Safe in my own skin
First
I just want to feel safe in my own skin,
I just want to be happy again
I just want to feel deep in my own world
But I'm so lonely
I don't even want to be with myself anymore
On a different day,
if I was safe in my own skin,
then I wouldn't feel lost and
so frightened
But this is today and I'm lost in my own skin
And I'm so lonely
I don't even want to be with myself anymore
I just want to feel safe in my own skin,
I just want to be happy again.
London, present day
It was quiet.
That’s what woke her. No shuffle or rustle of sheets beside her, no limbs entwining with her own, no arms curling around her, anchoring them together. No heartbeat thumping steadily under her ear.
The quiet drove her from their bed.
Her feet padded softly on the rug, the rough wool scratching at equally rough callouses and bare skin.
Down the darkened hallway, down the stairs, skipping over the creaky ones out of habit, hoping to keep her wakened presence a secret for just a little while longer. The dark frightened her, made her feel small and insignificant, bringing back unwanted memories of before.
Before he’d come.
Before he’d saved her from hell.
She could feel his restless presence in the house, calling to her. She couldn’t sleep without him . . . hadn’t ever been able to.
Didn’t want to.
But he couldn’t sleep at all.
Haunted by his own demons; by all that he’d been through, what she’d suffered, and what he’d been unable to prevent. Haunted by his inability to save another. . .
Some nights he paced the floors, driven to movement by his perceived failures. Other nights he wrote, pouring out his pain, frustration, and anger onto blank, empty pages.
There were the nights he took her with tender savagery, touched her with such reverence and awe that they both wept. Then others when he used and abused her, bruising her flesh with the force of his own need and desperation.
Tonight wasn’t any of those nights, though. Tonight was one of the rarest nights of all. Something must have triggered the memories; something set him off, made the wounds bleed again.
He was sitting in shadow, lit only by the soft glow of the streetlight shining in the big picture window. Smoke curled around his head, rising up to dissipate against the pale ceiling. A dark button down shirt was resting on his shoulders, hanging loosely at his sides. The cigarette caught between his fingers glowed in the dark, dying when he crushed it out.
She crossed her arms over her chest, leaning against the door, her eyes drinking him in. Tears welled in her eyes, though she forcibly blinked them away. He was in so much pain. . . . More pain than she could ease, because it wasn’t physical. The emotional scars ran too deep, much like her own. They were a pair, broken, battered and barely able to hold themselves together.
And yet, they did.
Held each other when the internal demons raged, too much to control; when the pain and memories swamped them, drowning them in despair.
Flame flared in the darkness, bringing his face into sharp relief, catching on his white blond hair, revealing his scarred eyebrow. She loved his face, loved watching the play of emotions in his oh-so-expressive eyes, whether darkened with lust or brimming with love, every emotion was there to witness. Truth was she loved him. Loved him for being so vulnerable, for being so filled with pain, so willing to shoulder her burden in addition to his own.
Loved him, because he’d saved her. Every night since the first she’d laid eyes on him, he’d saved her. Yet he refused to believe it. And she loved him all the more for it.
He’d saved her.
Now it was time for her to save him.
“Spike?” Her voice quavered, breaking on the last syllable of his name, coming out in a breathless whisper. “Spike,” she tried again, hoping for a stronger sound this time. “Come back to bed.”
He’d swivelled his head to stare at her, his eyes dark and unreadable in this light. For long moments she thought she’d imagined her words, until he finally acknowledged her standing there. “Kitten. . . “
“Please, Spike, come back to bed.” He shook his head, taking another drag on the cigarette. On silent feet she crossed the distance between them, her hand reaching for the cigarette before he could move it from his lips. She put it out, brushing her hand over his cheek. “C’mon, Spike. I need you to hold me.”
Easier to couch it in terms of her need for him, not his need for her. They both needed each other. No one else understood. . . No one else knew the depths of what each had lived through. They had only each other.
He slowly got to his feet, concern for her in his every movement. “You okay, pet?”
“I can’t sleep without you.”
With her admission, she knew where his thoughts led him. I can’t sleep without you because I’m afraid. . . . afraid of my own nightmares. . . . Afraid, despite knowing the monster that haunted them both was safely locked away.
She tugged on his hand, pulling him out of the room, down the darkened hallway. Spike pulled her to a stop, his other hand reaching out to hold her against his chest. “Kitten? You okay?”
Her ear over his thumping heart, her arms circled round his waist while his held her safe, she kissed his bare chest. Lifting dark haunted green eyes to his, she whispered, “I am now.”
“All right, sweets, it’s all right.” He leaned down, his lips brushing against her forehead, then lower, to kiss away the teardrops pooling in the corners of her eyes. “I’ve got you, Buffy. I’m here.”
