Summary: Spike fights his feelings for Buffy while secretly dreaming of the day he can trust himself—and her—enough to admit his love for her again…
Author's Notes: This story was written for the Noel Of Spike Ficathon. Special thank you to my beta, dusty273 for the last minute beta. You so ROCK!
Rating: NC-17
January 2003
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, pulling Spike from the last medley of
torturous sleep. The scent of vanilla and lavender wafted to his nose,
giving credence to what his body had known from the start.
Slayer. Buffy.
He opened his swollen eyelids, angling himself up into a sitting
position on the cot and forced back the unmanly moan that caught in his
throat as his tender ribs protested his movements. Forcing himself to
shake off the pain, he arched a brow at the girl before him. “To what
do I owe the pleasure, luv? Another big nasty comin’ our way tonight?”
She frowned, eyeing the still healing cuts and bruises on his chest
even as she gave her head a quick wobble. “No, no Big Bad tonight.”
The sound of cheery holiday music drifted through the floorboards;
Spike cast a curious glance at the Slayer. “What’s with all the
Christmas tunes, pet? I thought you said the holidays were over, yeah?”
She lifted a shoulder, moving to sit beside him on the worn out
mattress. “We didn’t get to celebrate Christmas,” she explained, her
hazel eyes looking everywhere but him. “Some of the girls thought we
should hence… lots of joyful music.”
Spike nodded, getting it. “So why are you down here in the basement
with me then? Shouldn’t you be up there, celebratin’ with your chums?”
Her gaze slid back to his face. “You want me to go?” she asked, her
tone sounding more hurt than he’d have expected. “I know you’re still
with the healing and all but, I thought maybe…” She stopped, drawing in
a shaky breath. “I thought maybe you’d like to come celebrate with us,
with me. Drink some eggnog. String some popcorn.”
“Not much for celebratin’ just now, pet. Figure I’d save that for after
we send this new nasty back to its grave. ‘Sides,” he whispered, giving
his arms a little pull, causing the chains hooked to his wrists to echo
noisily in the room. “Best I stay down here in the dark. Baby slayers
and the Scoobies don’ want or need me near ‘em right now.
“Can’t say as I blame ‘em much, though. Big bad killer again, yeah?”
“It’s not your fault, Spike. The First, it…”
“It what? Made me do it? Cor, pet. You know as well as I do, the demon
fights harder than that. ‘S what I do, luv. I’m a monster, just like
you always said I was. No hidin’ that now.”
Her hand shot out, gripping his arms with her fingers. “You are not a
monster, Spike. You’re not. Not anymore. You’re… good now. You have a
soul. You have—”
“I have nothin’,” he interrupted, yanking his arm free. “Soul doesn’t
hide what I am, Buffy. What I’ve done. You shouldn’t either, luv.”
He got to his feet, running the length of the chain, and sighed when it
didn’t give far enough. “I’ve lived a long time, pet. Nothin’ is black
and white, all kinds of gray. A body just has to see it, is all.
“I see it, Buffy. I see it more’n most. More’n you.”
He turned to face her, letting her see the truth within his gaze. “You
can’t change a demon, pet. Not even worth tryin’. In the end, a
demon’ll rise again. Way of the world, that. Can’t all be bloody
heroes.”
“But you are, Spike. You are a hero. You’ve proved it. Lived it.
“My God,” she said, getting up to stand in front of him. “You got
yourself tortured twice to protect me. That says something, Spike.
Whether you want it to or not. It does. It does to me.”
Spike shook his head. “It says nothin’, pet. I’m not a hero. I’m not
that white knight that’s gonna rescue you; that’s Peaches gig. He’s the
bloke who should be standin’ here with you, luv. Not me. I don’ fit in
the soddin’ puzzle.”
“That’s not true. You fit. You do, Spike. You so do.”
He wished he could believe that. Believe her. But they both knew the
words were a lie. She didn’t mean them, any more than he believed them.
Poor Spikey. Can’t be a man. Can’t be a vampire. Where the hell do you fit in?
He didn’t fit. He’d never sodding fit. Not being who he was. What he
was. Pretending otherwise just got a bloke hurt. He’d do well to
remember that. Remember this.
“’M sorry, luv. ’M not the champion you need. ‘Bout time we accepted it, yeah?”
“I can’t accept that,” she said, walking toward him. “I won’t. I told
you before. I believe in you, Spike. I saw you change. I know that you
can do good. That you have done good. I’ve seen it. We’ve all seen it.
Why can’t you see it, too?”
Because to see it, he’d have to believe it. Believe in miracles, too.
And he’d learned how bloody useless believing in those could be.
