Momentum
Summary: PG. Set in S7 after "Dirty Girls." Buffy and Spike reflect on the events of the evening. Somewhat angsty, though not overly so because hey, who can resist a bit of fluff?
Pairing: S/B. What else would it be? ;)
Spoilers: None.
Disclaimers: Here's a shocker – these characters aren't mine; they belong to the illustrious Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. But hey, Joss, since you don't seem to want them anymore....
Notes: Thanks muchly to sallyanne for the wonderful beta and for not laughing at me when I attempted to try something serious. And thanks to everyone in my lovely LJ world (y'all know who you are), just because.
Feedback: Pretty please with a naked Spike on top....
*****
Oh, for the sake of momentum, I've allowed my fears to get larger than life
And it's brought me to my current agendum
Whereupon I deny permanent fulfillment has yet to arriveAnd I know life is getting shorter
I can't bring myself to set the scene
Even when it's approaching torture
I've got my routine
- Aimee Mann
*****
It had been two years since she'd cried so hard, Buffy realized as she sat on the bed, hugging her knees to her chest. After that far away night in the kitchen with the radio that had been playing the salsa music of doom, Buffy had rarely cried. Her mom had died, and though it hurt more than anything in her life, ever, she tried to put on a strong front for Dawn. She had barely let herself succumb to the pleasures of tears because she had worried that once she did, she'd never be able to stop. She had died and returned, from Heaven no less, but still no tears. Instead, a perpetual numbness and a general haze plagued her life for almost a year. The one person that she had almost let herself trust had violated that connection in the most brutal way imaginable, and she still hadn't cried. She had sat in the bathroom, the cold tile of the floor trying desperately to break through her frozen exterior, and still no tears for Buffy. One of her closest friends had died, and consequently, her best friend had tried to destroy the world. Finally, when all of that was over, she had allowed herself to cry.
But only a little. A few brief sobs, then a hug with Dawn, and it was all over. As she had crawled her way out of the grave (again, that is, and she figured there should be some rule against having to go through that particular trauma twice in one year), all Scarlett O'Hara "Tomorrow is another day"-like, she had thought that maybe, this time, it was over. The absolute horror and hardships of the past two years, the desire to cry. The realization that if she were to truly let herself do so, she might never recover.
Then there was this year. September arrived, and per usual, all of her troubles began again. But they were more intense; she had known it from the very beginning. Everything had just felt different somehow, but Buffy had tried to push that thought to the back of her mind. She had figured that if she continued to be proactive Buffy, everything would be all right. As she watched all of it get worse, Buffy had still tried her hardest to believe this. She'd given the girls dozens of "motivational" speeches. But they weren't for them, not really. They were for her. Each rousing statement was an attempt to convince herself that she could get through this. Each pointed remark, whether towards Spike or Willow or Anya, was a reflection of something that she saw lacking in herself. Buffy knew that they talked about those speeches behind her back; she'd heard it. But they didn't get it, and really, how could they? They weren't the Slayer. Okay, Faith was, but that wasn't really the point. How could they understand what she going through? (There was a nagging voice at the back of her head whispering, "Maybe if you actually tried to tell them," but she ignored her inner schizo, just as she always did. Stupid self-righteous voice.) So she continued on with her routine, gaining momentum, pushing herself through the days, trying her best to believe that the nagging butterflies in her stomach were due to eating one too many of Dawn's peanut butter banana quesadillas. The urge to cry that she had so desperately wanted to disappear had returned with the vengeance of a bad Kevin Williamson sequel. As always, Buffy had resisted. She had been seriously considering investing in a t-shirt that said, "Good Slayers don't cry."
But tonight, tonight the rock hard resolve had cracked. She could still see the entire evening in slow motion. The walk over to the hideout. The fight with the Bringers and the look on Caleb's face as he had walked into the fray. The laughter that had danced in his eyes when Buffy had realized that she had walked right into his trap. And the sadistic glee as he had reached into the body of her best friend....
