Humanitas | The lights were still on at Giles' apartment when Buffy knocked on the door. "Yes, who is it," came Giles' muffled voice. "It's Buffy. And Marcus," she added quickly. She glanced at Marcus, perplexed. "That's weird. He usually opens the door." "Ah. Yes. Do come in." Buffy opened the door, and stopped on the threshold, nearly causing Marcus to walk into her. "Woah! Giles, what happened?" The Watcher was face down on the floor, pinned beneath one of his bookcases. The phone lay next to him. "It's rather a long story. Well, perhaps not that long, but I'd much rather tell it after I'm, ah, upright, again." Buffy and Marcus quickly righted the bookcase, and helped Giles to his feet. Giles stretched and twisted, trying to get himself back in order. "That's much better. Thank you very much. Marcus, could I impose upon you to make some tea?" As Marcus went into the kitchen, Buffy asked, "You sure you're ok?" "Yes, I think so," he replied. "Some bumps and bruises, not to mention cramps from being stuck down there for half-an-hour, but nothing seems to be broken. What's so funny?" Buffy had begun to giggle. "Well, gee, Giles, it's just that... You. Bookcase. Librarian. Trapped." She shrugged, still giggling. "Yes," Giles said dryly, "I assure you the irony was not lost on me. Nor was the fact that the Slayer was not about anywhere to dig out her Watcher." "Sorry, Giles. We fell asleep." At his look, she hastily added, "And then we were patrolling, you know, doing Slayer stuff." "I gathered as much when you didn't answer the phone at the shop." "We must've just missed it." Buffy was saved any further explanation by Marcus returning with the tea. "So, what happened?" "I had a visitor." Giles eased down onto the couch, wincing a little at the stiffness in his muscles. "Whom I can only assume to have been one of Marcus' cousins. He seemed to be looking for you." "But why would he come here," asked Marcus. "I thought that Tara's wards would've drawn him well off the scent." "Well, there are still several of them in the drawer of the desk," replied Giles, sipping his tea, "Perhaps the concentration was sufficiently strong to draw his notice." Noticing Buffy's look, Giles shook his head. "The drawer is locked. There's a key under... Well, it was under the phone, before I snagged the cord and dragged it halfway across the floor." He pursed his lips to cover a smile, finding humor already in the situation. "Regardless, we might want to distribute the rest of the wards." "I can do that on the way home," said Buffy. "Is there anything we can do for you first?" Giles smiled at her concern. "Well, I could do with a bit of help picking up these books." |
| More than a few drinks and an hour later, Spike and the woman - who'd given her name as Lia – had ended up at the Bronze, where the band was playing the sort of music bands all over the world played at the end of the night. Lia had proven to be good company, with a sharp wit and provocative style, and no hesitation in pulling him gently onto the dance floor. It had been a long time since he'd danced with a woman wrapped around him. They swayed together, each small movement nestling her breasts gently into him, and he smoothed a hand over her hips down to cup her behind, pressing her closer. Taking advantage of the fact that her heels made her slightly taller than him, he nuzzled into her neck, nipping lightly. Wonder if she'd mind if I 'ad a little taste. Don't count if it's not human, right? Her head was on his shoulder, her eyes closed, and he licked gently at the soft spot on her neck, just below her left ear. "Want to go somewhere more private, luv?" he whispered. She murmured agreement inaudibly without opening her eyes, then asked him, "your place or mine?" Spike had a mental vision of his crypt, and almost laughed. "Better make it yours, petunia, the maid called in sick today." "Come on then," she said, tugging at his hand to drag him outside. "Here," Spike rasped, as he pushed her into the alley that ran past the Bronze. "Can't wait," he growled. He pulled her sharply to him and together they fell back against the wall, consumed by the press of body-to-body, breast-to-breast, thigh-to-thigh. Spike hungrily returned Lia's kiss, realizing in a split second how much he'd missed the kiss of a real woman. No mechanical parts here, he thought, pleased. Gasping, she pressed herself harder against him, her tongue entering his mouth and enticing his to follow in a tortuous game of chase, catch, suck. Lost in a haze of passion and alcohol, Spike was unable to prevent his game face from surfacing before he forcibly pushed that part of him back down. A sharp fang glanced off her tongue, drawing blood, but she only