HELL IS WHAT WE MAKE IT
by Laure Alexander

http://www.grapevine.net/~lwilson/btvs.html

Moments in time....

Buffy woke with a start, her hand instinctively reaching for the person with whom she spent most of her days.

The bed was empty.

Sighing softly, she rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling and the ornate chandelier that hung over the four poster bed. The light was off, but she could see the crystals swaying gently in the breeze of the air conditioner.

A concession to the queen's few human pets.

Hunger rumbled through Buffy and she debated for a few minutes over whether or not it was worth it to get out of bed, finally sliding her legs over the edge. Her feet touched the floor and she rose, dropping the forest green velvet blanket from her nude body. Padding silently across the rich oak floors, she flipped on the light switch, then opened her wardrobe doors.

A wide array of frivolous, girly clothes filled the dark interior, satins and silks shimmering in the light next to luxurious velvets and brocades. Grabbing the first dress, she tugged it over her head, not caring what she looked like.

Never caring what she looked like anymore.

The royal blue silk slid over her slender curves, held up by thin straps over her shoulders, and fell to her ankles. It was a simple dress, but very elegant.

She always felt like she was a dress-up doll in the clothes she was given.

Picking up a brush, she drew it through her tangled hair, uncaring about the knots she pulled out, wanting to get the evening started.

One more evening started, one more evening over with, one less evening in her existence.

Slipping her feet into a pair of black flats, she left the room and headed silently to the kitchen.

~~~

As she was about to enter the cavernous room, a hand snagged her arm and she spun around, snarling. The anger immediately fled and she sank against her lover.

"Angel," she whispered against his naked chest, wincing at the welt she could feel beneath her cheek.

Angel's arms encircled her waist, pulling her close, his lips brushing the top of her head, as he murmured, "I've missed you."

"It's been four days." The complex in which they lived--the former mayoral residence--was huge, and their respective apartments were in opposite wings, as far away from each others as they could get. Not their choice.

Angel's arms tightened, his hands caressing her naked back beneath the barely there dress. "She's busy tonight with that new influx of demons. I was able to slip away."

Buffy shivered and glanced up at his handsome face. "She'll notice you're missing..."

"There's nothing new she can do to me."

"She can kill you." Buffy hated expressing her greatest fear.

"And forfeit her own life. She's insane, but not that insane." He kissed her forehead, then lowered his mouth to hers.

Buffy clung to him, clung to these brief moments in time in which she was happy, in which she could pretend that everything was right in her world.

"Pet..."

Eyes flickering open, Buffy saw Angel's face shutter, the mask fall, as he pulled back from her, his mouth leaving hers, his hands leaving her shoulders. Heart sinking, she turned and took the outstretched hand that shook with a slight tremor. Behind her, she could hear Angel leaving, her sensitive ears picking up the whisper of sound his shoes made on the stone floor, as she drifted into Spike's embrace.

His hands slid up her arms, drawing her against his lean body. She felt another tremor go through him and let her eyes fall shut, baring her throat.

He bit, effortlessly, carefully, yet...uncaringly. It never hurt much. He was always gentle and only took enough to survive, but...

Feeding on her should have brought him pleasure. They should have been writhing in their bed, wrapped in each others embrace, their nude bodies moving as one as he drank and grew strong.

But, he never bit her there, never fed from her in bed, never brought her that kind of pleasure.

Buffy sighed softly, sadly, as Spike pulled his fangs free and licked the wounds until they closed. Releasing her from his arms, he took her hand and they walked into the kitchen.

Bypassing the live food hanging from hooks in the ceiling, Spike opened the large walk-in refrigerator and took out two bags of blood. Handing Buffy one, he opened the other and drank deeply.

Buffy made a face, then quickly consumed the cold blood.

~~~

The gardens of the mansion were full of night blooming flowers and trees, kept alive through magic. Buffy walked down one of the many paths that led eventually to a gate to the outside of the compound. She rarely left, not wanting to see what remained of the town she had failed to protect, but Spike had disappeared as soon as he had fed, and it was only an hour till dawn.

