Something was wrong with Buffy. She’d breezed in as usual, perky and smiling, her golden hair bouncing with every step, catching the like and glowing. Like a halo... Spike shook himself mentally, getting off his mental tangent. She’d sat down as far away from him as possible, which was nothing new, but still stung. So everything had been normal, fine, even if Buffy’s cheeriness had seemed a tad forced.
But when the whelp had walked in, bearing donuts for all, she’d paled. Gone almost green and rushed off to the bathroom, breathing like she was trying not to be sick. Red had dashed after her, and they’d all her knocking on the door, and Buffy telling her to go away, she wanted to be left in peace.
Spike was just about sitting on his hands not to rush over there and break the door down. Something was wrong, dammit. And she needed him.
Willow walked slowly back to the table, glancing back towards the bathroom every now and then.
“What’s up with Buffy, Red?”
“None of your business, Spike.”
He tilted his chair back and raised an eyebrow, “Don’t get snippy with me just because you don’t know.”
“Even if I did know, I wouldn’t tell you.”
Xander looked up at that and started to ask for his own information. Willow was trying to shut him up without either offending him or letting on too much of what she suspected to Spike when the door creaked open. Only Spike heard it, and he turned towards the sound.
“Really, guys, it’s nothing. I ate something dodgy last night and the smell of the donuts just set everything off again. That’s all.”
Uh-huh. And Spike didn’t like the Ramones. Buffy was still pale and looked almost clammy. And tired. Maybe it was to be expected if she’d just thrown up her guts. Spike cocked his head to one side, watching her, “Feeling better now, pet?”
She shot him a dirty look. “Yes, I feel great. Just peachy with a side of keen.”
The corner of his mouth twitched in an almost smile. She must be feeling better to snark at him like that. Still, it would be nice if she could snark at someone else instead. She really has it in for him these days. And while he’s wishing, could he have a million dollars and could she fall for him?
Yeah, right.
He let the chair back onto all four feet and stood up, taking a step towards Buffy. She wants to throw insults, fine. He can play that game.
“Sure it was something you ate, pet?”
She glared at him. Daggers would be less painful. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged, “Just wondering if it wasn’t something you drank.”
He spun away, duster flaring, and walked out of the shop before he could give in to the impulse to look back, to beg or plead with her for just a crumb. She wasn’t going to give him that. She’d never give him that. She’d made that abundantly clear.
“I don’t drink.” Buffy answered quietly, into empty air.
Willow turned to face her, “We know that, sweetie. Don’t mind Spike, you know what he’s like.”
“Yeah, I do,” Buffy whispered. She shook herself and sat down at the table with the rest of the Scoobies. She knew only too well what Spike was like, which is why she didn’t dare let him in, didn’t dare let herself feel anything for him. He didn’t really love her, no matter what he said. How could he when he didn’t know what love was? He was a womanising punk, who equated lust with love; and he only wanted her because she was so unattainable.
Spike headed for the lowest bar he knew, where the booze was bad, but cheap. He needed to get pissed. The barman greeted him by name when he walked in, and had his bottle of whisky and a glass on the counter in front of him before he’d even pulled the stool out from under the bar. Spike sighed. Obviously, this his painkiller of choice was becoming too regular an occurrence. And in only two weeks. Two short weeks of utter misery. And he’d thought he’d had it bad before... Before that night, or rather the next morning.
He knew something was wrong before he was even fully awake. The bed felt unusually big and cold, and at first he told himself the whole thing, the whole wonderful night had been a dream. Again. He cursed under his breath and opened his eyes. It had felt so real, been so detailed. Her soft, sweet lips, the heat of her sweat-slicked skin against his, her perfect little body arching and trembling under him, around him, the little mewls and groans and pants she made... The incredible feel of her walls clenching around him, almost burning him through the condom.... God, it had felt like heaven, had been heaven. And once again it had been a dream. Only...
Only he couldn’t find the evidence that it had been nothing more than another wet dream. And he couldn’t explain the lipstick smears on his skin, or the condom in the trash, or why, when he dragged himself out of bed and off to college, he’d found a lacy little thong and a second discarded condom in the backseat of his De Soto.
No way would he ever dream about using a condom. In his fantasies, in his dreams, it wasn’t necessary. Unless there was some utter shite about the symbolism of it that his subconscious dreamed up.