Getting his soul back was one thing. Getting the powers to absolve him
of his sins and grant him the love of his Slayer? That was something
else entirely.
Peaches was right. He’d never be more than a monster. Not while the sins of darkness still flowed through his veins.
You taste like ashes.
Yeah, and the Slayer’s the bleeding sunlight.
May 2004
Spike groaned, shifting from his side to his back, warily popping open
one eyelid then the other. He didn’t recognize the room he was in at
all. Wasn’t the Hyperion, he knew that much. That bloody place reeked
of the Poof. This place reeked of…
He bolted upright in the bed; searing pain tore through his back and
lower abdomen. “Bloody hell,” he gasped out, falling back against the
mattress. “What’d those soddin’ demon’s do to me?”
“Wasn’t the demons,” came a calm, quiet reply from the corner of the
bedroom. “It was the dragon, or more specifically, the dragon’s teeth.
They got a piece of you. Would’ve ripped you in half if I hadn’t killed
it first.”
Footsteps sounded on the carpeted floor, his only warning before she
fully came into view, her face a mask of pained confusion. “You’re
back,” she said.
“I am.”
She nodded, averting her eyes before sliding them right back toward his
face. “Were you ever going to tell me? Or were you just going to let me
believe you were dust?”
He swallowed hard, feigning a careless shrug as he turned his attention
to the shaky hand fisted in his bedsheet. “Wasn’t aware you’d be
interested, pet. What with you shaggin’ the bloody Immortal and all.”
He pulled the sheet up, covering himself, and sighed. “What are you
doin’ here, Buffy? Last I knew you were half way ‘round the world.
Livin’ it up good and proper, you were.”
“Is that why you didn’t want me to know you came to Rome? Because you thought I was with the Immortal?”
He shrugged again, still not meeting her eyes. “Was hard to think
otherwise after seein’ you dancin’ with him, pet.” He shook his head,
groaning as more pain shot into his temple. “Sod it all but that bloody
hurts.”
“I can call Willow,” Buffy offered, her voice holding only mild
concern. “She can do a vampire healing spell on you, if you want?”
Hell no, he didn’t want. “No offense, love, but Red’s mojo hasn’t
always worked so well. Think I’ll take my bloody chances the old
fashioned way, yeah?”
She nodded again, crossing the room. Amber light immediately flooded
his vision. He could have told her he didn’t need it, but since he
figured she knew that already, he let it slide.
“So what’s all this, pet? Feel sorry for the vamp that almost died savin’ the world again?”
“No. I don’t feel sorry for you, Spike. Right now the only thing I feel for you is anger.”
She bent over, pulling something out of a cooler and before he even had
time to process what it was, the cold blood bag was hitting him in the
chest, right over his unbeating heart. “You should have told me you
were back,” she accused. “I had a right to know you survived the
Hellmouth.”
“Why? So you could go back to treatin’ me like the bloody carpet you
walk on? Sorry, love, but I’ve had my soddin’ fill of bein’ stepped on.
‘Specially by you.”
He sat up, slower this time, and scooted himself back until he could
relax against the headboard of the bed; he vamped, tearing one corner
of the bag in his hand with his teeth, and met her steely-eyed glare
with one of his own. “I’m not the same bloke you knew in Sunnyhell,
pet. I’ve changed, and whether you like or not, I don’t owe you
anythin’. Not anymore.”
Buffy sighed, easing down on to the foot of the bed, briefly covering
her face with her hands. “You never owed me anything to begin with,
Spike.” She looked at him, exhaustion written in every pore, and for a
moment, he felt guilty for adding to it. “That’s what you could never
understand.”
“Hell I didn’ owe you, pet. I tried to rape you. That isn’t somethin’
that can be pushed under the rug like the rest of it. But I’m through
beatin’ myself up for it. I’m not that man anymore.”
“No, you aren’t.” She got up then, heading for the door, and Spike felt
a sharp string of regret as her barely whispered words echoed in the
bitter silence of the room. “Sometimes I wish you could be that man
again, though. At least with him I always knew where I stood.”
The door opened and closed behind her, its soft audible click
reverberating in the sudden wake of her departure. It took Spike more
than a moment to realize Buffy was gone and another few seconds after
that to recognize that she might not be coming back to see him again.
His jaw clenched, the bag of blood in his hand forgotten as he ripped
the bedsheets away from his hips and carefully swung his feet to the
floor. He made it a full step before he swayed, pain shooting up both
his calves. His hand shot out, gripping the railing of the four poster
bed as a deep, hollow growl tore from his throat.
The bedroom door flew open, her concerned gaze immediately falling on
his struggling form. “I should have known you’d tried to follow me.”
