Fic: In our reincarnation (BtVS; Buffy/Spike)
Title: in our reincarnation
Fandom/Pairing: Buffy the Vampire Slayer; Buffy/Spike
Rating: PG
Words: 1,376
Summary: Sometimes he wishes she would hit him instead of smile at him, just for old times' sake, just to make things simpler for them both.
A/N: Takes place in s7, between “Get it Done” and “Storyteller”
**
Spike’s down in the basement, just lying on the cot and staring blankly at the ceiling, when the cellar door creaks open and the pitter-patter of little Slayer-feet make their way down the steps.
When Buffy gets to the landing, she doesn’t say anything, just stands on the bottom step for a moment, looking exhausted. She's dressed for bed -- soft grey pajama pants and a thin white tank -- and it makes his chest hurt, the way she looks like such a normal girl.
After a few seconds, she looks over at him with a soft half-smile, the kind that she seems to save only for him these days. Even if he lives another few centuries, he'll never understand how she can look at him like that, after everything he's done. Sometimes, he wishes she would hit him instead of smile at him, just for old times' sake, just to make things simpler for them both.
“So,” he finally says, just to say something. "What brings you down to the land of the un-living?”
“Potentials stole my bed,” she says, like she can't believe it, like it's the most insane thing she’s ever heard. More insane than vampires and demons and soul-searching idiots who’ve always been fools for love.
“Sorry, love,” he says, not really sure what she’s looking for from him right now. This time last year, he would have joked with her about going up there and wiping a few of them out, but after the last couple of weeks…well. It’s not quite as funny as it could be, yeah? Can’t imagine she’d find much humor in him threatening to massacre a roomful of innocents, even if she's looking at him with soft eyes and her mouth's still curled up in that sweet, gentle smile.
“’S okay,” Buffy shrugs, like she’s not expecting anyone -- especially not him -- to actually be able to fix her problems. She walks over to the cot and sits down lightly in the empty space next to his hip. She's so warm and solid next to him, and before he can stop himself, Spike moves a little closer to her. Moth to a bloody flame.
“You could sleep here,” he tells her, which maybe the stupidest thing he’s ever said. And, considering some of the daft idiocy that’s come out of his mouth over the past century and a half, is really saying something.
But Buffy doesn’t call him on it, just makes this low humming noise in the back of her throat and then leans forward, her arm brushing his, her soft golden hair ghosting across his shoulder.
“Cot’s kind of small for both of us,” she says carefully, glancing at him sidelong and running her hand across the rumpled blue sheet. The corner of her mouth quirks up in a wry almost-smile. "But I think we could manage."
“Buffy,” Spike says, swallowing hard. She’s very, very close to him right now and she smells nice, like laundry detergent and girl.
It's quiet in the basement, the silence stretching between them. And then, before he quite registers what’s going on, Buffy's swinging her legs up on the bed and moving so that she’s laying next to him, her back to his front. He’s still kind of half-sitting up, which means there’s barely any room for her, so he lies down awkwardly, trying to make space for her.
His back is pressed flush against the wall, the soft planes of Buffy's body pressed snug against him and, of course, he’s hard after a couple of seconds, his body betraying him just as it always has.
He tries to move away, but the sodding cot’s a tight squeeze, and there’s nowhere for him to go. He feels Buffy’s heart speed up when she notices, the blood racing in her veins and her breath coming fast and shallow.
“Spike,” she says very quietly, so low he wouldn’t be able to hear it if he were a normal, human person. He expects her to sound disgusted or angry, but she doesn’t. She sounds kind of wistful, and she moves even closer to him, so that they’re touching everywhere, fitting together as bloody perfect as always.
He moves his hand a bit, so that it’s resting against her hip, and she inhales sharply. After a couple of seconds, she reaches over and puts her hand over his, trailing her fingers over his wrist. Her skin is so hot against his that it feels like their hands are on fire, and her heart’s beating so hard that he can feel it all throughout his body. He just misses her so much these days.
He’s trying to think of something to say when the basement door bangs open, the sounds and scents of God-knows how many baby-slayers invading his space and ruining everything.
“Buffy!” someone yells from upstairs. Spike thinks it might be Kennedy and, from the way Buffy sighs, he guesses he’s probably right. “Buffy! Seriously! We need you up here!”
The door slams shut and Buffy takes a deep breath, the exhaustion and annoyance practically radiating off of her. She leans her head back against his chest, and her skin is hot through the thin fabric of his shirt. Spike takes a deep, unnecessary breath.
