Chapter Text
“I’m one step away from crashing to my knees,
I’m one step away from spilling my guts to you.”
Xander’s words echoed in Buffy’s ears as she ran through the streets of Sunnydale. Feet pounding the pavement, heart racing, heavy breathing as she rushed through the town, fury and frustration filling every vein.
She could faintly hear the hum of a helicopter, flying over the streets of Sunnydale. Probably carrying Riley away, far away from her. Good riddance, she thought; tinged with sadness. But only a little.
“I thought you should know.” Spike’s words were soft, his eyes sorrowful and full of… compassion? No, that can’t be right. Vampires can’t feel compassion. They can’t. Otherwise Angel…
The concrete turned to grass under her feet, the streetlights fading as she hit the graveyard. She knew the way like the back of her hand now, the labyrinth of headstones familiar. The clouds obscured the moonlight, only allowing the tiniest rays through, illuminating the cemetery in patches.
The door to the crypt slammed against the wall, wood hitting stone, the noise deafening in the otherwise quiet crypt. The vampire didn’t even flinch, didn’t even turn around; just stayed in his armchair, a bottle in his hand.
“Wondered when you were gonna show up, Slayer,” he murmured. “Heard you caused a bit of a ruckus at the den.”
“Why were you there?” There was no warmth in her voice; no warmth, all business.
“Just like that? Hello to you too,” Spike chuckled, still not turning around. He took a swig from the bottle in his hand and then thrusted it in her direction.
Buffy ignored the bottle but stepped further into the crypt, shutting the door behind her with another slam.
“Do you mind? If you lot keep slamming that door, I’m gonna have to get a new one,” Spike huffed.
“Spike, I’m really not in the mood for this crap. Why were you there?” Buffy had walked (stormed, really, honest) far enough into the crypt to see Spike’s face; his pale, but bruised face. Buffy nearly opened her mouth to ask ‘what happened’ but closed it, quickly. I don’t care what happened to him.
“What’s wrong? You concerned for me, Slayer?” Not quickly enough, apparently, judging from Spike’s words and his insufferable smirk.
Buffy didn’t reply, just glared at him. He held the bottle out to her again but she didn’t move. “Take a swig and I’ll tell you, Slayer,” he offered, eyebrows raised. She hesitated; but the events of the past 24 hours, the events of the past month weighed on her, difficult and exhausting. She took the bottle. Spike’s eyes widened, as if he hadn’t expected her to accept it before he smiled. Not a smirk, but a small, warm smile, eyes soft. Compassion? No, don’t be ridiculous.
The drink - scotch or whiskey or something - burned as it went down, and the powerful, formidable Slayer made a very dignified noise as she swallowed and Spike laughed.
“What’s wrong, Slayer? Never had a good drink before?”
Buffy didn’t answer that question, just passed the bottle back to Spike, a disgusted look on her face. He drank from the bottle, not even wincing at the taste - Buffy tried to ignore how that made her feel. Nothing - it made her feel nothing.
“I’m still waiting for an answer, Spike,” Buffy snapped, arms crossed, glaring expectantly.
He took a second swig, before holding it out to her again. She took the bottle gingerly, holding it in her hand - the glass was cool to the touch, despite it being held by him. Vampire, she reminded herself.
“Someone tipped me off that Riley was there. I thought you deserved to know,” Spike said.
“Why?”
Spike cocked his head to the side, eyebrows raised. “What do you mean, why?”
“Why would you tell me? Did you just want to see me be sad?” Buffy demanded, taking another swig from the bottle. Followed by another dignified noise.
“Bloody hell, of course not, Slayer! I figured you deserved to know - next time, I won’t bother,” Spike snapped, snatching the bottle out of her hands.
Buffy frowned, confused, gears turning. “But… I don’t get it.”
“What don’t you get, Slayer?” Spike asked; his voice was gruff but there was something underneath it; something that felt - almost raw.
“Why would you… be kind to me?” Buffy asked; she hated how small her voice sounded but it was the only way the words would come out of her mouth.
Luckily, or unluckily, depending on how you felt about it, vampires had excellent hearing. It didn’t matter that Buffy had practically whispered the words - she knew Spike heard her.
There was silence in the crypt for a minute or two; Spike took another, much longer swig this time before handing the bottle out to Buffy. She took the bottle gently, fingers grazing the vampire’s, without flinching. He glanced up at her, the blue of his eyes meeting hers. There it was again; compassion.
Spike dropped his eyes, looking down at his hands instead, fiddling with the chipped polish on his nails. In a way that Buffy thought was supposed to look casual and nonchalant, but it wasn’t very convincing. It almost seemed like Spike was… nervous? The big bad, Spike, leather trenchcoat, William the Bloody, violent and dangerous… nervous? No, that couldn’t be right.
“Didn’t deserve for you to be treated like that,” Spike muttered, talking lowly and quickly, as though the words hurt for him to get out.
Buffy stared, gears turning quicker and quicker. Compassion? Is that what that is? Is that what he’s feeling? I thought… The bottle was still in her hands and she took another swig, the burning feeling spreading even further; her head felt warm and almost fuzzy.
