Title: Eyes wide shut
Author: Eurothrashed
Feedback: Yes, please. E-mail in bio.
Disclaimer: So, the other day, I was having coffee. I bought it at Wal-Mart with my last three quarters. It wasn't very good coffee. Actually, I think it was tea. Now I have no quarters.
Rating: dunno, don't do ratings... Pg13 - R?
Summary: Why wont you open your eyes? ... Sequel to 'Like going home'
Spoilers: Buffyverse whatever, Angelverse up to 'Destiny'
A/N Who knew a person could get high off of cold pizza? The results are interesting.
She reaches out, cold fingers twining with fingers just as cold. A tired groan catches in her throat, where it's muffled and stomped out. She hears voices bouncing back and forth all around her. Loud. Annoying. Tinny.
Forcing her body to move, she sits up. Thankfully, the voices stop. Cold fingertips brush her forehead, gently pushing her hair back. She shivers when they weave into her hair, cradling the back of her head. She feels thumbs lightly tracing circles along the tense, aching muscles of her neck.
Letting out a choked cry, she launches forward, wanting the comfort closer. The fingers become hands, and the hands are just as gentle. Somehow, she knew they would be. Cold skin presses against her cheek, and she buries her eyes in the pocket of darkness that she's found. Her nose soaks in the scent that surrounds her, taking it inside, breathing it in. There's smoke, and then a soft bitterness that reminds her of beer... and something else. That something else is what she focuses on, memorizing the subtle way she can taste it, cold and smooth on the roof of her mouth.
There are whispers and then a low vibration that settles against her shoulder. Everything feels cold and distant. Her fingers latch on almost out of reflex, pulling the cold hands and smoky darkness closer. Arms make themselves known and tighten around her. Fingers bite into her shoulder-blades, pulling her just as close as she needs them to.
More whispers, more tinny voices and almost-shouts flying somewhere above her. She wishes they'd go away. Maybe if she ignores them they will. She feels knees bend on either side of her, drawing forward and pressing to complete her cage of cold limbs and smooth scented oblivion.
Cold lips press against her ear, whispering something thick and sweet. It reminds her of cream in coffee, swirling in, taking away the bitter aftertaste. Words she can almost make out - soft and accented - tease and work through her hair as the chilled fingers toy with the collar of her blazer. She's long left the familiar hold of sleep and trying to pretend that she hasn't is a game she plays. If she keeps her eyes shut she can hold onto this feeling a little longer.
She keeps her eyes clamped shut, her forehead screwing up into little wrinkles with the effort. She forces herself not to voice her disappointment when he pulls away from her; and she ignores him when he, softly, worriedly whispers her name. If she stays quiet, if she doesn't think, if she doesn't open her eyes - if she pretends she's asleep she can keep this pocket of comfort from disintegrating around her.
This can't be real.
She's had dreams like this. Nightmares. The only difference is, the scary part is waking up.
She'll open her eyes and be alone. It's always like that. So, she keeps her eyes closed. She's opened them too many times and found herself twisted tight in her sheets, as tight as she'd dream his arms being. He used to hold her so tight, and her fingers would ache from how they'd fist his shirt, trying to pull him closer. But he was never close enough, never, and frustrated tears would skate down her cheeks 'cause he wasn't close enough.
He never complained when her nails broke skin. It didn't matter to him. She hated it, that she hurt him when she slept. Even said he didn't have to sleep with her if he didn't want to. That he didn't have to. He just got a panicked look in his eyes, almost horrified; she didn't mention it again.
It's almost like he can read her thoughts when his arms tighten again and his fingers dig into her back just like they used to. She's missed it, the feel of him holding her. She forces the tears down, she has to. If she doesn't, they'll never stop. She doesn't need to freak him out any more than she already has. She can't believe she fainted. Who faints anymore?
Her chest and throat are sore from forcing the pain down, from trying to bury it, so it can't claw it's way out of it's shallow grave. It's always shallow, and it always manages to break through and dust the dirt off. Her teeth grind together, keeping the hurt locked tight inside as her eyelids burn from tears she won't let fall.
She's sick of crying herself to sleep after she wakes up. She's sick of opening her eyes and finding an empty room. She's sick of getting worried glances. And She's sick of breaking down at the casual mention of his name. She's just sick of it. So she snuggles into his T-shirt, silently begging him to never let go.
