Chapter Twenty-Eight
The day was not going well.
Of course, given her current streak of good days versus the bad, this hardly came as a surprise.
All had actually started on a relatively neutral note. Despite the sleepless night and the waiting for Spike so she could offer her thousand apologies—which resulted in falling asleep before he got back practically drenched in liquor—she had enjoyed an uneventful morning. Her housemate slept late; she wanted to give him the same treatment that he gave her after a night of boozing it, but Willow had come knocking around eleven. Evidently, the one-nighter with Wesley had Donna on the bad side of the wiggins and she desperately needed some girl-time QT.
Pangs of guilt stabbed her heart. She was so wrapped up in her own dumb life—amidst a potential apocalypse—that she had neglected practically everyone else. Giles was teetering near the edge of calling the Watcher’s Council for assistance. Wesley, following Donna’s dismissal, had taken to a similar method of shutting himself up with a bunch of books. Honestly, Buffy didn’t know if they were working more now for survival or to get the hell out and away from each other.
There was other news, as Willow related. Angel was keeping a steady eye on the Hellmouth and had discovered, amongst other things, that Riley Finn was a member of the secretive Initiative and that Maggie Walsh was the regional supervisor. It was strange hearing Riley’s name after so much had happened; Buffy hadn’t thought of him in what seemed like months. And though she was a little peeved to discover that he was working for the agency that had handicapped Spike, it really didn’t do much at all to shake her foundation. It was simply another thing to contend with. Something to know and stop when they got back to Sunnydale.
Assuming at this point that getting back was an option.
The lack of productivity was beginning to annoy her. All they knew right now was that Quirinias was the focal point of the book, the reason they were in Natchez, and that if he succeeded in whatever it was he was trying to succeed in, they were screwed with a capital S.
By the time Buffy had sufficiently assured Donna that she was not a horrible person for sleeping with Wesley and ending it before he became too emotionally attached, Spike had awakened and left the townhouse.
And that was it. The final straw. Something had to be done. She couldn’t take this mindless dancing around each other any longer. It was stupid. It was beyond adolescent. If the world were going to end, she would damn well make sure he knew what she felt.
Which in itself was progression, because she wasn’t even sure that she knew how she felt. Only that it was a wonderfully warm feeling that she missed embracing. That the cold she had experienced even in their few days of separation was something she despised. She desperately wanted warmth again. It was unlike anything else—more powerful than anything else. And if she was expected to give her usual hundred and ten percent, then she had to make sure her relationships were evened.
If she had Spike with her, they would be unstoppable.
And damned if that wasn’t at least an aspect in why she insisted that he come in the first place. Something buried deep within herself. A reckoning birthed that first night—watching him struggle with his loyalty to her while Faith attempted to give him the treatment that she would later give Sam. It was strange thinking of him in that context, given everything that had passed. Given that just a short while ago, they had hated each other with more passion than she had ever learned through love.
There were still mitigating factors. A book in her possession that documented the last minutes of Spike’s father. It was strange thinking that he had a father, and she really had no grasp on how he would react to the entire thing, but it was a way to break the ice. A way to try.
And that was only the beginning. Her embarrassment of her behavior the other night tied in with the uncertainty of Spike’s feelings on the matter. He was not hurt to the extent of avoiding her intentionally—he had stayed with her, cared for her in the midst of her wake, then gone out to piss his own sorrows away.
It had to end. This dancing around each other. And it had to end tonight.
Buffy was no professional at delving into her feelings. She knew what she felt more often than not—it was being the confronter that threw her off. Smashing through the wall that Angel’s leave had built around her heart. She needed those emotions. She needed to retrieve them from where she so deeply shoved them inside herself. She needed to know that she wasn’t going to paint a picture of a fool and write her name underneath.
In the end, she opted for the coward’s way out. It seemed simplest, given her track record, and was a good way to remain neutral without stepping too far into uncharted territory. She scribbled a note of apology onto some stationary she found in one of the drawers and stuffed it inside the book, marking the page that detailed Spike’s father with certain passages underlined. It was the best she could do without pushing herself to uncomfortable limits, and she could only hope that it would be enough.
If it weren’t, she would rethink the lines of comfort. For now, though, there was this. She set the book on his bed in the room that had formerly been hers, retreated to her own chamber, and waited.
She must have fallen asleep, for the slam of the front door jerked her back to the present. The setting sun had faded into darkness and her seventh Spike-sense was running memorable laps throughout her skin. When Spike had separated from her normal vampire sense to make one of his own, she didn’t know. It was there in the place that Angel’s had once lived. More warmth than she would ever have accredited him for. She knew he was home. Home from wherever he had gone.
There was some rustling inside the kitchen. She heard him shuffle through restlessly, drop something on the counter and make himself a cup of blood. Heard his wistful sigh as he inhaled; could picture it all with stunning clarity. And there was no doubt in her mind—she viewed it through imagination as though it was the real thing. As though there was a window separating them, and she was watching it all unfold. She watched him set the mug back on the counter, watched him rummage through whatever it was he had brought with him, watched him sigh again as he flicked off the kitchen light; watched as he turned into their adjoining hall where he stopped and stared at her door for long seconds.
It was so real to her, and that alone was nearly frightening. The idea that she knew him so well that picturing his every move, his every expression, every flagrant beat to flicker through such animate eyes gave her an uncomfortable sense of pride tagged with fear. At that moment, she knew Spike better than she knew anyone. With no one else did she have an inward file memorized of their every emotion, every expression. Not her mother, not Giles, not even Willow.
And that was that. There out of nothing at all. She knew Spike. Despite all else—what he was, what she was, the people he had killed, the penance he had obtained without actively pursuing, everything—she knew him. Buffy knew Spike as well as she knew anyone. Better.
All respects to Willow, this trip was rapidly making him her best friend. And that out of everything else—out of the attraction, out of the lust, out of the temptation and the guilt and the stolen kisses—that was what scared her most of all.
This was real. They were real.
And damn if that didn’t make her want him even more. Out of everything else, she had never experienced real. Not once. Not with Angel, certainly not with Parker, and not with any of the lowlife boys left behind at Hemery High before the move to Sunnydale. This—just this—what they were right now was as real as it had ever been. And she was tired of denying it. In the face of all the fear, all the hesitation, all the tension of knowing what she wanted, she was through with playing mind games with herself and expecting easy answers. They weren’t meant for easy answers. Easy answers brought easy questions, and that wasn’t something built to last.
