Switch

He woke up first – in her body, and not in the usual way.
For all the sleeping together they'd been doing, this was the first time she'd actually fallen asleep and stayed, afterwards. And for all of the times he'd been inside her, this was totally new. Totally terrifying.
He looked across at himself, then shook her awake.

She jolted when her eyes opened and saw herself. Saw him.
"Spike?!" she called, panicked, looking down at the body she was in. "What the hell?!"
Pulling the covers more firmly around herself, she also succeeded in taking them from him, but that wouldn't do. Not now.
Half throwing them back at him, she gazed again at the bare flesh she was trapped in. There was strength in it, and opportunity, but she couldn't afford to get distracted. The largest part of her was still freaking the hell out. Her eyes searched for answers – searched for truth in the eyes he was looking out of.
"Don't look at me, pet," he told her. "I've got no bloody clue what's goin' on."
Her chest tightened. Or, his chest - whatever.
It was so weird to hear his words come from her mouth, in her accent. To her small relief, though, he didn't look happy.
"You didn't do this?" she asked.

He was indignant as he snatched up his clothes, but the anger seeped out of him again, when he had to face the humility of switching them with hers.
He'd really taken a shine her new halter-top, when she'd arrived at his crypt the night before, wearing it. Now, though, he saw where his hands – his real hands – had torn it. Ruined it.
He closed his eyes, hating everything that he was.

She gulped down a breath and reasoned with herself. If she wanted Spike on side, she'd have to be nicer to him – and wouldn't that be a novelty?
Instinct told her she couldn't do this alone.
"Where are you going?" she asked, in a voice that was both painfully small, and horribly masculine. How was he able to make it so silky when he used it?

He was going to ignore her new question, same at the first one, but something stopped him. Maybe it was the sound of her voice. She'd conveyed fear in it, and it grated on him.
He'd refused to make known his fear a long time ago, when it was the greatest weapon Angelus had against him. And he was mad that she'd released fear back into the air from his mouth – forced it out, where it didn't belong. But, forgetting that – pushing aside his anger – she was scared, and that said a lot. He couldn't let her be alone in this. He wouldn't.
Damn bint would probably take his skin out for a joy ride just to spite him, he thought, warily, except… No. Some awful memory came back to him, and he vowed to play nice.
"Goin' upstairs for a drink," he told her.

She jumped out of bed and ran after him, reaching the ladder as he stepped onto it. "A drink?" she balked. "A drink of what?"
She saw him look confused for a moment, before some other knowledge flashed in his eyes. She saw temptation flash there, too, briefly, then resignation.

He slumped his shoulders.
Of course he couldn't have blood. Neither of them wanted it to taint her pretty lips. Okay, well, maybe his demon did, but it didn't get a soddin' opinion.
"Scotch?" he offered, by way of consolation. "I bloody well need something."

She wrinkled her nose, pouted her lips, then heaved a sigh and raised a hand, palm upwards, silently telling him to go ahead with this new plan.
He was looking at her oddly again, and she didn't like it. Now she thought about, a pout and a wrinkle of the nose probably looked weird on him.
"God, I can't even check a mirror, can I?!"

He stopped again – this time half way up the ladder. But she prodded him, and he eventually completed the ascent.
Now she was questioning him about the hesitation, as he poured the drinks.
"I was jus' thinkin'," he said. "I'm still a vamp. Can still feel the demon."

Her hands went to her hips. "Yeah, and?"
"And if the vamp part came with me on this little trip, you should probably have a reflection in that skin just fine."
Huh. That did genuinely stump her, for a bit.
"Okay. Let's try it out."
"Can't."
"What?"
"I don't own a soddin' mirror, Slayer."
"Ugh!" she sat down, focusing her eyes on clenched fists that were covered in scratches. Had she put them there? She couldn't remember.

He passed her a drink and watched her swallow it down in one go, prompting yet another horrid little thought: I wonder if this has made me a lightweight bein' all… light in weight.
He shook his head, proclaiming, "We gotta fix this."

She nodded. For the first time in a really long time, she agreed with him wholeheartedly.
"One thing, though," she said, her own mind racing off.
"Yeah?"
"Which one of us can go out in sunlight?"

He cursed.

She stood up again, then staggered, but he caught her, and she flinched away.
"Oh, so I can't touch you now?"
"No," she answered. "It's… wiggy."

His nostrils flared at her attitude.
"This ain't a picnic for me either, princess," he spat, all resolution to be nice to her momentarily forgotten.

She glared back at him, then sighed and looked away.
"Are we gonna try out the sun thing? We could get Giles."

He contemplated the idea, reigning in his frustration.
"Well, I don't have a phone. Trying to leave is the only way we can raise the alarm; get some help."

She nodded, but neither of them moved.
Buffy let out a pitiful little whimper from his lips. With so much chaos in her life already going on, why did she have to deal with stupid body-switching spells, as well? Who hated her that much?

