Archive: If you like. Just let me know where!
Disclaimer: Joss' toys. Just playing. Don't sue me! I have nothing you want.
Thanks to my wonderful Beta Sylvia, who keeps me on track, literate and allows for girly selfishness when it comes to Spike.
Thanks as well to the lovely Nimue Tucker, for her valuable comments and support.
Theme: BtVS AU S7. Sequel to What's Good for the Soul. SpikeCentric. It's OC, so deal with it or bail now.
Timeline: Between the episodes 'Him' and 'Conversations With Dead People'
Email: spikeswillingslave@yahoo.ca
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A/N #1: ::Taps 'Girly Selfishness' warning sign. Sign crashes to ground:: Well, time for a new sign.
A/N #2: Eventually this will branch off into its own arc, but for now it will toddle through some of the more SpikeCentric S7 action and themes. Be patient ~ it will get more AU in time.
~+~
"Home, sweet home."
Spike stood before the doors of his crypt. His former crypt, to be precise. Despite the best intentions of a friend, the place was now lost. Not re-inhabited. Not destroyed - well, not much more than it had been last spring. But lost. Gone. No longer a place to lay one's head, feel safe and cozy, enjoy a pint of something and watch the telly. Now, it was only marble slabs, mortar and moss. The heavy doors stood ajar. Musty air wafted out from within, carried through the slips and cracks on the cool evening breeze.
A small note, in Clem's wobbly hand, was taped to one of the pillars. The single-word message simply said Sorry. Spike crumpled it in his fist, then shoved it into the pocket of his coat. Not his fault. A place like this wouldn't stand a chance, untended this long. Vandals and transients, each adding their careless marks to the façade, had worn away a bit more of its familiarity, making what it used to be a far cry from what it was this night.
The end of the line.
Or, back to the beginning. Either way, it wasn't what he wanted. Simply put, it was all he had left.
Stone-and-iron doors groaned in protest on their off-kilter hinges as Spike pushed his way inside. Shafts of silver moonlight cut through the doorway, casting a frosty glow on the interior. He shivered against the chill, the air still and cold, heavy with the powdery burn of mildew and dust. His eyes roved the corners, taking it all in. Or rather, taking in the lack of things that should've been there, and noting, with disappointment, the remaining flotsam within. The refrigerator was gone. Not a big loss; it worked only part of the time. But, it had been his; and now… nothing. The television - or rather, what was left of it - was a burnt-out hulk in the middle of the room, its picture tube kicked in, scorch marks from its dying moments streaked across the rug. There was not one part of the room - not one possession, one monument nor fixture - that'd been spared by some passer-by's destruction.
He took a moment and stood amidst the ruin. Took careful inventory of each and every insult. His shoulders slumped upon seeing, in one far corner, stacks of abandoned kennels and empty feed and litter containers. Seemed even Clem had been flexible with the truth. Spike had believed him when he'd said the place had been invaded by demons; his friend had simply failed to mention those demons were probably irate business partners. Spike hadn't learned anything from the Suvolte demon egg endeavour. Trusting Clem - and being his friend - sometimes had its disadvantages.
Striking a match, he found some relatively intact candles and set them around the space. It didn't help the wreck look better, but now he could get to work… if only he knew where to start. His boots stirred up the strata of dust and dirt that blanketed the stone floor, marking his criss-crossed path of carting debris and ordering the chaos, foot by foot, in his tomb. He hummed as he worked, nameless tunes, just something to make sound within the hard quiet. Company. His own, but, it would be something he'd have to get used to.
Again.
After an hour, the worst of it had been cleared, and dumped, beyond sight of the crypt. He'd salvaged little. Some candle holders, the odd box with which to store… nothing, really. Aside from the clothes on his back and a few items back at the hotel, he had little to call his own. Somewhere in the corner of his mind, he recalled a large cardboard box and a hurried visit from Clem during his time in the basement. Whatever had been savable must have been in that box.
