The Trouble We're In

AUTHOR: Nyxie

Part 2

Outside, the sun shines, bright and merry caressing warmth that spills down over the people in the villa square below. A migrating pattern of colored cloth and tanned skin, they walk and talk and smoke and laugh, alive and carefree as if filled by the light that shines on them. As if no one in the world has died or gone hungry today, and the whisper of rain is a fairy tale that someone imagined once. Watching them, Nina can almost pretend that she isn't falling apart. Can almost forget how she fought soul-hard and teeth-bared to win his heart.

A needlepoint pinprick of light glints in the distance, diamond bright and blinding as it pierces her eyes. She wipes away the tears before they can trickle through her lashes, reaching for her sunglasses.

The light doesn't hurt nearly so much as the truth.

On the bed behind her, he stirs, whispering cotton over bare skin, and her fingers itch for its texture.

"What are you doing?" His voice low, buttery rich like brandy, pours through her with a slow, languid burn.

"Waiting," she whispers. Lifts her eyes and stares out over the ocean, secrets and fears locked away behind dark sunglasses where he will never see.

*

Buffy wakes, sitting up and blinking blearily against morning sunlight, scattered images and shards of white-hot metal already clanging and clattering inside her mind.

A sharp rap sounds once from the door, booming hollowly through silence.

Rumpled and wrinkled, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes, she goes to the door, hope in her heart and heart in her throat.

“God. You look like hell,” Spike says, his very brows smirking with the comment.

She rolls her eyes and begins to slam the door shut, but he puts his arm out, catching it halfway.

“Found these outside your door. Thought you might want them.”

He thrusts a bouquet of lush, black flowers at her.

“From the poof, I’m guessing,” he says with dry sarcasm.

She stands frozen, staring at the flowers, feeling her eyes prick with tears. There’s a note there, nestled among the soft, black petals, and she can’t imagine what it could possibly say. Can’t dare to let herself hope.

Slowly, Spike’s face rearranges itself into an expression of concern. And God, the love there. The tenderness for her. Why couldn’t Angel—

“Buffy? You all right? What did he—“

“Nothing.” Voice dull and flat, empty for a moment, and then laughter bubbles up from her chest, black and thick. “Nothing at all.”

She turns and walks away from him, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

He stands there for a long moment, flowers in his hand, and then finally steps inside, closing the door behind him.

“You want to talk about it?”

“No,” she says, wiping at her eyes. “God no.”

He nods, sits down beside her on the bed. “Don’t know what he sees in dog girl, anyway.”

“Maybe that she’s older, more experienced, prettier,” she offers with a pained glance at the ceiling.

“Shut your mouth.” The anger inside him, always just below the surface, spills out and boils over. “Girl can’t hold a candle to you, and if that bloody wanker can’t see it then he doesn’t deserve you.” He leans low, trying to find her eyes with his, intense and deep, deep blue.

“Buffy. Why are you wasting your time? You’re better than this. Better than him.”

She shakes her head wordlessly, eyes finally spilling over. She clamps a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob, and sees Spike wince in pain that’s only slightly sympathetic.

“You still love him.” Like you’ll never love me, he doesn’t add, but she hears it anyway.

Why can’t she love him?

His eyes ask her that same, silent question, every day.

“Buffy...” He reaches for her hand, and suddenly it’s all too much, filling her, flooding her, overflowing, and all she wants is to be touched and held and stroked and—

She grabs his hand, pulls him to her, mouth meeting his hungrily with the taste of salt.

He stiffens in surprise for an instant, blue eyes wide, and God, the innocence there, the hope. Fluttering closed as he relaxes against her, falling into the kiss, hand coming up to touch her cheek, and she pushes him back, falling onto the bed on top of him.

“This isn’t about me.” Cupping her face in his hands, searching for some kind of answer in her eyes.

“Does it matter?”

He stares for what seems like eternity, throat swallowing hard with an audible click, and shakes his head. “No.”

But it does. She knows it does. She knows it does and she doesn’t care because all she wants is to forget, and it isn’t right, isn’t fair to him—

“Buffy.” Voice low and gritty, steeped in gruff tenderness. He brushes her hair back from her face, mouth smiling in a way that isn’t really a smile. “I know what I am to you.” A farce, a replacement, a stand-in body, that grim smile proclaims, and he’s right, he is all those things, but he’s more than that, too, because he loves her.

And she needs that. Needs it so much.

