Oh, by the way, there are two ways to cheer me up in this time of dire straits: 1.) Gift-wrap James Marsters and deliver him to me in nothing but a purple bow and whipped cream. Or 2.) Feedback.
Personally, I prefer #1, but in lieu of that, #2 is always appreciated. Wistful sigh
Warning: Spoilers for "Selfless"…and the dialogue is slightly altered. giggle
Chapter 6Spike sat outside, smoking a Marlboro, the events of the day still haunting him. Feeling Buffy so close, around him so tightly, only to find that it had all been a fantasy. An illusion. She had done her best, he knew, to help him through the realization. She wasn't a rocket scientist, but he gave the girl credit for putting the whole scene together and figuring it out. He took another drag off of his cigarette, inhaling the smoke deeply.
Gods, so close to her, and yet so far away. He could practically taste her every time she came near, yet was forbidden to do so, both by an unspoken understanding between them and his own fears. Things had changed between them. No matter what he did, he could never unmake his mistakes. That was his cross to bear. He snorted for a moment at the irony of that thought and took another drag.
Looking down into his lap, Spike examined the words written in soft, looping handwriting. Buffy, gods bless her, had provided him with a blank notebook. A journal really, but something to write his poetry in. Poetry, of all things. Somehow she remembered that William was remembered for his Bloody awful poetry. With trembling fingers he raised the cigarette to his lips and inhaled. It was nearing midnight and he had been writing for four hours. Buffy had been out to check on him, but he hadn't ever allowed her to see what he had been writing, and she didn't pressure him. She just ventured outside to visit him to assure him that she was still there for him. He appreciated the sentiment. He didn't know what he would do without her.
Cor, he lamented silently, probably still be shacked up by your crazy self in the basement having twice as many delusions. At least now you've got momentary lapses into sanity, for gods' sakes…
He looked down again at the small book and laid the pen down. It was finished. For the first time he knew what true fear was, as he contemplated giving the completed poem to her. That frightened him more than the being down in the basement of the Sunnydale High School. She could scorn him. It could make the gap between them wider. Or, it might make her understand him…
He shook his head again, mocking himself, as he took another drag off the cigarette, extinguishing it and flicking it out into the yard. Recalling the events of the day, he saw himself as nothing so much as an irreversible idiot. After Buffy had managed to get him up and get him dressed, he had spent the rest of the day huddled on his air-cot in her bedroom. She had brought him blood and sat next to him, talking to him about mundane, everyday things. Finally, she had brought him up a pack of cigarettes and his leather duster. At first, he remembered, he had panicked. Those things reminded him of what he had been striving to abandon from his character. Buffy, on the other hand, seemed to believe that they were valid parts of him, not to be so lightly abandoned. She had escorted him downstairs, after dusk and after applying a light amount of gel in his hair for him, and had sat out on the front porch with him while he smoked his first cigarette in a great many months. Dawn had come back from after-school socializing with her buds and had deposited a bottle of black nail polish with them before silently going upstairs.
As she had continued conversation with him, Buffy had meticulously applied the black nail polish to each of his fingernails, blowing them dry. The proximity of his fingers to her puckered lips had almost driven him over the edge again…No. He wouldn't go there. He needed to prove to Buffy that she could trust him. That he could remain sane for her. Already, since she had begun her ministrations, the accusing voices had lowered in volume. Still there, they were no longer the overwhelming chorus that had impeded his sanity.
He sensed her before she had stepped foot across the porch. "Spike?"
He looked over his shoulder with a small smile. "W'sup, luv?"
She held out one of two mugs she had in hand. He accepted it and saw that it was filled with blood. He peered into hers and saw that she had prepared hot chocolate. It was, however, missing the little marshmallows he liked so much.
Noticing his scrutiny, she withdrew a small bag of marshmallows from her back pocket. "Looking for these?" At his raised eyebrow, she sat down – shoulder-to-shoulder – with him and smiled. "I know it's kind of "ewww", but I thought you might like marshmallows in yours, since I so obviously am going to have some in mine." And she flashed him a grin before scooping a handful of the confections into her mug and passing the bag to him.
He contemplated it for a moment, before saying, "Oh, bloody hell, why not?" And into the mug went the marshmallows.
Moments passed, the sound of the crickets chirping and Buffy's breathing the only audible companions to the night. Wishing for anything to occupy his thoughts and keep him from spiraling into insanity once more, Spike withdrew another cigarette in the pack and lit it, realizing just how much his habit had been missed. He took a few puffs, lazily blowing the smoke out, forcing himself to remain calm in her presence. "So, what's up, Buffy?"
She smiled softly and gazed up at the stars for a moment. "It still feels a little weird, hearing you say my name… well, when we're not horizontal and…" she looked at him. "Shutting up now…Anyway, I'm so used to you calling me Slayer, luv, pet, and all your other names for me…"
He looked intently at the cherry of his cigarette. "I don't deserve to call you those anymore," he replied softly. "Truth be told, I never did."
She looked at him blankly for a moment before sighing in frustration and swiping his cigarette from him. Without a word, she put it to her lips and, like a seasoned pro, inhaled as much smoke as her lungs would hold. Between her thinned lips, she blew out an immaculate smoke ring before letting the rest of it out. Spike just watched in awe.
"When did you start smoking?" he asked her, slightly concerned.
She looked at him with something in her expression bordering guilt. "I…I don't smoke regularly…" She toyed with the cigarette between her fingers before puffing from it again, blowing the smoke out before continuing. "I missed it. The smell. I know I always said I hated it, but… When you left, you took all those familiar scents with you. Your leather, alcohol, hair gel, and cigarette smell." She met his eyes and rolled them for his benefit. "Well, I couldn't exactly ask Xander to take up smoking just so I could get my Spike-smell fix, especially if he knew the reason behind my asking him to…" Her voice trailed off again and she handed the cigarette back to him. "So, occasionally, I would take one from the pack in your coat and sit out here and pretend it was you smoking it."
He stared intently at the cigarette, admiring the lipstick marks left on the filter, afraid to touch it to his lips and sully the sanctity she had placed upon the damned thing. "I-I don't know what to say…"
She scooted closer to him by an inch and, looking up at the stars, placed her hand over the hand he had laid on the porch step. She squeezed it gently and smiled, still staring at the shining midnight sky. "Don't say anything, Spike," she murmured. "Just be here."
Together, they sat there until it was nearly dawn, staring at the last stars as they disappeared from the sky. Their mugs sat cold beside them, long forgotten, and their hands remained joined atop the wooden porch. More was said between them that evening in their silence that words could never hope to touch.
The sun's rays shone through the slats in the closed blinds while a sleeping Spike remained upstairs in Buffy's room, catching up on his sleep. Buffy had come home from a morning shift at the Doublemeat Palace, not having to play Counselor Buffy until the next day, and was warming blood in a mug for the vampire upstairs when the front door slammed open and closed. A panicked Willow ran to the stairs, then to the kitchen entrance as she saw Buffy. She looked as pale as death and was panting almost uncontrollably.
"Buffy," she gasped. "There's trouble."
The mug forgotten momentarily, Buffy turned to her friend. "Calm down, Will… What kind of trouble?"
Willow's face darkened, a glimmer of black streaking across her green eyes before she caught herself. "Anya trouble."
TBC
(Don't worry, part 7's already underway…still, feedback is great.)