What is Buffy thinking? Honestly?
"I'm thinking that one of you is a liar. What I think of the other remains to be seen."
Spike and Angel started at the voice and turned simultaneously to trace its source. The object of their affections stood under the arch adjoining the office and conference room.
Buffy looked between the vampires, arms crossed over her chest, eyes like daggers.
While Angel shifted his weight from one foot to the other, Spike stood perfectly still, his eyes never detracting from Buffy, his hands clenching into fists at his side as she approached them deliberately, purposefully.
He replayed the last several hours in his mind, each time pausing the mental tape to the point she and the Immortal danced - if you could even call it dancing.
The sight both disappointed and incensed him, the embers welling inside as he watched her, remembering her soft skin, the strawberry fragrance of her hair, how the light would sometimes catch the bronze flecks in her emerald eyes. If any distance ever parted them, instinct guided him across the open waters until he was by her side.
He had to touch her, and he knew she felt the same despite her protests to the contrary. But the barrier between her and his old nemesis was clear as day. Like a chasm, it expanded in perfect harmony with the rubbish for music penetrating all corners.
What was that blasphemy anyway, he mused.
Electronica?
Alternative?
It wasn't the genre of music he could envision himself dancing to.
Then again, given there was only one person he'd ever take for a partner, the playlist emanating from the speaker system didn't matter. They didn't need music to move as one; holding her in his arms, matching his body to hers was effortless.
Even with her back toward him, Spike looked into Buffy's face perfectly; the neon green, orange, and yellow club lights accentuated her false smile and disinterest, contrasting the arch of her back, free-flowing arms, and bouncing hair.
The aura surrounding her was so different, less emotionally charged - there were no signs of the vibrancy that attracted him years ago.
Most of the time, they never leave the house. They just curl up on the couch and snuggle.
Those were Andrew's words. Before him, however, was evidence of two people who were anything but at ease, in sync, with one another. In his lifetime, he'd experienced enough shades of intimacy to distinguish casual from well-defined, lust from romance.
Love was hard to miss.
He and Angel had passed more than a fair share of beauties as they cut a clear path to the barkeep, but none of them held a candle to her - no one could. No matter how strong the breeze, her light would never flicker. It would continue to burn strongly.
He had given his life so that she and all she cared about could survive, and this was how she repaid him? Fluttering about with mongrels like him.
Even with that in mind, he'd never trade his sacrifice for anything. The instant her hand folded into his, an overwhelming peace swept over him; he was whole, complete. As his eyes locked with hers, he felt the shadows pinning him beneath her lift, drawing them to an equal plane.
As the last threads of life slipped away, his body rendered to no more than dust in the wind, an eternity stretched before him because she would honor him. He would continue to live on through her; his only hope was that she'd find meaning in the thick of all the ebbs and flows.
He'd wanted her to make a life with someone who appreciated her for all she was like he had and could give her all that she wanted, everything that he'd wanted to give her…or so he believed.
Breathing her in as she grew closer, he realized that, as much as he wanted her to be happy, he didn't want another man - even less another monster - to enjoy her, taste her flawless skin and bask in her light. She was still the melody to his eternal song.
It wasn't over for him.
Gauging by the moisture collecting in her eyes, it wasn't over for Buffy either.
As the last drop of anger evaporated from his body, embarrassment and shame crept in. He could have left for Europe weeks ago; he should have made his way back to her the instant bone met solid ground, but he didn't.
Why?
Why did he stay in Los Angeles, a place he admittedly loathed, and fight alongside his grandsire and company from inside Hell, inc. when a far more promising prospect awaited him? It's not as if he was scared or anticipated that Buffy would reject him.
Her final words to him, he could never forget. I love you.
His eyes stung with tears as the sentiment passed through her lips. He'd longed to hear her say those three little words, and yet, when the moment came, all he could focus on was getting her as far away from him as possible.
What held him back?
