XI

She was smiling at him. Like she was happy. Happy to be with him. The moonlight was dancing in her hair again, and the soft honey light from the house was painting highlights on her face. But it was her smile that made her glow.
 
He had to get away from her.
 
Ever since he’d digested the fact that she’d never been with the Immortal, he’d been silently mourning the opportunity missed – quietly regretting the wasted buckets of salt he’d spilled over her betrayal. He had thought she’d been betraying herself as much as him. Dating the Immortal went against every value she’d claimed to have had. The values she’d always used to tear him down. The values she’d once worn like armor around her heart to keep him out.
 
But she’d never betrayed them after all.
 
Only now did he realize that a part of him had stayed angry with her - hated her even – for having treated his sacrifice so flippantly by dancing into bed with the world’s most unrepentant whore. But she’d never even known the bastard. And now, that small amount of hate he’d been carrying in his heart, like a knot in a muscle, came slowly undone. And after the bliss of relief came the lingering ache. And after the lingering ache came the love. More love. Bloody hell. He’d thought he loved her enough already.  
 
Now, looking at her – smiling and glowing – all he could think about was her robe… and untying it’s knot with one pull of her belt… and burying his face in her breasts while wrapping his arms ‘round her middle. Downing his wine had done sod all to dampen his yearning for her, and if he didn’t get away from her soon, he was gonna get another punch in the nose. Her scent was strong on the breeze, despite the shower. It hung in the air around his head, scrambling his brain and intensifying his feelings. And it was mingled with… peaches of all things. No doubt some body wash she’d used in the shower to-
 
Stop it, Spike thought to himself. Don’t think about Buffy wet. Don’t even look at her. He turned his head away from her and tensed his jaw. Why the bleeding fuck had she come out in a robe, anyway? It wasn’t fancy – not silk or anything. Just a plain cotton thing, pale green like her eyes. But it was thin. And it had the horrible habit of clinging to her frame, reminding him all too well of what it barely concealed – what he’d memorized in his mind’s eye, anyway. And where the robe didn’t cling, it fell open for him – revealing a sliver of her collarbone or a window of thigh, taut and smooth.
 
He couldn’t stand it anymore. Couldn’t endure being around her in that fucking robe, with her hair, and her scent, and her giggles, and her smile, and her calling him a hero, and her saying he’d been a better man than the Watcher that last year in Sunnydale.
 
She seemed oblivious to his torment of course – happily munching on her Cheetos, sucking on her little cheesy fingers. At least when they’d been talking, he’d been able to focus on something else – get lost in the past. A half-naked, freshly scrubbed Slayer who had never betrayed him, could be pushed aside. For a moment, anyway. But he’d told his story, or as much as he felt like sharing that night. And she’d told hers. There was nothing left to distract him from wanting her now.
 
“Think I’ll have a shower, love.” Spike stopped the swing with his boot and stood up – refusing to look at her.
 
“Oh. Um, okay.”
 
“Had a long day.” Walking to the doorway, he turned his head towards her slightly. “Got in a fight with a bleeding slayer that can’t be killed. Wouldn’t mind letting some hot water run over my muscles.”  
 
“Of course. Don’t let me keep you.” Her voice was flat. She looked down for a moment, before looking up at him again. “Oh. Um, there may not be much hot water, though.”
 
He turned around to face her fully, wearing a scowl.
 
“Oops.”
 
He wished her guilty face wasn’t so adorable. His scowl faded. It hadn’t been sincere, anyway.
 
“I’ll manage, pet. Not like I get cold, exactly. Just like the heat.”
 
“Um, it should be lukewarm at least. Or… actually, it’s probably been long enough for it to start to get hot again. I think,”she added sheepishly.
 
“Any soap of the less fruity variety?”
 
“Uh, yeah. There’s probably some plain white soap under the sink. I use the cheap stuff to wash away the more excessive blood and guts. Help yourself.”
 
“Cheers.”
 
Spike walked silently to his bedroom and shut the door behind him. Leaning his head against the back of the door, he shut his eyes and exhaled heavily. How the hell was he supposed to stay with her now and resist the urge to gather her into his arms?
 
Slumping onto the edge of the bed, he let himself sulk for a minute, before pulling off his sweater and T-shirt and unbuckling his pants. After kicking off his boots, he peeled off his socks and stood to let his pants drop around his feet.
 
