Skin




I open the door and he's standing there, head dropped, bottle of gin dangling from his fingers.

"Spike?" I ask, I whisper, because he's the last person I would have expected, even if, sometimes late at night, the first one I hope for.

"Slayer." It isn't very convincing. His speech is slurred. "Buffy. Tried to stay away."

I take him by the elbow, invite him in. "We were worried," I tell him, leading him into the living room.

"Were not," he mutters, as he slumps on to the couch. His head falls back, and he looks at me for the first time. "Hate me."

And there's something so familiar in his eyes, some thing so horrifying that I begin to back away.

He struggles to his feet, follows me. "Should hate me. Shoulda slammed the door in my bloody face. Just let me in, like a friend, like. . . like las' year never happened, Dawn asleep an' trusting up in her little-girl bed. . ."

"Dawn can take care of herself," I say quietly, and for a moment he's surprised. Then he looks glad, nods sloppily.

"Good for the bit, makin' you see."

"She knows," I blurt out, because I'm tired of it hanging between us, tired of my guilt. He's come back, and now I can tell him.

There's silence, and I expect him to be mad maybe, but instead he nods again. "Time for her to grow up, then. She should know. Hate me too, does she?"

There's dullness in his voice, a desperate hope he expects to be disappointed. I shiver and wrap my arms around myself. I can't look at him while I tell him.

"A lot of stuff's. . . happened, while you were. . . were wherever you were. Tara. . . was killed. Willow tried to end the world. Dawn's talking to her again. So I think. . . I think you've got a chance." Now I meet his eyes, because it's the right thing to do. "I tried to explain it to her. How it wasn't your fault. Not. . . not all of it. How it was mine." My voice is steadier than I ever would have imagined.

He curses to himself, and then he shudders, he shudders so hard I almost think he's breaking. He takes a long swig of the gin. "Buffy-"

"No," I tell him, and now I'm shaking, and moving closer. I'm taking the bottle, setting it down on the coffee table. "No, let me do this. I was so unfair to you, after everything you'd done for me. For all of us. I . . . I used you. And then after I told you it was over, I kept coming back, throwing it in your face. Because I was the one having trouble with it, because I. . .missed you. And it was so wrong, doing that to you. And then in. . . right before you left, upstairs. . ." My voice breaks.

"Buffy, you don't have to-"

I reach out, take his hands, lace my fingers through mine, but I don't stop talking, because I do have to. "I wouldn't talk to you. I couldn't. . . wouldn't even explain, I just dismissed you. I was done with the conversation, and it was time for you to go away. I don't. . . I don't blame you." I look down. "It's not like my saying no ever meant anything before."

It's like his knees have buckled, because he's fallen, he's on the floor, his forehead pressed to my abdomen, and he's shaking. It takes me a minute to figure out he's crying. Spike cries?

"Spike. Spike, come on. Don't. . . it's okay, see? We're both okay. Come here, come with me. . ."

And he lets me take him back to the couch, and I sit on the coffee table across from him. I grab the gin and hand it to him. He shakes his head, and I'm so surprised I take a swig myself before setting it aside again.

He starts to speak, finally, but he seems so far away. "You were right, Slayer, not to trust me. Couldn't see what you were saying, you see. Wasn't capable. Not like I am now. Didn't understand. God I was a stupid wanker. Smartened up now. See it lots of nights in my head. Even right after, when I said I would never, an' I meant it, you were right. I would. I did. Cause I couldn't see what I was doing to you. Couldn't feel it, even hearing your screams. I can now. I can feel all of it, every bloody second of my hundred an' twenty years. Don't how the ponce stands it."

"A soul." I say it, and I gag. I feel my stomach twisting inside me. "You've got a soul."

He's still gazing off far away. "Reckon I'm a bit more trustworthy now, eh pet?"

But he doesn't feel safer. "Oh God, oh God." I'm sick. I'm thrilled. Too much, too much. "How-"

"When I left, I went to Africa. Went to get the chip out. Wanted to kill you, couldn't take it anymore. Didn't work out. Demon had a sense of humor." He focuses, finally, on my face. "Wasn't going to come back. That didn't work out either. So here I am."

He reaches out, strokes his hand along my cheek, and I can't move, I can hardly even breathe, I can only look at him, the reverence in his face. Oh God, oh God.

"I missed you," he whispers, and it's like the floodgates are open. His hands are on my arms and he's pulling me on to him, burying his face in my neck. I let him, I tilt my head, look, I trust you, it's okay, because he's trembling and it's frightening me. He's pressing open-mouth kisses along the length of my neck, dragging my shirt aside to reach my shoulder.

"I need you," he says. "I need you."

My hands clutch at his shoulders, and the shock of having him there under my fingertips again is enough to jolt me back into reality, where I can feel him hard against my thigh, body tensed like a jackrabbit, tears wet on my skin as his blunt teeth beg at my flesh.

"Spike, we can't-"

And immediately he's not touching me, I'm on the couch alone and he's standing, and he's whispering into his hands that he's sorry, he's so sorry, that I shouldn't let him do this, that he'll never do it again, that he has to go, and he's heading for the back door like he's not good enough for the front one.

Some part of me wishes I hadn't said anything, that I'd let him take me upstairs, but we can't start that again, not this soon, we just can't.

"Your coat," I say, scrambling after him, catching up with him just as he reaches the door. "We've got your coat. . ."

There's a moment of indecision before he speaks, and in it I can hear my heart, beating, beating.

"I'll come back for it," he says before turning again to the door, and I sag from the relief, catching myself on the kitchen counter.

"If you promise," I say, and my voice is hoarse.

He turns back at the doorway. "Being with you, Buffy, just burns it all away. Better 'n alcohol. I get it now. It takes away the pain. Can't suffer, touching you. Knowing the feel of your skin."

My skin. I bring a hand to my neck, brush my fingers against the bruise starting there. Strange that it gives him such comfort, because all I ever seem to do is suffer inside it.

The screen door flaps closed, and he's gone.