Touched

(Click here to read the Mini-Spikefeed.)

Andrew is lying on the stone floor of the mission's secret room, on top of a his coat. "I spy, with my little eye, something that begins with T," he says.

Spike, without the slightest bit of hesitation, replies, "Tapestry." He is so -very- bored...

"Hey, good one!" Andrew says. "How did you..."

"Tapestry's the only thing in the whole bloody room," Spike says, staring at the ceiling.

"Ah, so say you," Andrew says, "But I say, look deeper."

Spike glares at him. "I'll look deep into your jugular is what I'll look at," he says.

"Don't spaz out," Andrew says. Almost a pout.

Spike's frayed temper snaps. "I'm NOT..." But he gets hold of it. "Don't say another word," he says quietly, through his teeth, and Andrew puts his hands up in an "I surrender" gesture. Of course, the quiet lasts about two seconds before Andrew turns over and looks hopefully at Spike.

"Rock, paper, scissors?" he says.

Spike glares at him again. "What's the matter with you? Don't you understand what's going on here?"

"Uh, =yeah=," Andrew says, sounding like a fourteen-year-old 'I know everything and you're so stupid' girl. "We're waiting here until it's night again so you can ride on your motorcycle without -exploding-..." DUH!

"And every minute we stay here, the Slayer's out there facing hell knows what!" Spike's trying to stay calm, but the tension shows in his hands, in the tight line of his jaw. He's worried, desperately worried, and frustrated at being unable to make sure Buffy's all right.

Andrew isn't so worried. "Oh, come on," he says, "what's the worst thing that could happen to her?"

Spike gives him a killing look, and... Oh. Andrew, realizing just what the worst really is, ducks his head, and finally shuts up.

Dawn and Willow figure out that there's a spell that will allow the Bringer the SITs have captured to communicate with them. Willow is about to gather her ingredients when Spike and Andrew return. Andrew is cheerful, and burbles about riding Spike's hog, and the amusing games they played, and, oh, by the way, they found something interesting... And he suddenly realizes that he "really has to urinate." He goes off to the bathroom.

"He's a breath of fresh air, innee?" Spike says dryly. "Thank God I don't breathe..."

Crickets...

"So," Spike goes on, "I think we got a lead. Where's Buffy?"

"Um..." Dawn says. This is so not going to be fun. "She's not here right now."

"When's she get back?"

"Uh..." Dawn looks at Willow for help, and Willow jumps right in. She comes toward Spike, a little hesitantly, and when she speaks, she's obviously nervous.

"While you were gone, we, uh, all got together and, and talked about some, uh disagreements that we were having. And eventually, after, um, much discussion, Buffy decided that it would be... best for all of us if she... took a little time off. A little breather." She smiles weakly at Spike.

And he's been around the Scoobies long enough to see right through this. "Uh-huh," he says, "Is that so." He pins Willow with his gaze, and her smile falters. "Been practicing that little speech long, have you?" he says, and she wilts, moves back to stand with the rest of the group. "So, uh," he says, his face and voice deliberately bland, "Buffy took some time off--in the middle of the apocalypse--and it was her decision."

Xander steps forward. "We all decided," he says diffidently.

"Oh, -you- all decided," Spike says, and though his voice is still calm, there's a sting in it now. He turns away from them, shaking his head, and when he turns back, his eyes show his anger, though he keeps his face still. "You sad, sad, ungrateful -traitors-," he says. "Who do you think you are?"

"We're her friends," Willow says softly. There's a definite tinge of guilt in her words, though. "We just wanted..."

But Spike cuts her off, his anger growing more obvious. "Oh, that's ballsy of you--you're her friends, and you betray her like this?"

Giles breaks in. "You don't understand," he says, but he can't look Spike in the eye.

"You know, I think I -do- understand, =Rupert=," Spike says, making the name sound like a curse. "You used to be the big man, didn't you? The teacher. All full of wisdom. And now she's surpassed you, and you can't handle it." He takes a step forward, eyes flashing. "She has saved your lives again and again," he says, "She's =died= for you, and this is how you thank her?"