She knew where he'd gone and she knew that if she didn't go after him, the chances were good he would walk into the two hours of sun they got a day.

Pushing the gate open, Buffy stepped into the rubble-filled streets of Sunnydale, now known to the scattered residents as Hell. It was estimated that of the approximately 20,000 men, women and children living in Sunnydale before the night of the crimson moon only about five percent remained human, trapped by wards, prevented from leaving the boundaries of the town. They scraped out a living during those two hours of sunlight, growing plants under sun lamps, keeping to their houses during the near endless darkness, never letting anyone inside.

Buffy's mother was one of the survivors. At least, she'd been alive three months ago, the last time Buffy had forced herself to check on her. Every time she saw her once vibrant mother, the guilt nearly overwhelmed her, nearly drove HER into the sun.

Sidestepping a pile of corpses--demon as well as human, she was happy to see--Buffy made her way unerringly towards the smallest, most secluded of Sunnydale's twelve cemeteries.

The cemeteries were always quiet--unless someone was making zombies. No one was buried anymore. Humans who died and were found by other humans, were burned to prevent them from rising.

Buffy had spent so much time within the quiet, walled- confines of these places, patrolling amongst the tombstones, even occasionally stopping to admire the funereal art, that she always felt very comfortable with the dead.

Those that stayed dead, at least.

She found Spike where she expected him to be, kneeling at a lone grave beneath a large oak, its few leaves a pitiful sight, yet its branches stretching for the heavens. His hand rested on the stone cross and Buffy winced at the smell of burnt flesh.

He always did this, always punished himself. This was his penance for survival.

Buffy dropped to her knees, her eyes scanning the familiar words he'd carved literally by hand the night after he'd buried her, ruining his claws and tearing his fingers to shreds.

'Lily, my Dark Goddess, lost to the night, she took the sun with her.'

Three years had passed, and reading the words always brought a tear to Buffy's eye as she remembered Lily's death and the numerous tragedies that had followed, not the least her own destruction and subsequent rebirth.

Her mind skittered away from the dark memories of those first few weeks, to the male kneeling beside her, tears streaming down his cheeks.

At times, he was more human than she was.

It hurt to see him like this, so very lost, but Buffy knew she couldn't save him. His salvation lay six feet beneath them, lost to them forever. All Buffy could do was keep him alive.

At times, she wondered why she bothered. 'Life' was miserable for both of them, but, at least she had hope. She had...Angel.

"Go away, Slayer," Spike croaked hoarsely.

"You know I can't." She spoke softly yet sincerely. The queen of Hell would destroy her if she allowed him to give in to the temptation to suicide.

No, Buffy's job was to keep Spike alive for Drusilla's amusement.

With a snarl, Spike turned on her, placing one clawed hand on her chest and shoving her backwards. "I don't need you, bitch."

Tumbling onto her back, Buffy rolled into a defensive crouch. Spike rarely got angry these days, but, when he did, he could easily rip her to shreds because she no longer had the heart to fight him. His eyes flashed yellow at her, his deeply buried demon free for the moment.

How long had it been since it had made its presence known?

Buffy held her tongue. He did need her, his very survival depended on her.

And he hated it at times. Hated that she wasn't the one he really wanted to succor him. Hated her for not being the Slayer he loved past death.

Spike's hand snaked out and caught her wrist, his claws digging into her tender flesh until she winced. She did nothing to resist as he pulled her into his arms. Bending her over his lover's grave, he buried his mouth in her throat and bit, drinking deeply.

As he passed the point of his normal daily consumption, Buffy began to struggle, fighting against his iron grip and the painful bite, as dizziness assailed her. Her eyes drifted shut and she whispered his name.

With an abrupt howl of grief, Spike pulled his fangs free and dropped her. As she rolled limply onto her side, he flung himself against the cross.

The scent of burning hair, the sound of sizzling flesh, brought Buffy back to awareness and she opened her eyes to find him embracing the cross, his hands and cheek burning. With a strangled cry, she forced herself onto her knees and grabbed his shoulder, pulling him back.