“Don’t leave me, please.”
“Never will, kitten, never.”
They held each other in the dark, two broken, battered souls, and somehow, they found peace.
Peace that wasn’t shattered when he lifted her in his arms, carrying her slight form up the stairs, and to the bed they shared. The peace deepened when he rolled into the bed beside her, his arms easing around her, his breath wafting over her disheveled hair.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too, kitten.”
Though she didn’t want to ask, she knew she had to, because they couldn’t stay at peace unless the last of the demons were slain. “What happened?”
He sighed, rolling onto his back, staring up at the dark ceiling. “Nothing.”
She knew better than to push, knew he would start talking on his own.
“Rupert rang earlier.” She waited him out, content just to listen to his voice. “Got word from a contact in the States. Seems the bastard got shanked.”
Buffy flinched, not expecting that bit of news at all. Despite her earlier vow to wait, she couldn’t help blurting out, “What happened?”
“Not sure. Guess someone found out what he was in for, what he’d done.” He rolled away from her, facing the door. Buffy followed his movements, slipping her arm under his and laying soft kisses on his back. “Don’t much care, either.”
“Neither do I.” He laced their fingers together, squeezing her smaller fingers in sympathy.
“Thing is, pet, any mention of him . . . “ His voice died away, and Buffy nodded, knowing exactly what he meant.
“Yeah. I know.” She snuggled closer, worming her other arm around him. “Thank you.”
“For what?” She felt his head shift, angling up and over his shoulder to look down at her.
“Everything. For not telling me right away. For . . this. For saving me.” Buffy kissed his shoulder again, laying her head there against his strong muscles.
“Didn’t save you, pet. He still got you.”
“Yeah, you did.” He rolled back again, tucking her under his arm, their faces close. Her voice dropped to a whisper, her hand brushing across his face. “You do, all the time. You got me out, you cared when no one else did. If you hadn’t come. . . . I’d be . . . I wouldn’t be here right now.”
Images of that night, the screams, the blood, the fear pulsed through her and Buffy shivered in his arms. “God, Spike, I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t saved me.”
He sat up in a rush, holding her tighter against his wildly thumping heart. “Don’t fuckin’ say that. You would have made it. You’re stronger than that.”
“No, Spike. He would have killed me.” She clutched at him, fingers flexing convulsively around his arms. “He would have. . . and I would have died just like she did.”
They both shuddered, remembered what they’d both suffered at the hands of the same man. He rolled onto his side, taking her with him, holding her close. “Don’t leave me, baby.”
“I won’t, Spike.”
Silence flooded their bedroom, memories held at bay springing to life.
Sunnydale, two years prior
He hated this town.
Hated it with his entire being, every last fiber of himself.
Hadn’t always been that way, though. At first he’d thought it was a decent enough place. After all, it was where his uncle had settled, where his mother had brought them to live after his own father died. It was supposed to have been a haven for them, someplace that didn’t carry the memories of London and all the death that had surrounded them there.
That safe haven never truly materialized.
He’d come to this town, shy, quiet, and unassuming. He’d fled two years later, battered, broken, bruised and determined to never set foot in this place again.
So why was he back?
It was a question he’d asked himself numerous times over the last few days. He didn’t really know why. Oh, the excuse he used was because he needed closure. To put part that of his past behind him so he could move on, so he could heal the broken parts of himself. His therapist recommended it.
A deep sigh ripped from his lungs, and he inhaled the clean air of the place he thought of as his own personal hell and fought every instinct he had to turn and leave this god-forsaken town.
Instead he halted his big DeSoto beside the “Welcome to Sunnydale” sign and stared down the street. Best get this over with. . . . lay these demons to rest.
He put the car into gear and headed straight for the school, the site of his rude awakening into adulthood.
Spike drove up to the front, letting the car idle at the curb.
He hadn’t realized school might be in session, hadn’t given it a second thought. Hundreds of teenagers, all California tanned and pretty, milled about the grounds. He wondered if any of them knew about the viper in their midst. . .
A trio of teens crossed in front of the DeSoto, two girls and a boy, their appearance oddly out of place for southern California. One of the girls, a tiny little blond, sported a huge oversized sweater, reaching down past her fingers, and had her hair up in a ponytail. She looked around, eyes darting here and there, and suddenly his radar went haywire. There’s something not right there. . .
His suspicion was immediately confirmed when the object of nearly every restless night – every waking nightmare – crossed his line of sight, following the girl. Saliva pooled in his mouth as the hulking demon grabbed at her arm, pulling her away from the others.
He squinted into the bright sunlight, trying to make out what was happening, but the light flared, blocking his vision. The moment it cleared they were gone, disappearing into thin air.
He’d almost convinced his brain that he imagined the whole scene when the girl’s companions turned around to head back into the school, fear and worry etched on their young faces.
