She wasn’t with him.
Spike watched her carefully, his body wrought with tense concern. He wanted to approach her even if he feared making things worse. He wanted to kiss her, but despite their tender lovemaking in the shower, he somehow knew physical comfort wasn’t something she needed. She’d whispered things that made his undead heart sing; she’d asked him to love her, and it had taken every facet of his tired being to keep from assuring her that love was the one thing she would never need to ask of him. Love was the one thing she would always have.
He just didn’t know if she wanted it—not in the way he wanted to love her, anyway. The Buffy he’d known in Sunnydale had vanished completely. The spark in her eyes had faded, along with the smile on her lips and the laughter in her throat. The life in her was gone, and he didn’t know what to do.
God, he didn’t know what to do.
So he watched. He stood quietly beside her, leaning against the wall with his arms folded as she fluffed her hair almost robotically. She couldn’t see him in the mirror, of course. The mirror reflected her and her alone.
But she wasn’t alone. Every rigid move she made was wrung with awareness. She felt his eyes on her as sure as she felt anything. Spike was certain of it.
His eyes fell almost reluctantly to the mark on her throat. The mark on her throat which declared her as his. They still hadn’t spoken about it. About what had happened the second he sank his fangs into her luscious body. The significance of her acceptance, and the amazing turnabout of her claim on him. There wasn’t an inch of him that failed to hum. He was pulled to her and yet kept his distance. His arms ached to be around her. His body, unaccustomed to the tug of its mate’s call, was hard and desperate to be inside her again. Spike had never thought himself as one to claim or be claimed; not after the failed attempt to stake his claim on Drusilla.
His demon snarled at the thought of his maker, but even as his cells drew him near his mate, his mind couldn’t help but wander. It was easy to see now that Dru had never been his, and he supposed a part of him had even known it at the time. Still, it hadn’t made the burn of her rejection any less painful. He well remembered the endless sea of hurt—the wail consuming his insides had echoed through his body for years. He hadn’t understood then, even if her refusal hadn’t completely surprised him. He hadn’t understood how a woman who seemed to love him as much as Drusilla could refuse a man devoted to worshipping the very ground she walked on. A man who would dedicate his very existence to making her happy.
He hadn’t been good enough for Dru. It was a sad reality—one which had followed him in shadows for years. One he would have ignored until the end of time had it not been for Buffy. Had Buffy not led him into sunlight. He burned for Buffy but didn’t dust—she provided what no woman before her had or ever could. She made him see.
He’d left with her consciously. Dru was god-knows-where. Perhaps he’d been a sentimental fool in leaving her alive, but even with as much as the bitch had hurt him—even knowing her intention had been to destroy him—the part of him which remained grateful to her refused to take her life.
She would not be so lucky a second time. If Dru attempted to break into his life again—if she came after him or Buffy—he would destroy her. His debt to her was repaid in full. He’d already granted clemency she didn’t deserve.
Buffy was his everything. He felt like he belonged after so many years of wandering through darkness. He felt as though the clouds had finally parted. He’d found in her what other men wasted lifetimes searching for, and he’d found her by accident. The love burning his chest was almost painful, but imagining a life without the warmth she gave him was strikingly unbearable. He’d only had her for a short while and he already knew he couldn’t manage without her. It was a direct counterpoint to whatever he’d thought he’d felt in the past. With Cecily. With Dru. He didn’t know how it was different, but God it was. And it was wonderful.
He suspected it was wonderful because it was real. He’d been attracted to darkness in the past. He was, after all, a vampire. But even as a man, his heart had led him to women encased in shadows and too in love with themselves to ever give love to anyone else. Cecily had been pride wrapped in selfishness. She’d stood as wintry as any woman he’d ever known, and she’d sent him running into the arms of true blackness.
Buffy wasn’t dark. Not even now when she was broken could she hope to be dark. She was lost and hurting, doing her best to keep from completely shattering with every step. She was in need but she wouldn’t ask for it. She wanted so badly to be strong. She didn’t know how to move beyond this. She was hurting—God, she was hurting. But she wanted him to think she wasn’t. She didn’t know she wasn’t standing alone.
And he knew she was going to run.
