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Chapter 9

Having not had time to explain herself, Buffy had rushed by Angel’s office, told him she needed a car, and he pointed her in the direction of the parking garage, hollering after her, asking if she wanted him to drive. But she was already out of earshot.

She wasn’t the best driver, but she knew she wanted to do this on her own. She needed this time by herself to gather her thoughts, and she didn’t exactly want Angel there when she saw Spike for the very first time since Sunnydale. No, she needed Spike as his genuine self. She had to see him; know it was truly real.

Her hands gripped the wheel so tightly that her knuckles turned a whitish hue.

“Breathe, Buffy. It’s Spike. You know Spike. You love him.” It still sounded strange to hear those words from her own lips. It didn’t feel strange, but the sound…she’d never thought she’d hear herself say those words about him before. “You love Spike.” She was going to have to get used to it.

Oh God. The thought suddenly occurred to her that maybe he didn’t want her. Maybe now that he was back, he didn’t want her in his life. Maybe the excuse of not wanting her to see him as a ghost was just a smokescreen. Maybe…

“Ok, who are you kidding?” she muttered. “Spike loves me. I know he does.” Deciding that talking to herself wasn’t exactly making her feel any better, she turned on the radio and let the music wash over her.

She couldn’t help but smile a little when the first lyrics out of the speakers were “I wanna be sedated.” She thought of her first unofficial date with Spike, where he’d led her to the hideout of two very messy vampires, offered her a flask, and even attempted casual cool by spouting off those very lyrics. She’d been disturbed by it all back then, but thinking back on it, she knew that he had loved her then. Not in the way he loved her later, but in his own way, he did.

She glanced down at the piece of paper, saying the address over and over again in her head. She squinted into the sun, feeling beads of sweat surfacing upon her forehead. She quickly cranked up the air conditioner and settled back against the seat, her foot heavy on the gas, as she prayed no cops were around.

She felt a little nudge against her side, and she placed her hand there, softly rubbing the mildly protruding spot, acknowledging her son’s presence.

“How am I gonna explain you to him?”

***

He wasn’t one for sentiment most of the time, but as he stared at the family pictures that lined the walls, he began to wonder what it might be like if things were different. If he were different. If he could be a real man and give Buffy the life she deserved. Sunshine, picnics in the afternoon, trips to the beach, two-point-five kids and a mini-van for toting them to football practice.

Who was he kidding? No matter how he felt about her, or how she felt about him for that matter, they would never have the kind of a life two people in love were supposed to have. He wasn’t even supposed to be able to love. He was a demon. A monster. A creature of the night. With a soul. And that made all the difference these days, it seemed. Still, even Angel could play evil with the best of them when he had to. It frightened Spike to think that he could become worse than that.

Still, he had wanted that soul. He’d fought for it. Earned it. Fair and square. For her. And she’d seen that. She had accepted that. And over time, she had loved him for it.

The sound of a car approaching sent Spike’s entire body into that medium between pure anxiety and perfect readiness. He was ready to see her, but he was terrified of what would happen when the dust settled from their impending reunion.

But as the sound of the car continued on past the drive, he settled down onto the leather couch. He looked around at the furniture. Whoever owned this place had taste. The couch was comfortable, but he couldn’t quite see it as being the couch of a family with two sticky handed kids. Must be good disciplinarians, he thought.

The minutes ticked by loudly from the clock on the mantle, and just as Spike began to think he couldn’t take anymore waiting, he heard a car approach, slow, and turn into the gravel drive. The crunch of the little rocks beneath the hot tires sent him flying off of the couch, uncertain of what to do. Should he just stay there, be standing, waiting for her when she walked in? Should he play it casual, pretend like he hadn’t been waiting for this moment since he first came back from wherever-the-hell?

He couldn’t very well welcome her at the door with a hug and a kiss. Aside from the fact that he’d burst into flames, he couldn’t exactly see her doing a running leap into his arms. More than likely, he’d have a running fist into his face and then suffer through an hour of her telling him how angry she was, how he was an idiot, and then it would end one of two ways. She’d walk out, crushing him completely with her absence, or they’d wake up two hours later on the staircase landing, having missed the bed by several feet and be bruised, sore, and satisfied.

The doorknob on the front door turned, and he froze, eyes fixated on the glimmer of the handle. He wanted to do something to make himself look slightly less pathetic, standing there, waiting for her, but he couldn’t blink, let alone make any grand gesture.

Her fingers shook as she opened the door. It was unlocked. He’d unlocked it. Plus, a window in one of the panels on the door was busted out. Yes, this was Spike’s work. He was inside. Waiting.

She looked down at her belly, and she realized that she just couldn’t spring this on him like this. So, she quickly buttoned up her coat. If anything, she’d just look like she’d packed on a good twenty pounds since they’d last met. That was a little easier to explain than “Spike, I can’t believe you’re back! What? This? Oh, yeah, I’m pregnant. And you’re the father. Cigar?”

The moment the door opened, she had to peer into the darkness of the house. Coming in from the bright, California sun was always a little disorienting at first.

