The walls shook, paintings crashed to the floor, and the entire house seemed dangerously close to collapsing into the azure depths of the Pacific Ocean; yet the two prone bodies remained markedly still, the slightly dazed young woman lying beneath the fit body of the blue-eyed male, slipping into the fathoms of his gaze as the rolling calmed to a gentle rumble, and then stopped.
For a few moments, the only sound in the room was that of their heavy breathing, both trying to convince themselves that it was because of the shaking of the room, not the earth-shattering realizations that crashed upon them when falling into one another’s arms. Buffy thought his weight would have been crushing her, but it was an oddly comforting presence—and, upon registering exactly what happened, it was very welcome indeed.
Spike saw the second that she went from confused to panicked and he rolled off of her form, inaccurately interpreting the reason behind her reaction. “Are you alright, love?” he asked quickly, considering standing but unsure of whether his legs would hold his weight. Yeah, the earthquake had been intense, but not so much as the feel of her petite form beneath his. He instead opted to roll onto his back, lying next to Buffy as her breathing quickly escalated to hyperventilation. “Buffy, kitten, calm down,” he said nervously, turning on his side and hesitantly reaching out to turn her face towards his. “It’s over, sweetheart, there’s no need to be afraid.” Unbidden, the pet names rolled off his lips, but she didn’t complain. When her hazel eyes finally looked up and met his deep sapphire gaze, she took a deep breath and exhaled slowly; the panic was gone, he could tell, but it revealed upon its departure a deep mark of hurt and fear in her eyes.
“Oh my god,” she murmured, sitting up and shaking out her long hair. Gazing about the room and seeing numerous articles having fallen from their once precarious perches, she quickly looked back to Spike and pulled him up next to her. “Are you okay?” she asked frantically. “No aches, pains, hurts, broken bones, concussions?”
“I’m as right as rain, pet,” he answered soothingly, reaching out a hand and tentatively smoothing her disheveled hair. “How about you? You seemed rather skittish there.”
“Oh me? I’m fine!” Buffy’s voice had reached a rather high-pitched octave as she stood on surprisingly firm legs—and grabbed a bottle of tequila that had miraculously remained on the shelf. “Drink?”
A few minutes, and a few quick calls to Giles and Willow, later, the two were seated cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the room, most of the broken things having been swept to a pile that Spike would go through later. Two shot glasses and a bottle of tequila perched between their forms, and neither person spoke until a few swallows of alcohol had been taken.
“It was my first,” Spike said abruptly, smiling as the girl before him downed a shot and made a face of utter disgust.
“What was that?” After the consumption of a surprisingly small amount of alcohol, Buffy seemed to be reverting to her normal self; still, it concerned him as to what had frightened her so, and to take advantage of the situation to ask a few questions… well, he never said he was an Angel, right?
“Earthquake,” he clarified, appraising her expression carefully before asking, “Yours?”
“Are you kidding?” she laughed, giving him a wry grin. “Born-and-bred California girl here, Spike. Not my first.”
He chuckled along with her for a moment, then explained his question. “I was only asking, kitten, because you seemed a bit alarmed and all.”
“Oh, that,” she said grumpily, the frown on her face appearing at lightening speed. “It’s just that Earthquakes… Well, let’s just say they don’t inspire thoughts of hugs and puppies.”
Buffy was strangely closed off, and Spike knew there was something more to the story than she was revealing. Knowing she would most likely turn skittish on the subject if he pressed (where was all this strange insight into her behavior coming from, anyway?), the peroxide blond merely refilled her shot glass and with a casual tone, asked, “Want to talk about it? I’ve got some right embarrassing tales to tell, myself.”
The blonde girl pulled her knees up to her chest and let out a derisive laugh. “It’s not so much an embarrassing tale as a—” She stopped short in the middle of her sentence, and when she turned her gaze back to his face, Spike knew he’d been caught. “You’re talented, has anyone ever told you that?”
Play it cool, he thought, quirking an eyebrow. “Well, yeah, pet, usually one’s aware of their skills when they’re a professional artist.”
“And there you go again, proving my point.” Deftly grabbing the bottle and refilling her glass, she drank the shot and ‘icked’ before she spoke. “You know exactly what I meant y ‘talented,’ so don’t go all wide-eyed Oxford student on me.” When Spike looked away, grinning but obviously disgruntled about being figured out, Buffy let out another laugh of a much more genuine variety. “Not that I’m criticizing,” she clarified. Spike looked up again upon hearing the kinder note in her voice. There was respect, clear and unhidden, in her gaze. “You don’t have to go all Bond on me to satisfy your curiosity.” A smile that melted his heart. “You want to know why I hate earthquakes?”
“Yeah,” he replied simply. He couldn’t tell if she was drunk, but by the tingling he felt in his extremities, it was a distinct possibility. Still, the curiosity of what could have caused the bright, cheerful girl before him to such a level of distress was too strong. That, and he felt that what she really needed was to get this out, to reveal to someone he thoughts and feelings instead of repressing them.
Buffy seemed to muse for a few seconds, pouring herself another shot and drinking it without a reaction (testament to his early hypothesis of inebriation). She let out a sigh, and then finally spoke. “It sounds sort of ridiculous when I say this, but… have you ever had a near-death experience?” At the shake of Spike’s head, she met his serious expression with a wry smile. “Mine so much wasn’t ‘near’ as ‘right freaking there.’”
