| Sad and Deep As You Spike/Buffy BtVS Season 7 post 'First Date' Rating 'R' |
“Buffy, I’m all right.” “You don’t have to—“ “What? Be noble? I’m not. Really, I’m all right. Think I still dream of a crypt for two with a white picket fence? My eyes are clear.” * * * * * He couldn’t recall the final words of their conversation; he only remembered that she’d turned her back on him and walked away. Later that evening, exiled to his cot in the dank basement, he counted the myriad reasons why he should leave; but no matter how compelling his arguments were against himself, he couldn’t make himself move. “I’ll be stuck in this bleeding hole until the end of time.” He turned onto his stomach and gazed despondently at the floor. If he squinted his eyes just so, that oil stain next to the dryer looked a little bit like Buffy, that cute swish of a nose, but the hair was all wrong. He stretched out his arm and traced his fingers through the stain. “Ah, that’s better.” He smiled at his handiwork. “Buffy.” Closing his eyes, he whispered to himself – “My eyes are clear”. And like a firestorm, the truth engulfed him: the finality of that brief moment with her in the hallway, the pure pain of knowing that she’d never look upon him as a lover again. That she’d never dress to catch his eye or please him, and that from that moment forward, she’d be making herself beautiful for other men. Real men. Human men. Evil or not, real was something he’d never be. He could go to the ends of the earth for her, curse himself for eternity with a soul, fight beside her until he was dust, but he’d never be what she wanted or deserved. He was a man without hope. Hopeless. Looking back on his waste of a life and un-life, he wondered why he’d never lost hope until he met her. He’d been foolish, stupid, impetuous, angry, vile and rude. Cruel, thoughtless, mad, bad and brave, but never, ever had he been truly without hope, without a plan. Now all he could do is wait and try to curb his imagination about just exactly what she’d be up to tonight with that stupid wanker, Wood. Though now chip-less, his soul precluded him from doing what he’d really like to do –strangle the smile right off that idiot’s face. He’d do it real slow, make ‘im beg for mercy. He shook his head to chase away the vision of Wood’s imagined death scene. Another reason to add to the long list of reasons why he should leave. “I’ll leave,” he said, then laughed. “Hey, it’s a plan.” * * * * * Unfortunately, Xander screwed things up as usual. Seemed to have gotten himself a date with a demon girl, who was now, according to Willow, either giving him the happy or killing him. “I’ll go get Buffy.” Her friends ignored him. After the third time he announced it, he just left. He followed her scent. Couldn’t miss it. She must’ve poured the whole damn bottle over her body before she went out. It was one of the things he’d noticed earlier that evening. Doused herself with scent, enticing someone, not him, to take a sniff of all her sweet, tender bits. It had contributed mightily to his deep depression. If he ever smelled vanilla again, he’d stake himself. He found them all cozy at a small, intimate restaurant that fairly screamed, ‘dinner first, then sex’. Wood was feeding her some nasty looking thing with his spoon. From across the restaurant, Spike stared as the spoon plunged into her mouth, and she swallowed, murmuring in apparent ecstasy. Spike grabbed a menu from the maitre d' and crushed it in his hand, muttering, “Get a grip. Get a grip. Kill him later. The boy needs Buffy.” * * * * * Of course, she wouldn’t explain to Wood exactly who he was--this blond, dangerous looking man showing up out of nowhere to spoil their date. Still ashamed of the vampire, even as a fellow soldier in her stupid war. Spike slumped over in the backseat so Wood couldn’t get a glimpse of the ‘big nothing’ he was in the rearview mirror. But later, after the battle was over and all the bodies down for the count, it was him she rushed to comfort instead of Wood or Xander; and it just made things worse. So before he went down to his exile in the basement that night, he figured he had to have it out with her once and for all. Tell her it was time for him to be moving on. He thought his arguments for his departure were eminently reasonable, particularly as it seemed The First wasn’t done yanking him around, but leave it to her to come up with a perfectly ‘Buffy’ reason for him to stay. 