West of the Moon, East of the Sun by KnifeEdge
 
 
Chapter #1 - Prologue: The Blind and the Dead
 
Author's Notes: Story takes place almost immediately following the season 4 finale "Restless" and goes AU from there. Glory and Dawn (and any other related characters: Ben, the monks, etc.) do not exist in this universe.

Warnings: This follows Season 5 fairly closely until sometime after "Fool For Love", and thus, certain canon events still happen. Yes, Buffy and Riley are together (and Spike and Harmony), but this is a Spuffy story, and you can expect those relationships to end as they did in the series, or slightly earlier. Most warnings (and the rating) apply to later chapters and the only character death is canon (Joyce).

I cannot stress enough that this IS a POV fic.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I’m making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Beta'd by Phuriedae

Banner art by Phuriedae







Prologue
The Blind and the Dead


Ever since I was called, dreaming has been kind of chancy. Sometimes you get the nice, normal dreams where you're in charge of the penguin exhibit at the zoo, or having to give a report to the class naked. Sometimes they're just weird mishmashes of your day; like walking down a hallway, or a conversation with people you've known forever, or feel like you have, anyway.

Slayer dreams are different. Heavy. There's this weight to them that makes me remember every moment of them after I wake up. They feel incredibly real, too, which can be really wigsome. This year they've been pretty intense. A few months ago there was the extra creepy one that gave us a heads up on the Gentlemen. There were some minor ones, mostly dealing with the Initiative, and that one almost-apocalypse when I had to take a dive into the Hellmouth. The worst was the last one... though I'm not really sure if that was a Slayer dream or not, since Giles, Willow, and Xander were all there in it, too. Sort of.

Can non-Slayers have Slayer dreams?

There's probably an answer somewhere in a musty old book that Giles will dig up. That's what Watchers do, right? Dig up moldy old books that no one can understand, full of answers that refuse to make with the sense? Still, I guess those books have come through for me enough that I shouldn't discount them, even if sometimes they have bad side effects.

Like dreams that want to kill you, for instance. Or crazy rasta-mama Slayers that are in dire need of an extreme makeover. 'Cause the whole escapee from The Mummy ensemble? So last millennium.

Anyway, right now I'm just glad it's over. It's one thing to have to fight evil while I'm awake, but you'd think I'd at least get a rest in my dreams.

No such luck, though.

Last night I went to bed, looking forward to a relatively relaxing five or six hours of beauty sleep, after the shared nightmares from the evening before.

Instead, I woke up somewhere else.

It was dark, absolutely pitch black. Not even star light or streetlight trickling in through the blinds. It was a bedroom, and the only reason I knew that was because I was sitting on the bed. It was big, plush, bouncy, and covered in satin sheets and a thick heavy comforter--nothing like my bed at home or the one in the dorm at school. I was fairly certain I'd never encountered a bed like this in my life and had no clue who it could belong to, or why I was in it.

But it was a dream, so I figured I'd go with it, for now.

Something was making me uneasy, though. I hated not being able to see.

Figuring it was better to have some idea of my surroundings than be a sitting Slayer, I got up and put a hand on the edge of the bed. I kept my other hand out, trying to feel for anything around me that I might bump into. Then I slowly walked around the edge of the bed. When I finally made it all the way around I'd come to two conclusions. First, that the bed was HUGE. It could easily have slept five people with no one ever having to hang off the edge or even make with the cuddlies. Second, whoever had put the bed in this room was definitely a non-traditionalist, since it didn't touch any walls, and there weren't any within arm's reach.

The wiggy, uneasy feeling was still there, only now I was definitely starting to get prickles of fear.

This didn't feel like a normal dream. Or even like a Slayer dream. For one thing, I was much too lucid. I was thinking and planning... something that doesn't normally happen when I'm asleep. I could smell the fabric softener of my pajamas (which were, as far as I could tell in the dark, the ones I'd gone to sleep in that night). The satin sheets were cool and slick beneath my fingers. The entire room was cool, actually, like the AC was overcompensating for sweltering temperatures outside. The floor beneath my feet felt like stone, and I could hear the soft echoes of each step as I took it. In my Slayer dreams, I don't usually get so many details.

And I'm usually not blind.

That sort of defeats the whole purpose of Slayer dreams, actually. They're supposed to help me to see. But in this one I was blind as a bat.

I debated for a while whether or not to see if I could locate a wall by walking away at a right angle to the mattress, then gave it up as pointless. It was pretty obvious that the bed was the important part of this particular dream, and the temperature in the room seemed to have dropped again leaving me shivering. I crawled back in and pulled the sheets and blankets around me.

Maybe this was some in between stage, and I'd fall all the way asleep in a minute, I thought. Maybe if I just closed my eyes...

No sooner had I decided to try to sleep than the tingles started, like cold fingers tickling up the back of my neck.

Even though I don't usually pay much attention to it, I knew that feeling really well.

There was a vampire in the room.

There was a vampire in the room, and it was coming closer.

I held very still, trying to get a lock on it. I had no weapons. No stakes or crosses or anything to keep it at bay. The four posts on the bed were way too big to be of any use, and besides, they'd been iron anyway.

The vampire was coming closer, but it seemed to be coming from the opposite side of the bed. Did I mention that the bed was huge? I hoped it tried to come over the bed rather than around it. Strangling it in the sheets wouldn't do any good, but maybe I could pounce on it and tie it up before it could attack. Then maybe I'd get some answers.

As quietly as I could I drew myself into a crouch on top of the mattress, clutching the satin sheets in my fists.
I waited.

And the longer I waited the longer the vampire waited, coming no closer. I could sense it, at the opposite side of the bed, could almost feel its eyes on me. I wondered if it could see me in the dark, and not for the first time wished that preternatural vision had come with the Buffy Summers Slayer Package. Would have been nice.

The silence got to me first.

"Are you going to attack or what?" I asked, frustrated. "It's really late and I've got a ton of stuff to do tomorrow. Could we just get on with it so I can go back to sleep?"

No response. Weird. Normally there's something. Most vamps can't resist at least hissing a tried but true "Ssssslayer" or an empty threat. But this one said nothing, which was really wigging me out.

Finally, it moved. I felt the mattress dip as it climbed aboard at the far end of the bed, as far from me as inhumanly possible. Then there was the soft whisper as the sheets were disturbed. Faintly, I felt them being tugged up and into place. After that, everything was still.

"You're... going to sleep?" I asked, incredulous. Vampires do not just crawl into bed next to Slayers - or even just regular humans for that matter - and go to sleep. I don't think they're physically capable of it. Something about the whole lack of soul thing makes them immediately think grr-arrg, human, kill. Or, if they're bored, they might add some rape and torture to the to-do list. It's probably the vampire equivalent of brushing your teeth before bed or having a glass of milk. Napping next to a human without trying to kill them first? Maybe I'd wandered into the Twilight Zone. "You're just... going to sleep? This is a weird dream."

There was nothing but silence from my undead bedmate. I knew from experience that sleeping vampires slept... well... like the dead. No breathing. No pulse. No snoring. Might as well share a bed with a corpse, which, if you wanted to be really technical about it, yeah...

More silence. Then the mattress shifted, as if the vampire had rolled over onto its side, and a tiny, barely audible sigh. Not that that was a really weird sound for a vamp, though. Newly risen vamps breathe the most, usually because they don't have time in the fifteen seconds it takes between rising and getting staked to figure out that they didn't need to. But even Angel breathed sometimes. Well.. I guess they need to in order to talk. But this vampire wasn't talky. It just did that sigh noise again, which somehow made me think that the vamp was male, and that he was annoyed.

Then things got quiet for a really long time.

After seemingly forever, I let myself relax just a hair. If it was planning on killing me with suspense, it was working. I sat down, but couldn't bring myself to lie down. Not with a vampire in the room, even if it did seem like this one had no plans to kill me at the moment. Maybe it was weak? Maybe this was how it fed, by luring human girls home and to bed--only I was pretty sure that I hadn't gone anywhere after I'd gotten home from patrol, and that my last memory was climbing into my old bed after wishing my mother good night.

So maybe not so much with the luring and the feeding.

Then I remembered that this was a dream, and sometimes dreams are really odd and can include all sorts of things. It wouldn’t be the first time I'd dreamed of a vampire that didn't want to kill me. Not even the second. Or the third. Of course, those dreams were usually about the same vampire, and I hadn't actually had one of them in months.

I really was tired, too.

It took a long time for me to fall asleep, but I finally did, even with my hyper awareness of the vampire lying still as death only a few yards away.

When I woke up, it was morning, and I was back in my own bed, still tense from the dream stress. Shaking it off, I scribbled down the particulars in my dream journal, just in case it turned out to be important.

You never really know, when you're the Slayer.
 
 
Chapter #2 - Chapter 1: Summer, Nights, Dreams
 
Author's Notes: Story takes place almost immediately following the season 4 finale "Restless" and goes AU from there. Glory and Dawn (and any other related characters: Ben, the monks, etc.) do not exist in this universe.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I’m making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Beta'd by Phuriedae

Banner art by Phuriedae







Part I: West of the Moon

Chapter 1
Summer, Nights, Dreams



"I keep having the strangest dream," I tell Willow a few days later while we're sitting outside the Espresso Pump, waiting for her girlfriend. Someday, maybe, I'll be able to think about Tara without thinking of her as Willow's girlfriend. I'm still coming to terms, I guess.

It's a gorgeous day: all blue sky and warmness. A slight breeze ruffles Willow's short red hair and cools the back of my neck. With the sun all shiny and bright it's hard to think about the things that go bump in the night here in Sunnydale. Maybe that's why it's so easy for the people in this town to ignore the weirdness that lives (or unlives) right under their noses. Sometimes I wish I had that luxury. Unfortunately, the bumpy things tend to follow me no matter where I go; when I'm asleep I dream about them, when I'm awake I think about them.

Still it's a beautiful day and we're going to the mall later. It's the perfect time to not dwell in Slayer land. And yet...

I don't know why I'm bringing the dream up now, but I should probably talk to someone about it, and the smartest someone I know is Willow. She of the I-helped-save-the-world-a-few-weeks-ago-and-still-got-A's-on-all-my-finals might be able to help me figure this out.

"Oh?" she asks, looking up from her cup of coffee with interest. Her eyes do that thing where they get all big and curious. "There... there weren't any cheese guys in it? Or... you know... crazy old Slayers out for revenge?"

I laugh. "No," I say. "Not like that. It's... um... it's like I fall asleep and then wake up somewhere else, in a different bed. And the room is really, really dark--can't see your hand in front of your face dark. And kind of cold. Then I start feeling the tinglies, and I know that there's a vampire in the room. I feel it get closer, and then it crawls onto the bed with me... only the bed is way huge so it's too far away to touch. Then it goes to sleep. And eventually I do, too. It's been the same dream, sort of, every night for the last few days."

"That's... a little creepy," Willow says, pulling a face. "Does it say anything?"

"No. Sometimes it sighs, though. Oh! And sometimes it takes it longer to get in the bed; usually if I'm really wigged out or threatening it." Which, yeah, I've done pretty much every night. Not that the vampire has done anything threatening or anything, but the suspense really gets to me.

"Huh," she says, frowning in thought.

After a minute I voice the last bit of information, the revelation I had that morning after waking up. "The thing is... the thing is... it... feels familiar."

"The dream?"

"No... the vampire. Like it's a vampire I should know. It's sort of muffled, though."

"Maybe it's Angel?" she says looking a little hopeful.

Which should make me happy, only for some reason it really doesn't. I don't know if that's because my last few encounters with Angel have been of the less than stellar or if it's because if it is Angel then why doesn't he say anything? Or try to touch me or reassure me?

"I don't know," I say. "Wouldn't I know, if it was?"

"Well... it's not like you have a lot of repeat experience with too many vamps," she says. "I guess it could be Spike."

We both make a face then. Really don't like that idea. "No," I say finally. "If it were Spike, he'd try to kill me. Even with the chip. Or he'd say something. There's no way Spike could ever be that quiet."

"Harmony?" Willow suggests, fingering the scar on her neck where the vapid vamp got in a lucky bite last year.

"No, I get a male vibe off of it, and Harmony makes Spike look like a mime. She's even worse about not shutting up. Also... ewwwwww. Way icky."

"That rules out Drusilla, too, I guess."

"Also with the ewwww and add a side of wiggy. Spike might like to sleep with crazy vamp hos but I doubt I'd be dreaming about something like that." One Drusilla related Slayer dream was quite enough, thanks. I can't think of a single reason why I would ever want to spend more time with the Queen of the Demented than I already have.
We rack our brains--and what's with that phrase anyway? 'Rack your brain' Why would putting your brain on a rack help with the thinking?--but can't come up with any other vampires that are still around that I'd recognize on re-acquaintance.

"Maybe it's one I've already dusted," I suggest finally. "You know...haunting me?"

That seems too far fetched for either of us to believe.

"Maybe," Willow says. "Or maybe it's just dream weirdness."

Maybes seem to be all we can come up with, so eventually we drop it. It's just a dream, after all. In the bright light of the sunny day outside it hardly seems that important. Then Willow perks up at the sight of Tara coming down the sidewalk, and my freaky dreams are all but forgotten.

Shopping, after all, is way more important. Summer is here, and that means warmer nights, new slaying outfits and new Bronzing outfits, a studly mom-approved boyfriend to dress up for, no studying and fewer demons for a few months. Something about the heat makes the demon population too lethargic for world ending plans or something.

Summer is always worth looking forward to.

***


By July the dreams have become almost as routine as patrol. I don't bother threatening or talking to the vampire anymore since he never says anything; we just share a tense moment, then go to sleep.

Riley went back to Iowa to visit his family at the end of June. I hadn't really thought about his family much, before, but he talks about them like they're really close. Still, it was sort of sweet how reluctant he was to leave. I had to promise him like fifty times that I'd be careful on patrol, and if any Big Bads pop up that I'd call him immediately. He didn't seem to get that June through August are dead here in Sunnydale. Figuratively speaking, of course. And even if they weren't? I've totally got it covered.

With him gone I get to be fifth-wheel Buffy on Bronze nights again, but at least I don't have to sit out some of the faster songs. I love Riley, but on the dance floor he's a total doof. It's really kinda cute the way he flails around.

In a way, it's sort of a relief having him gone. Not that I want him gone, but it's pretty wigsome to be falling asleep in Riley's arms one minute only to find myself waking up alone in the big dream bed the next.

For some reason, I haven't told Riley about the dreams. If I did, I think he'd be more concerned about them than I am.

I haven't told Giles yet, either. Or brought it up with Willow again. Mostly for the same reason. They're just dreams, really. And it's not like I'm getting the Heads up! Evil on the way! vibe off of them.

By the end of July, the vampire and I just barely acknowledge each other's presence. It's a blip before regular dreaming kicks in, and mostly I ignore it.

Mostly.

***


Summer passes like a dream. Long hot days spent shopping or at the beach with the gang. Nights at the Bronze. Warm cemetery patrols. The shorter nights mean fewer vamps are active, and the demons are slow and far between. The army came in a few weeks back and cleared out the Initiative and helped clean up some of the straggling demons that had escaped.

Or most of them, anyway.

I run into Spike now and then. He's been renovating a crypt over in Restfield and I catch him sometimes hauling rubble out and dumping it in open graves or over near the woods. We usually trade barbs and threats, then head our separate ways. Every now and then he hits me up for cash in exchange for often pointless information.

Mostly he sticks to being lurky and avoidy, which is fine with me. I think he's probably still worried about what happened back in May, when he tried his little Yoko Ono crap on me and my friends. I just let him worry. It's sort of fun watching Spike tiptoe around on eggshells, which is pretty much impossible for him. Big ugly boots aside, it's usually his mouth that ends up tripping him up; kinda appropriate, considering that he's a vampire.

I could confront him about the whole Adam thing, I suppose, but really? We should have expected him to play double-agent from the beginning. He's evil, so of course he's going to, you know, BE evil. Him being all helpful guy should have been the first clue that he was up to no good.

Xander keeps asking why I haven't dusted him yet.

He's harmless, I usually reply without thinking about it too much. As long as we're on our guard with him, there's no real danger there. Besides it's too hot to think about staking Spike. So not worth the effort.

I come home from patrolling every night tired, and still sticky with sweat, the dust of another vamp or two clinging to my skin. It's getting close to August, and I feel like I'm counting down the last few days of freedom. Riley will be home at the beginning of the month, and then we'll all be gearing up for the fall semester before you know it. And inevitably some new Big Bad will rear its ugly head and then I'll probably have to spend the next nine months getting ready to save the world.

Again.

***


"How are things with Riley?" Willow asks me a couple of weeks before the semester starts. It's late and I'm walking her home before patrolling. We'd spent most of the day at the mall, looking at stuff for our new dorm rooms.

"Good!" I say. Because they are. The things, I mean, with Riley. Really. I hadn't known before how good it could be to have a normal boyfriend. Especially one I don't have to hide my Slayer side from. Willow gives me a look that makes me feel like a bug under a microscope. "It's nice, having him back. We're going driving this weekend."

"Driving?" Now Willow looks alarmed.

"I know. I've warned him: cars and Buffy are non-mixy. But he's got it in his head that I just haven't had a good experience or something. It's kind of cute, if tragically misguided."

"Promise me you won't get behind the wheel unless you're nowhere near civilization. Or trees... or... big rocks... or..." she trails off, probably thinking about all the very breakable things in this world. I know I keep thinking about them.

"Promise," I tell her. "Besides, it's not like he can force me."

"Who's forcing you?" Spike says, stepping from behind a tree with a leer plastered across his face. "Would think any bloke stupid enough to force the Slayer would have been staked already."

"Nobody's forcing anybody," I say, rolling my eyes. Really, could he be any more of a pig? "But if you're volunteering for stake-age, step right on up." Spike just sticks his hands in the pockets of his ugly leather duster and leans one shoulder against the tree beside him.

"Now, now, Slayer. Harmless, remember?" The way he's lurking just this side of the shadows, his eyes predatory and gleaming in the streetlight makes him look anything but harmless. My vampire tinglies don't seem to care about his chip, either. They always wig in his presence, although I'd never tell him that.

"What do you want, Spike?" I ask. Not that I really care.

"To be standing over your broken and bleedin' corpse, of course," he says, tonguing his teeth in a way that is really obscene. "But I'd settle for some dosh. Runnin' low on blood and I doubt you'd feature me nicking some from the hospital."

"Ewww," says Willow and I can't help but agree.

"You have information for me, you get money. No info, no dough," I remind him.

"Quid pro quo, Clarice?" he smirks.

"Huh?"

"Hey, that was kinda rhyme-y," Willow says, grinning a little.

Spike shoots her a weird look. On a human I might say it was embarrassment. On Spike it's closer to murderous irritation. "Look," I tell him. "You know the deal. Now, do you have something, or do I need to threaten you to get you to leave?"

He growls, which always sends an odd little shiver down my spine. It's a weird reminder that his human face isn't his real one--which I sometimes forget. Another thing on my Never Tell Spike List.

"Guess I'm off to the hospital then," he says, starting to melt back into the shadows. "Be seeing you, Slayer. Hope your conscience lets you sleep tonight. You can comfort it by remindin' it that you make evil work for a living and all that do-gooder rot. Meantime, I'm cravin' some AB positive."

"That's blackmail, Spike," I say, trying not to growl myself. Where exactly does he get off questioning my morals?

"Yeah, well, evil, pet. So you buying me a drink or what?"

I fish a ten out of my pocket and toss it at his feet, not willing to take the chance that he really will head for the hospital. He scowls down at it. "Cheap bitch."

"Beggars can't be choosers, Spike. That's enough to get you through 'till Friday. Gives you time to find me some useful information." His eyes flash yellow, but he scoops the money up faster than I can follow. It disappears into the pocket of his duster.

"Thanks a heap, Slayer," he says without gratitude. "You're a peach." Then he's gone.

"Well," says Willow. "That went...well."

Because so many things with Spike so often do.

I stay out a little later that night than usual, and come home only when I've done every graveyard, plus the hospital. I dust twelve vamps that night, but none of them have bleached blond hair and an irritating smirk.

***


Maybe it was Spike's words about my conscience, or maybe it was the semi-lame driving date with Riley that weekend, but as August rolls into September it starts to be harder to sleep at night. I crawl into bed and lay there for awhile, staring at the wall or the ceiling. Some nights I get back up and head for the graveyard, working off my insomnia by staking another vamp or three.

It's not that patrolling with Riley isn't fun, although he's usually kind of military about it. It's just... there's something about being out at night, when everything is quiet, slipping through the shadows, hunting vamps. I don't know how to put it into words, really. It satisfies the Slayer in me, somehow. I find myself drawing out the fights, toying with them, sometimes, just to make it last longer.

Eventually tired, I go back to bed and drift off only to wake back up in that cold room with the huge bed and strangely silent vampire who shares it with me.

My sleeplessness translates there, too. The Slayer part of me is intensely aware of my invisible dream vamp, and from the moment I find myself there to the moment I finally manage to fall asleep, I feel like I'm fine tuning that awareness, somehow.

I wait rigidly until the vamp approaches the bed. Despite his silence (I long ago decided that it had to be a he, even though I have absolutely no proof) I imagine that I can read his mood through some combination of the movements I can hear, how long it takes him to crawl onto the bed, and the tingles that are still somewhat muffled in this dream world. Some nights I can tell he's staring at me hungrily. His movements are quieter then, more predatory, and he slides into the bed like silk. There's a weird intensity in the room on those nights that leaves it difficult as hell for me to sleep. Other nights he seems irritated or annoyed. He sighs or makes a soft little hmmmph sound and flops carelessly onto the mattress.

Sometimes, however, I get the feeling he's curious. Studying me in the darkness. He sits on the edge of the mattress for the longest time, and when he lays down, I always feel like he's facing me, watching me until I fall asleep.

None of this does wonders for my beauty rest. Riley, thankfully, never seems to notice my extracurricular patrols, and if my weird dreams make me toss and turn at all he never comments on that either. In a way I'm glad. I don't want to have to try to explain all of this. Really not so great at being explainy-girl and I'm not sure how I'd tell him, or Giles, about any of it without them having a massive freak out or thinking there was something wrong with me.

There's nothing wrong with me, except normal Slayer weirdness--which isn't exactly something that I can change, is it? So I hunt vamps at night, and then dream about them; neither of those things is really that unusual.

Things might have gone on like this forever, except, as is usual, something happens.

A vampire, of course. Because my life is all about vampires storming in and shaking things up.

Only this time it's different.

It's not everyday that a Slayer gets to stake Dracula.





 
 
Chapter #3 - Chapter 2: Dead Men Tell No Tales
 
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I’m making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Beta'd by Phuriedae

Banner art by Phuriedae







Chapter 2

Dead Men Tell No Tales



All those years fighting us. Your power so near to our own...

Find it. The darkness. Find your true nature...

You think you know ... what you are ... what's to come. You haven't even begun...

That night sleep does not come easily. Not when I get into my bed. Not even when I finally find myself awake in my Dream Bed. For the first time, however, I find the vampire waiting.

"It'd be really nice if I could go one night without any vampires," I grumble. He's sitting up on his side of the bed, I think. Hard to tell when you can't see anything, but there's something about the give of the mattress and the way the tingles are prickling the back of my neck that says sitting up. I go with it.

I'm feeling restless. More so than usual. I desperately want to talk to someone about my encounter earlier that night and I can't think of who. Except... there's this vampire here. This faceless, dream vampire who never says a word. It's not really real. It's just a dream. So... I talk.

"I staked Dracula tonight," I say. "Three or four times. Didn't take, of course, and he's long gone by now... You ever meet Dracula?"

No answer. I hadn't really expected one.

There's not even the slightest shift to the mattress to indicate a head nod or anything. I shrug.

"He's really annoying. Full of himself. I thought he was kind of pretty, at first, for a vampire. No bumpies for Dracula. He probably thinks they'd ruin his image. I wonder if vampires get plastic surgery?"

The vampire shifts a little then, and lets out a soft sound that might be a choked back laugh.

I do laugh, then lean back against the headboard. "Well it is California. They'll plastic up anybody. He looks like vampire Barbie." There's a definite silent chuckle feeling from my roommate. "So I guess you're not him, then." The vampire goes still again. Very still. Even my tinglies are alarmed. Not quite sure what I'd just done I try to explain. "Well, I figure if you were Dracula, you wouldn't be laughing at yourself. He doesn't strike me as the self-deprecating type."

A few heartbeats later he relaxes. How weird is it that I'm starting to be able to read dream mattress?

"The thing is... he said some stuff to me... tonight. I... you know I'm the Slayer, right?"

There is a barely perceptible motion from his side of the bed. I take it as admission. If he hadn't, I figured he'd be lunging or scrambling away from me as quickly as possible. That he doesn't do either confirms that feeling I'd had months ago. Somehow, in some way, I know this vampire. Or at least he knows of me.

"Right. So, he said that ... my power comes from darkness. And... it kind of wigged me, you know? Well, maybe you don't cause you're all about the darkness but... I'm not supposed to be. I'm supposed to be the good guy, the white hat. I didn't believe him. But then he made me drink some of his blood—"

The vampire falls off the bed.

There's a distinct movement, and then a thud and a quickly choked back noise that probably had almost been a curse but came out more as a cough.

"Are you okay?" I ask, not really thinking. Then I catch myself. Right. Vampire. I'm supposed to be slaying him, but I can't so instead I'm worrying about him cracking his skull from falling off the bed. The really huge bed. He must have been right at the edge. Stupid vampire.

After a long pause I hear him climb to his feet, then deliberately settle himself back on the bed, this time a little closer to me and further from the edge. I wait. He waits. Finally he makes a weird sort of motion that feels like a hand gesture. Which I can't see of course.

"I can't see you, you know that, right?"

He taps once on the bed. "Is that a yes?"

He taps again. "You're a very weird vampire, and this is a very weird dream." I don't get a response to that.

"I guess you were a little surprised about me drinking Dracula's blood?" One tap, and it's a little emphatic. "It's not like I had a choice!" Only that's not really true and I suspect he knows it.
"Stupid thrall," I mutter, even though I knew if I'd fought it just a little bit harder I could have broken it. The truth was... the truth was he'd offered to show me something about myself and I always have had a hard time passing that up.

There's a curious sort of silence from my vampire.

"Okay, so it was a dumb move. And it didn't really show me much of anything. Just... me fighting. And that crazy rasta-mama first slayer chick that tried to kill me in my dreams once... and blood, only all in close up, which... ewwww." I pause. "Probably not from your perspective, I guess." He shifts as if restless or disturbed. "It's just... there's so much about being the Slayer that I don't understand. You'd think that I would. I've been doing this for five years now. But I don't really know anything about... where my powers come from or even the extent of them. Which I should. I totally should. I know I'm not all book-girl but... maybe I should, like, look it up... If for no other reason than to keep from having to drink icky vamp blood in order to figure it out."

It hits me, then. I should talk to Giles. We haven't really done the training thing in a long time and I miss that. Somewhere in the last year or so I've become ... attached, to being the Slayer. Used to be that all I wanted was to be normal-girl but... that Crucifixion test that the Council put me through kind of changed all that. Then, working with the Initiative last year made it even more obvious. I am the Slayer. It's my Calling or whatever. It's part of me, and it's a part of me that I kinda almost like.

Tomorrow, I'm going to talk to Giles about resuming my training. I need to understand all this better.

No more vamp blood for Buffy.

I flop back against the pillow and stare at the darkness that is the ceiling. Sleep, true sleep, steals over me. Just as I start to drift off, however, I feel the mattress shift beneath me and a cold finger gently touches the healing puncture wounds on my throat. The vampire growls softly. Startled, my eyes fly open, but he's already moved away, back to his side of the bed. He settles in, and stills.

I lay awake for a long time after that, with the ghost of his touch still hovering over my skin.

***


Giles, needless to say, is thrilled when I tell him I want to learn more about being a Slayer.

His face kind of looks like a Christmas tree when it lights up like that.

***


The downside to this, of course, is that Riley is feeling neglected. I can't really help it, and it's not like we still don't see each other all the time. It's just more... patrolling-type dates than date-type dates, or nights at the Bronze, which he never really minded before.

"Plans?" I ask one morning when he drops by unexpectedly. "We planned plans?"

"Well, you said, uh, 'come over tomorrow and we'll hang,' and then I said, 'OK.' Not the invasion of Normandy, but still a plan," he looks a little disappointed.

Crap. I completely forgot. Color me guilty-Buffy. I nod. "Right," I say, when I can't think of anything else that doesn't start with an apology.

"We're... not hanging today, are we?" he says with a wry sort of expression.

I explain about Giles picking me up so we can go shopping for more Slayer training supplies. He takes it pretty well, considering.

"Are you mad at me?" my voice sounds small. He's my boyfriend and I'm neglecting him. True, I'm neglecting him for my sacred birthright but it's still neglect, right? I already feel bad about that whole Dracula-thrall thing and not telling him about getting bitten. He was really upset about that, and I get why. I do. But that's also why I have to do the training thing, so stuff like that doesn't happen again.

"Oh, no, not at all," he says. "I'm plotting your death, but in a happy way." His grin is sweet and reassuring, which only makes me feel guiltier.

Sometimes it's nice having an understanding boyfriend. Sometimes I don't get why it doesn't make me happier. I mean this is what I've wanted, right? A nice, normal guy who'll be my rock, who I don't have to hide parts of me from. He's sweet, attentive, and handsome; just a patriotic, healthy, normal American Boy.

I remind myself of these things as we kiss and he leaves so I can get ready.

I wonder why I have to remind myself.

***


The day goes from uneasy to disastrous faster than you can say vampires.

First there's Giles' car, which—yeah, pretty—but c'mon, compensating much? And there's a place I never want to go again.

Then Willow freaks out when I tell her I'm dropping drama.

After which we find a dead body in the Magic Shop.

Again.

"Judging by the bite-fest I'd say it was more than one vampire." Poor guy looks like he'd been used as a chew toy.

Giles reaches over and closes the corpse's eyes. I've gotten way too blase about dead bodies over the years. This one barely wigs me. "I'd make it four, at least," Giles says, studying the wounds, equally cold blooded. Tara was the only one who had to go outside for fresh air, maybe because she knew the guy.

"Looks like someone's put together a new fang club," I say. My mind flashes to Spike. Just because he's chipped doesn't mean he couldn't get other vamps to work for him. We like to forget sometimes that he's technically a master vamp, and that being evil for over a century has probably taught him more than a few tricks. Still, this doesn't really have his signature on it—especially when we start looking at what was taken.

Willow's reading off the list she cross checked with the inventory, looking for missing items.

"Mostly books," she says. "Including A Treatise on the Mythology and Methodology of the Vampire Slayer."

Not good.

I'd wanted to read that one.

Giles tells me to take things more seriously. And he's right, I suppose. If there are vampires out there who are reading up on me, that's definitely a reason to be concerned. But there's something about this that is failing to register on my Slayer radar as Serious Threat.

The missing unicorn statue pretty much seals that coffin.

***


It's bleach night at Xander's house; it's not hard to convince him and Anya to hang at mine, just in case any vamps decide to swing by. My mom's going to be out late tonight and I want to be sure she arrives home safe. Riley and I take patrol.



When we get back I've got a broken window, and Xander and Anya are laughing hysterically.



"Harmony?" I giggle as they fill me in on the details. "Harmony has minions?"



I can't help but laugh. I mean, honestly, Harmony? Shallow, vapid Harmony who couldn't even get a date if it weren't for the fact that she clung to Cordelia like a leech? Being a vampire hasn't really improved her any. If she had a soul before she was turned, it being gone hasn't made much of a difference in her. Same old Harmony: a little paler, a little fangier, and still a complete bimbo.


I should have guessed it was her from the missing unicorn. It's impossible to take Harmony seriously as a threat. First of all, as a vampire she's a joke, even more so than Spike. At least he's actually evil, even if he can't, you know, be evil right now because of the chip. Harmony's about as evil as she is smart; in other words, not very. I can't even bring myself to stake her most of the time, she's such a waste. Whoever decided to vamp her must have been desperate. She's not even that pretty. Kind of horsey.


Still, she's throwing rocks through my window, so I guess when I'm done laughing I should go out and kick her ass on principle. Can't have other vamps thinking that it's okay to mess with my house. Mom's going to freak enough as it is.

Xander goes to assess the damage. All these years cleaning up demon messes have made him a pretty decent construction guy. I'm glad he's finally got a job where he feels useful and gets to use his skills.

Of course, that's when we find out that just because Harmony is useless, it doesn't mean her minions are. They manage to knock out Anya, but she falls backwards into the kitchen where she's safe. Xander isn't so lucky, and they snatch him before I can get downstairs and outside.

Guess he's going to need to reaffirm his non-butt-monkey status.

While Riley calls the ambulance for Anya I head out.

Time to go visit Spike. If anyone knows where to find Harmony, he does.

***


"Ow! Bloody hell!" he yells when my fist connects with his nose.

I hate his face. I mean, really, really hate it. Doesn't matter how much damage I do to it, it always heals and then I'm stuck staring at it again. I wish he wore his demon more often, like other vamps. It would make my life so much easier.

Sometimes I think about the first time I saw him, in the alley outside the Bronze. Melting out of the shadows like a... melty thing. Those blue eyes mocking me, that smug little grin on his lips, the white blond hair and impossible cheekbones making him look...



Angelic.



More than Angel ever did.

Even Dracula's overdone good looks seem cheap compared to Spike's face.

There's something really wrong with the world when something so evil can have a face like that. Evil should be ugly. Twisted. Bad should not look beautiful.

Which is why I take so much pleasure in breaking his face as often as possible.

"I don't have time for banter, Spike. Where's Harmony's lair?" I demand, pressing him up against a stone column.

"Haven't seen her in months," he lies, because that's what Spike does. He's not even good at it. "How should I know—OW!" I punch him again.

"Where is she?"

"At least lay off the nose," he complains.

Unlikely. Breaking his nose is hugely satisfying. I pull back my fist, ready to let it fly. "Okay, okay. Used to have a cave in the north woods. About forty meters past the overpass construction site."

I hit him again.

"Ow! I was telling you the truth!" he bellows as I turn to go.

"I know," I say.

Maybe his nose will swell up ‘til he looks like Owen Wilson. There's a happy thought.

***


The cave is right where he said it would be, and Harmony and her minions are arguing over whether or not they should eat Xander now or wait till later.


By the time I'm done dusting the minions—really not much of a challenge—Harmony has escaped and Xander is slumped in his chains.

"Getting a little tired of playing the damsel," he says as I cut him down. "Do you think, maybe, next time Riley can wear the dress? This is not doing good things for my manhood."

We spend some time looking for Harmony, but she's vanished. Then we go to the hospital. Anya's awake and aware, if in a lot of pain.

I let Xander play the hero to make up for him having to be the hostage.

Next time I see Harmony, she's totally dust.

***


I tell the story to my vampire that night, as he climbs into bed.

He's doing the predatory thing again, but I ignore it. I'm still too cheesed off at Harmony, and besides, he hasn't tried to touch me since that once.

"I could barely stand her when she was alive," I tell him. "And someone liked her enough to make her live forever? Ugh. If I ever find her sire I'm going to lock him in a room with her for a month or two before dusting them both. Serve him right."

The vampire is silent and still, but I'm still wound up. I get out of the bed and start pacing along its length, using the tinglies as a landmark in the dark so I can find the bed again.

Suddenly, a thought occurs to me.

"I wonder if it's Spike?"


No response of course. Not like he'd know anyway.

"I mean, we don't know when she was vamped. He could have done it just before that whole fiasco with the Gem of Amara..."


Except...


"Oh, wait. No. She said she was going to Paris for the summer, after graduation, but couldn't after she was turned. I remember Willow mentioning it. And... Spike didn't come back till after the fall semester started.”

I drop to the mattress, disappointed.

"Crap. I was kind of looking forward to locking them up together. He'd probably kill her and that'd be one less vamp I'd need to dust. Besides, they dated or something. That had to be torture. For both of them."

Suddenly I've got the giggles again, remembering Harmony and her minions.

"God, she's such a pathetic Big Bad. She's clearly trying to out Spike Spike. What with the hair, and the black leather outfits. She's not even the Big Bad. She's like... the Kinda Bad, only she's really bad at it. Like an evil Scrappy-Doo. You should have seen her with all her minions about to mutiny. I wonder how she convinced them to be her minions? It's not like she's the alpha female or whatever."

I think of the guys she had trailing after her. None of them were really top-choice, prime-sirloin material. Probably were just desperate to get laid.


The vampire hasn't said anything or moved at all. I can tell he's listening, but he seems preoccupied tonight. I wonder if he knows Harmony. Doubtful. If he did he'd have done that silent laugh thing he does sometimes.

As I crawl back into bed I remember that this is just a weird dream thing and my vampire more than likely is just a figment of my subconscious or something.

Of course, if he were, wouldn't you think he'd talk back? Or at least laugh about Harmony? Why is it even my subconscious vampires are uncooperative?

 
 
Chapter #4 - Chapter 3: Divide
 
Author's Notes: This is one of those canon intense chapters. Please know that I kept what I kept for a reason...

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Credits: This chapter contains dialogue adapted from the episode "The Replacement" written by Jane Espenson.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner art by Phuriedae





Chapter 3
Divide



Things go back to normal. Or as normal as things can ever be on the Hellmouth.

Harmony is a no show, and the vamp population is relatively quiet. With any luck she's decided to go to Paris, where she can be officially no longer my problem.

Giles purchased the magic shop. I guess he was really impressed after looking over the books there. Says that the high death rate keeps the rent down, and maybe with us occupying the place it'll keep the death rate down. I think it'll be good for him. You know, give him something to do now that he's no longer Mr. Librarian Guy.

And, hey, bonus: the back room is big enough we might be able to turn it into a training area. Clean it up a bit, put in some equipment... I'm kinda excited. I haven't had a real place to train in a long time. Ever, really. High school libraries and gymnasiums don't exactly count. Plus, since it's a magic shop we'll be able to keep all kinds of books there for research, and supplies will be on hand if we need magic for anything. It's kind of perfect, actually.

We spend part of a Saturday helping Giles move boxes over to the shop. Which sounds like more fun than it is, especially since with my super Slayer strength I get stuck doing most of the heavy lifting. Who would have thought boxes full of books would be so heavy? By the time we're done with the books I feel like I've gone a few rounds with a pack of Fyral demons. Then we start on the supplies.

When we're finished, Riley and I go over to Xander's place for a much needed pizza and movie night. I even do some studying while I'm there. I can be totally studious when I want to be, even though it makes my friends look at me like I'm a pod person when I get caught up in my history text book.

Xander, I think, is getting fed up with living at home. I don't blame him. His parents are horrible, and the place smells like cat pee and dirty socks, no matter how often he does the laundry. We spend half the movie trying to ignore the fighting going on upstairs and when I get back to the dorm I have to shower all the ceiling plaster out of my hair. It looked like I'd been snowed on.

It's no surprise at all when Xander calls the next morning to ask if we'll go with him and Anya to check out an apartment that he found advertised in the paper. It's a great location, and the building is gorgeous. It's not huge, but it's a good size for Xander and Anya. Not to mention, it's got a great bedroom.

Not, you know, that Riley and I had really intended to try it out.

Not that we really got to anyway.

Xander doesn't seem all that confident about getting the place, though, and Anya's whining doesn't really help much. You know, for someone who is over a thousand years old you'd think she'd develop a little patience or something. So then we have to try to ignore them fighting. Xander fills out the application and we all promise to cross our fingers for him. He deserves a place of his own.

One that does't smell like cat pee.

Funny, I didn't even know he had a cat.

***


We stop by the magic shop on our way back through town. Giles is sitting at the counter with a plastic bag full of ice against the back of his head.

"What happened?" I ask. It kind of looks like there was a fight. There's stuff scattered on the floor, and some of the furniture is smashed up.

"A demon," he says. He fills us in on the sitch: creepy looking demon, blah blah blah, looking for the Slayer, blah blah blah, stinky robes and weird stick, blah blah blah. Finally he demonstrates how he fought it off using some big, ugly statue.

"That's Oofdar, Goddess of Childbirth. She's got some nice heft to her," Willow says. She's not wrong. That statue looks like it could take out a small army. I'm pretty impressed Giles could even lift it.

"How badly did you hurt him?" I ask. Giles stammers and looks embarassed.

"Well, hurt... uh, maybe not... hurt," he says, not really meeting anyone's eyes.

"Well, I'm sure he was... startled," Willow says, loyally.

"Uh, yes, yes I'd imagine it gave him, uh, rather a turn," Giles says. He's so transparent sometimes I'm surprised birds don't fly into him.

"He ran away, huh?" I ask, trying hard not to grin. I love him, but man, Giles is such a book guy. Hard to believe he was ever seriously called Ripper. He tries to look dignified—which actually works since he's British and sort of tweedy to start with.

"Um, sort of more... uh... turned and swept out majestically, I suppose. He said I didn't concern him."

"So, a mythic triumph over a completely indifferent foe?" I sum up, smiling.

"Well, I'm not dead or unconcious, so I say bravo for me," Giles says, looking a little insulted.

Willow finds a book full of demons and hands it to Giles so he can start looking for his majestic enemy.

"So you bought the magic shop and you were attacked before it opened," Xander says dryly. "Anyone for a rousing chorus of the 'We Told You So' symphony?" Giles just shoots him a pained look.

Riley picks up Oofdar and swings her experimentally. Riley's shoulders look really good when he does that. There is just something about a guy with great muscles swinging weapons...or, you know, fat statues.

"Owning this place does seem kinda dangerous," Riley points out. No kidding. I can't really count how many times this place has changed hands, or how many times we've found dead bodies here. Something about it just seems to attact the bad guys. It's almost more Hellmouthy than the Hellmouth. Like a mini-mouth.

"Toth," Giles says.

"What?" Riley asks.

"He called you a toth,"I tell him. "It's a British expression. It means, like, moron." I think. Most weird British words seem to mean moron.

"No, Toth is the name of the demon," Giles says. He warns Xander not to play with his crystal balls…and ew.

He puts the book down to show us the picture, which, thankfully is creepy enough to wipe out my previous mental image of Xander and Giles' crystal balls. "Ancient demon, very strong, last member of the Tothric clan. It also says that for a demon he's unusually sophisticated," Giles paraphrases for those of us who don't speak Really Old Book.

"Sophisticated," I say. "So I should discuss men's fashions with him before I chop his head off?"

Giles sighs. "They're referring to the fact that he does not fight bare-handed. He uses tools, devices," he explains. "Oh, he's also supposed to be very focused, and since he mentioned the Slayer, I think we know what the focus is."

Great. Riley's suddenly got his dander up and is ready to charge to my rescue. It's sweet, if completely unnecessary. I don't point that out to him, though. I'm more than capable of taking care of one fancy dressed demon on my own. Hunting him down might be a problem.

"...I have an idea, though," Giles says, coming out of book mode. "He had a very specific olfactory presence."

"Well, I guess we're off to the ol'factory. I hate that place," Xander says, trying to be punny. We all just groan. "I'm just joking. I know what it means. He smelled, right?"

Willow suggests that the demon might be using sandalwood, but Giles has someplace a lot smellier in mind than a perfumery.

***


Which is why, a few hours later, we're all taking a lovely stroll through the city dump—where smells go to relax and be themselves. I don't usually patrol out here, thank god. Most demons seem to avoid it. Probably for the same reason vampires hate garlic: too stinky when you've got a nose sharper than most bloodhounds.

Of course, there's always one exception to the rule. I've watched him eat Indian food before, so it's no surprise that if garlic doesn't bother Spike, neither will the stench of the junk yard. When his white head pops up out of a mound of garbage it's hardly a shock. Guess trash knows where it belongs.

"What are you doing here, Spike," Riley says. His fingers look a little twitchy on his crossbow.

"Oh, there's a nice lady vampire who set up a charming tea room over the next pile of crap," he says. "What do you think I'm doing? I'm scavenging, ain't I?" He holds up a lamp in one hand and a shade in the other.

"Very pretty," Willow tells him. He just shrugs and puts the shade in a nearby shopping cart that's full of junk. I guess it's technically not stealing, and I'm pretty sure that Spike can't exactly shop at Goodwill. The name alone probably wards off vampires.

"Spike, we're ... um, we're looking for a demon. Ah... tall, robed, skin sort of hanging off, deep voice?" Giles says.

Spike looks thoughtful. Probably a strain for him. "You mean a great, tall, robe-y thing like that one?" He points behind us. We spin.

And there he is. Giles neglected to mention the glowy teeth. Ew. I guess hanging out in the dump means that dental hygiene is low on the priority list. He's got some kind of stick thingie and he points it straight at me. "Take cover!" Riley yells, and we all dive out of the way just as he fires a bolt from the stick thingie.

"Big guy! Kick her ass!" Spike yells, cheering from the sidelines. Stupid vampire. I try not to grin when Toth's next bolt shatters Spike's new old lamp. "Oh, very nice. I was on your side!" He throws out the lamp. I wonder if it counts as littering if you're already in the junk yard? Spike glares back at me, smirking, and for a moment all I want is to punch him in his stupid, smug face.

"Watch out!" Xander yells, pushing me out of the way just as Toth looses another bolt of light. It hits Xander right in the chest, throwing him several feet back into a garbage pile. We all rush to his aid, and by the time we haul him out of the junk, Toth has disappeared.

I have a feeling things aren't over.

Xander seems okay, if a bit sore, so we help him home. Spike passes us as we leave the junk yard. He's got his feet on the base of the shopping cart and he rides it past us, down the hill, with a wicked grin on his face and his black coat flying behind him like bat wings.

***


My dream vamp is doing his grumpy routine tonight. He slinks in after I'm in bed, then stands at the side without getting in. I can feel him watching me. I half want to talk to him about Toth, but I'm getting twitchy vibes off him, so instead I pretend to sleep. After awhile he climbs in bed, then flops back against the pillows on his side. I feel the bed jiggle, but don't say anything. How weird is it that my imaginary vampire has moods?

***


"I just don't like the idea of this guy out there, hunting you down," Riley says the next morning, as I'm going through my weapons chest at Mom's house.

"There are always demons out there trying to hunt me down. His sticky thing didn't do much damage to Xander," I point out. "And he's pretty damageable. I think I can take him."
The phone rings, but when I answer it, whoever's on the other line hangs up. Probably a wrong number.

I pick up one of my favorite axes and heft it, liking the feel. I really don't get to axe too many bad guys. "Well, if this guy wants to fight with weapons, I've got it covered from A to Z. From axe to...," I can't think of a weapon that starts with z. Crap. "...zee other axe."

Riley doesn't even laugh at my bad joke.

I put the axe in my stylish weapons bag and then focus on him. He's got that line between his eyebrows that always makes me think a little of Angel and his pondering face. I know it's not a fair comparison, but there it is. Riley's face isn't as classically handsome as Angel's. It's... squarer and...serious but not as broody. Sweet. Normal. Can someone be normally handsome?

"Relax," I tell him. "Another day, another demon."

"Right," he says. "It'll be good."

"Hey," I say softly, and kiss him. I like kissing Riley. So maybe it doesn't give me the same vampire tinglies as Angel, or the magic induced fireworks I got kissing Spike that time when Willow screwed up a spell (only a spell could make kissing Spike anything other than repulsive)... but it's still damn good. Riley's lips are warm, and I don't have to worry about him getting fangy afterwards. All of Riley's bumpies are thankfully below the belt. He slides his hands up my sides and pulls me into him.

Things might have gone further if Mom hadn't come out of her room right about then.

Guess next time we ought to close the door.

***


To make Riley feel better I let him take me to lunch, then we stop at a couple of the local demon bars to see if anyone's heard anything about our new demon pal and his magic stick. No luck, but I get to threaten Willy, so it's not a total waste. I have one class in the afternoon, so Riley drops me off and agrees to pick me up after.

And hey, I don't think I did too bad on my Crusades test. It's sort of surprising how much I like reading about all these old dates and times. Sometimes I feel like I've been there, thanks to some of the Slayer dreams I had when I was first Called. I'm pretty sure there were a couple of Slayers, at least, who were around for the Crusades. I'd like to think that maybe they joined some holy fighting order, maybe disguised as boys, like the Knights Templar. I wrote my essay on the Templars, though I probably should have left out some of the details about how they were accused of secretly worshipping the demon Baphomet. At least I managed to refrain from pointing out that it's a real demon.

***


It's pouring rain by the time class is over, a real actual thunderstorm. We don't get many of those here in Sunnydale, but the weather's been a little cool for autumn. Maybe it's an El Nino thing. Riley picks me up and we stop by Giles' to see what the glowy demon sitch is. Nothing new on the demon front, but Giles is hunting through his books, reshelving them, and muttering to himself about poltergeists.

We're barely there for fifteen minutes before Xander comes in the door, looking oddly spiffy for Xander. Maybe he and Anya have a date later. "I thought I locked that," Giles says.

"You never used to lock it before," I point out.

"Yes, well that was pre-Spike," he says. "Not that locks stop him. Do you think he might be sneaking in at night and shuffling my books about just to toy with me?"

"Spike?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. I know Spike is hard up for evil since he's been chipped, but reshelving books just to mess with Giles is sort of a stretch. Giles sighs.

"You're right, I suppose. Far more likely that he'd just steal my Scotch. In any case, one can never be too careful in Sunnydale."

"Guys, forget Spike. I need help," Xander says, pacing. "I just got attacked by my evil twin."

"You have a twin?" Riley says, leaning back against the dining room table. "I didn't know that."

"No," Xander says, frowning. "I mean, I got attacked by something that looked exactly like me, only stinkier. It ambushed me outside of my new apartment."

"You got the apartment? That's great!" I say, grinning. I know how badly he'd wanted it. Maybe that's why he's dressed all Mr. Serious. I bet he's going to take Anya out to celebrate their new cat pee-free apartment.

"Can we focus on the evil me part?" Xander says, looking exasperated. I do my best to look sheepish.

"Are you certain it was a... a doppelganger?" Giles asks. "It's rather dark, with the rain. Perhaps he merely bore a passing resemblance."

"No, no. He looked exactly like me," Xander insists. "It stole my face. We have to find it, and we have to kill it." He looks really upset. I don't blame him. The last time we had to deal with an evil twin it was a vampire version of Willow running amok. I try to imagine a vamp Xander—and shudder. Xander tends to be ruled by his stomach. A vamp Xander would probably be even worse.

"Don't worry, Xander," I tell him. "Whatever stole your face, it has to deal with the Slayer now."

"How like you was it?" Giles wants to know.

Xander sits, then stands again and paces. "Very. It even was wearing the clothes I had on yesterday. Just... you know, dirtier and stinkier. Like me crossed with Pigpen. It talked like me, walked like me..."

"Okay, Patty Duke, have a seat," I tell him. "We'll figure this one out. Did it say what it wanted?"

"Not really," he says, sitting and looking frustrated. "Mostly it babbled. Also like me, might I add. Then it attacked."

"So maybe it's a doppler-banger, like Giles said. What do they usually want?" I ask Giles.

"Doppelganger. They're largely fictional," he says, looking thoughtful. "Though many people have reported seeing them, usually before some tragic event. They tend to be harbingers rather than sentient creatures. What's intriguing me is that there are any number of demons with the ability to mimic a simple form, but, uh... this sounds like more than that."

Something about that twigs my Slayer senses. Demons... Mimic...

"Hold up," Xander says, standing again. "Do we really have to figure out what it is? Let's just go kill it."

"Yeah," Riley agrees. "When the imposter's killed, the body'll probably turn back into whatever it really is, and then we'll know."

"Toth!" I say, putting it together. The testosterone brigade all turn to stare at me. "The demon with the creepy stick thing," I explain. It just happened yesterday. God, boys can be dumb.

"Toth...," Xander says thoughtfully.

"It's gotta be! He hit Xander with that blast, and somehow it allowed him to take Xander's form. Couldn't that be what the creepy stick thing did?" I ask.

"Yes," Giles says, taking off his glasses for a polish. "I suppose, yes, yes, it makes sense. A shape-shifting device." He wanders back to the bookcases. Toth did disappear right after the blast hit Xander, so it makes sense. Even Xander agrees that it's the most likely explanation.

"I was gonna go look for Toth anyway. Guess now I start... looking for you," I say as I grab my sweater. Outside it's still pouring. Ugh. So not looking forward to treking through Sunnydale in the cold rain looking for another Xander, but it's gotta be done. It's different when it's someone you care about being threatened. Neither rain nor snow nor sleet will prevent this Slayer from... er... slaying.

Xander's concerned about this dopple-thingie going after Anya, so he heads over to meet up with her. Hopefully that'll keep me from accidentally running into him and thinking he's the demon. That would be bad.

"We need a plan," Riley says after Xander leaves. "Giles, do you have maps of the area? Places where the demon might go? If we can narrow it down, we can figure out a search and sweep pattern."

Sometimes there are benefits to a boyfriend with a military brain. My ideas are usually just... you know... wander around until I find the thing I need to kill. Or it finds me. Usually it finds me. Giles digs out a map of Sunnydale for Riley to pour over. I glance at it curiously.

"Wow, you can really see how much real estate is occupied by dead people from above, huh?" I say. Riley gives me a curious look. "Lot of cemeteries in Sunnydale." I count them out. Twelve, if you include Mission out at the edge of town. Not to mention the number of churches, police stations, fire departments and the size of the hospital. I wonder if you looked at maps of Sunnydale over the last decade or so if you'd see these things growing like tumors.

Consequences of living over a Hellmouth, I guess.

"So where would evil Xander go?" Riley asks.

"I don't know. Um, the Bronze, his house, the comic book store, the video store, his job site...," I say, thinking. "Or maybe he'd go where Toth needs to go. Evil demony places, to do whatever evil demony things he needs to do. The hellmouth, maybe, or the cemeteries. Maybe the hospital if he's looking for people to eat or something?"

"So you're thinking we split up?" he asks.

"Yeah, you check the places where he might try to go and blend in as Xander, and I'll check the places where Toth might hang out."

Riley doesn't look pleased. What's the big?

The door bangs open. "I swear, this time I know I had that locked," Giles complains as Willow comes in looking totally panicked.

"Buffy, Toth looks like Xander," she tells me.

"We already know," Riley says. "We're on our way."

I frown. "Wait a second, how did you know about this?" Xander hasn't been gone very long, and why wouldn't he have told her that he'd already talked to us?

Willow claims that the real Xander came to her for help, and that the Xander we talked to was just a demon in a Xander shaped suit.

"What makes you so sure yours is the right one?" I ask, even though my brain is already replaying the scene from a few minutes ago and coming up with some wiggy conclusions. He was all with the serious clothes... and even though he claimed he'd been attacked he wasn't even bruised, and Xander tends to bruise like a peach.

"He knew stuff! He... he did the Snoopy dance. Buffy it was Xander and he needs us," she says. Crap. Why didn't we ask our Xander to do the Snoopy dance? I've always wanted to see it.

"Oh, dear lord," Giles mutters behind us. So he's not the Snoopy dance appreciating type.

"Buffy," Riley says, with his thinking face on. "Our Xander... did he seem a little..."

"He seemed kind of forceful and confident," I say, and now that I've said it—it seems even weirder.

"That's not Xander," Willow says.

"I said, 'oh, dear lord,'" Giles says. He's still got his nose stuck in some moldy book.

"You always say that," I point out.

"Well, it's always important," he says. He puts his book down. "Neither Xander is a demon."

"Um," says Willow, "Is one of them a robot?"

"What?" Giles says, looking surprised she'd even jump to that conclusion. Clearly he's forgotten Ted. "No. Um, uh, the rod device. It's called a ferula-gemina. It splits one person in half, distilling their personality traits into two seperate bodies. As near as I can tell, Toth was attempting to split the Slayer into two different entities."

"Two Buffys?" I say. That'd be weird.

"Yes, one with all the qualities inherent in Buffy Summers, and the other with everything that belongs to the Slayer alone. The, uh, the—strength, the, uh, speed, the heritage. And when it hit Xander, I think it seperated him into his strongest and his... uh, weakest."

"But which is the real one," Riley asks.

"They're both real," Giles explains. "They're both Xander. Neither one of them is evil. There's nothing in either of them that our Xander doesn't already possess."

Riley frowns. "I still don't get the original plan. I mean, why do it? The Slayer half would be like Slayer concentrate, pretty unkillable."

"But the two halves can't exist without each other. Kill the weaker Buffy half, and the Slayer half dies," Giles says. Uh oh... not good.

"So the same goes for the Xanders?" I ask. "We lose one, we lose them both?"

Giles nods.

Crap. We need to find Xander before he finds himself.

***


I can't help but think about what Giles said, about the two possible Buffys. Sometimes I try to remember what it was like, before I was the Slayer. It gets a little harder every year. That girl was so different from what I am now. Shallow, deliberately vapid, entirely focused on boys and parties and clothes. But... she was also the kind of girl boys really fell in love with. The kind that needed a boyfriend like she needed to breathe. Maybe that's not such a good thing, but... sometimes when I'm with Riley I can't help but think that what he really wants is a normal girl.

"Riley, do you wish—"

"No," he interrupts. We're speeding through the streets of Sunnydale in Riley's version of a penismobile. Men and their cars... The rain streaks the windshield, making patterns on his face like dark tears.

"No? You don't even know what I was gonna say," I protest.

"Yes, I do," he tells me. "You wanted to know if I wished you got hit by the ferula-gemina. Got split in two."

I sulk a little. "Well, you have been kind of rankly about the whole Slayer gig," I remind him. "Instead of having Slayer Buffy you could have Buffy Buffy."

He grins. "Hey, I have Buffy Buffy. Being the Slayer's part of who you are. You keep thinking I don't get that..."

"It's just... I know how... un-fun it can be. The bad hours, frequent bruising, cranky monsters..."

"Buffy," Riley says, "if you led a perfectly normal life, you wouldn't be half as crazy as you are. I gotta have that. I gotta have it all. I'm talking toes, elbows, the whole bad-ice-skating movie obsession, everything. There's no part of you I'm not in love with." He grins at me.

I want to believe him. I really do. But I can't help but think about the expression on his face this morning when we were talking about the demon. I feel like... like he's far away from me, sometimes. Or, or like he's watching me and wishing... wishing I were something else.

Being the Slayer has changed me in so many ways, but... it's like Giles said about Xander, even if you separated out the Buffy half from the Slayer half... I'm not sure either would be able to survive on it's own. The Buffy part of me... is just a silly blonde girl with no other ambition in life other than to be pretty and have a perfect boyfriend. The Slayer part of me is strong, but hard, cold. A machine. Together, the two parts kinda balance each other out, I guess.

But it still makes it hard for me to be normal. I'm not sure I like that Riley thinks of me as crazy. Wouldn't it be better if he thought of me as... I don't know, sweet? Beautiful? Strong? Intelligent? And don't think I didn't notice he didn't mention anything Slayery when he was listing the parts of me he wants to have.

"We better get there soon," I say, instead. "If Xander kills himself, he's dead... You know what I mean."
***


We make it to Xander's apartment just in time to keep him from shooting himself. Or... I mean, his other self. And why the hell does Anya own a gun? Doesn't she know guns are bad?

It takes a little while, and a lot of confusion, before Riley and I manage to explain to Xander that he's both... himself. The Xanders need some convincing, of course. Although once we sort out the whole Xander-One-wasn't-brain-melting-people-with-a-flattened-nickle-thing, it gets a little easier.

At least until Toth shows up with his creepy stick thing and tries to kill me again. Riley and I both attack, but he tosses Riley off like a bug. I beat on him for awhile before he body slams me like a wrestling pro. Jeez, where do these guys learn to fight? The WWF?

I kick him hard in the chin, landing him flat on his back, and Riley manages to toss me a sword.

Then it's over, way too quick, and we're all left staring down at Glowy Face's slowly dimming teeth.

"Oh, yeah, that cleaning deposit's gone," says Xander One.

"I was thinking the same thing!" says Xander Two. "Do you suppose we're both Xander?"

***


We all head back to the Magic Box, where Giles and Willow have been busy looking up how to smush our two Xanders back together again. In the end it proves to be pretty easy. Almost... anti-climatic. At least, once we get past Anya's sudden urge to be the meat in the middle of a Xander sandwich... and, ew... there's a mental picture I never, ever, ever want to have again.





 
 
Chapter #5 - Chapter 4: Out Of My Mind
 
Author's Notes: Another semi-canon intense chapter, but slightly more introspective than the last. This is one of my favorite episodes.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Credits: This chapter contains dialogue adapted from the episode "Out of My Mind" written by Rebecca Rand Kirshner.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner art by Phuriedae






Chapter 4

Out of My Mind



Sometimes I feel like Xander is the most grown up of any of us (Giles aside, 'cause he's actually a real grown up, obviously). I mean, Willow and I are still in college, but Xander went off and got a job—well, multiple jobs, but now he has a steady one that he likes and is good at. And now he's got an apartment while the rest of us live in dorms. It's a subtle sort of reminder that we're not in high school anymore.

Grown up Xander is pretty cool.

Still not quite sure what to make of Anya. Or Tara. I want to like them. I really do. But Anya tends to rub her ex-demon days in our faces more often than we're all really comfortable with. We all know she used to be a demon, but do we really need the graphic reminders of all the different things you can do to torture a man's private parts?

And Tara... she's so quiet it's hard to know exactly what's going on with her, but at least she doesn't talk about orgasms all the time.

Thank god my boyfriend is normal and everyone likes him.

Although, Riley seems a little distant lately, though that might just be because training is taking up so much of my time. And he's been really enthusiastic when it comes to the whole demon fighting thing. He's been handling himself well, though, so we've been splitting up patrols. I don't really like it, and I worry about him getting hurt, but he seems happier than he has been. Whenever I'm ready to patrol he's usually already waiting impatiently by the door with a few stakes in his pockets, ready to rock. And by the time we get back he's still pumped and ready to go, too.

I used to worry about my stamina, but Riley seems more than capable of keeping up... I mean, keeping up with me... er... keeping pace? Obviously there's not a problem with the whole up thing.

And watch me change the subject before I start sounding like Anya.

***


Okay, what I said about Riley and his enthusiasm? So getting on my nerves right now.

I'm clearly capable of handling one measly vamp by myself, but here he comes, charging in to the rescue. Not only that, but he flips the vampire up against a crypt as if it were nothing, then stakes it. No quips, no battle, no... nothing. I know he thinks he's doing me a favor but... that was my vamp and now I'm all... twitchy. My Slayer instincts have been ready for a fight all night and now...

Grr.

He claims that he thought I was in the north sector. I'm not even sure where the "north sector" is supposed to be!

Of course then Spike barrels in after another vamp and the night really goes to hell.

Hello, I'm the Slayer. One girl in all the world, remember? I so do not need my over-compensating-for-something boyfriend and a neutered, wanna-be-big-bad vampire doing my job!

When the dust clears I turn to confront Spike. He's dabbing at his bloody nose. He's lucky he didn't get himself accidentally staked. "Better keep out of my way, Spike. I'm not gonna take this much longer," I say. I can't threaten Riley, but Captain Peroxide is fair game. Riley comes up beside me.

Spike sneers. "And I should do what in my spare time? Sit at home knitting cunning sweater sets?"

Now there's a mental image. "Would it keep you out of my way?" He just smirks and licks the blood off his fingers.

Ew.

"She's right," Riley says. "You shouldn't be out here when she's patrolling."

Suddenly I'm not sure which of them I want to stake. Seriously? He jumps into my fight, and now he thinks he needs to threaten Spike for me? I could make a career out of threatening Spike!

Men! Ugh!

As always, Spike manages to see straight through me. "Oh! I saw that. Looks like neither boy's entirely welcome. You should take him home, Slayer," he snarks. "Make him stay there. I've got knitting needles he can borrow."

"Spike ... I just saw you taste your own nose blood. You know what? I'm too grossed out to hear anything you have to say. Go home." I turn on my heel and leave, Riley trailing behind.

Behind us, Spike yells, "It's blood! It's what I do!"

Really doesn't make it less revolting.

Riley slings his arm around me as we head toward the exit. I'm tired all of a sudden, even though I barely had to do any slaying tonight. Somehow I drum up a smile for him. I know he's just trying to help, which makes it hard to admit that mostly he's just getting in the way.

He must be reading my thoughts. "Hey," he says. "Hope I didn't get in the way."

Yes, you did.

"Of course not. I-I was just ... startled," is what I say instead. "And, you know I don't love the idea of you patrolling alone." I worry when he's out slaying. He's only human. Admittedly he's in really good shape and he's got lots of experience bagging vamps, but he's used to working with a team for backup. And better weapons than a pointy stick.

"Not much for bench-warming," he says, not very apologetic. I guess he doesn't need to be. He did handle himself against that vamp pretty well.

"No, you made the squad. You ... threw that vampire like he was a ... teeny-weeny little vampire," I say. Cause he did. And... isn't that kind of weird? I know he's working out but... really? He's still not as strong as I am, hell, he's not even as strong as Spike, but that was definitely more than just normal Riley strength back there. Then again, people have been known to lift buses when pumped on adrenaline, so maybe that's it. There's nothing quite like chasing vampires through graveyards to get your adrenaline pumping.

He just grins. "Hey, wanna go again? Come on, I bet this place is just teeming with aerodynamic vampires." I arch an eyebrow and look around. The graveyard seems pretty dead, actually, except for Spike back there, and that's not something I want to deal with right now.

"Nah," I say, then have a thought, "Unless you wanna go back and kill Spike for the fun of it?"

I half expect Riley to say yes, but instead we both sort of shrug and decide against it. He can't fight back, and I kind of have a problem with staking something that's not an active threat.

He ever gets that chip out, though, then all bets are off.

When we get home it's late, but we make love anyway. Twice. And it's good. Better than usual. Enough to take the edge off that I've been feeling all night. I'm not even irritated by the time I drift off to sleep and wake up in the dream room.

***


The vampire is late. He slips quietly into the bed, and I feel him immediately roll onto his side, yanking the blankets up around him.

With a shrug I roll over and do the same.

Then I realize I'm naked.

I figured out a while back that whatever I'm wearing when I fall asleep comes with me into the dream. Normally I try to at least pull on a long t-shirt before I let myself fall asleep, but I must have forgotten tonight. Still, the vampire is way over on the other side of the huge bed and he's only tried to touch me once. I try to be sneaky and tuck the blankets closer around me, then do my best to relax. It's not like he can see me anyway.

Just before I start to fall asleep I hear something. Was that a sniff?

Did he just sniff the air?

And growl?

I lay awake a lot longer after that.

***


School hard.

At least, that's all that my Cave Buffy brain feels capable of thinking after today's history test. I'm actually kind of enjoying it, though. I know, those are words I never thought I'd hear myself say... not that I'm saying them out loud or anything, but, still. Willow, of course, is delighted.

Between my school work and training and patrolling I'm a busy Buffy. After class, Wills and I swing by the Magic Box. Giles, Xander and Anya have been working like crazy for the last couple of weeks getting things ready. It smells like sawdust and incense and candles when Giles opens the door wearing ... are those paint splattered jeans?

They've remodeled it quite a bit. I don't remember it feeling this big and open before. There's gleaming shelving along the walls, and little tables draped with scarves. They've even added a lofty thing, with a ladder, as a place to shelve the more dangerous books. There's a long glass counter, and Anya is hand lettering a sign for it next to the old fashioned looking register. It's starting to actually look like a real magic shop.

Willow, of course, heads straight for the magic supplies but I'm just enjoying looking around. This place might be new but it holds memories. Last year I had to come in here looking for supplies to reverse Willow's "Will Be Done" spell that left Giles blind and me engaged to Spike. The year before that this was the place where Spike and Angel and I had our showdown with Mr. Trick's fang gang, and the year before that... I think this is where Ethan Rayne had his costume shop. The costume that almost got me killed... by Spike.

I'm sensing a pattern.

I feel the sudden urge to stake something.

When Giles leads me to the backroom, though, I'm floored.

Literally.

Riley's tackle, however, is only a momentary distraction.

"Oh, my god! Look at this place!" There's a punching bag, and one of those gymnastics horse things. Weapons line the walls. There are tumbling mats and even a funny straw-stuffed dummy with fangs. It's incredible, and suddenly I want to hug everyone.

"Thank you. Thank you guys so much!" My face is going to split, I'm smiling so big. Xander proudly shows off the dummy, and Giles ducks his head and smiles. Riley's bouncing around the room like a little boy who wants to play with all my new toys.

Christmas came early this year.

I'm in such a good mood during patrol that night that I don't even mind when Riley tags along and does most of the stake-age. And when we get back to Riley's, I'm still smiling when we go to bed.

***


My dream vampire, on the other hand, is still grouchy.

I think I'm going to call him Mr. Gordo, after my stuffed pig, because he's silent, sleeps beside me every night, and he makes those snuffly pig noises sometimes. I can't keep calling him "my dream vampire". It's way too romantic sounding.

I know better than most that vampires and romance are totally unmixy.

When I tell him I'm going to call him Mr. Gordo from now on, he growls at me.

Maybe I should re-think the pig theme...

***


I'm at school the next morning when I get the phone call from the hospital.

My mom collapsed at work. Riley picks me up and we rush over.

"Your mom is resting right now," the intern tells me. "We're not sure why she passed out, and we'll be running some tests. It might just be low blood sugar, but we want to rule out anything potentially serious."

"Potentially serious?" I ask, worried. Oh, god. Riley pulls me against his chest and I cling to his side. I don't know what I'd do if something happened to my mom.

"Does your mom have a history of fainting?"

I shake my head, feeling a little dizzy myself. The intern tries to reassure me, but I'm not really listening. I lean back against Riley's chest...

And frown.

What the hell is that?

"Riley, are you okay?" I press my ear against his chest. His heart is racing. I know I'm feeling a little shaken up but... this is wrong. Really wrong.

"I'm fine, Buffy," he tells me, shrugging it off even though it's clearly not fine. How long has this been going on? "Let's go check on your mom."

"No, wait," I gesture at the intern whose name I've already forgotten. "Can you listen to his pulse?"

Riley argues for a minute, but agrees mostly to calm me down.

Whatever the intern hears, he's even more concerned than I am, and before we know it we've been ushered into an exam room and Riley's being examined by a doctor.

***


Tachycardia. Fancy doctor speak for Your Heart Is About To Explode.

Riley won't listen. He keeps insisting that he's fine and that he's determined to go home. The doctor thinks he's nuts but she says there's nothing she can do to keep him here. Maybe nothing she can do, but I'm ready to go see if I can find some manacles and chain him to the bed. He's not having it though.

"What's going on?" I demand. "What are you doing? What if you have a heart attack?"

His big hands caress my shoulders but it's not reassuring at all. When did his hands get so hot? "Listen to me. Calm down," he says.

"Me calm down? I'm not the one with a pulse of a hundred and fifty."

He rolls his eyes."My heart's different from yours, Buffy. It works differently now, but it's okay."

No, it's not okay, I want to scream. "But you're still a human, Riley. You could still have a heart attack." I don't understand why he's fighting this. Does he really want to die?

"I'm a human who was used as a lab rat for months," he says, but it sounds like an excuse. I'm about to argue some more when the door opens, admitting Willow and my mom. They're sending mom home while we wait for the test results.

I should feel relieved, but all of a sudden all I can think about is how two of the most important people in my world are sick and there's not a damn thing I'm able to do about it.

***


Mom seems fine, and it's only after I threaten to tie her to the couch that she agrees to rest for a few hours. It's Riley that has me concerned. After he dropped us off he left to meet up with some friends. He wouldn't even talk about it.

I don't get it. I mean, yeah, he was basically Maggie Walsh's guinea pig before she started on Adam, but that doesn't mean he's not human anymore. Whatever she did to him, it can't be good, and it can't be healthy. His heart isn't built for this... but he's acting like it's nothing. Like... like it's what he wants, which totally does not make sense.

It's like he wants to self-destruct.

I can't lose him, too. I can't. I know it's not true but... somewhere in the back of my head I've gotten this idea that the men who date me are doomed somehow. I know, Riley isn't Angel, and I'm probably not going to have to stab him and send him to hell, but I can't lose him. I can't just sit back and watch him destroy himself like this.

Willow suggests calling the Initiative. Since they're the ones who did this to him in the first place, maybe they know how to fix it. But I don't know how to contact them.

"It's so unfair! I mean, it's like Big Brother can spy on you all the time, and...and the second I have something to say, no one will listen!" I say, then pause.

Wait a minute. Big Brother. Spying. Listening...

Maybe there is a way to contact them after all.

***


At Riley's, when I pick up the phone, it makes a weird clicky noise before the dial tone kicks in. Suddenly I understand why Riley hates talking on the phone.

"Riley's in trouble," I say to the dial tone. "He needs help."

***


Help arrives in the form of Graham, Riley's old Initiative buddy. He's sporting a shiny new bruise on his jaw and a concerned look in his eyes when he tells me that he and two other agents tried to talk Riley into going to the hospital. Riley didn't like that idea, it seems.

Time is running out, he explains. We have to get Riley to the doctor as soon as possible. It might already be too late.

I run.

***


In the Magic Box, the Scoobies do what we do best in times of crisis: babble. Riley is nowhere to be found. Finally, for lack of other options, I send Xander and Anya to the docks, and Willow and Tara to the burned out Sunnydale High. He lived there for awhile. "Homey," Willow calls it.

"Homey... you know what else he might find homey in a ... dank, unpleasant, evil sort of way?" I'm thinking out loud. "The Initiative caves. I don't know them too well."

"We do have an associate who knows those caves like the back of his melanin deprived hand," Giles suggests.

I groan. Spike. Why is it always Spike?

***


"I've got a proposition for you," I say after kicking his crypt door open. Spike's sitting on top of a sarcophagus, looking peeved. With a quick move he's off the coffin and in my face, righteous and indignant as if he hadn't been sitting there plotting evil things in his twisted, evil head.

"Funny," he growls. "I've got a proposition for you. What about knocking? Seems only fair since we vamps can't enter your flat without an invite, you could at least—say, look at those pretty pieces of paper..."

Really, sometimes, it's too easy.

"Riley's sick with some Initiative thing and he's missing," I tell him. "I think he's in the caves. You find him, get him to the fourth floor of the hospital, their doctors get to him in time, you get the cash." I wave it in front of him, knowing that cash is the only thing besides blood that means anything to Spike.

He smirks and I resist the urge to punch him. I need his help right now.

"Oh, dear," he says, smug as a canary-stuffed cat. "Is the enormous hall-monitor sick? Tell me, is he going to die?"

Don't hit him. Don't hit him. Don't hit him.

I hit him. Slap him right across his smirking, too-handsome face. "He's not the only one who can die," I promise. He glares, and in his eyes it's all too easy to see a creature that has spent the last hundred years bathing in the blood of innocents.

"I'm just saying," he says through gritted teeth, "if it's that important to you, I think I'll get half now."

My temper wins again. I tear the wad of cash in half and hit him in the chest with it.

***


Of course, I don't really trust Spike. Money might be a motivator, but I know he hates Riley for what the Initiative did to him, and besides, he's evil. There's a good chance that what I'm able to pay him wouldn't be enough motivation for him to go out of his way to save Riley's life. Just because he's chipped doesn't mean he can't kill through neglect, and I can almost picture the happy Spike would get if Riley died. So, I go back to the house and find a flashlight and my jacket, then head for the caves myself.

It feels like I've been stumbling around blindly for an hour when the sound of something pounding rock up ahead gets my attention.

Riley.

His knuckles are bruised and bloody, but he says he can't feel it. He's sweating, and too hot, and I know we're running out of time.

"This stops now," I tell him. But he won't listen. He's afraid, I can see that. Afraid of putting himself in the government's hands after what they've done to him before... but there's more than that.

"Best case scenario," he mutters unhappily, "they turn me into Joe Normal. Just another guy."

And suddenly I understand. "And that's not enough for you?"

"It's not enough for you," he says quietly. "Your last boyfriend wasn't exactly a civilian."

Oh, god. No. This is because he thinks I need a superhero for a boyfriend? That I can't be content with normal? I went looking for normal. Angel was... god, I can't think about Angel right now. I can't. Riley is... amazing. Not because he's got super strength, but because he's normal. Because with him I can just... be Buffy. How can he not get that?

"So, that's what this is about?" I can't help demanding. "You're going to die, all over some macho pissing contest?"

"It's not about him," Riley says, even though, clearly, it is. "It's about us. You're getting stronger every day, more powerful. I can't touch you. Every day, you're just a little further out of my reach."

That's not true. That's so not true. God, don't let that be true.

"You wanna touch me? I'm right here. I'm not the one running away."

"Not yet," he says, as if it's a given that I will. I thought he knew. Thought he understood. I don't run away. It's the men who run. They always run. My father, Angel, even jerk-face Parker... now Riley wants to die? I can't let that happen.

"So you have this all figured out," I say. "I'm bailing because you're not in the super club?"

He feeds me some bullshit about it being human nature. Right, because super powers and vampire slaying are so the sorts of things that everyone else has to deal with. One girl in all the world. Surely I merit my own brand of psychology.

I never could have been as close to Angel as I've been with Riley. For one thing, there was the whole soul issue. For another... I don't know how to explain it. "Nobody has ever known me the way you do. Nobody. I've opened up to you in ways that I've never opened up to... God, you're just sitting there thinking that none of this means anything to me."

"I never said that," he says. He didn't have to.

"Because it obviously doesn't mean anything to you," I can feel myself about to cry. I hate crying. "Do you really think so little of me? Do you think I spent the last year with you because you had superpowers? If that's what I wanted, then I'd be dating Spike."

He gives me a look, like he thinks that's exactly what I'd be doing. Clearly he hasn't forgotten that whole "engaged to Spike" moment from last year, which, hello, was before we started dating and was caused by a spell anyway.

"I need you with me," I tell him. "I need you healthy. But if you wanna throw it all away because you don't trust me, then... then I'm still going to make you go to that doctor."

Because I love him. Because I care about him. And because protecting humans is my job... even when they need protected from themselves.

Maybe Riley gets that I'm serious, or maybe he's sensing the danger he's in. I don't know and I don't care. All I care about is that he finally agrees to come with me. We don't have time to fight over this.

"Loving you is the scariest thing I've ever done, Buffy," he says quietly. My heart thuds heavily at that, and all of a sudden I'm really, really scared that I'm losing him.

"I don't know why," I say. Because really, I don't.

Why is loving me so awful?

***


We make it to the hospital only to find that Graham has been knocked unconscious and the doctor is missing.

God, I knew I couldn't trust Spike. Figures he'd hear "Initiative doctor" and immediately decide to try to get his chip out. That selfish, evil... ugh.

I'm so going to dust his ass. As soon as I find him.

I just have to hope that I'm not too late. It's bad enough that the clock is ticking for Riley, but now I have to worry about fighting Spike? Fighting Spike is never easy, something I hate to admit to anyone. Of all the vamps and demons I've faced, he's the only one still around... for a reason. We're pretty evenly matched, and he's inventive and knows how to use my weaknesses against me. The last time we actually really fought, when he had the Gem of Amara, it was pretty close.

Too close.

And I don't have the time for an epic battle against Spike when Riley's clock is running down.

I just have to hope that I get there before Spike has a chance to get his chip out.

***


He leaps up from the table the minute I walk in the door, and I feel my heart sink. I'm too late.

Now I have to dust Spike.

Gone is the too handsome, stubborn, annoying vampire and in his place is my old enemy. Lethal, lithe, and predatory, Spike embodies everything that vampires ought to be and so rarely actually are. When he slides into game face it's almost a relief.

It's so much easier to fight him when I can see his demon. I've always had a problem staking vamps when they're not in demon face, and it's ten times harder when I know the vamp in question. Riley and Harmony are fighting in the background, a noisy soundtrack to our battle.

With him chipped I haven't been able to justify killing him. I hate the thought of killing something that can't fight back. But with Spikey off the leash, there's nothing holding me back now. His ass is totally mine.

We dance around each other, and I can almost see the glee in Spike's eyes. He's enjoying this, the sick freak. Anger gives me strength, makes my muscles almost sing, I'm so ready to fight him. I can almost picture how he's going to launch himself at me, fists flying. I brace myself, ready to meet his charge.

Except Spike does a standing leap up onto the operating table and looms over me instead, ready to pounce. The move surprises me for a moment, and that's all it takes before he's on me, pinning me to the ground. His cold body is ruthlessly strong as he pins my hands and pulls my head to the side, ready to take a bite. Still... there's a weird hesitation, and for a fraction of a second I could almost swear I see regret flash in his yellow eyes. He roars, however, destroying that illusion and his fangs descend...

Only to be ripped violently away before they even come close to my throat. He screams, pressing his palms to his head and tearing himself off of me. I help by kicking him back. For a moment, he crouches against a cabinet, staring at me and panting. He glances at the doctor beside him, who is trying not to look guilty and smug at the same time.

Oh, god. The doctor didn't remove the chip. It's still there.

Spike can't kill me.

Can't kill anyone.

And I can't kill him.

Not sure what to do, I freeze. Then Riley screams and clutches his chest. I rush to his side, yelling for the doctor, barely registering Spike and Harmony's fleeing figures.

If Riley dies, Spike's dead, too. Chip, or no chip.

***


A few hours later, Riley's all patched up. I'm not really sure what the doctor did to him, but the hole it left in him seems small compared to how major this all was. He'll be fine. He will.

If only I was so sure of the same thing when it came to my mother. In all the fuss I've nearly forgotten, but seeing Riley sitting up reminds me and now I really want to check on her. I almost lost him today because I hadn't been paying attention to the warning signs. That's not going to happen with my mom.

I pass Restfield on my way home, and for a moment I linger outside of the gates. It would be so easy to go in, to dust Spike. I could totally try to justify it. Being chipped clearly didn't stop him from getting Harmony to do his dirty work, or from kidnapping the doctor. Chipped doesn't mean harmless.

I came so close to losing Riley tonight, and it's all Spike's fault.

In the end, though, I turn away.

As angry as I am, it wouldn't be fair. He can't fight back. Xander would argue that it'd be like putting down a rabid dog but... I can't do it.

Someday I'll have to face a chipless Spike. Someday we'll be equals again, and we'll finally figure out which of us is stronger, faster, the better fighter.

But not tonight.

When I go to bed that night, I'm exhausted. It's been such a roller coaster of a day. I'm out the minute my head hits my pillow, and I barely register being awake in that other room before I pass back out again. The vampire isn't even there when I fall asleep, which is probably a good thing.

So not in the mood to deal with vampires right now.




 
 
Chapter #6 - Chapter 5: No Place Like Home
 
Author's Notes: The truly odd thing I discovered when writing this story was how easy it was to extract Dawn and still keep the plot close to canon.

Thank you to everyone who has left reviews, so far. Reviews make my fragile ego very happy.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Credits: This chapter contains dialogue adapted from the episode "No Place Like Home" written by Douglas Petrie

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner art by Phuriedae






Chapter 5
No Place Like Home



A few days later Xander, Tara, Willow, Anya and I are at the Bronze.

"Where's Riley?" Xander asks, sliding cups in front of Anya and me.

"On his way. Said he had some stuff to do before we met up," I say with a shrug and an eye on the door.

"You seem a little... worried," Xander says.

"Worried? I'm not worried," I say. Willow and Xander give me disbelieving looks. "Okay, so I'm a little worried. But only a teensy tiny bit."

"I'm sure he's fine," Willow pats my arm.

"I know," I say, and I do. "It's just... he sometimes still acts like he's Superman, when instead he's all..."

"Bruce Wayne, without the cool toys?" Xander supplies.

"Sort of. I know he's capable of taking care of himself, but... I worry. And the last day or two, on patrol, it's been kind of..."

"Distracting?" Anya says, sipping at her soda.

"Well...," I'm not sure how to answer that, because she's kind of right. It is distracting, always having to keep an eye on him, making sure he's handling his end of the fight okay. Vampires are like other predators, and they'll usually pick on the weakest in the herd. Visually, that would be me, but once a fight starts they inevitably figure out that Riley's lagging a little behind. "It's just hard to patrol when I have to look out for him, you know?"

"It's difficult, having a relationship between unequal beings," Anya says, conversationally. "I knew this Htfif demon once who was in love with an Eno demon, only Htfif demons are incredibly intelligent and Enoes think licking wallpaper glue is entertaining. It didn't work out so well."

"Not helping, Ahn," Xander says, with an uncomfortable smile. She frowns at him.

"Riley's my equal," I say. "He's so totally my equal. I don't know why everyone seems to think I need a guy with super powers for a boyfriend."

"Who said that?" Willow demands.

"Riley," I say, remembering the look on his face in the caves.

"Well, he's wrong. I mean, if you wanted a boyfriend with super powers you'd be dating...," Willow's face scrunches up as she tries to think of someone.

"Spike," Anya says. Then, "What? You can't date Angel because of the soul thing, and Spike is the next logical choice." She glances around at all of us as if we should have thought of that ourselves.

"Logical? Anya, nothing about the idea of dating Spike is logical," I say.

"True. He's very strange for a vampire. Physically, however, you two are compatible. Close to equal strength, speed, and stamina. Not to mention that he's a good height for you, and very well muscled."

"How the hell do you know how muscled Spike is? When did you see him naked?" Xander demands, looking horrified.

"Not naked. Shirtless. And the same time you did," she says dryly, rolling her eyes. "Remember the tracking device?"

Xander blinks. "Oh. Yeah. Must have blocked that memory."

"I remember," Willow says. "But didn't really notice. Much. Except, you know, for the whole... bulging biceps thing. I wonder if all vampires are built like that?"

Tara gives her a look. "Just curious," Willow says primly. "Scientifically curious."

I'm still reeling from Anya practically repeating my thought in the cave. Also, has everyone but me seen Spike shirtless?

Clearly it's time to change the subject.

"Well, I'm not dating Spike. I'm dating Riley. And we're more than equal... except for the whole strength thing," I say. "Besides, he's kind of cute like this, all weak and kitteny."

"Kitteny?" Willow says with a smile.

"Well, like a... a... lion kitten," I say. "Not like house cat kitten." Anya still looks skeptical, and Xander has that whole male-solidarity-you're-insulting-my-gender expression that he gets sometimes.

I'm saved by Riley's timely arrival, and I immediately grab him for a dance.

"What was that all about?" he asks with a grin once we're on the floor.

"Nothing," I say. "Just... missing you."

We dance, and it's nice. Really really nice. Even though Riley isn't much of a dancer.

And his biceps are perfectly bulgy.

***


I'm worried about my mom.

I keep thinking about how awful it would have been if she'd collapsed at home, with no one there to keep an eye on her. It might have been hours before...

Okay, so not going to have that thought right now.

So Riley and I have made it a habit to check on her at night, before bed. Sometimes we even stay over. She doesn't seem to mind as much as I would have thought.

This morning, however, Riley has stuff to do, so I'm making breakfast. French toast has got to be better for mom than instant oatmeal mix or cereal. Her headaches are back, she says when she comes down. And they brought friends.

"What did the doctor say?" I ask, sliding her breakfast tray in front of her. I wish I could have gone with her to the doctor's yesterday, but she'd only been able to make the appointment when I had class.

"Oh, take four of some pills a day and come back for tests," she says. She looks tired.

"So they don't know what's wrong?" I ask, frowning. They're doctors. They're supposed to just look down your throat or x-ray you and be able to figure it out, right?
"Not yet," she says.

"Well that's unacceptable," I say. How can they have run so many tests and not know what's wrong yet? It's been days and... days. Maybe they're bad doctors. You know, laying around on the job, playing golf or something when they should be taking care of my mom. "I think we should get a second opinion."

"We need a first opinion first, honey," she reminds me.

"Fine. Let's go right now," I say. I hate this sitting around, waiting. I want to be doing something. Helping somehow. I know I'm not supposed to use Slayer strength on normal people, but nobody ever said I couldn't be bossy Buffy. We could go down to the hospital and I could... you know, encourage them to hurry it up.

"Buffy, I know you're concerned, but don't be," Mom says, as if that's something easy. How can I not be concerned? "Besides," she adds in a clear effort to distract me, "isn't it Giles's big day?"

Oh, she's good. "Bigger than big," I say with a grin. "It's his grand opening." I can't help but be a little excited for him. He even put an ad in the paper. Mom gets that look on her face she always used to get when we'd hear about a new store opening up at the mall. She may be a grown up, and I might be the Slayer, but at heart, we're still California girls and the thought of shopping--even in a weird speciality magic shop--can always put a smile on our faces.

"Well, go and bring me back a... I don't know... a flying broomstick," she suggests.

I laugh. If mom's able to make jokes about broomsticks she'll be alright for a little while. She has to be.

***


The Magic Box is silent as the grave when I get there (which is a bad analogy, I know, cause graves in Sunnydale? Not so silent). Giles, for some bizarre reason is dressed like a wizard, in purple star spangled robes. Thankfully he takes the hint and gets out of them before anyone other than us sees him. The quiet is pretty nerve wracking, until the first customers start to trickle in.

By midafternoon the shop is full of busy customers, though. Way full. Fuller than I think even Giles suspected.

Riley and I sneak into the back room to spar for a break around lunchtime. I've always had to hold back a little bit with Riley. Even when he was getting juiced by the Initiative his strength was never a match for mine. Now the gap between us is looking less like a crack in the pavement and more like the Grand Canyon. It's not really a problem; I'm used to having to hold back with Giles, but Riley gets irritated at me when I do it with him.

"I just don't want to hurt you," I say.

"You won't," he insists, but he's already holding his ribs from where I accidentally kicked too hard. "I can take it. Besides. It's good training. Not like the vampires are going to hold back on me."

I frown. He's right, of course, but it just reminds me again of why it's such a bad idea for him to be patrolling. He must read the expression on my face because suddenly he's pounding on the punching bag furiously.

"You don't have to protect me, Buffy," he says, gritting his teeth and slamming his fists into the bag.

"I know," I say, and wish it were true.

***


I leave a little later to go check on my mom. She's curled up on the couch and moaning. I want to take her to the doctor's but she insists she just needs her medication. By the time I run out, get it, and get back she's asleep.

I don't know what to do. I hate that she's here all the time by herself. I hate that her headaches are getting worse and worse. I can't go to school and be here to keep an eye on her at the same time. All day the worry has been stuck in the back of my head--is mom okay?

I throw together some soup for dinner, and we eat it and watch TV until it's time for me to patrol. Riley hasn't shown up, and I wonder where he's disappeared to tonight. He wouldn't have gone patrolling on his own... would he?

Mom's asleep again, so I grab a jacket and lock up on my way out. I'm only a few steps from the door when the tinglies kick in.

Vampire.

"Spike," I say, yanking him out from behind the tree. I haven't seen him since the chip incident and I'm not too pleased to see him now.

"Hi, Buffy," he says, giving me an odd look. For a second I blink at him. I can't think of the last time he's called me by name. Normally it's Slayer this or Slayer that. The expression on his face throws me, too. It's... soft. Which is weird. Spike never looks unsure like that, and the only thing I can think is that he's worried I'm going to stake him over the whole chip thing.

Well, I guess I do owe him one.

"Don't take this the wrong way," I say and punch him in the nose, successfully wiping that weird look off his face.

"Ow!" He scowls.

"What are you doing here?" He starts to speak but I interrupt, not in the mood for his bull tonight. I want to get to the cemeteries and make sure Riley isn't getting in trouble. "Five words or less," I tell him.

His jaw works for a minute and his eyes narrow dangerously. He holds up a hand and counts the words off on his fingers. "Out. For. A. Walk." He smirks. "Bitch."

Right, like I believe that evil vampires just go for casual nighttime strolls through residential neighborhoods.

"Out for a walk at night by my house. No one has time for this, William," I tell him. See if it throws him to be called by his name. He blinks, but otherwise it doesn't seem to bother him.

"On your merry way, then," he says, then his temper kicks in. "You know, contrary to one's self-involved world-view, your house happens to be directly between parts... and... other parts... of this town. And I would pass by in the day but I feel I'm outgrowing my whole 'burst into flame' phase."

Whatever. I really don't feel like dealing with him right now.

"Fine. Keep going, I cut you a break."

Stupid vampire doesn't know when he's getting a let.

"Oh, yeah. Okay, let me guess," he says, "you won't kill me? Oooh, the whole crowd-pleasing threats-and-swagger routine." What is he talking about? I barely threatened him. "How stunningly original. You know, I'm just passing through. Satisfied?"

He turns to go, then turns back, clearly agitated. "You know, I really hope so, because God knows you need some satisfaction in life besides... shagging Captain Cardboard and I never really liked you anyway and... and... you have stupid hair."

And with that, he turns on his heel and stalks off, leaving me standing on the sidewalk blinking after him in confusion.

What. The. Hell?

I wait, hoping that reality will kick in and make sense of whatever it was that just happened. When I glance down at the base of the tree, there's at least a dozen cigarette butts laying in the dirt.

Passing through, huh?

***


"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I ask, stepping from behind a gravestone and staking a vampire that was about to tackle Riley to the ground.

He looks up from where he's crouching after having staked a second.

"Oh. Hi, Buffy," he says. He stands, dusting off his clothes.

"You're patrolling?" I ask, irritated.

"I was on my way to your house—," he starts.

"Through a cemetery?"

"In case you haven't noticed, Sunnydale seems to have an awful lot of cemeteries," he says dryly. "Hard not to pass one."

"Pass one," I say, angry. "Not walk through one like vamp bait."

"I can take care of myself, Buffy," he says. "I'm not just going to sit on the sidelines and watch. I've been doing this for too long. I don't need you to protect me."

The pile of dust at my feet seems to indicate otherwise, but I don't say anything, not wanting to make things worse.

***

That night I'm too agitated to sleep once I'm in the dream room. The vampire is late, as usual, and I wonder about that for the first time. Vampires usually sleep during the day, so it would make sense that his time table is behind mine, even though I do tend to go to bed very late and wake up late.

If this weren't a dream, then would it mean that we're in some kind of time warp, so that we're sleeping at the same time? Like, I go to sleep at night, but he doesn't go to sleep until morning, but somehow once we're asleep we're both here... so when I wake up in the morning this is over but he's just starting to dream this...

I'm getting a headache trying to follow that so I give up.

Instead I pace carefully around the bed, keeping my hand on it for bearings.

When the tingles start I immediately turn to face them.

If nothing else, these dreams have been honing that particular Slayer skill. I've noticed on patrol that I'm more aware of the tingles than usual.

I'm surprised to find that I'm on the wrong side of the bed. His side, facing him.

Mr. Gordo doesn't move. I figure he's about ten feet away, just standing there, watching me.

"Sorry," I say with a shrug. "Not very sleepy at the moment. Decided to go for a walk, but..." I gesture at the room. "I can't see if I'm going to bump into anything."

He doesn't speak, but he does approach, very slowly and carefully. He moves absolutely silently, and it's only the tingles increase in intensity that lets me know he's moving at all.

I wonder if he's as afraid of me as I am of him?

He stops at the foot of the bed, less than three feet away from me. We're seldom this close even once we're in bed.

"Are you going to try to kill me?" I blurt suddenly. It's a stupid question, but I suddenly really want to know.

He hesitates, then very clearly taps on the bedpost twice. No.

"Why not?" I ask, confused. He's silent. "Right. You're not the talkative type. Pity more vampires aren't that way. I mean, some of them even lurk loudly. And then when they open their mouths they don't know how to shut up. Parts and other parts... yeah right. And... and... do I have stupid hair?"

There's a funny sort of noise from Mr. Gordo's direction. Then he taps again. No.

I narrow my eyes.

"Can you see me?"

He makes a hmmmphing sort of noise, half sigh, half snort of frustration. Then he taps. Yes.

"That's so unfair. Who made that stupid rule?" No answer, but I didn't really expect one. It's my turn to sigh. "I need to move. Would you...uh...walk beside me, I guess? And... maybe stop me if I'm going to run into something?"

There is a very long silence this time. So long I wonder if I've broken some unspoken rule by asking for a vampire's assistance. What if this is some kind of test? What if I'm supposed to kill him somehow, even though I don't have any weapons and am clearly at a disadvantage?

It's not like I haven't been put into that situation before.

Only this vampire doesn't seem to want me dead, and hasn't been threatening at all... well, if you don't count the nights when I can tell he's hungry. But even then he didn't try to hurt me.

If I've managed not to stake Spike for a year despite him being an annoying jerk who actually has threatened me on any number of occasions, just because he's harmless, then I guess it would be wrong to try to kill this vampire for doing nothing more irritating than being stuck in a room with me before I go to sleep. If it is a test, then I haven't failed yet by letting him live.

Finally, he taps once on the bed post. Yes.

He doesn't move, just waits for me. When I start to walk away from the bed, he falls in on my left and easily keeps pace with me.

For awhile I just move. I have so much pent up energy right now, and a ton of frustration. After awhile I start to talk, because he's clearly listening.

"My boyfriend is an idiot," I start. "He... it's really complicated, but let's just say that for awhile he had super strength and was helping me fight vampires and demons. And now he doesn't, but he's still trying to fight. Whenever I'm patrolling I have to constantly be watching out for him, and it's... not fair. To either of us. I know I don't need to protect him, but I can't help it. I'm the Slayer. It's in my job description: protect the world from the demons and the vampires. He's part of the world that needs protecting."

I sigh. Mr. Gordo just stalks along at my side. It's actually sort of nice, having someone who won't interrupt me.

"But... I don't want to have to protect him. I liked it before when we could fight side by side, even if we didn't always agree on everything. I want him to feel useful, like he's part of the team. I... just want. Is that stupid?"

I stop and wait, then realize that there's no bed nearby for Mr. Gordo to tap on. I jump a little when a cool finger taps my shoulder twice, then retreats. No.

"I wish I could see you," I say. "Do you have any idea how creepy it is to be in the dark with a vampire you can't see but who can see you?"

He chuckles very softly. It's not a menacing laugh though, just amused.

"Okay, so I guess vampires don't rate high on the list of things you find creepy." He chuckles again, taps my shoulder twice. No.

I yawn, suddenly tired. "Which way is the bed?" He hesitates, then cool fingers gently settle at my elbow and guide me forward. I let him. He has big hands, I note. We must not have gone too far because within only a few steps it seems, he stops us, then takes my wrist and guides my hand to the edge of the bed. "Thanks," I say. For a vampire, he's surprisingly polite.

I crawl into bed and sense him move around to the other side. When we're both in, separated once more by several empty feet of mattress, I pull the blankets up to my chin.

"Goodnight, Mr. Gordo," I say.

He growls softly, but I can tell he doesn't mean it. After awhile I drift off to sleep.

***

When I wake up in the morning, first thing I do is call my mom. She's fine, she says. Just tired, and her head is aching again.

All through my morning classes I turn my problems over. I don't know what to do about Riley. Maybe just give it time and we'll figure something out. As I zone out in the middle of History, and Willow has to jab me several times to get my attention, I realize that I do know what to do about my mom.

When I tell Willow, she agrees regretfully.

"Maybe things will be better by next semester," she says. I hope so.

It surprisingly doesn't take that long to drop all of your classes and arrange to move out of your dorm. Somehow I thought they'd try harder to get me to stay, but once I explained the problem everyone was really helpful.

My mother, however, is not so easy to convince.

"Buffy, you can't do this. This is your future," she says.

"And you're my mother. I can't sit in class and worry about you. My grades will just drop anyway. I can't concentrate in school knowing that you're home by yourself and sick. Once we figure out what's wrong and fix it, I'll go back. I promise. I just... I need to know you're okay," I tell her, wrapping my arms around her.

"Buffy—," she says.

"It's already done, mom. I'm moving back home tomorrow." I smile. "You've taken care of me for years. Now it's my turn to take care of you."

We hug for a really long time. This was the right decision.




 
 
Chapter #7 - Chapter 6: Family
 
Author's Notes: Slightly canon-centric, with some Mr. Gordo fun towards the end. Enjoy. I updated the other day, so make sure you've read Chapter 5. I may also update and add Chapter 7 and 8 within the next day or two.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Credits: This chapter contains dialogue adapted from the episode "Family" written by Joss Whedon.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner art by Phuriedae





Chapter 6

Family


It takes the better part of five hours, even with everyone helping, to get me moved out of my dorm room. As we're finishing up, Willow reminds us about Tara's birthday party tomorrow night.

Crap.

I like Tara. She's really, really nice. I just... don't know her very well. She's quiet and shy, and she stutters sometimes when she's nervous. She's also way smart, and she and Willow seem to connect on some level that's totally beyond me—which, I mean, yes, obviously, because, uh... she's Willow's girlfriend. And there's a big difference between girlfriend and best friend. Big difference. Of the 'I'd rather not think about it' variety.

But Tara is nice.

And, well, since I'm being honest with myself, I'll admit it: she kinda makes me feel stupid, without even trying.

And I totally don't know what to get her for a present.

Xander and I are discussing the topic at the Magic Box later, when this moronic rednecky guy butts in and starts asking dumb questions about Giles's books and the magic shop. Which instantly makes me feel like a super genius because no way am I that moronic.

It's even more shocking when it turns out that Forrest Gump here is Tara's brother.

Apparently her father and brother and... some chick she's related to, maybe a cousin?... have come to take her back home. Tara doesn't seem thrilled, and the vibe I'm getting off her family makes me think that home isn't exactly where Tara's heart is. Eventually they go away, but the vibe remains.

There are times when I'm glad I don't have much family, and that what I do have, I love. Mom and I may have had our rough spots, but we're still totally a team. I know if I need her, she'll have my back.

I leave early to check on her. Riley's there waiting. I catch him just as he's coming down from my room. He's put away all of my stuff, which is sweet, if a little domestic.

I have the best boyfriend.

Except somehow I screw it up.

I don't know if it's the whole patrol thing or what but we end up fighting over pretty much nothing. When he leaves I'm frustrated and not sure what to do.

I don't know how to help him feel useful, and I don't know how to make him feel needed.

Why can't I just have a normal, healthy relationship? What's wrong with me?

***


Mom had a doctor's appointment earlier in the day, and she's decided to do the rest thing for the afternoon. She has a new prescription to be filled and it's easy enough to run down to the hospital and pick it up for her.

Good thing, too.

I hate hospitals. I really do. They're so sterile and everyone always talks in these hushed sort of voices. And half the people there are sick or injured or dying... or dead. Or undead.

Being the Slayer means pulling morgue duty way more often than I like.

Also, it's apparently the demon equivalent of an all you can eat buffet, because I'm constantly finding them there. Today I find one lingering near a door into the staff breakroom. The screaming was a good clue that something was going on.

I'm not sure what kind of demon this guy is that I'm fighting. Looks like Tim Curry in that movie about the scary clown, only minus the good hair and covered in open sores. He's strong, and crafty enough that he somehow manages to slip away when hospital security interrupts our impromptu bout in the hallway.

I swing home quick to drop off mom's medicine before heading to the Magic Box to fill everyone in on the new nasty.

***


Tara begged out of the Scooby meeting, Willow tells us when she arrives. Too tired after talking to her dad, I guess.

I wasn't able to get a hold of Riley, which should worry me, but maybe he just needs space after our argument earlier. Boys need that sometimes, right? Space? I wish I knew what to do to help him but I totally don't. Still, if he wants space, I won't push. I think sometimes with Angel I was a little too clingy. I'm not going to make that mistake again. But at the same time I really wish Riley would understand my point of view.

Without Riley or Tara it feels like an old-school Scooby meeting. Only, you know, without the school part. With some sugary donut fortification we hit the books, trying to track down my scary clown friend.

I'm not really research-girl, though, and I get bored pretty fast. Especially when Pennywise doesn't turn up in the first few books I flip through.

Hours of musty old books later I'm frustrated and ready to just go out after it. When a knock sounds at the door, but no one is there, I decide it's time for a break. "I need to go punch something," I tell Giles and head for the back room.

I'm just starting to warm up on the punching bag when I sense something. It's not vampire, but it's definitely demony, and it feels like it's somewhere in the room.

A growl is all the warning I get, but it's enough for me to spin and block the invisible blow. Whatever it is, I can't see it to fight it, and that's got me wigged. I haven't fought anything invisible in... I can't remember. Feeling at a disadvantage like this scares me, especially when whatever it is manages to slam me against the floor hard and pin me there.

Dimly I register the sound of the backdoor opening, and suddenly a change in the tingles. There's a vampire in the room, and if I'm not mistaken, he's both powerful and familiar. Spike.

I manage to get my invisible attacker off me and throw it against the wall. A nasty crack tells me it's incapacitated or dead. Worried, I glance around, hearing the sound of scuffling and punches, but there's nothing to be seen. Just the sense of demon and Spike somewhere in the room.

A scream from the front of the store sends me running. Willow is holding a chair, Anya has barricaded herself behind a counter, and Giles is getting punched in the face by another Mr. Nobody. It stops as I enter.

"Where'd it go?" Xander asks.

"Shhh, everyone be quiet," I say, trying to listen. My Slayer sense is tingling, and it feels as if the demon is... Just then the front door opens and Tara rushes in.

"Buffy! Behind you!" she yells. Okay... so... whatever it is, it's not invisible to Tara. What the hell is going on? Suddenly I'm flying across the table, rolling to my feet instinctively to face... nothing.

"Tara, where is it? Can you see it?"

"Oh, god," she says, looking horrified. Suddenly she's chanting.

"Blind Cadria, lift your veil, give evil form, and break my spell..."

There's a weird moment when there's nothing, then something. The clown demon I fought at the hospital rushes Tara, knocking her down. It only takes a couple of steps before I trip it. The demon lands face first on the steps up to the front landing, and gawks for a second when the door opens. With a kick of my very stylish boots, I break its neck.

Only to look up into the faces of three very confused and freaked out humans. It takes a minute for the adrenaline haze to clear and for me to place them: Tara's family.

"What in God's name is that thing?" Mr. Maclay asks, horrified.

"Lei-Ach demon," says Spike, coming in from the back room and rubbing bruised knuckles. "Fun little buggers, big with the marrow sucking." Ha! Totally knew he was there. He must have taken care of the one in the back.

Weird of him to help, but I'm not going to question it right now.

"I don't understand," Mr. Maclay says.

It takes a little while to make sense of things. According to Mr. MacCrankypants all the women in his family have demon blood... something I've never heard of before, but I guess might be possible. Tara was worried we'd see her demon side so she cast a spell. One that almost got us all killed, of course, but as Willow points out, it was a mistake.

Spells around here DO tend to go kablooey.

And the vibe I was getting from Tara's family earlier? Totally worse now. This guy is starting to make Spike look positively kittenish by comparison and he's really pissing me off with all his high handed orders. Tara is clearly upset, crying, and doesn't want to leave.

"You're going to do what's right, Tara," her father says. "Now, I'm taking you out of here before somebody does get killed. The girl belongs with her family. I hope that's clear to the rest of you."

Crystal.

I've dealt with a lot of things over the years, and the one thing I know is this: you build your family and you keep them close. It doesn't matter if you share blood or not. Willow and Xander... they're the closest things to siblings I'll ever have. And Giles... way better father figure than my real dad. I may not always love the choices they make, or understand them, but I won't see anyone in my family get hurt.

I may not be able to stop whatever is happening to my mom, but I can stop this. Demon blood or not, Tara is one of us now.

"You want her, Mr. Maclay? Go ahead and take her," I say. "You just gotta go through me."

"What is this?" Mr. Maclay says, clearly confused.

"You wanna take Tara out of here against her will? You gotta come through me," I say.

"Is this a joke? I'm not going to be threatened by a little girl."

Ugh... could he be more piggish?

It doesn't take long before Giles and Xander are backing me up. Not that I needed them to, but Tara clearly did. The look on her face is shocked, amazed, and absolutely glowing.

"You're dealing with all of us," Xander says.

"'Cept me," Spike pipes up from the back.

"'Cept Spike," Xander confirms.

"I don't care what happens," says the vampire.

I try not to roll my eyes.

"Are you people insane? You people have no right to interfere in Tara's affairs. WE are her blood kin. Who the hell are you?" Mr. Maclay is starting to fray at the edges.

"Family," I say. Because we are.

He's furious. Her brother is furious. Her trampy, ice-queeny cousin is seething.

"Well, I hope you'll all be happy hanging out with a disgusting demon," she spits.

"Um, excuse me?" Anya's got her hand up like we're back in high school again. "What kind?"

This clearly throws all of them for a loop.

"What kind of demon is she?" Anya asks again. "There's a lot of different kinds. Some are very, very evil. And some have been considered to be useful members of society."

"What does it matter?" Tara's father says. "Evil is evil."

"Well, let's just narrow it down," Anya says, with a surprising amount of steel in her voice.

Then Spike steps forward. "Ah...," he practically purrs it. "Why don't I make this simple?"

What with the huh? How?

Before I realize what he's about to do, he steps forward and taps Tara on the shoulder. She turns, and Spike punches her very carefully in the nose. They both yell in pain, Tara clutching her surprisingly unbroken nose, and Spike his aching head.

Holy crap.

Did Spike just... what did he just do?

"He hit my nose!" Tara says.

"And it hurt!" Willow says, as shocked as the rest of us. "Hurt him, I mean!"

"And that only works on humans," I say. Spike is shaking the pain off.

"There's no demon in there," he says, derisively. "That's just a family legend. Bit of spin to keep the ladies in line." He eyes Mr. Maclay up and down. "Oh, you're a piece of work. I like you."

He would.

"You're welcome," Spike tells Tara, before striding purposefully out, one hand still rubbing his head.

Huh.

It doesn't take too long for Tara's family to leave after that. Good riddance. Tara is so sweet and nice, and her family doesn't deserve her at all.

We, on the other hand, are very happy to have her.

***


Later that night, as I wait for Mr. Gordo to show up, my mind is back on the fight with the Lei-Ach demons. A couple of things are bothering me.

First, I really, really hated not being able to see what I was fighting. Giles, for a while, had been training me blindfolded, but I'd never had much luck with it beyond being able to sense the most basic of attacks. It never occurred to me that my demon tinglies could be of use in a fight, because obviously, Giles isn't a demon.

The other thing that was wigging me was invisible Spike.

I sensed him. The minute he came through the door, I knew he was there. When I can see him, I don't always pay attention to the tingles I get around him. I forget how strong they are with him, forget that he's an old vampire, even if he is chipped. Power rolls off him in waves.

When Willow and I had discussed my dream vampire before, we'd considered that it might be Spike. But if... IF this weren't a dream (which I'm totally sure it is), but if it weren't and the vampire was Spike, wouldn't I know? As quickly and easily as I'd identified him in the Magic Box, wouldn't I know if that were him creeping up on me in the dark now, approaching the bed?

The only thing was, here my vamp sense seems... muffled. For lack of a better word. Like someone has wrapped me in a thick blanket.

I'm not really sure what to make of that. But it makes me think that this is, definitely, a dream.

On the other hand, the last few months of sleeping in a room with a vampire I can't see have honed my ability to sense them somewhat. I'd noticed it on patrol, and when fighting that demon earlier, too. I'd relied on it in ways I normally didn't.

Dream or not, it's a useful skill.

Which is why, as Mr. Gordo pads quietly toward the bed, I have an idea.

"Wait!" I say. He pauses. I feel it dimly.

"Don't move," I say, scrambling out of bed. I'm thankful I'd worn a tank top and long pajama bottoms to bed tonight. I know he can see me, and the idea of exposing myself to him when wearing what I sometimes wore for Riley left me blushing.

I edge carefully around the bed until I'm on his side. He waits.

"I... I want to try something," I say, finally. "I... know this is going to sound strange but I want to try something. With you. I mean, with your help."

Okay, so I'm asking a dream vampire for help. Either I'm crazy or... I'm crazy. But after so long sleeping next to him, and how polite he was the other night, it seems weird to just order him around. Rude, somehow. Besides, it's a dream, and I can do what I want in a dream. Right?

Mr. Gordo seems to be waiting, and I hear him shift a little, as if uncomfortable.

"I'm not going to stake you," I say, sure somehow that he's worried that I will. "That is... as long as you promise not to try to kill me." He makes an odd little noise and I realize he has no way of responding to that. "Will you promise not to try to kill me?"

There's not even a hesitation. Yes, he taps...and it sounds like he may have patted his pants or something, since he's nowhere near the bed.

"Okay," I say, thinking fast. "Okay... I... want to train. With you. Sort of. I want to practice figuring out where you are since I can't see you. It's easy, when you're moving slow, but can we somehow make it more difficult? Maybe like... vampire hide and go seek?"

He chuckles softly.

"Other than the bed, is there anything in here that I could run into that might hurt me?" I doubt it, somehow. The room seemed empty enough when walking it with him before.

No, he taps, confirming my thoughts.

"Okay, so... you go somewhere in the room and wait, and I'll find you. Then you move to a different spot, and I'll find you again. Would... is that okay?"

Yes.

"Alright," I say. "Whenever you're ready. I'll give you a head start."

Abruptly, he's gone. Just... gone.

Or... no, not gone. Far away. Slightly out of range.

I remember my training sessions with Giles, when he'd make me try to "protect" something. The bed, I decide, is my landmark, and also represents something I needed to keep track of. A victim maybe, or a powerful object, or Riley... I try to lock its location in my head, so that when I move, I'll still know where it is and be able to avoid it while tracking my invisible vamp.

Curious, I also try to count my steps, to see how wide my range really is. Right now he's hovering just at the edge of it, a vague kind of prickle at the nape of my neck. Somewhere off to the left. Trying not to stumble in the dark like an idiot, I walk straight for him. I feel the tingle grow and spread, the closer I get, until finally he's less than a few feet away.

Briefly I hesitate, then, just to be sure, I reach out a hand and touch him. My fingers brush a cotton shirt. Well, at least he isn't naked. I smile.

"Tag," I say. "Wanna try it faster?"

And he's gone again.

This time, I run.

I don't know how long we play, but it starts to be fun. Even when I screw up and run full tilt into the bed, I end up giggling madly. Mr. Gordo's soft chuckle isn't mocking, just amused. He keeps making it more difficult, moving slightly further out of my range each time, or moving away as I come toward him.

At one point he confuses me completely.

I'm standing at the foot of the bed, turning this way and that. I can feel him, right in front of me... but not. The tingles are there, powerful even though they're still somewhat muffled by the dream.

"Ooookay," I say, trying to figure it out. He's not on the bed. Under it, maybe? I drop to the floor, but the tingles fade slightly. Not there either. I stand up. I reach out a hand again and touch the foot post... then remember and tilt my head back and up. Smiling now, I grab hold of the post and haul myself up it.

Huh.

Didn't know this bed was a canopy.

He's sitting above me, and when I reach up, I accidentally grab his bare foot.

"Gah!" I say. "Zombie feet." His toes are so cold. He chuckles and growls, as if to remind me that, oh, right... dead guy. Then he vaults over my head, landing with a soft noise against the stone floor and disappears again.

We play until I'm panting. He tries the top of the bed thing a few more times, but I'm wise to his tricks now. Then he tries under the bed, but I figure that one out even faster.

The last time, however, it takes me a minute. Not on top of the bed, I realize. Definitely not on it or under it.

Crap. The tingles are so close. I can feel him, right there... but no matter where I blindly search, I can't find him. With a huff, I sit down on the mattress.

"Okay, you win this one round," I say, laughing a little. "I give."

There's a sensation of movement, and then he's dropping down behind me, his hands on my shoulders, and his knees spread to either side of my hips. I jump, but he holds me in place, and I feel my heart beat pick up. His hands are cool on my shoulders, but not as icy as his feet were.

"Under the canopy," I say, feeling stupid. He had been upside down, bracing himself between the struts above my head.

He taps with one finger against my shoulder. Yes.

"Smart aleck vampire," I say, but it's good humored. I haven't had this much fun in ages. Certainly not while 'training'.

He chuckles and moves away to his side of the bed as I crawl under the covers.

"Thank you," I tell him.

It's been a long, long time since I trusted a vampire, but something about this one makes it... not easy, but possible.

I wonder again if it's Angel.

It was possible to trust Angel. Not easy. Not at first. Not when he was all cryptic guy. And it's been a lot harder to trust him since... well... since. But there's still a bond there.

Only this doesn't feel like Angel. Just like the tingles don't feel like Spike's, they definitely don't feel like Angel's. I can't tell if that's because they aren't, or because of the muffling effect of the dream, though. Maybe if my sense weren't slightly deadened, then I'd recognize them.

Not only that, though, the vampire doesn't feel like Angel. Not that I've plastered myself to him, or anything, but the few brief touches we've had—hands, feet, shoulders, shirt—haven't felt like Angel at all.

They feel... like Mr. Gordo. My weird, friendly, dream vampire.

I mumble a good night, and snuggle into my pillow, deliciously worn out.

***


Tara's birthday, at the Bronze, is totally fun. She loves all her gifts, and she and Willow dance, literally, on air. We're all trying to get to know the shy girl better.

I even see Spike, lurking in the shadows, but I leave him alone. I'm having a good night and no way do I want to deal with bleached blond, annoying vampires.

Riley on the other hand. Mmmmm.

He's late, but he brought the birthday girl a present, which is totally sweet.

I hope whatever has made him so bad moody is over. I really want my sweet, normal boyfriend back.

 
 
Chapter #8 - Chapter 7: Ask Me No Questions
 
Author's Notes: This chapter makes me a little nervous, because it's based on one of my (and I'm sure most other Spuffy fans') favorite episodes. Obviously because we're experiencing this from Buffy's POV, we're not going to get the lovely flashbacks to what actually happened, we're only going to have the word of a not-always-entirely-honest vampire. Filling in the blanks of what he might have told her was both fun and challenging, and I'm a little nervous as to how well you all will accept the results of my game of mad libs with canon dialogue. Still, this was one of the most fun chapters to write, and I hope you like it.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Credits: This chapter contains dialogue from the episode "Fool For Love" written by Douglas Petrie.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner by Phuriedae





Chapter 7

Ask Me No Questions


Pain.

Hot, blinding pain.

I grip the stake in my hand and it's slippery with blood.

My blood.

Oh.

God.

My blood.

Teeth grinding, I manage to pull it out. Stuff my hand against the wound to slow the blood flow.

Blood.

Vampire.

God.

I run.

Things are a blur then. Pain. Fear.

It's been so long since I felt this that I can't process it.

Then... arms. Familiar.

Riley.

Helping me stand. Helping me home.

Only, it's too much.

And there's only black.

***


I wake up in the dream room, and the pain is still there, but muted now. Not as strong.

I can't see to check it, but when I carefully touch the wound I feel stitches and bandages. I lay very, very still.

When Mr. Gordo arrives, I tense.

He growls.

Blood. He can smell the blood.

I hear him climb on the bed, then feel him move closer. Oh, this is sooo not of the good.

"Stop," I say. He does.

"Please, please stay over there."

After a moment's hesitation, he backs up.

"I know you can smell it," I say, because it's obvious. "But I'd really, really appreciate it if you'd just... try very hard to ignore it?"

There's a lengthy pause, then cool fingers brush my hair away from my forehead. It's gentle. Surprisingly gentle for a vampire. His fingers lay against my cheek for a moment.

"I'm okay," I say, because I need to believe it. "I'm going to be fine. I've had worse."

Hey, technically drowning is worse, right?

He draws back, and I feel him settle down, facing me.

It's a very long night, or at least it seems that way.

***


I must eventually fall asleep, because the next thing I know I'm waking up on my bed in my room, and Riley is checking my bandages.

It's not quite dawn yet.

"How long was I out?" I ask.

"Forty minutes," Riley says. "Figured it'd be better to let you stay unconscious while I patched you up. Think you feel well enough to get to the doctor?"

"No doctor," I say, wincing as I prod at it. "How bad is it?"

"I've seen worse, but Buffy—"

"No doctor. I'm fine. Any major organ damage?"

"Not that I could see, but—"

"No doctor." He's not happy about it, but he helps me get up and change clothes. The blood soaked ones from earlier go in a plastic bag that will later get burnt. By the time we're done, I've reopened the wound and he makes me sit back down while he pulls off the bandages and checks the stitches. It doesn't take long to disinfect it again and re-bandage it.

"I can't believe I passed out," I say as he's finishing. "Do you think I'm a total wuss now?"

He smiles wryly. Wryly. Riley. Huh.

"Oh, yeah. I like a girl who can go a few hard sets of tennis with a major stab wound," he says.

"You said it wasn't that bad!"

"I said I'd seen worse. There's a difference."

I pout and let him help me zip up my blouse.

"Well," I say, looking on the bright side. "At least no major organs got kebab-ed."

"I still think you should see a real doctor," he says. I sigh.

"That would put me in a real hospital which would get my real mom real freaked out. I can't do it," I try to explain. "Don't worry. Accelerated healing powers come with the Slayer package. And the boyfriend who comes complete with combat medical training? That's just a Buffy Summers bonus."

He's not looking convinced, but I don't need him to be. Day or two and I'll be un-holey Buffy... I mean... not with the giant stake shaped hole in me. I used to think pointy sticks were kind of lame weapons, but I'm finding I've got a new found appreciation for them.

"So, tell me about the bad guy... or guys? What do you think they were?"

"Vampire," I say, feeling embarrassed.

"How many?"

"One." Now I'm really embarrassed, and Riley is looking really surprised.

"So... what? He was like a super-vampire or something?"

"No, he was just the regular kind. He just beat me." And how weird is that? I mean, he wasn't even that old. He'd probably died less than twenty years ago (and still had the hair to prove it). I always figured if I was going to go out at the hands of a vampire it'd be a powerful one. An old one.

The only vampires that have ever even come close to besting me were Lothos and the Master—and then only because of their mind tricks—and they're both dust. In a physical fight with no tricks, the only vampire who's ever come close to besting me before is...

...Spike.

"That ever happen before?" Riley asks, looking concerned.

"I'm in the best physical shape of my life," I say, instead of answering his question. "If you're asking how it happened, I don't know." I shake my head. I need to go talk to Giles.

There's a quick knock on the door and Mom pokes her head in just as Riley drops the bloody cotton balls out of sight.

"Buffy?" she says. "Oh, hi Riley."

"Hi, Mrs. Summers. How're you feeling?" I really have the sweetest boyfriend.

"I'm fine, bordering on chipper and tomorrow planning on being obnoxious," she smiles, which makes me feel a little better. Her headaches keep coming and going, but the doctors haven't given us any idea what's causing them.

Stupid doctors.

"Glad to hear it," Riley says.

"Buffy, when you have a minute I'd like to go over the grocery list for next week."

"You got it," I say.

She sniffs. "Are you... disinfecting something?"

"Just a scratch," I say. "No big. Still, better safe, right?"

"Right," she says, looking worried. "Just... be careful honey." She leaves, partially shutting the door behind her.

Yeah... careful.

I need to figure out where I went wrong last night. How I screwed up. Suddenly I'm thinking of all the other Slayers who came before me. All the other dead Slayers.

Maybe there's a clue there.

"I'll take patrol tonight," Riley says, interrupting my thoughts.

Wait... I'm the Slayer and if I can get injured on the job, he definitely can. I don't like that idea at all.

"By yourself?" I ask. He gives me the Look. The one that says he can handle himself and he doesn't need me to protect him. Hello? Did he not see the giant gaping wound in my stomach?

"Just a sweep," he promises.

"Do me a favor? Take the group along?"

I can see that he only agrees because he's worried about worrying me.

Which worries me even more.

***


I'm totally not book girl. All those big, dusty books give me a headache. But tonight I'm determined and if I have to beat the answers out of those old pages, so help me, I will.

Giles was, at first, thrilled that I wanted to read the Watcher's diaries. Until I told him why.

"Good lord," was his first response. Then there was some glasses polishing, and a few more "good lord"s and "are you sure you're quite alright?"s.

Since then we've managed to cover the entire counter of the magic shop reading up on Slayer lore. I started with everything American, he went with everything non. It was a system. Still, most of the books? Not of the helpful.

Giles is flipping through pages, looking tired. "Here's another one. Early eighteenth century Slayer..."

I shut my book and sigh. "Good. Let's hope she'll be more helpful than this last one."

"Why?" he asks, looking up. "What does it say?"

"Same as all the others. Slayer called... blah, blah... great protector... blah, blah...scary battles... blah, blah... Ooops! She's dead." I frown. "Where are the details?"

"Details? Well... it says that this Slayer forged her own weapons."

He hands the book over, but I can see at a glance it's about as useful as the last.

"Gotta love a gal with an anvil," I say dryly, trying to imagine myself making a sword. Nah. I have enough trouble whittling stakes. "But where are the details of the Slayer's last battle? You know, what made that fight special? Why did she lose?"

Giles is polishing again. "You didn't lose last night, Buffy. You just..."

"Got really close," I sigh. "I slipped up, Giles. I've been training harder than ever, even..." I catch myself before I say 'in my sleep'. I'm still not willing to share that little bit of crazy. With a shake I continue. "There's nothing in any of these books to help me understand why. I mean, look, I realize that every Slayer comes with an expiration date on the package. But I want mine to be a loooong time from now. Like a Cheeto."

He gives me a look.

"If there were just a few good descriptions of what took out the other Slayers," I say, pretending I didn't see it, "maybe it would help me to understand my mistake, to keep it from happening again."

God, I need to keep it from happening again. I'm so not ready to die. It's totally unfair that not only do I not get a choice about this, but that it also means I have to die young. I don't think about it. I try not to think about it.

But when you're yanking a stake out of your gut it's harder not to. And maybe it's time I did.

Giles has his uncomfortable British face on. "Yes, well," he says, "the problem is after a final battle, it's difficult to get any... well, the Slayer's not... she's rather..."

"It's okay to use the D-word, Giles." Believe me. I've been thinking it non-stop.

"Dead," he says, and suddenly it sounds a lot more final. "And hence not very forthcoming."

"Why didn't the Watchers keep fuller accounts of it? The journals just stop." Aren't Watchers supposed to... you know, watch?

"Well, I suppose if they're anything like me, they just find the whole subject too..." he trails off, looking anywhere but at me.

"Unseemly?" I roll my eyes. "Damn. Love ya, but you Watchers are such prigs sometimes." Probably a British thing.

"Painful," he says, surprising me. "I was going to say."

Oh.

Right.

He sighs. "But you're right. Accounts of the final battles would be very helpful. But there's no one left to tell the tales... What?"

He's looking at me funny, but I barely notice.

No one left... no. There's at least one no one left, and I know just how to get him to talk.

"Spike," I say.

Giles blinks. "Oh," he says. "He... has killed at least two Slayers. But, are you sure you want to discuss the subject with Spike? It's likely to be unpleasant."

"I have to know," I say, because I do.

***


When I barge into his crypt a little while later, he's sitting in his armchair scribbling in a battered up book.

"Oi! How about knocking?" he says, glancing up. I don't give him a chance to get any further. Instead I grab him by the shoulder and slam him up against a column.

"OW!... Wait, not ow. You feeling alright, Slayer? This stuff usually hurts."

When I spin him around he's got an odd look on his face. The smirk I get, the look in his eyes, however is disturbing.

"Don't even start, Spike," I warn.

"What do you want?" he says.

"Slayers. You killed two of them."

He's suddenly on guard. Wary. "I did," he says slowly, and I can see the thought cross his mind that I'm about to deliver payback.

"You're gonna show me how," I tell him.

He pushes me off of him. "Oh, I am?" He's got that narrow eyed look now, calculating, trying to figure out how to turn this to his advantage. Whatever, I just want the information.

"You are," I say.

He smirks, reading me easily. "Say 'pretty please, Spike.'"

I roll my eyes. So not in the mood.

"What do you want, Spike?"

"Ambiance," he says. "'S not a short story. Might as well get comfy, yeah?"

***


Thirty minutes later we're sitting at a small table, tucked under the stairs at the Bronze, and he's downing his first beer. For a creature that's always running at the mouth, he can be stubbornly silent when he wants to be.

"You know, there's quite a few American beers that are highly underrated," he scowls into his mug. "This, unfortunately, isn't one of them."

That's it.

"Update, Spike. We're not here to discuss the fine choice of hops. It's about two Slayers. One in China during the Boxer Rebellion. One in New York. Both got killed by you."

I fish out a thick wad of cash. My shopping money for the next two weeks, but this is more important, and I know how to grease up Spike.

Ew.

Did I really just think that?

He tries to snatch the cash from my hand but I tuck it away before he can. He's pissed now.

"Tell the tale, you get the cash,"

"Right," he says, leaning back. "You want to learn all about how I bested the Slayers and you want to learn fast. Right then: We fought. I won. The End. Pay up." Oh, yeah. Pissed.

God he's a jerk.

"That's not what I—"

"What do you want, eh?" He interrupts. "A quick demo? A blow-for-blow description you can map out and memorize?"

Well, it would be nice...

"It's not about the moves, luv. And since I agreed to your little proposition, we can do this my way." He's got that look again. "Wings."

"What?"

He wants wings?

"Spicy buffalo wings. Order me up a plate, I'm feeling peckish."

God. He's a vampire. Angel never ate, but Spike is forever shoving stuff in his mouth. Maybe the inability to bite has given him an oral fixation. Would explain the nasty cigarette habit... except, no, he smoked before he was chipped.

Fine. I'll feed him, if it'll get him to talk. But it's coming out of his pay.

Only, when I turn to signal the waitress, pain erupts in my stomach. With a wince, I touch it to see if I opened it up again, forgetting...

"As I thought," Spike practically purrs. "Some nasty thing got a taste of you."

"Don't get all excited," I tell him, no longer in the mood to order anything for him. "I'm fine."

His eyes in the dim lighting are very, very dark blue and way too perceptive.

"Oh, right. Stuck in a dark corner with a creature you loathe, diggin' up past uglies... 'cause you're fine," he says.

Two way street, Spike. We both know that if it weren't for his chip, he wouldn't be here either. Goody for me, he is. Otherwise I might not get my answers.

"Just tell me what I want to know."

"I told you," he says. "No one's narrating on an empty stomach here."

"Were you born this big a pain in the ass?" His poor mother must have been a saint.

He leans in, a slow, seductive little smile playing across his face. "What can I tell you, baby? I've always been bad."

Ewww. Did I seriously just think of Spike as seductive? Yeeech.

"Whatever," I say, and snag the waitress as she goes by. She jots down the order and hurries off. "Satisfied?"

"Hardly," he says, leering a little and curling his tongue behind his teeth.

"Talk," I say. "Or I eat all your wings."

"Bitch," he says, but it's friendly now, more relaxed. He leans back in his chair, gets comfortable. "Fine then. It starts, as all good stories do, with a girl—"

Oh, god. "Spike—"

"Shut it, Slayer. You wanted to know, I'm telling. But I'll do it my way, and in my own time. So shut your gob, and listen."

I shut up and wait.

"As I was saying, it starts with a girl. Year was... 1880 or so, place was London. She was the daughter of family friends and I was madly in love." He raises his eyebrows at this pronouncement, as if daring me to contradict him.

"You were human then?"

"Yeah," he says. "I was human then, and stop interruptin'. She was beautiful, classy, and I was going to ask her to marry me."

The idea of Spike wanting to get married almost makes me laugh, but I hold back, not willing to lose the chance that he'll talk. The waitress deposits another beer on the table. When she wanders off, Spike starts up again.

"'Course, back then, if you wanted to get married, you had to bring somethin' to it, didn't you? Nobody just married for love. Had to have a title. Fortune. Connections. All of the above. Wasn't titled, of course. And as for fortune, whatever I had didn' even compare to what her other beaus had. No real connections to speak of, either. But I tried, because I was in love, and a bleedin' fool." He pauses and takes a swig of his beer. "She turned me down, of course. I was expectin' it, but it still hurt."

Something flashes across his face then, and I can see that he's not telling everything. God, more than a hundred years ago and he's still able to remember it that clearly? Whatever it was that actually happened, it must have cut the human William deep if the vampire still remembered it.

For a moment, I feel bad for William, whoever he was.

Then I remember that this has nothing to do with two dead Slayers.

"I ran out," he says, lost in the story now. "Was furious, hurt. Thought my life was over. It was. I just didn't know it yet."

"Drusilla," I say. I know she was his sire, but I have no idea how it happened. He nods.

"Drusilla. Found me in the mews—"

"Mews?"

He waves a hand. "Sort of like an alley, ran behind townhouses, connected to the stables. Not a good place to be, after dark. I wasn't thinkin' too clear. Anyway, thought she was a pickpocket at first. Turns out she was after more than my dosh. She was beautiful and exotic, and I was... enchanted. Wanted her almost immediately, an' she wanted me. She turned me right there, in a stinking alleyway with people walking past not fifteen yards off. It hurt, for a bit, and when I couldn't see anymore, she opened up a vein in her wrist and made me drink. Never tasted anything like it, before that. It was... life. Thick and rich. Was the last thing I knew, before I died."

The wings arrive, and he flirts with the waitress while she sets the plate in front of him and fiddles with the blue cheese dip. I roll my eyes, waiting, caught up in the story despite myself. When she's gone, I prod him.

"What then?"

He makes a show of picking up a chicken wing and tearing into it with his small, white teeth that somehow always manage to look a little fangy, even though they're as blunt as mine. He chews, swallows. Licks buffalo sauce off his lips.

"Not nice to talk with your mouth full," he says, then gestures at the plate. "Tuck in, Slayer. Wouldn't hurt you to put some meat on your bones."

I'm about to argue, but my stomach growls, reminding me of how little I've eaten all day. Blushing, I pick up a wing and take a bite. It's not bad. I eat four more before I realize he's not talking.

"What then, Spike?"

He shrugs, picking up his beer and taking a long swallow, and I watch the muscles in his throat work. He sets the beer down, then smirks. "I died. Then I got better."

I snort.

He snags the last wing and strips it neatly in two bites. How he manages it without getting buffalo sauce all over his face must be one of those vampiric secrets, because I've been wiping my fingers and face on my napkin almost constantly. After he drops the bones on the plate he sucks his fingers, one by one, licking off the last of the sauce. It's one of the dirtiest things I've ever seen, and he clearly knows it's affecting me, because he repeats the performance on his other hand even slower.

"C'mon," he says, when he's finished trying to get himself punched in the face. "Need to move."

He stands and heads for the pool tables, leaving me no choice but to follow. It's a slow night, there's no band playing tonight, so the tables are mostly empty. Just a few college kids and some high-schoolers fooling around. Spike picks up a triangle thingy and racks the balls on the table with the efficiency of a born pool-shark. Xander would be jealous.

When he tosses me a cue, I catch it easily. "Want to break, Slayer?" he asks. "Ladies first."

There's a challenge in his eyes. I've never backed down from him yet, and I'm not about to now. "Fine, but then you start singing again, Spikey."

He curls his tongue. "Could," he says, doing that growly thing again. "But then you'd have to protect me when all the women start throwing themselves at me. Want to be my bodyguard, Betty?"

What? Are stuck back in Jonathan's delusional glory days? Then the pop-culture reference clicks. Spike thinks he can out-pop-culture me?

"You're a pig, Al." I put a little too much Slayer strength into the break, and the balls fly across the table with a loud crack. Takes a minute for them to stop ricocheting... and somehow I never manage to sink even one. So not fair.

He picks up his cue and lines up his first shot.

"So you traded up on the food chain," I say. "Then what?"

His look is disgusted. "Oh, please. Don't make it sound like something you'd flip past on the Discovery Channel. Becoming a vampire is a profound and powerful experience. I could feel this new strength coursing through me. Getting killed made me feel alive for the very first time. I was through living by society's rules." He shoots, and watches the ball roll into the pocket. "Decided to make a few of my own. Of course, in order to do that... I had to get myself a gang."

"A gang?"

He shrugs, lighting a cigarette and letting it dangle from his mouth as he lines up his next shot. "Wasn't nearly as hard as it could have been. Dru and I met up with Angelus and Darla a few weeks after I rose. Couldn't do better than a trio of the most powerful vampires to ever walk the earth, now could I? I was itching for something, something bigger than me, better. Suddenly I had no one to answer to. No human law could hold me. No human could touch me. I was stronger, faster. All the power in the world in my hands and nothing to hold me back, you know? Started picking fights, wherever we went. I'd take on two, three men at a time at first, lovin' the challenge. After awhile it got easy, so I went out and found bigger fights. Almost took on a mob up in Yorkshire, 'cept Angelus was too cowardly to face them and made us all hide in a bloody mine shaft."

I wince at the name. Even now I hate thinking of him as Angelus. It brings back all the old memory, all the pain. All the ways in which I failed that year. If Spike notices it, he doesn't call me on it, for once.

"That's when I first heard about the Slayer. The Great Forehead told me all about her. One girl in all the world, chosen to fight our kind. Couldn't wrap my head around it, at first. One little girl was supposed to take on all the vampires and demons in the world? Made no soddin' sense. Then he told me that she was special. Strong. Fast. Made to be our match and then some. The perfect warrior. And the best part was, if one got killed, another rose. Like a bottomless bloody Pez dispenser."

Ugh. Good thing Spike wasn't a writer. His analogies left a lot to be desired. He should stick with pool, he'd already cleared half the table.

"After that," he says, "I was obsessed. I mean, to most vampires the Slayer was the subject of cold sweats and frightened whispers. But I never hid. Hell, I sought her out. I mean, if you're looking for fun, there's death, there's glory, and sod all else, right?" He gives a shrug. "I was young."

Fun. He thought it was fun, hunting someone down for the challenge of trying to kill them? He moves around behind me where I stand at the table.

"So, how'd you kill her?" I ask.

"Funny you should ask," he says, and I realize he's still behind me. He grabs my neck and I act on instinct, bringing up the cue in my hands, ready to stake him. He catches it, his strength matching mine until we're canceling each other out.

"Lesson the first," he says. "A Slayer must always reach for her weapon." With a crunch of shifting cartilage, he slips into game face, studying me through the demon's golden eyes. "I've already got mine." He smiles, showing his fangs, reminding me that this is what he really is. Then he shakes it off, slipping that too handsome, boyish face back on with ease.

I'd never thought of it that way before. He was right. I could kill a vampire without a weapon, but it was harder. Much harder.

Spike didn't need a weapon.

A sudden flash of memory. 'Do we really need weapons for this?' I asked. The demon before me leered, sucking his teeth, his platinum blond hair glowing white under the emergency lights. I watched as he ran a hand down his torso. 'I just like them,' he said, cupping himself through his jeans. 'They make me feel all manly.'

Oh, god. I'd been so stupid. So young. I'd tossed that axe down and went after him with my fists. If it hadn't been for mom, I'd have been dead. Spike would have killed me years ago.

He plucks the cue out of my stunned hand and releases my neck, leaving me standing there like a statue. He lines up another shot and continues as if I hadn't just realized how close I'd come to death at his hands before.

"A good thing, too. Become a vampire, you've got nothing to fear. Nothing but one girl. That's you, honey. Back then, it was her. Gotta understand, it took me awhile to track one down. Like mayflies, most Slayers. Some of you live a few years after you're called, some, only a few days. Had to keep my ears open, listen to the rumors in the demon world, follow up on them. Wasn't until Darla decided we needed a little trip to China that I got lucky. You know about the Boxer Rebellion, pet?"

I blink, trying to catch up with his words.

"Um... it happened in China? We hadn't gotten that far in my history classes before I had to drop."

"Soddin' American universities probably don't teach it anyway. Too busy gettin' a hardon over Europe to pay much attention to the rest of the world. Was a religious war, Darla's favorite kind. Chinese decided they'd had enough of the foreign missionaries and decided to kick them out. Called them 'foreign demons'... and they weren't wrong. Not just missionaries were taking advantage of all the Eastern travel back then. Lots of demons looking for new feeding grounds had gone over. Europe and the Americas were industrializing, science was winning out over superstition. China was the bloody promised land: lots of people, not a lot of crosses. The Boxers were Chinese fighters, martial arts experts."

"Why were they called Boxers?" I ask, interested again in spite of myself. I'd really liked history in school, but I'd always suspected that the textbooks didn't know the whole truth. Here was Spike, with the truth, and it was fascinating.

"Because the English have a superiority complex, and have to impose their ideas on the rest of the world," he says dryly, perching on the edge of the table to light another cigarette. "In merry old, a man who fought with his fists was a pugilist. A boxer. Since the Chinese fought with their fists, and the British missionaries wouldn't dirty their ears by speaking anything but God's tongue, their fighters were called boxers, too."

"Hello, Spike, you're British," I point out.

"Bloody hell, Slayer," he mocks. "How'd you guess? I'm a vampire, too, pet, and clearly more intelligent than you gits ever bother to give me credit for. Makes my perspective a bit different, don't it?"

"Whatever," I say. He gestures at the table and the game I've forgotten to follow. With a sigh, I drop in a couple of balls, then miss my third. "Okay, so lots of fighting, Chinese rebelling, missionaries fleeing, demons everywhere. That about sum it up?"

"You're missing the point," he says. "Slayers go where the demons are, and there were a lot of demons in China back then—not to mention a lot of Chinese fighting them. Including one little girl who'd become something of a legend in her village. Didn't take too long to find her, once we were there. The war got there first, though. Half the city was on fire, and the other half was in a rush. Hurrying to live, hurrying to die, and there she was in the middle of it, like this calm in the eye of the storm. Tiny, of course. For some reason most Slayers are. Delicate. Pretty as a bird."

His eyes get a far away look.

"Didn't know what to expect, did I? Thought I'd just walk in and the fists would start flying. I was wrong. She danced. Had this sword, long and shiny and blessed. The way she moved with it... poetry. I was young, like I said. Was used to European styles of fighting, all fists. She fought with her whole body, with that sword as an extension of her little arm, moving so fast I could barely follow it. Still... I was good. Fighting her was a rush. I landed a few hits, she landed a few more. Cut me with that bloody sword only once."

He touches his left eyebrow, and the scar there. God... that's been healing for over a hundred years? I think I need to find myself a blessed sword.

"Thought she had me, at one point, 'til I got the sword off her. She was still good, but I could tell she relied on it. Without it, she was crippled. She went for her stake, managed to pin me up against a column, but an explosion outside broke us apart. She lost her stake, went after it... and I grabbed her. Sank my fangs in and drank deep."

He groans a little at the memory, and I realize that he's turned on by it. Oh, ewwww.

"That's when I found out what Slayer blood is. Fuckin' ambrosia. Nectar of the Gods. An aphrodisiac, and I was high off it. Dru found me just after that. Impressed her, it did, my killing a Slayer. Shagged her rotten right there in the temple, while the city burned around us... That was the best night of my life. And I've had some sweet ones."

He finally glances over at me.

"What are you looking at?" he says.

"You got off on it," I say, disgusted.

"Well, yeah," he says, as if that should be obvious. "I suppose you're telling me you don't?"

I'm not even going to dignify that with a response, even though somewhere in the back of my head Faith is whispering 'Isn't it crazy how slaying just always makes you hungry and horny?' I tell her to shut up.

"How many of my kind you reckon you've done?" Spike asks.

"Not enough," I tell him. It'll never be enough. Especially as long as he's still around. He nods, smirking, stalking toward me.

"And we just keep coming. But you can kill a hundred, a thousand, a thousand thousand and the enemies of Hell besides, and all we need is for one of us—just one—sooner or later, to have the thing we're all hoping for."

He pauses, inches away. He's so close, but I'm not going to back down. The tingles are electrifying now, his power washing over me, making the hair all over my body stand on end.

"And that would be?" I manage somehow.

He leans in close, cold breath washing against my ear and sending shivers down my spine. When he speaks, his voice is low, rough, gravely and wicked.

"One. Good. Day."

UGH! I push him away, furious to find him laughing at me. It's too easy for him to get under my skin.

"Hey," he says. "You asked, and I'm tellin'. The problem with you, Summers, is you've gotten so good, you're startin' to think you're immortal."

"Not really," I assure him. "I just know I can handle myself."

"Oh," he says, stepping up again. "How do you explain this?" Before I realize what he's about to do, he's dug his hand into my stomach, jabbing the wound there hard enough that I cry out in pain. It's not much consolation when his chip fires and he roars, reeling back and clutching at his head.

For a moment we just stand there, panting and staring each other down. Then we realize everyone's staring. That's right, everyone stare at the freak couple maiming each other at the pool tables. Spike shoots them a glare that quickly has people turning back around.

"So that's it? Lesson over?" I ask, trying not to gasp.

"Not even close," he says, grabbing a pool cue and heading for the alley out back. "Come on."





 
 
Chapter #9 - Chapter 8: I'll Tell You No Lies
 
Author’s Notes: I posted Chapter 7 today as well, so make sure you’ve read that one before you read this one. It’ll make more sense, I promise.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Credits: This chapter contains dialogue from the episode "Fool For Love" written by Douglas Petrie.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner by Phuriedae



Chapter 8

I’ll Tell You No Lies




It seems somehow appropriate that we're doing this here, where we first met. Who knows? Maybe when he's finished I'll stake him and we can end it here, too. He's toying with me, enjoying having something to hold over me and it's pissing me off. Stupid smug vampire.

I try to tell myself that if this were Angel, he'd tell me straight what I wanted to know, without all this dancing around. I try to ignore the voice in my head that says that Angel never would have been willing to answer my questions in the first place.

"Give it to me," I tell him, the minute I'm sure we're alone. That's when I realize he's a little pissed.

He reaches for me, and it's easy enough to avoid it. I slam him up against the fence by the throat, he just grins and laughs.

"What?" I demand, narrowing my eyes. What’s so funny?

"Lesson the second: ask the right questions. You want to know how I beat 'em?" he says. I release him and he steps forward, his eyes intense and predatory. "The question isn't 'how'd I win?'. The question is: 'why'd they lose?'."

"What's the difference?" I ask. Because really, doesn't it boil down to the same thing?

Abruptly he swings the pool cue, then jabs it at my throat, stopping it bare inches away. I manage not to flinch.

"There's a big difference, luv," he says. I kick the cue out of his hands. He lets me.

"How'd you kill the second one?" I ask, my body tense and itching for a fight. He’s ready to give it to me.

"Hmmm? Bit like this..." he swings at me, but I dodge each one, then narrow my eyes.

"That didn't hurt?" I ask. Why didn't his chip fire?

"Knew I couldn't touch you," he shrugs. "If there's no intent to hurt you, then that chip they shoved up my brain never activates. If, on the other hand..."

He slips into game face and lunges, then roars in pain as the chip yanks him up short, like a rabid dog on the end of a chain. He grimaces, pressing his hands to his head. "Now, that hurt."

I don't want to admit that I was nervous there for a second. "Yeah? This hurt too?" I punch him in the stomach, then kick his legs out from under him. He wants a one-sided fight? I'll give him one. "How'd you kill them, Spike?"

He tries to get up, but I'm faster, pinning him and pressing a stake over his heart before he can really get his feet under him. I can feel him beneath me, his muscles tensed to throw me off. Instead, one strong, cool hand wraps around my wrist, pushing the stake away. I push back, willing the tip to touch the fabric of his stupid black shirt. But, in this position, we’re equally strong. The stake almost vibrates from the pressure between us.

Stalemate.

"You're not ready to know," he grunts, somehow managing to leer in spite of his position.

"I'm ready," I tell him, flattening my other palm against the hard wall of his chest. He smirks, and I know what he’s going to do.

"Okay then," he says. "Went like this." With a quick buck of his hips, he flips me off of him. I roll and come up on my feet, facing off. He jabs at me, and I can tell this time that he's intentionally missing, but I duck anyway. I, however, don't bother to pull my punches. Spike likes pain? Good, because I’m more than happy to dish it out to him. After a minute or so, I realize that he's leading me into certain moves, moving in certain ways. The alleyway is narrow, but he's keeping the fight narrower still, almost like it's choreographed and it takes me another minute to figure out why.

The second Slayer. This was her fight, and he's walking me through it, step for morbid step.

"The first," he says eventually, grinning like a maniac, "was all business. But the second, she had a touch of your style." He throws several punches, all of which I duck or dodge. He lets me grab him and throw him across the alley. "She was cunning, resourceful...oh, did I mention? Hot." Kick, punch, kick. I slam him against the fence again. "I could have danced all night with that one."

"You think we're dancing?" I ask, incredulous, even if I recognize the similarities.

"That's all we've ever done," he tells me, moving away and scooping up the pool cue. "And the thing about the dance is, you never get to stop." He swings the pool cue like a quarterstaff, position nine, hand raised to protect his face...but his expression is playful, sly.

"Every day you wake up, it's the same bloody question that haunts you," he says, his voice deepening. "Is today the day I die?"

He swings the cue and I block it, pissed now. How can he possibly know what I think? How dare he make assumptions like that?

Even if they are a little true.

"Death is on your heels, baby," he purrs. "And sooner or later, it's gonna catch you." He brings the pool stick down again, but this time I catch it and slam it into his smug face. It goes flying, out of reach. He just grins, panting and looking like he's having the time of his unlife. "And part of you wants it...not only to stop the fear and uncertainty, but because you're just a little bit in love with it."

There’s something in his eyes...a dare? A challenge?

Asshole. Bastard. I hit him as hard as I can, knocking him to the ground. From there it's easy to straddle him again, reaching for my stake. Then we're back where we were, a vicious, reverse tug of war. He throws me off of him and I roll to my feet, ready for whatever he’s going to throw at me next. My adrenaline is pumping, my heartbeat pounding in my chest, my skin flushed and too tight. I’m hot and panting, and if I’ve reopened the wound in my stomach I can’t even feel it. Every single one of my senses is focused on Spike, ready for his attack, braced for it.

But he doesn't attack. Instead he kneels before me, calmly, gazing up at me, his head cocked to the side, his eyes intense.

"Death is your art,” he says quietly. In the sudden stillness of the alley, his low voice feels like it’s surrounding me. Like a spell. “You make it with your hands, day after day. That final gasp. That look of peace. Part of you is desperate to know: what's it like? Where does it lead you? And now you see, that's the secret. Not the punch you didn't throw or the kicks you didn't land," he regards me with something akin to pity, and I hate it in his eyes. "Every Slayer has a death wish...Even you."

I feel the words like a punch to the stomach. I swallow, trying not to let him see how he's gutting me right now. Trying not to let him smell the fear that's choking me up.

God. What if he's right?

He gets to his feet, straightens his coat across his shoulders. His eyes are so dark.

"The only reason you've lasted as long as you have," he continues, "is you've got ties to the world. Your mum, Watcher, the Scoobies. They all tie you here. But you're just putting off the inevitable."

Oh, God. I can't listen to this. I can't. It's true...too true on some level. Why is it that it's Spike who can see straight through me? Why is it always Spike?

"Sooner or later," he says. "You're gonna want it. And the second—" he moves so fast I don't realize it until he's inches away, slapping his hands together in front of my face and making me flinch. "The second that happens...You know I'll be there. I'll slip in...have myself a real good day."

Our eyes meet, and if eyes are supposed to be the windows to the soul, I don't know what darkness it is I'm peering into. It should be empty, but there's so much there, so much raging behind his eyes, and it leaves me furious and confused.

"Here endeth the lesson,” he says, smugly. “I just wonder if you'll like it as much as she did."

I can't do this anymore. Can't look at him anymore. Can't listen to ...this. It hurts too much, stings too close to home.

"Get out of my sight," I tell him. "Now."

He just grins. "Oh, did I scare you? You're the Slayer, do something about it. Hit me. Come on. One good swing. You know you want to."

"I mean it," I tell him, because I do want to hit him. I want to pound his face bloody, destroy those eyes that see too much, tear out that tongue that can speak such painful things. And that scares me. I don't think I've ever been so angry in my entire life.

"So do I," he says, and there's something different in his eyes now, in his expression. "Give it me good, Buffy. Do it!"

I clench my hands into fists, holding back. If I punch him, whatever this monster is that's been growing in me all night is going to lash out. It'll destroy him.

He did what I asked. Is it his fault that I don't like the answers?

"Spike..." I begin, but his face changes. His lashes dip, his lips part and I have the sudden crazy idea that he's about to kiss me.

I step back, scared.

"What the hell are you doing?"

With surprising strength he takes me by the arms, his voice rough and seductive.

"Come on. I can feel it, Slayer," he says. "You know you want to dance."

And god help me, I do. I want to fight him. I want to kill him. And I want to...

No. Not that. I won't want that.

I have to get out of here.

"Say it's true," I tell him. "Say I do want to."

With a hard shove I push him away. He stumbles, surprised as he hits the ground, staring up at me in shock.

"It wouldn't be you, Spike," I lie. "It would never be you."

I won't give him that satisfaction. Won't let him know he's right. He's a monster, a soulless, evil thing. In his eyes, I can see my own ending—not at the end of my own stake, or the ruthless hands of some slimy demon, not a filthy puddle in a dark cavern. Someday, when I'm done, he'll be there, waiting for me...and I hate that there’s a morbid sort of comfort in that.

I dig out the cash I promised him and toss it, uncaring when it scatters. Spike lays there, sprawled at my feet and I suddenly want to hurt him. Hurt him as badly as he hurt me. When the words come, I'm not even sure where they came from, but they seem...appropriate.

"You're beneath me," I tell him, and turn and walk away.

From behind me, I hear him make a noise. A harsh, quick indrawn breath that he lets out like a sob.

I don't turn around.

I don't dare.

***


The walk home is painful.

The wound in my stomach hurts, but I don't think I reopened it.

The wounds Spike left in me with his words hurt even worse.

I don't have a death wish...do I?

I want to live, like I told Giles. I want to live a long time. I didn't ask to be the Slayer, didn't want it—but now that I have it I'm not sure I'd want to give it up. Been there, tried that...didn't work. And yes, I know that means that every day that I wake up there's a chance I might die, but I didn't really believe that before. Not ‘til now.

It's not that I thought I was immortal. What I told Spike was true, I thought I could handle myself. Lately the fights have been easy, with the exception of my invisible friends. And Eddie Van Hairdo last night.

He's wrong. Spike is wrong.

I don't have a death wish. I'm going to live. I'm going to live as long as I possibly can, if for no other reason than to spite him.

I got careless. Sloppy.

I'll train harder, be better. Be the best Slayer that ever lived...

It's Spike who has the death wish. Not me. He ever tries that again, and I will stake him. Chip or no chip.

***


When I get in, I go to the kitchen and open the fridge, staring into it for a bit, blindly. Then I remember the grocery list.

I can do that. Simple. Mundane. The kind of thing that proves I'm living and planning to be for a while yet. I grab the list off the fridge door and start jotting things down.

Later, when I go upstairs, I notice mom's light is still on. It's late, but not that late...still, she should be resting. Instead she's...packing?

"Hey, I finished that grocery list for you," I say, sinking down on the bed.

"Oh, great. Thanks honey," she says, looking distracted.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"I'm fine," she says. "Have you seen my conditioner?" I frown.

"Have you looked under the sink?" She always keeps a spare bottle there. When she comes back in with the bottle, I ask, "Where are you going?"

She pauses. "Oh, I was hoping to put this off but...you know the nothing I've been dealing with for the past couple of weeks? Well, it might not be nothing."

Oh...god. Could this day get worse? Please, don't answer that. I know: Hellmouth. You don't say stuff like that out loud.

"What is it?" I ask, scared all over again.

"I'm staying overnight at the hospital for observation. I'm getting a CAT scan."

Worse. Definitely worse.

"It's only one night, and they say if there is something, it's still very early if they didn't catch it before. I'm going to be fine,” she says, trying to reassure me, but I can tell she’s really trying to reassure herself.

Okay. I can do this. Breathe. Smile for mom. Don't break down now. I'm the Slayer. I can do this.

"I know you will," I say, and wish I could believe it.

***


Once she goes to bed, I put on a jacket and go out on the back porch.

It's quiet here, and I desperately need quiet. Today has been...God, today has been a rollercoaster and I'm still reeling.

The thing with Spike, with the stake...I push it away. Right now all I can think about is Mom. Will she be okay? What if it's...No, I won't even think about that.

I hate to cry, but the tears are there. It's just been such a long, horrible day. With a sob, I bury my head in my hands. At least here I can break down a little, with no one watching.

I'm so tired. All I want is to not have to be strong. Not have to deal with this anymore.

It's the tingles that alert me, but I don't care. Spike, somewhere close and coming closer. It's only when I hear an odd noise that I finally look up.

He's standing only a few feet away, hair gleaming white in the moonlight, a rifle cocked and ready in his hands.

Suddenly all I can think is...he was right. He's there...waiting. And at the moment, I don't really care.

"What do you want now?" I ask, but I think I'm asking what's taking him so long. His head cocks to the side, the furious, determined glint in his eyes fading, replaced by something else. Something unsure. Uncertain.

I turn away, unable to meet that gaze.

"What's wrong?" he asks, and now I have to look at him, this vampire who has wanted me dead from the moment I met him; who is standing there with a gun in his hands while I'm making no move to defend myself and asking me what's wrong as if he cares.

I don't know what to say. Don't know what to do. I could list everything that's wrong in my life right now and it would take ‘til dawn. "I don't want to talk about it," I say.

He lowers the gun.

"Is...is there something I can do?" he asks.

It crosses my mind then: I know why a Slayer might have a death wish. It’s so much. Too much, sometimes. Having to be this strong, having to worry about...saving the world, and fighting demons and somehow at the same time you have to have this life, full of people and normal worries and cares. And you have to do it alone, always alone, even when there are people there beside you.

Spike said that the reason I’m still here is because of my family, friends. But most Slayers don’t have that. I know, I read all those Watcher journals. They were really big on that lone Slayer crap before me. But sometimes it feels like more of a burden, having so many people to look out for, care for.

We like to say that we ‘save the world’, a lot. But for me the world has faces, names: Mom, Xander, Willow, Giles, Riley, Tara, Anya...I fight to save them, so that they can have a world to live in. So that they can be safe. But it means that when one of them is hurt, I hurt. When they bleed, I bleed. When one of them is sick...

It makes you tired. It makes you wonder how bad it would be to just pass on the burden, to lay down your stake or whatever and let the next girl do it. If I were truly alone...I can see how a Slayer might look into Spike’s face and see death, not as something to fear or fight, but as a friend.

I don’t want to die. Not really. There’s too much I have to live for, and my mom needs me right now. Needs me to be strong. But I’m so incredibly tired. Today has just hurt so much—and not just in the painful abdominal wounds sort of way. If Spike wanted to take his chances and try to kill me right now, I’m not sure I’d have the energy or strength to fight him off. But he doesn't seem like it's even crossed his mind that he could. That this is his chance, his moment to slip in.

Instead he steps forward and sits beside me, puts the gun away. For a moment, I feel his eyes on me. Then slowly, as if he's afraid to or uncertain how to do it, he gently pats my back.

It's all I can do not to burst into tears then.

Comfort, from the one creature in this world that shouldn't give it. This mockery of compassion from something that loathes me. That I'm sworn to kill.

He withdraws his hands and folds them in front of him. We both look down.

For once, Spike doesn't speak. Doesn't talk. Doesn't prod the wound to see how much he can make me bleed. For once, he's still, silent and listening.

And I realize that it's not just this once. He sees me. Sees through me. Understands me better than any of my friends, than Giles, even better than my mom, sometimes. It doesn't seem to matter, right now, that we're mortal enemies. Right now he's there, not pushing, not asking me to be anything or do anything.

Out of nowhere the thought comes: he respects me.

"It's my mom," I whisper finally. "She's...sick. She collapsed a few weeks ago at work and...they've run all these tests, but they don't seem to know what's wrong." I wait for him to make a comment, something snarky and rude. He doesn't. He just listens, watching me quietly, his expression patient. "And tonight...she told me she's going in for a CAT scan. You know what that is?"

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I know what it is."

"It means...it means there might be something. Means...it means it might be bad," I say. I can't say the word. Won't say it. If you say it, it makes it real.

"I don't know what to do," I say finally, spreading my hands helplessly. "This isn't something I can fight. It's not something I can rescue her from. God...do you have any idea what that's like? To be so helpless while someone you love is..."

"Yeah," he says, very, very softly. "I do."

I look at him, surprised. He swallows, starts to say something, then thinks better of it. I want to ask him who. I want to ask him when, but the look on his face stops me. I can see it in his face: pain, helplessness. Enough to make me think he does know, that he gets exactly how I'm feeling right now.

Somehow...that's enough.

***


We sit, silent, for a long time, until I'm too tired to stay awake anymore. When I finally stand, Spike does, too.

"Buffy," he says, then stops.

"Spike," I say. "Lets...lets just not right now, okay? I'm tired and I just want to go to bed."

He nods, his jaw working. "Right," he says, running a hand through his hair. "Sweet dreams then, Slayer."

I laugh softly. If he only knew. Then I can't help but wonder...

"Spike?"

He's halfway down the stairs now, but he stops, turns back.

"Ah...Do you...Do you know a Mr. Gordo?"

He blinks at me, as if he can't decide if I'm insane or just exhausted.

"Your stuffed piggie?" he says, one eyebrow raised. "Can't say as I've ever been properly introduced."

I roll my eyes. "No...wait. How do you know Mr. Gordo is a pig?"

He gets a strange look on his face, and I realize that if vampires could blush, he would be. "Ah...remember Red's little spell last year? The...um..."

Oh...Oh! Crap.

"We talked about Mr. Gordo?"

"Not in any context you'd care to remember, pet," he says, and then I'm flashing back to a conversation about me moving into his crypt and the things I'd want to bring...Now I'm really blushing.

"Oh, never mind."

"Why'd you ask?" he tilts his head, openly curious.

I shake my head, too embarrassed now to continue. "Not important. Just...nevermind."

He looks as though he wants to say something, then decides not to. "Get some sleep, luv," he says, shaking his head as if he thinks I'm nuts. He turns to go.

"Spike?"

"Yeah?"

"You ever bring that rifle back to my house—"

"And you'll stake me. Yeah, yeah. It's gone. Don't even know why I have it anyway. Go to sleep, Slayer. Can go back to hating me in the morning." With a wave that's nearly a salute, he's gone, disappearing into the shadows silently and leaving me wondering if I can.

Go back to hating him.

I wonder when I stopped.

***


It takes Mr. Gordo awhile to show up. When he does, it's the same as always. He approaches the bed slowly, warily, and climbs in on his side.

I spent the time between falling asleep and his arrival doing some thinking, remembering our game the other night and thinking over what happened last night. And some of the things Spike said.

When Mr. Gordo settles in, I take a deep breath.

"I almost died, last night," I say. "There was a vampire...big, stinky Van Halen reject vampire. He got me with my own stake. Stabbed me with it. If it hadn't been for my boyfriend...I'd probably be dead."

There's no response from the other side of the bed.

I have a thought.

"You're not him, are you? Van Halen guy?"

NO. The tap is emphatic. Okay. That's...good. Definitely of the good.

"Then tonight...this really annoying vampire that I know, he told me about the two Slayers he killed. And it scared me. A lot. Because...I think he might be sort of right. Not about me having a death wish, because I totally don't. But...about me thinking I'm so good I'm immortal. I mean, not that I think I'm actually, you know, immortal—but maybe I got a little...overconfident."

I wait, but he doesn't move, or respond. Okay...probably not Spike then. Spike would have responded to that, wouldn't he? I can't imagine ever telling him that he's right and him not taking the opportunity to rub it in my face.

"So...I know this is weird. This whole dream thing...it's weird. But I don't think you're going to kill me, and I'm not going to kill you. So, if you wouldn't mind, maybe we could...spar? Together? Sometimes? I mean, not right now when I'm all ...leaky, cause that would probably be bad for both of us. But I heal really quick so..."

Still no response, which makes me nervous. Which then makes me babble more.

"It's just, with the hide and seek thing the other night, and the invisible demon guys I had to fight I thought, maybe it would help me if I trained in the dark, you know? Without relying so much on the whole seeing thing. ‘Cause last night, that totally wasn't working. And if I could get faster, follow my instincts better, then maybe I can liv—"

A cool hand touches my shoulder. Strokes it soothingly, if a bit hesitantly. I hadn't even felt him move, but I know he's right beside me now, and suddenly, all the tears from earlier that I'd held back come pouring out.

"Oh, god," I say, and sob into my hands.

His hands come up and stroke my arms gently, rubbing little circles against the skin. Then he carefully gathers me up and settles me beside, tucking my face against his chest as I sob brokenly. It feels...god it feels good. The arms around me are cool, but strong, and under the thin t-shirt, he's solid and unyielding. It's kind of like how Angel used to feel, but he's not as big as Angel. He fits around me better.

And it feels so good to let go, to let someone else be strong for a little while. Here I don't have to worry about being brave for my mom, or the hero for my friends, or a leader, or a good pupil. I don't have to worry that I'm being judged and found wanting, or that he's going to stab at me with his words.

Here I'm still the Slayer, but I'm Buffy, too.

I cry until I'm out of tears. While he rubs soothing patterns against my back and hair, I cry for my mom and how worried I am about her, and Riley and how distant he feels. I cry out all the fear from the other night, and the anger from my confrontation with Spike.

When I'm done, I'm exhausted, but I feel better. I wipe my hands across my face and push my hair back.

"Thanks," I say. "It's just been a really bad day. I guess I needed that."

I pull back, staring hard into the darkness, knowing he's only a few inches away and wishing suddenly that I could see his face. I want to know what he's thinking. Want to know what he looks like.

He catches my wrist before I even realize that I've reached up to try to touch his face.

No, he taps gently against my wrist.

"Sorry," I say. Reluctantly I scoot back to my spot on the bed. He slips away to his. Whatever boundary we've crossed tonight seems to have been a temporary thing and we're both more comfortable when we're on our own sides.

"About the sparring...," I start to say.

Yes. He taps against the post.

"Okay," I say. "I'll...I'll let you know when I'm healed up, then, and...we can try it."

I settle back against my pillow and snuggle under the blankets, worn out.

"Thanks," I say softly. A soft tap is his only response. It sounds like ‘you're welcome.’



 
 
Chapter #10 - Chapter 9: Shadow
 
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Credits: This chapter contains dialogue from the episode "Shadow" written by David Fury.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner by Phuriedae





Chapter 9

Shadow


In the morning I think, it has to be a dream. Vampires and crying Slayers? Definitely non-mixy. I'm not sure why I'm dreaming about impossibly nice vampires, but I figure it's probably some leftover Angel thing. I don't think about him as much as I used to, but I can't help but miss him, sometimes.

Mom and I head over to the hospital, and I call Willow who promises to meet me there. Right now I definitely need my best friend. When they wheel mom into the exam room, I pace nervously until Willow and Tara arrive.

"How're you doing?" Willow asks.

"I'm..." holding up? Okay? Not good? Ready for another breakdown and could someone please put me to sleep so I can go cry all over a dream vampire? "Hanging in there," I say finally. "They're taking her in for a CAT scan."

It occurs to me, as I say it, that I'm not really sure what a CAT scan is. Just that they x-ray your brain with it. Kinda wish I'd asked Spike, last night, when he said he knew what one was. He'd have told me. He probably would have gone into gory detail about it, if only to wig me out, but he'd have told me. And then I wouldn't be nervous and wondering.

"She'll be okay," Willow says. She has her reassuring face on. "It's just to look, right?"

"Right," I say. They're just... looking. It'll be okay.

It seems like we're waiting for hours, and maybe we are. When Riley comes in I barely register it until he’s standing right in front of me.

"Hey," he says. "Sorry... I heard. I thought maybe you might... need..."

He heard? I can't even remember who I told but maybe Willow told Xander and... it doesn't matter right now. I’m just happy he’s here, that he’s worried about my mom, too. "I do," I say, folding myself in his arms. "I do... I'm glad. I just, I didn't want...I mean, until we knew what it was..."

If you don’t say it out loud, it’s not real.

"I understand," he says, but it doesn't sound convincing. It sounds a little... angry? Why would he be angry? I just didn’t want to upset anyone, in case it turns out to be nothing.

Please, let it be nothing.

"How's she doing?" he asks, and I'm grateful for the subject change.

"Well, she had a CAT scan. I was just about to go in and find out. Um... Willow and Tara are over in the waiting area, would you mind... letting them know and... I kinda need to..." do this on my own, I think. If I let him in with me, I'll lean on him, and then I'll break down. I can't do that right now. Right now I have to do the strong thing, for Mom. Thankfully he seems to get it.

"Yeah," he says, stepping back. "You got it."

When he leaves, I brace myself, and go in. The room is dark, mom and the doctor are standing in front of some X-ray images stuck on the wall. They’re black and white, and if they were framed and on the wall in my mom’s gallery they might look like some kind of crazy abstract art. In here they just look kinda obscene: the secrets of my mom’s brain on display. It’s wrong.

"May I come in?" I ask, quietly.

"Oh, of course, baby, come in," Mom says, reaching for me. I give her a hug, breathing in Mom-scent, trying to convince myself that it’ll be okay. Then I steel my spine, ready for the worst. I hope.

The doctor excuses himself, saying something about the OR.

"The OR?"

Mom looks uncomfortable, and scared. A shiver of fear goes down my back. "Dr. Issacs says I'm lucky there's one available on such short notice. Some people wait for days, sometimes weeks."

I stifle the shiver before she can see it.

"Mom," I ask, around the lump in my throat. "What—what did they find?"

"A shadow," she says, her eyes looking haunted. "I've got a shadow. Somewhere... over there. He showed it to me but, um... they have to do a biopsy to find out exactly what it is."

I glance over at the x-rays again, trying to see what she sees, but they’re all just a jumble of black and white and gray.

A shadow...

It should be creepy and sinister, I think. It should come to life, oozing across the images and out onto the floor where I can fight it, where I can slay it. But the x-rays just hang there, like a strange kind of puzzle whose pattern I can’t quite figure out.

I hug my mom tight, careful not to bruise her. I want to hug her with all my strength, hold on to her so tightly that I never have to let go. I can't.

"Doctor says it's too early to be concerned," mom says, but she's wrong. I live on the Hellmouth. It's never too early to be concerned.

"Right," I say. "No concern."

"Just a shadow," she says.

How do you fight a shadow?

***


The waiting is the worst part. The pacing. The cups of coffee I don't want to drink. The way Riley keeps looking at me as if he thinks I should do something, even if that something is the one thing I can’t do right now: cry. I can’t afford to break down. Willow and Tara have been great, mostly just by being there. I mean, I need to be strong, but I don't really want to be alone either, you know? They keep Riley company while I pace and worry, and, later, when I glance over at them they seem to be involved in a pretty deep discussion. Every now and then Riley's eyes follow me, and they look sadder and sadder.

He pities me. I don't want pity. I want... I just want him to be there.

When I finally sit down he comes to sit with me, wrapping his arm around me and letting me put my head on his shoulder. For a few minutes I just let myself rest, feeling like I'm taking a breather in the middle of a fight.

When the doctor comes back out, I'm ready for round two.

I get up and go to speak with him.

"Let's sit down over here for a minute," the doctor says. Doctor speak for 'I've got bad news.'

"No!” I say, maybe a little too loudly. He winces, like he’s getting a headache himself. I lower my voice. “Excuse me, no. I... I don't mean to be rude, I just, I've been sitting for hours. I don't wanna sit. I just... tell me, please."

The doctor's eyes are kind and tired. Not good.

"Your mother has... the term is low-grade glioma. It's a brain tumor. The clinical name is oligodendroglioma. It's in the left hemisphere of the cerebrum. In your mother's case the tumor seems to have started there. In other words, it hasn't spread from another part of the body..."

His words start to fade out, replaced by someone in the back of my head chanting ohgodohgodohgod over and over again.

A brain tumor.

My mother has a brain tumor.

Cancer.

The thing I didn't want to say because it might be real? It's real. And it's here now, eating up all the air and space in the room like a giant invisible elephant.

And I don't know what to do.

The doctor's mouth keeps moving but I can't follow his words. He might as well be speaking another language. Finally, something comes through.

"...I know this is very difficult," he says, "and, uh, because of the nature of your mother's illness... unfortunately, things may progress very quickly."

"Things?" I ask, confused. "What things?"

"Symptoms," he says. "There's a fair variety that might present. Loss of vision or appetite, lack of muscle control, uh mood swings..."

I don't care. All I care about is stopping it.

"But what can we do?" I ask.

"Well," he says. "Not much, until we determine if the tumor is operable. Which we are working on." He says this like I might think they’re slacking on the job. Slowly he leads me to a chair and I sink into it automatically.

"Is there something I... I mean... can I help?" Inanely my brain insists that repeating Spike's words means things are really bad.

"Well, there's some literature you might want to look at,” he says. Research? He wants me to research? Aren’t doctors supposed to have done all that already? How can I help with that? I’m only a college sophomore who doesn’t even have a real major. “If we aren't able to go in surgically, there are a number of new treatments that are very promising. Your mother's prognosis is a lot better today than it would have been only a year ago. Even if the tumor's not operable she has a real chance."

I really don't like the sound of that.

"What's a real chance?" I ask, even though I don't want to know the answer.

"Nearly one out of three patients with this condition does just fine," he says reassuringly.

Yeah. I really didn't want to know that. It’s not reassuring at all.

"Now, let me ask...Does your mother's insurance company require copies of the MRI and pathology reports?"

I frown. Insurance... I don't know. I... I've never even thought about insurance or... Mom handles that stuff. Suddenly I'm tuning out again, thinking of all the things mom handles, every day. Stuff I don't know anything about. Insurance, and bills, groceries, taxes... who... who's going to do that stuff? Me? I can't even drive and I'm...

I can do this. I can. I just have to...

Mom. I just have to get Mom better.

He starts to ask me more questions, but every one just makes me feel more and more lost. What do cell phones have to do with anything or.. chemical plants? Or...

We live on a Hellmouth for heaven's sake. How much more bad influency can you get?

Wait a minute.

Hellmouth.

We live on a Hellmouth.

By the time he excuses himself, I can tell he's irritated with me. I don't blame him. I've never felt so clueless in my entire life, and that's counting all of high school as one big no-clue-apalooza.

When I check with the nurse she tells me my mom's going to be sleeping for another six or seven hours. I've got to do something. Sitting here is killing me. Six or seven hours of sitting is time that I could be spending in better ways, trying to find a cure.

"Buffy," Riley says, putting his hand on my shoulder. I turn to him, too restless for a hug.

"It's bad," I tell him, because I have to tell him something.

"I know," he says, only he doesn't because how could he? I can't stay here... I have to... I have to do something. Try something.

"Will you... will you stay and keep an eye on her?” I ask. “I... I need to do something. Just, if she wakes up, call me?"

"Yeah," he says, looking serious and sad, that little bit of pity back in his eyes. "I can do that."

"Okay," I say, and go to find Willow and Tara. I need to go to the Magic Box.

When fists don’t work, it’s time to break out the magic.

***


Giles is being a fat lot of no help.

"The truth is, uh... the mystical and the medical aren't meant to mix, Buffy. Sorry, um... the human mind is very delicate. Too much can go wrong," he says.

But there has to be... I mean, it's magic. Magic is supposed to do the impossible, right?

Tara's determined not to help either. "Yeah, I've heard stories about people trying healing spells... if we did something, it could make things a lot worse, Buffy." At least she manages to look apologetic.

Great. The one time I'm sure magic is the answer? Totally not.

I know that they aren’t saying no to hurt me. I know if they say that it’s a bad idea, it probably is. But that only makes it worse, because it means that there really isn’t anything I can do.

We talk about other things then. Inane things. Every day things. Things that don't involve the words cancer or tumor or inoperable because those are impossible words that have no solution. Instead we talk about vampires and demons and supernatural activity because those things can be fixed.

I'd welcome a Big Bad right about now, if for no other reason than to make me feel more useful or give me something I could do. But it's been quiet, the last few months. Just your usual run of vamps and minor demons.

Nothing nearly major enough to keep me from worrying about Mom.

I try to remember if we had a Big Bad last year this time. It takes a minute or two to work out the date.

It's almost Thanksgiving.

Last year I was... fighting off Native American vengeance spirits, and I was freaking out over the peas. Spike was knocking at the door, starving and looking like a sun-broiled ghost in a tattered blanket. Riley was a barely acknowledged blip on the horizon and Angel was poking his nose in where it wasn't needed. We'd barely even heard of the Initiative. All I'd wanted last year was a perfect Thanksgiving.

I don't even have a turkey this year.

I don't want a turkey.

I want my Mom to be okay.