laughed softly through the kiss. Her hands were all over him, sliding inside his coat. She untucked his shirt and ran her hands up his chest underneath, dragging her nails. For a moment, he was frustrated by her tight dress, then he slid his hands from her waist to her hips. He swiveled, pressing her hard against the cold brick wall of the alley. Through the mist of alcohol and lust, he could distantly hear the throb of the music they'd just left behind. Without stopping the kiss, the woman reached for his coat. He hissed softly and tried to help her, shrugging the coat off his shoulders. She tugged the coat down to his elbows and twisted the leather behind him, trapping him within her grasp. Her touch was bolder through the rough leather, driving him mad. With a groan, he tried to escape the prison she'd created, but the next thing he knew he'd landed flat on his back, hard. She was standing over him, her shawl askew on her shoulders, and waiting for him to get up from where she'd thrown him. "What the hell-" he started. Her hand stopped him short, holding something out to him. It was the small bundle Tara had handed him hours ago. "Oh, bugger." Spike cursed himself. He had meant to toss the ward into the dumpster behind the bar before leaving but had completely forgotten. Sitting up, he jerked his coat back up and over his shoulders, shrugging to settle it into place as he stood up. "And I thought you'd made dinner of my cousin, and instead you're just carrying around a piece of him." Talia shook the bundle in Spike's face, taunting. "Where is he, lover?" For just a fleeting moment, Marcus' face flashed through his mind. The vision was immediately replaced by Buffy's face, and Spike shook himself, hoping to sober up through sheer willpower. Leering wickedly at the woman, Spike patted his stomach as if to say, in here . The woman responded with a skeptical expression, and Spike realized she wasn't taller than him now. She'd stepped out of her lethal heels and was holding one like a stake. Spike wanted a fight, looks like Spike's bloody well got one. Gloriously, the feeling he'd been missing flooded through him – pure, unadulterated happiness. "And I was showing you such a good time," he told her, as if aggrieved by her accusation. "Show me a better one," Talia replied. She stepped gracefully to the side and swung the shoe in a smooth arc, hitting him in the back. The force knocked him straight into the alley wall. "You bitch," Spike retorted, more in surprise at the blow's power than in pain. He desperately clawed at his back, her shoe heel deeply embedded just beyond his reach. The heel had missed his heart by a centimeter. His rage and frustration exploded as he threw himself against the wall, dislodging the spike heel from his back. Growling ominously, he turned to face her. The woman stepped back as he turned, her expression amused. Enjoyin' this, are you, he thought, annoyed. Okay, then, let's just see what you're made of. Spike charged, letting his anger lead the attack. One hand grabbed for her throat while his other curled into a fist. The alcohol still in his system made his attack sloppy, and she parried it easily. The opportunity was averted and he grimaced as a surprisingly strong punch hit him full in the nose, knocking him to the ground. The pavement was cold, much colder than his skin, which was quickly losing the flush of heat from her earlier touch. Spike recovered quickly as he jumped to his feet, sizing her up before making his next move. Circling her warily, he grinned suddenly. "Well, I was planning on something different, but this'll do." "It's the gorgeous ones that like it rough," the woman purred. Talia wiped her finger along her lips and then looked carefully as if checking for smeared lipstick. He had my heart beating faster than this before. "If I'd known, I would've brought my whip." Spike laughed curtly, and charged again, this time with a better measure of the woman's reflexes. Their fighting was fast and brutal, with punishing punches and kicks exchanged so swiftly, that all the two could process was the pain of the blows and the stunning strength of each equally matched opponent. The battlefield widened. Spike moved to the far wall of the alley, scooping up a long-discarded bottle as he threw the woman off him to get distance between them. "C'mon, sweet pea," he taunted, making a rude gesture with one hand while holding the bottle in the other. "No holding back now. Afraid you'll mess up that pretty dress?" Unimpressed, the woman ran her fingertips down the front of her dress. The tear split, revealing a tantalizing amount of creamy breast. Spike chuckled, all of his senses on fire with lust and the fight. Leaning back