A few minutes passed before she heard him expel another sigh and turn back for his own room. There he would find the book she had placed on his bed; her note tucked inside. Buffy bit her lip and slipped off the bed to prowl the corners of her room, unable to keep from trembling. She had no idea how he would react. Had no idea what to expect. She hadn’t seen him in a day, and a lot could happen in a day. Whether or not he was angry for the way she conducted herself the other night, she did not know. She didn’t think so—her own embarrassment notwithstanding. There was a difference between knowledge and acceptance. And they were about to cross that border.
One way or another.
It didn’t take long. The hall soon quaked with thunderous steps and her door flew open in a motion that was nearly dreamlike for all her anticipation. The storm behind his eyes drew her in immediately. A wealth of power amidst conflict that was tearing them both apart. He didn’t hesitate, though. Didn’t allow himself much room for second-guessing. His motive was ample. He strode to where she was standing, seized her by the forearms, and hauled her to his mouth for a hungry, savage kiss that both ignited the burning need within her and delivered notes of saddened glory. The taste of him was empowering—almost too much—and before she could reach for him in turn, he had released her and stepped back.
Then he said a word. One word. And that was all.
“Thanks.”
Buffy blinked dumbly as he turned and walked away. A cold retreat back to a room that remained miles away from where she wanted to be. For everything, she had not expected something so abrupt. So callous. Nearly unfeeling if not for the way her lips tingled still with the impression of his.
He wasn’t getting away from her again. They had dodged the bullet too many times now to allot for that.
She didn’t even realize that she had followed until her answering, “That’s it?” sounded within the tight confines of the narrow hallway. Spike was inches away from his threshold, body stiff and his back to her. It didn’t take long to prompt the other; he turned and gauged her eyes, burrowing deep for answers that she was so sick of not giving.
And then a breath, and he relaxed. Just like that. Airs of relief that came from nowhere. His eyes softened and she watched him cave. Seemingly centuries of internal battles crumbling at last.
How in the world had they gotten here?
“God,” he replied. “I bloody well hope not.”
“Me, too.” Buffy sighed and glanced down. “Look, I know that things have been...well, pretty crappy comes to mind, but if you have another term—”
“Tormenting?”
“That works.”
Spike’s head tilted as he considered her, drawing out a deep breath of acceptance. He nodded in agreement. “Yeh,” he said. “We bollixed up somewhere. But this...” He gestured between the two of them. “Not gettin’ to talk to you...not knowin’ where we stand...god, it’s killin’ me.”
She licked her lips and hazarded another step forward. “What happened?”
“Harris happened.”
“No. I’m tired of this...and as much as Xander is not on my current Christmas list, I don’t think we can blame him.” A small smile creased her mouth, and she glanced away, down, and back to him again. “Hey. At least we’re talking about it.”
Spike smiled. “Well, your note summed everythin’ up nice an’ pretty.”
“There’s a first time for everything.” Buffy held his gaze a minute longer, then released another sigh and crossed her arms behind her back. “I don’t want to not talk about this anymore. I’m tired of it.”
“It?”
“The full it. I liked...I’ve had a chance at both, right? A look at what both do for me. And I don’t like my life without you. These past three days? Really sucked.” His eyes sparkled. Her face reddened. “Well, except that.”
“I seem to recall some suckin’.”
“Crude much?”
“Much,” he agreed, advancing a pace. “I don’ like my life without you either, sweets. ‘S been all out hell...goin’ from where we were to back to...not even hatin’ you. Couldn’t do that, of course, but the sentiment’s the same. I had nothin’. An’ whether it be hate or...the other, I’d rather feel somethin’ than nothin’ where you’re concerned.”
Buffy pursed her lips. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Things were going so well...”
“We din’t know where they were goin’, though.”
“Had some guesses.”
Spike grinned. “Me, too. Scenarios, exchanges...lovely li’l pretties to keep my mind occupied.” They looked at each other for a minute longer; the spark faded from the vampire’s eyes and his shoulders sagged again with the weight of solemnity. “I don’ wanna go back to where we were, luv,” he said again, holding up a hand when her own gaze widened in alarm. “Before we left. Before comin’ to Natchez. I want so much more than that.”
“Me, too.”
“Do you?” His tone was neither mocking nor incredulous. More inquisitive—hesitant. Leaving shades patched over the truth of her own yearning. “Do you really? Even with everythin’ you have to consider?”
“I don’t like my life without you in it.”
“I was in it before. You seemed to be havin’ a—”
“Spike. Stop. This is different.”
He arched a cool brow. “’Splain it to me.”
“I don’t care anymore. The vampire thing...the Slayer thing...I don’t care.” She shrugged. “I don’t know if I ever did. It was always there. Hell, we knew it was there. That’s why we didn’t talk about it. And yeah, Xander did bring all this up and I had a mini-panic attack. It wasn’t about that, though. Not really.”
Spike’s expression refused to change. He merely nodded and encouraged her to continue. “Oh?”
A sigh coursed through her body. “I think I was more wigged that I wasn’t wigged,” she said. “Everything...I’ve changed so much in such a small amount of time. We both have.” Buffy tore her eyes away and fixated on a spot staining the wooden floor. “I changed because of you.”
A frown beset his face and his gaze burned with protest. “I never asked—”
“No. I didn’t mean...for the better, Spike. I changed for the better. And not for you—that change doesn’t really exist. The kind of change I’m talking about happens on accident.” A beat. She tried to look at him but couldn’t. The conversation was almost dreamlike; she had nearly convinced herself that he would disappear if she turned her eyes upward. “I don’t wanna go back to where I was...and I don’t wanna stay like this.”
“God,” he gasped in agreement. “I think I’d rather stake myself.”
She drew in a breath and convinced herself to meet his gaze. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve been right here.”
“No. You haven’t.” Off his look, she flushed and turned her eyes to the ground again. She might as well have suggested a peace plan for the Middle East. “You’ve been here,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “But...you shut yourself off. I’ve tried to approach you so many times and you—”
Spike cocked a brow. “Funny,” he replied. “Think I woulda noticed that.”
