When Buffy awakes, she is still in his arms. She lies there, gazing at him, drinking in every detail. He lies with one lengthy arm draped over the side of the bed, chest sighing and heaving with unneeded breaths, and her hands find their way around him, feeling the dim heat of his mass. Seven, eight bony ribs and flawless white skin stretched across them. Her fingers still know the terrain of his form and the way each sinew curves.
She slowly, reluctantly untangles her arms from his, wondering if she should wake him. One look at his childlike, peaceful face, and she can't bring herself to do it. He looks like he needs the rest. She slips out of the bed, covering herself with the sheet, and tiptoes to the window to peek out of the drapes, making sure not to let any light spill in. The amber glow of the morning seeps in through the tiny slits between the tightly-closed venetian blinds. It's still pretty early, it seems. She finds a robe hanging on the door of the adjoining bathroom and shrugs it over her shoulders. It's a few sizes too big, but it'll do.
Looking in the mirror, she studies her hair with a grimace. It's messy and frizzy and in desperate need of washing. And her breath must be horrible. She quickly pokes around in the drawers and finds an extra toothbrush. Brushing her teeth silently, she watches a trail of silvery white foam travel from her mouth to the drain. Blonde, unruly hair slips almost like liquid without complaint through the bristly fingers of the hairbrush. Memories of last night slip through her mind, and it feels like a slowly dissolving dream.
"B-Buffy?"
She emerges from the bathroom to find Spike sitting straight up in bed, panic clear across his face, eyes darting around anxiously. Her heart drops and guilt seizes her as she realizes why he's upset-- he must have been scared that she'd left him there, all alone. Must have thought she was ashamed and didn't want to be with him. Oh god. It pains her to know that she's trained him to react this way. That he can even think she could just get up and leave him without warning.
She has so much she wants to make up to him. And now she has the rest of her life to make it right.
"I'm here," she assures him, crawling up on the bed and over to him. He sees her, and his face is flooded with relief, the alarm and trepidation dissolving away as she takes one of his hands in hers. Presses his palm to her cheek and looks into his eyes.
"Was worried there for a moment," he admits, sweeping some loose hair away from her face and looking away, almost shyly. "Thought you'd--"
"Spike... look at me." Her voice is firm, and slowly he turns and meets her gaze. "I'm so glad that I found you again." She wraps her arms around his neck, holds him close. "No matter what happens, I'll be here. I can't lose you now."
"I'm not going anywhere, love." His voice soothes everything away. Absolutely everything and the nothings in between.
She wants to know everything about him; wants to tell him of all the mistakes she's made in the past and how they haunt her. How she dreamed of him and counted the days, and how he is the reason her heart healed enough to open again. She wants to tell him everything. She's going to do it right this time.
Buffy leans in, kisses him full on the mouth. She doesn't have to tell him everything right now; they have all the time in the world for talking.
"Minty," he notices when she draws back, sending her a tongue-to-teeth smirk.
She laughs, brushing her nose against his in something akin to an Eskimo kiss before flopping down beside him. "So, how'd you sleep?"
He turns onto his side, cocks his head and smiles at her. "Perfect."
Buffy threads her fingers through his soft curls and smiles back. She's discovered that sometimes simply falling asleep in a lover's arms is better than screaming his name during sex. After last night, when he was inside of her, and she'd felt as if they were the only two beings in the universe, she hadn't believed that there could be anything better. But there was. His arms wrapped around her soul, whispering her to sleep and watching her, all the while believing she was an angel. The things she's done prove him wrong, but he swears otherwise.
She can't remember the last time she felt this relaxed, felt this perfectly content. The very fact that he's even here at all is still something her mind hasn't been able to completely grasp, never mind the fact that they're together, like this. She just wants to lay and bask in the miracle of it all.
Buffy can see his glance is set on her out of the corner of her eye. "What?" she asks self-consciously.
"You're incredible," he says simply.
She rolls over to face him and grasps his hand, entwining his fingers with hers. He has this magnificent way of making everything fade away every time he touches her. It's as if time holds its breath with each kiss. His fingers trace her face and the sharp curve of her jaw, a liquid movement to the pillow of her stomach. Lightning and spiders zip through her nerves, and she becomes an elixir sliding through his fingers.
"So, what are you thinking?" His breath is on her lips and his voice is so mysteriously intoxicating, as smooth and decadent as rich chocolate.
"I'm just trying to tell myself I'm not dreaming." The words barely leave Buffy's mouth before his lips meet hers again.
The way he touches her face sends her into a wonderland full of lilies and jasmine. There is something in his eyes. Something about the way his teeth show when he smiles. She knows they probably shouldn't be doing this; it's so soon, so fast, so much. Oh, but she can't bring herself to care. It feels like they've been waiting for eternities. As she rests against the pillows, his hands caress her sides and pull her closer to him, as if he can read her mind. It is like nothing, no one else exists.
