Buffy couldn't explain it - not to herself and certainly not to the gang. Something strange was happening to her and she had no idea what...
Oh, who was she kidding! She knew exactly what was happening but lying to herself made everything so much simpler.
She should have just staked him when she had the chance and the inclination, but now it was too late and now he loved her. He had told her enough times and she was inclined to believe him. Evil he may be, but Spike was an honest vamp, if there was such a thing.
She forced herself to feel repulsed at his feelings, told him time and time again that they were wrong and unnatural and carefully arranged her face into a look of disgust every time he mentioned them. Until it all became a comfortable habit.
Every time his eyes lit up with love, she'd spit out acidic comments - call him an evil soulless thing or tell him that he was incapable of love. These words became her security blanket and she pretended not to see the pain that flashed in his eyes every time she lashed out, until she could almost convince herself that things weren't changing.
Buffy had always been good at self-deception. She'd managed to convince herself that her parents divorce had been her fault - that the acting out and the Slaying had driven her dad away and into the arms of some slutty receptionist. She almost believed that Angel had left Sunnydale for her own good rather than because he'd been too scared to try to make it work. And of course, she was convinced that she was to blame for her mum's death... Had she just hurried home that night, Joyce would still be alive. It was all so easy to believe... so convincing herself that she had no feelings of any kind for the Bleached Wonder should be a piece of cake.
She needed to feel something and he was just convenient. She repeated it like a mantra, over and over and over again, until she was drowning in it.
But none of it was working.
Again and again, she crept into his crypt, late at night or early in the morning, needing and wanting that something that only he could give her. It wasn't just the sex (although that in itself was pretty great).
Spike understood her. They could sit quietly in the dark, his stoic silence loud enough to drown out the scream of pain and frustration that echoed throughout her soul. He knew how to crack a joke that would make her lip twitch involuntarily and he knew when to bring out the bottle of whiskey. When she was with him, she didn't feel broken and wrong, but whole, as if in Spike she'd found the missing piece that made her complete.
Buffy didn't know if she loved him yet. It had been so long since she'd loved anybody that way that she had almost forgotten what it felt like. All she knew was that sometimes, after they'd finish... that... and Spike fell asleep, she'd lie in his arms, and it felt as though she could stay there forever. She'd lightly trace the sharp planes of his cheekbones with her fingertips, enjoying the feel of his cool skin. She felt braver when he was asleep, because he never had to know that there might be something more.
When she felt him stir, she'd jump up playing the indignant and royally pissed Slayer. She'd gather her clothes and dress at top speed, pausing only to threaten him and tell him that this was the last time it would ever happen, when they both knew differently.
And it was getting harder and harder to keep up the act. A couple of times, they had actually engaged in conversation post-...that. She'd had to overcompensate and beat him to a pulp the first time that had happened. It was getting harder and harder to leave afterwards.
When she was home, alone in her own bed (which had been a rare occurrence recently), she found herself missing his strong arms around her and the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest when her was asleep. She's miss the dangerous scent of cigarettes, liquor and leather. And this wasn't the worst of it.
Sometimes she'd miss his sense of humor, the way he pretended he was still the Big Bad and the way he knew just what to say in order to hurt her or make her feel better.
Sometimes when he wasn't around she'd imagine the way he'd scoff at Xander or tease Dawn.
Sometimes she'd miss him.
When he brought that trollop to Xander and Anya's not-a-wedding, she wanted to rip the skanky bitch limb from limb, but instead she smiled and glowed with 'happiness' like a good little Slayer.
SHe craved him in a way she had never craved another, body and... no soul.
Sometimes she wondered whether being with Spike, being Spike's and having Spike wouldn't be quite so bad. Sometimes she considered giving in because really she wasn't doing such a great job fighting him off anyway. Usually by that time she was halfway to his crypt, breaking down his door and lunging into his arms because that was the only way to stop the thoughts that whatever the hell they had could be anything more.