Fic: The Soul Lies Down (4/?)
Title: The Soul Lies Down (4/?)
Pairing(s): Buffy/Spike, (Anya/Xander, Willow/Tara)
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~1,900 this chapter (~8,100 total)
Timeline: AU S5, S6, S7 and post-series
Warnings: character death, violence and gore
Summary: As a child, I used to dream of a man in black and white, spinning in the desert like a dervish, sword flashing in the moonlight as he danced with death. (A sequel/companion to Angearia's Fin Amour)
Notes: Many thanks to Yavannie82 and Angearia for beta work <3
4
Lullaby
Sitting outside in the sunshine - reclining side by side with Dawn in stripy deckchairs like they’re having a day out at the sodding seaside - might well be the weirdest thing yet. Mug of blood in hand, bare toes buried in the soft grass, all he needs is a straw boater to complete the picture. Spike has to keep reminding himself there’s no need to bolt, muscles tensing periodically for flight, as though forgetting and then remembering again about the glowing ball of fiery death beating down on him.
Only, she’s made this whole bloody realm for him, or so she says. Sun can’t hurt him, bottomless supply of blood, a chance to heal. And, finally, some answers.
“Well,” Dawn says from behind her Audrey Hepburn sunglasses, readying herself with a deep breath, “I travelled roughly twenty-one years back in time from the moment the world ended to come save you.”
The only problem is, Spike has the unhappy feeling he’s going to have redefine ‘weirdest thing’ more than once in the near future.
“You travelled back in time?” he says in utter disbelief. Doesn’t add, to save me?
“Yeah, see, there was an apocalypse - well no, not an, the. The final one. And we had a plan, but it didn’t pan out, but… uh… it turns out I have these skills. I mean, I didn’t know about them until right at the last moment, though I suppose it makes sense in retrospect, and I guess it was instinct, but when… when I was about to, you know, kick it, I ended up just slipping away instead. Back in time. It was the strangest thing. One moment I was staring down the Void, and the next, standing on the side of the road watching the Knights Who Say Ni storm your R.V. Obviously once I realised what I could do, I started searching for a way to reverse it.”
“It?”
“The end of the world. It kind of got sucked into a gaping vortex of nothingness.”
Spike watches as she shudders, hears her heart skip at the memory, and knows - beyond his own mistrust - that she’s telling the truth.
“Huh.” Roll with the punches, mate. “So, what - you’re a witch? Some kind of demon?” She seems human enough but he’s yet to regain the full use of his senses, and there’s something about her, something… distant. Bright. She talks glibly enough to be one of the Scoobies, but there’s something more behind that pretty face, he can sense it, like standing on the lip of the Grand Canyon, the bottom obscured by clouds but knowing nonetheless it’s a long way down.
“Something like that.”
Secretive. Annoying, but there’s more important matters right now.
“And what’s all this got to do with me, then?”
She turns to him, lowering her sunglasses enough to peer at him over the rim. Smiles slightly. “You’re going to help me save the world.”
He sighs. “Again?” He’s not really surprised at this point, but still deeply suspicious. “How?”
“It’ll be easier if I show you,” Dawn says.
*
Movement of any kind is still a mountain of pain, but earlier he’d told her he’d rather dust than go back in a wheelchair and he meant it. Thankfully there’s no walking involved, as there had been to reach the deckchairs - Dawn helps him stand, pulling his left arm around her narrow shoulders, and then they go.
She was right, it is the strangest thing.
The ground slides away from under his feet but he doesn’t fall. Vertigo rushes up like a sudden squall but passes just as quickly. He doesn’t recall closing his eyes but all he’s aware of is the warm body of the woman at his side. He has a sense of precariousness, of crossing over; a rush like the thrill of traversing a ravine on a rickety rope bridge, feeling it swing in the wind. He laughs, wild with the simple pleasure of doing something dangerous, and is laughing still when, abruptly, a room forms around them and he stumbles.
