Title: Slow Burn

Author: Gilly Bean2

Feedback: Much wanted and needed

Distribution: Ask, and ye shall receive.

Summery: Spike belongs to a rock band, Buffy is his ex-girlfriend. Their relationship through a tough time, based on Kid Rock's song Picture

Rating: R for heavy drug use

AN: The story describes scenes of drug use. If you are uncomfortable with this, then this fic isn't for you. Also, I've never done drugs, nor do I know anyone who has taken Coke before, so my 'knowledge' comes from seeing it in movies. If there are any coke heads out there who want to argue that I depicted it wrong, take a long look in the mirror first, and ask yourself just what the hell you are doing with your own life, before dicking with mine. ;)

X*X*X*X*X*X

He opened his eyes, and felt the burning sensation that had grown so familiar. His head ached, but that too was familiar. Turning his heavy head to the side, Spike saw the girl lying next to him, naked and pale. Her eyes had large blue puffy bags under them. One thin arm was thrown over her head, and even from there, he could see the bruises and needle marks at her elbow.

Closing his eyes in a sigh, Spike willed it to go away. He wished the room to fade from view, and die off, but when he opened the blue orbs again, it was still there, and still as unforgiving as it had been before. His life had grown so dark, so gray. Muttering, he glanced over at the nightstand, and grabbed a half empty bottle of his best friend, Jack Daniels.

As the amber liquid blazed down his throat, Spike let his mind drift to the past few months. It'd been so long, he wasn't sure she would even care anymore. Spike pushed himself to sit up, and he limply stared around the room. Dark curtains were pulled over the windows that overlooked a city he had no recollection of, and likely would never recall as part of the tour.

The room itself was trashed, the table over turned, and several empty liquor bottles lying on their sides on the floor. The mirror above the dresser had a large spider web crack in it. On the dresser, a mirror tile lie flat, white residue smudged on the top, and a small straw lay next to it. Without thought, Spike's hand went to his nose to wipe quickly. He felt the hard covered scabs that had started to form, and grimaced ever so slightly.

He could already hear life in the main room, namely, his manager. Spike stood slowly, his knees weak as he stumbled across the room. He barely recognized the image in the mirror before him. Rubbing his eyes with his free hand, he cleared the blurred image, and focused on the gaunt pale figure staring back at him with blood shot eyes.

With a sudden loud growl, Spike cleared the empty bottles from the dresser with an angry swipe, sending them crashing to the wall and floor. He sat the half full bottle down on the top with a slosh, and started digging through the drawers until his hand came up victorious with a small baggie of white powder.

Triumphantly smirking, he poured some on the mirror, and began to cut at it with a razor blade, and separate it into two lines. He picked the straw up, stuck it slightly up his nose, and blocked the other passage while leaning over the powder. With a quick snort, the powder was gone, and already easing his pain.

Standing again, he wiped at his nose, and grabbed the bottle again. In the darkened room, Spike stumbled towards the bathroom, where his favorite pair of black jeans were. He took another swig off the bottle, before putting it down only long enough to don the jeans. Leaving the top button undone, he snatched the bottle back up with a shaky hand, and slipped from the room.

In the main room, his manager Giles, and the guitarist Oz, both sat talking. Both stopped and glanced over at him as he made his appearance. The central curtains were open in this room, and insensitive brightness poured through. Spike's hand automatically shot up to ward off the offending glare that pierced through his drug and alcohol induced fog to prod at his already aching head.

God, how longs it been since he's been in the light, both Giles and Oz wondered almost simultaneously. Giles cleared his throat, and Spike walked over towards him. His steps were haltingly slow, as he staggered from the high and the buzz singing in his veins. Spike couldn't recall when the last time he had been sober was. Maybe a week ago? He knew he hadn't been sober the last time he talked to her.

She used to miss me, he thought. It was never so hard then, because I had her. Now, what do I have to show for it? Fans who want me for my songs, and not me, and friends who aren't friends.

"Buffy called again last night, Spike. She sounded rather… upset." Giles told him softly as he studied the musician wobbling around in the room. "She said not to bother to call her back at all." Giles ended rather curtly, after assessing that Spike must again be high, or perhaps still, he wasn't certain.