“You didn’t even give me a chance. You left me after...” Buffy’s cheeks in a flash of heated remembrance. The silky strokes of his heavenly tongue as he pushed her over a threshold that no one had ever acknowledged, much less attempted. And damned if she wasn’t convinced that it had more to do with him than the other. “You left me after we shared something that meant more to me than...and...” Her eyes narrowed. “It wasn’t because that was it. It wasn’t. It wasn’t because that was all there was.”
“God, pet.” He looked thoroughly offended. “How can you even think that?”
She shrugged, allowing her own wounded pride to bleed through now that they were finally talking about it. “I woke up alone,” she said, and his eyes went wide with realization. “We shared that...and it was wonderful...and I woke up alone.”
The air around them settled with a silence so palpably thick she thought she might choke. It lasted for uncomfortably long seconds before Spike snapped and stalked forward, covering the space between them. For the violence in stride, he softened when he reached her; his hands cupped her face and gently brought her mouth to his. A nibbling taste, yielding and exploratory. His tongue teasing hers, sweeping her insides with no effort at all. Buffy moaned into him and threw her arms around his neck as her inner symphony sent the Walls of Jericho to the ground. This was it. This liberation. The taste, the feel of him, in her arms without hesitation. God, how she had missed this.
It hadn’t been that long. It really hadn’t. But as his hands slid down her skin, fingers drumming over the column of her throat before resting at her forearms to hold her with jubilated desperation, she felt the higher arch of her torment mend to a full circle. The wave of released euphoria alongside searing relief clashed in an explosion of sensory. She fought the sting of tears and focused solely on him. His mouth, weaving her fingers through his hair, pressing her body against the hardness that met her stomach. Swallowing his own murmurs and moans and making them her own. This. She was made for this. For no other reason than to be a part of this. A part of him.
“’m sorry,” he rasped between kisses. “’m so sorry. I don’...God, I din’t know. I was so sure you’d—”
“I—”
“That night meant so much to me, baby.” His teeth tugged mindlessly at her ear before his mouth took chart down her throat. “More than...I din’t know. God, I din’t know. I thought you’d...I couldn’t bloody stand the thought that you’d think we were a mistake.”
“You didn’t give me a chance.”
“If you’d said somethin’—”
Buffy pulled back, eyes narrowing. “You shut yourself off,” she retorted. “I wanted to talk to you that morning and you were gone. And then you shut yourself up in your room. For some reason, that gave me the impression that you didn’t wanna talk.”
“So, what, you decided it was easier approachin’ a bottle than approachin’ me?”
Heat scorched her cheeks again, her hands curled around his shoulders in a frozen embrace. “I’m sorry about that.”
Spike’s brows perked, a devilish spark alighting his gaze that had been absent now for far too long. “Yeh. That’s what gets me. You say you’re sorry, an’ here I thought that you’d be the one blamin’ me for the whole bloody thing.” He chuckled lightly, and the motion rumbled against her skin in a way that was so thoroughly soothing she could get lost in the sensation. “I was half convinced you’d come at me with a stake the second you woke up.”
“You thought I’d stake you for not taking advantage of my alcohol-induced sluttiness?”
“Yeh. Sounds ridiculous, doesn’ it?” He smiled and kissed her again. “An’ I s’pose I’m completely wrong for havin’ my doubts. You’ve always been so linear when it comes to your views on vamps an’ our vague but very real code of ethics.”
“Since we got here?” Buffy licked her lips, but shook her head before he could answer. “You thought I’d stake you and you still sat by my bed and patted my very headachy self?”
“What can I say? Like livin’ on the edge.” They shared a grin before breaking eye contact and simultaneously glancing about the tapered hall to find something to focus on. Then the edge of humor dissipated and a sigh coursed through the vampire. He found her eyes after a few minutes of avoiding them “’S this it?” he asked, voice degrees graver than before. “Even ‘f...we get back to Sunnyhell, right? Bloody parades all around. Slayer saves the day again. What happens?”
“Huh?”
“You an’ me. We keep playin’ like this? You go back to hatin’ me an’ I go back to tryin’ to get the chip out? You pretend none of this happened? What’s it gonna be, Slayer?”
She stared at him blankly. “You know, it’s not exactly like I have an off switch when it comes to my feelings.”
“’S easy to say that now when we’re miles away from where you belong.” He glanced down again and kicked restlessly at the floor. “Where your call of duty is, along with more than Harris to remind you exactly what I am.”
Buffy reeled her head back, a snappy retort ready and willing on her tongue before she caught a glimpse of the very real apprehension buried in his eyes. It was there—it wasn’t a mindless provocation. He was truly worried. Worried that this was all a result of being away from duty and had nothing to do with how she felt. And while it hurt, it hurt more to know that he would have been right to ask the very same not too long ago. Once, perhaps. Once upon a time. But not now.
Not now.
He was right, then. There couldn’t be nothing. Whether it be love or hate, it—anything—was better than the emptiness that had occupied the past few days. They had come too far for there to be nothing. And she could never hate him again. She was so far to the left of hate that the idea—the memory of the sensation—was nearly foreign. Hating him was an attitude that had never truly existed. A long, tedious nightmare from which she had clawed her way out.
It didn’t matter where they were. This feeling was universal.
And if there wasn’t nothing and there wasn’t hate, that only left one thing.
One huge recognition. Something that had spent the last few days glaring at her in retrospect. Buffy was genuinely surprised when her heart didn’t stop, though her stomach dropped and her balance nearly wavered. It was not a thoroughly alien thought—the word had carelessly tossed itself around her psyche for what seemed like forever, but was always dismissed in the face of uncertainty. When shoved into the limelight, though, she could not deny its audience. Could not turn away from the face of blatant realization. Acceptance. Truth.
Oh. Dear. Lord.
The Slayer pursed her lips and realized that Spike was looking at her still, waiting for an answer. Her reassurance that this was as real to her as it was him. And her heart clenched tightly with a bout of panic. Not for what he was—that no longer mattered, if it ever had. No, she was terrified of what it meant. Just the dawn of what it meant.
It wasn’t that it was frightening—that was expected. It was more that it was. It was. Regardless of what else she could say about it, there it remained. Present. Existent. Within her and not going anywhere.
Furthermore, the answering words to her epiphany had not been surrendered. If she felt this way, she would damn well make sure that he felt the same before admitting anything. It was only fair. She wasn’t about to put her heart on the line if he decided to remain nonverbal in that particular line of confession.
