Unspoken Love

They huddle around the small circular table, shouting and laughing over the cacophony of music and the fragments of conversations which swirl around them. Beneath the din of sounds, the steady throb of the bass threads through the small room.

The walls and ceiling are decorated with gaudy Christmas lights, and a lopsided pine tree, covered with silver ornaments, stands in one corner.

“Too many people for such a small place, not enough space to maneuver if something goes wrong,” Buffy worries as she gazes around the crowded nightclub.

If someone goes wrong.

She glances over at Spike as he leans across the table listening intently to one of the Potentials. She can’t remember the girl’s name. Afraid to remember, because well, tomorrow the girl may be dead and then, what would be the purpose of knowing?

Spike’s lips curve into a small smile as he listens to the young girl complain about the horrid disruption to teen-aged life that being a Potential brings. He becomes aware of Buffy’s eyes upon him; senses her gaze without turning his head. He glances quickly in her direction and then turns away, sobered by the look in her eyes.

Longing. For him? Or anger? He wonders, “Is she mad at me? What have I done now? Can’t read her anymore.”

He sighs and then focuses his attention back on the young girl. She’s got tears in her eyes. What had she just said? Momentarily distracted by Buffy’s stare, he’d not heard the words the young girl had spoken.

“Excuse me, pet. But could you repeat that?” he asks.

“Amanda. My name’s Amanda. No one can ever remember it. Or remember me.” She gives him a sad look.

“Amanda. It’s a beautiful name. Means ‘lovable’ in Latin,” Spike replies. He gives Amanda a reassuring smile. “It’s unforgettable.”

Buffy shifts suddenly in her seat and says loudly to no one in particular, “We should go.”

The girls protest. They don’t want to leave the club, just want a few more moments of normality, want to dance, to get lost in the music. Flirt with the young men, who’ve driven a steady path to their table. Pretend that death is not waiting for them outside in the dark.

“Okay, okay,” Buffy surrenders to their pleading voices. “Just a half hour more, and then we’ve got to leave.”

A few minutes later, Buffy and Spike are alone at the table. Spike looks out onto the dance floor and watches the young people lose themselves to the sounds, weaving and laughing, shaking off their worries and fears in the pulsing rhythms. Young and innocent and hoping they will live forever. He’s overcome with melancholy and a feeling of claustrophobia, and he wants to escape out into the night.

His hands, resting before him on the table, tremble. He clasps them together tightly to still them.

“Are you alright?” Buffy slides over to the chair next to him and touches his clenched hands. He jerks away, sits back and shoves his hands into his pockets. He doesn’t answer. She’s staring at his face again, and he glances yearningly towards the door.

He can feel the warmth radiating from her body, smell the delicate scent of her perfume.

“Why’s she wearing perfume?” he thinks. Tonight was a training mission. Check out the Demon bars, the Vampire crypts. Graveyards at midnight. “What’s she need perfume for?” He wonders again.

Don’t look at her. Don’t let her see what’s in your heart. She doesn’t feel that way about you.

“I need a bit of air,” he says and starts to rise from his chair. And then he looks down at her. Blushing, with eyes glistening, she catches his eyes, and he falters.

“What’s wrong, love?” he asks and sits back down. He edges closer to her; they are inches apart now, each tentatively searching for some thing, some signal from the other. Searching each other’s eyes for something lost and deep, and the tension between them is unbearable.

She leans her face toward his and whispers, “Will you dance with me?”

His laugh is sudden, harsh, and the connection between them is broken. “The Slayer needs to move. Woman of action, is all,” he thinks. “No deep hidden thoughts here. Wants to be a girl again. Pretend she’s normal.”

“Why didn’t you dance with that git who asked you a while back? This music’s not really my style. And I don’t think you should be seen dancing with the Vampire.”

“Are you turning me down?”

“Well, yeah,” he replies, and then notices her bottom lip tremble a bit. “It’s just that I don’t…” he says in a rush, but she interrupts him.

“Fine. I’ll dance by myself.” She stumbles up from the table, knocking over her chair. As they both reach down to pick up the chair, their fingers touch. This time it’s her hand that trembles.

She slides her fingers across the top of his hand clasped around one of the metal bars on the chair’s back. Her palm is warm and silken against his cool skin.

They both crouch beside the fallen chair, not moving. The sound of her heart beating fills his ears, drowning out the steady throb of the music. He releases the metal bar, and with a quick movement grabs onto her hand and pulls her to her feet. He doesn’t release her hand. She’s staring down at the floor now. Ashamed? Scared? She squeezes his hand, and he winces from the strength of her grasp.

Without speaking, he leads her onto the dance floor, maneuvering them through the crowd and into a dark corner to the right of the stage. The band stops playing and moves off the stage for a break. Couples separate reluctantly and walk slowly back to their seats.

Spike and Buffy find themselves standing alone. One of the band members dims the lights and turns on some soft music. The melody is slow and slightly mournful. A male voice begins to sing about love. About lost love and heartbreak. Loneliness. Night after lonely night, he chants, he’s waiting, but she never comes. Will never come back to him.

The music is a bit too much for Spike to take. Isn’t it enough that he’s sentenced to be by her side, covered with suspicion, mocked by her friends? He’d overheard her tell them that the reason she needed to keep him with her was not to help him, but to learn what he knew. And because of what he might do. Something bad. Something unspeakable.

“So why are we standing here like two fools, holding hands in the dark?” he wonders, “What does she want from me?"

“We shouldn’t do this,” he says suddenly, changing his mind about indulging her wish to be normal again. “I shouldn’t touch you. It’s not right. I should go.” He tries to drop her hand, but she won’t let him. She’s holding onto his hand like a drowning woman.

“Just once.” Her voice is low and pleading. She steps closer to him, places her hand lightly on his shoulder and begins to move slowly to the music.

Again his senses are overwhelmed by her closeness, by the subtle movements as her body weaves against him. Beneath the scent of her perfume, he breathes in the deeper, muskier scent of her warm skin. She drops his hand and slips her arm about his waist. He gives a small moan and pulls her into his arms, hugs her against his chest and surrenders to her movements.

You will never have her love.

He buries his face in her hair, trying to push away the demon voice inside him. Or is it the voice of his soul? Why should he be any luckier than the rest of the droves of poor bloody fools who roamed the world in search of love? It’s all over for him. The game is up. He’d rather she’d just get it over with and stake him, than have her hold him close like this.

Because tomorrow would bring daylight. And she’d regret revealing her need for him. With clinical, pitying eyes, she’d push him away. And he couldn’t bear it. All those long lonely nights, spent waiting for her to come to him. Knowing that she’d only take and never give. All his life, just the same story. Love was a curse, leading him into insanity. What he really needed was that final moment of release as the stake plunged into his heart. Much rather have the stake than love.

Can’t cry this soul out of me.

He pulls her closer, slowly shifts his knee between her legs and almost lifts her off the floor.

God help me, I can’t let her go.

She nestles her face into the curve of his neck just beneath his chin, and he feels the soft movements of her lips as she silently mouths the words of the song against his skin. She brushes her hand through his hair and along his cheek and then rubs one finger across his lips. He shivers. He kisses her finger and she speaks his name, whispers his name.

Spike. Don’t leave me.

Her voice shatters him.

And he’s lost. Lost in her. The music swells and then ends, but they keep moving, swaying to their own silent song. She won’t let him go. He glances down at her, and she tilts back her head and stares longingly into his eyes. He submits, drops his mask and opens himself to the yearning innocence of her gaze. She kisses him. Shyly. Tenderly.

She loves him.

He loves her.

The words lie unspoken between them.