Only Sometimes, Late at Night…

Notes: Post-Chosen, post-Not Fade Away (even though I’ve seen absolutely no AtS), but no spoilers for anything specific. Inspired by Hinder’s “Lips of an Angel”, but not a songfic.

Disclaimer: Not mine; they belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. More’s the pity.

It was late. It was so late that the argument could be made that it was early.

But that’s the time it had to be in Rome so that she could be sure of catching him in Los Angeles. And it wasn’t like she wasn’t used to late nights.

She’d closed the blinds and drawn the curtains so no hint of light from the outside could creep in. It made the illusion easier to build.

She curled up in the corner of the sofa, cradling the phone against her ear, listening to it ring on the other end.

It rang so long that she started to be afraid that it wasn’t the right number any more, or that she’d missed him, or…

“H’lo?”

The sound of his voice always caught her by surprise, always affected her like no one else’s could, making her heart trip in her chest double time. It drew her into memories that were painfully dear, memories she would never trade for any kind of peace. A shuddering, gasping little breath broke through her control and she couldn’t say his name.

There was a brief silence on the other end of the phone line. “Buffy?”

Oh, the way he said her name. It tingled up and down her spine, as it always did, every time he had ever said it. Her voice was suddenly tight, as if with tears. “Hey, Spike…”

Sounds muffled down the wires—a door closing, the nearly silent brush of fabric on fabric, and then his low voice once more, curling around her ear. “You all right, love?”

Buffy closed her eyes, and felt a tiny smile curve her lips. “Yeah. Just… it’s been a while.”

More muted noises, the rasping snap of metal on metal, and he exhaled a long breath. It was so easy to imagine—she saw him taking a long drag off his cigarette, cheeks hollowing under the sharp bones of his face, long fingers tapping the end into an ashtray. If she inhaled, she knew she would be able to smell the tobacco. Then he chuckled softly. “Yeah, I guess it has.”

Nerves struck her, as they so frequently did, and she forced herself to let go of the fantasy that he was there with her. “I… I’m not interrupting, am I? Were you busy? Or… going out?”

A pause, so quiet that she could almost hear the paper burning as he drew on his cigarette. “No, I’m not busy. Not going out, either. She’s asleep… isn’t feeling well.”

And there it was. Spike had a way of making her face what she’d rather be denying, of forcing her to see the truths that she wished were false.

The truth of it was that he was with someone. Someone who wasn’t her. Someone else. He was trying to change, to move on.

And she couldn’t handle that. Not because she was—no, she thought bitterly, I used to be—the center of his universe and now she knew she wasn’t any more, or at least she hoped she wasn’t that self-centered. She couldn’t handle him moving on because…

Because I want him to move on to me.

The pain welled up in her as it always did at the reminder, and she pressed her free hand to her chest, willing her breath not to hitch, willing the tears not to fall.

He never said her name, and Buffy was so very grateful for that small mercy, because it made her just unreal enough so that she could pretend that distance was the only thing separating them.

But her voice was tiny when she asked, “Is she all right? Do you want me to…?”

Only a year ago, or maybe even less, she would have dredged up an accusation to fling at him, the harshest words she could find to wound him, and the worst part was that the instinct was still there. That evil part of her brain, just brimming with every bit of her emotional agony, was so ready and willing to share, and it was trying to get her to say something, anything, to let him know how much he was hurting her.

Just by not being there with her he was hurting her.

But that wasn’t all his fault.

“She’ll be fine, love. You don’t have to go.”

“Okay.”

A hush fell between them again, and for a moment, she just listened to the soft, familiar sounds—insects humming and birds waking up outside the window, the creak of the building settling, the steady in and out of her breath down the phone line, as he fell into breathing in time with her again, punctuated now and again by exhalations of smoke. She let herself fall into memory again, and could see the tendrils of blue wafting around his head.

“How are you? I mean, other than…”

“Pretty much the same, I guess.”

Tears threatened her again, and the sad twist of her lips could never have been mistaken for a smile. Yeah, I still feel like my heart’s been ripped out, too…

“And you?”

