Chapter Twenty-One
Buffy had never been more grateful to return to the solitude of a room in her life. The long strain of fatigue was embedded in her coloring; her entire body ready to collapse as she crossed the threshold. It was her good fortune that Spike was behind her. He held her arm with tender concern, ushering her to the den that was now no one’s bedroom.
It felt as though years had come and gone since she sat. Since she was alone. Since she had someone there to comfort her. But no. With her vampire behind her, there could be no doubt. He guided her to the nearest sofa and encouraged her wordlessly to sit down.
“’m gonna go get somethin’ for you to eat,” he said after she was situated. “You look pale.”
Buffy smiled gratefully but shook her head. “I’m good, but thanks.”
Spike was adamant. He shook his head right back at her and flicked on the television before tossing her the remote. “You look pale,” he said again. “An’ that’s comin’ from a vamp.”
A small grin flirted with her lips. “You know you’re pale when…”
He smiled back at her. “Tonight took a lot outta everyone,” he agreed. “But I don’ think anyone got more thrashed than you an’ Rupert.”
“Something tells me you don’t care as much if Giles is pale and hungry,” she replied teasingly, quirking her head to the side.
“Well,” the vampire retorted as he paraded forward to brush a kiss over her forehead. “Rupert’s not as cute as you.”
“Don’t tell him that.”
“’E also doesn’ have your legs.” He winked at her and turned at the heel for the door. “You want anythin’ particular? Gonna head up to King’s Tavern.”
She arched a brow. “They have takeout?”
“For enough cash, they do.” He grinned. “’Sides, they’ve got this onion thing.”
“I wouldn’t mind a sandwich,” she decided. “And some bread pudding.”
“You’ve jumped on that train, too?”
The Slayer shrugged. “Hey, it’s good. And we don’t have any in Sunnydale. Might as well make the most of it.”
“All right.” Spike took a minute to look at her before forcing his eyes away. If he started staring now, he knew he wouldn’t stop. “Anythin’ else?”
Buffy shrugged again in that non-committal way that expressed more than she would have liked to betray. “Just come home quickly.”
There was a pause at that; the entire room went still. He looked at her, long and hard before acknowledging that she hadn’t realized fully what she had said. What it meant. By the time she turned back to him, he had gathered his bearings and was nodding at the door. He offered a smile that was more dazed than he would have liked, and was outside before she could decipher the look behind his gaze.
Come home, she had said. Come home.
She wanted him with her. She didn’t want him to go out at all.
The small words that escaped her mouth so carelessly—how could she suspect what they meant? How could she know?
He was losing himself in her. Surely. Fast. Drowning a slow, delightful death. He was losing himself and Heaven help him if he gave a lick.
Buffy smiled at him warmly as he came in through the small dining area nearly an hour later. She met him at the door and helped bring his supplies inside before the first drops of rain began dancing on the rooftop. They worked in concert for a few quiet moments. Spike retreated into the kitchen to collect some tableware and immediately began setting up the food presentation. The Slayer took his duster and hung it in his new bedroom closet.
The vampire illuminated the table with two candles—more because he preferred them to the intrusive overhead light, but the whimsy of an ideal romantic setting was not lost on him. The ease of routine was upon them, he reflected with a grin; it was as though they had gone through this enough times to declare themselves utterly domestic.
“Mmmm,” Buffy said as she made her way back into the dining area. “That doesn’t smell like a sandwich.”
“I used my creative license to interpret your order as broadly as possible,” he retorted with a wink. “’Sides, you need some meat on your bones. A li’l steak every now an’ then never hurt anyone.”
Her eyes narrowed, but not angrily.
“’S not rare, ‘f that’s what you’re worried about. My goal is to get you to eat it.” He offered a kind, disarming smile and stepped aside so that she could inspect her meal. The cut of tenderloin was annoyingly tempting—more so than she would have expected. He had also selected a stuffed baked potato and an assortment of steamed vegetables. Stuff her mother would want her to eat that was suddenly the epitome of appealing.
