continued from Spinning.
* * * * * *
Three more nights pass before she remembers to mention his duster, still
hanging in her closet, slightly separated from the rest of her clothes
looking lonely as it swings on the hanger. He hasn't returned to his crypt
yet--she thinks he will, sometime, but some part of her hopes that he'll just
stay. He's amazingly easy to get along with, this Spike, even if she still
hasn't found a way to tell Xander or Anya that he's back yet.
She brings the long leather coat downstairs. The smell of his cigarette
smoke still clings to it, or maybe that's only in her imagination because she
associates both things with him. When she gets downstairs, she goes into the
living room and finds Spike and Dawn on the couch, both tugging on the remote
control, both laughing hysterically. Dawn wrestles him so that he's
half-lying on the sofa, her little elbow pressing into his stomach so hard
that just looking at it makes Buffy wince. But it's nice to see him laugh,
really laugh, and look so carefree. She doesn't remember him looking like
that since... ever.
Especially lately. Let him have all the fun he wants, she decides. His pain
has somehow become her pain or some reminder of her past pain, so if he can
lighten up, it's a good thing.
When Dawn finally wrenches the remote from his grasp, she's wheezing and
grinning, and she sits up with a start when she realizes that Buffy is
watching.
"Didn't see ya," Dawn says and good Lord, Buffy's grateful for the
cheerfulness of her little sister's tone. It's been a while since that, too.
Spike struggles into a sitting position, flashing a smile at her that she's
only seen while she was under him or over him or in some other compromising
position. A laughing, warm, secret smile. It fades almost immediately, of
course, as if he's remembering something he shouldn't have to remember, but
the remnants remain. His eyes are locked on the coat.
She senses she's done something wrong
((again?))
and shifts nervously as Dawn shoots them both a look and says, "I think
I'll... umm... Go upstairs with the remote. Y'know, celebrate the spoils of
war by myself."
Neither of them comment as she goes upstairs, but Buffy manages a nod and a
smile before turning back to Spike, and she hears him murmur, "The spoils of
war..."
He's still looking at the coat.
And then she remembers, that was how he got it, in a war he waged against an
innocent life, one of my own, one just like me only dead now because of him.
And she feels bad inside because she still wants him to have it if he wants
to take it back. It's him. Or it was before.
It's still difficult drawing the line between the two of them.
So she holds it out and says, "I've had it, while you were gone. In my
closet."
Slowly, Spike stands and draws closer, looking from the coat back to her face
as he approaches, as if asking permission. She can see so many expressions
on his face--he hates how he came by the coat, but she was right, it's a part
of him, and he hates himself for wanting it back so badly. But that doesn't
stop the wanting.
It's hard to stop the wanting. She knows that for a fact.
Buffy gently holds it out and his hands caress the leather for a few seconds
before grasping it and pulling it away from her. He starts to put it on.
And then the question comes into her head again, the frightening one that's
been haunting her, as she watches him transform into what he used to be and
what he can be all at the same time. The question scares her because she's
still unsure of her own motives in wanting the answer, and scared of how he
would answer.
She's fairly certain that if she had reason to ask Angel this question, his
answer would break her heart, and she doesn't want to give Spike the chance
to do that too.
The coat is on, and he looks... like himself. She takes it in, the lines and
the angles of him, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the curve of his lips,
cool lips that she could lend heat to by kissing them for long, slow, moist
minutes, and her eyes dip down to follow the fit of the duster. It fits
right. But then, it always has.
Maybe for a different reason now, though. Maybe... as a reminder, in memory
rather than triumph.
And then it's on the tip of her tongue, the question, and sliding out of her
mouth before she can stop it. If she would.
"If I..." Her voice cracks and she clears her throat to try again. Spike is
quiet, watchful, patient, somehow understanding that this is important, and
different from her other questions. "If I let myself... I *could* let myself
fall... Would you
((catch me?))
be able to accept me despite the things that I've done? The things that I've
done with you, or the other...you? All of the things... Would you be able to
understand? Even when people say they love you and know you, so it's okay,
some wouldn't be able to understand..."
And, startled, she sees that he knows all of the things that she's done, good
and bad, knows her better than any of her other lovers have at least on a
more literal scale, because he's been here, with her, the longest. So his
answer is important for so many more reasons than she originally thought. So
was her question.
Which was an apology in some way. For how she treated him when. For the
things she said, and the things she didn't say, and the things she never let
herself think or understand or accept as true. For all of the carelessly
cruel words and barbs and emotional rejections because at the time, he just
wasn't important to her. For all of the punches that she landed when she
could have just stepped aside and walked around him.
And Spike is doing that openmouthed thing again, amazed and afraid and maybe
a little delighted, or something like that because she can see a curious sort
of elation in his eyes that hasn't quite sunken in yet. But she waits, waits
for his answer and whatever joy or blow that will come with it.
His thumb traces the dip of her upper lip, and the curve of the bottom one,
and once his astonishment is gone it's replaced with such tenderness that she
wants to cry. "I always understood," he says softly. "I always knew why you
came to me, that you were hurting so much. I knew I was your only comfort in
a world you didn't want. I know why you did everything you did."
She smiles just a little thinking, you're still being my comfort, aren't you?
"You called me dark. Like you," she breathes, or possibly whimpers as she
remembers how much it hurt to believe it when it was first said.
"I was full of shit, wasn't I?" he returns flatly. "And I knew that too. I
wanted to give you a reason to stay with me, any reason, because I didn't
want to lose you. But you belong in the light, love, you always have. Your
calling keeps you in the dark. Your nature pulls you out of it. It's the
very reason I fell in love with you." He smiles faintly. "You're
incorruptible."
