Title: "Buffy Anne Summers: Therapist for the Theologically Insane"
Feedback: Criticisms, suggestions, and praise are gladly welcomed.
Spoilers: Runs the gamut from "Dead Things" to "Selfless;" allusions to "Fool for Love"
Summary: Buffy reluctantly offers Spike forgiveness, but that act opens up a whole new can of worms.
Disclaimer: Spike, Buffy, Willow, et. al are not mine. They belong to Joss Whedon and M.E.
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He had finally passed out hours before. Now he awoke with a start, hearing sounds: quiet footsteps, the turning of a doorknob. He froze, then slowly got to his feet. A light flickered on across the room, and he pressed himself to the wall, hissing faintly among the shadows.
A young woman stepped forward into the light, and he slumped against the wall in relief, his head pounding. "Oh, it's you," he said softly. "Not supposed to be here but you are. Hello again."
"Hello, Spike," Buffy said warily. She stepped towards him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Hungrily he watched her. She was so graceful, so beautiful, so . . . small. The memories and voices faded a little with only a glance at her worried face. He thought, for a moment, of how good it would be to touch her skin again. Then he scowled, angry at himself for even thinking he deserved to touch her.
"Buffy," he said huskily, trying to work his face into a smile for her. "Sweet girl, you are, come to visit me here in the dark. . . ." Despairingly, he gazed at her. "It's nice here, with it all gone black. Have you come to stay with me?" He lost the thread and looked at her, bewildered. The brief respite caused by her appearance ended then; violent images exploded within his mind and he let out a cry, jamming the heels of his hands against his eyes.
She hurried to him and gently pulled his hands from his face. Uneasily he opened his eyes and gazed at her. The sight of her calmed him again and he breathed deeply, realizing that her tiny hands still cradled his. She gave his hands a squeeze, then frowned.
"There's glass in your hand," she said matter-of-factly. "And there's --" She searched his face and he shrank further into the shadows, vaguely remembering the wound on his head. "Spike, come out here in the light. Let me look at you."
He pulled his hands away from her. "No. Don't want you to see me." He thought for a moment, said, "Been punishing the monster, I have."
"Let me look at you," she repeated firmly.
He shook his head, wincing at the fresh pain. "Can't, luv. The head hurts -- I've done something to it, broke it, maybe. Can you do that?" he asked curiously, looking to her for the answer. "Light hurts the head, I hurt it to get them out --" he tapped his head "--won't leave me alone, you see. I did bad things to them so they won't let me be. Bad things. Terrible things, luv, Buffy. . . ." He broke off with a grimace.
He slid down the wall to end up sitting against it. He rested his head against it and closed his eyes wearily, slipping out of the shadows and into the faint light.
"Oh my God, Spike, what did -- how did you --"
He opened his eyes with effort. "What is it, luv, looking to leave me again? Leave the man to fight the -- fight the things locked in his head. . . ." His voice trailed off and Buffy shook her head.
"You have blood all over your face." She knelt at his side, touching his face with soft, sure fingers. A sad little smile appeared on his face as she gently stroked his skin. "Here, under your eyes -- on your forehead -- Spike, it's even in your hair. " Worry was clear in her eyes and voice, confusing him.
"Well, told you I broke it. Want them to go away, won't leave me alone." He was quiet, reflective, as she removed her hand from his face. "Voices in my head, Buffy, they hurt. Won't be quiet, always screaming. I made them, you know. All the things I did."
"Spike. . . ." She settled back on her haunches, watching him.
"You need to go, luv. William's a bad man. A thing, if you will. He's very dangerous." His voice was flat. "But you -- you. . . ." His heart swelled with passion as he looked at her, taking in her widened eyes, her soft hair, her lips. His voice rose with emotion as he reached out to touch her face, shaking. "You're so fair. Delicate. A rose . . . glowing, so -- so lovely . . . growing on the corpses of a million rotting *monsters.*" He spat bitterly to the side, giving a short, sharp laugh. "That's you, pet. Beauty . . . with the beast. It's right of you to hate me."
She ignored his attempts at poetry and said softly, "I don't hate you."