“Bloody brilliant,” he splutters, before promptly collapsing on a convenient armchair.
Dawn returns his grin. “Cool, huh? Who’d have thought it’d be such a buzz…”
But his eyes have just fallen on the other two occupants of the room and the girl is forgotten, all his senses zeroing in on them. He can smell again, oh god, deep lungfuls of that precious scent, drinking in her smiling face with eyes and nose, skin screaming for her skin.
“Buffy.”
Across the room in the only other chair sits the slayer, soft-faced and radiating happiness, one breast exposed as she feeds her baby like some blessed Madonna and Child. This must be it, he realises - the little bit he helped to save, safe in the crook of her mother’s love, and he’s speechless. Desperate for her to look up and meet his eyes. Desperate not to break such a perfect moment.
“She can’t hear you,” Dawn says gently. “We’re faded.”
“Doesn’t matter. Christ, doesn’t matter at all.”
He just wants to look at her, breathe her in; her and bite-sized both. Buffy’s humming gently in a high, sweet voice, watching her baby with an expression of deep enchantment. She looks… god… so happy. It’s the side of her he never really got to see; seeing it now moves him beyond measure. He barely even registers how exposed she is in this intimate act. Barely. He’s not dead. (Well). But somehow it doesn’t seem important (and that’s kind of amazing all on its own). He’d rather look at her face, the shine of her eyes, the tiny hand curled around one of her fingers.
Dawn sounds weirdly reverent when she speaks. “You really love her, don’t you?” He feels the pressure of her gaze on his face; dismisses it as irrelevant. Buffy and the child fill up his entire world. The girl continues regardless, voice soft and even. “Want to know what she’s thinking right now? There’s a reason I brought you to this moment, it’s kinda special. See, she’s having a bit of an epiphany, about herself… about you… She never wanted to believe that a being like you could love - really love - without fear or sense or hope of reward. And part of it was her training, sure, but part of it came from herself, her own anxieties and insecurities. She thought she’d forgotten how to love. But look, look at her face. She knows now, can feel it. Knows she can love like you did. Knows you did love. And she’s thankful, Spike. For your legacy. Your legacy is love, and that’s how she’ll remember you.”
He swallows hard, body numb against the storm inside. “Thank you,” he manages, though the words crack and tremble. He wants to get up, go over there and touch, tell her what it means, to see her like this, to know these things, but his broken body won’t cooperate and besides, there’s a bright shaft of daybreak bathing that side of the room, impassable.
“Do you want to hold her?”
“Yes,” he breathes. “God, yes.”
He only realises a moment later that Dawn doesn’t mean Buffy.
Like an emissary crossing the border, she passes from shadow to daylight, the bridge between his world and Buffy’s. Time slows like honey, stops; Dawn picks up the child from her mother’s still embrace, and he is strangely touched by the way she discreetly covers Buffy’s bare breast with the baby blanket in the meantime. The moment she does so, the child comes to life once more, making a soft squawking sound of protest. Then before Spike can object, Dawn has crossed back and thrust it at him, and automatically his good arm comes up to support the fragile mass of pink skin. Her little face is screwed up, on the verge of a wail he’s certain his sensitive ears won’t enjoy, and panic begins to crawl up his neck. Then she looks up at him with blue eyes that drown him, seems to reconsider, and blows a spit bubble instead.
There’s something happening here, something important. He knows it, feels it. He’s already clocked his duster - cleaned, restored - hanging from the back of the nursery door. And the little human in his arms is giving him a look that seems full of knowing. Knowing and accepting. He feels his blood singing in answer, a visceral lullaby and counterpoint to the soft thrumming beneath her skin.
“I did this,” he says in wonder. He, who is dead and has brought only death.
“You died so she could live.”
“Yes.” Pride splits his still heart open. “I’d do it again. A hundred times over if I had to.”
“And she’s more grateful than you’ll ever know.”