"You snore really loud." Buffy blurts out the comment with a wicked grin.
She rolls over on her side, surrounded by an oven of warmth. Her hair spills around on the pillow, spreading around her in waves of gold, and he grasps a tangle of her hair oddly, running his fingers through it and smiling.
"And you seriously need a shower," he teases.
The smell of greasy, unwashed hair evades her mind and settles on a shelf with all the other signals of dirtiness. They laugh, morning breath mingling in the air.
"So do you." She turns over, sitting up and clutching the sheet to her chest modestly.
Spike makes a low grumbling sound, throwing the covers aside and stepping into the adjoining bathroom. The musical, singsong chirp of the cicadas bounce against the tile walls. Buffy comes up from behind, standing in the doorway and studying him from a short distance as he digs through his wardrobe, which consists of rumpled clothing piled in a corner. Never was one for organization. She smiles, eyes travelling over his face. Everything about him seems the same as it was before. His linear jaw maybe seems smoother than usual, more pronounced. But his eyes that have been blue since birth are still as piercing as ever, and everything else is the same as the day before. She watches as he pulls out a white button-down shirt from the heap of clothes.
When Buffy laughs, Spike turns around quickly and realizes that she's standing there.
"If you wear that, you're going to look like a priest." She says it with a light, quirky tone, like it's something sacred and looking like a priest is damning him to hell. "And you know, you're not that innocent."
"Right you are." He tilts his head in her direction. "You want dibs on the shower first, love? I can wait."
"Actually…" She smiles at him, positively wicked. The sheet covering her body drops to the floor, and she leans against the doorway, standing before him naked. "I was thinking we could, you know, share. Only to save hot water, of course."
"Of course." He grins back, equally as impish as she.
Spike reaches downward, pulling the shower curtain back and twisting the knob on. He steps underneath the warm spray, and she quickly joins him, ducking her head back and letting her hair be doused with water. It streams down her face in steady rivulets, and he stares at her, mesmerized by her beauty. She takes the bar of soap and rubs it across his naked chest, working up a thick lather. Explores his skin with her fingertips, sliding her arms around his waist, pulling him closer, pelvis to pelvis.
Buffy can't help but feel slightly proprietary when it comes to him; she's done so much to this skin—she's bruised and scarred and fucked it, seen it both broken and beautiful, and no one knows the canvas of his body the way she does. She watches the water wash away the soap, and she leans down, kisses his chest. He has a beautiful chest, perfectly smooth. She glides her hands up over the cool, tense muscles of his shoulders, down across the flat of his fine back. He's flawless.
She kisses him again, presses her mouth against his fiercely. Hot and wet, tongues tangling, the water raining down on them both. She's pushed up against the cool tile, and her hands roam everywhere, coveting the feel of his slippery, seal-like skin, soaked with water. Spike runs his hands down her back, and she shivers uncontrollably as he strokes her skin, despite the heat of the shower mist.
Suddenly, without warning, he pulls back from her, and with a flick of his wrist the shower is abruptly switched off.
"All done," Spike declares cheerfully, pushing aside the shower curtain and stepping out.
"What?" Buffy stares at him, shocked and a bit indignant. "But—but we weren't done!"
"I'm all clean," he responds, a sly grin on his face, an eyebrow quirked playfully. "Still feeling dirty, pet?"
Buffy groans in frustration, but he sees her flickering smile. "You asshole! You're nothing but a big tease!"
She snatches a towel and snaps it at him, and he snickers in response. Mid-laugh, however, it turns into a long, lazy yawn. His eyes look tired despite the ever-present glint of mischief.
"Okay, you're still exhausted, I can tell," Buffy says to him. "You're going to go lay down and get more sleep."
"I'm not tired!" he protests, but his voice becomes muffled as he yawns again. "Or, not that tired. I'm perfectly awake."
"No, you're not." She puts a firm hand on his arm and drags him out of the bathroom, not stopping until he's sitting down on the bed, underneath the covers. "I'll go downstairs. You just sleep for awhile."
"Buffy…" Spike's face shifts into something serious as he looks at her.
She frowns. "What is it?"
"You shouldn't have to go down there by yourself," he responds. "I'm sure they all know what's happened with us, if the sounds you were making last night were any indication—"
"Oh," she realizes, laying beside him. "Well, it'll be okay. I mean, Angel knows about how I feel, even if he probaby didn't exactly realize what we would be doing, so he'll be fine with it, really…"
Buffy's voice trails off, and Spike gives her a doubtful, uncertain look.
"It'll be okay." She leans down, kisses him. It's a promise, a vow. One that she won't break. "It will. I promise."
He looks at her in silence for a few moments once she pulls away.
"Things have changed," he says, softly, as if it were a song. And there's something about that. Something that makes her heart flutter.
She smiles. "They have."