Suddenly, being naked only made him want her more. She was practically naked in the next room – nothing but a door and a scrap of green cotton between them. Not even human blood from the source running down his throat could compare to being tangled in her hot limbs and hair.
 
With a newfound urgency, Spike hastened to the bathroom and kicked the door closed behind him. Grabbing a bar of soap from under the sink, he stepped into the shower and turned the water on full blast. It was cold at first, but he didn’t care. Hands against the wall, he lowered his head under the jet to let the water soak his hair and stream down his face.
 
Slowly, the water began to warm, and Spike tilted his head back, inviting the water to rain upon his sore and bruised chest. Once the water turned hot, he turned his back to the spray to let it massage his neck, shoulders and back. For several minutes he let the hot water caress him from behind, but his mind soon drifted back towards the evening’s revelations.
 
Buffy had never been with the Immortal. That fact and its ramifications were still sinking in. Shaking his head in awe of the truth, he started the business of washing away the lies with the grime. Opting to skip her fruity shampoo, he used the soap to wash his hair, face and neck.
 
She’d been in Scotland leading an army of girls, not moving on with some greasy tosser. Sighing, he turned to face the water and ducked his head back under to rinse clean his hair. He started washing his arms next, then his back, before moving to his chest.
 
“Fuck,” he let out with a wince. His chest was still tender from her boot and hurt like hell when he stroked it. Moving down to safer ground, he began rubbing circles of suds into his stomach, before it clinched at a thought…
 
If she hadn’t been with the Immortal, then who? Surely there’d been men over the years. Men other than Angel. He sighed again. Angel. Had she only been with him recently? Was it over? Would things have been different had she known Spike was alive? Spike knew he was a fool, but he didn’t fool himself when it came to Buffy anymore. He knew he would never replace Angel in her heart, but knowing Buffy like he did, he was pretty sure she would’ve felt too guilty to sleep with Angel while Spike lived. Especially after that last year in Sunnydale, when they’d been… close.
 
Spike hissed as his hand brushed his cock. Looking down, he was startled to find it hard – bobbing slightly, as if begging to be rubbed next. He was mortified now – unsure of how long his own body had been betraying him. He wanted her, of course. He was overwhelmed with want for her.
 
But that wasn’t what he wanted.
 
Had she meant what she’d said in the Hellmouth? Could any part of her still mean it? And why the fuck did it still have to matter so goddamn much?
 
Spike pressed his bent head into the shower wall in frustration, eyes shut and arms limp at his sides. God help him, he loved her. Still. More, maybe. He couldn’t ignore the object of his feelings any longer – not when she was smiling and swinging on the other side of the door. A sob escaped his lips, sudden and pitiful, and he opened his eyes with an irrational fear that she might have heard.
 
He pretended it was only the shower water that had wet his cheeks.
 
Standing suddenly to his full height, he exhaled sharply, then turned the water to ice cold. He finished his shower with a military efficiency – skipping certain parts – and hurried to his bedroom to dress quickly.
 
He refused to spend a moment longer than needed in hiding, mourning what could have been or regretting what had been. Not when the object of his longing was in the next bloody room, waiting for his company. So after one more unneeded breath, Spike left his room to face his gi-
 
…to face Buffy again with dignity.
 
“I see you’ve grown some ovaries in the last forty years.”
 
Surprised by her voice, Spike stopped. He found her sitting on the living room sofa. The TV was on, but the volume was down.
 
“Huh?” He started walking again towards her.
 
“You take longer in the shower than I do, and you don’t even sweat. Or poo.”
 
Spike screwed up his face.
 
“Sorry. That was gross.”
 
That made him grin. That, and the picture she painted snuggled on the sofa. She’d changed out of her robe into another cotton number. She was wearing a pair of thin, fitted pajamas – baby blue this time – with her feet dug deep under a sofa cushion. She’d brought the wine into the house and was sipping it leisurely.
 
“Anything good on?”
 
“Ooh, yeah. Mansquito!” Buffy’s face lit up with excitement as she repositioned herself against the arm of the sofa.
 
“Who?” Spike walked further into the room, eyeing the space beside her.
 
“It’s a classic.“
 
“Right. Like Barry Lyndon or 2001.”
 
“Is that the John Cusack one where the tsunami destroys the world?”
 
“Not even close, pet.”
 
“Oh.”  He loved it when she pouted through her embarrassment. But he didn’t like making her feel stupid – mainly because she wasn’t.
 
