Made by nmcil



Chapter Fourteen:






The deer in headlights stare left Buffy's face and was replaced with an indifferent one to mask the anxiousness building inside her. She headed past Spike into the bedroom, not stopping until her eyes landed on the blue painting Spike had been praising earlier. She wished they would get back to that conversation.

"Two girls were talking in the back garden. Giving me these looks, they were," Spike said.

She turned, and was struck by the grimness in Spike's expression. "Silly bints must have forgotten the keen sense of hearing a vampire has." Narrowing his eyes, he added, "'Less they don't know I’m a vampire."

He walked casually to the dresser, picked up a small eye shadow container, and used his thumb to sweep the dust. "So, you warned your little army to zip their gobs shut? Big Bad Vampire must not know about the dirty deeds little Miss Perfect committed."

She wasn't sure what to say; didn't feel like arguing with him. She just wished this whole thing would end fast, so they could get back to the mission.

Spike took his time picking up her makeup products one after the other and cleaning the dust off with his fingers. "Now I don't care if you stole the Taj Mahal. What you do with your private time is your business. But if I had to listen to all the high and mighty rubbish about Angel and Wolfram and Hart, I'd expect it coming from someone who never broke the law." He set down her eyeliner and finally looked her in the eye. "That girl gets to be critical."

Holding his gaze, Buffy recalled the times she had broken the law before, only when it was necessary to defeat the enemy. This time, she'd broken the law because it was necessary to protect her Slayers. To her it made no difference, but this time it filled her with an unreasonable feeling of failure. "It's not what you think," she said.

"There's nothing to think about. You obviously needed the money." His jaw clenched. "But the Buffy I know would never steal if her life depended on it."

That earned him a glower. "Then I guess you never really knew me."

"You'd like to think that, but I know you too well, Buffy. At least the old Buffy. This one here doesn't compare to that hero."

Buffy felt something like a heavy lead ball form in her stomach and pried her gaze away from him, studying her feet. She forcibly restrained herself from meeting his eyes again.

Spike moved from his spot next to the dresser, and then she could see her sneakers touching toes with his black boots. Swallowing, she met his eyes, his face so close to hers, looking confused, as though trying to understand how she became this new person.

She took a step back, away from that gaze. "You weren't here," she whispered.

Spike cradled his head in his hands, looking wilted by her words. "And she's on again about it. Didn't tell you I was back, horse is bloody dead." He dropped his hands to his sides, and his shoulders slumped a little. "And so is the Buffy I know."

Her mouth twitched in frustration. "You're not the Spike I know, either."

"Told you that the other day."

"Guess I didn't believe you." She felt her bottom lip beginning to twitch, and bit on it. "Just like you didn't believe me when I told you I love you."

He snorted, shaking his head and turning toward the door. The thought of strangling him perturbed her because she knew it wouldn't work. When did he turn from the man who healed her wounds to the one twisting the knives in them?

"Do you remember what you told me that night, Spike?" she asked, desperately hoping that man she knew then would come back. "That you've seen me at my worst and yet you still loved me?" She spread her hands. "Here I am. Can you possibly love this Buffy? She turned thousands of girls into freaks, took them away from their homes and any chance they'd ever have at a normal life. She's a terrorist who hides from governments. She's a thief. She's giving up on searching for a friend that disappeared. So disconnected from the world she can barely feel a thing for her daughter." Every sentence she uttered felt like a blow to her already bleeding heart as facts she'd tried to ignore slipped so easily out of her mouth.

But Spike would understand her. He would know what to say. He would make it better somehow.

"This is me at my worst." Her voice choked up. The only time she'd felt this alone was when everybody in her house, from her friends to the potentials, stopped believing in her and wanted her away. But she hadn't really been alone, because Spike was still there.

She pictured that Spike. With a warm hand, he touched that bruise in her heart and healed it, bringing back her courage and strength. Giving her back the power she'd been stripped of.

"So, what's it gonna be, Spike?" her voice quivered.

He wouldn’t even look at her, much less say he still loved her. She was surprised there were tears in her eyes. Her hand shook before it rose up to wipe the tears off her cheeks so that Spike wouldn't catch her crying. It wasn't necessary, though, because Spike never looked back.

He just left.



~*~*~*~



Buffy rubbed her tired eyes as she made her way inside her building. There was no time to wallow after Spike had stormed out. She had to lay out a few instructions and get a lot of training done before they left for Tuscany. All they needed now was a good eight hours’ sleep before taking off. She glanced at her watch. Six-twenty. Xander must be up by now.

She pushed the door open and hoped that Xander had either left earlier than usual or that he hadn't set his clock right. The clink of plates from the kitchen told her otherwise. If she could just slip into her bedroom, things would be perfect. She took off her sneakers and padded her way silently to her room.

"Oh, you're back early today?" the sarcastic voice greeted her from behind. She wearily turned around to see Xander standing by the kitchen door in his construction outfit.

"Things are getting…" she tried to explain, knowing full well it wouldn't work.

"You're never home these days," Xander cut her off in a low, angry tone. "I'm your boyfriend, and I barely see you."

"Yeah, 'cause the best way to save the world is snuggling in bed with my boyfriend." She regretted it the second she said it and hated herself more when she saw the glimpse of a pained expression on his face, quickly masked by an annoyed stare.

"The girls can take care of it, Buffy," he reasoned. "You're never here for Andy, either."

Buffy squinted. "She's not in danger now, is she?"