“Why… why do you care about how I feel?”
The silence stretched out in front of them. Spike didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t look at Buffy and Buffy couldn’t stop looking at Spike: his slicked back hair, practically radioactively coloured, his soft, warm blue eyes, high angular cheekbones. She started replaying the last few months over in her head - the dance, ‘one good day’, him sitting with her on the porch, his help with the queller demon - how he always seemed to be at her house, always seemed to be around - she didn’t want him there but yet, there he was, helping her. Why? Looking out for her, looking out for her family. But… why?
Spike still hadn’t responded when Buffy took a step forward towards the armchair; and then another, and another, until she was right in front of him. It was only now, close up, that she could see the bruise forming clearly; someone had clearly got him with a mean punch and… was his hand hovering over his chest? Was he hurt? Her hand, involuntarily, like it wasn’t being controlled by her, moved to place her hand over his. She could feel the soft fabric underneath - it was ripped, there was a hole in it, small but there.
Spike winced, grunting in pain as Buffy gently pressed on the area. Her hand shot away quickly, as though she’d been burnt.
“What happened?” She couldn’t hide the concern in her voice; Buffy wasn’t even certain she wanted to hide it.
“Nothing for you to worry about, Slayer,” Spike muttered, not meeting her eyes.
Buffy didn’t believe him but she also didn’t feel like pushing that particular issue. Not now. Not tonight.
“Spike… why do you care?” her voice was quiet, barely echoing in the crypt. He didn’t answer; Spike, the vampire that never stopped talking, was silent. His face turned upwards slightly, blue eyes bright and soft and warm, staring at Buffy with… with… compassion. There was no other word for it; nothing else it could possibly be. Spike felt compassion for her. He was capable of compassion - of course he was. How could he not be?
The bottle fell to the floor, the glass shattering, shattering the silence, shattering Buffy’s entire world, her understanding, everything she knew. Her head felt fuzzy and warm; liquid courage flooding her veins, desperation and heartbreak clouding her thoughts, silencing her rational mind. Who needs rational anyway?
Buffy placed her hands on either side of Spike’s face, his skin soft and cool to the touch; she just caught a glimpse of surprise and… hope? before she closed her eyes and pressed her lips to his. He tasted like whiskey and smoke and something… else, something she couldn’t quite place. There was no movement for a moment and then Spike’s hands flew to her waist, lips moving in time with hers, hands clutching at her like she was going to disappear at a moments notice. She was in his lap and he was kissing her, hands in her hair, hands on his shoulders, need and desperation, moans echoing through the crypt. Buffy pulled away, panting, needing to breathe. Spike barely let her move, pulling away from her lips only to graze her neck with his lips, gently; she could feel his breath, cold against her throat.
“Buffy,” his voice was low and filled with need. She closed her eyes; she couldn’t look at him, couldn’t admit what that word meant, how her voice sounded coming out of his mouth. She nuzzled into his neck, kissing up his throat, his jawbone, up to his lips. He yielded underneath her, mouth opening again, deepening the kiss, tasting the whiskey on her breath. Buffy wasn’t thinking about what they were doing; wasn’t thinking about the repercussions; she wasn’t thinking about anything except how good this felt. How it made her forget; about Mom, about Riley, about Glory… everything.
Spike moved his hands from Buffy’s hair, down to her shoulders and gently, so gently, pushed her away. Buffy opened her eyes, looking down at Spike; there was so much in that gaze but none of what Spike really wanted to see. Not that he ever expected to see it; not that he ever expected any of this.
“Buffy,” he murmured; hating himself for the words he was about to say. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”
The spell was broken; reality came crashing back down on Buffy like a meteor, brutal and harsh and painful. She scrambled out of Spike’s lap, practically diving across the crypt to get as far from him as possible.
“Spike, I-” Buffy didn’t even know where that sentence was going; she wanted to explain but she had no idea how she was feeling. She didn’t really understand what had just happened. Why had she done that? And… why did it feel nice?
“S’okay Slayer. You’ve had a fair bit to drink - I’ll walk you home,” Spike said, gesturing to the door. Buffy glanced at Spike but he didn’t look at her, eyes down at his feet. She nodded, feeling small and, now that he’d mentioned it, definitely a bit tipsy.
That’s all it was. I was drunk and… sad. I just wanted a bit of comfort. That’s all, Buffy’s thoughts went round in circles the whole walk home. They didn’t speak. They stayed a respectable distance apart. Buffy didn’t even think about Spike. Didn’t even think about his lips; how soft they were, how he tasted like smoke and whiskey, how much she wanted to do it again… No! Bad Buffy.
Revello Drive crept up on them before Buffy even realised; she barely even noticed her own front door until Spike cleared his throat.
“Well, bye… Slayer,” Spike said, gruffly, not looking at her. Buffy hesitated, hand on the door. Say something, her brain screamed. He was halfway down the drive, when he heard his name, soft and gentle in the moonlight. He turned back around, locking eyes with the Slayer.
“Thank you,” she murmured. Sincerity.
Spike smiled and nodded at her. “Get some sleep, pet.”