An Empty Place



Written by: KJ Draft
Author's Website

---

Summary: Spike's prowling the house in his sexy leatha coat. Buffy's curled up, all cute and asleep. He appears at her bedroom door. And our tale begins... mwah haha...
Disclaimer: The show Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all of it's characters belong to Joss, Mutant Enemy, & Fox Prod.
Feedback: quietones33@hotmail.com

---

He's in the doorway.

Buffy's eyelids part, a mere sliver, just enough to glimpse intermittent patches of round, muted hall light through the places he's not. Mostly he fills the frame with darkness:
Long black sleeves, smooth leather. His cape of intangible motives. Before he even separates his lips to speak, she knows his voice will be different; hard.

"You asleep?" Spike questions, low. Not caring.

"Not anymore," she murmurs drowsily, rolling to face him and swipe the dreams from her eyes.

He shuts the door, softly, in direct violation of the tough advancement he's doling out. Keeps his back to her longer than necessary, shoulders tight and straight. Buffy wants to reach out, coast her fingers down his back... caress the material of his coat and steal its familiarity.

Instead, she sits up, allowing the bed covers to slide off her legs. She wears faded shorts and a lopsided, threadbare t-shirt that exposes her nearly gaunt left shoulder. Flicks on a light that neither of them needs, because it seems like the normal thing to do. Like Normal didn't skip town weeks ago. Like Normal didn’t skip this relationship altogether.

She draws her knees in. Tries to subtly rearrange her t-shirt for equal shoulder coverage.

"What are you doing, Spike?" Her voice is quiet and direct, almost polite; no hidden agenda for him to plunge his fist into, rupture and untangle. In some ways, he misses it. The not knowing.

He studies her pose. The appealing curl of her back, the way her fingers clasp together at her ankles... The full body equivalent of a tenderly clenched fist. Is she bein' Protective or Modest? Pretending, in any case.

Spike sheds his jacket (the jacket, she thinks, watching him with catlike wariness), easing it summarily to the floor. He seems smaller without it; Less. Which, if she's honest with herself, is how she's thought of him since he came back: Lacking in some way, even as she knows he gained a soul.

Why does he never answer until I ask twice? she ponders with gentle exasperation, Like that postman who always rings... twice -- "Again I ask: What are you doing?"

His eyes glint like scratched marbles and his cheeks contract as he responds with a single word: "Sharing."

He removes his shirt, adds it to the growing pile.

Buffy's eyebrows raise, either in annoyance at his behavior or appreciation for the peep show, but she doesn't move; makes no gesture to stop him. Nor does she pull the covers aside and welcome him, either.

Typical. "You got, what, thirty birds crammed together downstairs? When there's a perfectly good bed up here going to waste?"

He sits on the edge of the mattress, as though they do this every night, and proceeds to unlace his boots.

Her heart's been pounding since he arrived, but she didn't notice until now. That's how it always is between her and Spike: every confusing, terrible feeling occurs at the last possible instant, too late to properly act on it, words forming only when she's alone, love happening only when he's already left the room. Their ships don't pass in the night, they collide, then retreat with missing pieces and cracked foundations only to pretend nothing happened at all.

"Me sleeping in my own bed is a waste?" she repeats, trying to reign in her trepidation, of him, of this, of feeling. To punctuate the question she crosses her arms at her chest.

"No, but you sleeping alone is." Next shoe. "How long you figure we got?"

His conversational tone throws her. She glances at the clock. "I dunno, five hours?"

He smirks, alone in the joke. "Didn't mean it like that, but that's good to know."

"Oh!" Her mouth stays open, embarrassed, then she looks down, trying to halt a flushed smile from altering the shape of her lips. Clears her throat once, discreetly. "You meant how long do we have to live. Which is, ya know, a much better question."

Spike nods, chuckling, then stops abruptly, body poised but motionless. "Who says we're living now?"

Good point, she thinks. "Yeah. Bracing ourselves for impact? Sure. Living? No."

Her gaze lingers on his bare chest. She thinks of the way his smooth, pale skin used to feel under her hands, her nails, her tongue... her body.