Spike’s eyes darted to the ground, a long sigh commanding his body. It was damned hard staying quiet. Pretending not to know every wayward thought that crossed her beautiful head. His knowledge had nothing to do with the claim, though the feelings he felt rippling through her energy only substantiated what he already knew. He didn’t want her to know that he knew—he didn’t want her to think he would try to stop her.
He wanted to stop her. God knows he did. But he knew stopping her would forfeit the sacred trust between them. Stopping her would make her think he didn’t value her independence or her strength. Stopping her would compromise everything.
He would let her go because he loved her. He wouldn’t let her get far; just far enough. But he would let her go.
In order to keep her, he had to let her go.
Any more distance between them would mean the end of them both. And he couldn’t let her leave him forever. He loved her too bloody much not to be near her. She didn’t know she belonged to him, or rather that he belonged to her. But she had given herself to him freely. She could have refuted his claim when his fangs found her throat. She could have laughed and shoved him off her, all the while mocking his presumption. She could have refused him.
She hadn’t. And Spike’s love for her had deepened. Not because she didn’t refuse him; it had nothing to do with Buffy’s acceptance of a claim she didn’t know he’d placed on her and everything to do with her acceptance of him. In a moment of pure instinct, she’d said yes to him. She’d said yes. And while he’d already loved her with everything he was before the magical word crossed her gorgeous lips, his love had fused into something larger and more powerful than he thought possible. He was helplessly and hopelessly hers, and as long as he breathed air he didn’t need, he would bend reality to give her what she needed.
Even if what she needed was freedom.
A long, trembling sigh rolled off his lips. Freedom. For now.
Just enough to give her a head start.
“I bloody hate mirrors,” Spike said, swallowing every emotion that crashed over her face at the intrusion of his voice. “Most of the time, anyway.”
Buffy nodded, her eyes shooting to the place in the mirror where he would be standing if he were to cast a reflection. He found the notion endearing; something which told him plainly that she was aware of him—even more so than she knew. That she didn’t consider him absent just because she couldn’t see him.
“Most of the time, I do, too,” she replied, her lips pulling into a half-smile which didn’t reach her eyes. “My hair never does what I want it to.”
“Your hair’s perfect.”
“It’s—”
“Looks like you’ve been well shagged, an’ I happen to find that look rather fetching.” He smirked, his eyes dropping to take in the delicious curves that composed her backside. “’m also findin’ I like seein’ your front an’ back at the same time.”
Buffy paused again, her eyes once more seeking him in the mirror. She locked gazes with him without knowing it, and the power behind her intuition stole unneeded breath from his lungs. “I don’t have much of a front,” she replied, casting a self-conscious glance to her succulent breasts. “I’m amazed I can fill a C-cup.”
“You’re gorgeous.”
“So says the man who’s gotten lucky twice.”
“So says the man who’s had those delicious tits of yours in his mouth,” he countered, enjoying the blush which stretched across her milky skin. “You’re flawless.”
“You’re thinking with your penis.” In another woman’s voice, it would have sounded like an accusation. In Buffy’s, it was almost an endearment.
God, he loved her. He was going to miss her so bloody much. He missed her already and she hadn’t left yet. Spike honestly didn’t know how long he was going to be able to withstand the distance between them. He wanted to give her time but something told him he’d be lucky if he managed to hold off his instincts as long as a week. He loved her; his first instinct was to be around her always. Letting her go at all went against everything he knew.
Throw in the claim and he was a man lost. Thoroughly lost. He was lost enough without the words and the sacred bond between them. “Doesn’ make it any less true,” he replied, his eyes dipping to her breasts. Christ, now he wanted her again. He didn’t know why she was primping her hair, but something told him it wasn’t to shag him before she took off to face her personal demons alone. “Trust me, love…there’s not a thing about you I’d dream of changin’.”
Buffy’s eyes darted downward as though she knew she was staring at him, her skin flushing a deeper red. “Stop,” she protested softly.
“Stop what? Telling you you’re beautiful? Sorry, love…’m a man who appreciates beauty. Not gonna hush jus’ because you’ve gotten some wonky complex.”
“I don’t feel beautiful.”
“That’s where the ‘wonky complex’ comes in.” Spike swallowed hard and took a step forward. “Where we going, kitten? You hungry?”
She paused, visibly searching for words. “Yeah,” she agreed. “Actually. Yeah. I…I dunno, I didn’t think I’d be hungry after all we ate last night.”