"Gonna open your eyes, Bit?" he asks, and she can't help it, she shivers. God, she's missed his voice. The way it works through the air, sometimes dark and wispy; like the smoke from his stinky cigarettes she used to complain about. She loves the way he'd talk to her, even if he was just helping her with math. He always managed to make algebra and fractions sound like he was offering her something illegal and just plain wrong.
A flemy laugh bursts past her lips, and she presses her face harder into his shoulder. She thinks that for a second, she can force the tears away, smother the urge before it can slip through her armor. A small breathy hiss sounds next to her ear. It's a strange sound; one she hasn't heard him make before. It's almost a gasp but then not. Turning her head, she hides her eyes in the crook of his neck, softly breathing in his scent. His fingers tighten then let go as another hiss is drawn out from between his teeth. And she knows she was right, it wasn't a gasp - the sound is more deliberate than surprise.
His voice could change so easily, she remembers; usually into something hard and dark. When he was upset with her, his voice reminded her of his tuneless punk songs. The ones she used to say she hated, but really didn't. She's said a lot of things she didn't mean. Like the fire thing. It's kinda prophetic in ways she doesn't like to think about, her threat and how he actually died. Fire and fire. She doesn't know how many hours she spent crying and screaming into her pillow. Apologizing and apologizing, over and over - never expecting to be forgiven. It sounded good and she meant it at the time; but she wishes she'd never said it.
"Look at me?" he asks.
"No," she tells him. She's not gonna chance this being a dream. She's not gonna open her eyes and find an empty room. She refuses to. It hurts too much if it's a dream. She can relate with Buffy now. She knows why the normal, everyday-stuff can feel like hell. That warm, safe feeling Buffy wrote about, that feeling of being loved and protected - no matter what - that's what Spike was. At least until she convinced herself that she hated him. She was so stupid.
"Why?" his voice is soft, like he's in church or a museum. She bites her lip, trying to drown out the pain with a kind of different pain. She hates feeling this way.
"Why don't you wanna open your eyes, Nibblet?" That's another thing she hates, his kicked puppy voice. Like Spike's ever been a kicked puppy. A battered dog? Now that one she could buy. He's been kicked around, starved, and like a big crazy masochist he comes back for more. And it wasn't just from Buffy, he was like that with Dru, crying and getting drunk. She bets he has a history of letting girls get their way and stomp all over him. You'd think self-preservation would kick in some time, but no, just more therapy-needing 'please, pet me'.
"'Cause," she says, not giving a reason. He should know why she doesn't wanna open her eyes; it's the same reason he kept his open when he held her that summer. He was scared she'd disappear, like Buffy did.
"Oh," and that's all he says as his hands start rubbing her back again. Just 'oh', not a chuckle or something really dirty that Buffy would smack him for. All he says is 'oh'. He still hasn't mentioned her punching him or the whole embarrassing fainting-thing or even her letter. She's glad that he hasn't. She's having a hard enough time with him being not-dead.
She can hear Angel hissing something under his breath, her noise wrinkles.
She's still not too sure about the ensouled thing. Her mom always said, if it acts like a duck, looks like duck, and sounds like a duck, then it's a duck. Personally, she doesn't care anymore. All that matters is that Spike's back, and that he's holding her.
Unless this's all a dream - then he's still dead.
If it is, and he is, she's going downstairs and telling Buffy that she's changed her mind. If this is just another dream, Slay-sis won't have to drag her little sister to see a shrink, she'll volunteer. Losing weight and constant red-rimmed eyes is one thing, but she won't go crazy for him. She won't.
"'Won't' what, Sweet bit?" Spike asks, pressing his face against her throat. She tries not to shiver at the feel of his lips skimming over her pulse. He isn't feeding... not exactly. There's no biting or blood, but he is taking in the comfort. He's feeding on the touches. There's been a lot of that, touching and being touched. He's really clingy, and the way he's holding her...
If someone walked in, they'd probably think he was her boyfriend. Part of her laughs at that, and the rest, has a smug sorta satisfaction. He'd never hold Buffy this way - this way, or this close - even if they got back together. This holding thing, is strictly theirs. Theirs. They might never have an 'us' but there's a 'theirs'. It doesn't make the unshed tears in her eyes go away though. Nothing ever does.
