Author: Kat Lee
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Rating: Strong PG-13/T
Challenge/Prompt: nekid_spike Spike's Valentine
Word Count: 2,016
Date Written: 24 February 2017
Disclaimer: All characters within belong to Whedon, not the author, and are used without permission.
"C'm' here," Spike hisses, suddenly grabbing Buffy's elbow as he walks pass her. Buffy's green eyes widen a little with surprise, but she knows he's had enough of all the mushy mess around them today. It seems like everybody's celebrating Valentine's Day, everybody but them. He hasn't said one word about the holiday, and she has to admit, if only to herself, she hasn't either.
"What is it?" she asks as he presses her against a wall of her home after they're a good distance away from the others. If her mother could only see her now, she thinks, she would so freak. Not only is she letting a Vampire live in their home, but here she is letting him throw her against the wall of their house where anybody passing by can see them. Her mind flashes back to the nights shortly after her resurrection and their love making . . .
No, she thinks, he was right. It was never love making on those nights. It was always about who could screw the other's brains out the fastest and hardest and live them panting in a miserable, gasping, and sweating heap for more. Her cheeks burn with the recollection, but he doesn't seem to notice. He's too busy taking something out of his duster.
She freezes when Spike removes a small, black box from the inside pocket of his leather jacket. Her eyes shoot wide, going wild with fear she won't admit aloud, as she stares at the ring box. She swallows hard, her palms sweating. She knows he can hear her heartbeat racing. "Hum, Spike," she murmurs, licking her lips nervously. She's all too aware of how his dark blue eyes focus on her tongue running over her flesh.
He's not nervous at all, she notes, as he growls softly, "Relax, Slayer," and begins to approach her again. She presses closer against the wall, but there's nowhere to run without making herself look like a coward. How can he not be at least a little bit nervous?! she wonders, wide eyes skirting around them in search of an escape route. Is he that sure of her answer?!
And how is she going to answer him?! How can he be so cocky and sure of himself and her answer when she isn't even sure of it herself?!
He's not looking at her, she suddenly notices as he steps closer again. He's staring at the box with a very thoughtful expression on his face. He almost looks like he's getting ready to go off on one of Angel's monthlong broods. Maybe he isn't as sure of himself, or her answer, as she thought. Strangely enough, that thought assures her a little as her heart rate begins to return to normal.
"I've spent Valentine's Day just about every way there is," he starts to speak again but still doesn't raise his eyes to meet hers, "except with a good woman who loved me. I'm not asking you to say you love me. I know you're not ready for that. I haven't earned it yet." If I even can, seems to hang unspoken between them.
"But I had to get you something, and I wanted it to be the right thing. I wasn't going to bore you with my bloody poetry. I know how horrible it is." His soft admission seems to make her relax. She opens her mouth, ready to tell him that she might not mind a poem or two from him (She's considered it before and is actually honestly curious to see what he would write for her.), but shuts her mouth before she can speak. She doesn't want him thinking that she looks at their relationship as more than sex, even if they both already know he does.
"And I also couldn't get you a bleeding heart -- literally, I mean. I've done that before, you know." Shivers crawl across her skin as his eyes finally flick up to hers. He's no longer proud of that fact, she can tell from his haunted gaze. It's one of the many things he would have crowed about when she first met him, but now he admits the deed shyly, quietly, as though it's a great big secret he'll admit only to her. Once more, she softens.
His eyes lower again as he continues softly, "Gave Dru a heart that was still beating out of a male virgin's chest once. She liked that, but you're not the type. And I'm not that type either any more, because of you. Thing is, Buffy, you're not like any girl I've courted before, and not just because you're the Slayer. You're better than any of them," he says, raising his eyes back up to hers, "and you make me want to be better than I've ever been. I know you don't believe me. I know part of you still thinks I'm this twisted Vamp with a penchant for Slayers and you're constantly telling yourself not to believe my lies."
"But they're not lies, and one day I'm going to prove that to you. One day I'm going to show you that you are making me a better man. I'm gonna surprise everybody we know, but they're not what matters. Hell," his dark lips twist into a wry, self-depreciating smirk, "I might even surprise myself, but that doesn't matter either. What matters is doing what you want me to do." His eyes flash a warning. "To an extent, o' course. I'm not gonna do the bloody dishes or anything like that."
His comment breaks laughter from her soft, pink lips. He looks at her in surprise. "Think that's funny, eh, pet?"
"Spike," she smiles truthfully at him, "what are you trying to say?"