A stunned look was added to the already angry expression. "So she has to be in danger for you to spend time with her?"

"No, of course not." Buffy sighed, frustrated.

"If you wanna move to the castle, then go." Xander's yelling only added more pain to her headache. She hoped the fight would end now, so she would be able to get her much needed sleep before the rescue trip. "I know how it is. 'It's all about the mission.' There's no time for friends and family."

Buffy looked at him, dazed.

"She's your daughter, Buffy. She needs you all the time." With that said, he grabbed his hard hat and briefcase and walked out of the apartment. As if on cue, her cell phone started to ring. With a tired sigh, she brought it out and gazed at the screen. It was Dawn. Perfect, she needed to vent.


~*~*~*~


"Can you say one sentence without calling Xander names?" Dawn suggested weakly through the phone. "Isn't it time yet to tell him about Spike?"

"I don't need to tell him about Spike. I need him not to say those things to me." Buffy paced in the living room, bumping into tables and sofas. The glass of water shook in her other hand. "I thought Xander changed." She sighed.

"He did," Dawn said. "He's a father. Andy comes first now."

"I get it. I'm a lousy mother…"

"Buffy," Dawn interrupted.

"A lousy girlfriend, a lousy friend, and a lousy sister. No matter how hard I try, I'll always suck." Disappointed faces haunted her every second. Spike's, for how much she'd changed. Xander's, for not spending more time with him and Andrea. Renée's, for not being able to return Xander's affection. Satsu's, for her inability to provide answers to Rowena and the others' disappearance. Even little Andrea had been ignoring her the other day. It was too exasperating; she needed something she could fight. Something she could defeat. Today she would march to Tuscany with her scythe in her hands, doing exactly what she'd always done, what she could do.

At that thought, she said, "But I was always a good Slayer. No, not good. Great. It's the only thing I'm good at."

"Buffy, c'mon," Dawn started defensively.

"Maybe it's time I do it the old-fashioned way." She hung up, throwing the cell phone on the couch, and stormed into her room. She tossed a duffle bag on the bed, followed by some clothes. She began stuffing them in the bag, not bothering to fold them first. Her cell phone was ringing, but she ignored it. When she was finished packing her clothes and shoes, she dashed to the bathroom to get her toothbrush.

She stopped at the bathroom door as the smell of baby powder filled her nose. Shaking her head, she walked to the basin and reached tentatively for the toothbrush. She ran two fingers down the green plastic stick before she grabbed hard on it. It went inside the bag in seconds. She was ready. No, she forgot something.

She walked to her dresser and before she did a thing, she let out a big sneeze from the baby powder. Pressing her forehead against the mirror, she realized that Andrea must be at Renée's; there was no way Xander was going to leave her alone in the apartment. The criticisms rang in her ears as she took out new socks and shoved her feet into tight black boots.

Her eyes caught her tired face reflected in her mirror. Sometimes it seemed that pain was always her only friend, and tears always close, sighing not so far away. She was going to change that. Pain could be near, but she could push it off. Tears could work their way out, but she could hold them back. Sighing could be her daily habitude, but she could change the surge. Life wasn't there for her misery, nor was it there for her happiness; her misery and happiness depended on her. There would always be bumps in the road, and doors shut in her face -once it was her own house's door- but in the end she always came through… with someone else's help.

A deep frown crossed her face. She could make it, though, on her own. All her life she’d waited for the right person with the right speech to pull her together again. Almost everyone she knew had been the key that made her stand on her feet again. She couldn't for the life of her remember a moment when she believed in herself without their speeches.

Whether there was a moment or not, she knew she would make one now. At that thought, her cell phone stopped ringing. She was alone. Grabbing her bag, she made her way out of the apartment.

The doors of the elevator opened, and she dragged her duffle bag inside. She watched the numbers of the floors flash on the screen, nodding her head and tapping her foot restlessly. Quickly changed to the fourth floor, quickly changed to the third floor, quickly changed to the second floor, quickly changed to the first floor.

She hurried out of the building and crossed the street, barely checking for passing cars. She stopped to gaze at the nauseating scene of a boy throwing up on his mother's shoes. The mother cursed in disgust before she started to clean the boy up while her shoes swam in the smeary repercussion.

She turned around and made her way toward the bus station. People passed her by, concerned with their own problems. Cars went by as well, one at a time, ready for the daily races. Horns honked from time to time, pleading for cars to leave some room for others. Just life going normally around her.

She walked past a few posters of boy bands on the walls. Two girls dashed from across the street to check out the posters, and one bumped into her. "Sorry, sorry," she squealed and followed her friend. Buffy stopped walking when she realized that this wasn't the way to the bus station. She looked from left to right trying to figure out what street it was.

Her eyes caught a little girl walking with her parents and holding a music box. Music played whenever the little girl opened it, reminding her of her father's gift on her fifth birthday. She’d also had a lovely ceramic statue that she had displayed in the shelves of her house. A lump rose in her throat when she remembered that she didn't own those shelves anymore, that they were, as well as the statue and the music box, destroyed along with Sunnydale. She pictured herself in her house, with the fireplace, the weapons chest, the couches, the stairs, the kitchen…

Then she felt a painful push on her left arm and shoulder, making her fall to the ground. Echoes of brakes squealing violently played in her head. The ground where her head and upper chest lay was higher than where her legs rested, which was when she realized that half of her body was on the sidewalk while the other half was spread out on the street. Realization didn't take long before she saw nothing but black.



~*~*~*~