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Belladonnaroses
'How can it feel this wrong
From this moment, how can it feel this wrong ...'
They don't talk in the car. She has her window down and the cool night air blows her blond hair back. She's not wearing much but she's not cold. He sits in the driver's seat, his fingers tapping out the drum beat to White Wedding without even thinking about it. He doesn't need to. She smokes thin white cigarettes and rests her head againt the seat, she feels his eyes on her but she doesn't answer his unspoken questions and tries not to question him back.
She's afraid of what she might say to him if he asks her the questions. That she might cry or scream or begin to heal. That she might forget. And she doesn't want to forget.
She wants to remember Angel's mouth on hers, his hands on her body - so gentle and different from Spike's touch - she wants to remember his words, even the ones that hurt. She wants to remember the way he looked when she slammed the sword him. She wants to remember the way he felt inside her.
So she doesn't look at him to answer his silent questions and he doesn't voice them. Partly it out of respect for the diminutive blonde, and partly out of fear that if he puts the questions to her she'll ask them right back. And he can't explain his reasons for taking her in that alley any more than she can explain the reasons for letting herself be taken. He can't tell her why he opened the car door for her, and he can't tell her why she's here when Drusilla isn't.
The evening darkness is fading and the horizon is burning a brilliant blue. She rolls the window up just as the rays of the sun begin to emerge over the horizon. She hasn't slept in four days and she doesn't figure why she should start now, she just stubs out her cigarette in the ash tray, leans back and closes her eyes, letting the pounding music wash over her.
She doesn't open her eyes until Spike parks the car in front of a cheap motel. He hands her some folded twenties and instructs her to rent a room for the day.
When they finally enter the dingy hotel room the only thought Buffy has is of getting to a shower and she walks with one mind towards the bathroom. Spike watches her silently before flopping down on one of the cheap chairs to wait. Niether of them has touched water since that night in the alley when it rained, and they both smell like sex and nicotine.
Later that night they crawled into the one bed, each one sure to stay on their side, neither sure what the scene in the alley ment to the other. If it was and invitation for more, neither sure that they wanted it to be.
Buffy lays for hours on her back and she can feel the tears in her eyes as her memories haunt her. She can't escape his eyes, his whispered words. She can't erase the memory of her mother throwing the glass, of Willow and Giles and Xander ... all so broken. The tears are on her face now and they fall silently to the sheets. She turns on her side and lets out a muffled sob. Her body is curled into a fetal position, the last three years flashing in front of her eyes.
She barely notices when Spike's cold arm pulls her to his chest. She only becomes aware of it when his cool fingers move through her hair, his rough voice whispering comforts into the dark of the night. And then the dam breaks and she can't stop the tears or the keening noises she makes. 7 days, 4 hours, 30 minutes, 7 seconds ...
His arms tighten around her as she recites the numbers and he doesn't need to ask her what she means. 7 days, 4 hours, 30 minutes and 10 seconds ago his life changed too.
The sobs are subsiding but Buffy still grips his cheset and he doesn't enourage her to let go. Her breath is warm on his cool skin and her breasts press pleasently against him. His hand has stopped running through her hair and now traces patterns on her bare shoulder. She can feel her breath speed up at the contact of his cool fingers on her flushed skin. She moves slowly up him, her eyes already closed as she kisses him.
He kisses her back, his tongue moving in and out of her mouth, his hands touching her everywhere, her hands doing the same thing to him. They don't speak. They don't debate over what this means. They don't even think about. Each takes what the other has to offer, each seeking to lose themselves for a few moments in their partner.
Her shirt is over her head and at the first lap of his tongue on her breast she arches into him, her body on fire as she rakes her fingertips over his back. He shudders and continues his minstrations, his hands probing lower. And when they're finally nothing more but skin on skin, him deep inside her, their bodies moving together, she can't think about Angel or Willow or Giles of Xander and slowly, thrust by thrust, she begins to forget and all she sees and feels and thinks is Spike. Spike around her, inside her, his voice in her ear, his tongue on her collar bone, his teeth on her neck, his hands bruising her skin, his eyes on hers ...
She shudders against him and presses their mouths together.
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