Months after Chosen. Buffy is trying her hand at writing in a journal. S/B. Rated PG
No, I mean, literally, parts of me. Parts of my body. It’s true. And creepy. But not really creepy. Just sad.
Like, okay. My head, my scalp, misses the pressure of his fingers. Sometimes when we’d be… well, not making love, cause I guess it wasn’t really, not then. Okay, when we were having sex, he’d kind of hold my head when he’d be giving me these super-deep kisses, and he’d kind of massage my scalp, and it felt so, so good, almost as good as the kiss. Notice I said almost.
My hair misses him. He liked to play with it. Of course I’d usually smack his hand away and pretend to be annoyed, and then I’d huff off. But it felt really, um, nice. Erotic. I really do not have a way with words.
My eyelids miss him. He would kiss each one closed right before he’d whisper what he was going to do to me. He’d usually be laying on top of me at this point, which I thoroughly enjoyed. The man knew how to work his hips, let’s just leave it at that.
My nose misses him. He teased it mercilessly. It was horrible. It would get itchy sometimes, after a long bout of sex, and I’d scratch it and he’d tell me I really should drop the cocaine habit. Ha, ha.
The flat of my stomach misses when he’d bury his head there and whisper his love for me into my skin so that I wouldn’t hear, because I’d usually mock him and call him something really sweet like a disgusting, undead, thing or something equally poetic. Real nice, Buffy.
My hands miss fighting him. He was fun to spar with. We were really well matched. I liked his technique. And he was quick. And clever. And strong. I really think I could have taken him. I really would like to punch him in the face right now, if you want the truth. Starting to get angry again. Writing stuff down is supposed to be therapeutic, and I’m getting angry again, which leads to property damage.
Okay. Deep breath.
Um. And I’m not going into the obvious here. I’m talking strange parts of my body that miss him. This may sound gross, but who cares, no one else is going to read this. He’d do things, to my toes (I swear I washed my feet first). He liked sucking. On. My. Toes. And it was really, really freaking hot. He’d just stare up at me and, like, suck on my big toe and that’s all it took.
That was all it took.
The soles of my feet miss him. He gave kick-ass foot rubs. Even though I used to act like I didn’t really want one that badly. He’d say, all slow like, “How’s this, pet?” And I’d just sigh and cover my intense pleasure with a bored-sounding, “It’s okay, I guess.” I think he knew. No, I know he knew. How much I loved it. He’d just grin slowly at me and continue with the rubbing and I’d try hard not to groan out loud.
The small of my back misses his hand there. See, this is stupid, but he tried to teach me to waltz once. It was a few months before Xander and Anya’s wedding… God, Anya… and it was before I, um, ended things or whatever. We were in his crypt, and I was thinking how Anya said how much she loved waltzing and there were going to be lots of waltzing going on at the wedding and I never took ballroom dance or anything. So one night Spike’s all, “I’ll teach you, you stupid bint” or whatever kind nickname he used on me at the time. I made him take off his big stupid boots, and we stood barefoot in his crypt, facing each other. He put on some old record that was kind of pretty. He said it was… wait, I remember, Etta James. And he showed me how to waltz. It really was easy. He was a good dance teacher. He was all sorts of graceful, and the perfect height for me. Of course he’d get that serious, sad look in his eye staring down at me, and, you know what? I distinctly remember him singing along with the song. “And here we are in heaven… for you are mine… at last…”
And I stopped abruptly, confused at whatever the hell I was feeling, hating when I felt more that lust, so I made some crack about, yeah, me and you in heaven, Spike. Like that’ll happen. And he turned off the song and shrugged and lit a cigarette. He was good at covering up. I was too.
Parts of me miss him. Earlobe, inner thigh, my ass, my lips. God, my lips. My heart. It’s been many days. It’s been many months. Sometimes I hug myself and pretend that my arms are his arms. Pathetic much? Oh well. It’s the truth.
My hand misses him. The hand that held on to his and burst into flame. It still stings, sometimes, which I am grateful for. That’s how I know he’s still there, here, somehow. I want to stomp my foot and tell him to hurry his ass home already, because each and every single stupid solitary cell of me needs him back. And I’m not big with the patience.
Hurry home, Spike.