And then she sighs, leaning into his hand which has started stroking her jaw,
and he turns his palm into her cheek, lightly molding his fingers against her
face, and there are too many things not being said so that they can be felt,
too many moments passing them and not enough time to catch up. But none of
it matters because his fingers, like his mouth, get warm when pressed against
her and it feels so good and for the moment, so does she.
* * * * *
It hasn't been too long when Buffy realizes that they've domesticated each
other. He calms her down, he makes her feel safe
((strange turn of events))
and in return, she continues to forgive him. She doesn't try to pretend that
it's not an ongoing battle, to forget what happened between them before, but
it's a battle that's getting easier as the days and nights go by and he
doesn't even mention their former relationship.
If she had spent this amount of time with the old Spike, he would never lay
off the innuendo and reminders. But the new one doesn't hesitate to change
the subject when the conversation turns too close to what they'd had at one
time, when he sees her face tighten with nervousness because she's just not
ready to discuss what happened.
So yes, she forgives him. Every day she forgives him. Like he used to save
her every night
((dozens of times... lots of different ways. Every night I save you))
and she wonders if he still feels the need. She wonders how long she will.
They fight, sometimes. The basic squabbles of everyday life; did you use my
toothbrush, that's disgusting; I'm a vampire, I shouldn't be getting sodding
dishpan hands by having to do the dishes; go out of the house if you want to
smoke, I don't care if the sun's still up; I didn't mean to leave the red
sock in with the whites! How was I supposed to know that's not how you do
it, you didn't bother to explain!
It's bizarre. Buffy the Vampire Slayer yelling at William the Bloody because
of a red sock left in her load of whites that tainted the clothes pink. She
feels like, if they're going to be fighting, shouldn't it be to the death,
and about something more crucial than laundry?
Make that very bizarre.
But it's during one of these fights where she looks at him and feels a
familiar bolt of white hot something flash through her. If she wasn't so
distracted, she could've fought it off--she's been doing that for over a week
now. But yelling at him, hearing his defensive, lame-ass excuses for not
checking the load feels so normal, so unlike the two of them, that she's not
even prepared for the old lust when it hits her.
And it does. Oh, God, it really does.
Her mid-rant pause is fractional before she decides to go on as if nothing
has happened, but Spike has stopped looking defensive, stopped looking safe.
Now he looks interested, doing that head-tilt thing that works so well for
him, and as her voice fails her, his eyes widen and she can see his nostrils
flare slightly and she knows that he knows. Which is sort of eww, but mostly
nerve-wracking because his curiosity is fading and being replaced with an
intense, almost predatory look.
He's leaning forward, like he might come around the island to her, but as he
breathes in deep as she watches, and all the longing, all the need, fades
from his face, and he turns away. It's fake, of course, she knows that. He
still feels the longing and the need and the lust and everything she feels
and maybe more. But in that moment, she trusts him, really trusts him deep
inside, and can finally draw the line between the two of them. That Spike
hurt her.
This one won't.
"Spike," she says softly, and hears the acceptance in his name as the word
echoes for the briefest of moments. She wills him to hear it too, she wants
him to have heard it, possibly more than she's ever wanted
((anyone))
anything.
And, his head jerks up, and he stares at her, and she knows that he
understands. He stands still, waiting as she takes the initiative and comes
around the island to stand before him.
They're spinning now in a dance with entirely new steps, or maybe it's just
the room that's spinning because all she can see are his eyes, his mouth, the
cutting angle of his cheekbone, and she sees that his eyes have darkened the
merest shade as he's watched her come to him. She's never noticed things in
such infinitesimal amounts, not once in her life, but before him the world is
in such small fractions, all of them gray like the choices she's made, all of
them blue like his eyes. And she understands every one.
Her hand slides up his arm, hesitantly, feeling her way, and then she strokes
the back of his neck for a moment before cupping it with her palm. The tiny
hairs there are soft, she notices as she
((swirls and spins and dips around and around and around))
pulls his head down, lifts her chin up and catches his mouth with hers.
It's new, like everything about him is, but the old fire is still there, the
fire that he stoked in her once upon a time when she was sure she had none
left. His lips feel cool against hers, and taste like the Hershey's bar Dawn
split with him after lunch.
He's slow as well, weighing each of his movements, and she wonders what he's
thinking, if it feels as good to him as it does to her, and about how she
tastes because she didn't have any of the candy bar. But the thoughts fade,
like they always have when she's in his arms, and then his hands are flat on
the small of her back pressing her closer and she can feel the length of his
erection pressed against her stomach and he's not cool anymore, not room
temperature but Buffy temperature, and her little thoughts and insecurities
get lost in the mix.
His mouth, when it warms, carries all of the secrets she's ever wanted to
know, and it's easy to lose herself in it and him.
And then she murmurs, "Stop," against his mouth, and he does so instantly,
stiffening with worry and she can see the fear on his face when he pulls
away. The fear of
((losing her?))
hurting her again. But the last piece of her relaxes, because she knows
she's just as safe with him as he is with her, and so she says, "Again."
Something around his eyes--even darker still--shifts, and she knows he's
smiling though she can't see proof at his mouth. He understands what she
wanted to know. He'll accept any tests she wants to give. He'll be grateful
for any chance to take them. He
((loves her))
wouldn't hurt her now. No, not ever again.
And the room spins around her again as they kiss, and find a new niche that
fits them both.
The End
Feedback