9.
How were they going to play this one?
He perched on the edge of the bed, knit his fingers. Listened to the water running in the shower. Was this a good sign? The look on her face after Dawn's inopportune appearance had told him, unequivocally no. Shame. Of the totally crippling variety and then, straight into the shower, as if the smell of him on her skin suddenly repulsed her. On the scale of one to ten he have to give it...sod all.
He'd known it was a mistake, had from the second he'd gotten out of the car, stood in front of her house knowing he wanted her, that she wanted him just as much. Knew it. God, in the car, he'd caught her sniffing him, the exact same look on her face as he had on his every time she came within ten yards of him. Wanting to taste her skin. Had only just managed to stop himself throwing her down then, taking her on Harris's clammy vinyl seats while the idiot watched them goggle-eyed in the rear view mirror.
He'd wanted her with every breath, felt the gut-crunching ache ever time he had to see her. But now...like this? This was too fast, too soon, and too much like the old thing, the insane need thing. What the hell had happened? One minute they'd been talking, the next thing he knew he had his mouth clamped over her nipple. Had he even asked her permission...to do that? What had happened to taking his time? Building something with her, before....he heard the water shut off.
Finally. She'd been in there a long time.
******
How was she going to handle this?
She leaned her forehead against the cold tile, let the hot water slide down her neck, between her shoulder blades. Her skin still felt like it was vibrating, hyper-sensitised by his hands, the feeling of his thumbs pressing down into....god, enough! Every time she thought she had this under control, the thoughts slipped out of her, making her spine feel as if it was made of silly-putty. She could be doing the most mundane things, turning the burgers at work and suddenly... the feeling of his lips as he crushed his mouth against her, his hands gripping her upper arms, pinning her...and then...there was the burnt meat. Sophie had told her she looked as if she was comatose,
"Your eyes sorta shut and then your pupils start going like you're in r.e.m sleep or something. One time...your mouth hung open and you actually drooled."
"I...drooled? I did not drool!"
"You did. It went on the hot-plate. That's against Health and Safety."
What the hell was wrong with her? That first night with him...it was like he'd flicked a switch inside her, found a setting she didn't even know existed. Right above one for 'fantastic' and two for 'earth-shattering'. She doubted it even had a label...possibly something unpronounceable. Remembered that line from 'Spinal Tap', smiled a little and ran a hand over her tingling belly, shut off the water. Spike was definitely one louder.
******
And it wasn't as if he hadn't been making an effort.
The cold shower had become a twice daily occurrence. He tried to avoid eye contact as much as possible, even taken to wearing restrictive underwear in a vain attempt to keep himself under some kind of physical restraint. This week, he'd deliberately started pulling the phone out of the wall before he went to bed, knowing that the temptation to call her was always strongest in the middle of the night.
When he thought about it he couldn't honestly imagine how he could have taken it any slower, been more circumspect. Everything he'd done, had said, had been purposely engineered to let her feel safe from him. To let her know that he was willing to take his time, was capable of patience.
He mashed his knuckles into his eyes with sudden despair. Although...the sucking the nipple thing...that might have given her the wrong impression.
God, he'd fucked it up.
******
Christ, and now...she'd really fucked it up.
She wrapped the towel around her hips, palmed some moisturiser, smoothed it onto her upper arms, her throat. He'd be so guarded, so quiet ever since he'd been back. The human part of him so pink and new, so vulnerable to pain. She'd sensed his trepidation, his need to take it slow, be gentle with her and how had she responded to that? By tearing the buttons off his shirt and shoving him into the carpet.
He was right. She was an animal. The switch he'd thrown, it'd changed her forever and now she wasn't sure, didn't know if she could ever be satisfied any other way. And what if that wasn't what he wanted now, what William wanted? After all he hadn't instigated that...display before. He'd wanted to make love to her and what was that? She had always thought she knew, that she wanted tenderness. But safe, warm human sex...versus insane thigh- inflaming vampire love? Her eyes snapped open. God...Sophie was right...she did drool.
******
He lay full length on her bed, buried his face in the indentation her head had made, breathed deep, tasted her. God, now there was drool on her pillow. He turned over, put his hands behind his head. Looked around.
Such a girly room for so experienced a woman.
He rolled over to her bedside table, inspected the pictures of Willow and Xander, her Mom, the tiny passport sized one of her, aged six, and her Dad. Git.
A silver pocket watch he recognised as having once been Giles. He held it to his ear, solid tick, good quality British craftsmanship. Put it back. Her crucifix nancy-boy had given her. And under it, a folded sheet of cream paper that seemed strangely familiar, a little singed at the edges. He slid it out, opened it.
His own hand-writing sprang out at him from the page, unmistakable with it's black spiderweb hand, his favourite pen, long-since lost in the unfortunate grenade incident. He felt his face heat up as he recognised the poem.
