XXIV

Now. He had to see her now. He’d gone forty years without seeing her. He’d spent decades mastering the art of keeping his want for her suppressed during all but his weakest moments.

But that was then.

Now, the walls of self-discipline were crumbling like old paper. He stood dumbly in the middle of the street, turning aimlessly in circles, eyes scanning the darkened buildings, and seeing nothing but her.

He stopped turning. What the hell was he doing?

He had to see her now.

She was in Santa Lucia, he reminded himself. But she’d be back. She was coming back for him, right? Right. So she was coming to him.

Home. He had to get home.

Spike ran like the wind - never slowing until he’d reached home. Scanning the street three times over for her Mini, he was dismayed to find it nowhere in sight, and slumped pitifully over the hood of a nearby car.

Too soon.

He sighed dejectedly. Every inch of his skin was tingling, and every hair was on edge. He’d go crazy waiting inside the flat for her, and he’d only end up humiliating himself by looking so pathetically eager when she showed.

Unconsciously, he began tapping his fingers on the hood as he considered his options, before the answer came to him in a moment of perfect clarity.

Booze. That’s what he needed. A little distilled distraction to bide the time and settle the nerves.

Right then. Next stop: Lilith’s.

Marching to his neighborhood pub with a sense of purpose, Spike grew even tenser at the prospect of their reunion. Once outside the nondescript building, he pounded on the door, leaving more than one dent in the already well-beaten iron. Slowly, the door yielded to his demands.

The place was doing a good trade with only one free stool at the bar. The thought of having to wait for a drink was already irritating the hell out of him, so he could have kissed the ugly bastard of a bartender when he slid a bottle of Jack down the counter into Spike’s waiting hand, before he’d even settled himself comfortably in his seat.

“Cheers, mate.” He gave the bartender a subtle nod in gratitude.

The first swig was like a balm to his frazzled nerves, a paradoxically soothing fire. The second was even better. But he had to pace himself. If Buffy was really coming back for him, to be with him, because she–

He swallowed.

Well, there was never a time in all of his unlife when he’d want to be more clear-headed. But he needed to calm down, so he took another swig.

After a few more shots, he was still far too unsettled to engage in even the most mindless of chitchat. He stared mindlessly at his bourbon instead. Turning the bottle on the counter, he let the swirl of its amber liquid slowly entrance him.

“Death to warlocks!”

Startled alert by the sudden outburst across the bar, Spike was alarmed to find that his bottle was more than half empty. He must have lost track of time. Checking the time on his phone, he realized he’d spent close to an hour at the pub.

Fuck.

He threw a fifty on the bar, and couldn’t be bothered to wait for the change. Outside, he turned left to the alley alongside the bar.

“Oof!”

And bumped right into the tallest fucking M’Fashnik he’d ever seen.

“Watch it, mate,” Spike warned.

The demon doubled.

Spike squinted – wondering if he’d drank too much after all. But that only made two M’Fashniks turn into three. Huh?

“Spike,” the middle one spat.

“M’Fuckwit. Care to step aside and let a bloke get home? Got company comin’.”

The bastard started laughing. “You’re funny. Pity you won’t be telling anymore jokes.”

“Yeah? Think you can kill me, mate? Try again.”

“I don’t want your death, vampire. I want your tongue. I’m being paid to make sure you live.”

The Slod. Bloody hell.

Spike’s shoulders slumped with the realization of the demon’s agenda.

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” he asked wearily. “Now?!”

“Now, vampire.”

Spike squinted again, thinking maybe there really was just one, since only the middle one was speaking.

The other two took a step forward.

Bugger. Definitely three.

CRACK!

And then there were none, as Spike saw nothing but black.


* * * * *


Welcome to the complete Library of the Watcher’s Council. Restricted material. Enter passcode to access.

Buffy was on the floor, her back slumped against the leg of the desk, her knees bent to the side. Staring again at the screen.

She blinked. The only movement in a room deathly still.