When Riley shows up looking for me, I'm worried. Why isn’t he with Mom, like I asked?

"It's fine," he says, reading the worry on my face. "I'd have called if there were something wrong. I just... wanted to check if you were okay. See if you needed anything?"

"I'm alright," I say. I’d be happier if he’d stayed at the hospital, though. Now Mom is there alone, and if something were to happen... if she were to wake up and... Riley could have just called to see if I was okay. I’m not the one that’s in the hospital.

Xander says something to Riley about something they were supposed to do this morning, but I'm not paying much attention.

"I'm going back to the hospital," I say, interrupting whatever argument was about to be brewing. "I want to be there with my mom when she wakes up and they tell her."

"Do you need a ride?" Riley asks.

"No," I say, shaking my head. "I just... I need to walk. I'll see you later, okay?"

He looks sad, but I can't deal with that right now. "Take a jacket," he says, finally. "It's getting cold out."

***


I sit with Mom while the doctor explains things to her. She’s confused at first, from the medicine, but I can tell when it sinks in. The look in her eyes is heartbreaking, but then I watch her put her Mom face back on. She’s so strong sometimes, I envy her. She’s strong in ways I’ll never be.

After the doctor leaves, Mom and I talk for awhile. She's worried about her hair, where they shaved it for the biopsy. I tell her it'll look fine. We can get wigs. We try to joke about it, try to laugh, because then it doesn’t seem as real or as scary. I can tell that my being there helps her, keeps her from being depressed or giving into the worry.

Riley comes by again, which is nice, but I really just want to spend time with my Mom. He tells me to go ahead and cry, but I can't do that right now. Not when mom is watching. I send him home and promise to call him tomorrow. Right now...

I have to be strong. It's what I do best, right?

***


I patrol later, after Mom falls back asleep, taking out my frustration on the two or three vamps who decide tonight would be a good night to rise. When I go home, the house is empty, the lights off. I sense Spike somewhere nearby but I'm not in the mood to deal with him tonight.

Instead I go up and go straight to bed.

When Mr. Gordo arrives, it's the same as the night before.

I don't know why I talk to him, except that I know he won't talk back. He won't tell me everything is going to be okay. He won't make it worse by telling me no, I can't do something. I can't see, so I don't have to see pity in his eyes. He won't make me feel useless.

It's easy to ignore that he's a vampire, at times like this. Even when I start to cry and he tentatively puts one arm around me, letting me sob on his t-shirt in the dark.

It's only a dream. It makes a strange sort of sense, somehow, that in a dream a vampire should be the one to give me what I need.



 
 
Chapter #11 - Chapter 10: Listening to Fear
 
Author's Notes: I updated with this chapter AND chapter 9 today, so make sure you read 9 before you read 10. We’re going to take a slight AU detour here, before we dive back into canon for “Into the Woods”. This chapter follows canon in that events are similar—which was a deliberate choice on my part—but the details are mostly different. And as they say, the devil is in the details…

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Credits: This chapter contains dialogue from the episode "Listening to Fear" by Rebecca Rand Kirshner.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner by Phuriedae





Chapter 10

Listening to Fear


The good news is that the tumor is operable. The bad news is we're going to have to wait a few days before they can actually operate. Luckily for me Riley and the others are cool with taking patrol, freeing me up so that I can spend as much time with mom as possible.

It's not so bad, actually, I mean, aside from the whole ‘my mom is in the hospital because she has a brain tumor’ thing. We spend a lot of time watching daytime TV, poking at the hospital food and making bets on what it used to be, and playing with the bed. The doctors have explained the whole operation in little words so we can understand. It's still scary, but at least I feel like we're going to be doing something.

There's a plan.

Plans are good.

The hospital people are being super nice about me staying with her through the night. When she settles down for a nap I go down to the commissary to get some coffee. When I come back, Mom's chewing something.

"Whatcha got?" I ask.

"Contraband," she says with a smile.

"Ooh," I say, sitting down in the chair beside her. "Have you been holding out on me? Gimme."

"Hey, this is my chocolate, young lady," she says, but she's laughing and handing me the box.

Mmmmm...double-chocolate caramel. Yum. "Who'd it come from?"

"A friend stopped by," she shrugs. "I wonder if there's a coconut one in here..."

We eat half the box before I notice her starting to nod off. I clean up the wrappers and stash the box under my bag where the nurses hopefully won't find it. The chair isn't that comfortable, but I've learned how to fall asleep pretty much anywhere.

***


When I wake up, I'm still fully clothed, and standing beside the bed in the dream room. I sit down and wait. It's not long before Mr. Gordo arrives.

"My stomach is better," I tell him, as he approaches. "No more leaky Buffy. I've been sitting in a hospital room almost all day, though, and I think my legs are starting to atrophy. Can we spar, or something? I really need to move."

Yes, he taps. He moves off again, away from the bed. Carefully I follow.

"Okay," I'm thinking, trying to decide how best to do this. "I guess... we start slow? Really slow?"

Yes.

I relax, assuming a fighting stance. I can sense him nearby, just out of range. I try to concentrate on the tingles, on what they're telling me.

When he hits me, he pulls the punch, his fist just barely grazing my cheek. It startles me. I thought I'd feel it coming, but I didn't. I lash out with a leg, to kick him, aiming for where I think his head is, but he's gone and I miss. The move unbalances me, sending me to the cold stone floor.

"Ow," I say, standing up. "Okay, that bruised my ego."

We try again.

And again.

Each time he manages to evade, while still managing to land hits. I hit the floor enough times that I know I'm going to be a walking bruise in the morning. I haven't felt this clumsy since ... well since before I was the Slayer.

"Okay, what am I doing wrong?" I ask, picking myself up again. It's rhetorical; obviously I don't expect him to answer. He surprises me, though. He steps up behind me and touches my arms. It's not a hold; so I don't break it, just wait to see what he'll do. Gently he positions my arms and hands, so I'm in a more defensive pose. He taps me on the shoulder to let me know he wants me to hold the position, then moves around in front of me.

This time I feel him punch in slow motion. When it connects, he uses his other hand to show me how to move, how to block, hold, and hit back all in one smooth movement. Then he repeats it from the beginning. It takes a couple of tries, but I catch on.

Blind, I have to try to hold my position. I also have to let him connect, so that I know where he is, and then use that to my advantage, slipping in under his guard. I don't have a stake, but my fist planted against his chest becomes our signal for a staking, and if I hit right, he backs off. His hands at my throat or around my head are his signal that he's killed me, and I back off. He's very careful not to bring his fangs near my throat, for which I'm really grateful.

After awhile I relax more, letting my muscle memory take over. We speed up a bit, and don't pull our punches as much. He manages to land a few to my face that I know are going to be hard to explain in the morning. I get in a few to his nose, and at least one to his eye.

He doesn't talk, of course, which isn't unusual for a vampire. Most of the fledglings aren't big talkers either. He does growl, and gives off little puffs of unneeded breath now and then. When I hit his nose, he snarled a little the first time, but after that he didn’t make any noise. I start to listen carefully to the sounds of his feet on the floor, to the little whistle of air that precedes a punch, to the whisper of fabric when he moves.

It's still an uneven fight. Since I’m blind here, but he’s not, I’m at a serious disadvantage. He "kills" me at least three times for every one time I manage to "stake" him, but by the time I'm exhausted I feel better, like I've accomplished something.

Oddly, it's the best workout I've had in months. If I can manage this, my reflexes are going to be incredible. Giles won't be able to even touch me during training.

"Wow," I gasp. "That was... really good." He waits ‘til I'm standing again, then escorts me back to the bed. "We definitely have to do that again." He gives my elbow a squeeze, then lets go and moves around to his side.

I'm feeling a lot more confident about this. He could have killed me more than a dozen times over tonight, but he never even tried. Hell, now that I know how hard it is to fight when you’re really, totally blind? He could have killed me at any time over the last few months. But he hasn’t even tried. As dream vamps go, Mr. Gordo is a total gentleman. There's probably an oxymoron in there somewhere. I'm just hoping the moron isn't me.

***


When I wake up, it's because the nurse has come in to check on my mom's IV. I yawn and stretch, half expecting to feel the pull and ache of tired, bruised muscles.

It doesn't come.

Huh.

Without waking my mom, I excuse myself and slip into the little private bathroom area off of her room. Under the fluorescent lights I examine every inch of my face in the mirror, looking for any telltale bruising from last night's session. There's nothing.

It really was a dream.

A very freaky, detailed dream that I have every night... but the evidence is pretty conclusive.

Just a dream.

Weirdly, I'm kind of disappointed.

***


Willow arrives bearing gifts: a beerhat for my mom, which makes us laugh, and the course catalog for next semester for me.

"I'm not even sure if I'll be able to go back," I say, flipping through it. A couple of classes catch my eye, though, and I can't help but pause to go over the descriptions.

"Well," Mom says, sounding more optimistic than I feel, "We'll know in a few days how the surgery goes. With any luck I'll be back on my feet before Christmas."

"Registration is still open for a few more weeks," Willow says. "You don't have to decide yet."

"Honey, I want you to go back. I really hate that you've missed out on school so much this semester in order to take care of me," Mom's got her serious face on.

"I know," I say. "I want to go back. But if I do, I'm going to stay at home. No dorm rooms until I'm sure you're healthy again, lady." I point at her in mock seriousness. She smiles, then grimaces. "Headache?"

"Just a little one," she says, then winces again. "Biggish little one. I'm fine. What else is in the bag?"

Willow fishes the last present out and hands it to me. "A yo-yo for hardworking Buffy."

"Thank you, tiny Jewish Santa," I say with a grin.

"If I'd wanted rum, I'd have asked for it!" Mom exclaims suddenly. Then she looks confused. So does Willow. "I... I think I'm going to take a nap now," Mom says.

Willow and I go out into the hallway.

"Okay... what just happened?" Willow asks, looking uncomfortable and nervous—exactly how I feel.

I sigh, leaning back against the wall. "The doctor said that the cancer is pushing on parts of her brain, which can make her say weird things. But it's just, like, a flash."

"And after the surgery," Willow asks, "no more pressure?"

"Right. So, just... you know, if she says something weird, it's kinda normal. As normal as it can be, anyway."

***


Willow and I head down to the cafeteria and grab some lunch. The food here is marginally better than what they feed my mom—but only because I get to stick to the fruits and salads. Meat, by the way, should never wiggle.

"You look tired," Willow says as we grab a table.

"I am, a little. I haven't been getting much sleep, honestly," I say, peeling my orange in one big spiral.

"Worried?"

"Mostly."

"Weird dreams?" she asks.

"Not Slayer dreams, no, but...," I'm strangely reluctant to talk about Mr. Gordo. Somehow I think Willow would freak if she found out that I was still dreaming about him. "Just weird."

She nods.

"How was patrol last night?" I ask. Look, a shiny new change of subject!

"Oh! Good! I staked two vamps! In a row!"

"Go, Willow!" I say, meaning it. "What about the guys?"

"Oh," and she's suddenly grinning. "Giles and Xander were getting beat up on like little girls. I had to save them. They were all, POW and then with the... the slamming into the crypt and then I was all... whoosh! and POOF goes the vamps!" I laugh and it feels like ages since I've had a real laugh.

"How'd Riley do?"

Suddenly Willow looks uncomfortable. "Oh, Riley. He... he didn't actually... he kinda... wasn't there."

"Where was he?" I ask, frowning. She shrugs and picks at the tab on her can of diet Coke.

"I don't know, he just... never showed up. We figured he must have forgot, you know? Or maybe... maybe he got busy?" she adds, hopefully.

Huh. Riley never forgets patrolling. Weird.

***


Mom is totally going crazy being stuck in the hospital.

I think the surroundings are making her more agitated, because the last few days she's been having more and more weird moments. She calms down, though, when she finally convinces the doctor that she wants to go home until the surgery.

I’m in total agreement. Hospitals give me the wig. I’d much rather do my waiting at home, where I can be comfortable and not have to look at Mr. Thompson, down the hall, who is ninety years old and likes to walk around with his hospital gown flapping open, exposing lots of things that are wrinkly and sagging. Sometimes I think it might not be such a bad thing to be selectively blind.

"It'll be more work for you," the doctor tells me, but I'm totally on it. I can do this. It’s much better than sitting around, feeling useless.

It takes forever to check out. There's a ton of paperwork, not to mention instructions on how to monitor my mom's condition, getting all her medicine and when to give it to her. By the time we're finished we're both exhausted.

Somehow I manage to drive us home in one piece. The lights seem to hurt her eyes so I turn off as many as I can, then get her upstairs and tucked in bed.

Once she’s settled in, I come downstairs and turn on the TV. I have no idea what I'm watching, but I'm not ready to sleep yet. I'm still wired from all the coffee, and too worried about my mom to sleep. I don't know how long I sit there, zoning out, before I hear the noises in the kitchen.

"Mom? What are you doing?" I ask, stepping into the kitchen. There's something on the stove smoking, and I hurry to pull it off the burner.

"I'm making breakfast," she says, angrily. "And you shouldn't eat anymore, you're disgustingly fat."

Okay, ouch. That hurt. I know it's just the brain thingie talking but...

"Oh, Buffy," she says, suddenly normal again. "I... I don't know what I'm doing."

"It's okay," I tell her. "You just need some rest. Let's get you back to bed."

Once more I help her upstairs and tuck her in. "Sleep now," I tell her, and she nods like a little kid.

"Okay," she says.

Slowly I make my way downstairs and into the kitchen. I gather up all the dirty dishes and pile them in the sink, then turn on the radio to some Mexican station and start scrubbing.

I'm not even sure when I start crying.

It just happens.

***


After awhile I wipe my face and turn off the water. That's when I hear it: a low moan from upstairs. Snapping off the radio, I run upstairs, thinking that mom's in pain.

I'm totally surprised when I open the door and find a demon sitting on her chest. He's small and squat and ugly, covered in hair, and he's leaning over her like he's whispering something. Her eyes are wide open, staring at the ceiling, and she’s whimpering and moaning like she’s in the middle of a horrible dream.

"Get off my mom, you ugly little freak," I launch myself at it and it dives away, skittering into a shadow then out the door. I pause just long enough to see that mom's still breathing, then go after it.

I manage to kick it down the stairs, but it takes off into the shadows again. It’s long dark hair blends in, and it’s small enough that it can hide behind the furniture. I can feel it, somewhere nearby, and I realize that my demon sense has been going wild for a while now. I sneak into the kitchen and grab a knife out of the block.

There's a light on in the basement, and the stairs suddenly creak.

When the door swings open, though, I'm not all that surprised to see...

"Spike?"

He's looking around, his head cocked to the side as if listening. "Yeah... do you hear something?"

"What the hell are you doing in my house?" I demand.

He looks as if he wants to say something. His mouth works for a minute, then clenches tight. Finally he says, "Right then, caught me. Your basement's full of junk and... me being in need of junk..."

"You were stealing?"

"Well, yeah," he says, as if he thinks I’m dumb. "Can't exactly work at the Burger Barn, can I?"

He's got something in his hand, a battered journal that I'd seen him scribbling in before. I want to ask him what it is, but just then I hear something moving behind me.

When I turn, the demon is flying toward us. In the moonlight coming in through the windows I get a better look at it. It's like a really short, really hairy, really ugly lawn gnome. It dives at Spike, as if angry. Spike yells, startled, then snarls at it. The demon snarls back then jumps toward me.

It's surprisingly strong. We both hit the floor and I grapple with it, trying to ignore the stinky breath and greasy fur as it pins me to the floor. "Ugh, what are you?"

Suddenly my head is filled with images.

...I’m standing in front of a grave, late at night. The headstone... oh god, it’s my mom’s headstone. “I’m so sorry, mom,” I whisper, leaning down to put flowers on the grave. A dead hand claws up through the dirt, wearing my mother’s rings...

...Angel steps out of the shadows, grinning. There’s something in his arms... a body. My mom’s body. Her throat has been torn out...

...Riley looks back at me once, sadly. Then he slowly starts walking away. With every step away from me, he becomes more and more inhuman. He’s growing demon parts. No...

With a wrench, the thing is flung off of me, over against the wall. It screams and lurches toward me again, but Spike is pummeling it as best he can, given the height difference. It's squirmy, though, and it dodges past him, flinging itself back at me. I scramble backward, scooting along the floor toward the door.

"Buffy!" Spike yells, tossing me the knife. I catch it, and manage to stab the demon as it throws itself on me. It screams, and I stab again. Every time it touches me I get a flicker of another nightmare, though they quickly fade whenever I stab it. Finally Spike reaches us and grabs the demon’s head and gives it a neck-breaking wrench to the side. He throws it off me. It lands in the foyer and doesn't move.

Panting, for a moment Spike and I just look at each other. Then he holds out a hand.

Without thinking about it too much, I take it and let him help me to my feet. His hand is big, strong and cool against mine. We stare at each other, frowning a little.

Did Spike just—

Then the door opens and Riley walks in.

He does that military thing where he takes in the scene in one glance: me with the blood-covered knife in one hand, and holding Spike's hand with the other; the dead demon on the floor; the mess from the fight in the kitchen.

"Are you okay?" Riley asks me.

Am I okay?

Oh, crap. Mom.

I let go of Spike and go rushing up the stairs. Last thing I hear from downstairs is Spike. "You missed a real nice time," he drawls.

***


"Mom," I ask, pushing the door open, "are you okay?"

"What was it, honey?" she asks, looking at me groggily. Oh, thank god she’s okay. Relief nearly makes my knees buckle. I’d never forgive myself if I’d brought her home and something had happened to her. What was I thinking?

"I don't know,” I tell her. “Some kind of demon. But it's dead now. I killed it."

"I was having the worst dreams," she tells me. "I dreamt... I was invisible, somehow, and...you were on this tower and going to jump and I kept wanting to tell you not to. But you wouldn't listen."

"Shh," I say. "It's okay. I promise. There's no tower and no way I'd jump off it even if there was one." I sit down on the bed beside her and squeeze her hand.

"You promise?" she says.

"I promise."

"Okay, well, what about the other dream, where you were running an army of Slayers?"

"So not gonna happen. Seriously. Can you really see me wearing a general's uniform?"







 
 
Chapter #12 - Chapter 11: Passing Time
 
Today will be another multi-chapter update, so make sure you've read all the preceding chapters before moving on to the next. I should be caught up, after today, with where this story is on other sites.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Credits: This chapter contains dialogue from the episode "Into The Woods" written by Marti Noxon.

This chapter is, sadly, unbetaed. All mistakes are mine.

Banner by Phuriedae





Chapter 11
Passing Time


Riley drives mom and I back to the hospital and we get her checked back in. We've both decided it's for the best. At least here she's pretty much under constant surveillance, and I can concentrate on guarding against demons.

"Can you pick up that dead demon and take it over to Giles?" I ask Riley, once we've gotten mom settled in her room. "Maybe he can figure out what it is and why it was after my mom."

"Sure," Riley says. His voice is tight. "Buffy...what... what was Spike doing there?"

"Ugh," I roll my eyes. "Stealing stuff out of my basement, or so he claims. Whatever. As long as it's basement stuff, I don't really care. I've got other things to worry about."

"So... it doesn't bother you, him being in your house?" Riley asks, frowning.

"Riley, he's chipped. What's he gonna do? Watch pay-per-view porn and make long distance phone calls? Drink straight out of the orange juice carton? I'll deal with him later. Besides... kinda glad he was there."

If he hadn't been, I probably would have been able to take that demon thing. Maybe. It was barely three feet tall. Still, I'm pretty sure I totally checked out of that fight when it landed on me and I started having visions. If Spike hadn't been there... Riley probably would have walked in on a much different scene.

Riley looks like he wants to say something, then thinks better of it. He nods tightly, gives me a hug, then walks away.
***

I sleep in the chair beside my mom's bed that night.

When I finally fall asleep, Mr. Gordo and I spar.

Silently, he shows me different ways of fighting and blocking. We move slow and I'm starting to learn how to feel the electric tingle along my skin just before he grabs me, or the pressure of the air as his fist moves toward my face. He still beats me most of the time, but I'm getting better.

When I wake up, I'm glad none of the bruises I earn each night come with me. I'm not sure how I'd explain how I managed to get a black eye and bruised ribs while sleeping.

Maybe it's a good thing it's only a dream.
***

"Amara? There's a demon of Amara? Like the gem thingie that Spike had?"

"No," Giles says, and I can hear him polishing his glasses through the phone. "No, it's Scandinavian. Mara, it's a kind of nightmare demon. It's where the word nightmare comes from, actually. They're quite rare in this part of the world. Normally they're only to be found in northern Europe. They prefer colder climates."

"Well," I say, pulling my jacket a little tighter, "it's been pretty cold here lately. Weirdly cold." When mom and I watch the TV the weather guy keeps talking about the strange cold snap Sunnydale seems to be having. I'm getting to experience it first hand, since I'm standing outside the hospital and talking on the pay phone. It feels like the first time I've seen daylight in weeks, though, so I'm willing to tolerate the cold.

"Yes, quite, but Mara demons generally prefer sub-zero temperatures," he says.

"Maybe it wanted a tropical vacation?"

"Very funny," Giles drawls. "Maras attack by incapacitating their victims and psychically connecting with them, projecting nightmarish images drawn from fears in their victim's subconscious."

I shiver. Yeah... that'd pretty much explain some of the stuff I saw.

"Any idea why it went after my mom?" I ask. This is what has me the most worried.

"Not exactly. Perhaps her... condition makes it easier for the demon to influence her?" I hear him flipping through books in the background.

"Do you think there's more of them, or was it just the one?" I ask.

"I'm not sure. We'll keep our eyes and ears open. If anything turns up...," his voice trails off.

"Call," I say. I get quiet. "Mom's surgery is scheduled for tomorrow."

"We'll be there," he promises, and suddenly I feel a whole lot better.

***


Mom and I spend the day trying not to think about the surgery. Her lapses are a little less freaky now that they've changed her medication, but sometimes when we're watching TV she'll start yelling or saying weird things. Mostly we try to pretend they don't happen.

Xander and Willow come by in the afternoon and we take turns entertaining mom. Xander is the clear winner when he pulls out the heavy guns and does his Snoopy dance in the middle of the room. The nurses are very impressed and make him do it three more times so that all of them can watch.

He does, because it makes mom laugh. I knew there was a reason we were friends.

Once she's asleep we have a mini-meeting in the corner of her room, keeping our voices low so we don't wake her up.

"So, a nightmare demon, huh?" Xander says. "Was it eensy-weensy by any chance?"

"I wish. It was short, though. Looked like a hairy little gnome thing," I say, shuddering.

"Was it like ... like those dreams we had when we went after Adam?" Willow asks, nervous.

"A world of thank-god no. No... it was more like... flashes of things I'm afraid of. Not even possible things just... sort of scary," I say, digging into my bag of Cheetos. "Aside from the smell and the ick-factor, it wasn't too bad. I just hope there aren't more."

"There aren't any," Willow says. "Giles had Tara and I do a location spell on it before he buried it. It was a lone Mara."

"Well, that's good," I say. "I really wasn't looking forward to having to deal with hunting more of them down on top of everything else.

"Yeah, not exactly the sort of thing we can go door to door on. 'Excuse me, have you woken up recently to find a hairy hobbit sitting on your chest, feeding you nightmares? If so, would you mind if we watched you sleep so we can kill it? We'll just sit in the corner with our knives and other stabby weapons.' That would go over well," Xander jokes.

"It'll be fine," Willow says. I know she thinks it's true, but I can't cling to that. "Just think, by tomorrow evening, this will all be over and your mom will be okay."

"Right," I say, wishing I felt so optimistic. "Think positive."

I kinda don't want tomorrow to come. Hopefully sparring with Mr. Gordo tonight will exhaust me enough that I'll sleep.
***

Tomorrow comes too quickly.

Mom goes into surgery super early in the morning. Xander and Willow show up an hour later, groggy but there. Riley comes in a little after, then Giles, who brings coffee.

We wait.
***

The clock on the wall says it's just after ten.

She's been in surgery now for three hours.

I've had five cups of coffee and my leg has started to vibrate.
***

An hour later, I've gone from twitchy to jumpy.

I'm obsessively aware of anyone in doctor's scrubs. The minute I see them, my whole body tenses.

None of them are mom's doctor.
***

Noon.

Xander's stomach is growling loud enough to be audible over his fingernail biting. I finally take pity on him and send him to the cafeteria.

"Did you know they have lime jello?" he asks when he comes back forty minutes later. His tongue is green.
***

By one Giles has progressed to full on pace-mode.

Willow is obsessively checking the time.

Riley keeps dozing off. He looks even more tired than I feel.

"What's taking so long?" I ask.

"It doesn't mean anything," Riley assures me.

"You think?"

"I'd worry more if your mom were out of surgery quickly. Might mean that, you know, they couldn't do much," he says. Oddly, that's not so reassuring.

When the doctor comes down the hallway, I've been imagining him so often that at first I'm sure it's a hallucination. Then I see how tired he looks and realize that it's real.

Oh, god.

We all stand and wait. I've never been so nervous in my entire life.

"Your mom's in recovery," the doctor tells me.

"What happened? Is she alright?" I ask.

"It was possible to visualize the tumor completely, which means I was able to get all of it," he says and I feel my knees starting to get kind of wobbly. "So, barring complications in recovery, I think your mother's going to be fine. Of course we're still going to have to watch your mother carefully, and, uh, have her back in here for some follow-up testing, but, overall I'd consider the procedure a complete success."

Nothing so nerdy has ever sounded so good.

It's like all this weight that's been on me for weeks has suddenly been lifted. I'm balloon Buffy, suddenly floating up to the ceiling with joy. I hug everyone, I'm so happy.

I... might have hugged the doctor just a little too hard, though. But I can guarantee his back is gonna feel great for awhile, no chiropractor needed. It's the least I could do, right?
***

We hang around at the hospital for awhile, but mom's sleeping and they say she'll probably sleep through ‘til morning. Riley finally convinces me that we should go home.

"Come on," he says, rubbing my shoulders. "We'll have some alone time. There can be massages."

Ooooh.

When we get home he sends me up to the shower with explicit instructions not to rush. I don't. The hot water feels amazing, and afterward I take my time getting dressed and drying my hair. It's so nice not to have anything major to worry about. I'm sort of surprised he didn't join me, though.

When I come downstairs, I see why he didn't. Mmmm... Mr. Romantic straightened up and lit candles. There's music and wine. We even dance a little. It's so relaxing, just being there in his arms. So good just to take a break from everything.

He seems a little disappointed when I say so.

"I want tonight to be special for you," he tells me, rocking me slowly to the music.

"It's more than special. It's perfect," I tell him. It is. It's so nice to just have a normal, romantic night with my sweet, romantic boyfriend. No demons. No vampires. No worrying about mom. I can just pretend for a little while.

"Well, I'm glad," he says. "You deserve it after everything you've been through."

"Well, it's nothing compared to what my mom had to deal with," I say. Which is true. I was just Support-O-Girl.

"Don't sell yourself short," he says, seriously. "You stayed strong throughout, Buffy. You never even cried."

"Oh, I cried," I tell him, thinking of those two nights when I sobbed on Mr. Gordo, then the other night over the sink... hell, even the night Spike sat with me on the porch, even though that time wasn't a full out sob-fest. I guess I didn't realize how bad things were going to be. "I cried so hard, I didn't think I was gonna be able to stop."

"Oh," he says, sounding surprised. I put my head on his shoulder. He feels tense. Way tenser than me. I want him to relax, too.

"That's all in the past, now," I say. "Mom's out of the woods, and I'm here with you. That's all that matters."

Later, we make love, and it's perfect. Slow and sweet. So what if there aren't fireworks? I'm so relaxed by the end of it that I drift off to sleep almost immediately.
***

And wake up naked in the dream room.

Crap. I'd completely forgotten to snag something to wear. Besides, Riley probably would have thought it was weird if I'd gotten dressed right after. Only now what am I going to do?

It's taking Mr. Gordo awhile to arrive. Maybe if I'm asleep by the time he gets here, I won't have to explain why I don't want to spar tonight? I pull the sheet up around my body as tight as possible, then pull the blankets up to my chin and snuggle into my pillow, trying to get back to the state of relaxation I was in just a few minutes ago.

My senses are on hyper alertness, though, as I wait for him to show up.

I try to distract myself with other thoughts. The sheets always smell clean. I wonder if I have dream housekeepers who change them every night? There's a faint trace of coconut to my pillow, like my shampoo. I wonder what Mr. Gordo's pillow smells like? Probably like vampire... which, okay, doesn't really have a smell, exactly. Vampires are like people. They all smell different. Some smell okay, and some smell really skanky. There do tend to be some common themes, though.

I always associate them with the smell of old leather, alcohol and cigarettes. Probably too much time spent around Spike. Angel smelled a little like leather, too—probably all those leather coats. And coffee. And hair gel. He also liked that heavy cologne... Drakkar Noir, I think? Some old cologney stuff. You'd think that's what would stick... but no. For me vampires smell like old beat up leather, whiskey, Morley cigarettes, and a little like graveyards at night: grass, trees, dirt, sun-baked gravestones, and old flowers. It's weirdly not a bad smell.

The strangeness that is being the Slayer: graveyards smell homey.

There's a depressing thought.

I've spent almost a third of my life patrolling graveyards. Sometimes I wonder what a younger version of me would have thought, if someone had told her what I was going to turn out to be. When I was fourteen I figured my life was going to be pretty easy: malls and pretty clothes, makeup, cheerleading and boys. Someday, I figured I'd grow up and marry Christian Slater. Shallow, I guess. That Buffy would have turned up her nose at all night graveyard patrols and demons and vampires. Saving the world was for people who were smarter, stronger, and way more serious than I was.

I guess we never really know what we're going to turn out to be, or what weirdness life is going to throw us.

I'm actually drifting to sleep when I feel Mr. Gordo come in. He seems to sense that I'm tired, because he's a little extra quiet as he gets into bed. He doesn't lay down, though. Instead I feel him sitting up against the headrail until I finally fall asleep.

He smells like old leather, cigarettes and graveyards, too.
 
 
Chapter #13 - Chapter 12: Too Blind To See
 
Author's Notes: Reminder: I'm posting chapters 11-13 today, so make sure you're caught up to where you need to be before reading this chapter.

Most of the dialogue in this chapter will be familiar. Sorry. There are a few scenes that I added, or extended, however, and a couple of small changes. There’s also some Mr. Gordo goodness in here that I hope you’ll enjoy as much as I enjoyed writing it. Next chapter will wrap up “Into the Woods” and we can be all done with the Buffy/Other warning.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Credits: This chapter contains dialogue from the episode "Into The Woods" written by Marti Noxon.

This chapter is, sadly, unbetaed. All mistakes are mine.

Banner by Phuriedae





Chapter 12

Too Blind To See



In the morning, I let Riley sleep in. He looks tired.

By the time he gets up I've made toast and coffee, but he opts for orange juice instead.

"So what are we doing today?" he asks, putting his arms around me where I stand at the sink.

"Well," I say. "I thought I'd stop off at that hair supply place in town and find a wig for mom. Then spend the day with her."

"You want me to tag along?" he asks, looking... well, looking like he doesn't really want to go wig shopping.

"Nah. It's mostly going to be girl-bonding time. You don't have to do that," I say. "I figured you could have today off Buffy duty. Do Riley stuff." I dry the last of the dishes.

"Riley stuff?" he asks. I twist around to look at him and smile. He's so cute when his face does that thing; the one where I know he's thinking that I'm a doof.

"Yeah. You know... play basketball. Watch hockey. Drink beer. Be manly. All that stuff you don't do when you're hanging out with me."

He makes a face.

"I'm kidding," I say. "I just figured you've been working overtime, worrying about me and mom, and you deserved a break. Besides... wig shopping and doing each other's hair?"

"Right," he says with a small smile. "Not exactly manly."

***


I manage to find mom a wig that almost perfectly matches her real hair. She's still not convinced, but I feel like I'm six years old again, playing with my Beauty Shop Barbie. I see all sorts of possibilities with this wig thing.

Oooh! Theme days!

Mom must be feeling better, though, because she's already trying to talk to me about school. I'm ready to go back, I'm just enjoying the time I've got with her now that the surgery is over.

"What about slaying, and your friends? I want you to have your life back," she says.

Doesn't she get that she's a huge part of my life? "Right now, I'd rather be here, styling your beautiful new plastic dream hair," I tell her.

She laughs. "Fair enough, but you don't have to keep me company all night. Go out, have fun, get Riley to take you to a movie or something."

"I gave Riley the day off," I say with a shrug. I’m not quite ready for movies and things yet. I’m still too happy to have my mother back.

"I don't think he thinks of you as a chore, Buffy," she says. Yeah, she's back. She's got Mom Voice.

"I know that. Look, I told him to make plans with his friends because I wanted to have you all to myself, okay? Besides, I can see him anytime. And I'm sure he'll come over later looking for a little..."

Whoops.

Er...

"Bible study." I improvise. Badly.

Mom gives me a Look. "Well, good. I mean, just as long as the two of you are spending some quality time with... the Lord."

"We are. Absolutely," I promise, trying to look as innocent as I can.

***


Riley does come over later, and we spend plenty of time... er.. communing. Afterward, it's easy to just doze in his arms. I'll get up and slip into some pj's in just a minute...

When I feel the vamp tingles, weirdly close, I sit straight up in bed, clutching the sheets to me. Crap, I forgot to put clothes on again.

"Mr. Gordo?" I ask, then blink.

Hold on... there's light. I'm not in the dream room, I'm still in my room, but my vamp senses are going crazy.

"No," says a deep, horribly familiar voice. "It's me." Spike barely takes a step forward, but the shadows seem to part for him. Moonlight glints on his pale hair and skin, but the rest of him is just a blacker shadow among the rest. I pull the blankets closer, suddenly angry. What the hell is he doing in my room? Just because I haven't revoked his invite does not mean that he gets free run of my house. Creeping around in my basement, stealing stuff, is bad enough, but this is practically begging for me to dust him.

"Spike, every time you show up like this, you risk all your parts, you know that?" I say.

He frowns. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't have a good reason," he says, sounding weirdly serious. "As usual, I'm here to help you, and I —" Suddenly he blinks at me, and I can see the light come on upstairs. "Are you naked under there?"

"Get out," I say, not caring why he's here. A dream vampire is one thing, but Spike... no way am I comfortable being naked in bed, with Spike less than ten feet away.

He shakes his head, as if to clear it. "No, I'm serious. I mean, not about the naked part, I mean..." He's craning his neck to see around the blanket. Ewwww.

"Get out, or I will drop you out head first," I tell him, trying to calculate whether or not I can get to my sleep shirt and into it before he sees anything. Then, I'm totally dusting him.

Except suddenly his face is deadly serious, and I'm getting shivers of a completely different kind.

"I wanna show you something," he says, and there's nothing playful or suggestive in his tone. Whatever is up, it's serious enough to make Spike risk being dusted by waking me and refusing to leave.

"What?" I ask.

"You need to see this," he says and the low, dangerous rumble of his voice sends a shiver skittering down my spine. "But we need to move, if we wanna get there in time."

Okay. This doesn't sound good. Not at all. Which means I probably ought to at least check it out. He waits, his expression a little impatient, but intent.

Right, like I'm just going to hop out of bed with Spike standing less than ten feet away, when I'm totally naked. Stupid vampire. Do I have to stake him for him to get the point? Finally he rolls his eyes. "Oh, please!" he scoffs. "Like I give a bloody damn." He turns around and hunches his shoulders, exhaling with irritation.

I dress faster than I ever have in my entire life. I don't really care that nothing I'm wearing matches. It's as I'm pulling my shoes on I realize what's missing...

Riley.

Where the hell is Riley?

He must not be in the house, or else I doubt Spike would have been as confident about coming in. He knows I can dust him if I want, but Riley would probably stake him on sight if he caught him in my bedroom while we were still naked.

But... where would he go? Patrolling? Oh, God. Please tell me he didn't leave in the middle of the night to go patrolling alone. He knows how much that worries me. Maybe that's what Spike wants to show me? Only that doesn't seem like it's serious enough to warrant an after midnight field trip.

I'm getting more and more nervous. "Okay, what's going on?" I ask, and Spike glances back at me, his eyes flickering over my mismatched outfit with more than a little amusement. Jerk. He's the one who insisted we hurry.

"C'mon," he says, leading the way out. "It's across town."

Okay... across town means the bad part of Sunnydale. If it's going down out there...

"Do I need weapons?" I ask, wondering if I should call Giles and let him know that I'm going with Spike into the ghetto with nothing more than a st —

"Stake you've got shoved down the back of your sweats should do in a pinch," he says, reaching the front door first.

Huh? "How do you...?" I know he wasn't watching me dress. Was he?

He gives a little shrug as he opens the door and rolls his eyes. "Always do, don't you?"

Well.. yes. And I guess Spike would have better cause than just about anybody to know where I keep my stakes. Still... creepy.

***


The walk across town we spend in silence. My mind is racing, wondering what the hell is going on, where Riley could have gone, and why I'm out in the middle of the night being all buddy buddy with my mortal enemy who's being weirdly... helpful.

Huh. Spike's never helpful for free, not unless he's up to something.

"Am I going to have to pay you for this later?" I ask. God, that'd be so like him. Lure me out here to show me something, then demand a ton of money in exchange. He gives me a disgusted look.

"This isn’t about that," he says. "I just... I'm trying to help here, Slayer."

"Cause you're usually so helpful," I say. Right. If I believe that, I believe that Spike's got a freaking pulse.

He mutters something low, and I just barely catch it. "Could be."

Spike wants to be helpful? Since when? Is killing his own kind getting so boring, now he's got to add helping the Slayer to his resume? I decide I really don't want the answer to that particular question. Only one thing should be interesting me right now, and weirdly helpful mortal enemies shouldn't be it.

"Where are we going, Spike?" I ask.

"Here," he says, nodding at a run down building surrounded by a chain link fence. The minute we step inside that fence, I realize Spike isn't the only thing causing my Slayer sense to go wild.

There are vampires here.

A lot of vampires.

"So help me, Spike," I say, "if this is a trap —"

"It's not," he says, and it sounds like a promise. "Can dust me if I'm lying."

He's actually serious. Okay, so... if it's not a trap, why is Spike taking me into a really massive vampire nest?

He opens the door, then follows me in. The light inside is dim and grungy and smells of wood smoke in an enclosed space. Paint and wallpaper peel from walls that are marred further by graffiti and rust stains. What little furniture there is is so beat up and ragged I can't tell if it came from the junkyard or if it's original to this place.

But it's the humans inside that really shock me. The first one looks like he's already dead, but he blinks at me dazedly... high on something, I think. In the next room, a human passes money to a vampire, who tucks it into his pocket, then pulls the human into his lap. Across from them, another human and vampire pair are already wrapped around each other, the vampire feeding from the human's throat while he groans in bliss.

God... what is this place? It looks like... it looks like some kind of vampire whorehouse, only instead of sex these people are... what? Paying for the privilege of getting bitten? Or maybe they're paying for the chance to live when it's over. I can't really tell, and I'm not sure I want to. My stomach churns with disgust, and my fingers itch to reach for my stake.

This place is horrible; no wonder Spike wanted me to see it.

"Don't start slaying," he warns me, his voice pitched low enough that I don't think the other vamps can hear it. "That's not why we're here."

We're not? But... He jerks his head toward the stairs.

Oh, god. It gets worse than this? What could possibly be worse than this?

As I start for the stairs, a huge vampire grabs Spike and whirls him around. "What do you think you're doing?" he asks.

When Spike speaks, it's friendly, non-threatening, but there's something authoritative about it. "Just having a little look, mate. Keep it down."

"You can't go up there," says the vampire, stopping him again. Spike moves so fast he's a blur, and the next thing I know I'm no longer looking at my dumbass, chip-headed, weirdo former enemy. Spike is a pissed off master vampire pinning a fledgling twice his size by the throat, then tossing him easily to the floor.

"I said, keep it down," he growls, dominant and dangerous. It's...weirdly impressive to see him like this. A much-needed reminder that he's more dangerous than he looks even chipped. The other vampires seem to get the picture, because they back off pretty quick, shooting Spike wary glances.

Okay, so Spike isn't a usual around here, I take it. They didn't know who he was. Which means it's probably not a trap. Spike straightens with a disdainful sniff and settles his duster on his shoulders, then nods up at me. We climb the stairs in silence.

The upstairs is even more disgusting than downstairs. Doors line an ancient hallway, plastic tarps hang from the ceiling, and debris litters the floor. If Martha Stewart was a zombie, even she'd turn her nose up at this place. I'm surprised it isn't coming down around us. I can feel vampires in the rooms up and down the hall, hear groans of pleasure —some male, some female, and I know what I'm hearing are humans being fed on.

I can't understand why anyone would do this. How stupid are they? Don't they realize that there's no guarantee that the vampire that's biting them will stop with just a quick snack? Don't they know they could die? Or worse, become one of the walking undead? Also, since when are vampire bites orgasmic? Every time I've been bitten, it hurt. There wasn't anything pleasant about it, and definitely not enough to make me make noises like.... ew... that.

Spike's clearly hunting something, he's got his head tilted in that way that usually means he's either listening intently, or smelling —and again with the ew. Even my nose doesn't like the smell of this place. It stinks worse than Xander's pile of dirty socks before laundry day. I almost feel bad for Spike, because if what I smell is bad, I know whatever he's smelling is ten times worse.

Another hallway runs off the first, and Spike turns down it. He pauses in front of a door, then nods his head at it, his expression grim. I slowly push the door open, and peer in.

In the room, a man is sitting on a dirty mattress that's laying flat on the floor. His back is to the wall, and most of his features are hidden in shadows. A too thin, skanky vampire girl sits between the guy's sprawled legs, sucking at his arm.

This is what Spike brought me to see? It's no worse than the people downstairs, I think, until the girl's head shifts just a little bit.

The guy has a scar on his chest. It's about four or five inches long and ragged, as if it had been cut deeply with a shard of glass, and it's terribly, horribly familiar.

But it can't be.

It can't.

As if to prove me wrong, the guy speaks. "Harder," he grunts at the girl, and she pulls at his wrist greedily.

Oh. My. God.

I must make a noise, because his head comes up, the light catching his features and filling them in just enough so that I can be sure.

It's Riley.

This... this is where he went.

He left my bed, after making... after making love to me, and came here to... to... what? To pay vampires to feed on him?

Oh god.

There's a roaring sound in my ears as I turn and bolt for the stairs, and my stomach is doing a gymnastics routine. I feel like I'm going to throw up.

When the vampire steps in front of me downstairs, I barely blink before picking him up and flinging him across the room.

I can't do this right now. I'm too freaked out. Too angry. I can't... if I start this fight... I can't do this.

The air outside isn't much fresher than it was inside, but I'm still inhaling huge lungfuls of it. Spike darts past me, then comes to a skidding to a halt, turning to look at me.

"I thought you should know —"

Whatever he's about to say, I can't listen to it right now. I give him a look, silently telling him to shut up. I can't think about —

I have to go.

I run.

***


I don't remember coming home.

I don't remember how I got here, or ...

I shut myself in my room, and glance at the bed only to realize that the sheets are still thrown back, and it still smells like Riley.

Instead I sink back against the door, then slide to the floor.

Riley.

There's this mess of images flickering through my head.

Riley smiling. Riley training with me. Riley patrolling. Riley's goofy grin. Riley hunting down demons. Riley dancing with me at the Bronze. Riley taking me driving. Riley setting up a picnic on the green. Riley smashing the Gentlemen's voice box. Riley sweating and shaking as he goes through withdrawl. Riley fighting Harmony. Riley holding me while we wait to hear about my mom...

And in between each image is another one. The same one.

"Harder."

I don't get it.

I don't understand. I can't understand.

Why would he do something like that? He knows...god he knows what vampires are. He knows better than most what they're capable of. Why would he...? Why would he betray me that way? This is somehow almost worse than... Riley is human. He's not supposed to...

What... god, what is so wrong with me that I turn good guys into... ?

Was he always like this? Was I just... too blind to see it?

God, how long has this been going on?

I don't know how long I sit there, turning the same questions over and over in my head.

I don't know when the tears started.

I don't know how to make them stop.

***


When I feel the familiar tingles at the base of my neck, I slowly raise my head from my folded arms. I must have fallen asleep.

My body is asleep on the floor of my bedroom, while my mind is wide-awake.

In the dark.

With a vampire.

He must know something is wrong. Maybe it's the tear tracks down my face. Maybe it's the coldness seeping into my body. Maybe it's just my mismatched clothes and the way I'm sitting on the cold stone floor, with my back against the bed.

It doesn't really matter how he knows, but I can tell I'm making him very nervous.

There's only one way this can go right now.

Only one way I can survive this night.

"We're sparring," I tell him, as I get to my feet. "No holding back tonight."

I don't wait for a response. I stride away from the bed blindly, and when I feel like I'm far enough away, I settle into position. Waiting.

He circles me, staying on the outer edge of my range at first, then making feints in and out, testing my reflexes. My body is relaxed, my mind settling into a cold emptiness that observes, detached. When the first attack comes, I'm ready for him.

From somewhere outside of myself, blind, relying purely on instinct, on the sound of his feet on the stone —barefoot —, of his clothes as they whisper with movement, of the soft grunts and unneeded breaths he takes every now and then; from here I can finally understand what Spike meant.

It's a brutal dance.

It's all about timing. About listening to your partner on a level deeper than words. About connecting with them, even as you step away. The rhythm is there in the meaty drumbeat of fists against flesh, the slap of feet on the cold floor, the gasp of sudden pain, mine or his... it doesn't matter. We move together, then apart, step into one another, then whirl away. Blind, we're nothing but arms and legs, torsos and hips, fists and feet.

We're predator and prey, slayer and vampire, male and female, darkness and light, sun and moon, fire and ice.

We dance for hours.

My mind is empty. There is nothing but this.

Nothing but the hard punch of my empty fist against his heart.

Nothing but the cold brush of his lips against my throat.

We kill each other, over and over, him, then me, then him again. Each time we dance away, only to come together harder than before.

It goes on forever.

Finally I sweep his feet out from under him and we come down together in a tangle of arms and legs. I'm drenched in sweat and exhausted. He's breathing harshly through his nose, and his limbs are shaking, as tired as mine. My fist is planted firmly against his unbeating heart. His mouth is pressed in a cool, closed mouth kiss to the throbbing pulse at my throat.

I don't know which of us made the killing blow first; either way... we're both dead.

Somehow we come to a silent, mutual agreement: we're done for tonight. He presses his forehead against my shoulder for a moment, then rolls off of me and lays sprawled somewhere to my left.

Neither of us acknowledges what just happened. I don't mention that, for a moment there, when we were pressed together, length to length, I felt his erection hard against my hips. He doesn't touch me, even though I know he can probably smell that I'm aroused. It’s just…just a result of the fighting. It happens.

We're both too tired to move.

Finally I hear him shift, and the next thing I know, he's tossing a pillow on top of me, and flinging a blanket over me. Tired, I manage to stuff the pillow under my head. I don't bother with the blanket. I'm sweating too much to care.

It's not ‘til I wake up the next morning, laying flat on my floor, my head pillowed awkwardly on a pile of discarded clothes, and something hard and painful against the small of my back that I realize:

Last night, when we were fighting... I never reached for my stake. Never even checked to see if it was there, even though I'd arrived, as always, in the same clothes I'd fallen asleep in.

And he'd been at my throat, over and over throughout the night, and never once opened his mouth.






 
 
Chapter #14 - Chapter 13: Burn
 
Author's Notes: Please check that you’ve read Chapers 11 and 12 before reading this chapter.

Just a bit longer, and we’ll be firmly into AU territory for a bit. I know that this chapter runs almost perfectly along with canon, minus a few Glory references. I’m sorry. But if I wanted to send of Riley and give Buffy the necessary character development, this had to happen pretty much the same as it did on the show. This is my least favorite chapter, but then, this was one of my least favorite episodes as well. I will state, for the record, that I don’t like Riley, but I tried very hard to understand where he was coming from, even harder to understand Xander’s perspective, and most of all, I tried to write Buffy’s POV as honestly as I could.

I promise that the next chapter will be less dramatic, and will have more Spike, and more Mr. Gordo (though Mr. G will make an appearance in this chapter as well). Thanks for hanging in there with me for this long.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Credits: This chapter contains dialogue from the episode "Into The Woods" written by Marti Noxon.

This chapter is, sadly, unbetaed. All mistakes are mine.

Banner by Phuriedae




Chapter 13

Burn


By the time I've showered and dressed, I have a plan.

Whatever Riley was doing there... whatever it was about that place... I'm taking it down. I'm the Slayer, and a vamp nest that big in my town? I don't think so.

Riley I'll deal with later.

By the time I get the Magic Box, I'm all Slayer.

"I need to find out everything I can about a vamp nest downtown," I say. Giles looks up, surprised.

"A nest? What sort of—," he's frowning.

"There were people there. It... um... it looked like they were paying vampires to bite them."

Okay, that got his attention. Xander, Willow and Anya all turn to stare at me, too.

"Now I know what to get for the person who has everything," Xander jokes, only I'm really not in the mood to appreciate it. I gave Riley everything I had and he still had to go there?

"Who would pay to get bitten?" Willow asks, echoing my thoughts from last night.

Anya, of course, waves it off like it's nothing. "Oh, that's been going on for centuries. Humans hire vampires to feed of them. They... well, you know, they—they get off on the rush."

The rush? This isn't skydiving!

"And the... hazards of the underworld can become addictive to... some people," Giles adds, and I can tell he's only a second or two from a good polish.

Some people? Some people are not supposed to be my boyfriend.

"Why don't the vampires just kill them?" Xander wants to know.

"Because they get cash, hot and cold running blood, and... they don't leave any corpses behind so they don't get hunted," Anya explains. As if the lack of corpses makes it okay to just feed on people like that. Not in my town. Not on my boyfriend. They're not getting a pass from me on this. They messed with the wrong guy.

"But still," Giles says, seeing the look on my face, "it-it can be terribly dangerous for humans. I mean, people can end up dying accidentally, or... or meeting a vampire who only pretends to play by the house rules."

Or turned, I think, wondering suddenly what would happen if Riley were turned. Would I know? Would my friends? Would we just let him in? My Slayer sense would probably clue me in, but the others... they’d never expect that of Riley. Not of Riley.

Giles knows an awful lot about this.

"You knew about this and you didn't tell me?" I'm furious. My sparring session with Mr. Gordo last night got out most of my need for physical violence, but if Giles knew that that nest was there...

"I hadn't seen it since my Ripper days. I had no idea it was going on in Sunnydale," he swears.

"Well it is," I say. "And I'm gonna stop it."

I head for the weapons trunk.

"Buffy... even if I had known, I might not have told you," he says gently.

"What?" I turn to look at him. "Why?"

"Well, with your mother being so ill until just recently... it wouldn't have been prudent to send you into such a situation with so much on your mind."

"Good thing my mom's all better then. Giles, you said yourself, people could be dying in there."

"Yes, and they're willing victims. They know what the dangers are,” he says, which just pisses me off more. Riley knew. If he was in there, it was because he knew what the dangers were... and he didn’t care. He still would rather be there, letting... he’d still rather be there, risking his life, than with me.

Giles is still talking. “I'm... I'm not saying we shouldn't do something about it, but these nests tend to be quite large and perhaps rushing in emotionally... might not be the best idea."

"What's the rush, Buff?" Xander asks. "If we're going into a nest, maybe we should come up with a strategy. Wait for Riley."

We are so not waiting for Riley. We'll be lucky if he's not already there, curled up in a dark corner with some fangy floozy... and I'm so not thinking about that right now.

"Back me up or not," I tell them. "I'm going."

***


Only when we get there, the place is empty. The fire is still burning in the wood stove, but it's starting to die. They must have cleared out just before sunrise.

Dammit.

I clench my fists, wishing for something, anything, to hit.

"Do you think they'll set up shop again in town?" I ask Giles, since he knows so much.

"It's... hard to say. I'm sure they'll lie low for a bit," he doesn't seem certain.

"But they're around somewhere," I say. "There's got to be a way to find these creeps."

I'm already turning ideas over in my head. I could have Xander drive me around and I could look for places where my Slayer sense goes off the charts again... or... or Willow could maybe do a location spell. Surely one of these guys left something behind we could use to track them. Tracking... crap. I wish Oz were here, we could use his nose... or Spike's... I bet Spike would know how to find them...

"Don't worry, Buffy, you'll find them," Willow says, stepping carefully over a pile of something majorly gross on the floor.

"Yeah," Xander says, full of his usual confidence in me, "I'm sure you'll get them next time, champ."

Next time? Seriously? By next time Riley could be dead or worse. I should have gotten these guys ages ago. Then Riley wouldn't have...

The nearby wood stove makes a great target. I pick it up and hurl it against the wall, watching as the flames immediately spread to the dry wallpaper and fabric, and the alcohol bottles beside them.

They're not going to be coming back here again.

Let it burn.

***


I'm in the backroom, pounding on the punching bag when I hear Riley come in out front, his low voice hatefully familiar as he talks to Anya and Xander. I pound harder on the bag. I hope Mr. Gordo is up for another bout tonight because I'm going to need it, if I can't find that nest on patrol in an hour or two.

Riley shouldn't have come. I'm too mad to talk to him right now and I just know I'm going to say something horrible. Right now I need to hit something—preferably something that I can break.

"We need to talk," he says as he comes in. I keep punching, hoping he'll get the picture. Guess he's not that bright right now, huh. Loss of blood will do that to you.

"I'm not ready to talk to you yet," I tell him, grunting as my fists slam satisfyingly into the bag.

"Too bad," he says, taking off his jacket and approaching. I'm not going to look at his arms. I'm not going to stare at the bite marks on his wrists or try to count how many there are and how old. I'm not. Instead I'm going to pound on this bag until it bursts.

Only he grabs it, and punching it would be too much like punching him, so I have to stop.

"I'm serious," I warn him, and the fire inside of me is cold. "Unless you want to fight."

"So let's fight,” he says. “We need to have this out, Buffy. Right now."

No, we do not need to have this out right now. I'd be perfectly happy if we had this out sometime never. This is not a conversation I want to have. What I want is to rewind to last night when everything was normal and perfect and I didn't know about vampire whorehouses and that my boyfriend has been paying them to kill him.

But he's not budging, because since when has anything I wanted mattered?

"And say what, Riley? 'What were you thinking?’ ‘How long have you been lying to me?' Nothing you say right now is going to make this better."

I turn to put away my hand wraps, but he grabs me by the arm and spins me back toward him. His fingers bite... no... tighten ‘til his knuckles are white. It hurts, but he doesn't seem to notice or care. Well, that's par for the course, isn't it?

"I realize that," he says. "I don't expect... I just need you to hear me out." Only he doesn’t sound like he’s going to apologize. He sounds like he’s angry.

Wait, he's angry? At me?

"Fine," I tell him, feeling my anger freeze into something hard and sharp in my chest. "Get your hand off me."

He lets go, his fingerprints standing out on my arm, white against my tan.

"I think... when this thing started, it was just some stupid immature game. I wanted to even the score after you let Dracula bite you," he says, running a hand through his hair.

Excuse me?

"I did not let Dracula—," I start to say, but he charges right ahead, not even listening. Which, clearly, he hasn't been doing for months if he thinks that I let Dracula bite me. It's called a thrall, moron, and I'm just as susceptible to it as any other human if I'm not on guard.

"I know," he says, though, clearly, he doesn't. "On some level I know that. But I was still spun. I don't know. I... I wanted to know what you felt. I wanted to know why Dracula and Angel have so much power over you."

Who with the what huh?

He’s sneaking off in the middle of the night to get his... fix at the end of a pair of fangs and he thinks I’m the one with a vampire obsession? Is he completely deranged?

"You so don't get it," I tell him.

"I wanted to get it, Buffy. I wanted to get you," he says, frowning like he’s trying to puzzle me out.

"So this is my fault?" I cannot believe this. "Hey, gee, Buffy's so mysterious, I think I'll go out and almost die? I think I'll go and let some other w—" I can't finish that sentence. It hurts too badly.

"It isn't your fault. It's mine. I feel like hell for what I've put you through," he says. Yeah. I'm sure he does. He probably just feels bad that he got caught. "It's just... these girls..."

"Vampires," I remind him, angry that I have to. "Killers."

"They made me feel something, Buffy. Something I didn't even know I was missing until—"

Make him stop. Please. Just...

"I can't. I can't hear this," I say. I can't stand here and listen to him tell me how much better a vampire girl is than me. I can't.

He grabs me again. "You need to hear this."

I wrench away, not caring if I hurt him. Nobody lays a hand on me like that. Nobody.

"Fine! Fine! Tell me about your whores! Tell me what on earth they were giving you that I can't," I snarl.

"They needed me," he says, as if that's the answer to everything.

"They needed your money. It wasn't about you."

"No," he says, stepping toward me. "On some basic level it was about me. My blood. My body. When they bit me it ... was beyond passion. They wanted to devour me, all of me."

I don't... what is he telling me? I've been so angry, but this... that cold, hard thing in me is my heart, and it’s finally breaking. "Why are you telling me this?"

"It wasn't real," he says, but I can tell he doesn't mean that. "I know, it was just physical. But the fact that I craved it... that... that I kept going back... even if it was fleeting, they made me feel like they had such... hunger for me."

"And I don't... make you feel that way?" He can't meet my eyes. "How on earth can you compare me to that? How can you tell me that you understand what those vampires are feeling? You aren't a passion to them... you're a snack! A willing, idiotic snack!"

"No, I know exactly what they feel when they bite me, because I feel it every time we're together. It's like the whole world falls away and all there is is you," he says. His eyes are sad and angry.

He thinks... god, he thinks...

"You think I don't feel the same way about you? How dare you tell me what I feel?"

"You keep me at a distance, Buffy," he says. "You didn't even call me when your mom went in the hospital."

He's seriously pissed off at me for putting my mother ahead of him? For... what? Not wanting to go out with him, or have sex because my mom needed me more?

"Oh, I'm sorry," I say, with as much sarcasm as I can muster. "You know, um, I'm sorry that I couldn't take care of you when I thought that my mother was dying."

"It's about me taking care of you! It's about letting me in. So you don't have to be on top of everything all the time."

"But I do," I tell him. God, he doesn't get it, does he? I would love to be able to drop the ball. Love to be able to just lean on him all the time, let him take care of everything. I was scared to death about my mom, but if I just ran off and let him do everything for me, it wouldn't have helped. What I needed was for him to be there for me, but not try to fix everything. For him to let me stand on my own feet. I can't be any other way. It's how I'm built. I have to carry the world on my shoulders. I've done it since I was fifteen. If I let myself lean on him too much I won't have the strength to keep doing it on my own. There’s no one else strong enough to carry this burden with me. Certainly not him.

"That's part of what being a Slayer is," I tell him. But I know that's not the real problem. I think of him back there in the caves, standing before me, his knuckles bloody. Joe Normal... it's not what you need. What Riley wants is for me to be weak around him, for me to need him, so he can feel... "And that's what this is really about, isn't it? You can't handle the fact that I'm stronger than you."

"It's hard sometimes, yeah," he admits. "But that's not it."

"Then what? What else do you want from me, Riley? I've given you everything that I have. I've given you my heart, my body and soul!"

"You say that, but I don't feel it. I just don't feel it," he says.

"Well whose fault is that? Because I'm telling you, this is me. This is it. This is the package. And if it's so deficient that you need to go get your kicks elsewhere... then we really have a problem."

He doesn't say anything. That's all the answer I need.

I'm not enough for him. Clearly, if I don't need him to take care of me, to provide for me... then it means nothing to him. It's not passionate enough, or something. He'd rather be sucked dry by a vampire than loved by me...

"They want me back, Buffy... the military," he says, surprising me. What? "It's deep undercover, no contact with civilians. They came here to get me. Transport's leaving tonight."

"Tonight?" I say, shocked. "When were you gonna tell me about this?" I have this sudden image of him just vanishing in the night. If I hadn't found out his little secret.... would he have just...gone?

"I'm telling you now," he says, like that makes it better.

"Are you going?" I ask.

"I don't know. If we can't work this out..."

What? In the next ten minutes? I'm supposed to just... forgive him for what he did? Apologize for not being enough for him? Promise to make it better next time?

"Then what? This is goodbye?" I thought I was mad before. I was wrong. This is mad. "You are unbelievable. You're giving me an ultimatum?"

"No, I'm not."

"Yes you are! You expect me to get over it now or you're gone!"

"I don't, Buffy. That's not what I meant," he says. But it's what he said.

"I've heard enough. I will not take the blame for this." How did we go from him sneaking out in the middle of the night to get suck jobs from vampire whores to this being my fault because I didn't need him enough and him leaving?

"I'm not asking you to," he says, but he grabs my arm again as I try to leave. Oh, that's IT. Absolutely IT.

"Let go of me," I say, breaking away.

"Or what, you'll hit me?" He spreads his arms, waiting. "Go ahead. Come on, do it."

Hit me. Come on. One good swing. You know you want to. Give it me good, Buffy. Do it!

But Riley isn't Spike. And unlike Spike, I don't want to hit Riley. I could punch Spike through a wall without doing much damage to him. If I hit Riley right now, it would kill him. I don't want to punch him. The last thing I want to do right now is touch him. I don’t even want to look at him. I just want him to go away.

"Get out of my way," I tell him.

"I'm serious, Buffy," he says. "Hit me. Hit me!"

Suddenly I'm tired. Very, very tired. And cold. I grab my jacket off the hook and head for the door. I want to go home.

I want to go to sleep.

"I'm leaving, Buffy," he says, and my heart breaks a little more. They always do, don't they? Leave? "Unless you give me a reason to stay... I'm leaving tonight."

Yeah, so much for no ultimatums.

There's nothing I can say. Not right now, which I guess means not ever.

I leave. I don't look back. See? Now I'm just like them.

***


I take the long route home, detouring through the alleys on the bad side of town. I still have a job to do, after all.

There is so much wrongness in what Riley was saying that I'm having a hard time finding anything right. It's like... it's like someone took my sweet, normal, caring boyfriend and replaced him with this... jerk. Only a real asshole would believe some of the things he spewed at me were true. Only a jerk would insist that a skanky vampire whore was better than me.

I'm beginning to sense a pattern in my relationships.

What I really need to do is find a jerk and spend some time with him and maybe he'll turn into a prince.

Right. Like that would happen.

When I feel the tingles, there's no panic, even though I know there are more than one. My time in the dream room has honed my Slayer senses to a sharp point. My anger gives it edge.

One by the dumpster, two in the mouth of that alley, another ahead, two more behind, several more further back. There are varying levels to the tingles, I realize. None of them read as strongly as Spike, most of them are even below Mr. Gordo, but one or two are stronger than Harmony. Age. Huh. I can tell how old or powerful a vamp is by the tingles. Neat.

"The pyro act was a bad idea, Slayer," says the lead vamp, stepping out to meet me. I'm getting the strongest reading from him.

I feel the others start to move into position around me.

"Felt pretty good to me," I tell him, scanning the alley for potential weapons. I don't even have a stake on me. Somehow, I'm not worried.

"I'm not running," he says. "And you're not shutting me down. In fact, I don't think you're going to make it through the night."

Detached, my Slayer brain counts vampires. Ten of them, the youngest is barely more than a freshly risen fledgling. This isn't a dream, this isn't Mr. Gordo, and I'm not in the mood to play with these guys.

"Walk away," I warn him. "I'm serious. Don't do this. Not now."

He's not very bright. When they rush me, I don't even think, just move. I hit two before another one helpfully provides me with a weapon, a long wooden stick. When will vamps learn not to bring pointy wooden weapons into a battle? I dust all but the leader and the fledge without them ever laying a hand on me. The leader jumps at me, and I duck, jabbing the skewer up into his heart as he passes. It's over in about eight seconds.

The fledge is cowering by the dumpster. When I turn to stare at her, she's shaking, scared as hell.

She should be.

When I see her face, I remember. I remember watching her drink from Riley's wrist.

I lower the staff. Surprised, she only hesitates for a second before making a run for it.

I could let her go.

But she'll only find someone else to drink from. Some other guy who might have a girlfriend or a wife or a family, waiting for him at home while he's risking his life beneath her fangs.

It takes a single throw, and she's nothing more than dust on the breeze.

"So, how'd that work out for ya?"

He's lucky I know his voice so well.

"Make you feel better?" Xander says, coming out of the shadows.

"What are you doing here?"

"I thought you might need to talk. Then I saw the skirmish happen. I was gonna lend a hand, but I noticed you grew a few extra ones," he's trying to joke, but I can see that I startled him.

"Go home, Xander."

"Buffy."

"I'm serious."

"So am I. Something's up. You're acting like a crazy person."

Oh really? Because, what? I find out my boyfriend is cheating on me, trying to get himself killed and I'm supposed to not be mad about it? Not be hurt by the things he said? What am I supposed to do? Is there some kind of scripted way a person is supposed to behave in this situation? God, I wish someone would just tell me, because I'm pulling up a big fat load of nothing here.

I’m so tired of hurting, and Xander isn’t helping.

There's a building nearby, some kind of warehouse, and they've left the door open a bit. Probably where some of those vamps came from. Inside, I wrap my fingers around a chain link fency thing and wait. It's not long before Xander follows me.

"Take this, for instance. You don't wanna deal, so you hide? It's not very Slayer-like," he accuses.

Right. I'm the Slayer. I'm above this, I guess. Good thing I've got someone to remind me. Being the Slayer means I don't get to be Buffy for Riley. And being Buffy means I don't measure up to the Slayer. When is just me going to be enough?

"Just leave me alone, Xander. You have no idea what's going on."

"No? Good, so you and Riley aren't imploding?" Okay so maybe he's got some idea. "It doesn't take a genius. What I can't figure out it how you never saw it coming."

That gets my attention.

"What? Who told you?" I ask, frowning.

"Nobody told me anything, Buffy. It was right in front of my Xander face. The guy would do anything for you!" he says angrily.

"The guy got himself bit by a vampire!" I say. Xander looks surprised. Well, he should. "He lied to me. He ran around behind my back and almost got himself killed! And now he tells me that he's leaving for some covert military operation at midnight unless I convince him not to. Now tell me that you understand. Because I sure as hell don't."

"You gonna let him go?" Xander asks.

"It's not my decision to make," I tell him. It's not.

"Of course it is," he tells me.

Okay, well, I don't see it. "It's not fair," I tell him. It's not. It's not right to lay this on me, to hurt me and then force me to decide.

"Who cares if it's fair? In about twenty minutes, Riley's gonna disappear, maybe forever, unless you do something to stop him," he says.

"What am I supposed to do? Beg him to stay?" I'm not. I won't.

"Why wouldn't you?" he says, clearly surprised I'm not doing just that. "To keep Riley here..."

"I don't know who he is any more. I mean, I thought he was...," I don't know what to say. "Dependable."

"Dependable? What is he, State Farm?" Xander says.

"You know what I mean," I tell him, not appreciating the sarcasm right now.

"Yeah, I think you mean convenient," he says coldly. "I think you took it for granted that he was gonna show up when you wanted him to, and take off when you didn't."

I didn't.

Did I?

"Look who's talking," I remind him. "Look who has Anya following him around like a lovesick puppy."

That pisses him off. "Oh boy, is this not about me."

"Is she more than a convenience? 'Cause that would kinda be a surprise." I'm so angry right now, I don't care if I hurt him. How dare he suggest that that's how I treated Riley. I didn't. I just...

"If you don't want to hear what I have to say, I'll shut up right now," he says.

"Good, cause I don't," I say, ready to leave. He steps in front of me.

"I lied. See, what I think... you got burned by Angel, then Riley shows up..."

"I know the story, Xander.”

"But you miss the point," he tells me, his brown eyes serious. "You shut down, Buffy. And you've been treating Riley like the rebound guy. When he's the one that comes along once in a lifetime. He's never held back with you. He's risked everything. And you're about to let him fly because you don't like ultimatums? If he's not the guy, if what he needs from you just isn't there, let him go. Break his heart, and make it a clean break. But if you really think you can love this guy ... I'm talking scary, messy, no-emotions-barred need ... if you're ready for that ... then think about what you're about to lose."

Oh, god.

Is it true? Did I really hold back?

Then I know I did. I held back because I was stronger, because I was afraid of breaking him. Not just with sparring. I was afraid if I let him share my life... if I let him shoulder even part of the burden of it, he'd break under the stress. Or, worse, that I'd really love him, and he'd end up dead because of me. Because of what I am. I held back...

What if... what if I didn't? What if I let him in?

What if, instead of just trying to be some normal couple I...

I could at least try, couldn't I?

And maybe it would be enough.

"Xander..." I say, not knowing how to tell him what I just realized. But he's there before me.

"Run," he says.

And I do.

***


My heart is pounding in my chest, and I'm using every bit of Slayer speed at my disposal. I tear down the streets and sidewalks, heading for the airport, wishing I could be just a little bit faster.

I'll find Riley. I'll stop him.

I'll... we'll work through this. I'll be less withdrawn, I won't hold back any more. He'll stop sneaking around behind my back. It can work. It can.

It has to, because I don't know what I'll do if it doesn't.

It has to.

I cut through the woods, heading for where I know the helicopter-landing pad is. I scale the fence easily and am running again before I hit the ground. Up ahead, the helicopter is lifting off.

No...

"Riley!" I scream, running out onto the pad. I can see him, sitting there, his head turned away. "RILEY!"

But he doesn't turn around.

"Riley!"

He doesn't look back.

And then he's gone.

***


I wake up in the dream room, once more fully dressed and sitting on the floor beside the bed.

I sit there for a long time, it seems, before Mr. Gordo arrives.

"He left me," I say, into the darkness.

Mr. Gordo is very still for a while, then he comes around the bed. He sits down a few feet away, and I hear the bed creak a little as he leans back against it.

"Has.. has anyone ever paid you to bite them... to... feed on them?" I ask softly. "Without, you know, killing them?"

Silence for a moment, and then I remember. "I mean, I know you're just... you know, a figment of my imagination, but in figmenty vampire land... have you ever been... a vampire prostitute? Or... gigolo? Or whatever the word is for vampires who get paid to eat—," I'm babbling and I know it, but it's babble or cry so I'm going with babble.

He taps on the floor, loudly enough to get my attention. No.

"Oh, okay," I say, staring blankly at... well, nothing. I might as well have my eyes closed.

"Last night," I say, after awhile, "last night... I.. uh... Spike took me to this place. This vampire nest. And... my b-boyfriend was there. He was paying to, you know, be bitten. And at first I was really hurt. And mad. I mean, he snuck out of bed in the middle of the night to... to go be with some... some vampire—"

I look in his direction, suddenly horrified. "Oh, god," I say. "Is that what these dreams are about? That I... Riley, he said... he said it was my fault, because I—"

Mr. Gordo growls.

It's a decidedly non-friendly sound, but I sense somehow it's not directed at me.

"You're growling? Why? Because he said it was my fault?"

Yes.

"Oh," I'm not sure what to do with that. Xander gave me that long lecture on how it is my fault, but Mr. Gordo's on my side?

Then again, he is my imaginary vampire, so I guess it's normal for him to take my side.

"Whatever... the thing is, he said that... that I held back. That I was shutting him out. And—and that I have this thing about vampires. So, is that what these dreams are? My subconscious trying to tell me that I do have a thing for vampires? Not that I have a thing, you know, for you. Cause I can't even see you and you don't talk and...and aren't real and..."

No.

Oh. Okay...

I look down at where my hands are... or where they should be, wrapped around my knees. Not that I can see them in the dark. "The thing is... I held back. A lot. And I didn't even realize I was doing it. Everyone else saw it but me. There I was just... tra-la-la, oblivious Buffy, worrying about my mom and being the Slayer and not realizing that my boyfriend was unhappy. Not that he ever said anything," and there's the anger again.

"Why didn't he say anything? Why just... go on pretending it's all okay and not say 'gee, Buffy, I'm feeling a little taken for granted and maybe we could spend some time together' or... you know, something? Anything. All I needed was just a little sign. A tiny one. Like one of those little strips of paper in a fortune cookie. 'Your lucky numbers are seven, three, and zero, and by the way, your boyfriend is going to go pay vampires to bite him if you don't figure out how to need him...'"

I'm crying by now, but I don't care.

"And... and he said th-that those vampire girls were... were more passionate than me. That they... that they wanted him more than I did and... and then he said that...that if I couldn't get over it and promise to ... that he was going to leave, for some military thing and that would be it. So... I was mad and I couldn't say it, not then, and then... he left."

A cool hand touches my shoulder and then I'm throwing myself into his arms, sobbing hard now. It doesn't matter that he's a vampire, or not real. All that matters is that he's here, and listening, and he seems to care and sort of understand and... he's here.

"He left me," I sob against his chest while he strokes my back. "I ran... I ran all the way to the airport, but... I was too late. And he left. He left me. God... what is so wrong with me? Why is it so hard for men to love me? Why do they always leave?"

He doesn't answer, of course, but his hands tighten on me ever so slightly and it feels good.

Tiredly I lay my head against his shoulder. "I'm just as bad as he is, aren't I?" I murmur. "Turning to a vampire for what I need... instead of him?"

No, he taps against my shoulder. Then, again: No.

Sleepy now, I feel my eyelids drifting shut, and when my next thought comes I'm not sure if I whisper it, or if it's just in my head. "I'm glad you're not real, Mr. Gordo. If you were real... I'd probably have to hate you... or kill you... and, I don't want to. Don't be real. Or... if you are, please don't ever do anything that would make me have to kill you. Please."



Author's Postscript: I've spoiled you, horribly, by updating several chapters at once. But now that this is caught up with the rest, it'll slow down a little. My usual update schedule is every two to three days (depending on my editor).


 
 
Chapter #15 - Chapter 14: Changing Seasons
 
Author's Notes: FINALLY we’re off in AU territory for a bit. A quick note on the timeline, however. For the most part in this story I used the original airdates of the episodes to figure out when things took place… unless two episodes, aired a week apart, clearly covered events on consecutive days (Such as “Fool For Love” and “Shadow”). There were a couple of major time line gaps, due to holidays and stuff. So I’m filling in a few gaps here. This takes place after “Into the Woods” (early December) but before the airdate for “Triangle” (early January).

After the heavy drama of “Into the Woods” I desperately needed to head back into campy demon of the week territory. Hopefully you’ll enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. It remains one of my favorite chapters in this story.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Credits: Bwahahahaha… all the dialogue in this chapter is original. If you hate it, it’s my fault.

Betaed by Phuriedae.

Banner by Phuriedae






Chapter 14

Changing Season


I spend a few days feeling like I've just been hit over the head. Hard. Everything feels off. Surreal.

Thank god I have my mom and my friends. When I tell mom what happened, we commiserate over lots and lots of chocolate and ice cream. She talks a little about Dad, and even though she doesn’t come right out and say it, I know that he probably cheated on her—even though they’ve always denied it.

When I tell her about Riley saying it was my fault, she gets angry.

"Don't you believe that, Buffy," she says. "He's a grown man. He makes his own decisions. Whether you were closed off or not, it's not an excuse to go and do what he did. That was his decision, and he shouldn't have put it on you. That's cowardly, and frankly, I never would have imagined Riley as a coward. But if that's what he really is... you're better without him, honey."

God, I love my mom.

Willow and Tara are amazingly supportive. Anya offers to call in a favor and get me a vengeance wish, if I want. I thank her politely, but tell her no. Giles is sympathetic. Xander seems to be the one taking it the hardest, which is kind of weird, but then again, Xander had probably been getting used to not being the only Scooby guy.

Aside from Giles, I mean, who is totally old and doesn't really count.

Still... there's this little part of me that keeps hoping, you know? Hoping that Riley will come back. Some days I have to make myself stop watching the door, or looking for him while I'm on patrol. He was the one that was wrong... he should come back, so we can fix things.

Shouldn't he?

I spend a lot of time trying to figure out what went wrong, and my dreams with Mr. Gordo bring a lot of perspective. I can talk to him, since he never speaks and always seems to listen. It gives me time to get the words out, and work my way around to what it is I'm trying to say. He never gets impatient with me, and we finally work out something other than yes or no. Three taps is a question, though sometimes it takes me a couple of tries to figure out what it is he's questioning.

"Maybe I just don't know how to do it," I say one night a couple of weeks after Riley's departure. We're sitting side by side on the bed, our backs against the headboard. We’re not touching. We don't touch, really, unless we're sparring, or I'm crying. There's a careful sort of line that we've drawn between us, but the space there has gotten a lot smaller. If I wanted, I could reach out and touch his leg.

He taps three times, and then I have to think over what I just said. "Oh," I say, blushing. "I mean... maybe I just don't know how to... be in a relationship. How to love. I mean, my first major romance was with Angel and look at what a mess that turned into. Just when I thought we were, you know, a couple, he loses his soul and then starts trying to kill my friends. So, I put up these walls. And then Riley comes along, and I think... here's a great guy, and I don't have to worry about him losing his soul, and hey... demon fighter! Cool! But then... then I felt like I had to protect him and ... maybe I'm just screwed up."

No.

"Oh, who are you kidding? My best friend at the moment is an imaginary vampire who I can't see and who I dream about having soul baring conversations with every night. I think that more than counts as screwy."

There's a pause, then a hesitant tap, tap, tap?

"Is this about the screwy part?"

No.

Oh... right.

I think about what I just said. "We're friends," I ask, suddenly unsure, "aren't we? I mean.. we talk, sort of. And... with the not killing each other thing. We're friends, right?"

He chuckles very softly. And when he responds, it's with a gentle tap against my nose, which makes me grin.

Yes.

We're friends.

***


"Brrrrr," Xander says, coming into the Magic Box the next day. He's got his hands shoved in his coat pockets and his nose is red. "I think I just literally froze my ass off. I can't feel anything from my waist down, which, gotta say, is kinda alarming."

Anya looks up from where she's taking inventory. "I've got a lunch break coming up. We could go down to the storage room and have sex. Sex raises your body temperature."

"Anya, remember that talk we had about sharing?" Xander says, looking embarrassed. "This would be one of those exceptions."

"I don't know how you expect me to keep track of all them," Anya says, frowning. "You're always changing the rules."

We've got the heat on in the store, but I'm still wearing a sweater. When I left the house earlier the temperature was in the mid-thirties. Hello, this is California. It's not supposed to be this cold. Still, it's sort of Christmasy and speaking of, I think it's time for a shiny new subject change.

"Xander, I need some ideas on what to get Giles for Christmas," I say. Giles, thankfully, is out on an errand. "You're a guy. What do you think?"

"How come you only seem to remember I'm a card carrying member of the testosterone tribe when it's time to go Giles shopping?" he asks.

"Please," I beg. "Every year I end up getting him something boring."

"Well, Giles is boring," he says me. "He likes boring. I think it's a British thing."

"W-well, Spike's British," Tara says, looking up from the book she's studying at the table, "and he's not really, you know, boring."

"No," Xander says, rolling his eyes. "He's annoying. That's a vampire thing."

"Tara and I are going gift shopping Saturday," Willow says to me, "you want to come with?"

"I could use some retail therapy," I say, trying on a bit of a smile. "Where are we going?"

"The mall," Willow says. "Taking advantage of all those pre-holiday sales. Also, that place in the food court is giving out free cookies again. Yum."

"Sales?" Anya perks up. "Can I come? This is my first Christmas as an employed human. I really should do my part to contribute to the seasonal tradition of mass consumerism."

Willow rolls her eyes. "Christmas is about giving, not something a demon would know a lot about, huh?"

"Like you would know any better," Anya shoots back. "You're Jewish."

Tara pats Willow's arm, distracting her from saying something back. "It's the season of forgiving, too," she reminds her. Willow sulks.

"Fine," she says. "You can come."

"Goody," Anya grins, excited.

"We'll make it a girl's field trip," I say, then remember. "Unless you want to hand in your Man Card for the day and come, too, Xander?"

"Let me think... the mall, a week before Christmas, hundreds of crazy people beating each other up over gifts, and four women who can literally shop ‘til they drop? Ah... no. You ladies can have fun. Me and my testosterone will enjoy a quiet day hanging out together. We might invite Beer over, and Football."

"Oh, but—but you have to come," Willow teases. "We'll need someone to carry all the bags."

Xander gets a wild-eyed look and bolts before we can convince him to change his mind. Wise man.

***


Thankfully, on Saturday, he agrees to drop us off and pick us up, at least. The weather has been dipping steadily and none of us want to have to walk home later, carrying heavy bags in freezing temperatures. The mall is packed with Christmas shoppers trying to find the perfect gifts for their friends and loved ones. Walking the hallways is sometimes a challenge, especially trying to keep myself from accidentally using Slayer strength as we shove our way through the crowds.

We spend a few hours happily going from store to store, looking for presents. I manage to find a gorgeous blouse and blazer for my mom, and a DVD boxed set of the old Star Trek cartoon series for Xander. It's horrible, and I know he'll probably make me watch it, but he'll love it anyway.

We split up when we hit one of the bigger department stores. Anya wants to check out the men's leather goods to find Xander a new wallet, and Tara and Willow get distracted by the shoes. I wander over into the men's section, looking at sweaters for Giles. I think I gave him a tie last year, so a sweater might be a change. I'm trying very hard not to look at the jacket on the wall that would be perfect for Riley. I'm not going to dwell today. Dwellage can wait. Today is all about the Christmas season, and shopping. Which happen to be very mixy things.

But, as I'm flipping through the racks I feel my Slayer sense kick in. It's still daylight outside, and I'm getting vamp tingles in the mall?

Familiar vamp tingles?

Even though I know who it is before I walk around the corner, it's still something of a surprise to find Spike in the back part of the men's clothing section, trying on a button-down royal blue shirt over his usual black t-shirt. He looks up as I come into view.

"Bugger," he mutters, rolling his eyes at the ceiling.

"Spike?" I ask. "What are you doing?" He takes a deep breath, as if calming himself, then raises his eyebrows as if it should be obvious.

"Shopping," he says, not quite meeting my gaze. Then he does look at me, a little... shyly? "Hi, Buffy."

"Shopping? You shop? Since when?"

"Since I needed some new shirts," he says, stripping the blue one off and tossing it over the rack, reaching for his duster. "My favorite one's got a bloody huge hole in it."

Sure enough, as he stretches for the duster I can see the giant hole in the left side of his black t-shirt, right over his heart. I grab the leather coat before he can shrug it on. He doesn't fight me for it, just waits while I stare.

"What happened?" I ask, curious. It looks like someone tried to stake him and missed. Through the hole I can see the remnants of a healing wound, now not much more than a slightly pink scar. No... they didn't miss. It just didn't take.

"As if you don't know," he says, suddenly moody. He pulls the duster on and settles it over his shoulders, covering the wound. "Your boy gloat about how he scared ol' Spike?"

"No, I don't know," I tell him, a little angry myself. "And he's obviously not my boy anymore. He left town. Riley did this?"

He gives me a wary look, then shrugs. "Day after. Guess it wasn't enough to break your heart, he had to share the pain around, yeah? Bastard came in, totally off his rocker, and staked me in cold blood. Brassed off that I found out about his nasty little habit and tattled."

"He staked you?" I blink. But... Spike couldn't have fought back. And Riley... Riley was mad at Spike for showing me what he was doing behind my back? That... that... ugh. "You wanna explain why you're not another layer of dust decorating your crypt?"

He mutters something I don't quite catch. "What?"

"Plastic," he says, rubbing his chest like it still pains him. If it went all the way through to his heart, I imagine it probably does. It took me a few days to heal from that stake wound to my stomach, and vamps don't heal as fast as I do. Probably slower, on a diet of pigs blood. "It was a plastic stake. Looked bloody real. Felt bloody real, too. Had himself a grand old time nailing me to the wall with it, then digging around in the wound a bit when he didn't like what I had to say."

Okay... Spike's annoying; I'll give him that. And there have been plenty of times when I've threatened to stake him because I didn't like what he had to say, but hearing this... it makes my blood run cold. What he's describing isn't, you know, ridding the world of an evil demon. This was torturing a helpless man... creature... whatever... for trying to help me. For revenge. And even though it's Spike, and I wouldn't cry over spilled dust... what Riley did was wrong.

"I didn't know," I tell him. "He didn't say anything."

"Would it have mattered if you did?" he says, slanting me a glance. "Imagine I'm not tops on your list of favorite people at the moment. I know it hurt you, finding that out, and... well, 'm sorry 'bout that." He ducks his head, as if he’s embarrassed.

Hold on... Riley never even said he was sorry, and he was the one clearly in the wrong. And Spike's the one apologizing? When did I enter the Twilight Zone?

I think about it anyway, and it's not too hard to respond truthfully. "It did hurt," I tell him. "Does. But I'm not sorry you showed me, and I'm not mad at you for it. Though I do kinda wanna know how you found out in the first place."

He frowns and picks up the blue shirt; more, I think, so he has something to do with his hands than because he's really looking at it. "Followed him," he says. "I saw him out late, wandering off downtown. Got curious. Thought he was there to dust them, at first." It might not be the whole truth, but I can tell he's not lying.

"You knew that place was there?" My eyes narrow.

"No," he says, meeting my eyes so I can see he's being entirely honest now. "Swear I didn't. Not ‘til I followed him. Bloody well hate places like that. Would have had myself a real good night, taking them down then and there, but I figured you needed to see, first."

Okay, vampires have standards. Who'd have thought? Or maybe it's just Spike.

"I did," I say. "I wasn't happy about it. But... I needed to see."

"Went back a couple of days ago, after...," he rubs his chest again absently, then gives me a sly glance full of knowing pride. "Someone burnt the building down. Seem to recall a certain little Slayer's got pyro tendencies. Wouldn't know anything about that, would you?" He smirks, curling his tongue behind his teeth.

"It was disgusting," I tell him. "And stinky. I was doing the world a favor."

"Good on you, Slayer," he says, with a friendly little grin.

I try not to match it with my own. Must be the Christmas spirit because I'm suddenly feeling some goodwill towards Spike.

I nod at the shirt in his hands. "Blue, huh? And here I thought you were incapable of wearing anything other than black."

"'S classic," he says defensively. "And it don't show the dirt and blood stains, does it?"

"True," I say, thinking of my constantly in need of replacement wardrobe. There's something to be said for practicality.

"Just thought I'd experiment. A little," he gives me a look that's so full of wariness and insecurity that I forget to make fun of him.

"Well, it works," I tell him. "Makes your eyes look bluer."

We both blink at each other for a moment.

Did I really just say that?

And oh, god, he's going to make a suggestive comment and totally ruin my mostly good day. I hurry to cover my little slip and hope I get there first.

"Why aren't you trying it on in the dressing room?"

"Why?" He looks genuinely confused.

"Well, privacy. And mirr—oh. Right. Dumb Buffy."

He chuckles, digging through the nearby racks and pulling up a black silk button down with a velvety sort of pattern all over it. He frowns at it, his forehead all crinkly. "What do you think, pet? Too poncy?"

"You're asking my opinion on clothes? Are we... shopping buddies now?" Okay, the day officially just got weirder. His eyes get wide like he didn't realize what he was saying. Then he scowls at me, a little angry.

"Wasn't thinking," he says. "Sorry. Thought we were having a decent conversation. Forgot we're enemies and all. Won't happen again, Slayer."

God, he's annoying.

"Spike?"

"What?"

"Shut up," I say, rolling my eyes. I was actually managing to have a good day, and stupid Mr. Moody Vampire is trying to ruin it, as usual. I grab the shirt from him and hold it up. Actually... it kind of looks good. The fabric is really nice and touchable and I can't help petting it a little. Then I frown, imagining petting it on Spike. Ew. "Too poncy," I decide. "Whatever that means."

He takes it back, his face full of suppressed mirth. "Think I like it," he says, doing that tongue thing that is totally grosser than it looks. "It's... tactile."

"Whatever. You were going to pay for those, right?"

The amusement drains out of his face and he gets a sheepish look. How have I not noticed before how expressive his face is? Probably because I'm used to staring at Angel and Riley's impassive expressions.

"Yeah," he lies. "I was gonna pay for them." I let it pass.

"You finished in here? I need to go find the others," I say.

"Don't have to stick around, pet," he says. I eye him, then the shirts.

"Yeah, I do, Spike. I'm not going to let you wander around the mall before Christmas and risk you doing something evil. As long as you're here, you can make yourself useful. There's four of us, and lots of bags."

He gets a funny look on his face, and I expect him to argue. Instead he just shrugs. "As you wish, Buttercup. Let's not keep your chums waiting, then."

He pays, shooting me semi-dirty looks as he counts money out of the wad of cash he had stuffed in his hip pocket, and I wonder what just happened.

I'm not sure what, but... something just changed.

***


There's some fuss when the others see what I found in the men's department, but when I point out that he's got super vampire strength and can carry all of our bags, that pretty much solves that problem. Tara and Anya don't seem to mind at all, and even Willow softens up enough to talk to him while we wait in line for our free cookies. I'm surprised he's not being a jerk about being roped into acting as our pack mule, but while Spike makes the occasional complaint that's about as far as it goes. It's nowhere even near Xander's usual marathon sarcastic whining sessions when we've conned... er... talked him into this particular job before.

"Mmmm," I say, taking a bite of warm gooey cookie as we wander towards the center of the mall. "Chocolate yummy."

"Free chocolate," Anya says, taking a blissed out bite of her own. "The best kind."

Spike has his cookie half-stuffed in his mouth, and with some juggling of bags he manages to break off a chewable size. "Not bad," he says, then slants a teasing look at Willow. "Though I think I like your cookies better, Red. Something about that dash of guilt."

Willow blushes, then glances at me. Holy crap. I'd completely forgotten that it was around this time last year Willow had done her little engagement spell. I wasn't even dating Riley then... has it really been less than a year? Riley and I never even made it to our...

I feel tears start to well up. "Sorry, Slayer," Spike says quietly. "Forgot you wouldn't want—"

"Shut up, Spike," I say automatically.

"Right," he says, and stuffs the rest of his cookie in his mouth.

***


It feels like everyone in Sunnydale has come to the mall today. The crowds are getting thicker as the day goes on, and trying to navigate through them is becoming a little annoying. It's not 'til I happen to glance back and see Spike wince that I realize there's a problem.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"Nothin'," he says, his face defensive.

"What?" I demand.

"Bloody chip," he mutters, rolling his eyes. "All these humans in here, and I can't push past them too hard without it firing."

Oh. Wow. Even something as little as that? For once I feel a weird twinge of sympathy. I’ve been holding my strength back all day.

"Well, stay behind me, and the others, then," I tell him. "We can run interference."

This works until we get to the center of the mall, where Spike suddenly halts, his jaw dropping open. "Buggering fuck," he says. "Where do they all come from? S' like they're multiplying like bunnies."

Anya whimpers. "Don't say that. Why would you say that?"

Willow just rolls her eyes. "It's just an expression. He didn't mean, you know, actual bunnies."

"Well, it's a horrible expression," Anya says, shuddering.

Spike just gives her a strange look, then goes back to staring at the massive clutch of humanity in front of us.

"What's going on?" Tara asks.

"Mall Santa," I tell her. "Most of this is people waiting for their kids to get their picture taken on Santa's lap."

In the middle of the open area, under the skylights, is a giant North Pole set, with a huge throne in the middle, on top of a raised platform. An elf brings another kicking and screaming child up to sit on the lap of the jolly looking man in the Santa suit ensconced there.

"That would explain the crying," Willow says. When the others look at her, she shrugs. "It's tradition."

And it's true. As usual there's a ton of crying and screaming kids surrounding the North Pole set. I've never understood why people make their kids do this. It's clearly traumatizing. Good thing Xander’s not here. He likes mall Santas about as much as clowns.

"No, it's a demon," Spike says, frowning.

"What?" I crane my neck to see, then jump up and down several times. I hate being short. "Where?"

"Right behind old St. Nick, Slayer. What are you, bloody blind?"

"That's an elf, Spike," I tell him. Admittedly it's an overweight, clearly college-age elf with bad skin trying to make a few bucks... but just an elf. The elf tries desperately to get the squirming kid on Santa's lap to sit still and smile for the camera, but the kid keeps twisting around to look behind him and crying.

"The other side," he says, scowling when I clearly don't see it. ‘Cause really? Nothing to see. "'Bout six foot tall, all black and grey, goat horns, shaggy hair... tail... hooves... this ringing any bells?"

"Only the jingly ones on the mall music system," I say. "I don't see any demons, Spike. Aside from you, that is."

"Yeah, well the little tykes, do. That's what they're howling at."

"Wait!" Anya says. "I know this!" She's almost bouncing, like she's got the answer to a question in class and wants the teacher to call on her. "Does it have a big basket?"

Spike cranes his neck a little, to see. "Yeah. Why?"

Anya beams. "It's a Krampus."

"A what?" I ask.

"A Krampus. They're like the Anti-Santa. Santa brings presents for the good children, but the Krampus comes for the bad ones. Only little kids and other demons can see it."

"Okay. Hence the reason why Spike can see it but we can't," I say.

"How come you can't see it?" Willow asks Anya.

"Well, I'm human now, and an adult, obviously. I saw one or two, when I was a vengeance demon. They're really very ugly."

"What do they want?" I ask, suddenly glad we brought Anya along.

"Naughty children. They put them in their basket and take them back to hell with them, where they beat them horribly," she explains with a shrug.

"Not on my watch," I say.

"But... Buffy, how are you going to fight something you can't see?" Willow asks. "Remember the Lei-Ach demons? And... Marcie?"

Huh. I’d almost forgotten about Marcie. Of course, forgetting about Marcie was the whole problem to begin with.

"I've been practicing," I tell her. "I can do this. But not here... we need someplace with no people around."

"Good luck," Spike says, glancing around. "'S like a bloody cattle drive in here, innit?"

"Oh!" Tara says. "There's that store... um... Circe's Chalice, I think it was called."

"The one that went out of business?" I ask. They had a great close-out sale.

"Yeah... we-we passed it earlier. They're remodeling it, so you can get in, but there's nobody in there shopping, and it's right around the corner," she says.

"That'll work. How do we get this Crampy thing there?"

"Leave that to me," Spike says, grinning with the prospect of a fight on his hands. "Which way's this place?"

Tara leads us back and we deposit the bags beside the wall outside. Anya easily agrees to stand guard over our stuff. Hey... I may have to fight demons while Christmas shopping, but no way am I going to ditch my purchases. "Any idea how to kill this thing?" I ask her.

"Not exactly," she says. "Try cutting its head off. That usually works."

Right. I have no weapons and she wants me to cut the head off something I can't see. I can do this.

"What do you want us to do?" Willow asks.

"Whatever you can think of that would help," I say.

"No magic'n me, though," Spike says. "Don't need another accidental engagement, yeah?"

I put Willow and Tara in position by the doors to the store, then head back with Spike, pushing our way through to the front of the crowd.

"Problem," I tell him as we get closer. "Skylights."

He glances up. "This is close enough," he says. We're still about fifteen feet away, a velvet rope with a line of kids and parents between us and the base of the platform. This close, however, I can feel the demon up on the platform above. Well, at least Spike wasn't lying.

"What are you going to do?" I ask, suddenly suspicious. He just flashes me a boyish grin, which only serves to make me more nervous.

"Just keep up, Slayer. When it happens, it'll be fast." He turns and stares up at the platform, keeping just outside of the little bit of sunlight still coming in from overhead.

"Oi! Krampy-Claus!" he yells, his deep voice booming out over the noise of the crowd. Everyone near us suddenly turns to stare. I try not to shrink back into the crowd behind him. "Yeah, that's right! I'm talking to you, you ugly, hairy-arsed bastard!"

Up on the platform, Mall Santa is looking shocked and frantic, his mouth gawping behind his fake beard.

"Think you're so special, up there, judging who's naughty and nice? Making little kiddies cry? You're a sick, twisted, horny old pervert, is what you are. Gotta get your kicks spanking little boys and girls, and stuffing 'em down your basket? Wanker. You want bad? 'M as bad as they come. Why don't you get down here and face me, you bloody poofter? Or you too cowardly to face a real bad boy?"

The mall has gone absolutely silent within our little circle, and the crowd has drawn back from Spike as if he's diseased, leaving me standing beside him a little awkwardly. Above us, Mall Santa is shaking, he's so mad, and the elf is staring at him in horror. Suddenly the elf yanks the kid who's still sitting frozen on Santa's lap off of him, and passes him back to his mother. "You sicko," he hisses to Mall Santa. "Somebody call security," he yells.

Security is already on their way, but with the massive amounts of people they can't get to us easily. I can hear them pushing through the crowd, thankfully from the other direction. "Gonna need an escape path, pet. Can't run through this crowd without boiling my brains," Spike mutters, then goes back to shouting obscenities and insults up at the dais.

"C'mon, you bleedin' coward! You fuckin' piss chugger! What was your mother? A three-legged goat? Gonna sit up there and chew your cud you turd-licking, pox-faced, manky son of a—now, Slayer!"

I turn and begin shoving through the crowd with Spike hot on my heels. The people miraculously seem to part around us, clearing the way. Nobody, apparently, wants to be in Spike's path. When I manage to glance back he's got a maniacal grin on his face. I can feel the demon behind us, catching up. It's shoving through people as they close up behind us, and I can track it's path just by watching people flying out of it's way.

Guess it really didn't like Spike insulting its mother.

"Remind me to have a talk with you later about your battle tactics," I tell him as we run for the store.

"Oi. Worked, didn't it?"

"Yes, but you've just taught about seventy kids a few words even their parents don't know," I say.

"'M expanding their vocabularies," he says, utterly unrepentant, tearing past me once we're in the clear again.

Willow's propped the door to the empty store open and we speed in, all the way to the back. There's a bunch of two-by-fours, and some construction tools laying around, so I'm not totally without a weapon if I need one.

I feel the demon enter the store at the same time as Spike yells, "Incoming!"

Willow shuts the door, leaving just me and Spike to fight this thing. Probably of the good. This is the first time I've tried this with the lights on since the Leia demons. In my head, I try to sort through the tingles. There's the Spike ones, which are so familiar they're easy enough to ignore. Then there's the slimy ones rolling off my invisible demon friend. He's advancing on Spike, who's backing away a little, giving me room to move. Trying to focus on where the demon is, but not being able to see him when I can see everything else, is a little harder than it is in a pitch black room.

Spike starts swinging and kicking, and it's almost like watching someone practice their moves, except I can hear the blows connecting. I grab a nearby two-by-four off the stack and swing it at the demon. Spike jumps back.

"Watch where you're poking that, Slayer. Don't really fancy getting staked again this week," he grunts.

I swing again, and this time I connect. I feel the shock go through the wood, then hear a crash as the demon flies across the room into a wall, leaving a sizable dent.

"He's comin' for you," Spike warns, and I feel the demon approaching at a rush. I drop into the defensive position I've been practicing with Mr. Gordo, and let the demon close in. Once I can feel him in front of me, the fight gets a little easier. He's clearly not used to someone fighting back, either. His attacks are sloppy and messy, but he does manage to rake my arm with his claws, tearing my sleeve and leaving bloody tracks down my arm.

"Little help here, Spike," I shout.

"On it," he says, and seems to appear out of nowhere with a hand saw. He loops it around what I'm guessing is the demon's throat and grabs it from the other side, digging the blade into the demon's neck. "Kick it," he yells.

I aim a high kick for the edge of the saw, and between the two of us, we manage to force the saw through its neck. There's a squelching sound, then a couple of separate thuds. Spike drops the saw, grinning down at the floor. "And here I thought shopping would be borin'," he says with a laugh.

The demon tingles are gone now. I kick warily at where I heard the body fall and manage to connect with something. "Great. Invisible dead demon," I say.

"Don't worry," Spike says. "Lots of helpful little demons live in the mall after dark. Lots of trash to clean up and eat. Something'll take care of it tonight."

I shrug. Body disposal is so not my specialty. "Check its basket," I say, remembering Anya's description. "Let's make sure it hadn't already gotten take out."

Spike kneels and opens the basket. I giggle. "What?" he says, looking up sharply.

"You look like a mime," I tell him. What with the all black clothes and the white skin under the fluorescent lights, and the opening of invisible baskets, he really does. He just rolls his eyes, then looks in.

"Empty," he says.

"Must not be a lot of bad kids in Sunnydale," I say with a shrug.

"This is the Hellmouth, pet. Likely we just got there fast enough," Spike says.

The door opens and Willow and Tara peek in. "Is it over?" Willow asks. "Is it dead?"

"Yep," I tell her, kicking at the corpse again. "One invisible dead demon."

They edge in, staring at.... well... the floor. "Watch the head there, Glinda," Spike warns, pointing at a spot that looks just like the rest of the floor. Tara's eyes widen and she edges around it.

***


It's not ‘til we head back out into the mall that I remember the angry mob we'd left behind. However Spike's incident seems to have been forgotten. I frown. "I figured we'd have an audience," I say. "Spike wasn't exactly subtle."

"Oh!" Willow exclaims. "We did a 'Don't Look Here' spell. I got the idea from Marcie. Anybody passing the store would get the sudden urge to look somewhere else. Neat, huh?"

Spike frowns. "So anybody who saw something would just look away and forget they saw it?" he asks.

"Yeah. Pretty cool, huh?" Willow says. "And you don't really even need ingredients. It's more of a willpower thing."

Tara grins and nudges her girlfriend. "And you're all about the Will Power," she says and they both giggle over the bad pun.

"Can you counter it?" he asks, frowning.

Spike's interested in magic? Since when? Normally he's Mr. Cynic when it comes to magic.

"I guess," Willow says, pouting, clearly not liking the idea of someone breaking her spell.

"If... if you knew exactly what you were looking for," Tara explains. "And really, really wanted to find it."

"Willpower thing," Willow says.

"Why are you interested?" I ask suspiciously. He gives me an innocent look.

"Thought maybe I could have one done on my crypt, Slayer," he says, rubbing his chest wound. "Keep angry bastards from kicking my door in and staking me when I'm minding my own business."

I roll my eyes. "Whatever, Spike. Guys, I'm beat. Let's go collect Anya and our bags and give Xander a call so we can get out of here," I say.

That plan is met with unbridled enthusiasm.

***


The sun has pretty much set by the time we make it to the mall exit. Spike leaves us just inside the door, dropping our bags by our feet and heading out with a mock salute and a "Later, Slayer."

"What was that all about?" Willow asks, as he disappears. "Was Spike actually... being friendly?"

"Maybe it's the Christmas spirit?" Tara says.

"Demons don't celebrate Christmas," Anya says. "Well... sometimes we give presents, but they usually involve, you know, body parts. And the food is good, not to mention all the greed, depression, anger, and angst that generally accompanies the holiday season. But most demons don't bother with it, vampires especially."

"Too many religious overtones, maybe," Willow suggests.

"So, if not the Christmas spirit, then what?" I ask, still scowling out the mall doors at the platinum head that’s disappearing into the distant shadows.

"Maybe...maybe he's just trying to be helpful," Tara says, looking thoughtful. "It must get lonely, being the only one of your kind."

"Tara, we live in Sunnydale," I tell her. "There are almost more vampires than there are trees."

"Not chipped ones," she points out. "Not ones that are leaning toward good."

"Good? Tara... Spike's not good," Willow says. "He's tried to kill all of us several times."

Tara frowns. "I... I don't know how he was before. I never knew him be-before the chip. But... his aura is different. It's not... it's not like other demons. There's light in it, and it's growing. Not that I have a lot of experience with other vampires but...maybe.. maybe he's changing?"

We all think that over. I think of him muttering under his breath that he could be helpful. Of him agreeing to carry our stuff. Of him helping with the Krampus.

Spike, changing? Maybe. If any demon could, it would probably be Spike. He's amazingly adaptable for a vampire.

But do I really believe it?

Not so much. Demons don't change.






 
 
Chapter #16 - Chapter 15: Silent Night
 
Author's Notes: Thank you all for the lovely reviews on the last chapter. All I have to say about this one is… it’s fluff. Loads of fluff with some UST. However… fluffiness aside, Buffy’s not going to change her mind overnight. She’s in no way ready for a lightbulb moment. She’s got to come to some realizations all on her own, and I fully intend to let her.

That doesn’t mean I’m not going to enjoy every single UST laden moment before then, however.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Credits: All me again… though one of the scenes is canon derived. I’ll let you figure out which. Oh, and music credits go to Dr. Seuss.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner by Phuriedae






Chapter 15
Silent Night


"Can demons change?" I ask Mr. Gordo a few nights later, after a sparring session. We're sprawled on the bed again, once more with some distance between us, trying to catch our breath. Well, I am. He's just panting because he's weird.

Yes, he taps lazily against the headboard. I try to imagine how he must be laying so that he can easily reach it and come up with a blank. Hard to picture someone you've never seen. Every so often I'll try to come up with a mental image of him, but it always fails to stick, as if somehow I know it's not the right one. I've imagined him looking like a frat boy, like a musician, like a nerd. I try to imagine the kind of human he might have once been, to be such a... friendly vampire.

Sometimes I think he must have been a little awkward as a human, which is why he's a little weird as a vampire. Maybe quiet and shy, which is why he can't talk.

Or won't.

Sometimes I want to ask which it is, but I'm always sure I'll be disappointed by the answer. If he can't talk, it means he never will, and I'll never get to have an actual conversation with him—which, yeah, I know I'm not supposed to want to have a chat with a vampire, but sometimes when I'm talking to him I can tell there's things he wants to say.

If he won't talk... well that's disappointing, too. Because it means he doesn't want to talk to me.

But if that were the case, wouldn't he always just come in and go to sleep and not try to communicate?

So I'm pretty sure it's can't.

But it might be won't.

So I don't ask.

"See," I say, "here's the sitch. Spike, my annoying neighborhood vampire who I can't dust because he's... well... handicapped? I ran into him at the mall the other day and... we actually managed to spend a few hours together without trying to kill each other. Not, you know, together together, I mean. Anya, Willow and Tara were there along with about a half a million Christmas shoppers. And even though we basically made him cart around all our stuff... he wasn't as much of a pain as he usually is. Tara thinks that he's... changing. 'Cause of his handicap, maybe. So... do you think that that's possible?"

He's quiet for a while then taps Yes, in such a lazy way that I'm almost certain he means "sure, why not?"

"Because after we left, I realized he'd left his stupid new shirts with me. And I know I should take them over to him, but... I really don't wanna. Because the Spike I'm used to? There's no way he's not going to make a thing about it. And right now I so can't deal with Spike being an asshole. I just know I'll end up punching him in his smug, arrogant face. Or crying. He's going to make some dumb comment about Riley, and... and I don't want to talk about Riley right now. Every time I even think about Riley lately I want to cry or hit something. Usually both."

I sigh. Mr. Gordo is still.

"But he was kind of okay, the other day. Not, you know, the kind of guy I ever want to be best pals with or anything, but he was... tolerable. So maybe it'll be okay. And... well... it's Christmas. And you're supposed to be nice to people on Christmas. Not that Spike is people. Ugh! Maybe I'll just wait until he comes by to get them and then I can just ... except my mom wouldn't like that. She likes Spike. Which is weird, because nobody likes Spike. He's... cocky and arrogant and ... way too conceited about how he looks. I mean, okay, so yes, for a vampire... he's good looking, but he doesn't have to parade around all the time like he knows it. And his mouth? Never shuts. Not even when he sticks his foot in it. ... and why do people say that? 'Stick your foot in your mouth'? Who does that? And what does it have to do with saying something dumb?"

Mr. Gordo gives a short, soft chuckle.

"You're laughing at me?"

Yes.

I sigh. "I should just take Spike his stupid shirts, shouldn't I?"

Yes.

"I'm getting lessons in manners from a vampire. The Watchers' Council would be beside themselves.... and what does that mean? Beside yourself? How can you be beside yourself? Unless you're Xander and you get split into two people, of course."

Mr. Gordo chuckles again.

"Weirdo vampire," I mutter.

***


Christmas Eve is freezing. Literally. The guy on the weather says that this is a record low, and we might even see snow by tomorrow—which reminds me too much of Angel. And angsting over exes is so not a great way to spend the holiday.

Instead I help my mom clean up the house, then try to help as much as I can with dinner. She still tires easily, after the surgery, but she's doing much better. She even got dressed up.

Giles arrives early, like a big tweedy Santa Claus bearing wine and presents. Willow and Tara are next, both with covered dishes and more gifts, and the others are coming up the walk as I take Willow's coat. Xander's got gifts and Anya is frowning dubiously at some kind of plastic wrapped thing held in her arms like a brick.

"It's fruitcake," she says, smiling brightly as she hands it to me. "I don't understand why anyone would want hard bread with bits of dried fruit in it, but according to all the magazines and books it’s traditional." She shrugs.

"Thanks," I tell her. Even with my Slayer strength the fruitcake seems heavy. "I'll just... um... find somewhere for it."

By the time we've arranged all the gifts under the tree, dinner is almost ready. Willow and Tara are describing our Crampy attack at the mall the other day for Giles.

"And none of you could actually see it?" he asks, polishing his glasses. "Except Spike?"

"How did you know he wasn't lying?" Xander asks.

"I could feel it," I pipe up. "Demon tinglies. And then it was pretty obvious when we were fighting it. I mean... not obvious in the visible way, but in the I just punched something and it hurt kind of way."

"It's really not so unusual," Anya says, fussing with some place settings. "There are lots of demons that are only visible under special circumstances or to certain kinds of people. Krampus are pretty rare, though. I'd be surprised it was here, but, you know: Hellmouth."

"How is it that you recognized it from Spike's description, Anya?" Giles asks. "I'd heard of them before, but I'm not certain I'd have known what it was so quickly."

She looks up, waving a hand, "Oh, they weren't really uncommon where I'm from. I mean, where I was from before I was a vengeance demon, that is. Local legends. You'd recognize Santa Claus from a verbal description even if you hadn't seen a picture of him for... well... a long time, wouldn't you?"

Giles nods. "We seem to be having an influx of demons from northern Europe lately. This thing, the Mara demon..."

"Could be coincidence," Willow says.

"Or maybe we've become a wacky tourist destination for European demon travelers," Xander says. "I wonder if they have to visit a time-share?"

"Bad enough we have to deal with the local demons, do we really need them shipped in from out of the country?" I ask.

Mom comes in, carrying the last of the food dishes. "Everybody ready to eat?"

There's a rush to get to the table, and then we're a little too preoccupied with stuffing ourselves with Christmasy goodness to worry about demons for a while.

***


After dinner Xander declares that he's going to barf if he eats one more thing, and then manages to put away two whole pieces of—okay, slightly burned—pie.

Then we all head to the living room for presents. Even though this year nobody is going away for Christmas Day (or Chanukah, in Willow's case), we decided we liked our traditional Christmas Eve thing. This is Tara's first Christmas with the Scoobies, so she gets to open the first gift.

"Oh, it's beautiful," she says, her eyes gleaming as she pets the soft fabric of the new messenger bag Willow got her.

After that things go great. Mom loves her blouse and jacket, and the pretty necklace and earring set I got to go with them. For Anya, I got a gorgeous new purse, and gift certificates to some of her favorite stores, which seem to make her even happier than the purse. Giles likes his sweater, and Xander drools a little when he opens the DVD set. I found a really pretty quartz pendant necklace for Willow and a basket with some of her favorite bath stuff from that online place she likes so much. I wasn't sure what to get for Tara, but in the end, Xander and Anya helped me find a great gift.

"It's a Scooby-Doo necklace," I tell her as she opens the little box and looks at the tiny gold pendant shaped like the cartoon dog. "So you know you're one of us. You're family now."

There are tears in her eyes when she hugs me, and I feel like I've made a new best friend.

Afterward there is eggnog and some slightly tipsy caroling before everyone heads home for the night. I slide my coat and gloves on with everyone else.

"You're going out?" Willow asks, the last one to leave.

"Just a quick patrol," I tell her. "Need to work off some of the food."

After she heads down the walk to catch up with Tara, mom hands me the handles of a paper bag.

"I added something," she says. "I know you said he doesn't celebrate Christmas but I thought he might not mind a present."

I frown into the bag, then smile for her sake. "I'm sure he'll appreciate them," I tell her, then take a deep breath.

"Be nice, Buffy," she said. "It's Christmas. Peace on earth and goodwill toward men. Even if they are vampires."

"Right. Santa Buffy officially on duty," I give her a hug. "I'll be back soon. Now, inside with you, young lady, before you freeze."

***


The walk to the cemetery is cold, but peaceful. Like Halloween, Christmas is one of those holidays when vampires and other demons keep to themselves, so I don't even have to use my stake by the time I reach Spike's crypt. I'm half hoping he's out, and I can sneak in and leave the bag without him noticing...

...but no such luck. Even from outside I can hear the faint sounds of music coming from the crypt. I pause to listen, wondering what Spike would be listening to on Christmas Eve. I'm kinda expecting to hear some punk thing, or the Pogues singing Fairytale of New York, so I'm surprised when it's familiar.

"...You're a monster, Mister Grinch. Your heart's an empty hole. Your brain is full of spiders; you've got garlic in your soul, Mister Grrrrrrinch. I wouldn't touch you with a... thirty-nine-and-a-half-foot pole!..."

Well, at least it's appropriate.

I contemplate kicking in the door, but it's Christmas and I promised. I can't quite bring myself to knock though. Instead I just push it open and step in. Spike looks around in surprise from where he's sitting sprawled in his chair in front of the TV, with one leg tossed over the chair arm. There's a bottle of wine open on the floor beside him, and he's writing in a battered up book propped on his thigh. He's ... barefoot?

Huh. Spike feet. For some reason I figured his feet were big-ugly-boot-shaped, but they're actually kind of... nice. Long and white with nice toes. Never really thought about it before, but...vampires have toes. Freaky.

"Buffy," he says, frowning at me over the back of the chair. "What...Shouldn't you be tucked in bed, dreaming of sugar plums and waiting for old St. Nick?"

"He came and went already," I tell him with a shrug. "We did presents tonight."

On the TV the Grinch is slinking through a Who's living room and plucking ornaments off trees. Spike glances at the TV then gets up and turns the volume way down. When he turns around I realize what else is bare.

Whoa. Barefoot Spike, now bare-chested Spike. He's got his old red shirt on, but it's unbuttoned and there's nothing underneath it. Well... not nothing.

Okay... so half of me is all with the ewww, but, the other half? Guh. Now I know what Willow and Anya were talking about. He's all... ripply and chiseled and... whoa. I can safely attest to the fact that not all vampires are built like that. Why wasn't Angel built like that?

I shake my head and try not to think about shirtless Spike even though he's standing there, staring at me like I'm some new species of Slayer he hasn't seen before.

"What?" I ask.

"Was gonna ask you the same, Slayer. It's a bloody holiday, don't you get the night off?" he asks, frowning.

I shrug, suddenly uncomfortable telling bare-chested Spike that I came all the way out here to see him. "Well, you know the Hellmouth. Evil never sleeps."

He gives me a funny look, his jaw working like he wants to say something. "Sure it does, pet," he says finally. He fidgets for a moment, as uncomfortable as me. "You gonna tell me why you're here or keep me guessing?" he asks. "Really don't fancy spending tonight with a broken nose, just so you know."

"You left these," I say, holding out the bag. "At the mall the other day."

Warily he steps forward, but he doesn't take the bag yet. "Forgot," he says, then he looks at me as if he’s confused. "Figured you'd leave 'em there."

Really? Why would he think that?

Well... okay, I can see why he might think that.

"You paid for them," I say feeling awkward. "Besides, you helped carry all our stuff around without complaining... much. And you did help with the demon."

"Right," he says, still staring at the bag as if it's a stake. He glances up at me, cautious. "'Bout that..."

"Please don't ask me for money, Spike. Not tonight. The First Bank of Buffy is officially closed for the holidays," I tell him, exasperated.

"Wasn't," he says, and the look on his face is surprisingly honest. "Swear I wasn't."

"Then what?" I ask.

"Just... I was useful, right? With the demon and the fighting and all?" I can't quite figure out the look on his face.

"Yeah," I say cautiously.

He rubs his fingers through his hair, and I realize that the gel that normally holds it in place is mostly gone, leaving him with a mess of tousled white curls. His hair like that is oddly... adorable. Then I realize what I'm seeing. This is Spike without his armor. No duster or big ugly boots, no carefully controlled curls or cigarette dangling out of his sneering mouth, and very little attitude. Somehow I've caught him off guard and he's oddly vulnerable like this.

I'm not sure I like it.

I'm much more comfortable with Bad Ass Vampire Spike... or Irritated and Impotent Spike. This Spike is too... too much like a man, not a demon; and I don't know what to do with that.

"Just thought...," he sighs and sucks in his cheeks so they're even more hollow than usual. "Just thought maybe... you'd let me in on the fight sometimes, if you want some extra muscle."

"Why?"

His head comes up.

"Why what?"

"Why do you want to help? For money?" I ask.

"No," he says, defensively, then thinks better of it. "Not that I'd turn it down, if you offered. Can always use a bit of dosh but—"

"Why then?" I demand.

He growls and kicks at an empty beer bottle on the floor in frustration. "Because I'm tired of feeling bloody useless! Sitting here, night after night, taking down a demon or two on my own... it's not the same."

"Same as what?" I ask.

He takes a prowling step forward, then stops himself.

"Being... in the thick of it. Being... part of something. Doing something," he says. "I used to go where I wanted, did what I bloody well pleased. Had plans and things to do. Evil, yeah, but... things. Now I've got soddin’ daytime TV and...," he stops, staring at me, his nostrils flaring. "I could be useful, right?"

"You want to be one of the good guys?" I ask, incredulous.

He snorts and rolls his eyes. "Not like it'd be the first time, eh? Seem to remember a similar conversation a few years back."

I want to save the world...

"That's not the same," I tell him. "You're not talking about a one time truce and trade here, Spike. How do I know you won't turn on me the first chance you get? You and I both know that the minute you get that chip out you're gonna come after me again."

He slumps back against a coffin, deflated. "Right," he says. "Forgot. Nevermind. Was a stupid idea in the first place. Knew you wouldn't want me kicking about and getting in your way." He wanders over to his chair and picks up the wine bottle, then takes a long swig. "Just hate feeling..."

He doesn't finish the sentence but I know what he means. Useless sucks. I think about what Tara suggested the other day, and Mr. Gordo's assertion that he thought demons can change, that Spike might be changing. Suddenly it seems... possible.

"I'm not saying no," I tell him. His eyes slide my way, like a wary animal. "I'm not. I just... let's see how things go, okay? I need to think about it, talk to Giles and the others. You were helpful the other day, but that doesn't really make up for years and years of trying to kill us, Spike."

"Haven't tried in awhile," he says.

"Hello? Adam?"

"Wasn't really trying then, either. Wanted the chip out. He wanted me to split you and your Slayerettes up and pass on some info. Not the same," he says, his voice getting bitter. "Wanker never meant to take the chip out anyhow. Played me like a bloody puppet."

"What about that Initiative doctor a few months ago? You tried to kill me then, as soon as you thought the chip was out you went straight for my throat."

He mutters something.

"What was that?"

"I said: I wasn't. Gonna. Kill. You," he says a little defensively. "Just... was gonna... I was frustrated, alright? And... 'm sorry 'bout that."

Whoa.

Did...? Did Spike just apologize?

I glance up at the ceiling. Clearly there's some big cosmic joke being played on me.

"You needn't look so shocked, Slayer," he says wryly. "I'm capable of being sorry. Just...don't usually bother."

Okay.

"Alright," I say, shaking my head and hoping reality stops warping. "Look, it's Christmas Eve. Can we just... I'll think about it, okay?"

"Okay," he says. "Not asking to be one of your Merry Men, just so you know. Just freelance muscle, for when you need it. Or... you know, information. Only without the nose punchin’." He glowers at me, like he thinks that'll make a difference.

I chuckle a little. "We'll see," I say, rolling my eyes. On the TV, behind him, the Grinch is listening to the Whos down in Whoville singing. Spike walks toward me slowly, then holds out a hand. "What?"

"Gonna hand over my honestly acquired goods, Slayer?"

Oh. Right. The bag.

I hold it out, and our hands can't help but brush as he takes it from me. His skin is cold, since the crypt is cold, and static sparks loudly as our fingers touch. Just this tiny little burst of electric from his skin to mine, and we both freeze, staring at each other. In the flickering candlelight and the backglow from the TV, his normally blue eyes are so dark they're nearly black.

Then he gently pulls the bag from my hand and frowns, peering in. "What's this?"

"Mom," I say, trying to shake off my intense and entirely wiggy new awareness of the vampire in front of me. "She thought you could use a few spares."

He pulls up three new black t-shirts in surprise, his face softening and a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. When he speaks his voice is a little rough. "Tell her... tell your mum I said thanks."

"I will." I turn and head for the door. Just as I pull it open, he speaks.

"Happy Christmas, Buffy," he says. When I look back at him he's smiling, and it's a friendly smile that I can't help but return.

"Merry Christmas, Spike," I say, and head back out into the cold.








 
 
Chapter #17 - Chapter 16: Cold Snap
 
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Credits: More original stuff.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner by Phuriedae





Chapter 16

Cold Snap


"Spike wants to be useful? How...," Giles frowns as he polishes his glasses.

"Bizarre?" I suggest.

"Quite," he says. "I had suggested to him... well, it was quite some time ago, not long after he'd gotten the chip, as a matter of fact, that h-he might have some higher purpose. Perhaps a chance to be something more than just a ...vampire."

"Spike?"

"Yes, well, it seemed a good suggestion at the time. However, he was rather emphatic about his antipathy." Giles pauses as he rearranges books on the shelf. You can take the librarian out of the library, but you can't.. well... "He has helped a bit, recently. When he brought me the Mara demon—"

"What? I thought Riley brought it over for you to look at?" I'm surprised. Riley never said anything about not taking it over, and I'd just assumed when Giles talked about it that he had.

"No, Spike brought it by. Barged right in and dropped it on my couch, as a matter of fact," he said. "H-he was quite insistent about knowing what it was, too. I paid him, then he became angry and left."

Huh.

"He got angry that you paid him?"

"What?" Giles looks up, his eyes a little blurred like they get when he's particularly deep in thought. "Oh, no. I'm not certain why he was angry, exactly."

"VMS," I say with a shrug.

"Pardon?"

"Like... you know, PMS, only for Vampires? He's always moody." Giles looks like he's going to choke.

"Ah, well, yes... I-I just wonder if, as volatile as he is, if he might not be more of a liability than... asset."

He's got a point. And this is Spike we're talking about.

"In addition," he goes on, "there's the matter of the chip. Even if it is... er... modifying his behavior, should it ever stop working there's no guarantee that he might not revert to form. It's much like putting a mass murderer in jail, I would think. I'm not sure that he could be... rehabilitated to such an extent that it would overcome his natural instincts and urges. He is a predator, Buffy."

"I know," I say. "A really annoying predator. Like a hyena—only you know, not, because I so don't need another hyena pack on my hands. But what if Tara and M—what if she's right? What if he is changing?"

"I'm not sure we can take that chance, Buffy," Giles says. "Perhaps, in time, if he proves himself..."

"Yeah. Although, some extra muscle now and then might not be so bad," I point out.

He gives me a searching look. "Use your best judgment, Buffy. Just don't forget that, at heart, Spike is a killer. More importantly, he's a killer with a taste for Slayers."

"Oh, believe me," I say, thinking of the conversation I had with Spike at the Bronze a few months back, and the look on his face when he described killing that Chinese Slayer. "Got that message loud and clear."

***


With Christmas over and no major demon activity happening, the days sort of start to blend together. During the day I run errands for mom, get ready for school to start, and train at the Magic Box. At night, Mr. Gordo and I spar. It's the day before New Years Eve when it suddenly hits me: Riley's not coming back.

I'm sitting in the Magic Box, chatting with Willow and Xander, about to go in the back room to workout... and suddenly I know.

"Oh," I say, staring at the hand wraps I'm holding loosely. "Oh."

"What oh?" Willow asks, looking concerned.

"Oh," I say again, because, really what do you say when you realize something like that? "He's... he's gone, isn't he?"

And then there are tears.

Riley’s gone. We’ll never spar again, or go dancing at the Bronze. He’ll never meet up with me to go patrolling. He won’t be waiting for me when I get home, or stopping by the Magic Box to see if I want to hang out. And, so, yeah, maybe we hadn’t done a lot of that stuff in a while and maybe when we did it wasn’t always that great, but... he was still here. I wasn’t alone.

And tomorrow night is New Years Eve and they say that the person you’re with on New Years is the person you’re going to be with for the rest of the year, right? Only Riley’s not here, and he’s not gonna be here. I’m going to be alone, just like I always am.

Willow hugs me and Xander looks uncomfortable in that I-don't-know-what-to-do-with-a-crying-Buffy way.

"It'll be okay," Willow says. "You...you'll see. Maybe... maybe he'll really miss it here and want to come back. You've just..." She looks at Xander helplessly.

"Give it time, Buff," he says. "I know it hurts but..."

He doesn't say what we're both thinking. He doesn’t say that Riley’s not coming back, that I blew it. We don't talk about that night in the warehouse. He doesn't say that I didn't love Riley enough to keep him, and I don't say that he's right.

Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt, though.

***


New Years is pretty awful in that fifth-wheel kinda way. The Bronze is packed, and my friends are having a blast dancing. Xander dances with me a couple of times, though I can tell he’s only doing it because Anya let him. I end up leaving before midnight, telling the others that I need some fresh air. I think they know that I’m thinking of Riley, because they don’t argue.

The walk home is cold, and my eyes water the whole way.

When I get in, Mom’s asleep already. Her medicine tends to make her tired easily. I think about staying up and watching the ball drop in Times Square on TV, but in the end I give up and go to bed.

Mr. Gordo is waiting for me. We spar, and for awhile, everything is okay.

***


The cold snap we're under is looking more and more like it's going to stick around. At night, on patrol, I have to bundle up more than usual. The vampires, of course, don't really care about the cold, though most of the demons don't seem to like it any more than I do. Mostly I catch them when they're trying to start fires in trash cans to keep warm. I can't really blame them. At about one in the morning a trash can fire sounds like a really good idea.

Mom waits up most nights with hot chocolate at the ready for when I get in. You know, there's something to be said for still living at home.

“How was patrol?” she asks me one night, while I’m trying to thaw my fingers around my mug.

“Boring,” I say. “Cold. Even the vampires are smart enough not to come out in this weather.”

“Couldn’t you take the night off?” she asks. “I’m sure Mr. Giles wouldn’t mind, since it’s so cold.”

“No such luck. Did you know that there were three Slayers in Siberia? Before thermal underwear?” I ask, swirling my mug a little and watching the foam on it twist into weird patterns.

She laughs, then studies me over the rim of her own mug. “You miss Riley,” she says, after a minute. Maybe moms have x-ray vision. Or mind reading powers.

“I just... I know it used to annoy me, having to watch out for him on patrol, but...I miss the company,” I say. “Is that wrong?”

“No,” she says. “It’s just human.” She sighs, then smiles. "You ready for school to start next week?"

Oh. Yay. Subject change.

"I never thought I'd say this, but... bring on the books," I say. "Willow, Tara, and I went and picked up our textbooks today. Oh! And I got color coordinated notebooks." And I’m not going to think about the fact that I met Riley in the bookstore and almost killed him when I dropped a pile of Psych books on his head.

Well, I’m not going to think about it much.

Maybe that was a bad omen.

"Scholarly fashion never goes out of style," she says. "I'm so sorry you had to miss so much school last semester, honey."

"Not me," I say, and mean it. "I would have spent all my class time worrying. I'm glad I stayed home with you. Besides, it was nice having Mom-Buffy-Bonding Time."

"Still," she says, "you must be excited about your new classes."

"Yep. I'm re-taking history from last semester. I never figured I'd be into all those dates and names but its kinda fascinating. And I've got this history of art course with Tara. Oh, and poetry."

"Poetry, Buffy?" She looks surprised.

"I happen to like poetry,” I tell her. “It's kinda romantic. And short. I like short, romantic things."

***


"Spike, what are you doing?" I ask the next night when I find him on patrol.

"Patrolling," he says, not even bothering to look at me.

"Since when does patrolling mean sitting on top of a crypt and scribbling in some old book?" His head comes up quick and his eyes narrow.

"This old thing?" he says, holding it up.

I roll my eyes. "Never mind," I tell him. "Probably your Evil To Do list or something."

"Not exactly," he says, swinging his legs over the edge of the mausoleum and jumping down lightly beside me. "Want a peek?"

"At something of yours? Never," I tell him. ‘Cause looking at Spike’s stuff is totally out of the question.

And I’m so not thinking about his abs. That would be wrong.

He's scowling at me now, back in full Bad Ass mode. Thank God.

"One of these days, Slayer, you're gonna open up your eyes and see what's right in front of your face.”

"Vampire," I tell him.

"What?"

"Vampire," I say again, pulling out my stake.

He takes a wild step back to get out of arms’ reach and runs right into the vampire that was rushing up behind him.

"See?" I tell him, shoving him out of the way and punching the new guy. The vampire goes flying back, then bounces to its feet. It rushes at me again, and I kick it, just as Spike pops back up. He spins it around and punches it a couple of times, then pushes it towards me. I stake it as it comes my way and watch as it crumbles to dust.

Spike snorts and kicks the grass where it landed. "Stupid git," he says.

"Huh?" Shouldn't he be like, sympathetic toward his dead... relation?

"Fledges don't have the brains they were born with," he says. "Should've been able to sense me halfway across the bleedin' graveyard. 'Course, they'll always come after you, what with that lovely heartbeat of yours, but he should've at least hesitated."

"What? To see if you were going to eat me?" Ewwwwwww.

"Well, yeah," he says. "You don't go chasing after someone else's steak if they're about to eat it, do you?"

"So... what? Vampires have... table manners?"

He smirks. "Not baby vamps," he says. "They're sort of like baby humans. For the first twenty or thirty years they'll stick just about anything in their mouths to see what tastes good. Probably explains why Willy's doing such a boomin' business with exotic animal blood. Otter blood, by the way... disgusting. Tastes like fish." He makes a face.

"Spike..."

"Yeah?"

"This conversation is disgusting."

"Oh," he frowns. "Sorry. Just passing the time, Slayer." He falls in on my left as I start to walk away. I almost tell him to leave, but being annoyed with him sort of takes my mind off the fact that I'm freezing. And how pathetic is it that I’d rather be annoyed with Spike than cold and alone out here?

"How's your mum?" he asks.

I glance at him, surprised. "Good," I tell him. "She gets tired a lot, but not as much anymore. She's getting better."

He nods. "Glad to hear it," he says. "Wasn't right, her being sick." He sounds ... sincere, and it’s wigging me out.

"Why are we talking?" I ask.

"Better than shivering," he says.

"I didn't think vampires felt the cold," I say, confused.

"I can feel it. Just .... doesn't mean anything. Your nose is red, Slayer," he says with a grin. "And your teeth are chattering loud enough to wake the dead. Ought to be inside, night like this."

"Tell that to the other vampires," I grouch. "I've got three suspicious newbies to check out before I can go thaw."

"That new plot over in Shady Rest—Martin something-or-other—on your list?"

"Yeah," I ask suspiciously.

"Then you've only got two. I dusted him on my way back here," he says, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets and hunting up his lighter and a pack of cigarettes.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?"

He stops and gives me a narrow-eyed look. The flame from the Zippo lights up his face for a moment, then he exhales a stream of smoke.

"You don't," he says, finally. "But there's a bloody big hole in the ground where he clawed his way up, and a fine coating of new-fallen dust on the grass. If you want to get out your magnifying glass, Nancy Drew, go ahead and check up on it. It's your tail that's gonna freeze, not mine."

I decide I'm better off not responding to that. With a huff of breath that's almost as white as his cigarette smoke, I turn and keep going. Moving is good. Standing is bad. Standing makes Buffy toes into tiny toe-sicles. If this weather keeps up, I'm gonna need snow boots.

Maybe I'll skip Shady Rest tonight.

I finally find the new plot and sit down on a headstone to wait. The cold seeps through the stone and then through my pants, but maybe if I sit here long enough it’ll warm up. It’s a pretty night, if I can ignore the wind and the way it makes my eyes water and my nose want to run.

Glamorous, slaying is not.

Spike wanders over and studies the loose dirt and sod over the grave. Clearly bored, he bounces up and down on it a couple of times, packing the sod down tighter. I could send him away, I guess, but being out here alone sort of sucks.

"Don't think this one's coming up," he tells me after awhile. Actually I agree—no non-Spike tingles—but I'm curious as to why he thinks so.

"Maybe he's just a late riser," I say, even though I want to be right. Really, staying still is just making me shiver harder.

"Nothing moving down there," he says. "And it just smells like cold dead human."

"Ewww."

He shrugs. "Third time's the charm, right, Goldilocks? Let's go see if grave number three is just right."

***


Grave number three belongs to a big, beefy vampire who must've been a biker in life, because he's definitely still ready for a brawl. He's at least twice Spike's size (and three times mine), with a beard halfway to his belt even though someone dressed him up in his best cheap suit before burying him.

"Miss the old days," Spike comments as he punches the guy in the gut then ducks one of the vamp's meaty fists. "Used to shave corpses before burying them."

"Is that why most vamps don't have beards?" I ask, coming up beside him and aiming a high kick into Biker Vamp's solar plexus.

"Well, that, and they don't always grow back. If you've got one, you hold on to it, but most of us don't bother," he ducks again, then grabs one of Biker Vamp's big arms and twists it up behind his back. The vampire roars and swings around, flinging Spike off of him, before turning back to me.

"Somebody should have shaved ZZ Top here," I say, rolling out of his way. "That beard's pretty ratty. Who knows what's living in it? Can vampires get lice?" Suddenly I’m really glad I’m wearing a hat.

"Don't think so," Spike says with a frown, picking himself up. "Nothing for them to eat."

"I'm standing right here, you assholes," the vampire complains.

"Not anymore." I kick him hard, sending him reeling back. "Shave and a hair cut," I sing, punching him on each note.

"Two bits," Spike finishes, coming up behind Skanky and staking him through the back with the stake I dropped earlier.

"I thought it was 'shampoo'," I say, as the dust settles between us.

"Only if you're not a purist," he says with a smirk.

"Oh, like you're one to talk," I say, taking the stake and tucking it into my coat.

"Oi, English here. Least I don't butcher the language."

"Is 'oi' even a word?"

We bicker all the way back to Revello Drive, and it's not ‘til Spike wanders off that I even register the fact that I'm still cold.

***


There are moments when I miss Riley so much it's a physical ache. I try not to pass his apartment any more than I have to. I know if I look in the windows it'll be empty and cold. What few things he had he took with him, and the landlord claimed the rest. I don't even have much to remember him by, just a t-shirt he left at my place once and the few small things he gave me. I take his photos down from my bedroom mirror. They go in my keepsake box, beside Angel's ring and the other little things I've collected over the years that meant something.

There are moments when I cry, but less and less it's for the loss of Riley and more the loss of our relationship. When Angel left it was like he took a part of me with him. Riley... it's like he took away a possibility.

"Is that callous?" I ask Mr. Gordo one night when trying to explain it.

He just grunts, which I've come to figure out means that he doesn't have a yes or no answer.

"No fair," I say. "You're supposed to say 'no' and make me feel better."

Only I know he wouldn't do that. Or I don't think he would. For a vampire he's pretty honest.

My friends step around the subject as much as possible, not wanting to upset me. When we do talk about it it's in general terms. 'How are you doing?' type stuff.

Maybe men are overrated. Or maybe, you know, being the Slayer, I'm just not meant to have one. There's a depressing thought. I considered going through the Watcher's diaries again, looking for information on other Slayers and their personal relationships, but I've got a feeling I know what they'll say.

One girl in all the world.

One girl.

Not one girl and her boyfriend. Not one girl and her husband.

Heck, I'm lucky I get away with having friends.

...

Maybe I should be a nun.





 
 
Chapter #18 - Chapter 17: Little Things
 
Author's Notes: We’re going to take a little dip back into canon for this chapter. Sort of. I may have twisted it a little to suit my own purposes. Personally, this episode is a favorite of mine and I felt like it had a lot of possibilities that were never fully explored in the show. So while I’ve kept the majority of it intact, you’ll notice a few changes…Some of which may turn out to be more than they seem.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Credits: This chapter contains dialogue from the episode "Triangle" written by Jane Espenson.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner by Phuriedae




Chapter 17

Little Things


It's snowing. Actual real, honest to god snowing.

In Sunnydale.

Hell has officially frozen over.

Well, the Hellmouth has.

"Is the heater on?" I ask, punching at one of Giles' mitt covered hands. He sniffles. I don't think that's an answer. "Look, I know it gets colder than this in England and I should be a strong little Slayer and suck it up, but…c'mon Giles, training means sweaty and sweaty plus freezing equals hypothermia."

Sniff. "The heater is on," he says. "And you're dropping your shoulder. I saw that coming." I roll my eyes and go again, punching the stupid mitts. I'm actually holding back. Giles is looking kind of peaked. "I'm well aware of what sweating in freezing temperatures can cause, however we're indoors and I see no reason to turn the shop into a sauna."

He sniffles again. I stop.

"You're sick," I tell him.

"I am not," he says, then sneezes. I step away. He looks a little sheepish. "Perhaps I've caught a small cold."

"How's your throat?"

"A bit scratchy."

"Uh huh. Head?"

"Swollen three times its normal size and stuffed with lead cotton, why do you ask?"

"Eyes?"

"Do you have a point, Buffy?" He blinks at me blearily.

"I don't think I should be punching you anymore. You need to be laying down. In bed. With soup."

He smiles a little. "Can it be chicken with the little chunks of carrots and peas?"

"It can have brandy in it if it'll help you get some rest. You look terrible," I tell him.

"Thank you ever so," he pulls the mitts off and slumps down on top of one of the weapons chests. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt anything if I took a day or two off."

***


"I get to run the store, right?" Anya asks, when Giles and I emerge and he informs everyone that he's going home. At this he looks alarmed.

"You? W-well, it's quite a lot for one person to take care of…," Giles says, then sneezes again. Everyone leans back a little, not wanting to catch it.

"I can do it," Anya says.

"I've got this recipe for an h-herbal tea that should help clear your head up, Mr. Giles," Tara says.

"That would be lovely," he tells her. "Do you have one that might get rid of it entirely?"

"Your head?" Xander asks, confused.

"Don't worry about the store," I tell him. "We'll take care of it. We can open and close and we'll deal with everyone."

"We can come by between classes!" Willow says, excited. "Usually I use that time to copy over my class notes with a system of different colored pens…but it's been pointed out to me that that's…you know, insane."

"I said 'quirky'," Tara corrects her.

"Hello! I work here! I'll take care of everything," Anya says, a little annoyed. I don't know why she's so anxious. It's not like he's going to be gone forever. Xander doesn't look up from his magazine when he gives his endorsement on her behalf.

"Um, Anya, while I completely trust you to…uh…take care of the inventory and the money, um…dealing with people requires a certain.. uh…finesse," Giles says, trying to diplomatic. It's ruined by the sneezing.

"I have finesse," she insists. "I have finesse coming out of my bottom."

"Don't worry, Giles," Willow says. "I'll help her take care of everything. It'll be ship-shape. Better, it'll be shop-shape."

"Xander, she's talking to Giles like I'm not here, make her stop."

"Perhaps I should stay," Giles says wearily as Anya and Willow bicker.

"No, you need to go home and get some rest," I tell him. "And I will make you go home and rest even if it means I have to point a crossbow at you."

It doesn't take quite that much prodding, but eventually we get him to go, leaving Anya and Willow jointly in charge and neither of them happy about it.

***


While Giles is, hopefully, in bed, I'm glad to see that Mom's finally out of hers and dressed. Actual clothes haven't been too common since the surgery.

"You're going in to work today?" I ask the next morning as I get ready to leave for class.

"Just for a little bit," she says. "It's been weeks and I'm sure I've got a ton of work to catch up on. I'm just going to go in and poke at it and see how scary it's going to be."

"You want to take a weapon with you? If it's really scary you can chop it up into little bits. That usually works for me," I tell her.

"Tempting," she says, pouring a glass of orange juice. "What classes do you have today?"

"History this morning, and…something else this afternoon? It's on my schedule,” I shrug and put my cereal bowl in the drying rack. “I'll check it later. I might swing by and see how Giles is after. He's got a cold."

"Just as long as it isn't the man flu," Mom says.

"Man flu?"

"Trust me, you'll know if he has it. He'll be grumpy and whine about everything and insist that he's dying even if he just has the sniffles. All men, when they're sick, eventually get the man flu."

Riley never got the man flu. Then again…he never got a cold. I don't think demon drug withdrawal counts.

***


Greek Art was…damp. Professors who spit when they talk should come with warning labels on the course description. But otherwise it looks interesting. Tara promised we could sit farther back next time.

"Good plan," I tell her as we file out of the lecture hall. "I need to keep this course. The only other thing that fits into my schedule is Central American Geopolitics. No, thank you. I even hear the word jungle, and all I can think of is him. You know, 'is that the one Riley's in?' Really don't need a daily two-o-clock knife in the heart."

"Is it that bad?" she asks.

"Sort of," I tell her. And it is. For awhile it was almost everything that made me think of Riley and my major relationship failure. Now it's only every third thing. "But…I'm starting to get perspective on the whole situation. You know, maybe Riley's…where he's supposed to be. You know, maybe he needed to be…where he was needed."

I've done a lot of thinking on this subject. Riley was the kind of guy who was born to be a hero. He loved being part of the Initiative when he thought he was making a difference by fighting demons, and he loved fighting at my side until the whole super strength thing got taken away. Riley was like me that way, he needed to be doing something. It was a choice he made, something that made him happy. And when he felt like he couldn't do that anymore? That's when things started to fall apart, I think.

I know I shut him out, and I'll always be sorry for that, always wish I could have told him that. But I really think that it wasn't just me that he was unhappy with. He needed to be needed…and I couldn't do that for him. What I needed from him wasn't a hero. I wish he'd come back so I could help him understand that.

"Willow says that everything happens for a reason," Tara says.

"But you ever notice people only say that about bad things?" I say. Tara laughs softly. I'm really glad she's my friend. "But not for me the furrowed brow. What do you say we go pick up Willow and indulge ourselves in a little after-school hamburger? Maybe stop by and cheer up Giles?"

"I guess we could,” Tara says. “She might still be at the magic shop. I was there earlier and she and Anya kinda got in this squabble…Xander and I sort of cleared out. He was pretty upset."

What? "Anya and Xander are in trouble?" I ask, feeling a bubble of panic rising up in the middle of my chest.

She shakes her head quickly. "Oh, no I-I said that all wrong. It was nothing. Willow and Anya were sort of fighting and then Xander kinda snapped at them and he left."

"Xander left? He left Anya?" Oh, god…he can't leave. When you get in a fight you can't…you can't just leave. You have to stay and talk and…and…fix things.

"Ummm…no, not 'left her' left her…he just left," Tara says. "It was only a little thing, it—"

"Little thing?" I ask. "See, the thing is…the…little things get bigger, you know and…and… and…if you don't catch the…little thing and, then BOOM! You have this…this… whole HUGE thing!"

Tara looks alarmed. She should be alarmed. This isn't good. Xander and Anya can't fight. They can't. They have to stick together, because if they can find love together then…then there's hope, isn't there? For me?

"Not, not them with the little things…they can't break up!"

"Oh, I think…"

"They have a beautiful love," I tell her and suddenly I'm crying again and she's got her arms around me, patting me on the back. "They have a miraculous love…"

Okay, so…maybe my perspective is still a little on the wonky side.

***


When we get to the Magic Box, however, it's clear something is very, very wrong. The place is trashed.

"Buffy!" Tara says, panicked. The wind is cold where it's blowing in through the open door, scattering paper and small things across the floor.

"Willow? Anya?" I call out, but there's no answer. Tara heads into the training room while I check the storeroom downstairs. When we come out, it's clear they're not here. There's no one here, and I can't imagine Anya leaving the store like this for anything less than a disaster of epic proportions. And speaking of epic proportions…whatever was here looks like it was massively huge.

"Buffy, something's been here and Willow's gone," Tara say, wringing her hands.

"Don't worry, we'll get her back. I promise. Come on, this thing's probably leaving a huge trail."

We shut the door and lock it to keep anyone from deciding to pick over the mess, then head out to track …whatever this is. The snow from the other day has melted, but it's definitely not hard to see where it's been. Cars are smashed along the side of the road, lampposts are down. Sometimes it looks like it's backtracked or looped on itself, so it takes us a few tries before we figure out where it's headed…

Where most evil things in Sunnydale go for fun and good times: The Bronze.

***


Willow, Anya, Xander, and…bizarrely enough, Spike, are just inside when we come in.

"I wish Buffy were here," I hear Willow say, just before I walk in the door.

"I'm here," I tell her, ready to get to business. She looks at me, surprised.

"I wish I had a million dollars!" she says, then looks sheepish. "Sorry. Just checking."

There's a …something…in the middle of the Bronze. He's big, he's ugly, and majorly stinky. Also, he's got a hammer that looks like it's heavy enough it could clobber my whole head. Not good.

"What's going on? Where did he come from?" I ask.

Anya's the first to speak up. "Willow stole ingredients and released him from a purple crystal. He's a troll."

Wonderful. "You did this?" I ask Willow. Well, it was only a matter of time before another spell went kablooey.

"Me?" she says. She's got whoops-face. "No, we. I mean…us." She points at Anya. "Uh, her. It's very complex."

"We can stop him," Anya says. "Willow, do the spell."

Will barely gets a few words out before the troll is advancing on us. "Stop!" he roars. Okay…let's add loud to the list of his bad qualities. Also…only in Sunnydale can a troll wander into the Bronze and nobody runs fleeing for their lives. We've got a pretty big audience. Oh, well. At least he's not invisible.

"Nobody lets me finish!" Willow complains.

"You…told the witch to do that, Anyanka," the troll growls. "You seem determined to put an end to all my fun. Just like you always did when we were dating."

Uh…

What, huh?

I think the entire Bronze turns to stare at Anya, who is sputtering and looking…embarrassed? I don't think I've ever seen Anya look embarrassed about anything.

"You…dated him?" Xander asks, blinking at his girlfriend.

"You dated a troll?" I ask. Okay…so maybe vampires and werewolves aren't the ishiest things you can date.

"And we're, what? Surprised by this?" Willow says. She has a point.

"Well," Anya says, "he wasn't a troll then! You know, he was just…this big, dumb guy, and…well…you know, he cheated on me and I made him into a troll, which, by the way is…how I got the…the job as a vengeance demon." She's quiet when she finishes.

Troll guy, on the other hand, is not. He's smashing things and roaring and people are finally getting the idea that maybe it's time to run.

"I did not cheat! Not in my heart!" the troll roars. Oh, really? "It was only one wench! I-I had had a great deal of mead! Next thing I know, I'm a troll! Oh, you did this Anyanka. You will die for this!"

Why do men always make the same stupid, ridiculous excuses? It was just one wench. It was just one time. It was only physical. It didn't mean anything. This is all your fault.

This jerk is going down.

"But…you seem to enjoy the…the being a troll," Xander points out.

"I adjusted," the troll says, shrugging. "And then what happened? Witches. Filthy, dirty, disgusting witches. They trapped me. I was imprisoned in that crystal for centuries. Oh, a curse on all witches! All must die!"

Right. Clearly, Troll Guy has issues.

"Willow, again," I tell her, trying to prod her into getting with the magic so we can get this guy out of here before he starts smashing things up more.

Only…it doesn't work. Why is it when you want magic to work, it never does? But when you don't…there it is, screwing up your life.

Troll boy must figure that this is his chance, because he lunges at Willow. Alright, lets see how good this big boy is. I kick him hard on his initial rush, then pound him farther back until he's away from my friends. When he swings his big meaty fist, I duck, but he connects with someone behind me, sending them flying. I manage to get a hold of him and pin him to a nearby pool table, which groans under his weight. We both wrestle for his hammer, but he shoves me off with enough force that I go flying and land on something hard, cold, and leathery.

Spike.

Ouch.

I half expect Spike to yank me down, but instead he grabs me by the waist and tosses me to my feet. Only by then things have taken a turn for the worse.

Troll boy is smashing out the balcony support columns. I barely have time to look up and see it about to come down on my head before Spike flies out of nowhere, wraps his arms around me in a full body tackle and hits the floor, rolling us out of the way as the balcony comes crashing down. The way he hit and rolled, I don't think I even touched the ground, and we end up with me on top of him, wrapped in his arms.

"Alright, Slayer?" he asks, frowning up at me.

"Lemme up," I tell him, trying to disentangle myself. "Why didn't your chip fire?"

"Wasn't trying to hurt you, you daft bint," he grumbles, letting go of me and waiting 'til I'm up to stand himself. "Ungrateful bitch," he mutters under his totally wasted breath. Whatever, I don't have time to deal with this. Only the troll doesn't appear to be anywhere in sight.

I head for Willow, Anya, and Xander who are standing nearby looking stunned. "Where is he?"

"Gone," says Willow, wringing her hands. Well, obviously gone.

Right. Time for action. "Xander, follow him. Anya, Willow, head back to the magic shop and find a spell that will actually stop him."

They head out. I help Tara move some debris to get to some people who are still pinned, then look around for anyone else stuck in the rubble. Spike is digging at a huge piece of flooring.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Helping," he says, grunting a bit as he starts to lift the flooring. "Someone down there." I don't even want to think about how he knows that. Probably some vampire smell thing. I give him a hand, and between the two of us we easily manage to shift the piece of floor out of the way. Sure enough, there's a guy down there, partially protected by some bent metal pieces that usually hold lighting equipment. I help haul him out. He's pretty badly shaken, but seems mostly okay. The gash to his head is bleeding, but head wounds generally do.

When I glance at Spike he's eying the guy strangely, the muscles in his jaw clenching tightly. Oh, ewwwww…tell me he's not thinking about eating this guy.

He catches me looking at him and backpedals quickly. "Not gonna sample," he says. "Know you wouldn't like it." Oh, god, I was right. He was thinking of eating this guy.

"The fact that it even occurred to you is revolting, you know that?" I tell him. "Besides, you don't feed off disaster victims because it's wrong, Spike. Not just because you want to avoid getting punched in the face."

He scowls as if he thinks I'm in the wrong, his jaw practically popping as the muscles in it tighten. "Look, I can help, yeah?" he says, finally. "With the troll? Give me something to do. You said you'd give me a chance."

"I said we'd see," I remind him.

"Extra muscle here, Slayer. Not asking for anything but a chance to fight. Unless you want me to stick around here and—"

"No," I say. Spike, left in a room full of bleeding people is a disaster waiting to happen. Or…you know, another disaster. He could feed like a king in this room and I know he knows it. He's probably hoping I'll let him stay. "There's too much blood here. I'm not going to risk it." And the truth is…this troll guy is pretty strong. An extra set of hands might not be a bad thing. "Fine," I tell him. "Xander's tailing the troll, but I'm not sure where they went—"

"I can track 'em," he says eagerly. "That troll's got a stench a few miles long."

"Ewwwwwww." Troll stench. Yuck. And Spike tracking it by smell? Double yuck. Still, it would save some time. As we're getting ready to leave, Tara joins us.

"I want to come, too," she says. "Willow might need h-help."

"Any idea why the spell fizzed?" I ask as we head out onto the street. Spike stops just outside the door and closes his eyes, then sniffs. He turns his head first right, then left, then his eyes pop open.

"This way," he says, leading us down the alley.

"I don't…I don't know," Tara says. "It sounded like…maybe part of it was missing?" She stuffs her hands in her coat pockets, trying to warm them. We're both jogging a little to keep up with Spike's longer legs.

"What was Anya talking about back there? She said Willow was stealing ingredients?"

"Oh," Tara says. "Well…n-not really but…she was working on that sunlight spell and…well, she said Giles w-wouldn't mind, so…"

He probably wouldn't, and if he did he probably wouldn't say anything, but with the way Willow and Anya have been arguing lately it's no wonder Anya decided to have a cow about it. Spike pauses beside a clobbered parked car, swearing, his head swiveling as he tries to track the scent, and I wonder for a minute whether Angel ever does this. Finally he turns and heads toward Maple Court.

The Magic Box. Crap. The troll's heading for Willow and Anya.

***


When we reach the Magic Box, it's clear that something is already going down inside. Anya and Willow are yelling, and when we come through the door we're greeted by the site of the troll about to smash in Xander's head with his giant hammer.

"Buffy!" Anya yells as I rush the troll. "The hammer! The strength's in the hammer!" Xander scurries out of the way as I go after Troll Guy, ducking his swings.

Oooof.

Okay, most of his swings. Ow, that hurt.

Spike jumps in and starts hitting the troll while I get to my feet, then we both go to town on him, forcing him to try to fight two opponents at once.

Unfortunately, he's pretty big, and we're not making much of a dent in him.

I hear Anya yelling from behind us. "Hey Olaf!"

Olaf? Troll guy's name is Olaf? A flailing fist catches me in the side of the head and knocks me dizzy for a moment. Right. No time to get distracted.

"Olaf! You're as inadequate a troll as you were a boyfriend!"

Oh! Distracting. Okay. Good. Just not distracting me.

I manage to land another blow and he grunts. Spike's picked up some wood and is hitting on him from behind, but I guess troll skin is pretty tough because he doesn't even seem to notice.

Anya's still yelling taunts from across the room, "Uh…you're hairy, and unattractive, and even women trolls are put off by your various odors."

Crap…Suddenly I've got a troll hand wrapped around my throat, and a hammer aimed at my head. Spike leaps up and grabs him from behind, wrapping his hands around the troll's horns and yanking hard. Olaf roars, but he's still choking me. My vision is starting to get blurry.

"And your roar is less than full-throated!" Anya yells. Irritated, the troll tosses me away from him to crash into a wall, then pulls Spike off his back and throws him on top of me.

"Ow!" I say, shaking my head. "Off!"

"Right," Spike growls, rolling off me and shaking his head. "I really hate this wanker," he mutters, climbing to his feet. He puts out a hand and helps me up.

"I don't know what a wanker is," I say, "but I'm not too fond of him, either."

A loud clang gets our attention. Olaf's hammer is all the way across the room and Willow's grinning ear to ear. Way to go, Will! Let’s see how tough he is now.

"So, your power's in your hammer?" I say, as I go in for a swing. That's when he backhands me, hard, sending me flying into Xander.

Why is it that I keep landing on guys tonight? They are not cushy.

"Oh, yeah, I forgot he still has all that troll strength," Anya yells. Olaf has turned on Spike, punching him hard in the ribs and knocking him into a display case, which shatters, sending wood and glass and magic stuff all over.

"Oi! Watch the wood!" Spike says.

This time I manage to land three whole punches and an arm-twist before he tosses me off him again. Once more onto Spike. This is getting predictable.

"We need a game plan," I mutter as the vampire helps me to my feet.

"Yeah," Spike says, eying the troll warily. "Left or right, Slayer?"

"Right," I say as the troll advances on us.

"Got it," Spike says. "Let's go."

"What are you fighting for, minuscule blond ones? Your friends? These two? They will never last." He waves at Anya and Xander. What does he know? He's just a big stupid troll. Of course they'll last. They have to. "Anyanka is very difficult to live with, and he…he's ludicrous and far too breakable. Their love will never last."

I don't know if it was the 'hard to live with' thing or the 'breakable' thing but suddenly I feel like he's talking about me and Riley…and it pisses me off. I jump up and kick him hard in the chest, sending him stumbling back. Spike's right there with me, pounding on him in between my punches, driving him up against the wall.

We take turns beating on him, and whatever it is we're doing, it seems to be working.

"Their love," I tell Olaf, with a punch to punctuate each word, "will last forever."

My last one sends him crashing, unconscious, to the floor. Spike kicks him hard in the head.

"That's for calling me minuscule, you bastard," he says.

For a moment we both stand over the unconscious troll, panting. Then we look at each other.

"I could have done it without you," I tell him.

"Yeah," he says, suddenly flashing me a grin. "You could've. Glad you let me in on it, though. That was fun."

"Fun?" Suddenly I remember another fight, a few years ago, in this same shop. 'Come on, don't tell me that wasn't fun,' Spike said.

"Well, not the cracked ribs," he says, gingerly patting his side. "But, yeah. So…what are we gonna do with him?"

I shake my head, unwilling to examine Spike's idea of fun too closely. Even less willing to examine my own.

***


After some discussion, Willow manages to find a spell that'll teleport the demon to another dimension. I'm not sure it's possible to kill him. I tried sticking him with a sword, but it was kinda like trying to stab through stone. So teleportation…best option.

Once it's finished I have to ask: "Where did you send him?"

"The land of trolls," Anya says. "He'll like it there. Full of trolls."

"It's hard to be precise, though. Alternate universes don't stay put. Trying to send him to a specific place is sort of like…like…trying to hit a …puppy, by throwing a live bee at it," Willow explains.

Huh?

"Which is a weird image and you should all just forget it," she says.

"It's possible that he's in the land of perpetual Wednesday," Anya says. "Or…the crazy melty land, or, you know, the world without shrimp."

"There's a world without shrimp?" Tara asks. "I'm allergic."

"He's…probably in troll land," Willow says.

I smile. "I only care that he's not here, and I got this nifty souvenir," I say hoisting his hammer. It's big, and ugly, but it's dense, and makes me feel about ten times stronger. I wonder if I could knock Spike clear across Restfield with it? I put it down on top of the counter top, so we can look at it later. Only, it kinda breaks the glass.

Oops. "Place was pretty trashed anyway," Xander says.

"Well, see how things worked out?" I say, smiling. Willow and Tara are holding each other, and Xander and Anya are hugging…okay well, Anya's sort of propping Xander up since he's white as a sheet and looks like he might pass out at any moment. There's a chance his wrist is broken. Spike's off in the corner picking through some of the debris, probably stealing stuff. "Look at you guys," I say, choosing to focus on Xander and Anya. "So good and alive and…together."

I don't know why I'm crying. Really. I don't.

"Oh, God…I'm just so happy for you," I say, sniffling. Someone hands me a tissue. "Thanks," I say, blowing my nose.

"Welcome. This your purple crystal, Red?" Spike says holding the thing out. It's not very big.

She takes it from him. "Yeah," she says, puzzled. "What about it?"

"Nothing," he says. "Just…bit curious where it came from. Old crystal that just happens to have Anyanka's ex locked inside doesn't seem like something someone would just leave lyin' about."

Willow frowns. "It was in the store," she says. "I…in the display case, I think?" She looks at Anya, who takes the crystal.

"I'll check the inventory," she says. "You're right. It is a little strange."

"Anya," I ask, Slayer intuition suddenly clanging bells in my head. "Where are trolls from? Northern Europe?"

She looks up from the crystal, her face paling. "Scandinavia," she says…"Uh, Norway, Finland…"

We all stare at the crystal.

"I'm sensing a theme here," Xander says.

***


We take Xander over to the emergency room so they can look at his wrist, which, as it turns out is definitely broken. By the time we’re done there it’s so late that we decide to meet up early at the Magic Box in the morning to see about getting the damage picked up.

“What’s Mr. Giles going to say?” Tara asks.

“I’ll tell him,” Anya says. “He left me in charge, so…it’s my responsibility.” She doesn’t look happy about it.

“We’ll tell him,” Willow says. “Since we both screwed up. Only…can we do it after we try to get it all cleaned up? Cause, you know, maybe that way he won’t …freak out?”

“Good plan,” Anya says. And that’s that.

By the time I get home, I’m exhausted, and mom has long since gone to bed. Her light is on, though, so I knock.

“Buffy?” she asks, sleepily, looking at the clock.

“Yep,” I say. “Sorry, we had a little…troll incident. Well, not so much with the little as with the huge but…I can tell you about it in the morning.”

“Okay, sweetie,” she says. “I’m just glad you’re all right.”

“I’m good,” I say and turn her light off before going to the bathroom to check on all my bruises. I’ve got some nice ones on my throat, so I guess tomorrow is a scarf day, and my back and ribs are livid. Nothing’s broken, though.

Still, I’m sore enough that when I fall asleep I beg out of sparring with Mr. Gordo for the first time in weeks. He doesn’t seem to mind, he just climbs in bed and sits by the headboard until I’m comfortable. Then we settle into the next part of our routine, and I tell him about my day.

I tell him about Olaf and Anya and Willow. I tell him about Spike helping. I even tell him about my weird mood swings. Then something occurs to me. It takes some quick math and trying to remember the date, but then I blush.

“Oh,” I say, “I know why I’m so weird moody. Stupid hormones. You’re lucky you’re a guy…only, do female vampires still…you know?”

No.

I sigh. That’s so not fair. But it makes sense. Then something else occurs to me.

“Um…can you…uh…can you smell it when I’m…?” I can’t quite bring myself to ask the question.

He hesitates for so long I change my mind.

“Know what? Let’s pretend I didn’t ask that question, okay? I really don’t want to know. It’ll make me all self-conscious and…I like that I’m not self-conscious here. I like being able to talk to you.”

A cool hand grips mine for a moment, and squeezes gently. Then he returns to his side of the line.







 
 
Chapter #19 - Chapter 18: Palmistry and Prophecies
 
Author's Notes: Because I’m horribly impatient…I posted Chapter 17 last night, so make sure you’re caught up before you read this one.

We’ve been leading up to this moment for a while now. We’ve done the demons of the week and the hints of the bigger Bad, now it’s time to see what’s coming.

There’s a tiny bit of borrowed canon dialogue in this, but for the most part, we’re firmly AU again.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Credits: This chapter contains dialogue from the episode "Checkpoint" written by Douglas Petrie and Jane Espenson.

Special thanks to Pika-la-Cynique for her help with French translations.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner by Phuriedae





Chapter 18

Palmistry and Prophecies



A few days later, we all gather at the Magic Box for an after-hours Scooby meeting. The place doesn’t look too bad. Xander did a great job repairing what could be repaired, and he’s been working on replacing a couple of other things, despite his broken wrist. Giles, of course, has his resigned-face on.

“Well,” he says, “it’s a magic shop on the Hellmouth. I suppose it could be worse.”

“True,” I tell him. “Nobody’s dead, so that’s good, right?”

“Quite,” he says, looking sadly at a banged up…something, as if he doesn’t quite believe it.

“So,” Xander says, resting his cast on the table like a visible reminder that some people almost were dead. “This purple crystal thingie. What do we got?”

“Well,” Anya says, “I went through the inventory lists and the shipping lists and the order lists. It’s not there. I've checked three times. There aren't any purple crystals listed.”

“And I’m sure it was in the store that day,” Willow says. “I know I don’t own one like that.”

We all stare at the purple crystal sitting in the middle of the table, doing its best to look innocent.

“Someone could have left it,” I point out. “I mean, in a store like this, who’s really going to pay much attention to one purple crystal beside all the other crystals and stuff?”

“So…we’re thinking somebody put it here, hoping Olaf would get released eventually?” Xander says. “Doesn’t sound like too sound of a plan.”

“At the moment,” Giles says, blowing his nose, "it seems it’s the only one we’ve got. W-we could do some research, see if we can trace it, but as old as it is, I’m afraid it will take some time.”

“What about this whole Northern Europe demon thing?” I ask. “Are we talking a tour group on vacation at the Hellmouth, or something more serious?”

“I’m not certain, Buffy,” Giles says. “Three does seem a bit more than a coincidence. But without some further sign—.”

There’s a knock on the door to the Magic Box. “We’re closed!” Anya calls. “Bring your money back tomorrow!” Whoever it is just knocks again.

“I’ll get it,” I say and head for the door. When I open it, I’m half expecting it to be a demon, or Spike trying to horn in on a Scooby meeting. I’m surprised to find a woman, dressed in a tweedy skirt, blazer and overcoat, with her hair pulled up in a sleek twist and a pair of thick-framed glasses perched on her nose. She looks so much like a female version of Giles I figure it out almost before she speaks.

“Hello,” she says, clutching her bag to her chest as if she’s afraid it’s going to be stolen. Her accent is even snootier than Giles’. “I’m looking for Rupert Giles. It’s…a matter of some urgency, I’m afraid.”

“You’re a Watcher,” I say, narrowing my eyes. Even her scarf is tweed.

She blinks. “Well…I…well, yes, I-I suppose I am.”

“Are there more of you? Or just you? Because we’re not so friendly with the Council right now.”

She blinks again, then straightens. “Are all Americans so rude, or is it only because you’re the Slayer?”

With a sigh I open the door wider and let her come in. It’s freezing out there. It snowed a little earlier in the day, but it hasn’t melted yet. Instead it’s just mushy gray sludge. I thought snow was supposed to be pretty.

“Mr. Giles?” the Watcher says, stepping into the shop and looking around curiously.

“Ms. Markham,” Giles says, getting up. Okay, so they know each other. That’s something. But the frown on his face tells me this probably isn’t a…what did Anya call it last year? An orgasm friend? And thank god for that. “To what do we owe this…ah…visit?”

She looks at everyone gathered in the room warily. “It’s…well, perhaps it would be better if I were to…”

“Whatever you have to say to me or Giles you can say in front of them,” I tell her. “They’re on the squad.”

“Squad?” she looks at Giles, a little lost.

“Ah, yes, I’m sorry. My manners appear to be misplaced.” He does the introduction thing then returns to our guest. “This is Ms. Lydia Markham. She’s a…member of the Watcher’s Council.”

“Not if they discover that I’m here,” she tells him. He looks at her, surprised. “This isn’t exactly…that is to say that…ah…the Council did not, um…they did not approve…” She looks embarrassed.

Okay. Council rebel. I’m suddenly feeling friendlier.

“Why don’t you have a seat? I’ll fetch us some tea,” Giles says.

Tara offers to help.

“Hot chocolate?” Willow asks.

“All around?” I add. This looks like it’s going to take awhile. Most things that involve the Council do, unfortunately.

Tara and Giles head next door to the Espresso Pump, leaving the rest of us eying the Watcher woman. She fidgets with her bag.

“So…you…you all work together? With, ah…with the Slayer?” she asks.

“Yep,” Xander says, “We’re the backup. Also, moral support, magic, research pals, and comic relief. And I whittle a mean stake.”

“Ah,” she says, clearly lost. She turns to me. “I-I had heard that your methods weren’t…exactly, ah, typical.”

“Typical has never really worked for me,” I tell her. “So the Council doesn’t know you’re here, huh?”

Lydia shifts uncomfortably. “No, they…ah, they believe I’m taking a short sabbatical, to …care for an aging relative.”

“Sick grandmother excuse,” Xander says with a friendly smile. “Classic. And open-ended. This isn’t a quick trip, is it?”

Again with the surprise. “No,” she says. “It’s…well, likely not.”

“Xander is my boyfriend,” Anya chimes in, wrapping her arms around one of his. “We’re together. We have sex.”

“And claim has now been staked,” I say. “You’ll have to excuse Anya, she’s…”

“Acclimating,” Willow says. “New culture.” Anya nods. Lydia looks embarrassed.

***


By the time Giles and Tara return we’re all more than ready to get down to business. Lydia is clutching her tea as if it’s a lifeline.

“You must understand that…that I’m here entirely of my own volition,” she says. “The information I have is…well, not entirely reliable, but there were certain aspects that led me to believe that there might be a very real threat. The Council did not share my opinion, and refused to pass along the information.”

“It was very brave of you to come here,” Giles says and she blushes. “I know that the Council can be quite closed-minded at times.”

“Oh,” she says, waving that off, “it’s…understandable, in this situation. As I said, my research may not quite be reliable.”

“What’ve you got?” I ask. Man, I love Giles, but English people can talk all day and not say anything. She looks startled, then opens her bag and digs out a moldy old book and several file folders. Of course, this is like waving chocolate in front of Giles.

“Is that—pardon me, is that a copy of the Nord de Coeur prophecies?” I can practically see his fingers itching.

“It is,” she says, looking happy that he recognized it. Ah, book geek love. “Turn of the century lore is my specialty, and I’ve been studying these for some time.”

She looks at the rest of us, then goes into teacher mode. Maybe it’s a Watcher thing.

“Sometime during the last part of the nineteenth-century, a madman was discovered wandering alone in the Alps, in the snow. He was taken to a French convent for care, where it was discovered that he was an Englishman. With the help of a local who spoke some English, they learned that the man believed he had talked to an angel of the Lord, and that the angel had saved his life. The local, however, could not write, so the man’s ravings were translated to French, rendering them somewhat …broken. It’s always preferred for prophecies to be written in the same language they are given in, you see.”

Not really, but okay.

“So this crazy guy…he must’ve said something important,” I say.

“Well, as a matter of fact, several times he mentioned Slayers in his ramblings, which is how the prophecies came to be a part of the Watcher’s library in the first place.” She flips the book open to a page marked with a ribbon and covered in tiny print. “This is the part that alarmed me,” she says. “Here he mentions several times that at the beginning of the new millennia, there will come a time when the world will be covered in ice. ‘Froid venant de la bouche de l'enfer’ he calls it.”

“Cold from the mouth of hell. The Hellmouth,” Giles says. “How do you know this is the one he’s referring to? There are several.”

“I couldn’t be certain,” she says, “however the timing is right, you must admit and…this weather isn’t exactly natural. I’ve been following the weather reports here for some time, and it appears that this cold front is…well, concentrated in Sunnydale, and steadily growing worse. However, that’s not what decided me. See here?" She leans over so Giles can have a look. I think I see drool on his chin. "According to the prophet, there is a Woman of Ice or a Cold Demon—he uses them interchangeably—who will attempt to open the door to a ‘frozen hell’ on a date variously termed 'La Nuit de la Tueuse' or 'nuit d'estés". Which, translate to 'Slayer's Night' and ‘summers night' respectively. I believe that in both cases he was referring to you, Miss Summers.”

“Okay,” I say. “Kinda wiggy, but not the first time I've had a prophecy. So…when is this Slayer’s Night?”

She turns back to her books and notes. “Clues in the text seem to point to a date between the spring equinox and the summer solstice, which seemed the most likely candidate for a ‘summers night’ before you were called. Now, however…I’m not so sure. There is also mention of an artifact or weapon of some sort that the demon seeks to acquire in order to gain power. At one point he implies that it is something that will be given into your keeping, something that was meant for you alone.”

“So, not something I’ve already got?” I ask.

She shrugs helplessly. “It’s difficult to say for sure. The translation and the man’s condition…prophets aren’t exactly living in the same time flow as the rest of us. Tenses are…awkward. However, I don’t believe it is something you have already. There are indications that it’s something you will have to…discover on your own.”

Guess that rules out purple crystals and troll hammers.

"Okay, so…let me make sure I've got this: according to your dead crazy guy, we've got some kind of ice demon lady who wants to open the Hellmouth and freeze the world over, and in order to do this she needs something that I have to find…and there's a good chance it's going to happen at a specific time, only we don't know when?"

"Ah…well, yes, that does sum it up, ah, succinctly," Lydia says. "There's more, but…with my limited time and resources I've been unable to work on deciphering the rest of it. I had hoped that…if you felt this was important, that perhaps Mr. Giles might…ah, lend his expertise. He is quite well known as something of an expert on rare and difficult texts."

Giles is blushing?

"Well, yes, I-I think we can safely assume that anything regarding a potential apocalypse here on the Hellmouth is…worthy of investigation."

They even talk the same. I wonder if Watchers are cloned instead of born?

"Will you—will you inform the Council that I'm here?" she asks hesitantly. "They were rather reluctant to pass on this information. The…difficulty of the translation and their…um…previous experiences with-with—"

"Us? You don't have to beat around the bush; we're not exactly buddy-buddy with the Council. As it happens, I don't really like it when people try to have me killed. Twice. Been there, done that, not really eager to do it again," I tell her.

Lydia straightens her glasses. "Y-yes, I, can understand how that might be…unpleasant," she says. "I can assure you Miss Summers that I only have your best interests—and the world's—at heart. If I'm wrong about all of this then I will sincerely apologize for wasting your time, however if I'm right…"

"Then we've got another apocalypse on our hands," I say, sighing. "It was getting to be that time again, anyway."

"Time…again?"

"Apocalypses usually happen in the spring. Something about all that optimism in the air seems to set them off."

And that pretty much wraps up our Scooby meeting. We all agree that telling the Council really isn't in anybody's best interest, and Giles and Ms. Markham discuss her stay in Sunnydale. I'm more interested in finding out about this Slayer's Night and our weird purple crystal. Maybe I'll ask around the usual places and see what I can find out. Who knows? Maybe there's a demon lurking out there with the answers I need.

***


Later, I fill Mr. Gordo in on our new ally and her information after we're done sparring. He can't exactly offer me advice, but he's great as a sounding board.

"So, now I've got weird foreign demons running around town, a mysterious 'ice demon' to be on the lookout for, and some kind of artifact someone's going to give me. Maybe it's a sword, or a really cool axe? And the way she said 'meant for you alone’…I liked that. Something really powerful that'll just be mine? Not that I'm greedy or anything but…it's kinda cool," I say, flopping back on the bed.

He's pretty quiet tonight, I mean…more so than usual. I roll over on my side, facing his direction.

"You alright?" I ask.

Yes.

"Okay. Just…that last punch was pretty hard," I say, frowning. I don't know why it concerns me. I mean, if he were a real vampire, well, I'd have staked him ages ago. But he's kinda become my vampire after all this time. He's not Angel. I mean he's not…like Angel. I don't feel all starry eyed about him or anything, and while he's mysterious in that 'I-can't-see-you' kind of way, in other ways he's totally not. I can almost predict his responses sometimes. And when we're sparring, we totally connect on this weird level where I can almost feel what he's going to do before he does it.

He still surprises me, though. I've got a bruise on my jaw right now to attest to that, though I know it won't be there in the morning. I wish real training came with magically disappearing aches and pains. Not that I get many, during my regular sparring sessions. Lately they've become a lot easier.

I just can't really tell Giles it's because I'm getting a double dose of training every day…er…night…in my sleep.

But Mr. Gordo is awfully quiet, not even panting, which he sometimes does after a heavy session. Suddenly it occurs to me that maybe he doesn't like being beaten on every night by a girl. Riley wouldn't have.

"You…this, with us, the…sparring thing," I say tentatively. "Is…do you mind it?"

No, he answers without even pausing.

"So, you…like sparring with me? Even though I'm kinda stronger than you?" I ask. I am. Not that he's not strong, in fact most of the time we're pretty much equal. But sometimes I can tell I'm just a hair stronger…and he's just a little faster than me.

His fingers touch my hand where it lays on the mattress. Gently, he forms it into a fist.

Yes, he taps on the back of my knuckles, then rubs a thumb over the bruised skin there. His hand is big around mine, but not massive like Riley's were, or Angel's. His fingers are callused, too. I never paid much attention to hands before, but I can tell without even seeing them that Mr. Gordo has totally great hands.

"Good," I say, feeling kind of shy. "I'm glad. I like sparring with you, too."

As I drift off to sleep, it's to the feeling of his thumb gently stroking over my knuckles, and when I wake up, my hand is still clenched in a fist and tingling where he touched my skin.

***


I kinda hate my history professor this semester. He loves to call me out in class over the stupidest things. Is it my fault that I happen to know that there's stuff out there that would totally explain stuff in history like…like how hard it was to kill Rasputin, just as an example. But no, he's got to get all rude and snotty and embarrass me in front of the whole class.

Stupid professor.

And I woke up in such a good mood, too.

Of course, then it slowly turned into the day from hell. First we were out of milk, then when I was straightening up the living room I found one of Riley's sweaters. I was late leaving for class and baldy prof had to be a jerk and now…

Well, now this stupid vampire is just the therapy I need to make my day better.

"Maybe you'd like to teach the class, Professor," I mock as I punch the vampire in the face.

"Are you talking to somebody?" he asks, just before he manages to backhand me hard enough that I spin away. I recover pretty quickly, but suddenly my vamp senses are tingling harder.

"Need some help there, Slayer?" says a voice out of the darkness.

"Nope," I say, "I got it." And I do. When the vamp charges me it's nothing to grab him, flip him and stake him. I was pretty much done playing anyway.

