something like greensleeves

There was something to be said for having something to say.

Bloody contradiction, that was, and Spike knew it. Still, it was true. Ever since he’d shown up on the Slayer’s doorstep in England, ragged and rumpled like a tossed-around rag doll, he hadn’t any idea of what to say. He’d thought about it, during the long, tiring journey from L.A., rehearsed it in his mind over and over again. But the moment his eyes landed on her, resplendent and lovely, answering the door in bare feet and a top that exposed the graceful slope of her neck, eyes shining with a new spark of life that had been acquired in his absence, anything he could think to have said erased itself from his mind.

So she did the talking for him. Told him of the happenings that had occurred in that lapsed time after the Hellmouth caved in, told him of all the Slayers that had been awakened. Of how they’d been coming here, to Bath, gathering from all corners of the world, being trained at her hand. Most gone home already for the holidays, but one still here for a few days more. Her talking of Giles, Xander and the tag-along boy, Andrew, all flown off to Tuscany to retrieve more Slayers. Dawn, out with friends, to be home soon, just minutes, even.

He hadn’t even thought about the Bit, or any of the others, until she mentioned them. Had been too busy being consumed by what her reaction would be, by the intensity of that moment, of how it would be to see her again. Completely blocked out everyone else in the process. What was he supposed to say? How could he explain things?

Before he could even think, the door opened, and any of the words in his head flew out the window.

 

The first day it snowed, Buffy and Dawn had stood outside beneath the sky as the flurries cascaded down, catching the wispy scraps of opal on the tips of their tongues. They had run around, giggling like they had when they were little girls, like they had before either of them knew anything of Slayers or Keys, of destined duties or sacrificial death, of men who were monsters or monsters who made themselves into men. No, they’d just been two sisters, romping in the fresh snow, the essence of innocence.

Now, there was only a few inches on the ground outside, most of it a mildly wet sludge due to what seemed to be a continual drizzle from above. Still, Buffy was accustomed to rainy California winters, and she’d expected this was going to be one of her whiter Christmases regardless. And, she had been hoping, one of her more normal ones.

Of course, that theory had been blown to pieces.

When Dawn had walked in on the two of them, she had been…shocked, yes, but mostly silent, and Buffy wondered if maybe it was possible to become desensitized to this kind of thing, that even if you fooled your head into believing someone was good and gone, that once you experienced this in the past, part of your heart could never let go of future losses, no matter how hard you tried.

Tess, the resident Slayer, stammered out a stunned “H-hello, sir,” and then merely stared with wide eyes. She’d heard the stories, Buffy knew, via Vi and Rona and the others, of how William the Bloody, world-renowned vampire, had ended up traveling the road of redemption and unrequited love, faced unspeakable torture and torment, and emerged a hero who went on to save the world and all of humanity at the expense of his own life.

Dawn never lifted her gaze from him, her expression unreadable as she said to Buffy, “We can go to Willow’s for the night. I can… explain things.”

“You don’t have to--”

Dawn’s eyes breezily snapped to her sister’s. “I think it’d be better.”

“If you’re sure,” Buffy responded, hesitance clear in her tone, twisting her wrists in tenseness. A thick lump built in the back of Spike’s throat, knowing that it was his presence bringing on this dent in her newfound grace. Dragging up the edginess she’d seemed to have left behind.

His eyes switched to Dawn; she was still his Bit, but all grown up now. Growing into her towering tallness and womanly curves, all berry-bright skin and glossy, silken hair, now trimmed into a stylish chin-length bob. He still remembered when she was just a slip of a girl, gangly, awkward limbs and flowing chestnut locks, smelling of bubblegum and shampoo. Back when she’d been small enough to fit into his arms, back before she’d replaced her declarations of sisterly love with threats of fiery deaths.

“I am.” Dawn gave him one last cool glance before she and Tess walked out the door.

After it closed with a loud click, they stared at one another from across the room in uneasy silence.

“Well.” Buffy finally broke the quiet, cleared her throat uncomfortably. “That was of the awkward.”

“Can’t blame her,” he replied quietly. “Didn’t expect anyone here to be rushing into my arms.”

He noticed that Buffy winced at that, that his words seemed to have pained her, but surprisingly he found that his heart was not breaking over her wounded expression. It was only the truth, after all, and it wasn’t his fault if she refused to acknowledge it herself.

“You two will work it out,” Buffy assured him, masking any hurt his comment had inflicted upon her.

“Maybe.” A shrug. “Not the end of the world if we don’t in time.”

“‘In time?’” she echoed blankly. “How long are you staying?”

“How long am I welcome?”

She recoiled as though he’d slapped her, staring up at him in almost horrified astonishment. Stiffened as she regarded him with bewildered eyes. Suddenly the bafflement dissolved into self-defense, and she shot him a sharp, defiant glare. “How can you even ask that? You think that I don’t…”

Her voice trailed off, because it was so hard, this thing sitting between them, this elephant in the room that neither was quite ready to acknowledge. So difficult, shady and murky, the definitions always blurring. Don’t you remember, Spike? she thought fiercely. Don’t you remember those last nights? How I chose you to hold me? How I told you I loved you, and you just turned me down, just like that? Don’t you remember? Why didn’t you believe me? Why?

“Sorry, I’m just…” He sighed, shook his head and threaded his fingers through rumpled curls. “God, this is hard.”

“I know.” Buffy took a step forward, so close to touching him, itching to feel her hands against his silken skin once more, but her arms stayed by her sides, wooden. “So…want to go kill something?”