He let her--she was too weak to move him if he didn't want to be moved--and they fell backwards onto the dead grass. Rolling him onto his back, Buffy crouched over him, her eyes quickly examining the burn marks on his face. The skin was puckered and red, but his eye appeared to be undamaged. It blinked up at her, full of sorrow and shot with blood.

"We're quite the pair," Buffy said lightly, trying to bring him out of the mood he was in.

Spike pushed himself up into a seated position, trying not to use his hands. Buffy grabbed his arms and helped him, then they both staggered to their feet. Feeling a tingling on the back of her neck, Buffy glanced over her shoulder and saw the pinkening sky. Quickly she calculated the distance to the mansion, taking into account their weakened states, and determined they weren't going to make it.

"You're an idiot," she quipped gruffly, pulling him by the arm towards the nearest mausoleum that had an entrance to the sewers. They had to get underground. Occasionally a brave human would go in search of sleeping demons caught away from the larger lairs, but Buffy knew the underground better than anyone and there were a lot of secret passages and rooms.

~~~

Buffy closed the iron door behind them and looked around the safe-room. Spike sat where she'd dumped him--on the edge of the cot, staring at the floor. Going over to the sink, she opened the cabinet above and sighed in relief. There was a jar of crystallized blood. Pouring some of the magic crystals into two mugs, she added water and stirred. Not quite as nutritional as fresh or bagged blood, but it would do until they could get back to the mansion.

Drinking hers, she carried the other mug over to Spike. Careful of his burned hands, he took it in silence and drained the liquid, his face remaining stoic.

"I don't know how you can stand to drink this stuff with a straight face."

Ignoring her, he set his empty mug on the table next to the bed, shrugged out of his coat, and lay back, curling onto his side, facing the wall.

Buffy grimaced as she drank the remainder of the blood, then took both mugs to be washed. Tired and still weak, she absently brushed bits of grass and dirt off her once elegant dress, then kicked off her shoes and slid onto the cot next to Spike. Spooning up against his back, she sighed softly, her eyes falling shut.

He didn't reject her touch. She took it as a positive sign.

~~~

Buffy awoke with a start from a short nap and found herself staring at the rough brick wall only an inch or so from her face. Somehow in their sleep their positions had reversed. She started to roll onto her back and found a hand on her head, holding her still.

"No."

Biting her lip at the gruffness of his voice, she remained still, waiting, her eyes focused on one spot on a brick. Indifferent hands pulled her dress up, baring her to the waist. She heard a zipper drawn down, then felt him pressed against her back, one denim-covered leg sliding between her naked ones. Buffy closed her eyes and dug the fingers of one hand into the pillow beneath her head, the other bracing herself against the wall, as she wrapped one leg back over his thigh.

Spike was inside her before another thought could enter her brain, slamming deeply, desperately. His mouth found her shoulder, her throat, sucking and licking. His fingers bit into her thigh, jerking her back against his pelvis.

Buffy's fangs tore at her lower lip, as she forced back cries of pain. Physically he wasn't really hurting her--though he'd done nothing to prepare her. Her body was used to his size and the speed of his thrusts, and vampires often liked their sex rough, even slayers turned vampires. She could feel herself growing slick inside, easing his way, her body encouraging his to move faster.

But, it hurt in her heart--her tender, human heart. Perpetually sixteen, she wanted him to feel something for her. Even though she loved Angel desperately, she was bound to the male fucking her--her sire.

And, too often, she was only a thing to be used by him, not even as a substitute, but just as a receptacle for his sexual needs. Needs he hated himself for satiating.

Hated her, too.

Spike growled against her throat, slamming his pelvis against her bottom harder and harder. A cry erupted from Buffy. She herself didn't know if it was one of pleasure, shock or pain.

