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faerie_wish13Title: Right Words, Right Actions
Author: Kat Lee
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Character/Pairing: Spike/Buffy
Rating: Soft R/M
Challenge/Prompt:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
nekid_spike Love Is... and Love Songs and faerie_wish13: Love/Romance
Warning(s): None
Word Count: 2,115
Date Written: 27 February 2018
Summary:
Disclaimer: All characters within belong to Whedon, not the author, and are used without permission.
He used to be good with words, Spike thinks, gazing down into the beautiful face of the love of his life. He strokes her soft, blonde hair with his fingers as he considers all the poems he once wrote for a woman who didn’t mean half as much to him as this woman has come to mean. He wrote poem after poem for Cecily, and she never appreciated any of it. He was never at a lack for words back then.
He’d blamed his loss of the art on not having a soul, but now that he has his soul back, the words should come easier. They should, but they don’t. Men who have never experienced half of the things he’s endured have written hundreds of sonnets, love songs, poetry, you name it, and yet the advice most often given to a writer is to write what you know. He was able to write love when he didn’t know it, so why he can not now?
If he could only put a few words together, script a few lines of prose, something, anything he could do to tell Buffy how he truly feels about her, he would be thankful. He could let the desire to write go if only he could find the words to tell her what she means to him. He’d be happy with just a couple of lines, just five words even, anything to tell her the truth.
Maybe he could borrow something from somewhere? he wonders. He’s got centuries of songs floating around in his head. Perhaps he could draw something together from some of them. It doesn’t have to be new, after all, as long as it says what he means.
She is like a light on the grave, the grave that is his life. Her light started chasing the shadows and sorrow from his world when it first appeared in his darkness, shining like a beacon, even back when he didn’t understand what it was she was doing to him and swore that he only wanted to kill her. He scoffs now at that memory. He’d far more quickly give up his life than ever again attempt to kill the Slayer.
But he hadn’t understood what she had meant to him then, and how could he have been expected to? She was the Slayer; he was a Vampire, the former Big Bad. It was his place to kill her, not be seduced by her, not fall in love with her, yet now . . . Now he would swim any river, climb any mountain, fight any enemy just to be at her side.
“Spike,” Buffy says suddenly without opening her eyes. He looks at her in surprise. “You’re doing it again.”
“I’m not brooding -- “
“No. You’re watching me when I sleep.”
“I like to watch you when you sleep,” he answers huskily, his lips twitching up into a smile. “You’re so beautiful to look at you . . . “ He can’t say it takes his breath away for he has no need to breathe. Yet he does like to listen to the sound of her breathing as her bare chest rises and falls slowly.
“You’re like poetry,” he tries again, “and there’s no more beautiful sight than you to me. If I could, I’d watch you all the hours of the night. I’d never let you go. I’d always be here at your side.”
Her eyes are open now as she gazes up into his. “Don’t go stalkerish on me again,” she says but with a gentle tease to the words. “Spike, how long have you been up watching me?”
“Never long enough,” he answers truthfully, lifting her hand from the bed and kissing the back of her wrist.
“Something’s bothering you,” Buffy declares, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.
“I’m not brooding,” he protests, “honestly.”
“No. But you are thinking. Over thinking. Scheming?”
“No. Never again. Buffy, I’m on your side. I’ll always be on your side.”
“I know that,” she whispers, relenting, “now.” Her smile turns into a frown as she studies him. “So what is on your mind?”
“Just thinking.” He sighs and hangs his head at the look Buffy shoots him. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“No.” She sits up, wrapping his black, silk sheet around her though there’s no need. “Something’s bothering you, and I want to know what it is. There’s nothing you can’t tell me now, you know. We’ve both done stuff we’re not proud of.”
They have, he acknowledges silently, but her sins can never amount to his. Still, that’s not the reason he’s been watching her for hours every night lately. He wants to tell her again. He wants to tell her in a way that she will understand and in a way that doesn’t involve the torture of earning his soul back, burning on a cross, or almost losing her. He just wants to tell her . . .