He had also bought a bottle of wine.
“Got myself one, too,” he said, suddenly nervous as she moved to take her seat. “Bloody. An’ the onion thing. An’ jus’ to see what all the fuss is about, bread pudding.”
“If you were alive, you’d be spending most of tonight in the bathroom.”
He smirked. “Lovely word picture, sweetheart.”
Buffy shrugged. “Hey. Only human.” She offered a final smile before turning to fully appreciate the presentation of her meal. “This does look good. I don’t eat steak all that often.”
“We all have our flaws.”
“Some more blatant than others.” A wicked gleam sparkled her eyes, but he did not call her on it. Nor did he comment on the almost manipulative way she engulfed her bites, her succulent mouth encircling her fork in an overly seductive manner. Her tongue peeked out to tease him as well, as though berating her lips for taking all the fun. This naturally led to all out distraction; so enamored was he in the movements and subtle invitations of her mouth that her next question stunned him verily. “How do you think they are?”
He stared at her for a long, blank moment. “Whassat?”
“Donna,” she said. “And Josh, Sam. Toby I don’t know too well, but him, too. They all seemed kinda flabbergasted when it was all over.”
Oh. Of course she would be talking about today. That made more sense.
“I don’ think ‘s necessarily over, pet,” he said, taking a bite of his own steak. “These blokes aren’ bloody pushovers. They run your country an’ won’ take a drastic change like this sittin’ down.”
“Well, we don’t have time for them to get comfortable. We have to—”
“You heard Curly, pet. Rupert drove out, too. Tested it. Whatever wanted us here’s aimin’ to make the change permanent.” He cocked a brow as her skin paled at the prospect of being trapped in Natchez for X amount of time. “An’ not that I aim to make those wankers comfy, but ‘s more than jus’ a li’l hard to grasp. You remember how it was when you were called?” Spike shook his head. “I remember wakin’ up after Dru turned me. Traditionalist that she was, she had me go through the bloody torment of bein’ buried with a load of other pathetic gits she, Angelus, an’ Darla offed that night.”
Buffy was staring at her plate. He wondered if he stepped over the invisible line by mentioning Angel. He didn’t think so, but one never knew with her. Her failing temperament did not last, however, and she glanced up the next instant, as attentive as ever. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about the night you were turned,” she said, tone strained as though begging him to take her mind off an unpleasant topic. “Or before it, for that matter.”
They had skimmed the subject of her first great love and how she didn’t view him as the pedestal he had been for the finale of her teenage years, but something in her eyes forewarned that the issue was back to being touchy. He had no idea why, but thought it best to not pursue it.
“Whas’sit you wanna hear, luv?” he asked softly. “What dear ole William was like? Not bloody worth it.”
She shrugged. “Indulge me.”
The words were simple enough, but it was her eyes that sold him. Her eyes that met his tentatively over the candlelight and ached with sincerity. Perhaps it was to take her mind away from things for a while—away from the assorted mess that had been that afternoon and the broken fragments they would have to piece together come morning. It really didn’t matter. Spike was approaching an acknowledgement that forbade him from denying her anything.
“Start with when you were born,” she said when he didn’t speak for a minute.
“Easy, luv. 1854.”
“Making you how old when you were turned?”
“Twenty-six.” He smiled at the bewildered look that overwhelmed her. “I know. Don’ I wear my age well?”
“Were you married?”
That question threw him for a loop. “Was I what?”
“Married. If you were twenty-six when you were turned, that would mean it was 1880.” She beamed as though the computation had been something akin to advanced calculus. “I thought that people got married really young back then.”
Spike arched a brow. Her questions and assumptions were charming him. “An’ they don’ now? No, luv. Wasn’ married. ‘F I had been, I don’ rightly think I would’ve been with Dru for any period of time. It was more the chits who married young. There were some blokes who did, don’ get me wrong, but it was more common for men to wait. Let their wealth grow, an’ what all. Women married younger to start makin’ babies for their husbands. My mum, for instance, got hitched when she was fourteen. My pap was twenty-seven years her senior.”
