76 Bloody Trombones

AUTHOR: BuffyX

DISCLAIMER: I am poor. I mean, dirt poor. I literally am broke. Joss, all I could give you is pocket change and lint. So please, don’t sue.

SUMMARY: Buffy and Spike, reunite. Hey, that rhymes!

SPOILERS: Up through Chosen and Home. The rest is my own speculation.

FEEDBACK: I am not below grovelling for feedback. Email me at buffyxbvsb@hotmail.com if you want to give me suggestions, compliments, or tell me how much I suck.

There are some things, Spike thinks, that only Angel can understand.

He’d never admit this to anyone but himself, of course. But it is true. Of course, it shouldn’t be that unexpected; he spent twenty years with Angelus—fighting both beside and against him, fists, fangs and fucking. They know each other in ways that no one else ever could. They had loved the same woman. Had both lost her for the same reason: circumstance. They were tied together by history and blood. Like family.

And then, of course, there is the fact that they’ve both come back from the dead. Twice. Brought back by a higher power, both dropping naked out of the sky. Well, at least Angel got the privacy of the abandoned mansion rather than the middle of a hotel full of onlooking bystanders. Hmph. The Powers That Be couldn’t even give him that much respect or decency. How humiliating. Yeah, they have a lot in common.

Including hair gel.

Of course, Spike doesn’t use nearly as much as Angel does. But after he started stealing it from him, he realized quickly that the Poofter had good taste when it came to name brands. Expensive, this stuff was, but well worth the money. All he needs is a dime-sized glop to tame down his tousled curls. Still, as he now squints his eyes and frowns at the near-empty bottle, he knows that there isn’t enough left. Stupid hair.

Angel’ll understand, at least. Maybe he has some extra hair gel somewhere else, or he can run off to the store for him or something. There’s no way he’s going out to the market; hell, he doesn’t even know where the market is. Yeah, he can convince Angel to do it, he decides as he heads out to the hall.

“Angel?” he calls out, looking both ways. “Peaches, you around?”

The upstairs level of the Hyperion, however, appears to be pretty much empty, except for a couple stacks of boxes stashed outside the doorways of the rooms. Figures. The one damn time he actually needs something, and no one’s even around. Sighing, Spike heads for the staircase. Maybe someone’s lurking about down there. He’s standing at the top of the stairs when he sees it.

It’s Buffy.

The sight of her takes his breath away, metaphorically speaking, and the empty bottle in his hand clatters to the floor carelessly. She stands at the bottom of the staircase, a long figure in the empty lobby, two bags in hand. Her long yellow hair frames her face like a bright halo and cascades to her shoulder in soft waves. It’s grown longer since he’s last seen her, bleached blonde with natural golden highlights by the sun. She’s as beautiful as ever, gazing up at him, watching his slow descent with wide green eyes full of wonder and awe as he practically stumbles his way downwards.

Once he’s at the bottom, he stands perfectly still, staring at her in amazement. Drinking in her presence, and she seems to be doing the same. For a long time he can’t seem to quarry speech, but finally he realizes she is waiting for him to talk, so he tries.

“Buffy?” Just her name, and it’s more of a question than anything, because he still can’t believe his eyes. He’s been fucked up enough in his lifetime to know that sometimes his mind will see things that aren’t really there, that appearances can be deceiving, that she could even not be real at all, just some kind of mirage, or a dream of some sort—

“It’s me.” A small smile reaches Buffy’s lips, and Spike knows. It’s her. It’s really, really her. “So you’re really here. I mean, Angel told me that you were—that you were back, but I didn’t—I guess part of me didn’t really believe it until I saw—”

Buffy starts to rush forward in his direction, dropping her luggage to the ground. But as soon as she moves, she notices him take a step back, wary. She stops in her tracks, and a long, awkward pause ensues, both of them just taking each other in. Neither of them have even the slightest idea of what to say now that they’re actually face to face.

“Your hair,” she blurts out clumsily. “It’s…different.”

Spike instinctively lifts a hand to pat down his disheveled mop of curls. “Yeah, haven’t really taken the time yet to dye it.” He blinks and tilts his head slightly, eyeing the boquet of flowers dangling in one of her hands. “What are those for?”

“Oh!” Buffy’s eyes dart quickly down to the rumpled boquet she’s clutching. “These are for you. From Dawn. There’s a note, too, I think.” She slowly comes forward, stops a few feet away and holds them outward, handing them to him. For a brief second there is contact, hands touching, skin brushing, eyes locking. They stay that way, gazing into each other’s eyes intently. She feels her breath hitch in her throat, and times seems to freeze, the world just falling away.

“Buffy? Is that you?”

Angel’s voice instantly shatters the moment, and Spike jerks back, hastily looks away.

Buffy turns to face Angel, forcing a small smile. “Yup. In the flesh.”

He smiles back, coming forward and enveloping her into a warm hug. She’s a little surprised at the gesture, but puts her arms back around him in return. It feels nice to have him holding her again, and she closes her eyes, pressing her face against his crinkly coat and breathing him in. After a few moments, he pulls back and holds her out at arm’s length.

“I didn’t realize you would be coming this late,” he says, eyes searching her face. “If I’d have known, I would’ve sent someone to pick you up from the airport. That’s what I was planning on doing--”

“It’s okay,” she assures him with a smile. “I just took a cab. I wanted to get here as soon as I could.”

“I’m glad you’re here.” Angel squeezes one bowed shoulder tenderly, and Buffy gazes up at him, her smile widening.

“Me too,” she tells him sincerely. She turns, bends down and picks up both of her suitcases. “So, where should I put this? Just point me where to go and I’m there.”

“There’s a place upstairs—” Angel starts, but Spike cuts him off.

“You invited her to stay?” He breaks his silence, staring over at his grandsire.

“For awhile, yeah,” Angel explains, almost sheepishly. “I thought she could help us figure things out, you know, about what’s going to happen, and—”

“Right.” Spike nods curtly. “Well. Far be it from me to get in the way.”

He turns for the staircase, and Buffy starts to follow, anxious.

“Spike!” she says worriedly. “You’re not in the way—”

“Don’t worry,” he responds nonchalantly. “I’m fine. Tired, is all. Think I’m going to go turn in for the night.”

As he begins to hurry back up the stairs, she tries to pursue him again, but Angel catches her by the arm and stops her.

“Let him go,” he tells her quietly, and she sighs, watching Spike’s retreating back disappear around the corner.

Buffy knows as soon as she lays down that the idea of sleep is ridiculous, because it’s never going to happen.

She tosses and turns, beating her pillow practically to a pulp and kicking down the sheets, trying to fight her way into finding a comfortable position. Sleep evades her, however, and finally she gives up, knowing that it’s no use. She lies there, staring up at the ceiling, thinking of how warped and miraculous it is that just a few doors down the hall, Spike is laying in bed, alive and whole and here.

Closing her eyes, she stills her body completely and concentrating as hard as she can. She tries to focus hard enough so that she can sense him, somehow, maybe sense his presence. As hard as she tries, she can’t feel him. With a sigh, Buffy finally rolls out of bed and tiptoes her way down the stairs. Just as she’s entering the kitchen, she hears a voice.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Buffy jumps, whirls around and sees Angel, sitting at the table. He looks up at her with dark eyes, and she bites down on her lower lip, a little embarrassed at how jumpy she is. She’s not sure why. Usually she can sense people before she sees them; part of the whole Slayer package and all. She sighs loudly.

“Yeah,” she replies with a nod. “Same to you?” A pause, and he sends her a pointed look. She realizes suddenly, face blushing, flustered. “Oh! Right. You got the whole nocturnal creature of the night thing going on. Forgot about that for a second.”

“Sit down.” Angel gestures to the seat across from him, rising to his feet. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee, cocoa?”

Buffy pulls the chair back from the table, the legs scratching across the floor, and flops down. “Water would be nice.”

He stands, goes to the cabinet and rummages to find a spare glass. “How do you like your ice, cubed or crushed?”

“Either is fine.” She glances around the room and notices how bare and empty it is, except for some scattered half-filled cardboard cartons. “Hey, I never asked you—what’s up with all the boxes?”

“Oh. That.” Angel hesitated for a second as he poured water into the glass. “We’re moving to new offices. Across town. Actually, we were in the middle of getting this place ready to sell when Spike came back. It was kind of a shock, to say the least, so we’ve been putting off the move until we can get things…worked out.”

“Understandable,” she replies, taking the cup from him and sipping it quietly. “So…how has he been? Since he’s been back?”

“He’s been okay,” Angel says slowly as he sits down across from her. “At least, I think so. There are times when he’s kind of, well, twitchy. Startled easily. And he’s a lot more…quiet. I mean, we’re talking Spike here—usually he’s all about the rude comments and sarcasm. But now he doesn’t argue, doesn’t put up a fight about anything. It’s strange.”

“Well, you don’t know him anymore,” Buffy replies a little too sharply, almost edging on defensive. “When he got his soul—everything changed. He changed.”

