[A/N: Platitudes can go on forever, and quotes can only capture a moment, but sometimes they are all we have to describe that moment. Title comes from the Bard, from one of the most tragically romantic stories ever told, act 2, sc. 2 (My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep. The more I give to thee the more I have, for both are infinite) – and see if you can figure out which play I mean. And the poem Spike quotes? Its by Robert Louis Stevenson. Qoutes as attributed. Disclaimers still working, but gods how I wish . . . . ]
Previously: Buffy hid Tara’s whereabouts from Willow; Giles and Wesley have conferred long distance on some items. Dawn caught Willow listening to Buffy and Spike, but didn’t realize the true depth of her spying. This is the following mid-morning.
45. Boundless as the sea.
He shall love my soul as though
body were not all,
he shall love your body,
untroubled by the soul,
love cram love’s two divisions
yet keep his substance whole.
William Butler Yeats, The Lady’s Second Song
Love makes your soul crawl out from its hiding place.
Zora Neale Hurston
Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.
Emily Brontë
Re-arranging rooms proved less of a problem than she’d anticipated. By unspoken agreement, they’d purposely waited until Willow left the house, to start playing musical rooms.
Buffy was moving around the contents of her drawers, aware of the huge shift her life had gone through in one night. She’d been deliberately low key about Tara moving into the basement room, hoping Spike would take it exactly the way she’d meant and not that she wanted him to leave. She should have known better.
Her vampire had understood without having to hear the words what she’d meant. So right now he was downstairs in the basement, clearing out his meager belongings, boxing them up to carry them upstairs into her room.
Was she ready for this? Not like he wasn’t already sleeping beside her every night. He was there every morning when she woke up and . . . so yeah, she was ready for this.
Shoving aside some old clothes, Buffy glanced around at her . . . now their room. Was it too girly for him? Would he even care? Looking around, she realized there was enough evidence that this move was merely a formality.
A second pair of his boots was in the corner, a couple of dirty tee shirts and a pair of jeans piled together with her dirty clothes, his favorite pillows mixed in with hers, candles on nearly every flat surface. Buffy wandered over to the bed, smoothing the sheets, rearranging the pillows. She’d fallen asleep in his arms, his hard length still inside her, and woken up several times throughout the early morning hours to find him still there. Once, he’d woken her, the slow slide of his length driving within her, his hips moving forward fractionally. The feel of him barely moving, but so solidly within her had been enough, his heavy breathing of her name triggering her own slow rolling orgasm.
He’d rolled onto his back then, pulling her along with him, her hip thrown over his, still embedded deep inside her. One hand on her ass, he’d nudged her closer, whispering, “go back to sleep kitten” as she’d slipped back into slumber.
Buffy grabbed his pillow, burying her face, breathing in his scent. Butterflies took flight in her belly, fluttering in a giant wave. So lost in the memories of this morning, she didn’t hear his footstep, nor his tentative step into the room.
He watched her for a moment, holding an unneeded breath. The pillow, his pillow, was in her hands, her eyes closed and a look on her face that he’d never seen before. She was beautiful, glowing, his golden girl . . . his sun, his moon . . . his all . . . his everything.
Spike stared at her, random lines of stolen poetry running through his brain, yet none of it did this moment justice.
His arms were full of cardboard and clothing but ached to take hold of her, wrap her in his arms, holding on for eternity.
Some noise must have escaped his throat, some sound reverberated in the air, because she slowly opened her eyes, unerringly finding his. A soft smile crossed her features, her eyes luminous and clear emerald. The box dropped from his arms tipping over as it fell. He moved toward her, slowly, inexorably, wanting to savor this feeling, this moment.
Her name breathed from his lips at the same time his sounded from hers. Reaching her, Spike dropped to his knees, his arms sliding around her waist. A single tear surfaced in her eyes and he smiled, pulling her close. Buffy’s arms closed around his shoulders holding him tight against her breasts.
“I love you.” He murmured against her and his heart almost beat when her arms tightened around him and she whispered his name.
******************************** ***************************************
Tara was going through her things, piling up everything haphazardly. She wasn’t sure if this was the right thing to do, packing up while Willow was gone, but she wanted to get a start on things before Willow returned from morning classes.
They’d spoken briefly before Willow had left, but not of anything significant. The redhead had asked if she was all right, then asked pointedly if they could talk this afternoon.
She suddenly wasn’t so sure that moving down to the basement was the right thing to do. They’d be forced to still see each other all the time and Tara wasn’t sure that was a good idea. It sure as hell wasn’t going to be easy. But she really really didn’t want to leave. And judging by Buffy’s statements last night, they didn’t want her too either.
That made her happy. Made her heart smile. This really was home. She heard Spike come up the stairs, his familiar heavy tread a comfort. When had he ceased to be just an annoying pest and become something more? A part of her family? A rock of strength?