Bloody hell. Where had she found this?
******
"It was in your crypt. Clem found it when he was sorting through...stuff. He thought ...he asked me if I'd like to have it."
His voice sounded strange, strained,
"Did he now. How thoughtful of him."
Oh God, was he pissed off? She couldn't tell but she thought she recognised the trademark huffiness, the fake-nonchalant arch of his brows.
"Don't be mad at him. I mean...he thought...I mean you did write it for me?"
No, it wasn't anger. God, he was embarrassed. Really squirming. She should have thought. Stupid Buffy.
It had been private. Just like him reading her diary. Knowing all her most intimate thoughts, about him, stuff that she'd never ever utter aloud to a living soul, the things she'd thought about after she left him naked, came home in the dark, crept into bed. She felt her own colour rising as she remembered phrases she'd written, glanced at him, her face mirroring his own. She sat down on the edge of the bed,
"I wouldn't have read it if I'd known it was...private. I'm sorry."
A small nod, he knew. Didn't really help though. Couldn't unread it. She frowned, reached a hand out, caught his fingers, took it back.. Unfolded it.
******
God, she wouldn't!
Please don't let her read it aloud.
He didn't think he could stand that, thought his head might implode. Bad enough that she'd read it at all without having to listen to his mawkish syllables on her own lips. Bloody Clem. He didn't buy the 'clearing stuff out' bollocks for one second. He'd known exactly what he was doing. Knew how Buffy would feel about a poem.
Big loose-skinned bloody stirrer. He might be a old romantic but he knew nothing about poetry, if he had he certainly wouldn't have done it. Wouldn't have put her in the position of having to suffer his diabolical couplets. Pretend to like them. So stupid, so clumsy...
******
"It's so beautiful."
She let her eyes skim over again it for maybe the hundredth time, then looked back at his face. Why did he seem so surprised? She flushed,
"Sorry, I mean... no one's ever written anything like this...for me before."
He cleared his throat, managed to summon enough energy to take it back.
"It's just...a...it isn't finished really. I didn't mean anyone to ever.."
His gaze locked with her's and there was real fear. What was he so afraid of? Did he think she would laugh at him? Tell him he was a sentimental idiot? Make fun of his beautiful words, the sincerest most flattering description of herself she'd ever read? What sort of person would do that? She reached a hand to his face, traced his cheekbone.
"Read it to me."
God, if he'd looked terrified before, now he looked as if he about to crawl out of his skin. Folded the paper tight, four times, crushed it into his pocket. But she took it from him, prised his fingers gently, smoothed it, flattened it out. Placed it in his lap.
"Read it to me."
She let herself slide forward onto her elbows, rested her chin, sharp, on his thigh. He was staring at her now as if she was insane, but he didn't fold it again, didn't put it away. She reached out, touched the sheet with one finger.
"Read it."
He blinked twice, gave a little shake of his head. She thought she heard him grit his teeth just before he cleared his throat to begin.
"Filled with light, my dark beloved,
Tho' still my heart, my love uncovered.
Her beauty bright as sun forgotten,
Her eyes to gems, as silk to cotton."
He stopped, his expression excuisitely pained.
"Buffy...it's..."
"The next part...I like the next part"
He swallowed audibly, read on,
"Miraculous the sound of feet
could cause this empty heart to beat,
that lips could spell, each kiss a letter,
end to a life that death made better.
That wondrous touch on silent chest,
Could bring at last, eternal rest.
That love could change that quiet place,
that hope be written in a face."
He glanced at her, saw her eyes close, lashes fluttering as he said the last part from memory,
"The balm to lonely, cold damnation,
My sanctuary, my one salvation,
Her body - altar, her voice my prayer,
My one. My love. My own. My Slayer."
He folded the paper slowly, deliberately, put it back on her night-stand. Watched her now, warily. She drew a deep breath, opened her eyes,
"Has anyone ever told you that you write beautiful poetry?"
Caught off guard, he nodded.
"Dru did once. But I don't think she was entirely impartial at the time."
She raised her eyebrows, a question mark,
"Just before she killed me."
"Not quite the response you were after?"
Was this O.K now? Was he going to be all right about this? She caught his eye, saw some residual discomfort.
"It's O.K. Really. I'm glad...you read it. Glad you liked it..."
She buried her face in his thigh, let his hand rest on the nape of her neck, warming it.
"Didn't like it."
She risked a glance at him, saw his pained face, the William face, the one that made her heart hurt, would always.
But it was Spike too. More Spike than Spike. And it was all right. The part of him, the part she recognised, it was still there. She hadn't lost him at all. He'd just been misplaced...under all that newness. Smiled, buried her face again, muffling her voice,
"Loved it."