“I know.” He bows his head and stares at the table. “I guess I’m just not used to it.”

“I was around him all year and I’m barely used to it.” She sighs, sets the glass down and looks at him. “So he’s still soulled vamp guy, right? I mean, he’s not—”

“Human?” Angel finishes. “No, he’s still all vampire.”

“I don’t understand,” she says, sighing once again. “Why is he back? He was burned from the inside out. I saw him, Angel—and even if he hadn’t dusted, the Hellmouth was caving in. He wouldn’t have been able to survive all of the debris falling down.”

“We’re not sure, but we think it has to do with the amulet,” he explains. “We think maybe that maybe it chanelled some kind of energy that allowed The Powers That Be to bring him back. You see, there’s this prophecy—Shanshu.”

“Bless you.”

“No, I mean, the prophecy is called Shanshu.”

“Oh.” Buffy looks at him, makes a face. “Shanshu? Who came up with that?”

“I don’t know, whoever wrote the prophecy, I guess. It’s just a name.”

“It’s a stupid name, I’ll tell you that much.”

“That’s not the point, Buffy.”

“Fine, fine. So, Shanshu. What does it mean?”

“It’s an ancient prophecy, and it says that the vampire with the soul, once he fulfills his destiny, will Shanshu -- become human.” He pauses, looks back up at her. “It’s a reward thing. A reward I thought I was working toward, since I was the only vampire with a soul in existence as far as I knew, until—”

“—Spike came into the picture,” Buffy finishes, realizing.

“Yeah, pretty much.” Now it’s Angel’s turn to sigh.

“So what? Now he’s sticking around here, so you two can wait to see which vamp wins first?”

“What, like you have a better idea? Buffy, he’s got nowhere else to go.”

“That’s not true.”

“Tell me, then. Are you going to take him in? Is that why you came back here, to bring him back to England with you?”

“God, Angel. No one is going to ‘take him in.’ Spike isn’t a fucking puppy, he’s a man. He can decide for himself.”

“You didn’t answer my other question.”

Buffy stops. “What?”

“My other question.” Angel stares at her squarely in the eyes. “Did you come here for him?”

“Does it matter?” she questions.

“Well, I wouldn’t have asked if it didn’t,” he replies evenly.

“Obviously me coming here wasn’t too big of a deal,” she retorts sharply. “Apparently you didn’t even bother to mention it to him, did you?”

He hesitates. “I had my reasons.”

“Like what?” Buffy demands. “Don’t tell me this is more jealous vampire crap, because I swear to god, I’ve had enough of it to last me a lifetime.”

“It’s not jealousy, okay?” he snaps. “I didn’t tell him because he didn’t want you here.”

This stops Buffy cold, and she looks at him, shocked. “What are you talking about?”

“He didn’t want you here, okay?” Angel repeats, aggravated. “Part of the reason I didn’t tell you was because even if I wanted to contact you, I couldn’t, because you were all over the place. But the other was because he made me promise I wouldn’t tell you.”

“No.” She shakes her head adamantly. “He wouldn’t say that.”

“Buffy, it was only because he didn’t want to upset you,” he explains in a softer tone. “He didn’t want to disrupt the life you had going. He thought he’d be a burden, and that’s why he didn’t want me to tell you about him coming back.”

“No, you listen to me,” she says angrily. “I know him, and he would never say that. He wouldn’t. He…” Her voice trails off.

“Loves you,” Angel completes for her, and she doesn’t respond. “Are you in love with him?”

Buffy blinks at him. “You’ve already asked me that.”

“And you never really answered,” he reminds her. “So. Are you in love with him?”

She swallows hard. “I am.”

“How do you know for sure?” Angel’s voice is a little strangled as he asks the question. “If you weren’t sure before—”

“Things are different,” Buffy says quietly. “A lot of time has passed since the last time you asked. A lot of things have changed since then.”

“So does this—does this mean—” He stops, pushes his chair back quickly as he stands up, closing his eyes briefly before looking at her again. “Does this mean you don’t love me?”

“Angel.” She gets up too, looking at him. “That’s not what it means.”

“What does it mean then?” he questions plaintively. “Do you love me?”

“I do,” she answers slowly. “Part of me will always love you. But I don’t think that means anything for us anymore.” She pauses. “It’s been years, Angel. What I had with you was—it was amazing. I know I’ll never love anything else the way I loved you. You’ll always be with me, but I… I’ve let go of what we had. You were my first. I just-- I don’t want you to be my last.” She exhales deeply. “I’m sorry.”

Angel sighs, slumps back down in his chair again. “Don’t be.”

“I am,” she persists. “I’m sorry if that isn’t what you wanted to hear. But that’s what I feel. And I won’t apologize for loving him.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” he says softly. “Doesn’t matter. We were never really meant to be, were we?”

He smiles a little, and she feels herself relaxing.

“Always did seem like something was prying us apart,” she admits, rolling her eyes. “Demons. Curses. Apocalypses. Mystical duty thing. And now that all of that stuff is pretty much out of the way…”

“We’ve both moved on.” Angel laughs, and it’s stark, dry in the quiet of the night. “Sounds weird, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Buffy agrees. “So. Has there been, you know, anyone for you? To move on to?”

Angel considers the question for a moment. “There was. Still kind of is. Except, she’s kind of…in a coma.”

“Coma?” She blinks at him in surprise. Didn’t expect to hear that. “Anyone I know?”

“Actually, yeah.” He clears his throat, straightens in his seat. “It’s Cordelia.”

“Cordelia?” Buffy’s eyes widen, and she’s stunned into silence. It takes her a minute to gather her thoughts and recover her voice. “All right…processing. You. And Cordelia. That’s… Okay, not what I expected. Still, if you can handle my news about Spike, I can deal. At least, I think.” She pauses. “Wait, why’s she in a coma again?”

“Long story,” he informs her, running a hand through his hair. “Probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“I’ll believe you on that one,” concedes Buffy with a grin. “So, you got any ice cream around here?”

“Actually, I think so.” Angel stands up and moves to the freezer, rummaging around. “If I remember right, I have a pint of cookie-dough-fudge-mint-chip somewhere here.”

“Mmm.” Buffy beams. “Sounds delicious.”

He pulls out some spoons and smiles back, a little sadly. “Yeah. It is.”

They sit together and eat from the carton until the first rays of dawn appear.

Chapter 2:

Angel finds Spike the next day in one of the empty hotel rooms. They’d transfigured it into a makeshift training room, hanging up a punching bag and storing some weapons for sparring practice. During the past few weeks, Spike had spent a lot of his time in here, working out, building up his own strength. So he’s not too surprised when he discovers Spike, in the training room, pounding against the punching bag with all of his might.

“How are you doing?” Angel asks from a safe distance.

Spike punches it again. Harder. “How do you think I’m doing?”

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Angel says quietly. “I know it must be a shock to see her like that, without warning—”

“Oh, and what would make you think that?” he snaps, delivering another knock onto the punching bag. “I mean, obviously it wasn’t a big enough deal that you felt you needed to inform me before telling her about what happened with me coming back, before inviting her here—”

“I knew you wouldn’t want me to say anything to her,” continues Angel, “but she deserved to know.”

“Why did she need to know?” Spike demands, finally whirling around to face the other vampire. “And how the hell did you ever come to decide that it was your sodding duty to be the one to deliver the message?”

“Because if I didn’t tell her, no one else would,” Angel replies, stepping forward. “She needed to know. It was the right thing to do. She cares about you, whether I like it or not. I can’t deny that.”

A sarcastic sound escapes from Spike’s throat. “Right. Like her coming here was all about me.” He suddenly begins to wail on the punching bag, whack whack whack, as hard as he possibly can.

“You’re pissed off,” Angel realizes.

“Very observant, mate,” Spike sneers. “Would you like a cookie?”

“No, I mean, I get it. Why you’re so upset.” He tilts his head to observe him. “You’re mad. Because Buffy loves me.” He pauses for a lengthy moment, drawing it out. “She always will, and you know it.”

Before Angel can blink, Spike’s fist connects with his jaw, and the impact sends him tumbling to the ground.

Spike goes with him.

They skate across the floor like crabs, any sense of finesse or control that they’d had before now completely vanished. Wild kicks, fierce blows, tackling and pinning each other down, scrambling and throwing more randomly placed punches. All out, no-holds-barred, just the two of them stripped bare, nothing but sheer primal instinct. Spike’s feral rage explodes from within, and he claws madly at his adversary, tearing at whatever he can get. Somehow, Angel is eventually able to get the upper hand and shoves Spike off harshly, sending him flying into the wall.

Spike struggles to his feet, and for a minute they both just stand there in silence, glaring at one another from opposite sides across the room and panting like rabid animals. Angel mops off his bloody lower lip with one hand and stares warily at the other vampire, waiting for some kind of reaction.

“Is this what you want?” Spike finally shouts at his grandsire. His eyes glisten with angry, unshed tears. “You want to go and rub it in my face? To have me admit it? Do you think I don’t already know? Of course it’s you. It’ll always be you.” He spits the words out like vile, and then pauses, pacing back and forth before stopping and looking at him again. “This is your fault! The reason I’m like this, the reason I am what I am today.”