“Sometimes I wish I could just stay down here with you forever,” she tells him, sounding sleepy and sincere. Her body is soft and boneless against his, her defenses down.
Spike goes incredibly still. Time was, hearing her say something even close to that would have him dancing a bloody jig, his black, soulless heart basking in the glory of victory. Now though -- with the soul forcing him to hear the sadness in her voice, to feel the exhaustion in her body -- it just makes him feel depressed and more alone than he’s been in a hundred years or more. Damned, bloody soul.
“Yeah,” he finally manages. His mouth is pressed up against the delicate skin of her neck, and the scent of her is everywhere. “Me too, pet.”
She moves then, rolling over so that they’re face to face. In the dim light of the basement, her eyes are dark, a hint of green flashing bright around giant black pupils. She was right, the cot is small, and her whole body is pressed against his, the swell of her breasts flush against his chest and Spike can’t help the useless breath that catches in his throat.
“I’m glad you’re back to being you,” she whispers, her lips brushing against his. She’s wearing lip gloss, something sticky and sweet that tastes like cherries, and something in Spike’s chest tightens.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the silhouette of his coat, draped across the table in the center of the room, a black, hulking shadow even in the darkness.
Upstairs, something crashes loudly to the floor, and the high-pitched yelling of ten little girly voices fills the air.
Buffy closes her eyes and sighs, her breath warm against his face, and for a moment, Spike remembers what it felt like to really breathe, all the things wrapped up in that little involuntary movement, one that he can’t seem to shake no matter how long he’s been dead. But then she’s pushing herself up, getting to her feet in one slayer-fast move, her body tense and alert, and the feeling’s gone.
Spike doesn’t stop her, just watches her walk up the stairs, staring at the hard lines of her back.
Right before she gets to the top few steps, while she’s still in view, she turns back to him, giving him another half-smile, this one a little sadder than the first. The circles under her eyes are dark purple and they make the green of her eyes look all the more brilliant and alive.
They stare at each other like that for a few beats, neither one of them saying anything, and then she’s gone, door closing softly behind her, leaving Spike alone in the dark.
He lies on the cot for a while after that, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the voices of so many innocent young girls chattering on above him, his skin still warm and humming and almost-alive in all the places Buffy touched him.
**
end
Fandom/Pairing: Buffy the Vampire Slayer; Buffy/Spike
Rating: PG
Words: 1,376
Summary: Sometimes he wishes she would hit him instead of smile at him, just for old times' sake, just to make things simpler for them both.
A/N: Takes place in s7, between “Get it Done” and “Storyteller”
**
Spike’s down in the basement, just lying on the cot and staring blankly at the ceiling, when the cellar door creaks open and the pitter-patter of little Slayer-feet make their way down the steps.
When Buffy gets to the landing, she doesn’t say anything, just stands on the bottom step for a moment, looking exhausted. She's dressed for bed -- soft grey pajama pants and a thin white tank -- and it makes his chest hurt, the way she looks like such a normal girl.
After a few seconds, she looks over at him with a soft half-smile, the kind that she seems to save only for him these days. Even if he lives another few centuries, he'll never understand how she can look at him like that, after everything he's done. Sometimes, he wishes she would hit him instead of smile at him, just for old times' sake, just to make things simpler for them both.
“So,” he finally says, just to say something. "What brings you down to the land of the un-living?”
“Potentials stole my bed,” she says, like she can't believe it, like it's the most insane thing she’s ever heard. More insane than vampires and demons and soul-searching idiots who’ve always been fools for love.
“Sorry, love,” he says, not really sure what she’s looking for from him right now. This time last year, he would have joked with her about going up there and wiping a few of them out, but after the last couple of weeks…well. It’s not quite as funny as it could be, yeah? Can’t imagine she’d find much humor in him threatening to massacre a roomful of innocents, even if she's looking at him with soft eyes and her mouth's still curled up in that sweet, gentle smile.
“’S okay,” Buffy shrugs, like she’s not expecting anyone -- especially not him -- to actually be able to fix her problems. She walks over to the cot and sits down lightly in the empty space next to his hip. She's so warm and solid next to him, and before he can stop himself, Spike moves a little closer to her. Moth to a bloody flame.
“You could sleep here,” he tells her, which maybe the stupidest thing he’s ever said. And, considering some of the daft idiocy that’s come out of his mouth over the past century and a half, is really saying something.
