'You say I only hear what I want to.
You say I talk so all the time, so.'
She kissed him. Desperately, madly, frantically. She kissed him like there was no tomorrow. She kissed him because she knew if she stopped there wouldn't be.
His hands tightened around her, comfortingly, holding her so close that she thought she would die if she couldn't get closer; couldn't get inside him. And then she was and he was in her and they were moving as she called out his name as he breathed against her neck, his mouth on her breasts and his hands between her legs where they joined. Her own hands splayed across the smooth expanse of his back, curled into his hair and traced the harsh planes of his face.
She told him she loved him, told him she was his forever, offered up her neck and he took it, marked her, claimed her.
And when it was she looked up at him and it wasn't her lover staring down at her. It was Riley and she screamed and screamed and screamed …
'And I thought what I felt was simple,
And I thought that I don't belong,
And now that I am leaving,
Now I know that I did something wrong 'cause I missed you.'
The first of August dawned hot and muggy, the red sunlight slanting in through Buffy's bedroom windows to fill her room. She lay motionless on the bed, her hazel eyes staring unseeingly at the ceiling. It would be better, she considered morosely, if she was dead. Spike was gone, thrown out by her own hand, and that spark that had characterized her life, her purpose, meaning, her very essence, had flown with him.
Just like she had thought it would be.
Tears filled her eyes and she forced them back, reminded herself why she had done what she had done. Even if she never felt again, she reasoned, she would be safe within her numbness; untouchable, shielded. Alone.
The word and all it's implications haunted her; reverberating around the walls of her room until all she could see, hear and feel was the word. She turned on her side as the first of her tears silently fell. She had no one else to blame but herself and it cut her to the quick. By taking the easy way out, leaving Spike, she had condemned herself to a fate that even know she couldn't fully comprehend.
Hurriedly she brushed away the tears (she hated to cry) and sat up. She could still make it work she told herself, just because she and Spike weren't together any more didn't mean her life had to end. She's survived worse before. Hell, she thought wryly, I killed my first lover.
Determined to push the incident behind her she slid from her bed and stretched in the red sunlight. She opened her closet and ran her hands over her clothes, trying to determine which shirt to wear. Finally deciding on a thing gray tank top, she shrugged out of her tank top from the day before, letting it hit the floor as she tugged on the shirt. Her jean followed as she dawned a soft pair of camel colored pants.
She leaned down to the floor to pick up her jeans and paused when her hand felt something hard in the pocket. Curious, she reached her hand inside the pocket and pulled it out. Nestling in the palm of her hand was Spike's silver lighter.
* * *
Alcohol, Spike concluded, was a bloody amazing therapist.
The amber liquid burned within him scraping his esophagus, warming him from the inside out until he was too hot to think, to hot to feel, to hot to remember. False warmth spread throughout him, making him believe in his addled state that he was alive again, in the sun with her. He'd felt like that once before, when he'd been inside her, when he touched the most hidden parts of her self and she'd opened under him like a flower -- exposed and fragile -- and filled him until there was nothing else left. She had been his sun.
Spike pushed the thought away and took another drink of the liquor, letting it work it's way through his body. Hopefully, he prayed, it wouldn't be too much longer until he passed out. His vision blurred and the crumbling ceiling of the crypt dipped and swayed above him, lulling his eyes back closed.
Bright light lurked behind his lids, drawing him deeper and deeper into unconsciousness, promising him escape. He let himself float away, light on the wings of his drunkenness, blissfully unaware of the cold, empty crypt around him, deaf to the echoes of her voice.
And who says I love you?
'Yeah, yeah, I missed you.'
You say I talk so all the time, so.'
She kissed him. Desperately, madly, frantically. She kissed him like there was no tomorrow. She kissed him because she knew if she stopped there wouldn't be.
His hands tightened around her, comfortingly, holding her so close that she thought she would die if she couldn't get closer; couldn't get inside him. And then she was and he was in her and they were moving as she called out his name as he breathed against her neck, his mouth on her breasts and his hands between her legs where they joined. Her own hands splayed across the smooth expanse of his back, curled into his hair and traced the harsh planes of his face.
She told him she loved him, told him she was his forever, offered up her neck and he took it, marked her, claimed her.
And when it was she looked up at him and it wasn't her lover staring down at her. It was Riley and she screamed and screamed and screamed …
'And I thought what I felt was simple,
And I thought that I don't belong,
And now that I am leaving,
Now I know that I did something wrong 'cause I missed you.'
The first of August dawned hot and muggy, the red sunlight slanting in through Buffy's bedroom windows to fill her room. She lay motionless on the bed, her hazel eyes staring unseeingly at the ceiling. It would be better, she considered morosely, if she was dead. Spike was gone, thrown out by her own hand, and that spark that had characterized her life, her purpose, meaning, her very essence, had flown with him.
Just like she had thought it would be.
Tears filled her eyes and she forced them back, reminded herself why she had done what she had done. Even if she never felt again, she reasoned, she would be safe within her numbness; untouchable, shielded. Alone.
The word and all it's implications haunted her; reverberating around the walls of her room until all she could see, hear and feel was the word. She turned on her side as the first of her tears silently fell. She had no one else to blame but herself and it cut her to the quick. By taking the easy way out, leaving Spike, she had condemned herself to a fate that even know she couldn't fully comprehend.
Hurriedly she brushed away the tears (she hated to cry) and sat up. She could still make it work she told herself, just because she and Spike weren't together any more didn't mean her life had to end. She's survived worse before. Hell, she thought wryly, I killed my first lover.
Determined to push the incident behind her she slid from her bed and stretched in the red sunlight. She opened her closet and ran her hands over her clothes, trying to determine which shirt to wear. Finally deciding on a thing gray tank top, she shrugged out of her tank top from the day before, letting it hit the floor as she tugged on the shirt. Her jean followed as she dawned a soft pair of camel colored pants.
She leaned down to the floor to pick up her jeans and paused when her hand felt something hard in the pocket. Curious, she reached her hand inside the pocket and pulled it out. Nestling in the palm of her hand was Spike's silver lighter.
* * *
Alcohol, Spike concluded, was a bloody amazing therapist.
The amber liquid burned within him scraping his esophagus, warming him from the inside out until he was too hot to think, to hot to feel, to hot to remember. False warmth spread throughout him, making him believe in his addled state that he was alive again, in the sun with her. He'd felt like that once before, when he'd been inside her, when he touched the most hidden parts of her self and she'd opened under him like a flower -- exposed and fragile -- and filled him until there was nothing else left. She had been his sun.
Spike pushed the thought away and took another drink of the liquor, letting it work it's way through his body. Hopefully, he prayed, it wouldn't be too much longer until he passed out. His vision blurred and the crumbling ceiling of the crypt dipped and swayed above him, lulling his eyes back closed.
Bright light lurked behind his lids, drawing him deeper and deeper into unconsciousness, promising him escape. He let himself float away, light on the wings of his drunkenness, blissfully unaware of the cold, empty crypt around him, deaf to the echoes of her voice.
And who says I love you?
'Yeah, yeah, I missed you.'