SUMMARY:
What is the relationship without love?
STORY NOTES:
Written mid season 5 in a cack-handed attempted to address any Buffy/Spike
relationship.
For Miles.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
There is a word for what we did.
I just don't like using it.
I know we didn't 'make love'. Those words imply some depth of feeling, consideration and passion. That is not how I would describe our rough yet strangely kind fumblings. Anyway, to me 'making love' is a line used by over sexed balding men in sleazy clubs to pick up easy women.
How do you 'make' love? In my (some what small) experience, love isn't made, its grown up over a long time. Sometimes reluctantly, sometimes against huge resistance. Sometimes love sneaks up, one moment you're caught up in foolish insecurities and petty hates, and the next moment you discover there is love mixed up in the midst of those feelings. And no matter how much you lash out against it or resist the feeling, it's still going to be there.
To call sex, 'making love' is simplifying the intangible into the physical.
And its cheesy. And whatever his many and continuing faults Spike is never cheesy.
But we didn't have sex either.
Sex is clinical, neat and clean. Put Tab A in Slot B. What we had was born of anger and desperation. For what exactly, I never ascertained. But all I knew is that kissing Spike, I was never sure if I wanted to pull away and wipe my arm across my face, or pull him closer, kiss him harder.
Kissing Spike proved the greatest distraction from my worries. I was so busy trying so hard not to enjoy it and reproving myself when I did, that I forgot all that was happening in my life.
I was never quite sure what he was getting out of it. He knew it would never be anything more than this. Perhaps it was just a chance to get close to me. The one chance to touch the thing which he most desired.
I think he thought that I needed this. That I needed release and escape. In a way it angers me, his condescending assumption that the only way I could get find release was when I was … 'involved' with him. It saddens me that he is the only one who understands me, my needs, my desires.
I do not want my needs to be intertwined with what he can give me.
And yet there are other feelings in this mix. A growing understanding that his protestations of love were not a hoax or a trick. Perhaps, and I fear this most, a feeling of warmth towards him. That I favour him with smiles, whenever I notice his mood has slipped from tight-lipped neutrality into outright despondency. That I savour the feel of the smooth plains of his back, running my hands over muscle and bone. Bury my head against his shoulder and wonder why I have to leave. Wonder why this is so wrong.
Because it is wrong.
We are not two lonely people in an indifferent world, trying to find some meaning and comfort in each other.
We are sworn enemies.
Vampire and slayer.
And when we come together it is not in passion or love. Because when we come together it is an extension of our unending fight.
Another level that we can enact our conflicts on.
When we come together, teeth rip, clothes tear, bodies are bruised.
When we come together we don't make love or have sex.
We consummate nothing.
All we can
do is fuck.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Somehow reality cheapened things." MD1016
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *