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Chapter Thirty-One

And kissing her, and kissing her, and… kissing her.

She felt his fingers weaving through her hair, nails scraping her scalp as he slanted her face to his mouth. She inhaled deeply, her body moving on instinct—as if it had finally come home. To him. Always to him. Everything felt too tight, too constricting. Her clothes had to go; his did. But as he pulled away to nibble at her neck something fired in the back of her mind. She pressed her hands against his chest, pushing gently.

"William, wait," she gasped.

"What? What is it? Did I do something wrong?"

She shook her head. "No… I just…" Her hands slid upward, fingers moving to rest against the back of his neck while her thumbs barely pressed into the spaces behind his ears. It was as though she was afraid he might run from her, escape from her once he heard what she had to say. "I…" She met his questioning… wanting gaze. "I don't want you to do this for the wrong reasons."

"What reasons?"

"I don't want you doing this because of grief. Because you lost your mother." She didn't want to take advantage of him. Not again. Not like this.

He stared at her for a long moment, brow kitting as he looked to consider her words. The whole time she searched his eyes, trying to figure out what he was thinking, praying he hadn't taken what she said the wrong way.

"I won't lie to you," he finally told her, voice wavering but strong. "I miss her. And it hurts. A lot. Going to bed with you…. I won't deny that it won't ease some of that, or, that some part of my choice isn't brought on by my own loss. But, Dare…

"I want you. With every fiber of my being. I… spent the whole afternoon thinking about it after our ride. Quietly. By myself." He paused. "Are you afraid I'll regret this decision in the morning? That I'll change my mind?"

"Maybe," Buffy admitted. But she also knew how long she'd waited for this, for him to want her as she was, as he thought she was. She had to know he was in one-hundred percent.

"I want this," he whispered, pressing his lips for her forehead. "I want you." He then hovered over her lips. "I promise you… that isn't going to change once the sun rises." The next kiss was gentle, sweet, and all the things she'd never allowed their kisses to be back home—back before he fled to Africa in some vain attempt to be better. For her.

"Ok," she murmured, finally kissing him back and praying that he meant those words even after everything changed.

She knew one thing for sure, when she finally did go home she sure as hell wasn't ever going to combat the number of layers they were having to deal with right then. At all. Even in their rush to remove things, her trepidation of how this was all going to work once he reached skin, it was still a pain in the ass. But by the PTB she was worried. She'd never even considered asking Tara or Whistler how this would work out. Would Spike just come to the forefront? Would he still be William? At what point…

She gasped as he moved her, her back banging into a wall. His hands were sliding up along her stomach and his blunt teeth were on her throat as she threw her head back, allowing him more access.

"Buffy…"

Her eyes shot open as she cried out, as he bit down just enough, as he pulled at the front of her shirt and buttons became as pennies clattering on the floor. She reached up then, taking a hold on his face and pulling him to look at her. She couldn't quite stop the tears that pricked at her eyes. "…Spike?"

His kiss silenced her, ravenous as a man starved. And she gave in, shifting to accommodate him as he lifted her up. Her legs went about his waist, locking. Her hands were in his hair as she nibbled on his bottom lip, as he carried her away from the wall. It wasn't until she was falling onto the bed that she realized where he'd led them.

She wasn't certain what emotion to embrace first—happiness, relief, or if it would merely be better to give over to the ever present desire. She wanted to laugh, but tucked it away and he quietly undressed her, as she let him, and as he undressed himself.

They'd been in motion the whole time, but it was then that he stopped. It lasted perhaps a few seconds—his gazing down at her appreciatively, longingly… so much more. And she couldn't—didn't want to—stop herself from doing the same to him.

But once the moment ended he was right back on her—kissing her, caressing her, and molding her body to his as if to eradicate the spaces that separated them. His hands danced along her breasts, her abdomen, her thighs—inside and out—and she couldn't stop herself from gasping, shaking even, and they drew patterns along her sex. Some part of her wanted to stop him, to take control, but she willed herself not to. For once… she wanted to let go, to allow herself to acted on by him totally. Their encounters had always held a measure of distance and she'd always been the one to bend him to her wants, her needs, and her own little tune.

Not tonight.

So she dug her hands into his scalp and she let him love her with his mouth, his tongue, and his fingers. She let herself cry out and repeat his name like a mantra she'd never before allowed herself to speak. And when the tears came in earnest she didn't hide them; instead, she relished the way he kissed them to nothing.

I missed you, she wanted to say. I'm sorry.

And then he was panting in her ear, nails digging into her hips as he hovered over her entrance. Buffy slid him home, shifting and pushing at just the right angle to make them both curse in want and appreciation. She didn't know if he'd hesitated, but she couldn't fathom waiting. All they'd both done was wait for too long and for all the wrong reasons.

He was muttering unintelligible things, grunting, as he drove into her. She felt sweat licking a path along her neck, between her shoulder blades, and along her brow. It coated her body as a well-known liquid flame licked at her insides. Burning, burning, burning…. So hot. She was close. So fucking close. Her chest ached with it and every time he slid to the hilt shockwaves if euphoria vibrated through her body.

