VIII

Silence.
 
Spike closed his eyes. It was a slow, deliberate manoeuvre.
 
Quicker than intended, he opened them again.
 
He swallowed. She was still there.  All leather and light.
 
He blinked again.
 
Bloody hell.
 
He was dead. No. He was insane. No, not insane. Hallucinating. Right. This was a fleeting hallucination brought on by the shock of seeing his girl again, grown old. Wishful thinking. A mirage. This was a-
 
"-joke?"
 
What? Had she said something? Oh god, what had she said?
 
Swallowing again, he managed the barest beginning of a word: a subtle sucking in of the cheeks.
 
"Wha-?"
 
"This isn't funny." Her lips were trembling. They were the only part of her that moved. Wet strokes of pink on white canvas.
 
"In fact, it's the opposite of funny."
 
What is? What the hell was going on?
 
"You're going to die in two minutes..."
 
Right. Not dead, then. Just hallucinating.
 
".... But if you don't show me your real face right now, I'll make it hurt more than you will ever hurt in hell."
 
The wind started to pick up her hair as she spoke, making it flare about her face like some medieval crown.
 
It was the most glorious thing he'd ever seen.
 
He managed the whisper of a word in response, this time. More a breath really. A question in a sigh.
 
"Buffy?"
 
The kick came out of nowhere - landing with so violent a force that it brought out his demon as it sent him rolling face first into a headstone.
 
Whipping his head back to her with a growl, he pushed himself to his feet with a newfound energy fueled by confusion.
 
"That's not your real face either, you bastard."
 
She was stalking him - hair swirling wildly about her pale face now, her weapon a natural extension of her arm. Her weapon... Not an axe. A scythe.
 
Bloody hell. Not a dream.
 
He whimpered - his demon melting away.  His voice was coming back to him. Hesitant, but there. "Buffy?"
 
He ducked - missing the swing of her blade by a hair, as it cut the wind above his head with a hiss.
 
He muttered quickly, before she'd strike again. "Buffy, love, I don't understand-"
 
The wooden point of the scythe just scraped past his chest as he twisted to the side away from her thrust.
 
"Stop saying my name!"
 
"Bu-... Slayer, please!" He pushed his arms out in front of him, begging her to stop.
 
Dropping the scythe, she flung his arms wide to head butt him, but he knew that move and countered quickly with the same - before grabbing her face one-handed and shoving her roughly to the ground.
 
"Slayer, listen to me, for fuck's sake!" He was starting to feel like himself again.
 
It was her.
 
God knows how it was her - so young and gorgeous - but, bloody hell, it was. And it wasn't just his nose that told him now. Every sense of his was awake to the reality of her.
 
She was lying on her back, propped up on her elbows and staring up at him - a snarl on her face, eyes narrowed and hateful. An avenging angel, she was.
 
God, how he'd missed her.
 
Rushing towards her, he bent down on one knee to try to talk to her again.
 
He caught her foot - just before it would've rammed into his chest. This only gave her the leverage to kick him in the chin, sending him flying onto his back, as she back-flipped to a stand.
 
She wasn't going to listen.
 
He was on his feet in a second and they started to circle each other. Eyes locked. Guards up.
 
He couldn't help it. Couldn't stop it for anything.
 
Every muscle in his face relaxed into a smile. A wide, toothy, unguarded, goofy smile.
 
When she jabbed, he weaved.
 
He threw a left hook. She ducked.
 
Spike laughed out loud.
 
Sod it. He'd explain himself later. Didn't matter. She was there. They were together. And on that night, at that moment, she was his.
 
All he wanted to do now was dance.
 
He started bouncing on his toes. "Tick tock, love. Wasn't I supposed to be dead by now?"
 
"Shut up!"
 
Buffy faked a left jab before delivering a lethal right punch to his sternum that sent him stumbling backward, struggling to stay on his feet.
 
Fuck. He didn't remember her punches landing that hard.
 
He croaked through the pain: "Nice one, love".
 
"Don't you dare call me that!" She looked unsettled, so her next move was slower, and he easily dodged another right hook.
 
Grinning widely, he teased, "Why, you've got a patent on it or somethin'?"
 
She tried a sideways kick to his chin next, but barely nicked it with her boot as he caught her foot and drove his elbow into the side of her knee.
 
"Agh!" He'd made it hurt just enough to slow her down - sending her retreating a few steps, favoring her left leg. Grasping the opportunity, he advanced and sent a left hook to her cheek, following quickly with a roundhouse kick to the right one.
 