BEEP BEEP BEEP

She was on her feet in one motion and turning towards the source of the sound on the desk. A red light was going off on a black box – god knows what it meant. She wasn’t going to wait to find out. Pocketing the tablet, Buffy turned on her heels and took the stairs in two steps. Once in the closet, she peeked cautiously into the bedroom.

Nothing.

Silently, she stepped into the room, crossed it in three stealthy steps and poked her head into the hallway.

Nothing.

She bit her bottom lip unconsciously. Her back against the wall, she slid sideways down the hall until the back door was in sight.

She was out of the house in seconds.

Once clear of the yard she exhaled forcefully. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath, and found herself panting as she stalked back to her car. Tears were building behind her eyes and she clenched her teeth painfully to keep them at bay.

Once back in the car, she slammed the door shut and assaulted the wheel with her fists.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!”

Digging her hands in her hair, she shut her eyes and took deep heaving breaths. They failed to soothe. So she pulled her hair at the roots instead.

The blaring of a rap song from a car down the road startled her out of her meltdown and she let her hands fall to her sides.

“Get a grip a Buffy,” she demanded of herself. “It doesn’t mean it’s Willow.” But she didn’t sound convinced. She exhaled again, but it did nothing to quiet the cacophony of competing thoughts in her head.

“Okay,” she continued. “So some guy has a Watcher’s Council Library. Big deal. He could have gotten it from anywhere, right?” She nodded to herself. “Right. He could have stolen it from a Watcher. Or… he could be a rogue Watcher. It’s not like there haven’t been a few of those over the years.” Ethan Rayne came to mind. And that she-demon of a Watcher that Faith had once. Gwendolyn Something, with the glove of Minni–… of Mogi–… whatever.

But this guy was tracking Buffy. And he had equipment – council-looking equipment. And smart clothes too, very black ops/MI-6/Council-looking stuff. And then there was the passcode. Anyone could kill a Watcher and steal a Council Library, but it was useless without the passcode. If he had the code, then he was Council-affiliated, which meant… She frowned. Willow-affiliated.

Buffy leaned her head back against the car seat and closed her eyes again in dismay. What the hell was she supposed to do now? Tell Dawn and Xander? No. A world of no, she decided. They wouldn’t believe her. They’d have too much faith in Willow. Or Xander would anyway. And worse – knowing Xander, he’d confront Willow about it and then Willow would be on alert, and Buffy would never learn why Willow was meddling in her life again.

Buffy pounded the wheel again in frustration.

After more than sixty years in this stupid world, fighting evil every day to protect the lives of other people, why the hell did she feel so unbelievably alone? She whimpered in self-pity and let more than a few tears leak out.

She sat in melancholic silence for several minutes.

And then her eyes widened suddenly with realization.

Spike.

Her mouth dropped open as she recalled the reality of the last week. He was alive. He was there. And he was staying.

Slowly, but surely, a smile threatened to break across her face. And then a laugh succeeded in slipping through the burgeoning smile.

She had Spike.

Spike would believe her. He would, if anyone would. And he’d help. He’d hold her. And he’d tell her in that deep, soothing voice of his that it would all be okay in the end.

And it would, she decided.

Because she wasn’t alone anymore.

There was no stopping her smile now. Wiping roughly at her tears, Buffy started the engine with a new energy. She drove off with a screech – all thoughts of betrayal momentarily pushed aside in favor of one simple idea.

Now. She had to see him now.


* * * * *


“Open up, Kit,” he mumbled wearily.

“Good evening, Sir. Have you lost your key?”

“For fuck’s sake, just open the god damn door, Kit. I’m too knackered to bother with a key.”

“Your passcode, Sir.”

“Bloody hell, woman. 1-6-3-0!”

“Welcome home, Sir.”

Spike sighed dramatically and pushed a shoulder through the partially opened door.

“How are you, Sir?”

Plopping himself into a chair, he let his head fall back and laughed maniacally.

“Have I said something funny, Sir?”

“Kit, I’ve had a hell of a night,” he said with a smile, eyes closed.

“Sir?”

