyone. In the end He left, despite the soul. ("Big surprise there!")
So they don't talk about
When, amidst kissing her
soft neck, he stops and sniffs at His mark (the scent lingers still after all
this time) before licking it delicately, she chooses to ignore it. And when
they're making love and she caresses his cool chest with her eyes closed and a
dreamy look on her face, he pretends not to know she's reliving that one
Little games they keep on
* * *
"There's no one
left for you but me."
It's true, she'll admit
that much. He's there whenever she needs him, reliable backup every time it
truly mattered. Her only tie to reality now. How ironic!
She keeps on playing all
the roles she's supposed to -- friend, head of the family, Chosen One. But hers
is a mockery of a life. She moves like a puppet controlled by other people's
expectations of how she should behave.
Except when she's with him.
Then the strings are cut loose and, for a few precious hours, she's herself
So what if what they share
feels more like misery than happiness? Misery loves company, didn't you know?
At least there's honesty. He
is surprisingly open and forthcoming for a demon. Easy to hurt with words and
fists. And neither of them holds back, in spite of the obvious vulnerability.
Was he always like this?,
she wonders. Or is it His fault? She hopes not, doesn't want to think of him as
His creation. Doesn't want to feel obliged to be thankful, like he's some sort
of weird parting gift.
* * *
There are times when his
blindingly white hair and his ocean blue eyes seem to be of the wrong color.
She hates those moments,
hates to be reminded of Him. Flinches when he says "I love you"
with such tenderness it could break her heart (too much like the way He said
it). She needs this to be something else.
So she defends herself with
sarcasm, kicks and feigned indifference -- a shield he cannot break.
Domination and submission -
those are the rules of the game. Bleed and fuck him and let him do it to you in
She knows there's more to
it. She's given definition and contour by her name on his lips and his body
pressed against hers. More than just the sex (mind-blowing though it may be)
she keeps coming back for that sense of focus.
He's got her caught.
* * *
To even things up she feels
the urge to mark her possession of his body with cuts and bruises. "*Mine*
and no one else's!" She was furious when she found the faded scars on
his neck. He couldn't walk for two days after the beating he took that night.
Ssshh, don't tell. She's
becoming more like *them* with every passing day.
* * *
She'll have to stop this
soon, she's aware of that. She won't walk down the path of loving a vampire
again -- you end up losing your soul even if you don't get turned.
she promises. Every night, outside the door of his crypt she makes the same
promise -- "I won't come tomorrow."
Until then... well, no
point in turning back now that she's here, is there? Might as well enter for
She steps forward and
pushes the door open with determined gestures.
The game is on.