slightly in preparation, he remarked off-handedly, "No sweat. Call K-Mart in the morning. They'll have plenty left." Talia's eyes lit up in fury and Spike instantly knew he'd scored on her. She kicked high to knock the bottle from his hand, just like he'd figured she would. Spike glided smoothly to the right, swinging the bottle swiftly toward her head and there was a satisfying crash as it shattered across her forehead. He stepped forward, placing his hip against hers, and wrapped his arms around her body, holding her arms tight against her sides but preventing her from falling. Blood dripped down her face, and she stared at him, challenging and cold. Spike's eyes glowed as he licked a crimson drop flowing down her cheek. "Where's the sugar and spice now," he whispered into her ear as he moved for her throat, "wolf girl." The woman's body stiffened in shock. Spike growled happily and opened his mouth against her neck, but before he could bite down, she'd forced her arm up and grabbed a handful of his hair. She pulled his face up to hers, kissing him brutally, ignoring his fangs cutting her lips. His tenuous control vanished with her touch. He returned the kiss hungrily as she reached her arms around him, pulling him closer. He shoved her back against the wall, punishing her with lips and teeth, his strong hands digging into her shoulders. A split second later, her knee was square in his groin. Reeling back from the pain, he screamed in fury. She laughed, her blood staining her face, as she watched him stagger from the blow. "It's been fun, baby, but I've got to be moving along." She stepped forward, and placed her hands on his shoulders. Pulling him towards her, she kissed him passionately. Spike was about to bite her tongue in retaliation when she backhanded him squarely in the jaw, sending him sprawling. Rolling to a stop against the opposite wall, he sat up in time to see her pick up her shoes and fade into the shadows and disappear. Wetness began streaking down his cheek. You bloody wanker. Crying for no reason, Spike admonished himself. He swiped angrily at his cheek but there were no tears. "The lady has hidden talents," he whispered out loud, surprised. Grimacing, he again touched the slash mark on his cheek, looked at the crimson on his hand and licked his fingers clean, one by one. For a long time, Spike lay in the alleyway, before shrugging to himself good-naturedly and getting to his feet. His back ached where he'd hit the wall, and Spike scowled, cursing the overseen kiss that had sent him back into the bar and on a bender. Just as quickly, though, Spike shook his head. Naw, serves me right, he figured. And I'll pay for it again in the morning. He pulled out another cigarette, reaching in his coat pocket with the other hand to snag his lighter. The pocket was empty. Spike dug around in other pockets, checking several times before giving up. All empty. "Bloody hell." The unlit cigarette hit the ground and was crushed underfoot as he stalked off toward home. |
"I was unemployed for the better part of a year, you know," Giles replied stiffly and changed the topic as Buffy smirked for a moment behind his back. "Marcus, I think I may have found a way to reverse the rituals performed on you." Giles proceed to explain what would be involved, and did not leave out the dangers. "Oh." Marcus sighed. "I'm sorry. I–I-I don't know if..." He looked away from both of them, overwhelmed, his gray eyes large and vulnerable. Giles looked him in the eye. "I still have some work to do to determine the details of the ritual, but it will certainly be trying, to say the least. You'll have to decide for yourself if you wish to go through with it." "I guess I'll have to sleep on it." The young man's face was troubled. "Maybe a walk would help. Buffy, may I walk you home?""Sure," she replied. "We'll take the long way, and get rid of the rest of these as we go." She hefted the box of wards. Buffy said goodnight to Giles, and Marcus promised to be back soon. "I'm going to bed, if you don't mind. It's been a long day." Giles handed Marcus a key, and the young people let themselves out. Giles seated himself on one of the stools in front of the kitchen counter, sipping the remains of his tea before heading to his own bedroom. They seem to be getting on, he thought. I wonder if that's for the best? | |
The blowing leaves from the trees outside cast dancing shadows in the streetlights. Aeralyus watched the patterns of light dancing across the wall of the room as he tried to steal a few moments of sleep. The practice had always worked for him as a child, as he named and pretended with the shadow monsters inhabiting his room. He fell into a deep sleep, unencumbered by dreams.
