Author’s Notes: Thanks as always to Kar and my reviewers. This one was tough for some reason, but I’m already two scenes into the next chapter so hopefully the gap will be shorter. I am delighted to be the featured challenge response on BSV! Please keep the feedback coming. I will also admit that I have not watched AtS, so if the timeline doesn’t work well, I apologize. This was what worked for my story…

In our twelfth installment Buffy gets framed for a murder.


Chapter Twelve: Dead Things

“Well, that was…”

“Yeah. I’m not sure I can move.”

“Good.”

“No, no. Not good.” She sighed and ran her fingers across her sweaty forehead. The sheets were stuck to the backs of her knees. “We have to start doing this after patrol.”

She felt him combing his fingers through her hair. “Start? That is the usual plan, pet. Did I damage something?” he asked playfully. "Knock something loose in there?"

Buffy batted his hand away from her head, which he was pretending to inspect for damage. He could be so playful in bed sometimes. She hadn't expected that and still wasn't used to it. In some ways it was easier to deal with than when he got all lovey-dovey; in other ways it was even weirder.

“No, I mean after only.” Buffy managed to sit up and pulled the sheet up to her neck. Spike immediately yanked it back down and ogled her breasts with exaggerated glee. “Or is that your sinister plan? Shag me ‘til I’m too tired to slay properly.”

“Yes Slayer, you have uncovered my dastardly scheme.” His smiles were much sweeter lately. He handed over her underwear and watched her put them on. Suddenly his demeanor turned serious. “You’re right though. Can’t have you off your game out there.” He turned away from her and yanked his jeans to his hips. “Couldn’t bear it if something happened to you, especially on account of me. Again.”

“Spike.” She didn’t really know what else to say. She kissed his naked shoulder and dug into her duffel bag to pick out the night’s armaments. When she looked up, he was fully dressed and back to leering at her, checking out her ass as she leaned over as though he hadn't just seen it naked ten minutes ago.

It was a quiet patrol. Two vamps lurking near The Bronze and a brief run-in with Dennis and some of his pals behind the Espresso Pump. They confiscated what turned out to be shitake mushrooms. Made her feel kinda stupid about her whole ‘Dr. Feelgood’ lecture when it turned out to be something available in the produce aisle. “Lushokites are mad for them,” Spike explained with a shrug and told her sometimes even demons that could pass as human were leery of getting to close to people.

They were heading back to the crypt when Buffy saw three shapes out of the corner of her eye. A woman screamed. Buffy raced toward the sound. Suddenly she was being attacked. She tried fighting them off, but they were everywhere at once, and each time she blinked the scene seemed to change. Time seemed to be speeding and slowing whenever she turned around.

She struck one of the demons.

“What was that for?” She was looking at Spike, on the ground, clutching his jaw.

Another scream. She saw something run and she chased after it. One hooded creature brushed against her and she grabbed it. With a sharp twist, she cracked its neck. Then she was staring into the dead eyes of a woman. Then her arms were empty and there was a crash as body rolled down into the creek.

“Oh my God!”

Spike had her by the shoulders. “Buffy, Buffy, Slayer, what the hell just happened?”

“I killed her.” She felt stunned, the wind knocked out of her. “I killed her.”

“Killed who, love? There’s no one here.”

“In the ravine,” she husked, waving vaguely in that direction. She couldn’t stand to look.

She heard Spike’s sharp inhale when he saw the body. Then his hands were back on her shoulders. “You didn’t kill anyone.”

“I did. I felt it. I snapped her neck.”

He disappeared from her line of sight for a few minutes. What was he doing? Was he hiding the body? Draining it? Oh god, what had she done? What was she doing?

There was no blood on his face, not even the scent of it when he reappeared. “I'm gonna get you home.”

”No! I have to… I have to report it or--” She couldn’t quite think. She had killed a girl. Her stomach rolled and she stumbled.

Spike caught her. She jerked away and slugged him hard before toddling toward the gates on unsteady feet. "I have to go, I have to," she repeated to herself.

He caught up with her almost immediately and held her tight to him. “Are you out of your bloody mind?” He was roaring at her. “You listen to me, Slayer. You didn’t do a damn thing. Do you hear me? Now I’m gonna get you home, and you're gonna crawl in your warm comfy bed and stay there till I sort this out.” His voice softened and he brushed the hair out of her face. “Trust me.”

She wanted desperately to believe him, that it was a mistake, that she hadn't done anything. But she had felt it, felt the bones give, heard them snap. Even knowing he was wrong, she let him dig her keys out of her pocket and wrapped her arms around his waist as he turned the engine over. The rushing air dried her face and when they pulled into the drive she slid off the bike and managed to make it to the bushes before she heaved.

