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Forward to Time Past by Unbridled_Brunette
 
Chapter Forty-Five
 
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Chapter Forty-Five





Spike wasn’t sure why he felt so surprised. This was what she did, right? Hurt him. This was what she always did…what she had always done, even when he was too ignorant to know it. Yet, in spite of everything else that had occurred, he hadn’t considered that she might throw herself at Angel. It had been over a century for him, but for her…for her it had only been two days since she had left London, left him; and now she was letting that son of a whore touch her, hold her, as if she had never been with him at all. As if it had all meant nothing to her.

A rush of jealousy overtook him, the same sense of overwhelming betrayal that had dogged his thoughts for two days now. He’d spent the last one hundred and twenty-one years aching for her, dreaming of her, and she hadn’t even come looking for him when she returned. She was letting Angel hold her. She could have staked him in the heart and it wouldn’t have hurt any more. He wanted to hurt her; he wanted to hit her. He wanted to beat her until she apologized to him; he wanted her to love him again if he had to force it out of her.

Then, her eyes met his, and they were red and swollen from crying, her eyelashes wet and her cheeks streaked with tears. She looked as lost and vulnerable as she had been the night before—as lost and vulnerable as she had been that first day he had seen her crossing the London street, dressed in rags—and the soft part of his heart, the part that had held her for so long, would not allow him to hurt her more. Even if he could only hurt her with words, he would not indulge in his temper. The demon faded back—William surged forward—and that familiar, protective impulse rose in him. He yearned to hold her, to comfort her the way she had once allowed him to do. He would have done anything—anything—to take that grief from her eyes. An almost painful rush of awkwardness and uncertainty washed over him at the unexpected desire, and he had no idea what to do. Except, he knew he had to pull himself together; Angel was watching. He couldn’t show any more weakness than he already had.

With some effort, he hardened his heart against her, and gave a derisive snort.

“Better watch where you put those hands, love. Wouldn’t want anything unfortunate to occur should Peaches there get too excited. From the looks of him, I’d say it’s been a while.”

Buffy shoved Angel away from her and rose to her feet. She looked confused by his sudden change in expression, and Spike knew he was hurting her. The tough facade flickered slightly, and he took an uneasy step toward her. “Buffy—”

But before he could finish, Angel was leaping down the porch steps, crossing the lawn so quickly that Spike hardly had time to react before the older vampire grabbed him by the lapels of his duster. There was a struggle between them, but it was brief and ill matched; Spike was too weak from his injuries to offer much resistance. Angel dragged him across the grass, swinging him a full ninety degrees and throwing him into the front of the porch with a force that stunned him. His head struck the railings, and his hands—which he had instinctively put out to brace himself—jolted with an agony that made the previous pain seem negligible by comparison.

“You filthy bastard,” Angel hissed, pulling Spike back around so that they were face-to-face, the younger vampire’s spine pressed painfully into the stout wooden rails. “How dare you talk to her like that? After all she’s been through—”

Spurred into action by the sudden violence, Buffy rushed down the porch steps to where the vampires stood. She grabbed Angel’s elbow and yanked him backwards, roughly breaking his grip on Spike. “Stop it!” she shouted.

Clearly startled by her anger, Angel stared at her. “Buffy, you’re not seriously going to defend him?” he asked in disbelief. “Are you telling me you don’t mind him being here? Willow told me about all those things he did before you were—were sent away. She said he stalked you, sent Drusilla after you—”

She glanced at Spike uneasily.

“I’m not defending him. But I don’t need you attacking anyone on my behalf. I can take care of myself!”

“But—”

“I’ll handle it,” she insisted. “Just…go inside. I’ll handle it. We’ll talk in a minute.”

Angel hesitated, his dark eyes darting from Buffy to Spike. There was no amusement in his gaze now, as he looked at the younger vampire. There was suspicion, jealousy, and poorly concealed rage. Yet, he knew Buffy very well, and he could see from the set of her jaw alone that there was no point in disagreeing; her mind was made up. With a heavy sigh, he finally nodded. “If that’s what you want,” he told her reluctantly. “But if you need help—if you need me—all you have to do is call.”

She nodded silently, and watched as he stalked up the porch steps and into the house. Once the door closed behind him (rather sharply in an expression of blatant displeasure), she turned back to Spike. His heart ached when he saw that her eyes were now cold and distant, closed like doors barred against him.

