Okay. So all day I've been writing furiously, this new plot bunny that blindsided me and doesn't want to be stuck in the closet for later, despite the fact that there's other things I really should be writing. It's currently nearing two thirty in the morning right now, and I decided I'm going to post this as a WIP, maybe to motivate me into actually finishing it.

Summary: Spike and Buffy hit the highway, because who can really get enough of roadtrip fic? I sure as hell can't! Spoilers through Touched, goes AU from there.



"Where you came from is gone, where you thought you were going to never was there, and where you are is no good unless you can get away from it." --Flannery O’Connor

this is the same place
no not the same place
this is the same place, love
no not the same place we've been before
--Vienna Teng, "Gravity"

Spike found her in the upstairs bedroom, stretched across the covers of an old bed, one arm crooked behind her head as she stared up at the ceiling in silence. Her free hand toyed with the edge of the worn sheet, fingers rubbing at the fabric in slow, circular motions, and other than that she made no movement. For a long time, he was perfectly still, just watching her. Taking her in.

“Slayer.” He stood in the doorway, wavering, wondering if he should enter inside. Sod it; he didn’t need permission, did he? Besides, didn’t look like she’d be giving him an invitation in the near future. “So, you planning on spending the apocalypse here, or you gonna head on home soon?”

She didn’t stir; when she spoke, her voice was dull. “I can’t.”

“Can’t what, exactly?” he asked in bemusement, walking closer to the bedside.

“Do this!” Finally she moved, dragged herself into a sitting position. Something seemed to spark in her eyes, just for a moment. Something fierce. “Be…here. I just. Can’t.”

“Buffy. Pet. You’re not making any sense.”

A sigh escaped from her lips, and the sharp anger that lit up her eyes died just as quickly, replaced with a resigned dimness. “What do you want from me, Spike?”

“Just tell me, please,” he implored, hating the begging in his voice, the way it almost cracked with brimming emotion. Would do anything for her, would give her anything, would bare both body and soul on her behalf. Even now, after everything, it was still the same. “What do you want to do?”

“I want…I want to leave.” Her eyes drifted upward, gaze meeting his. “Can we leave?”

“Yes. Yes.” He nodded without thinking, ran a hand restlessly through his hair, dared to step even closer to her. “We can do that.” We. Not ‘I.’ We. His mind was still working to process that bit of information.

“Good,” she replied, swinging her legs over to the side of the bed. “Leaving is good.”

“Where do you want to go?” he asked.

“I don’t care.” She stared blankly at the wall. “Anywhere.”

“Right then,” he said, heading back to the door, “let’s move.”

The bike was parked right outside, football helmet and all.

Buffy stopped and looked. “Whatever happened to your car?”

Spike came to a halt halfway down the porch stairs, breaking stride and turning his head over his shoulder to spare her a glance, not having realized she wasn’t following. Ah, yes, the DeSoto. He really had loved that car. “Two summers ago, the inside wiring got cut, and someone took a sledgehammer to the engine.”

“Why?” she questioned, puzzled.

He shrugged and sighed impatiently, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Wasn’t really in the mood for swapping stories-- of all times, this was when she wanted to stand around and have a little chat about the good ’ol days? Still, he’d indulge her and share anyway. “Pack of vamps were pissed that I’d been playing on their playground, ruining their fun by dusting some friends of theirs. Knew they couldn’t touch me, and must’ve figured that sweet revenge would come in the form of wrecking my car beyond repair.”

“What happened to them?”

“What do you think?” He shot her a pointed glare. “Dust, of course.”

When he looked up at her again, he could’ve sworn he caught sight of a ghost of a smile on her lips, but it was gone so fast that he couldn’t be sure he had imagined it or not.

“So. We going?” She breezed down the porch and past him airily, heading straight for the bike, and he followed her briskly across the lawn.

God, he just didn’t get her sometimes. Wanting to talk away the night one instant, asking meaningless questions about his backstory, then flighty as a bird the next. Mood swings like nothing else, and her unpredictability was grating, at best. It made him hate her and love her at the same time. Made him twisted up inside until he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“Ladies first,” he said between gritted teeth, but she was already swinging her leg over and adjusting herself in the seat. He held out the clunky football helmet in offering.

She just looked at him, mouth drawn in a thin line. “I’m not wearing that.”

“Right.” The helmet was tossed aside uselessly onto the lawn. “Shall we, then?”

He climbed aboard, hoisting himself into position with practiced ease, revved up the engine and pushed off onto the street. Her hands reached forward and grasped at his waist for support, but he tried not to think about that, not to think about the way her fingers dug into the crinkled leather, the way she pressed herself up against his back, cheek flat against his shoulder. Could feel how she breathed against him, how it tickled against the back of his neck. But he pushed these things out of his mind and focused on the road winding ahead of them.

Time to get the hell out of Dodge.

“Let it go, Spike.”

But he couldn’t. Not yet. He huddled over the bike, hands lingering on the handles. Glanced into the rearview mirror. For some reason, he half-expected to see himself reflected back, a weary, maudlin vampire, but he could only see her, of course, standing behind him. Hands jammed on her hips, one foot tapping the ground impatiently.

“You don’t understand,” he responded, sadly, tearing his eyes away from her and back to the motorcycle. She didn’t. Material possesions always had had a much greater value to him than they ever had to her. Maybe it was because sometimes it seemed to him that she had so much she took for granted, people who loved her without reserve. Maybe because he had so few things in life that belonged to him and him alone. Unmistakably, he had no one. Nothing.

Least of all her.

“I want to get out of here,” she continued obliviously, voice cutting with an edge of petulance, her eyes deviating from the sight of him to the deserted road again. If she was keeping watch to see if someone would catch them, she needn’t have worried-- he knew there wasn’t a living being around them for miles. Could feel it in his bones, the emptiness of this place.

“Can’t a fellow say goodbye?” he retorted sharply. “Had some good times with this bike, I did.” Maybe there wasn’t as fond an attachment to it as there had been to the DeSoto, but still, it meant something to him. Reminded him of how he’d attained it, of riding around with the little Nibblet right behind him. Dawn, the little girl he’d loved more than anything at one point in existence, the girl who never could forgive him, the girl who he’d probably never see again.

No time for reminiscence, however, when the Slayer was hot on his heels, impatient and restless. No, she couldn’t understand, probably never would. Couldn’t understand anything that didn’t revolve around her little universe, he thought bitterly. He didn’t want to leave the bike behind, but there wasn’t a choice-- they’d need something with windows, for sun protection, since she seemed intent on a rather long voyage from here. Still, it was hard to part ways with the motorcycle that had carried him for so long.

The third time she blew out a loud, exasperated sigh, he finally turned away from the bike and trudged over to her.

“Ready?” Annoyed, she glanced up at him as he nodded.

“Yeah,” he replied and started to walk off. “Let’s go find a vehicle to nick.”

“Don’t say it like that,” she reprimanded sharply.

“Like what?”

“Like we’re…stealing or something.”

He cracked a wry grin in her direction. “Well, we are.”

“No.” Her face was stony, gaze cool and detached. “Nothing here belongs to anyone anymore.”

He didn’t bother to try and argue; actually, he couldn’t even really disagree with that, after all.

Spike managed to hotwire an old red pickup truck they found abandoned on the side of the road. When the engine rolled over and sputtered to life, he broke out into a wide grin, flashing it to her, as if she should be as mutually giddy as he was over a stupid truck.

“Could’ve been worse,” he said to her, trying to keep his voice light. “Not like it’s a station wagon or some bloody minivan, right? You’d have to stake me before I’d be caught in one of those dreadful things.”

Whatever. Buffy just looked at him vacantly and then turned back to the window.

A long silence followed, and she was grateful for it. She had been afraid that he’d want to do the talking thing; she so wasn’t up for a heart-to-heart conversation, least of all with him, and least of all now. Part of her thought that she’d never want to talk ever again.

Maybe she should become a monk. One of those kind who reside in monasteries and become voluntarily mute. But then, didn’t they devote their lives to God? ’Cause that wasn’t really her thing. Faith was evasive these days; at the moment, she had absolutely zero of it.

Oh, wait. Faith. Ha ha, funny, she thought sardonically, resting her forehead against the glass window and closing her eyes. Isn’t irony wonderful? No, she had plenty of that kind of Faith. So much that she wasn’t even needed in her own home. So much that she was kicked out of her own home, by those she’d believed to be her family, her friends. She had no faith of her own; no one had any in her.

It made her heart hurt.

