Title: Spinning
Author: Amy
Slvrbttn@aol.com
Summary: "It's hard to stop the wanting. She knows this for a fact." Sequel to my story "After The Dance."
Spoilers: Through Grave.
Disclaimer: Joss made them enemies, then lovers, and then screwed things up horribly. I'm just doing my best to fix it.
Rating: R
Distribution: Just ask me. I'm sure to say yes. :)
For everyone who can't help liking this relationship as much as I do.
* * *

It wasn't like she thought it would be, seeing him again, and oh how she'd thought about it. But she didn't know then, the pain that would be in his eyes, so different from Angel's pain, even through the familiarity. But she understands it, understands surviving in a world that's not quite your own

((I think I was in Heaven...))

and forgiveness had come to her more easily than she'd anticipated. The bitterness in the back of her throat is only a habit, a dim memory of a fear she doesn't have to feel around him anymore, she realizes, and so tries to ignore it as much as possible.

Over hot chocolate and marshmallows, they'd talked about the small and seemingly inconsequential things. He knows her better than she knows him now, and so she'd spent those hours getting to know who he is, this changed vampire with the same face and a brand-spanking-new soul. She'd talked to him about taking Dawn on patrols, weighing his reaction

((worry, fear, acceptance))

with every word she'd tossed out, and about the newly rebuilt Sunnydale High and about Xander and Anya's tentative steps toward a new relationship, maybe new like theirs would be, and about Clem and Passions--which she had started watching in his absence--and Giles and Willow.

She'd talked so long she realized that she was getting to know the new him through her own words, through his expressions and attentive silence, the different look in his eyes that was still the same, admiring and blush-worthy, whenever she moved. This man had been inside her.

But not really.

That man, the man whose love had been flattering and fascinating and scary and deadly

((I'm going to make you feel it!))

was so changed and the same, it was bizarre. Perhaps because she had gotten to know the Angel-with-a-soul before the Angelus-without-one first, it was an easier, if more heartbreaking transition. But she has had to relearn Spike's gestures and figure out the new inflections in his voice because he'd been gone and some things never change and some things are always changing.

This line of thought is repetitive and confusing and painful and she hates it, she thinks with a sudden fierceness.

He had been disappointed to find Dawn sleeping at a friends' house; he'd wanted to see her, and she wonders at how such love can transfer itself from one person to another, at how it lingers if it's enough.

So now she's all talked out and melancholy, nursing her fifth hot chocolate even though she's far too full for it, and watching a still, unbreathing vamp sleep on her couch.

Buffy remembers the look on his face when he first saw her, standing in front of him, that shock and regret and hope and amazement before he'd managed to mask his expression into nothing, and knows that he had not planned on coming to her door tonight, if ever. Knows that he would have watched the house in the shadows, stalking her in not-quite-the-same way, and then gone onto what looked to be a solitary life of grief and remorse.

Surprisingly, one of the hardest things about reconciling herself to the new Spike is letting go of the old one. The one who'd tormented her, and loved her, and grieved for her and kissed her and listened and made love to her and tried to violate her. She hadn't been in love with him, but she'd felt something... still feels something... that she doesn't know quite how to describe.

She misses that Spike, which is bad enough.

But this new one... Has a worrisome sort of potential.

Buffy sighs, hating her propensity for vampire boyfriends.
* * * * *

When she wakes up, cramped and uncomfortable on the couch, her arm underneath her almost completely numb, she can see the pale glare of the sun coming through the closed curtains. She remembers sitting next to him, the soft crispness of his gelled hair under her palms--he gels it to keep the curl out, though it never works completely and she isn't sure why he keeps doing it at all; his curls are nice--as he slept, and then... a wonderful nothing for several long hours.

It's exhausting, this concern and bewilderment.

She knows he's in the other room--why close the curtains if not to escape the sunlight, and anyway she can smell coffee--but she takes her time getting up, curling under the blanket he apparently set over her in the night and wondering if anyone has comforted him yet. Clem, maybe? But then, Clem's idea of comfort, sweetly optimistic demon that he is, is probably a pat on the back and a perky, "It'll get better soon!"

She's pretty sure there hasn't been anyone else since he got back. Possibly since before he left. God knows, she tried to never take him seriously, even when she knew she was hurting him.

Again, she reminds herself, you're relating to the wrong person.

Only, is she really? Because, for all his pain, he seems to... care about her like he used to. If in a much less scary way.

Finally she forces herself off the relative comfort in the couch, feeling again all of those twisty aches she was ignoring, and hobbles her way into the kitchen. Spike stands in front of the stove, sipping a cup of what she assumes is coffee. Or maybe they'd had a stray bag of blood left in the freezer.

"You okay, Buffy?" he asks slowly, as if hesitant to initiate conversation, but nods toward her general limpy-ness.

"I'm good," she assures him, liking the worry she reads in his eyes. "Slept weird."

"Yeah, I..." Trailing off, he looks down into his coffee mug. "I didn't mean to fall asleep on you. I'll get out of your way soon as the sun sets."