My new source of irritation is lounging on top of a nearby crypt, a cigarette dangling between the fingers of his right hand and a stake idly twirling in his left. His pale face and hair shine like the moon against the dark sky.

"Lookin' a bit off tonight, Slayer," Spike says with a smirk. "Bitey there almost had you."

"I was regrouping," I tell him.

"You were about to be regrouped into separate piles," he tells me. "Why so sloppy?"

I frown. "Bad day," I tell him. "Not that it’s any of your business, and why are you here anyway, Spike? Don't you have, you know, evil stuff to do?"

"Not a thing. I decided to cut back a bit. Heard it's not good for you," he grins like he thinks that's funny, doing some obscene thing with his tongue behind his teeth. "Figured I'd come out here and see if you needed a hand. Any big nasties in town you want to go after? Could do with some rough and tumble."

God, he's irritating. Let him help once or twice and he thinks he's got an in.

"Well, I don't need a hand, and if I did it wouldn't be yours, Spike. Go home," I tell him and turn to leave.

Instead he jumps down easily next to me, his black coat flaring out behind him. Against the light gray tombstones and the white of the softly falling snow he stands out more than usual. He's totally impervious to the below freezing temperatures in his leather coat, jeans, and t-shirt. I feel kind of ridiculous, bundled up in my warmest gear that'll still let me move. Like an Abominable Snow-Buffy. Only in black and pink.

"What are you doing, Spike?" I ask.

"Walkin’," he says, keeping pace at my side. "Free country, innit? Watcher suss out anything on that crystal yet?"

"Why do you care?" I ask. He's way too interested in this crystal thing.

"Don't. I'm bored," he says, as if that's the answer to everything. For Spike, it probably is.

I chew my lip for a minute, debating. Finally I decide to ask. "Have you heard anything about an 'Ice Demon' here in town lately?"

He's quiet for so long I have to look at him. There's an odd expression on his face, but finally he says. "No, don't think so. Gotta description?"

"Not really. Might be female," I say. He's still got that weird look on his face, then he coughs. Vampires cough?

"Nope," he says. "Nothing."

Something about the way he says it and his face…he's not telling me the truth. Or not the whole truth. I could punch him, I suppose, and make him tell me, but that would mean taking my hand out of my pocket, and it's just too damn cold.

"What about a date called 'The Slayer's Night’? Any idea what that might be?" I'm watching him closely now, trying to figure out what he's hiding. This time he shrugs more easily.

"Bank holiday?" he jokes. "Sorry, Slayer. Could go down to Willy's for you and have a listen?"

"Nah," I say. "I got it. Besides, Willy and I have a deal."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"He tells me what I want to know, and I don't break all the bottles in his bar with his head. So far it works pretty well."

He grins nastily. "That's my girl."

"Ugh. In your dreams, Spike. Go home."

***


Willy, as it turns out, is a bust.

"Sorry, Slayer, I got nothin', I swear," he says, cringing a little as if he thinks I'm going to hit him. "Can ask around if you want, but I gotta tell you, there's nada going on. Colder out there than a witch's t-"

"Watch it," I tell him, leaning in. "What about this 'Slayer's Night'? Heard anything?"

"That the night you fly around and deliver presents to all the good little demons?" he asks, then flinches again when I scowl. "Sorry. Dunno. Look, we've been getting’ some new demons in town, but they're mostly keepin’ to themselves. Quiet, like, ya know?"

"Where from?" I ask, a sinking feeling in my stomach.

"Not sure. Up north, maybe? They don't seem to mind the cold weather." He shrugs and goes back to wiping down a glass with a rag almost as greasy as his personality.

I sigh and look around. The bar is pretty dead tonight. Only one or two vamps in the corner having a beer and watching me carefully for any sign that I'm going to stake them. I know the rules though. I start staking customers and Willy stops being cooperative. They're safe, as long as they're in here and they aren't feeding. Most of the other demons are regulars, and harmless.

Frustrated, I turn to go, then change my mind.

"One more thing, what's Spike up to these days?"

Willy looks startled, "Figured you'd know that better'n me, Slayer. Word is that you've got yourself a new vamp lap dog."

"Word's wrong, Willy," I tell him. "What else have you got?"

"Not much. He comes in for a drink now ‘n’ then. Keeps to himself. Plays poker. Lot of the other demons here won't have anything to do with him since he's switched sides. More'n a few who'd like to take him out back, if you know what I mean?" Willy's talking faster than usual, which means he's nervous. I can't tell if that's because he's afraid of me, or afraid of Spike. Since he's human, of the two of us it's me that he needs to worry the most about.

"You haven't heard anything about him working for anyone?" I ask. Something about Spike's face earlier…

"Just you, Slayer," he says. "Just you."



Author's Postscript: I looked really hard to try to find evidence of Lydia's canon last name... and turned up a lot of fanon but nothing concrete. Since I didn't like her fanon name, I made one up instead. If you don't like it... sorry.


 
 
Chapter #20 - Chapter 19: Trust Me
 
Author's Notes: A couple of quick notes, based on feedback from the last chapter. I made up Lydia’s last name, because canonically, she doesn’t have a real last name. I’m aware that fanon has her as “Chalmers” but… honestly, I don’t like it, and my Lydia and the common fanon Lydia have a few minor differences. So pretend mine is a completely different Lydia if you like—though I did base her off the one introduced to us in “Checkpoint”.

Second: in regards to the French (and any other languages that might crop up), I had awesome translators who actually speak the languages in question, who I discussed the translations with fairly extensively. If there are mistakes in the translation they are deliberate. The prophecy Lydia is referring to is mangled: translated first (poorly) from English to French and then back again.

Just wanted to clarify.

You’re all lovely, and your comments are lovely. For those of you who were looking for a little more Spike and little more Mr. Gordo, you’re in luck…

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Credits: This chapter contains excerpts from Robert Service's poems "Moon Lover" and "The Cremation of Sam McGee”, as well as Robert Frost's "Fire and Ice"

Special thanks to Pika-la-Cynique for her help with French translations.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner by Phuriedae






Chapter 19

Trust Me




"Tomorrow's your birthday," mom says over breakfast, as if she needs to remind me. "I know, you'll be twenty and all grown up, but… I thought we could do something here at the house, maybe? Invite your friends over, have some cake? What do you think?"

"I think that if no one turns into a demon, dopes me up and tries to feed me to a crazy vampire, or gives me any gifts that include body parts, it'll be a miracle," I say. She laughs, not realizing that I'm serious.

"Let's try having a normal birthday party this year," she says.

"You said there could be cake?" I ask, pretending to think it over. "Can it be chocolate cake?"

"I think that can be arranged," she says with a smile.

A normal birthday. I don't think I've had one since I became the Slayer. It's almost like the PTB want to remind me that I probably ought to be dead by now. You'd think they'd be a little more, you know, giving to their Chosen One?

***


Willow, Tara, and Anya have been working together to track down information on the crystal. When I drop by before class they give me the scoop.

"Mostly it's… well, not much," Willow says. "We found a reference to Olaf and managed to track it to the original coven of witches that cursed him. They kept the crystal for almost two hundred years before it was lost. After that… poof," she says.

"Poof?" I ask. Poof's not good.

"Poof," she confirms sadly. "We'll keep looking."

Giles and Lydia aren't much more help. They spent most of the last night going over the prophecy and making a ton of notes that don't do me any good.

"The text… it's, well, it's quite garbled," he says. "The transcriber clearly did her best, but the…the translator wasn't used to translating, it would seem and couldn't quite keep up. Or perhaps the prophet skipped about. It's all in bits and pieces." He sighs and polishes his glasses. "Any luck asking around town?"

"Not really," I say, backing up to one of the heating vents in the floor and hoping it thaws me out a little. "I ran into Spike last night on patrol. I think he might know something, but he's not talking."

"Did you try hitting him?" Xander wants to know. "That usually works."

"I might go back in a day or two and try again," I tell Giles. "I'm going to try the other demon bars first. There's only so much Spike I can take in a twenty-four hour period. I just thought you should know."

"Excuse me," Lydia's head comes up from her book. "Are you… are you talking about William the Bloody?"

"Yeah, why? Do you know him?" I ask.

She's got a look on her face like Christmas. "I… well, I did some research on him, when I was studying to be a Watcher. He's quite fascinating. I wasn't aware he was… still in Sunnydale. Your last report to the Council—"

"Was several years ago," Giles reminds her.

"He came back," I tell her. "The army captured him and stuck a chip in his brain that zaps him whenever he tries to hurt humans. He's pretty much harmless now, which is the only reason he's still alive. Well, undead, anyway."

"A…chip?"

It takes a little while to fill her in, but when we're done she looks excited. "Would you… would you mind terribly if I came with you, when you go to speak with him? If…if you're certain that it's safe, that is?"

"Why?" I can't help but ask. Something about her interest in Spike is… kinda wigging me out. She looks like… well like Xander did back when Jonathan was the World's Most Famous Midget. Like she's got a crush. In fact, she's blushing.

"Well, the truth is…for all my research, I haven't spent much time in the field. Any, really. Thus, I've never actually, well, met a vampire. Or had the opportunity to talk to one. It… well, I think it would be fascinating, especially one as old as William the Bloody."

"Trust me," I tell her, "you're in for a world of disappointment."

***


Of all my classes this semester, the one I like the most, I think, is Introduction to Poetry. Professor Lillian makes it pretty interesting, even though I don't always understand everything he's talking about. But I like reading the poems, and talking about what they mean.

Sometimes in class I like to sit in the back of the room and just flip through the book, and see what catches my eye. Means I zone out a lot, but at least he doesn't call me on it like Baldy Prof in History.

Today's pretty much the usual, only the poem that catches my eye this time is a little different. It's titled "Birthday" which seems appropriate, and even though it's a poem about a guy being old, I notice that the date given for his birthday is only a few days before mine. It’s a funny little poem, and it makes me laugh. I don’t know if I’ll ever live to be seventy-five—my shelf life is supposed to be a lot shorter—but I hope I’m that happy if I do.

I flip back to see if there's more by this Robert Service guy, and sure enough there's a small selection of some of his other poems, including a morbidly funny one about a guy trudging through the snow to cremate the body of his dead friend, who turns out not to be dead, just frozen solid or something. I kinda know how he feels. Lately on patrol I feel less bendy and way more breaky.

But one of the others makes me pause and read it a couple of times. The first part is kinda… eh, and the last part is kinda depressing. But the middle part grabs me.

"I have a compact to commune
A monthly midnight with the Moon;
Into its face I stare and stare,
And find sweet understanding there.

As quiet as a toad I sit
And tell my tale of days to it;
The tessellated yarn I’ve spun
In thirty spells of star and sun.

And the Moon listens pensively,
As placid as a lamb to me;
Until I think there’s just us two
In silver world of mist and dew.

In all of spangled space, but I
To stare moon-struck into the sky;
Of billion beings I alone
To praise the Moon as still as stone.

And seal a bond between us two,
Closer than mortal ever knew;
For as mute masses I intone
The Moon is mine and mine alone."

Something about it makes me think of Mr. Gordo, so silent and patient. The way he sits there and listens to me talk about my days.

I know if I told Giles or Willow or Xander that they wouldn't get it. They'd want to figure out why I'm still having these dreams, why they're so real, what they mean. But… I don't want to share them. I want to keep them safe.

Maybe that's stupid, and maybe it'll come back and bite me, but… I like how that sounds: mine and mine alone.

***


I stop back by the Magic Box after my last class for training. The sidewalks are icy enough I wonder if I should start bringing my skates. I only slip twice, and both times I manage to right myself before I land on my butt. I swear, when I find whatever is causing this weather; I'm totally going to melt its ass. Super Slayer Agility and years of ice-skating help, but I've still got a couple of bruises in painful places.

"What's on the agenda today?" I ask when I get in. There's a few customers browsing up at the front, but Anya's got it covered. Giles is restocking shelves in the back, while Lydia pours over her notes at the table.

"I thought we might try working blindfolded again," Giles says. "I know it was never your forte, but your focus has improved markedly over the last few months. Perhaps it's time to try again."

"Okay," I say. Honestly, I've wanted to try this for weeks now, just to see if I've gotten any better. "Lemme just go change."

"No arguments?" Giles says, surprised.

"Since when do I argue?" I ask.

He only raises his eyebrows.

"I am totally non-arguing," I tell him as I head for the backroom and my change of clothes. "See me not arguing?"

"Is she always like this?" I hear Lydia comment behind me.

"Oh, no," Giles says, just as the door closes. "Sometimes she's worse."

"I heard that!"

By the time I'm in my workout gear and wrapping my hands, Giles and Lydia have migrated to the back room.

"Do you mind if I watch?" she asks.

"Lemme guess," I say. "Never seen a vampire, never watched a Slayer train?"

She blushes. "I… was mostly administration and research."

"Yeah, sure, why not?" I shrug. Doesn't bother me. It's not like she can go back and tattle on me for doing something wrong, when she's not even supposed to be here. Giles hands me a thick piece of material to use for a blindfold, and I tie it on, then move into the middle of the room.

"We'll start with basic moves on your own, to test your balance," he says, then gives me a series of kicks, blocks and punches to perform. After weeks of training in the dark, this is pretty much a breeze. When he's put me through my paces a few times, we move things up.

It's a little different, working with Giles. I don't get the same vamp tingle that I get from Mr. Gordo. But Giles has other tells: he breathes, for one thing, and kinda loudly. He doesn't have that vamp fluidity, so the whisper of his clothes brushing together is pretty loud, too. He moves slower than Mr. Gordo, and his punches are clumsier. Also, Giles is left-handed, and Mr. Gordo is a righty.

I manage to successfully duck and block all of his attacks. "Good," he says, panting a little. "Excellent. Much better. Shall we try some offensive moves?"

"Okay," I say, bouncing a little on the balls of my feet.

His first swing is clumsy and I only duck slightly away from it, feeling his knuckles brush my shoulder. Almost instinctively I move into the position Mr. Gordo showed me, grabbing his arm, then twisting my other arm up and landing a solid punch against his chest, just over his heart.

Unfortunately, while that works on Mr. Gordo, who is strong enough to take it and stand his ground, it sends Giles flying back and landing with a crash. I push the blindfold up to see him slumped against the balance horse, clutching his ribs and wheezing.

"Oh, god, are you alright?" I ask, coming over and kneeling beside him. "Sorry, I… wasn't thinking."

"Well, then," he manages. "At least we know your instincts work. That was… remarkably…"

"Good?" I ask.

"Painful," he grunts. "I think we'll switch to the punching bag for the rest of today's session, while I try to locate my lungs."

***


After we're done and Giles has stopped wheezing like a leaky balloon, we move back out to the main part of the shop.

"That was… educational," Lydia says. "You're stronger than I'd expected."

"I was holding back," I tell her.

"Thank god," Giles says. "Next time, perhaps we'll use the…. padded suit."

"Oooh," I smile. "Are you going to be Puffy Giles?"

"I was thinking perhaps Xander might volunteer," he says with a wince, holding his ribs.

"So any luck on this prophecy thingie?" I ask, twisting the cap off my water bottle and taking a swig.

"We've made some progress," Lydia says. She starts rearranging her papers to show me. Clearly, she has a lot to learn. "According to the prophet, the femme de glace, that is the Woman of Ice, as he calls her, was banished from our world several centuries ago. Cast out, somehow, and exiled to a frozen hell dimension."

"Does it say what she is? I know it said demon, but… are we talking an actual demon or maybe an evil sorceress or witch?" I ask.

"It's... not very clear, I'm afraid," Giles says. "There are indications that she might be a bit of all three. That she's still alive after an extended amount of time in a hell dimension would seem to confirm that she is some sort of demon, however."

I wrinkle my nose. "I smell a research party coming on," I say. "I knew it was too much to hope for a normal birthday."

***


Luckily Giles promises that research can wait ‘til after my birthday tomorrow, but he still insists that I have to patrol tonight. Yay me.

Is it possible that it's even colder tonight than it has been? My breath feels like it's going to freeze in my throat, and my eyes water and sting whenever I turn into the wind. I keep my hands tucked deep in my coat pockets, and am glad for the extra layer of thermal workout pants beneath my jeans. Also socks. I really love socks.

The first few cemeteries are dead, and I only take out one vampire at the third. By the time I hit Shady Rest, my nose is numb and I'm reciting some of the poems I remember from class just to keep myself from thinking about the fact that I can't feel my ears anymore.

"There are strange things done, in the midnight sun, by the men who… something… for gold. The Arctic trails have their… something… tales, that would make your blood run cold."

Okay, so I can't remember all the words, sue me.

"The Northern Lights have seen strange sights, but the strangest they ever did see… was that night… er… that night… crap…"

"'That night on the marge of Lake Labarge, when I cremated Sam McGee'," Spike finishes, stepping out of the shadows. He's got an odd little twist to his mouth. "And it's ‘queerist’, not 'strangest', pet."

"Don't be a pig, Spike," I tell him. "And since when do you know poetry?"

"Robert Service. Morbid bloke, but not as depressing as that poncy Poe chap. I liked him." He props himself against a gravestone and eyes me, then starts to recite, his deep voice and accent making the words darker and more dramatic.

"There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows — O God! how I loathed the thing."

A shiver goes down my spine. So unfair that a voice like that is wasted on a vampire. I roll my eyes. "I know how he feels," I tell him. "Want me to start a fire? I could get rid of at least one corpse tonight. Think you'd burn long enough I could get my hands warm?"

He just smirks and lights a cigarette. "You should be inside, Slayer. Gonna freeze your nose off and wouldn't that be a bloody shame."

"What do you want, Spike?"

"It's after midnight," he says, taking a long drag on his cigarette. "Thought I'd wish you a happy birthday."

I snort. "Yeah, well, I know how much my continued existence makes you miserable, so of course it's happy."

He frowns a little and sighs, smoke streaming from his nostrils and turning blue under the moonlight. "You're a piece of work, you know that, Slayer?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Can't a bloke wish you a happy birthday without you getting shirty?" he asks, arching a scarred brow.

"I am not being shirty… whatever that means," I say, stepping closer and scowling. Stupid vampire. Can't even speak English.

"Are so," he grins.

"Am not," I say, knowing we sound like third-graders, but not really caring. I go to punch him, but he blocks it easily, grinning.

"Not nice to hit people bearing gifts," he says, tsking at me.

"People?"

"Well, so to speak," he says, watching me through narrowed eyes.

I watch him right back.

For a long time we just stare at each other. In the moonlight, his eyes are nearly black, like a bottomless … thing. Maybe it's the poetry or maybe it's the moonlight or maybe I'm just in a weird mood because I feel like there's something prowling in the dark behind his eyes. Something hungry. Only I can't tell what it's hungry for. There's this weird tension between us, and the longer we stare, the stronger it gets until I realize I'm starting to lean toward him.

Toward Spike.

I jerk back at about the same time as he hisses, flicking his cigarette away and sucking on his burnt fingers.

"I so don't understand why you smoke. Aren't you a little…combustible?" I say, trying to break the tension. It doesn't work.

"Thrill of danger, luv," he says, straightening and stepping into my space. I hold my ground, but he comes closer still. His voice drops to a throaty purr. "Being so close to something that could kill you. Holding it in your hands, feeling it burn. Breathing it in. Tasting it on the tip of your tongue…" His finger brushes the fur of my coat collar. "I'm addicted."

I slap his hand away. "If you want to keep all your parts attached, back off, Spike," I warn him, but it's not as forceful as I want it to be. God, he gets under my skin. Stupid, irritating vampire.

He smirks. "Maybe next time you'll say it like you mean it, Slayer," he says, but he backs up a step.

"It's too cold to waste my energy fighting a neutered vampire who can't even hit back," I tell him. He growls, not a human growl, but the low rumbling growl of a big cat on the hunt.

Then his head whips up and he sniffs the breeze.

"What?" I ask.

"Feel that?" he asks quietly. I try to block out all the tingles his proximity is causing and tune into the area around me. Demons… or… something like. I'm not really sure what they are, just that there are several, and they're coming this way.

"What are they?" I ask.

"Other than smelling revolting, I don't know," he says, stepping around me so that we're shoulder to shoulder, him on my left, with one of the bigger crypts at our backs. "Got any weapons?"

"The usual," I say, sliding my stake out of my coat pocket. "You?"

"Usual," he says, flashing me a fangy grin, his yellow eyes turning back toward the dark graveyard.

The first one slides out of the shadows beside a crypt, the second and third emerge from the tree line, the fourth seems to materialize out of the shadows of a tall grave stone, and the fifth comes from behind a clump of bushes near the fence. They're small, slightly shorter than me, mostly human looking, but with solid black eyes, lank black hair, and nasty pointy teeth. Their skin is a pale, wet looking blue gray. Most of them are skinny, but one or two are a little chunkier. They're also seriously in need of some shampoo, cause… ew… greasy much? These guys make Willy the Snitch look almost hygienic.

"Any ideas?" I ask.

"Not a bloody clue," Spike says. "Tiny little twigs, ain't they?"

"What do you think they want?" I ask.

"Sssssslayer," hisses one of the creatures on my right. "You're the sssslayer?" It giggles.

For the record, giggling demons really wig me out.

"Ssssssoooo ssssmall," hisses another.

"Tasssssty, perhapsssss," says a third.

"Dinner," Spike mutters, to answer my question.

"Great," I can't help but groan. "Why am I always on the menu?"

He flashes me a grin, still in demon face. "Cause you're bloody gourmet, pet."

"Way to be gross, Spike," I say. He just shrugs, unrepentant.

"Which ones do you want?" he asks.

"I'll take Grumpy and Dopey," I say.

"Good," he says, baring his fangs at the evil little dwarf things. "I want Tasty."

He meets my eyes for just a moment, and something passes between us. Then there's nothing but the fight.

They're tougher than they look, but I manage to stab Grumpy with my stake and he goes down, bleeding black all over the place. Dopey, the giggler, starts to circle me, joined by one of the fat ones. I do a flip over their heads, landing back to back with Spike again, and lashing out at the closest with a foot.

Bashful trips, but springs back up, just as the other one dodges in and lands a blow to my stomach. Okay, stronger than they look, too. The pain makes the Slayer part of me come forward, ready for battle, shunting the Buffy part of me off to the side. Then it's nothing besides kick, punch, block, dodge, kick.

My slayer sense is tracking the remaining demons, and Spike as well. When the demons move in for a more coordinated assault, I realize suddenly that we're working almost in tandem. I push Bashful over to Spike, who takes over, breaking his neck while I'm punching Dopey in the face. I manage to kick Dopey hard enough that he flies backward into a gravestone, his head hitting with a sickening crunch. He doesn't get up.

We're down to just two now, and Spike and I break apart, each taking a different opponent. As tough as these little guys are, they aren't much of a match for the two of us. When I finally manage to get a hold on Happy, I push him roughly up against a gravestone and pin him there.

"Why are you here?" I ask.

He giggles, too, through bloody teeth and a grin. Extra creepy. I repeat the question, raising my fist.

"Kill the sssssslayer," he says. "Promissssed, we did."

"Promised?" I ask. "Who did you promise?"

"Ssssshe," he gurgles a bit from the force of my hand around his throat.

"She who?"

"Goddessssss," he hisses. "Queen. Promissssed."

"What do you know about The Slayer's Night?" I ask.

The demon's all black eyes flicker strangely. "Not to touch," he says. "Is herssssss alone."

Touch?

Suddenly he lunges forward, breaking my grip for a second and biting at my arm. I manage to knock him loose, then, pissed, I backhand him hard enough to break his neck. "Dammit." I'd hoped to get more out of him. Maybe Spike's is still…

Only when I look over Spike has his demon by the back of the neck and is slamming it mouth first against the edge of a gravestone, muttering to himself the entire time. "Spike?" he doesn't respond, so I step closer. He's still in demon face. "Spike!"

"What?" he pauses, looking up at me with wide golden eyes.

"I think it's dead," I say.

He twists it around like a doll, its limbs flopping and lifeless, to examine his handiwork. "Oh," he says, his vamp face sliding away. "Right." He tosses it aside easily, then looks around. "That the lot, then?"

"Looks like," I say. "Though I probably ought to finish patrolling. See if there are any more." I flex my cold fingers.

"Right," Spike says, kicking at one of the corpses. "I'll tag along," he says. "If they're traveling in packs, you might need another set of hands, yeah?" When he glances up at me there's something oddly… hopeful in his face. I remember him on Christmas, standing there in his bare feet, bare chested, hair a mess of curls and telling me that he hates feeling useless.

And as annoying as he is, he's right. An extra set of hands wouldn't hurt.

***


It takes us another two hours to finish up patrol, but we don't find any more of the evil little dwarves, which is good because my fingers are so numb by that point I'm afraid they'll shatter if I hit something. Spike and I bicker, which helps keep my mind off it, and at some point he starts reciting dirty limericks… which is totally irritating but… weirdly funny.

Of course, everything about Spike is weird.

In some ways he's totally a cliche for a vampire. In others…

By the time we get to Revello Drive I'm tired, half frozen and ready for bed. There's just one thing that's bothering me and I've pretty much decided not to say anything about it—right up until he gives one of those little shrugs, a half mocking wave, and starts to saunter off.

"Wait," I say, then catch myself. Crap. I hadn't meant to call him back.

"Yeah?" And now he's turning back and staring at me, one eyebrow raised.

Dammit.

"It's just… you said…” I say, not sure how to word it so he won't get the wrong idea.

"I say a lot of things, Slayer. Wanna be more specific?"

"You said… you said you had a present for me," I say. His head tilts to the side.

"I did," he says, with the sort of look on his face that I bet sharks get when they smell blood in the water. Crap. Note to self: add 'that I pay attention to stuff he says' to the List of Things Never To Tell Spike.

I roll my eyes. "I don't want it. It's probably stolen and disgusting and … you should just take it back to wherever it is you looted it from." Only not before showing me what it is first. Not because I want it, of course. I just want to be sure it's not something evil, or dangerous, or… whatever it is Spike might think would make an appropriate gift.

"Can't," he says, his eyes narrowing.

"Why not?"

"Not that sort of present," he says, slowly. "But since you don't want it…" He turns and starts to walk off again, and before I think about it I've grabbed his arm and jerked him back around.

"What is it, Spike?" I demand.

He stares at my hand on his arm, and I let go of him. With a sigh, he gives me an indecipherable look. "Never mind it, Slayer. Wasn't anything you'd want. Should've known…" He gives me a hard look. I return it. Equally determined.

"Bloody hell. Look, I just…I just thought you might like the night off tomorrow night. That's all. So you could, you know, hang out with your mates. Eat cake. Make merry. Whatever it is you bloody humans do to celebrate getting older." He scrubs a hand through his hair and scowls.

I blink. "The night off?"

"Yeah. Figured I could… do the rounds for you. Hit the cemeteries. That sort of thing. Not like the cold bothers me, and you know I don't mind a spot of violence." He doesn't quite meet my eyes.

For an evil demon, Spike is such a bad liar.

"You want to patrol?" I ask, unable to keep the suspicion out of my voice. He hears it. His head comes up and his eyes flash gold for a second. "Why? So you can get me out of the way while you do something evil?"

"No," he growls.

"Sorry if I don't buy that, Spike, but we both know we're enemies. You, vampire. Me, Slayer. Remember? The only reason you'd offer to patrol for me is so you can … go do something twisted and evil without me catching you. How dumb do you think I am?"

He's pissed, probably because I did catch him at something. For a moment his jaw flexes and he sucks his cheeks in.

"Fine then," he says. "Forget I said anything. Told you you wouldn't want it." He starts to walk off, then turns and stalks back toward me. "Since you like poetry so bleedin' much, here's one for you."

He steps into my space again, his face bare inches away, so I can see all the heat in his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is low and rough, and he doesn't just recite the words… he means them.

"Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice."

For a moment we just stare at each other, Spike hotly furious, and me freezing inside and out with a tiny flame of anger deep inside of me starting to burn. His nostrils flare, and his lashes dip slightly, shadowing his already dark eyes, and I feel like I did outside the Bronze that night when we fought. We're poised once more on the edge of a knife, and it doesn't matter which way we go, one of us is going to bleed.

Finally he backs up. Just an inch. Maybe two. "Happy birthday, Buffy," he says, a little bitterly. Then he turns and walks away.

When I can't feel him in range anymore, I relax and realize that, at some point, I stopped breathing.

***


Spike's words rattle around in my head long after I fall asleep. When I wake up in the dream room, I immediately get up and start pacing back and forth.

What was that?

A… warning? A threat? Or just… a really pissed off Spike?

And why should he be pissed off? He knows I don't trust him.

Last year, when we trusted him, what did he do? Worked behind our backs with Adam and almost got us all killed. And… with the doctor and Riley I'd even paid him and he still betrayed me. Helping when I can keep my eye on him is one thing, but just trusting him to go off and do something on his say so? So not gonna happen.

Ugh. God. Stupid, irritating, moody, sneaky, twisted vampire. With his stupid hair and his stupid face and his stupid accent and stupid leather coat and his stupid, stupid, stupid need to stick around Sunnydale and make my life hell. Why can't he just…

Grrr.

Some days I really hate Spike. Why is it that when all the men I love leave, the one that I can't stand is the one that insists on sticking to my side like glue? It's not fair that he's still here and Angel is gone and Riley is gone and Spike is…

Such a jerk.

When Mr. Gordo shows up I'm so ready to hit something I actually back away from him.

"I'm not in the best mood right now," I tell him. "I spent the night freezing in graveyards, getting attacked by evil dwarf demons and I'm pretty sure my oldest enemy is once more trying to trick me into trusting him while he's secretly plotting behind my back. I'm tired, and cold, and cranky and it's my birthday which means that today is pretty much guaranteed to be hell and if we spar right now I'm probably going to hit you really hard…. just… you know…so you know."

He just waits patiently.

"Can we walk?" I ask. "Instead of sparring, can we just… walk?"

He's still, then gives an odd little snort. Yes.

So we walk. He stays to my left, keeping pace while I wander through the dark. After a couple of minutes I start filling him in on my day. I tell him about talking to Giles and Lydia, about my poetry class, about running into Spike and the evil little demon dwarves, even about Spike's bizarre "birthday gift" offer.

"He's got to be up to something," I say irritably. "Everything Spike does is for his own good. That truce over Acathla was just so he could get his ho girlfriend back. When he came to us after the chip it was only because he couldn't feed and wasn't strong enough to protect himself from the Initiative. Him helping Giles when he turned into a demon was for cash, and … and then that whole thing with Adam… Honestly I'm totally amazed he's even trying this tactic again. He knows we don't trust him. He's a monster. It's like rule number one in the Slayer handbook or something. Don't trust soulless demons."

He stops walking, and it's not ‘til the tingles feel farther away that I realize it. I turn back.

"What?" I say, frowning in his direction. He huffs a sigh, then taps three times.

I try to think back over whatever I was ranting about.

"Um… don't trust soulless demons?" I guess.

Yes.

"What about it?"

He moves. He moves as fast as he does when we spar, and before I know it he's pressed against me from behind, one cool hand gently holding my head to the side, the other wrapped around me. I gasp slightly as I feel his lips brush against my throat. There's a low, soft growl vibrating against my skin as he taps clearly, three times, against my waist with a finger.

My arms are free. I could break his grip easily. I know it. He knows I know it. He's not even attempting, really, to hold me in place. My pulse is racing, and my Slayer sense is sending tingles up and down my skin. It's screaming a reminder: vampire!

I'm aware of everything. Of the hard chest against my back, and fact that he's deliberately not pressing his hips against me, of the iron strength of the arm banding lightly across my waist and the gentle grip he has on my hair, and the way his mouth can't seem to help pressing very, very softly against my throat, his lips deliberately closed.

I could move away.

I should move away.

I want to move away, only this is the first time he's done this when we're not sparring and that suddenly strikes me as odd. For the last seven or so months, I've spent every night laying beside Mr. Gordo, talking to him, sparring with him, and this is the first time he's touched me like this, outside of sparring. And because it's odd, maybe, I can't seem to do what I know I should.

He taps again, three times. A question.

I know what it is, now.

"You… want to know if I trust you," I say.

Yes.

He doesn't break his grip.

"You're… you're a vampire," I say, my brain a little muddled. Somewhere in my head, a little Xander voice is dryly saying 'way to state the obvious, Buff.'

Yes.

"Do you… do you have a soul?" I ask, realizing that I should have asked this question ages ago, but for some reason it never occurred to me.

No.

His answer is emphatic. He nuzzles my throat.

"Do you have a chip?" I ask, trying not to sound as breathless as I feel. It's fear, causing this reaction. I'm almost sure of it.

Of course, once the question is out of my mouth I realize how dumb it is. Possibly even dumber than the two before. "Nevermind," I say, before he can answer. "You've been hitting me for weeks. Guess the answer to that is pretty obvious."

His nose and lips glide up the length of my throat, and I realize suddenly that I'm trembling. Or he is. It's sort of hard to tell. Why would he be trembling?

Oh… yeah. I'm the Slayer. I could, well.. it would be hard to kill him but I could hurt him and… this is probably a definite no-no in the Vampire Handbook. If there is one. And I think my brain is babbling but I'm not sure how to shut it up because there's this vampire at my throat and he's not tearing it out, instead he's… nuzzling and almost kissing it and it feels … it feels… not good, because this shouldn't feel good. This should feel bad. Very bad. And scary. Which it is, and that's why I'm trembling. And it has nothing at all to do with the fact that he's found that spot just behind my ear that's super sensitive and he's rubbing his nose against it. Nothing at all.

Nope.

Nada.

He taps three times on my waist again.

What was the question?

"Huh?"

His mouth trails down, pausing just over the place on my throat where my pulse is throbbing hard right at the surface. Oh god.

Then he does something he's never done before.

He opens his mouth.

The edges of his teeth are blunt as he nips very, very gently against my skin. Then he opens slightly wider, pressing his teeth against my throat. All it would take is for him to vamp, and his fangs would slice right into my throat. One tiny shift of cartilage, and whatever it takes for his fangs to descend.

It doesn't come. He just waits and taps again. Three times. A question from the soulless demon at my throat.

Do you trust me?

I shiver in his grip. "I… I don't know how to answer that," I say. There are so many things rushing through my brain right now, and none of them are slowing down long enough that I can understand them. "You're… a vampire. But… uh… well, this is a dream, right? And you've… never hurt me, except, you know, sparring and you… with the sleeping it's been, and… oh, god, I shouldn't. I really, really shouldn't. Only…"

I know I have a brain. It's in here somewhere. I just have to… find it.

"Can I?" I ask, finally.

He doesn't respond immediately. Instead he closes his mouth and presses a single, cool kiss to my throat. Then he lets me go, slowly, almost reluctantly. First the hand in my hair, then the one on my waist. His hands settle at my shoulders and turn me to face him. He sighs. Then he takes my hand, turns it over, and lifts it to press another soft kiss against my wrist.

Yes. He taps against my skin.

Oh.

Okay.

I take a deep breath, and realize that my lungs have been starving for air.

"Do you promise?" I ask. "Promise me that I can trust you. That you'll never do anything that will… hurt me?"

Yes. No hesitation.

"Okay, then," I say. "Okay."





 
 
Chapter #21 - Chapter 20: What You Wish For
 
Author's Notes: This chapter is one of my favorites. It’s all thick and gooey, like really rich fudge brownies. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner by Phuriedae







Chapter 20

What You Wish For



Birthday Buffy still has to go to class, but Giles lets me out of training in the afternoon. Willow and Tara and I grab lunch, then I head home to get ready for my party. With any luck there will be no demons, no vampires, no weirdness of any kind.

But I'm not going to get my hopes up.

Spike's offer to patrol is still wigging me, and I've got a feeling that something might be going down tonight. I have full intentions of patrolling once my party is over. Freezing in graveyards isn't exactly my ideal birthday, but I'm not going to let Spike get away with something evil just because I want a night off.

Still, I'm in a good mood when people start to arrive, especially since they're all carrying boxes of various sizes, all wrapped in shiny paper. Shiny paper makes me happy.

Anya, clearly, still doesn’t quite grasp the concept of birthdays and gifts, but it’s getting easier to shrug off her ruder or more outrageous remarks. She must be starting to grow on me. Willow still looks irritated with her when she says she wishes that my pretty new dress was hers, and Xander and Giles look embarrassed, but it’s no big. I’m just enjoying having my Me Day.

After presents I count it up and am happy to note that there’s a pretty even ratio of girly Buffy gifts to weaponry (most of which came from the guys). One of my favorite gifts comes from Tara, and I just have to pick it back up to look at it. The box is plain, but what’s inside is beautiful. The little pendant on its delicate chain is no bigger than my thumbnail, and the design is gorgeous.

“It’s sort of a yin-yang,” she tells me, sitting down beside me on the couch. Only instead of the traditional half-black, half-white circle, this one is made of entwined silver and gold. The gold side is embossed to look like half a sun, and the silver side like the moon. There is a tiny silver dot on the gold, and a matching bit of gold on the silver. Tara blushes. “It seemed sort of appropriate, you know, for a Slayer.”

“It is,” I tell her. “It’s beautiful. Thank you so much.”

All in all, it’s been an almost perfect birthday so far. The only thing that feels missing is… well, the only thing that is. Last year Riley was here for my birthday. And for the two years before that, it was Angel, although I try hard not to think about how those birthdays went. This is my first single birthday since just after I was called, and I kinda miss having a boyfriend at my side.

Mom brings out the cake, then, with Giles helping. Twenty pretty candles burning against all that chocolate frosting. We all gather around. “Make a wish,” Mom tells me. I start to lean over.

But Anya reaches out a hand and touches my arm, frowning. “Be careful,” she says solemnly. “You never know who’s paying attention.”

“It’s just a silly tradition,” Xander tells her, but Anya meets my eyes, serious.

“I know,” she says. “That’s what makes it dangerous.”

“I’ll be careful,” I tell her, meaning it.

For a moment I close my eyes and think about what to wish for, but in the end I keep coming back to Tara’s gift and Riley missing…

When I blow out the candles, it’s kinda with the hope that someone up there is paying attention.

***


Giles is the last to leave.

“Are you certain you want to patrol tonight?” he asks.

I just give him a look.

“Yes, well, admittedly your birthday hasn’t always gone… smoothly,” he says. “But that’s hardly your fault. Last year it was entirely Ethan’s doing, and the year before it was…was…”

“Yours,” I remind him.

“Well, yes… and the Council’s! And the year before that was…”

“Mine,” I tell him. “That one was all mine. And maybe Spike and Drusilla, too, with their stupid Judge.”

“Quite,” he says. “In any case, history says that if something bad is going to happen it will happen to one of us.”

“I don’t know, Giles. There’s a peroxided pest out there who seemed really anxious about me not patrolling tonight. I just want to make sure that he’s not up to something. With any luck, I’ll catch him and dust him and be back before midnight.”

He sighs. “You’re probably correct. Just… be careful, Buffy. And keep warm.”

***


It’s snowing again by the time I finish changing and bundling up in my warmest patrol gear. My feet crunch in it as I make my way down the walk. I take the longer patrol route, just to be sure, detouring through every cemetery, past all the demon bars, even doing a sweep through the burnt out high school just to be sure that the Hellmouth is quiet, even though it gives me the heebie-jeebies.

But it is quiet. Almost too quiet. I don’t stake any vamps or run into any demons. It’s like everything in town has taken the night off and stayed in, and I’m the only one dumb enough to be out trudging through the snow at two in the morning.

I finish up with one last stop in Restfield, to check Spike’s crypt. As I approach my Slayer sense goes off for the first time all night, and I’m not surprised when I recognize the signature. Spike doesn’t even bother lurking, in fact he’s not even looking my way. I must be downwind of him. He’s moving strangely, and it takes me a second to realize that he’s limping a little. When he steps into the moonlight, he bends his head and licks at his knuckles, like a cat licking an injured paw.

Weird.

“Spike, what are you doing?” I ask. He jumps a little, then glares at me.

“Bloody hell,” he says, then sighs. “Don’t you have better things to do than lurk about my crypt, Slayer?”

“Not at the moment,” I tell him. “Why are you limping?”

“I’m not,” he says, straightening indignantly and stalking forward a few steps to prove me wrong.

“Fine,” I say. “What’s with your hand?”

He looks at it and shrugs. This close I can see that his knuckles are split and bruised, but the bleeding has already stopped and they’re starting to heal. By morning the damage will probably be gone. Lucky I caught him tonight then.

“Got in a scuffle,” he says. “Nothing to fret over, Slayer. Not unless you want to kiss it and make it better?” He gives me a cocky smirk.

“You’re a pig, Spike.”

He gives me a strange look. “Running out of insults, Summers?” he says, finally.

“No, I just don’t bother wasting the good ones on you,” I tell him. “Whatever. Look, save us both some time, okay? Just tell me whatever it is you’re up to, so I can dust you and go home and defrost.”

“Well,” he says, eyes narrowing. “Let's see. I took a stroll down to the shops, bought some smokes, fought a demon or two, and now I’m knackered and hungry. Thought I’d go back to my crypt, have myself a cup of blood, and watch the telly. SNL reruns are on in half an hour. It’s not Monty Python, but Spade and Farley aren’t half bad.”

“Spike—,” I start to say, warningly.

“I’m not doing anything evil,” he says. “‘Less you want to count nicking some cable TV. If you’re gonna dust me over that, Slayer, get it over with. I’m beat and I really don’t feature standing about all night getting the third degree.”

Stupid cranky vampire.

“I’m checking your crypt,” I tell him.

“Suit yourself,” he says and leads the way. He yanks the door open for me with a smirk, then slides past me to light a few candles when I realize that it’s pitch black inside. While I look around he wanders over to the fridge, gets out a Styrofoam cup of blood and pops the plastic lid off. He takes a swig, his eyes watching me over the rim with amusement.

“Ew,” I tell him, wondering why he doesn’t vamp when he drinks.

"Oh, like Mac n' Cheese is so appetizing," he says with a snort. With a shrug he saunters over to his decrepit old TV, cranking the knob on it to turn it on. He pulls off his duster and tosses it over the back of his chair, then drops into the seat, deliberately drinking and watching me watch him. I roll my eyes and turn away, scanning the rest of his crypt for anything evil or out of place.

Candles, candles, more candles. For someone so flammable, he seems to have a weird aversion to electric lighting. Bottles of alcohol along the window ledge and by the fridge. Stack of books beside his chair. Scraps of paper on top of one of the crypts and a small battered journal. Good place to keep evil plans, maybe? Absently I pick it up and run my fingers over the worn leather cover.

A noise from Spike’s direction has me putting it down and turning back in his direction. “What?” I ask.

He’s staring hard at me, his eyes weirdly intense, the muscles in his jaw twitching. “Didn’t say anything,” he says. At some point he must have taken off his boots, and the sight of his bare feet distracts me. “You gonna read that?” he asks, nodding at the book I’d just put down. He seems a little too eager, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s never do what Spike wants me to do. It only leads to badness.

“Your diary?”

“Journal,” he says with a little growl in his voice.

“No,” I tell him, exasperated and cold and tired and just wanting to go home. Clearly, if he was up to something evil, he’s already done with it. “It’s probably nothing more than ‘dear diary, bloody hell, today I didn’t get to bite anyone.’ No thanks.”

“It’s not,” he says, indignant. “And your accent is crap, Slayer.”

“I’m leaving,” I tell him and head for the door. “If I find out you were doing something evil…”

“You’ll stake me, right and proper,” he says, flopping back in his chair. “Yeah, yeah.”

***


When I get home, I’m surprised to see that there are lights on, and mom throws the door open almost as soon as I come up the walk. Giles is right behind her.

“Mom? What’s wrong?” I ask, hurrying.

“Look!” She points at the yard. Puzzled I turn to see.

There are dead demons in my yard. Those little dwarf guys from the other night, a good half dozen of them, are scattered across the lawn like toppled gnomes.

“There are more, in the back,” Giles says, coming down the walk, a crossbow in his hands.

“What happened?” I ask.

“I’m not sure,” he says. “I just got here myself.”

“Then who killed them?” I ask, although my mind is already flashing back and thinking of battered knuckles and limping vampires.

“Spike, apparently,” Giles says.

***


It takes more than an hour to pick up all the bodies and move them into the backyard and out of sight of the neighbors. With any luck they’ll melt or something by morning. Demon bodies tend to do that around here. Giles studies them for a while, clearly taking mental notes so he can identify them later.

After, we gather in the kitchen for hot cocoa and to find out from mom what exactly happened.

“Well,” she says, “it was about an hour after you left, honey. I was in here, cleaning up the dishes, and I heard noises outside. When I went to look out the window… It was Spike. He was fighting those creatures, in the backyard.”

“Were they trying to get in the house?” Giles asks.

“I think so. They kept rushing the porch, but… he’d stop them,” she frowns. “They didn’t seem to want to fight him. It was almost as if they were afraid of him. I can see why. He’s a very good fighter, Buffy. Very scary.”

“Why would Spike stop them from attacking the house?” I wonder out loud. “Did he say anything?”

“He yelled at me to stay inside when he saw me watching out of the window,” Mom says. “Oh. And at the end, when it was over and I opened the door to thank him, he just shrugged and said something about telling you that you could discuss price per head tomorrow. Are you paying him again, Buffy? I thought he was helping you now?”

Giles and I exchange a glance.

Seems like that’s the question of the week.

Mom doesn’t seem all that shaken, despite the small army in the backyard. After she goes up to bed, Giles and I step out on the porch to take stock.

“Did you find anything on patrol?” he asks.

“Not at thing, unless you count a bruised and cranky Spike. He must’ve just come from here, but… why didn’t he say anything, Giles? You’d think Spike would want to rub it in my face that he was here killing demons while I was off trying to find him.”

Giles mulls that over. “Unless that was the plan all along,” he says. “He might have tricked you into taking a longer patrol in order to arrange this attack.”

“But why? Why attack the house? And why fight them off?”

“Perhaps to look heroic? He does seem to be going out of his way to get into your good graces lately,” Giles says, staring out at the scuffed up snow.

I think about that for a bit. “He is around a lot whenever new demons crop up. He was there for the attack last night. He was at the mall when we found the Krampus and he was the first…okay, the only one to actually see it. He was hiding in my basement the night the Mara demon attacked. And he came in in the middle of the fight with the Lei-Achs. Hell, he was at the Bronze when the troll showed up, too. And he was the one who pointed out that the crystal might have been planted there. Does that seem a little… too much to you?”

“The evidence does seem to be stacked against him,” Giles says, frowning.

But something about it seems wrong… and not in the usual ‘Spike is being evil‘ sort of way.

“It’s just…” I start.

“It doesn’t seem like Spike?” Giles guesses.

“Pretty much. He’s not really the long, involved plan type. He’s more of the ‘I’ve got a plan, but I got bored’ type. He doesn’t do so well with the waiting. I mean, I still think he’s up to something but… I’m not sure he’s our mastermind, you know?”

“Agreed,” Giles leans back against the railing. “What do you propose to do, Buffy?”

I sigh and square my shoulders. “It’s late, and I’m tired. I think I’ll get some sleep, then go by tomorrow in the daylight and see if I can pound some answers out of him.”

“Take Lydia with you,” Giles suggests. “She’s been wanting some time in the field, and it’s… possible that an outsider’s view might be… clearer than ours.”

***


I fill Mr. Gordo in while we spar later that night, but I still don’t have any brilliant ideas on what Spike’s up to by the time I fall asleep.

And dream.

I’m standing in a subway, and the lights are flickering a little as they go past the windows. The car is full, packed with people in all kinds of costumes. A woman in an old fashioned dress talks to a man in a soldier’s uniform. A tall guy dressed like a… reindeer in a suit? is delivering drinks to a tiny old woman and Harmony. My friends are here, too. Xander is dressed like a pirate, complete with eyepatch, and Anya is in her bunny costume from last year only she’s got her demon face back.

“What’s going on?” I ask. “Where are we going?”

“Not sure,” Xander says. “I’m just along for the ride.”

“I think it depends on the track,” Anya says. “Which one did you get on?”

“I… don’t know,” I say. Something ahead of me catches my eye: a glimpse of a black leather coat, a flash of white hair. “I have to go,” I tell them.

“We’ll be here, when you get back,” Xander promises.

I push through the crowd. Giles is down a little further, wearing a sombrero and a poncho. Lydia and Olivia stand on either side of him. He holds out a blindfold and a wooden bat. “Hello, Buffy,” he says. “Would you like to take a swing at the piñata?” Above his head is a paper machè vampire piñata, complete with crepe paper cape. “There aren’t any souls in it, though.”

I frown. “Not right now. I’ve got to…” I look around. People press on all sides, but ahead, disappearing through the doors into the next car, I catch a flash of white hair again. I push on.

Willow and Tara stop me next. Willow is dressed like the Wicked Witch of the West and Tara like Glinda.

“I don’t think all this black and green goes with my hair,” Willow complains.

“You can take it off, honey,” Tara assures her. “You’ve only misunderstood the metaphor.”

“What metaphor?” I ask.

Tara looks at me seriously. “You’re still in the woods, Buffy. It’s not time to step into the light.”

“But it’s so dark,” I tell her.

“He can see,” she tells me. “He’ll lead you there.”

She hands me my stuffed pig, it wears my yin-yang necklace around its neck. The lights flicker, gleaming off white hair up ahead.

“I have to go,” I tell Tara.

The next car is full of girls, and somehow I know that they’re Slayers. Kendra waits for me just inside, flanked on one side by another black girl in a long black duster, and on the other by a small Chinese girl.

“We been waitin’ for you,” Kendra says. The other two look sad. “You’ve got a long ways to go, yet.”

“Does this subway go there? I don’t know what track I’m on,” I explain, confused.

“It goes part of the de way,” Kendra tells me. “But we’ve switched trains.”

I’m not sure how I got to the end of the car, but I’m there now, and the First Slayer waits for me at the door.

It’s crossed over with yellow ribbons, like crime scene tape.

“Your gift,” she tells me, without opening her mouth. “Happy Birthday.”

I reach out and pull the ribbons away. The door opens and I go through.

“See you later, B,” Faith says, stepping into the doorway behind me. “You’re gonna need lots of shoes, you know.” She pulls something and the cars disconnect. The one with her and the Slayers goes rattling off into the darkness, along another track. I shut the door.

The car I’m in now is full of demons, vampires, and the dead. They stand silently, as I pass. At the other end Angel waits, with Darla and Drusilla beside him. They’re all three in vamp face, but Angel’s is painted to look like a sad clown, complete with droopy red mouth and blue tears running down his ridged cheeks. The whole effect is pretty grotesque.

“It might have been different,” he tells me. “But it just comes off too easily.”

Drusilla holds up a china doll that’s been gagged with a length of cloth. “Miss Edith whispered you were coming,” she says. “She said you’d take our boy away.”

“That’s okay,” Darla says. I realize she’s dressed in maternity clothes, and her stomach is swollen and pregnant. “We can always make another one.”

“Not the same,” Drusilla whimpers. “He was so lovely and broken.”

None of them try to stop me as I open the door to the next car.

My mom waits for me, alone.

“Mom? What’s going on?” I ask.

“We’re almost at the end of the line,” she tells me. “I have to get off at the next stop, but you go on ahead.”

“Will you wait for me?” I ask.

“Oh, honey,” she says. “I wish I could. But you’ve got a long ways to go yet.”

“I don’t want to go if you’re not,” I tell her.

“I’ll be there,” she promises. “When you finally get there, I’ll be there. I promise. I love you, sweetie. Now you hurry up, okay? Your gift is getting cold.”

She opens up the last door and I go through.

I’m no longer on the subway. Instead I’m standing on a vast desert plain, only it’s covered in snow and studded with statues as far as I can see. At least, they look like statues till I get up close. Then I see that they’re people, frozen into ice sculptures. Hundreds of thousands of people.

To my left, the sun is setting, and to my right the moon is rising. Far, far ahead, a tall white tower juts up over the horizon. I make my way toward it, past the rows and rows of frozen people. I stop looking at their faces when I start to recognize them. Giles and Xander, Anya and Willow and Tara… they’re all here, somewhere, I know. I can feel it.

Time passes and I keep moving. The sun and moon hover on either side of me, and only the nearness of that tower ahead and my footprints stretching in a straight line behind me in the snow mark my passage.

When I reach the base of the tower, a huge pair of doors swings open. Inside, everything is made of ice. At the far end of the room is a dais, with an empty throne. Three figures wait in front of it as I approach, one of them still as stone.

As I get closer I see that the middle one is Spike, dressed as usual in his uniform of black and leather. He’s covered in ice, and under it, his eyes are closed as if he’s sleeping. To one side of him paces another Spike. This one is punked out in torn jeans, a black sleeveless shirt held together with safety pins, and his white hair stands straight up in rock star clumps. He’s in vamp face. To the other side of statue Spike is a brown haired man dressed in old-fashioned clothes. His hair flops over his forehead, and he pushes a wire-rimmed pair of glasses up on his nose. He looks familiar, but I can’t quite place him. He’s also kinda transparent; I can see the room through him.

They stare at me as I approach.

“What took so long, Slayer?” says vamp Spike, exasperated. “I was getting bored.”

“I was looking for my gift,” I tell him. “It’s my birthday.”

The old-fashioned guy opens his mouth, and starts talking, but no sound comes out. When I look at him closer, he seems even more familiar. Something about his cheekbones, and that pouty lower lip.

“William?” I ask, blinking.

“Ponce,” says vamp Spike, sneering. William gives him a dirty look. Vamp Spike growls, then turns back to me. He rakes me with a look that makes my blood start to boil, in spite of the game face. “I’m bloody starving, here, Slayer. Got any poetry?”

“Huh?”

Suddenly they both go very still, almost as rigid as statue Spike in the middle. Vamp Spike growls, angry and feral, and William goes even more transparent, looking afraid. Between them, under the ice, Spike’s eyes open wide, incredibly blue.

“She’s coming,” they all three say, but the only one I can hear is vamp Spike.

“Who’s coming?” I ask.

“The Cold One,” they say through vamp Spike.

I turn and what I see makes me—

—wake up with a gasp.

I sit up in my bed for a long time, shivering under the blankets, trying to get warm.




 
 
Chapter #22 - Chapter 21: Thesis
 
Author's Notes: A quick note for all of you who are worried about Buffy backsliding: Buffy has very good reason to worry that Spike might betray her. Yes, she was making some steps forward, but that doesn’t mean she trusts him. Yet. Be patient, young padawans and let me tell the story. I promise she won’t stay mad forever. Besides… if she didn’t get mad at him, and he didn’t have a bit of a temper on him, I wouldn’t have been able to do THIS scene.

For all of you who were hoping for a Lydia-Buffy-Spike scene, enjoy…

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Credits:This chapter contains lines adapted from the episodes "Checkpoint" written by Douglas Petrie and Jane Espenson and "Bloodties" written by Steven S. DeKnight

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner by Phuriedae







Chapter 21

Thesis


"What do you make of it?" I ask Giles the next day. I wrote out the whole dream, just as soon as I warmed up enough that my fingers weren't trembling. He's peering at my handwriting as if the secrets of the universe are written there.

"Can you describe again the creature you saw? The one at the very end?"

I shiver. "Horrible. Female, definitely. Long white hair, really hard white skin… kinda craggy, actually, and veiny. Her eyes were weird… like… um… like frozen ice over a pond, when you scrape away the snow? And lots of sharp teeth."

"Like vampire teeth?" Lydia wants to know. She’s sitting at the research table, beside the others, elbow deep in books, trying to find something that matches my description of the thing I saw in my dream.

"No, like… um… like icicles. Really pointy. All of them, too, not just the fangs."

"Did she say anything?" Willow asks.

"No," I say. "She just… grinned. Trust me, it was wiggy enough. I'm kinda glad I didn't have to hear her voice."

"Why was I wearing a sombrero?" Giles mutters.

"Hello, creepy demon chick?" I remind him.

"Yes, yes. I just… Some of the earlier things, are you sure they weren't just regular dreams that led into a Slayer dream?"

"I was getting the whole Slayer-dream vibe the whole time," I tell him. "Even when you were wearing the sombrero."

He frowns, then his face lights up. "Of course!" He hurries over to the bookshelves.

"What?"

"Cinco de Mayo," he says, flipping rapidly through a book.

"Five of Mayonnaise?" Xander asks.

"Fifth of May," Willow says.

"It falls within the time frame we're looking at. Perhaps the sombrero is our clue to when this Slayer's Night is," Giles says. “It’s between the solstice and the equinox.”

"It's a theory," I agree, although I think he's kinda stretching. "What about the rest of it, though? The … costumes and the car full of Slayers and my mom and the three Spikes?"

"Well," Lydia says, polishing her glasses. "The part about the car full of Slayers might be the easiest to explain. There is a theory, among the Council, that after your… your drowning incident, that the Slayer line passed to Miss Young, and then to Miss Lehane. Therefore, if you were to… say… um, pass on, again, a new Slayer wouldn't be called until Miss Lehane were to… ah, follow."

"Way to euphemism there," I tell her. "But I think I see what you mean."

She blushes. "As for the three Spikes, perhaps you could ask him what they might represent."

Great. One more thing to beat out of Spike.

***


"He… lives in a graveyard?" Lydia looks nervous, despite the fact that the sun is beaming cheerfully down and she's wearing a cross around her neck big enough to ward off a half dozen vampires. "I thought vampires usually nested in abandoned places?"

"Spike doesn't so much nest as much as he lurks, and thankfully he does it solo," I tell her. I'm still irritated about the demon attack last night, and the creepy Slayer dream on top of it isn't helping much either. Having to play show and tell with my least favorite neighbor and one of the Watcher's Council? So not high on my list of ways to spend my day.

"Whatever became of Drusilla?" she asks as we make our way through the snow around Restfield’s gates. Someone has helpfully shoveled the walk. But everything off the path is covered in snow. The gravestones look like they’re drowning. "I thought the two of them were nearly inseparable."

"Drusilla turned out to be not only crazy but also a big ho. She left his pasty ass somewhere in Brazil. With any luck, something ate her." Lydia nods, then looks confused.

"What, exactly, is a… 'ho'?"

I can’t help the feeling that Spike is hiding something from me. After all his talk about changing and, you know, wanting to be useful, it’s nearly disappointing. Or it would be if it weren’t so… Spike. All that pretty much adds up to a really grumpy Buffy.

Lydia’s constant stream of Spike related questions on the way over here? Really not helping.

By the time we get to Spike's crypt, I've worked myself into a decent temper. Kicking open his door has become almost therapeutic. Gotta love that bang.

"If you've come round for eggs and sausage, we're fresh out," he calls out. When we step into the crypt I’m surprised to see him not plunked in front of the TV. Instead he's sitting on top of a stone sarcophagus… painting his nails? Ugh. He doesn’t even lift his stupid bleached head when I storm into the room. Instead he just goes on ignoring me and giving himself the world’s ugliest manicure.

I grab the edge of the stone lid and yank it out from under him, sending him tumbling into the coffin underneath. "Hey!" he yells, sitting up and showing me his freshly lacquered black nails. "Watch it! These are wet."

I so don't care. With a shove, I pin him against the inside of the coffin with the lid. He grunts and glares.

"Why were there dead demons all over my lawn last night, Spike?"

"Was looking kinda bare. I thought it could use some lawn ornaments. Why the bloody fuck do you think there were dead demons all over your bleedin' lawn, you daft bint?"

"I think you killed them," I tell him.

"Sussed that one out all by yourself?" he snarks.

"I think you sent them there, then killed them while my mother watched just to make yourself look good."

That surprises him. His head tilts to the side and he stares at me as if he thinks I’m the stupidest Slayer he’s ever seen. "Are you off your trolley, Slayer? Why the hell would I want to do that?"

"You tell me, Spike," I say, stepping back and watching his temper boil over.

The minute I let go of the heavy lid he flips it off with enough force that it flies across the room and shatters against the wall. Behind me, I hear Lydia squeak in fright, but neither of us pay her any attention. Seething, Spike stalks toward me. Standing in the coffin gives him an extra foot or two in height and he glares down at me with all the menace he can muster. Even with the chip, that’s a lot of menace.

"Know what I think, Slayer?” Spike growls. “I think you're brassed off because while you were out traipsing about town trying to pin something on me, I was the one protecting your mum from the demon assassins there looking’ to kill you. I think you're so busy looking for conspiracies and betrayals where there are none that you can't see past the end of your ridiculous nose. You cocked up, and now the only way you can save face is to come round here and play a few rounds of Kick the Spike. Well I won't have it. I've been doing you bloody favors for months now and I don't get a lick of respect from you or your lot. From now on, Slayer, you want something from me you can either treat me decent and say 'pretty please' or you can fork over the dosh. Your choice."

He steps up onto the lip of the coffin then drops easily in front of me, radiating enough anger and violence that my Slayer sense is going wild. Well, I'm mad, too. I step into his space, nearly nose to nose with him… well, nose to chin. At least he's not as tall as Angel. The air between us is so thick I could cut it.

"How do I know you didn't set that up, Spike? How do I know you haven't been setting up all these demon attacks lately? You're always there. Whenever there's a new demon around, here comes Spike, barging in. How do I know that this isn't just you trying to get me killed?"

"If I were trying to kill you, Summers, you'd already be dead," he growls. His eyes flash gold.

"Like you could, with that chip in your head," I say.

He snorts. "Think what you like," he says finally.

A thud behind us makes both of us turn. Lydia has backed up into Spike's side table and is staring at us with her eyes wide. The thud was a big, heavy book falling off the table and hitting the floor. "S-sorry," she stutters, then bends down to pick up the book, frowning at the title. Before I realize he's moving, Spike is across the room and snatching it out of her hands with enough force that he winces and presses his fingers to his forehead.

"Not nice to snoop," he growls at her, recovering from the zap the chip must have just given him. He glances at me. "Who's this, then? Since when do you need a bloody chaperon?"

"This is Ms. Lydia Markham," I tell him. "Watcher's Council."

Spike eyes her up and down. Lydia blushes.

It's amazing how Spike can go from cranky to Casanova so easily. His shoulders relax, his head tilts, and his hips jut forward. With a slow smirk he thrusts his thumbs in his pockets, his hands framing the crotch of his jeans in a way that I just know is designed to draw every woman's attention there. "Watcher's Council, eh?" he says, giving her a little smile. "Been a long time since I met a woman who wanted to Watch."

He curls his tongue behind his teeth and gives her another once over. Ugh. Only Spike would find some stuffy British woman attractive. Only… when I glance at her, she's blushing, and batting her eyelashes and some of her hair has loosened from her bun. She's not pretty, but for the first time I realize she's not all that old, either.

I stomp up to them and give Lydia a little nudge. "We don't flirt with the undead," I tell her.

"Hypocrite," Spike mocks, all traces of his temper tantrum gone. What's left is sly and playful and about as friendly as a fully grown jaguar.

"Jerk," I shoot back. He just grins.

"So, why's the Watcher's Council suddenly interested in ol' Spike?" he asks. He takes a step back and leans casually against another sarcophagus, then fishes in his pockets for his cigarettes.

"Oh," she says. "Not… not the Council. Just, well, m-me."

He looks up at her from beneath his dark lashes as he lights his cigarette. He lets it dangle loosely from his lips while he puts away his lighter. "Just you, hmm, pet?"

Oh my god, did he just purr?

"She's never met a vampire before," I tell him, putting some warning in my tone.

"That right?" he says, as if that only made him more interested. "Nasty fellows, vampires. Rough crowd. But then, some birds like it rough, don't they Slayer?" He slants me a teasing glance.

"Don't be a pig, Spike."

"'M not. I'm having a nice conversation with Ms. Markham here and you're being rude, Summers. Know your mum didn't bring you up to be such a bitch."

"You're William the Bloody," Lydia says, as if puzzled.

"Heard of me, have you?" The smug, self-satisfied look on his face is pure predator. I wonder if this is how he used to lure prey, back when he had a reason to, you know, be lure-boy. If Lydia’s expression is any indication it wouldn’t take much for her to offer Spike her neck if he asked. I thought Watchers were smarter than this.

"I…” she blushes again. Ugh. What is up with this woman? "I… did my thesis on you."

Oh, crap.

"Is that right?" Spike straightens, and snuffs out his cigarette, looking like he's just scented blood. "And what was your thesis, exactly?" Oh, yeah. He’s definitely purring. Not in that weird demonic way that tells you that there’s something not human in him, but in a totally male way that makes even me react.

Unfortunately for Spike, my reaction is to get annoyed.

"It… ah, was an examination into your… history, um, postulating what you might have been before t-turning and the… the possible effect it may have had in creating, uh, creating one of the most v-violent vampires in history," she says.

Spike smirks. Oh, for heavens sake.

"Got a copy of it, pet? I'd like to read it," he says.

"I… I can get a copy of it, yes," she says a little breathlessly. I’m pretty sure if Spike asked her to strip right now she’d do it.

"Spike, we're not here for you to flirt with Lydia," I remind him. "I still need information."

"And I told you how to get it,” he says. "Say the magic words, Slayer."

If I had any cash on me, I’d stuff it down his throat. "Fine. Spikewillyouprettyplease stop being a jerk and tell me what I want to know?"

"Was that so hard?" he asks, his gaze finally flicking back to me, and there’s anger there, still, mixed in with the amusement. His eyes are anything but friendly when he looks at me.

"Look, I know you know more about this Ice Demon thing than you're letting on. I want to know what you know." We glare at each other. His jaw works and he keeps glancing around the walls of the crypt as if the answers are written there.

Finally he huffs out a sigh.

"I know… that whatever it is it’s sending demons after you," he says. "I killed ten or so of them last night, and they were hissing out your name the whole bloody time. This… thing. It's got it in for you, Slayer."

"How long has it been here?"

"Don't know," he says.

"What's it after?"

"Can't say," he arches a brow.

"Do you know when the Slayer's Night is?" I ask. He eyes my fists warily.

"No, and if you punch me in the nose I stop singing."

"You're barely talking," I tell him. "I swear, Spike, if I find out that you're hiding information from me or working against me, I won't just dust you. I'll stake you out in the middle of the desert and wait for the sun to rise." He just rolls his eyes. "Okay, fine, one more thing… do you know about Slayer dreams?"

He frowns. "Read somethin' about them once. Prophetic junk, yeah? You seein' visions, Slayer?"

"No," I tell him. "But… I had a dream last night. And there were three of you in it." He smirks.

"Sounds dirty. Gotta say, Slayer, never figured that for one of your kinks. Gonna tell me more or leave it up to my imagination?"

Ignore him. Ignore him. Ignore him.

"There were three of you," I manage to bite out. "One looked like you do now, only with the duster. He was trapped in ice. One of you was in game face, and dressed like a punk band reject complete with safety pins and dog tags and ripped up, too-tight jeans. And the third had brown hair, glasses, and dressed like he was from another time. He was kinda see-through. They all three warned me that 'The Cold One' was coming, even though vamp you was the only one who could talk. Oh, and demon Spike wanted to eat poetry."

Spike is staring at me as if I'm the one who has three heads. He is, if possible, paler than usual.

"Do you know what it means?" I ask.

"No," he whispers. "Not…"

He drags a hand through his hair, loosening his curls and making them stick up all over, then hoists himself up on the coffin lid and scrubs his hands over his face.

"Don't lie to me, Spike," I warn him.

"I'm not lying, Buffy," he says, looking me straight in the eye. "I don't know what it bloody means."

"But you have a guess," Lydia says. I'd almost forgotten she was there.

Spike's eyes don't leave mine. "Yeah," he says. "I've got a guess."

"I need to know," I tell him. "You told me you wanted to help. I've got a possible apocalypse coming and I need to know what's going on."

He glances at Lydia. "Go on outside, pet," he tells her, all flirting gone. "This is between me and the Slayer. You've had your bleedin' interview." She glances at me and I nod. With a last curious glance at Spike, she leaves.

"Look," he says, spreading his hands. "Forget for a moment all that rot those wankers feed you about vampires. Forget what Angel told you. Some of it's bollocks and I don't have time to suss out what's what. What you saw…" he plants a hand on his chest, fingers splayed. "It’s like… there's me, there's the demon, and there's… whatever is left of the human I was. That's what you saw. I don't know what it means, Buffy. But if all three of … them, me, whatever, were warning you… it means that whatever the hell we were warning you of, it's bad, and when the chips are down, I'm on your bloody side."

He's serious. I can see it in his eyes that he's serious.

And if my dream is to be believed… he probably is.

"I don't trust you," I tell him.

"I know," he says with an odd little smile. "But I trust you. Funny old world, innit?"

***


“So, that’s all he had to say?” Giles asks. We’re back in the Magic Box, and it’s close to closing time. Outside, the snow is falling again. I really don’t want to patrol tonight.

“Yep,” I tell him. “And the thing of it is… I think I believe him.”

“Buffy, I don’t think I need to remind you that Spike is a soulless demon. It’s in his nature to lie,” Giles says.

“I know,” I say with a sigh, sinking back in my chair. “but Spike is an amazingly bad liar. And besides that… when he came to me for that truce over Acathla, he said that he liked the world. That he didn’t want to see it end. Spike isn’t stupid. I think he’d do just about anything to get that chip out of his head, but I can’t see him working with someone with world-endage plans.”

“What about Adam?” Giles reminds me.

“He didn't really want to end the world, though, did he? Just… you know, massive demon army type stuff.”

“I hope you’re right, Buffy,” Giles says.

“I think she is,” Lydia says. We both turn to look at her.

“Oh, yeah. That’s another thing. How come you didn’t tell us that Spike is your celebrity vampire crush?” I ask, feeling my temper start to heat up again.

“Pardon?” Giles looks surprised. Okay, so he didn’t know either.

“Turns out our Ms. Markham here wrote her whatsis on Spike,” I say, feeling grouchy and not at all like being friendly.

“Thesis,” she says. “And I’d hardly call it a crush.” She glances between Giles and I. “It’s merely a…a professional interest.”

“You batted your eyelashes,” I point out.

“Yes, well, the books don’t have a great deal in the way of pictures. I hadn’t expected him to be quite so…”

“Annoyingly good looking?” I say dryly.

“Attractive,” she says primly.

“Yeah, yeah, Spike’s a hottie. He also doesn’t have a pulse, and if it weren’t for the chip you’d have been vamp food,” I point out. “You practically offered your neck to him.”

“I’m not entirely without sense,” she says, her face getting red again. She busies herself with straightening the edges of her books.

“No? Were you going to blush him to death?” I don’t know why I’m so irritated with her, but I am. “You wrote your thesis thingie on him, right? Don’t you know how dangerous he is?”

“Oh, yes,” she says. “His body count isn’t as high as, say Angelus’, but he’s far more volatile and violent. Not to mention cunning and resourceful. We’ve always postulated that he was a member of London’s working class before he was turned, but I’m beginning to wonder if he’s not far more educated than we thought.”

Ew, she’s actually sounding turned on by … Spike. Gross. She’s totally old. Shouldn’t she be past the whole crush on the famous vampire stage?

“A hundred and twenty odd years is plenty of time to gain an education,” Giles points out.

“Yes, but how many vampires choose the collected works of Lord Tennyson for their light bedtime reading? And dog-ear the pages?” she asks.

Giles’s expression is surprised.

“So that’s where that went,” he says.



Author’s Postscript: Now tell me you didn’t enjoy Spike being all bad ass and flipping that coffin lid off… ‘cause I did. That’s why I kept it.


 
 
Chapter #23 - Chapter 22: Forget About It
 
Author's Notes: This one is a little short, but I hope the content makes up for it. Just so you know, I love all of you, and I’m totally not above a little fan service.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Credits: This chapter contains dialogue adapted from the episode "Crush" written by David Fury.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner by Phuriedae







Chapter 22

Forget About It


Since Spike turned out to be such a waste of time, I spend the next couple of days making the rounds of the local demon bars, but it turns up a fat load of nothing. Whoever or whatever this Cold One is, she’s keeping a low profile.

Giles and Lydia aren’t making much headway with the prophecy either, and my dream is still a big old mess of clues that we can’t decipher. At least Giles is over his obsession with his sombrero. I hope.

Researching doesn't seem to be going anywhere either. We spend more than a few nights pouring over every book in Giles' collection trying to find information and keep coming up with big, blank zeroes. I'm so tired and frustrated by the time Giles lets me go for patrol that I take it out on whichever demon or vamp decides to pick a fight with me. Means Mr. Gordo and I don't spar as much when I go to sleep, since I'm usually worn out, but he doesn't seem to mind.

On the upside, we do manage to figure out what our little demon guys are. Svartálfar, Giles calls them, or dark elves. I always thought elves were supposed to be teensy and pretty, or, you know, like Santa Claus’ guys. Maybe these work for the Krampus. Neat thing about them is that they turn to stone in daylight, and crumble pretty easy once they do. Means I don’t have to worry so much about the dead bodies, and hey, new gravel for the walkway. Bonus.

While I patrol at night, someone usually comes by to stay with mom, just in case more of the Svarti guys show up. So far things have been pretty quiet. I haven’t even seen Spike around lately, although when I pass by his crypt at night, sometimes I hear the TV. Once or twice I almost kick his door in to see what he’s up to, but in the end decide not to. Kinda feel like I’ve been thinking about Spike way too much lately, and therein lies badness. Better just to let sulky vampires be.

And who does he think he is, telling me that I have to start begging him for his help or paying him? Hello, he’s the evil demon. I’m the Slayer. He’s lucky I don’t dust him. It’s not like he’s a person.

Only, okay, I guess I’ve just… kinda gotten used to him being around and him not showing up is sort of wigging me out.

And I’m not going to think about how wrong that is.

***


“We need quality Bronze time,” Willow says one evening while we’re sitting around researching. “They’re having a re-opening party on Friday, to celebrate the post-Olaf remodeling.”

“I wonder what insurance premiums are like on the Hellmouth?” Xander says. “You know, fire, earthquake, flood, demon-damage. Bet there’s money in demon related repairs.”

“I’ve been over my insurance plan a dozen times,” Giles tells him, without looking up from the moldy old book he’s flipping through. “Unfortunately it does not cover Acts of Troll. By the way, which of you are sticking post-its throughout my books? The gum will ruin the inks.”

“We reported it as a standard break-in and vandalism,” Anya says. “They sent an agent. He spent most of his time looking at my breasts; then he wrote us a check. I liked him.”

“So, Bronze on Friday?” Willow asks me.

“Sure,” I say. “I could use some R&R. Preferably somewhere warm with good music, good food, and dancing. I just wish my cute Bronzing outfits were warmer. This cold weather blows.”

Outside, it’s snowing again. We all turn and glare at the windows. The weather guy said we could expect three to five inches today. The temptation to throw things at the screen was pretty strong. I'm starting to think the weather guy might be a demon.

“It’s unnatural,” Tara says, staring at it. “It feels weird, like everything is starting to tip out of balance.”

“And that's bad, right?” I ask.

She nods. “Balance is everything. Not just in magic, but in nature, too. Hot and cold, light and dark, female and male, good and evil. They’re all just opposite sides of the same coin. Everything needs its opposite in order to keep the balance. Too much of one, however…”

“What happens if it keeps getting colder?” I ask. She looks at me.

“Not good,” she says. “Crops will fail. Animals that can’t survive in these temperatures will start to die out. If it spreads…”

“Not good,” I repeat. We all stare at the softly falling snow.

***


Friday night the Bronze is crazy busy. Everyone wants to see the changes, it seems. I like it. It's less gothy industrial and more sleek and modern. It’s kind of nice, being somewhere normal, doing normal things. I just wish I didn’t feel like such a fifth wheel.

I like watching my friends dancing together, though. They fit so well. It’s like what Tara said, about balance. I can kind of see it in them. Willow and Tara are so good for each other. Tara grounds Willow, and Willow encourages Tara… and even Xander and Anya balance each other in a weird it-gives-me-a-headache-to-think-about kind of way.

I finger my necklace while I tap my foot to the music. Yin and yang, sun and moon. Balance. It’s kinda cool. Be nice if I had an other half. Unfortunately the opposite of Slayer is…

Ugh… Spike?

“Can’t believe they raised the prices on the beer. Not my fault their insurance doesn’t cover troll. And the bloomin’ onion thing got remodeled right off the soddin’ menu. Only thing this place had goin’ for it,” Spike grumbles, slouching into the chair beside me. He’s wearing that black shirt he bought at Christmas. Really brings out the color of his… bruises?

“What happened to your face?” I ask. He’s got fading bruises around both eyes, over the bridge of his nose, and a lip that might have been split a day or two ago, but is now almost healed. I’ve done some damage to him before, but he looks like someone mistook him for a punching bag.

He slides me a glance. “Nothing. I fell down some stairs,” he says.

“That’s possibly the worst lie you’ve ever told me,” I say.

“No,” he says, frowning and picking at his beer label. He's got bruises on his fingers, too, like maybe they were broken. “Not the worst.”

“So what actually happened?” If he’s this battered where I can see it, I can’t help but wonder what bruises his clothes are hiding. He doesn’t seem to be sitting stiffly, though.

He smirks. “Didn’t know you cared, Slayer.”

“I don’t. But if whatever beat you up is still out there, I figure I need to know about it,” I say. Maybe it’s something to do with our MIA Big Bad.

Spike gets one of those looks on his face that I’m starting to recognize. It’s his ‘hiding something’ expression. “No need to fret, Slayer. It’s sorted.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, frowning. I thought we’d just been through the ‘If you want to help Buffy, you better actually talk’ thing a couple of weeks ago in his crypt?

“Hey, Evil Dead, you’re in my seat,” Xander says as he and the others return. Spike glares at him, and pushes out of his chair, clumsily knocking his beer over in his hurry. If I weren’t sitting so close, and I didn’t know him so well, I wonder if I’d have missed the wince that crossed his face when he grabbed the bottle with his bruised hand.

"Means it's none of your bloody business," Spike growls and stalks off.

"I think you hurt his feelings, honey," Anya tells Xander.

"And you should never hurt the feelings of a brutal killer," Xander quips, then thinks about it. "Actually, that's pretty good advice. You okay, Buff?"

"Huh?" I blink at him, and realize that I’ve been following Spike’s bleached head as he slides through the crowd toward the stage. "Oh, yeah. Just… looks like something beat the hell out of Spike."

"And that's a bad thing, why?" Xander wants to know.

"Because beating the hell out of Spike isn't that easy," I tell him. "If it was strong enough to do that…"

"Probably something to worry about then?" Willow says, concerned. "He did seem extra cranky. Also limpy."

The conversation turns to other things, but I'm still thinking about the bruises on Spike's face and his expression. I wonder if that's why he's been hiding in his crypt the last few nights? Xander gets up to buy drinks for himself and Anya, while Willow and Tara head back out onto the dance floor.

"You should go ask him," Anya says.

"Who?"

"Spike. Go ask him what beat him up," she says.

"I did. He said it was 'sorted', whatever that means," I grumble.

"Look, Spike's not stupid. He wouldn't have shown up here looking as battered as he does if he didn't want you to know about it," she says. She has a point.

"I don't think he wants to tell me," I say.

"So make him. You know, I've found that when Xander doesn't want to tell me something, orgasms usually make him more rela—"

"I think I'm just…gonna… go find Spike and ask him," I say, getting up. ‘Cause if the choice is facing down a grumpy vampire or listening to Anya talk about Xander and sex? I'll take vampire any day.

I follow my Slayer sense in order to find him. Now that I’ve gotten used to following the tingles with Mr. Gordo, finding Spike is way easy. He's leaning up against a column, standing half in the shadows, watching the band. I realize he's not wearing his duster tonight. Wonder why?

"What do you want, Slayer?" he asks, not taking his eyes off the stage.

"Will you tell me what did that to you?" I ask. His eyes slide my way.

"No," he says. "Told you, it's nothing for you to fret over."

"Yeah, well, I'm fretting," I tell him. Then I remember his new rules. "I'll pay you."

"Don't want your cash right now," he says. I roll my eyes.

"Fine, what do you want, Spike?"

He glances up at the stage, then out at the dance floor, frowning. "I've had what you might call a very bad week," he says. The band strikes up a cover of a Santana song. Spike sets his beer down on a table and grabs my hand. "C'mon," he says, tugging me toward the dance floor. His hand on my wrist is big and his grip strong but not tight. I could break his hold if I wanted. Only, his fingers are bruised so…

"What are you doing?" I ask, digging in my heels instead.

"I want to dance, Slayer," he says, rolling his eyes impatiently. "If you're gonna stand there an’ harass me, can we at least move while you're doing it? Besides, your chums are already dancing. Might as well, yeah?"

I bite my lip, considering. On the one hand, it's Spike, on the other… maybe he'll answer my question. Besides, I do kind of want to dance, and this is a good song to dance to. "Fine," I tell him. "But you get handsy and you lose body parts."

"Fair enough," he says and tugs me out onto the floor.

"Man it's a hot one," sings the lead, clearly trying to pretend that there isn't a foot of snow outside. "Like seven inches from the midday sun. I hear you whisper and your words melt everyone, but you stay so cooold…"

This close I get a better look at the bruising around his eyes, and the healing cut on his lower lip. I'm suddenly filled with the desire to beat something myself.

"Who beat you up, Spike?" I ask.

"Told you, not your business," he says. "Now shut up, you're ruinin' the music, Slayer."

"Will you at least tell me if it has anything to do with our Ice Demon problem?" I ask. He huffs a sigh and spins me, so that my back is to his front. His hands rest at my hips, but he never quite crosses the line into risqué territory, which surprises me. I've danced with total strangers who weren't as polite as Spike is being. Of course, he has more incentive to keep all his parts in one piece.

"All work and no play make Summers a dull girl," he murmurs near my ear.

"Spike—," I say, and start to turn, but his hands firm on my hips, keeping me in place and moving to the beat.

"Remember the other night, that last poem I recited?" he asks, leaning close.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"You should look it up, Slayer," he says, his voice rumbling low against my ear. It's the coolness of his breath that makes me shiver. "Old Jack was good with hitting the right beat."

"Spike—"

"Hush, Slayer," he tells me. "Just… let it go, for now, yeah? Was my own bloody fault. That's all you need know."

I sigh. He probably pissed off somebody while gambling. It wouldn't surprise me. I decide to just leave it and enjoy the rest of the song. It's been a long time since I danced with someone who knew what they were doing, and with him behind me, I can pretend that it's not Spike.

At least until he spins me around again.

Spike, as it turns out, is a really good dancer. His right hand settles at my waist, his left hand wrapping around my right. My free hand automatically comes up and cups the nape of his neck, my fingers just brushing the soft hair there. You'd think all that gel and peroxide would leave his hair coarse, but instead it's wickedly soft and I have to clamp down on the urge to push my fingers deeper into it. He's not too tall for me, and it's hard not to notice that under his clothes, Spike's body is lean and muscular—and I totally remember from that glimpse at Christmas exactly how muscular.

The song has a Spanish rhythm and he leads me into the beat, matching my movements as easily as he would in a fight. His eyes meet mine, challenging and teasing at the same time, never looking away, and I feel myself respond in kind. Suddenly we're not just dancing, we're fighting on the dance floor. Only instead of punches and kicks, the fight is in the sway of our hips, in the slightest pressure of his hand on my waist, or the way I move into his space. The crowd seems to melt away until it's just him and me and the throbbing beat of the music.

"…And if you said this life ain't good enough,
I'd give my world to lift you up,
I could change my life, to better suit your mood.
‘Cause you're so smooth.

And it's just like the ocean, under the moon
it's the same as the emotion that I get from you,
you got the kind of lovin that can be so smooth, yeah,
gimmie your heart, make it real, or else forget about it…"

As the song drives toward the end, we're matching each other's movements almost as if we can read each other's minds. Each step is an attack, parry, thrust, riposte, retreat. I didn't know dancing could be like this, and I can't tell if it's because it's Spike or if it's something else. He dances as if he were born to it, and I wonder if this is what dancing was like when Spike was alive.

Curious, I can’t help but ask, "What were you? Before?"

He gives me a funny look. "Miserable," he says, and spins me out and back so fast I forget about talking until the song is almost over.

"…Oh, let's don't forget about it…
Gimmie your heart, make it real…
Let's don't forget about it, oh no…
Let's don't forget about it, yeah…
Oh, no, no…
Let's don't forget about it."

Spike dips me, slightly, just at the end, our bodies pressed together, length to length. His eyes are lost in shadow. Then he pulls me back up with him, and I can feel the velvety texture of his shirt under my palms and the hard wall of his chest against mine like we’re in slow motion.

The crowd applauds the band, but we just stand still, staring at one another, panting a little. This wasn't a dance as much as it was a battle, and neither of us is sure who won. My heart is pounding loudly, threatening to beat right out of me. Spike takes a deep breath, his eyes intensely blue under the dance floor lights, like the hottest part of a flame.

"Go on back to your chums, Slayer," he says, his voice pitched low, but still audible over the noise and the music. "They'll be pissing themselves right about now."

"This isn't over, Spike," I tell him, only I’m not sure what I’m referring to.

"No," he agrees. "It's not."

With that he bows mockingly, and then disappears into the crowd.

I have no idea what just happened, but I also know that it’s probably better not to think about it too much.

"What the hell was that, Buffy?" Xander wants to know when I get back to the table. "Since when do you dance with the dead?"

A memory floats to the surface. 'You think we're dancing?' I asked. 'It's all we've ever done,' he said. I stuff it down deep, into the place where I keep most of my other Spike-related bad thoughts.

"I told him you were trying to get answers out of Spike," Anya says, rolling her eyes.

"Did you?" Willow wants to know.

"No," I say, frowning. "But I've got a hell of a lot more questions."

***


When I get home I relieve Giles from his mom-sitting duties, much to both of their relief. “Any sign of our tiny demon friends?” I ask Giles as he’s putting on his coat.

“Not a glimpse,” he says. “They may have given up on the house.”

“Or found a new hobby,” I say. “Spike made a cameo appearance at the Bronze tonight. Something did a number on him, but he’s not talking about whatever it was.”

“He didn’t seem to have any trouble with the last set,” Giles says.

“Yeah,” I agree. “It’d take either a whole lot more of them, or something pretty strong to put such a hurt on Spike. But all he’d say was that it was his own fault.”

“He’s not especially popular with the demons in town anymore,” Giles points out.

“True. Maybe he just tried hustling the wrong guy at pool or something.”

It’s not ‘til after Giles leaves that it occurs to me that if it were a human who did the damage, Spike wouldn’t have been able to fight back. With that chip in his head, even Tara could beat him up.

***


I run it over with Mr. Gordo that night after sparring but he doesn’t have any helpful opinions, either. Though he does seem to agree with me that it’d take more than human strength to do much lasting damage to Spike. Kind of a relief, in a way. Protecting Spike really isn’t in my job description, but the idea of him being beaten up by humans doesn’t exactly sit well with me either. Yes, he’s annoying and evil, but…

It’s just easier if I only have to worry about killing the demons and protecting the humans.




No-longer Spoily Credit: Song lyrics excerpted from Rob Thomas’ and Carlos Santana's "Smooth."


 
 
Chapter #24 - Chapter 23: Glimpse
 
Author's Notes: To make up for the shortness of the last chapter, this one is extra long. Actually… it just worked out that way. Special thanks to everyone who reviewed, and you can thank Elfin_Miss and Science for telling me to go ahead and post this early.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Credits: This chapter contains dialogue adapted from the episode "Crush" written by David Fury.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner by Phuriedae





Chapter 23

Glimpse


In all the not-really-excitement lately I almost forgot that we have a test coming up in European Literature tomorrow. Haven’t really had time to read the book, plus I totally didn’t understand most of the first few chapters. I mean, who uses words like “cavalcade” and “bedezined”? And what’s a “burgomaster”?

So, I stopped off at the video store and rented the movie on the way to class. I can watch it tonight and then skim the book. Hopefully the versions aren’t too different. Hopefully the movie was filmed in English. And if there are singing/dancing gargoyles… bonus!

Okay, so I got both versions. Just in case.

"They could have the wedding right there. Beneath the very bell-tower where he labored thanklessly for all those years," Willow says, sighing dramatically as we leave the lecture hall.

"No, see, it can't, it can't end like that, 'cause all of Quasimodo's actions were selfishly motivated," Tara argues as we stop so she can buy a soda. "He had no moral compass, no understanding of right. Everything he did, he did out of love for a woman who would never be able to love him back. Also, you can tell it's not gonna have a happy ending when the main guy's all bumpy."

They ask my opinion, but, I'm not sure. On the one hand, ew, hunchback. But he loved her, I guess, and he did good things because he loved her, right? I'll have to watch the movie to be sure. Opinions can totally wait ‘til tomorrow.

We’re passing through one of the sitting areas when a newspaper headline catches my eye.

“You were done with this, right?” I ask the guy reading it.

Apparently there were several murders on the late night train at Sunnydale Station. Unconfirmed reports of one or more victims suffering from severe neck trauma. Great. Just what I needed. Another vampire.

***


I stop off at home to drop off my books and check on mom, then head over to the Magic Box. Giles is out on an errand, but Xander is there with Anya.

“I need to check something out at Sunnydale Station,” I tell him. “If you don’t have anything else to do, wanna come with?”

“We have plans tonight,” Anya reminds him.

“It shouldn’t take that long,” I tell them.

“Sure,” he says. “What kind of weapons do we need? Swords? Stakes? Crossbows?”

“Flashlights,” I tell him.

***


Thank God for car heaters. Why don't I have a car again? Oh. Right. You have to drive it.

“So demons take the train now?” Xander says, cranking the heat up around my feet.

“I’m pretty sure it was a vampire,” I tell him. “According to the paper it was the night train up from LA. Easy enough for them to board there and get off here without worrying about the burning ball of death in the sky.”

“Los Angeles. You don’t think it was…” he frowns, but I know what he’s thinking.

“No, I don’t think it’s Angel. I tried to call earlier, but he wasn’t answering his phone. I’ll try again later, but I really don’t think it’s him.”

I hope.

When we get there it’s still pretty light out, but the sun is starting to set. I’m not too worried. Whatever was here is long gone by now. It’s easy enough to get inside. When I go to break the yellow crime scene tape across the doorway, though, I’m hit with a sudden sense of déjà vu. It’s not quite the subway from my dream, but it’s pretty close. A shiver that has nothing to do with the temperature goes down my spine.

The train is pretty clean. All that’s really left are the taped outlines of where the bodies were and the blood the cleaning crews haven’t been able to get out of the upholstery.

“What are we looking for again?” Xander asks, shining his flashlight over the seats.

“Clues,” I tell him.

“Wanna clue me in on what kind of clues?”

“I just want to know for sure it was a vamp attack, and if so, how many.”

“Not much left,” Xander comments. “Sunnydale's finest didn't leave us a lot of stuff to examine … who knows how many people have traipsed through here.”

“There’s got to be something,” I say. We go up and down the aisles, sweeping the floors and seats, but there’s nothing to be found. Still, it feels like a vamp attack. I just hope we’re dealing with only one.

***


Patrol is, as is becoming far too usual, cold. I'm not sure why I start with Restfield but Spike is nowhere to be found. In fact the whole night is eerily quiet, as if waiting for something. It's giving me the wiggins. I take the rest of patrol as fast as I can, almost relieved that my fights are limited to a single vamp way out in Oak Grove.

I’d asked around at the local demon bars earlier to see if anyone had heard of anything in town strong enough to beat up Spike—but nobody knew anything. Actually, some of them laughed about it, at least until I threatened to shut them up permanently. None of them had any idea what came in on the train either.

I can’t help but feel like there's something I'm missing. Guess I should check Restfield one more time.

When I get there, it's as if even the dead are holding their breath, which… yeah, I know, makes no sense, but you get the idea. Spike's crypt is quiet and I don't feel him anywhere nearby, but still… can't hurt to check it out, right? Maybe he really is up to something. Or maybe there's some kind of clue as to what beat him up. Or… maybe he knows something about the mess on the train.

Instead of kicking the door, I ease it open. "Spike?" I call, glancing around the dark interior. Only my voice echoes back. The TV is off, and his chair is empty, and he's clearly not sleeping on one of the stone coffins like he normally does. Still, you'd think a place like this would feel abandoned, but it doesn't, even with all the dust and cobwebs and bits of paper scattered around and… hey… I never noticed that before.

There's a stone slab in the back of the crypt, and when I lift it, light filters up from the hole below. A wooden ladder leads down into what looks like some kind of cavern. Suddenly I remember seeing Spike hauling rubble out of here last summer… maybe this is what he was doing? Carefully I go down the ladder, then grab a torch off the wall. There's a couple of chambers here, it looks like. One off to the left is full of busted up coffins, their residents long gone. Or maybe that's where he found the skulls that are decorating the place.

Ugh. Could he be any more cliché?

The other chamber, however, is a total surprise. This space is lived in. There's a desk of some sort, covered in random weapons, scraps of paper and old books. When I look at the spines I'm even more shocked to see that most of them are poetry books, though there's a few on spells and curses—which is also weird since I know Spike hates magic. Huh. Past that is a great big king sized bed, covered in red and black sheets, that looks wickedly comfortable. Nightstands at either side of it are also covered in books and weapons. I wonder if he sleeps upstairs sometimes just to hide the fact that he's got a vampire's dream bed down here?

Also, I really like some of his weapons. I wonder if he'd miss this dagger? Or let me borrow it sometime, only then I'd have to explain what I was doing in his bedroom and… that's a conversation that I'd really like to avoid. I leave the dagger. For now.

A shelf off to the side holds a stereo and a bunch of CDs, mostly punk but also a pretty decent collection of classic rock and some more modern stuff, too. A trunk tucked in the corner opens to reveal Spike's clothes. Five or six pairs of black jeans, a ton of black T-shirts, and some colored button downs tossed on top. And I'm only going through his clothes because there might be something evil hidden in there.

I mean, I hide stuff in my underwear drawer so it stands to reason that Spike would, too, right? Only, I'm not finding any underwear in here.

And ew, I can't believe I'm seriously thinking about Spike's underwear.

But the only thing I find aside from clothes are a few more weapons and a small velvet bag that contains a very, very old woman's ring done in a fine gold filigree, which I put back carefully. If this went missing, I get the feeling he'd notice. I wonder whose it was?

A corner of the room opens into a tunnel, and when I poke the torch in, I can see water and sewer tunnels down at the end. This must be how he gets around town. There's even a niche in another corner that he's turned into a makeshift sort of shower using an exposed overhead pipe. Huh. Spike shampoos. Weird. There's a thing of hair bleach, too, and soap that, when I sniff it, smells like… well, like Spike.

Huh.

I mean, I know Angel showered regularly, but somehow the thought of Spike in the shower never really crossed my mind. Only now it is. Really is. And whoa… time to think of something else fast because suddenly I'm remembering his bare chest at Christmas and how he felt dancing with me Friday night and thinking about naked Spike and bars of soap and running water is really, really not…

What was that?

My Slayer sense prickles at the back of my neck. Vampire upstairs, but… it doesn't feel like Spike. It's familiar, sort of. Kinda like how Mr. Gordo is familiar only… not. This is muffled too, mostly by distance, but it's getting closer, and clearer.

And I'm sort of trapped in Spike's bedroom. Not good.

Who the hell is visiting Spike? I hear soft footsteps nearing the ladder and try to think fast. Dust them as they come down stairs? Or hang out and see what they're up to?

I stick the torch in a sconce and move back into the tunnel to the sewer so I have an escape route, in case I need it. I've also got a decent view of the bedroom, though the area around the entrance is blocked from sight. There's some loose rubble to the side of the tunnel, tall enough for me to crouch behind. I wait.

The vamp is coming closer, and now I can hear it humming. I realize who it is before she steps into the light.

Drusilla.

Ugh. She's as skinny and skanky as I remember, though her hair is a little shorter and more modern, and her dress is uglier, showing off her scrawny arms. Someone should really tell her that purple makeup is not her color, too. I guess this answers my question about who came in on the train last night.

She moves around the room, not being as careful as I was, touching Spike's stuff curiously. Suddenly her head comes up and she sniffs. Crap. I forgot she can probably smell me. But the scent of the sewer behind me ought to be strong enough to drown it out. Maybe?

Only not, because she's moving this way, swaying a little like a snake, her head swiveling from side to side as she sniffs delicately at the air. She starts to hum a little as she comes closer, then sings softly.

"The lion and the unicorn
were fighting for the crown.
The lion beat the unicorn
all around the town…"

She takes a step into the shadows, lifting her head and singing softly into the darkness.

"Some gave them white bread,
and some gave them brown;
some gave them plum cake
and drummed them out of town."

A noise from above makes her freeze, then a slow sly smile spreads across her lips. "Shhhh!" she whispers into the darkness. "You think you are the sparrow, but I know you now, little dove." She straightens and turns back into the bedroom and then glides out of sight.

A moment later I hear Spike call out. "Who's there?"

"Look who's come to make things right, my pretty Spike," Drusilla croons. I can't see either of them at this angle, but I don't dare move. I don't know if she knows I'm here or not, or if it's just that she's completely nuts, but no way am I going to chance it. Besides, if I listen maybe I'll figure out what Spike is hiding, right?

"Dru," Spike says. "What are you doing here?" Okay, so Drusilla in town wasn't expected. And Spike doesn't sound too happy about it either.

"I've come to make us a family again. Mummy has come back to us now. Only now I'm the mummy," she says, giggling. Ugh. How the hell did Spike put up with this nutcase for a hundred years? Also, 'mummy'?

"Darla's dead, Dru. Angel dusted her himself," Spike says, and I hear his footsteps approaching before I see him come around the corner. He’s all healed now, only the littlest bit of yellow around his eyes show the bruising I saw the other night. He stops by the foot of the bed, frowning at the wall. I can't see Dru, but I hear her moving around.

"But she came back," she singsongs. "She tasted of magic and sin. I drank her all down and made Mummy my own darling girl." She finally steps into view, doing her little snaky dance thing up to Spike who doesn't look like he's buying it at all. "Daddy was not pleased. But he will be. Soon he will be one of us again. Just like you, my pretty Spike."

I kinda hate the way she says his name. It's like she's saying "Spoike" which just is annoying and weird. She cups his cheek in one skinny hand and I watch with revulsion as Spike leans into it for a minute. Then he frowns and sighs, moving his head away.

"So, let me get this straight. Darla got herself mo-jo'd back from the beyond, you vamped her, and now she and you are… working to turn Angel into his old evil self again?"

"Mmm hmmm," she says, moving around him and stroking his hair. He doesn't look like he's enjoying it, which is weird, because I thought Spike was all about Drusilla. Shouldn't this be like his dream come true? And clearly I need to give Angel a call. What the hell is going on in LA?

"Sounds fun," Spike says, though his tone indicates he thinks it's anything but. Looney Tunes, however, doesn't seem to get sarcasm because she just smiles and giggles.

"It is. Like lollipops at the circus. Although… didn't care for Angelus setting us on fire." She rubs her chest and I realize she's got burn marks on her chest and face. Go Angel. Pity it didn't take. Spike doesn't look like he's moved at all by her injuries.

"And this has… what? Got you all nostalgic now, has it?" he asks, arching his scarred eyebrow.

"I want us to be a family again, my William," she says, leaning close and whispering something in his ear.

Crap. I can't let that happen. Between the three of them I'm sure Darla, Drusilla, and Spike can find a way to make Angel lose his soul again. This has disaster written all over it. And why wouldn't Spike go? Drusilla's the big skanky love of his unlife. It'd be easy enough for her to feed him her leftovers. He could be rolling in blood and death without having to even lift a finger.

Only Spike isn't looking all that tempted.

"To Los Angeles? I've done the whole LA scene, Dru. Didn't agree with me. Besides, I've got a nice little setup here. Decent digs and all the tasty townies I can eat." He smirks proudly.

WHAT?

That chill from earlier is crawling back up my spine, prepared for another slide down. Since when has Spike been able to feed? Could he have gotten the chip out after all? Could he have been faking it all this time? Or part of this time? Lulling us into a false sense of whatsis so that he can kill all of us? Why—

"Naughty!" Drusilla says, frowning at him the way you would a badly behaved child. "Needn't make up stories. I know why you're not coming. Tin soldiers put little knick-knacks in your brain. Can't hunt. Can't hurt. Can't kill." She puts her hands to her temples and mimics Spike getting shocked. "You've got a chip," she says, reaching for his head. He jerks out of her reach, angry.

"Right," he growls. "So you've heard. Poor Spike's become a cautionary tale for vampires. 'You better be good kiddies or they might wire you up someday!'" With a snarl he kicks at the nightstand and glares when a bunch of stuff falls off.

I breathe a little easier. Okay, so I don't have to worry about Spike eating people. He's still chipped, and still ticked about it. Good to know. But Dru's not done yet.

"I don't believe in science," she says. I roll my eyes. Science isn't something you believe in, dimwit. That's like saying I don't believe in trees or something. "All those bits and molecules that no one's ever seen. I trust eyes and heart alone." She moves closer to Spike, then grabs his hand and presses it up against her skinny chest, moaning a little. Oh, ew. If I have to watch vampire sex I'm so dusting both of them. Spike, however, is still frowning.

"Do you know what mine is crying out?" she says. "You're a killer. Born to smash, and bash, and bleed… like beautiful poetry. No little tinkertoy could ever stop you from flowing."

I can't help but study Spike's face. It helps that whatever he's thinking tends to play out across it, and right now he's got this odd look, half hopeful, and half resigned. He pulls his hand away from her, shaking his head. "But you don't understand. The pain, luv, it's searing… blinding."

He means it, too. His expression is so open and… vulnerable. For the first time I wonder what it must be like, to have something in your head zap you hard every time you do something it doesn't like. I mean, I get that what it's keeping Spike from doing is kinda necessary, cause killing is definitely of the bad, but…

"All in your head," Drusilla says, petting his hair. "I can see it. Little bit of plastic, spider webbing out nasty blue shocks. And each of them is a lie. Electricity lies, Spike. It tells you that you're not a bad dog, but you are."

She growls playfully, but the look in Spike's eyes is bleak. For a long moment he just stares at her, and I watch as the muscles in his jaw tighten, then relax. Emotions dance across his face, but none of them I can really put a name to. Finally he seems to come to a conclusion, and he draws himself up straight, pulling away from her again and putting some distance between them.

"Maybe. Maybe it does lie. But I'm not what I was, Dru. Not anymore. I can't go back."

Huh?

Spike is… turning her down? But… why? And what does he mean he's not what he was? What does that mean? He's a vampire. A demon.

Suddenly I remember Tara, months ago. 'Maybe he's changing…'

Could it be possible? Could the chip have really changed him so much? I'm so shocked it takes a minute to process that Dru is talking again.

"You're so cold, my William," she says reaching out to touch his chest, then snatching her hand back as if burnt. " But your heart burns, like dandelions in the sun. It's burnt me all up and all I am in you is ash." The look on her face is a parody of sadness, like a mime. She starts to step back, then notices something on the floor by her feet. A battered leather book of some kind. "What's this?" she asks, picking it up.

Spike's face has gone tight, and there's this weird look of … hope? in his eyes. "Just a journal," he says, his eyes riveted to her. She opens it and starts flipping through, then suddenly tosses it across the room with a shriek, burying her face in her hands.

Okay, note to self: Spike's writing must be REALLY bad. She's whimpering something softly, but I can't really hear her. And he's staring at her as if she's grown another head. Finally she backs away from him, as if frightened. "My poor, poor William. So trapped. So cold. She will put out your fire, then put out the sunshine and all the world will be cold."

Hello Mr. Shiver. Welcome back.

Cold. She. Putting out the sun sure sounds like world-endage.

"What are you prattling about?" Spike asks, looking confused and tired at the same time.

"Poor Spike, so lost. Not even I can help you now," she says sadly.

Oooookay.

"You should go," Spike says. Now he just seems tired. "If the Slayer finds out you were here… about the train, Dru… you're not strong enough to fight her."

Yeah, he's right, and I should dust her right now, only… that means letting Spike know I've been spying on him. Crap.

"You wouldn't let her," Dru says. She's stepped out of my view now, but she sounds sad. "I know your heart. If it came to that, you'd kill me first."

Spike doesn't look like he's going to disagree. Instead he just looks sad. "Get out of here, Dru. Leave Sunnydale. Don’t come back. I'm not your Spike anymore."

I hear her footsteps retreat, then go up the stairs. Spike runs a hand down his face and sighs.

Me? I'm definitely confused. Part of me wants to believe that Spike is just up to his old tricks again. But… he doesn't know I'm here, so why would he do this? Why would he turn away Drusilla when he spent more than a year moping and crying over her? It doesn't make any sense… not unless I believe that he's changed. And that's not possible and even if it were… why? There's nothing in it for him. He doesn't have a soul, so it's not like he's capable of figuring out right and wrong. So what gives?

He bends and picks up the stuff off the floor, putting it back on the nightstand. With a shrug he slides his duster off his shoulders, then sits on the bed and runs his fingers through his hair, knocking his curls loose.

"Bloody women," he mutters just loudly enough I hear it. He glances over at the ladder, head tilted to the side as if listening. He shakes his head, then bends and undoes the laces on his boots, kicking them off and then peeling off his socks, flexing his bare toes with a groan of pleasure.

Huh? What is he doing? His button down shirt is the next to go. It takes a minute for my brain to put things together. Oh. God. He's getting ready for bed and… whoa. Grabbing his t-shirt at the hem he peels it over his head, giving me an eyeful of pale, rippling muscles, chiseled abs and an absolutely lickable ches—-

My brain comes to a screeching halt.

Did I just think of Spike as lickable? And oh god he's unbuckling his belt and pulling it through the loops and unbuttoning his…

I make a noise. A squeak maybe, or a gasp, or—please god let me have gagged. Spike freezes and his head snaps up, looking in my direction. Abandoning his jeans—which leaves them unbuttoned, if still zipped, thank god, but only precariously clinging to his hips and oh god he's got those ridgey muscle things over his hips and now I know why there weren't any underwear because he clearly isn't wearing any and please let his jeans stay up, please let his jeans stay up, pleaselethisjeans—he tilts his head to the side again, listening.

Then he sniffs, and his eyes narrow.

He takes a slow step in my direction, his head lowering a little, eyes gleaming in the torchlight. Spike the vampire, on the prowl, only he seems way more dangerous without the duster and the shirt and the boots. Bigger somehow, more masculine, and his jeans are riding a little lower on his hips and this time I know I catch my breath because somehow I feel like if I can just hold it a little longer it'll keep his jeans up, which makes no sense, I know, but babbling Buffy brain is in control and the Slayer has left the building for the moment.

He sniffs again.

"I'll take olfactory senses for five hundred, Alex." he says softly. "Coconut. Strawberries. Sunshine. What are three scents that don't belong in my bed chamber?" Another slow step forward, then another. He pauses at the tunnel entrance, the light behind him casting his front in shadow and outlining all that pale muscle from behind. With a soft snort, he crosses his arms over his chest and stares into the darkness. "I suppose there's a good reason why you're lurking about down here, or were you just playing Peeping Slayer?"

I stand up, brushing off my pants. There's no use pretending he doesn't know I'm here anymore. "There was no peeping," I tell him. "Besides, how was I to know you were gonna…" I gesture vaguely at his rippliness, glad he's half in shadow at the moment, because I think his jeans slipped another half inch and I really don't want to know exactly what his natural hair color is.

"Go to bed?" he supplies. How does he manage to make it sound both innocent and dirty at the same time?

"Strip," I say, blushing furiously.

"If that's what you were after, should've kept quiet, Slayer. You missed the grand finale. I prefer to sleep naked," he says, stepping back into the light and hooking his thumbs in the empty belt loops of his jeans, dragging them even lower.

Brown.

Well. His eyebrows should have been a hint but some people dye their eyebrows and he bleaches his hair so it's not entirely unfair to assume that he might have dyed his eyebrows for effect but it's clear that he doesn't because, yeah, brown and dark and ohmygodi'mstaringatSpike'scrotch.

I jerk my eyes back to his face just in time to see the smirk there. Slowly he reaches for his fly, and suddenly I'm having a hard time swallowing as his big hands grip the fabric, and I watch, fascinated—no, horrified—as his black tipped fingers move to his zipper and…

…tug it back up where it had started to slip, then fasten the button at the top.

Huh.

With a cocky hitch in his step he moves back to the bed and scoops up his button down, pulling it on but leaving it unbuttoned, which in some ways is a relief and in others… really not helping. Still, hanging out back here in the tunnel strikes me as cowardly, and there is no way in hell I'm going to let Spike think I'm a coward, so I plaster on my best determined face and stalk back into his bed… chamber-thingy.

"I wasn't trying to see you naked, Spike," I tell him, frowning.

"Yeah? So what were you doing? Snooping about hoping to find some evidence of my grand evil plan? Hoping I'd wander in here and have a long chat with a minion, revealing everything I'm up to?" He rolls his eyes. I make a face and he smirks. "You were, weren't you?" Clearly amused he gives me a grin, his tongue rolled obscenely behind his teeth.

"No," I say. He smirks again. Stupid smug vampire. "Well… maybe the first one."

"Find anything evil, Slayer?" he asks, leaning back against the footboard.

"Just your decorating style," I grumble. He laughs, and I'm surprised by how genuine it is, almost warm. Somehow tonight is not going to plan. "Aren't you going to ask how much I overheard?"

"Don't need to ask," he says. "I'd wager you've been here the whole time. Heard every word, didn't you?"

"Almost," I admit. "Not that any of it made sense. I don't get it, Spike. Why didn't you go with her?"

He looks thoughtful. "Which reason do you want, pet?"

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"You want the real reason or do you just want the one you're gonna believe?"

"I want the truth, Spike."

He sits down on the bed again and rakes his fingers through his hair, then reaches for a pack of cigarettes on the nightstand only to find it's empty. With a sigh, he tosses the empty box into a corner and finally looks at me, bracing his hands on either side of his thighs and giving me a great view of his abs.

Wait. No. Bad Buffy. No looking at Spike abs. Evil Vampire, Evil Abs, remember?

"The truth…” he mutters. "Truth is… I'm changing, Buffy. I know, you don't think that's possible, and it sounds daft to me too, but there you go. I'm not what I was."

"Spike—"

"Look, Slayer. I don't know if it's the chip or if it's… being around your do-gooder lot all the time but… I've changed, and it doesn't matter whether you believe it or not. It's true." He looks sincere, but it doesn't make any sense. And I can't believe it. Before, at Christmas, I'd thought I could, but now, confronted with this… I can't.

Because if I believe it's possible for Spike to change without a soul it means that Angel…

Down that path lies badness, so instead I focus on the problem at hand.

"Spike, you haven't changed. You don't have a soul. That chip in your head… it's just holding you back. You're like a serial killer in prison—"

"Then why didn't I go with Dru?" he asks, softly. "Chip only keeps me from hurting or killing. I can feed on the already dead. Be easy enough to let Dru take ‘em down and feast on the remains."

"Ew."

He rolls his eyes and stands, striding toward me and stopping only a few feet away. "Remember what I told you before? There's me, and the demon and… what's left? The demon… it wants blood. Always will. I'll always be a vampire. Can't change that. But I… it's not like it was. I'm not like I was. I can be good, Buffy."

"Spike—," I begin, not even sure what I'm going to say, because what do you say to that? There's nothing in the Slayer Handbook about what to do with chipped vampires who think that they're not evil anymore. At least, not that I remember. It's not like I read the whole thing. Have you seen how big it is?

"I can," Spike insists, and I can tell his temper is fraying a little. "And if you weren't so bloody blind you'd see it, too."

He growls, frustrated and stalks away, muttering under his breath about "bloody women" and something about lapdogs and sex toys that I really don't think I want to know about.

Nothing about this night has gone like I'd thought. Or like I would have thought if I'd taken the time to actually, you know, think about it. I'd half expected to find evidence that Spike was working against me when I'd come in here, and instead I get… what? Skanky ex-girlfriends and Spike strip shows that I'm totally not still thinking about and … and… weird vampires who don't want to act like vampires. I'm so confused right now I'm surprised I'm not dizzy.

Spike's given up on the pacing and now he's just standing there, watching me with an unreadable expression in his eyes. I can't… I can't figure this out right now. It's too much.

"I should go," I say, lamely. "It's late."

"Right," he says, his brows drawing together. His jaw works for a minute, as if he wants to say something else, but then stops himself. I'm glad. I don't think I can take much more in the way of Confessions of a Former Serial Killer right now.

I turn to go, then look around.

"Word of advice?"

"Yeah?"

"If you want me to take you seriously about the whole not-so-evil thing? Lose the skulls. They're creepy."

He grins, but it's not mocking, it's friendly. "Still a vampire, pet. S'ambiance."

"It's creepy," I tell him, and climb up the ladder.



***


Only when I open his crypt door I'm surprised to be greeted by a wall of white swirling flakes and a gust of wind so cold that it chills me straight to the bone. "Crap."

"What's the matter?" he asks, climbing out of the hole and coming up to peer around me. "Oh. Bloody hell."

Just what I needed tonight. I'm tired and confused and I just want to go home. "I can't walk home in that," I grumble. Spike slides me a considering look.

"Could wait it out, I suppose," he says.

Here? With him? Uh… no. I tuck my hands under my arms to warm my fingers. The cold doesn't seem to bother him, even though he's standing in front of the open door in nothing but his jeans and an open shirt. "In case you haven't noticed, Spike, it's almost as cold in here as it is out there."

"Not downstairs," he says with a shrug.

Downstairs there is a really big bed. A tiny little voice in the back of my head points out that I'm already sleeping next to one vampire every night, and it's not like Spike can hurt me. I tell it to shut up.

"The sewers!" I say, grasping hold of safety with both hands. "There's a sewer entrance not far from my house, right?"

"Right," Spike says slowly.

"Okay, can you take me there?"

"It's three in the bleedin’ morning, Slayer and you want me to walk you home through the sewers?" There's something wrong about incredulous vampires.

"Yep," I say, determined not to spend the night in Spike's crypt. He rolls his eyes as if to say that I'm the insane one… as if he didn't just have a conversation with the Queen of Toontown only half an hour ago.

"Suit yourself," he says and leads the way back down the ladder.

I turn my back while he gets dressed again, and when I turn back around I'm relieved to see that he's fully clothed minus the duster, which he leaves behind. "Come on then, Slayer."

"Wait a minute," I ask, halting at the tunnel entrance. "Don't we need a torch?" He gives me a measuring look.

"Plenty of light," he says. "I can see just fine. A little trust wouldn't be amiss here, Summers, since I'm doing you a bloody favor. Besides, I'm not carrying a flaming torch through the sewers like a ruddy beacon." He raises his eyebrows in challenge.

Okay. I can do this.

I follow him into the tunnel. He pauses at the end of it, where it opens up into the sewers, giving me time for my eyes to adjust. I'm relieved to see that I can… see, that is. Barely. A little light filters down through the grates overhead. Spike's pale hair and face seem almost ghostly in the dim light, but at least I can follow him.

It's not a long walk. At least not above ground. Down here we have to take several twists and turns and nothing seems to go in a straight line. It’s like a Labyrinth down here. I’ve used the sewers before but it’d be easy to get lost in them. Some of them seem older than Sunnydale itself.

Still, Spike seems to know where he’s going. He doesn’t even pause to consider the turns. Which makes me wonder just why he knows the way to my house so well.

“You know these tunnels pretty well,” I say, narrowing my eyes at his back.

“Gotta get around during the day somehow, Slayer,” he says. “Can’t exactly go for a stroll topside.”

“Where do you go during the day?” I ask. “I thought you slept.” Maybe its a trick of the light, but I could swear the muscles in his back tense.

“I do,” he says. “But if I wake up early I nip down to Willy’s for a drink, sometimes. Or the cinema. Or the hosp—er, the uh, hospice center.”

“We don’t have a hospice center in Sunnydale,” I remind him.

“Balls,” he mutters.

“Tell me you’re not stealing bagged blood from the hospital, Spike,” I say.

“I’m not stealing bagged blood from the hospital, Slayer,” he says, mockingly. Then he looks me in the eye. “Anymore.”

I roll my eyes. “If you want me to believe that whole ‘I can be good’ thing? You better not be,” I tell him. "Are we there yet?"

He nods at a grating just up ahead. "Almost.”

When he lifts the cover off, snow falls down through the hole and more is blowing in. As dark as it is, there's a weird sort of half-light reflecting off the snow, but the result is still blinding. Crap. I don't think I can see in that. I might have to go back to his crypt and wait it out after all.

I wonder why I'm not more disturbed by that thought.

"Come on," he yells down, climbing out. Or, you know, I could follow the crazy vampire out into the blizzard.

"I can't see!" I tell him when I get to the top of the ladder. He grabs my elbow in a gentle grip and leans close to my ear so I can hear him over the wind.

"I've got you," he says. "It's just that way, about fifty feet." He gestures with his free hand, but he might as well be pointing up for all the good it does. "Let's move," he says, keeping his grip on my elbow and leading me into the storm. It's like being in my dream room again, only white instead of dark. Through the stinging flakes trying their best to blind me I can see Spike beside me, barely, his hand on my arm the only point of contact I've got with the world. I should hate being so dependent on him, but it's weirdly comforting, knowing he's there.

Almost… familiar.

I frown, trying to place the sensation.

It feels…

Like Mr. Gordo.

I freeze suddenly, staring hard at him through the swirling flakes. He spins to look at me. He's vamped, and the glow of his gold eyes shines through the snow. "You alright?" he asks, and it's a weird phrase to hear around his fangs, but he's not acting hostile. Maybe he can see better through the snow when he's in game face. I nod slowly. "Then let's go, you daft bint, before you turn into Slayer on a Stick." I let him lead me forward. I can worry about whether or not he's Mr. Gordo later.

The snow that looks so fluffy and soft usually has turned into stinging needles against my skin, sliding down under my coat and clothes. The cold seeps through my thick snow boots and socks, and my fingers, even in gloves feel frozen and numb. My nose and ears hurt they're so cold, and I can't see a thing. Even my footing is bad, as we wobble through the deepening drifts. Spike's fingers on my elbow steady me and guide me forward, at least until I slip. Then, without protest, he wraps his arm around my waist and hauls me up against his side, anchoring me there with vampiric strength.

It seems like it takes forever, but soon we're stumbling up some steps and there's a light ahead, only a few feet away. Spike bangs on the door and it's thrown open to reveal my mom standing inside, looking worried as hell. "Buffy!" she says, catching me as I slip slightly when my icy shoes hit the tile floor. "Oh, I was so worried."

"I'm fine," I tell her, and I am, now, even though the blissful warmth of the kitchen is almost painful on my freezing skin. My teeth are chattering so hard they're rattling my skull. Mom hugs me tight and pulls me further into the kitchen.

"How did you get home?" she asks, pushing my wet hair back from my face and staring at me in concern.

"Spike—," I say, turning toward the door.

But he's gone. The doorway is empty, except for a white wall of falling snow.






 
 
Chapter #25 - Chapter 24: Warming Up
 
Author's Notes: Thanks for all the reviews on the previous chapter. I’m so glad so many of you are enjoying this. Just a reminder: I am not some super speedy writer who is pounding these chapters out in a single night. Most of this story is written up to around chapter 70 or so (actual number may vary depending on how I split up later chapters). My usual method is to edit each chapter like mad, then pass it back to my beta for final edits, then I do a last round of them before posting. I’d like to post every day, if I could… but a great deal of that depends on my beta’s availability. So if I skip a day here and there, it’s just life getting in the way for a little bit.

That also means that the way things are going to play out is pretty much set in stone. If something doesn’t happen as soon as you think it should… be patient. All things come to those who wait.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Credits: This chapter contains dialogue from the episode "I Was Made To Love You" written by Jane Espenson.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner by Phuriedae





Chapter 24
Warming Up


Later, when I'm in the bath and finally warm, I feel like I have time to think about what just happened. Okay so…Drusilla came back and wanted Spike to go with her to LA to make Angel evil again. Spike, because he's convinced he's not evil any more, turned her down. Which doesn't really make sense because Spike is as crazy about Drusilla as she is…well, just crazy. Except he didn't act like he was so crazy about her anymore. He acted like…like he was over her. Which since vampires can't really love without a soul is entirely possible. They just get twisted and obsessed and lusty. Spike is like the poster boy for Vampire ADHD so…maybe his crazy-for-Dru wore off?

On the other hand he has been acting less evil lately. I'm still mostly convinced most of that is the chip. It keeps him from doing evil stuff. Or, at least the evil stuff that results in hurt, bleeding or dead people. Like Giles says, it’s not a soul. The only similarity between Spike's chip and Angel's soul is that if either of them loses it, they both start killing again. It can’t tell him right from wrong. It can just zap him when he does do wrong. And maybe it’s like those experiments we talked about in Psych last year—he’s just gotten so conditioned by the zaps that he doesn’t think he wants to do bad things anymore. But if you took it away… It even sounded like Drusilla agrees with me on that, with all her babbling about electricity lying and him thinking he's not a "bad dog" and all. And she's supposed to be psychic, so wouldn't she know?

And what was with her ranting about the cold and the sun being turned off? Spike didn’t seem to know what she was talking about but, again with the psychic stuff, right? Maybe she knows something we don’t? Definitely worth bringing that up with Giles.

I turn it all over and over but most of it still isn't making with the sense, until I realize I'm starting to drift off in the cooling bathwater. The last thing I need is to wake up in the dream room still soapy and naked.

And that's another thing. As I towel dry and slip into my pjs I keep coming back to that weird feeling in the middle of the snowstorm, when I couldn't really see Spike and his hand was on my elbow. I know Mr. Gordo has done that to me before. I remember the first time he led me back to bed when I wanted to go for a walk. I don’t remember if Angel ever walked with me like that, but …Angel was so much taller than me…mostly I just remember his hands on my shoulders.

Could Spike be my Mr. Gordo?

That makes even less sense than Spike not wanting to be evil anymore. I've been dreaming of Mr. Gordo for months, and I know it started back when Spike still actively hated me and wanted me dead. Mr. Gordo doesn't have a chip, so if he'd been trying to kill me he could have. I've been sleeping next to him, totally vulnerable, for ages now. And…except for that one time when he was asking if I trusted him, he's never tried to bite me or hurt me. Even then he wasn't really trying.

Plus there's the whole disappearing injuries thing. And Mr. Gordo is right handed, not left. And the tingles…

Maybe it was just…a weird coincidence? I mean, lots of guys do that elbow grabby thing, right? It's not like I wanted Spike to hold my hand, after all.

And…and Spike said he sleeps naked, which Mr. Gordo totally doesn't.

And …and …Spike’s mouth! I mean, with the talkiness. Spike can’t shut his mouth for more than two minutes. Keeping his big trap shut every night for hours, during sparring and…he couldn’t do it. He’d blurt out something rude or awful or innuendo-y and give himself away.

It's a coincidence. It's just a dream. There's no way in hell that Spike could possibly be Mr. Gordo.

Besides, he's my dream vampire. Wouldn't I know if I were dreaming about Spike?

***


Still, when I wake up in the dream room alone I can't help but wonder. I wander around to his side of the bed, feeling tired but restless, my brain too busy to let me sleep. When he doesn't show up immediately I decide I need to walk anyway. With his side of the bed at my back I start forward, hoping no magical dream furniture pops up out of nowhere to trip me.

After awhile I start to feel nervous. I don't know how far behind me the bed is and I'm not sure if there are walls in this place. At least with Mr. Gordo at my side I had some sense of location, but this…it's creepy. Carefully I turn around to face the direction I came from, and start walking back.

Only, eventually I reach the point where I should have hit the bed…and I don't. I keep going, hoping maybe I'm wrong and wondering why I didn't count my steps, but it's no good.

Crap. I'm lost in a huge room with only a bed in it.

Then I feel the tingles and almost sigh with relief.

"I lost the bed," I say, sheepishly, when I feel Mr. Gordo approaching. He taps three times.

"I just wanted to go for a walk, and you weren't here so…” I roll my eyes at my own dumbness. "And now I'm tired and I can't find the bed. It's been a really long day. Point me in the right direction?"

Maybe I meant to get lost. Maybe I wanted to see if he does the elbow thing again.

Only he doesn't. Instead he takes me by the shoulders, rotates me a little to the left, then gently pushes me back two steps. When my calf muscles bump into the mattress I feel like an idiot. "Oh," I say. "Guess it wasn't that lost after all." He chuckles softly, but it doesn't feel mocking. It's friendly. Then he moves around the bed to his side and climbs in.

Spike would have mocked me.

Spike wouldn't have kept his mouth shut for the past nine months.

It can't be Spike.

I don't want it to be.

Even if, suddenly, when I try to picture what Mr. Gordo looks like, he's got blue eyes and impossible cheekbones and bleached blond hair. I wait for the image to slide away, like all the other times I've tried to imagine his face…but for once it's persistent and it sticks.

Stupid vampire even screws up my dreams.

***


On the upside, due to the storm, classes are canceled this morning, which means now I've got a few days to actually watch the movie for my Lit test. On the downside, I have to trek to the Magic Box on foot through almost a foot and a half of snow because the roads are shut down and Mom's car is stuck in the driveway. On the news they mentioned bringing in some equipment from up north to deal with the inexplicable snow problem. In the meantime my neighbor has gotten fancy, trying to clear his walk with a regular garden shovel and a rake.

When I get downtown the going is a little easier, though the sidewalks are slippery with ice from all the feet that have trampled the snow down. Giles is moving stiffly around the shop, still wearing his gloves while he waits for the heater to chase the chill out of the air. Anya is arranging a vase of red roses on the counter with a soft little smile on her face.

"What's with the buds?" I ask as I pull off my hat and drop it on the counter.

"Xander gave them to me last night for Valentine's Day," she says with a grin. "Normally I associate Valentine's Day with, you know, getting revenge on men for all their slimy ways. It was always a busy time of year for vengeance. It's kind of nice to be on the happy end of it for once."

"Oh," I say, trying not to think about the fact that, historically, my Valentine's Days have been about as disastrous as my birthdays usually are, and maybe it's a good thing that I totally forgot about it. The door chimes as Willow and Tara come in.

"So what did you do last night?" Anya asks me.

"Spike," I grumble, with a frustrated sigh.

Giles and Anya's heads both swivel in my direction. Willow and Tara stop dead in their tracks and stare.

"What?" I ask, confused.

"You…and…and…uh, S-Sp-Spike?" Giles asks, sounding faint.

"How many orgasms did you have?" Anya says, beaming and looking thrilled.

"What? No! No orgasms!" I say, backing up. Wait a second.

"But vampires have such amazing stamina," she protests and I so don't need to know how she knows that.

"I wasn't doing Spike," I tell them. "There was no doing. None. Whatsoever."

"Oh, thank god," Giles sighs with relief.

"Did-did you make him dusty?" Willow wants to know as she and Tara step down into the main part of the shop.

"No," I say. "The thing is…he sortakindamight'vesavedmylife. In a way that wasn't just to, you know, save his own skin."

It's like someone attached fishing wire to all of their eyebrows and jerked up. It'd be funny if it weren't so…funny.

I sigh and fill them in on most of the events from last night, skipping, of course the bit about Spike and the almost nakedness and my little wig out when I thought he might be Mr. Gordo. Since none of them know about Mr. Gordo, it doesn't really matter, and I'm sure Giles appreciates not having to hear about Spike and his…his…rippliness.

When I'm finished, Giles is in full on polish-mode, Anya has actually stopped counting money in the drawer to stare and Willow and Tara are both sitting at the research table and giving me odd looks.

"The thing is," I tell them, outlining the thought that had hit me that morning on the walk to the shop, "he could have just let me try to walk home on my own, or ditched me in the middle of the storm. Since he wouldn't have actually been hurting me, the chip wouldn't have fired. I never would have made it home on my own, and Slayer powers aren't any use against a blizzard. So…he had the opportunity to kill me, and he didn't even seem to think about taking it. And he really didn't want to go with Drusilla and…could he be right? Could he, you know, be changing?"

Giles gives his glasses a final polish, but doesn't put them back on. "It would be…extremely odd, if that were the case," he says. "You're certain you've found no connection between him and this demon in the prophecy? You sounded sure, before, that he was hiding something. Perhaps he's trying to throw you off the scent."

I slump in my seat. "I thought of that, but if he is, he's doing a much better job of hiding it than usual. I don't know. And if he was then…why help out fighting all those demons? And why did he fight off the ones that attacked my house? And…and with the thing last night, why not just let me freeze to death? It doesn't make any sense, and all this thinking? I'd almost prefer a railroad spike in the brain to all the headache he's causing."

"Well, I think it's pretty obvious," Anya says.

"What?" I ask.

"I was a demon for more than a thousand years," she reminds us. "Not all demons are the same, and vampires aren't really all demon anyway. They're half-breeds. If the chip is suppressing his demon side, maybe his human side is taking over. He's always been a little weird for a vampire. It makes sense."

"Anya," Giles says, and I can hear lecture mode starting to creep into his voice. "Vampires may be half breeds, but…when the demon takes over, it…it evicts the human soul. All they retain are the memories of their human pasts and their physical appearance. Spike has been a soulless killer for more than a century, and his human life was, as far as we know, equally murky. In addition, he has a history of playing us false to meet his own ends. Buffy, I would still advise you to be extremely cautious around him. While his current behavior does seem to suggest that he…he might have changed to some degree, we don't know how much or how far, or even if it can be trusted. As you pointed out, his motives seem…rather spurious."

"Spurious?" I ask. Why can't English guys speak English?

"Dodgy?" he suggests, which isn't much better.

"Okay, so, Spike's still listed on the Suspicious Chart."

"Has Drusilla left town?" Willow asks, leaning forward.

"As far as I know," I say. "We'll have to wait and see. I tried to get a hold of Angel this morning but he's still not answering his phone, and I can't reach Cordelia, either. I guess maybe they're busy dealing with Darla or something. Do we have any news on this Ice Demon thing?" Shiny new change of subject means I don't have to think about Angel and his evil ex-girlfriend.

Giles sighs and gets up. "Not yet," he says. "Ms. Markham and I have deciphered a little more of the prophecy, but, as with most prophecies made by madmen there's as much actual information as there is…frothing at the mouth and gnawing on the furniture." He rolls his eyes.

"That bad, huh?" I wince.

"There was an entire section dedicated, apparently, to the merits of potatoes," he says dryly.

"Ick."

***


Since there's no school, and the cold is keeping away most of the customers, today turns into an impromptu research party. We order pizza, and spend most of the day pouring over old books looking for more info on our Cold Demon.

"Nothing, nothing, and more nothing," Willow moans as she tosses another book on the pile.

"Who drew mustaches and…and…uh, boy parts on all these pictures?" Tara asks, blushing and flipping through another.

"Let me see that," Giles says, frowning as he takes it from her and skims through it himself, then goes wandering off muttering about "libraries," "high school students," and "pillocks."

The door chimes as Xander opens it, then ushers Lydia in first. Xan's face is red and wind burnt from the cold, but he's smiling and carrying an enormous tray of takeout cups from the Espresso Pump next door. "I come bearing hot chocolate," he says. "Let the women now descend upon their hero to bestow their gratitude and sexual favors."

"Be careful, we might rend you limb from limb," I tell him as I grab for a cup.

"I know which limb I want," Anya says as she gives him a kiss.

And I should have seen that coming.

Lydia is carrying a bag full of books, which she sets down on the table, flexing her fingers in relief. "I thought London winters were cold," she says, "but this is…well, positively supernatural."

"I think that's the problem," I say, poking at the book in front of me. "Are there any donuts left?"

"If there are, I call dibs," Xander says. "I've just spent the entire morning trying to tarp off the building we've been working on. The wind yanked up most of them last night and there's snow packed around some of the studs."

"And nobody likes a cold stud," Willow says.

"Very true," Tara agrees, with a grin.

"Oh, good lord," Giles groans and heads for the storeroom to escape.

"So," Xander says as he sits down and picks up a random book. "Are we research partying all night?"

"There's a Snow Blows party going on at the Porter dorm tonight," Willow suggests. "Maybe we could party party?"

"Party parties sound good," I say. "Is it indoors?"

"Most of it," Willow says. "They were setting up the bounce house when we walked over this morning. There might also have been a Slip n' Slide."

"In this weather?" I ask.

"It's a guy thing," Tara says with a shrug, which is probably true.

"Speaking of," Willow says leaning toward me with a grin. "You know that cutie guy in European Lit? Um…Eric something? He was asking if you were going to be there."

I try to remember who Eric is and all I can pull up is a fuzzy image of a guy with brown floppy hair that looks way too much like Parker. I pull a face. "I don't know. I don't think I can do the college guy thing again so soon."

"Too Riley?" Willow asks softly.

"Yeah," I say. "I don't know. I mean, on the one hand, I kinda want to move on, but…what if it just happens all over again, Will? I just…I wanna know that there's a guy out there who I won't…chase away or turn evil."

"There will be," Xander says. "Promise. He's out there. He could come along any minute."

"Yeah, and the minute after that I can terrify him with my alarming strength and remarkable self-involvement," I grump.

"You're not like that," Xander says.

"Maybe I could change. You know, I could work harder. I could spend less time slaying. I could laugh at his jokes. I mean, men like that, right? The…the joke laughing at?"

"Or maybe you could just be Buffy, he'll see your amazing heart and he'll fall in love with you," Xander says.

"Awwww," I say, and it turns into a chorus as Willow, Tara, and Anya all look at him adoringly.

"Isn't he sweet?" Willow says.

"And I think I need to go see where I left my testosterone. Must have dropped it on the way in," Xander says, getting up and checking his pockets. He stops as he heads for the back room. "You know, Buff, you ever think maybe the reason you haven't found a great relationship on the Hellmouth is…because it's a Hellmouth?"

He might have a point.

Face it, at this point the only lasting and well-adjusted relationship I've had with a guy I'm sleeping with is with an imaginary invisible vampire who can't talk.

***


I head home a little early to check on mom and change. While I'm not so sure I'm ready to get up on the dating wagon again, Mom's already climbed aboard. She's got a date tonight with some guy named Brian who she met at work over antique cameos. She's in the middle of trying on dresses and grumbling that all of her best ones are too thin to wear with the cold weather when I come in. I know how she feels. I'm mentally inventorying my wardrobe, trying to decide what to wear for the party, too.

"So, what's the plan for tonight?" I ask, laying on the bed, stomach down and kicking my feet. When I was a kid I used to do this when she and dad would get dressed to go out for the evening. I loved laying there, watching her get ready, putting on pretty dresses and doing her hair and makeup. Right now she's twisting in front of the mirror, trying to see the back of the black evening dress she's trying on.

"Dinner and then a movie," she says. "Or maybe it was…a movie and then dinner. Which might be better because…you know, then we could talk about the movie." She frowns then, turning back to me and leaning against her dresser. "Or maybe a movie isn't a good idea at all, because, you know, you can't talk during, and…and then, you know, what's the point of any of it?"

"It'll be fine," I tell her. "Just don't go see anything that sounds like it's about food, okay? Trust me, food movies and dates are non-mixy."

She nods, distracted, which is of the good because I so don't want to have to explain about that one.

"About the restaurant…do you think that…that it should be one with candles and romantic music, or is that pushing it? Should I try to make things romantic or…sorta let him set the pace?"

"Oh, no," I say. "Love Doctor Buffy is not in. I am not qualified to give dating advice. I've had exactly two boyfriends and they both left. Really left. Left town left."

Mom sits beside me on the bed. "Honey, you just had some bad luck. Maybe you'll meet a nice boy at that party you're going to tonight."

"Or maybe Brian has a son," I say with a grin. "And we can go on unspeakably awkward double dates."

"Oh, god…Brian. What time is it now?"

"4:24," I tell her, checking my watch.

"Are you sure this dress is okay?"

"It's fine. Perfect. Beautiful. He won't be able to resist you…. Do I need to stay over somewhere?" I ask, half joking, half horrified. Oh god. Mom sex. Ew.

"Maybe," she says, giving me a little grin. It's so good to see her happy like this. After everything that happened in the fall…I'm just so glad she's okay. My mom is the strongest person I know. Not, physically, I mean, because, aside from me that would probably be Spike. But…she's gone through so much, you know? With my dad, and raising me, and I know I haven't been the easiest daughter in the world to look out for…and then with the cancer…I'm in awe of her, sometimes. The way she keeps going. Sometimes I think I'm becoming too cynical. Mom's always optimistic, no matter what. I love that about her, even though sometimes I think it's a little naive. I mean, she likes Spike of all people.

"Mom?" I ask, frowning a little.

"Hmmm?" she says, fussing with her hair in the mirror.

"Did you like Angel?"

She turns to look at me, surprised. "Why?"

"I just…I'm curious," I say, folding my arms on the bed and resting my chin on them. She sinks into a chair and studies me for a while.

"No," she says finally. "Not really. The truth is, Buffy…I never really got to know him. He seemed moody and distant. And far too old for you, and that was before I knew he was a vampire." She smiles at me softly. "Ever since you …became the Slayer, you've become far more serious. Sometimes maybe a little too serious. I always thought, someday, you'd meet a nice boy who'd make you laugh, let you have fun. Angel…he was very dark."

I think about that a little. "Maybe," I concede.

She sighs and fiddles with her necklace. "I try not to think about …how dangerous it is, what you do. I liked that Angel was strong enough to help protect you, but…I never felt like he would. Not really. And Riley, while he seemed like a nice boy, I never felt like he really appreciated you. I know that…that…” she stops for a moment and draws a shuddering breath. "I know that most Slayers die young. You know that that's…not what I want for you. I'm your mom, and I love you, and I want you to live a long and happy life. But realistically…life is too short to be with someone who makes you gloomy all the time, or someone who can't see how amazing you are and want to be by your side."

I nod, because I'm not really sure what to say. She moves over to sit next to me and I turn so that my head is in her lap and she can brush her fingers through my hair. It feels nice, like when I was little, and I wish I could go back to that and be that little girl again. Life was so much simpler, happier. Only then I wouldn't have Giles and Willow and Xander, would I?

"I want to meet a guy like that. One that'll make me laugh, and appreciate me, and who I won't chase off. One who will just…love me, forever," I say softly. "Do you think he's out there?"

"I know he is," she says, and because she's my mom, and moms almost never lie…for a little while, I believe her.


 
 
Chapter #26 - Chapter 25: Slipping
 
Author's Notes: Apologies for the slight delay. Remember that thing I said last chapter about real life? Yeah. It happens.

Yes, there is angst coming, but not quite yet. If you object to fun and fluff, you can skip most of this chapter. ;)

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Credits: This chapter contains dialogue from the episode "I Was Made To Love You" written by Jane Espenson.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner by Phuriedae




Chapter 25

Slipping


Porter dorm, as usual, is decked out for parties for pretty much any occasion. Tonight they've put up a bounce house and a Slip'n'Slide outside—which probably makes sense if you’re very, very drunk. The first is full of brave girls wearing short dresses, the second is being used by some very stupid guys wearing … well… swim trunks and t-shirts, and they're sliding down the ice-slicked plastic into a hockey net. On one corner of the lawn is a table with snowman building supplies, and there seems to be some kind of contest brewing. Another corner has a temporarily erected series of barriers, and more than a few people are engaging in an all out snowball fight. There are big, portable heater thingies all over the place, but the amount of heat they cast isn't enough to beat out the chill in the air, so we join the rest of the intelligent people partying inside.

"Snow BLOWS!" yells a frat boy as he bolts out the door past us, dressed in nothing but his boxers and a pair of running shoes.

"And to think," Xander says, "I missed out on all this fun by choosing to enter the workforce."

"That's okay," I tell him, wrapping an arm around his waist. "You can live vicariously through us."

"Does that mean you'll be stripping down to your underwear and frolicking in the snow?" he asks hopefully.

"No," I tell him.

"Damn," he says. "You never vicariously let me have any fun."

I'm glad I didn't go crazy trying to find something cute to wear, because the snow theme has been brought indoors, too. Most people haven't even bothered to take off their coats and gloves, not even the dancers. Willow drags Tara onto the dance floor, while Xander, Anya and I wander off to locate the food.

Along the way we bump into that Eric guy from my class, but he's already so wasted all he can say is "Buppy!" before he trips over his own feet and face plants into some girl's lap. He seems happy, so I leave him there. I really do get the winners, don't I?

"You wanna dance?" Xander asks me after a brief whispered conversation with Anya.

"Nah," I say, hating that I’m the charity case. Worse, hating that I’m Anya’s charity case. "I'm good for now. Maybe later, though?" He nods and turns to discuss the complex process of making chex-mix with Anya.

There's a commotion over by the door and a girl walks in, dressed in a cute spring dress and sandals. She approaches the first group she passes, but she's too far away for me to hear the conversation. There's something weird about her, aside from her totally unseasonable clothing—but then there's people out in the bounce house dressed in much less.

Suddenly I'm feeling vamp tingles. The girl? No… these are closer, and familiar.

"Spike," I say, turning around. He's leaning against the column next to me, also watching the girl that just came in, a frown on his face. "What are you doing here?"

"Free country, innit? Free party," he says, snatching a beer out of a drunk guy's hand as he passes. The guy doesn't seem to notice. Spike takes a long swig, and I find myself staring at the muscles in his throat as he drinks. No. Bad Buffy. "You want me to leave, Slayer? You can put your hands on my hot, tight little body and make me," he teases with a grin. Ugh. And I'm so not going to think about Spike's tight little… anything.

"Room temperature, at best," I tell him, wrinkling my nose.

"Lighten up, Summers," he says, that teasing glint still in his eye. "Have some fun. If you're nice I'll let you throw snowballs at me."

"Make it bowling balls and you've got yourself a deal," I say as sweetly as I can manage.

"What's this about Spike and balls?" Anya asks, bringing Xander and the others over. Both Spike and I cough, me on air, and him half choking on his beer.

"Bowling!" I say. "We were talking about bowling."

"Yeah," he says, with a smirk. "And someone's mind is in the gutter."

"What's Fang-face doing here?" Xander asks, narrowing his eyes.

"Staying where I can keep an eye on him and make sure he's not getting into any trouble," I say, shooting Spike a warning glance.

He just shrugs. "Heard there was free beer," he says.

"From who? Mr. Alpert in plot forty-three?" Xander asks, incredulous.

"No, from the perky bint in the mini skirt and snow boots who was handing out fliers downtown," he says, fishing a neon pink piece of paper out of his duster pocket.

Xander shakes his head. "Some places just have no standards. They'll let anything in the door."

"Excuse me," says a new voice. "Have you seen my boyfriend? His name is Warren."

It's the girl from a few minutes ago. She's got the weirdest, brightest smile I've ever seen, and the boys—and Willow and Tara—all seem riveted. "Uh, no. I don't think we know anyone named Warren," I say. "You guys?"

Various no responses from the others. The girl just shrugs. "That's okay. Thank you."

"Who might you be, darlin'?" Spike asks her, still with that strange considering look on his face.

"I'm April," she says. "Warren's my boyfriend. He lost me. Do you know where I can find him?"

"Want some advice, pet?" She nods and he leans in and murmurs something in her ear.

Suddenly the smile is gone.

"Oh!" she says, her eyes going huge. Stupid vam—!

"Oi! Hey! Put me down!" Spike yells as April hoists him up over her head. Which, on the one hand is probably a sign that she’s not human, but…

It’s also the funniest thing I’ve seen in ages: Spike with his arms pin wheeling and his eyes all big, flopping around in her grip like a big… flailing, black leather… thing.

I wonder if it looks that funny when I do it?

“Put me DOWN!”

"That is not true!" April tells him. Then she puts him down.

Actually… she tosses him through the nearest window.

Glass shatters everywhere and people duck and cover. Spike goes rolling through the bushes, crashing around like a big bleached goon. When he finally gets to his feet he’s clearly confused and pissed off. Which just makes it even funnier.

"Bloody hell! You threw me through a window!" he says, staring at her as if she’s insane. "What is wrong with you bloody women?"

"You're wrong," she says, her hands on her hips. "Warren loves me. He's my boyfriend."

"Well my bleedin' sympathies to Warren," Spike says and stalks off.

Okay, as funny as that was, I probably need to stop giggling and do something about our potential problem. Xander nudges me forward, but I was on my way in any case.

"Hi," I say, approaching April. "Excuse me? Hi. Um… maybe you and I could talk? You know, cause throwing Spike through a window… well, that's really good, but generally speaking—"

"Do you know my boyfriend?" she asks me, that weirdo grin back on her face.

"Okay, I think you need to take a second and stop looking for your boyfriend," I say. The grin doesn't disappear this time. Instead she just grabs my arm and flings me backward into a wall.

Ow. Okay, something is totally wrong with this girl. I've got a good idea what it is, too.

"I have to find him," April tells me. She comes over to stand beside me, looking down. "If I hurt you just now, I'm sorry. And I hope that your boyfriend takes good care of you." She leaves before I manage to get up.

We follow her, but she's disappeared into the crowd outside around the Slip'n'Slide. Inside, we manage to find a mostly deserted student lounge. My arm still hurts.

"You alright?" Spike says, leaning in the doorway. He nods at my arm.

"You're back?" I say. You’d think getting tossed through a window would have been his clue that he’s not wanted.

"And we thought he was a goner," Xander says dryly.

"What can I say? Just couldn't stay away, mate," Spike snarks. There are tiny little already healing cuts all over his face and hands from the window glass.

"Whatever," I say, rubbing my arm. He watches me, his eyes not missing anything. Stupid vampire. "Can we get back to the problem of the tiny, super strong girl who is not me?"

"At least she didn't do too much damage," Tara says.

"Are you kidding?" Xander says. "Double-glazed windows ain't cheap. And the jamb is going to need to be completely repaired… and… oh dear god; I'm the grown up who sees everything through my job. I'm like my Uncle Dave the plumber. I must be shunned."

"Not a problem here," Spike mutters.

"So what do you guys think she is?" I ask, trying to move things back on topic. "I mean, this may sound nuts but I kinda got the impression that she was a—"

"Robot," Tara says.

Everybody nods.

"Yeah, I was gonna say robot," I admit.

"Bloody good one, too," Spike says. "Got a heartbeat and everything. Breathin's off, though."

"Really?" Willow says. "A heartbeat?"

"Yeah, but might just be a recording. No blood vessels, so no pulse," Spike says.

"I wonder how you'd do that?" Willow says thoughtfully, and I can see the computer gears cranking in her head. Do computers have gears?

"Why would you do that?" Xander wants to know.

"What do you think she wants?" I ask.

"Warren," Tara says. "Whoever that is."

"It's gotta be the guy that built her," Xander points out.

Willow looks thoughtful. "It's an unusual name. There's hardly any except… Warren Beatty and President Harding. It-it's probably not either of them."

"Warren DeMartini," Spike says. We all give him a look. "Musician. Ratt? Round and Round? Wanted Man? … Never mind. Isn't him either. Bloody children…"

I roll my eyes. "Will, can you track down this guy with only a first name?"

She nods. "Given enough time. I can get a list of the Sunnydale students named Warren tonight, but… then we'll have to call on them or go to their dorms so we probably can't start narrowing it down ‘til tomorrow."

"She could do a lot of damage by then," Anya says, looking worried.

"To who?" Xander asks. "Spike? See how vigorously I don't care." Spike shoots him a dirty look. "She was looking for Warren, but it didn't sound like she wanted to hurt him. She said he's her boyfriend."

"I agree," Willow says. "I'm not sure this is a code red. Hey, is there a code pink? We need more codes." Tara smiles at her.

"Okay, so… we'll track down Warren tomorrow. In the meantime, I think I'm done partying for tonight."

The others all yawn or nod and we decide to give up on the fun and head home.

***


It's not ‘til I split off from Xander and Anya that I realize Spike is still there, trailing behind us, out of sight but in range. "Why are you following me?" I ask, turning to look at him. He steps out of the shadows, then glances up at the sky. There are some clouds, but it's not like it was last night.

"Just… thought it'd be a good idea, is all," he says, stepping closer until he's only a couple of feet away. "Arm still hurting?"

"She just sprained it, I think," I tell him, frowning. "No big. It's almost gone."

"Right," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look… thought you should know, Dru left town. Word is she picked up some demon down at the pub last night and he gave her a ride back to LA."

"You're sure?" I ask. Drusilla being gone is one less thing I have to deal with. Best news I’ve had all week.

"Yeah," he says, looking me straight in the eye. Spike is such a bad liar that it's usually pretty obvious when he's telling the truth.

"Okay," I say. "Good to know." For a moment we just stand there, watching each other carefully. I know I should go, but… something keeps me there.

"Buffy…” he starts to say, then stops, looking conflicted. After a moment he sighs, pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights one, then motions for us to keep walking. It’s cold so… This is totally just about distracting myself. He falls in on my left. "So, it's robots now, is it?"

"It's the Hellmouth. It's always something," I remind him. Okay, so maybe it’s also a little about trying to figure out Spike. "What did you say to piss her off?"

"Nothing!" He looks defensive. I just raise my eyebrows. I know he said something evil. Spike sulks. "What? Wasn't anything. Nothing worth getting defenestrated for, anyway."

"Defene-what?"

He rolls his eyes. "Means 'getting tossed through a bloody window', pet."

Oh. Huh. I kinda like that. I think about the expression on his face when she picked him up, and suddenly I'm giggling.

"What?" he asks, suspiciously.

I imitate it. "'Oi! Hey! Put me down!' Your face… There's a memory I never want to forget."

"Laugh it up, Slayer," he says, but he smirks, totally ruining his grump. After a minute he looks up. "You're patrolling?" he asks, a little surprised when he sees we're heading into Shady Oaks.

I shrug. "Might as well. It's not snowing, and Mom's out on a date for another hour or two."

"Your mum's got a date?" he grins.

"It's not funny," I tell him.

"No, it's bloody adorable. Good for her," he smiles, a real genuine smile with no malice or … badness behind it. It makes him look boyish, and handsome, and I can't decide if I like it or if I want to punch him and make it go away.

"You really like her," I say, stopping to stare at him. He gives me an incredulous sort of look, then takes a puff on his cigarette.

"Well, yeah," he says. "Real nice lady, your mum. Classy. Only one of your lot that treats me decent."

"You're a vampire, Spike," I point out.

"Yeah, so?" He leans back against a nearby headstone. "Doesn't mean I don't appreciate being treated like a person every now and then. I've got feelings, you know." I roll my eyes.

"Right. Feelings. Anger. Hatred. Greed. A burning desire to kill people and destroy things."

"You really believe that rot, Slayer?" he asks quietly, taking a long drag on his cigarette. I shrug. Maybe I’m starting to think I don't, but I don't need to tell him that. He snorts, a stream of smoke coming out of his nose. "Fine then. Think what you like, but you're wrong, and someday you're gonna have to admit it. I just hope I'm there when you do."

He stubs out his cigarette, then gets up and mockingly gestures for me to continue on patrol. Stupid vampire.

"Do you do this on purpose?" I ask as he falls in beside me. "Every time I think I understand you, you … do something to turn everything on its head. I mean, you promise to kill me, then you make a truce with me. You promise to leave town, then you come back. You tear me down, then come to me for help. You mock my love life, then… then show me what Riley was doing behind my back. You try to get the chip out, then you're… saving my life and promising to be good. I swear, you're the most contradictory vampire ever."

"Least I'm never disappointing," he says.

And before I know what he's about to do, he grabs the back of my coat collar and pulls it away from my neck, then dumps a handful of cold snow down my back.

"Hey!" I whirl on him, shivering and trying to shake the snow out. "What was that for?"

He just grins and curls his tongue behind his teeth. "What can I say, pet? I'm unpredictable." Ugh. Infuriating jerk. Before I know it I'm scooping up a handful of snow, packing it into a loose ball and tossing it in his face. I'm fast, but he's faster and dodges out of the way. "Oh, come on, Summers. You can do better than that."

"Oh, I will," I promise, and dive for another handful just as he darts back further amid the gravestones.

"Keep up, Slayer!" he calls, and a loose handful of snow hits me right in the face. Too loose to hurt, but cold enough to leave me sputtering. Oh, that's it. It's on now.

We dart between the headstones, using them for cover as we pelt each other. Mine tend to be nicely packed snowballs that, when they hit, explode against his leather coat. His aren't so cohesive, sometimes falling apart before impact. But when they do, they spatter, leaving me coated in a fine dust. I can't tell if he's deliberately packing them loose to keep from setting off his chip, or if he's just crappy at making snowballs. It isn't until I'm working on my seventh one, listening to him taunt me from behind a sarcophagus that I realize he's at a disadvantage… no body heat to melt the snow a little into a solid ball.

Huh. Good to know.

I lose track of how long we draw out our battle. He's slightly faster than I am, and his longer legs let him break through the drifts easier than me. But I'm lighter and can run across the crust fast enough that I don't step through it, if I try. I can also track him with my Slayer sense, and I'm sure he's following me by the sound of my breathing and heartbeat. It makes the game more even, and before I know it, I'm laughing at his taunts and breathless from exertion and … having way more fun than I really ought to be.

This is the first time that all this snow has been a good thing, and I'm reluctant to stop. I haven't had a decent fight in weeks, and battling with Spike, even if it is only with snowballs, is always challenging. When a fledge bursts out of a nearby grave we barely even pause to dust him, then resume the fight.

My cheeks are flushed and my nose and fingers numb, when I finally sneak up behind him, pouncing and pushing him down into a drift. He spins as he falls, catching me around the waist and yanking me down with him just as I smush a handful of snow into his laughing face. We roll for a minute, then come to a halt, both of us giggling and shaking snow out of our eyes.

Then I realize how we landed. He's on top of me, straddling my hips, his duster half caught beneath me and pinning him there. His hands are fisted and planted in the drift on either side of my head, and his face… his face is only a few inches from mine. Snowflakes are caught in his heavy eyelashes and eyebrows, and he's still grinning as he shakes his head like a dog, showering me with more flakes. The moonlight turns his skin and hair to the same blue white as the snow, and for a moment it's hard to remember that he's the enemy because he's… he's… kinda almost beautiful.

No. Not beautiful. That's wrong. Bad Buffy.

Only now he's sobered and is staring down at me, his expression soft and curious and intense all at once. For too long we stay that way, his eyes dark and unreadable as he stares into mine.

Enemy, vampire, Spike, I tell myself sternly. But I don't move.

His lashes dip as his gaze falls to my mouth, and I realize that I've parted my lips slightly and I'm breathing funny. Spike glances back up at me, through those snow fringed lashes, and there's something in his eyes now that makes me nervous and excited and… I can't help but shiver, knowing that he's about to kiss me and I should push him off.

I should.

Right now.

I'm going to.

Only I don't have to, because now he's frowning, the weirdest look of concern on his face. "You're cold," he murmurs. "I forget… C'mon, luv." He rolls off me, pulling his coat out from under me then reaching for my hands to help me stand.

I am not going to think about how weirdly bereft I feel without him on top of me. I'm not.

Maybe that robot girl threw me against the wall a little too hard, because clearly my brains are rattled. Or maybe somewhere along the way we slipped into some Bizzaro Universe. There's no way I should have let Spike that close, and it's totally unfair that he's the one who broke the … the… whatever that was. If either of us was going to break that, it totally should have been me. Preferably with a punch to his stupid nose. I frown, suddenly irritated and frustrated way out of proportion to what happened.

"Let's get you home and warmed up, Summers," he says, tugging me toward the cemetery exit.

"I can walk just fine on my own," I snap. He raises his eyebrows and releases my hand, scowling.

"I was just—," he says, narrowing his eyes.

"What the hell was that?"

"What?" he says, getting mad.

"That! That! With the… with the-the pouncing! And the pinning and the… what the hell was that?"

He glowers at me. "Correct me if I'm wrong—which I'm not, but you probably think I am anyway—but weren't you the one doing the pouncing, pet?"

"That's not the point," I tell him. "What was that, Spike?"

"It was fun!" he exclaims, flinging out his arms and losing his temper. "Running, and fighting, and … dodging blows. No harm done. It was bloody fun, and you were right there with me, Summers. Don't even try to deny it. You don't have enough fun, and you're gonna shrivel up and die a prune because of it. So forgive me for trying to interject a little levity into your oh-so-serious life, Slayer."

He steps right into my space, breathing hard, his eyes narrowed.

There he is. There's Spike the vampire, pissed off and furious and ready to burst into fangs. My hands ball into fists, ready to punch him if he even tries to lunge at me. But instead he just stands there, nostrils flaring and jaw muscles popping in his hollow cheeks as he fights for control.

"Clearly," he growls finally, "I made a mistake. See, here I thought we were having a gay old time of it. But as usual, you had to go and cock it up. Can't trust old Spike, of course. He's got to have an ulterior motive. Probably lured you out here into a graveyard just so he could … what, Slayer? Pelt you to death with bloody snowballs? Hope you got so frostbit your nose falls off? Or, worse… maybe," he says, stepping closer, and his voice dropping lower. "Maybe you thought I was trying to seduce you? Catch you off guard, yeah? Dazzle you with the moonlight and the snow and the fun until you were all warm and laughing under me?"

His voice is a low rumble, deep in his throat, and his proximity is making my Slayer sense go crazy. He's so close I can feel his cool breath on my face and I know that he's right. He did catch me off guard. I'm teetering, trying hard to find my balance.

"Then I could swoop in and do what you've been practically begging me to do since you jumped me back there. I… could do… this…"

He leans in, closer, and I just know he's going to try to kiss me. I lift my chin and glare, balling my hands into fists. Let him try. He's so close, only a breath away now. Maybe I'll let him, just for a second, before I punch him.

Only when the cold comes, it's not his lips.

It's a face full of snow.

I shake it off, shocked and sputtering. He rocks back on his heels, grinning at me and running a tongue over his teeth. "Gotcha, Slayer," he says with a smirk.

"Spike," I say, gritting my teeth. "You are so dead."

"Already there, luv," he says. "Now c'mon, let's get you home before your nose does fall off. You'd look awfully silly with no nose, Summers."

Ugh. Stupid, annoying, evil vampire.

***


He ditches me across the street from my house with his usual mocking salute, and I stand and glare after him until he's out of sight. I don't know who I'm madder at: me, for letting myself have fun with Spike or for thinking for even an instant about him kissing me, or him for messing with my head in the first place. Why can't he just be a normal vampire?

I'm still shaking my head with frustration when I step in the house. My mom is practically floating as she comes in from the kitchen.

"Want to hear all about everything?" she asks with a grin that's almost infectious.

"Sure," I say. "Let me just go change into something less likely to melt on the floor."

A few minutes later I'm in my comfiest, warmest pj's and sitting at the island in the kitchen drinking hot chocolate and listening to mom tell me all about her date.

"It sounds like you had an amazing time," I tell her with a smile when she's finished.

"Oh, I did," she says with a grin. "How did your party go?"

"I got to watch Spike get tossed through a window," I tell her. "But after that, not so good. We've got a robot problem again. Not a homicidal one, though. I hope."

"Was that Spike that walked home with you?" she asks, eying me over the rim of her hot chocolate. I make a face.

"Yes," I grouch. "He likes to follow me on patrol and annoy me. Tonight he started a snowball fight."

"That sounds… fun," she says cautiously.

"It was… kinda," I say. Cause it was. Right up until the almost kissage that thankfully wasn't. "He likes you, you know." I tell her, trying to change the subject. Mom just blinks at me.

"He said that?"

"Yeah. Something about you being classy and… treating him decent," I say.

"Well, he seems like a nice boy," she says.

"Mom, he's a vampire. Vampires are not nice. He's… soulless, and evil, and…icky. And so not a boy. He's over a hundred years old, almost as old as Angel." Okay, so that might be stretching it, but what’s a hundred years, give or take a few decades, right? Once you’re over that centennial mark I think you pretty much qualify as an antique.

She looks thoughtful. "But Angel always seemed old. Spike…He's boyish, which I guess brings out the mother in me. And you say he can't hurt anybody anymore, and he's certainly gone out of his way to protect the both of us. I may not know him as well as you do, but from what I've seen, he doesn't seem particularly evil."

"Do you like him?" I ask, not sure if I should be weirded out or what.

She watches me for a moment. "In a way, yes, I do. I think a better question to ask, however, is: do you?"

I scowl at my hot chocolate, wishing the answer to that question was as simple as I want it to be.

***


I'm still feeling a little grumpy when I go to bed, and when Mr. Gordo arrives I'm too tired to spar. He taps three times, and I know he probably wants to know what's wrong, but… for the first time I don't really want to talk about it with him. I don't even know how to put it into words myself. It's too confusing. On the one hand, I know Giles is right, and trusting Spike is a bad idea. On the other hand…

"I'm just tired," I tell Mr. Gordo. "It's been a long day."

He's still for a while, probably watching me, and I can't help but think about Spike and the way he tilts his head and narrows his eyes when he's trying to figure something out. I shake my head, trying to dislodge it, but there it is.

Frustrated, I pull my pillow over my head to shut out the image.

In the dark, of course, it really doesn't help.






 
 
Chapter #27 - Chapter 26: I Was Made To Love You
 
Author's Notes: I don’t have much to say about this chapter, except that I apologize for the lack of Spike and Mr. Gordo—however, the world cannot revolve around them (and should not). This is a pretty introspective chapter, with lots of stuff going on in Buffy’s brain.

If you're one of those people who have told me that you keep skipping the non-Spike and non-Mr. Gordo bits... I hate to say it but you're missing out on a lot of relevant stuff. There's all kinds of important info and foreshadowing buried in those scenes. This chapter is no exception.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Credits: This chapter contains dialogue from the episode "I Was Made To Love You" written by Jane Espenson.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner by Phuriedae





Chapter 26

I Was Made To Love You


In the morning I decide that last night’s Spike-related insanity was a result of hitting that wall just a little too hard. Easy enough just to, you know, not think about it and instead focus on the real problem at hand: robot girls and the men who love them.

I get up early and grab a quick breakfast before heading over to the Magic Box. Willow and Tara come in only a few minutes later, and Anya, Xander, and Giles are already there. It only takes a few minutes to fill Giles and Lydia in on our robo-girl sitch, though they both look dubious.

Because it’s not like I haven’t dealt with really life-like robots before.

"And you're certain she was a robot?" Giles asks, for probably the third time.

"Absolutely," I tell him.

"Well, she practically had 'Genuine Molded Plastic' stamped on her ass," says Tara. We all turn to stare. She blushes and looks embarrassed. "Just…trying a little spicy talk," she says, ducking her head. Willow smiles.

Willow's gone through all the Sunnydale enrollment records but all she's found is one Warren who moved out of the country last year. "I'm checking nearby schools," she says, tapping away on her computer.

"Whoever he is, he knows his stuff. That girl…well, that was a nice looking girl," Xander says. Ugh. Boys.

"It's okay for him to say that," Anya says, leaning on him fondly. "'Cause I know that he really loves me only." Xander squeezes her hand.

"Is there something the rest of us could be doing?" Giles asks. Lydia glances up from her corner where she’s still scribbling translations.

"What can we do?" Xander wants to know.

"Oh! Do you have any books on robots?" Tara asks, looking interested.

"Oh, yes," Giles says. "Dozens. There's an enormous amount of research we should do before—no, I'm lying. I haven't got squat. I just like to see Xander squirm."

Ooookay. Giles is in a weird mood. Almost perky. Maybe he should cut back on the tea.

"Funny. Charming and funny," Xander says dryly.

"Hey!" Willow exclaims. "I think I found him. A Warren Mears. He went to Sunnydale High with us for a semester, and then he went to the tech school over in Dutton. I've got a local address where his folks still live." She scribbles it down for me.

"He's probably home for Spring Break," Tara says, then looks out the window at the snow. "Such as it is."

"Well," I say, picking up the paper from Willow, "Guess I'll go talk to him."

"No, wait, we don't know what you're walking into," Giles says, then startles when he realizes that a customer is waiting at the counter. "Uh, we've no idea what his motive is for building this thing."

I kinda think that that’s pretty obvious, but Giles clearly needs a great big clue-by-four.

"Uh, don't you think she's just…" Tara makes a face.

"Yeah," Willow says, also making a face. "She's just sort of a…"

"She's a sexbot," Xander supplies. "I mean, what guy doesn't dream about that?" Giles just rolls his eyes and heads off to help the customer. "Beautiful girl with…no other thought but to please you…willing to do anything…"

He laughs a little nervously when he realizes that there are five of us females staring at him disapprovingly. Even Lydia is glaring. "Too many girls," he says. "I miss Oz. He'd get it. He wouldn't say anything, but…he'd get it."

"Why would anyone do that if they could have a real live person?" Anya wants to know.

"Maybe he couldn't," Willow says, frowning at her computer screen. "Find a real person."

"Oh come on," I say. "The guy's just a big wedge of sleaze. Don't make excuses for him."

"I'm not," Willow says, looking up. "I'm just saying…people get lonely and…and maybe having someone around, even someone you made up, maybe it's easier."

That…makes me pause.

What if that’s why I dream about Mr. Gordo? Maybe I'm just lonely and…my subconscious has supplied me with an imaginary vampire to …make me less lonely?

"It's so weird," Tara says. "I mean, everyone wants a nice, normal person to share with, but this guy…if he couldn't find that, I guess it's…kinda sad."

And how much sadder is it that, if it's true, if …if Mr. Gordo is something I made up to keep from being lonely…that my definition of a normal person to share with is a vampire?

***


Warren's parents live not too far from the playground. It's easy enough to find. I've walked this beat a thousand times by now. Just, usually not when it's so drifty. The snow machines have been through and there are mounds of the stuff piled along the sides of the road, starting to get dirty from passing cars. Even though it's still freezing, the sun is out, making it one of the nicer days we've had in awhile. Which makes me kinda nervous, like maybe our Ice Demon is in a good mood.

As I go to knock on the Mears's front door, however, it's pulled open by a frantic looking guy with dark hair. He looks vaguely familiar, and about my age. I guess I found Warren. You’d think a robot girl would know his parent’s address. "I have to talk to you," I tell him.

A girl pokes her head around the corner to stare at me. "Who's this?" she asks. Oh, great. He’s got more of them.

"Is this about her?" Warren asks, ignoring the other girl. The way he emphasizes the her tells me everything.

"Yes.”

"Her who? Warren, something's going on here. Strange girls…” the other girl is frowning in a way that I can tell doesn't bode well for Warren. She also doesn't seem like a robot, so that's good. Maybe it’s just the one after all.

"Katrina, please be quiet, okay? This is important. Wait in the kitchen."

Geez. High handed much? But then again, a guy who builds life-size, walking, talking sex dolls probably wasn't an A student in Social Manners.

"And I'm not important? Warren, just tell her to go away," Katrina is looking kinda exasperated right now, which I totally get. Even if she’s a little rude herself.

"I can't," Warren says, finally looking a little torn. Only a little, though.

"You're keeping secrets from me," Katrina says. "Other girls, and who knows what else?"

I sigh. I know that feeling really well. Too well. Warren's days are numbered if he doesn't fess up. Warren, however, clearly isn't that bright.

"Trina, shut up," he says, irritated.

"That's it. Forget it, Warren. I'm gone," she says. Smart girl. Hey, maybe this Warren guy is a bad guy after all and I can hit him! There's a happy thought.

Warren looks torn between going after her and hearing what I have to say. It's freezing out, so I step past him into the house where I can at least wait where it's warm. Finally he gives up on Katrina and turns to me.

"My name is Buffy Summers. We were at Sunnydale High together," I tell him. "Do you know who I am?"

"Yes," he says, in a way that tells me he really does, which is good, cause it'll save some time. "I know. Um…April, did she hurt someone?"

"Not yet," I tell him, then frown, thinking of Spike flying through the window. "Well, no one that matters."

He sighs and runs his hands through his hair. "She's looking for me. You know, uh…she followed me here."

"Kinda figured that out," I tell him.

"No," he says. "No, there's more. Uh…there's something you need to know about her."

"I know," I tell him, but he clearly doesn't believe me.

“No, this is something you can’t possibly know about her,” he says. He heaves a great big breath, bracing himself for what I’m sure he thinks is going to be a dramatic revelation.

"She's a robot," he says, then waits for what I’m sure he thinks is going to be my equally dramatic reaction. I’m pretty sure he’s trying really hard not to go ‘Dun dun DUNNNN!’

"Uh huh," I say, just blinking at him.

"You know?" he says, blinking back.

"Not exactly hard to figure it out," I tell him. "I've got some experience with life-like robots and no, I really don't want to talk about it."

"Huh," he says, still looking stunned. I head for the couch and sit down. This is clearly his parents' place, cause no self-respecting college-age guy would ever decorate like this, but I don't see any parents around. Maybe they're at work.

I fill him in on some of the events from last night. He just sighs and shakes his head. "I shouldn't have made her," he says. "It was dumb, but…I'd been in college for a year and I hadn't gotten a single date, you know? I mean, I tried, I did, but…I just kept getting shot down."

I try to drum up some sympathy for him. I mean, the guy is clearly a little pathetic. "So you have girl troubles, they're not talking to you, you're not getting dates…you start thinking 'hey this isn't fair'…?" I say.

"Yeah, I mean, I felt like I deserved to have someone," he says. "You know, I mean, everyone deserves to have someone."

I wonder if that applies to Slayers with short life expectancies? It’s a nice thought, even if I’m not sure I believe it.

"So naturally you turned to manufacturing?" I say.

"Kinda," he says, looking a little shifty. Why do I feel like there's an explanation that involves beer and 'Weird Science' that isn't being given here?

"And how long did it take you to build yourself that little toy?" I ask, curious; because as robots go, she's pretty advanced. Well, Ted was pretty advanced, too. Maybe there’s like an online class or something that teaches you how to build these things.

"Oh, no, she's not a toy," he protests. "I mean, I know what you're thinking, but she's more than that."

Right. And Spike's not evil anymore. "I'm sure she has many labor-saving attachments," I say dryly.

"No," he says, seriously. "I made her to love me. I mean, she cares about what I care about, and she wants to be with me. She listens to me and supports me. I didn't make a toy, I made a girlfriend."

"A girlfriend," I say. "Are you saying…are you in love with her?" Can you love something that isn't real?

"I really thought I would be," Warren says, looking even more pathetic, if that’s possible. "I mean, she's perfect. I don't know, I …I guess it was too easy, and predictable. You know, she…got boring. She was exactly what I wanted and…I didn't want her. I thought I was going crazy."

"Really? You?" Okay, so, that might have been a little sarcastic. He just gives me a look.

Okay, maybe more than a little.

"Then something happened. Katrina was in my engineering seminar, and she was really funny and cool. You know she…she was always giving me a hard time, real…unpredictable. She builds these little model monorails that run with magnets and…” he trails off, realizing he's losing me with the geek speak. "Anyway, I fell in love with Katrina.”

Ah. Nerd love.

"Swell," I say. "Romance and magnetic trains. But first you decide to take April out of her box, play with her for five minutes, and then what? You got bored, decided to dump her, tell her to go away?"

He gives me a half-hearted response, shrugging nervously.

"And she got mad. She didn't go, huh?" I ask.

"Okay," he says. "I didn't really dump her, as much as I…I, uh, went out, and…uh…didn't come back. I left her, I…left her in my dorm room." He winces at my expression.

"You left her in your dorm room?" I ask, incredulous. Surely he's not that much of a jerk. Only he is.

"Well, I figured I could just kinda get away until her batteries gave out. Which should have been days ago," he explains.

Ugh. Why are boys so dumb? Why is it that their first response to something they don't like and can't deal with is to pack it in and leave? They get a little bored, or they aren’t getting what they think they need from a girl so…they go. I mean, sure in this case the girl is a robot, but still…it's not right, and if he weren't human, he'd be in a serious amount of trouble right now.

Any sympathy I was feeling for the Boy Genius here? It’s pretty much evaporated.

"Did you even tell her?" I ask, furious. "I mean, did you even give her a chance to fix what was wrong?"

He gives me a look like now he thinks I'm the one who's crazy, and okay…yeah, robot, but…

"I didn't need to fix anything," he says, speaking a little slow like he thinks I’m the idiot here. "I mean, her batteries were supposed to run down. Really, they should be completely dead by now."

"So why aren't they?" I ask.

"I don't…I don't know," he says, frowning. "I mean, maybe…uh, she must be recharging them somehow."

Well, duh.

"Warren," I say. "This is important. Is she dangerous?"

He shrugs. "She's only programmed to be in love," he says.

"Then she's dangerous," I say. He clearly doesn't know how dangerous love can be. "Do you have any idea how to find her?"

"Well, she's looking for me, so my guess is she's probably pretty close," he says. I sigh. Alright, time to go hunt down his robo-chick before she can do any major damage.

"C'mon, then," I say. "Let's go find her."

***


We wander the neighborhood, calling her name. I feel a little dumb, like we're looking for a dog, and not a life-size, ultra-realistic robot girl…and not sure that I shouldn't feel dumber about the fact that she's not a dog. Warren's got his hands shoved deep in his pockets and he's yelling as loud as he can. "If the batteries are still working and she hears my voice then…she'll answer," he tells me.

"She's voice activated?" I ask, thinking that could be useful. Maybe he can just shut her down.

"Well," he says with that evasive look again. "I made it so that if she heard me and she didn't answer, it …causes this kind of …feedback."

Feedback. Like…Spike's brain getting zapped when he does something wrong?

"Wait…if you call her and she doesn't answer, it hurts her?" I ask. He manages to look embarrassed. "You're one creepy little dweeb."

The Initiative would have loved him. Spike would probably want to tear his head off.

Warren shrugs, as if he's used to being called a dweeb. "April!" he yells. From over near the playground we finally hear a response.

"Warren!"

It only takes a minute to round the corner, and we both stop and stare at the scene in front of us. April, still in her completely weather-inappropriate dress, is standing in the middle of the playground. Dangling from her upraised hand like a broken doll is Katrina.

"Where have you been?" April asks, ignoring the girl she's choking. "I couldn't find you, and this girl kept lying to me, and…then she went to sleep."

Oh…god. Not good.

"April," Warren rasps. "What did you do?" He honestly looks horrified.

"Please don't be angry Warren, I'm trying very hard to make you happy," April says.

"April," I say. "I want you to put the girl down." She just looks confused.

"Warren? What should I do?" He's just standing there, staring at Katrina.

"Talk to her!" I tell him. I can't tell if Katrina is still alive or not, but we need to hurry.

"Put…put her down!" Warren says. "This is Buffy. Give Katrina to Buffy."

April slowly lowers her and Warren and I rush in and pick up Katrina before she hits the ground. Luckily there's a bench nearby.

"Is she broken?" April asks, curiously.

There's a pulse at Katrina's throat. Faint, but there. "She's alive," I say with relief. Warren and April move off a little, talking and arguing, while I try to make Katrina more comfortable. I finally tune into their conversation in time to hear him trying to convince April to go back to his dorm and wait for him. Jerk.

"Warren!" He glances over at me guiltily. "You have to tell her. And do it right," I tell him.

"What is she saying, Warren? What do you need to tell me?"

"April," he says, "Um…I m-made a mistake."

"You can't make mistakes," she says, laughing. My heart breaks for her a little. This poor thing has no clue what he's about to do to her. I'm not even sure she can understand it. All she wants is to be loved.

"No, I did," he says, sounding a little more sure. "I thought that I made you everything that I wanted, but…it wasn't really what I wanted. I'm sorry…bu-but it's over."

She's still smiling her cheerful, too bright smile. "But…I can be whatever you want. I love you. I'll do whatever you want. Would you like a neckrub?" She steps toward him, but he backs away.

"No, hey…no. See, I…I know that you love me, but the truth is, I can't love you. I mean, it's not your fault but…I don't love you," he says. "I love her." He turns to look at me and Katrina, and something red flashes across my vision. Huh?

April growls.

"She growls? You made her so she growls?" I ask.

He's looking even more nervous. What's wrong? Then April is stalking toward me. She reaches down and grabs me and flings me across the grass. Okay…not good. And remembering how strong this thing is…really not good.

A cracking sound alerts me to her new tactic. She's ripped half the board off of the seesaw and is swinging it at my head. I manage to catch it and kick her, but soon we're tussling, half falling over the bench with Katrina on it who, thankfully, manages to get up and out of the way. I get in a lucky swing with the board, catching April across the stomach, ripping away part of her dress and exposing the machinery inside of her.

