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Buffy didn’t hate Willow.
She could never.
But as she laid in bed the night after the disastrous Will Be Done spell…she almost wished she could.
Buffy let out a frustrated huff and rolled onto her back, shifting uncomfortably and staring up at her moonlit bedroom ceiling.
She had decided to go home for the weekend; some time with her mom would do her good and she could really use a break from her best friend after…everything.
Buffy didn’t hate Willow. She knew she hadn’t exactly done it all on purpose.
But she also didn’t think the witch truly realized the full ramifications of what she’d done, what it had felt like…the after-effects.
Buffy had been happy.
So deliriously happy. Happy in a way she hadn’t been in years. She’d felt secure, loved. More so than any other relationship she’d ever been in. She’d been engaged! Buffy hadn’t dreamt of engagements or weddings since the year she’d been called. Hadn’t thought she’d ever make it that far.
But she had and she was engaged and she was loved and she was happy.
And now? Now she just felt cold, cold all the way down to her core.
Now there was only an aching emptiness where there had once been a little ball of golden light. And every single time she thought about it—thought about how she’d felt and how suddenly and violently it had all been ripped away—it brought tears to her eyes.
It felt like being shoved into a tub of ice water.
Which was ridiculous because it was Spike.
Icky evil soulless Spike who she never ever wanted to be within three feet of again. He was a monster, he didn’t have a soul. He couldn’t love her like that, not ever, not truly.
And yet…
And yet he had. He’d loved her with everything he was, she could feel it. He’d loved her and he’d held her and he’d kissed her like she was the only thing that mattered and he’d whispered promises of a lifetime together in her ear and against her lips.
Promises of all the things he dreamed of doing together.
He’d wanted to travel, to one day take her far away from the Hellmouth and show her the world. He’d wanted to fight beside her, and was sorry he couldn’t now, but promised he’d be there in every other way he could. He’d promised he’d make sure she lived a long life, because he knew all too well the life expectancy of Slayers. He’d sworn it to her, sworn he’d make sure she was the oldest Slayer that ever lived, and had sealed it with a kiss.
And she’d believed him.
She hadn’t had the heart to tell him she’d already died once before but… dammit she’d believed him.
Without warning, tears suddenly clouded Buffy’s vision and she had to press her face into her comforter and Mr. Gordo to stifle a sob.
It was gone, all gone. Gone was the love and comfort and gone was the future she’d allowed herself to believe in, however briefly.
It wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t fair that she’d been allowed to feel that way, that she’d been allowed to hope. It wasn’t fair it was all a lie and it wasn’t fair that it was with him of all people.
Now she was just empty. Empty and cold and she couldn’t even sleep because every damn time she closed her eyes she’d see—
She was haunted by the memory of it all, of how his arms had felt around her and how—as much as she hated herself for it and as ridiculous as it was—she wanted to feel them there again.
She wanted to be held like that again. To be loved like that. To fall asleep in… somebody's arms.
She needed—
Buffy didn’t know what she needed.
Usually, when she couldn’t sleep she went slaying. She’d patrol a graveyard, stake a vamp, and crawl back into bed with a sense of relief and ease. Like the tangled mess inside of her had been put in order. She’d usually sleep well afterward.
But that hadn’t worked this time, hadn’t done a thing to soothe the ache inside of her.
She needed… something . She could feel it in her bones, in her gut. She needed something and she didn’t know what. And whatever it was—whatever was absent—was keeping her awake, tossing and turning irritably.
She wouldn’t know what that something was until the next day.
Well…maybe it wasn’t what she needed, not exactly. Maybe it wouldn’t do a thing, but she was determined to try if it would allow her to actually get some sleep.
She hadn’t meant to find it. She certainly hadn’t gone looking for it. It had just…been there.
Buffy had stopped by Giles’ place to make sure he was feeling better and his vision had returned.
Mercifully, the vampire that was occupying far too many of her thoughts than he ever had any right to was asleep.
He’d been napping on the couch and Buffy had decidedly ignored him and deliberately not looked in his direction as she walked into the next room to greet Giles.
Which, okay, was a little ridiculous because he was out cold and couldn’t even tell she was ignoring him. But it was the principle of the matter.
She didn’t care. She hated him. She was over it.