This surprises her and she pauses mid-shoulder-roll. Taking a couple of deliberate steps toward him, she waits for him to look back up and into her eyes. She wants him to see how serious she is, how serious she was the previous night. That was no dream, Spike. You have the right to believe in something better than your loneliness.

She doesn't say this, though. Instead what comes out when he finally meets her gaze again is, "I told you last night, you're safe at home with me."

((Safe as houses.))

He remains silent, and she can see the fear in his eyes, a fear that's familiar to her, the fear of trusting too much. It seems like the right moment to touch him but her hands are frozen still because even she doesn't know what this new thing between them is and since she can't define it, it's hard to push forward with it.

And then he touches her, just a light graze of his fingertips against the hair behind her ear, so like that night he saved her from dancing to death, and something in his gaze tells her that he's starting to believe it, whether or not he wants to. She could hurt him again, in so many ways, if she felt like it.

He could hurt her too.

They stay motionless, staring into each other's eyes, and Buffy wonders when it was that she realized he really loved her. The kiss in his crypt after he refused to give Dawn up to Glory? No, after that. Catching the blade of the sword in his palms as it sliced its way toward her head

((so much blood and he didn't complain, and I never thanked him and I got used to that level of protection from him, because.... because....))

through the roof of the motor home.

There were so many signs and gestures and she accepted none of them as anything other than obsession, or perhaps a twisted longing for death, precisely what he'd accused her of once.

But what finally convinced her that his love for her was real, regardless of his lack-of-soul, and true, was his selfless fall from the tower when he tried to save Dawn's life. He did that for Dawn too, of course, but in part for her, because of her, because he loved her and knew that her sister's death would break her heart.

Because he didn't want her to live with that kind of pain.

And it all made sense, what he'd said after Glory had tortured him, how he couldn't live if she was hurting so badly, the tenderness of their shared kiss that day, and the declaration, not of love, but of acceptance at the foot of her stairs

((I know you'll never love me...))

before they'd gone off to battle, and she knew that he'd never lied about his love for her. She should have known sooner--Spike was nothing if not honest.

His hand slides into hers and she slides too, startled, out of her reverie, feeling the callouses on his palm and the gentle roughness of how he holds her hand, like he's unused to such displays of affection. Which he probably is, she thinks. His displays of affection usually tended to be violent.

Not that she didn't encourage that at one time.

But this is nice, standing in the kitchen, holding his hand and looking at him, really looking at him, and smelling coffee, almost like a couple. That's not what they are, not yet and maybe not ever, but it feels like it, and it's... good.

Her stomach rumbles and Spike chuckles

((such a good sound, such sweetness in it, why wouldn't I ever let myself see his sweetness before?))

and releases her, turning to the refrigerator with a backward glance and a wry smile as he opens it. "Hungry, love?"

"Starving," she admits, and isn't really certain what she's starving for.

"How 'bout you sit down while I make you breakfast?"

"You can cook?"

"I'm over a century old, Pet. I can do a lot of things," he says, hunting intently through their store of food, and her heart thumps as a surprised sort of arousal streaks through her, and she remembers the sorts of things he can actually do.

She shakes it off. It's neither the place nor time.

"All right. Just--no English food."
* * * * *

For lack of anything more interesting to do, and because he can't leave, because she doesn't want him to, Buffy finds herself playing cards eleven in the morning with a cheating vampire. And it's a relief, that he cheats; she likes that she still knows him a little bit. Even if he's still not fast enough at sneaking the occasional ace into his hand to fool her.

She remembers her birthday, when they played cards for hours, unable to leave the house even as the sun rose and the night became morning and how comfortable she was with him. He cheated then, too, but what the hell, it was one of the only relaxed times she's ever had with him, so she's chalking the memory under 'good.' Until, of course, he had threatened to eat her psuedo-date, which is the part of the memory she chooses to ignore.

She's ignoring a lot of things, she knows, but sometimes that's the kindest thing to do. The easiest thing to do. The easiest way out. Because she realizes that she's not over... some things, what happened the night he left, what she now refers to in her head as the bathroom incident. Only now, she's able to pretend that it wasn't his face above her, his hands tearing at her clothing and holding her wrists to the cold linoleum. That was another Spike.

He'd loved her too. Of that much, she's sure.

She wonders how long he'll love her for, that old Spike, and this new one too. She wonders how long she wants him to love her.

Nothing is simple anymore. Not that it ever was.

And then they hear the banging of the door and look up as Dawn announces herself, "Hi, I'm home, sorry I'm late!" and then stops, her overnight bag thumping to the ground in the awkward silence as she stares at Spike, who stands up and is looking back at her with gladness and welcome and... expectation.

And Buffy winces, knowing that she should have prepared Dawn, should have prepared Spike, hating that Dawn has been tainted by Xander's version of events

((even if it's the real version))

and wishing for a better welcome for Spike from the one who liked him almost unconditionally before. But Dawn says nothing for a long time, long enough for Spike to become uneasy, shifting from foot to foot, stuffing his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans.

"Hiya, Platelet," he finally mumbles, breaking his gaze from hers.

