Author: Xionin
Rating: PG-13 [this chapter]
Pairing: Buffy/Spike. Other major characters included.
Feedback: Oh but of course!
Disclaimer: I stopped by Joss' house to borrow a cup of Spike. He said he was all out, but that if I picked up a box at Costco, he'd go half-sies. I said sure, why not, as long as I can borrow some of the other characters for a while. Hey, I drive a hard bargain. Notes: Takes place between 'Storyteller' and 'Lies My Parents Told Me'. Contains entire text of Shakespeare's Sonnet Number 71
Thank yous: Miss Kitty – Beta-extraordinaire! Tracy – I'm humbled. Thanks for your kind words. Enjoy! ~Xionin Man in a Suitcase
Buffy wakes up alone. And sore. Every muscle in her body is clenched and apparently has been for hours. She's slept this way. Jaw riveted. Fists balled into tiny boulders. She closes her eyes and sees it all again.
Spike turns and walks away. Spike turns and walks away. He turns and walks away. He turns and walks away. Spike walks away.
She slowly relaxes her body into the mattress and in the release of the tension she bursts into tears. Her body shudders with her dry sobs. Her mouth is open with a grotesque half-smile-half-grimace. Her throat is constricting, but no sound escapes.
Wasn't supposed to be like this. God, I really screwed it up.
She inhales sharply and the action causes her to cough. There's a soft knock on the door.
"Buffy?" Dawn's tiny voice seeps through the seams of the wooden door. "You up?" Buffy draws a pillow over her face. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
"Just getting up now, Dawnie." She holds her breath as another sob threatens to escape.
"You ok?"
No I'm not fucking okay. I waited too long. Listened to everyone way too much instead of following my…and now...now it's too late. TOO LATE...but you won't understand.
She lowers the pillow. "I'm ok, Dawn. Didn't get much sleep." She lies. "I'll be down in a bit."
"Well hurry it up. Giles says he needs to see you...he and Willow." Dawn's voice trails off as she moves away from the door.
"Yeah, okay." Buffy kicks the covers off, but it doesn't ease her frustration. Annoyed with herself, she picks the discarded sheets up off the floor, balls them up, and tosses them back on the bed. Running her hands through her hair, she walks over to the window and peers out. Another Sunny day in not-so-Sunnydale. It should cheer her up, right? The sunshine.
It doesn't.
In fact, it has the opposite effect. It only makes her think of the night. And the night represents something entirely different.
Last year, the night meant solace: a reprieve from the harsh realities of her life. False smiles given to her friends and family just so that they wouldn't worry. False smiles given in reassurance that she'd forgiven them for pulling her out of Heaven.
The daylight that she'd once adored was a nightmare and the only way she could pull herself out of it was by turning to the only one that seemed to understand what she was going through: Spike.
Spike: the man that loved her.
Of course she never honored him by calling him a man then. She called him everything but a man. A monster. Soulless, heartless, cruel, evil, defenseless, ridiculous, neutered, laughable Spike. But he wasn't that. Hadn't been for a long time, many of those things. What he was was everything she didn't want and everything she'd needed...so desperately...and she used him.
God, she used him like a tissue you soil and then discard. Used him like a bottle of alcohol you drain to forget your troubles and then toss out with the garbage. Used him like a confessional. Like a form of penance.
She treated him like a thing, like a 'lesser than'. And now she expects him to be grateful for her? Of course she does, he always has been.
Grateful for every crumb she threw his way.
He begged for it every time she slithered away from the bed after fucking him six ways from Sunday until she was numb inside and out and didn't need him to make her 'feel' anymore.
He begged her to stay, sometimes with words, sometimes with his eyes. And she had only laughed, or hit...mostly hit. And when he got to her, when she felt those heartstrings beginning to vibrate, she spat hate at him to validate her own warped, black and white view of the world.
And now I expect him to be grateful that I've allowed him in, that I said 'sorry'? Geez, Buffy. Selfish much?
Buffy turns from the window and goes to search through her drawers for something to wear. She looks up in the mirror and pauses at her reflection.
"Oh my God," she says quietly. "I've lost him. I can never take it back."
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Spike is lying on the cot, still dressed in last night's clothes, but does it really matter? He hasn't slept anyway. He'd heard her all night, in her room, wrestling with her nightmares.
How could I have been so bloody wrong? She could never love me that way. Bleedin' idiot.
He replays the recent events in his mind, including the searing kisses and the vision of Buffy in Angel's arms. Both had changed his world inalterably.
She said she loved me...and the kisses…'er lips. What else would I think? But...maybe the kisses were of the same sort of cold comfort she needed last year.
He squeezes his eyes shut.
Shit, I dunno. Damn Red and her bloody vision!
But it isn't Willow's fault, is it?
