Author: Kat Lee
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Challenge/Prompt: faerie_wish13 March 2018: Spring and 1_million_words Monday Prompt: Rain
Word Count: 1,983
Date Written: 20 March 2018
Disclaimer: All characters within belong to Whedon, not the author, and are used without permission.
Spike stands, pads over to the window, and looks out. The Earth is still kissed by silver, but he can feel the moon beginning to flee. It rained last night, and there’s still raindrops sliding off the roof and splashing down below. The sun will be coming soon; he feels the warning of its deadly rays already in his bones. Not too long ago, he would have been tempted to stand here, pull the curtain to the side, and meet the sun as it rose. He would have been tempted to let himself turn to ash and not lift a finger to stop it.
But now he has a reason not to walk out into the daylight. He has a reason to stay up all night and fight, although -- he smirks -- they certainly didn’t spend last night fighting. He glances back at the bed behind him and the beauty who still slumbers therein, her long hair, that she grew back out because she knows he likes it that way, like a pool of gold beneath her. He smirks again, this time at himself. Maybe he does have a bit of that bad poet left in him after all.
He’d like to turn what he feels into words and perhaps even those words into music, but that’s a gift he lost long ago. The splashing raindrops sound almost like a soft, melodic rhythm beginning, but Spike knows better than to pursue that thought. He’s gone down that pathway many times and has yet to be able to write any proper verse for his Slayer. Maybe that’s because there are no words fit enough to describe her or how she makes him feel.
He looks back out into the lifting night. Spring is coming. He felt it last night after the rain on the air, and he feels it again now. It will be here soon. Winter is ebbing and taking the last of its cold and pains with it. Flowers will soon be blossoming and popping open. Baby and hibernating animals are going to be coming out of hiding.
He’ll soon have to start being a regular at the bars again, winning the kittens that Buffy’s helped make him see don’t deserve to be eaten. He’ll pass them on to Willow and Dawn. What those two do with all of them he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t want to know. Whatever their fate, he’s sure it beats being eaten.
He recalls that it’s said that the Earth sleeps during Winter. She hibernates until the Sun God awakens her, and then she rises to join with her Lord. Spike smirks again. He’s no god, though he used to like to think he could have taken one down during the day. He’s no god, but he does know what it feels like to suddenly be awakened from a long, deep sleep.
There are parts of him still surfacing, parts of his soul and mind still awakening and coming to realization now that the Demon that was placed inside of him is gone. He’d like to think the poet may yet come back, but the simple truth is that he never was any good at poetry even when he’d liked to pretend he was. No wonder Cecily and the whole, bloody village had laughed at him when he’d penned the girl a poem.
He couldn’t have gotten a miss back then unless he had thrown loads of money he hadn’t had at her, and now everywhere he goes, there’s another woman with an appraising eye watching him. Yet he wants none of them. The only one he wants is behind him and just beginning to wake. She’s going to think he’s brooding again, but he’s not. He’s reflecting instead.
His soul was like the Earth, slumbering and unaware of everything that had been happening around him while he’d been a Big Bad. It had started to awaken before the spell and the trials, before he’d gone and endured them all to earn it back and try to be a little more worthy of Buffy’s love, tried to have a chance of actually earning it. She was the reason he had began to awaken. It hadn’t just been her passion or their searing hot kisses that had stirred it to consciousness. It had been something then even in her touch, something in the way he’d caught her looking at him a few times. She had been his light, and she had warmed him to beginning to grow again. And just like the Earth coming out of Winter into Spring, everything felt better now.
It hadn’t at first, of course. He’d gone quite nuts with the memories of everything he had done and all the people he had slaughtered, but it was all in due course with becoming what he had been. He’d been a fool to ask for it, but then he hadn’t understood it. He hadn’t understood it until his mother had convinced him to kill her, and then what had been left of his humanity and his soul, what had been left of him, had gladly gone away. It had whimpered away into hibernation and had not began to lift its meek head again until it had felt the warmth of real love again.
What he and Drusilla had shared had been marvelous while it had lasted, but it hadn’t been real love. She wouldn’t have been constantly sleeping around with Angelus if she had ever truly loved him, and he never would have taken pleasure in hurting her in the ways she had sometimes wanted. She had wanted him to be cruel, not loving, but he had always been love’s bitch. Even when he’d hurt her, he hadn’t wanted to but had only been trying to do what his Princess wanted.
