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All My Love - Annie.



Soft Momentum



Actually he was screaming her name. Throwing himself forward he attacked the demon without a second thought. He pounded on its head, drew back and kicked it in the chest, nothing happened whatsoever. He felt panic wafting through him like hot steam at the limpness of the Slayer. Her not fighting back was far on the opposite side of good. Finally the frustration brought him to exclaim:

“Let her go!”

At the last word the row of demons, all of them, swiftly slid backwards, into darkness, disappearing. Buffy was still hanging midair and he was by her the following instant, putting his hands in her armpits and at the touch she seemed to slacken. He sunk down with her on the gray floor beneath them, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and putting his free hand by her cheek.

She wasn’t breathing.

“Buffy,” he said. “Buffy!” he yelled, shaking her. “Jesus Christ, look at me. Look at me!”

And she did.

Her eyelids fluttered open and she met his gaze right before she drew a hacking breath and began to cough. He closed his eyes tightly, his hold on her hardening with the relief pouring itself through him. He didn’t understand until that moment how convinced he had been of the severity of her state, and of how she had been slipping away. She had been, he had felt it like a soft raking sensation through his hair, collecting at the nape of his neck.

And now he sat facing the comprehension of how empty he would feel if she was ever gone. And how her death would never come by his hand. So it was finished, truly, no more running around what she had become to him.

She was drawing slow breaths, regaining familiarity with the feeling, her hands going to his arms and she clung to him, finding her way back out of the obscurity she had gone into. She looked up and met his gaze, suddenly aware of how close he was. Why was he so close?

“You okay?” he asked, noticing the growing questions in her eyes and he pulled away from her before getting both of them to their feet.

She cleared her throat, her hands still on his arms. She brought them down with a yank, taking a slight step back. The pressure which had been lingering across her throat was completely gone. It felt as though it had never been there. What went racing through her mind now was why he had bothered to save her. Then she thought that he hadn’t, that she had been released by the other demon for some unknown reason. But she knew what she had heard. She had heard him telling her to look at him; that was what had forced her to open her eyes.

She stared at him with deep wonderment and he couldn’t take it anymore.

“There has to be somewhere more interesting,” he said with a look at the empty space they occupied.

“How about whatever place No Face went to?” she asked, her gaze not growing less inquisitive as it eyed him.

“Right,” he said.

“Why did that happen, you think?” she asked as he began to glance around, as though hoping the scenery would magically change again.

“I don’t know, you were about to fall so I... It was a reaction to the almost falling of you that I chose to... react... act on. I just grabbed you, is all, bloody hell, it’s no big deal!”

She furrowed her brow. She had never, ever seen him fidget. She had never, ever heard him stutter.

“I was talking about the whole demon-strangly situation,” she said and his eyes widened just enough for her to pick up on it.

Suddenly his crypt came rushing in to surround them and he felt an entirely different kind of relief at the sight of it.

“Oh, there we go,” he said.

He saw himself sitting in the armchair, drinking. Alright. Then the door was kicked in. By the Slayer.
Buffy was at his side, watching the scene as well. She crossed her arms over her chest. He was frowning, struggling to place the memory.

She had a stake in her hand. She was wearing red jeans, a white top, and suddenly he realized exactly what it was.

“I don’t remember this,” Buffy said and his eyes grew very large.

“Well, this isn’t really very interesting,” he stated as the Slayer entered the crypt, stake held in a very threatening way. “Let’s move on, shall we?”

He concentrated every fiber of his being on switching the scenery, and through some sort of miracle it worked.

Drusilla lay draped across a bed, her dark hair spilling over the edge and her frail-looking frame hidden beneath nothing but a thin sheet. She was staring at something in the ceiling. Suddenly Spike came into view, a hurried air about him as he sat down, bringing a silvery cup to her dry lips. She barely reacted, but did take some of the liquid in her mouth.

“Good,” he said. “Now swallow.” She did, her eyes growing as though something appeared above her.

“Oh,” she moaned. “The flower seeds are spreading. They’ll grow into black roses. We have to put some on her grave.”

“We will,” he assured, brushing her hair from her forehead tenderly. “And you’ll be better, love. By then we’ll dance on her tombstone.”

The vampiress smiled.

“Dance,” she whispered. “Baby steps and twirls and singing. Will she be there?”

“No, Dru,” he replied. “She’ll be dead, see?”

“Cold. In the ground.”