How were they going to play this one?
He perched on the edge of the bed, knit his fingers. Listened to the water running in the shower. Was this a good sign? The look on her face after Dawn's inopportune appearance had told him, unequivocally no. Shame. Of the totally crippling variety and then, straight into the shower, as if the smell of him on her skin suddenly repulsed her. On the scale of one to ten he have to give it...sod all.
He'd known it was a mistake, had from the second he'd gotten out of the car, stood in front of her house knowing he wanted her, that she wanted him just as much. Knew it. God, in the car, he'd caught her sniffing him, the exact same look on her face as he had on his every time she came within ten yards of him. Wanting to taste her skin. Had only just managed to stop himself throwing her down then, taking her on Harris's clammy vinyl seats while the idiot watched them goggle-eyed in the rear view mirror.
He'd wanted her with every breath, felt the gut-crunching ache ever time he had to see her. But now...like this? This was too fast, too soon, and too much like the old thing, the insane need thing. What the hell had happened? One minute they'd been talking, the next thing he knew he had his mouth clamped over her nipple. Had he even asked her permission...to do that? What had happened to taking his time? Building something with her, before....he heard the water shut off.
Finally. She'd been in there a long time.
******
How was she going to handle this?
She leaned her forehead against the cold tile, let the hot water slide down her neck, between her shoulder blades. Her skin still felt like it was vibrating, hyper-sensitised by his hands, the feeling of his thumbs pressing down into....god, enough! Every time she thought she had this under control, the thoughts slipped out of her, making her spine feel as if it was made of silly-putty. She could be doing the most mundane things, turning the burgers at work and suddenly... the feeling of his lips as he crushed his mouth against her, his hands gripping her upper arms, pinning her...and then...there was the burnt meat. Sophie had told her she looked as if she was comatose,
"Your eyes sorta shut and then your pupils start going like you're in r.e.m sleep or something. One time...your mouth hung open and you actually drooled."
"I...drooled? I did not drool!"
"You did. It went on the hot-plate. That's against Health and Safety."
What the hell was wrong with her? That first night with him...it was like he'd flicked a switch inside her, found a setting she didn't even know existed. Right above one for 'fantastic' and two for 'earth-shattering'. She doubted it even had a label...possibly something unpronounceable. Remembered that line from 'Spinal Tap', smiled a little and ran a hand over her tingling belly, shut off the water. Spike was definitely one louder.
******
And it wasn't as if he hadn't been making an effort.
The cold shower had become a twice daily occurrence. He tried to avoid eye contact as much as possible, even taken to wearing restrictive underwear in a vain attempt to keep himself under some kind of physical restraint. This week, he'd deliberately started pulling the phone out of the wall before he went to bed, knowing that the temptation to call her was always strongest in the middle of the night.
When he thought about it he couldn't honestly imagine how he could have taken it any slower, been more circumspect. Everything he'd done, had said, had been purposely engineered to let her feel safe from him. To let her know that he was willing to take his time, was capable of patience.
He mashed his knuckles into his eyes with sudden despair. Although...the sucking the nipple thing...that might have given her the wrong impression.
God, he'd fucked it up.
******
Christ, and now...she'd really fucked it up.
She wrapped the towel around her hips, palmed some moisturiser, smoothed it onto her upper arms, her throat. He'd be so guarded, so quiet ever since he'd been back. The human part of him so pink and new, so vulnerable to pain. She'd sensed his trepidation, his need to take it slow, be gentle with her and how had she responded to that? By tearing the buttons off his shirt and shoving him into the carpet.
He was right. She was an animal. The switch he'd thrown, it'd changed her forever and now she wasn't sure, didn't know if she could ever be satisfied any other way. And what if that wasn't what he wanted now, what William wanted? After all he hadn't instigated that...display before. He'd wanted to make love to her and what was that? She had always thought she knew, that she wanted tenderness. But safe, warm human sex...versus insane thigh- inflaming vampire love? Her eyes snapped open. God...Sophie was right...she did drool.
******
He lay full length on her bed, buried his face in the indentation her head had made, breathed deep, tasted her. God, now there was drool on her pillow. He turned over, put his hands behind his head. Looked around.
Such a girly room for so experienced a woman.
He rolled over to her bedside table, inspected the pictures of Willow and Xander, her Mom, the tiny passport sized one of her, aged six, and her Dad. Git.
A silver pocket watch he recognised as having once been Giles. He held it to his ear, solid tick, good quality British craftsmanship. Put it back. Her crucifix nancy-boy had given her. And under it, a folded sheet of cream paper that seemed strangely familiar, a little singed at the edges. He slid it out, opened it.
His own hand-writing sprang out at him from the page, unmistakable with it's black spiderweb hand, his favourite pen, long-since lost in the unfortunate grenade incident. He felt his face heat up as he recognised the poem.
