He braced himself against the mausoleum wall with his right hand, panting so hard his chest hurt, his left busy tucking his cock back inside his jeans.
It wasn’t that he was complaining about whatever force out there decided he needed to get off as much as possible. He had no qualms whatsoever about getting off. However, it was bloody irritating that he had no control over it. If he ignored his cock, the lust only grew worse. Much worse. He was getting to the point where he avoided crowded places—like the pub—as much as possible. Spike wasn’t a socialite, by any stretch of the imagination, but he found forced solitude to be aggravating. If he wanted to go out and get sloshed, he should have that right with absolutely no fear that he might be driven to wank off on the counter.
He was beginning to wonder if Dru had some warlock in South America put a spell on him to get back at his infidelity. Wasn’t that a bloody laugh riot? His infidelity, which he’d only lived out mentally until the stupid bint told him to shove off. Until he wound up in Sunnydale, and found himself craving the Slayer like some pathetic soul-stuffed wanker. He’d betrayed Dru’s memory a thousand times here. Following Buffy. Watching Buffy. Hungering for Buffy. Moaning Buffy’s name every time he climaxed.
Calling her Buffy. Calling her by name. The intimacy in rolling her name off his tongue was, in itself, more than he’d had with Dru. She preferred to be his Mummy. His dark princess. His black goddess. And while Spike had doted those names on her all too gladly, there was something about the simplicity of a name that he’d always taken for granted.
Not to say that he’d never called Dru by her given name; he had, many times, but she always preferred things that made her royalty in his eyes. And he, being the willing submissive in their relationship, was always happy to give her whatever she pleased. Most of the time, even following Angelus’s departure, he felt all too fortunate with whatever she gave him.
The longer he was away from Dru, the more he saw himself the way she must have seen him. A favored pet, an eager lover, a cherished toy, but nothing more. Never as an equal. Never as someone she could love as much as he’d loved her. Granted, she was a step up from Cecily, even if she had mocked him quietly to Angelus. Even if she had used him for her pleasures while disregarding his. But for the first time, he knew it was not what he wanted, and certainly not what he deserved.
Dru had convinced him that what they had was everything he could ever want, and he’d wanted to believe her so badly. He’d allowed himself to be deceived by a pair of batting eyes and a slick tongue, and now he was on his own. For the first time in all his years, he was on his own, and the haze had finally thinned.
Spike wasn’t about to be anyone’s bitch again. He was sick of being in love with love, and as much as he wanted Buffy, he wasn’t about to hand over his balls in order to share her bed. He wasn’t going to be trained, or tamed, or something that she could justify to herself. He wouldn’t turn himself into something that would help her sleep at night, knowing that she had him thoroughly defanged.
Only Christ, it was so tempting. It was so bloody tempting. He’d not yet sorted out what her abrupt little speech the other night was alluding to, but some sick twist in his gut told him that a lot of her reasoning had to do with his nature. And to her credit, she hadn’t told him that she needed him to change; she’d accepted that he was the way he was…only she couldn’t tolerate him the way he was.
Fuck, he was buggered either way. Independence was swell but he wasn’t going to do well on his own if he kept having to seek out dark corners to pull on his dick. If his nights were haunted by her phantom hands and mouth.
Spike’s angered frustration with her was offset only by the guilt consuming his insides. Logically, he knew that Buffy owed him nothing. She had yet to seek him out, so it wasn’t like she was stringing him along for her own amusement. He owed her the world and she had not collected. His dust was hers if she ever wanted it. And despite that—despite knowing that whatever she gave him was more than he deserved—he lived to want more. And the more he thought about it, despite his reservations, the less intimidating the idea of muzzling himself to be with her became.
The bleeding Slayer had invaded his thoughts and commandeered his commonsense. He wanted her—fuck, he needed her. His body ached and his heart was sore, and he needed her. And he hated her for making him want her so much. And then he hated himself for hating her, especially when he knew that he couldn’t hate her. Not with the wealth of everything he that felt.
This has got to end.
Spike sighed and reached for his cigarettes. Eventually, he would either dust from the pain of their separation, or force himself to leave town. Perhaps if he escaped the air that smelled of her, the ache would eventually dwindle into nothing.
Trouble was, every time he thought of leaving, the ache became more prominent. He felt like his cells were splitting. Every second of every day was a struggle, and he had no idea why. And though he thought his theory about Dru hiring a warlock had some ground, it still didn’t make sense that she would punish him by making him ache for another woman.
For whatever reason, trying to blame his feelings on a spell or his ex made him feel even worse. There was just no winning. No winning. Not with Dru. Not with Buffy. Not with himself. He couldn’t reconcile his feelings. He knew right now that he hated Dru. He knew he wanted to hate Buffy but couldn’t because he liked her too damn much. He knew he shouldn’t feel anything but satisfaction at having such a powerful slayer stripped of her power and humiliated, but all he could summon was crippling guilt and this sappy need to cry whenever his mind wandered that way. And the worst thing was, he knew his guilt wasn’t the effect of some wonky spell. No, that was all him. Every twinge was a product of the man he was—in and of itself a source of both pride and shame. He was a walking contradiction, and he wanted nothing more than to throw off his feelings and leave.
“Stupid fucking slayer,” he muttered irritably, sucking on a cigarette. And then, as though waiting for its cue, the ache in his belly subsided and a familiar scent tickled his nostrils. His screaming nerves quieted and the rip at his muscles softened. The pain was still present, of course—the only time he felt nothing but peace was when he was touching her—but for the first time in days, his body knew some relief.
Which obviously meant that Buffy was near, so his head and his heart were in for another bruising. Spike glanced up and saw her, sighing a little as he let his eyes soak her up.