'Cause I'm not ready for you to not be here. Women, go figure. What the hell did that mean? After his blood had rushed back to his brain, he knew that he was the one who was going to make the hard choice. * * * * * Giles was very accommodating; in fact, Spike thought the Watcher would’ve given him his first born, just to get him out of the house and away from Buffy. He tucked the thick wad of cash in his jeans and slipped out the front door. Without looking back, he walked down Revello Drive and out of her life, he hoped, for good. He was hating his plan already. He checked into a seedy motel on the edge of town and thought about his next move. Where to go, now that he was free? He had no idea. He lay upon the bed, listening to the heater rattle, counting the cockroaches crawling aimlessly across the ceiling. He envied them. He fell asleep and, as usual, dreamed of her. * * * * * She found him the next evening, just before sunset, bursting through the door like a narc going for a million dollar bust. She grabbed him by the collar and hauled him off the bed. “Just where do you think you were sneaking off to?” she shouted. He shoved her away with both hands, knocking the breath out of her. She stumbled backward and fell across the bed. At least now, he’d be able to get a word in. He stood over her and nonchalantly arranged his shirt; he tried to keep his eyes on her face. Too dangerous to gaze upon the way her body was sprawled before him, her legs wide, her chest heaving with indignation. Those beautiful breasts waiting for his touch. Just like last night’s dream. He tilted his head and furtively glanced up at the ceiling. The cockroaches were running for cover. Like he should be. “You’re wasting your time,” he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “Coward,” she gasped, finally catching her breath. “No. Not a coward. But then, you wouldn’t know that, would you? Never did ask me about Africa, did you? Never did ask me just what it took to fight the demon inside me to get my soul.” “What is it? What do you want? Didn’t I rescue you from The First? Didn’t I tell you that I believed in you?” There was a catch in her voice. She took a deep breath, struggling to a sitting position. “Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t ready for you to go?” He sighed, knelt beside the bed, and patted her knee. He hadn’t meant to touch her; it was a purely unconscious gesture, but she flinched. He dropped his hand and stared at her feet. “But that’s your life, Buffy. What about mine? Maybe I’m ready to go. Maybe I want to go. Maybe I need to go.” “It’s those white picket fences! I knew you were lying.” He laughed. God, he loved her. Always one to go straight for the jugular. She would’ve made a glorious vampire. “No. I told you I’m not being noble.” “You’re a terrible liar.” “It’s the truth, I swear.” “Well, what’s wrong? Was it me getting all...friendly with Wood?” He snorted. “Right, like I could be jealous of that stiff loser.” She flushed. “There was no stiffness going on.” “You know, you’re either blind or completely clueless, Buffy. The man’s got it bad for you. Frankly, I felt sorry for the poor sod. Been there, myself.” He stood up and tapped himself on the chest. “But I got the cure, right here.” Her movement was quick; she caught him by the arm before he could back away and yanked him onto the bed beside her. “I need you, Spike. There’s no one, no one…” Her voice grew soft, “Can’t we be friends?” He looked down at her then, staring with horror at her red face, all scrunched up and ugly. Was she going to cry? He was losing ground fast. “You want the truth?” He spat out the words. “Yes.” “I love you. And it's killing me.” She winced at his words. Clenching her fists, she fought back tears. He stood up, sensing the anger rising inside her, and for a moment, he feared for his life. And then it was all over. Eyes dark with pain, she rose from the bed and stumbled toward him. “You’re leaving.” He longed to hold her, to comfort her, but resisted the urge, stepping back toward the door. “I can never become what you want. No matter what I do.” Frozen, she stood in the center of the room, watching him. “You’re leaving,” she repeated, her voice dull and hopeless. “You know it’s the truth. I’m not what you deserve. I wanted to be, tried to be. But we both know that I’m not.” He spoke softly, trying with his words and voice to give her the comfort his body could not. And he saw, by the look upon her face, that she hadn’t understood him, that she was beyond the reach of his words. Too much truth. There was nothing more to say. He turned his back on her and fled. * * * * * Not a very dramatic or glorious exit. God, the look in her eyes. In turmoil, he paused outside the door, struggling to recapture his sense of the rightness of his choice to leave her. Maybe when he’d put a