Chapter 6
Buffy rolled over in bed, her body’s alarm clock telling her, “Time to escape,” as usual. It was four in the morning and she was exhausted, but Spike asked her to wake him up before she left, so she would. However, Spike wasn’t in bed…in fact, by the cool feel of the mattress, he hadn’t been in bed for a while. She sat up and rubbed her eyes, searching the dark room for him. As her mind slowly woke up, she could make out the faint sounds of his voice echoing through the loft. She wrapped the crisp white bed sheet around her body and walked past the small partition that separated his bedroom from the rest of the flat and crept out, realizing the closer she got to him that he was on the phone. His voice was low, probably to keep from waking her, but the tremor in his mumbling showed signs of distress. She stood back when she saw him standing naked in the kitchen with his back facing her, head hanging low as he scribbled something down on a piece of paper.
She leaned against the wall a few feet away, frowning as she listened to him.
“I know,” he said softly and sighed. “Just tell me the name of the place. Dad, you can’t do this right now, I’ll take care of it.” He nodded as if the person on the line could see him and started writing. “Dad…the name of the funeral home. Yeah…I remember.” He was silent for a moment and she saw the muscles in his back tense and then shake as he started sobbing quietly. “Is she…I mean…I know you don’t want to talk about it now! I don’t either, but we have to figure out…I’m sorry…sorry I yelled at you.” He wrote something else down and let out a shaky sigh. “And you’re sure that’s what she wants? Then that’s what we’ll do. I’ll call you tomorrow once I’ve organized everything…Dad? I love you.” Spike leaned over the counter and practically laid down on it, curling one arm around his head protectively. “Ok, no…I’m ok. I’ll call tomorrow.”
Buffy stood like a deer in headlights, feeling as if she’d walked in on something incredibly personal as Spike sank to the ground and started crying. He hadn’t realized she was there yet and her heart broke at the sight of him. Without even thinking, she walked into the kitchen, opened up the bed sheet, sat down beside him and wrapped them both up in the thin cotton. He never even looked at her, never opened his eyes but he instantly curled up against her, clutching her so tight she almost couldn’t breathe but she didn’t complain, didn’t say a word. She wrapped her arms around his head protectively, resting her cheek in his hair and tried to soothe him, though it was fruitless. So she just let him cry, let him cling to her like a life line until he’d exhausted himself and fell asleep in her arms, wrapped in a sheet, lying on the kitchen floor.
~*~*~*~*~
Spike didn’t remember going back to his bed, didn’t remember much of anything except the phone call. His mother. Spike’s heart clenched as he stared at the ceiling and he screwed his eyes shut, trying to ward off his tears. It was near impossible to do, but he had so many things to take care of that day and no amount of crying was going to change that. As he sat up, he remembered Buffy coming to him, comforting him. But she wasn’t in bed with him and he felt rage boiling inside. Had she really left after that? Had he scared her away when things got too real, or was she planning on leaving anyway but felt obligated somehow to help him when she found him in that state?
Scowling, he flung the sheets off of him and put on a pair of jeans. He couldn’t think about Buffy, not now. Not when his mother was dead, not when he had to get a plane ticket, drive to a funeral home and order her body to be cremated. “You selfish bitch,” he muttered under his breath, angry at her, angry at himself for thinking they’d finally gotten somewhere, angry at his father for being too weak to handle…and then he felt awful. There was no way his father could handle the arrangements for his mother’s funeral; wasn’t fair of him to be angry. But he needed to blame something…and that blame was currently being placed on Buffy.
She’d left.
He’d shown her every part of him, the love he could give her, the pain he felt when she only wanted him for a quick fix, his tears and agony the night before when she’d coddled him like a little boy. And she was gone…after all of that, she still left him. It was bloody typical, if you asked him, and he should have known better. In a small way, he was grateful for the rage. Grateful because it kept his mind focused on something other than the fact that his mother was dead.
It still hurt.
But as Spike walked into the main room of his loft, his eyes stung with tears for a different reason. He stood still, unable to breathe, eyes wide in awe. She was here, looking like an angel in the kitchen, phone tucked between her cheek and shoulder as she scrambled some eggs. She’d packed him a suitcase, a suitcase that was laying next to the front door.
