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Fic: Infinitas Infinitio Infinitus (5/5)
Yay! My first longer-than-a-one-shot in this fandom is now complete! Maybe I'll write an epic next!
Title: Infinitas Infinitio Infinitus
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Characters/Pairing: Buffy/Spike, Angel, Dawn
Genre: Romance, Angst
Timeline: post-"Not Fade Away"
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Learning to live is a lot harder than learning to die. And just when Buffy masters one, she learns she's a novice at the other.
Installment: Chapter five of five.
Previous chapters: One Two Three Four
Chapter Five
She smiled at him when she blew out the candles.
When he reached Giles’s, it was just in time to slip into his chair for dinner. She was already in the middle of pretending that everything was all right and continued it all through the meal. As with most things about her, her façade made him burn with annoyance and anger—always trying to pretend like nothing’s the matter, like she’s got everything under control even when it’s all falling apart—and simultaneously glow with admiration—always putting others first, the protector; that’s my girl.
She laughed and chatted lightly, and if her gaiety was a little forced, no one was willing to acknowledge it. No one was going to spoil the celebration.
Spike had to force himself not to be as growly as he wanted to be, but the fact that Joy was sitting beside him chattering away helped. He lavished his attention on her, and she glowed brighter with every word—her Uncle Spike was her favorite person on earth, and she made no secret of it—and her brightness kept him from breaking down in pain or anger as he wanted to.
That and the little looks Buffy kept throwing at him. He could feel her eyes on him again and again throughout the meal (just as, no matter what he ate, he could still taste her blood on his tongue), and he would turn toward her quickly enough to catch a glimpse of longing in her eyes before she diverted her gaze. Every little look was a plea for forgiveness. She might not have said anything yet, but he knew how things would go. The anger started to ebb; he began to relax.
True, when Hannah, who was a magnificent cook, had appeared in the doorway of the dining room after dinner wheeling the red velvet cake with cream cheese icing (Buffy’s favorite) out on the little trolley, forty candles blazing away at the top, Buffy had flinched. It was such a small movement that Spike didn’t expect anyone else to notice, but over the top of Joy’s shining head, he found Angel’s eyes on him. Dawn slipped her hand into his, leaned close while everyone was singing—off key, mostly; for a group that had once lived through a musical, none of them could really sing, not even Giles any longer, his voice thin now, approaching a croak, and Spike found himself missing Tara and Anya more than he ever would have thought possible—and whispered. “I tried to ixnay the andlescay, but I think Xander insisted. Who would have thought you could actually fit forty candles on one cake?”
Another reminder. Why couldn’t life cut his lady a break?
But Buffy recovered, as she always did, and leaned forward, the light from the forty glowing reminders creating a halo about her, making her look like a saint in a stained glass window: Joan of Arc, maybe, or the bloody Madonna or perhaps even an angel—and the tearstains he could see streaking her cheeks only made her, in his opinion, look that much more holy. The face of my salvation.
In past years, at past parties, she had winked at him when she blew out the candles—he’d completely corrupted her mind long ago, and that wink was her way of saying I’ll blow out your candle later—but this time she closed her eyes tight like a little girl saying her prayers.
But when she straightened, pushing her fall of golden hair over her shoulder—God, he loved her hair, never tired of just watching it or touching it or burying his face in its silk to soak in her scent—she met his eyes and smiled.
It was the softest of her smiles, pure, the kind that still startled him whenever he found himself on the receiving end of one, the kind he had never once imagined she would direct at him. The one that warmed him through and told him more clearly than any words ever could that she really loved him. The one that, at that moment, he hadn’t known he’d been waiting for but that filled him with relief as poignant as joy.
After cake and laughter, with the memory of that smile still warming him, he’d caught Buffy’s eye, then slipped out of the room and further into the old house, running his hand along carved mahogany banisters and diamond-paned windows, flashing back to his human days with every step. He found himself at the door to the conservatory, opened it, slipped into the humidity and flower-scent of the glass room as he waited for Buffy to find him.
And now she has. He looks up and she’s standing in the doorway, her smile gone. She’s solemn now, serious in that way only she can be, but her eyes are huge and luminous and tentative, reminding him of the moments before he died the second time. The first time she told him she loved him.