For her it had been when he’d punched her, proving to herself and the world that she wasn’t part demon. She’d always be grateful to him for that.
Smiling again Tara gathered up some clothes and headed to Buffy’s room.
She stopped at the doorway, captivated by the scene in front of her. Spike was on his knees, his arms around Buffy’s waist, her arms around his shoulders. They were staring at each other but she could only see the look on Buffy’s face.
Huh.
She’d known Spike was head over heels in love with her but she’d never guessed Buffy completely returned those feelings. Judging by the look on Buffy’s face Tara had no doubt what the other girl was feeling. Tara closed her eyes not wanting to intrude.
But the vision remained even as she backed away. They were surrounded by soft light, flashing colors of pink and green and blue and gold, shimmering in the air around them. She had no idea how much either of them believed in aura readings but she did. And what she’d just seen had stolen her breath.
That, she thought, was what love’s energy looks like.
******************************** ***************************************
Midmorning sunlight filtered in through the drawn curtains, bathing the room indirectly, warming it despite the opened windows. Neither one of them was sleeping, though her eyes were closed, Buffy again curled up in his arms. His eyes roved over her face, noting the stress lines disappearing, the haunted look she’d carried slowly leaching away. No matter to him, she was beautiful, his entire world encompassed in her eyes, her hands.
He’d thought, with Drusilla, that he knew what love was, knew the heights and depths of that emotion, the breadth of sensation. How very wrong he was. That night of revelation, when he’d woken from what he’d come to term The Dream, opened his eyes to his love for Buffy. Only opened his eyes. It took months of yearning, watching her from across the gulf separating them, to learn what real unrequited love was. Then she let him in, because of his selfless act to protect her sister, and he learned what it was to be close to her.
When she died, he learned what real grief was. His heart had disintegrated that early morning, wept for what might have been, when her body hit the ground, shattered, broken, lifeless. He’d wept too, those long nights in between, when Dawn had sought him out for comfort, his tears mingling with hers. He wept in silence too, alone in his grief, unwilling to share with it anyone else.
Just as the pain was beginning to age, but not die, just as he was adjusting to being without her, she appeared. Returned. Alive. And, for the most part, whole and in one piece. To be able to hold her, see her, smell her . . . Just be near was enough. Or so he’d thought.
Now he wasn’t content to just be near her. Spike wanted to drown himself inside her, hold her close and not ever, ever let her go again. In the deepest dark part of night, when she slept within the circle of his arms, her heartbeat thumping against his still chest, her breathing rolling across his arms or chest, Spike quite often found himself imagining it was all a dream his grief-filled heart and mind had conjured up. That she wasn’t back. But she was. And she was with him, wanting him, needing him. There were times when he touched her just to convince himself. When he watched her sleeping beside him, safe and sound. Content to just watch her.
Which was what he was doing at this moment. Just watching her. His thumb brushed against her cheek, his fingers twining in her hair. Should he live for another hundred years, he’d never ever forget these moments, nor the way her body felt wrapped around his. The heat, the absolute delicious heat of her encircling him, her muscles contracting around him, speeding them both toward climax.
Spike sighed softly against her forehead, feeling her eyes open, as her fingers flexed around his waist. Lines of long remembered poems drifted in and out of his head, none of them equal to her, they were words, and thankfully none of his own, though he was craving for the ability to put pen to paper and make a sad poor attempt once more. Without much conscious thought, Spike’s voice drifted softly in the air, drawing her attention to his lips.
“Trusty, dusky, vivid, true, with eyes of gold and bramble-dew, steel-true and blade-straight, the great artificer made my mate.” She said nothing, waiting breathlessly for his next words, just watching his averted eyes.
“Honour, anger, valour, fire; a love that life could never tire, death quench or evil stir, the mighty master gave to her.” He smiled a bit, his hand reaching out to lay just underneath her ear, resting on her cheek.
“Teacher, tender, comrade . . . “ and his voice hitched and broke, breathed more than whispered, “wife.” He paused for so long that Buffy thought he wasn’t going to continue, but then he recovered and his voice sounded out again “a fellow-farer true through life, heart-whole and soul-free, the august father gave to me.”
Her eyes were bright and wide. Spike ducked his head, unwilling to let her see the depth of his emotions swimming in his eyes. Warm fingers brushed across his lips, drawing his face down to hers. The kiss was chaste, given the fact they were both naked, but carried a wealth of emotion he was suddenly afraid to analyze. He pressed their bodies together, rolling half onto his back, bringing her with him. Spike closed his eyes, content to just listen to the cadence of her heart beat, feel her resting over him like a living blanket.
******************************** ******************************************
Sooner or later, it was bound to happen. Once certain wheels were set in motion, triggered by events sometimes out of the control of the people they effect, the inevitable does occur.
It was just as likely to have come from him as it was from any other source, the demon world, especially that surrounding the hellmouth, abounded with rumors.