"Whatd'ya mean, again?" He slurred as he tossed himself onto the sofa. Giles and Oz both exchanged a look, which was something big for Oz. His normally stoic expression held questions and accusations at the same time. Neither of which happened to be something Spike was willing to deal with at the moment. He looked away from the steady orbs, and focused on Giles.

"You talked to her last night, Spike." Oh, fuck, he thought, as partial memories from the night before came crashing onto him. She had called while Spike was with some blonde slut from the bar. Christ, just what I need, he selfishly thought as he tossed back another swig of the amber comfort he had found inside an open bottle.

X*X*X*X*X*X

Buffy woke up feeling oddly down and heavy. Her mind was skitter-ish, and she could feel her belly rolling in protest. It came to her suddenly, and she sat up quickly. A quick glance down showed that she had fallen asleep on the sofa again, fully clothed still. With a shaky hand, she leaned down to grab the sheet of paper on the coffee table, though she hardly needed a reminder of the night before.

It was all to vivid, burned images in her head. She couldn't get the pictures out of her mind. The voice, the image, it was more then her vivid imagination could or wanted to handle so early, and she quickly darted to the bathroom. As she wretched out what little was left in her stomach, she heard the phone ring.

Ignoring it for now, she heard the machine pick up, and a muffled voice asking her to pick up the phone if she was in, otherwise, to call back later. Willow, Buffy thought. She sat back, and wiped the cold sheen of sweat that had gathered on her brow. I asked, she thought. It's my fault. I wanted, no, needed to know. Her eyes closed against the headache pounding in her head.

It's over, and I'm just the last to see it. Buffy stood up, and slowly made her way to the living room, where she picked the sheet of paper up. The print on it was her delicate writing, but rather then being precise, it was rolled slightly. In several places, there were splotches from what she presumed to be tears.

She let it drift back down, and wondered where he was again. Would he be awake? Asleep? Worse though, were the vivid images that came to mind if she only sat long enough for them to take over her mind. Buffy felt the same anxious pull in her stomach, but was able to suppress it this time. She remembered calling back, and talking to Giles for a few minutes.

They all knew, and she was the last one to find out. Buffy had been upset after the first call, where she talked with Spike, but she had been willing to talk to him. Before he had left for the road, she and Spike had gotten into another bad fight, and it had ended with her telling him not to come home. But she always said that, and he always knew she was kidding, right?

Buffy slowly made her way to the kitchen, and directly noticed the empty bottle of Boones on the counter. She tiredly looked around for a moment before putting the cap on the bottle before returning it to the fridge. Buffy felt so lonely, though, so empty. It was not a fresh feeling to her, though; she had been feeling that way for a while now. She had been waiting on him for a long time. One more than one night, she had filled the heartache with cheap wine. Spike stopped calling this time, though. He never did that, no matter what, he would call every night. It'd been three long nights though, when she had finally called him last night.

And she had answered the phone. Buffy had no idea who she was, but it was a girl, answering Spike's cell phone. He had been in the background, laughing as he took the phone, and said, "This had better be good, I was in the middle of getting laid!" Buffy had very little good thoughts towards Spike right now, but her gut just ached so badly, that she couldn't help but miss his strong arms cradling her tight.

He's gone, and it's time to move on, she thought. Who knows just how long he had been sleeping around, and lord only knows what else. She slowly made her way down the hallway that led to their room, the room they had shared for the better part of two years now. He would leave for a tour, and be gone for most of three or four months, but other then that time, they would spend each night together in the bed in that room. Only, when she was alone, or when they fought hard, she would stay in the guest room, quietly vowing to never again let him get drunk.

Spike had been drunk on just about every occasion when they fought, and the night before he had left for his tour had been no exception. Only, instead of just the whiskey, Buffy had come home early to find him snorting coke on her coffee table. On the sofa next to him, some blond was staring up at the ceiling fan in fascination. He had looked up, and for a moment, dread crossed his face, but it was quickly replaced by amusement, and then anger. As she had stared at him in shock, his band mate, John, had come stumbling from the kitchen, his arms laden with whiskey and junk food.