But, maybe not everything…
He descended the ladder to the vault below, taking each rung slowly, so as not to snuff the flame carried in his right hand. Still not restored from the egg fiasco, the chamber was, at least, in more order than above. Going over to the collapsed frame of his former bed, he dug around under the box spring until his hand fell across…
"There," he murmured, carefully sliding the wooden case into his lap. A half-smile ghosted across his lips as he brushed dust from the lacquered ash surface. Cyrillic characters were stamped over the cover. Kedrovy. Mid 1930s. A small hamlet that'd still shod horses off broken stone streets, where silver was still an acceptable, quiet currency, and cobblers customed their wares in hand-hewn cases, like the one resting across his thighs. Boots. Not for him, but for Drusilla. That had been the case's original contents. Leather, blackened and oiled with care in a small shop that had the misfortune of being just far enough down one of those broken alleyways that no-one had witnessed the arrival - and brutal commerce - of the handsome pair that stole inside, one grey afternoon.
He slid the top from its grooves. The smell of tanned hide and bootblack filled his nose, the scent still strong, despite the forever that had passed between then and now. He carefully set the lid aside before taking inventory of the clutter within. One hundred-plus years of life - and unlife - were packed within the old case. Memories. Good ones and bad ones, long-faded human dreams, cozied next to a demon's spoils. All his.
All Spike.
The folio was always on top. Brown leather, worn soft as felt by time, filled with thick sheaves of linen paper, whose every inch, every margin, was crammed with the neat, earnest hand of young William. He rarely read the entries, or glanced at the sketches, merely thumbing through the pages a few times a decade. Remembering. Unread or not, he needed to have it with him, the volume having never left his possession since taking leave of his family home. It was strange. This person - this William - wasn't supposed to exist anymore. And still, even before the soul, the love - the crush even - William still held court over the temperate bits the demon had failed to quell.
Underneath the folio, a surprise: a very nice, very old, bottle of black rum. Definitely not his usual fare. He tried to recall where and when he'd acquired it, giving up when he realized it didn't matter a damn. The label provided him the only information he needed: 90 proof. It would do. He cracked the seal and took a long pull from the neck. Rich and sugary, it tingled on its way down to his gut. Instant warmth. The tang of fermented molasses stung his mouth, but he kept drinking until things started to feel pleasantly numb.
He rifled through the rest of the contents. Mostly smaller items, these mementos were things easily pocketed or secured, fragments of events, people and conquests that needed due representation before the advent of the keepable Kodak moment. A lock of Drusilla's hair. A few coins. That blasted skull ring he'd used to propose to Buffy with when they'd been spell-i-fied by Red. He put it on, turning his hand so the candlelight glinted off the tarnished silver finish. His lips found the bottle again and he took another deep swallow. It'd been easier, loving her with the majick's help. No fuss, no fury and no blame when it didn't work out, when the spell had been broken and the hate flowed freely again. Damned free will. It fucked everything up, all the time…
He pulled the bauble off and chucked it hard into the case, cringing as he heard something crack. After some careful sorting, he found what he'd damaged. A small picture frame, something he - or rather, William - had made. One of his first forays into the arts, at the age of… twelve? Thirteen? He picked it up gingerly, the smashed glass within shifting and pattering down on the souvenirs in his lap. He'd made this for mother. A birthday gift. Cloudy pieces of sea glass, the product of a summer's worth of scavenging at Brighton, pieced and set so carefully in sculptor's clay. She'd been so pleased, keeping it by her bedside, an image of father, or himself, inside. It held no picture now. For all his tokens and trinkets, he hadn't saved an image of his mother.
"And on that twisted note," he mumbled, returning the collection to the case. He fumbled a few items from his jacket pocket and added them to the trove. Three of Isobelle's business cards - the last still in his possession. The boarding pass from the flight she'd taken to Sunnydale. The silk scarf she'd stopped wearing, the one she'd used to hide her scar. Lastly, a tube of her moisturizer - Correction, shea butter - he thought, staring at the frou-frou label and toying with the cap. Jasmine and tuber rose. Looked expensive. Smelled divine. He said a silent 'thank you' for the benefits of hotel living: unlimited hot water, mountains of dry towels, and enough alone time that Isobelle didn't notice that he showered three times a day. A small daub of the thick cream in his palm, the shower jets on high… no substitute for her, but, it eased some of the ache.
