Chapter 17: Wounded

As soon as her mouth found Spike’s, Buffy knew that patrol was a lost cause. The kiss was desperate, graceless, driven by desires left pent up for far too long to bother with sweetness. For five years, they’d danced around each other, fighting their attraction with words and weapons, fists and fangs. A thousand moments – tender, sexual, bantering, violent – piling on top of one another in a never-ending spiral of tension and unfulfilled need, until it exploded in the unrestrained passion that seized them now.

Buffy gripped Spike’s T-shirt, twisting the fabric in her fists. Her brain was screaming at her, the wrongness of it all, but for once, she didn’t care, didn’t think. It felt good, and she was swept back to the night in Spike’s crypt, when the spell had created such a longing for him, such a need – she felt it all again, only this time there was no spell to blame.

This is what it feels like to let go, she thought, taking Spike’s lower lip between her teeth, swallowing the moan that slipped from his mouth. To just be me, instead of the me everyone wants me to be. To do what she wanted, instead of what everyone thought was best for her.

As much as he wanted to lose himself in her, let himself drown and never surface again, Spike soon disentangled himself and pulled away. He felt a deep ache blossoming in his head and his chest as soon as he came back to himself, and he wasn’t sure if he was injured, or just anticipating a broken heart. “What are you doing?” he asked, sounding more defensive than he would have liked as he tried to rein in his emotions.

Buffy looked slightly hurt. “I thought it was pretty self-explanatory.”

“The boy?” He was breathless from her kiss, despite not needing the air, and his voice came out raspy, unable to mask the pain at the expected rejection.

“Over,” she murmured, feeling his sigh of relief against her cheek as she pulled his head back in close to hers.

He closed his eyes, running his hands through her hair as he let her place kisses along his jaw and at the corner of his mouth. But when her tongue again caressed his lips, seeking entrance, he ducked his head, breaking away, unsure of himself.

“I don’t get it, Buffy. What is this? If you’re playin’ at something –”

“I’m not!” she insisted, her eyes shimmering with the shame of knowing that her treatment had conditioned him to expect manipulation and rejection instead of affection.

“I’m the one in love with you, remember? Shouldn’t it be me doing the inappropriate kissing, and then you hit me and run away?”

“I know… I just…” She faltered, unable to explain the emotions that were tumbling around inside her. She didn’t want to be explaining. She just wanted to be kissing him. She didn’t want to have to think, only to feel, to let herself be swept away by the rush of emotions she wasn’t sure she’d ever have the courage to let out again.

Whether sensing her need or acting on his own, Spike gave her what she sought. “Ah, screw it,” he mumbled, pulling her into his arms again. At this point, he didn’t care to protect his fragile heart anymore. As long as she was kissing him, it was worth the pain.

Her lips felt like fire against his, her tongue warm in his mouth as they battled to devour each other. Spike’s hands slid down her body until they rested on her backside, his fingertips digging in between her legs, pulling her tighter against him. The pressure from his grip caused a flare of heat in her center, and Buffy responded by wrapping her legs around his waist. He clutched her to his chest, swallowing a groan of need and pain, and he could feel her racing heart beating as though it might burst out of her tiny frame.

Buffy felt like she was lost in him. All her senses were filled with Spike, the rest of the world fading away in a cloud of cigarette smoke and leather, and the smooth, metallic traces of blood and bourbon on his tongue. She ground against him, feeling his belt buckle through her thin cotton pants, catching her in just the right spot to make her gasp. He kissed her neck, and she pressed her cheek against his, the coolness of his touch bringing relief to her burning skin.

She shifted her weight, pressing heavily on his chest, and this time he couldn’t hold in the involuntary wince. Immediately, she pulled away and unhooked her legs from his waist, dropping back to the ground. “Oh, God, you’re hurt.”

“I’m fine, Slayer,” he protested, batting away her persistent hands as she tried to feel him for injuries.

“You’re not fine.” She reached up and touched the wound on the side of his head, streaking his blond locks with red. “Come on, let me fix you up.”

He jerked away from her touch. “’S not as bad as it looks. Head wounds just bleed a lot.”

“And it’ll heal a lot faster if you let me fix it up for you. Besides, I think your ribs are broken. Like, possibly all of them. Come on. Just let me take you home.”

Spike sighed. “All right. Just give me a minute, Slayer,” he said, feeling light-headed from the combination of the knock on the head and Buffy. “You sure can get a fellow worked up.”

When she set off again, he followed her like the obedient puppy that he was. Yeah, he’d said that whole thing about having his dignity and wanting to get over her. But that was before she kissed him. Now… well, he was pretty much putty in her hands. He still found himself tensed, on alert, waiting for the trap to spring shut – as though the Scoobies might jump out of the bushes, stakes in hand, at any moment.

He really couldn’t let himself believe it was happening, that Buffy finally gave in to the emotions he knew she felt. He just couldn’t believe that she finally stopped pretending she’d be happy with some regular bloke and recognized what they could have together. It couldn’t be. He knew her too well for that. But if she wanted to let off steam or take a walk on the wild side or however she justified it to herself, he wasn’t in any position to complain.

As they turned onto Revello Drive, Spike spotted a nasty-looking demon. “I’ve got this one,” Buffy assured him, leaving him to watch her fight. He tried to quash the feelings that arose as his eyes followed her graceful movements. Even when she uprooted a mailbox and impaled the demon with it, he couldn’t help feeling turned on.

This was bad. This was bad on so many levels, but he couldn’t help himself. He was falling, falling into her, and she was bottomless, and he thought he might never touch ground again.

As soon as they made it in the house, Spike grabbed Buffy and pressed her against the door, kissing her again. She responded willingly, his forcefulness exciting her even more.

