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67 Deliberations
 
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Chapter 67 - Deliberations

“Spike’s in love with me,” Buffy blurted, shutting her bedroom door.

“Um, okay…” Willow shifted from where she sat on the end of Buffy’s bed. “Since when?”

“Last night. Or, he told me last night. Sort of.”

“Um, okay…”

“He said it. He didn’t know I heard him,” she said, walking over.

“Oh.”

Buffy slumped against the headboard, only to bounce upright again a moment later.

“Buffy, are you not happy or something? I mean, you still like him, right?”

“Oh, we get along great. In fact, we’re perfect for each other. Except for, you know, all the killing,” she added sarcastically.

“Which you said he wasn’t doing right now.”

“Later. What am I supposed to do later? Keep making deals with him for the rest of my life? Such a great basis for a relationship, when I know the only reason my boyfriend isn’t out murdering people is because I’m paying him not to.”

“Okay, so there are some issues.” Willow rested her chin on her knees. “Maybe you should talk to him about it.”

“I’m not even supposed to know. How do I start that conversation?”

“Maybe he’ll say it again.”

“I guess.”

“So…do you, uh, love him?” Willow was looking at her expectantly.

“I can’t be in love with a killer.” There was a short silence.

“Maybe he’s changed his mind,” she offered. “Oh! About killing, not about loving you! Cause, I mean, who wouldn’t love you?”

Buffy smiled slightly. Then, “That huge fight we had? He was definitely of the same mind then about what he wanted to eat.” She looked down, shrugging. “It was four days ago. What could have changed?”

Willow paused. “Well, you almost died, for one.”

Buffy opened her mouth, but found that she didn’t have a response for that.

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Buffy had come home with him after patrol that night, and they’d curled up on his couch and watched some mindless program together. She’d been quiet the whole evening, but he was more than willing to simply cuddle with her.

Now it was hours later, and the TV was long turned off. Spike was stretched out on the couch, looking blankly at the lines of light on the ceiling that leaked through the mini-blinds. The night seemed quiet, even to him, and he clutched at Buffy like a lifeline.

She had fallen asleep an hour ago, half on him, half nestled in the crack of the cushions. Somehow she’d found her way all the way on top of him as they’d both rearranged positions. Her head was resting on his shoulder, hair nearly falling on his face. One leg intertwining with his, the other falling loosely to the side. One arm slipping off the couch and onto the floor.

She was draped over him completely, a warm human blanket.

Her breath was quiet and shallow in the silence of the night. He could hear her heart beating, feel her blood rushing through her veins. Even as she was asleep, her body was not. So different from a vampire in sleep. He’d listened before, memorized her little signs of life.

Spike slept on these sorts of nights, eventually. But the better part of the time that she lay next to him was spent marveling in her. As a vampire, he was used to reading people, scanning all the little internal signals they were oblivious of. That he did it with her was second nature. It was something else about her to know.

No one else could appreciate the subtle differences in her breathing as she drifted from light sleep into the most unconscious state. Or how her pulse changed as she shifted positions. Or the barely audible sounds she made throughout the night.

Her fingers would twitch as she dreamed, gently closing around whatever she could reach—him, if he were near. Her cheek would turn to his hand if he rested it long enough on her head. And he loved the fact that if she moved away, she would eventually seek him out again in her sleep, even though there was no warmth to draw her.

Most nights Spike loosely held her, not wanting her to feel restricted, or worse, wake up and demand to know why she couldn’t comfortably roll over. But tonight he’d locked his arms around her, drawing her securely to him. He was sure he hadn’t moved a muscle in the last hour.

Buffy remained asleep, oblivious to the thoughts running through his head or the desperate way he gripped her.

Her heartbeat seemed to penetrate into his own chest, making him a part of her. Its rhythm was reassuring. It had been nothing but steady, but he felt the perpetual need to continually check it, savor it.

Just days ago, it had faltered, jumped and weakened all at once. A moment too late and it perhaps would have died completely.

A moment earlier and it all could have been avoided.

The image of her bleeding out her neck still haunted him. Buffy lying on the cemetery grass with her blood staining her skin, her shirt—seeming a brighter red than he had seen.

The sight of Angelus dangling her at him, smiling with her blood on his mouth, was also burned into Spike’s memory, but it was the look on her face as she slipped into unconsciousness that he couldn’t shake.

It was sad and desperate and hopeful all at the same time.

He’d almost lost her that day.

He couldn’t lose her.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t known how he’d felt about her until then. No, this was a different sort of revelation. For a fraction of a second, he’d had a complete and utter understanding of what existence would be like without her.

As he’d tied up her neck and talked to her, apologizing for fighting, apologizing for leaving, he’d had the stark realization that even though he hadn’t lost her to Angelus, he was going to lose her all the same.

In a different way, perhaps—she wouldn’t be gone forever, but she’d be beyond his reach. Just as inaccessible.

She’d made her feelings perfectly clear about a particular subject.

She didn’t like talking about the future. To her, there was only the now for them. He caught her looking at him sometimes with an incredibly sad look, like she was trying to freeze the moment.

Because of what he still wanted to do, because of what it was natural for him to do.

There was the chance that she might tolerate his presence, just as she had after she’d first been called, despite her words about him leaving. He could still see her, possibly talk to her. But she wouldn’t let him get this close to her ever again. He wouldn’t get to touch her, hold her. She wouldn’t share any part of herself with him, physical or emotional.

Spike knew what she wanted.

She had no right to ask it of him, no right to demand that he be something other than what he was. No right to insist that he change what he’d been doing for a hundred years simply because he happened to meet her.

And yet, she hadn’t. She’d told him she couldn’t be with him, told him he’d have to leave, but she hadn’t insisted that he change for her—hadn’t issued threats or ultimatums. Instead, she’d cut him with the desperate hope in her voice, the pleading in her eyes. She’d begged and cried and talked about the future they couldn’t have, and said how he was killing her inside.

It had been beginning to tear at him before this, but some tiny part of him had hoped it would work itself out. Some larger part of him still hadn’t been able to concede. He would be losing something more than just blood.

But if he could become lost in her, maybe losing himself wouldn’t be so bad.

The only reason he was even considering it was because of how much it ripped into her. How he couldn’t lose her for any reason, how it was the one condition to being with her. He saw how fully she could never live with it, how she looked at him, sick and sad.

He didn’t want to stop, but he wanted her. Having Buffy with him meant more than he ever thought it would.

He could be what he wanted or be what she needed. It was all a matter of choice.

Life’s blood hot from the kill. Or Slayer blood and stolen blood.

A living, dying body thrashing against him. A willing, pliant body beneath him.

The rush of the hunt, the struggle. The peace of a warm girl settled in his arms.

Following his instincts. Or Buffy.

Being what he was.

Or Buffy.

Losing her.

Or not.
 
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