“Yes, like that.”

Buffy took a step forward, feeling her skin begin to crawl as she realized they were speaking about her.

“You’ll do it for me?”

“Yes,” he said, bringing one of her hands to his lips, only he turned it over and kissed the inside of her wrist instead, making her smile widen.

“Darling,” she mumbled. “How good you are to me. Can you see?”

He sighed.

“See what?”

“They tell me of her,” she said. “They show me her face. They say she’s strong, Spike. And then they try to tickle me.” She giggled, waving a hand feebly before her face. “They’re pink and purple and they glitter.”

He touched her forehead, a concerned wrinkle between his eyebrows.

“Not much longer now, pet,” he said softly.

“Is there a point to this?” Buffy asked, turning her head to the Spike who was next to her.

“I’m not enjoying it anymore than you are,” he muttered.

“Right you’re not,” she muttered back.

“Just... give me a second.”

Finally the scenery shifted once more and she found herself back on the sofa in the pretty house, William sitting next to her as though nothing had happened.

“Bloody hell!” Spike exclaimed.

“...perpetually dreary and it fills me with sorrow for her. I wish there was more that I could do. She doesn’t get out much, you see.”

Buffy took her eyes off the frustration of the vampire, turning them on his mortal image with a slightly puzzled look.

“My mother,” he said, as if wanting to remind her of what they had been talking about.

“Your mother?”

“Her health is poor,” he sighed, “but I do try to make her go to Kensington Gardens at least once a week. The sun does her good.”

“Oh, bugger,” Spike grumbled in the background.

“She’s sick?”

“She acts as though she isn’t,” William said. “But as a son, one notices these things. Even the slightest deterioration in demeanor is enough to cause worry. And she is so very tired all the time.”

Buffy felt something tight grasp her heart.

“My... my mom’s sick, too,” she admitted, even as the words were spoken feeling as though it was a mere thought in her head whether they should or shouldn’t be.

William looked awfully concerned at this.

“Does she have the coughs?”

“No,” Buffy replied. “Headaches... It’s... a tumor.”

Spike glanced at her, feeling his agitation begin to be replaced by the same emotion showing so clearly on William. He knew Joyce was sickly, but hadn’t fully grasped the scope of it, he supposed.

Buffy refused to acknowledge him as he turned to her. This information wasn’t for him; it was for a ghost of one-hundred years.

“Oh dear, it sounds horribly bleak,” William mumbled tentatively. “I wish I should know just what to say, but I truly don’t. I guess, at times such as these, words matter little.”

He glanced at the arc of paper still in his hand and then put it aside, carefully reaching out his hands to take hers. The touch was simple, but she reacted to the smoothness of his hands, and the body heat which warmed her skin. When she had grown cold, she didn’t know.

“Keep in thought all the good things working in this world to make your mother well. She cannot be meant to suffer, and so the resolution will come quickly.”

“She... she’s getting better,” Buffy mumbled.

“Soon she shall be completely restored, I’m sure, and when she is you must bring her over for tea.”

She met his gaze, saw the absolute earnestness in them, and felt her mouth soften into a smile.

“She’s a sea away,” she said.

“Oh, why, of course,” William smiled back, letting her hands go. “If ever she visits London,” he extended the invitation and she nodded.

Spike took in the little scenario, his thoughts jumbling together within him. Or was that outside him? Or within-within him? He waved the questions away, returning to the matter at hand: the look on Buffy’s face, which sent a thrill of compassion running through him.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was that bad?” he asked as Buffy excused herself to William and rose to her feet.

She frowned, finally looking at him.

“Why would I tell you anything?”

He grabbed her arm, making her stop her movement of walking away and keep her gaze in his.

“I would’ve wanted to know,” he said.

He wore the same expression as the other he had a minute earlier, only honesty residing in his eyes.

“Let go,” Buffy demanded silently and he did as she asked, watching as she moved into the crowd.

There was something the matter with her, she couldn’t breathe. She needed air.

Pushing through the gathered guests she spotted what must be the front door; she headed for it on legs that were buckling under her weight. She didn’t feel right. She wanted to stop this now, before things crumbled, before things fell apart. She grabbed the handle, twisted it and pushed the door open, halting with a yell as she stood on the ledge of a steep cliff and below clashed mighty waves, gaping wide with their foamed teeth reaching for her, as though all they wanted was to devour her.

She drew a breath and then another, the air thick with the smell of ocean.