He looked at his body intently, taking the opportunity granted to him by way of the Slayer getting lost in her thoughts and not paying attention to his gaze.
Having spent so long with no reflection, it was an eternity since he'd actually gazed upon himself.
The experience was tainted by the grief Buffy was pouring out through every pore of his rightful skin, though. Despite himself, it softened his heart.

She refocused her attention. Caught him staring, but didn't shy away from the look the same as she'd done with his touch.
"How about we wait this out?" she then suggested.
Spike nodded, and they went downstairs again.

He felt exhausted, and it wasn't from the long hours of arduous sex they'd engaged in before waking up to the present situation. It was emotional lethargy.
He was about to ask what she wanted to do – if she wanted to go back to sleep – when…

She jumped on him, mouths and limbs connecting.

He pushed her off. Stared at her in disgust while she just stood there, looking confused.
"Y'know, you don't have to play my part in this whole scenario so well," she said, but he could tell that'd he'd really injured her ego, underneath the clever use of levity.
He sighed, and ran a hand through his hair, becoming all the more perturbed when all he felt was her silky locks.

She looked away, trying to hide the fact that there were tears in her eyes.
God, this day was awful. This week. Her entire existence.
She'd been sure the one thing she could count on in this weird screwy universe was Spike wanting her. And now, what? He was just too freaked?
She shook her head, knowing it was something else. Something more than that. But what?

He took a step closer to her. Placed a hand on her shoulder, and leaned his face in closer to her ear.
"Let's not go repeatin' old mistakes now, eh?"

Buffy backed away, horrified.
"What- what are you talking about? You were all Team Us, and now you're saying we're a mistake?" She didn't have words to express the betrayal she felt.

Spike rolled his eyes skyward, took in a deep breath, then focused his gaze on her again.
"No, you nit. The…" he hesitated, not wanting to say it. Not wanting to remind her. But she wasn't getting it; had no bloody clue why he was saying no and, god help him, he didn't do such things lightly – even if the situation was beyond his very liberal definition of normal.
"You told me," he explained, "'bout the last time someone went switchin' yer skin. About what happened and how…" the sentence trailed off again before he could say 'how violated you felt.'
"I don't want to do that to you, Buffy."

This time, when she reeled away, it was instinctual. Her stomach turned at what he'd said.
"How could you think?" she sputtered. "How is this the same?"

He was at a loss.
"It's not," he conceded. "But similar enough, right? Sometimes the mind ain't right logical. It doesn't care that things are different. They feel…" he shook his head. "Never mind. I was tryin' to do you a favor, is all."

She looked at him in a new way – saw him more clearly, despite the circumstances. Then, in a softer tone, she asked, "If I was making comparisons and remembering… that, what makes you think I'd be wanting to go there again?"

There was sadness in his eyes as he left the question to be answered by heavy silence, knowing she already knew the answer.

Buffy's eyes welled up again, but she wasn't for giving herself over to crying. Not yet. She wasn't done fighting.
"You really think I hate myself that much?"
Once more, Spike didn't answer. He didn't have to – the knowledge of that breaking them both just that little bit more.
"Oh, god!" Buffy wailed. "Is that what I've become? Someone who would abuse my own body just to- just to."
Now the tears fell, as full realization dawned on her.
A big part of her had wanted solace, pure and simple, but on some subconscious level, another part wanted to use the opportunity to literally fuck herself up.
It was like the ultimate in supernatural self-harm, to be able to pin yourself down and pound and pound until there was nothing left but physical exhaustion deep enough to match the mental ache.
And he'd realized. He'd been thinking about her, neither one of them giving a first thought to how he might feel, during or after, let alone a second one.
She felt sick.

He took a firm grip of her upper arms and pressed her tightly to his chest, not letting go or lessening his grip until she'd stopped shuddering.
Then, when she finally began to quiet, she made a request.
Not looking at him, she asked, "Will you just hold me?"

They lay down, and he held her the rest of the whole day through.

Upon waking up, the night fresh between them, they were back in their own skin, but everything had changed. She was the one not letting go.

Silently, Buffy looked Spike deep the in the eye, then moved down his body to take his length in her mouth.

His instinct was to stop her – to remind her that he'd seen the deepest recesses of her soul, and that they were about more than mere sex, now – but it was the look she'd given him beforehand that sealed it.

She knew what she was doing, and she wasn't shying away.
It wasn't just sex for her anymore, either.
Having walked around in his skin, first hand, she'd felt the tension. The ache of knowing that it wasn't satisfied.
Sure, he'd gotten his rocks off just as much as her the past few weeks, but he'd been left cold during.
The whole time, she never touched him just to touch him. His own needs were a by-product. But this… her soft lips pressed along the base, causing him to release a long breath. This was just for him. This was gratitude and an apology, wrapped together in a neat little action. He even dared to believe for one minute that love might be a key ingredient, too.

"Spike?" she whispered against his flesh.
"Yeah, pet?" he replied, not taking his eyes off her.
Leaving the conversation dangling there, she didn't voice either the thanks or the sorry, but he heard it loud and clear nonetheless.

"Didn't you know this body belonged to you, all along?" he asked, once the deed was done – both his body and his heart satisfied.

She smiled up at him, in answer.