His eyes killed her, though. She had sworn that they were through running, and goddammit, she wasn’t about to back out on that now. Buffy smiled a reassuring smile and stepped forward, closing the space that had forced itself between them once more. Like he had just a few minutes before, she took his face in her hands and caressed his cheeks with loving strokes. “I’m not miles away from where I belong,” she said slowly. “I’m right here.”
There was a long beat as he took her in, emotion storming his eyes. He looked at her like the second-coming. He looked at her in ways that would make angels weep. “Buffy?”
A pause, though not for hesitation. There would be no more of that. She smiled. “I’m right here, Spike,” she replied. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You’re sure?”
Buffy reached for his hand. “Honestly, there’s a reason I write notes. I thought I had this one in the bag.”
His eyes went wide at the mention of the note, blazing but suddenly far away. Similarly, his body tightened and his breathing—unnecessary as it was—stopped altogether. She did nothing but stand with him, holding his hand as the racing whirlwind of emotion drew him back to the beginning. For the way he was holding onto her, the storm behind his gaze was violent and ugly. She didn’t know, honestly, whether or not revealing her discovery to him had been a wise decision. For everything else it seemed like it. However, he had not mentioned it; he had not even acknowledged it. He had come to her for her, not for what she had given him.
She wondered if he had even digested as much until now. Right now. Standing in the hallway with one worry drowned and the other reaching the surface of innovation.
When he spoke, his voice was small and hoarse. Suddenly remote—far from where they stood. “How’d you find that?” he asked.
“Your dad’s thing? I...I really don’t know, actually.” Buffy pursed her lips and rubbed at her arms. “It was before you told me about...well, everything. Will and I had taken the daytime patrol over by Longwood the morning that we got back from the Myrtles. You weren’t with us and I knew you had your lame little thing with the old houses, so I decided to get you a souvenir. I just...kinda forgot to give it to.”
For the glow in his eyes, she didn’t know if he was more touched by the fact that he had something concrete from his past in his possession or that she had thought enough to buy him a present.
“I...early Christmas?”
A smile itched at his lips. “Christmas is next week, innit?”
“I honestly don’t think it matters anymore.” Buffy released a long sigh. “So...was it a good thing to get? I didn’t...well, I didn’t know about the ‘your dad’ part until last night when you were out getting on the massive side of drunk with Josh and I was looking for something to do since I had a mandate to stay inside the house.”
“Luv, you could barely stand.” His grin lasted a beat longer before looking down again. “Thanks for that.”
“When I saw it, I didn’t know if I should...” She trailed off when she saw he was no longer with her, rather staggering to the back wall at a slow tumble. “Spike?”
He didn’t say anything for a minute. “Did you read what it said, sweets?” he asked softly, sliding to the ground with a note of apathy that she more than recognized.
“The diary? I know it mentioned that he had a wife and kids he was trying to get back to.” She licked her lips, waiting for a welcome sign to motion her forward so that she could be of some comfort. “I didn’t read too much,” she confessed a second later. “It felt...I dunno. The fact that he was your...it felt too personal. I didn’t wanna read too much in case you—”
Spike glanced up at that and offered a weak smirk. “Right. The day Buffy Summers steers free of curiosity’s the day the world flips over an’ spins on the other axis.”
“Never say never,” she retorted dryly. “And believe me or not, I didn’t read it. I saw his name, read enough to know it was the same guy, then closed the book when she started going into his last testament. That was too private.”
The vampire nodded numbly, evidently at a loss of contesting her anymore. “’S funny,” he mused, voice distant. “Mary an’ I never said anythin’...not to each other, an’ not to Mum. My pap was...like I told you, sweetling, he was a good man. He jus’...we figured he ran off, y’know? At leas’ I did, an’ I wager Mary did, too. Got to New Orleans, met some trollop, an’ started a new family. It din’t seem like somethin’ he’d do, ‘course...but it was almost easier to believe that than the story that his streamliner was...it was jus’ easier.” A short chuckle reverberated through his throat, dry and unfeeling. “An’ the really ironic bit is, I was brassed. I was right pissed with him for a story I’d made up an’ convinced myself of for years. Knew it wasn’ true somewhere. Guess it was jus’ that an’ a mix of his havin’ gone in the firs’ place. Mum din’t want that, an’ Mary all but got on her knees an’ begged him not to go. But it was a job.” He smiled grimly. “Guess I always wanted to believe that not even death could keep him away. Thinkin’ that he din’t care was better for me. Better than thinkin’ he’d been beaten.”
Buffy drew in a deep breath and hesitated, unsure of where to go. If it was appropriate in this case to draw a seat next to him and offer her comfort. When he did not object to her propinquity, she neared as much as she could and again took his hand, offering small strokes of comfort. “You didn’t tell me this,” she said, thumb caressing his knuckles gently. “The night that you told me everything else, you didn’t tell me this.”
Spike squeezed her hand. “Every li’l boy likes thinkin’ his pap’s a hero, luv. Take everythin’ else away, an’ mine always was. He spent the years after the war tryin’ to make enough money to come home. Did you read that?”
She shook her head.
“Got here from the river, I s’pose. There was a fort by Rosalie called Clifton. He was prob’ly shippin’ materials when the Yanks torched the place. Helped take care of that house, tried to help after the war an’ get her money back, then got the fever an’ died.” He released a quivering sigh. “He died here. An’ Mary got hitched, Mum got sick, an’ I got sired. Bloody funny world we live in.” There was another pause, an emotional tug, and he crumbled at last. “God, he must’ve been so disappointed.”
That was it. Knowledge thrown out the window; it was all instinct now. Buffy twisted and tugged him into her arms. “No,” she said, caressing the back of his head as his brow found solace at her shoulder. “You’re not responsible for what happened. Not to you or anyone else...well, except for those you, you know, killed...but, that’s a whole other topic and we’re...” A break and a sigh. “I really suck at comfort.”
She felt a weak grin against her shoulder. “Sound fine to me, pet.” His hands curled around her arms and he pressed wet, desperate but soft kisses at her throat. “Look at me,” he grumbled, not entirely irate and with more than a dose of humor. “Bloody master vamp seekin’ comfort in the warm embrace of his enemy. I either disappoint my human pap or my entire bloody nature. How’s that for irony?” He rested against her for a few more minutes, collected himself, and pulled back when the change in mood—the change in everything—swept through on a beat that was tacit but unmistakable.