Buffy’s eyes about boggled out of her head. “Fourteen? And…ewww. Statutory, much?”
The vampire rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “I was under the impression that you’d been in school for some time now.”
“They don’t cover stuff like this.”
“You mean you don’ pay attention.”
“Your mom was married when she was fourteen? To someone who was…ugh. That’d be like marrying Giles.” If Buffy caught the humor behind his gaze, she did not betray it. “And your parents…”
“My pap sent her off to a boarding school, ‘f that’s what you’re thinkin’. Some minds back then did think that fourteen was a bit young to be havin’ kids.” The relief she exhibited almost coaxed a laugh from his throat. “My mum came back, an’ as she used to tell it, they fell madly in love an’ started on the more pleasurable side of bein’ hitched.”
“Awww, that’s both sweet and gross. Your mother told you this?”
He shrugged easily. “I embellish. That story that they found me an’ Mary on their doorstep stopped bein’ cute after the first fifteen hundred times or so.”
“Mary?”
“My older sis by two years.”
Buffy looked at him dumbly as though the prospect of Spike having siblings was foreign to her. “What happened to her?”
The vampire arched a cool brow. “I din’t kill her, ‘f that’s what you mean.”
“No. I just—”
“She got married in 1869 an’ lived a full life. I prolly have grand nieces an’ nephews runnin’ around out there.” He smiled slightly, as though the thought had not occurred to him before. “She lost two kids to fever. Another to miscarriage. Broke her heart, I know, an’ we begged her to stop. The last one nearly took her along with it.”
“That’s so sad.”
He shrugged again, though this time not so easily. It had been a while. “’F she had any kids that lived, it was after I was sired. I tried to look in on her from time to time, but Dru couldn’t stand that. She din’t like the idea of me takin’ care of mum, an’ she sure as hell din’t wanna compete with Mary. I don’ know ‘f I ever got it through her thick skull that she was my sister.”
“What was Mary like?”
A fond smile crossed his face. A smile that made him look centuries younger, if she didn’t know better. “For nineteenth century England, luv? She was controversial. Got mixed up in politics an’ what all. Gambled a bit an’ never took to the set status that London had labeled her with. Did all sorts of things proper ladies never took part in. Picked on me somethin’ horrible. She was a kidder.” His eyes softened. “She never understood why she couldn’t be a feminist an’ a lady at the same time. An’ she loved me. She was…she was wild, but not how you’d think. No one could touch her. We always jested that Nicholas—the bloke who married her—never knew what hit him. Don’ see how anyone could, where she was concerned.”
Buffy licked her lips. She could almost see it. Two children, a boy and a girl, racing across a proper English lawn. The girl a bit older, laughing and with dark, chestnut curls and a melodic laugh. The boy, cute and proper, trying to catch up. Flushing a bit in the cheeks as his sister poked fun at him. Handing her flowers that they selected by the pond. The image was so real she could nearly taste it. Spike—William and his sister.
“We moved into town a few years after my pap went off,” Spike continued, blissfully unaware of her digression. “Had a family house outside Manchester but we went into debt an’ had to sell the place off. Moved to London on the last of the family money an’ I tried to get a job workin’ for the paper. That din’t last.”
“The paper?”
“Yeh. English an’ writin’ was my specialty. Wanted to make somethin’ of it. Lost the news an’ got into poetry.”
“Okay, you’re teasing me now, right?”
The look in his eyes told her full well that he was not. “Oh, sweetheart,” he said, almost mournfully. “I wish I was. I wrote stuff so horrible it’d make your ears bleed. Kept me company, though. Me an’ mum. She got sickly there toward the end. Wasn’ very old, but sixty-four was old enough back then. I took care of her. Then one night I made a colossal mistake, had that thrown in my face, stormed out in a bloody huff, ran into Dru, an’ that’s that.”
There was something on his face that suggested anything but finality. “Spike?”
