Title: Abandoned
Author: Jennifer Campbell
Fandom: Buffy: The Vampire Slayer
Spoilers: Through "Tabula Rasa"
Pairing: Spike/Buffy
Rating: R -- for language and nongraphic sex
Disclaimers: Not mine. Belong to Joss.
Author's notes: This could be a fairly short story or the start of
something longer. I guess it all depends on whether there's interest in
seeing more. So if you like, please let me know.
#
Spike spotted her easily enough, sitting alone at the bar without even a drink to drown her sorrows in. He watched from the shadows beneath the stairs, his hands deep in the pockets of his duster. So he had found her, after they had regained their memories and she'd run off. What better place for her to hide than among the riotous crowds and smokey haze of the Bronze.
He steeled himself, smoothed his palms over his hair and started toward her. As he drew closer, he wondered what he could say or do to erase the pain he knew he would see on her beautiful face. The pain of absolute loss and betrayal by those she trusted most. Now she trusted him. He had to say something, but what, he had no clue.
As it was, he didn't need a word. Spike stopped beside her but didn't sit down. Instead he simply stood there, patient, waiting for her acknowledgement. His presence roused her from her stupor, and she looked at him with dead eyes, only for a moment before turning the other way, rejecting him and all the comfort and love he had to offer.
Typical. So what had he expected? Buffy would never fall into his arms and give herself to him in total, uninhibited abandon. She had closed herself off to him, again.
Fine then. He didn't need this shit tonight, her hot-cold roller-coaster better-than-thou attitude. She could bloody well fend for herself. Wallow in misery and jump off a soddin cliff for all he cared. No man, or vampire, could endure so much.
Spike stormed away, weaving among giggling high schoolers and half-drunk twenty-somethings. He had to get out of here, away from all these ungrateful people who had no inkling of everything she had sacrificed to keep them safe and cozy, to protect them from monsters like himself. Maybe he could find a few vamps to pummel before sunrise.
He had almost reached the exit when two small but strong hands grabbed his shoulders from behind and spun him around. Buffy glared at him, and he gaped. She had followed him, but why? Her warm palms pressed against his chest and pushed him back until he hit a wall.
"Buffy, luv, what are you doing?"
"Shut up, Spike," she said, her voice trembling a little.
Then he saw it, her desperation. It called to him through every fiber of her body as she pressed against him and tilted her lips towards his. So he did have something she needed, after all.
He ran his fingers through her hair, then cupped the back of her neck and pulled her closer. Her gloss tasted like strawberries. Spike grazed her lips tentatively at first, gently, but she would have none of it. Buffy deepened the kiss, one hand tightening on his forearm and the other sliding under his duster to rest lightly on his waist.
This surely was heaven. Buffy so close to him, her scent of arousal surrounding him. And yet, as they drew apart so she could breathe, as she crushed herself against him again, a sliver of doubt pricked at the back of his mind. He couldn't banish the feeling that something here wasn't right.
At this moment, though, with his beloved in his arms, it didn't matter.
#
The next night:
Spike paced his crypt like a caged beast. He occasionally drained a beer and smashed the empty bottle against the wall, but the acts of violence did little to sate the rage broiling under his cold skin. Broken green and brown glass littered the floor -- too bad it would do little good to slit his wrists with it.
She hadn't come. For the first night in weeks, she hadn't visited his crypt while on patrol, to spill out her troubles and fears and torments. No, she was avoiding him now, because he wanted to talk about them instead of just her.
How could Buffy play with him like this? One moment so lustful and needy and the next ... In her own way, the girl was more demonic than Drusilla. At least Dru had never refused to admit to her emotions, had never toyed with him. Well, she hadn't until those last few months, after they first came to Sunnydale.
Last night at the Bronze, though, only a few hours ago ...
Spike had broken off the kiss and tried, but failed, to regain control of himself. He wanted nothing more than to take Buffy back to his crypt, throw her onto the bed and love her all night, but that wasn't what they needed right now.
Buffy's hands glided down his back, her nails scratching through his thin cotton T-shirt. She lifted her lips to his, and it took every ounce of Spike's self-control to stop from devouring her again.
"Buffy, we -- we have to -- talk," he managed to get out between kisses. He pulled away from her. "We have to talk, pet."
"No talk," she murmured. "More kissing."
"This thing between us, we need to discuss it. It's not that I don't enjoy these make-out sessions, but I need to know why? And why now?"
Her grip on his T-shirt loosened. She took a step back, and Spike could have sobbed for the loss of her touch. Buffy raised her eyebrows in that little gesture that always preceded a spiteful comment.
"This isn't good enough for you?" she spat. "
I'm not good enough for you? Is that it?""What? No, Buffy, you know I love you. And I love kissing you, but -- "
"Forget it. Just forget it, Spike." She stalked a couple steps away, then came back with arms crossed. "You know, I thought you of all my friends would actually
care about me. I thought you would give me what I need.""And what's that, luv?"
She glared at him, pursed her lips, then turned and left. With a frustrated growl, Spike smashed his fist into the wall, ignored the yelps of the people standing around him. Chips of plaster drifted to the floor; the bloody pain of his knuckles served to clear his head. He raced outside after her, but Buffy had vanished.
... Spike rubbed his thumb over his knuckles, now healed. He wished his vampire powers would mend the hurt inside as easily. Only time would do that, and a whole lot of alcohol. He wandered to the fridge for another beer, popped the top and took a long drink.
The sound of someone clearing their throat made him turn. Buffy stood in the doorway, watching him with an amused smile. He could only stare, open-mouthed. She had let her hair down this evening in golden waves over her shoulders, and she wore a spaghetti-strap sundress and strappy white sandals. Rarely had she looked so vulnerable, or so beautiful. In an instant, he forgot why he had been angry with her.
