Summary: Buffy tries explaining herself, and discovers, inevitably, that actions always speak louder than words...
Rating: As promised, upping to PG-13 for implication. But as this is me, you can expect a decently obscure fade-to-black. :P
Disclaimer: They belong to Joss, but I'm giving them what they deserve. Well, I'm giving Spike what he deserves... I'm giving Buffy more than she probably does.
Setting: As before.
Author's Notes: Let the fluff commence! This was the sequence I had planned for a while, although in my head it was very short, starting with her saying "I have a confession to make" and admitting that she heard him talking to her, and him admitting the same. But it wouldn't be Spuffy without extensive preamble, so here, I give you the outcome, finally. And maybe it was because I wrote it in a PMT (or PMS, if you're American) haze, but this will probably leave you with either warm fuzzies or angsty pangs, or both, if you're lucky. I spent most of the time writing it going "Ow...", but it's probably less effective on other people's brains. :) Anyway, enjoy the gratuitous shippiness. :)
To answer a question that seemed to be bugging someone: 'the house' mentioned was the one from 'Touched', not Buffy's... Just to clear up any confusion there. And the 'background chatter' remains, I'm afraid. This one's about thoughts and feelings, not dialogue. Although I admit there is a little more in this one... I warn you, though, if you ignore the prose and go straight for the dialogue, you're missing some of the important stuff...
Chosen - Counterpoint
In any other situation, her reaction would be amusing; right now, it only makes his heart sink. She regrets what she said, and for all the times he thought he'd prepared for this, it hurts more than he ever imagined. Even if it was true - and he's always known it, even when she was denying it - then she doesn't want it to be. He knows the feeling well: loving someone you're not supposed to, but unable to stop it.
The doodle tacked to the punch-bag catches his eye; more than ever, he wants to rip his grand-Sire's head off. The mental image brings some respite from dealing with the Slayer, but only for a moment. She moves again: just a drop of her head, but it's enough to focus his attention back on her. She seems more embarrassed now than anything, but it doesn't make it feel any better.
"Right…" he says, almost apologetic. "Doesn't matter… Like I said, I thought I was dreaming…" He hopes, by explaining it away, giving her the chance to take it back, that they won't have to deal with it. The last time he tried to get to the bottom of things, it ended in tears, and he's not willing to put his emotions through the wringer a second time.
At his muttered comment, however, her head snaps up again. "It doesn't matter?" she asks, surprised. "How can you say that?"
There she goes again, giving him hope. One day, he's sure he'll stop rising to the bait. "I'm done pushing you, Buffy, you know that. Whatever it is you feel for me…" He can't finish the thought; he can't tell her it doesn't matter, when it matters more than ever. Why is it so difficult to have this conversation with her, when they both know the truth?
"For God's sake, Spike," she says, raising her voice. "That's what I came down here to tell you." But her irritation is belied by the warm smile on her face, and in that moment, he knows exactly what she means.
"What?"
It's a stupid answer, but it's all he can manage when he realises what's going on, why she's here. She walks towards him; he's frozen to the spot, and can do nothing but watch her approach and wonder if he's still dreaming after all. It's all an illusion. She's the First, and he's nothing but a toy.
But surely the First would be more thorough than this… There should be more guises, more taunting, more of Dru's fake insanity and certainly more appearances of himself; there's been nothing since the vineyard. And yet he managed to sing to her only a few nights ago, and proved that the trigger no longer works, so it can only be real.
This cannot be happening…
He's well aware, by this point, that he must look ridiculous, but he can't wipe the shocked expression off his face, and she hasn't even said anything to justify it yet. He notices that she smirks, just slightly, but manages to cover it up. Even now, when they're on the brink of apocalypse, she can make him forget that they might not live to see another day; she can make the world beyond their dark basement vanish into dust.