Staggering slightly from the assault, Buffy looked him dead in the eyes and ground through clenched teeth, "What the hell are you?"
 
"I'm your match, pet," he replied with a grin. He just couldn't stop smiling.
 
She tried a left hook. He blocked it.
 
He sent an uppercut to her jaw and she bent back to evade it.
 
She dropped low to sweep his legs, but he jumped and landed a mid-air kick to her mouth - splitting her bottom lip.
 
Bugger. Now all he could think about was tasting it.
 
"Uh!" He hadn't been prepared for the blow to his gut. Coughing through the ache, he quietly scolded himself: 'Focus, mate'.
 
They started circling each other again.
 
"You're an idiot," she spat.
 
"You think you're the first person to tell me that, pet? Come to think of it, you think that's even the first time you've told me that?" He was chuckling at the insult and never stopped bouncing on his toes.
 
"Stop the act!" She shouted furiously, still circling and looking for her opportunity to strike. "It's not working. You picked the wrong glamour, or whatever it is you've done to look like him. He's been dead for decades, brainiac. You should've picked a vampire I've actually dated in the last ten years."
 
Spike stopped bouncing.
 
His gut twisted and clenched.
 
He could taste the bile rising in his throat.
 
Angel.
 
The bastard knew. He'd known the whole fucking time.
 
Worse. He'd been with her.
 
Spike's face sank, his shoulders and arms dropped.
 
Shutting his eyes from the truth, he wasn't prepared for the onslaught that followed. Punch after punch with dizzying speed hit his temples. Left and then right. Left and then right. Left and then right. Left and then right...
 
He was losing count of how many.
 
Left and then right. Left and then right...
 
If he didn't stop her attack soon, he'd be out cold at any moment...
 
Left and then right...
 
And the dance would be over.
 
Left and then right. Left and then right...
 
Forcing open his eyes, he saw her left fist shift direction and head straight for his nose. He knew that punch well, and had no desire to revisit the pain.
 
Mustering his focus, he caught her fist with his right hand and grabbed her wrist with his left, mercilessly forcing them in opposite directions.
 
"Agh!" She screamed in pain.
 
He forced harder.
 
"No!"
 
Slowly, Buffy's fist began to uncurl from the pain, as Spike relaxed the hand that covered it. As both fists uncurled fully, their palms accidentally came together.
 
Scarred palm to scarred palm.
 
And both gasped.
 
Widened eyes drifted towards where their hands were joined, before clashing again.
 
Bloody hell.
 
He could feel it. The missing... the piece. That fit.
 
Her hand. Moulded to his.
 
He'd never considered the pattern his scar had formed. He could feel the softer but toughened flesh of her hand pressing into every scarred rivet and valley of his palm.
 
He folded his fingers over her hand and squeezed. His whole body seemed to warm when she did the same.
 
"Oh, god," she whispered.  "Spike?"
 
He smiled with his eyes.
 
"Hello, cutie."
 
Buffy released his hand suddenly - as if it burned her - and backed away.
 
"What is this?" She asked, her breaths shallow and rapid. She looked away then, her eyes never settling anywhere, as she brought a hand to her mouth.  "I don't... This... This can't..."
 
Half a minute must have passed before she looked up, dropping her hand. "How?"
 
He kept the smile in his eyes. "You know how it is, love. Hard to get a good night's death around here."
 
"That's not an answer."
 
He paused to consider his words. "Through the amulet. Had more power than we realized, I guess."
 
She looked down again, as if to process this new information, before returning her gaze to him.
 
"When?"
 
Bugger. He couldn't lie. "About three months..."
 
She nodded with downcast eyes.
 
"... after we closed the Hellmouth."
 
Buffy's head shot up and her eyes grew two-fold. She said nothing. Just stared into his eyes, as if searching for something.
 
Forever seemed to past before she spoke again.
 
"Oh."
 
Okay. That was unexpected. Or, maybe not. He sighed. He should've expected it. She was shocked at first, sure. Made sense. But in the end...
 
She didn't care all that much.
 
After forty years, Buffy really hadn't changed.  Hell, neither had he.
 
He was still a fool.
 
Gone was the smile in his eyes.  "Right, then. Your turn."
 
"What?"
 
He spoke gently. "Buffy, you're supposed to be old, love."
 
