He's been reading a lot lately. That's what Xander tells me. It makes
sense, seeing as how an old, but sturdy chest full of books and other
frivolous things was the only thing that survived the explosion in the
lower level of his crypt. I asked Xander what was he reading and he
replied,
"Oh, you know, those old books he brought over. They're just books of that old junk we had to read in high school. Mostly poems."
Poems. Sounds about right. I remember catching him with several different old, ratty books by Lord Byron or Percy Shelley in his hand many a time as I knocked down his door, demanding he help me forget Heaven and the pain with a kiss and a thrust. Now it sounds he's trying to forget the past and pain through the power of print.
And I'm glad. I'm glad that there is something that can make him happy right now. Make him forget for a moment. Ease the pain just a bit. Because I know I can't. Whenever I visit Xander - OK, so I'm not really visiting Xander because lets face it I see him enough everyday as it is. But whenever I stop by Xander's place and pretend that I just happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I'd see how the Xand-man was doing, I'm actually checking up on Spike. Don't want him to know that of course because he doesn't want to be "mollycoddled" as he put it. But usually my attempt to mollycoddle him is in vain because, I'll visit, he'll be in his room and I haven't yet gained enough courage to knock on the door. Also, I don't want Xander to know or even suspect that I often come by only to check on Spike. So what generally happens is I come by, Spike will be in his room, and I'm forced to keep on a happy face and chat away with Xander while in the meantime I'm worrying and stressing over Spike. The whole time I'm there, thoughts like, "How did he get his soul back, anyway?" and "How the hell do we go from here?" keep grating on my mind. But there have been times that I have dropped by and Xander's eating dinner and Spike's sitting on the couch, reading or watching the TV. I'll be nice, give him a big ole' smile, the kind he would have killed for back in the day, and he will just.I don't know. He gets really tense and jittery. He doesn't say much, except for, "Xander's in the kitchen," and he never makes eye contact. I don't say much back, and I give up on trying to make eye contact, so I'll walk into the kitchen to find Xander, and Spike will then leave to go to his room. I get disappointed and leave soon thereafter.
Once upon a time, his whole face and aura would just light up whenever I was around. It used to annoy the hell out of me but now I really miss it. And it kind of stings to know he doesn't want me to be around him. But I can understand why. I also miss hearing his voice. He's so quiet now. He hardly says a word. At least when he was in the school basement he talked. Of course none of it made sense, at least to me, but he talked. It makes me sad. Before the soul he used to be so energetic. He would just yak his jaws a mile a minute whenever I saw him. The only way I could get him to shut up back when we first met was with a punch to the nose. And back when we were sleeping together, the only way to shut him up was with a kiss...or, y'know, other things. *cough* But now all I want is to hear him talk. He doesn't have to talk to me, although that would be nice. All I want is to hear him talk. And so I got him to.
Yesterday I walked into Xander's apartment with the key he had made for me. It didn't take him long to catch on to the reasoning behind my frequent visits. As he gave me the key one night, he told me that Spike would usually come out of his room and sit on the couch to read around three in the afternoon every day.
"He doesn't say a word, doesn't look at me. He just sits there and reads these stuffy old books. The kind Giles has. It must be a British thing."
I tried denying that I had been visiting because of Spike, but it was no use. Xander just shook his head and said,
"Whatever. At least this way I won't have to get up when you're visiting for the ten thousandth time."
So yesterday, after school had let out, I got a ride from one of the receptionist over to the apartment. It was 2:45P.M. by the time I was standing in front of the door. I was too impatient to wait, I just wanted to go straight in, but what kept me from barging in and dragging his ass out of his room to scream at him to talk, was that I didn't have a clue what I was going to say to him. I didn't have an opener line in mind and I didn't know what was going to be my excuse for being there. I hadn't prepared myself at all. I looked down at my watch and it was 3:04P.M., so I took a deep breath, hoped for the best, and went in. Lo and behold, there he was sitting on the couch and indeed reading a rather large book. Poor book, it looked like it had been read and re-read over a million times, it was in such bad condition. When he looked up and saw me, he seemed surprised.
"Thought you were the whelp," he had muttered.