He merely looked at her, clearly startled, before his mouth twitched into the semblance of a smile, a whisper of his old, cocky smirk. “Sounds good to me.”
 

This cemetery was different than Sunnydale’s, more barren, more gaps between headstones. And, of course, covered in a thin layer of snow. It made everything seem more…somber, solemn. Not a place for prancing about and chasing down stray vampires, but a real place to pay respects for the dead. Even looking back at his footsteps imprinted in the fresh snow gave Spike a feeling of discomfort, as if he was disrespecting the deceased just by walking through, traipsing about on their resting place.

Buffy twirled the stake easily in her hand, a mirthful smile stretched across her face, and once again he was aware of the way she moved now. Confident and poised, shimmering with a youthful sense of grace. She moved like a woman who had a purpose, like a woman who knew what she wanted out of life and knew how to get it.

The question was, how did he fit into her new life? Did he fit in at all?

Before he could ponder that meaningful thought any longer, Buffy busted open one of the mausoleums, landing a kick on one of the doors with expert flourish that left a resounding bang. She reached inside with one hand and yanked out a fledgling. Spike watched as she tossed the vamp easily to the ground, sending him rolling straight into a gravestone.

Two other vamps scrambled from the crypt and, seeing that the Slayer was on patrol, began to dash in the same direction. Spike sprinted after, and despite the resistance of snow, quickly overpowered them both with his lengthened strides. With a flying leap he tackled them both at once, sending all three sprawling to the ground.

Now this was what he needed: a down and dirty brawl, grappling and kicking, punching and clawing. His hand found its way to the stake inside of his coat, and he whipped it out, thrust it into the chest of one of his opponents. The other scurried to its feet and started to make a move to run once more, but he stuck one foot out, sent the vamp toppling to the ground.

The fledgling was fast, however, and made it to his feet before Spike. Surprisingly strong, too, he threw a punch that landed on his jaw and sent him staggering backwards, tumbling over a headstone and onto the ground. As he lay there, he could hear Buffy’s footsteps crunching hurriedly through the snow, and he stared up at the night sky until he heard the sound of wood driving through something solid, the telltale poof of dust exploding. Seconds later, Buffy’s form leaned over him, pretty mouth puzzled into a concerned little frown.

“You okay?” she questioned worriedly.

“Fine,” he assured her, struggling into a sitting position, his black leather swirled out around him. “Just thought I’d take a moment to enjoy the view.”

She grinned impishly, eyes twinkling, relaxing at this familiar sarcasm from him. “Right.”

Her arm extended in offering, and he took it, grasping her hand to pull him to his feet. A jolt jumped through him as he realized this was the first time they had touched, really touched, since he’d first arrived. Palms clasping one another, and the gesture reminded him of their last, their fingers interlocked as the world crumbled to pieces around them. He looked up at her, and he could see that she felt it, too.

They stood there, an awkward silence passing between them as they both stared at their linked hands, the joint connection. Finally, Spike unlocked his grip, stuck his balled fist in his pocket and reached down with the other to retrieve his fallen stake. She folded her arms across her chest, glanced away, chewing on the pout of her lower lip.

“We should go,” she told him softly, and he merely nodded, following behind as she turned to leave.

There had been a spark, just a stolen moment where things had fallen into place the way they had before, but once more a veil of uneasiness had drifted upon them. More than anything, Buffy wished that they could erase it, forget about the history between them and remember what it had been like. Remember how to talk to one another again.

 

They were dancing again, and it felt so good; god, Buffy had missed this. It was like slipping into an old skin, like going home again. Lunge, dodge, pivot. Sweeping around the room in a swirl of black leather and blonde hair. Silver swords clinked together, warding off blows with equal shows of strength and skill.

She loved him like this-- coming at her, circling her, continuously searching for a way to take her down. In the before, the bad year when she had first come back, they would fight. Fight beside one another, against one another, always pushing and pulling to the breaking point. It had used to make her feel like less of a monster, knowing he had it in him, too, that guileless, savage side, that ability to get off on the darkness and primality of it.

But now it was different-- their movements were not animalistic, but more graceful, smooth. Gliding around the room together, meeting blow to blow, almost as if they were one. Even in the grungy, musty apartment cellar, she could feel it. It was a different dance, yes, but a dance all the same. And they both were still learning all of the moves, yes, but here, it was seamless.

Buffy’s fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of the sword, shifting her grip ever so slightly, and she swung it toward him with ease. He leaned back to dodge the blow and in turn came at her with his own weapon. It missed her ribcage by two inches as she instinctively spun, lightning-fast, and swept her sword down, down, connecting with his shins and knocking him clean off his feet.

Fell to the floor with a grunt, and immediately she was on him, legs straddling his sides and covering his body with hers, directing the blade at his heart. She looked down at him, panting a little, and suddenly, it was almost real. Face bent down near his, breath mingling on his lips, the sound of blood rushing in her ears. Being this close, she could feel the pull of his demon, rumbling in the depths of her chest, throbbing in her temple, tingling between her legs. Hunger.

Hunger for him.

But Spike rolled away, out from underneath her, and a blush heated up her cheeks when she realized that they had an audience-- namely, Tess, the Slayer, who was supposed to be getting a Fighting Techniques Seminar, not a lesson in the Fine Art of Unresolved Sexual Tension. Somehow in the middle of it she’d forgotten that anyone else was there at all. Buffy found her way to her feet and tried to shake it off.

