The Dirt He Loved So Well


A stiff breeze spurted through the tunnel. It had probably been installed by a techno-pagan when the Underground was built, either to circulate air or to make anyone who walked through the tunnel cold, miserable and wind-blown.

Buffy was going with the latter. The wet patches on her clothes clung to her body. Grit worked its way into her boots, where it ground painfully at her sole and heel. She’d start limping, soon, if she didn’t collapse from exhaustion first. Even the scythe on her back felt too heavy, like it could crush her spine at any moment. You’d think a Slayer would have more stamina, but decades of little food and high-stress living hadn’t done her body any favors.

Jo’s torch was growing farther away by the second. Was Jo picking up the pace? Maybe she just wanted to get away from Spike. The vampire was apparently a universal annoyance, ready to pick a fight with anyone.

Not that Buffy understood much of Spike and Jo’s fight. She got Jo’s beef. Jo thought Spike was presenting only the best parts of himself to gain Buffy’s trust and manipulate her and stuff. If so, yeesh. Buffy wasn’t sure she wanted to see Spike’s mediocre parts, much less his bad ones.

Except, Buffy didn’t understand why Jo thought Spike was lying-by-omission, except for the thing about demons – real ones – and their deceptiveness. That was the obvious answer, but it didn’t feel like the correct one.

What did Jo know about Spike that Buffy didn’t? Why had she called him William? It was his name, but how would Jo know that? Buffy didn’t even know how she knew Spike’s given name, or when she had started knowing it, or if she had used it before without realizing.

Jo and Spike couldn’t possibly have a history, since Jo was born way after Spike’s death. Maybe Jo had done some digging after Spike’s appearence? That anyone in the Underground would know anything about some run-of-the-mill vampire from a century ago seemed unlikely, but not impossible. Splicing messed up lifespans. Some of the splices were almost as old as Buffy, and some of the demons were older. Not that any self-respecting demon would talk to Jo.

If Jo had learned something, why wouldn’t she share? To protect Buffy? Or, maybe, after Spike’s plea for a techno-pagan, she thought he wouldn’t stick around, so it wouldn’t matter? Earlier, Jo had told Buffy not to trust Spike. Maybe Jo suspected something, but needed more details to present her case?

Buffy wasn’t an idiot. She knew that Spike kept stuff from her. Hell, she’d told him to. But what if there were some things worth remembering, even if they cracked open her skull and spilled her brains on the floor?

The tunnel seemed darker and more shadowy; Jo was way ahead of her now.

Buffy moved faster, but two steps forward found her ankle-deep in muck. It was weird too, because her boots hadn’t hit bottom; they were surrounded by bottom, like she’d stabbed both feet into wet, solid ground.

Buffy made a face and tried to lift her right leg. The movement sent her left leg deeper, even as her right foot met a powerful suction.

Suction wasn’t good, though a stuck ankle wasn’t the worst thing ever. At least she hadn’t slipped and fallen on her ass. Didn’t pool drains disembowel kids, back when there were pool drains and kids to sit on them?

Nope, no muddy disembowelment for Buffy. Getting trapped in NOVA meant getting found by some tall, dark and fangy, but wasn’t that why she had Jo?

The tunnel went black.

Buffy’s eyes twitched at the sudden adjustment. Huh. No torch. Jo must have turned a corner without realizing that Buffy wasn’t behind her. No matter. It wasn’t like Jo could have gone far.

Yelling in the tunnels wasn’t the best idea, but Jo had excellent hearing. Buffy could do that loud whisper thing. “Jo!”

“Eyes on the road, Slayer. Snake-eyes took a right a few meters ahead.”

“Can you see?”

Spike sounded close. Buffy almost reached out to find him, but then she remembered that she’d only touched him twice, while stoned. She could swing fists through his face all day and still not know where he was.

