Author's Note: This was my first foray into Buffy fanfic writing, so be tolerant. Also, consider yourself warned—if you're not a fan of Buffy/Spike friendship and potential for future 'shippiness, you might want to read something else…
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For the first instant after Buffy opened her eyes, the world seemed just as it should be. Mid-morning sunlight was sneaking between the tilted blinds, and her arm was curled around one of her many favorite stuffed animals. Feeling remarkably well-rested—been a while since that happened…almost forgot how it feels—she stretched slowly.
Then she remembered. The soft-shoe demon, the singing, the dancing, the weirdness, and…
…yeah. That.
Suddenly, the morning didn't look quite as perfect as it had a moment ago.
What was I thinking?!?
she berated herself. What in the world possessed me to go and kiss *Spike*, of all people?!?!? I mean, OK, so it's understandable that I'm doing a little of the emotional wacky right now…but still…!It was all that damned demon's fault—that…Lord of the Dance guy. We never did stop to get his name… It had been a tough couple of months, but she was beginning to think that she was on her way (slowly) to something more resembling 'normal'…but then Xander just had to summon that stupid demon. As she had watched all of her friends sing and dance about their optimism and their loves and their inane little problems, she had realized that she and 'normal' weren't even in the same area code yet.
It was Spike's song that had done it, of course. Hearing about the musical escapades of the others in the group was bad enough, but then…
Ever since I came back, they've all been treating me like I'm made of glass—like, "oh, careful, don't get Buffy upset, she might break!" Spike was the only remotely 'normal' one…but he's usually so closed-off anyway, it's almost the same…
But then the Lord of the Dance came to town, and all the emotions that her friends had been bottling up for so long, out of respect for Buffy's own emotional fragility, had come gushing to the surface.And suddenly, Buffy realized—remembered?—that it wasn't 'normal' to feel numb all the time.
'Normal'…I'm starting to hate that word…
Even poor Spike, who shouldn't be capable of true emotion, had gone all sentimental on her. And damn it all, she'd even felt sorry for him! Listening to him sing about how much it hurt to be around her, knowing she thought so little of him…for a moment, as he sang, she almost didn't notice that she was actually feeling a twinge of regret for treating him so thoughtlessly.
Then it hit her.
She actually felt regret for treating Spike like—well, like a vampire.
She felt regret!
It was like a knife had been suddenly slipped between her ribs and into her gut…cruelly twisting…wetly shredding her newly-reclaimed soul until it screamed and begged for a return to the cool darkness of death. She hadn't felt an honest emotion for so long, so long…
She had fought that rising tide of feeling. No…will not feel…I will NOT feel…if I can't feel, I can't hurt, and if I can't hurt, maybe I'll be able to survive until the next demon comes along, and I have a chance to die again… But as she sprawled on top of the peroxide-blond vampire in that empty grave, her feeling would not be denied. Waves of empathy and regret rose within her, crashing upon the rocky shores of numbness and apathy…and wearing away at them.
Buffy couldn't handle it—those ragged stone barricades in her heart were the only defenses she had left against a cold, harsh world that demanded far too much and gave far too little in return. So she ran—from Spike and his pain (my fault…my fault), from the feelings foaming up in her throat (god, I'm drowning), from the fear of breaking into tears in front of the mortal enemy who loved her and apologizing for the emotion she wasn't capable of returning.
Even now, she couldn't say for sure if she had fled from the anguished demon gazing into her eyes, or the one gazing out of them.
Buffy clenched her fists and squeezed her eyes tightly shut, forcibly shutting down the maudlin train of thoughts threatening to derail in her brain. Stop it…STOP it! Don't think…don't go there, girl, you don't want to find out what's waiting at the end of that road…
Damn him! Damn that unnatural hair, those eyes that saw straight through to the things she tried to hide, that voice that said I love you even when those weren't the words she heard…DAMN him!!! She had tried, last night…tried so hard to give in to the dance (I can feel it, Slayer—you know you want to dance), to let the fire consume her…a one-way ticket back to dim, silent eternity.
