Mountain Dew 2/?
Author: dutchbuffy2305, aka db2305
Story note: 10 years post-NFA
Rating: M
Betaed by: mommanerd and thedeadlyhook
Feedback: I never tire of it! dutchbuffy2305@yahoo.co.uk
After Buffy has devoured her joyless breakfast – Spike heats his blood furtively and drinks it inside his aluminum foil cabin, so as not to alarm the Sherpas – they hunch over the fire and discuss tactics for tonight. To douse the fires or not to douse the fires, that's the question. Andrew's been so vague about the exact shape of the impending evil event, that it's almost impossible to take precautions. They decide to keep one fire burning, in the middle of the plateau, and station themselves on either end, so that they can take advantage of the light or a burning brand if they need to. They lay out the arsenal the Sherpas lugged up: swords, lances, axes, crossbows, stakes, flamethrowers, holy water, amulets, poison darts, portable spells, arc lights rigged to the small generator, plastic sheets for asphyxiation, cords for strangulation, nets for the unkillable, a sonic weapon and ear protectors. Spike has never had occasion to use most of them, and he doubts that he will now. When in a tight spot, he tends to use the fists and fangs he's most comfortable with, and maybe a sword or two.
He nudges a peculiar hybrid object, a cross between an axe and a scythe. "That still the original The Axe?"
"Yep," Buffy says.
"Use it often?"
"Nah. Most demons respond pretty well to ordinary axes. But I thought I'd bring it, just in case."
"Yeah. Never know what might work, eh? Not expecting Turok Han, that's for sure."
"Me neither. Something pretty big, though."
"Yeah. Maybe we should have brought stilts. Or Andrew should have sent taller heroes."
Buffy grins. "I knew I shouldn't have thrown away those platform shoes in 2007."
There's a little hiccup behind his breastbone at this comradely look of hers. They're cool. They can do this together. It's been a while since they last fought as a team, but Spike's got every confidence that it will be like always. Seamless cooperation. As long as it's physical, they've always dealt well together.
Spike rises from his crouch and holds out his hand to Buffy. "Shall we?"
"Shall we what?" Buffy says, but accepts his hand and steps across the fire to his side.
"Dunno. Take our positions? Or maybe inspect the crime scene to be?"
"Sure. I wanna have a good poke -around in that cave anyway, in case we have to fight inside it. If they come out of there."
"Andrew says either out of the cave or from the sky into the cave, ancient manuscripts bollocksed up as per usual."
Spike trains his flashlight on the entrance of the cave. It lights on sharp rock teeth and smooth rock gums where the teeth have broken off. In the weak beam of the flashlight both shine reddish, like old blood. It doesn’t have a nice level floor like movie caves, with the occasional stalactite or stalagmite for color. It's not made out of mashed paper or foam, either. It's all jagged spears of rock crowding in on them as they clamber over and under, and have to stop after a dozen feet in or so, as the cave mouth narrows to a sphincter leading down into the mountain. Big enough to throw a baby through, maybe, but that's about it. Nothing really big and scary could come out of it, but you never know with demons. Maybe it's a portal from another dimension on Midsummer. They just don't know.
#
This is a night of heightened alertness, so the Sherpas are also awake and Buffy and Spike traverse the ledge even more times than when they're doing their so-called jogging. It's boring. The temperature drops to below zero, the stars glitter hard and inimical from their peepholes in the sky, her hands are only warm if she's more or less putting them in the fire.
At one point Spike says he has to show her something.
"What?" she says, numbed by cold and inaction.
"I have a letter from Andrew I'm supposed to show you midnight sharp before Midsummer. Sorry."
His voice sounds sincere. It's hard to judge a person in darkness with them wearing thick camouflage caps and mufflers and eye protectors.
"I don't think I can read by firelight," Buffy says, a little snippily.
"My cabin has good lighting," Spike says, apologetically, which always raises her hackles. She doesn’t like him apologetic, it brings back memories.
Why has Andrew given the letter to Spike and not to her, huh? It's not fair to give him the advantage. Who's the senior operative here? Hm. Maybe it's Spike. It is entirely possible Andrew likes and respects Spike more than her, the senior Slayer. Buffy promises herself to be professional. Act like she hasn't just been hurt and rejected. That little creep.
