Days in the Sun






October 10th, 2008 – Wedding (4)

Shaking her head, Buffy took the flat, rectangular, satin-covered jewelry box that Spike was presenting her. It was only the latest of a long series of gifts, each more beautiful than the one before. She wasn’t curious as to what he had gotten her this time, though. It was just getting to be too much.

Flowers, chocolate, perfume, clothes, jewelry, he had gotten her all of these in the last few months, always as a prelude to a repeated question. Her answer had not changed, though. He was asking the question for the same reason he was giving her all these gifts, and that was simply trying to give her what he thought she wanted. Yes, he was right, she did want to get married, but it wasn’t that simple. She wanted him to want it too, truly, for himself, and so far he hadn’t convinced her that he truly desired it.

This time, it had been more than a simple gift. When she had come home from work, Spike had asked her to get ready to go out, and when she had found on their bed three of her most elegant dresses, she had understood that something was up. She had taken her time, pinning her hair up perfectly after a quick shower, choosing from his selection a dress that had made the trip back from England with her. Long, black, it bared her shoulders while encircling her neck. She had completed the outfit with a shawl draped over her shoulders. When she had come down, Tara and Willow were there, apparently on babysitting duty. Shortly after, a limousine had arrived, and taken Spike and her to a fine restaurant in LA, Spike insisting that there was just not a good restaurant in Sunnydale. The evening had been charming, and so had Spike. But then, the mere sight of him all dressed up in a suit and tie was enough to make her melt, and he knew it. Everything had been perfect, until he had taken out that damn box right after they had finished their dessert.

Suppressing a sigh, she placed the box on the table in front of her, but did not open it. Spike’s smile crumbled, and before he could say anything she covered his hand on the table with hers.

“I don’t want another gift,” she said quietly. “I don’t want anything more that you get thinking it will make me change my mind. You can’t buy your way to a yes, love.”

“I am not…”

She interrupted his denial. “Yes you are. As much as I adore you, you’re just making things worse. Maybe some day you’ll find a good reason to marry me, but until then, you can get me the moon and it will still be no.”

His gaze hardened slightly, and it was all too clear to Buffy that she had hurt him. She just couldn’t yield like this, though. If she was to ever call him ‘husband’, it wouldn’t be because of a shiny new bauble.

“Would you please open the box?” he asked in a strained voice.

Smiling sadly, she shook her head.

“No. I won’t open this or any other present. I love you, but I won’t. I’m going to the ladies’ room, and then I’d like to go home.”

Trying to maintain her smile, she stood and walked to the back of the restaurant, blinking back the tears that were stinging her eyes.

Cold blue eyes watched Buffy walk away. How many times had he tried to tell her, already? More than he cared to remember. He had tried to explain to her, in words that were awkward because he felt so vulnerable, how much she meant to him. He had tried to prove it to her in any way he could think of. He had told her he wanted it too, had apologized for not being clear the first time he had asked. But nothing had been enough. For some reason, she didn’t believe him, didn’t believe he wanted, really, deeply, to call her his wife. He had botched it all the first night, and he didn’t know anymore how to repair his mistake.

Cursing silently, he took the flat box where she had left it on the table and opened it. For a second, he simply stared at the folded piece of paper that was there, before taking it out and slipping the now empty box back in his pocket. He didn’t read the few lines, he didn’t have to. It had taken him so long to write them that he had them committed to memory. One more stupid idea. As if more words, and as bloody awful as they were, would convince her of the truth and depth of what he felt for her. If she didn’t know by now, she never would. He was almost glad she hadn’t opened the box. Almost.

He brought the piece of paper to the flame of the candle that had lit their dinner, and watched it become ashes, holding on to it until the last moment, renewing an old vow that he was done writing poetry, because it ended even more badly each time he did.

He would find another way, he promised himself. He didn’t know how, but he would persuade her. And if words were not enough, he would have to resort to more drastic means. He caught sight then of the stunning blonde who was returning to him, and a wicked grin bloomed on his lips. If everything else fails, he had been taught long ago, there is always torture.