“No,” Spike said. “Even vampire peepers need some light to go by. If you’d been paying any attention, you’d have seen Jo turn, too. She’s not that far ahead. Just follow the right side of the wall, and you’ll turn when it does.”

“I thought you said you can’t feel?”

“I can’t. That doesn’t mean I’ve lost all common sense. You follow the wall and I’ll follow your footsteps. Can still hear, you know.”

Buffy turned to face Spike’s voice, but she only twisted her legs and –

glurg

– sank deeper.

“Crap!”

“You getting another headache? I’ve had enough, Slayer. You make accusations about another thing you don’t sodding get, and I’ll bite you.”

“What, with you scary, feel-through fangs?” Asshole! Buffy couldn’t help that that her blazing, fiery attacks made her see images out of context. Plus, Buffy hadn’t remembered anything about Spike before he’d popped out of his cardboard packaging, so all her recent doubling-over was his fault.

Whatever. Responsibility or no, talking to Spike was one big waste of time. “Jo!” Buffy tried again. “A little help, here!”

The mud now reached to mid-calf. Wonderful. Sinking in mud had been really, really high on Buffy’s to-do list. Buffy wriggled her right foot. The mud loosened when she moved, only to clamp around her leg when she tried to wrench it free.

glurg-glurg-glurg

The mud reached her knees.

Buffy almost heard Spike’s frown. “You getting shorter? Your voice is coming from a different place.”

“Yes. I’m the incredible shrinking Slayer. I’m sinking, you moron!” God, did she end up with a dunce of a ghost or what? Someone should have sent her a Giles ghost, or a Willow. At least they’d have two ghostly brain cells to rub together.

Buffy’s temple throbbed. She turned those thoughts away.

“Sinking in what?” Spike asked. “Your mate walked through here just fine, and I’m not sinking in anything. Though maybe I wouldn’t, me being a ghost and all. Can’t imagine I weigh much.”

Geez. Thirty minutes ago, Buffy had been all gung-ho to help Spike. Now, she wanted to pummel him.

“One, Jo’s not my mate. Two, yes, I’m sinking. There’s quicksand. Quickmud. Whatever!”

Buffy groaned and tried to move again, but the mud had swallowed her leg to mid-thigh. Great. She was going to drown in mud. Icky, smelly, sucky mud. Where the Hell was Jo? Shouldn’t she have noticed that Buffy wasn’t with her by now?

“Jo! I think I’m in trouble!”

Silence.

Maybe she wasn’t fighting hard enough. Buffy bent her knees, then pushed off against the mud with both feet. Her Slayer strength should have propelled her through the tunnel ceiling.

She drilled her body deeper.

glop

“Bloody hell. Stop struggling, Buffy!”

Spike was probably standing right on top of the mud that was currently sucking her down, the lucky ghost bastard.

“Easy for you to say! You’re not the one about to die in a mud hole!” Sweat dripped into her eyes, and Buffy shook her head against the sting. She gulped down air as the tar-like mud squeezed her legs. The pressure felt strong enough to crush them.

The mud touched her butt.

Buffy whimpered.

“Fighting’s making you sink faster, you stupid bint! Can you get out your scythe?”

“What? So I can chop the mud into neat little cubes? Thanks for the brilliant suggestion. Next, I’ll soothe the mud to sleep with my lute.”

Spike was trying to help her, now. Spike! Buffy was so completely screwed. She needed Jo. Where was she? Oh, God. What if some monster had ambushed Jo? Jo could take care of herself, but this was NOVA.

“Jo!” Buffy yelled. Any minute now, Jo’s torch would blaze out of the darkness and Jo would rescue her and maybe chastize Buffy for not being more careful. Buffy’s eyes scanned the darkness for a touch of reflected light – for any sign that Jo was on her way.

blurp

“Stop being such a bleeding idiot, and listen to me! You need to float on your back to spread out your mass, yeah? Hold the scythe horizontal-like, then work it under your shoulders. You get it under your lower back, and you’ll float easier.”