"I want to give you this ring, Buffy, as a reminder, not as a promise that you'll marry me one day or you'll ever be mine. I keep trying hard, harder than you know, but I know I'll never really deserve you. I don't expect you to ever fall in love with me." Those simple words coupled with the honesty she sees in his eyes and on his handsome face make the Slayer's insides melt. Her mouth opens, prepared to tell him something she's not yet ready to say, to make a confession that scares her to her very core, but she remembers herself just in time and shuts her mouth quickly.
"It's a reminder," he says, "that even in this dark world, you shine a light not just as the Slayer but as you yourself. Seeing your heart, seeing the way you love, makes me want to be a part of your world and to be better than I've ever been before, even as a human before I was turned. And I know I'm not the only one. You save lives every night, Buffy. Hell, you save the world more often than not. But what you're not aware of is the light you shine and the way you make others around you feel. I hope," he says, popping open the box, "that when you look at these wings attached to this heart you'll remember that light means a lot of good things to a lot of good people and to some not so good people."
"And I want you to remember," he continues, rushing on before she can make a comment other than the soft gasp that breaks from her lips at the beautiful, shining, silver ring, "that one of those people is me. I'll never deserve you. You'll never love me. But I'll always keep trying to be a man you could love." Once more, she almost tells him. Once more, she stops herself just in time, biting down on her bottom lip to silence the words swelling up from her heart -- or is it just her imagination? Her compassion? She can't love him! Even he admits that he's a monster unworthy of her love, but it's so hard to picture the humbled man before her as a monster.
"And I'll always be here for you. I'll do whatever I can to help you, rather it's making you feel alive or helping you in battle or . . . or . . . just whatever you need," he concludes, knowing he's ready to die for this woman if ever she should need him to. He shrugs. "And the ring's made of pure silver, so who knows? It might even help in a fight one day."
Buffy shakes her head as he finishes, staring, wide-eyed, at him. A thousand words tumble through her mind, but she's not ready to say any of them yet. She watches as Spike removes the ring from the little box and steps closer to her still. "May I?" he asks gently, lifting her hand. She blinks, suddenly aware that her eyes have become moist. She's always thought of him as a monster, but there's a part of him that's more a gentleman than any one else she's ever known. That part is bared before her tonight.
Wordlessly, she nods her head. He slips the ring onto her finger, and as his hand lingers around hers, a thought flashes through her mind. She almost wishes the ring was more than a promise ring. She almost wishes . . . She almost wishes it was his ring, meant to be a symbol of their entwined hearts forever. She blinks rapidly, pushing away the mushy sentimentality. He is still a monster after all, isn't he?
Yet as she stares into his dark, honest eyes tonight, she seems unable to find any sign of the monster she's known him to be for as long as he's been in her life. Tonight, she sees only the man -- the man through whose soulful eyes pain flashes as he forces himself to turn away from her. "Spike?" she finds herself calling out for him.
He whirls back around on his boots. "Yeah?" he asks softly.
"Maybe I am," she says quietly, making an admission of her own for them both to hear. "Maybe not forever. Maybe not even more than just tonight. But maybe right now, for this Valentine's Day, I am yours."
Now it's his turn to have a thousand words tumble through his mind as he gently caresses her soft cheek with the back of his hand. She shivers again, but this time, the shivers are from his touch, not his words, and this time, they're all good. They're all delicious, and they make her want more of his touch, and of him. "I'd like that," he admits softly, "very much. It's more'n I deserve."
She cracks a grin. "I used to remember thinking I didn't deserve the bad things I got. I didn't deserve the calling of the Slayer or having my life constantly trashed with Vamp-- " She pauses. " -- because of my calling," she concludes. "But who's to say what any of us really deserve? A man once taught me not to be afraid to reach for what I want and to ignore what others thought about what I wanted for myself."
He grins. "Wonder who that bloke was?" His eyes sparkle, and finally, she lets herself go with another laugh. The sound is musical to him, one of the best sounds he's ever heard -- seconded only by Buffy telling him that she is his, even if only for tonight.
"I know it's corny," she admits softly, gazing up into his beautiful eyes, "but . . . be my valentine?"
"Always, Slayer, always," he returns, his voice gentle and filled with hope for more, but he won't ask her. He won't ask for any more not tonight or tomorrow night or any night until he can no longer stand it, or she's ready to give it, whichever comes first. He wraps his arms around her, sheltering her from the lives they both live if only for one night, and presses his lips to hers. His passionate kiss makes her feel more alive, more wanted, and more loved than she's ever felt before.