“You… died?” The face that this bright, vivacious girl—woman, he amended—had been so close to something so dark was mind boggling. “Well, pet, I certainly can’t blame you for hating earthquakes now.”
“It was so strong,” she said softly, staring at a spot on the floor and speaking as if she hadn’t heard a word Spike had said. “I mean, one second, I was there, at the beach with my friends, swimming and laughing, and having fun… And the next, I was lying on the beach with two cracked ribs coughing up water and staring into all their scared faces…” She let out a shaky breath, then made an attempt at a smile. “The scariest part wasn’t the waking up, though—it was realizing that I had been dead for two minutes, and during that time, there was… nothing.”
A heavy silence set into the room, the two blondes sitting amongst the wreckage deep in though. “When did that happen?” Spike asked finally, unable to tear his eyes off the eerily calm woman before him.
“When I was sixteen,” she replied,” her voice wavering for the first time since telling her story. “Oh god, I’m so sorry,” she hastily began to say, rising to her feet and starting away from their spot on the floor. “I should get going, I should never have—”
A firm hand wrapped around her wrist stopped her escape, and Buffy found herself turning almost as if compelled to do so. Spike’s brilliant blue eyes were darkened with a fierce emotion, and as his strong hands slid down the smooth skin of her wrist, he traced the curve of her palm and linked his fingers with her own. At the feel of their palms pressing intimately into one another, Buffy let out a slight gasp, her mind moving so quickly through all the possible outcomes of this strange (but altogether welcome) event that the scenarios all blended together in a blur. The strange whirlwind was reflected in Spike’s own imagination, but his body moved without any consideration of his action’s implications, only wanting to inch closer and closer to Buffy until their chests and lips touched, until he could feel every inch of her frame, until…
But there was something that stilled his movements—there was apparent desire in Buffy’s hazel eyes, but amidst her wanton gaze was a tinge of fear, of apprehension…
It was enough to make him pull away.
“I’m sorry, love,” he said, both knowing that his apology was not in reference to her confession only moments before.
“It’s alright,” she said, playing along but having to look away to hide the awful rejected expression on her face. “I only get wiggy when there’s earthquakes, so don’t start thinking all natural disasters set me off like this.”
“I wouldn’t blame you if they did,” he answered. “Everyone’s got a trigger; some are less avoidable than others.” Spike found himself taking a surreptitious glance towards the portrait now leaning sideways on the ground, not really caring when the other blonde’s eyes followed his path and stared at the painting as well.
“Who was she?” Buffy asked simply, giving him a weak smile as he joined her on the floor again.
Reaching forward, Spike picked up the bottle of tequila on the ground and poured himself another shot, emptying the remaining contents of the bottle into the other small glass. Huh. He could’ve sworn that bottle was unopened. “Drusilla,” he finally answered.
“Yeah, we’ve established that already,” Buffy pressed; now that she’d confessed her own secret, there was no way that she would allow Spike the privilege of secrecy as well. “Who was she to you?”
“My salvation,” he breathed instantly, reverence clear in his voice. God, how could he repress those memories when he found himself staring into those beautiful dark eyes? The day they’d met after he’d been rejected yet again, Drusilla grabbing him by the hand and leading him to her home where they made love for hours, rain pounding on the windows unnoticed by the enraptured occupants inside. When they’d managed to leave her place and make it over to his, he spent hours painting, his muse overwhelmed with feelings of inspiration, passion, and beauty. Everything had been perfect, the wonderful darkness corrupting the light of his innocence and bringing with it his first success. The first painting he’d sold had solidified his confidence in himself, and after that, his life had been perfect.
Key words? Had been.
But at that moment in time, sitting amidst the rubble with a rather drunk composition and the remains of his artwork scattered about him—this had to be his expulsion from heaven.
Or maybe, he thought, when the light of the setting sun poured through the wide windows and illuminated the golden face before him, he had finally been released from the incarceration of hell.
She is truly beautiful, William thought, tilting his head to the side and smiling at the patiently waiting woman before him. Taking a deep breath, he finally found his voice and spoke. “Drusilla was the first woman I ever loved,” he started. “I was young, unsuccessful, hopelessly romantic in the pathetic, unrequited sort of way, when she found me and put that spark in me to create.” Spike let out a chuckle, lifting the shot glass to his lips and inclining his head in a gesture of derision. “I think she may have taken it with her when she left,” he said, swallowing the alcohol with not a grimace. “But I can’t blame her for it—we grew apart, that’s what people do. I just regret that we had to end on these terms, this sort of strange estrangement. You understand?”
“Definitely,” Buffy replied, thinking back on the inevitable discomfort she felt upon making contact with her father. “Do you… still love her?”
He considered the question a moment, taking the time to answer it as honestly as possible. Did Spike still really love Dru? Only a few months ago, there would have been no doubt in his mind as to the answer to that question, but now, considering recent events… No, he no longer felt that immense desire to share his imaginings with the world when he looked into her eyes, nor the equally passionate need to join himself with her intimately. Being fully and completely honest with himself, Spike came to a conclusion. “I said I’d always love her,” he began, “but sometimes two people find themselves in different places—and I’m not talking geographically—when the things they felt just don’t exist anymore.” Huh. There was no anger, resentment, or, really, emotion whatsoever. Simply the realization that their times together had been wonderful, but that it was time to move on.
And when the blonde before him took her last shot of alcohol, the endearment he felt seeing the silly look on her face made it all too apparent where his heart was leading him once more.