Spike notices.

He also notices when she shifts away under a sudden shroud of anxiety.

Feeling the need to sooth her rapidly fluttering heart, he assures her, "This really is just sleep, Buffy. I'm not trying to -- "

"I was harsh on them, wasn't I?" she cuts him off. She's fooling no one, and he's miffed at the interruption, the aborted attempt at a conversation of Clear the Air variety.

"Isn't really for me to say, is it? Having never had to lead a battle against Evil, myself."
There's a sarcastic slant to his tone she's not crazy about, but before she can slide down it to counter strike, he mutters, "And clearly, it worked wonders. Much better off than we were this morning. It's a gift, really, your gift of gab, bloody inspirational speaker, you are -- "

"Well you know what *you* are, Spike?" Buffy interjects crisply.

"What?" he dares condescendingly. "What am I? Oh, how I would *love* for you to enlighten me once and for all about What. I. Am.-- "

"You're a scab picker."

"What?!"

"Voice down," she hisses, and he purses his lips, acquiescing.

"That's right," she continues in low tones, partially controlled, "You've been back, what, six months? Still adjusting? I don't think so. No, truth is you'd rather scratch open old wounds again and again than let them heal and move the fuck on."

"And who do you suppose gave me my wounds?"

"Right, because I *made* you go to Africa. I *made* you get a soul."

"Oh!" his eyes widen mockingly. "Is that actual guilt I detect?"

They're nose to nose, blood boiling.

She's either going to kiss him or pummel him, as usual it's fifty-fifty, so she opts to continue the argument until the scale crashes definitively to one side.

"Remind me when I told you to do that? Oh wait, you can't! Because there never *was* any such instruction, express or implied, you took it upon yourself to go questing about for one -- "

"Yeah, I took it upon myself, like I take *you* upon myself, with all your bloody ambivalence, and your bloody speech, in front of the little *bints* no less to be extra specially emasculating, and hell, maybe I was due, needed a good boot to the ass, but -- !" He screeches to a halt, which puts her on edge, makes her breathing escalate. His next words ooze and push like dough through a sieve, hot and thick and slow: "Just what did you mean by dangerous?"

She titters for a moment until he drops an ominous warning.

"Think very carefully before you answer, Pet, spell it out good and precise, because we wouldn't want any *misunderstandings*, would we?"

She hesitates again, unable to articulate an explanation, particularly after his jab concerning her speaking ability. Finally: "I want you to be the way you were... well, the *good* parts of that, but also... the way you are now *is* good, so I don't -- know -- "

He pulls back slightly, talking mostly to himself. "No, of course not. You never do. Maybe you want something similar to me, a close *approximation* of me, something to bend to your daily will, but not me. Considering I don't exist unless you're looking. Right? Out of sight, out of mind?" His throat burns as his voice leaps in pitch: "Did you even *think* of me when I wasn't around?"

Her eyes widen. How can you ask me that?

Spike stops. Waits patiently, because he can do that now, or likes to think he can. The tight circle of tension surrounding them expands and diffuses, wafting outward with each passing second.

"Everyday," she whispers.

Then she's back in his arms and they're kissing, sick with pent up need, lips meshing, mouths opening. She whimpers so softly he almost doesn't catch it. They mutually separate only to melt immediately into a tight embrace. He presses his hands to her back and she burrows her face deeply into his neck.

"I don't think we've ever hugged before," she murmurs in wonderment, muffled, wrapping him closer to make up for it.

He nods against her, afraid to speak. Such a tiny thing, but so strong, my Slayer.

His strong Slayer starts to tremble.

"Buffy?"

"I just... I missed you," she explains somewhat unconvincingly, keeping her face buried. A droplet of salt water hits his collarbone.

"Look at me," he requests kindly, "And don't give me some line about 'happy tears.' "

"Kiss me," she demurs, struggling up and trapping his bottom lip between hers, stroking it with her tongue to get things going. She knows he'll submit, and if she can keep it together just a bit longer they'll never have to have this conversation.