But when she ran her fingers through his hair and they came away stained with blood, she remembered why she’d brought him back there. Breaking the kiss, she said, “Wait here. I’ll be back with the first aid kit.”

He sank down on the sofa, his mind reeling with the implications of everything. If she wants me… he thought, overwhelmed by the possibility. He glanced almost disbelievingly toward the stairs, already losing himself to a fantasy that quickly spiraled out of control.

Then, logic crept in. Right, mate. Would you like some coffee with your morning staking? Maybe a side of toast? Because that’s what you’ll be if you do this.

He knew she’d stumbled into something she’d regret in the morning, and she’d blame him and he’d be dust in no time. He had to get out of here before things went too far. Maybe they’d already gone too far. He stood up abruptly and started towards the door, but Buffy suddenly appeared from the kitchen with the first aid kit.

“Hey, where are you going?” she chastised. “You shouldn’t be – sit down and let me take a look at you.”

Reluctantly, he obeyed, returning to his spot on the sofa. She perched on the coffee table, the mirror image of the night she’d first come back, when he’d tried to take care of her bloodied hands. A wave of tenderness washed over her at the memory, and she reached up with gentle fingers to swab antiseptic on the cut on his head.

“’S already stopped bleeding, see?” he said.

“Shush. Just let me do this, all right?” But she could see that he was right, and once she’d cleaned the dried blood from his hair, he didn’t even need a bandage.

Next, she slid her hands inside his coat, brushing the duster off his shoulders, letting her hands linger there a moment longer than necessary. He hesitated, studying her eyes carefully for a sign of her intentions, and then shrugged out of the coat, leaving it balled up behind him on the sofa. She ran her hands slowly down each arm, feeling for any sign of injury. His sharp intake of breath when she reached his right wrist told her she’d found what she was looking for.

His palm and the underside of his wrist were scraped from skidding across the pavement, as though he’d put that hand out to ease his fall. It was a shallow wound, but the skin was all torn up and little bits of asphalt were stuck in the cuts. “Does your wrist feel sprained?” she asked, dabbing with a disinfectant pad.

His only answer was a hiss of pain at the sting. “Sorry,” she said quickly, dropping the pad in favor of a roll of gauze to wrap his hand and wrist, so he wouldn’t irritate the abrasion further if he brushed against anything.

Once she’d finished, he rolled his wrist experimentally, testing for pain. When he shook his head, she moved on, sliding her hand up under his shirt to feel his ribs. He gritted his teeth against her soft touch, as her fingers lightly pressed into his skin. “I think they might be broken,” she told him. “Let me wrap them for you.” She reached for the hem of his shirt, but he caught her by the wrists.

“No!” he said hoarsely, startling her with the force of the word. He swallowed, barely able to resist her, then repeated, softer, “No, pet, I’m fine. It’ll be healed by morning.” He could barely think with her hands on him, and he was afraid of where it might lead if she started undressing him.

“Spike…”

“Let it be, pet,” he murmured, even as he allowed her hands to slip from his grasp and she wrapped her arms around him. She pulled him into a tender embrace, placing feathery kisses on his ear, his temple, his cheekbone. He returned her affectionate ministrations, his lips tracing across her throat, stopping every few seconds to taste her, sucking lightly, not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough to make her moan at his touch.

He could smell the arousal dampening her thighs, and he felt his own body rise up to meet her. A subtle nudge and she was nestled in his lap, cushioning the growing evidence of his desire.

Then, summoning up every ounce of willpower he possessed, Spike said, “Stop.”

Buffy pulled back to look at him, a confused expression on her face. “Did you just say…?”

“Stop,” he repeated, meeting her eyes, his own full of regret.

“I – I don’t understand.” Every possible insecurity resurfaced in her, and she fought down memories of Angelus and Parker, and of Spike’s own taunts from the past. In a small voice, she asked, “Don’t you want me?”

Spike closed his eyes. “Course I do, love.” He looked at her again tenderly, reaching up to brush a loose strand of hair from her face. “Never wanted anything more.”

“Then – why…?” Her voice broke.

He sighed, bracing himself for her reaction. “Because I don’t fancy waking up a big pile of dust just because you’ve changed your mind.”

She pulled further away, so startled that she nearly fell off his lap and abruptly sat back down on the coffee table. “You don’t really think I’d… Spike!”

“I don’t know, pet. This is all comin’ outta nowhere, and I – I don’t know what to make of it.”

“It’s not nowhere, Spike! It’s – I’ve thought about this!”

“Oh, you’ve thought about it?” He looked at her with a measure of skepticism, his head tilted slightly to the side. “You’ve thought about what you’re gonna say to your friends? To your Watcher?”

“Well… no…”

“You’ve thought about what happens if the chip stops working, and I can hurt humans again?”

She shifted anxiously under his harsh scrutiny. “I…”

“You’ve thought about the fact that I don’t have a soul? Thing is, Slayer… you’re gonna think about it. Tonight, tomorrow, next week – I dunno. And you’re gonna decide that you don’t want this, and it’ll be too late to take it back.” He stood and walked to the doorway, turning to face her and putting a hand out to steady himself on the doorframe. “And to be honest, Buffy, I don’t think I could stand it.”

He blinked rapidly, and it took Buffy a moment in her stunned state to realize he was holding back tears. It broke her heart to know that she’d left him this gun shy, but she also knew she couldn’t force him. Slowly, she got up from the coffee table and approached him, her eyes never leaving his. Without words, she wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. His arms came around her in response, holding her close and turning his face into her hair.

Then, with one last, light brush of his lips against hers, he pulled away. “I have to go, love.”

“No, stay,” she murmured.

“Buffy, I can’t…” His voice was pained.

“In the other room. I promise we won’t… Just… don’t go. Please.”