Title: Return
Author: Ivytree
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Like I could create these guys.
All characters belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, Mutant Enemy, etc.
Feedback: Please!
Summary: A Spike-centric alternative ending (which you can bet will never happen) for Ep. 22 of this season, incorporating many (though not all) recent spoilers. The end of BtVS, and the beginning of The Spike Show.
SITUATIONAL SPOILERS
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
RETURN
Part 11. Journey's End
Buffy's arms twined around Spike's neck, and he slowly slid his around her waist. His lips were cool, soft, and oh, so hungry; her head began to whirl. He pressed gently against her and she thought, well, that's never happened before -- no wrestling, and then she stopped thinking anything at all. She just gave up to the feeling, warm against cool, soft against hard, smooth against rough, pressing, sliding, pushing, pulling.
Finally they parted with a gasp, but stood for a moment trembling and clinging to each other for support. Buffy burrowed her head against his still-silent chest; Spike felt her passionate heartbeat resonating through both their bodies.
"Stay," Buffy said.
"What, love?" he said softly into her hair.
She lifted her face. "I want you to stay here. I don't want you going back to your crypt alone when you're not a hundred percent."
"Well, love, I appreciate the offer," he began, pulling back slightly.
"Don't be such a tough guy!" she insisted. "It could be dangerous. Who knows what side effects there could be from your -- your condition? You should be here where we -- where Giles can watch you."
"I don't know what to say," Spike said. More than anything, that convinced her that he was at least temporarily weakened. He couldn't even think of a smart remark. She felt a frightening wave of tenderness, and resolutely tried to control it.
She took his hand. "All this -- what you're doing - it's a strain. I want you to go upstairs and rest. And I mean rest," she said, looking him firmly in the eye. Big mistake; he was giving her that look again, from under his brows, his head tilted downward. She felt drowned in his eyes, and looked away hastily.
"I forgot how bossy you are," he grumbled half-heartedly. "Vamp here, you know; self-sufficient," which just got him another look, less fervent this time. Buffy tugged on his hand, and he sighed histrionically and followed her up the stairs. This time they both leaned on the banister, however.
She went into her bedroom first to close the curtains, and he lay down on her bed without protest, in fact gratefully. Spike looked up at her and it seemed as if he were in the midst of a familiar dream, a dream he'd had so many times, so far away from here, and cherished like a talisman. Though the dream had involved a bit more action, and never included being incapacitated by exhaustion -- or being observed by a stuffed pig with a rather critical expression.
She took both his hands in hers, and sat on the edge of the bed, with a tentative smile. "When you were gone, I dreamed that we were here just like this -- okay, maybe not exactly like this," she said. "Even before you were gone, actually."
"Yeah, me too," he said, his voice husky.
"I wanted tell you how sorry I was that everything went wrong, if you ever came back," she said resolutely.
"Buffy, love, no apologies. Not now. If anything, I -- "
"No, I want to say it right out," she faltered, "because I lied to you before -- "
"I know."
"And I know you never lied to me about how you felt." She took a breath. "I know you're different. But I'm different, too. I'm trying not to lie anymore, even to myself," she smiled again, "and you don't know how hard that is! But whatever happens now -- I knew I loved you before you left, and I just couldn't -- " She stopped. She didn't want to cry. Men hated that. She just looked at him helplessly.
"Buffy -- " He couldn't speak. Just looked at her, his face a kaleidoscope of feelings. Her hazel eyes were enormous and soft, her face taut with concern. They shared a long look, full of meaning -- I love you, I trust you, I believe in you. Buffy was afraid to breathe, afraid to accept what she saw there.
"I missed you so much -- " she began, pressing his hand to her cheek. Then she stopped abruptly. He tried to draw his hand back, cursing himself silently, but she held him fast. "Spike? What did you do?" she said roughly.
Resisting his efforts to pull them away, Buffy examined both his hands. They were scarred, on the palms and up the wrists under his shirtsleeves. Her face rigid, she opened his shirt and saw more scars crisscrossing his torso; slash marks, burn marks, even what looked like animal bite marks, or worse. Slowly she leaned forward and rested her forehead against his shoulder. "What did you do?" she whispered once more. My fault again, she thought. All my fault.
He smoothed his hand up and down her back. "It'll all fade away in a couple weeks, love, and I'll be good as new. Better, really."
"That's not what I meant and you know it," she said, unappeased.
Spike had faced several unfamiliar dilemmas so far since acquiring a soul (or two), and he supposed this was one more. When he was hurt, and one way or another he had been hurt a great deal lately, he found comfort in imagining Buffy caring for him, binding his wounds, even weeping over them. But now, seeing his pain cause her pain, he wanted nothing more than to hide it. Things just didn't go the way he expected anymore. He sighed.
Gently, he held her away from him to look into her face. "Buffy, love, it's nothing to go all tragic over. That's the way these things work. You've got to risk something -- give up something. I've had worse before and likely I will have again; it doesn't matter."
"That's the way it works? Everyone I love has to suffer because of me?"
"For my own reasons, love. I didn't ask you, did I? I decided what I wanted to do, and I did it. Not your responsibility."
"You wanted to help me! You went through all this, just to help me!" she cried. "Can't anyone I love be happy, ever?"
"Sweetheart." Stroking her hair, he searched for what to tell her; "I am happy," he said at last.
Without another word, she curled up beside him on the bed and wrapped her arms around him, her heart aching with love and confusion.
TBC
------------------------------
"O mistress mine! where are you roaming?
O! stay and hear; your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low.
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.
What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure."