Talia sat on the bed watching her brother's peaceful slumber. In sleep, pain and exhaustion was erased from his features and she was once again filled with awe at his beauty and strength. He was the only creature - in any world - that she loved, and watching him, she wondered if they had finally met their match in this unassuming little pit-stop town. The moment shattered at the stronger emotion of hatred she suddenly felt for their father. He could have prevented this. She reached over her brother's sleeping form and cooed in his ear, "Wake up, sweetheart." She gently dragged the object in her hand over his face. He wrinkled his face, and tried to pull the blankets up, waking as he sensed his sister's presence. He grabbed at the object tickling his nose. "What's this?" he squinted, his eyes becoming accustomed to the dim light in the room. He sat up in bed and clicked on the light for a better look, then glanced up at Talia. He chuckled at her disheveled appearance. "And where have you been? You look like hell." Talia licked her bruised lips, remembering the vampire's touch, and did not immediately answer, caught up in a memory that Aeralyus was unable to intrude upon. She looks... sated, he realized. Aeralyus smothered a flicker of jealousy before he reached over and ran his hand across her shoulder, snapping her out of her reverie. "A gift from a vampire," she replied excitedly, her eyes sparkling with mirth, "that carries wards... and mementos." Looking down at her torn and bloody dress, her tone abruptly changed. "We need to get help. We've got to call-" "No, we need to do a location spell to find Marcus," Aeralyus countered. "His scent is already so dispersed, I can't get a lead on him. He's working with the Slayer and unlike her predecessors, she doesn't seem to mind playing with others..." He quit speaking when he realized Talia was no longer paying attention. She had jumped off the bed, and lazily pulled the ruined dress over her head and tossed it to the floor. She ran her hand across her breast, tracing her finger over an angry red scratch. Aeralyus watched, fascinated, as his sister walked toward the bathroom, her hands caressing her waist and abdomen, barely catching her softly spoken words, "Tell me about it ..." He caught her whispered sigh as the door closed. "Pity, you were so fine." | |
The dark street's silence was broken by quiet thumps as small bundles landed on the grass and the street. The two figures were silent as they reached another intersection, separating to walk in opposite directions as they strong-armed the small projectiles into the quiet neighborhood yards. After several minutes, they met again at the corner. "That all of them?" Buffy asked. When Marcus nodded, she sighed in relief. "No more visits, then." "Was stupid of me not to notice she'd left some behind," he muttered. Buffy shook her head. "No," she said. "You can't keep track of everything." He shrugged, and they walked in silence for a bit. "Sorry... about earlier," he said softly. "Which part?" He looked obliquely at her, amused. "Which part," he mimicked. She hunched her shoulders for a second, a silent teasing response. Marcus tried again. "I didn't mean to offend you, when... I-I-I kissed you." "You kissed me on the forehead," came back the immediate reply. Her voice was skeptical. "Yeah, but still." He kept his eyes on the street. "Which part," he muttered. "Oh, please." Buffy nudged Marcus in the ribs again. "I wasn't offended. It was... nice." "Nice?" He groaned dramatically. "You're killing me with kindness here." "Well it'd sure be easier than trying to do it with a silk shirt," she retorted good-naturedly. "I mean, an extra one. You can keep the one you're wearing." "Such generosity," he exclaimed, feigning wounded shock. Buffy didn't reply, but made a face at him. He smiled suddenly. "I just didn't want you thinking... I mean, I-I-I was worried it bothered you." "Hmm." Buffy thought for several seconds, scratching her cheek thoughtfully before deciding to broach the subject. "I've never kissed another Slayer before. No, I have, but not kissed kissed." "Excuse me?" Marcus looked over at her, his expression still amused. "That so did not sound like what I meant," she said, embarrassed. "I meant that, uh, I don't know what I meant." "It's okay, I think I know what you meant." He chewed his lower lip for a second, pensive. "No, on second thought, I haven't the faintest idea." He glanced at Buffy, who smiled absentmindedly. "You're not the first Slayer I've met." "That's what I thought you meant." Marcus stopped still, his expression confused. "But there's only one of you at a time. How can you meet -" "I died." Marcus' jaw dropped. After a second, he shook himself slightly, and closed his mouth. He began walking again. The only remaining sign of his uncertainty was a few quick glances at her. "I'd been a Slayer for about two years," she explained. "I drowned." At Marcus' unspoken question, she continued. "Xander brought me back. I guess the Slayer energy stuff hadn't heard of CPR, 'cause I was only out a minute and it was already calling up another Slayer." "Oh." Marcus exhaled deeply, still confused but less worried. If