'And you say, I only hear what I want to,
I don't listen hard,
I don't pay attention to the distance that you're running
To anyone, anywhere,
I don't understand if you really care,
I'm only hearing negative: no, no, no.'
Accepting Willow's invitation to go the beach with Riley, Tara, Xander and her had appeared to be the perfect way to forget about Spike and his lighter; which, despite her determination to put him behind her, rested heavily in the pocket of her beach bag. She could picture it's rectangular metallic casing, glinting in her palm as she'd held it up in the light of her bedroom window. She hadn't wanted to believe it at first; she'd finally, painfully, cut her ties with him and yet, there, in the palm of her hand sat his lighter, his favorite lighter, the one he would surely be missing soon. She'd wanted to laugh. It wasn't for lack of trying that she hadn't, the only sound she'd been able to make was somewhere between a sob and a shriek, barely resembling anything human. In the end she'd done the only thing she could think to do with it.
She'd put it back in her pocket and then gone to the beach. Stupid, really, when she thought about it. It would have been much better if she'd thrown it away, melted it even, or smashed it. Anything would have been better than keeping it.
She started at the sudden presence behind her and, prepared to plaster on an overly-bright smile, the kind she'd been sporting all day for the benefit of her friends, found herself facing the serene face of Tara. The girl smiled, and ducked her head shyly while mumbling an indiscrete "hey". The false smile never made it to her face. Instead, Buffy only managed a slight upturning of her mouth before she focused her gaze back on the tide.
Tara sat beside her silently in the sand, the cool ocean water lapping at their feet while the slight breeze ruffled their hair. Behind them they could hear the other's laughter as they fooled around on the beach; Riley's laughter reached her ears and, try as she might, she was unable to find a response to it in her heart. What did she care about hit happiness? It had cost her everything she loved.
Buffy sighed and rolled her shoulders, stretching her neck and arms.
"You know," Tara's quiet voice broke through Buffy's solitude, "when I first came out of the closet it wasn't easy." She paused, gauging Buffy's attention before continuing, "Before Willow, when I-I was at home, there was a girl." She shrugged, "My … family d-didn't approve. I did it anyway."
Buffy nodded, slightly confused by Tara's confidences, "It must have been hard."
Tara smiled, "B-but worth it, y'know?"
Buffy turned her gaze back to the sea, thinking of the lighter in the duffel bag pocket, "Yeah, I know." Silence followed her statement as the watched the waves roll through the ocean, green and blue and white, foam and bits of seaweed and shell.
Finally, Tara stood, brushing the dirt from her legs as she went, "If you love him then y-you should b-be with h-him. The p-people w-who love y-you will l-learn to accept it, a-and, i-if not," she shrugged, "W-were th-they worth it a-anyway?"
"H-how, did you know?"
Tara smiled, "I-I saw. A-at the Bronze." With one last smile she turned to join the others, leaving Buffy sitting stunned on the sand. The horizon spread far out before her, seemingly full of possibilities and, just for a moment, the heaviness lifted from her shoulders. It was clear then, in that instant when she was free from her burdens, that she didn't need Spike to survive. She loved, breathed, him, but she was still herself, still Buffy. Aged perhaps, bitter now, but still herself, still going, even without her heart. A heart that, if she believed Tara, she wouldn't have to go on without too much longer.
She stood, determination taking root. To hell with them all, she thought, Spike is what I want and everyone else can just deal. Quickly, she began walking away from the beach, stopping only to grab her duffel bag and reassure her friends while returning Tara's knowing smile and ignoring Riley's darkly questioning gaze.
Hopefully, there was still time to make it right.
'So I turned the radio on, I turned the radio up,
And this woman was singing my song,
Lovers in love and the others run away,
Lover is crying cause the other won't stay.'
Spike loaded the last of his meager belongings into the beat-up backseat of his DeSoto. All around him Sunnydale was as still as death, the humid night chasing the town's inhabitants inside, away from the elements. There was never a better time to leave.
