The Blue Hour (or, Weird Love)
By Sabrina
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Joss, ME and all the suits at Fox and UPN. I do this only for my own amusement.
Rating: PG-13
Props to: Aurelio, Lisa and Hilary
Summary: Sequel to "The Second Thanksgiving." Buffy wigs a bit after she and Spike first sleep together. Then they have a conversation about the nature of slayer/vamp love.
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Buffy turned off the hot water tap and braced her hands against the edge of the kitchen sink, gazing out the window at the sunset. She glanced at the kitchen clock. 4:31. Great, she thought, it's a minute past the last time you looked. She sighed, picked up a dishtowel and started drying the few dishes in the rack. It really wasn't enough to keep her occupied.
What was this, anyway? She felt fidgety and restless. The house was too quiet; Dawn had decided to spend another night with her friend Lisa, so Buffy had had the whole big empty house to herself all day, with nothing much to do in it. She tried watching TV, tried reading a magazine, tried eating a sandwich – no good. She just kept watching the clock.
Her mind kept skittering away from the events of the night before, even though she knew she wanted to relive them. It had been so intense, unlike anything she'd ever experienced before. Not like Angel, certainly not like Riley… It was as if, as if… Okay, stop it. You don't know what the hell last night was. She peered up at the clock again. 4:36.
She walked out the back door, gazing up at the sky. Funny, she'd always forgotten how early the sun went down at this time of year. It seemed to have a lot more significance than usual. Ha, ha. She sat down on the back porch steps, arms tightly crossed around her knees which she pulled up nearly to her chin. Great, the fetal position. Very sexy, very welcoming. She chuckled a little.
It was a little cool out, but otherwise it was had been a perfect late November day. She wrapped her cardigan around her a little more tightly, sat back and watched the sky around her gradually deepen into a vivid blue. What had her mother called this sort of evening? L'heure bleu; it was the name of the heady, old-fashioned floral perfume she sometimes wore. The blue hour. Her mother had loved evenings like this.
Mom. All at once a familiar ache pressed in on her chest, and she put her head down, trying to push the feeling away. It wouldn't do to be sad right now. This made her feel slightly guilty and she shook her head, trying to get rid of all thought.
She raised her head again, and took in the gentle twilight. Twilight, dusk; all the names for this time of evening sounded so romantic. Everything had become very quiet. There were a couple of crickets chirping, but the air was so still she could hear her own breathing, and she could certainly hear her heart pounding a little faster than usual. She checked her watch. 4:50. The sun was officially down.
She rubbed her cheek against her forearm, willing herself not to be nervous. She didn't have to be nervous. She was fine. So she'd slept with Spike the night before – so what? It obviously wasn't the end of the world, but something had happened. Something like a sea change in her life, to coin a phrase. What the… Where the hell did that come from? It sounded like Giles.
Oh. Giles. And Xander, and Willow, and everybody else. They're going to find out sometime, and it wasn't going to be pretty. Well, why should it be? She couldn't understand it herself, not entirely. The one thing she did know was that now, at this moment, she was beside herself with apprehension and anticipation. She wanted to see him again very badly. How she would react when she did was another story. Right now she felt split between tackling him the second he showed up, or running away screaming down the street. Neither was a particularly even-handed reaction.
Sea change, sea change. The phrase kept repeating relentlessly in her head. Nothing will ever be the same now, you stupid girl. You've crossed the line, and into what? Love with a vampire? Been there, done that, and that previous experience was such a success. Isn't previous experience supposed to keep you from making the same mistakes over and over?
She hid her eyes in her arms, as if doing so would dispel the memory of the night before. They had been sitting there on the couch, no problem, very nice, no threat. She had been a little tipsy, and so had just followed her impulses without thinking. She kissed him, they were kissing, and then they were on her bed… She shivered, stifling a strong urge to run upstairs and bury her head in her bedclothes just to smell him again.
This is nuts, she thought. I have never acted like this in my life -- well, not exactly like this, not exactly as if I'll explode if I don't see him again, right this minute. And all this over Spike? I'm losing it over Spike. Spike is wigging me out. Spike. Spike. William… Does he have a last name? I don't even know his last name! I can't handle this.
Okay, hold on. Deep breath. Going to pieces isn't the answer. Denial probably isn't, either. Okay. You're a big girl now, you're allowed to make your own choices in life, and your own mistakes. But this isn't a mistake. The thought came with certainty, suddenly and almost unbidden. You want this, you know you do. You want him. Anything else is beside the point.
