Author: Samantha
Email: samfic@aol.com
RATING: PG-13
SPOILERS: Definitely "Tabula Rasa"
DISCLAIMER: The characters aren't mine. I should be so lucky.
DISTRIBUTION: THC. Anyone else, please ask.
FEEDBACK: Please? I'll be your best friend! LOL
DEDICATION: Amy, because she has done so much for me; Moe, because even though Spike's not a top favorite of hers, she always gives me such great support; and Simone, just because.
NOTES: The opening lyrics are from the song "Goodbye to You" as sung by Michelle Branch at the end of "Tabula Rasa." I couldn't resist using them.
"And it hurts to want everything and nothing at the same time.
I want what's yours and I want what's mine.
I want you but I'm not giving in this time."
"Spike."
The voice was strained, a taut pitch pushed through constricted vocal cords. He wasn't even sure he had really heard it. Perhaps he was only hearing what he wanted to hear. Still, he paused, waiting to hear it again.
He didn't.
He pushed the toe of his boot forward, willing himself to walk away. To just walk away. But he closed his eyes, slumped his shoulders, and turned around. She was standing there, a few feet away, trying her best to disappear into herself. Wide hazel eyes devoid of anything stared back at him. Glossed lips pulled down slightly at the corners.
Spike just watched her for a long moment, curling his fingers into loose fists. He had seen this look before on her face. In fact, it's pretty much the only expression she managed to wear since she returned. It didn't necessarily mean anything. "Look. Slayer," he started. "I'm tired. So if all you want is to tell me once again how you want nothing more to do with me, save it. Because…"
"That's not…" she uttered, swallowing. She shook her head once. "That's not it."
Tilting his head to the right, Spike took a couple steps towards her, squinting his eyes slightly in confusion. He was afraid to ask. "What is it, then? 'Cause two minutes ago," he added, lifting his arm in the direction of the bar he had just walked away from, "you made it pretty clear that what you wanted was for me to go as far away from you as possible." The sting of her rejection was evident in the icy edge of his voice.
She swallowed again and when she spoke this time, her words were clear and unforced. She looked at him squarely. "I changed my mind."
Spike's mouth opened, then closed again, his mind unable to conjure any coherent thoughts. In that moment, the rest of the world went silent.
**********
Spike was distracted. He walked in utter silence through the dark Sunnydale night, his eyes focused in front of him, trying hard to think only of the swishing of his duster and the crunch of his boots on the grass. He was not going to think about what just happened at the Bronze-the sweetness of her lips, the softness of her cheek under his fingertips, the feel of her fingers wrapped around his arm. No, he wasn't going to think of any of that-especially not the way her knuckles kept brushing lightly against his as she walked in silence beside him. Her boots crunched in step with his.
He wasn't even sure how they had ended up like this. One minute she's rejecting him, not even wanting to look at him, and the next minute she's extending him a wordless invitation to follow her. So he did. He would follow her anywhere.
Neither of them had uttered a word, afraid that the sound would shatter the fragile peace they had forged together. Spike could hear her breaths-slow and even. She wasn't afraid. He was terrified, though he wasn't quite sure of what. Terrified of the feelings she evoked in him? Terrified of being rejected yet again? He couldn't put a finger on it.
Spike walked a few more steps before he realized that she was no longer beside him. Turning on his heel, he faced her. He studied her face, then followed her gaze. She was staring at the front door of his crypt, not blinking. He had passed his own house without even realizing it, he was so deep in thought. Swallowing, he walked past her and up to the door, pushing it open and glancing at her, eyebrows raised in question.
She hesitated for a second and Spike feared she was going to run away. So he was more than a little relieved when she walked up the front steps and brushed past him through the doorway.
The heavy door closed with a muted thud behind him as he leaned against it, his hands pressed against the cold stone. He stared at her as she stood with her back to him in the middle of the room.