"Nah," I replied, closing the door behind me. "He's still at work, trying to make the school less prone to evilness. He won't succeed of course."
Spike just nodded his head and went back to his book. An uncomfortable, awkward feeling started creeping up on me and the whole time standing there all I could think was "Shit, what do I do now, I feel stupid just standing here and he's not looking at me and he doesn't even seem to care that I'm here, and damn it, Spike, why did you have to do this? Why did everything get so damned complicated?"
The silence stretched on. I forced myself to come up with something, anything, so I thought up a ridiculous lie for why I was there, because I couldn't think of anything else.
"So.yeah. I just came over, you know, to uh, get some forks. And spoons. We ran out at home." I visibly cringed after that garbage spewed out of my mouth, I was so embarrassed. I could have come up with something better than that bullshit, couldn't I? But he didn't call me out on the horrible lie. He just kept his nose in his book and said, "Ok." I was still embarrassed but thankful. Although, a part of me had hoped he'd laugh and make fun of me. That Spike I can handle. This one? Wwaayyy over my head.
I walked into the kitchen and rummaged through the drawer that Xander kept his forks, spoons, and knives, took a handful and placed them in a plastic bag I found. I walked back into the living room slowly, taking my time, trying to figure out what to say to him, and then it hit me. We didn't have to talk about anything important. We could save those very much- needed talks which would turn into yelling for later. For now we could simply talk about those large volumes that have kept him so occupied lately. I strolled over to the couch, sat my purse and bag of utensils on the coffee table and sat next to him, curling my legs underneath me. He glanced over at me, eyes shifting everywhere but never landing on my face. And I asked him,
"What are you reading?"
He looked at me, and then his book, and then at me again and simply stated, "Byron."
Byron! I remember Byron! I liked Byron, loved Byron, went to school with him, I did. Yep. He and I go way back. This was great! We could talk about Byron! Except.I don't remember a single thing about Byron or his poems or why I liked his poetry so much in high school. But he could help me remember.
"Why don't you read to me one of his poems?" I asked.
He shook his head, smiled a bit and asked "Why?"
I started to panic. So far I had said four sentences to him, I was on a roll and now.nothing. What the hell was I going to say? "Well, you see, there's this new demon in town and if you don't kill it right away, it'll put a hex on you and you'll never be able to read again. Even Hooked on Phonics can't help you. So you see, this is why you must read to me." Then I realized how long it had been since he had asked his question and I still hadn't come up with an answer, so I just said the first thing that came to mind.
"Well, I.uh, always like Byron when I was in high school and it's been a while since I've read any of his poems."
"I can let you borrow my book, if you'd like," he offered humbly. He said it while looking down at his book and said it so quietly, like a shy little boy. I don't think I've ever seen William that close to the surface before. It sort of made me feel uncomfortable, like I wasn't supposed to see this side of Spike. That it was off limits, that it wasn't meant to be shown. But nevertheless, I was happy to have been there and seen a glimpse of it.
"No, that's ok. I'd rather you read a poem to me." I said.
"But why-"
"Just read." I prodded gently. After a beat, he gave in and flipped through a few pages.
"Which poem would you like for me to read?"
"Read your favorite."
He kept flipping through the book and stopped on one particular page, skimmed a few lines, shook his head and then continued with the flipping. Finally he found the page he was looking for. He cleared his throat and said,
"This one is called 'To M. S. G.':
When I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive; Extend not your anger to sleep; For in visions alone your affection can live,- I rise, and it leaves me to weep.
Then, Morpheus! Envelope my faculties fast, Shed o'er me your languor benign; Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last, What rapture celestial is mine!
They tell us that slumber, the sister of death, Mortality's emblem is given; To fate how I long to resign my frail breath, If this be a foretaste of heaven!
Ah! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your soft brow, Nor deem me too happy in this; If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now, Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss. Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may smile, Oh, think not my penance deficient! When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile,
To awake will be torture sufficient."
