Title: Before Bed
Author: spike_me_1
Email: spike_me_@yahoo.com
URL: http://www.geocities.com/spike_me_1
Rating: Pg-13
Summary: It’s been months since his return from Africa and Spike muses over his relationship with Buffy.
Spoilers: Season Six
Keywords: Buffy, Spike, Future


Every night I stand here before bed staring up at her window, the wood worn from weather and escapes into the night. The white paint has chipped off from the six years of her stealthy feet climbing out and into adventures unknown.

Every night I stand here before bed, my leather coat pressed against the rough bark of the tree just below the peeling white window. Cigarette pressed between my lips I wait for the moment I know will come eventually. I know when it’s time. Know it by heart.

She sends her sister upstairs after they do the dishes. She tells her goodnight and hugs her body close before watching her head upstairs. Then she checks all of the locks and turns off all of the lights because that’s what her mum always did. Sometimes I see her peek outside the living room window as she kneels on the couch and roll her eyes at the sight of me, the Big Bad, lurking about outside her house. She mumbles idle threats as she climbs the creaky wooden staircase because that’s what she always does before bed.

She peeks in the Nibblet’s room on her way to the bathroom. Maybe she wants to make sure she’s safe, maybe she’s making sure she didn’t duck out like her older sister did as a child, or maybe it’s to make sure she’s real. She tiptoes to the bathroom carefully and shuts the door with ease so she won’t disturb the Platelet. Once inside the pallid walls of the bathroom, she sheds her clothing and turns on the facet to the bathtub. She looks in the mirror at her naked form, a body that I worship, and studies it closely. Turning to the left, then the right, she critiques herself. She sucks in her stomach, probably wishing she were thinner, like all other women do, even though she is already too thin. Then she sticks it out. She always runs her hand over her feign swollen belly. Maybe she’s wondering what she would look like if she were pregnant, maybe she wonders if she is capable of conceiving after all her little body has been through, or maybe she’s wondering if she is pregnant from all of our late night encounters. Doubtful you say? Just look at Peaches. She cups her breasts and pushes them upward slightly, then sighs when she releases them and they hang back in their proper position. How can she find fault with all of her perfection? When she finally steps into the shower, her taught muscles immediately relax from the warmth of her moist cocoon. She hums or sings while she rinses her golden body, effulgent from the water droplets that cling to her sun-kissed skin. And yes, I said it. It’s a good word. The scent of vanilla fills the room when she sluices her honey colored hair. She sings and lathers, rinses and repeats because that’s what she always does before bed.
Stepping out of the shower, she towels down her wet form, her shoulders glistening under the florescent light. She applies her deodorant and moisturizer, then brushes her dainty white teeth and soaked hair before grabbing her pink terrycloth robe, the gray robe long discarded.

She wraps the soft fabric around her tight then slips her tiny yet deceivingly powerful feet into the matching cotton slippers. Quietly, she shuffles to her room and seals the door. She saunters over to her window and glances down at my smoky form. Again idles threats and comment s of disgust escape her lips as she walks to her dresser and chooses her pajamas. Sometimes she wears the sexy slips she bought for Captain Cardboard long ago with the nice matching thongs, sometimes she wears matching sets with cartoons or little hearts on them that she got as birthday presents from the Scoobies, sometimes she wears just one of her favorite ratted out t-shirts, and sometimes, oh yes sometimes, she doesn’t wear a bleedin’ thing. After changing her attire in one form or another, she creeps over to the other side of her room and turns off the light. She turns down her worn sheets and slides beneath the covers because that’s what she always does before bed.

She pulls the covers up to her chin then closes her eyes and prays. To whom I don’t know. She’s never been a religious woman, but she prays all the same. Maybe she prays to God, maybe to the Powers That Be, or maybe it’s to her dear mom. Nevertheless, she does it with the hope that someone out there will hear her. “Amen” escapes her sweet lips as she sighs because that’s what she always does before bed.
Then comes the tossing and turning. I know she’s thinking of me because she grumbles and swears every so often. The bed squeaks from much use as she rolls from side to side. I can hear her mumble curses about an “evil bloodsucking fiend” as she throws herself out of bed and stomps angrily to the window to see if I’m still there. Of course I am. She sees me, swears again, and lifts a crack in her window because that’s what she always does before bed.

Every night I wait here before bed staring at her window and ever night she opens it and herself to me. A satisfied smile always manages to curl on my lips as I snuff out my last cigarette and extinguish the flame while the one inside me burns brighter by the second. I climb the tree quickly like a cat, being the predator that I am, and crawl onto her roof. I lift her window gently and stare at her moonlit form beneath the covers. She lies on her side, arm tucked behind her head, as she stares at me until I melt into a puddle of desire. I shed my clothing as I approach her side then slide under the sheets with her. She whispers it’s the last time and denies it means a thing because that’s what she always does before bed.

I agree sarcastically, knowing the truth to it all, as I pepper her with soft kisses, slowly ridding her of her garments. I whisper my devotion and love for her as I lavish her with attention. I kiss her lips with all of the heat and desire I feel for her, letting her know what she does to me. Then ever so slowly I crawl between her golden legs and break all of the barriers between us. We move to the rhythm of the dance we were destined for in the moonlight with only the song of my undead heart beating as a guide. Slowly we climb to heaven together, holding onto each other, scared to ever let go. Maybe it’s because my soul is back, maybe because she’s lonely, maybe because it’s destiny, and maybe, just maybe, it’s because she loves me. She whispers terms of endearment and encouragement as we waltz under the linen. Once we’ve both taken our bows and have spent all of our energy, she slides herself closer to me and settles by my side. She places her beautiful face on my cold chest and sighs in content. I never can hold back my smile at these demonstrations of affection and trust. I wrap my arms around her and hold her tightly. Maybe it’s because I want to protect her, maybe it’s because I missed her so much, but mostly it’s because I love her more than anything I have ever known. She drifts off to sleep and I bask in the warmth of her body and steady rhythm of her heart as my eyelids become heavier. My last thoughts are of my golden goddess in my arms because she is always what I do before bed.