Anger flashed within him. Jerkily he got to his feet and looked down at her, his face twisting. "Don't lie to me! Don't you *ever* lie to me!" he shouted, stabbing his finger at her. She looked horrified. "I know what you think! William's gone mad, hasn't got a clue what's going on, stuck with his voices and his monsters in the dark! Well, goddammit, Buffy, I've news for you -- even madmen aren't stupid!" His voice shook with rage. "I know I'm evil. I know I don't deserve anything good, ever. But I wish you wouldn't pretend I did." He faltered. "Unless . . . unless I do. . . ." Suddenly confusion overwhelmed him and he blinked, wavering on his feet. He realized he was crying.
She stood, grabbed his shoulders, held him up. Her grip was firm, her face set. "I wasn't lying, Spike. I don't hate you. Get that through your thick head, all right? I came here to tell you something."
"I already know," he said, sniffing, not meeting her eyes. "I know you have to punish me. Caning did it once. I was stupid, I was slow. I tried so hard. They were angry with me. 'Stupid boy!'" he shouted suddenly. Buffy looked startled. He continued. "So slow. But caning doesn't work, dodge the stick, pretend it hurts. You cheated him. So no more cheating, luv. Killing's what you've got to do."
She drew back in horror, releasing him. "What the hell?"
"I have to pay, I must be punished," he said patiently, but his voice trembled. He sank back to his knees. "I'm slow and I can't figure it, Buffy, and you have to punish me -- punish me, please --"
"No, no -- *listen* to me, I -- stop!"
He had thrown his hands up over his head and was rocking silently back and forth, his lips moving, his head pounding. He felt her hand grab his forearm, pull it away from his head. Blearily he looked up at her. Her face was white, her eyes bright with tears. She gritted her teeth and spoke.
"I want to give you a second chance."
Even before she finished the sentence he was staring in terror, shaking his head frantically and scrabbling away from her along the wall. "No, no, nonononono, Buffy, can't do it, won't take it, can't, can't." His words were quick, jumbled, thick. "Nonono --" He had backed into a corner, now, and was sitting there shaking, his head in his hands.
He heard her quick steps hurrying closer, felt her hand on his tousled hair, smoothing it. He cringed and tried to pull away, but her touch followed him. Her voice was gentle. "Spike, you have to stop this. You have to let it go."
Tears flooded his cheeks, wetting his hands. He tried jerkily to shake his head. "Can't. Hurt you, hurt you bad."
She was silent for a moment. "Yeah. You did." He pulled his hands from his face and raised his head, gazing up at her. She sat down on the floor, crossing her legs and leaning forward. She swallowed. "And I hurt you."
His eyes widened. "No. Never you, pet. I'm the one who hurts people." The mists within his mind cleared for a moment and he confessed wearily, "I'm a bloody vampire, remember? Not a man. Just a thing. Can't hurt a *thing.*" His voice was filled with defeat, with loathing.
She took one of his lowered hands into hers. He tried to tug it away -- surely his filthiness would sully her if he let her touch him -- but she held on tightly. "Spike," she breathed. "You're not a *thing.* And I hurt you, okay? I did. I hurt you, and you hurt me. And I'm saying, if you'll forgive me, then I'll forgive you. I can't forget." Her eyes glittered. "But I can forgive. And I can help."
"Forgave you a million times over," he mumbled. "Didn't you know that?" The rest of her message sunk in, and he was afraid again, whispering, "You can't forgive me."
She rolled her eyes. "For God's sake, Spike, I'm giving you a second chance here. Don't be stupid." She squeezed his hand, and he shuddered.
"How can you touch me?" he mumbled in amazement. "Everything I've done -- How?"
Hesitantly she reached out, touched his face. He flinched, but her fingers were warm. "Don't flatter yourself," she said, but her voice was joking, not angry. "I'm the Slayer, remember? I've staked fouler things than you in my sleep." She was suddenly serious again. "Let me forgive you. Please."
"*No.*" His jaw was set, his eyes narrowed. "Can't let you do it. 'S wrong. It'd make you -- make you like me. Dirty."
She glared at him. "Quit making this harder than it already is. God, if I'd known you were going to be so difficult --" She broke off, watching him nod frantically. She looked puzzled, raising her eyebrows and frowning.
"Yes, yes, that's right, must go," he said hopefully. She had to go. Why didn't she see that? She scared him with her talk of forgiveness, and now he wanted to retreat back to his shadows in safety, where he could drown in guilt and not have to think about anything. "I'm difficult, don't deserve anything. Hopeless really. Always have been. Better go -- go -- leave --"
Her nostrils flared. "Dammit! Stop it! I'm *trying* to help you!" She took a deep breath, releasing his hand. "And you wonder why I won't stay with you! I *told* you it was worse when I'm here, and I was right. Come on. Just let me forgive you, and we can both move on." Her voice was softer, wheedling. "It would make me happy."