Shakespeare, Twelfth Night
Author: Ivytree
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Like I could create these guys.
All characters belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, Mutant Enemy, etc.
Feedback: Please!
Summary: A Spike-centric alternative ending (which you can bet will never happen) for Ep. 22 of this season, incorporating many (though not all) recent spoilers. The end of BtVS, and the beginning of The Spike Show.
SITUATIONAL SPOILERS
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
RETURN
Part 11. Journey's End
Buffy's arms twined around Spike's neck, and he slowly slid his around her waist. His lips were cool, soft, and oh, so hungry; her head began to whirl. He pressed gently against her and she thought, well, that's never happened before -- no wrestling, and then she stopped thinking anything at all. She just gave up to the feeling, warm against cool, soft against hard, smooth against rough, pressing, sliding, pushing, pulling.
Finally they parted with a gasp, but stood for a moment trembling and clinging to each other for support. Buffy burrowed her head against his still-silent chest; Spike felt her passionate heartbeat resonating through both their bodies.
"Stay," Buffy said.
"What, love?" he said softly into her hair.
She lifted her face. "I want you to stay here. I don't want you going back to your crypt alone when you're not a hundred percent."
"Well, love, I appreciate the offer," he began, pulling back slightly.
"Don't be such a tough guy!" she insisted. "It could be dangerous. Who knows what side effects there could be from your -- your condition? You should be here where we -- where Giles can watch you."
"I don't know what to say," Spike said. More than anything, that convinced her that he was at least temporarily weakened. He couldn't even think of a smart remark. She felt a frightening wave of tenderness, and resolutely tried to control it.
She took his hand. "All this -- what you're doing - it's a strain. I want you to go upstairs and rest. And I mean rest," she said, looking him firmly in the eye. Big mistake; he was giving her that look again, from under his brows, his head tilted downward. She felt drowned in his eyes, and looked away hastily.
"I forgot how bossy you are," he grumbled half-heartedly. "Vamp here, you know; self-sufficient," which just got him another look, less fervent this time. Buffy tugged on his hand, and he sighed histrionically and followed her up the stairs. This time they both leaned on the banister, however.
She went into her bedroom first to close the curtains, and he lay down on her bed without protest, in fact gratefully. Spike looked up at her and it seemed as if he were in the midst of a familiar dream, a dream he'd had so many times, so far away from here, and cherished like a talisman. Though the dream had involved a bit more action, and never included being incapacitated by exhaustion -- or being observed by a stuffed pig with a rather critical expression.
She took both his hands in hers, and sat on the edge of the bed, with a tentative smile. "When you were gone, I dreamed that we were here just like this -- okay, maybe not exactly like this," she said. "Even before you were gone, actually."
"Yeah, me too," he said, his voice husky.
"I wanted tell you how sorry I was that everything went wrong, if you ever came back," she said resolutely.
"Buffy, love, no apologies. Not now. If anything, I -- "
"No, I want to say it right out," she faltered, "because I lied to you before -- "
"I know."
"And I know you never lied to me about how you felt." She took a breath. "I know you're different. But I'm different, too. I'm trying not to lie anymore, even to myself," she smiled again, "and you don't know how hard that is! But whatever happens now -- I knew I loved you before you left, and I just couldn't -- " She stopped. She didn't want to cry. Men hated that. She just looked at him helplessly.
"Buffy -- " He couldn't speak. Just looked at her, his face a kaleidoscope of feelings. Her hazel eyes were enormous and soft, her face taut with concern. They shared a long look, full of meaning -- I love you, I trust you, I believe in you. Buffy was afraid to breathe, afraid to accept what she saw there.
"I missed you so much -- " she began, pressing his hand to her cheek. Then she stopped abruptly. He tried to draw his hand back, cursing himself silently, but she held him fast. "Spike? What did you do?" she said roughly.
Resisting his efforts to pull them away, Buffy examined both his hands. They were scarred, on the palms and up the wrists under his shirtsleeves. Her face rigid, she opened his shirt and saw more scars crisscrossing his torso; slash marks, burn marks, even what looked like animal bite marks, or worse. Slowly she leaned forward and rested her forehead against his shoulder. "What did you do?" she whispered once more. My fault again, she thought. All my fault.
He smoothed his hand up and down her back. "It'll all fade away in a couple weeks, love, and I'll be good as new. Better, really."
"That's not what I meant and you know it," she said, unappeased.
Spike had faced several unfamiliar dilemmas so far since acquiring a soul (or two), and he supposed this was one more. When he was hurt, and one way or another he had been hurt a great deal lately, he found comfort in imagining Buffy caring for him, binding his wounds, even weeping over them. But now, seeing his pain cause her pain, he wanted nothing more than to hide it. Things just didn't go the way he expected anymore. He sighed.
Gently, he held her away from him to look into her face. "Buffy, love, it's nothing to go all tragic over. That's the way these things work. You've got to risk something -- give up something. I've had worse before and likely I will have again; it doesn't matter."
"That's the way it works? Everyone I love has to suffer because of me?"
"For my own reasons, love. I didn't ask you, did I? I decided what I wanted to do, and I did it. Not your responsibility."
"You wanted to help me! You went through all this, just to help me!" she cried. "Can't anyone I love be happy, ever?"
"Sweetheart." Stroking her hair, he searched for what to tell her; "I am happy," he said at last.
Without another word, she curled up beside him on the bed and wrapped her arms around him, her heart aching with love and confusion.
TBC
------------------------------
"O mistress mine! where are you roaming?
O! stay and hear; your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low.
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.
What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure."
Shakespeare, Twelfth Night