They were on the floor in each other’s arms.
“Buffy...this is real, right? God, tell me this is real.”
A watery smile crossed her face. She nodded. “It’s real. I promise. No more running.”
The light of a gentle smile touched his mouth, his eyes considering hers for a long moment before he drew in a reverent breath of concession. A released whisper of her name, and before he drove them both mad, he drew her lips to his.
This kiss was different. At the simplest touch, she knew this kiss was different. Not birthed out of confused desperation, not a fleeting taste stolen before the tide changed its course once more. His tongue tasted and teased, loved and worshipped. He explored every inch of her cavern, hands taking chart up her arms until he was caressing the softness of her throat and, eager fingers burrowing into the silkiness of her hair. Buffy was too far lost to ever consider being found. Passion mounted in a sea of murmured promises, coated with pleasured moans and gasps that were delectably suited to drive her out of her mind.
Never had any man’s touch ensnared her with both arousal and security. Fired lust that was not frightening—did not exceed the bounds of comfort. This was not a bumbly first or a sloppy second. She had found the piece that matched her puzzle. The face of everything she had searched for to bring a scarred heart to rest.
An undercurrent of emotion swept her into an internal river. The terrible urge to laugh with glee coincided with a need to weep with recognition. Instead, she focused the entirety of her attention on him. On this. On pouring every entangled feeling she had through the union of their lips.
The next thing she knew, he had released her and tugged her to her feet. She had not realized her leg had fallen asleep until she applied her weight and nearly tumbled. Spike caught her around the waist, his lips seizing hers with flawless ease. And just like that, the mood took a drastic change. Tender remained but gained a dose of empowered lust, surged through contact and set her skin aflame. His teeth nipped at her mouth, his taste more prominent, as though it had held back alongside the stirrings of need.
A murmur of complaint tickled her throat when he pulled back, resting his brow against hers as they panted together in recovery. It humbled her that he was so unraveled that he needed to breathe—that his gasps were just as frantic as hers. That the glossy veil over his eyes was so empowered with zeal that the struggle for control mapped across a blue ocean conflicted with storm.
“Buffy,” he rasped, lowering his mouth to her throat. “God, I want you so much. Feels like I’ve bloody wanted you forever. ‘S been too long since...I was so sure you—”
She smiled and pressed a finger to his lips. “I know,” she said. “Me too. It feels like all the time in the world has gone by. I feel so stupid.”
His answering inquiry was muffled, but she caught the drift without fault.
“It shouldn’t have been like this,” she said, hands clutching at his shoulders desperately. “I messed everything up.”
“Hardly, luv.”
“It felt like it there for a while.”
A chuckle rumbled through his chest and he pulled back to see her eyes, cupping her face with a note of affection that made her heart swell. “Sweetheart,” he said, “I know it mighta seemed like it, but ‘f tonight hadn’t happened, an’ fuck before I give all else up. You really think I woulda let you go without a fight?” He kissed her forehead almost reverently, thumbs caressing genteel circles into her cheeks. “After everythin’? After this? ‘m made of more than that, pet.”
“I know. I didn’t mean—”
He cut her off with another blazing kiss, then pulled back before she could respond. “Now,” he said.
“Now?”
“You gotta tell me now to stop, ‘f that’s what you want. ‘F I let this get any farther, I won’ be able to. I’ve been...God, Buffy, I—”
Her eyes widened. He thought she wanted to stop? Now?
“No stopping.”
Spike perked a brow and she caught a glimpse of a cocky smirk. “No?”
And that was that. Nothing else. She had no chance to answer. He was on her the next minute; shoving her against the nearest wall, mouth ravaging hers. His lips were hot and needy in contrast to the coolness of his flesh. Tasting every inch of her cavity, hands on her skin, setting her ablaze without touching her at all. Her own hands curled under his shoulders, her legs entwined around his waist as he pushed his hips into hers with heady, desperate gasps. He pressed himself against her wholly, thoroughly. Let her feel with the wealth of how much he wanted her. And just like that, the pent up emotion—the yearning that she had so long denied herself—everything that had spent the past few days bottled in a perpetual heap of wait, burst through with alarming velocity. Buffy dropped her legs from his waist and pushed him back for a brief minute to catch her breath.
His eyes were heavy and studying her with a mixture of adoration and fear. Despite all, he remained on the brink of uncertainty. Teetering toward a knowledge that with her, nothing was ever set in stone.
It hurt that she could drive him to such an extreme, and she decided at that moment to never give him reason to doubt again. The next instant, she had hurled herself into his arms, attacking his lips with renewed fervor as he moaned in capitulation and wrapped his arms around her in a motion to never let go. And then the ground beneath her feet vanished completely, and she was flying down the hall to a room that had so recently been hers. A room encased with his scent. With an essence that was so thoroughly Spike that she never wanted to leave.
There he gave the ground back to her, and the realism of what was about to happen slammed into her fully for the first time. He must have felt it, too, for his breathing became ragged and his body quivered against hers.
“Buffy,” he murmured against her mouth, saying nothing else but leaving himself wide open. She recognized it for what it was. A last cop out. A last chance. His way of saying it was all right now. If she wanted to, she could leave him alone in his room with nothing more than tonight’s promises to sleep to. The words were lost, yes, but the meaning behind them remained as prominent as ever. And if possible, her ardor doubled and the gentility of his thankless grace swept her into a tundra of discovery.
There was no way to answer with words. No way words would be acceptable. Buffy smiled instead and brushed a kiss across his lips, her hands skimming down his chest and fisting roughly in the material. The idea of undressing him almost flushed her more than conceiving the picture in full. Sex was one thing; intimacy was another. And despite all the want of it, she had never had an intimate moment with a man that wasn’t Spike. Not truly. She and Angel had come close—very close—but for all the fear, all the anxiety, all the pain, there had never truly been intimacy. Not intimacy in the way it was meant to be experienced.
She wasn’t so deluded to believe that a future with Spike was paved with flowers and candy, but the intrinsic rightness buried within every move she made gave her faith. It could not feel so right and be wrong. It simply couldn’t.
