Title:  Pillow Talk

Author:  Miss Murchison

Rating: NC-17

Disclaimer:  All characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc.  Only the lame plots and dialogue herein are mine.

Notes:  A Spuffy story that starts in early Season 6 before deviating from canon.   A slight change in circumstances, a different decision or two, and you wind up with very different results.

Thanks: To Keswindhover and revdorothyl for the beta.

The story begins here. A list of links to the individual chapters is here.

Chapter 29

I fell in love with him.

The thought echoed in her head, crowding out all other thoughts, just as the fear that accompanied it crowded out all other emotions.  She pushed on his chest, and fought free of his grasp.

"What?"  He looked around wildly, expecting an attacking demon. "What's wrong?" 

"I—I—"  The only words that entered her head were impossible to utter.  I didn't mean what I just thought.  I can't.  She backed away.

He repeated his question, now in frustration and anger instead of bewilderment.  "What the hell is wrong this time?"

She looked away.  "I can't stay."

"Bollocks!"  She dared a peek at him, wondering if he was going to grab her again.  But he looked beyond that, now.  He was moving away, zipping his pants and straightening his clothes, and not looking directly at her.  She peeked at his profile again.  His expression was savage.

And this surprises you why, Buffy?  One minute you're jerking him off, the next you're jerking him around.  For the second time in one day.   "I have to—"  No, I can't use Dawn as an excuse.  She's sleeping over at a friend's house.  "I have to go check on Willow.  Best friend's duty, you know."  She reached down, snatching up her axe and something else that she barely recognized. 

"Willow is out on the town with an ex-rat." His expression was unreadable.  That was never good.  She liked knowing what he was thinking, even if she didn't always like what he thought.

Her back was against the closed door of the crypt. "Oh, she told you too."  The words were out before she realized they were an admission of a lie. 

His expression didn't change, but he said, "So you did know.  I thought telling fibs was against those sacred principles of yours."  His tone hurt her because she could hear the pain in it. 

She thought about suggesting that staying with him might involve compromising some different principles, but she couldn't.  He'd earned more than a reflex insult.  "I just can't, Spike.  I'm not ready.  No, I'm not sure." Liar, liar, liar!

"Go, then."  He clipped the syllables so short they felt like physical blows.

"Okay." She turned and opened the door.

"Buffy."  No, please, Spike, no.  Don't ask again, not right now.  She looked over her shoulder.

But all he said was, "You were going to leave that thing with me."

She looked down at the bone she held.  She'd forgotten it, even though she was clutching it so tightly her fingers were growing numb.  It cost her an effort to loosen her grip enough to throw it at Spike. 

He caught it without taking his eyes from her face.

Meeting those eyes again had been a mistake.  It created just enough intimacy that she had to say something else before she left.  I never used to have any trouble turning my back and storming away.  She opened her mouth to say a quick goodbye but no words came out.  She closed it again and swallowed.  Maybe a joke?  Something to stop him from staring at me like that, even if it's to tell me how lame I am?

"See, I'm finally throwing you a bone, Spike."

She knew those had been the wrong words before they had time to fly from her mouth to his ear.  That they'd possibly been the wrongest words she could have said.  She took a step backward, half out the door, as if to run from his reaction.

It wasn't anything she expected.  If he'd been angry before, now he was furious.  But instead of going into one of his wild rages, full of words, gestures, and violence, he just stalked past her and jumped down into his bedroom. 

She stood alone, staring around his ridiculous excuse for a crypt, at his tattered furniture, ancient TV and fridge, and feeling like she'd fallen into a pit of desolation.  How could even I be stupid enough to mess a relationship up this much?

She had to fix this.  Now.  Because a man who looked like that might be gone forever by morning.  And because her panic over that thought had completely overwhelmed her panic of a few minutes earlier.

She clanged the crypt door shut again and jumped down after him, her eyes scanning the cave he used for a bedroom before she landed, her heart beating with fear that he'd already disappeared down one of the tunnels. 

But he was standing by an old dresser thing that he'd scrounged somewhere, pouring something from a bottle into a glass.  His glance barely flicked at her before he downed the drink and refilled the glass.  She was sure he'd had one or two before she'd managed to get down there.  Getting drunk at vamp speed.  Good thing it will take more than what's in that bottle.  I don't want to wait for him to pass out and get over a hangover to make this better.  It has to happen tonight.

"Go home, Slayer."  Another drink. 

"I'm sorry."  Apologizing to a demon is much easier than I ever thought it would be.  All you have to do is mean it.

"Go away." 

"No."

He whirled and threw the bottle at the wall.  "Get out!"