He slammed the back door shut and gave the hood of the car a loving pat. She'd served him well for all the years that he'd had her, with any luck she'd continue doing so. Spike turned back towards the crypt and walked into the empty space one last time. His duster hung heavily over the edge of the sarcophagus. He picked it up and donned it slowly, his mind flashing back to the last time he donned the duster that way; back in Brazil, back with Drusilla.
He shook the image away. He didn't need to see her, standing white and perfect in the moonlight now, her dark eyes watching him as he'd walked away down that Brazilian dirt road. The image shifted and it was no longer Drusilla he saw in his mind's eyes but Buffy, her skin golden in the fading sunlight, her hazel eyes hollow as she turned away from him, the sunbeam of her hair setting around her squared shoulders as she walked out of his crypt; out of his life.
"Bloody hell," Spike mumbled under his breath, "A man's gotta know when to leave. Now's as good a time as any, when I still have some dignity intact."
Only silence answered him.
He strode awkwardly out of the crypt, pausing just over the stone threshold. His eyes fluttered closed as he breathed in the moist night air, letting the heat wash over him, before opening them and striding off towards the car. If he didn't leave now, he might not ever. He was only a few feet from the car when he stopped, his eyes roaming unbelievably over the slight form of his recent torment. She walked towards him slowly, arms wrapped awkwardly around herself despite the heat. She hesitated when she noticed that he'd seen her, her teeth chewing awkwardly on her bottom lip. Her hazel eyes lifted to his and Spike followed and felt his heart drop as he searched the sparkling orbs in the dark. Damn, he thought, she would bloody appear when he was trying to leave.
She continued forward, stopping almost directly before him. His hands reached to reach out and grab her, to close the last twelve inches with the force of their bodies, the crush of their mouths. He could almost feel the slide of her hair under his palms, almost hear the soft cries that she made in the darkness.
"Spike," her voice broke through his reverie, chasing the thoughts away from him.
"Slayer," he acknowledged, his voice cool and steady as his cerulean grey eyes met hers. Silence followed his statement as they watched each other. Finally, Spike continued, "Was there something that you needed? Perhaps you didn't quite grind my heart to dust enough on the last meeting?"
She flinched at that last comment and Spike felt a small twisting surge of gratification. Good, he mused bitterly, she should suffer too. She shook her head, took another small step towards him, "Spike, I need to talk to you."
He shook his head, the bitterness and anger that he'd been harboring over the last two days rising in his throat as he took in her soft eyes and glowing skin, and silken hair and parted mouth … He was drowning despite everything he'd resolved and the realization only made his ire grow, "I think you made yourself perfectly clear last time, Slayer. I was your fuck toy, nothing else, and when you got tired of me you let me know it! Well," he sneered, his hands giving into the temptation to grab her, her skin hot beneath his rough palms as he pulled her flush against him, ignoring the hurt look in her eyes, ignoring the soft mounds of her breasts which pushed painfully against his chest, "I hope you've made enough memories to last you through your spinster nights because, no matter what you say, Riley will never make you feel the way I know I did. To hell with all your stupid protests."
Buffy let out a small dry sob and said his name again, her hands on his chest, the metallic hardness in her palm pressing against his chest but he was only dimly aware of it as he stared down at her. "Well," he said, "I can't bloody forget, I'm going to make sure you can't either."
He kissed her hard, his mouth moving hers open so that their tongues could meet and dance. She stilled beneath him, her hands tightening in the folds of the fabric of his t-shirt. Her lips slid over his, her breath sighing his name as his hands stroked her, claimed her, brought her closer to him. He was burning for her heat, burning from the small cries that he coaxed from her mouth, from the feel of her against him. All too soon though it was over and he stood, holding her, panting, against him. Taking his hands from her was the hardest thing he ever had to do.
'Some of us hover when we weep for the other who was
Dying since the day they were born.'
He moved awkwardly, slowly, towards his car. He pulled the duster tighter; despite the heat, he was cold.
"Spike," her voice cut him short and turned back around to face her. She stood directly behind him, her palm outstretched. Slowly, her fingers uncurled and there, sitting in the midst of her palm, was his lighter. "I'm returning your lighter to you," she shrugged, "Not that that isn't blatantly obvious but … You should have it."
