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Forward to Time Past by Unbridled_Brunette
 
Chapter Fifty-Two
 
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Chapter Fifty-Two





His blue eyes were so close, she could have counted his lashes, and although there was confusion there, still the lids drooped half-shut as if he were waiting for a kiss. His full bottom lip was trembling in that familiar way and she felt her heartbeat quicken in response.

Vampire, she thought dazedly, as his breath—lukewarm—passed over her mouth. He’s a vampire without a soul. What are you doing? Vampires are bad—

But he can learn to be good, she argued with herself, unconsciously echoing Spike’s earlier words—the words that had completely undone her resistance. He wants to be good; he wants to learn. He wants me to teach him.

Of course, she knew that he wanted her to teach him only because “good” was what she wanted him to be. For himself, he probably couldn’t care less. It wasn’t an absolution he was seeking; it was her love. Buffy knew there was no guilt in his heart for the crimes he had committed and that, alone, should have been enough to turn her from him. Yet, the expression in his eyes was so tender. Even if he was not good, some part of him was still soft, still in love with her, still William.

She couldn’t stop herself from longing for that part of him.

“But you have to be good,” she murmured. Her lips grazed his again, and she murmured the words almost directly into his mouth. Spike closed his eyes and tilted his head, trying to kiss her, but Buffy evaded him by turning her face to the side. “You have to try,” she insisted, nuzzling his jaw. He drew a shuddering sigh.

“Do you think I won’t? Buffy, you’re the only good thing that ever happened to me. Do you honestly think I’d fuck it up? Risk losing you again?”

Again, his voice surprised her: as soft as down. It was neither Spike nor William, but somewhere in between. The North London accent he had adopted so long ago wouldn’t leave him completely, but it was uneven now, dulled by the more genteel and only half-remembered intonation of his former self. Although not entirely familiar, something about it was oddly appealing. A pleasant little shiver skated down her spine and, like before, she murmured to him, “Tell me you love me.”

And, like before, he answered her eagerly.

He was wearing a shirt she didn’t recognize, an ancient long-sleeved polo that had probably once been black but had faded, over time, into a dull charcoal gray. She knew that he must have put it on for her benefit. It wasn’t something he would have worn of his own choice. Like the khakis he had once donned to impress her, it was decidedly preppy, oddly at variance with his present day tough-guy façade. Something in that attempt to change touched her. Had he tried to visit her while she was gone? Was that how he’d found out about Angel? Had Giles and the others misled him, gloated over it to him? It certainly would explain things if they had.

She put her hand to his frayed collar, stroking three fingers down to the short line of buttons beneath it. The cotton fabric had grown thin from many washings (How did he wash his clothes?), and it was so soft she wanted to rub her cheek against it, so she did. He smelled very strongly of some type of alcohol, not beer or bourbon but something sweeter, something pleasant. There wasn’t a trace of tobacco nor of leather, almost as if he had realized how much she disliked those scents, that they reminded her of how far he had come from where he had been. She nuzzled the crook where his neck met his shoulder, the flesh of which hadn’t been hardened by a century of wickedness, and she breathed him in. Beyond everything else, that was still the same.

Buffy whispered three words into that soft, sweet smelling skin. As quiet as they were, a man’s ears wouldn’t have been able to catch them, but Spike wasn’t exactly a man. He was something more—or something less—and he heard them clearly enough. His muscles tightened and, suddenly, she found herself caught in a crushing embrace.

He covered her face with kisses, her throat with soft, blunt-toothed bites. Her ribs throbbed beneath the pressure and it occurred to her that he had enough strength in his arms to snap them in two, but she didn’t ask him to relax his grip. Instead, she slipped her hands underneath the tail of his shirt, slid them along the smooth, strong cords of his back.

Spike kept muttering her name; it sounded like pleading. When his mouth reached the right side of her neck and the scars Angel had given her, he slowed, tracing his cool tongue across the indentations in the skin. The edges of his teeth pressed down lightly as he found the pulsing vein beneath the blemish, and he sucked on it as if he had already laid it open. Buffy moaned. She could almost feel him pulling the blood up from between her legs, could almost feel the sharp points of his canines buried in her flesh although he hadn’t even allowed them to descend.