She flinched at his words and the sound of shattering glass, but didn't move.  Good.  That takes care of the alcohol.

He reached behind the dresser, which seemed to actually be a bar, and pulled out another bottle.

Okay, maybe not.  "Spike—"

He made eye contact with her at last.  "Do you think even a monster doesn't have limits?  I know I'm nothing more than a lap dog to use and amuse until you start worrying that I might bite after all.  But—"  His voice caught, as if the words choked him.  "Buffy, did you really think I didn't have enough pride left to care?  That you could rub my nose in it like—"  He picked up his glass and filled it with an unsteady hand, liquid splashing over his fingers.  "Get out."

Hold on, Buffy.  Don't panic.  We're reaching the arm-waving and speechifying stage, and you know how to handle that.  "I think a monster would have reached his limit long ago."   Her tone was as shaky as his. 

There was surprise in his eyes, but his jaw set, and he stilled.  His voice was level again when he said, "Well, now you know mine."

The finality of his tone almost made her run.  But she couldn't leave him here, looking like that.  Don't give up, Buffy.  This is Spike.  He can't stand on his dignity for long.  It slips out from under him after a few minutes and he's back to cursing and fighting. 

What if he does try to turn this into a real fight?

If he tries, I'll win.  She imagined the two of them slamming fists at each other, shoving each other against the walls and to the floor, until she tossed him on the bed, holding him down until the scent and feel of her overwhelmed his anger and turned it into passion.  She hesitated a moment.  The idea started her breathing hard.  And it would work.  She was sure of it.

No.  I broke this with words.  I have to fix it the same way. 

"I've fought for my limits, too, Spike.  I didn't know where they were, so I tried to draw them where I wanted them to be.  I wanted to be just a girl, an ordinary human girl, the kind of girl who wouldn't—"  Tears were choking her.  She brushed at her cheeks angrily; this crying was getting in the way of what she had to do.  "I'm not that girl, Spike.  I'm not sure what I am, but I know I belong here."

He shook his head slightly and looked away from her.  "I'm not buying this, Slayer.  You can tease me just so far and—" 

"And what I said was inexcusable.  I know that."

His back was turned, his voice anguished.  "If you know that, then why don't you bloody well leave?"

"Because you didn't.  You didn't, when you said you loved me and I said I could never love you back.  You stayed until you proved me wrong.  So I'm staying now."  That was easier to say than I thought it would be, too.  Still, her own words made her shiver.  I may still be wrong.  Wrong to feel this, wrong to admit it.

But walking away would be so much worse.

He gulped down the drink in his hand.  "You don't mean that," he said at last, but there was a catch in his voice.  It echoed with something that might have been hope.

"I do."

There was a long silence.  It's a good thing that I've become an expert at reading his back.  But I don't like what I see.  He's still got that wall up. 

Is this how he feels when I wall him out?

"Please, let me in, Spike."  Her voice was desperate.  Good.  Maybe a display of desperation will convince him.

His shoulder twitched, as if he were shrugging her words away. Damn him, I finally say it, and he's worked himself into such a rage he can barely hear me!

Keep talking until he listens.  "I couldn't say it if I didn't mean it.  You know that.  You couldn't even make me say it by chaining me up and threatening to kill me.  You know I would never say it unless it was true."

He didn't move or respond. 

Talking isn't working, and I don't want to fight.  What else can I do?

Desperate measures.  She sat down on the foot of his bed and started pulling off her boots.  She dropped them on the floor and yanked the tail of her shirt out of her slacks.

He'd turned around now and was staring at her.  "What are you doing?"

"I told you I was staying."  The slacks dropped to the floor to join her boots and shirt. 

"If you think all you have to do is—"  He gulped as her bra and underpants hit the floor.  When he went on, it was with an obvious effort.  "Five minutes ago, upstairs, you weren't sure you wanted to touch me."

"No, five minutes ago I was too afraid to admit why I wanted to."  She shivered, resisting the impulse to cover her breasts with her arms, to try to hide herself from him.  No more hiding.

That brought his gaze up to her face.  "Why you wanted to?"

"Yes, 'why.'  Come on, Spike, how easy was it for you to admit you loved me?  It's no easier for me.  Not admitting it to you.  To myself."  Her hand went to her forehead, and she gave an almost hysterical laugh as she realized tears were rolling down her cheeks.  I'm probably not making any sense now.  "I had myself going there for a while, pretending all I really wanted was sex.  But, no, that's not good enough for Buffy.  I have to go to extremes, and—"

She stopped then, because he'd dropped his glass and, as the sound of it shattering echoed in the cave, he stepped toward her, his expression telling her she'd finally used enough words.

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