Thread One: A Painted Picture
Sunnydale – 2004
Sometimes, Buffy hums. She’ll come home from work, place a sweet little kiss on his cheek and head off to the kitchen, a bounce in her step and a song in her throat. It should be charming really, the women he loves, so happy and contented that she can barely contain herself. The truth is, he finds it disturbing.
Spike wonders how he got here. He knows the mechanics behind it, understands that he made a deal with a demon and earned his humanity. But sometimes, sometimes when he wakes up, body bathed in a cold sweat – much like this moment – he wonders just what it was that he earned.
-Life?
A lifetime of aching muscles.
A lifetime of sweet caresses in the dark he doesn’t deserve.
A lifetime of nightmares; dreams of being bathed in her blood…
He doesn’t even know if he should be allowed
this second chance. But should, has nothing to do with it.
He never lets on to her though, how hard it is. He doesn’t think she even suspects that his world is anything but perfect now. After all, he has her love now doesn’t he? He has her trust and her respect. It was all he could ever want, or need.
But, he knew that when you deal with demons, the outcome is never quite what you expect. Wishing on the bloody Monkey’s Paw.
It’s not the nightmares themselves that cause him to wake with a start, heartbeat thumping in his neck and clutching the sheets in a fetal embrace. It’s that undeniable need he feels when her blood first coasts down his throat as he dreams. It’s the fact that when he wakes, his eyes unerringly focus on the pulse point in her neck, watching the blood thrumming away beneath the surface.
It’s the fact that the bloodlust remains, even though his demon has long since been exorcised.
I’m human now; I don’t need
blood anymore, right?
Keep telling yourself that Spikey – ol’ boy, maybe one day it’ll be true.
Spike growls in aggravation, frustrated by his ‘supposed conscience’ that’s beginning to sound awfully reminiscent of his old demon. Throwing the covers away from him, he is careful not to disturb Buffy - wouldn’t do for her to wake now and have her try and comfort him. The erection he inevitably sports after these nightmares would be difficult to explain. He may no longer be a vampire, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t capable of committing atrocities.
His muscles ache as he reaches for the shower knob, turning the hot water on full blast before moving to the vanity and gazing at his own reflection.
The face that stares back at him is a virtual stranger. He remembers vaguely what he looked like when he returned from Africa nearly two years ago. His face still had the vibrancy his youth afforded him 120 years past. Now, there is evidence of crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. His naturally sandy hair is longer. The ends are merely tipped in yellow, in stark contrast to the darker curls at his roots, and a meager reminder of days ill spent and long past. He wears a ‘healthy’ tan, sun-darkened flesh gained not through working but through days spent on the beach lying next to Buffy - utterly alien and unnatural to him.
He couldn’t help but give into all her wants and urges, joining her in games of volleyball or Marco Polo in the ocean. He put up that white picket fence she always wanted around their house on Revello. But, the final proof of his permanent status as love’s bitch is the monthly paycheck he receives from Evil Incorporated. Being paid for doing reconnaissance by Angel, bankrolled by his glass tower of lawyers, was the ultimate admission that he would do anything for her. She’d been so grateful to him for taking the job when his once-upon-a-time grandsire had grudgingly offered. She promised him that it would help him to settle into this new role, since none of the other jobs had (or ever would it seemed) worked out. She figured he would be happier, knowing that he was helping her fight the good fight.
He couldn’t remember a time when he’d quite been this miserable. Not that he’d ever let her know, that was for sure. He still loved her with all his heart. Longed for her desperately each night. Gave thanks to Lurky every time she whispered love into his ear. Or when she wrapped her arms and legs around him, embracing him totally and forgiving him for all the things he had done in the past. Because, now, he was a new man.
Funny thing, that, seeing as how I feel so damn old.
He stared into the mirror for a few moments longer, watching as the image staring back began to fog over and, for just a minute, he thought that the eyes that glared back at him were harder, the hair blonder, and that the mouth was curled upwards in a vicious sneer.