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On sunny days, when she’s home alone, when Willow and Dawn are at school, and she doesn’t have a shift at the Doublemeat Palace, Buffy likes to go out into the backyard. To see the sunlight dancing against the leaves of the shrubbery and the flowers that Mom planted there after they moved to Sunnydale. To hear the jingling of the wind chimes and watch as the breeze causes the limbs of the trees to rustle.
Today, she goes outside. Hopes it’ll be different this time. She lays on the grass in the middle of the yard, closes her eyes. Tries to quiet her mind, focus on the sun shining down on her face. To try and recapture that feeling she had when she wasn’t here.
Instead, all she can think about are the problems piling up in her life. Dawn’s apparently some kind of kleptomaniac… who she really should be spending more time with. Her Doublemeat Palace wages are just barely covering the bills. Anya’s asked her and Willow to organize her bachelorette party— a party where Willow’s ex and the vengeance who just trapped them in her house for days on end are expected to be in attendance.
And she’s sleeping with Spike.
But it’s more than just that. The grass beneath her is… pokey. Dry and pokey. She feels it, like little dull needles pricking the back of her neck. She can hear the traffic from the street, motors and engines and tires. The occasional, agitated honk. There’s pollen in the air, causing her sinuses to become all stuffy. And it’s too cold. The sun’s shining brightly, bathing everything in golden light, but it’s still January. Nowhere near warm enough for southern California girl like her.
So she sighs, picks herself up off the ground. One of these days, she hopes it will work. Everything will be quiet. She’ll breathe easily. The grass beneath her will be lush, a perfect pillow to nestle herself upon while she’s bathed in the warmth of sunrays. All her problems will melt away. She’ll feel like she’s in Heaven again… but until then, she’ll have to settle for the old reliable.
Buffy contemplates fetching Spike’s tee shirt from upstairs, the tee shirt she’s been wearing as nightgown ever since she wore it home that night a couple weeks ago, before her birthday. She isn’t sure why; she’s got plenty of nice, real pajamas. Fuzzy ones. Silky ones. Cute ones with pictures of sushi. Ones that don’t belong to evil demons.
But it’s comfortable. Worn in a way that makes the fabric soft. It keeps her covered without being too hot or too cold in the night. Plus, it smells good. Like… really good. It is it his body wash or something? Does he even use body wash? She only used his shower once and that was just because she’d slayed some nasty demon that was full of a weird, nasty smelling goo that exploded all over her and his crypt was much closer than her house. The water had been cold and she was more focused on that and his hands all over her, helping wash it away as she stood under the cold spray, shivering and covered in goosebumps… and then he’d washed her hair, massaging her scalp with his fingers, and it felt so good and then he’d pressed her against the stone wall and…
She’s getting off topic. The point is that Buffy’s not sure if these are reasons for keeping it or signs she should give it back.
In the end, she decides against it. Not like this will be the last visit she pays him. There’ll be plenty of opportunities to return it later. She doesn’t feel like climbing the stairs anyway. Not when she’s already got a long enough walk ahead of her.
Buffy pushes open the door to the crypt, slowly. She waits for the sound of his voice, hears nothing. He must be sleeping… which makes sense, with the daylight and everything. If it were anyone else, Buffy would come back later. But she walks inside instead. Doesn’t find him sprawled across the lid of the sarcophagus, nor is he glued to the television. She discovers him underground, in bed.
It’s weird, watching him sleep. Most of their… trysts, for lack of a better word, take place during their nocturnal hours, ergo not so much with the watching him sleep.
He’s so still in sleep. It reminds her again that she’s sleeping with a vampire, a dead man, someone who was supposed to be reduced to bone over a hundred years ago. It’s unsettling.
So she tries not to focus on that as she studies him, looming over him in the bed. Instead, she gazes down at his face. Somehow he looks almost innocent in sleep. No one would ever guess the sorts of evil things he’s done. Buffy knows she’s only privy to some of the highlights. He’s hurt so many people over the last century he probably can’t even remember them all.
But it’s hard to remember he’s a monster sometimes. Especially since he so clearly resembles a man.
She’s caught in the act of admiring him, blue eyes opening without warning and settling upon her. “Well, this is a lovely surprise,” he says, smile slowly spreading across his lip, voice deep and low and thick with sleep. Buffy hates how it makes her heart flutter. “Bit early for you to be popping in ‘round here.”
Buffy shrugs. “I don’t really have anything better to do.”
“Yeah?” He sits up, stretches. She tries not to admire his abdominal muscles. Much. “Don’t have you slaving away down at the salt mines today?”
“Later,” says Buffy. She’s already dreading it. Then, “How come you woke up?”
“Smelled something tasty,” Spike says which... Ew. She’s almost tempted to turn around and leave just for that. Almost.
But realizing she’s disturbed his sleep is leaving her with a weird sort of guilt, an awkwardness she shouldn’t really be feeling, but does anyway. “Well, I can go—“
“No, don’t. Stay.” He does his best to remain as nonchalant as possible but Buffy hears it. The desperation. The longing.
So sue her. It feels good, knowing she’s wanted. Gratifying, even. You’d think she’d feel that way more often, given the fact her best friends performed some seriously powerful magic to bring her back and her sister has clearly missed her, but… They don’t show it this way. In fact, sometimes Buffy wonders if her being back just makes it worse for them now, especially since they know the truth. She hasn’t exactly been grateful, or happy. She’s been pretty much neglecting Dawn. The only person who doesn’t expect anything of her is the one here, in this crypt. Any version of her will do.