He watches her grow closer for what seems like hours, her footsteps echoing exaggeratedly through the haze of his disbelief, but finally, she stops, and sits beside him. Part of him wants to run before he's hurt again, but a stronger, more determined part makes him stay, rooting him to the spot. She examines her fingernails, struggling to find the right words.
Deep down, she thinks there's no way this should be so difficult. Even with the web of complicated emotions between them, it shouldn't feel as impossible as it does. Sitting next to him has made it only marginally easier, and only because it drives her to carry on instead of run away. The thought of how much better everything could have been is what compels her to finish what she's started.
"I've been trying to work out why I keep coming back to you lately," she explains. "All I know is… I meant what I told you the other day. It was because of you that I had the strength to go after Caleb, and I was there with you that night…" She looks over to him, but can't see his expression; instead, she reaches over to extricate one of his hands from where they're clasped in his lap, and holds onto it. The action causes him to look at her, and the hope in his gaze is what forces her to continue. "I tried to justify why it was that you made me feel safer than I have in a long time, the other night… but there was no point. I just needed you close; more than that, I had to know you still felt something for me. You were the only thing in my life that hadn't changed or… or betrayed me, and nothing else mattered."
He stares at her, intently, and she knows what he's thinking before he says it. "What about last year?"
"Forget about last year," she says, and she's never meant it more. "The way I figure, there may not even be a future at this rate, so there's no point in dwelling on past mistakes. And we're rapidly running out of darkness, so stop interrupting me…" She smiles to prove she's joking. "Anyway… I… I don't regret what I said to you the other morning… and I don't regret what I feel." And yet, she's still not ready to say the words. I just know that I don't deserve you."
He does what can only be described as a double-take, blinking rapidly in surprise. "Run that by me again, love?"
Sometimes, he can be such an idiot. Surely he hasn't forgotten everything he's been through, everything he's done to try and win her affections? Perhaps it's a trait inherent in nineteenth century romantics, carried within him a hundred and fifty years down the line. She wonders why the thought has never occurred to her before now. "You've done so much for me, Spike," she explains, reminding him. "For me, for Dawn while I was gone, and for everyone, when it mattered. You got a soul for me, even when you knew the price. You never stopped loving me, and I gave you every reason to hate me. All I ever did was beat you down and use you, but you're still around, and I've tried and tried to figure out why and all I can ever come up with is that you must be a glutton for punishment…"
"The sad thing is," he says, "you're probably right…" They share a laugh, and some of the weight lifts from the room, even though her task is far from over. He reaches up to brush a strand of hair out of her face, just like the other night, and that same feeling sweeps over her again; her heart skips more beats than can be healthy, and the too-brief contact is so full of longing that it brings fresh tears to her eyes. "I'm here because I have to be," he says, cryptically. "You can think what you like of me for sayin' it, but… being in love with you is the only reason I've ever needed to stick around."
It seems like she's run out of words, as she finally lets herself shed a tear. The walls have well and truly crumbled now, no doubt about it, but he's in no position to do anything. Before he even realises what he's doing, he's on his feet, and dragging her with him, and within seconds she's tight in his arms, clinging to him with equal strength. Suddenly, in that moment, the awkwardness and doubt lifts from the room, just as a blanket of contented silence falls to replace it.
He's spent the past two nights holding her, but not like this. For longer than he can remember, he's longed to hug her, to know what it was like; he's watched her give affection so easily to her friends and sister, even to her Watcher. He's not been allowed to ask: always about her, never about him, and no mention at all of a 'them'. He'd always supposed she'd feel so small - a hug from Giles would swamp her - but now he sees it's not the case, if her rib-breaking grasp is anything to go by.
She shudders, swallows a sob, trying to stop herself from breaking down. If she starts, she won't be able to stop; the crying can wait until it's over, but it's not an option right now. As much as he wants to let her, to tell her it's fine, that he's there, he can't. Not just for the sake of humanity, whose Fate rests in their hands, but for his own: if she starts, he will, too, and then they'll both be useless. So instead, he rubs her back, whispering, "Don't…" until her breathing settles again.