---------

There wasn’t enough alcohol in his system. Maybe not enough in the whole fucking bar. Even with the most incredible rumors circulating through the patronage, all he could really hear were her accusations over and over again. You can’t understand why this is killing me! It’s just another body to you! You are dead inside! What more did she bloody want from him? Wasn’t hunting people, eating people, stealing from people—now he had to give a toss about total strangers too? Had to care about some girl was dead more than he cared about his girl? Not bloody likely.

It was an accident, had to be. Time going all loopy and how did she even get her hands around the girl in the first place? Humans had some word for this, right? Couldn’t quite locate the phrase at the moment, but he was fairly certain he’d seen it in some Law and Order rerun. Cop doing his duty and some innocent gets in the line of fire. Was all that had happened, but the Sunnydale PD was unlikely to agree.

Buffy wasn’t hearing it; yelling at the three of them about how she wasn’t Faith and that even if it was an accident it was her fault and she had to be responsible. Poor Joyce trying to calm her down and Dawn looking absolutely terrified. None of them able to dissuade her. Joyce had called in Red and Harris, but he didn’t see what good it would do. Slayer was determined to throw herself away.

When he couldn’t stand it anymore, he’d slammed out of the house. That was who knew how many hours ago now. Probably the last time he’d ever see her. Tear-streaked face all hard and closed, the smell of sick, shouting at him.

Except that she was sliding into the booth across from him, with her most severe expression on. “Came to say good-bye, then?” He hefted the bottle, but her hand grasped his wrist with Slayer firmness.

“No, I came to take you home. Clem called me.” She wrinkled her nose at the array of bottles littering the table. “Did you drink all of these?”

“Can’t help noticing you’re not in the clink,” he pointed out gruffly. Truth was his every atom was humming with hope that someone had finally made her see reason.

Buffy sighed and took the bottle out of his loose grip. “Turns out, I didn’t kill her. Vince, this guy that works with Xander, his brother is a cop. Someone cracked her skull. The neck was post-mortem. She was Warren’s ex and the David Lynch time scramble – the dork squad put me through that before.”

She took a hefty swig, winced, made that marvelous ‘blurg’ noise of hers, and sighed. “We cleared their previous lair out and I have no idea where they’re holed up now. Our best guess is they killed her on accident and decided it would be big fun to pin it on me.” She swirled the contents of the bottle and eyed it warily. “Almost worked,” she whispered.

Spike had no idea what to say to that. After a moment he managed to change the topic. “Guess you heard the bulletin goin’ round tonight?”

He watched her carefully as she answered. “About the magic baby in LA? Yeah, I heard.” She hoisted the bottle and took another swallow. “To poor, poor Connor. Is that a family name?”

Spike scanned her features. “Was his before he was turned, yeah.” He was more than a little surprised that she didn’t know this. “Thought he dusted Darla, years back.”

“Yeah, for me.” She shrugged. “Guess she got over it.” In a number of ways, he guessed. Buffy shoved the bottle to the far corner of the table. “Could we not talk about it right now? We need to get you home before the sun comes up.”

He staggered to his feet. She was somehow under his arm a beat later. He had the faintest glimmer of hope that he looked, to the assorted demons in the place, like he was just being possessive rather than intensely in need of support to maintain his footing. Outside she fumbled in his duster pockets for his keys.

“There’s no way you’re driving like this, but we need to hurry.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “This has been the longest night.”

“Can take care of myself, Slayer. Do it all the time,” he carped at her, feeling foolish for it before the words even hit the air.

“Well I’d rather you and everyone else on the road stayed in one piece, thanks.” He huffed, but wrapped his arms around her dutifully. Love's bitch as always. Once she was on the road he let one hand wander up under her shirt. He was still cupping her breast when she pulled into his spot near the gate. He couldn’t really remember the ride over, but he could feel dawn slipping up on them.

There was frost on the grass and the bedroom was cold. She cranked up the heater before stripping him in an oddly businesslike way. Seemed a bit startled by what she found underneath. “Spike, you had, like, eight gallons of booze tonight. Shouldn’t you be, you know, impaired?”

He managed to leer at her, but somewhat diminished the effect by nearly toppling into a trunk. Buffy just sighed and wrapped him up in her Christmas present, a big blue flannel robe. Just in case anyone else came looking for her, she’d said, he could wear more than a sheet. He had to admit that it felt awfully cozy at the moment.

The Slayer riffled through his dresser and pulled her own clothes off before putting on what instantly became his favorite t-shirt. She nudged him toward the bed and crawled in after him. With the covers up around them, he laid his head on her chest.

“If you’re gonna hurl, just warn me,” she requested wryly.

“Not gonna hurl, Buffy,” he grumbled. “Can hold my liquor.”