At first, neither of them spoke. She seemed uneasy, and her gaze shifted from his face down to his hands. When she took note of his injuries—the bloody bandages that were just beginning to unravel—she sucked in her breath.

“Your hands are hurt.” Her voice was low, as carefully detached as the rest of her face. Taking her cue, Spike shrugged his shoulders in an attempt at nonchalance.

“Yeah. Well, I got into a fight with a wall.”

“It looks like you must have lost,” she answered dryly.

“You haven’t seen the wall.”

It was a lame joke, he knew, and Buffy didn’t laugh—didn’t even smile—at it. A painfully familiar, painfully human, feeling of embarrassment wrung him. She was looking at him with the strangest expression on her face. Her eyes were no longer blank, but filled—very briefly—with an emotion so strong it almost hurt for him to look at it. Just what emotion it was, he couldn’t say; but it wasn’t one of happiness, or pleasure. Again, there came the insane desire to comfort her, to hold her in his arms. He looked down at his boots, flinching slightly beneath her stare.

“Why are you here, Spike?”

Her tone wasn’t loud, nor was it accusatory; but it startled him. Why was he there? Did she really need to ask him that? How could she not know? How could she not have expected him to come? Did she think he didn’t recognize her? Did she think he wouldn’t remember—?

Confused, he shifted his eyes back up to her.

“You know why.”

But Buffy shook her head, her eyes and tone suddenly stony as she answered: “I really don’t. Why don’t you enlighten me?”

The muscles in Spike’s jaw flexed, and his newly broken hands twitched with an urge to hit her. Was she trying to hurt him? He had expected that—somewhat—and the incident with Angel only justified his suspicions. But he had never expected her to play dumb.

“You lied to me.” He tried to sound harsh and angry; but his voice cracked, and he only ended up despising himself more. Weak. He was so goddamned weak.

Again, Buffy shook her head. This time, she wasn’t even looking at him. “I lied to him,” she said quietly. “To William. And I regret that more than I can even—But I didn’t lie to you.”

The words cut into him like a lash; it hurt so badly he didn’t even notice the tears glinting in the corners of her eyes as she turned her head away. Anger mingled with confusion and pain, and he demanded in a harsher tone, “What the sodding hell is that supposed to mean?”

“What I mean is that I’m not stupid,” she replied with maddening calm. “You can convince yourself that you’re the same person as him; you can tell yourself that all you want. It doesn’t make it true.”

She might just as well have kicked him in the gut; he couldn’t even answer. If he’d looked at her, he would have seen the sudden, fleeting expression of pain in her eyes; he would have seen how difficult it was for her to say. But he didn’t look at her.

“Look,” she said in a softer tone, after a moment of silence. “I know that you have—that you must remember some of the things that happened in his life. I know it probably seems like you’re the…but, Spike, it’s just…it’s not true.”

His throat constricted as if he might cry. He knew that if he did, he might as well stake himself, because he’d never be able to face her again after that. But he fought down the urge, and cleared his throat gruffly, told her in a voice that was harsh with pain: “How can you even say that? How can you fucking think—?”

“Because he’s not a murderer!” she screamed. He glanced up, startled by her hysterical tone. She looked angry enough to hit him. “He’s not a murderer,” she repeated shakily in a quieter tone. “He’s not—he wasn’t—and—and you are. William was a good man, a caring person. He would never do the things you’ve done—”

Rage washed over him at that, and it was followed by the demon.

“It’s your fault I’m like this; you drove me to it! You dishonest bitch. I was an idiot back then—a—a limp, sentimental fool—but you made me think you gave a damn. You made me fall in love with you. And then you just took off, left me for dead, left me for Dru. What was I supposed to do when she turned me? If you don’t like what I’ve become, you’ve only got to look into a mirror to find who to blame for it!”

Then, she did hit him. She backhanded him with enough force to knock him flat. “Don’t you dare put this on me! Don’t you dare! Whatever happened to William wasn’t his fault—it couldn’t have been—but he died. Drusilla killed him, and you took his leavings; you took his body and his memories. And you were a vampire—a disgusting, evil thing—a long time before I met him!”

