Let it go
Let it roll right off your shoulder
Don't you know
The hardest part is over
Let it in
Let your clarity define you
In the end
We will only just remember how it feels
Our lives are made
In these small hours
These little wonders
These twists and turns of fate
Time falls away,
But these small hours
These small hours
Still remain
Let it slide
Let your troubles fall behind you
Let it shine,
Till you feel it all around you
And I don't mind
If it's me you need to turn to
We'll get by
It's the heart that really matters in the end
Our lives are made
In these small hours
These little wonders
These twists and turns of fate
Time falls away
But these small hours
These small hours
Still remain
All of my regret
Will wash away somehow
But I cannot forget
the way I feel right now
In these small hours
These little wonders
These twists and turns of fate
Yeah, these twisted turns of fate
Time falls away
Yeah, but these small hours,
These small hours
Still remain
Yeah, oh they still remain
These little wonders
All these twists and turns of fate
Time falls away
But these small hours
These little wonders
Still remain
Every muscle ached, every bone felt shattered and bruised. Blood trickled down his face, blurring his eyesight and keeping him on edge. There was a ghost of something riding his nerves, some thought left unspoken, some action left undone and Spike couldn’t put his finger on what it was. The itch between his shoulder blades – the one that always warned him of impending doom – was damn near thumping. It should have dissipated. The fight was done.
He looked around, surveying the remains of the dead and dying Bringers. Spike mentally ticked off the survivors, noting injuries. Dawn hop-stepped over a small pile of the dead, complaining about the stains on her jeans. Just beyond her, he spied Connor hacking away at the dying, blood droplets falling like rain on his shoulders. He could just make out the sound of Rupert’s voice, directing the clean-up, from somewhere off to his right.
It took him long moments, his brain sluggish and muddled from little sleep and worry, compounded by battle-fatigue, before he realized why he was still jumpy. Buffy – he couldn’t see or smell her. They’d taken opposite positions, vowing to meet in the middle of the melee, and here he was, surrounded on all sides by corpses, but she wasn’t.
Panic crept in slowly, each unnecessary breath harsh in his ears, until he couldn’t combat it. Where is she? He turned his head, ears straining, eyes focusing on every lump, every pile of bodies. She. . . was wearin’ red. An’ black. Why’d she wear something hard to – ? Why?
No. Wasn’t black. She wore that green jumper, the thick one. High neck. Long sleeves. It’s fuckin’ May, why the hell? Woman has no bloody sense. He realized it was insane, focusing on her wardrobe in the aftermath of this, but he couldn’t pull his thoughts together.
Letting his eyes close, Spike inhaled deeply, searching for the thread of her scent. He’d once told her he could find her blindfolded and crippled in a room full of people. There was nothing. No faint trace of her, no hint of her perfume or shampoo in the air. There was only death. Blood. The sounds of the dying, whimpers and groans from demonic throats. The hitching of human lungs as they breathed their last.
Nothing of Buffy.
He swayed, fatigue and his own injuries beginning to catch up with him. Spike fought the pull of oblivion. Gotta find her. She’ll be here. He stepped forward, eyes still shut, letting his other senses guide him.
Inhaling deeply, he searched for the connection between them. Nothing. There was a void, a – a nothing – he couldn’t find her. Couldn’t reach. . . couldn’t hear the familiar thump of her heartbeat, the sound of her body’s rhythms. . . Oh, Buffy. . .
A soft whimper of denial quivered in his chest and he caught it before it whined up into his throat. Caught it and buried it deep, until he tried again to reach out to her. The whimper surged once more, gaining ground, rolling into a gasp that erupted from his mouth in a hush. Spike clamped down on his muscles, gritting his teeth, forcing the whimpers back, back into the depths of his growing fear. She’s . . .
He remembered this pain. His heart collapsing into itself, his body bowing under the grief. Please, not again. Can’t do this again. Girl’s done enough, don’t . . . Bargaining with any God, making deals in his head with any entity that would listen, he’d already done. He’d been granted his miracle once. Twice even, when she’d loved him. To have one year of grace? One year with her loving him as deeply as he loved her. Not nearly enough. He was greedy. He wanted lifetimes. Ages. Eons. Wanted to watch her grow old, watch her with. . . The babies.
The whimper he’d been fighting took flight and winged its way from him, rolling, echoing in the night air. She deserved to see their babies grow. . . only little mites they are. They wouldn’t remember her if she. . . NO! She’s not de – she’s bloody well not!
