Summary: Buffy's pov in the last few minutes of "Fool For Love."
Spoilers: Through FFL.
Disclaimer: Joss made the characters, but I like to borrow them for my own
amusement.
Rating: PG
Thanks to Tracy who was, as always, the perfect beta reader. :)

I sat on the steps, looking out at my backyard, waiting for the tears to
come. I didn't have to wait too long.

Soon I was crying. I didn't have a specific reason for doing so-- or maybe
it was that I had too many specific reasons. I was crying because my mom was
sick and now the doctors suspected something serious enough to warrant a CAT
scan. I was crying because my little sister, who annoyed me terribly, who I
loved dearly, was basically a figment of my imagination. I was crying
because I was supposed to take care of her, take care of my mother, take care
of my friends, and I didn't even know if I could take care of myself.

I was crying because of what Spike had said to me.

He was right, I knew. Everything he said had been right. I recognized the
truth in his words the instant that they were spoken. I was fascinated by
death. It laid in my hands every day, I caused it... I wanted it. I didn't
want it enough yet, because of my friends or family, but he was also right in
saying that one day I would. One day the curiosity, the need for peace,
would overcome me and I would give up in the middle of a fight. And how did
I know when that would happen?

It was almost happening now.

I had seen something in his eyes earlier that I hadn't wanted to. Something
dark when he reached for me, a need that I haven't known since Angel left.
It hurt me that I saw that in him, that I wanted it. The one time he's
honest, completely honest with me, he manages to hurt me more than he ever
has before.

I suppose that's why I said what I did. ~You're beneath me...~ It was
cruel. It wasn't me. But I did it anyway because I wanted to hurt him back.
Pay him back for not lying. Pay him back for the simple history of his
life, for mapping out my death.

And the look on his face... I've always kept it in mind that he's a demon.
Which is why I never felt sorry for him, or regretted talking to him the way
I did. But I regretted saying that. Sorry that I used something personal
that he revealed to me against him. Sorry that I had to see that look of...
total shock, and humiliation, and pain once the words were out.

It's the little words that scar you in the end. It's not the big speeches
that weigh heavily on your soul at night. No, those you remember but they
hardly ever bring tears. Things like 'I try not to, but I can't stop,' or
'close your eyes.' Those are the things that affect you the most when you
close your eyes. The things you hear over and over when you're all alone.

'That little nothing might not be nothing after all.'

The little words are the scariest ones. Because they're the ones that get
right down to the point. The ones that really mean something. Good or bad,
they mean something. We use them to lift someone up or to make their dreams
come crashing around them.

'She's not my sister...'

'She doesn't know that.'

Things in a reality too frightening to be real. Things in dreams. 'I'll
never forget.' The kind of things that haunt me, and I don't know why. I
don't know why I was picked for this. Don't know if it's part of who I am or
all of who I am.

Don't know if I'm strong enough to handle it.

A clicking noise interrupted my crying and thoughts and I looked up, tears
still staining my face. I saw Spike there. Anger bubbled up in me when I
saw him, but I think it was just to cover the sadness. To postpone the
crying for one second longer. "What do you want now?" I demanded quietly.

Even though I already knew. He was holding a rifle; it looked heavy in his
grip. He was there to kill me. I had hurt him too badly, punished him too
harshly for the things I couldn't deal with and he was here to kill me for
it.

The really terrifying thing is... I almost welcomed it.

But the shot didn't come. The banter didn't come. Neither did the dance.
Instead, something unexpected.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice gruff. But it was an almost... soft
gruffness. Genuinely curious. A little concerned.

I looked away, unable to let myself hear the answer in my own mind. "I don't
want to talk about it."

He tilted his head to the side. "I-Is there something I can do?" he offered
seriously.

I glanced at him. His eyes held tenderness, and compassion. Two things that
I didn't know he could feel. Two of the most important things in the world,
in my opinion. Two things that too few people express for someone else. And
it was real, written across his face. And he wanted to give these things to
me.

And still I couldn't bring myself to say anything.

Because suddenly, it hurt even worse than it had before.

I remained silent, looking away again. Spike slowly approached me, setting
his gun down, sitting on the step at my side. For a minute he was still and
then he reached out and patted me on the shoulder. It was strange. It was
awkward.

It was comforting.

He pulled away and put his hands on his knees. Maybe he didn't know what to
say or maybe he just knew that I couldn't talk, couldn't dance. My dance
card was filled at that moment. And if he sensed that... Well, I was
grateful.

I don't know how long we sat there for. Around an hour, I think. Not
speaking, not touching. Not even looking at each other. But oddly enough,
it felt better just to be with him. Just to be with someone who didn't press
me, someone who's need to know didn't overwhelm my need to keep something
private. Demon, I know, yeah. But that didn't change the fact that it
helped.

After a while I stood and he followed suit. I lifted my thumb, gesturing to
my house and he nodded, sensing that it wasn't an invitation but that I was
indicating that I was going inside.

He turned to leave, but I called him back. "Spike."

He faced me. "Yeah?"

I sighed. "Thank you."

A small smile curved his mouth and he lifted his head once before
disappearing into the shadows. I went inside, feeling-- miraculously-- a
little better.

Tomorrow we would go back to our old way, I was sure. Back to the arguments
and the open dislike of each other and the threats that we'd probably never
carry out. Back to the darkness and fear and uncertainty.

But tonight, for just a little while, it had been different and I was glad I.

'Thank you.'

Yes, the little words are really hard to hear.

They're even harder to say.


The End

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