“It was the firs’ thing you’d eaten since we left Sunnydale,” he pointed out. The obvious response—an observation that they’d undoubtedly worked the meal off with the naked acrobatics the night before—remained lodged in his throat. He wasn’t going to use sex to dominate her; Buffy wasn’t the sort who could be dominated. Any attempt would only hurt her in the end.
Moreover, a submissive Buffy was the last thing he wanted. He wanted fight in her eyes and a smirk on her lips. He wanted her swinging and her body moving the way the Powers intended. He wanted his Buffy the way she was. Exactly as she was.
He wanted to fall to his knees and wrap his arms around her middle and beg her not to leave. He wanted to promise her a thousand things she wouldn’t know to believe until she got a taste of the freedom she craved. This thing she felt she needed to do.
“Well, pet?” Spike prompted. “You wanna stay here an’ let me grab somethin’? Or do you need to get out?”
She was quiet for a long second, and when she licked her lips he had to choke back a moan. He wanted to lick them for her. “Are you going back to the place we went last night?” she asked. “The diner?”
He shrugged a shoulder. “I’ll go wherever you want.”
A half grin tugged at Buffy’s lips. “The woman from the diner was lusting after you bad.”
Spike snickered appreciatively. “You noticed that, huh?”
“The way she was drooling all over your…sausage?” Buffy unknowingly met his eyes again in the mirror’s reflection, and the ghost of her former cheekiness made his heart drop. It didn’t last long, but it was enough to give him hope. Perhaps this distance she was going to impose between them wouldn’t be long after all. “No,” she continued, glancing down again. “I completely missed that.”
He smirked and stepped forward, his hands, possessing a mind of their own, slowly lifted to caress the soft, warm temptation of her bare skin. His lips ached to follow suit and brush against her shoulder. His body was wrought with tension and strangled with need—knowledge pressing down that these moments would be their last. Their last for now. Their last until the clouds around his mate parted and she returned to him. “The bird din’t notice I had everythin’ a man could want right across the table,” he murmured, his disobedient teeth biting at her earlobe. “That’d be you, baby.”
Buffy trembled beneath his fingers. “Ohhh…”
“Mmm…” he agreed, his voice a rumbling purr. Good intentions dove out the window. He needed to have her. Just one last time, he needed to have her. “Buffy…”
Fortunately, the quivering girl under his hands seemed to agree with him. Before he could blink, Buffy released a long moan of surrender and twisted in his arms, cupping his cheeks and angling him into her kiss, splitting every vein in his body with bittersweet bliss. She tasted so good. So fucking good. All lightness and purity, and she was his. His beautiful, broken girl. Her mouth bruised him in hard desperation, her tongue whipping his, her lips owning him completely.
“Spike…”
He nodded urgently against her, his hands dropping to the hem of her camisole. “Can I?” he asked, already urging the fabric up her body. Buffy mewled her consent and dragged his mouth back to hers, rumbling harmonious moans against him as he filled his palms with her breasts. “Buffy…God…”
“Need you. Please.” Her shaking hands fell to his waistband, fumbling with his belt buckle. “Please. Please.”
“I’m here, love,” Spike replied, his voice impossibly calm in cool contrast to the heat ripping him apart. His cock ached and strained hard against his zipper, desperate for the feel of her warm hand around him. He needed her so much. So fucking much. He needed to feel her in his arms, her pussy wrapped around his cock. He needed the solace of his mate, and he needed to give her solace in return. He just needed her, and he needed her now. “I’m right here.”
Buffy shook her head deafly and gave up the conquest of his fly with a defeated sigh. Her eyes were wide and panicked, filled to the brim with tears. “Please,” she cried. “Please…”
It was almost funny the way things could drop. Without warning, Spike’s heart shattered. He knew what this was.
This was goodbye.
In her mind, probably forever.
But it wasn’t. It wasn’t forever. For them, forever was just that. The time they’d spent apart would be ultimately dwarfed by the millennia at their feet.
“I’m here,” Spike told her again, his voice achingly vacant. He reached between them to undo his fly, taking her wrist in his hand and guiding her touch to where he needed her. “I’m right here.”
He’d say it over and over again if she liked. Whatever she wanted, he’d give.
“Please,” Buffy begged again, wresting a kiss from his lips. “Please.”
