rating: PG 13, angst, heartache
Disclaimer: I do not own anyone from the show Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Distribution: any lists that I send this to, WLS, Bite Me, Cat, Feen, Soulmates, WWW - anyone else please ask
notes: set in AU season 6. :words in colons: are the other side of a phone call. Thank you to Gabrielle for beta-reading this one.
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Spike leaned back on the bed, hands behind his head as he waited impatiently for sunset. He should be grateful, he knew. He should be on his knees thanking all manner of things that she'd even been willing to give him a chance, even if it wasn't quite as much as he'd hoped. She was willing to let them try to rebuild a friendship.
But he wanted more from her. He wanted to watch her face as they found pleasure with each other. He wanted to see that little smile as her thoughts twisted into some unexpected delight. The way she'd look on the bright side, no matter how dark things seemed. He wanted to see her watching some weird show, dressed only in a pair of underwear and one of his shirts.
Honestly, he didn't even deserve her being willing to take the time to stake him. Not after the way he'd betrayed her, with Buffy.
He chuckled, the sound lacking in humor. He'd been a vampire for a long time before he'd gone to Sunnydale, and killed countless people, shattered lives and hearts and hopes for decades. He'd been a bad, bad man, and he'd reveled in it. He hadn't deserved her the first time around.
There were times that it was a damned good thing life wasn't always fair.
Willow had said it would take time to see if she could trust him again. She'd said she wanted to find out if she could believe in him again, if they could get back some of what they'd had before. She'd given him a place to start.
Sitting up, he grabbed his coat, and started digging in the pockets. Objects tumbled to the floor - keys, books of matches from dozens of places she hadn't been, half emptied packs of cigarettes, a broken pair of handcuffs, his lighter, gas receipts, and finally, the slightly crumpled paper that carried her phone number. He smiled, gently trying to smooth away the wrinkles. It still carried a hint of her scent, and just the sight of her familiar handwriting made him feel a bit warmer inside.
For several long moments, he stared at it. He could call her, hear her voice, talk to her. Maybe they could... What? What should he say? Dinner was tricky, he had no idea what sort of local entertainments the area had...
Memories danced, and he smiled as he remembered staring at the University's bulletin board. The drama club was presenting something, there were poetry readings, and that lecture on the historical context of colonization. There should be something in that batch that would appeal to her, and then they could go, he could spend some time with her. The public location would be frustrating, but she might be more willing to do something public rather than a nice, secluded walk in the moonlight.
It was hard to pick up the phone. Not because of any physical reason, it was just a bit of cheap plastic and wiring, but emotionally, it was hard. He was risking rejection, disbelief. Coming from Willow, those would hurt. He dialed the number, vowing that nobody would ever know how much his fingers shook, how his throat felt tight with nervous anticipation.
If he'd breathed, he would have held his breath as it rang, waiting, hoping that she'd be there, that she'd pick up. There was a click, and he heard the soft sounds of her voice, but it was a recording. "Hi, you're reached Willow, but I can't answer the phone right now. If you leave a message, your name and a number, I'll get back to you."
Closing his eyes, he put one cold finger on the phone, breaking the connection. An answering machine. Was she in class? Taking a shower, with the water cascading over her naked body? Out laughing and smiling in the sunshine with friends? Or was she curled up in a chair, feeling miserable and just ignoring the phone?
"I should have left a message." He murmured.
It was almost an hour before he managed to get the courage back up to call. An hour while he flipped through the meager assortment of television channels, trying to convince himself that he was still the Big Bad, that he was fearless. An hour while he tried to tell himself that things would work out, that they had to work out.
The phone rang, and he reminded himself to talk this time, even if it was the machine again.
:Hello?: Willow's voice, not the recorded version from her machine. She sounded tired, hesitant.
"Red?" He smiled, glad to hear her voice. "This... It's Spike. I thought maybe we could do something?"
:Anything in particular?: In the background, there was a thumping noise. :I wasn't sure if you'd call.:
"I had some ideas. A couple things on the board at your school caught my attention, I thought maybe some of them might appeal? Or if there's a movie you wanted to see, that would work too." His fingers were tracing over her telephone number, and he tried to picture her. Was she standing, draped in a chair, sitting on the floor?
For a few moments, she was quiet, only the soft sound of her breathing coming over the line. :There's supposed to be a reading of some poetry. I know some of the people, Shel's in my history class. Maybe... We could go to that?:
"Anything you want." He assured her, part of him wanting to tell her that he liked the idea of the poetry, and another part uncertain if he could reveal something so deep, so close to the William that he'd been before. But if he couldn't tell Willow... Wasn't that in the nature of trust? Being able to tell your deepest secrets?
:Okay then. Why don't you meet me here, outside the apartment building at seven? The sun will be down by then, and we can go together.: Papers rustled, as if she was searching for something.
"I'll be there." He promised, feeling a lump in his throat. He wasn't sure where it had come from, or if he wanted to admit that it was even there. Poetry with Willow. Yes, there was hope. Now he just had to hope that he didn't ruin things before they even mended.
end .