All About Spike

In the Shadows
By Sofia

Sequel to A Little Love

Summary: Drawn by the light of happiness, despair lurks in the shadows. Or, Angel POV on S/B. 
Pairings / Warnings: Buffy/Spike, original canon withstanding – I refuse to accept that revisionist crap. If the concept of slash offends you, don’t read.
Timeline: Set in a WishVerse of Season 7. Sort of a sequel to “A Little Love”.
Feedback: Tell me you liked it. Tell me you hated it. Just tell me.
Disclaimer: Not mine. But, since Joss is unfamiliar with the idea of “happy together” a girl has got to do something!
Thanks: There aren’t enough words to express how deeply in debt I am to Lara Dean-Brierley. She’s the one that keeps me going. Bless you.

I stood watching them all night. I’ve been doing it for a few nights now.

I knew they were together without anyone saying it.

He has his soul back. That’s all it took for her to accept him. Unlike me, he left so that he could come back.

They’re lying on the bed in the hours before dawn, holding each other tightly in a tangle of limbs that reminds me of a litter of puppies I once saw as a boy. They’re that innocent.

Did I ever hold them in such a manner? Wasn’t my heart always tinged by some dark longing? The need to break, to own, to bind?

Was I ever an innocent?

They meet at the mansion. Of all the places. I suppose they consider it safe, for who would dare enter the abandoned lair of a Master vampire save for his Childe and his Mate?

I thought this would be the last place they’d choose. Too many bad memories haunt the corners of the house. Ghosts hover around like spiderwebs. The last time I visited there was nothing but silence and gloom.

Now there always seems to be a riotous amount of noise and light streaming out through doors and windows. They’ve installed electricity all over the place and modern gadgets are always on (they seem to have dozens of household appliances). They talk all the time they’re awake. They laugh a lot too. They practice together and the sounds of punches, kicks, coaching and warnings can be heard nightly.

And there’s the dance.

No, literally. He teaches her different styles and she’s a quick learner - being a Slayer is all about perfect timing and he was always a good dancer, agile and with great sense of rhythm. They dance for hours, spinning in perfect unison to the music that blares out of the little stereo. Sometimes, they turn so fast that she throws her head back and screams in delight. (“Love when you do that, pet.”)

They like tunes from the 20’s the best. The “Roaring Twenties”, as he always likes to say. He tells her stories from those times.

“The parties lasted for days and everybody was out to have a good time, sod the consequences! Champagne flowed and women wore skimpy little dresses with almost nothing underneath --”

“Don’t you ever think about anything else?”

“Love, I’m telling you the way I saw it! I was there, I should know! I went to this orgy once --”

“Spike!” She has a look of amused outrage in her face and a glint in her eyes.

“C’mon pet, let me show you how it was done,” he smirks while he puts an arm around her waist and pulls her nearer. She doesn’t even pretend to protest as he carries her to the bed.

I couldn’t have told her how it was. Those decades slid past me.

New York was cold. I remember that.

What hurts the most is the intimacy they share.

And the trust.

Not the feverish embraces or the cries of pleasure. Those only fuel the desire I have for them. Once, they cried like that for me. They begged (“Please, Angel, please”) and cursed (“Fuck, yes...”) just like that.

No, the worst is watching her run her knuckles across his chest just to confirm again that his skin is really as smooth as it looks. She bites her lower lip when she does this, with the surprised expression of a five year old, and she giggles every time when she finally glances up to meet his eyes.

The worst was hearing his distressed voice tonight when he noticed she got hurt in a fight (“Buffy, you’re bleeding!”) and seeing him get a first-aid kit (he actually has one) and trying to convince her to let him treat her. She protested and argued and, finally, refused to let him do it (“Spike, it’s nothing!”).

You would have thought this to be funny, wouldn’t you? Spike, a nurse! But it wasn’t. His eyes filled with tears and he choked on his words (“Please, Buffy, I can’t just let you….”). She turned to him, wiped the tears off and hugged him close calming him down, whispering comforting words (“Don’t worry. What happened to her won’t happen to me.”).

Assurances they both know are lies.

“You’re still bleeding,” he said later.

“Ah, just lick it.”

Their time is short. They spend it building a stronghold neither darkness nor regret can penetrate. They’re committed to a cause and refuse to be anything else than happy and vibrant and alive.

They will make the most of the time they have.

The ghosts were all sent running.

I stand watching from the outside.

Alone in the shadows.


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