He's colder than she remembers. That summer, Spike had the gang keep the air off and all the windows open. When he touched her, his skin was almost warm. Maybe that's why he did it, if the room temperature was warmer, he was warmer. Maybe, during those hours that he held her he was playing human. Pretending that there weren't nasties in the world and that he wasn't one of them. Maybe it was a way for him to forget a little bit. Like she did when he held her.
She forgot that her blood could open portals, and that her big sister was dead. She could even pretend to forget that sleeping in an unconsciously intimate tangle of limbs with a Master Vampire wasn't exactly normal. When she and Spike slept, they looked like one of those couples in the movies that were holding each other after a really romantic fade-to-black. It looked that way, but it really wasn't.
She bets that the girl in the movies never got pushed out of bed in the morning. Her clock would go off, he'd stretch just so, and then she'd land in a heap on the floor. Of course, she'd get up, get dressed for school, and beat him with her pillow until Tara was done making breakfast.
She tries not to think about how he used to tell her stories with actual happy endings and softly sing old English-sounding songs she'd never heard before. She tries not to think about it, and like always, trying not to makes it so she can't get it out of her head.
He'd whisper desperate things about the moon and stars and how he'd never leave her, how he wouldn't fail her like he failed her. He'd press hard kisses to her forehead and run his trembling fingers through her hair, not caring that she could feel his cold tears raining down.
He was hurting, she was hurting; they took comfort where they could find it. She was the only person he cried in front of after the funeral. Spike mourned just like he loved, almost violently. When he cried it wasn't sad, it was damaging and harsh; like a flood or a thunderstorm. He'd sweep her up in his grief, enveloping her in his clawing lightening and booming thunder; just letting his noise and violence out as he tightened his arms around her and buried his face into the column of her throat.
She needed to be held and he needed to have someone to hold. It was that simple.
There's no violence now, she wishes she had the strength to hit him. She really does. She wishes she could lash out like he could with his tears. She wishes she could make him hurt as much as she does, twist up his insides until there's nothing but pain. She wishes she could show him how much she wishes she didn't love him. And it isn't 'cause of who he is, it's 'cause he's not hers, it's 'cause he never will be.
Her hands drift up into his hair, holding him to her, completing the image of the lovers that they're not.
She's straddling him as he sits on the floor, her skirt somehow pushed up, exposing skin that his eyes shouldn't see. His hands hold tight onto her hips, his fingers pressing into her in warning as she digs her nails into his scalp and pulls a little at his gelled hair. He moves back, his fingers becoming small points of hurt pressing into her skin. She knows she'll have bruises, he does too.
She hears the crunch of moving bone as Angel slips into game face...
She feels cold skin as Spike rests his forehead against her crown. His voice softly whispers things, things that sound too devoted, things that almost sound like love. His words make her heart ache and make her nails scratch his scalp in retribution. He sucks in a sharp breath, her name sounding like a dying man's prayer as it stumbles past his lips...
Her eyes are open and she's looking straight at him before she knows what she's doing. He just looks at her, sheepishly, and she freezes. Oh, God. She feels like she's gonna be sick.
He always disappears.
He'd be sitting and smirking and just being Spike. They'd be talking or he'd be helping her with her homework. Just normal things, things they used to do. And then she'd wake up. She'd wake up and he wouldn't be there. But he's still here, right here - covered in flaking, dry blood. The brown is smeared over his face. He reaches up, pushing her hair behind her ear.
She feels like she's having a nervous breakdown, although she's pretty sure she's already had one of those. Her heart's pounding so hard it hurts, and her hands are clammy and cold as she touches his face. Barely cupping his cheeks as she lets her thumbs trace his bottom lip. His eyes are murky, dark, and hiding just under parted lips she can see his blunt too-white teeth.
She wants to close the distance between them, she wants to kiss him. But she can't. She never can. 'Cause he doesn't think about her like that, she knows he doesn't. Even if his eyes are drifting half-shut, and his tongue snakes out to run over the pads of her thumbs. Spike loves Buffy. And those three words cut so deep, they hurt, tearing up her heart until she can't breathe.
His fingers bruise and bite like his teeth should, his words make her bleed and cry as his eyes burn into her. "I missed you too, Bit." She doesn't know how anyone could be scared of him, she's not. He's Spike, it doesn't matter which face he wears, or which attitude he tries to hide behind. His eyes are soft and understanding.