He closed his eyes, defeated. He would die to make her happy, and they both knew it. Weakly, he nodded once.
"Look at me." He did. Her face was very close now, mere inches away. Her breath on his cheeks was warm, sweet-smelling; her eyes were clear. "I forgive you."
Painfully, he said, "All right." He swallowed, turned his face from hers, struggled not to cry. Voices howled within his mind, raging at Buffy's words and his acceptance of them. He winced. "Stop it. Stop shouting. Leave me alone, stop it, stop hurting me --" He was gasping, shaking. He stifled a cry, covering his face with his hands and jerking his head from side to side.
Instantly she wrapped her arms around him, pulled him to her. "Shh, shh, it's all right, you'll be okay." Instinctively he hugged her back, embracing her tightly and burying his face in the fabric covering her small shoulder.
"Oh, God, Buffy, help me," he begged, his voice muffled. "I'm -- scared -- afraid -- and it's so hard . . . the voices shout, and I don't know what to tell them --"
She turned her head so her lips tickled his cheek as she spoke. "Tell them to bugger off." She laughed a little, and the sound was music, light and golden.
He tried to smile. His face seemed to have forgotten the motions. Instead he concentrated on the scent of her skin, her hair. The voices in his head faded a little. Shyly he confessed, "You can make them go away."
Her hands -- such small, delicate hands -- were on his back, on the bare skin of his neck. Her fingers danced upon his skin comfortingly. "Yeah, I'd be a pretty crappy soldier of light if I couldn't banish evil things once in a while."
He realized that her shoulder was bathed in his tears. He raised his head a little, looked at her out of the corner of his eye. Ashamed, he confided, "I -- I've gotten your shirt all wet. Been -- crying." He ducked his head, unable to face her.
She looked down at her shirt, appearing a little amused. "I'm just glad you didn't bleed all over it. Blood's hell in the laundry, but tears? Piece of cake." Her voice softened. "We need to clean you up, though. You look pretty bad."
He nodded a little. "Right, then. Right." He sighed, deeply, cherishing her arms around him, his hands on her back. "I get so confused, you know. Muddled." His tone was contemplative. "Didn't know -- didn't guess it'd be anything like this. So hard. But you --" His voice was hushed, now, filled with pride. "Your voice. I hear you and it -- makes me happy. Even though -- even though I hurt you, I still hear you, and *they* hear you, and they leave me alone for a little while. You're like -- like -- starlight, maybe, or music, or rain when you're warm inside by the fire with your -- poetry. All the good things. You make me . . . better."
"Oh, God, Spike." Now she was the one crying, her face on *his* shoulder, her hot tears soaking *his* shirt. Hesitantly he reached up, stroked her hair, wanting to comfort her. Regret filled him, although he didn't understand why she was upset.
She quieted, raised her head. "I *will* help you. You don't have to be here, alone, anymore. I'll find you somewhere to stay, someplace that *isn't* the Hellmouth." She chuckled a little. "Just don't -- don't tell me things like that. You know, about -- starlight. It . . . it scares me."
He nodded fervently. "Sorry, luv. You just -- you do that to me. Sometimes I can't help myself. Sometimes I'm just *him,* and he makes me talk."
"Him who?" she asked curiously.
"Him. Me. Before I -- changed." His accent mellowed; his voice rose, becoming unsure. "And I -- I -- you're so worthy. And words just come to me and maybe they're not always right, but I feel them, and they feel right, in-inside." He fell quiet. "The others all laughed. They smudged the ink and laughed, and she didn't -- didn't want me, and I was crcrying. . . ."
"William."
"Sometimes." He was suddenly tired; he closed his eyes, hid his face in her shoulder again. "Sometimes I can't tell, and I just let them talk until they don't hurt anymore. But everything's all mixed up inside my head. They talk . . . so loud."
"Oh, Spike. . . ." She turned her head and gently pressed her lips to his cheek. "Oh, Spike."
He went very still. Her lips were warm, so warm, and he was so cold. She pulled away and rested her chin on his shoulder, tightening her embrace -- not pushing him away, not shouting at him. He blinked back tears of relief, of thanks.