Panic surged through him, overwhelming him, submerging him so deeply that he couldn’t see or hear, or sense anyone around him. His poor, tired brain couldn’t shift through the fog and pain of losing her. There was no reason. No hope. No point without her. He was nothing. There was nothing.
His knees gave out, and her name still booming through the darkness and tears bathed his face.
She was gone. . .
His body jerked awake, the nightmare still thickening his head. Buffy stirred beside him, her hand unconsciously seeking to soothe the jerking motions of his muscles. Spike groaned, shuddering and shaking with residual panic, and rolled into a sitting position. He tried willing away the tremors, flexing and relaxing the tightness within him, taking long, deep breaths that did nothing to ease the cramps.
Six nights now, he’d had a variation of that last dream. Nightmares, filled with images of a dead or dying Buffy, each one worse than the last. Spike slid out from under the sheet, grabbing his jeans from the floor. Buffy stirred, shifting and moving in her sleep. He watched her, listening to the steady beating of her heart, the constant rise and fall of her chest. Running a shaking hand over his face, Spike fought the urge to wake her. Just a dream, wanker. Just another bloody bad dream.
He dropped into the rocking chair, resting his head against the back, his half-closed eyes focused on Buffy. Gotta get it under control, William.
Despite his own nightly admonishments, internal monologues, and peevishness at his own fears, nothing over the last six nights had kept the dreams at bay. If anything, they got worse and worse, and Spike was beginning to let his anxiety bleed over into the waking hours. He hovered, watching her every move, shadowing her even when she was doing laundry. Twice he’d caught himself standing outside the bathroom, which was more than a bit creepy, even in his own head. ‘M losing it. Dunno why. ‘S not like we’ve got a load of bad knockin’ down the door. Haven’t had a decent fight since. . .
Since. . . She died.
Well, no, he knew that wasn’t true. Angel and Riley had both tried their hands at ending the world – Angel by calling up the Aurelian ranks and Finn with his misguided attempt to kidnap the babies, but in his head, they didn’t really count. The fight that did count was the one against Glory.
It counted in ways Spike didn’t like facing.
It counted because Buffy had died.
Every other battle paled in comparison. That fight had been his own personal watershed. His Pearl Harbor. His September Eleventh. His world had ended that night.
Buffy had died.
That thought still brought tears to his eyes. Still made his heart ache. He could still taste the void left by her absence. The hole in his life that nothing could fill.
And even though she’d miraculously been restored, that pain existed. It was too real to ignore, to hide from, to deny. Buffy had been dead. Gone.
Unable to remain apart from her, Spike lunged to his feet, letting the chair slam against the wall. Buffy shot up, eyes searching for the disturbance. Spike had her enveloped in his arms before she understood what was happening, her head tucked against his chin, incoherent murmurs filling her ears.
Long, endless minutes he held her in his arms, his body soaking in her presence, the smell of her, the silkiness of her skin, the ghostly touch of her long hair brushing over his arm. The less than coherent mumblings had devolved into unintelligent grunts and, a rolling, barely audible rumble deep in his chest that countered each beat of her heart.
Buffy didn’t try speaking, or moving from his embrace. She knew what had woken him, knew he’d just needed to hold her.
How long he held her, wrapped in his arms, Buffy didn’t know. It didn’t matter. She could feel the tremors rattling through his muscles, could feel the panic he tried so hard to deny. It coursed through him, pulsed and thumped in a mockery of the blood that no longer flowed through his body.
Somehow they ended up reversing their positions, Buffy cradling him within her arms, soft soothing sounds emerging from her. He was quiet, his lips resting against the hollow of her throat, the restless fingers of one hand caressing the inside of her wrist. Her own fingers traced the curls at his nape, feather-light and barely discernable. The panic had eased, though remnants remained, echoes of a deeper welling of emotion that had threatened to drown him. His legs twitched and Spike could feel the tensing of his shoulders. But his mind was clear, devoid of any thought, any distraction, focusing solely on the woman holding him.
So focused was he that he completely missed the pattering of tiny feet in the hallway. Missed the opening of the bedroom door, and almost missed the tapping on the bed beside him.
“Ma?”
Barely visible over the lump of bedding and his woman’s legs, two mop-topped, fair-headed toddlers stood at the bedside, eyes wide and scared. “Dadda?”