“First I thought I’d lost the girl to the Poof.”

“The Poof?”

“Then I find out that the Poof and this Max bloke weren’t good enough for her.”

“Max?”

“And then!”

“Sir?”

“I find out from the Whelp of all people that she wants me, Kit. Me!” he insisted, while pointing emphatically to his chest. “She’s bloody coming for me, pet. Like some she-knight in shining armor.” He grinned widely.

But his smile didn’t last, as his nerves got the better of him again. “Bloody hell, Kit. Is this really happening?” His stomach did a somersault, so he stood up to calm himself. But that only made him wince from the pain in his side.

“Are you alright, Sir?”

He blew out a breath to settle the pain.

“I’ll live. Or… not. Thanks to the other event of the night.”

“Sir?”

“Got into a tussle with a few M’Fashniks hired by that prick without a tongue from the pub.”

“M’Fashniks. Searching database… Yes, I know this species. They are mercenaries. Very destructive. You defeated them, Sir?”

“Defeated? Pet, I fucking annihilated the wankers. Who do you think I am, anyway? William the Bloody here! Or… well, I was, anyway.”

“Yes, Sir. I have a full record of your historical exploits.”

“Yeah?” He narrowed his eyes at nowhere in particular. “Does that make you think less of me then?”

“I think only of you, Sir. All the time.”

Spike grinned smugly and made his way toward the kitchen. As quickly as he could, he heated a bag of B positive and drank it down in three gulps.

“I need a shower, Kit. I smell like M’Fash-shit.”

“Was that a joke, Sir?”

“Yeah. A bad one.”

Putting away his mug after a rinse, Spike headed to the bathroom for a quick shower. The blood was already easing the pain in his side, but it was doing nothing for his gut. A love-sick vampire with butterflies in his stomach. Pathetic.

But he smiled anyway.


* * * * *


Buffy was seriously considering punching the wheel again.

The road from Santa Lucia to L.A. was gridlocked with townies headed to the big city for the night, and traffic had slowed to a crawl at the exit to L.A. She didn’t know why she felt so desperate to see him now. She’d gone for forty years without seeing him. She’d been through countless battles without him to back her up. Actual apocalypsases. Apocalypti. She scrunched up her face. Why had she never learned the right word for that anyway? The point was, she’d felt alone before. Even horribly alone on occasion. But now… somehow knowing that he existed, that he could be at her side, that he could fill the void.

She blinked. She hadn’t realized before that there had been a void. But she felt it now – a gnawing emptiness like a claw in her chest that reached for him. Was that pathetic? Was she being like one of those weak-minded women who needed a man to make her whole? And was it need or want? Did it matter? And was it so wrong to want him?

No, she scolded herself. It wasn’t wrong. She’d always insisted that before, and maybe it had been, when she’d been dealing with William the Bloody. But Spike hadn’t been that vampire for half a century. Now – and even those last two years in Sunnydale, if she was truly honest with herself – he was as good a man as any human ever could be.

And she hoped to god that he still cared.

Scratch that. He did care. She knew that. He was here, helping her. But she wanted more. She wanted…

She sighed in defeat.

Love.

Oh god, that’s what she wanted from him. Love. Soul-searing, bone-melting, love. She put a hand to her face as if to block the emotion threatening to spill out.

And then she honked her horn like a mad woman to get traffic moving again.

But it didn’t do a lick of good.


* * * * *


So much for a hot shower to calm the nerves.

Spike paced the small length and width of his flat waiting for her to show. The more he paced, the more restless he became.

He sat down on the sofa and blew out a breath.

Unconsciously, he started tapping his left foot before it cramped painfully.

So he started tapping his right.

And then he was up and pacing again.

He didn’t know how long he’d been patrolling the room before the sound of a car pulling to a stop outside made him turn sharply towards the door.

His voice was a whisper. “Bloody hell, Kit, what do I do?”

“About what, Sir?”

Spike swallowed. “Buffy. She’s outside, on her way to the flat.”

“You open the door, Sir.”

