Ficlet exploring one scene out of 'Entropy.' Though S/A in the beginning, but fraught with overtones of S/B and X/A. All comments appreciated and replied to.

Moving On

by

The Power of the Book

They pushed at each other, bodies straining for completion, for connection. Fleetingly, Spike thought of making it last, guaranteeing that she, too, would find a moment to forget her pain in.

But both of their nerves were too raw, patience stretched too thin, bodies loosened by too much alcohol. As their pace quickened to climax, he returned again to his previous state of defiance, his mind chanting a mantra so that he might escape the pain, escape a place where she still controlled him

Forgetting, forgetting, forgetting, forgetting…

She had blonde hair. Curly, but if he just squinted his eyes a bit…

Forgotten, forgotten, forgotten, forgotten…

Her hands slid so smoothly and softly up his arms, pausing as she took in his expression. Her heels lightly kicked against the backs of his thighs, tickling the sensitive skin there - just not kicking wildly enough…

Moving on, moving on, moving on, moving-

"Buffy!" he shouted in climax, though not in joy. He closed his eyes. Her dominion was still intact, even here.

"Xander!" Anya sobbed beneath him, all playful naughtiness gone from her as her peak was robbed of any pleasure beyond the physical. Spike chose not to take offense, especially after his own lapse of memory.

In a curiously coordinated movement, they tilted their heads to look at each other, eyes wide in embarrassment and sorrow. Each saw their hopelessness reflected in the other's eyes.

"We're never going to move past them, you know." Anya's husky whisper broke through the silence. "Me with the guy I won't go back to, you with the girl who won't have you."

Close enough, he thought, bowing his head in submission to the inevitability. As he did so, she raised her head up, and their foreheads bumped, then came to rest on each other, both closing their eyes for a moment, a mirror of a previous pose with her. In a strange way, this felt nearly as intimate as one or two of his more cherished moments with Buffy. Instantly, he pushed the thought from his head and pulled away from her to a sitting position. A moment, and he extended his own hand, pulling her up to sit beside him.

"Can't eat, can't sleep, can't hardly move with the wanting of her. This just makes it worse," he droned morosely, staring at nothing.

"I like to think I'm a little better in the sack than that. Well, technically, it was on a table instead of a bed, and beds have sheets instead of sacks…" Anya looked at him, large open eyes filled with more than a little hurt. And suddenly, Spike remembered who he was talking to.

"No, no. No complaints there, a lot of compliments. And that's exactly it. Can't shag a gorgeous bird like yourself without somehow feeling like I've betrayed her. When there's nothing to betray…" he trailed off. In his mind's eye, Buffy had spied them together, looking through the back door, through the storefront window. Her face crumpled, sorrow pinching tears from her eyes, possibly a hand to her mouth in shock and regret…

And that was as far as his fantasy got, before the sick twist in his stomach and sharp stab in his chest started up at the image of pain or discomfort on her face. Oh, sure, there was a good dollop of satisfied anger, but that momentary pleasure was swallowed by overwhelming guilt. I don't hurt you…even when you're not around, or when you tell me to do so.

But would she even hurt? No, he decided, the most reaction seeing this would elicit from her would be mild disgust for having sex on the Magic Box research table.

Angel once said having a soul was having the ability to regret. Perhaps Angelus had lived his unlife without regrets, but Spike had them in spades.

Speaking of…

He turned to Anya, who seemed to be lost in her own fantasy. Somehow, he couldn't see Xander reacting in quite the same fashion as Buffy, and the relationship, right up to the marriage, had seemed to make them happy. God knows someone in this damned burg deserved a little bit of joy.

"I won't mention this, if you don't want me to…not that I really have anybody to mention it to," he said, roughly breaking the silence. Anya turned to look at him, her face unreadable.

"Oh, no, there you're wrong. Xander would-" she broke off, shaking her head. A shadow of suspicion entered Spike's mind, and he studied her pristine profile carefully.

"This about vengeance, Anya?"

This time, she gave him a little half-smile, either in humor or self-deprecation, and he suspected the latter.

"No, this was about lots of alcohol, your sexy sad smile, and a whole heaping load of emotional vulnerability on both our parts," she said. "My vengeance usually comes in the form of lots of physical pain, men turned into demons, and occasionally starting the odd war or two."

He nodded, stuffing his hands into his duster, but something had caught his ear, and he looked her over, trying to sense beyond her surface.

"You're using the present-tense, Anya," he said, but it came out more as a question.

Now he had her full attention, and she reminded him of the man he had been, trying desperately to keep his heart's words from being snatched up and bared before the ridicule of the English bon ton.

"Anyanka." She paused, the fight to keep back her fears written across her face. "Don't tell Xander about that."

Spike nodded, looking down again. This time, however, he noticed that his jeans were still down to his thighs, bait 'n tackle exposed and quiescent, vulnerable. Feeling like the world's biggest berk, he slipped off the table and pulled up his jeans, zipping them shut. Spying her red tank top on the floor, he bent over and picked it up, trying to ignore the way she watched him curiously. Turning it inside out, he walked over to her to give it to her, carefully avoiding her eyes.

"Let me help pick this up…" he trailed off, the words out of his mouth before he realizes the cliché of the man fleeing an indiscretion with a woman. But she shakes her head, smiling a bit, a genuine smile that reaches her eyes.

"She's an idiot, you know."

And he found himself returning the smile a bit, and just for a moment, Spike moves on. But then he remembered who he had forgotten in that moment.

"Nah. But him? Class-A, top-grade nutter."

They turn from each other, and he hears fabric rustle behind him as she redresses. He pulls down his shirt, buckles his belt, and makes for the door.

But something makes him pause, and he turns around to her, for confirmation, he thinks. Also for respect.

She graced him with a brief nod, and he gratefully returned it.

Back to the door, his thoughts were already on the idea of passing by Buffy's. Maybe seeing the Bit. Maybe seeing Buffy smile.