“You were Dru’s creation, not mine,” Angel reminds him in a calm tone.

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” he retorts bitingly. “If you hadn’t gotten your soul, if you hadn’t been there first, if you hadn’t come back with your stupid fucking amulet, I wouldn’t be here! If I ever had more than just your fucking leftovers, if I hadn’t had anything to live up to, I wouldn’t be here.”

He looks at Spike with a patience that is infuriating in it’s composure. “That isn’t my fault. You chose to be where you are now.”

“I didn’t choose anything!” he yells at him.

Suddenly, Spike screams in frustration and ferocity, and it’s a raw, wounded sound, echoing through the empty room. He spins and smashes his fist against the plaster furiously, melts against the wall, broken. He doesn’t know who he is anymore, or what he’s doing here, and it hurts. It hurts. The tears leak out from his eyes, and he swipes at them angrily, tired, so tired, of feeling like this. Broken into shambles and left only with the pieces. He’s so tired of it all.

“Spike.” Angel steps forward, reaches out to touch his shoulder. He jerks away, angry.

“No!” Spike snaps at him. “This isn’t how it works. You don’t just get to come in here and—”

“I’m not trying to do anything,” he replies quietly. “But don’t hate her. Don’t hate her because of me. It’s not her fault.”

“So what? You two are back together then?” The vampire scoffs loudly. “And I’m just supposed to sit back and smile as you two flutter about and not be—”

“We’re not back together,” Angel informs him. “It’s over.”

Spike frowns, confused. “But you just said that she loves you.”

“She does,” he responds. “But I’m not the one she wants. Not anymore.”

“What are you talking about?” Spike demands.

“I’m not going to spell it out for you.” Angel sighs heavily, turns and starts to walk out of the room. “Figure it out for yourself.”

Spike can only stand there in disbelief as he leaves the room.

***

“Spike.” Buffy stands in the doorway, compulsively crossing and uncrossing her arms, uncomfortable and fidgety. She doesn’t know whether to run away from him or to him, and the uncertainty she feels is almost suffocating. “Can I--Is it okay if I come in?”

He lays on top of the bed, an arm draped over his eyes. When he hears her voice, he sits up, looking at her carefully. “Go ahead.”

The way he looks at her makes her stomach twist. He looks at her like he barely knows her, like she’s some kind of stranger, and it’s tearing her apart inside. Some crazy, irrational part of her wants to scream at him, or hit him, or do something that they’ll both understand. Anything besides this intolerable awkwardness. They never were good at speaking. No, their language was always all in the physical contact--all of their past is written in the impetus of their fists, the passion of their kisses; even the slightest touches were deeply intimate, interlocking hands and warm arms.

But they don’t have that anymore. They only have this; uncomfortable silences that hang in the air. She can’t scream at him. Certainly can’t hit him. All she has to use are words.

“I have to say this fast, because otherwise I know I won’t have the guts to at all,” she blurts out in confession, voice stammering. “I’m not good at this.”

“Good at what?” he asks, swinging his legs over the matress to look at her more directly.

“Talking. Sharing.” Buffy pauses, considering what to say. “Obviously I still remember. What you said to me…the last thing you said. Before you--before you went away. About me not loving you. And part of me believes that maybe…maybe you were right.” She stops, closes her eyes. “Maybe I didn’t love you.”

When she looks back up at him, he’s staring at her, resignation and understanding written across his face. Like this is exactly what he expected. And it’s the utter acceptance of this, the withdrawn look he wears, that breaks her heart to see.

“Not because I didn’t want to,” she continues. “But because I couldn’t. On some level, I just wasn’t… capable, y’know? Like I was still cut off, even after all this time, and not just you. From everyone. So maybe I didn’t love you because I couldn’t, not fully. Because I couldn’t love anybody like that.”

“No.” He shakes his head firmly. “Wasn’t like that. Wasn’t because of you. Was never because of you. You can love. I see it, all around you. You’re full of it, you are.” Oh, and she is. It radiates from her now, glowing from the inside out. Almost tangible. Buffy, his beautiful Buffy, smiling and shining with a newfound happiness. As strong and gorgeous as ever.

“I’ve changed, since you’ve been—gone,” she says slowly. “I’ve spent a lot of time thinking. About me. And you. And what that means.” She steps closer to him now. “Once you were gone, I realized. The world is a lot worse without you in it. I mean, I didn’t hate it. I saw things that made me love it more than ever, actually. It’s just, without you? It wasn’t the same. I missed you. I missed you so much.”

“Buffy, love…” Spike rises to his feet, expression pinched with pain.

“I’m sorry, oh god, I’m sorry.” Buffy’s voice wavers, and she begins to cry. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you what you deserved before. Couldn’t let you in. I’m just-- I’m a mess, Spike, I’m an awful mess. I really am. It’s been better lately, but I’m still trying to pick up the pieces, and I don’t think--I don’t think I can do it without you. Oh god, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He comes forward, takes her face inbetween his hands, wipes the streaming tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. “Don’t be sorry, please.”

He doesn’t want her to be sorry, can’t have her apologizing. The truth is, he did horrible, terrible things to her. He knows enough now to know that it wasn’t just him making what they had such a mess, but god, he can’t let her do this. Can’t let her take the blame. Because so much of it was him, too. Fool enough to think that beauty could come out of such ugliness, that her purity would be enough to light up his darkness, that they could somehow balance each other out. That his love would be enough to save the both of them.

How wrong he had been.

“I’m terrified.” She swallows hard. “I’m terrified, because I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m ready to love. I don’t know if I can even do it at all, especially the kind of love with the pain and the hurting and the seemingly inevitable abandonment by the other party that always undoubtedly seems to follow. But I want to try. And the only person I want to try it with is you.” She looks up at him with wet eyes. “Spike. Do you think…do you think you could let me to love you?”

“No.” His throat tightens, hot, stinging tears pricking the back of his eyes. “No, this can’t be. This isn’t--you can’t. This is too...”

“I am.” She reaches up, still crying, and she smiles as she reaches upward, cups his cheek in the palm of her hand. “You’re the one, Spike.”

Spike doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, just gazes down at her. There are tears still glistening in her soft green eyes, and when he nods at her, ever so slightly, they spill over onto her cheeks. She can’t stop touching his face; fingertips brush over his temples, the bridge of his nose, the shape of his lips. She tilts his face down, feathers kisses across his forehead, his eyelids, and he feels her hot salty teardrops landing on his skin.

“Buffy,” he whispers, voice cracking, and she says nothing, only draws him into an embrace. He weeps into her shoulder as she curls her fingers into the curls of his hair. She pulls back and then kisses him deeply, swallowing his sobs with her own and opening his mouth with the motion.

Spike slides an arm around her waist, presses back with equal ardor, frantic and urgent. Her lips are hot and achingly soft against his, and she yanks his mouth to hers, covers him with desperate, needy kisses. Her back bumps against the door with a rough bang, and she fumbles to kick it close, locks it with one hand, never breaking the contact. She can’t afford to, is too scared that he’ll slip from her grasp again, and she has to hold on now, has to show him that she means it while she knows he’s listening.

He’s forgotten how talented she is, but he quickly begins to remember as she pushes him toward the bed. Kisses him for what feels like forever as she lays herself onto the sheets, tugs him down beside her. Their mouths meet in a calamity of heedless passion, unchecked fervor, hands running everywhere, skimming over every curve. Finally she’s forced to wrench her head back for breath.

“I want you,” Buffy gasps, kissing him again. Hungry, burning. “I need you. Can’t wait, I have to—”

She doesn’t finish, and instead scrambles to remove all of his clothing. Wants to tear his clothes off, wants to consume him, and her hands are practically shaking, trembling as she tries to pull his shirt away. Spike sets his hands over hers, slowing her down.

“Easy, pet,” he says with a smile. “We have time. Want to make it last.”

This time, his kiss is gentle, fragile. She sinks into it, closing her eyes as she undoes the buttons of his shirt, slowly. He’s right. They have time, no need to rush. Still, she doesn’t think she can last another second without this. She wants him, all of him—his perfections and his flaws, his reckless intensity and his delicate tenderness, everything he is. Wants him inside of her more than anything.

Spike travels downward, kisses her neck softly as he helps her pull her shirt over her head. She unfastens her white silk bra, kicks off her pants, and helps him unzip his jeans, discarding the clothes carelessly onto the carpet beside the bed. His body hovers over hers, and for a minute she just drinks in the sight of him. He is like a sculpture, perfectly crafted, all flat planes and smooth sinew. When he slides his body against hers, she gasps, arms circling around him, legs winding around his waist.

She pulls his hips down to hers, lifting her own to meet his. Suddenly he enters her, and it is mindblowing. Intensity and heat and passion, all blooming inside of her, and it steals her breath away. She can’t breathe, can barely think, everything is escalating into rapture as it washes over her, and she arches to meet him. When Spike comes, it’s like he’s exploding inside of her, and they both seem to spin into oblivion, intertwined limbs and converged skin, kissing one another into ecstasy.

