Anyway, fic! Missing scene, S9 #1. Spike puts Buffy to bed and muses on his inability to let her go. I write too much Spuffy. There was this Wishverse BA thing I was going to do, but then the comic came out and I got too distracted. Oh well. :/
Lips soft against his, little pants and moans escaping her mouth every time he dives in, arms wrapped so tightly around him that he’d be having trouble breathing if that were a consideration…it’s the same as it’s always been. Except that this time, her breath is rancid from alcohol and vomit, her bed has been used for some drunken revelry that he can smell unfortunately well, and Willow’s eyeballing him sternly from her vantage point near the doorway.
“Take her to bed, kay? She’s going to need it after…you know.”
He’d almost been touched by the fact that Willow seemed to trust him with her friend, and had offered her the smirk to acknowledge it; but then Buffy had tackled him, thrown him against the doorframe like she hadn’t done in years, and smashed her lips to his. And he’d been lost again.
It occurs to him now that he’s probably lost Willow’s trust for good now, but he can’t seem to find the strength to shove Buffy away, not when she’s kissing him with the sloppy tenderness of a drunk-with-feelings. Only when she finally pauses to wipe off her mouth and drops to the ground to unload on his boots- wouldn’t be the first time- does he remember his initial task.
“Down, Slayer,” he cautions her, snatching a discarded men’s shirt from the bed and using it to mop at his boots. “Bedtime.”
She pouts. “I’m fun-Buffy tonight! Can’t stop partying until the party’s over!” A frown creases her forehead. “I still have a buzz. All buzzed. Buzzy? Buffy,” she corrects herself, smiling with satisfaction.
“Party’s over,” he lies. A loud cheer erupts from the next room, and he slams the door shut before she can peer over his shoulder.
She’s on her tiptoes when she topples over against him, straining to find the crowd past his shoulder. “Then why are you still here?” she demands, wobbling backwards to fall onto the bed. “Fun-Buffy is vampire-free Buffy. All normal, all the time.” She squints at him. “’Cept I invited you. I should probably…”
He doesn’t see it coming, not even after her amorous attack on him earlier, and when her shirt comes flying off and hits him in the face, he’s so taken aback that he can only stare at her befuddled face.
Her skirt follows, then a thong he instinctively sniffs before it drops to the ground, and then she’s grinning at him with what might have been a frighteningly seductive smile. “Spi-ike…” She crooks a finger. “C’mere.”
He stares. Swallows. Then musters up whatever willpower he still has and turns her to lie on her back on the bed, his fingers brushing against her breasts as he pulls her blanket over her.
“Lips first,” she whines, wriggling against his hands. “Gimme them.”
“I don’t think so,” he retorts, but he can’t help but brush another kiss against her pouting lips before he pulls away, pressing his hands against her stomach to keep her down.
“More.” She closes her eyes, abruptly morose. “Spike?”
“I feel funny.” He tenses for another spray of sickness, but she’s asleep a moment later, her head pressed against his thigh and a hand flung over him.
And there she is: Buffy Summers, once proud slayer and general of legions, reduced to nothing more than a partying co-ed determined to drown her troubles in alcohol. It should leave him unimpressed and dissatisfied. He’s not her adoring toy anymore.
Instead he’s still drawn to her like a moth to a flame, helpless to escape the girl at his side. There’s pity, yes, and more than a little frustration with her. And if it only stopped there, he’d finally allow himself some peace. Some allowance to move on.
Except it doesn’t, and it never will, will it? He might eschew the very idea of resuming any sort of relationship with her, or relegate himself to friend and grant himself much-deserved freedom, but he’s never going to escape Buffy’s orbit. Never going to forget what she is for him- how she’s the reason he’s redefined himself, how she’s affected him and changed him and given him a reason to love them both, how she’s always going to be it for him, regardless of what happens next. He’s tried to escape her and succeeded only as long as he hadn’t seen her face, and now that he’s here with her, he knows that it’s a lost cause. He can lie and summon up all the bluster in the world, but he’s not going to go anywhere again. Not while she remains in this world, no matter how detached from reality she might be right now.
She mumbles his name in her sleep and he can’t stop himself from smoothing away her hair clips and letting his fingers dance through silky golden hair, his gaze soft on her finally serene face. He’s trapped in a prison of his own making, he knows. It isn’t her fault, and she’s done nothing to encourage it.
But if he were capable of it (he really, really isn’t), he’d hate her for it regardless.
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