And that’s honestly pretty reassuring.
“Alright.” Her voice comes out softer than she intends it.
Spike scoots over in the bed. “Surprised to see you here so soon,” he admits as she takes a seat next to him. It feels… weird. Sitting here. They rarely ever make it to the bed… and when they do, she’s never wearing clothes. Or sitting. So this is new for her. “Thought you’d last a few more days before you caved and came crawling back to yours truly. Would’ve thought you’d seen enough of this ugly mug the past few days.” He gestures to his face, which is still a little bruised from their showdown in the alley near the police station. She can see both his eyes now, though, all brilliantly blue.
“If you’re trying to fish for compliments, it’s not going to work,” is all she says, but it doesn’t come out with any bite. Instead, she feels her lips quirking into something resembling a smile. Not enough to meet her eyes but something. Then, quietly, seriously, “Starting to look better, though.”
“Nice to know. Can’t exactly look in a mirror and check for myself.”
She smiles again, that half smile. The not quite quirk of her lips. But when he says, “Good thing I’ve got you, haven’t I?”, she feels a blush flooding into her cheeks.
Buffy sits there, silently trying to formulate what she should say, because what is she supposed to say to that? Why is he always so… so intense like this? She’s still trying to come up with something, anything, when he clears his throat, speaks again, “But speaking of your ill-fated birthday party, reminded me of something. Never gave you your present.”
Buffy can’t help it; she does get excited at the idea of a present. But then she remembers this is Spike and her excitement dulls slightly as she arches a questioning eyebrow and asks, “A present, huh? Let me guess. Is it your penis?” Internally, she cringes at her clinical choice in words. She sounds like Anya.
Spike chuckles. “If you want to unwrap me later, love, be my guest. But no. It’s an actual, physical gift. Let me just…” He trails off, climbing out of the bed, leaving Buffy to sit on the edge of it, bemused and pleasantly perplexed. Spike got her a gift? A real one?
But then… “Why didn’t you give it to me at the party?”
“Not really something I wanted to give you in front of all the Scoobies.”
Buffy frowns, trying to figure out what he means by that. Then a sickening thought occurs to her. “It’s not something gross, right? Like… like a disembodied head or a necklace made out of bones…?” That’s probably, like, peak romantic gifts for vampires. Didn’t he give Drusilla the dismembered body parts of the Judge?
“No.” Spike’s voice seems torn between amusement and annoyance as he crouches down before a chest. “It’s a perfectly normal gift.”
“You didn’t steal it, did you?” That’s the next logical question. If it’s not something totally weird or sex related, then it’s something he probably stole… and she can’t accept that.
“Did I…? No, I didn’t bloody well steal it.” He sounds genuinely upset now. Buffy feels bad, then tried to squelch it down. “Only one nicking presents for you far as I know was the Little Bit.”
The mention of Dawn and her stealing problem hurts. It doesn’t make much sense, but it does. Like it’s her fault. If she were more present, less self-involved, not too busy letting a vampire do unspeakable things to her, she would have noticed sooner. If she had the attention she so desperately craved from Buffy, then she wouldn’t have stolen in the first place. It’s probably only fair, since she’s pretty sure her accusing him of stealing this gift, whatever it is, hurt his feelings, but Buffy doesn’t like it. At all. So she shoots back with a quiet, albeit pointed, “Which she only knows how to do thanks to you.”
Buffy’s relieved when he laughs at that. “Got me there.” He’s rummaging about that chest, searching for whatever’s in there. She wonders how long he’s had this present. “You make her return all her spoils, then?”
“Not yet,” Buffy admits. She looks down at her legs, which are covered in a black, full length skirt. She smooths it out as she says, “But we did return the jacket and all the stuff from the Magic Box, so. Making some progress.”
“Right.” He rises to his feet, closes the chest. His back is to her. “Alright. Didn’t have any wrapping paper lying about, so you’ll just have to close your eyes for a moment, love.”
“Ooohkay,” Buffy says, not really reassured. She has visions of weird, mystical object that could easily kill her or something living…
Except he said this is a normal present and Spike wouldn’t hurt her. Not unless she asked him first.
So she closes her eyes. Waits. Her Slayer senses are on high alert, the sound of his footsteps and the tingles on the back of her neck telling her what his path across the room looks like. She can practically see him in her mind, moving towards her. He’s hesitant. Nervous. She probably shouldn’t take so much enjoyment in that… but she does. The only thing she can’t readily picture in her mind is whatever he’s holding. Is it big? Small? Awkwardly shaped? In a box?
Then he’s standing before her. He doesn’t utter a single word, not for a second or two, until he practically whispers, “Hold out your hands for me, love.”
She does. If he hadn’t ruled out something sexy, she’d be prepared for the cool touch of metal around her wrists. But instead there’s a heavy weight— not too heavy for her, but heavier than she was expecting— placed it her hands. She realizes almost instantly that it’s a hardcover book— probably an old one, judging by the feel under her fingers.
Then, “Open your eyes.”
She does, blinking. She’s right; it is an old book. The hardcover is green, a sort of pattern pressed into it. She has to turn it onto his spine to read the title in yellow lettering. Gareth and Lynette. She was right; it is old. “What is this?”