Marry me. He barely stops the words from popping out of his mouth. He knows that isn’t the right way. She isn’t ready for marriage, and she certainly isn’t ready to marry him. That’s one honor he will probably never have, no matter how much she claims to love him -- and she does to a certain extent. He knows she loves him though it will never be as much as he loves her. In her own words, Buffy is cookie dough, still forming, still baking, still pondering, with every new experience that is added to her, what final form she will take. Yeah, marrying her will get him kicked out of this bed faster than if he suddenly lost his soul.
“I just . . . “ he murmurs and then lets his words fall away. He can’t tell her. He still hasn’t found the words to describe everything she makes him feel, everything she does to him, every thing he would gladly give for her. To be with her he would do anything, just as he is the first Vampire to not be cursed with a soul but to have earned the restoration of his soul on purpose. “I . . . “ He shakes his head and looks away. “It’s nothing.”
“Yes, it is,” she says, leaning closer and taking his face gently into her hands. “It’s clearly something to you, Spike, and I want to know what it is. Is it one of the others? Did somebody say something again? If it’s Giles, I’ll -- “
“I think he and I finally have an understanding,” Spike tells her, finally facing her again. “We both want what’s best for you,” he says, turning his face and pressing his lips into the palm of her hand. Giles, like the others and Buffy herself included, had always believed that Spike could never be worthy of Buffy. They were right on that -- he could never be worthy of her love --, but they were wrong when they believed he could never love her. He does, so why is it so bloody hard to say the words?
“I’m not letting this go,” Buffy tells him, as stubborn as she ever has been, as stubborn as he has ever been, “until you tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong. It’s just . . . For the first time in my life, for the only time in my life, everything is right.” He kisses her palm again as he looks into his eyes.
“And you keep waiting,” Buffy surmises, “for the whole world to come breaking down around you?” She knows what that feeling is like all too well. Any time things go so well as they have been lately, she knows mess is coming. Hell’s going to try to take over again, or they’re going to have to defend the whole planet from something completely beyond their realm. Something’s coming, . . . but it’s not here yet.
“Not really,” he says with a shrug. “I mean, I know crap’s going to hit the fan. It always does. But I know we’ll handle it too together.” Gazing into her eyes, he tells her, “You’ll win the day. You always do.”
Buffy’s eyes lower in shame from his. “Not always,” she murmurs.
“Yes, always,” he says, “even if you have to die to do it.”
“Don’t remind me.” Now she’s the one not looking at him.
“Buffy, you are wonderful,” he says gently and sincerely. “You’re amazing. If any of the other Slayers born before you had been like you are, evil would have turned tail a long time ago. I guess that’s why they weren’t, cosmic forces always being concerned with that bloody balance and all.”
He raises his hands to cup her face now and brings her back to look at him. “But you are amazing,” he vows, “and I am so, so very lucky to have you in my life, my arms, my world -- “
“Spike, are you trying to break into song?” Buffy asks.
Only then does Spike realize that his tone has changed. “No,” he says quickly and defensively. “Well, not entirely. I’ve been trying to write bloody poetry,” he grumbles an admission.
“Spike! I thought we talked about this!”
“We did,” he admits, “back when I didn’t have my soul yet.”
“I don’t need any poetry!” Buffy exclaims. She’s on the verge of laughter, and Spike’s cheeks burn with the memories of the women who have laughed at him. “It’s a sweet idea,” she says, stroking his cheeks and bringing his gaze back to look at her, “but I don’t need any poetry to know you love me.” Her forehead presses against his; her lips now are but an inch away from his. “You tell me every day in everything you do. There’s never been another Vampire who’s gone out and got his soul for me. There’s never been another guy who would die to protect me or my sister without looking to get something out of it -- “
“Angel,” he mutters quickly and darkly.