It doesn't matter if he has a soul or not, it's never mattered, she realizes that now.
He's still Spike.
"I'm sorry," she whispers. A quick kiss, just a feathery brush of warm lips against cold. Something she needed to do. Something she's needed to do for a long time now. Not a flinch. Not even a surprised widening of blue eyes. He just gives her an understanding smile before she hides her eyes against his throat. And he lets her hide.
She's missed how he just takes everything in stride. Where everyone else is worried and freaked about her, Spike just shrugs it off. He files it away and it doesn't matter. He doesn't care. But this just sitting here, this warm and easy feeling as pulls her into another hug, is nice.
That's another thing she's sick of; she's sick of 'nice'. That's all anyone's been since he died, since she went crazy-depression-chick. They've been really understanding and nice. The only one that would really understand is Buffy, but she doesn't like to think that maybe her sister misses Spike as much as she missed Angel. And this's all messed up, 'cause Spike's alive, and she's still missing him.
This isn't how things are s'posed to happen. They're not. She doesn't wanna love him. She doesn't wanna be the little sister anymore; and she doesn't wanna be the one doing the chasing. Not that she's actually chasing Spike, staring at and wanting to knock some sense into, yes, but she's not running after him.
He ran after Buffy. Hounded her. Made her feel even a little something for him. She couldn't do that, she couldn't settle for 'a little something'. And it hits her, right there, as she stares into his eyes.
She can't be friends with him anymore.
She can't settle.
The confusion on his face when she climbs out of his arms, and pushes past Angel to the door, is heartbreaking. She'd feel horrible right now, if her heart wasn't already broken a hundred times over.
She's coasting through the halls, not running like she feels she should be. She feels him walking behind her, she hears his voice asking 'what's wrong?' wondering if he did something wrong. She stops walking, if he hadn't used her name, if he had called her any one of his many nicknames she wouldn't have. But he used her name, so she has to turn and meet those too-blue eyes. She can't help but think that it's like looking up at your executioner before the axe swings down.
And of course, she's crying. Ask the Scoobies, she's always crying anymore, always. They just leave the room now; they've stopped trying to console her. 'Cause no matter how many hugs she gets, and no matter how many understanding smiles she sees, it doesn't make the pain fade. Not like when her mom died, or Buffy. The pain's fresh. 'Cause she just doesn't love Spike, she's in love with him.
She doesn't know why it hurts more, or why it won't 'get better'. She wishes it would. She wishes she could move on with her life. She wishes she could play normal like everyone else does now. She wishes she could, she doesn't know why she can't.
She just doesn't know.
"'Don't know' what, Dawn?" He's so close, cold fingers under her chin, making her look up at him, not letting her stare at the floor. There are so many answers to that, and all of them are true. She doesn't know why she can't stop loving him, why everyone else gets to stop hurting when she can't.
Willow moved on when Tara died, Buffy moved on after Angel, even Xander's okay now.
It's not fair.
Why should they be able to stop crying and smile like nothing's wrong? Why? It's not fair! She hurts all the time! Why do they get to be happy when all she gets to do is hurt? And why does she feel like they don't have a right to be happy?
"I don't know," her words are soft, and she turns away, walking again. But his hand on her shoulder stops her; he's in front of her again, making her meet his gaze.
"Talk to me, luv," he says. That's when she snaps, everything seems to go a bit hazy at the word 'talk'. She hates that word.
She shrugs his hands off her shoulders, "I'm sick of talking, Spike," she grinds out. "Talking didn't bring you back, talking didn't make you dying hurt any less." Spike frowns, but doesn't back up at her harsh words, even Buffy backs up when she gets this way. She scares Buffy. She doesn't scare Spike. She shouldn't take all this out on him, it wasn't his fault. It wasn't anybody's fault, well, except Angel, him she can blame all she wants.
Her shoulders sag and she lets out a long shaky breath. "And talking about stuff isn't gonna magickally make you love me." She's learned that; learned it the hard way. Talking doesn't do anything.
There's gasps, a few mumbled curses. Angel and his Wal-Mart brand Scoobies-snacks are right behind them.
"You're in love with him?" Brood-boy points a finger at Spike, like a knife.
She rolls her eyes, miserably running a hand through her hair. "You didn't figure that out by all the holding?" She gives Angel a bored look she'd perfected during her talks with Xander, "Slow on the uptake aren't you?"
