anaross (anaross) wrote,

Gimme Shelter Ch. 3.

Gimme Shelter Ch. 3.

  Earlier Gimme Shelter Chapters


She was crazy to see him. Crazy. The need clawed through her and grabbed at her throat, and she couldn't even say it. I need to see him, she would say if she could speak.  But Faith was holding her again, and Rona too, the two of them hard and hot around her, and she couldn't see past them, or over the broad back of the psephlic in front of her. I need to see him. Spike. I need to—

But Faith was yelling in her ear. Rona says—

Rona says—

And Rona was yelling too. He doesn't remember. He doesn't remember anything. Giles says—

Giles, Buffy croaked out. Giles would know. Giles knew. Giles knew and didn't--

Giles is leaving, Rona yelled, and Buffy saw him now at the side of the crowd, stalking out through the kitchen door like he owned the place and was going in there to fire the chef.

"Giles knew," she said clearly, and Rona gathered her in for a fierce hug, and Faith, well, in the two minutes since Giles had said that name—that name—Faith had somehow gotten every bit of intel and was leaning close to share it.

"He's back. He's okay. But he doesn't remember Sunnydale, Giles says," Faith said, though she couldn’t have exchanced word one with Giles. She must have heard all this from Rona in that crazy moment when Buffy couldn't think of anything but how she wanted to see him.  "He doesn't know and Giles says it's best that way."

I still want to see him, she whispered into Rona's hot neck. "Let me go," she ordered, and Rona let her go—releasing one arm and then the other, and then backing off a step, backing up right into the psephlic demon, who said, "Hey, now, little lady."

There was such a crowd, jostling and solid, and those damn dampers had slowed her Slayer skills, and she couldn't get more than a few steps. 

"Come on," Faith said, and took her arm.

Then she heard him. That voice. That rich, amused voice. Of Spike. 

"Need some ladies. Some slayers. Got a song for you!"

And the crowd parted, and slayers rushed forward—girls she knew from Sunnydale, girls she'd met since, and a couple she didn't recognize. "Come on!" Faith cried, her face filling with excitement now.

And so she followed them all to the front, where they parted to let Faith and her—the Chosen Ones—clamber first up the stage steps.

He was there. It was him. She knew it. She felt it. She raised her head and looked straight at him, and he grinned and made a courtly bow, and held out his hands, one for each of them. And he smiled—first at her, and then, more fully, at Faith. His hand was cool and firm over hers. She remembered that feeling.

He didn't.

"Ah," he said, over the whining of the rhythm guitar. "The real thing, are you."

And Faith tossed her head, and said, "Takes one to know one," and he laughed like that was the wittiest riposte ever.

He didn't know her. It was true. He knew she – and Faith—were special. He could tell that much. But that was all he knew. He didn't know Buffy and he didn't know their past and he didn't know—he didn't know he loved her.

He still did. She knew it, even if he didn't.

He looked the same. Oh, not the same. Longer hair, darker now. No. That was the only difference. That and that easy politeness in his eyes as he looked at her.

For a second. And a second more. Then he turned again to Faith, and gave her another type of look.

Buffy knew that look. It was HER look. She was about to grab him and tell him to quit looking at anyone else that way, even – especially—Faith, but the band had lurched into an opening riff, and the slayerettes were massing behind them, and Spike had grabbed the microphone.  "Sure," he said, "the Stones have Jagger. But even Jagger doesn't have…" he gestured around him—"The Slayer Chorus!"

Then he grabbed the mike and leaned forward and sang, very soft, "Oh, the storm is threatening…"

Buffy felt it again, that weird disconnect. This wasn't her life, was it. She didn't know what to do. He was there and he was the only thing in her life that had ever made any sense—and he didn't know her. And that made no sense.

The other slayers were swaying behind them, and so she swayed too, and they were singing "ooh-ooh," so she did too, low, because she didn't like her singing voice.  And then one slayer belted out, "It's just—" and stepped forward. Rona, with that powerful booming voice of her, stepped forward to the mike and sang with Spike. And he knew she'd do that. She'd done it before. She knew. Giles knew. And no one told her—

But the song was going on and she couldn't stop everything just to cry or grab Rona's braids and yank or grab Spike and—

"War, slayers, it's just a shot away. War, demons, it's just a shot away."

He sang that, and the demons and slayers all sang along, old warriors, new warriors, but warriors without much of a war. Just the song—

Everyone was dancing. But Faith—somehow Faith was dancing not in the line with the rest of them, not even with Rona up by the microphone. She was dancing with Spike, as Rona's voice dropped to a whisper, "Tell you, sister, it's just a kiss away. It's just a kiss away. Kiss away. Kiss away."

Faith and Spike, and Buffy couldn't stand it.  She strode forward and shoved Faith out of the way and took her place, growling, "Mine," and looking up into Spike's glowing gold-blue eyes.

Faith just stood there, and then said, "Yeah. Okay. Yours," and stepped back into the chorus. 

Spike was laughing too much to take the mike from Rona, and she had to sing the last refrain by herself. He was used to this. Used to women—slayers—fighting over him.

Well, no more. They were going to know, and he was going to know, that there was only one slayer for him.  She pressed toward him, almost touching him, their bodies finding a rhythm. The rhythm. The Buffy-Spike rhythm, their bodies almost meeting at the halfway point, dancing as one, every thrust met, every move anticipated. It was scary and sexy. And he didn't remember this, but his body did.

Gimme Shelter-- Stones, Alas, not Spike



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