This time the smile was a bit more genuine, as she reflected that they found it so difficult to have a normal conversation outside of an apocalypse. If it wasn’t awkward small talk, it was a shouting match. Or a fistfight.

“I guess… I’m the same, too.”

Another brief lull, and she heard him flicking his lighter open and closed. “And… and everyone?” His voice had a slight edge.

Buffy relaxed just slightly. This was the Spike she knew. He didn’t really want to know about Dawn or Willow or Xander—well, she allowed, maybe Dawn—he wanted to know about him. “He’s not here.” He hadn’t been there in weeks, nor had she gone to see him. It was over, all but the words, and had been for a while.

None of her post-Sunnydale boyfriends ever lasted more than a few months. A swirl of dates and fun was all right with her, but as soon as they started looking for something more, she backed off. When they asked why, she was left without a reason.

Because the real reason was in Los Angeles.

“Oh. Just thought he was, ‘cause you were so quiet…”

They could sit here on the phone for hours and dance around their issues; they’d done it before, too many times to count. She pressed her hand harder against her chest, took a breath, but the words only came out in a whisper.

“I love you, Spike.” It was a statement, something she’d tried to deny for so long. Simple and true, without any of the pleading that she wanted so to let out. I love you, Spike, come back, oh, please, come back…

She heard him stop breathing, and dead silence filtered down the phone line for a few of her rabbit-fast heartbeats. She still shocked him sometimes, she knew, with how easily it rolled off her tongue, and she knew also that he wished she could have said it before.

She wished she could have, too.

“I love you, too, Buffy.”

She closed her eyes, and let the heat overcome her. God, his voice… That soft velvet baritone that wrapped around her and tried to take the world away. The words, the emotion behind them that she could finally acknowledge, the devotion that she had tried so hard to destroy—they filled her, warming her, and oh, God, she wished…

“But…” That one word was heavy, so heavy with sadness.

And reality crashed back, and she hated it, because it made her realize once again that there were some things that love just couldn’t fix.

She was crying now, though she tried to keep that from him, because he didn’t need her to inflict more pain on him than she already had, and she knew that he could never stand her tears. “I know. I just… I know.”

No matter how much we don’t mean to, I hurt you, and you hurt me, and I know that we’re no good for each other, but we’re no good apart either…

But she wouldn’t beg. Not because of her pride—do I even have any left?—but because after so long, she wanted nothing more than for him to be happy. And she knew he couldn’t be happy with her, no matter how much he loved her. And if she pleaded, even just one time, one word, he would come to her.

“I’m sorry, love…” He sounded miserable, and Buffy knew that he knew.

She wiped her cheeks, but the tears wouldn’t stop. “No, Spike, it’s all right,” she whispered. “I just… I needed to say it.”

“I know.”

She quirked a tiny smile in the midst of her tears, because she finally got it, she understood. “I’m sorry if I…”

“No. I’m glad you call me. I always am.”

His voice warmed her right through, and recklessly, she said, “Maybe, you know, someday…?”

“Yeah, maybe.” And the absolute hope in his voice flayed her.

It was the only time he lied to her, the only time she never called him on it.

“Love you, Spike.”

“Love you.”

“Good night.”

“’Night, love.”

She hung up and quietly sobbed.

She hoped, as she always did when she got off the phone with him, that one day things would change. She’d wake up and be all emotionally mature and issue-free, and it would be possible to mend everything between them that had gone wrong, and they’d be all right.

When the sun came up, when she had to face the world again, Buffy knew she would have to push all this—all of her Spike-filled longings and dreams and thoughts—to the back of her mind and pretend to everyone that she was all right. She would have to acknowledge that things were the way they were, and this time, she couldn’t fix what had been broken.

Even then, though, even during the sunniest days, she ached, because she wanted that someday. She knew it couldn’t be now, no matter how much she wanted the changes she was trying to make to be now, but she’d settle for someday. So that Spike would never have lied to her.

And she wished. She remembered that she shouldn’t, she knew the dangers that came from wishing, but alone in the cool pre-dawn, arms wrapped around herself and tears streaking her cheeks, oh, she wished…

***

October 12, 2006