No. That, he'd keep with him. He stuffed it back into his pocket, settled a bit more against the rough stone walls, and went back to the bottle.
"Slumming?"
"Christ!" he grumbled, alcohol sloshing as he jerked in surprise. "Well, if it isn't the Queen of George Street. You never did learn to knock, did you?" He blinked towards the ladder, watching, through rapidly blurring eyes, as Buffy minced down the rungs.
"Don't need to knock if nobody lives here, which, then begs the question… "
" …why am I here," he finished.
"Not… not that I really care… " she said, fidgeting as she took in her surroundings. It seemed like a lifetime ago since she'd last been here… with him, at least.
Those nights, over the summer, when she'd slip in during patrol, just to take a look, to see if…
No. They didn't count.
"No, you were just gonna ask for fun."
She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, adopting a 'Don't mess with me' pose. Outfitted in tight jeans, white sweater and brushed denim coat, she was her typical fashion-plate self. She was dressed to slay.
After a moment of required glowering, she cracked a smile and sauntered over to where he sprawled.
"Seriously," she pressed, perching on the edge of the ruined bed. "Why are you here, instead of with… what's-her-name?"
He shrugged. "Can't spend every moment together."
"She finally get a brain cell and kick you out?" she asked lightly.
"No! I mean… no. Needed some air. Some time to myself… "
"… And, time for the drinkies," she supplied, watching as he drained another few ounces from the bottle. He shrugged again. She toed at the rubble with her boot, sweeping long arcs through the dust. "Um, by the way… you did good with Jacket Boy the other night. I mean, Xander, he said you… you were helpful."
He nodded. "Maybe I got a career in mugging then. Could come in handy."
"And with the brother," she added. "It was… I mean…we're… I… I'm… "
He snickered, shaking his head. "Can't even say it, can you?"
"Say what?"
Sip. Swallow. "Nothin'. And, why are you here, anyway? This a regular stop on your staking route?"
She shrugged. "I saw the door was open. Got curious. Thought this place was abandoned." She peered down at him from her perch on the mattress. "Isn't it?"
He canted her a half-nod from the floor. " 'tis. But, won't be for long. Been doin' some spiffy-ing. Thinkin' I might take the place back."
Buffy frowned. A slight edge crept into her voice. "Don't you have a place? Aren't you kept somewhere?"
Sip.
"Well?"
He muttered something she couldn't make out. "Slur louder, Spike."
"She's leaving," he repeated. "Heard her callin' airlines, so I buggered off."
"Had to happen, eventually. So, what wised her up? Did she get tired of bleaching bloodstains out of the china?"
He shot her a look. "Dunno. Maybe it was somethin' you said to her th'other day. She was right pissed when she got back from meetin' you."
"Yeah, let's talk about that," Buffy pressed. "Miss 'Chip-on-her-shoulder-the-size-of-a-two-by-four' definitely wasn't in a listening mood that morning." She narrowed her eyes at the vampire below. "What exactly did you tell her about me?"
"You? As little as was needed."
"Or, about… "
"Us? When there was a sort-of us?" His mind staggered through the list of rights, wrongs and horrors that had been them.
"She knows about the soul," Buffy prompted. He nodded. "And, she knows the why of it too. That much was clear from our convo."
"She does. But, that's all she'll know. From me at least." He took another swig, tsking to himself when he noted the bottle was nearly empty. "You? Tell her… tell her whatever you want."
"Right," she snorted. "Where exactly should I begin that confab? Which degrading episode should I start with? How about the bruise-a-thons? Think that'd be a good place to start?"
Spike staggered to his feet and pitched the bottle across the room, sending an arc of shattered glass through the air. "Those bruises were equally shared, love. And if my whacked memory serves, I sported most of them."