“And that’s how it’s done,” she declared, grinning as she flipped the sword around in her hand with practiced ease. Spike watched from his spot on the floor as she extended the handle over to Tess. The young girl took it with a slightly unsteady hand, taking a few stiff steps forward. He jumped to his feet in a fluid, swift movement, arm muscles rippling, and Buffy couldn’t help but notice how he still moved like a panther. All liquid strides, predatory grin, feet sliding smoothly across the matted floor. One arm raised, swiping the beads of sweat from his forehead, eyes flickering over the girl, sizing her up.

“Ready for a spin, love?” he quipped, raising his sword to meet hers.

“She’s only had training with Giles,” Buffy informed him as she stood off to one side. “So don’t be too hard on her.”

He flashed a grin at Tess. “Taken lessons from the old Watcher, eh? Surprised the old wanker doesn’t need a cane by now.”

For a moment, indignance caused the girl to frown, eyes hardening a little. “Mr. Giles is a good teacher,” she insisted, and then added a flustered “Sir” when he lifted an amused eyebrow at her.

“That right?” Spike smirked widely, took a sweeping step back. “Guess we’ll see.”

With that, they sprung into action. At first the movements were simple, deliberate-- two steps forward, two steps back, side step, forward again. It was strangely fascinating for Buffy to observe this kind of dance. And then a sense of proprietary seemed to swell inside of her, the feeling that this was supposed to be hers: the rhythm, the intricate moves, the dance, all of it.

Suddenly, something shifted in the scene before her. The clacking of the weapons became less measured, Spike’s blows raining down faster, harder, Tess’s defenses becoming less and less controlled and measured. There was a slight look of fear on her face as she ducked away from his sword, clearly struggling to keep her own in this match, and Spike showed no signs of backing off.

“Spike,” said Buffy warningly.

“She can handle it,” he called easily over his shoulder, then grinned at Tess again. “Can’t you?”

“I…don’t know,” she panted, all of her concentration on the challenge at hand.

“Spike, stop,” came Buffy’s voice again, louder now.

He ignored her words and focused on the young Slayer, chuckling as he dodged one of her swings. “Come on. You’re a Slayer, then, aren’t you? Not dressing up in big sister’s clothes still, are we? Go ahead. Get right ’n pissed. Kick my arse.” His cockiest, most provoking smirk. Just daring her to do it. “Unleash it.”

Releasing a battlecry, Tess charged, fast and furious. The two swords clashed once again, but this time, she began to drive him back. First one step, then two, and then he was back against the wall. She swiftly brought up her sword, knocked it into his while he was still off-balance, sending it skittering across the floor. Her blade was aimed straight at his heart, and she stood, perfectly poised, heaving for breath but still strong, her eyes brightly fierce.

“’Atta girl,” he complimented, palms face upward as if it ward her off. “So, would you finish it?”

She stared at him in confusion. “W-what?”

“The question is, if I were to attack you, to the death, would you hold back? Or would you kill me?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Would you kill me?”

“No,” she responded nervously, uncertain at what he wanted her to say. “No, I don’t think so.”

“And why not?” he questioned.

“Because Buffy would kick my ass?” Tess answered weakly.

“Why else?”

“Because-- because you’re a person.”

“Wrong answer.”

Instantaneously, he jumped upward like a cat, planting a strong kick on the girl’s chest. She gasped in surprise and tumbled straight backward, landing hard on her back, her sword flying up into the air. Spike snatched it with one hand and in a flash brought it down so the weapon’s tip was pressed against the base of her throat.

“Never believe a vampire is a person,” he growled, features shifting into vamp face, prominent ridges across his forehead, glittering yellow eyes and elongated fangs. “They are the enemy, always. It’s kill or be killed.”

Tess swallowed, paling at the sight of his demon visage. “B-but you have a soul. You’re good.”

“I’m the exception. Not the rule.” He shook his head slightly, receding into human form once more. “Can’t go around treating every demon like a cuddle toy. And if I were to ever attack you-- truly attack you-- you don’t want to be holding back and getting yourself killed.” He looked at her intently. “So. Would you kill me?”

“Yes.” She nodded, at first a bit hesitant, but then strongly. “Yes. If I had to, yes.”

Grinning, Spike reached down, helped her to her feet. “Good girl.”

“Tess, why don’t you go upstairs?” suggested Buffy coolly, finally coming forward.

The young Slayer nodded, stealing one last glance at Spike before bounding up the stairs. Once she disappeared, Buffy whipped around, eyes blazing.

“What was that?” she demanded.

“What was what?”

“I told you not to push her.”

“Oh, c’mon. Even I could see she needed it.”

“What she ‘needs’ is not up for you to decide.”

“You can’t tell me that wasn’t good for her. She’s not a meek little kitten, Buffy.”

“She isn’t a killing machine, either. She’s just a girl.”

“No, she’s not just a girl. Neither are any of the others you put power into. And there’s a lot out there who have no idea what’s in them, or what to do with it.”

“So what are you saying? I made a bad decision? I’m to blame?”

“I’m saying you might not understand how deep the repercussions of your actions are.”

“These girls aren’t like me-- they aren’t alone. They don’t need to be hardened and turned into warriors. Not the way I was. And you should know better than anyone about that.” Her voice caught for a moment, and she glanced down, brushed her hair behind her ears. “So yeah, I made a choice. I did what I had to.”

“Yeah, you always do, don’t you?” he sighed, turning away.

Her eyes snapped up. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Just forget it.” Spike tossed he sword away with a clatter. “So, how about a little hand-to-hand, for old time’s sake?”