“Poetry. Lord Tennyson. Thought… thought you might enjoy it.” His voice shakes. She doesn’t associate Spike with being anything less than self assured. To preserve her image of him and to let him hold onto what’s left of his dignity, she doesn’t look up to see what may be written on his face. “You said you like poetry, didn’t you? You’re gonna take some poetry classes once you’re back in school, right?”
“Yeah,” she says. She can’t believe he remembered. It feels like she said that forever ago, just a sort of off-handed remark when she was filling out the applications to return this upcoming semester. How she hoped she could have Professor Lillian as professor again. She’d forgotten she mentioned that. But he remembered.
Buffy flips it open to a random page, sees the small print. “Be careful with it now,” Spike says, weirdly soft. Quiet. Vulnerable. “It’s a first edition.”
Buffy can’t even speak. He bought her a first edition copy of some book of poetry just because she mentioned she liked it one time? It doesn’t help that she’s reminded of the other time a vampire gifted her a book of poetry for her birthday, the associations of it in her mind. This book, it’s probably insanely expensive… “I can’t accept this,” she breathes, without really thinking it through.
“Why the hell not?” demands Spike. The anger in his voice causes her head to jerk up.
“It’s— it’s too much.” Her mouth feels dry. She’s not scared of him or anything like that, just overwhelmed. “This must’ve cost a fortune—“
“If I had a fortune, what the hell else would I be spending it on?” He retorts. “‘Sides, I didn’t buy it. Had it since my human days. Thought it was fitting, seeing as I got it as a gift for my twenty first. Like I said, thought you’d like it. But if you don’t—“
“No!” Buffy is surprised by the shrillness and intensity of her voice. Spike does, too, blinking at her. “No, it’s… I do like it. Thank you.” She stared down at the book now. It’s too hard, she realizes, to look at him. Especially with their emotions running so high like this. “But are you sure you want to give it away? I mean, if you’ve had it since…” It must mean something to him, right? If he’d held onto it since he was a human. “You don’t want to keep it?”
When he doesn’t say anything, she looks up. His expression is carefully guarded. He seems deep in thought before he says, “Had it a long time, pet. Practically memorized it by now. If I weren’t sure, I wouldn’t’ve given it to you.” It occurs to Buffy maybe that was the real delay in his gifting it to her, him making sure he was ready to part with it… though given how awkward and on edge he’s been this whole time, it’s also possible he really didn’t like the idea of handing this to her in front of all her friends. She tries to imagine how Xander would have reacted to Spike giving her a book of poetry, and realizes he probably was embarrassed enough without needing any commentary. “Besides, ‘m a vampire. Immortal, remember? If you’re so worried about me missing it, leave it to me in your will and it’ll make its way back to me the next time you snuff it.”
Buffy can’t help but laugh at that. She claps a hand over her mouth, trying to stifle giggles. There’s got to be something seriously wrong with her, laughing at the idea of her inevitable, eventual death, but she can’t help it. She’s relieved when she sees him grin, too. It’s almost shy. Once the laughter dies down, she says, genuinely, “Thank you.”
“Welcome.”
And now it’s awkward. It’s always so much simpler somehow when they don’t have clothes on and aren’t talking. Buffy idly remembers when it wasn’t always that way, when she had no idea what he looked like naked and he wasn’t skilled with making her come. That was all they did. Well, with a side of trying to kill each other. At least at the start.
Not for the first time, Buffy feels that little stab of self loathing at being stupid enough to fall… to develop feelings for something like Spike. And she hates him a little, too, for falling in love with her. If he hadn’t told her, she could have lived in blissful ignorance. She likes to think it never would have even occurred to her, to look at him in that light… and even if she had (because she’s not blind, she’s always known Spike was was a hottie, even if he was evil), she could have just assumed he’d sooner kill her and never let her thoughts go further than that.
“What time’ve you got to be to work?”
“Not until three,” she answers, looking up at him again.
“You going home before?”
“Yeah. Probably.” She chews of her bottom lip. Unbidden, she hears his voice from a memory of Willow’s will-be-done spell— “Gonna get it.” “But I can stay awhile. If you want.”
His eyes are burning, intense. “I always want.”
And immediately it’s different. His body covers hers, her fingers gripping at the nape of his neck instead of her nails digging into it. The kisses are slower, deeper. Less urgent. As if they have all the time in the world. There’s no rush, no desire to speed things along, only the longing to savor and taste. When his tongue licks along her jugular, she shivers out of pleasure, not fear.
That’s not to say it isn’t passionate. When they get into it, he doesn’t hold back. But it’s different, somehow, in a way she isn’t sure she can truly articulate. “God, Buffy,” he gasps raggedly, the sound of her name like that only making her moan softly. His hand squeezes at her hip, hard enough to bruise if she were a normal human. But she’s not and it doesn’t hurt at all. She just feels wanted. Needed, even. Like he’s suffocating and she’s his last bit of oxygen… or in his case, the sun is closing in on him and she is his shade. It’s pretty hard to come up with apt metaphors when his tongue is doing that to her nipples.
Buffy swears she sees stars just before it ends, eyes clenched and whimpery little gasps leaving her mouth. She hangs onto him tight, nails biting into his shoulders before he follows her over the edge. As they regain their breathes, they stare into each others eyes. He almost looks drunk, even though she knows he doesn’t have a drop of alcohol in him right now— just drunk on her. It’s gratifying.
