Watching You Awards

         Spike's not keen on going upstairs these days. There are just too many girls up there, all giggling and prattling and arguing over the bathroom. It's not a good place for a man to be. There's so much estrogen in this house Spike thinks if he stays here too long he's going to start growing breasts.
            It's quiet tonight, though. About a half-hour ago he heard running feet on the floor over his head, a lot of laughter, some argument, and since then it's been silent. He has a feeling the twittering girls are out on the town.
            He's feeling peckish, and nobody's brought him his cuppa yet tonight, so he decides to brave the stairs. Maybe he'll get lucky and find a little quiet.
            It's quiet upstairs, all right, but not completely empty. Buffy's in the kitchen, having a cup of coffee. He starts to walk in but stops, sensing something isn't quite right.
        Buffy looks different. Spike's not sure why he hasn't noticed it before, but now, as she sits hunched over the kitchen table, staring into her half-empty coffee mug, it's unmistakable.
        She looks older.
        Spike keeps his distance, hovering by the door. If he were to just walk in and plop down across from her, as he would have without hesitation only a few months ago, he isn't sure how she would react. And just standing there, watching, realizing he's probably put some of those lines on her face himself, he thinks maybe he should just head back to the basement and chain himself up.
        "Stop hovering, Spike," she says suddenly, without looking at him.
        "You want I should leave, then, pet?" His voice comes out just a little too edgy, curled at the corners. He moves his hand and realizes a second too late that he's trying to swing a cigarette up to his lips. But of course he doesn't have one. He hasn't smoked since he came back from Africa. Not without hypnotic suggestion, anyway. And his arm doesn't swing quite right, either, because he's retired the leather duster. Nothing about him feels quite right anymore. It's the first time in a very long time that he's felt uncomfortable in his own body. Like he doesn't belong there.
Buffy stares into her coffee a moment longer, then she looks up at him. There's something in her eyes that makes him think she's trying incredibly hard not to cry.   "No," she says.
        So he comes to the table, and sits down across from her. "You all right then, luv?" He's got to quit using the little endearments, he thinks. He used to taunt her with them, but now they just sound so bloody sincere. Too much like he's in love with her, which of course he is, and too damned deep in it to ever dig his way back out, but he's trying not to think about that right now.
        "No," she says again, but this time the word is desolate and bare, and a tear slides down her cheek. She presses her lips together, trying to hold back the rest of the tears, but more of them escape. Finally she lets out a shuddery breath, almost a sob. "We're not going to get through this."
        He's not sure what to say to this, mostly because he thinks she might be right. He's seen far too much of this thing they're facing, has been too close to it, has felt it touch him even though it can't touch anything, and the cold residue of that still makes him shiver sometimes. The scars on his body are gone now, finally, but he'll never forget what was done to him.
        "We will or we won't," he finally says, and again his hand moves, maneuvering that imaginary cigarette. You smoke for a century, you pick up habits.
        To his surprise, Buffy laughs. It's a breathy laugh, with tears in it. "That's just what I needed. Some perspective."
        He smiles a little, seeing her smile. Even through the tears, it's sweet to see. She looks at him, right into his eyes, and smiles, and suddenly she's Buffy again, his Buffy, his Goldilocks, the beautiful, perfect thing he so carelessly broke.
        He feels his smile slip off his face. Hers fades, too, but there's a different look in her eyes. He's lost in that stab of guilt for a moment, so he doesn't register right away what it is. But then she reaches across the table and grabs his hand, and he looks up, into her face, and sees something he'd never thought to see again.
        In fact, he's not sure he's ever seen it.
        "Come upstairs with me," she says.
        He looks down at her hand. She's touching him, he can feel her small fingers digging into his skin. So it's really her. Not that incorporeal evil creature who wore her face and taunted him with it. And she's asking him to come upstairs.
        What kind of idiot would he be if he said no?
        But he can't force himself out of the chair. He can't understand why she would want this from him now, when only a few weeks ago she was flinching from his touch and trying not to let him see that. He looks at her hand and says slowly, "Buffy..."
        "No," she says hastily. "Don't ask me any questions. Just go upstairs. Now."
        He mulls a half a second, decides he's not an idiot, and goes upstairs.
        It occurs to him, in her bedroom and halfway out of his shirt, trying not to trip over the sleeping bags on the floor, that this is his chance. His chance to show her what he can be for her, if she lets him. He knows he can't make up for past mistakes, but he can give her an idea of what the future could be.
        Because he's never made love to her. He's shagged her hard, fucked her up against the wall, done about everything to her he can think of to do to a woman, but he's never made love to her.
        She slams into him, pushing him back into the bed and pulling his T-shirt the rest of the way off. She wants to be in charge and he can understand why, but he doesn't want it like this. Doesn't want it fast and rough, and he's not sure how to change the rhythm without giving her the wrong idea. He doesn't want her to think about what he's thinking about (I'll make you feel it, I'll make you feel it), but he doesn't want this to be just another mindless fuck, either. He's had enough of that.
        So when she shoves into him, her mouth into his, forces his mouth open, he holds his tongue back out of her way. She's reaching for it, her own tongue delving into his mouth, and God but he wants to taste her, but he holds back, just another moment, and then gently, softly, presses back.
        And she gets it. She makes a strange, almost strangled sound in the back of her throat and suddenly she's kissing him the way he wants her to kiss him, long and slow, drinking the gentleness from his mouth, her hands clutching at him in desperation, in a plea for comfort, not for domination. He knows this is what she wants, what she really needs, and wonders if she knew it when she'd told him to come upstairs. Wonders if she knows it now. But he's certain of it. She needs to be shown that, in the midst of all this, someone still loves her.
