Cliffie: Spike/Willow one-shot, because that pairing just pwns and you know it! XD This takes place, more or less, a month after (SPOILER) Oz leaves Willow. (/SPOILER) It can be considered AU, seeing as Tara is never introduced and I honestly don't remember if Spike is still living with Xander right now. I think he is… /coughs/
Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer or any of the characters. This is for entertainment purposes only.
Today was the anniversary of the first time he had ever told Willow that he loved her.
She had thought she had put herself together. She thought she had gotten over his departure. She had thought she had spent all her tears crying herself to sleep night after night. The last week was the first time she had gotten through an entire day without breaking into tears at some point.
But now that was all shot to hell, because today was the day he had told her he loved her, and she couldn't find the strength to simply be okay.
It was evening before she remembered, before she broke, and there was no one to catch her or the crumbling edges of her heart. She was just walking down the street when the memories flooded her, and, suddenly, she had to find someone. Someone, anyone. She spun towards the dorm building, then caught herself. It was dark, and Buffy would be out. If she returned to her room, it would be empty, and she couldn't take that. She had learned that, sometimes, she couldn't manage everything all on her own. She knew that she desperately needed someone to lean on, because the hurt had started up again just when she thought she had put it to rest.
The darkness seemed to be closing in on her. Her breathing began to accelerate, and she began to look nervously around her as if some vampire or other creature of the night was waiting to attack her. But there was nothing besides her own demons. Her own memories, and those were certainly frightening enough.
Before she quite knew what was happening, she had broken into a run. Her feet knew where to carry her, which was good considering that her mind was in shambles. She couldn't hear anything but his voice, softly whispering those words to her. She couldn't see anything but his face, scruffy with a half-grown beard and eyes so serious. She couldn't think of anything but him, of Oz, and how he left her, throwing away those words of love and safety.
Xander's house rose before her, and a sob caught in her throat. Yes, Xander. He would know what to do. He would hold her and tell her it was okay. He would let her cry, and he would listen to her words as they spilled out of her mouth.
She flung open the front door, sparing only a quick thought for Xander's mother. But there was no surprised question from anywhere in the house, and she assumed that the kind woman was gone.
Down the basement steps she tumbled, nearly falling once or twice and only managing to save herself by catching the banister.
The basement was lit, telling her that Xander was here. She entered the room, gasping wildly for breath. How long had she been running? She couldn't even begin to wonder. Frantic, wide eyes searched the messy room, but there was no Xander in sight.
She took a step into the room, then another, her mouth quivering with the tears that were building up high inside her.
"Xander?" she tried to call out. Her voice failed her halfway through the name, dying to a whisper that not even she could hear.
Her legs refused to hold her up any longer. With a sob, Willow collapsed to the floor, shoulders shaking as she tried to hold in the tears. The carpet was rough under her fingers, scratchy and old and fraying. Her hands curled into fists before she raised them to bury her face in them. Where was Xander? She needed him… but he wasn't here, and he couldn't help her. Another sob, as ragged and as torn as the carpet beneath her, tore painfully from her throat.
"Oy, what're you doing here?"
She looked up before she could stop herself. Dark eyes watched her, widening slightly at the sight of her dirty, tear-streaked face. Willow sniffed heartily, struggling to get herself under control. Slowly, her legs shaking, she forced herself to her feet.
"Where's Xander?" she asked. Her voice was weak and cracking.
Spike looked her up and down briefly before letting his eyes settle on her face once more. It was probably the water still in her own eyes that made her believe, just for a second, that there was concern on his face.
"He's out," Spike replied after a short silence. He cocked his head at her slightly, hesitating. Then, in a tentative voice, "Are you all right?"
Those simple words broke her, tore her to pieces once again, shredding her until she felt that there was nothing left, that nothing could possibly be left. "No," she managed to get out before the sobs overwhelmed her once again and she began to fall because the hurt was crushing her and she simply couldn't hold herself together.
He moved faster than she thought he could. Before she could quite register what was happening, he was right at her side, his arms suddenly tight around her as he caught her gently. He slid to his knees, holding her more tenderly than she ever knew he could. For a minute, she was overwhelmed by his scent: blood and cigarettes, with some aftershave lingering at the edges. But mostly it was just blood and ashes, foul smoke tinted copper.
"Hey now," Spike said weakly. He was nervous, didn't know what to do. Willow sensed that, even through the tears and hurt that wrapped around her, mind, body, and soul.
She didn't reply, didn't try to force any more words out. Instead, she did the one thing she could manage, the one thing that she had come here looking for.
When she pressed her face into his shoulder, he stiffened. Then, to her surprise (and, she suspected, his) his arms tightened around her, embracing her gently.
Her tears quickly soaked his shirt, but he didn't pull away. He didn't murmur soft little words of comfort, like Xander and Buffy would, but Willow found herself glad he didn't. She needed the silence, needed only to hear the soft hum of the air conditioner above her and the sound of her own weeping.
"I miss him."
She surprised herself with her words, with her whisper-soft soul-secrets, but they came out all the same as the tears began to die down. But, even though the salty wetness was abating, the deep hurt, the soul-hurt, never left.
"Who?" His voice was just as soft as hers, softer and gentler than she had ever heard from him before.
"Oz."
His name broke her, turning her insides to jelly and sending sharp pains tearing through her skin and into her heart. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, feeling the tears leak out through her lashes. She didn't raise her face from his water-damp red shirt.
"Oh."