she can treat that like it's all in a day's work, I suppose I can, too. And that means... the other one may still be alive. The thought flooded him with a strange joy. "So there's been two Slayers for how long now?" "Almost five years." She tugged on his shoulder to get him to notice her pointing. Together, they turned down a side street, the bare tree branches arching over them and dappling the streetlight. "Well, there were two other Slayers. Not at the same time. There was Kendra, and she... died. And then Faith." Briefly, she described Kendra and Faith, and Marcus nodded. A muscle flickered in his jaw. "I guess the first thing you do is compete," she offered quietly. "Who's the baddest Slayer. Not like anyone could've known, since it's never happened before. But it was still... weird." "That's what it is." Marcus turned her to face him on the sidewalk. In the strange light, his hair was jet, but glistened at the edges from the golden light shed by someone's decorative yard lantern. "We both want to know..." he whispered. When she didn't say anything, he swallowed hard. "What it's like to be with someone like ourselves." Surprised, Buffy nodded. He was saying exactly what she'd been wondering. When she spoke, there was a catch in her throat. "I've had... boyfriends," she said, smiling wryly at the word. It sounds so... high school, she thought. And they were anything but normal-girl romances. "But the Slayer gig is full-time, and it's not like there's time off for relationships." Marcus didn't move. Buffy continued, "And it didn't work out, either time. Well, any time. It's like I get to a point, and it's always something else. But I've always wondered..." "Is there something about a Slayer that another person can..." Marcus didn't finish the sentence. Buffy nodded. "I want to know what they feel, when they touch me. I feel this... electricity, I get zapped," she said uncomfortably, "when I... touch you." She looked away. Her hands clenched into a fist before she forced herself to appear relaxed. "Like this," Marcus said, and reached out for her hand, taking it gently. Buffy drew in her breath, quickly, and glanced up at him. His lips were parted and his breath was coming faster, but his expression was impassive. "I don't know if it's in you, or me, or only happens when two Slayers are... together." He dropped her hand, slowly. When she didn't say anything, he turned, beckoning her to continue walking. Giving her a chance to cover her confusion, he started speaking quietly, as if they had been discussing the weather. "I don't know what you've been through," he began, "but I only know that every lover I've had... some lasted long, some didn't, but even the good ones - the ones I thought I couldn't live without - just seemed to get burned out on me." He shrugged. "I always thought it was because they could sense the demon side of me. I never thought it had anything to do with the other strange things about me, like sensing vampires or quick reflexes." "You didn't know you were a Slayer?" "I didn't know what I was, except for being a half-demon, half-human, half-orphan." He smiled at her. "I didn't have a name for it until a few months ago." "Then how did you know I was a Slayer?" "You smelled like those other -" He cut himself off, unwilling to do any more reminiscing about his childhood. "Besides, I told you, I've dreamt about you. I figured it out, once I met you. I'm not completely dense." He smiled wryly and added, "just ignorant." Too unsettled to smile in return, Buffy just nodded. "So I don't know what a lover feels, either," he continued. "At least, no one ever said my strange quirks were the specific reason. Well, they did, but it wasn't Slayer-quirks." "Uh... can I ask you a personal question?" Buffy's voice was hesitant, but with a hint of skepticism. She glanced over at him. "Just how many..." Marcus chuckled, an unexpected noise in the quiet, and shrugged. "Told you, I went to an all-boys' school." "So you never saw girls until college?" "Hardly. A school full of just boys? We had a mixer with the nearby girls' school every weekend. It was a frenzy of hormones." Marcus grinned smugly at the memories. "I thought you said you weren't used to talking," she said, suspicious. "I'm not." He winked at her. "Between dances, our mouths were moving plenty but we weren't talking." She caught his mischievous expression and rolled her eyes in response. He smiled, and continued. "That's why Monday was the weekly torture fest for me, since few of my classmates cared for the notion that I was sullen, reclusive... and a hit with the girls." Buffy's face registered surprise, and Marcus snorted. "I can dance." "Dance?" Buffy was still skeptical. "Guys don't dance. They either stand around and refuse to dance when it's a fast song, or they stand in one place and sway." She thought for a moment. "Except Xander. He'll dance." Marcus laughed softly. "I don't mean twitching like road kill, I mean dancing. We had formal dances. The whole white gloves and dinner jackets thing. The girls wore formal gowns. The usual stuffy British manner." He stole a glance up and down the empty street, and took her by the hand. Buffy felt the familiar