“No,” Buffy says, shaking her head. “Not even Angel. Everything he does, he’s hoping to atone for what he did before, and he didn’t earn his soul. He was cursed with it. You went after yours. You went after it and you endured all the crap they did to you to get it because of me. I lied when I told you that didn’t mean something. You . . . I guess you kind of scared me.”
“You scared me too,” he offers in earnest truth. “I’ve never felt this way about anybody else, Buffy, and if anything ever happens to you again, I . . . You know I’ll take care of Dawnie, but I don’t even want to think about having to try to live without you again.”
“And I don’t want to think about having to live without you either, Spike,” Buffy tells him, “so can we just say that we love each other and forget all the rest of this silliness? I don’t need poetry. I need you, and you’re so much more than just a poet. You’ll always be more to me.” Her fingers linger on his lips. “I love you!”
“And I love you,” he says, moving his lips slowly beneath her fingertips. “But is it really enough?”
“Hush,” she tells him, her nose now pressing against his. “You’ll always be more than enough to me. Love isn’t always about words, Spike. It’s about actions, and every you do shows me you love me. Now show me again,” she commands, “with your lips, not your words, but your actions.”
He smiles and presses a swift kiss to her fingers before she moves her hand out of the way. Then he brushes his lips across hers, first gently, almost reverently, before taking her lips with his again and plunging his tongue down her throat. He kisses her hard and long but lays her back down in their bed with gentle arms. His strokes are fast and wild yet they’re still tender as he makes love to her, to his Queen, and shows her with his every touch how much he truly does love her.
He’s still going to find the right words, though, one of these nights to tell her aloud, and who knows? Maybe he will even ask her to marry him, and maybe she won’t run from the idea. Maybe she’ll finally finish baking and actually say yes. Maybe he’ll be gifted a second miracle for striving to do good in all he does for her. Maybe she won’t just love him; maybe she will actually, one day, marry him too. A Vampire could only dream, and hope, and wish, and yes, maybe, when they were done making love this round and he was once more watching her rest, he could write something just for her.
The End
Author: Kat Lee
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Character/Pairing: Spike/Buffy
Rating: Soft R/M
Challenge/Prompt:
nekid_spike Love Is... and Love Songs and faerie_wish13: Love/RomanceWarning(s): None
Word Count: 2,115
Date Written: 27 February 2018
Summary:
Disclaimer: All characters within belong to Whedon, not the author, and are used without permission.
He used to be good with words, Spike thinks, gazing down into the beautiful face of the love of his life. He strokes her soft, blonde hair with his fingers as he considers all the poems he once wrote for a woman who didn’t mean half as much to him as this woman has come to mean. He wrote poem after poem for Cecily, and she never appreciated any of it. He was never at a lack for words back then.
He’d blamed his loss of the art on not having a soul, but now that he has his soul back, the words should come easier. They should, but they don’t. Men who have never experienced half of the things he’s endured have written hundreds of sonnets, love songs, poetry, you name it, and yet the advice most often given to a writer is to write what you know. He was able to write love when he didn’t know it, so why he can not now?
If he could only put a few words together, script a few lines of prose, something, anything he could do to tell Buffy how he truly feels about her, he would be thankful. He could let the desire to write go if only he could find the words to tell her what she means to him. He’d be happy with just a couple of lines, just five words even, anything to tell her the truth.
Maybe he could borrow something from somewhere? he wonders. He’s got centuries of songs floating around in his head. Perhaps he could draw something together from some of them. It doesn’t have to be new, after all, as long as it says what he means.
She is like a light on the grave, the grave that is his life. Her light started chasing the shadows and sorrow from his world when it first appeared in his darkness, shining like a beacon, even back when he didn’t understand what it was she was doing to him and swore that he only wanted to kill her. He scoffs now at that memory. He’d far more quickly give up his life than ever again attempt to kill the Slayer.
