CLOSER TO HEAVEN

By: Passion4Spike

Chapter 2: Carpe Pie

Chapter Summary:

Buffy should've eaten that pie.

Buffy's lip jutted out in an epic pout as they stood in front of the dark diner. "Closed November 4th – 9th due to death in family," she read on the hand-written sign taped to the door. "That's impossible. They were just open three hours ago … and today's the seventh."

She looked at Spike, who seemed equally confused. "Maybe they just closed after we left … got the dates wrong," he suggested.

"This sign's been here a couple of days," Buffy pointed out, fingering the paper which had started to curl and fade in the weather. She looked around, but nothing else seemed out of place. The diner was just closed. Dark and cold. No yummy smells of coffee and pie wafting from the vents, drawing in cold, weary travelers. Not to mention, no advice-giving waitresses who knew way too much about them.

She sighed. "Well, I guess we should just go," she suggested, the pout never quite leaving her lips. Why hadn't she eaten that cherry pie earlier? Carpe Pie. That needed to be her new motto. Carpe all the Pie.

"Could stop at the 7-Eleven, warm up and get some coffee, I reckon," he suggested as they started walking back to the bike.

Buffy sighed but nodded, glancing back over her shoulder at the diner one last time, as if willing it back to life. It didn't work.

** X-X-X-X-X **

Buffy had sulked for a bit as they had to settle for 7-Eleven coffee and tiny powdered donuts in plastic wrappers, but she let Spike buy and let him hold the door for her. Even let him pour her coffee. Date-ish, then … if you were in a redneck joke. 'You know you're a redneck if…'

As if she needed more proof of Hope's oddness, the closed diner had fully confirmed the Twilight-Zone-ness of their stop on the way up the mountain. Buffy did her best to try and remember what the waitress had said, all of it. Some of the exact words had started to fade, but she remembered the theme well enough: trust Spike. Let him help you.

Buffy watched Spike pay the cashier for the coffee and donuts, chatting with the guy amiably … in Spanish. After he paid, they sat down at a small plastic table and rickety chairs near the coffee machine, which someone must've thought gave the convenience store a bistro feel. They were wrong. So very wrong.

"How many languages do you speak?" Buffy wondered as she tried, and failed, to keep the white powder of the donuts from raining down on the black leather of Spike's duster. She should've eaten that damn pie earlier.

"A fair few," Spike replied vaguely, using the coffee as more of a hand warmer rather than actually drinking it.

"But English confuses you, huh? 'Mission' and 'occasion' being such difficult concepts to grasp," she chided, dusting the powder off the leather.

Spike shrugged and gave her a boyish smile. "Can't help but think of every minute with you as an occasion, Buffy."

Buffy rolled her eyes. She'd expected some sort of snarky remark back. Instead she got something that was either incredibly sweet or incredibly sad. She decided to just let it go, not ready to deal with either sweet or sad Spike.

"Where did you learn to ride a motorcycle?" she asked next, leaning forward over the table before biting into the next mini-donut.

"Here and there. First was in Germany in the forties," he revealed. "That was a bloody education. Funny how crashin' in ditches'll make ya learn how to control the bloody things right quick-like."

Buffy smiled, snorting softly. ""Experience: that most brutal of teachers. But you learn, my God do you learn,'" Buffy quoted.

Spike arched a brow. "And what has brutal experience taught you, pet?"

Buffy looked down at her coffee, shaking her head slowly, then she smiled softly and looked back up at him. "I guess it's taught me that I should at least try to listen to waitresses called 'Hope' who bring perfect pie. Also, I should eat the damn pie."

Spike snorted. "She did seem t' have some … interesting insights," he agreed. "And that pie looked bloody amazing. Wouldn't have minded a bite o' that myself."

"Here, have a donut," Buffy offered, holding the small pack out to him. "They're dry and crumbly, and I think they're a couple of months out of date, therefore, I'm willing to share. Perfect pie? Not so much with the sharing."

"Bloody generous of ya, pet," Spike teased, taking one of the donuts.

Buffy straightened in her wobbly chair, lifting her chin haughtily. "Buffy, the sharer of stale donuts. I think there should be a statue or something in my honor."

** X-X-X-X-X **

Although the air had been gradually growing warmer the closer they got to home, by the time they got back to Revello Drive, Buffy was pretty sure she had frostbitten fingers and toes. Did Slayer healing cover frostbite? Was that in her contract?

Buffy slid off from behind Spike and hurried up the front walk, Spike's duster billowing out behind her. Before Spike got the bike up on its stand and the engine cut, she'd disappeared in a swirl of leather into the house. He frowned, looking around, trying to decide what to do. Follow her in? Go to his crypt?