"I love you…" she whispered, voice cracking.

"Buffy…" he gasped.

"Please."

He knew; he had to know. And as she felt fangs pierce her neck her nails dug into his butt cheeks, pulling him closer and she thrust upward and choked on a sound she couldn't quite make. A kaleidoscope of colors shattered behind her eyelids and her body shook with it all as she rode the wave. She didn't know she came down, exhaustion taking over completely. So many aches… fears… burdens... washed away in one moment. It was enough. She could sleep.

I missed you…

#

Part of her wondered if the whole thing had been a dream, something she'd created after falling asleep at her desk. But she realized that couldn't be right at all when she didn't feel a hard surface under face, instead cool cotton that contoured and cradled. There were also the sheets and the bed to consider. Her bones didn't really twinge with the regret of sitting awkwardly in a hard chair due to unexpected dozing.

Slowly, Buffy blinked her eyes open. Across from her the bed was empty and she felt a pang of fear. Had he left? Gone back to his room? Somewhere else? She swallowed as she rolled over and moved into an upright position.

"Didn't run off."

She was silent, watching him as she held herself up with hands leveraged on the mattress behind her. He was leaning into a window, or rather the opening of one. One forearm was placed against frame; in that hand dangled a lit cigarette wafting a thin trail of smoke. His other hand rested on his hip, fingers splayed but relaxed. Everything about him seemed relaxed, uninterested in doing much of anything aside from gazing out the window at the day.

His chest was bare and a pair of slacks from the day before loosely hung about his hips. His hair was just as unkempt as last night, curls of it brushing his temples and ears. It was… strange…knowing he was Spike, not William now, and watching as slants of light danced across his bare skin. He'd had this once before, but she wondered if he'd really taken the time to appreciate it—the sun. Had he when the gem had been in his possession? Or had he run straight to her, hoping to finally get the upper hand?

She wasn't certain what to say, really. She hadn't exactly planned for this moment. She should have; by all rights she should have been prepared for him to be Spike again, a man from her own time period. And now… She wasn't sure; it didn't help that the last time they seen each other…

…it hadn't been good.

He said he hadn't run, hadn't he? That was something. Maybe. Regardless, she really couldn't keep sitting in bed. So, with a low inhale, Buffy pulled back the sheets and the blankets. She picked up her ruined shirt off the floor and slid it on before stepping towards him just as he took a hit off his cigarette.

"Hey…" she managed, keeping some distance even as she wanted to reach out for him, to have him envelope her in an embrace. Until that instant she didn't know how badly she needed him to tell her everything was going to be ok.

He sighed smoke and flicked ash out the open window. "I'm not too sure on the bloody details, but I do remember what's been going on." He scratched the back of his head. "Botched the wish up, did I? Someone sent you for me."

"Pretty much," Buffy replied, trying to keep her voice even. "It... well... the dijinn placed a curse on you and the PTB sent me to... fix it."

"Ah."

She swallowed. "Ta—someone dug into it for me. The uh... reason it got all messed up."

"Did they?" he asked, voice as hollow as the atmosphere. Did he want to know why?

"...You always... you always had your soul in a way. Part of it, at least. The dijinn took advantage of that."

He didn't say anything and the quiet felt harrowing to her. Her chest seized with it, cracking and perhaps daring to crumble. Her hands were in front of her, fingers twining together against her chest. She wasn't looking down at them, but her line of sight wasn't directly on him either. She was looking at his side, his bicep as it faced her, but she wasn't really seeing it either.

"Spike..."

In an instant he tossed the cigarette out the window and stepped away from it, from her. "'M gonna get some fresh air."

"Can we talk?" she blurted to his back. "Please?"

He stopped halfway towards the door that separated her room from the dressing room. And there—again—was that damning, harrowing, painful quiet. Did she want an answer? There were things she had to say, needed to say to him. Things like, 'It wasn't your fault,', or, 'It's ok,' and perhaps, 'I'm sorry I was a broken idiot.'

"Need some time, pet. Just..." She watched as his back visibly slackened. "Gotta get the words sorted out. Alright...?"

"...Yeah," she whispered.

And then he was gone.

AN :: Two chapters in one day. How about that? I know this second chapter is on the short side at just over 2k words, but I felt like it was a good place to end. I'd rather start the next chapter, preferably in Spike's head, on a fresh note. And honestly, it didn't feel right clumping this into chapter thirty when there were so many page breaks already. I also felt like it would have been wrong to leave you guys on such a major cliffhanger. I'm normally not opposed to that, but you've waited a while for this.

Anyway, school is out until October and I've got a lot to work on. There are two more fics I need to update on FF and my original work to focus on. So... here's hoping I have another update for you out on this one sometime next month. We're over the first big hurdle; after the second we've got one more major one and then the end of the story.

Have a great weekend, you guys; much love!

—Blade