TITLE: "Nuda Veritas"
AUTHOR: zero
E-MAIL: zero@jamesmarsters.com
DISTRIBUTION: Available on my site at www.zeroimpact.com Elsewhere
please ask.
SUMMARY: The lies that hurt the most are the ones we tell ourselves, and
the truths that cause us pain are the ones we most need to face.
RATING: PG, I guess. There's nothing too racy in here.
CLASSIFICATION: Buffy/Spike
DISCLAIMER: Spike, Buffy, and all the other characters mentioned in here
belong to Joss. I'm just borrowing and abusing them.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to Chelle and Slade for their betas, even when I
ignored their good advice. This is set somewhere in an ambiguous season
five, but it's not very specific to any episode.
NUDA VERITAS
by zero (zero@jamesmarsters.com)
Sometimes, in the thin, cool hours between night and day, Buffy would
pile pillows behind her back, prop herself against the headboard, and
fix her eyes on the bedroom door. It never opened when she watched it;
it never swung in on its hinges to admit some unsuspecting loved one who
would frown and gasp and discover her dirty secret.
Sometimes, she wished it would. Sometimes, she imagined that it did.
Sometimes she wondered what words she would offer when the intruder
would ask, in a surprised and agonized whisper, the only sane question
that could be asked. The only question that anyone would ask, standing
in her doorway and observing the scene, breathing in the sharply scented
air.
Why?
She might have said that his lips tasted like honey, that his hair was
like finely woven silk and his skin the smoothest alabaster. She might
have said that his touch trailed like slow-moving, slow-burning lava
when he caressed her skin, or that the words he whispered into her ear
as they clutched at one another were the most beautiful poetry ever
breathed. She might have said that he was a gentle and considerate
lover, the only one who could truly understand her, the only one who
could stir passion in her numbed heart anymore.
She might have said that she loved him, but it would've been a lie.
When she was being honest with herself, she could admit that his kisses
tasted of blood, beer, and cigarettes. That his hair was coarse from
abuse, usually sticky with gel, and sometimes smelled of chemicals. That
his skin held the same imperfections as any man's, and that his touch
wasn't so warm, not anything akin to fire, more like the cool
mid-morning air. That the sounds he breathed into her ear were sometimes
words but more often the snarls and growls of an animal, and that his
touch was usually rough with urgency and hunger.
But those admissions were painful, so the honesty she granted herself
was rare, and grudging. And in the safer, warmer confines of her
imagination, when the door opened and someone -- Giles, her mother,
Willow, Xander, sometimes even Tara or Anya -- stepped into the room,
the lies she would craft for them would be intricate and beautiful. She
would list his virtues and his strengths, and the unwitting invader in
her imagination would slowly begin to understand that the bond she
shared with her lover was true, and unbreakable, and that they loved one
another with a strength and purity like something from a fairy tale.
Even in her mind, the lies tasted overpoweringly sweet, like the purest
confection, so filled with sugar that her teeth ached with it. And no
matter how carefully she crafted her arguments, no matter how quickly
she could win over the visitor in her imagination, she could never quite
fool herself.
Occasionally her mind would conjure up other phantoms who would not be
swayed by her arguments, either. Angel would stand solid in her mind's
eye, cloaked in black cloth and shadow, gazing at her balefully from the
doorway. Or Riley would stand there, every line of his body stiff with
tension, his eyes burning with unspoken accusation.
She always banished them swiftly, and tried not to think of them again,
But they'd still slip inside, somehow, still stand and stare and not say
a word. She had stopped formulating speeches for them in her mind,
because they never listened anyway.
Buffy sighed, long and slow, when the dim light of morning began to push
at the edges of the heavily curtained windows. She turned her eyes away
from the door, glancing at the window, absently noting the arrival of
another day like any other day; another day filled with sunshine that
couldn't reach far enough inside her to touch the shadows hidden there.