Although he hadn't been on a date in this century, he was pretty sure this wasn't how they were supposed to end. He'd been looking forward to at least one more kiss … Plus, she had his duster. Should he use that as an excuse to go in now, or save it for an excuse to come back later?

"Come on in –" he heard Buffy shout from inside as her heavy boots clambered up the stairs.

"Right, then," he muttered to himself. Decision made. He should be grinning like a loon, instead he was feeling distinctly nervous. How much longer before Buffy came back to her senses, punched him in the nose, and told him he was a monster and beneath her? Just how many more miracles did he have on his ledger?

He took a deep breath and dismounted the bike, leaving it parked on the street in front of the house. "Big Bad," he reminded himself, squaring his shoulders and standing up straight, hooking his thumbs over his belt confidently. "You can handle it."

He expected the house to be warmer than it was. Was there something wrong with the boiler? Did the house have a boiler? He hadn't really paid that much attention. Probably it was electric. Yeah, no one used boilers anymore, did they? He didn't know much about electric heat – he didn't need heat, did he? – but he knew about fireplaces. And the house had a fireplace. He heard Buffy upstairs running water and moving around, so he took the bull by the horns and got a fire going. He couldn't offer her body heat to warm up, but he could do this.

"Oh! Fire! Pretty!" Buffy cooed. "And warm!" she added enthusiastically as she came down the stairs. She was re-bundled in flannel PJs instead of leather, with fluffy, sleepy lambs printed on them, head to toe. Her heavy boots had been replaced with fuzzy pink slippers. Spike could only shake his head and grin to himself. This was the deadly Slayer who thwarted his every plan and took over his heart? Bloody rich, that was.

Buffy hung her coat and his duster up on the rack by the door and joined him next to the blaze, which he'd gotten roaring quickly with the blatant over-use of kindling and fire starters. He'd replace them later.

She extended her hands out toward it and sighed in pleasure. "I guess I don't actually have frostbite, do I?" she asked, turning her hands over and then back again.

Spike took her hands in his, which he'd warmed near the flames, careful to not singe himself or, you know, dust himself. Which would be just his luck. Be just like the Powers to front him some miracles and then decide to collect without warning and with extreme prejudice.

He studied her hands for a moment. They were instruments of death and destruction. He'd seen her mete out untold pain with them, too often for his liking on him. But, like this, they were small and soft and cool against his skin. They could be kind. They could be giving. She'd held his hand three times tonight, comforting, caring.

"Look okay, pet," he assured her. "But best be sure, eh?" he suggested before lifting first her right hand to his lips and touching soft kisses to the tips of her fingers, and then her left.

"I never knew vampire kisses were a cure for frostbite," she said softly, watching him intently.

"Cure for anything that ails ya," he contended, lifting his eyes up to meet hers as the fire crackled next to them, painting their faces with a warm, flickering glow. "But not just any vampire."

"No?" Buffy asked in a low voice, her breath catching in her throat.

Spike shook his head slowly, leaning in toward her soft, pink lips. "No."

"Just yours?" she breathed, mirroring him, leaning in.

"Just mine," he agreed, as his lips hovered over hers, waiting for her to close the last short distance.

"Can you cure me?" she wondered softly. He still held her hands between and she closed her fingers around his gently.

"I dunno … can just do my best. Closer, maybe? Closer to heaven?" he offered.

"Closer is good," she agreed, touching her lips to his, tentatively at first, teasing, nipping gently at the supple curves of his mouth, at the full bottom lip. His encouraging moan of need vibrated against her flesh and shivered down her spine, opening the floodgates of desire inside.

Buffy pulled her hands from his, capturing his face between her palms, her fingers dancing across his stark cheekbones, as she devoured his mouth. Spike's arms went around her, pulling her body against his, pressing her soft curves against his hard angles. Then hands began to roam, their lips never parting as they explored, caressed, stroked finally-warm palms over fabric, searching for flesh.

Buffy's teeth nipped just a bit too hard in her growing passion and Spike jerked back in surprise. Their eyes met, his hand going to the gash in his lip, showing her the blood. Buffy's eyes went wide and she touched her own lips, coming away with spots of red.

"I … I'm sorry … I—" she stammered, lifting her confused, almost frightened, gaze back up to his.

Spike began to laugh, a deep, sultry laugh that flowed over her like a blanket of sex soaked in brandy. Her expression changed from apologetic to feral, like a long-caged, wild animal finally given permission to run free. She grabbed his arm, yanking him away from the fire and practically tossing him onto his back on the sofa. He was still laughing when she dove atop him, straddling his hips, pressing down urgently against the length of his hard desire. His laughter was swallowed as her mouth captured his again, her tongue demanding entrance, and his lips eagerly agreeing.