He stared down at the little rectangular piece of metal in her palm, watching as it shimmered dimly in the light of the stars. He knew that if he were to take t now it would be warm, like her hand, in his pocket. But the heat would fade, he reminded himself, he didn't have any to lend it, "Keep it."
She shook her head and thrust the lighter forward trying to press it into his hand, already he could feel the heat leaving it, "No," he said simply, catching her palm and reclosing her fingers over the lighter, "Keep it. Something to remember me by when I'm gone."
"I don't want you gone, Spike," she laid the hand holding the lighter against his chest, her eyes searching his desperately, "I want you here."
"I can't, Buffy," his voice broke on her name, but he was long past trying to salvage his pride, long past pretending that he had anything worth leaving with. He'd known the truth the moment he'd sat eyes on her coming towards him in the darkness, "Can't you understand Slayer? It's killing me to be here, to be near you, and to know that you'd rather have him. Knowing what you know, responding the way you respond, and, despite all that, choosing him."
'Well, well, this is not that;
I think that I'm throwing but I'm thrown.'
"That's just the thing, Spike," she pressed closer against him, her fingers entwining with his, "I can't choose him, Spike. I don't love him."
The implications in her words stunned him, gave him back his dangerous, heady, grip on hope. He searched her eyes, saw the truth in them, felt it in the tightening of her fingers, the quickening of her breath. It was all he needed.
He kissed her against, softer this time, his mouth tasting, teasing hers, relearning familiar textures and paths. Her hand opened and the lighter fell between them to the wet grass as her arms wound around his neck, across his shoulders, over his chest. Finally they pulled apart, breathing heavily.
"C'mon," Buffy said, grabbing his hand, "Let's go home."
'You said, 'I caught you 'cause I want you and one day I'll let you go.'
You try to give away a keeper, or keep me cause you know you're just scared to lose.
And you say, 'Stay.'
And you say, 'I only hear what I want to.''
I don't listen hard,
I don't pay attention to the distance that you're running
To anyone, anywhere,
I don't understand if you really care,
I'm only hearing negative: no, no, no.'
Accepting Willow's invitation to go the beach with Riley, Tara, Xander and her had appeared to be the perfect way to forget about Spike and his lighter; which, despite her determination to put him behind her, rested heavily in the pocket of her beach bag. She could picture it's rectangular metallic casing, glinting in her palm as she'd held it up in the light of her bedroom window. She hadn't wanted to believe it at first; she'd finally, painfully, cut her ties with him and yet, there, in the palm of her hand sat his lighter, his favorite lighter, the one he would surely be missing soon. She'd wanted to laugh. It wasn't for lack of trying that she hadn't, the only sound she'd been able to make was somewhere between a sob and a shriek, barely resembling anything human. In the end she'd done the only thing she could think to do with it.
She'd put it back in her pocket and then gone to the beach. Stupid, really, when she thought about it. It would have been much better if she'd thrown it away, melted it even, or smashed it. Anything would have been better than keeping it.
She started at the sudden presence behind her and, prepared to plaster on an overly-bright smile, the kind she'd been sporting all day for the benefit of her friends, found herself facing the serene face of Tara. The girl smiled, and ducked her head shyly while mumbling an indiscrete "hey". The false smile never made it to her face. Instead, Buffy only managed a slight upturning of her mouth before she focused her gaze back on the tide.
Tara sat beside her silently in the sand, the cool ocean water lapping at their feet while the slight breeze ruffled their hair. Behind them they could hear the other's laughter as they fooled around on the beach; Riley's laughter reached her ears and, try as she might, she was unable to find a response to it in her heart. What did she care about hit happiness? It had cost her everything she loved.
Buffy sighed and rolled her shoulders, stretching her neck and arms.
"You know," Tara's quiet voice broke through Buffy's solitude, "when I first came out of the closet it wasn't easy." She paused, gauging Buffy's attention before continuing, "Before Willow, when I-I was at home, there was a girl." She shrugged, "My … family d-didn't approve. I did it anyway."