“Buffy,” he says, breaking the silence between them. Well… not silence, exactly, but labored breathing isn’t exactly the best means of communication. He doesn’t say anything else, not for almost another minute. It’s as if he can’t find the right words he wants. Buffy can’t exactly blame him. He feels even half of what she feels right now… “That… that was…”
When he trails off, unable to finish his thought, she agrees. “Yeah. Yeah, it was.” She doesn’t think at before she does it— reaching out, hand cradling his cheek. Her thumb ghosts over his top lip. He adjusts himself to distribute his weight, his hand capturing hers, moving it so he kiss the pad of her thumb. Then the one on her index finger, the middle, the ring finger, right to her pinky. Then twice along her palm, down until his lips are at her wrist, right over her pulse point. Her breath hitches, eyes falling shut again as he starts lavishing kisses across what feels like every inch of her.
The curve of her shoulder where it meets her neck. The mole on her rib cage. Between her breasts. No place is left untouched by his lips— at least, that was it feels like. Her body reacts without thought, arching to meet him. At some point in all of this, his thumb starts circling her clit lazily, two fingers thrusting in and out of her in a slow rhythm until she’s humming in pleasure. Then he’s kissing up her body again, almost like he’s retracing his path. His tongue flicks along her nipple, and the moan against her suddenly makes it all the more real. Her breath hitches. His mouth is her collarbone as the need grows even greater, reality seeming to close in narrower on itself, blunt teeth scraping gently along her neck and paradoxically hot breath meeting her skin. Buffy’s hips pitch forward instinctively in time with his fingers.
And then his mouth is finally on hers again, and that’s when she wraps an arm around his neck, clutches feverishly at his bicep. “That’s it, Buffy, love,” he pants into her ear, breaking their kiss briefly. “Let go for me.”
And she does, letting herself be lost in white hot, burning bright pleasure. She’s rendered completely boneless, legs shaking, and losing all control of herself. She thinks she might be moaning— loudly— but she can’t hear it. All she can focus on his body pressed against hers, his finger continuing to stroke the pleasure out of her, then his lips on hers again and swallowing up any sound.
And as her body’s final shudders end, as she stared up at his reverent expression through her eyelashes, she realizes this is what he felt like earlier. As if she’s under the influence of the most potent drug imaginable. Her brain drifts to Willow briefly, before she closes her eyes, banishes it. It’s not the same. She’s not hurting anyone here. Nobody is hurting. Not her, not him. Just… living.
When she opens her eyes again, he’s still watching her. She knows he’s aware of the effect he’s had on her, but instead of being smug about it, he looks… pleased. Not in a self satisfied way… but… happy. Spike smiles at her, presses a chaste kiss to her lips. Buffy kissed him back, almost mourns it when he pulls away, but the blow is softened as he whispers, “So beautiful.”
And then he slinks down her body against, more sparing with his kisses than before, until he’s directly between her legs. She can’t help but smile at the top of his bleached curls as he settles down. She’s never been with a man who was so intent on doing that as he is.
The time he spends between her thighs, licking and sucking and kissing, seems to last forever and only for a scant few minutes at the same time. She doesn’t dig her fingernails into his scalp, rock her hips into his face as she normally would. Instead, she writhes, one hand fisting the bedsheets and the other curving around the back of his head, the flex of her fingers communicating his pleasure the same way her involuntarily moans do.
But it becomes too much. She feels it approaching her, the impending desire to come. Her hips twitch up, hard, without any volition. “Spike,” she finds herself gasping. “Spike!”
“That’s it, love,” he breathes against her thighs. “Come for me.”
She’s close, so close— but— “No, want— want you inside me.”
Her hands grapple below her, frantically tugging him up. He just gapes at her before reality sinks in. “Oh, God, Buffy.” His lips meet hers, kissing in such a way that feels both dirty and divine at once. He parts from her, only briefly, just long enough to line himself up against her entrance and slide in fluidly. They groan in unison, Buffy’s eyes rolling back. Her head tilts back, bearing up her neck, but he ignores it, pressing kisses along her jaw instead.
When she opens her eyes, he’s staring down at her in wonder. His lips are parted, eyes seeming looking at her and nothing at all at once. Like he’s so lost in thought… lost in thoughts about her. About this.
And then his eyes close, lips meet hers, and one hand finds hers, intertwining their fingers. Buffy squeezes his hand back, arches her hips against his to remind him and to try and ease the pressure inside her. It seems to work, as his hips start pitching against hers… but it’s slow. Achingly gentle. Yet his kisses aren’t. His blunt, human teeth bite against her sensitive, swollen bottom lip, tongue insistent against hers, filling her mouth with the taste of her own arousal. It’s overwhelming in the best possible way.
But the harsh, rough kisses don’t last for long, replaced by slower, softer ones. His tongue traces the shape of her lips now, gasps against her mouth as his hips swivel against hers. Buffy’s breath catches it her throat, fingers squeezing his tighter at each bump against her clit.