So Wesley wasn’t entirely surprised when Angel loomed over him, accusation and betrayal in his dark eyes.
“When were you going to tell me?” His hands fisted on the desk top, as Angel leaned across to confront him.
“About what precisely?” He looked up not at all intimidated by Angel’s demeanor.
“What’s going on in Sunnydale, Wes?” The vampire didn’t move, didn’t back away at all.
Neither did the human. “Why don’t you tell me what you think you know?”
“I’ve heard things” was all Angel would say.
Losing patience with this unnecessarily cryptic conversation, Wesley tossed his pen on the desk, saying, “the point Angel, if you have one?”
“Oh, I”ve got a point.” Angel stood up to his full height, flexing his broad shoulders. “Rumors are flying that there’s a slayer in Sunnydale again. What do you know about that?”
“There is.” Wesley wasn’t going to lie, as much as he wanted to, as much as he wanted to protect them, Angel would find out the truth and then there would be hell to pay.
“Did you see the new slayer while you were there?”
Ah, so he thought this was Buffy’s replacement, not the girl herself, maybe he could buy them some more time. Wesley didn’t know why, nor could he explain it, but he’d liked William the Bloody. He hadn’t been at all what he’d expected, nor had his welcome been anything at all like his first stint in Sunnydale. They’d welcomed him, made him feel at home, part of them and he’d enjoyed that feeling. Would like to repeat it.
“No. No I didn’t meet the new slayer.” Gauging the other man’s reaction to see if Angel thought he was lying, Wesley watched him pace around a bit.
“You were there for a couple of days, you mean to tell me you didn’t meet her?”
“No Angel, I didn’t meet the new slayer. She’s apparently a bit antisocial, not adjusting well to her circumstances.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie, any of it.
“Oh.” His response totally took the wind out of Angel’s pending explosion.
“Spike still there?” It was almost an after thought, but Wesley wasn’t fooled.
“Yes, protecting Dawn.”
“Good. Okay then.”
And then as quickly as he’d arrived in Wesley’s office, Angel departed.
The Englishman waited ten minutes or so, then called the house.
Spike’s voice answered on the third ring.
“Lo.”
“Hello.”
“Oxford.” The vampire was immediately wary. They’d talked about this, that last long night when they’d drunk themselves silly and Spike knew there was only one reason Wesley would be calling him.
“He’s asked about the new slayer.”
“Bloody hell. Only a matter of time then.”
Wesley sighed a little, then agreed. “More than likely, he’ll probably call the house. He’ll assume our counterpart won’t talk, probably hoping. . . ”
“He’ll get Niblet on the horn an’ pry the info from her. Right.”
“Its something he would do.”
“Yeah. I’ll tell the girls.”
They both avoided using names, neither one knowing how many ears were listening or who those ears belonged to.
“Ta mate. ‘Preciate the info.”
“Pass along my greetings to everyone.”
“Will do.” There was a brief pause, then “Oxford. Don’t be a stranger.”
It was probably the closest thing to an admission that Spike had enjoyed his company as much as Wesley had.
******************************** ***************************************
Buffy caught sight of his face after hanging up the phone and knew immediately something was wrong. “Spike?”
When he didn’t answer her, she tried again, “Spike, what was Wes calling about?”
So she had heard. This was not a conversation he wanted to have with the imminent arrival of everyone. It was just after two in the afternoon and Giles and the girls were due at any moment. He was hoping they’d never have to face this, but that was nothing more than wishful thinking on his part.
Raising his eyes to hers, Spike fought the impulse to lie. “Oxford says Angel’s heard about a new slayer bein’ in town.”
She was stunned. “A new? Here?” Rolling her eyes she surprised him by shrugging “obviously telephone game still works not so well.”
“Huh?” He wasn’t following her.
“Information breakdown. Too much repetition and information goes wonky.”
“Right.” Looking at her intently, he asked, “you’re not worried about the poofter?”
“Nope. Should I be?” Buffy perched on the kitchen stool, watching him.
“Dunno pet. Figured you’d wanna hide me away from himself.”
“Spike. We talked about this. We’re good.” Looking back at him, she could see he wasn’t completely reassured, but it was okay, or it would be. She wasn’t worried about Angel, was more worried about Willow and Tara.
And she really didn’t want to think about Angel at all right now.
********************************* *************************************************
Giles was the first one to arrive but Spike almost expected that. He’d sounded like he had much on his mind when he’d called earlier.
His greeting upon arrival had reflected that, or so Spike thought, and his first real sentence, “is Willow home?” reinforced that thought.
“Red’s not back yet. Expect her soon though. What’s up Rupert?”
“Tara’s the only one besides us home. Why Giles?”
“There’s something I’d like to ask you, Buffy, if I may.” His glasses were on, so that was good. But his next words stole her breath.
“When were you going to tell me Willow took you from heaven?”
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