"Save it Spike! You loved it. You always came back for more… "
"NO!" he bellowed. "I came back for you! I loved you! Not the fists and the claws and the concussions. You. An' obviously I still do, 'cause, here I am. Again. Dutiful servant, jumping to when you snap those dainty fingers… "
"God, this is pathetic!" she spat, frustration making her whole body quake. "You're with someone else and you have the gall to say you still… " She shook her head. "I'm done with this. Soul or not, you're still a… Forget it." She turned towards the ladder, Spike cutting her off before her boot hit the first rung.
"Why? Why 'forget it', and not deal?" he challenged. "Is it so hard to get that I'd still love you? You don't lose love, Buffy. I'll… I will always love you. Sad as that may sound to you, you could… " He gave a thin laugh, ducking his eyes from her hard glare. "You could snap those dainty fingers and… like I said. I'd jump. With a smile on my face." And a stake in my heart. He wrapped a hand around the ladder, taking some measure of comfort in the wood that splintered his palm. "God, Buffy. Part of me will always love you. Still you it sees. It craves. It wants."
"Wh… which part?"
Spike tilted his head in surprise, his eyes widening at the tremble in her voice. He risked a glance at her and saw tears shimmering in her green eyes. The want - the need he saw there made his stomach lurch. This couldn't be her. Not the Slayer. Not his…
He reached out and brushed one finger over the soft denim of her jacket. She didn't flinch as he drew a line from her shoulder to wrist. She was there, real as anything.
"Buffy?"
"Which part?" she repeated, taking a half-step closer to him. So close, he could feel the heat pouring off her body, smell the rich, spicy vanilla and gardenia scent that was her. "You got your soul… for me. But… how? Why did… "
"Buffy, don't," he cautioned, wanting to slip back, to keep their distance - and any temptations - at bay. "Not now. Not tonight."
"Why? Why not tonight?" she pressed, trying hard to keep the urgency out of her voice, to mask her own desperate need to know. She managed a wilted smile. "Not nutso enough to share? No… no cross to throw yourself on when you're done? You were always the one who wanted to talk about things, so - "
"What? Start with the gut-spilling?" He shook his head. "You don't really care. You don't want me, and you don't want to know which part of me still wants you, so let it lie." He pushed off the ladder, swaying back on unsteady legs. Damned drink…
"Maybe you're right. Maybe, I don't want to know. Maybe I'm just tired of… " She gulped a breath, trying to focus. Gain control.
"Tired of what?"
He saw her jaw tighten. A cool edge hardened her voice.
"Of people dancing around an issue and being too chicken to speak the truth."
"Not to piss on the virtues of honesty, but sometimes not bein' free and loose with the truth is bein'… kind."
"Spare me."
He winced.
Spare me.
Tell me you love me.
Tell me you want me.
Demands. Always demands.
He kept his voice low. Even. He couldn't put a proper name to the half-dozen emotions that roiled inside him just then, so, in a small moment of alcohol-tempered clarity, he bottled the scream that bubbled in his throat and set his gaze on the girl who had made him what he was.
"Angel," he started, leaning against the rough stone wall for support, "- and by Angel I mean that souled, brooding, nancy-boy do-gooder - he loved you, completely, with that desperate, eager little soul of his. But Angelus, he was another matter." Spike slid down to the floor, crouching on his heels. "He hated you. Wanted to rip out your innards and nail them to the walls as art. The old man would rave for hours on how he was going to… "
"Enough with the history lesson," she ground out, the truth of his words hitting her hard.
"Right. On with it then. Must keep up with Buffy's needs." He levered off the wall and moved to within a pace of her. She wrinkled her nose at the sour-sweet smell of alcohol on his breath. "With us," he whispered, "well, for me, turns out the opposite was true. Seems as though the bit of me you hated the most was the part that… "
"Don't. Even. Say. It," she hissed.
"You asked, love."
Even in the dim candlelight he could see the colour drain from her golden skin, her cheek now hued a sickly grey, small beads of sweat dotting her upper lip.
"Quite the kick in the ass, eh?" he chuckled. "All that effort, and the bleedin' thing wasn't interested. Not that I didn't try, mind, to make it behave. Make it want you, too. But, what the demon forgave, It wasn't quite ready to forget. And, sad to say, It's a tad fucking stronger than that dead, evil thing you used to have so much fun with."