Still, she keeps ticking, punching me hard enough to knock me down. I flip and land on my feet, popping back up in time to get in a hard jab at her jaw.

At some point during the fight both Katrina and Warren take off, leaving me alone to battle April. She's strong, but not as strong as she was last night, and it's not until she has me by the throat and is lifting me up that I realize why; her batteries are running down.

"You took my man," she says, as my vision starts to get dark. "I'm going to kill you. I'm going to…I can't…can't crush…so…tired." Abruptly she lets go, and I cough and back away, watching her warily. "Warren?" she asks, sounding lost. "What's happening to me?"

But Warren is gone.

April goes into shutdown, and as she starts to collapse I realize I can't leave her like this, alone in the snow. She lets me carry her over to the swings and prop her up in the seat, protesting the whole time that she was a good girlfriend, that she did everything she was supposed to do. I want to cry for her, for how lost and broken she is. Yeah, she's just a robot but…she's dying, and the man she loves abandoned her because she wasn't good enough.

"Can you cry?" I ask softly, sitting in the swing beside her. "Sometimes I feel better when I cry. But…there might be rust issues."

"Crying is blackmail. Good girlfriends don't cry," she says. That asshole even took that from her. Sometimes I really wish I could hit humans. "I rechecked everything. I did everything I was supposed to do. I was a good girlfriend."

"I'm sure you were," I tell her, thinking of Riley and everything I did …and everything I didn't do, according to him.

"I'm only supposed to love him. If I can't do that, what am I for?" she asks. "What do I exist for?"

"I don't know," I tell her. "It isn't fair. He wasn't fair to you."

"It's getting dark," she says. Only it's not. It's almost noon. The sun is still high in the sky, sparkling off the snow. It's cool, and peaceful. "It's so early to be dark. What if he comes back, and he can't find me in the dark?" she asks.

And suddenly I'm thinking of Mr. Gordo, of the blind room. My imaginary vampire who…I don't know if he loves me. I've never really thought about it before. But he's always there. He listens when I talk. He's…supportive. He spars with me, laughs with me, and…we have fun. And…I'm not sure what I'd do if suddenly I stopped dreaming about him one night. The thought of it makes me ache in ways I don't know how to define. All I know is that, even in the dark, I can find him and he can find me. I wish I could give that assurance to April.

"I'm here," I tell her. "I'll make sure he finds you."

She smiles. "Maybe this is a girlfriend test. If I wait here patiently this time, he'll come back."

I think of Riley, of how I waited. Of how I knew he wasn't coming back. And Angel. Have I been waiting all this time? But the truth is…they don't come back. If you love them, let them go…isn't that the saying? But they don't come back. No matter how much you love them, they don't come back. The ones who really love you…they stick by your side. They don't want to leave.

But I can't tell her that, so I swallow my own pain and try to be reassuring.

"I'm sure he will," I lie, because even though she’s a robot, she’s clearly hurting. "And he'll…he'll tell you how sorry he is. You know, he told me…how proud he was of you and…how impressed he was with how much you loved him and how you tried to help him. He didn't mean to hurt you." She smiles, which eases the weight of the lie.

"He's going to take me home, and things will be right again," she says, with such absolute faith.

"It'll be fine," I promise, around the lump in my throat.

"When things are sad…you just have to be patient…because every…cloud has a silver lining…and…when life…gives you lemons…make…lemonade…” she says, her voice getting slower as her battery finally runs down.

"Clouds and lemonade, huh?" I say.

"Yes, and…and…things are…always…darkest…before…” she pauses so long that I finally turn to look at her. She's gone. Her eyes are still open, her smile is still bright, but whatever kept her going is gone.

I sit with her for a little while longer, looking at the sun shining on the snow and thinking about all the men in my life who have come and gone, and the ones who've stayed, both wanted and un and even the one I didn't know I wanted but who I can't quite imagine my life without anymore, even if it is just a dream. I don't love him. I don't think. But he's my friend. And that means something.

***


I carry her back to Warren's. He's sitting on his porch, looking desolate.

"She left me," he says.

"Now you know how she feels," I say. I carry April inside and lay her on the couch. Aside from the machinery exposed, she looks like a peacefully sleeping doll, after I close her eyes.

I leave him with her and head back into town.

***


I walk for a long time, it seems, turning things over in my head.

I think about Riley, and how he said he loved me, but he didn't really love me as I was. He was everything I had thought I wanted but…he wasn't really. And Riley…he needed me to be things that I just couldn’t be.

I think about Angel and how devastated I was when he left, and how awkward things are between us now. It was just too hard for him to be here.

The place in my heart, where they used to be…it hurts. But I guess what they say is right, about time and wounds. It doesn’t hurt as bad as it used to. I can think about it without crying or even wanting to cry.

Maybe…at some point, without realizing it, I've moved on? I'm not waiting any more, not for them to come back. I don't need a boyfriend to complete me. It would be nice to have one. Really it would but…I'm okay. I have friends and family and…

Someday, maybe, I'll find someone to love again. And maybe he'll love me back, just as hard and just as strong. He won't want to leave me, and we’ll be exactly what each other need without even knowing it. I won't be able to push him away, and even in the dark, we'll be able to find each other.

But in the meantime…I'm okay.







 
 
Chapter #28 - Chapter 27: The Body
 
Author's Notes: Chapter 26 was posted last night. Make sure you’ve read that before this one.

And…for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.

This chapter follows the episode it’s named for pretty much exactly, minus Dawn. I’ve been up front about my plans to stick to canon on this one since early on. There was no way to change it that I would have believed and it’s an important part of the story.

Still, I’m sorry. It was hard to watch, hard to write…

If you don’t want to go through this again—I’ll see you in Chapter 28.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Credits: This chapter contains dialogue from the episode "The Body" written by Joss Whedon.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner by Phuriedae




Chapter 27

The Body


I stop off at the Magic Box and let Giles and Anya know what happened. He promises to tell the others when they come in after class. Xander apparently is taking care of the repair work on the window at the dorms, so I swing by to see how it's going. It looks good, and even with the cold air blowing in through the empty frame it's nice to just sit and talk.

I leave him as he's finishing up, and head home. Just inside the door I notice a huge bouquet of flowers.

"Hey, Mom!" I call out. She should be home from work by now. She's only been doing half shifts since she went back. There's a card tucked into the flowers and I pull it out and read it, smiling at the note Brian left for her. "Some guys out there still gettin' it right," I murmur as I put it back. I slip my coat and scarf off and toss them on the banister. "Mom!" I call out again, then catch a glimpse of her on the couch in the living room.

"Mom? Whatcha doing?" I ask, turning.

Something about how she's lying on the couch…

"Mom?"

She's so still.

"Mom?"

She's not blinking. Why isn't she blinking? The floor gives a little lurch under my feet, as if it's trying to slide away.

"Mommy?" I ask quietly.

But she doesn't answer. Like April, she lays there, still, a sleeping doll with her eyes open.

No.

No.

Nononononononono.

I must cross the room somehow but I…and then I'm shaking her, trying to wake her up, but…she's not breathing.

Oh, god, she's not breathing.

And her skin is…

She's collapsed. That's it. Just…I need to call…phone. There's a phone in the kitchen and my fingers pound the three keys in a blur. Then there's a voice on the other end of the line, this tiny, distant voice that I can barely hear over the weird roaring sound in my ears.

"Hello? My mom, she-she's not breathing," I tell the voice.

"Is she conscious?" it asks.

"No, I-I-I can't…she…she's not breathing," I say because she's not, but I go back into the living room, hoping she is now.

The voice says something, but all I hear is "…address."

"What?" I ask.

"I'm going to send an ambulance over," says the voice, patient and calm. Oh. Okay. Address.

"S-Sixteen thirty Revello, it-it's a house, Revello, near Hadley," I say hoping that the voice knows where that is.

"I'm sending a unit right away. Are you alone in the house?"

"Yes," I say.

"Well, did you see what happened, did she fall?" asks the voice.

"No…no, I-I came home and she…what should I do?" I ask. Give me something to do. I do things.

"Do you know how to administer CPR?"

I should. I took a class. And Giles showed me and…I should know this but all I'm getting is this big blank and…"No, I don't remember," I tell the voice.

"Okay. It's very simple," says the voice, and begins to talk me through it. As it talks I remember. Tilt the head and…and…I can do this. I remember now.

I drop the phone on the table where it keeps talking, and I slide Mom down on the couch a little, so she's more comfortable.

Breathe. Breathe.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

Breathe. Breathe.

Onetwothree …

Something cracks under my hands. I've forgotten not to be…and it cracked. It cracked. I pick up the phone.

"I-I …are you there? I-I broke something," I say.

"Hello?" says the phone.

"It cracked," I tell the voice.

"Is she breathing?" asks the voice.

"No," I say.

"Paramedics should be there in a moment. You might have cracked a rib, it's not important," says the voice, but…

"She's cold," I say, touching her hand.

For a moment there's nothing. No sound. No words. Nothing.

"The body's cold?" asks the voice.

What body?

"No, my mom! Sh-should I make her warm?" I ask. I could do that. It's cold, in the house. I could turn up the heat and…blankets, there are blankets.

"No, if she's not responding to CPR, the best thing is to wait for the paramedics, okay?" says the voice.

"When will they be here?" I ask, angry because…I have to do something. That's…

"They're very nearby," says the voice.

I look out the window, but they aren't there yet. All there is outside is blankness. Sunlight, snow. The empty road. The phone is still talking to me but…I have to do something. Someone should know.

Giles.

Giles will know what to do. Giles always knows.

"I have to make a call," I tell the voice and hang up on it.

Call Giles. There are buttons on the phone, but they seem huge. They don't make any sense. I can't remember what his number is.

Speed dial. I push the button and listen to the ring.

"Hello?" Giles says.

"Giles. You have to come," I say.

"Buffy?"

"She's at the house," I tell him and hang up.

The front door is closed. I open it. The street is empty, but nearby a siren wails. I leave the door open and go back inside.

Mom is laying on the couch.

Her skirt has ridden up, from where I pulled her down, and her slip is showing. Outside, there are voices, and people doing things, and they're going to come in here and see her with her slip showing and she's going to hate that. I fix it, quick, before they can come inside and see.

"She's in here," I tell the men who come in the door. They bend over mom.

"I'm getting no pulse," says the first one.

"Let's lay her out," says the second.

They lift her down to the floor and the first guy starts pulling out equipment.

"How long has she been like this?" asks the second one.

"I found her," I tell him. "A…a few-few minutes."

They attach wires to her. "Was she conscious?" the guy asks.

"No," I tell him.

"I'm bagging her," says the other guy.

"What?" I ask.

"We're gonna intubate. Just trying to get her to breathe, all right?"

Okay. Okay. They pull out more equipment. "This your mother?"

"Yes," I say.

"She have any serious physical health problems? Any history of heart disease?" he asks.

"No," I say. They study their equipment very seriously. "I mean…there-there was a tumor…a-a brain tumor, but she had an operation and she's fine now. She…she's been fine."

They have a plastic mask on her face. And, the second guy is pushing on her chest. Suddenly she coughs and gasps.

"I got her! My god, we got her!" cries the EMT.

"Let's get her on the truck now. I'm calling ahead," says the second.

Then we're in the ambulance and racing for the hospital, and she's okay, it's a miracle, she's going to be fine, and the doctor is giving her a cleanbillofhealthandMom'ssohappyIfoundherintimeand…

It's still silent, except for the guy doing the chest compressions.

"She's cold, man," says the first one.

"Call it," says the second.

They move, packing things up, removing their equipment and putting it away. Mom lays on the carpet, very still.

Then there's a shadow in the way, one of the ambulance guys and he's talking. I watch his mouth. Watch him make words with it.

"Wha-what do we do now?" I ask.

"I'm sorry," he says, and it echoes a little in the silence, slow and strange. "But I have to tell you that y o u r m o t h e r i s d e a d."

I watch the words shape his mouth, but they don't make sense. He says other words. "…like she did die a good while before you found her. There's…nothing you could have done," he says, but that's wrong. I know that's wrong. I do things. It's…there's something wrong. This is a dream. I'll wake up in a minute.

He talks and I hear the words in spaces.

"Aneurysm."

"Clotting."

"Complication."

My eyes are wet. He explains some more things. His lips move.

The other guy has a radio, and it squawks. They talk in words that sound far away. Another language.

"I'm gonna call this right away," he says, speaking in English again. "Now the coroner's office may take awhile. In the meanwhile, I think you should sit. Have a glass of water, and try not to disturb the body. Do you need anything, is there someone you can call?"

Giles.

"Someone's coming," I tell him.

"I'm very sorry for your loss," he tells me.

"Thank you," I say, because I don't know what else there is except to be polite. Mom would want me to be polite. I walk them to the door. "Good luck," I tell them, and they're gone.

I'm still holding the phone. I put it down somewhere. Glass of water, he said. I remember that. I go toward the kitchen but I stop just inside the living room. The breeze outside is blowing the wind chimes that I bought mom for her birthday a few years ago. They sound like bells.

My stomach lurches and I sink to the floor, throwing up on the carpet to the sound of the wind chimes. I must not have eaten anything, because all it is is bile.

In the kitchen I open the back door. The sun gleams off the snow, and the wind is cool on my sweaty skin. I don't know why I'm sweating.

Far off, children play. A door closes. A car starts. A dog barks.

The paper towels unroll in a long stream of white. I fold them carefully and cover the vomit on the rug, watching it seep through the cotton.

"Buffy?" says a voice. Giles. Giles is here. He's standing in the front door, panting a little as if he ran. "What is it?"

"I'm waiting," I tell him. "The…the coroner's coming."

"What?" he asks. He steps into the room and glances into the living room. "Oh, god," he says.

"No. No! Don't. No, it's too late," I try to tell him, but he's moving now, faster than I've ever seen him move and he's saying her name and I'm trying to tell him but he's not listening and then he's there, kneeling over her and shaking her and I have to make him listen because they told me, they told me …

"We're not supposed to move the body!" I say.

I freeze.

Mom. The body. Mom.

My mom is dead.

She's dead, and all that's left in the living room is her body and she's gone.

She's gone.

There are arms around me. Giles. He's holding me and rocking me and I can't close my eyes. Can't stop staring at the body on the floor, with its eyes open, looking so broken and strange.

***


Time passes.

I watch it go by as if underwater.

Giles sits beside me in the kitchen, holding my hand. An anchor, keeping me from floating away.

Light plays over the cabinets. Cold wind blows in through the open door. Outside there is noise, but inside we are still. Unmoving. Silent creatures in an empty house.

Last night I sat here, in this chair, and laughed with my mother about her date. There was hot chocolate.

This morning I ate cereal here. Had orange juice. Mom blew me a kiss on my way out.

The dishes are still in the sink.

When the coroner arrives, Giles goes to meet him.

Sluggishly, I crawl back to awareness. I need to move. Need to do.

In the living room I watch as if from a distance, still, as they put my mother in a body bag and zip it closed. Giles stands beside me, talking to the man in the uniform.

They give me papers to sign and I do, because they tell me to. Giles moves around, shutting doors. I hear him call someone. Willow.

I watch them wheel the body bag out and into a van. It's a familiar sight, in this town, this van. It just doesn't belong here in front of my house. When it drives away, I feel a strange sense of relief.

Giles hands me my coat and I put it on because he tells me to, then get in his car because he says I should. He closes the front door and locks it with my keys while I sit in the front seat of his car and stare at the empty street.

***


At the hospital we settle in to wait. That's what you do in hospitals. You wait. People go past, and you watch but you don't. Instead you focus on the wall, on trying to decide what the exact shade of the paint is and wonder if the people in the room know that your mother just died.

Eventually the others arrive. All together, each of them holding onto themselves as if they might fall apart. Until suddenly, one by one, their arms open and enfold me.

Willow smells like sandalwood and lavender, and she hugs me so tight I'm not sure which of us is stronger right now. Xander's hand is bandaged, and he smells of sawdust. Was it really only a few hours ago I watched him installing a window? Anya hugs me tentatively, as if I'm made of glass and might shatter. Tara's arms are warm, I want to hold on to her a little longer because she smells a little like my mom's shampoo.

We talk, but it's not the words that register.

Giles is the first to see the doctor, and together we step forward. The others wait, a silent, solid wall behind me.

"Okay," says Dr. Kriegel. "I've examined your mother's body. The on-site report seems more or less accurate. Your mother did have what what looks like an aneurysm. A sudden hemorrhaging from a ruptured arterial vessel near the…uh, where the tumor was removed."

"Shouldn't we have known about that? That, that was a danger?" I ask.

"Sometimes these things are detectable, and sometimes they're not," he says. "Joyce was aware of the possibility of a rupture and the effects. She didn't even get on the phone, so clearly this was very sudden. She may have felt a little nausea, and probably passed out as it happened. I doubt there was much pain, and …even if someone had been by her side it's doubtful that this could have been dealt with in time."

"Thank you, Doctor," Giles says.

I think of my mom, on the couch, still wearing her coat, as if she'd just gotten home, or was about to go out. Of the surprised expression on her face.

"Are you sure that there wasn't a lot of pain?" I ask.

"Absolutely," the doctor says. He says something else but I don't hear it. Maybe he's just lying to make me feel better.

"What, uh, what needs to be done now?" asks Giles.

"Well, there are…uh, there'll be some forms and some decisions you'll have to make," he tells us, but I'm starting to zone out again.

"Buffy, why don't you let me handle those as much as I can," Giles says.

"Please," I say.

"We will need you to sign a couple of release forms…," the doctor says. But Giles puts him off, promising to figure out which ones I need to see.

I move back to the others.

"What'd the doctor say?" asks Xander.

"Nothing," I tell him. "It's, you know, it's what we thought…the tumor."

Willow moves us all over to the seating area and I explain where Giles has gone off to. There's small talk, little jokes that don't make much of a dent in the air.

"I wish that Joyce didn't die," Anya says, a little loudly. The others freeze, staring at her and she shifts, uncomfortable. "…Because she was nice…and now we all hurt."

"Anya, ever the wordsmith," Xander says, half joking, half apologetic.

"Thank you," I tell her, because she's in pain, too. We're both confused, not sure what to do, what to say.

The talk turns to food, but I honestly don't know if I'm hungry. I can't remember if I've eaten anything today, and I'm so numb…Willow and Xander and Anya head off to get food anyway. Maybe if I see it, I'll remember if I'm hungry.

Tara sits with me, quiet, staring at the floor. We study the tile for a while, as if there are answers written there. If they are, I can't read the language. "I'm sorry," I tell her, after awhile. "I'm sorry you have to go through this."

"You don't have to worry about me," she tells me.

"Everybody wants to help," I say. "I don't even know if I'm…here. I don't know what's going on. Never done this. …That's just an amazingly dumb thing to say. Obviously…I've never done this." I stare at my knees.

"I have," she says softly. I turn to look at her. "My mother died when I was seventeen."

"I didn't know," I say, and curse myself for being so insensitive and self involved. I barely know Tara. I never bothered to ask. "I'm sorry," I tell her, because I am.

"No, no…I didn't mean to…” she sighs, then tries again. "I'm only telling you this because…I know it's not my place, but…there's things…thoughts and reactions that I had that…I couldn't understand, or even try to explain to anyone else. Thoughts that…made me feel like I was losing it…or, like I was some kind of h-horrible person. I know it's different for you…because it's always different, but…if you ever need…"

Suddenly I'm glad she's here. Glad someone knows, even if all she knows is sort of what I'm going through.

"Was it sudden?" I ask. "Your mother?"

"No," she says, then thinks for a minute. "Yes. It's always sudden."

She tells me about her mom, and for a little while I live someone else's pain and it dulls the edge of mine. It makes me feel selfish and sorry, but Tara doesn't seem to mind talking about it, and it's easier than thinking about why I'm here and what I've lost.

When the others come back, it's with armloads of food and coffee. "We panicked," Willow says. They dump their bounty on the table and I look at the packages full of candy and caffeine and feel the bile start to rise again. No. I'm not hungry.

Still, Anya holds out a sandwich nervously, and to humor them I eat a little, which seems to make them all relieved. When they're distracted, I put the sandwich down.

Eventually Giles comes back with a clipboard and a pen. He explains what each of the papers are and shows me where to sign. Everything else, he tells me, can wait until morning. We're free to go.

"Do you…do you want to stay over?" Willow asks.

"No," I tell her. "Thank you…I just…I want to go home."

"Someone should stay," she says, half to herself, "with you, I mean, in case you …in case you need something?"

I think about it. About going home. I want to crawl into bed and not get up. I don't need anything. I shake my head and thank her anyway.

***


Giles drives me home. For a long time we sit in front of the house, staring at the dark windows. They look like insect eyes, soullessly staring back out. "Will you be alright?" he asks. "I can stay."

"Where?" I ask. I think about the sofa. About my mom's room.

"I could sleep on the floor, or…you shouldn't be alone," he says.

"I won't be," I tell him. He gives me a strange look. "I'll be okay. I'll…I'll call, if I need anything."

"Promise?" he says, clearly reluctant.

"Promise," I say. He waits until I unlock the door and go inside before he leaves.

I don't turn on the lights in the living room. Instead I go up the stairs and down the hall to my mom's room. It's just as she left it this morning, the bed neatly made. Her hairbrush still on the dresser. The closet door is half open. Leaving the lights on, I sit down on her bed, drinking in the scent of her that still lingers in the room.

Eventually, I know, it'll fade. But for now, for tonight, I feel like she's still here, with me. She's just…gone out for a while.

I'm not sure when I fall asleep. It feels as if one moment I'm sitting in my mom's room, and the next I'm in the dream room. I don't move. If I stay still, if I close my eyes, I can pretend I'm still back there, in her room.

I feel the tingles as Mr. Gordo approaches. He moves towards the bed and I track his progress almost absently. When I don't speak or move, he climbs into bed, then sits there. I can feel his eyes on me, studying. He taps three times.

I can't answer.

He shifts closer, taps again. I swallow hard, feeling the words in my throat, rising up like bile. My breath hitches as I fight to shove them back down.

Three more taps, closer still. Then cool hands on my shoulders, shaking me slightly. I open my eyes.

Black. Nothing. Darkness.

I can feel him in front of me, though, waiting, wondering what's wrong.

Something warm rolls down my cheek, followed by another. His thumb brushes away the tears. It's such a simple move, such a tiny gesture, but it's the final thing. The last little thing that I can bear, and then I'm sobbing, hard, harsh, gasping sobs and he's gathering me up into his lap, his hands smoothing over my hair and my back, letting me cry into his shoulder and the crook of his neck. I've cried on him before, but this is different. This is from the bottom of my soul, and it hurts to cry this hard. It chokes me and settles in my chest like a fist, and I can't breathe right. His hands never stop their motion, and I curl into him like I would a pillow, only he's stronger, strong enough to hold on to me even when the sobs threaten to tear me apart.

God, it hurts so much.

Why? Why did she have to go?

She was fine. Better. Things were…she'd just had a date, and now she'll never go out on another one again, and we'll never have hot chocolate again and laugh, or go shopping. She'll never come home with another story about the gallery, or greet me when I come home late from patrol. She's gone. Really, really gone and I never got to say goodbye.

At some point I realize I'm talking, that I'm saying this aloud, through my sobs, and my vampire is holding me, rocking me, and eventually it registers that the cold wet droplets that are falling on my face are his tears, and he's crying too.

So I tell him about her, because I know he doesn't know her and I want him to. I tell him about how wonderful she was, and how strong she was. I tell him about her and my dad, and how they met, and about the divorce and how brave she was to move us to Sunnydale. I tell him about the time she protected me from Spike with an axe, and about the night she found out I was the Slayer. I tell him about the time she went patrolling with me, and her trying to teach me to drive and about Thanksgivings and Christmases, and how she'd stroke my hair.

I pour my grief into him and he soaks it up, silent as a sponge. The tightening of his arms around me every now and then tells me he's listening, and his hands never stop stroking me. Finally I run out of words, if not out of tears, although they're coming silently now and slow. His hands smooth the hair away from my forehead and he nestles his face in my hair. Sleepily, exhausted now, I swear I feel him brush a ghost of a kiss against my forehead. Then he settles back against the headboard, tucking me up against him tightly, and holds me until I sob myself to sleep.







 
 
Chapter #29 - Chapter 28: Forever
 
Author's Notes: Chapter 27 went up earlier today, so make sure you’re caught up before reading this one. I’m posting these so close together because I know they’re painful to read—and it’s kind of like pulling off a band-aid. Do it fast so it doesn’t hurt as bad.

Thank all of you who left such wonderful comments on the last chapter. It means a lot. That was a hard chapter to write and hopefully I did some justice to what is, really, one of the best episodes of any TV show, ever, (IMHO). This chapter only contains a little bit of canon—most of the rest of it is me filling in blanks.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Credits: This chapter contains dialogue from the episode "Forever" written by Marti Noxon.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner by Phuriedae





Chapter 28

Forever


I wake up.

The light on the ceiling is strange, but I watch it for a while. Tree branches move across it, breaking it up into tiny pieces of light, like shattered glass.

You'd think I'd forget. That I'd wake up and think it was all a dream. That I'd wonder why I'm in this bed, in this room.

But I didn't forget.

It's still there, like the coat I'm still wearing from last night. I just choose not to think about it yet. Time enough for that later.

Right now I just want to lay here, in the quiet, and watch the light on the ceiling.

There will be things to do today. Lots of things.

Phone calls. I need to call Arlene, and Lolly, and Dad.

I need to find out when they are releasing the…the… and how we make arrangements to transport it to the funeral home.

I need to pick a funeral home, which… isn't hard. Brown. I like them. They rarely have vampires and the room where they work on the…on the bodies is really clean, and they actually have crosses and holy water on hand.

Um… what else?

Probably…probably official things. Giles might know or… my mom's attorney.

There was a…a file she put together, back before the surgery that had, um… it had cards and numbers and… stuff I'd need, in case. It's downstairs, but I'll get it later, when I get up.

What's today? Saturday. Lot of places will be closed. I could put off some of it ‘til Monday.

Not the phone calls, though.

Downstairs there's a knock on the door. I should answer it.

Instead I watch the light move.

After a few minutes I hear a key in the lock. Which means it's probably Giles or Willow or Xander. There's a murmur of voices below.

"Buffy?"

Willow.

Footsteps on the stairs. The light on the ceiling moves. Tiny scattered bits of light that move apart then together, then apart again. Rearranging, forming something new.

The key, I think, is to keep moving.

"Buffy?" I hear her stop in the doorway. "Did… did you sleep?" she asks.

I swallow. My mouth is dry and my head aches a little, like I was crying all night. Which I was, but not really. "Yeah," I say, finally. "I slept."

"Do you… do you want breakfast? Um… Xander brought donuts, and…and… um, Giles got coffee. Or, or maybe you want some tea instead? We could make tea?"

"No," I say, tracking the light on the ceiling. "Coffee is fine. I… um, I need to shower. Change."

"O-okay," she says. "Do… do you need anything? Um… "

"No," I say. "Thank you."

"I'll just… we'll be downstairs, when you're r-ready," she says.

"Okay," I say, then turn my head and look at her. Her eyes are red-rimmed and nervous, and she's twisting her fingers in her sweater sleeves. "Thank you," I tell her, meaning it. She relaxes a little and nods. "I'll be down in a little bit."

***


In the bathroom I'm careful not to touch anything of mom's. I work around her things, not wanting to accidentally disturb them. I never thought of showering as a ritual before, but today it feels like it. Steps that have to be performed in a certain order, in a certain way. Wet the hair. Shampoo. Conditioner. Body Wash. Face cleanser. Shave. Dry. Lotion.

I dress carefully. Do my makeup. Hair. I put myself together piece by piece. Little bits of Buffy, done up like a row of tiny buttons.

Today I will do things. I will make a list. I will keep moving, and hope the pieces of me stay together.

I'm strong. I can do this. I can get through. It's like fighting. You empty your mind and keep moving, roll with the punches, get back up, do it again.

Downstairs the others wait in the kitchen, crowded around the island. There is a box of donuts on the counter. Xander has a little bit of jelly stuck in the corner of his mouth. He's the only one eating.

We hug, one at a time. Arms open and enfold me and as I go from Giles to Xander to Tara to Willow and finally very tentatively, Anya, I feel like I get bigger. Taller. Stronger. I can do this. I just have to keep moving.

***


They stay all day. I make a list. I find the folder and try to ignore the lump that rises in my throat when I see mom's handwriting.

Finally, I pick up the phone. I call Dad first, but there's no answer. I expected that. I leave a brief message and ask him to call me back.

Then Arlene and Lolly, mom's sisters. They're the hardest. We talk as briefly as possible, and I promise to call them back with information about the funeral.

The art gallery is next. I don't know who I talk to. They transfer me to mom's second in command. That conversation is even shorter.

More calls. The bank, insurance company, funeral home, hospital. Some I stay on the line with, on hold, for long stretches of time. I listen to bad early 90's musak and watch the light move over the tile. When the wind chimes outside begin to chime, I ask Xander to go take them down and put them somewhere safe. He does without even asking why.

At lunchtime pizza arrives silently and appears before me. I pull it apart while I wait on the phone, putting the cheese in one pile, the pepperoni in another, each topping getting its own stack on the plate. I eat the crust because I don't know what else to do with it.

When the phone calls are done, I move on to the paperwork. I make more lists.

"Buffy?" Xander asks. I look up. At some point the sun has started to go down. "Do you want to take a break? We could… I don't know. Watch a movie or something? TV?"

I look at my lists. There's nothing on them I can do until tomorrow now. I guess that means it's break time.

"Okay," I say. I carefully put everything into the folder, piece by piece, then go into the living room. The others are waiting. They watch me as I come in. "I… I should patrol," I say, looking at the sun going down. I could move, if I patrolled. Keep moving.

"Oh, no," Giles says. "Ah, Xander and I will take patrol for you, tonight. You needn't worry about it."

Oh. "Where… um, where's Anya?"

"She went into work. She and Lydia will mind the store for… well, for a few days," Giles says.

Okay. "So, ah… d-do you want to watch a movie or… we could just talk?" Willow says.

"A movie would be okay," I say. I pick a chair at random. Giles and Xander are on the sofa. I'm not sure if that's okay, but… it makes it less weird. Xander pops in a movie, some sci-fi thing with Aliens and ships exploding that it's easy for me to tune out. I stare blankly at the screen. We all do.

When it's over, I have no idea what it was about.

***


Xander and Giles leave for patrol. Willow goes to make tea. Tara sits with me in the living room. We watch a TV show of funny videos. People fall off their bikes and get hit in the crotch with wiffle bats. Neither of us laugh.

"When your mother died," I say, after awhile. "Did… how did you, um… how did you keep moving?"

She looks at me. She has really kind eyes. "By staying still," she says after awhile. "I… I felt like if I moved too much, I would… I would fly apart. So, um… I would find a place and sit and… be still."

"That's not really working for me," I say.

"That's okay," she says. "Do you want to-to go for a walk?"

"Yeah," I say, and get up and get my coat. She talks to Willow in the kitchen for a second, then gets her coat, too. We go outside.

It's cold, but not snowing. The sidewalks are clear. We walk around the block twice. At some point I realize that Spike is trailing us. He's hovering on the edge of my range, but not approaching. I'm glad. Trying to handle Spike right now is beyond me, but… the tingles are familiar. Almost a comfort. So I don't really think about them. I just move.

When it's too cold to walk anymore, we head back. Willow has tea waiting for us. It's bitter, but I drink it anyway. "We can stay, if you want?" she says.

"Okay," I say, and I go up to bed.

This time I go to my own room. I do the ritual. I change into my pajamas and put my clothes away in the hamper. I brush my hair. I wash my face. I brush my teeth. I crawl into bed and turn off the light.

In the dream room, when Mr. Gordo arrives, he simply crawls onto the bed and lifts me, unresisting, into his lap. I wrap my arms around him, and he wraps his around me, and when the tears come it's almost a relief, as if it's all been pressurized inside of me all day and it's time to come apart. It's okay, though, I think. He's strong enough to hold me together.

***


Days pass.

I know because I keep crossing things off my checklists. I do things. I draw lines. I keep going.

My father doesn't call.

I leave messages. At his office. On his home phone. At the hotel in Spain where he's supposed to be staying but isn't.

He still doesn't call.

There are arrangements that have to be made. Arrangements. Like putting flowers together in a vase so that they're more pleasing to the eye even though, technically they're all still dead.

I have to pick a casket. That's what the funeral director guy calls it. He makes it sound special, but I know it's just a box.

I have to decide on the service. A headstone has to be ordered. I have to write the program.

So much to do. So many choices.

I make more lists. I cross more things off.

There's a bad moment when I need to pick out a dress for her to wear. Tara finds me in mom's room, staring into her underwear drawer and wondering desperately whether I need to pick a pair, and if so, what would she like? What's appropriate? How am I supposed to give a stranger a pair of my mother's underwear to put on her body? Black or white or… would she prefer red? Or… do I need to worry about panty lines and…

Tara finally pulls me away and sends me downstairs to do something else. She says she knows what to pick. I let her.

Then I have to write the notice for the paper, and… flowers. I have to decide on flowers for the service. At least I don't need to plan a wake.

My friends stay. They feed me. They put me to bed when I look tired. They wake me up in the morning and get me started for the day. They help me find things and buy things and make choices. Without them… I'm not sure what I'd do.

There's so much paperwork. Giles handles what he can, and he drives me over to the attorney's office and sits with me while the lawyer explains things about the house and my mother's will and bank accounts. Giles takes notes. He asks questions. I try not to sound stupider than I feel.

Then we go to the bank and do it all over again.

Flowers arrive at the house in place of people. Little sentimental baskets from those who knew my mom at the gallery. Distant relatives send traditional displays to stand in their stead. The more distant they are, the bigger the bouquet, sometimes stuffed with things they think I might need. Coffee. Cookies. Jelly jars. I send most of it home with Xander.

The flowers are pretty though. Even the rough little clutch of daisies and mums that are a bit frostbitten around the edges. Willow hands it to me wordlessly one night, but it doesn't come with a card and she won't tell me who brought it. Just that they're "for Joyce." They're the only ones that are. The rest seem to be for me, as if I have a use for all of these flowers, or as if they'll help, somehow.

After dinner, I walk. Sometimes Tara walks with me, sometimes Willow, sometimes Xander. Always, trailing far behind, is Spike, like a constant shadow. Every now and then, I'll sense another vampire or demon. The sense of Spike's presence will increase slightly, then the demon will go away. I don't know if he's killing them or chasing them off. I don't really care. I don’t mention it to the others. They’d just worry.

In a way, I'm glad it's just me, that I don't have anyone else to take care of right now because I'm barely managing myself. Through the day I keep moving. I hold on. I am strong because it's what I am. It's a careful illusion.

At night I crawl into Mr. Gordo's arms and cry. I talk to him about my mom. I tell him how much I miss her. I tell him stories about… everything. His silent strength lets me fall apart and put myself back together each day, a little stronger, a little less fragile.

***


The night before the funeral, Xander, Giles and Willow take patrol. Anya and Tara stay behind to finish up the dinner dishes. I go for a walk.

I walk down to my mom's gallery and stand on the sidewalk, looking in at the window display. There's a painting hanging under the lights, a pretty summer sunrise over a warm looking beach. The moon is reflected in the glass, and the snowy town behind me. I feel trapped between the two. One is reality, one is illusion. I can't tell which is which.

Spike waits in an alley, and I can feel him watching me. He's been trailing me since I left the house. I haven't spoken to him since the night before mom… the night with the snowball fight. I turn to look at him. It's funny, how vampires can be so… lurky. I know he's there because I can feel him, but in the shadows of the alley where he stands, there's nothing but darkness. Still, I can feel his eyes on mine, and after what seems like forever he steps out of the alley and into the moonlight and I wonder, not for the first time, how he manages to stay so hidden with hair and skin so white.

He approaches me silently and comes to stand beside me. His eyes are red rimmed, and he looks thinner, like he's not been eating. We don't say anything. Instead we just stare at one another for a long time, then turn to look back in the window. My reflection looks back at me, alone.

When it starts to snow, Spike shifts, tilting his head up to watch the falling white flakes. Then, tentatively, he touches my shoulder. I nod, and we turn towards home. He hesitates a little, when we get to Revello Drive. The lights are on in the living room, and I know the others are probably sitting around, waiting. I just go around back. After a second's pause, he follows.

The snow has pretty much stopped, and we sit on the back porch, side by side, like we did the night mom was getting ready to go in for her CAT scan. For a long time we stare out at the yard together, the silence between us peaceful. Unlike the others I don't get the feeling Spike is desperate to help me.

"Why are you here?" I ask.

He frowns as if he doesn't understand the question. "Because. I want to be here," he says.

"No," I say, staring at the snow. "I mean… why are you here? Walking. Talking. Breathing. You're dead. You're over a hundred years old and you're dead and yet, you're still here, with me. And… and…" I feel the tears forming, but I'm not ready to let them fall yet.

"It's not fair," he says, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. "Believe me, pet, I know. It's not bloody fair. If the world were fair, I'd have been dust decades ago and your mum would still be here with you. And you wouldn't have to go out and slaughter my kind every night, and I…never would have killed anything worse than a few brain cells in blokes who didn't appreciate them to begin with." He takes a deep drag and holds it for a moment, while I blink away tears. "With all the crap that happens in this bloody town, seems so…insipid for her to have gone out so. You know?"

I think about all that for a while. People have been talking at me a lot this last week. They all try to say the right thing. The thing that will make it better, make the pain a little less. Make it mean something. Not Spike, of course. He doesn't sugar coat it or try to soften the edge. He just… says it.

And somehow, knowing that someone else thinks it isn't fair? It helps.

"Thank you," I say, and mean it.

He looks a little surprised. "Welcome," he says.

A few small flakes of snow drift to the ground. Not enough to send me inside yet.

"I should have been there," I say quietly. "I was… god, just, walking around thinking about me and my problems and… and she was…" I stare at my hands. "I imagine it all the time. If I'd been home…maybe…maybe I could have…"

Spike moves, he crouches in front of me and puts one of his hands on top of mine where they're twisted together. I frown at him, but he leaves it there. His nail polish is chipped, like he's been picking at it.

"Listen to me," he says softly. "There's not a doubt in my mind that… if you'd been there, you'd have managed it. You're a force to be reckoned with, Summers. But the thing of it is, you can't save everyone. You'll kill yourself trying. These hands…" He cups my hands with both of his own, lays them palm up across his. My skin is tan, where his is moon pale, small where his are large, warm to his cool, neat little nails compared to his bitten and torn. A study in contrasts. "These hands were made to fight my kind. To take some of the evil out of the world. To protect. You're a warrior, Buffy. Not a healer, not a…savior or a martyr. A warrior. And there are some things that… just can't be fought. Not with fists. Not with fangs."

I look at him, frowning. He huffs a sigh. "You're not the only one who's ever tried to save someone you love, you know. I'm selfish, and I'd rather keep the ones I love around. Believe me, sometimes… sometimes it's better just to let them go." His head tilts a little, as if he's listening to something I can't hear. "Should get inside," he says. "They're getting worried, thinking about looking for you."

"Yeah," I say. Reluctantly I stand and brush at the snow that's melted on my clothes. He gets to his feet, too, but steps off the porch.

"Buffy," he says. I turn back to look at him. He looks like he wants to say something, then changes his mind. Finally he says, "Eat something, will you? You'll hold together better if you're not just skin and bones."

Surprised, I just stare for a minute. "Yeah," I say. "Okay. Goodnight, Spike."

The look he gives me is unreadable. His hand twitches for a moment, then he stuffs both fists in his pockets. "Goodnight, Buffy."

***


Maybe it takes standing on the other side of death to be able to talk about it with any sort of… honesty. I think about that a lot as people come up and greet me before the service. I wonder if there's a list somewhere of Approved Things To Say To The Bereaved.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," seems to be right up there. At least it's heartfelt, even if the words make no sense.

"She'll be missed," is another, and usually from someone who couldn't possibly miss her more than I do right now.

There are the ones who tell me, "At least she didn't suffer." As if they know.

I try not to punch the people who tell me she's in a better place. Maybe I'm as selfish as Spike, because I'd rather she was here with me instead of somewhere "better."

The service goes by in a blur. The snow has been cleared around the grave, but it's still cold. I hate the idea of putting her down there, in the cold hard earth. I hate the idea of cremation worse. Ashes are for vampires. If I were smarter, maybe I'd understand why that feels ironic. The priest's voice is somber, but I barely hear it. The sound of the dirt hitting the coffin is loud, though.

When it's over, I hug people; there’re so many of them that I start to feel bruised.

Finally no one is left except for my friends, and Giles.

"It's getting colder," Xander remarks.

"You guys go ahead," I say. "I just… want to stay a little longer."

Slowly they slip away. Finally, Willow and Tara are all that remain. "Do you want us to wait?"

"No," I tell them. "I'm fine. Thank you." And then they leave, too.

I stand there for a long time, looking down at my mother's coffin. I know they'll wait until I leave to fill it in, and I'm not quite ready for that, yet.

The sun goes behind the trees, and I feel the first of the tingles. Spike, defying the last of the sun, as always, hovering just at the edge of my senses. I wonder if—if it hadn't been for Mr. Gordo—if I would know he was there? I wonder if he knows that I'm aware of his presence?

In the end, it doesn't matter.

When the sun is gone completely, the second set arrives. Powerful, and achingly familiar. I don't know who called him. I… hadn't even thought to. He and my mother had never been comfortable with each other.

Angel doesn't lurk. He comes up beside me. "I'm sorry," he says. "I couldn't come sooner."

I wonder if that means he just got into town, or if he's been here all day, waiting for sunset? On the edge of my awareness, I feel Spike shifting, restless, and remember that I've never told Angel that Spike is here. Now isn't exactly the time, either.

Silently we stare down into the grave.

"Um, miss?" I glance up. The guy whose job it is to fill in the grave is standing a few feet away, looking nervous. I notice he's wearing a huge cross around his neck, and he's fiddling with it absently. Guess not everybody in this town is clueless. Angel makes it a point to not look directly at him.

"Uh, I hate to hurry you but… um, it's getting pretty dark, and… and cold, and I've really got to… and you know, graveyards… it's not the safest place, at night? You know? I mean, I'll wait, a little longer if you … if you want but… um…"

He looks scared, glancing at the nearby graves out of the corner of his eye.

"Have you buried anybody in the last two days?" I ask. None of the nearby graves are fresh.

He looks at me, surprised. "Uh, ten, this week, but… uh, nobody in the last two days. Except… well…” he glances at my mother's grave.

"You're probably okay then," I tell him. "But go ahead."

Angel and I wander over to a nearby oak tree, watching as the man gets his machine ready. It has crosses on it, too, I notice.

"How are you doing?" Angel asks softly.

"I don't know," I say, leaning back against the tree. "Holding together, I guess. Everyone's been… really supportive."

"I should have called," he says, and I can hear the self-reproach in his voice.

"No," I say. "I… I'm pretty much phoned out. I wouldn't have been much good, on the phone. This is better."

It's good to have him here, if only for a moment. I know he can't stay. I know he won't. Still, this is… good.

We're silent for a long time, watching as the grave is filled in. I'm trying hard not to think about what's being covered. It's not her, I know. Not really. She's gone, and all that's left is the part that couldn't go, too.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks.

"No," I say. Then, "yes."

So I tell him how it happened. I've had a lot of practice, lately, and it comes easier this time. I tear up, but… I don't fall apart. He listens and nods, and murmurs the appropriate words in the appropriate silences. It's Angel, and… he knows me. Knew me. Knew the Buffy that was before. I'm not sure what kind of Buffy I am now.

"The funeral… was brutal," I say. "But it's tomorrow I'm worried about."

"What's tomorrow?" he asks.

"That's exactly what I don't know," I say. "Up until now I… I've had a road map. Things to do every minute, having to do with Mom." I sigh. There are still lists, but they're shorter now, and some of them… I'm stretching. Looking for things to do.

"Tomorrow the stuff of everyday living resumes," he says, sounding sort of like he's quoting something.

"And everybody expects me to know how to do it," I say. "Because… I'm so strong."

I've heard that so much these last few days. The only ones who haven't said it are my friends, but I can tell they're thinking it. And Spike, probably because he's the only one who can sense that I'm not. If there's anything old enemies are good for, it's knowing when you're at your lowest. At least he's not using the opportunity to tear me down. He would have, once but… he's changed. And I'm kind of grateful. 'Cause as good as Spike is at seeing through me, he could do a lot of damage right about now.

"You just need some time," Angel says. "I'm sure everybody understands that."

I frown a little. "Time's not the issue. I can stick wood in vampires… but Mom… Mom was the strong one in real life. She always knew how to make things better…just what to say." Mom was my anchor. She believed in me. She… she held me when I was upset. She always gave good advice. Without her…

I have my friends, and Giles, and… Mr. Gordo. But they don't fill the void. They can never fill the place in my life where my mother was. I don't want them to.

"Yeah," Angel says. "You'll find your way. I mean… not all at once but…"

I sigh. I know. I know that's true. Logically. But in my heart… it aches so much, having her gone. I think about what Spike said, last night. About not being able to save everyone. Logically, I know I couldn't have saved her, but it doesn't stop me from wishing that I'd had the chance to try. "I didn't even start CPR until they told me," I say. "I fell apart. That's how good I am at being a grownup."

"Buffy," Angel says. "You were in shock. It's understandable—"

"Not to me," I say, softly.

He puts his arm around me and holds me close. It's… comforting and strange, being held by Angel. Like… putting on an old jacket that doesn't quite fit anymore, but is still worn in all the right places. I used to think he was it, that we were supposed to be together. It's a lot harder to believe in destiny when your mother dies from an aneurysm.

I think about Giles and Lydia and our messed up prophecy. They have a way of coming true, but almost never how you think. Maybe destiny isn't just events set in motion that we're powerless to stop. Maybe it's the little choices we make, too. Like staying with a robot girl while her battery is running down, so she won't be alone. Or choosing to leave someone, when you could stay instead.

"It's getting late," I say. It's cold, too. There's not much snow here under the heavy tree branches, but…

"I can stay in town as long as you need me to," Angel says, his eyes soft and sincere.

"How's forever?" I ask. "Does forever work for you?"

He just stares at me sadly. He's leaving again. Tomorrow, or the day after. This isn't where he belongs anymore, and… I can't go with him. He loves me. And I love him. But not enough to stay. Not enough to go.

"Never mind," I say, before he can explain it. "That's a bad idea. I'm just… seriously needy right now."

"Let me worry about the neediness. I can handle it," Angel says.

I know he can but… it would just hurt more, I think. To lean on him now, knowing he's leaving. No. I can do this. I've managed all week, haven't I? Yeah, I tend to fall apart in my dreams but… I can there. No one can see me, except Mr. Gordo and…with him, it's okay. Maybe that makes me crazy, but it's what I need. I know Angel's offering because he loves me, and…he wants to be here for me.

Only he doesn't, really. Not enough to stay as long as I would need him to.

Cause I'd need it to be forever. I can't take losing much more.

***


Angel walks me home, but he doesn't come inside. I'm glad; it's better this way. The kiss he gives me before he goes is bittersweet and chaste. I'm glad for that, too.

Giles is waiting for me, in the living room, half-dozing with a glass of something alcoholy in one hand. He wakes up when I close the door.

"Angel?" he asks, blinking at me.

"On his way home," I say. "He can make it back before sunrise, if he leaves now."

"I'd have thought you'd want him to stay," he says softly.

"I do," I say. "But what I want and what… is? Not really meshing so well, lately."

"Buffy…” he says, standing up and coming to hug me. I hold on to him for a little while.

"I'm glad I have you, Giles," I say when I pull back. "It makes it… better." And it does. My dad hasn't called but… in a way I'm okay with that. I'd rather have Giles anyway.

He nods, tears in his eyes. "Get some sleep," he says. "We'll figure out tomorrow when it comes."

When I go to sleep, I find Mr. Gordo waiting. I climb in, and then curl up beside him. He wraps his arms around me, stroking my hair.

"Don't leave me," I say softly.

His arms tighten around me. He taps twice on my hand. It should mean no. But… I feel like it means never.






 
 
Chapter #30 - Chapter 29: Intervention
 
Author's Notes: Thank you guys so much for the really wonderful reviews on the last two chapters. This chapter is still pretty angsty, and a mix of canon, fill in the blanks, and AU… we’re getting ready to go major AU soon, though.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Credits:This chapter contains dialogue from episode "Intervention" written by Jane Espenson.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner by Phuriedae






Chapter 29

Intervention


Everyday living, Angel called it. I don't even know what that is.

Two days after the funeral I go back to school, but I feel like I'm sleepwalking through my classes. Most of my professors give me pitying looks. They tell me to take my time making up the work I missed. Except my History professor who, I decide, is probably part demon.

At home I move through the house quietly. I clean.

I feel my friends watching me, and it makes me self-conscious. Like they're waiting for me to fall apart. Like…if I stop, even for just a minute, all of the carefully put together pieces of me will shatter. So I keep moving, keep doing, keep quiet.

There are things that have to be done. Bills, buying groceries, doing the dishes.

Willow and Tara have started to make it a habit of coming over for dinner. I think they're afraid that if they don't feed me, I won't eat. Sometimes Giles drops by. Sometimes Xander and Anya.

At night I walk.

Not patrol. I'm not ready for that. Not yet. The others handle it for me, but they've said it's been pretty quiet.

I don't tell them that Spike is patrolling, too. He hasn't said so. We haven't spoken since the night before the funeral, but…I can still feel him following me at night, when I walk. I know when other vamps approach. I know when he takes them down.

Wondering why…I'll leave that for another time. Right now I just can't bring myself to care beyond the fact that I don't have to do it.

I really don't want to think about killing anything. Not even the already dead.

***


In the mornings I start on the lists I made the night before. There's stuff that needs done.

The house needs cleaned, so I start there. I empty the fridge and scrub it down, then put everything back where it was. All the pots in the cabinets…who knows how long it's been since they were polished? And the silverware. I scrub the tile and mop and wipe down every surface.

Then I move to the next room. It's a big house, and mom always kept it so neat. I don't know how, but someone has to so…I do.

In my head a little voice keeps urging me to move, to do.

I clean the bedrooms, starting with the spare room. There's so much junk in here…stuff from the gallery that needs sorted through and…old bolts of fabric and mom's sewing machine. I…there's all this thread and it really ought to be organized, and the ribbons. So I do that. And…and her patterns…I mean, how can you find anything when they're all so disorganized?

When I get to her room, I clean more carefully. I put everything back just as it was.

The others help, sometimes, but mostly I do it myself. Someone has to.

Days pass.

I keep moving.

***


I'm in the basement, going through boxes of junk when Xander and Willow come down to check on me.

"Buffy…” Willow says. "What…what are you doing?"

"Cleaning," I say. It's kinda obvious. I'm hip deep in boxes full of old figure skating trophies and broken picture frames.

"Why?" she asks.

"Because," I say. "It needs done. I don't think I've gone through this stuff since we moved and…uh…I really should. Do you think Spike would want this ugly candleholder? Or maybe…maybe I should have a yard sale? Or…maybe it's an antique? Does this look antique to you?"

Willow takes it out of my hand and glances at the bottom. "It was made in China."

"So probably not. Okay. Yard sale pile." I put it aside and start digging in the box again.

"Buffy…h-how long are you going to clean?" Willow asks.

"I don't know. Until it's done, I guess," I say. She puts her hand over mine, stopping me from pulling anything out of the box.

"You've been cleaning for the last two weeks, Buff," Xander says. "It's…it's getting kind of scary."

"There's just …so much to do," I tell them. "I have to…the house should be clean. Mom always kept it clean and…with her being sick it just…"

"Buffy," Willow says, gently. "You can't keep on like this. It's…"

"Freaky," Xander says. "We know this has been really hard on you but…Buff, you need a time out."

"I'm the Slayer," I remind him, "I don't get time outs." I jerk a trophy out of the box and stare at it blankly.

"But you're not slaying," he says. "You're turning into Donna Reed's scary obsessive compulsive twin."

"You need time to grieve," Willow says, which makes me angry.

"I am grieving," I say, throwing the trophy back in the box. "I grieve all the time. I just…I have to keep moving. I have to…because if I stop, even for just a minute…then…then…"

The trophies in the box stare back at me. I won that one at a skating competition when I was nine. Mom and dad brought me roses. Pink ones. I was going to grow up and be Dorothy Hamill. I'd go to the Olympics and skate in front of millions of people. Mom was going to be my manager and we'd go everywhere together. The little bronze one beside it I won my first year of high school at a cheerleading competition. Mom was there, front row, clapping so hard…

Now the only awards I win are for…most vampires staked in a single night. Most apocalypses averted. Most efficient killing machine. The only people who see my high kicks are usually dust before they can appreciate them. Most of my cute outfits are covered in blood. I can't keep a boyfriend because every year I just…get harder. Colder. More closed off. My father won’t even return my phone calls and…and my mother is dead.

Death is your art. You make it with your hands…

…these are the hands of a warrior, Buffy…

…you can't save everyone…

It's probably a sign of major badness that the voice in my head lately is Spike's. But what good is it, being the Slayer, if I can't save the people I love? Is that why Riley thought I was closing up? Am I right, that the people I love most are…doomed? If I stop loving…then maybe I can protect them. But I don't want that, do I? I don’t want to…

"Then what, Buffy?" Willow asks, gently, startling me back to the present. "If you stop, then what?"

There are tears in my eyes now, but I don't know if they're for my mom…or for me. "Then she's really gone," I say, choking a little on the words. "She's really gone, and I'm …god, I'm alone. I'm all alone."

Willow's arms open and fold me in tight, and then I'm crying, sobbing like I haven't at all while awake. Then Xander is there, too, holding us both, and we're all sinking to the floor in one big soggy mess, holding each other tight.

"You're not alone," Willow says, through her own tears. "I promise. You're not alone."

"We're here for you, Buffy," Xander says. "No matter what. We're family."

***


Things get…better, after that.

Not okay, but…better.

I start focusing on school again, because it's what mom would have wanted. I lay off the frantic cleaning. Mostly. Every now and then I find myself in the garage staring at storage boxes, my mind scarily blank. Usually I shake myself out of it.

Usually.

I still walk at night.

Spike still follows.

At night I fold myself into Mr. Gordo's arms and cry myself to sleep. But not as hard. Not as much as before.

Money looks like it might be a problem, but I put it off for now. Mom's insurance is doing its job, and if things are a little tight…I'll manage.

After all, it's just me now, and I don't really need that much.

***


One morning after breakfast, Giles stays to help clean up. They've been taking turns coming over for meals, cooking for me. Giles says it makes him feel useful.

"How are you?" he asks, as he towels dry the dishes.

"Okay," I say. "Some minutes are harder than others."

"I'm so sorry," he says. "All I can say is…i-it will get better."

I just shrug. "It has to," I say. "I'm…holding up, though. You know, getting into a routine." Even if my routine is pretty boring, it's something. It keeps me going.

"Good," he says, sounding as if he's got something on his mind. "Routine is good. In fact I was thinking that we…might…ah, return to our training schedule."

Yeah, something on his mind all right.

Training. Slaying. More death. Killing.

I dry the last dish a little slower, thinking. The last few days…I've been doing a lot of thinking. About me. About mom. About Riley and Angel and my friends and Mr. Gordo. About my life and…

I sigh, not really sure how to tell him what I'm thinking, which is, mainly…I'm not sure I want to be the Slayer anymore. Not if it means that I'm doomed to lose everyone around me. Everyone I love. Not if it means that I have to…you know, wall myself up. Because the alternative is …worse.

"Um…” I say. "I don't know. I was, um…thinking about…maybe…taking a break, or something." I finish up the last of the dishes and step back from the sink. "Just…ease off for a while. Not get into fully slay mode."

"But you were doing so well," Giles says, looking surprised.

Yeah. That's the problem. I know how much he likes training and teaching and I don't want to hurt his feelings but…

"And…you were great, helping me with everything. I just…I'm starting to feel…uneasy, about stuff," I tell him.

He raises his eyebrow and I try not to squirm. "Stuff?" he says.

"Training. Slaying…All of it," I admit. "It's just…I mean…I can beat up the demons until the cows come home and then I can beat up the cows but…I'm not sure I like what it's doing to me."

"But you've mastered so much," he says, totally not getting it. "I mean, your strength and resilience alone—"

"Yeah," I say, sinking into a chair. "Strength. Resilience. Those are all words for hardness. I'm…I'm starting to feel like…being the Slayer is turning me to stone." Or ice. All I feel inside right now is cold. And I hate it.

"Turning you into stone? Buffy—" he says, frowning.

"Just…think about it," I say. I feel like I have to move so I don't atrophy in my chair, so I get up and pace instead. Moving is good. "I was never there for Riley. Not like I was with Angel. I…I'm closing myself off from people. From my friends. You."

"At a time like this, you're bound to feel emotionally numb," he says.

"Before that," I tell him. "Riley left because I was shut down. He's gone. And now my mom is gone…and I loved her more than anything and…I don't know if she knew." I feel like I've cried myself dry, lately, but then someone says something or I say something and there they are. Tears. Waiting for me. Ready to sneak up and pounce whenever I feel like I'm starting to put myself back together.

"Oh, she knew," Giles says. He puts his hand on my shoulder and turns me to face him. "Always."

I want to believe him. I do, but…sometimes I think about all the times when I could have been with mom, and wasn't. Or the arguments we had or the…I know this isn't what she wanted for me, and if I'd really loved her, maybe I'd have found a way to give it up, to be with her. Then she wouldn't have been alone. And maybe…maybe she wouldn't have died.

But I can't really tell Giles that. It would crush him.

And the other thing, the worst thing, is thinking that, if I keep on being the Slayer, I'm just going to get colder. Harder. And I don't want that.

"I don't know," I tell him. "To slay…to kill…it means being hard on the inside. Maybe being the perfect Slayer means being too hard to love at all. I already feel like I can hardly say the words."

"Buffy," he says. There's so much compassion in his voice. Dear, wonderful Giles who is always there for me. The dad I never had. My friend. Who would have thought that this stuffy old librarian guy would turn out to mean so much to me?

"Giles, I love you," I tell him. Meaning it but…"Love, love, love, love…Giles, it feels strange."

He rolls his eyes at me. "Well, I shouldn't wonder," he says with all the dry humor of a British guy. He does that eyebrow thing that makes that line in his forehead point toward his nose. "How serious are you about this?" he asks.

"Ten," I tell him, sitting back down. "I'm serious to the amount of ten."

He thinks for a bit. "There is something…in the Watcher's diaries…a quest."

"A quest? Like…finding a grail or something?" I ask.

"Not a grail. Maybe answers. It would take a day, perhaps two."

I think about it. About answers. Maybe…maybe it's not as bad as I think it is. Maybe…maybe it doesn't have to be this way. Maybe I'm not cursed. Maybe…

So many maybes. He watches my face. "Some Slayers before you found it helpful in …regaining their focus, learning more about their role. There is a sacred place in the desert. It's…it's not far."

"Okay," I tell him. A quest. Focus. Maybe this is what I need.

He looks so concerned sitting there beside me and I wish, not for the first time, and probably not for the last, that he really was my dad.

"I do love you Giles," I tell him.

"I know," he says, patting me awkwardly on the shoulder. "But…please, it's…weird." I shrug.

"Sorry," I tell him. "But it's important that I tell you. Weird love's better than no love." He doesn't really have anything to say to that.

***


It only takes a few calls to the others to arrange things. Xander and Anya will patrol. Willow and Tara ask if I mind if they stay here tonight, cook, take care of things. I don't. I kinda hate the idea of the house being empty.

Giles tells me to dress warmly; since we'll be in the desert, and with this cold weather who knows how low the temperatures will drop? Then we stop by his apartment to pick up some things.

We're mostly quiet in the car. I watch the scenery go by. I remember the last time I left Sunnydale, after Angel had died. How I'd felt like I never wanted to come back.

But as long as the Hellmouth is active, I don't think I can really leave. I'll always come back. Even now, seeing the Now Leaving Sunnydale sign flash past…I can feel it. This low tug in my chest and a vague prickle at the back of my neck that tells me to turn around, go back. Something ties me here.

I could find my way back blind.

Depressing.

***


It takes a couple of hours to get where we're going: a long stretch of desert that looks pretty much like the rest of the desert around us. I picture little hooded guys marching along the dunes, leading us to the sacred place while singing the "Dink Dink" song.

Giles pulls off the highway, then drives as far across the hard packed sand as he can, just to the base of some foothills. The sun has started to slide down past noon, but it's still kind of cold. The wind blows from the direction we came, and it's chilly, with the promise of worse to come.

I haven't really forgotten our ice demon prophecy. It just hasn't seemed that important. The arctic breeze that makes me keep my gloves on tells me I ought to be paying more attention, though. Balance, Tara said. This early in spring it ought to be warming up again. Instead the sky overhead is gray and cold. It looks like my heart feels.

Giles pops the trunk as we get out. "What's in the trunk?" I ask curiously. He'd left me to wait in the car while he went in to his apartment, muttering something about it being messy and not fit for company. I've never seen Giles's apartment messy, but whatever. It was warmer in the car.

"Supplies," he says, pulling out a duffel bag.

"Supplies? I was wondering about that," I say, looking at the bag. It doesn't seem like there's much in it, but he did say we'd only be out here for a day or two. Still, shouldn't we be more…you know, Boy Scout prepared or something? "Like…food? Water? Maybe a compass?" I ask.

He opens the bag and pulls some things out. "How about a book, a gourd, and a bunch of twigs?" he says.

"I don't think I'll be that hungry," I tell him. Damn. I was hoping for some Snickers bars or something.

"They're for me," he says. Oh good. "Come on, this way."

He leads me up into the foothills a bit, until we're out of sight of the road. "You see, the location of the sacred place is a guarded secret. I can't take you there myself. I'll have to perform a ritual to…transfer my guardianship of you, temporarily, to a…a guide. Here. This will do."

He stops and begins arranging his twiggy stuff.

Right.

"A guide, but no food or water? So…it leads me to the sacred place, and then a week later it leads you to my bleached bones?" I ask.

"Buffy, please," he says, slightly exasperated. "It takes more than a week to bleach bones."

I try not to laugh. It feels good to joke, I realize. I haven't really joked much in the last few weeks. I'm kind of surprised that I can.

"So how's it start?" I ask. He looks kind of funny, arranging his twigs into a circley thingie.

"I, uh…I jump out of the circle and then jump back in it, and then…um…" he looks embarrassed, not meeting my eyes. "I shake my gourd."

I grin. "I know this ritual! The ancient shamans were next called upon to do the hokey-pokey and turn themselves around."

Giles huffs a sigh and glares at me. "Go quest," he says, then settles down to…shake his gourd. Nothing happens.

"And that's what it's all about," I tell him. He just shoos me off. I go, trying not to laugh at him as he jumps in and out and shakes. So glad I can leave the ritual stuff up to him.

***


I wander for a bit, kicking at the sand, looking at the scraggly plant life that somehow manages to survive out here. Sympathy wells up in me for those poor twisted little trees and shrubs. I know how they feel. Giles's voice drifts over the dunes, speaking in…some language I don't understand. It's peaceful out here, quiet.

Which is why the low growl behind me gets my immediate attention.

About thirty feet away, sitting in a gap between two dunes, is a…really big kitty. Mountain lion, maybe. Or…a cougar? Something sleek and gold, with big, big teeth. It sits there, watching me patiently. When I take a step toward it, it stands. "Hello, kitty," I murmur.

It turns to walk away, then glances back at me.

Hopefully this is my guide.

If not, well…death by kittycat isn't really the most glorious way to go.

I follow it into the desert.

I'm not sure how long we walk or how far. The cat only looks back once or twice. The sun seems to drift slowly toward the horizon. It's cold, but not unbearable, though I'm a little worried about what'll happen when the sun goes down. It can get pretty cold out here, even when there aren't ice demons messing around with the weather. Good thing I put on a few extra layers.

Eventually the cat leads me through a place where rock rises high on either side of us. Just beyond it, the land stretches away into the distance, falling back down to the desert floor. It's…weirdly familiar. I know this place.

The cat is gone. There's nothing for miles but the long and lonesome sands. A nearby rock looks kind of comfortable, so I have a seat, hoping there aren't snakes living around the base. It's probably too cold for them, but you never know.

For a long time it nags at me, this feeling like I've been here before, like I've seen this place.

Then I remember.

The dream. Last spring, right after we defeated Adam, when we had those freaky dreams. When the First Slayer decided to go all Predator on us. This is where I fought her. This is where I spoke to the…Metatron Tara. I'm sure of it. It's so familiar.

For a long time I sit on the rock and watch the sun slip down toward the horizon.

It gets colder.

To pass the time I think about my dream from last year. I'm surprised how well I remember parts of it. About Anya trying to wake me up. About Tara and the clock and the tarot card. About my mom living in the walls, with mice nibbling on her knees…did I know? Was it a premonition? Could I have stopped it?

Then there was Riley and…some guy who I think was Adam. Aggression is a natural human tendency, he said. You and me come by it another way. He was talking to me, then. Implying…implying that maybe I'm not human? Riley kept calling me killer. Then he left me on my own.

There was mud. I remember that. A bag full of what should have been weapons but instead was just mud. Useless, except as a mask.

Then there was the desert. This place. Tara on the hillside. I was looking for my friends, but…I'm never gonna find them here, I said.

Of course not. That's the reason you came, said not-Tara. Then the Slayer. The Slayer. The first of us. She was here. Dark and almost…almost like a demon on her own.

On her own.

Alone.

I live in the action of death, the blood cry, the penetrating wound. I am destruction. Absolute…alone. The Slayer.

I am not alone, I'd told her. She'd argued. I talk, I told her. I shop. I sneeze. I'm gonna be a fireman when the floods roll back. There's trees in the desert since you moved out. And I don't sleep on a bag of bones. Now give me back my friends.

It had felt like a choice, I remember.

A choice.

To be alone. To be like her.

Or to be…something else.

To be me. To have friends. To love. To be loved.

I watch the sun sink below the horizon, watch the dark creep over the desert. I think about the necklace Tara gave me for my birthday. The sun and the moon making a circle.

I am the Slayer, but I'm also me. It's part of me, inseparable.

It gets colder. I huddle in my jacket, tired and dozing. Is this what I came out here for? Seems like a ripoff.

I close my eyes, just for a moment…

***


…and wake up in the dream room.

I'm still cold, as if somewhere out there my real body is aware of the fact that I'm sitting on a rock in the middle of the desert and the temperature is dropping. But it's distant, almost a separate awareness. Instead I'm comforted by the familiar feel of the bed around me, of the soft prickle of Mr. Gordo's presence as he approaches the bed.

His footsteps sound different tonight. Not as soft, or as nearly silent. Like he's wearing shoes. I can't remember if he's ever sounded that way before. "Hey," I say, as he comes closer. "I guess I fell asleep, huh?"

Yes, he taps with a soft little chuckle. He climbs into bed and I shift so that I'm sitting against the headboard.

"I'm…Giles told me about this…vision quest thingy," I explain. "It's supposed to help me figure out…some stuff. But I guess I fell asleep. Some Slayer I am." I can feel him watching me in the dark. If I roll my head toward him…but all there is is black. Nothing. Stupid room. I'm tired. Maybe if I go to sleep, I'll wake up and then I can find my way back to Giles and go home. This was clearly a bust.

I want to wrap up in Mr. Gordo's arms and go to sleep but…I'm not crying, and he hasn't really held me to sleep unless I was. Have we crossed that line yet? Can…will he hold me, just…just to sleep?

"Will you…Can we just rest?" I ask.

Yes.

With a sigh, I snuggle closer. He wraps an arm around my shoulders and tucks me against his chest. We're still sitting up, but that's okay. He's solid and he smells like leather and alcohol and snow and…wood smoke? It's a strangely comforting scent. Drowsy, I settle in, wrapping an arm around him. Beneath my arm his stomach is flat and ridged with muscles, under his cotton t-shirt. As I start to drift off, my grip loosens and my arm drapes his waist.

Huh?

Something hard…. and not, you know, guy hard but…out of place. Like…a belt buckle maybe. Since when does Mr. Gordo wear jeans and a belt? Normally his pants are sweats or something soft like pj bottoms. But, even without moving my arm, I can tell that his pants are definitely jeans tonight.

Do I subconsciously dress my vampire?

I feel him fall asleep. Vampires sleep a little different from people, I've noticed. They don't go, you know, dead body stiff or anything but…whatever animates them sort of takes a nap. His arms hold me, but not as tightly. I wait a little while, until I'm sure he's asleep. Then, very carefully I move my arm and touch the hard thing at his waist. Definitely a belt buckle. Big, kinda square edged. The belt is slick like leather.

Okay.

Shoes. I'm wearing boots but…when I snuggle closer to him and stretch my feet way down…it feels like he is, too, though it's hard to tell. I'd have to sit up and check and…probably not a good idea. So…lots of guys wear belts. And shoes. It's not that unusual, right? I just…never dreamed about it before. Maybe my subconscious felt like I'd be overdressed if he were in pj's and I weren't.

It's stupid, wigging out about this. Really. I'm tired and…this is just dream weirdness. Wasn't I just thinking about dream weirdness before I fell asleep? It's nothing.

Instead of checking his shoes or giving in to the impulse to try to touch his face, I settle back against him and close my eyes. It can wait. Right now, I just want to rest.

***


I open my eyes to fire.

A big bonfire, to be exact.

Something moves on the other side of it, something dark and vaguely familiar. "Hello? Who's there?" I ask.

The something shifts. I get a glimpse of dark skin, white face paint, ratty hair that really could use some deep conditioning treatment.

"I know you," I say. "You're the first Slayer."

A voice drifts from the fire. Deep. Female. Powerful. This is a form, it says. I am the guide.

Okay. Guide. Right…I'm here for questions. And answers. I hope.

"Um. I…have a few questions…about being the Slayer? What about…what about love?" I ask. "Not…just boyfriend love." God, could that have sounded more immature?

You think you're losing your ability to love, says the voice. Guide. Thing.

"I-I didn't say that…” I say, then realize it's pretty pointless. "Yeah."

You're afraid that being the Slayer means losing your humanity.

A shiver goes down my spine. "Does it?" I ask.

You are full of love. You love with all your soul. It's brighter than the fire. Blinding. That's why you pull away from it.

"I'm full of love?" I say, surprised. The guide shifts beyond the flames. Eyes gleam back at me through the light. "I'm not losing it?"

Only if you reject it. Love is pain, and the Slayer forges strength from pain. Love. Give…Forgive. Risk the pain. It is your nature. Love will bring you to your gift.

"What?" I ask. Briefly I remember another dream, more recent. A speeding subway car full of Slayers. The first Slayer standing at the door. Your gift.

Love. Give. Forgive.

Love is pain.

"I-I'm sorry," I say, squinting against the firelight, trying to see. "I'm just a little confused. I'm full of love, which is nice, and …love will lead me to my gift?"

Yes.

"I'm getting a gift? Or…or do you mean that…that I have a gift to give someone else?"

Love will lead you to your gift.

"I don't understand."

Your question has been answered.

Then the fire is gone. The first Slayer is gone.

All that's left is the desert sands, stretching off to meet the dawning sky.

"Well," I say to nothing. "That was just maddeningly unhelpful."




 
 
Chapter #31 - Chapter 30: Defrost
 
Author's Notes: This chapter should answer at least ONE of your questions…Which one? Well, I guess that depends on what you were wondering. Also, chapter may contain elements likely to cause bouncing in your chair, uncontrollable verbal outburts, or (if you’re really excitable) unplanned dampness in your pants region. Read at your own risk.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner by Phuriedae





Chapter 30
Defrost


By the time I make it back to Giles, the sun is already up, though it's still pretty early. The wind blowing this way is cold and dry and my boots crunch on a thin coat of frost over the sand. Luckily it's a pretty straight path, and some of my tracks from the night before are still visible.

When I find the place where Giles did his gourd dance, I look down the hill to the car. Giles is sitting on the hood, looking around anxiously. "Buffy!" he says when he sees me. "Oh, good. I was beginning to worry."

"You sent me out there and then got worried? Not really reassuring," I say as I pick my way down the hillside.

"Well, did…did you discover the answers to your questions?" he asks.

"Answers will have to be defrosted in the toasty car, on the way to get pancakes," I tell him, and climb into the passenger's seat.

On the way back to town I fill him in on what happened last night, minus my side trip to snuggle with Mr. Gordo. "Love will lead you to your gift?" he says. "What gift?"

"Don't look at me," I said. "But…remember that dream I had on my birthday? People in that kept talking about my gift. I thought at the time it meant, you know, birthday present but…what if it's tied together?"

"Do you remember who said it, in your dream?" he asks, frowning as we get stuck behind a snowplow that's headed into Sunnydale.

"Um…the first Slayer, for sure. Right before I pulled the yellow ribbons off the door. And…my mom, I th—oh god!"

Giles swerves as I clamp my hands over my mouth in horror. "What?" he says. "What is it?"

"She…my mom. She…she…said goodbye, in my dream…she…she told me…that she h-had to g-get off at the next stop. That…that she was going on ahead," I say, feeling everything in my chest lock up tight. "She warned me, Giles. And…and I didn't…"

He pulls off to the side of the road and turns to look at me.

"Buffy," he says, gently. "There was nothing you could have done. Nothing. Even…even if you'd been at her side, even if you'd known that that's what the dream meant…there was nothing that could have saved her."

"You don't know that," I tell him.

"I know that your mother wouldn't have wanted this. She would not have wanted you to be blaming yourself for her death. If…if your dream was, in fact, a-a portent or prophetic…Buffy, perhaps it was her way of setting your mind at ease. Of-of letting you know that she had to go, and that she loved you."

“We’re almost at the end of the line,” she tells me. “I have to get off at the next stop, but you go on ahead.”

“Will you wait for me?” I ask.

“Oh, honey,” she says.“I wish I could. But you’ve got a long ways to go yet.”

“I don’t want to go if you’re not,” I tell her.

“I’ll be there,” she promises. “When you finally get there, I’ll be there. I promise. I love you so much, sweetie. Now you hurry up, okay? Your gift is getting cold.”

Slowly I get my breathing back under control. It's…it's not okay but…if my dream was prophetic then …Giles is right. She wouldn't want me to blame myself. I take a couple of deep breaths and let them out.

He nods. "Are you all right?"

"It's been a long night," I tell him. "Let's just go home."

xxxxx

Getting home, unfortunately takes a little longer than we'd like, since we're stuck behind Mr. Plow. Still, it's not even eleven by the time we pull up in front of the house. The front door flies open almost immediately and Willow comes running out without a coat.

"Buffy! Giles!" she says. "We can't find Xander or Anya. There…there was a storm last night and they didn't check in after patrol. We…we tried calling their apartment all night, but…and the, the hospital. We even tried a locator spell but…it fizzled." She looks on the edge of tears.

"Okay," I say, feeling panic clutching at my chest. God, no. Not Xander. I can't…we'll find them. They just…got stuck somewhere because of the storm. I'm sure of it. "Okay…did the spell show where they were last?"

"Uh…just outside Restfield," she says, twisting her hands and looking ready to cry. "Buffy…"

Restfield. Spike's been following me at night…maybe, maybe he tailed them last night. It's worth a shot. "It's okay. I'll…I'll go check Restfield. Maybe Spike saw something last night. Or…maybe he can track their scent. You guys try calling again. Did you call Xander's parents?"

"Yeah…uh…twice. His dad yelled," Willow says.

"Okay, so…try the hospital again, and the Magic Box. I'll be back as soon as I can," I promise.

"Okay…Buffy, he'll be okay, right? Xander, he'll be okay?" she asks.

"I'm not losing anyone else," I tell her. "He'll be fine."

I just hope that I'm right.

xxxxx

There's a hard, heavy lump in my stomach the whole walk over to Restfield. Xander. Big, goofy, cuddly Xander who is always there for me, through everything. I…I can't let anything happen to him. Not now. Not ever.

Outside of the cemetery the snow is extra thick, as though the storm was concentrating on this one spot last night. One of the "No Parking" signs has been torn up out of the sidewalk and is now sticking up out of a drift near the fence. Some of the bushes are pretty mangled, too. It kind of looks like there was a fight. Not good.

It's tough, fighting my way through the heavy snow in the cemetery, and some of the shorter gravestones are totally covered by drifts in some places. If it weren't for the fact that I know this place so well I could walk it blindfolded, I'd probably have tripped over a dozen by the time I got to Spike's crypt. The drifts against his door are pretty deep, too. I kick it open.

"Spike!" I yell expecting to find him downstairs sleeping or sprawled in his chair. Instead he's standing just a few feet inside, and he spins to look at me in surprise. "Xander and Anya are—here? Oh."

In the corner of his crypt there is a little campfire going, and Xander and Anya are sitting beside it, leaning against the wall and cuddled up under a blanket that looks like it came off Spike's bed downstairs. Xander is eating out of a jar of peanut butter with his fingers.

"Hey, Buff!" Xander says. Is he…drunk?

"Buffy! Oh, thank god. Now I won't have to go looking for you. It's very cold out there," Anya says. "Xander broke his leg."

"What?" I ask, hurrying over to look. Anya draws back the blanket to show me. His left pant leg is cut nearly to his thigh, and two long pieces of wood splint his shin in place. The skin isn't broken, but it's swollen and bruising angrily. "Why didn't you go to the hospital? Willow and Tara have been going crazy. They said you didn't check in last night, and then there was that big storm and…they tried a locator spell but something fizzled. What happened?"

They exchange a glance, then both look over at Spike. I follow their gaze. "Oh, bloody hell," he mutters and stalks to the fridge.

"Spike," I say, ready to interrogate. And then…then he slams the fridge door and turns to glare at us, shoving his thumbs through his belt…

His belt.

I'd never much paid attention to it before. It's wide, leather. The buckle is kind of squared and pretty big. He's wearing jeans. T-shirt. Boots. His clothes are rumpled, like he'd slept in them. His curls are loose and sticking up all over. The crypt smells of whiskey and wood smoke from the fire, snow from the storm outside, and the familiar vampire scent of dust and leather.

It couldn't be, could it? I mean…lots of people wear jeans and t-shirts and belts. Lots of vampires. It…doesn't mean anything. Not at all. Just that…Mr. Gordo and Spike have the same kind of style. That's it. Right?

"What?" he asks, narrowing his eyes at me suspiciously.

“Ah…Um,” I say, very articulately, then try to make my brain work again. “What happened, last night?”

Spike just glares at me, his jaw flexing.

“Well, we finally found our ice demon,” Xander says. “And guess what? She was chatting with Resident Evil here.”

“What?” I ask, glancing between Spike and Xander. Spike was talking to our ice demon?

Spike rolls his eyes. “Not how it sounds, Slayer,” he says.

“No, that’s just how it looked,” Xander says.

“I saved your life, you dumb git,” Spike growls.

“Too bad you put it in danger in the first place,” Xander says.

“And I let you drink my whiskey—”

“Are either of you going to tell Buffy what happened or are you going to keep comparing penis length? Because I don’t mind playing judge so we can get it over with. I’m cold and I’m tired, and I want to get Xander to the hospital and then go home and shower and go check on the store. I’m losing out on sales, here, you know,” Anya says.

Spike and Xander both just blink at her.

"We were patrolling," Anya says abruptly, clearly deciding that the boys aren’t going to fill me in. "You wanted to know what happened, right? Well, Xander made me patrol with him, instead of sitting in the house and watching TV. Which, let me tell you, would have been preferable to traipsing around in a graveyard at night in the snow. Even the vampires were sensible and stayed in. Then we got here and found Spike arguing with an ice demon. A female ice demon, who pretty much matched the description of the one we’ve been looking for. Anyway, when we got here Spike was telling her to 'sod off' and she said she was his queen and he said he'd beat her to death with her own legs. Of course, that's when she noticed that we were spying on them and sent her henchman to kill us. He broke Xander's leg and then Spike beat the crap out of the henchman and brought us back here to get out of the storm. I've had to listen to the two of them bicker all night and talk about lame science-fiction films, and I haven't had sex since yesterday. Xander didn't want to do it with Spike in the room. So thank you, for rescuing us."

She pauses for breath.

Okay.

"So…let me get this straight," I say, sorting through Anya's info dump. "You guys ran into Spike, who was threatening our MIA demon chick. She sent her henchman guy out to kill you two, he broke Xander's leg, and …Spike fought him off, then brought you back here?"

"And he set Xander's leg," Anya says. "It made Spike pass out and gave him a nose bleed. Spike, not Xander. Xander just passed out."

Why would setting Xander’s leg make Spike—?

Then it hits me. The chip. Spike can't hurt humans, and…well…Xander being human, and setting bones equals hurting…I've had bones set before. It's not quick. He had to have done it while the chip was firing. How hard would it have to fire to make him pass out?

And why would Spike willingly go through that amount of pain?

I don't know what to do with that, so I set it aside, for now. Better to find out why they're not at the hospital.

"And…you guys are still here because?" I ask.

"Stormed all night," Spike says from the other side of the crypt. He's leaning against a column, arms crossed, watching the three of us with a wary expression. "And then there was the little matter of the blazing ball of death up in the sky," he adds, dryly.

Oh. Right.

I take a look at Xander again. He's looking a little gray around the edges, like he might want to throw up soon. There's no way he's walking on that leg, and while I could carry him…it would be really awkward. Spike can't help because of his sun allergy and Anya's not strong enough. Crap. There's no way we can call the paramedics out here because…well, trying to explain to them why Spike is living in a crypt would not make things go smoothly. Which means we need wheels. Giles's car, adorable as it is, won't work. Barely a back seat. Maybe Xander's?

"Okay, we need transportation," I say. "Anya, can you drive Xander's car?"

"Sure," she says, not looking so sure.

"A world of no," Xander says, looking a little paler. "Not on icy streets."

Okay…crap.

"I've got a car," Spike says, then makes a face like he probably wishes he hadn't mentioned it. Immediately he gets defensive. "What? I do. And I can get to it without the soddin' sun being a problem. Just …can't get the man who came to dinner here in it."

"I can do that," I say, hoping his car isn't a stolen car. Or about to be. "If you can pull it up to the gates?"

"Yeah," he says. Without another word he picks up his duster from where it's draped over a statue, and shrugs into it. He doesn't even bother climbing down the ladder to the room below, instead he just drops soundlessly through the hole.

"Like a cat," Xander murmurs, shaking his head as he stares at the place where Spike disappeared. Then his eyes slide up to meet mine. "I might still be drunk, actually. Is there more whiskey?"

"No," I tell him. "But I'm sure they have painkillers at the hospital. We need to get you up. Think you can manage?"

"For painkillers? I can Riverdance," Xander jokes.

Between Anya and I we get Xander to his feet, then I let him use me as a human crutch to get across the crypt. When I open the door, however, he groans. "Did Spike turn me last night? Cause I think the sun might just kill me," he says, squinting against the glare of the light off the snow.

"Big baby," Anya says fondly.

It's slow going, wading through the snow without jarring Xander's leg. Luckily I'd already made a path from the gates on my way in. We're all cold and ready for a break, but as we stop at the gate, a big, ugly old car pulls up in front of us, crossing the street so it can park parallel to the curb. It's black and silver—even the windows are painted black. Long fins run the length of the car and stick up in the back like wings.

Trust Spike to drive the Batmobile.

Popping open the backdoor on the driver's side, I poke my head in. Black leather interior, lots of alcohol bottles and cans of spray paint littering the floor. It smells like old leather, old cigarettes, and older booze. The windows that look solid black from the outside aren't quite evenly covered, so a little bit of light leaks in, making the interior of the car dark and moody.

"This is the ugliest car I've ever seen," I say to the back of Spike's bleached head. The windshield is covered with a removable screen of cardboard and tinfoil, duct-taped to the frame around the edges. A thin rectangular hole is cut out right about at Spike's eye level. "How can you even see?" I ask curiously.

Spike leans forward, then cranes his head around to look at me without letting any sunlight hit him. "It's a classic, Slayer," he says. "And you're letting the light in. Mind shoving the boy in so we can be off? Passions is coming on soon." I roll my eyes.

It takes some maneuvering, but we manage to get Xander in the backseat, half laying across Anya. I shut the door carefully to avoid bumping Xander's foot, then go around to the passenger's side. Finding the seat means excavating some of the trash on it and dumping it on the floor. Spike leans way over against the driver's side door while I shove enough junk out of the way that I can get in.

"I've never been in a vampire's car before," Anya says. "This is clever. A little smelly, but clever."

Spike sniffs and shrugs. "Haven't cleaned it out in a couple of years. Don't use it much, here in SunnyD."

"What happens if you get pulled over?" Xander asks. Spike's eyes flick over to the rear-view mirror, which seems pretty pointless when the entire back window is blacked out, but whatever.

"Why the bloody hell would I pull over?" he asks.

"Oh," Xander says. "Right. Forgot."

I'm not sure how he does it, but he manages to drive us to the hospital just fine. I guess vampire hearing lets him know when there are cars in his blind spots, because we don't hit anything. We're all quiet long enough, though, that my brain goes right back to that moment in the crypt. Somehow I can't help but keep looking at him.

It's hard to look at him, sometimes, and not see the same badass, bleached pest who made my life hell a few years ago. But so much about Spike just doesn't make sense. It's almost…it's almost like he's a different vampire. Only…not. He's still cranky, and moody, he still walks around with that Big Bad attitude of his. Still smokes like a chimney, and drinks way more alcohol than blood…but there's something different. Something I can't really put into words. Maybe it's that he helped Xander last night. Maybe it's…the way he's been patrolling for me, lately. The last few times we've talked he's been almost…friendly.

I would have said it had something to do with…with mom, but it's been happening for months now. Sort of slowly. Bit by bit.

I'm not what I was, he told me weeks ago.

For the first time I think, maybe…maybe he's not.

What do I do with that?

When we get to the hospital, I help Xander get out of the car while Anya goes in to ask for a wheelchair or a stretcher. Spike looks like he's going to take off, so I lean back in. "Stay here, Spike," I tell him.

"I'm not your bleedin' taxi," he grumbles, eyes narrowing.

"I want to talk to you," I tell him, pretending he's not being a jerk. "I'm just going to get him checked in and then I need a ride home. Thirty minutes, tops."

"Magic words, Slayer," he says with a scowl.

I don't know if the last few weeks have just worn me down, or if it's the smile I catch glinting in his eyes, but the words come without any effort. "Please, Spike."

He nods once, then makes a show out of setting the brake and turning on the radio. The last thing I hear as I shut the door is some musically-challenged band screaming at the top of their lungs.

xxxxx

The ER people practically know Xander on sight by now. The nurse at the desk huffs a "you again?" sigh as we sign him in.

When they wheel him back for X-rays, I snag the chance to talk to Anya.

"The demon you guys saw last night," I say. "What'd she look like?"

"Tall. Long white hair. White skin. White eyes. Serious superiority complex. Bad fashion sense." She shrugs. "We weren't very close, and there were bushes and headstones in the way. I didn’t see where she went, after she sent her guy after us."

"What about the one that attacked you?" I ask.

"Um, tall. Pale. Blue white hair, blue eyes, very pointy teeth. But we don't need to look him up," she says. "I know who he is."

"From your demon days?"

"No," she says. "Well, yes, but by reputation. You've heard of him, too. Jack Frost."

"Jack Frost is a demon?" I say, thinking of the old Christmas cartoon.

"Live long enough," she says, with a shrug. "You find out that just about all the old myths are based on demons. There's even a few based on me."

Okay, so now I have to worry about two ice demons. Great. I check the clock, fifteen minutes ‘til Spike takes off without me. "What happened, really, last night with Spike?" I ask.

She shrugs. "Temper tantrums, mostly," she says. "But I think he and Xander may have reached an understanding. About time, too. All of the enraged testosterone that was going around last night left me incredibly horny. If it had gone on much longer—"

"I get the picture," I interrupt her. "Really get the picture."

Luckily, they wheel Xander back out about then. "It's a clean break," the intern in charge of him tells us. "Whoever set it did a great job. He'll be in a cast for a few weeks, but it should heal just fine."

We nod, relieved. "I'm going to head back to the house," I tell Anya. "I'll let the others know what happened. Do you need anything?"

She hands me Xander's keys. "Not that Spike's car isn't fascinating," she tells me, "but would you see if Giles can pick us up? He'll probably be so loopy on painkillers he won't notice, but I think twelve hours worth of Spike is about Xander's limit for the day."

For a moment I stare at the keys in my hand. "Did he really pass out?" I ask.

"They both did. Spike was out for almost half an hour. Xander didn't wake up until Spike splinted his leg," she says, then turns serious eyes on me. "I'm not sure how Spike did it, actually. I'm fairly certain that if he were human, the chip would have killed him. I guess it’s a good thing he’s already dead. Usually technology seems like a good thing, but you'd think if they were smart enough to figure out how to implant behavior modification chips in vampires to keep them from feeding, they'd have worked out that there's a difference between causing pain in order to kill and causing pain in order to help someone. Seems fairly stupid, overall."



xxxxx

Somehow I manage to make it back out to the car before the thirty minutes are up. Spike just slides me a look as I open the door and climb in, buckling the lap belt. It feels weird to be in a car so old that it doesn't have a chest restraint.

"How old is this car?" I ask, as he puts it in gear and pulls out of the hospital drive.

"Forty years or so, give or take," he says with a frown. There's a muscle popping in his jaw. He's tense.

"How long have you had it?" I ask, kicking a little at the junk piled at my feet and wondering where he got it. Somehow I can't picture Spike buying a car. He probably stole it, and the owner is long dead.

"'Bout that long," he says, then smiles boyishly, caressing the steering wheel. His nail polish is chipped again, I notice. "Got a demon friend who keeps it for me when I'm out of the country. Gives it new tags every few years or so, keeps the engine purring like a kitten."

I roll my eyes a little. Boys and their cars. I remember the driving date I had with Riley a lifetime ago, it seems now. He'd sat there and extolled the virtues of his gas guzzling little red hot rod and tried to convince me driving was fun. Spike's got the same kind of glint in his eye Riley did. I watch as he steers the wheel with the flat of his palms, carefully keeping his fingers out of the light that falls through the hole in the windshield.

Unable to see, I find myself lulled by the feel of the car under me, the drift as we round corners, the growl of the engine. Most modern cars are built so that you barely feel the ride. You drift over the streets silently. This thing was built back when the word muscle car meant that you actually had to put work into them.

A picture of Spike, in a tight, sleeveless black tank top and black jeans, his pale face smudged with oil as he slides out from under this steel monstrosity suddenly pops into my brain.

I blink, trying to dislodge it, but there it is. Grease monkey Spike, tightening bolts with a big crescent wrench. Something suspiciously lusty pools low in my gut.

Bad Buffy. Not good. This is just a reaction to the weird moment in the crypt earlier. Seemingly of their own volition my eyes wander to Spike's lap and his belt. And…once more I'm staring at Spike's crotch.

This is probably a sign that I'm on the verge of a mental breakdown. I need to think about something else.

"You gonna tell me about what the Ice Queen wanted?" I ask, trying to focus on something that's actually important. His jaw does that clenchy thing again.

"Was standing right there when Anyanka told you," he says "No point in me rehashing it. I can't tell you anything different."

And why do I get the sense that, once again, he's not telling me everything? Still, I'm pretty sure if I ask Xander later he'll give me the 411.

Which brings me back to my other problem: Spike saving Xander. From what Anya said it sounded like Spike could have just left them. That Jack Frost guy hadn't gone after Spike, he'd attacked the humans. Spike could have left them to die. I'd have found their bodies this morning, covered in snow…if I were lucky. But he didn't. He stayed. And he set Xander's leg in spite of the pain that he must have known the chip would cause him. He'd endured enough of it to make him pass out.

A little voice in the back of my head points out that, if he could endure that, there's no reason why he couldn't endure the pain long enough to kill someone if he really wanted to.

The fact is…he doesn't seem to want to.

Which leaves me even more confused.

It takes me awhile to realize that the car has stopped, and I'm staring at him. "What?" he demands, staring at me suspiciously.

"They said you did a good job, setting his leg," I tell him.

He frowns. "Set my own, a time or two," he says. He probably has.

"Why did you do it, Spike?" I ask. "I know you and Xander can't stand each other. Rescuing him…setting his leg in spite of the chip…Anya said you blacked out for almost half an hour. Why did you do it? I want the truth."

He doesn't look at me. For several minutes he just stares out through the peep hole at the street. In the shadows of the car, he's painted in black and white and gold. His hands tighten on the steering wheel, then he sighs, as if tired. When he speaks, it's so soft and low I almost don't hear him. "I knew…” he murmurs, "it would destroy you. If you lost him, on top of your mum. He's a wanker, and we're never going to be bosom friends, but…I couldn't just leave him to die."

My breath catches in my throat, and my heart begins to pound so loudly I'm surprised he doesn't call me on it. Suddenly I'm thinking back to the night before the funeral, the look in his eyes, the way he spoke to me then.

Oh. God.

Spike…Spike cares about me? His mortal enemy? Since when?

"Spike," I say, but he interrupts me before I can get any further.

"Don't make a thing of it, Slayer," he says, rolling his eyes. But it's a little too late.

I should be wigging out. I should. The idea that Spike might care about me ought to disgust me, ought to have me punching him in the nose, or better yet, dusting him. This is Spike, after all. Evil, disgusting, soulless demon who has tried to kill me numerous times, and whose ideal woman is Morticia Addam's skanky cousin. Of all the men I've ever wanted to care about me, it should be beyond insulting that the one who might is, not only a soulless vampire, but also my mortal enemy.

Only…he's been watching out for me, the last few weeks. I know he has. He's patrolled, and now he's protected my friends. All without being asked, or told, or even with the expectation of payment or gratitude.

Truth is…I'm changing, Buffy. I know, you don't think that's possible, and it sounds daft to me too, but there you go. I'm not what I was…I don't know if it's the chip or if it's…being around your do-gooder lot all the time but…I've changed, and it doesn't matter whether you believe it or not. It's true…I can be good, Buffy. I can. And if you weren't so bloody blind you'd see it, too.

He's got this strange look on his face: a little bit attitude, a little bit fear, and a little bit…hope? Maybe that's why. Maybe it's the whole emotional tumult of the last few weeks. Maybe it's the shyness I think I glimpse in his eyes, or the fact that I'm still thinking about last night and Mr. Gordo and vaguely remembering that night in the snow when Spike was leaning over me, so close I could count the snowflakes on his lashes. Maybe it's that he showed up at my mother's grave while the sun was still up, or maybe it's that he keeps trying even though I keep telling him it's impossible. Maybe it's a thank you…or maybe I just want to.

I don't know.

But suddenly I'm leaning forward and pressing my lips to his.

He freezes, and I wonder fleetingly if he's going to reject this, pull back and wipe his mouth and gag and act like this is the most disgusting thing I could have done.

Because a couple of months ago, I would've. Heck, we've both done that same thing before.

He doesn't, though. He stays very still, and I let my lips linger for a heartbeat or two. His mouth is soft with surprise, even though I can sense the rest of him tensing up. I breathe in the vampire scent of dust and graveyards and a hint of cigarettes and whiskey, the slight tinge of snow and wood smoke. With my eyes closed, he could be Mr. Gordo.

But he's not. I'm utterly, totally, completely aware that he's Spike.

A little thrill of forbidden pleasure runs through me at that.

Spike. I'm kissing Spike.

Oh, god. I'm kissing Spike.

As if he's reading my mind, he pulls back. His eyes open and he stares at me with something like awe. Awe, and something else I don't know how to name. It's so raw and open that I feel it like a punch to my sternum.

"Thanks," I manage to say. "I won't forget it, Spike."

And then I flee out of the car and into the house, and try not to think about the fact that, when faced with whatever was shining in Spike's eyes, I'm a complete coward.


 
 
Chapter #32 - Chapter 31: Get A Clue
 
Author's Notes: Previous warning still in effect. Chapter may cause spontaneous outbursts and exclamations, and unexpected physical responses. Read at your own risk.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner by Phuriedae





Chapter 31
Get A Clue


Willow, Tara, and Giles are still waiting at my house. It doesn't take too long to explain what happened last night. Xander's car is out front, so I give Giles the keys and he agrees to go pick them up. Willow and Tara ask to go along. "I'll meet up with you guys later," I tell them. "I need a shower. I feel like I've got sand in places sand should never go."

As he leaves, I snag Giles's arm. "Thank you, for patrolling for me these last few weeks," I tell him.

"You've needed time," he says.

"Yes, but…it's my job, and I should be the one doing it. Xander got hurt because I wanted time off and…I'll start patrolling again tonight. And training," I promise.

"Good," he says. "I know…it seems difficult, but having a purpose, having something to do, it may help you work through your grief."

"Yeah," I say, softly. "Maybe it will."

***


Showering washes away the grime from my night in the desert, and the cold sweat I broke into when I thought I'd lost Xander and Anya. It doesn't wash away my questions, or the lingering sense of confusion from the events of the last day. I take it all apart, piece-by-piece, and hope that when I put it back together I find some answers.

In the desert, the guide told me that I'm not losing my ability to love. That I'm full of love, and that's why I pull away from it. She also said that love will lead me to my gift. My gift. That's twice now I've heard that phrase, but I still don't know what it means.

We've still got a prophecy out there. I should probably check with Giles and see if he and Lydia have made any progress with it over the last few weeks. I'm not sure that, if they did, they would tell me right now. But so far all I've got to go on is a demon with world end-age plans that involve turning everyone into popsicles and somehow turning off the sun. There’s a date we still haven’t pinned down, but which has to be coming up soon, and some missing thing out there that is supposed to be given to me for protection…maybe that's what my gift is? And…somehow love will lead me to it?

And what was our demon woman doing in Restfield last night? Maybe she was looking for the artifact? Maybe she thinks Spike knows where it is? Xander seemed to think that Spike might be working with her, but if he was, he wouldn’t have fought off her minion, would he? Spike won't talk about what she wanted from him, which means he might still be hiding something, even though he swears he's on my side.

Even though he went out of his way to save my friends.

Even though he basically admitted that he cares about me.

It takes some mental maneuvering to avoid dwelling too long on that moment in the car. I'd just wanted to thank him, that was it. Just…you know, a quick little thank you kiss. No big.

And if that little shiver I felt when I touched my lips to his was the most intense sensation I've felt since my mom died…well, that was just…instinctual revulsion breaking through my emotional numbness. That's all.

Because it's not like I would want Spike.

***


Giles comes back a little later to pick up his car. "Xander is resting," he tells me. "I'm not sure what they gave him but it's made him even sillier than usual."

"Do you think that the demon might come back for them?" I ask.

"I'm not sure. From what Anya said, Spike severely injured him. It may take a while for him to heal, and I doubt he'll know where to find them," he says. "Still, Willow and Tara have volunteered to stay the night with them."

"That's good," I say.

"Will you be alright, on your own tonight?" he asks.

"I'll be fine," I tell him, and for the first time in a long time, I really mean it. "I'm pretty tired from last night, so I think I'll just do a quick patrol and then go to bed anyway."

He nods, looking a little relieved. I'm not sure if that's because I'm promising to patrol, or because he wants to know I'm alright.

***


Patrol starts off uneventful, which is good. No matter what I told Giles, I'm still not sure I'm ready for this. Walking into the cemetery was hard, but now that I’m in here it’s…homey. Should that be depressing?

There's a fresh grave, though, so I brush some snow off a nearby headstone and sit on it, waiting.

My thoughts keep drifting back to that moment in the car. The look in Spike's eyes…Maybe mom…maybe it’s had more of an effect on me than I realized because…I kinda don't mind. I mean, yeah…on the one hand: it's Spike. Fangy. Evil. Soulless. Etc. But…I don't know. Maybe it's my imagination, or maybe I just want to believe it but…he's changing.

And yeah, part of me is freaking out a little at the idea that Spike might care about me, but the last few weeks he's honestly been helpful. He's looked out for me. Patrolled for me. Kept my friends from getting killed while I was off duty.

If him caring about me makes him do stuff like that, is it really a bad thing?

A noise in front of me reminds me of why I'm out here. I watch the grave in front of me collapse in on itself a little, as the new vampire's hands claw the ground away. Clumsy. Eventually the head emerges, and the fledge looks around, bewildered. He stares at me for a second, then turns and glances behind him at his gravestone.

"Aw, man," he whines, his game face making it sound even more ridiculous. "I freaking died? What the fuck, man?" He looks pretty young, maybe college age. It would suck to die before you're even out of college. You've barely lived.

"Let me guess," I say. "Really good party?"

"Must have been," he says. "It's all kinda hazy, man. Who're you? My guardian snow angel?"

"Something like that," I say. "You gonna climb out of there sometime tonight?"

"I think I'm stuck," he says, looking down at himself through the hole. "My foot's caught in the coffin lid. Hey! Wait a second! If I'm dead, how come I'm talking, man? And, you know, like, here?"

I close my eyes, and swallow the pain.

"It's a long story," I tell him. "We don't really have time."

"So, uh…I guess I'm supposed to be, like moving on or something, man? Like, towards the light?"

God, save me from California frat boy vampires.

"Does no one have standards anymore?" grouses Spike. I knew he'd been trailing me, but I hadn't been paying attention to how close he really was. The sight of him actually surprises me for a moment, watching him step out into the moonlight, all black leather and bleached hair.

"Who're you, man? Death?" asks Clueless. "And what's with the punk vamp look?"

Spike ignores him. He stops at the side of the grave and stares down at the stuck vamp in amusement. His mouth twitches into a smirk.

"Let's have a look at you, mate," Spike reaches down and grabs the vamp by his shirt collar, hauling him out of the ground like a radish. Do radishes grow in the ground? Maybe a carrot. A really big, fangy carrot. He sets the vampire on his feet, then dusts off the shoulders of his suit jacket in a friendly manner.

"Spike, what are you doing?" I ask.

"Dude, your name's Spike?" the vampire giggles. "Is that, like, your porn name or something, man?"

Spike just shakes his head. "Never turn a stoner when he's stoned, takes bloody forever to get it out of their system," he says.

"I got the munchies like mad, man," says the vamp.

"I'd wager so," Spike says. "Sort of gnawing feeling in your middle there?"

"Yeah. Is someone cooking something around here? Something smells really good," says the vamp.

"Oh, that'd be Buffy," Spike says, straightening the guy's tie a little roughly. He sniffs. "Little like coconut, strawberries, freezer waffles, and something else that really makes your mouth water?"

Freezer waffles? He can smell that?

"Yeah, man," says the vamp. He glances over at me, and his eyes are almost glowy yellow now. He looks hungry. With a sigh I get up and grip the stake in my coat pocket a little tighter. I have no idea what Spike's doing, but I wish he'd hurry it up. It's freezing out here and I probably ought to check out at least one more cemetery before heading home. He looks back at Spike in confusion. "Dude, what's wrong with my teeth? Feel like they're too big for my face."

Spike examines the guy's vamp face critically. "I wouldn't worry about it," he says.

Stoner vamp shrugs and sniffs again, looking in my direction. "Is it steak?" he asks. "Did you have steak for dinner or something? Cause it smells really fucking good. My stomach is killing me, man. Feel like I haven't eaten for weeks."

Spike finally turns to look at me, amusement glinting in his eyes. "How 'bout it, luv? Got any stake for our friend here, before he bites the big one?"

I sigh. "Are you done playing, yet?" I ask. "Can it be my turn now?"

"Huh?" says Dazed and Confused.

"Toddle on over to Buffy, chum. She's got a stake for you," he says, slapping the guy on the shoulder. The vamp stumbles in my direction. The closer he gets, however, the more the demon in him seems to take over.

A few moments later, as the dust settles, I turn to glare at Spike.

"You want to tell me what that was all about?" I ask.

"Fun with homophones," he says. His eyes crinkle a little at the edges when he grins.

"How do you know he doesn't like gay people?" I ask, confused.

Spike rolls his eyes and saunters to my side. "Not homophobes, you twit. Homophones. Want to tell me why you were playing Chatty Cathy instead of staking his arse?"

"No," I say, scowling.

He scowls right back. "And here I thought we were trying getting along," he says. "Should've known it was too good to be true. What's got your knickers all twisted, Summers?" he murmurs. When he moves a bit closer I notice the last of a fading bruise on his cheekbone. The light in the crypt and his car was so dim, I must’ve missed it.

Something occurs to me then. A little instinct, piping up from the back of my head. Something he'd said to me months ago…

"Was it Jack who beat you up a few months back? That Frost guy that attacked Xander and Anya?" I ask.

He just stares at me, a muscle in his jaw clenching. "What makes you think that?" he asks, after a long moment.

I stuff my hands in my pockets. "A…a couple of months ago, when I asked you about who beat you up. You said to look up that poem. The one you recited? Well…I found it, when I was flipping through my poetry book last week. The author's name is Robert Frost. Not Jack. You said Jack. I thought maybe…"

"I was warning you?" he asks, softly.

"Yeah," I say, staring up at him. Our eyes meet and hold. God, his are so blue. Still, he inhales slightly and I watch as the dark of his pupils expand until I'm staring at a reflection of myself in them. There's something else in them, too. I've sensed it before and it's still there, quieter, but still prowling.

Only now…I think I know what it is that he wants. The way he stares at me…I feel like he's stripping away all my defenses, baring me. Like he’s hungry—and not in a, you know, murderous demon kind of way. The look on his face is all wrong for that. The way he's standing, leaning a little toward me. The hint of something in his eyes…

Do I want that? Do I want Spike to want me?

This isn't like it was with Angel. Then it was all sweet, and innocent and me wondering if the boy I liked liked me back. Spike isn't like Angel, and not just because of the soul thing, or the bad boy thing. I don't even know if I like him. Everything with Spike has always been…stronger than that. Harder. More intense. I've hated him more intensely than anyone.

It's like that poem, you know? Love, passion…they're fire. Hate is ice. Both can be destructive, powerful.

Like is kinda lukewarm.

Like, I think, is what I felt for Riley. Guiltily, I flush and drag my eyes away from Spike's. I need to get back on track. This is a bad path to go down.

"So, was it him?" I ask, focusing on the bruise on his face instead. I jump a little when his cold thumb brushes my chin, his forefinger tracing the line of my jaw.

"You don't trust me, do you?" he says, stroking my skin in a way that leaves me shivering. Only because his hands are cold.

"Can I?" I ask.

Absently, his finger taps against my jaw.

Once.

Yes.

Mr. Gordo.

I freeze, my eyes searching out his, shocked. But he's not really paying attention. His gaze is on my mouth.

"I'd like it, if you did," he says, almost as if he's thinking out loud. "Know you don't but…"

I back away.

He frowns, but lets me go.

I want to rationalize it, that little tap. It could have been anything. Just, absent minded, or…or…but my instincts say not. My instincts are jumping up and down somewhere in the vicinity of my stomach and pointing and babbling that he did it without thinking because…because…

Something flashes in Spike's eyes, and he straightens, settling his coat on his shoulders and cocking a hip arrogantly. He jerks his chin. "Didn't mean anything by it, Slayer. No need to lash out at a bloke just for running off at the mouth. Know you don't trust me. Fangy and evil and soulless and all that rot…"

He doesn't even know he did it. Or he's desperately trying to cover. I realize my hands are balled tightly into fists.

"I have to go," I tell him. "I…It's late. I'm tired. I'm just…going to go home and go to bed, I think. Yep. Tired Bed-time Buffy. It's been a long day."

I fake a yawn before I babble out everything I’m thinking. I watch his face for any signs that he's interested in my sleeping habits. Nothing. Not even a flicker of an eyelash. Doubt creeps back in.

"Do what you like," he grumbles, shoving his hands in his duster pockets. "See you around, Slayer," he says, wandering off into the cemetery. He sounds like he's muttering to himself, but all I catch is the word "pillock" as he disappears around the corner of a mausoleum.

For the second time today I wonder…could Mr. Gordo be Spike?

***


When I get home, the house is quiet with no one waiting for me for the first time in a long time. It's a comforting sort of stillness, and I fall asleep easier than I thought I would.

The dream room is empty when I arrive, and I sit on the bed, waiting. Could Spike be Mr. Gordo? He tapped on my chin, just like Mr. Gordo does, but…that could have just been a coincidence. Spike’s pretty twitchy. This could still be just a dream.

Only then there’s the boots and the belt buckle and the…could I have been subconsciously thinking about Spike now for almost a year? Or…or maybe it wasn't Spike to start with, but as things have progressed, Mr. Gordo is becoming more like Spike.

Which still would mean that I want Mr. Gordo to be Spike.

Which I don't. Do I?

When he arrives, I try not to act weird. He climbs on the bed, the same as usual, then waits to see what I'll do.

The last few weeks, I've slept in his arms. It would be weird if I didn't, wouldn't it? And…I kinda want to sleep in his arms. When he's wrapped around me, I feel…at peace.

So I curl into him, like I normally do. With a soft sigh, he pulls me against his chest, settling my face against his shoulder so I can breathe in the familiar Mr. Gordo scent of leather and smoke.

Spike scent.

I shiver, and he pulls me closer, then tugs the blankets up over us, tucking them in further around me. He's not wearing jeans tonight, thank god. Without reaching down to check, the best I can tell is that he's got on sweats or pajama bottoms.

"…You missed the grand finale. I prefer to sleep naked…"

I shake my head a little to clear it of the resulting mental image. Prefer. Was that an odd word choice? I mean, wouldn't you think he'd have said "I sleep naked" not "I prefer to sleep naked"?

And what does it matter, anyway? I mean, this is just a dream. Isn't it?

Only there's that nagging voice in the back of my brain, the one that sounds a little like Cordelia telling me I'm stupid. These dreams are way too realistic to be dreams. Way too regular. Way too detailed. I know it. I've known it for a long time now, but I hate to think about it.

Because admitting they might not be dreams means I have to start thinking about other stuff. Like…if this isn't a dream, then where am I? Why do I show up here every night? Who, exactly is Mr. Gordo? And…what if it is, really, actually Spike?

My hand rests on Mr. Gordo's chest. He's wearing a t-shirt, I think. Without much conscious thought I stroke my fingers lightly over the fabric. Soft. The muscles beneath are rock solid, though. He makes a soft sound, a swift inhale. I feel his chest rise ever so slightly at the unneeded intake of breath. A large, cool hand comes up and wraps around mine, stilling my fingers. My right hand, his left. His fingers are long, strong and slightly callused. I can feel the rough patch of one along the edge of his middle finger.

Like a writing callus, only on his left hand.

Spike fights left-handed. And…

…I'm sitting in Spike's lap, his right arm around my waist. "There's so much to decide. Ceremony, guests, reception…" I nuzzle his hair. God, it's soft. Who'd have thought Spike's hair would be so soft?

"Well, first thing I'd say, we're not having a church wedding," he says, scrawling something on our planning note pad. The pen looks ridiculously tiny in his big hand, and hey, he's left-handed. I didn't know that…

But Mr. Gordo fights right-handed.

Only, if he knew I would notice that, it's not that hard to change your leading hand. Not when you've got a century's worth of training.

My thumb absently strokes over the flat of one of his nails. They're short, and there's a slick texture to them. Not like they're buffed, but a little harder. Another tiny shiver goes through me, and I wonder, if I dragged the edge of my nail over his, if paint would fleck off. If I might wake tomorrow with tiny black nail polish chips on my pj's.

Only I probably wouldn't.

How many times have we sparred and I've gone to bed, sore and bruised, my knuckles scraped from sparring without hand-wraps? How many times have I woken without a single mark on me that I didn't go to sleep with the night before? Besides, Spike's chipped. He can't even hit me. Anya saw him last night and I doubt even Spike could fake passing out and a nosebleed.

It's a dream.

It has to be a dream.

Ask him, you twit, says my inner Cordelia, huffing in frustration. All you have to do is say 'are you Spike?'

Yes or No. A simple question. A simple answer.

It's not the first time I've thought about asking it, or something similar. Are you Spike? Is this a dream?

But in the end the same thing keeps the words locked away. So far, Mr. Gordo has, to my knowledge, always been honest with me. I trust Mr. Gordo.

If I asked him, and it is Spike, there's a really good chance he'd lie.

And as much as I know I should probably find out the truth…I don't think I could bear it if he lied to me.

So I don't say a word.

But maybe there's another way to find out. If it's not a dream, if he's doing this somehow, for some reason, there's got to be proof right? It would almost have to be magic of some kind. And the last time I was in Spike's crypt, he did have all those magic books laying around downstairs, and I know he hates magic…

What if I went over there, first thing in the morning, when he should, theoretically, still be asleep?

I might get an eyeful of naked Spike…but what if I don't? What if, instead, I find him in bed, in pj's like he is now?

Then I'd know, wouldn't I?

***


"Buffy…"

Light dances with shadow across white walls, turning them to shades of black and gold.

It's cold, but there is heat nearby.

"…so hot…"

I arch into his cool touch. Chill fingers skate down my spine, pulling me near. My skin is blazing. There should be steam where he touches me, instead there's just cool fire. His mouth moves over my skin, tasting me, teasing me, insatiable.

"…God, I want…"

His throaty growl makes me tremble, makes me reach for him, pulling him up so I can punish his mouth for talking instead of kissing me. Somewhere, anywhere. I've never needed anything like I need his mouth on me. He hisses a little, as if in pain, and I feel the healing ridges of scars on his lip. We both ignore them, too intent on devouring one another. Cool fingers play at my breasts, pinching, tweaking my nipples until I'm writhing under him. I wrap my legs around his lean hips, slide my hands over the smooth muscles of his back, careful not to aggravate the healing wounds, pull him tight against me.

"…oh, fuck, Buffy…"

He's so hard. I can feel how badly he wants me and it's terrifying and amazing and makes the fire burning in me even hotter. I bury one hand in his loose, white curls, holding his head still so I can taste his mouth again. Our hips grind together and I feel him slide between my thighs, cool as steel. He pauses, just at the threshold, waiting, his entire body trembling as hard as mine as he struggles to control himself. The low growl that emanates from his chest isn't even remotely human, but the eyes that gaze down into mine are blue and dark and fathomless as the night sky.

"…invite me in, luv, please…"

"…come in, Spike, please…come in…"

I sit up with a gasp.

Oh.

God.

No.

Across the room, my reflection stares back at me from the vanity mirror. My eyes are wide, pupils dilated. My hair is mussed and my skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat despite the cold air. I look like …

The realization dawns before I even finish the thought.

Oh, god.

It wasn't an erotic dream.

It was a Slayer dream.




 
 
Chapter #33 - Chapter 32: Wake Up Call
 
Author's Notes: Random bit of trivia: this is the longest chapter in Part 1. It almost was longer (the Slayer dream from the last chapter was originally the opening for THIS chapter, but my beta convinced me it worked better there).

Thank you for all the awesome reviews. There are so many I want to respond to, but I can’t yet…I’m afraid of accidentally leaving spoilers. When we get to the end of Part 1, I’ll try to respond to some of them.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner by Phuriedae





Chapter 32
Wake Up Call


My mind is weirdly blank as I rush through a cold shower and throw on some clothes. I skip breakfast and instead grab my coat and scarf, yanking them on even as I'm going out the door.

It's still early, just past dawn. He should still be sleeping. He's a vampire. Nocturnal. Even if he went to bed at the same time I did, he should still be sleeping. I would still be sleeping if it hadn't been for that dream and I so don't want to dwell right now on the implications of prophetic dreams that indicate I'll be getting groiny with Spike sometime in the future.

And liking it.

The air smells like it snowed again last night, and the birds, the brave few that didn't get out of town and head south, are singing. A flock of crows take off from the top of the gates at Restfield as I push them open. What do you call a flock of crows? A murder? That's bad, right? I count them as they wing over Spike's crypt. There's seven…seven is lucky. So maybe that will counteract whatever bad luck I'm about to have doing this. I shouldn't be doing this.

That Cordelia voice from last night has now been joined by another one that sounds a little like Anya, and she’s warning me that this is a bad, bad idea. Nothing good can come of this.

But I have to know.

The crypt door squeaks as I open it, making me wince. There's no sign of him on the upper level as I slip inside. The TV is off, the chair in front of it empty. He's cleaned up the fire pit from yesterday and only the lingering smell of wood smoke in the air tells me it was ever here. The slab is over the hole and I try to be as quiet as possible when I shift it just enough that I can slip down the ladder.

Sneaky is so not my style, and I half expect to get caught at any minute, but I don't want him to wake up before I see what I came to see.

It's quiet below: just the sound of the running water in the sewers and the crackle of torch flames. The area near the ladder is dark; the only light is over near the bedroom. My heartbeat seems really loud in my ears, even though I'm doing my best to calm it like Giles tells me to in training.

Somehow it's easier when I'm out killing vampires. Sneaking up on sleeping ones seems to have a totally different effect on me.

I creep toward the bedroom; glad I wore sneakers instead of hard soled shoes. There's a lit torch on the wall, and the lamp beside the bed is on. If I shift just a little more I can see…

…the empty bed?

He's not here? I crane my neck around the room but there's nothing stirring. Still, my vampire tinglies are registering him nearby. Maybe he’s in the sewer tunnels? If he's not in bed, then he's awake and my reason for coming here is blown…unless he hasn't changed clothes yet?

Feeling a little braver I step into the room, into the light. There's a book lying open on the bed, and the red comforter is thrown back to show the tangled black satin sheets underneath. There's something else black, tossed over the foot of the bed and I take a step toward it without thinking.

"Looking for something, Slayer?" Spike asks, grabbing my shoulder and spinning me toward him.

And I realize that the splashing I'd heard wasn't the sewer at all.

Spike was in the shower.

Was being the operative word.

Now, Spike is not in the shower.

Spike is standing in front of me, and the only thing he's wearing is water.

Oh.

God.

Muscles.

And.

Oh.

…

Someone shakes me.

Spike.

Oh god. Spike.

"Eyes up here, Slayer," he says, laughter lacing his tone. "Safer that way."

He's staring at me now, amusement and pure male arrogance written plain across his face. His tongue curls up to play with the edge of his teeth. My mouth opens but nothing comes out. He chuckles and lets go of my shoulders. "Well," he says. "This is awkward. Shall I get shirty and demand you turn round to preserve my delicate virtue?"

That statement is ridiculous enough that it allows me to find my voice.

"Nothing about you is delicate, Spike," I manage.

"Noticed that, did you? Not so blind after all," he says. He smirks and affecting his usual Big Bad attitude he struts over the bed and sits, legs splayed a little, leaning back on his elbows. It's a deliberate attempt to get me to run away, I think, because there's no way I can look at him now and not see…

Spike.

Lots and lots of Spike.

All pale skin and blue veins and rippling abs and strong thighs and clinging droplets of water and dozens of faded old scars and …and …

"Did you want something, luv?"

My inner Anya starts jumping up and down waving her hand to get my attention. With apologies to real Anya, I knock her out and sit on her. I can do this. It's not like I've never seen a guy naked before.

I have. Plenty of times.

So what if none of them looked like they were chiseled out of marble and dipped in champagne then draped across satin sheets like a present just for me? This is Spike.

And he's doing this just because he's evil and twisted and he likes messing with my head. Steeling myself to be the Slayer, not Buffy, I march over to the bed and grab the material lying at the foot. Pants. Good.

Wait.

"These are workout pants," I say, frowning at them.

"Very good, Summers," he says. "Now, what do you call this?"

I refuse to look to see what he's pointing at.

"I thought you preferred to sleep naked?" I ask, staring at the black fabric in my hands. They're cool to the touch, but they would be, even if he'd been wearing them for hours. Stupid vampire lack of body heat.

"I do," he says. "I also prefer to workout without scraping the hell out of certain sensitive portions of my anatomy. Especially when I don't have someone about to kiss it and make it better. But if you'd like to stick around for a bit, Slayer, you can hold my feet while I do naked sit ups."

I toss the pants at his grinning face. Stupid vampire.

And there's a visual I'm not soon going to get rid of.

I can't even remember why I came here. I should punch him, but punching naked people…vampires…feels wrong. I need to go, before my inner Anya wakes up and starts trying to convince me that naked Spike is a good thing.

Of course, I only make it to the top of the ladder before Spike catches up to me. He's put the pants on, at least, but his upper half is pretty distracting, too.

"Buffy, wait," he says, climbing up and then coming around to block my exit. He's trying to look sheepish, but failing miserably. "What was it you wanted, pet?"

"Don't call me pet," I say.

"Slayer, then. I'm assuming there's a reason you came round so early?" he frowns. "Scoobies in trouble again?"

"No," I say. "I…um…" Crap. Why didn't I come up with a reason for being here, in case he caught me?

"Or maybe you just wanted to catch me in bed?" he suggests, leering a little. "Beginning to think I should have slept in a bit this morning. Fancied a cuddle, did you?"

"No!" I say, ignoring the fact that, okay, yeah, I was trying to catch him in bed. Unbidden, memories of my dream from this morning creep back and I feel myself starting to blush. Oh, yeah, Slayer dream, I think, my gaze landing on a scar across his right bicep I know I've never noticed before. But it was there, in my dream.

I remember licking it.

Spike sniffs slightly. "Tsk," he says, smirking. "Not nice to lie." He glances around then, his eyes landing on his cigarettes and lighter laying on the sarcophagus nearby. Sauntering over he retrieves the pack, making sure I get the full effect of the dim morning light playing over the muscles in his back. His pants ride dangerously low on his hips as he leans back against the sarcophagus and lights a cigarette.

"Want to tell me what's really going on in that head of yours, Goldilocks?" he asks.

ASK HIM, my inner Cordy says.

It wouldn't be so bad, if I asked Spike. I expect Spike to lie to me anyway. It's not like he can disappoint me. I'll probably ask and he'll lie and then I'll still be stuck wondering whether or not he's Mr. Gordo, but at least I'll have asked, right?

He's watching me through narrowed, blue eyes and a haze of white smoke. I focus on the chipped black polish on his fingernails. There are butterflies in my stomach. Big, ugly, lead-winged butterflies performing the Nutcracker in my stomach.

"Spike…if I were to ask you a kind of weird question, would you give me an honest answer?" I ask, stalling a little.

He narrows his eyes. "Maybe," he says finally. "Would depend on the question."

"What does that mean?" I ask. He sighs.

"Look, Slayer, there's no way to answer that. I can't promise yes, because I've lived a bloody long time and I’ve done a lot of bad stuff. There's plenty of things you could ask me that I wouldn't want to tell you about. And promising to lie is just stupid," he says.

"Okay," I say. I guess that was…pretty honest. The butterflies are tap dancing now. "Um…there's no really good way to ask this, but…um, Spike, are you Mr. Gordo?"

He goes very still. Very, very still. Or at least I think he does. It might be my imagination, because then a muscle in his jaw pops once, twice, and he blinks slowly at me. "That's the second time you've asked me that," he says. "Or something near. We're not talking about your piggy, are we?"

"No," I say, watching him now as warily as he's watching me.

"Who's this Mr. Gordo, then?" he asks. He stubs out his cigarette and straightens, tucking his thumbs into the already low waistband of his pants. They dip further.

"He's…" My eyes can't seem to help but drift down to follow the soft trail of brown hair that leads from his navel to…When I realize what I'm staring at, yet again, I jerk my gaze back to his face. The look in his eyes now is playful, and a little heated, sly. "If you don't know then—"

He takes a step forward. "Didn't say I didn't know," he says. "Can't say for sure unless you fill me in. So who is he?" He takes another step. Is he prowling?

"He's…uh, he's a friend," I say.

He raises his eyebrows. "A friend? And you don't know if this…friend…is me?" Oh, that's definitely a prowl. He's got his blood-in-the-air face on and it's doing bad things to the butterflies. The muscles in his shoulders flex a little as he comes nearer.

"I haven't…I've never seen his face," I admit. "And…he doesn't talk."

"If he doesn’t talk, how do you know he's a friend?" he asks softly, coming forward yet another step. I back up, sensing…not danger. Or, maybe it is danger. I can't tell. All I know is my butterflies have taken up a chorus line and moved the show somewhere higher up in my chest. Inner Anya has joined them. I notch my chin up and try to glare.

"I just do," I tell him.

"Where'd you meet this mysterious bloke?" he asks, forcing me back another step. "The Bronze? A cemetery?"

"I dream about him," I say. Spike smiles. It's a slow, almost Grinchy kind of smile.

"You dream about him," he says, his voice a low purr now that sets my Slayer senses tingling. Something hard meets my back. A wall. Crap. "You think you might be dreaming about me, Summers?"

"I…I don't think they're really dreams," I say. He steps into my space.

"Not really the silent type," he says, putting a fist against the wall beside my head and leaning on it. I'm a little surprised when he doesn't cage me completely. "Sure you're not dreaming about what's-his-height?"

I nod, glancing at the escape route he's left me. Why would Spike leave an opening like that? I could duck out of his reach easily, but if I did he'd know he was …affecting me. Better to stand my ground.

"So…what do you and Mr. Gordo do, in these dreams that might not be dreams?" he asks, smirking just a little. The tip of his tongue runs across the edge of his teeth. "Anything…interesting?"

He's closer. Leaning in just a little, so that all I can see is the pale wall of his chest, and his face. There's something odd about his eyes, though. "Well?" he asks, and I realize I've forgotten to answer the question.

"Um…we, we sleep, mostly," I say. He's very close now, and god, he smells like Mr. Gordo. My Slayer sense is tingling, but not in alarm. Instead I'm feeling kinda like I used to back when I was still waiting for Angel to make his move, only worse…and better. Less unsure and more safe.

Safe? How does that make sense?

And how come I'm the one answering questions? When did this get twisted around? Oh. Yeah. When I decided to talk to Spike, the king of twisty.

"Together?" he purrs, and I feel the vibrations from it all the way down to my knees. "Could let you have a test drive. See how I…measure up?"

He leans in a little more. A couple of more inches and I'm pretty sure I'm going to know exactly how much Spike…um…measures. I definitely already had the preview and it was impressive enough. The butterflies have picked up the pace, and are now headed for a grand finale. "Don't be a pig, Spike," I manage, but there's no force behind it.

I'm a little breathless, and my instincts are torn. Fight or flight?

But I can't seem to do either. Maybe it's a thrall? Only as far as I know, Spike doesn't have a thrall.

"I don't know," he says, his head dipping a little. Up close I watch the sparkle of blue in his eyes, as he glances at me through his dark lashes. His mouth is really close and suddenly I'm thinking back to that moment in the car, and the one in the snow, and all those kisses back when Willow made us fall in love and the kisses in my dream last night and I'm wondering if he kissed me now if there would be fireworks like before. Somehow I doubt it. Not fireworks. Too tame. If he kisses me, I'm going to spontaneously combust.

"I think," he says softly, "you want me to be a pig. I think…you want me to be your Mr. Gordo. I think you want me…"

Oh, god.

Behind us, the crypt door bangs open.

"Bloody hell," Spike mutters, jerking his head around to glare at the intruder. "Doesn't anyone ever fucking knock in this town?"

"Buffy?" says Giles. I peek out from around Spike.

"Giles! Hi!" I say, trying not to sound guilty. "What's up?"

He frowns at us. "What are you doing?"

Okay, so…probably not the best position for him to catch us in. "Um…interrogating?"

"Whom is interrogating whom?" he says, glancing at Spike's hand where it's still resting against the wall beside my head, his wet hair, and bare torso. At me, practically pinned beneath him and…

There goes the memory of that dream again.

Crap. Definitely not the best thing for Giles to walk in on. And he's got a point. I came here to ask Spike questions, to find out if he was lying to me and…and instead I'm the one getting nailed to the wall…er…I mean…

Somehow the combination of Giles plus frustration makes my temper flare, and before I can think better of it, I punch Spike in the nose.

"Ow!" he yells, staggering back and dabbing at his upper lip, checking for blood. "What the hell?"

"You were crowding me," I tell him.

He glares. "Two is a couple. Three is a crowd. Technically, Rupert did the crowding."

"Well, we were not coupling," I say.

"Thank god for that," Giles says. He takes his glasses off and starts polishing. I give Spike my best you-better-behave glare and cross the room. He glares right back, gingerly touching his nose to see if I broke it. It's not like he didn't deserve it.

"How come you're looking for me here?" I ask Giles.

"I wasn't, actually," Giles says. "I stopped at your house to see how patrol went, but you weren't home. I thought I'd see if Spike had run into you last night. Imagine my surprise. What are you doing here?"

"I…uh…came to ask Spike some questions," I say, stalling.

"About?"

"The other night," Spike says, coming up behind me. "I already told her I don't know anything more than you. How's Gimpy's leg?"

Wait, Spike's lying for me? Why?

"Well enough," Giles says. "I suppose we all owe you a debt of gratitude, Spike. Unless you were hoping for a more…monetary sort of reward?"

"Don't be a berk," Spike says, a little angrily. With a sneer he stalks over to the fridge. "Already told the Slayer why I did it. Don't worry about it Rupes. I'm paid in full." He holds up a mug of blood, and drains it deliberately, watching us over the rim.

"I'm fine," I tell Giles. "There was just one vamp last night and he was hardly even a workout. I was going to swing by the shop for some training after I left here. Maybe you can give me a lift?"

"Of course," Giles says, glancing from me to Spike. I have a feeling this isn't going to be the end of this particular discussion.



***


"Buffy?"

I pause, and wipe the sweat out of my eyes with the back of my arm. Giles stands in the doorway to the training room, staring at me.

"Yeah?" I say, then go back to punching the bag. There's a kind of cathartic relief in action. It's the first time in weeks I've felt even close to normal. My muscles burn, my fists ache, I'm drenched in sweat, and I feel alive. The only thing better than this, I think, would be sparring with someone, but as my only good sparring partner is Mr. Gordo, I'll have to settle for Mr. Punching Bag.

"Are you all right?" he asks, staring at me.

"Peachy with a side of keen," I say, and knee the bag in its non-existent groin. He eyes me as if not entirely convinced.

He's right not to be. The entire drive over here I spent dancing around my reasons for being at Spike's. And now I'm trying to burn off what feels like years worth of pent up frustration. It doesn't seem to matter how hard I pound the bag, though. My brain keeps flickering through a set of Spike related images.

…Spike holding my hands while we sit on the back porch the night before the funeral. Spike pointing a shotgun at me and asking me what's wrong. Spike sprawled out on his bed, naked and proud. Spike slipping out of the shadows, promising to kill me. Spike dancing with me at the Bronze. Spike holding out his hand and helping me up from the floor. Spike pinning me down in the snow, a boyish grin on his face. Spike standing in the sewer tunnel entrance, his thumbs hooked through his belt loops. Spike flipping the coffin lid against the wall, his face stormy as he mocks me. Spike at Christmas, standing barefoot in his crypt, his fingers brushing mine as he takes the bag from my hand. Spike sitting atop a mausoleum, his white hair almost glowing against the black sky. Spike offering to help me save the world. Spike staring at me in awe, the feel of his lips still lingering on mine…

"Giles, we need to order more burba weed. We're out again," Anya says, coming through the door. "I swear someone is stealing it, though who would want to is beyond me. Buffy's here." She blinks at me. "Oh, good. She's punching things again. Does this mean we can stop babying her?"

"Anya, a word, please," Giles says, then takes her by the arm and walks her back into the shop.

***


A few hours later, after I've toweled off and washed up a bit (I wonder if I could talk Xander into installing a shower back here?), I head out into the shop to see what's going on.

"Lydia," I say, surprised to find her there. She glances up from the table where she's sitting, hunched over her book and notes. Her hair is down, and it's longer than I thought, and a little wavy. Kinda pretty, actually. She's still wearing the glasses, and her clothes are a bit tweedy around the edges, but she looks nice. Not so Watchery.

"Buffy," she says. "How are you? I haven't seen you since…"

"The funeral," I say, sitting across from her. "It's okay. You can say the F-word. Not, you know, the bad one that means sex…not that I have anything against people who say that word and you can say that one, too, if you want and I'm going to shut up now."

"Ah, yes," she says, blushing harder.

"Whatcha workin on?" I ask, ready for a subject change.

"Oh…the prophecy," she says. "Ru—er, Mr. Giles suggested I go through it looking for references to son present or son don."

Ugh. I thought I'd left French behind in high school. Guess I should have paid more attention. Lydia must read the lack of comprendo on my face. "Her gift," she translates, taking pity on me. "He indicated that…the, uh, guide mentioned a gift, and that your dream had included the phrase as well."

The reminder of my Slayer dreams is enough to make me wriggle uncomfortably in my seat. Damn, Giles has the heat turned way up in here. There is no way I'm telling him about my most recent one. Even if my dreams have a history of being prophetic that doesn't necessarily mean that at some point in the future I'm going to find myself having sex with Spike. Not even if it was one of the hottest dreams I've ever had and if he's that good in dream foreplay, how much better…

I've got to stop thinking about Spike.

"The big tease," I mutter. Lyida looks at me funny. What were we talking about? Oh…Right. My gift. "Well…enough people start telling you you're getting a gift, you start to wonder where it is," I explain, hoping she'll buy it. "I was thinking, last night…do you think it could have something to do with this artifact we're looking for?"

"It's possible," she says. "Since it is something meant to be given into your keeping."

"Any idea what it is yet?" I ask. She flips back through her notebook.

"We've uncovered a few hints. There's a good likelihood that it may be a weapon," she says, frowning at the pages. "There was a reference to it…it, uh…it was a bit buried under some insane ramblings about…ah, yes, here we are. '…It will come to her tarnished and black, sheathed, but still sharp and thirsty for the blood of its foes, and the Slayer's hand will bring it to the light…’”

"Sounds pretty weapony to me," I say, squinting at her tiny handwriting. From over here it looks like little ants marching across the page. "That last bit, though…could it be buried or hidden?"

"Possibly," she says. "Unfortunately the prophet took this opportunity to start waxing philosophical about the sun and the moon again. It's one of his many favorite themes. Closely followed by potatoes, signs and dogs."

"Dogs?"

"Caveo canis," she says. "It's rather execrable Latin. I think it's meant to mean 'beware of the dog', but that ought to be cave canum. Oddly, it's some of the only Latin in the entire thing, which suggests it's a direct quote. It’s possible it's a mistranslation or misspelling, though. Canis means dog. But canus," she writes the two words down for me, so I can see the difference. "Spelled like this it could mean 'beware of the one with white hair'. Contextually it would make more sense, though I admit it's a bit of a stretch. The whole thing's rather shoddy. Perhaps our prophet did poorly in his Latin class."

"Still, sounds like our demon chick," I say, mulling it all over. "Has it mentioned anything about how to kill her?"

"The Cold One?" Giles asks, joining us. "No. Though it does sound as if our mysterious artifact may be necessary. The prophecy mentions some kind of ritual, meant to both bind it to you and unlock its powers."

"Figures. There’s a ritual for pretty much everything, isn’t there?" I say. "I've got to head home and get cleaned up before class, but maybe we could research party tonight?"

Giles blinks at me.

"Now I know something's wrong. You're suggesting research."

"I just want to know more about that Frosty demon that attacked Xander and Anya, so I can hunt it down and kill it. We don't know how badly Spike damaged it, and if it's still a danger, we need to know," I remind him.

"Right," he says. "Of course. I'll…I'll have Willow and Tara pull books that might be helpful when they come in after class."

"And I'll pick up donuts," I promise, gathering my stuff.

***


"Xander, how many times must I tell you not to eat jelly donuts over my books? The pages are all stuck together," Giles complains. Class was boring and I spent most of it trying not to think about mom or naked, flirty vampires or silent ones. The Scooby meeting is a welcome distraction.

Xander looks guilty and licks his fingers. "Sorry," he mumbles around a mouthful of donut. He's ensconced in the comfiest chair in the shop, his foot propped up on a packing crate, the cast looking huge and clumsy and oddly adorable with its protective sock over his foot to keep his toes warm. We'd tried to tell him he didn't have to come tonight, but…well…he's Xander.

"I think I found something," Tara says, and we all perk up. "Did your demon guy have a really long nose?" She shows the book to Xander. He shakes his head.

"Sorry, Cyrano, but you're not the demon I'm looking for," he says to the picture. "Not unless you had some major work done."

"His medicine makes him a little loopy," Willow says, with a grin.

"How can you tell?" Giles mutters, trying to carefully peel the pages of his book apart without tearing them. "Anya are you certain you know nothing more about this Jack Frost creature?"

She shrugs, and idly flips through her book. "Just what I told you already. I'm not even sure what his real name is. He's been known as Jack Frost for so long it's been pretty much forgotten."

"Then why isn't there more information on him?" I ask. "I mean, if he's been around for a while, shouldn't there be, you know, more info and less…stop motion animation specials?"

"Maybe he's shy," Tara suggests.

"Yes, he was very shy about breaking my leg and trying to kill me," Xander says. "I almost didn't even notice."

"I've never heard of him working for someone before," Anya says. "I mean, his reputation is pretty vicious, if you make him angry, but otherwise…" She shrugs.

We all go back to our respective books, though, honestly, I gave up on mine a while ago and instead am drawing on my notepad. It makes Giles happy since it looks like I'm busy, and I do glance at the book and flip the pages every now and then. Nobody really ever notices that it's the same book.

Almost nobody.

"Whatcha working on?" Willow asks, leaning over to look at my notepad.

"Just…wondering what this artifact thing is. Prophecy says weapon, so I'm hoping for a sword," I say. She squints and looks at the page full of doodles I've done over the last hour.

"That's a sword? Looks like a big nail to me," she says, pointing at the one in the middle I've been working on for the last few minutes.

"Special design," I lie, and add a crossbar to what was, up until now, a railroad spike. Stupid subconscious.

"Gotcha!" Xander says, slapping a hand down on his book. Then he looks sheepishly at the jelly smear he left behind. "Sorry. I'll clean it up. But I found him. I think."

Anya leans around to look. "Vornir demon. Humanoid. White skin. Blue hair…That's him. According to this, however, they're mostly benign. Guess it's safe to say you shouldn't believe everything you read."

Giles picks up the book and skims through it. "Vornir demons are quite rare, inhabiting only the coldest places on earth…. immortal, skilled hunters and fighters, deadly cold…. reclusive, emerging in populated areas only very late at night…tricksters, though for the most part not malicious…Oh! It says here that they worship Hel."

"Hell?" I ask. "Like the place? The one whose mouth we're sitting on?"

"No, Hel is a Norse goddess," Anya says. "Right? That Hel? The one who rules Niflheim?"

"That one, yes," Giles says, still pouring over the book.

"What's Niflheim?" Xander asks.

"A hell dimension," Anya says. "One of the colder ones. There isn't really a goddess Hel, though. Just a lot of demons who'd like to be."

"How do you know?" Willow asks.

"Oh, part of my old religion from before I was a demon. Sitting around the fire, watching the warriors drink mead, listening to some old geezer in the corner talk about Odin and Loki and blah blah blah," Anya says. "Naturally, once I was immortal and able to travel between dimensions…well, you get bored sometimes and start wondering about some of that crap you believed when you were human."

"So if there is no Hel—the goddess, not the place, which we know is real—do you think this Jack guy might be following our demon sorceress thinking she's his goddess?" Willow asks.

"It's as good a theory as any," Giles says.

"Does it say how to kill him?" I ask. I don't really care what he worships—I just want him dead.

"Ah…according to this only enchanted blades are capable of damaging him," Giles says.

"Spike hit him with his own sword," Anya says. "It did a lot of damage. Maybe it's enchanted."

"Okay, so like those Chumash guys, only, hopefully without the whole turning into a bear thing," I say.

"Or the syphilis," Xander says. "I would like to put in my request now for no syphilis."

"Don't worry, sweetie," Anya tells him. "He's far more likely to give you frost bite on your penis than syphilis."

"Ahn, that's…that's enough reassuring for now," Xander says with a grimace. "Is it time for more painkillers yet?"

***


Unfortunately, there's no indication of where we might find our Vornir demon guy. At least not in that book, and Giles is still on a hunt to try to track down possible contestants for the Sunnydale Snow Queen pageant. Three boxes of pizza, four cups of coffee, and eight pages of doodles later I'm about ready to sneak out and kill something when Lydia finally speaks up from the corner where she's been holed up all evening. "I've got something," she says.

"My gift?" I ask.

"Ah…no. Well…perhaps. It's only a fragment. Part of the section I read to you earlier," she clears her throat. "'…The Slayer will know it from her dreams. Though she be blind, she will see it, and it will be guarded by silence. Should the Slayer fail in her task, the night shall fall into the ice woman's hands, and she shall use it to put out the sun and cover the earth in cold…' It's not much, but it does seem to indicate that perhaps we're on the right track, w-with regard to your Slayer dr…I say, uh…Buffy? Are you well?"

"I'm fine. Could you read that again, please?" I ask. She does.

My brain is curiously numb.

Though she be blind, she will see it.

It will be guarded by silence.

She will know it from her dreams.

"Buffy? You're looking kind of ghosty," Willow says. "What's wrong?"

I blink and shake my head. It's nothing. It's…coincidence.

Okay, probably not, but…

I look around. Everyone is staring at me expectantly.

Tell them, I think. I should. I know I should, but something makes me hesitate. I've gone so long without, if I tell them now they're going to want to know why I've kept this back, and I can't even explain it to myself.

Except that, these dreams, or whatever they are…they're mine. Mr. Gordo is mine.

Only maybe he's not. Maybe he's Spike.

And in that case, I probably should tell them.

Only he still feels like mine.

Willow looks at me, patient and waiting. She's my best friend. I've always told her everything when it came to me and boys. I even mentioned this to her, once, back at the beginning. If I could tell her then, then…I should be able to tell her now. And the others deserve to know, too.

No, my inner Mr. Gordo warns.

There's a reason you've not told them, Spike's voice cautions. You're gonna muck it up, Slayer.

Right. Listening to Spike leads to badness.

"Um…" I say, trying to figure out where to begin.

"Okay. There's…uh…there's something I probably ought to tell you…"

***


When I finish, there's a vein ticking in Giles' forehead. Never a good sign. "Let me make certain that I’m understanding this perfectly," he says. "For nearly a year, you've been having these nightly excursions, in a pitch dark room, with a silent vampire in it—who, you've made quite clear, you believe to be your mortal enemy— and the two of you…spar and occasionally—and I cannot believe I'm about to use this word—cuddle and you never once thought to tell us?"

Everyone winces.

"Not…never once," I say. "I told Willow."

Everyone swivels to look at Wills. "Oh, no, no, no," she says. "You told me back in June, Buffy. And-and you didn't tell me they didn't stop! I-I didn't know you were still…you know…still sleeping with the enemy."

"I don't think he's an enemy," I say. Thank god I didn't tell them about my most recent Slayer dream.

"Buffy, if it's Spike, he's kinda the definition of enemy," Xander says. "I think he even came with the usual enemy warning label. Remember that whole 'I'm going to kill you' thing?"

"He saved your life!" I say.

"So not the point," Xander says.

"Buffy," Giles says. "Didn't it ever occur to you that, if these weren't dreams, that you were basically feeding a nameless vampire all sorts of information about yourself? That he could be using it to-to find a weakness? A way to destroy you?"

Okay, no, I hadn't actually but…I didn't tell them this so they could all jump on my case.

"This was very irresponsible of you—" Giles says. I stand up.

"Yes. I get it. Irresponsible Buffy. But I'm telling you now. Nothing bad has come out of it so far, and if it is Spike, then it's gone a long way toward making him less of a pain in the ass. And if he wanted to find a weakness…hello? Since mom…I’ve been nothing but weak. But that's so not the point, either. The prophecy said that I would know this weapon thingie from my dreams, Giles. It said that I would be blind, but find a way to see it, and that it would be guarded by silence. Mr. Gordo is silent. Maybe that's why? Maybe he's guarding it and I've just been too dumb to realize it. And Spike has a tendency to clam up whenever I ask him about any of this stuff. He's silent, too. So maybe we should be focusing on the prophecy and figuring out what I'm supposed to be doing here, so that I don't fail and accidentally turn the world into a giant snow globe," I say.

"Is that why you went to Spike's today?" Giles asks.

I sigh. "Yes. I went to see if I could maybe…I don't know. Catch him at it."

"Did you?" he asks.

I blush. "No," I say. "I mean, there's a lot of evidence but…I don't know for sure. I even asked him."

"I'm assuming he lied," Giles says dryly. I frown, thinking back over it.

"Actually, he never answered the question," I say. "He…twisted it all around. Then you came in."

"And you don't think it's important to determine conclusively whether or not he's behind it all?" he asks. "Buffy, if you asked him, now he knows you're on to him. He might…step it up, or move forward with his plans. I think we need to discover what exactly his role is in all this."

"I—" Tara says, then blushes, looking back at her hands.

"What?" I ask. "Really. Please. I need all the help I can get here."

"I just…I don't know of a spell that could…you know, do something like this," she says. "It would have to be pretty powerful. And…Spike's not a witch."

"Maybe…maybe he got someone to cast it for him?" Willow says. "It's still major mojo, but…"

"It sounds like a dream dimension," Anya says, out of the blue.

"A what?" I ask.

"Dream dimension. Like a…pocket dimension that you access through your dreams. Some people can make their own, if they're powerful enough," she says. "It doesn't happen very often. And I've never heard of someone being able to connect other people to their dream dimensions."

"Shame you can't just turn on the lights," Xander says. "Then you'd know and we wouldn't have to sit here and try and figure out how to get Spike to spill."

We all stare at him.

"What?" he asks.

"There aren't any lights to turn on," I remind him. "Big empty room, remember?"

"But there could be!" Willow says, getting excited. "We…we could do a spell. You said that, whatever you're wearing you take with you into the dream dimension, right? Does that include jewelry?"

I think about it. "Yeah," I say slowly. "I think so. My hair gets caught in my earrings sometimes, when I'm sleeping."

"Okay," she says, grinning. "Okay, so…we'll enchant something. Like your necklace, maybe. There's a spell that makes things glow…it's really easy. All you'd have to do is remember a keyword to activate it. Then you'd be able to see."

Could it really be that easy? You're mucking it up, Slayer, whispers Spike. I tell him to shut up.

"Do you think that's a good idea?" I ask. "I mean, the prophecy says 'though she be blind, she will see it'. If I can see, I'm not really blind, am I?"

"Maybe it means you're supposed to find a way to see," Xander says. "You know, like a puzzle?"

The others nod, but I'm not so sure.

"Willow, do you know what you'll need for this spell?" Giles asks. She nods. "Go ahead and gather up whatever you need. Can you have it ready before Buffy goes to sleep tonight?"

"Oh, yeah, easy," Willow says. "It's not that hard at all."

"Wait a minute," I say. "Tonight? As in, tonight tonight?"

"No," Giles says. "I thought we might pencil in saving the world for next month. Of course, tonight. Don't you think you've waited long enough to solve this?"

"I guess," I say. This doesn't feel right. It's too rushed. "Maybe we could do the spell tomorrow, and I could do it tomorrow night," I suggest. "You know, when I'm not so…tired."

Giles just stares at me.

"What's one more night?" I argue, not really sure why I'm pushing this. "It's not like there's a major rush. This has been going on for months now, and I really don't think one more night will change anything. What's the worst that could—" I clap my hand over my mouth. The others glare. "Sorry. I didn't say it. I know. Hellmouth."

"Actually," Lydia says, looking up from her book. She's gone sort of pale. "Ah…well…it could be…bad."

"What are you talking about?" Giles says, going to her side. Wordlessly she hands him her notebook, tapping at a spot on the page with a slightly shaky finger. He reads it. Starts. Reads it again.

"Oh dear lord," he says, looking at me.

"What?" I ask. "Enough secrets, right? Just spit it out."

He nods, clears his throat, and reads. "…Her gift is death, and it shall love her above all others and in its arms shall she find peace…” We're all silent for a moment, absorbing that.

"On second thought," I say. "Suck it back in. I don't want it."

"Buffy…" Giles says.

"Death's not a gift, Giles. My mother just died. I know this. I don't want to die. Again. Been there. Done that. Got the sister Slayer to prove it."

"Buffy, may I point out that you survived the last time you died," Giles says. "It's a prophecy. These things have a habit of …well…not turning out how you expect."

"What are the odds of me dying twice and coming back? Huh?" I say. "I'm willing to bet they're not very good."

"We don't even know the circumstances," Lydia says. "I merely translated the part after the line about 'her gift'. It might be referring to what might happen, should you fail in your task."

"Comforting," I say dryly.

"She's right," Giles says. "We'll…continue to work on the translation. It may turn out to have nothing to do with this at all."

"Like the potatoes?" I ask, trying hard not to sound as nervous as I feel.

"Like the potatoes," he says. "In the meantime, I suggest we concentrate on what we do know. Willow, go ahead and get started on that spell. Tonight, Buffy, we'll find out what your dreams are hiding. We'll have a better idea of what's going on tomorrow. I promise."

"You promise?" I say.

"Well, we certainly couldn't have a worse idea," he says.





 
 
Chapter #34 - Chapter 33: Mr. Gordo
 
Author's Notes: Due to the content of this chapter, Author’s Notes will be at the end. I do just want to say thank you to all of you who have reviewed and stuck with me this long.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner by Phuriedae





Chapter 33

Mr. Gordo


"Alatáriel, Lady of Light, we beseech thee," Willow chants, dangling my yin yang necklace above a small white candle. Tara stands beside her, passing her ingredients.

"Think it'll work?" Xander asks quietly, watching. I'm sitting beside him and Anya, feeling slightly miserable.

"Probably," I say. If the feeling in my stomach is anything to go by, it will.

"You don't want to do this," Anya says, tilting her head. "Why? You're not curious?"

"Of course I'm curious," I say. "But…I don't know. I can't help but feel like this isn't how to do it, you know? Like…like there's something I'm supposed to do first, or-or figure out. This is like…cheating, somehow."

"What if it really is Spike?" she asks.

"I don't know. I guess…I try to talk to him," I say. "Find out what he's hiding."

"You don't seem that upset," Xander says. "If I found out that Spike was invading my dreams every night, I'd be pissed."

"He's been…a friend," I say. "When everything was happening with mom…I talked to him, you know? I…felt like I could tell him anything and he would just listen and…I didn't have to worry about him trying to fix things or judge me or any of that. He was just…there for me."

"We were there for you," Xander says.

"You were," I say. "And I'm so grateful for you guys. I don't know what I would have done without you. But…I don't know. He gave me something else…something I didn't even know I needed."

I know that they’re only doing this because they’re concerned. I get that. I know that they just want to protect me…but how can I explain to them what I can’t even really explain to myself? Mr. Gordo…Spike, if it is Spike…he’s mine. My vampire. My friend. And I feel like I’m betraying him.

There's a flash of light from Willow's direction and a sudden chime in the air. The candle has gone out.

"It worked!" she says, grinning. She touches the pendant with one finger. "Day." Immediately, the pendant begins to glow with a soft golden light like candlelight. Willow's grin widens. "Night," she says. The light goes out. "Perfect."

"No kablooey," I say. "I like that part. It's not going to fry me, is it?"

"No. And it shouldn't fry him, either. It's candlelight, not sunlight. You can’t actually do this spell with sunlight—not without putting out the sun. I just figured, you know, day and night were easy keywords to remember."

She pools the pendant and chain in my hand, where it gleams, silver and gold. So simple. So easy. It feels wrong.

"Do you want us to stay with you tonight?" Willow asks. "In case something …goes wrong?"

"I don't know. I guess. Couldn't hurt to have you on hand just in case," I say, staring at the necklace. "Magic's not really my thing. You don't think this is too easy?"

"No such thing," she says. "It'll be fine. You'll see."

***


Giles drives us back to my house. Willow and Tara have stayed over enough lately that they've both got bags with clothes and things there. He promises to be over, first thing in the morning, to see what happened.

I wonder if I can get away with not doing anything.

I take my time getting ready for bed. The others said I should just do what I usually do, so I don't alarm him. Wait until he's asleep, if I can. My stomach churns a little.

I could pretend it didn't work, couldn't I? Say I tried and…but then they'd just try something else. I sigh and stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I wish mom were here. I could tell her, she'd know what to do. Or she'd have something…you know, wise and insightful to say.

But she's not. It's just me. Buffy. The Slayer. I'm supposed to have the answers, right? Supposed to know what to do in these situations. Only I really don't. Not this time.

I touch the pendant with one finger. "Day." In the mirror, the soft glow of the necklace lights the under planes of my face. I flip off the overhead light. It's bright enough that I can see across the bathroom easily, but it casts my face in eerie shadows. I pull it out and away from me, a little. That's better. It's not even hot to the touch. I touch it again. "Night."

The light goes out.

***


Willow and Tara bunk down on the floor in my bedroom so they're close in case something happens. I really hope it won't. It takes me a long time to fall asleep.

And then I'm there, sitting on the bed in the dream room, waiting for Mr. Gordo.

He arrives just like always. Not there one minute, and then my Slayer sense goes off and I know where he is, a silent, comforting presence approaching from the opposite side of the bed. He climbs in and sits next to me, then taps three times on the bed.

"What?" I ask, looking in his direction.

He taps again. A question.

"Sorry," I say. "It's…been kind of a weird day."

A cool hand reaches out and strokes down the middle of my back. It feels really good, and I want to relax into it, but…Spike.

"I went to see Spike today," I say, trying to sound casual. His hand doesn't stop stroking me. "I asked him if he was you."

That gets a pause. Then three taps, softly, against my spine.

"What did he say?" I guess. No response. "Or why did I ask him that?"

Yes.

"Because…" I say, then don't know how to finish it. Because I want you to be Spike? I think.

Do I? Really?

Somewhere inside of me something says, yes. I do.

Because…because I know Spike. Because he’s been sort of a friend lately. Because I think I might…

But I can't tell him that. What if he isn't? What if he is? I might want it to be Spike but…I know better than to tell him that.

"Because…I don't know, I…it was just a feeling," I say. "But…he didn't really give me an answer. And I'd rather you didn't. I don't want you to lie to me."

He pauses again, then takes me by the shoulders and pulls me into his arms. He bends his head and brushes his mouth over the vein in my neck, then taps three times. "Do I trust you?" I ask.

Yes.

"I want to," I say. "I really want to." Gently he nips at the skin there, making my Slayer sense go wild, but worse, reminding me of Spike this morning, masculine and sexy as hell, standing in front of me, practically daring me to kiss him. Mr. Gordo presses a kiss against my neck. It feels like a promise.

"Okay," I say. "Can we just go to sleep?" God, I feel guilty and I haven’t even done anything yet.

Yes.

He rearranges himself, so that he's spooned behind me, one arm wrapped around my waist. I curl up and wait, regulating my breathing, trying to pay attention to him and stay awake myself.

Should I do this? Do I really want to know?

The question goes around and around in my head. Do I trust him? I want to. Mr. Gordo I can trust. Spike…I'm not sure about. Somehow, in the space of this last year, I've stopped hating Spike. Now I don't know what we are. Reluctant allies? Friends? Something else? I know what he is, but…he's changed somehow and I can't discount that either.

Still, Giles's warnings and lectures spin through my head, and all the work Willow did getting the pendant ready for me, and Xander's suspicions…

Behind me, I feel Mr. Gordo relax. Whatever reflexive breathing he has when awake stops when he's asleep. Carefully I edge out from under his arm. He rolls toward me a little, then settles when his fingers brush my hip.

Minutes tick by like hours as I sit there in the dark, staring blindly at my sleeping vampire.

I don't want to do this. I want to go to sleep, and get up in the morning, and swear that the necklace doesn't work here. I want to find a way to keep this…mine.

But I'm the Slayer.

Since when does what I want mean anything to the Powers That Be?

I touch the necklace. "Day," I whisper. Light pours out of the pendant, and for the first time I gaze down at my sleeping vampire.

He's pale against the black sheets that cover him from hips to feet. The black t-shirt he's wearing is rucked up around his stomach, exposing a few inches of white skin over solid muscle. One arm is tucked lazily behind his head, the other is outstretched toward me. His fingernails are painted black. They're chipped, as though he's been picking at them. Bleached white hair riots around his head like a punk version of cupid's curls. In sleep, his face is boyish, relaxed. Only the thin white scar that trisects his left eyebrow is a reminder that he's not as innocent as he seems. Taken one at a time, I think, his facial features aren't anything special. His nose is a little too big. His chin kind of soft, even though his jaw is strong. His mouth is small, a little pouty. His eyebrows too dark, too heavy. Those cheekbones…you could cut yourself on them, they're so sharp. But all together, on him…the effect is something akin to …not an angel. Not this one. A devil. A really beautiful devil. He was born to be a demon.

Spike.

Mr. Gordo is Spike.

I'd suspected, but it's nothing to actually seeing the truth of it. I'm not sure whether to be angry or elated. What's this all been about? Is Giles right? Has…has he been toying with me, all this time? Trying to find a way to get past my defenses? The thought of that hurts so much it makes me ache.

As if sensing my discomfort, his head turns toward me, a frown causing his heavy black brows to draw together, a tiny crease between them. When I make no further sound, he relaxes again. His lashes are black as crow’s wings against his white cheeks.

"Spike," I whisper, and the spell is broken.

His eyes fly open and stare directly into mine. For one instant he frowns, confused. Then I watch, shocked, as his eyes fill with terror. With a choked noise he backs away from me, covering his face with his hands, gasping.

He's afraid of me?

"Spike?" I ask. "What's…"

"Oh, Buffy," he breathes. "Oh, god, luv, why?"

"Spike, I…I don't understand, what is this?" I reach out and tug his arms away from his face. The look on his face…panic. Total and absolute panic.

"Why did you do it, luv? Why? Why couldn't you have trusted?" he says on a choked breath. "Oh, god. Only a few more weeks…Bloody hell!" He lunges forward, grips me by the shoulders tightly. "Listen to me, Buffy, I want to explain but I don't think we've got much time."

"Much time for—-Spike you're gonna explain this, now," I tell him.

"I want to, luv. God I want to, but she's coming. Can't you feel it? The cold?" And I realize he's right, the temperature in the room is dropping rapidly. "Listen to me, Buffy. In my crypt, downstairs, by the bed is my journal. Black cover, battered thing, beaten all to hell. You've seen it before. There's a spell on it. One of those willpower ones, like Red talked about at Christmas. Find it. Read it. From the beginning. It's all in there. Everything. Every word I've wanted to tell you from the beginning, but couldn't, even the not so nice ones. Promise me you'll read it, Buffy. All of it. No matter how awful I was in parts. Promise me?"

"Spike, I—"

"Promise," he growls, a hard demand, desperation behind his eyes. "God, if this…if this has meant anything to you, anything at all, please grant a dead man's request. Promise me you'll read it."

"I promise," I tell him. My breath fogs in the air.

He yanks me toward him hard and covers my mouth with his, kissing me as if he's dying again. His hands tangle in my hair, and I'm surprised to taste tears as he parts my lips and his tongue touches mine. God, the way he kisses…I've never been kissed like this before. Not by Angel, or Riley…not even by Spike during those few hours we were magically engaged. This is the real thing, no magic, and it's…incredible. Hungry, passionate, and intense. I don't want it to end.

But he's pulling away, leaving soft, lingering kisses on my swollen mouth, and when he pulls back I can see the tears in his eyes.

Spike is crying?

The absolute wrongness of that thought is enough to jolt me back to reality, such as it is.

"Spike?"

He gives me a small smile. "Know you won't believe me, but I want you to know," he says, "I love you, Buffy. I don't want to go. I don't want to leave you. I love you, so much. No matter what, I—"

"Will be mine," says a new voice, and the absolute cold of it sends shivers all over my skin.

We both turn to look at the intruder in our little world. She's tall, with long white hair that drifts behind her like fog. Her skin is hard and white, her teeth sharp as daggers, and her eyes are frosted ice over black. Her dress looks like it's been made of frost. She glides closer, and as she does the temperature drops even further, until my breath is steaming in the air and I'm shivering hard. My demon sense is going crazy.

"Sod off, bitch," Spike growls at her, climbing out of the bed and putting himself between me and the ice demon. I clamber out beside him, still reeling a little from what he just said. He loves me? Spike? Loves me? Nothing in my world makes sense right now.

She doesn’t say anything. Instead she just smiles, and I really wish she hadn’t. There’s something really wrong about that smile. Then it hits me—she’s totally insane.

"You're the Cold One," I say.

"And you are the Slayer," she says. "So broken. Such pain. Did I not tell you, pretty vampire, that she would break?"

"Didn't I tell you to sod off?" he says. "I won't go with you. Not willin—" Abruptly he chokes, his eyes going wide. He struggles for a minute, then freezes, only his face seems able to move. The demon tilts her head to the side, studying him.

"Shhh," she tells him. "We had a challenge. I won. You will do exactly as I please, and right now it pleases me that you hold your tongue." When she smiles again it's sharp and nasty. "Is he not so much better when he's silent?" she asks me.

I try to step forward, but my feet won’t budge, whatever she’s doing to Spike, she’s done to me, too. Fear trickles down my spine. If she can freeze us in place, how can I fight her? Still, it only seems to be my feet that don’t want to move, if I could get her closer…

"What's going on?" I ask. "What do you want with Spike and why am I here?"

"Tsk," she says. "Poor little Slayer. Did you know he was meant for you?" she drifts closer and Spike struggles as she draws him toward her. It's as if every muscle in his body is frozen, but still he fights. She reaches out and tears his shirt down the middle with one long fingernail, exposing his chest. Her fingers leave black marks on his skin when she brushes her hand over him and even though he can't make a sound I can tell he's in pain. "Your champion, your partner, your equal-opposite…made wrong, just for you, long before you were even born. And now he is mine. My pretty immortal with a human's heart, a human's pain."

The demoness leans in and kisses him, and when she draws away, I can see she's torn at his lips with her sharp teeth, leaving them bloody.

"And all because you were too impatient. Because you would not trust your own heart. Silly, pathetic Slayer," she hisses. "I will keep forever what you could not even begin to appreciate, and with him at my side, I will be free to roam your world once more."

"You sound pretty confident of that," I tell her, getting angrier with every word out of her mouth. How dare she meddle with my dreams? How dare she waltz in here and take Spike. I don't even know if I like him or not, but I do know this: Mr. Gordo is mine—therefore Spike is mine. And no Frosty the Snow Queen is going to come in and take him from me. "I think you're forgetting who you're dealing with." I fist my hands, ready to fly at her.

"Oh, I know exactly who I’m dealing with," she says, turning those freaky white eyes of hers on me. "Do you know what I am, little Slayer?"

"What?"

"I am the end," she says. "Why don't you wake up now, and watch it happen. Or try to stop me. Either way, it will be…entertaining."

I lunge at her…

***


…only to find myself sitting straight up in bed, hands balled into fists and swinging at Willow who has scooted back to the foot of the bed in alarm.

For a moment I only stare at her, panting.

"Well?" she says, curiosity winning out. "Did it work?"

Did what work? I look down at the necklace and swallow hard.

Oh. It worked.

"Oh, god," I say. "What've I done?"

"Buffy?" I scramble out of bed and start throwing on my clothes. Part of me still is hoping it was just a bad dream, but a bigger part of me knows the truth. For almost a year I've been dreaming about sleeping next to Spike. About sparring with Spike. About being comforted by Spike and telling him…everything. And all this time it was some game, between him and this demon woman.

I want to hate him. I want to cling to the distrust I've had for him from the beginning, but…the way he kissed me. The way he acted with her. The way he told me that he loved me…I have to know the truth. I have to find his journal and read it and figure out the truth.

I have to get to his crypt.

"Buffy? What's wrong?" Willow's asking, and her voice brings Giles and Tara in from the other room. Outside, dawn is breaking.

"I have to go," I tell them, pulling on my boots.

"Go? Where?"

"I have to go," I repeat. "I…I'll be back. I promise, but I have to check something. Just…wait for me, okay? I…it might take a bit, but I'll be back. Don't come looking for me. Give me a day…or…just…I have to go."

I yank on my coat and am out the door before they can stop me. All I can think is that I have to get to Spike's crypt.

I have to know.

***


There's only one lone crow this morning, sitting on Restfield's gates. He follows behind me, cawing sadly as I flounder through the new drifts toward Spike's crypt. The cemetery feels silent this morning, empty.

The crypt door bangs open hollowly as I enter. Like yesterday the upstairs is deserted, the slab in place over the ladder. I don't bother being quiet.

A light flickers in the bedroom, the same torch, the same bedside lamp. I wonder why Spike doesn't sleep in the dark?

But there's no sense of him here. Not even the slightest tingle. The bed is empty, the sheets pulled up and laying funny, as if someone had been sleeping beneath them, then abruptly vanished. He's gone.

He's really, actually gone.

Oh. God. What did I do?

…In my crypt, downstairs, by the bed is my journal. Black cover, battered thing, beaten all to hell. You've seen it before. There's a spell on it. One of those willpower ones, like Red talked about at Christmas. Find it. Read it. From the beginning. It's all in there. Everything. Every word I've wanted to tell you from the beginning, but couldn't, even the not so nice ones. Promise me you'll read it, Buffy. All of it. No matter how awful I was in parts. Promise me…

A promise. I made a promise.

I glance at the bedside table. There's stuff on it. Alcohol bottles, an ashtray full of half smoked cigarette butts, weapons, a few books. One of them, the one on top, is open, the pages full of writing. I pick it up, holding the page with my thumb. The front of it is battered, black leather. A journal. I've seen it before.

Spike holding it as he comes up out of my basement, just before the Mara attacks…Spike sitting on top of a crypt, scribbling in it…Spike sitting in his chair, writing in it as I storm in, demanding to know about dead slayers…Spike listening to the Grinch and writing with it propped on his thigh…Spike watching me pick it up, then put it down, disappointment on his face…Drusilla tossing it across the room with a shriek…

Now that I know to pay attention to it, I feel the spell on it. It makes me want to put it down, want to throw it away from me, forget I saw it, and whatever I do, I shouldn't read it.

But I promised.

I keep my promises.

I flip it open to the place I've marked with my thumb and deliberately begin to read. His handwriting is…stunningly pretty. Huh. Spike has pretty handwriting. Who'd have thought?

Feeling weirdly like I'm invading his privacy I skim what he'd written most recently.

"…God, I love her so much. Watching her laugh, watching her smile. Seeing how flustered she gets looking at me. I could sit and breathe in her scent every day, always. Having her like that, almost in my arms while she's awake and staring at me…like a bloody dream come true. I'm a selfish bastard, I know it. Let me get through these last few weeks. Let me beat this soddin' challenge…I'll do whatever is in my power to convince Buffy to give me half a chance. I'd walk to hell and back for her. I'd never let her down. Never leave her. She'd have to dust me first…"

Stunned, I read it again.

Oh.

Determined to know the whole thing now, I flip back to the first page. It's a poem? Okay. Spike writes poetry. And loves me.

Spike loves me.

And suddenly I really DO want to know the whole story. How did this happen? Why did that demon bitch want Spike? And what has this shared dream thing been about for the last year?

Curious, and nervous, I start to read.

END PART I


Author’s Notes:


To borrow a phrase from my other fandom, "the way forward is sometimes the way back." So, before Buffy can go forward from here, she's going to have to go back to the beginning. It's time to hear what Spike/Mr. Gordo has had to say. We're going to have to read over her shoulder for it, and it's not going to be all sunshine and daffodils. When I say we're going back, I mean we're going back to last summer, when Spike hated the Slayer. But, as the poem says "A promise made is a debt unpaid." Buffy made a promise, and I owe it to Spike to tell his side of the story. Even the parts where he was awful.

You may have noticed by now that I try to write characters in character, as much as possible, and a vampire's mind is a bloody and very dark place. The beginning of Part II is going to earn the mature/adult/NC-17 rating—not just for the content of Spike’s bloodiest fantasies, but also because he swears. A lot.

For those of you who’ve expressed some dislike for rehashing scenes and dialogue you’ve already read: don't worry, the journal doesn't recount EVERY scene from Spike's POV. For one thing, he wasn't around for a lot of what Buffy was doing. And he had his own stuff going on, as well. There will be some scenes duplicated and mirrored from Part I, but those are for the most part in the minority.

If you don't care to hear what Spike has to say…well, then I guess I'll see you in Part III.



 
 
Chapter #35 - Chapter 34: Paralyzed
 
Author’s Note:

A couple of notes on Part II—I’ve taken a few liberties with traditional “journal” format, for the sake of storytelling. This may include summarizing some events, while describing others in more detail, depending on Spike’s whim or how much needed to be told. Whenever there are elements of Spike’s journal that are non-textual, I’ve inserted notes so that you can “see” what Buffy is seeing (drawings, for instance, or notes scribbled in the margins).

Also, since Spike’s internal monologue (or the part of it he writes) isn’t constrained by the censors of American network TV, every so often you may see him use slightly stronger profanity than he used on the show.

Any poetry included in Spike’s journal that isn’t credited to another author was written by me. I have no presumptions about my abilities as a poet—thankfully Spike’s poetic abilities in canon aren’t exactly on par with Shakespeare.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae*
*because Spike is English, I’ve made a rather anal retentive attempt to spell things “properly.” My beta (who IS British), has asked that I include the following disclaimer: “Any Britpicking mistakes are my beta's, because she reads too much fic written by you bloody Americans and is used to your bizarre ways by now."







Part Two: East of the Sun



Chapter 34
Paralyzed

[From the journal of William the Bloody, original text contains many crossings out and rewrites, only some of which have been replicated here.]


Restless

Now, you wanker, before it fades
bleed the pen across the page.

Throbbing beats, pulsing light—she writhes within:
glorious as gold, sleek muscle, silken
skin. Poor sun-drenched girl, ripe as a peach and
ready for plucking by my hungry hand.

Lethal as she is lithe,
like a sword, like a knife,
like a woman’s tongue.

My demon paces in my breast,
hollow-eyed and restless.

Mine.

I'm drowning in summer's sunshine.
My old eyes burn, it gleams so bright.
Tears sear down my frozen face, scalding,
branding, rich and bitter as blood.

“It won’t hurt,” says Finn, with sparks behind
his eyes and a cardboard grin. “Not much.”
“It’ll hurt,” predicts Peaches. They’re mirror
twins. Same stupid hair, same shoes, same shirt.

They move together toward the girl; with one
slow step the sunlight dims. She’s draped by dark
like a silken shroud, and something darker stalks on
silent feet—stench of carrion, blood, decay.

Slay.

She walks away.

Strains Stains of some old song down a passageway.
Words, ruthless and crass. Laughs like shattered glass.

Corpse-cold room, friends guests hovering like flies.
Prufrock waits for his tattered coat. I hold
it open, snicker, watch fear like gas-lights
flickering behind his pathetic eyes.

A different girl, dark hair, dark lies.

(bit goes here… Cecily laughing, that dark thing slipping through the crowd)

Iron, wood, words; all so cold cruel, so sharp,
made especially for piercing hearts.

“…Bloody awful…”
“…through my head…”
“…you’re beneath me…”

But they’re all dead; I’ve waltzed on their graves.
Still, all I see, a sea of red. Drusilla dancing down scarlet
streets. "You taste like ashes," she says and grieves.
Miss Edith weeps from blinded eyes.

Something in the shadows there…flash of white, glimpse of hair.

(bit here, with that Chinese girl, wandering' through fire, then Prague, escaping on the train. Nikki in the shadows, faces along the line, being hunted, Bronze again)

“This way,” Watcher says. Beneath the streetlight his glasses
gleam. “Passions is on. You’re down the well.”

Hell is a porcelain bathtub in which she reclines, bold as brass.
“It’ll only burn for a moment,” she says and holds out a hand to help

me in.

[incomplete]

***


25 May 2000

Just when I think my unlife can't be more pathetic—dumped by my lover of over a century for a god damned fungus demon; the Gem of Amara in the hands of Grandpap Forehead the Broody; bested time and again by a slip of a chit and a gang that calls themselves the Scoobies for chrissake; and to end all injustice, a piece of plastic shoved up my brain that won't let me hunt, won't let me feed, won't let me lift a sodding finger against anything but my own kind—I get singled out by some hell bitch who wants to make me her bleeding consort.

Which, admittedly, wouldn't be so bad if the icy bint wasn't bug-shaggin' crazy, and not the fun kind, either. Got a bad feeling that this one makes Dru look right sane.

Haven't kept a journal in… almost a century, I suppose. Too awkward to lug around, too dangerous to leave behind. Since I'm stuck in Sunnyhell until this chip is out of my head, and I've got nothing better to do, I might as well. Not like I can talk about this with anyone.

And isn't that the kicker?

Note to self: Spike, old boy, when you wake up to find a woman floating over your bed, it's probably not a good idea to proposition her. I've clearly got to find something better than my fist to shag if I'm that desperate.

Hell, I'd settle for Harmony, if she showed up again. Stupid cunt never shuts up. I could rip her tongue out, I suppose. Make more room in there for other things. My luck, of course, it'd grow back and then I'd never hear the end of it.

In any case, on the off chance I don't manage to survive the next year, might as well lay out what happened, and why. Dru, if you're reading this, princess, believe me when I say this was a bad bargain and I wasn't exactly willing.

So the night before last I had the dream trip from hell. Long tangled parade of nonsense, filled with Slayers and old victims and Dru and blood. At one point I was being stalked by some manky thing with ratty dreads and a stake. Somehow knew that, whatever it was, it was out for my dust. Toward the end it had me pinned, a stake pressed to my chest and its stinking breath washing over my face. Then it was over and I was waking up.

Spent most of yesterday trying to write it down and failing miserably. Went to bed hoping I'd seen the end of nightmares for a while, and just as I was starting to drop off, I woke up to find a woman floating over my bed.

I didn't know beauty could be terrible, but hers was. Sharp as a knife and ten times as cold, her eyes cut me clear to the bone. Long white hair that drifted behind her as if she were underwater, skin as hard and pale as marble. She wasn't a vampire but the amount of power rolling off her was enough to make me scared and horny as hell. Haven't felt like that since the night Dru turned me.

I realise I'm not known for thinking with my big head when the little one is awake and interested, but I probably should have clamped down on that urge. Instead I found myself saying something that might've included the words "show us your tits."

Then there was fire in my face, in my crotch, in my gut. Like someone had ripped parts of me away and filled the holes with holy water. I'm not sure how long she kept it up, but when she finally let me go I realised the roaring I was hearing was my own voice echoing off the crypt walls. Nearly had to check to be sure all my parts were still there.

The woman leaned over me, her long hair drifting round us like fog. "Pretty vampire," she murmured. She had a thick, strange accent. Scandinavian, maybe. "Such lovely pain. Nothing on earth feels pain like you do." Her hands were ice cold—so cold they burned where they touched me. The demon had long since risen to the surface and I snarled and thrashed, trying to reach her but I couldn’t move much more than my head. Whatever mojo she’d worked it was worse than being paralyzed. Could still feel pain all through me, just couldn’t move a fucking muscle.

"Let me loose and I'll make sure you feel it, too," I promised. God I wanted to rip out all that hair and use it to bind her, tear out her fingernails and stab them into those black eyes of hers.

She laughed razorblades. "Shhh," she said, icicle fingers stroking my forehead ridges. Fucking hurt. Haven't felt cold like that in more than a century. "I’ve hunted for one like you for so long; searched far and wide for a creature worthy of being my consort. For one strong enough to free me."

"Fuck you," I snarled.

"Oh, you will," she said, her hands moving over me, reminding me that I was naked. She gripped my dick, sending shards of icy pain lancing through me. Didn't seem to matter how much I yelled, she just held tighter until I thought she was planning to break it off. "And since you are immortal, you will do it for as long as I please." Finally she let go, and I breathed a sigh of relief. She'd frozen it black, but it was still there. I'd heal. I hoped.

My fangs ached to tear into her.

"Won't," I said, not bothering to suppress the growl that rose from my throat. Bloody bitch's hand practically freezes off my bits, what the fuck makes her think I'd stick it in her frigid cunt?

I've got limits, after all.

"You’re very strong. Good. You will need that strength," she said. "But you are no match for a goddess."

"Goddess of what? Ice trays?"