It was more than enough.
*****
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Feedback: Criticisms, suggestions, and praise are gladly welcomed.
Spoilers: Runs the gamut from "Dead Things" to "Selfless;" allusions to "Fool for Love"
Summary: Buffy reluctantly offers Spike forgiveness, but that act opens up a whole new can of worms.
Disclaimer: Spike, Buffy, Willow, et. al are not mine. They belong to Joss Whedon and M.E.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He had finally passed out hours before. Now he awoke with a start, hearing sounds: quiet footsteps, the turning of a doorknob. He froze, then slowly got to his feet. A light flickered on across the room, and he pressed himself to the wall, hissing faintly among the shadows.
A young woman stepped forward into the light, and he slumped against the wall in relief, his head pounding. "Oh, it's you," he said softly. "Not supposed to be here but you are. Hello again."
"Hello, Spike," Buffy said warily. She stepped towards him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Hungrily he watched her. She was so graceful, so beautiful, so . . . small. The memories and voices faded a little with only a glance at her worried face. He thought, for a moment, of how good it would be to touch her skin again. Then he scowled, angry at himself for even thinking he deserved to touch her.
"Buffy," he said huskily, trying to work his face into a smile for her. "Sweet girl, you are, come to visit me here in the dark. . . ." Despairingly, he gazed at her. "It's nice here, with it all gone black. Have you come to stay with me?" He lost the thread and looked at her, bewildered. The brief respite caused by her appearance ended then; violent images exploded within his mind and he let out a cry, jamming the heels of his hands against his eyes.
She hurried to him and gently pulled his hands from his face. Uneasily he opened his eyes and gazed at her. The sight of her calmed him again and he breathed deeply, realizing that her tiny hands still cradled his. She gave his hands a squeeze, then frowned.
"There's glass in your hand," she said matter-of-factly. "And there's --" She searched his face and he shrank further into the shadows, vaguely remembering the wound on his head. "Spike, come out here in the light. Let me look at you."
He pulled his hands away from her. "No. Don't want you to see me." He thought for a moment, said, "Been punishing the monster, I have."
"Let me look at you," she repeated firmly.
He shook his head, wincing at the fresh pain. "Can't, luv. The head hurts -- I've done something to it, broke it, maybe. Can you do that?" he asked curiously, looking to her for the answer. "Light hurts the head, I hurt it to get them out --" he tapped his head "--won't leave me alone, you see. I did bad things to them so they won't let me be. Bad things. Terrible things, luv, Buffy. . . ." He broke off with a grimace.
He slid down the wall to end up sitting against it. He rested his head against it and closed his eyes wearily, slipping out of the shadows and into the faint light.
"Oh my God, Spike, what did -- how did you --"
He opened his eyes with effort. "What is it, luv, looking to leave me again? Leave the man to fight the -- fight the things locked in his head. . . ." His voice trailed off and Buffy shook her head.
"You have blood all over your face." She knelt at his side, touching his face with soft, sure fingers. A sad little smile appeared on his face as she gently stroked his skin. "Here, under your eyes -- on your forehead -- Spike, it's even in your hair. " Worry was clear in her eyes and voice, confusing him.
"Well, told you I broke it. Want them to go away, won't leave me alone." He was quiet, reflective, as she removed her hand from his face. "Voices in my head, Buffy, they hurt. Won't be quiet, always screaming. I made them, you know. All the things I did."
"Spike. . . ." She settled back on her haunches, watching him.
"You need to go, luv. William's a bad man. A thing, if you will. He's very dangerous." His voice was flat. "But you -- you. . . ." His heart swelled with passion as he looked at her, taking in her widened eyes, her soft hair, her lips. His voice rose with emotion as he reached out to touch her face, shaking. "You're so fair. Delicate. A rose . . . glowing, so -- so lovely . . . growing on the corpses of a million rotting *monsters.*" He spat bitterly to the side, giving a short, sharp laugh. "That's you, pet. Beauty . . . with the beast. It's right of you to hate me."
She ignored his attempts at poetry and said softly, "I don't hate you."