He leaned in closer, his mouth hovering over hers. "So, as much as I - that is, that part of me - might want you… "
Buffy's eyes fluttered, her chin tilting ever-so-slightly upwards, lips so close to his…
"…there's more than your Slayer sensibilities - and your wicked right cross - that's keepin' it from happening."
She pulled back, blinking in surprise, anger rising inside as she watched him retreat to the damaged bed. God, I almost…she shivered, realizing how close she'd come to letting him touch her. Kiss her. After everything, he can still make me…
He'd returned to his seat on the stone floor, tucking the wooden box back in its hiding spot. Wedging a booted foot onto a cracked ladder rung, Buffy swung herself partway up to the exit. Pausing, she looked down at the vampire, slumped bonelessly among the fragments of his existence.
"Don't kid yourself, Spike," she told him. "There's more than your rusty soul keeping the possibility of us from ever happening again. It won't, because I say it won't, not because you suddenly got your guilt gene switched on. I won't let it happen. You can't hurt me anymore."
He cast his eyes up towards her, dragging the flat of his palm across them before meeting her gaze.
"That, love, was the point."
~+~
Isobelle woke with a start, hands scrabbling to pull sweaty, twisted sheets from her body, her sleep-heavy arms not cooperating with her need to get the hell out of bed.
Another night, another nightmare. Four so far, all dark and dire and terrifying… and not one that she could remember after her panicked awakenings. Even now, still numbed from slumber, the images were hazy, fading fast as consciousness reclaimed her. Cotton-mouthed, heart thudding against her ribs, she tried to pull them back, put order to those dreamscape horrors. She rubbed her eyes, clearing away sweat and - tears? Had she been crying in her sleep? - And tried to remember…
Kicking the linen to the floor, she padded to the bathroom, bare feet slapping the tile in her beeline for the sink. Cold water stung her skin as she splashed her face, her lips tinting blue as she sipped from her cupped palm. She stared hard at the pale face in the mirror, concentrating…
Blood. Lots of it. A vague impression of gushing wounds carved on white skin. And pain.
So much pain.
She didn't have to check his room to know she was alone. That first night, he'd heard her rocking in her sleep, quivering with a fear she couldn't articulate when he'd finally managed to wake her. He'd been different after that, finding reasons to go out at night, to leave her alone. That she needed space, some privacy. That she didn't need him hovering 24/7. That he needed to get the hell out of the room and just…
She jumped, hearing the room door rattle. Shrugging on her robe, she made her way to the lock, releasing it just as Spike had got his keycard in the slot.
"Shit, you're up," he slurred, stumbling across the threshold. " 's late, kitten…"
"It is late," she said tightly, steadying him with one hand, trying to close the door with the other. "And you're drunk."
He sniggered, wrapping his arms around her waist, causing her to tilt off-balance. They both hit the door on their way to the floor, shutting it with a rattling slam.
"Not drunk," he countered, still holding her tightly as she struggled to right herself. "Was drunk after th'first bottle. Had me three altogether, and now I'm properly pissed!" Floundering in his grip, she pushed him back against the door, settling across from him, out of reach of his roving hands. Dirt stained his pants and the cuffs of his jacket, and sullied the pristine white of his jaw. His shirt had rucked up over his belly from their tussle on the carpet, and he toyed with the hem, sending her small, sly grins as he worked it over his abs.
"Either way, want to tell me why?"
He shrugged. "Somethin' to do."
"This how you usually spend an evening in Sunnydale? You never did this… "
"How were your calls? Didja make all your calls? Tell me, how'd those go?"
"Calls?"
He waved vaguely at the coffee table, to the pens and papers that littered the veneered top. "Calls." He squinted at her in the dimness, the gloom cut only by the light from the bathroom. "To airports. Flights and stuff. Those work out well for you?"
"Yeah," she replied cautiously. "How did you know… "
"So, when do you leave? Need help packin'?" He wobbled to his feet, only to fall back to the floor when she kicked a muddy boot from under him.