Time passed, the same stretch of road slipping by under her view from the window, and she could tell without looking that Spike was beginning to tire of the quiet. He fiddled endlessly with the radio, trying to pick up a halfway decent station, to no avail. His fingers drummed on the steering wheel and she could hear him humming under his breath at random intervals, unrecognizable tunes. His singing came to an abrupt end when they went by the town’s sign that read: Now Leaving Sunnydale. She didn’t speak as they drove past it; she did, however, shiver a little to herself, remembering the last time she fled town.

They traveled for awhile longer, before he finally he broke the silence and spoke.

“Any idea of where we’re headed, love?” he asked, after they’d been on the road for what had to have been at least an hour.

“I don’t know.” She sighed to herself and shifted uncomfortably in the seat. “Wherever. I don’t care.”

“All right.” He slid a look her way from the corner of his eyes as he drove. “Looks like there’s a gas station coming up. We can stop there, get some supplies.”

Buffy didn’t respond, didn’t even look at him. If that pissed him off, he didn’t show it.

When they pulled into the gas station, she clambered out of the passenger seat and dropped to the pavement below while Spike filled up the tank. The muginess of the night air and the smell of gasoline infiltrated her senses as she stood there. She stretched out the kinks in her legs, walked around in a small circle, waited until he jerked the pump back in its place and headed inside the small building. Shot her a look of mild surprise when she followed him in.

“You want anything?” he asked her as he prowled the food aisles.

She shook her head. “Not hungry.”

“If you say so.” He shrugged and turned back to the shelves, snatching various bags of chips and candy bars until his hands were full.

He piled up all of the snacks on the counter, asked for a pack of smokes and slapped down a stack of crumpled bills. While the order was ringing up, he asked the cashier where the nearest motel was; the woman behind the counter gave him directions and handed him the change, flushed and smiling. Spike tended to have that effect on people, she noticed. Stupid flirt.

Buffy watched him stuff the change into his wallet and briefly wondered where he’d attained the money in the first place. Probably from some illegal activity or something. She considered asking him, but on second thought, she decided she was probably better off not knowing.

Back in the truck, Spike dumped the snack foods on the dashboard, bent down and sparked the engine back on. They rumbled their way back onto the highway and zoomed off. After they had straightened on the road, he ripped open a bag of chips with his teeth and held it toward her in direction. She turned her head away and he merely shrugged, popped a few morsels into his open mouth, crunching down on them greedily.

“So,” he began in a mild tone, “you going to keep up the Sulky Slayer act forever, or tell me what we’re doing here, really?”

She could feel his stare lingering on her. Feel how he was waiting for some kind of an answer. For a moment, she thought of spilling it all out. Of giving him what he wanted-- some kind of an explanation for what she was doing. He probably deserved one.

She didn’t give it to him.

“Right,” he said after a long silence. “Sulky Slayer it is, then.”

The motel was some cheap place off the side of the road, bright pink neon sign flashing VACANCY, except the Y was tilted haphazardly to the side and remained unlit. Spike parked in the near-empty lot and hopped out, waited for her as she slowly slid from the seat and onto the asphalt. He reached one hand out to guide her toward the entrance, but she jerked out of his range, walked quickly away from him. He sighed only to himself and hurried after her.

They checked into a one-bed room; neither had luggage, obviously, aside from all of the junk food. She sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the carpet. He’d realized somewhere back on their fifth mile or so that there was going to be a lot of staring in the duration of this trip. There would probably be even more silence than there’d be staring.

It was starting to get a bit frustrating on his end.

“Guess I’ll be camping out on the floor, then,” he said, resigned, as he surveyed the room. Not even some kind of couch or armchair-- just a shoddy coffee table, a plastic chair, and a tiny tv set shoved in a corner. Just perfect.

“Guess so.” Buffy chucked a pillow at him and pulled herself up further onto the bed. Kicked her way under the covers, curled up, and buried her face into the pillows. So, he’d be sleeping beneath her. He tried not to think about the irony behind that.

With a grunt he lowered himself to the floor at her bedside, punched his lone pillow a few times, and lay flat on his back. For an hour or so he attempted to lull himself into some kind of sleep, but rest evaded him, and instead he found himself counting the cracks in the ceiling. He also listened to the sound of Buffy’s breathing, the cadence of her heartbeat. Could tell that she wasn’t sleeping, either; every few minutes her body shifted restlessly on the mattress, smalls sighs emitting from her lips.

“Buffy?” Spike barely whispered her name, let it hang in the air. He could feel her body still, her heartbeat quicken just a little, and knew that she had heard him. He dared to let himself think that she’d respond, that maybe she’d peek over the side of the bed, and finally acknowledge his presence.

Instead, she deliberately slowed her breathing, feigning sleep.

He turned over onto his side and let her go on pretending.

It was just past three in the morning when he woke her up-- though she really hadn’t been asleep in the first place. He waited while she went to the bathroom to try and freshen up a little. No time for a shower, so she scrubbed her face with the small bar of soap as a substitute, dabbing it off with a small washcloth.

When she looked into the mirror, she saw a girl. No sign of the Slayer anywhere-- just a directionless, broken girl with pale, blanched skin and dark circles under her eyes. She suddenly felt very, very old. Sometimes it felt as though she’d lived a thousand lives. And maybe she had, in a way.

She pondered telling him that; she thought he could probably understand.

However, when she walked back into the room, he was nowhere to be found. She ventured outside to the parking lot and found that the truck was already up and running. Spike was waiting in the backseat, sprawled out with his coat draped over him like a cloak.

“You’ll have to drive,” he explained, motioning to the windowshield. “It’ll be light soon.”

She nodded and found her way into the driver’s seat. Behind the wheel she felt surprisingly small, a tiny person sitting atop such a huge vehicle. It was even higher up than her mother’s SUV had been. Her hands awkwardly grabbed at the steering wheel, foot slowly pushing on the gas pedal. She made it to the edge of the parking lot, and then came to an abrupt stop, hesitating.

Spike looked out from underneath his coat. “There a problem, love?”

“Um.” She glanced back at him and bit down on her lower lip uncertainly. “I don’t know where the blinker thing is.”

He stared at her for a long beat and she was almost positive that he was going to laugh at her and call her dumb or something, and if he did that she thought that she would either punch him in his stupid face or just break down crying; she wouldn’t be able to stand it. Option the first would really be preferable, though she mostly just hoped that the scenario wouldn’t unfold that way at all.

To her surprise-- and immense relief-- he didn’t laugh. Rather, he leaned forward across the seat, and reached for the turn signal. His hand brushed hers, and at the contact of his cool skin against hers, she found that she actually couldn’t breathe. It was completely unexpected. She forgot, sometimes, what his touch could do to her-- usually she was fully aware whenever he was in the vicinity. Her body betrayed her constantly when he was around, never letting her forget where those lips had been, what those hands had touched… Now, she couldn’t get those thoughts out of her mind, and her heart fluttered in her chest, thumping so loud in her ears that she didn’t even hear what he said next.

“Huh?” It came out a little breathless, and she wondered if he would notice.

If he did, he didn’t let on. “Left. You need to take a left here.”

“Oh,” she realized, his words grounding her, pulling her back down to earth like gravity. “Oh. Okay.”

She eased into the turn, attempting to ignore him again, the way she had been ever since they left Sunnydale. It didn’t matter, he didn’t matter. It was all just… it was nothing. Nothing important, really. Apocalypses were underway, people were going to die, her world was crumbling to pieces, and here she was, freaking out because he’d accidentally touched her. She tried to shake it off. Tried to convince herself that she didn’t care.

It wasn’t working.

Buffy did have to admit, grudgingly, that it was helping her to improve her driving skills. Sure, once or twice she may have unintentionally turned on the windshield wipers rather than the turn signal, and one time Spike pointed out a stop sign, and his voice startled her so much she accidentally leaned against the horn, warranting a dirty look from a passing vehicle. Still, there was definite improvement.

Could even get used to this, she thought, staring straight ahead down the highway. Being behind the wheel made her feel a little bit more in control. Control wasn’t really something she had a good handle on these days. It seemed like everything was always spinning out of reach, leaving her scrabbling to hang onto something, anything, to keep from spiraling into insanity. But maybe she’d finally snapped and let go. Her friends had all seemed to think so.

“Do you think I’m crazy?” she blurted out.

She didn’t look back at him, but she could tell he was looking at her, heard the rustle of leather as he pulled his coat off from over his face. He was probably stunned that she actually had said anything; it was the first time since they’d left that she’d really initiated conversation.

“Was there ever really a question?” he teased.

“I mean, seriously. Do you think I’m--?”

“Off your rocker?” he finished, and then paused for a long moment. “No. I think… I think you just need to find your way again.”

A good mile or two passed as she contemplated this.

“Do you think I’ll find it?”

“I do.”

