Written for Rikki's birthday, and fondly dedicated to her.
Someday, she'll tell you
The hotel’s club was packed at this hour of the evening, but Spike
had no trouble finding a spot at the bar. It used to be that he could
flash fangs and bumpies and scare someone away. Tonight, it was just
random luck, a couple getting up to go to the dance floor, freeing two
stools just as he came close. He took one, ordered a beer, and blankly
stared at the stranger that was looking straight back at him in the
mirror.
He just wasn’t getting used to it. It had been fun, at first, of
course, to see his features again, to rediscover the blue of his eyes,
to see firsthand what his hair looked like when bleached. But the
novelty had worn off, and now seeing himself in a mirror felt… weird.
Unreal. A dream that might come to an end at any moment. And if that
ended, then the rest – everything else – was going to end, too. He had
so much to lose, now, that it scared him, at times. Especially times
like these.
When he had been given a second chance, already four months earlier, he
hadn’t really thought that everything would be easy. But he had hoped
that, maybe, they would be a little easier. A second chance, with no
strings attached, with his old strength, all his memories, all his
feelings, love and guilt intact, but with the slight change that he was
now human. Not back to William and his poncyness, just a very alive,
very much breathing Spike. So yes, of course, he still wondered whether
she would have welcomed him back as nicely if he had returned with his
fangs. He had been wondering ever since she had realized, seconds after
seeing him, that he was now human. It had taken him all this time to
finally gather the force to ask her – because he feared he already knew
the answer. And her answer had been to stare at him as if he had
suddenly sprouted horns. He had waited a full five seconds before
giving up and accepting that her silence was the only reply she would
give. Easier, he had hoped. Just as difficult as before, it turned out.
Just as difficult to talk to her, sometimes. Just as difficult to
understand each other. Just as difficult not to yell at each other.
Just as difficult not to see her beating him, not to see himself… Yeah,
the guilt was still there, alright. Whoever had brought him back had
made sure he wasn’t getting a completely free pass.
It wasn’t like that all the time, of course. Thankfully. Most of the
time, it was laughs as bright as the sun they enjoyed together, long
talks in the moonlight with the waves barely licking their toes,
dinners by candlelight with delightful chatting about nothing and
everything, and nights of passion and love, caresses and joy. It was
all the things he had secretly dreamed of before, all the things she
had never allowed. So, yes, he had wondered. And asked. And now he was
alone and miserable, because he hadn’t kept quiet, because she had.
He wished it hadn’t mattered to him, but still, it did, and it hurt. It
hurt that, for so long, he had tried to change, tried to mold himself
into a man she could come to love, giving up on bits of pieces of who
he was simply to try to please her, going as far as to get his soul, to
be worthy of her, to give her what she deserved, what he thought she
wanted. And now, he knew. He knew that, whatever he had done, it would
never have been enough. Despite all his efforts, she would never have
loved him, before, because of the one thing he couldn’t have changed.
Because he had been a vampire. It didn’t matter that she had loved a
vampire before, apparently. It didn’t matter that he had sought his
soul instead of having been cursed with one. It didn’t matter that he
was ready to die, and had actually died, for nothing else, no one else
but her. Nothing mattered, he just had not been enough. And now,
because he had something as elusive as a pulse, a reflection, a
heartbeat, because he could go with her in the sun, because of these
things that had been given to him without him even asking for them,
without him even wanting them, now, she could love him.
He had finished his third beer and was ordering a fourth one when he
saw her in the mirror behind the bartender. She was just entering the
room, short hair dancing on almost bare shoulders, the thin straps that
held her white summer dress contrasting on her tanned skin. More than
one pair of eyes, masculine and feminine, were drawn to her, some
jealous, some clearly appreciative. Curves and silky bronze skin, she
was simply gorgeous. She was oblivious to the attention she gathered,
though. Her gaze swept around the room, obviously looking for someone.
For him. He didn’t move, however, didn’t make a sign for her. He simply
watched her, the way she moved, the small frown now marring her
forehead, the half smile when she finally saw him, the grace of her
steps when she approached, mixed, also, with something that seemed too
much like edginess. She caught his gaze when she was just a couple of
feet behind him, and her smile vanished. He supposed he didn’t appear
very engaging. After all, his blank looks and lack of talking had
discouraged three women already who had sat down on the stool next to
him, tried to lure him into a conversation, and given up after a few
minutes on talking to a wall.
She sat down just as the bartender was bringing his order, and snatched
his beer before he could grab it. Bemused, he watched her as she downed
half the bottle in one long gulp.
“’Thought you didn’t like alcohol,” he said glumly.
“Yeah, and I thought you had sworn off the thing,” she replied just as unhappily. “Normal liver, now, remember?”
