Mending Walls by Scarlet Ibis

You have now come with me, I have now come with you, to the season that should be winter, and is not: we have not come back.

We have not come back: we have not come round: we have not moved. I have taken you, you have taken me, to the next and next span, and the last—and it is the last. Stand against me then and stare well through me then. It is a wall not to be scaled and left behind like the old seasons...It is not a wall...It is a written edge of time. Step not across, for then into my mouth, my eyes, you fall. Come close, stare me well through, speak as you see...Into my mouth, my eyes, shall you thus fall, and be yourselves no more...And haste unto us both, my shame is yours...

~Laura Riding
Poet: A Lying Word

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MENDING WALLS

Spike tasted sorrow on her lips; tasted her hurt—her pain. He wanted to ease it, because he thought that maybe, if he could get that wounded look off her face, then maybe it would heal the wounds he wore on the inside. Mend the walls. Anya’s sorrow was nothing but a reflection he thought he could no longer see. It was real. Maybe if she could forget, he could forget; lose themselves in sensation; find oblivion.

Maybe it would mean he was good enough. For someone.

For a moment.

Anya didn't rush. Didn’t want to rush. He didn’t either. Go slow, and have all else just…fade. Piece by piece. Remove the hurt from his skin, his gut, his heart. Lift it up and over like a gossamer veil, and lean in for a tender kiss.

And she was—tender.

He thrust slowly inside with a moan that was borderline whimper, blending with her gasp of surprise. His eyes widened a bit at what he had done—what he was doing—but then he felt her hands softly trail up his sides, her eyes pleading with him to…make it better. If only for a moment. All they had was a moment. He thirst for that moment.

He moved. He mended.

*****

She felt so empty inside. She just wanted...needed to make the pain stop; to make that hollow feeling go away. And Spike knew—he knew what she was feeling. She saw it in his eyes; felt it in his touch. Felt it when he was inside. He was there with her. No one else knew—understood how she was coming apart. But Spike did. And she thought maybe he could pull her back together—for her to know what it was like to not hurt for a moment so that she could feel whole once more.

He leaned in again to kiss her softly, lips trembling, stroking her face with his roughened hands gently. For a second, she thought of Xander’s hands before rejecting that image from her mind’s eye. Xander had hurt her, but Spike, he would heal her. For the moment.

She moaned something unintelligible as she clenched around his length, making him breathe out, “Anya.” And then he thrust deeper, making her hands tighten on his torso as he undulated.

He was all she had to cling to, after all.

*****

His orgasm snuck up on him. Involuntarily, his head lurched forward into the crook of her neck as he rode out the billow of bliss. He rested there on top of her until reality came smashing back. Unease made him pull back, not look at her. He found that he couldn’t, just then.

*****

And when she came, it was strong—she felt it through her whole body. And it was nice; comforting. For a moment. Just a moment. The feeling of loss and emptiness leapt upon her instantly, spreading through her like a disease. She felt cold. Spike pulled back, eyes downcast, brow furrowed. He didn't look at her. She sat up slowly, adjusting her skirt, and then reaching for her top.

*****

He kept himself busy, tucking in, zipping up and buckling as Anya got off of the table, pulling her top on. He swallowed slightly as he did so, and finally looked up. She turned her back on him, purposely.

She couldn't look at him either. It was just as well.

The moment had passed.

*****

She slightly heard his boots move across the floor. It was as if he didn’t want to disturb the quiet. She looked up then, just as he paused.

*****

She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to. He knew that though it was over, she was grateful all the same. And so was he—grateful to share with someone who listened, and understood.

He nodded at her as he opened the door.

*****

And as he closed the door behind him, and she felt that ache settle in her chest again, she noticed something. It wasn’t as piercing as it had been about half an hour ago. Still hurt, but it was progress. And she didn’t feel so empty.

She didn’t feel quite so alone.

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Flashback

An interlude during "As You Were," before Riley enters Spike's crypt. I needed an explanation of why Buffy said "William," even though I don't believe she saw what he wanted her to see. Also a commentary on the episode itself.

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The Lighthouse was then a silvery, misty-looking tower with a yellow eye, that opened suddenly, and softly in the evening. Now—

James looked at the Lighthouse. He could see the white-washed rocks; the tower, stark and straight; he could see that it was barred with black and white; he could see windows in it; he could even see washing spread on the rocks to dry. So that was the Lighthouse, was it?

No, the other was also the Lighthouse. For nothing was simply one thing. The other Lighthouse was true too.

~To the Lighthouse
Virginia Woolf

*~*~*~*

She’d passed out again, as she was so prone to do after several orgasms back to back.

Spike rested on his side, head propped on his hand as he watched her quietly, stroking her hair in that moment where he was suspended in silence and time with her. She had wanted to be tender that night—a first for them, and he couldn’t help but wonder why. What had changed? Why did she now wish to hear him openly profess his love to her?

He didn’t know what had changed, but was so happy at this new development, that he decided to ponder no longer what the catalyst was.

Spike sighed as he slowly lay down, still watching her. The subtlest of changes, but he knew. She had come to—she was now only feigning sleep. It was a kindness and a slight. A kindness, for when she was still was the only time he was allowed to be tender and loving. He knew that she knew of his secret caresses—she’d played possum before, catching him in the act in which he wanted to be caught. A slight as well, for she wished to look at him no further, or hear his endearments.

Spike was no fool—not completely. He knew that her tenderness tonight wasn’t about acceptance, but her need of something [but what?].

“Why won’t you hear me,” he asked her quietly, still acting under the pretense that he believed her to be asleep. She would listen now—she had no choice in the matter, unless she wished to give up her ruse.

He knew she wouldn’t.

“Why can’t you see me?” he asked, voice trembling slightly. He had a sudden case of dry mouth, and swallowed painfully. “There’s a man here, too,” he whispered, stroking her face once more softly with the back of his hand. "I'm not just..." he trailed off as he noticed her shift. The movement was so small, that no casual observer would have noticed. She had flinched just the slightest at his gentle caress. He sighed regretfully, letting his hand fall to the cold stone of the sarcophagus, not touching her sprawled form anymore. She reminded him so much of a broken doll then, hiding under the sheets.

He closed his eyes, feigning sleep.

They lay side by side, not touching, not sleeping. Still.

Not close.

But it was moments like this when he imagined that they were, and the world—his world and hers—once two separate entities melded together successfully through his love—and dare he say it? Their love—and all was as it should be.

He could pretend too.