He didn’t even bother to pretend nothing was wrong. “I don’ wanna get into what happened after. ‘S…I jus’ don’ wanna get into it.”
Fair enough. “Okay. Okay.” She waited a minute, but the look didn’t go anywhere. A haunted gaze that struck a chord deep within her; his beautiful ocean eyes now stormy. A tide of gray alongside a lifeless shore. “Spike…tell me about your dad.”
It took a minute, but he nodded and snapped back to her. “I don’ remember much,” he replied. “He left when I was eight.”
“Left?”
“For the States. He was shippin’ material to a port in New Orleans. We always suspected he got gunned down, ‘cause their borders were s’posed to be guarded with blockades.” Another shrug. “’E wasn’t a Southern sympathizer, but he also wasn’ too fond of America, seein’ as we had a few in our blood that had fought to keep the colonies right where they were. He figured if the South won, America was a lost cause. Wasn’ malicious or anythin’—he jus’ felt a sense of loyalty an’ justice. He was a good man. Loved Mary an’ Mum to pieces an’ always talked to me like I was a man his age rather than a li’l tyke. I remember that much, an’ my mum made sure we never forgot. We were Bennetts, firs’, foremost, an’ always.”
“Bennett? That’s your name?”
“William Bennett, an’ don’ you ever tell Rupert.” His eyes were dancing, though his tone was serious. “I don’ want him snoopin’ around, diggin’ up cold facts that I bloody well know an’ others that I could find out jus’ as happily ‘f I wanted.”
“I won’t tell Giles. So were you named after anyone?”
“My pap. He was William Sinclair Bennett—my mum was Clarissa. You know Mary.” Spike stopped abruptly, blinking and breaking away as though coming out of a long sleep. “So there, Slayer. You have the full on William the Bloody’s blotched an’ terribly borin’ family history. Care to tell me what that was all about?”
Buffy licked her lips and shrugged again, glancing to her food that was growing cold. “I just wanted to know,” she replied. “I wanted to know you. Angel never told me where he…” She sensed him stiffen at the mention of her former, and moved rapidly to amend. Strange how they traded offense in that regard. It was she that had been bothered a moment before. “And I wanted to know. I wanted to share that piece with you. I wanted to know something about you that no one else does.”
There was nothing for a long minute. He studied her curiously, not doubting, but curious. She was so sincere. She had never been this sincere, least of all with him. What had he done to earn this? Who was regarding him, and for what purpose? Buffy wasn’t his. She was eons beyond him. Light-years. A golden goddess his kind could never even hope to touch. She shouldn’t be sitting with him. Asking him about his past as though she cared. Watching him with eyes filled with compassion. It was wrong. It was so wrong.
He was not the sort of man that deserved the woman she was.
I don’ care. Don’ care.
Only he did. All too much.
“In any regard,” she continued a minute later. “Thanks for telling me. For sharing all that with me. I…it means a lot.”
“I think you know jus’ as well as I do that I’ve lost the ability to deny you anythin’.” Spike smiled wryly and expelled a deep breath. “Anyway, it was a long time ago. I don’ think about it much anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Doesn’ do any good to dwell in the past, sweetheart. Old philosophy.” A still beat settled through him. “It’d take somethin’ extraordinary to make that change for me. I can’t do rot about the past. What ‘ve done. What mistakes ‘ve made. I can only think to do better.” They fell quiet a minute longer. Spike reached for the wine and poured her a glass. Strange how loud the trickle of liquid could sound in a room that stung of silence.
“’S gonna be hard for ‘em,” the vampire said when the quiet became too thick. He didn’t want to lapse into old habit, and while that didn’t seem likely with where they were headed, he was not going to gamble his chances with this one. Not for all the blood in China. “Your new mates. Don’ rightly know what you hope to accomplish with the lot of ‘em.”
“Yeah. You’re right. Of course…it would be very hard.”
“They came here for a bloody photo-op an’ are now facin’ a potential apocalypse. Not exactly in the brochure.”
“You think that’s what it is? An apocalypse?”