Her lover stirred, his body shifting next to hers between the rumpled
sheets, his arm brushing against her shoulder in a comfortable, casual
touch. His eyes blinked slowly open, his tongue flickered out to wet his
lips, and a soft, nearly imperceptible smile softened the hard lines of
his face as his hand reached out to slide across her stomach.
"Morning again," he murmured, his lips grazing her collarbone. His tone
made the words half question and half statement, and his voice radiated
reluctance.
"Yeah," she agreed, hand automatically rising to touch him. Her fingers
skimmed lightly over the fine dusting of down at the back of his neck
before firmly cupping that flesh, drawing him to her for a quick, chaste
kiss. "You should go before the sun comes up."
He drew away from her with the slow, lazy movements of a deep sleeper
not yet entirely awake, and tugged on his clothes with an uncaring
clumsiness. He seemed unfazed when his feet were caught up in a pile of
her laundry, and didn't seem to mind if he looked foolish when the
process of pulling on his jeans disturbed his balance, forcing him to
stumble forward a step. His gaze skittered over the floor as he looked
for his discarded t-shirt, and one hand absently slipped through his
hair, forming new rifts and peaks in the already-mussed blond tangle
atop his head.
Buffy watched him silently, filing away the unconscious gestures and
little movements in her mind for later examination, because these
morning times, on the sharp edge of dawn, were the only times she was
able to really see him. At night, when they tumbled into bed, darkness
smoothed his body and cast shadows on his faults, leaving in his place
the silver-highlighted silhouette of her perfect lover. In the day, with
the sun burning high overhead, it was as if he were white-washed by that
blinding light, and the worst of him was exposed to her eyes.
But in the early morning, with the world cast in pooling mixtures of the
blues of night and the yellows of day, in that purgatory between them
both, she could find a middle ground between the lies she spun for
friends who weren't there, and the harsh truths she forced upon herself.
The sparkling Adonis took on the listed and exaggerated imperfections,
and met somewhere in between, the blur of both lies becoming the sharply
focused image of a man. Just a man, like any other, distinguished to her
only by her need for him and her inexplicable affection. The vampire who
knelt by her bed, digging underneath with one arm in search of his
boots, was not the mythic lover that women sometimes wish for, nor a
monster to be slain.
His mouth tasted stale in the mornings, and sometimes the light touch of
his hand was the only thing that made sense in the world.
"I'll see you at the store tonight," he said.
She could only murmur unintelligibly in response, dragging her eyes away
from the familiar curve of his shoulder, which she'd mapped a few times
before with her tongue. She met his eyes -- the skin wrinkled at the
corners when he smiled, and she wondered idly how old he had been when
time had stopped for him -- and he repeated himself, recognizing her
lack of comprehension in the slightly opened slit of her mouth.
"I'll see you at Giles' store... we're meeting for patrol, remember?"
She nodded, watching silently as he shrugged on his coat and slipped
somewhat awkwardly out the window, avoiding the hallway where he might
run into someone beyond the barrier of the closed door. She faintly
heard a muffled curse as he dropped to the ground with less than feline
grace, and her eyes turned back to the bedroom door as she listed to the
rapid retreat of his feet on the pavement, and finally the hollow metal
sounds of a shifting sewer grate.
The sun seeped in with a little more power, casting a few glowing strips
of pale, pale yellow against the white door. She imagined again that it
swung open, but it was Spike standing on the other side in this new,
hazy daydream. He smiled the same lazy, satisfied smile that he often
wore just before daybreak, and leaned against the door frame, watching
her without saying a word.
Buffy smiled, rearranged her pillows and sank back into their embrace
for a few more moments of sleep, surrounded by the smoke and peroxide
smell of him.
She might've told that apparition in her mind that she didn't love him,
but it would've been a lie. His mouth tasted stale in the mornings, and
sometimes the light touch of his hand was the only thing that made sense
in the world.