And so they began to go at it, this time with less grace and more roughness. Harsh shoves, flying fists, circling one another, neither off their guard for a moment. His eyes were a blue so dark they appeared almost black, mouth curved down, that rapacious expression darkening his features. He leapt forward, moved to fling her across the room but at the last moment hesitated, and she flung him instead.

“You’re holding back,” she asserted, eyeing him up and down as she straightened on her feet easily.

“Oh, yeah?” He came at her swinging, barely grazed her cheek as she turned her head and ducked out of the way. She spun on her heel to face him again, eyes burning with a blaze he hadn’t seen in too long. His own body pulsated with a vigor he hadn’t felt in ages.

“Come on,” she urged. “Give it to me.”

This time, he charged with an animal yell, tackled her straight to the floor. They scuffled about wildly, tussling and clawing, all remaining sense of grace having vanished. Skittered across the floor like crabs until she obtained the upper hand. Flipped her weight into her hands, throwing him a kick with both of her feet that sent him reeling back.

“More,” she demanded, and when he moved to kick her hip, she turned and grabbed his foot, twisted so he stumbled back. “Harder, Spike. Lay it on me.”

A sudden punch connecting with her jaw sent her sprawling to the hard rubber mats. He followed, pinning her there for a minute before she flipped him over, and then the struggling and wrestling transformed into something like groping and writhing against each other. Suddenly, he grabbed hold of her wrists and threw her off of him, sent her flying backwards.

Before she could react, he shoved her up against the wall, trapped her there. Leaned in so close that if he were to breathe she would feel it on her face, and when he moved closer to grind his hips up against hers, her mouth fell open in breathless exhilaration.

“Is this what you want from me?” he asked, voice low and guttural.

She closed her eyes, nodded. “Yes.” Oh god, yes. Her entire body was buzzing, humming, skin singing for him, and she wanted nothing more than to have him inside of her. To shag him until she screamed, until she couldn’t see straight.

“That all I’m good for?” He slammed her back, away from him, and the tingling between her legs and the stars in her eyes faded to utter confusion at the fierce look in his eyes.

“Spike, what are you--” she started, but he cut her off.

“What? Just thought it’d be a good time for another basement fuck before you see me off?” He glanced around the cellar briefly and gave a loud scoff, a sharp, cruel sound. “Don’t even have the decency to pretend you mean it and do it in a bed this time, eh? Rather have it up against the wall, down and dirty?”

“That’s not what I was--” She found herself lost for a moment, and then she shoved him away from her, anger buzzing through her veins, bubbling up in her chest, displacing the arousal she’d been feeling just moments before. “You seriously think that’s what this was all about?”

“You tell me,” he retorted, glaring daggers.

“You really think that little of me?” She was furious and livid and outraged and above all else, she was hurt. “You really think I would--” Too sickened at the thought to complete it, she turned away, unable to meet his gaze. Even more sickened that he could think that after everything they’d been through.

“I’m just convenient,” he spat at her. “Isn’t that how it goes?”

“I can’t believe you.” Buffy bit down on her lower lip, the urges to either burst into tears or beat him to a pulp battling inside of her. “Is that what you thought that night was about? You think that’s what I want from you now? Because you’re wrong.” So wrong, so fucking wrong, so off the fucking mark it isn’t even funny.

And there was a part of her that wanted to scream at him and hit him, to try and do something she knew he would understand. God, if she could just make him see. She slammed her eyes shut, hard, hard, hard, felt and heard the blood trickling through her eyelids.

She just loved him. Couldn’t lose him.

When her eyes opened, she felt the realization spreading through her, like warm honey in her gut. Yes, she loved him, had for some time now. She wasn’t sure if she had been in love with him when she told him she was, but she knew that she was now, and that was what counted. She loved him, loved him, needed him. Couldn’t stand the idea of being apart from him again. And she had to tell him.

“Spike.” Her own voice crashed into her ears, splashing around in the ocean of her blankness, reverberating somewhere in her heart, her memory. “I want you.” Wanted him, this time without the pain, without the bitterness and confusion and heartache. No more mixed signals and missed chances. Just wanted him.

He blinked at her for a moment, eyes so blue and piercing, seeing through her as always, and then he just shook his head, scoffed loudly. “You want what you can’t have.”

And there it was: his answer. He may’ve wanted her before, but not anymore.

Everything seemed to be crumbling around her all of a sudden, her hopes and dreams deteriorating and falling to pieces, just like the Hellmouth only this was so, so much worse because he was walking away, and oh, she’d screwed everything up all over again. Even if he somehow loved her still, he didn’t want her, and even now, he didn’t believe her.

He brushed past her, headed for the stairs, and said without turning around, “I’m leaving.” The slightest pause, lifting his chin. “Don’t try and come after me.” Walked deliberately up the stairs, closed the door, and he was gone.
 

Oh fuck.

Oh fucking, fucking fuck.

Everything was so fucked, he had fucked it all up again, and god, he hated himself more than ever. Hated himself for how easy it was, to just up and leave, walk out and crush her spirits with the mere slamming of a door. Hated himself for walking away at all. That was Angel’s job, wasn’t it? Poofter always ran away from everything good in his life.

But he hadn’t been about to stay there, to fuck her up against a wall and let her pretend everything was all right. Whatever notion she had of being in love with him, it wasn’t true. Couldn’t be. She’d been better off without him anyway-- had changed so much in his absence, had grown into something beautiful. Luscious curves and beaming smiles, a beauty so bright it almost blinded him. It was only when he had come back that she reverted to her old self, the uncertain persona, her loveliness tainted by his presence.

No matter how hard she tried, he knew it would always be that way.

