Notes For Readers:This story is set post Grave (season 6); one month after it. (So, late June.) Giles and Willow are in England, Xander is still in Sunnydale with Buffy and Dawn (Dawn is in summer school). Anya remains a Vengeance Demon.
This is a story I did back in 2004; then it was titled Forbidden, but this title feels more appropriate. It was never finished because I moved around a lot for a few years after that. However, after a resurgence of my own interest in Buffy, I've decided I'd like to rewrite this fic and repost it. Because this story is pre season seven there are some elements that will not be as they are known in that season. To put it plainly—parts of Spike's past, especially those involving his family and his mother.
Note For My Naruto/Regular Readers: I haven't forgotten about NGD or Nightingale, or for that matter Right Kind of Wrong. This story is practically written; it just needed a brush up. I'll do my best to get an update in for NGD soon. It also helps those stories are essentially done. So, no throwing things at me, yes?
Summary: "Make me what I was," he'd said. And the demon did; only, he didn't expect those words to send him to his past. Unfortunately for Whistler, this meant enlisting a certain Slayer to retrieve him. In the end, Buffy found herself in for more than she bargained for. Dressing as a man was the least of her problems.
"The day you figure out what you want, there'll be a bloody parade."
And then she was singing, her voice betraying her; it seemed his had betrayed him as well, revealing more and more. And they drew closer, and god she really knew what she wanted; to simply feel. His lips met hers; she shut he world out and let herself drown in him. All that pain, agony, everything that pricked and pricked all damn day vanished. There was no Willow ripping her away from solace; there was no Xander deciding what was right in the world; there was… peace and mutual surrender.
She was the closest to heaven he'd ever get, her golden hair, her hazel eyes and her small body moving against his. He'd dreamed of this moment, the moment when he'd have her in his solid embrace, her warmth radiating into him. It was always just too damned to good to even hope for; until now he only could look at it from afar. But, that had all changed when she'd placed her lips on his, ground her hips against his own, showing him what he did to her and finding out exactly what she did to him.
But then she was pushing him out of her arms, crying out as if in pain as her wide hazel eyes stared at him. They seemed brimmed with tears. He could nothing but stare at her, unformed words catching in his throat.
Like a wounded animal, she whispered only loud enough for him to hear, "I can't." Then she was running, turning from him, her boots hitting the hard asphalt as she ran out of the alley.
He felt his heart strain, tighten, and yet at the same time feel as if he gained ground. Still, he couldn't stop his body as he fell to his knees, nor could he stop that damning feeling inside that no matter how much he tried to convince himself that his love was enough for the both of them—it'd simply never be enough for him.
Buffy sat cold and detached on the hard floor of the bathroom, the tears begging to course down her face. Can't blame him, she told herself. He had tried to rape her, but she couldn't blame him. It wasn't her fault either, but it hurt so much. The feeling twisted in her gut, turning and pulling. Oh, how she'd wanted to respond, wanted to give in, to feel. And then the tears came earnest. Forbidden, her mind whispered. She wasn't allowed to touch him, but she had. She wasn't allowed to want his to make it all go away—the endless pain, but she did. She wasn't suppose to want to run after him—to sink into him, but... oh how she wished she could… how she wished she could…
He endured the trials, felt the burn and the harsh torment. He ignored the ongoing spray of red, ignored the searing ache, and the symphony of death that bored a fire in his veins. His face was a cold mask covered in sweat and blood; twisted and torn was his unbeating heart from a love that would never be returned. He pushed those thoughts back, concentrating as he waited for his greatest desire to be granted.
Finally, the Demon's spoke. The return of his soul? Bloody hell! A lifetime of pain could never be compared to the burn that coursed through him now, frying his blood and his insides, making him feel aflame. He was dying; he had to be. The world around him hazed, faded and became black. Darkness remained and he felt as if he was moving backwards, backwards somewhere in that frame of mind… to what was…
"Careful… the ink's still wet… please, It's not finished," he pleaded among his audience, his voice entirely too soft. His cold blue depths were glazed over beneath a glass framework that was his spectacles. Silently his mind screamed he wanted to kill the man for touching his precious poem. It wasn't hi; it wasn't ready. Therefore he had no right to lay so much as a finger on his heart's terrible writings. Granted, they were terrible, but they were his.
"Don't be shy," the Lord Newdred replied with a sneering smile. His eyes went down to the paper, ready to read what young William had written. "My heart expands, 'tis grown a bulge in it, inspired by your beauty—effulgent." He paused a moment, looking at William. "Effulgent?"
There was laughter among that audience, looming out and crowding his heart. It wasn't so much he was being laughed at; it was that he was being laughed at for his writing. He snatched the paper from Lord Newdred's hands then stormed off after Cicely. He'd watched her, tried to impress her. He ignored the laughter about him, barely hearing their taunting words.
"That's actually one of his better compositions," one man said.
More laughter from a woman as she spoke up, "Have you heard? They call him William the Bloody because of his bloody awful poetry!"
"It suits him," he heard Newdred reply, "I'd rather have a railroad spike through my head than listen to that awful stuff." There was more laughter, but it seemed to fade away as he approached the woman who held his heart. Pity she probably didn't know it yet.
She seemed a goddess as she sat by the window, her eyes gazing out at the night past the veil of soft white lace that was the curtain. Her gown was a lovely cream trimmed in a soft violet. She wasn't elaborated in her style, but all the more demure and simply beautiful by what she wore. Her hair, those pretty brown silk tresses placed in perfect curls, fell from the style it was up in to frame her face in what seemed like feathery kisses. Oh, how he longed to be one of those tresses, to be able to be that close to her face, to touch her soft skin with a bare brush of movement.
He slowly approached, "Cicely?"
She turned to face him, her face captivated in surprise, "Oh, leave me alone." She turned, pulling her fan out and easing the heat of the room away from her face with it.
He turned, moving to sit down, "Oh, their vulgarians. They're not like you and I."
"You and I?" she suddenly paused her fanning, gazing at him as question befell her facial features.
He seemed to grasp for a reply, though, even when his whit jumped to reach his lips, it seemed to fail him with his nervousness.
"I'm going to ask you a very personal question," she said all at once, "And I demand an honest answer." There was a short pause, "Do you understand?"
He simply nodded, his voice failing him still.
She still gave him that questioning gaze. "Your poetry… they're… not written about me are they?"
He paused himself, begging god for strength. "They're about how I feel…" He kept her gaze with amazing composure; his voice was soft, yet full of emotion he held back in great pain.
"Yes…" she said quietly, "But, are they about me?"
He paused again, taking in a small breath through his nose, and holding in his pride, "Every syllable."
"Oh, god!" she said suddenly, her fan moving rapidly as she turned from him to cool herself from what seemed immediate heat.
"Oh, I know…" he said, nearly stuttering in his embarrassment, "It's sudden. And please," his eyes looked down and then back at her, "they're only words. But… the feelings behind them… I love you Cicely." his voice was low, feeling as though his heart was catching in his throat as he tried to display how he felt.
"Please stop," she said more urgency as she turned away from his gaze once more.
"I…" he tried to find the words again. "I know I'm a bad poet, but I'm a good man… all I ask…" once more he was stuttering, "is th-that you try to see me-."
"I do see you," she replied as she turned to face him. "That's the problem." She held his gaze boldly—cruelly. "You're nothing to me, William." She slowly stood before him, gazing down at him as if to make him feel lower than her. "You're beneath me." and then she turned, walking away, leaving not even a second delay to catch the tears that fell from the man now carrying his heart in shattered pieces before him.