He wasn’t sure how long he’d been in the basement. It could’ve been hours, minute’s, even seconds and he still wouldn’t have been able to count the time.
The water from the sky still trickled down his body, resting in the crevasses of his neck, chest and thighs. His clothing clung to him as if he’d just jumped into the ocean without the saltwater.
Spike smirked; alone he was capable of doing such things without wondering about their repercussions. The basement even smelled like rain, like her, as if her perfume had been created by the earth’s environment and had somehow seeped into the ground beneath the house. He couldn’t help but think that maybe their time spent in the rain had meant a little more than just time spent together. For him it meant they were reaching the brink of something they’d never had before friendship, understanding.
If he closed his eyes he could still feel her body inches away from his, making him shake almost helplessly without control.
The door opened at the top of the stairs and his body stirred, lifting his spine up away from the cold cement wall. He could hear the click of her delicate feet grazing against the wood planes and thought, that in another life, she could’ve been a ballet dancer traveling the world, graceful, even demure and yet he could imagine her as something else besides a Slayer; someone normal, a girl he could’ve seen walking down a street at night and never looked at twice aside to admire her swanlike neck and the blood pulsing underneath it.
Buffy didn’t say anything once she reached the bottom step. Her hair was still wet, hugging her shoulders and the back of her neck. She had changed into dry clothes, a black tank top with dark blue jeans that fell loosely off her waist which he noticed while she gripped the belt loops pulling them back up around her. He made a quick note in his head not to pay too much attention to that factor or he would need a cold shower.
“Here,” she whispered tossing a dark tattered towel at him watching him catch it with his left hand. “I grabbed the last clean one so it’s well…” she trailed off as he acknowledged the fact that the towel was not the pick of the litter and he’d become accustom to getting the last of everything in the house either way. It didn’t matter or bother him anymore. Her head tilted downwards, shyly, and Spike could feel what was left of his insides, desiring the knowledge of what she was thinking.
“Thanks,” he muttered, reaching underneath the hem of his shirt and lifting it up over his chest, then neck and head tossing it to the side. The cotton shirt made a sloshing noise when it hit the hard floor. He caught the childish look on her face, even the blush that had transpired on her cheeks as if she were seeing his naked chest for the first time. He felt exposed by her expression more so than he had when they would slam their bodies into one another, lips mingling across broken flesh and sometimes bone.
The thoughts rushed out of Spike’s head as he quickly dried off with the ripped, worn towel that ran along cold flesh, wondering if Buffy would attempt to cop a small peak at any part of his naked form but every time he thought her eyes had lingered on him for even the briefest moment he found only her beautiful back draped in blackness. His lips cornered into a tiny smile whilst he grasped for the small pile of clothing he kept under the cot he’d learned to call his own and slipped on another black cotton tee shirt with a pair of worn down denim jeans he remembered buying from a thrift store a few days before.
“Okay,” he said running the zipper up and closing the top button on his pants letting his shirt catch on the waist. Buffy turned around slowly, her eyes half closed. She flicked her eyelids up all the way once she felt it was safe, that she wouldn’t catch a part of his appearance she had been trying so hard not to fantasize about.
Spike laid the towel down on the side of his cot as he sunk back down into it, hoping that she would join him in her too big jeans and flattering tank top which reminded him so much of the little girl inside of her that barely ever had a way out. He remembered her as a younger girl in love with Angelus and he couldn’t help but squirm a little at the memory. The thought had often occurred to him that she would never love him the way she had loved that monster. However he had tried to convince himself to appreciate anything she offered, even if the year before, it had been punches and rough kisses and now comfortable silences embedded with undertones of whatever it was she felt for him.
“You should really decorate this place,” Buffy teased throwing her hands up in one fluent motion to signal more sarcasm. Spike cocked his head to the side, shrugging his shoulders studying her few long paces to his cot, bridging the gap between them. She sat down, pulling her legs up underneath her. He could see her toenails peak out under her jeans thigh and found that his hand had already moved from his side and nearer to her skin. It was the closest he could get without touching her. Spike inhaled her scent which he had been relishing before she’d entered the darkest area of the house. Her scent was plastered to his own. It was obvious to him that it would never leave him even if on his journey to and back from Africa he had desired nothing more than to rid himself of it.
He ran his ghostly pale hand through his drying hair sneaking a glance at the woman beside him. Buffy’s backside leaned against the wall her head rolling back along cold cement that touched her scalp. She bit into her dried lips wondering when the next time would be that they did not taste stale or bitter. Her thoughts circulated from her lips to her rough, un-lady like hands and back to how close her body was to Spike’s.