Spike chuckled and shook his head. “’m not about to wager that kind of gamble, luv. Not until we know what we’re dealin’ with. ‘F you want a guess, though, here’s the best I can do: Red’s new boy went in over his head an’ somethin’ came out of the book. ‘S why we were sent to find it, more or less. ‘S why your rogue bird’s here at all.”
“You mean we were supposed to end up here? In Natchez?”
“I don’ think Natchez has anythin’ to do with it. We were s’posed to end up near the book.” He quirked his head to the side, studying her. “You know better’n anyone that things are never as they seem. Faith ran like Hell was chasin’ her to, what? This shithole in the middle of nowhere? ‘S somethin’ bigger than we thought, luv. Always bloody is.”
There was an exasperated sigh and Buffy leaned back, bottom lip poking out in a petulant pout. “I don’t wanna save the world again,” she complained. “It’s so been there, done that.”
“There’s the spirit, luv.” His eyes were fixed on her mouth. It seemed forever since they had fleetingly yielded to their mutual attraction, though it had not yet been twenty-four hours. And yet, so much had changed. The Scoobies were aware, at least on a surface level, of what was happening between them. The others—those gits from Washington—were now trapped here along with everyone else. It was the worst sort of timing that he could have wanted; his own allegedly faux conscience screaming every few seconds that creatures such as he would burn for daring to blemish such radiance. But he couldn’t go on if he didn’t try. The feel of her mouth against his the night before had broken all rules. She wanted him. Her arms had been around his neck, her body pressed intimately against his. The small murmurs and gasps that her throat surrendered haunted him; a sweet melody to keep him wishing, searching, yearning for a sign that it was all right now. That they could try to become what they were becoming without fighting it anymore.
But time. She needed time. And God, how he respected that. Admired it. Shared the sentiment. For as much as he wanted her, he needed time, too. Time before they cast all reservations aside and made those walls come tumbling down. For he knew. He knew when it was over, when he allowed himself to start, when he finally embraced the sensation of loving Buffy, he would never be able to stop. Not if all the world passed him by. He would be there. He would love her until time no longer mattered. Until the last sun set over the horizon, and longer.
Forever.
This was so much bigger than either of them could have known.
And true, Spike was usually a taker when there was something he wanted; thus the thought of asking almost made him wince. Almost but not quite.
“I…” He flushed as much as a vampire could and glanced shyly down when she sent him a questioning look. “May I kiss you?”
That was it. The room went deaf. She stared at him in utter bewilderment. He didn’t blame her. It was a strange request, coming from him. It was a strange request altogether. But he didn’t want to presume the mood and anger her. They had come too far for that.
“What?”
“I know you said you need time, pet. An’ I don’ wanna…I don’ want you to think I want more than jus’ that.” His voice was growing hoarse with even the thought, and his eyes glazed over in passion that his better angels had to battle the lust-crazed demons from breaking. “I’ve been fightin’ the urge to kiss you all bloody day. Jus’ grabbin’ you an’ kissin’ you senseless—‘till you don’t know what to do with yourself. ‘m a bloody addict—you made me an addict with one sample. Can’t hardly do anythin’ with the want of what we had last night. So…” He met her eyes again, ready for the bite of laughter or the short dismissal of rejection. Ready for anything aside the soft glow of her eyes that nearly looked a sheen of tears against the candlelight. “May I kiss you?”
Buffy stared at him a moment longer as though waiting for him to seal his statement. A pun to an unfunny joke at both their expenses. But he didn’t. He just sat there, looking at her as she looked at him. Waiting for his answer. Waiting to see if she would grant him an answer.
Then she rose to her feet slowly. Intently. Never breaking her eyes away from his. Watching him closely, as though daring him to make a move. He didn’t. He couldn’t. He couldn’t blink or twitch or frown for want of what she would do. Had he been alive, his heart would have drummed hard against his chest. But he wasn’t. He couldn’t sweat; couldn’t perspire or pant, or flush or let her know, aside the bulge in his trousers that was becoming more and more common when she was around just how deeply she affected him.