By the third stanza there were tears streaming down my face. I tried so hard not to make a single noise throughout the reading, because I didn't want to interrupt him and have him stop to ask me what was wrong. He was talking, after all. And it was the most talking he had done in days, but it felt like months. The anguish, frail hope, and pitiful bliss in the poem completely echoed in his voice. He read the poem with every emotion he could muster. He did not disappoint. Not since that time in the church had I witnessed him strip himself and everything he was bare and put all that he felt up for display. And he did it all through reading a poem that wasn't even written by him.
Spike kept his head down, ran a hand through his hair quickly and gave a soft laugh. "Till this day I've wished that I wrote that poem. Or any of his poems."
He still hadn't looked at me yet, so I frantically wiped my face, hoping he wouldn't notice that I had cried and said, "I'm sure you could, Spike."
He laughed louder this time. "That's a laugh! No, I never could. Believe me, I've tried. For over a hundred years, I've tried."
"Well, everyone is their own worst critic. Perhaps your critic is particularly harsh."
"Yeah, well." he trailed off and shrugged his shoulders.
It was quiet for a moment. Neither of us talked. I ran out of things to say and ideas of how to get him to say anything. But then suddenly he laid the book on the coffee table and got up to go to the kitchen. I heard running water and the rustling of cups and plates. A minute later I heard a kettle's whistle and soon after he came back with a teacup in hand. Naturally this surprised me. Spike holding a cup o' tea? When the hell had that started happening? When was the last time he ever had tea? Probably over a hundred years ago. But it dawned on me that this made sense. He wasn't exactly Spike anymore. William has moved back in, and apparently William drinks tea. It wouldn't surprise me if he used to drink it during an awkward situation to keep himself calm. In which case, this wasn't very surprising after all. As of late, Spike was definietly in need of appeasing.
He didn't come back to sit on the couch with me. Instead, he leaned against the wall separating the kitchen and living room. While he steeped his tea bag, he said quietly, "For months I would hear all these voices inside my head. Sayin' all kinds of things. It would never stop. Sleep couldn't even get them to shut the hell up. So once I moved in here, I started reading. I had to do something to get rid of the voices, so why not replace them with pretty words, eh?" He smiled sadly.
I was startled. "Wait, so it wasn't the basement that put all those voices in your head?"
"Well, no. The voices started up the morning after I had gotten the soul. Staying in the basement, of course, didn't help. While I was down there, they just became louder and more of them joined in on the fun. There's still a few here and there that have lingered since I've gotten out of the basement."
I became disappointed. My goal of moving him in with Xander was so that he could get better. And technically he did, sort of, but he was still being plagued by his inner demon(s?) and the phantoms of those he killed. But I had to remind myself that that wasn't my problem, and it was his price to pay.
Returning to the topic at hand, I asked, "Does it help?"
He looked up at me, confused. "Does what help?
"Reading."
It took him a moment to answer. "Yeah. If I concentrate hard enough. But you know what?" he asked without waiting for an answer. "Sometimes I just let the voices talk. I let them torment me because I deserve it. Hell, I deserve worse."
"Stop that," I chided him. That definitely got his attention. "You can't keep beating yourself up over everything you did. It's a wonderful and HUGE thing that you went out to get your soul back, and it's good that you feel guilt over all that you've done, because hey, lets you know that the soul is working. But you can't dwell on the past. You've got to move forward, Spike."
"If you only knew of all the things I've done." he whispered under his breath.
"I have a good idea." I said softly.
His shoulders began to sag under the weight of his memories and the pain that tore through his heart as a result of said memories. "I don't deserve to move forward, Buffy."
"So, what, you're just going to sit around, waste away and allow the memories and voices to kill you?"
Standing aloof, his voice nothing but an impassive remoteness, he said, "Sure, why the hell not. Sounds like a lovely plan to me."
Coldly and straight to the point, I replied "Then the memories and deaths of all those you killed would be made in vain."
I could hear the very delicate rattle of his tea cup and saucer as a result from his now shaking hands. He took a moment to sip his tea, which by now was starting to already cool, and sat in the chair facing me. He kept his head down, which seemed to be a running theme with him today, and rubbed his hands together. He focused every ounce of his attention on to his hands, I believe to keep from having to look at me.