Faith, the only one of the crowd who doesn't look embarrassed and guilty, cuts him off. "Hey," she says, stepping forward. "Why don't you take it down a notch or two? The time for speech-giving is over, bat boy."

Spike steps up to her, his arms crossed over his chest, mirroring her own stance. "Is that right?" he says.

"Yeah, that's right," Faith says. "Save your lack of breath."

Spike shrugs. "All right," he says calmly, and then, before she can even blink, his fist flies out and she's spinning around from the blow.

She stands up, faces Spike. "You're really sweet on her, aren't you?" she says, and high-kicks him back into the door-jamb. "I think it's cute." He swings a roundhouse and connects, and she punches him back. "How she's got you whipped." She kicks him through the kitchen door into the dining room, where he rolls across the table.

"Enough!" Giles shouts, but they're not listening. Faith stomps into the dining room after Spike, who's trying to get up. Faith punches him twice, hard, and he kicks her back, then kips upright.

"Finally got what you wanted, didn't you?" he says, and throws another punch. For a second they parry each other's blows, but then he lands a good one, driving her back a step. And then a second one. "WHERE IS SHE?" he demands, and hits her again.

"I don't know!" Faith says, and lands a blow that sends him ass over teakettle to fetch up against the wall. She's ready for another attack, but he's through wasting time with her if she can't give him any useful information; he just gets up and stalks away, out the door, leaving her confused.

He flings out the front door and up the sidewalk, and when he gets to the street, he stops. He closes his eyes, puts his head back, takes a deep breath, searching for her scent. And he finds it. He turns, following her spoor.

Buffy is lying on the bed in the abandoned house, curled in on herself and miserable. There's a knock, then another, louder knock, which she ignores. After a moment Spike steps into the room.

"There you are," he says. Relieved, but not letting her see how worried he's been. "Do you realize I could just walk in here?" he says. "No invite. This town really is theirs now, innit?" Buffy doesn't answer.

"I heard," Spike goes on. "I was over there. That bitch." Still no response from Buffy. "She's all about smiles and reformation when you're on your feet, but the moment you're down, she's all about the kicking, isn't that right? Makes me want to..."

"It wasn't just Faith," Buffy says tiredly. "It was all of them. And it's not like they were wrong." She looks at him, miserable. "Please leave..."

He smiles, as though at a silly child. "-Nnno-," he says, a little smug because he knows what he has to say will cheer her up. "This'll change your tune. I came here because I've got somthing to tell you. You were right. Caleb is trying to protect something from you. And I think you were spot-on all the way; I think it's at the vineyard..." He's smiling, bouncy, perky--this has got to make her feel better. But she just turns her face to the wall. For a moment, he's nonplussed, and the joy fades from his face a little. But he holds on to his good mood for all it's worth. Maybe she wasn't really paying attention. "So? Buffy? You were right."

"I don't feel very right," she says, her voice listless and small. He looks at her. Surely she's faking...

"You're not fooling me...," he says, but there's a distinct lack of certainty in his voice.

She finally looks at him again. Tired. Too tired to try to figure that out. "What do you even mean?"

"You're not a quitter."

She turns her face to the wall again, her head resting on her arm. She's exhausted. "Watch me."

This is not the Slayer he's used to, and it bothers him. He tries again. "You were their leader. You still are. It isn't something you gave up, it's something they -took-." This is so obvious; why can't she--or won't she--see it?

Finally, she looks at him again. "And the difference is?"

His eyes narrow just the tiniest bit. "We can take it back," he says.

But that's apparently not in the cards. She tells him so, and sits up. He's not quite sure he heard her properly.

"No?" he says.

"No."

"You mean 'no' as in 'eventually'?"