And it’s then that Buffy feels it; raw and burning, but so very real. Her love for him. A love anything unlike she’s ever known.

Afterwards, she hides under a sea of blankets, snuggled up against his chest and dozing softly, only a few tufts of golden blonde hair visible. He smiles at the sight of her pillowy silhouette, guiding his fingers down the smooth lines of her curve. A muffled sound from within the blanketed cocoon startles him, and he quickly jerks his hand back.

“What’re you doing?” she mumbles sleepily, poking her head out from underneath the covers.

“Nothing,” he says hastily. “It was, uh, nothing. Sorry.”

“Felt nice.” She smiles at him, tilts her chin upward just far enough to brush her lips across his. Just a fleeting, soft-as-silk kiss, light and wispy. Still, it’s enough to make him melt inside. God, he could spend all of eternity like this way, laying in her arms, just kissing her forever. Oh, and this, this must be what heaven is. He can’t imagine anything more divine than being here with her.

“Mmm.” Spike purrs as she pulls away, and she giggles, furrowing back down against his chest with a happy, contented sigh.

“You’re all rumbly,” she notes with a yawn.

“Shh, love,” he murmurs, lowering his lips to her ear. “Go back to sleep now.”

He makes shushing sounds until she closes her eyes again, and watches her for a long time after she’s fallen asleep.

Chapter 3:

When Buffy awakes, she is still in his arms. She lies there, gazing at him, drinking in every detail. He lies with one lengthy arm draped over the side of the bed, chest sighing and heaving with unneeded breaths, and her hands find their way around him, feeling the dim heat of his mass. Seven, eight bony ribs and flawless white skin stretched across them. Her fingers still know the terrain of his form and the way each sinew curves.

She slowly, reluctantly untangles her arms from his, wondering if she should wake him. One look at his childlike, peaceful face, and she can’t bring herself to do it. He looks like he needs the rest. She slips out of the bed, covering herself with the sheet, and tiptoes to the window to peek out of the drapes, making sure not to let any light spill in. The amber glow of the morning seeps in through the tiny slits between the tightly-closed venetian blinds. It’s still pretty early, it seems. She finds a robe hanging on the door of the adjoining bathroom and shrugs it over her shoulders. It’s a few sizes too big, but it’ll do.

Looking in the mirror, she studies her hair with a grimace. It’s messy and frizzy and in desperate need of washing. And her breath must be horrible. She quickly pokes around in the drawers and finds an extra toothbrush. Brushing her teeth silently, she watches a trail of silvery white foam travel from her mouth to the drain. Blonde, unruly hair slips almost like liquid without complaint through the bristly fingers of the hairbrush. Memories of last night slip through her mind, and it feels like a slowly dissolving dream.

“B-Buffy?”

She emerges from the bathroom to find Spike sitting straight up in bed, panic clear across his face, eyes darting around anxiously. Her heart drops and guilt seizes her as she realizes why he’s upset-- he must have been scared that she’d left him there, all alone. Must have thought she was ashamed and didn’t want to be with him. Oh god. It pains her to know that she’s trained him to react this way. That he can even think she could just get up and leave him without warning.

She has so much she wants to make up to him. And now she has the rest of her life to make it right.

“I’m here,” she assures him, crawling up on the bed and over to him. He sees her, and his face is flooded with relief, the alarm and trepidation dissolving away as she takes one of his hands in hers. Presses his palm to her cheek and looks into his eyes.

“Was worried there for a moment,” he admits, sweeping some loose hair away from her face and looking away, almost shyly. “Thought you’d--”

“Spike... look at me.” Her voice is firm, and slowly he turns and meets her gaze. “I'm so glad that I found you again.” She wraps her arms around his neck, holds him close. “No matter what happens, I'll be here. I can't lose you now.”

“I’m not going anywhere, love.” His voice soothes everything away. Absolutely everything and the nothings in between.

She wants to know everything about him; wants to tell him of all the mistakes she’s made in the past and how they haunt her. How she dreamed of him and counted the days, and how he is the reason her heart healed enough to open again. She wants to tell him everything. She’s going to do it right this time.

Buffy leans in, kisses him full on the mouth. She doesn’t have to tell him everything right now; they have all the time in the world for talking.

“Minty,” he notices when she draws back, sending her a tongue-to-teeth smirk.

She laughs, brushing her nose against his in something akin to an Eskimo kiss before flopping down beside him. “So, how’d you sleep?”

He turns onto his side, cocks his head and smiles at her. “Perfect.”

Buffy threads her fingers through his soft curls and smiles back. She’s discovered that sometimes simply falling asleep in a lover’s arms is better than screaming his name during sex. After last night, when he was inside of her, and she’d felt as if they were the only two beings in the universe, she hadn’t believed that there could be anything better. But there was. His arms wrapped around her soul, whispering her to sleep and watching her, all the while believing she was an angel. The things she’s done prove him wrong, but he swears otherwise.

She can’t remember the last time she felt this relaxed, felt this perfectly content. The very fact that he’s even here at all is still something her mind hasn’t been able to completely grasp, never mind the fact that they’re together, like this. She just wants to lay and bask in the miracle of it all.

Buffy can see his glance is set on her out of the corner of her eye. “What?” she asks self-consciously.

“You're incredible,” he says simply.

She rolls over to face him and grasps his hand, entwining his fingers with hers. He has this magnificent way of making everything fade away every time he touches her. It’s as if time holds its breath with each kiss. His fingers trace her face and the sharp curve of her jaw, a liquid movement to the pillow of her stomach. Lightning and spiders zip through her nerves, and she becomes an elixir sliding through his fingers.

“So, what are you thinking?” His breath is on her lips and his voice is so mysteriously intoxicating, as smooth and decadent as rich chocolate.

“I'm just trying to tell myself I'm not dreaming.” The words barely leave Buffy’s mouth before his lips meet hers again.

The way he touches her face sends her into a wonderland full of lilies and jasmine. There is something in his eyes. Something about the way his teeth show when he smiles. She knows they probably shouldn't be doing this; it’s so soon, so fast, so much. Oh, but she can’t bring herself to care. It feels like they’ve been waiting for eternities. As she rests against the pillows, his hands caress her sides and pull her closer to him, as if he can read her mind. It is like nothing, no one else exists.

“You snore really loud.” Buffy blurts out the comment with a wicked grin.

She rolls over on her side, surrounded by an oven of warmth. Her hair spills around on the pillow, spreading around her in waves of gold, and he grasps a tangle of her hair oddly, running his fingers through it and smiling.

“And you seriously need a shower,” he teases.

The smell of greasy, unwashed hair evades her mind and settles on a shelf with all the other signals of dirtiness. They laugh, morning breath mingling in the air.

“So do you.” She turns over, sitting up and clutching the sheet to her chest modestly.

Spike makes a low grumbling sound, throwing the covers aside and stepping into the adjoining bathroom. The musical, singsong chirp of the cicadas bounce against the tile walls. Buffy comes up from behind, standing in the doorway and studying him from a short distance as he digs through his wardrobe, which consists of rumpled clothing piled in a corner. Never was one for organization. She smiles, eyes travelling over his face. Everything about him seems the same as it was before. His linear jaw maybe seems smoother than usual, more pronounced. But his eyes that have been blue since birth are still as piercing as ever, and everything else is the same as the day before. She watches as he pulls out a white button-down shirt from the heap of clothes.

When Buffy laughs, Spike turns around quickly and realizes that she’s standing there.

“If you wear that, you’re going to look like a priest.” She says it with a light, quirky tone, like it’s something sacred and looking like a priest is damning him to hell. “And you know, you’re not that innocent.”

“Right you are.” He tilts his head in her direction. “You want dibs on the shower first, love? I can wait.”

“Actually…” She smiles at him, positively wicked. The sheet covering her body drops to the floor, and she leans against the doorway, standing before him naked. “I was thinking we could, you know, share. Only to save hot water, of course.”

“Of course.” He grins back, equally as impish as she.

Spike reaches downward, pulling the shower curtain back and twisting the knob on. He steps underneath the warm spray, and she quickly joins him, ducking her head back and letting her hair be doused with water. It streams down her face in steady rivulets, and he stares at her, mesmerized by her beauty. She takes the bar of soap and rubs it across his naked chest, working up a thick lather. Explores his skin with her fingertips, sliding her arms around his waist, pulling him closer, pelvis to pelvis.

Buffy can’t help but feel slightly proprietary when it comes to him; she’s done so much to this skin—she’s bruised and scarred and fucked it, seen it both broken and beautiful, and no one knows the canvas of his body the way she does. She watches the water wash away the soap, and she leans down, kisses his chest. He has a beautiful chest, perfectly smooth. She glides her hands up over the cool, tense muscles of his shoulders, down across the flat of his fine back. He’s flawless.