Within seconds, Buffy bolted out of her bed and into the bathroom. She vomited into the white toilet bowl, trying to expel the images that were plaguing her mind, the emotions and reactions that they were causing. Everything in the bathroom seemed too bright, too loud. The flush of the toilet reverberated in her ears, an earthquake sending shudders through her spine. She curled up next to the bathtub, hugging her knees to her chest. Here she was again, one year later, curled up on the bathroom floor, fighting the urge to cry, vomit, scream.
She would've given anything to return to the anesthetized state of last year. Gotta love the irony of that, she thought, bitterly. Last year she tried everything in order to crack through the outer calluses and feel something, anything. This year, she felt everything, and the pain was threatening to break her.
She felt the tears starting to well up in her eyes again, but hastily wiped them away. She'd done enough crying tonight. It had started when she was wandering around the streets of Sunnydale. She couldn't stay at the hospital. Hospitals were already painful enough as is, but now, standing there, watching Willow hold Xander's hand.... She couldn't do it. Not again. So she had turned around, and walked right out of there without looking back. She thought that she could remember Spike calling her name, but she had kept on walking.
Once outside of the hospital, her legs had seemed to move independently of her body. At some point she had returned home, but she left again, just as quickly as she had arrived. She hadn't intended to go anywhere specifically, but she knew she couldn't go home. Buffy couldn't face them, not yet. The disappointment, the distrust, it would've been too much to handle. They had been wary of her decisions before, but this was the final betrayal. Even worse because she hadn't been able to protect the one person who had truly trusted her, the one person who had been willing to stand up and defend her against a horde of headstrong teenagers. And she knew that six years earlier, she would've been one of those girls, loudly voicing her protests and refusing to follow the established plan. Again with the great irony.
Without realizing it, she'd ended up at Spike's old crypt. Buffy had been surprised to find herself there, but she figured that after last year, maybe it was still second nature. It had been her release, the place where she had come searching for any type of comfort, even if she hadn't wanted to admit that to herself. It was the one place where she had been able to let everything out, however briefly, the one place where she had been able to feel.
Of course, that wasn't the issue now. And the crypt, it wasn't the same. Clem didn't appear to be living there anymore, and though there were a few remnants of Spike scattered around, the place felt dead. She closed her eyes for a minute, letting memories of the past year flood her brain. Large hands caressing her gently, more gently than anyone had ever touched her, and how was it possible that Spike was the one who was doing this? Their bodies pounding into the floor, threatening to break, explode, or melt together in perfect unity, which had scared Buffy more than anything. How strange that for the longest time she had been searching for a fit like that, yet when she finally found it, the notion of it repelled her more than anything ever had.
But when she had opened her eyes, she realized that she wasn't in Spike's crypt anymore, not really. His essence was gone, the sense of life and vibrancy that surrounded him, seeming to contradict everything that he should be. The air in the crypt smelled cold and dead, and her footsteps echoed loudly against the cold cement. She couldn't stay there. So she had turned around and resumed her walk.
After awhile, she'd decided that it was probably safe to venture home. But at some point during her trek towards Revello drive, the tears had begun. Each step brought her closer to those whom she had let down. With every footfall, another image of the evenings' battle flashed before her, ripping into her, trying to break her open from the inside. It had been successful. By the time she reached had reached the house, she couldn't stop crying. Instead of going in, she had made her away around to the back porch, and she sat there, body shaking from head to toe, crying until she thought that she couldn't possibly cry anymore. And then, just as suddenly as they had started, the tears subsided, she stood up, straightened her rumpled jeans, and slowly made her way back up to her room.
And that's how she had ended up in the bathroom, succumbing yet again to the inevitable reactions of her body. This had happened to her before, when her mom had died. Her brain refused to process, and when it did, it went into immediate repression mode, but her body, well, that was different. Her body reacted instantly, and as much as she tried to use her brain to keep it in line, when it all got too overwhelming, she just couldn't do it anymore. But in a strange way, those reactions made a lot of sense to her. She had always been much more adept at the physical. It wasn't that she acted without thinking necessarily; it was that she trusted her natural, physical instincts more than her mental. They had rarely failed her, which is why tonight had come as such a shock.