The pressure and pleasure build inside her, almost without any notice by her, until she’s suddenly there. Buffy doesn’t mean to break the kiss they’re exchanging, but she can’t stop her eyelids from screwing shut, can’t halt the high pitched whine from deep within her throat as she suddenly realizes she’s falling over the precipice. “Oh, God, Buffy, are you coming?” Spike asks, all pleading and ragged and desperate. He’s still thrusting into her, only prolonging her pleasure. “You are, aren’t you, love? God, cause I can’t hold back, not any longer—“ His voice is wrecked, burying his face into her neck, his nose nudging her pulse point.
The last aftershocks of pleasure are still humming in her body when she regains the power of speech. She’s staring up at the ceiling, one hand wrapped around the back of his neck, the other holding his hand, all while he mouthes at her neck, all inarticulate and incomprehensible… but he’s still holding back.
So she moves her head, enough to bring his lips back to hers. Her eyes remain wide open, trying to meet the blue. Once she does, she murmurs, “Do it, Spike,” against his mouth.
He makes a sound between a groan and a cry, eyes still locked on hers as his body shudders his pleasure into hers. His eyes don’t close until he’s unable to hold up the weight of his body any longer, collapsing on top of her.
They lay like that for a while, Spike panting heavily and Buffy’s fingers absentmindedly playing with the curls at the nape of his neck. She ceases her movements the second his body goes completely still. “Spike?” He doesn’t stir.
Buffy doesn’t budge. Not for a whole anyway. She’d never admit it, but… it’s nice. The whole cuddling thing. She’s always been a fan of the afterglow… and after experiencing orgasms like that, it’s pretty much vital.
But she’s all too aware of the fact she should be leaving, should be going home to shower and saying goodbye to Willow and Dawn and going to work her shift. She shouldn’t be cuddling an unconscious vampire— an unconscious soulless vampire— an unconscious, soulless, naked vampire.
It’s hard, crawling out from underneath him without rousing him from his sleep, but he’s knocked out cold. Buffy wonders if he just sleeps like the dead because he already is or if it really was that good.
She decides it’s the latter, gazing down at him prone in the bed almost pridefully as she dresses.
Before she leaves, she remembers to grab the book of poetry he gave her. She’s embarrassingly eager to read it once she gets the chance. Any day now, she’s going to be getting a letter in the mail about whether or not she’ll be allowed to reenroll at UC Sunnydale, but Buffy’s hopeful. Willow says it’s likely and she’s like the smartest person Buffy knows.
She thinks about leaving behind a note, letting him know where she’s gone, but decides against it. She doesn’t know where he keeps any of that stuff. Besides, it’s pretty self explanatory. It’s not like he doesn’t already know she had to leave. It’s not like he’s her boyfriend.
Still, the guilt gnaws away at her as she walks home. The afternoon is melting away, sun dipping lower into the sky. Buffy watched her own shadow on her way back to Revello Drive, wondering when she became this person. The sort who ducks out in the middle of the day to fuck soulless vampires and pop back home before a shift at the Doublemeat Palace. The kind of person who fucks somebody she doesn’t even love. The sort of person who doesn’t even leave a note behind after she leaves their bed.
She wonders if it makes her any better than him in the end.
Despite her excitement, Buffy doesn’t open up the book until after she’s finished showering. It’s ridiculous, but a part of her felt… almost unworthy. Which is ridiculous. This is Spike she’s talking about. But he’d been… different this afternoon. Gentler. Softer. Not just in bed. Giving her something leftover from his human days, something he clearly treasured… all because she said she liked poetry.
And she’s using him.
But she does open the book. Curiosity wins out in the end. What’s so great about a book that was worth keeping around for over a hundred years?
But she doesn’t make it past the first page. She hasn’t even read any of the poetry, solely the black ink inscription, a contrast to the yellowed paper. The message is handwritten, in an elegant cursive, the indentations from where the pen pressed down still there.
William—
Twenty-one years ago today I held you in my arms and today you are now a man. You make me prouder than words can ever begin describe, and I hope this birthday will be just one of many very happy ones for you, my dear boy.
With all my love,
Mother
Buffy’s index finger traces over the words, mouthing along silently as she read, then stunned to stillness. Her first, knee-jerk thought is that Spike wrote it, some way to give it extra value and make him more of a mystery to her, but she quickly dismisses it. The book is old enough to have been around when he was a human and he’s been strangely tight-lipped about his past before— at least his human past. He was more than eager to tell her stories of how he killed two of her sisters in arms, but all he’d said about his life as a human was that he’d always been bad, that he’d made more than a few enemies back in his time, and that he’d stormed out of some party one night and then met Drusilla. He never mentioned a mother or a father, nor any siblings, either.
Now that Pandora’s box has been opened, she can’t help but wonder more about William. Not William the Bloody, as she’s well-acquainted with him, but William the man. It’s possible he was as bad as Spike claims, but she doubts that. His mother, whoever she was, sounded like she loved him. A lot. She thinks of how much Spike seemed to like hanging out with her mom, how it always used to give her the wiggins to come home and find them drinking hot cocoa and enthusiastically talking about Passions. This book was written in— Buffy flips, finds the publishing date— 1872, so there weren’t any soap operas, maybe not even hot cocoa, but she wonders if maybe he did those sorts of things with his mom. If he misses her.
She shouldn’t be thinking like this. He’s evil. Soulless. For all she knows, he killed this poor woman after he became a vampire. That’s what Angel did to his family. But she can’t help it. Whoever William was, he seems like he was good guy. A guy who’s mom loved him and bought him books of poetry. Maybe even the kind of guy who would hang onto this for over a century, only to give it away to some girl who would offhandedly mention how much she liked poems.