It was the gentility that got him. For everything in the world, he had not known softness like this. Her hands were trembling but certain. She cupped his face tenderly and searched his eyes for a long, endless minute before she brought her lips to his. And he melted into her. The taste of her sent a long, coursing moan through his system; he was lost. Absolutely lost. His hands slid up her thighs and anchored her into his lap, arms locking behind her waist. Her own wove around his throat, pressing her pelvis against his with as much sensuality as he had ever felt with such a modest touch. He whimpered her name against into her mouth—a cry of surrender, even to his ears. No more fighting. Not between them. The touch was soft and passionate, fiery but not exceeding the boundaries of propriety. They dissolved into one another like nothing at all. Smoldering, mending. Needing and finding. Another wave crashed, though the kiss was initially soft and exploratory, it gained zeal at escaping such lengthy suppression. The feel of her lips against his swiftly drained him of all fortitude, all resolve, anything that even began to construct the fabric of who he was. With her tongue stroking his in a manner that was familiar and tentative all at once, needing and soft, he swallowed her mewls and sighs and gave back as he received. There had been no reality before this touch. Nothing at all.
She was moving against his erection in long, womanly strokes. He wanted to send their dinner scattering and throw her back on the table. And then he didn’t; this was enough. The simple joy of just kissing and caressing her was something he never thought to have. His hands slid over her back, nimble fingers massaging her skin through her tank. Her nipples were hardened and pressed intimately against his chest; he wanted to cup her breasts, but wouldn’t without permission.
Though his record in asking tonight had been in his favor. He withdrew to her front, thumbs stroking the underside of her clothed globes and he broke his mouth from the temptation of hers, lips taking chart down her throat. “Can I?” he whispered, sliding his skin against hers so she would not mistake his intent.
“Uhhh…”
Hesitation made him wary. He didn’t want to pressure her into anything. Thus, he went back to kissing and petting her until he heard her rasp at his ear, “That was a yes, by the way.”
Spike smiled but didn’t reply. He pressed a kiss at the hollow of her throat before sliding his hands under her camisole. The warmth of her skin set his own aflame. He was going to burn simply by touching her.
“More,” she whimpered. His thumbs were gliding over her laced nipples—having almost more an effect on himself than on her. The knowledge that he had Buffy in his arms, allowing him to touch her this way, initiating a kiss that had turned into an all out snogging session was well beyond his mark of understanding. He had Buffy. A very warm and notably aroused Buffy. And she was here because she wanted to be. She was with him.
And now, she was asking for more.
If he got any harder, he would burst through the denim.
“Buff—”
Her own mouth was pressing feverish kisses against the pale skin at his throat. Little aching burns from where the sun had touched him. He ached in all the right places. “Just a little more,” she mewled. “Please.”
He wondered if that request was up for interpretation.
Her nails were digging into his back. It was time to stop thinking and just go with it. Spike growled into her neck and yanked her bra down, her breasts filling his hands with almost an air of triumph. He pulled at her nipples, massaged her, squeezed her, and dared to nip down and tease her needy peaks through the thin cotton of her shirt with his mouth.
Buffy clutched at him desperately, head flinging back. “Oh my God.”
The way she was grinding in his lap…he was going to embarrass himself. And rather quickly. Her perfumed center rubbed against his cock shamelessly. The request for more tickled his ears again, and he knew this had to be the last or she was going to cross into territory she wasn’t ready to travel yet.
A lot could change in a day. He didn’t think that had. And that was why, instead of whipping her top over her head, he pulled the collar down to sample her bare skin. If he saw her naked—even waist-up—and wanting him, he wouldn’t be able to stop. And this had to stop. Had to stop before he lost that last ounce of control. Even still, his mouth encircled a dusty nipple, suckling at her; teasing her with his teeth before moving to give the other breast the same treatment. Then, dropping kisses as he went, he made his way back to her mouth and poured the wealth of feeling that he had yet to accept, that he was still exploring into the union of their lips.
