All About Spike - Print Version
[Back to Main Site] [Back to Story Page]
The house is eerily quiet this
time of night, but she doesn’t make a sound. Buffy has had years of practice to
creep through these halls, down these steps, without disturbing the silence. She
reaches the kitchen, pauses, then slowly makes her way down the basement steps.
Her eyes have become accustomed to the darkness as much as possible, and at the
bottom of the basement stairs she pauses again, clutching her robe tightly to
My eyes are clear.
That’s what he said in the
hallway earlier that day, and it seemed true. But they weren’t later, when he
saw her in the restaurant, eating from another man’s fork, letting another man
feed her, wine her and dine her, in a way she’d never let Spike do. They were never
allowed in public, not him, not them, not ever. And there Spike stood, watching
her, all dressed up for a new man, and his eyes, she was almost certain, became
filled with a haunting sadness before he blinked and locked it away.
Then, on the sofa, so confused
by what Giles had said, so aware of Willow and the others wanting something new and happy for
her, she had not been open with Spike. She had just said robotically, “I’m not
ready for you to not be here.” Not ready. Implying that someday she
would be ready, which was a total lie.
She wanted to grab his hand
and explain. Giles wants something better for me. Everyone wants something
better for me. Wood could be that. Someone human, someone handsome, someone
strong and brave and… not Spike. And therein lay the problem. He was just not Spike.
Buffy shakes her head at the
bottom of the steps, then crosses into the room. She can make out his platinum
blonde head but that’s all. There is no telltale sign of even breathing to let
her know he’s asleep. It is the absence of breath while he sleeps. She listens
carefully, then slowly crosses to him.
Her long robe is soft and
warm, so she is not quite sure why she is shivering as she kneels next to the
cot. She can make out the lines of his face now, the hollow shadow of his
cheeks, the curve of that lower lip. He looks really, truly dead lying there,
and she lets herself imagine it, him truly being gone from her. This is the one
place she does not let mind ever go. She has joked about it for years, making
him dust, making him disappear. But tonight, here, in the dark stillness of
this cold hard room that he stays in because Buffy wishes it to be so, she
tries to imagine life without him.
It is too much. Her body
tenses and she suddenly can’t breathe. She has to touch him to stop the rising
panic. Before she realizes what she is doing she has climbed onto the cot and
wound herself around him, burying her face in his neck. She breaths in the
scent of him and when she feels something wet on her face she realizes she is
I’m not ready for you to
not be here. What the hell did she say
that for, so cold and ambivalent? Why couldn’t she tell him? Why couldn’t she
face the truth?
“Don’t cry, Buffy. Please
don’t cry.” His voice is so sad, so resigned, but so full of tenderness that it
only makes her cry harder. He lies still next to her, his hands clenched to his
sides. Why won’t he hold me? Maybe because if he tried you’d shove him away.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers
brokenly into his neck. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I’m supposed to
be strong… and I’m supposed to move on… but I can’t let you go.”
She feels him swallow, hears
his ragged sigh. “You don’t have to,” he says, wearily. His arms tentatively
reach around her, and he pulls her close. “It’s all right.”
“Don’t be kind to me,” she
rasps, her voice raw from crying. “Why are you so kind to me?”
“Don’t be daft,” he replies,
stroking her hair. She clings to him, long minutes until her sobs abate.
“I’m so selfish,” she says.
She tries to draw strength from the solidness of him. Her hands cling to the
muscles of his arms and she squeezes them to reassure herself he is still here.
“We all are. ‘Sides, you’ve
saved the world how many times and died how many times? You’re entitled to
Buffy leans up on one elbow and
looks down at him. The mattress creaks under her shifting weight.
“What am I doing to you?” she
sighs as tears trickle down her cheek. Spike puts one arm behind his head and
with the other reaches up to wipe away her tears.
“You’re not doing anything
to me. Nothing I don’t choose for myself. You got that? You want me to stay,
I’ll stay. For as long as you want me to. And I’m here. For whenever you need
me. That’s all.” His face is sad, but when he gives her a supportive smile, her
heart seems to break inside her chest, break and repair itself and pound until
it hurts her ribs. She reaches her hand up and traces the planes of his face.