She kisses him again, presses her mouth against his fiercely. Hot and wet, tongues tangling, the water raining down on them both. She’s pushed up against the cool tile, and her hands roam everywhere, coveting the feel of his slippery, seal-like skin, soaked with water. Spike runs his hands down her back, and she shivers uncontrollably as he strokes her skin, despite the heat of the shower mist.

Suddenly, without warning, he pulls back from her, and with a flick of his wrist the shower is abruptly switched off.

“All done,” Spike declares cheerfully, pushing aside the shower curtain and stepping out.

“What?” Buffy stares at him, shocked and a bit indignant. “But—but we weren’t done!”

“I’m all clean,” he responds, a sly grin on his face, an eyebrow quirked playfully. “Still feeling dirty, pet?”

Buffy groans in frustration, but he sees her flickering smile. “You asshole! You’re nothing but a big tease!”

She snatches a towel and snaps it at him, and he snickers in response. Mid-laugh, however, it turns into a long, lazy yawn. His eyes look tired despite the ever-present glint of mischief.

“Okay, you’re still exhausted, I can tell,” Buffy says to him. “You’re going to go lay down and get more sleep.”

“I’m not tired!” he protests, but his voice becomes muffled as he yawns again. “Or, not that tired. I’m perfectly awake.”

“No, you’re not.” She puts a firm hand on his arm and drags him out of the bathroom, not stopping until he’s sitting down on the bed, underneath the covers. “I’ll go downstairs. You just sleep for awhile.”

“Buffy…” Spike’s face shifts into something serious as he looks at her.

She frowns. “What is it?”

“You shouldn’t have to go down there by yourself,” he responds. “I’m sure they all know what’s happened with us, if the sounds you were making last night were any indication—”

“Oh,” she realizes, laying beside him. “Well, it’ll be okay. I mean, Angel knows about how I feel, even if he probaby didn’t exactly realize what we would be doing, so he’ll be fine with it, really…”

Buffy’s voice trails off, and Spike gives her a doubtful, uncertain look.

“It’ll be okay.” She leans down, kisses him. It’s a promise, a vow. One that she won’t break. “It will. I promise.”

He looks at her in silence for a few moments once she pulls away.

“Things have changed,” he says, softly, as if it were a song. And there’s something about that. Something that makes her heart flutter.

She smiles. “They have.”

Chapter 4:

***

Downstairs, Angel is sitting with a cup of coffee, staring off vacantly into space. Brooding, as per usual. Buffy sees Lorne at the table too, face hidden behind a copy of some celebrity tabloid magazine. When he sees her, his face lights up, and he gets to his feet to come over and give her a hug. She's surprised, but hugs him back.

"Lorne, right?" she says. "Nice to see you again."

"You too!" he responds, looking giddy to see her. "Well, I'll leave you two to chit-chat. Just thought I'd drop by for a minute, before I'm off to have brunch with some clients. Talk to you cupcakes later."

He exits the room before she has a chance to respond, and she's left sitting across from a still-silent Angel.

"So," he asks, "how did you sleep last night?"

If he knows what happened, his voice betrays nothing. Buffy pulls a seat back, sits down.

"It was-" She pauses, considering. "It was great."

"So where's Spike?" he asks coolly.

Buffy just looks at him for a moment. He's playing up the nonchalance-she can't tell if it comes from blatant ignorance, or if he's doing it on purpose. He isn't letting on at all. But maybe he's just trying to play it up, she thinks.

"Sleeping," she explains.

"Really?" Angel looks a little surprised at that. "Interesting."

Buffy edges the chair in closer. "What do you mean?"

"Ever since he's been back, he's not much one for sleeping. Has nightmares."

"Nightmares?" Her heart races a little, stomach drops. Feels guilt twisting her gut, and she's not even sure why. Not her fault that her vampire boyfriend's apparently got a case of insomnia. "How do you know?"

"Well, only so long before you start to notice he wasn't sleeping," he commented dryly. "Asked him what was up, and he just said he had bad dreams. Didn't really want to get into it. I didn't push."

A realization dawns on Buffy. "Angel, where exactly.Where did he come back from?"

"Good question." Angel sighs, stirring his spoon in his coffee, and she idly wonders if there's blood mixed in there, too, or if he's like Spike, who enjoys all kinds of food. He never seemed like the coffee-drinking type. He shrugs, continues. "None of us really know, exactly."

"Didn't you ask him?" she questions.

"Obviously." He gives her a strange look. "He says he doesn't remember anything."

"Doesn't remember?" Buffy frowns, confused. "How can he not remember?"

"No idea. We think that maybe the change from dimensions could have wiped his memory. It's pretty unclear."

"Are there any kind of prophecies, or books on this, to explain it?"

"We've checked all of them. There's nothing."

"There has to be something."

He stands up, irritated. "Well, there isn't."

"There has to be an explanation," she snaps, angry, urgent. "Heaven isn't something you just forget." For some reason she can't quite figure out, this is upsetting her, maybe more than it should. If he was in heaven, and he forgot. What if it ended up catching up to him some day? What if he had to go through what she had? No one deserved that. Least of all him.

Angel freezes, studies her carefully, calmly, and then says, "Hell isn't something you just forget, either." His jaw clenches. "Trust me, I should know."

She's not sure how to respond to that, so she switches the subject. "So he doesn't sleep. Like, ever? Are you sure?"

"I'm not his babysitter, Buffy. Maybe he does. I'm only telling you what I know." He pauses. Another sip of coffee. "He's always first one up in the mornings. I'm just wondering why today is a different case."

Maybe he's waiting to see if she's going to try to cover her tracks. Well, she ain't playing that game. Angel has to know that something happened. He isn't that stupid.

"Well, I know for a fact that all of last night he slept perfectly fine, when we were-"

"Wait, what did you say?" His eyes widen. "You were together? Last night?"

Angel sets his coffee mug down on the table, hard, and some of the liquid sloshes over the rim. Okay, so maybe he is that stupid. Buffy feels a blush begin to heat up her cheeks, and she can't look him in the eyes. She sighs. Stupid Buffy. Always saying the wrong thing.

"I-I thought you knew," she says meekly.

"Knew?!" His voice rises with anger. "So you two are back together? Now? Here? How the hell was I supposed to know?"

"Well, we weren't exactly quiet about it-" she starts.

"What?" There's a throbbing vein popping out on his strained neck. "Don't say that! God, I don't want to hear that!"

Crap. Said the wrong thing again. Stupid, stupid Buffy.

"I'm sorry!" she says hastily, face reddening even more. "I thought you were just playing it cool, not wanting me to know that you know, you know?"

Angel blinks at her in confusion. "What?"

"What do you mean, what?"

"You're impossible to understand, you know that?"

"Don't even go there, Mr. Brood-In-A-Corner-And-Give-Me-The-Silent-Stare."

"I can't believe you. You-and him-here? What were you thinking?"

"I thought you'd be okay with it!" Buffy protests. Okay, so she hadn't really thought about what Angel would be think much, if at all. The moment Spike's hands had been on her, pretty much every other thought had flown out the window.

"Okay with it?" He scoffs loudly. "I'm supposed to be okay with you running off and boning my-"

"It wasn't like that," she cuts in defensively.

"Whatever." Angel shakes his head, snatches his keys off the table. "Look, I'm leaving. You get the place to yourself all day. Hope you have fun with it." The words are spat out sarcastically, and Buffy is slightly stunned and wounded by the vileness in them.

"Angel," she says, plaintively, and he turns. Looks at her with a scowl. "I didn't-I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Yeah," he responds softly, "you never do."

He leaves and slams the door behind him.

***

Buffy is still in the kitchen when she hears him come down. She's standing in front of the refrigerator, her hand resting on the handle. Doesn't do anything except stare at the whiteness, Angel's words echoing in her head. You never do.

She fears he may be right.

Spike comes up from behind, slides his arms around her. Presses a soft kiss to the nape of her neck. "Good morning, love."

Leaning into him, she smiles, closing her eyes as he tucks his chin over her shoulder. "Morning."

"How did it go?" he asks, voice edged with a trace of anxiety.

"It went-" Buffy hesitates, unsure of what to tell him. "He wasn't exactly.happy. But I think he understands. Or, if not, he will."

Spike's face is etched with doubt as he eyes her skeptically.

"You know, one of these days, your face is going to get stuck that way," she teases.

He laughs. "Sorry. Just a bit nervous, is all."

Buffy furrows her brow, looking at him. "You care about him, don't you?"

"What?" he exclaims with a scoff. "Of course I don't care, I just-" He stops, sighs. "He's done a lot for me. More than I'll probably ever care to admit, and he didn't have to. So yeah, I'm all for not pissing him off."

"I understand. And I told you." Her voice is firm, and she tightens her hold on the arms encircling her waist. "It'll work out. I promise."

"Hope you're right." His voice is still rather doubtful. "So, what are we doing today?"

"Well." Buffy twists around to face him, reaches a hand up and weaves her fingers through his curly locks. "I was thinking we could do something about this."