"Spike," she says back, with a faint anger that Buffy realizes is only starting to build. Dawn knows about his soul too, but as the sister of the aggrieved party, it's harder for her to forgive than Buffy herself. The standard, I can hurt my sister in any way I want, but when you do it, you're dead approach.

Only, he wasn't the one who did it, not exactly, and Buffy tries desperately to figure out a way to fix this before it gets ugly.

She doesn't need to.

Dawn looks at Buffy for guidance and Buffy sighs with relief and nods with a smile, and then Dawn's anger just seems to melt and she turns back to Spike, happy for his welcome now, with some welcome of her own spreading over her face. Spike relaxes visibly, and holds out his arms.

Dawn goes straight into them.

Buffy watches, a little sad. Knowing she should have offered a hug to him herself. Knowing why she didn't.
* * * * *

After night falls, they patrol, and it's like it always has been with him. She feels no need to watch her own back or, worse yet, distract herself by protecting him. Their movements in a fight are graceful, fluid, a slow-motion dream world in the midst of an inescapable real world that's too fast to manage. Riley could hold his own, but she never had this feeling with him.

There were quite a few feelings she never had with him, actually.

There aren't that many vampires out tonight and during one of the longer lulls, she asks him how it happened an instant before she realizes that maybe she shouldn't. And that maybe it shouldn't matter.

Spike is silent for a long while, but it's not the silence of someone being unwilling to answer; it's the silence of an answer being prepared, so she decides not to feel too bad for asking in the first place. If he's thinking about what to say, then maybe he wants to tell her after all.

They walk over to a low cement wall, and she hops up to sit on it, kicking her legs rhythmically like a five-year-old. She takes this moment to study Spike, because he still hasn't said anything. His features are sharp and pale and beautiful in the moonlight, like everything about him is, only there's a definite change. The expression of hesitancy. The lack of smugness. That day, he had seemed the same, accent, banter, charm, all checked firmly in the 'yes' column, but she knew he wasn't.

Finally, just as she's about to rescind the question, Spike props himself against the wall and looks at her. She stays motionless, feeling as though he's searching for something and then apparently he sees it, because he nods shortly and starts to fumble around in his coat pocket for his cigarettes. That's another thing; she still has his duster. She'll have to remember to bring that up later.

When his cigarette is lit, he changes it carefully to his opposite hand to make sure none of the smoke gets in her eyes or lungs and she's almost touched by the small gesture of chivalry. But then, Spike was always doing those things, those thoughtful little things that made it so easy to forget sometimes that he was a demon.

"I went to Africa," he says, then pauses for another long minute. "I had to go through some trials... Fightin' a bloke with fire hands, a couple demons, bugs crawlin' around beneath my skin, that sort of thing. Buffy, I..."

"You what?" she prompts softly after his voice fails him and it doesn't look like he's going to go on.

"I'd heard about this guy, this demon, who could grant... Sort of wishes. Not like Anya, you know, but the kind you earn. After--after that night--I wondered why I hadn't... You know. You, Slayer, me, demon. That sort o' thing. It hurt to wonder, but I did." He takes a deep draw on his cigarette, turns away from her and blows the smoke out. She's starting to hurt, herself. She thinks she knows where this is going, but he needs to say it.

"When I left, I wasn't sure what I was goin' to be askin' for. You know. I... I still got this chip. Was thinkin' about it back then, that maybe... But even then I knew that it wasn't really what I was goin' after." He stubs the cigarette out on the wall and then turns to her, his eyes apologetic and miserable, and everything regretful that there is in the world. "I was bitter then, though, that I hurt so bad an' over you, the Slayer and all. By the time I got out of the state, I knew it wasn't something I could ask for, to get this chip out. I was still in love with you, an' knew you wouldn't ever... It just wasn't the way to go."

And then he stops, and she knows he's done for good and there are a lot of things that she needs to ask him about what he said. Only, later. Later, she can ask him these things and possibly not feel so hurt and sick, even though she understands his motivation at the time. But now, the thing that comes out of her mouth, surprising both of them, is, "Was?"

This catches him off guard and he blinks. "What?"

"You--you were in love with me?" she asks and then hears herself continue--yes, oh god, she's really going to say it, "You're not anymore?"

He stares at her, slightly openmouthed. The word flabbergasted pops into her head, something that Giles no doubtedly said one time, and she has to fight back a smile at this somber moment.

"Yes, I was," he whispers at length. "Yes... I still am. Love isn't something you just get over, is it? Not with a soul or without one. Sometimes, if it's the right sort of love, it just stays with you. Is that okay?"

She thinks about the things he used to say to her during sex. She had mostly pretended not to hear them because if she heard them she would have to either acknowledge them or confront him and neither option was viable at the time. But the things he said

((pretty, pretty Buffy, love you so much my angel, my sun, so hot, so tight and wet yes yes yes oh, fuck I love you love you love you come with me, for me, come on baby you can do it sweetheart, just one more time, love you angel, my star, my love, my heart))

as he'd pounded into her, kissing and licking into her mouth, making her feel breathless and blurry, these things he'd said, both romantic and raunchy, these things stayed with her, and she understands now without a doubt that they were real.

"Yes," she answers, and it really is.
* * * * *