sequel to the drabble; takes place some time after the Angel episode "Harm's Way"; Spike finally took that boat to Europe.
Years later he's pausing at Buffy's threshold once more. Another house, another country, another continent. He's sick to his stomach. Does she know he survived Sunnydale? He told Andrew to keep his mouth shut, but the little shit isn't exactly good at that. So will she be shocked? Or does she know? If she does, why hasn't she called? Has she been waiting? Is she going to be angry because he didn't tell her? Or – his heart sinks at the thought – has she known all along and just didn't care? Has she moved on? Is there someone, in her life? In her heart? In her bed? He's been through this a million times. All those days and nights aboard that ship, crossing the sea, trying to imagine what it would be like. Seeing her again. It all comes down to this very moment. The moment she'll open this door and look at him. He's not sure how long he's been standing there, desperately longing for this encounter and scared more to death by it at the same time. Everything is in her hands. She can break him. She can heal him. He thought it had already started, that night in the abandoned house, the day after that at her place, that cryptic non talk that they had had. It had seemed so close back then. It seems so far away right now. He rests his forehead against her door.
"Buffy", he breathes, and then he realizes he can't. He can't do it. He's better off not knowing.
He runs. Flees down the stairs of her apartment building. Curses himself for making the journey. For being stupid enough to think...to hope...but she said she loved him! He stops in his tracks, right before pushing the building's door open. Man up, Spike, Goddamnit. All the way to Rome, for what? So you can run and hide? Some more? Like that isn't what you've been doing for weeks. Finding excuses. Hiding from the woman you love. Who might love you back. And then, all of a sudden, the decision is taken away from him. There she is. Rooted to the spot in the doorway, backlit by the streetlights, staring at him. He can't say a word.
"That's...not...oh my God."
She takes a tiny step.
"Spike", she breathes, and her slender hand comes up as if she wants to make sure he's really there.
He clears his throat.
"Buffy."
"You died in Sunnydale."
So she didn't know.
"Ah, no, not exactly...", he tries.
"You died in Sunnydale", she repeats, her voice louder, the words punctuated.
"Buffy, luv, it's complicated -"
"Huh? You're undead! You did not die! When were you planning on telling me this?"
Angry. He sould have know she'd be angry.
"Buffy please, let me explain. Can we do this somewhere else?"
Buffy steps even closer and glares at him, her eyes suspiciously bright.
"You fucking idiot. You let me believe you were dead! That was months ago! I thought I lost you! And now you just show up here, as if nothing was wrong, and it feels like a punch to my guts!"
She hits his chest with a small, strong fist, and it hurts. She does it again and again, and then he realizes she's crying. Silent tears, and she's refusing to look at his face while she keeps punching him. He tries to take it without backing off, but she's too strong.
"Please, Buffy", he mumurs, "please stop."
He can tell he's already starting to bruise, and the last punches before she lets her hands fall to her sides hurt like hell. He focuses on the pain. It's clear, and familiar. Nothing confusing about it. The bruises will heal. The storm in his mind, or soul, or heart or wherever it might be located – that storm is way scarier. Terrifying. That's it. He's terrified again. He didn't realize he said the word out loud until she stares at him.
"Of what?", she asks him, at a loss as she had been back then.
"I'm not sure", he murmurs. "All I know is I've never been this scared in my whole life."
She looks at him for an eternity, breathing hard, and he can see the wheels spinning in her head.
"Please", he tries again, "Buffy please let me explain. Let's go upstairs, close the door behind us, and let me explain. Please?"
She snaps out of it, whatever it was, and nods.
"OK", she says and sqeezes past him. She's not smiling, and she's not looking back to check if he's following her. The terror wraps itself around his heart. He feels like he might not survive the night.
He follows her up the stairs, but his feet feel incredibly heavy, and he realizes he's stalling. She's not actually rushing it either. All of a sudden he wants to call out to her, tell her to stop, to turn to him. He needs to touch her so badly, to hold her, to pull her close. What if she won't let him? If she tells him to leave her alone? This is it. Tonight. A few moments from now. She's going to make a decision, and that will be it. It might all be over in a minute. He's sure he won't survive that.
He stops and leans against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment. She stops and turns a moment later.
"What?"
He can't get his voice to work. She descends a few steps, and when she stops their eyes are level.
"What is it, Spike?"
He thinks she sounds worried, but he's not sure. Maybe she's annoyed. Maybe she wants this over with. It was him who asked her to go upstairs, and now he's stalling. And all he really wants is to bury his face in her neck and feel her arms around him. All he wants is for her to say that she's not mad. Or that she'll eventually stop being mad. A crumb.
"Spike?" Worried. Definitely worried.
"I'm sorry, Buffy."
He seeks her eyes, and she holds his gaze for a moment. Then her shoulders sag and she turns, starting to climb the stairs again.
"Let's not do this here", she says, her voice flat. The terror rises to his throat.
When the door to her apartment closes behind them she turns to him.
"I thought you were dead, Spike. I mourned you. I thought you'd sacrificed your life. That you were – gone. Gone forever."
Her voice is barely a whisper by the end. He swallows.
"And now that you find out I'm not – is that – a good thing?"
"Fuck you, Spike."
Still whispering. He realizes there's tears in her throat that she refuses to let show in her eyes.
"Please Buffy. Are you – are you mad at me? For being alive?"
"Huh?!"
The look on her face is pure confusion. He clears his throat.
"I made that great big exit, saving the world an' all, champion of the people...and here I am. Plain old me. Sorta anticlimatic."
"You freaking, stupid, idiotic – dickhead!"
He snorts and laughs despite the situation.
"Redundant much?"
She starts laughing, too. And then the tears start to fall.
"What were you thinking? That I didn't want you to be alive? Because – it would spoil the dramatic effect? That can't even make sense in your head!"
"So – you're not mad?"
"Oh I am mad alright mister. I am spitting mad at you for not fucking telling me that I could stop bailing my eyes out!"
Spike stares at her.
"You – what?"
"I cried over you, Spike. Again and again until I didn't have any tears left. It's what people do when they lose someone they love."
He blinks.
"Say that again."
"I have said it before."
"You didn't mean it."
"How the fuck would you know that?"
"It – well, it just couldn't - "
Buffy takes a deep, shuddering breath and pulls herself together.
"I love you, Spike. I don't know why you can't accept that. Frankly I thought it was what you've been wanting to hear."
"I do! I have! I mean - "
Buffy raises an eyebrow.
"Eloquent much?"
"Fuck Buffy can I just hold you already?"
A real, warm, blindingly beautiful smile spreads on her face.
"Sure", she says, tilting her head, and Spike pulls her against his chest, bruises be damned, and clings to her as if his life depended on it. Which actually, it does.