She unzips her jeans and kicks out of them, climbs atop him and pulls out his cock, in a fluid, transitioning move that doesn’t leave time for thought. She gasps as she thrusts down against him without ceremony, swallowing him inside her with one violent thrust, and then twists her hips, riding him into blessed oblivion, her only awareness the delicious friction between her legs, his hands on her breasts, tweaking and pinching taut nipples, rides him until the stars spin inside her mind, exploding in a shower of sparks that leaves her screaming and gasping and ultimately empty.

*

“Spike. I have to go.”

The set of her shoulders is hard and her jaw is squared and he knows better than to ask, he really does, but he’s never been able to help himself from being such a masochist.

“Got a hot date, then, do you?” he asks casually as he buckles his pants, taking a deep drag from the cigarette between his lips.

She doesn’t answer, but he knows what she thinks, where she’s going. And even if he didn’t already know, it’d be written in the crimson flush of her cheeks, the uneven rhythm of her breath--the spark of anticipation in her eyes.

“So what do you think’s going to happen, luv? Think the caveman will scoop you up in his big strapping arms and carry you back up here to make sweet love to you behind his beloved’s back?”

Her mouth turns down at the corners and thins, sparkle in her eyes gone flat and cold.

“I would never do that.”

“Oh, of course not,” he scoffs, exhaling smoke. “Wouldn’t be fair to Angel, right?”

She stares at him as if he might be an exceptionally dumb, small child. “It wouldn’t be fair to either one of them.”

Right. Of course. To either one of them.

“I knew it wasn’t about me.” An arch laugh from numb lips, the sound itself bewildered as it falls against the air.

Her eyes flicker up to meet his, and for just an instant, she looks wounded. “You told me it didn’t matter.”

“I lied.”

She flinches away, her face hard. “I’m sorry.”

Her voice is flat, the voice of an ATM machine performing its automated functions.

“Thank you. Please come again.”

His hands clench in fists of rage, and he wants nothing more than to turn in a melodramatic sweep of billowing duster, leave her standing, teary-eyed and confused, alone without his support, without his love, without all the things he gives without question. See how well she does, then.

But he can’t. And he won’t. And they both know it, and he hates it. Hates himself for it.

Two years as partners, confidantes, sharing blood, sweat, and kills, living in this twisted not-a-relationship. Two years of silently loving her, of watching her want to love him back and not quite being able to.

“Buffy... Luv.” His fingers reach out, tremble against her face, pad of his thumb tracing the curve of her lower lip, fingertips resting against the cradle of her cheek, his whole body shaped like the question he dares not ask, hoping desperately that she’ll turn her face into the palm of his hand, or hell, that she’ll even just allow him the peace of touching her.

But she pulls away, leaves his heart stinging and his hand empty, aching for the touch of her skin.

Like a dive into the wild, like poems holding him, and he can’t get her out of his mind. He sees, he knows, knows more than he could speak, and still he’s blind. She’s like a drug, and his blood screams for her, screams for her hands on his skin, like heroin in his veins.

“I’m right here, luv. Waiting for the bloody crumbs to fall from your table, hanging on your bloody every word. I’d never have walked away from you—never have.”

“I know.” Quiet and solemn, truth that cuts him to the quick.

“Why won’t you love me?” he implores, arms spreading wide.

“I don’t know.” The words are twisted up in a sob, and she stares out at him from beneath tear-fringed lashes.

“Right.” His arms fall in time with his heart, dropping like a leaden weight that settles in the pit of his stomach.

“Well then.” He stares at her for a long moment, hope beating bright within his chest, but she is closed to him, her eyes veiled except for a pain whose source he does not know.

He leaves her that way.

*

Nina sits in the patio of the hotel restaurant, beneath a woven ceiling of beach grass, sunlight filtering through it in tiny squares, painting odd shapes on her pale face. Eyes hidden behind the safety of large, black sunglasses, mouth wrapped around the filter of a cigarette, she drags deep and lets smoke escape from between ruby red lips in swirling gray clouds that wreath her head, painting her against the exotic backdrop like an ethereal vision.

Buffy exits the restaurant, stepping out onto the patio, gray-green eyes searching the faces there. She’s beautiful. Hair like honey, thick and textured against her rounded face, eyes ringed in gray kohl and lids brushed with pale blue, lips full and deep pink, glistening like glass. Behind one ear she has tucked a flower, deftly twisting it into the upward swirl of her hair. Black petals reflect iridescent purple, velvety rich as they curl over her left cheek, stark, striking contrast to her light coloring, and Nina smiles, hard and quick as she reaches for her glass, swirling the amber liquid within before lifting it to her mouth and tossing it down.