But she'd dealt with that enough for now, and she wasn't sure her body had any more left. So she slowly pushed herself off of the floor and went to the sink to wash her face. Cold water, numbing water, splashing onto her face, flowing over her red, tear-stained eyes, stinging the tips of her fingers. Then face cream, scrubbing away at the streaked mascara that had run all over her face. Stupid Mabeylline and their promises of waterproof mascara, she thought idly. Finally, scalding hot water, refreshing yet stinging, painful but good.
She'd developed this routine last year, a ritual cleansing of sorts that she would do every night in attempt to restore some sort of order to her life. Going through the motions, just like everything else last year. No wonder it had been her theme song. Even though this year she had tried to change as much as possible in order to become Happy and Upbeat Buffy, Job Buffy, Mature Buffy, this ritual still provided her with some comfort. Wash off all of the stress and pain of the day, start the new morning fresh.
When she was finished, she looked at her face in the mirror. Her eyes were still red and puffy, a reminder of the seemingly endless tears earlier in the evening. She tried to smile, just to see if she was still capable of it, but the smile looked surreal, fake. The worry was etched into every inch of her skin, and even if she turned the corner of her mouth up in an attempt of a smile, it was still obvious. It didn't fit, not anymore.
She turned around quietly, and walked out of the bathroom, shutting the door softly behind her as to not to wake up any of the Potentials that were scattered throughout the house. She started to head back towards her room, but she didn't feel like sleeping. She wanted something soothing, something warm, maybe a cup of hot chocolate or tea, something that would remind her of her mom and a time when the biggest problems in her life had been whether or not her she could go to the Bronze that evening. Of course, it was ridiculous to think that her life had ever been that simple, but compared to what she was facing now, she'd almost give anything to back in high school, even if it meant fighting a giant Sunnydale-destroying snake again.
*****
Sometimes, Spike thought, there weren't enough cigarettes in the world. He'd been sitting on the back porch for hours now, and he'd easily gone through an entire pack. After that, there were the two spares that he had in his jacket, the one in his back pocket, and then the one that he'd tucked into the top of his boot, just for emergencies. Which, of course, was the one he was smoking now, meaning that after this, he was plum out of cigarettes. He supposed he could always rummage through Faith's stuff trying to find one, but given their little conversation in the basement earlier on, he wasn't too keen on doing anything that would give her the wrong impression.
He blew out a stream of smoke in frustration. And what exactly would be wrong with giving the bird the wrong impression? Quite the hot little number she was, and of course, bonus points for being a Slayer. Wasn't like Buffy had given him any reason to hold out. Sure, she told him that she wasn't ready for him to leave, but that was just because he was her "strongest warrior" or whatever other decidedly platonic term she was using to refer to him these days. Bollocks, all of it. He knew that wasn't the reason. If it were last year, he would've taunted her until he got her to admit it, or at least to punch, kiss, or sleep with him - or all of the above, as had often been the case - in order to get him to stop carrying on about it.
But this year, everything was different, now that he was all soul-having. When it came down to it, for the most part, he wasn't sure the soul made all that much difference. If anything, it allowed him to fully admit how much he had changed while still unsouled. Yeah, it had driven him a little bat-crazy at first, but he figured that had more to do with The First than the soul. Big evil types were all too fond of driving people, or vampires, as may the case, completely nutters. Or, flat out killing them. Even worse, gouging out their eyes.
And that was why he was out on the back porch, smoking cigarettes at a rate that would put the sodding Marlboro Man himself to shame Times like tonight were the times when having a soul made all the difference. Last year, he might have felt a tinge of regret for what had happened to the boy, mainly because it would've made Buffy upset or maybe because he'd actually grown to like Harris, though he still wasn't quite able to fully admit that. Now though, the image of that bastard Caleb sticking his fingers into Xander's eye, the way the blood had run down his face, he couldn't get the image out of his head. Yeah, he'd seen and caused some pretty gruesome things in his day, but he'd never given two figs about any of those people. And Harris, well, after his earlier speech about how much he trusted Buffy, after how helpful and strong he's been for Buffy and the rest of the girls all year.... It was just painful, s'all. It was a reminder that, yeah, not all of them were going to get out of this alive. Maybe not Harris, maybe not Buffy, maybe not Spike.