Anger flashed within him. Jerkily he got to his feet and looked down at her, his face twisting. "Don't lie to me! Don't you *ever* lie to me!" he shouted, stabbing his finger at her. She looked horrified. "I know what you think! William's gone mad, hasn't got a clue what's going on, stuck with his voices and his monsters in the dark! Well, goddammit, Buffy, I've news for you -- even madmen aren't stupid!" His voice shook with rage. "I know I'm evil. I know I don't deserve anything good, ever. But I wish you wouldn't pretend I did." He faltered. "Unless . . . unless I do. . . ." Suddenly confusion overwhelmed him and he blinked, wavering on his feet. He realized he was crying.
She stood, grabbed his shoulders, held him up. Her grip was firm, her face set. "I wasn't lying, Spike. I don't hate you. Get that through your thick head, all right? I came here to tell you something."
"I already know," he said, sniffing, not meeting her eyes. "I know you have to punish me. Caning did it once. I was stupid, I was slow. I tried so hard. They were angry with me. 'Stupid boy!'" he shouted suddenly. Buffy looked startled. He continued. "So slow. But caning doesn't work, dodge the stick, pretend it hurts. You cheated him. So no more cheating, luv. Killing's what you've got to do."
She drew back in horror, releasing him. "What the hell?"
"I have to pay, I must be punished," he said patiently, but his voice trembled. He sank back to his knees. "I'm slow and I can't figure it, Buffy, and you have to punish me -- punish me, please --"
"No, no -- *listen* to me, I -- stop!"
He had thrown his hands up over his head and was rocking silently back and forth, his lips moving, his head pounding. He felt her hand grab his forearm, pull it away from his head. Blearily he looked up at her. Her face was white, her eyes bright with tears. She gritted her teeth and spoke.
"I want to give you a second chance."
Even before she finished the sentence he was staring in terror, shaking his head frantically and scrabbling away from her along the wall. "No, no, nonononono, Buffy, can't do it, won't take it, can't, can't." His words were quick, jumbled, thick. "Nonono --" He had backed into a corner, now, and was sitting there shaking, his head in his hands.
He heard her quick steps hurrying closer, felt her hand on his tousled hair, smoothing it. He cringed and tried to pull away, but her touch followed him. Her voice was gentle. "Spike, you have to stop this. You have to let it go."
Tears flooded his cheeks, wetting his hands. He tried jerkily to shake his head. "Can't. Hurt you, hurt you bad."
She was silent for a moment. "Yeah. You did." He pulled his hands from his face and raised his head, gazing up at her. She sat down on the floor, crossing her legs and leaning forward. She swallowed. "And I hurt you."
His eyes widened. "No. Never you, pet. I'm the one who hurts people." The mists within his mind cleared for a moment and he confessed wearily, "I'm a bloody vampire, remember? Not a man. Just a thing. Can't hurt a *thing.*" His voice was filled with defeat, with loathing.
She took one of his lowered hands into hers. He tried to tug it away -- surely his filthiness would sully her if he let her touch him -- but she held on tightly. "Spike," she breathed. "You're not a *thing.* And I hurt you, okay? I did. I hurt you, and you hurt me. And I'm saying, if you'll forgive me, then I'll forgive you. I can't forget." Her eyes glittered. "But I can forgive. And I can help."
"Forgave you a million times over," he mumbled. "Didn't you know that?" The rest of her message sunk in, and he was afraid again, whispering, "You can't forgive me."
She rolled her eyes. "For God's sake, Spike, I'm giving you a second chance here. Don't be stupid." She squeezed his hand, and he shuddered.
"How can you touch me?" he mumbled in amazement. "Everything I've done -- How?"
Hesitantly she reached out, touched his face. He flinched, but her fingers were warm. "Don't flatter yourself," she said, but her voice was joking, not angry. "I'm the Slayer, remember? I've staked fouler things than you in my sleep." She was suddenly serious again. "Let me forgive you. Please."
"*No.*" His jaw was set, his eyes narrowed. "Can't let you do it. 'S wrong. It'd make you -- make you like me. Dirty."
She glared at him. "Quit making this harder than it already is. God, if I'd known you were going to be so difficult --" She broke off, watching him nod frantically. She looked puzzled, raising her eyebrows and frowning.
"Yes, yes, that's right, must go," he said hopefully. She had to go. Why didn't she see that? She scared him with her talk of forgiveness, and now he wanted to retreat back to his shadows in safety, where he could drown in guilt and not have to think about anything. "I'm difficult, don't deserve anything. Hopeless really. Always have been. Better go -- go -- leave --"
Her nostrils flared. "Dammit! Stop it! I'm *trying* to help you!" She took a deep breath, releasing his hand. "And you wonder why I won't stay with you! I *told* you it was worse when I'm here, and I was right. Come on. Just let me forgive you, and we can both move on." Her voice was softer, wheedling. "It would make me happy."