"Oh really." Spike lifts an eyebrow and grins. "What's the plan?"

***

Three hours, two bleaching peroxide kits, one towel, and lots of spilled excess water later, Spike's hair is smooth and platinum blonde. He looks how he used to, and when Buffy first sees it again, it takes her breath away.

It's Spike, classic Spike, and when he grins, it's like she's being swept back in time.

"So? What do you think?" he questions, hands hovering over his head. "Look good?"

"Looks perfect," she tells him, and it's true.

"I need some gel," Spike says, glancing around.

"No, you don't." A damp curl falls across his forehead, and she sweeps it away. "I like it this way."

Spike takes her hand, kisses her knuckles. "If you say so, pet."

Buffy smiles up at him. He looks so content, so carefree. So in love. He glows.

She wants to ask him what he dreams about. Wants to ask him where he was. Wants to know if he has known heaven, if he remembers. She still drowns in the memory sometimes; still sometimes dreams of being torn out of the warmth, of waking up in the cold confinement of a box. Remembers how the thick dust coated her new, pink lungs, remembers the maggots crawling in her hair, her scalp, driving her crazy, remembers the way her fingernails tore away as she clawed her way out. And when she'd awake, she would remember how he held her wounded hands and gazed into her eyes.

Instead, she kisses him. No need to ask him now; it doesn't matter. Questions can come later, if need be. Right now he is here, and he is whole, and that is what counts. Even during the few moments when their skin is not touching, she finds peace in his presence. And when they do touch.

Everything else just falls away.

Chapter 5:

They decide to go out for patrolling later that night. Angel still isn't back from the offices, so Spike scribbles a note, leaves it on the kitchen counter. Goes upstairs to find Buffy. He stands in the open doorway and sees her, facing the wall, back to him. Watches as she pulls her shirt over her head, lets her jeans fall to the floor.

Sensing his presence, Buffy sneaks a glance over her shoulder, grins and tosses her blouse aside. Shimmies into a skin-tight, silver dress. Not exactly demon-killing wear, Spike thinks, but then, the patrolling is most likely just a cover anyway, if the look she's sending in his direction tells him anything for sure. She turns, smiles mischievously, and saunters over to him.

She's a glittery sliver of aluminum in her dress, ready to drop of bomb of summertime on the world outside the window. Beautiful, she is, but then, that's never a surprise. Been a long time since he's seen her all dressed up, though. She used to wear skirts for him; long, leathery things, as black and dark as her heart had been in those times. Had liked to make him fight for it, to hike them up just far enough. He'd always been able to manage. Back then, he'd have done anything for her.

These days, he's managed to salvage some scraps left of his pride, but still. When she looks at him that way, when she's wearing that, he thinks he'd do anything for her at this moment. Probably would even stake himself if she asked.

"Zip me?" Buffy asks, turning so her bare back is exposed.

He nods silently, fingers tracing downwards, a soft waterfall touch trickling to her spine. A small shiver escapes her as he stops at the small of her back and takes hold of the small zipper. Tugs it up until it reaches the top, and then his hands glide up onto her sun-bronzed shoulders, slipping the tiny silver straps back into place. She spins, his hands still holding her, to face him.

Almost eye to eye, he leans down, the flesh of his lips shyly brushing past hers, sweeping pretty pink onto her cheeks and touching her lips with gentle pressure. Slowly he kneads the kiss into her lips, spreading the lusciously candied familiarity in every breath she takes. He feels so soft to her, so gentle, and she wants to spend the rest of the night rooted right here, standing with his lips on hers. His kisses blow her to pieces, every time. The arm around her waist is the only reason she's still able to stand, and she melts against him, hands laced around his neck.

Every kiss with him feels like the first.

"Patrolling," he finally says, breaking away. "We should go."

"Right." She sighs, starts to walk out.

It's raining outside, mostly just a light drizzle, but neither of them mind the weather. They walk down the street, side by side, arms tucked together as they watch the streetlamps flicker like fireflies beneath the weeping clouds. Cars honk rudely and people pass by, not giving them anything more than a second glance. They're just a normal couple, after all.

If they only knew.

Spike wishes it could always be like this; evening strolls, her walking so close to him, as if they have no cares in the world. But he knows. She is still a Slayer, even if she is not the only one, and he is still a vampire, even if he has a soul. They will never be normal. He'll never even be able to see her in the sun, will never walk with her in daylight. She doesn't seem to mind. He's still not sure if he does.

All he is sure of is that he is in love with her, and he knows by now that's one thing that'll never change.

They discover a trio of vampires behind a nearby apartment building, and they shift into action. Whip out stakes and begin to go at it. Buffy swiftly stakes the first, having trouble kicking in her short dress. Spike is quick to finish off his own and rushes to her aid, staking the vamp from behind. It explodes, and once the dust clears, it's just her, against the brick wall, breathing hard and staring at him.

"I could've handled him by myself, you know," she says.

He grins, steps closer. "I know."

In a flash, his hands are on her. Pressing her back against the red brick, running all over the contours of her body, from the curve of her breast to the flat of her stomach, travelling their way slowly down her sides and resting at her hips bones. Lips on her throat, kissing her pulse point. She brings her hands to his face, forces his mouth to meet hers. A rough, reckless kiss that leaves them both dizzy.

"Spike," she gasps between kisses, "you love me, right?"

"Of course I love you," he responds, covering his lips with hers once more. "Not again, it was never even gone. Not for a moment."

There's thunder clapping loudly, rain falling down and drenching them both, but it fades into the background, and none of it matters. Spike's hands are possessing every inch of her body now, and she leans into his touch willingly, imploringly. He craves her little shrieking gasp when he pushes her hard up against the wall and entangles his persistent fingers in her wild, loose hair. Buffy loves it this way, him pressing into her so that she can hardly breathe, her legs wrapped around his waist and pulling him closer, body trembling with desire for the feel of his hands on her skin.

Spike's hands are just sliding down to slip under the hem of her dress when she blurts out the question.

"Where were you?"

He freezes, promptly removes his hands as if scathed and lets her feet drop back down to the cement. Takes a quick step back. "What are you talking about?"

"Where we you?" she asks again, voice more persistent this time. "After the amulet. And the Hellmouth. Where were you?"

An emotion flickers across his eyes, and he actually scowls at her. "Why are you asking?"

"Because you never told me," Buffy says indignantly. "I wanted to know."

There is a long pause, and then he finally answers. "I don't remember."

"That's what Angel said."

"Wait-you talked to him about me?"

Buffy senses the distraught tone in his voice. "Not really-I mean, just a little."

"Why didn't you just ask me?" he questions crossly.

"It wasn't like I was talking behind your back," she replies. "I just wanted to know."

"Well, I already said. I don't remember."

She narrows her eyes. "I don't believe you."

"What?" Spike blinks at her, surprised. "I don't!"

"You don't have to lie to me, you know."

"Why on earth would I lie?"

"You tell me. Why aren't you sharing everything? Why didn't you tell me about the nightmares?"

"Nightmares? Oh, bloody hell! What exactly did Angel tell you?"

"He told me enough. I want to know what you dream about. I want to know where you were."

"Buffy-"

"Was it hell? Was it heaven? Why can't you tell me?"

"I don't remember."

"You have to. Tell me what happened, Spike."

"I told you!" he bellows, angry and upset. Almost shaking. "I don't fucking remember, okay? I don't."

It's the truth. Buffy can see it written in his face; he never was that great at lying. Guilt seizes her. She shouldn't have pressed so hard, shouldn't have made accusations. They're still so new to this, still getting used to this new thing they have now, and she knows that it's still sometimes frightening for the both of them. They have to take it slow. The relationship they share is still fragile, and the wrong words could easily destroy what they have. Buffy doesn't want it to be broken because of her.

"Spike-" She comes forward.

He's pacing a little now, seeming all right with talking since he's been kick-started into it. "All I know is that there was something.there. That I'm missing something, like there's some kind of-void where the memory should be. There's this big space of black nothingness, and I can't-I just can't. I wish I could remember, but I can't."

"Spike." Buffy sets a calm hand on his elbow. "It's okay."

He meets her gaze, sighs, stops moving around. "Yeah. Yeah, whatever you say."

"I understand," she says softly. "It's fine. It is."

She reaches up for a kiss, but he brushes her away, begins to walk off. Hurt, she tries to look at him, but Spike won't meet her eyes.

"Spike, don't be like-"she starts, coming closer, but he shoves her hands away.

"Just back the fuck off!" he barks out.

There's an akward silence, both of them staring at each other motionlessly. Finally Spike just turns on his heel and stalks off, and Buffy follows him.

"Let's just go," he tells her gruffly, not looking over his shoulder. "Getting late."

They say nothing to each other the rest of the way back to the Hyperion.

***

Buffy lies fragily upon Spike's sleeping stomach, eyes wide, deep in thought. Yes, he let her back in tonight, but she knows. Knows she was so close to pushing him away, and she can't help but feel that he's starting to slip from her. The honeymoon period is over, it's safe to say. She can't help but wish that it wasn't; that first night, it had felt like they'd had a love that would last until the stars all faded, until eternity came crashing between their locked arms, inseperable and everlasting.