Slowly, painfully, he climbed to his feet. There was blood on his face, and he tried to wipe his bleeding mouth with the back of his arm; but the leather of his coat merely spread it around. He opened his mouth to argue you with her, to curse her—to hurt her. However, what escaped from his lips was anything but what he had planned.

“I love you.”

She held up her hand—a gesture strangely reminiscent of the other time he had told her, in the warehouse not so long ago. Or, an age ago, depending on how you looked at it.

Don’t say that.”

“You don’t want me to say it because you’re afraid. Because, you know it’s the truth and that I’m the same man I was, just with a hundred years and a thousand dead men at my back. You know you still love me, and it scares the hell out of you!”

Buffy’s lips twisted in what could have been the mockery of a smile—and so evocative of the one Angel had just given him that Spike felt sick.

“What happened to Anne?” she asked.

Stricken, for a moment, all he could do was stare at her.

“W—what?”

“Anne,” she repeated coldly. “His mother…the woman you claim is your mother. What happened to her? Did she die of tuberculosis? Did she have a heart attack? Was it old age?”

He could feel the sting of tears beginning behind his eyes. He wanted to look away from her, but her gaze seemed to hold him in thrall, and he couldn’t break the connection. His throat ached so that his voice was weak when he began lamely: “I…”

But he couldn’t finish, and his sudden silence damned him.

“I thought so,” said Buffy bitterly. She smiled without humor, and crossed her arms over her breasts. “And you say you’re the same person? William loved his mother; he would have killed himself before he would hurt her.”

“It wasn’t like that—” he began. But she cut him off.

“Don’t even bother. You disgust me. I don’t want to—I can’t even look at you.”

She turned on her heel and climbed the steps, disappearing into the house without a look back. But Spike couldn’t stop looking. Even after the door closed behind her, he stared at the empty space where she had been.

“It wasn’t like that,” he whispered.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~





In the kitchen, Angel was in the middle of a stilted conversation with Dawn. Tense and clearly uncomfortable, he was standing against the counter, while Dawn sat at the center island on a stool.

“So…I guess you’re in school now, huh?” he asked, making an effort to sound friendly.

She didn’t even bother to hide her scorn. “No, I’ve been cast in an off-Broadway version of Les Misérables. I play Jean Valjean. I’ll be in drag, but it’s a big break for me.”

Angel stuttered, clearly at a loss as to what to say. He shot Buffy a pleading look as she walked into the room.

“Dawn, play nice,” she said, and dropped wearily onto a stool.

Dawn frowned, irritated by the reprimand.

Why? It was a dumb question.” She shot Angel an accusing look. “And why is he even here? Why are you talking to him? I heard him yelling at Spike outside. He has no right to come barging in here and acting like he knows what’s going on. And it’s not even a fair fight when Spike can’t use his hands—”

Dawn!” Buffy’s voice held a warning note this time. She looked at Angel apologetically. “I’m sorry. She’s just—”

She paused, her eyes returning to Dawn suspiciously.

“—forming attachments to completely inappropriate people, apparently. Dawn, how do you know that Spike’s hands are hurt?”

Dawn stared back at her, clearly not intimidated by her sister’s angry tone. However, she said nothing.

“You went to see him, didn’t you?”

“So, what if I did?” she asked. “What business is it of yours?”

“What business is it of yours to be hanging out in a crypt with a vampire? A vampire who, in case I need to remind you, stalked and threatened to kill me just a few months ago.”

“Yeah, but he’s also done a lot of good since then. He’s changed—”

“Has he? I’d really like to know what good he’s done, Dawn. Because I don’t recall him having done a single thing that wasn’t selfishly motivated—”

Dawn hesitated, clearly struggling between her promise to Spike and the desire to prove her sister wrong. But she’d sworn herself to secrecy with Spike, and she kept her word, saying instead: “Well, you’ve been gone for the past five months, haven’t you? How would you even know what’s happened since you left?”

“Why don’t you tell me then?” Buffy’s voice was rising. First Spike and then Dawn; it was too much for her to handle. “Go ahead,” she jeered. “Tell me about the Great White Hat and all he’s done for the world since I’ve been away. I’m really interested in knowing!”

Dawn stood up so abruptly her stool crashed to the floor with a thud. “Why don’t you tell me what the connection is between Spike and your disappearance!” she snapped.