Okay. So, Jo must’ve gotten held up. It was okay. Spike was here. Spike would get her out of this. Hey, miracles had been known to happen – to other people.

“Hey! Watch what you say about my mass!” Buffy braced her scythe behind her shoulders. She couldn’t move her legs, so she bent back from the waist like a limbo dancer. She pushed the scythe’s handle halfway down her back, being careful to avoid the sharp parts, and lowered her upper body into the quickmud.

The mud was cold against her back. It enveloped the back of her head and pulled on her hair, but she didn’t sink any further. Spike was right; the scythe did keep her upper body floating near the surface of the mud, which smelled really bad this close to her face.

How did Spike know what he was talking about? “How do you know this stuff?”

“Once ate a captain in the East India Company. You really wanna play Twenty Questions right now?”

“I dunno. Is it bigger than a bread box?” Buffy felt a tingling pass through her hand. “Spike! What are you doing?”

“Shut it!”

Then, she felt them. Distinct bands of electrical pressure dug into her hands. She gasped, and they disappeared, but then they were back, and she could feel broader expanses of current, too. His palms?

Spike’s fingers circled her wrists, then pulled. Buffy felt herself slide a half-inch towards solid ground. “Thank God!”

“Don’t think He’s here, pet. I’m the best you got.” Spike’s grip faltered. “You want me to rescue you or not?”

Buffy bit her lip. Spike pulled. He wasn’t using, or maybe he wasn’t capable of, vampire strength. His pull registered somewhere between “newborn kitten” and “demon glowworm,” but at least she was moving horizontally instead of straight down.

glurg

Okay, so she was moving straight down, too. And in this new position, it would take a lot less sinking to give her lungs a facial.

Spike’s grip lifted. “Just need a minute, Slayer.” He sounded strained.

“Sure. It’s not like I’m in a rush. I have all the time in the world, really.” The mud seeped over Buffy’s stomach. She shivered.

“After I save you, I’m going to squeeze your skinny neck until your skull pops. Hope that isn’t a problem.”

glurg-glurg-bloop.

Buffy craned her neck upwards as the mud tendrils crawled across her throat. “Um, Spike? Kill me all you want later, but right now I’m sinking. Fast.”

“This doesn’t make a bleeding lick of sense. Shouldn’t be sinking faster than you were before. Quicksand’s only quick if you try to fight it. Most people don’t sink below their shoulders unless they struggle.”

Oh, wonderful. He couldn’t have shared that factoid earlier? Not that it was correct. Buffy had stopped fighting, but she was still sinking.

“Maybe you should have chowed down on some quicksandologists, too, because I’m seeing a Buffy-sized hole in that theory!” Why was he wasting time arguing with her? Drowning Slayer, here!

Spike’s hands clamped down on her arms, the pressure almost painful. He dragged her forward two inches.

Where did the quickmud end and the normal mud begin? She couldn’t see, and neither could Spike, but there had to be solid ground. Jo had walked straight through the tunnel, no problemo.

Spike groaned, and Buffy slid another inch. She had to be getting close.

Buffy felt something – something distinct from the mud – brush against her upper thigh. It felt long and slender, with a slimy solidity that separated it from the mud.

“Spike? There’s something else here.”

“What?”

The tentacle – Buffy was going with tentacle – pressed against her ass, then slid up and over her hip crease, heading towards her inner thigh. Buffy moaned in panic, too afraid of sinking to shake the thing off.

“Spike? There’s a mud monster, and it’s feeling me up.”

“Can’t blame it for copping a feel of a pretty thing like you.”

“Hey!” Great. Spike had given her a compliment. Calling her half-starved, mud-covered, hard-drinking self a “pretty thing” had to be a bad sign. Either Spike had lost his mind, or he was trying to comfort a dying Slayer.

She wished she could see his face.