Her strategy may have worked before, but Spike's different now. Different enough to stop her, at least. Had some practice with Anya in recent weeks, too. He cautiously backs away, holding her off.

"I can't, if you're crying," he explains simply, then quieter, "It's the stuff of my nightmares."

"Mine, too," she admits in a lost voice.

He realizes with sticky, clotted queasiness that she's referring to their 'incident' in the bathroom. Well what'd you expect, you stupid pillock? She'd just get over it? The idea of her re-living it while she sleeps makes him want to do something drastic, preferably violent and preferably to himself, but he fears he's run out of options. Not much left to do after getting himself a soul.

"I'm sorry," Buffy says, which only makes him feel worse. Her eyes and voice drop in a matched display of weariness. "I just... this is sort of a lot to take, with everything else that's -- "

He pets her hair with shaking fingers, trying to remain calm. "S'all right, don't apologize." A moment passes, and he can't resist adding a disclaimer. Looks her straight in the eye. "Just know that I'll never hurt you, Buffy, *never*," he swears passionately.

The stricken look she serves him in response chills him to the depth of his aberrant, unholy bones, stripping him of skin and blood or any other trace of warmth. Oh, *hell*, shouldn't have said that, not this soon, maybe not at all, oh, shit...

"I've heard that one, Spike," she reminds him. "It was followed by you sleeping with Anya -- "

"You'd just split my heart into pieces -- "

"... and trying... to -- ohh..." She buries her face in her arms, not wanting him to see. Her back rises and falls silently. When at last she regard him, her face is slathered in tears. "How could -- ?" she hiccups, sincere in her confusion, "How could you try to rape me?"

Kicked in the gut, face down in the dirt, teeth broken and mouth arid from dust, he tries to muster up an explanation, give her some type of response that won't upset her further, though he suspects nothing can do that; nothing should do that. "I'd been drinking, Pet," he offers lamely.

"I didn't ask for excuses," she spits out.

"I was pathetic, all right? Desperate. That what you want to hear? We both know it. Couldn't bear the idea of being without you."

"And now?"

"I -- I won't overstep, I won't cross the line -- "

"Words," she mutters, shaking her head and squeezing her eyes shut, "Just words -- "

"Well if you're not gonna give me a second chance, than why were we kissing?" he grills her, harsher than he intended, simmering over with anger born of annihilating guilt.

"I need to talk about this -- " she begs, eyes drowning red.

"Oh, you need that, do you? What about when *I* needed to talk? All those times you used me and tossed me out, I would've given my eye teeth to talk to you -- "

"You have to help me understand -- " she pleads, reaching for him, seeking his embrace.

He jerks back, denying her. Oh no you don't, not that easy. "Understand what?" he hisses, "I've already told you, there's no justification for what I did and there never will be -- "

"Not you. Me. Tell me how I could welcome you back into my house, my room, my *bed* -- Tell me why I can't stop, after all we've been through -- "

Because you love me, is his primary thought -- which he suppresses, so far down it burns his gut. It'd probably make her wretch. And of course, it's what ruined us the first time, my hopeless, damned obsession with making her admit it.

"There's nothing wrong with you, Love. Nothing to analyze. You saw I've changed, we've been helping each other since. We trust each other now. You trust me... Yeah?"

"But when you say you won't hurt me, how I can believe you?"

Spike knows the answer, but rolls it around in his head a few times before replying. Doesn't want her to think he's being flip or insincere.

Elevates his jaw slightly. Declares softly, firmly and with a hint of pride:

"Because I have a soul now to swear it on."

She swallows, visibly calmer, but doesn't answer.

He senses she's receptive to more. Continues with, "I'll bollocks things up o' course, like anyone in your life. Like anyone with a soul. But I'm starting off from a... a stronger level now. I've got a fighting chance, Buffy." Fight alongside me.

She breathes his honesty in like pure oxygen, allowing it to flow directly into her brain, her heart. Nods carefully. This is what it all comes down to, she recognizes. Either I let him in now or close the door forever.

Thank you, she longs to tell him, but knows she'll start crying again if she does, knows she'll weep herself ill if she allows herself to think of what he did for her. Thank you for getting a soul. And for coming back to me with it.