A man can't go out in a bloody blaze of glory, savin' the world, and then show up three months later tumbling off a cruise ship in the south of France. If I show up now, flesh and bone, my grand finale won't hold much weight. All of it won't matter.
The more he considered his theory, the less sense it made; still, there was so much uncertainty about why the Powers resurrected him, what role they foresaw him playing.
Looking at her now, the puzzle pieces fell into place - he had his answer. The world beckoned him back not as a form of punishment as he had surmised initially but as a reward, a second chance for him…for them…to get it right.
The urge to take her in his arms burned anew as she stood inches away from him.
He stared into her face. She was real - flesh and bone - and yet he couldn't move. Words wouldn't come. He'd dreamt of this moment so frequently, and the ending was always the same. They'd stand across from each other, as they were now, speaking with their eyes.
Then, he would cross the threshold separating them, and she'd leap into his arms, pressing her heels against the small of his back, and they'd kiss passionately, desperately, and never let go.
Spike could taste how much she wanted him to do just that. He could smell her desire, but the change in her eye stopped him. Matching her anger was the sadness, the hurt. Unlike the final seconds they'd shared in the crumbling Hellmouth, sparks didn't snap across their flesh; no brilliant flame emerged from where their hands met.
She didn't look at him tearfully, with regret or fear of what tomorrow without him would bring.
Her eyes surveyed him up and down with intense scrutiny.
By evading her and not capitalizing on what he truly wanted, it wasn't his grand finale that he made light of - nothing could diminish the importance of what he had done then. Instead, it was the moments he professed his devotion, his love, for her that lost their gleam.
As if sensing he was about to speak, Buffy pressed her hand to his face and held it there, running her index finger along the outline of his mouth before flattening her palm on his cheek, their eyes locking again.
Spike's real. Spike's alive, he's standing in front of me.
She wanted to dive in those ocean blue depths and explore the mysteries of how he came to be here. She wanted a glimpse of the winding road that somehow led him back to her.
After all this time, his power over her hadn't faded. The gravitational pull binding them together strengthened. He still rendered her weightless, breathless, and unafraid - safe.
Moving her hand from his face, she gripped his lapels, looking down as she did so.
The leather felt different; it smelled different. Gone were the bruises and blood stains, the history of his transformation from archrival to ally, confidant, friend, and her greatest love. Gone was the stench of tobacco and alcohol that held her like a warm blanket in times of misery.
It was new, a layer - albeit, a small one - that time stripped away.
She contemplated how difficult it must have been for him to part with his prized duster. It complimented him perfectly, regardless of the violent manner in which he had come into its possession.
Not many could pull his look off: jeans, fitted t-shirt, and leather duster - all black - coupled with razor sharp cheekbones, platinum blonde mane, and the most expressive, beautiful blue eyes.
He was most stunning at night.
She loved watching the silver moon dance across his face, his skin pale as milk and scarred but perfect nonetheless. She loved combing her fingers through his hair, especially after he had just showered and his curls were unruly. Looking back, those were the moments she longed for the most, where they were both free and just lived.
Or at least he had.
Alive was something she pretended to be. At the time, she wasn't in a position to savor the little things or much else because she stood at the crossroads, torn between wanting and yet not wanting to live in the world again.
Deep down, she knew Spike was more - much more - to her than a release from the pain, an escape from her friends' happiness, their joy as sharp as the edge of a knife.
The qualities that defined him - what she saw in him - couldn't be encapsulated with one word. Even though the sun had long fallen by the time she'd broach his crypt door, he'd capture her in his rays and make her feel pristine, taking her to a plane she didn't even know existed.
She'd never felt as high as she did when he held her in his wings.
How he could feel for her so strongly, how he understood her better than anyone, and why he continued to hold on when she felt dirty, unworthy of such affection or attention, confused her.
Her ability to feel died, consumed by a world where love and destruction were synonymous, interlinked like a highway stretch. It wasn't until the end - their end - that she felt herself waking up. What a twist of fate the years they spent together were.
Only through his presence, through his death, did she discover what it meant to truly live.
