Home In The Night
by Spring Summers 18-Mar-2003
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SPIKE: But you can make me feel . . .
BUFFY: This isn’t real, but I just wanna feel . . .
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She kisses him. Everything else in the world drops away; there is nothing but the feel of his mouth on hers, his body against hers, his large hands on her back. For the first time since her return she is overwhelmed by something other than numbing grief. He returns her kiss passionately, and she is grateful for his undisguised desire. She hurls herself into the moment fearlessly, as if it were their thousandth kiss instead of their first.
When she finally breaks away to catch her breath, he immediately steps closer, dropping his left hand to the small of her back to push her firmly against him again. He lowers his head and she hears him groan as he kisses her neck. She lets her head fall back and closes her eyes with a sigh. It’s been so long coming, and it just feels so good. So good.
Then, as his lips move swiftly and rhythmically against her neck – and for the briefest instant – she feels the smooth edge of his front teeth against her skin.
She pushes him violently away.
"No!"
He staggers back, disoriented. He tries to speak but the inside of his mouth and throat feels swollen and useless.
"I have to go." She seems far away, as if she were talking to him from the far end of a tunnel. He squints at her.
"I have to go," she repeats. She tries to sound hard and definite, but her voice trembles with a much softer, much more yielding, and very recent emotion. She can’t control the effect as she continues, "This - this didn’t happen. Should not have happened."
There is no response from him except the widening of his eyes. There is a look in them, a vulnerability reminding her that he was just now in her arms, in her possession. She flees without another word, leaving him alone in the darkened side street.
Leaning his back against a wall, he tries in vain to regain his composure. His body is still on fire and there is nothing to do now but bide his time. He starts to reach for a pack of cigarettes, but his left hand is shaking so badly he stops to watch it. He hears Giles and the others emptying out of The Bronze, and he quickly puts the misbehaving hand into his coat pocket.
"Where’s Buffy?" asks Dawn, as they all approach him.
"She . . . she left already. I think she was just – tired out." There is a slight tremor and thickness in Spike’s voice, and the last word of his sentence is partially lost in a sudden, involuntary swallow.
Dawn doesn’t seem to notice. She gives Spike a small nod and a smile as she and the rest of the subdued group walk past him. But Giles leaves the crowd and steps back toward Spike.
"Why are you still here?" he asks.
"I just . . . I don’t know. I was gonna have a smoke, I guess." His voice still sounds a little off, but it’s better. He coughs to clear his throat.
"Is Buffy OK?" Giles’ voice is too calm, and he is looking at Spike too closely. It is best, Spike decides, to look the Watcher right in the eye and brazen it out:
"Yeah, sure, she’s OK. Said she was tired is all. Wanted to get home." Perfect. Sounded just right.
"And you?"
"Me?? You’re asking how I am now?"
"No." Giles pauses for a long moment. "I’m wondering if that’s where you’re going now – back home."
"Seems to me that you’re her Watcher, not mine," says Spike tilting his head slightly. He deliberately lets the expected smirk play on his lips though he’s in no mood to trade barbs. He feels weirdly disconnected from himself, and he wants nothing more than to be alone.
"Yes, well." Giles smiles – his small smile, small and sweet as hard candy. "That’s a good point, then, isn’t it? I am her Watcher. No matter where I am, I’ll always have an interest in Buffy’s welfare. I’ll always be watching."
"You know what?" says Spike because he can’t bear another minute, "I think I’ll go home right now." He walks away from Giles abruptly, striding down the side street at a fast pace, fighting the urge to run like hell.
Buffy is still running. She runs until she reaches her doorstep. Inside the house, she rushes up the stairs to her bedroom, and drops heavily onto the bed. Her heart is pounding and her breath is coming in ragged gasps. She breaks into tears. This can’t be happening. None of this, none of this, can be happening.
Her crying has slowed by the time she hears Dawn, Willow and Tara enter the house. She groans inwardly and reaches for tissue paper to wipe her eyes and nose.
"Buffy?"
Dawn is calling her. Dawn is always calling her. Buffy clears her throat and her mind as best she can and sits up. Begrudging Dawn even the breath she must use to reply, she calls down to her: "I’m here, Dawn. I’m getting ready for bed."
Buffy hears Dawn climb the stairs. She begins to undress, then throws a robe on over her partially clad body. Dawn opens Buffy’s bedroom door without even a knock.
She steps into the room and plops right down on the bed. She looks at her unsmiling sister and hesitates before deciding to go ahead. "Buffy . . . uhm . . . that stuff you said – you know, about being in heaven . . ."
"I really, really don’t want to talk about that right now."
"Oh." Dawn picks at the bedspread a bit with her fingers. "It’s just . . . they feel really bad about it. Especially Willow. Maybe you should talk to her. She’s downstairs with Tara. Crying. She’s so . . . sad."
Buffy bites her lower lip, and feels as if she is holding back a scream. She swallows and looks at Dawn: "I’m sorry. I’m sorry she’s sad. But all I want to do right now is go to bed."