He’d confronted her, of course, at the first opportunity. He’d wanted so badly to know why she’d left him to wake up alone and bereft. He’d wanted to know what it meant to her, that they’d done that. He wanted to know that she didn’t regret it, as drunk as she’d been. He wanted to know he hadn’t taken advantage of her, that she hadn’t been so drunk she couldn’t really make a conscious decision about sex. She’d laughed in his face, said she remembered drinking and him offering to drive her home, but nothing else. And not to flatter himself, there wasn’t enough alcohol in the world to make her want him. And the thong? Why the hell would he think that was hers? The number of sluts he’d had in his car, it could be virtually any skank’s idea of lingerie.
She’d spun on her heel, with her nose in the air and strutted off, and he’d just stood there, utterly desolate. So much for hoping. But he knew, absolutely knew, it had been real. That it had been her. Which only made him feel worse, because clearly, he’d taken advantage and she regretted it. Clearly, he was the lowest kind of scum and heartbroken to boot. Clearly he needed a drink.
That was two weeks ago. And here he still was, drinking his pain and guilt away for a while, in the hopes of a dreamless sleep. All his dreams of her had turned to nightmares in which things went well until they kissed, when suddenly she was struggling to stop him and he had to watch, in increasing leaden horror, powerless to stop forcing himself on her. So yeah, a dreamless sleep was the aim. Waking up with a killer hangover was better than waking up in a cold sweat, heart pounding, disgusted with himself. If he was lucky, he’d manage to drink enough not to wake up at all. Then again, when was he ever lucky?
He knew he needed to apologise, needed to beg her forgiveness. But she denied the event, and made sure he couldn’t catch her on her own.
Buffy mooched homeward, kicking at the grass every step and muttering under her breath. She was still feeling a little queasy, not to mention exhausted, and it was a relief to drop the perky facade for a minute. Damn bleached idiot. This was all his fault. His fault for looking like he did, for being so freaking irresistible. His fault for existing. Definitely his fault for getting her pregnant. Something she ate, her butt. Something she drank was frighteningly closer to the mark.
She’d gotten a little drunk, enough to lower her inhibitions and her guard, and let herself take what she wanted for once. She’d stopped worrying about other people’s expectations and opinions for just that one night, and just gone for it. With him.
With the guy she’d been lusting after since she’d first laid eyes on him, the guy she’d always craved but never let herself admit she wanted. The only man she’d ever considered herself in love with. And in the morning, she’d woken up first, watched him sleep for a while until her heart swelled with a feeling that threatened to choke her. And she’d panicked, and run. And lied to him and cut him down when he confronted her about it, because really, what else could she do?
He was the bad boy punk, older and far more cynical. He would never be seriously interested in her. He’d only slept with her because he was drunk and she’d been eager. Hell, she’d about thrown himself at him in his car, when all he’d done was offer to drive her home because she’d been drinking and was a lousy enough driver sober. He hadn’t wanted her, hadn’t made a move until she’d offered up everything.
She had nothing to offer him. She tried to block out the memory of his eyes, burning into her soul like lasers. His expression of awe and tenderness when he was inside her, his stricken face when she told him to get over himself and his delusions. She was reading too much into it, seeing what she wanted. He felt nothing for her, nothing real, nothing deep. Any pain he felt was to his ego. That was all. And she was so much better off out of it. Even if it broke her heart.
She was so absorbed in her thoughts, she didn’t notice her vision blurring as the tears welled, didn’t hear the footsteps behind her, didn’t hear him call her name. He put his hand on her shoulder and she jumped and spun around, pulse skyrocketing. “Riley! Don’t do that!”
Riley Finn shrugged and looked blandly innocent, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
She shook her head, “Clearly not so much.”
“You just - Willow said you weren’t feeling well. I thought I should walk you home.”
Yes. He should. Because evidently she was unable to take care of herself. She sighed. He meant well. He always meant well. And she didn’t need to deal with the kicked puppy eyes if she turned him down again. He’d been asking her out for months, and she was running out of polite excuses. Besides, not like she stood a chance - or wanted to, she reminded herself - with Spike. Recent drunken sexcapades aside, she just wasn’t his type. She smiled up at Riley, “Thank you. that would be nice.”
Behind a nearby tree, someone cursed and ground a cigarette butt into the ground with unwarranted venom. What the hell did she see in a cardboard cut-out wanker like that? Sure, Spike had been following her for a while, since he’d spotted her on his way home from the bar, because he was worried about her. No point letting her know he was there - she’d only violently reject any offer of his company. He couldn’t cope with that right now. But that didn’t mean he had to like the idea Finn moving in on his girl.
No, not his girl. Never his girl. She was far too good for the likes of him. Just like that, his mood spun from angry to maudlin and he slid down the tree trunk to the ground, fighting back tears and losing. He needed to grovel, to make it clear to her that he knew he was in the wrong. Could he hand himself in, if she wasn’t pressing charges, or even admitting she had every right to? He deserved jail, deserved this hell.