A dozen replies flashed through his mind, ranging from sarcastic to
plain mean, but he only shrugged. Looked away from her. Commented on
the bad taste of the beer. Slumped his shoulders. Yes, he knew quite
well he had a normal constitution and body.
Yes, he knew quite well he was human.
“Dance with me?”
He glanced back at her, puzzled. Had she forgotten already what had
happened earlier? Did she think he could forget with just a couple of
beers that…
“You think too much. Come with me.”
Her hand closed over his, and she rose to her feet, pulling slightly
for him to follow. He could have resisted. What was she going to do, if
he refused to follow her, beat him up, for old times’ sake? But he
didn’t resist. For the simple reason that the hold she had on his hand
was barely there, not caging him against his will. He had learned to
read a lot in the way she touched him, learned to recognize her moods
and desires, the things she didn’t dare express out loud, the emotions
he had once needed to decipher on her too often closed features. This
touch, this hand in his hand, was telling him that she was unsure of
herself, nervous, almost afraid. He hated for her to be afraid. And he
wanted to know what she was nervous about. So he followed.
She led him to the dance floor, just on the edge of it, where the
club’s wall was simple bamboos every few feet, opening the view on the
moonlit ocean, allowing the marine air to flow in freely. She threaded
her fingers at the back of his neck, and waited until he had settled
his hands on her hips to start moving lightly to the slow beat of the
music.
For long seconds, she simply watched him, nibbling on her bottom lip,
and he wondered what she was thinking about. At last, she spoke, in
soft, hushed tones.
“I want to apologize…” she started, and he unconsciously tensed because
an apology was the last thing he wanted. But then, the rest of her
sentence took him by surprise. “I apologize for not telling you sooner
that you were wrong.”
He let out a dry chuckle.
“Great way to apologize, pet. A bloke gotta love hearing that he was wrong.”
The barest smile touched her lips. “Just making sure you are listening.”
He shook his head slightly, and from their own accord his hands slid
from her hips to the middle of her back, pulling her closer to him.
Even hurt, he still loved her so much, craved her… Her presence was
intoxicating.
“I always listen, luv,” he murmured sadly. “Even when you don’t talk, I listen.”
“But it doesn’t mean you hear correctly,” she replied just as softly as
she closed the remaining distance between them so that she could rest
her head on his chest. “Do you want to know why I didn’t say a word
before you ran away?”
He was about to deny that he had done any such thing as running away,
but he managed to admit to himself that yes, he had done exactly that.
“Go ahead,” he sighed. “Tell me. Why didn’t you have anything to say when I asked you if you’d still love me if I was a vamp?”
“Because I realized I had never told you that you were wrong. After you
were gone, I cried so much because of it, but when you came back I just
forgot to tell you. Forgot all about it. I was just so happy to have
you back. I am so happy still…”
Her voice broke, and he pressed his lips to the silk of her hair.
“Don’t cry, luv,” he all but begged. “Please don’t.”
Whipped. Utterly. As much as ever.
“I’m sorry I never told you,” she said after a couple of seconds,
pulling back a little to look at him. “You remember, in the cave? When
I told you I loved you?”
He nodded, not trusting himself to give a coherent reply.
“You said… you said that I didn’t,” she continued, her voice wavering
slightly. “And that’s when you were wrong. I did love you. I couldn’t
tell you exactly when I started loving you, but at that moment I
realized I did. And you didn’t believe me then, and I feel like you
don’t believe me now either, and you…”
There was only one possible answer to what she was saying, to the tears
clinging to her lashes, to the almost desperate look in her eyes. He
closed once more the distance between them, this time by pressing his
mouth to hers.
He ran the tip of his tongue against her lips, and they tasted of salt,
but he couldn’t have said if it was the salt of the ocean they had
played in all afternoon long, or the salt of her tears. Tentatively,
her tongue came out to play, sought his, stroked lightly. Slowly but
surely, the intensity of the kiss rose, hands caressing and exploring
daringly, each of them trying to always get closer to the other, and
forgetting that they were still on the dance floor, not in the intimacy
of their room. Catcalls and whistling brought them back to the present,
and, both blushing, hand in hand, they sneaked out of the club and ran
back toward their bungalow.
Later that night, still entangled in the most intimate embrace, Spike
caressed his sleeping Slayer’s face with the lightest of touches,
causing her to smile in her sleep.
“I believe you,” he murmured right against her skin before joining her
into sweet dreams, sparing a last thought for the child who had told
him, months before, that someday, she would tell him.
Home ~ Cleveland-verse
The characters and names used in these stories do not belong to me. All copyrights remain with Fox and Mutant Enemy. No profit is made from this fanfiction.