Buffy nodded, slightly confused by Tara's confidences, "It must have been hard."
Tara smiled, "B-but worth it, y'know?"
Buffy turned her gaze back to the sea, thinking of the lighter in the duffel bag pocket, "Yeah, I know." Silence followed her statement as the watched the waves roll through the ocean, green and blue and white, foam and bits of seaweed and shell.
Finally, Tara stood, brushing the dirt from her legs as she went, "If you love him then y-you should b-be with h-him. The p-people w-who love y-you will l-learn to accept it, a-and, i-if not," she shrugged, "W-were th-they worth it a-anyway?"
"H-how, did you know?"
Tara smiled, "I-I saw. A-at the Bronze." With one last smile she turned to join the others, leaving Buffy sitting stunned on the sand. The horizon spread far out before her, seemingly full of possibilities and, just for a moment, the heaviness lifted from her shoulders. It was clear then, in that instant when she was free from her burdens, that she didn't need Spike to survive. She loved, breathed, him, but she was still herself, still Buffy. Aged perhaps, bitter now, but still herself, still going, even without her heart. A heart that, if she believed Tara, she wouldn't have to go on without too much longer.
She stood, determination taking root. To hell with them all, she thought, Spike is what I want and everyone else can just deal. Quickly, she began walking away from the beach, stopping only to grab her duffel bag and reassure her friends while returning Tara's knowing smile and ignoring Riley's darkly questioning gaze.
Hopefully, there was still time to make it right.
'So I turned the radio on, I turned the radio up,
And this woman was singing my song,
Lovers in love and the others run away,
Lover is crying cause the other won't stay.'
Spike loaded the last of his meager belongings into the beat-up backseat of his DeSoto. All around him Sunnydale was as still as death, the humid night chasing the town's inhabitants inside, away from the elements. There was never a better time to leave.
He slammed the back door shut and gave the hood of the car a loving pat. She'd served him well for all the years that he'd had her, with any luck she'd continue doing so. Spike turned back towards the crypt and walked into the empty space one last time. His duster hung heavily over the edge of the sarcophagus. He picked it up and donned it slowly, his mind flashing back to the last time he donned the duster that way; back in Brazil, back with Drusilla.
He shook the image away. He didn't need to see her, standing white and perfect in the moonlight now, her dark eyes watching him as he'd walked away down that Brazilian dirt road. The image shifted and it was no longer Drusilla he saw in his mind's eyes but Buffy, her skin golden in the fading sunlight, her hazel eyes hollow as she turned away from him, the sunbeam of her hair setting around her squared shoulders as she walked out of his crypt; out of his life.
"Bloody hell," Spike mumbled under his breath, "A man's gotta know when to leave. Now's as good a time as any, when I still have some dignity intact."
Only silence answered him.
He strode awkwardly out of the crypt, pausing just over the stone threshold. His eyes fluttered closed as he breathed in the moist night air, letting the heat wash over him, before opening them and striding off towards the car. If he didn't leave now, he might not ever. He was only a few feet from the car when he stopped, his eyes roaming unbelievably over the slight form of his recent torment. She walked towards him slowly, arms wrapped awkwardly around herself despite the heat. She hesitated when she noticed that he'd seen her, her teeth chewing awkwardly on her bottom lip. Her hazel eyes lifted to his and Spike followed and felt his heart drop as he searched the sparkling orbs in the dark. Damn, he thought, she would bloody appear when he was trying to leave.
She continued forward, stopping almost directly before him. His hands reached to reach out and grab her, to close the last twelve inches with the force of their bodies, the crush of their mouths. He could almost feel the slide of her hair under his palms, almost hear the soft cries that she made in the darkness.
"Spike," her voice broke through his reverie, chasing the thoughts away from him.
"Slayer," he acknowledged, his voice cool and steady as his cerulean grey eyes met hers. Silence followed his statement as they watched each other. Finally, Spike continued, "Was there something that you needed? Perhaps you didn't quite grind my heart to dust enough on the last meeting?"