The dress had been switched for black pants and a black top and her hair was let out, the hard breeze playing catch with it.

“We have to do this!” Drusilla’s voice exclaimed behind her and she spun around.

“I know that, Dru. Bloody hell, you think we’ve come this far for me not to understand that?!”

It was Spike. They were a little way further in, but standing on the cliff as well. Drusilla was wearing red and Buffy knew it was much earlier than the scenario she had seen before. The dress was cut in an old fashion. Early twentieth century. It was 1912. The Slayer simply knew it.

“If they catch us...” Drusilla stated.

“Yes, they will burn us and we will be turned into ashes and most probably scattered over this charming place, would you enjoy that, Dru?”

“It’s my not enjoying it which is pushing me to push you! Be a good dolly and do as I ask!”

“I am not a doll, Dru.”

“Stop calling me by my name if you’re going to use it so insensitively, they are listening and will take offense.”

“And what will they do? Attack me?! They’re smaller than my hand!”

“You do not know, you cannot see them!”

“Yes, but you’ve described them to me for quite a few sodding years, love, I think my appreciation of their size is fairly accurate!”

“There, now you’ve done it.”

“Are they mad?”

“Yes.”

“And do you think they are angrier than the mob coming up that hill to burn us?!”

She grew hesitant, then replied with a swift:

“No.”

Grabbing his hand she walked with him up to the edge of the cliff, stopping right by Buffy.

“Oh, wow,” the Slayer mumbled, looking where they were: down at the raging sea below. “Are you? Really? Going to?”

“We count to three,” Drusilla said. “One.”

“Two.”

“Three!”

But they didn’t jump. Drusilla turned her head to him.

“Spike, we must!”

The sound of shouts was rising behind the trees lining the cliff and Buffy blinked. So mobs did sound like a pack of angry dogs.

“I know,” he murmured. “One.”

“Two.”

They braced themselves and then took the step into the air needed to send them to meet the water. Buffy felt her eyes grow large at the sight of them falling and falling before splashing into it.

“Holy crap,” she said.

“Hardest getaway we ever pulled,” Spike’s voice sounded and when she turned to him they were in his crypt.

Candles were lit everywhere.

“What’re we doing here?” she asked.

“What’d you mean?”

“Well, it’s... new and you’re... Not that it matters what you have on, because it doesn’t, but you... You don’t. Well, at least not usually...”

She trailed off, knowing she sounded as ridiculous as she thought and wondering why she had even started talking in the first place.

It’s just a sweater, for heaven’s sake, she told herself. He’s wearing a sweater and it’s not black and you feel the need to comment on it. How weird of you.

He seemed to shrug it off, stating:

“Thought we needed somewhere... neutral to... regroup. We’re not getting anywhere, are we?”

“I wouldn’t say that. Besides, we won’t know ‘til we’ve been in my head and compared notes.”

“And what about No Face?”

“Should be our guy. Unless you conjured him.”

“Buffy.”

“Alright,” she put her hands up. “Fine. Neutral is as neutral does, or something... But you got us here?”

“I’ve managed to work it a few times.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, sitting down in the armchair.

“I don’t like it.”

“Fine, I’ll stand,” she said, rising.

“No, please, sit,” he stopped her, making her meet his gaze and he grew self-conscious. “I mean, you wanna stand, stand. I just... I’m not sitting, so... sit.”

She did.

“You don’t like what?” she asked.

“This situation...”

“I don’t either. I think there’s more to it.”

“I agree.”

“But I don’t know either, why he chose us.”

“Or she.”

“Yeah, but No Face had to be male.”

“Had to?”

“Well, he was so big.”

“You never seen a female troll?”

“True. I think he’s a he, though.”

“I just wanna know where to bloody look.”

Buffy’s face lighted up and she stood.

“Maybe we’re not supposed to. Maybe that’s the whole point. Our subconscious works for us. Like when we dream we deal with stuff we can’t seem to deal with during the day. So if we let our subconscious take us where it wants to...”

“Chances are it’ll take us exactly where we need to be. But all the bloody memories... they’re too old.”

“So maybe they’re just steps in the right direction. Anyways, I think I’m starting to get a hang of it.”

He watched her take a seat again and marveled at the fact that they had just had their first discussion which hadn’t lead straight into an argument.

“Are we agreeing on something here?”

“Hmh,” she said. “Should we be worried?”