"OW!" he griped. "My arse. I think I broke it… "
"You didn't break your ass. And keep your voice down!"
"It. Hurts."
She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. "Does your head hurt too? Because I figure it's stuffed far enough up your… "
"You're leaving." It was a statement that time. No inflection, no lilt to make the words sound the least bit queried.
She sighed. "Why do you think that?"
"Well, cheers for not denyin' it at least."
"I'm denying it now. I'm not going anywhere, Spike."
"I heard you. Calling. Talkin' times and shit… "
"You were eavesdropping?"
A shrug. "Can't help overhearin' if you talk loud… "
"If you're going to listen in on my phone calls," she admonished, moving to take a spot next to him against the door, "then make sure you listen to everything."
"Times, plane numbers, airlines…" he listed, ticking each item off on his fingers and waggling them before her.
"Postponing, not booking, you moron." She took his hand in hers and gave it a squeeze - one hard enough to make him flinch and look her way.
"I don't like this, Spike. I don't like that you hear something and assume the worst and take off without talking to me about it. That isn't us. At least, it wasn't - not before this."
"Christ!" he hissed, slamming his head against the door. "I'm fucking sick of talking! That's all we've been doin' for days, and it hasn't gotten us… Fuck it."
This time she didn't stop him as he climbed to his feet, choosing instead to let him weave an unsteady course around the room, cringing as he came close to toppling table lamps, or kicking chairs as he roamed.
"We talk and talk," he intoned, "but for all of it, we never say anything. So polite and correct and mindful… it's too much bloody work. I'm no thick git, 'belle, but it's too much… I can't keep up with the double- or triple-speak." Homing in on the settee, he gracelessly sprawled onto the cushions. "And, God, my head hurts."
Isobelle kept her station on the floor, her mind teasing out the substance of Spike's drunken rant, watching as he rested his head on the back of the small sofa. Every now and then he'd let loose a little moan and rub his eyes, a gesture that made her want to hug and smack him at once. She didn't doubt he was hurting, but whatever pain he was in was of his own doing. And, she was more than a bit irritated that he'd picked this late an hour for such a stunt. But, drunk or not, some of what he was saying had merit. Both had been treading on eggshells around the other, wanting to say and do more than ego and fragile feelings would allow.
They both deserved more than this painful, polite consideration.
Gathering a wet cloth from the bathroom, she knelt behind the settee, resting her arms on the back near his head.
"Where does it hurt? Front or back?"
He waved a hand in the air. "All over."
She lay the compress on his forehead, then slid her fingers through his hair, feeling the back of his head for the lump she knew was forming under those bleached, gelled curls. A small sigh escaped his lips and he relaxed into her palm. "Feels good," he murmured, eyes lazing shut. His chest rose and fell with reflexive breaths, timed to the rhythm of her touch.
"Spike?"
"Mm."
"Not that I want to reward your behaviour by saying you were right a moment ago, but… "
"But what?" he droned, half-dozing from the alcohol and her attentions.
"For all our talking, we really haven't said what we - I mean, what I feel, or what I'm really thinking… "
He stirred, clumsily hauling himself into a sitting position. The wet cloth scudded down his cheek and landed with a soppy thud in his lap. "What're you on about, love?"
She sucked in a breath. "Tomorrow morning, when you've sobered up, you can ask me whatever you want. And I promise to answer you as honestly as I can."
He blinked, clearing some of the alcoholic haze from his eyes. She could see him think, processing her offer, weighing the million questions that'd been left unasked, wanting to choose the most important.
The ones that would mean the most.
"Truly?"
She nodded.
"Can I ask one now?"
"Spike," she cautioned, rising to her feet to open the door of his room. "In the morning. And sober," she added, as he made good show of glancing at her bedside clock. Fighting overstuffed cushions, fatigue - and the pints of Jack in his system - he made his way off to bed. He held his place within the threshold, folding a hand over the one she had gripping the doorknob.
"Just one," he pressed, leaning in close. She indulged the moment, drawing in the smell of him - all liquor and ripe earth, clouding over the softer scent of soap that dressed the skin of his neck. "And I'll go to bed like a good little vampire and not bother you 'til the sun shines."