How do you know? she wanted to ask him. How can you be so sure?

But when she glanced over at him, he was covered again and turned away from her, sleeping.

It was a miserable day outside, overcast and drizzling, and the sun never really peaked high in the sky; it wasn’t long before it disappeared beneath the cloudy horizon, leaving the scenery painted in gray tones again. After awhile she pulled over to the side of the road, nudged the vampire in the backseat awake and jumped out. Waited until he hauled himself into the driver’s seat before going around and hopping into the passenger’s side.

Spike pulled onto the highway again, drove for about twenty minutes without either of them saying anything. Soon she was starting to get fidgety, though, and maybe-- just maybe-- Buffy would get bored enough to talk to him. Maybe.

Sure enough, she was the one to speak first. Second time in a row-- this had to be breaking some kind of a record. “You think that they’re okay?”

It actually took a few seconds for him to register who she meant by “they.” Had to be the Scoobies, of course, and he shrugged, steering them around a curve in the road. “Not helpless, you know. M’sure they can handle themselves.”

“How would you know?” she muttered under her breath, and he clenched his jaw, trying not to show his aggravation.

“I bloody well do know!” he snapped angrily. “Maybe your memory’s starting to fade, but you were six feet under the ground for an entire summer, if you can recall. And trust me, the Big Bad doesn’t go on vacation when the Slayer’s dead.” He took a moment to reel his vehemence in before continuing. “I know them, all right? Fought beside ’em for a long while. They’ll be just fine.”

There was quiet for a long time; she was either moping or considering his words.

“Look,” he said finally, “there’s a diner right off this exit. Let’s get something to eat.”

She didn’t react to this; he wasn’t surprised.

To be perfectly honest with herself, Buffy hadn’t really spent a lot of time thinking about what had occurred in Sunnydale during the summer she had been gone. That fateful night, throwing herself off the tower, felt now like it had been lifetimes ago. It almost hurt now, to remember it, how clear and simple everything had seemed as she had dived into the portal. She’d known, then, what she was meant to do, what was expected of her. Her duty; her destiny.

But even as she’d been lost in her wonderful, glorious afterlife, life here had continued. Months had passed, one hundred forty-seven days, to be exact, and she’d never really thought about it. Never really thought about the fact that there had to have been a funeral, a memorial service, and then life had continued, without her. People had grieved, but they had survived. They went on, day by day, not knowing she would ever return.

She wondered for the first time what it had been like for him. He’d watched over Dawn, she’d known, and she’d been-- well, secretly grateful, but she’d never thanked him, because she had never wanted to express anything to him back then. Not unless it would hurt, tear him apart. That had seemed to be her goal: Take him to pieces. She’d almost succeeded.

Maybe, one day, she’d thank him. Just tell him everything, spill it all out, and let him actually know, for once. How much she appreciated what he had done, and explain that even though she knew of the badness he had inflicted upon her, she thought that maybe she could separate it, now, and see the goodness, too. From even before the soul. Maybe she’d just lay it all out and say: I forgive you. Sometimes I can’t believe you forgave me. Thank you, because I know it must be a hard thing, to stand by me, to love me. But you always do and I don’t really know why.

Or maybe not.

Spike ordered pancakes, eggs, bacon and a glass of orange juice for her, and just a cup of black coffee for him. She was sitting in the booth across from him, looking at him only when he wasn’t paying attention, watching the way his knee bounced with impatience, how he tore the napkin in his hand to tiny shreds as they waited for their food. The smoking section had been requested, so a cigarette hung from between his lips, the tip of it slowly burning to ash.

“Ew,” was her only comment when he blew a stream of smoke from his mouth.

“Oh, please.” He snorted, poking the cigarette in the provided ashtray. “Don’t act so high and mighty.”

Buffy rolled her eyes and ignored him. “Why did you order so much? I’m not even hungry.”

“You haven’t eaten since we’ve left,” he reminded her. “Not letting you starve to death on my watch.”

She bristled automatically, wanting to retort and tell him that he wasn’t watching over her, because she could take care of herself just fine, thank-you-very-much. But then the waitress set the plate of pancakes down in front of her, and she realized she was way too hungry to launch into another argument. She started to cut up the pancakes and shovel them in her mouth.

“You’re not getting anything?” she questioned between mouthfuls.

“Doesn’t really fill me up,” he responded, sipping at his coffee.

Oh. Right. Vampire and all.

It wasn’t long before she’d cleared her entire plate and gulped down the glass of orange juice. She must’ve been hungrier than she thought. Once she had finished, they didn’t stick around long; soon they were trucking along down the interstate again. For the first time in what felt like forever, her stomach actually felt full, even if it was filled with greasy foods. Still, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had an actual meal, greasy or not.

She wondered how the others were doing back in Sunnydale. Wondered whether or not they were missing her. It’d be easier, somehow, if she could just hate them. If she could feel with complete conviction that they had betrayed her, that they were completely wrong. But she couldn’t.

She wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

That night, they found another motel room, and Buffy mostly ignored his company altogether, curling up on the one bed, where she fell into a restless sleep. She dreamt of demons and darkness, and in these dreams she felt the earth beneath her shudder and roar, snapping its wide jaws that she could not quite see. Something sticky and red was dripping in her eyes. Blood. There was a lot of blood everywhere.

And the sound of Spike, laughing. Echoes that rung loudly, booming almost deafeningly, and she raised her hands to cover her ears, watching as a weapon she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding fell from her grip and clattered to the ground. The blade was silver, shiny and bright and splattered with blood.

When she awoke, she was shivering and sweating, and her ears still seemed to be ringing. She kicked back the covers off her damp calves and rubbed her arms anxiously. It’s only a dumb nightmare, she assured herself, trying to shake it off. Don’t be stupid-- it’s nothing to get all worked up about.

Still, she couldn’t seem to stop shaking, and as she sank back in the pillows and tried to soothe herself back to sleep, she tried to feel Spike’s presence in the air, remind herself that she wasn’t really alone. But as she stilled her body and focused on feeling him in the room, she found that she couldn’t feel him at all; the atmosphere was seemingly empty. Usually her Slayer senses would kick in-- she could sense any living thing within a one-mile radius, feel the energy radiating off and thrumming through her, kind of a tingly awareness.

Sliding over to the side of the bed, she peeked over the edge to the floor, where Spike had first stretched himself out with a pillow.

He wasn’t there.

This made her bolt out of bed in a rush. In her haste, the twisted sheets fell to the floor, and she tore the seams in her hurry to untangle her legs from them. She stumbled to the bathroom, shoved open the door and flicked on the light. The shower was empty. Spinning on her heel, she checked the bedside again, kneeled down and even glanced underneath the bed. He was nowhere to be found.

His pillow was still there, complete with the impression in the downy softness where he had been resting his head, and she plucked it off the floor. Found herself perching on the edge of the mattress and hugging the pillow to her chest. It was thin and scratchy against her chin. She didn’t care; she buried her face in the abrasive material and tried not to cry.

Of course he had left her. Everyone did, even people who she tried to hold onto, and she hadn’t exactly been forthcoming to him in particular. She’d taken for granted that he’d do what she asked, no questions, that he’d just always be there. Like she could just keep him at arm’s distance and still think he’d come running at her beck and call. It was selfish. She was selfish, to think that way.

And now he had abandoned her, just like the rest, and left her all alone. She couldn’t even work up enough righteous anger to be mad at him about it. Maybe that’s what she deserved, what she had brought upon herself. There was nothing left inside of her to fight this awful truth.

Spike found her that way sometime later, drawn up into a tight ball on the bed, clutching at a pillow and rocking back and forth, half-sobs choking out of her. Closing the door, he approached her warily, unsure of what to do. Wondered if he should try and comfort her; he was still deciding when she became suddenly aware of him.

She shot up from the bed like a bullet, her eyes steady on him, intense and fierce.

“You-- where were you?” she demanded, discarding the pillow to the floor.

“Out,” he explained. “Couldn’t sleep-- looked up a place near here, butcher shop. Stocked up.” In clarification, he held up the paper bag in his arms. “Need some nourishment for myself too, you know.”

“Oh.” Her gaze darted to the bag and back again. “Oh. I thought--” She didn’t finish; she didn’t need to. He could see it, written all over her face.

“You thought I’d just taken off?” he asked, surprised. She turned her head away from him and sank back on the bed. It was then that he noticed her eyes were red, and he realized that she’d been crying. Slowly, he made his way over and sat down beside her, setting the bag down by their feet. “Wouldn’t do that to you. Will never do that. Promise.”

She burst into shaky sobs, covering her face with her hands. “Everyone does. Everyone just… leaves. All of them.”

