"How about this one?" She asked, gliding her fingertip lightly along the long, jagged mark that ran horizontally across the curve of his shoulder. "What happened here?"
Spike shifted slightly, lifting his head off the pillow he had wedged beneath him, laying flat on his stomach across the tiny mattress.
He turned his eyes down; looking at the spot on his arm that Buffy had her finger on.
"Knife fight," he said, blinking, looking up at her through thick, dark lashes. "In India."
Buffy nodded, bit down on her lip, pulling the sheets more tightly around her chest with her free hand.
She was lying on her side, facing him. Her back pressed against the wall.
"And this one?" She asked, her fingertips light as feathers, trailing around from his arm to the line that extended from his shoulder blade down toward his ribcage.
He didn't need to crane his neck around to see where she was looking, just let the steady pressure of her fingers playing over his skin guide him.
"Angry mob," Spike answered, keeping his voice low, keeping his eyes locked on her face. Watching her watching him, cool, green eyes fixated on the lines her hand was tracing over his back.
"Which angry mob?" she asked, shifting her eyes back to his for the briefest of moments before ducking her gaze again. "Wasn't there more than one?"
Spike felt his lips twitch, curving up in the beginnings of a smile.
"There were a few, yeah."
"You've always had trouble making friends," she said, her hand emblazoning a fresh path across the expanse of his upper back, curving along his spine, further down.
"Don't play well with others," he agreed, lashes fluttering shut, arching his back just slightly to meet her hand as it moved.
"How many scars do you think you have?"
Spike popped one eye open, regarding her curiously.
"Dunno," he said, shifting again, rolling over onto his side so he could see her better.
Buffy's hand shifted with him, falling slightly, coming to rest against the curve of his exposed hipbone.
"Why?" He asked, tilting his head to the side.
Lying across from her, face-to-face, squeezed so closely together on the tiny mattress that he could practically feel the even, steady thumping of her heart.
Her eyes were still down, though. Focused somewhere else. Her hand was still splayed open against his bare skin, no longer moving. Hot, soft, burning a tiny handprint where it rested against his hip.
"Just…curious. I guess."
Spike frowned, tucking his hand under his chin and propping his elbow up on the pillow.
"Just curious?" He asked, like he didn't believe her.
"Over a hundred years," she murmured, shaking her head, eyes glued to her hand once more as she started to move it back up. "Your body's like…" Over his ribs, up toward his arm, "…like a map or something."
"Prefer to think of it as a canvas," he murmured back, letting his mouth curve into a wicked smirk. "Bloody masterpiece is what it is."
Buffy laughed. Not a big laugh, very short, but a genuine one. Genuine enough that Spike could feel it, the vibration of it, rumbling through his chest.
He watched her as she shook her head, her hand coming to rest at the spot where his shoulder curved into his neck.
And then she sighed, the small smile he'd been able to put there falling a little.
"What about this?" She asked softly, pulling her hand away from his skin, bringing her the pad of her index finger up to brush against the scar over his eyebrow.
"You know how I got that one, luv," he reminded her gently, unmoving, letting her trace the scar.
And he knew she did. Had told her the story years ago, ages ago, standing around the pool table in the middle of The Bronze.
A lifetime ago.
"I know," Buffy said, her voice quiet, small in the stillness of the room around them. She pulled her hand away from his face, bringing it back toward her, tucking it into the sheet along with the other.
She sighed, a soft, shuddering sound. Her hands shaking a little, just a little but enough to make Spike's unbeating heart sink in his chest.
"Buffy," Spike said, reaching out on instinct, cupping her chin in his hand. Pulling her face up, looking into her face, searching the clear green with his blue.
Normally, she would have pulled away from him. Or at least she would have before.
Before he'd left.
Before the soul.
Before the First.
But not now. Now, she let him cradle her face in his hand, let him turn her eyes to his. Bright, shining with unshed tears. And there was a softness, a complete and total vulnerability he'd never seen before. Something so delicate and warm, an expression he never imagined he would ever see from her. From his beautiful, violent, stubborn girl.
But there it was. Plain as day, and for him.
All for him.
Coming from his Slayer.
And she had always been his. Always would be.