Resting his chin on the top of her head, he closes his eyes. If the end of the world is nigh, so be it. Let the Turok-Han come and rip them all to shreds, because it's the only way he's ever going to let her go again. He breathes in vanilla, and cinnamon (she's spoken to Willow today…), basement dust, and the tar-like smell of impending doom as the Hellmouth bubbles, the leather of her jacket, the residual freshness from her being outdoors, the mixture of various teenage perfumes lingering in the air, and all the combinations of crypt-like mustiness and ancient vamp-dust and dried blood that make up the Slayer, and it feels like home. It's a fog-thick night in London in 1882, and Elizabeth is a hundred times what Cecily ever was.
When she looks up, he kisses her forehead. She squeezes tighter, possessively; something that sounds suspiciously bone-like cracks, and he winces, pulling away slightly despite the temptation to ignore the pain. She realises and pulls back completely, her expression sincere and concerned.
"Oh, God, did I hurt you?" She's checking for broken bones already; this is familiar.
He stops her wandering hands again, though the intention is entirely different. "It's just the same old rib," he says. "It'll fix."
"I never thought I'd have to control the Slayer-strength with you…"
"You don't." He rests his arms lightly around her, craving contact, rubbing the small of her back as though accustomed to the gesture. "I wouldn't have it any other way. You can break as many ribs as you like." Just say you won't let go, he thinks, refraining from saying it aloud. Promise you'll never let me go…
"It's clearly a sign from God," she jokes. "Slayers obviously aren't allowed to hug people without breaking them."
"Pity, that," he says. "Seeing as they're so huggable…" She smiles, lopsidedly, and he knows she's thinking about something. His psychic abilities have yet to be honed, however, so all he can do is wait to find out what. She seems to be examining him, as if for the very first time, and he suddenly notices just how close they are - what would have been construed as dangerously so, at another time. Her scrutiny only serves to make him nervous.
Finally, she speaks, her eyes never leaving his. "I didn't get around to saying what I meant to…" And yet, still, the words won't form, and it's one struggle he can't help her with. Three words. Three simple words, that have the power to change everything, that he's been waiting for her to say for longer than he can even remember these days, and there's nothing he can do but wait.
'She'll tell you. Someday she'll tell you…' Cassie's prediction resounds in his memory, and somehow, he knows that today isn't that 'someday'. He knows how she feels, like he has all along; this time, he's much more sure of it. She's proven that much already tonight, and told him in passing already, although they both know it doesn't really count.
She stares at him, implores him to understand. He does. "It's hard to say," he reassures her. "Believe me. I know."
"So why do you have no trouble?" Her tone is tinged slightly with an air that implies the unfairness of it, and he smiles.
"I've had a bit more practice. I like sayin' it…" He strokes her cheek, no longer anticipating any reprimand for it. "And with you… with you, it's the only thing I can say that makes any sense. I know I talk too much sometimes, ramble… but most of the words don't mean a thing. There's only three that count for anything, Buffy: I love you, no matter how wrong it is."
It hasn't helped in the slightest, but he suspected as much. She looks thoughtful again, but only for a second; in the next moment, his own thoughts rapidly dissolve into incoherence.
She wants to say, 'You're not helping', but she doesn't. Instead, her brain turns to mush, and nothing will form at all in the way of intelligent conversation. There's one thing left to do, the only thing right now that's even a possibility. She leans forwards; halfway there, she realises she should have done this right at the start and saved all the time she wasted on explaining things.
When her lips meet his, the three-word phrase explodes in her mind, bouncing around as though there's nothing else in the world of any meaning. He's surprised by the contact - as was partially her intention - but kisses her back, tenderly, cautiously, terrified, carefully holding her just close enough, and last year was never like this, like she's drowning or falling into a black hole, like her heart will explode from needing to love him so much…
He lets her up for breath, instinctively knowing, even after all this time, when her lungs are starting to burn. She leans her forehead against his for a moment, steadying her heart rate to a level where it won't burst out of her chest, and then, when she's certain she can talk, she lifts her head to face him, finally ready to finish what she came here for.