“Well, if you think it’s a classic, love, let’s see it then.”
 
She gave him a blinding smile, then patted the cushion beside her. “You’ll love it. It’s about this guy – part man, part mosquito.”
 
“Gathered that much.”  He sat down on the cushion beside her, her painted toes just inches away from his thigh.
 
Buffy poured him a glass of wine. “I love it because it seems so far-fetched, but it’s not, you know?”
 
Spike gave her a skeptical look as he sipped his drink.
 
“It’s not! You weren’t in Sunnydale for Mrs. French. Or, actually, the thing that pretended to be Mrs. French. She was a hot substitute teacher by day, and a virgin-eating mantis by night.”
 
“She ate virgins?”
 
“Just boy ones. She tried to eat Xander.”
 
Spike choked on his wine.
 
“Oops. Xander would kill me if he knew I told you that. But,” she shrugged. “Whatever. That was high school. He’ll get over it. It’s not like he’s that guy anymore. He’s married with kids for goodness sakes.”
 
“Yeah? What twit did the Whelp sucker into marrying him?”
 
Buffy frowned. “Dawn.”
 
Spike spat out his wine in a spray and stood up. “Take that back,” he warned. 
 
Buffy rolled her eyes. “Sit down, Spike. It’s a little late to be playing protective big brother now, and not just because she’s 57. You didn’t just hide from me all these years, you know. You ignored Dawn, too.”
 
That made him sit down slowly and lower his head. He paused before speaking, his voice deep and low. “Didn’t think she’d want to see me, Slayer. We weren’t exactly on the best of terms last time we saw each other.”
 
“Maybe not,” she said seriously. “But you don’t give up on the people that matter. You think Dawn and me were always on the best of terms? No. But she’s my sister. So I kept trying.”
 
Spike sighed. “Guess I thought she didn’t need me pestering her. I was there for her when you couldn’t be…that summer you…  But when she had you again, she didn’t need me.”
 
“Yeah well, I’m not enough.” Buffy paused. “For anyone.”
 
Spike looked up sharply. What the hell had she meant by that? He didn’t have the guts to ask, though. “I wasn’t hiding from you, love.”
 
“Right.”
 
“It’s not like I was ducking around corners or slipping into caves, Buffy. It’s a big bad world out there, with too many vampires and slayers to count now.  I wasn’t avoiding you. I just didn’t broadcast that I was back like it was breaking news. You’re the one who’d made the headlines, going global. You had bigger things to worry about. A bloody army to lead.”
 
Buffy sighed.
 
He thought it best to change the subject. “So, Mansquito. A classic tale of realism.”
 
She gave him a small smile. “Yeah. And it echoes so much, you know? A man taken over by the instincts of his insect. Ooh! By his insect reflection!”
 
Spike furrowed his brow.
 
“Bad joke I guess, even now. Anyway, yeah, it’s totally realistic. Consider Xander. Again. He was possessed by a hyena once. Hmm. But he didn’t actually change form or anything. He just got very mean and horny. Maybe that’s not the best example.” She took another sip of her wine and swallowed quickly to speak again.
 
“It’s like you!” She exclaimed with wide eyes.
 
“Huh?”
 
“Mansquito! Part man, part mosquito. You know, with the blood suckage. You’re Mansquito!”
 
Spike growled.
 
Buffy started cackling. Her wine threatened to spill, as she let her head fall back on the sofa.
 
“You’re cut off, Slayer.” He tried to grab her glass but she pulled it out of his reach.
 
“I so am not.” She was still giggling. “I can hold my liquor a lot better these days, thank you very much.” She settled down. “Okay, no more jokes or trips down memory lane. Movie is on now. Can’t miss the beginning.”
 
“No. That’d be a shame.”
 
She pushed him back into the sofa by his shoulder. “Just sit back and relax,” she said with a smile. “You’re supposed to be recuperating.” 
 
“Yeah, but-“
 
“Shh! It’s started,” she whispered.
 
Spike rolled his eyes and turned to face the screen.
 
The two watched the movie in companionable silence, their only conversation the occasional outburst from Spike about how lame Mansquito was being or how daft some victim had been before he got what was coming to him.  Buffy would agree with a giggle of delight, then shush him quickly. Thirty minutes into the movie, they had finished the first bottle of wine and Spike had fished out a second from the kitchen. Before the end of the movie, they’d finished the second bottle as well.
 