His arm wrapped around her stomach and he moved them, rolling onto his back and bringing Buffy over him. Sprawled inelegantly atop him, her thighs spread wide, her fingers digging into the bedding next to his hips, she felt her head slide into the crook of his shoulder and she stared blindly at the ceiling.

Keeping his arm around her stomach, the other one gripping her hip, he jerked her down on him, harshly grunting and growling into her throat.

A surge of unexpected pleasure hit her and Buffy moaned, squirming against him, her heels thumping on the mattress, her back arching.

Suddenly, Spike collapsed beneath her and shoved her off of him. Buffy fell hard on the floor, catching herself on her hands before her head could hit the stone. Stunned, she heard him howl behind her and physically flinched, awaiting a blow that never fell. Glancing up, she saw him curled in a ball on the cot, his body shaking.

Compassion flooded her, along with a growing desire. She had long ago admitted to herself that she was perverse--wanting a man who half the time hated the very sight of her. Lifting herself back onto the cot, she hesitantly reached for him.

Spike flinched from her touch, shaking harder. Carefully she turned him onto his back, not surprised to see his eyes squeezed shut and tears streaking his cheeks. Buffy gently rubbed his shoulders, trying to calm him.

"Spike...look at me..."

Finally, he quieted down, his body stilling. His eyes flickered open, but he avoided looking at her. "Did I hurt you?" he asked, his voice strangled by emotion.

"No." No, he hadn't hurt her, but her body was quivering in suppressed need. Glancing down his torso, Buffy saw that his erection had softened. She sighed pensively, then curled up next to him, her fingers dancing lightly over his t-shirt covered chest.

Spike pulled away from her, reaching down and fastening his jeans, sniffing the scent of her arousal in the close air. He glared at her. "You want me to fuck you. I take you like an animal and you get off on it."

Buffy winced at his angry, cruel words, and sat up next to him. "Can I help it if I am what you made me?"

"I don't want YOU."

His callous words tore into her and anger flooded her. "You can't have who you really want, because she's dead," Buffy yelled.

Spike struck like a cat, his open palm knocking her off the cot for a second time. Buffy sprawled on the floor, stunned that he had hit her, then cried out as he shoved her down onto her stomach, straddling her kicking legs. His hands tore at her skirt, baring her bottom to his furious eyes.

Buffy squirmed, digging at the stone floor, trying to get away from him. She had never seen him so angry. He so rarely showed any strong emotion outside of grief, that she was in shock at his actions.

Before she knew it, he was inside her again, pounding her lithe body into the unyielding floor. One hand pinned her down by the neck, the other was around her stomach, holding her against him as he slammed into her unresisting body. Her knees scraped on the stone, her nipples hardened against the cold.

She was so incredibly wet.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, not from pain, but from humiliation, that even when he was forcing himself into her to punish her, she wanted him. Pleasure spiraled from deep inside her, spreading through her, making her quiver and bite her already torn lip to hold in her moans.

Spike was doing nothing on purpose to bring her this pleasure, but her body instinctively reacted to his--childe to sire, female to male, mate to mate.

Dimly, as her hips slammed back to meet his thrusts, and she began to moan deep in her throat, Buffy wondered if Spike felt any real pleasure in this act of dominance. Was he just taking his anger out on her? Did he need her at all?

Her inner muscles clenched around him, and he growled, then blanketed her back with his hard chest and stomach. As his hand left her neck, his other one slid lower down her stomach and between her wet curls. Buffy whimpered and bucked against him, fresh tears flooding her eyes as she realized he was no longer mindless, it was no longer punishment.

As Spike's fingers found her throbbing center, his fangs sank into the nape of her neck. Screaming in bliss and shock as her orgasm overwhelmed her, her whole body shaking in release, Buffy nearly blacked out.

Roaring against her neck, Spike joined her in climax, sinking both their trembling bodies to the floor. As he separated from her, he gently licked the nape of her neck, his rough tongue sending fresh shivers through her.

He had bitten her during sex. For the first time in the three years that they'd been together.

And the ecstasy was unimaginable.