Buffy places her hand on his wrist, idly caressing the sensitive skin there, then draws one fingernail up his inner arm toward his elbow. He considers making her stop so he can concentrate on her response, but it's been so long since he's been touched, and she feels so damn erotic...

"I think..." she ponders thoughtfully, "the worse you're hurt, the deeper you've been gutted and hollowed out... well maybe that just means you have more space for it." She swallows. "For love." Oh, God that sounds stupid, I didn't say it right --

He's vaguely stunned. "When'd you get so poetic?"

"Pretty much when you aren't around. My Thought Audience gets really bored, though. Sometimes they throw things -- "

"Keep going," he urges, ceasing the pleasurable but distracting movements of her hand by clasping it between both of his.

"Rotten tomatoes, drinks... they even have one of those canes to yank me from the podium -- "

"Buffy."

"So, yeah. What I mean is… " she falters, running out of quips to shield her like curtains from the stage. Gently extracts her hand from his and returns it to her lap. Fiddles with the hem of her shorts.

Silently he wills her to finish, terrified she'll withdraw from the discussion as she has so many times in the past. His own words are patently dull and useless, but hers... hers are dulcet and ripe, full of unending consequence, full of *meaning* --

"Maybe we had to be like this," Buffy continues hesitantly, evading his gaze. "You had to hurt me, and I had to hurt you, exactly this much, before we could, you know, be together. 'Cause if I didn't hurt you so deep, make a place so empty, there wouldn't be enough room inside... " She tentatively raises her chin, until their eyes meet. "...for you to hold all the love I'm going to give you."

Spike stares at her with unadulterated awe.

"If I try to hug you, are you going to back away?" she asks with a hint of a smile.

His response is to draw her protectively into his arms where she belongs.

She kisses his collarbone, gently nibbling, reacquainting herself with his body and savoring their proximity, then progresses to harsher bites and licks, all the while maneuvering her palms up his strong, unyielding chest. Pushing off slightly, she uses the resulting leverage to strain upward, work her hot, juicy mouth along his jaw and neck. He groans, clutching her t-shirt into fistfuls, on the brink of ripping it from her but forcing himself to exhibit a modicum of self-discipline.

Buffy loves the tension in his arms, loves the feel of his taut shoulder and back muscles, straining, coiled and tight, all for her, all pending her permission.

Most of all, she loves trusting him.

"Tear it off," she gasps. Spike instantly jerks his hands outward, splitting the material like gauze. Oh Buffy, God, yes… They make short work of the shredded pieces, 'til she's naked before him, all soft, warm, rosy golden skin. He leans forward to capture the tips of her breasts in his mouth, but Buffy avoids his touch, instead darting down to slide the point of her tongue along his skin at the edge of his jeans, back and forth, teasing him skillfully. Right, then, that works, too...Ohh...

She knows that he's hard, sees his shaft pressing rigidly against the denim. This makes her both proud and strangely nostalgic for the previous year, when everything in her life was wrong but routine, like a song you supposedly hate yet know all the words to.

A compulsory push of Spike's hips causes the head of his cock to peek out of his jeans and rub against his belly. He's chagrined, but Buffy simply smiles and wets her fingers. Strokes the underside lightly, swirling in a circle, then grips him between her slick lips, pushes his foreskin down, and begins to lap. He's anxious now, out of control, closer to climax than he'd like to admit. Quickly hauls her up so they're face to face and proceeds to kiss her senseless, pulling her tongue from her mouth and sucking feverishly on it. She writhes and twists, steering his palms along her protruding ribcage, then higher to cup her warm, supple breasts. They seem fuller and more womanly in his hands.

Spike gradually reduces the speed and movement of his tongue, which only drives her crazier. When he disengages his mouth from hers, the look in her eyes is one of glazed hunger.

"Buffy," he pants, unwittingly mimicking her breaths, "Are you completely sure this is what you want -- "

"Yes, I'm sure, I'm sure -- "

Oh, Good Christ. A declaration bubbles out of Spike's mouth, creamy and reckless: "Want to taste every inch of your skin."