“I know, love,” he murmured, tentatively resting his hand on her quivering back. “I know that’s how it feels. But you’re not-- you’re not alone in this. You’re not.”

His heart broke for her, seeing her like this. Seemed as though the whole world had abandoned her, the same world she had spent so many years fighting to protect. So much pain, so many sacrifices, and still they had turned her away. That same anger he’d felt when he had seen the Scoobies last, making flimsy excuses, and that damn Faith, acting as if she’d owned the place, flared through him-- well, he saw through them, and he saw through her, he did. Knew what it was really all about.

Power.

“That’s just it.” She laughed, and it sounded like a sad song, a certain tragedy. “I’m not on my own side. I don’t even think I’m right, really. Maybe they were right. I don’t know anymore.”

“You know that isn’t true,” he replied softly.

“You don’t understand.” She rubbed tiredly at her eyes. “You wanna know why people leave me? It’s because I push them away. I cut myself off from everybody. I don’t even know how to--” Her voice cracked, but she braved on anway. “I don’t think I even know how to anymore. To connect. To love.” She tore her gaze off of him and looked up at the ceiling. “Maybe I never did.”

“No.” Spike shook his head fervently. “No, that’s not it.”

She continued as though she hadn’t heard him. “And it isn’t just because I’m the Slayer. I mean, maybe that was apart of it, but I just used it as an excuse. I stayed this way because of me. Just pushed everyone away, anyone who wanted to come close-- including you.”

“You listen to me,” he said, low and grave. She averted her eyes, but then he was cupping her chin with one hand and making her look at him directly. “They are fools-- fools-- to not see in you what I see.”

“And what do you?” she asked, weary. “What do you see?”

“I see the most amazing woman I have ever known,” he told her solemnly, “and we are talking over a century of experience here.” He teased a small smile out of her with that before he went on. “I see a woman who doesn’t give up. One whose heart is true. It isn’t ruined-- might be a bit bruised, is all. It isn’t broken. You’re not broken.”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” she whispered, eyes brimming still with tears.

“Where are you running to, Buffy?” he asked her. “Can’t just keep running away. Eventually you have to be running to something. Up to you to decide where you’re headed.”

She began to cry; he held her and she didn’t push him away. He pulled the covers over her body and lay next to her, waiting until she quieted, her weeping turning into hiccupping. Her breathing slowed, and when he thought she was asleep, he started to move off of the bed.

Her hand grabbed his. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what, love?”

“Don’t go. Just…stay here with me, okay? Please.”

Without a word, he slowly slid in next to her, placed himself up against her back. She faced away from him, but she guided his hands so that they were wrapped around her middle, holding her close. He tucked his chin in above her shoulder, breathed in her hair, felt her warmth flood through him. Closed his eyes and drifted into sleep with her.

Buffy slept better that night than she had in years.

When Spike was roused out of sleep, his hand reached out and found the space next him unoccupied. Startled, he sat up, glancing around the room. Disappointment began to wash over him, a cold, disconcerting wave, his heart sinking in his chest. He should’ve known. Of course she would flee from him, leave him behind. Was probably was standing around on the side of the road, trying to hitch a ride as far from him as possible, disgusted with herself.

He was a fool to think anything could have changed.

“You almost ready to go?”

Buffy emerged suddenly from the bathroom, wrapped in nothing but a towel, running a comb through her damp hair as she padded across the room and plucked her clothes off the floor. He could only stare, mesmerized, almost unable to believe that this vision of a girl could be her.

“Ugh, I didn’t even bring a change of clothes,” she complained, her nose wrinkling, but she was actually smiling at him as she said it, and she was still here and real, not just some kind of a dream. “Well, it’s gonna be rather massively ew for your heightened vamp senses and whatnot. Sucks to be you.”

“It’s fine,” he murmured, removing himself from the bed, reaching down to gather the bag of blood, “it’s fine, really.”

But she just tossed a laugh over her shoulder and disappeared into the bathroom again. He strained and listened to the rustle of her clothes as she pulled them back on. When she came out again, she looked different. Rested, refreshed. Smiling.

This newfound good mood of hers didn’t fade as they started driving again. She snacked on some of the leftover junk food in the truck and chattered away easily, about a million mundane things, and he just nodded along, though part of him was craving to ask her about the previous night. To ask her what it meant, exactly, for the two of them. If it meant anything at all.

She’d asked him to hold her, to comfort her. That had to mean something, didn’t it?

When they stopped at another gas station to fill up, she offered to run inside to pay and came back out minutes later, carrying a silver coffee mug, a map, and a disposable camera.

“For the blood,” she explained, handing the mug to him, tucking the camera in her pocket and unfolding the map across her lap.

The knowledge that she’d picked it up and thought of him was startling. Her behavior seemed strange to him, but he didn’t question it. She kicked off her shoes and stuck her bare feet up on the dashboard, leaning back and examining the map, like they had some kind of actual destination.

“You know where we’re going?” he asked, keeping his tone casual.

“Well, if we keep going in this direction, I think it’ll be dark by the time we’re in Tucson,” she explained as she hovered over the map, studying it meticulously. “’Course, my navigating skills are probably not much of the good-- that’s kinda more Dawn’s thing.” He stole a glance at her-- her face remained impassive, although she seemed to pause for a moment, lost in thought, before going on. “Anyway. I guess we can figure out what to do from there.”

“Right.” He carefully opened the lid of one of the blood containers and began to pour it into the empty mug. She made a face at him and looked away. When he was done measuring it out, he twisted the mug’s top shut and stuck the other container back in the paper sack with the others. “Looks like we’ll have a bit more time before sunrise-- I’ll let you know when you can take over, yeah?”

She nodded agreeably, settled herself back against the seat, and switched on the radio.

Things were starting to look up.

“Holy crap!”

Spike was jarred out of sleep by her eager exclamation; she stopped the truck so fast that his body slammed up against the dashboard. They'd switched places hours ago, when the sun peaked into the sky, and he'd been dozing off when the sound of her voice awoke him. Before he could even react, she was bolting from the driver’s seat, taking off down the road. The sun was already half-sunken beneath the horizon, enough cloud cover for him to go outside without the dust hazard, and he followed her as fast as he could.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?” he shouted after her once she’d come to a stop.

“Look!” Breathless with excitement, she gestured ahead of her, and he followed her gaze.

There was a giant statue in sight, standing stark against the bleeding colors of the horizon, looking distinctly Native American.

“What of it?” he grumbled, exasperated.

“Oh, come on!” She tugged his sleeve and started to take off again. “I want to see it up close.”

Begrudgingly he followed her, tracking through the surrounding spiny flora, the dry-heated breeze flowing over him as he went. The statue resided in the center of a circular rock garden, the boulders surrounding it, along with what seemed to be a vacant building up for sale. Once they had reached the base of it, Buffy quickly read the nearby sign.

“It’s the world’s largest Kachina doll,” she informed him. “39-feet-tall. Whoa. That’s, like, Evil-Mayor-Demon-on-Ascension-Day size.” He shot her a glance and she just rolled her eyes. “Don’t ask.”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

“Hmm. It says here that the World’s Largest Sundial is only a couple miles away. What does a sundial even look like?”

“No idea.” He kicked a rock, sent it rolling through the sand; it bounced off a cactus in the near vicinity. “Are we done here?”

“Hang on a sec.” She stepped back away from the sign, stood directly in front of the Kachina doll statue, tipping her head back and squinting her eyes. He could tell she was having a moment, so he stayed where he was and remained silent, waiting it out. After awhile he saw her reach out and give the statue a pat with her hand, and then she turned back to him, ready to leave.

When they arrived back at the truck, instead of hitting the road again, Spike scaled up the truck and into the back cab. He extended a hand to her and was mildly surprised when she actually took it, hopping in after him. They sat side-by-side, gazing out at the silhouette of the statue against the backdrop of a colored Arizona sky, and when she leaned her head against his shoulder, he said not a word.

“I’ve never been to any other country,” she said to him confidentially, just above a whisper, as though sharing some valuable secret. “Not even Canada.” She laughed a little, but it was hollow. “Funny, isn’t it? I’ve been to Heaven and Hell-- literally-- but not even outside of here-- not once.”

It saddened him to think of that. He’d traveled all across Europe, seen all kinds of sights, and here she would never be given the chance, always tied down by her sense of duty. And he realized why she had exhibited such uncharacteristic exuberance over the stupid statue. It was her way of viewing parts of the world, taking in small pieces of it, before she had to leave.

“Not all it’s cracked up to be,” he lied, and wondered if she hated him for that, for at least getting the chance to form an opinion of the world, a world she would likely never see. A world that would probably be ending soon, anyway.