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Buffy eased away from Spike, hearing the fear lacing the single worded questions. Spike rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.
Little fingers patted his leg, gaining his attention. “What’s wrong?”
His voice was thick with unshed tears and the last shreds of his own fears, though neither of the toddlers noticed. “Da?”
“Up you come.” Lifting first one, then the other, onto the bed with them, Spike pushed himself upwards, his back leaning against the headboard. “What’s all this?”
Sniffles and hiccupping were their only answers. He and Buffy shared a look, concern filling both of them. Buffy wiped a hand over two small faces, brushing away their tears. “It’s okay, Mommy and Daddy are both here. We’ve got you.”
Neither one expected a real answer, since the twins were barely verbal, language coming slower than their ability to walk. At barely a year, they were walking and climbing and showing all the signs of being stronger than their more normal counterparts, but their verbal skills weren’t as advanced.
Instead of soothing them, Buffy’s words set off another round of tears and pitiful babbling.
“Mam?”
Kirstie’s hand wormed its way over Buffy’s lips, the baby girl needing the touch to confirm to her confused mind that her mother was really there. Robbie was no better, his head butting against her side, his mouth seeking the comfort of her breast. Didn’t seem to matter that she hadn’t nursed either of them in weeks. He latched on, through her nightshirt, his fingers resting just above her heart.
“Shhhh, it’s okay, Mommy’s right here.” Buffy’s arms tugged the pair closer, Kirstie high up on her shoulder and Robbie’s head resting lower, almost level with his sister’s belly. “Mommy’s got you.”
Spike eased nearer, enveloping them all inside his embrace, his eyes watching Buffy’s face closely. He fought the tears his own panic drew, masking his own worry beneath concern for the twins. His forearm rested over their small forms, anchoring them further to Buffy. Spike understood their fears, understood the atavistic need to reassure themselves that she was still there, still with them. Buffy settled against his chest, her pose nearly mimicking Kirstie’s. Soft whispers of her voice reached out in the darkness, easing the fears and soothing them.
Between one heartbeat and the next, the twins fell back into sleep, lulled by the safety and sound of Buffy’s voice. Buffy wasn’t long to follow them, fatigue and her own worries catching up to her.
Spike listened to the steady thumping of their heartbeats, through the last vestiges of a harsh dark night, until the rising sun signaled daybreak.
Despite the hour, every light was on, and loud noises could be heard coming from the house. Spike stood at the end of the walk, listening to the sounds of raised voices and angry screeching. For the last three nights, Buffy and Dawn had been arguing, fighting, and damned near coming to blows over something he didn’t really want to know. But it was hard to keep a secret in their house, since sneaking in was something of an art form, and lying was a non-existent skill.
Buffy had caught Dawn climbing in the window four nights ago, and it didn’t take a vampire’s nose or senses to realize she’d been drinking. Dawn’s behavior had been spiraling downward since Casey’s death at Angel’s hand, even with the therapy. She was increasingly reckless and careless. And in a place like Sunnydale, it only took one mistake before you ended up facing the Slayer. Which was something Buffy kept trying to explain, to little or no effect.
Dawn was currently protesting the house arrest, alerting every vampire in a sixteen block radius that she wasn’t happy. Spike couldn’t approach the front door, somewhat afraid for his eardrums. He paced back and forth, listening attentively for a break in the noise so that he could enter. About at the end of his not-considerable patience, Spike heard the unmistakable sounds of the twins, their voices adding to the cacophony.
“That tears it.” Outpaced by his own anger, Spike banged through the front door, roaring out his own displeasure. “Shut your pie hole!”
Dawn, who was using her height to her advantage, stood on the bottom stair, arms crossed and jaw set. She jumped when Spike yelled, opening her mouth to argue with him. “No! Shut it! Not another word!”
He brushed past her, stomping his way up the stairs to the bedrooms. “You’ve woken the nippers, an’ they’re wailing in their beds. Not another sound from you!”
Buffy huffed out an almost defeated sigh. “Go to your room, Dawn. We’ll talk about this later.”
“Yeah. Whatever.” The brunette swirled back up the stairs, her anger wafting behind her like a cloak.
Her door slamming was the only other sound she made, but it was enough. Every window on the second floor rattled. Spike swung open the door to the nursery, in time to see Robbie climb his way from one crib to the other, babbling something at a shrieking Kirstie. Big, fat tears rolled down her cheeks, and her little face was red and blotchy. Lifting her up in one motion, Spike wiped her tears with his free hand. “All right, baby girl. ‘Ve got you.”