She shook her head, rushing forward, and helped him to sit back down.
“Contrary to popular belief, you aren’t Superman, Spike. You’re hurt,
badly. You need at least a day or two to heal.”
He frowned. “How long?”
Confusion marred her face and she laid a hand against his chest,
forcing him to lie back down. “How long what?” she asked, sliding his
feet back onto the bed, reaching for the sheet he discarded a few
moments before.
Spike rolled his eyes. “How long are you stayin’, pet?”
“Staying? I don’t… understand.”
“In L.A.,” he elaborated. “How long are you stayin’ in L.A.?”
She blinked, straightening to her full height. “We aren’t in L.A., Spike. We haven’t been for almost a week now.”
“A week? I was out that long?”
She nodded. “In and out actually.”
“I don’t remember anythin’ after the battle.” His frown deepened, his
eyes casting another cursory glance around. “Where the bleedin’ hell
are we, pet?”
“We’re in Cleveland,” she muttered hoarsely, bending to pick up the
near empty blood packet off the floor. “We’re back at the mouth of
Hell.”
August 2004
The punch to the nose came out of nowhere, momentarily stunning him
into silence. When he finally got his bearings, he glared at the woman
that accosted him. “Bleedin’ hell, Slayer. What in Christ’s name was
that for?”
“You, for being so stupid.” She shook her head, moving to walk away;
his hand shot out, gripping her arm before she could get a full step
away. “Let me go,” she seethed, hazel eyes narrowing, glittering
dangerously. “You want to leave Cleveland? Leave me? Fine. But don’t
you dare expect me to be happy about it, you stupid jerk.”
Leave? Is that what she thought he meant? “’M not leavin’, pet. When I
said I couldn’t do this, I didn’ mean you. Mean this. I told you I’d
stay and help you guard the Hellmouth and I meant it. Not bloody
leavin’ you here alone. Couldn’ live with myself if…” he paused,
shaking his head again, “You’re bloody daft if you think I’d leave you
here without any soddin’ backup, Slayer.”
That seemed to give her pause. “Oh.” Confusion marred her face as she
lifted her arms, crossing them beneath her breasts, unknowingly drawing
his gaze to the one place he tried so hard not to go. “What did you
mean then?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow when his gaze finally shot
back up to her face. “What can’t you do, Spike?”
He swallowed, hard, his gut clenching with the need to show her. To
somehow make her understand the reason for his detachment. His need to
keep her from getting too close. From learning the truth.
“Spike?” she questioned again. “What can’t you do?”
He frowned, averting his eyes from her perplexed, hopeful gaze. “Never
mind it,” he said, dropping his gaze to look at the ground. “Forget I
said anythin’.” He turned then, knowing he was being a bloody coward
but unable to let himself voice the need that clawed so deep inside.
“’S not important,” he muttered aloud, reaching into his pants pockets
for his cigarettes and lighter. “Don’ know what I was thinkin’
believin’ it was.”
This time it was her hand that shot out to keep him still. “What are you so afraid of, Spike? Why won’t you let me in?”
“Don’ rightly know the answer to that, pet.” His gaze swung back to her
face. “I jus’ know I can’ go back to bein’ what I was. Not even for
you.” He pulled away from her then, heading out of the cemetery and
back toward the house they shared a few blocks away.
Buffy didn’t follow him and for once, he was bloody grateful for that.
He needed time to think and he couldn’t bloody well do that if she was
always hovering about, looking at him with those wounded puppy dog eyes
of hers. No telling what a bloke would let slip under those conditions,
and there was no bleedin’ way he’d admit that he still loved her. Not
when he didn’t have sod it all clue as to how she felt about him.
No, best to keep that bloody tidbit to himself for now. Less chance of being wrong that way. Or being hurt.
He frowned again, rolling his eyes at his own cowardice.
When the bleedin’ hell did William the Bloody, bloody champion of the people, become so afraid of one little girl?
He shook his head, entering the house and throwing himself down onto
the mattress in the first bedroom at the top of the stairs. “Stupid
wanker. Got a pretty bird jus’ itchin’ to get close to you, all but
beggin’ you for another go ‘round and you don’ even have the soddin’
balls to give her the bloody chance.”
The poof would be impressed. Bloke had nothing on him in the brood department. Not anymore, at least.
December 2004
Spike didn’t know what woke him up at first. But the second a warm hand
slid across his thigh, hot, moist lips closing over the pulse point of
his neck, his eyes shot open and his hands roughly gripped bare flesh.
He met her eyes, hers glimmering with passion and barely suppressed
mirth.