And then she thinks of Spike. The odd Shakespearean references. The way he held the door open for her during that fake stake out. How nervous he’d been today, giving her this book. The gentleness of his kisses, how it felt less like fucking when they’d fallen into bed and more like making love…
And then she thinks of how she left him.
And then she does something incredibly stupid.
Before she knows it, she’s calling Lorraine, her manager at the Doublemeat Palace. She tells her that she can’t come into work today, that she’s really sick. She even feigns a coughing fit for good measure. She’s not about to win an Oscar for her performance, but it’s enough to convince Lorraine to tell Buffy to stay home and rest.
As she leaves the house, Buffy feels guilty. If she isn’t going to go into work tonight, she really should stay home with Dawn, with Willow. Her sister. Her friend. People who are good for her. People who need her.
But they’ll never know.
Buffy hopes that he’ll be just where she left him. That she’ll be able to slip off her clothes, be able to slip underneath the sheets. He’ll know she left— he’ll be able to smell that she took a shower— but he won’t wake up alone. Not like she has way too many times.
But she’s too late. When she returns to the crypt, he’s standing behind his sarcophagus, dressed now but his shirt isn’t buttoned up. He’s got a jar of blood— which would normally be super off-putting to her except she can ignore it with his bare chest and everything. He lifts his head when she comes in but instead of seeing that flicker of awe she’s used to, he ducks his head back down. “What’d you do? Forget something?” He doesn’t look at her as he unscrews the lids to the jar, voice cold. Which, yeah, maybe she deserves, but she has to admit she was expecting a much warmer welcome.
It was easier when she could tell herself that he didn’t have feelings, because she knows deep down she hurt his.
“No. I just, uh, went home. For a shower.” But I’m back now, she thinks. Doesn’t say it. “You know. Work. All that.”
“Right.” As if he just remembered. He’s still not looking at her, though his voice isn’t so cool anymore. It bothers her— not the voice thing, but the not looking at her thing. She can’t bring herself to wonder why. “So why’re you back? Need a pick-me-up ‘fore you shovel deep fried vegetable process into the mouths of Sunnydale citizens?” And there it is again. That bitterness.
“I’m not going to work tonight.” Now he looks up… and there it is. That surprise. That awe. It makes her uncomfortable but at the same time it sates this sort of deep craving inside of her, soothes the ache she’d had when she realizes she’d driven that reverence away.
“Yeah?”
“Thought I’d play hooky.” She aims to keep her tone light, but it comes out all serious. Quiet. Maybe it’s because he’s still looking at her like that. Maybe it’s because she’s looking at him while he does. “I told my boss I had a cold.”
“That right?” A smile. Or at least the beginnings of one before he composes himself.
“Uh huh.” He strides towards her. Those tingles on the back of her neck which scream, Vampire! Vampire! grow more and more intense with each step her takes, except they’re joined by this sense of anticipation, coiling in the bottom of her stomach.
And now here he is, standing in front of her. Eyes ablaze, full of hunger. She waits with bated breath, letting him move closer. Closer. Closer. Then, “Turning into quite a naughty girl, pet.”
It’s like the spell shatters. She blinks, hates that she feels… disappointed. This isn’t what she came back for, for the same old, same old. She wants whatever earlier was. She doesn’t want rough, she craves gentle.
But then there it is. His hand reaches out, fingers gently brushing back a strand of hair hanging loose in her face, barely touching her and expression reverent. Lost.
There it is. When his fingers move, tucking under her jaw and lifting her head so he can look her right in the eye, she doesn’t so much love because he’s handling her like one would a baby bird.
“Tell me,” he says, voice low and full of a satisfied knowing, “what do you want?”
She doesn’t want this. She wants to scream it out at him, not like this. She wants what happened earlier. But she doesn’t. To admit that… to admit she wants him to treat her like… like it’s more than just fucking. Because when it’s rough like this, she’s reminded how different he is from her former lovers, like somehow this is set apart, different, something illicit.
And then his thumb starts tracing her lips, delicate, and Buffy presses a kiss to the pad. She doesn’t break eye contact.
His thumb is replaced by his lips, hungry and demanding, hands on either side of her head as he roughly bring their mouths together and— well, this works, too. Soon, Buffy between him and the stone wall, legs wrapped around his waist as he licks at her neck, thrusting inside her hard and fast. It’s so intense that if he weren’t raggedly rasping out her name, Buffy thinks she would forget it.
But it’s not what she wants.
She’s not sure why she doesn’t just come out and say it. He probably wouldn’t laugh at her… right? He’d do anything she asked, because he loves her in his vampire way? But the idea of being turned down, of having him laugh at her… it’s too much. She couldn’t handle that.
They virtually have an eight hour long window and they make the most of it. No surface is left undefiled, trying out different positions. It isn’t until Buffy shudders to release on top of him, muscles sore and yet pleasantly lax, when she realizes they’re now in the bottommost part of his crypt. “How’d we get down here?” Buffy asks. It’s dark, damp, and cool; a stark contrast to her body, which feels as though it’s on fire.
“Was my own fault. Didn’t see where I was going,” Spike grunts from beneath her. “Was too focused on, uh… other things.” He takes a moment to leer at her, grinning. “Surprised you didn’t notice, but then again, you’re the one who landed on top.”
