Spike: I can't cry the soul out of me. It won't come. I killed, and I can feel them. I can feel every one of them.
Sleeper

    Buffy had retreated to her closet.

    She supposed at some level it was like a cage, but in another way, it was the safest hole possible to hide in. She read silly seventies science fiction, because she didn’t feel up to contemplating any of Spike’s books of poetry. It felt painful to do that, indulge in that little romanticism she loved about him, when he was out murdering at that very moment. It was stupid, she knew. He was always murdering in this time. He always had had, and she had always known it. And somehow, she’d been okay with it....

    And that was absurd! Why was it okay? It shouldn’t have been okay to her, future redemption or no. It had started bothering her how okay she was making herself be with it. But... she’d done the same with Angel, and she’d done it with Spike even before he’d earned his soul. What was it about her that made it okay to sleep with vampires? Was Crowley right? Did she need the violence? Didn’t she have a choice in who she found attractive? Did it have to be a monster? The idea bothered her. She didn’t like to think about herself that way.

    If it had to be a monster... what did that say about her?

    Spike had always said he followed his blood, and didn’t have a reputation for being a thinker, but the truth was, Buffy was just as impulsive and intuitive as he was. She didn’t like thinking about the reasons for her actions. She didn’t always have a logic for her instincts. And as for her emotions... she’d stopped examining them reliably back in High School when Angel had lost his soul and crushed them all as Angelus. So rather than try and analyze the logic of the whole horrific situation, Buffy hid away.

     She hid from Drusilla, yes, but more, she was hiding from the whole thing. From Spike and his evil, from herself and her own sick desires. She’d gone to earth like a hunted thing, claimed her small space in the world. She lay on her stomach and flipped her legs up against the wall, snacking on the popcorn that Spike had bought for her. That spot was hers. It was tiny, it was degrading, but it was hers.

    So why it didn’t feel like an invasion when Spike came in, Buffy had no clue.

    She was still – righteously, but still somewhat irrationally given the circumstances – pissed off at him, so she ignored him. He’d been testing her when she first came. Now she wondered if some part of her was testing him. To see if he’d grab her and force her when she showed no interest. Amoral, soulless, evil, what would he do when his “precious pet” emotionally abandoned him in punishment for going to kill?

    And what he did was sit and watch her.

    Buffy flipped several barely read pages in her book before she finally looked at him. She expected him to be leaned back and content, replete with his kill, idly watching her with evil satisfaction as he viewed the creature he owned. Instead he sat gazing at her intently, and the look on his face was not fond or proprietary. His eyes heavy, his nose twitching faintly as the nostrils flared with nervousness. Buffy had seen this look on his face before, the anxiety in his soulless eyes, right as he first tried to tell her that he loved her. Her, the slayer. Without – they both knew – any real hope of reciprocation. A kind of desperate nervous longing. Buffy rolled over onto her side and watched him for a moment over her book. Then she went back to it, pointedly.

    Spike waited for a long minute, and then sighed. A moment later he completely shocked her. He bent down and curled up with her, laying his head on the hollow of her waist. Almost hiding in her. It was somewhat submissive, yes, and it was remarkably trusting, but if Buffy didn’t know Spike as well as she did, she wouldn’t have found it shocking. What shocked her was, she knew this gesture. She knew this posture. It was the position he took when he’d had a nightmare, and wanted her to comfort him. It was also one he took sometimes when he’d told her a particularly troubling story from his past.

    Good god, he was in there. Even now. The idea terrified her, and she couldn’t stay mad. Not now, not in this time. She’d come to a vampire in the height of his evil, it wasn’t even fair to hope he’d just up and stop his killing. Whatever it was she was doing to him, he was wildly confused. His need for comfort now could not possibly be guilt or shame, but he was deeply troubled. And she was the one he was turning to in order to ease the tension of it. With Dru as she currently was, he couldn’t possibly have any one else to turn to. Buffy let herself pet his head, run her hands down his cheek. He felt startlingly warm. She wasn’t used to that, unless he’d been holding her. “You feel hot,” she whispered.

    Spike closed his eyes. “Don’t ask.”

    Don’t ask, and I won’t tell. She could hear it as loud as if he’d promised her. And she couldn’t let it go. “One question.”

    He didn’t respond.

    “Did you even notice the color of her hair?”

    “I never look that close,” he said.

    Buffy waited a moment. “What color are my eyes, Spike?”

    “Over-steeped tea,” he said instantly, surprising her. He usually said African jade. Then she remembered, she was in Sarah’s body, with Sarah’s dark eyes. He chuckled. “Okay. Point taken.” He had seen her, really seen her. She wasn’t just a victim. He was getting to understand that. He closed his eyes and his hand wandered over her arm, idly caressing her with his thumb. “I really... really want to kill you,” he said quietly.

    Buffy ran her hand through his hair. “I know.”

    A moment later he sat up and closed the door to the closet. Then he returned to his place on her stomach. Curled up together, he shared her self-exile into the cage.