frisson before following his lead. "My tutors, though, taught me etiquette and dancing, along with geography and Latin." "Latin?" Buffy made a face at him. "Just how many languages..." "Seven," he said, as he carefully placed Buffy's right hand on his left bicep. "Two of which are dead." Before Buffy could question that statement, he'd moved a step closer, and she caught her breath. "This is where you keep your hand, unless you're wearing heels or," he scrunched down suddenly, and Buffy giggled, "I were shorter. If you were wearing a long dress, you'd be holding it out with that hand. Then my hand goes here, not on your waist but above it, and I hold my arm out like so." He held his right arm out, slightly bent, with his palm facing up. "Put your left hand in mine." Buffy did so, instinctively grasping his hand tightly, and he shook his head as he jiggled her arm a little to get her to relax. "No, don't hold on, just lay your hand across mine. Think of it like just delicately floating, barely laying a hand on me." "Delicate, nothing," Buffy muttered. "I feel like an idiot." She craned her neck around to see behind her. "No one's coming," Marcus informed her tolerantly. "And no, no one's watching, either. You don't believe a guy can dance, now's your chance." He poked her in the ribs with his thumb, and she squeaked. "And if you can't dance, I'll be shocked." Defiantly, Buffy raised her chin. "Of course I can dance. It's just like fighting but, uh, the steps are planned out." She made a face. "And the music's better." "You've never suffered through three hours of waltzes." Marcus smirked. Buffy frowned in concentration as he directed her to look at his eyes, and not her own feet. "First, take one step back with your left foot," he said, then flinched as she stepped forward with her right foot and kicked him in the shins. "The other left, love," he told her, wincing slightly. "Sorry." He smiled at her again, patient, and started over. After several stumbles, she stopped worrying about her feet and focused on his face as he counted out the steps for her. Another few minutes and she realized he was picking up the pace a little. Breathlessly she glanced around as she took two steps backwards, a step to the side and turned. "Are we supposed to go this fast," she asked him, dubious. "I'm getting dizzy." "We're at half-speed right now," he remarked, unruffled. Their feet were almost silent on the pavement, except for the occasional scraping as she miss-stepped. Buffy realized she was making fewer mistakes as she figured out how to balance his movements with her own. "My dance instructor," Marcus said softly, "used to say that to dance well, no one leads. It's like it all exists in the space between you, and you're dancing around the edges together," he explained. He gave her an abashed look. "I'm afraid I spent a number of years pretending that made sense." "No," Buffy shook her head as they spun again, their shadows soft in the half-light from the streetlamp down the block. "It doesn't work if one is stronger." She thought about what she'd said, as Marcus hummed quietly, no longer counting. His voice was mellifluous but his eyes were steady on hers. "The power isn't in one, it's in the middle. And that made sense in my head." A smile flashed across Marcus' face as he stopped humming to answer. "So maybe you should only dance with Slayers?" She made a face. "Hope not. It's not like there's a whole bunch lined up out there." He chuckled, and she smiled wryly. Bet Faith couldn't dance like this. "So we just do this until the, uh, song is over?" "Yeah. Or we could go in the opposite direction." Without warning Marcus spun her quickly to the left, taking long strides that doubled their speed. He'd slowed back to a leisurely pace before she realized she'd reacted instinctively to his moves and hadn't stepped on his toes or kicked him in the shins. Impressed with herself, she smiled at him, promptly missed a beat, stepped wrong, and ran right into him. He clutched at her as she jumped back and nearly fell, but he was already laughing, and she quickly joined him. "Well, so much for my career as a ballroom dancer," she told him. "At least in ice skating I was always solo." "Just like Slaying?" He chuckled as he followed her back to the sidewalk. "I guess," she replied. They walked in silence for a short pace, until she nodded in the direction of a small bungalow, set back from the street a short distance. "That's my house." Buffy led the way up the sidewalk. "Thanks for teaching me to dance," she offered, still a little flustered. "My pleasure," he responded as he followed her onto the porch. They stood in the darkness, disconcerted, for several seconds. Buffy wasn't moving, Marcus realized, nor had she pulled out her house keys. "I've not told you everything," she whispered. "And I won't. It's too long, and I'm not ready yet. But I still want to know, because I'm not going to go through that again without..." Buffy swallowed hard, determination and pain etched across her face. "I want to know, just this once, and I don't want to live... wondering." Her words trailed off, and she bit her lip, watching him. Perplexed, Marcus nodded. He