Another long drag on his cig reminded Spike how he'd gotten on this train of thought in the first place. Buffy. Because of course, it always came back to Buffy. It had been no exaggeration when he'd dubbed himself love's bitch four years earlier. Hell, with Buffy, he'd gone to new extremes that he probably hadn't even thought possible, even after everything he had done for Dru. Old Spike would've had a field day making fun of Spike 2.0, Slayer-whipped Spike with a shiny-new soul, the Spike who was sticking around because the Slayer had told him to, not because he held out any hope for a future with her. Well, that wasn't entirely true. There had to be some little part of him that was still holding on for something more. If not, why would he feel so bad about the possibility of another girl, like Faith? Granted, any reaction that Buffy would have to Spike and Faith would probably be more about the fact that it was Faith, Spike still couldn't bear the thought of doing anything that would potentially upset the Slayer. She was a part of him; no matter what he did, she was there, in the back of his mind. An energetic girl dancing with her friends in the Bronze looking like she'd never had more fun in her life. A skilled fighter smirking at him and saying that she'd prefer to fight him anyway. A skeptical girl not trusting his motives when he'd said he'd help her run that bastard Angelus into the ground - or Hell, as the case had been. A broken girl, just dumped by some college prat, wronged by Captain America, grieving over the death of her mom, worrying about saving the world again, feeling the pain of being brought back from the sweetest place in the world, of losing her friends, her mentor, the one person she's even vaguely allowed herself to open up to over the past year...such a broken girl. Those images of Buffy surrounded him at all times. When she was around, he could almost drown in her essence, and when she wasn't, he often felt as if she were there. The tingling anticipation in his spine, the feel of something powerful close to him, the scent of....
"Spike?" Her voice wafted through the air from the kitchen.
Right, then. He felt like that because she actually was there.
*****
Part of her had expected to see him down there. He was always there, lurking in the corners, at times when it would seem like she didn't really want him there, times when she wanted to be alone. But like she'd said to him last year, she could be alone even when he was there. And that was comforting. With Willow or Xander or Giles, even, they would often try to make her talk, tell them everything that was disturbing her. And that just wasn't her. For Willow, rambling on in one nonsensical stream of consciousness might help her figure out her problems, but Buffy preferred to just reflect upon them in peace and quiet. And in the event that that didn't work, it was always fun to take them out on some unsuspecting vamp.
She grimaced inwardly, realizing the truth of her last thought. But this wasn't last year, and both she and Spike had changed. No reason that they couldn't interact like normal adults. Normal adults, one of who happened to be dead, and one of whom had died twice. Normal adults who were worrying about saving the world, literally. Okay, so not normal at all. She wondered why she even tried to compare her life to anything remotely normal anymore. It wasn't, she was used to it, and at times that weren't wrought with stress, she even liked it.
Spike turned around and cocked his head up at Buffy, noticing her red eyes, the weary expression on her face. "You've been crying," he noted softly.
It wasn't a question, just an admission of the facts, so no use denying it. "Yeah, well, rough night," she said, coming to sit down next to him. "But, if it's okay with you, I'd rather not talk about it. If I did, I might become teary Buffy again, and I'd really prefer that you didn't see that. It's not a pretty sight." She smiled ruefully, trying to make it feel natural again, desperately attempting to lighten the situation.
Spike nodded, fully understanding, accepting. Always. He shrugged and returned her smile. "Fine by me, Slayer. Though I must say, the idea of holding you while you pour your sweet little heart out isn't half bad." His eyes glinted mischievously.
Buffy laughed in spite of herself, and punched him gently on the shoulder. "And what about you, what were you doing out here, apart from killing yourself by smoking those disgusting things?" Spike gave her a pointed look, and Buffy ducked her head in embarrassment. "Right, already being dead, I'm guessing the Surgeon General's warnings aren't all that applicable to you."
Spike contemplated his quickly diminishing cigarette and took one final drag. "Nope, can't say they are, love. Anyway, it's something to busy myself with instead of just sitting out here thinking."