Spike swallowed hard and bit back tears. “Whatever you need, baby,” he replied hoarsely, a low moan tearing through his body when his cock finally sprang free of its denim prison and into Buffy’s waiting hand. “Whatever you need.”
“I need you,” she whispered.
His heart melted. “You’ve got me,” he swore, his head dipping to capture one of her perfect nipples between his teeth as his hands tore at her jeans. “You’ve got me. I’m right here.”
“Spike…”
“’m right here.”
He didn’t know if she truly heard him. He barely heard himself. All he knew was that she was asking him for something she already had—something she would always have—and no amount of swearing himself to her achieved the reassurance she so craved.
This was the fall. The last fall.
But if this was the last, he wouldn’t deny himself. He couldn’t. Not with her pussy soaked for him. Not with her hand wrapped around his cock. Not with the tears drowning her eyes or the gasps seizing her throat.
He would worship her body with his. He would shower her skin with kisses and pour his love into her however he could. However he could without frightening her with words.
He would love her now, and hope she felt everything he didn’t say.
Hope making love to her now would let her know just how much this wasn’t over between them.
Not over. Oh no.
Just beginning.
Buffy couldn’t stop crying.
Her hands trembled as she bunched the hotel’s complimentary toiletries into her worn school backpack. Her legs wobbled with every careful step she took across the blindingly-white-yet-worn carpet. Her cheeks were wet and cold, her nose a runny mess, and though her eyes were half-blinded with tears, she moved around the room as though she’d lived within its confines all her life.
Every cell in her body tugged her back to the bed. To the gorgeous vampire draped in linen sheets. He slept peacefully, murmuring every few seconds but never awaking. He slept while she gathered what few things she had. The backpack she’d retrieved from the Desoto, the value-pack of underwear she’d purchased when they stopped for gas, and whatever free-accessories she could locate. And with every move she made, her body sank further into depression and her tears came harder. The ache in her chest had every nerve weeping for respite. She didn’t understand it—she barely understood herself.
What had happened between them had rocked her completely. It would be easy. God, it would be so easy. She could discard everything she felt—every tug of her soul in the wager between right and wrong and lose herself in Spike’s arms. She could. And at that moment, she wanted to.
But it would kill her. In the end, when the sting of cold finally melted into warmth and she returned entirely to herself, being with Spike would kill her. Not by his intent; by what he could not control. Her feelings for him were already too complex to name. Spike was so murky when it came to the definitions of good and evil. There was nothing evil about what he’d done for her thus far. He’d sworn his allegiance to her, nearly died because of her, saved the world with her, and helped her save her from herself by getting her away from the scene of the crime.
He’d been whatever she needed him to be. Last night when she needed to forget, he’d allowed her to use him as means to banish the world. He’d allowed her to bruise him with her body, and had bruised her in turn. He’d given her pain because she’d wanted it; this morning and today, he’d given her solace.
He’d shown her the man inside, all the while keeping the demon at bay. But the demon was as much a part of him as the man. It was something he couldn’t help, and would ultimately destroy her. His inherent evil couldn’t remain dormant for long; once it showed its face, what little was left of her would be completely crushed.
Buffy sniffed hard and wiped at her eyes, her gaze reluctantly falling on Spike once more. He was so beautiful. So distant. Temptation wrapped in sin.
She wanted to stay. She wanted to stay so badly. But she couldn’t. If she did, she’d be right back where she started. She’d be a slayer in love with a vampire; one with nothing holding him back from destroying her.
Buffy inhaled sharply, slinging her backpack over her shoulder.
Go now.
Spike murmured again and stretched in his sleep.
Her feet carried her across the room before she could stop herself, her wet, tear-stained lips brushing his as she battled the prevailing need to break down completely. She reached into her left pocket and withdrew the hasty note she’d scribbled for his benefit. She’d hoped to leave him a prolific explanation, compact with her regrets and her reasoning. She’d hoped to leave him with something more than what she had.
In the end, though, her trembling hand could only manage two lines.
I’m so sorry. Goodbye.
She would be miles away before her hand delved into her other pocket. Before she discovered something that hadn’t been there before. A roll of cash, composed mainly of hundreds and fifties. A roll of cash and, in strikingly elegant penmanship, a note.
Only the best food and the best rooms for my slayer. Don’t think I won’t find you.
- Spike
TBC