She gives him a Look. "You really have problems with that word, don't you?" She's still giving him The Look, but perhaps she is just the tiniest smidge amused. Because it pretty much sums up their entire relationship.

Spike is focused, though. "You can get them back."

"Can, maybe," Buffy says. "Should...?" She puts her hands over her face. "I'm so tired..."

"They need you."

"Well, I..."

"It's bloody chaos over there without you!"

"It is?"

"Yeah! Yeah, it's, uh... There's junk... You know, food cartons, sleeping bags not rolled up. Everyone's very scared and, uh... unkempt."

"Sounds dire," she says, and is that the hint of a smile on her face? Okay, he's busted. He sits beside her on the bed, close, but not touching.

"I didn't see a lot," he admits, perhaps a little abashed. "I came, hit Faith a bunch of times, and left."

Hit Faith? That gets Buffy's attention. "Really?" she says, perking up a little. "I mean, not that I'm glad, but..."

"Oh, you say the word," Spike says, perfectly disgusted with Faith, "and she's a footnote in history. I'll make it look like a painful accident." He's semi-serious, here, and Buffy deflates.

"That's my problem," she says, her voice low. "I say the word, some girl dies. Every time." It weighs on her; her shoulders slump.

Spike's teasing tone goes away. "There's always casualties in a war," he says gently.

"Casualties," Buffy says, her mouth twisting in distaste. "It just sounds so..." She searches for a word. "Casual. These are -girls-. That I got killed. I cut myself off from them. All of them. I knew I was gonna lose some of them and I didn't..." She pushes off the bed, takes a long step. "You know what?" she says, her voice rising almost to the breaking point as she turns to face Spike. "I'm still making excuses." She looks at him for a brief second. "I've always cut myself off. I've always..." Her voice is trembling a little, and she breaks off, composes herself. "Being the Slayer made me different. But it's my fault I stayed that way. People are always trying to connect to me... but I just slip away." She smiles bitterly. "You should know."

"I seem to recall a certain amount of connecting," Spike says, eyebrow arched.

"Oh, please," Buffy says, dismissing the thought. "We were never close. You just wanted me because I was unattainable."

Spike comes off the bed, pissed. "You think that's all that was?" After everything that's happened? After he went and got a soul?

"Please," she says tiredly, and steps past him. "Let's not go over the past."

But he's not letting her get away with it this time. "Oh, no, no," he says sharply, "No, let's hold on here. I've hummed along to your pity ditty, and I think I should have the mic for a bit." He's nearly shaking with outrage.

"Fine," she says, sitting on the edge of the bed. "The stage is yours. Cheer me up."

But cheering up is not on the agenda. "You're insufferable," he says, more than a little cranky.

"Thank you," she says, in full sarcasm mode. "That really helped." NOT.

"I'm not trying to cheer you up," he snaps.

Oh. "What -are- you trying to say?"

"I don't know, he says, "I'll know when I'm done saying it." He paces for a moment, thinking. "Something pissed me off, and I just..." He breaks off; he's got it. "Unattainable," he says, giving her an "aha!" look. "That's it."

She gives him an eyeroll. "Fine," she says, I'm attainable. I'm an attain-a-thon." Anything to shut him up, keep him from pursuing this. "May I please just go to sleep?"

He steps forward, leaning down to look her in the face. "You listen to me," he says, and his tone brooks no resistance. He kneels down, looks up at her. He's earnest, and he wants to make very sure she gets what he has to say.

"I've been alive a bit longer than you," he says, "and dead a lot longer than that. I've seen things you couldn't imagine, and done things I prefer you didn't." His eyes shy away from hers for a moment. He doesn't like reminding her of those things. He doesn't like reminding -himself-. "I don't exactly have a reputation for being a thinker," he goes on. "I follow my blood. Which doesn't exactly rush in the direction of my brain." His tone is wry, self-deprecating. "So I make a lot of mistakes. A lot of wrong bloody calls." He looks up at her, willing her to believe him now. "A hundred-plus years," he says, "and there's only one thing I've ever been sure of. You." It startles her, a little.