“Oh, my VIN number…can you hang on a sec?” Buffy set the spatula down and opened up her wallet, pulling out a credit card. “Sorry, I have the main number memorized and you’d think three more numbers wouldn’t be a big deal,” she giggled. “Ok, it’s 599. Yup. He’ll be checking in this evening. Oh, and do you have a car rental company you can direct him to? Great! And just put everything on my card. Thanks, bye!” She pressed the off button on her cell and continued her work at the stove, unaware that Spike was standing behind her.
He saw that she’d added a few things to his notes, flight information, departure time, a hotel name…and his wallet was suspiciously laying on the counter. He scratched his head and cleared his throat. Buffy gasped and turned around, clutching her chest. “Oh my god, you scared me.” He smiled softly and simply stared at her. She waved the spatula awkwardly over the skillet and said, “Um…are you hungry? You didn’t have much in the fridge so I just…I mean, I hope this is–”
Spike grabbed her by the cheeks and kissed her hard. He wrenched the spatula away from her hand and set it down, wrapping his arms around her waist when she linked hers around his neck. He pulled away and buried his face in her neck, sighing raggedly. She stroked his back. “Thank you.” He held on to her for a moment longer before reluctantly pulling away. “Eggs look good.”
Buffy smiled sadly at him, knowing he was trying for small talk when he was obviously on the verge of tears. “I made toast.”
Spike pulled out two plates and scooped up a serving of eggs for both of them, grabbing the toast that popped out of the toaster. “Stealin’ my money, are you,” he said with a slight smile as he pointed to his wallet.
She grabbed her plate from him and followed him to the breakfast table as she said, “Couldn’t get you a ticket without your information. I-I’m sorry, I wasn’t prying or anything, I was just trying to help.”
He set his plate down and sighed. “I was joking, pet. I’m not…doing a good job of it right now.” She squeezed his hand and nodded.
They both sat down and she propped her cheek on her fist as she stabbed at her eggs. “So,” she said awkwardly, wanting to keep the conversation light, “William Pratt, huh?”
“Yup. Good ol’ Willie.”
“You look like a Spike.”
“Feel like a Spike.”
She giggled quietly and took a bite of her eggs, frowning as she noticed he was merely staring at his plate. “You should try to eat.”
“Yeah,” he shook his head and picked up his fork, “sorry…just…” He gave her a lopsided grin. “Life…bullshit…fucking life. Cheers,” he finally said, raising his fork to his mouth and taking a bite. It tasted awful. Not that she hadn’t done a good job, she had. Even put bits of basil in with it. But it was tasteless, like cardboard in his mouth. He ate as much as he could so he wouldn’t hurt her feelings. She’d done it for him, made him breakfast, so he’d put on a show. He was grateful, after all.
“You never told me your Dad lives in Toronto.” She’d looked over his scribbling and put two and two together.
“You never asked,” he said flatly.
Buffy’s eyes darted to the table and she set her fork down, stuffing her hands between her knees. “I guess I didn’t.”
Spike clenched his jaw, kicking himself internally when he realized how she’d taken it. He reached for her hand. “Buffy, I’m sorry…I didn’t mean…”
“It’s ok,” she said softly.
“No, it isn’t. I’m just…I’m out of sorts right now. An’ I can’t bloody eat this.” He stood up abruptly, grabbed his plate and walked to the kitchen. Buffy closed her eyes and followed him, taking her plate with her. They both dumped their unfinished breakfast in the trash and Spike clutched the side of the sink, bowing his head. When he spoke, she knew he was crying again. “Fuck this…”
“Hey, come here,” she said quietly, turning him to face her and wrapped her arms around his neck.
His hands dug into her waist, furious with himself for crying again, but she held tight and allowed him to let it out. She was so warm and pliant, molding against him perfectly. He focused on that, focused on her…needing something to pull him out of his despair. He didn’t want to cry around her, didn’t want her to feel sorry for him. He needed to feel her skin, her breath, her life. He pressed his lips against hers, sighing into her mouth when she reciprocated. Spike’s fingers raked into her hair, clutching her face as he kissed her desperately, moaning when she unzipped his pants. She knew.
He pressed her against the counter and palmed her breast through the thin fabric of her dress, resting his forehead against hers as he squeezed his eyes shut. Buffy hopped up onto the counter and tugged him towards her, kissing his neck, his cheeks, stroking the back of his head and pulling his cock free from his jeans with her other hand. He pushed her dress up around her waist, breathing heavily as he buried his face in her throat. She wiped the tears from his cheeks and kissed him again, massaging his tongue with hers, softly moaning when his hand came between her legs and dragged the crotch of her panties aside to touch her with slow, reverent strokes.