A trembling breath squeezed through her lips as she dropped his worn t-shirt to the floor and lowered her hands to the skin she had revealed. She was aware that he was watching her closely, but didn’t care. Didn’t look at him; couldn’t. Her eyes were fixated on his chest. His chest that she could touch freely now. Running sensuous laps down his front, stopping to thumb his nipples with coveted liberation. The heady gasp he betrayed only empowered her, and the temptation to taste him became too potent to ignore.
Spike hissed and threw his head back when her teeth came out to play, his grip on her shoulder tightening if only to solidify his own foundation. “Fuck.”
“Mmmm.”
Several mingled pants tinted the air as he struggled for his senses before reaching for her own top. Buffy murmured into his skin, raising her head when she sensed it bordering from too much to the less pleasant side of torment. Her hands trailed a long path up his arms, then lifted as he whisked her shirt over her head.
“So beautiful,” he murmured, immediately taking advantage of his eagle view and cupping her laced breasts with devout appreciation. His thumbs found her nipples and rubbed gently through the fabric. “So fucking beautiful.”
Buffy licked her lips and thrust herself against the hardness at the apex of her thighs in answer. She curled herself completely in his embrace, a willing lull to his exploration. Little sparks of fire following the cold path his inquisitive fingers took. She was melting from the inside, and the sensation would have been intolerable if it didn’t feel so good.
“This almost doesn’ seem real,” Spike whispered, stealing a brief but passion-filled kiss from her lips. “’ve wanted you for so long.” His mouth found her throat again, nibbling softly as his fingers played absently with the straps of her bra. “So long.”
She breathed a heady sigh, her hands skimming to his shoulders. She clutched him urgently for a second before reversing her track and tunneling through his hair. His words sealed her with passion, yet terrified her at the same notion. He spoke as though she was the pinnacle of everything he had sought—the ending prize of a long-fought battle. Doubt wracked her body, side-by-side with an underlying fear established with an inferiority complex that had gained ground by a past of failed expectations. The idea that this encounter could spoil that yearning into a rather rude awakening was more worrisome than she could bear.
And yet the sensations he inspired wound a tight bundle somewhere deep inside that was screaming for release. Her hands dropped to the clasp on his jeans only to forget themselves for the cool warmth of his mouth on her breast as her bra fell away. The feel of it at its tamest was almost enough to send her over that final edge—she had waited for so long, and the ache of his own desperation was doing a number on hers. She clutched at him, his tongue swirling around one rose nipple and furthering a downward spiral on footing she did not care to regain.
“Oh God,” she moaned, thrusting herself against his hardness. “Oh my God.”
“Mmm,” he hummed in agreement, pressing an oddly chaste kiss at the swell of her breast before turning to give the other the same treatment. His left hand found the globe of flesh he had abandoned before the cool air could hit her, his right skating delicately down her front to undo the button of her jeans. “Buffy...”
It took a second, but her own hands suddenly jarred to the realization that they still existed. She encircled his hips to steady herself before her legs gave way, not surpassing the opportunity to tease his clothed backside. He chuckled into her skin and squeezed her breast in retaliation, inspiring a careless smirk to her lips as her touch moved to the persistent hardness that remained frantic in a need for attention. At her answering grip, he released a long moan and thrust eagerly into her touch, murmuring her name as though she was a god misplaced among the heavens.
“This all for me?” she asked softly, squeezing him again.
Spike’s insistent suckling intensified in reply. His tongue swirled and consumed, and when she gasped in turn, his hands abandoned their task and pushed her back in a haste that would have wounded had she not landed on the bed.
“All for you,” he panted. “Every fuckin’ hard-on I’ve had for the past three years...all for you.”
That she wasn’t expecting. A jolt of heat shimmied down her spine. Buffy blinked. “What?”
A sheepish grin crossed his lips and he shrugged carelessly. “Can’t help it when a girl’s right, right?” The question was meant to be abstract, but she didn’t follow his rhetoric. Then his expression grew serious, his eyes heavy with the emotion that she had grown so accustomed to. “’S been you for a long time, Buffy,” he said tenderly. “Long before I knew that I even...long before Red’s spell that gave me that firs’ taste. Ever since...God, I don’ even know how long. Maybe since that firs’ night. I honestly don’ remember not feelin’ this way in one form or another.” He shrugged. “Was lust at first, of course. Jus’ flat out lust. An’ yeh, I’ve tried to kill you more times than...but this was always there. Always; jus’ waitin’ for me to recognize it. Waitin’ for me to see what was right in front of me.”
Buffy sat in dumb astonishment for a long moment. Her body was numb—void of all reactionary senses. She felt for a blind instant that she was in someone else’s life. A life where things made sense and the endings were always happy. Where love and joy were not two different entities, and embracing the sensation was no more a conflict of morality than was fighting evil a civic duty. Had anyone ever told her that she would be sitting in a room that belonged to Spike, naked the waist up, convinced that she had just lost what little of her heart was left to lose to a vampire she had once hated, she would have laughed them out of the room. But for everything—for the seriousness in his eyes, the tacit imploring for her to understand: to accept him as he was. To know exactly how much this meant to him
She must have been quiet a second too long, for the look in Spike’s gaze drifted from heartfelt to dodgy and uncomfortable. The Slayer licked her lips and reached for his hand, tugging him forward until he was situated between her legs at the edge of the bed. Looking down into her eyes that answered for everything she still could not assign to words.
It was enough. In a flash, he had her back on the mattress; his mouth worshipped hers. He was only over her for an instant—urgency piling on every refrain. A rediscovered reason for everything. He drew his lips down her body, kissing and licking every inch of flesh he came across.
Then his weight was gone altogether, not without a murmur of complaint that went just as well ignored. Eager hands turned to the fastening on her jeans once more, born with enthusiasm that made her heart pound faster than she thought possible.
“Bloody hate trousers,” he grumbled, fidgeting with the zipper. The look on his face was so adorably frustrated that she could not help but laugh, and his answering smirk sent heat right back to her face in a non-verbal exchange of tug-of-war. The next thing she knew, he had stripped her pants away and consigned them to the floor.
“There,” he breathed admiringly, heavy eyes taking in the full sight of her. Buffy on his bed. Buffy wearing nothing but her frilly panties on his bed. The tension in his groin tightened without warning, and he had turned his hands to his own trousers the next minute.
The bed shifted as the Slayer sat up, grasping his wrist and bringing his perusal to a pause. He sent her a questioning look that she answered with a shy smile, her inquisitive fingers itching past his to take to the fastenings herself. The tenderness in the gesture took him by surprise; he released a quivering sigh and pressed a loving kiss across her shoulder.
