Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon owns Buffy, not me.
AN: Experimenting with a Hemingway-esque style of writing. So the run-ons are supposed to be like that. Plus, it's my first stab at present tense in a fic.
AN2: All song lyrics are from "Ben Franklin's Kite" by Something Corporate. I suggest you download the song, and listen to it while reading. Sets a nice mood.
- - - - - -
Maybe you're weary
You always stand so tall
Maybe you, holier than thou
Will make me crawl
I don't claim to be better
I don't think that you do
But see I'm weak and incessant
My addiction's the proof
- - - - - -
The days pass with alarming speed, as of late. Ever since she killed the Turok-Han things seem to be on fast forward. The only time things have any semblance of slowing down is when she is with him. Maybe that's why she began spending so much time in the basement-things seem simpler there. Or maybe it's because she can't stand being away from him.
"Where're ya going?" Willow asks as Buffy's hand closes around the basement doorknob.
"Oh, you know...laundry. Cleaning for twelve now. Scary stuff." Buffy smiles, trying not to look too transparent.
"Oh. If you want, I can take over laundry duty today." Willow offers.
Buffy scrunches up her face-pretends she's actually considering. "Nah, that's alright Will," she says. I'd like to escape the potentials. Just for a little."
"Okay, I getcha. I'll be researching if you need me!" With that, Willow retreats into the living room.
Buffy gives a short sigh, then twists the knob. Diffused sunlight flanks her as she maneuvers herself and the overflowing laundry basket onto the narrow staircase. She walks softly down the stairs, not wanting to wake Spike if he is asleep, but secretly praying he isn't. A gentle "Hey, Buffy" answers her prayers.
"Hi Spike." She replies, wondering if she looks as happy as she feels. And hey, why was Spike's presence making her happy anyway? That's definitely odd. And kind of nice. Okay, really nice.
"Need help sorting?" He questions, pulling his dirty shirt off, and replacing it with a clean button down.
Buffy's breath catches slightly at the sight of this bare and bruised chest. "God...what that thing did to you!"
Spike suddenly becomes very self-conscious, and rushes through the final buttons. "It's not as bad as it looks, really," he moves over to the laundry basket, and begins the "whites" pile.
"Are you sure? I could put some cream or...or something..."
"Pet," he says, gently, looking her in the eyes. "I'm fine. Don't worry over me. Laundry is a much more pressing matter, I assure you."
She gives him a look that plainly says, "You are so full of crap", but succumbs to the pleading in his eyes. Lately, he has been having that affect on her. It's things like that that confuse her. Has she always cared for him as much as she cares for him now? And if not, when did she start? Last year? This year? She feels another migraine coming on-"Time to be avoidy Buffy," she thinks, adding to Spike's pile-both in the literal and metaphorical sense.
"So..." Buffy starts. "Seen any good movies lately?"
Spike looks at her dumbly. Off his look, they both break into laughter.
"Right, that was a pretty stupid question, huh?"
"Only slightly. Don't get out much, you know, being chained to the wall at night and all," he laughs.
Buffy smiles. Genuinely smiles. They're joking together--laughing together! Since when do they do that? Hell, who cares?
A few breathy chuckles later, there is silence. But for once, it is comfortable silence. Together they work in perfect harmony, and have the laundry sorted in five minutes.
"You know," Buffy comments, hauling the darks into the washer. "I really don't think it's necessary for you to be chained every night." She reaches for the soap, but he's already a step ahead; he starts the water and dumps it in.
"Sure, with you around me. But what happens when the first sets off the trigger when you're sleeping? It's better this way." He shuts the lid on the washer and leans against the machine, wrapping his arms around his torso. She's giving him a look. "Look, Buffy, you may think it's ridiculous, but you don't understand what it was like under The First's control. I had no idea what I was doing. I don't think I can live with the guilt of that...again."
Something moves inside her at the defeated look in his eyes, and presses her small, warm hand against his. "I understand."
He forgets what he's talking about. Because now she's caressing his knuckles with her small, warm fingers, and he doesn't know if he's dreaming or not. He never knew she could bring herself to be this gentle with him, and he silently thanks her for it. Does she realize that this brief moment of contact will be the driving force to get him through the next however-many days?