He reaches up, touches her face, and she pulls away, undone by his confidence in her. He pulls his hand back, reluctant to force the touch.

"Hey," he says, intensity humming in his voice, "Look at me."

"I'm not asking you for anything," he says. The truth of it rings in his voice, and she looks at him. It's shining from his eyes, too, that deep, sincere conviction. "When I say I love you, it's not because I want you or because I can't have you. It has nothing to do with me. I love what you are, what you do. How you try." Tears begin to well in her eyes. "I've seen your kindness and your strength," he goes on. "I've seen the best and the worst of you, and I understand with perfect clarity exactly what you are." The tears spill over, run down Buffy's cheeks. "You're a hell of a woman." There is admiration in his voice, and love. "You're the one, Buffy."

The tears are flowing freely, now. "I don't want to be the one," she says, her voice small. Maybe she doesn't want to be the Chosen One, or maybe she just doesn't feel worthy to be Spike's One.

Spike's lips curl is a small smile. "I don't want to be this good-looking and athletic," he says. "We all have our crosses to bear."

And she laughs. It's a weak, worn-out, watery laugh, but still... She scoots backward on the bed, starts to stretch out.

"I'll check in before first light," Spike says gently. "You get some rest now." He turns away, headed for the door. "You can decide how you want to..."

But she cuts him off. "Spike..." she says, a note of desperation in her voice. He turns. "Could you... stay here?"

He doesn't even hesitate. "Sure," he says, and strips off the duster. He lays it down and looks at the large chair it's resting on. "That diabolical torture device, the comfy chair," he says, deadpan. "Do me fine." He starts to sit.

"No," Buffy says, her voice trembling. "I mean... here." She moves over on the bed, making room for him. Her eyes are huge; this is a hell of a lot to ask of him, and she knows it. She also knows that maybe it would be better for him if he turned her down. But she can't bear to be alone, now.

Spike says nothing, just looks at her. His expression is impassive, but she has an idea what's going on behind the façade. "Will you just...hold me?" This is an even bigger thing to ask of him. She looks up at him, almost trembling, as she waits for his answer.

He knows, too, just how much she's asking of him. But if she asked him to cut his dead heart out of his own chest, he'd do it. With only the barest hint of hesitation, he slides in beside her on the bed, puts his arm around her, pulls her close. She rests her head on his shoulder, and he holds her, one hand on her hair, the other on her knee. She's like a small, lost, frightened little girl, but it's clear that she feels safer in his arms. He holds himself very still, save for the hand stroking her hair, and stares at something only he can see.

It's some time later. They're a little apart, but still holding on to each other. Buffy is looking up at him, almost mesmerized, one hand resting on his stomach, her other hand covering his, which is on her elbow. She's stroking his finger. His other arm is behind her neck, and he's holding onto her upper arm. She's surrounded by him, one leg resting between his thighs. He's looking into her eyes, and maybe there's a hint of a smile on his lips...

She's fallen asleep, her head on his shoulder. He's sitting up a little, his arm behind her neck, stroking her hair. His other hand is cradling her hand, which is up near her chin. He presses a kiss into her hair, but it's light enough not to wake her.

Now it's daylight, and they're both asleep. He's curled in to her, his head on a pillow at Buffy's shoulder. His hand rests on her hip, and her arm is around his neck, her hand resting on his shoulder. The fingers of her other hand curl lightly around his wrist. They look very peaceful, but something wakes Buffy, something that furrows her brow, makes her look around, as though there were trouble somewhere close. She looks at Spike, sleeping in her arms, and her face sets into lines of resolve.

It's later in the day. Spike is alone in the bed, his arm stretched out across the space where Buffy had been. He wakes, takes in that he's alone, looks around. There's a folded note on the pillow next to him. He takes it up, unfolds it. She's filled one side of the page. He frowns a little as he starts to read...

--

Dori

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