As he kissed a path from her mouth, to her cheeks, to her slender neck, he positioned himself at her entrance, wetting the tip of his cock by sliding it up and down her folds before thrusting in gently, exhaling and wrapping his arms around her waist when he was fully seated inside her. They stayed motionless, holding one another closer, content with feeling this connection. It wasn’t about release, wasn’t about getting off. It was pure sensation, pure need. Spike’s arms were banded around her tiny form in a tight grip, hanging on to the last bit of sanity he had left. She was anchoring him to reality, keeping him safe, keeping him grounded.
He moved inside of her shallowly, not wanting to leave the warmth of her sex, but needing the friction all the same. She stroked his hair, kissed his eyelids, his lips, his Adam’s apple, reached behind her and linked her hands with his, lifting her hips slightly as he filled her. He stared into her eyes, uncaring that he’d bared his soul to her, wanting to see her affection, not her pity. He was filled with too many emotions, too much going on, unable to register the glint in her eyes that showed she cared, because she did. He closed his eyes…had to focus on the feelings, the slow build of his climax that was about to go off, the feel of her warm hands sliding up his back, her breath on his throat, her lips on his chest, her pure womanhood embracing him like a satin glove. He came seconds later with a restrained moan, holding her against him and kissing her behind the shell of her ear. He didn’t pull out until he’d softened completely, didn’t leave the warmth of her body until he could no longer stand.
~*~*~*~*~
“Your plane leaves at 12:30 so you should probably get going soon.”
“I know,” he said sadly. They’d been sitting on his couch silently. She’d asked if he wanted to talk about it and all he could do was hold her hand. She seemed content with this and didn’t push him. He was just grateful for the quiet.
“I booked a one-way ticket. I didn’t really know how long you’d stay so…you’ll have to purchase one to come back.”
He smiled and squeezed her hand. “Didn’ have to do all of that.”
“I know,” she stared at their hands.
“An’ you didn’ have to pay for it, either. Famous artist, remember,” he tried to joke.
She shrugged her shoulders. “So, pay me back if you feel like it. But I don’t care, really.”
He sighed, rolling his head on the back of the couch. How had all of this happened? Of course, no one ever anticipated a death of a loved one, even though his mother had been sick for some time. But you never really expected it, not really. “Sure you don’t want to go?”
In all honesty, Buffy was afraid of leaving him on his own, but the thought of traveling to Toronto, meeting his grieving family, going to a funeral for a woman she didn’t know…well, it was a little frightening. On top of that, she had two jobs the following day, both of which she’d been counting on to help jump start her photography. She’d been anxious to have a showing of her work and these two clients had their hands in just about every gallery in New York. Canceling might possibly ruin everything she’d worked for. But the expression on his face, the desperation there…it made her heart ache. “I’m sorry, Spike. You should be with your family, though.”
He nodded. “Probably wouldn’t be much fun.”
“If I could go…I wouldn’t go to have fun, Spike,” she said with a twinge of hurt in her voice. Did he really think…
“I’m sorry,” he said shaking his head. “You’ve done more than enough already…I’m sorry.”
She stroked his cheek and smiled warmly. “I think you get a free pass for at least a week. No need to apologize.”
He kissed her on the cheek and stood, gathering a few things to put in his pockets. “You’ll um…you’ll be here when I get back, right?”
Her chest tightened and her eyes stung. He tried to be nonchalant, but she knew what he was asking. She’d never done this before, never really cared about another person like this until now. She didn’t know what would happen tomorrow, didn’t know where things stood between them or really what she could give. But she wasn’t heartless…and she couldn’t deny him anything when he looked at her that way. “Well, I won’t be here-here, as in…not in your loft. But…yes.”
He sighed in relief and grabbed his passport and his luggage, both of them walking to the door. “Can I…can I call you? I mean,” he shook his head, “nevermind. You probably don’t want to hear–” she kissed him and smiled coyly at him.
“Stop. I’ll have my cell on me 24/7.”
His mouth twisted in a painful tight-lipped smile, fighting back another onslaught of tears. Those fucking tears! Turning away, he opened the door for her and they both walked out into the hallway, got in the lift and once out on the street, they hugged one another and said goodbye. She watched him get in his cab and drive off before she turned around and walked to the subway station. She already missed him.