“I guess now it doesn’t really matter.” Her body heaved with a silent sigh.

There was a long silence then, before he commented: “Maybe we should go see that sodding sundial, after all.”

Buffy laughed genuinely at that, turned her face and buried it in his shoulder, and he couldn’t help but smile as well.

“I think I’d like that.”

She pulled her camera from her pocket and snapped a single picture of the Kachina doll in the distance, and together they watched the sunset's colors fade into evening.

After a quick drive-by of the sundial (which was, for the record, just this humongously long pointy thing that was supposed to tell the time, according to Spike), they drove the two more hours straight to Tucson. Along the way Buffy drifted into sleep, and she found herself dreaming again-- it wasn’t so much a vision as it was a feeling, the feeling of being somewhere dark and damp, her breathing echoing around her as if she were in a hollow cavern. Again there was a weapon in her hands, powerful and solid, and she felt it slip out of her grip, falling, and she woke up before it could hit the ground.

When she opened her eyes again, she was struck with an unsettling feeling that made her chest feel tight, as if something was wrong. Missing.

He must have picked up on her worried frown, because it wasn’t long before he asked, “You all right, Slayer?”

“Yeah, fine,” she answered, hesitating. There really wasn’t a reason to not tell him, so she spoke her thoughts anyway. “I just. I’ve been having this dream.”

“Dream?” he echoed and looked at her, brow furrowed. “Mean anything?”

“I don’t know,” she told him honestly. “I mean-- usually the special ones, they’re all cryptic-y and metaphorical. Sometimes the occasional nursery rhyme. This one isn’t like that.”

“What’s it like?” he asked.

“I’m standing somewhere. Some place dark-- a cave, maybe,” she explained, and paused. “And… you’re there, too. Sometimes.”

“Oh.” His voice was a little strangled and she noticed how his grip tightened on the steering wheel.

“And I’m holding something. Some kind of weapon.”

“A stake?”

“No. And not a sword, either. An axe, maybe?”

He just looked at her for awhile, and she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

“It’s probably nothing,” she insisted hastily, but she wasn’t quite sure she believed it.

**

It was already dark when they found a spot with vacancy in Tuscon-- when Spike handed over the cash for the room, Buffy couldn’t help but notice how the once thick wad of bills was quickly depleting. A sense of dread settled itself in the bottom her stomach when she thought about that. They could probably scrape together more money if they tried-- hell, he would probably swipe it from someone if she asked him to.

Even now, he still would do pretty much anything, if she asked him.

As they hurried across the walkway to the motel building, something odd hit her out of the blue. She realized, quite suddenly, that if he were to disappear from her life in the next instant, she would have nothing to remember him by. She had nothing that he had ever given her, aside from a few scars. Not a single memento. He could vanish completely and she would have no evidence to ever prove that he existed in the first place; all she would have is memories, and those were never really enough.

“Spike.” She said his name once, and just as he turned, she plucked her disposable camera from her jeans pocket and clicked her finger down on the button, taking a single shot of him underneath the dim lamplights above. When she tucked her camera back away, he was scowling at her, shifting his weight from foot to foot restlessly.

“Was that honestly necessary?” he questioned a tad sharply.

“Yes,” she responded simply, and it was either a good enough answer for him, or-- and she knew this was more likely-- he had learned to choose his battles, and he started on again.

She walked behind him and listened to the clicking of his boots against the smooth pavement, crickets chirping noisily in the background. She studied his back, the way the leather hung around his shoulders, the bottom of his coat flaring out around him. It struck her as weird; even after all they had been through, she hadn’t ever really spent time just looking at him, never stopped to take in the details. Like how there was a small curl of hair at the nape of his neck, how he always walked in long, panther-like strides, swallowing up the sidewalk beneath him like it was nothing.

For a moment a feeling almost that she’d almost forgotten seized her, the feeling of wanting-- no, needing-- her hands to be on him, grabbing at his leather and running through his hair. An old possessiveness that made her think that he was hers, hers to kiss and bruise and tear to pieces. Hers to do with as she pleased.

The thought that she could still think this way of him scared her, and she must’ve fallen behind because after awhile he turned around from in front and asked, “You coming?”

She nodded and followed him the rest of the way to the motel room, the silence hanging over both of them, heavy and looming.

That night, when she crawled into bed, she automatically scooted over as far as she could and turned back the sheets. Spike accepted this unspoken invitation, slid in next to her. She wasn’t sure how much time passed until he stilled completely, and she knew he must be asleep; he looked fragile, somehow-- vulnerable, really, like she could break him in half if she so chose.

She wanted, instead, to mend him.

Her hand wrapped around his wrist, stroking the inside of it, and she watched as he curled into her touch, his head shifting even closer to hers, so near that she could count his eyelashes. There was the overwhelming urge to kiss his eyelids and pull him close and never let go, and she found it suddenly hard to breathe.

Instead, she closed her eyes and tried to find sleep.

**


She’s walking through the deserted halls of a familiar building; everything around the edge of her vision is fuzzy, an indistinguishable blur, the walls melting into the sky, and she moves only forward, seeing a small black door ahead. She passes through, is immediately enveloped by darkness, and when she inhales, the air is acrid and bitter; for a moment, it reminds her of the coffin ((trapped suffocating no air no air choking can’t escape)) and she can’t breathe.

The world suddenly shifts and there’s a shaft of light-- she turns and sees Spike, standing mere feet away from her, glowing, something around his neck. She reaches to touch him, her hand pressing against his chest, so still, no heartbeat, no heartbeat, no nothing.

“Everything you touch is tainted,” he says to her calmly, and when she draws her hand back, her fingertips are coated with blood. He laughs then, and she calls out his name, but she has no voice, none at all and he just laughs, laughs, and everything is suddenly bright, too bright, like silent fireworks exploding behind her eyes, blinding, blinding--

Buffy was jolted out of sleep abruptly, sitting up straight in bed and panting hard, like she’d just finished running a ten-mile marathon. She closed her eyes, trying to steady herself, slow her breathing. Had to stop and think, calm down; it had just been a dream.

Everything in it had been so clear…

Buffy.

The voice in her head took her off guard-- for a minute she thought maybe she was still dreaming, that this was just another part of it. But as she put a hand up to her forehead, she heard it again.

Buffy, it’s me.

Her heart almost stopped in her chest as realization dawned. “W--Willow?”

“Willow, what--” She glanced quickly over at her side; Spike was still asleep, showing no signs of having heard anything.

Buffy, I need to talk to you. Please.

She disentangled herself from him completely, slipped out of bed and hurried into the bathroom, closing the door and flicking on the dim light above. Sitting on the edge of the toilet, she closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind.

“What are you--”

Look, I know that you-- you’re probably kinda mad at me right now--

“That’s one way to put it,” she hissed back, irritated.

I know. And, I’m sorry, but-- we need you, Buffy.

She scoffed loudly. “I thought you made it pretty clear that Faith was the one you needed. I’m sure she’s glad you’ve got her, too.”

Buffy, Faith is…

“You do have Faith, don’t you?” she asked, and despite herself, a queasy alarm clenched her stomach.

She took some of the Potentials to an armory Caleb was running. There was a bomb that went off and-- well, she’s alive, but it doesn’t look good.

“And I’m, what? Supposed to come running?” Her voice was shaking, even as she tried to keep it steady. “After everything? After you kicked me out of my own home?”

Listen, I’m sorry, I really am--

“Save it, Willow. You betrayed me,” she responded harshly. “All of you. You decided that I wasn’t good enough, so why should I come back?”

Buffy, please, you’re the only one--

“You can fight this one on your own; I don’t want anything to do with it. So get out of my head and leave me alone.”

There was a long silence, and she knew that Willow had given up. She let out a shaky breath and put a hand over her face, trying to keep herself together. Finally, she rose to her feet and flung the door open, stormed over and flipped on the room’s light, beginning to toss whatever few items they’d accumulated along the way into a nearby plastic bag.

Blinking, Spike struggled upwards, confused. “What’s going on?”

“We’re leaving.”

“Right now?”

“Yes. Now. Go get ready.”

“Why’re we--”

“Because I just-- I can’t be here, okay? So just get your stuff together, and let’s get the hell out of here.”

**

Buffy drove for hours and hours that night, and didn’t look back once. There was some sense of calm in the chaos of constant motion, watching the miles slip behind, putting more and more space between her and the home she’d left behind. He said nothing, and she could feel him studying her, but she kept her stare focused over the wheel, ignoring it.

Around five a.m., she pulled into a rest stop and parked the truck.

“What’re you doing?” he questioned, fracturing the long silence that had been suspended over the both of them.