He smirked, though she couldn’t see it. He wished he could reach out a hand and touch her, make her turn her head to him, look at him, smile. But as the sound of her sitting back in the armchair pierced his thoughts, he did nothing but circled round to face her.

She looked at him, having waited for a response to her query. He rested his eyes in hers and for one split second she saw William looking at her with that certain strange warmth, softening the blue of his irises into something induced by light. She caught her breath, knitting her brow in slight stupefaction.

“What?” he asked.

“You’re...” Her stupefaction turned into eyes widening as a red mark appeared by his hairline. “Bleeding,” she finished.

She didn’t know how she was all of a sudden standing, but not much took her off guard at this point. The crypt faded away, surrounding them was the alley behind the Bronze, and the blood was slowly making its way from his brow to his jaw.

“You’re bleeding,” she repeated.

“Been excommunicated,” he shrugged, her expression growing quizzical again. “No longer a welcomed part of the demon community. You surprised, love?”

And she who had thought she’d done such a good job at hiding it.

“No,” she covered. “I didn’t expect you to be embraced and bowed down to for...”

“Helping you?”

His ironic expression irritated her. Because of course she wouldn’t have finished the sentence that way, but he couldn’t help but point out how obvious it already was to him that she wouldn’t have, and he simply had to be all smug about it. The idiot.

“I pay you half the time, smartass,” she shot, but when his gaze steadily intensified, searching her face for no apparent reason, she found herself looking away.

“So Joyce is getting better?”

She turned her head back to him, finding him nothing but sincere. It staggered her, but only for a second; then she answered:

“Yes.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said.

“I didn’t know you’d have any reason to be,” she commented, though it was practically a query, the note of sarcasm which would have been in the sentence being left out as she held his gaze.

He was about to answer, then checked himself, eyeing her for a moment before he asked:

“Her being sick... was that why you were crying?”

She frowned, and the scenery swirled into her backyard, where she saw herself sitting on the stoop.
Yes, she remembered this night well. She sighed, her other self having her face hidden against her arms, crying silently. She watched Spike come into the scene, her eyebrows rising at the shotgun he was carrying. She didn’t remember him having it. She remembered him showing up, but... He looked about ready to kill her; and she realized that, of course, that was why he was there. Why else would he have come? But then the other her looked up, tears streaking her face, and observed him, and everything about him changed.

Buffy watched the scene as it unfolded, the Spike standing at her side, observing it as well, growing tenser by the second.

It didn’t help when he glanced at her and noticed how absorbed she was in what was happening before them. Between them. Within him. The tentativeness with which he tried to console her, a soft pat on one of her shoulder blades, and that was it. Nothing more, but it was enough for her to now turn to him and he waited anxiously for what was to come.

“I didn’t remember the shotgun,” she stated.

“Guess you had better things on your mind.”

“Not really.”

“No, suppose not.” He raised one shoulder in a shrug. “I didn’t bring it... to... I wasn’t going to...”

She looked skeptical, and her eyes were much too curious, and so he dropped it.

“So, why didn’t you?”

“The... the chip.”

She furrowed her brow.

“The blood’s gone,” she said, stepping up to him and reaching up a hand to place it at the side of his face.

As she did it, she didn’t know what impulse she was following; but there was no mistaking what her touch did as his gaze softened swiftly and she brought her hand away again, every single denial-cell she possessed began working overtime as she walked past him and headed out of the yard, into the alley beyond it and further to the street.

He didn’t wait long before he followed.

She was reaching the street as he entered the alley and he knew what she was thinking, what she was feeling, what question marks were rising in her head. He had known it would come to this, God damnit, and he’d done it anyway. Why? Why had he complied when he should have run the hell out of there when he was told what they needed to do?

“Buffy!” he called after her.

“You know what I want?!” she called back, looking at him over her shoulder. “I want...!”

But she didn’t get to finish the sentence, because she walked straight into what felt like a block of concrete. She turned her head back to facing forward just in time to see the featurelessness of No Face. She was about to give a yell when his hands grabbed her wrists and pulled her with him into the middle of the street with such awesome force she lost her breath.

Their surroundings began to change, No Face continuing with the dragging her forward and when she looked back she saw Spike coming out of the alley, the vision of him blurring when the scenery-switch started to close in around her. He would be stuck on the other side. She tried to tear free, but there was no use.

“Spike!” she yelled, seeing him begin to run towards her just as the wall of a room grew into firmness, and he was gone.