But he hadn’t understood what she had meant to him then, and how could he have been expected to? She was the Slayer; he was a Vampire, the former Big Bad. It was his place to kill her, not be seduced by her, not fall in love with her, yet now . . . Now he would swim any river, climb any mountain, fight any enemy just to be at her side.
“Spike,” Buffy says suddenly without opening her eyes. He looks at her in surprise. “You’re doing it again.”
“I’m not brooding -- “
“No. You’re watching me when I sleep.”
“I like to watch you when you sleep,” he answers huskily, his lips twitching up into a smile. “You’re so beautiful to look at you . . . “ He can’t say it takes his breath away for he has no need to breathe. Yet he does like to listen to the sound of her breathing as her bare chest rises and falls slowly.
“You’re like poetry,” he tries again, “and there’s no more beautiful sight than you to me. If I could, I’d watch you all the hours of the night. I’d never let you go. I’d always be here at your side.”
Her eyes are open now as she gazes up into his. “Don’t go stalkerish on me again,” she says but with a gentle tease to the words. “Spike, how long have you been up watching me?”
“Never long enough,” he answers truthfully, lifting her hand from the bed and kissing the back of her wrist.
“Something’s bothering you,” Buffy declares, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.
“I’m not brooding,” he protests, “honestly.”
“No. But you are thinking. Over thinking. Scheming?”
“No. Never again. Buffy, I’m on your side. I’ll always be on your side.”
“I know that,” she whispers, relenting, “now.” Her smile turns into a frown as she studies him. “So what is on your mind?”
“Just thinking.” He sighs and hangs his head at the look Buffy shoots him. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“No.” She sits up, wrapping his black, silk sheet around her though there’s no need. “Something’s bothering you, and I want to know what it is. There’s nothing you can’t tell me now, you know. We’ve both done stuff we’re not proud of.”
They have, he acknowledges silently, but her sins can never amount to his. Still, that’s not the reason he’s been watching her for hours every night lately. He wants to tell her again. He wants to tell her in a way that she will understand and in a way that doesn’t involve the torture of earning his soul back, burning on a cross, or almost losing her. He just wants to tell her . . .
Marry me. He barely stops the words from popping out of his mouth. He knows that isn’t the right way. She isn’t ready for marriage, and she certainly isn’t ready to marry him. That’s one honor he will probably never have, no matter how much she claims to love him -- and she does to a certain extent. He knows she loves him though it will never be as much as he loves her. In her own words, Buffy is cookie dough, still forming, still baking, still pondering, with every new experience that is added to her, what final form she will take. Yeah, marrying her will get him kicked out of this bed faster than if he suddenly lost his soul.
“I just . . . “ he murmurs and then lets his words fall away. He can’t tell her. He still hasn’t found the words to describe everything she makes him feel, everything she does to him, every thing he would gladly give for her. To be with her he would do anything, just as he is the first Vampire to not be cursed with a soul but to have earned the restoration of his soul on purpose. “I . . . “ He shakes his head and looks away. “It’s nothing.”
“Yes, it is,” she says, leaning closer and taking his face gently into her hands. “It’s clearly something to you, Spike, and I want to know what it is. Is it one of the others? Did somebody say something again? If it’s Giles, I’ll -- “
“I think he and I finally have an understanding,” Spike tells her, finally facing her again. “We both want what’s best for you,” he says, turning his face and pressing his lips into the palm of her hand. Giles, like the others and Buffy herself included, had always believed that Spike could never be worthy of Buffy. They were right on that -- he could never be worthy of her love --, but they were wrong when they believed he could never love her. He does, so why is it so bloody hard to say the words?
“I’m not letting this go,” Buffy tells him, as stubborn as she ever has been, as stubborn as he has ever been, “until you tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong. It’s just . . . For the first time in my life, for the only time in my life, everything is right.” He kisses her palm again as he looks into his eyes.