But the moment her eyes adjusted, she saw first the bright blondness of his hair and then the piercing azure of his eyes, and then every angry word she’d imagined herself saying to him completely flew out the window. God, how could she be angry with him when he was staring at her, his eyes full of concern, longing, love.

If was holding his breath, unnecessarily, of course, but it was a common occurrence when he thought of her lately. But seeing her was so much more. At first, he wondered if perhaps she were a mirage. He was thirsty for her presence, and now she appeared before him, granting him a rare glimpse at what he wanted most. But when he saw the sparkle of tears in her eyes, he knew.

The door latched into place with a definitive click, and Buffy’s hand remained on the knob. She was going to run. Was she going to even speak first, he wondered. He couldn’t take his eyes off of hers. The sea green orbs he’d looked into last were still as gorgeous as ever, if not a little darkened by months of grief and, of course, worrying about what big bad was going to come next. How much worse was it going to get, after The First?

“Slayer,” he whispered. “Buffy. You’re here?” He took a step closer, and he wondered if she’d back away. She didn’t. Her eyes unlocked from his gaze and she looked him up and down. Not a trace of a burn. Not a blemish. Only the faint scar on his eyebrow. One she’d kissed a dozen times in the wee hours of the morning, when he’d fallen fast asleep, assuming she’d fallen to dreams as well.

“You’re here?” she echoed. He couldn’t tell if she was going to laugh, cry, or throw a spike at him, concealed in that dark, black coat. He raised an eyebrow. She’d certainly picked up some of his style, hadn’t she?

“I’m here, luv. I’m just…not certain you are.”

“I am,” she said softly. “I’m here…with you.” His thoughts flew back to one night in particular.

“Were you there with me?”

“I was.”

“You are,” he said with a nod and a subtle smile. “I…I don’t know what to say to you. I had a hundred scenarios lined up. I had a hundred different responses lined up for whatever you had to shell out to me. But…I can’t think of any of them right now.” He saw her lower lip trembling, and he saw her look away for only a moment to try to keep her composure. Was this really happening? Was Buffy…was the vampire slayer about to get teary-eyed over her dead lover’s return from the ashes? In a moment, his question was answered. Yes she was.

Her hand flew to her mouth, and she let out a repressed sob, and the tears came next. Spike, stunned into even further stillness, only looked on, as she leaned against the door, her free hand at her chest, as she bent forward just a little, catching her breath.

What was he supposed to do? Reach out for her? Hug her? Tell her he’d never leave her? Tell her he was there for good. Was that even true? Would she want him for good? They couldn’t be together for eternity. Only as long as she was meant to live.

“Buffy,” he said softly, reaching out slowly to stroke her cheek. She shook her head, but she didn’t pull away, as she yearned for final confirmation that he was here, and she received that in his cool touch. A touch that could still manage to send heat coursing through her body, blood pumping faster from her heart and to every extremity, making her tremble all over.

Feeling the warm flow of her tears bathing his fingertips was almost too much. He wanted to grab her and hold her and tell her how much he’d missed her. Tell her what a bloody fool he was for not contacting her sooner; for not saying what he should have.

“I’m sorry, luv,” he whispered. “Don’t cry on account of me.”

“I can’t help it,” she sniffled. “You don’t understand.” He cupped her face with his hands, and he stood so close to her, close enough that he could feel her warm breath on his lips. He wanted to kiss her, but he didn’t want to frighten her. Not anymore. Three years ago, hell, even two, he’d have pranced around like a school boy at the idea of making her afraid of him. Now, all he wanted to do was ease her fears. Some vampire, his mind taunted. He didn’t care.

“I do understand,” he whispered. She shook her head.

“No. I have to…”

“I do,” he insisted, thinking back to those agonizing months of seeing her death over and over again every time he closed his eyes. Seeing her body lying there, broken, bleeding, still. So still and serene. Like an angel. Shaking his head, he soothed her tears away with his gentle caresses. She wanted to reach out and push him away, scream at him, telling him he couldn’t just touch her and make it go away, but she was pretty sure he had. She didn’t hate him. She loved him too much to ever hate him for leaving. “And Buffy?”

“What?” she cried, drying her eyes on her coat sleeve.

“I love you too.” The fear in his eyes when he’d said it told her just how true those words were. It gave her closure on a moment she’d let herself think about too hard, too often. He did love her. She knew it for a fact now, and in the truth of his words, she had a moment of solace.

“You can’t make it all better just like that, you know.”

“I know,” he whispered. “At least let a fella try, luv.” Leaning forward, his lips pressed against hers, and he felt her gasp against the familiar coolness of his lips. But she leaned in, hardening, deepening the kiss, her hands moving to his shoulders, holding onto him firmly as she closed her eyes, afraid he’d disappear before she could open her eyes and look into his again. A soft moan escaped her lips, and it was his complete undoing. He pulled his arms around her, bringing her as close as he thought he could get, until it became very obvious that the something between them that had always been physical had manifested into something, well, very literally physical.

He sucked in a sharp, airless breath and pulled back, looking into the glazed eyes of his love, seeing the soft swelling on her lips, and then he looked down, seeing now what he’d felt. She was…

“Bloody hell…”

“Spike…I can explain.”





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