New York 2009
They had said little to each other as the walked from campus to a local bar. It was a dive, but Spike liked it. Posh, trendy spots had never really been his thing. Now, they sat at a table, smudged with dirt and fingerprints, in a dingy corner of the bar. She had a beer. He had a beer, too, and quite a few shots of whiskey.
He had loved her absolutely. He had comforted her when no one else could and he had held her when no one else would. He had died to save her. Technically he had died saving to world, but without her in it he bloody well wouldn't have bothered.
And she couldn't even pick up the phone to call him.
Bugger that.
He knew that she must have heard about the magic bit with the amulet. Must have heard that he had come back. If not before, at least after Andrew had paid his little LA visit and the crazy Slayer cut his bleedin' hands off. And not a word out of her. After everything he had done for her and the Niblit and the Scoobies, not to mention the entire world, you know, sacrificing himself to defeat the forces of evil (and damn well almost doing so again in LA), he didn't think a phone call was too much to ask.
He had thought of calling her. A hundred times he had picked up the phone. Even before he had recorporalized. He wanted to call her. Wanted to see her. Be with her again. He had just wanted to hear her voice. He had even dialed it a few times. But he had hung up before she answered. Then he had bought a boat ticket to Europe, to find her. But he hadn't gone.
And it wasn't really because he thought that she owed him something.
Bollocks. Spike could rant all he wanted about dying to save the world, but she didn't owe him anything. It wasn't any more than she had done. Twice. No. The reason he didn't call wasn't because he thought she owed him something. It was because she didn't owe him anything at all.
He was afraid that he had been right. That after everything he had done, he still wasn't worthy of her love. Sure, she had said she loved him. But she had waited until it was clear he would die. She had given a poor bloke a gift, but she didn't mean it. She couldn't have meant it.
In the end they had gone to each other. Clung to each other during that last night. He had made love to her for the first time. Prior to that all they had done was shag. Fuck. That last night had been different. She had been there with him, like she had been at that abandoned house.
She had come down the stairs and he had risen to meet her. They had not said a word to each other. They had not talked about what they were about to do. They both already knew. There had been no need for words.
They had met halfway. She had reached up and touch his face, looked into his eyes. He had parted his lips, about to speak. She moved her fingers from his cheek to his lips, silencing him. He remembered what she had said to him about the first night they had spent together since he had won his soul, since he had returned, since he had tried to rape her: Does it have to mean something? No. It didn't have to mean anything. Not yet. So he did not speak. For once he knew when he bloody well better shut up.
They had never been much for conversation anyway.
Instead, he raised his hand, cupping her chin, tilting her head up towards him. They stayed like that for several minutes, looking into each other's eyes, barely touching, never speaking. He was terrified. More terrified, even, then the night he had held her in that empty house, the night that he had refused to abandon her after her bloody friends had turned on her, kicked her out. Pouncy self-righteous bitches, the lot of them. Her sodden super friends had turned on her right quick; when the going got tough, the Scoobies got with the betrayal. He alone had remained loyal to her. He was the only one who had believed in her completely, loved her unconditionally, never doubted her. Whipped. That's what Faith had called him. Well he had always been love's bitch. He was bloody well aware of that. So maybe he was whipped. But he had also been right to follow her. She had needed him more that night than she had ever needed him.
Besides, she had believed in him when no one else had, when even he had given up on himself. She hadn't loved him, but she had believed in him, believed that he could change. Had changed. He had asked her to kill him and she would not do it. The Scoobies would have killed him several times over; they been right chuffed to have offed old Spike, and Giles and Wood had given a real go at it. But not her. She didn't love him, but she refused to give up on him. It was insufferable. She was fucking insufferable.
He had never thought that he would touch her again like that. He never thought that she would let him wrap his arms around her, hold her close to him. Not after that night on the bathroom floor. The night he had tried to force her to love him. The violation he had attempted was more than sexual, he had tried to rape her emotionally, tried to force his love into her. And he could never forgive himself for it.
And neither could she. So when she had asked him to hold her, he had been surprised. Surprised that she could stomach having him that close to her. Since he had come back they had had so little contact. But all of it had been so charged. Even the little girls she was training had picked up on it. Bloody hell, even that sodden twit Andrew had picked up on it. They couldn't brush against each other without remember the pain, but also the pleasure. It was too much. So he had avoided any contact.
But that night in that abandoned house he had held her, gently kissed the top of her head, watched her sleep. And that last night in the basement they had looked into each other's eyes and he was overwhelmed with pain and guilt. She had lean into him. Raising herself on her tippy-toes, bringing her face to his. Kissing him tenderly. And then there was only her.
They had undressed each other gently. There was no tearing of clothes. No violence in their passion. Sex between them had always been more of battle than anything. Hell, he liked it rough. And she didn't seem to mind it so much either. Who was he kidding? She had fucking liked it rougher than he did. She threw him around, hurt him in all the right places, dominated him entirely. All the time they had been together, all they had done was hurt each other. Well maybe not all, but they had hurt each other enough.
