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Chapter 10


Spike was dreaming. The memories had been changed by the years of different perception and deliberate repression. Not now, though. The long forgotten memories of his human life shone brighter and truer than they had in a long time, taking possession of his subconsciousness.


The nightmare of his father's death; the carefully controlled face of his mother as she squeezed his hand at the funeral flickered past his eyelids. He'd been nine then, sobbing and shaking, unable to be strong and reign in his emotions. Years of humiliation and mockery had been a constant in his human life, molding him into the shy reluctant poet.


Finding himself in the middle of a small clearing on a sunny day, Spike glanced around him and frowned. There was a little boy, nine years old, sitting on a wooden bench shadowed by trees, his legs swinging to and fro as he scribbled something down on a piece of yellowed parchment. His head was bowed and soft honey curls covered his face as he chewed pensively on a pen. It was him.


Footsteps and boisterous laughter cut through the peaceful silence and the little boy lifted his head. He looked at the source of disturbance and his already pale face whitened even further, blue eyes widening in fear. He quickly folded the pieces of paper and tried to stuff them into the pockets of his breeches.


He wasn't fast enough, and a piece of parchment slipped out of his small trembling fingers and fluttered to the ground. William observed in horror as three boys approached him and one of them snatched the paper from the grass.


“Ah, William. I see you're wasting your time again.” the group of eleven year old children laughed. He was, once again, the object of his peers' ridicule.


“N-no, give it back!” William reached out to snag it from the boy's hand, but he evaded him and William stumbled, almost falling on his face.


“Look at this, gentlemen. A poem. A horrid one at that. But then again, it's William's, so we should have expected nothing less.” The group laughed again. The speaker puffed out his chest and smiled smugly at the rest of the group as he passed them the paper so they could see for themselves.


William's eyes watered in humiliation, so he bowed his head, not wanting them to see how much their opinions affected him.


Spike stood there, silently observing the scene, feeling disgust. He wasn't sure if he was more disgusted with his weakness or the actions of the young 'gentlemen'.


Light footsteps padded on the grass along with a melodious laughter. In sync, both Spike and William turned their heads in the direction of a newcomer.


Emily.


“You ditched me, you miserable prats!” The girl laughed and clutched at her side, breathing rapidly from exertion and restriction of her dress.


“Now, now, Emily. Is that a proper way to speak for a lady?” The boy that mocked William smirked at Emily, and she rolled her eyes in response. “Speaking of prats, look who we have found here. Little William Pratt. Writing his bloody awful poetry.”


Emily smiled tensely, clearly uncomfortable with the situation.


“Come on, David. Leave him be.” She tugged at David's sleeve, but he shrugged her off. “We could go play hide and seek,” she said hopefully and smiled at David in hopes of deterring his attention, but he ignored her.


William stared at Emily, drinking her in like a parched man. He felt he'd burst into flames if he dared to touch her. Just like Icarus, his wings would melt if he got too close.


“First, we're going to have fun.” David snatched the poem from one of the boy's grasp and handed it to her. “Read it. After all, it's for you. It's not me whose hair is like a shimmering sun-ray on a summer day.” He smiled maliciously at William.


William's eyes widened. He wanted to flee, but his feet were rooted to the ground. He was helpless, just standing there in horrified anticipation. Hope flared, a small flame that warmed his insides. Maybe she'd like it. Like him.


Spike sighed. He felt sorry for William. He remembered what was coming, and it wouldn't be pleasant.


Emily's face reddened, and she crumpled the poem in her hand. She pursed her lips and turned to go. William gathered all the courage he had and called after her. “Wait!”


She turned to him and said, “What did I do to deserve this? Was I not nice to you? Why do you have to degrade me like this? Do you think I enjoy you bestowing your foolish affection on me, in such a dreadful way? I don't care about you, William! You're nothing but a pathetic little boy!” Her freckled cheeks were red and her chest heaved. She gave William one last spiteful glance and turned around, the others following her. Little William crumbled to the ground, hard merciless sobs wracking through his body as he reached for the crumpled poem and tore it to shreds. Their uncontrollable laughter would haunt him forever.


Spike's ears were still ringing when he was lurched head first through sounds and pictures of his youth. It stopped and he imbibed the scene.


Gentle tones of violins and piano caressed his senses, old fashioned people milled around him, looking through him. He was nothing but an invisible spectator again. Spike turned around, his bare chest gleaming under the dim light of candles. Voluptuous skirts of Victorian ladies swished all around him as their partners twirled them around the enormous ballroom.


Finally Spike spotted himself, sitting in a shadowed corner, being a wallflower. His other self was seventeen years old. Lean and awkward, as he swept off the curls off his forehead. William rose, walking through the crowd with his head bowed, avoiding any possible confrontation.


William hated these social gatherings. The only reason he went was because of his mother's persuasion. Her hope for him finding a nice lady and marrying her, so he wouldn't be alone when she passed on.


What would Spike give to be able to go back in time and suck every single hypocrite in that room dry. To see them scream in terror and bleed all over their fancy clothes. He watched William stop suddenly and stare intensely at the other end of the ballroom. Emily stood there, glancing around her nervously then unseen disappeared out the back door. He followed William out of the mansion and observed as he leaned against the railing, exhaling heavily, watching Emily slip around the corner of the mansion, in the direction of the maze of a garden.