"Many things," she said. "Magic. Nightmares. The kind that tear the soul and cause pain. Once I ruled here in your world, but I was banished, long ago. Until someone did something they should not have, someone opened a door. Someone was kind enough to provide me with the means of crossing here and through the dreams of those connected to her, I found you."

The Slayer. Her and her little Slayerettes and their sodding spells, I'd wager. Always dabbling in things best left alone.

"Bitch," I ground out, unsure if I meant her or the Slayer. It applied both ways.

I've done some reading, in my time. May not have heard of this nasty before, but she was a demon goddess and there was a good chance the usual rules applied. Thought maybe I could bargain my way out. "Let me go and I'll give you the Slayer instead. Her pain's quite tasty, I imagine."

"Sorry, my beloved," she grinned nastily. Her teeth were white and sharp as guillotine blades. "Your Slayer is human and far too fragile for what I’ve in store. Besides," her finger trailed over my torso until it rested over my heart. "You are unique. Special. You have something… a little extra."

Pain, worse than before, as her nail dug into my chest and then through, pressing past skin, past bone, to lodge like an icy spike through my heart. "It is not all there, of course," she whispered. "But there is enough left to make you extra delicious. Someone put you together wrong, and it is all for my benefit…"

No clue what she was prattling on about, and I missed parts of it when my demon was roaring loud enough to deafen me. Now, of course, I wonder if… no. Not possible. Just because I've sometimes felt a bit off means nothing. Demon takes people in different ways. I know that for a fact.

"Challenge," I said, when I felt capable of speech again. "Won't go easily. I challenge you."

Her finger withdrew and I went limp with relief. "Challenge?" She smiled. I glared. If looks could kill, I'd have strung her guts round my crypt like garlands. "A game?"

In retrospect, she sounded far too pleased by that prospect. Still, wasn't as if I had much of a choice.

"I win and I go free," I said. "You leave me here, just as you found me, and go back to whatever frigid hell it was that spat you out."

"It is beautiful there, you know," she said. "Hard to find, harder to reach. Your dreamers know 'the hidden paths that run, West of the Moon, East of the Sun'. Always twilight, no sunlight to harm all this beautiful skin…"

If she wanted my skin unharmed she was going about it all wrong. Her nails were burning frostbite black patterns across my chest. Bloody fuck it hurt.

"Challenge," I barked, wanting the dozy bitch to focus and stop quoting Tolkien.

"Oh, it will be," she said. Her eyes were black on white, but the white crackled at the edges, frosting over the black until the darkness was trapped beneath ice. She tapped the wound over my heart. "I know you, now. Know what you cannot resist. Know what lies lie beneath your breast. Know what you desire most of all. Every night, when you sleep, you will come to my dimension. Every night she will come to you when she sleeps. Blindly, she will share your bed. If she but once gazes upon your face, I win. If but once you speak a single word to her, I win."

I didn't know who she was talking about, didn't care. Was too busy looking for loopholes.

"What if I kill the chit?"

"I win."

"And if she kills me?" Not likely, but worth asking.

"She cannot, not there."

"So I sleep with some bint, can't talk to her, she can't see me. That about the shape of it?" I could do that. Could bite my tongue and bed down with some tart if it got me out of this—

"For a year and a day."

Oh, bloody hell.

I'm aware, patience isn't exactly one of my virtues. Hell, not sure I have any virtues. I get bored easy. Give me action, a fight, fangs and fists and fury. A year and a day of keeping my bleedin' trap shut and not killing someone? Turns out the bloody bitch does know me well. Couldn't have picked a better challenge if she'd asked Angelus for pointers.

"Sure you want to wait that long? I'm a hot commodity. Might go to a different buyer in the meantime," I asked. Maybe she'd shorten it up a bit. Some manoeuvring room wasn't a bad thing, though. Could maybe go to the Slayer; get the Watcher on the case. He'd figure out who this hell bitch was and we could send her packing. That's what the do-gooders do, right? Rescue people?

Not that I'm exactly people, but I figure they owe me one for saving their hides when the Initiative was collapsing round their ears the other night.

"I have all the time in the world and then some. A year will flavor your pain. There is just one other thing…"

Knew it. Always another catch. She drifted closer, so I could feel her north-wind breath frosting my face.

"You will not be able to tell anyone about this. In my world you will keep your mouth closed of your own will. In this one, however, I will seal it shut." She kissed me. It was like snogging a frozen piranha, only not as pleasant. When she floated back, my lips were bleeding and cracked.

When this is over, I'm going to have a lot of fun killing this bitch.

"Let's get on with it then," I said. So I couldn't tell anyone. I'd find a way around it. I'm resourceful like that. She'd regret underestimating me.

"Done," she said.

Everything went dark. Well, almost.

I was standing in a stone room, naked as I'd been before. Somewhere far above was a window that let in just barely enough light for my eyes to see by. The walls were lost in the dark, too far away to make out, but just below the window was a bloody enormous canopy bed covered in satin sheets and posh duvet.

Sitting on it, blinking blindly into the darkness, was the Slayer.

Bloody, buggerin' fuck.

"A year and a day," the hell bitch's voice whispered in my ear. "Not that you will last that long, sweet William. Soon, very soon, you will be mine…and so will all of this world." Then she was gone.

I wanted to kill something. Wanted to rend and maim and roar. I couldn't. Not here. Not now. Not without damning myself to a living hell.

Warily I approached the bed.

The Slayer looked straight at me, but I could tell she couldn't see me. She was tense, probably could sense me. Her hands fisted in the covers as she waited. Must've snagged her fresh out of bed since she was wearing sweats and one of those strappy tops of hers. No bra to hide her perky little tits, either. Could tell she was scared, nervous.

The scent of fear rolling off of her made my fangs itch. Fuck but that's delicious.

A year and a day, sleeping next to the bloody Slayer. Without talking. Without killing her.

Yeah. This is going to be hell.

"Are you going to attack or what?" she asked suddenly, clearly frustrated, voice all snooty. "It's really late and I've got a ton of stuff to do tomorrow. Could we just get on with it so I can go back to sleep?"

Self-centred bitch only cares about her precious beauty sleep. Stupid cow didn’t even bother to question why she was here.

I clenched my jaw, feeling my fangs slice into my lower lip. My mouth flooded with blood. Wasn't hers, but it assuaged the demon a little. It still paced in pain and fury, demanding release, wanting blood. Slayer blood, pumping over my tongue, down my throat, heady hot and sweet. Fuck. Would heal up that hole in my chest like nothing. Put out the fire in my crotch, my face, soothe the burns on my chest. I'd be strong. Be fast. Hard. Could pound her tiny carcass into the mattress as the last of her warmth drained out, then toss her aside like a spent matchstick. So easy.

And then I could go live forever with the Snow Queen as her little bloodthirsty lapdog.

Yeah, good plan, Spike.

With effort, I shook off the demon and put it on the short leash. I'll play this game. I'll win. In the meantime, I'll be looking for a way out. But right then I needed some kip and I just bet the rules said I had to get it next to the Slayer. Buggering hell.

Moving silently, watching her tense features in the dim light, I approached the bed and slid beneath the covers. She could tell where I was, but her eyes remained blind. Not enough light in the room for her human eyes to see. Barely enough for me. Her heartbeat was frantic, frightened. She smelled of tension and fear and… was that strawberries?

"You're… going to sleep?" she demanded. "Just… going to sleep? This is a weird dream."

God, I wish it was a dream. I'm not that lucky, though. Never have been.

I let out a sigh and rolled onto my side, facing away from her. If I looked at her, I'd eat her. Rip out her throat and drink deep. Couldn't risk it. After awhile she settled down, and a long time later, I heard her heartbeat steady and her breathing slow as she fell asleep. It took me a lot longer, fighting my demon every second until I'd wrestled it into a corner and promised it the hell bitch's blood in a golden chalice. Much as it hated the Slayer, we both hated our unexpected jailer a lot more. Possibly even more than the sodding chip.

Not sure how long I slept, but when I woke up, I was back in the crypt and I could feel the sun high overhead. Might have written it off as just a dream, except for the hole in my chest that was just starting to heal.

So I got out this book, where I scribble the bits of poems that I've been itching to write ever since this stupid chip left me mostly useless (turns out useless brings old William prancing back to the surface sometimes). Figure I'll get all this out, just in case things go south or I need a reminder. Witch said I couldn't talk, never said I couldn't write it with no intention of showing it round.

Tonight I'll head over to the Watcher’s and have a browse through his collection, see what I can dig up on the Snow Queen. Then, later, I'll try to keep from slaying my third slayer in her sleep.

Used to be I only had to worry about the Slayer every time I turned around. Now she's haunting my sleep.

Should just stake myself now and put myself out of my misery.

***


30 May 2000

Rupert has too many bloody books.

And he keeps moving them about.

On the upside, I found his book on Angelus last night and drew moustaches and tiny pricks on all the pictures of the enormous git. It was very therapeutic.

By the by, it's fascinating what the Council of Wankers knows about him. Barry Manilow? Honestly? God, save me from a soul if it makes you listen to shite like that.

***


12 June 2000

Been clearing out that cave under my crypt through the day. Got nothing better to do. Nicked some equipment from a construction site nearby and carved a proper hole out, instead of that awkward grate I was using before. Nice space down there. Enough room for a bolthole, at least. Picked up a slab of granite to cover up the access from above. Would take at least vampire strength to move it, so I don't have to worry about any bloody humans poking their noses down there like I had a few months back with those army wankers who trashed my telly.

I went back and found the sewer schematics from when I was searching for the Gem last year. Looks like there's a line that passes about twenty yards from the cave. Can maybe widen it out? That way if I need an escape route during the day I've got one. I don't fancy getting stuck in here again. So far the Slayer's been content just to let me be, but that'll only last so long. Eventually she'll get a bloody bee in her bonnet and I'll have to get the hell out of here in a hurry. I'd feel better with a backdoor no one knows about.

God, I hate her.

Fucking self-righteous bitch. Always threatening me and punching me in the face.

Which part of Spike-can't-fight-back doesn't she get? Or maybe that just makes it better for her, knowing she's got a vamp she can pound on until bloody kingdom come, knock about and demand info and assistance from like it's her god-given right. And maybe it is. Maybe me being evil means I deserve to take her abuse. But back when I was a lad, someone who did what she does would have been called a bully.

Chaining me in a sodding bathtub for days on end…

Never occurred to her that if she'd just fed me proper and guaranteed me safety I'd have given up whatever info she wanted. Eventually. For all her bullying tactics, she's honourable enough, I figure her word's close to gold.

Don't trust the others, of course. The boy and the Watcher would stake me as soon as look at me, and the witch and demon wouldn't lift a finger to stop them.

Doesn't matter. One of these days I'll get this sodding chip out, and then I'll pay her back for every punch, every kick. Chain her in a bathtub and see how she feels about it. Strip her naked, clamp some shackles round those twiggy little wrists and ankles. Pour it brim full of blood, cut her here and there—shallow cuts to add a bit of Slayer spice to the soup…

Fuck. Now I'm hungry.

Going to have to bite my lip bloody all night to keep from draining her dry.

***


5 July 2000

Humans and their fireworks. Brilliant.

Managed to get enough dynamite to knock out some of that cave wall. I set it to blow during Sunnyhell's annual fireworks display, which covered up the noise nicely. Nicked some fireworks, too. Never know when they might come in handy. Tonight I'll head down with a jackhammer and start the major tunnelling. Figure I can probably clear it on my own in a week or so, if the Slayer doesn't give me any problems.

It’s getting annoying, sleeping in that dream room bed night after night—then waking up on that cold stone slab with my back aching. Wonder if I can pinch a mattress from somewhere? There's enough room down there for one. Bet I could get one out of the old mansion. Not like Angel's about to use them.

Might've left some books around there, too. Poofter was always reading… maybe he's got some info on demon gods and escape clauses. God knows I haven’t found much in the Watcher’s collection. Surely he’s got more books stashed somewhere? Didn’t he have a whole bloody library a few years back?

***


4 August 2000

Sometimes I don't want to kill her.

Well, not actively, at any rate. She's the Slayer, ergo I want her dead. But there are moments when I don't mind the wait.

Last night she was wearing the oddest pyjamas. Had sushi all over them. Frankly, it was adorable. Food dressed in food. Her hair was all mussed, and she looked tired. Like a sleepy kitten. Hard to imagine this little, sleepy-eyed girl is the bloody bogeyman for the rest of my kind. Ironic, it is.

She doesn't know who I am. I should have realised that in the dark she wouldn't be able to distinguish me from any other vampire, though it's a mite bit disappointing. She thinks our time is just a dream, and over the last few weeks she's relaxed enough to just drop right off when I come to bed. Can’t decide if she’s just that trusting or if she’s really that stupid.

Makes me grin.

Most nights, though, it's torment.

So close. So near. This dream dimension thing dulls the senses a bit but I can still smell her, sometimes I can practically taste her. All that lovely Slayer blood pumping away beneath her skin loud enough to keep the dead awake. She'll taste like sunshine and whiskey and burn all the way down.

Only got a taste of that Chinese Slayer. Not even a drop of dear old Nikki.

This one? I'm gonna drain her ‘til she's nothing but a wrinkled husk of skin with shampoo commercial hair. Gonna bathe in her blood. Maybe save a few pints, keep it for a bit, see if it ages well, like wine.

I lay beside her, just out of arms reach, her face etched in the dim light, and I picture it a hundred thousand ways. All the ways I want to kill her. All the ways I will.

Just have to wait a bit longer. Figure out how to get out of this hell bargain. Get the chip out.

Then she's mine.

This Slayer is mine.

Most nights the demon is so close to the surface I probably vamp at least once an hour. I somehow keep managing to stuff it back down. Need her alive just a little longer. Less than a year now.

Been on this bloody planet for a hundred and forty-eight years. Twenty-nine of them alive. One hundred and nineteen of them dead. I can wait another year.

I can wait.

And then we'll dance. Oh, how we'll dance.

***


13 August 2000

G.I. Jackoff is back in town.

Can’t say as I’ve missed him. Kind of hoped he’d go back to whatever pissant little barnyard he’d goose-stepped out of and accidentally get run over by thresher. Or a hay-baler. I’m not picky.

Can smell him on her when she comes to bed. Every time we have ourselves a run in it's all I can do to suppress a grin at his expense. Would love to dash it in his face that even when she's laying in his arms, she's still sleeping in a monster's bed every night.

Even the demon is a bit smug about it.

Doesn't do much for the frustration, of course. Every night I want to rip her bloody throat out.

I’ve been hunting the cemeteries. Can't hunt humans but dusting vamps and taking out demons takes care of some of the tension. It's not as satisfying as that hot gush of human blood at the end of a good chase, but it'll do. Wonder where Harmony ran off to, some nights. A good shag would help put me to rights—not that Harmony is a good shag, but she's willing enough and if I stuff my fist in her mouth she's not half bad.

Some nights I'm so horny it's hard to separate it from the bloodlust. I lay there, watching the Slayer sleep, and my fancies flicker through my head, blood and sex, blood and sex. I imagine devouring that slender neck, spreading her legs and feasting between her thighs, driving my dick into her at the same time as I slip my fangs into her breast… it's all tangled up. Takes forever to get to sleep, and when I wake up I'm so hard I could probably use my prick as a jackhammer.

Fuck.

I really need to kill something.



Author’s Postscript:

This chapter covers the same time period as the Prologue and Chapter 1.








 
 
Chapter #36 - Chapter 35: She Belongs To Me
 
Author’s Note:
A quick note on Spike's history: Most of what I used is straight from canon. To fill in blanks however, I've occasionally included nods to some of the novels or comics that aren't considered canon. The rest of it is just shit I made up. If you see something that may appear to be a discrepancy it’s me picking and choosing which of the non-canon elements to include.

This chapter covers the same time period as Chapter 2, for those of you who want to go back and compare perspectives.

Also, just as a matter of trivia—chapter titles in Part II are borrowed from the titles of various punk/rock/metal songs.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae*
*because Spike is English, I’ve made a rather anal retentive attempt to spell things “properly.” My beta (who IS British), has asked that I include the following disclaimer: “Any Britpicking mistakes are my beta's, because she reads too much fic written by you bloody Americans and is used to your bizarre ways by now."







Chapter 35
She Belongs To Me




27 September 2000

Dracula.

Fucking poofter is in town and if the boy soldier is to be believed, he's hunting my Slayer. Owes me eleven quid, and now he wants to owe me a Slayer?

She's not sleeping well. Came to bed late last night, slept fitfully the whole time. With Drac in town it's not so surprising. He’s all show, though. Almost as bad as Angelus about dragging out the hunt and never getting round to the business of actually killing. It’s pathetic is what it is.

Wonder what happens to me if she dies out there? Hadn’t thought of that before.

Will the hell bitch take me, even though I didn't break the deal? Or does it nullify it? Make it all void? Can't satisfy the terms of the challenge so…

Guess I'm going back to Rupert's to look up challenges and rules.

If he's moved all the books about again, I'm gonna start gluing the pages together.

***


Bloody buggering fuck. Can buy alcohol no problem but they fucking card you to buy glue? Like sniffing it would do me any good.

Thank the Powers for five-finger-discounts.

***


[Note: four pages between the last text entry and this are covered in surprisingly well done, if graphic, drawings of a cartoon vampire resembling Dracula, being tormented in a variety of imaginative and painful ways.]

28 September 2000

She fucking tasted him.

And he bit her.

One day I'm going to find a way to kill that overbearing ponce. Him with his nancy-boy, ridiculous fucking gypsy powers. I'll bottle him up like a goddamn genie and pour in holy water. I'll nail him face first to a cross with railroad spikes through his hands and balls, then watch him burn. I'll seal him up in his coffin then ship him to the middle of the Sahara with instructions to open it just before high noon. We'll see how Mr. Dead and Loving It loves that.

[Note: the next three paragraphs have been omitted since they contain little of substance aside from a rather fluent grasp of profanity in nearly a dozen languages, some of which are clearly demonic in origin.]

She came to bed late last night. So late that I was there and waiting when she showed.

For that first half an hour I thought she was dead. Imagined that wanker holding her broken corpse, draining all that lovely blood out of her for himself.

He'd have turned her, thinking she'd make a lovely vampire.

He'd have been wrong.

You don't turn Slayers. Whatever it is in them that makes them Slayers… it'd be right nasty if it were turned. Especially her. Probably end the whole sodding world. As I've said a time or two, I like this world. Would be pure stupidity to turn a Slayer. Only good thing about it would be her tearing him to shreds, bare-handed, the minute her eyes shot open.

When she showed, I nearly broke from relief. And that's not really an experience I want to repeat.

She's mine.

I've known it since I first laid eyes on her. This Slayer, more than the other two ever were, is mine. Only thing that could make it more official would be a stamped and notarised certificate from the Powers That Be, registering one authentic Buffy Summers, Slayer to Yours Truly.

Normally, she doesn't talk to me. At first there were warnings and the usual empty threats, but she's gotten it into her head that I'm just a dream so she rarely speaks any more. Makes it easy to keep my own trap shut. Last night, though, she was feeling chatty.

"It'd be really nice if I could go one night without any vampires," she said when she came in, pouting a little. God, that little lip—made especially for sinking your teeth into. Shame it's wasted on such a bitch.

"I staked Dracula tonight. Three or four times. Didn't take, of course, and he's long gone by now… You ever meet Dracula?" she looked straight at where she thought I was, and it's uncanny how close she actually got. Her eyes focused somewhere near my mouth, which got me hard and horny.

I couldn't respond, of course. Not that that stopped her from nattering on. Funny, how she clams up round her mates, but give her a silent and captive audience and she lets slip all sorts of things.

"He's really annoying. Full of himself. I thought he was kind of pretty, at first, for a vampire. No bumpies for Dracula. He probably thinks they'd ruin his image. I wonder if vampires get plastic surgery?"

I choked on a laugh. Mocking Dracula is an old past time for me, and hearing the Slayer do it made it even better. Plastic surgery. Going to remember that one. To my eternal delight, she laughed, too, and kept on.

"Well it is California. They'll plastic up anybody. He looks like vampire Barbie."

I snickered silently.

"So I guess you're not him, then."

That got my full attention. She thought I might be Dracula? Thought I was that poncy wanker? Doesn't she have any fucking sense?

"Well, I figure if you were Dracula, you wouldn't be laughing at yourself. He doesn't strike me as the self-deprecating type."

Oh. Right. Well, that was all right then.

Also, I'm a little stunned that her vocabulary includes words like 'self-deprecating'. Sometimes she comes off as such a valley girl it's hard to remember that there're brains in there, somewhere. Love to crack her skull open and poke about in them a bit, see what turns up.

"The thing is… he said some stuff to me… tonight. I… you know I'm the Slayer, right?" Her face was screwed up with uncertainty, like it had just occurred to her that I might not. Like any vampire could enter a room with her in it and not sense that she was the Slayer. Even fledges can tell, though they don't know what that hum of danger and power means, why it's warning them away.

I shifted, not sure how to let her know, or whether I ought to let her know, but she's a clever girl and got it anyway.

"Right. So, he said that … my power comes from darkness. And… it kind of wigged me, you know? Well, maybe you don't cause you're all about the darkness but… I'm not supposed to be. I'm supposed to be the good guy, the white hat. I didn't believe him. But then he made me drink some of his blood—"

I fell off the bed.

Not proud of that. But I'll admit it. Knocked me back flat, hearing her say that she'd tasted that wanker. I started to swear, then remembered in time that I couldn't.

All of a sudden I had this mad idea that he’d thralled her so he could shag her. That that supreme arsehole had shagged my Slayer. Could smell him on her and there were fresh fang tracks on her pretty little throat. I saw red, the demon roaring back to the surface, eager for blood.

Still, despite her clearly execrable taste in men, I couldn’t imagine her fucking that wanker. She might have let Angel have a poke, but no way was she going to let another vamp that near her again.

But he'd had a taste.

There have been far too many fangs in my Slayer. Next pair are going to be mine, and I'm going to erase all their marks when I tear her throat open. Getting bloody tired of being last in line.

"Are you okay?" she asked, all concerned-like. I lifted my head, shocked all over again. Slayer's concerned about me? Not possible.

And it wasn't, of course, because a second later she frowned so hard I could see it in her face she was remembering that I'm a vamp and she's the Slayer and she should be trying to kill me, not coddle me. Funny that it was her first instinct, though.

Slowly I picked myself up and dusted off my trousers, then climbed back in bed. Haven't slept naked since that first night. Little too vulnerable, laying next to the Slayer with all my bits within her easy reach. Helps keep the demon in check, too. I could probably shag her bloody myself, but since I can't kill her I'm fairly certain she'd want to suss out who I was, after, which would cock up everything. So for now I'll keep my prick to myself.

We stared at each other for a while.

Well, I stared at her. She stared in my general direction. She was looking at my mouth again, which wasn’t helping my erection in the least.

When I couldn't take it anymore I gestured for her to hurry it up and finish her story, then winced.

"I can't see you, you know that, right?"

Irritated with myself, I tapped on the bed.

"Is that a yes?"

For a moment I wondered if doing the whole séance gig would constitute speaking, but the Frost Bitch had been pretty specific about the not saying a word thing. I decided to take her literally. Most demons aren't too good with grey areas and mostly ignore them.

I tapped again.

"You're a very weird vampire, and this is a very weird dream."

She wasn't wrong. Not about the first bit, anyway. Only thing wrong with the second bit is her assuming it was a dream. Couldn't correct her, so I didn't.

"I guess you were a little surprised about me drinking Dracula's blood?"

Clearly. I tapped again.

"It's not like I had a choice!"

Like that's an excuse. There's always a choice.

"Stupid thrall," she muttered. Bugger that. Girl's strong enough now that I don't think even Dru could thrall her. Count Wankula couldn't have been that difficult to overcome, if she'd put her will to it.

"Okay, so it was a dumb move. And it didn't really show me much of anything. Just me fighting. And that crazy rasta-mama first slayer chick that tried to kill me in my dreams once… and blood, only all in close up, which… ewwww."

She paused, her face scrunching up adorably. "Probably not from your perspective, I guess."

Shocked, I couldn't help but stare. Probably not from your perspective, I suppose, I'd said to her, just after finding out that Dru had bagged that unimpressive little Jamaican Slayer. She's quoting me. Possibly unconsciously, but still.

After a pause she continued, "It's just… there's so much about being the Slayer that I don't understand. You'd think that I would. I've been doing this for five years now. But I don't really know anything about… where my powers come from or even the extent of them. Which I should. I totally should. I know I'm not all book-girl but… maybe I should, like, look it up… If for no other reason than to keep from having to drink icky vamp blood in order to figure it out."

Sometimes I wonder how this one managed to stay alive so long.

I've seen plenty of Slayers, killed two, but fought more than that—some of them were so weak it wasn't really a let down when something else beat me to them. No glory in fighting them when they're still all trembley and dewy and newly called. The two I killed had both been at the top of their form, real prize-winners both. They'd made names for themselves among my kind and taking them down had been a challenge.

Angelus once suggested I had a death wish, going after Slayers. Darla thought it was for sport. Dru saw it as an obsession.

They're all wrong.

It's like trying to find your equal. Your match. Knowing that out there is someone as good as you. As strong, as fast, as fierce. I'm a predator, top of the food chain (or I would be without this sodding chip in my head). A hundred plus years of studying, fighting, learning… you get to be good at what you do.

The fight was never it for Angelus. When I was a fledge, yeah, he kicked my arse more times than I care to remember and made sure it hurt like hell every time. Then he spent a hundred years wallowing in the sodding gutter and feeding off rats like an Anne Rice cliché. Me? I travelled round the world. Learnt (and ate) the best there were, trying on fighting styles as often as Dru changed her dresses. I know now that I got lucky against that Chinese girl, but by the time I got to Nikki I was more than her match.

You dance with a Slayer, though, and there's only one way to end it. One of you has to die eventually, and it wasn't going to be me.

This one, though… this little blonde girl with her big eyes and pouty lip and her little gang of Scoobies, she's been different from the first. I've never gotten such a rush as when I'm fighting her. First time I laid a fist on her and she barrelled right back at me, I knew it'd be a long, long time before I found an adversary like this again. Someday she might even be the dust of me, but it won't be until I can go out fighting.

She won't admit it, but she wants the dance as much as I do. There's no glory in taking out the weak, no honour in it. Not that I give a fuck about honour, exactly. We've stalemated so many times, left openings wide when the timing wasn't right—someday we'll meet on the battlefield again, me and her, and it'll be so bloody fantastic that it'll rock the whole world. Clash of the Titans. Epic. A duel for the ages.

The Watchers are going to write reams about the two of us. We'll be legend.

And whichever one of us walks away…

Don't like thinking that far, somehow. There won't be another like her, even if I live until the sun explodes and takes this planet with it.

In the meantime, though, I can't help but ponder the mystery that is Buffy Summers. She's barely scratched the surface of what she is. Doesn't even know what she's capable of yet. What's to come for her.

And she's already better than Nikki.

Not killing her isn't such a trial, at the moment.

Give her another year. See what she becomes.

When I came out of my thoughts, she was starting to drift off to sleep and I'd missed whatever she'd said after that last bit. Her head was turned into the pillow, showing off the healing fang marks Dracula had left her. I squinted at the scar in the low light.

I knew the Master bit her. Knew Angel had torn into her at least once. Their marks were layered, one over the other, building a single scar. I leaned forward and traced it with one hand. Vaguely 'Y' shaped, it was. Familiar.

Like the scar that mars my left brow.

Can't see it in a mirror, but I've seen it in photos, and had Dru sketch it a time or two. I know it well enough after a hundred years.

Interesting.

Guess the Powers sent me that certificate after all.

I growled and moved back before she could sit up, her heart racing a little and fear leaking from her pores. Only one word, pounding in my brain, throbbing through me with every beat of her heart…

Mine.

***


1 October 2000

Research is starting to pay off. Watcher never bothered to disinvite me, so accessing his collection is usually just a matter of waiting for the old fool to fall asleep, then snatching a book or two and putting back whichever I’d borrowed the night before. Never suspects that evil is afoot in his very own home, all tucked away in his beddy-bye and snuggled up to his bottles of scotch. Plonker. Scoobies might think I'm useless, but I never let them see even half of what I'm capable of. I’ve got an invite into most of their homes, be so easy to take them out, if I wanted, chip be damned. Set a little fire, muck with their brake lines… They're always so willing to underestimate me.

Doesn't help that the Council of Wankers seem to dismiss the idea that vampires without souls might be more than just fangy graveyard pests. Oh, they keep track of our exploits and all. Found my little nothing of an entry in the Watcher's book the other night. Angelus they have a whole sodding book on (including a whole bleeding chapter on his hair. It grows straight up. That's it. End of story. Also, he likes Herbal Essences cause it's the only way he can get a happy without losing his nancy little soul.)

I get a measly seven paragraphs.

[Note: the following bit has been torn from another book and taped into the journal.]



WILLIAM (the Bloody)

William the Bloody, (approx. 1880, sired by Drusilla, Aurelian line but not a member), also known as "Spike," "Slayer of Slayers," and member of the "Scourge of Europe" (not to be confused with Scourge, The, see index) and "The Whirlwind".

His human life is largely unknown. William speaks with a working class London accent. His love of brawling and distaste for the upper-class have led to postulation that he may have been a gang member, pimp, or lower class worker before his turning. Of medium height and athletic build, William's "human" face has blue eyes, a roman nose, and dark brows. His natural hair colour is recorded, historically, as medium brown, although he has been known to go so far as to dye his hair in order to change his appearance—an unusual resource among vampires—and since the mid 1970's has preferred variations of pale blond to white hair. At various times, however it has been dyed black. He can be identified otherwise by his prominent cheekbones, and a scar that trisects his left eyebrow and seems to be immune to his vampiric healing abilities. How this scar was obtained is unknown, and should the information be stumbled upon, it would be of great interest to the Council.

In his early years, he obtained his nickname "Spike" through the use of railroad spikes as torture devices, even going so far as to drive them through the heads of several victims.

William the Bloody is the only known vampire currently in existence to have killed two Slayers within the span of a century. The first, Xin Rong (b. 1883. c. 1898, d. 1900), was stationed in China, and met William during the Boxer Rebellion. Her Watcher's diary indicates that she never met William prior to their final, fatal battle. The second, Nikki Wood (b. 1955, c. 1970, d. 1977), stationed in New York, fought against William several times, before their final battle sometime during the New York Blackout of '77. This death was initially unconnected to William, as her body was discovered in a subway car, beaten, with her neck broken and with no signs of vampiric trauma. It was only through William's penchant for boasting that his culpability in her death was discovered, and later confirmed by his wearing of her leather coat as a trophy.

William, along with his sire, Drusilla, is also suspected of being directly responsible for the deaths of an untold number of Potentials during World War II. Several other Slayers at various times have reported encounters or fights with this creature, though his reasons for backing down or fleeing from battles he might have easily won are unknown.

He is highly skilled with weapons, despite a preference for unarmed combat, and has been known to test Slayers several times, retreating, then approaching again when they are off guard. He is not known to have a thrall, but as with all vampires this should not be taken as a rule. Considered highly unpredictable, volatile, and extremely dangerous, William the Bloody should be approached with all due caution.

William is also considered something of an anomaly among vampires in that it is unknown if he has ever sired another vampire. Also unusual is his intense loyalty and commitment to his sire, the insane vampire Drusilla. The two are rarely seen separately and he has been known to slaughter entire mobs in retaliation for harm done to her.

(cross reference with Angelus; Aurelians; Boxer Rebellion; British Vampires; China; Crowley, Bernard; Darla; Drusilla; Master, The; New York; Potentials; Scourge of Europe; Slayers; Vampires; Whirlwind; Wood, Nikki; World War II; Xin Rong)

(see also: Centennial Vampires, List of Known Slayer Killers, Master Vampires)



No mention of the fact that I speak over two dozen languages (including several demon languages) or (unlike my antique sires) that I actually like technology—both nuggets of information that would have been useful to the Scoobies.

I spent nearly an hour laughing over their theories on what I was before turning. If they only knew. Watcher would cack himself if he knew I was almost as educated as he is. More so, if you figure I’ve got better than a hundred years of learning on him. Got a claptrap memory, too. Haven't forgotten a lick of all those bloody years at Eton and Cambridge.

Morons, the lot of them.

Found the hell bitch last night, buried in a book on Finnish deities. Old Norse isn't one of my languages, but this was a French translation, thank the Powers for small favours.

Her name is Louhi, and according to the Fins she's the witch goddess of Pohjola, some mythical land they thought of as the Far North, but which is probably a hell dimension. Seems she got a bit too big for her knickers and somehow they banished her from this world a few thousand years ago. Other than that there's not much in the way of details on her.

Which of course doesn’t do me a lick of good.

Tonight I'm going after specifics on this sodding deal I've made. Figure there's a chance my hunch is correct, and killing the Slayer while she's awake will break the bargain. Right now that's about all I've got to go on.

Though if I can’t be the one to do it myself… not sure what I’ll do.

***


3 October 2000

Harmony has a gang.

Said she was going to take out the Slayer with that bunch of namby-pamby, wet-behind-the-fangs litter of minions. If they were any more wriggly and panting I'd have to put newspaper down behind the gravestones to keep them from piddling everywhere.

Slayer's barely going to break a sweat on that lot.

Be almost funny if it didn't leave me feeling so fucking pathetic.

I'm the oldest vamp in Sunnyhell. I'm supposed to be running my own gang and gunning for the Slayer—but, oh, no, not old Spike. Instead I've got a bug zapper in my noggin and spend my time with the Slayer practically having a cuddle.

I hate this town.

Someday I want to watch it burn to the ground. Or maybe collapse into a giant hole or something. Suck it right into the mouth of hell.

Wouldn't that be neat?



***


4 October 2000

Should have figured the Slayer would find some way to pin Harmony's stupidity on me. What is it with her and my nose?

After she showed up last night and used my face for a punching bag, she then had the nerve to drop into dreamland feeling all chatty again. Started telling me all about Harmony kidnapping the carpenter, but I was more interested in dreaming up various ways of draining her dry through her stupid, pugnacious little nose than paying attention to her prattle.

Be so easy to kill her there, too. Haven't tried it yet, but I don't think the chip works in that place. Not sure how I know that, but if I couldn't possibly kill her in the dream dimension then why make it one of the rules that I can't?

Not that I'm going to. Not yet, anyway.

I've got to find a way out of the Snow Queen's grasp first.

But I can entertain myself by imagining it. Over, and over, and over.

She'd been nattering on for awhile before she said something that caught my attention.

"I wonder if it's Spike?" she said, and I froze.

Witch didn't say anything about what happens if she guesses it’s me. Just said that the Slayer couldn't look at my face (which in this light wasn't going to happen anyway), and that I couldn't speak (and if I have to stuff my fist in my fangs to keep from doing that, I will). But if the Slayer guessed it was me, she'd want to check somehow, and then I'd be buggered.

I didn't move. Didn't make a sound. Didn't want her to think she'd guessed right.

"I mean, we don't know when she was vamped. He could have done it just before that whole fiasco with the Gem of Amara…" she said, and I realised she'd been pacing for awhile. Couldn’t suss out what the fuck she was talking about. When who was vamped?

"Oh, wait. No. She said she was going to Paris for the summer, after graduation, but couldn't after she was turned. I remember Willow mentioning it. And Spike didn't come back ‘til after the fall semester started."

Paris. Sodding Paris. She was talking about Harmony.

Then it hit me: hold on, wait a tick. She thinks I would sire Harmony? Is she completely daft?

"Crap," she said. "I was kind of looking forward to locking them up together. He'd probably kill her and that'd be one less vamp I'd need to dust. Besides, they dated or something. That had to be torture. For both of them."

I repressed a shudder and settled for a glare—that she couldn't see, of course. Yeah, sure, I'll shag Harmony until she can't walk straight, but I’ll rip her head clear off her shoulders the minute she gets annoying. Which, let's be honest, is the minute when having to put up with her is more trouble than shagging her is worth.

The idea that I would have turned her, however, is utterly repulsive. Slayer was barmy even to consider it.

She finally dropped off to sleep, but I must have stared at her for another hour or so, watching her chest rise and fall and listening to her heartbeat.

As fun as our little chats are I know the minute she figures out that it’s me she’s opening up to, it won’t just be my nose she'll be going after.

Although, if she staked me, that'd be one way of getting out of the White Witch's clutches, wouldn't it?


 
 
Chapter #37 - Chapter 36: Bastard In Love
 
Author’s Note: This chapter covers the same time period as Chapters 3 and 4

Since a couple of people have asked: Part II is approximately half the length of Part I, give or take a few thousand words. Some chapters, like this one, cover the same time period as two or more chapters of Part I—either because Spike wasn't doing as much during those chapters or because several chapters of Buffy's side might cover a single day... which only takes an entry or two in Spike's Journal.

I decided that it would be too distracting to jump viewpoints constantly, so I'm going to let you read the Journal along with Buffy, and then let you read her reaction at the beginning of Part III and see if you've come to the same conclusions that she has.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae*
*because Spike is English, I’ve made a rather anal retentive attempt to spell things “properly.” My beta (who IS British), has asked that I include the following disclaimer: “Any Britpicking mistakes are my beta's, because she reads too much fic written by you bloody Americans and is used to your bizarre ways by now."





Credits: This chapter contains some dialogue from the episode "Out of My Mind" written by Rebecca Rand Kirshner.


Chapter 36

Bastard In Love


10 October 2000

Amazing, innit, the sort of junk you can find tossed out in the city scrap yard?

Got a couple of old lamps, only a bit banged up. Shades are a bit tatty in spots, but not like I bloody care.

Half-decent stereo speakers and an arse-load of wiring. Could maybe run some electricity down to the room below.

Some manky old blankets that only need a bit of a scrub to get the dump stench out of them.

Even found half a mannequin someone had tossed out. Thought about bringing it back, dressing it up… give me something to talk to and beat up on now and then but… too poncy. And pathetic.

Then there were the bloody Slayerettes, waltzing in as if they owned the place. The Slayer descended from on high to wallow in the muck with the rest of us soulless prats. Never imagined she'd dirty her boots traipsing through the scrap yard, but there she was, looking like she'd just stepped out of a bloody magazine, wrinkling up that ridiculous little nose of hers while her Teutonic twat of a boy-toy glowered over her shoulder.

Pity that glowy demon bloke didn't take the lot of them out, instead of busting up one of the better lamps I'd found.

Wanker.

After they left, I was a little surprised to see they'd left the Harris, the boy wonder, behind. Tossed him in amongst the rubbish where he belongs and left him there, sleeping like a babe. Thought about waking him up and mocking him for a bit, show him how little his mates care for him that they'd leave him behind like that. But I figure he'll wake up on his own eventually, confused and wondering where the bleeding hell he is.

See how he likes it.

***


14 October 2000

Finally got the satellite dish for my telly up and running, but there's only so much TV I can watch before going stark raving mad.

Lately I've been taking up patrolling before bed. Patrolling. Clearly been spending too much time around the Slayer when I'm using her white-hat words instead of calling a hunt a hunt. Not quite as satisfying as hunting to feed, but a good fight always leaves me feeling better after.

Been doing it for a while, but lately I've been getting more methodical about it. Studying how the Slayer does it instead of just picking random fights. Got to hand it to her, she knows what she's doing. Starts out the evening over in Shady Rest most nights, sweeps all the new graves, then goes cemetery to cemetery looking for signs of trouble.

If I fit my route around hers we barely cross paths and she doesn't have to know why there are a few less nasties every night. I like my violence, yeah, but I'm not about to give her the satisfaction of seeing what I've been reduced to, having to kill my own kind.

Not that I really care about my own kind.

Evil pretty much means I don't have to give a good goddamn about what I'm killing, though some of those wankers at Willy's seem to have taken it all personal. I leave the harmless ones alone, though. No fun in taking them out when they barely fight back. Give me a big old Vrolyk or a Fyral and by the time I stagger back to the crypt I'm pumped and ready for a nightcap and a good shag.

Course, lately I've got to settle for the nightcap, my hand, and a long distance cuddle with a sleeping Slayer.

Last few nights she's come to bed reeking of Eau de Toy Soldier and it's all I can do not to punch in my own bloody nose to avoid having to smell it.

Except, of course, for one little thing.

Slayer doesn't know it, but a vamp's sense of smell is really very acute. One of those senses that drives us into bloodlust for the first decade or so before we get a handle on it. When I focus on it, I can smell everything.

Her sweat, all sweet, bitter and delicious. Makes my mouth water, wanting to lick it all up.

His, on her, and lately it smells a bit sickly. Rank. God I hope he’s sick with something nasty and incurable.

Can smell the condoms they're using; sort of powdery, rubbery smell overlaid with antiseptic.

Can smell his spendings, even with them using condoms. Bloody revolting, and even sicker smelling than his sweat—not to mention he's practically sterile. Not that I'm going to tell him that. Whatever those Initiative wankers pumped into him hasn't done his swimmers any favours.

Hers, on the other hand… didn't think there was much in the world that smelled as good as Slayer blood. Hell, that smelled as good as blood, when it comes right down to it. Course, I've smelled her arousal before. She gets all hot and bothered when she's fighting, though it'd twist her knickers if she knew I knew that. First time we ever fought she was aroused and on the rag; gave me a bit of an appetiser, smelling that.

Smelling her satisfaction, however—even when it's due to the greasy fumbling of Private Finnegan—fuck, makes me want to bathe in it. Shag her senseless before I finally tear into her throat.

Nothing in the world could possibly compare.

So, as much as I hate smelling him on her, smelling her more than makes up for it.

Even if it means I can practically count their orgasms. Interesting thing… his outnumber hers, three to one.

Somebody clearly needs some lessons in satisfying a Slayer.

***


18 October 2000

Harmony came bolting in tonight.

"Is it safe? Has Buffy gotten to you yet? I saw her patrolling just now… with a stake!" As if this is unusual? Harmony’s never gonna be a Mensa candidate. Single-celled organisms are smarter than she is. "She won't give up until she's killed me to death!"

I consider it a point in my favour that I overlooked her butchering of the English language. Really, what are they teaching children in school nowadays?

"Buffy's looking for you?" I asked, sceptical. The idea that the Slayer is still gunning for her is ludicrous.

"Of course! That's why I'm on the lam. Didn't you hear? I'm totally her arch-nemesis!"

Speaking as the Slayer's actual arch-nemesis, I'm more than a little offended. This silly bint thinks one little botched kidnapping is enough to make her the Big Bad?

"Is that right?" I said, trying not to choke her. "I must have missed the memo."

"There was a mem-," she said, her empty little forehead puckering up in confusion. Something must have sparked in her brain, though. "Spike! Oh my god! This is like an actual emergency! I need a hideout so bad. You're my only hope. We're just going to have to rise above our petty differences…Listen, Spike, I'm desperate."

"Desperate, are you?" I tried hard not to purr. There's something about a female being desperate and at my mercy that makes me feel all sorts of manly. This had… possibilities.

"C'mon, Spike. Pretty please? I'll do anything," she promised.

Oh, yeah. Definite possibilities.

"Anything, will you?" Never claimed to be anything but a right bastard so it's not surprising Harmony, of course, jumped straight to the predictable conclusion—though not necessarily what I had in mind.

"Ohhhhh," she said. "You mean will I have sex with you? Well, yeah."

Like I said, not what I had in mind, but who'm I to turn down a shag? Especially since this whole Sleeping Slayer storyline has left me with nothing but a sore left hand for weeks now. Harmony plopped her tight little arse into my chair and fumbled with a cigarette and a cheap lighter.

"Taking up smoking, are you?" I asked.

"I am a villain, Spike. Hellooooo." The coughing kind of ruined it. Silly bitch has been dead less than a couple of years and already forgotten how to use her lungs. Surprising, since I'd think her head would need constant refilling.

"I guess you are at that, what with the Slayer on your tail and all," I said, thinking. She's desperate, needy, and not too bright. There's potential here… I just have to decide exactly what I want to do with it. Could get her to go after the Slayer for me, but I'm still not sure what that'll do to my bargain. Besides, anyone's going to sink their fangs into the Slayer, it's going to be me.

Still, good idea to plant the thought. Use her little delusions of grandeur against her.

I picked up a handful of dust off the closest sarcophagus. "She's not the type to give up, either. She'll hunt you down, day and night, till you're too tired and too hungry to run any more. And then? Then…" I brushed the dust off my hands. "That is you. I guess you're going to have to kill her."

"I tried!" she whined. "It was all hard and stuff. You do it."

"I'd love to," I growled. "But I can't. Remember? I've got this cute little government chip in my head."

She pouted. "Guess it'll have to be me after all. Can you help with the thinking?"

"Yeah," I said. "I suppose I could do that." Tried hard not to grin.

So trusting. So easy. Harmony can't kill her. Not even with my help. Slayer might dust Harmony… bleeding tragedy that would be.

I might be chipped, but I'm still a master vampire. Slayer never really considered how easy it is for me to get others to do my bidding. I've got myself an ace up my sleeve now.

So I'll wait, see what happens.

Opportunity may not be a lengthy visitor, but it's always knocking.

***


19 October 2000

Mr. Gordo?

You've got to be fucking kidding me.

What the hell sort of name is Mr. Gordo?

Couldn't it have been something a little more… mysterious? Romantic? Dramatic? Bad Ass?

Instead she's decided to call me…

Thank the PTB I can't tell anyone about this, and no one will ever see this journal.

I'd never live it down.

***


Twenty Questions

how is it that dead tongues
talk so loudly while living ones
lie so still, with all that needs
to be said hanging in trees
like corpses, and they all perch
about them and peckpeckpeck?

who told them dead meant dead
as door-nails, as dirt, as dust?

just cause my heart lies still,
doesn't mean there isn't lust
and love and desire all burning
beneath my battered breast,
doesn't mean these old eyes
can't see the light and yearn.

when did dead mean barren,
mean not supposed to grin
or dance or drive or watch tv
or smoke or eat or breathe
or love or hate or sleep or dream?

why does dead mean meaningless?

what do souls add to the equation?
is a soul an excuse? not bigger
than a breadbox, not smaller?

and would it kill you to knock instead
of beating my bloody door in?

***


20 October 2000 (1 am)

Any minute now, she's going to kick in my crypt door. She'll waltz in here like a tiny bundle of righteous fury, stake in hand and a quip on her lips, and that'll be the end of me.

'I will show you fear in a handful of dust.'

Just yesterday I was threatening Harmony with the same. It's something every vampire knows, fears, from the moment we're born out of our graves. Somewhere there is a stake with your name on it. Might be waiting for you seconds after rising. Might be a century and change later. Doesn't matter, in the end, how long you've been dead. It's all dust on the wind, a scattering of ashes. Not even bones to bury and no one who'll mourn you after.

Think tonight I might've finally overstayed my welcome.

Can't say I'm sorry.

I'm not.

Had me an opportunity to get this bloody chip out and I took it. She should have known better. Too concerned about her honey to consider her words carefully—not that she ever does. Came barging in earlier, demanding I go hunt him down and take him to the doctor, then slapped me in the face and tore up my finders fee.

Should have said 'please.'

You can't blame a bloke for being brassed as hell, or for leaping at a chance. Had myself a willing partner, waltzed on down to the hospital and picked up the doc. Blighter was smarter than he looked, though.

Opened me up, poked about in my head with a sharp knife, then stitched me back up.

Was in a beautiful mood when the Slayer came in. First I've felt like myself in ages. Wasn't an ideal location for a final battle, and far too many spectators, but I figured I could make do.

Maybe I wouldn't even kill her then. Maybe I'd just have a taste, remind her of who the Big Bad really is.

When I finally had her pinned beneath me, her hot little body writhing and wriggling and fighting me tooth and nail… I didn't want it to end. Wanted to scoop her up and carry her off somewhere, see if I could get her wriggling in a totally different way before I finally sank my fangs in.

Wasn't going to happen, though. Not right then. Still, I wanted a taste so bad my fangs itched and the demon was roaring.

Inches away. Bloody inches and the sodding chip kicks in, blistering my brain with enough voltage that I thought my eyes were going to fry in their sockets. Next thing you know I'm halfway across the room, staring at the Slayer and she's staring at me.

Not sure which of us was the more shocked, truth to tell.

Then Finn's heart stuttered. Heard it pounding away like a bongo when he first entered the room, three seconds from a heart attack. Guess fighting Harmony was too much for him.

When the Slayer went to his side, Harmony and I got the hell out of there. Chip still has me crippled and I'm not going to stick around to see what a really brassed off Slayer looks like.

I may be a risk taker, but I'm not suicidal. Or stupid.

God. It doesn't matter what I do, she's there. That stupid little face. That bouncing, shampoo commercial hair. She's there every time I turn around. Buffy. Buffy. BUFFY.

If she's not kicking in my door and bossing me around like I'm less than one of her little lackeys, I'm stuck with her in my bed every night without even the benefit of a good shag.

I can't touch her. Can't kill her. She's always there, bollixing up my plans. Follows me everywhere. Makes me her pet project. Drive Spike round the bend.

Makes every day a fresh bout of torture. Every night a sodding nightmare.

This has got to end.

Any minute now she'll pound down the door and stake me.

Somehow, I can't find it in me to fear it.

Anything that will take me out of a world that has her in it.

***


20 October 2000 (12 pm)

God.

No.

Please, no.

***


20 October 2000 (10 pm)

Last night…

Last night I went to bed wishing the Slayer dead.

And now…

God, and now… now I…

I'm not really the introspective sort. I'll leave the brooding to Angelus. Not my bag.

But ever since I first came to Sunnyhell my unlife has been nothing but a series of flaming loops being tossed in my direction by the Powers That Bloody Be, and I've been doing my best to jump through them. Came here to cure Dru, got my back broken. By the time I was better, Angelus was back and shagging my girl into the ground. Made a deal with the Slayer so I could get Dru back, Dru dumped me in the middle of South America over it. Came back, kidnapped the witch to do a spell, ended up teaming up with the Slayer again. Dru still wouldn't take me back, so I came back for the Gem of Amara and a little revenge. Got my arse kicked all over the bloody campus and lost the ring to the Angel, of all the unappreciative sods. Came back again, got kidnapped by the government and experimented on like a bleeding lab rat. Got a chip shoved in my head so I can't feed, teamed up with the Slayer again for protection…

and now…

Dru tried to tell me three years ago. Three YEARS ago.

Didn't understand. Couldn't have. It was impossible. Wrong.

Gods this is wrong. Can't you wankers up there see how horribly wrong this is?

I'm not supposed to want this. Not supposed to feel this way.

Not supposed to feel.

Demon, remember? Vampire? Grr? Arrrg? Fangy and sun-challenged and all that rot?

You beat it into your Chosen One that we're nothing but evil, soulless, undead things with no hearts, no feelings to speak of, barely enough intelligence to be able to hold a sodding conversation and then you go and do this?

What am I supposed to do now?

What the hell am I supposed to do?

How long has this thing been inside me? Three years? Longer? Since that first fucking truce? Or before that?

I remember her dancing. So young, then. Barely a woman. Still a virgin. Remember the demon taking note of her and practically screaming Mine!

Mine.

All this time I thought it meant she was mine to fight, mine to kill.

Took a dream, a sodding dream, for me to figure it.

Don't think I want her dead, as it turns out. Haven't for a while. Heart wasn't in it.

Not an easy admission to make, that.

Easier than the truth, though.

I'm in love with the Slayer.

I'm in love with the fucking SLAYER.

Fuck.

I don't know what to do.

***


25 October 2000

At night I watch her sleep.

Such a little thing. Always surprises me how small she is. There's so much packed into her, she seems larger than life.

I thought I knew my enemy. I studied her, that first year. Watched her fight, watched her moves, watched her dance with death, time and again. Even once my back was broken and I had to warm the bench while Angelus rampaged over the field… even then I watched. Watched her bend, watched her bleed, watched her break and put herself back together again. Resourceful, resilient, always adapting, rolling with the punches no matter how much they hurt.

I thought I knew, that first year. I hadn't even begun to understand her.

Three years later—one of them spent practically living in the Scoobies' pockets—and I'm a bit closer.

Can see the girl underneath the Slayer.

Such a tiny thing, and not nearly as fragile as she thinks.

Angelus said you have to love her to kill her. He was wrong.

Girl has the heart of a warrior. She'll love with everything she's got, and you can beat on her heart till she bleeds and it'll just bounce right back, given time. A little bruised, yeah, a little scarred and worse for wear, but no less capable of loving.

Always said that the demon takes people different ways.

Never quite figured out the trick to it, but you see it often enough in fledges. Watcher's Council has it partially right. Something in you dies, and the demon sets up shop. For some there's not much left of the person who was there before, and all that's left is the demon. Mostly, those vamps die early. All stomach, no brains.

But for some of us, it happens a bit different, don't it?

I've always been aware of my demon. Maybe it's my line, maybe it was just Dru. Don't know.

Dru never wore her demon often, mostly only when she fed. Darla and Angelus were always slipping their demon face on and off; it was so interchangeable with their human one.

Me? Always felt like the demon was a mask to put on when I wanted to flash a bit of fang. Gives me an edge when fighting, when asserting dominance, when hunting. Amps up the senses. I don’t think I’m like Angelus, one way with a soul and one way without. God forbid I ever get cursed with one and find out for sure, but near as I can tell poncy William is still there, in me. Demon just set him free

I can feel it, when I’m hungry or frustrated, angry or hurt. Like a caged beast inside, itching to get out, desperate for blood and violence. But it's not all of me, and I can leash it, when I want.

These nights beside the Slayer, it's almost always on the leash.

And it's as confused as I am.

It hungers for her blood, but not her death. It wants her with mind-numbing ferocity… but not to kill. It wants to get close, wants to hunt her, wants to fuck her until we’re both too exhausted to move. Never been like this before. Not even with Dru. The demon mostly ignored Dru unless we were shagging and I let it out to play.

It's confusing the hell out of me.

I've been what I am for a long, long time. Long enough to have integrated the demon, corrupted the man, learnt to survive. Not a nice bloke, no reason to be. I know right from wrong, and mostly I don't care. I've committed atrocities that most humans can't even dream of. Learned early on that mercy, compassion, pity… even if you feel them, they're no virtues for a vampire.

Never learned not to love.

Was the one thing Angelus tried to beat out of me and never could. Loved Dru for so long, even when she didn't deserve it or want it and it took her trying her hardest to finally convince me that my services were no longer required. Even then, even now…

Not much has changed. Only difference is this bitch has a heartbeat and actively wants me to dust.

But it's there. At night I watch her sleep and it's there, burning in me, now that I'm aware of it.

Love.

God, it’d be easier if she were dead. If I could just kill her, maybe this thing inside me would die. It’s all Louhi’s fault, sticking me in that room with her, night after night, making me listen to her, watch her, smell her, feel her heat rising so close it warms the whole fucking bed…

I wish I could tear my heart out, claw it straight out of my chest; wish Angelus had won and beaten this thing out of me. It's sick and twisted, even for one as old and sick and twisted as I am. This is wrong. So wrong.

And yet…

And yet…

***


[written in the margins]

"…—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Oed’ und leer das Meer…"
-T. S. Eliot




 
 
Chapter #38 - Chapter 37: Liar
 
Author’s Note: This chapter covers the same time period as Chapter 5.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae*
*because Spike is English, I’ve made a rather anal retentive attempt to spell things “properly.” My beta (who IS British), has asked that I include the following disclaimer: “Any Britpicking mistakes are my beta's, because she reads too much fic written by you bloody Americans and is used to your bizarre ways by now."





Chapter 37

Liar


26 October 2000

I swear, I'm gonna rip all that blonde hair right out of her skull. Then I'm going to stuff it in her soddin' mouth till it's coming out of her arse.

She calls me …that name…One. More. Time. and I swear I'll do it.

Should get a medal for this. For being so bloody damned noble, taking in worthless fucking bimbos and then letting them stay on even when it's obvious they're a waste of immortality.

Wait.

Sod the medal.

Case of Jack or three would be reward enough. Throw in a few bottles of tequila and we'll call it square.

Harmony's incessant prattling is enough to make me want to ram a railroad spike through my own bloody head. Pity I can't travel back in time. I'd dump her in the middle of one of Lady Hurst's tedious little parties, let her talk till their brains ran out their ears.

Better yet, maybe I'll ship her off to Peaches with a little bow on her head. Stick a card in her knickers saying "Know how you love blondes. Enjoy. Merry Xmas, Spike."

She starts talking the minute she wakes up. She talks when she's showering, bitching and moaning because I don't have hot water. What the hell do I need hot water for? Vampire, remember? Not like it matters. But no, she's got to have her hot water, and her expensive shampoo that makes the entire crypt reek like roses. Reminds me of old women's drawing rooms and their nasty rose water. Big Bads do not smell like old grannies.

She talks through breakfast, complaining because all I've got is pig's blood. Even though I've explained to her half a million times already that I can't hunt, can't feed off humans, and the bloody Slayer doesn't respect my personal space; which means that Harmony can't bring home her leftovers. Daft bint bitches every single evening till I'm daydreaming about taking her out to watch the sunset—a few hours early.

She talks through my programmes. She talks while shagging. She talks in her goddamn sleep.

Least when Dru talked she was interesting. Didn't make sense most of the time, of course, but it was interesting.

Only time I get a bloody break is when I'm out patrolling, or watching the Slayer's house. Or off in the dream dimension.

Who'd have thought I'd find a measure of peace by hanging round the Slayer?

***


27 October 2000

Boy Toy's scent is better, when he leaves it imprinted in her skin. Not sick anymore, I suppose. But it's weaker, too. Not shagging as often, or as hard.

Now that I know, it's difficult to tamp down the urge to growl whenever she comes to bed reeking of him. I'm jealous, yeah, so what?

Vampire, right? Not really known for our altruism and self-sacrificing ways. We want something, usually we just take it.

I want her.

Gods, I want her.

Never have her, of course. Not so long as Lieutenant Limp Dick is in the picture, at any rate, and even then.

Been enemies for too long, and demons generally don't get happy endings, do we?

I keep thinking about Willow's spell from last year. Remembering having a lap full of warm, willing, wriggly Slayer. It's like a brand new form of torture. Can almost feel her up against me, tight little Slayer with her perky tits perched just at mouth level and that luscious little throat just inches away. Having a nightly reminder of how she smells when she's hot and wet and ready…fuck. All I can do some nights to reign in the demon and keep from pouncing on her and shagging her into the ground. She's so little. Know she'd be tight as hell. And those leg muscles, fuck…she probably snap my back again if I let her wrap them around my waist. Be worth it. God, what a way to go. Can tell from the way she sleeps that she'd be cuddly as a kitten after. Could wrap her around me like a warm little Slayer blanket…

Fuck.

This is wrong. Shouldn't be thinking like this about her. Not about HER.

Killer of my kind, yeah? How masochistic can you get?

But…

Maybe if I could shag her, just for one night, I could get this out of my head. Humans are usually such a disappointment in bed, so breakable.

But she's not exactly human, is she?

***


30 October 2000

Been following her on patrol for a while now. Watching from a distance. Trying to figure out what it is about her that's got me so bloody twisted. Hasn't helped.

It's all muddled up in my head. I watch her fighting and I can't help but love the way she moves, even as she's killing my kind. I like that she makes those stupid little quips as she slays, like she's trying to find the fun in it. She's fucking ridiculous, too, the clothes she wears to fight in—like she's going to a party or to hang out with her chums, not like the warrior she is. And that hair. That fucking hair, bouncing around, begging for a vamp to wrap a hand in it and yank her head back…

Bet it's warm, too. Probably feel like fire wrapping around my fingers.

God. I want to hate her. I want to punch in that perky little nose and then maul that luscious little lip. Want to listen to her gasp and moan and then scream…

She's been spending more time at her mum's the last few days, her and the overgrown Boy Scout. If I stand under the tree outside her window I can hear everything. Hear her telling her mum she's worried about Dudley Do-Right patrolling with her, now that he's not all super-powered anymore. Hear her telling the boy he needs to take it easy, rest.

Hard not to hear, when they're shagging. Little moans she makes get me so fucking hard…Luckily, it's usually quick.

When she drops off to sleep I go home, shag Harmony or toss off until I’ve got some control over the demon, then go to bed.

Join her where he can't reach us.

For the first time I'm glad of this bargain. Can't touch her. But I can be with her there, in the dark, where she thinks its a dream and can't see my face. Can pretend, for a little while, when she's curled up in my bed, that she's mine.

At least until the bloody sun comes up again.

I'm thoroughly buggered.

***


5 November 2000

She caught me tonight, hanging round her house.

I'd been working up to something. Had a speech all memorised. Something…seductive, full of swagger and confidence. Something to make her see me as something other than an enemy.

Then she yanked me out from behind the tree and all the words just flew right out of my head. All I could manage was to stare like a complete git and say "Hi, Buffy."

Guess calling her by name was the wrong tactic since it got me a fist to the face for my efforts. She just doesn't know when to stop being bitchy and pay attention. Is it any wonder I lost my temper?

Not entirely certain what I ended up saying. Words just kept falling out of my mouth. Only thing I clearly remember is telling her she had stupid hair. Contrary to what some might think, I don't lie often. Truth's always more painful than fiction. That bit about her hair might have been the worst lie I've ever spouted in her direction.

Ego crushing, that is. What kind of self-respecting vampire can claim that his biggest lie was telling his mortal enemy that her hair was stupid?

By the time I'd calmed down enough to think straight I was halfway across town and staring at the sign over Willy's Place.

Took that as doctor's orders and proceeded to try to get drunk.

It's amazing how much better I feel after a couple of pints of O-neg, a few bottles of JD, and a fistfight or three.

***


6 November 2000

Trouble is, drunk doesn't seem to follow me into the other dimension. Sober as a bloody stone by the time I opened my eyes and found her standing on my side of the bed.

I frowned. Thought our boundary lines there were pretty firmly drawn, so what in the bleedin' hell was she doing on my side of the bed? The demon had a few choice suggestions but I shut it up right quick. She knew I was there. Her head came up and swivelled to face me unerringly. If it weren't for the slightly unfocused gaze I'd have thought someone had turned the lights on for her.

"Sorry," she said. "Not very sleepy at the moment. Decided to go for a walk, but…" she waved a hand vaguely. "I can't see if I'm going to bump into anything."

Oh. Right.

Not sure what to do with a frustrated Slayer, but unwilling to stand like a statue across the room, I approached the bed. I stopped a few feet from her and leaned against the post at the foot, waiting for her to say something.

When she did, I about fell over again.

"Are you going to try to kill me?" she said suddenly, as if she'd been holding it back.

Now there's a loaded question.

I sucked at my teeth for a moment, trying to decide how to answer. Since I'm pretty much limited to yes or no it didn't take too long. No, I finally tapped on the bedpost.

In the past, yeah, I'd have tried to kill her. A few weeks ago, yeah, was trying to kill her. Not now, though. Maybe not ever again, but I can't promise that. Just because I'm in love with her doesn't mean that she loves me back. Still enemies, right? Still a vampire. She's still the Slayer. Destined to dance ‘til death or dust do we part.

There's just the tiny little problem of me being utterly barking mad for falling in love with her.

But right at that moment, no, I wasn't going to try to kill her. Was as honest an answer as I could give.

She seemed confused. "Why not?" As if I had any way of answering that.

"Right. You're not the talkative type. Pity more vampires aren't that way. I mean, some of them even lurk loudly. And then when they open their mouths they don't know how to shut up. Parts and other parts…yeah right. And…and…do I have stupid hair?"

I tried to suppress a chuckle. Well, well. Guess I managed to score one off the Slayer after all. I was so pleased I forgot to lie.

No, I tapped. Her hair…God, I have got to stop obsessing about her hair. Love how it bounces around her when she's fighting, all golden and glorious and gleaming. It's like sunshine to these old eyes, and I've got to ball my hands into fists around her just to keep from running my fingers through it. Always liked her hair, even back when I wanted to suck her dry.

Which was only a couple of weeks ago, but that’s hardly the fucking point.

Suddenly she got suspicious. "Can you see me?" Her eyes got all squinty like they do just before she's going to punch me. I silently shifted backwards, out of her reach. No point in lying, though. She'd figured it out already.

Yes.

"That's so unfair. Who made that stupid rule?" She pouted. I blinked.

That's it? She finds out she's stuck in a room with a vampire who has a physical advantage over her and the most I get is a pout? Fuck stakes. Chit knows how to slay a vamp's ego with nothing more than her lower lip. She ought to be terrified. Still the Big Bad here. Especially here.

Could snap her twiggy little neck…if I wanted.

She sighed and shifted restlessly.

"I need to move. Would you…uh…walk beside me, I guess? And maybe stop me if I'm going to run into something?"

Bloody hell.

Slayer was asking me for a favour.

Putting her vulnerable little arse right in my hands. Could do anything. Could lead her off into the darkness and pounce. Walk her into a wall. Trip her. Attack.

Not that I'd do any of those things.

Anymore.

Unless she brassed me off.

She was asking me for a favour. Course, she didn't know it was me, but still…I straightened my shoulders. Right. I could do this.

Yes, I tapped, falling in beside her when she started to walk away from the bed. Suddenly old William was there, rising up in me; that polite Victorian git, ready to escort his lady for a turn about the parlour. I let him. Not like he'd had many opportunities for this sort of thing in life.

"My boyfriend is an idiot," she said abruptly, and I was glad I'd let William lead because I managed not to stumble in surprise. Guess it's true when they say manners are ingrained. Would take steel wool and holy water to purge those out of me. Course, just because I remember them doesn't mean I use them. Spent nearly a hundred years repressing them, unless Dru fancied having a tea party. But they're still there, just a bit dusty, is all.

She went on, "He…it's really complicated, but let's just say that for awhile he had super strength and was helping me fight vampires and demons. And now he doesn't, but he's still trying to fight. Whenever I'm patrolling I have to constantly be watching out for him, and it's…not fair. To either of us. I know I don't need to protect him, but I can't help it. I'm the Slayer. It's in my job description: protect the world from the demons and the vampires. He's part of the world that needs protecting."

I didn't snort. Didn't dare make any sort of noise. Slayer was finally getting it. A mere human for her is a weak spot in the armour, ready to be exploited by an enemy. Angelus would have had a field day with Finn. Would have worked on him for a long time to see how long it took before she sacrificed her relationship with him for his own good, then crucified the big lout on her front lawn. Or turned him and waited to see how long it would take her to stake him. Boy's a liability, and she's right to worry about him.

Don't even get me started on Harris.

"But I don't want to have to protect him. I liked it before when we could fight side by side, even if we didn't always agree on everything. I want him to feel useful, like he's part of the team. I…just want. Is that stupid?"

It's not. Girl fights with the weight of the world on her shoulders. Fighting those other Slayers, it was always just about the challenge, about the battle. For me. For them I was just another vamp in a long series of battles that never seemed to end. I offered a way out. A better one than they might have hoped for, really. Going out on top, instead of being turned, being tortured by a brute like Angelus, or eaten alive by some nasty demon.

This girl, though, she's got friends. Family. Scoobies. Watcher. She's not just a warrior, she's a girl and it's a miracle that the PTB have let her keep all that for so long. It's kept her alive, though. Having a partner, someone who could fight alongside her, would keep her alive even longer. Lift some of the weight. It's no wonder she clings to the bastard so hard.

No. Not stupid.

She gave me an odd look. "I wish I could see you," she said, frowning. "Do you have any idea how creepy it is to be in the dark with a vampire you can't see but who can see you?"

I chuckled, feeling a bit better. That's right. Still the Big Bad, here.

"Okay, so I guess vampires don't rate high on the list of things you find creepy."

No. I laughed again.

When you're a vampire, there's not much that scares you anymore.

Except the thought of falling in love with your mortal enemy, that is.

She yawned hugely. "Which way is the bed?"

Fuck.

I hesitated a moment, not entirely sure what to do. Could carry her back, I supposed, but I doubted the Slayer would take too kindly to a vamp sweeping her off her feet—especially considering her question had given me a bloody cockstand. Finally let my inner William dig up some old fashioned poncy solution and guided her back by the elbow, then showed her where the bed was. Her skin was incredibly warm, tempting, fragile.

"Thanks," she said, startling me out of a dangerous line of thought involving the veins in her wrists.

Once she'd snuggled down I went around to my side and slid under the duvet. She yawned again.

"Goodnight, Mr. Gordo," she said, sleepily.

I growled.

Bugger. There went my Big Bad again.

Maybe I will kill her after all.

***


To One Hated

Had it been when I came to the valley where the paths parted asunder,
Chance had led my feet to the way of love, not hate,
I might have cherished you well, have been to you fond and faithful,
Great as my hatred is, so might my love have been great.

Each cold word of mine might have been a kiss impassioned,
Warm with the throb of my heart, thrilled with my pulse's leap,
And every glance of scorn, lashing, pursuing, and stinging,
As a look of tenderness would have been wondrous and deep.

Bitter our hatred is, old and strong and unchanging,
Twined with the fibres of life, blent with body and soul,
But as its bitterness, so might have been our love's sweetness
Had it not missed the way­ strange missing and sad!­to its goal.

-L. M. Montgomery




 
 
Chapter #39 - Chapter 38: Long Time Jerk
 
Author’s Note: This chapter covers the same time period as Chapter 6.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae*
*because Spike is English, I’ve made a rather anal retentive attempt to spell things “properly.” My beta (who IS British), has asked that I include the following disclaimer: “Any Britpicking mistakes are my beta's, because she reads too much fic written by you bloody Americans and is used to your bizarre ways by now."




Chapter 38

Long Time Jerk


7 November 2000

Love watching her on patrol. The way she moves, I could watch her all night. All those high kicks and tight little jabs, neat acrobatic flips—God I miss fighting her. Worst thing this sodding chip did to me was take that away, the pleasure of fighting a Slayer.

Been testing it a little, though, over time. Sussed out a few things. Can't kill humans of course. Can't intentionally hurt them. Gets a little fuzzy if it's an accident. But I can throw punches, so long as I pull them at the last minute. Or intentionally aim where I know it won't land.

Got cornered a few nights ago by some ruddy little frat boys who thought I looked like an easy target. Didn't know I couldn't hurt them, and they got in a couple of lucky punches. I let them. Easy to pick the pocket of the bloke who thinks he's pinning you to a wall and about to pound your face in, innit? Then flash a little fang, throw a couple of well timed blows, duck and roll while they're panicking and laying about with their fists and they end up doing all the work for me. Meanwhile, I vaulted a few stories up and had myself a smoke while I watched them trip over themselves like frightened pups.

May not be able to fight, but I'll be double damned if I let myself play the victim for a bunch of rotten humans again. Had enough of that.

But I truly miss fighting the Slayer. Lately it's all I think about. Well, that and shagging her, if I'm going to be honest. It gets a bit muddled up in my head, the fighting and the shagging, till I'm not sure where one leaves off and the other begins. Caught myself in a right glorious little daydream this afternoon, of the Slayer and I having a bit of a tumble about the crypt. Came round in time to realise I was buried balls deep in Harmony and about three seconds from roaring out the Slayer's name.

If I can't fight her, I can at least watch her fight. Maybe I'll patrol again tonight.

***


7 November 2000 (11 pm)

For once, Harmony proved useful.

Don’t know what set off the Lei-Ach demons, but if they were going after the Slayer, I wanted to watch.

Course, when I got there, I didn't see what I was expecting. Never seen the Slayer fight so… messy. Like she couldn't read her attacker, couldn't hardly see her attackers. Still, gave me a chance to step in and do some violence of my own. Not that I got a 'thank you' out of it.

Lei-Achs are fun to kill, though. Must be those grease-paint looking faces of theirs, puts a smile in your step when you off one. Always figured old Alice Cooper must have seen one before he wrote "Can't Sleep"… Either that, or he is one. Who could tell under all that makeup?

Realised what was up with the Slayer when I made it up to the main room. Turns out good little Tara, the resident white witch, did an invisible demon spell. Fucking hate magic. It's got its uses, I suppose, but these little girls are leashing a tiger and playing with it like it's a kitten. They're going to kill someone someday, if they're not careful.

Pity I didn’t know that spell back when I was trying to kill them all, though. Would’ve come in right handy.

Anyway, I could tell the tossers up at the front of the room were Tara's family straight off. They stank of fear and anger and hate, though. Same stench you get around some churches, come to think of it.

Kept spouting some nonsense about the little witch having demon blood. I've seen half-breeds before. Smelled them. Not a whiff of demon on the dove. She's about as good as they come; a real lady, kind of like the Slayer's mum. One of the few of the lot of them that I’d think twice about killing. Angelus was the one who liked to torment the pure, but not me. Not that I haven't, a time or…

Well, not that I haven't.

Besides, good that strong would probably give me indigestion.

Harris's ex-demon girl caught on to the score before me. Wouldn't be the first time the righteous used the excuse of demon blood or evil to keep their own in line. Knowing the Scoobies, though, they probably would have argued the point for a bleeding eternity before they sussed it out, and as fun as that thought wasn't, I figured I could hurry things up a bit.

Good thing I've been practising pulling my punches, yeah? 'Sides, Tara's got a sweet face. Didn't want to cock it up. Barely tapped her nose.

Still, hurt like hell.

And do I get even a lick of gratitude?

No, not old Spike. Take one for their sodding team and all I get is a few glares.

Slayer'll probably show up tomorrow and kick down my door, punch me in the nose for good measure.

Doesn't mean a chipped vampire can't get in a few kicks of his own. I’ve got to get my evil in somehow, yeah?

I waited round outside for a bit. Didn't take long before Tara's family got routed out of the Magic Box and headed off. Could smell their anger and resentment pouring off of them. They hadn't quite given up on the battle yet. The brother was the worst of the lot. Got some dark urges, that one does. More than a little lust boiling in his kettle.

Waited till they were almost at their RV, then slid out of an alley ahead of them. Pops about cacked himself, then got mad.

"You again," he spat. "Don't you think you and your friends have done enough damage?"

"Don’t have friends," I said. "And not as much damage as I'd like. Meant what I said back there, you're a nice piece of work, the three of you."

I lit up a smoke and watched them shift, uncomfortable with me so near. Prey knows, even if they don't know the predator is leashed, most prey knows on some level when they're near something dangerous.

"What would you know, you… queer freak," said the brother, eyeing my hair and clothes with the kind of contempt only a real redneck can muster. Redneck. Gotta love that word. Described him to a bloody T. All hot and angry, his blood just pounding away, flushing his throat like a ruddy beacon. Made me salivate a bit, it did.

I ever get this chip out, maybe I'll hunt that one down.

I smiled. "I know demons," I said, making it casual-like. "I know evil. Might want to rethink bandying about a story like yours in old Sunnyhell. Someone might decide your bird there would be worth…investigating. And with the reek you three are giving off, you're nothing but walking targets."

"Are you threatening me, boy?" the old man said, taking a step closer. Whopper Jr. took a step up, too. Stick Insect in the back, though… she was getting scared. Could feel her tensing up, ready for flight. God I wished she would. First instinct, as a predator…something runs from you, chase it down.

I laughed and blew smoke straight in their faces. Wankers.

"Boy," I said. "Haven't been a boy for a long, long time."

I took a step forward, got right in the tosser's personal bubble. Then I let the demon out to play a little.

Always something satisfying about watching a human when they see my face shift. Might be the fear that starts coming out their pores. Might be the way the blood goes out of their faces and straight to their heart. Makes the beat just that much louder, the blood just that much hotter and steeped in fear. The boy was back peddling fast, the girl was wide-eyed and three seconds from a scream.

"Like I said, I know demons. And I know evil." I snuffed my cigarette out on his jacket lapel, careful not to accidentally singe him. "You come to my town, you're playing with the Big Bad boys. Just wanted you to know that. We don't all play as nice as that lot back there."

"What do you want?" Pops asked, a little panicky.

"Oh, the usual. Death, blood, destruction. Doesn't take much to keep me happy," I said. "Slayer let you off easy, so you get to toddle on home. This time. You come back, though…" I grinned, flashing all my fangs and leaving the threat unspoken.

Bricked the lot of them.

"You can run now," I told them. And they did.

I might have chased a little.

Instincts, you know.



***


8 November, 2000

They say, if you live long enough, nothing surprises you.

I don't believe it.

The world always surprises you. It's always throwing you bleedin' curves and trying to knock your feet out from under you. Life's a fight that never ends, and if you're lucky, you get to keep on dancing for a long, long time and you never get bored.

I'm a very good dancer.

Last night was… bloody hell, amazing.

Got home after watching Tara's family tear out of town, Harmony was still out, so I had a few drinks and turned in.

And the Slayer stepped up, ready to dance.

Oh, not a full out fight, but kitten wanted to play.

"I… I want to try something," she said. "I… know this is going to sound strange but I want to try something. With you. I mean, with your help." For a moment she just stood there, looking uncomfortable and adorable in her pyjama bottoms and tight little tank top. Not her sexiest look, but there was something about it, paired with her clean face and her hair pulled back in a tail… somehow it was a turn on. More so than any of the skimpy little outfits Harmony likes to wear to bed.

I shifted, adjusting a bit as my cock hardened against the seam of my trousers. Still not used to this sleeping clothed thing.

"I'm not gonna stake you," she said. "As long as you promise not to try to kill me."

As if I had a way of answering that.

"Will you promise not to try to kill me?"

Hadn't we been through this already?

Yes. I tapped my fingers against my crotch, the tightness of my trousers made it audible enough.

"Okay …okay… I… want to train. With you. Sort of," she said. I felt my eyebrows practically shoot off my head. The Slayer wanted to train with me? "I want to practise figuring out where you are since I can't see you. It's easy, when you're moving slow, but can we somehow make it more difficult? Maybe like… vampire hide and go seek?"

I chuckled, getting it. Not being able to see those Lei-Ach demons this evening scared her. She wanted practise fighting what she can't see. Well, not fighting. Not yet anyway.

Vampire hide and go seek?

Well, this was just…neat.

"Other than the bed, is there anything in here that I could run into that might hurt me?" she asked, glancing around as if someone was going to turn on the lights.

No. I tapped. Nothing but stone walls, and I could steer her away from them, if need be. Was wondering how she was planning on this working, though.

"Okay, so… you go somewhere in the room and wait, and I'll find you. Then you move to a different spot, and I'll find you again. Would… is that okay?"

Yes.

"Alright," she said. "Whenever you're ready. I'll give you a head start."

Wasn't going to stand about, waiting for her to change her mind. I bolted for what I knew was the edge of her range, thankful that the room was large enough to play in. Then I waited.

Dracula may have exposed our weaknesses to the general public, but there are a few things that they left out. With my human eyes, I can see pretty damn well in the dark. Better than even the best unenhanced human night vision. Through my demon eyes, however, it's even better. Only need a little bit of ambient light to be able to see.

We can be dead silent. Literally. No heartbeat. No breathing. Can stand absolutely still if we want. And in addition to that, something about the demon in us draws shadows. Unless you know we're there, we might as well be invisible.

Slayers, of course, get a cheat. Read up on them a long time ago, learnt all about their demon radar and how it works, though I suspect it's a little different, girl to girl. Summers isn't near as good as Nikki was. Never got to test the Chinese girl, though she was a lot like that Jamaican slayer: book smart instead of street smart. She probably could tell you from her vamp tingles alone how tall a vamp was, whether he'd eaten or not, and how old.

Still, Buffy always seemed to know where I was. This was no exception. She walked straight for me, halting a few feet away. Then, as if to reassure herself that I was there, reached out and touched the front of my shirt. Her smile was eager, illuminating. Like she'd just solved a riddle.

"Tag," she said. "Wanna try it faster?"

I moved. This time, she ran at me.

It wasn't an unfamiliar game. Angelus had taught me how to play with my food a long time ago. I'd used this trick before, though never on a Slayer, and usually I was the hunter, not the other way around. It was fun, letting her catch me only to disappear again. Trying different tricks to confuse her. Putting the bed between us, circling her while she was moving.

She managed to keep up, which was exhilarating all on its own.

I wished a couple of times that the room had more furniture, but the bed made a nice option. Hiding atop the canopy, waiting for her to catch me, then later on the floor under it.

She was laughing by that point, having a bloody ball chasing me all over the room, and it was difficult not to join in. Couldn't remember the last time I'd had this much fun with no blood involved. When I could tell she was tiring, I swung up beneath the canopy, bracing myself on the struts, waiting to see what she'd do.

That finally stumped her. She flopped down on the bed.

"Okay, you win this one round," she said, laughing. "I give."

I dropped down behind her, my hands on her shoulders and my knees either side of her hips. She started, but I held her in place, enjoying the warmth of her overheated skin and the race of her pulse. I realised I was still hard, and if I shifted forward just few centimetres, she'd realise it, too.

Probably not the best way to end the game. She ever figured out who I was, I was gonna be dust already. If I ground myself against her arse right now… well, there's more than one way to ram a stake into someone and hit the heart. Depends on the length of the stake.

"Under the canopy," she muttered. "Smart aleck vampire." Still, she was grinning.

I chuckled and moved away. I heard her arrange herself on her side of the bed, and settled in on mine.

"Thank you," she murmured sleepily.

I lay awake for a bit after that, thinking and trying to will my erection down. I made the Slayer happy. We had fun.

And somehow that made me happy.

God, I'm twisted. Shouldn't want the Slayer happy. Should want her scared, trembling, crying, or furious. Should want her bloodthirsty and ready for a fight.

But I didn't. I don't.

I want to make her smile again.

How buggered can you get?

***


9 November 2000

Went to the Bronze last night to make some cash hustling pool. Got a few debts that need paid up. Didn't realise the entire bloody Scooby gang was going to be there, celebrating the blonde witch's birthday. Stood back and watched for a bit, from the shadows.

Anya was chatting up Tara at the table, while the others stood about talking and laughing. It was so cosy it made me want to heave. Finn showed up late, oddly enough. Thought he was Mr. Punctual. Hmmm… Something to watch, maybe?

Mostly, though, I watched Buffy.

Lately seems like all I'm able to do is watch Buffy.

I'm not a complete idiot. I know it's wrong. Getting to be an old tune, though.

Heart don't beat, but it aches when she's near. Want to get close to her, touch her. Feel her fire and see if it burns me. Lot of lust, yeah, I admit it. But love, passion… supposed to be lust, right? That's what's missing with her and Cardboard: passion. Lout's about as passionate as a refrigerator door.

She doesn't love him. Can see it in the way she stands beside him, the way she kisses him, way she looks at him. Might feel for him, but it's not love. Not real love.

Had a hundred and more years to figure out love. To know its ache. Loved Dru for a bloody long time, and the bitch about tore my heart out when she left me.

"S-Spike?"

I didn't jump. I didn't.

Might have started a bit.

Tara stood beside me, watching me and glancing over at where I was staring.

"Are… is everything okay?" she asked. I blinked at her, considering. Tara was a new addition to the Scoobies. Came in last year about the same time I was trying to get that wanker Adam to take my sodding chip out. Always quiet and hanging back on the edges, she was; not your typical white hat. Can't think when she's said more than a few words to me before, but there she was, standing in the shadows with yours truly, her big eyes seeing way too damned much.

"Yeah," I said. "What's it to you?"

"I just…" she looked down at her hands, then rubbed her nose a bit. "I just wanted to th-thank you. For last night."

"For punching you in the face?"

"Yes," she smiled.

"Still hurt?" I didn't think I'd punched her that hard. Her head tilted a little to the side, studying me.

"Not really. I think… I think it hurt you more," she said.

That bird is way too perceptive.

"It passed," I said with a shrug. Wasn't going to go into the specifics of getting your brain blistered over a love tap.

"Still," she said, "I j-just wanted to let you know that I appreciated it."

Uncomfortable, I shifted my weight, glancing around to be sure no one was overhearing us.

"Welcome," I muttered.

She smiled and started to leave, then paused. "All my life, ever since I was a little girl, they told me that I was… that I had d-demon blood," she said softly. "That my mom had it, and that's why… I've been so scared, all this time, thinking that I was a demon."

"You're not a demon, luv," I told her.

"I know. Because, Anya who used to be a demon, figured it out; and b-because you punched me, and it hurt you, I know," she said. In my long life I don't think I've ever seen such an expression in anyone's eyes before. Certainly not when they were looking at me. "If there's ever anything I can do to help you… that's, you know, not…"

"Evil?"

She laughed. "Right. That's not evil. Just ask."

I think I must have been staring, because her cheeks coloured and she looked away.

"Thanks, luv," I said, clearing my throat and not knowing what else I could say. Poncy William and his manners to the rescue.

She smiled and once more turned to go, then glanced back.

"You have a really interesting aura," she said.

"What's that mean?" I asked. Dru sometimes had babbled about auras, but never about mine.

"I don't know," she said with a puzzled expression. "But it's really cool."

"Well," I said. "That's alright then."

With a quick grin she slipped back through the crowd to her friends, who looked like they were about to send up a search party for her. I stepped back into the shadows, mulling her words over and wondering why I suddenly felt… warm.




 
 
Chapter #40 - Chapter 39: Thirsty and Miserable
 
Author’s Note: This chapter covers the same time period as Chapters 7 and 8.

Someone asked me yesterday about my favorite chapters of this story. This is one of them—and not because it’s a happy fun chapter. This was one where I connected really hard, and I was so emotionally wrung out by the end of it I knew I’d written it as well as I could.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae*
*because Spike is English, I’ve made a rather anal retentive attempt to spell things “properly.” My beta (who IS British), has asked that I include the following disclaimer: “Any Britpicking mistakes are my beta's, because she reads too much fic written by you bloody Americans and is used to your bizarre ways by now."





Chapter 39
Thirsty and Miserable


14 November 2000

Blood.

The Slayer was bleeding. And it was fresh. That was the first thing that struck me as I climbed into the bed last night. Bloody hell. Literally.

Didn't smell like a scratch, either. Or like it was her time of the month. This was more, still hot, still pounding close to the surface, the smell so thick in the air I wanted to bury my face in it and lap it up like a thirsty mongrel. Fuck. I can still practically taste it on my tongue, even now. So much of it, so close…brought the demon right to the surface. I didn't even think, I just moved. If she hadn't spoken…

"Stop," she said, and I could hear pain and fear in her voice. Bugger. I froze. Realised I was halfway across the bed, vamped out and reaching for her. I had to struggle for a second to get myself under control. Suddenly there I was, torn between ignoring her and running my hands all over her looking for injuries, and bolting for the other side of the room before my demon broke its leash. It was already straining, screaming, furious.

Thing of it was, I couldn't tell what it was worked up about, exactly. The smell of Slayer blood set it off, but I wasn't hungry, and the demon was snarling and furious that something had managed to take a bite out of her. Couldn't quite suss out if it was brassed that something got there before I did or if it was because she was hurt. Might've been a bit of both.

Mine.

Hadn't thought it in awhile, but it was always there.

"Please, please stay over there," she said.

I gritted my teeth and forced myself to slide away from her a bit, not wanting to scare her further. Trapped in the dark with a vampire while she was bleeding and helpless was probably her worst nightmare.

Fuck, I’m such a ponce.

I should want to scare her. I should want to drain her dry.

"I know you can smell it," she said. "But I'd really, really appreciate it if you'd just…try very hard to ignore it?"

Could do that. Could try anyway. All I had to do was remember not to breathe.

Not like I need to, anyway, it's just…habit, mostly. Makes me feel a little less like an animated corpse.

Couldn't resist the urge to lean over and brush her hair off her forehead though. Don't know why, but I had to touch her, had to reassure myself.

"I'm okay," she said. "I'm going to be fine. I've had worse."

I wasn't sure who she was trying to convince. Still, nature of her calling, innit? You fight, you’re gonna get injured sometimes. Still, she’d heal up, right as rain, soon enough. Slowly, I drew back and laid down, watching her, listening to the pulse pound through her hard and fast and close and afraid.

She didn't sleep, not for a long time. Could tell she was worried about falling asleep with me beside her and the scent of blood so strong in the air. Chit was right to be worried. If I were any other vampire…

All these months now, fighting my demon, falling for her…I'm changing.

I'm not sure I like it. Been what am for a long time. I built myself piece by piece over the last century.

Lately, though…Don't know what I am, anymore.

***


[Note: The following sonnet is copied alone on a single page, and mis-titled. The correct title should be "Sonnet 141".]

Fuckin' Bitch

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But ’tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who in despite of view is pleased to dote.
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue’s tune delighted,
Nor tender feeling to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone;
But my five wits, nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart’s slave and vassal wretch to be.
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me sin awards me pain.

-William Shakesp—



[Note: Obviously meant to read "Shakespeare", however the rest of the word is an illegible scrawl, as if the author were suddenly startled or interrupted and left the word unfinished]



***


[Note: The following section contains many, many sentences that the author has struck and rewritten, most of which are unintelligible due to the violence with which they were crossed out. Such sections have not been reproduced.

15 November (5 am)

Fuck. I'm a pillock.

Thought it would be a lark, at first. Get the Slayer all to myself for an evening. Take her out. Tell her a little story. Hopefully suss out what happened to her last night that left her bleeding in my bed.

Maybe try to seduce her.

Since when do my plans ever go right when it comes to the Slayer? Should have known.

Should have known the minute she told me what it was she was after. Can't tell a girl how you killed two of her sister Slayers without brassing her off, I guess. Tried, though. All a man can do, right? Try?

Didn't tell her everything, of course.

Couldn't.

Didn't tell her about William. Didn't want her to know what a whipping boy I was.

A poet. Yeah…she'd have laughed in my face. Would have been right to.

Never was a good poet. Was a good man, I suppose. Or I wanted to be. Tried to be.

Mostly William was a ponce, always watching from the sidelines, wanting what he couldn't have. Lord I hated that world, even then. Hated the stuck up wankers who turned their noses up at me, hated all their stupid sodding rules of society and how to be a proper gentleman. All that rot.

Hated how they mocked me, how they tore me up for even deigning to try to be…better. As if I didn't have it in me. As if I were somehow…less.

'William the Bloody Awful Poet', they called me. And I was. Never forgot it. Never will. Doesn't matter that it means something else now, that their mockery of William signed their death certificates in blood and iron…I still hate that name.

And Cecily. God, Cecily…haven't thought of her much in years.

I loved her. I loved her as much as William's poor poncy little human heart could bear. Didn't know what a pale shadow it was of the real thing. Had all these pathetic little daydreams that she'd see me, see the man I was, the man I could be if she'd just let me try. That she'd see how much I loved her, how I wanted to give her the world. Used to think that one day she'd read one of my poems and know they were about her, know that I'd poured my heart out for her. That she'd love me for it.

Bloody fool. Bloody stupid little fool.

Didn't tell her what Cecily said…not that I needed to.

Would have been less painful if I'd handed Buffy a blunt stake and begged her wiggle it past my ribs.

Didn't tell her that Cecily's rejection left me sobbing like a complete poof.

Or that being turned hurt like hell.

Don't know if it's because of the insanity or if it's just Dru, but she never figured out how not to hurt when she bites. We can make it pleasurable, if we want, make it near painless, too. But Dru…it hurt. At least until she started sucking.

Didn't tell her that as much as I loved Dru, she was never really mine, and I knew it. Knew that she'd toss me over for her "Daddy" whenever he wanted. Didn't tell her that Dru was my first, and that while I played her knight and called her princess, I knew exactly what I was: her dog. Barely allowed to lick her boots.

Didn't tell her that Angelus barely tolerated me, made me his whipping boy every sodding chance he got. That he made me into a monster. That he beat me whenever I wasn't demon enough, and fucked Dru in front of me whenever he wanted to teach me a lesson. Didn't tell her how I lost whatever was left of my humanity bit by bloody bit.

How do you explain that to someone who still clings to the fairy tale that when someone is turned the human is gone and all that's left is a demon with human memories? Bet she still believes in Santa Claus, too.

Not as if she would have cared anyway. All she wanted was to know how I killed those Slayers, as if it were a neat little question with an easy answer she could memorise like a charm to keep her safe.

Should have known she wouldn't like what I had to say. When does she ever?

I meant to scare her, yeah. I admit it. She'd brassed me off by then with her snobby attitude and her shirty little denials. Bloody bint doesn't think I know what's going on in that head of hers. Wanted her to see that I knew.

More than that though, I wanted her scared. Fear keeps you alive. It's a survival instinct.

Wanted her afraid. Wanted her thinking about how she could die at any moment. If she's afraid, she'll think more, take fewer stupid risks. Survive that much longer.

Just because I'm immortal doesn't mean I'm not afraid of dusting. I like the challenge, like the fight, like feeling that rush when I'm scrapping for my life. But I know when to cut my losses, too. She hasn't learnt that yet. Hasn't learned to obey her instincts, to know when to run. She still thinks she can survive on skill and guts alone. I learnt that lesson early.

That Chinese Slayer almost had me twice, and it was sheer luck that saw me through.

After that, I learned. Trained. Studied every fighting style I could find and then some. Wasn't going to be surprised like that again.

Hopefully, she won't either.

Probably could have gone about it a different way, but I wasn't really thinking it through. I was having too much fun teasing her, scaring her, getting under her skin. Doesn't happen too often any more, so can you blame a bloke for getting his jollies when he can? Especially when she gets so hot and flushed and gorgeous when she's angry?

It was almost like really fighting her again, tonight, in spite of the chip. It felt good. Felt strong and alive for the first in a long time. There's nothing like facing a Slayer, and somehow knowing I can still hold my own with her, even when handicapped…well, it gave me back a little dignity.

For a moment.

‘Til she ripped it away again.

My fault. Shouldn't have tried to kiss her. Bloody stupid move, but I was running hot and horny and I could smell her arousal and fear and blood. If she'd just let herself see…

But no. Soulless demon. Forgot for a moment there. Forgot that what I am is so dirty and filthy she can’t bear the sight of me, that I stain her precious little hands every time she punches me.

Nothing quite like being kicked to the curb and stomped on. Nothing like having your dignity torn to shreds and scattered around you like filthy dosh.

Fuck. God. Hated her then, like I haven't hated her in a long time. Hated how she tears me down, makes me feel worthless, makes me feel like the monster I'm supposed to be. Hate how loving her makes me want to try, makes me want to reach for something I know—I bloody well know—I shouldn't have.

This is WRONG.

So goddamn fucking wrong and there's no way to make it right. No way I can ever be…what she wants. What she needs. No way I can ever be a man again, even if I wanted to be.

What I am…You can't go back from that. And I don’t want to go back. I like being what I am. Being strong, fast, immortal, being a vampire.

But god…I want.

I want more…so much more.

I hate this thing in me. I hate it. Fuck. I’m a demon, right? Not supposed to want. Not supposed to…It’s like there’s a traitor in me, turning my thoughts, turning what I am, making me…

Bloody buggering FUCK.

Isn't there a way to be what I am and still…be loved?

God I’m pathetic.

Wasn't thinking about that earlier, though. Was thinking of killing her. I was thinking how much fucking easier it would be if she were gone, if I never had to feel like this, ever again. If I could just put her six-fucking-feet beneath me.

Grabbed that old rifle out of the trunk and headed out to kill her, Harmony screeching away like a parrot behind me.

And remembered…

Remembered Dru, down in Brazil.

Remembered suddenly what she'd said.

"Why can't you kill her?" she'd asked.

I know now.

I can't.

I can't kill her.

I'm in love with Buffy. And it's going to dust me.

I thought I could, though. Thought all it would take was seeing her self-righteous little face sneering at me. Be so easy to just pull that trigger. The chip would blister my brains out, but then it’d be over. She’d be dead and there’d be nothing to do but get on with my unlife.

I thought I could do it.

Right up until I saw her sitting there, crying. God. It about tore my heart out. I've never seen her cry before. Didn't know what to do except…what I always do when a woman I care about cries. Give her a shoulder, if she wants. Not really sure whether I'd be allowed, with the Slayer.

But I tried.

All a man can do, right? Try?

Didn't tell her about my mum, though I probably should have.

Should've told her that I know what it's like to watch someone you love die by inches. To want more than anything to save them, even when you know you can't. To feel helpless, useless.

And to feel it all over again. Gods…Joyce.

I know no one would believe me, but I actually like Joyce. Always reminded me of my own mum. Decent, kind, a sweet lady. Know Angelus and Buffy both hated seeing me with her, but I wouldn't have harmed a hair on her head. Not ever.

I was surprised when Buffy let me stay. Let me sit beside her, and listen while she talked. Would've stayed with her till sunup, if she'd asked.

Not sure what I'll do tonight, once I'm in the dream dimension. Not sure how to act, how she'll act. She asked me about "Mr. Gordo" tonight. I wanted to tell her then. Started to, even, but the words wouldn't come out of my mouth. Got caught in my throat and wouldn’t come out.

Whatever that hell bitch did to me won't even let me acknowledge that I know what she's talking about. Even if I could react, I doubt she'd see.

Don't know what to do now but try to see it through.

A year and a day. Halfway there.

Yeah, I can bloody well do this.

***


15 November 2000 (noon)

Wish I knew what went on in that head of hers.

Last night she broke down and cried, in my arms. Let me hold her till she was all dried out and weak as a kitten.

Still doesn't know it's me, of course, but that only makes it odder.

Though, she did try to touch my face. Not sure if that counts against the White Witch's rules or not, but I'm pretty sure if Buffy feels that scar on my eyebrow she's going to know it's me.

Better to keep her mitts off, even if I do want her hot little hands all over me.

And she wants to spar? Not sure how I'm going to handle that, but it's too good an opportunity to pass up.

Dozy chit keeps twisting me. If it weren't for this journal, I'd suspect I'd gone round the bend. 'Course it's possible that I have, but so many bloody pages makes—

I wonder if the Slayer keeps a journal?




 
 
Chapter #41 - Chapter 40: Mama's Boy
 
Author’s Note: This chapter covers the same time period as Chapter 9.

Just because it seems like fluff, doesn’t mean it is.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae* and Science (who was kind enough to step in on short notice for some last minute changes).
*because Spike is English, I’ve made a rather anal retentive attempt to spell things “properly.” My beta (who IS British), has asked that I include the following disclaimer: “Any Britpicking mistakes are my beta's, because she reads too much fic written by you bloody Americans and is used to your bizarre ways by now."

Credits: This chapter contains dialogue from the episode “Shadow” written by David Fury.





Chapter 40
Mama’s Boy


15 November 2000 (2 pm)

Have I mentioned recently how very much I loathe Finn?

Went to the Slayer's earlier, knowing she'd be at the hospital with her mum. Thought maybe I could find her diary. Not that it'd do me much good, but it'd be handy to know how close she is to figuring this dream dimension thing out. If she's even trying to. If I need to worry about her breaking the rules.

Thing is, if it weren't for the hell bitch's challenge, me poking about the Slayer's room might have been for a whole different reason. No point in sniffing the chit's sweater sets when I spend every night practically drenched in her scent.

Pocketed a pair of knickers, though.

Tried the nightstand, under the mattress, dresser drawers and bookshelves without any luck. Was just about to move on to the desk when her pompous prick of a boyfriend came marching in as if he owned the joint.

"What are you doing in here?" I asked, wondering why he was hanging about her house instead of at the hospital with her. Come to think of it, where was Flavorless last night when she was getting all weepy on the back porch?

"Looking for the girl who's going to rip your arms off when she finds out you were in her bedroom," he said, folding his own across his chest like he thought he was a bleeding bouncer.

Oh, so he didn't know. Well, that was just… interesting.

"Yeah," I said. "Well… me, too."

"What have you got?" he asked, looking at the book I'd forgotten I was holding. I’d picked it up while rummaging through her shelves and hadn’t had a chance to put it back yet. I glanced at the title and shrugged.

"Pride and Prejudice. Gets bloody boring hanging about the crypt all day, if you must know. Thought I'd improve my mind. You should try it. Could get you some Dr. Seuss."

There's this bloody huge vein in his head, pops out when he's miffed and starts throbbing like a beacon. Like to slice it open, see how bad it bleeds.

"Pride and Prejudice?"

"Classical British literature. Probably too deep for you. All those big words like 'ignorant' and 'lummox'…"

"This isn't a library, Spike," he said.

"Can't exactly get a library card, can I? Besides: evil. Wasn't planning on bringing it back."

"That's it," he said, grabbing me and hauling me out of the room and down the stairs, bruising my jacket all to hell with his big clumsy paws. "Out."

Wanker. "Look," I tried to explain, "I know for a bleeding fact that the Slayer wouldn't mind me being here."

"Right, what's a little breaking and entering between sworn enemies."

Something so satisfying about wiping that smug look off his oafish face.

"Your girl in the habit of buying her enemies drinks? Cause she spent the better part of last night with me, doing just that," I said, not bothering to hide a smirk. Let him think what he wanted.

"Cause you guys are such tight pals," he said, but I could see it was getting to him.

"Yeah," I said, waiting to see how long it took before he broke. Could already see the worry in the back of his eyes, that tell-tale tick in his pulse.

"That's good. Tell me another."

I grinned. "Okay, how 'bout this one? Twice in recent memory, she's had the lover-wiccas do a deinvite on the house. Keep out specific vamps. Ever ask yourself why she's never taken my name off the guest list?"

Was chancy, bringing that up, and I knew it. He could tell Buffy about it and she'd rip the welcome mat out from under my feet right quick… but I doubted it. Hadn't yet, had she? Not even after that Initiative fiasco, or the little episode when I borrowed the doctor.

I wonder sometimes why she hasn't.

Clearly, Finn was having the same thought. He had that ponderous look, like a gorilla trying to learn Braille.

"Because you're harmless," he said.

"Oh, yeah, right. Takes one to know one," I said. Finn without his superpowers was about as dangerous as a two legged poodle. I knew the enormous lout had had a run in with Angel a few months back. Easy enough to play on his insecurities. Bet he lays awake nights, wondering if she’s thinking of Angel when she’s with him. God knows he’s practically a stand-in with a pulse. "Least I still got the attitude. What do you got? A piercing glance? Face it, White Bread, Buffy's got a type and you're not it. She likes us dangerous, rough, and occasionally bumpy in the forehead region. Not that she doesn't like you, but sorry, Charlie, you're just not dark enough."

Sometimes my mouth runs faster than my brain. Should have seen it coming, but he had the door open and had shoved me out into the indirect sunlight before I could get loose.

"Am I dark enough for you now?" he asked.

Takes about two seconds for direct sun to make me start smoking. Another six before I catch fire. Four more before I’ve got to worry about immolation. And not being able to fight him off meant I was in serious trouble. Under the porch roof was mostly shadowed but there was just enough light that I could feel my scalp starting to sizzle.

I swear, I'm gonna kill that boy one of these days.

"You don't know anything about Buffy, you never did. I'm the one who knows what she needs," he said. Oh, that was rich. He wouldn't know what she needed if she came with a sodding instruction manual tattooed on her tits.

"Oh yeah? That's why you're with her at the hospital right now, giving her what she needs," I said, playing one of the aces up my sleeve.

That got him to yank me back inside right quick.

"What are you talking about?" he demanded. I brushed him off.

"Don't you know? Didn't she tell you?" God, I love yanking his chains.

"You tell me," he said, trying to look threatening. Yeah. I was shaking in my boots. I get this chip out and I’ll show him what threatening really looks like… watch him piss himself before I start setting him on fire. Better yet, I know where I can get a one of those big taser guns they use on cattle.

"Mum's sickly," I told him finally. "Buffy took her to the hospital for a bit of prod n' probe… You know, it's funny, her not calling you about that. I've known since last night."

'Course he chose to shove me out the door again, once he got his information. Least he threw out the blanket so I didn't fry on my way to the sewer.

Stupid git struts round like he's Captain America. Hunting down demons for his government and turning them into lab rats, experimenting on them. Thanks to him and his unit, I’m a bloody cripple that can't eat anything but swill, and who knows how many other demons got cut up and used for body parts? And they say I'm evil. Least my victims had a quick death.

Well, usually.

Then he latches onto the Slayer, treats her like she's a bloody child in need of protection. Girl can protect herself. What she really needs? A man who can take care of himself without her having to worry about his sorry arse. One who lets her do her job and doesn't mind stepping back when she's got to step up. One who’s not so bleeding insecure about his own strength that he needs her to be all clingy and feminine so he can feel like a man.

Thing is, he's just like the rest of them. Self-righteous tosser, not afraid to spit on those he considers beneath him when he thinks no one's looking, or that he can get away with it. What makes him so much better than me?

A sodding soul?

I ever get this chip out…

Balls. Harmony's awake.

Least I've got Jane Austen for intelligent company.

***


[Note: This entry, aside from the last line, has the word "Wanker" written across it in large capitals, rendering parts of it difficult to read, and thus has been transcribed as closely as possible]

15 November 2000 (9 pm)

Last time I read this book I was alive. Was popular, even in my day, and even though it was considered poncy for a man to read it… well, William was a sodding romantic, wasn't he? 'Course, I'd forgotten most of it. Nearly a hundred and twenty-three years between readings will do that, I suppose.

Remembered that I'd liked Elizabeth. Spunky, she was. Turns out I still like Elizabeth. Reminds me a bit of Buffy. Lively, energetic. Likes to walk everywhere. Bloody beautiful dancer. Snarky, witty, and quick to judge a bloke based on her own biased perceptions. Takes care of her own. Fierce little thing. Yeah… I like Lizzie.

Darcy on the other hand… when I was William I hadn't liked him much, at first. Remember that I thought he was a right snob, and William never cared much for that. 'Course, once you find out he's all misunderstood… well, that was William's cuppa, wasn't it? Made him all bleeding sympathetic. Now I like Darcy much better. Like a man who can say what he thinks. Wish he'd have beaten that Wickham wanker to a bloody pulp, but what do you expect from a novel written by a bird in the late eighteenth century?

Mrs. Bennet… her I'd probably eat. Normally I like my meals a bit fresher, but I think I'd make an exception for Lizzie's mum. Got the brains of a goldfish and the soul of a pimp, that one. Half an hour of her squawking and I'd suck her dry.

Mr. Bennet… he can live. Bit barmy; but with that for a wife, it's understandable.

Jane's got a bit of Joyce and Tara about her. Real sweet girl. A lady. Kinda like her.

…Though I'd probably eat Bingley. Boy's got no sense. And his sisters? Couple of right bitches.

Charlotte can live. Practical girl, that one. Mr. Collins though… wouldn't bother biting him. Rip out his bloody tongue, nail it to a wall.

Lydia, Kitty and Mary… nummy little treats…

…

God, I hate this fucking chip.

***


16 November 2000

Broke my own record last night. Six fledglings, ten demons, and managed to scare the religion out of some arsehole who was beating on his bird outside the Bronze. Didn't hurt him, just flashed some fang and growled a bit. 'Course I scared the girl, too, but who cares? Felt good and she scarpered off right quick, leaving shit for brains pissing himself in the alley. Smart girl.

Gotta get my rocks off somehow, yeah?

Bloody chip.

Thing is…

Thing is I know if I were to get it out now, Buffy'd dust me. Can't chance me running loose, feeding on the populace. Even though they're practically asking for it, living atop the Hellmouth. You'd think years and years of weird doings and supernatural shite happening every day would be enough to give the humans a bloody clue, but they just write it off as "gang violence" and "swamp gas" or what have you.

Hundred plus years and it never ceases to amaze me that most humans aren't aware that we're out here. Can sit down at a bar beside them and they'll never notice that we're not reflecting in the mirror in front of their faces. Can walk into a gas station, looking like death warmed over under the fluorescent lights, veins like a sodding roadmap across our skin, and they barely bat an eyelash. Least not till we're at their throats.

Blinkered, the lot of them.

They're lucky they've got her.

Never really thought about it, before, the life of a Slayer. I mean, yeah, I thought about it in that "grrr, gonna kill her," kind of way, same as I have since 1881. You watch them, figure out their weaknesses, their fighting styles. Never really thought about their families before. That was always Angelus' gig, to attack someone through their kin. He'd knock 'em off, one by one, like empty bottles off a fence. Save the best for last, let them watch as everyone around them died, knowing that they were the reason why.

It's what he did to Dru. Hell… it's what he did to his own, way Darla always told it.

Guess that's why most Slayers don't have families. Or if they do, before they're called, they leave 'em pretty quick. Easier that way, I expect. Not having to worry about something going after their loved ones.

Buffy's different. Keeps her loved ones close, she does. When I first set foot in Sunnydale, few years back, never expected to find a Slayer with friends and family. Biggest surprise of my unlife, fighting the Slayer, about to finish her off, only to have her mum whack me over the head with an axe.

Surprised the hell out of me a few months later to find out her mum didn't even know. Had no clue her little girl was out, every night, saving the world from the likes of me. Thought she was a bit barmy, at first, not getting how brave her daughter was. Realised when I came back, after Dru left me, that Joyce was a helluva woman.

Sat me down, let me pour my bleeding heart out to her, just like I was one of her girl's chums. Offered me cocoa—hadn't had hot chocolate in decades—real touch of class. 'Course, I probably should have fessed up and told her I wasn't exactly one of Buffy's mates, but … I liked her. Liked how she treated me like a man, not a monster, even though she knew what I was.

Still does.

It's a tragedy, seeing that bright, pretty woman so sick.

I knew when Buffy told me the other night that her mum was going in for a scan that it couldn't be good. Last night she spilled the rest: brain tumour.

Fucking cancer.

She thinks vamps are evil? I'd wager cancer's worse.

Vamps… we can show mercy. Not often, but we do, least once we're past the bloodlust stage. One of the reasons for all that St. Vigeous self-flagellation crap. We're choosy about our victims, too—although every vamp’s different. Darla wouldn't touch prostitutes, Dru couldn't be bothered with old people, Angelus was all about his "art.” To me, it’s the young, scrappy ones that taste best. And the snobby ones.

Cancer, though, takes anyone it wants. No mercy. Toys with them for years, sometimes, taunting humans with the hope of recovery. "Remission" they call it. Might as well call it "lurking in the shadows, waiting for a chance to pounce."

Of all the nasty things that might've sunk their teeth into Joyce, it had to be something like that. If it were a demon, I'd be one of the first volunteering to take it out. Don't like seeing someone like Joyce hurting so bad. Or Buffy.

She feels so small, curled up beside me and sobbing her eyes out. So fragile. I know she's not, but that somehow makes it worse—seeing someone so strong made so weak.

Girl's a warrior. She needs something to fight. Something tangible to take her frustration and pain out on.

Could be me. Spar with her, like she asked, once she's feeling up for it. Can't dust me in dreamland, right? Not sure if the chip will zap me for it, but if I’m careful, feel it out a bit… best chance I’ve had for a decent fight since the chip crippled me.

As for when she's awake… might be better to stay out of her way. Keep an eye out, though. She's got to focus on her mum right now, which means something could take advantage. Fuck, I would’ve, before… So I'll watch, but keep my distance. Doesn't need old Spike around, distracting her when she's so worried about her mom she can barely breathe.

***


19 November 2000

Stopped off at the hospital, little bit ago. Was after closing, but I know my way around. Waited till the Slayer'd gone out for a bit, then slipped in to see Joyce. Thought she was asleep, when I snuck in. Wasn't.

"Spike," she said, surprising me. Didn't jump.

"Yeah?" I said, feeling like a ponce. Figured I'd just slip in and leave her present, then go. Didn't want to make a thing of it.

"Buffy's gone out," she said, "But she'll be back in a little while."

"Wasn't looking for her," I said. William's always a little more present round Buffy's mum than normal. I let him be polite. "Brought you something."

"It's after visiting hours," she said, but her face brightened.

"Yeah, well… didn't want to bump into Buffy and get the third degree. Figured you don't need that kind of stress, yeah?"

"I'm not so fragile, William," she said, looking so much like me mum at that moment it made it hard to talk. I sat down in the chair beside the bed. Was still a bit warm, and smelled like Buffy. Better than all those harsh chemical smells hospitals use to try to cover up the stench of sickness and death. Joyce looked thinner, shadows under her eyes, cheeks a bit hollow. Had to cough, to keep from choking up.

"Here," I said, handing her the box. "Not stolen, just so you know. Bought 'em at that little gourmet place in town."

"Oh! Chocolates!" She got a sly look on her face. "I don't think I'm supposed to have these."

"Not much for rules, here," I said, grinning back. "Figured you could use something that doesn't taste like hospital food. Seen the kind of stuff they feed people in here. Prisoners of war get better meals."

She laughed. "Thank you, Spike. That's very sweet of you."

I frowned. "Don't tell the Slayer, alright? She'll probably assume I poisoned them or something and pitch 'em out."

"Did you?" she asked curiously.

"No! 'Course not," I said.

"I'm just teasing," she said. "I know you wouldn't do that." Sweet woman, but a bit naive, Joyce. Still, hadn’t even crossed my mind, so maybe she was right. She opened the box and sampled one. "Mmmmm. Definitely better than lime jello and mystery meat. These must have cost quite a bit."

"Yeah, well… got paid quite a bit the other night for forking over some information. Blood and smokes don't cost much. Better spending it on you than gambling, right?" I fidgeted a bit, uncomfortable.

Didn't want her to know that the information I gave up was how I killed a couple of slayers… or that her daughter tossed it at me after kicking me to the curb. Didn't feel much like spending it in the first place. At least spending it on Joyce didn’t make me want to go kill something. "I should go," I said, standing. "Don't want the Slayer to catch me in here, lurking round her sick mum. Might get the wrong idea."

"Don't be silly," she said. "Buffy knows you wouldn't hurt me."

Not so sure of that, but I didn't want to argue. "You're killing my reputation here, Joyce," I said. "'Sides, got demons to beat up before bedtime and all. You should get some rest."

"I will," she said. "Thank you, William. This was very thoughtful."

"Welcome," I said, and beat a quick retreat. Not exactly Big Bad behaviour, checking up on the Slayer's mum, but I … sort of care.

***


20 November 2000

Kitten wanted to play last night.

Don't know what Rupert's been teaching her but, take away her sight and she's a right mess. Funny though, when she goes sprawling on her arse, all pouty and put out. Could have told her that all those high kicks she favours in a fight are no use when you can't see—that is, if I were allowed to open my bloody mouth.

Bloody chip never even fired. I was right about it not working there. Not sure why, but I'm not gonna argue about having my balls handed back, even if it is only for a few hours every night. There was a dicey moment, first time I hit her. I pulled it a bit, like I had with Tara a few weeks back, half-expecting to get zapped. When it didn’t come, I vamped for a minute. Couldn’t help it. I’ve wanted to be free of the chip for so fucking long…

But I don’t want her dead. And biting her there would be bloody stupid. She sort of trusts me in dreamland, and biting her would make her more likely to try to turn the lights on. So I wrestled the demon back under control.

Had to pull a Dread Pirate Roberts on her, though, and fight as if I were right-handed, not left. Girl knows my fighting style by now. Didn't want to slip up and give the game away. Didn't matter. Knocked her arse over tea-kettle three times without even trying.

Felt damned good, too.

When she finally asked what she was doing wrong, I wasn't sure if she'd let me show her. She did, though. Let me put her in position, let me guide her through some defensive blocks and jabs. Picked up a few of tricks when I was wandering round South America decades ago. I don't exactly run into many situations where it's difficult for me to see, but you never know what might be handy.

Girl catches on quick. It's a change from her usual flashy style, but she's got to learn that, when at a disadvantage, not to play with her kills. Defend, dust, move on to the next. Needs to learn to trust her instincts.

It's… sort of fun, training a Slayer.

Almost better than killing one.

Thing is… I train her up, and nobody but me will ever be able to even touch her. There's a certain amount of satisfaction in that.

***


[Note: the following is undated, and on its own dog-eared page. The different types of pen inks and variations in the writing suggest that it was completed over time, and returned to now and then when the author thought of something else]

Ways I never tried to kill the Slayer or the Scoobies (even with the bloody chip):

1. never burnt down her house while she was sleeping
2. never cut the brake lines on her mum's car, Rupert's car, or Harris'
3. never hired minions to take her out
4. never mixed gunpowder in with Red's "magic sand"
5. never set fire to the Magic Box after blockading them inside
6. never lied and sent any of the Scoobies stumbling into a vamp nest on their own
7. never rigged up a booby trap for anyone kicking in my crypt door
8. never summoned any demons, of any sort, and set them loose on the Slayer
9. never piped carbon monoxide into Harris' basement
10. never poisoned or drugged any of their food
11. never replaced any of Red's spells with dangerous ones
12. never set poisonous snakes, spiders, or demons loose in their houses
13. never left town to find another doctor to get the chip out—and made Harmony actually watch
14. never crumbled glass into the Boy Wonder's Wheaties
15. never electrocuted them in the bath
16. never kidnapped her mum or the Scoobies and sold them to the highest demon bidder
17. didn't kill Rupes when he got turned into a Fyral demon
18. never reinstated Dru's contract with the Order of Taraka
19.

 
 
Chapter #42 - Chapter 41: Mental Hell
 
Author’s Note: This chapter covers the same time period as Chapter 10.

I’m so glad that so many of you are enjoying this. I’ve read a lot of reviews and comments from people who wonder what Buffy is thinking of all this, and I do want to reassure you that we will get her reaction, when the journal is over. However… I’m not going to do a full recap or play-by-play of her responses. You’ve been in her head for 33 chapters now… in a sense, consider that, as you’re reading this YOU are Buffy. If you’re reacting to it in some way, there’s a fairly good chance she is, too. Maybe not exactly the same way (cause most of us already like Spike), but if something is jumping out at you, it’s more than likely ringing her bells, too.

What Buffy, however, may see differently: to her Spike is still very much a monster. And he’s NOT a nice guy. He might sometimes do things that seem nice, but at heart, Spike is still a vampire, and he does things for a vampire’s reasons.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae* and Science.
*because Spike is English, I’ve made a rather anal retentive attempt to spell things “properly.” My beta (who IS British), has asked that I include the following disclaimer: “Any Britpicking mistakes are my beta's, because she reads too much fic written by you bloody Americans and is used to your bizarre ways by now."





Chapter 41

Mental Hell


28 November 2000

Bloody, buggering fuck.

Should have known the White Queen wouldn't be happy to leave me be till the year and day were up. Truth is… I'd put her to the back of my head. Been kind of enjoying things for a while now. Get the Slayer in my bed every night. Get to fight with her without worrying about dusting. Get her warmth and her perky little attitude without any of her bitchiness. She talks to me now, opens up… and I can't cock things up by opening my bloody mouth. Almost, sort of like we're… friends.

I'm a wanker if I think that applies when she's conscious, of course. Bloody well know she'd dust me if she knew who she was spilling her guts to every night, who she was crying on, who she was practically begging to fight her. Not the same as shagging, but it's still a bloody dream come true, being able to be so close.

I'll take what I can get, yeah? Not afraid to admit that I'll scramble for whatever crumbs I'm tossed. Better than I deserve. It's something not even Finn can touch… not that he's doing much touching lately. Can barely smell him on her.

He's not gonna last much longer. They're growing too far apart. Only a matter of time before their relationship crumbles. Not sure what I'll do then, but if there's an opening… If Mr. G can earn her damned trust then maybe…

If I've got time.

Should have known Frosty would turn up to check on her investment soon or later.

Woke up feeling like a vamp-sicle. Don't feel cold like humans do. Doesn't slow my muscles down or make my organs get all panicky. Hell, can bathe in ice water and still get a hard on, if I want.

This was different. This was pain.

"Good morning, lover," she said, splaying her icy hand across my torso.

Was out of bed in a flash, halfway across the room and suddenly glad I'd been sleeping clothed since this started. No way I wanted her hands wrapped around my perkier bits. T-shirt was already bloody frozen to my chest where she'd touched me.

"Fuck off," I told her. "I still got a few months left."

"You've been a naughty boy," she said, propping herself up on one elbow. The way she moved her leg should have been a turn on, but all I wanted was to shove an axe through her neck. She must have sensed it, because next thing I knew I was frozen in place, unable to move anything but my head.

"Haven't. Kept your bleeding rules, haven't I, you icy cunt? Haven't said a single word. And it’s not your time. Let me loose."

"Silly creature," she cooed through bluish lips. When she got up and came toward me, she didn't bother walking, just drifted. "I know about your tricks. Very clever of you, to find a way to communicate without speaking. Pity you haven't thought it through."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I asked. That last bit was making me nervous, but I wasn't about to clue her in to that.

"You think your little Slayer isn't going to eventually get curious? She'll want to know who she's dreaming about every night. What will you do when she realises that all she has to do is ask if you're… you?"

Thought had crossed my mind a couple of times. All she had to do was say "Are you Spike?" and I was buggered. Could lie, but I didn't like that thought. Could tell the truth, but then she'd probably dust me.

"Hasn't yet," I said with as much swagger as I could muster with my head alone. "Deal with it when it happens, I suppose."

"You think she will simply leave it alone? She will want to know… want to see for herself," she said, toying with the hem of my shirt. Frost crept up the fabric, burning into my skin.

"Well she can't, since you've turned off all the bloody lights," I said.

"She's a clever girl," she said. "I'm sure she will find a way."

The hell of it is, she's right. Slayer wants something, she usually finds a way to get it. Well… then I'm just gonna have to try to distract her. Get her to trust me enough that she won't care who I am, even if she does suss it out. She’s halfway to trusting Mr. Gordo already… just gotta make her trust me when she’s awake, too. Maybe if she figures I'm on her side, she won't care if she starts to think she's dreaming of me.

"I'll deal with it if it happens, Snowflake. Now get your icy claws off me."

She laughed, and even that hurt. Like icicles crashing to the ground.

"When it happens, and it will, there won't be time to 'deal with it'… all it takes is one little glance, one little word, one little slip of your pretty little fangs… and then you're mine. Forever. And I've got such lovely plans for you," she was grinning, but she backed away, drifting around the crypt.

Where the fuck is Harmony when I need backup? Not that Harm could do much against this bitch, but maybe she’d annoy Louhi to death. There’s a happy thought.

She picked up one of my knives and I watched frost crawl up the blade. Fuck. "Oi! I liked that one and you're gonna rust it all to hell, you daft cow." She laughed.

"Oh, yes," she said. "I'd nearly forgotten your little… problem. Must be terrible, not being able to hunt or feed. Forced to kill your own kind."

Wouldn't be terrible at all, if I could rip her head off.

"Give it up now, William," she said, drifting back over. "Come with me willingly, and I will remove your muzzle. You’ll be free to feed as you please and I shall make certain you feast. The Slayer could be the first to fall under your fangs. I might even let you keep her for your own toy." She was running the icy edge of the knife over my shirt, cutting it carefully to ribbons and leaving frost black marks across my skin.

"That right?" I said. "You'll get this chip out of my head, if I'll come with you?"

"Say the word and it is done, darling," she purred, a triumphant little smile on her lips.

"Right then, easy choice," I said. She leaned in closer and I could feel her arctic breath on my face, making my eyes water.

"Go. To. Hell. You stupid, sadistic, cunt."

I might hate the damned chip, but I hate her more. Wasn't a chance I was going to go with her willingly, not if I could fight it. I've got no interest in being this bitch's toy vampire. If I'd wanted that, I'd have stayed locked up in the Initiative's pretty little white electrified box. Swore I’d never be that helpless again. The Slayer and her chums might be berks, but at least they treated me mostly decent, when I was at their bloody mercy. Could have done without the bathtub, however.

This chip's my ticket to a continued unlife… for now, at least. I can put up with it for a little longer, if it means beating old Louhi at her own game.

She wasn't expecting my response, I guess. She reeled back as if I'd slapped her.

"It doesn't matter," she said. "There's still plenty of time. One of you will break. And in the meantime, I’ve an open doorway into your world. I'm having so much fun exploring, too. Did you know you have a Hellmouth here?"

"Yeah," I said, "Got a pretty beach, too. You should visit. Hang out in the sun for a bit, see if you melt. Could stand to lose a few pounds round your hips there, Häagen-Dazs."

The knife was so cold I barely felt it when she drove it into my gut. Barely.

"I think the first thing I will do, once you're mine, is to freeze your vocal chords," she said. "I'd cut out your tongue, but that would be such a waste. I've plans for it, too."

Yeah, just bet she does. Or at least she will till I get down there and rip a chunk out of her with my fangs. Then we'll see, won't we?

"Sod off, bitch," I said, gritting my teeth. "You've had your fun, now scamper off and leave me be."

"You think I've had my fill?" she said. "I've only just started, pretty." She yanked the dagger out of me and held it up, looking at the icy blade. "You know, of course, that the Slayer's mother is ill… tsk. Humans are so very fragile, aren't they? I've a pet that would so enjoy a meal like her to feast on. Perhaps I'll send it her way…"

"Leave her out of it," I said. Fuck. Not Joyce.

"Tsk. Shhh, pretty. It won’t hurt her… much."

Which is how I ended up here, once she left. Stuck in the Slayer's sodding basement while she and mum are upstairs. She catches me I'm not sure how I'm gonna explain it, but I won’t let Louhi's pet go after Joyce. It’s one thing to hurt me, or the Slayer—we’re built to take it. Joyce isn’t.

I'd hung round the hospital, trying to keep out of sight, til I saw they were checking out. Trailed them here. Was a bit of commotion, a little while ago, had to listen for a few to figure out what was going on. Her mum's acting a bit off, thanks to the tumour. But Buffy got her tucked back in bed, and now the Slayer's in the kitchen, cleaning up the mess and sobbing her bloody eyes out.

I want to go up and… don’t know. Give her something to cry on. Or beat on. She’d probably get miffed that I'm here at all. So I'll wait and see what

[Note: This entry cuts off abruptly. The next starts on a fresh page. It is assumed that the author was interrupted while writing.]

***


29 November 2000 (2 am)

Ugly little demon rat. Not sure what it was, but I'm sure old Rupes will suss it out soon enough. Kept going after the Slayer, once it realised what I was… or wasn't. Was a chancy moment when it somehow managed to pin Buffy down. Not sure what it was doing, but her eyes went funny and she stopped fighting, laying there under it as if it were feeding on her. If I had a heartbeat, that would have stopped it. Once I kicked it off, though, she snapped out of it.

I tried, before it attacked, to warn her. Tried to tell her why I was there, but that sodding spell the White Witch put on me locks the words up and won't let them out. Buffy barely glanced at this old journal before the thing attacked, and she'd clearly forgotten it by the time it was over.

Gotta figure out some way of letting her know what's what. If Louhi's going to be mucking about in this dimension, Slayer needs to know. Maybe they can stop her and get me out of this bargain, while they're at it.

Fuck. Who'm I kidding? They'd likely wrap me up in chains and send me to her courtesy post if they thought they could be rid of me.

Or maybe not. They’ve helped me before with less cause, and if some icy tart’s planning to muck about with the Hellmouth, maybe I can talk my way out of a staking. Just gotta find the right way to do it. After what happened tonight, maybe I’ve got an in. I helped, didn’t I?

Don't know why, exactly, but when it was over, Buffy let me help her up. For a minute there, she held my hand. As if… almost as if she trusted me.

Can't be right, of course. Slayer can't stand me. It's Mr. G she's willing to trust…which makes no sense. I can't physically hurt her. And she knows now that Mr. G doesn't have a sodding chip. Not one that works, at any rate.

Still, put a bit of a spring in my step when her Finn stumbled in on our cosy little scene. Tosser’s face got all red, seeing me and his honey holding hands and practically ready for a snog. Buffy took off upstairs, to check on her mum, then. So she didn't get to hear him threatening me as if I were a bloody criminal for helping the girl.

If I had a nickle for every time one of the Scoobies threatened to stake me, I'd be rolling in blood and smokes for the next decade.

He kicked me out right quick but… I got to thinking: I need the Slayer to trust me, yeah? Maybe if she thinks I’m trying to help, trying to work on her side, then when she finds out about this bloody challenge of mine she won’t want to dust me.

Tried to suss out what she’d need help with. Decided to take the demon over to the Watcher, see if he knew what it was. Besides, better to know if Louhi’s got more of them lurking about. Give me something to kill, at any rate.

So, I waited outside till the lot of them left for the hospital, then went back in and collected the corpse.

Watcher was asleep when I got there, so I let myself in.

"Spike?" Rupert always looks so befuddled when he's groggy. I dumped the ugly rat thing on the couch as he wandered down the stairs, pulling on a robe. A robe, for chrissakes. What kind of man wears a bloody robe in this century?

"This thing went after the Slayer's mum,” I said. “About half an hour ago.”

"What is it?" He stooped over the corpse, then pinched his nose. "Ugh. Get it off the couch, you pillock. That stench is going to soak into the upholstery."

"So?" He gave me a look that said clear as daylight that this was one of those things a soulless demon couldn't possibly comprehend. Right. Upholstery being far more important than figuring out what this thing is. I'm sure Angel would have had more of a care.

I rolled it off onto the floor and we both crouched over it.

"Ugly little bastard," I said, twisting the head up so we could get a better look. It's face was a bit battered from my fists, but you could still make out the basics, I thought. Couple of beady eyes, might’ve mashed up the nose a bit. Stumpy little teeth. "Any idea what it is?"

"It looks familiar," Rupert said, frowning at it. Then he glanced up. "What are you doing, Spike?"

"What?"

"Did Buffy ask you to bring this here?" Now he was looking suspicious. Balls. Can't a vamp bring a corpse over in the middle of the night for identification without getting the bloody third degree?

"No. Slayer and the soldier took her mum back to the hospital. Left it stinking up her foyer." I was a bit lost. No clue what he was getting at. "Figured she'd want you to have a look at it, so I brought it by."

"What exactly were you doing at Buffy's in the first place?"

Opened my mouth to tell him, and practically choked on the words. Bugger. I tried again, but I couldn't get the words out. Finally I reached in my duster and yanked out this journal, slammed it down on Ugly's chest.

You know, for someone who calls himself a Watcher, he's bloody unobservant. Either that or the spell extends to the journal, too. His eyes slid right over it. Probably a good thing, considering the contents, but still…

"What were you doing at Buffy's?" he repeated, as if I were deaf.

With a growl I stuffed the book back in my coat. "Stealing, alright?" I said, getting angry. "Needed some… junk. Happened to see some in her basement. Look, does it really matter? That thing was feedin' off her mum, then went after the Slayer. Pinned her down and was… doing something to her. She checked right out, mid-fight. I kicked it off, we killed it, end of story. Now are you gonna tell me what this fucking thing is so we can find out if there are more?"

Rupes took off his glasses and started polishing. Yeah. Cause it's so much easier to see what's staring you in the face when you're blind as a bat.

"You're telling me you helped Buffy… out of the evilness of your heart?" he said.

I might've sputtered for a bit. Fuck. Had a choice then, didn't I? Could give him the closest thing I could to the truth. Or I could play it off, be the Big Bad.

Need the wanker to trust me, though, else I don't stand a chance of getting out of the hell bitch’s bargain. Watcher’s the brains of their operation, and the Slayer will want his approval.

"Well," I said, finally. "Yeah."

"Forgive me if I find that hard to believe, Spike."

Yeah, that brassed me right off. Berk's blind after all. So in order for him to trust my word there's got to be something in it for me? Fine. I sighed and told him what he wanted to hear.

"Running low on blood," I said. Wasn't, but he didn't know that. "Could use some dosh. Thought maybe playing delivery boy would earn me a tip."

Amazing, isn’t it, how one little lie will smooth things right out? Looking for pay was preferable to me trying to help.

He got up and headed for his desk. Thought, finally, maybe I’d get some answers—except he fished out some cash and held it up. "Thank you, Spike. Your assistance is much appreciated."

Been around long enough to know a dismissal when I hear it. "That's it then? Not even gonna look at this thing?"

"I'll look into it," he said. "Not that it's any of your concern."

Bloody hell. I snatched the dosh out of his hand and headed for the door. "Hope it stinks up your carpet, you cynical old bastard." Slammed it on my way out.

Ought to learn to control my temper, I suppose.

Should have known better than to think he'd just accept what I said at face value.

Soulless demon. Right.

My fault for forgetting it.

***


29 November 2000 (noon)

Sparred with the Slayer again last night. Bloke could get used to this.

It's not quite what I want, but it's the next best thing, yeah? Being there with her, able to touch her, watch her. Her scent all around me, drowning me in it. God. She gets so worked up. In the dark she forgets to guard her expression, so I get to watch it all play out. All her concentration, her delight when she manages to land a punch, her frustration when I get past her guard.

Best part is… she's with me.

Well, not me, exactly… what I mean is, she's present. Focused. As aware of me as she can be.

Somehow she's convinced herself that this is all a bloody dream, and that there's nothing really to fear.

She trusts me.

Makes me wish I had that all the time.

She might not ever love me… hell, I know she won't… but maybe she might let me…

Fuck. I gotta stop that.

No use denying it, though. I'm changing. Maybe it's the bloody chip, maybe it's just her, but I'm changing… and I'm not sure I know how to go back to what I was, even if I wanted to.

***


When I too long have looked upon your face,
Wherein for me a brightness unobscured
Save by the mists of brightness has its place,
And terrible beauty not to be endured,
I turn away reluctant from your light,
And stand irresolute, a mind undone,
A silly, dazzled thing deprived of sight
From having looked too long upon the sun.
Then is my daily life a narrow room
In which a little while, uncertainly,
Surrounded by impenetrable gloom,
Among familiar things grown strange to me
Making my way, I pause, and feel, and hark,
Till I become accustomed to the dark.
—Edna St. Vincent Millay



 
 
Chapter #43 - Chapter 42: Love Bites
 
Author’s Note: This chapter covers the same time period as Chapters 11 and 12.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae
*because Spike is English, I’ve made a rather anal retentive attempt to spell things “properly.” My beta (who IS British), has asked that I include the following disclaimer: “Any Britpicking mistakes are my beta's, because she reads too much fic written by you bloody Americans and is used to your bizarre ways by now."





Credits: This chapter contains dialogue from the episode “Into the Woods” by Marti Noxon.

Chapter 42
Love Bites


30 November 2000

Bloody hell.

I don't know what to do.

Pretty sure this is one of those things where a soul might come in handy, but since I don't have one I'm a bit at loose ends.

Right. Start from the beginning.

Joyce's surgery was this morning. From what I overheard later, sounds like it went well. Stopped off at the Slayer's house, but Finn was there, taking advantage of her relief over her mum to get his rocks off. 'Course that meant I got to listen to them cooing all over each other. She left her window open, too, which meant I had the full concert. Technically wasn’t much of a concert. More like a television advertisement jingle, thank god. Don't know how much of listening to that wanker grunting over her I could have taken without slipping up there and ripping his bloody head off.

Had pretty much decided that there wasn't going to be any action—certainly not any worth listening to—and I should take off, when the front door opened and Finn slipped out, quiet as a little lummox. He had that stealthy sort of air that practically screams Up To No Good. Bloody amateur.

Now what sort of wanker would leave in the middle of the night when he's got an arm full of warm, sleepy Slayer?

So I followed him.

Figured at first he was off for home. Decided not when he headed for the seedier side of town. Trailed him over to a vamp brothel down behind the old paper factory.

Should have guessed that Sunnydale would have one. Get enough vamps in one location and they start to crop up like bloody toadstools. I could probably feed off humans there, even with the chip—long as I don't kill anyone or let it hurt them. Fuck, most of them would be happy to open their own veins for me. Never been the sort to whore myself out like that, though. Besides, Master Vampire here—if I can't hunt on my own, I'm not about to go get my kicks in a sleazy dive like that, run by a couple of milk-toothed fledges barely out of their nappies.

Thought maybe Finn was hunting, 'til I slipped upstairs after him and found him cuddled up in a mouldy chair with a cheap little vamp trollop sucking him off.

Wanker, thy name is Finn.

When I got to bed last night, Slayer was already drifting off, all happy and sated and covered in that bastard’s scent. Ended up sitting up half the night, trying to decide what to do.

Finn finally fucked up.

Golden boy’s got a bit of tarnish on him now. More than a bit, really, considering that he’s not just screwing around on the Slayer, he’s got himself a bloody dangerous new hobby. Something utterly satisfying about knowing that the git is about to either get himself offed by some milk-toothed fledge or that the Slayer’s gonna turn him inside out when she finds out what he’s doing behind her back.

And she needs to find out. Not just because Finn is betraying her, either. Slayer needs to know her tin soldier is putting her and her loved ones at risk like that.

Humans get offed in vamp brothels all the time. Might be an accident: some stupid little fledge that isn’t as in control as they think and sucks their donor dry without realising it. Sometimes it's not. We're not exactly known for sticking to the rules, vampires.

Wouldn't cry if Finn got killed, of course. He knows the dangers better than most. He wants to play Russian roulette with his life, that’s his own bloody choice.

Problem is if his tart decides to turn him. Slayer'd never see it coming, and if he rose smart enough he'd go for her friends first, anyway. Scoobies don't have her little vamp radar. They'd invite him in without thinking. Puts them all in bloody danger, don't it? Selfish plonker's too busy getting his rocks off to even think about that. Ought to know better.

She's going to be right brassed when she finds out.

Thing is… I'm not sure how to tell her. Don't think "Hey, Slayer, turns out your boy is off getting suck jobs from vamp whores when he's done shagging you" is going to go over well. More than likely she'll dust me first, then ask questions later.

Could confront him myself, but then he'd more than likely dust me. Wouldn't want me spreading the word about his little extracurricular activities. Good chance Buffy'll dump his sorry arse when she finds out. Girl's not stupid.

God I hope she kicks his fucking arse all the way across town. I'd buy tickets to that.

Could go to the Watcher, but I know how that'll go over, don't I? Can't bring a corpse over without an ulterior motive. Not a chance he'll listen if I try to tell him about this. Probably wouldn't believe me anyway.

I'd talk to Joyce, but she's got enough on her plate at the mo'.

Harris is right out. The poofter's got such a hardon over Finn, it's a wonder he doesn't bugger him every time soldier boy turns round.

That leaves the former demon girl, and the lover-Wiccas…

***


1 December 2000

Wasn't too hard to track Tara down. Found her the same way I found Buffy last year. Sodding universities put everything online nowadays and I may not be as computer savvy as the techno witch, but I can bloody well navigate a directory.

Getting her on her own was a bit harder. Luckily she and Willow don't take all their classes together.

Bird's a lot smarter than her girlfriend, too. Doesn't yell out "come in" to anyone who knocks on her bleeding door. Not even when the sun's up.

"Spike?" she asked when she opened the door. "What's wrong?" She looked concerned. Noticed she didn't step out of the room, though. Clever girl.

"I need to talk to you," I said, doing my best to look non-threatening. "Someplace we can chat? Apparently I don't come with the right plumbing for this building." Was getting a lot of looks from all the little chits coming and going in the hall. Made me want to strut a bit, actually, but I didn't need the red witch hearing about it later and tattling on me.

She frowned, but it didn't take her long to decide. "Yes, just… let me get my coat."

"Still daylight," I reminded her when she came out. "Anyplace close?"

"There's a campus coffee shop nearby, and covered walkways all the way there. Will that be okay?" she asked, stuttering a little.

I shrugged. Would probably make her feel safer, in public, with sunlight just a short sprint away, yeah… it'd do.

The walk wasn't bad. Had to bolt for it a couple of times, but nobody pays any attention to people running about on a university campus. Remember that from my own school days. Always someone rushing to get to class.

"Do you want anything?" she asked, when we snagged a table in a shadowy outside corner where the sunlight couldn't reach.

"Nah, coffee makes me hyper," I said. She gave me an amused look and went off to fetch some of her own. I lit up a fag while I waited. She came back with something smelling of chocolate and wrapped her hands round it to warm them up.

"You wanted to talk?" she said.

"Told me you'd help me out, if it wasn't evil, yeah?" I said.

"If I can, yes," Tara said. Trusting little thing.

"Any chance this can stay between you and me, pet? Got a reputation to protect here."

She thought that over, her big eyes blinking. "As long as it doesn't hurt anyone by me keeping it a secret, it can stay between us."

Was the best I was gonna get, I figured. "Right. Need some advice."

"Advice?" she seemed a bit surprised about that. Couldn't blame her.

"Soulless demon, right? Don't always know which way is up. I've got a… delicate sort of situation, so figured I'd ask someone who does," I said. "You owe me a favour."

She ducked her head, trying to hide a smile like she knew something I didn't. "I do. I can't promise my advice will be right but… I'll listen."

Took a couple of drags on my smoke before I figured out how I wanted to start.

"Gonna arse this up, I just know it," I said. "Okay, say, hypothetically, I saw something that’s been going on—something that might brass off the Slayer, if she knew? Might even hurt her bloody feelings? Not that I give a damn. Thing is… her not knowing would be worse. Dangerous. Someone could get… hurt."

"Hypothetically? You need to tell her," Tara said, not even hesitating. "It might hurt her to know about it, but Buffy takes her job really seriously. If it's dangerous she needs to know."

"Yeah," I said, stubbing out my fag on the tabletop. "Figured. How?"

"You… you want to know how to tell her?" she blinked. Then she held out her hand.

"What?" Did she want me to hold it? Read my palm? Bugger that.

"Littering is bad for the earth. I'll throw it away when we leave."

"Oh, right," I frowned, but handed the dog-end over. She dropped it on a napkin, then folded her hands round her cup again.

"You wanted advice on how to tell her," she prodded me. I was still a bit confused about the whole cigarette ending the bloody world thing, so it took me a mo' to get back on track.

"Right. How to tell her so she’ll believe me without her wanting to dust the messenger," I said.

"Are you going to charge her?" she asked, her forehead knitting up with concern. "You know… for the information?"

"Would it help?" I asked. I hadn't thought of that. Slayer seems to think paying me cash makes it all hunky-dory. Maybe I could hand it over like standard info? Wonder what the going rate is for info on someone’s lover betraying them that badly?

"No," she said seriously. "It really wouldn't."

Well, there went that idea.

"Balls," I muttered. “Right, sorry. No charging the Slayer. Got it. Anything else?"

She thought it over, sipping at her coffee. Wanted to light another smoke, but instead I just fiddled with the lighter. Was feeling jittery. Always am when I'm out and about when the sun's still in the sky; sets the demon on edge, which is easy enough to ignore. But mostly because this whole sodding scene had me feeling restless. The demon part of me wanted to know why I couldn't just ignore the whole thing and wait for the bastard to get himself killed, or just straight up tell the Slayer. But the bits of me that are still William wanted the good witch's advice. More and more I keep listening to the ponce. Not sure why, but I figure those instincts are my best bet for getting through the rest of this year. If I'd listened to my demon, I'd have been Louhi's vamp sex toy before Count Wankula had blown into town.

"You said… you said you saw something? Is it something she could see for herself?" she said hesitantly. "If she saw it with her own eyes t-then she can't…you know, accuse you of lying. And… maybe she'll understand why you'd show her."

"Yeah… could probably do that," I said, trying to figure it. Would depend on if Finn went back often. Most times bite addicts can't go more than a day or two without a fix, even though that makes it more dangerous. Losing too much blood over a few days can kill a human just as easy as sucking them dry on the spot, and it's not like we keep a medical record on how much a human has donated recently. "So, I should just take her there? Let her see what's going on?"

"Would it be dangerous?" she asked.

"For her? 'Course not, especially not with me there for backup," I said.

"Would you back her up? You're… not exactly her biggest fan," she said.

"Yeah, Glinda," I said. "I'd back her up. What's going on… it's bloody dangerous for her, her mum, her Watcher, you lot." Didn't mention that I'd take some personal satisfaction in seeing Finn exposed for the utter berk he is. Girl sees too much, though.

"There's something in it for you," she said. Wasn't a question.

"Always is, isn't there? No such thing as altruism among vampires," I said. Gave her my most charming smirk. She smiled back.

"Would it be the end of the world?"

"What?" I asked, confused.

"If a soulless vampire ever did anything truly unselfish?"

I laughed. "Be a sure sign of the bloody apocalypse, if I ever saw one."

She laughed, too. "Then it's probably a good thing there's something in it for you, then, huh?"

"Just enough, luv. Just enough."

Took the sewers over to Buffy's, after she left. I'll wait here till the sun sets, then see what Finn does. Hope Tara's right about showing her, or tonight's gonna have a dusty ending, after all.

***


2 December 2000 (2 am)

Well, I tried. Went about as I'd thought.

First part of the night was a repeat of last. Could have set a watch by how long it takes him to get his rocks off. Git has no concept of how to please a woman. It's all pant and groan and grunt. As exciting as a sodding instruction manual: insert tab A into slot B, remove, repeat ad nauseum until tab A needs a nap. Which takes about five bloody minutes. Six, if you count foreplay.

Six and a half, when he bodges getting the condom on.

Pillock.

When he snuck out I followed long enough to be sure of where he was going. Wouldn't do for me to get the Slayer there only to find out he'd gone home. Then I went back for her.

About scared the demon out of me when she sat up and said, "Mr. Gordo?"

"No. It's me," I said. Which was true, even if I meant it different than I could say it.

"Spike," she said, pulling the blankets up around her and glaring at me. "Every time you show up like this, you risk all of your parts, you know that?"

Yeah, cause I so often sneak into her bedroom in the middle of the night to watch her sleep. What kind of poofter vampire does she think I am?

Being trapped in her room while she's sleeping is entirely different.

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't have a good reason. As usual, I'm here to help you, and I—" suddenly registered what it was I was actually seeing. "Are you naked under there?"

Slayer sleeps naked? Since when? Bloody hell. Should have said sod it and gone straight to bed. Wondered if she'd want to spar tonight.

"Get out," she said.

Fuck. Needed to stay on topic.

"No, I'm serious. I mean, not about the naked part, I mean…" If I turned my head a little to the side, could almost see…

"Get out, or I will drop you out," she said. "Head first."

Right. Clearly she was going to be unreasonable about this. Better get serious before I got dusty.

"I wanna show you something," I told her. She must have caught on then that this wasn't just about witty repartee.

"What?" she asked, actually interested.

"You need to see this," I told her. "But we need to move if we wanna get there in time."

Took me a second to realise she wasn't about to get out of bed with me watching her. "Oh, please! Like I give a bloody damn."

William made me turn round, then he surprised me by putting a rope on my demon and holding my head in place. Hadn't realised my inner Victorian was that strong. Didn't mean he liked it any better, though. We were having a glorious time imagining what was causing every little whisper of movement behind us.

"Okay," she said, "what's going on?" I turned back around. Even in old sweats she's bloody adorable.

"C'mon," I said. "It's across town." We headed for the stairs.

"Do I need weapons?"

"Stake you've got shoved down the back of your sweats should do in a pinch," I said.

She frowned. "How do you…?"

Rolled my eyes as I opened the front door for her. "Always do, don't you?" As if I wouldn’t know where a Slayer keeps her weapons.

Slayer didn't seem to have an answer for that. Spent most of the trek across Sunnyhell silent. She couldn't have missed that her honey wasn't in bed with her when I came in, and I could tell she was nervous.

"Am I going to have to pay you for this, later?" she asked, finally, breaking the silence.

"This isn’t about that," I said. "I just… I'm trying to help, here, Slayer."

"'Cause you're usually so helpful," she said, sarcastic.

"Could be," I muttered. She heard. Watched her frown, then shake it off.

"Where are we going, Spike?"

"Here," I said, leading her around the fence and up the stairs.

Knew she could sense the vamps inside. She gave me a wary glance. "So, help me, Spike, if this is a trap—"

"It's not," I promised. "Can dust me if I'm lying." That made her blink.

We went in. Was worse tonight than last. Dozy junkies laying on the floor, all but dead. Vamps sitting on the couch, passing money and donors. Whole place stank of old blood, sweat, jizz, and filth. Almost envied the Slayer her dull human nose, don't know how these tossers can stand it.

"Don't start slaying," I warned her. "That's not why we're here." Didn't much care if she did, but not before she saw what was upstairs. After that I'd help her dust the whole lot of them, if she wanted.

Big vamp came up, started making noise, then. Thought he was a bleedin' bouncer. Couldn't have been more than twenty. Bloody fledges.

"Keep it down," I warned him, not wanting to tip off Soldier Boy upstairs. Gormless tried to stop me, so I grabbed him by the throat. Didn't even bother letting the demon out. Idiot can't sense an old vamp when he's ten inches away, deserves to be dust. Got more fight in my bloody thumb than Lug Nuts had in his over-sized body, even without my demon strength. "I said, keep it down."

After that they let us be. Could sense them, though. We had their attention now. We needed to move.

Got her up the stairs as silent as we could. Could smell Finn down the hall, his blood saturating the air. One hundred percent, homegrown, American boy—most wholesome thing half these vamps had ever eaten. Might as well have been serving up bloody gourmet. Wouldn't be long before some greedy little bitch took too much.

When she pushed the door open, the moron was actually ordering his trollop to go harder on him. At this rate he'd be lucky to last another night. Probably saved his damned life.

Heard Buffy give a little gasp when she realised what she was seeing. That's when he saw her.

Couldn't resist getting a dig in. "We only came here because we care about you, friend," I said as he tried to pry the whore's fangs out of his arm. "You need help."

Went after her, figuring she'd be mad enough to take the place apart. Got to the stairs in time to see her hurl one of the vamps halfway across the room, then bolt for the door.

They didn't bother trying to stop me when I left. Lucky them.

I started to explain when I caught up to her outside, but she shot me a look that as good as promised a staking if I said another word.

Fuck. Try to do right and end up getting kicked again. Still, she knows now, yeah? I followed her, out of her range, till I saw she got home. Then I headed for the crypt.

Harmony was hanging about, but I kicked her arse out. Said she was going to a party anyway. As if I gave a damn.

Right now, all I want is to get this written down and go to sleep.

Her eyes back there… yeah, it hurt her feelings. Just… didn’t know it’d hurt me so bad to hurt her.

***


[Note: The intervening two pages are covered in words and scraps of poetry, all crossed out with increasingly irritated strokes]

2 December 2000 (noon)

Sod it.

I can't find the words.

No. Not right.

I can find the words… just can't put them in the right order.

God, if I live for a thousand years, I won't ever forget last night. Ever.

I won't forget the scent of her tears in the air, or the anguish in her eyes. Won't forget the feeling that came over me then: I put that there.

Oh, I know that's not true. Not really. Finn's fault for being an utter prat. But I led her to it, didn't I? Let her see.

What’s left of William in me says I'd done the right thing, but what does that dead git know? The demon argues that I should have just let the wanker die.

Don't matter now, though, does it? She knows, and she's in pain.

I knew, going to sleep last night, that she'd want me dust. Right then any vampire, even a supposedly dream one who'd hadn't touched her to harm her since this whole thing began, was fair game. When she told me she wanted to spar, though… didn't matter. I'd have stood still and let her beat me to a bloody pulp if that's what she wanted. Bruises would be gone by morning. It'd be worth it.

Sparring was something I could do. No holds barred… if that's what she wanted, I could give her that, too.

Been a long time since I was able to use my full strength and all my skills in a fight. Waited a minute or two, at first, testing her, to see how off balance she was.

Should have known better. Whenever the girl is breaking, the Slayer in her steps up to the plate.

I let the demon out… just a bit. Not enough to fully vamp out, just enough to give me the strength and the speed, just enough to boost my reflexes.

Good thing, too.

We danced like we've never had a chance to, and god, it was incredible.

This wasn't practise or playing. This was life, fists and fire and fury. It was death, both of us doing our level best to deal the fatal blow. She wasn't toying with me, way she so often does with other vamps. Almost like a game where you try to use as few moves as possible to win—every move was for the killing shot.

If I hadn't known it before, I know it now: Slayer and I, bloody equals. For every time she managed to "stake" me with her fist, I got in close enough to have ripped her throat out with my fangs. It wasn't strength, or speed, or skill that determined who got the upper hand each time—was a roll of the dice, slip of fate, the tiniest opening in one another's defences.

Fighting her like that, going for the death blow only to hold back at the last second so we could dance again… was better than killing a Slayer. Better than killing. Wanted it to go on like that forever.

When we'd finally reached a stalemate—her tiny fist a hard knot against my heart, my lips pressed against her hot little throat—we were both so turned on it wouldn't have taken much to go from fighting to shagging. My dick was so hard it hurt, and I could smell her arousal all around me, her heartbeat pounding under me, throbbing against my mouth, her warmth, her scent…

It was the smell of her tears, where they'd tracked down her throat, that stopped me. Suddenly remembered why we were doing this. Not because she wanted to be fighting me or shagging me… no. Was grieving over her boy. That bloody fucking wanker. Couldn't pound on him this way without breaking him, but I could take anything she wanted to dish out and then some, and no guilt over it after since I’m nothing to her but the dream of a dead man. No voice. No face. Not real.

Still… for a few hours there, I had her. Had all that fire, all that pent up passion turned on me. Glorious.

It's enough, for now, just to have been able to touch her, to dance.

Even if she doesn't know it was me she was dancing with.




 
 
Chapter #44 - Chapter 43: The Wretched
 
Author’s Note: This chapter covers the same time period as Chapter 13. We’re going to be speeding up after this. This is the last chapter that matches only one chapter in Part I. From here on out, if you’re rereading Part I, you’ll be rereading two, sometimes three, four, or five chapters of Buffy’s POV to match up with one of Spike’s. Not that I don’t love him, but he just doesn’t have as much to do—unless you really want me to have him chronicle all the time he spends in front of the TV or tossing off?

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae
*because Spike is English, I’ve made a rather anal retentive attempt to spell things “properly.” My beta (who IS British), has asked that I include the following disclaimer: “Any Britpicking mistakes are my beta's, because she reads too much fic written by you bloody Americans and is used to your bizarre ways by now."





Credits: This chapter contains dialogue from the episode “Into the Woods” by Marti Noxon.

Chapter 43

The Wretched


2 December 2000 (5 pm)

Bloody buggering fuck.

God, this hurts.

Know I have a heart now, cause some enormous arsehole decided to drive a bloody hole through it.

Was sitting in my crypt, having a drink and minding my own business when Jarhead decided to pay me a visit. Knew he'd be by eventually. Figured we'd have it out, he'd threaten me, maybe beat the hell out of me, and go off and boo-hoo over his lost honey. Be worth it, almost.

Wasn't expecting him to pick me up out of my chair, slam me against a pillar and shove a goddamn PLASTIC STAKE through my bleeding heart. Looked real? Hell, it felt real enough till I realised I wasn't dusting. Bastard had clearly lost it.

Ain't souls grand? You cock up your own life, get caught cheating and doing something stupidly dangerous besides, and then get to torture the poor bloke who did your girl a bloody favour by doing nothing more than taking her for a little walk?

How the hell is that fair?

And, for the record, let me just say: getting staked in the heart without dusting? Torture. I've suffered some nasty things in my century plus, and that ranks right up there at the top of the list. Right after having your brains boiled for trying to eat, and having some icy hellbitch stick an icicle into your chest.

Come to think of it, I'm getting a little too familiar with being used as a fucking pincushion.

"Don't think I don't know what's going on with you, Spike," he said, doing his best raving psycho impersonation. Gotta say, he’d gotten better at it. Pity for him I know what raving psychopaths are really like. "Stay away from her, or we'll do this for real next time."

Yeah right. Might have the guts to stake me with plastic when he knows I can't fight back, but he enjoys kicking me around too much to dust me. Bastard. Won't be a next time. He even looks at me funny again, I'll find a way to kill him. He thinks he knows what it’s like to get bit? I’ll show him the not so nice side. Maybe do a few experiments on him, see how long he can live without being able to eat. Take off a limb or two, put them back on backwards or something. Know a few demons who’d like to pay him back for what the Initiative did—wouldn’t be hard at all.

Had to laugh at him, though. Was so bloody obvious what his real problem with me is. He's worried that she might turn to me. Knows now, he does, the way vampires love. Or he thinks he does.

Besides, couldn't let him think he'd somehow actually scared me. I learned to deal with arseholes like him more than a century ago. Try as he might, he’ll never be Angelus.

"Oh, man," I said, chuckling through the pain. "You really are under it, aren't you?"

"What?" he said, still miffed. Oh, he knew.

"Look at you. All afraid I'm hot for your honey."

"Because you are," he said.

Wasn't going to bother lying to the git. "Well… yeah. But that's not your problem. Even if I wasn't in the picture, you're never gonna be able to hold her."

That got me a couple of fingers shoved into my gaping chest wound.

Better yet, maybe I’ll go down to the rail station, find myself a nice, rusty railroad spike. Show him how I got my name. Pain from the chip would be worth it, just to watch him squirm like a bug on a pin. Chip just means I’d have to take my time. Migraines stop eventually, but missing limbs are forever.

"Maybe I didn't almost kill you enough," he said, trying to look scary. But I could see it in his face. Yeah… he's worried he’s losing her. Right to be. He's not the one for her. Never was.

"Come on, you're not the long haul guy and you know it," I said, gritting my teeth and trying to ignore the pain splintering through my chest. Fuck that hurt. Bastard even wiggled his fingers around a bit.

"Shut up," he said. Yeah, when have I ever listened to that phrase?

"You know it. Or else you wouldn't be getting suck jobs from two-bit vampire trulls."

Backed off then, giving me a chance to breathe. Not that I need to, but it helps, a bit, with the pain. Gives me something else to focus on.

"The girl needs some monster in her man, and that's not in your nature," I said, heading for my chair. "No matter how low you try to go."

This little farce was a good imitation, though. I'd give him that. Bastard liked beating on me almost as much as Angelus ever had. Doesn't matter, though. When it comes to her, he's far too white bread. Last night's little dance was proof enough.

Maybe that's what his game was. Maybe he wants to get turned. Probably figures she'd like him better with fangs. Maybe she would… in about twenty-five years when the bloodlust wore off and he'd gotten a hold on his demon. Course, once he was turned he wouldn't want her anymore, except to kill. Definition of perfect irony?

"You actually think you've got a shot at her?" he asked, pacing. Grabbed the nearest liquor bottle I could find and twisted out the cork.

"No, I don't," I told him. Know the Slayer better than that, don't I? Maybe if I had a bloody soul, like Angel, she'd want me. But then I wouldn't be any better than Finn-head, with his bleeding death wish. Once I had a soul, I might realise why I shouldn't have her. Be too busy moping over past wrongs to get the balls to court the girl. Not gonna fool myself here. Slayer and I might have something, if she could bring herself to see past the demon thing.

Un-bloody-likely.

But still…

"Fella's got to try, though. Gotta do what he can," I said, meaning it. Wasn't gonna chain her up and force her to admit she wanted me or anything. I'm not so far gone desperate as that, yet. But I could be there, be a… friend, if she'd let me. Try to help. Be her bloody Mr. Gordo, if that's what she needs.

"If you touched her," Finn said, "you know I'd kill you for real."

Good thing I couldn't tell him about my little bout with the Slayer last night, then, yeah? Wasn't exactly the kind of touching he had in mind, but I'm sure he'd piss himself if he knew we'd sparred all out, and ended up with me pinning her to the floor, my dick hard against her hips and my lips kissing her throat.

Yeah.

Good thing.

"I had this chip outta my head, I'd a killed you long ago," I told him instead. Would've, too. Been a long time since I hated a human the way I hate this particular berk. Got so many reasons to want him dead, it’s hard to pick a favourite. Still, chip’s the only thing that keeps her from dusting me… "Ain't love grand?"

We're both a bit pathetic, aren't we? Twisted up over some slip of a girl who could put us both in the bloody ground, if she wanted. Him easier than me, of course, but that’s not really the point. He’s not what she needs, and for all he fools himself, she’s not what he really wants. He wants what she’ll never be, and he’ll never understand that she’s so much more. And me… I just want her. As is. Even though it’s fucking wrong. Even though she’s not meant for the likes of me.

Tossed him the bottle. Figured he could use a drink. Slayer was going to be raking his arse over the coals sooner or later.

"Sometimes," I said, surprising myself, "I envy you so much it chokes me. And sometimes I think I got the better deal. To be that close to her and not have her. To be all alone, even when you're holding her…" She'd let me hold her, when she cried, though. That was something, even if I couldn't hold her the way I wanted. Could pound on her with my fists, let her hit me back… wasn't the same as having her under me. Wasn’t the same as her knowing it’s me, and wanting me. "Feeling her, feeling her beneath you. Surrounding you. The scent…"

God, her scent. Drives me crazy some nights, smelling her there, so close and so far away. Not mine. Not really. Not mine to touch, or mine to hold. Slayer’s never gonna look up at me the way she looks at Finn, her eyes all shiny and bright and happy. Looking at him like he was her bleeding' hero, her whole world. All that light and love and joy, even passionless as it was for him…

"No," I said, deciding. "You got the better deal."

His stupid fault for giving it up, instead of fighting for it. For not realising what he had and holding onto it with both fists.

He looked at the bottle, bitter and cold. "I'm the lucky guy," he said. "Yeah… I'm the guy."

Yeah… he is.

Just too stupid to realise it.

Wonder if it's a height thing? Must not be enough air up there to sustain their tiny, fragile brain cells. Angel and Finn are both utter gits. I ever get the chance she gave them, I’m not giving up. Not for anything. Be her sodding slave forever, if that’s what it takes.

"I didn't get it before," Finn said. "Starting to now. She never really needed me, did she?"

Slanted him a look, trying not to move too much and stretch the hole in my chest. "She's the Slayer, mate," I said. "Been with her now almost a year and you don't even know what that means, do you?"

He snorted.

We finished the bottle without having to get anymore Oprah. Don't know how much more of being chummy with the git I could stomach.

After he left, I had myself a couple of bags of blood, and a couple of bottles of JD. Can feel the wound starting to knit up, but I'm not going to be in sparring form tonight. Not to mention trying to explain to her without words why pounding her little fist against my heart's going to make me roar in pain. Maybe she'll be too tired to spar.

That close to being dusted.

Bloody hell.

***


3 December 2000

Always knew Finn was a coward at heart. Just like Angelus. Things get rough, can't get what he wants from her, the wanker runs for the bloody hills.

And does his best to crush her beneath his boot before he goes. Never enough just to leave, they’ve got to demolish whatever’s left behind, hurt her, tear her to shreds and leave her to patch the pieces back together best she can.

I ever get a chance, I won't leave. Even if all she ever gives me are bloody crumbs, it's worth it to be by her side. Yeah, I know, I'm a romantic old sod. Can't help it, though. Never quite felt like this.

Came close, with Dru. Licked her boots like a good dog, ate whatever scraps she flung. I wasn't always happy with my lot, but it felt like it was worth it.

It's different, with Buffy, though. I know, it's wrong, but she makes me want more. Good thing I've always been a rebel. At night, when she talks to me… she doesn't talk to me like I'm a demon. Like I'm something to be loathed.

She talks to me like I'm a man.

Makes me want to be one, for her.

Been so long since I was just a man, I've nearly forgotten how. But William hasn’t. Not quite. I thought I’d buried him deep. Thought I’d lost him, really. But he’s still there. I’m still there. Being round Buffy brings him out of me. And the ponce is full of helpful suggestions lately.

And when I'm with her… the demon in me isn't so restless. It's… curious, and a little possessive, like it recognises something in her as compatible. Kindred. We’re both predators at heart, after all.

The demon wanted Finn's blood something fierce, when she said he'd told her it was her fault. Good thing he left, else I'd have figured out a way to kill him, chip be damned. She didn't deserve that, not from an idiot who can't tell the bleedin' difference between hunger and passion.

As if some tarty little fledge could even be compared to her.

Between Sir Sulksalot and Wonder Bread, girl's getting a complex. Thinks it's her fault they leave. Not denying that she's got baggage. Afraid to love because she's afraid to lose. Afraid of being left, of being hurt. Afraid to let anyone close in case they turn on her. Not surprising, with what she's been through. She's built walls ten feet thick.

Lucky for me I'm bull-headed, yeah? and thanks to her I've got an idea of how to weasel my way in, if being stubborn doesn't work. All this time, her opening up to Mr. G… yeah, give me half a chance and I’ll find my way in.

And I've got all the time in the world.

Or at least, I will… once I get out of this bloody challenge. In the meantime, I'll just be grateful that when she's dreaming… she lets down her walls a bit.

Enough to let me see that the girl inside is worth fighting for.

She about broke my heart last night, just before she fell asleep, though. She murmured into my soggy t-shirt, "I'm glad you're not real, Mr. Gordo. If you were real… I'd probably have to hate you… or kill you… and, I don't want to. Don't be real. Or… if you are, please don't ever do anything that would make me have to kill you. Please."

Don't want her to hate me. Or dust me.

Can't change the past.

Guess I've got my work cut out. 'Cause someday she's gonna find out that Mr. Gordo isn't as imaginary as she'd like, and I don't want to break her heart when she susses out that she's been talking to me this whole time.

Got a few days before I'm healed up enough to be of much use. Gives me time to make some decisions… and plans. Got to find a way to make her like and trust me when I'm awake, too.

It'll take a bloody miracle, that.

***


7 December 2000

Ways I never want to wake up again:

10. In a coffin, six-feet underground, starving and confused as hell.

9. To the sight of a bare-arsed Angelus shagging my girl while I'm sleeping in bed beside her.

8. On a bloody riverbank, stuck through with arrows, with the sun threatening on the horizon and a mob carrying my girl off.

7. To Dru painting my face so I look like one of her dollies and insisting we're gonna have a tea party. Wearing dresses.

6. Paralysed from the waist down.

5. In the sunlight, drunk as hell, with my soddin' hand on fire.

4. To the incredibly disgusting sight of Dru shagging a fungus demon on top of the bloody bureau.

3. In an electrified cage after a major brain operation renders me fangless.

2. To an icy bitch goddess floating over my bed and threatening to turn me into her vampire shaped sex toy.

and the number one way I never want to wake up again?

To the sight of Harmony in a Christmas teddy with bloody mistletoe pinned just between her enormous tits, kneeling over my face and calling me her sweet sugar plum fairy, while "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" plays in the bleeding background.

She's lucky I only tossed her across the cave. Came this close to hauling her up the stairs and out into the damned sunshine.

'Course, then she started whinging. "You're always so grumpy, Spikey." "You're never in the mood anymore, Spikey." "I want to go to parties, Spikey." "I was only trying to cheer you up, Spikey." "You're so sensitive, Spikey." Blah blah blah fucking blah…

Wasn't till she started nattering on about the Slayer that I paid her any real mind.

"…it's stupid Buffy that's got you so upset. You know what, Blondie Bear? Maybe I'll make that your Christmas present, huh? Kill the Slayer for you? I could put her head in a box and wrap it up real pretty. Would you like that? I've got a really good plan this ti—-urp!"

That noise she makes when you slam her against a wall by the throat is so fucking satisfying.

"We're done, Harm," I told her. "Pack your stuff, and get the hell out of my crypt. In fact, get out of my bloody town. You even attempt to think with one of your tiny little brain cells about going after the Slayer on your own… and you'll be the next demon I hunt down for kicks. I'll pop your head off like the empty-headed Barbie Doll you are, and hope it sticks round long enough before it dusts that I can punt it about like a balloon. Got it, you stupid bint?"

There were tears. Accusations. Soddin' theatrics accompanied by high pitched sobs that sent all the bats at the far end of the cave spiralling out in order to save their hearing.

I wasn't so lucky.

In the end, of course, she left. I'll need a new stereo and some new clothes, since she took everything she ever "bought" me… but at least that's done. Should have done it months ago.

Gave her Angel's address, before she left. Told her to look him up. Might've hinted that he had connections with some TV blokes. 'Least she left happy.

Merry Xmas, you enormous wanker.

All my loathing,

Spike.

***


13 December 2000

Figured I'd drop back by the vamp nest, see if she'd cleared them out yet. My chest's knit up again—slower going with soddin' pigs blood—and I could have done with some rough and tumble. Course when I got there, building's all crispy and black.

Looks like the Slayer had herself a good day after all.




Author’s Postscript: If you were wondering whatever happened to Harmony… now you know. She just wandered off a little early.

Also, I’ve posted a song playlist based off the chapter titles for Part II over on my livejournal (which ought to be linked from my profile)… in case anyone is interested.


 
 
Chapter #45 - Chapter 44: I Don't Want To Fight Tonight
 
Author’s Note: This chapter covers the same time period as Chapters 14 &15.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae* and Science
*because Spike is English, I’ve made a rather anal retentive attempt to spell things “properly.” My beta (who IS British), has asked that I include the following disclaimer: “Any Britpicking mistakes are my beta's, because she reads too much fic written by you bloody Americans and is used to your bizarre ways by now."






Chapter 44

I Don’t Want To Fight Tonight


15 December 2000

Was a time when killing the Slayer was what I thought I wanted most. Turns out I was wrong.

I want her.

God, I want her.

I want to pound on her, until we’re both bruised and sore and aching. I want to shag her until her throat’s raw from screaming my name before I sink my fangs in her and mark her as mine. I want her to ride me until I’m broken, wrap those glorious little legs around me and trap me inside her so deep I’ll never get out.

I’ll never want to. Never leave her.

Fuck.

Know none of that’ll ever happen.

Monster, right?

Shouldn’t even want it. But I do. So much it hurts sometimes, to have her so near, so warm, just within reach, and not be able to touch her.

Still, in a way, I’ve got her. In her dreams, she’s mine.

Turns out just sitting on a bed and talking to her—well, listening to her talk and doing my best to communicate with a sodding two word vocabulary—could go for a long time on that. Girl's got a brain in there, which anyone could see if they'd bother to look past the dumb bint routine she uses so well. Times like that I have to literally bite my tongue to keep from answering her back. I want to… bloody hell, I want to reassure her that she's not as damaged as she thinks. Tell her how strong she is, how gorgeous, how much she shines. Tell her that Finn was a moron to do what he did, and Angel was worse—because she’s worth it all. She’s worth fighting for. I want to make her see her like I do.

God, she’s got me so bloody twisted.

Bloody hell.

Last night… said I was her best friend.

Don't really believe that. Girl's got the Scoobies, after all. And she needs them to keep her going. It's not right, her being shut up in the dark with a vampire for a confidant, though I know myself well enough to know that I'd try to keep her here, if I thought this was all I was ever gonna get—it'd kill both of us, but the demon's selfish enough to do it. And William's desperate enough not to fight too hard.

But her calling me a friend… it's a crumb of hope. Means that if I can get her to see Spike the same way she feels about Mr. G… there's a chance.

A chance maybe I can live on the fringes of her light. Chance that maybe…

Just… maybe…

And right now, maybe is just enough.

***


16 December 2000

Today was… almost perfect.

Discovered Harmony had left me a grand total of three shirts, so I took the sewers over to Sunnydale's massive shopping centre. I'd hunted there, once or twice, back before the chip, but since then I've come to appreciate the back way into the cinema there from the sewers.

Somehow, despite Harmony's little display the other day, I'd managed to forget that it's nearly bloody Christmas. Sodding humans everywhere. Luckily men's clothing sections are almost always deserted. Was just gonna grab some more black cotton shirts when a blue one caught my eye.

Maybe if I changed how I looked a little, Slayer'd see that I wasn't the old, fangy, out-for-Slayer-blood Spike? Worth a shot, yeah?

Was in the middle of trying it on when the she walked round the corner and found me.

Wasn't exactly how I'd planned our next meeting. I'd been practising an apology of sorts, for hurting her by showing her what a wanker Finn was. Though I was having a hard time trying to figure out how to go about it—can’t actually recall the last time I apologised for something. She hadn't said much to Mr. G about how she felt about me being the one to take her there, but I figured there was probably some residual resentment. Besides… remember how I felt when I found out about Dru and that fucking chaos demon. Killed the little bastard that told me, I was so brassed off. I wouldn't have put it past her to punch me in the nose for it, at least.

Instead we had a conversation. A real one. Without nose punching.

Finn hadn't even told her he'd staked me, which was another surprise. And she acted like him staking me bothered her—though, come to think of it, torture's not really her cuppa. She's more of a beat 'em to a pulp and leave 'em type.

Had to bollix it up by forgetting we were supposed to be enemies, and asking her opinion about bloody shirts, of all things. Still… watching her pet the black one had me imagining her hands running all over me. Couldn't pass up the chance to tease her a bit, then, could I? Love how flustered she gets when her hormones overpower her Slayer instincts. She might be strong enough break my back with a pipe organ, but underneath that… she’s just a girl, and if I’ve learned anything over the past century it’s how to flirt with females until their thighs quiver.

Course, I used to use it to catch my dinner, but there’s something satisfying about being able to use it on Buffy just to make her blush.

When she said she wanted me to stick with her and her mates so she could keep an eye on me, the demon in me thought about arguing, till William reminded it that we used to do the same for Dru: shop and carry. Not so different. Besides, it would give me a chance to show I could get along with her chums and stay out of trouble.

Which meant, of course, that I had to actually pay for my new wardrobe. Well, the part of it she’d seen me trying on, anyway.

Her chums didn't put up much of a ruckus about me coming along once they realised they had themselves a willing packhorse. The day I seriously whinge about carrying a few dozen shopping sacks for four beautiful girls is the day I stake myself for being more of a poofter than Angelus. Women shop, men carry the sacks. That's how it's been since the days of the bloody cavemen, and besides, William gets off on being a gentleman. Demon gets off on ribbing them when I can, teasing Red about her cookies, or Tara about Red. All while getting to follow downwind of the Slayer, drenched in her scent, and watching her sweet ass twitch under her tight little slacks.

If it hadn't been for the sodding crowds, it might have been a good time. The damned chip, of course, can't recognise the difference between "lemme through" and "knock 'em down"… probably because it's hard not to be thinking the one when doing the other. Aside from a few minor shocks, though, day was going well.

Then it got better.

Never figured there were Christmas demons, since it's not really a demon holiday. Used to be because everyone suddenly got religious and you couldn't turn around without burning yourself on something, then it got to be habit, I think. Most demons don't bother—besides, it's not a holiday for us, is it? Don't think ol' Christ died for all of my sins, and if he did, he probably should have done it a couple of more times to make sure he covered everything, cause I've got a hundred plus years and some real whoppers. Of course, there's a demon for pretty much anything, so it stands to reason Christmas would have one or two berks who take advantage of all that it's got to offer.

Was a bit surprised when the Slayer couldn't see what I saw hovering behind the ugly bastard in the cheap Santa costume people were lining up to have their kids photos taken with. Any other time of the year a man who encourages hundreds of children to bounce on his knee and to whisper what they want in his ear so he can sneak in their houses at night and give it to them would be marked as a pervert. At Christmas he gets to be a bleeding' saint. Seemed sort of appropriate that he'd have a demon at his shoulder.

Big, ugly bastard, too. One of those kind that makes me glad I'm only a half breed and get to stay good looking for eternity. Honestly, I think that's why the full bloods hate us so much. Probably why the PTB took away our reflections, too. Wankers.

Tall, dark, and horny was crouched behind old St. Nick, poking at each little tyke as they were brought up. When demon-girl explained only kids and evil demons could see him, it suddenly made sense why he wasn't trying to hide at all. Six-foot tall demons with horns aren't exactly inconspicuous, even when the place is packed to the rafters.

By the by, can I just say I think I deserve a bit of credit? So many fucking humans crammed into one spot, all that luscious blood pounding away, the smell of it strong enough to make me salivate near constantly, and a herd that desperately needed some thinning…and I only seriously thought about killing half a dozen times. And that only because stupid sods kept irritating me by stopping in the middle of the foot traffic to have a bleeding conversation on their phones. Even poncy William was thinking about eating those wankers.

Oh, and that one poofy bloke in the kiosk who stopped me twice to comment on my bloody skin and how "exquisite" it was, but then kept trying to sell me crap for my nails and tsking over the polish. Slayer finally shooed him off when she saw my demon was starting to crawl out, ready to throttle him, chip be damned.

Getting to taunt a demon in the middle of the bloody shopping centre and scare the piss out of Fake St. Nick with the Slayer ready to fight at my side? Gave me a bleeding' cockstand. Good thing I wore the duster today, eh? Else Buffy would have been complaining about more than just a bunch of little sprogs getting an ear full of English obscenities.

Best was fighting beside her, though. Girl's learning. Saw more than a few moves today that she's picked up from her Mr. G. We make a good team… not that she'll ever admit it, of course.

And to top it all off, out of nowhere Teen Witch gaves me the answer to my little journal problem. Best I can suss out, Louhi did something to my journal, too. “Don’t Look Here” just about sums it up. I can show this to whoever I like, they won't see it. Probably forget about it the minute they're not looking at it anymore. And I can't tell them what to look for in order for them to break the spell.