“I got tired of waiting,” she explained, wiggling her lower
extremities, drawing a deep moan from the back of his throat as her
drenched opening slid across his rising erection, teasing him with the
delicious friction of forbidden fruit. “I hope you don’t mind but… it’s
Christmas morning and… I couldn’t wait to give you your gift.”
He sighed, his fingers tightening on her arms. “Love, much as I
‘preciate this li’l wake up call, I don’ think it’s a good idea, yeah?
Things are bloody complicated enough without addin’…” he paused as she
moved, one slender hand wrapping around his shaft, guiding his tip just
inside her tight, vaginal walls, “…this into the mix,” he finished on a growl.
She shrugged, hazel eyes dancing with lust and fervor. “Your head is
making it complicated, Spike. But your heart, your body…,” she paused,
nipping at his skin with blunt teeth, coaxing a shudder from him, “…are
telling me a different story.”
Bloody smart ass bint. She knew good and well what his body
wanted. Always had. But that didn’t mean his mind—his heart—was ready
to accommodate it. “Sorry, love,” he whispered, gently pushing her off
him, settling her protesting body in the empty spot next to him. “But
it’s not gonna happen. Not like this.”
She frowned; he refused to meet her eyes. “Please, Buffy, jus’ go. Jus’ get up and go, love.”
Tears gathered in her eyes; Spike refused to let them change his mind.
“’M sorry, pet. I don’ mean to hurt you. ‘S jus’, ’m not ready yet. Not
for this. Not for you. Not…yet.”
“When will you be ready?” she asked, getting up and walking naked
toward the door. “How long are you going to keep punishing me, Spike?
I’ve done everything I can to try to make it up to you for what
happened in Sunnydale. Why won’t you let it go? Why won’t you believe
me?”
Wasn’t a matter of believing her, now was it? It was a matter of…
trusting her. Trusting himself, too. And he didn’t. Not yet. “’M sorry,
love. ‘M so sorry.”
“Don’t be. Just… let me in, Spike. Please. Find a way to let me in.”
April 2005
He stood beneath the massaging showerhead, letting the hard gush of
water wash away the dirt and grime of the night’s demon patrol. Unlike
the previous nights when he’d gone out to fight alone, the Slayer
hadn’t bothered to wait up for him this time. And as much as he’d like
to be fine with that, Spike quickly discovered that he wasn’t.
It irked him that Buffy hadn’t waited up. That she simply hadn’t cared
enough to stay awake and learn whether or not he came home to her.
Did that mean she’d finally given up on him? On them? And if she had, how would he feel about it?
He still loved her. Never doubted he did for a sodding minute. But
loving her and having the balls to actually be with her, to actually
place his bleeding heart back in her hands… he wasn’t so sure about
that. Hadn’t been since he woke up and found himself in her care again.
Yet she stayed with him, night after night. Doing her bloody best to
break down his heart’s walls and force him to recognize the fact that
she loved him. That she had always loved him.
But if he believed that, believed her, he’d have to also believe he’d
been wrong in shutting her out the way he had. That the words she told
him in that cave beneath the school were true. That she loved him, all
of him. Both the demon and the man. The Big Bad and the Champion.
How could that be true, though? She’d done everything short of
skywriting to convince him otherwise. Broken his nose, his heart… hell,
his entire belief system. And for what? To prove a bloody point? To
keep him at arm’s length until she was ready to let herself love him?
Let herself admit that what she felt before, what she felt for the
Poof, might not have been the real thing after all?
Sod all to that.
If she loved him, really wanted to be with him, she’d have found a way
to bloody show it by now. He wouldn’t have been able to resist her if
she spoke the truth. He knew it. So did she. And until the day her full
honesty came, the day when she truly, truly, let herself go, he had no
choice but to keep his distance. It was the only way to insure that
what they had together was real.
For both of them.
September 2005
She lay on his bed, in the middle of the queen size mattress, her
striking face so serene in sleep. For a moment, all Spike could do was
stare at her, awestruck by the sight of her slender curves and endless
beauty.
If ever a woman was truly effulgent, it would be her. In that moment, it could only her.
He watched as one eyelid cracked open, her lips breaking into a wide,
happy grin. “Hey,” she mumbled softly, her graceful body stretching
taut as she rolled over onto her side, one arm folding beneath her
head. “You’re home.”
Home.
Was that what this was? Was that what she was? Was she his home?
He swallowed hard, glancing away from her as he sat his duffle bag onto
the floor beside the old antique dresser she’d bought him at a garage
sale last summer. “Yeah,” he coughed out, his gaze landing everywhere
but on her face. “I… just got in a few minutes ago.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her disillusioned tone dragging his gaze
back to her face. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep in here. I just...” she
paused, getting to her feet and stepping around him as she neared the
open bedroom door, “… missed you, Spike.”