Spike nodded absently. “Right. I open the door. You’re a bloody genius, pet. I mean it.”

He could hear Buffy’s little feet rapidly descending the stairs – his own muscles tightening with every step she took.

He reached the front door in two strides and could sense her on the other side.

Inhaling sharply, he swung open the door.

And froze.

She stood hesitant in the hallway, with an odd look about her – equal parts anticipation and sadness. And she was gorgeous – hair loose and windswept, face pale but with a blush of life in her cheeks.

God help him, he loved her.

He wished he could ask Kit what to do next, because he didn’t have a sodding clue.

Until she rushed into his arms.

He enveloped her instantly, crushing her desperately against his body. He buried his face in her hair and drew her scent into his brain. He could feel small arms gripping him just as tight, and squeezed his eyes shut in relief.

Neither said a word as they stood locked tightly together. There was just warmth. And a delicious combination of softness and strength. And her scent. And his overwhelming bliss. Every muscle in his body seemed to uncoil as he relaxed into the embrace.

Until moist lips brushed across his neck.

He tensed instantly, which only made him grip her harder against him.

Her brushes grew more deliberate - hotter and wetter, as she placed open-mouthed kisses along his collarbone.

Fuck.

And to his neck.

He swallowed.

And to the angle of his jaw.

He squeezed her harder, bit down on his lip, and tipped his head back unconsciously.

And to his Adam’s Apple.

He bit back a whimper.

Hurriedly, he pushed her away from his chest to search her face again. Her eyes were wide and pleading. He lowered his gaze to her lips, dewy and soft, and a single word rushed forth in his mind – simple and urgent.

Please.

He claimed her lips with his own, and they both moaned.

Her mouth opened immediately to him, and her tongue forcefully stroked his own before he’d even dared to go so far. His knees buckled from the sensation and she slipped her arms under his shirt to hold him up at the waist.

She nibbled and licked at his lips before delving in again, stroking the roof of his mouth and making him slump further into her arms.

She walked him backwards, causing them both to collapse on to the sofa – neither willing to break the kiss.

She’d fallen into his lap, and while his lips and tongue never left the heat of her mouth, his hands were everywhere – stroking and gripping – attempting to touch every inch of her at once but not settling anywhere. On her waist. Up her back. In her hair. On her face. At her waist again. She seized his wrists suddenly, and he was terrified that he'd gone too far.

Pulling out of the kiss, she leaned back on his lap, panting slightly. She looked him in the eyes with an intensity of focus that undid him. Slowly, deliberately, and calmly, she guided his hands towards her breasts.

Her name came out in a groan. He felt like he was choking on a feeling too complex to keep down – pleasure, relief, love, disbelief, even sadness for all the years he’d wasted not knowing he might have had this. He let his head fall forward between her breasts and wrapped his arms around her middle. Like a cat to his paw, he rubbed his face against her breasts, eliciting mews and moans from her like a song to his undead heart.

He could’ve stayed that way for hours, making a pillow of her breasts. Saying nothing. Living only in that moment.

But she broke the silence.

“I missed you.” It was emphatic and clear.

He squeezed tighter.

“You were dead. Gone for good. Or so I’d thought. But I missed you.”

He spoke into her breasts. “Buffy, love, I’m so sorry–“

She silenced him by pulling his head up slightly, and kissed the scar above his brow.

“I missed your scar,” she whispered sadly.

He blinked.

“It says so much about you.”

He opened his mouth slightly, but had no words, so shut it dumbly.

She kissed an eyelid, which he instinctively closed.

“I missed your eye lashes,” she said simply.

And right back open fell his mouth.

Ducking her head lower, she kissed one cheekbone softly, and then the next.

“You already know how amazing those are,” she accused, smiling slightly.

He narrowed his eyes in confusion.

She smirked, as if she didn’t believe he didn’t know, but it didn’t last long. She placed a finger to his bottom lip as a look of hunger filled her eyes.

Her voice was deep but wavering. “I missed your mouth, Spike.”

Bloody hell. No one had ever said anything so absolutely amazing to anyone before. Ever.