instinctively leant forward to hear what she'd said, trying to appreciate her point of view despite the fact that he had no clue what she was talking about. Before he could open his mouth to speak, though, her hands were on his shoulders and her lips were gently against his. Instinctively he placed his hands around her waist, sensing immediately that she was poised on her toes. He leaned over and she settled back down onto her feet. He bit back a gasp as he felt her probe his lips open with her tongue. The air crackled, and the palms of his hands tingled against her hips as he pulled her closer. Tenderly, then voraciously, he responded, bewildered but enjoying it. Her hands moved to his arms, and then back to his neck, as she wrapped her arms around him, pinning him tightly as they continued to kiss. He trembled. This is it, he thought, even I have to come up for air at some point, but if there's any way to go... The thought was swept away in a soft shudder as she pressed her hips up against his, pushing her knee between his legs. Light and dark flashed against the inside of Marcus' eyelids, and he could feel her rapid heartbeat against his chest. The kiss ended. Marcus' hands dug into Buffy's waist, holding her close. Her breathing was ragged in his ear as her arms remained wrapped tightly around his shoulders. Slowly they pulled back, staring at each other. Marcus was the first one to try to speak. "I..." he stared, and smiled sadly as he realized he couldn't manage it. Clearing his throat gently, he averted his eyes as Buffy slowly disentangled herself. She stepped back, and glanced up at him under her eyelashes. He tried again. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "No," she said, and sighed deeply, as if relieved. "Don't be. I started it. I just... sometimes get worried that I'm so scared, after losing... everything, that I..." At Marcus' puzzled glance, she shrugged. "I wanted to know. I guess that was kind of selfish of me, but I figured it might be my only..." "I understand," Marcus interjected, as he took her hand. "But I don't know if I'm a good example. I mean, your other lovers, you were in love..." "Duh... I mean, yeah. I suppose." Buffy shot Marcus a glance, but he couldn't read her expression. She didn't pull her hand back, however, and after a minute, she glanced down at their entwined hands. Her expression was sad, and distant. "That makes all the difference in the world," Marcus replied, so softly that Buffy had to strain to hear his words. "I feel a connection with you, a kinship unlike anything I've ever felt with someone before, on any level. But I'm not in love with you. That is," he stumbled over his words, "I mean, I could. You are, lovable, I mean..." "It's okay," she said, "I got the picture." Marcus shook his head. "I wanted to kiss you, too, because I wanted to know. But I in my head, I'm seeing someone else, and that probably makes kissing me kind of... hollow." He smiled sadly. Buffy blinked, surprised, and squinted up into his face, trying to read his expression. He expression was wistful, and his wide gray eyes stared down at her, open and vulnerable. "Maybe it's nothing. But it's there. A part of me is in love with the Slayer... the girl in my dreams." Buffy couldn't suppress a barking laugh. "Faith? You're in love with Faith? Get real." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Marcus froze. She knew immediately that her response had been the wrong one. "Insert foot up to hip," she muttered, half to herself. "That was bad of me," she told him. "It's just that Faith and I..." "Don't have the best history," he said stiffly, his tone still hurt but recovering. "I never realized it meant you were both alive, but I've seen you fighting in..." "We've done a lot of that," she said quickly. "But I still don't think you could be -" Marcus' tone was guarded, but dangerously quiet. "You're not in my head. I wouldn't expect you to know how I could love the Slayer." She bristled for a moment to hear someone other than herself described as the Slayer. Marcus noticed. When he spoke again, his voice was gentle. "After all, I'm not really sure myself, either." "You're right," she interrupted. "I mean, that I can't know what's in your head. I know you're not in love with me, and I know I'm not in love with you. And although I'll never understand what..." her voice choked suddenly, and it took her a second before she could continue. "Anyway, I just wanted to know what it was like, what they felt. But you're right, it's not the same." "But not bad," he countered, smiling. "No." She smiled up at him shyly. "Quite nice." "You're an excellent kisser," he said dryly, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Before she could respond, he leaned over and brushed his lips against her cheek, holding still for a moment before releasing her. With a quick formal nod and a whispered promise of seeing her in the morning, he silently took his leave. Buffy remained on the porch for several more minutes, watching him until he was no longer in sight. She shook herself out of her reverie, and dug out her house keys to let herself in. | |
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