"Bloody hell!"
Yet another egg lay broken and oozing inches from his feet. Spike had dropped more eggs on the kitchen floor than he had cracked into the skillet. He just wanted to ensure that Buffy had an adequate breakfast when she finally emerged from his bedroom. Apparently, handling eggs wasn't the smartest thing to do when you were anxious and exhausted. Nevertheless, he went about cracking a few more and scrambling them with a bit of cheese. It was one of the few dishes he could make without risking burning down the apartment.
Spike was feeling extremely apprehensive about how the morning would go. How was he supposed to act? Should he ask her about last night? Should he pretend like nothing is amiss until she brings it up? What if she didn't bring it up? It's not like it's something he could just let go. She needed to go to the police. She needed to talk to someone. He was certainly not a trained professional. The last thing he wanted to do was make things worse for her.
He sighed tiredly as he stirred the yellow mess around in the skillet. When the eggs seemed to be the appropriate texture, he lifted them from the hot burner and placed them elsewhere on the stove. Just in time, it seemed. As he was flipping off the heat, he heard his bedroom door squeak open. God, how am I going to do this? He took a deep breath and readied himself for whatever was about to come.
Buffy would've felt much more confused if she wasn't already accustomed to waking up in Spike's bed. Though, normally, he was lying next to her and she was fully clothed...and not in an impressive amount of pain.
"Ooooh...." She sluggishly pushed herself up on her elbows and let her eyes skim over the room. Spike's bedroom was as messy as ever—books and papers spread about, clothes piled haphazardly on the floor. The man was not known for his organizational skills. He made it work, though. He was always at the head of his class, and Buffy envied his intelligence. Maybe if she had half his smarts, she wouldn't have gotten herself into this situation to begin with. She shook her head, chasing away that thought.
First things first, she needed to find some clothing...and not those horrid blue scrubs. Gripping the towel tightly around her body, she carefully slid out from under the quilt and pushed herself off of the bed.
"Fuck!" she hissed as the motion aggravated her sore body. She tried not to consider the dull ache between her legs. It was just...too much.
She padded over to Spike's dresser, eager to get dressed and seek out some ibuprofen. She was beginning to wish that awful doctor had given her something stronger to take. Over-the-counter pills did little to take her mind off her pain. She imagined something like vicodin would do a much more thorough job. Well, it wasn't like she was going to inquire about medication while that crazy bitch was hovering over her with a loaded syringe.
She pulled a pair of black draw-string sweat pants and a white t-shirt out of the dresser drawer and tugged them on quickly, forcing herself to ignore the discomfort. Just as she was about to close the drawer, her eyes landed on a bright red shirt. She gripped the sides of the dresser as her mind flashed back to the previous night.
The man in the red button down had been eyeing her all evening. He was a handsome fellow—large muscular frame, thick brown hair. She would be lying if she said she wasn't trying to get his attention. She moved closer to Faith, grinding against her body on the dimly lit dance floor. If this man was going to look, she might as well give him a show.
Buffy blinked away the memory. She wouldn't...couldn't think about it right now. She just wanted to pretend this was like any other morning when she'd crashed at her best friend's place. She would walk into the living room and they would exchange a bit of witty banter—then check out the early talk shows and make fun of all the self-help gurus. Just like any other morning.
It was Saturday, so Spike wouldn't have to worry about class. Unlike Spike, who had been working his ass off this semester preparing for graduation and medical school, Buffy had elected to take a bit of time off. She started out a year behind him in school, but really she was more the equivalent of two or three now. She'd been partying her way through the last couple of years of college. How Spike could go out, drink and have a good time, and still complete his assignments was beyond her.
Taking one last deep breath to center herself, she pulled open the bedroom door and stiffly made her way out into the apartment. As she stepped into the hallway, she could hear Spike moving about in the kitchen. The smell of eggs was in the air, and while it would normally make her mouth water, this morning she was feeling a bit green. Still, she continued to trudge towards the kitchen knowing that Spike most likely heard her coming and would worry if she didn't appear soon.
As she stepped into the room, she saw Spike hurriedly dishing eggs onto a plate. From the rigid line of his back, she took it that he was well aware of her presence. Awkwardly, she pulled a chair out from the table, cringing at the screeching sound it made as she dragged it across the cracked linoleum. She sat down and wondered if she should speak up. The silence was unusual between them and starting to get to her a bit. Before she could come up with something nice and neutral to break through the quiet, Spike turned to her with a plate and fork in hand.
"I made eggs, luv. You need to eat. You're getting way too skinny." He shoved aside some of the books piled on the table and placed the plate in front of her.
She raised an eyebrow at him. "Thanks, mom, but I'm not really hungry this morning."
He didn't even crack a smile.
"You have to eat, pet! You're going to make yourself sick! I should make toast too!" He quickly turned and headed to the loaf of bread on the kitchen counter.