Buffy withdraws her hand. It can't last forever. She hopes someday it might.
He hides his disappointment within milliseconds, and chooses to change the subject. That's the thing about the two of them; they always know how to avoid the tough conversations. "When was the last time you slept?"
"7 years ago." She yawns.
He chuckles, quickly turning serious. "Buffy, you can't overwork yourself. Between your guidance counselor gig and the impending apocalypse...well, it's completely understandable. But Buffy, you need to take a break."
"Yeah, I know," she sighs, rubbing her tired eyes. "But there never seems to be any time for breaking. Looming badness sucks like that."
"Look, let me finish the laundry; you can sneak upstairs and catch a few winks, alright?" He offers.
Buffy thinks for a moment. It only takes a moment. She lets out a huge sigh of relief. "Oh thank God." Her whole body deflates as she shuffles over to Spike's cot.
Hey, wait a minute.
"Uh...Buffy?"
She waves her hand at him in an "I know, I know, just shut up" gesture. "So very sleepy. And hey! Look! Bed right here! Don't even have to walk up a flight of stairs or anything!"
"Well," he says, trying to cover a grin. "How can I argue with that?"
"You could try," she yawns, head hitting the pillow. "But you're fighting a losing battle." Buffy nestles herself under the covers, hugging the pillow tightly. She closes her eyes, breathing in the heavy scent of the Spike-smelling bed sheets, and letting it envelope her. It reminds her of heaven.
- - - - - -
And maybe I'm crazy
But lightning might strike me tonight
And Maybe I'm crazy
But lightning might strike me tonight
- - - - - -
The buzzer on dryer sounds its high-pitched beep, and Buffy jolts upright in the cot. She'd been having a damn fine dream, too. In it, everything made sense between the two of them, and she thinks that maybe it doesn't have to stay a dream.
"Sorry," Spike mutters. "Been trying to dampen it, but I forgot on this one."
Buffy rubs her eyes with the back of her fist. "What time is it?"
Spike can hardly answer, because she looks disheveled and breathtaking, and he thinks he wouldn't mind waking up to that every morning. But the reality of that thought grounds him-he can't dream like that anymore. "About 7:30, give or take."
"Did I miss dinner?"
"Yeah," he replies, retrieving something from the bottom stair. "But I heated this up for you."
"Leftovers?"
"What else?"
"Thanks." She smiles, taking the plate of macaroni and cheese from his hands. She swings her feet over the side of the cot, and digs in. Then the sight of piles and piles of clean and folded laundry floors her. "You did all this," she shakes her head. "I should've helped. You're still healing."
"What, because laundry's such a contact sport? Don't sweat it, gives me something to do...aside from wallowing in guilt." Of her look, he explains, "It's wallowing, not brooding. They're two totally different things."
"I'm sure." She smiles, downing the last spoonful of dinner.
"Hey, think what you want, but I'm no poofter."
"No one's calling you one. But then again...you are the spitting image of a house wife stereotype right about now."
Spike looks at his hands. As if it's on fire, he drops the box of fabric softener and grins.
She suddenly turns serious. But it's a gentle serious; like she has something she's been keeping inside that needs to come out. "Spike-"
"Buffy?" Dawn's voice sounds from the kitchen.
Buffy frowns, the moment was shattered. "What?" She yells back, eyes never leaving Spike.
"The girls are ready for patrol...are you coming?" Dawn sounds irritated.
Buffy looks at Spike. Asks him without really asking. She drops her eyes and shouts back that she'll be up in a minute.
"You wanna come tonight?" She questions, almost shyly.
He's taken aback. "Uh, yeah, sure," he says, trying to fit the mold of calm, cool and collected. "Just let me finish up here, and I'll be up in a tick."
She smiles, softly. He doesn't know if she's smiling for real or because she doesn't know what else to say, until he sees it in her eyes. She's smiling that sparkle-in-her-eyes smile, and it's just for him. And as she gets up to leave her fingers brush past his, and he swears they lingered there for a moment. Or maybe he's still crazy.