I Would Have Kissed You
Title: I Would Have Kissed You
Setting: S7, in between “Never Leave Me” and “Showtime”
Rating: G
Prompt: Mistletoe, 1000 words
She knocked softly on the door before pushing it open. Spike’s head turned when she sat in the chair next to the bed.
“Hey,” he croaked.
“Hey.” It took effort to smile. He was so...purple. Bloody. Weak. He hadn’t told them much about his captivity yet, but it was obvious that torture had factored into quite a bit of it. She wished for the millionth time that she’d found him sooner. At least she’d rescued him in time for the holiday.
Speaking of…
“It’s past midnight.”
She held up the sprig of mistletoe. It took a moment for his eyes to focus. Even when they did, they showed no recognition.
Mindful of the bruises on his lips, she leaned over and kissed him, as gently as she had after Glory tortured him.
“Merry Christmas,” she whispered.
The awe in his eyes made her feel warm and giddy in a way it never had before. She felt herself smile as he said hoarsely, “Merry Christmas, Buffy.”
* * *
Buffy closed the basement door behind her before descending the stairs. She didn’t turn the lights on. All things considered, it would be best if he stayed asleep.
She padded over to the cot where he was chained. Despite having known what she would see, her heart lurched. As she took in the bruises mottling his face, she told herself it couldn’t be as bad as it looked. After all, it was dark; she couldn’t see purple and blue that clearly. Her imagination was making them more prominent because it was her fists that had put them there.
He moaned in his sleep, and her own eyes grew hot. In his dreams, was he free?
He hadn’t been a few hours ago when she’d found him stalking a teenage couple on the far side of town. Her heartbeat had tripled when she’d seen his platinum head, and she’d raced for him, without even considering that she might be mistaken. In that instant she’d been so relieved to see him alive and walking of his own volition that it hadn’t occurred to her to wonder why, if he could walk, he hadn’t returned to Revello Drive immediately.
Then she’d caught up to him and seen the vacancy in his eyes. Her heart barely had time to sink before she had to defend herself. He hadn't recognized her, no matter how many times she called his name.
She’d hauled him home after beating him to a bloody, unconscious pulp and ignored her housemates’ horrified looks.
“Research brainwashing,” she’d ordered tersely. “We’ll fix him.”
Buffy crouched next to the cot and lifted the wilted sprig of mistletoe. She brushed her lips to his temple much more gently than she would have liked. Then she balled the sprig in her fist, crushing it, and padded back upstairs lest her crying wake him.
* * *
“You all right?” Buffy eyed Spike over the rim of her champagne glass.
“Yeah.” He shifted weight in a way that belied his answer and glanced at the chattering girls filling the living room. Nervousness radiated from him.
It was kind of adorable.
Her cheeks heated as Spike added, “Just not the way I thought I’d spend Christmas.”
Their eyes met, and Buffy’s tummy gave a funny wobble. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Thanks to you, love,” he said quietly.
She flushed harder. “You escaped all on your own.”
And he had. He’d turned up on the doorstep two nights ago, bruised, bloody, and exhausted but alive. The Scoobies had suspected a trap, that he was under the First’s control again, but a spell of Willow’s had proved him to be in command of his faculties.
“Couldn’t have if you hadn’t believed in me.” He gazed at her straight in the eye in that way of his that was maddening and disarming and (now) heart melting all at once.
Her resolve tightened. “Come here.”
She grasped his hand automatically and led him from the corner to the hall.
When he quirked his eyebrow in confusion, she raised her own and glanced upward.
His soft gasp was all the encouragement she needed. Buffy stepped forward and pressed her lips to his.
It was chaste and quick and then she was lost in his humongous, astonished blue eyes. Talk about nervous and adorable.
The Christmas carols from the boom box seemed louder than they had a second before. Buffy turned to find everyone in the living room staring with expressions of varying horror and fascination.
“Deal with it,” she said, and turned back to Spike.
* * *
“Buffy?”
Her daydreams sputtered out as fast as Christmas tree lights pulled from a socket. Buffy’s fingers stilled on the mistletoe in her lap as she looked at Willow.
“You okay? You seem kind of gloomy for Christmas Eve.”
“I’m fine.” Buffy cleared her throat. “Just thinking.”
About how her sprig of mistletoe, which she’d bought on impulse last week in the grocery store as a promise to herself, would go to waste after all.
Find Spike before Christmas so you can kiss him.
That had been her mantra this week. Christmas was her only chance. If she kissed him under mistletoe, it would be no-strings-attached; it wouldn’t mean she wanted his body; it wouldn’t mean he could make advances.
It would mean that she was comfortable with him. They could be comfortable together again.
“We can use it on Xander and Anya,” suggested Willow. “Mess with their heads.”
Buffy started. She hadn’t realized anyone had recognized her mistletoe for what it was. Did they know whom it was meant for?
“Sure,” she murmured, and unfolded from the couch. She and Willow threaded their way through the girls filling the living room as “Silent Night” played in the background. The glittering tree, which Xander had surprised them with one night, caught Buffy’s eye. She made a silent wish.
Please let him be alive. Please let me find him.
Maybe tomorrow. Christmas day wouldn’t be too late.
I wanted to kiss you, Spike.
Not because she loved him (she didn’t; but maybe-). Not because she wanted to sleep with him again (too soon for that; but someday-).
But so that he knew she cared about him (needed him; wanted him there).
So that he knew she believed in him.
“He’ll be all right,” said Willow suddenly. “We’ll find him.”
Tears pricked Buffy’s eyes.