Because she didn’t love him.

And now, he needed to get gone, before either of them would get hurt any more. Before she’d get it in her silly little head to come chasing after him. Before he had second thoughts, changed his mind and went back to her, as always.

First of all, however, he needed to get piss-ass drunk.

Spike stumbled down the street blindly, not even pausing for a moment as he bumped roughly into passing pedestrians. Christmas shoppers, clutching shopping bags and wearing mittens, walking by in pairs. A man in a Santa suit on the corner, ringing a bell up and down, up and down, the clanging of it reverberating through the crisp night air, a deep echo. He didn’t stop, just kept barreling forward, wrapping his duster tight around his torso. Trying to keep the cold out.

There, a bar on the corner. Perfect. He reached forward, fingers gripping the handle, and then he stopped. Turned to the side, brow furrowed in awareness. He sniffed deeply, and he caught attention of her scent. Not Buffy’s. This was the aroma of old, ancient blood, familiar.

Dawn’s.

He released the door handle and wandered to the side alley. And there she was, all willowy stature and almost-woman physique, a blouse with a low cut that would’ve made Buffy cringe to see it, chunky black heels that added leverage to her already towering height. Hair done up in messy curls, thick makeup painted across her face. Shimmering dark blue eye powder streaking her lids, ruby red lipstick drawn across the pout of her lips. Made her look older than she was.

When she caught sight of him standing there, she started in surprise. A moment later her eyes narrowed, mouth scrunching into an irritated frown. Petulance was never a good look for her.

“What’re you doing here?” she demanded, and he realized for the first time that she was holding a cigarette in one hand.

Seeing the smoke in her hand made him realize he had a craving of his own, so he dug into his pocket, delving around for one. Lit it and stuck one end in his mouth. He ignored her question, nodded at the cig dangling from her fingers. “When did you pick up that nasty habit?”

Dawn quickly dropped the cigarette, stomping down on the butt in haste. “It’s a friend’s,” she lied, and then paused, ran a hand through the length of her hair. “I mean, yeah. It’s mine.” She folded her arms and gave him a look, defying him to ask further.

“Hmm.” He cast her a look of mild disinterest.

She frowned at him, confused. “You gonna tell Buffy?”

“What you do in your spare time is between you and big sis,” he replied dryly, taking in a short puff. “I’ve learned by now not to get myself involved in the Summers’ family business.”

“Oh.” Dawn looked down for a moment, still crushing the cigarette butt into the thin layer of snow, and when she glanced back up at him, her eyes were softer. “Did Buffy send you to come check up on me?”

“Nope.” Spike flicked the cigarette to the ground and gazed up at the darkened sky. “Slayer and I are-- well, let’s just say we’re not on the best terms at the moment.” He sighed and rolled his shoulders. “Not that it matters now. Wasn’t planning on staying long anyway.”

Okay, so the last was a half-lie. There’d been a part of him that was hoping, hoping she’d crumple into his arms and he’d sweep her off her feet, and they’d have the fairytale ending complete with the happily-ever-after. But the fear that she’d reject him, that she’d turn him away, had been ever-present, looming and twisting in his gut. Of course, he never thought he’d be the one to walk away. Was never his style.

So much had changed.

She stared at him. “You’re…leaving?”

He grinned humorlessly at her. “Any reason I should stay?”

“Isn’t it, like, obvious?” Her eyes rolled so much he was surprised they stayed in the sockets. Again with the annoying teenage petulance. He forgot how young she was sometimes.

“Not that I can see. Shouldn’t be sticking around-- you don’t want me here, Slayer doesn’t know what she wants, and all I am is a burden.”

Yeah, he could go. Back to L.A., maybe. Angel would smirk and rub it in, and that might hurt, but it wouldn’t be so bad. Fred seemed to have taken a likening to him, at least, and she’d put up with his presence, probably help convince everyone to let him stick around and be the freeloader of the family. He could still fight the good fight, kick some demon ass, earn his redemption or atone or whatever it was that champions were supposed to do. He’d be okay. He could do this. He could.

“Buffy loves you,” Dawn told him then, voice low and soft. “What, you can’t tell? Are you blind or something?”

He spoke quietly and with a strained voice. “Bit.”

“I don’t hate you, you know.” Her tone quivered for a moment before she regained composure once more. “I mean, not everything between us is okay, but… She loves you. What more reason do you need to stay?”

“She doesn’t. I don’t belong here. Don’t fit into her world anymore.”

“If you go, it’ll be the disaster of Angel all over again. I don’t-- I don’t want to see her go through that a second time around.” Dawn paused, breathed deeply, her tone taking on a more pissy attitude now. “You know what your problem is, Spike? You don’t want to believe. And your whole, ‘Oh, she can’t possibly ever love me’ thing is getting way old.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder, the simple action chock full of sassiness and bravado. “Do us all a favor and get over yourself already.”

Her eyes penetrated his, mouth curved in a half-smile. Giving him that “duh” look again. Always had that air of enlightenment, as if she had this greater perspective, a deep insight into things he could not see even in his century of existence. And maybe she did.

 

Afterwards, Spike couldn’t remember the walk home. Mostly, he just remembered Buffy’s lips against his, the feel of her hands sneaking stealthily under his shirt, skittering up his chest. Touched him like a lover, tender but cunning, like having her hands on him was the most natural thing in the world. Skimmed her clever fingers across his skin with a well-known familiarity. Still knew every inch of him. It was as though she had a map of his body, an atlas of his sinews, knew exactly where to elicit the right responses.