She tossed him his blanket and pulled the keys from the ignition. “We can sleep here for awhile.”

Looking over the dashboard, she could see that the sky was gray, but not too dark-- like silver, dappled by darker clouds. She didn’t know what town they were in anymore.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, and knew that she knew that already.

“It’s-- it’s Willow,” she admitted as she glanced guiltily at him. “She… contacted me. Last night.”

“The witch?” he repeated, surprised. “But the phones--” He stopped, understanding. “Oh.”

“She said she needed us. To come back,” she explained further.

“Ah.” He nodded to himself. “Explains earlier, then.”

“I’m sorry about that-- making us take off that way, without telling you.” She drew in a deep breath. “I guess I kinda panicked. I’m just-- I don’t think I’m ready yet.”

“And being on the road, with no destination, that’s supposed to help?” he asked skeptically.

“I don’t know, okay? I don’t know,” she said, flustered, leaning back with a frustrated sigh. “Why? Is that what you want, for us to go back?”

“I think--” He paused momentarily, emotions warring across his face, seeming to struggle inwardly. “I think that you should.”

She stared at him in dumbfounded disbelief. “What? How can you say that?”

“Look, s’not like I have a lot to go back to,” he snapped. “I’m thinking of what’s best for you.”

“‘What’s best for me?’” she echoed, laughing dryly. “Oh, that’s a good one. ’Cause you’re always just so full of good intentions, Spike. Way to be the martyr. You act like this is just so hard for you. Why don’t you save some time and just go nail yourself to a fucking cross right now?”

She could see the hurt whipping through him, the pain registering on his face, the anger darkening his eyes. His hands were balled into fists and she wondered if he was going to hit her. A part of her almost wanted it. At least it’d be something she could understand, would make more sense than these stupid words.

“I know you, Slayer. You may not think I do, but I do. Even at your worst, you’re not the kind of girl to back down and scamper off with your tail ’tween your legs. And this, the running away? All it is is your easy way out.”

It all hit her at once, the power of what he was saying, and something bubbled up in her chest, blazing and fierce. She threw the door open so fast it almost flew off the hinges; in a flash she was slamming it shut, pacing back and forth madly. Finally, she stopped and screamed, loud and livid, turning and sending a hard kick to the tire. Anger still seared through her as she slammed her fist into the side of the vehicle. That only served to pain her hand, so she shook it, looked at where she’d punched the truck-- there was a good-sized dent in the metal.

Feeling drained just as quickly as she’d been infuriated, she climbed back into the truck, shut the door and slumped forward over the steering wheel.

“I don’t know what to do,” she mumbled miserably. Tears stung behind her eyes, but she didn’t let herself cry. Not again.

“Shh,” he soothed, a calming hand on her back. “S’all right, pet. You’ll figure it out.”

She lifted her head and raked her fingers through her mussed hair. “I mean, I know what I’d really like to do. It’s just, that’s probably way different than what I should do. You know?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Why is it that knowing what’s right is easy, but doing what’s right is so hard?” she sulked.

“If it were easy, everyone would. It’s what makes you different than the rest. What makes you a hero, I suppose.” He was smiling a little; she thought it looked good on him. Wished he would do it more often.

Wished she could give him a reason to.

“I know what I want to do now,” she said to him softly.

“Oh, really?” An eyebrow quirked, and he shifted forward a little, listening. “And what’s that?”

It would be easy, oh, so easy, to lean over and kiss him. Just to let her mouth slide over his, and she wondered if it’d be the same, or if the soul would make a difference. Wondered if he’d let her, if she even tried, imagined how he’d react. Maybe he’d cup her cheek and stretch toward her. Open his mouth to hers and want it the same way she did.

Because she’d been wanting it for some while, she knew, though there was still a part of her that was terrified of it. Terrified of letting herself fall for him. But still, even though it would be terrifying, she wanted to. Wanted to let herself fall into love, plummet into his depths, and just let herself go. Let all of it go. Maybe even let her heart be happy, for once.

She thought that he could make her happy, really, really happy, if she only gave him the chance.

Smiling, she stuck the keys back in, waiting for the truck to rumble back to life.

“I want to go back home. With you.”

It wasn’t long before they were on the road again, driving down the open highway as the horizon bled red and orange. Buffy stared out the window, mesmerized by the white dashed lines blurring as they sped by, the monotony of it almost lulling her into sleep. Spike sat in the driver’s seat, his window cracked open and a cigarette burning between his fingers. Every once in awhile he flicked ash on the window edge and kept the other hand on the steering wheel.

“Those things are gross,” she had remarked to him when he lit his first one. He’d merely shrugged and ignored her.

Now she unfolded her road map and spread it out, granting a look of irritation from Spike when the edges of it poked into his arm. She trailed her finger along to try and find out where they were. They’d left Tuscon a few hours ago; even after her decision to go back to Sunnydale, she couldn’t help but want to draw the journey back home out for as long as possible. She had no idea what to expect when she returned.

It was easier not to think about it, and to instead focus on the here and now.

Of course, that in itself carried its own baggage. She had taken said baggage along for the ride, after all: things were still on the weird side when it came to Spike. It had always been hard to really figure him out-- he was always changing constantly, never static. Since the soul, it all had been so different, and it was like getting to know him all over again. Everything with him was still so tentative, like they were tiptoeing around each other. What was really the most frightening of all this was the fact that the farther they got away from home, the more clear her feelings were becoming for him. And what she was feeling… well, that was scarier than anything.

“Got any plans, pet?”

His question jolted her back to reality. She looked up at him, chewing on her bottom lip and wondering what the answer was to that, on more than one level.

“Figured we’d just, you know, drive,” she explained with a careless shrug. “Can’t be that hard, right? Just have to follow the route home.”

Spike shot a sideways glance at her. “Never that easy-- there’s always gonna be detours. Side roads. Obstacles to overcome.”

She was quiet for awhile, not knowing if he was talking about the actual journey home anymore.

Miles passed before she spoke again. “Hey, can we stop for a second?”

“What for?” he questioned, but slowed down onto the side of the road without waiting for an answer.

“You’ll see,” she said once he had stopped, popping the door open and hopping out. She weaved around to the front of the truck and climbed up onto the hood. He watched as she balanced precariously, digging her cheap camera from her back jeans pocket and aiming it toward the sunset before her.

“We stopped just so you could take a picture of the bloody sunset?” He scowled in annoyance, but she could see that it didn’t quite reach his eyes. She turned to look at him and smiled lightheartedly.

“There are things I want to remember,” she explained simply, and he just faced the other direction, staring out at the darkening sky.

Buffy lifted her camera and caught him in the crosshairs. There was something stunning about him, his outline contrasted by the vivid sunset and trees from behind, unaware of her pointing the camera at him. His hair was wind-blown and messy, and her hands itched to run through the length of it, all tousled and disheveled. He still had a cigarette stuck in his too-pretty mouth, the ember tip glowing in the dim light. Those cool blue eyes, smouldering intense gaze, focused out in the distance. The way he was sculpted-- it took her breath away, even after all this time.

She couldn’t help but snap another picture of him then; he heard the click and looked over, saw the camera and scowled again.

“Thought I told you to quit that,” he said with narrowed eyes, but there really wasn’t much hardness in his tone.

“Nope,” she replied flippantly. “You just gave me a dirty look before, and that totally isn’t the same thing.”

Spike snorted and cracked a small smile; she took that as a good sign and leapt off the truck, walking up until she was only a few feet away from him. He tilted his head back and squinted his eyes to look at her carefully.

“So why’d you want a picture of me?” he asked, purposely keeping his voice light.

“I told you.” She shrugged and looked at the ground, and then at him, from underneath her lashes. “I want to remember. This. Now.” You, she added silently, drawing in a short breath as he leaned toward her. Her heart was nearly in her throat, and all she could think was, He’s going to kiss me. He’s going to kiss me and maybe that’s okay, because I want him to. God do I want him to.

Instead, he brushed past her, heading back to the truck. A mixture of disappointment and relief flooded through her. For a moment she could hardly breathe; it was all she could do to keep from falling to the ground. It wasn’t fair, how complicated and hard it had to be between them. She was torn between letting go of the past and holding onto it with greedy claws, pulling it close and using it as a shield. A shield against her emotions. Against herself.

“Still got plenty of miles to cover,” he called over his shoulder. “Better get going.”

When she finally turned to face him again, he was climbing back into the truck, acting as if nothing had happened. Because, well, nothing had happened. Did she want something to really happen between them? Would she be ready to deal with the consequences of that?

She didn’t know.

“Coming,” she hollered back, fighting down her emotions for the moment and hurrying back to him.