What? Since when? Why did she have the complete, absolute feeling that this was it for her, that he was the only…
He was there. She looked up, and he was standing over her, one hand on the railing, one foot on the lowest step. It was almost as if he appeared out of thin air. Thankfully, he looked like his old self, dressed entirely in black, leather duster and all. He gazed down at her, smiling slightly, eyes warm and, well, pleased. He was obviously happy to see her. And Lord, he looked so…relaxed and (go ahead, say it) gorgeous.
She ducked her head, suddenly overcome by a huge rush of shyness. She looked up at him again, and did what she always did in times of stress.
"So. No shotgun tonight, huh?" She smiled into her forearm.
He sat down next to her, as close as possible without actually touching her. "No. Didn't seem appropriate. I could go back and get it if you want."
"That's okay. We can exchange gunfire later."
"All right then." He gave her a small smile and tilted his head, regarding her closely. "What shall we do in the meantime?" He leaned into her, looking into her face, and slowly slipped his right arm around her waist. He pressed his cheek to her shoulder and slipped his left hand down between her upper arm and her chest.
Buffy gulped nervously, smoothing down her hair in an almost convulsive gesture. Oh, boy. What is happening to me? I can't move. Say something. Anything…
"Don't do that."
"What, love?"
"Whatever it is that's making me feel like I'm having a heart attack."
"Hm," he murmured, "I'm not doing a thing. And you're far too young to have a heart attack." He kissed her left temple gently, encircling her completely with his arms, pulling her closer.
Impulsively she turned to him, threw her arms around his neck and pulled him backwards, practically throwing him down on the steps, and in the process smacked both their heads against the hard wood of the deck. "Ow." She sat up, rubbing her hair. "That hurt."
"What the hell was that?" asked Spike incredulously. He massaged the back of his head, wincing slightly. "Really, love, I don't have to be unconscious for you to have a chance with me, you know."
She snorted, slapping his arm. "Ohh. Low blow."
"Slayer." The word sounded like an endearment now, uttered in a throaty murmur. "It was only a joke." He looked at her curiously, seriously, trying to gauge her mood. "What's going on? Are you all right, pet?"
"Yes. Yes! Perfectly all right." She looked around her, at the sky, at the treetops, anywhere but at his face. "This is quite normal. I mean, last year you wanted to rip my head off." She smiled in spite of herself. "How things change. Don't take this the wrong way, but don't you think this whole situation is slightly weird?"
"Not in the least. Haven't wanted to kill you in ages. Wanted to do…other things. And last night…" He sighed deeply, and picked up her hand, stroking and examining it was if it were the most precious thing in the world.
"And that's so completely weird. Last night."
"Sweetheart. What we did last night was something I've wanted for a very long time. You know that." He stopped, his expression slightly exasperated. "Don't tell me you don't want a…well, a reprise of last night? You do, don't you?"
She sighed, and some of the tension flowed out of her. "Boy, you really are from the Victorian era, aren't you? Of course I want a reprise, providing 'reprise' means 'more of the same.'" She shifted uneasily, removing her hand from his grasp and sitting on it as if to make it behave, "But I can't help but think we're opening a world of hurt here."
"For whom? Not for me. For yourself? Why?"
"Well, let's think for a minute. I'm the Slayer, you're a vampire sometimes known as William the Bloody. My friends will probably have me committed the second they find out about this, and I don't know if I wouldn't agree with them, all things considered. My baby sister adores you, but what does she know, she's only a thousand-year old energy blob whom Social Services will now remove from our home due to the fact that I have been seen smooching said William the Bl…"
"Buffy."
"Yes."
"You think too much." He took her in his arms again and kissed her eyelids, her forehead, her cheeks and finally her lips. Her stomach started churning around again. Damn, he was good.
But she reluctantly broke off the kiss, resting her forehead on his, her breathing just slightly labored. "God. How do you do that?"
"Do what?" He attempted to kiss her again, but she pulled away, looking at him closely. My God, his eyes are so blue, she thought. Did I know this before?
Almost reluctantly, she said, "How do you do it without a soul?"
Involuntarily, he rolled his eyes. "Here we go again. I don't have a soul, therefore I'm incapable of real feeling, blah blah blah. Haven't we been over this before? Didn't I prove to you last night that it doesn't matter?"
"It does matter!" she blurted out. She sobered a bit. "At least, I thought it did. What am I supposed to think? You hated me, now you love me. I don't understand you. If you don't have a soul, shouldn't you at least be indifferent to me?"
"Right, like that would be possible. We've always run hot and cold, Summers -- actually, cold and hot, come to think of it. Why do you always question this? Oh, wait, don't tell me -- it's that whole moral question about sticking it to soulless vamps after this, am I right?"
