Reunion
This dark grey warm day made me miss Spuffy. Just felt like writing a snippet all of a sudden.
Reunion
“And this? What’s this for?” Blue bottle.
“Straightening,” she replied, matter-of-factly.
“This?”
“Defrizzing.”
He sighed. Held up another bottle, this one bright orange. “This?”
Buffy shifted her weight to her other foot, recrossed her arms. “Um, I think that one volumizes.”
“You’ve got 14 bottles of the same thing. You have issues.”
“You bleach your hair even though you can’t see your reflection. You have issues.”
Spike sighed, sunk down onto the bathroom floor, staring at her, perplexed.
“So, what would your hair look like if you didn’t use any of these bloody products, which when added together would probably equal a downpayment on a house for you and Dawn?”
“Well, that’s all well and good if I wanted to live in England permanently, which I don’t. Put that back, that stuff’s really expensive.” She grabbed the shine serum from his hands and put it back in the medicine cabinet.
Outside the window, rain fell.
This was not exactly how Buffy thought the reunion with Spike would go. There was, she had assumed, going to be tears, and hugs, and swelling music, and swelling other things, as he had once remarked. Instead, she was giving him a tour of the apartment and he was now transfixed by her wide array of hair product.
Okay, there was the one hug, at the airport. The slow motion moment where she waited for him outside the security checkpoint, and time seemed to still when she saw the familiar bleached head in the distance, the walk, the presence he gave off, powerful as a storm. He spotted her after she spotted him, and he did not smile, just stared, and she stared back. Little pinpricks of light hit the back of her eyes as her vision began to tunnel, and she thought she was going to faint, but she realized it was because she was holding her breath, so she breathed, even though it hurt to do so, and then he was there, inches away, staring, staring.
And then she wasn’t sure who moved first, but it didn’t matter, because his arms were around her, and he was holding her close, tight, a crushing hug that would have broken the ribs of a normal girl. She hugged him back and didn’t speak for a few minutes because her voice box seemed to forgot how to work.
“I like your shirt,” was the first thing she said, when she pulled away.
I like your shirt? Stupid, mundane, brain-dead, Buffy. Say something else!
“A lot,” she amended, linking her fingers together nervously. But it was a really nice shirt, a crisp blue button-down, and she’d never seen him in anything like it before. Perhaps he had borrowed it from Wesley?
“Yeah? Thanks.” There was the voice, clear as day, very real. She smiled then, and he smiled back. And then they were off, fighting crowds to grab a taxi. And they didn’t speak in the taxi, just sat side by side, legs and shoulders pressed right up against each other. Spike’s hands fidgeted on his knees until Buffy covered his hand with her own. Linked fingers, long squeeze. No flame this time, although there was still that heat that she truly never thought she’d ever feel again.
And then they were there, walking the three flights up to her relatively roomy flat, and it was so, so quiet this time of day, and she offered a tour, and now here they were, in the bathroom, Spike just sitting on the floor of her bathroom marveling at her styling products.
“Where’s Dawn? School?”
“Yep.”
Spike nodded. “Your letter filled me in somewhat. Thanks for that.”
“Thanks for letting me know you were… are, alive. I’m glad you reached me.”
“You know I wanted to, right away, but couldn’t…”
“I know. Wes explained it all.” Not Angel, Wesley. She did not want to talk to Angel after she found out. She was afraid of what she would say to him, afraid the rage she felt at him keeping her in the dark would make her lose control. She wished she could remember Wes’ phone call more coherently. She remembered picking up the phone, confused at hearing Wes’ voice, then she remembered him saying Spike was alive, and after that she did not remember much of his actual words. Something about the amulet, and Angel and his cronies freeing Spike from the amulet in order to stop some big bad thing from happening. Buffy was never good with details. Spike was alive. And she remembered Wes saying he could leave L.A. now so did she want to see him?
She remembered saying yes into the phone, a whisper, more like a croak. Yes, Wesley, please get him here. I can’t talk anymore. Call Giles and work out the details. I need to lie down. Bye.
“Buffy? You okay?”
His voice, like a purr, like an intimate caress, the way he said her name, still the same.
She sat next to him on the floor. She stared at him. It had been almost a year. She had never really mourned him, only missed him, and even though she somehow knew she would see him again, she could not believe it was happening, here, now. She rested her pounding head on his shoulder, not knowing what to say, how to act, what to do.
“I’m glad you’re here,” was all she could say. She felt the lightest of kisses planted on her forehead, and she heard him say, “Me too.”