And now it was her turn to tease Spike. "Thinking?" she questioned, skeptically. "You sure that's what you were doing?"
"Where you going with this, pet?"
"I mean," she drawled slowly, "you seemed pretty sad when I was watching you. Just sitting here taking one drag after another." She arched her eyebrows and smiled. "From what I saw, I would call that brooding."
Before he could process her entire statement, he blurted out, "You were watching me?" Then he realized what else she said, and he glared. "Hey! I think you're confusing me with another soulful vampire, pet. One who spends much more time and money on hair care products."
Buffy snorted derisively. "Look who's talking, bleach boy."
"Please, like your blonde is oh so natural."
Had he just insulted her hair? Her cute, bouncy hair? Oh, now it was really on. She assessed his outfit. Now that was definitely fodder for some insults. "Hey, at least I can claim to be following the fashions. Unlike others, I've changed my look in the past decade."
She'd insulted the outfit. His outfit, his masterpiece of basic black, a classic that lasted through the ages. Literally. So she wanted to play, then. Well, he'd give her a good run for the money. Yeah, he had a stellar comeback right up his sleeve. But somehow, all he managed to say was, "Hey! This is a classic. You don't mess with the classics." Bravo, Spike, he thought, sounded like a right wanker with that one. Bloody brilliant, you are.
Oh yeah, she definitely had the upper hand here. And why quit now? She pushed her hair behind her ears and shrugged. "Classics? Come on. How would it look if I were still wearing leggings, micro minis, and drooling over Luke Perry?" She shuddered slightly, remembering that dreadful phase. And to think that she had worn outfits like that to school.
Spike smiled, the corners of his mouths turning up in delight, and arched his eyebrow. "Micro minis, eh? No complaints here," he drawled. He stopped in contemplation and then added, "And Luke Perry was actually quite talented."
Buffy groaned and roller her eyes. "Let me guess, you were a big Dylan fan, especially back when he was with crazy wild child Brenda."
Spike shrugged, and replied, "What can I say, love, had a thing for those crazy, lost brunettes."
He could feel Buffy turn to ice beside him, and within an instant, the playful atmosphere had vanished. Oh bugger all, he'd gone and messed it all up. Again. Good to know some things would never change.
Buffy stood up brusquely, folding her arms protectively across her chest. When she spoke, all the warmth was gone. In its place was an icy bitterness, the words biting through Spike. "Well, if that's the way you feel, isn't there someone in the house you'd rather be talking to right now? I'm sure that she would love the company, and hey, she's probably dying for a good unnh." Buffy spat out her last words, not caring to hide the anger that had suddenly bubbled up within her.
Spike stood up, walking over to Buffy, trying to think of something, anything to say to console her. He grabbed her forearms, forcing her to turn around and face him. "Buffy, you know that's not true." She glared at him. "And did you even bother to listen to what I said? Had a thing," he reminded her, emphasizing the 'had.' "Past tense, pet. Used to like the crazy brunettes, but lately, I seem to have developed this crazy thing for firecracker blondes."
Damn it, he always did that. Showered her with platitudes, made her want to forgive him. But she wasn't letting him off the hook, not that easily. She pulled away from him, shrinking back into herself. "Come on, Spike. Do you really expect me to believe you've changed that much?"
He stared at her incredulously. "Well, yeah, Slayer, I do."
Her eyes glowed, and she the corners of her mouth tilted upwards in a sardonic imitation of a smile. "Right, the soul, how could I...."
He was back at her side in a second, standing face to face, cutting her off before she could finish the thought. "No, not the soul. Not the chip either," he added, before she even had a chance to mention it. "You, Buffy. You changed me. Fell in love with you the first day I saw you, even though I didn't realize it at the time. You made me want to help save the world, help you. Yeah sure, liked it fine enough on my own, but there are others way I could've gone about that particular task, didn't need your help."
She met his gaze in disbelief, some of her anger dissipating. "Right, Spike. You so needed me."