"I am old. I'm six-"
 
"Bu-"
 
"Yeah, I know what you meant." She sighed. "I guess it's just one of those things, Spike."
 
"That's not an answer, pet."
 
"How about another question instead?" She countered. "Like, what are you doing here?"
 
He raised a questioning eyebrow.
 
"Here, in my town."
 
"Funny, I thought it was called Santa Lucia."
 
"Spike."
 
He shrugged. "Hunting a demon that was snatching girls."
 
"The penis lady?!"
 
"Uh..."
 
"The demon that was paying vamps to kidnap girls?"
 
"Yeah, that's the one."
 
Buffy folded her arms and cocked her head to the side. "Then why the hell did you just help her get away?"
 
Balls.
 
He really was an idiot.
 
Looking askance at her, he started rubbing the back of his head. "I uh... sorta thought she was you, pet."
 
"Ow!"
 
She'd socked him in the nose, of course.
 
"Bloody hell, woman! I was trying to save your life!"
 
"You bonehead! I don't look anything like her!"
 
"You were supposed to be a bloody grandmum by now!" Suddenly considering his own words, Spike inhaled sharply. "Are you?"
 
"Am I what, Spike?" She spat.
 
Shyly, he answered. "A grandmum... a mum." In a barely audible voice, he added, "A wife."
 
Her face turned stony as she looked at him. "None of the above." She turned on her heel then, and began searching the grass.
 
Spike didn't know how to feel about her answer. Sad for her, but...
 
Picking up her scythe and helmet from the ground, Buffy shoved them into her bag. With her back to him, she spoke again. "Where are you staying?" Her tone was businesslike.
 
"Uh, nowhere, pet," he replied to her back. "Just got here, really. Was gonna head to Vegas for the night after I'd... saved the day." He ducked his head in embarrassment, though she couldn't see.
 
She let out a small chuckle. Turning to face him again, she looked sombre. "How's your chest?"
 
"Huh?"
 
"I heard it crack."
 
He smiled. "That'd be cause you cracked it, love." He wasn't ashamed to admit she could do damage.
 
"Sorry," she said flatly.
 
That made him blink. It had been a while, but he was pretty sure she’d never uttered that word to him before. It did more for his wounds than a bag of blood could ever do - even if he couldn't detect any sympathy in her voice.
 
"No worries, pet. Sorry about the lip. And the..." He swallowed, remembering the moment they'd just shared. "... wrist."
 
Seconds passed.
 
"I'm not sorry about the nose, though."
 
"I know, love," he said with a small smile. "I know."
 
She threw her bag over her shoulder then, but didn't move to go. She was searching his eyes again.
 
He didn't know what to think about that.
 
"Well... I guess you've got things under control here. Don't need me mucking things up again, do you?" He tried to laugh through the question, but his joke fell flat. His heart wasn’t in it. He was still feeling defeated, and not because of the fight.
 
Reluctantly, he started backing up to leave, but lacked the will to turn his eyes away. It had been too long since he'd seen her face.
 
"Wait."
 
He stopped immediately.
 
"Your chest. You should rest. Heal."
 
He tilted his head to the side, wondering where she was going with this. "I've been hurt worse, Slayer. They'll take care of me in Vegas. They've got all sorts of services, you know. Performed by very capable-"
 
"No."
 
She looked away then. "You can stay with me."
 
Right. First his eyes, and now his ears were deceiving him. She hadn't been even remotely happy to see him alive - or, undead - after all these years, but was inviting him back to her house now?
 
She couldn’t want this.
 
"I can manage on my own, pet. Have for centuries, you know. Don't want to put you out."
 
She still wouldn't look him in the eyes. "It's no trouble, Spike, really. We could both use a good night's sleep to mend."
 
He noticed then that she was still favoring her left leg and using her uninjured hand to hold her bag.
 
"And anyway, I've got a spare room." She was the first to turn away in the end, taking two steps before stopping and turning her head ever so slightly to the side. "I mean... If you want it."
 
In all the bleeding world he wanted nothing else.
 
"Sure," he replied nonchalantly.
 
He met her in three cautious steps but gave her a generous berth. The two started walking towards the South Gate - both focused on the trees in front of them.
 
It took all the power he possessed to suppress his smile.


*  *  *

Author's notes:

In case you didn't know, "The missing... the piece. That fit" was taken from Spike's brilliant moonlit monologue where he reveals he got the spark. Season 7, Episode 2: Beneath You.

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