“Did he touch you?” His voice, caught somewhere between a growl and a purr, made her breastbone tingle. It was a sound that, despite the tenderness of his caresses, was all jealousy.

“Did who…?”

“You smell like him,” he persisted, raising his head. His blue eyes were sullen. “Clothes smell like bloody Angel.”

As if from a dream, Buffy remembered that Angel had pushed her against the wall during their argument. Before she could decide whether to admit this to Spike, he began to fumble with her sweater, pushing it up and over her stomach.

Too fast. Aren’t we going too fast— she thought dizzily. But she pulled her arms from beneath his shirt anyway, and raised her arms so that he could drag the sweater over her head.

Her undergarments were hardly more than utilitarian, and, for a moment, she felt embarrassed to have him see them. But his eyes dilated as he looked at her—all black but for a cloudy ring of blue—and she saw him swallow hard. Although the jealousy remained, all the bravado had gone out of his tone as he whispered, “Buffy…don’t leave again.”

Suddenly feeling as if she might cry, Buffy buried her hands in those soft, unruly curls and dragged his head down. There was an instant when she saw the enraptured look in his eyes, then her mouth found his, filling the unnatural coolness of it with her own heat. Spike tried not to push his lower body against her, but he did anyway. She dropped her hand down, gently rubbed at the swell of his fly. He made an indistinct sound against her lips, and his knees almost buckled. It made him seem fragile—a very William thing for him to do.

“You’re still mine, aren’t you?” she whispered.

“Yours.” His words were husky, slurred around a kiss, but he sounded as if he liked the idea.

“Then, I’m not going to leave.” She hesitated but couldn’t quite hold back the next words, although they came so quietly only he could have heard them. “I’m yours.”

“Damn right, you’re mine,” he rumbled, dropping his head to kiss her shoulder. “Nobody else can have you. If Angel ever tries—” He didn’t finish the thought.

Buffy shivered a little. Not from his words but from the light skimming of his fingertips up her arms. They slid beneath the straps of her oh-so-functional and not-very-pretty bra, easing them down as he nibbled at the sensitive skin of her shoulder.

Mistaking the small shudder for an indication of nervousness, he murmured into her flesh in the most gentle, familiar way, “I love you, Buffy. Let me love you.”

Her breath caught and, for a moment, held.

“You remember that?” she whispered finally. “Over a hundred years…and you remember what I said—?”

“I remember everything you said.”


~*~ ~*~ ~*~





Afterward, she stayed far longer than she should have. Three o’clock in the afternoon until almost three in the morning: she knew that her friends were probably frantic with worry. Of course, she hadn’t told them how long she would be in Los Angeles, hadn’t told them much of anything, actually. But she knew they would be worried. Probably, Willow had already called Angel, since apparently that was what she had been doing lately, playing reporter to him. Buffy felt a twinge of disgust as she thought of it. She hated the idea of them talking about her behind her back, comparing notes.

His body half-tangled in the worn sheets, Spike lay and watched her as she began to dress.

“Sun’s not up,” he began slowly. “It’s not like they’ll be sitting up with a stopwatch. You could stay ‘til…”

His voice held little hope in it and he didn’t look disappointed when she said that she couldn’t, but with William—with Spike—it was hard to tell. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Can I have this?”

She was holding up the shirt he had been wearing. Spike raised an eyebrow at her. “Help yourself. God knows, I don’t want the poncy thing,” he answered with a shrug.

Buffy laughed. “Why were you wearing it?”

He didn’t answer, just watched her pull it over her head.

When she was dressed, her discarded sweater folded in a tidy bundle over one arm, Buffy sat down on the edge of the bed. There was something she had to tell him before she left, something she had to make him understand; but she had no idea how to broach the subject. If it upset him—

It would definitely upset him, she thought.

“Spike, we’ve got to…”

He held up his hand, palm out, in a gesture for her to stop.

“It’s all right, love. I know. You want to keep it from them.”

