Out of the Grey
Chapter Three
After the third listen, Buffy decided that she didn’t even particularly like the song. It was too harsh, too coarse—not her kind of music at all. Still, she had bought the disk from Jack and brought it back to the apartment, grateful to find a CD player in one of the cupboards.
Now she lay on the bed, the music playing in the living room. She didn’t even know why she was clinging so hard to this—this tiny bit of memory from a moment when she hadn’t even really liked Spike.
But it was the only piece of music she had to associate with him—apart from the whole musical demon deal, her traitorous mind reminded—and it made her feel close to him.
With a sigh, she sat up and moved into the front room, switching the stereo off. The silence felt too heavy, too oppressive, and she couldn’t bear it. With a glance at the postcard she’d bought when in town, now tacked to the wall above the stereo, she walked towards the bedroom, shedding her clothes as she went. Once there, Buffy slid into bed and closed her eyes.
***
At first, the touches were soft, feather-light brushes of fingertips on her face.
She stirred, rousing towards consciousness, but not wanting to wake up. In her dream, Spike was holding on to her tightly and she returned the embrace just as fiercely. This time, she wouldn’t let go.
But the caresses became more insistent, a whisper of a kiss here, skin-on-skin there.
Buffy shifted in her sleep, her dream changing, the hands holding her becoming the hands stroking her cheek, her chin, her neck.
Her eyes fluttered, consciousness forcing itself upon her until she blinked, her eyelashes sticky with sleep.
The soft touches to her face stopped and the air felt heavy with expectation. Buffy couldn’t hold back a gasp when she saw the figure half-sitting, half-lying on the bed next to her. “Spike?” Her eyes filled with tears. She had to still be dreaming, then.
“Shh, love.” He cupped her face and brushed away her tears with the pads of his thumbs. “Don’t cry.”
“I don’t—” She broke off, confusion overcoming her. “Are you here?”
He nodded.
“This is a dream.” She reached out for him, her hand coming to settle on his shoulder. He felt real enough.
“Not a dream. Don’t know what it is. What I am. Just know that I needed to be here with you. Needed to see you—”
“Shh,” Buffy said, placing a finger on his lips and ignoring his protests. “I want to pretend. Just want to look at you…” She did; her fingers mapping and memorising every feature, drinking in his eyes, and nose, and mouth as if she were dying of thirst.
A small smile danced across his lips, as though he was amused by her antics.
When she’d finished, she smiled back before leaning over and kissing him softly. “This is a good dream,” she said. “All the others—” Her eyes closed and she shook her head, not wanting to think of them. “Nevermind.”
“Buffy, love. It’s not a dream, I’m real.” He paused. “Or as real as I can be, anyway.”
“No more talking,” she replied, dismissing what he’d said, not wanting to entertain the possibility that he really might be there. “More pretending.”
Spike began to protest, but before he could say anything, Buffy leaned forward once more and kissed him, taking advantage of his open mouth and slipping her tongue between his lips. She had never kissed him like this before. In the past, their kisses had been hard and angry, manifestations of pure lust and passion. This was slow and languorous, soft and gentle. She liked it—and couldn’t help but wish that she had given him a chance to kiss her like this when he’d been alive. This, now, was just a fantasy and whilst she could pretend, it wasn’t the same.
Spike was talking, soft murmurs against her mouth. “Don’t need to pretend, pet. I’m here.”
She shifted, moving herself until she was lying flush against him, one leg hooked over his and her hands up around his shoulders as she feathered light touches across his neck.
Buffy could feel him hard against her thigh and for a moment she was confused—never before had a dream felt this real. He moaned and, with his mouth still pressed to hers, she felt it within her as though she had been the one making the noise. Perhaps she had, she didn’t know. It was all too much. Too many feelings, every inch of her skin sensitised, her heart beating so quickly it felt like it would burst from her chest.
“Spike.” She sat up, only then realising that she wasn’t wearing any clothes. A hot flush spread across her skin as he stared at her appreciatively and, detachedly, Buffy found this strange. She shouldn’t be embarrassed in a dream.
A beat—and then she grasped the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it up and over his shoulders and dropping it to the floor. His pants were next, and soon he was gloriously naked, lying beneath her. Buffy’s eyes roamed across his body, noting that it was no different from the last time she’d seen him like this—that night before the final battle when they’d put the past behind them and made love in the basement of her house.
Of course he’s no different, she thought, he’s a dream; you’re constructing him from memory.
“Spike,” she repeated, bringing his hands to rest at her waist and pressing herself more firmly against him. She was wet and his hardness against her heat made her shudder. “Spike.” Raising her hips, she took him inside, eyes closing and tears gathering behind her lids as she slid down his length.
“Buffy.” His voice was reverent and it just made her cry harder. “How could I touch you like this if I were a dream?” One of his hands moved from her waist to twitch a strand of hair back from her face and, on its descent back down her body, she pressed a kiss to his palm.
They rocked together, small, gentle movements at first that built in momentum as heat coiled where they were joined. Buffy let out tiny, gasping breaths, emotion choking her as she climbed higher and higher until her orgasm washed over her, wave after wave of pleasure spreading through her body.
Her climax triggered Spike’s own and he shuddered beneath her, his hands almost bruising as they grasped her waist. Buffy collapsed on top of him, her sweat-slicked body enjoying the coolness of his skin.
Spike wrapped his arms around her and Buffy smiled against his chest. She raised her face to kiss him and, for the first time since the dream began, she looked directly into his eyes. They were as blue as they’d ever been, and filled with such emotion that it made her tremble.
The feeling she saw there was nothing she could ever have made up or imagined in a thousand years.
Her glance fell on his right hand, still resting at her waist. Thin, silvery-red scars criss-crossed the skin. She had a matching set on her left hand. She sat up, skin prickling with realisation. “Spike?”
-TBC-
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Thank you again to all who reviewed the previous chapter! And thank you to Sotia for beta'ing. :)
Chapter End Notes:
Thanks for reading, please let me know what you thought in a review!