"Come on, Spike. Think about it. Say I'm…with you, soulless vampire guy. What kind of message does that send out to the Hellmouth at large? Okay, demons, step up to be slayed, only I reserve the right to spare those of you who…appeal to me?"
"Well, yeah, why not? There's always exceptions to any rule."
"Try telling that to Giles. On second thought, don't." She stood and stepped away from him, and started swinging her arms around as if trying to get her blood moving. "You know, we're never going to reach any conclusion about this. It's a --what's that word? Con, condrum…"
"Conundrum."
"Yeah, that. It's one of those."
"Not to me." He looked hurt, and peeved, and this unsettled her. "For me it's simple. I want you, end of story. Don't care why or what happens afterward. I just want you. And," He blew out air on the word, as if to emphasize some disappointment, "I thought you wanted me. Sure seemed like you did." He got up, and kicked a stray piece of paper off the deck. "Why do I have the feeling that you never hashed over this with Brood Boy? Didn't, did you? Just took him on faith."
Ack.. He would bring that up. "Spike. I'm trying not to compare the situations, but it's hard not to. Angel had, has a soul. It was easier to believe what he felt for me was…real. Which, of course, made it all the more horrible when he turned on me." She watched him search his pockets for a cigarette, knowing that this was an attempt not to look at her. She moved closer to him and put her hand on his arm. He looked down at her, his face resolutely calm. "Are you gonna turn on me, Spike?"
"Jesus - no! How can you ask that, especially after last night?" He spread his arms out, somewhat theatrically, and turned around slowly. "Here I am, as promised. No tricks, no secret agenda, no plans to take you down. What you see is what you get. One lovesick vamp ready to fall at your feet."
She started pacing a little around the deck while he stood perfectly still, watching her. "You know, that brings up something else." She turned to face him. "Where exactly does all this lovesick passion stuff come from? Why do you want me so much? I mean, you're dead, right? No heartbeat." She stepped close to him and put her hand on his chest, as if feeling for one. "You have no body heat – that is, other than what comes from friction and, uh, proximity, if you know what I mean."
"Uh. Give us a break. These questions are like torture, and we're wasting very valuable time." He closed his eyes and bridged the gap between them, taking her chin in his fingers and rubbing his cheek against hers. His mood had changed swiftly from irritation back to complete ardor.
"Oh." This ardor thing seemed to be catching. "Umpf. Spike." She closed her eyes, overcome by the feeling of his smooth, soft, cool face… Wait. She opened her eyes with a start, and said sharply, "Stop that. Listen to me." She shook his arm a little to prevent him from nuzzling her further. It was much too distracting, and she was trying to get information.
He looked at her, his expression changing from one of sensual languor to semi-alertness. "Okay, listening."
"I guess what I'm asking is, apart from the, er, emotional connection, where does all this physical love thing come from? I mean, there's no breeding stuff going on…"
He grinned. "'Breeding stuff?' Learned that in biology class, did you?"
"I'm serious. Look, part of the reason I'm asking is because I'm trying to make some sense of all this. I know why I want to…you know," she said in a low voice. "I'm a young human woman with normal desires, feelings..."
"Oh, yes."
"Quiet! So, okay, my, um, juices are flowing, got that, but you – you don't have juices anymore, or shouldn't. But it really seems like you do. So what's up with that?" She sat down on the top stair again, crossed her arms, and regarded him expectantly.
Spike sat next to her, bracing his elbows on the step behind them, and looked up at the now-deep blue evening sky. He glanced back at her, and asked a little plaintively, "Can't I just say the truth? That I want you more than I've ever wanted anything in my life, alive or dead? That you made me so happy last night you could have staked me and it wouldn't have mattered?"
She blinked, a little unsettled by his intensity. "That's, that's a good answer. But it's…not enough."
"Not enough, pet?" He squinted back up at the stars. Good Lord, he thought, how do I put this in terms she'll understand? Okay – right. "Where does the passion come from? I guess the simplest answer is, it feels good." He turned to her, expecting an adverse reaction, but she just kept staring at him with those huge hazel eyes. God knew what she was thinking.
Jeez, he's so beautiful, she was thinking at that moment. Those eyes, those lips, those cheekbones, that hair… How could I have never noticed all these years? Liar! You noticed. You just didn't want to admit it to yourself. You've been attracted to him all along. Yikes.
"You know what we are, Buffy," Spike continued. "You of all people should know. Our existence depends upon the life force of humans. But when it all comes down to it, part of that life force is tied up with sex. Since we're mimicking life after a fashion, it stands to reason we'd go all the way with it.
"Vamp existence is made up of sensation – hot skin, warm blood, heavy breathing. If the logical extension of this isn't making love, I don't know what is." He sighed, wishing he could just jump on her again. Not yet.