Buffy sensed him the second after he sensed her. He knew it from the way she tripped. And despite his warring emotions, Spike smirked around his cigarette. She was just so bloody cute. Never before had he had a woman constantly falling at his feet, and while he was irritated at her for looking so cute when he was trying to hate her, the ever-growing Buffy-adoration couldn’t help but swell.
“Spike,” she said, blushing furiously as she climbed to her feet. “What are you…what are you doing here?”
“It’s a graveyard, Slayer. I belong here.”
“I mean…I thought you would have gone.” She was struggling to maintain eye contact. “I thought…after what I said, that you’d leave. I haven’t seen you in a couple days.”
“An’ before that it was a couple weeks.”
“Yes.”
Spike extended his arms and shrugged. “I’m here.”
“Yes,” Buffy agreed awkwardly. “But I thought…my mind hasn’t changed. Staying around here won’t change my mind. Whatever’s happening between us…it can’t happen again.”
He felt a cool rush of irritation, and his feet carried him a few steps closer. “Why not?” he demanded. “You want me. I want you. I’m not seein’ much in the way of obstacles.”
“You’re amazingly self-confident. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“I tell myself that everyday,” he replied bitingly, his heart wilting at the lie. If anything, his self-confidence was window dressing for how entirely unconfident he was. There were things, granted, that Spike knew he was good at. When it came to women, though, he was nothing but a mass of self-doubt. Cecily had stripped him of his confidence, and Dru had always held it just out of arms reach. Now Buffy, admittedly kinder and up-front, refused to give him what he needed because of what he was. It didn’t bode well for his ego. No matter what he did, no matter how he tried, he always ended up falling short.
Buffy sighed sadly and glanced to the ground. “You’re wrong,” she said, “about the obstacles. There are obstacles. There are tons and tons of obstacles. I’m not gonna tell you that you’re a vampire and I’m a slayer, because that’s both redundant and not my strongest argument. But the thing is—”
“Slayer—”
“I’m not the kind of person who can have meaningless sex, Spike. I can’t be the rebound. I can’t be the answer to your problems right now, and someone you want to kill tomorrow. And what’s more, I think I’m well within my rights to build boundaries around myself, especially with what happened.” Her heart was in her eyes, and it was breaking. It astounded him that she let him see it. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep thinking about you. I can’t…”
Spike had absolutely no idea what provoked it. Perhaps it was hearing the confusion in her voice—the confusion that nearly outmatched his. Perhaps it was hearing that she wanted him. Was it possible that she wanted him like he wanted her? Beyond simple lust, beyond pleasurable daydreams—true, agonizing, body-crunching, cell-splitting physical agony every second they were apart. And if so, was she out of her fucking mind? If only to ease this pain, they should be shagging on every hard surface they could find. Maybe then, eventually, whatever was in their system would leave them be.
There was absolutely nothing wrong with that plan. There was sex involved, there was Buffy involved, there was freedom from pain involved. It was one brilliant plan, if he didn’t say so himself.
However, the utter resolution in her voice had him trembling with outrage. Like he liked thinking about her any more than she wanted to think about him. Did she think he was enjoying this? Who the fuck did she think she was?
And who the hell was she to call their sex meaningless? It had meaning. There was loads of meaning in any sex they had. Every time he touched her, it was a bloody revelation. Was she just sparing her own ego by walloping his? Did she even have the first clue as to who she was dealing with?
“You rotten, conceited bint,” Spike growled dangerously, flicking his cigarette to the ground and stamping it out beneath his boot.
Buffy’s eyes went wide. “Spike?”
“If you think a second of this is bloody fun for me, you’re outta your head.” He started forward, nearing her slowly—a predator sizing his prey. “You think I like waking up with you on my mind? You think I like bein’ seized so many times a day with the need to wank off? I admit, it was fun at first, but now?” He shook his head shortly and continued forward, walking her backwards until her back collided with the wall of yet another mausoleum. He slammed his hand against the wall next to her head and his nostrils flared. “You’ve taken every rational part of me an’ twisted it into something so bloody wrong that I’m giving Angel a run for his money with the number of screws I have loose. It was bloody pathetic enough, drenched in soul as he was. An’ that wasn’t enough for you, was it? You had to make my existence a mockery, too! Or is that you think I like craving slayer pussy? You think I want to be so bloody enamored with you? Huh?” His eyes flickered meaningfully, then he lowered his mouth to her ear and whispered, “Maybe, just maybe, I’m not the one who’s amazingly self-confident, sweetheart.”
It crashed over him like a tidal wave. The words were out there, between them, and suddenly he found himself drenched in her fear. In the crushing sound of her heart breaking. Spike realized for the first time that tears were tracking down her cheeks. That she was looking at him like she never had before—not like a vampire, not like a lover, not like a man…she was looking at him as though he had just eaten her heart, and spat it out when the flavor didn’t agree with him.
The part of him that wanted to hate her had wormed its way outside, and he’d allowed it. Oh Christ, he’d allowed it. Spike’s eyes went wide and he reached for her, every inch of him drowned in regret.
He’d spoken words that he didn’t believe; he’d spoken words that he wanted to believe, and he’d spoken them to make himself believe it. And in doing so, he’d slain them both.
“Oh balls, Buffy,” he said quickly. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean that. I—”
The ache was back, only it was worse. God, it had never felt like this. A sharp stab in the gut, wielded from a sword of hurt. And before he could stop her, Buffy had shoved him away and torn off across the graveyard. She was out of sight in a matter of seconds, and he was crippled in pain. He fell to his knees as the ache became too much, and gasped as his insides were consumed in guilt.
God. She was right. She was so fucking right. Only she couldn’t be, because he needed her. He needed her, and he’d ruined it.
How on God’s earth was he going to fix this?
To be continued…