Wherever he was, she really hoped he knew that she believed in him.
Setting: S7, in between “Never Leave Me” and “Showtime”
Rating: G
Prompt: Mistletoe, 1000 words
She knocked softly on the door before pushing it open. Spike’s head turned when she sat in the chair next to the bed.
“Hey,” he croaked.
“Hey.” It took effort to smile. He was so...purple. Bloody. Weak. He hadn’t told them much about his captivity yet, but it was obvious that torture had factored into quite a bit of it. She wished for the millionth time that she’d found him sooner. At least she’d rescued him in time for the holiday.
Speaking of…
“It’s past midnight.”
She held up the sprig of mistletoe. It took a moment for his eyes to focus. Even when they did, they showed no recognition.
Mindful of the bruises on his lips, she leaned over and kissed him, as gently as she had after Glory tortured him.
“Merry Christmas,” she whispered.
The awe in his eyes made her feel warm and giddy in a way it never had before. She felt herself smile as he said hoarsely, “Merry Christmas, Buffy.”
* * *
Buffy closed the basement door behind her before descending the stairs. She didn’t turn the lights on. All things considered, it would be best if he stayed asleep.
She padded over to the cot where he was chained. Despite having known what she would see, her heart lurched. As she took in the bruises mottling his face, she told herself it couldn’t be as bad as it looked. After all, it was dark; she couldn’t see purple and blue that clearly. Her imagination was making them more prominent because it was her fists that had put them there.
He moaned in his sleep, and her own eyes grew hot. In his dreams, was he free?
He hadn’t been a few hours ago when she’d found him stalking a teenage couple on the far side of town. Her heartbeat had tripled when she’d seen his platinum head, and she’d raced for him, without even considering that she might be mistaken. In that instant she’d been so relieved to see him alive and walking of his own volition that it hadn’t occurred to her to wonder why, if he could walk, he hadn’t returned to Revello Drive immediately.
Then she’d caught up to him and seen the vacancy in his eyes. Her heart barely had time to sink before she had to defend herself. He hadn't recognized her, no matter how many times she called his name.
She’d hauled him home after beating him to a bloody, unconscious pulp and ignored her housemates’ horrified looks.
“Research brainwashing,” she’d ordered tersely. “We’ll fix him.”
Buffy crouched next to the cot and lifted the wilted sprig of mistletoe. She brushed her lips to his temple much more gently than she would have liked. Then she balled the sprig in her fist, crushing it, and padded back upstairs lest her crying wake him.
* * *
“You all right?” Buffy eyed Spike over the rim of her champagne glass.
“Yeah.” He shifted weight in a way that belied his answer and glanced at the chattering girls filling the living room. Nervousness radiated from him.
It was kind of adorable.
Her cheeks heated as Spike added, “Just not the way I thought I’d spend Christmas.”
Their eyes met, and Buffy’s tummy gave a funny wobble. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Thanks to you, love,” he said quietly.
She flushed harder. “You escaped all on your own.”
And he had. He’d turned up on the doorstep two nights ago, bruised, bloody, and exhausted but alive. The Scoobies had suspected a trap, that he was under the First’s control again, but a spell of Willow’s had proved him to be in command of his faculties.
“Couldn’t have if you hadn’t believed in me.” He gazed at her straight in the eye in that way of his that was maddening and disarming and (now) heart melting all at once.
Her resolve tightened. “Come here.”
She grasped his hand automatically and led him from the corner to the hall.
When he quirked his eyebrow in confusion, she raised her own and glanced upward.
His soft gasp was all the encouragement she needed. Buffy stepped forward and pressed her lips to his.
It was chaste and quick and then she was lost in his humongous, astonished blue eyes. Talk about nervous and adorable.
The Christmas carols from the boom box seemed louder than they had a second before. Buffy turned to find everyone in the living room staring with expressions of varying horror and fascination.
“Deal with it,” she said, and turned back to Spike.
* * *
“Buffy?”
Her daydreams sputtered out as fast as Christmas tree lights pulled from a socket. Buffy’s fingers stilled on the mistletoe in her lap as she looked at Willow.
“You okay? You seem kind of gloomy for Christmas Eve.”
“I’m fine.” Buffy cleared her throat. “Just thinking.”
About how her sprig of mistletoe, which she’d bought on impulse last week in the grocery store as a promise to herself, would go to waste after all.
Find Spike before Christmas so you can kiss him.
That had been her mantra this week. Christmas was her only chance. If she kissed him under mistletoe, it would be no-strings-attached; it wouldn’t mean she wanted his body; it wouldn’t mean he could make advances.
It would mean that she was comfortable with him. They could be comfortable together again.
“We can use it on Xander and Anya,” suggested Willow. “Mess with their heads.”
Buffy started. She hadn’t realized anyone had recognized her mistletoe for what it was. Did they know whom it was meant for?
“Sure,” she murmured, and unfolded from the couch. She and Willow threaded their way through the girls filling the living room as “Silent Night” played in the background. The glittering tree, which Xander had surprised them with one night, caught Buffy’s eye. She made a silent wish.
Please let him be alive. Please let me find him.
Maybe tomorrow. Christmas day wouldn’t be too late.
I wanted to kiss you, Spike.
Not because she loved him (she didn’t; but maybe-). Not because she wanted to sleep with him again (too soon for that; but someday-).
But so that he knew she cared about him (needed him; wanted him there).
So that he knew she believed in him.
“He’ll be all right,” said Willow suddenly. “We’ll find him.”
Tears pricked Buffy’s eyes.
Wherever he was, she really hoped he knew that she believed in him.