He holds out his arms. “C’mere, love.”
She stumbles forward, kicking off the strappy heels that make her almost as tall as him, and rushes into his arms. Her own go around him—tighttighttight, tighter than any human could tolerate—and she rests her cheek on his chest.
“I love you so much, Spike.”
Nearly twenty years of hearing those words from her luscious lips, and they still tear him apart and put him back together like they did the first time. “I know you do, Buffy.” He could have replied with an I love you of his own, but he knows her, and he knows that that isn’t what she needs to hear right now.
She looks up at him without moving from his arms or loosening her own, neck craned back, her chin resting on his chest, her eyes pleading. “Do you? Sometimes I worry. I told you I never could for so long—“
He captures her face in between his hands. “Buffy. Love. Listen to me. Always knew you had more love in you than anyone else, just had to let the walls down, let it all come out. And you have. Been pourin’ your love into me for years now. You keep me livin’.”
It still thrills him that his words can make that lovely flush rise to her cheeks. “I shouldn’t have—this morning—and in the park—the things I said—“
His arms go around her again. “And I shouldn’t have teased, love. Should have known that you needed to talk about it or some time to yourself or—“
“You couldn’t have known. I never told you how much it was bothering me.” She laughs out loud, a strangled sound, at the look he gives her. “Oh, I know that usually doesn’t stop you from knowing anyway. But whenever we’ve had…rough patches, it’s because we don’t actually talk about whatever it is. And it’s usually my fault—I’m still not used to verbalizing things and—“
“Trust me, Slayer. My stubbornness causes just as many problems as your holding things in.”
“No, Spike. Not this time. I mean, yeah, that’s true sometimes, but this time it was me. I can’t believe…I can’t believe I just walked out like that. I hate myself for doing that—the one thing I promised myself I’d never—“
The words hate myself send a shock through him, hurl him back to the year after her resurrection, and he can’t stop the protests: “Buffy, pet, you didn’t—“
“I did. That was awful. I can’t…I thought I’d moved beyond that. I’ve been so proud of myself for finally growing up, for being so mature, for making this—us—work, for patching up my relationships with Dawn and Giles and Xander and
“Everyone slips up.” He doesn’t know why he can’t just let her name her faults. He always has to defend her, even to herself. He remembers the day of Xander’s not-a-wedding, apologizing for the very hurt he relished. He can never not be who he is, no matter how hard he tries.
She’s right. She did mess up. Badly. And Christ, but she hurt him. And she’s apologizing. A real apology, the kind she never knew how to give back in the old days. Still, he can’t keep the words of denial from tumbling out.
She shakes her head. “‘Slipping up’ would have been yelling at you or throwing the lamp at the wall or something. ‘Slipping up’ isn’t walking out without saying anything. I was so, so wrong, Spike. And…I…” She takes a deep breathe, begins again. “I’m more sorry than I can say.”
There are so many things about her that he’s still not used to, that jar him with their newness even after all this time. The words I love you. Waking up with her in his arms and knowing she won’t try to slip away and deny everything. Being accepted by her sodding Scoobies. The sweet words and pet names she uses now when they make love. But perhaps hearing her apologize with no equivocation whatsoever…perhaps that is the thing that still surprises him most.
“I need you beside me. More than that, I want you beside me. I choose for you to be there. If I’m going to make it through this, I can’t shut you out. And yeah, maybe it was better for me to leave than to stay and take it all out on you, but the way I did it—that was so wrong. I won’t do that again, Spike. I promise.”
Promises are lightly spoken, but he believes her. The solemnity of the promise in her voice reminds him of when she spoke her vows. Their wedding hadn’t been a real wedding—it couldn’t be, not with one of them legally dead—but Giles had spoken a few words, and then they had exchanged vows and rings, and then there had been cake and buffalo wings and a dance to “Wind Beneath My Wings” and lots of laughter and tears.
But it was the vows, the words she’d written, that made it a real wedding for him. She’d made promises, ones he believed absolutely, ones she has never once violated. And he had done the same. They had known better than to make ones they couldn’t keep. More than fifteen years, and neither one of them has broken a single one. That’s what lets him believe her now. Fifteen years might not be long for him, but for her? Until now, until this realization…they’d been forever.