Like her fingers curling around the hair at the nape of his neck. When she did that, he couldn’t help but turn her around quickly, feeling her short gasp of surprise, and lean her up against a tree. Ran one hand through her mass of golden waves, bent and kissed the delicious juncture between neck and shoulder. Worried his teeth there before kissing her full on the mouth once more. Buffy pulled him as close as possible, almost as if she could crawl into his skin, and started to hike a leg up around his waist, one hand sliding down his pants and trying to undo the buckle while the other remained looped around the base of his neck.

Oh, there was a large, large part of him that wanted her badly, right here, but he knew. Couldn’t have her like that. It wouldn’t feel real then, if it were to happen on some random tree on the side of the road, no more real than it would up against a wall in a dank cellar, no more real than it had on a rusty basement cot.

“Not here,” he told her gently, holding her wrists. Though it was tempting, it wasn’t right, not for the first time. Wanted to make this one count. After, they’d have time for other… things. Still remembered the wonderful moments that had emerged from their chaos that one year-- handcuffs and different positions and sex so good it made them both scream. And this time around, it would be so, so much better.

Because she loved him.

When he let himself think about that idea, now that he truly believed her, it kept blowing him away. He couldn’t wrap his mind around it, the fact that she had chosen him, that she wanted him in her life and in every kind of way. No longer just her warrior, no longer in-between-- he was hers, and she was his, and they belonged to each other now. For once, they would be dancing in synchrony. There’d be plenty of mayhem and confusion to work out, he’d be more than willing to wager, but this time, they would both be working through it. Together.

“I don’t ever want this night to end,” she murmured into his neck, smiling with that new-Buffy glow he’d been in awe of since he had arrived. She looked happy-- happy, he thought in fascinated disbelief-- wrapping her arms around his torso and walking so close to him that he could barely steer himself straight. He wobbled and almost tripped, and she laughed, a girlish giggle covered by one hand over her mouth.

Oh, she couldn’t believe he was hers. Dorkishness and cockiness-- she let her eyes and mind roam wickedly at that thought-- and badass attitude, all of it, the sweetness and brashness of him, and wow, there were a lot of words with the ending “ness” to describe him, she realized.

Whatever. Mind’s thesaurus aside, what mattered was that he was here and wanted her. She had trouble still, believing that. Couldn’t believe that he wanted her, still.

It wasn’t until he skidded to a stop and she kept walking-- almost tripping over herself in the process-- that she realized she had stated that last sentiment out loud. Spike tilted his head at hers, one more thing she found herself melting at, with a puzzled, bemused expression flittering across his features. Like his bottomless blue eyes and his pretty, pouty lips with a side of puppy dog, and wow, she was feeling so twelfth grade. But she couldn’t help it-- every time she looked at him, she felt those butterflies fluttering in her stomach. Only lower regions, far more south.

“You thought I didn’t want you?” Spike appeared boggled by the very idea. Incredulousness looked good on him. But then, she thought, almost everything looked good on him.

“I--I wasn’t sure,” she answered, the butterflies still all a’flappin’. “I mean, you just were going to walk away, and I figured it was because you didn’t care anymore, that I’d probably screwed up massively and--”

At that point, Spike burst into loud, amused snorts. He was laughing. At her. Laughing!

Peevishly she jerked away from him, flaring with indignance. “Is my pain that funny to you?”

“No, you silly bint,” he responded in-between spouts of laughter. He came closer, touched her cheek, stroked his thumb across her strong jawbone. “What’s funny is the idea that I could ever not want you.” He leaned down and kissed the corner of her mouth lightly. “I will always, always want you.”

Oh, god. And there he went again, smoothing over the roughness with his speech, saying the exact right words and doing that thing with his eyes that he didn’t even try to do. It made her soften, made her knees tremble, and she melted against him, caught his mouth with hers. Kissed him long and thoroughly, because they both deserved it.

“Let’s hurry home,” she told him once they broke apart.

 

There was a string of Christmas lights taped around the door to the flat, thanks to the handiness skills of Xander, all glowing faint red and green in the darkness of night. They stood on the doorstep, side-by-side, gazing at the lights in silence. Finally, after a minute two or more, Buffy reached forward, taking hold of the handle.

“Wait.” Lightning-quick, Spike’s hand shot out, snatching her wrist.

She jolted back and stared at him in surprise. Their were lines of worry and anxiousness etched across his brow, and he was still holding her wrist tightly. Looked unsteady, uncertain. Hesitant. Before she could ask what was wrong, he stumbled out a further explanation.

“When we go in there--” He paused, trying to gather his thoughts. “This is it, you do realize. Are you ready for it?”

Once they stepped into the apartment, there would be no going back. Private kisses stolen under the cover of moonlight were all well and good, but when they passed the doorstep, it would make all of this real. It would be all the way. If she wanted to take it back, change her mind, she had to do it here. Now or never.

Buffy just smiled, swept her fingers lightly across his brow, and stood up on her tiptoes. Brushed her lips over his gently. When she lowered herself back down, he was gazing at her, eyes still wide with wonderment. She wanted to see him that way again and again-- every time she turned around, every morning she woke up. Wanted to see it all of the time, for the rest of her life.

“I’ve never been so sure of anything,” she whispered, and before he could respond she pushed open the door and pulled him inside after her, over the threshold.

 

It was just the two of them then, all alone in the deserted flat, no one else in sight.

Buffy was the first to come forward. She slid her hands across his forearms, leaned up and whispered her mouth across his. The slightest of kisses, a suggestion of what she wanted to give him tonight. About what she was going to give him. He drew away after a moment, looked down at her.