The End
----
Am I on crack? Write me some feedback and let me know!
zero@jamesmarsters.com
AUTHOR: zero
E-MAIL: zero@jamesmarsters.com
DISTRIBUTION: Available on my site at www.zeroimpact.com Elsewhere
please ask.
SUMMARY: The lies that hurt the most are the ones we tell ourselves, and
the truths that cause us pain are the ones we most need to face.
RATING: PG, I guess. There's nothing too racy in here.
CLASSIFICATION: Buffy/Spike
DISCLAIMER: Spike, Buffy, and all the other characters mentioned in here
belong to Joss. I'm just borrowing and abusing them.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to Chelle and Slade for their betas, even when I
ignored their good advice. This is set somewhere in an ambiguous season
five, but it's not very specific to any episode.
NUDA VERITAS
by zero (zero@jamesmarsters.com)
Sometimes, in the thin, cool hours between night and day, Buffy would
pile pillows behind her back, prop herself against the headboard, and
fix her eyes on the bedroom door. It never opened when she watched it;
it never swung in on its hinges to admit some unsuspecting loved one who
would frown and gasp and discover her dirty secret.
Sometimes, she wished it would. Sometimes, she imagined that it did.
Sometimes she wondered what words she would offer when the intruder
would ask, in a surprised and agonized whisper, the only sane question
that could be asked. The only question that anyone would ask, standing
in her doorway and observing the scene, breathing in the sharply scented
air.
Why?
She might have said that his lips tasted like honey, that his hair was
like finely woven silk and his skin the smoothest alabaster. She might
have said that his touch trailed like slow-moving, slow-burning lava
when he caressed her skin, or that the words he whispered into her ear
as they clutched at one another were the most beautiful poetry ever
breathed. She might have said that he was a gentle and considerate
lover, the only one who could truly understand her, the only one who
could stir passion in her numbed heart anymore.
She might have said that she loved him, but it would've been a lie.
When she was being honest with herself, she could admit that his kisses
tasted of blood, beer, and cigarettes. That his hair was coarse from
abuse, usually sticky with gel, and sometimes smelled of chemicals. That
his skin held the same imperfections as any man's, and that his touch
wasn't so warm, not anything akin to fire, more like the cool
mid-morning air. That the sounds he breathed into her ear were sometimes
words but more often the snarls and growls of an animal, and that his
touch was usually rough with urgency and hunger.
But those admissions were painful, so the honesty she granted herself
was rare, and grudging. And in the safer, warmer confines of her
imagination, when the door opened and someone -- Giles, her mother,
Willow, Xander, sometimes even Tara or Anya -- stepped into the room,
the lies she would craft for them would be intricate and beautiful. She
would list his virtues and his strengths, and the unwitting invader in
her imagination would slowly begin to understand that the bond she
shared with her lover was true, and unbreakable, and that they loved one
another with a strength and purity like something from a fairy tale.
Even in her mind, the lies tasted overpoweringly sweet, like the purest
confection, so filled with sugar that her teeth ached with it. And no
matter how carefully she crafted her arguments, no matter how quickly
she could win over the visitor in her imagination, she could never quite
fool herself.
Occasionally her mind would conjure up other phantoms who would not be
swayed by her arguments, either. Angel would stand solid in her mind's
eye, cloaked in black cloth and shadow, gazing at her balefully from the
doorway. Or Riley would stand there, every line of his body stiff with
tension, his eyes burning with unspoken accusation.
She always banished them swiftly, and tried not to think of them again,
But they'd still slip inside, somehow, still stand and stare and not say
a word. She had stopped formulating speeches for them in her mind,
because they never listened anyway.
Buffy sighed, long and slow, when the dim light of morning began to push
at the edges of the heavily curtained windows. She turned her eyes away
from the door, glancing at the window, absently noting the arrival of
another day like any other day; another day filled with sunshine that
couldn't reach far enough inside her to touch the shadows hidden there.