Buffy arches an eyebrow, pleased and pensive. The things he says, I could never duplicate in my head, and she'd tried, oh how she'd tried, lying in this bed, touching herself, trying to conjure up his voice, his hoarse pleas, his steady blather of incomprehensible compliments... to hear them again is like an instantaneous masturbation fantasy ignited, rocketing through her veins, brain to bed, only ten times hotter...

"Lie back, let me worship you," he commands.

She shimmies up the bed and turns off the light. Spike drags her shorts off with his teeth, then rises quickly to bury his mouth between her thighs, draw in her musky scent and let it paint his lips.

Buffy arches her neck and glances down at him. His desire to fulfill her is so earnest that she decides to turn the tables. I can wait, I can wait, and if I wait, it'll be even hotter 'n' better when I get it, yeah, yeah... Eases Spike off, gently, so he doesn't get the wrong idea. Pounces and shoves him onto his back, attacking the button fly of his jeans before he can stop her.

"No. *You* lie back," Buffy orders seductively, tugging his zipper down.

"Slayer -- " He knocks her exploring hands away. After a brief tussle, she pins his wrists behind his head.

"Go on, get comfy." She adjusts the pillow under his neck and makes his arms stretch farther back, wrapping his fingers around the bars of the bed frame.

With considerable effort he breaks her hold and sits up, re-buttoning his pants.

"No, no, no... gonna give it to you." They wrestle heatedly, trying to topple one another.

"I cannot believe we're arguing about this," Buffy groans incredulously.

"So don't argue," Spike murmurs reasonably, kissing her ear while fondling the side of her breast. "Remember how sweet I can be to you?" he supplicates in silky tones, stroking and strumming her hardening nipple. "Gonna make you quiver and curse... Make you all soft... and limp... and satisfied... Then I'll start over, do it again... I'll be tireless, never stop... "

Spike's other hand strolls up her thigh and gently separates her delicate folds, dipping his middle finger in and out at a shallow depth. "... Rub and suck that darling little button of yours... let me do that for you..." God, she's so slippery. Liquid heat. Missed her so much...! He presses his now shiny fingertip to her clit.

Buffy bites her bottom lip, pupils dilating. She rocks her hips in time with his finger, causing him to stroke the nub harder, then steels herself, determined to resist. Stop, Mmm, wait --

"Uh uh." She shakes her head stubbornly, wriggling away and detaining him. "You deserve it. You've been sleeping in the basement chained to a *wall* for Chrissake."

He grins ruefully. "Well when you put it like that... it sounds sexy. Which, sad to say, not particularly."

"Mmhmm. Lie back." Look at me, all selfless for Spike.

She picks up his ankle and yanks his jeans off his legs. Rolls her palms along his thighs, then traces miniature circles there while his cock twitches jealously. Spike resumes the position she forced him into earlier: arms resting above his head, fingers entwined with the gated bed frame, gripping hard. Buffy sashays her feathery hair up and down his thighs and stomach. He sighs. Bloody fantastic.

After less than a minute of Buffy's rapid tongue strokes along his stiff, yearning cock, Spike throws his head back and groans with helpless lust and remorse.

"Oh, bloody -- uhh! I'm going to -- !" he gasps.

She pops up, letting his dick bounce out of her mouth, and rocks back on her heels. He can't stop thrusting though, humps the air twice, violently, jaw open, arms tightly clutching the bed frame -- and doesn't come. Slumps back, exhausted from the strain.

Buffy shoots him a devilish smirk.

"You did that on purpose!" he sulks, unbearably frustrated. "Heinous little bi --

Buffy licks her lips sumptuously --

("Bi- eautiful, blossoming -- " he retracts --)

-- and descends. After two more almost-orgasms, in which Spike is reduced to a thrashing, begging wreck, she sucks him deeply to completion, pinning his jerking thighs down while he thrusts every last drop of come down her throat.

He's like steel dipped in velvet, Buffy thinks, swallowing his copious fluid. And also, when *did* I get so poetic?