Buffy looked away, pulling her sweater around her tightly. "So, that's how it was with Drusilla? How is that even possible?"
"Are you sure you want to hear this, love?" he asked gently. She nodded, not meeting his eyes. He hesitated, then spoke. "Well, after we both…fed…we took on those characteristics, that mimicking of life. We felt hot and warm and…excited. The rest seemed like a natural progression. Oddly, it was a celebration of life, even though we were dead."
Buffy stood up suddenly. Eww, definitely too much information. She turned and stepped up on the deck and walked over to the railing, leaning against it. He was at her side almost immediately.
"That upset you, didn't it, pet?" He wanted very badly to touch her, but knew she'd pull away if he did.
"No. Yes. I don't know." She sighed. "Still doesn't answer my basic question, though." She turned and stared at him. "I don't feed off anyone, and when you're with me, neither do you. So why me?
He smiled at her, supressing a rueful chuckle. "Why indeed, especially since I've spent the better part of my time here in Sunny D trying to kill you? Honestly? I don't know. I woke up one evening, and there it was. Scared the bleeding crap out of me." He turned to her, trying to get close to her again. She remained impassive, now gazing out at the garden, but he could sense her disquiet and, oddly, considering their conversation, her desire.
"I don't think you quite know what this means to me, this -- proximity." He stared at her, willing her to understand. "You trust me. You let me touch you. You let me make love to you. Do you know what that's like for me? It's as if I've regained something -- no, wait. I've never had anything like this before, this kind of closeness, not even when I was human. I know you feel it too. It's special. It doesn't have anything to do with anyone else either. This is strictly us, me and you. Uncharted territory." He put his arm through hers and squeezed it, marveling in the fact that he could actually do something so intimate and not get shut down. Uncharted territory, indeed.
"What else can I tell you, really? I love you. I love you. I want you so much I can barely hold myself up. How's that for an overstatement?" She glanced up, gave him a quick smile. "Buffy. I don't know why I feel this way, other than you're beautiful and alive and you've always driven me mad." He looked away almost impatiently, then back at her, quite intently. "After last night, right now, whatever I'm feeling is etched in stone. A horrible analogy, but true. It's a great mystery to me, but I'm completely sure of it."
She turned around, and leaned back on the rail. I'll probably never make sense of this, she thought. All at once, that seemed entirely okay. Why not take the proverbial leap of faith? Wasn't she full of love, as the First Slayer said? Maybe she should just start spreading it around, and she couldn't think of a better recipient than Spike. Beautiful, cool Spike. I don't think he'll ever leave me, she realized, not unless I want him to. And I don't. I won't ever. I think. What a switch. Anyway, if things get too hairy, I always have my handy little stakes close by. My God, where the hell did that come from? I've lost it completely, she thought, shivering a little. This is truly weird love. Ha, the only kind I know.
"But weird love is better than no love," she said aloud, suddenly. She looked at him, slightly alarmed.
He grinned at her. "Some say it's better than the real thing."
"So this isn't the real thing?" She poked him in the ribs, a bit harder than she intended. He grabbed her hand, and pulled her to him. He looked down into her face, and smoothed her hair back off her forehead.
"This is real, all right." He kissed her very softly, then drew back, staring into her eyes, smiling a little. She returned the smile slowly and put her arms around his neck, turning her head and squinting off to the side as if focusing on some distant object – the stars, the midnight blue sky, the next 50 years.
"As real as it gets for us, I guess. No, strike that. This is about love, no weirdness involved. Think that's possible? Even if I get old and wrinkly and you still look 28?"
He paused for a moment, then quoted in a low voice, "'Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety.'"
"O-kay. I'll take that as a yes," she said dryly, smirking at him and giving him a soft, playful slap across his cheek. She took his chin in her hand, pushing his face this way and that, admiring it. "You're really pretty when you're quoting fusty old poetry."
"That was Shakespeare, you silly nit. And it was supposed to be profound and romantic."
"It was. I don't know what it means, but it sounded good."
"It means…it means I'll always be here with you. Come what may."
"Gee. That is profound." But she'd had enough with talking. She stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear. "Dawn's still not home, you know. She's gone for the night."
"Really?"
"Uh huh. Didn't you say something about a reprieve?"
"Reprise."
"Whatever. More of the same?"
"Yeesss."
"Okay then. Let's go." She took his hand and pulled him through the kitchen door.
"You know, Buffy, you really should read more."
"What? No way. You're trying to kill the mood, aren't you?"
He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, like that could happen." He turned and closed the door, shutting out the long blue night behind them.