For the first time, Dawn notices Buffy’s tired and swollen eyes. "Well," she says, a little sheepishly, "maybe you can talk to her in the morning?"
Buffy doesn’t know how to respond to the burdensome request; all she knows is that every moment Dawn stays in the room is like torture. Why, thinks Buffy, why can’t she leave me in peace?
In the face of Buffy’s silence, Dawn lowers her head and frowns, but continues to sit on the bed. She breaks the quiet by smiling at Buffy and trying to be sympathetic: "Spike said you were really tired."
"Spike." Buffy glances down at the floor. "Spike knows nothing about me."
"What??" says Dawn, surprised. "He just said you were really tired. And it looks to me like he was right."
"Really." Buffy crosses her arms, and her tone is now so icy she can feel the chill herself. "Fine, then. If you think I’m so tired, why are you in here? Why don’t you leave and let me get some sleep?"
"I guess you’re right," Dawn replies, sounding hurt and defensive. She gets up off the bed and walks out the door before turning back. "Spike doesn’t know anything about you. If he did, he wouldn’t moon around like you were some kind of - "
Buffy shuts the door in Dawn’s face. The relief she feels – to be staring at the solid, silent door instead of Dawn - is too great to allow room for second thoughts. Thankful for her very real exhaustion, she changes slowly into her pajamas, turns out the lights, and gets into bed. But the moment she drifts toward sleep, Spike is back in her arms. She is kissing him again; she is lost again, no doubts, no fears - until she feels his teeth on her neck. Then she is abruptly pulled out of her reverie, completely awake, her blood pounding. And the cycle starts again. It is hours before she finally sleeps, dreaming of the cool simplicity of the grave.
Spike is in his crypt, but there is nothing simple about it. The first touch of her lips had constituted a moment of nearly heart-starting euphoria. Something inside her had given way to him, and the possibilities in that initial surrender had excited him beyond anything he had ever known. Now all that foolish, foolish hope is gone. Neither the television, nor his detailed daydreams, nor the alcohol, has provided any escape.
He’s in love with her. He won’t leave her, he can’t have her, and he shouldn’t want her. But he does. And she wants him. He is sure of it now. He can’t let go, not now, not after what happened tonight. But knowing that she has rejected him, and that in the end she will always reject him despite her desire, only makes matters worse.
It hurts, and he cannot make the pain – he cannot make any of this – stop. He cannot understand her, what is happening to him, or what there is to do. He has to find a way to make her talk to him, make her explain what’s next. But really, why should she? He’s nothing to her.
He sits in the candlelight, utterly bereft, denied even what comfort there might be, in prayer.
***
by Spring Summers 18-Mar-2003
=====================================================================================
SPIKE: But you can make me feel . . .
BUFFY: This isn’t real, but I just wanna feel . . .
=====================================================================================
She kisses him. Everything else in the world drops away; there is nothing but the feel of his mouth on hers, his body against hers, his large hands on her back. For the first time since her return she is overwhelmed by something other than numbing grief. He returns her kiss passionately, and she is grateful for his undisguised desire. She hurls herself into the moment fearlessly, as if it were their thousandth kiss instead of their first.
When she finally breaks away to catch her breath, he immediately steps closer, dropping his left hand to the small of her back to push her firmly against him again. He lowers his head and she hears him groan as he kisses her neck. She lets her head fall back and closes her eyes with a sigh. It’s been so long coming, and it just feels so good. So good.
Then, as his lips move swiftly and rhythmically against her neck – and for the briefest instant – she feels the smooth edge of his front teeth against her skin.
She pushes him violently away.
"No!"
He staggers back, disoriented. He tries to speak but the inside of his mouth and throat feels swollen and useless.
"I have to go." She seems far away, as if she were talking to him from the far end of a tunnel. He squints at her.
"I have to go," she repeats. She tries to sound hard and definite, but her voice trembles with a much softer, much more yielding, and very recent emotion. She can’t control the effect as she continues, "This - this didn’t happen. Should not have happened."
There is no response from him except the widening of his eyes. There is a look in them, a vulnerability reminding her that he was just now in her arms, in her possession. She flees without another word, leaving him alone in the darkened side street.
Leaning his back against a wall, he tries in vain to regain his composure. His body is still on fire and there is nothing to do now but bide his time. He starts to reach for a pack of cigarettes, but his left hand is shaking so badly he stops to watch it. He hears Giles and the others emptying out of The Bronze, and he quickly puts the misbehaving hand into his coat pocket.
"Where’s Buffy?" asks Dawn, as they all approach him.
"She . . . she left already. I think she was just – tired out." There is a slight tremor and thickness in Spike’s voice, and the last word of his sentence is partially lost in a sudden, involuntary swallow.
Dawn doesn’t seem to notice. She gives Spike a small nod and a smile as she and the rest of the subdued group walk past him. But Giles leaves the crowd and steps back toward Spike.
"Why are you still here?" he asks.
"I just . . . I don’t know. I was gonna have a smoke, I guess." His voice still sounds a little off, but it’s better. He coughs to clear his throat.