At last, those haunting eyes find hers, gazes locking across the room with an almost audible click. Buffy hesitates, her whole body uncertain as she stands on the threshold of some imagined show-down, and Nina can see the reluctance in her, the pain, the fear. Can almost smell it radiating from the younger girl in waves.

From her lap, Nina pulls an identical black flower, holding it up in invitation and explanation.

Understanding shines in Buffy’s eyes, sudden and harsh, and there is another brief moment of hesitation before she walks reluctantly to the table, like a prisoner being led to the gallows.

She sinks into the chair beside Nina, resigned and sullen as she folds her arms over her chest.

“You sent the flowers.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

Nina shrugs, fingering her empty glass with longing. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“You could have just asked.” Condescending and reproachful.

“Would you have come?”

Buffy looks away, something sad in the set of her face.

“That’s what I thought.” Nina nods and pulls the sunglasses from her face. “Would you like a drink?”

Buffy’s eyes are flinty now, something mocking in the smile that tugs the corners of her lips. “You always hit the bottle before siesta?”

“You always kiss other women’s boyfriends?”

Buffy blinks, and if Nina were anyone else, she might mistake the reaction for surprise, but she knows a flinch when she sees one.

Her eyes flicker down to Nina’s empty glass. “What are you drinking?”

“Scotch.”

Buffy wrinkles her nose, and there is derision in that expression, but it’s adorable, too, and Nina feels a flash of hatred shoot through her, bright and sharp and glimmering red. How dare this woman be so beautiful, so engaging and adorable?

“You want a glass of milk?” The words are out before Nina can stop herself, and she glances down, suddenly shame-faced.

And amazingly, Buffy laughs, startling her from her shame, an answering smile leaping to her own lips. A look at the other girl, surprise fading fast as she sees the genuine humor there, and the ice melts, both of them laughing together until they get hold of themselves again.

It’s a release, and Nina feels a weight slip from her chest that she hadn’t even known was there.

“I’m sorry—“ They both start to say, and Nina chuckles again, motioning for Buffy to go first.

“I... What happened…” The younger girl looks suddenly shy, her eyes not quite able to hold Nina’s. “It just... happened. It didn’t mean anything.” She pulls her shoulders toward her body in tight shrug, longing and sadness in her eyes, and Nina’s heart flickers, straining toward her.

“Yes it did,” Nina says quietly.

“He loves you,” Buffy says, and now she does look at Nina, eyes filled with fathomless sorrow. “I can see it.”

“Not like he loves you.”

Buffy looks away, and Nina can see the truth of her own words reflected in those eyes. Sadness, yes, but not just for herself; for Nina, too.

She thinks back two nights and lifetime ago, to when she’d first met this woman. There had been strength in her when she’d faced down the lecherous faux-vampire. Strength and eyes that were both innocent and somehow ancient, eyes that had seen more than Nina had ever imagined, more than any girl her age should ever have had to see. And yet, when she smiled, her whole face lit up like the sun rising, chasing away the shadows in her eyes. Only people who love hard, people who love beyond all reason and without care for the consequences could muster as much sadness as Nina sees in her now, could shut themselves off so completely. Nina knows this. She knows this because she knows Angel.

And Nina sees it—-oh yes, she sees it, has seen it since the moment she laid eyes on this woman. She knows what it is that makes Angel love this girl so bright and hard.

Nina would have loved her, too.

Fingers tremble, reaching out, and she caresses sun-kissed skin. A moment of surprise, and a muscle twitches beneath the calm of the younger girl's face. Their eyes lock in a heated moment of understanding, and Nina wants to feel it, wants to touch that sadness and sunshine in her, draw it out of her and take it into her own heart.

Mouths soft and feather light, lipstick glide as they move together, thick and slightly sticky as it smears. Deep pink and berry red, the taste of wine and cigarettes and bubblegum, and Nina whimpers at the back of her throat as their tongues meet, slick and sliding.

This is what Angel tastes when he kisses each of them. This is what they both want and can never have. Buffy wants to be her and she wants to be Buffy, but the joke is on both of them because Nina has his body and Buffy has his heart and they are opposite sides of the same coin, images transposed and hearts juxtaposed, and if they could just meld themselves into one girl they could have everything they ever wanted.

And all that’s best of dark and bright meet in aspect in their eyes...

Their kiss is desire, longing, wishes unfulfilled, each of them wanting to capture something of the other, each of them wanting to know the other as they have been known by another. Warm stroking of fingers on skin, tangling in golden blonde strands. Buffy moans and Nina’s hands drift lower, skimming the curve of Buffy’s throat, tracing lines across the plane of her collarbone.

Slowly, they draw apart, eyes locking again as they pull away, breathless and flushed.