He swigged bourbon from the bottle and swallowed down his sobs.
Three weeks later:
Buffy was ill again. Stomach flu, she said. Willow was whispering with Xander that she didn’t believe it. Especially as Buffy had suddenly broken up with Finn, after spending every possible moment with him. Willow believed that things had gone too far, and Riley had dumped Buffy - which was certainly his version of events - and Buffy wasn’t sick but upset.
Spike pretended he wasn’t listening in. Buffy was home alone. Her mom was at work, her friends were here at his father’s shop. Poor girl - whether sick or upset - was all by herself and she shouldn’t be.
“What do you mean, things went too far, Will?”
“Come on, Xander. You know Riley was her first boyfriend. I think he pushed her, and she just wasn’t ready. I think that’s why he dumped her.”
Spike dropped the book he was pretending to read. Captain Cardboard was her first boyfriend? Oh hell. Now he really had to apologise. If he’d known. If he’d only bloody known. If he’d only bloody thought for two seconds. How could he think when the girl of his dreams was kissing him, touching him, offering to make all his dreams come true? Nevertheless, he should have been the responsible one. He should have engaged his big brain for just a minute instead of following the little one so eagerly. How the sodding hell was he going to fix this?
“Go away.”
Spike heard the mutter from the living room, but pushed the door anyway. Locked. He thought for a moment and headed around to the kitchen door, hoping for better luck with that.
“Buffy?”
“I said, Go Away.” Her voice was hoarse, scratchy.
“I can’t.”
He edged around the sofa to where she could see him. She was lying cuddled in a blanket, pale and red-eyed like she’d been crying. “And thus my day is complete.”
He nodded. “I’m sorry, Buffy.”
She snorted. “Really? For what?”
“Yeah, really. I’m sorry Finn dumped you, for the way you’re feeling - sodding wanker didn’t deserve you, but I’m sorry that it hurts you. I’m sorry if I -” His voice cracked.
“You should be sorry. It’s all your fault.”
“I am sorry, Buffy. Hang on. Finn leaving you is my fault?”
“I dumped him. Just for the record.”
That wanker! Lying about it, about her, to save his sodding ego. Worthless inbred farm-boy. But Spike felt better that she’d ended it. Hopefully that meant she wasn’t hurting too badly.
“Okay, so you dumped him. How is that my fault?”
“Knew you’d try to get out of it.”
“I’m not trying to get out of anything, love. If you say it’s my fault then fine, it’s my fault. And I’m sorry, even if I just don’t see how.”
She swallowed, blinked. Squeezed her eyes shut and whispered around the lump in her throat.
“What was that, pet? Didn’t catch it.”
“I said, it’s your fault because you’re the one that got me pregnant.”
“Fuck. I’m - sorry doesn’t cover it. But how, kitten?”
She glared at him. “What? You need the health class chat?”
“No, I just - I found the condoms. After. That’s how I knew it wasn’t just a dream.” Something Willow said came back to him and he winced, “And I’m really sorry about that, too.”
“God, Spike. Don’t make it worse! I know you regret it, I know you don’t actually want me, but you don’t have to rub it in!”
“What planet are you from!? Of course I sodding want you! I just - if I’d known it was your first time, I wouldn’t have done it like that. I would have made it special. Assuming you’d have wanted me sober.”
“I do.”
She said it so quietly he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly, so he changed the subject, “Do you know what you want to do about...” he gestured to her stomach.
She shook her head. “What do you think?”.
He took a very deep breath, “It’s up to you.”
She glared at him through the tears, and pushed him away.
He overbalanced, landing on his ass on the floor. It took a few seconds to figure out why she was so angry she was spluttering incoherent insults at him.
“Buffy, I love you.”
Well, that shut her up.
“I’ve been in love with you for years, pet. And that night was the best of my life, and yeah, part of me is over the bloody moon that we got caught. That there could be something tying us together. But I’m not the one who’s still at school, whose life would be put on hold. So it’s up to you, and I will support your decision no matter what,” he swallowed and continued in a much quieter voice, “Even if that means you want me out of your life.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t want you out of my life?”
Spike’s smile was slow-born, and lit up his whole face, making him look at least five years younger. “Then I’m in your life, love, however you want me. Whatever I can do.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“We’ll figure it out, kitten. I promise.”
THE END
Author's Chapter Notes:
Just a plot bunny that wouldn't leave me alone... Hope you enjoy.
Chapter End Notes:
I know it's jsut a one-shot, but please review!