Buffy blinks, briefly remembering a sort of falling sensation, but it hadn’t occurred to her that they actually had. Like Spike said, her mind must have been focused on other things. “Are you alright? I mean, you’re not hurt, are you?”
“‘M not paralyzed from the waist down, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He thrusts up his hips against her to prove his point, and Buffy’s eyelids flutter shut. “Probably some bruising, nothing a bit of blood won’t fix. Think I’ve still got some of that human you brought me, so it’ll work faster.” His thumb rubs lazy circles on her bare hip, something that’s strangely soothing.
And Buffy lets him. Just for a moment. Because it’s nice. What she was hoping for. She savors the touch, looks down at him with his heavy lidded eyes, which are watching her, too. Her tongue peeks out, wets her lips. Then, quietly, “You should go drink it. Now. You know. Before it gets worse.”
The touches stop. There’s something almost mournful in his expression, something Buffy wonders if she’s the cause of, but she doesn’t know how. “Right,” he says and it’s like she can feel him withdrawing from her… at least metaphorically. Emotionally. Physically, he remains beneath her. Then he says, “Gonna have to get off me first, pet?”
“What? Oh! Right!” She feels embarrassed as she scrambles up, the bare soles of her feet making contact with the cool stone floor. Actually, now that she’s standing up like this, entirely exposed, Buffy’s starting to notice just how cold she is. She starts hugging herself out of instinct as Spike pushes himself to his feet, wincing slightly.
“Be back in a minute,” he tells her, climbing the ladder. She stares up after him, though instead of leering at him, her eyes are focused on the already forming bruises, the pinkish-purple color a stark contrast to his pale skin. She chews on the inside of her lip, guiltily until after he disappears to surface, wondering how she didn’t notice sooner.
After a while, the cold gets to her and she pads into the darkened room. The rug is already more forgiving on her feet. She’s grateful that being a Slayer comes with a sense of slightly elevated night vision, leading her to find the lamp to bathe the room in that warm, golden light. She wastes little crawling under the blankets, desperately trying to soak in whatever warmth is here.
“You cold, pet?” Spike asks when he returns.
“A little,” she admits, wrapping the blanket a little tighter around her body.
His expression flickers into something… softer. Yes, she thinks. There it is. “Sorry ‘bout that, love,” he says. “Don’t have much use for heating here, on my lonesome.”
Buffy doesn’t care about the cold. Not when she can practically taste what’s to come. When he climbs into the bed, she’s there and ready to meet him. Her mouth surges to his, sucking his lip into her mouth and feeling the vibrations of his low groans beneath her fingers as her hands slowly slide up his chest. Still, she’s careful not to be too rough, move too quickly. She leans into his every touch, savors the taste of him against her tongue, simply feels him rather than grabbing him and manipulating him where she wants him.
And then she feels his hand, creeping down her ass, going to lift her leg up over… “Wait,” she says breathlessly, breaking their kiss. His eyes are dark, pupils dilated wide with tire and practically consuming the blue. “I…” Buffy has to take a moment to catch her breath, gather thoughts. But he waits patient for her to tell him, “Lay down. On your stomach.”
His lips twitch slightly, like he wants to smirk, but he’s too full of awe. Awe directed at her. “What’re you planning exactly, pet?”
“Trust me.” Then she leans forwards and kisses him again.
It isn’t until the quick kiss is broken that Spike speaks. His eyes are closed, Adam’s apple bobbing before he utters, in a whisper, “Always.” He opens his eyes just before he leans in for another kiss. His tongue traces the inside of her lips, corners of her mouth, before he pulls away and does as she has asked of him.
Buffy’s not sure how quickly vampire healing works, if it’s anything like Slayer healing, but clearly it hasn’t gone into affect yet on Spike.
There’s still darkened marks of flesh… and scratch marks left from her own fingernails. She reaches out, almost to touch them… But no. This isn’t what she wants to do. She doesn’t want to hurt him doesn’t want him to hurt her. Not tonight.
She leans over him, bending down so she can kiss at a forming bruise. At first he jerks beneath her. “Did I hurt you?” She asks, worried.
“No.” His voice is slightly muffled. “Feels… nice.”
Satisfied, Buffy smiles, repeats the gesture. She kisses along the outlines of the largest bruises, then ghosts her lips over the middles.
When Buffy’s finished kissing each marks, she sits up. It’s no less cold in downstairs of the crypt, but she feels it. The warmth. It’s not like it was where she was before, but it’s something. Here. Inside her.
“I’m done,” she says softly and her starts to roll over. “How was— Did you like it?”
“Course I did. Made it all better.” He reaches out, hand finding her knee. His thumb moves soothingly against it. Then, softly, “Come here.”
Buffy listens, leans over him. Her hair falls around them, a curtain of gold, but it doesn’t detract Spike as he leans up on his elbows, mouth meeting here. The kisses are passionate, but there’s no edge, no harshness. She sighs against his mouth, and he breaks the kiss briefly to reach up with one arm. “God, I love your hair.” He sounds so peaceful, content. “Course I told you that once before and you cut it all off, didn’t you?”
She wishes he wouldn’t bring that up. “It was time,” she insists. “I had so many dead ends. Besides, I hadn’t had it cut in… like nine months.”
He doesn’t say anything, just continues to play with it.