His eyes are still closed. She reaches to touch his face, and he opens them, but still doesn't speak. Eventually, the only thing she can come out with herself is a breathless "Wow…"
He grins. "You're telling me?" She smiles, glad, at least, that she's not the only one affected. He lifts her chin with one hand - "I've missed you. Missed this…" - and then leans in for another kiss. Before she succumbs, she clamours for lucidity, and pulls back out of the way, completely out of his grasp.
"No…" Confusion and panic flash in his eyes when she stops him, and hurt, and she quickly rectifies the situation, reaching for his hands. "I mean… not yet. Not until I've done what I came here for…"
"It doesn't matter…"
Those words again. "Yes, it does. We both know it does, Spike. I need you to know. There is no way I'm going into battle tomorrow with this still on my conscience."
She takes a deep breath, ready, finally, to say the words, but before she can even get the first one out, he stops her. "Buffy… don't."
She's confused, and worried, and he wishes for once that he could just give them both a chance… but logic surfaces from the quagmire of his emotions, and predominates. After that kiss, he's in no more doubt about how she feels - and if that's all Cassie meant, then it's more than enough - but no matter how much they try to deny it, there's a war to be fought, and it isn't the time.
"I'm not going to pretend that I don't want to hear it, because we both know I'd be lying. But like you said, neither of us might come out of this bloody war alive tomorrow… and I don't want to lose you, knowing for sure what I could have had. More than that, I don't want you to regret never telling me sooner, if it's me that doesn't make it."
"And regretting never telling you at all is better?" she asks. "Did I miss something?"
"It's not like I've never known," he clarifies. She nods, seeming to understand what he's saying. "If you wait, just until it's all over… then we'll both have tomorrow to live for instead of yesterday…"
"You're right…" she says, and then re-iterates, with a smile: "I hate that…"
"But you'll wait?"
"I'll wait. And when I tell you, it won't be in here…"
He smiles his gratitude, and then rolls his eyes at himself. "I must be insane…"
"It wouldn't be the first time. And hey, still in a basement," she says, ironically, gesturing around them. "Although I admit it's a slightly cosier one…"
"Oh, definitely…" Then he remembers what he was going to do before his temporary insanity set in, and closes the gap that's formed between them, kissing her just like before. Everything in the universe except them seems to stop, and if only that were true, if only it were possible to make time stand still so tomorrow doesn't happen. Somehow, through the haze of quickly diminishing logic, he's aware of being dragged, pulled, directed towards the wall, of leaning further down to accommodate wherever it is she's taking him, of bumping into something that feels suspiciously like-
Breaking the contact, he has to check, and discovers that he's not dreaming. She's sitting on the cot, and it suddenly seems like both a nightmare and the biggest miracle in the universe, and he's not even sure what to say.
"Buffy?" She looks up at him, expectant, and fully anticipating the question. "Are… are you sure?"
She shushes him with a finger to his lips. "Only if you can believe you won't get hurt…"
The irony isn't lost, and it's pointless to even question her. There's no time to ask if it's a statement of forgiveness; she's already been through her repentance: they both have, many times over. All he can do is nod, for both of them. With a smile, she pulls him down into another sense-numbing kiss, and beyond that, most other thoughts vanish into the night. She can wait another day to say she loves him; he can wait another lifetime to hear it; but neither of them can wait for this a second longer…
A/N: Same rules apply: more reviews gets you the final chapter, which is set during and after the final battle and will be angsty as Hell, so be warned. (I'm currently finishing the final section, and it makes my heart hurt...) I'm also still battling the overwhelming urge to turn my silly, clichéd idea for a sequel into an actual fic; if you see something turn up with my name on it that claims to be a continuation, please smack me...