He recaptured her mouth the next instant, lifting his head fully from her breast. As he held her face in his hands, he pressed closed lips forcefully against hers for long moments. He turned tender next, brushing soft lips across her parted mouth. Then he turned reverent, as he kissed the corners of her mouth with his own. It wasn’t long before he grew passionate, and explored her mouth with his tongue again.

She took everything he dared to offer and gave more. Nibbling and sucking at his mouth, she reclaimed his hands for her breasts, and wrapped her legs possessively around his waist.

They kissed forever it seemed, and yet forever seemed like not nearly enough. As their kiss lingered on, she began to writhe in his lap, until she was grinding down with an urgency that made his cock grow thick along his thigh. He sensed her reaching a hand down to touch him, and seized it gently before she could reach him.

“Forget it, love,” he mumbled into her mouth.

“But you’re–“

“That’s nothing new, Buffy.” He gripped her face with his free hand. “This is.”

She gave him a watery smile and raised her hands to his chest. Pulling her head towards his, he gave her Eskimo kisses that made them both chuckle.

With a tremulous sigh, he leaned back against the couch pulling her tightly against him. He was beginning to feel lightheaded from the emotions she was evoking. He felt paradoxically whole and cracked open at the same time. He felt full, and yet emptied of every sick feeling that he’d been carrying for two centuries. He felt–

God help him. He felt loved.

That’s what he felt. Sod the words. He never had to hear them for the rest of his unlife if he could feel this way forever.

He couldn’t keep the quiver from his voice. “Buffy, I–“

“I missed how natural it always felt when you were around, Spike. Like you’d always been there.”

Once upon a time, her cutting off his protestations of love would’ve wounded him. But he knew it wasn’t because she didn’t want to hear them. He didn’t know how knew that. He just did. And the knowing it, without being told, felt as wonderful as anything.

He wanted to reply that he missed every single thing about her, every second of every day, for every year that they’d been apart.

“I missed your stupid puns,” came out instead.

She lifted her head abruptly from off his chest and gave him a pout. “They’re not stupid.”

He grinned. “You’re right, pet. They’re literary masterstrokes.”

She swatted at his chest playfully, then spoke sincerely. “I missed your honesty, Spike.”

He lowered his head bashfully, then cast his eyes up. “I missed Buffy-speak.” He bit his lip to keep from laughing, but his eyes showed his mirth.

“I missed you fighting on my left side,” she responded with seriousness.

He furrowed his brow in concern. “Pet, I’ll never leave it again. Ever. I’ll always–”

“And I missed your eyes,” she spoke plainly. “The way you used to look at me like you wanted to drain me, or strangle me, or worship me, or scold me, or follow me to the ends of the earth.”

He clenched his teeth to hold back tears.

“I missed you too, love. More–“

She looked away.

“Buffy?”

She looked back. “Then why?”

He narrowed his eyes in question.

“Why did you stay away?”

He looked away this time and sighed. “I thought it was what you wanted, love.”

Silence.

“Well, it wasn’t.” There was no bitterness in her voice. Just truth. But he couldn’t bring himself to look at her.

She cupped his cheek and made him face her again. “And it isn’t. So don’t stay away anymore.”

He nodded – not so much to agree, but to get her to stop making him feel so god damn much. A man couldn’t go three lifetimes without affection to be given so much in one night.

“I want you to stay with me, Spike.” It was her Slayer voice – strong and sure. But it was Buffy who continued. “If you want to.”

His eyes widened in disbelief. “Buffy, kitten, I want!”

A sob escaped her – surprising her as much as him. “I like us, Spike. I love us, actually. We… fit, you know?”

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He nodded, his face a study of wonder.

“Do you think we fit?”

He nodded again more eagerly.

“Then don’t go. Ever again. Stay. For me. With me.”

Unconsciously, he pressed a hand to his heart, as if to keep it from bulging out of his chest.

“Will you?” she asked pleadingly.

What could he say but the truth?

“Til the end of the world.”