He watches her as she seems to discover him, truly see him, see what he has
become. She shakes her head in wonder, and then she lowers her head and kisses
him, slowly, softly. He does not respond, although she knows he wants to, she
can feel his erection pressing against her leg that she has wrapped over his
“I want to love you, if you’ll
let me.” There, she said it. The words seem to float over them and disappear
like mist. He does not respond. His eyes are clenched tightly shut, and he has
turned his head away.
She moves the kiss from his
lips to his cheek, tracing his jaw, then down his neck, tasting him as if for
the first time. Here was the spark, the fire, the longing she had denied for
weeks, months even. She shifts so that she is on top of him, her hands on
either side of his head as she stares down at him. Her hair falls in a curtain
around them, and he looks up at her. Fear, joy, agony, confusion, longing… he
seems to mirror everything in his gaze that she too is feeling. She answers the
questions in his eyes with a small nod, and then she reached down and opens her
robe, pressing her naked form to him, covering him with her skin as smooth as
silk. Still he does not move.
“Please,” she says, kissing
him again. “Please.”
“Oh, God… Buffy…” he mutters,
letting himself kiss her back. He puts his hand behind her head and draws her
to him, kissing her deeply, his tongue tasting, testing… “This isn’t real.”
“Yes, it is.” Her hands roam
over his naked chest, and when they reach the wasteband of his pajama bottoms
he jerks away. “I love you. Let me love you.”
“Don’t love me,” he says. “You
don’t have to love me. I love you, that’s enough.”
“Well, I seem to love you
anyway,” she says. She moves down and pulls the sweatpants off him, and then he
is naked, as naked as she. She kisses his smooth chest, his nipples, teasing
them with her tongue. When he gasps she smiles.
“Let me,” she says again,
slowly, softly, her lips moving down now. God, he smells good, tastes good,
feels so good and she wants him to feel good too, needs to show him that
without him she’s lost. Her small hand circles his penis, softly stroking, and
whole body tenses before her as she brings her lips down. She tastes the tip of
him, circling him with her tongue before she brings him all in to her warm,
moist mouth. He is so hard, and God she has missed this, missed making
him feel this way. He is whispering her name like a prayer and the heat between
her legs spreads out, floods her. She licks the length of him, her hand wrapped
around the base of his shaft as she begins to suck again in earnest. She loves
the feel of him bucking beneath her.
“Stop… please…” he mutters,
hands in her hair as he pulls her up to him.
“Why?” she whispers hoarsely.
“Need to be inside you,” he
says. She nods, shifts her weight and his hands are on her hips as he guides
her. In one swift motion he is inside her, and Buffy almost screams but she
covers her mouth in time to stifle it. It has been so long, and there is a
blissful pain that she welcomes. Every inch of him is inside her, and she can
make out his expression, that same expression he had when they first made love
in that ruined building, so long ago. Awe, and love, and passion.
“Let me,” she whispers, and
begins to move on him, up and down, slowly, watching his face. No one has ever
looked at me like this, she thinks, stunned. The love, the worship evident on
his face no longer makes her look away in shame. Instead, she welcomes it,
smiles the same love back to him.
His hands are now on her waist
as she rides him. She uses her strength to stretch out each movement so that he
is left gasping. She arches her back and his hands cup her breasts, and she
cannot help but moan.
“Jesus… Buffy… Oh, fuck…” His
hand moves between them, feeling the wetness between her legs, rubbing,
probing, moving on her in the way only he can, and he pulls himself up, sits up
to face her while she presses down on him, and his kiss is searing. She gasps
against his mouth, feels it coming, starting, the release, the explosion. She
grips him to her, nails in back, and the move in unison toward ecstasy.
They slowly come back to
earth, still wound around each other, she in his lap as he rocks her slowly
back and forth, back and forth. Sweat clings to their skin and the room smells
like sin. He is kissing the side of her neck.
“Buffy,” he says. “Buffy.”
She kisses him, one, twice,
soft little kisses that make him smile.
“Come upstairs with me,” she
says, standing up and putting on her robe. She holds out her hand to him. “My
bed is bigger than this, and I have TV.”
Spike leans his head against
the wall, staring up at her. “But the others…”
“I’m ready to deal with them
if you are.”
Spike nods slowly. He takes
her hand and she pulls him up. He hugs her to him, tightly, and kisses the top
of her head.
“I’m ready,” he says.
Together they go upstairs.