As the pleasure slowly faded to be replaced by a still pleasant soreness and a tingling throughout her body, Buffy tiredly pulled herself up onto the cot, wincing at the aches from abused muscles and pain from scraped skin. Peeping from behind her mussed up hair, she saw Spike on his knees, fastening his jeans, staring at the floor.

He rose to his feet and reached for his coat. "Sun's down." Without a backward glance, he left the room, leaving the door open behind him.

Still stunned by what had happened, Buffy stared after him, eyes wide and full of sorrow. Something had gone wrong in the last hour. Something that she feared might never be fixed.

~~~

She managed to make it back to the compound without being seen, for which she was grateful. Her torn dress, the scrapes and bites, the dried remnants of lust, were all unmistakable signs of how she had spent the last few hours, and a beacon to any number of depraved demons on the Hellmouth. Slipping inside the mansion, her luck ran out.

Drusilla stood in the large marble foyer, a smirk on her face. "There you are, a little rag-a-muffin."

Buffy wished she could sink into the floor, but stoically stood her ground and stared past the brunette as she strode forward.

"My Spike used you hard?" Drusilla hissed into her ear, before pulling back and giving the blonde a wicked grin. "Did he take you in the dirt? Did you fight him and make him hurt you?"

Buffy's arms instinctively went around herself, as she tried to shut out Drusilla's glee-filled voice.

"He didn't hurt her, my queen. She likes it when he's rough."

Shoulders slumping even more, Buffy turned in the direction of the catty voice. Dressed in a leather cat-suit, Willow strolled out of the library, an evil smile on her porcelain face. Buffy couldn't contain her instinctual shudder. At the moment, she didn't have the strength to deal with what remained of her best friend.

"Poor little Slayer, all broken," Willow crooned.

"Leave her alone," Spike barked from the stairs. Buffy looked up gratefully and watched him descend to the main level.

Turning towards him with narrowed, gleaming eyes, Drusilla said, "Always the bitch's champion."

"She's mine to champion or not." His eyes flashed to his former lover's and he held her gaze for nearly a minute, before dismissing her and walking over to Buffy. He took her hand and led her back up the stairs, never glancing back at the fuming vampiresses.

Safely behind the heavy door of their room, Buffy slumped tiredly onto a chaise lounge and stared at the floor, ignoring Spike as he moved silently around the room. The scent of blood hit her and she glanced up to find him holding a goblet out to her. Taking it, she downed its contents quickly...fresh.

"You need it," he interjected before she could protest. "The donor was dying anyway."

A delicate shudder ran through her, but she no longer felt sorrow for those who died.

They were the lucky ones.

Buffy set the goblet down with a shaking hand, as she felt unwelcome tears forming in her eyes.

Everything was so wrong...

"C'mon baby, let's get you cleaned up and tucked into bed," Spike said gently, holding out one of his hands. Buffy blinked up at him, feeling the pain inside her lessen at the tender sorrow in his expression, then took his hand and let him lead her into their bathroom. He turned on the shower, then efficiently, yet carefully, stripped her torn dress from her. Buffy stepped out of her shoes, then watched him undress and drop his clothes in the hamper.

Scooping her into his arms, he carried her into the shower. Hot water sluiced over them and steam surrounded them, as he set her lightly on her feet, supporting her with his arms around her waist.

Their eyes met, and then Buffy sank against him, burrowing her face into his chest. Tenderly, Spike stroked her shoulders as she cried.

~~~

Wrapped in a white silk robe, Buffy sat on the bed between Spike's legs as he drew a comb slowly through her wet hair. They hadn't spoken since he'd taken her into the bathroom, but the silence was comforting. He'd let her cry, then had bathed her gently, wincing at the bruises he'd given her, gently placing a kiss on her marked cheek.

She took it as an apology. From him, verbal ones were so rare to be almost unheard of.

Setting the comb aside, Spike wrapped his arms around her, lowering his forehead to her shoulder and rocking them gently. Buffy patted one of his hands and closed her eyes, relaxing in his embrace.

For one brief moment in time, she was content.

End