She wasn’t going to think about it anymore and she certainly wasn’t going to imagine what it would be like to crawl onto the couch beside him and drift off too.
She wasn’t going to think about how well she’d probably sleep and how his arm would snake around her waist and pull her flush against him and the weight of it would feel grounding. Or how she’d press her face into the fabric of his shirt and inhale because despite being undead and disgusting, he actually smelled really nice. Nor was she going to think about how when he awoke, he’d run his hand through her hair like he had the day before and press a sleepy kiss to—
Buffy abruptly jerked her head and tore her gaze away from his sleeping form, suddenly realizing her eyes had drifted after all.
It was strange, she noted, the way he slept. The almost deliberate rise and fall of his chest. He didn’t need to breathe.
Did he just…do that in his sleep? Breathe.
He breathed when he was awake, she knew that, had somehow noticed it long before their brief betrothal.
For a moment, Buffy found herself wondering if he was even asleep at all. Or only lightly asleep.
Was he avoiding her?
Or was he having trouble sleeping too?
Did he feel any of the after-effects of the spell?
Had he felt the moment it had all been torn away?
Did he even care or did it not matter to him because he didn’t have a soul?
Did he—
Buffy shook her head, mentally reprimanding herself for letting her thoughts go there.
It was just a spell. It was done. She needed to get over it.
Buffy went back to ignoring him and proceeded to give Giles a vision test that mostly consisted of “how many fingers am I holding up?” and “can you read the clock on the wall across the room?”
After she was satisfied Giles wasn’t going to need a seeing-eye dog anytime soon, she excused herself to the bathroom.
She stood in front of the sink before the mirror, splashing a little cold water on the back of her neck.
That was when she saw it.
Draped over the closed hamper, a crumpled-up ball of red. A shirt.
Spike’s shirt.
Buffy looked at it for a good ten seconds, turned to leave, and then stopped, her hand frozen on the doorknob.
She looked back at it while simultaneously thinking about leaving once more.
She should leave. She should walk out that door right now and never look back.
Almost against her will, Buffy suddenly found herself standing in front of the hamper. She reached down and picked up the shirt, the fabric smooth and silky between her fingers. After a few moments of inspection, she found the arrow holes in the shoulder.
“A bear! You made a bear! Undo it! Undo it!”
Buffy pressed her lips together, finding she had to fight the urge to smile at the memory.
It was stupid. This was stupid.
Still, Buffy ended up burying her nose into the fabric all the same. She inhaled deeply, gritting her teeth and trying to fight the shudder that echoed through her.
It was…him. It smelled like him.
This was ridiculous, insane, and completely unacceptable. She should not seriously be considering what she was considering. She should not even want it in the first place.
Buffy stared down at the shirt a moment longer, hand fisted tightly in the silk material.
She gave herself one last reprimand, one last reminder of how wrong and screwed up this was…and then shoved it into her bag.
That night, as Buffy got ready for bed and peeled back her covers, she unzipped the bag and pulled it out.
She brought it to her nose one more time before making her final decision and slipping it over her tank top. She pulled it tight around herself and crawled into bed, snuggling down beneath the covers.
Somehow both surprisingly and unsurprisingly, it was comfortable, soft, and…and it smelled right. Did just enough to soothe the painful ball of discomfort and loss down in her gut.
Sleep soon came, its peaceful waves lapping gently at the edge of her subconscious. She closed her eyes, letting herself drift away as her lungs rose and fell.
In the morning, Buffy would once again think about how insane it was. Would feel a warmth creep up the back of her neck and a slight dread settle in her stomach at what she’d done.
She’d think about throwing it away. Burning it.
She’d think about keeping it, about using it as pajamas because it really was soft.
Then she’d remember that she had a dorm to go back to with a best friend who would definitely notice her sleep shirt was just a bit too big and her hands got lost in the sleeves and gee? Didn’t Spike have a shirt like that just last week?
The mortification she felt at imagining this scenario was enough by itself to banish all thoughts of taking it back with her.
In the morning, Buffy would fold up the shirt and shove it into the darkest recesses of her closet where it would remain for years.
But for now…for now, she slept. Peaceful. Wrapped in a shirt instead of the arms she truly wanted.
But it was enough.
She slept at last, allowing herself a small kernel of comfort in the darkness that she would ultimately deny herself in the daylight.