“Not as much to cut off now, anyway,” she says, quietly. “Not unless I want to be bald.”
“Bloody shame that’d be,” he murmurs lowly, twirling her hair around before pulling her in for another kiss. Sweet. Slow. Sensual.
Buffy melts against him, bracing herself upright on his chest, moving her hands to feel each bit of chiseled. Along his muscled biceps, keeping him pinned down and right where she wants him until sliding her hands against his pecs, against his nipples. All the while he kisses her, soaking each one in, until suddenly he tears his mouth away from hers with a groan.
“Need to taste you, Buffy, please,” he pleads, breathless. Then his hands are on her tugging her up, her legs on either side of his head before he lowers her down. Buffy lets out a soft gasp, jolts at the initial touch of his tongue, but her mouth falls open, soft noises leaving her without volition. Her hands seek out the headboard, something to balance on and he grips her thigh, holding her down as she stars arching up. His tongue is inside her, licking as far as he can, before starts teasing her clit. “Oh!” The sound comes out as a shock. “Spike!” Her hands grip the wooden headboard more tightly. Then he starts sucking at it, drawing another cry from her throat. “Spike!” Buffy whines. God, she’s aching, so wet, throbbing, she needs… needs to come, need him to make her come… and then there it is, a nip of teeth against her and it’s all over. “Please, God, oh… Spike!” Buffy throws her head back, nothing but blinding white flashing behind her eyelids.
He doesn’t stop until she’s trembling all over, crying out because the stimulation is too much. She collapses onto her back beside him, covered in a sheen of sweat. She’s still breathless when moves so he’s on top of her.
“How was that, pet?” He asks. His mouth descends to the tops of her breasts, pressing affectionate kisses there. Almost like he desperately wishes to know.
Buffy can’t say— not won’t, but can’t. Her brain isn’t exactly working the best right now. All she can really think to do is reach out, playing with his curls, which have come loose from the gel. She likes it like this; it makes him look a little more… innocent. Maybe more like William once was.
He keeps staring at her in reverent, bliss filled awe until Buffy closes the gap between them with a kiss. He tastes like her, but she doesn’t mind. Not at all.
He sighs against her mouth when he slides into her again. Buffy just keeps kissing him, slowly, sweetly. She grips into his shoulders, his back, but she tries not dig her fingernails in, not trying to leave behind marks or draw blood, even though she knows he likes it. She just wants to hold him, to feel him beneath her fingers. One hand creeps up the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in his curls.
This is what she wanted.
But it’s frightening. It’s such a departure from what they normally do, what she’s used to from him. Even though she was given a taste of it this afternoon, it’s nothing compared to what’s happening now. It’s never been this slow, this gentle. She’s never allowed it to be— it always seemed too… intimate. Which may seem silly, since she’s done things with him she never even knew existed before he suggested it, but it was a line she drew. To let him touch her with this tenderness, this softness she’d only reserved to her past boyfriends, seemed insincere. Maybe even like she was leading him on, that it would be an act of cruelty to let him treat her so delicately, giving him hope for something more.
But it’s what she needs. To feel that warmth. Deep inside. To be close to someone else… the only one who understands.
She allows herself to touch him with the barest of fingertips instead of balled up fists. She presses sweet kisses to the corner of his mouth, savoring it before peppering them along his jawline. She meets his blue eyes, ever intense, and tries to answer the questions on his gaze wordlessly with each gentle touch.
He doesn’t speak. Not at all. It’s strange for Spike— usually he can’t stop talking, always trying to enhance her experience by whispering dirty things in her ear— but she seems to have reduced him to nothing more than harsh breaths and low, muted moans. It’s not until he’s struggling to keep his eyes open, on her, and choking out, “Buffy,” and sounding absolutely gone that she realizes just how close and how desperate for release he is.
She brushes an almost chaste kiss to his lips before whispering out, “William,” before he falls apart. He lets out a gaspy sort of cry which then turns into a low groan. His eyes fall shut, and his expression almost looks pained before it twists into what she knows is indescribable bliss. His hips continue to rock against hers as he rides it out, unrelenting in its pace albeit a little more forceful and uneven than it had been a moment prior.
And that’s when it hits her too, sudden and powerful. The whole world fades away for a second and Buffy feels both powerless and powerful because of it, pleasure coursing through and flooding every inch of her body. Buffy tries to keep her eyes open, but when they lock with his blue, the feeling intensifies. They flutter shut as she arches against him, completely lost to it. She thinks she lets out a sound but she can’t tell anymore.
And then its over. Quiet, save for the sounds of their heavy breathing. Spike’s completely collapsed on top of her but she finds she doesn’t mind the weight of him. There’s something oddly comforting to it, the complete reassurance her lover shall not abandon her without her noticing.
He’s the first one who’s ever stayed.
The realization hits Buffy square in the chest. That warmth swells in her chest again. The kind if warmth she’s been chasing after. Diluted, yes, but there.
She won’t leave. Not until it’s late and it’s time to go home and pretend her disheveled appearance is from a shift at the Doublemeat Palace. Until he’s fully awake and she can say goodbye to him.
Spike’s lips are pressed against her neck— not for a kiss or for a bite, but just nuzzled there. It should be sending her Slayer senses haywire, only it doesn’t. Instead she feels… at ease. Calm.
And if she closes her eyes, she can pretend she’s laying out in her backyard in sunlight.