She could practically hear her heart beating in her ear, quickly, the rhythm picking up every two seconds, leaving her completely rigid with fear. It wasn’t the kind of fear you could articulate or even talk about. After their encounter in the rain every part of her was dying, aching, to kiss him, to bite his lips and drop her tongue along his neck. Her logic told her it was wrong, that they were no longer at that place and every time they had been, it went horribly wrong. Then again they were both different now. Things could be different. She rang her fingers together, hands palm to palm, nervously.
“So add some pink you think,” He laughed looking around the room filled with weapons that weren’t being used yet, a wooden table that stood a few feet away along with loads of things from Buffy’s past that would be lost once the hellmouth opened. He would miss it. The cold damp floors even the thudding footsteps upstairs while he tried to sleep. He would miss anything and everything that brought him that much closer to her even the annoying slayerettes. He watched her body language, hands ringing, legs still enfolded under her, head down, and hair falling in her face. His hand reached up to remove the strands of hair plastered along her forehead but stopped himself mid action. Buffy could see the movement out of the corner of her eye and closed her eyes feeling desperately hopeless, having wanted to feel his soft gesture along her skin.
Buffy smiled. “Yea pink could work for you,” she moved her head so her cheek rested on the icy cement. He did the same, realizing it was her way of making more out of their conversation, eye contact spoke volumes in their relationship and he couldn’t tear himself away from her green, glistening eyes. And in an instant, just like that, something had changed between them. A peace had formed, one that had been reaching its climax for months and had achieved its pinnacle moment out in the rain. They had connected, openly, even if neither one of them said anything to signify it.
Before Buffy knew it her lips were opening, thoughts rushing forward like an avalanche. “Spike,” her voice was soft while her hand flung into the air, brushing his cheek.
His eyelids closed, savoring her touch, recording the moment in his brain. Their bodies didn’t move to one another; if anything they felt farther apart than they actually were. Nothing else was said. All he could hear was her breathing. The images of her wet in the rain gliding through his memory. He wasn’t expecting the touch to last forever, not even a minute, or minutes for that matter, so when the door opened, making a loud crashing sound along the wall, he wasn’t shocked. Buffy jumped, her hand dropping from his jaw line where she had started to trace circles with her fingertips.
“Buffy, Andrew is hogging the last of the Ramen Noodles and the rest of us haven’t eaten,” Dawn called down the stairs frustratingly. Spike shook his head, staring over at Buffy, who had already moved up on the cot pulling her hair away from her face and placing strands behind her ears.
“Coming,” Buffy yelled up the stairs, stepping up and away from the cot, swinging her hips around to face Spike. “Duty calls,” she raised her eyebrows in a sarcastic manner. “But we really need to talk about that pink,” she tossed him a smile over her shoulder after whirling around. He had to again remind himself not to stare at the jeans falling off her hips, bare skin appearing. She made her way to the steps, her left foot already placed on the first plane.
When she looked back, wanting to see him still sitting on the cot, giving her one of his newfound shy expressions she was taken aback to see him standing right in front of her. His hand had somehow snaked its way around her wrist and was pulling her down, away from the steps next to him, chest to chest. She opened her lips to ask him what he was doing but the words slipped beneath his lips and her lips as they jolted together, becoming one.
All the desires Buffy had been fighting suddenly melted away in one effortless action. He tasted the same, like cigarettes and sweat, desire and longing rolled all into one while still tasting and smelling a little like ivory soap. She could even smell the rain from minutes, hours before as their tongues blended together, savoring one another’s. Her eyes shut and while they kissed she pictured them elsewhere; a Caribbean island at night with the waves crashing on the beach near a small bungalow, the moon shining in the background.
It was easy to forget the world upstairs even the one outside with his hands merging along the small of her back. His hands didn’t meander up her shirt as they would’ve a year ago, instead they rested protectively, lovingly there, reminding her that this kiss was different from all the others. This kiss was special.
She knew that if he had been alive, if his heart had been beating, she would’ve felt it collapse against her own. Their lips parted regrettably and she stared at him, curiously.
Buffy gulped down his taste and dashed her tongue on her moist lips, smiling. He was smiling too although more nervously than she was. His dark eyes showed a certain amount of innocence and while she wished for the right words to comfort him, to tell him it was all right, nothing came to her.
Spike dropped his hands from her back, tucking them into his pockets and put his head down, staring at the floor. Buffy stood up on the first step getting ready to venture up into the havoc that had become her household but before she took another step she threw herself around to face him again.
He lifted his head, eyes searching hers for a sign that everything was okay. The sign was there, beneath the surface mingling with everything that had happened between them the past few months, days and hours. It wasn’t just that although it was comforting to him to see the look in her eyes that told him volumes even if he’d rather hear her say something. It was the fact that she pulled his head towards her lips and placed a soft kiss on his forehead before she hurried back upstairs that made his earlier action worth whatever ramifications that would come.
Spike grinned walking back to his cot and sliding down into it, staring up at the ceiling that shook with every little movement.
End