He sighed, cursing himself for hurting her again. “Buffy, wait,” he
said, reaching out to lightly clutch her arm. “I—” He stopped, drawing
in an unneeded breath of air. “I missed you too, love. The whole bloody
trip, all I could think of was you. About drove Peaches outta his
bleedin’ mind, I did. Wonderin’ how long his soddin’ apocalypse would
take so I could get back here, be with you.”
“What does that mean?” she asked, searching his eyes, hers fast-filling with unshed tears. “What do you want from me, Spike?”
Everythin’. God help him but he wanted everything. Every sodding
little piece that she was willing to share with him. “I want you to
stay with me,” he admitted finally, lifting his palm to cup her cheek.
“I want you to let me hold you in my arms. Let me wake up to your
beautiful face in the mornin’.” He tilted his head sideways, his eyes
boring into hers. “Can you do that, love? Can you give me the chance to
be that close to you again?”
The smile that broke out across her face was nothing short of astounding. “I can do that, Spike. I can so do that.”
December 2005
Spike picked up the last present under the tree, shaking it and eyeing
the woman he knew had to have placed it there. “What’s this, love?
Thought we agreed we weren’t going to buy more than five presents for
each other. This makes six for me, yeah?”
She raised a shoulder, doe eyes dancing with excitement. “Who said I
bought it, Mr. Smarty Pants? Gifts can come in a multitude of forms,
you know? Just because it’s wrapped doesn’t mean it was bought.”
He lifted a brow. “You ‘xpect me to believe you made it, then?” He
shook the box, frowning when he discovered it held no sound. “What is
it, pet? A bomb? You gonna try to blow me up for wakin’ your delectable
arse up this mornin’?”
She crossed her arms over her chest, narrowing her gaze on his face.
“And just what makes you think I’d want to kill you now? I’ve put up
with you this long, haven’t I? Doesn’t that warrant me at least some
kind of trust here?”
Trust. Yeah, she’d bloody earned that. Earned it and then some.
Making sure to keep one eye trained on her face, he carefully opened
one end of the wrapping, sliding out a small cardboard box. Inside, he
found two pieces of thick Styrofoam and a small, black jewelry box. “I
thought you said you didn’t buy this, love?”
Grinning at her mock irritation, he lifted the lid and his eyes immediately shot back to her face. “B-Buffy?”
She smiled shyly, reaching for the box in his hands and the silver
pewter skull ring nestled softly inside it. “You put this on my finger
the night Willow cast her Thy Will Be Done spell. The same night you
proposed to me. I thought it only fair I give it back to you now.”
She stopped talking then, drawing in a deep breath and placed the ring
on his left hand, absently rubbing the pad of her thumb across it. “I
love you, Spike,” she whispered, looking up at him, her eyes moist with
tears. “I love you so, so much. I never thought I would find what
you’ve given me. But I have. In you, I have. And there is only one
thing in this world that I want more.
“I want to be yours, Spike. I want you to claim me. I want to be your wife.”
His lips parted, his voice box holding no sound at all.
“S-say something,” she pleaded, searching his eyes. “P-please, Spike,
tell me you love me. Tell me you want to be with me. M-mate with me.
Tell me I’m not crazy here.”
Crazy? Was she daft? ‘Course he wanted to be with her. Bloody well
loved her, didn’t he? But… mating, claiming? That wasn’t to be taken
lightly. She had to know that. Had to know it wasn’t something that
could be undone. That if he did it now, if they did it now, there would
be no going back. She would be his, eternally his.
“A-are you sure about this, love? Sure about me? About us?”
She smiled, reaching up to cup his cheek. “I asked you, didn’t I? I
wouldn’t have done it if I wasn’t sure, Spike. I love you. I’ve loved
you for years now. This is my way of showing you how much. Let me do
this. Let us do this.”
She was serious. He could see it. The determination. The excitement.
She bloody well wanted to claim him, be claimed by him. She wanted to
be mated, married. To him.
“A-all right, love.”
Her face lit up, her pulse primed for take off. “Is that a yes?”
He nodded. “It is. I want to claim you, Buffy. I want to claim you as my wife, as my mate.”
“Just as long as you remember I asked you first.”
He laughed at that, reaching out to draw her into his arms. “Love, no
bloke in his right mind would ever forget a proposal like that.” He
kissed her then, before she could say anything else, and as her body
relaxed against him, he was reminded of a poem he once read…
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