He knows Buffy better than anyone. He knows that every insult she pelted him with last year had held a grain of truth for her. No, she couldn't ever love him that way. His eyes open to the ceiling.
As a friend, yes, but nothing more.
It should be enough, but somehow it isn't.
He chides himself with a snort and sits up. Running his fingers through his hair, he pulls his t-shirt roughly over his head and stands up, tossing it in the dirty pile. Grabbing a fresh one from a pile of clean laundry, he tugs it on. The sound of many, clobbering feet above his head brings out a groan.
I'm here to help and that's what I'll do. When this is all over, though, if I'm still standing… he lowers his head, placing his hands on the washer. I-I don't know if this is the best place for me to be.
But how can I leave?
He turns and heads up the steps. He opens the basement door only to find Buffy standing on the other side. It's a torturous form of Déjà vu. No smiles this time only two sets of anguished eyes.
"Mornin'" His voice is barely above a whisper as he takes in the sight of her. All of the emotion of the last few days sweeps over him like a tsunami, but he remains in control.
"Hey." She replies with a weak smile.
"You sleep ok?" He asks, genuine concern in his voice. He wants her to tell him exactly how she slept, but he knows she'll lie.
"Yeah," she lies. "You?"
"Yeah." Lies all lies, but they both agree to the farce.
"I was just coming to get you...Giles has something to talk to me about and I wanted...I wondered...if you could work with the girls down here."
"Yeah...sure." That's what I'm here for.
"Great...thanks." I don't know how much of this I can bear. He looks so broken. How do I fix this? Can I fix this?
"No problem, luv." He produces an actual smile this time, and she gratefully returns it. Suddenly they both break eye contact, looking around and down and about...anywhere but at each other.
"Well...just let me-" he begins, stepping towards her.
"Of course." She says nervously, stepping back out of his way.
He brushes past her and she inhales involuntarily. Love him.
"Jus' need to get a cuppa...something to stop my stomach from grumblin'-" he mumbles, moving past her. Her arm jerks out and she places her hand on his arm and he stops, turning back to her.
"Spike-" she dares to look up at him. "I'm..." Her face falls and he is so still that he looks frozen. Just then he flashes his white teeth and gives her the warmest smile he can muster.
"No need, pet." He places his hand on top of hers and squeezes gently before moving away and into the kitchen. She watches him and leans back against the closing basement door. She needs to get away from him it's too much.
Being near him is too much right now.
She heads the opposite direction and out the front door to try a little sunshine therapy.
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Spike straightens up the basement after his light workout with the Potentials. Attendance was poor, since they've made it clear that they're uncomfortable around him for some reason. Not that anything's changed, but he can feel something brewing.
Either way, he's done his part for the day and decides to settle in for some reading. The girls have gone out for a while and the house is blessedly quiet. He scratches his head a bit and wonders what he's in the mood for.
Anything to keep me from thinking about her.
Too late, there she is. Buffy. He sighs, reaching under the cot for a small suitcase full of things retrieved from the crypt before he'd officially moved into Fort Summers. He slides the well-worn case out and pulls it up onto the cot.
It is old, very old. He doesn't even remember when he'd gotten it. 1910? 1920? Somewhere around there. He clicks both locks open and lifts the lid. The smell of dust, age and paper hits his sensitive nostrils. He inhales deeply, closing his eyes.
Blood.
A walking stick.
A gentleman. The look of horror on his face as Drusilla bears down on him,
Spike standing by watching his dark beauty make of meal of the foppish young man.
'Frilly shirt, one that Angelus would love, but it's stained now.'
Lovely little walking cane, but what would he want with that.
Beautiful leather case. 'Ah...now that I'll have.'
Spike feels nauseous. He shakes the memory from his head, whispers, "I'm sorry, I didn't know" as he does every time the memory of a kill comes to him. It's a reverent phrase. Almost a Hail Mary.
Sifting through the contents of the case he shuffles through pages of poetry, some small trinkets and scraps of fabric, and a few bits of shells and stones he's collected in his travels. Occasionally he pulls something out and rubs it through his fingers, reliving some pleasant memory, a small smile playing on his lips.
The first time in Barcelona.
He muses over a tiny coin that's been pressed flat. A memory of railroad tracks and a near decapitation breezes through his mind. He chuckles.
Digging deeper into the case, he peruses what's left of his collection of books: Neruda, Moliere, Chaucer, Henry James, Dante, the Sonnets. That one stops him.
A lil' Bard'll do me.
He pulls out the leather-bound volume and flips through it gingerly.
The book falls open to one that he's always loved and had once committed to memory. He begins to softly read aloud from the page when the words fill his mind and he closes his eyes, not needing the written word anymore.
His voice is low and soft as he whispers the poem like a prayer.
No
longer mourn for me when I am dead
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell:
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it, for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O! if, I say, you look upon this verse,
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse;
But let your love even with my life decay;
Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
And mock you with me after I am gone.