"What's wrong with her loving me?" Spike hisses, taking step toward Angel.
Angel gives Spike a dark look, "Do I even need to answer that?"
Listening to Spike hurl insults like rocks, she remembers when it was Xander who was his target. She's missed it, how he would purposely hit old wounds and grin all-evil when he made new ones. She's missed hearing his voice verbally tear people down - one piece at a time, until he takes away the supporting beam and they fall in on themselves; like a house of cards.
He'd watch all the time, cataloging what comments made them upset or squirm. He'd figure out their weaknesses and then fling them in their faces; always adding sharp edges and jagged tears of metal for them to get cut on. Making them bleed without ever lifting a pale, undead finger. That was one of his gifts, one of the things that she's missed.
He'd always find a creative way to say 'we suck, we're gonna die'; it was something constant and oddly comforting that she could count on. She always thought she could count on him, even when she thought she hated him. He was reliable. Constant. Like an annoying stray that just wouldn't go away, no matter how you yelled or kicked at it. He took the abuse and stayed. Then he went and died and her world collapsed, like one of his rocks hit her just right and her card house was ruined.
That's how she feels right now, listening to them bicker like eight-year-old boys at recess. Fighting over who can run the fastest, or who has the best Tonka. It feels like her world's collapsing all over again... only slower.
'Wasn't for anyone but you, Dawn. Remember that.'
She remembers. That was the first time she'd ever heard him use her name. She was getting the first-aid stuff, like he had told her to. 'Cause Buffy's hands were all scratched up. It was the night that the gang had brought her back. It was a big night of firsts, she remembers that too. It was the first time she'd had to sleep alone since the tower. It was the first time Spike wasn't all obsessive-compulsive about protecting her. It was the first time she'd seen Spike look at someone else like he had looked at her all summer. But mainly, she remembers it as the night she first heard him use her name.
She had stopped in the hallway, sighing and letting her hair fall in front of her face. The first-aid kit had felt cold, like plastic always does, but it was too cold; like she knew everything would be from now on. She could feel the air-conditioner kicking in, the chill was slowly working through the house. It was a change, though small, it was one of the first indications that nothing would be the same anymore.
Cold fingers, ones she remembered being luke-warm, pushed her hair back, lingering on her now tear-stained cheeks. They tilted her gaze up to meet his, but she just turned her head, twisting out of his gentle hold. She thrust the first-aid kit at him, making him take it from her. "She's waiting on you, Spike." Her voice had been thick with pain, she remembers, and she had hid behind her curtain of hair. The sound of the plastic kit sharply being thrown almost made her smile, like she had won something, but she knew it was a hollow victory. He had hissed curses and even a punched through sheet rock before staring at her again.
White dust covered his fingers and it almost hurt when he forced her to look up at him. She just stood there, not bothering to fight him this time. Desperate blue eyes, almost glassy, met hers. He didn't blink, and sometimes she likes to think that if he had she would have seen tears. Messy blonde hair, sticking up in every direction and curling into ringlets at his collar. She loved his hair that way. Even told him once - he always wore extra gel after that. Sharp cheekbones, the hollows of his cheeks that curve into familiar smirking lips. They weren't smirking - there weren't any smiles that night - they were parted, and a cold breeze was drifting past them.
His thumbs wiped away her tears, carefully, like she'd break if he wasn't mindful of how he touched her. He was always like that. Treating her like she was made out of glass. His proud shoulders were slumped almost in defeat, and he was slouching and ducking his head so that he was meeting her eyes head on. His fingertips tensed, constricting until she could see his eyebrows furrowing as the chip sent out warning shocks.
He pulled her forward, as he pressed her back against the wall. He'd been hard and cold as he pressed his body against hers, like a marble statue that her mom had at the Gallery. He'd never touched her like that before, and he wouldn't again. He hadn't blinked, 'cause of the tears she's like to think were there. She likes to think that maybe he was hurting 'cause Buffy was back too. That he was both happy about it and then heartbroken.
His fingers nipped sharply at her skin, like the snow they had had that one Christmas. Those unblinking eyes had stared into her, seeing past every well-built wall and locked gate. And he had sighed, a small smile playing on the corners of his mouth. And then he had leaned in... she remembers his lips being cold and chapped. His lips had touched hers briefly and then drifted up, hard and regretless as he crushed them to her forehead.