Bit ironic, innit? People go out of their way to hide their journals so no one can read them… I can show mine to the whole bloody world if I like and they won't be able to. Which means I can’t use it to get their attention. Shut me up but good, she did.

I swear, when this year is up and I'm free of old Louhi? I'm gonna tie her to the top of my DeSoto and drive her screaming through Death Valley in broad daylight. Just for the bleeding fun.

***


18 December 2000

"Can demons change?" she asked me.

I don't know if there's a simple answer to that.

I remember the night I died, much as I told her a few months back. Remember the pain of it, and the brutal beauty of being turned. Wasn't really a young man, when I died. Late twenties back then wasn't really young. Old enough not to have to dance attendance on young debutantes, but young enough I wasn't expected to be married yet. I felt young, though. Never lost that feeling. Being turned… it freezes you like a fly in amber. I've seen vampires that have been around twice as long as I have and still act like they must have the day they died. In that respect, we don't change. The flesh doesn't change. We are eternally what we were when we died. I'll be twenty-nine forever.

But I also remember waking up in my coffin. Don't know where Dru found it, or how she got me in it. Never would talk about it, and when she did it was utterly barmy. Lots of prattling about her pixies and the stars telling her to do such and such. Doesn't matter. What matters is that first moment, your eyes popping open, your stomach cramping with hunger you've never felt before, and the realisation that where you once were one person, now you're two. There's you, and there's the demon, and it's starving.

'Course, the demon takes everyone differently. Angelus once told me how it was, for him. That all there was was the hunger, the demon, the desire for death and destruction at his fangs and sod all else. But for me it was like waking up to find myself no longer alone, and the thing that moved in was a bleeding' arsehole of a roommate—or would have been, if I were still human and actually cared.

You become a vampire and human rules, human laws, human social customs no longer hold you. I revelled in it. When I’d been human I'd hated society, hated the rules, all the little social faux pas it was so easy to make. Break only one and you were an outcast among your peers. William always toed the line, afraid to step over it. My life was damned miserable as it was—no title, little enough money, and even less respect. William got by, holding onto his bloody awful poems as proof that there was still some beauty in his life, his great passion, his bleeding heart, his pure love. And then to have it torn to shreds… 'course he had a bloody death wish.

Then to wake up and discover you can break all the rules and no one can touch you. That social ostracism meant nothing in the face of the ability to tear the nose off of whichever wanker decided to look down it at you… powerful feeling. I remember my first meal—some youngish gent, dressed to the nines with a flower pinned to his lapel. Not someone I'd known, but the same sort. The kind who would stand about in a drawing room and mock a man for daring to put his heart on paper. It settled in, then, what it meant to be a vampire.

The demon set me free.

Whatever is William in me lingered, though, fascinated, and more than a little in love with it all. With the idea of it, the poetic irony. Weak little William, the most mocked boy at Eton and Cambridge, the most ridiculed of gentlemen, now with the strength of ten men and the ability to use it. Now able to do what he wanted most: the chance to show up every tosser who'd ever dared to laugh in his face; and to save his mum from a slow and painful death, and give her the ability to see the world.

Naive little William, to think he'd be giving a blessing, instead of a curse.

Even after … after mum was dead, he still believed it. Believed it when he met Angelus, the great Role Model of what a vampire ought to be.

Believed it right up to the day when Angelus decided William needed to learn a few lessons.

And there he was, poncy William and his weak demon, back on the bottom again.

First Angelus beat me for ambition. For trying to have what he saw as his. He beat me for daring. He beat me for showing mercy. He beat me for compassion. Above all, he tried to beat the love out of me.

Was the only thing he ever failed at destroying in me.

He always said that it made me weak. That my demon was weak and that the lingering taint of humanity in me made me weaker still. He tried his bloody hardest to make me a monster in his own image, and in some ways, he succeeded. But I embraced everything he'd disdained about his own life. I saw the freedom in it, the possibility. He tried to beat me for that, too.

Took twenty years of that, until I'd stuffed poncy William as deep inside me as he could go and built Spike out of his ashes. Until I found a way in which no one could touch me.

Can demons change? I don't know.

But then I'm a half breed, yeah? Half demon, half William. I've been changing ever since the night I died, building Spike out of the best of both aspects of me.

What's one more change, after all?

Don't know what I'll become, in the end. Maybe what I was in the beginning: a monster with the bleeding heart of a poet; a man, wholly unafraid.

[Note: the following is written beneath the entry, the handwriting slightly neater, more elegant. The letters tilt forward, here, instead of the author’s usual vertical handwriting, or his occasional left-handed, backwards lean.]

At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.
The inner freedom from the practical desire,
The release from action and suffering, release from the inner
And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded
By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving,
Erhebung without motion, concentration
Without elimination, both a new world
And the old made explicit, understood
In the completion of its partial ecstasy,
The resolution of its partial horror.
Yet the enchainment of past and future
Woven in the weakness of the changing body,
Protects mankind from heaven and damnation
Which flesh cannot endure.

from Four Quartets 1: Burnt Norton
—T. S. Eliot

***


25th December 2000 (after midnight)

Thought for sure she'd be by before now with my bloody shirts.

Didn't realise I'd left them until she brought them up the other night, then proceeded to give me an earful of why she detests me so much. Had to bite my tongue from laughing at her when she started babbling about "sticking your foot in your mouth," since she didn't realise that's what she was doing just then.

And she thinks I'm good-looking.

Knew it.

Useful bit of info, too.

Had it all planned out: from her kicking in my door to the part where I acted the perfect gentleman, offered her some wine, commiserated with her over philandering exes. I'd have done my level best to show her I wasn't such an arse as she's afraid of, and ended up with her realising I'm not such a bad bloke after all… maybe worked my way up to a proper snog, after which she'd melt in my arms and let me have my wicked way with her…

'Course, for any of that to happen, the chit would have had to actually show up.

So instead I'm sitting here, watching old holiday TV specials and enjoying my bottle of wine all on my lonesome. Haven't seen the old Grinch in a few years. Used to try to catch it on the telly back in the 70's, though Dru hated it. She liked the classics, all the old black and whites. Something about Jimmy Stewart always fascinated her… probably his enormous forehead.

I miss that life less than I'd have thought. I'm bloody useless, nowadays, with this chip in my head, but I'm not in any hurry to leave old Sunnyhell. Knew it was home the minute I set foot in it, way back when all was right with my world. Back when I knew what I was. Before I saw sunshine dancing in the dark and craved a chance to join her.

I’ve grown to like it here. Like all the cemeteries full of demons to hunt, and the blissfully ignorant human population. I like the action that you get on top of a Hellmouth, mixed with the sleepy little small town.

Mostly I like that this is where she is.

Only thing I'd change is my place in the world.

Way I figure it, I've got two choices. Get the chip out and go back to being her enemy, because she'll never let me live in this world without it. Or I can try to convince her to let me fight at her side.

Not a hard choice at all.

Just hard to

[Note: entry cuts off and resumes abruptly, apparently some time later]

Nothing ever goes like I plan.

She didn't kick in my door. I guess there's a first for everything.

Thought she'd have been in bed by now, getting ready to spend Christmas Eve with Mr. G. Instead she comes traipsing out to my crypt, then stands there just inside the door, staring at me like she's never seen me before—probably because my ridiculous poodle-curls had gotten knocked loose and were sticking up all over. Whoever heard of a bad ass vampire with sodding ringlets? Dru used to say they made me look like Cupid. Not exactly the most manly of comparisons.

"It's a bloody holiday, don't you get the night off?" I asked, trying to distract her from the disaster on top of my head.

Yeah, so I'm vain. I admit it.

She made some cute little quip about Evil never sleeping. God, I wanted so badly to tell her. Fucking spell.

"Sure it does, pet," was the best I could do. She had that look on her face like she was gonna punch me, so I figured I'd head her off. "You gonna tell me why you're here or keep me guessing? Really don't fancy spending tonight with a broken nose, just so you know."

She held up the bag with my shirts in it. "You left these at the mall the other day."

Couldn't tell her that I knew she had them, since she'd mentioned it to Mr. G. So I went with the rest of the truth. "Forgot. Figured you'd leave 'em there."

"You paid for them," she said, as if that were the answer to her sudden Miss Manners routine. "Besides, you helped carry all our stuff around without complaining… much. And you did help with the demon."

And that was my chance. I'd been trying to find out a way round to it, only to have her hand it to me on a silver plate.

"Right, 'bout that—" I started to say.

"Please don't ask me for money, Spike. Not tonight. The First Bank of Buffy is officially closed for the holidays."

"Wasn't," I told her. "Swear I wasn't." She always thinks the worst of me. Not that I don't give her reason to, but a little bit of faith would be nice.

"Then what?" She had those big, gorgeous eyes of hers all narrow and squinty, and I knew I was about three seconds from a busted nose.

"Just… I was useful, right? With the demon and the fighting and all?" God, all I wanted was for her to give me half a bleeding chance.

"Yeah…" she said, looking at me warily. Probably shouldn't have run my hand through my hair again. Sodding curls sticking up every which way don't do much to make me look good. 'Course, they're better than Angel's freak hair. Grows straight up off his head, too scared of his ugly mug to go near it.

"Just thought… maybe you'd let me in on the fight sometimes, if you wanted some extra muscle." Could've staked myself for how pathetic that sounded. Like a dog begging for scraps.

"Why?" she wanted to know. "Why do you want to help? For money?"

"No," I said, then figured I'd amend that. I'm not a complete idiot. "Not that I'd turn it down, if you offered. Could always do with a bit of dosh—"

"Why then?" she asked, interrupting before I could make more of an arse out of myself than I already had.

Doesn't give me any credit for trying. Not a lick. There I was, trying to help her out, do her a bloody favour and… and the worst part of it is, I can't tell her why. Not the truth. I can't tell her that I'm in love with her and I'd walk to the sodding ends of the earth if she asked it of me. Can't tell her that I'm so twisted up inside that I'd rather turn my back on my kind for the chance to fight beside her than start killing again. Can't tell her that even my demon wants to be hers, or that every night I spend a few hours in Heaven just being able to be beside her.

I'd scare her senseless.

If it weren't for Mr. G… I'd probably have tried. Tried to tell her the truth and hope she could see that I meant it. But I know better. My only chance for her to see me as something better is when she thinks she's unconscious. Awake… I'm just Spike. William the Bloody. Slayer of Slayers. Handicapped Vampire and royal pain in her neck.

Bit ironic, innit, that she can only see me as I am when she's blind and I can only tell her how I feel when I'm mute? Laugh it up, Louhi. You've no concept of what you were condemning me to with your stupid little challenge.

So since I couldn't tell her the truth, I had to give her something she'd understand, yeah? Something true enough that she'd believe. "Because I'm tired of feeling bloody useless!" I said. "Sitting here, night after night, taking down a demon or two on my own… it's not the same."

"Same as what?"

God I wanted to shake her. Make her see somehow, but William reigned me in. Didn't want to scare her off.

"Being in the thick of it. Being part of something. Doing something," I said. "I used to go where I wanted, did what I bloody pleased. Had plans and things to do. Evil, yeah, but things…Now I've got sodding daytime TV and…" stopped myself before I said following you about like a love sick pup. "I could be useful, right?"

It was true enough. I hate what I've been reduced to. The chance to fight beside her… I'd say 'I'd kill for that' only there's a lot of things I'd kill for. Better to say, I'd change for that.

"You want to be one of the good guys?" she asked.

"Not like it'd be the first time, eh?" I reminded her. "Seem to remember a similar conversation a few years back."

"That's not the same," she said. "You're not talking about a one time truce and trade here, Spike. How do I know you won't turn on me the first chance you get? You and I both know that the minute you get that chip out you're going to come after me again."

Bloody hell. Hadn't thought of that. It wasn't true, of course, but it's not like I could explain to her why that was. From her perspective I was still the enemy, and one with a history of switching sides. Can't change the past. Can't be her enemy anymore. Can't tell her why. Can't be her friend or ally because she can't trust me. Can't tell her I'm in love with her. God, I'm buggered.

Decided to let it go then. No point in trying to push it. She'd just want to know why I wanted it so badly. Only I must've said or done something right because out of bloody nowhere… she gave me a chance.

"I'm not saying no," she said. "I'm not. I just… let's see how things go, okay? I need to think about it, talk to Giles and the others. You were helpful the other day, but that doesn't really make up for years and years of trying to kill us, Spike."

"Haven't tried in awhile," I pointed out. Haven't. Not for a long time. Thought about it, but haven't actually tried since…

"Hello, Adam?" she said. Oh. Right.

Only, technically I wasn't trying to kill her then. Was trying to trade in order to get the chip out, wasn't I? Wasn't trying to kill her or her friends. Just split 'em up. Which… didn't quite work like I'd planned, but then it was Patch Adam's bloody brilliant idea to leave it up to me, wasn't it? Which just goes to prove that my heart wasn't in it, even then, else I probably wouldn't have bodged it up.

I tried explaining that, but of course she's got to bring up the one time in recent memory when I might've sort of tried to kill her: that whole fiasco with the Initiative doctor and Finn back in October. Only I didn't really want to, not even then. Can flip back through this bloody book and there's your proof. Just… wanted to show her I wasn't fangless, didn't I?

Besides… that's what made me realise the truth, wasn't it?

Tried to tell her that, too. Well, the part about not wanting her dead. Tried to apologise.

Never seen her look so pole-axed. Well, not since the night I made the truce with her over Acathla, anyway.

"You needn't look so shocked, Slayer. I'm capable of being sorry. Just don't usually bother," I told her. Which is true. I get regret. And guilt. They're just not something the demon likes to hang on to. No bloody point. Does the hunter feel bad he shot Bambi's mum when it means he gets to eat for another week or two? No. Killing people is how vampires live. How we go on. No use getting all sympathetic about it like one of those PETA fucks, or you'll starve.

Or you drink pigs blood and pretend it's human. Like the difference between those freeze dried meals they give astronauts and a sirloin steak—not the same, but you can live off it. Or if you're a real masochist, all bogged down with a sodding soul, you eat rat blood because you're a total wanker.

But that doesn't mean we don't get regret. The demon doesn't like it when Buffy's hurt, and William likes it even less. The thought of killing her now makes everything in me recoil in horror. The thought of living in a world without her in it… more than I can bloody bear.

She didn't look like she believed me, but she said she'd think about me helping, so maybe something got through.

When she handed over the bag, static sparked where she touched my hand. Thought for a minute it was gonna restart my heart beating, the way she met my eyes then. God… if I could just… when she looks at me like that I almost think she sees me. Not Spike the vampire, not her old enemy, not… not the monster. Can almost believe she sees the parts of me that I used to think were dead, the parts she's brought back to life: poncy William and his bleeding heart, the man who lived and died for love, the fool who followed Drusilla for a hundred years, hoping for…

More.

Know I don't deserve her. Know that what I am means I'm not meant for the likes of her.

But if there's any sodding chance in this world that the bloody Powers That Be might take pity on a wretched thing like me…

I want it. Just tell me what to do.














 
 
Chapter #46 - Chapter 45: Ever Fallen In Love (With Someone You Shouldn't've)?
 
Author’s Note: This chapter covers the same time period as Chapters 16 &17.

I want to take a minute to thank all of you who have stuck with this story so long, and those of you who are just starting it and catching up. Thank you so much for all the lovely comments and reviews. Even if I don’t have time to respond to all of them, please know that I really, really appreciate them and read them all over and over again. They mean a lot.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae*
*because Spike is English, I’ve made a rather anal retentive attempt to spell things “properly.” My beta (who IS British), has asked that I include the following disclaimer: “Any Britpicking mistakes are my beta's, because she reads too much fic written by you bloody Americans and is used to your bizarre ways by now."





Credits: This chapter contains dialogue from the episode “Triangle” written by Jane Espenson.

Chapter 45

Ever Fallen In Love (With Someone You Shouldn’t’ve?)


1 January 2001

Vampires are instinctively pack creatures. If you're lucky and your sire's not a total arse, they'll stick around until you rise. You get a ready-made gang, and you pretty much know your place in it. You've got other vamps around to show you the ropes, teach you to hunt, and provide protection from rival gangs. There's something instinctual about nesting, about wanting to be part of a gang. The older you get, the more powerful you grow, the more instinctual it is to surround yourself with other vampires to do the dirty work for you, and younger vamps automatically search out older ones for protection.

You've got to be old enough and strong enough, to make it on your own.

Never was a solitary vamp, before. Always had Dru around. From the day I died until that god-awful night down in Brazil, I had my girl. No matter what. Sure we fought sometimes, split up once or twice. But we always came back together, didn't we?

After we left Angelus, I was Master. Well… Dru was, technically, but she didn't do so well in a leadership capacity. Something about taking orders from a vamp who talks to dolls and pixies doesn't set too well with most minions. So I was Master… and I was bloody good at it. Didn’t mean I liked it, though. Most minions are idiots; mindless demons, all stomach no brains. A dime a dozen, and it's easy enough to make more, even if you don't care to sire them yourself. They like their rituals, their traditions… and Dru and I never much cared for that nonsense. But I was good at it.

Then Angelus came back. Then I was back on the bottom again. Useless waste of immortality, trapped in a bloody wheelchair—until I got my legs back. Then I got revenge.

After Dru… I didn't do so well on my own, that first time. Got drunk and did my best to stay there. Lucky I didn't smash the Desoto somewhere in broad daylight. Wouldn't have been more than a footnote in history, if I had. Just a little bit of English dust somewhere on a Mexican highway.

When I came back to Sunnyhell again, though, I had a purpose. Didn't take too long to find some lackeys to do my bidding. Then there was Harmony, who, while she lacked for brains, made for a decent shag.

And then there was the chip.

The bloody damned chip.

Took away all of it.

Couldn't hunt. Couldn't feed. With no blood, there goes the strength, the speed, the stamina. Couldn't fight, could barely run. Couldn't even go to other vamps for help. They'd have torn me apart. In the end I went to the only place I knew where I figured I'd at least get help—cause that's what do-gooders do, yeah? Help?

Chip did it's best to take my dignity, too. Leaving me tied up in a bleeding bathtub having to beg for blood.

Took my ability to defend myself against the Slayer, against even the most pathetic of humans.

Took away the fight, ‘til I found out I could still hit demons.

Made me an outcast among my own kind.

Now, with Harmony gone… I'm utterly alone. Not a vampire anymore, not really. Sure I've got the fangs, but I can't use 'em. Got the demon, but it’s so whipped at this point the most evil I can get up to is pinching stuff at the corner liquor store. Could maybe get myself a few minions, but I don't really fancy dealing with that again. Nor do I want some pissant little fledge bringing me bloody take home. Be hard to keep their respect, too, if I couldn't show 'em up.

Not a human, though, either. Could pass for one, maybe, if I went somewhere else. Got a bloody job or nicked enough cash. Could find a rat trap apartment and be that dodgy bloke who works nights and sleeps all day and brings his dinner home in paper sacks from the butcher's every Monday. Yeah… some human with a complex would be on me eventually, beat the hell out of me the minute they sussed out I couldn't fight back.

So I got nothing. Living the cliché in a forgotten little crypt, pinching electric and cable off the main lines, drinking cold pigs blood 'cause I can't find a working microwave at the scrap-yard, and playing at being a demon hunter even though it means I'm hated by my own kind.

Chip left me as a husk of a vampire… more so than Angel ever was.

Angel could still do evil, if he wanted. Could still kill. Way the white-hats tell it, hell… the way Angel tells it, only thing that holds him back is that sodding soul. But there're plenty of human wankers out there who manage to out-evil us demons on a daily basis. Don't feed me that rot about the soul being the thing that keeps you from doing harm. Maybe it gives you a leg up on the path to righteousness, but a soul…

It don't have anything on a piece of silicon no bigger than my bleeding' thumbnail.

Been so long now I only dream of drinking hot human blood, fresh from a kill. I still crave it, but… I don’t need it. Not like I used to think I did. Guess it’s true. A body can get used to pretty much anything. Even pig’s blood. Truth is, mix a bit of burba weed in and it's not that bad. Got a bit of a kick. If the chip came out tomorrow, stopped working… not sure what I'd do.

'Cause as much as I hate it for what it's taken… it gave me her.

Wouldn't give her up for all the blood in China.

***


[Note: Several pages here are filled with notes on fighting styles, including techniques and moves, along with dates and notations such as "taught Slayer" or "needs more work on" or "fuck, she’s good at that". Interspersed throughout are doodles and rough sketches, including one detailed image of what appears to be a man dressed in a camouflage toga/loincloth, swinging on a vine and copulating with a monkey. The caption reads "Finn of the Jungle"]

***


My love shines brighter than the jealous sun,
with half of its cruelty, all of its mirth.
Her smile is the dawn that leaves me undone;
her sharp eyes, the glance that cuts me to earth.
If I could just brush the flames of her hair,
or stand for a moment in her embrace,

I am the moth, who is caught by her light.

[incomplete]

***


4 January 2001

Ran into her on patrol earlier. Had an idea for a poem and had popped up on top of the Alpert crypt for a quiet spot to work. This cold weather leaves the sky clear as glass, and the stars bright enough to touch. Bloody gorgeous. Enough to make an old romantic… hope.

Was surprised when she actually saw my journal, but I could almost watch the spell turn her interest aside, even as I held it to her face. Maybe if I could get her to look at it long enough she could break the spell all on her own, but the fact that it's something of mine is enough to make her turn up her stubborn little nose.

Still, fact that she saw it at all means there's a chance, yeah?

Got to help her stake a couple of new vamps, though. Even had a fairly non-hostile conversation. It made a nice change from one sided conversations and empty death-threats tossed about in the midst of a fight. I even like bickering with her. It's fun.

Afterwards, she let me walk her home. All in all, not a bad night.

And tonight, hopefully, she'll want to spar some more.

***


9 January 2001

Now that… was fun.

Bit painful, the cracked ribs part, but mostly fun.

Started with a trip to the Bronze for some beer and billiards. Needed some dosh and hustling pool's as good a way to get some as any. Didn't figure on running into Harris though.

Technically he did the running into—wanker spilled my bloody beer and didn't even apologise. How's that for do-gooder manners? Instead I get a lovely, "Spike, don't let me stop you from not being here." Even though I was there first. God forbid I exist in Harris's little world.

Of course, then I had to annoy him. Bloody principle of the thing and all. Specially with him looking like he was about to cry into his nuts.

Tried to convince him he ought to get himself some real food, like maybe some of that flowery onion thing they make, but he didn't seem interested. Wanker knows how to throw himself a pity party. Shame. Could have nicked some of that onion thing.

"Are you talking to me hoping that I'll get so depressed that I'll impale myself on a fork right in front of you?" he asked.

Couldn't let that one go. "Lovely thought. If I don't hurt you myself, the chip wouldn't zap me. I could eat you that way. Beat the onion thing all to hell." Way he was scowling he clearly wasn't capable of understanding sarcasm. That onion thing really is brilliant.

Wouldn't even let me have a sodding peanut. He snapped at me when I reached for one. A bowl of bloody peanuts that they give away for free and he's snarling at me like a hungry fledge hunkering over a fresh kill. Sometimes I just don't understand humans.

"My, my, someone's in a temper," I said, sitting at his table. "What's got your knickers all twisted?"

At first he didn't look like he was going to spill. He stared at me for a bit, and I could practically watch the little tiny thoughts toddling through his brain. Talk to Spike cause he's here? Or be a berk and wallow in misery? Which to choose? Finally: "You ever get caught in the middle of an argument between two women?"

I thought about Darla, Dru, blood, shackles. "Yeah, those were good times."

He gave me a look. "You are a strange, strange… thing. Anyway… Anya's my girlfriend, and I love her but she's… still learning how to be human again. And sometimes she says or does something and it comes off as kinda rude, only I know she didn't really mean it that way. Or maybe she did, but she… doesn't know any better, you know?"

"Yeah," I said. "I get that. Gotta be hard being a demon for so long and then having your powers stripped from you. Suddenly you're not a demon any more… not really a human, but you're expected to act like one—"

"Exactly," he interrupted. "She's human now and there are certain rules and… manners that she doesn't get. But nobody else seems to get that she's trying. I mean, okay, yes, it's embarrassing sometimes when she doesn't understand that you just… don't talk about certain things—"

"Like orgasms?" I said, not really trying not to smirk.

Harris rolled his eyes. "For example. But even though it's embarrassing I still…" He gives me a look that was clearly meant to say that I couldn't possibly understand, being a demon and all.

"Love her?" I said. He looked surprised. "Look, Harris. I've been around a bloody long time, and I'll be the first one to tell you, you don't get to pick who you love. Other people, they're never gonna understand why you'd walk over hot coals for her. In the end, it doesn't matter. Either you love her or you don't, and if you do… then you bloody well love her for what she is."

"Yeah, you and Drusilla are such a great example. What was it she left you for? A slime demon?"

God, he's a prat.

I growled. "Fungus, and you're missing the bloody point, you pillock. You love the girl? You suck it up. It doesn't matter what other people think."

"I do love her, I just… It's not that easy, Spike. Willow's been my best friend since we were old enough to eat crayons, and for some reason she and Anya just… don't get along. And you can't ignore it when your best friend doesn't like your girlfriend." He sighed, looking like someone had just kicked his puppy. "Do you wanna play pool? I need to …"

"Hit something?"

He flashes me a look. "Move, I was gonna say, but if you're volunteering for the position of punching bag—"

"Back off, Itchy. I'll play. Was just trying to be sympathetic," I said. Twitchy bastard.

"Well you suck at it," he said. "Rack ‘em. I'm gonna get another beer."

Wasn't surprised when he didn't bother to pick one up for me. Would it be too much to ask for a little consideration?

Yeah.

Probably.

Thing is, the wanker had a point. Or at least, I think he did. Don't have a lot of experience in the area of interpersonal human relationships—but I can see how Red not liking his girl might make it difficult for him. And if it's hard on him…

Thing is, if I want Buffy to start seeing me as something other than a monster, that means I've got to convince her chums, too. There's not much love lost there, I admit. When I came here the first time they barely registered, except as minor annoyances. Angelus was the one obsessed with killing them. Probably didn't help when I came back the year after, though I was drunk as a lord and don't remember much of how I ended up pinching him and the witch. Still alive, aren't they? Couldn't have done too much. Then there was that little incident with Red right after I got the chip…

Yeah. I've got my work cut out for me, don't I?

But this wasn't too bad. Mostly civil. Maybe I could help the boy out, you know? Give him some advice about women. Earning some points with him… can't hurt things with the Slayer.

"So Willow and Anyanka aren't getting along," I said. "Can see why that might send you fleeing for the hills. Powerful witch and a former vengeance demon, dangerous combination."

He grunted as he lined up a shot. "It's not like that," he said.

"Then what's it like?" I asked, watching with a smirk as he bollixed his next shot. With a sigh he leaned on his cue.

"It's like… it's like they want me to decide between them. Like they expect me to pick, you know? Who's side is Xander on? And it doesn't matter which side I choose, it's the wrong one. And they get in these fights and they're both looking at me like I'm the referee. Also, sometimes I'll say something about Anya and Willow'll get this look, this… um… 'what the hell do you see in her?' look."

"I know that look. Lot of people never really got Dru, you know," I said, trying to commiserate.

"Well, she was insane," he said. He had a point but I think his girlfriend's tactlessness is rubbing off. "Then it's like, well, I get all torn. Because Willow's my best friend and I really value her opinion, but … uh… Anya's my girlfriend, you know?"

I walked around the table, trying to line up a shot. Wanker hadn't left me with much. "You can't pick sides, mate," I told him. "I mean, obviously you've got to support your girl, but them putting you in the middle of their problem… it's not right."

"So… what? I'm just supposed to let them fight?"

I thought about it. "Well, yeah. You just might want to make sure they can't magic each other into oblivion. Or, you know, maybe get them a mud pit?"

For a moment I contemplated the thought of the witch and the ex-demon rolling about in the mud. I guess some things are universal, 'cause if his expression was anything to go by, he was right there with me. Mentally I added a muddied up Slayer as referee, maybe in a little stripy string bikini thing, her perfect tits all perky, tiny little nipples all pebbled and begging to be sucked on, bitten. Be fun to roll her about in the mud a bit, get her all dirty…

Things were just getting interesting when someone banged past me, almost knocking me over. "Hey, watch it, mate," I said turning.

Only to find myself face to face with one of the biggest demons I’ve ever seen. Think his fists were probably about the size of my head. Add to that the green skin and the rank scent of uncured hides, the gigantic hammer… my money was on ogre. Possibly troll.

"On second thought, do what you like," I said. No sense in brassing him off. I might be significantly stronger than a human, but I know my bleeding limits. The giant grunted, picked up a keg, bit through the steel and started draining it.

Yeah. I know my limits.

Ralph Wiggum was clearly having one of his moments of brilliance. "So, uh… think I should run and get Buffy?"

We watched as the troll flagged down a server and demanded more ale and put in an order for babies to eat. Yeah. Definitely troll. Ogres'll eat pretty much anything, but trolls prefer babies. Time to call in the Slayer.

"I'm gonna run and get Buffy," Harris said. "Or… maybe you could fight him?"

"Yeah, I could do that," I said. "And get myself crushed like a tiny little bug."

Suddenly the troll rounded on us. "You there," it growled. "Do you know where there are babies?"

"What do think? Hospital?" I asked Harris.

"What? Shut up!" he said, shooting me a look that said clear as day I'd got the wrong answer. I rolled my eyes. Did he want a brassed off troll? "Uh… listen," he said to the troll.

"I find myself very hungry. And when I'm hungry I grow short of patience." Eloquently put, I thought, for a creature whose intellect rivals a fire hydrant's.

"Well, we can take care of the hungry," Harris said. "So, how's about you just sit down in one of the… sturdier chairs, and we can … have a calm talk and something to eat?"

"Can it be babies?" the troll said hopefully.

"Well, not so much," said Harris.

You know, I don't think I've ever seen a troll pout before. I don't think I ever want to see it again, either.

"But maybe… some roast pigs and… stags… and… much hearty grog!" Harris was clearly reaching. I've seen the Bronze's kitchen and, trust me, there's no bloody grog.

"They've got this onion thing…" I said, but that didn't work.

"You cannot appease me! Do not try!" The troll turned away, on the hunt for more ale.

Right. Clearly it was time to get the Slayer. We were about halfway to the door when in came Willow and Anyanka, looking a bit panicked. Anya threw herself on Harris, babbling about the troll.

"I wish Buffy were here," said Red.

And like that, there she was, waltzing in the door like a ray of bloody sunshine. Even tucked into a heavy coat she's gorgeous.

After that, things got interesting. Didn't take long for Red and Demon Girl to start blame throwing over who did what, at which point the troll chimed in.

"You told the witch to do that, Anyanka. You seem determined to put an end to all my fun. Just like you always did when we were dating!"

God, I love it when life gets interesting.

"You dated him?" Harris asked her. Don’t know what he was so disgusted by. Better than a fungus demon.

"You dated a troll?" said the Slayer, wrinkling up her ridiculous little nose.

"And we're, what? Surprised by this?" said Willow.

"Well, he wasn't a troll then! You know, he was just a big dumb guy and… well, you know… he cheated on me and I made him into a troll, which by the way is… how I got the job as a vengeance demon." And that’s what happens when you’re an over-achiever.

Troll boy roared and smashed in a counter-top with his hammer. "I did not cheat! Not in my heart. It was only one wench! I… I had had a great deal of mead! Next thing I know I'm a troll! Oh… you did this Anyanka. You will die for this!"

"But you seem to… enjoy the… the being a troll," said Harris.

"I adjusted," the troll shrugged. Then he started ranting on about witches and how they'd trapped him in some bloody crystal. Red tried to work her mojo but it fizzed.

That's when all hell broke loose. The Slayer kicked him back as he dove for the witch, then kept pushing him back with each punch. Figured it was a good time to join in, but when I came up behind her, she ducked just in time for Jolly Green's fist to come smashing into my face, knocking me clear. Then he tossed her on top of me.

Would've been a nice time for a grope, but I figured she'd notice. Instead I caught her about the waist and tossed her to her feet, then came up behind her.

That's when the roof came down.

Jolly had taken out the balcony supports with his bloody huge hammer. Saw it start to come down just in time to dive at the Slayer and roll her out from under it. Must've done it right, because the chip never even fired. When we both came up, the troll was gone and the place was trashed.

Hadn't ever been on the rescuing side of a disaster before. People everywhere, groaning, picking their way up out of the rubble. Ordinarily this would be a vampire's dream. So many lovely bleeding people, chaos, confusion. In the old days a scene like this would have had me looking for a quick snack. Now it just left me confused. Even poncy William was a bit at a loss—Victorian gentlemen aren't exactly the heroic labour type. Could leave, go off after the troll, but the Slayer was still sticking around so there clearly was something else I was supposed to be doing. The scent of blood was making my head a bit muzzy, but it was easy enough to tamp down the urge to lick everything in sight. Tried to suss out what Buffy would want done… wounded tended to maybe? Or digging people out?

The little wicca decided me, watching her try to lift a support beam off some injured humans. Right. Dig people out. I could do that.

Helped that I could smell them, down under the debris. Could hear them whimpering and moaning. Was lifting some flooring up when the Slayer found me.

"What are you doing?"

"Helping," I said, not like it wasn't bleeding obvious. "Someone down there."

Together we shifted the rubble till we could get the bloke out. Bit bashed up, but his heartbeat was still strong. Lot of blood on him, though. I was getting restless with the scent so strong in the air, so close. There was blood trickling down his face, and god it smelled good. Thick and rich and full of pain. Had to swallow heavily just to get rid of the saliva that pooled in my mouth.

I don't think I vamped. If I did, I didn't mean to. But suddenly she had that look on her face again, the one that said I was about three seconds from getting punched. Or staked. "Not gonna sample," I told her, snapping out of the hyper focus I’d unintentionally slipped into. "Know you wouldn't like it."

She frowned. "The fact that it even occurred to you is revolting, you know that? Besides you don't feed off disaster victims because it's wrong, Spike. Not just because you want to avoid getting punched in the face."

I love her, but she's an idiot, sometimes. Even that bigot Harris makes more allowances for his girl than Buffy gives me, and I'm not human. I'm a vampire. And there I was stuck in a room full of bleeding people. I was hungry. I can't fucking help it, now, can I, if I smell blood and the first thing I think about is gorging myself senseless? But I didn't. I wouldn't. She wouldn't like it. Besides, I’m not fucking stupid or a fledge. I’ve had a hundred and twenty years of practise controlling basic bloodlust.

"Look, I can help, yeah? With the troll? Give me something to do. You said you'd give me a chance," I reminded her. Hated that I had to beg, but what's it take?

"I said we'd see," she huffed.

"Extra muscle here, Slayer," I said. "Not asking for anything but a chance to fight. Unless you want me to stick around here and—"

"No, there's too much blood here. I'm not going to risk it," she frowned and I clamped down on the urge to call her a moron. "Fine. Xander's tailing the troll, but I'm not sure where they went—"

"I can track 'em," I said. "That troll's got a stench a few miles long."

"Ewwww," she said, wrinkling her nose. Bloody adorable, even if she is squeamish about the strangest things.

Tara popped up about then and insisted on tagging along, then we were off. Wasn't lying either. That troll laid a trail of rank sweat, uncured hides, ale, and troll funk where ever he'd been. Took me only a minute to figure out which was the fresh trail.

Needn't have bloody bothered, though. 'Course it went straight after the witch and the former demon. I would have. They were the only ones with a chance of locking it back up again.

Once we got there, things went a bit pear shaped. Anya taunting him, Red trying to magic him every which way, and the Slayer and I jumping him like two wolf pups trying to bring down a full grown moose. Except for getting my ribs busted, it was bloody brilliant, if you ask me; but I could tell the Slayer was getting tired of being tossed about like rag doll. Don't know what he said that finally set her off, but after that last toss we managed to get it together.

She was doing most of the work, though, I was just along for the ride. Something therapeutic about beating on something that big. And it’s fucking hot, watching her take on something so huge and beat it to a bloody pulp.

When it was over and they were standing about arguing over what to do with him, I had a thought. So a thousand years ago, Anyanka curses this bloke and turns him into a troll, yeah? Then she becomes a demon and presumably Jolly wandered about for a bit, pillaging and rampaging and noshing on babies until some witches got a hold of him and locked him up in a shiny little crystal. Then a few hundred years later that same bloody crystal just happens to end up here, in Sunnyhell, in the same shop where Anyanka's working? And another witch just happens to undo the curse and release him?

I'd figure the odds, but they'd give me a bleeding headache. Let's just say I'd put money on old Louhi being behind this. Trolls seem exactly like her cuppa.

Luckily there wasn't anything keeping me from pointing out that it was bloody weird. Maybe now I can get the Slayer to start paying attention.

***


10 January 2001

I wonder sometimes, how things really were with her and Angelus. For a girl who practically eats, sleeps, and breathes vampires, she's got a bleeding small amount of knowledge about how we work. Some of that I'll lay at the Council of Wanker's feet… they've been lying to Slayers since the dawn of time. But Buffy's gotten closer to us than most—not that I like thinking about her and the Great Poof—and there are certain things she ought to know by now. For example, how keen our sense of smell is. Far as I can suss out, Angelus never told her a bloody thing about being a vampire.

Probably hid it from her, like he hides from himself. Way she reacted last year when I mentioned him drinking in front of her made me wonder if he ever had. Could have knocked her over with a feather when he went all Angelus on her, too. Like he never told her what he really is, underneath that poncy soul.

I don't think you can love someone without knowing the best and worst of them. It’d be like only loving half the person, if all you ever loved them for was the bits you liked. Buffy's glorious, I'll give her that, but she's got her flaws, too. Self-righteous, sometimes, and blind as hell to what's right in front of her. Can be a right bitch, when she's of a mind—which, with me is pretty much always. She's got a superiority complex, and an inferiority complex about it. Acts like a total nit half the time, even though she's intelligent. Walls herself off to protect herself, and comes across as cold sometimes because of it.

But the truth is, for all the bad stuff about her, she's still beautiful, inside and out. You take all that other shite away and you've got this gorgeous woman who doesn't even know her own worth. Loyal to her friends almost to a fault, loves with her whole soul, and so desperate to be loved back she's aching inside for want of it. Smart, brilliant, and a bleeding incredible warrior. Strong enough to hold the weight of the world on her shoulders, even when she's crumbling inside. And she’s so bloody good, it lights her up from the inside ‘til she almost glows so bright it burns.

When she talks to Mr. G… she lets me see all that, and it's incredible. Some nights I have to bite my tongue bloody to keep from speaking, to keep from telling her how amazing she is. How, being near her like this… makes me want to be a better man.

Makes me want to be a man.

The sort she could count on having by her side, through thick and thin. To watch her back, or just to back her up when she wants it. The sort she could just… be herself with, not having to hide any part of her. Not even the bits that make her self-conscious. I don't just want the Slayer bits, or the Buffy bits… I'm a greedy bastard. I want the whole sodding package, faults and all.

I know I'm a monster, and it's a part of me I can't give up. No going back from what I am. But I'm a man, too. Maybe not a good one. Maybe not much of one at all. But I'd be hers. Man and monster, all of me. Good and bad.

If I thought it'd do any good, I'd beg the Powers That Be for a chance at that, then do my best not to completely cock it up.

I know better, but…

Still… I've got to try.






 
 
Chapter #47 - Chapter 46: What Do I Have To Do?
 
Author’s Note: Remember when I said some Spike chapters cover multiple Buffy ones? This chapter covers the same time period as Chapters 18, 19, 20, 21, & 22.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae* and Science
*because Spike is English, I’ve made a rather anal retentive attempt to spell things “properly.” My beta (who IS British), has asked that I include the following disclaimer: “Any Britpicking mistakes are my beta's, because she reads too much fic written by you bloody Americans and is used to your bizarre ways by now."





Chapter 46

What Do I Have To Do


16 January 2001

Of course, there's a prophecy.

When isn't there a bloody prophecy? Somewhere in some goddamn Watcher's book is probably an accounting of every single time the pope will ever fart.

Buffy came bouncing into dreamland tonight, all abuzz with news about some Watcher bird who flew all the way in from Merry Ol' to tell them what I've been trying to tell them for the last eight bloody months. 'Least someone out there is on to Louhi. When she told me they were looking for an ice demon it was all I could do not to shout. Finally I get a bleeding break.

Maybe now the bloody Scoobies will hunt the bitch down and take care of her proper and get me out of this sodding contract.

Not sure what this Slayer's Night thing is she's on about, though. Only thing I can think of is maybe it's the night my year and a day are up, which would be… night of May 24th, best I can figure.

Almost five months.

Plenty of time.

And in the meantime, I get to spar with her, and listen to her, and be with her just a little bit longer.

***


18 January 2001 (after midnight)

Ran into the Slayer on patrol tonight, almost jumped in to help, but she had it under control. Had a spot of fun teasing her, but then she had to go and start asking me if I knew anything about the White Witch.

Almost choked myself trying to tell her. God, if I could tear the words out of my throat and hand them to her, I would. Could tell by the look on her face she knew I wasn't telling the whole truth. Couldn't even tell her that I wanted to tell her. I fucking hate spells.

Figured maybe I could listen for her, see what I can dig up that I can tell her. Maybe if it's not connected to the challenge I can open my bloody gob. So, soon as she scampered off to finish her patrol, I went down to Willy's for a drink and some poker. Never know what you'll overhear there.

Was halfway through the second hand when she came in. Vamp ears can hear through brick walls so I got to hear every word she and the weaselly bartender exchanged.

She thinks I'm double crossing her. Must've misunderstood earlier, when I couldn't tell her anything, cause now she's digging for info on me. Trying to find out if I’m working for Louhi, I think. Not bad enough that she can't stand me, if she thinks I'm putting her on…

I'm buggered.

***


18 January 2001

I used to love finding gifts for Dru. Her dark eyes would glitter, and she'd smile, pleased as a kitten. Didn't take much: pretty dresses, fancy jewels, flowers, dolls. Dolls were always Dru's favourite. Little porcelain or china things, with long ringlets and lacy little pinafores. She'd spot one in a shop window and I'd go in and kill the shopkeep so she could have it, but her favourites were always the ones that came wrapped in the arms of a little girl.

Never had a taste for children myself, but Dru had a thing for them. I don't know if it was her demon or some leftover bit of twisted humanity—can see how longing for a child might go that way, after—or if it was something Angelus did to her when he made her loony. There were a lot of things about Dru like that.

Miss Edith, for example. Bloody doll was older than I was. Darla said Dru'd had it since she was turned.

She'd sit in her room and play tea party, or whisper to Miss Edith and all the other little dolls for hours. When the visions got bad, she'd blindfold them. When the voices were too much, she'd gag them. Seemed to help some, though I never sussed out how.

I remember once, god, about twenty years or so ago, I woke up one evening to Dru in a panic. She said Miss Edith told her that the sun could go about in the night, now, and that it was waiting for us. Wouldn't let me leave our lair for days, not until she was so hungry she was about to gnaw my bloody arm off. Entire time I was gone she cried, and it took me hours to calm her down when I got back. She said Miss Edith told her I wanted to meet the sun.

Fucking doll almost bit it then. Still, looking back now, I’ve got to wonder…

Miss Edith was the only thing I snagged of ours on the way out of Sunnyhell, that first time. Knew she'd be furious with me over betraying Angelus to the Slayer, and I wasn't about to compound that by leaving the stupid thing behind. The rest of her dolls were replaceable. Could always get her new ones.

Of course, by the time we got to Brazil, a hundred dolls wouldn't have gotten me in her good graces.

And getting her a gift would still be easier than finding a sodding birthday present for Buffy.

Clothes and jewels she'd just toss back in my face. Even if I had a bleeding receipt she'd think I'd nicked them. Thought about flowers, but… too romantic, maybe. Chocolates, lame, and she'd assume poisoned.

And even I'm not such an idiot as to give the girl a weapon. Not unless I want to be the one she practises on with it.

Angel would probably give her something stupid, like one of those bloody claddagh rings that don't mean shite except 'I'm a ponce who gives cheap jewelry'. Finn would have done something normal and boring… Something any normal girl would have been wetting her panties over.

Buffy's not normal. Never going to be.

The bleeding shame is that she doesn't get that, doesn't understand how special she is. A normal life would be bloody boring.

Get up, take a piss, go to work, take your sodding half hour lunch, finish up your day, go home, eat, go to bed, do it all over again the next day.

Still remember what it was like, being human. Times haven't changed much. The details, yeah—gone are valets and servants, cravats and top hats—but the tedium remains the same. If I hadn't been changed, I'd have probably died a bitter and jaded old fellow, rotting of consumption like me mum or, if I were lucky, from liver failure. God knows if I'd had to put up with those pillocks in my class for the rest of my life I'd have drunk myself into a coma.

Glad I'm not normal. Got to see the world, didn't I? Lived through too many wars to keep track of, seen things most humans only dream of, and got to stay strong and young (manner of speaking) through all of it.

She hasn't lived long enough yet to appreciate it, maybe.

I've got to do my best to see she does.

Could maybe patrol for her, though. Give her a night off? Let her have a spot of normality if it's what she wants. Bet she'd like that, not having to do the work for once. She's freezing her arse off out there every night, anyway. Probably jump at the chance to stay home with her mum and her mates, all warm and cosy.

It's not much of a gift, but it's something she might accept.

And if she tosses it in my face, at least it won't break my nose.

***


19 January 2001 (after midnight)

Should have seen that coming. God, I’m a berk. Never even occurred to me she’d see my offer to patrol as more evidence that I’m playing Judas again.

Things had been going so swimmingly, too.

She likes poetry.

The Slayer likes poetry.

If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the Powers That Be were doing this on purpose. What better way to torture a vamp than to make the most perfect woman in the world his bleeding mortal enemy? It's enough to drive me round the bend.

She looked so damned adorable, standing there in the moonlight, all bundled up with fur round her throat and her nose turning red from the cold. I couldn’t resist flirting a little. Love watching her eyes get all big and dark and confused, her pulse rabbiting away. Had ourselves a sweet little moment there—till she remembered what I was and who she was and my bloody fag singed my fingers.

So goddamn close. Wouldn’t have taken much. Just reach out and wrap an arm around her, pull her against me, kiss her till she’s as breathless as I am. I want to fist my hands in all that golden hair, wrap it around my fingers until they burn. Taste the heat of her mouth, feel her all warm and wriggling beneath me, smelling like sunshine and strawberries and everything a vampire isn’t ever supposed to want.

Buffy’s the first thing in more than a century that all of me is dead set on. William wants her with every drop of blood in his dead heart, my demon wants to curl up at her feet and purr like a sodding house cat, and I… I just want. Need. Need to be near her, hear her voice, argue with her, make her smile, watch her fight, watch her try, help her somehow.

If she’ll let me.

She did let me fight, tonight, when the chips were down. Heard her question that one little demon. I think the White Witch is getting nervous. Afraid we might actually beat this challenge after all. Guess it’s a good thing I didn’t off the Slayer back before I knew I loved her, since Louhi’s little assassins pretty much answer the question of who wins if the Slayer dies before the year is up. Kind of lost it, there for a moment, after I heard that, didn't even realise till she stopped me that I'd demolished that last one's face.

That icy cunt better keep her mitts off my girl.

Of course, then I had to go and tell her I’d patrol for her, for her birthday. That shot everything to hell. If she could only see that I’m on her side. That when I’m with her I don’t want to be a monster anymore. I lost my temper, there at the end, tried to tell her the only way I know how. Figured maybe using someone else’s words would get it through her head.

If I’ve got to dust, let it be from her passion, not her hatred. Give me her fire, let me burn.

Don't know which of us is the bigger idiot: her for refusing to see what I'm practically shoving in her face, or me for hoping for even a second she'd believe a word out of my bloody mouth. What's it gonna take for her to realise I'm not playing her false?

This isn't easy. I'm a vampire, for chrissakes. There's not a moment when I'm not utterly aware of the demon in me, clamouring to get out. Yeah, she calms it somewhat, but it's still there. It still wants blood, still wants death and destruction and chaos. Nature of the beast. Just because I'm old enough and strong enough to be able to leash it… doesn't mean it's easy.

And I get no sodding credit for it. Try to do what's right and I get suspicion; act like I'm supposed to and I get hostility.

Bloody vicious cycle with no end in sight.

If I were smart I'd get the fuck out of town. Go somewhere with no Slayers or demons or witches. Some pissant little town somewhere with a good butcher and …

Oh, who the fuck am I kidding? I can't leave. Not anymore. Probably never could.

Why do I get the feeling that I've been on this bloody road since the day I was born?

Dammit… gotta go dig up that book, what was that poem?

… And then I came to Three ways,
And each was mine to choose;
For all of them were free ways,
To take or to refuse.
“Now which shall be the best way,
East, West or South?” said I . . .
So then I went the West way—
I often wonder why.

… And then I came to Two ways,
And each was luring me:
For both of them were new ways,
And I was fancy free.
“Now which shall be the least way,”
Said I: “to gain my goal?”
And so I took the East way,
With freedom in my soul.

… And then I came to One way,
And to the South it ran;
Then lo! I saw this sun way
Was mine since time began;
My pitiless, my doom way;
No other could there be,
For at its end my tomb lay,
And it was waiting me. . . .
Poor fools! Who think you’re free.

—Robert Service

***


19 January 2001 (noon)

I don't know what's worse: knowing she doesn't trust me, that she thinks I'm a monster when I’ve done nothing lately but try for her… or that she'll let Mr. Gordo at her throat and tremble with desire under his touch when she doesn’t even know who he is, and he’s clearly not chipped. Feel like a bloody Chinese finger trap.

But god, the taste I had of her last night… wrapping her in my arms, feeling her hot little body shivering against me, breathing in the scent of her hair, her desire, not even a whiff of real fear on her. Could have spun her round and taken that sweet little mouth of hers, just like I wanted to… but when I kiss her I want her to know it's me. I want her to kiss Spike… not Mr. G. It was enough though, just to hold her for a moment, just to know that she wanted me right then, as badly as I wanted her.

It's enough. A crumb. Hell, half the sodding cookie.

If she can trust Mr. G, then… there's hope, yeah?

I just… need to change my tactics.

Slayer's never going to trust me, awake. Not yet. Not till she's sure I'm on her side, and that's not gonna happen if I keep trying to win her over. Gotta let her come to me, maybe? Let her think she's in control and knows which end is up. Maybe start charging again, since the Watcher seemed more comfortable with it and she expects it of me anyway. If she thinks I can be bought… fine. Let her buy me.

No skin off my nose if I make a bit of extra dosh.

Then I gotta find a way to let her know about Louhi. If I can fork that information over, maybe that'll show her.

Has to be a way.

Can't tell her about the Ice Bitch. Can write about it here, but the spell keeps her from reading the journal. Could try leaving notes, maybe? Little ones. All over. Word here, and there. Let her and the Watcher try piecing them together? Maybe if it's not a direct message I can get around it.

If that doesn't work… could try looking for a counter spell, maybe? Something to break it? I know Red said that it's a bloody willpower thing, but there's got to be something. Reversal spell, maybe.

Has to be a way.

***


20 January 2001 (after midnight)

Well, that went over about as well as a lead zeppelin. Figured I’d patrol for her anyway, just start earlier while she was still partying with her mates. Good way to work off some steam, right? Dusted four or five fledges and a catoryk demon that was stalking some kids over by the park by the time I’d made it over to her house.

Figured it’d be a lark, following her about, watching her get frustrated when she couldn’t catch me doing something evil.

Only she’d already left by the time I got there.

And the demons were arriving.

Nasty, pointy-toothed buggers from last night, only more of the little bastards. They were getting up the nerve to charge the door when I found them. Started out back in ones and twos, and finished up in the front with a solid half dozen. Don’t know if Louhi told them hands off her bloody merchandise, but none of them wanted to fight me. Just made it all the easier to take them out. Scrappy little things, though. One managed to stab me in the thigh with a knife and I busted my knuckles up on another one’s teeth, but it wasn’t much of a fight, in the end, despite the numbers. I stuck round a bit longer, just to be sure there wasn’t a second wave, then headed home.

Of course I’d run into the Slayer when I got here. Thought about telling her what I’d been up to, but it was far funnier to watch her dig herself a hole, blaming and accusing me of doing evil when I knew she’d get home and find all those dead demons on her lawn. Heart about started again when she picked up this sodding journal, though. I thought for a second she’d broken the spell on her own, but the minute she got distracted there it went again.

She’ll be back, probably tomorrow. Expect I’ll get whatever passes in her world for an apology.

Maybe I’ll try a new plan. Picked up some paper and pasteboard and markers tonight. Figure I can post clues round the crypt, maybe. If it’s big and out of place, maybe she’ll see. If that doesn’t work I’ll head over to the Magic Box tomorrow and put sticky notes with messages all through the Watcher's books.

Something’s got to give here.

***


20 January 2001

One of these days I’m gonna have a plan that goes right, and the whole sodding world is gonna flip on its axis.

Plan poster-board failed spectacularly. You’d think bright green neon signs bigger than her bloody head would get her attention, but no such luck.

Top it off, she came storming in ready to blame me for everything from Krampy Claus to the evil elves from hell that attacked the last two nights. I’m bloody sick and tired of being the scapegoat. You’d think with all I do round here, it’d earn me just a smidgen of respect. But no, something goes wrong it’s got to be Spike’s fault.

Sure as hell is never the Slayer’s or her bloody mates’.

God, only in this twisted town does a bloke have to act evil just to get a shred of respect and trust.

Trusts Mr. Gordo, but she won’t trust me. Bloody hell.

On the other hand, this new Watcher she brought by looks like she might have more than a couple of braincells to rub together. Clearly she’s got taste, if she’s interested enough in me to write a sodding thesis. She’s a bit dry round the edges, but all it’d take is a little flattery and I’d have her wrapped round my finger. Fuck, she was nearly panting for it when she came in. Clearly nobody bothered to teach her that walking into a vampire’s lair smelling of fear and arousal is like skipping to the gallows. Couple of years ago she’d have practically fallen on my fangs. Nothing quite like a willing meal.

She might be off the menu, but there’s no harm in flirting. Wouldn’t have taken much for me to convince her to bend herself over a sarcophagus and beg—not that I would.

Want Buffy too much to bollix up my chances by getting my rocks off on her new Watcher bird.

Felt a bit better, though, watching the Slayer get all flustered and jealous. It gave me a bit of hope. She may not want to want me, but deep down… there’s something. Might just be lust, but…

I read about Slayer Dreams a long time ago, back when I was still hunting my first one. Far as I know, they’re not like Dru’s visions—though they’ve got a bit in common. Know sometime it lets them see into the past, see previous Slayers, events, anything that might help them in their fight. But sometimes they get bits of the future, only all jumbled up or symbolic. Sounds like that’s what Buffy had.

Three Spikes.

Never really thought of it that way. Not, literally. Yeah, I know I natter about William and the demon and all, but they’re just me. But I can see how she might see it that way in a dream.

Thanks to Louhi’s spell I can’t tell her what’s coming, can’t warn her, no matter how hard I try. Can’t convince her I’m on her side.

But looks like someone up there is trying to clue her in. Guess I owe the PTB a favour for that one. Still, not about to give up. If she’s dreaming about it now, means things are getting worse. Means there’s a reason the Powers are stepping in.

I’m not about to let Louhi win.

***


28 January 2001

Poster-board signs—didn’t work. Slayer ignored them.

Sticky notes in watcher’s books—haven’t worked yet.

Leaving messages on answering machines—can’t talk.

Spray paint on windows of magic box? – too much work.

Found book on counterspells, but none of them have any bleeding effect.

I did some research on curses, though. Think maybe that’s what Louhi did. Bloody things can only be removed by the one who did the cursing, or broken by a specific person. I’d lay odds that the only one who can bust the bloody thing is the Slayer.

Buggering fuck.

Puts me right back at square one.

Unless there’s a way to hedge round it. Drop vagueish clues? Not that Buffy does well with vague.



***


[NOTE: The following entry is written in an unsteady hand, some of the letters crudely formed and some words nearly illegible. At one point it looks like the author may have switched hands, though the legibility doesn’t improve much, the penmanship is slightly more old-fashioned]

3 February 2001

Ever tried to write when you can barely see out of both eyes, and half the fingers on your left hand are broken? No? Then sod off if you can’t read my writing.

Fucking Louhi.

Was waiting when I got back from the Magic Box tonight.

“I love your decorations,” she said when I came in. She was fingering some of the posterboards I'd put up round the crypt with her name on them. "You even spelled it correctly. Someone's been doing his research. A literate vampire. Who would have thought such a creature existed?"

Fuck conversation. I was done with the bitch. Grabbed the nearest weapon to hand and went for her head.

Should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.

Plucked the knife out of my hand and tossed it clear across the room. Then she did that invisible bonds thing and pinned me to the wall like a bloody butterfly.

“Naughty thing,” she said. “Killing my minions. Protecting that silly Slayer. I’m really quite cross with you. I think I shall have to punish you. Jack, darling? Would you like to teach my vampire a lesson?”

I don’t know if he’d been there the whole time, or if he melted out of the shadows. Could have been either. Tall, wiry bloke. Blue and white streaked hair sticking up all over, blue eyes, white skin, nasty right hook.

When they were done working me over, she left me where I fell. Both my eyes were so swollen she looked like a white blur.

“Come with me willingly,” she offered. “End this silly game. We both know you can’t possibly beat me.”

“How many times do I have to say ‘sod off, bitch’ before you get the hint? I’ll never be yours, you fucking stupid cunt."

That’s how I got the slashes across my chest. One more shirt for the rag bin, I suppose.

Bloody hell. Gonna take a couple of days for all this to heal. Not sure how I’m gonna get out of sparring with the Slayer till it does. Maybe if I stay up later, she’ll be asleep by the time I show up. If not…

I’ll figure something.

Fuck. Could use some O-neg right about now. Bloody chip.

***


9 February 2001

When I was a lad, ‘bout twelve or so, some of the other boys at school dared me to climb a tree. I was a scrawny thing, small, not very athletic. Wasn’t much of a surprise when I fell out. Had half expected it. Wasn’t expecting the broken arm.

I’ve been hurt a hell of lot worse since then, but I still remember that pain. Don’t remember much after that, not till I came to in the school infirmary. Lucky for me it was a clean break, and splinting it and wrapping it took care of it. Fortunately, it was my right arm, so they let me write left-handed till it healed up, and by then they were so thrilled with how much better my penmanship was they didn’t bother correcting me. Well, not as much.

I spent months with my arm in that bloody sling.

Now if I break something, it’s usually healed in a matter of days. But the pain is still there, just all sped up instead of stretched out over months. I get the joy of all that knitting and healing happening in a matter of hours. Best I can do is park my arse in my chair or in bed and drink myself insensible till the worst of it’s passed.

Least a break is better than a spinal injury. Course, that didn’t take nearly as long to heal as everyone thought it did, but it’s not an experience I’d care to repeat.

Think Louhi must've done something when she went after me this time. It's taking longer than it should for me to heal. Or maybe it's just this swill diet I've been on. Mostly healed up, now. Bones in my legs knit up just fine, ribs are back in place. Whatever was grinding in my hip finally stopped. Just some fading bruises on my fingers and chest and back. Feels like a few on my face, too, but I can’t exactly check, now can I? Starting to get cabin fever, though. I need to get out, tonight.

Thought maybe Buffy’d be by, but no such luck. Not that I could explain why I look like a walking bruise, in any case. Three and a half months left. I can make it awhile longer.

***


10 February 2001

If I’d known all it would take to get Buffy’s interest was to refuse to talk, I’d have done it sooner. God, she dances like a dream… If I dust tonight it’ll be as one happy vamp. Got to dance with the sun for a few moments, didn’t I? And I barely got singed.

Having her there, in my arms, makes it all worth it; the chip, the humiliations, the pain, sodding Louhi and her ridiculous challenges.

Even if I never get another taste of it again, I’ll take that memory with me to hell.

Better yet, I even managed to slip her a clue. Sort of. In the most bloody roundabout way I could. Whether she picks up on it or not… at least I did something, right?

Fuck. Just want to sit here for a bit and burn tonight into my brain, keep it forever.



 
 
Chapter #48 - Chapter 47: With Teeth
 
Author’s Note: This chapter covers the same time period as Chapters 23, 24, & 25.

I just want to say how lovely it is that some of you ARE re-reading previous chapters and discovering some of the little clues that were left for you in Part I. It makes me really happy when you guys start bouncing up and down and pointing at passages in Part I. Think of it like a really weird easter egg hunt… there’s more there than you might realize. Like this chapter, for instance…

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae* and Science
*because Spike is English, I’ve made a rather anal retentive attempt to spell things “properly.” My beta (who IS British), has asked that I include the following disclaimer: “Any Britpicking mistakes are my beta's, because she reads too much fic written by you bloody Americans and is used to your bizarre ways by now."





Credits: This chapter contains dialogue from the episode “Crush” written by David Fury.

Chapter 47

With Teeth


15 February 2001

Bloody hell. I never want to go through that again.

Goddamn women always cocking things up.

Started with the bleeding TV. Why the fuck do they always interrupt my programmes for the sodding news? As if I give a rat's fuck about human politics and what all. Was just waiting for Passions to start when they put out a bulletin. Almost didn't watch, but… well, the female news anchor's blouse was low cut and I got distracted. Wasn't till they switched to shots of Sunnyhell Station that I realised what the hell she was yammering about. Murders. Multiple. On the bleeding train.

Throat trauma.

One day they're just gonna come right out and say 'vamp attack', and the whole world will probably end. Be kind of funny if all it took was the general populace taking off their blinkers.

Still, vampires feeding on a train car full of passengers… might as well have put out a sign: new Big Bad in town.

I might be chipped, but I'm still the oldest vamp in Sunnyhell, which makes this my territory. Most vamps in town have learned to respect that, and the ones that don't…well, let's just say they don't have a long unlife expectancy. So the thought of letting some new master set up shop in my town stuck in my craw. Besides, the last thing the Slayer needs at the mo' is another problem to deal with.

Wasn't a hell of a lot I could do, what with the sun up overhead, but the sewers connect all kinds of places. Started at a couple of the local demon bars. Most anyone could tell me was that it was the work of some new vamp, but the only ones anyone had heard of were holed up downtown.

Managed to get there just after sunset. Wankers were lairing in a shithole warehouse with busted up furniture and a shoddy TV. They'd stepped out the minute the sun went down, so I waited till they got back. When they walked in the door it was easy enough to see that they weren't the ones behind the train. These two were still new enough their fangs squeaked. Short and squat sensed me immediately. He stopped right inside the door and squinted at the couch where I was lounging, reading some of their skin-mags. Tall and lanky, on the other hand, was clearly dumber than a dodo and fast headed for extinction. He came strolling in, and didn't notice me until he was practically in my lap.

"Who are you?" asked Pinky. "How'd you get in here?"

Just rolled my eyes. "Through the bloody door, you pillock."

"What's a pillock?" he asked.

"You're Spike," said Brain, coming in more cautiously, ignoring his friend. "I've heard of you."

"You're smart," I said. "But you've got shite taste in beer. Coors Light? Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Sorry," Brain said, shrugging and glaring at Pinky who was carrying another twelve pack of the swill.

"What?" said Pinky, clearly lost.

"Heard you got a chip," said Brain, shifting nervously. "That true? Can they really do that now? Make it so we can't hunt?"

"Well, that depends," I said.

"On what?" asked Pinky, wide-eyed.

There are certain advantages to being nearly a century and a quarter old. Speed, for instance. I had them both by the throats before they even thought to blink.

"On what you want to hunt," I said, letting them dangle a bit. "Me? Well, I just like violence. Don't much care who I'm ripping apart."

"Urk, urgle," said Pinky, trying to pry my hands off his throat.

"Sorry," I said. "I thought I was still talking. See, it's like this. I'm feeling generous at the mo', so if you wankers prove helpful you get to walk out of here instead of drifting out on a draft. Got it?"

Brain gave me a weak thumbs up. Pinky gurgled.

"I'm looking for the vamps behind that bloody mess on the train last night," I said. "And I can smell a lie at thirty paces." I loosened my grip, dropping them both to the floor. Pinky shot back to his feet, but Brain stayed where he was, watching me.

"We don't know," Pinky said. "Honest. We just got in town—"

He never even saw me pull the stake out of my pocket.

"Tsk," I said to Brain, eyeing him though the settling dust. "Wrong answer."

"I never liked him anyway," said Brain, staying on the floor. Yeah, he was smart, this one. Might actually survive to see thirty. I hummed the Jeopardy theme song, waiting.

"Okay," he said, getting the hint. "Far as I know it was just one vamp, come up from Los Angeles. There were rumours that something big was going down. Bunch of masters facing off or something. Lots of demons getting recruited. We were in a gang down there, but… it seemed like a bad deal. So, we packed up and left. Neither of us really wanted to get caught in the middle of an all out demon battle, you know? It's possible this is connected. I don't really know anything else. I swear."

Well, it was more than I had. Besides, I sort of liked this one. "Word of advice, chum," I told him as I left. "If you're looking for a quiet spot to settle down, the Hellmouth isn't it. You might want to scarper while you can. The Slayer catches you, you're dust."

"What's the Slayer?" he asked, confused. Chill went down my spine.

"Mine," I told him, and left.

Then I waited across the street for twenty minutes or so and watched while he bundled his kit into a beat up old Pontiac and headed out of town.

Something about those words unsettled me. Too familiar. And the walk back was worse. Something kept niggling at my brain, maybe a premonition of things to come. By the time I got back to the crypt I was all but running. There was something wrong. Could feel it in my gut.

The open trapdoor was my first clue. I'd been careful to keep that hidden for a while now. Didn't want any nosey-parkers poking about down there, but it looked like someone had found it anyway. I'd left a few torches lit, so the light flickered against the ceiling, up out of the open hole. I got very quiet and listened.

Someone was moving about.

A smallish someone. I could smell the Slayer's scent in the air, but it might have been an old scent. There was something else, layered over it. An old, familiar scent. Roses—dead roses, and jasmine. Strong, like heavy perfume.

I went down the ladder, knowing what I'd find, but not quite ready to believe it.

"Who's there?" I asked, picking up the knife I keep handy by the steps.

A shadow slithered out of the bedroom. "Look who's come to make things right, my pretty Spike," she said, stepping into the torchlight, looking like an old dream. Tall, dark, slender as a memory. Still beautiful. God, those big eyes that saw more than the sane ever could. Her hair… I knew how she'd feel if I touched her, how she'd taste. Knew the texture of her skin and the sharp edges of her fangs as well as I knew my own.

My salvation. My princess. My Drusilla.

I'd dreamed of this moment. God, so many times. Days, nights, I'd lie awake dreaming that she'd come back to me, that she wanted me again. I'd imagined it so many different ways. Her crawling, begging, pleading, demanding. A century and more at her side—it was all I knew. How to be hers. How to please her, make her smile. She'd snap her fingers and I'd be there, at her heel, ready to do whatever it took to make her happy.

I'd wanted it so badly, the last couple of years. All I'd wanted was for her to come back.

And there she was.

And the sight of her left me cold.

"Dru," I said. "What are you doing here?"

"I've come to make us a family again," she said, drifting towards me. "Mummy has come back to us now. Only now I'm the mummy."

She giggled. I stepped around her, heading into the bedroom for no other reason than to get some space to bloody think. My head was a muddle.

"Darla's dead, Dru," I told her. "Angelus dusted her himself."

"But she came back," she said. "She tasted of magic and sin. I drank her all down and made Mummy my own darling girl. Daddy was not pleased. But he will be. Soon he will be one of us again. Just like you, my pretty Spike."

Dru's hand on my face felt so familiar I wanted to sob. God. It'd been so long since I'd felt her touch and now…it just felt hollow.

"So, let me get this straight," I said, trying to work my way through her Dru-isms. "Darla got herself mo-jo'd back from the beyond, you vamped her, and now she and you are… working to turn Angel into his old evil self again?"

"Mmm-hmmm," she said, coming around behind me and stroking my hair.

"Sounds fun," I said. She didn't get the sarcasm. Never really had.

"It is. Like lollipops at the circus. Although…didn't care for Angelus setting us on fire." She ran a hand over a healing burn mark on her chest. There was another on her face, but the shadows mostly hid it. I wondered for a moment why I didn't care more. I should have. I should have been howling at the moon in rage for what Angel had done to her.

But inside there was nothing. The demon opened a lazy eye and watched, but didn't care, and even poncy William was silent on the issue.

"And this has… what? Got you all nostalgic now, has it?" I asked.

"I want us to be a family again, my William," she said. She leaned close, whispering in my ear. "Come back with me."

"To Los Angeles? I've done the whole LA scene, Dru. Didn't agree with me." Besides, trust Angelus to find the one bloody city in the world guaranteed to fluff his massive ego. I've no desire whatsoever to go back. "I've got a nice little setup here," I pointed out. "Decent digs, and all the tasty townies I can eat."

"Naughty!" she said, tsking at me. "Needn't make up stories. I know why you're not coming. Tin soldiers put little knick-knacks in your brain. Can't hunt. Can't hurt. Can't kill." I didn't appreciate her little imitation. I know I look bleeding ridiculous when I get zapped. She reached for my head, her eyes full of pity. "You've got a chip."

I thought of Brain back there in the warehouse and suddenly I was furious. "Right, so you've heard. Poor Spike's become a cautionary tale for vampires. 'You better be good kiddies or they might wire you up someday!'" I kicked out at the nightstand and watched half the contents fall off.

Dru followed me. "I don't believe in science," she said. "All those bits and molecules that no one's ever seen. I trust eyes and heart alone." She reached for my hand and clasped it to her chest. It was a familiar sensation, but the skin under mine was cold and I wanted it to be hot. Wanted it to burn me. "Do you know what mine is crying out?" she said. "You're a killer. Born to smash, and bash, and bleed… like beautiful poetry. No little tinker toy could ever stop you from flowing."

The demon agreed, and even William's head came up.

But her skin was cold, and I thought of Louhi and stepped away.

"You don't understand. The pain, love… it's searing. Blinding."

"All in your head," she promised, laying her hands on my hair. "I can see it. Little bit of plastic, spider webbing out nasty blue shocks. And each of them is a lie. Electricity lies, Spike. It tells you that you're not a bad dog, but you are."

I wanted to agree. My demon wanted to agree, but in the end it just laid down its head, bored. William, on the other hand, snarled at her, surprising me. Looks like the poncy git's growing some balls after all.

I'm not what I was. I've changed. I know it. I suspect Dru knows it, too. Whether it's the chip, or the challenge, or Buffy… I don't know. All I know is that, while the urge to kill is still there, it's not nearly as strong anymore. Not as strong as the desire to be… something more.

I had a place in the world. A dark, and glorious and bloody place. William the Bloody, Spike, Slayer of Slayers. For more than a century Dru and I cut a swath through continents together. I was feared. Infamous.

And it was all a lie.

I was never hers. She was never mine.

And if I went with her now, went back to her and Angelus and Darla, it would be just as it was. Only I'd be even more handicapped than I was in that sodding chair. I'd be her dog, in truth. Her bad, mean dog having to beg for her scraps. I could see it as clearly as I could her standing there in front of me. Following at her heels, waiting for her to kill for me and have her taste before I could have mine. Taking whatever abuse Darla and Angelus wanted to dish out. Watching them shag…

No.

It's not what I want anymore. I don't know if I could put it into words, what it is that I do want. All I know is that I've got a place. Got a life of my own now. I'm my own vamp, and if I put up with the Slayer's abuse it's on my own bloody terms. And whether she'd admit it or not, the fact that Buffy still treats me like the enemy means she still respects me… something I never got from Dru and the others.

And maybe, maybe, if I try I can be… something else. Don't want to be a bloody Scooby but… wouldn't mind working with the Slayer. I know I could be useful, if she'd give me half a chance. I may not be good. May not understand it, entirely but… I can try. For her, I can try. And I'd love her more than Angelus ever could even with a sodding soul.

I thought about Buffy, her smile, her eyes, her fire. And for the first time, when I looked at Dru… she came up wanting. How could I go back to the dark and the cold, now that I've touched sunlight?

"Maybe," I told Dru, stepping away from her hands. "Maybe it does lie. But I'm not what I was, Dru. Not anymore. I can't go back."

She frowned at me, sadly.

"You're so cold, my William," she said, touching my chest then snatching her hand away. "But your heart burns, like dandelions in the sun. It's burnt me all up, and all I am in you is ash." She looked away, glancing at her feet. "What's this?" She picked up my journal from where it had fallen off the stand and I swear I almost felt my heart leap.

"Just a journal," I said, watching.

She opened it and flipped through, then cast it away from her with a pained cry and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. "Cursed," she whispered, so soft I barely heard it. "Oh, my William. She has taken you already, and I cannot follow you there. East of the sun, west of the moon. My poor sweet prince. She has taken your voice and hidden your face and even I cannot see you anymore."

God, I wanted to shout. She knew. Somehow, Dru knew. Her bloody pixies. Miss Edith. Somehow she'd seen it. But it lodged in my throat and I couldn't say a word.

"My poor, poor William," she said, backing away now. "So trapped. So cold. She will put out your fire, then put out the sunshine and all the world will be cold."

"What are you prattling about?" I said.

"Poor Spike. So lost. Not even I can help you now," she said. Sad thing was, she was right. Whatever it was she knew, who would listen to her? Who would believe her? Not like I could take her to Buffy and say 'Oi, Slayer, remember my ex? If she starts babbling you might want to pay attention.' Slayer would just dust her and be done with it.

Even when someone knows, I'm still buggered.

"You should go," I told her. "If the Slayer finds out you were here, about the train, Dru… You're not strong enough to fight her."

"You wouldn't let her," she said, sadly, slowly backing away. "I know your heart. If it came to that, you'd kill me first."

"Get out of here, Dru," I told her, knowing she was right. I'd dust her. I'd do it because she brought me into this world. And I'd do it to prove to Buffy I deserve to stay here. "Leave Sunnydale. Don't come back. I'm not your Spike anymore."

When Dru left me the first time, I was heart broken. Like someone had torn me in two. When she left the second time, she ground those bits into dust beneath her heels, and what rose out of them was nothing more than vengeance, pure and furious. Then the chip forged me, bent me and twisted me into a new weapon. I'm not hers to hold anymore. She destroyed my heart.

And Buffy made it beat again.

Figuratively speaking.

And yeah, I'm aware I'm mixing my bloody metaphors.

Not the point.

Point is, when Dru left this time…I felt nothing but relieved.

Until I realised we hadn't been alone.

Was just getting ready to turn in, maybe do some writing before heading off to dreamland, when I heard a noise. This tiny little gasp of air. Thought maybe I was hearing things—that sewer tunnel off to the side carries sound pretty well, makes a good early warning system if anything's trying to sneak up on me that way—but my nose told me otherwise. It was faint, but under the smell of Dru's perfume and the usual scent of my lair, there was the tart scent of strawberries.

When I stepped closer to the sewer access tunnel, it got stronger: Slayer. "I'll take olfactory senses for five hundred, Alex. Coconut. Strawberries. Sunshine. What are three smells that don't belong in my bed chamber?" I halted at the entrance of the tunnel, picking up on the rapidly accelerating sound of her heartbeat once I knew to listen for it over the running water. If Dru hadn't had me so twisted I probably would have noticed straight off. "I suppose there's a good reason why you're lurking about down here, or were you just playing Peeping Slayer?"

I doubted she'd come up the sewer tunnel, so she must've snuck down here before Dru got here and tucked herself away to see what I was up to. When she stood up, though, she looked so adorably guilty but trying to hide it that I couldn't resist a smirk. "There was no peeping," she said, though we both knew otherwise. "Besides, how was I to know you were gonna…" She flapped her hand at me, clearly unhinged by seeing me mostly naked. Her face was flushed and gorgeous, she was breathing heavier than usual, and the unmistakable scent of arousal was starting to drift my way. Apparently she liked the show. Couldn't resist tweaking her nose a bit, though.

"Go to bed?" I said. Wouldn't mind going to bed with her, what with her being able to see me and all. Could tell she was thinking about it, too, by the way her eyes kept darting from me to the bed behind me, then back.

"Strip," she corrected me, trying to sound offended and failing. God she's gorgeous when she's all flustered. Even in the shadows her eyes were over bright, pupils dilated and shining. Her lips were parted a little and all I wanted just then was to sink in, maybe have myself a nibble on that delectable lower lip. Could feast on her mouth for hours. I remember Willow's spell last year, sometimes too well and sometimes not well enough. Want to know how much of that was magic and how much was just… Buffy. If she's even half what I remember, then she'd still be the best thing I've ever tasted in my entire existence.

Wish it weren't so bloody damned cold (and I'm taking this out on Louhi's hide first I get a chance), since it means every time I see her out and about normally she's bundled up to her pointy little chin in coats and scarves and hats and gloves. It’s a bleeding tragedy, is what it is. Still, even with all that it was easy to see her chest heaving a bit when I stepped back and stuck my thumbs in my belt loops, giving her a tiny peep at what she'd interrupted.

"If that's what you were after, should've kept quiet, Slayer. You missed the grand finale. I prefer to sleep naked," I told her. Prefer, of course, even though I've been wearing fucking sweats or jeans and a shirt to bed every night thanks to her.

Watching her eyes fix on my crotch and listening to the changes in her body that caused… yeah, I'm still bloody hard thinking about it. Could tell she was getting aroused, too, and the demon was practically demanding that I shove her up against a wall, shred her damned clothes and plunge in to the hilt. Poncy William, however, was arguing that that was the fastest way to get myself dusted, so I chose to listen to my better instincts.

Didn't mean I couldn't do something evil to make up for it, and the most evil thing I could think of just then was buttoning back up and denying the Slayer a peek at a real man. God knows I've been forced to sit through enough of Angel's shagging sessions to know that while he might be blessed with a massive head, the southern one definitely got the short straw.

Throwing on some clothes helped calm the demon down a bit, too. If I was going to make it through the night without dusting I needed all the help I could get. Last thing I wanted was to brass her off when she was already running hot and bothered. "I wasn't trying to see you naked, Spike," she said, putting some vinegar back in her tone as she stalked back into my bed chamber.

"Yeah? So what were you doing?" I asked. "Snooping about hoping to find some evidence of my grand evil plan? Hoping I'd wander in here and have a long chat with a minion, revealing everything I'm up to?" As if I would. A hundred years of reading, watching films and sodding daytime TV is enough to teach any vamp worth his fangs to keep his bloody gob shut and not go around blabbing plans to every minion that happens by. Besides, I've read the Evil Overlord List (though the White Witch could use the Cliff Notes version). The Slayer, of course, was looking guilty. "You were, weren't you?"

"No," she groused. "Well, maybe the first one."

Bint should know me better by now. I'm not one for the big world ending type plans, now am I? Not much for plans period. Oh, I make them all the bloody time. Good ones. Well thought out and easy to execute. I just get so bored with all that waiting. Angelus' problem was always that he spent so much time on the foreplay he almost never got to the grand event. Well, that and he was a buggering moron.

"Find anything evil, Slayer?" I asked, hoping she'd stumbled on my journal but knowing that even if she had she'd already forgotten it.

"Just your decorating style," she groused, which made me laugh. Not sure why, but that seemed to confuse her. "Aren't you going to ask how much I overhead?"

"Don't need to ask. I'd wager you've been here the whole time. Heard every word, didn't you?"

"Almost," she said. "Not that any of it made sense. I don't get it, Spike. Why didn't you go with her?"

Wasn't sure how to answer that. Tell her the truth? That, while I still love her, I wasn't in love with Dru any more, and that the thought of leaving Buffy makes me ache? That just touching Dru left me cold? That if I had I would have just been Dru's lapdog again, and possibly Angelus' whipping boy? That the thought of all that, just for the chance to drink human blood again… just didn't seem worth it? That I'd rather go against my nature if it means earning myself a real place beside her? That I've changed?

And the truth is, I don't know if she'd even understand the magnitude of any of it. She'd probably find something evil or wrong in all my reasons—and I'm savvy enough to know that it's likely. Like I told Tara a few months back, my moral compass doesn't point due north, if I've even got one. All I know is that I didn't want to go. I've changed. Wasn't sure she'd accept that as an answer though. She probably wanted to hear that I wasn't going because I was still planning on killing her or because I wanted to stay and get the chip out or some such rot. Neither of those would have made a lick of sense, but I know she'd buy it. It's what she expects, yeah?

"Which reason do you want, pet?" I asked, trying to make up my mind.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"You want the real reason or do you just want the one you're gonna believe?"

She got that narrow-eyed look, and her fist clenched, though I doubt she realised it. "I want the truth, Spike."

Bugger. Felt myself getting twitchy just at the thought of trying to put it into words. Could have done with a cigarette to calm myself down but I was out of bloody smokes.

"The truth," I said, then stopped, not sure how to go on. What could I say that wouldn't have her running for the bloody hills? Truth's always been my weapon of choice. Nothing hurts like it, nothing manipulates like it, either. For the first time I realised that it's a double-edged sword. "Truth is… I'm changing, Buffy. I know, you don't think that's possible and… it sounds daft to me, too, but there you go. I'm not what I was."

So it wasn't the whole truth, but it was the core of it, yeah? She started to interrupt but I wanted to say my piece before she threw it in my face.

"Look, Slayer, I don't know if it's the chip or if it's…" you, I wanted to say but that wouldn't go over, "… being around your do-gooder lot all the time, but I've changed, and it doesn't matter whether you believe it or not. It's true."

She was frowning, which meant that either I'd said something to make her think or she was lining up her bloody excuses for why I was wrong. "Spike," she said, "you haven't changed. You don't have a soul. That chip in your head… it's just holding you back. You're like a serial killer in prison—"

Goddamn souls. Fucking Angel has her so convinced that the soul is the seat of all that's bloody holy—-and all right, maybe it is, but that doesn't mean that it's infallible, that it's the only way to be good. If she could only see… but then that's been our problem since the beginning, hasn't it? And I… I can't ever say what needs said in a way she'd understand it or accept it. Buggered, the both of us.

"Then why didn't I go with Dru?" I asked, hoping she'd open up her eyes. "Chip only keeps me from hurting or killing. Doesn't stop me from feeding on the already dead. Be easy enough to let Dru take em down and feast on the remains."

Her face scrunched up and her fists tightened. Probably not the smartest choice of argument, reminding her that there's ways around the chip—but that's the whole sodding point. There's ways around it, I'm the one that's chosen not to take them. There were nights, last year, when I was chained in that bloody bathtub where I did nothing but think of ways around the sodding chip. I needed her to understand.

"Remember what I told you before? There's me, and the demon and…what's left?" I said. "The demon… it wants blood. Always will. I'll always be a vampire. Can't change that. But I… it's not like it was. I'm not like I was. I can be good."

"Spike—," she started to say but I wasn't in the mood to hear her arguments. These last few months… God, I don't even think about killing like I used to. I miss the fight more than anything else, but the killing? It's no longer this driving force anymore. It's like… thinking about shagging, yeah? It's always there, in the back of my head, but it's easy enough to ignore. I might not always know exactly what's right or wrong, but William usually doesn't point me false. And I'm not bloody stupid. May not have a moral compass, but I understand the concept of ethics. And if I have to live by hers, it's not such a hardship. Don't kill people. Seems pretty simple, if you take out the part where it's completely against my demon's nature. But I'm not the demon. Or, not just the demon, at any rate. It doesn't rule me. It never has. Just like she's not ruled by her Slayer side. If she were, I'd have been dust by now.

"I can," I insisted, unable to find the words, then, to tell her. "And if you weren't so bloody blind, you'd see it, too." I said, feeling my temper about to snap.

Wonder if Louhi knew, when she set this challenge, that she needn't have bothered blinding Buffy? Or maybe it was just poetic irony that she chose that particular rule. Doesn't matter. I swear. Between Buffy and Dru and Louhi… The one I love hates me, the one I used to love just wants me for her bloody lapdog, and the one I loathe wants to take me home and make me into her vamp sex toy. The old me would have just killed all three of them so there weren't any more bints left to cock up my unlife. Sometimes seems like my entire existence has been defined by bloody women.

And the only consolation I have is that when I turned to look back at Buffy to figure out why she'd gone silent, she looked as confused as I felt. Men haven't exactly given her her fair share, either, seems to me.

We're a right pair, aren't we?

When she said she wanted to go… For a moment I thought about stopping her, forcing her to stay and hash this out. But I know better than most, don't I, that trying to stop Buffy when she doesn't want to be stopped is about as easy as trying to make the earth turn the other way round. The only question was… did she really want to go? Figured it'd be safer to let her decide on her own.

In the end it didn't seem to matter much what either of us wanted, Mother Nature had her own bloody ideas. Sometime between me getting back and Buffy deciding to leave a snowstorm had kicked up. Not quite a full blown blizzard, but enough snow and wind to make her walking home through the dark graveyards a bad prospect. Offered to let her stay, but… she wasn't having it. Could smell the mix of attraction and a hint of fear on her. Confused me for a mo' before I realised that the fear was because of the excitement.

She's attracted to me, whether she wants to admit it or not, and it scares her to bits.

Reminded me that it's not the first time I've smelled that particular combination on her. Smelled it the first night we met, when she first clapped eyes on me. Thought at the time it was just a result of her fighting, but I picked up on it plenty of times after. Even that disastrous night a few years back when I'd pinched the Teen Witch and Easily Unconscious… chalked it up to Angel that time around but might've been… And then with the Gem of Amara, when I ran into her at that bloody frat party Harm dragged me to and we had our little tête-à-tête in the bushes…

Hundreds of times since then…

Doesn't matter, though, not with her hating me as much as she does. Could tell she was desperate to get home, desperate enough to demand I walk her there through the stinking sewers. Guess it's not so bad. I'd rather be the Slayer's guide dog than Dru's lapdog. Least I get to keep my dignity a bit, yeah?

When we got to the exit near her house, though, the storm had kicked up. Seemed a shame to turn back after coming so far, and she'd be a spot more comfortable at home than bunking in my crypt. Besides I knew her mum was probably frantic, so it seemed a better idea just to soldier on. Could find my way to her place blind, even though the snow and the wind were mucking up my sense of smell. Vamped I could see a bit better, though she balked for a moment when she realised I had. I could tell she hated it, being dependent on me to get her home, but I wasn't gonna let her stand there and bloody freeze to death. Was right, too, her mom was scared as hell when I finally delivered Buffy to her door.

Thought about sticking around, but I was knackered and I figured she was in her mum's hands. She'd be okay. Besides, wanted to get back and write all this down before I nodded off to dreamland. I suppose it could have been worse, but I don't want to go through another night like tonight. At least the White Witch didn't put in an appearance, though I know that storm couldn't have been natural. Right now, I just want to go to bed, curl up beside the Slayer and get some kip.

***


16 February 2001

Stopped off at the pub earlier tonight, hoping to hear something about Dru. I don't want her sticking about town. May not still be in love with her anymore but… I don't want to see her dust. It's hard to explain, what Dru is, to me. I know she was about as barmy as they come, but… she was my sire. She delivered me from mediocrity. She made me what I am. I loved her for more than a hundred years, and she never stopped surprising me. Taking me to new depths. Angelus taught me to be a monster. Dru… made me something else. Her prince. Her dog. Her weapon.

I want to know that she's out there, somewhere, being Dru.

Got an earful at Willy's. Seemed she'd come in out of the storm last night, shacked up with a Vryolk demon and headed back to LA under cover of the storm. Didn't feature sticking around for the play by play. She always did have a thing for ceiling danglers and Dru was never one to shy away from public performance.

On the way out, I ran into some silly bint out on the sidewalk, passing out fliers for a party over at the university. Wasn't going to go, at first, till I fell in behind an even sillier chit heading toward that part of town. She'd have stood out anyways, being the looker that she was, though something about her smile struck me as a bit off. Her frothy little dress, however, turned her into a bloody neon sign. Either she wasn't human, or she was from Norway. Either way, I figured I better follow. Spent an age, trying to figure out what she was. Had a heartbeat, but she smelled odd. Too perfumed, not enough skin and sweat.

She stopped every person between town and the campus, asking the same bloody questions over and over again. "Have you seen Warren?" "Warren's my boyfriend, do you know where he is?" Blah blah blah, Warren… like he was some sodding pup that had just run off. Considering how tenacious she was, I couldn't really blame him. That sorta devotion is the kind that sends most blokes running for the hills and praying for an avalanche. I get loyalty and devotion… hell, I'm a predator, so I get stalking, too. There's fixation, and then there's latching onto someone with every claw and limb and tooth and refusing to let go. No man wants that.

Figured that she fetched up within sight of the Slayer. Doesn't just about everything that's damned in this town? Was trying to keep an eye on her, and have a bit of a tease with Buffy when she came on up. Something definitely wasn't right with her, and I knew the Slayer could sense it, too. Weird noises coming from her, too low to be audible to a human. And her scent was odd. If I hadn't been paying attention… crush of humans in that place might've covered it, 'specially the scent of alcohol steeped frat boy that overwhelmed the joint.

When she asked if I knew Warren, though… couldn't resist. Told her men don't like being hunted like rabbits and if he'd run off, it was probably because he didn't want to be found.

Wasn't till she'd hoisted me up over her head that I realised just how 'not human' the bint was. Bloody threw me through a window. I limped round back and licked my wounds, and by the time I got back inside she'd run off and the Slayer and her Slayerettes were having a confab.

Seems our Miss April is a sodding robot. Being a vampire means you get to unlive to see everything, I suppose. When I was a lad the closest thing we had to a robot were some of those clockwork automatons that were coming out of Paris; singing birds and windup tin soldiers. Fifty years ago, a robot was a big metal bucket with dials and antennae and such. Then along comes old Asimov and suddenly everybody wants realistic bots, no different from people, except soulless and mindlessly devoted to its owners. You can feed me every sodding reason under the sun, but everybody knows why. Man wants mechanical sex. A soulless, uncomplaining female made to serve his every bloody whim.

Looks like someone finally figured it out. 'Bout bloody time.

Must've twisted Buffy's arm, since she was favouring it. Didn't like the thought of her walking home alone with an injury, even a slight one, but it had mostly healed up by the time she decided she wanted to patrol. I like patrolling with her. She's got a quick mind and a smart little mouth that makes bickering and talking with her fun as hell, even when she's being Bitchy Buffy and doing her best to point out all my bleeding faults.

Fun thing about the chip… long as I'm not causing pain, I can get up to all the mischief I want. Little bit of snow down the back never hurt anyone, and some loosely packed snowballs to the face doesn't do much more than surprise her and leave her blinking the snow out of her eyes. Was as much fun as actually fighting her, with the added bonus that I didn't have to worry about getting my head zapped. Running, laughing, taunting, listening to her heart race and her breathing speed up and her smart quips.

When she tackled me, felt like the most natural thing in the world to catch her and roll her under me. She stared up at me with those big eyes of hers… god, could almost see the thoughts chasing through her brain. Could smell her arousal and her nervousness at having me so close. Made me hard enough I had to fight not to grind myself against her. Didn't want to scare her off… or worse, brass her off and end up dusting for it. God I wanted her then, so fucking badly. Just a taste. Just… my mouth on hers, dipping inside, seeing if she tastes as bloody good as I remember from that idiotic spell last year. My demon was practically slavering and even William couldn't seem to decide what was the right thing to do. Taste her and be damned for sure, or not and be doubly damned for not taking what I wanted like I should.

When she shivered though… I forget what the cold does to humans. Maybe… maybe what I thought was desire was just hypothermia setting in. Didn't want to take the chance. Had her back on her feet and starting to move when she snapped at me. Don't know why she was so angry. Knew she'd have hated it if I'd kissed her, but she was acting like she was more brassed that I hadn't. Or maybe that I'd dared try to show her a good time. Hell if I knew. Got right in her face, half expecting a busted nose for my efforts…

All she did was raise her pointy little chin and practically dare me.

Bloody hell. Not kissing her just then was probably the hardest thing I've ever had to do in my entire existence. Someday… someday I'm gonna get my chance, and I'm not going to have to worry about dusting from anything but the heat of her under me. She's going to want it, want me and she's not going to go running off, virtue all aflutter afterward.

So I didn't.

Which still makes me a complete prat, but at least I've got my pride, yeah? Good thing I don't need it to keep me warm.

 
 
Chapter #49 - Chapter 48: Sunspots
 
Author’s Note: This chapter covers the same time period as Chapters 26, 27, & 28.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae* and Science
*because Spike is English, I’ve made a rather anal retentive attempt to spell things “properly.” My beta (who IS British), has asked that I include the following disclaimer: “Any Britpicking mistakes are my beta's, because she reads too much fic written by you bloody Americans and is used to your bizarre ways by now."





Chapter 48
Sunspots


18 February 2001


Been sitting here, staring at this blank page for hours. Don't know quite how to start.

...

Yesterday when

Last night Buffy tol

I didn't know I could hurt like

...

Joyce is dead.

Sometime yesterday afternoon, when I was sitting round the crypt, waiting for a rerun of Dawson's Creek to finish up—she died.

Hundred and twenty years, I've seen a lot of death and most of it at my own hands. I've killed to eat, to survive, in self-defence, for pleasure, for payment, out of anger and frustration and sometimes just because I was bored. Young, old, rich, poor, black, white... the demon never cared. Death was death. I went on. They didn't.

I've done... god, some of the things I've done. Things that ... There's a reason, I suppose, that the Watcher's books all warn about me. It's not something I usually think about, though. It's just... part of it. Part of being what I am.

After my mum... I don't think I ever looked down at whatever body was on my hands and thought about...what I'd killed. Never wondered what sort of person they were, if they had... friends, family, loved ones. If there was anyone out there that cared. That would mourn their death. That was Angelus' gig; his art, I suppose... finding the people who'd hurt most because of a death and making sure they got to ... participate. Not me. Maybe that makes me more of a monster. Maybe it just makes me an animal. I don't know.

Not sure I'll ever look at killing a human the same again.

The chip never taught me about grief. Can shoot all the electricity into a bloke's brain that you want and it'll never hurt so bad as looking into the eyes of someone you love and hearing them say, "my mother died."

Can't compare at all to the feeling that someone I cared about is gone.

Joyce.

First time I met Joyce, she was standing over me with an axe and telling me to get the hell away from her daughter. Looked like an avenging angel, sent down for the sole purpose of bollixing up my plans.

She was.

In retrospect, I've never been so glad for divine intervention in my entire existence.

She was always kind to me, never treated me like a monster. Always asking if I'd like a cuppa if I dropped by, which... well, knowing Buffy wouldn't like it meant it didn't happen often but... she was a real lady. Brilliant. Generous. A truly good person. And the world's a bit poorer now, without her in it.

It... aches. Inside. Like a hollow place. Haven't felt like this since... well, since my own mum...

And, last night, listening to Buffy talk about... about her, how she was, things she'd done... god, I never thought anything could hurt so much. Never thought that it was possible to hurt so for someone else. If I could've taken her pain for her, I would have. Buffy... she's so much. She's so... they demand so much of her. The Council, her Watcher, her bloody friends, the world, the Powers... they ask so much of this one, tiny little slip of a girl and then they go and take and take and take from her...

And it's fucking unfair, is what it is. It's unfair that someone as good as Joyce should have to go out in such a way. Such a bloody meaningless way. God. Fucking mortality. You wake up one morning, fit as a fiddle and then... out of nowhere... pop, and you're gone, and that's it. It's dirty fucking pool. Playing with people like puppets.

Why go to all the trouble of letting her get better only to...

And the worst of it is, she's gone and now Buffy's the one who has to bloody suffer for it. She's the one who's got to bleed, got to cry buckets of salt, got to gasp and choke just to be able to breathe around how much she's hurting inside.

I get it now. Angelus once said that death was a mercy for the dead and torture for the living. 'Course, he probably meant it as some sort of profound bloody lesson on how to really fuck people up, but...

I get it now.

I wish I didn't. But I do.

All I can do is hold on. Give her what strength I can. Watch her back and stay out of her way for a bit. Take care of patrolling, since I know the Scoobies can't possibly handle it all on their own. And... do what I can to comfort her at night. Not being able to talk right now... I want to tell her... so much...that she's not alone. That I'll stay as long as she'll let me. That... that I loved Joyce, too.

And I'm sorry she's gone.

But nothing... nothing can make this right.

***


19 February 2001

Been thinking a lot. About death, mostly. About... about some of the things, I've done.

I wonder if Buffy wasn't right. Maybe... maybe I am nothing more than a serial killer in prison. I look back, at... the last century plus and...there's a lot of death. A lot of blood.

Not sure how to put it into words. I don't understand The demon in me is confused. It remembers it, all of it, and it doesn't really care. It... death is just how it goes on. How I go on. Do people feel guilty about... chickens? Cows? Deer? Do they feel bad about... about if the cow was a mother? I can't really remember. I doubt it. 'Course, when I was alive we generally thought women were second class citizens, and that was just the tip of the iceberg when it came to the callousness and stupidity of the Victorian Male. But, aside from those PETA wankers and some of those bleeding heart vegans, I'm not sure that people get all that sentimental about their food.

On the other hand, humans generally don't torture their food. Or, you know, have conversations with it. Or sex. Well... some of them do, but—and I never thought I'd say this but—even I have to draw the line at something like buggering sheep. That's just...disgusting. I've eaten mutton.

But the point is... the bleeding point of it is that...

William remembers. Not... not fully. Too much time. Too much death. Too much blood. You get...

When I was turned... yeah, the first day or two it was about all I could do not to chomp into any human that walked by. The hunger is overwhelming. It burns. It hurts. The demon just spent a couple of days moving in and making things habitable and now it's bloody starving and needs to eat. So, Dru taught me how to eat. She was a finicky eater, so, early on I picked up on her habits. Then later... later Angelus taught me how to make it... fun. How to hunt, how to torture and maim and bleed them slow so they screamed right up til the end.

And... thing of it is... there were things he did, that I was made to do, that... didn't...appeal. Maybe too much of William was clinging on—he always was a bit squeamish but... didn't take me long to figure out that what Angelus considered fun wasn't. Not for me. I mean, yeah, I liked the fight and I liked... getting some of my own back against those tossers who'd made it their life's work to mock and ridicule me. And there were times when... But...

I'm bollixing this badly, trying to explain. And god, if I can't bloody explain it to myself then how could I ever make Buffy understand?

Is this where the soul comes in? Would it be easier to... rationalise it?

I can't. I did it all, didn't I? And no, it wasn't always about eating and yeah, most of the things I did, I enjoyed.

But... looking back on it now, viewing it through ... this...

God, it's so bloody meaningless. So... Did I leave people crying and heartbroken and drowning in grief like Buffy is now? And worse, because... most humans, they can accept natural occurrences easier than something like me coming along, having a good time. I can't...

Is this remorse? Guilt?

This... gnawing feeling inside me that I've cocked up something badly and didn't even know it?

But, I can't take it back. Can't fix it. How can I? And I'm ... too selfish, I guess, to want to be anything but what I am.

But I can change, yeah? I can... that's what all this has been about, isn't it? It's not meaningless, not if I can... not if I can change. Do what I can to take some of the evil out of the world. Balance out the scales for what I've done.

Sounds daft, wrong. No more wrong than falling in love with Buffy, I suppose.

I can do it.

It's... Joyce would have... appreciated that. I think.

***


20 February 2001

I haven't really thought of my mother in almost a century. Hurts, too much, but... listening to Buffy talk about Joyce, I can't help it. Memories come back, not... not the ones right at the end, thank god. I can keep those squashed down in the deepest, darkest part of my brain and pray I never have to relive those memories. But the rest, it all comes trickling back.

I remember... sitting beside her on the piano bench, back when I was still in short pants. I'd watch her play, long fingers dancing over the keys, smiling as she sang. She loved music. She was always singing something, humming as she went about the house or while she did her embroidery. Greensleeves, or Early One Morning, or Love Will Find Out A Way. She liked the old tunes. Had a folio of nothing but sheet music for old folksongs and ditties that she'd collected. Always said that's why she picked my father out from among all the men who'd sought her hand: he'd brought her music when the rest brought jewels and flowers.

She'd loved him, I think. Unusual in those days but... even after he died, she never even thought of remarrying.

There was a portrait of her, when she was young. I remember it hung in the east parlour, where the light was best. Probably went up for auction with the rest of the house, after...She'd been considered a beauty, in her day. Even when the consumption... never could quite take her beauty away. Made it fragile, instead. Delicate. Like one of those little Dresden figurines.

She didn't have a cruel bone in her body. Never said a harsh word against anyone. I'd have given my left arm to have saved her...

God... I was so bloody stupid. Should never have...

It's been so long since I...not really sure what one does, when mourning a person.

I want to do something, for Joyce. Flowers, maybe? People are always leaving flowers for the dead. I don't fancy those overblown things with all the... ribbons and shit. Too pat. Don't think Joyce would've cared for them either. But with all this bloody snow...

Must be someplace where I can get some.

***


20 February, 2001

God, that stupid wanker just doesn't see anything past his overwhelming bigotry, does he? Fucking Harris. Don't know what it is about fangs that gets his knickers so twisted, but I wouldn't leave a cat in his care. He'd probably stake it if it hissed at him.

Was just gonna drop some flowers off on the porch. No intention of going in. If Buffy knew I were Mr. G, it'd be different. But she doesn't and... the last thing she needs right now is me getting underfoot when she's awake. I've been keeping my distance, staying just out of her range. Watching the house at night to make sure nothing tries to attack when her guard is so low. Following her bloody Scoobies around on patrol when I can, trailing her when she's out walking, making sure no stupid little fledges decide to intrude.

'Least I can do, for Joyce, is watch out for her little girl right now. Make sure nothing harms her. Not even me.

'Course, Harris had to catch me bringing some flowers by. They weren't much, and I didn't pinch 'em—though I had a devil of a time trying to track down a Horti Demon here in town. Stupid little demons, but they can make just about anything grow, even in a foot of snow and rock hard earth. Thought... I'd just leave 'em on the porch, or maybe by the backdoor. Only Harris had parked his fat arse in the middle of the walk and wouldn't let me pass.

He claimed I was just doing it to suck up to the Slayer. Right, because leaving some frostbit wildflowers was really gonna earn me points. Pillock. Willow looked like she might have believed me but... I don't bloody care. They probably pitched 'em.

Doesn't matter. Was the thought that counted, right?

Joyce was the only one of that lot that ever treated me like I wasn't a freak. I liked her. Just... wanted to show some respect.

Should have known I wouldn't even be allowed that.

***


21 February 2001

Funeral is tomorrow.

Pity they won't hold the thing at night, but in this town I suppose it's not such a good idea.

Buffy is holding together. Bit delicate at times, but she's a little stronger every night. Not crying as hard, or sounding as lost as she did that first night—though it's still more than my old heart can bear. I swear, it breaks a little every night, holding her, feeling her come apart.

She caught me tonight, following. She'd gone walking out on her own for the first time and... suppose I was sticking too close. When she turned and looked at me, thought at first she was going to tell me to get lost. Instead... she let me be with her.

Grief does funny things, they say. Maybe that explains it.

She'd stopped at her mum's gallery. Just stood there, for the longest time, staring in the window. God, I've never seen her look so...small. Lost. What I wouldn't give to be able to just walk up and put my arm around her, hold her tight, let her know she's not alone.

Walked her home, then sat on the porch with her and watched the snow fall. Makes me ache, being so close and not allowed to touch her, especially when she's in pain and I know just how to stroke her back to ease it a bit. It's hard, knowing how she feels in my arms, knowing what comforts her and being unable to do a bloody thing.

Just being able to hold her hands, even if it was only for a minute, being allowed to touch... to try to tell her...

Not even sure what I said. Just trying to speak round the ache in my throat hurt.

I want to be there, for the funeral. There's a copse of trees near where they're burying Joyce. If it runs late... could maybe make it there soon as the sun's low enough. Could take the DeSoto over, wait. So I'll sizzle a bit. Wouldn't be the first time, and it won't be the last. Worth it, just to be there for her.

Not that I'd be much good, but...

I can't stand the thought of not being there.

***


22 February 2001

Should have expected Angelus to turn up. Bloody hell. God, he's got a way of twisting her. Last thing she needs right now is his poncy arse here, mucking with her head. But there he was, stepping out of the shadows like some great hulking wanker of a hero. Riding in in his big expensive car all dolled up in his nancy-boy clothes.

I hate him.

Spent the funeral sitting just on the other side of the fence in the DeSoto, in the shadow of the buildings across the street, trying to watch through the peephole I'd scratched in the window paint. There are days when my little sun allergy is a bloody inconvenience. Least I could hear fairly well. Soon as the sun moved behind the trees I grabbed the blanket and made a dash for the woods.

Watched as all the onlookers wandered off, then the Scoobies. Heard her say she wanted to stay, so... settled in to wait.

'Course, ten minutes after the sun was below the horizon, there he was. The Great Git himself. Rising up out of the Dead People Patch, ready to deliver presents to all the good little demons of the world.

I should've brought a cactus.

Couldn't bear to watch them stand about and make googly eyes at each other all night—or worse, snog—so when the ditch digger finished up his work, I followed him out of the graveyard. Figured, if nothing else, Angelus would make sure she got home. Just hoped he wouldn't bruise her too much. God knows she doesn't need him making promises he can't keep and dumping all his brooding angst in her lap right now.

And yeah, I'm jealous. So what?

Glad to see not everyone over the age of thirty in Sunny-D is blinkered. That ditch digger scarpered out of the graveyard right quick. Had nothing better to do, so I followed him home at a distance. Took care of the two vamps that were tailing him when he came out of the graveyard, too. Last week or so I've had so much pent up energy... felt good to work it out on those wankers. And the bloke had done a good turn for Buffy, waiting to fill in the grave 'til she was ready... least I could do was make sure he made it home in one piece.

By the time I got back, she and Angelus had gone. I didn't want to see if she'd taken him home. Couldn't bear it.

On the other hand... at least I've got her dreams, yeah?

Cold comfort, that.

***


3 March 2001

Starting to worry about her.

Reminds me a bit of Dru, right after Prague—barely eating, getting thinner, walking about in a daze. Anyone who looks at her can tell she's holding on by a thread. Every night she breaks down in my arms but... I don't think it's enough.

I can't help her any more than I am already and it's enough to make me want to smash something in frustration. The demon's upset, whining and growling that I ought to be doing something. But my bleeding hands are tied. Can't talk to her at night, can't talk to her when she's awake. All I can do is watch out for her and make sure nothing slips in while she's so off guard.

Fuck.

God, it's hard not to say anything at night. Couple of times I've had to fang out and bite my tongue bloody just to keep from blurting out something to comfort her.

Three more months. I can make it three more months, yeah?

Then I’ll tell her everything.




 
 
Chapter #50 - Chapter 49: Strength to Endure
 
Author’s Note: This chapter covers the same time period as Chapters 29 and 30

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae* and Science
*because Spike is English, I’ve made a rather anal retentive attempt to spell things “properly.” My beta (who IS British), has asked that I include the following disclaimer: “Any Britpicking mistakes are my beta's, because she reads too much fic written by you bloody Americans and is used to your bizarre ways by now."







Chapter 49

Strength To Endure


14 March 2001

God, I'm knackered, but... I ought to write this down now.

It's been a bloody long night.

Should have known Louhi was just biding her time. I'd gone out to check on Buffy but... she wasn't home. The witches were at her house, talking loud enough I could catch their conversation through the window. Something about Buffy being on a quest of some sort with the Watcher. They mentioned that Harris and Anya were out on patrol so I figured I'd shank it out to the graveyards and keep tabs on them. Harris couldn't find the sharp end of a stake if it were shoved up his arse.

Didn't find Harris, though, when I got to Restfield. Instead, I found Louhi and Jack, waiting for me.

"I've missed you, my prince," she said. I kept a sharp eye on her and Jack and a careful distance. I'd learned my lesson last time about rushing her. Was wishing for a crossbow, but all I had on me was a stake and a pocketknife. Not the best weapons for taking her out when she could do that little freeze trick of hers.

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder," I said. "So why don't you sod off?"

"Is that any way to speak to your queen?" she said. She pouted. I wanted to heave.

"Look, you dozy bint, in case it's escaped your notice, I'm not much of one for obeying any sort of authority. If you try to make me kneel, I'll rip off your legs and use them to bash your brains in," I said. I will, too.

She laughed.

"Why do you think I will take such pleasure in breaking you, pretty vampire?" she said. "It won't be long, now. Where is your Slayer, tonight? I'd so hoped to meet her. I wanted to give her my condolences on the loss of her mother. Such a tragedy. Mortals are just so fragile..."

"Did you touch her mum?" I growled. "Was it you?" I'd have killed her, right then, right there. I don't know how, but I'd have found a way.

"Ah, I wish I could take the credit, but no," she said. "Just fortunate coincidence. And speaking of..."

She half turned, and that's when I caught it. The old sock stench of Doritos on the breeze, with an under-lying scent of sweat, sawdust, and Harris's cheap cologne. It almost masked the demon girl's scent: perfume, soap, shampoo, and paper money. They were near, probably watching.

"It seems we have company," the White Witch said. "Friends of yours?"

"Hardly," I said trying to suss out a way to get them out of there before she could tear them apart.

"Then you won't mind if I play with them a bit, will you?" she said, turning to her lackey. "Jack... kill them slow. I want to enjoy their pain."

He grinned and then melted into the snow. Snarling, I took off at a run. I don't know why she let me go, maybe just to see what I'd do. Didn't matter.

They were hiding behind the bushes at the edge of the cemetery. "Spike, you are so dust—" Harris said, smugly.

"No time for small talk," I told him. "You need to get out of here."

"Why?" he said with a smirk, "so you can finish double-crossing Buffy ? I saw you—"

"I don't know why I bother," I said and shoved him headfirst into a snowdrift, just as Jack's sword went whistling past the place where Harris' thick neck was. Set off the chip, but at least he kept his head on. I shook off the pain as fast as I could.

Jack stood in front of me, wielding a wicked edged sword that looked like it was made of ice. If so, it was the strongest stuff I'd ever seen. I grabbed a no parking sign and ripped it loose from the ground. Would have to do. He came at me, grinning and showing off all those icicle teeth.

We played for a bit, sword against steel pole. He was good, but I was better. Stronger, too. Only took a couple of minutes to disarm him, then it was all fists. But when he managed to knock me back into the fence, he turned on Harris and Anya. Took me a minute to untangle myself from the bushes, but it was a minute too long. I heard them both scream, then Harris hit the ground, clutching at his leg. Jack had picked up my discarded sign and stood over him, ready to bring it down, the sharp edge of the sign gleaming like an axe.

Managed to grab a hold of it from behind and wrench it out of his hands, but he turned under my guard and clocked me solid under the chin. Didn't send me back as far, and I was back on him before he'd even finished raising his hand to backhand Anya, who was crouching over Harris, trying to protect him. Brave little bird.

About that time, it started to snow.

Frosty and I went a few rounds, but it was obvious that as much as he enjoyed beating on me, I wasn't what he was after. Didn't seem to matter how much damage I did to him, he just kept coming. Finally I managed to scoop up his bloody sword... and if it wasn't ice, it was doing a bloody good job of imitating it, frostbit my hands just holding it for a few moments— and got between him and the humans. Harris had managed to drag his fat carcass up against the fence, and had Anya half behind him. Was as good a place for a stand off as any.

Ol' Jack didn't like me having his sword. He feinted a time or two, but I was ready for him the third time and managed to slice him good, from shoulder to hip. His blood was almost as blue as his hair, and it stank of stagnant water and dead fish. Enough to turn a vamp's stomach.

Don't know if it was enough to kill him, but he did snarl and pull his melting trick in order to vanish. Took the sword with him.

I waited for a mo' to see if he'd come back, but I figured it'd take some time for him to recoup. The snow was coming harder by then, and when I turned back it was obvious Harris was in some serious trouble. His bloody leg was broken. Thankfully not bad enough to break the skin, so I didn't have to smell his stinking blood, but bad enough he couldn't walk. His face had gone gray, which really doesn't do much to improve his looks. Anya was shivering and staring at me wide eyed.

In the snow there was no way he was making it home, or to the hospital.

"What'll we do?" she asked.

In the end the only place close enough to take shelter til the storm blew off was my crypt. Really hadn't fancied on playing Rescue 911, but there was nothing for it. Managed to haul him to his feet without setting off my chip, and Anya got him from the other side. I still ended up carrying most of his dead weight.

Snow picked up bad enough that I had to vamp just to see. Took sodding forever to haul them both through the graveyard and into the crypt. Least there we were out of the wind and the snow. Sat him in my chair and got some candles lit, then tried to suss out what to do.

"Where are we?" he said, looking about sort of dazed.

"Spike's crypt," Anya said, shivering. She looked at me. "I don't suppose you've got any heat?"

"Yeah, lemme just check the thermostat," I said.

"You don't have to be sarcastic," she said. "It's not helping. What about a fire?"

"I'll see what I can do," I said. Only thing I had that would burn were some of the busted up coffins down below. Took an axe to them and chopped them into kindling, careful to avoid flying splinters. Wasn't going to be much of a fire, but it'd do. Rigged up a pit in the corner out of some loose rubble, and used some whiskey to get the fire going.

Harris bitched the whole way over, with me half carrying him the whole time. Course, he yelled like a nancy-boy when I pulled out my switchblade.

"What are you doing?" he asked. Anya was hovering anxiously, twisting her little hands.

"Don't be a git," I said. "Need to get that leg set, so you don't accidentally send a bloody clot to your cholesterol padded heart." I slit his trouser leg up to his thigh and took a look at it. Wasn't that bad. I'd had worse. Hadn't broken the skin. Setting it was going to be a bitch, though. Hunted up some slats to use for splints, and some rags to tie it up with. Then I handed him a bottle of Jack.

"Drink up," I said. Then I downed half a flask of the stuff myself.

"You're going to set his leg drunk?" Anya asked.

"Take more than this to get me drunk, pet. And it's gonna hurt me a hell of a lot worse than him." They both looked confused for a moment, then the light dawned.

"You sure you know what you're doing?" Harris asked, after he'd downed as much of the JD as he could stand.

"Yeah," I said. "I know what I'm doing." Then I stuffed a piece of wood in his mouth for him to bite down on and set to work.

Wasn't lying, either. It hurt the whole bloody time. From the moment I grabbed his leg and started to pull it straight, the bleeding chip started firing worse than ever. Thought my sodding brains were going to boil right out my ears. Took everything I had to keep pulling through the pain. The feel of his bone settling back into place was a relief, and I let go as fast as I could.

I think I passed out for a mo', but I came round before he did.

Anyanka's face was white. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said from the floor. "Give us a tick. Need to heal a few brain cells."

I'd done a number on my head this time. Good thing I'm already dead, I suppose.

"Do you need blood?" she asked.

"Fridge," I told her, then stared at the ceiling for a bit, 'til the dizziness passed. Heard her get up and go over to the fridge, then come back.

"Here," she said, handing me a blood pack. I didn't bother trying to be dainty. Just bit in and sucked it dry. Wasn't much, but I could feel it starting to work. "You didn't vamp," she said, as I sat up. I just blinked at her. "When you drank, you didn't vamp."

"Don't have to," I said, frowning, but she didn't bother explaining herself. Harris was still passed out, so I trussed his leg up best I could. After the bloody cataclysm in my skull from a few moments before, the little shocks I got from that were almost nothing. He started to come 'round about the time I was finishing. Didn't feel like listening to him whinge so I went back downstairs to fetch up some wood and a blanket and some pillows. They were whispering when I came back up.

"...No, Xander, it really hurt him. He fainted."

"Ahn, it doesn't make sense. Why would he save us?"

"I'm neither deaf nor stupid," I said, tossing the pillow and blankets at them. "Slayer would dust me in a heartbeat if I let anything happen to you. And I didn't faint, I passed out. Whole different thing."

"You didn't have to set my leg," Harris said, glaring at me. Wanker.

"Yeah, I did," I said. "'Cause my luck, you'd make it worse, and bleed all over my crypt, and every vamp for ten miles would be knocking on my door demanding a taste." I set the extra wood near the fire.

"We saw you," he said. "Talking to that demon. That was her, wasn't it? That Ice Demon we've been looking for?"

I started to say "yes." I did. But the bloody word caught in my throat. Sodding fucking curse. Wouldn't even let me talk when he knew what was what. The last thing I needed was to deny it, though. He'd know it was a lie and go back to the Slayer and then I'd be dust. "Don't know what you think you saw," I said carefully. "But I'm not double-crossing the Slayer."

"He was threatening her, Xander," Anya pointed out. Yeah. 'Least one of them has some bloody brains.

"Alright," he said. "Prove it. What do you know about her?"

I sighed, trying to reign in my temper. "Look, mate, I was out for a bloody walk. I don't know anything, except I'm beginning to wish I hadn't been so quick to rescue your stupid arse. Now why don't you shut your ungrateful gob and save your strength? Soon as the snow lets up, I'll dump you at the hospital and we can all go back to loathing each other properly."

"You expect me to believe that you were just... what? Out for a walk and happened to run into the demon we've been looking for for weeks now?" he said. "Spike, we live on a Hellmouth. There's no such thing as coincidence."

"I don't have to justify myself to you, Harris," I told him, getting up and heading to the fridge. My head still hurt, and some blood would calm the demon. "Think what you like."

Listened to them argue in whispers for a bit while I got something to eat. Harris was looking like he needed to pass out again soon, his girl looked worried. Finally she got up and came over to where I was sitting in my chair, watching them. "Um, we're really, really grateful for all your assistance. I know, Xander is being kind of... he's in a lot of pain," she gave me a small, embarrassed little smile. Interesting. Harris gets all flummoxed over her behaviour, and she's just as pained by his. "But we're very glad you didn't leave us to die. We just don't really understand why you didn't."

"Yeah, well, told you, Slayer would dust me if I did. Was just saving my own hide."

"Well, that's the thing, you see," she said, looking way too perceptive. "Buffy wouldn't have known you were there, if we were dead. You could have lied."

I glared at her. Trouble with glaring at a former demon is, they're generally not easily frightened.

On the other hand, she's probably the only one of the lot who could possibly understand.

"Do you ever... think about it?" I asked her. "All the death and destruction you caused, when you were a demon?"

She shrugged. "Well, sure. I was a demon for over a thousand years. I've only been human again for, what? Three?"

"You ever regret it?" I asked. Harris was watching us with interest. Didn't much care.

"No," she said. "Not really. Most of them had it coming. It's part of the job title. Vengeance usually means they did something to earn it."

"Anya," Harris said. He tried to sit up further, but it just made him wince.

"Well, they did," she said, watching me with an odd expression on her face. "Do you? Regret it?"

"No," I said, frowning. "Just... Never really thought about it, you know? But... Joyce dying..."

She sat down and looked at her hands. "Yeah...," she said. "I know what you mean."

"Makes it all a bit... different, don't it?" I said. Harris snorted. "What?"

"Oh, please," he said. "What? Buffy's mother dies and suddenly you've got a newfound appreciation for not killing people? Spike, you're a soulless demon—"

That got me out of my chair.

"I told you before, monkey boy, I liked the lady. She was decent and—"

"She was naive," he said, then let out a yelp when I threw a bottle across the crypt and it shattered against the wall. Wasn't anywhere near him, stupid git.

"You shut your gob. Not nice to speak ill of the dead. Especially Joyce. God you're such a fucking hypocrite," I said, getting angry. "Sittin there, mouthing off to me like you're so high and mighty just cause you've got a sodding soul? 'Least I've got an excuse for being an arsehole. What've you got?"

"Oh, right, like I should be taking lessons in manners from you, Fang Face," he said sneering.

"Stop it!" Anya said, getting between us. "Both of you. Just... stop. Okay?"

"He started it," he muttered.

"Should've let you freeze," I said.

"Stop," Anya said, and she sounded close to tears. Maybe that's why we both finally did. "Stop. Please. Can we just... accept that we all miss Joyce? She was nice. Kind. To everyone. That's... what made her special. It didn't matter to her if you were human or a ... a demon or a... human who used to be a demon. She was always kind and welcoming. And that's why it's so hard to think that she's gone and she won't be coming back."

"Ahn, we talked about this," Harris said, sounding... somewhat gentle towards the girl.

"Yes, but... I still don't understand it. Spike is right. A thousand years of death and destruction and... I'm still trying to understand why someone as good as Joyce deserved to die," she said, looking lost and forlorn.

"Nobody deserves to die," Harris said.

"Oh, I can think of a few," I said. "But Joyce didn't. Not like that. Not something so... ridiculous and mundane."

"You'd rather she'd been eaten?" he said, sarcastically.

"No, you berk. I'd rather she'd lived to a ripe old age. Just think it's a stupid way to die. Burst vessel in your brain. Walking along, just fine and then... you're dead. No chance to say goodbye, or finish up your business. Just... stupid."

"Tell that to everyone you've ever eaten," he said.

I snorted. "Yeah, well... I can't, can I? But..."

"It changes it, doesn't it?" Anya said, quietly. "How you think about it?"

"Yeah," I said, looking at her instead of Harris. She knew. "It does."

"So what? What're you saying, Spike? That if you got that chip out of your head tomorrow you wouldn't go around eating people?" he said, sneering.

"No," I said quietly, "I don't think I would." But I might make an exception for him.

"Spike," he said, "I think that last jolt to the brain scrambled something. Have you completely forgotten that you're a vampire? A killer? You don't just st—"

I growled. Couldn't help it. Then I deliberately vamped and got right in his face. He yelped and pushed back against the wall. "No," I said. "I haven't forgotten. I know exactly what I am."

Through the demon's eyes I watched the blood flood his face, watched the pulse in his throat pound. His heart was racing... lagging just a little. Give him another twenty years with his diet and it'd be worse. Could sense the blood pounding in his busted leg like a second heartbeat. Broken leg meant he’d be weak, slow, clumsy. Easy to pick off. His breathing was accelerating. Could smell the fear rising off him, the pain, the sweat, smelling a little like chicken and potatoes, hint of garlic and onion. Witches must have made him dinner. The demon purred hungrily, whispering about all the ways he could die that woudn't set off the chip hardly at all.

Just as deliberately, I shook it off and stood. "I choose to rise above it. You should know all about that, Harris. Just because nature says you've got to be one thing doesn't mean you have to listen to it. You gonna grow up and be just like your dear ol' da? A raging drunk who spends all his time putting down his woman? Going from one deadbeat job to the next?"

"He better not," Anya said.

"That's not the same thing," he said, but I could see the fear in his eyes. Yeah, he's afraid of it. Got a little monster inside of him, too, and it’s gonna destroy him if he doesn’t acknowledge it.

"No," I agreed. "It's not. 'Least I'm aware of my demon. You don't even realize what a hypocrite you are, do you? Sit and mock me for bloody well trying and make every excuse in the world for your girl there who's got ten times the blood on her hands than I do."

Anya shrugged and nodded.

"She's human now," he said.

"And that makes all the difference, does it? You heard her, Harris. She doesn't regret it. Bet if someone offered her her powers back she'd jump on it in a heartbeat. Wouldn't you, pet?" I said.

"Well," she said, looking a bit torn. "Yes. Probably. I hate being mortal. It's so... weak."

"Anya," Harris said, protesting.

"Well, it is," she said. "I don't want to grow old and get all wrinkly. Or die like Joyce did, from some stupid little brain thingie. And there's so much about being human that I don't understand. I try, and I try but... there are all these rules and situations. People saying 'You shouldn't ask those sorts of questions, Anya' or 'Humans don't talk like that, Anya' and I'm expected to know and I don't know anything."

"Ahn," Harris said. "Being evil isn't the answer."

"It's not that simple," she said. "Before... I had a job to do. A purpose. I was powerful. I righted wrongs. Sure I killed a few thousand men, inflicted diseases, destroyed lives. But I was happy."

"And you're not happy now?" he asked, looking hurt. "Being with me?"

"Oh, sweetie," she said, kneeling and putting her arms around him. If they started to snog I was going downstairs. "I am happy. Being with you makes me happy. Makes it easier. It gives me a reason to try." Suddenly she looked up at me. "Is that what you need? A Xander?"

"No," I said, but I was thinking of Buffy. I don't need one. I've already got a reason to change. I lit a cigarette, hoping they wouldn't see the truth.

"He'd need a soul," Harris said.

"What's a soul got to do with anything?" I said. "Look at you, all soul-having and still a total wanker."

"It's what tells you what's right and what's wrong," he said.

"Yeah, I get those mixed up all the time," I said. "Clearly, saving your arse and setting your leg was the wrong thing to do, because now I get to sit here and listen to you whinge at me for doing it. Not to mention getting my brains fried for helping."

"You only did that because you were being selfish," he said.

"Weren't you listening to your girl a moment ago? If I were being selfish, I'd have turned my back on you and left you to die. There's nothing about this situation that does me a lick of good," I said, trying not to growl.

"So why did you?" he said. "If we're such a pain in your ass, why did you? It couldn't have been because you knew it was the right thing to do, Spike."

"Because it was bloody instinct!" I said, surprising myself and him. I thought about that, for a moment, and realised it was true. It hadn't occurred to me to leave them. My demon hadn't cared much, one way or the other, but... the rest of me... Part of it was Buffy. I know that. Part of it was knowing that if something happened to Harris, she'd be hurt beyond repair. Part of it was just... hating Louhi, and wanting to do whatever I could to make her unhappy. And part of it... "There's been enough death here, lately."

We sat there for a bit, silent. I tossed some more wood on the fire, and we watched the flames grow. Outside the wind was still howling, and the windows were whited out with flakes. Looked like we were stuck with each other for the night.

Harris's leg was throbbing. Could feel it in my fangs and it was making them itch. Irritated, I got up and fetched another bottle of whiskey. "Here," I said, handing it down to him. Got to hand it to the boy, he was holding up to the pain better than expected. He regarded it warily. "If it makes you feel better we can call this contributing to the delinquency of a minor. That way it's properly evil, yeah?"

"Thanks," he said, and took the bottle.

I sat back down and lit another smoke. After a while curiosity got the better of me. I'd probably start another argument but anything was better than just sitting there, getting bored.

"Never could suss it out," I said, "why you hate vamps."

"You're soulless, evil killers," he said. "What's not to loathe?"

"Yeah, I get that," I said. "Just wondering why you seem to have an extra helping of it. You'd think a vamp ate your best friend or something." He shot me a look that pretty much said everything. "Oh, so that's it."

He glared. "No, that's not it. But...yeah, that's a front page feature."

"When?" I asked.

"Are we really talking about this?" he asked. I shrugged. "Fine. Right after Buffy came to Sunnydale. We... Darla lured Jesse out to the cemetery. Willow followed another vamp out there. Buffy and I ... we managed to rescue Will but..."

"Darla killed Jesse?" I asked.

"They took him down for the Master. Then they used him as bait to lure us there. They turned him," he said. "We... I dusted him. Sorta... on accident. At the Bronze."

Could almost picture it. Fucking Darla. "Lets have the rest of it, then. That only lit your wick."

"I live on the Hellmouth," he said. "It's like Joe's Apartment, only the cockroaches come with fangs and kill people. For every one of you we dust there's a dozen more."

"And then there's Angel," I said, seeing straight through him. Boy can protest as much as he wants, but it's not hard to see that most of his loathing is directed at Angel. And me, though I'm still trying to suss out why.

"And then there's Angel," he agreed, taking a long pull off the whiskey.

"You hate him, too," Anya said, finally speaking up. She'd been so quiet, only her heartbeat had told me she was listening. "Wasn't he your sire?"

"In a manner of speaking," I said, stubbing out my smoke and lighting another.

"You said he was your Yoda," Harris said. "That first night, in the school, when you came to kill Buffy. You said he was your Yoda." He was starting to slur a bit. "I remember, because, you know, between trying not to piss myself and worrying about Angel eating me I thought... hey, I didn't know vampires watched Star Wars."

"That was you?" I asked, frowning. I hadn't gotten too good a look at the kid Angelus had hauled in as bait, but come to think of it... "Yeah, well. Popular film, wasn't it? Should've seen it on the big screen. Bloody brilliant. 'Course that was before Lucas went and turned the Force into a bunch of bacteria and started filming everything with CGI."

"JarJar Binks," Harris said with a derisive snort.

"Don't get me started," I said.

"When's the next one due out?" he asked, leaning his head back against the wall.

"Next year, I think," I said.

"We were discussing Angel," Anya said, rolling her eyes. "Not your execrable taste in movies. I want to know why you hate him."

"You mean besides the fact that he's a total wanker?" I said.

"Manipulative jerkface," Harris grumbled.

"That too," I said.

"He really did a number on us," Harris said, staring at the fire. "First he was all, Mr. Cryptic, with the hints about apocalypses and showing up just to, you know, be mysterious. Then when Buffy went after the Master, I practically had to threaten him to get him to help, and even then he just stood there. I'm the one who saved her. But who did she turn to?"

"Lord Forehead," I said, pulling out my flask and taking a nip.

"You could sell ad space on it," he agreed.

"That was his gig, you know," I said, getting comfortable. "Even before the soul. Liked to follow his prey about, spy on them, pop up unexpectedly, manipulate them into trusting him then... start picking off everything they loved, one by one. Not just his prey, either. Did it to pretty much everyone."

"You?" Anya asked.

"Well, yeah," I said. "He didn't get to fuck with me before I died, so he took a lot of pleasure in making up for it after. Had nearly twenty years to twist my screws, didn't he?"

"Man," Harris shook his head, then looked a bit woozy. "Twenty years of living with Angel? I'd have staked myself."

"Thought about it," I admitted. "Couple of times. There was one morning... woke up to find him shagging Dru, right next to me in bed. Sight of his bare arse... I think I threw up a sumo wrestler."

"You two never...you know?" Anya said with a grin and that gleam she gets in her eyes when she starts talking about orgasms.

"If you answer that question I think I'm going to throw up a sumo wrestler," Harris said.

"Oh, come on," she said, pouting. "They hung out for twenty years! They're demons, not bigots. You have to wonder..."

"No," Harris said. "You don't have to wonder. In fact, wondering is totally overrated. I'm perfectly happy with blissful ignorance. Let's change the subject."

"Let's," I said.

Anya got quiet for a minute, then, "So does that mean yes?"

"ANYA!" Xander said, and she subsided, giggling. I just growled. There are some subjects not even I want to think about.

"So is that it, then?" I said. "The reason you hate vamps? This Jesse bloke and Angelus?"

"Mostly," Harris said. He scowled at me. "Cordelia almost died, because of you."

"Who?" I asked.

"His ex," Anya said, with a bit of heat. "The one who called me here because he couldn't keep his lips off Willow."

"You and Red?" I couldn't help a snicker. There was a mental image.

"So not the issue here, Bleach Boy," he said. "If you hadn't kidnapped us and dumped us in that busted up old factory, none of that would have happened. Not the... smooching or... or Cordy falling and getting ... getting..."

"She got shish-ke-babbed on a metal spike," Anya said. "Sort of appropriate, I guess."

"And then she dumped me and made my senior year miserable," Harris said.

"I was drunk," I said. "And it's not my fault you couldn't keep from snogging the witch. If you're gonna go about pointing fingers, make sure you use a mirror, chum. Might as well say it's Buffy's fault for coming to Sunnyhell in the first place."

"Actually, that's what Cordelia said," Anya said. "That was her wish. That Buffy hadn't ever come here."

Thought of that actually physically hurt. "Yeah? What'd that look like?" I said.

"Pretty much vampire paradise," she said. "Humans never went out at night. Everyone wore black and carried weapons. Willow and Xander were all fangy and worked for the Master. Almost everyone was dead. About what'd you'd imagine."

"Stupid," I muttered.

"Oh, come on," Harris said, leaning his head back and looking sleepy. "You can't tell me that's not what you dream about all day. A world run by vampires."

I rolled my eyes. "As a matter of fact," I said. "No, it's not. It'd be a bloody nightmare. Why do you think I teamed up with the Slayer to stop Angelus and Acathla? Wasn't all just to get Dru back. And a world run by the Master? I'd dust myself before scraping for old bat face. All ritual and bleeding virgins when the moon is in the seventh house and Jupiter aligns with Mars. No surprises. No fun. No people. Never understood all those 'let's destroy the world' wankers. What the fuck do they think they're going to eat when all the humans are dead or turned? And it's not like the demon world likes us any better. What'd Angelus think? That he was gonna get elevated to the Right Hand of Hell? Un-bloody-likely."

"I just figured it was because vampires are kinda dumb," Harris mumbled.

"Most are," I said. "Good thing for me that I got all the brains and the good looks in the family."

Only response I got to that was a snore. Harris was out like a light. Anyanka just shrugged and took the whiskey bottle out of his hand and sat it away from the fire. I ground out my cigarette.

"You're very strange, for a vampire," she said.

"Yeah," I said, staring at the flames. "I know."

She settled down beside the boy, and we listened to the wind howling outside.

When it stopped, abruptly, I opened my eyes. I was in dreamland, and Buffy was waiting for me.

She was sitting on the bed, looking confused and so lost it was all I could do not to wrap her in my arms right then and there. Her head swivelled in my direction and I realised she was dressed to go out. Coat, scarf, gloves, hat, boots, all her kit. Like a displaced snow bunny. "Hey," she said softly. "I guess I fell asleep, huh?"

Yes. I tapped against my thigh. She wasn't the only one not dressed for bed tonight. 'Least I'd gotten out of my duster. Would've been a dead giveaway, that.

I went over and sat on my side of the bed. She crawled up and sat against the headboard, so I did the same. First time since her mum died she wasn't crying. Step forward, yeah?

"I'm... Giles told me about this... vision quest thingy. It's... supposed to help me figure out some... stuff," she said. "But I guess I fell asleep. Some Slayer I am." With a little sigh she turned her face up toward mine. "Will you... can we just rest?"

There's almost nothing in the world I'd deny her. Certainly not that. Yes, I tapped. She snuggled into my side, wrapped her arms around me and got comfortable. After a bit, her arm drifted down to settle around my waist, and she sniffed a bit, as if cold, though how she could be cold when bundled up so heavy I don't know. Seemed to take awhile for her to fall asleep, and I was knackered enough, for once, that I drifted off about the same time.

I woke up to Anya leaning over me, reaching for a sharp piece of wood.

I caught her wrist. "Want to tell me what you're doing, pet?"

"The fire was dying out," she said, trying not to squirm. "I'm cold. You have wood."

"He better not have wood," I heard Harris mumble. I let the girl go and she scuttled back to his side.

"For the fire, Xander," she said. "Although, technically he is male, which means morning erect—" I threw a couple of coffin slats on the fire.

"Oi! No technically about it," I said.

"Do vampires even get morning erections?" Anya asked curiously. Harris groaned and stuffed his pillow over his face. "I mean, usually they're caused by an increased need to urinate, but since vampires don't—"

"Ahn," Harris muttered from under his pillow. "Hangover here and mucho pain. Do you think we could refrain from talking about ... that before I barf?" He wasn't lying. Could hear the gurgles in his stomach from where I was. Not to mention the rumblies in the girl's.

Went over to the fridge and checked the contents. Blood. More blood. Couple of beers. Burba weed. Box of wheetabix. Peanut butter. A take home box of curried chicken from a couple of weeks ago that was starting to turn. Left the chicken to claw out of its grave on its own and grabbed the peanut butter.

"Here," I said. "Eat something." Harris peeked out from under his pillow.

"Does it have blood in it?" he asked, squinting against the firelight and looking a bit green.

"Just Mr. Peanut's," I said. He gingerly sat up and took it from me, then almost drooled into the jar when he opened it.

"Got a spoon?" he asked.

"Do I look like Martha fucking Stewart?" I said. "Use your bloody fingers." Boy has the manners of a monkey, the way he tucked in. Went over to the crypt door and opened it carefully. Snow had stopped, but the sun was up.

"What time is it?" Anya asked.

"'Bout eleven or so," I said, squinting against the light. Luckily the sun was high enough it didn't poke over the threshold, but it was bouncing off all that snow and painful to look at. I shut the door. "Snow's stopped, but I can't move you till dark. Any idea when the Slayer's supposed to be back?"

"Sometime soon," Harris mumbled around a mouthful of peanut butter. "Was just supposed to be some overnight thing."

"I could go for help," Anya said.

"And leave me here with him?" Harris said.

"Oh, bloody hell. If I were going to eat you, I'd have done it already, you pillock," I said. What had I expected, after all? Save Princess Peach's neck and get his gratitude?

"I just meant...," he said, then flushed and trailed off. "I just meant that we don't really like each other very much."

"Mutual," I said. "But I think if I can refrain from killing you this long another hour or so isn't going to matter."

'Course, at that moment, the crypt door slammed open.

"Spike! Xander and Anya are—" Buffy said, flying in with a look of panic on her face. "...here? Oh." She halted beside me and took in the sight of Harris and Anya cuddled by the fire. Realised she was still wearing her full get up from the night before. Must've gotten home and rushed straight out to look for them. One thing you can always count on, if her friends are in trouble, Slayer will always rush to their rescue.

"Hey Buff," Harris said around a mouthful of peanut butter.

"Buffy! Oh, thank god. Now I won't have to go looking for you. It's very cold out there," Anya said. "Xander broke his leg."

"What?" she hurried over to check on Harris. "Why didn't you go to the hospital? Willow and Tara have been going crazy. They said you didn't check in last night, and then there was that big storm and... they tried a locator spell but something fizzled. We called the hospital and your apartment. What happened?"

Harris and Anya both shot me a glance, which the Slayer followed.

"Bloody hell," I muttered and went to find something to drink.

"Spike?" she said, her eyes narrowing in my direction. Something caught her attention and she froze, staring at me, her eyes drifting south. Her face went white.

"What?" I asked. Whatever erection I'd had when I woke I'd gotten control over before I'd even stood up. Wasn't any reason for her to look so shocked.

“Ah... Um...What happened, last night?” she stammered, still staring at me.

Fuck. Don’t know why I test it every damn time she asks. Know by now that I can’t say anything. Still, got to try, yeah? Didn’t matter, of course, Louhi’s magical muzzle always seems to know when I’m abut to start yapping.

“Well, we finally found our ice demon,” Harris piped up, mouth full of peanut butter. “And guess what? She was chatting with Resident Evil here.”

Bloody hell. Knew he wasn’t gonna let that go.

“What?” she asked, glancing back and forth between us. Least she seemed willing to hear it out.

“Not how it sounds, Slayer,” I said.

“No, that’s just how it looked,” Harris said.

“I saved your life, you dumb git,” I growled, wishing I could throttle him. Do the right thing for once and the stupid plonker still looks for a way to twist it round and blame old Spike.

“Too bad you put it in danger in the first place,” he said.

“And I let you drink my whiskey—”

“Are either of you going to tell Buffy what happened or are you going to keep comparing penis length? Because I don’t mind playing judge so we can get it over with. I’m cold and I’m tired, and I want to get Xander to the hospital and then go home and shower and go check on the store. I’m losing out on sales, here, you know,” Anya jumped in.

Buffy and Harris both blinked at her, too gobsmacked to reply to that, I suppose.

"We were patrolling," Anya said, then went on to fill in the Slayer with the events of last night. 'Least her report stuck to the facts. Harris would have tried to spin it. When she finished up, Buffy was standing with her arms crossed, staring between the three of us in disbelief.

"So... let me get this straight," she said, sounding more like herself than she has in weeks. "You guys ran into Spike, who was threatening our MIA demon chick. She sent her henchman guy out to kill you two, he broke Xander's leg, and... Spike fought him off, then brought you guys here to get out of the storm?"

"And he set Xander's leg," Anya said. "It made Spike pass out and gave him a nose bleed. Spike, not Xander. Xander just passed out."

Buffy just blinked. "And... you guys are still here because?"

"Stormed all night and then there was the little matter of the blazing ball of death up in the sky," I said.

Watched her think things through. Half expected her to call in the paramedics, which would have been a mess. Try explaining to the city officials why I'm living in a converted crypt. Be out on my ears in broad daylight. Not a good option. She surprised me, though. "Okay... we need transportation. Anya, can you drive Xander's car?"

"Sure," she said.

"A world of no," Harris said, going, if possible, even more green about the gills. "Not on icy streets." Anya just shrugged.

"I've got a car," I said before I could talk myself out it. They all turned and looked at me. "What? I do. And I can get to it without the sodding sun being a problem. Just can't get the man who came to dinner here in it."

"I can do that," Buffy said, giving me a considering look. "If you can pull it up to the gates?"

"Yeah," I said, and went to fetch the DeSoto. Anything that got them out of there. Harris may have left off in the harsh light of day, but I figured it was only a matter of time before they started in on me, asking questions about the White Witch I couldn't possibly answer.

By the time I'd gotten around to the gates, they were waiting. Buffy popped the backdoor and poked her head in. I shifted to avoid the light leaking in around her.

"This is the ugliest car I've ever seen," she said. She looked at the blacked out windows. "How can you even see?"

"It's a classic, Slayer, and you're letting the light in. Mind shoving the boy in so we can be off? Passions is coming on soon." She huffed a little sigh, then helped Harris slide in, propping his busted leg on the seat. Anya wedged herself in back beside him and Buffy came round to the passenger's side. With some disgust she pushed a couple of liquor bottles to the floor and climbed in.

Didn't take long to get them to hospital, would've been faster if it hadn't been for some of the roads still being blocked up with snow. Buffy spent most of the time shooting me curious glances. Pulled round to the patient drop off and the Slayer bundled the others out, then poked her head back in. "Stay here, Spike."

I would've anyway, but she didn't need to know that. "I'm not your bleeding taxi," I told her.

"I want to talk to you," she said. "I'm just going to get him in and checked in, then I need a ride home. Thirty minutes, tops."

"Magic words, Slayer," I growled.

"Please, Spike," she said, and sounded like she meant it. I set the brake, and turned on the radio.

True to her word, she was back out in under thirty. Trouble was, I was getting more and more nervous. About jumped through the roof when she opened the door and climbed in. I pulled out of the drive before she could start in on me.

"How old is this car?" she asked after a few.

"Forty years or so, give or take," I said. If she wanted to talk about the car, that was better than asking questions I couldn't answer.

"How long have you had it?" she asked, looking at the muck on the dashboard, the bottles of liquor, and the cans of black spray paint I keep handy. Should've cleaned it out ages ago but... wasn't exactly a priority. How was I to know I'd be chauffeuring the Slayer about?

"'Bout that long," I said. "Got a demon friend who keeps it for me, when I'm out of the country. Gives it new tags every few years or so, keeps the engine purring like a kitten."

"You gonna tell me about what the Ice Queen wanted?" she asked out of nowhere. Bloody hell.

"Was standing right there when Anyanka told you," I said, stepping careful and trying not to choke on the words. "No point in me rehashing it. I can't tell you anything different."

She stared at me awhile longer. Long enough for me to pull up in front of her house. She didn't get out though, just sat there, watching me. "What?" I asked, glaring.

"They said you did a good job, setting his leg," she said.

"Set my own, time or two," I said, frowning at her.

"Why'd you do it, Spike?" she asked. "I know you and Xander can't stand each other. Rescuing him... setting his leg in spite of the chip. Anya said you blacked out for almost half an hour. Why did you do it? I want the truth."

I stared out the peephole in the windscreen at the sun-drenched street. It'd been a long night, I was knackered, hungry, and tired of having to explain myself to humans who wouldn't get it. Tired of... hiding in the dark. Didn't look at her then, couldn't.

"I knew... it would destroy you," I said quietly. "If you lost him, on top of your mum... He's a wanker, and we're never gonna be bosom friends, but... I couldn't just leave him to die. "

"Spike," she said. Something in her voice made me turn and look. She had the oddest expression on her face. Like she saw right through me with those big green eyes. Made me panic a bit.

"Don't make a thing of it, Slayer," I warned her, prepared to lie my bloody head off if she started accusing me of... well... the truth.

But she didn't.

She leaned in, then, and kissed me.

This soft, sweet little kiss.

Wasn't much more than a chaste peck, but... god... I had to fist my hands to keep from reaching for her. It was... like touching sunshine, only it didn't hurt at all. Warm, so gloriously warm. Is this what hope tastes like? I pulled back first, afraid... afraid it was a dream or, worse, that it wasn't and I'd dive back in for more and end up with her fist in my face instead.

"Thanks," she said. Her eyes... god, those eyes. "I won't forget it, Spike," she said.

Then she got out of the car and went inside, leaving me to sit there, confused as hell and wondering what exactly had just happened.

***


All in the time when Earth did most deplore
The cold, ungracious aspect of young May,
Sweet Summer came, and bade him smile once more;
She wove bright garlands, and in winsome play
She bound him willing captive. Day by day
She found new wiles wherewith his heart to please;
Or bright the sun, or if the skies were gray,
They laughed together, under spreading trees,
By running brooks, or on the sandy shores of seas.

They were but comrades. To that radiant maid
No serious word he spake; no lovers’ plea.
Like careless children, glad and unafraid,
They sported in their opulence of glee.
Her shining tresses floated wild and free;
In simple lines her emerald garments hung;
She was both good to hear, and fair to see;
And when she laughed, then Earth laughed too, and flung
His cares behind him, and grew radiant and young.

One golden day, as he reclined beneath
The arching azure of enchanting skies,
Fair Summer came, engirdled with a wreath
Of gorgeous leaves all scintillant with dyes.
Effulgent was she; yet within her eyes,
There hung a quivering mist of tears unshed.
Her crimson-mantled bosom shook with sighs;
Above him bent the glory of her head;
And on his mouth she pressed a splendid kiss, and fled.

-Edna Wheeler Wilcox
"Summer's Farewell"


 
 
Chapter #51 - Chapter 50: I Would Walk Through Fire
 
Author’s Note: This chapter covers the same time period as Chapters 31 & 32.

Bet you thought we’d never get here, huh? This is the end of Part II. Yes, it’s short. I’m sorry. That’s why I’m posting Chapter 51 today, too.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae* and Science
*because Spike is English, I’ve made a rather anal retentive attempt to spell things “properly.” My beta (who IS British), has asked that I include the following disclaimer: “Any Britpicking mistakes are my beta's, because she reads too much fic written by you bloody Americans and is used to your bizarre ways by now."





Chapter 50

I Would Walk Through Fire


15 March 2001 (after midnight)

God, I'm a pillock.

Don't know what I was thinking... no. Sod that. I know what I was thinking. I was thinking that that kiss... meant something. Meant...something had changed, yeah? That maybe she was seeing me, not as an enemy, or a monster... that, maybe she was starting to see me as a man.

Was glad to see her out patrolling again, even if it was half-hearted at best. When she sat there, chatting up that stupid fledge who was too thick to pull himself out of his grave or even figure out what the bloody fuck he was... got a little worried that maybe losing her mum had done more damage than I'd thought. Wouldn't be surprised if the thought of killing anything made her come over queasy.

But she dusted him, easy as you please. Just had to rile her up a bit first.

'Course, that's probably what did it. Was trying to distract her from asking too many questions about that Jack wanker, knowing I couldn't answer even half of them, then I distracted myself. God, she's gorgeous. And the way she was looking at me... couldn't resist touching her.

Served me right, getting burned.

Hate that she pulls away from me, hate the way her eyes fill up with distrust and suspicion, and her hands fist. What the hell do I have to do to convince her I mean her no harm? The opposite, in fact. Would do anything in my power to keep her from getting hurt. She's been through enough.

Never gonna hurt the girl. No matter what. Never want to hurt her.

***


15 March 2001 (6 am)

So fucking close. For one minute there I thought I was going to get to touch the bloody sun. Don't know what brought her rushing over to my crypt this morning, but it was...

When she came to bed last night, she curled up in my arms easy as you please. Like a kitten, wanting to be pet. It’s funny—few months back if she’d come to me like that at night I’d probably have taken it as a chance to shag her senseless. Now... well, can’t say as it’s totally innocent, especially when her warm little fingers start stroking my chest and I feel myself getting hard, but... I love just holding her close, feeling her all warm around me.

Makes... I want to...

God, I’m such a bloody ponce. Make love to the Slayer? Yeah... she’d never.

Still, had a fucking delicious dream last night, after I finally nodded off. Can't remember how it started but... we were somewhere else, away from all this, fire burning off in the corner. Her hot little body under mine, writhing and panting, arching up under me, her thighs spread wide and ready... almost vamped just at the thought of all those hard Slayer muscles wrapped tight around my dick, the scent of her surrounding me, the taste of her on my tongue.

Fuck.

Woke up with an erection that wouldn't fucking die so I hopped in the shower, hoping to cool off. Had just managed to take the edge off when I heard the crypt door squeak over head. Then footsteps over the floor and the slab being moved, quiet as only a little super strong mouse can be. Knew it was her the moment she started down the stairs. Could smell her.

It was only the scent of her fear that kept me silent. Been a long time since the Slayer feared me.

Not sure I liked it.

Crept round behind her as she came in, but she was focused on the bed. Then, abruptly, the fear scent was gone and all I could smell was Buffy, which just about short-circuited every single rational thought in my bloody brain. Only explanation why I spun her around when I didn't have a stitch on. I've got nothing to be ashamed of, but the fucking White Witch has made me a bit leery of having conversations with super powered females when all my kit's on full display and within easy reach.

'Course, it helps to know that the Slayer freezes up when faced with a naked vamp. Or maybe it's just me. Loved how wide her eyes went, the pupils edging out the green. Scent of her arousal wafting up to my old nose like the most luscious bouquet.

Kitten liked what she saw, I'd wager.

Liked it a lot.

Had to tweak her nose a bit, then. It was either that or tackle her to the bed and shag her senseless. I'm not stupid, though. Buffy liked looking at me, no doubt in my mind about that, but having the full monty? Slayer would stake me for sure.

Or, at least, I thought she would.

Couldn't suss out what she was after, not till I caught her as she was fleeing for the door. Thought my bloody heart would start again, when she came right out with it and asked if I were Mr. G.

Bloody hell. She knows.

Or guesses.

Not sure what I did to give it away, even less sure if it's a good thing or not.

If she thinks it's me, she might just try to find out for sure, and I can't tell her. I want to. God I want to, but... this fucking curse, locks my jaw right up if I even think of saying anything definitive. It lets me dance around it, if I'm careful, but... I can't just tell her. Hell, I had her backed up into one of those sodding stupid signs I made a few months back and she never even noticed. So if she's looking for proof... I just have to hope she doesn't start looking for a way to turn on the lights.

On the other hand... her knowing might be a good thing. If she can suss it out, then maybe she can break the spell or the challenge somehow. Something to get me free, yeah?

If she doesn't kill me on general principle. Wouldn't blame her. If I found out I'd spent the last ten months confiding in my worst enemy... yeah, I'd probably be out for blood, too.

But the way she is, at night, how she wraps herself in my arms? And today... the way she looked at me when I had her up against the wall. There's something there. I can't be imagining it. There's something...

She punched me in the nose, yeah? Hasn’t done that in a long time. Maybe that’s a good sign?

Is it wrong for something as wretched as I am to hope?

Sod it. Don't care. Too late to worry about it anyway. I'm thoroughly buggered no matter which way you spin it.

Bloody hell... I want her to want me. Doesn't have to love me. I know that's not likely... not with the great poof still out there, pining for the fjords and all. And her Watcher and her friends always looking over her shoulder and sneering at me like I’m something filthy to be trod down.

Just... god, just let her want me. Let her... trust me, yeah? I don't want to be her enemy. Not anymore.

God, I love her so much. Watching her laugh, watching her smile. Seeing how flustered she gets looking at me. I could sit and breathe in her scent every day, always. Having her like that, almost in my arms while she's awake and staring at me... like a bloody dream come true.

I'm a selfish bloke, I know it. Let me get through these last few weeks. Let me beat this sodding challenge... I'll do whatever is in my power to convince Buffy to give me half a chance. I'd walk to hell and back for her. I'd never let her down. Never leave her. She'd have to dust me first.

END PART II



 
 
Chapter #52 - Chapter 51: Book of Revelations
 
Author’s Note: I posted Chapter 50 a moment ago, make sure you’ve read that before you read this.

Welcome to Part III. If you’re still here, after all this time… thank you. Thank you for your encouragement and your patience, and your willingness to let me take you on this incredibly long journey.

But we’ve got a lot farther to go.

Fasten your seat belts, kiddies… it’s gonna be a bumpy flight.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae and Science






Part III: On the Back of the North Wind



Chapter 51

Book of Revelations


Somewhere water is dripping, marking the time.

I wrap the blanket around my shoulders and breathe in the familiar scent of leather, smoke, and Spike. The journal lays across my lap, open to that last page, his last words.

Just below that the page is a little wet, and I dab at the tears before they can smudge the ink.

Reading his words... I've relived the past year. My mom's illness and death, Riley... all the stress over the last few months. It's devastating, going through all of it again. It never occurred to me that Spike was right there with me the whole time. Even when I didn't know it.

The first part... getting through it was hard. All of his anger and frustration is there, all his hatred—but seeing myself, seeing everyone else through his eyes, it's hard not to sympathize with some of it. Sometimes we were as much monsters as he was. Reading, especially, about how Riley treated him... I never thought Riley was capable of some of those things. And Giles and even Xander...and me.

He had reasons to hate me. Not always good ones, but I definitely gave him plenty of reasons.

Reading about him wanting me dead...it kinda made me sick, at first. All those nights I'd gone to sleep, discounting him because he didn't feel like a threat. All those nights when he fought his demon, leashed it, kept from killing me first to save his own skin and then...

He changed.

Not all at once. Gradually. A little here, a little there. He’s still a monster but... he kinda figured out how to be a man, too. All on his own.

Not a perfect one. No one would ever mistake Spike for a nice guy. But having read his journal... if even half of it is true (and I know most of it is)... even those guys who I thought were nice have their dark sides. But Spike doesn't hide from his, or shy away from it. It's part of him, but ... he's learned not to let it rule him.

It's a trick I sort of envy.

Maybe…maybe it's not the soul that matters. Maybe it's something else? Riley had a soul and…look how he treated people he thought weren't good enough. Look how he treated me. And Angel... god, I don't even know how to begin figuring out all the facets of Angel. Reading Spike's journal... I wonder if I ever really knew Angel.

Hard as it is to admit that I might have been wrong, I can't deny it any longer. Spike may be a demon, but he's also a man. One who loved me. Maybe selfishly, sometimes, but... I've been in love. I know what it feels like. Sometimes love is selfish. Sometimes it's twisted and sometimes it's weird. That doesn't make it less real.

There's no doubt in my mind that what Spike feels for me is real.

And okay, so maybe at the beginning it was all twisted and lusty, but not at the end. He was there for me, when things were darkest. He held me, and he cared about me, and he loved me enough to try, not just when he was Mr. Gordo, but when we were awake, too.

And I betrayed it by being too blind to see it for what it was. By refusing to even look. By not believing him capable of changing. Not until it was too late.

And now he's gone, just when I was starting to understand.

Know what?

That really pisses me off.

The men in my life, they’re always leaving me. Spike is the first one who didn't leave of his own volition. This hell bitch came and took him against his will, and it's all my fault. I'm so tired of losing people. Tired of having to sit back and accept that they're gone and never coming back.

That bitch said that Spike was meant for me.

Well.

I'm just going to have to get him back, aren't I?

You can't save everyone, Spike said to me, a lifetime ago, it seems.

No. I can't. But maybe I can save one. After all, I'm the Slayer, and stopping demons from destroying the world...

Yeah. I'm good at that.

***


It's morning when I emerge from Spike's Crypt. I know for a fact I don't read that fast, which means it's been a day or maybe more. I'm tired and my eyes are achy and swollen from crying and lack of sleep, but I'm not ready to face a night that doesn't include Mr. Gor—I mean, Spike, in it. Not yet.

There are lights on at my house when I get there, and Willow opens the door as I come up the walk.

"Buffy! Where have you been? What—what's wrong? What happened?" she says as she sees my face. "Oh, god. Something bad happened, d-didn't it?"

"Yeah," I say, tiredly. "Something bad happened. I'm going to go get a shower and... change. Um... can you..."

"Coffee," she says, looking at my face. I nod. "And Scooby meeting?"

"Yeah," I say. "At the Magic Box, in an hour. We... you're all going to need to hear this."

Her eyes go to the book I'm holding tightly in my hands, but she doesn't ask any questions. Not yet.

I have a feeling there's gonna be more than enough of those later, so I take the reprieve and head for the shower.

***


At the Magic Box, Giles actually closes the store early for the day. It doesn't seem to matter, though. The weather has gotten nastier all day, with storm clouds that blanket the sky and a bone chilling wind coming out of the north. The scent of coming snow makes the air smell strange and no one seems to want to be outdoors. Inside the shop the heater is going full blast, but I can't shake the goosebumps going up and down my spine.

The others wait, not even joking like usual. I guess my face my gives it away.

I'm not sure how to begin except... with proof.

I put the journal down on the table. Giles and Willow both glance at it, but the others all ignore it. I pick it up and slam it down; they jump. "Buffy, what are you doing?" Giles asks.

"Checking something," I say. I pick the journal back up and hold it straight out. "What am I holding, Xander?"

"A book? I don't know. What's going on, Buffy? Did the spell work?" he says.

"Willow?" I ask. "What's in my hand?"

"It's a book," she says, then shrugs. "Kinda seen a lot of them lately."

"Anya?" I ask.

"It's a stupid book. Why are we playing Twenty Questions?"

I put it down on the table again in front of me and take a deep breath. "Spike is gone," I say. Most of them react with surprise.

"You dusted him?" Xander says, looking a little shocked. "Not that I'm complaining, but what happened to him being harmless?"

"I didn't dust him. I think he's still alive somewhere. But... I'm starting this all wrong," I stand and start to pace a little, trying to figure out the best place to begin. I guess, at the beginning. "You guys remember the night we took down Adam?" Giles, Xander and Willow exchange glances. Tara and Anya shrug, neither of them were there. "The dreams we had, after we called on the power of the First Slayer... that's how she got here. The Cold One. Her name, I think, is Louhi."

Anya drops her cup of coffee, and for a moment the others scramble to clean it up. But not Anya. We stare at each other silently. Her face has gone very, very white.

"You know who she is," I say, when things get quiet again.

She nods, shakily. "Um... yes. She's... You're sure? That... that's who it is?" she asks.

"We can check," I say. "I saw her, the other night. We didn't exactly do the whole introduction thing, but, yeah... I'm pretty sure."

"Who is she?" Giles asks, curiously.

"The end," Anya says, sending a shiver down my spine. "She's... a lot of things. A-a demon, a witch and... um, a goddess, at least that's what they said. She was extremely powerful and very, very evil. She was... banished. Exiled from this world. A long time ago. Before I was a demon, but um... there's still stories. You're sure it's her?"

I nod. "That's what she said she was. The end. She's not powerful enough yet to break free from wherever she's been, but somehow the power we used that night it-it was strong enough to let her cross over. That's how she came here, and that's how she found Spike."

"Spike?" Xander says, sitting forward. "So it was him? He's been working with her all along! I knew it!"

"No!" I say, startling him enough that he shuts up. "It's not like that at all. She came here to take him back with her. Something about... him being made wrong. There's something about Spike that she wants. Something that makes him special. He refused to go with her, though. When she wouldn't take no for an answer, he challenged her—"

"He what?" Anya says, paling even further. "Is he really that stupid? You don't challenge a demon goddess. It's suicide."

"He didn't know," I tell her. "He didn't know who she was. He challenged her for his freedom. She accepted."

"What sort of challenge?" Giles asks, sitting at the table, frowning.

"Something she knew he couldn't win," Anya says. "That's what she does. She finds out what your greatest weakness is and uses it against you."

I nod.

"It was the room. The dream dimension. A year and a day. She told him that he had to spend every night in the dream dimension, sleeping next to me. If he killed me, he lost. And he wasn't allowed to speak. Not a single word. No matter what," I say.

"For Spike?" Giles says, dryly. "That would be a challenge. Especially if all this began the night after we defeated Adam. I'm surprised he lasted a week."

"He wasn't the only one involved in the challenge, though," I say. "There was a second part to it. Something he had no control over. Me."

"That's her, too," Anya says. "She... hedges her bets, you could say. Wouldn't want someone to actually win, you know."

"Yeah, well, Spike knew the rules. I didn't and he couldn't tell me. He tried... he did everything he could think of to keep me from ... but I failed. I screwed up," I say. I look down at the journal in my hands, feeling the worn leather. "I wasn't supposed to look. A year and a day, with him not allowed to speak, and me not allowed to see."

No one says a word. When I look up at them, they're all staring at the pendant that still hangs around my neck.

"I didn't trust him. Not like I could have. He did everything he could to let me know I could trust him, but... it was Spike, you know? Even though my instincts told me I should trust him, that there was a reason why I couldn't see... I looked. You wanted to know if the pendant worked? It did. It worked really, really well. Spike was Mr. Gordo. All these months, sleeping beside me, sparring with me, listening to me. It's been Spike. And now he's gone. Louhi came and took him. The minute I saw his face, I failed. Spike failed. And now Louhi has him and if what I saw is any indication, her plans for him don't exactly involve Happily Evil After. Not for him, anyway."

My friends’ faces all register varying levels of shock, surprise, and dismay. Better than disbelief, I guess.

"She said," I begin again, swallowing hard. "She said he was meant to be mine. That Spike was... I don't know, made for me. To be my partner. My equal. And because I couldn't trust my own heart, because I was blind and impatient, I failed him. And she said that something about Spike gives her the power to break free and destroy our world. I think...I think Spike is the artifact or weapon thing we've been looking for. I think he's the thing she had to acquire in order to enter our world. The way she talked, the things she said to Spike... I think she's planning on using him like some kind of demonic battery."

"Oh dear lord," Giles says.

"Yeah," I say. "Pretty much."

"No," Giles says. "Not night." A weird look crosses his face, then he stands and hurries over to the table where Lydia has her books. Impatiently he flips open the book and starts going through it. "You said the prophet was English?" he asks her.

"Yes," she says, frowning. "What are you thinking?"

"Night," he says. "There's little context. It's a-a mistake on the translator's part. Not night, nuit. It should be knight, chevalier. The Slayer's Knight. Like a ... knight in tarnished armor, I suppose."

"It shall come to her tarnished and black," Lydia quotes, looking up. "Sheathed, but still sharp and thirsty for the blood of its foes."

"Sheathed," I say, frowning. "Restrained. The chip?"

"Most likely," Giles says, still buried in the book. "And apparently he meant 'thirsty' quite literally."

"I don't understand," Willow says, twisting her hands in her sleeves nervously. "If-if Spike was trying to get out of this... why didn't he say anything? I mean, he came to us before, for help, right?"

"Yeah," Xander says. "You're sure he didn't go willingly? I mean, Spike's not really the sort of guy to turn down being evil's red right hand, you know. If she's a goddess, she could probably do something about that whole chip problem."

"He couldn't," I say. "There... I think it was a curse. It kept him from saying anything when he was awake. He said... it was like it choked him. And... he tried in other ways, to tell us. But... you remember that 'Don't Look Here' spell you and Tara did at Christmas?" Willow nods. "I think the curse worked sort of like that. He tried writing it down. But none of us could see it."

"What do you mean?" Giles asks, looking up. I glance over at Xander. There's a book by his elbow.

"Xan, that book there, open it up and flip to the first post-it note," I tell him.

He picks it up but looks at me, confused. "What post-it note?"

"I thought I told you all to stop putting post-its in my books," Giles says, taking the book from Xander and flipping it open to the first note. He pulls it out without even glancing at it.

"Wait! What's it say?" I ask.

"What does what say?" he says.

"The sticky note. What's written on it?" I can see the light shining through the paper, and the thick black marker scrawl that looks like Spike's writing, even from here. Giles frowns at it for half a second, then looks up.

"It's just scribblings," he says.

"No," I say. "There's words. Read it."

He looks again, harder this time, concentrating. Then his eyebrows go up in surprise. "It says, 'Rupert, you plonker, look on page 47.'" He looks up at me, then over at all the other books in the shop. Even from where I'm sitting I can see that Spike was a very busy, very bored, very frustrated vampire. There must be thousands of post-its all over the shop. And that's just the beginning of it. Bored, frustrated Spike equals much badness.

"Oh, good lord," Giles says faintly, taking in all the multicolored sticky notes all over the shop.

They're stuck everywhere, the books, the walls, the countertop. There's a mosaic of them on one wall in different colors spelling out "Spike was here" with things written all over them. There's even a stack of books in the middle of the counter with a big sign in front of it that says "Read These." I wonder how long they've been there. I wonder how Anya has managed to work around them every day, all day, without ever noticing them.

"There's big neon posterboards," I say. "All over the walls of his crypt. They look like they've been there for months. There's stuff written all over them. Drawings. I've been in there dozens of times... it wasn't till this morning, when I looked for them, that I saw them."

"It's like putting on your glasses," Giles says, his eyes still going over the room. They stop at a glass display with the word 'Louhi' written in shoe polish across the glass. "It's all coming into focus. To think, all this time... How is it you knew to look, Buffy? Did he tell you?"

"Before she took him he... he made me promise to find this," I say. I hold it up for them to see. "It's his journal. He's kept it since... since the night we defeated Adam. It was under the curse, too. I spent all day yesterday and most of last night reading it. It's all in here. Everything. Everything he'd been trying to tell me for the last year."

I watch as, slowly, their eyes focus on the journal. Then, one by one, I see them start to take in the room, finally seeing what's been right under our noses this entire time.

"You have the journal of William the Bloody," Lydia says, faintly. Her eyes have a weird light in them, sort of like Anya gets when she starts talking about orgasms. "An... actual journal written by one of the most infamous vampires of the last century? Do you have any idea what that would be—"

"It's mine, now," I tell her, cutting off the creepy book lust. What is it with Watchers and books? "There's... Spike wrote it... most of it, to me. For me. It's private, and sharing it without his permission would be wrong."

"Buffy, it's Spike," Xander says. "I think we all know what's in it: gory, detailed descriptions about how he wants to, you know, rip your guts out and wear them for a hat."

"Okay, ew," I tell him. "And you're wrong. I mean... yeah, there's parts at the beginning where he talks about killing me but... that stopped months ago. He changed, Xander. Look around you! Is this the work of someone who wasn't on our side?"

"He's a demon—," Xander argues.

"Did Spike bring flowers for my mother, Xander?" I ask. He freezes and suddenly has a hard time looking me in the eye. "Did he?"

"Yeah, but he was just doing it to earn brownie points with you," he says.

"He didn't tell me," I say. "I didn't know. Not till I read it in here. He came to her funeral, too. In the middle of the afternoon he found a way to be there. Did you know that he's been patrolling every night for me, since my mother died?"

Giles frowns.

"No," Xander says. "But Buffy, he could have just been claiming that—"

"He wasn't. I knew he was doing it. Every night when I went for a walk with one of you or on my own, Spike followed. Whenever there was a vamp nearby, he took care of it. He didn't know I knew. He followed you guys, too, on patrol. Didn't you ever wonder why there didn't seem to be very many vampires over the last few months? Spike was dusting them before you got a chance. He was looking out for all of us," I tell him.

"Why would he do that?" Giles says. "That's very out of character for him. For any vampire."

I look up at him. "I asked him about that, the other day," I tell him, knowing this is going to be the hardest part of this whole conversation. "He said he did it because he knew that if anything happened to Xander, or one of you guys... that it would destroy me. He told me... before Louhi came to take him...he said he loves me."

There's silence for a moment so thick I can hear the air pressing against my eardrums. "Well, duh," Anya says, shattering it. "I could have told you that. I mean, if it had been any more obvious he might as well have worn a sign on his head. Though I guess we probably wouldn't have seen it, even if he did."

"Anya, what are you talking about?" Xander says.

"Spike, being in love with Buffy," she says, then turns back to me. "I wondered when the two of you were going to jump past that whole Unresolved Sexual Tension thing and just get to, you know, resolving. Clearly he was crazy about you, and you totally had a thing for h—"

"Wait a minute," Willow says. "Okay... Okay, hold on. Spike being in love with Buffy... yeah, okay. Kinda twisty and weird, but, well, it's Spike and he's already kinda twisty and weird. But Buffy doesn’t have a thing for Spike. She doesn’t even like him. Do you? Buffy?"

There's a look on her face that says clearly 'please, not another vampire.'

Giles and Lydia both have on their versions of the Official Watcher Disapproving Face.

Xander looks shocked.

Only Anya is beaming at me, and the look on Tara's face is concerned but compassionate.

If only I knew how I felt about it myself.

"I don't know," I say, finally. "I... he's been different. And reading this... I don't know."

"Buffy—," Giles says.

I stand up, and start pacing.

"Look, I really don't know. I... It feels like the last day and a half my entire world has turned inside out. I don't know how I feel about him. What I do know is that Spike has changed. We've doubted him and we've accused him of working against us and all this time he's been on our side. He's more than proven that he's an ally, and a friend. And I don't abandon my friends. We have to get him back," I say.

"Get him back?" Giles says. "Buffy you don't even know where he's gone. If this Louhi has taken him—"

"It doesn't matter," I tell him. "Louhi took him because of me. Because I failed. I know we can find him, somehow. We'll do a spell. Research. Whatever it takes. There's got to be a way to locate him. If I have to walk to hell and back to find him, I will, Giles. I'm not losing anyone else."

"Boy, am I glad to hear you say that," says a new voice from the direction of the door. We all look up, surprised by the newcomer in our midst.

"Who are you?" Giles demands. "And how did you get in? I locked that door."

The little guy in the long overcoat with the red leather boots and funky hat just shrugs. "Sorry about that," he says. "Sort of an emergency situation, you know? How you holding up, kid?" He looks at me.

I cross my arms, narrow my eyes and sigh. "Whistler."




 
 
Chapter #53 - Chapter 52: Choices
 
Author’s Note: This chapter is pretty exposition heavy—and I apologize for that. Hopefully it's interesting to read. Hopefully it makes sense. I had to make some choices here about why Spike is the way he is. I know that there are many different theories, some more fanon than canon, and some more plausible than others. I tried to make a choice that was as possible as it could be without directly contradicting canon, but hopefully without slipping hard into fanon territory. Also, I had to make one that would make the most sense in this story.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae and Science






Chapter 52
Choices



"Why is it that you only show up when things are going to hell and it involves a vampire?" I ask.

Whistler lifts a shoulder in what might be a shrug, but he gives me a half-smile. "Funny you should ask that," he says. "But we'll get to the explanations in a minute. You serious, about going to hell and back for that bleached punk?"

"Yes," I say. "Very."

"Good," he says, coming into the room and shrugging out of his overcoat, revealing a shirt covered in a loud orange print layered under a short jacket made of red leather that matches his boots. "That's what I needed to hear. I'm here to help."

"Wait a minute," Xander says. "Okay, one, nice shirt. Two, Buffy, are we seriously talking about rescuing Captain Peroxide? Soulless, evil demon, remember? I mean, okay, sure, he's helped and he did save my life. But if we're talking apocalypse now here, don't we have bigger things to worry about than saving one pain in the ass vampire who was too dumb to dust himself?"

"I'm afraid it's not that simple, my bigoted friend," Whistler says.

"I'm sorry," Giles says, shaking his head. "Who exactly are you?"

"This," I say with a sigh, "is Whistler. Supposedly he works for the Powers That Be. I thought you were Angel's guy?"

Whistler blushes a little and dips his head. "Yeah, well, I kinda screwed up and the PTB decided I needed to make up for it. Sorry, kid, you're stuck with me for now."

"You're a demon," Anya says, staring at him. He looks at her, surprised.

"Well, yeah," he says, then glances at Xander. "And before you get your panties in a bunch, I'm one of the good ones. Just pretend this is white and you'll have the general idea." He touches the brim of his hat.

"There are good demons?" Tara asks.

"Of course. There are evil humans, too," Anya says. "It's all part of that balance thing you like to talk about."

"You said he's been here before," Giles says to me. "When?"

"Acathla ring any bells?" Whistler says, perching on the edge of the table. Gotta hand it to the little weasel, he knows how to capture an audience. "You were a little tied up at the time. By the way, hope your alcohol collection has gotten better. I'm gonna need a stiff one by the time this is done."

"You said things weren't so simple," I remind him. "What did you mean?" He sighs and scrubs a hand over his jaw.

"Geez. I forgot how tenacious you are. I might need that drink sooner rather than later. This is a long story, so you might as well have a seat, sweetcheeks. Lucky for us, your boy is a lot stronger than we thought. He's buying us some time."

"Spike?" I ask, frowning. I remember his refusal to go with the demoness, the way he fought against her even when it was obvious she had him in her power. Trust Spike to refuse to play by the rules.

"Yeah, who'd have thought, right? Certainly not me. And uh... that's kinda where my screw up comes in," he says a little sheepishly. With a sigh I take a seat and cross my arms, ready for him to continue. "Okay, so we gotta go back a little here. See... I might've fibbed to you a bit, last time. I said we didn't see you coming... not exactly true. We knew there was a Slayer coming who wasn't going to fit the same mold. This girl... there were all kinds of signs and portents around her, all sorts of prophecies. She was gonna shake up the world, and there were certain things she was gonna have to do that... well... were going to be pretty rough on her. So, the PTB decided that she deserved compensation, of a sort. Help. Other Slayers... they take strength in solitude. You, on the other hand..."

He gestures at the room full of people. "You take strength from love, friendship, loyalty. So, they decided to offer you a partner. Someone strong enough to fight beside you, who could watch your back, keep you alive a lot longer. A champion. Your knight. Not to save you, but to fight at your side. But there had to be some balance, you understand. Darkness to match your light, yadda yadda yadda... All that poetic prophecy crap. Vampires being the flip side of your particular coin, it made sense, you know? "

"The Slayer's Knight," Giles says, his expression wry. "Then we were correct? Spike is the Slayer's Knight?"

"The thing of it is," Whistler says, not really meeting his eyes. "The PTB... they set things in motion way ahead of time. And they're not always clear on, you know, specifics. They've got eons to set up their pieces and put them in line, centuries to make even a single move on the board. But about a hundred years or so ago, we knew to start looking for the one that was going to be the Slayer's Knight. We had a good idea where we were gonna find him; what we didn't know was exactly who he was or why he would choose to fight on our side. There were two vampires who were particularly good candidates. One, about a hundred years ago, came down with a sudden case of soul. The other, also about the same time, was made a little... wrong."

"That's what she said," I tell him. "Louhi. She said Spike was made wrong. What does that mean?"

"Normally the formula runs pretty smooth: chomp, drink, die, and whoosh goes the soul and most of the person and in goes the demon," Whistler explains. "But something went screwy in his case; something to do with his whacked out sire and a little intervention from above. See, Drusilla, she was supposed to bat for our team. That's why she had visions. Unfortunately, Angelus never could resist twisting the good guys around to his side. And boy did he put her through the taffy pull. By the time he was done it's a wonder she had any sort of mind left. In any case things didn't quite go as usual for William the Bloody. Yeah, Drusilla managed the usual: chomp, drink, die, whoosh went the soul... but William's humanity didn't exactly vacate the premises. And suddenly you've got a vamp of a different color."

"She said he was an immortal with a human heart," I remember.

"One way of putting it," Whistler says, "Though that's a bit Anne Rice if you ask me. All men have their demons. William's is just a bit more literal than most. Somehow, over the last century or more, they learned to cohabitate. Anyway, we're getting off topic. Where was I? Oh, yeah. So, about a hundred years ago, Angel gets himself a soul, and William becomes Spike. They split up and Angel spends the next hundred years or so wallowing in various gutters, generally being useless and feeling sorry for himself, while Spike wanders the globe, bathing in blood and doing the demonic equivalent of the Ultimate Fighting Championship. Oh, and absolutely obsessed with Slayers."

A few days ago that would have sent a shiver down my spine. But I know now why Spike went after Slayers. I don't necessarily agree with it, but I sort of understand it. I just hold the journal a little tighter and wait until Whistler continues. Everyone else seems riveted, hearing this version of a story that we thought we knew pretty well.