Spike laughs at himself, at the thought that when he'd first set this poem to memory, he'd had assumed he'd die and leave Cecily to mourn him. Little had he known that he'd be condemned to more than 100 years of walking with, and bringing, death with him wherever he went.
And if he dies today, who will mourn him? The Slayer? Well, yeah. She loves him, after all, and would mourn the loss of her friend...her comrade in arms.
But that is not the kind of mourning the poet in him wants. William always wanted to be the world to someone: to be Cecily's world, the way she was his. The old Spike wanted to be Drusilla's world. And the new Spike wants to be Buffy's world, the way she is his. But she is more than his world. She is his galaxy, his universe.
His waking up and his lying down.
His going out and his coming in.
His 'never' and his 'forever'.
She is his life and she will be his death. He knows this. Knows it. And welcomes it. He wouldn't have it any other way.
But if he were to die, right at this moment. If one of the Potentials or the Scoobies decided to stake him in his sleep, would she know? Were he to be...just gone...would she understand what she meant to him? How she'd changed him? Would she know that he understood why she could never love him and yet that he was grateful for everything she'd done, every time she'd treated him like a man?
Probably not, you daft git, you never had the chance to explain.
Besides, she'd only shut down from the enormity of it if you told her.
Spike sighs and puts the book back in the case.
Best not to think on it too much, lest I charge upstairs and...
He lets the thought slip away and tries to push it down inside and lock it in a box.
But if I die...she'll never know.
He glances over at the case and extracts a few sheets of blank, handmade paper. He pulls out a pen, closes the case and sits over it, placing the papers on top. He chews on the end of the pen, deep in thought. Looking down at the paper, he begins to write; Victorian penmanship scrawling across the surface like scrollwork in an ornate gate. He writes and reads, shakes his head and crumples up the first sheet, tossing it aside.
He begins again. This time the words flow out of his fingertips like water from a faucet. When they slow to a trickle, twenty minutes later, and end with a final droplet, he sits back and re-reads what he's laid out for her.
He doesn't notice the tears on his cheek, only smiles, satisfied with the clarity of what he's written. He folds the papers, sealing them with a lock fold, writes her name on the outside and places it back into the case. He knows she'll go through it when he's gone. Knows she'll find it and read it. Wishes he could tell her these things now, but he doesn't want to create more confusion for them.
When he does die, it will be easier for her to understand and to accept without having to deal with his feelings for her. He's fine with that, as long as she knows someday.
He slides the case back under the cot and leans back against the wall, closing his eyes. There's more noise coming from upstairs and the sun is setting. He prepares himself for the night, because who knows what it will bring. The door opens at the top of the steps.
"Hey Spike, you down there?" Kennedy's shrill voice jerks his eyes open.
"Yeah, M'here. What do you want?" It takes so little for her to agitate him.
"Buffy wants to know if you're up for patrolling" she huffs.
"Yeah, I'm coming." he slides off of the cot, grabbing his duster, and walks up the steps. Kennedy turns and walks away as he emerges from the basement. He hears Buffy's voice coming from the living room and moves towards it, not quite ready to see her, but oh well...
He's none too pleased to see Principal Wood there with her. He is turned so that he cannot see Spike approaching. Spike watches him watching Buffy as she explains something to a couple of the girls. Wood's eyes move appreciatively over Buffy's lithe body. Spike bristles, his jaw setting like stone.
"You wanted me?" Spike says a little too loudly to Buffy, never taking his eyes off the Principal. Everyone turns to look at him. He puts on his best smirk. Wood's eyes turn cold as they glance over him, paying particular attention to his black coat. Spike can smell the hatred seeping from him. He nods. Robin returns the gesture. Buffy walks over between them.
"Spike-" she says as all-business-and-nothing-personal-ly as she can. There is so much tension between him and Wood, she can barely breathe. "I want you to patrol with Robin and me." Spike breaks eye contact with the man to glare down at her, a protest ready on his tongue. When he meets her eyes, however, he notes the pleading in them.
"Sure," is all he can muster as a response. Her eyes twinkle in appreciation as a small smile curves her lips. If he could blush he would but he ducks his head instead, finding something incredibly interesting on his boots to stare at. The gesture is so endearing that Buffy momentarily forgets where she is and who is with her because she steps forward and places her hand on his chest.
"Thanks." She says softly and smiles with her eyes. He looks up at her and smiles in return, happy to feel her touch again. Robin audibly grunts and then tries to cover by clearing his throat. Buffy nearly jumps back as her surroundings come back to her.
"Okay, then-" she says walking over to the table and grabbing a few stakes. "Let's go."
The unlikely threesome head out the door and into the night.
TBC [Next chapter begins post- 'Lies My Parents Told Me']