Entranced, the words take a moment to filter through. When they do, Spike glances up sharply. Blue eyes look back, fathomless and darkened in partial silhouette. I travelled roughly twenty-one years back in time…
Carefully, he inhales. And like a key turning in a lock, a world opens up to him.
“What’s her name?”
The beautiful, reality-transcending woman before him gives a lop-sided smile and confirms what he already knows: “Dawn.”
“Dawn.” He whispers it like a prayer, shaky with the new knowledge lighting up his senses. He licks his lips, mouth dry but needing to hear her say it. “And what am I to her? To… you?”
He has never felt hungrier for an answer in his entire existence.
She lets out a small laugh, barely more than a hmm. Eyes turning briefly skyward she mouths something that looks like Oh, Andrew before meeting his gaze again.
“You’re never gonna believe this, but… Spike, you are my father.”
*
When they get back to the field, the sunlight doesn’t itch anymore but feels like a benediction. He can’t take his eyes off of Dawn. His child. His child. A thousand questions swarm his head like bees, but he isn’t sure he wants to ask them just yet. Just wants to bask for a little while longer, bask in what shouldn’t be possible, in what’s his. He feels the truth of it in his bones, and doesn’t really care about the hows and whys and wherefores. Maybe he will later, but for now... he thinks he can maybe die happy.
That was hardly her purpose in saving him, though, was it?
Of all the available topics, the irony’s not lost on him that this one seems safest.
“Still not clear on the world saveage, pet,” he tells her, awkward as she helps him lower himself back into the deckchair like a stiff old man. Which he supposes he kind of is. Her old man. Her stupidly smiling, biologically impossible old man.
Always had known he’d love Buffy’s baby. Just never realised… never knew… those bloody monks were even crazier than anyone had ever suspected.
“Well,” Dawn says over her shoulder, retreating into the tent. “Beginnings are tricky.”
She returns with a mug of blood for him and something colourful with a paper umbrella for her. And what she says next is definitely the weirdest thing yet.
Chapter Index | Next
Pairing(s): Buffy/Spike, (Anya/Xander, Willow/Tara)
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~1,900 this chapter (~8,100 total)
Timeline: AU S5, S6, S7 and post-series
Warnings: character death, violence and gore
Summary: As a child, I used to dream of a man in black and white, spinning in the desert like a dervish, sword flashing in the moonlight as he danced with death. (A sequel/companion to Angearia's Fin Amour)
Notes: Many thanks to Yavannie82 and Angearia for beta work <3
4
Lullaby
Sitting outside in the sunshine - reclining side by side with Dawn in stripy deckchairs like they’re having a day out at the sodding seaside - might well be the weirdest thing yet. Mug of blood in hand, bare toes buried in the soft grass, all he needs is a straw boater to complete the picture. Spike has to keep reminding himself there’s no need to bolt, muscles tensing periodically for flight, as though forgetting and then remembering again about the glowing ball of fiery death beating down on him.
Only, she’s made this whole bloody realm for him, or so she says. Sun can’t hurt him, bottomless supply of blood, a chance to heal. And, finally, some answers.
“Well,” Dawn says from behind her Audrey Hepburn sunglasses, readying herself with a deep breath, “I travelled roughly twenty-one years back in time from the moment the world ended to come save you.”
The only problem is, Spike has the unhappy feeling he’s going to have redefine ‘weirdest thing’ more than once in the near future.
“You travelled back in time?” he says in utter disbelief. Doesn’t add, to save me?
“Yeah, see, there was an apocalypse - well no, not an, the. The final one. And we had a plan, but it didn’t pan out, but… uh… it turns out I have these skills. I mean, I didn’t know about them until right at the last moment, though I suppose it makes sense in retrospect, and I guess it was instinct, but when… when I was about to, you know, kick it, I ended up just slipping away instead. Back in time. It was the strangest thing. One moment I was staring down the Void, and the next, standing on the side of the road watching the Knights Who Say Ni storm your R.V. Obviously once I realised what I could do, I started searching for a way to reverse it.”
