It’s one thing to fall for the enemy. It’s something else to realise it because she’s dying in your arms. You idiot!
Really, Buffy should have been more prepared for Spike getting his chip out. From the look on his face, though, from the way his jaw muscle twitched at the sound of Harmony’s growls and Riley’s dying groans, he hadn’t quite expected this either. Still, there was no going back: the chip was gone and he’d got her, viced his arms around her shoulders and bitten down hard, pulled out every sense of her body and left her feeling simultaneously free as a bird and numb as a corpse.
He’d gone too far, but all the same he pulled back and met her eye-to-eye. Without much faculty for thought left, she watched the black and blue and white of his eyes swirl with realisation and felt the way his killing embrace became actually embrace-like. He was trembling, like his whole world was breaking apart.
Seriously, Spike? Now?
Any other time and she’d have freaked, but in the end she didn’t have much freak left in her. Guess it sucks to be you, she decided as her eyes closed.
It sucked to be her as well, of course, but she couldn’t quite conceptualise dying at that moment. Maybe that was why, when the blood was offered, she drank.
Buffy woke up to the deafening sound of footsteps, the husking breath of a cigarette being smoked, chatter in the background: Spike was pacing; Harmony was watching. The smell was the crypt: wet, warm soil and dead musk. Cigarettes and spilt alcohol, spilt blood. She supposed the blood was supposed to smell nice, but it mostly smelt like it always did.
Drawing in a breath full of scent trails (she couldn’t track them), a most definitely ex-slayer rolled free of the bed and went on the attack. That old standby. With speed she’d never known there was Harmony pinned to the wall, candle pushed under her chin and catching quicker than the whimpers could turn into a counter attack. Wax poured down Buffy’s fingers, but it didn’t really hurt and it broke off in solid shards as she formed a first, turning on Spike as he came to pull her from her flames.
She had him pinned in no time, forearm to his throat. “You killed me,” she told him, the words rasping in her newborn throat. Threatening him, hurting him: it seemed like the thing to do.
“I did.” And yet, even in the candle light, his eyes were as stark with love as they’d been under fluorescent. “But doesn’t it feel good?”
She thought about it for a moment. His tone wouldn’t decide between hope and sick, fearful irony, but that didn’t really bother her. Nothing really bothered her, even as his hand (too free) traced her inseam. “It doesn’t feel like anything,” she told him in the end, surprised at herself and the numbness yet there to be found.
Spike seemed surprised as well, however, so maybe that was all right. Unfortunately it made his fingers pause.
On instinct, feeling pleasure fleeing further, Buffy pushed her arm harder against him – though she aimed for his collarbone. “I didn’t say stop.”
Eyes set full and round and blue on hers, Spike’s expression finally collapsed into worship, distracted and relieved. Something deep in her gut unfurled; as he continued, languid satisfaction crackled and whispered into being.
Yeah, she thought, closing her eyes to nothingness, feeling her face shift in preparation to bite her adoring sire. That works.