Robbie reached out a chubby hand, repeating one of the only words he could say clearly. “Up. Up. Up!”
“Hang on there, little man.” He was standing on the cross bars of his sister’s crib, preparing to launch himself at his father, when Buffy caught him in mid-air. “Shouldn’t do that. Mommy’s not always gonna be able to catch you.”
Garbling something that sounded like “catch?”, Robbie searched his mother’s face for assurance. “Da?”
“He’s got your sister. He’s right here. See?” Buffy turned so Robbie could see Spike, but when the baby kept repeating himself, she realized he wasn’t looking for his father, he wanted Dawn. “Oh, she’s in her room.”
“DaNee!” He squirmed in her arms, wriggling hard enough that Buffy nearly dropped him. When he finally got free, Robbie raced into the hallway, heading right for Dawn’s room. “DaNee! Me! Nee!”
He tried reaching for the knob, which was too far over his head, then resorted to kicking the door. “Nee!”
Dawn opened the door, wanting nothing more than to yell at anyone, and very nearly started in again. Until Robbie tugged on her jeans, “DaNee! No cry! Up!”
Staring down at her little brother, Dawn couldn’t hold onto the anger. However bad her mood was, the sight of the twins managed to make her smile. Because no matter how down she was, they always wanted to be near her. Wanted to hug her, wanted her to read to them. They loved her.
Crouching down to his level, Dawn gave him a crooked smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes. “Not now, Robbie. I have stuff to do.”
“No! Up!” Robbie wrapped his arms around her neck, his small fingers tangling in her loose hair. “Now, DaNee! Up!”
Unable to resist him, or release his fingers, Dawn hugged him close. “Okay, Robbie, up you get.”
He rested his head against her shoulder, patting her back. Buffy watched them from the opposite doorway, cautious relief flooding through her. Robbie grabbed Dawn’s face, pulling her close to him. “Luff.”
Fresh tears sprung to Dawn’s eyes, and Buffy’s breath caught in her throat. Robbie looked at Dawn again. “Luff.”
“Yeah, I love you too.”
“Bit?” Spike’s voice sounded from right behind her, and Buffy leaned back against him, waiting for him to continue. Her eyes stayed focused on Dawn and Robbie, watching them together. “No more crazy stunts. You want to stay out late, that’s fine. But one of us will come get you. Whenever. However. In any bloody condition.” He paused, waiting for her acknowledgment. When she nodded softly, he finished. “Don’t want to have to explain to these two why their sister isn’t ever coming home.”
Dawn looked up at him sharply, panic laced with grief clouding her expression. Tears chased themselves down her cheeks and she shook her head, dislodging Robbie’s hand. The baby looked up at her, whispered her name, and dropped his forehead closer to her.
Buffy covered her mouth, trying to hold back her own tears, but failed upon Spike’s next words. “None of us wants to lose you, Bit. We love you.”
Silence reigned in the hallway for long minutes, broken only by sniffles and rustlings, until Spike groused, “Christ, this is maudlin. I’m drowning in the gooeyness. Wipe your noses an’ come help me get the nippers back to bed.”
To an uninitiated outsider, or someone new to Sunnydale, the sight of a slimly-built, bleached blond ex-patriot British male was something of a novelty. To the living Sunnydale natives, if you were unlucky enough to be caught outside at night, he was a welcome intruder. For the undead, nearly dead or beings of the otherworldly persuasion, he was more often than not a downright menace, and someone to avoid at all costs.
If the Brit was in a bad mood, as he was this particular evening, it was a fair bet that nothing would be moving until daybreak.
Spike was strolling downtown with an air of deceptive idleness, his eyes roving from one dark alley to another, current demeanor belying the anger surging through his body. Within the last week, Dawn had tried sneaking in the window, less than sober and hours past curfew. Two nights ago, Buffy had gone out patrolling on her own and barely made it through the front door. Her shoulder was dislocated and bruises still marred her thighs and her limp was still pronounced.
Hellions had ridden into town, heading down to Mexico and bent on destroying everything in their path.
Buffy hadn’t been the only casualty. Three of the Brachen girls had been sexually assaulted and one Glia-Glia was still in the demonic wing of Sunnydale General. Spike, backed up by Lawson and a few of the Brachens, had killed all but three of the Hellions after Buffy had been patched up and sent to bed.
