Disclaimer: I don't own Buffy the Vampire Slayer or any of its characters.
Specific Disclaimer: Spike's speech at the beginning of the story is taken directly from Afterlife (Season 6, Episode 3) although the narrative is mine.
A/N: This is intended to be the beginning of a full story, but I'm posting it as a one-shot for now. This way I can settle down to write the story without getting antsy and posting before I'm ready. Feedback is always appreciated.
Warning: Spoilers for the start of Season Six.
Out of the Dark
Buffy watched Spike's lips move but his words were muffled, like she'd spent too long under water. She wasn't sure why she had come here, and she couldn't have mustered up the strength to think about it even if she'd wanted to. When he moved over to sit down just across from her, she stared passively at him, hearing his words without really listening.
"I do remember what I said; the promise to protect her. If I'd have done that, even if I didn't make it... you wouldn't have had to jump."
Buffy didn't have the energy to respond, but she appreciated what he was doing. Everyone else was avoiding this subject around her, as though if they didn't admit it then it would be like nothing had ever happened. But Spike had never been one for kid-gloves.
"But I want you to know, I did save you. Not when it counted, of course, but after that. Every night after that."
Buffy understood what he meant. When she first became a slayer she had spent hours thinking about the ones she hadn't saved. No matter how many people escaped with their lives because of her, there were always others that weren't as lucky. She had learned to stop blaming herself, but she had never stopped feeling for the ones she didn't get to in time. She thought about the demon that everyone thought had come back with her, about all the people this demon might kill. She felt nothing for them.
"I'd see it all again; do something different. Faster, more clever, you know? Dozens of times, lots of different ways. Every night I saved you."
There was something in Spike's eyes when he looked up at her that Buffy couldn't make out. He wanted something from her she couldn't give, she knew that. But she wanted to give him something. Like Dawn had done, he was talking to her rather than questioning her; letting her be herself without needing her to be something for him. He was the only one to talk about preventing her death rather than reversing it, and he deserved something for that.
"Thank you."
Spike breathed out heavily and stood up; he turned away from her and paced towards the window. "I didn't do anything, love. That's sort of the point." He spoke harshly, but she understood he was directing the venom towards himself.
"I meant – thank you for... thinking about it." That wasn't what she wanted to say, but the words weren't coming easily to her. Ever since she had come back, nothing was easy. Her mind felt clouded and foggy, as though her body had been brought back but her essence was still tied to that other place.
Spike's body was rigid for a moment, and then he shrugged and poured himself a drink, his back to her. "It's the end result that counts though, right?" He tossed the whisky down his throat and poured himself another. "It's your damn Scoobies you'll want to be thanking, I suppose. They did something about it; didn't just waste the whole summer with useless planning."
Buffy sensed something else behind that statement. He sounded almost accusatory, and this time Buffy got the impression that it was aimed at someone other than himself. It was like he thought they shouldn't have brought her back. He was glad she was alive, that much was obvious, but that wasn't the only thing he felt. Briefly she wondered if he had some idea of where she had been and wished she was still there for her sake, but she dismissed that thought as quickly as it occurred to her. Spike may say he loved her, but he wasn't completely selfless. If it was a choice between having her in heaven and having her on earth with him, she had no doubt as to which he would choose, regardless of what would make her happiest. Maybe it was as straightforward as he made it sound, and he was jealous they'd done something he couldn't.
Still, there was no denying that he was the only one to allow that not everything was sunshine and roses, and she was grateful for that, whatever the reason. Listening to him talk about her death was oddly comforting. "Did you cry?"
His hand gripped the half-empty glass tightly, and his body tensed again. Buffy felt momentarily guilty for asking, but she needed this: to be with someone who wouldn't sugar-coat the situation. "See, that is what I hate about you, Slayer. It really is that cut and dried in your world, isn't it?" He turned blindly, waving his drink through the air as he gestured. "'Spike hasn't got a soul; he couldn't possibly be upset when the woman he loves throws herself off a bloody tower.' Oh no, leave that to the all-feeling Xander and the Wicca twins. They're the ones who really care for you."
Buffy was taken aback by his reaction and tried to interrupt, but Spike was in full flow. He drained what was left of his whiskey and slammed the glass down on the table. "That's always been your problem. So high and mighty and above everyone else that no-one can possibly compare. Never mind that I fought side-by-side with your little Scooby gang all summer while you were –" his voice cracked but he kept talking, "rotting in the ground. Getting nothing but grief from the lot of them, and no-one asks Spike if he's needs to talk about it. And – and no warning about any of this. Spike doesn't need to know; it's not like he really loves her. He's just a – just a monster."
Turning away from her, he grabbed the bottle and poured himself another drink. Buffy noticed his hand was shaking when he raised the glass to his lips. She felt dazed by his unexpected outburst, and inexplicably she wanted to explain herself to him. "Spike, I didn't mean –"
"Of course I bloody cried," he muttered. "What do you think? I bawled my sodding eyes out." His words hung heavily in the air, and Buffy didn't know what to say.
She felt uncomfortable, like she was intruding on something profoundly personal and wasn't welcome. No-one had so much as raised their voice to her since she got back, and the strength of his emotion hit her like a truck. "I'm sorry," she said, more than aware of how pathetic that sounded.
Spike didn't reply. He raised himself up as through trying to strengthen himself, but his shoulders slumped pitifully. "What's the point? I know how you see me."
Buffy opened her mouth and closed it again. She couldn't find the right words. Nothing was coming easily to her; nothing was the way it was supposed to be. She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. "I didn't mean to doubt..." she trailed off, her voice shaking.
He turned to look at her and she realised with a jolt that his cheeks were wet. Spike had misinterpreted her; she had only wanted to talk about the one thing everyone else refused to acknowledge. But he was right too. Even after everything he had done for her, she still treated him as a monster; still refused to allow that he had any true depth of feeling. Looking at him now, utterly open and vulnerable, she understood how unfair that was.
She stood up and walked to the door of his crypt. "You're not a monster, Spike." His words from the night they fought Glory echoed in her ears. "Before I died you told me I treat you like a man. That's because that's what you are. I'm sorry I didn't see it before." She opened the door and walked out into the cemetery. It was almost dawn.