She flinched at that last comment and Spike felt a small twisting surge of gratification. Good, he mused bitterly, she should suffer too. She shook her head, took another small step towards him, "Spike, I need to talk to you."
He shook his head, the bitterness and anger that he'd been harboring over the last two days rising in his throat as he took in her soft eyes and glowing skin, and silken hair and parted mouth … He was drowning despite everything he'd resolved and the realization only made his ire grow, "I think you made yourself perfectly clear last time, Slayer. I was your fuck toy, nothing else, and when you got tired of me you let me know it! Well," he sneered, his hands giving into the temptation to grab her, her skin hot beneath his rough palms as he pulled her flush against him, ignoring the hurt look in her eyes, ignoring the soft mounds of her breasts which pushed painfully against his chest, "I hope you've made enough memories to last you through your spinster nights because, no matter what you say, Riley will never make you feel the way I know I did. To hell with all your stupid protests."
Buffy let out a small dry sob and said his name again, her hands on his chest, the metallic hardness in her palm pressing against his chest but he was only dimly aware of it as he stared down at her. "Well," he said, "I can't bloody forget, I'm going to make sure you can't either."
He kissed her hard, his mouth moving hers open so that their tongues could meet and dance. She stilled beneath him, her hands tightening in the folds of the fabric of his t-shirt. Her lips slid over his, her breath sighing his name as his hands stroked her, claimed her, brought her closer to him. He was burning for her heat, burning from the small cries that he coaxed from her mouth, from the feel of her against him. All too soon though it was over and he stood, holding her, panting, against him. Taking his hands from her was the hardest thing he ever had to do.
'Some of us hover when we weep for the other who was
Dying since the day they were born.'
He moved awkwardly, slowly, towards his car. He pulled the duster tighter; despite the heat, he was cold.
"Spike," her voice cut him short and turned back around to face her. She stood directly behind him, her palm outstretched. Slowly, her fingers uncurled and there, sitting in the midst of her palm, was his lighter. "I'm returning your lighter to you," she shrugged, "Not that that isn't blatantly obvious but … You should have it."
He stared down at the little rectangular piece of metal in her palm, watching as it shimmered dimly in the light of the stars. He knew that if he were to take t now it would be warm, like her hand, in his pocket. But the heat would fade, he reminded himself, he didn't have any to lend it, "Keep it."
She shook her head and thrust the lighter forward trying to press it into his hand, already he could feel the heat leaving it, "No," he said simply, catching her palm and reclosing her fingers over the lighter, "Keep it. Something to remember me by when I'm gone."
"I don't want you gone, Spike," she laid the hand holding the lighter against his chest, her eyes searching his desperately, "I want you here."
"I can't, Buffy," his voice broke on her name, but he was long past trying to salvage his pride, long past pretending that he had anything worth leaving with. He'd known the truth the moment he'd sat eyes on her coming towards him in the darkness, "Can't you understand Slayer? It's killing me to be here, to be near you, and to know that you'd rather have him. Knowing what you know, responding the way you respond, and, despite all that, choosing him."
'Well, well, this is not that;
I think that I'm throwing but I'm thrown.'
"That's just the thing, Spike," she pressed closer against him, her fingers entwining with his, "I can't choose him, Spike. I don't love him."
The implications in her words stunned him, gave him back his dangerous, heady, grip on hope. He searched her eyes, saw the truth in them, felt it in the tightening of her fingers, the quickening of her breath. It was all he needed.
He kissed her against, softer this time, his mouth tasting, teasing hers, relearning familiar textures and paths. Her hand opened and the lighter fell between them to the wet grass as her arms wound around his neck, across his shoulders, over his chest. Finally they pulled apart, breathing heavily.
"C'mon," Buffy said, grabbing his hand, "Let's go home."
'You said, 'I caught you 'cause I want you and one day I'll let you go.'
You try to give away a keeper, or keep me cause you know you're just scared to lose.
And you say, 'Stay.'
And you say, 'I only hear what I want to.''