“Buffy,” he moaned, hands sliding up to her arms. “Buffy, we have to—”
“I want you.”
God. She was saying them. She was saying the words he yearned to hear her say. The words he had waited for, longed for in a time that he no longer knew existed. She wanted him. Christ Almighty, Buffy Summers wanted him. His self-restraint slipped another notch.
“Buffy.” Spike’s grasp on her forearms became forceful. “We have to…luv, we have to stop.”
That was all it took. Those four small words. Immediately, she pulled back, her eyes wide and imploring. A smacking bite of rejection in the middle of what she felt so desperately. It took her a few seconds to find her voice. “I…” she began. “I don’t understand. You…I thought you—”
“I do!” he amended hastily. Lord, how could she think otherwise? “Sweetheart, I want you so much it fuckin’ hurts.” He reached to readjust her top, running a loving hand through her hair. “So much I keep myself awake nights, thinkin’ of you. I jus’…last night you said you needed time.”
She was staring at him. She still didn’t understand. He coughed and looked down.
“This means a lot to me,” he said softly. “You mean a lot to me. Anythin’ that we do…it has to be real. Somethin’ more than a roll in the sack. I want you but I want to have you. Not jus’ that part of you. There’s more to you than jus’ that. With me an’ you, Buffy, it would have to be somethin’.”
There was a long pause as she studied him. “Why?”
He balked, hurt. That was one question he hadn’t been anticipating. “Why?” he retorted bitterly, hands coming up. “Why, she asks. Why.”
“No. I’m not…I’m not trying to be…I just want to know why it’s so important to you.” The Slayer looked down, absently playing with the material of his shirt. “Why I am. I don’t get it. I just…why?”
A breath coursed through him and he relaxed. Oh.
That was an entirely separate matter.
“Because,” he began, voice rough with arousal, “’s you an’ me, kitten. An’ anythin’ else jus’ doesn’t measure up. It’s you an’ me. God, it has to be somethin’. An’ I’m not about to ruin it by leapin’ into bed with you. I want it—Christ, how I want it. But I want you more.” He smiled warmly at the expression on her face. “I’ll wait for you, Buffy. Don’ rush ahead ‘cause that’s what you think I want.”
She looked at him. Just looked at him. Her eyes were soft and understanding, filled with awe and wonder. As though it was a miracle alone that a creature such as he could think, much less give her that much. For one horrible minute, he thought she might cry. But no. No. Instead, she pulled him close. Pulled him into her arms and held him against her, her head buried in his throat.
Spike tightened his arms around her, purring and nuzzling her hair.
Buffy was hugging him. Hugging him.
I’ll be goddamned.
“Thank you,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his throat. “Thank you.”
Looking back, he supposed this would be how he remembered tonight. For everything come and past, there had never been such a moment of frank complacency in his life. Sitting here in the small alcove of a townhouse he would one day reflect with such poignant fondness that the notion nearly made him laugh. Sitting here with the scent of their lingering arousal tingling in the air. Holding the woman he loved in a calm, comforting hug. Inhaling her scent as he watched the fire dance on the wicks of nearby candles.
And that was it. That was the reason. Spike would remember this because it was the moment his life changed for him. The moment he realized everything that he had known for some time. When it stopped lingering in ambiguity and became something tangible. By God, he really did love her. It wasn’t just something that fluttered in and out of recognition. It was known. He could touch it if he liked. And while the realization sent his head spiraling, made his knees weak and his heart feel like it should start a furious cadence, there was an ever-present tranquil variable that soothed any outraged reaction. Serenity at its best. It had been inevitable from the start. Buffy was with him at every turn. Knowing now that he loved her was simply a delayed acknowledgement. He knew it. God, he knew it.
Her arms tightened around him. Calm. Comforting.
Oh yes. If nothing else for a thousand years, this was what he would remember.
The bliss of a warm embrace. Feeling wanted. Feeling needed. Feeling anything.
He had Buffy with him now. If he had to cross every step of his inferno alone, he would do it.
He would make this last.
TBC