But not that last night. That night they were gentle, tender, with one another. They weren't cautious, as Spike had thought they might be; they weren't afraid of one another. No, they were desperate. Desperate to really be with each other. They clung to each other as they clung to life (or undeath in his case). They made love and tried to forget that one or both of them might not make it through the next day. And, after all, he hadn't.
They had whispered their goodbyes, their bodies singing their farewell.
That last night in the basement he had murmured over and over again to her that he loved her. And she had said thank you. She had thanked him not only for his love, but for his sacrifice. But, then again, it was the same thing, wasn't it? She had thanked him, but had not loved him, not really.
She treated him like a man, and respected him as a fighter, but she did not love him.
If she had told him that she loved him that night, he probably would have believed her. But he was glad she hadn't. They had had to go be heroes. It would have been harder for him to be a Champion, to make the necessary sacrifice, if he had known that he had her to live for. It was better that she had waited until it didn't matter, it didn't mean anything, because there was no way for him, then, to turn back.
And, that was the reason he had never called. He was afraid that he was right. That she was thankful, grateful for his sacrifice, but that she did not love him. Not really. Because after everything he had give her, his body, his heart, his life, even his sodden soul (fuck, he had gotten a soul so he could give it to her), she still couldn't love him. And he bloody couldn't live with that.
So, he had never called. And he interpreted her silence as confirming his worst fears. She didn't want him. And he had tried to move on.
Now looking at her in the dim light of the bar, he wondered how he had lived without calling. How had he managed to exist without her? Why had he been such a pounce? A wanker. Such a scared little twit.
"I'm sorry," was all he could say. "I should have called you. Should have bloody risked life and limb to see you again. Even if it was only for a second, it would have been worth it. But I'm chickshit, Buffy. I'm such a jerk. I was too terrified to call. I died to save the world, big self-sacrificing heroics, you know, but I was too scared to call you. I didn't want to be that close and not have you. Again."
"Spike, I told you I love you…"
He cut her off. "You didn't mean it, love. You were just pitying a poor sodden bloke. Givin' him a little peace before he rested. It was kind of you, but it wasn't love. Not really love."
"You are a dope," she said, echoing that conversation six years ago when she had finally admitted to him, admitted to herself, how much he meant to her. When she had begun to fully acknowledge the cracks in the wall she had built up to keep him out. Just before that wall had come crashing down around her. "And you're not listening. I said that 'I told you I love you.' Not loved. Love. I still do. And trust me, I tried for the past six years not to."
"You tried for a lot longer than that," he responded. She felt a pang of guilt. She had not let herself love him. She couldn't. Not before he had a soul. She knew that and so did he. But it didn't stop her from feeling guilty about the monster she had been to him. She had used him, beat him, exploited his love for her. She had been vicious and cruel. He had been cruel too, but at that point he didn't have a soul, and she didn't even have that as an excuse.
He saw the expression on her face, the guilt and pain his little jab had caused. He looked down into his beer, "God, this is hard."
"Yeah," she answered. There was a time when she would have blamed him for everything. Played a round of kick the Spike. But she had lived six years without him, and she couldn't do that now. "Its not your fault." He looked up at her. "Not all of it anyway. Its my fault too. I should have called you, sent you a congratulations you're back from the dead card or something." She smiled nervously. "But I was terrified too."
"Terrified of what, love?" he reached up, touched her cheek. "I never exactly played hard to get, you know. Remember, no pride."
"I was terrified that you had finally figured out that I wasn't worth it. Everything I put you through. All the pain I caused you. And then I expected you to give your life for my mission."
"Our mission," he corrected her.
"Whatever. The mission. You had given so much already, I was afraid that you had finally figured out that you had given too much. That it, that I, wasn't worth all the pain that came with me."
"You've always been worth it, Buffy. Besides, I remember causing you my share with grief. What with being a puppet of the First, my chip malfunctioning, pissing off the principal." He paused, looking into her eyes with earnest intensity, "I hurt you, Buffy, in ways that I'll never be able to forgive myself for. It will haunt me the rest of my life." He looked down again, remembering that night on the bathroom floor, her cries telling, begging, him to stop, his inability to. He shuddered at the memory.
"I forgive you, Spike."
"I can't."
"You have too. You've changed. You've changed more than I thought was ever possible for a man to change. You're not the man that you were that night."
He had tried to bring her into the darkness with him, but instead, she had brought him into the light.
She reached out a touched his hand. Their eyes locked, and she leaned forward, pressing her lips against his, drinking him in, his scent, his taste, the fire of feeling his lips on hers again.
But then he drew away from her, gently, putting his hands on her shoulders. Spike looked sadly into her eyes, then took a shot of whiskey. "Isn't this just the stuff of happy endings, yeah?"
"Is there a reason, then, why you're really not making with the happiness right now?" she asked warily, confused.
He shook his head. "Buffy. God, for six years I dreamed about this. I never thought I would see you again, let alone hold you, touch you. But I can't."
"You can Spike. I'm here. No more walls. No more separation. This is for real this time. Really you. Really me. Really together."
"No. It just wouldn't be fair, you know. Buffy. Fuck, Buffy, love. Oh bloody hell. Should have said something soon. But, Buffy, theres a girl."