“It?”
“The end of the world. It kind of got sucked into a gaping vortex of nothingness.”
Spike watches as she shudders, hears her heart skip at the memory, and knows - beyond his own mistrust - that she’s telling the truth.
“Huh.” Roll with the punches, mate. “So, what - you’re a witch? Some kind of demon?” She seems human enough but he’s yet to regain the full use of his senses, and there’s something about her, something… distant. Bright. She talks glibly enough to be one of the Scoobies, but there’s something more behind that pretty face, he can sense it, like standing on the lip of the Grand Canyon, the bottom obscured by clouds but knowing nonetheless it’s a long way down.
“Something like that.”
Secretive. Annoying, but there’s more important matters right now.
“And what’s all this got to do with me, then?”
She turns to him, lowering her sunglasses enough to peer at him over the rim. Smiles slightly. “You’re going to help me save the world.”
He sighs. “Again?” He’s not really surprised at this point, but still deeply suspicious. “How?”
“It’ll be easier if I show you,” Dawn says.
*
Movement of any kind is still a mountain of pain, but earlier he’d told her he’d rather dust than go back in a wheelchair and he meant it. Thankfully there’s no walking involved, as there had been to reach the deckchairs - Dawn helps him stand, pulling his left arm around her narrow shoulders, and then they go.
She was right, it is the strangest thing.
The ground slides away from under his feet but he doesn’t fall. Vertigo rushes up like a sudden squall but passes just as quickly. He doesn’t recall closing his eyes but all he’s aware of is the warm body of the woman at his side. He has a sense of precariousness, of crossing over; a rush like the thrill of traversing a ravine on a rickety rope bridge, feeling it swing in the wind. He laughs, wild with the simple pleasure of doing something dangerous, and is laughing still when, abruptly, a room forms around them and he stumbles.
“Bloody brilliant,” he splutters, before promptly collapsing on a convenient armchair.
Dawn returns his grin. “Cool, huh? Who’d have thought it’d be such a buzz…”
But his eyes have just fallen on the other two occupants of the room and the girl is forgotten, all his senses zeroing in on them. He can smell again, oh god, deep lungfuls of that precious scent, drinking in her smiling face with eyes and nose, skin screaming for her skin.
“Buffy.”
Across the room in the only other chair sits the slayer, soft-faced and radiating happiness, one breast exposed as she feeds her baby like some blessed Madonna and Child. This must be it, he realises - the little bit he helped to save, safe in the crook of her mother’s love, and he’s speechless. Desperate for her to look up and meet his eyes. Desperate not to break such a perfect moment.
“She can’t hear you,” Dawn says gently. “We’re faded.”
“Doesn’t matter. Christ, doesn’t matter at all.”
He just wants to look at her, breathe her in; her and bite-sized both. Buffy’s humming gently in a high, sweet voice, watching her baby with an expression of deep enchantment. She looks… god… so happy. It’s the side of her he never really got to see; seeing it now moves him beyond measure. He barely even registers how exposed she is in this intimate act. Barely. He’s not dead. (Well). But somehow it doesn’t seem important (and that’s kind of amazing all on its own). He’d rather look at her face, the shine of her eyes, the tiny hand curled around one of her fingers.
Dawn sounds weirdly reverent when she speaks. “You really love her, don’t you?” He feels the pressure of her gaze on his face; dismisses it as irrelevant. Buffy and the child fill up his entire world. The girl continues regardless, voice soft and even. “Want to know what she’s thinking right now? There’s a reason I brought you to this moment, it’s kinda special. See, she’s having a bit of an epiphany, about herself… about you… She never wanted to believe that a being like you could love - really love - without fear or sense or hope of reward. And part of it was her training, sure, but part of it came from herself, her own anxieties and insecurities. She thought she’d forgotten how to love. But look, look at her face. She knows now, can feel it. Knows she can love like you did. Knows you did love. And she’s thankful, Spike. For your legacy. Your legacy is love, and that’s how she’ll remember you.”