“Tell you what – after you’re high and dry, I’ll kill it for touching you.”

The tentacle looped around Buffy’s thigh and gave it a squeeze. Buffy wanted to hack it into pieces. Tiny ones, like for mirepoix.

“How about I kill it for touching me, and you can watch?”

“I’ll allow it. Pulling you out of this pit will meet my manly heroic quota for the day.” Spike’s voice rasped. “Always did like seeing you all fired up, even when you were trying to kill me.”

“You tried to kill me first.” Buffy wasn’t entirely sure on this point, but it seemed like a safe bet, since Spike had already admitted to attempted Buffycide.

“Well, yeah.”

“Is that why you make me mad all the time? Because that’s the way you like me? That’s messed up.”

“Is it really that hard to remember that I’m a vampire?”

Banter or no, Spike was tiring. The tinglies on Buffy’s arms felt fainter, and she was moving in progressively smaller increments. She fell silent, afraid that quipping was making it harder for Spike to focus his energies.

Unfortunately, silence made it easier for Buffy to focus on all sorts of things that she’d rather not: Spike’s weakening touch; the mud’s squishy noises; the tentacle’s slow, circular crawl down her leg.

Spike was saying something under his breath. A mantra, maybe, or a prayer. Buffy couldn’t make it out.

The tentacle tickled Buffy below her knee. She wiggled as tickled people do, pushing herself deeper into the mud and destroying a good three inches of Spike’s hard-won progress.

Spike cursed. He pulled again, but Buffy barely moved. The quickmud felt harder around her body, like she was stuck in drying amber. She wondered if she’d end up like one of those bog people – the ones who died in swamps and were pulled out thousands of years later, all tar-black and leaking, with their ancient stomach contents and leather shoes intact. Yeppers, that would be her. Buffy the Bog-Slayed.

Wait.

The bog-thing was a real possibility. No, make that a likelihood. An inevitability. Not the tar part. The part where Buffy died.

This wasn’t something she could get out of. The harder she fought, the faster she sank. Jo had disappeared. Spike – he was trying, but lacking a body was a real handicap in the hero business.

The tentacle dropped the playful act and cut into her skin. Mud stung the lacerations.

Buffy screamed.

She screamed at Spike. She screamed for Jo. She screamed names she didn’t recognize.

Spike roared.

For a moment, Buffy thought she pale green eyes, like an animal’s in headlights, peering down at her.

A sharp tug sent her sliding down and backwards, off her scythe. Buffy grabbed the handle when it touched the back of her right hand.

Spike kept his hold. He should have been pulled right into the quickmud, but of course, it couldn’t grip him. “Not letting you go this time.”

This time?

Buffy choked as the mud seeped into her mouth. Spike’s incorporeal muscles were nothing against the mud-monster pulling her down.

She heard Spike sob.

Spike knew she was dying. He just couldn’t admit it. Buffy didn’t know their history or understand their connection, but just then, in that moment, she understood him. He wouldn’t let go until she was dead, maybe not even then. Not unless she made him.

Buffy coughed as wet grit invaded her mouth. “Let go, Spike. It’s over.”

“No, it bloody well isn’t!”

The mud-monster tightened its tentacle, preparing for another tug.

Buffy knew she didn’t have much time. “It is, and that’s okay. I know you tried.”

“Don’t you bloody say that! I’m saving you, you hear?” The vibrations on her arms increased, not because Spike was getting stronger, but because he was shaking.

She wanted to impart some amazing words of wisdom or tell Spike something he’d remember forever, like why he should go on unliving, even if she was sick of the world and wouldn’t recommend it, but the mud now covered the entire lower half of her face.

Buffy breathed in deep through her nostrils. Then, the mud plugged her nose and ears. She couldn’t hear Spike anymore, and pretty soon, she’d stop feeling him, too.

Buffy’s lungs burned. Her fingers loosened around her scythe.

She let go.

The mud pulled her down.

***