"Right. So, fast forward to a little over five years ago. I get the word that the Slayer's Knight is in New York, and that the Slayer we've been waiting for has just been called out in L.A.. So I go to New York," Whistler says, looking at me. "That's where I screwed up, kid. See, both of our boys were in the Big Apple when I got there. Spike was in Brooklyn, eating the club kids hanging outside of deathmetal gigs. Angel was over in the Bronx, hanging out in gutters and chasing rodents for his meals. Well, I checked in on both boys and figured that telling William the Bloody about a brand new baby Slayer would pretty much be like signing her death certificate. So I went with Angel, instead. Picked him up outta the gutter, hauled his broodiness all the way out to L.A. and let him get an up close and personal view of one Buffy Summers, Slayer, just about the time she was learning that she had a Destiny with a capital D."

"The way I figured it," Whistler says, "If Angel was destined to help you, getting him out here was priority. He wasn't doing anyone any good where he was, and we knew you'd have your hands full with the Master once you got to Sunny-D."

I try not to think about everything that happened before I got to Sunnydale. Where was all my special help then?

"The thing is, love is one of those unpredictable factors—the PTB can't make it happen. They can stick you with whoever they want, for however long, but they can't make you fall in love. And when love does happen, it sometimes gums up the works. The Slayer's Knight was meant to be your partner in the big fights, your backup. We didn't know Angel was gonna fall for you, or you for him. Didn't know a lot of things, as it turned out." Whistler looks a little nervous when he glances in my direction again. "Don't kill the messenger, doll-face. Was just doing what I thought was right. Didn't know about that little escape clause in his soul-contract. I swear. Not till it was too late. I should have checked. Hell, we all screwed the pooch on that one. And honestly, until that night when I talked to you, I still thought it was Angel. Right up until William the Bloody, Slayer of Slayers, did the one thing we never thought he'd do."

"The truce," I say, thinking back. "Spike showed up that night, right after I left you. You told me that I was all I had but... that wasn't true."

"I can't fight them both alone, and neither can you," Spike said. I punched him in his stupid, too handsome face, hating that he was right.

"I hate you," I told him. Why was he there? Why was it Angel I had to go kill and the only one who was willing to help me was this creep?

"And I'm all you've got," Spike said, smirking smugly. The cop he'd just laid out on the hood of the patrol car groaned...

"The truce," Whistler says, nodding. "Who'd have thought, right? And then he kept his word, helped you save the world..."

"He wanted his girlfriend back," I remind him.

"Yeah, well, you wanted your boyfriend back, as I recall," he said. "You were both kinda in the same boat. But that's not really the point. Thing is... after the whole Acathla thing went down, we still weren't sure how it was going to go. Spike had disappeared down south, and Angel had taken a little trip even further south. Except, we knew Angel wasn't really done yet. One way or the other he was coming back from hell. He's got his own destiny to deal with, and... well... it still could have been him. Destiny always gives you some kind of choice, you know. Prophecies always tell you what, but almost never how. And more often than not it's the how that matters. It's the choices we make that determine fate. Right up until the moment he chose to walk away from you, Angel was still in the running. But Spike... he just kept coming back. All on his own, too. And then he got chipped, and once again did the unexpected. He went to the Slayer for help."

"Did the PTB have a hand in that?" I ask. "The chip?"

Whistler shakes his head. "Don't know for sure. Most of that Initiative stuff wasn't the kind of thing the PTB approves of, but they may have nudged him. Hard to say. But he chose to come to you all on his own. This last year he did on his own, too. Maybe with some help from you. But the long and short of it is... yeah, Spike is the Slayer's Knight. If you want him. Just our luck, the thing that makes him capable of being your partner is the same thing that this Louhi dame needs to power her return. See... she feeds on human pain. It's what makes her stronger. And William's got just enough humanity left stuck in him that he feels pain—real pain, emotional and physical—as much as a human would. Maybe even more. But because he's a demon, he's strong enough to take whatever she wants to dish out for however long she wants to dish it. Basically, Louhi's got herself an all-you-can-eat pain buffet."

I swallow hard, pushing down the memory of how she treated him in the dream room. Like she owned him. Like...

"You think Buffy should go after him," Giles says.

"Well, that's the million dollar question, isn't it?" Whistler says, his eyes on me. "Sooner or later—and I'm banking on sooner—Louhi's gonna break out. You're gonna have to deal with her when she does. Now, you could go after Spike and slow her down a little, and have your vamp sidekick to help you out. Or you can wait for the big showdown. That's up to you. I'm here because we both screwed up, and the PTB are giving you the chance to make it right. But this is a one time only offer, you understand. We'll help you get him back, if that's what you want. But it's your choice, Slayer. What are you gonna do?"

God, it's so much to take in.

It could have been Angel. He chose to walk away. Spike chose to come to me.

There's so much... too much. I need time to process all of this but I don't have time. Spike doesn't have time. For a moment I wonder if maybe this is payback for all those weeks I spent moving in slow motion after mom died. All the time I took then is rushing back now to catch up with me.

I want to think about everything that Whistler has just dumped on me, but it's going to have to wait until I have a moment to breathe. The only thing I know for sure is that I can't abandon him now. Spike... God, he's been through so much this last year, all for me. He's been my friend, and I don't abandon my friends, no matter what.

"Okay," I say, finally, "other than driving the info dump truck, how can you help?"

"However I can," he says. "If you're serious about going after him, you're gonna need it. Louhi's taken him back to the dimension where she was exiled. It's not easy to get to. I'm supposed to give you whatever help I can to get there. But ultimately only you can go after him, kid. You're the only one who can find him."

"Buffy, might I have a word?" Giles says, glancing from Whistler to me.

I get up and follow him to the corner. "What?" I ask.

"Are you certain that this... person works for the Powers That Be?" he asks. "For all we know he could be sent here to... distract you or lead you into a trap. Thus far we only have his word that any of this is true."

"There's the prophecy," I remind him. "It kinda backs up most of what he said. And yeah, I'm pretty sure he is what he says he is. If it makes you feel better, call Angel. He knows him, but I'm willing to take him on face value. I don't think we have a lot of time, here."

"Buffy, I know you feel responsible for what happened to Spike. But searching for him in another dimension? There are any number of risks, not the least of which is that you might not be able to find your way back. We need you here," he says, his expression concerned. "Besides, all we have right now is this demon goddess's name. We know nothing of her-her powers or abilities, what it is she wants or how she might be trying to achieve it—"

He doesn't want me to do this. I know. And normally, that might mean something. But I feel like the only reason he doesn't want me to go is because it's Spike. If it were Xander or any of the others, he'd be at my side in a heartbeat, trying to help. But Spike... isn't human, and therefore, he's expendable.

I know that feeling. A few weeks ago I was there myself.

"Then we'll figure it out. But we're going to do it fast, Giles," I tell him. He doesn't look convinced, so I try a different tactic. "Look, if she's really using him to draw power, it makes sense to take that away. You didn't see how she was. This chick gets her kicks from pain, and torturing a vampire to death can take a long, long time. No one deserves that, Giles. Not even Spike. I'm going after him. If nothing else, I owe him. The only question now is if you're going to help me, or if you're going to get out of my way."

"I can't talk you out of this, can I?" he says, resigned.

"Nope," I say. "And I'd appreciate it if you helped. I do need some more information on Louhi. Spike had mentioned a few things in his journal but mostly just in passing. I need more, if I'm going to have to face her."

He nods. "Alright. I suppose we can start with the books he set aside. Hopefully Spike's actually been of some practical use and done some of our work for us," he says.

I decide now probably isn't the time to tell him about what else Spike did to his books.

***


"Anya," I say a little while later, while Giles, Lydia, Willow and Tara are going through the book stacks, "what do you know about Louhi?"

She's standing at the window, looking out at the heavy storm clouds overhead, her features pale and pinched. The last time I saw her look so scared was right before the Mayor's Ascension. She sighs.

"Why did I think that it would be a good idea to come back to the Hellmouth?" she asks. When I don't answer, she adds, "That was rhetorical, by the way."

Of all my friends, Anya is the least brave, despite her thousand years or so of demon experience. Xander says that mortality scares her. I figure a hell goddess camped on the doorstep has to have her pretty wigged at the moment. Still, she's our best bet for personal experience with this one. I wait, determined. Finally she seems to cave in on herself a little. I feel bad for making her more scared, but we need this information now.

"Before I was a demon, my people told stories about the witch goddess," she says, sounding less like Anya, and more like she's reciting something from memory. "Her name was Louhi, or sometimes Lovitar. Eventually the stories changed and aspects of her became part of other stories. Hel, in fact, is somewhat based on her. She ruled a land of terrible cold somewhere far to the north. Nearly impossible to reach without aid or help. She... fed on human pain, suffering. She would capture mortals as playthings for her or one of her many daughters, who were bad, but not nearly as evil as their mother. She liked games and challenges, especially if they were impossible, or if they would cause the mortal in question a lot of pain."

"You said she was exiled?" I ask. "How? Maybe we can, you know, lock her back up."

"I don't know," she says, miserably. "They... her powers grew so great, and she became such a threat that finally all the greatest sorcerers and witches gathered and... threw her out. She was far too powerful to destroy so instead they banished her and her kingdom to another dimension, as far from this one as they could. They said it was somewhere east of the sun and west of the moon, which pretty much translates as an impossibly hard to reach place. They hoped that that was the last we'd ever hear from her, and that... trapped as she was, she'd eventually weaken."

She twists her fingers together, then looks up at me with big, scared eyes. "Buffy, this isn't like Adam, or the Mayor. If Louhi's not a goddess, she's powerful enough that she might as well be. Many, many people have tried to kill her before and most of them came back to their families in little boxes. Tiny ones. Sometimes wrapped in someone else's skin. Louhi does things that make other demons whimper in fear. This cold? The storms building? She's amassing power, trying to break free. Time moves differently in hell dimensions. She's been trapped there a long time by our measurement... maybe ten times that by hers. Add to that the indignity of being exiled in the first place... She's not going to be content with just purchasing some real estate on the Hellmouth and raising a few demons."

"Yeah," I say. "I kinda got that picture. We're talking Ice Age here, aren't we?"

"If you want to put it mildly," Anya says. "You know the saying 'when Hell freezes over'? They were talking about Louhi."

***


"Okay, guys. We've got a bit of a time situation, I think," I tell the others a few minutes later. "Whistler, Anya says that time moves differently between dimensions. Last I checked, Hell dimensions move a lot faster, right? So an hour here is like a year there?" He nods. "So the longer we spend looking here, the more time Louhi has to drain Spike and build up power, right?"

"Yeah," he says. "That about sums it up. No telling what the actual time ratio is, but, he's been there a lot longer than he's been gone from here."

"You said he's buying us some time, what did you mean?" I ask.

"I'm not sure," he says. "He's fighting her, somehow. Frankly, we figured she'd be knocking on doors about this time, selling the makeover from hell. Somehow he's managed to keep her from getting enough power to totally break free. Kinda hate to think how."

The thought of Spike at her mercy, fighting her fang and nail fills me with a weird sense of pride and horror. Spike is stubborn and contrary, and I have a feeling he'd let her dust him before he gave her what she wants. Still, that means she's probably torturing him.

Something inside me, in that place where my Slayer strength comes from, growls at that thought.

"Giles," I say, "What do you have for me?"

He shakes his head. "More than I thought," he says, staring at the books laid out on the table. "Most of it seems to agree with Anya's story. Louhi is a demon, but she's also a powerful sorceress or witch. The books fail to agree, however, on the subject of her divinity."

"Can I fight her?" I ask.

"I don't know," he says. "She's variously attributed as having incredible strength, speed, et cetera—much like a very powerful vampire although she prefers not to engage in physical confrontations. There's some indication that either she's a shapeshifter, or that she can cast illusions and glamours. She possesses some control over the elements, particularly ice, wind, water and air, and she's a powerful telekinetic. She could literally stop you in your tracks, then toss you around like a-a beachball without ever lifting a finger."

"Found out about the telekinesis thing the hard way," I said. "What about things that damage her? Enchanted weapons or something?" I ask.

Giles picks up a book and begins to read.

"...great were the glories of warriors
set forth to slay the ice sorceress,
Louhi, dread demon queen.
Sharp were the soldier's swords,
keen were their knife edges,
blessed blades, biting and bright.
They fell like flowers as they fought,
shining swords turned to rust
at the witch's white hand.
No mortal weapon could wound
her hard skin, or harm her..."

"You get the general idea," he says.

"Okay, so fighting bad," I say with a sigh. Damn, this would be so much simpler if I could just beat her up. "So our best bet is for me to Carmen Sandiego him out from under her nose and get him back here, then see if we can't... lock her back up, maybe?"

"There's something else," Giles says. "According to most of these books it wasn't just Louhi who was exiled. It was also any of the creatures under her dominion. I think many of the demons we've been facing over the last few months have... escaped through the cracked cage door, so to speak. Her dimension is likely to be full of them."

"So, basically like walking into Morder and knocking on the doors of Mount Doom?" Xander says. "Buff, that's a suicide mission."

"This isn't negotiable," I tell him. "I'm going."

"Think of it this way, peg-leg," Whistler says. "Louhi's power feeds on human pain. You can damage a vampire for eternity and as long as you keep feeding him, he'll just heal right back up, but most vamps aren't human enough to be of any use to her. William on the other hand has just enough humanity in him to make him useful, and he's strong enough to put up with... well, pretty much whatever she wants to dish out. Which makes him like the Energizer Vampire Bunny—"

Anya squeaks. "Sorry," she says. "That thing gives me the creeps. It just keeps going and going and... with the drum and the glasses... and... sorry. It was just a simile. I get those."

Whistler shakes his head. "No problem. Lot of demons have weird phobias. I've got this thing about fishing nets..." he shudders. "Anyway, so yeah... leaving Spike in her hands pretty much gives Louhi an unlimited source of power to tap."

"If she feeds on... on human pain, though, w-wouldn't Buffy be in danger if she went?" Willow asks. "She's strong, too, and heals really fast."

I shrug. "Comes with the job description," I say. "It's not like it would be the first time, Wills. You know that."

"Yeah but... uh, there was that whole, you know, 'her gift is death' thing, remember?" she says, looking concerned.

"Again, not the first time," I remind her. "Do we have any spells to help us track him?"

Willow, Tara and Giles exchange a glance. "We're working on it," Willow says. "But... um, remember the whole trying to hit a puppy by throwing a bee thing? That's sort of what we're looking at here. He could be anywhere. Even if we managed to narrow it down, there's no guarantee we can get you to the same place or back."

"That's where I come in," Whistler says. "I'm authorized to help a little with that. Show me what you've got and I'll see what we can do to about locking it down so it's less like... what did you call it? Throwing a bee at a puppy? Good analogy."

The four of them gather at the table and start poring over books. "You're gonna need some supplies," Whistler tells me as they do. "You're heading into hostile territory, and there's no telling how long it'll take to track him down once you're there. Pack light," he tells me. "But, uh... warm."






 
 
Chapter #54 - Chapter 53: Be Prepared
 
Author’s Note: Chapter 53 is short, I know, but I’m sure you’d rather I got on with the rescuing and such... I promise, the next few chapters will more than make up for it.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae and Science






Chapter 53

Be Prepared


Anya carefully drives Xander and I back to their apartment. We only almost die twice when she skids on the icy roads.

"I've got some stuff you can use," Xander says. "Unfortunately I don't have much camping stuff, but... there's a few things." After we've helped him upstairs, he hobbles on his crutches to a storage closet and starts pulling things out, including a lightweight backpack and a few camping supplies. He digs a small book out and hands it to me.

"The Survivalist's Handbook?" I say, raising an eyebrow.

"Well," he says. "I saw it and thought, you know, in our line of work, it's better to be prepared. Oh!" He digs through the closet again and comes up with another pocket-sized paperback. Sheepishly he hands it over. "Worst Case Scenarios. You know... in case of… shark attacks or zombies. Not that we don't know what to do in case of zombies, but..."

"Thanks," I tell him and give him an awkward hug around his crutches. "With any luck, I won't need them and I'll be there and back before you know it."

"I wish I could go with you," he says. "You know, to watch your back. But I don't think you need Tiny Tim slowing you down. Just promise me you'll be careful and not do anything stupid."

"No stupid stuff. Check," I say.

"For the record, I think going into a hell dimension to rescue the bleached wonder is pretty stupid," he says, not quite meeting my eyes.

"Duly noted," I tell him, seriously.

"But..." he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small object and hands it to me. I turn it over between my fingers. It's the squished coin he found back when he was split personality Xander. The surface is weirdly smooth, though I can still make out the head of some old presidential guy. "It's sort of a lucky charm," he says. "I figure if you're serious about this... you're gonna need it more than I will. Come back home safe, Buffy."

***


We stop at my house so I can pack some clothes and food, and change into my snow boots and some of my warmest patrolling gear. I wish I had time to go shopping to find warmer stuff, but hopefully this will get me through. Since I'm traveling light I can't take nearly as much weaponry as I'd like, so I settle for strapping my favorite dagger to my thigh, and tucking Mr. Pointy in my pocket. I really want to take a cross bow but it would be awkward to carry and I'd have to worry about running out of ammo.

The drive back to the Magic Box is tense. Xander keeps cracking jokes to relieve the tension. Anya just looks scared. I’m busy running through all the things stuffed in my bag, hoping I'm not forgetting anything important and that I've got enough energy bars and water. My last trip into a hell dimension was pretty quick, all things considered. I have a feeling this time around won't be as easy.

Besides that, I’m so totally not camping girl. My idea of camping involves a full RV with air conditioning and a working toilet. My night in the desert with Giles was the closest I’ve come to roughing it in... I don’t know how long. Still, I’m about as prepared as I can be, I guess. And, hey... maybe it will only be a quick trip. You know, pop in, rescue Spike, pop out, then find a way to defeat Louhi.

It’s possible, right?

Okay... so probably not, but it doesn’t hurt to be a little optimistic.

The others are all arguing a little when we come in. Something about the proper use of tannis root.

"We ready to go?" I ask.

"Just about," Willow says. "Um... there's a couple of spells we need to do first, though."

"Okay, what do you need?"

"Your necklace," Willow says. My fingers automatically reach for it. I'd forgotten I still had it on. "Whistler says that you'll be able to find Spike on your own but... getting home might be kinda a problem. So, we're going to give you some help."

I take off the necklace but hesitate before handing it over. "The last time we did this, it didn't make things better," I say. "In fact it made things the opposite of better."

"I know," Willow says softly, her expression sincere. "I'm really sorry. Really. And we're going to try to fix it, okay?" She holds out her hand and I reluctantly pool the necklace in her palm.

"Okay."

***


While Willow and Tara work their mojo, Giles and Whistler explain the dimension stuff.

Well, they try to.

"... so, we'll use the locus point to orient a dimensional conduit, although you'll have to navigate it on your own," Giles says, then blinks at the look on my face. "You haven't understood a word I've just said for the last five minutes, have you?" he asks.

"Something about grasshoppers?" I guess.

Giles rubs his temples wearily.

"Let me try," Whistler says. "Okay, so you've seen location spells before, right?" I nod. "This works sort of like that. We're gonna use Spike's journal like a bloodhound uses a... sock or something, to catch a scent. Right? That'll let us open up a door that leads to wherever Spike is. Now, this isn't going to be like finding Narnia, kid. It'll be more like finding your way through a fun house, in the dark, with crazy mirrors all over the walls. But you've got a cheat. When Spike's around, can you tell him apart from other vamps?"

"Yeah," I say. "Pretty easily now, actually."

"Okay, well, this spell is going to amplify that. You just follow the tinglies and it should dump you out somewhere close to where Spike is, or at least in the right dimension. After that you're going to have to find him on your own."

"Sounds simple enough," I say.

"It won't be," Whistler promises. "This trip is provided courtesy of the PTB, dollface. They don't make anything easy. You screwed up, and they're going to make you work for it. You fail this time... it'll send you straight back here and we'll all have do the Ice Capades together."

"I can handle it."

"Hope you're right, kid," he says.

"I still don't like this," Giles mutters. "But it seems like our best option. Better than Willow's bee method, I suppose."

"I can't tell you how much I appreciate not being the bee," I tell them.

***


A flash of light is our cue that Wills and Tara have finished.

"We left the old spell on it," Tara says. "We thought it...it might come in handy. You won't have to carry a flashlight."

"But we upgraded it and added some features," Willow says with a grin. "Now it's Magic Necklace 2.0. 'Day' makes it glow and 'night' makes it stop. But we added a charm to protect you from frostbite, since Whistler says Louhi's hell is extra cold. And, watch this." She puts on the necklace and touches the pendant. "Hide."

Nothing changes.

Willow gives me a jaunty little smile then strolls over to where Xander and Anya are sitting by the counter. Anya is fiddling with a cup of coffee. With an impish grin, Willow reaches out and snags it, moving it over closer to Xander. Neither of them pay her the slightest bit of attention. When Anya goes to reach for her coffee and sees it's moved, she merely shrugs and stretches for it.

Willow waves a hand in front of Xander's face. He doesn't react.

Then she wanders over and does the same to Giles.

"She's not invisible," I say, glancing back at Tara.

"No," Tara says, not taking her eyes off Willow. "She's uninteresting. It's a variation of that Don't Look Here spell. It won't work if someone is staring at you when you do it, because they know to look. But... for anyone else it-it makes it so they just... aren't interested enough to pay you any attention, or anything you're touching or... saying. It'll also hide you from scrying spells." I look back at where Willow was but...

"She's gone?" I ask, looking around. She's nowhere in the shop.

"Nope," Willow says, suddenly popping up beside me. "Right here. You stopped looking at me. Neat huh?"

"Very," I say. "Wish I'd had this in high school. We could have checked out the boys locker room." Neither Tara nor Willow look all that interested. Oh, right. "Or... you know... um, spied on the Mayor?"

"We're not sure how strong it is against someone with Louhi's power," Tara warns. "She might be able to see through it. Also, to turn it off you just say 'end'."

"Thanks," I say. "Would have sucked to accidentally pull a Marcie."

Tara gives me a weird look, but Willow nods, knowingly.

"Oh, here's the other upgrade," Willow says. She touches the pendant again. "Seek."

A tiny sparkling light shoots out of the pendant, zooms once around Willow and then darts toward the middle of the shop before vanishing. "Not so impressive in here," she says. "But basically it's to... you know, show you the way home. Not exactly ruby slippers, more... second star to the right and straight on till morning, but it should work no matter where you are. It's tied to the Magic Box, in this dimension. Less chance of it getting confused and... uh... swarming you like a pack of rabid fireflies."

"That was a danger?" I ask, suspiciously.

"Only when it's not focused. Trust me, it's focused. Very, very focused," she says, taking off the pendant and handing it to me. I put it back on, checking the clasp.

"Okay," I say, taking a deep breath. "I guess I'm ready. Point this Alice toward the rabbit hole."

***


Giles has me stand in the middle of a chalk circle, holding Spike's journal.

"You're certain?" he asks me, one last time.

"Is there a word stronger than ‘absolutely’? ‘Cause if so, I’m that," I tell him. He puts his hands on my shoulders and looks at me very seriously.

"Good luck," he says. "Don't be rash. While you're gone we'll research and try to find a way to defeat her."

"Thanks," I tell him. He looks worried. "I'm coming back, Giles. I promise."

He nods. "Good," he says. "Good."

He takes his place around the circle, picks up a book. Time to get chanty, I guess.

"Alright, kid," Whistler says. "Showtime. You hold tight to that and concentrate on Spike. We'll get that door open."

He takes his place opposite Giles. Tara and Willow move to the other two points on the circle. From outside of the circle, Xander, Anya, and Lydia watch with huge eyes. I fix their faces in my head, then look down at the journal in my hands, my thumbs rubbing over the worn black leather.

They wanted to do the spell with the journal remaining here, but I refused to leave it behind. Part of me worries that Giles or Lydia will read it, even though I told them not to. Part of me simply refuses to let go of it. Somehow, in the last two days it's become... I don't even know how to describe it. It's... Mr. Gordo. It's my link to Spike.

It's... more.

Like some twisted, weird, incredibly long love letter.

No one has ever seen me the way Spike sees me. Not Angel, not Riley... not even me.

There's still so much about Spike I don't understand, so much I want to. I want to get him back, sit him down, ask him a hundred questions that I'm not even sure I know how to voice.

As the others start chanting I concentrate, not on the journal, but on those things about Spike I know best. His annoying habit of making everything he says sound dirty. The bleached curls that he tries so hard to hide behind all that hair gel. The mocking glint in his eyes that always makes me think he's laughing at me. His smirk, and that rare, boyish grin. Those wickedly sharp cheekbones and the scar that cuts through his eyebrow. The scent of leather, cigarette smoke, and something that's earthy and masculine and dark and just... Spike. The way he wraps me in his arms, holds me tight and close, lending me strength. His mean left hook. His hands... big, strong, the blunt fingertips a little rough, the chipped black polish he can't seem to quit picking at. The way he looks when he's sprawled out against black sheets, all salty goodness and naked glistening muscle wrapped in pale skin...

I blink.

Okay, probably not the right kind of concentration, there.

"Buffy," Willow says, and I open my eyes. In front of me is a swirling oval of dark just slightly taller than I am. It seems to be sucking all the light toward it, and the edges of things are warped strangely around it. Willow stands just beyond portal, and I realize that her hair is blowing wildly in a wind that comes from nowhere, though everything behind her is still. Her eyes look strange, dark and huge. "It's time," she says.

I nod.

Take a deep breath.

And step through the door.



 
 
Chapter #55 - Chapter 54: The East Wind
 
Author’s Note: Before you kill me, know that from this point on we are definitely still on a quest to rescue Spike, and moving progressively forward. But like Whistler says—getting to Louhi’s hell isn’t going to be like finding Narnia. There will be twists and turns and Buffy will have to face whatever challenges the Powers That Be set in her path. She screwed up, she’s going to have to fix it.

You may still want to kill me when this chapter is over, though. I wouldn’t blame you.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae and Science





Chapter 54

The East Wind


I'm not sure what I expected, but this wasn't it.

It's raining. And it's warm. Humid enough that I'm already sweating in my winter gear.

And the smell. It's not like L.A., which is busy and full of people, but you can still breathe even with the smog. This is... this is what it smells like when you pack thousands and thousands of people inside of a concrete cage. I don't even want to think about what some of those smells are.

With a frown I stick the journal in my backpack, slip out of my coat and sweater while I'm at it and tuck them in there, too. Then I spin in a circle to look at where I am.

I'm standing still on a sidewalk crowded with people hurrying in all directions. Ahead of me a stairwell descends beneath the sidewalk level. To my left is a street crowded with cars and taxi-cabs and on either side of it tall buildings claw at the sky. It's still light out, but there are storm clouds overhead and the sidewalks are wet. With the sun so low, and the cloud cover, it might as well be after sunset down here in the valley between the enormous buildings. The streetlights are already on, even though it's not quite eight according to the old-fashioned looking clock in the store window over there.

It looks like New York. At least... it looks like the New York I've seen in movies and on TV.

Only there's something off, and it doesn't take me long to figure out what it is.

Okay, this is New York back when bellbottoms were in fashion. And platforms. And big poofy hair. And weird stinky old cars that don't look old at all, except for the fact that the cabs all have that weary taxicab grime that seems to come with the yellow paint job. People pass me wearing variations of brown and cream and orange and yellow polyester. Everyone is smoking, juggling their umbrellas and cigarettes and briefcases and rushing to get wherever it is they need to go.

Somehow, though, no one seems to notice that Millenium Buffy is totally out of place. In fact they all move past me as if I'm not even here. I frown. I don't remember activating the pendant, but maybe it's better this way.

I'm not sure where to go or what to do, until Whistler's words come back to me. Follow the tinglies.

My Slayer sense is on full alert, prickles dancing up the back of my neck like marching ants. These aren't like the usual Spike tinglies, which are strong and easily identifiable. These are more like Mr. Gordo tingles, an echo of an echo of what Spike feels like.

They're coming from the subway entrance up ahead.

Beside me, someone slams past hard enough to jostle everyone but me, as if I don't really exist here. Maybe I don't. I don't see much of the rude person, but what I do see is enough to have me moving after them, down into the subway station below.

A long, black leather coat.

A very familiar, long, black leather coat.

Somehow people move aside for me as I hurry to keep the tails of that coat in view. I can't tell for sure if it's Spike, but since it's going in the same direction as the tinglies, I think I'm probably supposed to follow.

The crowd thins as we get down to the subway station, which seems weird until I hear some of the conversations as I'm pushing past them.

"Boss man made me stay late," says one guy. "Told him I needed to get home before dark. Annie, she don't like it when I'm out late. Not with that killer on the loose, man."

That startles me a little, but I push on, hearing dribblets of conversations: people out of work, people tired from work, people wanting to be home before dark, murders in Queens, dark-haired girls in danger, satanic cults, blood drinkers... then someone says something that clicks and makes some sense: Son of Sam.

Okay... so I'm in New York, in the late seventies, and it's the summer of Sam. Either that or a Spike Lee movie.

Great.

What the hell does this have to do with Spike? Aside from the strangely coincidental name thing.

The coat keeps moving through the crowd, slipping through the turnstiles. I don't have a subway pass or ticket or even much money, but no one is paying attention to me, so I chance it and hop over with ease. There aren't any shouts, no one tells me to stop. With a shrug, I settle my backpack across my shoulders and follow the coat.

The smell is worse down here. Like old stinky cigarettes and rotting things and hot metal. There's trash along the walls, piled next to half empty garbage cans. A few homeless people who look like they could be transplanted right into modern times huddle near a wall. Graffiti covers most of the flat surfaces, as well as old posters and advertisements, most faded beyond recognition.

As we move down the platform, the crowd thins. I wonder what this place would be like at rush hour? The people down at this end huddle close together while still eying one another suspiciously.

Now I can see the owner of the coat definitely isn't Spike. She's a little taller than me, but that might be the boots she's wearing. She's also black, with a stylish afro. So, yeah, definitely not Spike. Something about the way she moves is familiar, though. Bad ass, confident, in a era when being a black woman wasn't really synonymous with bad ass and confident. Vampire?

No. No demon sense from her. She's human.

Still...

As she pivots to face the subway train that's pulling into the station, I put it together. The realization halts me in my tracks.

Faith. She moves like Faith.

This girl is a Slayer.

New York. Seventies. Slayer. Spike.

Crap.

I manage to put on a burst of speed that lets me slip through the doors of the nearest subway car before they close. It's empty. The next car forward has a few passengers. The tingles are coming from the other direction.

The subway lurches into motion with a demonic shriek of metal on metal as it heads down the tracks. The seats are battered, a couple of them clearly broken. The windows are scratched and dingy like no one has cleaned in here in months. Cigarette butts and trash litter the floor. The lights flicker eerily and some of them are out.

Just like my dream. I half-expect Giles to show up in his sombrero at any moment.

When I get to the other car, the other Slayer is just visible through the door. She's in the next car which is also empty, still moving, headed further down the train. I hurry to catch up, almost sprinting.

Which means when I find the body, I trip over it.

It's not the Slayer; it's just a girl. Some poor dark-haired girl with love beads around her neck that are getting sticky with blood. Her eyes stare up at the flickering lights, sightless and blind. I don't have to check to see what killed her. The fang marks on her throat are fresh. I wonder if she'll rise tomorrow? I doubt I'll be around to find out.

I get up carefully, so as not to disturb the body any more than I have. She's wearing jeans and a Bay City Rollers t-shirt that's now spotted with blood. Pink sandals. Maybe my age, maybe a little younger.

Somehow I know without being told... Spike killed her.

I want to help her. Want to do something for her. The Slayer part of me is angry, itching for a stake. But there's nothing I can do for this girl. Not now. She's been dead for more than twenty years.

I close her eyes. It's the best I can do.

Not gonna be easy, I can practically hear Whistler say. Wish he'd mentioned this little blast from the past detour.

With a sigh I head off after the other Slayer, hopelessly behind now. At least she's probably still on the train, right?

Up ahead, just visible through the little window in the connecting doors, I see a flash of white hair, a swirl of black leather. When I slide the door open, they don't even notice me. Instinctively I move to dump my bag and join in the fight, but the minute I do, I hit an invisible barrier. No matter how I push against it, I can’t get through. Trapped, I'm helpless to do anything but watch.

This Slayer is good. Better than good. She knows what she's doing. She doesn't bother with quips or trying to distract him with words. She's all fight and fists, all business.

Vaguely I remember her name: Nikki.

Spike, on the other hand, is enjoying himself. I'm surprised to recognize his outfit from my dream. This is vamp Spike in all his punked out glory. His white hair is spiked straight up, his jeans are torn and his sleeveless shirt is covered in studs and safety pins. I'm pretty sure he's even got on eyeliner. You'd think it'd make him look fruity but instead it just makes him look more dangerous. Billy Idol before Billy Idol—if Billy Idol was a brutal killer.

Nikki grabs Spike by the back of his belt and slams him headfirst through a window. Glass shatters, but Spike holds on, roaring with laughter into the howling blackness of the subway tunnel. Things pick up after that. I recognize the moves from that night in the alley. When she knocks him into the hand pole and he viciously breaks it off, twirling it expertly in front of him, I can almost see him striding down the alley with the pool cue in his hand.

I know how it's going to end.

"Every Slayer has a death wish," he says in my memory. I can't help but look for it in her. It wouldn't be obvious, I think. Not if you weren't me. Not if you hadn't been doing this for years.

She's tired.

Older than me by a few years, she's got this look on her face like she's seen it all. Done it all. She's lost whatever it is that makes being the Slayer bearable for her, but she's still giving it her all.

Unfortunately, her all isn't nearly enough anymore.

When she pins him to the train floor by the throat, straddling him, I can see it: that little hesitation as she reaches for her stake. Then the lights go out. For a moment we hurtle through the darkness, with nothing but the shrill noise of the train going over the track. When the lights flicker back on, Spike is on top of her, one big hand wrapped around her throat. He's grinning.

I expect him to vamp, but he doesn't. He just stares into her eyes for several long minutes while she struggles under him, pulling futilely at his hand. Then, she stills, just holding on to his wrist. From this angle I can't see her face, but I can see Spike's. The mirth drains out of his eyes, the exhilaration. For a second the look on his face is almost ... tender?

Then he reaches out and, just like that, snaps her neck.

It's over.

"Don't cry for me, baby girl," says a voice. Startled, I turn too fast and almost trip over the edge of the nearest seat. Nikki stands beside me. Up close I can see that she's pretty, just a little taller than me, a little older. I glance from her to the body lying on the floor of the subway car. Yep, definitely her. I fight the tears that burn my eyes and watch as Spike drags himself up and saunters down to the other door, reaching for the emergency brake. He yanks it, and the train screams to a halt. Almost as an afterthought, he glances over at the body on the floor, then turns back to her fully. With his head tilted a little to the side he studies her, then unceremoniously drops to one knee and starts to strip the coat off of her.

"Always liked this coat," she says beside me, fingering the duplicate copy of it she's still wearing. "Even on a muggy day like today it didn't feel too hot. Kept me warm during winter patrols. Great for stashing weapons and stakes."

"And he took it as a trophy," I say, watching Spike shrug into it for the first time. Weird, since it's such a familiar gesture. It looks good on him, which is Wrong with a capital W.

"He won it. He earned it," she says simply. That surprises me enough that I turn to look at her again, tearing my eyes away from Spike adjusting his cuffs, sucking in his cheeks, preening even though he has no reflection in the glass windows. The Big Bad at his biggest and baddest. "I knew it was gonna be him. First time he and I squared off in Central Park, I knew. That pasty-assed dead boy had my ticket. Was only a matter of time before I decided to punch it. Glad he did it that way. I went seven years without getting a fang mark on me. Pretty much was the only thing I was scared of, being turned." A strange look crosses her face—sadness, maybe, a little guilt. "Almost, anyway."

"What is this?" I ask. "The vampire version of 'This is Your Life'?"

Spike strolls down to the door at the end of the car and opens it, jumping out into the dark subway tunnel. His new coat flares behind him like wings. The barrier keeps me from following. That, and knowing that he's just a ghost.

The lights go out again. This time, they stay out.

"Up there," the Slayer says out of the darkness, "they're just starting to panic. Gonna be hours before the lights come back, and the sun will get there first. Not in time, though. Not nearly in time. He's gonna go celebrate, you know. Pick up a few girls he finds wandering the streets, join in on some of the looting. Over on Fifth Avenue he's going to beat a man to death with his own briefcase. Then when some gang members decide to join in on his fun, he'll suck 'em all dry. The youngest one he'll let go, because he cried for his mama."

I can picture it way too clearly. A shiver goes down my spine.

Light comes back, through the windows this time, and I realize the train is moving again. Or maybe the world is moving and we're standing still. She turns to me.

"You're looking for him," she says, not really asking. "That dead boy."

"Yes," I say.

"Then you gotta look," she says, gesturing at the windows. I pick up my bag and sling it back over my shoulder, then take a step forward. The barrier is gone. Kinda figured it would be. I slide into a seat next to the window. Nikki sits in one facing me, leaning back on one arm, studying me curiously. "I never met another Slayer before," she says. "Not when I was alive, anyhow."

"You're a ghost now?" I ask. She grins, showing a quick flash of white teeth.

"Something like that," she says. Her eyes go to the windows and stay there. I turn to look, too.

It's like watching a scrolling TV. Only this is the kind of movie they never show on television and you have to be over twenty-one to watch in theaters. It's pretty obvious who the leading man is.

Spike.

Spike hunting. Spike feeding. Spike doing things that make the Slayer in me tense and angry and on edge. Spike doing things that make the girl in me horrified. My hand clenches around the hilt of the dagger on my thigh as I watch him prowl through a club of punk kids. Two young girls cling to his arms while he stares down the bouncer, then grabs a cab. The view follows him to an apartment, shows the girls flirting, smiling, never realizing what it is they've brought home.

Not until he vamps while necking with the first girl, draining her fast even as his hand shoots out to grab the second girl's wrist, locking her in place as she screams and pulls at him. She says it, when he turns to look at her through gold eyes, his fangs red with her friend's blood.

"Vampire."

"Yeah," Nikki says. "Vampire."

I realize then that I said it aloud at the same time as the girl mouthed it. Thankfully the pictures I'm seeing are silent. I only imagined hearing her screams. Wiggy.

"Why are you showing me this?" I ask, a little angry. "What's the point?"

"You gotta know what you're dealing with, baby girl," Nikki says.

"I already do," I say.

"You sure about that?" she asks. "You really want to bring that dead white boy back into your world? Look at what he is, girl. That's a monster. A demon. He's everything you're made to destroy."

A monster.

Looking back through the window I watch Spike as he strolls down a New York sidewalk, following something up ahead, out of view. People eye him warily as they pass. Pretty obvious that he knows how he's affecting them, too. All I can see there is the Big Bad. Spike in his prime. Top of the food chain. A predator, stalking his prey.

I'd forgotten this.

I'm not sure I ever even knew it.

The first time we met, yeah, he scared me—but no more than any other vampire I'd ever faced. Not until our first fight. But even then... maybe I'd been too young to understand. Too cocky and sure of myself. I'd beaten the Master, after all. What was one bleached punk of a vampire compared to that? I'd been so sure I was better than him. I'd dropped my weapon...

The windows ripple as time passes. We're going backwards, I think. Memento moments.

Spike and Drusilla are dancing together down the middle of a street somewhere. He holds her in his arms, twirls her to music I can't hear. She's in a long pale dress, hippie style, bare feet. Her hair is bone straight, with a wreath of white daisies in it. Spike's in a black jacket, torn jeans, untucked red shirt, his hair a halo of blond curls in the moonlight. A van pulls up, covered in painted flowers and peace signs. Drusilla looks delighted by it. Spike looks bored and a little irritated. Then he smiles at the girl who opens the door and leans out, clearly asking if they need a ride.

Of course they do. Spike hands Drusilla into the van as if she's a princess. She settles in among all the flower children, right at home. Spike lounges back against the van wall, watching her, watching all of them with keen eyes that don't miss a thing. He takes a hit off the joint the others pass around, and none of them notice when he holds it far longer than a human should. When he finally exhales, his heavy lidded gaze is as lazy as a cat's. Then the windows flicker, skipping time. When it stops, the kids are handing around cookies and chips and other junk, everyone happy, giggling.

Except Spike. He's just smiling lazily, hungrily.

A girl climbs in his lap and offers him a bite of her cookie. He snuggles her in, nuzzles her throat, and then vamps, biting hard into her neck, draining her. She squirms, pushing on his chest, but he doesn't let her go. The others notice and start giggling harder, thinking it's a game. They can't see his face under her long hair. He feasts on her leisurely, as if he's got all the time in the world.

When he finishes he licks his lips clean and reverts to his human face under cover of her hair. The girl slumps in his arms, dead. He grins at the others, then snuggles the corpse against him lovingly, arranging her on his lap like some giant doll. Playing with her hair. Must've passed out, I see him mouth silently. The others all giggle and pretend to shush each other. Drusilla, delighted, presses a finger to her lips, smiling at Spike, not giving away the game.

I turn away.

Nikki's watching me.

"You sure you want him back?" she asks me again. I don't answer immediately. My stomach is kinda pretzely after watching that. "That's what he is, baby-girl. That's what he does. I know you got a thing for dead boys but you gotta remember that, soul or no soul, that's what's underneath. Your boy, he don't even bother with the sheep's clothing. He's a wolf. He always will be."

I've heard this argument before, though. I think of the journal in my backpack, the words in it.

If I hadn't read them, I wouldn't know that there was anything more to Spike than what I'm seeing now. Wouldn't know that somewhere under that there's a poet hiding. The kind of guy who, despite appearances, puts the needs of the person he loves ahead of his own. A monster, yes, but... more.

Seeing isn't always believing. Sometimes what we see blinds us to what is.

Isn't that the lesson I was supposed to learn?

"He's changed," I tell her.

"Demons don't change," she says. God, she could be quoting me, or Giles. I know the argument so well.

"He's changed," I insist. "I mean... yes, he's a vampire. A monster. But... that's not all he is. I know it's not."

Her eyebrows raise. "Maybe not," she says. "But it's part of it. Part of him. It always will be. This can't be erased, you dig? This is always going to be what he craves."

I glance back at the window. Spike and Drusilla weave among a massive crowd of people. It's dark, and half of them are asleep, tumbled all over each other like bodies in some of those pictures of hell Giles' books are so down with. Most of them are muddy, dressed like hippies. Dru seems more weird than usual, like maybe she's stoned. Spike has a strange trippy expression, too. Suddenly something seems to catch his attention and he jerks to a halt, staring off into the distance. Dru comes to a stop, then spins, flopping gracefully on top of a sleeping couple who wake up and snuggle her between them. Spike just stands stock still, staring at something I can't see or hear.

"Who is he watching?" I ask.

Nikki looks at the window, then sound begins to trickle through. Heavy drumbeats and guitars and a voice wailing into the darkness full of sleeping people who are starting to wake up and watch along with Spike.

"...And down in the ground is a place where you go if you've been a bad boy,
If you've been a bad boy.
Why can't we have eternal life,
And never die,
Never die?..."

A grin stretches across Spike's face. A huge, boyish grin that doesn't belong on a monster at all. Then he throws back his head and roars with laughter.

The sound fades back out, but not entirely. "Lucky bastard," Nikki says with no trace of bitterness. "I was too young to go."

"Go?"

She shrugs. "We're getting off track."

The windows flicker again and now a Spike with black hair is standing in an alleyway, watching men march past. He yells something at them and even though the sound is low it's obvious it's not in English, and probably not on the approved list of things to yell at marching soldiers.

Marching Nazi soldiers.

The all turn on their well-polished boot heels and take off after Spike who isn't running very fast at all. He lets them corner him in a dead end alley, his back up against the wall as they advance on him, six on one. One of the soldiers says something and Spike gives him a two-fingered salute. His mouth moves and I barely hear him say, "Piss off, nancy-boy." The lead soldier pulls out his gun and points it at Spike, who merely smirks. There's a bang loud enough to be clearly audible, and Spike looks down at the hole in his shirt, right over his heart. He grins. "Tickles," I hear him say to the astonished soldiers just before he vamps out.

The soldiers don't run; they fight. First to try to capture him, then to get away from him. By the end of it, Spike is laughing as he chases down the last soldier, the one who shot him. He hits him over the head with the leg he tore off of one of the other men, then grabs the guy's gun, turning it on him. He says something I don't quite hear and the Nazi starts to plead with him. Spike motions with the gun again, and the soldier strips out of his shirt and coat, placing them on some stacked crates nearby. Then Spike grabs him by the throat and sinks in his fangs.

When it's over, he casually drops the body, strips off his own shirt and wipes the blood off his face and hands. When he's reasonably clean, he changes into the Nazi officer's discarded shirt and jacket, tucking everything in neatly. He mockingly salutes the corpses before he leaves the alley.

The windows flicker again, time moving backwards I guess.

Spike, bleached blond again, with Drusilla at his side, is standing in front of a small house in some farm village from the looks of it. A man is coming down the lane, carrying a small sack over his shoulder. I can't hear the conversation, but it's clear the man figures out what Spike is. He drops the sack and pulls out a cross, shoving it at the two of them and backing toward the house. Drusilla recoils, but Spike just smiles and moves faster than the guy possibly can, kicking the cross clean out of his hand. There's not much struggle before Spike has the guy by the throat.

The door to the house opens and a woman peers out into the darkness. She screams when she sees Spike holding the guy by the throat. With a smirk, Spike hauls the guy up to the front door, stopping just outside. He says something to the woman, then shakes the guy for good measure. Her face is pale, but she steps back and whispers something that looks like "come in."

Everything happens pretty fast then. The guy dies first, half of his throat torn out. Then the two teenage boys who rush at Spike with makeshift weapons. He breaks their necks. The woman he takes a little more time with, backing her up against the wall and feeding on her while he yanks up her dress.

I turn away, unable to watch.

Nikki's eyes are grave as she gazes at me steadily.

"This is what a vampire is," she says. "You know this."

"Yes," I say, trying not to listen to the barely audible screams.

"Don't be blind, baby-girl," she says. "You gotta look."

Something about her tone makes me sit up straight. I turn back to the windows, frowning.

The woman is dead now, propped up in a chair like a doll. Spike, however, isn't done. He's standing in the middle of the room, very, very still. His head tilts to one side. Listening. Then his head whips around to stare at an iron box against the wall. Silently he stalks toward it, his head still tilted, still listening.

For a moment, he just stares at the box.

Then, without warning, he rips the lid off and reaches in, pulling out a little girl who is maybe five or six. She's screaming, kicking, clutching a doll to her chest. Spike simply switches his hold, then strides toward the door.

Drusilla waits on the stoop, staring in the open doorway with delight. He sets the little girl down in front of Dru who kneels, staring into the crying girl's face, whispering to her until their eyes meet. Immediately, the little girl calms down and Dru scoops her up on her hip, whispering and giggling. Spike puts his arm around Dru's waist and they wander off down the lane, into the dark like a twisted little family out for a late night stroll.

Angry now, I turn to face Nikki.

"Are we done now?" I ask. "I get the picture. Monster. Demon. Major badness."

"You sure? Then you look out those windows, and you don't flinch away," she says.

The windows clear, and through them I can see the subway tunnels rattling past, and then we're rolling into a station, slowing but not stopping, and it's full of people. Hundreds of people, crowded along the edge, their faces watching as the train goes by. Some of them are old, some of them are young. There are men and women and children. Their clothes look like something out of a costume party gone wrong with old-fashioned dresses and modern clothes all mixed together. Some of them are even naked.

But they all have one thing in common.

They're all dead.

Some of them have had their throats torn out. Most of them, really. There are broken necks and other... worse things. But they stand there, staring, their eyes dark and angry.

There's so many. They're packed all the way back to the graffiti covered walls, and the station seems like it stretches on for miles. There must be thousands here, crowded together into a vast, morbid mob.

Spike's victims. Every last one.

But I knew this. I've known this all along. Isn't this what I've reminded myself of for years? This is what a monster is. What it does.

Until something changes.

And while the Slayer part of me hates it, loathes it, sees all this death as some kind of challenge, the Buffy part of me knows better. Still, I make myself watch, make myself take in every last angry, bloodless face. It feels like it goes on forever.

Finally, the subway car pulls away from the station, plunging us back into blissfully still darkness, except for the lights overhead. Nikki crosses her arms and studies me.

"You still want to look for him?" she asks, leaning back.

"Yes," I tell her with conviction. "I do."

She looks surprised.

"That isn't him. Not anymore. Yes, he's a killer, and a vampire. A monster. But that's not all he is. And why do I get the feeling that you're handpicking these little Oscar clips just to piss me off? Doesn't he deserve a fair trial? Show me the other stuff."

"Other stuff?" she says, tilting her head.

"Yeah," I say. "There's more to Spike than his fangs. Show me."

She smiles. "Not my job, baby," she says, standing up.

I get to my feet, too, shouldering my bag. "So what was your job? To give me Spike's rapsheet? Try to make me hate him again?"

"Among other things," she says, vaguely.

"Yeah, well, I can't change the past, can I?" I say. "Neither can he. But that's not what he is anymore."

"You don't think he deserves to die?" she asks. "Didn’t you see how high that boy's body count is? Nearly fifty-thousand people have died because of that boy."

"Nobody deserves to die," I tell her. "Not the people he killed. Not even him. He asked me once for a chance to prove he's changed. I think he's earned it. And maybe it'll take another hundred years to make up for all the bloodshed, but I think he can do it. He's not..."

I sigh, lost for words. It's just this feeling in my gut, this instinct that tells me that I'm right. That despite what I've just seen there's more here, more to Spike, more to... all of this. I've learned to trust my instincts a little better.

"You go looking for that dead boy," she warns me, "you find him, he's gonna be yours. You're gonna have to keep him on the straight and narrow. Your responsibility, you dig?"

"Yeah," I tell her, meeting her eyes. "I dig. But it's not a responsibility. Not like you mean. It's what you do when someone falls down. You help them up. And yeah, Spike fell a long, long way down. That just means he's going to need a little extra help getting up.

"You do the right thing," she says, smiling again. She leans back a little, studying me. "You're something else, girl. And you still got a long, long way to go. But this is as far as I can take you."

The subway stops moving. Or maybe the world outside does.

Nikki shrugs out of her coat—Spike's coat—and holds it out to me. "Here," she says. "From one Slayer to another. You're gonna need this."

I take it from her, feeling the smooth leather. I pull it on. It's a little big on me, falling nearly to the floor. Even though it just came off of Nikki, somehow it still smells like Spike.

She walks with me to the door at the end, opens it. Beyond is nothing but blackness. "Trust your instincts," she tells me. "Understand his, but trust yours." I nod.

For a moment she looks torn, then she makes up her mind. "One more thing. Someday you're gonna run into man who won't care that your boy has changed. He's out for that dead boy's dust. You'll know him, when you meet him. You tell him his mama said she loved him and that the only thing she ever regretted in her life was that she wasn't ever going to live to see him be a man. You tell him that... she chose when to go. How to go. You tell him that your boy showed her mercy, at the end, and for that she'll always be grateful. Even if he is a skinny white vamp with bad taste in music."

The expression on her face makes me smile.

"Hot, though," she says with a grin.

I choke on a laugh.

"What?" she says, winking. "That dead boy had it goin' on. I'm not the one who was blind, baby."



Author’s (Non-Spoilery) Postscript:

There are a couple of nods in this chapter to at least one episode of Angel, as well as the Buffy novel Blackout. The scene with the little girl in the coal bin you might recognize from the Buffy episode “Crush.” The concert Spike and Dru attend is, of course, Woodstock, and the song Spike is laughing at is The Who’s “Heaven and Hell”, which they opened with at 4 am on the third day of the concert.

In regards to Spike’s varying hair colors—I decided that because some comics show him as a bottle blond as far back as the early 1900’s (which is technically possible, mind you) that his hair color would vary depending on the scene and where I drew the inspiration for it from.

Trivia: If Spike ONLY killed one person a day from the time that he was turned until he got the chip, he would have killed over 43,000 people. That's enough people to fill more than 215 modern NY City subway cars, or around 43 subway trains (I'm rounding a bit). But we know better than to think that Spike only ever stopped at just ONE per day.

Yes, I researched like mad to write this story, why do you ask?








 
 
Chapter #56 - Chapter 55: The West Wind
 
Author’s Note: Thanks for all the wonderful comments and reviews on the previous chapter. :)

WARNING: This chapter contains scenes of violence, implied sex, and possibly offensive racial slurs (my sincere apologies, it was a character choice, not my personal feelings on the subject).

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae and Science





Credits: This chapter contains dialogue from the episode “Fool For Love” written by Douglas Petrie.


Chapter 55
The West Wind


I stumble when I jump off the back of the subway car, hitting the ground sooner than I expected. When I right myself and look behind me, the subway is gone.

And I'm in hell.

Fires burn all around around me. People run, screaming, clutching one another. Others run after them waving weapons of all sorts. Everything is painted in flickering shades of red and orange, gold and black. The scent of smoke, burnt wood, and flesh makes the air feel thick. Yuck.

My demon sense is going crazy.

Once more I feel like I'm Scrooging it here. People run past me without ever acknowledging me, giving me time to notice things. Like that some of them... many of them... most of them, even, are Chinese. There's a heaping handful of white people running around, too, although they're all dressed in old fashioned clothing. It's hard to tell who is chasing who.

Maybe this isn't hell?

Think, brain.

Chinese. Spike. Old fashioned clothes.

The Boxer Rebellion.

I have a feeling that I'm going to find Spike and another Slayer somewhere nearby. All I have to do is follow the tingles.

Only there's a lot of tingles right now, all with that slight echoey feel; some of them feel familiar.

I concentrate, trying to isolate signatures.

The only one I recognize for sure is Spike's Mr. Gordo-like echo. How did I go so long without realizing that Mr. Gordo was just... an echo of Spike?

Easy. I didn't want to know.

Blind. God, I was blind.

My feet follow the tingles, weaving between burning buildings and fleeing people. They seem to be coming from a building up ahead; a...temple of some sort, maybe? It looks big and important. Most of the fire and fighting seems to be staying well away from it. One of the side doors is open, and I creep in.

Once more, I'm greeted by the sounds of fighting. Guess I'm late for the party again.

When I round the corner and step into the shadowy interior of the temple, I almost don't recognize him.

Seriously, Spike? Suspenders?

The rough pants and linen shirt make him look like he's wearing a costume. Guess we're back before jeans and t-shirts, and long before punk music, by the looks of it. His hair is a mess. In the firelight it's a sort of reddish brown, and it looks like he's let it grow out to try to get rid of the curl. Hanks of it flop in his face, and the rest is tied back into a low tail.

Plus, he's vamped. Spike almost never vamps when he's fighting. Almost like he's too good to need to.

Only right now... I can see why he needs to.

"...Didn't know what to expect, did I? Thought I'd just walk in and the fists would start flying. I was wrong. She danced. Had this sword, long and shiny and blessed. The way she moved with it... poetry..."

She's small, maybe smaller than me. Her long black hair hangs in a braid down her back, and it swings out in an arc with every kick, every spin. Her black shirt and pants look like silk pajamas, but, you know, probably aren't. And then there's the sword, just like Spike said.

She dances with it.

He manages to avoid a thrust to his head, leaning back out of the way. She merely flicks the tip of it across his face, gashing him above one eye. When he recovers I can see the fresh and bloody mark that still scars his eyebrow over a hundred years later. Even though there's blood running into his eye he's grinning, showing off gleaming fangs.

The idiot looks like he's having the time of his unlife.

At least until she does this wicked spin kick thing right into his face.

Guess wiping grins off Spike's face is a built in Slayer instinct. Nikki did it, too.

"Just like I pictured it," Spike says, dancing backwards. "This good for you?"

And mocking Slayers appears to be a built in Spike instinct. And here I thought I was special.

This girl... she's incredible. The way she spins, her sword swinging out in silvery blurs.

And Spike...

Well, he's not as good. But he's not dust yet. I have no clue how he manages to avoid that blade; it's spinning so fast I can't even follow it.

Until she miscalculates and stabs at him, just as Spike steps out of her way. The blade sinks into a statue and he locks her wrist there, punching her hard enough that it sends her spinning back, weaponless.

Now she looks scared, but determined, kicking out at him and throwing a few well-timed blows.

I can almost see Spike calculating, following her moves... and then he turns them back on her.

Still, she manages to get him up against a pillar, pinning him there and whipping a stake out of nowhere. I start to step forward, but the barrier is back, keeping me from moving. It hits me at the same time as the window beside the two of them explodes...

My first instinct was to help him.

Not her.

While my brain spins a bit, dizzy at that thought, the two of them are forced back. They lunge at one another, but Spike is just a little faster, a little stronger. He manages to disarm her. Her elbow comes up, hitting him in the jaw.

And there it is.

"...a Slayer must always reach for her weapon. I've already got mine..."

She hesitates.

Half a second.

And Spike slips in, grabbing her arm and twisting it back, pinning her against him.

She could break his hold. I know she can. It'd be tricky, but this girl, she could do it.

But she doesn't. She closes her eyes, braces herself, and waits for his fangs to descend. He drinks, deeply, and I feel a sympathetic twinge from the scar on my own throat, knowing how it feels. Then he pulls back hard, staring at her; she lifts her head and meets his eyes. Roughly he spins her around to face him and she grips his shirt to hold herself up. For a moment, they look like they're embracing. Spike holds her gently against him, and she clings, whispering something I can't hear. Then he takes a deep breath.

"Sorry, luv," he says. "I don't speak Chinese." And he tosses her to the ground like so much trash. Breathing hard he swipes at the blood on his chin, then sucks it off his thumb. "Fella could get used to this." For a moment he just stands there, staring down at the body, and his game face melts away. Still, he stares, and the look on his face... like he's trying to puzzle out the secrets of the universe.

I'm no longer alone behind my barrier.

I turn to look at her, swallowing hard to keep from throwing up.

Her expression is impassive as she watches him. Then her eyes flick towards the entrance, just as the tingles tell me that someone is coming.

"Oh, Spike, look at the wonderful mess you've made. That's a Slayer you've done in. Naughty, wicked Spike." Drusilla glides in, looking... not as skanky as usual, to be honest. The long, white dress suits her, and the way she wears her hair. She looks like something out of a book of Victorian fashion models, delicate and doll-like. Spike turns to look at her and his whole body changes, straightening, more confident.

Drusilla extends a hand to him, like a princess waiting for her knight to kiss her knuckles, then beckons him closer.

When he moves now, it's with that familiar prowl of his, and Drusilla seems as shocked as I am when, instead of taking her hand, he grabs her around the waist and hauls her roughly up against him. "Did you ever hear them say that the blood of a Slayer is a powerful aphrodisiac?" he says, his voice so low I can barely hear him. "Here now, have a taste." He raises a bloody finger to Dru's lips. The way she sucks it off is so dirty it makes me blush, but the Slayer beside me doesn't even bat an eye. She just watches.

And when Spike lifts Dru into the air and slams her back, hard, against a pillar, then dives in for a kiss, we both watch, disgusted. Riveted. ... okay, maybe a little fascinated. Flames lick the far wall, the fire from outside spreading. They don't seem to care. Dru starts to strip off his shirt and he yanks up her dress, the two of them sinking to the floor... Something inside of me growls.

I can't watch this.

I can't.

I know Spike and Drusilla were... and I know this was a hundred years ago but...

"Is that what it's like?" the Slayer beside me asks, still staring.

"What?" I ask, glad for the distraction. "I thought you didn't speak English."

"I don't," she says, in perfect, unaccented English. Okay. I guess this would probably be difficult if we couldn't understand each other, or, you know, had to have subtitles. Or bad dubbing. She's still staring, her eyebrows raising as I hear Spike growl and Dru give a little gasp. "Oh," the Slayer says, her eyes cartoon huge.

I grab her by the shoulder and spin her around. "We shouldn't be watching this," I tell her. "It's wrong."

"The demon has slain me while you observed. Yet, you are concerned for their privacy?" she asks, frowning a little.

"Vampire sex? Totally icky," I lie, trying not to squirm. She glances dubiously over her shoulder.

"I would not know," she says, a little sadly. I look at her again. She looks young.

"How old are you?" I ask. "I mean... were, or ..."

"Sixteen," she says, still looking back over her shoulder. There's definite gasping noises going on back there. "I would have been seventeen in a few weeks. Why is he touching her there?"

"Where?" I ask, glancing back and getting an eyeful of... oh.

Oh.

I spin back around and face the wall. "Oh, thats... uh, normal. It, um... it feels... good and you are way too young to be watching this."

"I am dead," she says. "I do not think it matters."

Okay, so, maybe she has a point. But still. Her eyes slide my way.

"You were seventeen," she says, a little slyly. Crap. Busted.

"Completely different culture!" I argue.

"Yes," she agrees. "In my culture I am old enough for marriage. But the matchmaker was never sent for me. I have always been the Slayer." Her gaze drifts back to watch whatever Spike and Dru are doing now, which, from the sounds of it, is going to last awhile. Vampire stamina, I guess, though honestly Angel and I never really got a chance to test that. And I'm not going to turn around to see what he's doing to Drusilla to make her make that noise.

Instead I frown. "You couldn't have been born the Slayer," I say.

She shakes her head. "No," she says. "But the fortune teller saw on the day of my birth, and then the white shifu came. In secret I trained in the ways of the warrior. My brothers say the first word I spoke was 'vampire'. I am yóuxiá. Not by choice, by fate. It is my duty to my family, to my people."

She doesn't sound like she regrets it, but I can't help but shudder at the idea. At least I had a normal life until I was called. I can't imagine what it would be like if I'd grown up knowing I was going to be the Slayer.

"Did you hate it?" I ask. "You barely got to live."

She gives a weird little shrug. "It was as it was meant to be," she says. "I am glad to have died in battle. The demon fought well, if strangely."

"He's fought better," I say. "He got lucky."

"Fortune favors the brave," she says, which makes me shiver. "His will is strong, and destiny shapes his path as much as it has yours and mine. For now he is but iron, but for you, he could be a sharp weapon. Would you see?"

"Do I have a choice?" I ask.

She turns to face me fully then. "Always," she says, absolutely serious.

I'm sensing a theme. None so blind, right?

"Yes," I say. "I would see."

***


There's no subway car, this time; no windows to look out of. Instead the world shifts around us, flickering a little as time moves. Then we're standing on a street paved with cobblestones and bricks, in the dark and the fog, and a black carriage, drawn by horses has just stopped up ahead of us underneath a weirdly green streetlight. The buildings around us are mostly dark, but I can't tell if it's because it's really late and everyone is asleep, or if it's because this place is abandoned. It looks abandoned. There's trash drifting down the street, and the smell from the gutters is pretty stinky.

"Where are we?" I ask, wrinkling my nose.

"Before," the Slayer says, watching everything with interest. "It helps to know where iron comes from."

The carriage door opens and a man gets out. From this distance it's hard to tell much about him. He's dressed in light colored slacks and a jacket, and he's wearing a top hat. My Spike sense knows him, even if his clothes are weird. He stops and reaches out a hand to someone inside the carriage, then helps her down. She wears a white gown and some kind of long coat thing, and something about the way she moves and the tingles that are crawling up and down my neck tells me clearer than seeing her face, this is Drusilla.

They cling to each other, laughing softly as they move down the sidewalk. The carriage moves off into the fog. If I didn't know any better these two would look like moving targets, wandering through this bad part of town. But I do know better.

The three men who step out of the shadows of the alleyway just ahead of us... don't.

"Ev'nin' guvna," says the smallest of the gang with a grin. The others move into position around Spike and Drusilla. Or maybe it's William, still. "Don't often see toffs like yourselves down 'ere. Got a bit lost, eh? No worries. Old Tom's 'ere to set you to rights."

"Bother," William mutters.

"Are we going to play a game?" Drusilla says with a smile at the biggest of the three men.

"Yeah," Old Tom says with a nasty laugh. "It's called pass the purse. Want to be the purse, ducks?"

"Like ring o' roses? I quite like that game," she says.

"Your bird's a bit barmy, ain't she, guv?" laughs Old Tom. William scowls. "No matter, bet she's a bit of allright where it counts, eh?" William steps slightly in front of Drusilla, who is now humming softly to herself.

"You're addressing a lady, I shall have you know, sir," William says, and I have to shake my head to clear my ears. Surely I didn't hear him right. He sounds totally different. Maybe he's acting? You know, pretending to be all stiff upper crusty or something in order to fool these guys into being dinner? "You should be more polite."

"Ooooh," Old Tom says, glancing at his boys. "A lady. Why didn't you say so? An' 'ere we thought she was a bit of a lightskirt. Seen 'er about a time or two, always with dif'rent gents. But a lady you seys?" He laughs, totally missing the low animal growl that comes from William's throat. "I ain't never 'ad a lady before. 'Ow 'bout you, lads?"

The other men laugh and shake their heads, no.

"C'mon over 'ere to Old Tom, luv, and give us a kiss. My lads are just goin' to have a bit of a chat with your man, there," Tom stretches out a hand to Dru, bowing mockingly. Her eyes light up and she touches William on the shoulder, their eyes meet and something seems to pass between them.

"Shall I, my sweet?" she asks. I watch as William's fists clench for a moment, then he relaxes, glancing back at the two thugs behind him.

"Go on then," he says softly. "Give him a kiss."

Dru drifts over to Old Tom who wraps an arm around her waist and holds her tight, clearly delighted. She actually leans in and kisses him, humming to herself again.

Meanwhile the other two thugs close in on William, backing him away from Drusilla. One reaches out and grabs his arm and Spike pulls away, breaking the guy's grip.

"'Ere now, guv," says thug one. "You're in our world, now. 'And over your purse an' we promise, it'll only 'urt a bit."

"And if I choose not?" William says, his eyes glinting gold. Neither of them seem to notice.

"Well, then I guess it'll 'urt a lot," laughs thug two, none too bright.

"Promise?" William says, his voice lower now, a little more dangerous. The two thugs exchange a glance, then look back at Old Tom, who's got Drusilla backed up against a wall now, mauling her breasts through her dress. When they turn back to William, he smiles.

And shifts into game face.

The fight takes longer than I expected. William has all the strength and skill of a fledge, maybe even less. His style is clumsy, concentrated entirely on his fists. He barely uses his legs at all except to dodge like an amateur boxer. If he'd met a Slayer right now, he'd already be dust.

But for these two morons, he's more than a match. They're pretty clumsy, too, but more inventive, especially when faced with a monster. William, however, is faster, stronger, and a quick learner. Just like in the fight with the Slayer beside me, I can almost see the calculation in his yellow eyes; the way he takes in their moves, then adapts them to suit his own purposes. The first thug goes headfirst into the nearby brick, his head making a sickening crunch.

The second one, William toys with a little before grabbing him by the shirt and hauling him up close, sinking his fangs into the guy's neck. His feeding is messy, and thorough. He drains the guy, then drops the empty body on top of the first. Full now, he licks his lips and tilts his head back to the sky, laughing at the rush.

Then he glances over at Drusilla. "Finished yet, ducks?" he asks, aping Old Tom's accent and sounding slightly more like Spike. Dru looks up from the throat of Old Tom's corpse, her mouth stained red. She smiles.

"Ashes to ashes, we all fall down," she says softly. She drops her corpse on top of the others and reaches for William. He grabs her hands and spins her in a waltzy sort of twirl, then pulls her in for a kiss. "Did you enjoy yourself, my William?" she asks.

"Rather more than expected," he says, reverting back to Giles-isms. Okay, so maybe not an act. "It's... quite freeing, isn't it? Exhilarating. I never realized..."

"You shall hunt with Daddy tomorrow," Dru says, leaning back and letting her long hair swing as he spins her. "He will teach you all sorts of lovely games."

"Must I?" William says, frowning a little.

"Oh, yes," Dru says, straightening and clasping her arms around his neck. "And the stars themselves will tremble and whisper your name."

"And will you?" he says, his voice dropping as his mouth dips to hers. "Will you tremble and whisper my name, darling?"

She shakes her head. "Oh, no," she says. "For you must find it first, and then... oh, then I shall scream it and so will all the world."

He growls a little, clearly pleased with that.

And the world ripples again.

***


This time it dumps us on the edges of a bar fight. The place is old, low beamed, and lit mostly by a smoky fire at one end of the room. A dozen or so people stand around the edges with us, most of them men dressed in sort of old style workman's clothes. Long wooden tables have been flipped over and pushed against the wall, leaving a rough area in the middle. William, wearing an old fashioned shirt and trousers, with a handkerchief loosely knotted around his neck, stands in the center of the floor. Blood dribbles from his nose and smears his chin, but he's not in vamp face. Not yet. In one fist he clasps what looks like a stake.

He's grinning, watching the five men circling him like sharks.

"'Come on, then," he says, and now his accent is somewhere closer to the one I know. "You pillocks goin' to dance about all night?"

"You killed Buford," one of the circling men says. William looks surprised.

"Was that his name?" he says. "Did him a bloody favor, I think, puttin' him out of that sort of misery. What sort of name is that? Buford."

"It were a family name," one of the other men growls. "And better than yours, whatever you're called, you murderous dog."

William dodges as one of the men make a grab for him, easily ducking a second blow that comes from behind. "They call me William the Bloody," he says, proudly.

The men look unimpressed. "William the bloody what? Coward?" sneers one of them. "Poofter? Prat?"

In a lightning fast move, William grabs the man by the collar, punches him twice in the face, then rams the stake in his hand through the guy's skull.

"Just Bloody," he says, off hand. "Though I've been thinkin' of changin' it. What do you lads think of 'Spike'?" He yanks the thing free of the twitching corpse and holds it up, admiring it.

It's not a stake at all. It's what must be a railroad spike. About eight inches of solid iron, with a blunt head and a chiseled tip, coated now with gore and blood.

The men reel back, appalled. I guess they weren't expecting him to murder someone right in front of them. I know how they feel. My stomach clenches a little. Beside me, the Slayer watches, impassive. I wish I could be that stoic, but watching people die is so not my thing. Give me slimy, green demon guts any day.

"I think it'll be nice an' short to carve on yer headstone!" one of the men roars.

"Bit late for that," Spike comments, and smoothly sidesteps the man's charge. "But, yeah, I kinda like it, too. Really gets, ya, right here." And with that he jabs the spike through the man's gut.

Like one big animal, the remaining three guys fall on him, and he's lost for a moment under all of their flailing fists. But even though he's not vamped out, he's still stronger, still faster, and one by one he throws them off.

It's funny that I've fought him so many times, and beside him more than once, but never really had a chance to watch him as he fought. He's still not a particularly good fighter, not nearly what he will be, but he's graceful as a dancer and insanely fast. The real danger, however, is that he's observant and a quick study. Just like the previous two fights, he watches the men closely, picking up on their fighting styles and matching them blow for blow. Then he adapts it, changes it up, turns it back on them. It's brutal.

And then he's standing over five men, three of which are dead, one that probably will be very soon, and another that's knocked unconscious. He's breathing hard, but they didn't even really bruise him. He glances at the metal spike still gripped in his fist. "Yeah," he says. "Spike. Got a bit of poetic irony to it." Then he giggles a little hysterically. "Spike. Irony. Get it?"

The crowd isn't really all that appreciative. They're gathering weapons—bottles, pieces of wood, tools, there's even a pitchfork—and glaring at the monster in their midst. If only they knew. Someone yells, "Murderer!" and they all come at him at once. Spike pauses for only half a second to laugh, then he bolts out through the door into the street, grinning the whole way.

We don't follow. Instead, the floor and walls ripple around us, shifting and changing as we move forward in time.

***


We're back in China, I think, judging by the decor. The room is dark, lit only by candles stuck in niches in the walls and little holder thingies all over the room. An old man sits, meditating by candlelight. He doesn't even flinch when the door opens and in strolls Spike. He's wearing the same clothes from when he killed the Slayer, and he's added a long brown coat that looks like the leather duster's great, great ugly grandfather. The cut over his eyebrow is an angry, red, bloody mess. It doesn't look like he's had it even long enough to clean it properly.

With a swagger in his step he strides across the room, stopping a few feet away from the old man. "Rise and shine, teach," he says without preamble. "You've got a new student. Heard in Peking you were the bloke to see about learning how to fi—"

The old man lashes out with a nearby cane, sweeping Spike's feet from under him. Before Spike can even think to rise, the old man is standing over him, the wooden cane poised above Spike's heart, pinning him to the floor. His eyes are still closed.

"Guess I heard right," Spike says, staying very still, though his eyes are sizing the old man up again, taking it all in.

"Your accent is terrible," the old man says, once more in that smoothly unaccented English. That can't be natural. I can't decide if that means that the two of them are actually speaking Chinese and I'm just hearing it in English or what, but I figure I can go with it.

Then the old man opens his eyes: solid, demonic black. He stares down at Spike.

"Vampire," he says.

"Demon," Spike says, sarcastically.

"Shut up," the old man says. "You stink of fire, wood, and sunlight. It fascinates you, even though you should fear it. You are water, metal, darkness. Strength like iron, but adaptable. Changeable like the moon. The fire will temper you, sharpen you. The sunlight will define your darkness. Still, there is too much water in you. Your mouth runs like a man with dysentery."

"Well, aren't you Lord Byron," Spike drawls. "All this yammerin' mean you'll teach me?" The old man whacks Spike in the head with his cane. "Ow! Bloody hell!"

"Lesson the first," the old man says. "Learn to like pain. It means you are still alive." The cane comes down again just as time wrinkles.

When it stops we're in the same place, some time later.

"I feel like I should be listening to Eye of the Tiger or something," I say. "Please tell me that Spike isn't the original Karate Kid. If I have to watch a training montage..."

The Slayer just rolls her eyes.

Spike's collapsed, panting, in a corner, stripped to the waist, and barefoot. His white chest is streaked with bleeding cuts and he's got a freshly blackened eye. But he still hasn't shut up.

"You cheated," he yells, presumably at the old guy who is somewhere out of sight. "All that bollocks about forms and harnessing energy and the honor of the warrior and then you bloody well cheated." Mr. Miyagi's evil twin comes around the corner, carrying two bowls of something steaming and hot. He hands one of them to Spike, then sits across from him, picking up his chopsticks and calmly beginning to eat.

"There is no cheating," he says. "In a fight you use every advantage in order to defeat your opponent. Know the rules so that you may break them, hékǒu. We are demons. Honor is optional. If your enemy is more concerned with honor than living, use it against her. Now, eat."

Spike sighs, frowning at his bowl. "Lesson the hundred and twenty-soddin'-seventh, I suppose. Has it escaped your attention that I don't need to eat human food? I'm a vampire. I'm supposed to drink blood."

The old man squints at him, then pokes him in the chest with the chopsticks. "Oi!" Spike yells, leaning back. "Watch the wood, you daft old git."

"Will you always only do what you are supposed to?" the old man asks. "Immortality is a long, long time, and still too short for us to bore ourselves. Learn to enjoy life's pleasures. Break the rules. Live a little. Now, eat."

Spike sighs and fumbles with his chopsticks. When he fails to pick up anything with them, he pitches one of them over his shoulder, then uses the other to stab his food. He takes a bite and chews thoughtfully. "Not bad," he says. "Bit spicy. What's in it?"

"Peppercorns, chilies, chicken... garlic," the old man says slyly.

Abruptly Spike chokes, the veins in his forehead popping out in sharp relief against his skin. He somehow manages to swallow it. "Garlic?" he rasps. "Are you trying to bloody kill me?"

"You are already dead," the old guy says. "But in a sense, yes. What does not destroy you makes you stronger."

"Bloody Taoist crap," Spike mutters.

"Actually," the old man says. "It's Nietzsche."

Spike glares, but he takes another bite. "Wanker," he says. They continue to eat, Spike defiantly chewing every bite while glaring at his teacher.

I suppress a giggle. This explains soooo much. The Slayer beside me sighs.

"Are you sure that this vampire is what you want?" she asks. "He seems... unruly."

"He is," I tell her. "But I'm starting to think that that's part of his charm. Don't get me wrong, it's annoying as hell but... I don't know. I'm pretty stubborn myself, and not so good with the rule following."

And that's the thing about Spike, I realize. That incredible pig-headedness that keeps him from giving up, from backing down when he really wants something. "A man's got to try." Isn't that what he said, over and over? Knowing how he felt for me, knowing it was wrong, he still couldn't give it up for hopeless. How many times did he keep coming back here, trying to kill me and then unable to leave even though he didn't have the slightest encouragement or reason to stay?

Angel gave it all up when he had all the reasons in the world to stay. Riley, too. I'd given both of them nothing but encouragement, handed them my heart, and they'd walked away. All I've ever given Spike are reasons to hate me, but he's so stubborn he can't quit.

For a moment, I'm dizzy with the desire to reach out and touch this ghost Spike's shoulder, to tell him that, if I can get him back, I won't push him away anymore.

The scene ripples and shifts.

Spike and the old man are fighting. Judging by the fact that the mark over his eye is still a red, angry mess and the length of his hair, I'd say this is not too long after the first two scenes. Maybe a few months.

Spike's good. Whatever this old guy has been teaching him, he's good. I don't recognize just one fighting style, either. The two of them seem to switch fluidly between styles, changing with the fight. And they both fight dirty. Spike goes down, rolls, grabs a fist full of dirt off the floor and hurls it in the old guy's face even as he regains his feet. He backhands the demon hard, lashing out with his feet and fists now, pummeling the tiny old guy into a shrine full of grotesque little figurines. The old man grabs a candle off the shelf and stabs it at Spike, burning him with it and spattering his skin with hot, red wax. Then he follows up, pushing the vampire back into the room, leveling the fight once more.

They practically demolish the room, and it becomes pretty clear that they're not just sparring. This is a no holds barred, all out, fight to the finish.

And Spike is winning.

The old guy, he's strong, and fast, and he's got who knows how much experience over Spike. But Spike is stronger, faster, and more resilient. When the old guy manages a punishing kick to Spike's groin, he doubles up briefly, clutching himself, then uses the same movement to elbow the old man in the face as he dives in for another blow. You know... I kicked Angel in the groin once, at least that hard, and it incapacitated him for a few minutes. But I watched Nikki kick Spike the same way and the same thing happened, he used it against her, barely seemed to register it. I'm not sure why that impresses me, but it does.

The fight picks up speed, and they ramp up the power of their blows. Whichever of them survive this is going to walk away with a mess of bruises—and I already know which it will be. Still, the old guy is good and it's something of a shock to all of us when Spike manages to pin him to the floor, a sword he snatched from somewhere in the last few minutes, held at the old man's throat.

"Checkmate," Spike says.

"Finish it," the old man says.

"Got a death wish, teach?" Spike asks.

"Lesson the—"

"Bugger the lesson number," Spike growls.

"Compassion, mercy, pity... these are human emotions. They will not serve you. I have taught you all I can. It is traditional for the student to kill his master when he has surpassed him. Finish it, and learn the last lesson."

With a growl, Spike lifts the blade high, then jabs it into the old guy's ... shoulder? He must have put a lot of strength into the blow because the sword sinks deep into the dirt floor beneath, until the hilt is flush with the old guy's robes. I'm not sure which of us is more surprised. The demon master doesn't scream with pain, though it clearly hurts.

"Lesson the first," Spike drawls, stepping out of range of the old demon's legs. "Learn to enjoy pain. Means you're alive. Lesson the second—I'm not stupid. I've known what kind of demon you were since day one, and beheading you doesn't kill you. Lesson the third—there are some things you'll never, ever be able to beat out of me. And lesson the fourth—bugger your soddin' traditions. You come after me, though, and I will kill you."

He leaves the room, disappearing further into the house. The old guy lays there for a few moments, panting and bleeding. Tentatively he reaches up to grab the sword hilt, but he's got no leverage to pull it out. After a couple of painful tries he flops back on the floor. Spike comes back in, fully dressed and shrugging into his ugly coat.

"Where will you go now?" the old man says.

"Not sure," Spike says with an uncaring shrug. "Somewhere. World's my bloody oyster, yeah?"

"If you go to Japan, hékǒu, look for a teacher named Hisato Kurokami. Send him my regards," the old man says, grinning sharply. Spike gives him a look, but nods. Just as he's about to go out the door, the old man stops him again. "The last lesson... for your kind, and mine... death is what we are, what we bring. It is our gift. It is only the beginning."

A shiver goes down my spine. Her gift is death, and it shall love her above all others...

Maybe...

"God, but you're full of crap," Spike says, but he grins as he leaves and time shifts again.

***


This time I'm not sure where we are. Or when. Not immediately. It looks like the front lobby of a hotel, very late at night. The floor is white marble and the walls have this gorgeous dark wood paneling all the way up to the intricate plasterwork along the ceiling. The desk is dark wood, too. Stairs at the back lead up to the rooms, and a pair of old fashioned elevators wait for passengers. The elevator guy is half-asleep, dozing in his chair in the corner, his little red cap is kinda tilty on his head in spite of the strap holding it in place.

There's a set of open doors just beyond the desk, near the doors to the street. They're pulled wide to show a bar and some kind of restaurant. The Slayer leads me inside.

Only a few hardcore drinkers and the bartender are left this late, and a young Chinese girl dressed in traditional clothes is clearing the tables quietly in the corner. All the men at the bar are wearing suits and ties, hats lay next to them on the bartop. Most of them are smoking and the scent lingers heavily in the air. There's no TV or anything. Most of these guys are drinking alone with nothing more than some low key jazz music playing from somewhere. Little logos throughout the place tell me we're in the Pickwick Cafe.

The outside door to the hotel lobby opens behind us, and my Slayer senses tingle. I don't have to turn to know that Spike just walked in the door. He passes us, close enough that I could reach out and touch him this time, but once more we're the ghosts in the scene and he doesn't even notice us. He's dressed in a black pinstriped suit, with a crimson silk shirt underneath his tie. He even has on a black hat with a red band around the crown, though it doesn't do much to hide his very blond hair.

He swaggers up to the bar and has a seat. "Whiskey," he tells the bartender. "And none of that prohibition crap. I know you've got some back there, and not that shite that crawled out of a bathtub."

The bartender looks like he's going to complain, but Spike just gives him a look and he shuts up, digging under the bar until he comes up with a bottle.

"You're English," says the guy on Spike's left, blinking at him drunkenly.

"Very good," Spike says, sarcastically, then holds up a fist. "How many fingers am I holdin' up?" The drunk quickly turns back to his drink and Spike turns his attention to his. After awhile the drunk's curiosity gets the better of him and he glances again at Spike, who is clearly enjoying his whiskey. Spike just glares at him. Trying to cover, the drunk looks up at the mirror across from the bar, hoping to study Spike that way.

Only the mirror doesn't show Spike at all. The drunk blinks from Spike, to the mirror, then back to Spike. Finally he gives up, clearly willing to blame the booze. He wobbles down from his stool. "Think I'm done for the night," he tells the bartender, slipping an obscenely small amount of cash under his glass.

"Need a cab, mister?" the bartender asks. "I can have the doorman flag one for you."

"Got a room," the guy says, showing a room key. "See you tomorrow."

He stumbles out into the lobby, leaving Spike, the bartender and a couple of old guys at the bar. The Chinese girl is still cleaning in the back, and I watch Spike watch her in the mirror, his view unimpeded by his own reflection.

When the bartender comes back to fill his glass, Spike tilts his head in her direction. "Who's the bird?"

"The chink?" the bartender says, with a little bit of a sneer. "Dishwasher's daughter. We're short handed so she's filling in for Joe on the late night shift. If it bothers you I can send her in back til you're gone. Some guys don't care for chinamen. Or girls, for that matter." It's pretty clear that the bartender is one of the 'don't care' crowd. Ugh. Racist jerk. Guess we’re before political correctness.

Spike just shrugs. "Doesn't bother me. I rather like the Chinese. Best meal of my life was in China. What I wouldn't give for another taste of that," he says, his blue eyes fixing on the girl. She keeps shooting him strange, puzzled glances, too. Then I see her eyes focus on the mirror and widen. Spike turns around and glances at her, then winks.

She goes pale, then hurriedly goes back to cleaning tables.

Spike nurses his drink, right up until it looks like she's finished. Then he downs it in one go, slaps a few coins on the bartop and stands. He prowls over to her, blocking her from going back to the kitchen. Nobody even looks like they're going to stop him. "Kitchen's closed," he says.

She mistakes it for a question, and answers in English, her words accented heavily. No magic translation for her. "If you hungry, I ask—"

"Wasn't asking, pet," he says, his voice low and amused. "Why don't we step outside? Get some air. Bit smoky in here."

She looks scared. A quick glance at the bartender tells her that there's no help coming from there. The jerk is practically ordering her to go outside with Spike with his eyes. I can almost see the 'customer is always right' sign tattooed on his forehead. Spike takes the girl by the arm and steers her toward another set of doors at the other end of the cafe.

We follow them out. Above us a sign hangs most of the length of the building, the big incandescent bulbs spelling out "Hotel Pickwick." Now that we're on the sidewalk, though, I vaguely recognize the place. San Fransisco, I think. I'd gone there once or twice on trips with my family. This looks like it's near Union Square. Only this is old San Francisco... maybe right after the big earthquake at the beginning of the century. The jazz music drifting from a club down the street tells me it's probably the 1920's.

Spike and the girl go around the building into an alleyway, the barrier stops the Slayer and me right at the mouth. The Chinese girl is crying a little, scared. With a rough shove, Spike pushes her away from him, takes off his hat and jacket and rolls up his cuffs.

"Been looking for one of you for a few years, now," Spike says with a grin. "Never thought to find another Chinese Slayer, not so soon. Not on a completely different continent."

Oh.

Oh crap.

I glance at the Slayer beside me, but once more her face is impassive.

"C'mon, then," Spike says. "Let's see what you've got." He's practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, ready for some action. The girl, on the other hand, clearly hasn't the faintest idea of what he's talking about. He dives at her, and she manages to dodge... more because he lets her, though, than because she knows what to do. With a frown, he pauses, eying her up and down. "What are you waiting for, Slayer, an engraved invite? How's this?"

He shifts into game face.

The girl screams. Then she starts babbling in Chinese, backing away from him toward the mouth of the alley.

With a snarl, Spike's on her, gripping her by the shoulders and twisting her around so he can stare into her face. She's trembling in his hands. "Bloody hell," he mutters, shaking off the demon. "You don't know what you are, do you?"

"Please, sir, let me go. I'm a good girl. Good family," she says, whimpering.

"Shut up," he tells her, and she does. With a frown he leans in and inhales, then growls. "I'm not wrong," he says, but mostly to himself. "Maybe it'll kick in?" But she's still crying silently, trying to get free. "Fuck. Thought it'd be like last time. Thought... Fuck."

Disgusted he pushes her away.

"Go on, then," he says. "Get out of here. Go home. When you figure out what you are, if you live that long, come track me down. We'll have ourselves a dance." She doesn't wait for another chance, instead she just scurries out of the alley, then takes off running for home without looking back.

Spike stands there looking after her, listening to her retreating footsteps. Then he puts his coat and hat back on, straightens his cuffs and sighs.

"God, I'm a prat," he growls, then goes back inside.

"He let her go," I murmur, watching his retreating back.

"It would not be the last time," the Slayer says.

"That he let a Slayer go?" I ask, confused. She nods.

"He is a strange demon," agrees the Slayer. "And he follows a strange code. He made himself strong enough to hunt the strongest of our kind. To hunt you. Are you certain that you want him?"

I don't really even need to think about it. "Yes," I tell her. "I do. If you were supposed to be showing me clips from the anti-Spike campaign, you pretty much failed, you know. This... this especially. Yeah, I know he let her go because she wasn't enough of a challenge, but isn't that the point? He let her go. He chose to. Just like he chose not to kill that demon guy. Fighting Spike... he's the toughest vamp I've ever fought. The only one I've never been able to dust. There's no one I'd rather have at my side in a fight."

She nods, as if she expected this.

"It is not my duty to influence you one way or the other. My ability to choose what I show is limited. I am simply to show you the things you need to see. This Spike, he is not only a demon, he is a warrior. That is something I can respect."

"Then will you take me to him?" I ask.

"I have taken you as far as I can," she says. "But you still have far to go."

"Great," I say. It was too easy for this to be the end

She reaches down and unfastens the silken cord that ties her sword to her waist, then presents the sword to me. "May this help you on your journey," she says. Reverently I take it from her.

"Thank you," I say, unsure of the correct response. Spike's coat was one thing. I mean, it's pretty much his already, I'm just bringing it to him, right? But this...

"Si ma dang huo ma yi," she says. Apparently I don't get an automatic translation for that.

"What does that mean?" I ask. She smiles.

"Do the impossible." She points me toward the hotel door, which Spike has left open. I tie the sword to my belt, and she bows. I bow back, wishing Giles had been more insistent on the whole formalities thing. Although, really, how often do you find yourself facing the ghost of a Slayer dead for more than a century, killed at the hand of the vampire you're trying to save?

My Slayer sense kicks in, pulling me toward the open door. I take a step forward, and when I look back, she's gone.



Author’s (Non-Spoilery Postscript):

Most of the nods in this chapter are to events in “Fool For Love” and a slight reference to the Spike comic set during the Chicago World’s Fair. The scene with the men in the bar is the leadup to the mob that chased Spike, Angel, Dru, and Darla into a mine up in Yorkshire, just prior to Spike learning about Slayers (if you want a time line reference).


 
 
Chapter #57 - Chapter 56: The South Wind
 
Author’s Note: Glad all of you seem to be enjoying this little trip down memory lane. Things are about to get pretty dark, though.

WARNING: This chapter contains scenes of violence.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae and Science





Credits: This chapter contains dialogue from the episode “Fool For Love” written by Douglas Petrie and Joss Whedon, and “Darla” written by Tim Minear.





Chapter 56

The South Wind




I'm surprised, when I open the door, to find that nothing has changed. Somehow I expected to enter a whole new scene like I did the last time. But no, the bartender is where I left him, and so are the remaining customers. Spike is gone, though, and I follow the tingles through the cafe and into the lobby.

Guess he went up. The elevators don't look all that trustworthy, so instead I take the stairs. They spiral up in a boxy kind of shape, and it takes a couple of floors before I realize that the stairs are changing, widening, less square with landings and more one long spiral. The electric lights on the wall give way to those greeny ones I noticed before, and the air is less smoky and more filled with ... perfume and a sort of weird, vague underlying scent of body odor that makes me wrinkle my nose.

Then I find the people.

And we're back in the Victorian era. I really wish this trip would make up its mind which time period it wants to be.

I can't help but envy the women a little, though. They're all so beautiful and elegant with their intricately done hair and their long evening gowns. I know, I probably would have hated all the weird corsets and petticoats and stuff, but they just look so pretty. I'm kind of glad that I'm all ghosty here, because the leather duster and my heaviest pair of jeans, plus snow boots? So not party attire.

Now I just have to figure out where to find Spike.

I half expect to see him hanging with the boys in the gambling parlor I glimpse off the landing to my left, but the tingles lead me further down the hall to another set of stairs. These are broad, carpeted, and the wood railings are polished until they gleam. From below comes the sound of laughter and talking, glasses clinking and soft music. Down I go.

For a moment I pause on the stairs, wishing that I was in one of those beautiful dresses like the girl next to me. Her hair is a mass of dark curls that must have taken hours to do without the benefits of a curling iron. Unless they had them back then... er... now... er... whatever. It would be wonderful to make a grand entrance like this, looking down at all the men begging for my hand, wondering which of them was the one destined for me.

The tingles tug my attention away from the cluster of men waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

And there he is. Spike. No. William. Sitting across the room, in a light colored suit that stands out amid all the black the guys here are wearing. His hair is a mess of long, tousled golden brown curls and he's wearing glasses. But I can still see his eyes from here and he's looking straight at me, whispering something to himself. Then he looks down at something in his hand and starts writing.

My heart thuds heavily in my chest a few times.

He was meant for you.

I'm not sure how I know, but I'm sure that this William is human, in spite of the tingles. When he gets up and moves toward me, I hurry down the stairs to meet him, almost running into the back of the dark-haired girl who has stopped at the bottom. The crowd here is thick enough that William can't quite get through, and I'm stuck on the stairs. I watch as he circles them for a moment, and then I realize that he's not looking at me.

He's looking at her.

Oh. Right. I'm not really here.

Still, why is he checking her out? She's a total cow.

I finally tune in to what the people are saying. "I mean to point out that it's something of a mystery and the police should keep an open mind," says a slightly older, red-haired woman. She's got a kind of pinchy look to her face that I don't like.

One of the men turns to William, barely concealing a sneer. I frown. Why is he sneering? From what I can see, human William seems like a decent guy. He definitely lacks Spike's arrogance and swagger. And snobby guy's stupid looking mustache. "Ah, William! Favor us with your opinion. What do you make of this rash of disappearances sweeping through our town?" the snooty guy says. "Animals or thieves?"

"I prefer not to think of such dark, ugly business at all," William says. "That's what the police are for. I prefer placing my energies into creating things of beauty."

Okay, so human Spike is... kinda geeky. But, you know, cute geeky. Not... Jonathan geeky.

Of course, bullies the world over being what they are, it doesn't take long before someone sees the walking target in their midst. Snooty guy grabs the paper out of William's hand. "I see," he says. "Well, don't withhold, William."

One of the others laughs. "Yes, rescue us from a dreary topic."

William reaches out a hand, like he's going to stop him, but instead he pulls back. "Careful," he says, a little lamely. "The inks are still wet. Please. It's not finished."

I want to reach out and snatch the paper out of the jerk's hands. Clearly William doesn't want him reading it. But there's nothing I can do.

"Don't be shy," snooty guy smirks, then reads from the paper.

"My heart expands 'tis grown a bulge in'it
inspired by your beauty, effulgent."

"Effulgent?" he laughs, and I really want to punch him. The dark-haired girl looks uncomfortable, too. Maybe she'll stick up for him? But instead she turns and leaves, and after snatching the paper out of the jerk's hands, William goes off after her. I try to edge around the group, but what they say next stops me in my tracks for a second.

"And that's actually one of his better compositions!"

"Have you heard? They call him William the Bloody because of his bloody awful poetry!"

"It suits him. I'd rather have a railroad spike through my head than listen to that awful stuff!"

Oh.

Oh, god. Did he hear?

When I look up, I could swear he meets my eyes for a second. Of course he heard. His jaw clenches, then his eyes squeeze shut in pain. I've seen that look before.

William the Bloody.

Spike.

Poetic Irony.

Several things click in my head at once, and I realize that I have to get to him, like, now.

I push through the crowd. Though they never seem to notice me I somehow manage to get through. Spike is sitting down beside the dark-haired girl who is looking like she'd rather be anywhere but here. I don't really blame her.

"Oh, they're vulgarians," William says, making me wonder what the hell a vulgarian is. "They're not like you and I."

"You and I?" she says, turning to face him, looking... shocked. Then she puts on a determined face that makes Willow's look wishy-washy. "I'm going to ask you a very personal question and I demand an honest answer. Do you understand?"

William nods. God, the way he looks at her...

"Your poetry, it's... they're... not written about me, are they?" the dark-haired girl asks. Is she stupid? Can't she see from the look on his face? His eyes are...

I'd kill to have a man look at me like that.

"They're about how I feel," he says, bravely.

"Yes, but are they about me?" she says, drawing back from him as if she's afraid.

"Every syllable," he says, meaning it.

"Oh, God!" she says, fanning herself like a ninny and turning away from him.

"Oh, I know... it's sudden and... please, if they're no good, they're only words but... the feeling behind them...," William says, and I feel my heart ache for him. I know what's coming. "I love you, Cecily."

"Please stop!" she says, fanning herself harder.

William braces himself, and I want to reach out, touch his shoulder, tell him not to say it. Keep silent. Don't. But I can't, and it's too late. Way, way, way too late.

"I tried, because I was in love, and a bleedin' fool." He pauses and takes a swig of his beer. "She turned me down, of course. I was expecting it, but it still hurt."

"I know I'm a bad poet but I'm a good man and all I ask is that... that you try to see me—"

She turns on him. "I do see you. That's the problem. You're nothing to me, William," she says. His face goes blank as she stands, looking down her nose at him and I want to yell at her. I want to say no, you don't and if you did you wouldn't be such a bitch to him. But I can't. And then she opens her mouth again and says three words that feel like a kick in the chest and a stake through the gut at the same time.

"You're beneath me."

"Come on. I can feel it, Slayer," he says. "You know you want to dance."

And god help me, I do. I want to fight him. I want to kill him. And I want to...

No. Not that. I won't want that.

I have to get out of here.

"Say it's true," I tell him. "Say I do want to."

With a hard shove I push him away. He stumbles, surprised as he hits the ground, staring up at me in shock.

"It wouldn't be you, Spike," I lie. "It would never be you."

I won't give him that satisfaction. Won't let him know he's right. He's a monster, a soulless, evil thing. In his eyes, I can see my own ending-not at the end of my own stake, or the ruthless hands of some slimy demon, not a filthy puddle in a dark cavern. Someday, when I'm done, he'll be there, waiting for me...and I hate that there's a morbid sort of comfort in that.

I dig out the cash I promised him and toss it, uncaring when it scatters. Spike lays there, sprawled at my feet and I suddenly want to hurt him. Hurt him as badly as he hurt me. When the words come, I'm not even sure where they came from, but they seem...appropriate.

"You're beneath me," I tell him, and turn and walk away.

From behind me, I hear him make a noise. A harsh, quick indrawn breath that he lets out like a sob.

I don't turn around.

Oh. God. Why didn't I turn around?

Because I know now that if I had, I'd see what I'm seeing now. Only instead of a sofa, he'd be laying in a filthy alley. Instead of scraps of paper, it would be money. Instead of the light suit and soft hair he'd be wearing black leather and bleach like armor.

This is what Spike protects.

William, who wanted nothing more than for a woman to see him for what he was: a good man who had a problem saying the right thing.

He gets up from the sofa stiffly, then moves toward the stairs. Several people snicker behind their hands as he leaves, noticing the tears that he can't seem to stop from streaking down his face. I swing at them as I go, but my fist passes through them as if I really am a ghost.

Still, it makes me feel better.

I hurry after him up the stairs and through a fancy looking foyer, then out onto the street. Carriages line the street in front of the house, but he ignores them, heading down the sidewalk.

Then time skips slightly and I stagger to a stop, trying to get my bearings. I’m now ahead of him. I can see him coming towards me down the street, but that's not what surprises me.

It's what's coming the other way.

Angel.

No. Not Angel.

Angelus.

Has he always been so big? I mean, he always seemed tall, but this version of him is huge. Maybe it's the long hair, or the great big heavy coat, but he looks about as solid and unyielding as a brick wall. On one arm is Darla, looking blonde and pale and perfect. On the other arm is Drusilla. Ditto, only darker, creepier. Like a pair of porcelain dolls.

"No," Drusilla simpers. "His head's too full of you, grandmother."

Darla looks annoyed, "Stop calling me that." Angelus laughs. It's not a nice laugh.

"Don't be cross," Drusilla says. "I could be your mummy."

How creepy is it that someday she'll be just that, if that little scene in Spike's crypt meant what I think it meant? Angelus just shrugs. "Well, if you're lonely, Dru, why don't you make yourself a playmate?" His accent is really Irish. I guess if Spike can change his accent, it makes sense that Angel might have changed his, too.

Drusilla looks dreamy, like she's going off into her own world again. "I could. I could pick the wisest and bravest knight in all the land - and make him mine forever with a kiss."

And William bumps into Angelus, dropping his papers. He bends and picks them up, then tosses a glance at them over his shoulder. I can see the wet tear marks on his face. "Watch where you're going!" Then he continues on his way. Part of me wants to tell him to go faster. Run harder.

"I ran out," he says, lost in the story now. "Was furious, hurt. Thought my life was over. It was. I just didn't know it yet."

Darla looks over her shoulder at William. "Or you could just take the first drooling idiot that comes along."

Angelus laughs again. Not nice. "You think she'll find a good one?"

"I found you," Darla says as she and Angelus continue on. But Drusilla stays behind, staring after William. Then she follows him.

And, helpless to stop it, I follow her.

***


For some reason time doesn’t ripple now. Instead, one minute I’m walking down the street following Drusilla, and the next we’re in an alleyway somewhere. Mews... isn’t that what Spike called it? William is sitting on some crates, crying, tearing his poems up into tiny little pieces and so upset he never hears Drusilla approach. Not until she starts speaking and I remember that she's totally bonkers.

"And I wonder... what possible catastrophe came crashing down from heaven and brought this dashing stranger to tears?" she murmurs, like it's a line from a play. Oh, please. He's not really going to fall for that, is he?

"Nothing," he says. "I wish to be alone."

"I see you," Drusilla says, and William lifts his head in surprise. "A man surrounded by fools who cannot see his strength, his vision, his glory."

She pauses, then seems to consider. "That and burning baby fish swimming all around your head." Right. Looney Tunes. At least William seems to sense that. He stands up and backs away from her, narrowing his eyes.

"That's quite close enough. I've heard tales of London pickpockets. You'll not be getting my purse, I tell you," he says, but he doesn't look so sure. Maybe he knows what she is, deep down, because this isn't just the fear of a nerdy guy afraid of a girl.

Drusilla smiles at him, then bends down a little so she can look him in the eyes. Which is sort of necessary, since he's trying to look anywhere but at her. "Don't need your purse. Your wealth lies here...," she says, touching his chest, then his head, "and here. In the spirit and... imagination." Her hand drifts down, down to a place where I hope his imagination doesn't live. Only, it's Spike, so, it's entirely possible that it does live in that particular head. Still. How slutty can you get?

"You walk in worlds the others can't begin to imagine," she says softly, and he's totally buying it. Or maybe it's just the way she's feeling him up through his pants.

"Oh, yes!" he says, then seems to catch himself. "I mean, no. I mean... mother's expecting me."

Drusilla stares him in the eyes, almost hypnotizing him as she moves his collar out of the way. She stares at his throat hungrily. "I see what you want. Something glowing and glistening," she murmurs. "Something... effulgent."

Not fair, I want to yell at her. Stupid psychic vampires.

"Effulgent," William whispers, totally caught now. I want to shake him. I want to punch her. I want to break that wooden crate over there into splinters and ram them through her heart.

"Do you want it?" she asks, moving his hand to her chest. Hello? Can we say Victorian ho-bag?

"Oh, yes!" William murmurs. "God, yes."

She looks down at his hand on her breast and smiles, and when she looks back up at him, she's in vamp face.

You know, I thought the Master looked kind of batty, but Drusilla looks like a naked mole rat with a bad wig.

William doesn't scream though. Not yet. Instead he just stares at her, confused, maybe. Surprised. When she bites him, she's not gentle about it and then he yells, but he doesn't push her off. Doesn't even try.

Helpless, I watch her feed. I've never actually watched someone be turned, but I thought they had to be, like, you know, hanging on by their fingernails or something. But William's still pretty with it when she makes him drink from her. Then he collapses back against the wall, his breathing harsh and struggling, his skin pale.

Drusilla waits.

I wait.

And William dies.

And then I'm no longer alone, watching the scene unfold.

When I turn to the person next to me, I expect it to be William. But it's not. Nor is it that dark-haired bitch from the party, though I kinda thought it might be. I mean, she was pretty important, right?

But no, instead I get...

"Hello, sunshine," Drusilla says, beside me. She's wearing a white dress and holding a doll clasped in her arms. She's also, quite clearly, crazy. And very much undead. "Won't this be lovely? We shall be like sisters."

"You?" I ask, horrified, glancing between the new Drusilla and ... the other one who is still watching William's corpse as if it's about to get right up and do a jig.

"It took so long," Dru says, confirming my impression. She's staring at William's body, too, pouting slightly. "I thought if I hurried it, it might not take so long. But it took longer. Like Christmas."

Okay, this is going to get really confusing, really quick if I'm going to be following around two Drusillas. One alone is confusing, but two?

Whistler, I'm so gonna kick your ass when I get back to Sunnydale.

Time skips again, and it's very late. Real Drusilla carries William's body to a cart that's waiting in the street. She tosses it in, then climbs up on the seat and clucks to the horses. They whinny, rolling their eyes at the scent of the vampire behind them, but Dru just hums a little and then they go trotting off. No one comes after them. Probably because the driver is laying in the cart, too, deader even than William.

More wrinkles as we follow, and then we're standing in a graveyard, beside a fresh grave. There's a marker behind it, but it's blank.

Real Dru is sitting on a nearby headstone, her hands folded in her lap. She looks a little disheveled and she's still wearing the same dress.

"How long?" I ask Ghost Dru. "You said it took so long.. how long?"

She frowns down at the grave. "Days and days," she says vaguely. "I slept in a crypt with the nicest corpse. His worms tickled my toes."

"Okay, ew," I say, staring back down at the grave. I remember stoner vamp—god, was that only a couple of nights ago? Although, it's hard to tell how long I've been moving since I stepped through the door in the Magic Box. For all I know it's been weeks. Lifetimes. Still, I remember stoner vamp, and how confused he was when he crawled out of his grave, and for the first time I wonder what that's like, waking up in the dark.

"Do you want to see?" Ghost Dru asks.

I'm not sure what she means, but I nod. Isn't that what this is about? Seeing? Not being blind? Ghost Dru smiles, then looks me in the eyes. "Be in me," she says. "See, through me."

And it's dark.

***


Did I shut the curtains? It's so very dark. Perhaps that streetlight on the corner has gone out. Bother. I shall have to send Thomas out to see.

After breakfast. Good God, I'm hungry. I can't remember the last time I was so hungry, so early in the morning. Perhaps cook will make me...

Ow. Bloody... wait.

This isn't right.

I'm not in bed. Where am I?

Where was I? At... oh. Oh dear.

Cecily.

Beneath me.

Beneath me.

Oh...

I can't breathe. I need... Ow! Ow! Bloody buggering...

Wait. I'm in a... box. Why am I in a box?

It's... Oh. Oh, dear Lord. This isn't a box. I'm in a coffin. I'm in a COFFIN!

But I'm not dead. I'm not! Let me out! Let me OUT!

Think, William. Think.

There should be a string... a ... a string with a bell, right. They still do that, don't they? But...

Oh God I want out I want out IwantoutIwantoutIwantout

Hungry.

Oh, God, hungry. My stomach is cramping. How long have I been down here?

And... dear Lord. Did I just... growl? Or is there something in here with me?

Surely I didn't make that noise.

I have to get out of here. I have to... Ow. Ow. Good God that hurts. No leverage. Tear the lining. Punch. Ow. Bloody...

Harder. Hungry. Push. There. Cracking. Careful of the splinters.

Push.

I need light. God, I need light! Sunlight on my face.

No. That's dirt. Dirt on my face. Can't breathe. Can't. Breathe. Keep breathing. As long as you're breathing you're alive.

Push. Dig. It's not far. Six feet.

No. No time for giggling like a ninny. You can panic later. Right now, out. Dig.

Darkness. Dig. Push. Cough the dirt out of your mouth. It's fine. It'll be fine. Just don't stop. Keep going. Light. Air. Light. Don't stop. Push. Dig. Need light. God. Worry about how later. Dig. Claw if you must. Hungry. So hungry. Dig. Food up there. Air. Sunlight. Blessed, glorious light. Warm and bright. Dig harder. Push. Put your bloody back into it, William, now isn't the time for sitting on your arse like a nancy-boy and crying useless buckets of salt. Dig your way out of your BLOODY GRAVE before you stay there permanently.

I don't want to die.

Don't want to die.

Breathe. Keep breathing and you're not dead.

Dig.

Wait. Air. I'm through. Just a bit farther. Dig, William. Pull yourself out.

There. Air. Breathe.

Just... breathe.

***


I blink, wrenching my gaze away from Drusilla's.

William lays sprawled, half-out of his grave, his clothes and face streaked with dirt. He's staring up at the moon and the stars, gasping for air. His hands are a mess. Blood and dirt cake his knuckles. His fingernails are mostly gone, torn from clawing his way through six feet of dirt. Surprisingly, he's not in vamp face.

Real Dru rises from her gravestone and approaches. William immediately jerks upright, then scrambles the rest of the way out of his grave, backing into his headstone with a frightened yelp.

"Did you sleep well, my prince?" Real Dru asks, kneeling down at his feet.

"You," he says. "I... I remember you. What did you do to me? Did you bury me? Why on earth would you...?"

"I rescued you," she says. "Like a sleeping princess, I kissed you and set you free."

He frowns. "Ah... yes. Well. Not a princess, obviously. And—and burying someone is... well, it's abominably rude. And... wait... you... I remember now. You—you bit me?"

He reaches up, fingering the wound at his throat.

"You bit me," he says, staring at her. She smiles. "What are you?"

"What you are, now, naughty boy," she says. "Come, my William. You're very late, you know."

"Late?" he says, confused. "Yes, I am late. Mother is...What day is it, today?"

Real Dru holds out her hand, to help him up. "It is your birthday, but I have already blown out the candles. Come, and we shall find you some cake."

"My birthday isn't until August," he says. "But... I am rather hungry."

"Of course you are," Drusilla says, hauling him to his feet.

"And you're... strangely strong," he says, then grins. "Not that I don't find that attractive in a lady."

"Do you like to dance?" Drusilla asks him, pulling him after her towards the cemetery gate.

"Oh, yes," William says, allowing her to lead him off, the grave completely forgotten behind them.

"Not forgotten," Ghost Dru says, startling me. She's sitting on his headstone now, playing with her doll's hair. "You don't forget. No matter how much you might try, you don't forget."

"So why do that?" I ask, pointing at the grave. "Why put him down there? That... that was horrible." I shudder, remembering him realizing what he was trapped in. "If you knew he'd never forget it, why do it? I know vampires don't have to be buried."

Ghost Dru ignores me, crooning over her doll. "And the dwarves put her into a glass coffin, that all might see Snow White's beauty and weep for the loss of her. Until one day the prince of the land rode by..." She glances up, smiles a loopy little smile. "The pixies whispered," she says. "Butterflies need their cocoons."

Ugh.

"Has anyone ever told you that the Sybil act is really annoying?" I ask her.

"Silly sunshine," Dru says with a smug little smile. She gets up and comes toward me. I back up. I'm not sure if I can hurt her here, or if she can hurt me. Somehow I get the feeling that killing my guides is a bad idea. "Come," she says, brushing past me without quite touching. "Daddy is waiting."

A chill goes through me.

Angelus.

This is going to be worse than I thought.

It's still hard for me to deal with the memory of Angelus and those dark, awful months when the man I loved became the monster I had to kill. Most of the time I try not to think about it. Really try not to think about how it was my fault. How Miss Calendar would still be alive if I had... I spent a whole summer drowning in that guilt, and my fingers are still kind of pruny from it. Knowing that I'm going to have to face him again, here, even if it's only the ghost of him...

I really don't want to do this.

"Oh, the merry-go-round broke down/ and we went round and round," Ghost Dru sings softly, dancing her doll in front of her. "Do you want to stop, sunshine? We can hide your head behind the clouds and all the dark things will come out to dance."

For a moment, I forget. What am I doing? Why am I here?

The scent of leather and smoke from the coat I'm wearing reminds me.

Spike.

I'm here for Spike. Not Angel.

I've sent two vampires to hell, now. But this time, this one, I'm getting back on my own. It was a mistake, and I'm going to make sure I fix it. Spike didn't deserve this. Not after everything he's been through. Everything he's done.

Focus on Spike.

Although, honestly, getting kind of tired of the whole 'falling in love with Buffy earns you a one way ticket to hell' thing. But, hey, at least loving me didn't turn Spike into a monster. That's progress, right?

"No," I tell Ghost Dru. "I don't want to stop. Let's get this over with, okay?"

She smiles. "Once upon a time," she whispers, and the world seems to lurch around us. Seriously? Why did someone let the crazy woman drive this time?

***


We're standing on a street corner under a light. Horse-drawn carriages clatter past, their hooves echoing over the cobblestones. Fog is creeping out of the alleys like a creepy thing, making stuff in the distance fuzzy and indistinct. Two figures stride through the fog, uncaring.

Angelus looks huge with his long, dark coat billowing behind him and all that shaggy hair. He looks, I think, how I always pictured Mr. Hyde. Kinda like a gentleman Neanderthal, all hulky and evil but dressed perfectly. William, on the other hand, looks like a college boy out on spring break, or whatever passes for it in Victorian England. Or maybe he gets to be Dr. Jekyll. His shirt sleeves are undone, and his vest and jacket hang open. He's not wearing his glasses, and his hair is a mess of curls. There's a lightness in the way he walks, almost a bounce in his step. It looks funny compared to the way Angelus storms through the fog as though even the pavement offends him.

"Tonight, Willy, I'm going to teach you to hunt," Angelus says in that rolling Irish accent.

"William," William corrects. "And I already know how to hunt. It's not exactly difficult. Drusilla taught me weeks ago."

"You might not have noticed," Angelus says, dryly, "But Drusilla is female."

"Oh, I do believe I've noticed," William says, ducking his head and hiding a boyish grin.

"And not altogether there," Angelus continues as if William hasn't spoken. "If you want to hunt like a woman, be my guest, boyo. I just thought you might prefer to learn how a man does it."

William frowns at Angelus warily, and I wonder if he heard what I think I heard in that sentence. I'm not entirely certain that Angelus was talking just about hunting. But he keeps on, ignoring William's looks.

We follow them, Ghost Dru barely paying attention as she drifts down the street, taking it all in with huge eyes.

"Now, a good kill takes artistry," Angelus says. "Timing. Knowing your victim and how to make them scream right up until the end. There are so many ways of tearing someone apart. When you've got them all laid out in pieces before you... it's a thing of real beauty."

"And you—you hunt all your kills this way?" William asks. "Seems like an awful lot of work just to eat."

Angelus shrugs. "There's feeding and then there's killing," he explains. "And then there's hunting. Who did you hate most, when you were alive?"

William doesn't even think about it. "Beasley," he says. "Lord Hugo Beasley. Bullied me all through school, and grew up to be an utter pillock of society."

Angelus' mouth twitches slightly. "Tell me all about Lord Hugo Beasley, then. What he likes, what he loves..."

They move off into the fog and time staggers nauseatingly, pulling me in another direction.

This time we're standing on a corner, watching a building across the street. Carriages arrive, but not many, and it seems like only men get out of them and go inside. Angelus and Spike lean against a wall, watching the building, too.

Well, Angelus does. He looks like he could wait there for hours, propping the building up with one massive shoulder. William is pacing back and forth like a tiger in a cage, restless and bored. I wonder if bored William is as dangerous as bored Spike?

"So is it time yet?" William asks. "Time for the big hurrah?"

"You're too impatient," Angelus comments. "To do this properly, it takes time."

"It's been a week," William complains. "An entire week of killing his fusty old housekeeper, his favorite valet, his bloody accountant, his prize-winning horses and even his little yappy dogs."

"Yes," Angelus says. "And right now he's drowning his sorrows in his club, whinging about the unfairness of life and nervous as a cat in a room full of hungry wolves. The fear and anticipation are what make the hunt worthwhile."

William mutters something that none of us catch. He pulls something out of his pocket and starts fidgeting with it.

"What have you got there?" Angelus asks. William grins and holds it up to the streetlight.

"A railroad spike," he says. "Isn't it lovely? I'd never really seen one before."

Angelus doesn't look all that impressed. "Where did you get a railroad spike? More importantly, why?"

"I got it at the bloody train yards," William says. "Where else? And as for why... let's just call it a burst of inspiration."

Angelus grins evilly. "Now you're starting to get it, I think. Though perhaps next time something with a touch more class to it?"

"Oh," William says, "this has got 'class' all over it. Or, it will, in any case. Soon."

"Soon enough," Angelus says. "Patience, boyo. Tonight we give him a taste of real fear. Tease him a bit."

With his back to him, Angelus can't see William's eyes roll. I try to suppress a giggle that's entirely inappropriate given that they're talking about cold blooded murder. William fingers the railroad spike and then glances up at the building, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. I wonder if Angelus knows yet that bored plus William isn't a good combination?

Once more time staggers, moving us along.

And there's William, blood dripping down his face from his fangy grin. He's standing over a body that, even with the giant metal spike that's been punched through its head, is easy to make out as the snooty guy from the party. The one who said he'd rather have a railroad spike driven through his skull.

Guess you really should be careful what you wish for.

"What the bloody feck happened to teasing him?" Angelus roars, storming into the mouth of the alley we're in. "You were supposed to taunt him, you fool."

"Sorry," William says, clearly not sorry at all. "I just got so bored. Besides, I'm not much for cryptic charades, and he was being an arse."

Angelus grabs William by the shoulder, spins him, then grips the collar of his shirt and backs him into the wall, hard. "You wasted a perfectly good hunt," Angelus growls. "We were two, maybe three days away from utterly destroying him—"

William wrenches out of Angelus' grasp. "Looks bloody well destroyed to me," William says, kicking at the body.

"That's just the flesh," Angelus says. "Destroying someone mentally, emotionally—that takes skill, cunning. Intellect, which you sadly seem to be lacking."

"Guess I just don't understand the point of it," William says, frowning. "Dead is dead, right? And I'm still here, which means I won, end of story."

Angelus growls. "It's the difference between mutton and a fine fillet; between cheap ale and the finest whiskey."

"Between a dockside whore and your mother... oh wait," William says, sarcastically. "I forgot. You're Irish. Your mum was a dockside whore."

Angelus snarls and lunges, swinging a huge fist at William's head. William doesn't have time to duck, not expecting an attack from that quarter. After watching him fight with that Chinese guy, it's something of a shock to see William fight so clumsily, but I have to remember he won't be that good for another twenty years or so. Right now he's still just a newly risen vampire, and Angelus has a good hundred years on him. Not to mention almost a foot in height and about seventy pounds of muscle.

Ghost Dru claps her hands in delight, watching the fight with unconcealed glee.

It's short, brutal, and when it's over, Angelus has William pinned to the wall by his throat. William's nose is broken, one eye is black, and it looks like he's probably broken a rib or two.

"Listen to me carefully, boyo," Angelus says. "I don't care who you were, or where you came from. I don't care if you were shagging the fecking queen of England before you died. You're in my world now, Willy, and I'll kick your arse around for the next hundred years if I feel like it, because I'm older than you, smarter than you, stronger than you, and better than you, and I always will be. You will learn your fecking place, or I will put you in it. Painfully."

He tightens his grip, making William gasp and choke. I've always wondered why grabbing Spike by the throat was usually effective when he doesn't need to breathe, but having taken that little side trip into his head while he was clawing out of his grave... I get it now. It's not just reflexive. William panics if he can't breathe.

It's kind of how I feel in water.

I promise, if I get him out of Louhi's hands, I'll never grab him by the throat again.

"You exist on my sufferance," Angelus continues warningly. "Dru likes you, and she needs a playmate. For one reason or another, she picked you, so I'm not going to stake you right now. But I know ways of making you hurt that you can't even imagine. You think about that, whimpering Willy, the next time you decide to backtalk me. Are we clear?"

William grunts something that might be agreement, and Angelus lets him drop to the ground.

"When you're healed up, we'll try it again," Angelus says. "And the next time, you'd do well to listen to your betters." And with that he whirls and stalks back into the foggy street, leaving William to pick himself up.

It's only once Angelus is safely out of earshot that William snarls, "Wanker." With some effort he stoops and yanks the railroad spike out of the corpse at his feet. "He's a bully, just like you, old chap." He giggles a little hysterically. "You see, now I know what happens to bullies, and someday I will be stronger than him. Better. And I'll kick his arse. See if I don't. I'll get what's mine."

He holds up the spike, studying it.

"Yeah," he says, "I'll get what's mine." Then he limps off down the alley in the opposite direction.

"I guess I know now why Spike hates Angel so much," I say. I can't really say that I blame him. It's easy to separate Angel from Angelus, though. He looks so different now from how he did then. The real Jekyll and Hyde.

"A certain father had two sons," Dru says to her doll, sitting it on top of the dead man's chest as if it were a gruesome table, then sitting beside it to tell her story. "The eldest was quite smart and sensible and could do everything, but the youngest could never learn or understand anything, and where ever he went, trouble followed. Whenever anything needed to be done, the father would send for the eldest to do it. Unless it was in the night-time, or if it needs be done in some dark place. Then the eldest would protest and say 'no, father, I'll not go there, for it gives me the shudders.' But the youngest, hearing this, would wonder and say 'I do not know what it is to shudder. That, too, must be an art of which I understand nothing.'"

"Is there a point to this?" I ask her.

"Shhhh," she says, putting her finger to her lips and narrowing her eyes. "Sunshine should be seen and not heard."

"I don't think so," I tell her. "Look, can we save Storytime for the Damned for later? Spike needs me to find him and I'm so not in the mood to listen to the crazy right now."

"Time means nothing here," she says.

"Getting that, but still, can we hurry it up?"

She stands with a grace I envy, then picks up her doll and clasps it to her chest. "You think you know," she says. "But this isn't the beginning." She smiles in that creepy way that makes me wish I could punch her.

And then we’re moving again.





Author’s (Non-Spoilery) Postscript:

A couple of credits for this chapter. Obviously, the first chunk is based on “Fool For Love” (and a glimpse from “Darla”). Most of the rest is fabrication—though there are nods to “Bargaining Part II” and “Lovers Walk.” The song Dru sings earlier is “The Merry Go Round Broke Down” and the story she tells here at the end is the beginning to “The Boy Who Left Home to Learn About the Shudders.”

Dru’s section is a bit long, so it will be continued in the next chapter.


 
 
Chapter #58 - Chapter 57: The South Wind (Part II)
 
Author’s Note: Remember what I said about dark? Most of this chapter, if not taken directly from an episode, was extrapolated from show dialogue—meaning that the events are technically canon, though the interpretation of those events is mine.

WARNING: This chapter contains graphic violence and (not-entirely)-implied rape.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae and Science





Credits: This chapter contains dialogue from the episode “Fool For Love” written by Douglas Petrie and Joss Whedon, and “Destiny” written by David Fury and Steve DeKnight

Chapter 57

The South Wind (Part II)




Unlike the Chinese Slayer’s time ripples, Dru’s leave me feeling off balance and a little nauseous. It takes me a minute to figure out where she’s dropped us this time.

We're in a church.

Oh, wedding! Pretty.

Okay, gotta hand it to the Victorians. They may not have been down with the regular bathing or the non-stinky methods of transportation, or women's lib, but god, were their clothes pretty.

We're standing in a line of people greeting guests as they enter the church. I'm not really sure why we're here, actually. It's a church. There's a massive cross on the wall behind the altar. It's not exactly a vampire's favorite hangout.

Although, the Master was stuck in a church, and Dru and Spike did that weird ritual in a church, so... maybe the Aurelians are more church friendly than most.

Which seems to be confirmed by the fact that Angelus and William are both moving down the line, politely thanking the family for having them here. No one seems to question their presence, or why William keeps casting nervous glances at the cross at the front of the room.

After they move past the family, an usher arrives to escort them to their seats. "Bride's family, or groom's?" the young man asks.

"Groom's," Angelus says at the same time as William says, "Bride's."

"Groom's," Angelus repeats firmly. "Everyone comes to these things for the bride."

We follow them down the aisle, and when the usher seats them, Dru slides into the pew behind them. Reluctantly I do, too. The fact that these two are here cannot be good.

"Why, exactly, are we here?" William asks, echoing my thoughts.

"They say it's a love match," Angelus comments. He leans over to the woman in the pew in front of them. "Isn't that wonderful? A love match in this age, it’s so rare it might as well be mythical."

"Lots of people marry for love," William says with a frown. I can see it on his face; he's trying to figure out what Angelus is up to. "It's much less rare than it used to be."

"It's very romantic," the woman says. "But I'm not entirely sure that it's very desirable. It's so gauche to be in love with one's husband." She eyes Angelus and William up and down. "And often quite inconvenient."

Ugh. Victorian hussy!

Angelus laughs. "I do enjoy an honest woman."

"They're starting," William says as the organist starts up the wedding music. Dutifully the woman turns back to watch. "Doesn't it bother you?" he whispers to Angelus as they stand for the bride's entrance. "The cross?"

Angelus shrugs. "Suffering's good for the soul," he says. "I don't have one, so why should it bother me?"

William eyes it. "Doesn't it hurt, though? Whether you believe in it or not?"

"You stuck your hand in sunlight," Angelus says. "Same thing."

William mulls that over for a bit as the bride steps up to the altar beside the groom and the priest tells us to sit. Weddings really haven't changed much over the years, it seems. The clothes are a lot fancier, and the church decorations are real and not made with a lot of plastic and fakey stuff. The priest or minister or whatever is old, and kind of bug-eyed, and he has a weird habit of tonguing the corner of his mouth when he finishes a sentence.

The ceremony drones on, but I'm not really paying attention. I'm too busy watching William watching Angelus. His bruises have faded, I notice, so this must be some time after that scene in the alley. He's so close I could lean forward and touch him, and for a moment I have to sit on my fingers to keep from actually doing it. I'm not sure why the urge to touch him is so strong, but it is. He watches Angelus with a mix of fascination and wariness. Angelus, for his part, is utterly focused on the ceremony, a twisted little smile playing at the corners of his mouth. It's a little weird to discover that I have absolutely no desire to touch Angelus. He's... too harsh a reminder of things I don't want to think about. Seeing him like this...

"Guard the door," he says to William, without warning. "Kill anyone who tries to leave."

Abruptly, Angelus stands up, leaping over the end of the pew and rushing up to the altar. Women shriek with dismay and the bride and groom half turn to see what the commotion is. Angelus just knocks them aside, and reaches for the priest. He grabs the old man by the sides of the head and squeezes hard.

"Frankly, father," he says. "Thine eyes offend me."

He increases the pressure and the sound of the man's skull being crushed echoes through the church. Most of us turn away, gagging at the sight.

Then the guests scream and try to run for the door, but William is faster, beating them there and slipping into game face. They scream again when they see him and back away frantically, sandwiched now between the two vampires at either end of the church.

Angelus laughs, drawing our attention back to him. The groom and the bride are still at the altar, the bride half fainting behind the groom. He's got a cross in hand and is thrusting it at Angelus frantically. "In the name of the lord, I command thee, demon," he says, his voice trembling.

"Know what I love about crosses?" Angelus says conversationally, not looking away. "The false hope they bring. Two sticks of wood, bound together. Not a very effective weapon, really, if you think about it. Oh, to be sure, it'll repel weaker demons. But it's hardly an effective tool against real evil. Only a fool hides behind a cross."

A shiver goes down my spine.

Angelus reaches out and grasps the groom's hand around the wrist, breaking it and causing him to drop the cross. Then Angelus kicks it away, hardly sparing it a glance.

"They say we're at the dawn of a new age, where science and reason will rule the day," Angelus says. "No more of all this superstitious nonsense. Maybe they're right. So I'm here to prove a theory. I say, love doesn't exist. It's a fairy tale invented by women and weak-minded fools."

He's talking to the groom, but I can't help but feel like the words are directed at William.

"Why do I think love doesn't exist? Because when faced with the choice between love and self-preservation, man will always choose to save himself. Allow me to demonstrate."

With a powerful lunge he grabs the groom and wrenches him away from the bride, then grabs the bride, too. He holds them both by their collars, facing each other with death between them. I rise, unable to stop myself. But the barrier is back, holding me in place. Drusilla giggles and claps. "Oh, what a lovely wedding," she says.

I glare at her.

"A moment ago you were pledging your undying devotion. Together until death do you part. A noble sentiment, to be sure. What I want to know is, did you mean it?" Angelus asks. "You've got a choice. You can beg for your own life, or beg for the life of the one you love. Which is it to be?"

The bride and groom stare at each other, stricken. Neither of them want to die. I can see it in their faces. So can Angelus.

"Cat got your tongues?" he asks. "Tsk. For shame. Let's ask an easier one then. Do you love her?" He gives the groom's arm a shake. The frightened man nods. "Beautiful. More than anything I suppose?" The man nods. "Would you give your right arm to keep her from dying?" The man nods again, probably thinking it's just a figure of speech.

With a wrench, Angelus rips the man's arm out of its socket.

He screams, dropping to the floor, writhing and clutching at the bloody stump of his shoulder where his arm used to be. The guests scream and push back away from the altar again. William grabs a plump woman who tries to push past him at the door and twists her head, breaking her neck. She drops to the floor. Warned, the rest quiet again, with only a few whimpers of terror.

"Tsk," Angelus continues as if nothing unusual happened. He reaches down and hauls the man to his feet again. He wobbles badly, clearly in shock. The bride has already passed out, hanging limp as a rag doll, held up only by Angelus' fist. "Where's your bollocks, man? It's just a flesh wound. Now let me ask you again, as your little woman decided to take a holiday, you've got a choice: you can beg for your life, or you can die for hers. Which shall it be?"

The groom is sobbing now, staring at Angelus in white-faced terror. He whispers something, but only Angelus seems to hear it. "A little louder, boyo. They can't hear you in the back."

"P-please," the groom says. "Please. I d-don't w-w-want t-to d-die."

Angelus releases them both, and they crumple to the floor. He reaches down and picks up the severed arm, then uses it to gesture at the groom. "You all heard that? This man is a bloody coward," he says. "He'd rather live than save the life of his bride. So much for love." He shrugs and half turns toward the bride, then stops.

"Here's the thing," he says. "I can't abide a coward. They don't deserve to live." And with that he whirls on the groom, raising the arm up over his head. He brings it down on the groom and proceeds to beat the man with it, viciously. I turn away, trying not to retch.

"Make it stop," I whisper to Ghost Dru.

"Shall I close your eyes?" she asks. She holds up the doll, and I see that she's bound a strip of cloth around the dolls eyes. The look on her face is sly.

"No," I tell her. "No."

Instead, I turn to watch William. He's watching Angelus with huge eyes.

The crowd, however, has reached their breaking point. Some of the men rush William, trying to get past him, but the crowd in the aisle bottlenecks and he's got room to work. Others try to break for the back of the church and the door behind the altar, but Angelus roars and chases them down, one by one. Then the slaughter really begins, and the two vampires work their way through the crowd, killing most outright, pausing to feed only occasionally.

When it's over, the two vampires stand over the heap of corpses, grinning.

"God that was amazing!" William exclaims. He mimes fighting moves. "Did you see how many I took down? Must've been at least a dozen!"

"Good job," Angelus says, picking his way back to the altar. "There's nothing quite like a bloodbath, is there? Really puts me in a good mood. Too bad Darla's not around, I could do with a shag." He slides a speculative glance at William who is still bouncing a little, amped up by the fight. A moan at the front of the room, however, makes the two of them freeze.

The bride slowly sits up, looking around dazedly. "Where am I? Oh, what happened?" she asks, then her vision seems to clear as her gaze falls on the corpse of her husband. She screams.

Angelus is quick to cut her off though, gripping her by the arms and dragging her to her feet. "Nearly forgot about you," he says. "I thought you weren't going to join our little party. Willy, look what's come round." He pushes the girl up against the altar, pressing her back against it and holding her in place with one hand around her throat. "Ah ah," he warns. "No more of that swooning shite. You're a ripe little peach, aren't you, lass? And I've got myself all worked up." He begins hauling her skirts up and tearing at her underclothes. She screams and struggles. "It'd be a pity if you were to die a virgin on your wedding night. I've got this soft spot for virgins, you see. Well... perhaps soft isn't quite the right word."

I turn to Dru. "This has nothing to do with William," I tell her, hating how hoarse my voice is. "You're only doing this to torture me. Can't we skip ahead?"

"I quite like this part of the story," she argues.

"I don't," I tell her. "I get it. They're monsters, and Angelus doesn't like love. Really, really got it. Show me what this has to do with Spike. That's why I'm here, right?"

"Some monsters are born," she says cryptically. "And some are made."

"Okay, so Angelus taught Spike to be a monster, right? That's what this is?"

"Slime and snails," she says, like that's an answer. Ugh. Why did I have to draw the crazy vampire guide card?

"Skip ahead," I tell her through gritted teeth, trying to ignore the screams coming from the front of the church, and Angelus' commentary to William on how to make her scream harder. William, however, hardly seems to be paying attention. He's moved over to the table of wedding gifts and is tearing into the boxes. Angelus gives up on him with a growl, then turns back to the girl.

It's not Angel, I tell myself. It's the demon.

Only Spike chooses to ignore his demon. And he did it even before the chip.

And Angelus can't. Not without a soul.

That thought makes me sit back down again.

It's not fair to compare them. Souled Angel and Soulless Spike, they're like apples and... puppies. For so long, whether I, you know, consciously realized it or not, I've judged Spike and found him lacking because he wasn't like Angel. Spike was soulless, evil, and that made him horrible. Angel had a soul, felt regret, which made him seem better.

It was such a shock, finding out what Angel was really like without a soul, and after... I did my best not to think about it. But if you put Spike and Angelus side by side…

There's a reason, I suppose, why Angelus is considered one of the most purely evil vampires in history, while Spike is best known for killing a couple of Slayers.

And there's something else going on here, something I don't quite understand yet. There's a reason I'm being shown this, painful as it is.

"I need to see the next part," I tell Dru. "Show me."

She smiles, and the world goes dark.

***


We're in a carriage, and moonlight streams through the window. I'm sitting on the uncomfortable bench seat beside William, though there's enough room for at least another person between us. Angelus sits across from him, the bride from earlier held tightly against his side. She's near death, painfully pale with terror and blood loss, the bite marks on her neck still leaking a little. Ghost Dru sits beside her, across from me, staring at the blood dripping down the woman's neck hungrily.

Great.

"...Bloody priceless. And beating the groom to death with his own arm, I mean, honestly, you're a bloody killing marvel," William says, laughing. He's riding high on the fight from earlier. I know him well enough now to be able to tell that he's still focused on the fight.

Angelus, however, has a strange look in his eyes. "Yeah," he says. He pushes the bride a little toward William. "Have a drink."

William laughs. "No, that's your spoils, mate."

"I've had my fill," Angelus says. "Go on, take her."

"Nah," William says, glancing out the window. "I think I might go and find Drusilla. She's prowling for street urchins in the East End. Make her happy if I joined her for a bit."

Angelus' eyes narrow slightly. Just a twitch. "She's special, isn't she? Our Drusilla?"

I'm not sure if William hears the slight emphasis on the word "our."

"More than that. She brought me into this world. Where I was meant to be," he says, a little dreamily. "It's like... she's my destiny."

My instincts are suddenly on high alert. Angelus shifts, ever so slightly. "Yeah, she is a sweet plum," he says. "I mean, a bit dotty and brain-addled, but..."

Now William frowns. There's a fight brewing here, but it's so subtle I'm not sure if they're even aware of it. "She's not. She's just...It's like she's still got a bit of a child in her," William says, trying to explain. I can't help but glance at Dru. She's gazing between the boys, clearly enjoying this.

Angelus smiles, that evil little smile that I hate to see on his familiar face. "Perhaps two or three by now," he says, knocking on the carriage wall. "Driver! Stop the coach!" The carriage lurches to a stop. "Happy hunting. Go on. Just be home before sunrise. "

William grins and jumps out of the carriage, shutting the door behind him.

Angelus raps on the carriage wall again and it starts forward. He leans back, hauling the bride up next to him. "The boy isn't very bright, you know," he tells her. "Always missing the point. Guess maybe it's time for a more obvious lesson. What do you think, lass?"

She whimpers.

"Exactly what I was thinking," he tells her, bending to drink from her again.

***


When time changes again, we're sitting in what looks like either a very fancy living room or some kind of hotel room. The corpses of a man and a woman sit, cuddled together on the sofa across from us, fang marks on their throats. There's an open doorway just past, and through some hanging drapes I can just make out a pair of figures moving.

By the sounds they're making, it's fairly clear what they're doing.

A door opens, and William strolls in, looking disheveled and disappointed. He hears the sounds and heads for the doorway, peering in. "Looks like you haven't had your fill after all," he says. Then freezes, his back and shoulders suddenly, horribly tense.

From the other room just out of our sight, drifts Real Drusilla's voice. "The little children didn't come out to play," she says. "Did you miss me, pretty William?"

"I'm sure he did, Dru," Angelus drawls. "After all, you are his destiny."

"Oh!" she says. "That's so sweet!"

"That is so tacky," I tell Ghost Dru. She shrugs. William is nearly quivering with suppressed... something. He snarls and lunges at Angelus, and the next thing I see is William being pushed back hard into the wall, Angelus' hand at his throat. He pins him there while he does up his pants, smirking the whole time.

"Don't touch her," William growls.

"Little late for that, Willy," Angelus mocks. "And I really don't like it when you raise your voice to me."

"William, don't play such a sad tune," Real Dru says, still thankfully hidden by the curtain. "Give us a kiss, then."

"Did I mention slutty?" I tell Ghost Dru. She shushes me with a finger over her lips.

"Why did you...?" William chokes. "You knew. You knew she was mine."

"Did I?" Angelus asks tilting his head curiously.

William rips himself free. "You knew bloody well!" With an animal growl he lunges at Angelus.

But once more, Angelus is bigger, stronger, faster, older. He holds him off, then shoves him roughly to the floor. "You just don't get it now, do you?" he says, grabbing William by the shirt and picking him up. With a couple of steps he pushes William into the sitting room, then shoves the corpses off the couch and sits William on it. He flops companionably beside him, too close for comfort, pushing William back into the corner. "Well, you're new, and a little dim. So let me explain to you how things are now. There's no belonging or deserving anymore. You can take what you want, have what you want... but nothing is yours. Not even her."

Real Dru wanders into the room, looking disheveled and far prettier than she deserves considering she's such a skeezy ho-bag.

"You're wrong," William tells him. "We're forever, Drusilla and me."

Real Dru is delighted by that. "Are we?" she asks, beaming. I want to punch her.

"Ah, still the poet now, aren't we, Willy?" Angelus mocks.

"William," William growls.

"Right. William," Angelus says patronizingly. "You know you really should find a new name for yourself. It just doesn't strike the right note of terror."

He pats William on the knee, then stands and goes to Real Dru. He moves behind her possessively, pressing a hand to her stomach and rubbing himself against her. "Tell you what... William. If you want her, come and take her."

William's jaw clenches angrily, and his eyes flash. And suddenly I see the first real glimpse of Spike in him. This is where it really started. Everything leading up to this moment was just... Angelus' sick idea of foreplay.

With a growl, Spike lunges up from the couch. He pushes Real Dru out of the way and swings at Angelus' face. Angelus blocks him, then punches him back. Like before, the fight is fast and ugly and awful. Angelus doesn't pull his blows and Spike is too pissed to back down. So Angelus puts him in his place.

When it's over Spike is face down on the carpet, bleeding, swollen, and broken. Angelus is kneeling over him, one knee in the small of Spike's back, pressing hard.

"Maybe next time, you'll listen," he says. "There is no love. No destiny. No belonging. You'd do well to forget that crap. You're nothing. You were a pathetic excuse for a man, and now you're an even more pathetic excuse for a demon. And until you learn your lessons, boyo, you'll always be nothing. Now, Dru and I weren't quite done. So you be a good lad and lay here and bleed on the carpet, while I go and give her a proper seeing to. And if you ever interrupt me again, mid-shag, I'll have a go at your skinny arse. Bet you scream like a little girl. Bet you'd bleed like one, too."

He gets up, kicks William viciously in the ribs, then saunters over to Real Dru who is leaning against the wall and enjoying all of this way too much. The two of them disappear back into the other room and William lays on the carpet, in too much pain to move. There's hatred boiling in his eyes, though.

All this time jumping has me a little confused but... if try to piece it together... this can't be more than a few weeks after Spike was turned.

Angelus didn't get his soul for almost another twenty years. Somehow, without witnessing them, I know... he spent twenty years like this. Bullied and beaten, having to learn all of Angelus' sick lessons, putting up with Drusilla cheating on him right in front of him. And yet he stuck by her, loved her, for more than a hundred years after this.

I watch as he struggles up onto the couch, dragging himself with his one good arm. When he manages to get himself settled, he turns to the open door, listening. His one good eye gleams yellow.

"Why?" I ask. "Why would he stay?"

"Because he was my sweet boy," Ghost Dru says. "Like a knight, all shiny and sharp and deadly. Because he loved me and I loved him."

"That wasn't love," I tell her. "You... you chained him to you, made him think... made him think you were his."

"Mmmm," she says. "Chains can be quite fun."

Why do I even bother?

"You don't even know what love is," I tell her. "It's not just about... you know, kinky sex."

She stands up, facing me, and something in her expression seems more lucid than usual. "I do know," she says, softly. "Vampires can love quite well, if not wisely. Shall I show you?"

And something inside me clicks, like a puzzle piece sliding home. A black, worn-leather, journal-sized puzzle-piece.

"You don't need to," I tell her. "I already know. Even if I don't believe that you can love, I know he can. Spike..." I turn to look at William, sitting on the couch, broken, but not beaten. He's listening to the sounds coming from the other room, and tears are tracking silently down his furious face. There's so much pain in his eyes, and not just the physical kind.

...Never learnt not to love. Was the one thing Angelus tried to beat out of me and never could. Loved Dru for so long, even when she didn't deserve it or want it...

"Spike loves with everything that's in him," I say, more to myself than to her. "Even his demon."

Warmth blazes in my chest.

And he loves me. Spike loves me.

Angel, I realize now, could never love that way. It's not in his makeup. Souled... he needs to suffer to be happy, and that means that while he can love, it has to be the distant kind, the untouchable, unrequited kind. It's the only way he can protect himself, and I suspect that part of him likes the pain of it.

But I'm not made that way.

You're full of love, the First Slayer told me. I'm more like Spike. He loves with everything he is, everything he has. Trying to stop him from loving something is like trying to stop the sun from burning. And yes, the demon twists it a little. He's not perfect, far from it.

But love defines Spike.

What could he be capable of if someone actually returned it? a little voice whispers inside of me.

"You begin to see," Ghost Dru says. "Would you like to see the rest?"

I have no clue what else she might need to show me, but I'm really hoping it doesn't involve Angelus and her having more kinky sex while Spike watches.

"Show me," I say, bracing myself for the worst.

"Look at me," she says, staring at me. "Be in me. See through me."

I do, and...

***


“To kill this girl… you have to love her.”

Bollocks.

Fucking Angel.

Got a bad feeling about all this. Buggered up plan—never going to work. Destroy the world… Good job, Spike. Stuck in a wheelchair, burnt half to hell and feeling miserable for yourself—so what do you do? You order up one Judge to go, please, because your girl’s got a yen to kill all the fucking food on the planet.

Good plan.

Fuck.

Where’s an incompetent minion to bugger things up when you need one? Should’ve let Dru prod out Dalton’s bloody eyes. Don’t like the way Big Blue looks at me, either. Like he sees something… How come Angelus gets to be the bloody epitome of evil? No humanity in him, but I “reek” of it? Bloody hell. I’m just as evil as he is. Judge doesn’t know sod all about anything.

Hundred years… I can hold my own against Angelus now.

Or… well, if I weren’t stuck in a FUCKING WHEELCHAIR.

“Just like old times,” he says. Yeah. Cause I really missed those.

And Dru… way she looked at him…

God I hope the Slayer stakes him. Bitch is probably too busy sobbing her little heart out.

Stupid wanker. Funny, though. Figures that Angel’s moment of happiness would be destroying the innocence of a virgin. Proves that the sadistic fuck was still in there, under that bloody soul. Him and his ‘peaches.’

Hasn’t changed much, either. Still too caught up in the foreplay to actually do the fucking deed. Had the Slayer practically on her knees and what does he do? Taunts her? He fucking taunts her? Pillock—

Shit… someone’s here.

Heartbeats, so… fucking Slayerettes, probably on the warpath. No minions and I’m stuck in this sodding chair… Shit. Dark corner. Can still see here…

Bloody buggering hell… Slayer’s here? Thought Angel said she’d be all heartbroken and crying for a week? THAT is not a sobbing Slayer. That is a killing machine.

Shit.

Look at her.

God, just look at her.

Angelus is in for one hell of a surprise. He’s wrong. He’s so bloody fucking wrong. More he tries to break her heart, the harder she’ll be. Spine of steel, that one. Even down here in the dark she’s so bloody bright.

To kill this girl, you have to KILL her.

He’ll go after her friends, her loved ones, but it’s only gonna make her stronger, make it that much easier for her to dust him. Can see it in her eyes…

Beautiful. Such a beautiful, deadly girl.

She’s it. The one. The perfect Slayer.

Angelus doesn’t stand a chance.

***


With a gasp, I break Drusilla's gaze.

God. I hadn’t even known he was there in the factory that night. I should have figured it out after, but... what with everything that happened I never stopped to wonder where Spike was in all that mess.

The way he sees me... it’s one thing to read about it. One thing to, you know, sit there and read all those words written by a guy in love with you.

But Spike didn’t really love me back then. He wanted me dead. I’d dropped a church organ on him.

And yet... the way he saw me. Seeing myself through his eyes...

I guess, ever since Angel—I’ve always thought that there was something in me that just turned guys away. That being the Slayer meant, I don’t know, that what was left of me that was Buffy wasn’t worth all the trouble being the Slayer caused. Or maybe just wasn’t... you know, enough.

But Spike, he sees me. Both sides of me. Even back then. And... he changed, for me. Because of me.

Because he saw something in me that was worth it.

And...

Where the hell are we now?

I figured we'd still be in the hotel room, or possibly in the Bronze, but... this isn't anywhere I recognize at all. It's night, and we're standing in a dirty little courtyard with lanterns strung above us on wire. A bar is lit up on one side of the space and lots of little tables are scattered all over. And it's hot. Major hot. Sweat is rolling down my back under my shirt and the leather duster and we've only been standing here a minute or two.

You'd think being Scrooge would mean I'd get a break from the temperature, but no.

"Drusilla!" Spike roars from somewhere out of sight.

And Real Dru comes wandering in, ignoring him, on the arm of something... tall, dark and really icky. Spike follows, looking furious and miserable.

"Dru, what the bloody fuck is this?"

"I'm a chaos demon," says Slime n' Antlers. "Nice to meet you. My name's—"

"I don't give a monkey's arse what your bloody name is, Prancer. What I want to know is why the two of you were making out on the park bench! Dru, I thought we were past this," he says. "How many times are you going to make me grovel?"

"Is this guy bothering you?" the chaos demon asks.

"She's my soddin' girlfriend, you thick twat. We've been together for over a hundred fucking years!" Spike says.

"I'm thirsty," Dru tells the demon.

"Oh, sure. Just... um, vampire, right? I'll just... I'll go see what they've got." He shuffles off, oozing.

"Dru," Spike says. He takes her by the arm and steers her toward one of the little tables. She sits staring at him with unreadable eyes. "Dru, baby... you've got to stop punishing me like this. I only, fuck, I only did it—"

"Lies. Pretty lies. I hate her, Spike," Dru says. "You promised me you would kill her and you couldn't ever do it. She brought blackness upon us."

Spike grimaces and lights a cigarette. He paces as he talks, like he's desperate for the need to move and breathe. "So, Sunnyhell was not our finest hour. And yes, I made a deal with the Slayer. But you were shagging Angel and bringing about an Apocalypse to end all life as we know it. So? Every couple's got their ups and downs, luv. Point being, we got through all that, it's behind us now. Isn't it?"

He looks so desperate for her answer, but she just seems cold.

"I hate it here," she says, not answering him. "Furry little animals peering at us from out of the trees, and the people all taste funny."

"Right," Spike says, going down on his knee beside her and holding her hand. "We'll pick up and move on again, until we find the perfect spot. And there I'll make you my queen. Just tell me what you want."

"I want the Slayer dead, Spike," she says.

Spike explodes. He tosses his cigarette away and shoves to his feet, pacing back and forth like a caged and wounded tiger. "You're the one who keeps bringing her up! I haven't said a word about the bloody Slayer since we left California! She's on the other side of the planet, Dru! Gone from our lives forever!"

Drusilla narrows her eyes, standing regally in her weird looking dress. "But you're lying," she says. "I can still see her, floating all around you, laughing. Why won't you push her away?"

Spike pauses, staring at her with something like desperation in his eyes. "But I did, pet. I did it for you! And you're still punishing me, you think I don't know what's going on with you?"

The chaos demon pipes back up, and I realize that somehow he's snuck back over, way too quietly for something that big and... drippy. "Uh... you guys obviously have a thing going on here..." he says. Neither of them pays him any attention.

"I have to find my pleasures, Spike. You taste like ashes," Drusilla says, her voice sounds sad but her expression is cold.

"This is my fault now?" he says, incredulous. He shoots the demon a murderous glance.

"I didn't know she was seeing someone..." the demon says, dripping into the drinks he's still holding. Ew. "I should take off."

"Yeah," Spike says. "Why don't you do that?"

The demon goes.

"You can't blame a girl, Spike. You're all covered with her. When I look at you, all I see is the Slayer," Dru says. Her eyes shift ever so slightly to Spike's left and I realize she's staring right at me. A shiver goes down my spine. "You want to dance with sunlight."

"Dru—" Spike says. "Please, listen. I'll do whatever you want. Go wherever you want. Kill whoever you want. Just... please, luv, give me another chance."

Dru looks off into the distance. "Funny," she says. "I always knew the Slayer was your destiny. The stars sang it the night that I found you."

"Baby—" he says.

"No more chances, Spike," Dru says. "We've danced our last. Go. Go find your Slayer. Walk in to the sunlight. You're not demon enough to stay with me."

He's hurt, furious. I can see it in his eyes. "Fine," he says. "I don't need this. I don't. I've got an unlife, you know. I-I... all the cheating and the fighting and the... shagging Angelus the minute he crooks his bloody finger. I'm done with it, Dru. Done, do you hear me? This isn't my fault and I'll be buggered if you're going to lay it on me like this."

"Goodbye, Spike," Dru says. And then she leaves without even looking back.

For a moment Spike just stands there, looking lost somehow. It's the same look he wore when that Cecily girl rejected him, only worse.

I know how he feels.

He stands there for the longest time, and I want to go to him. Want to put my hand on his shoulder and promise him it'll be okay. Want to reassure him that he's not done, that he'll go on, that loving me isn't so bad.

Only... I'm not sure if I'd be telling the truth.

Because loving me is what gets him mixed up with Louhi, taken to a hell dimension. It costs him his freedom, changes him into something that I'm sure this Spike would sneer at with contempt.

But he's so much more than what he was with Drusilla. I've seen it now, maybe not all of it, but I've seen him now at his worst and... and I know that somewhere all the Watchers ever are turning in their graves or something but...

Spike’s not what he was. Not anymore. Yes, he’s a monster. He’s done evil things for more than a century. He’s killed and tortured and...

But there’s something in him that can be... better. I know it.

And, it’s scary, because I think... I think it’s because of me.

Ghost Dru has been standing beside me, passively watching the whole time. "You want him," she says. Her dark eyes are scary deep.

"Yes," I tell her, surprised at how much I mean it, and in how many different ways.

"Then I have taken you as far as I can," she says, "and now you shall ride on the back of the north wind."

"I'll what on the what?" I ask. She holds out her hand and I realize that she's no longer carrying her doll.

"Miss Edith said it was for you," she says. In her fist is a railroad spike. I take it from her, feeling the cold iron against my palm. It's heavier than it looks, solid, and a little scary.

"Why you?" I ask, looking back up at her. "You hate me. You want me dead. Why you?"

Something crosses her expression, the ghost of who she might have been, once upon a time. "We're all just broken dolls," she says and smiles softly. "He is yours, now. Do not break him again."

There's a threat there, I think. I glance back down at the railroad spike in my hand and nod. It's a heavy weight, but I'm strong enough to carry it.


 
 
Chapter #59 - Chapter 58: The North Wind
 
Author’s Note: We made it through the dark, lets lighten things up just a little bit for a moment.

WARNING: This chapter contains… uh… adorableness.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae and Science





Chapter 58

The North Wind


It's the change in light that gets my attention. One minute we're still somewhere in South America at night, and the next...

It's daylight, I’m alone, and I'm in a graveyard.

I might as well be home.

It's cold, but not snowing, the sky a bright, incredible blue that almost hurts the eyes. The trees overhead are just starting to come into leaf, so I guess it's close to spring. The cemetery is old, way older than even some of the ones in Sunnydale which seem to go back almost impossibly far sometimes, considering that California isn't all that old. The nearest gravestone is weather beaten and pitted from exposure to the elements and claims to be for "Mary, 1561" which means I'm probably somewhere in Europe; I'm just not sure how far back.

My Slayer sense tells me that Spike is somewhere nearby.

I put the spike in one of the duster's deep pockets and start walking, glad to be using my muscles again to get around, rather than being poofed everywhere. I have to remember to tell Whistler that, next time, I want the walking tour of history rather than Wonka's Great Glass Elevator. God, I hope I'm nearly done with this, I'm so ready to fight something my fists itch.

At the top of the hill I pause to look down at the cemetery below. There's a small group of people gathered around an open grave near the bottom of the hill. They're dressed... well, I'm not sure what came before Victorian, but it might be that. Only they're all in black. The women even have on little black bonnets. I come more than a hundred years through time and I still end up in graveyards at funerals.

Sometimes it sucks being the Slayer.

Spike, or more likely William, is somewhere down there in that group. I don't want to intrude, though. It looks... private. Instead I sit down on one of the nearby headstones and wait. I can't hear the minister too well, but it doesn't matter. The tone of the words is familiar as a lullaby. I could recite them from memory, I think.

For a moment, I miss my mom so much I can't breathe, and tears burn my eyes. It could be her funeral, down there, except for the weird clothes. It hurts to think that, when I get home, she won't be there, waiting for me.

"She loved you, very much," says a gentle voice. I brush the tears from my eyes and turn to face the owner of it. A woman stands beside me, dressed in a flowing white gown with a soft looking robe over it. Her hair is long and curly, a sort of sandy blonde streaked with gray, and her features are delicate and really beautiful. She's older than my mother, but there's something about her that reminds me of mom. Her eyes are blue and oddly familiar, though I know I've never seen her before in my life. She looks, I think, like an angel.

"Hello," I say, not sure who she is or why she's here, but I figure it's probably better to be polite. "I'm... looking for William."

She nods. "You've come a very long way, my dear," she says. Her voice is softly accented, English like Giles or William. "But there is not much farther to go, to find what you seek. He is lucky to have found someone like you. I had worried..." She looks off into the distance. "He still has so far to go, but he will have you there to guide him."

"Who are you?" I ask, curious. Then I blush. "Sorry, that's probably rude."

She makes a delicate sort of gesture. "Manners change with time," she says. "As does fashion. Sometimes most peculiarly." Her eyes hold a great deal of curiosity and warmth as she takes in my clothes. I can't help but feel self-conscious, even if she does look like she's wearing a nightgown in public. Still, I'm mostly matchy if you don't count the duster.

"It's Sp—I mean, its William's. The coat, that is," I say, fingering the worn leather.

"I know, dear," she says, not unkindly. "I've watched over him for a very long time."

"Are you his... um... do vampires get guardian angels?" I ask, confused.

She laughs. "Not under normal circumstances," she says. "You may call me Anne."

"That's my middle name," I say, smiling.

"Not nearly as original as Buffy, I dare say." She smiles and I fiddle with the coat some more.

"My mom liked it," I say. Her fingers are cool as they touch my cheek.

"Come," she says. "There's still much to see."

I glance down at the gathering below. It's started to break up, people drifting off. Many of them stop to speak gently to a woman standing near the grave. The widow, maybe? I follow Anne down the hill, though we pause several feet away from the mourners. Eventually they all wander off, except for the priest, the woman in black, and a little boy that I didn't see before, hidden as he was by all the big skirts and dresses.

"William," I breathe. He's standing by the grave, dressed somberly in black. He’s got on these funny little shorts on with black stockings over his lower legs and someone has made an effort to slick his sandy colored curls into some semblance of order. It's not really working well, though. He's probably only about seven, maybe eight, thin and small for his age. Still, I can see the faint echoes of Spike's face there, just starting to emerge. The high cheekbones aren't so prominent, but the mouth and the eyes are all Spike.

Somehow I never pictured him as a child. I guess he's been a man for so long it seemed like that's what he must have always been, even as a human. But this... he's just a little boy. A sad, lost little boy staring down into a grave, silent and still. The woman comes over and puts a hand on his shoulder. His mother, I guess. It takes me a minute to wrench my eyes away from William to look at her. Most of her features are hidden under a long black veil, but from what I can make out...

"She's you," I say, surprised. "You're William's mother."

"Yes," she says.

"The... grave, was it...?" I'm not sure how to ask.

"His father," Anne says softly. "James."

William is trying hard not to cry, struggling to hold back tears. His mother notices and squeezes his shoulder. "There's no shame in tears shed in pain or grief, darling," she says, clearly crying herself.

He looks up at her, his eyes already too old. "Why did father have to die?" he asks. "I don't understand."

"None of us do," she says.

"It's not fair," he says, tears spilling down his cheeks. "We were going fishing next week, and he...he was going to help me learn to ride. He promised."

"Shhh," she says. "I know. But God has his plan for all of us, and... though we will miss him greatly, he is in heaven now."

"I'd rather he were here," William says, unhappily.

"I know, darling. But... we must be strong and brave. It is just the two of us, now." She smoothes his curls with a gloved hand. William's face hardens.

"I will take care of you, mother," he says. "I promise. I am a man now. Father said... father said a gentleman always takes care of the women he loves." He sounds so serious.

She smiles a little, behind her veil. "So young," she murmurs. "We shall take care of one another."

She takes his hand and they both return to staring at the grave for a few minutes.

"What happened?" I ask the ghost of William's mother. "How... how did he die?"

"He had a headache," Anne says softly. "He took a nap. He didn't wake up."

Goosebumps go down my spine. They didn't know much about medicine and stuff back then, I think. They wouldn't have known, if it were cancer, and wouldn't have been able to do anything about it, even if they had. Still, it seems too much like my mom.

"He never mentioned it," I say.

"It was very long ago, for him," she says. "Very long ago. It's doubtful he even remembers."

It's quiet then, but for the breeze in the tree branches and the sound of birds chirping in the distance, and the soft sounds of William's quiet sobs. After awhile his mother takes his hand and leads him away.

"Come," Anne says. "Let us find a happier memory."

"Happy," I say, thinking back over all the moments of Spike's history I've gotten to live. "Happy would be a nice change."

***


Maybe Anne knows I'm in need of movement, or maybe she is, but we get to actually walk to our next stop. Time ripples so smoothly around us I barely notice the transition from graveyard to garden. I do notice the house. "Oh," I say, stopping to stare.

Whoa. Big.

I don't think it qualifies as a mansion but... it's pretty darned close. There's more windows just on the front of the building than in my entire house, and the stairs up to the front door are not handicapped friendly. Ivy literally swarms up one whole side of it and has started an invasive push to take over the front of the building, too.

As houses go, it's pretty damn impressive.

"Um... was William, like... a lord or something?" I ask, not sure what the proper term is.

Anne smiles. "Oh, no. Just a gentleman. We only had a few tenants, but the land was good, and William's father was not a spendthrift. We were quite fortunate, really," she says. I have no idea what half of that meant, but I guess it means they weren't poor. Still, big house.

She leads me through several gardens, one of which actually looks like they use it for vegetables and stuff and not just lots and lots of flowers. There's an open door at the side of the house and we wander in to the biggest kitchen I've ever seen. Outside of a restaurant that is. There's a stove, but it's really old, black and clunky, and the heat coming off of it makes me glad we're all the way across the room. Copper pots and pans hang from the ceiling, along with a lot of drying herbs. The counters gleam with polished dark wood. Something smells really amazingly good.

A thin, older woman with iron gray hair stands at one of the counters, rolling out pastry dough with a wooden rolling pin. We move a little closer and I watch her take some cookie cutters and start to cut out stars and moons and sun shapes. She looks up at a scuffling sound coming from the door we just came through.

It's William, a little older now, and no longer in short pants. He's maybe twelve or thirteen, and his curls are mussed and wild. He's also got a black eye, his nose is bleeding and his knuckles are scraped up. For some reason this only makes him look more like Spike.

"I thought you said this was a happy memory," I say, dryly. Anne just smiles.

"Watch," she says.

"Master William," the cook says, stopping her cookie cutting. "Whatever happened?"

William grins through the blood. "Michael gave me a boxing lesson," he says, proudly. "I blacked his eye."

The cook's eyebrows raise. "You're bleeding all over my kitchen," she says.

"My apologies," William says. "It's not that awful, though, honestly. I'm sure it looks worse than it is. It barely hurts."

"Well it's nothing compared to the state you were in last month, that's for certain," she says, wetting a cloth at a porcelain sink with a weird looking faucet. She leads him over to a stool near the counter top and starts dabbing at his face. "But we should get you cleaned up before your mother sees. Whatever possessed you to take up boxing?"

He frowns and winces a little as she cleans around his eye. "I'm tired of the other fellows having a go at me," he says. "I thought it might be a good idea to learn to defend myself. It so upsets mother when I come home bruised."

"That it does," says the cook, looking at his nose critically. "Well, it's not broken this time, at least. You had such a lovely nose as a boy, though I daresay it's a bit more patrician now."

"He didn't mean to actually hit me," William explains. "It was only an accident."

"If Walters gets wind of this, he'll tan Michael's bottom."

"I'll explain it," William says. "I asked him to teach me, after all. It wasn't his fault."

She pats him on the head fondly, ruffling his curls. "Just don't turn into one of those ruffians like young Lord Chetworth," she scolds. "Or I shall tan your bottom myself. You're not too old yet, for all you've been Master since you were just a wee lad."

"I won't," he promises. "I just thought it was important for me to learn to defend myself. If not for my sake, for mother's. What if I should have to protect her?"

"I hardly think you'll be required to resort to fisticuffs," the cook says. William gets a faraway look, though.

"I never really understood fighting before, but... I think I should have quite liked being a knight. Like in King Arthur... riding about, righting wrongs, protecting the weak?" he says.

"More like sitting about, drinking yourself into a stupor and falling asleep in the pigsty, if Sir Pembroke is any example," she says, grabbing a towel and pulling a tray of cookies out of the oven. "He's lucky he's not set himself on fire yet, the way he passes out willy nilly. Only the worst of men drink to such excess, and they always get what's coming to them, mark my words."

"I shall," he promises, sniffing the air. "Don't I get a cookie?"

"May I have a cookie," she corrects him with a sniff. "And I don't give cookies to hoodlums."

"Then it's a very good thing I'm a gentleman, isn't it?" William says, teasing. He flashes her a very familiar, very boyish grin.

"Flirt," she says, but she puts a cookie on a small plate she pulls out of a cupboard and passes it to him. He picks up the sun-shaped cookie and takes a bite.

"May I have some milk?" he asks. "I've read it's good for strong bones."

"Well, that head of yours needs all the help it can get," the cook says. "There's a bottle in the ice box, help yourself. I need to get the next batch in, in time for tea."

William excuses himself and heads into a small room off the kitchen.

"He's... still Spike," I say with a frown. "Only... not."

"Did you think he wouldn't be?" Anne asks.

"I... I don't know. I mean, I know Whistler said that a lot of the human remained but... I never really gave it a lot of thought, really," I say. "I always thought... I guess I thought that they'd be more like opposites. I thought the demon sorta twisted the human. But he likes fighting."

"Not for the same reasons," she points out.

I frown. "Not exactly, no. I guess William was more into books than fighting, huh?"

"I'm afraid I read to him a great deal when he was just a child," she says. "But he was a lonely little boy, and books were ever good company. I coddled him more than I should, rather than leaving him to the care of his tutors and governess. Had his father lived..."

"Fathers aren't really all that," I say. "Trust me on this one. I'm sure his dad was probably a great guy but...male role models? Kinda overrated."

"It's very different, for a young man," she says. "Especially then. There were so many things I couldn't teach him..." She looks sad for a moment.

"I'm sure you did a great job," I tell her. "I mean, even though he ended up becoming a demon and... you know... the whole kil—." Good job, Buffy. Remind the nice, old Victorian lady that her son grew up to be a mass murderer and slaughtered a good chunk of Europe. "I mean... he's not such a bad guy, for a vampire. Pretty good, actually. So... you did something right."

Her lips twitch. "I know what became of him," she says. "I've watched over him for a long time. You needn't worry about upsetting me."

"Oh," I say. "Right." Because really, what do you say to that?

***


Time shifts around us again, but it's so subtle I almost don't notice. A few things in the room change places, the light in the window moves. The herbs growing in little clay pots along the ledge get taller. The paint on the walls fades a bit.

Anne leads me out of the kitchen and up a short flight of stairs to a dining room big enough to feed all of my friends with arm room to spare. Then down a hallway that changes somewhat more drastically as we go. By the time we turn the corner into a massive foyer, I'm fairly sure we're not in the same house any more.

If William's house was a mansion, this is a palace. I can't imagine what it would cost to keep this place clean. The walls seem to go up forever and the stairs gleam with polish. It'd probably be easier to see if it weren't for the absolutely massive number of people, most of whom are wearing huge dresses that make moving around pretty difficult. The women, I mean. The men look kind of like penguins with their funny shirt fronts and black tails.

Somehow we manage to get through the mess and find the ballroom. Anne leads me around the edges to an area that's set aside with chairs and overstuffed lounges. The floor is crowded with young people, but this seems to be the preferred hangout for the older set, far enough back that they won't be in the way of the dancers, but close enough they can watch.

William's mother sits among a small number of women, looking a little out of place in her black dress and shawl. She's older now, and thinner than she was at the funeral, but not as old as her ghost. William appears at her side, carrying a glass of punch.

He looks incredibly handsome in his black and white. Not like a penguin at all. His shirtfront isn't as starched and puffy as some of the other men we passed, and his hair isn't as greasy and slick, though he's made some effort at taming his curls. He's also pretty young. Twenty, maybe twenty-two at most. "I'm sorry, Mother," he says, handing her the glass carefully, so as not to spill any of it on his white gloves. "I'm afraid they've run out of the cucumber sandwiches. Would you like some cake, instead?"

"No, thank you, William," she says with a smile. "I shouldn't like you to wait on me all evening. Surely you'd prefer to dance."

He glances at the floor, longingly. "Yes, well, ah, most of the ladies were engaged already, though I've hopes that Lady Hurst might find one or two lacking a partner. She promised to inquire. In the meantime, Mother, I'm entirely at your disposal." He bows to her.

"I hear you've done quite well this year at Cambridge," says one of the older women beside his mother. She's dressed in a gown of vivid, eye gouging pink. "Top of your class, was it not, Mr. Pratt?"

William looks flustered. "Ah, yes... quite," he says. "Though, it was rather close..."

"I don't hold with too much education," says another woman, with a sniff. "Whatever would one do with so much extraneous information cluttering up one's mind? Even should you live a hundred years it is doubtful you will find much cause for it."

"Knowledge is its own reward," William says, quietly, but neither of them pay him any attention. Instead they devolve into an argument over modern standards of education, though it doesn't sound like either of them have any clue what they're talking about. William's attention drifts back to the dancers, a look of longing on his face. I can't see why, the dances are sort of lame. Still I know how obsessed Spike is with dancing and... he's damned good at it. If he was even half that good when he was human I can't really understand why no one would want to dance with him.

"What do you think, Mr. Pratt?" asks Mrs. Pink Lady, startling William back into the present.

He flushes, embarrassed to have been caught not paying attention. "I'm terribly sorry," he said. "The noise, madam, I'm afraid I didn't quite catch the question?"

"Eton, dear boy. You attended, did you not?"

William nods, confused, then remembers his manners. "Yes, indeed, madam."

"What do you think of the headmaster's opinion on the morality of young boys?" she asks. "I have heard that he subscribes to the belief that morality is not innate, but rather learned through the actions of one's family, teachers, and peers, and that without such guiding influences young men are quite in danger of being soulless. Do you agree?"

Anne frowns. "Such a dreadful topic for a ball," she murmurs, "but then she ever did speak her mind."

"I... I ah—," William suddenly looks terribly uncomfortable. "I confess that, at—at times it may seem as if young men are... not at all conscionable in their actions, and that...the guidance of an exemplary role model may, in time, teach them those ethical and... and moral behaviors that may guarantee them acceptance in society that they might otherwise be denied."

"Where did you reside, at Eton, Mr. Pratt?" asks the pink lady, staring down her nose. A neat trick, since he's standing and she can't be more than my height, though much fatter.

"I-in the Long Chamber, madam," he says, going very stiff through the back and shoulders. "I'm sure you've probably never—"

"My husband was a graduate of the same," she says. "I can only assume, since you stand here and retain all of your limbs and faculties, that it was as educational an experience as the entirety of Cambridge."

"What's she talking about?" I ask Anne. "What's the Long Chamber?"

"Someday, perhaps, you should ask him," she tells me. "Perhaps in another hundred years."

"That bad?"

"I believe you live on something called a Hellmouth," she says. I nod. "Much like that. Only worse."

William bows to the women. "If you will excuse me, ladies, I believe I see Lady Hurst beckoning for me. Mother." He bows again and moves away before the Pink Lady can ask him any more questions.

We trail after him, through the masses of skirts and tails. This time, I don't envy them so much. For one thing, the ballroom is hot, and the idea of wearing all that silk and taffeta and tulle makes me kinda sweaty and itchy.

"Ah, Mr. Pratt," says a woman who I assume to be Lady Hurst. She's an older woman, starting to tend toward fat, with a bird perched on her head. It takes me a minute to realize that it's dead and she's put it there on purpose. "Allow me to introduce you to Miss Goneril Smythe. Miss Smythe, Mr. William Pratt." William bows. The girl does something that might be a curtsy... if curtsies are usually done with the grace of a drunken, three legged giraffe.

Miss Smythe would probably be called something polite like... er... plain, in William's day. In mine, we'd just call her unfortunate and in need of serious medical help. Her eyes are actually kind of pretty, if you ignore the fact that one of them sort of wanders off to the left all on it's own. And... her skin might be nice if she spent some serious time with Cordelia and a whole regime of skin cleansers. Her dress is... well, very green. Painfully green. The color of pea soup.

She smiles, and I really, really wish she hadn't. William blinks very slowly, and I watch him swallow hard. "A pleasure, Miss Smythe," he assures her with another bow. She giggles.

Hyenas sound more attractive.

"I've taken the liberty of penciling you in for Miss Smythe's next two dances, Mr. Pratt. I know how much you love to dance," Lady Hurst says. She draws him aside and murmurs in his ear, out of the girl's earshot. "Try to keep her moving to the right. I'm afraid the darling girl has something of a clubfoot, and she tends to list a bit to the left. Please, don't mention it, however, as it pains her to discuss."

William swallows again and jerks his eyes away from the girl's hemline, which, I can see, is purposefully hemmed higher on one side than the other. "My lips are sealed, Madam."

"I knew I could count on you, Mr. Pratt. Oh, there's the quadrille!" She all but shoves the two of them together and onto the dance floor.

"Abominably rude woman," Anne says, her lips thinning to a line. I get the feeling that, if if she could, she'd slap her.

"Right there with you," I tell her.

As soon as William and the girl are on the dance floor, a young man moves up to Lady Hurst's side. "Bravo, mother," he says. It takes a minute for me to recognize him, since he's missing the ugly mustache and the sideburns. This is one of the guys that was picking on William at that other party... the one that won't happen for another few years. The one where Cecily will break his heart. The one that will get him killed.

"It would be remiss of me in my duties as hostess if I failed to make every effort to ensure that all the young ladies who wished to dance had an opportunity. Your friend, Mr. Pratt, was quite convenient," Lady Hurst says, primly. The man laughs, but not nicely.

"Hardly a friend, mother," he says with a sneer. "William Pratt is a fop and a fool. How an utter scug like him managed to finish at Cambridge..."

"Careful, Henry," his mother says through a smile. She nods at several people as they pass her. "This is hardly the place to air such things."

"He's universally disliked, Mother. I sincerely doubt it would damage my reputation to say what everyone already says behind his back," Henry says, arching a brow.

"Time and place, Henry, are everything when it comes to appearances," Lady Hurst advises. She's watching the dance floor with a tiny little frown. "Ah, here comes Mrs. Smythe."

A short, pretty woman approaches and the two women greet each other politely. Mrs. Smythe curtsies much more gracefully than her daughter. "I wished to thank you," Mrs. Smythe says. "I so appreciate you finding an understanding partner for Goneril. The ball is all she's talked about for the last fortnight, and I worried."

"It wasn't any difficulty at all," Lady Hurst says.

"She's merely going through an awkward stage," Mrs. Smythe says. "I looked much like her, at that age."

We all blink. Mrs. Smythe is really pretty. If I squint though...

Beside me, Anne smiles. "Actually, she looked worse," she confides to me. I look at Mrs. Smythe again, very closely. Her hem is higher on one side, too, though she moves very gracefully. The woman turns to look at the dance floor.

"Isn't it amazing what a good partner can do?" she says with a happy smile.

We follow her gaze.

Wow.

She's right.

Goneril Smythe may be plain, but on the dance floor, weaving amongst the other dancers, she glows with happiness. Her smile is huge, her eyes bright and they're both focused on William who is smiling back at her kindly. He's careful of how he moves with her, to keep her balanced and graceful as possible. He adjusts his moves so that even her clumsiest steps look like they were done on purpose. They're even talking, though I can't hear what they're saying all the way over here.

It's... like magic.

Henry and his mother are trying not to look like fish with their mouths hanging open.

When the song finally comes to a close, William leads her back over to her mother, guiding her with a palm cupped at her elbow, and bending his head slightly to talk with her. They're both smiling. Introductions are made and William bows to the girl's mother, totally polite. "It was an absolute pleasure to dance with your daughter, madam," he says. "She tells me that you've taught her yourself. My compliments."

It's easy to see that he means it. Henry's face gets all thundery. Ha. Guess your plan backfired, Lord Hurls.

"Shall I fetch refreshments before the next set?" William asks. The Smythes are only too happy. The Hursts, not so much. William bows and heads off to find drinks, and we drift away from them, after him.

"That didn't go how I thought," I admit.

"William's father once told him that the measure of a gentleman was in how he treated others, particularly women. A man who could set a woman at ease, make her feel as if she were royalty with nothing more than a smile, who could be kind and gracious no matter the situation... he could count himself as a gentleman," she says. "He took it very much to heart."

And I think he kept it, as a vampire. Not that he's as polite or as well mannered, not usually. But I remember how attentive Mr. Gordo could be, and how Spike is with Drusilla. The way he guided me when I was blind... When we fight or dance... he adjusts so that we move together like we were always meant to.

And... that day in the car... the way he looked at me. The way he looked at me just before Louhi came.

There's me, there's the demon, and there's... whatever is left of the human I was...

William. Somewhere inside of him this somewhat shy, polite guy is lurking.

It makes me wonder how much of Spike was created to protect William. Angelus did his best to get rid of William entirely, but I think Spike is right. William's still there, like a slightly battered angel on his shoulder.

For a moment the temptation to sit down and pull out his journal and re-read it is almost overwhelming. Now that I know, now that I've seen, it all starts to make so much more sense.

"You're beginning to understand him, I think," Anne says.

"I think maybe I am," I say, wondering what that means for the future. What the heck am I going to say to Spike after all of this?

"Then there's only one thing left for you to see," Anne says, and in her eyes I see pain and regret.





Author’s (Non Spoilery) Postscript:
Most of this chapter is conjecture, obviously, however, some parts of it are true to the era in which Spike would have grown up. I did a lot of reading on Victorian life and houses and customs and balls and education. Incidentally, the conversation about Eton and the morality of young boys is based on an essay by Christopher Stone (published in 1909). Some people, at the time, really did believe that young boys had no moral conscience and that they had to be taught how to “play the game” (have a strong moral backbone). Obviously I moved the time period up by almost thirty years—but the belief was likely somewhat in place by then already. The references to bullying and the Long Chamber are also inspired by various essays on the topic.


 
 
Chapter #60 - Chapter 59: The North Wind (Part II)
 
Author’s Note: This is the last of the “Wind” chapters. You probably knew this was coming, though…

Side note: In the previous chapter, I know I have Young William say “cookie” instead of “biscuit”. I was deliberately attempting to be clever and harken back to Willow’s engagement spell and failed. Sorry.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae and Science





Credits: This chapter contains dialogue from the episode “Lies My Parents Told Me” written by David Fury and Drew Goddard



Chapter 59
The North Wind (Part II)


When I look up I realize that at some point the ball disappeared. We're standing in a hallway. Through a tall set of windows I can see the gardens. It looks like we're back at William's house.

