'How can it feel this wrong
From this moment, how can it feel this wrong ...'
They don't talk in the car. She has her window down and the cool night air blows her blonde hair back. She's not wearing much, but she's not cold.
He sits in the driver's seat, fingers tapping out the drum beat to 'White Wedding' without even thinking about it. He doesn't need to.
She smokes a thin white cigarette and rests her head againt the seat of car. She can feel his eyes on her but she doesn't answer his unspoken questions. Doesn't question him back. They scare her, taunt her with what might happen if she had to answer them. If she answered she might be forced to shed her stoic mask and begin to heal. Begin to forget. She doesn't want to forget.
She wants to remember Angel's mouth on hers, his hands on her body -- so gentle and different from Spike's touch -- she wants to remember his words, even the ones that hurt. Especially the ones that hurt. She likes to remember the way he looked when she slammed the sword into him, just like she savors the momory of him inside her.
Masochist.
He doesn't ask the questions. He lets them die in the back of his throat, his respect for the her and the fear that if he puts the questions to her she'll ask them right back are good deterrents. When it comes down to it, he's afraid of what he'll find if he digs around too deep, and that he'll be forced to explain things he can't. Like his reasons for taking her in that alley. As inexplicable as her reasons for letting herself be taken. He can't tell her why he opened the car door for her, and he can't tell her why she's here when Drusilla -- his black goddess -- isn't.
The evening darkness fades and the horizon begins to burn a brilliant blue. She rolls the window up just as the first rays of the sun emerge. She hasn't slept in four days and she doesn't plan on starting now, she just stubs out her cigarette in the ash tray, leans back and closes her eyes, letting the pounding music wash over her.
She doesn't open her eyes until Spike parks the car in front of a cheap motel. He hands her some folded twenties and instructs her to rent a room for the day.
When they finally enter the dingy hotel room the only thought Buffy has is of getting to a shower and she walks with one mind towards the bathroom. Spike watches her silently before flopping down on one of the cheap chairs to wait. Niether of them has touched water since that night in the alley when it rained and they both still smell like dirty rain water, sex and nicotine.
* * *
Laying in bed is less conducive to sleep than she would've believed a few months ago. Buffy can feel the tears in her eyes as her memories haunt her. She can't escape his eyes or his whispered words. She can't erase the memory of her mother throwing the glass, of Willow and Giles and Xander. The tears are on her face now and they fall silently into the sheets. She turns on her side and lets out a muffled sob. Her body curls into a fetal position, the last three years flashing in front of her eyes.
She barely notices when Spike's cold arm pulls her to his chest. She only becomes aware of it when his cool fingers begin to move through her hair, his rough voice whispering comforts into the dark night. And then the dam breaks and she can't stop the tears or the keening noises she makes. 7 days, 4 hours, 30 minutes, 7 seconds ...
His arms tighten around her as she recites the numbers and he doesn't need to ask her what she means. 7 days, 4 hours, 30 minutes and 10 seconds ago his life changed too.
The sobs are subsiding but she still grips his chest and he doesn't encourage her to let go. Her breath is warm on his cool skin and her breasts are pressed pleasently against him. His hand runs through her hair down to the curve of her neck before absently tracing patterns on her bare shoulder. Her eyes are already closed when they kiss.
He kisses her hard, his tongue moving in and out of her mouth while his hands touch her everywhere, her own hands mimicking his movements. They don't speak. They don't debate over what this means. They don't even think about it. Each takes what the other has to offer, each seeking to lose themselves for a few moments in their partner.
[ c e n s o r e d ]
She shudders against him and presses their mouths together.
From this moment, how can it feel this wrong ...'
They don't talk in the car. She has her window down and the cool night air blows her blonde hair back. She's not wearing much, but she's not cold.
He sits in the driver's seat, fingers tapping out the drum beat to 'White Wedding' without even thinking about it. He doesn't need to.
She smokes a thin white cigarette and rests her head againt the seat of car. She can feel his eyes on her but she doesn't answer his unspoken questions. Doesn't question him back. They scare her, taunt her with what might happen if she had to answer them. If she answered she might be forced to shed her stoic mask and begin to heal. Begin to forget. She doesn't want to forget.
She wants to remember Angel's mouth on hers, his hands on her body -- so gentle and different from Spike's touch -- she wants to remember his words, even the ones that hurt. Especially the ones that hurt. She likes to remember the way he looked when she slammed the sword into him, just like she savors the momory of him inside her.
Masochist.
He doesn't ask the questions. He lets them die in the back of his throat, his respect for the her and the fear that if he puts the questions to her she'll ask them right back are good deterrents. When it comes down to it, he's afraid of what he'll find if he digs around too deep, and that he'll be forced to explain things he can't. Like his reasons for taking her in that alley. As inexplicable as her reasons for letting herself be taken. He can't tell her why he opened the car door for her, and he can't tell her why she's here when Drusilla -- his black goddess -- isn't.
The evening darkness fades and the horizon begins to burn a brilliant blue. She rolls the window up just as the first rays of the sun emerge. She hasn't slept in four days and she doesn't plan on starting now, she just stubs out her cigarette in the ash tray, leans back and closes her eyes, letting the pounding music wash over her.
She doesn't open her eyes until Spike parks the car in front of a cheap motel. He hands her some folded twenties and instructs her to rent a room for the day.
When they finally enter the dingy hotel room the only thought Buffy has is of getting to a shower and she walks with one mind towards the bathroom. Spike watches her silently before flopping down on one of the cheap chairs to wait. Niether of them has touched water since that night in the alley when it rained and they both still smell like dirty rain water, sex and nicotine.
* * *
Laying in bed is less conducive to sleep than she would've believed a few months ago. Buffy can feel the tears in her eyes as her memories haunt her. She can't escape his eyes or his whispered words. She can't erase the memory of her mother throwing the glass, of Willow and Giles and Xander. The tears are on her face now and they fall silently into the sheets. She turns on her side and lets out a muffled sob. Her body curls into a fetal position, the last three years flashing in front of her eyes.
She barely notices when Spike's cold arm pulls her to his chest. She only becomes aware of it when his cool fingers begin to move through her hair, his rough voice whispering comforts into the dark night. And then the dam breaks and she can't stop the tears or the keening noises she makes. 7 days, 4 hours, 30 minutes, 7 seconds ...
His arms tighten around her as she recites the numbers and he doesn't need to ask her what she means. 7 days, 4 hours, 30 minutes and 10 seconds ago his life changed too.
The sobs are subsiding but she still grips his chest and he doesn't encourage her to let go. Her breath is warm on his cool skin and her breasts are pressed pleasently against him. His hand runs through her hair down to the curve of her neck before absently tracing patterns on her bare shoulder. Her eyes are already closed when they kiss.
He kisses her hard, his tongue moving in and out of her mouth while his hands touch her everywhere, her own hands mimicking his movements. They don't speak. They don't debate over what this means. They don't even think about it. Each takes what the other has to offer, each seeking to lose themselves for a few moments in their partner.
[ c e n s o r e d ]
She shudders against him and presses their mouths together.