He closed his eyes, defeated. He would die to make her happy, and they both knew it. Weakly, he nodded once.
"Look at me." He did. Her face was very close now, mere inches away. Her breath on his cheeks was warm, sweet-smelling; her eyes were clear. "I forgive you."
Painfully, he said, "All right." He swallowed, turned his face from hers, struggled not to cry. Voices howled within his mind, raging at Buffy's words and his acceptance of them. He winced. "Stop it. Stop shouting. Leave me alone, stop it, stop hurting me --" He was gasping, shaking. He stifled a cry, covering his face with his hands and jerking his head from side to side.
Instantly she wrapped her arms around him, pulled him to her. "Shh, shh, it's all right, you'll be okay." Instinctively he hugged her back, embracing her tightly and burying his face in the fabric covering her small shoulder.
"Oh, God, Buffy, help me," he begged, his voice muffled. "I'm -- scared -- afraid -- and it's so hard . . . the voices shout, and I don't know what to tell them --"
She turned her head so her lips tickled his cheek as she spoke. "Tell them to bugger off." She laughed a little, and the sound was music, light and golden.
He tried to smile. His face seemed to have forgotten the motions. Instead he concentrated on the scent of her skin, her hair. The voices in his head faded a little. Shyly he confessed, "You can make them go away."
Her hands -- such small, delicate hands -- were on his back, on the bare skin of his neck. Her fingers danced upon his skin comfortingly. "Yeah, I'd be a pretty crappy soldier of light if I couldn't banish evil things once in a while."
He realized that her shoulder was bathed in his tears. He raised his head a little, looked at her out of the corner of his eye. Ashamed, he confided, "I -- I've gotten your shirt all wet. Been -- crying." He ducked his head, unable to face her.
She looked down at her shirt, appearing a little amused. "I'm just glad you didn't bleed all over it. Blood's hell in the laundry, but tears? Piece of cake." Her voice softened. "We need to clean you up, though. You look pretty bad."
He nodded a little. "Right, then. Right." He sighed, deeply, cherishing her arms around him, his hands on her back. "I get so confused, you know. Muddled." His tone was contemplative. "Didn't know -- didn't guess it'd be anything like this. So hard. But you --" His voice was hushed, now, filled with pride. "Your voice. I hear you and it -- makes me happy. Even though -- even though I hurt you, I still hear you, and *they* hear you, and they leave me alone for a little while. You're like -- like -- starlight, maybe, or music, or rain when you're warm inside by the fire with your -- poetry. All the good things. You make me . . . better."
"Oh, God, Spike." Now she was the one crying, her face on *his* shoulder, her hot tears soaking *his* shirt. Hesitantly he reached up, stroked her hair, wanting to comfort her. Regret filled him, although he didn't understand why she was upset.
She quieted, raised her head. "I *will* help you. You don't have to be here, alone, anymore. I'll find you somewhere to stay, someplace that *isn't* the Hellmouth." She chuckled a little. "Just don't -- don't tell me things like that. You know, about -- starlight. It . . . it scares me."
He nodded fervently. "Sorry, luv. You just -- you do that to me. Sometimes I can't help myself. Sometimes I'm just *him,* and he makes me talk."
"Him who?" she asked curiously.
"Him. Me. Before I -- changed." His accent mellowed; his voice rose, becoming unsure. "And I -- I -- you're so worthy. And words just come to me and maybe they're not always right, but I feel them, and they feel right, in-inside." He fell quiet. "The others all laughed. They smudged the ink and laughed, and she didn't -- didn't want me, and I was crcrying. . . ."
"William."
"Sometimes." He was suddenly tired; he closed his eyes, hid his face in her shoulder again. "Sometimes I can't tell, and I just let them talk until they don't hurt anymore. But everything's all mixed up inside my head. They talk . . . so loud."
"Oh, Spike. . . ." She turned her head and gently pressed her lips to his cheek. "Oh, Spike."
He went very still. Her lips were warm, so warm, and he was so cold. She pulled away and rested her chin on his shoulder, tightening her embrace -- not pushing him away, not shouting at him. He blinked back tears of relief, of thanks.
It was more than enough.
*****
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