"Wasn't for anyone but you, Dawn." She could feel the words form as his lips moved, still pressed against her skin. Then he was a million miles away, picking up the first-aid kit. He'd turned around, meeting her shocked, wide eyes. "Remember that," he told her, his smile from before completely gone. Then he was in the living room, bandaging Buffy's hands and not sparing his 'little bit' a fleeting glance.
She likes to think, when remembering that night, that maybe he had loved her, even if it was only for a minute. Looking around, she wonders why Angel's holding his jaw has he tries to get to his feet. More importantly, she wonders why she's looking down at Spike, whose nose is once again bleeding. But all her questions are answered when he stands and she launches into Faith's training program... using Spike as the punching bag. He's shocked, but it doesn't take long before he's easily blocking her blows. And it would have gone on that way, she knows that, she could never really take him.
But he isn't expecting it when she drops, her foot catching him solidly under the chin. He's sprawled out on the floor in front of her again, wincing from bruises she's sure she didn't give him.
"You lied," she whispers, kicking his booted foot out of her way. She's running down the halls, swiping a hand in front of her watery eyes. He lied. It was all for Buffy. He only stayed with her 'cause Buffy made him promise, he only gave a crap 'cause it made him look good in Buffy's eyes. It was all about Buffy. He got his soul for Buffy, he went insane for Buffy, and he started being big and bad again 'cause Buffy wanted him to be. It always came down to Buffy. Why should that summer be any different?
"'Cause, luv," cold fingers jerk her around, cruelly holding her in place as they push her into a nearby wall. Spike. Of course it's Spike, he's the only one she knows who doesn't blink so he doesn't cry. "It wasn't for anyone else." She stifles the urge to laugh, he really believes what he's saying. "No bloody one but you." And she does laugh. It starts out small, almost like a sob, but it quickly fades into sick giggles. It's a nasty sound, one that makes Mister Big Bad tilt his head to the side and stare at her.
"Wow," she looks past him, at the wall. "No one but me- -" the giggles come back, "- -had you for a whole three months." Yeah, it's funny. No one said it was ha-ha funny. "You were mine and all we did was cuddle. Naïve as naïve can be, huh?" He gives her a pained look she can't see. She can't see it 'cause she won't look at him, 'cause she's too busy staring at the wall. "That hurts ya'know," she says, drawing attention to the fact that he's digging his fingers into her upper-arms.
"M'sorry,' he mumbles, loosening his grip.
More nasty sounding laughs pour from her. Spike just told her he was sorry and he really meant it - in her opinion that's beyond hilarious. And then she's crying and beating her fists against his chest, 'cause Spike was hers for three months and all they did was cuddle. She doesn't know how long he held her, letting her say his name like a curse and whisper how much she wished she could hate him and not love him. But she knows it wasn't long enough, even though her muscles ache and she's too tired to hit him anymore.
"You could fight back," she softly tells him, "You don't have to take all this crap from me."
He stiffens, but doesn't move, not backing them away from the wall. "Could," he agrees, his voicing sounding tired. "But you love me." He presses a kiss to her forehead, a mere ghost of the one he gave her that night. "An' you're touching me." Another tired press of cold lips against her hairline. "Believe me, Dawn. It trades out even enough."
"I shouldn't take it out on you." She slips her arms around his waist, letting her fingertips press into the T covered dips of his spine. That weird hiss noise that he makes shivers past her ear and he clamps his eyes shut. "Yeah, you can take it," she's not sure if she's talking to him so much as herself. "But that doesn't mean you have to."
"What makes you think that I don't like it, pigeon?" His eyes are open, and that murky blue colour she likes is back and somehow, it's darker... deeper.
"Puh-lease," she rolls her eyes, "If you liked it so much, you wouldn't bitch and whine like you do."
That weird look in his eyes fades slightly, "I don't whine."
"No," she agrees, smiling a little. "You just bitch."
"Bloke's gotta have a hobby," he shrugs, easy as can be.
Dawn's voice turns serious, and she sighs feeling unbelievably tired, "I can't be friends with you anymore, Spike, you gotta know that."
"Kinda figured, yeah."
He smiles a bit, looking wistful, and he kisses her, and he holds her like she likes to be held.
She's just his Nibblet and he's just her Spike. This is how it's supposed to be. And if it isn't, he doesn't care.
Neither does she.
END