Reunion
“And this? What’s this for?” Blue bottle.
“Straightening,” she replied, matter-of-factly.
“This?”
“Defrizzing.”
He sighed. Held up another bottle, this one bright orange. “This?”
Buffy shifted her weight to her other foot, recrossed her arms. “Um, I think that one volumizes.”
“You’ve got 14 bottles of the same thing. You have issues.”
“You bleach your hair even though you can’t see your reflection. You have issues.”
Spike sighed, sunk down onto the bathroom floor, staring at her, perplexed.
“So, what would your hair look like if you didn’t use any of these bloody products, which when added together would probably equal a downpayment on a house for you and Dawn?”
“Well, that’s all well and good if I wanted to live in England permanently, which I don’t. Put that back, that stuff’s really expensive.” She grabbed the shine serum from his hands and put it back in the medicine cabinet.
Outside the window, rain fell.
This was not exactly how Buffy thought the reunion with Spike would go. There was, she had assumed, going to be tears, and hugs, and swelling music, and swelling other things, as he had once remarked. Instead, she was giving him a tour of the apartment and he was now transfixed by her wide array of hair product.
Okay, there was the one hug, at the airport. The slow motion moment where she waited for him outside the security checkpoint, and time seemed to still when she saw the familiar bleached head in the distance, the walk, the presence he gave off, powerful as a storm. He spotted her after she spotted him, and he did not smile, just stared, and she stared back. Little pinpricks of light hit the back of her eyes as her vision began to tunnel, and she thought she was going to faint, but she realized it was because she was holding her breath, so she breathed, even though it hurt to do so, and then he was there, inches away, staring, staring.
And then she wasn’t sure who moved first, but it didn’t matter, because his arms were around her, and he was holding her close, tight, a crushing hug that would have broken the ribs of a normal girl. She hugged him back and didn’t speak for a few minutes because her voice box seemed to forgot how to work.
“I like your shirt,” was the first thing she said, when she pulled away.
I like your shirt? Stupid, mundane, brain-dead, Buffy. Say something else!
“A lot,” she amended, linking her fingers together nervously. But it was a really nice shirt, a crisp blue button-down, and she’d never seen him in anything like it before. Perhaps he had borrowed it from Wesley?
“Yeah? Thanks.” There was the voice, clear as day, very real. She smiled then, and he smiled back. And then they were off, fighting crowds to grab a taxi. And they didn’t speak in the taxi, just sat side by side, legs and shoulders pressed right up against each other. Spike’s hands fidgeted on his knees until Buffy covered his hand with her own. Linked fingers, long squeeze. No flame this time, although there was still that heat that she truly never thought she’d ever feel again.
And then they were there, walking the three flights up to her relatively roomy flat, and it was so, so quiet this time of day, and she offered a tour, and now here they were, in the bathroom, Spike just sitting on the floor of her bathroom marveling at her styling products.
“Where’s Dawn? School?”
“Yep.”
Spike nodded. “Your letter filled me in somewhat. Thanks for that.”
“Thanks for letting me know you were… are, alive. I’m glad you reached me.”
“You know I wanted to, right away, but couldn’t…”
“I know. Wes explained it all.” Not Angel, Wesley. She did not want to talk to Angel after she found out. She was afraid of what she would say to him, afraid the rage she felt at him keeping her in the dark would make her lose control. She wished she could remember Wes’ phone call more coherently. She remembered picking up the phone, confused at hearing Wes’ voice, then she remembered him saying Spike was alive, and after that she did not remember much of his actual words. Something about the amulet, and Angel and his cronies freeing Spike from the amulet in order to stop some big bad thing from happening. Buffy was never good with details. Spike was alive. And she remembered Wes saying he could leave L.A. now so did she want to see him?
She remembered saying yes into the phone, a whisper, more like a croak. Yes, Wesley, please get him here. I can’t talk anymore. Call Giles and work out the details. I need to lie down. Bye.
“Buffy? You okay?”
His voice, like a purr, like an intimate caress, the way he said her name, still the same.
She sat next to him on the floor. She stared at him. It had been almost a year. She had never really mourned him, only missed him, and even though she somehow knew she would see him again, she could not believe it was happening, here, now. She rested her pounding head on his shoulder, not knowing what to say, how to act, what to do.
“I’m glad you’re here,” was all she could say. She felt the lightest of kisses planted on her forehead, and she heard him say, “Me too.”