“Right. I forgot. Expert binger. That’s my Spike.” Her Spike. Her fingernails skimmed his scalp. He snuggled closer and she looped her arm around him. Apparently the Slayer was cuddlesome when the mood struck. To think he’d nearly lost all this and to a trio of college kids. It was unfathomable.

“You asleep?” she asked after a moment. By way of reply, he nipped the underside of her breast. “Guess that’s a no.” Her nails stroked his head again. “There was a lot of yelling tonight and I think I even remember some hitting,” she said quietly, “but I do know how hard you’re trying.”

This, it seemed, was an apology of sorts for smacking him in the graveyard and calling him a monster. Delivered as it was, with her lips against his skin and his head pillowed on her body, he’d take it.


------------

Joyce passed the potatoes to Dawn and tried to think of another conversational gambit that wouldn’t lead to a screaming fight with either of her daughters. The presence of Tara at the table helped immensely. Yet another reason to keep inviting the girl for these weekly family dinners.

Buffy cleared her throat. "So, Wesley finally returned my phone call," she announced. Joyce was a bit surprised that her daughter was openly bringing up the situation in Los Angeles. Buffy had told her in passing a week ago about Angel's son, but avoided her every effort to draw her out on the subject.

"So?" Dawn prompted. "Any clue about how a couple of dead things managed to make a live baby?"

Buffy grimaced. "They're still working on it." She carved a wave into her mashed potatoes. "Darla's dust. Again."

"So Angel is a single dad?" Dawn mused happily. "Poor kid."

Joyce shot her younger daughter a warning glance, but Buffy didn't seem upset by the remark. "Wes says he's just a normal baby boy. I think he and Cordelia are helping Angel take care of him."

"But, you, um, haven't heard anything from Angel?" Tara ventured cautiously.

"No," Buffy replied, the slightest touch of anger edging into her tone. "I don't think he wanted me to know about any of this." She cut viciously into her chicken breast. "So I'm not going to go intruding into his life. He made it pretty clear how he feels about me encroaching on his turf."

"Buffy," Joyce sighed.

"Mom. Really. I'm okay," she insisted, in a tone that made it clear she was anything but.

"Anyway, what do you care what Angel's doing?" Dawn asked blithely. "You're with Spike now."

"Right," Buffy agreed with indecipherable firmness. Was she trying to convince herself, or was she really that certain? "Right."

Except, Joyce knew, a large part of her was still infatuated with the absent vampire. Whom she herself had helped run off, in part because he could not give her daughter children. You had to love the irony.

After dinner she happily left the clearing and cleaning to the girls. She'd call Giles in the morning. One mysterious prophecy illuminated, no telling how many more to puzzle out. When she came into the kitchen later for a glass of water, Tara and Buffy were out on the back porch. She knew she shouldn't eavesdrop, but Buffy wasn't opening up to her, and she was increasingly anxious about her state of mind.

"Really, I'm okay, Tara," her daughter insisted.

"You know, Buffy, it's okay to not be okay."

A small chuckle. "It does hurt, a little, you know. It's just... I guess it means it's really over. Like, over over."

"I'm... not really following you. I mean, I know the Angel story second-hand from Willow, but I don't really know the details. I thought you two hadn't really seen each other since he left town"

"Well, before it was like I could tell myself he left because we couldn't really be together, in, you know, a man-woman way and that it was this big heroic sacrifice he was making. I mean, he was all about me and my normal life, which: dumb. But compared to his multi-century existence, I got it. And it's like it was too much temptation to be near each other and not..." Her daughter sighed deeply.

"But apparently he found some way around that and didn't feel like sharing with me. Which means really he's just another guy who couldn't deal with the whole flawed Buffy package and bolted."

"Buffy--"

"And that hurts, but it's an old hurt, kinda. In a few days it will just be an old scar again. And I still love him, but, you know, not the way I used to."

"What about Spike?"

"What about Spike?"

"Can he handle the whole Buffy package?" At Buffy's laugh, Tara amended, "That sounded less dirty in my head."

There was a long silence before her daughter answered quietly. "Maybe. There's all these things he doesn't understand about me. Like when I thought I'd killed Katrina and he could not get what it meant to me. And then other times, it's like no one has ever understood me the way he does."

"Well, that's good, right?" Tara ventured.

"Good. Yeah. I guess so. But also kinda creepy. 'Cause I think part of why he gets the Slayer stuff is because he used to hunt us for sport. But he gets the Buffy parts, too. Like, Angel was so hung up on me being normal and Riley got all freaked because I'm Supergirl. Spike..."

Her daughter's voice turned fond and wistful; Joyce clenched against the sinking feeling in her gut.

"Spike loves all of me."

Joyce drank two tumblers of water in quick succession and pressed the cool glass to her forehead. Buffy was falling in love with a vampire. Again.