Her eyes darted between Spike and the mess of jagged glass in the corner.
"Are you drunk?" she asked.
"It takes a lot more than this to get me drunk." He set the beer down and sauntered toward her, his eyes traveling the length of her body. "That's not exactly a practical outfit for slaying. And isn't a bit late for you to be out and about? Shouldn't you be in bed, counting sheep or something?"
"Can't sleep. You know I have trouble falling asleep."
"Yeah, it can be a bit traumatic, waking up in a box, six feet underground. But you'll get over it eventually."
"And you know that because ..."
"Because I did."
She snorted. "And that has nothing to do with the fact that you're a soulless vampire, and dead, and supposed to be buried. While I'm --"
Her voice trailed off, and she bowed her head, the tough Slayer exterior slipping away. She suddenly looked lost, like a child in need of reassurance. Spike yearned to enfold her in his arms and whisper to her that everything would be all right, but they both would know it for a lie. He brushed the back of his fingers down her cheek.
"Go on," he said. "Say it."
"I can't."
"Then I will. You're alive, Buffy."
She shook her head. "No, I'm not. Being alive means feeling things, like love and hate and passion. It means going through each day happy that I'm still breathing. But I'm not happy, or sad either. I'm just ... numb." She looked up at him. "The only time I feel anything is when I'm with you."
"So why fight me?" he asked, his mind automatically flashing back to the previous night.
"Anger is better than nothing."
"I don't want to fight with you anymore."
"Then what do you want?"
The question caught him by surprise, and a thousand answers raced through his mind all at once. I want you to let me love you, and I want to hear you say you love me. I want to see some spark of life in those dead eyes. I want to take your pain away. I want --
"I want to see you smile again." The words rushed out and her eyes widened. He took the opportunity to step toward her, so close any movement would cause their bodies to touch. "A truly free and happy smile. I know I will see it again. Someday."
"Not tonight," she murmured. "But will give you something else you want."
"And that is?"
She backed away a step, and, without a word, reached up to her shoulder to slowly, so slowly slide one dress strap down her arm. Her eyes never left his, and he could only watch in disbelief as the other strap followed. The dress slipped off her body like water and pooled at her feet, leaving her naked and unashamed, and more beautiful than Aphrodite. She kicked off the sandals. Spike couldn't bring himself to move for fear of waking up.
"I'm dreaming," he said, quiet and stunned.
"It's not a dream. I almost wish it were." She stepped up to him, took his hand and pressed it against her skin. "I want you to make love to me, Spike. Please. I want you to help me feel. I need to feel."
He swallowed hard and tried his best to focus on her eyes and no lower. Certainly not on his hand, which she still held against her breast. Before anything else, he had to make her understand exactly what she was asking. He absolutely couldn't let this go awry come the morning. He couldn't finally have her, only to lose her again.
"Buffy, if we do this, there's no denying anymore what's between us. You can't walk away from me again. There's no going back. You understand that, luv?"
She looked up at him coyly from under thick lashes. "Do you want me, Spike?"
"God, yes," he breathed.
"Then I want it, too. Now. Please."
She didn't have to ask again. He crushed her against him, she ripped his T-shirt down the center in her desperation to touch skin. Spike never remembered how they made it downstairs to the bed, only that he had her there, beneath him, around him, filling his universe. Making him feel human, making her feel loved.
Afterward, she fell asleep, curled against his side, and he pressed his cheek against her hair. She started to snore softly. For the first time in his existence, he felt completely at peace.
#
Spike awoke alone, hours after sunrise. He didn't know when Buffy had left, only that his sheets still smelled of her and what they had done. What they had done. He had made love to her, his Slayer. After all this time, she had finally set aside her reservations and had given herself to him completely.
As Spike rolled onto his back to contemplate the ceiling, he wondered what had happened to trigger her surrender. Perhaps, on the path she had been walking since her resurrection, it had been inevitable. She had such heavy heartache that she had almost crushed him beneath it. She needed so much, to feel secure and loved, to feel anything at all. He marveled at her strength, that she had endured these past few weeks with such an emptiness inside her.
They needed to talk, now more than ever, but he couldn't leave the crypt until sundown. The hours would pass slowly until then, but there was no help for it.
He rolled out of bed and pulled on his jeans. Buffy had ripped his only T-shirt off his back, so he went bare-chested to the crypt's upper level in search of breakfast. He pulled a blood packet from the fridge, popped it in the microwave for 30 seconds, then started to feed.
"Geez, you know it doesn't matter how many times I see you vamps suckin' blood, it still gives me the willies."
Spike spewed blood across the crypt in his surprise. His eyes bulged as he saw his visitor, a short man dressed in a well-tailored tan suit and matching hat. No, not a man, not in the human sense, although he could pass easily enough for one on the street. He smelled like demon, and every vibe Spike felt radiating from him promised a bad ending.
"OK," the visitor said, shuddering, "that was even worse. At least keep it in your mouth, huh?"
"Bloody hell! Who are you?" Spike choked out, stomping toward him across the crypt. "How long have you been up here?"
"Now calm down, Spike. I would think after your tumble with the Slayer last night you'd be in a better mood."
That was too much, this cocky, arrogant little piece of demon talking like they were friends. And how the hell did he know about Buffy? The guy backed up and raised his hands to ward off Spike, but that didn't stop the vampire from grabbing him by the neck and lifting him several inches off the ground.
"Who are you?" Spike growled. "Talk before I rip your head off and use it for a bowling ball."
"Whoa, check out the imagery," he squeaked.
"Talk!"
"I'm Whistler. And I have a message for you from the Powers."
#
TBC ...
