Author: Konstantine (aka Jenni)
Spoilers: Through episode 21. I only have a vague idea of what happens, so everything is my own invention thereafter.
Summary: "After what happened, she'll only let him see her."
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the words I've written. If I could be older and choosy, James Marsters would be mine.
A/N: AU after season 7. Lots of things are implied, while some are explained. Also, I suck majorly at love scenes.
Theme songs: "Ender" by Finch, "Buried Myself Alive" by The Used, "Talk Show Host" by Radiohead, "Colorblind" by the Counting Crows, "Amsterdam" by Coldplay and "Ben Franklin's Kite" by Something Corporate (this song has turned up in every. single. one. of my fics so far, it's a conspiracy!) Yes, I know, a lot of songs for just a little fic, but I like to think of them as my little tone setters.
After what happened, she'll only let him see her.
She moved into an apartment by the beach with the last of her savings, claiming to herself that she wants sunshine and fresh air. But he knows better. He knows that she never steps beyond the security of her house; that the only fresh air she breathes is when she sits on her porch, and stares for hours at her toes. She doesn't frolic on the beach, in the sunshine; she closes all the drapes and sits in the dark living room, crying. When she does this, he wants to sit beside her, hold her, kiss away her pain-but he hasn't touched her yet, not in that way. How can he ever?
She called two months after she left, when her friends were starting to lose hope of ever finding her again. She asked to speak with him, and he was surprised that she knew he would be there.
"I only want you to come," she told him. "Don't tell them where I am."
"We're worried about you. I'm sure they'd like to see you." He could barely form sentences he was so overcome with joy that she was alive.
"I can't see them. Please, Spike. I need you."
The phone was back on the hook, because her words were the only thing that mattered. If Buffy ever needed him, then by God, he'd be needed.
As his motorcycle got closer to its destination, he could smell her in the air. Somehow, he couldn't find time to use the kickstand, and jumped off the seat running. He completely missed the front steps but somehow found himself at the door, drumming his knuckles against the peeling, blue paint.
She opened the door tentatively, he remembers. Peeking through the crack he saw Buffy's green eyes, looking at him helplessly.
She sniffled a bit. "Come in."
And that's all it took to let him into her life again.
She left the door and walked back to the couch she'd been curled up on. As he slowly made his way over to her, he recognized it to be the couch that had been missing from her mother's house ever since Buffy disappeared.
"What happened?" He asked, quietly.
"I couldn't save them," she whispered. "So many girls..."
"Buffy...what happened to them wasn't your fault. Nothing was your fault."
She shook her head, a hysterical laugh escaping her lips for the briefest of moments. "I couldn't protect them. I wasn't there to protect them."
"You tried your best. Everyone did. You saved the world, Buffy. Doesn't that count for something?" Her name sounded so good on his lips.
"No. There are so many things...I hurt you. I hurt you so bad."
He couldn't look at her, then. Instead, he relived the moment he saw her lips against Angel's, and then hours later, when he told her that after the battle he was leaving for good. That he didn't care if she wasn't ready for him to not be there-if she couldn't say what he needed to hear, it didn't matter what she wanted from him. It would never be enough.
He slips through the house unnoticed, but when he reaches her room she can already feel him. But even then she keeps her back turned to him, preparing her weapons for the inevitable end. He knows he has to initiate the conversation.
"I just...after the battle, after this is over, I'm leaving, Buffy." His tone is dead serious, and this causes her to drop a sword and stare at him dumbly.
"I'm not going to be needed here soon, and that's fine with me. I have to...get on with my un-life."
She looks confused, he can tell because a crease appears between her eyebrows. "But...you can't just leave."
"As a matter of fact I can, and I'm going to." He doesn't have the patience to be considerate; she's toyed with him and it makes him sick.
"No, you're not. I...need you here, Spike."
"You need me for the muscle, I get it, but not for anything else. I'm not going to stay here when my feelings aren't worth a bloody thing." He's keeping calm, and he thinks this will make it easier.
"What do you mean..." She sounds utterly bewildered.
"I mean Angel, Buffy. You know how I feel about you, and I've yet to get a straight answer about your feelings. Until tonight."
"How did you...it's not like I planned it..."
"It doesn't matter. I've deluded myself long enough. You. Don't. Love. Me. You never will. I'll always love you, Buffy, but if those feelings...I can't live like this. If you can't truthfully tell me that you love me, then I'm leaving. For good."
The way tears are running down her face makes him want to believe that the feelings are there, but he won't allow himself to hope against hope any longer. He gives her three minutes, and when she doesn't say anything he slips back out the door. He WILL NOT CRY in front of her, or anybody else. Not over this.
"I screwed things up so bad," she glanced at him. "How can you even look at me? How will any of them ever forgive me?"
"Buffy, they already have. If you'd just come home and see..."
Her eyes got wide then and she stared straight ahead, swallowing a lump in her throat. "Maybe you should go."
"Go? How can I go when you're like this? How can I ever leave you again?"
"Remember how I hurt you. Remember how I kissed Angel. Remember how stupid and weak I am." She gave him a long, sad look before retreating into the back of the apartment, further into the shadows of her mistakes.
Now he comes everyday, afraid that she'll disappear again.
This time she's in the corner of her bedroom when he comes. Her hair is greasier than yesterday, and tear tracks glint down her cheeks.
"I broke the window," she says, nodding to the shards of glass littering the floor. "I don't know how to get around the broken parts."
He crunches over them with his boots, and squats in front of her. "Are you hurt?"
"Not as much as they are." She singsongs.
"Come on, I'll get you cleaned up." He touches her elbow, and she stands with him.
She has one foot rubbing the other, and looks perplexed in nothing but underwear and a tank top. "How did...?"
"It's all right, come on." He picks her up and she drapes both arms around his neck. Her ankles cross protectively over his arm, and he carries her like a child to the bathroom.
Once there, he seats her on the closed toilet lid and starts the bath. He has a bad sense of hot and cool, but fills it at what he thinks is right. He stops the faucet and holds his hand out to her. She trusts him blindly and moves to him. When she's at his side he lifts her into the tub without taking off her minimal clothes, and gently rinses her hair with palm fills of water. When he's working shampoo in, she speaks.
"When did this happen?"
"When did..."
"You taking care of me. I thought it was the other way around."
"We take care of each other as we need it, Buffy. I needed you before, and now you need me."
She doesn't question him again. Instead, she stares at his eyes. She's never taken the time to properly examine them, and now she sees the wealth they hold. They show flecks of brown when he's frustrated, but shine a dazzling cerulean otherwise. At times, they gloss over with unshed tears that get blinked away. But the main thing she notices is that he won't look her in the eye. No matter how long she stares at him he pretends he doesn't notice.
After he drains the water, he goes looking for a towel. When he comes up empty, he brings back a bed sheet and asks her to stand. She obeys, and he wraps the sheet around her. He shows her the pile of clothes he found, and tells her to change in the bathroom while he cleans up the glass in her bedroom.
He doesn't close the door, knowing it would scare her, so he takes as much time as he can sweeping up the bits of window. He doesn't dare leave the room until she stands in the doorway, presenting her newly clean self. It hurts him to notice the way her pants sag at the hips, and how her shirt clings loosely to her shoulders.
"Time to eat." He says, checking to make sure the cardboard he taped over the window is secure.
She has no food in the house, so he orders a pizza. By the time she finishes eating, he has to leave.
"Sunrise is coming soon, have to be off if I want to make it back to Sunnydale before turning into a pile of dust."
"Mr. and Mrs. Big Pile of Dust." She says, bringing a smile to his eyes.
TBC