Hands began to move again, hips grinding against each other, tongues dancing, moans of need forming a symphony of passion, accompanied only by the crackling and spitting of the fire. Too many clothes. There were too many clothes. Buffy found the hem of his t-shirt and slid her hands beneath.

Flesh. Hard. Needy. Rippling beneath her palms.

More. More.

She began pushing both of his shirts up, the kiss breaking as she tried to tug them off without unbuttoning the overshirt.

"Love you … love you … Buffy … love you …" Spike rasped, his voice that same deep, rich timbre as his laugh, but the words freezing her.

She stopped moving, sat back, looking down at him with fear and denial washing over her features. "No … don't say that. You can't … you don't …" she contended, scrambling up and off him, wrapping her arms around herself protectively as she went back over to the fire. She closed her eyes, clenching them tight against the emotions churning through her, her head shaking in denial.

Spike sighed, letting his own eyes fall closed, pressing his palms against them. He stifled a growl, not sure who he was more angry with, himself or her. Finally, he sat up, pulling his shirts back down, and looked at her. She looked so small and vulnerable standing there in front of the fire in flannel pajamas with fluffy sheep on them. Did she have any idea how deep she could stab him with just her words? He thought.… God, he was such a git! He thought she'd started to see, but … no, apparently not.

"Because I'm a monster? That it? Still? After all this? After all I've done?" he asked her back, his voice wavering between misery and fury.

Buffy's head was still shaking, still turned away from him. He could smell her tears now, and his heart broke a little more. "No." She said it so softly even Spike barely heard it. "Because I am."

Spike's brows furrowed, his own head shaking, thinking he'd heard her wrong. "What're you on about, Slayer?" He couldn't call her Buffy right now, not with his heart flayed open and bleeding in his chest.

"I'm the monster," she repeated, still a soft whisper, still facing the fire, her eyes open now, her gaze lost in the dancing flames.

"How d'ya figure that, pet?" he wondered, standing up, moving toward her slowly, like you would a feral dog – approach with caution.

Buffy's head dropped, her chin hitting her chest and a sob shuddered her shoulders. "I can't love. I can barely even pretend to care about … anything. I was dead and … part of me still is. It wasn't 147 days, Spike. It was …" She shook her head again, then slowly turned to face him, lifting her face up, her glistening eyes meeting his. "It was like 147 years. I … God, I've been dead as long as you have," she realized suddenly, the idea of it making her knees give way.

Spike was there, caught her before she hit the hard hearth stone. He lifted her into his arms like a child and went back to the couch, sitting down with her in his lap, cradling her gently against his chest. "You aren't a monster, Buffy." There, he got her name out. That was good.

"I am," she disagreed in a small voice. "I'm dead inside, Spike. I can't feel … Sometimes, there are flashes, mostly of anger or resentment. But not love. Not even for Dawn. I know I love her, but I don't feel it." She lifted her head up to look at him. "Don't you see? I came back wrong. You can't love me, because I can't love."

"I've got enough love for the both of us, pet," he assured her, touching a soft kiss to her forehead.

Buffy shook her head. "And in what world is that fair?"

Spike gave her a sad smile. "Seems to me, if you didn't care, couldn't feel … then you wouldn't care what was fair," he pointed out.

Buffy sighed and dropped her head back against his chest, curling into his comfort. "I'm so lost. I'm not here, I'm not there … I'm not anywhere. God, I think I just turned into Dr. Seuss, too."

Spike snorted softly at this last, but tightened his hold on her comfortingly. "Let me help you find your way back, pet. You felt it tonight, yeah? Closer to heaven? On the motorbike … you laughed. Don't you remember?" he reminded her, tucking her head beneath his chin protectively, hugging her against him, willing her to believe him.

"What if I can't? What if … this is all there ever is?" she wondered mournfully. "Would you kill me … if I asked you? Would the chip fire if I was willing? One good day …"

"Buffy," Spike breathed, his flayed heart liquefying, melting beneath the weight of her words.

"Do you love me enough to let me go?" she asked, knowing she was asking too much, but asking anyway. She lifted her head again, slipping it from beneath his chin, and looked up at him in the flickering light of the fire. "The others didn't … Willow and Xander … they couldn't let me go. How much do you love me, Spike?"

Tears glittered like salty diamonds as they slipped down his cheeks, his head shaking in negation, trying to unhear her words. She was finally admitting that he could love her? That he did love her? While at the same time expecting him to love her enough to let her go. Again? The miracles, it seemed, had just had their markers called in.

"Not that strong, Buffy," he rasped.

"You're the only one strong enough, Spike," she insisted, her own shimmering eyes boring into his, imploring. "You once said that I didn't strike you as one to beg … I'm begging you."