Heat flushed her cheeks, her fingers fidgeting under the clasp of his palm. Smell. Touch. His voice in her ear, the nearness of his body - every sense she had took notice of him, responding to his presence in ways she wasn't yet at ease with, but still missed. Reminders of before - familiar, comforting - not yet right to indulge in, but wanted nonetheless.
"Alright. One," she acquiesced.
"Been a week, and a bit," he started, "since you found me. Brought me here. That first night didn't go so well. I got pushy. Kinda like now." A nervous grin twigged his mouth, softening into a wider smile when he saw her reciprocate. "An' bein' thick and irritating, I got you to say that you… that, um… that you didn't know if you could ever forgive me… or trust me… "
Suddenly, his alcohol-fogged brain decided this was not a good idea. He shouldn't ask, shouldn't expect. That he ought to have given her the rest of the night to craft her honesty, find words that wouldn't sound so trite or blunt, or so begging, as his were sounding now. But, he'd stepped out too far now to turn back, to slough it off for later hours. She stood there, listening, waiting for him to speak, patient eyes fixing on his. He tried to finish, to get his tongue around the thoughts in his head, cursing his lack of follow-through.
Watching him struggle to speak his mind, his fears - his heart - to her, finally cracked the last bar of reservation that crossed her own. She'd admit tomorrow - and prove later - what she'd already concluded in their first reunited moment. She loved him. No amount of logic, or infinitum recounting of past wrongs, could shake her of that conviction. Her life, her work - everything that made her who she was - found guidance, purpose, from knowledge, fact and common sense. Head over heart. Wanting him wasn't smart. It was foolish. Dangerous. He'd hurt her once; he could do it again. Trust someone who'd failed her so horribly? Or to forgive it? She'd be stupid to do so.
So, she'd be stupid.
Heart wins.
She ran the pad of her thumb over the smear of dirt on his jaw. She felt a shiver ripple through him, and tried not to smile.
"Ask your question."
"Are… are you stayin' now because you think… think that you can?"
"Forgive you? Trust you?"
A small nod in reply. Her hand left his jaw and curled around his neck, fingers teasing hairs from the nape as she guided his mouth to hers.
He almost missed her whispered 'yes', the word nearly buried by the kiss that sealed her declaration. Soft, warm lips pressed gently onto his, pattering them with, slow, open kisses. Aching familiarity caused his hands to grip her hips, run along her thighs, her arms, gliding over silk and skin to cup her face between his palms, as he kissed her back. So sweet, so perfect, as she sank deeper into him, letting his tongue dance at the entrance to her mouth, teasing it with the tip of her own. He felt her small fists clutching the sleeves of his jacket, keeping him near, showing him she meant it. She wanted it.
Wanted him.
He moved his mouth from hers, planting tiny kisses and nips on her cheek, her jaw, working a path to her neck. He breathed in deeply, soaking in the scent of her. Of sandalwood. And roses. And him. His lips found their way over the scar. Her whole body spasmed as he placed a kiss over his mark, lapping the silvered skin with his tongue.
"That's cheating," she gasped, voice shaky. He rested his head on her shoulder, cradled by the curve of her neck. He could hear her heart thudding in her chest, feel it through her skin. One hand still rested on her cheek. She nuzzled the palm, waiting out the aftershocks of his attentions. They stood, twined, braced in the doorframe for a long while, as minds, bodies and souls reconnected.
She was the one to pull away first, giving him a small push over the threshold and into his own space.
"We're still… " he asked, gesturing between the two rooms.
"Yes. For now," she told him, trying not to let his disappointed look push her into going faster than she was able.
"I understand. No half-measures, yeah?" He nodded to himself. "Doin' things only partway - never works out right."
She wished him goodnight, waiting until he'd shed his jacket and climbed onto the mattress before closing the door. It was nearly shut when his voice made her pause.
" 'belle?"
"Mm?" she replied, leaning onto the frame.
"Thanks, for letting me ask."
She smiled, easing the door shut until it clicked, and thanked herself for being able to answer him yes.
TBC…