Her comment relaxed him visibly, realizing that she was easing up a bit. Time to get back on with it then. He reached out gently, stroking her hair with his thumb, expecting her to pull away and feeling beyond relieved when she didn't. "S'all you. Fell in love with you back then, and even Dru could see it, feel you around me. And then when I came back here.... Wanted to kill you, but I couldn't. And you couldn't kill me either." Buffy opened her mouth to protest, but he delicately put his finger over it, silencing her before she could interrupt his little monologue again. "And then, I realized I was in love with you. God Buffy, you don't know how scary that was. Tried to resist it so much, didn't want to believe it. And then when I submitted to it, I began to realize it all – how much I'd changed already, how much I was still changing. I don't know why I was able to change like that, but only explanation I got is that I've never been fond of following the natural way of things." He took a deep breath, staring into Buffy's eyes, trying to see if she was understanding what he was trying to get across. She bobbed her head slightly, urging him to continue. "So yeah, went and saw a demon about a soul. Went through a bunch of trials, and they were far from pretty. But it's all just icing, love. Final touches on a package to prove to you just how much I've changed. Because I love you Buffy. It always has, and always will, come back to you."
Buffy stared up at him, letting his words wash over her. She wanted to believe him, wanted to trust him. And she did. If she'd gained anything this year, it was the ability to trust Spike, even if she was still having issues with the others. She wasn't sure when or how it had happened, but it had. The problem was, apart from trust, she still wasn't sure how to define her other feelings. And there were other feelings there. Strange butterflies that entered her stomach every time she saw him. A longing that had grown increasingly more difficult to ignore when he wasn't around. But with so much else to worry about, she couldn't let herself indulge these feelings; her mind wouldn't let her. So she reverted back to what was natural – the instincts of her body.
Spike didn't see the kiss coming. But all of a sudden, there she was, embracing him, lips on his, parting in sweet invitation. It felt wonderful, natural, intoxicating. Different from last year – though the passion was still there, there was also an overwhelming tenderness, a trust that had been absent from everything they had done together before this. He could get lost in this kiss forever.
But somewhere in the back of his head, a very William-like voice kept nattering on that this wasn't right. She didn't mean it; she was only looking for comfort, a punching bag like he had been last year. Though he knew that wasn't entirely true, the voice in his head refused to shut-up, reminding him that she had referred to him only as her "strongest warrior," that she had recently entertained the idea of a relationship with the idiot principal, that she always had been and always would be unable to love him....
In frustration, he broke away from the kiss abruptly, pushing Buffy away. The look on her face almost broke him. The tough girl who usually guarded her emotions inside in an iron cage finally let them show through on her face. She looked shocked, then hurt, insecure, pained. He saw her anger rise to the surface, but the other feelings overwhelmed it, and it bubbled briefly, but then fizzed out in defeat. When she spoke, her voice was small, weak.
"Don't you want me?" she whispered, voice cracking, tears threatening to emerge for the millionth time that evening. "I thought this is what you wanted."
Spike began pacing back and forth on the porch, trying to control his emotions, fighting the urge to ignore all of his rational thoughts and just sweep her up in his arms. He sighed, running his hands through his hair in frustration. "Buffy, that's not the point and you know it. Not about what I want, pet. It's about what you want. Do you want this? After everything, is this what you really want? And why?"
The anger decided that it wasn't going to stand for such an easy defeat, and it rose up violently, finally managing to break through. "God, Spike," she snapped, "would I have kissed you if it wasn't? After everything?" The mockery of his words was evident.
Nope, this never got easy. Damn, he wished he still had a cigarette handy. How could a bloke be expected to have a conversation like this without his cigs? He could feel her anger, which was the last thing he wanted. He tried to keep his voice calm and level. "Again, you're missing the point. It's more about the why. Why am I here? Why do you make me stay?"
"How many times do I have to say it, Spike? I need you here fighting with me! Big all mighty evil, remember?"
"Damn it, Buffy, no!" he snapped, his earlier resolve breaking. "I've heard that before, and you know that's not the reason. If it was, then why the kiss? Why are you going through this cycle again? I can't let you use me as your personal punching bag again, love. Won't do it. Can't let you do that to me. It's not last year."