Flushing a little at the realization that he could read her so easily, Buffy rushed into a muddled attempt at reassurance. “It’s just…they’re still getting used to the idea that we…I mean…that when I was gone…and it will take them a while to accept it. If I add this on top of it, they’ll really hit the roof. You understand that…right?”

Silence.

“And it isn’t forever,” she added quickly. “Just for a little while. Once I make them see that you…that you’re…”

Spike scowled. “That I’m what?”

“That you’re…him.”

“That’ll happen,” he muttered. He started to sit up, but Buffy pushed him back down.

“Don’t.” Her voice was pleading. “You think I’m embarrassed about it, but I’m not. I’m just trying to keep everyone from freaking out. I mean, I’m still getting used to the idea myself. When I came here tonight, I didn’t exactly intend to do—what we did.”

“What did you intend?”

“To find out the truth.”

“Did you?” There was a challenge in his tone.

“You know the answer to that.” Buffy started to touch his arm, but he looked so annoyed she was afraid he might reject her and she dropped her hand.

He sighed heavily. “Thing is, pet, when you try to keep everybody happy, you’ll suffer the same consequence as every other bloody person who attempts it. Nobody will be happy.”

“What else am I supposed to do?” she demanded, not angry but forlorn, desperate for an answer that would work for everyone. Spike grimaced and reached for her in a way that almost seemed involuntary. Even as he drew her against his chest, Buffy thought he looked as if he would have preferred to be on the other side of the room with a bottle in his hand.

“Jesus, I don’t know. You’re asking me? My answer would be to tell them to go fuck themselves and get on with your life, but I know you’ll never do that. For whatever reason, you’re willing to let the lot of them dictate to you. You’re the sodding hero, Buffy. You don’t need the people whose arses you have to save telling you what to do. You just like being controlled.”

“What?” She pulled back from him and stood up. “I do not!”

Stung by her retreat, Spike stood also. However, he went for the aforementioned bottle on the other side of the room.

“Yeah? Then why do you let them do it?” he asked as he unscrewed the cap. “Why did you have no problem with the idea of playing the ‘little woman’ back in London? Headstrong little bint like you should’ve been chafing under the patriarchal yoke, but I didn’t hear any complaints. Didn’t see you out slaying the nasties—”

“I couldn’t risk changing the past,” she argued. He snorted.

“Couldn’t risk changing the past by killing a couple of demons, but you’d shag me six ways from Sunday. Right.” His voice dropped lower, became almost sympathetic as he added, “You didn’t mind putting up with the chauvinism back then because it gave you an excuse to not think for yourself, to give up your responsibilities. You got to be taken care of.”

There was nothing she could say to that. She watched him raise the bottle to his lips and take a long swallow.

“It’s the same here, isn’t it?” he asked afterward. “As long as they’ll think for you, then you don’t have to. As long as they’re happy with you, then you think you’re all set. You get your sense of self-worth from every other goddamn person on earth but yourself. You think if they get angry, then they’ll leave and you’ll be alone. That you won’t be able to think for yourself when you don’t have anyone else to do it for you.”

“Well, can you blame me for not wanting to make them so angry they’d leave?” she asked, latching onto one of his statements and disregarding the rest. “Would you want to be all alone?”

“What the fuck do you think I’ve been since you left me?” Spike snapped. “Least you’d have me, although I guess now I know what that would be worth to you.”

“So, then, that’s it?” she asked softly. “It’s you or them?”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” he insisted. “I just…I’ve waited so long, Buffy. So bleeding long to have you. Now, you’re telling me if I have you I’ve got to be your dirty secret.”

The look in his eyes made her feel as if she had just killed a puppy. Four long strides and she was standing before him, her hands cupping either side of his face. “Not dirty,” she murmured, kissing him. “Just secret, just for now. If you’d just wait for a little while—”

“Looks like I don’t have a choice, does it?” he muttered. She began to nestle into his neck, finding all the right spots to nibble, and he shrugged impatiently. “Best not, love. You’ve got to run, remember? Got to get home before the bloody bed-check.”