Tonight they'd lain awake for hours in the darkness of the bedroom, just staring into one another's souls, no words able to breach the confused silence. Buffy thinks about the way that he looked at her. It is almost as if he was looking for the answers to all his questions in her; she knows that she hopes to find all the answers to hers in his.

Finally, Buffy is no longer able to hold her eyes open, and they drift close. Though she's sad to lose the beauty of his gaze, she's too tired to care. His arms are wrapped around her back, her head resting on his chest, ear pressed to where his heart should be beating. She feels his lips press softly into her hair, and she wonders if he even realizes he is doing it at all. Her dreams are filled with his scent, sweet and sharp; so real she can almost taste it.

Buffy wakes up with a start in the middle of the night, still in his arms, the skin smooth and warm against her back. She looks down and wonders what he's dreaming about. She hopes that it's her. But she knows better now. His dreams are nightmares, full of darkness and pain.

She slides out of bed, slips into a robe and glances over her shoulder at his sleeping form.

They are dreams he will never share with her.

***

"You're back."

The second Angel walks into the kitchen, he sees Buffy, standing next to the table with her arms folded over her chest. She appears to be considerably upset, mouth turned downward in distress, eyes clouded with anixety. Something is going on with her, but then, isn't there always? Shrugging off his coat, he tosses it onto the table along with his keys, glances at the clock.

"It's three in the morning," Angel states simply, as if she doesn't know.

"What's your point?" she asks.

"Shouldn't you be with him?" he snaps at her.

Buffy swallows visibly. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about."

"I'm not sure that I'm in a talking mood."

"Just listen to me, please?" Her voice is trembling, and when he looks at her, he sees she's fighting tears.

His anger melts upon seeing her pain. "What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry about earlier." Buffy glances away from him. "I shouldn't have assumed. And I shouldn't have thought that it'd be okay with you. You're right. This is your place, your home. I should've respected that."

"You shouldn't be." Angel sighs heavily, stuffs his hands in his pockets. "I told you I was okay with it. I shouldn't have been attacking you." He furrows his brow, walks over to her. "What happened?"

She answers softly, "I have so many things that I want to say to him, but I just don't know how."

"Oh." He looks slightly put off by this, and when he speaks, his voice comes out a little strangled. "Buffy.you love him, don't you? Are you sure? Because if you're not."

"I do," she chokes out, built up tears leaking trails onto her cheeks. "I just don't know. I don't know if I'm enough for him. I don't even know if he believes that I do at all, and it kills me. I want it to be enough, but I just don't know if it is."

"Sometimes.sometimes it isn't enough." Angel puts his hands on her shoulders. "I don't know what you want me to say."

Looking up at him with glistening eyes, she leans forward, letting her forehead be buried in his chest. "Tell me that I can love. Tell me that it's worth it. Tell me that it doesn't always end badly, and it can work. I really want it to work. God, I want it so bad."

He puts a tentative hand on top of her head. Strokes her hair gently. "He makes you happy, doesn't he?"

She nods, even though he can't see it. Sniffles loudly. "He does. More than anything."

Angel tilts her face upward, cupping his cheeks in her hands. "Do what makes you happy. It'll work itself out."

Buffy remembers that's what Willow had said, before Buffy left from England. Do what makes you happy. She hadn't been sure of it then, but she is now. Only if it were that simple. If only she could hold onto it, keep it in her grasp. But she's so scared that he'll slip away from her, the way everyone else she's ever loved has.

"I'm scared," she whispers to him truthfully. "I'm just.scared."

"Don't be." He sweeps his lips delicately across her forehead. "Don't be."

A calming shushing sound comes from him, and she closes her eyes. And only because it seems like the natural thing to do, he leans down and brushes his lips against hers. A light touch, a shared breath, just the barest whisper of a kiss. So familiar and warm. Comforting.

But she remembers. Pulls back.

"Angel," she breathes in discontent.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, draws away. "I shouldn't have done that."

Both Buffy and Angel are too shocked at what's happened and caught up in one another, and neither of them even notice the echoing sound of footsteps padding on the wooden floor as a dark figure with blonde hair hurries back up the stairs from which he'd come just minutes ago.

Spike's seen enough for his liking tonight.

Chapter 6:

When Buffy wakes up, Spike isn't in bed.

He's nowhere to be found.

The sheets are torn back haphazardly on his side of the bed, but other than that, there's not a sign of him. Buffy searches the hotel; goes through all of the empty rooms, into the training room, the kitchen, checks the bathrooms, but there's not a trace. It's broad daylight outside, and she feels panic beginning to rise in her throat. What if something happened to him?

Finally after an hour of worrying, she calls Angel at the number he'd left for her.

"Yeah?" he answers after a few rings.

"Angel, Spike is missing," she says, words bubbling out. "I can't find him anywhere, he's not here, and-"

"Slow down, Buffy. What's going on?"

She takes a deep breath, explains to him in a slower, more rational tone.

"I'm really worried. Something could have happened to him."

"I'm sure he's fine," Angel reassures her. "Look. I have a meeting right now, but I'll try and get off early tonight, come back as soon as I can. In a couple of hours, all right?"

Buffy sighs. "Right. Okay."

After that, there's nothing to do but sit and wait. And wait. And wait.

The hours tick by, and she slowly feels as if she's losing her mind. She tries not to think about what could have happened to him, but she can't help it. Envisions him burning up from the inside, falling away to nothing but ashes and dust. At one point it makes her stomach turn, and she goes into the bathroom, heaves and retches until her insides seem to be turning out. The stress and dread of it all is just too much.

And then.he comes back.

Right through the front door, carrying a blanket in his hands, even though by now it's dark enough outside that it isn't even needed. The moment Buffy sees him, she rushes over, hugs him fiercely.

"Spike!" she cries out, clutching to him, relief flooding through her. "Oh god, you're okay. I was scared to death that something had happened."

"Yeah." His shoulders stiffen, and he moves abruptly out of her grasp. "Something did."

Buffy studies him carefully. "What do you mean?"

"I know what happened." His voice is tight. "Between you and Angel."

"Oh." Her arms drop to her sides.

"You weren't even going to tell me, were you?" Spike's voice is full of hurt and righteous anger.

"Oh, I'm sorry! At the moment, I was a little preoccupied with wondering whether or not you were alive," she retorts peevishly. "What the hell was that, Spike? You got pissed at me, so you thought you'd just run off and not tell me where you were? I thought you were fucking dead!"

"Technically, I have been for-"

"Shut up. That's not what I mean."

"Yeah, well, would it even matter to you if I was?"

Buffy stares at him in disbelief. "How can you even ask that? Of course I would care!"

"How am I supposed to think that?" he snaps. "You tell me that you love me, that you want to be with me, and then you turn around and start macking on him again? How am I supposed to believe you?"

"Because-because it's true!" she responds, the desperation thick in her voice. "Spike, I love you."

He stares at her for a moment. "No, you don't."

This time the words feel like a slap on the face, and Buffy actually recoils, watching as he begins to ascend the stairs. Snapping out of her shock, she quickly follows him. Catches up to him at the top of the staircase and seizes him by the arm. He stops and turns, looking at her coldly.

She gives him a pleading look. "Don't do this."

"What am I supposed to do?" he demands.

"Come with me," she blurts out.

He stares at her in bewilderment. "What?"

"Come with me," she says again. "We can go to England, stay with Giles."

"You're out of your mind." Spike shakes her arm off, continues down the hall.

"No, I'm not!" Buffy maneuvers in front of him again. "Spike, listen to me. I want to be with you."

"Don't say that," he says, and his voice sounds so unhinged. But he is unhinged; he's flying off the fucking door. "You're just going to make this harder."

Confused, she catches his arm again. "Make what harder?"

Spike shrugs her off again and heads into the room. Goes to the closet and grabs a duffel bag, beginning to throw clothes into it. Buffy watches, mouth hanging open as she realizes what he's doing. In a panic, she rushes forward, snatches the clothes from his hands and flings them onto the floor.

"Buffy," he starts to say, but she cuts him off with a shake of her head.

"No." She looks back up at him with wild, fierce eyes. "No. You're not doing this. You're not going. You can't. You can't."

"I have to," he says huskily.

"No, you don't!" Buffy is furious now. "You don't have to go anywhere."

"Yes, I do." Spike swallows painfully hard, and it feels as if he has sandpaper caught somewhere in his throat.

"Why?" she demands. "Why would you leave?"

"Because it's best for all of us," he tells her quietly. "You want him, and you deserve him."

He doesn't tell her that he is, for once in his life, getting the distinct impression that maybe, just maybe, he deserves better, too.

"I thought-I thought you loved me," Buffy says, and the raging fury eminating from her fades for a moment into nothing but confused distress. He turns away when he can no longer bear to look into such angry, betrayed eyes.