His voice returned to small and shaky from empty and disconnected. "I could never make it up to them all. Even saving the necks of every poor bloke and lass out there in the entire world for the next hundred years wouldn't be enough."
Without thinking, I reached out to cup his hands. "But it would be a start." For the first time all afternoon, he looked me in the eyes. The intensity nearly knocked me off my seat. So many feelings, thoughts, fears swirled in those indigo orbs. It was I, surprisingly, that looked away first. Looking into his eyes gave me a direct link into his mind, heart, and for the very first time, soul. I could feel all that he was feeling and it was overwhelming. I couldn't take it.
Always the chicken, I retrieved my hands from his and said, "Look, I ought to go. Dawn is probably home by now from the library and I need to get cracking on dinner."
He bobbed his head up and down in agreement, saying nothing. I slowly stood, picked up my purse and plastic bag. Spike stood up with me and walked me to the door. Before I got a chance to reach out for the knob, he opened the door for me. That gave me a flashback to the night he first told me that he was in love with me. I ducked my head and gave a small smile, the memory giving me a momentary happy. After I crossed the threshold into the hall, I turned around to say goodbye. He wasn't smiling, but he wasn't frowning either. He had a soft expression on his face and his head was slightly tilted. Languidly he rose his hand up to stroke my cheek and my breath caught in my throat. The pad of his thumb gently and slowly caressed the side of my face. I was stuck between being afraid that if he continued I would either fall asleep or persuade him into more slow, gentle strokes elsewhere. He freed me from my daze as he told me, "Thanks for dropping by. I'll make sure to come out of my room more often."
I smiled at him and laughed. "Ahhh, you caught me." He smiled back and brought his hand down. Immediately I missed the contact of his hand but had to keep myself from begging him to continue.
"I'll be seeing you." I said.
He smiled and gave a quick nod and retreated back into the apartment as I began walking away. While walking home I realized that we ended up having one of the many very much-needed discussions which surprisingly didn't turn into yelling today. I hadn't expected that, and had hoped we could prolong it as long as possible. But it was fine, because the discussion ended fine, and everything was fine for now. For now. Blah, I hate those two words together. Nevertheless, for now everything was fine. Except, they won't be by the time Xander goes home and discovers I stole all of his utensils. Oops.
"Oh, you know, those old books he brought over. They're just books of that old junk we had to read in high school. Mostly poems."
Poems. Sounds about right. I remember catching him with several different old, ratty books by Lord Byron or Percy Shelley in his hand many a time as I knocked down his door, demanding he help me forget Heaven and the pain with a kiss and a thrust. Now it sounds he's trying to forget the past and pain through the power of print.
And I'm glad. I'm glad that there is something that can make him happy right now. Make him forget for a moment. Ease the pain just a bit. Because I know I can't. Whenever I visit Xander - OK, so I'm not really visiting Xander because lets face it I see him enough everyday as it is. But whenever I stop by Xander's place and pretend that I just happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I'd see how the Xand-man was doing, I'm actually checking up on Spike. Don't want him to know that of course because he doesn't want to be "mollycoddled" as he put it. But usually my attempt to mollycoddle him is in vain because, I'll visit, he'll be in his room and I haven't yet gained enough courage to knock on the door. Also, I don't want Xander to know or even suspect that I often come by only to check on Spike. So what generally happens is I come by, Spike will be in his room, and I'm forced to keep on a happy face and chat away with Xander while in the meantime I'm worrying and stressing over Spike. The whole time I'm there, thoughts like, "How did he get his soul back, anyway?" and "How the hell do we go from here?" keep grating on my mind. But there have been times that I have dropped by and Xander's eating dinner and Spike's sitting on the couch, reading or watching the TV. I'll be nice, give him a big ole' smile, the kind he would have killed for back in the day, and he will just.I don't know. He gets really tense and jittery. He doesn't say much, except for, "Xander's in the kitchen," and he never makes eye contact. I don't say much back, and I give up on trying to make eye contact, so I'll walk into the kitchen to find Xander, and Spike will then leave to go to his room. I get disappointed and leave soon thereafter.