        He rolls her gently to the side, not so he's on top of her, but so she's beside him. He can taste tears on her lips now, thin and salty. He's never gotten over how hot she is, inside her mouth, inside her body. Some instinct seeks that heat now, pulling her in, pulling her closer, but gently. Slow.
        She's sobbing now. Yeah, she gets it. She knows exactly what he's doing, and that's good. He's never touched a woman like this before, with this kind of deliberate, soothing gentleness. Not even Dru. Dru liked to be hurt.
        Dru liked to be hurt because Angelus taught her that, and Spike doesn't want to think about either one of them right now, so he pushes that thought back and drowns himself in Buffy's mouth. Her small hands clench his back and she arches under him, pressing the heat of her body into his bare chest. He has to force himself to remember where he is, who he's with, and why he can't just strip her and pound into her hard and fast, because that's what his body wants right now.
        He pulls back from her mouth, letting her go, and she presses her face into his shoulder.
        "Buffy," he says, carefully. "Look at me."
        She sniffles a little and he realizes she's trying to stop crying before she does what he's asked. But she does it, and there are still tears on her face. But in her eyes... He sees what he wants to see there, not just desperation but an emotion that might not be love but Goddamn it looks awfully close so bugger the difference if there even is any.
        "I love you," he whispers, because just this once, in this moment when she's here in his arms he thinks she might believe it. Finally.
        She looks at him, studies his face and nods a little. "I know."
        It's not, "I love you, too," which is what he'd like to hear, but just knowing she understands this is almost as good. She moves a little away from him, grabs the bottom edges of her shirt and pulls it off. She's soft, bare skin underneath, and she presses her breasts against him. Her hand tangles in his at the same time and she draws it against her, sets his fingers down low on her belly, where he can feel her heat through her jeans. He pulls in a quick breath of shock, amazed she can trust him with this so quickly.
        Slowly, with a certain reverence he wonders if she can possibly understand, he unzips her, slides his hand inside her jeans. She's so hot, so unbelievably hot, her panties a little damp already. He's registered the smell already, but now it floods him, the sweet musk of her arousal. He presses his fingers in a little, then lets her go. He wants this but not yet.
        Her breasts taste sweet, her nipples hard against his tongue. He pulls her in, savors it, the softness and the warmth, just the taste of her. He's never felt like this. He loved her before but this is different, deeper, softer, less desperate. He wonders if it's the soul, or something else. Something in her, calling to him.
        And she's pushing her head into him, holding him closer, her fingers weaving into his hair, her breath coming in stuttery gasps that may or may not hold tears. It's hard for him to tell now. It doesn't matter. If she's crying it's not because of him. This is the first time in a long time he's been certain of that. He pulls back a little, lets her go, licks her skin, finds the other breast. He's done this before but the rhythm's different now, and somehow her skin tastes different. Sweeter. He has no idea why and doesn't want to think about it too much because her hands have moved away from his head and are fumbling with his zipper, the snap on his jeans.
        He's not quite ready for this but he lets her do what she wants. That's the idea--let her lead. But he flinches a little as her fingers close around his erection, and suddenly he realizes there's more going on here than he thought.
        He thought he was showing Buffy she could trust him. But he's also trying to show himself he can trust Buffy. Trust her not to hurt him.
        She doesn't. Her hand is gentle, her small fingers curling around him and just caressing, feeling, not urging him on. It's as if she's exploring him for the first time, one hand seeking out the textures of his cock, his scrotum, the other sliding up his back, feeling his ribs, his spine, his shoulder blades. She's touching him, feeling him, and finding something she wants, not just something to break herself against.
        Her hands shift again, pushing at his jeans, getting them out of the way. He helps her, and they're off and across the room in a matter of seconds. He sets his hands against her waistband but does nothing else until she puts her own hands on top of his, pushing them down, pushing the jeans down with them. And then it's skin to skin, hers so hot, so smooth, so soft.
        Her mouth is against his neck now, her breath hot there. If he had a pulse, her lips would be right on top of it. She holds herself still there, just for a moment, a long, slow breath. Then, slowly, almost languidly, she rolls to her back, taking him with her.
        This is more than he can immediately process. She's putting him on top. Letting him take the lead. Looking down into her eyes he sees not love but trust, and that's something he never hoped to see there. He's held out hope she might love him, someday, but never, ever, has he dreamed he'd see trust.
        This is a gift and he knows it, is humbled by it. He can feel the profundity of it wash through him, like heat, filling him up deep. Soul-deep, he realizes. He's never been able to feel anything this deeply before. He loved her before, but that was nothing compared to what he feels for her now.
        She opens under him, vulnerable and soft, trusting him. He kisses her softly, cherishing her mouth, and carefully, oh, so slowly, slides into her.
        She makes a sound, a low, breathy moan, and it's just right. Just what he wants to hear. He moves inside her, gentle, careful, then a little faster, her wordless voice guiding his rhythm as her body clenches down on him, harder, harder, and then finally she arches sharply under him and he feels the pulsing, the rhythmic release of her orgasm. And he comes, too, but it's slow and languid, takes its time, goes through him in waves instead of jolts.
        Her arms tighten across his back and she pulls his head down against her shoulder. She hasn't opened her eyes, and as she draws breath to speak he suddenly knows what she's going to say, knows what word she will utter, and knows that it will break his heart.
        But she doesn't say Angel's name. She turns her lips against his ear and whispers, "William."
        And he presses his head into her shoulder and dampens it with his tears.