Spike lets her into his cabin, for the first time ever since she helped staple the aluminum foil into place. The flashlight, and later the arc light reflect thousands of times into the alternately smooth and creased foil, and maybe this is what popcorn feels like before it pops. The wind sneaks in through the gaps between the rough planks and rustles the sheets of foil with a tinny sound that Buffy feels in her fillings.
Spike digs into his backpack, which seems to contain only black clothes. He finds an envelope. Before he can open it, Buffy says impulsively. "Take off your cap?"
"What? Whatever for, Slayer?"
He must feel defensive. Because he never calls her Slayer anymore.
"Because. It's hard to talk to someone….I just want to see the color of your hair," Buffy says.
Spike utters a mini-raspberry of surprise.
Buffy waits.
Spike doesn't move.
At last, he shrugs, opens up the hat's Velcro fastenings and takes it off. His hair is mussed, showing an inch of outgrowth, but is still very platinum.
Buffy's smile stretches to her ears, and she wants to reel it in but she just can't stop smiling. "Cool. It's still bleached. I was hoping it was, you know?"
Spike looks away from her and puts his cap back on. "If I'd known you took a keen interest in my hair color I'd have sent you a memo," he says gruffly.
"Don't be a grumpy old man. I like it that you haven't changed that, at least."
"You mean I changed everything else?"
"Well, yeah. You have a soul, and you're a hero, and you're this cool adventurer guy who gets to travel all over the world and stamp out evil. What's not to envy?"
For the first time in days, he looks into her eyes. Or maybe he does it all the time, but it's hard to tell under all the gear. His eyes are as silver as the aluminum foil. The effect is to make him more inhuman, pale and cold and perfect in his silver palace.
"Envy. Buffy the Vampire Slayer envies me?"
"Is that so strange?"
"Well, excuse me, yeah." He says 'Yea -huh". With a big emphasis on the yea. "Don't want to bring up old memories that are best buried, but that's not what you thought about me. And what the bloody hell is keeping you from living that exact same life?"
Buffy shrugs. "Apart from Aura? Never mind. Let's just concentrate on Andrew's letter. For all we know, the world is ending while we're here bickering."
"We're not bloody bickering! You said…"
Buffy leaves Spike in his hall of mirrors. She's not doing this. Not getting angry at him, ever again.
#
Bugger. She's run out and they haven't read Andrew's letter.
What the hell does she mean, wanting to see his hair? Christ, he should have stuck to his guns when Andrew first asked him to take on a mission with Buffy. He can think of several mates of his who would have thought this trip a great lark. Then he'd have been spared the bloody wrenching memories and the scent and her heart beating all the time. His dreams are only of her, and he hasn’t been like that in years. Fucking years. Girlfriend after girlfriend. Happy.
She can stew in her own petty anger for all he cares. Stupid bint.
#
Buffy sits by the fire, her butt cold as ice, and tries to sulk. For some reason sulking isn't easy in this mountain perch. The clean, pure dry air, and the faint fluting rumble of the glacier below, simply waft her sulkiness out of her and what remains is a faint sadness. Regret might be a better word. Might-have-beens and if-onlys chase each other between stacks of dusty memories.
#
"Sorry about that, Buff. I'll read it to you."
"Okay." Several heartbeats. "I'm sorry I blew up. I don't usually have a temper like that. Something here is making me antsy."
Right, something is making her antsy. Spike reckons it's him. Not to be all swollen-headed, but her endless masturbating keeps him awake for hours on end. But. He's not Giles, to ignore his Slayer's intuitions until she fires him. Could be something her honed Slayer senses are picking up.
He fishes the letter from his pocket and starts skimming the contents.
"No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:
tea mo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entra la sombra y el alma."
"I do not love you as if you were salt-rose…" Has Andrew gone bonkers? This is one of the poems he read last night, albeit in translation, but his Spanish is good enough to recognize it.
"What it is?" Buffy demands impatiently. "You look funny."
"Don't I always?" he answers, absorbed by the riddle.
"No. You're very…What's it say?"
"It's a poem."
"Oh. And after that?"
"Nothing. Not even a signature. What the hell did Andrew mean by it?"