"I do," he assures her. "More than anything in this world." It's true. Oh, god is it true. What he feels for her he could never put into words. He knows there could never, will never, be anyone else for him. And that's why he has to go. If he stays. it will kill him. It will kill them both.

"Then why?"

"All I'll ever bring you is pain." His voice trembles, and he struggles to hold it together. "I'm not your one. I'm not enough. If I stay, it won't be real, and I can't do that to you. You deserve happiness, even if that means being with someone else. You don't deserve pain. You deserve more."

"Where do you get off telling me what I deserve?" she fumes. "I know what I want, Spike, and I want you. I'm in love with you. I don't care if that means it's going to be difficult, or complicated, because newsflash? My life is already complicated. It'll always be that way. Will having you in it make it even more hard? Yeah, probably. I know that. But it's worth risking the pain."

Spike gazes into her eyes, and seeing her open, honest face, he thinks he can feel his heart breaking. He reaches out to set a hand on her cheek. "I'm sorry."

"No!" She bats his arm away. "No! You don't get to do this! Don't you apologize, don't you fucking apologize to me!"

Buffy punches him once, hard, in the face. He doesn't react. She begins to beat her fists against his chest, pummeling him, angry tears rolling down her face in tiny rivulets. He doesn't try to defend himself, just stands there and takes it. It's nothing less than what he deserves.

"You're just like the rest of them!" she accuses lividly. "Angel, Riley, Giles- All of you, you all think that you can just decide what's best for me and just get up and leave! Well, you know what?" She shoves him away. "If you can't handle it, I don't want you here anyway. Go then. Just go. And don't come back."

Spinning on her heel, Buffy whirls around and flees the room, and moments later he can hear the resounding bang of a slamming door further down the hall. He stares at the empty space where she had just stood, vision blurring, throat tightening. Finally he turns back to packing with shaking hands. He has to do this, no matter how much it hurts.

**

Buffy doesn't know what to do.

She's torn between going on a rampage and ripping everything in sight to shreds, and throwing herself on her bed to curl up in a fetal position and sob her heart out. She paces back and forth for a few minutes, wavering between each option, and finally sits down on the edge of the matress and grabs a pillow, proceeding to scream into it. When she stops, she's disappointed at how short-lived her satisfaction is. Her frustration builds up again and when she looks down, she realizes that she's torn the pillow straight down the middle, the downy feathers scattering across her lap. She flops backward and hugs the remains of the pillow to her chest, staring at the ceiling and trying not to cry. Too much.

It isn't fair. She's supposed to be an adult now. A summer spent of self- discovery, and she'd been so sure that her newfound independence had shaped her into the woman she was now. And now that she finally knows what she wants, she doesn't know how to keep it within her grasp. Her cookies are fully baked, laid out on the counter and ready to be devoured, but now the one person she wants to eat them has gone on a hunger strike.

God, she needs a new metaphor.

She is left a sobbing heap next to the bed. God, it hurts. She cries on the ugly carpeted floor. Simpering and vastly lonely, she cries until her left eye throbs. And she cries because underneath it all, in so many ways, she did fuck it up. He's the one thing that means anything to her anymore, and she's letting him just slip away from her. It's her fault that he's leaving like this, her fault that he's unable to believe her, because she never could stop pushing him away.

And she didn't even get to show him how much she loved him.

**

"You're leaving."

Angel stands in the doorway, watching as Spike stuffs his few belongings into his bag. Some clothing. A pack of menthols, a book.

"Off to see me go then, mate?" he asks sarcastically.

"You're a stupid bastard, you know that?" Angel steps into the room.

"Well now, that's good to know. Thank you for that vital piece of information." Spike doesn't look at him.

"Spike, you don't get it, do you?" A furious glare from Angel. "You have everything I've ever dreamed of. You have the love of the most amazing woman either of us have ever met. You win, okay? You. Fucking. Win."

Spike opens a drawer, pulls out the amulet. It'd been the only thing to come back with him.

"No, I don't fucking win!" he retorts angrily. "I'm tired of this. I'm tired of being unable to measure up. No matter what I do, I'll always finish second to you." Suddenly, the rage is too much, and he pivots, hurling the amulet at the wall. It instantly shatters and splinters all over the carpet. "Do you think I can't tell? The amulet, the prophecy, the fucking Shanshu-the whole goddamn kit 'n kaboodle, it all belongs to you. Not me. All I've ever been is a fluke."

Angel stares at him unflinchingly. "That isn't true."

"Damn right it's true!" Spike shouts. "And I'm not going to stay here and pretend that it fucking isn't."

"You are such an idiot!" Angel roars at him. "Are you blind? She loves you. She really loves you. God, even I can see it. She's covered in it. You make her happy." His eyes become shadowed and dark. "I can't do that for her anymore."

"Well, it doesn't matter. I'm not enough for her," Spike replies quietly. "If I can't have all of her.I can't handle living like that. Did it once, and I'll never do it again."

"Don't. Don't throw it away. Don't make the mistake I did and walk away. I love her enough to let her go." Angel pauses and stares at Spike. "The real question is, do you love her enough to hold on?"

**

Buffy looks out the window into the rainy night. She's been staring out it for the past half hour, waiting. Preparing herself.

Yet when she sees the sight of a yellow-haired figure moving down the driveway, it still comes as a shock.

Spike is leaving. He is really leaving.

Something in Buffy suddenly snaps. She can't do this, can't let him go. At least not without him knowing. He has to know that when she told him she loved him, she meant it. That she still does. If he still decides to leave, at least he'll know. If she doesn't tell him, she'll regret it forever.

So she runs. Down the stairs, through the lobby, out the double doors, bursting onto the sidewalk.

Her legs cover the ground at a neck-breaking speed, and after years of running through cemeteries on uneven grassy footing, the pavement is sure and solid beneath her feet. The rain pelts down on her in blinding torrents, but it doesn't matter, all that matters is catching him in time, because if she can't, then he could be gone forever, and she can't let that happen, because-

She reaches the corner and turns too sharply, tripping over a crack in the concrete. She goes flying and lands sprawling on the hard ground, hands and knees scraping harshly against the cement. The stinging pain doesn't slow her down. She scrambles to her knees and desperately searches the street for a familiar figure, a glint of black leather and blonde hair, something, anything. But there is nothing.

Buffy is too late.

"Spike!" she calls out, her voice ringing out in a hollow echo through the empty darkness. "Spike!"

She shouts his name desperately, words snatched in the stormy winds and shoved back into her mouth, and it is all in vain, because it is too late. He's not here. She's too late, she's missed her chance, her one shot is gone, he's not coming back, she's lost him all over again and now he'll never know- The sobs erupt from her, racking her body, and she holds her sides for fear her insides will come spilling out.

There's nowhere to go now except back to the Hyperion. She'll have to explain to Angel that he left, and she can't stay in L.A. She's going to have to leave. She'll have to call Giles and make arrangements to return to England, talk to Dawn about what happened, pack her things and-and-

And she's going to have to live out the rest of her life knowing what she could have had, knowing that she's lost his love once again, forever left to remember how she'd let him just slip away into the night.

The rain is still coming down as she staggers to her feet, wrapping her arms around her cold, shivering body and beginning to trudge back toward the direction of the hotel. She stares at the ground and walks down the road numbly, eyes closed as she stumbles along. She's almost halfway there when she hears it.

"Buffy."

She looks up and gasps. It's Spike. He looks like a wet, bedraggled puppy, hair sticking in all directions due to the rainwater, and it drips off of his face and soaks into his clothing. He drops his duffel bag onto the ground without a word. They stare at each other for a few silent moments. Words without a sound are coming from his eyes, and she gazes into them, letting herself drown in the pools of dazzling azure. Spike is her rain storm. Just one look into his eyes and she can feel the freedom of standing in a shower of the sky's tears. He makes her feel alive.

And then she throws herself into his arms, pulling him into a tight embrace. Clutches desperately at him, burying her face in his shoulder. She cries harder as his arms wrap around her waist and draw her close to him.

"I can't do this," she whispers into his neck. "I can't, I can't let you go."

"I can't either," he responds through ragged breaths. "I was going to go, but I got to the corner and. I had to come back to you. I can't do it. God help me, Buffy, I love you too much."

She holds him with all of her strength, thinking that it'd be impossible to let go even if she wanted to. Spike pulls back and gazes at her, her cheeks red from running, eyes sparkling dark green, hair wet and wild, and rain streaming across her face like tears cried by angels. She cradles his face between her hands, leans into him and kisses him deeply, hungrily, full of the words that hang unspoken between them. Their lips melt together, tasting of rain and love. Full of love, burning and true.

"I love you," murmurs Buffy into his mouth.

Spike smiles against her lips. "I know."

And this is where they are left, kissing in the rain, molded together by fate and tragedy. They are part of the world, one small joy in a universe of sorrow. And oh, she knows, this kiss is more than a kiss; it is an epiphany of all love coming together for one final embrace, a bearing of peace and passion or whatever the hell she believes in. Because they are hope.

They are the only hope.

~*~Fin