Right now he was hunting the remaining Hellions, his temper barely leashed.
He couldn’t think about the women at home, with only Lawson and Oz to watch over all of them.
Spike knew Buffy was strong enough to protect all of them. Knew it in his bones. Had suffered more than his share of beatings at her hands, most of them deserved. Yet knowing helped not one iota. There was no rational basis for his fear. Even knowing that wasn’t of any help either.
It was gut-wrenching, twisting, and squirming inside him like a cancer. There had been too many close calls, too many death-defying moments. He’d lost her once. Spike was determined not to have that happen again. He’d fight all her battles, face anything the universe could throw at him just to keep her by his side. He wasn’t going to let her go.
He’d just found her. Sometimes it felt like they’d been together years, like an old married couple . . . then other moments all it took was one look and he was falling head over heels again, his heart caught. Buffy was his world. She was his everything.
There was no way he wouldn’t fight for her.
Rasping breaths echoed in the alleyway to his right and Spike paused, listening carefully. It wasn’t human, since the heartbeat was radically different, though he couldn’t tell which species of demon it might be. Several types had almost identical beats, but as he stepped into the darkness, Spike could smell the thing. A wicked grin crossed his features.
“Fee, fie, fo, fum. . . you’re no lovely English mum.” Scrabbling noises of whatever lurked in the alley were his only answer, though Spike took measured steps closer. “Might as well show yourself. Can smell you, hiding ‘neath the garbage an’ refuse.”
Four more steps and Spike was practically in the middle of the alley. There was no escape route, save through locked doors or overhead, because Spike wasn’t letting his quarry go. “C’mon, mate, stand up an’ be a man about this. Promise it’ll go easier.”
With a roar, the trapped Hellion rose up, swinging a pipe at where Spike’s head should be. Over-estimating his swing, the demon tipped off balance for a moment, leaving his left side open. Spike took advantage, raking a clawed hand down its back and ripping apart the leather jacket it sported and scoring the flesh beneath. The Hellion recovered quickly, whirling around and catching Spike across the shoulders with the pipe.
Instead of fighting the hit, Spike went with it, rolling over onto his shoulders and jumping right back to his feet. They were now face to face and Spike bounced a little onto his toes, growling just as loudly as the Hellion. He usually taunted his opponents, goading them into making stupid mistakes with his banter, but Spike was eerily silent, aside from the growls. He wasn’t in the mood to drag this out, he wanted it over and done with, so he could head home and check on Buffy.
The Hellion feinted toward Spike’s right, waving the pipe erratically. It wasn’t hard to tell the demon was already injured; Spike had known that from the moment he smelled it. Hellion blood had a distinct odor, one he had no trouble pinpointing. He’d smelled enough of it in the last few days.
One-handedly grabbing the pipe, Spike nailed the Hellion with a hard left to its jaw. The crunch of broken bone echoed against the brick walls and the vampire grinned. Already too battered to fight back, the Hellion swung, almost in a reflexive action, barely grazing Spike’s arm.
From there, it wasn’t much of a fight. Within minutes, Spike was wrenching off the Hellion’s head, leaving it at the end of the alley as a marker.
It was brutal and it wasn’t pretty, but the message was clear to the last Hellions.
Stay, and you die.
By the end of the night, it hardly mattered. Spike had tracked down the remaining Hellions and systematically, efficiently, and quite brutally, killed each one of them. Their heads were left on the freeway entrances as a warning.
He was back home just before sunrise, bruised and sore, but relatively unharmed. His anger, fueled by the fear for Buffy, had risen to epic proportions and he’d taken more than his measure of flesh for the trouble.
Even with the evisceration and decapitations, Spike’s anxiety wasn’t dissipating.
He’d showered, leaving his blood-splattered clothing in the tub to soak, then padded on silent feet through the hallway. Everyone was sleeping, and despite knowing that, Spike still opened doors and checked on the children, including Connor. His last stop, before heading into bed with Buffy, was the room the twins shared.
Sometime in the hours he’d been out, Robbie had climbed out of his crib and into the one belonging to his sister. They were sprawled out on their bellies, foreheads only inches apart. Together they took up the entirety of the crib, their little feet touching opposite ends. Kirsten’s longer curls were tangled and matted, a spot of drool drying beneath her mouth, while Robbie’s thumb was once again tucked firmly in his. A wry smile crossed Spike’s features and he reluctantly pulled the boy’s thumb, removing it completely. They were trying to break him of the habit, but since Spike could remember a time when, as a small boy, his parents had tried the same for him, he doubted their success. Brushing a hand over both, Spike left them alone.