few continents between them, it wouldn’t hurt quite so bad. Put one foot in front of the other. Just walk away, all the way out of her life. He’d done it before. Unfortunately, when he went to the office to checkout, he realized he’d left his cash in the nightstand beside the bed. Now he’d have to wait until she left before he could retrieve it. All he had in his pocket was a five dollar bill which would only get him as far as the next pack of smokes. The motel clerk handed him a pack and book of matches, and he went outside and hid behind a tree to wait for her to leave. An hour later, he was still waiting. The more things change, the more they stay the same, he thought, glaring at the steady pile of butts growing about his feet. * * * * * Two hours later, he crumpled up the empty pack of Marlboros and tossed it to the ground. Enough was enough. What could she be doing in there all this time? His curiosity overcame his pride. He stood outside the door and listened. Silence. He turned the doorknob and slid into the darkened room. She lay curled upon the bed, hugging a pillow to her chest, her hair tumbled in disarray. The room was unbearably hot; she must’ve turned up the heater. A light sheen of sweat glistened over her naked body. If he’d had a breath to catch, it would have been impossible. Kneeling on the floor beside the bed, he drank in the vision of her until he was completely intoxicated with desire and longing—all tangled up with an aching sadness. Scars and bruises covered her body. With the softest touch, he trailed his hand over her hip and down her leg, following the pale path of a particularly nasty scar. She shivered beneath his touch and hugged the pillow tightly to her chest. He stared thoughtfully at the pillow for a few moments. He was jealous of a pillow. How far gone was he? He’d never leave her. Freedom from loving her was a fool’s dream. He sighed. She woke slowly, staring at him with grave, green eyes beneath dark lashes. He stared back. And it came to him, as he fell into her eyes, into her soul, that she might never understand the journey he’d taken to come to this moment. What he’d suffered. What he’d done for love. What cost a soul? But it was also true that maybe he’d never understand her journey, either. Night after lonely night in the killing fields. Her young body, a testament to what she’d done for love and duty. A thousand souls, a hundred thousand souls safe because she chose to stay and fight. She wasn’t ready for him to not be there. He couldn’t abandon her now. He undressed and crawled into the bed beside her; she clung to him. Without speaking, she caressed him. He lay motionless beneath the fevered touch of her hands upon his cool skin. Afraid if he moved, she’d disappear. That she’d become another, colder being. That she’d remember that this thing between them was wrong. That he was not real. He closed his eyes and surrendered to her touch. She pressed her lips, soft and full, against the palm of his hand and guided his fingers to her breast. Her skin, un-scarred there, was silken soft beneath his fingertips. She uttered a low moan and arched into his hand. Threading her fingers through his hair, she drew him on top of her, opening to him; the heat of her, inflaming him. He entered her slowly, watching her face, her eyes, waiting for a sign, any sign to tell him to stop. But all he saw in her eyes was love. Too much love. He felt his heart break as she cried softly beneath him, rocking against him slowly, slowly; he nuzzled her salty, tear-stained face, seeking her lips. She kissed him deeply, tenderly, purely. And then he was lost to her motion, to her need for him and to his own desire to be lost inside her. Welcomed there in her arms. So safe beneath her skin. Loved. So very different than before, this making love with one’s soul. He knew he’d never be ready for her to not be there. * * * * * They wandered homeward through the darkened streets of Sunnydale, hand in hand: two lovers walking in a dream, hopeful and lighthearted, their faces radiant, as if they had the world before them. She pulled him to a stop before a small white house, complete with a newly-painted picket fence and a For Sale sign. She squeezed his hand. “Maybe not this house or this town. But maybe…somewhere, someday…?” “Ah, love. Now’s not the time.” Gently, he led her across the street away from the house. “Battle’s a brewing. Feel it in my soul.” “You’re staying.” It was more a statement than a question. Laughing, he hugged her. “Forever. Besides, I want to see how it ends.” * * * * * dark dreams fic |
| "Eyes that tell a story sad and deep as you..." Dave Mason |