“Buffy...”
“Shhhh.”
An inferno of splendor. Spike gasped as his cock sprang into her hand, her touch delicate, exploratory, and not above driving him out of his mind. Watching her like this was strangely akin to the way she had looked the other night. Her brow pressed to his, her eyes closed reverently. Her small grasp teasing him to lengths he hadn’t thought possible. The sopping heat from her wetness tainting the air. As her touch gained momentum, he dropped his hands to her lap and pushed the fabric of her panties aside. There was something about this alone that moved him more than anything they had done—anything he had experienced. Sitting in a dark room, caressing each other intimately. Bearing that sort of honesty for something that was not supposed to exist.
Liquid fire drenched his hand and his nostrils flared. And when her thumb began caressing the head of his cock with tantalizingly gentle strokes, his body quivered and he forced her back onto the bed, eyes blazing with need.
“Won’ last,” he gasped, hooking his thumbs under the cotton of her panties and practically tearing them down her legs. “You’re too much.”
“I hadn’t even—”
He shook his head. “’S not that, it’s you. You’re too fucking much. Gonna go out of my mind.” He finished kicking off his jeans in a hurry and settled over her before she could miss his presence. His presence that was not warm—more a cooling blanket to settle over her burning skin. “God, you smell so good.”
“Spike...”
“Gotta have a taste.”
Her eyes went wide. “Spike! I want you—”
“—want you too, baby.”
“Inside!”
“Gonna be. Want my taste firs’.”
“Thought you’ve already had a taste.”
He shrugged innocently. “A bloke can’t have seconds? Most girls love this.”
“I do. But I want you.”
“Gonna have me. Jus’ wanna make sure you’re ready.”
“I’m ready, trust me.”
A devious smile crossed his lips and he edged a finger inside her warmth. “Oh yeh,” he purred. “Good an’ ready.”
Buffy nearly bucked off the bed. “God, you’re gonna kill me.”
Spike’s smirk faded to a bemused grin as he slid another finger into her. “That’s it, ladies an’ gents. Slayer’s sussed out my evil plan. Death by shaggin’.”
“Oohhh...”
A grin on his lips, he dipped his head and brushed a kiss over her stomach, licking a wet path to her womanhood. His fingers probing, driving her out of her mind. She cried out and arched off the bed again, hands clenching the linens with such fervor that she nearly ripped them to shreds. Despite the interlude the other night, she never thought that his insistence on pleasuring her this way was something he enjoyed. No man had ever attempted. Granted, her own experience in the sex department was not exactly leaping off the charts; she knew enough just from girl talks with various unsatisfied students in class and an assortment of dirty films she, Xander, and Willow had rented one weekend—a dare to see who blushed first—to know that men liked receiving and weren’t big on the giving.
Parker had more than proved his affinity for receiving, and she had spent the next few days following his hurtful brush-off wondering if he acted the way he did because she refused to give him a blowjob. Not that Buffy was above that—she simply had never done it before, and she didn’t particularly want her first time at such an intimate act to be with a man she just met. A man that she didn’t know well enough to trust.
That trust-part should have qualified for the sex itself. She had more than learned her lesson.
Which was why being with Spike after everything was more rewarding than anything else. The time she had asked for had nearly torn her apart—not for wanting entirely, but enough to send her hormones over the edge. They had grown, built trust, developed something beyond the ordinary. And now here they were. Spike between her thighs, teasing her to uncharted planes of ecstasy with his tongue. Drank the full of her fountain with expertise that drove her promptly out of her mind. He entered her cautiously, drew her clit into his mouth and sucked until she saw stars. The weight and experience of such an explosive release was still so foreign to her. And she wondered, recovering, if the vampire nuzzling her curls would always hold the capacity to make her feel this way.
Or if he would tire of her and leave like all the others.
As though sensing the thought, he favored her quivering skin with another long lick of his tongue and nuzzled her inner thigh. Simple adoration out of simple gestures. And she knew then. She knew.
“Spike...”
That was all the urging he required. He prowled up her body with a slow smile, swooping her mouth into another toe-curling kiss. A wrangled gasp tore at his throat when he felt her small hand encircling his cock once more, aligning him with her entrance. And for all the willpower in the world, he found the strength to grasp her wrist and stop her before they crossed the final barrier. Before it would be too late for her to change her mind, and he fell into her completely.
“Buffy? This...are you sure?”
Where all this superfluous chivalry came from, he knew not. His body ached for hers in ways he had never before ached. In nearly a hundred and thirty years, he had never known such exquisite torment.
But it had to be said. It had to.
And for the way she looked at him—a wealth of awe, a few shades of annoyance, but more appreciation than anyone had ever granted him with. She smiled a smile that would outshine the sun, and nodded a wordless consent.
It was the smile that did it. The smile that pushed him over. That set all boundaries away. Spike laced his fingers through hers and caressed her mouth in a loving kiss, then slowly began to slide inside.
And it was too much. Already too much. A gasp scratched at his throat as she clenched around him, her answering moan music to his ears. God, so tight. Tighter and tighter. He was barely within her, and he knew he was lost. Lost on this alone. The most blissful sensation he had ever known. His body clenched and he forced himself to a standstill to gather his bearings. It unearthed him that she could affect him so effortlessly. That simply by being, he risked everything he was.
It didn’t matter, though. Not as long as she was there.
“Oh God,” he moaned, drawing in a breath sliding completely within her. Buried to the hilt. And lost so thoroughly he didn’t care to ever be found. “Oh my God.”
Buffy’s head was thrown back against the pillow, her eyes closed piously. For the breaths she took, the wondrous expression on her face, he tumbled and fell all over again. She was here. She was really here. And it was real.
“Buffy...” Her name rolled off his lips like a prayer. “Look at me, baby. Please.”
She did, and he nearly gasped for the wealth she had tried to hide. It was unlike anything he had ever seen before. A reflection lacking from any of the women in his past. More than lust and familiarity—more than anyone had ever given him. More, just from a look. There she was.
With a deep breath, he withdrew from her heat and sank inside again. Watching her face contort in pleasure was a privilege he vowed to never take for granted. This, being here, everything.
“God,” he gasped. “Fuck, I’ve never felt anythin’ like this.”