Angel glanced at Buffy quickly. “What—?” he began.

“I have no idea,” she answered, staring at her sister stonily.

“You’re the reason Spike broke his hands, pounding against a stone wall! You came back, and he completely flipped out and hurt himself. Don’t tell me that’s a coincidence.”

“And just how in the hell am I supposed to know why he did that?” Buffy demanded. “It wouldn’t be the first time he went full-tilt into insanity!”

“Don’t even start that—”

Angel glanced apprehensively from one Summers girl to the other. “Maybe I should go,” he began.

“No,” Dawn interrupted. “Don’t bother. I’m going. There’s no point in talking to her anyway. She’s done nothing but lie since she came back, lie or refuse to talk altogether. Just like everyone else in this place.” She grabbed her jacket off the back of a chair and stormed across the kitchen.

“Don’t you dare walk out of here, Dawn!” Buffy shouted, as her Dawn reached the door and wrenched it open.

Dawn paused, one hand on doorjamb. She looked over her shoulder, favoring her sister with a single, icy glance.

“Try and stop me,” she said, and walked out.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~





Almost two hours later, Angel was making a weary trek across town. There wasn’t a chance he could get out of Sunnydale before daybreak; the stars were already beginning to fade from the graying sky. He’d have to get a motel room and stay the night. Part of him had been hoping for an invitation to stay at Buffy’s, because he hadn’t brought a lot of cash with him. But after the vicious war of words with her sister, Buffy hadn’t seemed inclined to offer, and he wasn’t going to put her on the spot by asking. Anyway, if memory served, there were a couple of cheap places out by the mall.

Deep in thought, he chewed his bottom lip as he walked. Although he’d tried to tell himself that it was nothing, that all kids were prone to exaggerate, Dawn’s words haunted him. He’d made it a point to be honorable, and not to eavesdrop on their conversation when he waited for Buffy in the kitchen. Now, he wondered if he’d made a mistake by distracting himself with that clumsy attempt at conversation with Dawn. Because, he, too, had sensed some sort of link between Spike and Buffy, something secretive and extremely unpleasant. It hadn’t occurred to him that whatever had happened between them might have happened during her absence from Sunnydale, but now he began to wonder if Dawn could be right. There were certain things he was only just beginning to remember—things that were suddenly making an eerie kind of sense to him. And he wondered…

He’d tried to talk to Buffy about it, but she’d seemed so shattered. It frightened him, seeing her come unglued like that, and although she didn’t break down again, he could sense she was on the edge of it. Perhaps, it would have done her good to finish her cry; he certainly wouldn’t have minded comforting her, if that was what she needed. But after her argument with Dawn, she’d avoided touching him. She was also strangely reticent, and all his gentle probing couldn’t get a solid bit of information out of her. Although she didn’t exactly ask him to leave, the desire was clearly there, and he didn’t want to upset her more by forcing an unwanted presence on her. Still, he left with some reluctance. She’d been through so much, and the others seemed to have scattered after hearing her fight with Dawn. Would she have anyone to comfort her, once he had left? Would she even want their comfort?

Angel was so deep in thought over this that he didn’t hear the sound of the footsteps behind him, and he wasn’t at all prepared for the vicious kick to his lower back that came just a few seconds later. There was an explosion of pain in his kidneys, and he hit the pavement on his hands and knees. Before he could recover, another kick landed on the side of his head, rolling him over onto his back.

Spike was standing over him, his hands bloodied and useless at his sides. His features were twisted with hatred, a thin crust of drying blood streaked across his nose and chin.

He lifted his foot to deliver another blow, but this time, Angel saw it coming and managed to dodge. He jumped to his feet, watching the other vampire warily.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Spike.”

A bark of laughter at that.

“All you ever do is hurt me,” Spike said.

“Well, it’s not exactly like you’re an innocent victim in all this. Or, do I have to remind you?”

“You don’t have to remind me of anything, you fucking bastard. I remember it better than you, because I don’t lie to myself about how it all went down.”

“Would you just let that go already?” asked Angel wearily. “It was a long time ago, and you know I’ve changed since then. You know it. I’ve got—”

“The soul, the soul, the bloody, motherfucking untarnished soul,” Spike bit out angrily. “Yeah, got it. You’ve only sung that song a hundred times. I’m just fortunate that I haven’t been around for more than a handful of them.”