***

    Dru rebuffed Spike again when she came back, but Buffy noted he didn’t seem to care much. He curled up next to Buffy on the sofa bed, idly running his fingers through her hair. He neither bit her, nor had sex with her. Buffy was afraid she knew why, and didn’t ask. Don’t ask. That was going to become a mantra at this rate.

    After a while he began massaging her back. Eventually he took her clothes off so he could perform the act with more care. He ran his hands all up and down her body, occasionally using his nails, or nibbling on her with his teeth. It felt fabulous. Buffy was used to a much more athletic lifestyle, and she longed for the physical stimulation. God dammit. She really was a Spike addict. Even evil, he fired her. It bothered her. But after their tacit reconciliation, it was nice to be cherished like that, without him making any other demands of her. She was almost ashamed that his touch, so familiar to her, could draw her into a fond stupor almost as strong as his bite.

    They woke in the afternoon, and watched more Dark Shadows, and Spike made her tea. He was very undemanding. He helped her cook up more of the groceries and promised her a proper meal later that night. Buffy retreated to her nest before Dru woke. She’d stopped thinking of it as a closet or a cage sometime last night, with Spike. He’d spent hours in there with her, just wanting to be close to her. He’d fondled her fingertips and gazed at her while she read, and curled up just holding her. He had been behaving just as haunted as the soulful Spike she knew. She knew it wasn’t guilt that was dragging him down, it couldn’t possibly be. But something troubled him, and it was something more than bloodlust and rage – and that was something, wasn’t it?

    Spike went out just after sundown, after Drusilla had gone hunting. This time, Buffy did not tell him not to go. He came back some hours later with a new box of flowers for Drusilla, and a fresh roll of ribbon for her to torture her dolls with. He arranged half the flowers in a vase by Dru’s bed, put the other half in the fridge, and then pulled a few feet off the ribbon, leaving the rest of the roll on Dru’s vanity. “Come here, pet,” Spike said.

    “What?”

    He smiled wickedly. “It’s my turn to torture you.”

    Buffy took a deep breath. “Spike... I–”

    “No, I’m not killing you yet. Come here.” His tone was very gentle.

    It was either trust him or anger him. God, she hated living with an unchecked demon. She loved the bits of him she recognized, but those other bits.... She came up and placed her hands on his chest. She was about to ask what he was after when she realized the skin beneath his shirt was cool. He hadn’t hunted?

    She was still frowning, bewildered over that, when Spike turned her and wrapped the ribbon around her eyes, blindfolding her. He started to lead her, but she bumped into a chair, and he lost patience. “Sod this,” he muttered, and scooped her up into his arms. Buffy wrapped her hands around his shoulders and let him carry her. He opened the door of the lair, growled – which Buffy thought had more to do with his minions than her – and carried her up a flight of stairs.

    Buffy breathed in a sigh as she felt fresh air on her face. He must have taken her to the roof. Spike set her down, turned her to face him, and kissed her. He kissed both her cheeks,  her lips, and the tip of her nose, and then stepped back, taking the blindfold with him.

    Buffy’s eyes blinked open on a ridiculously romantic dream. As in romantic, and frankly completely ridiculous. The full moon shone down on the city, and even the derelict neighborhood of the Bowery could look lovely under the silver of the moon. But he’d done far more than rely on nature. Dozens of candles, couched in mason jars, flickered on every flat surface – the wall around the roof, the top of the shack that covered the stairwell, upside down crates and cardboard boxes. In the middle of this glowing fairyland Spike had laid out a blanket with a cheese board and a bottle of wine, and two glasses. Rose petals were scattered over the blanket.

    Buffy blushed. She wasn’t sure if she was embarrassed for him, or herself. At the same time, she was touched. The whole thing was absurdly hokey, she was still technically a prisoner, if a voluntary one, and Spike was evil and all but pure demon right now, and she still blushed.

    But she didn’t melt. “All right, what are you buttering me up for?”

    Spike gave her an amused glare, and then shook his head. “I suppose asking you to give me the benefit of the doubt is daft, i’nt it.”

    “Yep.”

    “Well, bugger. You caught me, pet. I have truly heinous acts in mind for tonight.”

    “And they include?”

    “Well, I thought I’d start with a neck massage, and go on from there.”

    “Go on, huh? Are you up and planning on seducing me?” she taunted.

    “Would I dare?” he asked. He reached up and pulled a transistor radio off the roof of the stairwell. “Here,” he said, pushing it into Buffy’s hand. “Your choice. Though if you could find something that isn’t disco, I’ll honor your memory for the rest of my unlife.”

    “Don’t worry,” Buffy said, quietly turning through radio stations. “You haven’t been secretly eating a super freak. There will be no taint of disco in your blood.”

    “Oh, sometimes I’ll take ‘em–” Spike stopped so abruptly that Buffy was surprised. He turned away and set about opening the wine.