**

He drove for hours and they hardly spoke; she found herself sneaking looks at him, studying all of his movements, how he craned his neck when they hit actual traffic and how his hands curled around the steering wheel, spinning it with practiced ease. She wanted to memorize everything about him-- even when she developed the photos, she knew they wouldn’t be enough.

No picture could capture the essence of him.

For awhile Buffy dozed off, and when she awoke they were sitting in the parking lot of a motel. He was shaking her shoulder lightly and smiling down at her.

“Come on, you’ll be more comfortable after we check in.”

Inside the small room, she settled down on the bed and flicked on the television; he wandered into the bathroom and shut the door, and a few seconds later she heard the shower running. She flipped through the channels, past cooking shows and infomercials, finally stopping on some game show. It was impossible to really pay attention, however, when she knew he was showering that close.

The closeness, that was the problem. Because all she could think about was him standing under the spray, naked, and-- She ended those thoughts before they’d lead to somewhere they shouldn’t, and still she could feel the blush heating up her cheeks.

With a sigh she snatched a pillow and stuffed it under her chest to prop herself up, trying to focus on anything but those kind of thoughts. It didn’t work-- when she heard the valve turn off, her entire body tensed, her chest tightening.

And then Spike was walking up to her, a towel tucked low on his hips, running a hand through his hair to dry it. For a few moments she was entranced by the sight of him-- skin gleaming with the shine of water underneath the low lights, hair damp and natural curls falling across his forehead, and though she knew that no body heat radiated from him, her skin grew unbearably hot as he sat so near. The sound of the televison faded into the background as she drank him in.

He didn’t seem to notice, however, and stared at the screen. Buffy shifted and tried to focus on the show-- she was aware of the host asking a question, something about a guy named Prufrock.

“Who is T.S. Eliot,” Spike answered automatically.

The contestant on the show, however, responded incorrectly. Spike let out a few curse words at that, grumbling and shaking his head in exasperation. Buffy tried to smile in amusement and pay attention to the program, but the smile faltered and the butterflies in her stomach fluttered once again. The closeness of him, god, it was so distracting, having him here. So close, within reach, but holding herself back.

When his hand brushed accidentally against her thigh, she jumped off the bed like a spooked horse, even the slightest contact too much for her to take.

A look of concern passed over his face. “Slayer, you all right?”

“I.” It was hard to focus on her words, with him looking at her like that. “I. Spike--”

“What is it?” He shifted as if to rise from the bed, but she moved forward, sat down beside him again before he had the chance.

“I’ve been thinking a lot. About us. And I mean, a lot a lot. Like, I can’t stop. Thinking.” She knew she was rambling, but she couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to. Because she had to get it all out, now, before it exploded inside of her. It was all too much and she couldn’t not say anything any longer. “About you. And me. Especially about you.”

“What are you getting at?” he asked, his expression full of confusion.

“Spike. I want-- I want us to be okay again.” She paused for a moment before frowning, shaking her head. “No, not just okay-- more than okay. I want us to be-- together. To try. I want us to learn to be good for each other, because I think-- I think we can be.”

His eyes bored into her, his mouth literally hanging open. She’d never seen him speechless but he seemed to be now. It made her want to laugh and cry at the same time, that nervousness in her stomach seeming to unravel as she waited for his answer. She didn’t know what to do. Wait for him to answer, say something herself, or…

And before she could even think, her mouth was on his, and she was kissing him. And it felt like the perfect thing to do.

Her kiss was firm but not forceful, slow but not soft. The power of it jolted through him, his mouth acquiescent, opening to hers, as she pressed against him. One hand reached to caress his cheek, sliding up to run through his hair, and it was suddenly too much, too much. He broke away, pushed her back and stumbled onto his feet.

“I can’t,” he said breathlessly, which was ridiculous, considering he didn’t need to even breathe. He forgot, sometimes. Sodding human habits.

Only she could do that to him.

“Can’t what?” She was staring up at him with big, worried eyes, her hair mussed and face flushed, lips a little swollen. Her blouse had slipped off of one shoulder, exposing the black bra strap underneath, and the look in her eyes was full of confusion, the closest thing he’d ever seen to innocence in her. It was uncanny how she could look so… human. Anyone who laid eyes on her would never guess the power packed into that tiny body.

“Do—this.” He made a wild gesture from his chest to hers. “With you.”

“Wha—what do you mean?”

“I won’t do it,” he snapped, anger coursing through him. “You’re nothing but a stupid little girl, you hear me?” And he was, too, so stupid, to almost—

To almost believe.

Her mouth was drawn in a hard line. “Don’t treat me like a child.”

She rose to her feet, drawing herself to her full height, tilting her chin up to look him straight in the eyes. Her hand reached out to touch his arm; he shook her off, backing away, diverting his gaze.

“You don’t—” she started, voice strained, almost cracking. “You don’t want me?”

He wanted to tell her not to be daft, but he only swallowed hard and stared at her.

“I’m going to leave,” he told her tightly. “Pack your things. When I come back, we’ll go.”

With that, he swept out the door and slammed it behind him.

Buffy stood in the wake of silence, her eyes fixed on the door, like he’d walk back through it and tell her he didn’t mean what he’d said. It took her awhile to realize she wasn’t breathing, and then she was gasping a little, long shuddery breaths as she tried to keep herself from falling apart.

He didn’t want her. At least, not the way she wanted him. She was right—it was too late. Whatever chance she’d had was gone, because he wasn’t in love with her anymore; she’d finally pushed him away for good. Not that long ago, she would’ve been happy to have him out of her life. But now…

Now she couldn’t imagine him not in it.

She was torn between flinging herself onto the bed in a fit of self-pity and punching a hole in the wall. It was easier to be angry, though, and she was quickly building herself into a good rage. Who was he? Thinking it was okay for him to just act like everything was okay, let her think she could forgive herself, and then turn around and yank all that from under her, acting like nothing that had happened in the past couple of days meant anything at all.

And it did mean something. It meant everything to her. Being away from Sunnydale, believe it or not, had allowed herself to finally breathe for once, think through things more clearly. Having him there had been—well, okay, she wasn’t so great with the whole verbalizing thing, but she still had thought he knew, how much his being there for her meant to her. How much he meant to her. But maybe he did know, and he just didn’t feel the same way anymore.

The idea of that sliced through her, sharp and painful, and she covered her eyes with her hands, not knowing what to think. Nothing made sense and she didn’t understand, didn’t understand why it always had to be so hard and complicated. Couldn’t one thing—just one thing—work out in her life?

With a fervor she began packing, throwing the few items she’d taken out of her bag back into it, zipping it harshly and tossed the strap over her shoulder. Screw it. If she wanted him out of her life—or, unlife, whichever the case might be— that was perfectly fine with her. She was out.

Even in her anger, she knew he deserved some kind of an explanation; she scrambled around and found a pen and notepad on the nightstand, scribbled a short note.

Spike—

I’ll find my own way back. That way I won’t be your burden anymore.

-Buffy

She tore it off the pad and set it on top of his pillow. Stopping by the door, she turned for one last scan of the hardly-used motel room, then opened the door and walked out.

The note crumpled in Spike’s hand, crushing into a small white ball as he tossed it aside, his mind reeling. He searched shakily for his newly-bought pack of cigarettes and lit one for himself, inhaling deeply and trying to muddle through the chilly fog her written words had caused to settle over his heart. He could feel the sting in what she’d scribbled down as though she’d spit the words in his own face.

Couldn’t believe this. All he’d needed was some space, had to think things through. Hadn’t been expecting her to kiss him—bloody hell, could her timing be more off? Had to take him off-guard, stun him with her initiative. He was still getting used to whatever thing they had between them; it was still too fragile, and he maybe if he’d been more sure, it would’ve been different. But none of it mattered now, because she wasn’t here.

God, how long had he been gone? She couldn’t have gone far. Pretty thing like her wouldn’t have too much trouble hitching a ride, but maybe he could still catch her before she did, at least talk.

Spike shoved his things furiously into his bag and all but sprinted out of the motel room, barrelling at breakneck speed into the truck, turning the key and speeding onto the road. He slowed around the turn and craned his neck to look carefully outside the window. Rain was starting to pelt down on the windshield, blurring the view.

About a mile or two down, he saw her, walking awkwardly on the side of the road with the bulky bag as she went, her rain-soaked hair plastered to the sides of her face like spaghetti. He slowed the truck to her pace, rolled down the window and leaned out toward her.

“Love, get in the car,” he told her as calmly as he could manage.

She stared straight ahead, refusing to so much as look his way, head held high as she marched on. “I’m not going anywhere with you, you—you dumbhead.”

“Harsh words from the Chosen One,” he teased.