The walls felt like they were closing in fast and Spike pushed himself away from the door and said the first words he had spoken in ages. "Can I get you anything? You drank all the whiskey during your last visit, but…"
Buffy's voice cut him off mid-sentence. "I didn't come here to talk." Her back was still turned to him, but her head was turned over her shoulder and only half her face was visible. She looked at him a moment longer before turning away, her face disappearing into the shadows.
Spike shivered at the whoosh of her hair brushing across the back of her coat. His eyes widened slightly as he watched her climb down the ladder to his bedroom. He was frozen for a moment, unable to move his limbs, then finally found the strength to follow her down.
The first thing he noticed was her coat draped over one of the ladder's rungs because on his way down, he had stepped on it, leaving a dusty boot print on it. He jumped the rest of the way down and picked it up, brushing it off nervously as he muttered a soft, "Sorry." He rubbed his thumbs over the fabric before draping it carefully over the back of a chair.
When he turned to look at her, he drew in a sharp, unneeded breath. She was standing next to his bed, one hand gripping one of the four posts, the other one unzipping her boot. He watched in rapt silence as she pulled off her boot, revealing pastel pink-painted toes.
She wasn't looking at him although she was aware of his presence. She knew that he was watching her and part of her enjoyed it. It was the first feeling of anything even remotely resembling joy she had felt since her return. But when she reached up to begin untying her blouse, his voice stopped her.
"Er…what's the hurry, luv?" Spike said, shifting nervously and shoving his hands in his pockets. Then he hoped she didn't actually answer him.
She tugged at the string on her side and tilted her head, furrowing her brow in slight annoyance. Taking a step towards him, she rested her hands on her hips as her wraparound blouse started to fall open. "You disappoint me, Spike. I never pegged you as a prude."
He had to force his eyes to look at her face. "I'm not a prude," he said, laughing nervously. "I just thought…" He didn't finish.
"Don't think," she said, walking right up to him and slipping her hands under his jacket and pushing it off. It fell into a pile on the floor. She kept pushing him until he was pressed against the ladder. Then she leaned in and pressed her lips roughly to his, gripping handfuls of his t-shirt in her fists.
Instinctively, Spike ran his fingers through her hair and gripped the back of her head, pushing her lips even harder against his. His mind was drowning in her-the taste of her tongue, the feel of her hair between his fingers, the dizzying pressure of her breasts against his chest. But a moment of clarity pounded like a freight train through his mind and he grabbed her shoulders and pushed her away, continuing to grasp her tightly as he looked into her eyes.
"W-What's the matter?" she asked him, suddenly sounding like a hurt child.
"Buffy," he said softly, her name rolling off his tongue with ease. He loosened his grip on her as he continued. "This…it just doesn't feel right." He shook his head to support his point.
She jerked out of his grasp and backed away, a brief flash of anger darkening her eyes. "Doesn't *feel* right? Of course it doesn't *feel* right, Spike. Nothing *feels* right anymore. That's the whole point." She twisted her mouth as if those last words tasted bitter.
A thick, awkward silence surrounded them. Buffy stared at him, jaw set, then turned away suddenly and started fumbling with the tie on her blouse. She couldn't look at him.
Spike could hear her heart pounding against her ribcage and watched as she struggled to retie the bow on her shirt. Then he saw something that surprised him-her fingers were trembling uncontrollably. That was the first sign of physical weakness he had seen from her since the resurrection.
He walked to her and took one of her hands in one of his own. She tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip and she relented. "Buffy, it's okay," he whispered.
"No! No…" she insisted, shaking her head vehemently and tangling her fingers with Spike's, "it's not okay. Nothing's okay." She had been avoiding his gaze, but now looked up at him. Her eyes were shiny with welling tears. "Everything's so cold. I'm tired of being cold all the time." As if on cue, her trembling turned into an all-out shiver.
Spike pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her. He held her tightly, trying to stop her shivering, and she pressed against him, burying her face in his chest.
He carried her to his bed and laid her down gently against the pillows, then climbed up and lay beside her. He didn't intrude on her or force any contact; he just laid there in silence beside her and stared up at the ceiling.