Physical attributes aside, it was Spike's confident heir that gave her the most security. It was often misconstrued for arrogance, and she would know; she thought of him as brash in the beginning, but she hadn't touched his heart then.
Beneath the brash exterior was a heart more human - faithful, open, and passionate - than any she would ever hold. She never believed she was one of a kind. That he did meant everything to her.
The greatest tragedy of all was that, in his wake and losing him, she'd again lost herself and relied on a series of routines and tasks to get by. Nothing held her sway; she was a prisoner to her memories. Every day for the past six months, she thought of him.
It was a form of meditation - thinking of Spike always calmed her. Revisiting past times made her feel he was still with her, standing at her side, talking to her, but a ghost would never be enough no matter how much pleasure she drew from introspection.
She wanted, needed, something real.
She wanted to feel the calluses in his hand as it linked through hers, to trace the muscles in his forearms as he pulled her back into his chest, to feel his breath warm against her neck as he'd whisper sweet nothings in her ear, reassure her that everything would work out.
In the end, they would be okay.
She supposed that there was some comfort in pain because it reminded her that he wasn't a mirage, an imaginary character, but she couldn't quell the anger his ghost inspired.
Her dreams, however, often had nice elements to them; she'd get a chance to talk to him, tell him about the new slayers and how eager they were to learn, about the young woman Dawn was blossoming into, the art program she enrolled in part-time, and how much she loved him.
Time passed too quickly; she would have given anything to prolong her stay.
But, as the dream faded and reality beckoned, she'd reach for him desperately and do all she could to keep from crying. Then, he'd take her face in his hands, simply look at her and smile, and say, "Don't cry for me, love. It's okay…I'm alright."
She could feel how happy he was, and she envied that feeling.
"You don't have to worry about me. Never forget. Remember that I love you, and I'll always – always – be with you."
Kissing her one final time, he would turn away from her and walk into the golden field, his skin bathed in the cone-shaped ray of early morning light, as everything around them turned black.
Waking up to find herself in an empty bed was the hardest. The dream felt so real; she'd felt that she'd actually spoken with Spike. She felt most vulnerable in those moments, anything but the strong, tenacious woman he loved, admired, and praised.
The hardest thing in this world is to live in it.
How could she live in the present without the breath that sustained her?
Her friends didn't understand what she and Spike shared; in fact, it remained a source of contention, especially with Xander. Maybe if she told them about their final moments together, they would be more compassionate toward her, but those memories were private.
They were for her and for him only.
Still, that knowledge didn't stop her from telling Dawn an abridged account. She felt it was important to sit down with her younger sister and tell her about their nights, their last moments, together.
Spike never got the opportunity to fully mend his relationship with Dawn even though it was clear even to the untrained eye that the love between them, the paternal-like bond, despite being chipped remained very much intact. He loved her, felt protective over her, and she loved him too.
Above all, it's what Spike would have wanted her to do; Buffy was certain of that.
Only Summers women held special places in his heart, she smiled at that thought.
She hated herself for not savoring the precious moments with Spike when he was alive. In her fantasies, it was as easy as breathing. Although he'd kept his promise to her - to never leave her - she failed to do the same for him; living was a chore. Though she accomplished much, her days grew increasingly hollow and listless until a rare foray at the local night spot changed everything.
The raucous was a welcome distraction, drowning out the music, as bursts of adrenaline shot through her body. The sensation was both familiar and strange simultaneously - the thrill of excitement left her system so long ago, it felt like ages.
Glass shattered.
Bones crunched.
Without a second thought, ignoring the voice directed at her from behind, her strides lengthened.
Her chest roared in her ear like thunder as she pushed her way through the crowd. She calculated the odds as she grew closer to the scene. It was a party of seven - correction, eight - of the demon variety squaring off against two.
By the time she'd enter the fray, the odds would be more than even…or not.
Bodies flew left and right. Some sailed across tables while others careened into the solid wood ramps, falling haphazardly to the tiled hardwood floor. Five appeared to be down for the count whereas the remaining three remained crouched, licking their wounds, gasping for air, hoping as opposed to trying to regroup.