Spike recovers relatively quickly from his spine dissolving orgasm. Coaxes Buffy onto her back, his expression inscrutable. Unlike little prick tease over here I'm gonna give her everything she needs, full, fast and hard, he vows, still woozy from the bliss of her blowjob and the little rumbling mews of pleasure she formed during it.

He wasn't lying about tasting every inch of her skin. Starts with her fingers. Laps at each tip, then in between them. Strokes her palms smoothly. Works his tongue up her arms, delighted by the scent and texture. Next he sets upon her feet, massaging the arches with the pads of his thumbs, adoring her contented hums. Kisses her ankles and along her soft calves, steadily toward her thighs. Tends to her stomach and breasts until her patience wears thin. Before she can reprimand him, and with no further foreplay, he closes his lips around her clit.

She yelps and bucks. He holds her down, just as she did to him, fluttering his tongue quickly against her. Buffy shudders brutally and comes, shocking them both with the sheer force of it.

"In me, now," she gasps. He climbs her and shoves effortlessly inside.

"We have to be very quiet," she cautions him, lurching up to enclose him fully.

"That means no 'Fuck me Spike, pound me harder!' " he mimics in falsetto, starting to push in and out.

She slaps his chest.

" 'Harder!' " he repeats.

"That means no 'Take it, Slayer, take it allllll!' " she exaggerates in a gruff imitation.

He beams fondly, allowing the memory for that particular vocalization to drench his senses: Buffy, hands flat on the floor of his crypt, bent over the back of his chair while he thrusts deeply, relentlessly, balls smacking rhythmically against her bottom.

Shaking the image off in favor of the current fuck he's enjoying, Spike reminds her of another tidbit of past pillow talk. Here's a charming one: " 'Stick it in me! Uhh! Now, Asshole!' "

She blushes, wracking her brain for more of his Greatest Hits. " 'Come, my little nymphet!' "

He tilts his head, never ceasing the steady plow of his hips. "When did I say that?"

"I don't know! But I had to look it up. Thought you were calling me some type of sea creature."

"Well, you know what a nymphomaniac is, right?"

"Obviously, but -- Hey!" She digs her nails into his back.

He slides his glistening cock nearly all the way out, 'til he's penetrating her with just the barest tip.

"Look how wet you are, Love," he comments appreciatively. Buffy's eyes focus on his hard, pale member, slick with her arousal. He pushes in about an inch then withdraws, torturing her.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm like butter. Oozing, dripping butter," she derides, rolling her eyes, then brightens. "Now give it." She heaves her butt off the bed and shoves up against his pubic bone, which causes his cock to disappear entirely. Clenches her pussy like a vise and rocks vigorously from this new, elevated position.

Spike's determined to milk this moment though, and returns her to the bed, flat on her back. "Hold on, I'm enjoying this."

Props his arms on either side of her and swivels his hips in leisurely circles. One, two, three, four, five, six shallow thrusts -- on the seventh, he slams forward, driving to the hilt.

"Uhh!" Buffy cries. He hastily pulls out and starts anew. At first she thinks there's no pattern, that he's randomly going deep just to make her crazed, which, hey, successful, but soon she discovers he always hits home on the seventh jab.

One, two, three, four, five, six, *seven* --

"Ohhh, God," she breathes, unable to close her mouth while he's fully seated.

He grits his teeth and glides out. Buffy shuts her eyes in agony. Counts in her head:

One, two, three, four, five, six --

She tenses, anticipating --

Seven.

"Oh, *oh*!" she wails urgently, trying to clutch at his arms and make him stay with her, stay embedded.

Spike places his finger over her lips.

"You like that?" he whispers rhetorically. She nods slackly, as though her neck's been unhinged from the rest of her body. Spike ruthlessly retreats from her hot, tight depths, positioning his dick at her entrance.

She balls her fists and pounds them lightly in time with his shallow stabs. Can't even appreciate them, so frantic is she to feel the seventh blissful plunge.

One, two, three, four, five, six --

Knowing she'll scream, Spike muffles her mouth with his palm.

Seven!