Once upon a time, his whole face and aura would just light up whenever I was around. It used to annoy the hell out of me but now I really miss it. And it kind of stings to know he doesn't want me to be around him. But I can understand why. I also miss hearing his voice. He's so quiet now. He hardly says a word. At least when he was in the school basement he talked. Of course none of it made sense, at least to me, but he talked. It makes me sad. Before the soul he used to be so energetic. He would just yak his jaws a mile a minute whenever I saw him. The only way I could get him to shut up back when we first met was with a punch to the nose. And back when we were sleeping together, the only way to shut him up was with a kiss...or, y'know, other things. *cough* But now all I want is to hear him talk. He doesn't have to talk to me, although that would be nice. All I want is to hear him talk. And so I got him to.
Yesterday I walked into Xander's apartment with the key he had made for me. It didn't take him long to catch on to the reasoning behind my frequent visits. As he gave me the key one night, he told me that Spike would usually come out of his room and sit on the couch to read around three in the afternoon every day.
"He doesn't say a word, doesn't look at me. He just sits there and reads these stuffy old books. The kind Giles has. It must be a British thing."
I tried denying that I had been visiting because of Spike, but it was no use. Xander just shook his head and said,
"Whatever. At least this way I won't have to get up when you're visiting for the ten thousandth time."
So yesterday, after school had let out, I got a ride from one of the receptionist over to the apartment. It was 2:45P.M. by the time I was standing in front of the door. I was too impatient to wait, I just wanted to go straight in, but what kept me from barging in and dragging his ass out of his room to scream at him to talk, was that I didn't have a clue what I was going to say to him. I didn't have an opener line in mind and I didn't know what was going to be my excuse for being there. I hadn't prepared myself at all. I looked down at my watch and it was 3:04P.M., so I took a deep breath, hoped for the best, and went in. Lo and behold, there he was sitting on the couch and indeed reading a rather large book. Poor book, it looked like it had been read and re-read over a million times, it was in such bad condition. When he looked up and saw me, he seemed surprised.
"Thought you were the whelp," he had muttered.
"Nah," I replied, closing the door behind me. "He's still at work, trying to make the school less prone to evilness. He won't succeed of course."
Spike just nodded his head and went back to his book. An uncomfortable, awkward feeling started creeping up on me and the whole time standing there all I could think was "Shit, what do I do now, I feel stupid just standing here and he's not looking at me and he doesn't even seem to care that I'm here, and damn it, Spike, why did you have to do this? Why did everything get so damned complicated?"
The silence stretched on. I forced myself to come up with something, anything, so I thought up a ridiculous lie for why I was there, because I couldn't think of anything else.
"So.yeah. I just came over, you know, to uh, get some forks. And spoons. We ran out at home." I visibly cringed after that garbage spewed out of my mouth, I was so embarrassed. I could have come up with something better than that bullshit, couldn't I? But he didn't call me out on the horrible lie. He just kept his nose in his book and said, "Ok." I was still embarrassed but thankful. Although, a part of me had hoped he'd laugh and make fun of me. That Spike I can handle. This one? Wwaayyy over my head.
I walked into the kitchen and rummaged through the drawer that Xander kept his forks, spoons, and knives, took a handful and placed them in a plastic bag I found. I walked back into the living room slowly, taking my time, trying to figure out what to say to him, and then it hit me. We didn't have to talk about anything important. We could save those very much- needed talks which would turn into yelling for later. For now we could simply talk about those large volumes that have kept him so occupied lately. I strolled over to the couch, sat my purse and bag of utensils on the coffee table and sat next to him, curling my legs underneath me. He glanced over at me, eyes shifting everywhere but never landing on my face. And I asked him,
"What are you reading?"
He looked at me, and then his book, and then at me again and simply stated, "Byron."
Byron! I remember Byron! I liked Byron, loved Byron, went to school with him, I did. Yep. He and I go way back. This was great! We could talk about Byron! Except.I don't remember a single thing about Byron or his poems or why I liked his poetry so much in high school. But he could help me remember.
"Why don't you read to me one of his poems?" I asked.
He shook his head, smiled a bit and asked "Why?"