So she wouldn't get the workout she wanted, she sighed.
The party of two was more than game, but her feet continued to move. Her eyes widened in horror as the subjects of her praise began targeting each other.
No! What are you doing?, she wanted to shout.
But the question didn't make it past her throat as a voice from her dreams assaulted her.
I was confused, you git. It's very loud in here. Spike! No. It couldn't be.
Where's the head? Angel.
She stopped in her tracks as they turned forty-five degrees, bringing them in plain sight. She wasn't sure what or how to feel. All at once, she felt joy, happy beyond words, and betrayed.
Spike had been back for awhile, that was obvious, but why hadn't he come for her? If there was something he wanted, he took it, went after it with unrivaled persistence no matter the cost or who got hurt in the process.
He was her champion; he was still her champion.
Wasn't she still worth fighting for?
Why were he and Angel working side by side? It was disconcerting enough for her to accept Angel's position as CEO of Wolfram & Hart's Los Angeles branch, but even more alarming was the image, the thought, of Spike working there.
Talk about a strange reality.
Was all of this just a dream?
She didn't have time to dwell on the matter further as solid objects blurred, bright colors faded to shades of grey, and a pair of arms caught her from behind.
The electric shocks sweeping through her arms, the warmth between her thighs, and the burn in her cheeks hours later as she stood on the well-lit street corner of her apartment complex alerted her to the truth of the matter.
She wasn't dreaming.
The folds separating one dimension from the next, the divide between her heart's desires and reality, shattered. Her focus wholly on the way the duster billowed behind Spike as he walked with Angel just yards to his front, sporting the most ridiculous leather coat she'd ever seen.
When her eyes trailed upward to Spike's face brightened by the lamp post to see his look of defeat, her spirits fell. She hated to see him defeated; it was so unlike him. Who stood at her side at the time may have had something to do with that, she mused.
All she wanted at that instant, and now, was to touch him.
My Spike's alive.
Buffy melted into the hard muscles of his chest, anger forgotten as Spike's arms went around her. She screwed her eyes shut, threading her left hand in his hair, relishing his embrace.
They stayed like that for several minutes, just holding each other. The only sound penetrating the quiet was their breathing. Lifting her head from his chest, Buffy took a deep breath before lifting her eyes to Spike's face, chewing on her lower lip as his eyes narrowed.
"You're here?"
"I am."
"How long have you been back?"
He took a long swallow. "A few months…" That was all he could manage.
Spike didn't want her to be angry with him, though he admitted she would have been well within her right to be. He should have told her, she deserved to hear the news directly from him, but that was a discussion for another time, preferably in a room where they were the only occupants.
What he wanted to say, only she needed to hear it.
He waited for her to say something, but a response never came. Instead, her chin fell to her chest.
She closed her eyes again, trying to keep the embers from stoking inside. Clenching her left hand into a tight fist, she let the fire take over and opened her shoulder, rotating her body, digging her heels into the floor when flesh met bone.
"You bastard!"
Pressing a hand to his thigh as he righted himself, Angel raised his left to his jaw and rubbed it briskly, waiting for the stars to clear. "What the hell was that for?"
"You knew what I was going through. You saw what it did to me when I thought Spike was…" She couldn't bring herself to say dead - having to do so the first time around was painful enough - especially when a firm hand touching her wrist reminded her otherwise.
"I trusted you. How dare you hide this from me?"
"How dare you hide your relationship with Spike from me? Since we're discussing trust and honesty, or lack thereof, why didn't you tell me the truth about you two? You said that until you found yourself, until you finished baking, you couldn't bring yourself to love, open your heart, or commit to anyone. Remember?"
Twice in a matter of hours, there were references to Buffy baking and still Spike couldn't digest or draw any conclusions as for what the context of she and Angel's dialogue was, the choice of metaphor notwithstanding.
