Sometimes, in those wee hours between nightfall and daybreak...when the night was cool, and you fall onto your bed, after a long ardous night of slaying, the only sounds heard are the rustling of leaves as the wind blows gently through it, and the drone of nocturnal insects, chirping in the darkness becomes nothing more than white noise as your mind wanders.
You lie on soft mattress, wanting to sleep, unfortunately awake and alone. And though you want to just crawl under the covers, you no longer have the energy. fatigue claims you and you lie unmoving, body aching, and your mind slow but unfortunately awake.
It's cold out and instead of thick bedcovers, you want to be held. You look out at the sky that was still inky black, wondering how long it would last, knowing that morning would mean people. and people meant pretending everything was fine and that life wasn't as hard as you really felt it to be. people who mean well. people who don't. people who had an opinion of you one way or another. some, you don't care about, and some you really do.
People who have opinions, thoughts and feelings that are capable of hurting you. People who made choices that they knew were for the best. Choices that involved you. Choices they never asked you how you felt about whether they could or they couldn't. Choices they made, regardless of how it made you feel, believing it for the best.
Dawn, Xander. Willow and Giles. Anya.
Even Angel.
Despite everything that's happened, more aptly...maybe because of it.
Yes. Even Angel.
He would give up and walk away. He would help when needed, sure. He could give up forever with you for the greater good, sure.
Yes, you love him. Yes, He loves you.
But at the end of the day, they would give you up...they would take the choice away, knowing, believing you'd understand and you would be willing.
For the greater good.
And to some degree, they were right.
You would.
You always did. And probably always would.
The world and the people in it have expectations. You have expectations of yourself. And you would always answer to it.
All the world.
Except one.
Your memory walks into a crumbling room, with only one way out, and you are met by blue eyes lit up in wonder, at the knowledge of a soul that exists.
You look at him and you know. And you ache. And the hurt in your chest, that jagged, merciless blade of emotions, twist so slowly...so much, it makes the pain that explodes in your hand as you twine your fingers with his pale in comparison.
You look at the one person who gave even without hope of receiving. The one person who stood by you, when all the lights would die out. The only one who believed in you, when others had lost faith.
The one person who chose to reclaim some semblance of his humanity or die trying, knowing there was little to no chance you would ever take him back...than give up and live out eternity, never knowing what could have been.
Until he probably almost died all over again, then went crazy, and was worse than dead. All because of it.
You remember how he was. How he changed. And how it had come to this.
The enormity of it warms you. Fills you up, that your eyes can no longer hold it in. You feel the words on your tongue, remembering every single time you denied them. You remember every single time it hurt so much you almost choked on them. Unable to accept what it would mean. What it would entail. And the judgment you were sure to get...
...And your insecurity, because his lack of a soul supposedly meant that no matter his claims, no matter how his actions prove to the contrary...it couldn't possibly be true.
The world could crumble and your greatest fear are three simple words that you can allow yourself say, NOW, because this it. There was no tomorrow.
Not for him, at least.
You don't know if it is a cruelty or a kindness. and you indulge one more time, unable to keep the words in, any longer.
You hold his gaze and give him a terrified, lopsided smile, and try to go for a light tone...and it comes out shaky, unsure and awkward.
You don't even blame him for not believing you. And his denial of it makes you wince visibly, knowing those words will always stay with you. Even as he thanks you, believing you told him a what should have been a comforting lie.
That's how he accepts it as, and you think to yourself...maybe he was right. Maybe you just didn't want to be unfeeling and heartless, to just leave him there, without giving him anything in return.
You pull your hand back, as he urges you to leave. Even here and now, he harbors no illusion that you would ever choose him, especially now. You know that deep inside, he believes that he was a means to an end for you, but it was for you. For everyone. And he needed to see this through to the last, to do this right, so that it does.
And so the moment is broken. Your sister, your friends, the rest of the world exist again, calling upon you to take that mantle of responsibility, demanding that YOU. DON'T. DIE (again).
And so you leave him. To live.
Still. It stings like a b*tch.
And you run. And each step takes him farther from your reality. You're here, now, to survive. And you do.
You do.
And the world turns.
And you're alright.
And then there are times like this, when you remember.
The memories aren't always the same. This was tonight's movie. Sometimes it would be of you fighting. Trading insults and/or blows. Making fun of each other and pissing each other off. Sometimes it's of the time you see him with a shotgun, and you don't care anymore if he has the guts to shoot.
You break down and cry and at the back of your mind, you wonder why it is him you tell, and not Xander, or Willow or even Riley. And for all your harsh words, he didn't really deserve, his pride you spat on and never really assuaged...he asks you what was wrong.
Sometimes it's seeing him again for the first time, as you walk down the stairs with Dawn, when that nightmare of a resurrection happened. Him, holding your hand, telling you how he saved you. Over and over, and you knowing he was here and Dawn was safe, because of a promise.
Him, chastising you, for your disbelief in his heart.
His touch. His kiss. His scent. The way he tasted. Each twisted word and action, that might have been wrong, wrong, wrong, but was still rooted in some form or love.
Him, holding you, as you slept. The flustered way he tried to avoid answering, when you asked him what it meant to him.
If there had ever been a time to say it, it should have been then. And in a way, you kind of did, though he didn't want to think of it or accept it, unwilling to hope, so close to destruction.
Your eyes stare out, and catch the first rays of sunlight, and the sun slowly wakes up and bathes everything in bright, bright yellow.
"I said it, you know?" You whisper to no one in particular.
"Over and over. In my head. Maybe i'd do things different. Be more reckless. Be a bit braver. More honest. Not too pridey and not always doing what I thought was right."
"Maybe a treat too, eh, pet?" You almost hear him say, smirking at the implication. Or at least that's what the old, soulless Spike would say.
Sometimes, you like to think that maybe, just maybe...you would.
Say it.
Some slow night, as you went on patrol. Just the two of you.
And he would feel it.
He would hear the words, as you held hands, and he'd believe it.
Know it was real.
Enough that the ensouled one could respond like that, too.