"Is Buffy OK?" Giles’ voice is too calm, and he is looking at Spike too closely. It is best, Spike decides, to look the Watcher right in the eye and brazen it out:
"Yeah, sure, she’s OK. Said she was tired is all. Wanted to get home." Perfect. Sounded just right.
"And you?"
"Me?? You’re asking how I am now?"
"No." Giles pauses for a long moment. "I’m wondering if that’s where you’re going now – back home."
"Seems to me that you’re her Watcher, not mine," says Spike tilting his head slightly. He deliberately lets the expected smirk play on his lips though he’s in no mood to trade barbs. He feels weirdly disconnected from himself, and he wants nothing more than to be alone.
"Yes, well." Giles smiles – his small smile, small and sweet as hard candy. "That’s a good point, then, isn’t it? I am her Watcher. No matter where I am, I’ll always have an interest in Buffy’s welfare. I’ll always be watching."
"You know what?" says Spike because he can’t bear another minute, "I think I’ll go home right now." He walks away from Giles abruptly, striding down the side street at a fast pace, fighting the urge to run like hell.
Buffy is still running. She runs until she reaches her doorstep. Inside the house, she rushes up the stairs to her bedroom, and drops heavily onto the bed. Her heart is pounding and her breath is coming in ragged gasps. She breaks into tears. This can’t be happening. None of this, none of this, can be happening.
Her crying has slowed by the time she hears Dawn, Willow and Tara enter the house. She groans inwardly and reaches for tissue paper to wipe her eyes and nose.
"Buffy?"
Dawn is calling her. Dawn is always calling her. Buffy clears her throat and her mind as best she can and sits up. Begrudging Dawn even the breath she must use to reply, she calls down to her: "I’m here, Dawn. I’m getting ready for bed."
Buffy hears Dawn climb the stairs. She begins to undress, then throws a robe on over her partially clad body. Dawn opens Buffy’s bedroom door without even a knock.
She steps into the room and plops right down on the bed. She looks at her unsmiling sister and hesitates before deciding to go ahead. "Buffy . . . uhm . . . that stuff you said – you know, about being in heaven . . ."
"I really, really don’t want to talk about that right now."
"Oh." Dawn picks at the bedspread a bit with her fingers. "It’s just . . . they feel really bad about it. Especially Willow. Maybe you should talk to her. She’s downstairs with Tara. Crying. She’s so . . . sad."
Buffy bites her lower lip, and feels as if she is holding back a scream. She swallows and looks at Dawn: "I’m sorry. I’m sorry she’s sad. But all I want to do right now is go to bed."
For the first time, Dawn notices Buffy’s tired and swollen eyes. "Well," she says, a little sheepishly, "maybe you can talk to her in the morning?"
Buffy doesn’t know how to respond to the burdensome request; all she knows is that every moment Dawn stays in the room is like torture. Why, thinks Buffy, why can’t she leave me in peace?
In the face of Buffy’s silence, Dawn lowers her head and frowns, but continues to sit on the bed. She breaks the quiet by smiling at Buffy and trying to be sympathetic: "Spike said you were really tired."
"Spike." Buffy glances down at the floor. "Spike knows nothing about me."
"What??" says Dawn, surprised. "He just said you were really tired. And it looks to me like he was right."
"Really." Buffy crosses her arms, and her tone is now so icy she can feel the chill herself. "Fine, then. If you think I’m so tired, why are you in here? Why don’t you leave and let me get some sleep?"
"I guess you’re right," Dawn replies, sounding hurt and defensive. She gets up off the bed and walks out the door before turning back. "Spike doesn’t know anything about you. If he did, he wouldn’t moon around like you were some kind of - "
Buffy shuts the door in Dawn’s face. The relief she feels – to be staring at the solid, silent door instead of Dawn - is too great to allow room for second thoughts. Thankful for her very real exhaustion, she changes slowly into her pajamas, turns out the lights, and gets into bed. But the moment she drifts toward sleep, Spike is back in her arms. She is kissing him again; she is lost again, no doubts, no fears - until she feels his teeth on her neck. Then she is abruptly pulled out of her reverie, completely awake, her blood pounding. And the cycle starts again. It is hours before she finally sleeps, dreaming of the cool simplicity of the grave.
Spike is in his crypt, but there is nothing simple about it. The first touch of her lips had constituted a moment of nearly heart-starting euphoria. Something inside her had given way to him, and the possibilities in that initial surrender had excited him beyond anything he had ever known. Now all that foolish, foolish hope is gone. Neither the television, nor his detailed daydreams, nor the alcohol, has provided any escape.
He’s in love with her. He won’t leave her, he can’t have her, and he shouldn’t want her. But he does. And she wants him. He is sure of it now. He can’t let go, not now, not after what happened tonight. But knowing that she has rejected him, and that in the end she will always reject him despite her desire, only makes matters worse.
It hurts, and he cannot make the pain – he cannot make any of this – stop. He cannot understand her, what is happening to him, or what there is to do. He has to find a way to make her talk to him, make her explain what’s next. But really, why should she? He’s nothing to her.
He sits in the candlelight, utterly bereft, denied even what comfort there might be, in prayer.
***
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