I started to panic. So far I had said four sentences to him, I was on a roll and now.nothing. What the hell was I going to say? "Well, you see, there's this new demon in town and if you don't kill it right away, it'll put a hex on you and you'll never be able to read again. Even Hooked on Phonics can't help you. So you see, this is why you must read to me." Then I realized how long it had been since he had asked his question and I still hadn't come up with an answer, so I just said the first thing that came to mind.
"Well, I.uh, always like Byron when I was in high school and it's been a while since I've read any of his poems."
"I can let you borrow my book, if you'd like," he offered humbly. He said it while looking down at his book and said it so quietly, like a shy little boy. I don't think I've ever seen William that close to the surface before. It sort of made me feel uncomfortable, like I wasn't supposed to see this side of Spike. That it was off limits, that it wasn't meant to be shown. But nevertheless, I was happy to have been there and seen a glimpse of it.
"No, that's ok. I'd rather you read a poem to me." I said.
"But why-"
"Just read." I prodded gently. After a beat, he gave in and flipped through a few pages.
"Which poem would you like for me to read?"
"Read your favorite."
He kept flipping through the book and stopped on one particular page, skimmed a few lines, shook his head and then continued with the flipping. Finally he found the page he was looking for. He cleared his throat and said,
"This one is called 'To M. S. G.':
When I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive; Extend not your anger to sleep; For in visions alone your affection can live,- I rise, and it leaves me to weep.
Then, Morpheus! Envelope my faculties fast, Shed o'er me your languor benign; Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last, What rapture celestial is mine!
They tell us that slumber, the sister of death, Mortality's emblem is given; To fate how I long to resign my frail breath, If this be a foretaste of heaven!
Ah! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your soft brow, Nor deem me too happy in this; If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now, Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss. Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may smile, Oh, think not my penance deficient! When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile,
To awake will be torture sufficient."
By the third stanza there were tears streaming down my face. I tried so hard not to make a single noise throughout the reading, because I didn't want to interrupt him and have him stop to ask me what was wrong. He was talking, after all. And it was the most talking he had done in days, but it felt like months. The anguish, frail hope, and pitiful bliss in the poem completely echoed in his voice. He read the poem with every emotion he could muster. He did not disappoint. Not since that time in the church had I witnessed him strip himself and everything he was bare and put all that he felt up for display. And he did it all through reading a poem that wasn't even written by him.
Spike kept his head down, ran a hand through his hair quickly and gave a soft laugh. "Till this day I've wished that I wrote that poem. Or any of his poems."
He still hadn't looked at me yet, so I frantically wiped my face, hoping he wouldn't notice that I had cried and said, "I'm sure you could, Spike."
He laughed louder this time. "That's a laugh! No, I never could. Believe me, I've tried. For over a hundred years, I've tried."
"Well, everyone is their own worst critic. Perhaps your critic is particularly harsh."
"Yeah, well." he trailed off and shrugged his shoulders.
It was quiet for a moment. Neither of us talked. I ran out of things to say and ideas of how to get him to say anything. But then suddenly he laid the book on the coffee table and got up to go to the kitchen. I heard running water and the rustling of cups and plates. A minute later I heard a kettle's whistle and soon after he came back with a teacup in hand. Naturally this surprised me. Spike holding a cup o' tea? When the hell had that started happening? When was the last time he ever had tea? Probably over a hundred years ago. But it dawned on me that this made sense. He wasn't exactly Spike anymore. William has moved back in, and apparently William drinks tea. It wouldn't surprise me if he used to drink it during an awkward situation to keep himself calm. In which case, this wasn't very surprising after all. As of late, Spike was definietly in need of appeasing.
He didn't come back to sit on the couch with me. Instead, he leaned against the wall separating the kitchen and living room. While he steeped his tea bag, he said quietly, "For months I would hear all these voices inside my head. Sayin' all kinds of things. It would never stop. Sleep couldn't even get them to shut the hell up. So once I moved in here, I started reading. I had to do something to get rid of the voices, so why not replace them with pretty words, eh?" He smiled sadly.
I was startled. "Wait, so it wasn't the basement that put all those voices in your head?"