“That was...” Buffy breathes. “I... I shouldn’t have.”

“Did you want to?” Nina asks, voice gentle, heart thumping.

Buffy thinks for a moment, lovely face creasing, and one corner of her mouth turns up in the sweetest, shyest smile Nina thinks she’s ever seen. It’s as much an answer as if she’d spoken.

She rises from her seat suddenly, cheeks a deeper pink than when she entered, shyness and fire mixed together in a rosy blush.

“I’d better go.”

Nina lets her, watching the graceful sway of her body until she disappears beyond the door.

*

Nina isn’t surprised when Spike slides smoothly into the chair beside her twenty minutes later.

“Smoke?” he asks, looking like the cat who’s licked up all the cream. He proffers the pack, and she takes one, holding it to her lips. He lights it for her, then snaps the Zippo shut with a practiced, easy move, eyes never leaving hers.

“Read the card, you know. Know it was you. Too bloody smooth to be Angel’s work.” His mouth twists in a hard smirk as he regards her, eyes glimmering dark blue.

“What are you playing at, luv?”

“I...” She lifts one shoulder, forming a half-shrug and sighs in a cloud of smoke. “I just... had to see. Had to know...” She shakes her head, letting the thought trail.

He sprawls back in the chair, chuckling as he drags on his own cigarette and slowly shakes his head, eyes cynically traveling the expanse of tables and chairs spread out around them.

“The only thing there is to know is that we’re the replacements, luv. We’re marionettes who dance willingly while they pull the strings because we hope that somehow, someday, we’ll be enough. But we’re not. Never will be. This is their movie, their star-crossed lovers play, and we’re just actors who recite our lines and burn with hope beneath the spotlights... and they never really see us or hear us at all.”

--Sand against her skin, Angel’s hands on her body--

“That’s... dismal.”

He laughs again, a grating sound bereft of humor. “But true.”

“You had sex with her, didn’t you?” she asks, mind flashing with sudden insight.

--Show me what it feels like to be sunshine--

He stares at her for a long time, something indefinable in the planes of his face, and silent understanding passes between them, sodden and soiled and clinging to final shreds of hope.

“Yeah,” he says and shrugs as if to say “what of it?”, the sound of leather crinkling with the movement, and the set of his face is hard, but there’s something fragile just out of reach behind that tough façade.

“Why?”

“Because that’s my role. I go through the motions and I play my part, and I take what I can get whenever I can get it, because it’s a damned site better than nothing.”

“That’s sad.” Words given slowly, quietly, not without sympathy.

His eyes find hers again, glinting with knowing. “You ought to know.”

“Fuck me, Angel.”

The clock ticks on the wall, the sound filling her head.

“What are you doing?”

“Waiting.”

Counting off the minutes, the seconds, her time slipping away like sand until...

Until he leaves her.

She swallows hard against the last of her scotch and pushes the glass away.

*

“Buffy?”

Angel. His face soft, questioning as he stands beyond the threshold of her room.

“I... I had to see you.” He stands straight, pushes his hands down into his pockets and shifts uncomfortably, his eyes barely skimming hers. “I wanted to say.” He hesitates, swallows thickly. “I’m sorry. For last night.”

But he dips his head down as he says it, and she knows it isn’t true. He’s not sorry that he did it. Sorry for confusing her, maybe, for being disloyal to his girlfriend and complicating things. But he’d wanted it just as much as she had. She knows, and there’s nothing she can say, nothing she can do, except nod her head dully in acceptance.

She and Angel side by side in silence again, never speaking a word of what they want, same clever dance they’d woven throughout the years. And there are a thousand things she wants to say, a million more she wishes she could do, but none of it is hers to give.

When she doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at him, he takes a step closer, voice husky and near, too near. “Buffy?”

His eyes. Oh, God, those eyes. And if she kissed him again, right now, would he let her? Would he let her pull him inside the room and have what they’d never gotten to have before? What she knows they can have, now?

“I’m sorry, too.”

The smell of him, the feel of him, so close, and so hard to remember that this is forbidden territory, when it had been hers for so long. She can still taste Nina on her lips, smell smoke in her clothes, and she wonders if that makes them even, now.

“Angel, you should go.”

He looks so surprised and stricken, she nearly laughs aloud, despite herself.

“Not because I want you to. But because... I like her. And she doesn’t deserve...”

“No. She doesn’t.”

“I wish I could hate her.” The words fall from her lips without thought, leaving her surprised with their truth.

Angel’s mouth twists in a humorless smirk as he walks away.

“I’m pretty sure she feels the same way about you.”




Go to Part IV

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