“I’ve got a little time,” she answered, leaning down to pepper his chest with kisses and soft bites. “Anyway, I need to do something before I go.”

“Yeah—what’s that?” Spike asked. She sank to her knees in front of him, and he suddenly staggered back against the table, bracing himself against to keep from falling. He closed his eyes and lolled his head back.

“Oh.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~





“Oh, my God. You totally had sex with her.”

Spike—sprawled on his bed but partially clothed—choked into his pillow as he came awake. For a second, he wondered if he had only imagined the voice, if he had been dreaming. Then, his eyes found her standing in the murky shadows near the foot of the ladder.

“What in the buggering fuck—?” he sputtered nonsensically. “What time is it?”

“Almost four.”

Still shocked by her arrival, Spike could only gape at her, but Dawn mistook his surprise for something else. She said defensively, “I went to school! Just got out, actually. I had to walk here. My book bag’s upstairs.”

Spike tried to digest this information, but his brain didn’t seem to be functioning correctly. He sat up slowly and rubbed his eyes. His hands smelled like Buffy. Everything did.

“Bully for you then,” he grumbled at Dawn. She was staring at him, wide-eyed, and he snapped irritably, “What?”

“Wow, do you, like, work out to get that way? Or, is it just some kinda vampire perk thing?”

“Huh?” He followed the line of her gaze to his bare torso. “Oh, bloody hell.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dawn said coolly as he rummaged through the debris on the floor, looking for a shirt. “I’ve seen worse.”

“Considering that you have Cinemax and very little parental guidance, I’d say you have.”

“How’d you know I watch that channel?” she asked indignantly.

“You told me.”

“Oh, yeah…”

Spike found a wrinkled black t-shirt under his bed and he quickly wriggled into it. Now that his drowsiness had started to subside, Dawn’s voice had lost its chipmunk-shouting-into-a-bullhorn quality, and he began to understand just what it was she had said.

“Why do you think I had sex with Buffy?”

“Well…didn’t you?” Spike just raised his eyebrows at her and she sighed. “Okay, well. You know how everyone is always getting into everyone else’s business around here...”

“Much to my dismay,” he interjected dryly. She seemed oblivious to the irony of her statement.

“Anyway, Buffy was supposed to be in L.A., right? Seeing Angel. Not that she said so, of course, but a blind idiot would have realized it. Nobody knew when she was coming back, so Willow decided to call Angel to see if she’d gotten there—and if she’d left.”

“So?”

“So, according to Angel, she should’ve been back in Sunnydale yesterday afternoon, but she didn’t come home then. She didn’t show up until this morning, right before I left for school, and—” here Dawn pulled out her trump-card “—she was wearing a different shirt than the one she’d left in.”

“At what point does the trail of evidence start to lead to me?”

Although Dawn was busying herself lighting the torches that had burned out during the course of the day, she was looking at him askance. There was a sly, amused note in her voice when she finally answered his question.

“You mean aside from all the hickeys? ‘cause we know she didn’t sleep with Angel.”

“And how do ‘we’ know that?” As always, Spike found himself intrigued by how perceptive she was. Give her a set of tire tracks and a cigarette butt, and she could probably solve a goddamned murder case.

“Would you want to sleep with Angel?” she asked, as if it were obvious. Spike choked back a laugh.

“Point well taken,” he said. “What’d Buffy say? I’m assuming you already put her through this line of questioning.”

“No, I didn’t. By the time I got downstairs, Willow and Tara were already giving her the third degree. They’d called Giles, too.”

Spike reached for a cigarette but stopped himself. “Wanted to know all about her trip, I reckon,” he sighed.

“Actually…they didn’t. That’s kind of weird, isn’t it?” Dawn frowned as if she had only just realized it herself. “But they didn’t mention it at all. It was like they’d all talked about it and decided not to bring it up, because they acted as if she hadn’t been gone at all.”

“So, what did they talk to her about?”

“Money.”

“Money?” Spike echoed, frowning. Dawn nodded.

“They want her to get a job,” she said.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

 
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