"Well, no. The voices started up the morning after I had gotten the soul. Staying in the basement, of course, didn't help. While I was down there, they just became louder and more of them joined in on the fun. There's still a few here and there that have lingered since I've gotten out of the basement."
I became disappointed. My goal of moving him in with Xander was so that he could get better. And technically he did, sort of, but he was still being plagued by his inner demon(s?) and the phantoms of those he killed. But I had to remind myself that that wasn't my problem, and it was his price to pay.
Returning to the topic at hand, I asked, "Does it help?"
He looked up at me, confused. "Does what help?
"Reading."
It took him a moment to answer. "Yeah. If I concentrate hard enough. But you know what?" he asked without waiting for an answer. "Sometimes I just let the voices talk. I let them torment me because I deserve it. Hell, I deserve worse."
"Stop that," I chided him. That definitely got his attention. "You can't keep beating yourself up over everything you did. It's a wonderful and HUGE thing that you went out to get your soul back, and it's good that you feel guilt over all that you've done, because hey, lets you know that the soul is working. But you can't dwell on the past. You've got to move forward, Spike."
"If you only knew of all the things I've done." he whispered under his breath.
"I have a good idea." I said softly.
His shoulders began to sag under the weight of his memories and the pain that tore through his heart as a result of said memories. "I don't deserve to move forward, Buffy."
"So, what, you're just going to sit around, waste away and allow the memories and voices to kill you?"
Standing aloof, his voice nothing but an impassive remoteness, he said, "Sure, why the hell not. Sounds like a lovely plan to me."
Coldly and straight to the point, I replied "Then the memories and deaths of all those you killed would be made in vain."
I could hear the very delicate rattle of his tea cup and saucer as a result from his now shaking hands. He took a moment to sip his tea, which by now was starting to already cool, and sat in the chair facing me. He kept his head down, which seemed to be a running theme with him today, and rubbed his hands together. He focused every ounce of his attention on to his hands, I believe to keep from having to look at me.
His voice returned to small and shaky from empty and disconnected. "I could never make it up to them all. Even saving the necks of every poor bloke and lass out there in the entire world for the next hundred years wouldn't be enough."
Without thinking, I reached out to cup his hands. "But it would be a start." For the first time all afternoon, he looked me in the eyes. The intensity nearly knocked me off my seat. So many feelings, thoughts, fears swirled in those indigo orbs. It was I, surprisingly, that looked away first. Looking into his eyes gave me a direct link into his mind, heart, and for the very first time, soul. I could feel all that he was feeling and it was overwhelming. I couldn't take it.
Always the chicken, I retrieved my hands from his and said, "Look, I ought to go. Dawn is probably home by now from the library and I need to get cracking on dinner."
He bobbed his head up and down in agreement, saying nothing. I slowly stood, picked up my purse and plastic bag. Spike stood up with me and walked me to the door. Before I got a chance to reach out for the knob, he opened the door for me. That gave me a flashback to the night he first told me that he was in love with me. I ducked my head and gave a small smile, the memory giving me a momentary happy. After I crossed the threshold into the hall, I turned around to say goodbye. He wasn't smiling, but he wasn't frowning either. He had a soft expression on his face and his head was slightly tilted. Languidly he rose his hand up to stroke my cheek and my breath caught in my throat. The pad of his thumb gently and slowly caressed the side of my face. I was stuck between being afraid that if he continued I would either fall asleep or persuade him into more slow, gentle strokes elsewhere. He freed me from my daze as he told me, "Thanks for dropping by. I'll make sure to come out of my room more often."
I smiled at him and laughed. "Ahhh, you caught me." He smiled back and brought his hand down. Immediately I missed the contact of his hand but had to keep myself from begging him to continue.
"I'll be seeing you." I said.
He smiled and gave a quick nod and retreated back into the apartment as I began walking away. While walking home I realized that we ended up having one of the many very much-needed discussions which surprisingly didn't turn into yelling today. I hadn't expected that, and had hoped we could prolong it as long as possible. But it was fine, because the discussion ended fine, and everything was fine for now. For now. Blah, I hate those two words together. Nevertheless, for now everything was fine. Except, they won't be by the time Xander goes home and discovers I stole all of his utensils. Oops.