    He’d been about to say something about taking them out, and stopped. So, that was it. She’d been play acting the submissive for him. He’d decided to start play acting the innocent for her. She couldn’t figure out if that made the evil inherently better or worse. Worse, she decided after she’d found a station that didn’t sound too awful. It was a lie. “You don’t have to pretend you’re not a killer, Spike. I’m not shielding my eyes from the truth.”

    Spike looked up at her. “Then what are you doing?”

    “I just don’t like you taking pride in it,” Buffy said. “If you start to brag to me about it, I won’t be impressed.”

    “I do take pride in it.”

    “I know,” Buffy said. “But there’s a time and place for everything. I wouldn’t boast to you about how I’d... found the greatest ever tampon brand, or the best place to get scrunchies. Brag to your boys about it, not me.”

    “What the hell’s a scrunchie?”

    “Girl hair stuff,” Buffy said. “Forget it. Just like I assume you’re not interested in shoe bargains, I don’t need to hear you boast about how great you are at killing. It’s serious, it isn’t a joke.”

    He looked at her. “I guess it isn’t,” he said.

    “But hiding it isn’t what I was after, either.”

    Spike handed her a glass of wine. “Good,” he said. “‘Cause without killing, I don’t really have a lot else to talk about, here.” He let his hand travel down her bare arm. “You cold?” he asked.

    Buffy chuckled. “And I know you kept that jacket on just to offer it to me.”

    “Well, hell, least I’m not lying about my evilly conniving gallant gestures,” Spike said, slipping off his motorcycle jacket. He draped it around her shoulders and fondled her collar. “You’re cute all covered in spikes, little bit.”

    Buffy grinned up at him, but she said, “Don’t call me that.”

    “Why?”

    “Because it means you think of me as a child. And I’m not.”

    “It means I think of you as tiny, bite size.” He bent down, nuzzling her face. “Did anyone ever feed you right?”

    “I’m not sure,” Buffy whispered.

    He chuckled. “So you know everything about me... but have questions about you?”

    “Actually... yes.”

    “Now that’s interesting,” he said before he kissed her. “Because I do, too.” He breathed in her scent and groaned. “You smell delectable.” He sighed and led her down to the blanket. “And in here,” he said, pulling out a take-out box, “is a fine meal I highjacked from an actual restaurant. Which I hope smells delectable to you, as well.”

    The meal took the form of salmon and gnocchi, with steamed vegetables, and cheesecake for dessert. It had gone cold, and Buffy missed microwaves, but it tasted fine even so. Spike still hadn’t provided silverware. She scooped up bits of the food in her fingers, licking them off one by one, until Spike couldn’t take it anymore and started picking the food up himself. He slid his fingers into her mouth, bite by sensuous bite, and watched her swallow with such relish that Buffy wasn’t at all sure he was telling the truth about not killing her that evening. He refilled her wine glass whenever it got low. The whole thing was unbelievably romantic. After she’d finished her cheesecake, he lay his head in her lap and looked up at her.

    “Thank you,” he said.

    “You’re not demanding thanks of me?”

    “No. I’ve been enjoying myself.”

    Buffy let her hand caress his throat and collarbone, and he closed his eyes and hummed. “Is this something you ordinarily do for your pets?” she asked.

    “No,” he said. “But you’re not really a pet, are you pet.”

    “What do you mean? I’m here, I’m all chained up and ready to service you.”

    “And you’re joking again,” Spike said. He sighed and stared up at the moon. “You see, I figured it out. You think I’ll give you what you want if you make me fall in love with you.”

    He was right, so denying it would be pointless. “So what’s wrong with that?”

    “Apart from bein’ a bit Machiavellian, nothing at all. It’s quite clever, really.” He sort of shrugged. “Ain’t gonna work, but it’s cute. ‘Cept when you bugger it up and forget not to hate me.”

    Buffy frowned at him. “I don’t hate you, Spike.”

    “But you hate what I do.”

    “I do hate what you do. Doesn’t mean I can’t love you.”

    “I don’t know if I follow you around that bend, love.”

    “People aren’t... you aren’t... ugh.” She’d had too much to drink to try and sort it out – that a vampire’s behavior wasn’t coming from the man inside. “This is way too logicy for me right now. Just believe me.”

    “I’m not sure I can, if you hate the killing.”

    “Oh, come on. If I adored everything about you, you wouldn’t believe that, either.”

    “Why do you say that?”

    “Because I’m a human being,” she said. “If human beings all thought it was cool to kill people, the whole species would go extinct. And I know that’s kinda what the demons are after,” Buffy said, “but I’m not a demon, am I. Wanting you to go around killing people... that wouldn’t be right.”

    “But loving me is right.”

    That was a stumper, actually, and had been bugging her for years. She hesitated, and the radio took the floor. “Loving you isn’t the right thing to do,” it suddenly announced through Fleetwood Mac. “How can I ever change things that I feel?” “Oh, shut up!” Buffy said to the radio. Then she laughed and stood up. “Ha! Okay, that’s a freakin’ sign. I need to dance.”