“And I don’t want you to defend me to me. I want you to be honest with me. Tell me how much I hurt you. I know I did. I love that you’ve always got my back and that you always want to protect me, but the thing I love most about you is that you never let me stay in one place—you let me grow. And I can’t do that unless you let me know the things I need to work on.” She tightened her arms around his back, thumped her chin against his chest. “Say you will. Promise.”
A tiny part of him wants to let loose his darkness, lash out by telling her she doesn’t really mean it, that she might say she wants him to, but the moment he does it, she’ll close off, refuse to listen, lash out at him. But that’s the voice that always starts the worst of their arguments when he obeys its promptings. And so he ignores it. They’re beyond this. Buffy still might not be through growing up, and Lord knows he isn’t, but her words are right. She does need to hear it. He smiles at her order, but he’s absolutely sincere when he says, “I promise, my love.” He’ll risk any arguments she may start. He’ll give her what she needs, even if she stops wanting it.
“And I know it didn’t help anything that I was talking to Angel. I mean, not that I shouldn’t be allowed to talk to him, because I totally should—we’re friends, and, think about it, he’s pretty much like my brother-in-law—”
“What?”
She laughs softly, and it’s real this time, without the strangled sound. “Don’t even pretend you two don’t have that brothers thing going on. You totally do. You know you love each other, even if you won’t admit it.”
There’s no way he’d ever admit to that, even if he knows she’s right. “That poncey bugger?”
She ignores him. “But I shouldn’t have talked to him before I talked to you. Not when…not with everything in our pasts.”
“But did he help you, sweet?”
Her eyes go thoughtful, that little line appearing between them that lets him know she’s thinking hard. “Yeah. I think he did.”
“Good.” He means it, even if he can’t help but feel a twinge of resentment in his stomach.
“He reminded me why I chose you.”
He stares down at her, astonished. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. And I mean, sure, he helped put a lot of it in perspective for me, but nothing that anyone else couldn’t have done. Definitely nothing that you couldn’t have done better.”
“Now you’re just sweet talkin’ me to get me to forgive you.”
The luminous solemnity is back in her eyes again. “Do you?”
He wants to say, Do you even need to ask? But she does. And he needs to say it. The words are important, even for people like them who are more comfortable with actions. Maybe especially for people like them. He long ago decided that that wanker Ryan O’Neal’s Love means never having to say you’re sorry is the stupidest thing he’s ever heard in the entirety of his existence. Love, he understands now in ways he didn’t before the soul, means asking for forgiveness over and over and giving it again and again.
So he says, voice as solemn as hers, “I do.”
The pure smile lights up her face again. “For the leaving. And the things I said.”
“For everything. But Buffy….”
“I don’t know, Spike,” she sighs, and he marvels at the way she knows him now. In the old days, he always felt that he could read her so well, but he knew he was a mystery to her. Now, though, she seems to have finally reached the point where she knows him. And maybe that’s what he really wanted all along. “I’m still going to ask Giles and
This curiosity still makes him nervous, but he understands. She’s grown to accept the idea that she’ll never be a normal woman, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t still sometimes resent it. “Of course, love.”
“And about the whole suicide-by-demon thing. For now—for the foreseeable future—I’m not going to go looking for death—I couldn’t do that to you. But I can’t make a promise about this, Spike. I’m not going to tell you that I’ll never want to seek my own death. Because I probably will want to. And when that time comes, I’ll have another decision to make. But for now, for as far ahead as I can imagine at the moment, I won’t. But I’m not going to let the thought of dying hold me back, either. I’m still the Slayer. I’ve still got the mission. I’m not giving it up.”
“I would never ask that of you.” As much as I may want to. Because that fearlessness, the courage and the selflessness: all of those things make her Buffy. She wouldn’t be the woman he loves without them. He long ago realized that.
It’s the way she qualifies it all. The fact that she won’t promise. She’s reserving the right to change her mind later, and that terrifies him. He wants to fall to the ground and beg her to swear on her mother’s grave that she won’t seek her own. He wants to push her away from him and yell that if she doesn’t promise, he’s done with all this.