Buffy breathed in and out slowly, her eyelids half-closed, the familiar prickle of unshed tears plaguing her eyes. It felt good to just lie there, knowing that there was another body just inches away, knowing that at least physically, she wasn't alone. She sighed and slid her hand along the blanket until she found his, weaving her fingers with his.
Spike raised his arm to rest it on the pillow above her head, offering her an embrace. She silently took him up on his offer, rolling on her side to rest her head on his shoulder and wrap an arm around his waist.
After a while, they both fell asleep.
**********
She stirred, half-opening her eyes, blinking several times in succession against the dryness. Lifting her head, she looked around, her mind taking several moments to register her surroundings. A lone, shadeless lamp burned in the corner, illuminating the rest of the room in a dull, orange-yellow glow.
Looking down at the person lying beside her, she blinked again. Spike. Technically, he wasn't a person. He was a demon. A vampire. And a soulless one at that. But it didn't really matter. He was there. For her. An ear to listen. A shoulder to cry on. Literally, in the case of the latter.
She pulled her arm back, spreading her fingers across his chest. It didn't rise and fall with breath, didn't reverberate with the beating of a heart. It was dead. And cold. And in that moment, it was endlessly comforting.
"What is it, luv?" a groggy voice asked her.
She smiled faintly, barely, the corners of her mouth rising almost imperceptibly. "I was just thinking how much I like your chest," she said, then blushed slightly.
"Oh really?" he asked, smirking as he sat up and leaned against the headboard. His blue eyes glinted in the lamplight.
"Not like that," she replied, smirking back. But she didn't remove her hand; she didn't want to break that calming contact. "I was just thinking how it's ironic that the least human person I know is the one who understands me the best."
Spike watched her closely, hesitating before he spoke. He covered her hand with his own. "The world is full of irony, pet. Look at me. I never thought I'd ever be fightin' the 'good fight'. But here I am. And I *certainly* never thought that I'd…" He trailed off, leaving the unspoken words on the air between them.
"What?" Buffy asked softly.
Spike looked away, fidgeting a little. "You know how I feel about you, Buffy. I don't really want to say it again." He remembered the sting of her words, the look of disgust in her eyes the last time he had told her he loved her.
"Oh," she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper.
An awkward silence filled the room. Love. It was such a complex emotion. She had felt it before, what seemed like another lifetime ago. She supposed it was another lifetime ago. She had yet to feel love the way she thought she should since her return. In her brain, she knew she loved her sister and her friends. But she couldn't *feel* it. She didn't even feel guilty about that.
She didn't love Spike. And despite his assertions, she wasn't convinced that what Spike said he felt for her was actually love.
But she would take it for now.
She sat back against the headboard, her shoulder barely touching Spike's. In the awkwardness, she had drawn her hand away and was currently staring intently at her own entwined fingers. Swallowing against the growing lump in her throat, she took a deep breath before speaking.
"I'd like to hear the words anyway."
Spike turned to look at her, his eyes studying her profile and the way the light from the lamp formed a halo around her. She wasn't looking at him. In fact, it seemed that she was going out of her way not to look at him.
"Buffy," he began, then stopped, clearing his throat. He reached his hand out to touch her, then withdrew it. He closed his eyes for a moment before whispering, "Buffy, I love you. God help me, for what it's worth, I love you."
She drew in a long, deep breath and pushed it out slowly. Then she kissed him.
He didn't know she was crying until he felt the warm tears on his cheek.
**********
It was just before dawn; Buffy could feel it in her bones as she opened her eyes. The blanket barely covered her legs and she shivered against the chill that caused goosebumps to form on her bare skin. Her first instinct was to crawl underneath the covers and curl up against the body next to her.
But she knew she couldn't do that. Not ever again.
So she slid out of bed soundlessly and dressed in the eerie quiet of another morning after.
She stood alongside the bed, staring at the sleeping face of her second vampire lover. Running the backs of her fingers along his cheekbone, she whispered, "It's over, Spike. I mean it this time." Then she turned and climbed up the ladder without looking back.
Spike watched her go.
The End
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