Pausing just inside the doorway to the bedroom he and Buffy shared, Spike gazed at her sleeping form. Her long blond hair was tangled, the ends snaking over their pillows, glinting in the low light she kept on for him. A soft sigh escaped from his lips and Spike closed the door softly behind him. He didn’t need the light – she knew it, yet did it anyway. It was her tiny way of lighting his way home, of telling him that she tried waiting for him . . .
Spike slid under the sheets, his arms curling around Buffy. If fate hadn’t been such a beautiful bitch, and decided, for once in his long existence that William Pratt deserved happiness, he wouldn’t be here. Wouldn’t be able to climb into a shared bed, living a life beside the one woman he couldn’t live without. . . He remembered, could recall it with a gut-wrenching certainty, what life was without her. It wasn’t a time he cared to repeat.
As it was, some nights he still dreamed about it – the night he’d lost her – the fall from Glory’s tower replaying itself over and over in his sleeping mind. He’d tried every trick he knew and some he’d learned from Tara, and even one or two he’d learned from sitting in on Dawn’s counseling sessions – yet not a one worked. Those images, the emotions, the thoughts, it all stayed with him. Most days it was buried deep, hidden away in the day-to-day of their lives. But some nights. . . Some nights there was no escape.
Those were the nights he wanted to melt into her skin, take on part of her so that she would never be far, never leave him. Nights when he slept, cock and fangs resting within her, feeling her life pulse around him, within him, and her heart beating in time for him. Those nights – were like this one.
Even though she was sore and bruised, maybe especially because she was sore and bruised, Spike needed to feel her surrounding him. He closed the narrow distance between them, angling their bodies so he could penetrate her. Spike rested his head against her shoulder, tangling his legs with hers. He shifted, anxiety marking his movements, and then shifted again when the position wasn’t close enough. The ache in his gut wouldn’t ease – even sinking his fangs into her shoulder hadn’t helped. Giving up, Spike rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling.
Buffy followed him, semi-consciously aware of his presence in the bed and his actions. An unintelligible murmur sounded from her and she snorted softly against his chest. Her leg curled up and over his hip, so Spike wormed his left hand beneath her, pulling her close. His hand fell naturally into the curve of her back, fingers brushing over the soft skin. Buffy’s nose nuzzled against his neck and she breathed deeply, the respirations wafting over his bare chest. Spike resisted the urge to pull her closer, instead just let her lean into him, her body closing the infinitesimal distance between them.
His restlessness must have communicated in someway to Buffy, because her hands tightened around his biceps, fingertips digging into his muscles. Her feet curled around one leg and then her entire body inched over his. She was nearly draped over him, only the thin nightgown she wore separating their flesh. Little whimpers and sighs snuffled from her and Spike smiled up at the ceiling, listening to her.
“How bad was it?”
Instead of answering, Spike said, “Go back to sleep, kitten.”
“Did you get all of them?”
Sleep thickened her voice, but that didn’t prevent him from understanding her questions. Knowing too, that he wasn’t going to escape the conversation, he sighed and answered. “Yeah. They’re dead. Was only three left.”
“Who did the clean-up?”
“Does it really matter? Go back to sleep.”
Buffy lightly pinched his side, repeating her last question.
“Djubres, as always. Best cleaners on the hellmouth.” Spike rolled over onto his side, gently pushing her off him. “Now go back to sleep.”
“Don’t wanna. Wanna snuggle.”
Despite his foul mood, Spike smiled. His thumb brushed over her pouted lips. “Nippers’ll be up soon. Daylight’s breaking over the horizon. Don’t have time for snuggles.”
The pout worsened and her eyes peered at him through her dark lashes. “They’ll sleep. They were up late.”
“Oh? Why’s that?” He traced the line of her jaw, edging closer.
“You know they don’t sleep when Mommy reads instead of Daddy.” The only answer he gave her was a sweet kiss; yet despite the sweetness, it was fraught with the restlessness firing his senses.
“What’s wrong?” They’d been together long enough for her to learn his moods, and it was clear his was still not the best. A sleep-warmed hand ran down his arm, locking his hand around her waist.
“C’mon, Spike, spill it.”