Her lover stirred, his body shifting next to hers between the rumpled
sheets, his arm brushing against her shoulder in a comfortable, casual
touch. His eyes blinked slowly open, his tongue flickered out to wet his
lips, and a soft, nearly imperceptible smile softened the hard lines of
his face as his hand reached out to slide across her stomach.
"Morning again," he murmured, his lips grazing her collarbone. His tone
made the words half question and half statement, and his voice radiated
reluctance.
"Yeah," she agreed, hand automatically rising to touch him. Her fingers
skimmed lightly over the fine dusting of down at the back of his neck
before firmly cupping that flesh, drawing him to her for a quick, chaste
kiss. "You should go before the sun comes up."
He drew away from her with the slow, lazy movements of a deep sleeper
not yet entirely awake, and tugged on his clothes with an uncaring
clumsiness. He seemed unfazed when his feet were caught up in a pile of
her laundry, and didn't seem to mind if he looked foolish when the
process of pulling on his jeans disturbed his balance, forcing him to
stumble forward a step. His gaze skittered over the floor as he looked
for his discarded t-shirt, and one hand absently slipped through his
hair, forming new rifts and peaks in the already-mussed blond tangle
atop his head.
Buffy watched him silently, filing away the unconscious gestures and
little movements in her mind for later examination, because these
morning times, on the sharp edge of dawn, were the only times she was
able to really see him. At night, when they tumbled into bed, darkness
smoothed his body and cast shadows on his faults, leaving in his place
the silver-highlighted silhouette of her perfect lover. In the day, with
the sun burning high overhead, it was as if he were white-washed by that
blinding light, and the worst of him was exposed to her eyes.
But in the early morning, with the world cast in pooling mixtures of the
blues of night and the yellows of day, in that purgatory between them
both, she could find a middle ground between the lies she spun for
friends who weren't there, and the harsh truths she forced upon herself.
The sparkling Adonis took on the listed and exaggerated imperfections,
and met somewhere in between, the blur of both lies becoming the sharply
focused image of a man. Just a man, like any other, distinguished to her
only by her need for him and her inexplicable affection. The vampire who
knelt by her bed, digging underneath with one arm in search of his
boots, was not the mythic lover that women sometimes wish for, nor a
monster to be slain.
His mouth tasted stale in the mornings, and sometimes the light touch of
his hand was the only thing that made sense in the world.
"I'll see you at the store tonight," he said.
She could only murmur unintelligibly in response, dragging her eyes away
from the familiar curve of his shoulder, which she'd mapped a few times
before with her tongue. She met his eyes -- the skin wrinkled at the
corners when he smiled, and she wondered idly how old he had been when
time had stopped for him -- and he repeated himself, recognizing her
lack of comprehension in the slightly opened slit of her mouth.
"I'll see you at Giles' store... we're meeting for patrol, remember?"
She nodded, watching silently as he shrugged on his coat and slipped
somewhat awkwardly out the window, avoiding the hallway where he might
run into someone beyond the barrier of the closed door. She faintly
heard a muffled curse as he dropped to the ground with less than feline
grace, and her eyes turned back to the bedroom door as she listed to the
rapid retreat of his feet on the pavement, and finally the hollow metal
sounds of a shifting sewer grate.
The sun seeped in with a little more power, casting a few glowing strips
of pale, pale yellow against the white door. She imagined again that it
swung open, but it was Spike standing on the other side in this new,
hazy daydream. He smiled the same lazy, satisfied smile that he often
wore just before daybreak, and leaned against the door frame, watching
her without saying a word.
Buffy smiled, rearranged her pillows and sank back into their embrace
for a few more moments of sleep, surrounded by the smoke and peroxide
smell of him.
She might've told that apparition in her mind that she didn't love him,
but it would've been a lie. His mouth tasted stale in the mornings, and
sometimes the light touch of his hand was the only thing that made sense
in the world.
The End
----
Am I on crack? Write me some feedback and let me know!
zero@jamesmarsters.com