Spike shook his head more firmly, swallowing hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. His accent softened, slipping from North London to Giles-like. "Already told you, I'm your willing slave, but please, my love, don't ask me to do that." He sniffed then, squaring his shoulders, a thought coming to him, the hooligan re-emerging. "Anyway, promised t' protect Dawn. She needs you. Can't off you without breakin' my word."

"She doesn't need me. Not like this, even you said so," Buffy reminded him.

"Then let me help you find your way back. It's inside you, Buffy. I bloody well saw it tonight. You can't deny it. There was a spark. It just needs … tending … to grow … to flourish."

Buffy drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, leaning back against his firm chest. All the words from the strange waitress rattled through her mind. 'Spike can help you, Buffy. But only if you'll let him. You can laugh, and love. Live. Truly live.' The freedom she'd felt with Spike earlier, the laughter, the glittering stars. It seemed far away again, but it had been there. She knew it had.

After a relative eternity to Spike's shattered heart she finally said, "Okay."

Spike's eyes fell closed in relief, his whole body suddenly turning to jelly with the release of the tension.

"But if it doesn't work, if it gets too bad," Buffy added. "I want your word, your promise, that you'll kill me, let me go, send me back."

A sob wracked Spike's body, shuddering through him, but he nodded. "But ya gotta give it time, Buffy."

She nodded against him, sniffing, her tears soaking into his t-shirt. "I promise to give it time."

"Three years," Spike suggested.

"One," she countered.

"Two," Spike offered.

"One," she insisted again.

"You don't seem to understand the concept of negotiation, Slayer," he told her, exasperated.

"Does that mean I win?" she asked, pulling back again to look at him. The saddest smile Spike had ever seen curved her pink lips and his heart shattered once again.

He returned that forlorn smile and nodded once before kissing her softly. He couldn't bear that smile. It reflected his own heartbreak much too clearly. Who said vampires didn't have reflections?

"I love you, Buffy," he whispered against her lips.

Buffy shook her head, opening her mouth to protest, but he stopped her with another kiss. He pulled back and captured her eyes with a fierce, determined gaze. "You agreed t' let me help. Means I get to say that, get to steal you off in the night, buy you pie and take you closer to heaven, too."

Another smile formed on her mouth, this one sardonic. "Why am I already regretting this deal?"

"Pie," he reminded her. "Ala mode."

Carpe Pie. She snorted and leaned back against him. "Deal," she agreed. "Could you just … hold me?" she asked then. "I'm just so tired."

"Hold you 'til the end of the world, luv," he assured her as he laid back on the couch, pulling her with him. Buffy retrieved the quilt from the back of the couch and together they spread it out, her snuggling down atop him and beneath the well-worn cotton.

"Gonna save you this time, Buffy. I bloody swear it," he whispered against the top of her head, nuzzling his face into her silken tresses.

Her body was warm now, supple and soft against him. He breathed her in – the floral perfume of her various soaps and shampoos mixing with the salty tears, the spicy piquant of her earlier desire, and the underlying essence of her power. It was Buffy. She hadn't 'come back wrong', she just needed time to adjust, to find the spark, find the love he knew was inside her. And he could help her; keep taking her as close as he could to heaven while keeping her with him – and with Dawn – here on Earth. And maybe, one day … one day she'd tell him. And then he would never have to keep that other promise.

Buffy sighed and let her eyes fall closed as he wrapped his strong arms around her, holding her in a tender embrace. It felt so good to be held. To be close to someone. It made her feel … real. Connected to something. She'd felt so untethered, floating through the days, the hours, the minutes, trying to keep herself from drifting away into the ether. She didn't even realize how much she needed this. To be touched. To be held.

She also felt relieved because she knew Spike was right, he would save her. Either way, she reasoned, she would be saved. And he would keep his word. He was the only one strong enough. Until then, he would hold her … he'd just said so.

Her mind drifted back to the motorcycle trip, how he'd felt against her. How safe she'd felt holding onto him, despite the speed, the cold, the slick roads, the danger. Was that where that feeling of freedom had come from? With that touch? With that trust?

She relaxed against him, fully, completely. He had hold of her. She could let go now without fear of simply floating away, becoming lost, not of this world or the next – a lost soul with no home, trapped in limbo. Spike was strong enough to anchor her. He'd keep her from getting lost in the dark.

Hadn't Hope told her that?

Hope. Whoever she was, whatever she was, she had given Buffy this: Hope.

**END NOTES**

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you're enjoying the story! Please stop in and let me know, I'd seriously love to hear from you! More to come.

Thanks to Holi117 for sharing her time and talent with me by betaing this story. Any mistakes here are mine because I just can't stop fiddling!

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