“It’s nothin’.” His low whispered response rolled right through her and Buffy basked in the echo of it for a moment before catching the lie.
“Nothing?” Skepticism was hard to convey in a whisper, but Buffy managed. “Really?”
“Yeah. ‘S nothin’ I want to talk about.” Spike threaded his fingers through her hair, spreading it out over her back. “Jus’ go back to sleep.”
Suddenly, her sleep addled brain caught up with itself and the metaphorical light bulb went off. “I’m fine, you know. Slayer healing package is in working order and I’ll be fine as a fiddle by tomorrow.”
Despite his dour mood, Spike smiled. “That’s fit as a fiddle, kitten.”
“Whatever. Point is, I’m here and I’m mostly good.” Her fingers brushed over his bare shoulder, feeling the tension in his muscles. “My shoulder is all better and there’s only a few bruises left.”
He rolled her over, so she was tucked underneath him and stared into her eyes. For long minutes he didn’t speak, just watched her for signs of distress or pain. When none appeared he nodded once, then rolled back away from her. He stayed quiet, letting his thoughts wander through his emotions. Right, could tell her I – what the hell could I tell her?
It wasn’t just the residual memories of trying to survive while she’d been gone – it went much deeper than that. He’d had over a hundred years with Drusilla and while he’d thought it had been a deep abiding love they’d shared, he wasn’t stupid enough to kid himself any longer. He’d love Drusilla, but there had been so many indiscretions over the years that the love had been leached from him. He’d loved her – but Spike wasn’t certain that he’d always been in love with Drusilla.
What he felt for Buffy was different. It wasn’t even similar to the first flush of love he’d shared with Drusilla. This was different. The emotions, the feelings – the overwhelming tide of love at times consumed him. It was a vast ocean of feelings. Loving Buffy had brought so much color into his life, he couldn’t imagine going back to what was before.
A hundred years was long enough to fall in and out of love with someone – more than once. He knew that. He’d lived through it.
He wasn’t guaranteed a hundred years with Buffy. He wasn’t even sure he’d get five more years. Being the Slayer meant rushing headlong into danger, not running from it.
But how could he tell her that it frightened him beyond words – how he didn’t think – knew that he wouldn’t be able to survive without her. Even with the children, he didn’t think he could go on without her. He’d be a shell, an empty, moving carcass, devoid of any emotion save grief.
Spike rolled to his side, propping his head on his hand, watching her in the shadowed darkness of their room. Words surfaced and fled, none of them sufficient to encompass the emotions he was feeling. His free arm snaked across her belly, his hand cupping the curve of her breast. Buffy leaned into him, her face resting just below his chin, one hand resting atop his, the other on his bent hip.
Silence filled their bedroom, his breaths timed with hers, the thump of heart enough for both of them. It took him long moments to realize she was crying, the tears seeping slowly from her closed eyes, sliding down to pool between them. Before he could question her, she slightly rolled to her side edging closer to him, then letting loose a deep sigh.
“It’s not just you, you know.” Her voice was hushed, thick with sleep and tears.
He looked down at her, unable to see her face beneath the strands of her hair. “How’s that?”
“I nearly lost you.” It was barely more than a whisper, spoken against his bare chest, but he heard it clearly all the same. “You’re not the only one with crazy dreams.”
Before he could reply, she lifted her head, looking him in the eyes. Despite the shadows, he could clearly see the sparkle of unshed tears. “When the knights. . . I couldn’t breathe. It felt like my throat was cut, like all the air and hope and everything had been ripped away. That I would never be okay again if you were gone. That I wouldn’t survive.”
He couldn’t respond, still unable to find the words to convey his emotions. His hand shook as he brushed away the gossamer strands of her hair, his thumb brushing gently over her cheekbone. “Buffy. . . “
She lapsed into silence again, her eyes falling closed again under his touch. He dropped his forehead down to rest against hers, his lips against her temple. “I love you.”
Fresh tears slipped from her eyes and her lips trembled. “I love you, too.”
“I couldn’t go on without you, kitten.” His arms gathered her close and she swiped away her tears.
“I don’t know how I would either.”
A broken chuckle escaped him, ending on a choked sigh. “So then we won’t find out.”
“How’re we gonna manage that, Spike?”
“Dunno, pet, but we’ll figure it out.” He brushed another kiss on her cheek, cuddling in closer. “We always do.”
To be continued . . .