Spike could feel the sweat leaching from his pores, his chest heaving in quick pants and forced himself to take huge, calming breaths. He’s still fucking here. . . Goddamned bastard is still here.
Scrubbing at suddenly teary eyes, Spike put the DeSoto into gear and peeled away from the curb, unknowingly drawing stares from the teenagers. But he knew it was impossible to run from his memories. They were with him, hiding behind every action, every thought, waiting for the right moment to swamp him, drown him in despair.
He didn’t want to be here in this hellhole.
Wanted to be anywhere but here.
Hadn’t thought about confronting . . .
Him.
The man who’d molested him.
Instead of staying with his uncle Rupert, Spike opted to stay in the local hotel. Less chance of having to deal with unwanted questions, or forced to be emotionally strong when he felt open and exposed.
Easier to ignore family and emotional ties. That way left only pain and more unanswered questions.
He wanted to do this quickly, cleanly.
Wanted to be able to leave when the pain and ache became too much. When it was easier to run than stay.
He stared at the walls of the hotel room, forcing his mind to be blank, desperately forcing away the memories clamoring to break free. Frantically his mind fought the images, shoving them out with almost physical force. And yet. . .
And yet. . .
Seeing the bastard brought it all to the surface, raw and aching. His skin felt tight, like he might burst from it with the next heartbeat, while his insides shriveled and shrank. His heart was thumping wildly, his breathing coming too fast. Panic was setting in, and he knew the longer he sat there, fighting the memories, the worse off he’d be.
The door slammed shut behind him, his boots thudding quietly on the carpeted floor. Need to get out, need to move. . . need to do something.
His feet led him once more past the location of his downfall, the site of his deflowering and . . . Spike stared at the empty field, for once not fighting the memories of the first months in Sunnydale. Life was good, almost too good. He should have known hell was going to be unleashed. School was easy, easier than he’d expected, the kids open and willing to welcome the young, shy British boy. His mother had suggested he try out for the football team, figuring he’d shine for once in the athletic arena. She hadn’t been wrong. He was built for it, having played endlessly in London, easily making the varsity team on the first try.
He’d been fourteen.
Impossibly shy and stuttering around girls, his brain freezing and tongue-tying on him, unable to communicate intelligently.
The field was just a field, green grass unevenly cut, goal posts lonely sentinels against the backdrop of the setting sun. Not blood drenched reminders of being left lonely and bleeding, too sore and sick to move, too hurt to admit what had happened.
Just a field. Just goal posts.
He was William then, when he’d first walked onto this field. Shy, lonely William.
Somewhere still inside of him, William still whimpered and cried in the dark, while Spike stood guard, ever vigilant, ever watchful.
Dropping his spent cigarette to the ground, Spike stomped on it, turning away from the field.
Hands, grasping, holding, shaping. . . possessing. Tightening on his cock, squeezing, then releasing. Whispered threats, ‘this is mine, boyo. . . no one touches you but me’ circled round in his head as he whirled around seeking escape. Hot hands, hurting, holding him down, blood dripping down his leg, pain . . . pain.
Doubling over, vomiting everything he’d eaten in the last few hours, Spike’s belly clenched against the memories that had woken him from a restless sleep. Head hanging over the toilet bowl, he panted for air. Long, long moments he hung his head, letting the tears drip down his cheeks, plopping almost noiselessly into the remains of his meal.
Spike straightened slowly, feeling far older than his twenty six years, his body cramped and shaking with fear and fatigue. Savagely wiping away the tears, he stepped into the cold shower, seeking some form of ease. The cold stung, piercing shards of sanity pelting his skin.
Tremors wracked his frame, making him unsteady on his own feet and he slumped down, huddling against the shower wall, curled in on himself. Hiding from his own pain. Hiding from himself. The tears came, harsh and unforgiving, and he rode them out, knowing eventually his body would give way, give up and collapse from the strain.
Sleep stole over him, exhausted, mindless sleep and he moved slowly, collapsing on the bed, soaking the sheets with the frozen tears his entire body wept.
He slept. . . . and did not dream.
California sunshine was different than sunshine anywhere else in the world. Had a different feel, different quality to it. Brassy, bright and intrusive.
He hated it.
He sat in the shadows of the ridiculously named Espresso Pump, a once gas station that had now been converted – for the greater good – into a coffee shop. Red-rimmed and bloodshot blue eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses, and though his pose was indolent, Spike felt anything but. His every nerve was on edge, eyes tracking the populace as they traveled to and fro, scurrying about their day.
The coffee he’d ordered sat slowly cooling, the overspill leaving a ring around the bottom, and he deliberately tipped the cup to trace more of it on the glass. He sat in the far corner, much like he always did out in public, quietly paranoid about having someone at his back, and so he saw her the second she stepped into view.