And how come he'd been reading this very poem this afternoon, dreaming of Buffy, pretending he wasn't, even to himself? Did Andrew know that he's always carried the Neruda poems with him on missions, the past five years or so? Those poets that can't, read, he supposes.
"Let's radio him."
"He'll be asleep," Buffy says, but she's already on her way to the radio and its designated Sherpa.
The radio isn't working. It's supposed to withstand everything cell phones can't, even if there was any kind of reception up here, but it's silent, wheezing out the song of empty airwaves. Not a snatch of music or the Tibetan resistance groups they usually receive before they find Andrew's call sign in Thimphu.
"Bugger." The sky is pinking to their left.
"I'll try again around noon, Spike," Buffy says, putting her mitt on the sleeve of his thick parka. Spike wishes he could feel her hand on his skin instead. "I was going to have a look at that cave again, anyway."
"Ta. G’nite, Buff."
"G’nite, Spike."
Her eyes are locked on his nape like laser beams. He shouldn't fear sniper Cupid, although his heart's not armor-plated. He was first shot a long time ago, and there's no such thing as double indemnity in love.
#
Buffy performs her morning ritual of tea-slurping and stretching. She crawls into her sun-warmed bed and tries to sleep. She's gotta be at peak alertness tonight. Be able to fight whatever's coming at them.
Seven perfect relaxation exercises later, sleep has not come. Whatever made her snap at Spike for no good reason still travels along her nerves, shrieking and shaking her limbs like the Chicago El. She counts to one thousand. Her limbs are motionless and heavy, and by all rights, she should be long asleep. Spike's head on the pillow below her, his eyes black with longing, looking up at her in utter trust, his mouth soft and pink beneath her lips. This time she strangles him until his face is blue and his tongue lolls out. The necklace of skulls around her neck jangles against her black, shellacked skin.
The thing that she's sure is in her, around her, debrides her nerves. They must be lying bare like stripped copper wire by now.
Buffy sits up. She's a Slayer, and her body is telling her something. It's almost noon on her watch. So she did sleep? She doesn't remember sleeping or dreaming. The sleeping bag has become twisted around her legs in a spiral, as if she's walked up a staircase winding like the whorls of a shell. She fights free of it. She dresses, painstakingly, although her fingers jitter and her heartbeat is telling her she's in a hurry.
Outside all is silent and still. The air is like boiling chicken stock, yellow, salty, with pockets of liquid superheated fat that sting her eyes and halt her step. Where are the Sherpas? They are not sitting gossiping around their little fire as usual, preparing that ghastly chili and cheese dish they like so much. The sun has found the cave entrance and its black rocky rim is now red and shiny with heat.
A sound behind her makes her wheel around sharply. She's instantly dizzy and spreads her arms like a tightrope walker to keep standing. Squinting her eyes tight against the sun's hostile glare, she sees the world on top of the world spread out before her. Row upon row of dun and black mountains, bald and distrustful, glaring at her reproachfully or giving her the cold shoulder. A lone bird circles up on an almost visible column of hot air. For a second, it floats over the glacier's racing stripes and then plummets down with a raucous cry.
Released by the death scream of the bird, Buffy's hold on her own balance slips and she falls down, pole-axed. She lies spread-eagled on the harsh, bumpy rock, her eyes tearing up with pain, and that saves her as the sun's prying copper fingers attempt to fry her brain.
She is the center of the world. It wheels around her, ponderous and vast, on the imaginary but intensely painful and tangible axis rammed through her sternum. Ages pass, and her only defense is to blink and produce tears. The heat of the sun warms the seam of her thick padded pants and it's almost as if….She wants to squirm, get her ass out of the sun. The soles of her feet are so firmly planted on the earth, why can't she move? Why aren't the Sherpas rushing out to help her?
She melts and runs like wax and it pools on the rock, hot enough to bake an egg, and she's gonna bake, split open like a cake baking too fast, so the sun can get at her soft gooey interior and lick her out.
She urgently needs saving and she should be able to save herself but she can't move, helplessly pinned as she is under the sun's stern gaze; feminine, open, powerless, forced to accept his glare and his gifts.
TBC
Feedback:dutchbuffy2305@yahoo.co.uk