“Watcher and Harris aren’t going to like this,” he blurted out all of a sudden, and she tilted her head back, surprised.

“Random much?” she teased, one eyebrow arched at him in amusement. “Kind of ruining the mood here.”

“Sorry, love.” He shrugged and smiled a little. “Still a little wound up, I suppose.”

“I don’t care what they think.” Lips pressed against his. “They’ll get used to it.” Scattering kisses across his jaw, dropping like raindrops. “I want you.”

That was enough. He dipped his head down, met her lips with his, her mouth opening in acquiescence and letting his tongue slide in, tracing lightly across her teeth. The kiss was all slow, sweet and hungry, her warmth heating up the coolness of him. They had time, time, all of the time in the world now, and she slid the duster off of his shoulders leisurely, let it drop carelessly to the floor. He tugged on the hem of her fuzzy sweater, and she helped him pull it up over her head, tossed that away, too.

Stumbling backwards, limbs locked together, finding their way to the bedroom, and Buffy couldn’t stop kissing him. Had to lean down, steal a drink from his mouth, so lush and ripe, winding one leg around his waist and grinding the rough denim of her pelvis against his. Shook her head gently so that her untamed hair fell down to her shoulders, a wild, fey look. She finally left his mouth, slowly disentangling the leg wrapped around his waist. Stepped back and gazed at him with dark bedroom eyes, lips curving into a small Mona Lisa smile that promised vast, countless secrets, unknown treasures waiting to be discovered.

Tossing him another luscious, glowing grin over her shoulder, she unhurriedly unbuttoned her jeans, stepped her feet out of them and unfastened her bra strap with one hand. His eyes prowled over her body, the way his hands itched to, drinking in her small, supple breasts, the delicious curve of her hips, the graceful twist of her ankle. She turned to face him again, moving toward him, slow and purposeful.

“This is going to be so worth it,” she told him gleefully, and he curled one arm around her waist, slid it up and across the small of her back. Lifted her chin with one hand, tipped it up and kissed her. Soft and sweet, tentative. Had to be fragile now, because she’d been broken more times than he could possibly count, and she was still getting accustomed to this, getting used to him.

There was mending to be done on both sides.

Moving again, her legs bumping against the edge of the mattress, and then they were sinking into bed sheets. The thin blankets were so sleek and smooth that he wanted to be swathed in their endless finery, lose himself in a sea of satin. He realized with a jolt that this was the first time she had ever invited him in, into her bed. Before it had been her coming down to his level, only bothering to dirty herself for a roll in the hay.

But now it was different. Let the past stay where it belongs, he told himself, pressing his face to her neck and breathing in the smoke of her skin. This is what we have now. This is something new.

She lowered her body down to his, and the heat of the contact sent sparks shooting through him, a million tiny volts of electricity that made his blood buzz, skin sing. When she smiled, he felt as if he would burst if he had to wait any longer. Her hands flittered downward, cupping him gently.

His hands slipped over the curve of her breast, gently thumbing her nipples. She gasped into his mouth and arched into him. He smiled, bit down on the lushness of her bottom lip. Moved down to her throat, kissed her pulse point. Her skin was flushed pretty pink, swelled and warm beneath his hands. She was looking at him with all kinds of want, and he was still struggling to grasp the fact that he was wanted at all.

He traced his tongue across the underside of her breasts, down to the rise of her belly. Starving for his mouth again, she pulled his face up to hers and met his lips again in a hot, open-mouthed kiss, working over them readily. Hands skimming over him every which way, desperate for the feeling of his marble-smooth flesh. Skittered down like butterflies to the alabaster of his chest. His hands cut a feather-light trail down to her sides, running over the smooth skin knit over her ribs.

When he entered her, it was exquisite. It was like exhuming hidden treasures, diving into a lost paradise, awakening the senses within. A gentle push, and she arched into him, hissing between her teeth. Bending to kiss his shoulder, brush her palm across his silken-smooth cheek.

“I love you,” she whispered to him, smiling, fingertips tracing the ridges of his face.

“Love you, too.” He closed the gap between them and kissed her fiercely, leaving her quivering and gasping for more as she sank down on him further. “Love you so much.”

Another thrust, so deep inside of her that she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began, and then there were starbursts exploding behind her eyes until she couldn’t see, blinded by tears, the slow, steady rhythm building as he pumped into her. He was inside and above and surrounding her completely. Rocked into her, slow and steady, foreheads pressed together, each of them gripping onto one another like lifelines.

“Oh, god, Buffy…” His face was buried into her neck, the words muffled against her skin.

“I’ve got you,” she assured him. “I’ve got you. I promise.”

“Hold onto me,” he told her, desperately. “Please, hold onto me…”

“I’m right here,” she breathed. “I swear, I’m right here. Right…here…”

Couldn’t hold it in any longer, and she came, arms tightening around his back. Then she reached up, brought his face down to hers and kissed him into climax, tongues tangling. Tasting his words and his love, and soon he tumbled over the edge with her. After, they lie together in a tangle of spent limbs. Her breathing hard, his mind still spinning, both of them caught in a languid daze. Her arms were draped around him, and he pulled her closer, an intrinsic action.

He splayed his fingers across the smooth pillow of her stomach, listening to the cadence of her heartbeat, and she slid one palm up across his still chest, causing him to shiver. There was a part of him that believed her very touch was his salvation, that it meant he was forgiven, that it could absolve him of his sins. It brought him peace of mind and warmed his heart, in any case.

