Summary Buffy goes to the factory looking for answers. She finds one she doesn’t expect
Rating PG13
Disclaimer No South American goat suckers were harmed in the writing of this story.
Any injured copyrights were unintentional
Notes Written for Amberwaves2 in the Spuffy Ficathon.
She requested Post-"Lover's Walk" in which Buffy doesn't go back to Angel
and Spike fails to woo back Drusilla. They meet again at the factory.
Thanks to my darling Mydeira for tweaking this till it glowed.
Buffy looked around the dark, rank room slowly. She wasn’t even sure why she was here. She hadn’t been back here to the factory since the night Giles had set it on fire. The night Angel had killed Miss Calendar.
Maybe that’s why she was here. To remind herself what was possible, why her decision to end things with Angel was the right one.
So much had happened here, though. She could still smell the charred remains of that night, as well as the newer coppery scent of Cordelia’s blood, now weeks old. She looked under the stairs and found the stub of rebar the EMTs had cut off to take Cordy out, and the dark blossom where blood had soaked into the concrete. Buffy sighed. Three relationships were damaged that night, and only one seemed to be recovering from it.
Oz and Willow had made up, but were still tentative towards each other. Cordelia wasn’t as forgiving. Xander flinched whenever he saw her, but he seemed to welcome her insults, as though they were his penance. And Angel . . . well, Angel just looked at Buffy with hurt puppy dog eyes and said she was right. It didn’t make her feel any better.
She sighed again, moving around the room, touching objects as though touchstones to what might have been. She was surprised when she reached the dresser and found the remains of a dozen dolls, all neatly lined up in two straight rows. Broken china heads, smoke damaged silk and lace, ruined patent leather shoes, all carefully displayed. Buffy picked up one of the less damaged figures, straightening the singed blue satin and primping the head-curled horsehair braids.
“Dru wouldn’t take them with her after the fire,” a quiet British tenor came from the stairs behind her. She turned to see Spike standing there, watching her. “She said they had been naughty, gettin’ dirty like that. Didn’t deserve to come to a fine new home.”
Buffy turned back to the dresser as he came down the stairs. “There are so many of them.”
“Yeah, well, stuff builds up when you’re around that long. Some of them are from girls she . . . um . . .”
“Ate.”
Spike stopped next to her, glancing at her sidelong. “Yeah. And then I got her a few, and Angel . . .”
He seemed to read her sudden tension and stopped talking, just quietly reaching out a hand to trail a finger along this skirt or that head, perhaps remembering each.
She didn’t look at him as she asked, “What are you doing here, Spike?”
Her mild tone surprised both of them. Spike looked at her curiously. “Could ask you the same thing.”
Buffy set the doll back on the burnt out shell of the dresser before turning to face him directly. “But you didn’t. I thought you were going back to South America.”
“I did. Found Dru shacked up with a Chupacabra. You ever seen one of those things? All grey scales and quills.” He shuddered dramatically. “Finally realized that if that was the kind of thing she wanted, I might just as well give it up. You helped me with that.”
That surprised her. “I did?”
He nodded. “Saw you, workin’ so hard to make something work that just wasn’t going to, saw how miserable it made you, and knew that wasn’t for me. Life’s too short to waste it on things you just can’t control.”
“Especially my life.”
He looked at her again. “Well, yeah.”
Buffy let her eyes drift around the room. “I’m not seeing Angel anymore. It just . . . we couldn’t be together and we just couldn’t be friends. You were right.”
Spike shrugged his shoulders. “That happens sometimes.”
“I just, I don’t understand.” She faced him finally, frustration obvious in her posture. “I don’t understand how you can hardly know me and still know me so well.”
“You aren’t that hard to get a bead on, pet.” He studied her intently, and she realized she had never noticed before how blue his eyes were. “You’re a lonely girl with a hard job to do. You need love to make it easier for you, but it never does.” His eyes darkened, and he stepped closer to her, making her heart speed up. “You just haven’t found the right man who can be all things to you yet.” Almost of its own volition, his hand came up to caress her hair as gently as he had the delicate dolls.
Her breath hitched at his touch. “Why are you here, Spike?” she whispered, her eyes wide.
“I thought it was to say goodbye to the past.” His voice was richer, more cultured as he watched his fingers trail over her collarbone. “But maybe . . .”
She closed her eyes, leaning into his tender touch. “Maybe?”
The first touch of his mouth on hers surprised her even though she had expected it. His lips were firm yet surprisingly gentle, offering as much as he was demanding. She wasn’t even aware of when his arms went around her, drawing her closer to him, or when her own hands moved up to the back of his neck, breaking the hold of his hair gel to let soft curls tangle about her fingers. Their bodies fit together so perfectly, she found herself wondering distantly if they fit together as well in other ways.
The kiss went on and on, finally slowly evolving to a natural end as she tried to catch her breath, watching him study her as though this were the first time he’d ever seen her. “What was that?” she finally asked, still not taking her arms from around him.
“Inevitable.” And he dipped his head back down to kiss her again.