“And you keep waiting,” Buffy surmises, “for the whole world to come breaking down around you?” She knows what that feeling is like all too well. Any time things go so well as they have been lately, she knows mess is coming. Hell’s going to try to take over again, or they’re going to have to defend the whole planet from something completely beyond their realm. Something’s coming, . . . but it’s not here yet.
“Not really,” he says with a shrug. “I mean, I know crap’s going to hit the fan. It always does. But I know we’ll handle it too together.” Gazing into her eyes, he tells her, “You’ll win the day. You always do.”
Buffy’s eyes lower in shame from his. “Not always,” she murmurs.
“Yes, always,” he says, “even if you have to die to do it.”
“Don’t remind me.” Now she’s the one not looking at him.
“Buffy, you are wonderful,” he says gently and sincerely. “You’re amazing. If any of the other Slayers born before you had been like you are, evil would have turned tail a long time ago. I guess that’s why they weren’t, cosmic forces always being concerned with that bloody balance and all.”
He raises his hands to cup her face now and brings her back to look at him. “But you are amazing,” he vows, “and I am so, so very lucky to have you in my life, my arms, my world -- “
“Spike, are you trying to break into song?” Buffy asks.
Only then does Spike realize that his tone has changed. “No,” he says quickly and defensively. “Well, not entirely. I’ve been trying to write bloody poetry,” he grumbles an admission.
“Spike! I thought we talked about this!”
“We did,” he admits, “back when I didn’t have my soul yet.”
“I don’t need any poetry!” Buffy exclaims. She’s on the verge of laughter, and Spike’s cheeks burn with the memories of the women who have laughed at him. “It’s a sweet idea,” she says, stroking his cheeks and bringing his gaze back to look at her, “but I don’t need any poetry to know you love me.” Her forehead presses against his; her lips now are but an inch away from his. “You tell me every day in everything you do. There’s never been another Vampire who’s gone out and got his soul for me. There’s never been another guy who would die to protect me or my sister without looking to get something out of it -- “
“Angel,” he mutters quickly and darkly.
“No,” Buffy says, shaking her head. “Not even Angel. Everything he does, he’s hoping to atone for what he did before, and he didn’t earn his soul. He was cursed with it. You went after yours. You went after it and you endured all the crap they did to you to get it because of me. I lied when I told you that didn’t mean something. You . . . I guess you kind of scared me.”
“You scared me too,” he offers in earnest truth. “I’ve never felt this way about anybody else, Buffy, and if anything ever happens to you again, I . . . You know I’ll take care of Dawnie, but I don’t even want to think about having to try to live without you again.”
“And I don’t want to think about having to live without you either, Spike,” Buffy tells him, “so can we just say that we love each other and forget all the rest of this silliness? I don’t need poetry. I need you, and you’re so much more than just a poet. You’ll always be more to me.” Her fingers linger on his lips. “I love you!”
“And I love you,” he says, moving his lips slowly beneath her fingertips. “But is it really enough?”
“Hush,” she tells him, her nose now pressing against his. “You’ll always be more than enough to me. Love isn’t always about words, Spike. It’s about actions, and every you do shows me you love me. Now show me again,” she commands, “with your lips, not your words, but your actions.”
He smiles and presses a swift kiss to her fingers before she moves her hand out of the way. Then he brushes his lips across hers, first gently, almost reverently, before taking her lips with his again and plunging his tongue down her throat. He kisses her hard and long but lays her back down in their bed with gentle arms. His strokes are fast and wild yet they’re still tender as he makes love to her, to his Queen, and shows her with his every touch how much he truly does love her.
He’s still going to find the right words, though, one of these nights to tell her aloud, and who knows? Maybe he will even ask her to marry him, and maybe she won’t run from the idea. Maybe she’ll finally finish baking and actually say yes. Maybe he’ll be gifted a second miracle for striving to do good in all he does for her. Maybe she won’t just love him; maybe she will actually, one day, marry him too. A Vampire could only dream, and hope, and wish, and yes, maybe, when they were done making love this round and he was once more watching her rest, he could write something just for her.
The End
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