It hadn't taken her long to get the blond and John out of her house, and then the king of all fights had ensued. Buffy shivered as she recalled that night so dramatically. She stopped in the doorway to their room, and her eyes were immediately drawn to a framed photo she had of the two of them together the previous winter. He had been different then. He had still drank when he was angry or upset, but not as often, and usually, not as much. It was so much easier, being in love, when you didn't really know a person.

As the phone began to ring again, she walked over and picked up the picture. She heard the machine click on as a tear ran down her cheek, and landed on the photo. Taking a deep breath, she turned, and placed it inside a trunk she kept at the end of the bed. Buffy stared at it for a moment longer, then closed the chest, just as his voice sounded out over the machine, pleading with her to pick up.

She didn't though, and as Buffy closed the chest, she knew instinctively that she was closing this part of her life off, and that it was time for fresh, and not the old. Buffy was set for change, and it would not occur on it's own; she needed to cause the change herself. And she would. As far as she knew, she had put him away with the picture. And, yet, all Buffy could do, is curl up on the bed, and cry into his pillow.

X*X*X*X*X*X

Spike never heard from her again during the tour, and eventually, he stopped trying to reach her. He had messed up, badly, and she wasn't going to just forgive him this time. I need to change my ways, he had thought briefly during the tour, but the drugs were to ready, the alcohol to soothing, and the women to willing. Days blended into one another, and before long, the tour was over, and nearly 2 months had passed since the night Buffy had last called.

He was back in town, and studiously avoiding her. His wallet didn't hold her picture anymore, but he still carried it with him when he moved around. It was tucked into a place in his suitcase. Girls lined up to erase her image, though all he saw at night in his dreams was her golden hair, and her green eyes. In that safe place, in his dreams, she loved him, and said it easily. It was something Buffy had never allowed herself to say to him in real life.

The guys had asked at first, but Spike never answered, and always snapped when he heard the questions. They had stopped fairly quickly. Spike stared out the window into the moonless night, and drank his whiskey. At least now, away from the John, he had stopped the coke, though he still had fairly strong urges to acquire some on his own.

Instead, though, he sat in his brand new, completely empty apartment, and drank. He had a chair, a bed, and alcohol. There literally wasn't a scrap of food in the kitchen. It was now, at night, when he was so poignantly reminded of the turn in his life in the last few weeks, how it had become dark and gray. Tomorrow, he had to meet Oz in town, and start looking at new songs to record. The only thing keeping him alive was his music, and if he couldn't have her, he would at least live through his music.

X*X*X*X*X*X

Buffy looked at Riley Finn, the man she had met shortly after she said her final good-bye's to Spike, and smiled wryly. She didn't love him, not in the heart wrenching, soul gripping way that she had loved Spike, but she did think that she could, some day. He lay on the bed asleep, and Buffy just watched him for a moment. It was now, in the dark of the night, that she could feel her heart breaking over again.

Pushing herself from the bed, she walked into the bathroom, and stared at the haggard expression on her face. Her skin had grown pale, and she had deep bags of purple under her eyes almost permanently. Insomnia drove her to writing, and she had been able to express the dark feelings in her belly so easily this way. It was so easy to tell people that she was fine, and that it was just a story, but the truth is, the stories were better then anything she had ever written, because they came from her heart in a very real and brutal way.

She slipped back to the bedroom, and as Riley slept on in a peaceful way that made her jealous, she knew in her heart she would never forgive Spike for leaving her alone like he had. Never forget, and never forgive.

X*X*X*X*X*X

Spike sat in a small greasy diner, waiting for Oz to show up. He had dark glasses covering his bloodshot eyes, shielding him from the offensively harsh sunlight. Even with them, the first thing he had done, was pull the shades down, and close them tight. People glanced at the man in black, but in this neighborhood, they had seen stranger.

Spike glanced up when the door opened, and his heart nearly stopped. It was her, here. She was with one of their old friends, Willow. For a brief time, Willow had dated Oz, but they had finished with it years ago. She didn't like him leaving so much, and he felt the burn of the road calling to him. Surprisingly, though, they still talked in good terms when they would run into each other.

Eyes glued to her, he didn't notice when the waitress came to take his order. Spike quickly glanced up at the waitress, then back to Buffy, but her back was retreating to the other side of the diner, and apparently, she had not seen him. He had heard that she was seeing someone, and it hurt, more then he would ever admit to. Spike's eyes were glued on the blonde and red head when Oz slipped into the booth next to him. He didn't say anything, but followed Spike's gaze until it landed on the girls.