She shook her head. “I...me, either.”
That was all he needed. It wasn’t much, but it was what he needed. His head settled at her shoulder, his hands tightening around hers. He settled her arms over the mattress, squeezing intimately with every thrust and parry. Her inner walls clenched him with every withdrawal, her hips rising to recapture. It was all heaven. The closest to heaven that he had ever been, or would ever be. Comfort, light, all in the arms of the Slayer. He hadn’t loved her long, but he had felt this since the beginning. And knowing that it was her, that this wasn’t some ornate fantasy, that she was really with him...it was too much. The rhythm he set was tender—he couldn’t help it. A demon wanted it rough, a man treasured what he had. And he would treasure this. There wasn’t abuse, and that surprised him. He was so accustomed to abuse.
This felt more like love.
Every stroke scorched his skin, every time he withdrew his body lamented her loss. A haven of sweet torture. And she was matching him. Outmatching him. Throwing him for a bloody loop. The shades that crossed her face, the expressions of pleasure, the coloring of something he was hesitant to name—he was so terrified of perfection. Of reaching something that was perfect only to spoil it for what he was. Her hips lifted with his to recapture him every time he pulled away, her hands grasping his as though he held her to the world and letting go would make all fall away.
But she did let go. She let go and tugged his mouth down to hers. She kissed him thoroughly, breaking only when she had to gasp for air. He seized the opportunity to nip at her breasts and lave her nipples with his tongue, his eyes on her face all the while. Watching her—unable to do anything but. Releasing a moan into her skin when her thighs clenched around him. Her legs bound around his waist instinctively; his own hands finding hers and pushing them back to the mattress.
A muffled sob rumbled from her lips and broke the golden silence that surrounded them. His thrusts grew deeper, her hips lifting rhythmically. Touching areas that had never been touched. “Spike...”
He released a steady breath and lowered his head to her throat. “Sweetness?”
“Talk to me.”
“Mmmm,” he mused, hips jerking forward. “What do you wanna hear?”
“How...” A blush favored her cheeks and charmed him completely. How she could find something to blush about as they shared something more candid and open than any other act meant for two people was thoroughly adorable. “How...do you...what do you feel?”
Spike’s eyes rolled inside his head, his thrusts gaining momentum. “I don’ even know how to answer that, luv,” he murmured. And then, having a task that seemed impossible, he had no choice but to accept. “God, you feel so good. So bloody good. Gonna burn alive, baby. Like satin kissed by the sun, that’s how you feel. Never been so good. Never felt anythin’ like this.”
“Never,” she agreed. “Oh God, never been like this.”
“’S you, Buffy. It’s all you.” He smiled gently and brushed damp locks of hair from her forehead. “God, I could stay here forever. You’re so warm. So tight. So fucking perfect.”
“Spike—”
“Never gonna let you go, sweetheart. Never.”
She threw her head back, her hands seeking freedom. She clutched with newfound desperation at his shoulders, recognizing dimly that she was scratching new rivers into his arms but didn’t have the foresight to care. And if anything, the slight hint of pain inspired a symphony within. His hips whirled with every thrust; stroking regions within her she didn’t know existed. “Oh God.”
Spike’s head dipped, lips brushing a reverent kiss against her throat as his attentions sharpened. She squeezed her thighs around his and sank her teeth into his shoulder, earning a strangled gasp and a frenzy of desperate thrusts. And then his hands abandoned her, one returning to her breasts, the other venturing where they were joined.
It was a sensory explosion when she came. A bang that banished everything but the man she clutched to the far recesses of who cares. Blinding white spots of perpetual brilliance. It wracked every nerve in her body; touched every part of her there was to touch. Sent shivers along with spots of heat that were nearly unbearable. Too much compact in one. Too much, and not enough. She felt it would never end and that it would end too quickly. A sob tore at her throat and her body refused to slow. The knowledge it brought with it was almost dangerous, but she knew what it meant. And like all else, for the world, it didn’t matter. Not right now. Nothing mattered now except this moment. Nothing.
A starry blaze of color. Her eyes were still shut. And when she felt Spike follow her over, the sensation rejuvenated. Sparked to new life. Reached new heights. She dared to look at him, unsurprised and not frightened to see fangs. His own eyes were shut as well, hands clutched frantically at hers. The look on his face, demon and all, was a picture of pleasured peace—so lovely, beyond description yet simple enough to know exactly what it meant.
And then it happened. The thing happened. Something unprecedented. Something she had not expected tonight to bring. A whisper above all else, but there nonetheless. There. With them. Spike’s face melted back to his human guise, a watery, near-dreamlike appearance about him. “God, Buffy,” he gasped. “I love you. I love you so much.”
The minute the words touched the air in their breadth, the world stopped. Everything stopped. Spike’s eyes opened in alarm and glanced to her in a panic, but it was too late. It was out there. They were out there, and he could not take them back.
Buffy just looked at him, gaze wide and imploring. Every nerve ending was numb with shock—with jubilation and relaxed bliss. She knew she should say something; somewhere, she knew she should say something. There was nothing amidst internal squealing. Nothing but him. An inward recitation stuck on repeat. Oh God. Spike loved her. Spike loved her.
She wanted to say it back more than anything, but feared it all the same. Feared what it meant. Feared his reaction. Feared his thinking she was saying it because he had said it. Because he had crossed that border. That unspoken line between sex and intimacy defined with words. Real words. Spike loved her.
Spike loved her.
“Buffy?” His voice was small and timid. Panicked, but not beyond inquisitive. Searching for an answer that she could not give tonight. An answer that had to be as real to him as his declaration was to her now. Something born out of perfection. “Buffy, I—”
She pressed a finger to his lips and smiled softly. No more words tonight. She had all the words she needed. Words to last a lifetime. A quivering sigh stretched her body, and she waited until she had an answering smile before she let her hand drop to his again. The tension in his eyes refused to waver, but it welcomed in her warmth.
She tugged his mouth down to hers and kissed him with all the feeling she had. And when his body relaxed against hers, she pulled away and hugged him to her. Hugged and pressed her lips to his shoulder. Hugged him with everything she had.
Her heart pounded against his unanswering chest. A mantra set in her mind. Spike loved her. He loved her. And regardless of what tomorrow brought, what evils they had yet to face, he loved her now.
And that was all that mattered.
TBC