Being the fool he was, William had forgiven Emily for breaking his heart. Nursing the hope in his heart that the way she had reacted was nothing but her attempt at trying to save face in front of the others. That maybe there was a smidgen of affection for him.


Should he follow her? Confess his feelings for her and hope she'd accept it?


He'd been angry for a long time. Hurt. He'd avoided her like a plague out of shame. Didn't write another poem for years. But it had passed and he couldn't help but want her. No matter how much she'd wounded him, William would gaze at her across the room at one of the parties and his whole world would be illuminated by her radiance. Imagining what it would be like to graze his lips across the pale back of her hand. As he got older, he dreamed about her. Scandalous, perverse dreams that would surely send him to the bowels of hell. To think of a lady in such a way was inappropriate if they weren't married.


He imagined her lips gliding across his skin, warm breath raising goose bumps along the way as he laid in his bed. Her slave. Slave to the flames of passion. She'd kiss him, press her lips against his as he hesitantly touched her breasts. All kinds of different scenarios, always the same outcome. William would wake up and encounter the stained sheets. He'd feel dirty and ashamed, not able to look into his mother's eyes for a second.


Spike saw William heave a painful sigh, could hear his thoughts in his own head. He'd decided to follow Emily.


William walked down the stairs and around the house, heading deep into the garden, away from the eyes and ears of the party goers. Spike was hot on his heels.


They walked for a few minutes, around the thick bushes and trees. Barely audible moans and grunts reverberated through the night. William didn't stop. He was lost in his own musings and didn't hear it. He stepped from behind the trees and stopped dead in his tracks, blue eyes widening behind his spectacles as he took in the scene he had stumbled upon.


“David,” a feminine voice breathed out. It was Emily.


William stood there, gaping, retreating to hide in a shadow. The first thought that flitted through his brain was that she had to be in pain, but as he looked closer, the realization smacked him in his face.


It was a gasp of pleasure.


Emily was trapped against the tree. Their bodies entwining around each other, hands grasping at the restrictive clothes. David's hand fumbled beneath Emily's skirt, as she wantonly writhed against him, mouth hanging open, carefully constructed hairstyle askew, eyes closed in rapture. David knelt down, his head disappearing beneath her voluminous skirts and she moaned, panting. She tugged at her loosened corset and massaged her breasts, squeezed her pink nipples.


William gasped and leaned on the wall of the house. He couldn't tear his eyes away as David reappeared, his chin glistening with mysterious fluids. It hurt to see her like that, in the throes of passion with another man. Tears fell down even as the familiar feeling of arousal tightened in his belly, his hardening shaft tenting his trousers. William never felt more ashamed and disgusted with himself in his life.


David panted against her neck, guiding her hand inside his breeches. William tore his eyes away and ran in an opposite direction, not stopping until he couldn't breathe anymore.


There wouldn't be another woman for the next ten years.


Spike watched William skedaddle and again, everything started to change. But it wasn’t his memories anymore. The unfamiliar surroundings were hazy and kept flickering in and out before he could identify them. Colours and shapes swirled into the vortex of confusion and nausea, making his head spin, so he squeezed his eyes shut. Then it stopped.


Spike glanced around and walked hesitantly forward, disturbing the motes of dust that covered the floor. It coiled around his naked feet like a pair of hungry hands wanting to draw him into the ground. He quickened his pace and looked around the stone corridor.


Specks of flaking blood were illuminated by the flickering light of the buzzing fluorescent lights. Spike snorted at the horror cliché of it all. A shadow flashed somewhere by his right. Spike turned around, but didn't see anyone. The prickly annoying tingles ran up his spine and settled at the back of his neck with alarming certainty.


Something was following him.


Spike rounded the corner and stopped dead in his tracks when he found himself in a bright meadow. Birds were singing, the waterfall spilled down from the sky and puddled to form a pond. He shielded his eyes from the glaring sun. He breathed in the air and the hair on his body stood up to attention. He'd been here before. But how? More importantly, why couldn't he get hold of the memory?


“Hello.”


Spike spun towards the unfamiliar voice and tilted his head, frowning in confusion.


“Umm... hello?” He sized up the creature warily. After all, one didn't live as long as he had if he wasn't being careful.


A horse with a dog's head sat on the grass.


“You won't find her here, you know,” the creature said in a conversational tone. “And for the record, I'm not the one you should purge.”


“Purge? What the bloody hell are you talking about? And I'm not looking for anyone. I'm just here.” Spike stepped closer and squinted at the horse/dog.


“Don't worry, I've got the key” the creature sighed. “The dove won't be happy.”


Spike scratched at his head and exhaled in frustration. “Look, mate. As much as I enjoy you talking in riddles, could you just stop yammering and get to the point? Be a sensible dog... eh, horse.”


“You can call me Steve. And I told you, I do not prey on the soul!”


“What?” Spike was getting really irritated. He should just kill the wanker and be done with it. Something kept him from doing that though. Curiosity?