Buffy stared open-mouthed at his back as he frantically jerked open the bag and popped a couple of pieces of bread in the toaster. She shook her head. So....this wasn't going to be a normal morning after all. Deciding that she didn't want to upset him any further, she picked up her fork and began taking small bites of her eggs.
When Spike turned back towards Buffy, he was relieved to see her eating. He just...wanted to take care of her. Food was the simplest step he could think of at the moment.
While she was distracted by placing tiny morsels of food in her mouth, Spike took a moment to look her over. Her eyes were red and swollen from last night's crying fit. Her body and face looked as beaten as he remembered. He'd hoped he was simply magnifying it in his mind, but now he could see he most certainly was not. Buffy's slim body was drowning in his sweats and t-shirt. Though, where the baggy scrubs had sickened him, seeing her in his clothing warmed his heart in a most peculiar way.
He tentatively took a seat near her at the table. She glanced up at him, and he quickly pasted on a tight smile. She returned it with her own less than convincing grin before shifting her gaze back to her barely touched eggs.
Spike clenched his jaw. Well, this was awkward.
"So, pet, how are—"
They were both startled by the sudden burst of music from some place in the apartment.
Spike gave Buffy an apologetic smile and moved to the living room to turn off his phone. He plucked it from the coffee table and saw that it was Dru on the caller ID. He knew better than to answer it, so instead he turned the phone to silent mode and returned it to its previous location.
"Was that Drusilla?"
He was surprised to see Buffy standing a few feet away from him.
"Are you through eating, pet? There's toast..." He wrinkled his forehead at her worried expression.
"Was that Drusilla, Spike?" she repeated in a tight voice, "You know, Spike....you know you can't tell her."
And there it was. No more pretending last night didn't happen.
"Buffy, luv..." He wasn't sure what to say. Did he plan on telling Dru? She was his girlfriend, and he had known her for years. So...did he plan on telling her about last night's trauma? Yeah...yeah he did.
Buffy tugged nervously on the bottom of the t-shirt. Spike glanced away quickly. He was sure she wasn't aware that her movements were causing her nipples to be visible through the thin white shirt.
"Spike," she began softly, "please don't tell her."
"Buffy..."
"No, Spike!" she yelled hoarsely, twisting the soft fabric in her hands, "I don't care if she's your girlfriend! I don't care if she's your freakin' soulmate! Do not tell her what happened to me. She hates me! She'll find some way to use it against me."
Spike looked towards Buffy again, making sure to focus on her eyes. "You're exaggerating, pet. Dru doesn't hate you...she just gets a little possessive of me sometimes." When Buffy's pleading expression didn't change, he relented, "Fine, I won't tell her unless you say it's okay." He frowned. "I don't like keeping things from her, Buffy."
She nodded, relieved, "I know, Spike, but thank you. I just want to keep this between us for now...okay?"
He gritted his teeth. "I understand not wanting Dru to know...and I even understand if you want to keep it from the gang for now, but Buffy...you need to talk to the police."
She glared at him, "I told you I didn't want to deal with that right now, Spike."
"I know you did, pet, and I told you that the sooner you go to the authorities, the better. Give them a good chance to catch this guy, Buffy." She looked unconvinced, so he continued, "And they could probably set you up with someone to talk to...a therapist, luv. It might help."
Buffy scoffed, "I don't even want to talk to my friends, and you expect me to talk to strangers? I just want to forget about it, Spike."
His eyes followed her as she stiffly moved towards the couch and curled up in her spot.
"Can't we just pretend this never happened?"
He shook his head. This denial was just going to bite her in the ass in the end. Even if by some miracle she was able to push the attack from her mind, she would be reminded of it every time she went in for tests to make sure the asshole hadn't left her with any nasty diseases. It would take, at least, six months before the hospital cleared her on that front. No way in hell would he let her forget her check-ups.
"I'm sorry, pet, but it's just not going to be that easy...look...." he eased down on the couch next to her, "whether it be the police, a therapist, or a doctor...the subject is going to come up. You can't just avoid it forever." She wasn't making eye contact, but he hoped the serious expression on her face meant she was thinking over what he was saying to her. "Sweetheart, you know you can tell me anything...anything at all. I've been keeping your secrets since you ripped your mum's favorite blouse when you were seven and hid it in my closet." That got a small smile out of the girl on his couch. "Talk to me, pet. If you can't tell them, then tell me...and we'll...sort it out." His stomach was flipping at the thought of sitting through the terrible details of her attack—but maybe, just maybe, if he got her talking about it...it would make it a little easier for her to relate her story to others.
He stopped speaking then, and gave her a moment to process what he had said.
After what felt like a lifetime, but in reality was probably only a few minutes, she raised her head. The look she gave him was so deeply heartwrenching that he had to force himself not to look away. He focused on her red-rimmed hazel eyes and held his breath waiting for her answer.
In a small defeated voice, she breathed the words, "Okay, Spike...I'll...I'll tell you everything."