"What's the matter?" He asked now, moving his hand from her chin, sliding it up to press against her flushed cheek. Smooth, soft and hot
He watched her struggle for the words, blinking rapidly to clear the tears from her eyes as she looked at him.
That same warm; soft look never leaving her face.
Long minutes past, silent between them. When Buffy finally took a deep breath, finding the words, they left her lips on the exhale. "How many are from me?"
Her voice sounded thick to Spike's ears, strained.
Like it's the last thing in the world she wanted to ask him, but had to anyway.
Spike frowned, shaking his head. "How many…"
"Scars, Spike," she said, reaching up and taking his hand in hers, pulling it away from her cheek. "How many of your scars are from me?"
And he realized what else he was seeing on her face, then. Apart from the vulnerability, the warmth.
Guilt.
It's what he'd heard in her voice, too.
And knowing it, recognizing it now in a way he never could have before, made his stomach twist. His still, unbeating heart ache in his chest.
A year ago, he might have relished in it. The sound of the Slayer's voice cracking, heavy and thick with the burden of what she thought she'd done to him. He would have let her feel it. Used it, even.
But things were different now.
Not just because of the soul, but because they just…were. He was different. So was she.
They were different together.
In so many ways, the relationship he had with Buffy now was more intimate than it had ever been before.
Spike turned his hand around, carefully entangling his fingers with hers. Never taking his eyes off her face.
"Not as many as you'd think," he said softly, squeezing her fingers gently in his own.
Still amazing to him, how doing things gently with her came so easily, so readily to him. Over a year since the last time he'd touched her like this, and things had been so different. Harder. Frantic.
Violent.
And still when she came to him tonight, when she came down those stairs and lay her hands on his face, pressed her lips to his. It had been like breathing.
And all either of them could be was gentle.
"I'm serious," Buffy said, sniffling a little. When Spike looked at her, he could see it. How hard she was trying to stay strong, and still to be open. To let him in the way he'd always hoped, desperately wished, that she would.
Even though she didn't want to.
"So am I," Spike said, tilting his head to the side thoughtfully.
Buffy didn't smile back, shaking her head instead, looking away from him. But she squeezed his hand this time.
This stolen moment, the hours that had passed since she'd arrived in the basement tonight, had been some of the most tender and affectionate of his life. Undead or otherwise. Buffy's hands had never touched him with as much consideration as they had tonight. Every placement was cautious, light. Against his back, his arms, his chest. Each place she touched him left his skin tingling, burning. Feather soft as her hands had been, it had almost not been enough.
Spike considered this, looking down at their hands again, eyes focused on the one that was resting, wrapped up in his.
He just stared at them for a moment, at their hands. How small hers looked in his larger one. He looked at her tiny fingers, marveling at the way they managed to look so soft, so delicate.
And at the same time, to hold so much strength. So much raw power.
Hands that had such power to bruise, and equal power to heal.
What she'd been doing for him since he came back. Whether she knew it or not.
"I'm not just talking about the ones you can see," Buffy said quietly, almost reluctantly.
Spike's lips twitched, and he looked back up at her again.
He understood why she was doing this. Why she was doing all of this.
Why she felt like she needed to do it.
And he was selfish, and he loved her. So he let her.
He would let her do just about anything at all if it was what she thought she needed.
The only thing he wouldn't, would never let her do, was take all the blame for this. For them. For all the things that had happened, had gone wrong.
For all the wrong bloody calls he'd made along the way.
She forgave him. Believed in him. Even when she had no reason to, when he was at his worst. When everyone else had told her not to.
And then she'd fought for him.
And in a few hours, when the sun came up, she would go and fight for the rest of them.
"I'm not just talking about the ones you can see."
Spike sighed, looking down at their joined hands one last time before meeting Buffy's eyes again.
He smiled at her, twisting her hand around, bringing it up to his lips. He watched her face, searching her eyes with his, hoping she could see everything he was thinking there.
And when Spike finally saw her soften, saw her smile back at him, he pressed the smallest, softest kiss to her knuckles and whispered into her skin, "Neither am I."
Your hands can heal, your hands can bruise
I don't have a choice, but I still choose you.
I don't love you.
I always will.