Inell's Fanfiction Archive

Spike heard her softly spoken words and frowned. She wanted him to talk to her? What was he supposed to say? What did she want him to say? He had never been very good at talking about his emotions. A century had not improved that characteristic. He was much better at showing them. Instead of answering her, he moved his head and caught her lips. The kiss was gentle, explorative. His tongue memorizing every inch of her mouth. Talking wasn't good. You could talk for hours without ever saying anything. Couldn't she tell by his kiss, by his touch, how he felt?

It had been three weeks of sneaking into her bedroom at night. Every morning about an hour before dawn would find him sneaking out again, praying to a God that he did not believe in that the slayer was a sound sleeper. And every afternoon would find him alone in his crypt, caught in memories of how she tasted, how she felt, how she sounded. Some evenings would find him with the rag tag group of twits, researching or patrolling or whatnot. The others, he would merely follow her, keep his eye on her to make sure no one attacked what was his. Of course, she had no idea that she belonged to him. She was a bit too independent to accept that news easily, so he hadn't let her know. Others could sense his claim though, and he knew that soon she'd figure it out. Then, he'd have to speak. He wouldn't be able to hide behind caresses and kisses any longer.

He had no idea what he would say when that time came. He had no idea what she wanted to hear, what would make her happy. Was she growing tired of their nights together? Was that why she had wanted to hold a conversation? Did she want to tell him that it was over, that her door was closed. That thought made him deepen the kiss, his hand tightening around her waist. He knew it would bruise. She was so delicate. He loved to see his marks on her pale flesh. The purplish blue from his fingers tight embrace, the pale pink from his bite, the faint reddish pink from where his nails broke her skin. To him, each of those marks spoke of his affection for her. He couldn't say love, even in his mind. While he believed that what he felt for her was the closest that he or his demon would ever feel to love, he just couldn't say it. It had taken him only a week before uttering that word to his lovely sire, his beautiful Princess, and she'd laughed, taunting him and telling him that she didn't want his love, that no one wanted his love. True, after her Daddy had gone away, she had come to him and said sweet words to make up for her initial remarks. The damage had been done years before though. He had learned that, while he could feel love, it would never be accepted. He was a vampire, a demon, an evil creature that should not be capable of feeling anything except the basic emotions: desire, anger, hatred. He was not expected to love, therefore he wouldn't. Now, faced with her beautiful eyes and the wavering doubts on her pretty face, he felt closer to speaking that word than he had in a century.

It was not what she wanted to hear, though. He didn't really know what she expected, but he knew that hearing him speak of love for her was not it. She had no way of knowing how she had haunted his mind all those years. She didn't know who he was, what he felt, how badly he ached. To her, he was a bastard vampire that had tried numerous times to kill her best friend and her. Even night after night of terrific sex could not make up for that in her mind. It couldn't. She would never want to think of a future with him, so he remained silent. Without any words, he could still hold on to the dream that maybe, just maybe, she was different. That Drusilla might have been wrong about him. That someone, some special redhead with laughing green eyes, would want his love and be able to return it. That he wouldn't spend his eternity alone. Then, reality would hit him and he'd know that it was all an elusive dream, an unattainable fantasy. He was good enough to fuck, but he wasn't good enough for a relationship. He felt a slight wave of anger at his own belief of what she was thinking. The kiss became more rough, his tongue possessive as he tried to make her realize that she belonged to him.

He didn't pull back until he heard her soft whimper of pain. He moved his head back, stormy blue eyes looking over her face. He saw her torn lip, the redness of her mouth and the confusion in her eyes. Angry at himself for getting caught up in thoughts, he moved off the bed. The moonlight bathed his nude body as he searched for his clothes. He pulled on his jeans quickly, knowing that if he remained with her he would end up buried inside her sweet warmth yet again. He had to get away from her, clear his head of her scent and image, collect himself before he did something stupid. He pulled his T-shirt over his head, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling his boots on. He could feel her eyes on him, knew if he faced her he'd be lost, so he looked straight ahead. Standing, he took the risk. He had to see her again, commit every detail to memory for the longer afternoon ahead.

"Spike," she whispered, her fingers moving over her bruised lips as she looked at him, having no idea what he was thinking.

"Nothing to say, luv," he said simply as he picked up duster and opened her door. One last look, noticing the way her hair framed her face, the bite on her breast that was fresh, the covers bunched around her waist, just under her belly button. He nodded as he turned, the image in his mind as he walked out, shutting the door behind him.