Angel scowled. “What exactly happened to Buffy while she was gone?” he asked. “And why do I get the feeling that you know? That there’s a connection?”

He meant it for a barb, something with which to hurt his grandchilde. But Spike’s eyes lit up with a certain gleam of triumph.

“Where do you think she was?” he asked suggestively.

“She told me where she was,” Angel said grimly. “London, 1880.”

“Well, then. There’s your answer.”

The very answer he’d been hoping not to hear. Angel grimaced. “You’re saying you met her there?” he pressed.

Spike snickered. “There’s a rub, huh? That I might’ve had my hands on your honey before you even knew who she was.”

“It was her?” Angel said it as a question, but there was no need for him to hear the answer. He could read it in Spike’s eyes; he could feel it in his own heart. Buffy was the one Spike had moped over those early days in London. The fiancée he’d cried out for in his sleep; the dead love he, as Angelus, had mocked the younger vampire about.

The thought made him sick.

Spike, however, appeared almost jubilant.

“How’s that make you feel?” he asked spitefully. “That I put it to her good and proper, and right under your nose. She loved me in a way she could never love you. She was going to marry me—”

“‘Was’ being the operative word,” Angel interrupted. A crack appeared in Spike’s armor at that, and Angel continued with a cruel amusement that was only partly genuine: “She was using you. Buffy’s nobody’s fool. She had no idea how long she’d be stuck in the wrong century, and she had only so many options for survival. She found some sex-starved idiot willing to pay her way, and she took advantage of it. I think it’s pretty clear she regrets that decision now.”

There it was—blatant defeat in his adversary’s eyes. Despite the satisfaction victory brought, there was a twinge of pity in Angel’s heart, and he said in a kinder tone, “You look like hell, Spike. Just…go home and forget this crap. No matter what your obsession leads to you believe, you’re not going to get Buffy now; and there’s no way you can force her. Just forget it.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed. Clearly, he was not impressed with the advice. “Can you forget her?” he asked. Angel didn’t answer, and, after a moment, Spike shook his head. “Didn’t think so,” he said.

Without another word, the younger vampire turned around and began to walk back in the direction from whence he came. Angel didn’t pursue him, but continued his own journey to the opposite side of town.

He wished he’d never come to Sunnydale.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~





Dawn was sitting cross-legged on the sarcophagus when Spike entered the crypt. She’d lit two candles, and there was enough light in the room for her to see the new damage to his hands. She winced, but she didn’t say anything about it. For a few minutes, she didn’t say anything at all, and neither did he. He collapsed onto the battered sofa he’d salvaged from the dump a few months before, and watched her out of the corner of his eye.

“I brought you some more blood,” she said softly. “You want it now? You’re shaking.”

“In a minute,” he said, and flashed her a pained, but grateful, smile. “Got to rest a little while.”

She nodded. Then, after some hesitation: “Did Angel hurt you?”

She used you.

Sex-starved idiot.

She regrets that decision now.

You’re not going to get her.


He drew a shuddering breath and said slowly, “No…he didn’t hurt me.”

But he had, and Buffy had even more; and, again, Spike felt that shameful urge to cry. He felt Dawn watching him closely, and he turned his face to the wall.

“Spike…what happened between you and Buffy? Something did, didn’t it? Maybe when she was away? Maybe you…”

The questions were painful, but Dawn’s voice was gentle, as soothing as Buffy’s had been so long ago. He knew she wouldn’t resent it when he said, “I can’t, Bit. Not now.”

She uttered a quiet “Okay”, but Spike didn’t hear her. His eyes were fixed on the wall, all his thoughts focused on the effort of not breaking down. He bloody well refused to cry in front of Dawn. And he didn’t.

He jumped when he first felt her arms slide around him. Distracted as he was, he hadn’t heard her approach, and his immediate instinct was to pull away. It had been years since he’d felt a caress that wasn’t sexual, and it made him uneasy to have Dawn touch him. But when he looked into her eyes, he saw nothing of the crush she had once had on him, but instead friendship, profound understanding. His muscles relaxed then, and his face dropped onto the top of her head. And for the first time in a very long time, he allowed himself the luxury of an embrace from someone who actually gave a damn. He let himself cry.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

 
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