Of course, he wouldn't let her.
Giles, Willow, Xander…they all just stood, looking on in shock…none of them knew how to answer her plea; they could give her nothing "to sing about" that would make up for the bliss they had stolen from her. Only Spike had stepped forward, with the one response she didn't want to hear…the only response that would save her.
The pain that you feel, you only can heal by living…you have to go on living…
Just like that, he'd snatched away the one thought that had brought her any comfort: the thought of ending it all again.
DAMN HIM!!!!
She'd been desperate…if I can't die, then I've got to live…but I can't live if I can't feel…
So what had she done? Gone running to the one person who was "safe," the one person who would always forgive her for using him…the one person who had proven he could stir her emotions—hatred, frustration, homicidal mania…
And she'd kissed him.
And *damn,* had she kissed him!
She tried excusing it as a noble act, or at the very least, a momentary lapse in judgement…gratitude for him saving her life, mixed with a bit of guilt for treating him so callously in the past…?
But none of that was true. She'd kissed him, not to demonstrate any kind of affection, but in one last, desperate attempt to prove to herself that there was still passion within her to be tapped…like a miner digging frantically to scrape the last shavings of precious gold from a sterile mine.
She ought to have felt triumph. After all, that had been a *hell* of a kiss, and she had felt it resonate all the way from the tips of her hairs to her toenails…and everywhere in between. But even as she surrendered to the skill of his lips and tongue, those fragile, hesitant emotions turned traitor on her, just as she had known they would. The passion fired by the feel of his mouth on hers translated itself into a kind of hollow grief, anticipating the heart-rending pain this one kiss would cause later. He would never understand…once again, he would start asking more from her than she was able to give…
But then she'd pulled away, breathing heavily and quivering all over with a combination of guilt and arousal, and seen the look in his eyes…
He did understand.
It was as if his thoughts were being scribed onto the surface of those blue, blue eyes, glowing darkly there for her to read. Spike knew, even as he lost himself in the wonder and heat of her mouth, that she was not kissing him—not really. She was just using him again. And later, he would be mad and hate her for it (for a while), but for now…well, for now he was living in a memory so new that the ink was not yet dry. And that memory would keep him warm for many long, cold nights to come.
She read in those eyes all his desire and love, but more than that, his resignation that all memories must end before they can be treasured, and that some dreams are never meant to be attained.
She had cried, then, and he had held her, wrapping her in a blanket of love and comfort. Strange, how his embrace can warm me, when he's really so cold…
When her tears finally ran dry, they hadn't spoken a word. He had just tucked her shoulders under one lanky arm and began walking her toward home. She followed obediently, too drained to fight the gentle pressure of his arm. After a block or two, she allowed her throbbing head to rest lightly on his shoulder.
Buffy didn't remember entering the house; she had been asleep on her feet. There was only the vaguest memory of being carried up the stairs and tucked into her bed fully clothed—although he did pause to remove her shoes.
She clearly remembered what she had done next.
As he brought the blankets up to her chin, she grabbed his wrist. "Spike…" He'd looked at her in surprise, for her voice was unslurred by sleep. "Spike, I'm so sorry…really, I never wanted to hurt you. I wish…" She had paused, intimidated by the tender amazement written across his face.
"I wish I was able to be what you want me to be…feel what you want me to feel, but…I can't, Spike, I just can't…it's not there…" she cried softly. Just when I thought I had no tears left…
If her eyes had been open, she would have seen a single spark of hot, dreadful hope in Spike's eyes…a spark quickly snuffed by a splash of cold fear. Working hard to convince himself that she was just reacting to her own overwrought emotions, he leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.
"Not your fault, luv," he said quietly. He started to say more, but thought better of it. "Sleep well, ducks—the world'll wait until morning." And he had left.
She had fallen asleep with the memory of that soft kiss tingling on the skin of her forehead…and if she dreamed, she did not remember it.
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