“Well that was just, dumb.” The credits had started to roll and Spike was staring at the screen in disbelief at where he found himself: a two-hundred year-old vampire having just watched the full ninety-two minutes of a movie called Mansquito, with a sixty-year old vampire slayer named Buffy. 
 
Speaking of which, she hadn’t answered him. He turned to look at her and felt his heart melt. She was still sitting with bent knees, toes dug under his seat cushion, but her head was lolled to the side, mouth parted slightly, and eyelids closed and twitching.
 
“Buffy,” he whispered. A little snore escaped her lips that made him smile sadly. It was a bloody crime her being so cute.
 
Spike sat back and stared at Buffy as she slept. She was such an odd creature his… girl. A wonder, really. She had the face of a child, but the eyes of a woman who’d seen more death and bloodshed than most vampires. She had the tiniest frame underneath those cotton pajamas, but it was the most powerful weapon he’d ever come across. And she had the biggest bleeding heart, despite the fact that all her friends had betrayed her at some point in time. None more than Willow, who had torn her away from a heavenly rest just to fight their battles again, and who had carelessly cursed her to fight those battles for eternity. Now Buffy’s eyes would never stop seeing bloodshed and death. That strong but delicate body would never know rest again. And the most forgiving of hearts would ache long after every loved one had faded away.
 
It wasn’t fair.
 
Spike stared at her more intensely with a new resolve. If he was sure of anything now, it was this: that he loved this woman with everything he had. That he loved her more than he wanted her. That it was like coming home just being near her. That it would be heaven for him just to help her. If he could lessen her burden even the slightest bit... If he could make her smile or laugh for even a few moments… If he could give her even brief periods of rest…he’d consider his unlife worth something.
 
“Here lies the warrior of the people,” he whispered in admiration.
 
Buffy murmured in her sleep. He wouldn’t torture himself by carrying her to bed, so he spoke loudly. “Buffy.”
 
He got a murmur in reply.
 
“Buffy,” he spoke louder.
 
“Huh?” Her eyes were still closed, but she seemed to be waking up grumpily.
 
“Chop, chop Slayer. Time for beddy-bye.”
 
Slowly, she opened her eyes with a frown.
 
“Movie’s over, pet.”
 
“Really? Did I miss the end?”
 
“Don’t you know what happens?”
 
“Yeah, but, still. Did you see the whole thing, though?”
 
“Yeah. I had the displeasure.”
 
“You didn’t like it?”
 
“No. But I had fun, anyway.”
 
That made her smile. “Okay. Bedtime.” Buffy stretched her arms above her head and yawned widely like a cat after a nap. Standing up, she went to grab the wine glasses when he stopped her with a hand to her arm.
 
“I’ll take care of this Slayer. Not really my normal bedtime yet. I may stay up a bit.”
 
“Thanks.” She looked down at him and their eyes met. She seemed to want to speak, but several seconds passed before she did. “Good night, Spike.”
 
Staring back at her, he replied softly. “Good night, love.”
 
Slowly, she shuffled away. When Spike heard her close the door to her bedroom, he shifted to her side of the couch. It was warm and smelled of sleepy Slayer and he nestled himself into the corner while the warmth remained. He wasn’t even remotely sleepy, but he knew he had to go to bed soon. He didn’t want to sleep through a single moment he had with her. He had no idea what would happen tomorrow.
 
His wounds would heal overnight, even without any blood to drink; so there’d be no technical reason to stay beyond sunset. The thought of leaving her pained his throat and eyes, but he wouldn’t cry. He wasn’t a complete ponce. But in his defense, only Buffy could make a two-hundred-year-old demon cry.
 
 
*  *   *
 
On the outskirts of Santa Lucia, a lone woman sat on a park bench. One gnarled hand clutched her coat closed across her breasts. With her head bent low, her short, silver hair hung limply over her eyes. She let the tears flow freely, as she moaned and wailed through her grief. She’d barely even touched the apple-pie held loosely in her lap.


*  *   *
 
Author’s Notes:
 
Does anyone else feel bad for the penis lady?
 
About that film: Mansquito is an actual film. My mother is a die-hard fan of monster movies on Sci Fi. The Sci Fi channel in the US typically airs an original monster movie on Saturdays. One Saturday, I rang her on iChat (from Australia where I live) and asked her what the monster was for the night, and she answered, “Mansquito!”  I thought it was the funniest thing I’d heard in a while.