Buffy nestled up against him, nuzzling her face into the crook of his neck, and he cradled her with his arm, looked down at her as he rocked her back and forth, rocked her until they both drifted into sleep.

 

Spike was very quickly reaching the end of his rope, and he thought that he might be about two seconds away from snapping completely and tearing someone’s head off.

He growled low in his throat. “If they play Feliz Navidad one more time, I swear to god, I’ll--”

“Oh, come on!” piped up Dawn from the car’s backseat. “It’s festive!”

“‘Festive’ my ass,” he muttered, reaching out to fiddle with the radio knobs. “Bloody annoying is what it is.”

“Don’t mess with it,” Buffy chided, batting his hands away. “Giles will be pissed if you break his radio.”

The vampire slumped backwards, looking ahead of him with a loud, disgruntled sigh. Ran a hand through his slightly disheveled hair-- Buffy had finally convinced him to tone down on the gel, assuring him she liked it much better without. His fingers tapped out an uneven rhythm against the steering wheel, as impatient and impetuous as ever, one knee starting to bounce.

“I miss the bike,” he blurted out suddenly, accompanying it with a petulant pout. Then louder, “Stupid Hellmouth.” Another frustrated sigh, more finger-tapping. “You know, if the Powers That Be were planning on dragging a bloke back from the dead, they could’ve at least had the decency to give him his bike back. It’s just common decency.”

Reaching over, Buffy patted his hand gently, and said with mock sympathy, “Sweetie, you have to let it go and move on.”

“Come on, Spike, don’t you feel the Christmas spirit?” Dawn asked cheerily, poking him sharply in the shoulder from behind.

“Hmph,” was his only reply.

“I’m not dealing with a sulky vamp all night.” Buffy coiled the fingers of one hand around the curls at the nape of his neck, stroking them with tenderness and leaning closer to him, almost as if she were soothing a pained kitten. He leaned into her touch and softened.

“Okay, can we at least park the car before you two start macking on each other?” questioned Dawn with a sharp sarcastic tone, clearing her throat pointedly, but when Buffy glanced over her shoulder, she saw the hint of a smile playing on her younger sister’s face.

Christmas shopping was not a pastime Spike ever imagined himself taking part in again. But here he was, on the outskirts of the downtown city, driving his girls so they could flounce about the shops and purchase their gifts-- the next morning, the plane from Tuscany would be flying in, and along with it, Xander, Giles, Andrew, and a new Slayer. Somehow they’d managed to drag him along on their shopping excursion. How he’d gotten himself into this, he had no idea.

“Meet us here in exactly two hours,” Buffy told her sister once they had parked the car and stepped outside, giving her that serious, Mom-like look. “If you’re more than five minutes late--”

“I know, I know.” Dawn rolled her eyes. “Blah blah, I’ll be grounded until the next apocalypse, blah blippity blah.” She held up her wrist and pointed to her watch. “I will be here, I promise, bearing gifts for all. Love you.” She blew a hasty kiss and spun on her heel, walking away quickly and disappearing into the evening crowd of fellow consumers.

“Two hours!” called Buffy one more time, loudly, before she turned back to Spike. “So, you ready for this?”

“Hey, if we could beat back hordes of uber-vampires, last-minute shoppers the day before Christmas shouldn't be a problem,” he assured her.

She raised an eyebrow in his direction, grinning playfully. “I don’t know. There may be some catfights over the clearance rack. Complete with biting and nail scratching and hair pulling. Could get dirty.”

“I think you can handle it,” he responded dryly, linking his hand with hers and pulling her to him.

“Oh, really?” She stood close to him, face inches apart from his, her clouded, foggy breath brushing across his face, close enough to just tilt her head and meet his lips with hers. But instead of kissing him, she just kept smiling and then started to move, tugging his hand sweetly to tow him along. He groaned but followed good-naturedly.

Looking into a shop window, he suddenly frowned. “Bugger. Now I have to find something for you.”

“No you don’t,” she told him, and she smiled, stood up on her tiptoes. Brushed her lips against his, sinking into a deep kiss, hair pooling around her shoulders and shining like a golden halo beneath the warm glow of the streetlight above. “I already got what I wanted for Christmas. I couldn’t ask for anything more.”

Unable to contain his grin, he swept an errant strand of hair from her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. “You sure about that?”

“Well, a pair of Prada shoes wouldn’t hurt,” she joked, and then pulled him forward again.

Together, they strolled down the walkway, arms intertwined, her leaning against his shoulder. As they walked, strands of music spilled out of outdoor speakers, drifting down to them. A gorgeous piano melody was playing from above, a harmonic, dulcet song. Buffy drew to a stop, cocking her head to one side as she listened to the sound intently.

“This seems familiar,” she said to him, pursing her lips in thought. “Something like…”

“Greensleeves,” Spike supplied automatically.

She grinned at him. “Yes, that’s it.”

“Bet I could play this on the piano.”

“You know how to play the piano? I never knew that.”

“There’s a lot you still don’t know.”

“Well, I’m going to figure out everything about you.” She slid her arms around his torso, pressed herself there closely and tilted her head back to look him in the eyes, a wide, almost conspiratorial smile illuminating her features. “Every last detail.”

“Oh, yeah? That’s a pretty hefty task to take on right there.” He grinned back and raised his eyebrows, studying her. “Don’t think you can quite handle it. Sure you’re up for the challenge?”

She laughed, pressing her cheek to his chest and closing her eyes blissfully. “Oh, you bet I am.”

He had never looked so forward to being proven wrong.

 

~finis