But Buffy doesn’t call him on it, just makes this low humming noise in the back of her throat and then leans forward, her arm brushing his, her soft golden hair ghosting across his shoulder.
“Cot’s kind of small for both of us,” she says carefully, glancing at him sidelong and running her hand across the rumpled blue sheet. The corner of her mouth quirks up in a wry almost-smile. "But I think we could manage."
“Buffy,” Spike says, swallowing hard. She’s very, very close to him right now and she smells nice, like laundry detergent and girl.
It's quiet in the basement, the silence stretching between them. And then, before he quite registers what’s going on, Buffy's swinging her legs up on the bed and moving so that she’s laying next to him, her back to his front. He’s still kind of half-sitting up, which means there’s barely any room for her, so he lies down awkwardly, trying to make space for her.
His back is pressed flush against the wall, the soft planes of Buffy's body pressed snug against him and, of course, he’s hard after a couple of seconds, his body betraying him just as it always has.
He tries to move away, but the sodding cot’s a tight squeeze, and there’s nowhere for him to go. He feels Buffy’s heart speed up when she notices, the blood racing in her veins and her breath coming fast and shallow.
“Spike,” she says very quietly, so low he wouldn’t be able to hear it if he were a normal, human person. He expects her to sound disgusted or angry, but she doesn’t. She sounds kind of wistful, and she moves even closer to him, so that they’re touching everywhere, fitting together as bloody perfect as always.
He moves his hand a bit, so that it’s resting against her hip, and she inhales sharply. After a couple of seconds, she reaches over and puts her hand over his, trailing her fingers over his wrist. Her skin is so hot against his that it feels like their hands are on fire, and her heart’s beating so hard that he can feel it all throughout his body. He just misses her so much these days.
He’s trying to think of something to say when the basement door bangs open, the sounds and scents of God-knows how many baby-slayers invading his space and ruining everything.
“Buffy!” someone yells from upstairs. Spike thinks it might be Kennedy and, from the way Buffy sighs, he guesses he’s probably right. “Buffy! Seriously! We need you up here!”
The door slams shut and Buffy takes a deep breath, the exhaustion and annoyance practically radiating off of her. She leans her head back against his chest, and her skin is hot through the thin fabric of his shirt. Spike takes a deep, unnecessary breath.
“Sometimes I wish I could just stay down here with you forever,” she tells him, sounding sleepy and sincere. Her body is soft and boneless against his, her defenses down.
Spike goes incredibly still. Time was, hearing her say something even close to that would have him dancing a bloody jig, his black, soulless heart basking in the glory of victory. Now though -- with the soul forcing him to hear the sadness in her voice, to feel the exhaustion in her body -- it just makes him feel depressed and more alone than he’s been in a hundred years or more. Damned, bloody soul.
“Yeah,” he finally manages. His mouth is pressed up against the delicate skin of her neck, and the scent of her is everywhere. “Me too, pet.”
She moves then, rolling over so that they’re face to face. In the dim light of the basement, her eyes are dark, a hint of green flashing bright around giant black pupils. She was right, the cot is small, and her whole body is pressed against his, the swell of her breasts flush against his chest and Spike can’t help the useless breath that catches in his throat.
“I’m glad you’re back to being you,” she whispers, her lips brushing against his. She’s wearing lip gloss, something sticky and sweet that tastes like cherries, and something in Spike’s chest tightens.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the silhouette of his coat, draped across the table in the center of the room, a black, hulking shadow even in the darkness.
Upstairs, something crashes loudly to the floor, and the high-pitched yelling of ten little girly voices fills the air.
Buffy closes her eyes and sighs, her breath warm against his face, and for a moment, Spike remembers what it felt like to really breathe, all the things wrapped up in that little involuntary movement, one that he can’t seem to shake no matter how long he’s been dead. But then she’s pushing herself up, getting to her feet in one slayer-fast move, her body tense and alert, and the feeling’s gone.
Spike doesn’t stop her, just watches her walk up the stairs, staring at the hard lines of her back.
Right before she gets to the top few steps, while she’s still in view, she turns back to him, giving him another half-smile, this one a little sadder than the first. The circles under her eyes are dark purple and they make the green of her eyes look all the more brilliant and alive.
They stare at each other like that for a few beats, neither one of them saying anything, and then she’s gone, door closing softly behind her, leaving Spike alone in the dark.
He lies on the cot for a while after that, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the voices of so many innocent young girls chattering on above him, his skin still warm and humming and almost-alive in all the places Buffy touched him.
**
end