He swallows hard, body numb against the storm inside. “Thank you,” he manages, though the words crack and tremble. He wants to get up, go over there and touch, tell her what it means, to see her like this, to know these things, but his broken body won’t cooperate and besides, there’s a bright shaft of daybreak bathing that side of the room, impassable.
“Do you want to hold her?”
“Yes,” he breathes. “God, yes.”
He only realises a moment later that Dawn doesn’t mean Buffy.
Like an emissary crossing the border, she passes from shadow to daylight, the bridge between his world and Buffy’s. Time slows like honey, stops; Dawn picks up the child from her mother’s still embrace, and he is strangely touched by the way she discreetly covers Buffy’s bare breast with the baby blanket in the meantime. The moment she does so, the child comes to life once more, making a soft squawking sound of protest. Then before Spike can object, Dawn has crossed back and thrust it at him, and automatically his good arm comes up to support the fragile mass of pink skin. Her little face is screwed up, on the verge of a wail he’s certain his sensitive ears won’t enjoy, and panic begins to crawl up his neck. Then she looks up at him with blue eyes that drown him, seems to reconsider, and blows a spit bubble instead.
There’s something happening here, something important. He knows it, feels it. He’s already clocked his duster - cleaned, restored - hanging from the back of the nursery door. And the little human in his arms is giving him a look that seems full of knowing. Knowing and accepting. He feels his blood singing in answer, a visceral lullaby and counterpoint to the soft thrumming beneath her skin.
“I did this,” he says in wonder. He, who is dead and has brought only death.
“You died so she could live.”
“Yes.” Pride splits his still heart open. “I’d do it again. A hundred times over if I had to.”
“And she’s more grateful than you’ll ever know.”
Entranced, the words take a moment to filter through. When they do, Spike glances up sharply. Blue eyes look back, fathomless and darkened in partial silhouette. I travelled roughly twenty-one years back in time…
Carefully, he inhales. And like a key turning in a lock, a world opens up to him.
“What’s her name?”
The beautiful, reality-transcending woman before him gives a lop-sided smile and confirms what he already knows: “Dawn.”
“Dawn.” He whispers it like a prayer, shaky with the new knowledge lighting up his senses. He licks his lips, mouth dry but needing to hear her say it. “And what am I to her? To… you?”
He has never felt hungrier for an answer in his entire existence.
She lets out a small laugh, barely more than a hmm. Eyes turning briefly skyward she mouths something that looks like Oh, Andrew before meeting his gaze again.
“You’re never gonna believe this, but… Spike, you are my father.”
*
When they get back to the field, the sunlight doesn’t itch anymore but feels like a benediction. He can’t take his eyes off of Dawn. His child. His child. A thousand questions swarm his head like bees, but he isn’t sure he wants to ask them just yet. Just wants to bask for a little while longer, bask in what shouldn’t be possible, in what’s his. He feels the truth of it in his bones, and doesn’t really care about the hows and whys and wherefores. Maybe he will later, but for now... he thinks he can maybe die happy.
That was hardly her purpose in saving him, though, was it?
Of all the available topics, the irony’s not lost on him that this one seems safest.
“Still not clear on the world saveage, pet,” he tells her, awkward as she helps him lower himself back into the deckchair like a stiff old man. Which he supposes he kind of is. Her old man. Her stupidly smiling, biologically impossible old man.
Always had known he’d love Buffy’s baby. Just never realised… never knew… those bloody monks were even crazier than anyone had ever suspected.
“Well,” Dawn says over her shoulder, retreating into the tent. “Beginnings are tricky.”
She returns with a mug of blood for him and something colourful with a paper umbrella for her. And what she says next is definitely the weirdest thing yet.
Chapter Index | Next