However, not even the small pangs of doubt creeping inside could deflect his intrigue.
"Don't turn this around on me! Yes, I said to you just that, but there's one point you've neglected conveniently: What I do with my life is not your business. I believe I made that perfectly clear. Understand something else, Angel. Because you were my first, you'll always be a part of me, but that doesn't give you the right to spy on me, watch my every move, or have someone else do it for you. If you ever loved me, respect my privacy. Figure out the difference between what I need and don't need to know. This qualifies as something I needed to know."
Angel contemplated what she said, realizing that no explanation he offered could placate her rage, change what he did - or, from her perspective, what he failed to do. He looked to Spike briefly, wincing to find his eyes trained on Buffy, her fingers folding into his.
"I was just as surprised then as you are now, but I didn't know what to say or do about it."
"Simple. You pick up the phone and call, and your surprise couldn't possibly trump mine." Her voice was icy, hard with rage…and dread. She took a breath and held it, staring at the floor as she turned away, facing Spike again.
"Look at me." When Buffy didn't comply, Spike tilted her chin upward with his thumb.
"I'm sorry. I know that's not enough, far from it. Believe me, I wanted to come and find you, tell you in person, more than anything. But there were so many questions, so much I didn't know. Until I had my answers, I thought you were better - safer - not knowing."
She shook her head. "You don't have to explain. I remember what it was like, the difficulty of finding a place in a world that's familiar but changed, different, at the same time. You shouldn't have had to go through that alone. I wish I was there for you, like you were for me."
As his head dipped toward hers, her eyes drifted closed, anticipating the brush of his lips, but she heard him intake a sharp breath.
When she opened them, looking upward to his face, his brows were pulled together, heavy with concentration. She'd seen that look before.
Extricating his left hand from her right, he took the delicate chains around her neck in his fingertips, carefully pulling them from beneath the collar of her shawl. Suspended from the shorter chain was a heart-shaped lock paired with a Victorian era skeleton key; from the other, slightly longer, chain was a single initial pendant - 'S'.
Holding the charm, he blinked several times. "This…" Without letting go, he looked up.
"It was my way of holding onto you."
Spike thought about that for a long moment.
Cocking his head to the side, he asked, "What does that mean?"
Buffy wandered to the last time he'd looked at her that way, having posed that very question to her no less, lost in the past once more as his liquid warm eyes probed hers. Then, she'd allowed her fear, fear of admitting how deeply she felt for him, to get in the way.
I don't know. Does it have to mean something?
No…not right now.
He'd looked so hurt. He didn't deserve that - he deserved much better. Having spent months without him, it was time for her lungs to fill with the sweet air they needed.
"I never loved him, Spike. I couldn't love him…because I love you."
She'd never seen as much happiness on his face, in his smile, as she did now. If only she could photograph the moment so she could show her friends precisely what it was she saw in and ultimately came to love about him.
Spike took her face in both of his hands, looking deeply into her eyes. "Say that again."
"I love you, Spike. I love you now, and always."
Time slowed to a crawl as their lips touched.
The kiss was chaste, soft and sweet; she felt tension, uncertainty and curiosity pouring off of him in waves. Pulling back to look into his heavy eyes, it was easy to discern his question and what he asked of her because she was asking herself the same at that moment.
What now?
Of two things, she was certain. First, she never wanted to be without him again because such a life would be empty. Second, she couldn't afford to worry about the perception of others at the expense of her heart; it was time to give her happiness top priority.
Claiming his lips again, her hands glided up and down his back, feeling every muscle flex and expand before moving to his shoulder blades, gripping them tightly. She stretched onto the tips of her toes and moaned into his mouth as the kiss deepened, both of them oblivious to the growing crowd or Angel staggering back on his heels with a nauseous expression.
In her mind's eye, an open road dipped in the purest, finest light stretched infinitely.
She knew where they were going tomorrow and the day after, the next week, the next month, and the years ahead.
Buffy not only trusted Spike with her heart but she also trusted herself to love him completely.
THE END