His fingers twitched at his sides while he watched the crack in her armor spiderweb out, taking off layers with what must have been mounting panic. It was too late to take it back. He couldn't fix the damage he had wrought in less than a minute's spiel. Him and his big mouth. Spike tensed in place, drawn taut like a bow's string. As much as he wanted to go to Buffy, to somehow placate her in a shielding but reassuring grab of her shoulders, he was careful about being the one to initiate physical contact with her due to the elephant that never quite vacated the room between them. She had every right not to welcome it, even after the two best nights of his entire lifetime, doing nothing other than holding her in reverence like doing so kept the bleeding world together.
He opened his mouth and found himself absent of sound.
Everything happened so fast that day in the high school, underneath where it all began, down in the Hellmouth itself and every single one of their army was at the thick of it. Every solider in their last stand had been integral, even Andrew, as much as it pained him to admit that. Since then, it occurred to Spike that he had been sustained on scraps of second-hand information from Angel and crew, from his brief quarrel with the new version of Watchers and Slayers. He didn't actually know the total roll call of who did and did not survive.
Andrew neglected to make mention of Anya or Faith.
He didn't flinch when she grabbed him but all the same, he was stunned to silence. His hands hovered around her, one near her back, the other hovered by her head. Say something, you git. Spike sighed in an attempt to relieve any of the tension from his body. He could be the kind of man . . . that didn't fumble this, after he brought her to tears.
"Buffy, I —" Thought you knew? He clicked his tongue and tucked it into his cheek. It was selfish to give in. Wasn't it? She clung to him and Spike caved like he always bent to her whims. He did his best to rub a soothing pattern between her shoulder blades, higher for lack of certainty. He stroked her hair once, twice, inhaled. Then, damnably sensible ( he hated every part of himself for it ), he retracted, holding her at an arm's length with a soft grip on her biceps.
"Listen to me. They're alright, your mates. Willow, Xander, Kennedy, Giles. Even Andrew scrapped his way out of there, like a cat from a bag." He scoffed. "I know. Don't ask me how." He could maintain a one-sided conversation with her through expressions alone.
"As for the Bit, she's fine. You know that. You know the lot of us would die before we let anything happen to her. Some of us have." A reference to the tower, sure, but an under-handed way of insinuating what he was perfectly happy keeping her in the dark about. Did he intimately know what happened to the people that lied to her? Yes. Extremely well. And he still wouldn't change it — the inevitably of how guilt might shape her decisions regarding him, if she knew.
no subject
His fingers twitched at his sides while he watched the crack in her armor spiderweb out, taking off layers with what must have been mounting panic. It was too late to take it back. He couldn't fix the damage he had wrought in less than a minute's spiel. Him and his big mouth. Spike tensed in place, drawn taut like a bow's string. As much as he wanted to go to Buffy, to somehow placate her in a shielding but reassuring grab of her shoulders, he was careful about being the one to initiate physical contact with her due to the elephant that never quite vacated the room between them. She had every right not to welcome it, even after the two best nights of his entire lifetime, doing nothing other than holding her in reverence like doing so kept the bleeding world together.
He opened his mouth and found himself absent of sound.
Everything happened so fast that day in the high school, underneath where it all began, down in the Hellmouth itself and every single one of their army was at the thick of it. Every solider in their last stand had been integral, even Andrew, as much as it pained him to admit that. Since then, it occurred to Spike that he had been sustained on scraps of second-hand information from Angel and crew, from his brief quarrel with the new version of Watchers and Slayers. He didn't actually know the total roll call of who did and did not survive.
Andrew neglected to make mention of Anya or Faith.
He didn't flinch when she grabbed him but all the same, he was stunned to silence. His hands hovered around her, one near her back, the other hovered by her head. Say something, you git. Spike sighed in an attempt to relieve any of the tension from his body. He could be the kind of man . . . that didn't fumble this, after he brought her to tears.
"Buffy, I —" Thought you knew? He clicked his tongue and tucked it into his cheek. It was selfish to give in. Wasn't it? She clung to him and Spike caved like he always bent to her whims. He did his best to rub a soothing pattern between her shoulder blades, higher for lack of certainty. He stroked her hair once, twice, inhaled. Then, damnably sensible ( he hated every part of himself for it ), he retracted, holding her at an arm's length with a soft grip on her biceps.
"Listen to me. They're alright, your mates. Willow, Xander, Kennedy, Giles. Even Andrew scrapped his way out of there, like a cat from a bag." He scoffed. "I know. Don't ask me how." He could maintain a one-sided conversation with her through expressions alone.
"As for the Bit, she's fine. You know that. You know the lot of us would die before we let anything happen to her. Some of us have." A reference to the tower, sure, but an under-handed way of insinuating what he was perfectly happy keeping her in the dark about. Did he intimately know what happened to the people that lied to her? Yes. Extremely well. And he still wouldn't change it — the inevitably of how guilt might shape her decisions regarding him, if she knew.
"Good triumphs over evil and all that."