With an uncharacteristic smile, he too watched the girls for a moment. A slow burning ache settled in Spike's gut, which amplified when Buffy stood up, and made her way towards them. He knew the instant she saw him, she stopped moving for a split second, and her eyes closed, but she kept moving, and soon, she was in front of them. Her mother's teachings of what's polite, and what's rude, dictated that she stop and say hello, and Spike stared up at her as she looked down at him. She looked like she had been sick, all pale skin and dark bags.

"Oz, Spike. How've you been?" Her voice was strained and tight as she talked. She glanced at Oz for a moment, then back at Spike.

"Been great, luv, you?" His voice was soft and morose as he talked. He kept his covered eyes on her, drinking her in, reveling in her for a moment in time, before she would inevitably disappear.

"Oh, great. Things are… great. I didn't realize you guys were done with the tour already." She turned back to Oz, and called herself a liar as the words tumbled out of her mouth.

"Yeah, just got back last week." The conversation fell flat after Oz answered her, and she glanced between the both, and then nodded.

"Oh, well, I should get going. It was… nice to see you again." Not waiting for a reply, Buffy turned and walked the rest of the way to the bathroom with her head held high.

They both watched her walk away, and then Spike looked at Oz. "I can't stay. Let's go back to your place, mate."

Buffy came out just in time to see that familiar black duster clad body leaving the diner, and she sighed in relief.

X*X*X*X*X*X

Spike got back to his apartment, and slammed the door to his bedroom as he dragged the suitcase out. They were needed, against his own wishes, back in LA for a few nights. Maybe I should just leave Sunnydale behind, he thought. I've got nothing holding me here anymore, and I don't even get to see Buffy. Not since that day at the diner. Spike scowled and started to toss clothes into the case as his thoughts drifted to her.

Opening the outside zipper pocket, Spike started to stuff his music sheets into it, when a picture slipped out. He reached out and picked it up with a jittery hand. Buffy smiled back at him.

X*X*X*X*X*X

Buffy clicked off the machine telling her that her mother was coming to visit, and to make up the guest room. Grumbling as she kicked her shoes off, Buffy glanced at the calendar. Her mother Joyce lived in New York now and had for a while, so it wasn't often that they were able to see each other. The only complaints Buffy had were that Joyce came in like a whirlwind, interrupted Buffy's life for a week, and then was gone just as quickly. She trudged down the hall and stopped in her bedroom. Buffy opened the cedar chest at the foot of the bed, and began lifting the spare linens from it. She stopped when she saw Spike's face smiling up at her.

It apparently wasn't bad enough that she saw him everywhere in her mind. Little things reminded her of him, the smell of cigarettes, a bottle of merlot she had found stashed in the storage closet the other night, a blond man in a leather jacket at the mall. Everything and everyone screamed out at her, "Spike!" She had been doing her best to ignore them, but it was no longer working. Even her own mother was against her on this.

X*X*X*X*X*X

Just make the bloody call, mate. Stop pissing around, and dial the number. His inner voice railed at him, screaming to call her, and tell her. Tell her what, you sod? That you didn't mean to screw around like that? Growling in frustration, Spike very nearly threw the phone across the room, but stopped with his arm in the air, cocked back in anger.

He took a deep breath in, and willed himself to calm down. Gritting his teeth, he quickly hit the speed dial number, and put the phone to his ear. A moment later, her sweet voice filled the phone, and his heart.

"Buffy? I'm sorry. I swear, I'll change my ways. I just called to say I love you." He said it so fast, he wasn't sure she heard it all, but he knew it was either that way, or nothing. Silence greeted him on the other end, before he heard that soft hiccupping noise she made when she was crying. "Buffy? Love? Please, don't cry. You're breaking my heart here, sweetheart." She giggled nervously, but he could tell she was still crying on the other end.

"Spike… oh god, we're doing it again. I was going to call; I was on my way to the phone, when you called. Baby, I love you, and this time apart, it's killing me. Please, come back home?"

X*X*X*X*X*X

Spike looked at her, and she looked at him, and despite the year they had struggled through, both were smiling. They had each other, and that was all that mattered.

The End