No, he hadn’t known real love until Buffy. She inspired and excited him on so many levels long before he’d realized what was happening between them. She had breathed life into him where before there had been only death. She had made him come to life, had made him return to himself. He’d fought hard to earn her, but simply having her had never been enough.
It hadn’t been until she’d chosen in a clear, mental state to be with him and not tried to hide their lovemaking or been ashamed of it that he had really felt alive. By earning back his soul, he had done so much. He had won himself back eventually, after she’d chased away the darkness and insanity. He has himself back, and though he can never deserve her, he has her love as well. He has everything he’d ever truly wanted!
“Spike,” Buffy calls out in a tired voice, “come back to bed.”
“‘M not brooding, pet.”
“Really?” Although his back is still to her, he can nonetheless see her brow arch as she asks the dry question in disbelief.
“Really,” he answers happily, his smirk turning into a genuine, beaming smile. “This is going to sound sappy as Hell,” he admits, dropping the curtain and walking back to her, “but I’m the luckiest bloke alive.”
“You’re right,” she says, her eyes sliding closed. “That is sappy.”
He shrugs, still beaming as he kneels beside her in the bed. “Said it was. But I’m not brooding.”
“Good. Now go back to bed.”
“I’m here -- “
“Spike -- “
“Sh. I’m not asking for a thing, luv, ‘cept to be near you and love you.” He starts with her feet and spends a good fifteen minutes rubbing and caressing them as Buffy slips in and out of sleep. Then he works his way up her shins and her thighs and reins in every impulse that roars inside of him to keep from paying very special, loving attention to her center. This is about making her feel good, about honoring her, and he’ll return to that area after a bit.
He places a chaste kiss on her core, then turns her over. She squeals in protest. “Spike! What are you doing?!”
“Loving you,” he answers calmly, his smirk returning, as he kneads her back. He works out the few muscles that are still tense. Slayers don’t keep bruises, much as Vampires don’t, but he knows every spot that bothers her, every spot where she’s been stabbed or shot or otherwise maimed. He gives it very special, loving attention now, smoothing her flesh, caressing her skin, and massaging every bone and muscle with which he comes into contact until she feels rather like a warm puddle of goo beneath his skilled hands. Her body is singing with her joy, and his answers it naturally.
Still, he takes his time. He rubs her shoulders and slowly turns her back around. Her eyes this time are full of consciousness and love, and he takes time to realize and appreciate all that that means. She’s awake, and she’s not being overrode by her hormones. She’s still choosing to be with him, to let him touch her, to let him take his time, to let him do this for her, for them both, and most of all, to love her. She may be cookie dough that’s not done baking, but he hopes with everything he possesses that when she does come to formation, she will still choose to him. Along the way, even if she ends up hating for whatever, at length, he fails to do or become for her, he’ll use everything he has to make her feel better, to make her life better, to make her know he loves her no matter what.
He caresses her breasts, his black fingernails running over her hard nibbles, the flat of her stomach, and her breasts again before moving up to her neck. Her willingness to give him her neck is never lost to him, and he feel her heartbeat pulsing against his pale hand as he bends down and kisses her, long and deep but slow and sensual. His tongue sweeps into her insides as he strives with all he has to tell her how much she loves him.
He’ll make love to her again and again today, but always with the same goal in mind. It isn’t just about maddening, fiery passion now between them. He wants her to know and never doubt for even one fleeting second how infinitely much she means to him, how thankful he is to her, and how much he will always, always love her alone. He can’t write the poetry, but he can make her feel it.
She pulls her mouth back from his, whispers that she loves him too, but he’s far from done. He covers her mouth again with his and continues to take his time, caressing every inch of her, massaging every spot that would be sore if it wasn’t for her superior healing abilities, and making damn certain that every inch of her feels every inch of the love he has for her. Even when she wraps her legs around him, urging him to go ahead and plunge deep inside of her, he takes his time, building her passion and making him feel all his love until, at last, when she does scream out at her loudest decibel with passion, he knows she’s felt his love and lets himself go, tumbling with her into the beginning of Spring, their future, their love, and all the joys both hold for them for the rest of her life.
And as he falls back down, Buffy curling into his arms, her joyfilled heartbeat filling his hearing, Spike smiles. Maybe he can’t write, but she’s still felt everything he wants her to feel if he does ever write a poem for her. This is far better anyway, he thinks, beaming proudly and happily, and kisses her again and again. There’s no need for words when actions do so gloriously after all.