She was just as fragile looking, just as tiny as he’d thought. There was a doe-like quality, a wild thing barely able to stand the company of humans in her bearing, a vulnerability about her that spoke to him. His eyes tracked her as she darted swiftly to a chair two tables away from him, where the other girl sat, obviously waiting for her.
Though he wanted to leave, felt the presence of every single patron in the barely empty shop closing in on him, he couldn’t. Didn’t dare move. She was breathlessly spilling out details of something, leaning in closely to the redhead, when she abruptly stopped, ducking her head. A hush fell over the two girls and he swore he could smell the scent of her tears.
A fist clenched around his heart, and his lungs caught, holding the breath suspended, and as a soft sob broke from her, his lungs collapsed, exploding in a whoosh of sound.
Spike sat there, tears welling in his own eyes as the chair scraped back, her narrow shoulders hunching. Her breathing hitched and broke and she fled the place, tearing away pieces of his already wounded flesh.
Stunned and confused, half of him wanting to chase after her and somehow ease the pain he knew she carried; the other half of him wondering why her, of all people. . . . Spike sat there, unable to move.
She was just a girl. . . a tiny, slip of a thing. . . and yet something deep surged within him just seeing her.
Just a girl. . . .
Spike surged to his feet, needing to escape the confines of the small coffee shop.
London, present day
“What are you thinking?” Her hand swept over his cheek, her thumb ghosting over his lips.
“Spike?”
“Jus’ m’ries.” He stared up at the ceiling, his hand making idle patterns on her bare back. “Thinkin’ bout what brought us here.”
Buffy rolled onto her side, her head resting in the crook of his shoulder, her leg thrown over his narrow hips. “Not all of the memories were bad.” She tapped his lips when he stated to speak, begging him not to for a moment. “Most of them were bad, I know. But there were some. . . Willow and Xander.”
He held her closer, dropping a kiss on the crown of her head. She hugged him tighter, holding on, anchoring them together. “Sometimes I miss them, you know?”
He fought the urge to speak, to remind her they couldn’t go back, didn’t dare return, when she spoke again. “Maybe they could come here, someday.”
“Kitten. . . “ He didn’t need to say it, didn’t need to remind her they shouldn’t let anyone know where they were. There was still the matter of her being underage when he’d spirited her out of the country, both her and the baby.
A deep sigh from her shook both their bodies, and he could feel the tears pooling in her eyes. “I don’t wanna talk about that . . . about him anymore. Please, help me forget.”
He flipped them over, so she was tucked beneath him, his hips settling naturally in the cradle created by hers. His calloused hands brushed the hair off her face, his fathomless eyes staring into hers, telling her without words how much he needed her. Buffy caught his face in her hands, tracing lines and shadows.
“Love you, kitten, so fuckin’ much.”
“I know.” Her throat ached with unshed tears, the fist around her heart easing only minimally. “I love you. . . so much.”
She smiled at him, without it reaching her haunted hazel eyes. The same haunted look stared back at her, swimming in deep sapphire and she kissed his face, tasting the saltiness of his own tears. “Oh, Spike, you break my heart.”
His whisper of, “Why’s that, baby?” melted into her skin.
“Because I don’t think you get how much I really do love you. You saved me. . . from the monster.” More feather soft kisses caressed his face and Spike curled his hand over her fragile body, cupping her tender breast. “And I love you. . . God, how I love you.”
Her legs curved over his, arching her hips up against his hard, heavy cock. Despite all the bruises, all the pain, all the darkness surrounding this act for both of them, they always sought connection, always touched. Spike settling himself inside her, thrusting slowly, almost cautiously. This was for them. . . no reminders of . . . him.
Spike rolled to his side, hooking his arm under her hip, keeping them locked together. His arm pillowed her, fingers tangling in her long hair. Other fingers splayed low, at the small of her back, soothing away faint scars. He didn’t speak, couldn’t for the lump and rawness in his throat, and he made no move to hide his tears from her.
Buffy leaned into him, her nipples brushing his, her fingers tracing lines and ridges, smoothing away the pain etched deeply. “I love you.”
He did smile then, leaning down to capture her lips with his. “I love you too. ‘D be lost without you.”
This time her smile reached her eyes and the band around his heart eased. “Nah. I’m the one who’d be lost.”
Internal muscles flexed around his erection and Spike ground hard into her. “Gonna stay like this all night, yeah?”
“Mmmmmhhhmmm. Can we?”
“Anythin’ you want, baby. Anythin’ at all.”
“Good.”
Steadily, slowly, they surged together, holding on, holding in. . . holding the tender, fragile hearts they both owned.
And for once, in the dark, it was enough.
It was enough.
to be continued