She knew he had more to say, but the anger refused to subside. "No, Spike, it's not last year," she said, shooting dagger at him with her eyes. "But god, sometimes I wish it was!" she was almost yelling now, her voice shaking, on the verge of tears, emotions shattering in all directions. "You don't know how much I would give to feel numb again. But no, I was determined to get back to being normal Buffy, get my groove back so I can feel again. And what good does it do me?" She stared at Spike, who stood there at a loss for words. "Everything just hurts so much. Willow, Giles, the Potentials, Xander, and now you . . .." She trailed off, the anger slowly losing its grip. "Spike, it hurts."
He looked at her, and his voice softened, searching for the right words to console her. "Buffy, pet," he began, "I meant what I said about not letting you do that to me again. But you didn't let me finish. And what I was trying to say is that, most of all, I can't let you do that to yourself."
And then the anger was gone again, dragging the pain down with it, leaving only confusion in its place. Buffy sat down on the porch steps again, burying her head in her hands in defeat. She owed it to him to talk about this, to figure out what she was feeling. And she also owed it to herself. She took a deep breath. Time to be Talky Buffy.
"You're right Spike," she admitted softly. "I don't want to do that to myself, and I don't want to that to you. But I don't know what else to do." She fiddled nervously with her hair. "In case you haven't noticed, talking through my feelings? Not exactly my strong suit." She laughed nervously. "It never was. But my body, my instincts, those are usually pretty spot-on. They know what I want before my mind can process the situation. And they tend to be right." She stood up again, and went to stand next to Spike, who had stopped pacing, and was listening to her with rapt attention. She gently grabbed his arms, echoing his earlier gesture.
"So last year, I trusted my instincts. And they led me to you. But I was a mess, and I couldn't admit why they were so right. I realized that what I was doing to you was beyond wrong before I was able to figure out why I had gone to you in the first place. I couldn't really figure that out until you left." She looked up at him, smiling slightly. "Spike, you were there for me last year when no one else was. I was able to open up to you. Yeah, I was also a big old ball of angst, but not only did you make me feel alive, you were the only person who was able to make me feel safe, loved. And that was so important to me, even if I couldn't admit it. When you left, I wanted to be happy you were gone." She stopped briefly, memories of this time last year flooding through her mind. Cold floor, pain, shock, horror, regret. She inhaled deeply, willing herself to continue. "We were destroying each other. Neither of us meant for it to happen, but it did."
Regret for his action last year pulsed through his body yet again. "Buffy, I'm so sorry. You know I'd never do that now, don't you?" He looked up at her, the pain painted across his face.
Buffy nodded. "Trust me Spike, I know. I've known for a long time. But if you want me to believe that you've changed, you have to believe that I've changed. And you have to know that when I say I want something, that I really want something, I really do mean it." She let her words hang in the air, waiting anxiously for his response. They stood there, completely still, neither daring to breathe.
When Spike spoke, his voice was barely audible, not wanting to disrupt the sacred silence between them. "What do you want, Buffy? Tell me."
She realized the implications of his last statement, the request to hear her feelings in words instead of resorting to the simplicity of the physical. She took a deep breath. This was inevitable; it was now or never. So she leaned forward and whispered in his ear, "I want you, Spike. And not because I need you here as a fighter. I need you here for me, Spike. I want you with me."
She watched the relief flood through his face, and she could feel both of their bodies relax against each other. She leaned her head against her shoulder and let herself be enveloped in his strong arms. Safe.
Spike felt her melt into his arms, and he seriously believed that nothing could feel better than this. They fit together so perfectly, her small figure melding against his body, muscle against muscle, letting their strength pool together instead of using it against one another. There was pain and hurt there, but it dissipated in waves, melding together, never leaving entirely, happy to at least find company in the sea of melancholy. Relieved.
So they stood there, lost in an embrace, trying to forget the world around them. There was only this moment, there was only them, there was only this blissful embrace. Eventually they would go inside, into the realm of the complicated, the scary, the evil. But as long as they stood there holding each other, the inevitable momentum that drove their lives and threatened to break them on a daily basis seemed to disappear, leaving them with only peace and calm.