Bloody hell. Where had she found this?
******
"It was in your crypt. Clem found it when he was sorting through...stuff. He thought ...he asked me if I'd like to have it."
His voice sounded strange, strained,
"Did he now. How thoughtful of him."
Oh God, was he pissed off? She couldn't tell but she thought she recognised the trademark huffiness, the fake-nonchalant arch of his brows.
"Don't be mad at him. I mean...he thought...I mean you did write it for me?"
No, it wasn't anger. God, he was embarrassed. Really squirming. She should have thought. Stupid Buffy.
It had been private. Just like him reading her diary. Knowing all her most intimate thoughts, about him, stuff that she'd never ever utter aloud to a living soul, the things she'd thought about after she left him naked, came home in the dark, crept into bed. She felt her own colour rising as she remembered phrases she'd written, glanced at him, her face mirroring his own. She sat down on the edge of the bed,
"I wouldn't have read it if I'd known it was...private. I'm sorry."
A small nod, he knew. Didn't really help though. Couldn't unread it. She frowned, reached a hand out, caught his fingers, took it back.. Unfolded it.
******
God, she wouldn't!
Please don't let her read it aloud.
He didn't think he could stand that, thought his head might implode. Bad enough that she'd read it at all without having to listen to his mawkish syllables on her own lips. Bloody Clem. He didn't buy the 'clearing stuff out' bollocks for one second. He'd known exactly what he was doing. Knew how Buffy would feel about a poem.
Big loose-skinned bloody stirrer. He might be a old romantic but he knew nothing about poetry, if he had he certainly wouldn't have done it. Wouldn't have put her in the position of having to suffer his diabolical couplets. Pretend to like them. So stupid, so clumsy...
******
"It's so beautiful."
She let her eyes skim over again it for maybe the hundredth time, then looked back at his face. Why did he seem so surprised? She flushed,
"Sorry, I mean... no one's ever written anything like this...for me before."
He cleared his throat, managed to summon enough energy to take it back.
"It's just...a...it isn't finished really. I didn't mean anyone to ever.."
His gaze locked with her's and there was real fear. What was he so afraid of? Did he think she would laugh at him? Tell him he was a sentimental idiot? Make fun of his beautiful words, the sincerest most flattering description of herself she'd ever read? What sort of person would do that? She reached a hand to his face, traced his cheekbone.
"Read it to me."
God, if he'd looked terrified before, now he looked as if he about to crawl out of his skin. Folded the paper tight, four times, crushed it into his pocket. But she took it from him, prised his fingers gently, smoothed it, flattened it out. Placed it in his lap.
"Read it to me."
She let herself slide forward onto her elbows, rested her chin, sharp, on his thigh. He was staring at her now as if she was insane, but he didn't fold it again, didn't put it away. She reached out, touched the sheet with one finger.
"Read it."
He blinked twice, gave a little shake of his head. She thought she heard him grit his teeth just before he cleared his throat to begin.
"Filled with light, my dark beloved,
Tho' still my heart, my love uncovered.
Her beauty bright as sun forgotten,
Her eyes to gems, as silk to cotton."
He stopped, his expression excuisitely pained.
"Buffy...it's..."
"The next part...I like the next part"
He swallowed audibly, read on,
"Miraculous the sound of feet
could cause this empty heart to beat,
that lips could spell, each kiss a letter,
end to a life that death made better.
That wondrous touch on silent chest,
Could bring at last, eternal rest.
That love could change that quiet place,
that hope be written in a face."
He glanced at her, saw her eyes close, lashes fluttering as he said the last part from memory,
"The balm to lonely, cold damnation,
My sanctuary, my one salvation,
Her body - altar, her voice my prayer,
My one. My love. My own. My Slayer."
He folded the paper slowly, deliberately, put it back on her night-stand. Watched her now, warily. She drew a deep breath, opened her eyes,
"Has anyone ever told you that you write beautiful poetry?"
Caught off guard, he nodded.
"Dru did once. But I don't think she was entirely impartial at the time."
She raised her eyebrows, a question mark,
"Just before she killed me."
"Not quite the response you were after?"
Was this O.K now? Was he going to be all right about this? She caught his eye, saw some residual discomfort.
"It's O.K. Really. I'm glad...you read it. Glad you liked it..."
She buried her face in his thigh, let his hand rest on the nape of her neck, warming it.
"Didn't like it."
She risked a glance at him, saw his pained face, the William face, the one that made her heart hurt, would always.
But it was Spike too. More Spike than Spike. And it was all right. The part of him, the part she recognised, it was still there. She hadn't lost him at all. He'd just been misplaced...under all that newness. Smiled, buried her face again, muffling her voice,
"Loved it."