But he can’t. Because she won’t promise him that, and he knows it. He knows that she’s come as far as she can come for the moment, and if he pushes her further, he might lose her all over again. And he’s not prepared to face that.
He wants to hate her for it, for not being willing to reassure him, for hinting that someday she might leave him, that she might reject him by proving that he’s not enough for her.
But he knows Slayers better than anyone. He knows the lust for death that lurks in their hearts. And more than that, he remembers the hunger for heaven—the yearning to be elsewhere—that she couldn’t hide back in that dark year when she first came back.
He knows. And so he can’t hate her, and he can’t ask for more.
“But see, here’s the brilliant thing about it.” He shakes his fear away, arches a brow, and she smiles as she continues. “You’ll be there, too. You’ll always be at my side. So it doesn’t matter where I go. You’ll be there.”
At least she can give him this. It’s more than he ever thought he would have from her. And her sincerity—he knows she means it. Means every word. He feels tears start to prick at his eyes, but he holds them back. No need to turn into a gormless poofter. “Yeah?”
She laughs again, a bubbly sound, and leans her cheek against him again. “Yeah.”
Yeah.
After a few blissful moments of just holding her, he asks, “What’d you wish for, love, when you blew out those bloody candles? What was your birthday wish?”
She sighs, a long release of breath. “Courage.”
“What?”
“Courage.”
“What d’ya need more of that for? Already the bloody bravest person I’ve ever known!”
She looks up at him again, lays her hand against his cheek. Despite her earlier pronouncement that he needed to be truthful with her, she’s always been touched by his righteous indignation on her behalf, especially, she told him once, when he’s defending her against her own insecurities.
“Facing monsters and vamps and death—that’s so second nature now that it barely takes any courage at all. It’s just what I do. But keeping on living while not getting any older, watching people I love grow old and weak and die and leave me—that’s terrifying. So I wished for the courage to face it.”
That tight feeling is back, binding his chest in iron bands—if he had to breathe, he wouldn’t have been able to. Hurting for her is more painful by far than any pain he’s ever felt for himself.
“I’m scared, Spike. To death.” She grabs his chin, forces him to look at her when he tries to turn away from the bite of her dark pun. “Hey. I am. This is scarier than dying or apocalypses or hellgods or falling in love with a vampire. And I’m going to keep on being terrified and probably angry, and sometimes I may have to leave—though I will always tell you I’m coming back and mean it—or I might take it out on you or I might just…break down. But I can keep on going. I can. And you know why? Because I have people who love me—who are…pouring strength into me. Keeping me living.”
There’s still a part of him that remembers that she’s still refusing to promise to stay alive. A part of him that is still hurt, still angry.
But that part of him can’t begin to compare to the part of him that sees how far she’s come. That she can say these things, admit to them—and to him, of all people. And even more than that, he can see how far she'll go. Nothing can stop her kind of strength, her kind of love. Even death didn't defeat her, and his heart knows that. That part of him wants to fall to his knees in awe of her, of who she is, so strong, so beautiful, so righteous, beaten but unvanquished—always. How could there have ever been a time he didn’t love her?
To keep from doing that, collapsing under the weight of his love for her, he has to joke, to force the words through his throat, though he almost chokes on them. “Don’t suppose I’m one of those givin’ you strength?” Why do my jokes always come out sounding so needy?
But she leans up, kisses him, warm, slow-burning, thorough, and it’s worth it. “Only the most important, baby.”
He closes his eyes, feeling that warm pleasant shock that always shoots through him when she uses endearments with him—they still come hard for her, but she tries.
“You’ll make it, love. That’s what you do. Odds are all against you, no hope in sight, and you still make it. You always make it.”
Music, some scratchy old rock’n’roll tune, floats in from the party, tangling itself in the conservatory’s humidity, till he can barely tell the sound from the scent of orchids and roses and African violets and heliotrope. He tilts his head back for a moment to look up through the glass ceiling, and though it should be impossible—with the lights blazing here in the room, with the lights of
She loops her arms around his neck, and they start to sway, dancing slowly to the music, and her closeness, the surety of her has him falling in love all over again.
“No, Spike. That’s what we do.”
End.