“Shut up,” she growled, finally glancing at him, then quickly back again.

Buffy turned and began to cut away from the road; he pulled the truck over, hopped out and jogged after her, catching up easily. He caught her by the elbow and forced her to a stop.

“Slayer,” he said irritably, “don’t be this way.”

She stared at the ground resolutely. “I can take care of myself, thank you very much.”

“Long walk from here to Sunnydale.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Buffy.”

Just her name, but it was enough; she shot him a sideways glance, biting down on her lip and folding her arms across her chest. She was looking miserable and wet, and he knew he probably didn’t look much different. The storm was right over them now, the clouds opening up and pouring down on them.

“I’m not going with you. You hate me,” she blurted out accusingly.

“I don’t hate you,” he said slowly, nearly grinding his teeth in annoyance.

“Oh, sure.” She laughed dryly and rolled her eyes. “That’s why you freaked out when I kissed you, because you really love me just so much, right?”

“That’s not what it was about!” he shouted, and then he was grabbing her arms, shaking her like he could shake off her attitude. “Haven’t stopped loving you, Buffy. Couldn’t if I wanted to. Trust me, not exactly a bloody picnic, but it isn’t my choice. It just is.”

Her eyes widened, mouth opening in shock. “You love me?”

“Of course,” he answered, helplessly. “Don’t be daft. ’Course I do.”

For a long moment there was no sound but her breathing, the downpour showeing upon them, the breeze in their ears.

“Spike,” she whispered, her face close to his, “you have to believe me, okay? I—” She paused, drawing in a shuddery breath, closing her eyes. When she opened them, all she could see was him, the rain streaming down his nose, his eyes, wide and focused. And she realized that she wanted nothing more than to see him for the rest of her days, to have him fill her sight every time her eyes were open.

It was simple. She just wanted him.

“I’m in love with you.”

His face didn’t change, and he just studied her, his iron-grip on her shoulders loosening. She reached one hand up to touch his cheek, his brow. Slid it around to the back of his head and pulled him up close to her. His eyes flickered over her face, and he was actually breathing, she realized, even though he obviously didn’t need to.

“Oh,” he said, “oh,” just above a whisper, like a revelation of sorts.

And then her mouth was ghosting over his, lips brushing, mouths yielding and pushing together. His hands encircled her waist and she could taste the cool rainwater on his tongue. She used to kiss him like she wanted to climb inside his skin, but this, this was something gentler. Something blossomed inside of her, and she knew, knew more certainly than she had ever known anything in her life that this was what she needed. It was so… right.

It was the start of something new.

A/N: Ha, "Final Chapter" sounds way too serious. This part is considerably shorter, but it felt right. This isn't the end of the Gravity-verse, because I have a sequel planned I'm going to start on ASAP, which will have more supernatural elements. Anyway. Thank you to everyone who has read and commented for this fic. It definitely helps fuel me to write more. And no matter what other fandoms I dip into, I know S/B will always remain my numero uno OTP.

“I’m not going to do it.”

Buffy looked at him with wide, pleading eyes, desperation thick in her voice. “Spike. Please.”

“I won’t.” His tone was firm, resolute, but in his eyes she could see he was wavering.

“You have to!” she implored, reaching out and tugging on his sleeve.

“Buffy, I refuse to play some sodding road game with you just because you’re bored stiff.” He grabbed the disposable camera off of the dashboard and tossed it into her lap. “Here. Keep yourself entertained with that and leave me the hell alone.”

She grinned, holding the camera up and snapping a photo of him; the bright flash stung his eyes, and he snatched the thing from her and threw it on the floor. Turned to her with squinting eyes and scowled.

“Don’t make me stop this car and—“

“And what?” She smirked at him playfully. “Have your way with me?” Leaning toward him, she crawled her fingers up the length of his arm and breathed into his ear. “Pull over.”

He’d barely come to a screeching halt on the side of the highway and cut off the engine before she was all over him. She pressed her lips to his hard, clambering awkwardly over the armrest between them for better leverage. Her arms flailed for a moment before grasping the lapels of his jacket, and she pulled him as close as physically possible. Kissed him until he couldn’t think, and then just as quickly, she was drawing away, sliding herself out the truck door and beckoning with her eyes at him to follow.

Spike came around the the back cab of the truck to see her sitting there on the ledge, all playful smiles and swinging legs. Caught her around the waist, hoisted himself up into the truck and settled himself over her. She laughed into his mouth as their lips brushed together. Teased her fingers through his hair and down to his collar, sliding the jacket off his shoulders as he slipped her blouse over her head, leaving her only in her black bra. The rain hadn’t quite died off completely, the breeze with it whipping her hair into a wild torrent as she leaned up off the truck bed and into him.

But he was already meeting her halfway, his arm braced around her back as hers hooked around his neck. She was soft against him, a sweetness in her kiss he’d never felt before, her fingers tracing down the ridge of his cheekbone. And then she was pulling back for breath, and he couldn’t help but stare at her, wondering if he could count her eyelashes, dotted with raindrops. Her lids fluttered open, and he could see just how bright her eyes were. She sighed against him and smiled.

“Spike,” she breathed, edging nearer to him, “I want to make love to you.”

It sounded bloody bizarre coming from her; he nearly laughed out loud, but looking closely at her expression, he could tell she was serious. He brought one hand to her cheek to brush the loose hair away from her face. Her eyes closed as he touched his lips to her forehead, and when they opened once more, he nodded down at her.

Buffy was kissing him again, rolling over on top of him, travelling down the length of his body. Fingers fumbling to unbuckle his jeans, pushing his shirt up to kiss his belly, a trail all the way up to his chest. Sliding her touch across the smoothness of his skin. When she slipped her hands down his pants, a moan caught in his throat, and she kissed it out of him. Shook herself out of her jeans and slid her pelvis against his length. Hip-to-hip, poising herself over his cock. And then she was sinking down on him.

For a long while, neither of them moved, just stared at each other, eyes wide and mouths open. Finally, she closed her eyes and began to rock against him, slow, purposeful movements. Kissed him deep, and when he did come, it didn’t realign the stars or shake the world; it just was, and everything slid into place as their bodies locked together. He could see she was quivering around him, small shivers running through her, and he coaxed her into climax.

After, they both rolled side-by-side, exhausted. The dark clouds above were beginning to part, stars shining through like tiny pinpricks. He glanced over at Buffy, who was fastly fading into sleep. Couldn’t help but extend his arm out to stroke her damp, mussed hair. Her eyes half-opened, and she smiled, turning onto her side to face him. Curled her body into his, calf slipping inbetween his legs, cheek resting on his chest.

“Love you,” she murmured against him.

Everything seemed to freeze for a long moment as he gazed down at her, the Slayer nestled up against him; her breathing slowed as she fell into a sound sleep. He smiled softly and touched the crown of her golden hair.

“Love you too.”

The sky after dawn was gray, but not dark. Almost silver. Light shadows on stone. It later melted into a layer cake of pale blue-green, topped with clouds that looked almost lavender, then the beginning of another sky, that perfect blue, cool, somehow both soft and bright. By the time Buffy had been driving for a good three hours, the whole sky was like that, clouds scattered across, unobtrusive.

Everything felt brighter. Her senses more accute than before. The traffic was all coming from the opposite direction; that was how she knew she was coming closer to Sunnydale. The last gas station she’d stopped at was abandoned. There was still gas in the pumps, so she filled her tank, just enough to get into town. Contemplated taking some food from the mini-store, but that would feel too much like stealing, so she didn’t.

After that, she stopped in the middle of the road—not like anyone would be coming anyway—and climbed into the back seat. Poked Spike until he awoke, and without a word, he made room for her to slide herself in next to him. Nerves were twisting her stomach, fear of what was to come, and she said nothing. She didn’t have to. Instead, she just grasped his hand, traced her thumb over his palm and rested her head underneath his chin.

He held her like that, perfectly still, for hours, until the sky changed again, fading into twilight, before she climbed into the driver’s seat once more.

Where her heart was and where she wanted it to be: They weren’t always the same place.

And it was so much more complicated than that, of course. There was still so much to say. Maybe too much. And there were things she couldn’t say, things she wouldn’t ever say. There was passion and guilt and love and secrets and regrets and apologies and memories and hesitation—

But there were moments like this. Speeding down the streets like a madwoman. Clasping his hand in hers, both laughing together. There was a history there, thick in both of their bloods. A bond so strong that she couldn’t completely understand, a love that was felt in every breath, every beat of her heart. A certainty that filled her soul and his.

She was so busy trading secret smiles with him that she didn’t even notice the sign as they flew by it.

Welcome To Sunnydale.

**

~fin