For a minute, there was silence, sitting heavy on them in the still room. Spike cleared his throat, shifting slightly, and Willow let him adjust himself into a more comfortable position. One hand rose from where it rested on her back to stroke her dirty red locks. His hands were rough, but his touch was gentle, slowly trickling through the cloud that covered her mind and sending some sort of comfort to her tired soul. Her sobs were gone, replaced by the silent tears that only came when there was no more energy left for sobbing.
Then, louder than before, he announced, "We should get you drunk."
She was so surprised that she raised her head and pushed away slightly, staring into his pale face with wide, shocked eyes. He grinned slightly at her, a bashful grin that clearly told her that he didn't know how to handle crying, broken-hearted women and that he was trying his best and, apparently, failing. A laugh rose out of her—a laugh that was ragged and tattered around the edges, but a laugh nonetheless.
"I'm still a minor," she found herself saying around the chuckles.
He relaxed a bit at her laughter, the tension easing out of his shoulders. "So?"
"Spike," she said warningly, as if that would stop him. As if saying his name could possibly stop him from doing anything. She sniffed and wiped her cheeks on her sleeve, glad that the tears had finally stopped. She knew they would be back that night, when she was in bed, and that her pillow would have to become accustomed to being wet once again.
"Are you… better?"
Another laugh broke loose. He was just so silly and naïve. She had never, not even once, thought of Spike as naïve. Now, however, there was no other word to describe him.
"You haven't dealt with many broken-hearted girls in your time, have you?" she replied in a dry voice.
He winced slightly. "Not really."
"Didn't think so. But… I'll be all right after a while."
After a while, because she knew it took a while to close wounds. After a while, because she had spent days after days trying to heal after he first left. And now those scars had split open once again, and her heart leaked bloody tears for the man she would always love. And she knew she i would /i always love Oz, in some way or another. He was a part of her, and he would always be in her soul, be in the scars that wrapped around her heart.
Spike watched her for a minute, then nodded, as if deciding that she spoke the truth. He stood, his body moving away from hers, and she found herself missing the warmth and security the vampire gave off. He offered her a hand, and she took it, letting him pull her easily to her feet. He continued to hold it until she was perfectly steady, then dropped it swiftly and shoved both hands into his pockets. "Well then." He cleared his throat, straightened his shirt, and started for the door. When she didn't move to follow him, he glanced back over his shoulder with one eyebrow raised. "What're you waiting for, Red?" he asked, calling her by the affectionate nickname she had learned to tolerate. "We're getting you drunk, remember?"
Willow smiled, because there was absolutely nothing else she could do. With a shake of her head, she forced her feet to move. They shuffled on the carpet, on the worn carpet that was, somehow, her soul incarnate, and caught up to Spike. He slung an easy arm around her shoulders, pulling her close once more. She smiled slightly, and made a mental note to tell Xander to get a new carpet. By the time he finally got around to doing so, she hoped her soul would be healed as well, the scars sewn back up.
It was funny. She came here tonight for comfort, and she got it. And the thing was… it was more comfort than she could ever hope to receive from Xander. It was different, somehow, unexplainably deeper, and it had started her towards healing faster than she could have expected.
Her heart had been falling apart when she came here. Now, although it still lay in blood tatters, the pieces were all there.
Somehow or another, Spike had managed to catch them, no matter how clumsy his methods, and made sure they were ready to be mended as time went on.
And, if he had any say about anything, he was going to get her properly drunk and try to sew those messy pieces together that way.
Willow knew it would never work, but she went along anyway. Perhaps Spike was right: getting thoroughly drunk was the only way to do things.
So she went with him, in complete silence, to lose her mind in glasses of beer, sitting next to a vampire who, she found out, became talkative and just plain fun when drunk.
She laughed that night, when she wouldn't have otherwise. She laughed, and she staggered back to Xander's, because it was closer and she didn't want to risk being caught drunk at the college. And when she fell into Xander's chair, ignoring his snores (he would certainly get a surprise when he woke up in the morning), it was Spike who found a blanket and pulled it up to her chin.
"Thank you," she whispered, her words drowsy and slightly slurred. "And not just for the blanket." Her eyes were beginning to close rapidly, and she could do nothing to stop them.
"You're welcome, Red." And, through the haze of alcohol, she heard real fondness in that voice.
Content for the moment being, she snuggled deep inside the blanket, her cheek pressed against a fuzz-covered pillow she had found somewhere. The hurt was gone for the moment, and she was ready to sleep. She would need the energy to begin the painful process of sewing the pieces of her heart back together anyway.
It would be months before she realized that, when Spike had caught those pieces, some of them were touched by him, forever carrying the scent of foul smoke tinted with copper, and they would remain his. And the scent, the touch, would slowly seep over the rest of her until her entire heart was covered, not just pieces of it.
In catching the pieces of her heart, he had managed to capture the entire thing, bloody scars and ragged edges and all.
Blood and cigarettes were now a part of her, and, to be perfectly honest, she didn't mind one bit.
Cliffie: Whew! Done! Kinda strange, and not my best… but I do like parts of it. Heehee, I love an embarrassed Spike. And seriously, can't you see him not being at all good with crying girls? I can. I also love the idea that he smells like blood and cigarettes. It's not a nice smell, and that fits Spike, to be perfectly honest. Now Angel… he'd smell like cinnamon and sweat, or something. But no, Spike it much dirtier than Angel (read: not Angelus), and he can never really wash away the scent of blood and cigarettes completely.
…ah, I'm rambling again. Sorry
Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this! Thanks for reading, and reviews would be appreciated:)