She sobs and writhes beneath his hand, teeth digging into his flesh.

He speeds up.

One two three four five six seven.

Onetwothreefourfivesix seven.

Saws wildly now, in a frenzy, deep deep deep causing the mattress to squeak and shudder. They glance apprehensively at each other, chests heaving.

"Floor?" she gasps.

"Floor," he affirms, lifting her then rolling them vigilantly to ensure she'll land on top. They hit the carpet with a thud. So much for quiet...

He rolls them again so he's back in the driver's seat then proceeds to grind her into the carpet. Tugs and pulls and molds hers legs around his neck like he's sculpting a wicked statue of their embrace.

Hips rising and battering against each other's, they won't last much longer. Spike bends her ankles up, back, and all the way past her head, pressing on her thighs and spreading her wide so he's better able to coast the heel of his palm across her clit. He's never contorted her pliable body this far before, and this makes him insane, makes him want to howl with possession. Mine mine mine... With a grunt he empties himself inside her, and she surges up to meet him, nimbly driving toward her own release. He urges her on, continuing to thrust even though it's a bit painful for him.

Decides he better drag her on top so she won't have to hold back.

"Ride me," he moans, clutching her hips and pushing her up into a sitting position. She jerks chaotically above him, frustrated, then grips his hand and brings it to her lips. Sucks anxiously on his thumb. He lowers it immediately to her clit, letting her rub herself to the ends of the earth. Then her entire body tightens, from the tips of her fingers to the edges of her feet, and she comes, clawing helplessly at his chest. God, yes!

She collapses soon after, spreading her sore, limp legs straight out along his. Gasps for air.

"Think we were quiet enough?" he asks seriously.

Her chuckle segues into a rueful sigh, followed by the after chase of winded giggles.
"If we step into the hallway, think we'll get a standing ovation?"

"Don't want to know," he murmurs.

"Yeah."

Silence, while she continues to catch her breath.

"You shouldn't... do things for me," she whispers.

"I'm not," he protests absurdly. "I don’t." Sigh. "I'll try not to." Pause. "Why not?"

"Because it -- always ends up hurting you --"

"Maybe, but it proves how much I love you," he overlaps stubbornly, stroking a fingertip along the curve of her ear.

"No, no," she protests softly, "Just say it. From now on. That's enough."

A flare of annoyance. "Why, because they're 'just words'? Meaningless?"

"No. Because I want you to say it." Realizing how that must sound to him, she quickly modifies, "I would... really like it if you said it."

"Why should I?" he ponders, "I never hear it back."

"Try one more time." It's a plea, masquerading as a demand.

Spike senses her need but can't imagine why it's there. Probably won't change anything, even now. I'll say it, then she'll get that glazed Bambi in Headlights look, like she's all shocked that I could utter such a thing, even though she *asked* me to...!

He shuts his eyes briefly. Removes her body from the length of his and places her next to him on her back. She immediately turns on her side, propping her head up and giving him an expectant look.

Spike slowly exhales, eyes glued to the ceiling as he dodges her gaze. "Memorize this, Buffy, because I may not do it again."

She nods.

He fixes her with a dark countenance.

"I mean it."

Quietly: "I know."

Spike shifts, then reaches over to trace her cheek with his thumb. Slips into the void, voice tender yet resolute, not only with honesty for the words but also in his promise to never say them beyond tonight, should she give him no reason to. "I love you."

Buffy places her hands on his face, won't allow either of them to run from the bare truth of it, once and always. "I love you, too."

On some level he'd known she would say it back, but to actually hear the words after chasing them for so long...

His throat feels sharp and dry, in direct contrast to his eyes, which threaten to sink.

She climbs back onto his body, absolving him from speaking. They kiss, warm, languid and easy. The stirrings of desire renewing.

But even as he makes love to the woman he cherishes above all else, Spike feels fragile; terrified. Alone in his love there could be no ending, even in death, but now...

They stare at each other for minutes on end, moving their bodies cautiously, until he understands what she meant by dangerous.




THE END


Back to Fiction: By Alpha ~ Back to Fiction: By Season