“I've got the key.” Steve winked at him and Spike lifted an eyebrow.


“Do you now? Why am I not surprised?” He rolled his eyes and asked. “What does it open?”


“The door of course,” Steve answered in a cheerful voice.


“The door to what?” Spike asked impatiently.


“The mind, my friend, keeps hidden the most horrendous secrets. You can't have her otherwise.” His ears flicked and he suddenly froze. Steve turned his wide doggy eyes at Spike and reached behind him to get something.


“It's getting dark, I must go! Take it!” He thrust a thing covered in cloth into Spike's hand as he rushed past him and disappeared into the thin air.


“God, I'm a bloody sack of hammers.”


He uncovered the cloth and stared at the item in his hand. A dagger. Ornate and short. Glyphs of a foreign language were engraved into the blade. The wind picked up in speed, howling. Spike sheathed it behind his belt and looked around as the clouds gathered with unnatural speed, rolling around and over each other on the darkened sky like battling beasts. The heavens tore open and drops of liquid hit Spike, snaking down his face and throat, his chest and belly to soak into the fabric of his jeans.


The dense drops made Spike's nostrils flare and he snuck out the tip of his tongue to catch a drop of it.


Blood.


More importantly, the blood he knew the taste of. Could never forget the rich sweetness tainted by suffering and familiarity. Buffy's blood.


Spike stared down at his red skin and shivered. He battled the need to crash to his knees and let his ravenous taste buds soak up every single drop of her essence. Wanted to, but couldn't. Not when there was no soft chalice of her throat to take it from. Not when it wasn't freely given by her. Not when it was tainted by something he couldn't name. There was the shadow, still following him around. Stalking him. He turned around and called out.


“Step on up, you coward! Show your ugly face so I can kick yo-”


A scream pierced the thick air around him. The sound forced a shuddering whisper of a breath to pass his lips. It seemed to come out of everywhere and nowhere all at once, bouncing off the bloodied air to send Spike careening into a helpless rage. It was Buffy's scream.


Spike ran. He could feel the thing breathing down his neck, but it didn't matter. The only important thing was to find Buffy, no matter how long and how far he had to run to get to her. Suddenly, it wasn't the thick carpet of grass under his feet anymore, but the dusted cold concrete of the floor he first stepped on when his trip down the memory lane changed into the nightmare that wasn't his own. He didn't stop to curse the fact that he was running in circles as his feet pounded relentlessly through the endless maze of corridors.


'Buffy, Buffy, Buffy. Where are you?'


Spike tore through the corridors, opening a door just to stumble into a corridor with another number of doors in them. He didn't stop to think what one he should choose, he just tore one off its hinges in his haste and frantic need not to slow down. Never slowing down. He had to get to Buffy. The doors kept coming up. Spike growled and snarled, wreaking havoc in his wake. It changed nothing. The corridors and doors seemed endless.


He was hurled through a door he had opened and stopped short of falling onto his face. He was in a room. The sweet fruition of finally reaching a destination was thwarted by the vision in front of him.


'Buffy! Oh my God.'


She was there, tears leaking freely out of her eyes. A male hand gripping her hair tightly, making her arch her back, using her to...


Spike snarled and leaped forward only to rebound and fall on his ass, the motion almost dislodging the dagger from behind his belt. He jumped back up and pounded with his fists on the invisible barrier that kept him from getting to her, lost in his rage.


The feeling of helplessness suffused him as he stood there, unable to do anything but watch the man lost in an excruciating pleasure as he rammed his shaft into Buffy's ass. Lying on top of her, grunting. Not caring that she was bleeding, not caring for the tears she shed or the screams that were getting weaker by the second, the dawning resignation as she lay there, letting him use her as if she was nothing but a toy. Blood leaked from the corner of her mouth, the area around her eye was swelling and gaining a deep dark colour. Spike wanted to vomit. He couldn't watch, but he couldn't tear his eyes away either. She gazed up at him then, pleading and broken as she mouthed soundlessly.


'Help me.'


Spike threw himself against the barrier with all his might... and tumbled out of his bed. He was wide awake, looking down and expecting to see his chest covered in crimson, but there was only the sheet tangled around his legs. Buffy gasped and his head jerked in her direction. She was tossing in her bed, grasping the sheets so tightly she was ripping them apart. Her brow was furrowed in imaginary pain. Spike quickly untangled his legs and strode towards her, kneeling next to her tumbling form.


“Come on, luv! Wake up!” He shook her shoulders.


“N-no, let me-” her voice cut off as her eyes snapped wide opened, darting all around the room in disorientation. Finally, she fixed her stare on him, panting in panic and exertion and clutching painfully at his forearms.


“S-Spike?”


Her eyes watered and she launched herself into his arms. “Tell me it's over. Please. Please tell me you won't let go!”


Spike's throat tightened painfully and he guided her to lie back, tucking her head under his chin and tightened his arms around her. “Never, luv. I've got you.” He stroked her hair and pressed his trembling lips to her clammy forehead.


The first sun rays lent a golden hue to the room, illumining her tear stained face. He could never let her go.


TBC