It's quiet. Very quiet.

Too quiet.

Somewhere a clock is ticking like something out of an Edgar Allen Poe story. William is standing a few feet away, fidgeting slightly with the need to move. He clearly wants to pace, but pacing is probably impolite or something, so instead he's standing as still as he can. The door in front of him is closed, but he's staring at it as if he could see through it, if he tried hard enough. A muscle in his jaw flexes. It takes me a minute to realize that he's older. Maybe mid to late twenties. He looks a lot like he does now.

Well, if you bleached his hair, got rid of the glasses and dressed him like a rock-star biker from hell.

He ought to be chain smoking, as nervous as he looks.

When the door opens, we both jump a little. Only Anne stays still and silent next to me. A tall man in a brown suit steps out of the room. He's carrying a big black bag. Wrinkles line his face, and his hair is mostly gray, but he doesn't actually seem all that old. He shuts the door carefully, then motions William further down the hall, closer to us.

"Is it...?" William asks, nervous and worried.

The man nods. "I'm so very sorry, Mr. Pratt. It's as we expected. Consumption. I've left some medicines for her to try, but there's not much we can do other than make her comfortable and try to keep her calm and rested."

William swallows, nods, then swallows again. When he speaks his voice is hoarse. "Is there... is there nothing else we might do? Perhaps Bath... or... or London?"

The doctor, because he definitely acts like a doctor, nods a little. "The trip would be difficult for her, but the disease is still in the early stages, yet. If you were willing to take her to London, perhaps you might find a physician there with more experience with the disease than I have. She'd be closer to the hospitals, as well. Bath is another excellent option. The sooner you travel, the better. I'm sorry. I wish there was more that I could do."

"No, I—I understand, Doctor," William says, glancing back at the door. "Is she in much pain?"

"Not yet," he says. "There's laudanum, if the coughing fits increase. There will be blood, when she coughs. It's usual, with the disease, as it progresses. If it's only a little, there's no immediate danger, but I thought you should be prepared. Some people are... squeamish, and it would be better if you were calm and able to put her at ease."

"I understand. Blood doesn't bother me. I'll arrange for us to move to London immediately," William says. "I may have to go into town to find a suitable house to rent. Would you mind, terribly, checking on her regularly whilst I'm gone?"

"Not at all."

"Is there... is there anything else I can do?" William says. "I... I dislike feeling so useless. Surely there's..."

"I'm sorry," the doctor says. "It's a hard road to travel, and harder still when we're forced into idleness when we'd most like to help. Keep her calm, and comfortable, as happy as she can be."

William nods, then, "How long?" It's almost a whisper.

"A few months, perhaps," the doctor says, not quite meeting his eyes. "A year, maybe, if she's strong enough to fight it."

William swallows so hard the knotted tie at his throat bobs up and down.

"I see," he says, his shoulders slumping. He rakes a hand through his hair. "I... I thank you, Doctor. If I... have any questions...later, that is... ?"

"Call on me at any time," the doctor says.

"Thank you," William says. I can't tell if he really means it. The doctor says his goodbyes and leaves. William, in the meantime stops at the hall mirror, and stares at his reflection in it for a long moment. Then, carefully he adjusts his collar, his vest and jacket, his hair. With a pained look, he shuts his eyes very tight, his jaw clenching.

When he opens them again, he deliberately smiles at himself and straightens his shoulders. When he goes into the room, he leaves the door open. I follow, almost unable to stop myself now.

Anne lays in bed; except for her hair being up, and her robe being different, she looks pretty much like she does now—as a ghost. She's maybe a little less thin, a little less fragile looking. I think I remember someone saying consumption was what they used to call tuberculosis, but I don't really know anything else about it.

I blink, and for just a second it's not Anne in the bed.

It's my mother.

"How are you feeling?" William asks, and it's Anne again. She smiles. Sitting up, propped against so many pillows, she looks tiny in the bed.

"I think I should like some tea," she says softly.

"I'll ring for some," William says, pulling on a cord beside the bed. He clears his throat.

"The doctor told me, dear," she says softly. "He thought I should know."

William nods jerkily. "We'll go to London," he says. "There are... doctors there. Educated men. Perhaps... perhaps we'll find a miracle."

She nods. "I don't suppose there's any harm in going to London," she says. "Perhaps we could take in some of the amusements, while we're there? The theater... I haven't been in so long."

"Whatever you want, Mother," William says. "You know you need only say the word and I'll fetch you the moon." He smiles as he sits at her bedside.

"My poet," she says, fondly. "I don't need the moon; I have you." She thinks for a moment. "It will be the season, you know. I shouldn't like it if you stayed locked away with me the entire time. It will be a good opportunity for you to attend a few balls, dances. Perhaps find a girl..."

"There is time, for that," he says. "I'd prefer to concentrate on making you well, Mother."

"Not enough," Anne says. "There is never enough time."

Tears burn in my eyes, and Spike's words seem to echo in my head, even though I only read them and never heard him say it aloud.

Didn't tell her about my mum, though I probably should have.

Should've told her that I know what it's like to watch someone you love die by inches. To want more than anything to save them, even when you know you can't. To feel helpless, useless.

Time ripples and shifts, leaving the room empty, the fireplace in the grate cold. Anne's ghost drifts past me, lingering beside the bed.

"We saw The Merchant of Venice," she says. "Have you ever seen it?"

"We read it," I say. "Uh... I forget when, but, in school. We read it. I liked the girl. The one who pretends to be the lawyer, or whatever."

"Portia," she says. "Yes, William liked her, too."

"She was the one with the... challenge, right? To win her hand? I liked that. Seemed a great way to pick a decent guy, you know?" I say. "The first guy picks the gold chest, because he's all about wanting, and the second guy, he picks the silver chest because he... thinks he should get what he deserves."

"And the third man risks it all, his heart, his money, his life, on a casket made of lead," she murmurs, then smiles. "Which chest do you think William would pick?"

"The lead one," I say, without any doubt. For a moment I think about Riley and Angel. Riley would have gone for the gold, I think. Angel, for the silver. Spike is a gambler, though. He'd risk it all on nothing more than a crumb of hope.

Maybe even less than that.

"He was always a dreamer, my William," she says. "Always reaching for those things he thought he shouldn't have. He never saw them as unattainable; I think you should know that. He honestly believes that if you try hard enough, you can touch the sun. I believe that's what made it so hard for him. He so wanted to believe that he would find me a miracle. That he could save me, if he tried."

I swallow hard, blinking back tears. "I know how that feels," I say.

She smiles, kindly. "You would have fought to the end, for your mother, would you not?"

"In a heartbeat," I say, meaning it.

"Then perhaps you will understand what you must see," she says seriously. "But first, one more thing."

She leads me out of the room and down the hall.

Once more the world seems to shift as we walk, until we're in some other house, some other place, some other time. William and his mother step into the hall after climbing a flight of stairs from the foyer down below. He holds her elbow, supporting her.

"Are you certain of this, mother?" he asks. "If you're not feeling well..."

"I feel quite well," she assures him, although she looks very pale and fragile. "It's not as if it's a ball, we merely had dinner. Now, you leave me to visit and go enjoy some port or whatever it is men do after dinner these days. You may come back up with the rest of them."

He looks concerned, and a little like the thought of going down there and playing at being pals with the other guys is the last thing he wants to do. But he nods, anyway.

"As you wish," he says. "Please, don't overtax yourself. If you feel even the slightest bit ill..."

"William," she says, softly, touching his face. "I'm dying. We know this, the doctors can only confirm it. I should like to live out the rest of my days, limited as they are, as normally as possible. Please, don't treat me as an invalid, it will only serve to make me feel like one. Strength, true strength, lies in here." She touches his chest and his forehead. "I need to be strong. I need you to be strong. Please William, let us just..."

He clasps her hand in his and presses a kiss to her knuckles. "Of course," he says. "I promise. I shan't hover any more."

"Good," she says, smiling. "You were beginning to remind me of a mother hen. Hardly an attractive trait for a man looking for a wife."

He smiles at the teasing. "Point taken. Now go, enjoy your evening. I shall be up later, provided the other fellows don't murder me at billiards."

He bows slightly, then goes back down the stairs. Anne, both Annes, watch him fondly.

Time ripples, changes. It's not as surprising, when I'm with Anne, for some reason. The transitions are gentler. Or maybe it's just that we're moving from room to room within houses and not jumping across continents and decades.

This time it settles on a room in another house, and William and Anne are just coming in. They're wearing the same clothes from before, so I guess it's the same night, only later. Maybe this is their place in London? Anne looks tired, but happy, and William has a strange little sparkle in his eye.

"I feel like writing," he announces, as they come into the room. "I'm not at all tired, yet. But..." he hesitates, looking at his mother, clearly torn on whether or not to baby her or behave normally.

"I think I should like to sit up a while longer as well," she says. "The Adams' girl, Cecily, played so beautifully tonight, do you not agree?"

"She did," William says and he blushes a little. "She's quite accomplished."

"And she sang so beautifully and knew a few of the old songs," she says. "One would think she'd heard them when they were first written, the way she sang them."

"She has an old soul, perhaps," William says. "There was something about her face..." He trails off dreamily and I have to squash the impulse to go hunt down the long dead Cecily and punch her in the face.

"Did we bring my folio?" Anne asks, moving toward the little piano sitting in a corner of the room. I'm not really sure how she saw it back there. I've never seen a room so stuffed with furniture before. It looks like a department store threw up in here. The walls are crammed with paintings, all the tables are covered in multiple tablecloths and lacy things, and then topped with lamps and figurines and picture frames. I'm surprised they can move without knocking things over.

"Of course," he says. "It's on the rack, I believe. Would it bother you, if I wrote in here?"

"Not at all," she says. She sits at the piano bench and flips through the sheet music in a leather binder, then smiles. It only takes her a minute to put the papers in place, and then her fingers trickle over the keys. Within minutes she's in her own world, her eyes closed as she plays from memory. William sinks into a chair beside a tiny little writing desk and takes out some pieces of paper and an old fashioned pen. For a few minutes they both are lost in their own dreams, then William starts to write, and Anne starts to sing.

"You may esteem him
a child for his might;
or you may deem him
A coward from his flight;
but if she whom love doth honour
be conceal’d from the day,
set a thousand guards upon her,
love will find out the way.

Some think to lose him
by having him confined;
and some do suppose him,
poor thing, to be blind;
but if ne'er so close ye wall him,
do the best that ye may,
blind love, if so ye call him,
will find out his way.

You may train the eagle
to stoop to your fist;
or you may inveigle
the phoenix of the East,
the lioness, ye may move her
to give o'er her prey;
but you'll ne'er stop a lover:
he will find out his way."

"Pretty," I murmur, smiling a little.

"Consider it my gift, to you," Anne tells me. "It was one of my favorites. Not my very favorite, but... that one is a bit ruined, I think. I do not know if it will help you, but... it's all I have to give."

I smile. "Thank you," I tell her.

"There is one last thing you must see, and I admit I'm reluctant to watch it myself. But I shouldn't prolong this more than I have," she says, her eyes serious. "If you would find him, you must look, child."

"I understand," I tell her. "I've come this far. I'm not turning back now."

***


Time moves, speeding past us now, though very little in the room changes. When things settle, it's still night, and the house is very quiet. Somewhere in the distance a door opens, voices murmur, the first sounding excited though I can't make out the words. Then there's a thud, and a choked off scream.

Vamp tingles are racing up and down my back.

Spike's home, and he brought his girlfriend home to meet his mother, I think.

Sure enough, the two of them waltz through the door. Spike's wearing something very like the clothes I remember him wearing when he dug himself out of his grave. So is Drusilla. It can't be more than a few days later. They're grinning and laughing like teenagers, drunk for the first time.

In William's case, it might actually be true.

Vampires usually kill their families, first. Isn't that something Giles once told me? Once they change they tend to slaughter their families. Angel did. I remember reading about that. My stomach clenches.

"Ooh, such a pretty house you have, sweet Willy. Smells of daffodils and viscera," Drusilla croons, looking around. William wraps his arm around her, pleased.

"Don't get too attached, now," he tells her. "Won't be here for long, luv."

"Well then," Drusilla says, doing as much of a hip wiggle as she can in full on Victorian under armor. She sinks down onto one of the couches and gives him a little pout that I'm sure is supposed to be seductive. Beside me Anne sniffs with disdain."Shall we give it a proper goodbye?"

"You're a saucy one, aren't you?" William growls, stalking toward her. He pulls her into his lap and they start to make out. I grit my teeth and force myself to watch, even though I'd really like nothing better than to stake Dru right about now. Or maybe pull out all of her hair. She so doesn't deserve h—

Wait a second.

I'm jealous of Drusilla.

The two of them start talking around all the smoochies. I stare, not really hearing them.

I'm jealous of Drusilla.

I'm not sure why it's taken me this long to figure it out, but I totally am.

And... I want him. Not just because he's a strong fighter, or because he's still got so much of William left in him, or because Mr. Gordo was a friend to me.

I want Spike.

Bad ass, cranky, all attitude and swagger, and soft hidden under-William, Spike.

Anne gives me a funny look, "Are you paying attention?"

"Sorry, kinda had an epiphany moment there," I say. She nods as if that's totally expected. I try to tune back in to what's going on.

"...ravage this city together, my pet," William says, totally into it. "Lay waste to all of Europe. The three of us will teach the snobs and elitists with their falderal just what—"

"Three?" Drusilla says with a frown.

"You, me and Mother. We'll open their veins and bathe in their blood as they scream our names across the—" He catches her look. "What?" he asks, confused by her frown.

"You want to bring your mother with us?" she asks, sounding put out.

"Well, yes," he says. When she doesn't seem thrilled he adds, "you'll like her."

"To eat, you mean?" she asks.

A noise from the hallway catches their attention. Anne, real Anne, stands in the doorway, and now I can only tell them apart because real Anne's hair is up. Otherwise...

Oh. God. I can't watch him kill her.

Only I know I have to.

"William?" she says, peering into the room. William hops off the couch, looking a little guilty.

Wait. Guilty? Guilt really isn't a vampire thing.

"Mother," he says.

"Where have you been? I've been beside myself with worry for days..." she says, glancing at his messy clothes.

She was right to worry, I think.

William saunters toward her. "You needn't have worried, Mother," he says. "You never have to worry about anything again. Something has happened. I've changed."

"What have you been doing? I don't—," she glances over at Drusilla, that tiny frown creasing her brow. "Who... Who is this woman?"

Drusilla stands up, looking smug and creepy. "I'm the other that gave birth to your son," she informs her, like that makes any sort of sense.

"I beg your pardon?" Anne says, not getting it either.

"It's true, Mother," William tells her, edging a little closer. "Drusilla... she... she's made me what I am. I'm no longer bound to this mortal coil. I have become a creature of the night. A vampire."

"Are you drunk?" Anne asks.

"Little bit," he admits. "Think of it. No more sickness. No more dying. You'll never age another day. Let me do this for you."

He reaches for her, but she's sensing something wrong. I hope. Instead she pulls back. "What are you talking about? Why are you acting so strange...?"

"It's alright, Mother," he says, taking her by the arms and leaning close. "It's only me. Your William. We'll be together forever," he promises her. He slips into game face over her shoulder, where she can't see. "It only hurts for a moment," he tells her.

And then he sinks his fangs into her throat.

I watch helplessly as he drains her. As he opens his wrist and presses the bleeding gash to her mouth. As she swallows just a mouthful. Maybe not even that. Her eyes close, and she's gone.

Gently he picks her up and carries her over to the sofa, arranging her on it lovingly. He even covers her with a blanket, as if she might get cold.

I should hate him, for this.

But I know why he did it.

If I had the power to keep my mother from dying, to keep her with me forever, I'd have done it, too. Even if it was wrong.

Love, I think, is a selfish thing. It's hard to let someone you love go.

What's surprising is that, even though he's a vampire now, he still loves her. Loves her enough to try to save her in the only way he can. Loves her enough to want her with him.

Drusilla wanders off, probably to kill the servants or something, but William sinks down on a footstool beside the couch, holding Anne's hand as if she's merely sick, not dead. My eyes burn with tears, but I'm not sure if I'm happy or sad, or angry or ... I don't know.

I just know I can't hate him. Not for this.

Time shifts, moving forward. The couch is empty, the footstool has moved. The room is pretty dark, mostly lit by the fire in the tiny fireplace. William comes wandering in through the door, looking like he'd probably gone out for a bite to eat. He seems surprised that the body is gone.

"Mother?" he says.

Somewhere a music box plays, a soft lilting, happy sort of song. Anne steps out of the shadows. "Hello, William," she says.

Her hair is down. Looking between her and Ghost Anne beside me... It's like looking at twins. Or a reflection for the mirror challenged.

William smiles to see her walking so steadily, looking healthier. "Look at you," he murmurs.

"Mmm," she says. "Yes, all better."

There's something off.

"You're glowing," he says.

"Am I?" she says, tilting her head a little to the side in a total Spike mannerism. "I suppose I have you to thank for that, don't I? How ever will I repay you?"

There's something really off. Creepy off. I glance between Real Anne and Ghost Anne, trying to figure out what it is. I want to tell Spike to stop. Tell William to back off. There's something really, really wrong here.

"Seeing you like this is payment enough," he says, smiling at her, not sensing the creepy.

"Ah, William," she says, coming closer. "You're so... tender."

She's looking at him like he's food. That's what's wrong. Only, he's a vampire... I don't get it.

"This is as it should be, Mother. You and I, together. All of London laid out before us," William says.

"Ah, yes. Us," she says. She closes the music box, stopping the pretty music that has started to sound like the score to a horror movie.

"First we'll feast. And then the night is yours. The theatre perhaps. Dancing... Tell me, what's your pleasure?" he says, clearly wanting to give her a taste of all the things she's missed since she got sick.

But there's something really wrong with Anne. "My pleasure? To take my leave of you, of course," she says. She might as well have slapped him. Pain flashes across his face. He shakes his head, not understanding it. A twisted, nasty smile hovers over Real Anne's mouth. "'The lark hath spake from twixt its wee beak.' You honestly thought I could bear an eternity listening to that twaddle?" He reels backward as if from a blow.

"I do feel extraordinary," she says, moving around the room. "It's as though I've been given new eyes. I see everything. Understand...everything." She looks back at him, evil crawling behind her eyes.

"Mother—," he says, a little desperately.

"I hate to be cruel...," she pauses, then smiles. "No. I used to hate to be cruel, in life. Now I find it quite freeing. Nothing less will pry your greedy little fingers from my apron strings, will it?"

"Stop," he says, "please."

"The way you've clung since the day you first slithered from me, like a parasite," she says, ignoring him. "Had I known, I would have dashed your brains out the moment I saw you. Spared myself a lifetime of tedium. God, how I prayed you'd find a woman to release me. But you scarcely showed an interest. Who could compare to your doddering, housebound mum? A captive audience for your witless prattle?"

She backs him toward the fireplace, and he goes, horrified at this. If I'd wanted to, I couldn't stop watching now.

This is wrong, so very, very wrong.

"Whatever I was, that's not what I am anymore," William tells her.

"Darling, it's who you'll always be," she promises him. "A limp, sentimental fool."

He swallows hard, and all I can see in his face is pain. "You want to run, don't you?" she says. "Scamper off and cry to your new little trollop. You think you'll be able to love her? You think you'll be able to touch her without feeling me? All you ever wanted was to be back inside. And you finally got your wish, didn't you? Sank your teeth into me, an eternal kiss." She picks up her walking stick, where it leans by the fireplace.

"No," William swears. "I only wanted to make you well."

"You wanted your hands on me. Perhaps you'd like to finish what you started?" she asks, and the creature that's stalking William now isn't his mother. It can't possibly be his mother. "Come on, Willy. Have a go before we part. One to remember me by."

"I loved you," he says, crying. "I did. Not like this..."

"Just like this. This is what you wanted all along."

"Stop it," he says.

"Come on, do it. Who's my little dark prince?" Drusilla never sounded half this scary. I want to look at Ghost Anne, want to try to figure this out from her perspective, but I can't. I'm locked onto the scene and I can't look away.

"No!" he says shoving her away.

"Fine," she snarls. "Then gather up your tears and get out of my house."

"Mother—"

"Get out!" With a snarl, she lifts the cane and swings it at him. He catches it, blocks it and they struggle. Anne slips into vamp face, baring her fangs. "There, there, precious, it'll only hurt for a moment," she mocks. There's a snap as the cane hits the mantle and breaks in two.

"I'm sorry," William gasps through his tears.

And then he stakes her.

For a moment, she seems to linger. Her vamp face melts away, and what's left is... Anne. She smiles at him, not dark or cruel now. Just his mother. Then the dust drifts away.

William crumbles to the carpet, choking on his mother's dust, tears tracking down his face. "Oh, god," he says. "What... God, what did I do?" he stares at the dust blindly. "No," he says. "Not God." He laughs a little, hysterical. "Oh, mother. I'm so sorry. I thought... all I wanted was to save you."

He stays like that for a long time, kneeling in the dust, the fire casting his face half in light, half in shadow.

A vampire, with a man's heart, a man's pain and guilt. A man's ability to love wrapped in a vampire's need for eternity, blood, violence. Soulless, a monster but ... still human.

Poetic irony, I guess, of the worst sort.

"He was a good boy," Anne murmurs beside me. "A good man. I'd like to think that he was so good that the demon couldn't entirely remove it from him. He was my finest creation, the best of me. Will you tell him... will you tell him that I loved him?" She looks at me, pleading in her eyes. "Tell him, please, that I loved him more than life itself. That I'm proud of him, even now, after everything. Proud of who he is. Who he was. Who he's trying to become."

"So that... all of that," I say, gesturing at the fireplace. "That wasn't you?"

"No," she says. "I was never so good, nor so strong, to fight off the demon. If it was me, it was only in the smallest of senses. What I am now... this... I was already gone, and only the meanest sliver of myself remained."

"But he's not like that," I say, trying to wrap my head around it.

"No," she says. "He is not. There is more of William left than even he realizes."

"I see," I promise her. "I've seen. I just don't know what it means."

"That's for you to decide," she says. She looks at him fondly. "Will you tell him that I liked his poems? He wrote such lovely poetry, but I fear I'm the only one who ever appreciated them."

"I will. I promise. He wrote one, for me," I say. "I read it in his journal. He didn't finish it, but... what he wrote—it was really beautiful. No one ever wrote a poem for me, before."

She smiles at me. "He loves you," she says. "Above all things in this world, he loves you."

I know.

"Sort of scary," I admit. "He doesn't really do anything by halves, does he?"

"No," she says. "But love isn't about doing things by halves, is it? It isn't just about wanting, child. Or deserving, or needing. It's about risking. When you love someone, you risk it all, for them. To the rest of the world, what you're doing right now... it's a great risk."

"They don't know him like I do," I say, not quite ready to face the obvious implications.

"And they won't. Ever," she says. "You've seen him now. The best and worst of him. I am his mother, but I'm not so foolish as to think that he's not dangerous. He is a monster, and that is not something that can be changed. He is a warrior, and that is a role he chose for himself. But this... this is his heart..." She gestures at a still silently weeping William. "You've seen the darkest corners of his heart. If you go after him, he will be yours. Even should he go to the other end of the world, or switch sides again... it is your choice and that will bind you to him. Can you accept that?"

I look at William, and for a moment see him as he is now. Spike. Bleached, bad ass, a lethal killer leashed only by a piece of silicone the size of one of my fingernails.

And William.

"I can," I say. "I believe in him. I want him back."

Abruptly, the room around us fades, goes dark and dim.

"Bless you, child," she says, smiling. "For what it's worth, you go with my blessing. Please, save my son."

And then she's gone.

Everything's gone.

And I'm alone, in the dark.




 
 
Chapter #61 - Chapter 60: Cold As Hell
 
Author’s Note: Well, we made it. Suffice to say, it’s pretty much entirely AU from here on out, with only a few shout outs to canon.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae and Science







Chapter 60
Cold As Hell


"Hello?" I call. "You have any more ghost guides you want to shove at me?"

Nothing. Just dark. Guess we're skipping Christmas Yet to Come. Oh well, Past was over quota anyway.

I feel like I'm back in the dream room. Only I don't think there's a rule about me not being allowed to see anymore. I touch the pendant at my throat. "Day."

Well, that's a fat lot of help. Now I can see myself... but there's nothing around me to see. Not even ground. Which, now that I've noticed it, is pretty wiggy and disorienting.

"Night."

Sometimes it's better to be blind. At least this way I'm not dizzy.

So I follow the tingles. Somewhere out there is my vampire, and I'm going to get him back.

I'm tired. Too tired really to process everything I've seen over the last... what? Hours? Days? Hundred years and then some? I feel older, like I've lived Spike's lifetime. I know, I really only got the Oscar highlights reel but... yeah. I'm tired.

But the tingles are stronger than they have been, though I'm still not registering him as being close. So I'm not going to stop just yet. It's like a Spike homing device, beeping a little louder as I get closer. A year in the dark with a vampire really sharpens up that particular sense, I guess. I'll probably always be able to find him, now, no matter where he goes or how dark it is.

Which is an oddly comforting thought.

He'd be able to find me, too. Probably using something creepy like smell but... I'm pretty sure that Spike could find me just about anywhere.

It takes a yawn that nearly splits my face before I realize something has changed. When was the last time I slept? The answer to that takes some thought. More thought than I seem to have functioning Buffy brain for, but eventually I manage to dredge up the answer.

The night I screwed everything up. The night I looked.

Which, if today is still the same day that I stepped into the portal, was the night before last. Which would mean something like forty-eight hours with no sleep.

The whole H.G. Wells trip, however, felt like it took a hundred years, but may have only been a few minutes. I didn't feel hungry or tired or ... like I had to go... the entire time. So who knows?

I yawn again.

It's catching up.

And now I kinda have to use the bathroom, but there's no way I'm going to try that here. Where ever here is.

"Could we hurry it up?" I grumble.

And I trip through some invisible barrier and into the light.

And cold.

Oh. God. COLD.

Bone-numbing, brain-freezing, eye-stinging cold.

I blink against the tears in my eyes, trying to figure out where I am. It looks like a cave of some sort, and the time is sometime around either dusk or dawn, judging by the dimness of the light. Snow and ice blanket what little I can see of the world outside, and the inside of the cave, too, is coated in ice. When I twist to look behind me, there's only a swirling black portal. The way home.

Louhi's world. I made it.

And oh, god, do I need to pee.

***


Business taken care of, I yank my sweater and jacket out of my bag and put them back on, then put Spike's duster over all of it. I pull on the gloves, hat, earmuffs and scarf I brought, too, glad I'd remembered to pack them. I really want a nap, but I'd probably freeze to death, which means I need to try to start a fire.

If I can find something to start a fire with.

When I poke my head out of the cave all I see are dead trees. They're tall, black, and gnarly as demon horns, with bony looking twigs and no leaves at all. They look like they've been dead for a few thousand years or so, and a lot of them have fallen down. The ground is covered in broken branches, which is good. And it's SO cold that the snow hasn't melted into them and made them all wet and stuff. It doesn't take too long to gather up a couple of armloads and haul them back to the cave. Beating them against the wall breaks off most of the ice, leaving mostly dry, long dead wood.

There's probably a vampire joke in there somewhere, but I'm too tired to make it.

Xander's Survivalist book has pictures to show how to build a fire, but I'm a modern girl. No rubbing sticks together for me.

That's why God invented lighters.

And, so, okay, it takes a dozen tries, and I almost fall asleep in it a few times, but eventually I manage to get it going.

Go me.

After that I put my weapons within easy reach, pull out the insulated lightweight sleeping bag Xander gave me, wrap myself in it, and promptly fall asleep.

***


I wake up to the smell of leather and smoke, which makes me think of Spike and the way it felt to sleep in his arms. The coat is a pretty poor substitute. The fire has mostly gone out, and convincing myself to crawl out of the comparatively warm sleeping bag takes some effort.

My stomach and bladder gang up on me and proceed to win this round, though.

Awake means taking stock of my surroundings. Let's see. Ice. More ice. Snow. More snow. More ice. And... oh, wait for it... more snow.

The floor is stone, though, where my fire from last night melted through the snow and the ice. The walls are white with ice and icicles as thick around as my entire torso hang from the ceiling in some places. I don't want to think about how long it has to be cold for ice that thick to form. The cave isn't very big, or deep, and it seems to be the only one in the rocky hillside.

All in all, it's not really homey, and I don't have any reason to linger here. It only takes a few minutes to get my stuff packed up. The portal is still there, waiting, being swirly and dark and mysterious.

I guess I have to hope it'll stay that way until I get back. No sense in worrying about it at this point.

Outside the light is about where it was when I went to sleep, which means either I slept through the night, or I slept through the day, or... more likely, this place doesn't have a light cycle. Didn't Louhi say something about it always being twilight here?

I point myself toward where the tingles seems strongest and start out, munching on a power bar as I go. With any luck, I'll find where ever Louhi has him stashed in a few hours, and we can be on our way back before nightfall.

Or... whatever you call it here.

***


A few hours later, with numb, tired feet, my eyelashes frosted together and my scarf iced over where it wraps around my nose and mouth, I have to take a break. So much for a quick rescue. My legs ache from trudging through what feels like an ocean of snow which covers treacherous, uneven, sloping ground. I think this place used to be pretty rocky, but now it's a downhill skier’s nightmare, considering all the trees and half buried fallen branches.

I spend a lot of time glancing up at those branches that remain, hoping that the weight of the snow on them isn't enough to finally bring one down on my head. Would super suck to get all the way here just to turn into Slayer on a Stick. They creak and moan, which is creepy, and every now and then, off in the distance, I hear a sharp crack. The whole thing leaves me nervous and cranky and wishing I was anywhere but in this stupid forest.

The cold is almost unbearable, and moving at least keeps me warm. But I probably ought to conserve what strength I can, so I park myself on yet another fallen tree trunk and pull out Spike's journal.

I didn't dream last night, I don't think. But all morning my brain has been stuck on instant replay, going over so many of the things that I saw yesterday. Seeing Spike's past like that... sometimes it's hard to reconcile who he is now with who he's been.

So I take a break and read, reassuring myself that I'm right, that I'm doing the right thing.

Reminding myself of everything he's done, how hard he's tried.

Some of the journal makes more sense now. Things he mentioned in passing, like about his mom. I can see why he'd prefer not to remember her. And Angelus... god, I finally get why he hates Angel so much.

Even after I put the journal away and shift my scarf so that I no longer have ice against my face, Spike's words stay with me. I know that Angel has been all about redeeming himself for his past crimes... but the fact is he wouldn't have done that without his soul. The soul he had to be cursed with to prevent those crimes in the first place.

Everything Spike has done for the last few years, has been without the soul to guide him. Without anything to guide him. I can't even really count the chip, not if he's capable of ignoring it if he really wants to, or finding ways around it. The only thing he has, really, is me.

Which might seem like a whole boatload of responsibility, but I didn't even know he was using me as a moral compass. And I was doing a pretty crappy job as a role model the whole time...

And yet he still was trying to do the right things, and doing a pretty damned good job of it in spite of the rest of us doing our best to make him keep being evil.

I'm not sure what all that means, but I'm almost certain that the Watchers’ Council would prefer if word didn't get out about it. Vampires without souls turning to the side of good? What's next? Puppies and kittens living together in peace and harmony?

Yeah, not exactly part of the whole Watcher's Council dogma. Hell, pretty much everything I saw contradicts something they've spouted at me ever since I landed the Slayer gig. That whole thing about the human making an exit stage right? Not so much.

Of course, it's not like it'd be the first time they've lied to me about something major.

And... honestly, it's info that I probably could have lived without. I don't have time to sit down and interview every vampire before I stake them to see if maybe there's something a little extra still cowering in the corner. I guess sticking with the "if it charges you and has fangs, stake it" theory on Slaying is probably going to have to stick around.

Not that that worked so well with Spike, but... if the whole prophecy thing is true, I probably wasn't meant to stake Spike. And he wasn't meant to kill me.

Stalemate.

Or maybe not stalemate. That implies, you know, stale, crunchy things. Like croutons.

Spike is not a crouton.

Equals, maybe. That's a better word.

***


I walk and climb over dead trees for what feels like most of a day. It's like the most boring, awful obstacle course ever. Trudge, trudge, trudge, climb, trudge, trudge, trudge. I'm all trudged out and there's still no end in sight. What I wouldn't give for warm climates and parks, and Sunnydale where the good part of the town is half a block from the bad part and it only takes twenty minutes to get from Oak Grove Cemetery on the outskirts of town to the Kwik Stop gas station way out at the other end. Walking.

My legs are nothing more than frozen stumps, my fingers hurt, and I've long since lost feeling in my nose and ears. When I stumble, climbing over the tenth or maybe fifteenth tree, it hurts so badly I can't help but cry out. I thought the winter in Sunnydale was bad. This is worse. A hundred times worse.

My eyes water, and my eyelashes keep freezing together, making it hard to see. I don't dare brush at them though because when I tried earlier a few of them broke off and it's probably not good to have no eyelashes. My breath keeps freezing in my scarf, and when I take it off to break off the ice, the cold air that hits my throat hurts, and I can't breathe through my nose too well because the insides feel like they're frozen solid.

If the cold is bad, the monotony is worse. Nothing but trees and snow and sky as far as I can see. The only sounds are the tortured cracks of branches breaking off far away, the squeak and crunch of my boots through the snow and my own labored breathing. I try counting trees but ... that gets pretty pointless.

And other than trees, there's nothing to count.

Just snow, snow and more snow.

Pretty much the only way to gauge time is when my stomach makes with the rumblies. Slayer metabolism being what it is, that's five times a day. I didn't really bring enough power bars for more than a few days, so I ignore the rumblies as much as I can. Better to ration them than to run out. Something to worry about later, I guess. Right along with, how the hell am I going to get Spike away from Louhi? At least I don't have to worry too much about trying to find Spike cover from the sun. So far I haven't even seen the sun, and the trees around me are bare enough that I've got a decent view of the sky. Not the horizons, but... no sun overhead. Just perpetual mood lighting.

The cold gets to the point where I'm almost numb enough to bear it. My boots are thankfully waterproof, and thanks to Willow I shouldn't have to worry about frostbite. The duster is a welcome addition, too, since it gives me an extra layer around my legs. The scent of leather and cigarette smoke that seems to have soaked into it, despite it being Nikki's, really, helps, too. It gives me something to focus on.

I feel like that guy, in that poem I read in class. The one who promised his friend he'd cremate him, and drove the sled with the corpse on it for days until he got to the lake. I didn't understand what it meant, then.

I get it now. I get what real cold is.

And I understand the weight of a promise.

I promised Spike I would read his journal. I promised to get him back. I promised to walk through hell to find him and even though I don't take promises lightly, right now I'm definitely feeling mine.

"God, I hope you're worth this," I mutter sometime after what I decide was my "noon" break. Talking at least breaks the monotony.

Not givin' up, are you Slayer? my mental Spike snarks. Never took you for such a prancing lightweight. Come all this way, and you're whinging because it's a little nippy?

"A little nippy? Are you kidding? It's got to be a hundred below! Calling this a little nippy is like calling the ocean a little damp." My teeth chatter so hard I can barely get the words out, and my voice sounds hoarse.

See, now you're just exaggeratin'.

"Am not."

Are, too.

"Am not."

Are you really goin' to get into an 'am not/are, too' argument with a figment of your imagination? You're off your box, Slayer.

"Yeah, well, we all know that crazy turns you on."

Trying to seduce me, Slayer? I'm all aflutter.

"Shut up, Spike," I say, then realize I'm blushing. Great. I'm arguing with a mental version of a vampire, and he's winning.

I clamp a lid on my imagination. Staying warm is one thing. Going as crazy as Drusilla? I'd rather freeze first.

***


Eventually I feel like I'm reaching the end of my strength for the day, so I start picking up wood as I go. When I've finally put together a hefty armload, I find a spot between two trees that's reasonably sheltered and start the process of building a fire. It's harder to do out here than it was in the cave, but a fire is better than no fire, and I have no interest in being a meat popsicle.

The fire seems small, compared to all the cold around it. It's like it's cowering, trying not to be noticed by all the big bad frostiness. It pops and whines and generally sounds like Xander trying to get out of research, and the light doesn't really stretch that far in the constant gloom. I use my nifty little pan to melt some water and when it's boiling I dump in a packet of hot chocolate mix. I end up having to drink it quick, because once I pull it away from the fire it immediately starts to cool down. By the time I'm done I'm drinking a chocolate slushy.

My lips hurt, and I realize that they're cracked and bleeding. I don't even want to think about what this is doing to my skin and hair. I manage to thaw my fingers enough that I can feel pain in them again. Maybe they were better off numb.

Guess there's a reason they call this a hell dimension.

Since there's enough light I decide I probably ought to read more of that Survivalist's Handbook, since it looks like I'm going to be here a little longer than I thought. Somehow the idea of coming all this way just to die from the cold... not so appealing.

When all this is over, I'm so applying for a vacation somewhere warm. Maybe the equator.

Or one of the fiery hells. Surely there's at least one of those, right?

Shivering, I wrap the sleeping bag around me and sit as close to the fire as I dare, trying to defrost my face a little. Spike will have himself a party if I show up missing my nose because it fell off.

I read about finding food in hostile environments, even though I don't think that the author had a place like this in mind. I haven't seen a single living thing all day. Not a squirrel, not a bug, not a bird. As far as I can tell this place is too harsh for most living things to survive. Which does not bode well for me, if I have to stay here too much longer.

Then I read about building shelters and igloos and snow bunkers in case of a blizzard.

When it starts on how to skin rabbits, though, I put it away. General Slayer unsquickiness does not extend to graphic instructions on how to mutilate Thumper.

Instead I take out the other book, the Worst Case Scenario one. Informative AND funny, my favorite combination.

When I'm bored with that, I can't help but read Spike's journal again, even though I've started to memorize parts of it. Having his words there, recounting things I was there for... it's comforting. Sometimes I can almost hear his voice. I can't believe he went almost a year without speaking for eight hours every night. That right there should tell me something about his ability to do what he sets out to.

In some ways... it feels like his journal is a love letter. Admittedly a kind of wiggy, twisted one... but...

The things he says, the things he writes, the way he feels...

No one has ever wanted me like Spike does, loved me like Spike does.

And maybe I'm selfish, too, because... I want that. I want to be loved that way.

I want a forever sort of love.

***


The next day is pretty much a repeat of the first. Lots of snow, lots of cold, lots of dead trees. But the ground is more level now, and the trees are farther apart. Maybe I'm getting to the end of the forest?

Not soon enough, though. My ears hurt inside, maybe from the cold, maybe from the silence. It's hard to tell. My mental Spike keeps up a running stream of commentary, egging me on. It's pretty much the only thing that keeps me going.

I try to stay hydrated, melting snow in my mouth.

Toward evening, if you can call it that, the trees thin out until they're only studding the landscape. Past them, as far as I can see, is a great big vast plain of snow, and far off, in the distance, what looks like some kind of tower. Minus the statues, it looks a great deal like the end of my birthday dream.

That's where Spike is. That's where I need to go.

***


I spend a few hours sleeping beside a campfire, just inside the tree line. When I wake up, I bundle as much wood as I can comfortably carry into a stack, then use my belt to cinch it together in order to carry. If I have to, I can drag it behind me, but I don't think I'm going to find anything out on that plain that will burn, and I don't know how long it'll take to reach the tower.

I'd pretty much kill for a hot bath right now, though. And a warm meal. Note to self: when going on quests into a Hell dimension, pack real food. Maybe a few canned goods.

I start to walk.

I walk for hours, but the tower doesn't seem to get much closer. On the other hand, I left the trees well behind me at some point. I can't even make out the shadow of the forest anymore. Everything around me is white.

Well, sort of lavender, actually. Now that I can see the whole sky I realize why the light is weird: the sun and moon don't move. The moon hovers, huge and white and fat off to my right. The sun sits lazily just below the horizon to my left. There aren't any clouds, and the sky goes from pinky orange on the sun side to midnight blue on the moon side, spangled with stars like thousands of tiny sequins. It'd be pretty if it weren't so irritatingly unchanging.

Everything around me is cold, white, empty.

I think of the day my mother died, of the empty street, of the paper towels that seemed to unroll endlessly in my hands.

Spike's voice echoes in my head.

I think I know enough of hate,
to say that for destruction ice
is also great
and would suffice.

I used to think I hated Spike. Every time I saw his face, something in me burned. My temper flared, hot and angry. It was all I could do sometimes not to ball my hands into fists and break his nose, black his eyes.

He always seemed to see too much. He saw me.

He made me angry. He made me burn.

But now I know. I never hated him.

This... this is what hate looks like. This cold, aching, silent wasteland is hate. Worse... it's antipathy. It's what happens when life gives up.

It's death.

Yesterday I thought that the breaking of the tree branches was nerve wracking. I'd give anything to hear it again. The silence presses down on me here, like a blanket or a pillow. It's trying to smother me. The cold hates that I'm here. That I'm moving. That I'm alive.

It presses on my eardrums so hard that they keep popping.

I grit my teeth, lick my bleeding lips and keep going.

The snow is hard packed, but my feet still leave their mark: a single line of footprints stretching out behind me. There's no wind to erase them, and there aren't any other tracks out here. This is worse than walking into Mordor. At least in Mordor that Frodo guy could hide. There's no way to hide here.

And I'm not going to panic. Not yet. Find Spike first, then figure out how to get out of here without all of Louhi's armies descending on our heads. That's the plan.

Such as it is.

***


It takes most of the day before I realize that the tower is closer.

It takes another hour or two before I realize it's not just a tower. It's a city.

The tower is the highest point, and it looks like someone chiseled it out of a massive block of ice. The top of it is so high that it seems to touch the stars. The rest of the city clusters around it as though looking for warmth in a place where the concept of warmth is totally foreign. I can't tell much, this far away, but it looks deserted. I can't imagine what could live here, not within the reach of that tower.

I feel like a target out here, even though the minute I figure I'm within sight I use the pendant to hide. Unfortunately I'm not invisible to myself, so I can't actually tell if it's working or not. Picking up the pace sounds like a good idea, so I do. Even though I'm starting to get tired I have no desire to camp out in the middle of this plain tonight. Not with that tower so near.

Not with Spike so near.

The tingles increase the closer I get, like a pair of cool fingers brushing the nape of my neck. You'd think it would be annoying, but instead it feels good, familiar. Like Spike in the dark, holding my elbow to guide me.

Slowly the city grows. The tower looms like a great loomy thing.

Like Angelus's sodding forehead, Spike murmurs in my mind, making me giggle.

Only it comes out more like a rasping cough. I scoop up some snow and let it melt in my mouth again. Can't get dehydrated.

God, I hope I don't have to fight anything while I'm here. I'm not sure I could hold a weapon, my hands are that clumsy.

Tired, I force myself to keep going. One step after the other. Left, right, left, right.

The closer I get the more I can pick out individual buildings. They're all long and low, the roofs covered in a thick blanket of snow and fringed with icicles. They all have funny bits on the corners and at the peaks of the roof but it's hard to make out what the funny bits are supposed to be. None of the windows have lights in them. None of the chimneys have smoke. Nothing moves around the buildings.

Deserted. Empty.

What feels like hours later I stump down the middle of an empty street of some sort. If it can be called a street. Mostly it's a long gap between buildings. Still no sign of life. Doorways stand empty and there are weird lumps under the snow in places, like stuff was left or abandoned. I'm too tired to dig to find out what. I wander for a little while, listening for any sounds or signs of life.

There are none.

The city is as dead as everything else.

The base of the tower has no windows in it, and from here I can't tell if there are any doors. The windows are so high up that I doubt anyone looking out of them can see straight down. Good.

I pick a small building that looks like it might have been a house, built close to the base of the tower. The door is already open, so I poke my head in.

There's a small room with a stone floor. Snow has blown in through the empty doorway and piled in the corners, but mostly it's clear. There's an ancient looking stone fireplace with snow piled in it, and a long table with a few empty bowls on top. A couple of broken chairs lay around it. A rough frame in the corner holds a moldy straw mattress covered in a rotting blanket. Nothing has lived here in years. I shut the door and make myself at home.

First the snow in the fireplace goes, then I use the wood I brought with me to build a real fire. Working the lighter takes some doing, but I manage. When the room starts to warm up some, I get out my sleeping bag and lay it out in front of the fire to warm up. Then I strip out of my boots and socks, my gloves, hat and scarf. I melt some snow and make hot chocolate again, then pull out another power bar.

I'm exhausted, but I need a plan.

The city is dead, and if Louhi is anywhere, it's going to be in that tower. That's where Spike is, I'm almost certain. Tomorrow I'll find a way in. I just hope the tower is as dead as the city. If it is, then all I have to do is find Spike, and find a way to sneak him out.

Then we go back the way we came.

It's a stupid plan. I know it. I left a major trail getting here, and even with the necklace to hide me I'm not sure if it'll hide Spike. Tara said it would hide me and anything I'm touching, so maybe if we... held hands?

Wouldn't be much good during a fight.

And that tower is huge. Even with the tingles, if he's at the top it could take days to reach him. This does not look like an elevator friendly environment.

Then, once we're back out there in Winter Wonderland, we'll be leaving a trail a few miles long as we head for the portal. And I'm not sure how much good I'll be during a fight. I can barely move most of my fingers and toes. Getting my boots off was an exercise in manual dexterity that took a good forty minutes at least to figure out. Fighting would be problematic.

Still, I'm here. I've come this far. It's not like I'm gonna turn back.

***


"Stupid, stupid, stupid," I mutter, staring at the front door to Louhi's Evil Tower of Ominousness.

Like in my dream, the doors are huge. Opening one would take a giant's strength, which I don't have. And it'd immediately alert anyone indoors that there's a visitor—invisible or not. Also, it's as deserted and unguarded as everything else in this stupid place.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

Where's a long line of marching guards in conveniently figure obscuring uniforms when you need one?

Or a back door?

But I've been the whole way around the tower and there's nothing. The base of it is solid as ... a solid thing. There's nothing but the front doors. Unless I really feel like scaling a sheer wall made of ice for about fifty feet.

I hate this stealth stuff. I should just go in the front.

I'm supposedly invisible, right? Uninteresting? Maybe they won't care if I open the door.

Maybe the inside is as deserted as the out.

Maybe Xander and Spike will someday be best pals.

It could happen, right?

Fine. Front door it is. Really big, scary, heavy front door with no visible means to open it that I can see.

I guess I could kick them down? Or break a leg trying anyway. I might be strong enough to kick down the front door of the Bronze but those doors are teeny weeny compared to this. This would be like trying to kick down Bloomingdale’s.

Great.

Would it bloody kill you to knock?

Probably, but I don't really see an alternative.

Grimacing, I raise my first and rap my knuckles against the surface of the door. It's wood. Or possibly iron. Hard to tell. The sound doesn't even echo. It's like it gets swallowed by the door.

Wonderful.

I raise my fist to try again, harder...

And the door starts to swing silently open.

I scramble back, trying to stay behind it, out of sight of anyone looking out. They shouldn't be able to see me anyway, but... better safe, right? I wrap one gloved hand around the iron spike in the duster pocket, just in case. Then lean around the edge of the door to see what's happening.

The interior of the tower is dark, and something massive and white is coming out of it. Massive, white, and covered in fur, with beady black eyes and a black nose and giant furry feet that probably have really big claws.

Oh, god.

It's a bear.

A giant polar bear.

Or maybe not a giant one. I've never actually seen a polar bear up close in real life so maybe they normally come in small school bus size. I step back behind the door, hoping that polar bears don't come equipped with the ability to see through magical illusions. But the bear doesn't seem interested in me. It just shambles out of the tower and into the street.

It's only once it's passed me that I realize that there's something on the bear's back. It's a guy, bundled up in black and white armor, with blue and white hair and pale skin. Jack Frost. Riding on a polar bear.

Great. Just great.

They move off down the street, away from the tower and the door begins to swing shut again. Figuring it's now or never, and wanting to be on the other side of the massive doors from Pooh Bear back there, I slip inside just before the door shuts.

When my eyes adjust to the dimmer light I see that my dream wasn't really that far off. I'm in a massive hall, with icy columns marching away toward the end, where a dais sits with an empty throne on it. There's no one around, though. Just lots of empty, echoing white. Like an evil church. Since there's no where to go but forward, forward I go, trying to stay as much behind the columns as I can and moving as silently as possible.

Past the throne a massive staircase leads up, and two archways lead off to the right and the left. I head for the stairs, but pause as I pass the archways.

The tingles are most definitely coming from the left.

I thought usually the baddies stashed their prisoners at the top of the big scary tower?

Still, my Slayer sense is insisting on left, and it's practically screaming Spike! in a way that doesn't seem to indicate UP.

The left hand archway leads to a long, mostly dark passage. Crystals along the wall provide a little bit of light, but there's enough shadows that I don't feel as exposed as I did before. There are a couple of shut doors along the passage, but my spidey sense doesn't ping at either. A little further on another massive archway opens off to the right. When I peek in, I see what must be the polar bear's den. Or stable or... uh, where they put it when Jack isn't riding it around town. There's a big old iron gate that's currently open, and some straw, and a pool of water like you'd see in the penguin enclosure at the zoo, only a lot bigger. I hope we get out of here before they get back.

I follow the passage to the end, where another archway opens onto a landing, and then another not-massive staircase that spirals down. I listen for a long time, but I don't hear anything on the stairs. I guess I'll just have to deal with it if I come across any guards. I loosen the sword in its scabbard at my hip, and the dagger at my thigh. The spike is a comfortable weight in my palm, easy for me to grab a hold of with my cold fingers. With a deep breath, I start down.

The staircase has landings at regular intervals, with doors at each one. Most of them are open, and a quick check reveals a long hall with dungeon like cells lining the walls. From what I can see, they're empty. I don't get it. Where is everyone? Shouldn't Louhi have like a million minions and henchmen scurrying around, with trained guards at every corner?

Instead there's nothing. Just lots of big empty.

It's giving me major wiggins. This is too easy.

Besides that... didn't she bring Spike here to be her new boyfriend? From the looks of things she's stashed him in the dungeons, which makes no sense. Why isn't he up in the tower with her?

Thankfully the tower doesn't seem to be as deep as it is tall. The bottom level has just one door that leads into yet another hallway, this one with a closed door at the end. The tingles are stronger now, practically making my skin crawl with goosebumps. I hurry to the end, then make myself stop to listen at the door. On the other side, there's only silence. Praying it's not locked, I grab the handle and push.

It opens slowly, without even a creak to betray my presence.

The room beyond is lit with more crystals along the walls. It's not very big, and there's stuff in here, but I don't pay it any attention. My eyes go straight to the middle of the room and the figure hanging there like a battered pinata.

It glances up, yellow eyes shining in a gaunt face, and stares right back at me.

"Spike."




 
 
Chapter #62 - Chapter 61: Burdens
 
Author’s Note: A couple of notes on Buffy’s lack of survival skills in extreme cold weather environments—yeah, she’s from California and has NO clue what to do. Lucky her, she’s got a little magic on her side, her Slayer healing, and there may be a little PTB intervention going on since she passed all their challenges.

In other words… shhhh, I’m handwaving a few things. Pretend it makes sense.

What? It’s not like Joss never handwaved explanations on the show. ;)


Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae and Science






Chapter 61
Burdens


Oh.

God.

He's...

I swallow the bile that rises in my throat, and try to ignore the way my heart clenches tight at the vision in front of me. Tears sting at my eyes, and freeze as they start to trickle down my face. His hands are encased in a huge icicle, and the rest of his body dangles brokenly beneath, several feet off the floor. He's thin... so thin that the muscles and bones seem to be pushing against his skin. Every part of him I can see is bruised and bloody. His chest is covered in cuts and welts, and his ribs are so bruised they look as though he's been painted in shades of red, blue, green and yellow, with livid fresh purple and black all over. There doesn't seem to be an inch of unmarked flesh. Even his arms and throat are battered.

How is he not dust? How can anyone, anything, have gone through this much of a beating and survived?

A memory pops up in my head. Learn to like pain, means you're alive.

I swallow hard.

When I glance back at his face, his eyes are still focused on me. I should be invisible, though, right? I know I triggered the spell. But he tracks my movements as I approach, his golden eyes focused unwaveringly on mine.

He's in vamp face, but even so it's clear that he's been beaten. The sharp ridges of his brow and cheekbones are as black and blue as the rest of him. His lips are tattered and blood drips down his chin from the cuts and from his nose. Both eyes are slightly swollen, but not to the point where he can't see, at least. A nasty gash runs the length of one sharp cheekbone and dark blood paints that side of his face. His hair has grown out some, since I last saw him, and a good half-inch of dark roots shows under the bleached, bloody and matted curls.

His eyes narrow at the sight of me, but he doesn't speak. Instead he growls softly. There is something in his eyes nearly as feral as Angel's after he returned from hell.

"Spike," I whisper, hoping he can hear me. "Spike, I've come to take you home."

He growls again. Okay. Maybe that spell she'd put on him is still in effect and he can't talk. "I'm going to try to find something to cut you down," I tell him. Enchanted or not, I don't think my sword is going to cut through that ice. I need something long and heavy to reach.

Then I realize what else the room contains. Somehow, I'd been so riveted on seeing him again, and the extent of his injuries, that I hadn't noticed that the room was a torture chamber. Chains, manacles, whips, swords and knives of every size and description, instruments that I can't even begin to imagine what they were used for, racks and tables covered in blood... it's like a sadist's dream come true and Spike is its showpiece.

Swallowing the bile that rises up at the sight, I start to search. I talk to him softly the whole time, hoping to see some recognition in his eyes. "You wouldn't believe the journey I went through to get here," I murmur, my voice hoarse. "When we're out of here, I'll have to tell you the whole thing. We're going to get out of here, you know. Whistler—you don't know him, but he's this demon guy who works for the PTB?—anyway, he showed me how to find you and then they did this spell...and... and I came after you. I read your journal, Spike. Just like I promised...Ugh. Why is it with all this junk in here there's not anything long enough to get you down?" Frustrated, I turn back.

He's still staring at me through gold eyes, tracking my every move almost hungrily.

Okay. Feral. I've done this before.

Only Spike is a lot stronger than Angel.

Not going to think about that. Just going to focus on the problem at hand. How to get him down?

I come to stand in front of him and stare up at the ice around his fists. Maybe I could punch through it? He's dangling so that my head is level with his abdomen. This close I can count the cuts and puncture wounds that mar his skin. I look up into his face again. He's studying me with his head slightly cocked to one side, gold eyes gleaming. I peer closer.

He's biting his own lips.

His fangs are sunk through his lower lip, biting it bloody and shredding it at the corners where the canines are. The damage done to his mouth he's doing on his own.

"Spike... it's okay," I tell him. "You can talk. Stop biting yourself, please. Please. Spike, talk to me." No response. I reach out a hand and touch his stomach, as gently as I can. He doesn't even wince. "Spike..."

He growls low, warningly, and his head whips up to stare at the door.

Someone's coming.

Crap.

I glance around, but the only place to hide is under one of the tables containing torture stuff. I grab the pendant as I dive under it, whispering "Hide" again just in case it didn't work the last time or wore off or something. The stone floor under the table is dusty and thick with dried bloodstains, but it's shadowy enough that hopefully no one will see me.

The door swings open silently. I wouldn't have heard it, if not for Spike's warning.

"Hello, darling," Louhi says, drifting into the room.

Spike snarls.

"Have you missed me? I've missed you terribly," she says, her voice a cold mockery of sweetness, like Cordelia trying to be nice. It doesn't suit her at all. She moves in front of him, right where I was standing a moment ago, then lays her hand on his stomach. When he doesn't react, she slashes at his side, her long nails leaving bloody gashes.

He doesn't cry out at all. Just stares at her impassively.

She pouts, disappointed. "Not even a groan, this time?" she asks. Spike growls. She sulks. "I think I taught you too well," she says. "It's very childish, giving me the silent treatment. After all I've done for you? Rescued you from that half existence you were living... You'd think you'd be a little more grateful, my darling. The least you could do is eat. You're barely healing, my love. How am I supposed to inflict more beautiful wounds on you when you refuse to heal the old ones?" She digs at a cut on his chest, but he doesn't even flinch. Frustrated, she turns away. There's a scuffling sound from the open doorway.

"I've brought you a treat," she says, then gestures at the door. Two of the ugly little elf things that Spike and I fought before, in the graveyard, come in hauling a man between them. He's no one I know, and he's not even conscious. Still, I have to check my impulse to jump out and start fighting. I can't. Not while Louhi is here, watching. Stuck, I sit on my hands and wait.

"Is that the best you could do?" she asks the evil elves.

"He was sleeping on a park bench," one of them says.

"Drunk," the other says. "You said to be quick."

She sighs. "It'll do," she says. They haul him over to a nearby table and dump him on top of it. Louhi picks up a silver cup off of another table, then approaches the homeless guy. He's bruised and bloody, but nowhere near as battered as Spike. Still, I don't think he can take much more.

Louhi moves faster than I expect. One minute the homeless man is merely unconscious, the next he's dead. She slits his throat with one of her long nails, then tilts his head so that his blood pours out into the cup she's holding. I choke back my instinct to cry out, and sit harder on my hands. I can’t fight her right now, it would be suicide and Spike’s counting on me to get him out of here.

"Not even a twinge," she says with a scowl. "I'm hungry and no one will feed me." This last is to Spike, and is practically a whine. "Do you know what it's like? Having food right there, in front of you? Delicious and sweet and all yours for the taking? But something holds you back. Something keeps you from feasting, from growing strong, from being all you can be. Do you know what that's like, my love?"

She drifts over to him, rising slightly so that they're level with one another. She holds the cup of blood just out of his reach.

"Of course, you do," she says, with a nasty grin. "But I've been so generous to you. I've removed your leash. Awful little plastic thing... it's all gone and you're free now. Free to feast as much as you'd like. I could have left it in, you know. Could have made you fight off humans all day, and fed off your pain that way. There wouldn't be any way you could stop me. But instead I gave you this wonderful gift... and what do I get in return? Nothing! Nothing but your sulking, rude, childish silence. Your refusal to beg. Your nasty, awful demon."

She slaps him. Spike just tilts his head and glares at her out of yellow eyes. She glares right back, then caresses the side of his cheek. My fists hurt, I'm clenching them so tight.

"Where's the sweet William that I fell in love with? Hmm?" she murmurs. "That sweet, gentle poet... I loved him so much."

Lying bitch.

Spike doesn't answer, so she slaps him again.

"I'll dig him out of you, eventually," she promises. "You can't hold out on me forever, you know. Maybe the next time I'll send my boys out after your stupid, silly Slayer. Make you watch while I torture her, then feed you her blood until she's nothing but a dried up husk."

Spike growls.

"You need to eat," she tells him. She holds the cup up to his face. "With your demon in control, you can't help it. You have to feed. Mmmm... still warm, if you drink up quick." She presses the cup to his mouth. Unable to help himself, Spike's mouth opens and she tilts the cup, pouring the blood in as he swallows convulsively.

Then he wrenches his head away hard enough to knock the cup out of her grasp. It hits the floor, spattering blood all over her white dress.

And Spike spits the rest of it right in her face.

She shrieks, an unholy, banshee-like wail that makes me cover my ears to keep my eardrums from shattering. When I finally uncover them, she's yelling something in another language that sounds an awful lot like swearing. The two little elf things have fled.

Spike is laughing.

"You'll pay for this," she hisses warningly. "I've kept you intact this long, but maybe I'll start carving parts off. Skin will grow back, eventually. I can't promise the same for your legs."

"Lovitar, goddess," a voice says from the doorway. We all turn to look.

It's Jack. His voice is smooth, almost inflection-less, bored. "I found signs on patrol of a fire in one of the shacks near the west side of the tower," he says. "And tracks, coming in off of the waste. Small ones, like the huldra."

Louhi frowns. "One returns? I thought the last few had fled when the door opened."

"Perhaps this one was far out, in the woods to the south," Jack says with a shrug. "I didn't locate it, but it could be hiding."

"Find it," she says. "It's not human but it will suffice in a pinch."

"I could go above," he suggests.

"No," she says. "Not yet. This one will break, soon, and then I'll be strong enough to go with you. I don't have the energy to let you through again. Find me the huldra. And go thrash those stupid svartiflar. They begin to irritate me."

He bows. "As you command, my queen," he says, then backs out of the door.

Louhi follows him, glancing back at a still smirking Spike. "You'll break," she promises. "Everything does, eventually. In the meantime... if you're so insistent on it, you can starve. Hunger pangs feed me as well as your whimpers. Let's see how you do after a few days with only your empty, aching stomach for company."

She slams the door on her way out.

I guess even demon goddesses can have temper tantrums.

***


I stay hidden for a little longer, at least until I'm sure nobody is coming back. When I creep out from under the table, Spike's eyes focus on me again without hesitation. Stupid spell.

"Can you still hear if anyone's coming, if I get to work on that?" I ask, nodding at the ice trapping his hands. He nods. "Can you talk?" I ask.

"Yeah," he rasps, his normally deep voice sounding gravely and torn. "Hurts."

"Okay," I say, blinking back tears. "Will she... she feeds on pain, right? Your pain?" He nods. "Will she know, if I move you? If it hurts?"

He shakes his head this time. "Doesn't... work like... that."

"Okay," I say. "Good to know. Save your strength while I try to figure out how to get you down." I turn away, looking over all the stuff in the room again.

"Are you... a dream?" he asks. "Can't... hard to... focus. You... slip away."

"Oh!" I touch the pendant and end the spell. "It's... Willow did a spell. I thought it wasn't working, since you could see me."

A corner of his mouth pulls up in a gruesome kind of smile. "Always... see you... Slayer," he says. Even in vamp face, there's something in his eyes that makes my heart start to pound. I nod, jerkily, to cover, even though I know he can hear it anyway. His head tilts slightly to one side and he watches me with curiosity, though I'm not sure how he has the strength for it, considering. Guilt burns in my stomach.

I did this to him.

My mistake cost him this.

Who knows how long he's been like this and... I put him here.

So I damn well better get him out so I can start apologizing. Knowing Spike, he'll just love that; the Slayer apologizing. Only... Journal Spike wouldn't, I don't think. Not in the mocking kind of way. And... William, or Mr. Gordo... they'd never call me on it. Damn it. When did Spike get so complicated?

Or has he always been this complicated and I was just too blinded by what he was to notice?

It's going to take awhile to figure that out, I guess.

So I grab one of the tables and start pulling it toward him, hoping the noise doesn't attract any unwanted attention. It's high enough that when I get it to him he can kneel on it. "Here," I say, and help him bend his legs. He doesn't even moan when I touch him, though he's so bruised... He does sigh a little, when he can support himself on his legs. I can't imagine the pain his arms must be in from dangling like that.

Focus, Buffy.

"Axe...axe...," I mutter as I search the walls and tables. No axes, but there is a big wooden hammer. "Why would she have a hammer in here?"

"Break...bones," Spike says. I turn to stare at him. He gives an awkward shrug. "Fingers."

"She broke your fingers?"

"Not yet," he rasps. Oh, good. I need his fingers intact. I need all of him intact. I heft the hammer experimentally. It's got some weight behind it, but I'm not sure if it'll break through that icicle. But hammers...

I blink, then grin, and haul myself up on the table beside him. If I stretch, I'm just tall enough to reach. I fish the railroad spike out of my pocket, and press the tip against the icicle, just above his hands. Then I give it a solid whack with the hammer.

The sound of iron ringing though ice reverberates through the chamber. Please, god, don't let anyone come to check. The first whack makes the ice crack a little, the second one hammers it in a little deeper, the third cracks it further and sends the spike in about half way. I drop the hammer and grab the spike, yanking the end of it down as hard as I can. The crack widens, then with a sharp noise it shatters, ice spraying everywhere.

Spike's arms drop and he collapses into a heap on the table.

I stuff the spike in my pocket again and then help him into a sitting position, trying not to touch him anywhere where it might hurt. Impossible, considering how much of him is one big bruise. Now that his arms are down I can see that the right one is dislocated at the shoulder joint. And his back... oh, god, his back...

"I have to fix your arm," I tell him. He nods, then grabs my wrist with his good left hand. His fingers are black with the cold, but none of them seem in danger of falling off.

"You... heard," he says. I blink.

"Huh?"

He presses his eyelids shut, but doesn't slip out of vamp face. When he opens them, they're still gold... but wary. "Chip... the chip...you heard?" he says.

I nod. He sighs.

"Don't... if you're...gonna dust... do it now," he says. "Be... relief."

"I'm not gonna dust you, Spike," I say, his head whips up to stare at me. God... his lip.

"No chip," he says, more firmly. "Can... feed."

"We'll talk about it later," I tell him. He looks like he might argue, and his voice sounds so rough I don't want him to hurt himself more. "Shut up, Spike. Later. We'll talk later. Right now I have to fix your arm." He lets go of my wrist.

It takes some maneuvering, but eventually I get him braced enough that I can set his shoulder. I do it quick, more to try to keep the pain minimal than out of a need to hurry. So far no one has come to investigate the noises down here, which I'll take as a good thing. For now.

I step back to assess the situation.

Since he’s naked, I can see everything, all the damage she’s inflicted. Louhi was thorough. His feet are bare and bruised, the soles cut shallowly. I have a feeling that if I looked between his toes there’d be bruises there, too. His legs are striped with welts. As my gaze drifts up I’m horrified to realize that she really didn’t spare an inch of him. Even... I skip over that and move on. His torso is a mass of cuts and more bruises, one of his arms is mostly useless and his face looks like he had a go round with a majorly pissed off weed whacker. He's barely holding himself upright, and I'm not sure if he can walk.

"When was the last time you fed?" I ask.

He glares at me, defiantly. "Haven't," he says. I frown. He's sooo thin. Painfully thin.

Like those starving kids in Ethiopia. Only not as funny, memory whispers mockingly. Yeah. Definitely not funny.

"How long?" I whisper.

"Wouldn't... you... like to know?" he growls.

"Dammit, Spike, I'm rescuing you. This isn't the Spanish Imposition," say.

"In—," he coughs, chokes, then smirks. "Inquisition... pet."

"Whatever. If you're strong enough to snark at me, you're strong enough to do what we have to do to get you out of here. Now stop being a jerk and try to cooperate?" A weird look crosses his face, then he nods tersely.

I glance at the corpse of the homeless guy on the table. I could give Spike my blood. It'd be stronger, he'd heal faster. But I need my blood if we're going to get out of here. Dead Guy, unfortunately, doesn't need his anymore. My stomach protests, but... "You need blood," I say.

He follows my gaze.

"Human," he says, as if reminding me.

"No chip," I tell him. "Also, dead guy. It's not like he needs it, and you do. I'm just... it's practical, okay? I didn't exactly manage to bring Wilbur with me and there's not much here that you can feed on. It's squicky and I'm probably breaking some Slayer rule somewhere, but we don't have time for me to go grow you a pig."

He laughs, a harsh, bitter, choked sounding laugh, but there's humor in it. "I'll eat," he says.

"Think his clothes would fit you?" I ask, trying to measure the dead guy against Spike. He's lost so much weight... they'd probably hang on him, but it'd be better than me trying to hunt for Spike sized clothes.

"Gonna... need a hand," he says. I nod and move to strip the dead guy's boots off of him. When I look up, Spike is staring at me like I've grown a second head.

"What?" I ask.

"This is... real?" he asks. I stop what I'm doing and walk back over to him, stripping off my right glove. Gently I touch his scarred brow ridge, feeling the distant echo of an injury I saw him get a hundred years ago. He reaches up and grabs my hand, pressing it hard against his face.

"Your bruises," I say. "I didn't want to—"

"Fuck," he says, his eyes drifting closed. "Warm. Got to...be real." His skin is icy against mine, but still warmer than most of the stuff in this world.

"I keep my promises," I tell him, softly. "I'm going to get you out of here. We're going home, Spike." He turns his face until my wrist presses against his nose and mouth. He inhales sharply.

"Slayer," he says, his eyes opening again to meet mine. It would be so easy, I think, for him to bite me now. To sink those sharp fangs into my wrist. I can tell the thought is going through his head, too, and I realize that I'm face to face with his demon. William, for the moment, has left the building. Still, I don't move away, not even as he nuzzles at my wrist, the sharp bones of his face a harsh reminder that he's starving and I'm way better than dead drunk guy over there as meals go.

Something flickers in the gold, and then he lets go of me. "Right," he says. "Clothes."

Trying not to think about what I'm doing, I strip the corpse of its boots, pants, coat and shirt. I leave the ratty looking boxers and stained undershirt on him. I figure he deserves some dignity for the good deed he's providing, even in death.

"Gonna get.. fleas," Spike mutters as he struggles to get the clothes on.

"Vamps can't get fleas," I remind him. "Besides, I think if there were any fleas on this guy, they froze off." I help him pull the shirt over his bad arm, then over his head, and while he props himself against the table, I help him put on the jeans. It's easy to ignore certain things, like this. He's so badly injured that it doesn't seem sexy at all. We both fumble with the boots and lacing them, his fingers are almost useless and mine aren't much better from the cold.

Still, once that's done all that's left is for Spike to eat. He stumbles over to the corpse, but the height is wrong. He can't really bend to get to the guy's neck. For a moment, I argue with my inner Slayer revulsion, but she's a practical creature and in the end the choice is easier than I would have thought. I grab the corpse and lift it so that Spike can reach, propping it up enough that when Spike looks at me, we've only got the guy's throat between us.

He watches me, as he sinks his fangs into the already open wound in the corpse's throat. Watching to see if I flinch, or make a face, or condemn him for this, I guess. I'm too worried that the blood will be too cold, or that there won't be enough. He sucks at the wound for a long time, and the body gets lighter in my arms as he does. When he finishes, I lay it back down on the table.

"Was it enough?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says, his voice sounding better. "For now."

His face looks a little less gaunt, and he rolls his shoulders experimentally. It's hard to tell, under the blood that crusts his chin, but the shredded cuts on his lip look better, too.

"How do you feel about stairs?" I ask.

"Up or down?" he asks.

"Up," I tell him. "Most definitely up."

He sighs. "Give me ten? Let the blood...er...circulate."

I nod. I don't know if we have ten minutes, but I didn't know if we'd have this much time. Better to let him get up to strength as much as possible before we try to bust out of this place. I have a feeling out is going to be a lot harder than in.

While he rests, I dig through the weapons in the room, looking for anything that might be useful. Most of it is torturey stuff and I really don't want to think about what it's for, but it's better than doing what I want to be doing, which is stare at him like a complete idiot. "How long?" he says, startling me. "How long have I been... gone?"

"Um...," I say, thinking over it. "I... as soon as I woke up, I went and found your journal. It took me most of the day and the next night to read it. Then I went to the others, told them I was going after you... uh, I left that afternoon. Then...um... time got a little wonky. But, I think, you've only been gone from Sunnydale a-a couple of days, maybe?"

He laughs, a sort of hysterical giggle that breaks off into coughing. "A couple... of days," he says. "If that's not bloody brilliant."

"How long, here?" I ask, not sure I want to know.

"Longer," he says, flatly. "Much longer." I glance at the roots to his hair. Roots that weren't showing the night Louhi took him away.

"I'm sorry," I say. Whisper, really. His head jerks up in my direction, and the look on his face, even with the yellow eyes and the bumpies and the fangs... I chicken out. "Think you can carry some stuff?" I ask. I hold up some rope, and a couple of wicked looking knives in sheaths he can attach to his belt.

"You've got my coat," he says, instead.

"Yeah," I say. "That's... it's a long story. It'll have to wait until we're out of the tower and on our way back. If you want it, though..."

I don't really want to give it up. It smells like him, and it's warm. But, it'd make him look more like Spike and less like... an evil orphan wearing a homeless guy's castoffs. I shrug out of it, pulling the railroad spike out of the pocket and shoving it under the sheath on my thigh. There's a frown on his face, as he takes in the sword and the spike, but he doesn't say anything. Instead he just takes the coat from me and, wincing, pulls it on. Definitely better. More Spike.

He takes the knives, and after he's settled them in place, I pass him the rope. "Ready to go?" I ask. He nods, still in vamp face, which means he's probably still in major pain. Unlike my other friends, though, I know that pain won't stop Spike. He'll go until he's dust.

And it's my job to see that he doesn't dust.

I brief him, quick, on the only way I've found in or out, then the layout of the city. I also fill him in on what the necklace can do. "We're going to have to... hold hands, I think," I tell him. "For the hiding spell to work on you."

I half expect a snarky response to that. I want a snarky response. A quip. Something. Instead I just get his demon blinking at me, calmy. Then he puts out a hand that's starting to loose some of the blackness in the fingers and waits for me to take it.

I do.

***


Spike's strength has always surprised me. He makes it up five flights of stairs before I feel even the slightest tremble through our connected hands. Three more, however, and I shift so that my arm is around him, supporting some of his weight. He winces when I accidentally touch one of his injuries, but then helps me find a place to hold on where it doesn't hurt as much. He's shaking by the time we get to the top of the stairs, his legs a little unsteady.

"Give us a tick," he says at the top landing, panting a little. "Gotta..."

"It's flat from here on out," I promise.

He nods, catching his breath. I take the opportunity to peer around the archway and down the hall. Clear, so far.

This is too easy.

"Why isn't this place crawling with guards and minions?" I whisper. "Not that I'm complaining."

"Sent them out," Spike rasps. "Slowly, over the last year. Most of them are waiting in Sunnyhell. Think a lot escaped through as well. Not all of her demons liked bein'... locked up with the hell bitch."

"Why isn't she there?"

He shakes his head. "She's gathering strength. This place... the tower? It's her prison. She can't leave it for long without gettin'... yanked back. Gets strong enough, she can break free."

"And you were doing what you could to slow that down," I murmur. Spike gives me a startled look, then tilts his head questioningly.

"Well, yeah," he says. "Wasn't goin' without a fight."

His face is so close, like this. It's impulse that makes me lean up and kiss his hollow cheek. It's also pretty much the only part of his face I can kiss without causing him pain. When I draw back, his gold eyes blink at me in astonishment.

"Thanks," I say. His arm tightens around me slightly.

"This is real?" he asks again. Weird, watching a vampire try to furrow his brow in confusion. Considering it's pretty much of the furrowed to begin with. I guess it's just extra furrowy?

"It's real," I promise. I have a feeling I'm going to be reassuring him the whole way back to Sunnyhe— Sunnydale.

"You can't possibly be my Slayer," he says, more to himself than me.

"Sorry, but I am," I tell him. "I'd punch you in the nose, to prove it, but I... kinda don't want to. Not anymore, anyway. Besides, your nose is pretty much the only thing on you that's not busted."

"Thanks ever so," he says. It's harder to read his demon face than his human one, but I'm surprised to find that it's less like trying to read French and more like trying to read Xander's handwriting. There's shock there, and surprise, and a hint of something that might be ... awe? He clears his throat. "Got my legs back, if you want to get a move on, Slayer."

Right. We were escaping, weren't we?

I adjust my grip on him, and we start down the wider passageway one slow step at a time. We're about halfway down when one of the doors that was closed earlier bangs open and a handful of those evil elf things spill out into the hallway ahead of us. They don't pay us any attention, but they're standing there, arguing in their weird, garbled up language, pretty much blocking our way by.

Crap.

Then they start heading our way.

"Fuck," Spike mutters.

There's an open archway on the left, so we back up a little and duck into the dimly lit room beyond. The elves split up when they reach the arch. Most of them head down into the dungeons, but two of them linger in front of the arch, still arguing.

"Gonna notice I'm gone, if they go all the way down," Spike whispers in my ear.

"Looks like we've got a time limit," I say. Luckily the room is pretty shadowy, so I tuck him into a corner where it's dark. "Do that vampire lurky thing while I take care of our friends." He nods.

It doesn’t take long. Not with them unable to see me. When I’m done I stash the bodies under some loose cloth where I hope no one will find them for a while. Without any sunlight here, they won’t pull their flesh to stone trick.

"Slayer!" Spike's whisper is strangled sounding.

"What?" I ask.

"Did you know there was a bloody huge bear in here?"

Oh. Shit.

I'd totally forgotten that Jack being back meant that his big furry friend was back, too. There's a shuffling and a whuffing sound and Spike squeaks.

"Did you just squeak?"

"No," he says, his voice a little high pitched. "Really would appreciate it if you'd come fetch me, Slayer. Not feeling up to fighting bears at the mo'."

"He's in a cage, Spike," I tell him, coming to stand next to him. He's squeezed himself back into his corner pretty tight. Unfortunately one wall of his corner is made up of the iron bars of the bear's cage. Its huge nose is pressed up against the bars, snuffling at Spike. It'd be funny, if it weren't for the bear's head being almost as big as Spike.

No, wait. It's still funny.

"Laugh it up, Slayer," Spike says. "Now I know it's bloody real. Only you'd be bitchy enough to mock a man who's being sized up by a polar bear for an entrée."

"Don't be silly," I tell him, studying the bear as best as I can in the dim light. "You're a vampire. I don't think your stringy carcass would be all that filling."

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't be talking, pet. You're right scrumptious smelling, so that means you'd be the main course," he says.

"Aren't entrées the main course?" I ask, confused.

"Only in bloody America," he mutters. The bear gives a soft moan and flops down with its head against the bars near Spike. It kinda looks like it's smiling.

"I think it likes you," I tell him. "See if it'll let you pet it."

"What!?" he shrieks, in a high pitch whisper. "I'm not sticking my hand in a bear's cage. What do I look like? A bleeding masochist?"

"Uh, now's probably not the time to ask that question," I tell him. "Seriously, though. See if it'll let you pet it, I've got an idea."

"You're off your trolley," he says. "I've been imprisoned, tortured, starved, frozen and now there are bloody bears! And you want me to, what? Give it a cuddle? No thanks, Slayer. Only so much a vamp can take."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Spike. You're not afraid of Pooh Bear, are you?"

"Yes," he says. "Yes. I am. Because I'm an intelligent, rational, thinking corpse, and don't you know that everything is worse with bears, Slayer? God is afraid of bears."

"No, he's not," I say. "You're making that up."

"In the soddin' bible," he says.

"When was the last time you could read a bible, Spike?" I ask.

"Sticks with you," he says, sulking a little.

"We're wasting time, you know. Would you just pet the damn bear?"

"Bossy bint. Over my dead body," he sulks some more.

"Good thing you're already dead, then," I tell him. "You pet it, I'm going to go open the cage."

"WHAT?!"

***


Getting the cage door open? Easy.

Getting the bear to come out? Even easier.

Getting Spike on the bear? Takes a lot of convincing.

"Slayer," he says, sounding strangled. "Get off of the bear."

"No," I tell him, patting the soft white fur. The bear does a moany thing again and whuffs in pleasure. It nuzzles at Spike's coat. He's glued himself to a wall and refuses to budge, even though the bear is laying on the floor like a big dog, waiting for him to get on. "It's warm and furry and weirdly comfy. Now are you going to get on the bear so we can have a cuddly ride back home or am I going to have to kick your ass to get you up here?"

"Careful, Slayer," he says, sarcastically. "You're turning me on."

"You're going to have to wrap your arms around me, once we get moving," I tell him, not above bribery. "Only way I'm sure the spell will work, and you won't fall off."

He mutters something but all I catch are the words "eaten" and "bear".

"Spike," I say seriously. "You said in your journal you'd walk to hell and back for me. We're in hell. I walked here for you. I didn't go through everything I did to give up now, and I'm not leaving you behind. Now, do we make this room our last stand and wait for Louhi to show up and torture you some more? Or will you get on the bear and ride out of here with me? Please?"

"Dirty pool, Slayer," he says, glaring.

"Please," I say again. His body is taut as a crossbow string, and he trembles, visibly, at the word. Finally, jerky as a puppet, he walks around the bear and stiffly lets me pull him up behind me. He settles in, his hands almost bruising my hips he's gripping them so tight.

"I'm gonna cop a feel, while I'm back here," he warns me.

"I still totally won," I tell him with a grin.

"I hate you," he tells me, but he pulls me tighter against him.

"I know," I tell him, and sink my fingers into the bear's thick fur. "Giddyup, bear."

"Giddyup?" Spike says. "Oh, like that's bloody going to—"

The bear lurches to its feet, clearly trained not to toss its passengers in the process. I grab my pendant and tell it to hide us, just in case it didn't get the memo just by me getting on the bear. Spike's arms wrap around my waist and he buries his head in my shoulder. It almost sounds like he's praying.


 
 
Chapter #63 - Chapter 62: Jaws
 
Author’s Note:

WARNING DO NOT attempt to free polar bears from their cages and ride them around like ponies. Trust me, it will not end well. This story is a work of fiction—and Spike’s fear of bears is actually totally sane and justified. You should be afraid of bears. Bears are scary, soulless, bloodthirsty predators that would rather eat you than have a cuddle.

Not unlike vampires, in fact.

Also, thank you so much TVTropes.org, for sucking me in for nearly a week while I was researching bears in popular culture. And for pointing out that, in fact, God thinks bears are pretty much worse than everything.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae and Science





Chapter 62
Jaws


I have to remember to thank Willow when we get back, because somehow none of the dozen demons that are milling around in the throne room even notice the giant bear with its two passengers shuffling past them like a slow moving circus act.

"Big doors," Spike mutters in my ear. "Gonna notice if we open them. How exactly do we open them, Slayer?"

With a sense of timing I can't help but admire, a handful of evil elves come pouring out of the passageway we left behind, shrieking in alarm. Guess they noticed either that Spike is missing or that the bear is. The demons in the throne room all rush in that direction, half of them splitting up to go up the stairs into the tower, the others break into two groups and go down the two opposite passageways.

We shuffle closer to the doors, and they start to open all on their own. Maybe they're magicked to open for the bear automatically?

Spike mutters a curse. "What can I say?" I tell him. "The PTB like me."

"Was this your grand plan the whole time?" he asks. "Steal a bear and ride it out the front doors?"

"No," I tell him. "It's a vast improvement over my grand plan, which involved killing a dozen guards and running out of here with half of Louhi's army hot on our heels and you nearly collapsing from pain."

"Think I like that one better," he says.

"You would. Besides, I didn't steal the bear. You can't steal a bear. I set it free."

"I spent a century in delinquency, pet, I think I know stealing when I see it," he says.

As soon as we're out and the doors have swung shut behind us, I touch the pendant at my throat. "Seek." Like back in the Magic Box, the light shoots out of the necklace, then darts away down the street, heading, as best as I can tell, south. The bear perks its head up, then follows the light.

"No wonder you always win," Spike mutters behind me. "Entire universe conspires to help."

"I win because I'm the good guy," I tell him. "Good always wins because evil is dumb. Since you're not dumb, you couldn't help but switch sides."

"Was that a compliment, Slayer?" he asks.

"Might've been, Vampire," I tell him.

***


Outside the cold hits me in a way that it didn't in the Tower. It's like being dumped back in that cave all over again, and all the work I did over the last few days getting used to the temperature is totally reversed. Within minutes I'm shivering again, and grateful for the warmth of the bear under me.

"You said you walked here?" Spike asks.

"Yeah," I tell him, adjusting my hat to cover my ears and my scarf to cover my face.

"How far to the portal?" he asks.

"A f-few days, on f-foot," I tell him. "N-not s-s-sure what it is-s by b-bear."

He's quiet for a long time, and when he speaks again, it's so low I have to half twist to hear him. "Why'd you do it, Slayer?" he asks, frowning. "Figured... figured I'd hold out, long as I could. Give you a chance to suss out how to beat her. Then, if... well, when you did, if I wasn't dust, maybe I could get loose, then. Never figured you'd come after me."

I blink at him, surprised. "Okay, revising m-my opinion of-f your intelligence," I say. "In what universe would I leave a... a f-friend to get t-tortured by my enemy?"

"We're friends now?" he asks, staring at me with unblinking golden eyes. That thing that used to pace in the dark behind his human eyes... it's not hiding now. The look of raw hunger on his face is nearly enough to knock me off our furry steed.

"We've b-been f-friends for a long t-time, Spike," I tell him, softly. "I j-just was too stupid to s-see it."

His jaw tightens for a moment, and he tongues his fangs in a way that would make me nervous with any other vamp, but with him... I know he's doing it because he's nervous. "So," he says after a bit. "You're not mad about the ... Mr. Gordo thing?"

"No, I—" I pause, not sure if I should admit this or not, but... looking at his swollen, battered face, I realize I can't not tell him this. "I... kinda... sortawantedittobeyou." Okay, so maybe I rushed it a bit. I don't dare look at him, though. Not yet. "The last... after m-mom, and you were... with the....and... I j-just wanted it to be you. I... k-kept looking for clues. That's why I r-rushed over to your crypt, I... w-wanted to c-catch you while you were s-s-sleeping and see."

"You... wanted it to be... me?" he asks slowly, as if testing it out.

I nod, and finally look up into his face.

Oh.

Oh, god.

It hits me, then, the full force of what I'm seeing in his golden eyes. He loves me, really loves me, demon and all. His finger traces the line of my scarf along my cheekbone and he swallows heavily. It's enough to make me tremble.

He frowns.

"You're cold," he says, and the world comes back, the spell broken. For the moment. It feels like something left unfinished. "And tired." His thumb brushes the skin below my eye. He shakes his head, then tugs at the backpack across my shoulders. "Here, give me this."

Before I realize it, he's slung the bag across his own shoulders, then hauled me back against his chest. He opens his duster and wraps it around me, adding a layer of protection from the elements. His arms hold me against him, and he ducks his head down beside mine, so I can turn my face into his throat. He's not warm, but he's solid, a good barrier against the wind. "Get some kip," he murmurs. "I'll watch Jaws here and make sure he doesn't try to eat us."

"Jaws?" I ask, suddenly sleepy.

"It's great, white, swims, and can rip my bloody head off with one bite," he complains.

"I liked 'Pooh Bear'," I murmur.

"Pooh Bear was stuffed with fluff," he says. "This thing would eat Christopher Robin for brekkie. Sorry, luv, you may have stolen it, but you made me get on it, so I get to name it. We're calling it Jaws."

***


I drift back to consciousness slowly.

The world is moving under me, slowly, rhythmically, rocking me against a hard body. Said hard body is cradling me against it, my legs drawn to one side, over a muscular thigh, and my torso leaning against a solid chest. It's dark, and vaguely warm, and I feel cocooned by the scent of leather and smoke and whiskey and... ew.

Body odor, which might be mine. I can't remember the last time I showered. Yick.

Also... I kinda have to go to the bathroom.

But for a moment I just relax, feeling safe and comfortable for the first time in a long time. It should be weird that it's Spike that makes me feel that, but it isn't. I nuzzle into his chest, and his arms tighten around me. "Mmmm," I murmur, but my bladder is waking up now, too, and reminding me that it's been awhile since I last went. Great. The downside of road trips is always the pit stops.

Reluctantly I pull the leather away from my face so I can see where we're going. We're somewhere out on the vast plain of ice, but I have no idea how far we've come. I can't see the woods ahead, so we're still a ways off, I guess. "Mornin' sunshine," Spike rumbles in my ear.

"How long was I out?" I ask.

"Few hours," he says. "Not long enough, I reckon. Should get back to sleep, Slayer."

I turn to look at him. He looks... better. The cuts on his lip have scabbed and most of the blood that was crusting his face has flaked away. The swelling and bruising around his eyes has faded, too. He's still in game face, though I'm not sure why. Oh well, he'll shake it off when he's ready, I guess. Maybe it helps with the pain.

"How do you feel?" I ask. I probably shouldn't have slept on him. It can't have been good for the injuries to his chest, or his arm.

He shrugs. "Gettin' there," he says. "Not going to be competing in the Winter Olympics anytime soon, but I think I could hold my own in a fight."

"With any luck, you'll be all better by the time we have to worry about fighting," I tell him. "But right now, I need a pit stop."

"Good luck with that," he says. "Not sure how to steer this thing, let alone where to find the brakes."

I just roll my eyes, then lean forward and pat the bear's neck. "Whoa, bear," I say.

It perks its head up, swiveling its long neck to look back over its shoulder at me. "Can we stop for a sec?" I ask it. It snorts, then stops, laying down on the ice with a groan. "Good bear," I say, patting it.

"You can't keep it," Spike says, his voice doing that panicky thing again.

"Why not?"

"Where the bloody fuck are you going to put it? It won't fit in your house and I think the neighbors would have somethin' to say about a soddin' bear in your backyard. Watcher will cack his pants if you try to keep it at the Magic Box," he says as I scramble down. I end the hide spell, so he doesn't have to work to see me.

"Spike, relax," I say. "I'm not going to keep the bear."

"Oh, thank god," he says.

"I'm going to take it home, and then release it in the wild," I tell him.

"Bloody hell," he says, looking like he wants something to beat his head against.

"Willow can do a spell," I say.

"Willow can blow it up," he mutters.

"Be nice to my bear, Spike," I tell him. "And don't turn around."

"Why the hell not?" he asks, turning around.

"Because I have to use the little girl's room," I say. "And since there isn't one, you're going to have to be a gentleman."

He growls. "Not a soddin' gentleman," he says.

"Liar," I say. "But for now, just pretend, okay?"

"Bloody humans," he says, but he turns around and faces front anyway.

***


When I'm finished, Spike hops down from the bear with obvious relief. I'm a little worried about getting him back on the bear when the time comes, but if I'd spent the last... well, who knows how long, hanging from my wrists and being tortured, I'd need to stretch my legs, too.

He wanders a ways off, then kneels down and strips off his coat and shirt. Surprised, I watch as he scoops up handfuls of snow and scrubs it over his face, arms and chest. Brrrrrrr. Okay, I totally want a shower, but unlike vampires, ice baths are not for Buffy. I watch, fascinated, as he scrubs his hair with snow, trying to work the mats out where the blood was caked on one side.

The bruising on his arms, chest, and back is still livid, but most of the cuts have started to heal. He's filled out, too. I can't count all of his ribs or his vertebrae anymore. Skeletal Spike was a little scary, I have to admit. He's still not the Greek God that sprawled across his black sheets a lifetime ago, but... he doesn't look as much like an animated corpse anymore.

When he's finished he scrubs the shirt he was wearing, too, probably to get some of the dead guy stink off it, then shakes off the snow and puts it back on. When he pulls on the coat, though, he frowns, rotating his shoulders to settle it in place. "What's wrong?" I ask.

"Still underweight, I guess," he says. "Hangs all wrong."

"How long before you're back to normal?" I ask. He gives me a funny look. "Relatively speaking, of course."

"Depends on how soon I can eat again," he says, scanning the horizon. "You walked this?"

"Yeah," I say, feeling the shivers setting in again. "Eventually there are trees. D-dead ones. B-but it breaks things up a bit." I chew my lip, which just leaves them more raw and peeling. "I should have th-thought to bring blood with me... I... d-didn't think... It was k-k-kind of spur of the moment, you know? Ch-charge to the rescue? I d-didn't even b-bring ch-chapstick. You know I w-was in a hurry if I f-f-forgot skincare essentials."

"What've you been eating?" he says with a frown.

"Oh! P-power bars. I still have some in my b-bag. N-not a lot, but, you w-want? Will it h-h-help?" I ask.

He's still frowning at me as he limps slowly forward. With his face clean, the cuts on his lip are bright red. Once he's standing in front of me, I can't help but reach up, stopping just short of touching. He doesn't wince, even when my gloves accidentally brush against them. "Your m-mouth," I say. "G-god, Spike, why d-did you do that to yourself?"

His jaw muscles flex, and for a minute I don't think he's going to tell me. "She liked it too much, when I screamed," he says, finally. "Was the only way to..." He trails off, looking uncomfortable. Which, by the way, is totally weird in game face.

"Whistler s-s-said you were b-blocking her somehow," I say, wrapping my arms around myself and bouncing a little to try to warm up.

"Who the hell is Whistler?" he asks.

"This... uh, w-well he's a d-demon. A g-good d-demon. He... sorta w-works f-for the PTB. He used to be assigned to Angel b-but, uh, he k-kinda screwed up a j-j-job and got reassigned to... us, I g-guess. You and me."

"You an' me?" he repeats, disbelieving.

"Yeah... um," I'm not sure how to tell him this, but I figure he kinda deserves to know. "You... d-do you remember that p-prophecy I mentioned a long t-time back?"

"What about it?" his eyes narrow.

"Um, well, s-see... the original p-prophet was this c-crazy English guy, like w-way long ago in the l-late 1800's and he w-was sort of stumbling around in the m-mountains s-somewhere and they f-found him and took him to a... c-convent? You know, where they k-keep nuns?"

"I know what a convent is, Slayer," he says.

"Right. Well, the nuns, they s-sp-spoke F-french. And the c-crazy guy, he spoke English, and... they g-got some other g-guy to translate, only, I guess he didn't sp-speak English that well, or maybe it was F-french he didn't speak but... uh, long story sh-short he sort of got some w-w-words... mixed up," I say, trying to stop my teeth from chattering.

"Mixed up?" Spike says.

"Yeah. So... remember when I asked you about the S-s-slayer's Night? Well, it t-turns out that he d-didn't mean 'night' like 'd-dark time' he meant 'knight' like... uh... Sir Lancelot," I say. "You know, homophobes."

"Homophones," Spike says.

"Those. And... uh... w-well... it's you," I say.

"What's me?"

"The Knight," I say. "The th-thing that Louhi n-needed in order to end the w-world. It's you. You're the Slayer's Knight."

Spike blinks at me.

"Funny sort of name for it," he says, finally. "Slayer's Knight."

"Oh, uh... yeah. See... that's w-where Whistler comes in. Um... the th-thing is, according to Whistler... you were m-meant for me," I say. I'm not sure what kind of reaction I was hoping for, but I get zilch. None. Nada. Just blank vamp face and slowly blinking yellow eyes.

So, I babble.

I tell him all about Whistler and the prophecy and how they weren't sure if it was going to be him or Angel and how it really was him after all. I tell him about Whistler going to New York and how he was made wrong and how if we didn't get him back then the world was going to end.

Finally I realize that there's a muscle ticking in Spike's jaw, like he's clenching and unclenching it rhythmically.

Uh oh.

"Spike?"

His eyes are staring past me, out at the weird, unchanging horizon.

"Spike? C-could you, I don't know, s-say something? You with the not talkies...f-freaking me out a little."

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Then.

He pulls one of the knives I gave him out and flips it experimentally in one hand. "I think I need to kill something," he says, conversationally. "It's been too bloody long."

"Uh, Spike?"

"Heads up, Slayer."

And then he grabs me by one arm, yanks me around behind him, and goes charging past me at the small army of evil elves that has appeared out of nowhere and is running up on us across the snowy field.

Oh.

Right.

Crap.

***


Okay, totally love my sword.

I may not be as good with it as the Chinese Slayer was, but wow. It cuts these guys down like no weapon I've ever had before. Thankfully riding on the bear and arguing with Spike has kept me warm enough that I'm not as clumsy as I thought I'd be. I'm a little slower than I'd like, but I'm still better than the elf guys.

Spike is holding his own, too, even though he's favoring his right side a little. Good thing he's left handed. I try to keep to his right, guarding him with the longer reach of my weapon. Even injured and handicapped, we fight well together, and we take out at least half of the elves before I notice Spike wavering a little.

Then Pooh Bear decides to join in the fight.

Honestly, I'd mostly forgotten about the bear. The bear, however, clearly hadn't forgotten us. With a roar it charges into the fray, swiping at the evil elves with its massive paws, cutting a couple of them down with its sharp claws before chomping down on a third.

Spike and I back quickly away, fending off two elves easily since their attention is now on the massive land predator that's really pissed off. Spike dispatches his elf, and I take care of mine, and then we both stand, panting, and watch as Pooh Bear pretty much massacres what's left of our enemy.

"You made me ride that," Spike says.

"Uh huh," I say. Because, really, what else can I say? Pooh Bear tears off the head of our last enemy, splashing black blood across the snow. Then it sniffs at the remains, snorts with disgust and comes padding toward us.

Spike backs up quickly, but then one of his legs gives out and he stumbles and goes down on his butt. Pooh Bear lowers its big shaggy head and sniffs at him. Spike squeaks again, freezing as Pooh Bear continues to nuzzle at him. Then it gives a satisfied whuff and flops down on the ice beside him, resting its huge head on Spike's thigh.

"Slayer," Spike says with a hint of a whimper. "Could you come fetch your giant, vicious lap bear?"

***


Getting Spike on the bear again is easier than I expected. Especially since he can't really walk.

He swears the whole time, though.

Once we're both on and I get the bear standing again, I hide us from any more surprise armies and do the Tinkerbell thing. Pooh Bear immediately trundles off after the tiny light. Spike's hands rest on my hips again, but he doesn't pull me back against him like before. Maybe the fight didn't get all the mad out?

"Never figured you for a liar, Slayer," he says quietly after a long while.

"Huh?" I say, twisting to see his face. Something bitter lurks around his mouth and gold eyes.

"All that rot about us bein' friends," he says, then laughs harshly. "And wasn't I the poof for believin' it?"

"Wait a second," I say, and throw one leg over to the other side of the bear, then twist so that I'm facing him fully. Luckily, Pooh's back is pretty broad and I'm not too worried about falling off. "I wasn't lying about that," I tell him.

"No? So you found out that your mortal enemy is really your very own personal Powers designated lapdog, and that rescuin' me from Louhi will throw a major spanner in her works, and you didn't rush straight out to save the world?"

I shake my head. "That's not what it was like," I say.

"Sorry, Slayer, must be all the torture going to my head, because from where I'm sitting that's how it looks," he says. "God, for a moment, back there, I thought... when you didn't flip out about the chip, I thought it was because you knew better. Because you bloody trusted me. Of course, it turns out that you've held my leash the whole fucking time, yeah? Soddin' prophecies."

"Spike," I say, but he cuts me off again.

"And the worst part is," he says, with a bitter laugh. "Fuck... worst part is, I'll let you. Let you yank my leash whenever you bloody want. Can't keep a man about, but ol' Spike'll pant at your heels forever. Did they do that to me, too? Make me fall in love with you? Like some sick, twisted guarantee that I'd be on your bloody side? Don't I even get to have a choice in my own fucking fate?"

"Shut up, Spike," I say.

"I think I'm more than entitled to—"

I clamp my hand over his mouth, careful not to irritate the healing cuts on his lip.

"Shut up," I tell him again, more gently. "Look, I get it. Really do. Believe me, no one in this universe gets how stupid and crappy and awful it is to find out that you've got a destiny like I do. It sucks the big one. But, Spike... I decided to come after you before I ever even knew that prophecy junk. The minute, the absolute minute I finished reading your journal... I knew I had to get you back. Not because you were destined to be my partner. Not because I knew it would piss off Louhi. I just... I knew I had to find you. You were my friend. For almost a year... every night. You were my friend. Maybe even my best friend. I told you things I couldn't even tell Willow. I meant that, Spike."

"Yeah," he says. "You meant it when it was Mr. Gordo, your nancy little vamp who didn't run his mouth off just because he was conscious. But when it was me? You never meant it for Spike."

"Didn't I tell you that I wanted it to be you? I wasn't lying, Spike. You... god, I was too blind to see it. I know that now. You were changing, all that time and... I'd had it hammered into me that demons can't change. But I was wrong. And the thing is... I'd figured it out. After mom died, I saw the way you were, how you were trying. The way you protected me every night. I knew about that without even reading your journal, by the way. Maybe the whole Mr. Gordo thing made me more attuned to you or something because I knew where you were, what you were doing. I knew you were patrolling for me... and you were the only one, god, the only one who didn't treat me like I was going to fall apart, after mom died. The only one who didn't... try to smooth it over. I knew... after that, we were friends. Or, I knew I didn't want to be enemies anymore."

He's staring at me like he can't quite believe me, and I'm not sure how to make him see it.

"Spike, I don't want a lapdog. I don't... I don't ever want anyone to stay with me because they feel obligated to, or because... The chip? It doesn't matter. I know you, now. I know that you've changed. That just because you can hurt people now doesn't mean you will. You're stronger than that. Better than that. If you promise me you won't hurt anyone, won't kill anyone... I'll believe you. I believe in you, Spike. Not because some stupid piece of paper that's a hundred years old says I should, but because I've seen you now. The best and worst of you, and... you're wrong. Destiny, it might come knocking but we're the ones who choose how to answer the door. I might be the Chosen One, but I make my own rules, my own decisions. This prophecy may have brought you to me but... you're the one who chose to stay. It could have been Angel, but he walked, all on his own. And you came back to me. Stood by me. Changed, all by yourself, even when we did our best to try to keep you the way you were. Without even a soul to guide you. That was your choice," I say.

I take a breath, studying his face, the hope dawning behind his ridged features. "I don't want a lapdog," I tell him again. "But... I'd like a friend. A partner. An equal. You've always been my equal, Spike. But you don't have to stay, if you don't want. I won't make you."

He snorts. "Yeah, well, that little speech of yours... might as well have put shackles on me, pet. You...," he breaks off. Shy looks really weird on a vampire. "You mean it? You believe in me?"

"I really do," I say.

He swallows, hard. For the first time, I see a flicker of blue in his eyes. "Never going to bloody get rid of me now, you know."

"Kinda hoped," I say.

"You won't regret it, Buffy," he says. "I swear it. Never do anything to make you regret it."

"You can't promise me that," I tell him. "You're going to be around a long time, and you're going to make mistakes. But I believe that you'll try. And I'll be there to help. No more bitchy Buffy."

"Kinda like bitchy Buffy," he says, which makes me laugh. Only Spike.

"Okay, maybe a little bitchy. And I like snarky Spike, so you better not get all...I wouldn't know what to do with you if we couldn't argue," I admit. "And I can't promise that the others... you know how they are. But I won't let them be jerks to you anymore."

"Sod them," he says. "Don't give a bloody damn about any of them."

"Liar. I read your journal," I remind him. "You're probably going to regret that, eventually."

"Oi! Got me rescued," he says with a smirk. "Not gonna complain."

***


Once the adrenaline from the fight wears off, the cold starts to hit me again, worse than ever. Spike doesn't even protest when I snuggle up against him and wrap his coat around both of us again. He just settles me in, then puts his arms around me.

"S-s-see," I manage, between chattering teeth. "M-much b-b-better than w-walking."

"Can't believe you walked this," he says. "I'm bored, and cold, and I'm riding on a bloody bear."

I laugh, but it's a little broken by the shivers, I burrow in tighter, and he lets me. After awhile my body heat warms up my vampire-coat cocoon enough that my teeth no longer feel in danger of rattling right out of my head.

"Never been so glad in my unlife to see trees," Spike murmurs, later.

"Huh?"

"Sorry," he says. "Thought you'd nodded off."

"Too cold," I say and peek out of the gap in the coat. Sure enough, there's the ugly dead woods lurking ahead like a dirty black smudge on the horizon. We're making pretty good time, I think. At least as good as walking, though the bear isn't exactly the fastest transportation. Slowly the forest seems to ooze towards us over the snow, and a few hours later we're moving past the first of the trees.

"Uh, Slayer?" Spike says.

"Hmmm?"

"Might have a problem," he says.

"What? What's wrong?" I ask, looking up at him. He's looking back over his shoulder. "More elf guys?"

I sit up enough that I can see over his shoulder, too. Thank god he's not as tall as Riley or Angel. At first I don't see what he's seeing. Then I realize I'm looking in the wrong place.

"Uh oh."

Clouds. Big clouds, moving fast and piling themselves up out of nowhere into a huge cloudy blob out over the plain. There's wind, too, and judging from the way Spike's curls are blowing, that thing is coming this way.

"Temperature's dropping," Spike comments. "No way we can outrun it. Don't think even Jaws is that fast."

"Crap, I guess she figured it'd be the easiest way of stopping us. It wouldn't kill you, would it? A blizzard?"

"No," he says. "Just put me on ice for a bit, 'til she could collect me." He looks pissed, but that might just be the fangs. "Buffy... gotta find some shelter. It will kill you."

"I know. But there's nothing but trees," I say. "And while I might know, theoretically, how to build an igloo, I don't think that I'm that fast."

"Fuck," he says, looking back at the storm. "Got maybe an hour, two, tops."

Pooh swivels his head around, sniffing at the coming storm. He growls. Spike jumps. Then Pooh abruptly turns and for the first time heads away from where the Tinkerbell light went. "Your bear is runnin' off with us," Spike comments tightly.

"Maybe he knows something we don't," I say. "At this point, he's smarter than we are. So I say we go with it. Besides, he's our bear. We freed him together."

"Stole. You stole the bear," he says. "And you did that all on your own. Makes it yours."

"Yeah, well, you were an accessory to the ... freeing of the bear."

"Did you pay for it?"

"What?"

"The bear, Slayer. Did you pay for it? No. Did you take it without permission? Yes. Pretty much the definition of stealing."

Pooh picks up the pace, ambling fairly smoothly around the trees and over the fallen logs. Guess it helps when you're the size of a small bus. We head deeper into the woods as the first few flakes begin to fall. It's getting dark now, the storm cutting off what little light the weirdly stationary sky provided. Aside from Pooh's huffing breath and the sound of him stepping into the snow, it's weirdly quiet.

"Can you see anything?" I ask, after awhile, more to break the silence than anything else.

"Just lots and lots of trees," Spike says. Our voices both seem unnaturally hushed. "Looks like this place is deader than I am."

"Guess ice really does suffice," I say with a shiver.

Spike chuckles, and I feel it echoing in his chest. "Prefer fire," he says. "Always have. Always will."

"Should I worry about these self-destructive obsessions?" I ask lightly.

Something about that startles him, because he jerks, then stares down at me, his gold eyes unnaturally bright against the growing darkness. "What do you mean?"

"Vampire equals combustible. You with the fire? Not so mixy."

"Depends on the kind of fire, luv," he says, studying my face intently. His voice drops to a husky whisper. "Been burned a few times before. Think I know what my limits are."

"You're not so good with limits," I remind him. The cuts on his lip look better. A lot better. All but the worst are just healed red lines. It probably wouldn't hurt him if I...

"I'm a rebel," he says, his head dipping a little.

"Yeah," I say, tilting mine back to line up with his better. "Me, too."

He growls softly, his gold eyes fixing on my mouth for a moment, then flicking back up to look into mine. There's a question there, just the tiniest little question, and all it would take is for me to shift, just a breath, to answer it. And I want to answer it. Really, really want to answer it.

Except just then, the bear stops.

Surprised, we both turn to see what's what.

"I'm revisin' my opinion of your bear," Spike says.

"You've decided it's a genius and that you might like it after all?" I ask, staring at the entrance to a cave. It's not the cave that the portal was in. The mouth is a little wider, and it looks like it goes back a little deeper, but it's still a cave. Shelter.

"No," Spike says. "I've decided that a sentient bear is unreasonably terrifying, and if you don't mind I'd like to get down now."

"Fine," I tell him. "But since you're so fire obsessed, you can go collect wood while I check out the cave."

"Can't," he says, smirking. "Wood allergy."

"Oh, like your sun allergy stops you from running around under a blanket. I think you can handle a few twigs."

"What if I accidentally stake myself?" he says, trying to look innocent. It'd be better if it weren't for the bumpies. And the fangs. Funny, I’d kinda forgotten he was still vamped.

"You'll survive. Besides. It's a cave, and a bear brought us to it. What if that's because there's more bears inside?" I point out.

"How much wood did you want, Slayer?"




 
 
Chapter #64 - Chapter 63: True
 
Author’s Note: … Yeah, I got nothing.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae and Science






Chapter 63
True


"Oh, the weather outside is frightful,
but the fire is so delightful,
and since we've no place to go...
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!"

"You know that song is about sex, right, Slayer?" Spike asks, leaning back against a rock and poking at the fire with a long twig.

"No it isn't," I say, sipping at my tin pan of hot chocolate.

"Yeah," he says, and the flames seem to dance in his equally gold eyes like laughter. "It is. Most songs are."

"Not all songs," I say.

"Most."

I rack my brain, trying to come up with something he can't argue with. "Uh... Jingle Bells?" He just smirks and reaches down to cup himself through his jeans. "Oh, ew..."

"Oh, what fun it is to ride..." he says, curling his tongue behind his fangs.

From the entrance to the outer cave, Pooh makes a disgusted whoof. Spike shoots a glance at the narrow gap between the two caves, reassuring himself, I guess, that Pooh can't fit through and eat him. Pooh is tucked up against the gap, the closest he can get to us. His big, furry white bulk provides extra insulation from the howling winds and the snow outside the cave. Our little niche isn't huge, back here, but it's plenty big enough for the two of us, even with a small campfire and my sleeping bag rolled out on the floor. The ceiling is pretty high, with what Spike called "natural vents" in it, so I probably won't suffocate from the smoke from the fire. And it’s nice and cozy warm at the moment. All in all, Pooh did really well and Louhi... she can blizzard as much as she wants.

"What about, uh... Rubber Duckie?" I say, figuring he probably wouldn't know that one, and besides, kids’ songs can't be dirty.

"Rubber duckie, joy of joys,
when I squeeze you, you make noise,
Rubber duckie I'm awfully fond of you.
Everyday when I make my way to the tubby,
I find a little fellow, cute and yellow and chubby..."

Spike sings it like it's porn, and by the time he's finished I'm blushing hard enough that my face feels hot for the first time in days. "Bit masturbatory, that one. Or not. Wasn't Bert the yellow, dick-shaped one?"

"How do you manage to make everything sound pervy?" I complain.

"Evil, pet," he says. "It's a gift. Want to hear me sing O' Holy Night? That fall on your knees bit always—"

"No," I say, my knees going a bit noodly just at the mention. Good thing I'm sitting down. "World of no."

He smirks again. I decide that ignoring him for the moment is safer than responding to the challenge in his eyes, so I look around for something to do. Sword. Should clean the sword, since it got icky elf blood all over it. I hunt through my bag and find a reasonably clean sock, then slide the sword out of its sheath and set to polishing. The edge is really sharp and I have to be pretty careful not to accidentally cut myself on it. It's a good chore to keep my mind off of dirty-minded vampires.

At least until he's standing over me, blocking the light.

"Do you mind?" I ask. "I can't see what I'm doing."

"Where did you get that?" he says, his voice sounding tight and even rougher than usual. When I look up into his partially shadowed face, I can't quite read the expression there. "The sword, Slayer," he says. "Where did you get the sword?"

"Uh... on my way here," I say. "It... was a gift."

His eyes dart suddenly to the iron spike that's still thrust under my thigh sheath. He crouches and yanks it out faster than I can move, then sits on his heels beside me, studying it in the firelight.

"Was this a gift, too?" he asks, tightly, tracing the places where the metal is worn smooth. When he wraps his fingers around it, I suddenly realize WHY it’s worn smooth there. "I know this..."

"Um... yeah," I say, sheathing the sword and setting it away from him.

"From who? Who would give you this? Where the bloody hell did they find it?" His head whips up to look at me. "You know what it is."

I nod.

"Who?" he asks. I swallow.

"The... railroad spike? Uh... that one was from... Drusilla, sort of."

He blinks.

"Dru? Drusilla gave you this? As a gift? "

"Sort of," I say.

He growls. "Tell me," he says. "You said you walked here. Didn't mention a detour involving Dru."

"Okay, look," I tell him. "I... this is sort of a really long story, okay. You... should probably sit. And not wig out."

"Is there a reason I'm gonna wig out?" he asks, already on edge.

"Maybe. I don't know. You were kind of with the wigging before when I told you about the Slayer's Knight thing and it wasn't even that bad."

"Tell me," he growls.

"No wigging," I tell him.

"No promises," he says, but he sits.

"Okay, see... the thing is, Whistler said—"

Spike growls again. "You said Whistler is a demon? Think I might just rip his head off when we get back."

"You might not want to piss off the PTB, Spike. They helped get me here. Whistler helped get me here, to rescue you, in case you need reminding," I say. He snorts but he shuts his mouth. "Okay, so... I'm starting badly. Basically the PTB said that, since I screwed up and made the mistake that landed you here, I had to... prove that I wanted you back. Not just say it... prove it. They... sort of tested me, I guess. To be sure that you were what I really wanted. That I was... aware of what it would mean, if I rescued you."

He glares.

"Right," I say. "That... sounds dumb to me, too. But... uh... so they... kinda took me back in time. A lot. There was a lot of jumping around. And all these guides. The first one... was Nikki. The Slayer you..."

"Killed," he says, his voice flat. "Seventies. Night of the New York Blackout. Subway car. Took her coat for a trophy."

"Yeah," I say, "Her. She... made me watch. Or... something did. And then she showed me... basically she showed me pretty much the worst things you'd ever done back to about World War II, I think. There were Nazi uniforms so... I'm guessing World War II. Why was your hair black?"

"So I'd look Jewish," he says, making me blink. Why would anyone have wanted to look Jewish during World War II? "What else did she show you?"

"Um... lots of stuff. Woodstock, I think, and... lots of stuff. Club kids and I think there might have been an orphanage. Parts of it went pretty fast. There was one... a family. You killed the father and the brothers, then raped the mother and... there was a little girl, in a box."

Spike stands and paces. "They lied to you," he says. "Don't know what all they showed you, but that one, they lied. I never raped that woman."

I think back. "I didn't actually see... I kinda looked away. You were yanking her dress up and... I thought..."

He spins on his heel and stares at me. "I didn't rape that woman," he says. Then he scowls. "Might've... messed with her a bit. Made her think..." He growls and stares at the ceiling. "Bloody hell. I wanted her to scream, yeah? That's... and I killed her. But I didn't fucking rape her."

"Are you saying you never, in the last century and more, ever raped someone?" I ask softly.

He gets quiet. Really, really quiet and still.

Something in his eyes goes out. Dies. Snuffed like a candle.

"I'm not like that any more, Buffy," he says quietly. "What I did... then... I can't take it back. I can't say it never happened, because it did. And at the time... but I'm not that monster anymore."

"I know," I say. "That's why I had to see it. So I would know what you were. What you'd done. The worst of it. So I'd know that what you are now is so much more than what you were."

He stares at me, disbelief and hope mingling on his ridged features. "I don't have a soul, Buffy," he says. "I don't even really know what one does. Don't know where you keep it. Don't remember what it was like, having one and I can't say I feel like I'm missing anything. I get regret though. Guilt. Maybe not... maybe not like I should. I should, I suppose, hate what I did back then. Should sit about and brood like... and wish I'd never been turned. But I can't. Won't. What I am... it's better than what I was. What I am now, everything I did, all of it, brought me to you, didn't it? Won't regret that."

"I know," I tell him. "I'm not asking you to. I don't understand much, about souls. I used to think I did. I used to think... God. I used to think it made all the difference. But I know now that's not true. For some people, it does. Not for you, though. You're sort of amazing, Spike."

"Sort of?" he says.

"You're not Christian Slater," I say, dryly.

"No, I'm better looking than that nasal voiced twat," he says, smirking. Then his eyes fall on the sword, and the spike. "What else did they make you watch?" he asks, as if he can't help himself.

"Well, after I told Nikki that you weren't a monster anymore, she gave me her coat," I say. Spike looks at the coat on his shoulders.

"My coat," he says, reaching back and fingering a small tear in the leather on the right shoulder. "See, got the hole from that tracking device Finn's squad shot in my back last year. Mystical crap. After Nikki, then what?"

"The Chinese Slayer," I say. "Um... during the Boxer Rebellion. They made me watch that one, too." Spike's fingers trace the scar on his eyebrow.

"Pretty much sussed out that was involved," he says. "She gave you the sword."

"Yeah... she showed me how you became a warrior. There were these guys in an alley somewhere in England, and then a barroom brawl. Then, after you got the scar, she took me to watch you training with some old Chinese demon."

"Sounds like a regular Alvidson flick," Spike mutters.

"Oh, and a Chinese girl, in San Francisco, I think. Sometime during Prohibition? When was that, the 20's? 30's?" I ask.

Spike stares, then gets up and starts with the pacing again.

"She was a Slayer, wasn't she?" I ask quietly. "She just didn't know it yet."

"I didn't kill her," he says, suddenly.

"I know," I tell him. "You let her go. Kinda confused me when they showed me that."

He stops for a moment, staring at the flames. "Never told anyone about that," he says. "Had a rep to maintain. Showin' mercy was..."

"Against your nature," I say. "But that's not why they showed me that, I don't think. I think that they wanted me to see that, not only could I trust you to take care of yourself in a fight, but I could trust you to do the right thing. That... you've got a warrior's honor, I guess. That's what the Chinese Slayer called it. They really didn't have to show me that, though. I've known for a long time that there's no one I'd rather have fighting at my side than you. If I ever needed someone protected, you'd be the first person I'd go to, you know that, right?"

"No," he says, sinking back down beside me as if his knees are feeling noodly now. "I didn't." For a little while we just stare at each other, while the flames dance on the white cave walls. Something tugs at my memory, but I push it away. Spike clears his throat. "Said... you said you saw Dru."

"Yeah," I say. "Um...they showed me the night you were turned." He does that vampire still thing. Which, gotta say, looks major weird when Spike does it. Spike's natural state is to be in motion; when he goes still...

"They showed you Cecily," he guesses.

"She was an idiot," I tell him. "It's probably a good thing for her I was Scrooging it, because if I could have? Totally would have pulled all her hair out. I did take a swing at those jerks that were making fun of you, though. My fist sort of went through them, but I felt a little better."

Spike's mouth twitches a little in one corner.

"Then Drusilla showed up and kinda gave me the whirlwind tour of Life With Angelus," I say. "I get it, now. Why you hate him." He swallows heavily.

"Which parts?" he asks.

"Um, you two hunting some guy named... Weasely? I think? You got bored and spiked him through the head. Angelus really didn't approve. Then there was a wedding," I shake my head and shiver, remembering. "I think I really understood, then, what a monster is. I mean, I got the up close and personal view of Angelus back when we... , but it was personal, then. I thought... I guess I kinda thought the way he went after me was personal, too. But that's what he does, isn't it? He hates anything good, like love. He tries to twist it, make it..."

"As awful as he is," Spike finishes. "That's his MO. With me, I think he just wanted to prove that there was something in this world as disgusting as he was. Wanted to make me in his own soddin' image."

"You're nothing like him," I say.

He snorts. "Yeah," he says. "I get that. Been trying to measure up to his great ego for the last century plus, luv. With Dru... I never could compare to Daddy. And you'll always be setting me up against bloody Angel."

"I shouldn't have," I say. "And I won't anymore. I'm glad you're not like him. He... he could never have done even half of what you have, without his soul. I don't think even a chip would have stopped him from being a monster. And with a soul... still no comparison. You don't have to try to be better than Angel, Spike. You already are."

He stares at me, his demon stares at me, and the look on his face makes my heart speed up, pounding erratically in my chest.

"Buffy," he says, and as much as I want to hear what he has to say, I have to tell him the last part. Have to finish it, so he knows everything.

"There was one more," I say, interrupting him. "One more guide, after Drusilla."

His expression blanks again and he shakes his head. "Think they'd have run out, after that," he mutters.

"It was your mother," I say softly. "Anne."

"Fuck," he says. Then he gets to his feet and starts pacing again, faster this time. When he slams a fist into the cave wall hard enough to bring down a few icicles, I get to my feet and grab his arm before he can do it again. He snarls, then twists around, spinning me so that my back is to the wall and he's pinning me there by my shoulders. I could move him, but I let him, knowing that his anger isn't really directed at me.

Knowing why he's upset.

He's panting, his eyes shut tight. "What did they show you? What did you see?"

"William," I say softly. "They showed me William. That he's still in you."

"What else?" he asks, still not opening his eyes.

"They showed me how much you loved your mother. How you tried...," I swallow, take a deep breath. "How you tried to save her."

He shudders, hard, as if he's in physical pain. "I never meant...," he says, choking for a second on the words, they sound so thick. "Never meant to hurt her. Never... what happened, it was..."

"It wasn't her, Spike," I tell him. "It was a demon."

"I don't know that," he says. "You don't know that. What if... you said you saw how much of William was in me, still. What if... what if..."

"It wasn't her," I tell him again. "She told me...She said she wasn't strong enough, to stay with her... body, to fight off the demon. She said that you were the best part of her, and that she really liked your poetry. She loved you, Spike. She still loves you. She wanted you to know."

He looks at me then, desperate. "I want to believe you," he says. "God, I want to believe that but..."

"She gave me something, too," I tell him. "I don't know if I remember it right, but..."

I do, though.

I hadn't even thought of it, until this minute, but when I do it comes right to me. The words. The tune. Even the verses I didn't hear her sing.

"Over the mountains,
And over the waves,
Under the fountains
And under the graves.
Under floods that are deepest
Which Neptune obey,
Over rocks that are steepest,
Love will find out the way..."

He doesn't make me sing the whole thing. His head drops forward, his ridged forehead resting against mine, and he gasps in great lungfuls of air, then laughs softly.

"God, I need a smoke," he says.

"Sorry," I say, softly. "Cigarettes weren't in the PTB care package. Also, they're stinky."

"Thought you said this whole thing was to prove you wanted me back," he says. "They forget to remind you that Spike comes with a nicotine addiction? Seem to have thrown everythin' else at you." He moves back enough that he can look me in the eyes.

"I want you back," I tell him. "Some of the things they showed me... I'm the Slayer, Spike. I'm never going to be happy about some of what I saw. But it doesn't matter."

"Why?" he asks, his voice raspy. "Bloody hell. I've done things... things you can't imagine. Things I would never want you to imagine. Things I've never told anyone. Do you have even the slightest soddin' clue what it's like to find out that the one person in the entire universe who you'd never want to see those things, is the one person who has? That all your secrets, weaknesses, everything... are theirs now, too?"

"I think I can sympathize, Mr. Gordo," I say.

He freezes, his eyes meeting mine, and I see the realization dawn in them. We're even now. There's no one else in the universe who could hurt me as badly as he could, I realize. No one who could ever love me as completely, either. And the same is true in reverse. I have the same power over him. We're equals, opposites. Yin. Yang. Balance.

And for the first time I get it. Maybe the prophecy said we were meant for each other but... in so many ways, it's the ways we've made ourselves that makes us right together. The thought is terrifying, thrilling.

Apparently too terrifying and thrilling. With a low growl he rips himself away from me and storms across the cave.

"Spike?" I say, feeling weirdly like he's just torn me in two. Maybe he has.

He shakes his head. "Too much," he says. "It's too bloody much. I need to... " He freezes for a moment, when he sees Pooh blocking the gap between the caves, stymied by the giant bear. Then he pokes Pooh's back. "Shove over, Jaws," he says.

"You're leaving?" I say, incredulous, hating how my voice sounds a little panicky.

Pooh moves with a disgruntled whuff. Spike looks back at me, his gold eyes gleaming in the firelight.

"I need to think, Slayer," he says, softly. "Not leaving. Could never leave you. It's just too bloody much, right now. I gotta... I'll collect some more wood."

"Spike, there's a blizzard out there," I say, wishing I could hold him there. He gives me a look that says, clearly, 'vampire, remember?'

"Won't go far," he says. "Just need to walk for a bit, yeah? Sort my head. I'll come back."

I must not look convinced, because he strides across the room then and cups my face in his hands. "Always come back to you, Slayer. Never could stay away. We're not done yet, you and me. Besides," he says. "I'm in love with you."

And then he's gone.

And it hits me then, like a troll swinging a hammer and knocking me clear across the room.

I'm in love with him, too.

I'm in love with Spike.






 
 
Chapter #65 - Chapter 64: A Cold Day In Hell
 
Author’s Note: (Slightly spoilery, for this chapter, as a warning)

So, okay, I first want to comment on a plot point that may have been a little too subtle: A few chapters back Spike mentioned that the tower is Louhi’s prison. He meant that literally. In her dimension she cannot leave it. She can only go to Buffy’s world for short periods of time, because she’s not strong enough to maintain herself there while still trapped in the hell dimension’s time. So you needn’t worry about her physically coming after them At This Point.

Second, thank you to all of you who have patiently waited and waited and waited through this incredibly long, slow build up for some Spuffy action. Consider this chapter as my thank you present. I promise that I’m not the sort of author who writes these kind of things just to tantalize (there are plot points and character arcs in here, dammit), and I’m also not the kind that once the smutting starts it doesn’t stop. This will not devolve into nothing but non-stop sexcapades.

WARNING: That said… this chapter is rated M. If you’re not into reading that kind of thing, or are underage, that’s okay. Once you get to the discussion of Buffy’s erotic Slayer dream you can pretty much stop reading this chapter. I, personally, don’t consider the contents of this chapter to be *graphic* since Buffy is something of a mental prude and we are in her POV. But then again, I have a slightly higher tolerance for such things than most people. If you find that you’re uncomfortable reading it and would like a summary or something, just note me or message me.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae and Science






Chapter 64

A Cold Day In Hell




I wake up to the sound of Spike swearing softly. "Oh, bollocks."

"Spike?" I ask, blinking and rubbing at my eyes. My fingers are cold, and I realize I must've fallen asleep without my gloves on, on top of the sleeping bag. Spike looks up from the other side of the fire, somehow managing 'sheepish' even with fangs and bumpies. "What's wrong?" I ask, yawning.

"Nothing," he says, a little too quickly. I blink to clear my eyes.

"Are you sucking on your finger?"

"No," he says, stopping and putting his hands where I can't see them.

"You burned yourself," I say.

"Didn't," he insists.

"Liar," I say, smiling at him. He looks weirdly adorable with his bleached curls dusted with snow, and a guilty, little boy look superimposed over his vamp face. "Why were you playing with the fire?"

"Don't have gloves, pet," he says. His voice is soft. "Just trying to warm up a little."

"I thought you didn't care if you were cold," I say, confused.

"Don't," he says. "But... wanted to cover you up. Didn't think you'd appreciate cold hands tucking you in."

"Oh," I say, sitting up on my elbows so I can see him better. "I didn't mean to fall asleep. You were just gone so long."

A smile tugs at his lips, then he comes around the fire and sits at the end of the sleeping bag. "About an hour," he says. "Not that long. You're just worn out. You need real food, not that soddin' cardboard with stimulants you've been eating."

"I'll be fine for another couple of days," I say. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You went way longer without blood," I remind him. "And that... your last meal probably wasn't nearly enough. You're healing, but you're still pretty thin. And you’re still fangy. Can you make it another few days?"

"Just... hard to shake it off. Hungry. Lasted this long, though," he says. "I might drain the Bronze when we get back."

"Just don't eat the band," I tell him.

If he had eyebrows right now, they'd be raised. "Did you just make a joke, Slayer?" he asks.

"I joke all the time!" I protest.

"Not usually about vampires killing people," he says.

"Yeah, well, I know you really wouldn't do it, so I can joke about it," I say.

"Know me that well, now, do you?" he asks.

I look him in the eyes. "Yeah," I say softly. "I do."

Then all of a sudden it's like the serious is back, as big as a bear and just as heavy, laying in between us. I sit up all the way, so I'm facing him. His hands are balled into fists in his lap, but I reach for them anyway. "Let me see," I say, turning them palm up in my hands. He's right, they are cold, but no colder than mine feel already. The frostbite has faded from his fingertips completely, and I realize I'm seeing his fingernails for the first time without chipped black polish on them. Weirdly, I miss it. His right hand has a singed spot on his first finger where he must have accidentally caught it on fire. Stupid vamp.

"How can you not hate me?" he asks quietly. "After everything they showed you... hell, after everything I've ever done to you... how can you not hate me?

"I could say the same thing, you know," I tell him, stroking the rough calluses on his left hand, feeling them scrape against the pad of my thumb. "I wasn't exactly Miss Congeniality where you were concerned."

"I'm the Big Bad, you're the plucky heroine," he says. "We weren't supposed to be best of chums."

"Except we were," I point out. "There's apparently a whole book about it. In badly garbled French."

"All French is badly garbled," Spike says with a smirk. "German's worse, though."

I laugh, which for some reason wipes the smirk off his face. Damn. If I'd known that's all it took, I'd have stopped punching him in the nose ages ago. He takes a deep breath and his fingers twitch in mine.

"Head sorted?" I ask.

"Mostly," he says. "Lot to take in. Better this way, I suppose. Can't have any nasty surprises from my past suddenly cocking things up, yeah?" I nod, but he sighs. "I just... I get what they were doin', you know? Not as dumb as I look. I do get it. Buyer beware, innit? They wanted you to know what you were getting into. Shovin' my past uglies in your face, trying to scare you out of it, making you feel responsible."

He looks so tired and defeated that I can't help but want to make it go away.

"It wasn't like that," I say.

"Yeah, it was, Slayer," he insists, glaring at me. "They wanted you to know what you'd be bringing back: a monster that used to be a pathetic git of a man. They wanted you to know what could happen if I ever broke my leash."

"I was there, Spike," I remind him, getting mad. "I think I know what was going on, and that wasn't it."

He gives me a look. "This is the Powers That Bend all to their soddin' whim, pet. They don't do things by halves and they don't just hand out gifts without a boatload of responsibility and obligation to go with it."

He's right. I hate that he's right, but he is.

I sigh. "Okay, so maybe that was what they were trying to do," I say. "But it's not what they accomplished. Everything they showed me, everything I saw... it didn't scare me, and it didn't make me rethink my choice even once. It just made it more solid. It proved to me that I was right about you. That I could believe in you. That you were the right guy. You're the one, Spike."

His hands tremble a little, in mine. "I'm the one, what?" he asks.

I can't quite meet his eyes, so I study his hands instead. Big hands with wide palms, long flat fingers. Strong hands, capable of wielding a weapon as easily as a pen. Hands that are capable of such violence, and yet can still be gentle when he strokes my hair. "I miss the nail polish," I mutter.

"You can paint them sparkly pink when we get back, if you'll just answer the bloody question, pet," he says. "I'm the one, what?"

"Vampires shouldn't sparkle. It's wrong," I say, then meet his eyes. The look in them makes me swallow, hard, and my heart is suddenly racing in my chest. "It took me a long time to figure out," I tell him. "I'm not... I've been kind of shut down, for a while. Riley tried to tell me but..."

"He was a pillock," Spike says. I ignore him, because this is hard enough to get out without turning it into an argument over Riley, who seems like a distant dream with a bad ending. This, weirdly enough, is real. This is normal. My kind of normal. Stuck in a cave, in a frozen pit of hell, guarded by a bear, holding hands with a vampire.

And happy about it.

"Riley tried to tell me, but I didn't get it. Then you were gone. And I read your journal and actually listened to you for the first time. And then they made me look at you... really look at you. You'd think that would be enough, but... the thing is..."

"Buffy?" he asks, confused.

Sometimes, I really suck at being word-girl. I'm much better at being action-girl.

So I reach up, cup him by the back of the neck and kiss him.

He freezes, for all of a single heartbeat, and since mine is the only one present that beats, and it's racing, that's pretty damn fast. Then he groans, low in his throat, and kisses me back. And all thought goes right out the window.

Oh. God. Spike lips.

He kisses with his whole being, as if he could pour himself into his mouth and somehow fuse it with mine. Which makes no sense, but... wow. His hands tangle in my hair, pulling my hat off and tossing it into a corner, and then somehow he's hauling me into his lap so that I'm straddling him, my arms around his neck so tight I'd be strangling him if he were human.

He devours my mouth, kissing me breathless. It's incredible. God. No one has ever kissed me like this, like he would dust if I stopped kissing him back. He's actually the first one to pull away, pressing his ridged forehead against mine and gasping in great lungfuls of air. I match him, panting, but still hungry.

Want more kisses. Now, please.

"Wait," he groans. "Wait."

"No wait," I pout. "More."

"God... gonna dust me, luv," he chuckles. "Just... wanted this so long. Feel like I might combust. Love you, so much, Buffy. Know you don't love me, I know I'm a monster but..."

My heart clenches a little. How can he not know? He knows me so well, he always knows me better than I do... how can he not have figured this out? And then I realize... of course he hasn't. No one has ever really loved him, before. Not like this.

And it’s scary. Loving Spike... it’s not like loving Angel, which was easy because I loved him blindly. Or Riley, who... if I’m being honest, I only loved shallowly. I love Spike with my eyes wide open, for everything he is, the best and worst of him. I love him because he’s strong and weak and complicated and there are so many layers to him that I feel like I could keep peeling them back forever and never get to the bottom of him. I love him because he’s been so deep in the dark and he clawed his way out into ... well, not the light, but to the edges of it. What I feel for Spike, it’s so much deeper, stronger, harder and brighter than what I’ve felt before.

I have to tell him, and I’m scared. Scared because he could hurt me, and I could hurt him, and because there’s no guarantees, prophecy or not, that we’ll live happily ever after. Spike... Spike is real.

And ultimately, that’s why I need to tell him. Because he’s come so far, and he loves so deeply and he deserves to hear it. To know that someone loves him back.

"Spike," I say, rubbing his sharp cheekbones with my thumbs, tilting his head so he can look in my eyes. "I love you."

He blinks. "What."

"I love you, Spike. I've loved you for a long time, I think. I just... didn't figure it out until almost too late," I say softly. "Please, believe me. I love you. So much."

"Buffy," he gasps, his hands tightening on me almost painfully. "Say it again."

"I love you, Spike," I say.

And his demon face melts away, ridges fading into smooth skin, fangs retracting to wherever fangs go, the gold giving way to a blue so dark it's nearly black. It's not gone forever but just part of him again. He stares at me with such awe, it makes me feel like I'm glowing.

And then he's kissing me again, harder now that he doesn't have to be careful of his fangs, nipping at my lips hungrily. "God, Buffy," he says, dragging his mouth away to nibble a path across my jaw. "Never thought you'd..."

And then he's doing something to my ear that is probably illegal, but ohmygod is his mouth talented. Guess there's something to be said for vampires with oral fixations. Still, it's not enough, and I tunnel my fingers into his hair, dragging his mouth back to mine, tasting him as deeply as he's tasting me. Which, all things considered, ought to be pretty gross, but he tastes incredible and he makes these sexy little noises deep in his throat that vibrate through him and into me. Within seconds I've gone from cold to blazing hot, and I'm so glad he's room temperature because he's the only thing keeping me from going up in flames.

He kisses a path down my throat, nipping lightly at the vein there with blunt teeth, making all the Slayer tingles that are tuned into his frequency do staticky little pulses all over my neck. I push at the duster until it falls off his shoulders and catches on his elbows. Spike fights his way out of it as fast as he can in order to get his arms around me again, which is definitely of the good. We fit together so well. He's the perfect height for kissing like this, and our bodies seem to curl into one anothers’ perfectly.

I could kiss him forever.

The thought is a little scary, but true. I could kiss Spike forever and it would always be like this.

"Better not be a spell," he murmurs into my collarbone, which is separated from his mouth by way too many layers of fabric. "God, please don't let this be a spell. Or a dream."

"Better than a spell," I pant in his ear, remembering what he's probably remembering: Willow's spell from a couple of years ago. Kissing him then had felt incredible, and yet.. nothing like this. Not even a little. "So much better. And not a dream."

Except...

Spike's fingers sneak under the hem of my sweater, then the two shirts I'm wearing underneath. Wherever he touches, cold fire dances across my overheated skin. Gasping, I tilt my head back a little, watching our shadows move over the walls, the way the firelight turns the white to gold.

Oh. God.

I dreamed this. My Slayer dream.

Spike jerks back. "You dreamed this?"

"I said that out loud?"

"You dreamed this?" he says again, his blue eyes narrowed. I nod, then blush.

"Okay, not.. this, exactly. It was... sort of... uh, more."

"More what?" he asks, and when exactly did Spike's voice get so husky? Shivers tap dance down my spine to settle somewhere much lower, and dangerously wet.

"Um, well, we were sort of without... clothes," I say. "And... uh, you were kissing more..." I gesture vaguely, to give him a general idea.

"You had an erotic Slayer dream?" he says, a smirk pulling at his mouth. "When was this?"

"The...," I try to think back, but Buffy brain is fried by Spike kisses and it's hard to remember. Then I do. Whoa, I so do. "Uh... shower. The morning I... uh, caught you in the shower. I'd just woken up and..."

"No wonder you were panickin'," he says, slowly. "Wondered."

"I wasn't panicking," I protest. "I just... was a little wigged."

"An' why would a dream about you an' me having sex," he purrs in my ear, his tongue flicking out to taste my earlobe, "get you so scared you'd run over to my crypt first thing in the morning?"

I try to remember, but now he's sucking lightly at that spot just behind my ear and brain is no worky. "Because..." Oh, yes, there. "Because..." Oh. "I liked it," I whisper, just as he bites me gently, again.

"Should confess," he whispers in my ear. "Had the same dream. Same night."

Suddenly I remember his journal, the familiar words flickering through the lusty haze that's clouding my brain. The last entry...

...Still, had a fucking delicious dream last night, after I finally nodded off. Can't remember how it started but... we were somewhere else, away from all this, fire burning off in the corner. Her hot little body under mine, writhing and panting, arching up under me, her thighs spread wide and ready... almost vamped just at the thought of all those hard Slayer muscles wrapped tight around my dick, the scent of her surrounding me, the taste of her on my tongue...

"That's why I was in the shower," he murmurs into my throat. He wriggles his hips and suddenly I'm aware that I'm not the only one who is majorly turned on here. "Think someone was trying to tell us something?"

"That the Powers are kinky and like to watch?" I complain.

"Shall we give them a show then, luv?" he laughs, reaching for the hem of my sweater. He strips it off me so fast I hear my hair crackle with static. My shirts follow and I'm bare except for a bra that I'm seriously thinking of burning when I get home, it's so uncomfortable.

Or, now would be okay, too.

I barely register the smell of burning satin as Spike dips his head to taste me, and then I barely register anything at all beside the cool feel of his mouth and tongue on my nipples. Oh. God. Every flick makes me squirm harder against him, and when he bites gently at one while teasing the other with his fingers I'm not even remotely surprised to feel the trembling beginnings of an orgasm. Talented doesn't even begin to cover it.

And he's not even naked yet.

Careful of the fire, because I so don't want a blazing boyfrie—and there's a thought to dissect later—I shove at his shoulders hard enough to dislodge him, which makes both of us whimper. "Off," I say, yanking at his shirt. He reaches back and fists his shirt collar, then pulls it over his head and tosses it in another corner. He's still thin, but mostly healed. A few of the more major wounds are scabbed and raw looking, and there's some bruising to his ribs, but the rest is smooth pale skin with a dozen or so pink scars. When I trace one with a finger he moans.

"Did I hurt you?" I ask, concerned.

He looks at me like I'm crazy. "Can't hurt me," he says. "Not like that. Don't have to be careful with me, you know. I'm not Soldier Boy. I won't break." I blush, remembering that he heard a lot of what went on with me and Riley. He smirks, cocky and arrogant. "Never have to fake it with me, either," he says.

"I don't fake it!" I say, indignant.

"Did with Private Pencil Dick," he says, smirking. "Can't fool a vamp, luv." He traces a finger over my breast. "Can hear your heart beat picking up, hear your breathing change..." He leans in close, rubbing his nose along my shoulder. "Can smell your arousal," he whispers. "Don't even have to touch you to know how wet you are for me, and the heat comin' off of you? Gonna torch me, Buffy."

Oh. God.

Wait.

"Wait," I say, as he leans in to lap at my collarbone. "We can't... Spike, we can't..."

"Why not?" he demands, jerking back to pout at me.

"Well," I say, blushing. "I'm... kinda stinky."

"No, you're not," Spike says. "You smell like Buffy."

"Yeah, and Buffy minus shower times four days equals smelly," I say. "You at least can take snow baths, and you don't get all sweaty."

He growls, clearly exasperated. "Buffy," he says. "It's my nose, yeah? And it says you smell like Buffy. Warm, and golden, and delicious. It's all I can do not to lick you head to toe right now and taste every single inch of all that gorgeous skin—something I plan on getting around to, eventually. Now, I've waited a bloody long time for this, Slayer, and you keep stalling. Startin' to think you're just messing with me—"

"No!" I say. "I'm not messing. I promise. I just..."

"You're gorgeous," he murmurs. "Most beautiful, bright thing these old eyes have ever seen. Nothing wrong with you, pet. Want to make love to you, so much. Let me. God, please let me."

Oh.

"Oh," I say, a little breathless at the intensity in his eyes, in his voice. "Okay."

"Thank god," he says, and pulls my mouth to his.

Oh, yes.

Then we're falling back onto the sleeping bag, his hands cradling my head to keep me from cracking it against the hard ground. His mouth and hands slip over me, touching me everywhere, tasting me. No one has ever done this. I can't remember... there were others, I know there were. Angel is a hazy memory, glimpses of passion that's nearly overwhelmed by the darkness that came after. Riley, even vaguer. Were there any others before this?

All I know is that everything is sharp and bright and real. Every touch sings through my skin, igniting nerve endings and Slayer senses alike. My entire body feels in tune with his, and I realize that we're still dancing. We just stopped doing it vertically.

His hands skate over my hips, then reach down to yank off my boots. He swears a little when he has to pause to undo the laces. Then my socks, and before I know it, everything else is gone, too, and I'm splayed out before him like a Buffy buffet. Or at least, he's eyeing me like I'm one.

Only, I want him naked, too. I lean up and grab his belt, and he helps me get rid of the rest of his clothes, leaving him kneeling in front of me, between my legs. I know I'm blushing as I stare, finally letting myself look at ... Spike. And the only thing I can think is... Mine. All that salty goodness is mine. All those rippling muscles under pale, scarred skin. He's gorgeous, and he's entirely mine.

His smirk is arrogant, proud, and entirely male. He reaches down and wraps one hand around his... and then he strokes it, watching me. "See something you like, pet?" he asks.

Everything, I want to say, but it gets stuck in my throat.

His smirk widens into a grin. Spike getting the better of me? So not right.

Before he realizes what I'm about to do, I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him toward me, hard enough that he yelps and manages to put his hands out on either side of my head to catch his weight. "Bossy bint," he growls.

"Shut up, Spike," I tell him, then grab his head and kiss him, using my legs to roll us over so that I'm on top and he's between me and the cold ground. Immediately I can feel him, pressing between my thighs, right where I'm all achy and swollen. Right where I need him. I can't help but whimper a little, as I slide over him, and he gasps and arches up into me, grinding against me.

"Oh, god," he murmurs. "So hot. Fuck, Buffy."

I ought to be offended at the word, but the only response I can dredge up is, "please!"

He half sits, thrusting his hips up so that the length of him slides agonizingly over extremely sensitive skin. His mouth finds my breast again, licking and kissing and... oh. god.

Vampires? Totally suck. In the best possible way.

How did I not figure out months ago what Spike was capable of doing with his tongue? And hands? And...

Oh. God.

Okay, now I know why Spike's so good at petty theft and pickpocketing; "nimble" does not begin to describe what he can do with those fingers. He slips them between us, playing his cool fingers over hot, swollen flesh. Every touch makes me shiver, until it's too much and I have to...

have to...

He flips us again, back the other way so I'm resting on the sleeping bag. His mouth keeps returning to mine as if he can't get enough, and I'm more than happy to provide it. Only there's so much more of him I want to touch, want to taste, and for a moment we wrestle for the dominant position again. Difficult since as much as we both want it, neither of us seems to mind losing.

Then I'm kissing his throat, and he's groaning and collapsing back under me, one hand fisted in my hair while I return his teasing. "Yeah," he gasps. "Oh, fuck. There, Buffy. Bite me, luv." And I do. Not hard enough to break skin or draw blood, cause... uh, I'm not the one with the blood fetish, but it feels good, biting the corded muscle in his throat, hearing him growl his pleasure. He's panting in my ear, whispering all kinds of things. Encouragement, praise, words so dirty that they make me blush.

And make me even hotter.

And in between all that, he keeps saying it. "Love you, Buffy. God I love you..." He lets me kiss his shoulders, his chest, then he rolls me over again. "So hot," he murmurs, kissing and nibbling his way down my torso, making me squirm.

I arch into his cool touch. Chill fingers skate down my spine, pulling me near. My skin is blazing. There should be steam where he touches me, instead there's just cool fire. His mouth moves over my skin, tasting me, teasing me, insatiable.

"God, I want you," he murmurs, his tongue dipping into the hollow of my bellybutton. I arch under him, my eyes staring blindly at the shadows dancing over the white walls. His and mine. Black and gold.

His throaty growl makes me tremble, makes me reach for him, pulling him up so I can punish his mouth for talking instead of kissing me. Somewhere, anywhere. I've never needed anything like I need his mouth on me. He hisses a little, and I feel the healing ridges of the scars on his lip. We both ignore them, too intent on devouring one another. Cool fingers play at my breasts, pinching, tweaking my nipples until I'm writhing under him. I wrap my legs around his lean hips, slide my hands over the smooth muscles of his back, careful not to aggravate the healing wounds, pull him tight against me.

"Oh, fuck, Buffy," he says again, his mouth seemingly on some infinite play loop. He's so hard. I can feel how badly he wants me and it's terrifying and amazing and makes the fire burning in me even hotter. I bury one hand in his loose, white curls, holding his head still so I can taste his mouth again. Our hips grind together and I feel him slide between my thighs, cool as steel. He pauses, just at the threshold, waiting, his entire body trembling as hard as mine as he struggles to control himself. The low growl that emanates from his chest isn't even remotely human, but the eyes that gaze down into mine are blue and dark and fathomless as the night sky.

"Invite me in, luv, please," he begs, and I can't deny him any part of me. Not now. Maybe not ever again.

"Come in, Spike, please," I say, equally desperate. "Come in."

He slides into me slowly, and for once it doesn't feel like I'm being invaded. It's more like a missing piece is finally in place. We gasp together as he stretches me. God, he feels perfect inside of me. Just absolutely right. It seems like it takes forever for him to slide all the way in, and when he finally does, he pauses, panting, pressing his forehead to mine. "Oh, god," he whispers. "So, so, so hot. God, I'm going to dust."

By contrast, he's the perfect level of cool inside me, soothing my seriously swollen, achy flesh. When he tries to pull back, out of me, I whimper, clamping down with muscles I didn't even really know I had. "Oh, fuck!" he says, his eyes going wide and staring into mine. "Do that again," he begs. "Harder." I do and his answering inhuman growl makes every Slayer muscle in my body respond, but not in the way I'm used to. I tighten and arch and bear down on him. My nails dig into his back, my legs wrap even tighter around his hips, and something deep inside of me growls possessively in return.

And then the dance begins, and it's hotter and harder and more frantic than any we've ever had before. Bodies moving in sync, battling for each move, doing our best to make the other groan or cry out... only not in pain. Not that there isn't—pain, I mean. I've always had to be careful, with ... human guys. There were human guys before, I remember that, vaguely. Had to be careful. Not to hurt. Not to break. Not to squeeze too hard or use my strength or give in too deeply to the instincts buried inside of me that demand harder, faster, deeper in ways humans just... can't. But Spike can. And he can take it, my strength, my need, all of it, and give it right back. All the while talking, murmuring in my ear that he loves the way I move, the feel of me, the scent of me, my body... me.

He loves me.

It's incredible. I want to laugh with the sheer awesomeness of it.

And then he touches me, there, just once. One cool, knowing little pinch... and the world ends in fire.

Hot, white incredible fire that seems to burst from behind my eyes and race through my entire body until I'm clenching tight around him, holding on to him because he's the only solid, cool thing in the universe and I need him to remind me that I even exist beyond pleasure. He roars, distantly, inhuman and triumphant and possessive, shuddering hard in my arms.

And then we drift, wrapped so tightly together that I’m not sure where I end and Spike begins.

***


When I remember I have eyes, I open them and find myself staring into his. In the shadows they seem black, with the reflection of me floating in them like some golden, glowing thing. He's panting harshly and I realize that we're breathing in time, our bodies totally fused. I raise a limp hand to touch his face, reassure myself that this is real.

He laughs, softly, at my touch. "God," he says. "Incredible. Never... never felt like that before..."

"Never?" I ask, feeling a little weak at the thought. "You're kinda old, Spike," I remind him.

"Oi!"

"And I know Drusilla wasn't exactly a nun."

He snorts. "Actually, funny story, that... or, well... maybe not so funny..." he trails off, staring down at me. "Never been like this, though. Never," he swears, and something in his eyes tells me he means it. He laughs again, and I can feel it rumble through him, into me, like we're sharing the same body. Well, we sort of are, because he's still in me. My eyes widen a little, when he twitches, still hard, deep inside. "Knew you'd be incredible, Slayer. Knew the only thing better than fighting you would be..."

I clamp a hand over his mouth.

"Shut up, Spike," I tell him. "I feel really good right now and I so don't want to have to kick your pale ass all over this cave." His eyes twinkle with laughter, then he licks my palm. "Ewww!" I pull my hand away.

"Weren't complaining a few minutes ago," he reminds me with a smirk. "And if you really wanted a go-round pet, you know I wouldn't object."

"Masochist," I say.

"Yeah, so? You're a sadist," he replies.

"I'm not!" I protest. He just raises an eyebrow and pushes his torso up a little so I can see his throat and chest. Oh. God. I did that? I hadn't realized that I'd...

"Back feels like I went a few rounds with a mountain lion," he says, leering a little. "Wanna go again, kitten?" Deliberately, he rotates his hips against mine, sending more sparks arcing through me.

"Already?" I gasp, feeling my body respond.

"Gonna dance all night with you," he promises, curling his tongue behind his teeth. "Unlike Soldier Boy, I can keep up." He thrusts inside of me, to prove his point.

"Oh, god! What are you? The Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man?"

"Oi!" he says, rearing back and glaring down at me. "Take that back!"

"Well, you're all... white and... and big and with the, you-know, stay-puffiness... And he was a-a Big Bad, too. A really BIG Bad."

"Nothing soft or poofy about me, Slayer," he growls, thrusting hard, making my whole body quiver in response.

"No," I agree, arching up to meet him. I grab his hair and bring his head down to mine.

"Think I need to prove it," he says. "Show you just what a Big Bad is supposed to be like, Slayer."

"You can try, Vampire," I murmur against his lips. He growls and dives for my mouth.

And the dance begins all over again.






 
 
Chapter #66 - Chapter 65: Promises In The Dark
 
Author’s Note: In the last chapter: Buffy confessed her feelings to Spike. Major sexin’ was had by all…except Bear, for what I hope should be obvious reasons. Also, KE clearly overplayed her hand and included a random dig at Twilight (the book/movie series, not Angel’s flamboyant attempt at being a superhero) which seems to have completely distracted 99% of my readers from anything else that might have happened in that chapter, since that’s all most of them have commented on.

Anyway, in this chapter, our heroes engage in the time-honored tradition of all people trapped in caves with the object of their affections.

That would be conversation, you pervs. ;)

Also that other thing, but you needn’t hide your blushing eyes this chapter.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae and Science







Chapter 65

Promises In The Dark




A long time later I lay, warm and sleepy, wrapped in Spike's arms. My head rests on his shoulder and my right hand absently traces a barely there scar just over his heart. "Where'd this one come from?" I ask, softly.

He lifts his head to glance down at his his torso, then flops back on my wadded up coat which we're using for a pillow and growls. "Your wanker of an ex," he says. "When he staked me after..." He trails off.

Oh. Right.

Riley seems like such a distant memory now. Like a weird dream that lingered a little too long. It's not that I don't still care about him. I do. But... the hurt is gone, replaced by something so much better I can't even put it into words. "I'm sorry," I say. "About... so much. About Riley. About how we all treated you. I'm sorry I didn't see..."

"In the past now, pet," Spike says, kissing the top of my head. "Couldn't really blame you. Know what I am, what I was. You had no reason to trust me. Can't blame you for instinct. And as for the others...not that I don't appreciate the apology but... fact is, luv, you're not responsible for them. I'm not expecting a happy reunion full of soggy group hugs when we get back. I doubt they were thrilled about you comin' after me in the first place."

I remember Giles' concerns, Xander's suspicions, Willow's eagerness to help... I can't help but sigh. "No, they weren't. They pretty much only helped me get here because Whistler told them it would be a strike against Louhi, and because I didn't really give them a choice."

"That right?" Spike murmurs.

"I believe my words to Giles were something along the lines of 'either help me or get out of my way.' There was much glasses polishing," I tell him. "He may have worn a hole in them by the time we get back."

Spike doesn't say anything, which is so unusual I summon the strength to lift my head up enough I can look at him. He's gazing back at me with the oddest expression.

"This is real?" he asks. "I don't..." When he frowns he gets these little lines between his eyebrows.

"It's real," I promise him.

"Keep expecting to wake up, still dangling from an icicle with no lightsaber in sight," he says. "Can't believe you saw all that, and still decided to walk through hell to get me back."

"I can't believe you went almost a year without talking every night," I say.

He laughs. "Was harder some nights than others," he says, then frowns. "After your mum... would have given anything to be able to talk then."

I have to stretch a little to kiss him, and he moans softly when I do. "I know, Spike," I say. "I read it in your journal. But... you still helped, more than you know. Thank you for... everything. For holding me, and listening. For patrolling. For protecting my friends when I couldn't. Setting Xander's leg. I know you didn't really do it for them, but... you have uh-oh face. What gives?"

He swallows. "Just... only reason Rupes and the Scoobies don't stake me on sight is because of the bloody chip, pet. Now it's gone..."

He's right. Xander is going to major wig.

"We won't tell them," I decide. "Not yet. There's way more important stuff for us to be concentrating on, I don't have time for them to worry about the chip."

"You're not worried that I might hurt them?" he asks, his voice sounding tight. "Still soulless, remember?"

I sit up as much as I can, so I can look him in the eyes. "You're not Angel," I tell him. "I'm not worried. I know you won't hurt them. Not on purpose. You're stronger than you know, Spike." He stares at me with awe in his eyes. I blush, not really sure what causes it. "Besides, once we're done with the world save-age, I would have tried to find a way to get rid of the chip anyway. Just saves us a few research parties, having it gone."

"What," Spike says, those lines coming back. "You'd have... why?"

I shrug. "Because it was wrong," I tell him. "And dangerous for you, and stupid. You remember that night at the Bronze, when we danced? Afterwards I was worried that some human had beat you up, and that's why you wouldn't tell me. And... that robot girl? The kid who made her made it so that if he called for her and she didn't answer, she got zapped with pain. It made me sick, and she was just a machine. Also... not so fond of bad things in people's brains anymore."

Spike has his thinking face on. "Wouldn't be here, if it weren't for the chip," he says softly.

"I know," I tell him. "It... was necessary. Wrong, but necessary. I’m not sorry you had it; I can’t be. But I'm not sorry it's gone, either. And when the time comes to tell the others I'll make sure they understand that."

"An' in the meantime, if I muck up and accidentally trip the boy, you want me to pretend I've got a headache?" he asks, looking amused. "You're asking me to lie, Slayer?"

"No, I'm asking you to behave yourself and not muck up anything," I say. "Besides, you're a terrible liar."

"Oi! Evil, here. Lying's part of the curriculum," he protests.

"Well, then you must've slept through that class, cause you totally fail at it," I tell him. "I almost always know when you're lying. Like that whole thing with Adam? Totally saw right through you."

He winces. "Not my finest moment, pet," he says, then sighs. "Haven't had many of those since I landed in Sunnyhell. Everything I've done has been buggered all to hell."

I think about that for a minute. "Maybe from your perspective," I say, mulling it over. "But from where I'm sitting, your plans going kablooey? Not such a bad thing."

"Well, I didn't kill you," he says. "Think both of us are glad those particular plans didn't take."

"I didn't kill you, either," I point out. "And I had lots more chances than you did. So, really, I'm the one who was buggered."

Spike snorts. "Highly doubt that, luv, but if you're feeling naughty some night I'm sure it can be arranged," he waggles his eyebrows at me. I have no idea what I just said, or what he was implying, but I can tell it's probably dirty. And how weird is it that Spike being dirty doesn't really make me want to ewwww anymore? Instead it just makes me wet and squirmy. He sniffs, suddenly, and his eyes flash gold. "Think you like that idea, Slayer..."

"I don't even know what you're talking about! Stupid English words," I protest. He smirks, then bends his head to whisper in my ear at the same time as he rolls his hips suggestively.

Oh.

Oh, God.

"People only do that in pornos," I tell him, my voice a little choked. What he just suggested...

"People do it all the time," he says. "'Cause it feels bloody good, and it's about as intimate as you can get. When you love someone, really love them, there's no such thing as dirty. It's all about trust, pet. Know you're still feeling a bit wobbly in that area, but someday I'll prove it to you: you can trust me. Always. Never deliberately hurt you, Buffy. I swear it. Might fuck up sometimes, but I'll never deliberately hurt you. An' I'll prove it to you, every day, if it takes me until the soddin' sun dusts everything on this this planet."

I believe him. After everything we've been through, everything I've seen, I can't help but believe him.

"I don't think it'll take that long," I tell him, reaching up to stroke one of his phenomenal cheekbones. His eyes do that nearly black thing again.

"Good," he growls, through a grin. "'Cause, gotta tell you, Slayer, you've got one sweet little arse and the thought of..."

I clap my hand over his mouth again. "Uh... let's hold that thought until we're back home and—and, uh, the world isn't trying to end, okay?" I can feel him smirking under my palm, but instead of being a jerk he just presses his lips to the heel of my hand.

And, whoa, I had no idea that that was one of my erogenous zones.

Suddenly I feel like laughing. It's sort of... freeing, being with someone who not only loves me, but loves everything I am, too. Who I don't have to be afraid of physically hurting, who I can let loose with. Explore. Not that sex before was exactly lame or anything, but I always had to hold something back. The idea that with Spike I don't have to hold anything back, that I can try anything, do anything, and he'll be happy to go along for the ride... Hell, I'm pretty sure he'd jump at the chance to teach me everything he knows about sex and then help me research even more.

It makes me happy.

But Spike's face is serious as he stares down at me. "What?" I ask. He looks pained for a minute, then looks away, like he's afraid to say what he's going to say.

"You're going to think I'm a right ponce for saying this... but... jus' can't believe I've got you," he says, finally. "Seems like a dream. Gonna wake up and find it's not true. Or worse, we'll get back to Sunnyhell and you'll decide it was a mistake and tell me to sod off. Or stake me. Or... I'll just be your dirty little secret and you'll treat me the same as always, in front of your chums. An' I'll let you, 'cause now that I've had you I don't know that I can bear to let you go."

If I hadn't had the This is Your Life tour of Spike's past, I don't know if I would be hearing the pain and uncertainty lacing his voice right now. I know I wouldn't have believed it, even if I did. But having seen what he went through with Cecily, and Drusilla...

I reach for him, turning him more on his side so that we can face each other.

"It won't be like that," I promise him. He snorts slightly, but his eyes are searching my face.

"So, what? We pop back and you announce we're an item? Can't see your Slayerettes doin' a chorus of joy."

"They're not going to touch you," I promise him. "Besides, there's that whole prophecy thingie. You're mine, Spike. There's a whole book on the topic. If they've got any problems with that, they can take it up with the Powers That Be."

"Yours," he whispers, that weird look coming back into his eyes. The one that makes me feel like I'm glowing.

"I love you," I tell him, brushing a kiss across his lip, which is almost entirely healed now. He growls slightly, then meets my kiss with a hungry one of his own that quickly has me breathless and panting. I thought he'd worn me out, but the tingles making a quick run south seem to have a different idea.

"Love you, too, Buffy," he murmurs against my lips. "So bloody much." His mouth begins a steady descent down my throat, then over my breasts to my stomach. The cool air on my wet nipples makes me arch beneath him, but he splays one big hand across my lower belly, pinning my hips to the floor. Then his other hand slips between my thighs while his tongue plays with my bellybutton.

"Oh, god," I gasp. "What...?"

"Gonna do something else you probably think they reserve just for pornos," he says with a smirk, his head dipping. Then he pauses. "You watch pornos, Slayer?"

I feel myself blush from head to toe, which makes his eyes flash gold for a second. "Shut up, Spike," I mutter.

"Naughty girl," he murmurs.

And then he shows me exactly the best way to shut him up.

Orally fixated vampires really just need something to do with their mouths, I guess.



***


It's easy to lose track of time, when there's no night or day, and everything outside is howling and white. The storm seems like it'll never stop. When the wood starts to run low, Spike treks out into the blizzard to get more. He always comes back in looking like the abominable snow vamp, knocking clumps of snow from his boots. He sits by the fire until he's warm enough to crawl back into the sleeping bag with me, and then things usually start getting steamy pretty quick.

I love him, but there's no way I'm going to sleep beside a Spike-sicle.

When he comes back from his third trip for wood, however, I notice he's shivering.

"You're cold?" I ask, surprised. He's looking paler than usual, and his eyes are red rimmed.

He makes a face. "Hungry," he admits.

I know how he feels. I'm down to my last two power bars, and I've been eating them in little chunks, to make them last. Still, he went without blood for... well, I don't really like to think about how long he was here before I got here. Now that I'm looking I notice how hollow his cheeks look, how thin he's getting again. I guess that one little drink wasn't nearly enough to hold him over for long. Of course I figured we'd be out of here by now. I hadn't counted on Louhi throwing a blizzard at us.

Spike crouches next to me, his expression serious. "I'll be fine," he says. "Just a bit shaky. I've got a leash on it, Slayer. No need to fret."

"I'm not fretting," I tell him.

"Then why're you're trying to open a vein by rubbing a hole through your wrist?" he asks, cocking his head to one side. I glance down. Sure enough I've wrapped my right hand around my left wrist and I'm rubbing circles over the veins in it with my thumb.

"I wasn't fretting," I tell him again. "I was just... thinking. You went for a really long time without eating, didn't you?"

He gets a pained look on his face. "Longer than a few days," he says. "I'll make it until we're out of here, Slayer."

"Who knows how long that blizzard will last," I point out.

"It's just Louhi having a tantrum," he says. "It'll blow out when she realizes she's sapping her strength. Longer she keeps pelting us with snow, less worried I am about her popping out of the wardrobe right after us." He sits beside me and pokes at the fire with a stick.

"Can she?" I ask. "I mean, now that you're no longer being her Everlast Battery, can she still..."

"Yeah," he says. "Probably. Door is wedged open enough, and she's got most of her underlings runnin' about Sunnydale. She'll find a way. Thing is... with time moving slower here, she's got the time to prepare, yeah? We're gonna get back just in time for her to come roaring after us."

I hadn't thought of that.

"If that blizzard lasts much longer, neither of us is going to be in fighting shape when we get out of here," I say softly. Spike doesn't say anything, just jabs at the fire. I stare down at the blue veins under my skin and remember the last time I offered a vampire my blood. I had no clue what I was in for that time. Now I know and kind of wish I didn't. Still... "There's no reason why we should both be weak and hungry," I say, extending my wrist. "Just... don't take too much, okay?"

Spike takes my arm gently, his cool fingers stroking the skin, making me shiver. After a moment he bends his head and I brace myself for the pain of his fangs.

Which doesn't come.

Instead he just brushes a kiss across my wrist.

"Not that I don't appreciate the gesture, luv," he says softly. "But right now any amount is too much. Too cold here for you to lose blood. Besides... won't feed off you, Buffy."

What?

"What?" I ask, surprised. Since when do starving vampires turn down freely offered blood?

A corner of his mouth twists up. "You're... I love you, and I'm not going to dirty that up by feeding off you. You're Buffy, not ... dinner. Though I've no objection to eating you in ways that include other bodily fluids." His eyes drift down my body and I realize that just his sitting beside me and kissing my wrist was enough to get me all wet and achy again.

"Ewww," I say.

"Weren't complaining a few hours ago," he points out.

"You're a pig, Spike," I say.

"Yeah, and you love it," he says, tonguing his teeth and grinning.

"I thought you said that if two people loved each other there was no such thing as dirty," I say. He freezes.

"Balls," he mutters. "Gotta learn to shut my gob."

"I get that it's too cold here," I say. "But... what if we're in a similar situation sometime in the future. You wouldn't drink from me then?"

"Since when did you get all hypothetical?" he asks.

"I'm warm enough, right now," I promise him, confused. He opens his mouth like he's going to say something, then shuts it, tilting his head to the side with a look of amusement on his face. Then he flexes his jaw a couple of times before speaking.

"What I meant was, first, with any luck we'll never find ourselves in this sort of fix ever again. An' if we do we can talk about it again then. At the mo', however, I'm not taking your blood," he says, seriously. "Aside from that dead bloke back there, I'm on a strict diet from here on out. Considering how hungry I am right now, and how delicious you smell, I think if I can turn down your blood when you're shoving it under my fangs, I'm pretty much past the point of random temptation. I won't give you any reason to have to stake me, ever."

He looks so serious, as he says it, and I feel tears well up and threaten to spill. Spike smiles softly, then brushes his thumb beneath my eye, catching the tear that started to fall. "I'll probably make mistakes, and I'm bound to run off at the mouth without thinking. And I can't promise that I'll always be able to stay on the straight and narrow when it comes to... not nicking things, or gambling. But I swear to you, Buffy, I won't ever deliberately hurt or kill any humans without your permission. An' I'll do my best to protect you and yours, til the end of the world."

"What if something were to happen to me?" I can't help but ask.

"Well, then," he says seriously. "All bets are off and Harris ought to start wearin' himself a full suit of armor covered in crosses."

"Spike," I say, rolling my eyes.

He grins. "First off," he says. "Nothing's gonna happen to you. I'm going to make sure you're the longest lived Slayer in history. Second, even if, god-forbid, something did happen... I'd keep my promise. I'd protect your chums 'til they're old and gray. And when the last of them is gone, I'll go find myself a sunrise and come to find you, sunshine. Figure by that point I'll be so soddin' good Hell won't want to touch me."

There's a teasing note in his voice, but I can tell he means it. Every single word.

I have to kiss him for it.

And of course, once I start kissing Spike it gets really hard to stop.

***


I wake up a day or two later, wigged out at the silence.

And it's only then that I realize that it hasn't BEEN silent since the storm started.

"Wake up," I say, nudging Spike. He's wrapped around me, his body deceptively warm from the heat of the fire in the cave and whatever he's leeched from being tucked into the sleeping bag with me. His face is getting bone-thin again, but he still looks bizarrely beautiful when he sleeps. The bruising is totally gone now and there's only a few thin scars along his bottom lip to show where the damage was. "Spike," I say, shaking his shoulder. "Wake up."

He growls softly in his sleep, then cracks an eye open.

"Bloody 'ell, woman," he grumbles, his accent thick and sleepy. "'M all shagged out at the mo'. Think eight hours might be my limit, 'least on an empty tank."

"We did not...shag for eight hours," I tell him.

He thinks about it. "Well if you're counting the snogging, it was eight and three quarters. I'm exhausted," he complains, then his hand creeps up to cup my breast. "But if you insist, Slayer..."

"Spike, the storm stopped," I tell him, blushing and trying to get his brain back on track.

That gets his attention. He goes still, listening. "Sounds like. Let's have a look then," he says. He pulls himself out of the sleeping bag, pausing only long enough to kiss me breathless again, then tosses me my clothes where they've been staying warm near the fire. I pull them on while trying to stay in the sleeping bag, and it's only when I'm ready for my boots and coat that I climb out reluctantly.

I can't wait to get back to the land of heated bathrooms and hot showers.

Spike's swearing as he notches his belt tighter. We've both lost weight, but he's in worse shape than I am, since he never quite got back to full strength to begin with. Pooh has perked up, now that we're up and moving, and moves out of the way when I approach the gap between the caves. Spike assured me, after the first night, that listening to the two of us go at it probably wouldn't traumatize a polar bear, but I can't help but blush a little when Pooh swivels his huge head around to look at me.

Spike edges around me, putting my body between him and the bear. "I thought the two of you were friends, now," I say with a frown.

"Not when he's eyeballing us like we might be a meal, Slayer. He hasn't eaten since we escaped and I've no desire to be bear food," he says.

"He doesn't look hungry," I point out.

"Neither do fashion models," he grumps and steps out of the cave. "But I bet they'd gnaw your arm off if you poured some chocolate sauce on."

"You're so weird," I tell him and step out to stand beside him.

The snow has piled up deep around the base of the trees, covering a lot of the fallen ones. The clouds are gone, and through the few skeletal branches that remain I can see the strange half and half sky again, twinkling with stars. "Think it's safe to move on?" I ask.

Spike sniffs at the air.

"Yeah," he says. "Better now than wait for her to get a second wind."

"Seek," I say, touching the pendant around my throat. The light whizzes out of the necklace and through the trees, dodging around Spike who yelps and moves out of the way. "Looks like we can still get home from here," I say, feeling more cheerful than I have since I started this whole thing. We're nearly there, I've got Spike, he still loves me, I love him, and soon I'll be back in the land of Hot Water. "First thing I'm doing when I get home is taking a long hot shower," I say. "If Louhi wants a fight, she's just going to have to wait."

"Now there is a plan I can get behind, Slayer," Spike says, wrapping his arms around me. "Literally, in fact. Want help scrubbing your back, pet?"

"You want to scrub my back?" I ask, amused. He chuckles, then leans down to whisper in my ear.

"Yeah," he says, his voice husky and promising more sex. "With my tongue."






 
 
Chapter #67 - Chapter 66: Blood and Iron
 
Author’s Note: No warnings, this chapter. Unless you’re easily squicked by violence or blood, and if so… wtf are you doing reading Buffy fanfic?

Poem quoted in this chapter is e.e. cummings’ “gee I like to think of dead”… look it up because it’s fairly awesome.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae and Science





Chapter 66

Blood and Iron



It feels weird to be back on Pooh and shambling through the forest after so many days stuck in the cave. Good weird, though. I almost don't even mind the fact that the air is cold enough to frost my scarf to my face again, or that my ears have once more gone numb. It just feels so good to be moving.

Not that there wasn't any movement in the cave. Cause there was. My thighs haven't been this sore since... uh... Riley and the frat party from hell. But I mean moving more in a, you know, geographical sense.

The forest around us echoes every now and then with the sound of breaking branches; the snow is that heavy. Whenever the noise sounds particularly near us, Spike flinches, looking upward. "Bloody hell dimension," he mutters at one point. "Rains sodding stakes." But Pooh just pads along, ignoring the sounds and following in the direction the light went.

I just huddle deeper into Spike's coat, pressing myself against him and trying to stay warm.

A few hours later, though, Spike raises his head and sniffs.

"Feel that?" he says softly, the words so low that I pretty much only hear them through his chest.

I lift my head, frowning.

"Yeah," I say, equally quietly. I do.

There's a weird feeling in the forest. Like eyes watching us. My demon sense is tingling, too, but I can't really get a lock on whatever is triggering it. It's everywhere, whatever it is, all around us.

And it's creeping me out.

"Think we should stop the bear?" I ask.

"No," Spike says. "Let's see if they decide to show themselves. Your little gem there ought to be hidin' us, yeah?"

I try to think... I can't remember when I lifted the spell, and I know I hadn't activated it today...

Crap.

"Uh," I say. "It would be if I'd remembered to turn it on."

Spike just looks at me.

"You distracted me!" I tell him, remembering how he'd talked me into one last quickie before we'd put out the fire in the cave. Well... actually there wasn't a lot of talking, but he did use his mouth.

"Bloody hell," he mutters, reaching down to loosen his knives in their sheaths. I take the opportunity to do the same with my sword and the dagger on my thigh. Then it's just a matter of waiting, pretending we can't sense whatever is watching us. After a while the feeling intensifies, and I realize that both Spike and Pooh have started a low, rumbling growl. Pooh's steps have slowed, and his big head swivels slightly side to side as he sniffs at the air.

Spike sees the first one, his head whipping to the right and tracking it as it moves. It's gone before I can see it. "What are they?" I ask.

"Goblins," Spike says.

"Goblins?" I ask.

"Of a sort," he says. "Saw some once when I was in northern Europe. Hiisi is what the natives called them. Little bastards, about knee high, good at camouflage. There's one, sitting on that fallen tree up to the left. That knobbly bit with the sticks pokin' out?"

I look, but it looks just like log, to me. Until its eyes swivel and the light catches them. They gleam, like a cat's. Then it moves, darting away behind another tree.

They're fast. Really fast.

And I'm cold.

Crap.

"How many?" I ask softly.

"Enough," Spike says. There's a soft crunch and when I look up he's in game face again, his yellow eyes gleaming just like the goblin's did. Pooh halts in what passes for a clearing here and crouches. "Bear's stopped. Want to go kill something?"

I slide off Pooh's back and land in the snow. Spike lands silently beside me. With Pooh at our backs, we turn to face the deadwood forest. I can feel all the eyes watching me, hear what sounds like soft little snickers. I bounce a little on the balls of my feet, trying to warm up my stiff muscles. Beside me, Spike growls, tracking things with his vamp vision that are too fast for me to see. Our eyes lock once, and he smirks, and then suddenly I'm almost with him; aware of how his body is going to move, of where his focus is.

He sees the first attack coming at the same time as I feel it, the tingles alerting me to the goblin's path before my eyes can catch up. "Batter up, Slayer," Spike says, and I swing my sword in a wide arc, catching it as it leaps at me and batting it away into Spike's reach. He catches it and snaps its neck, tossing it away so we don't trip on the body.

"Was that one mine or yours?" I ask.

"I killed it, so it's mine. We keeping score, Slayer?"

"Might as well," I say with a grin. The tingles along my neck alert me to the next attack and I spin, slicing the head off the next goblin before it reaches me. "Even now," I comment.

"What's the prize?" Spike asks, easily deflecting the next attack.

"Hadn't thought that far," I admit, kicking another goblin away. They seem to range in size from tiny to about the size of our evil elf friends. Their skin is the same knobbly black as the dead trees, and they have branchy bits that stick randomly out of their arms, back and head. Other than that, they don't seem to bear much physical resemblance to each other.

"Winner gets to tell Harris what we did in his sleeping bag," Spike says with a smirk, lashing out at two more goblins. "And I'm up to three now."

Oh god.

Xander is going to freak.

"But I don't want to tell Xander what we did!" I protest, backhanding another goblin into a tree, then running another through with my sword.

"So we're hidin' the fact that we're shagging?" Spike says, sulkily.

"No…" I say. "We're just... not advertising it. Or handing out gory details."

"Nothing gory at all about shagging you, Slayer," Spike says, taking the head off of a springing enemy with a single blow. "'Not unless you're kinkier than you've let on. Got a thing for blood play, luv?"

"No!" I say, spinning just in time to kick a goblin in the chest and send it stumbling back into another. It only takes a single swing to behead both of them.

"Not that I'd object," Spike adds, conversationally. "Heads up!" He tosses a goblin my way and I stab it as it turns in mid air to strike at me. I notice that somewhere along the way he's lost his knives.

"You just told me you wouldn't drink my blood!" I protest.

"Blood in bed is different than feeding, pet," Spike says. Without missing a beat, he slips around behind me and licks my earlobe, which is about as much skin as he can get to, between the scarf and the coat and the hat. One hand skims down my thigh, making me gasp. "I'd make it hurt so good, pet," he promises huskily. "On your left, Slayer."

I just catch the tingles that warn of the goblin approaching me from my bad side in time to bat it away with my sword. Spike spins around me in a whirl of black leather and platinum hair, somehow managing to press a kiss to my mouth before he takes his position to my left again, now holding the iron spike that he stole out of my thigh sheath.

"Cheat," I grumble.

"Evil, pet," he reminds me. Then he stabs a goblin with the spike.

It screams, a high-pitched and pain filled sound that makes everything pause for just a moment. The stabbed goblin falls off the spike, stumbling back and staring at the black hole in its chest. The hole widens, the black edges spreading across its skin until the entire goblin collapses, its scream dying to echoes in the sudden silence.

"Well, well," Spike says, grinning. "Iron allergy. This could be fun."

"Rauta," the goblins say, from all around us. "Rauta, rauta, rautarautarauta..." Suddenly they seem to emerge from wherever they were hiding, crowding around us in a mini but still massive army. There are dozens, I think, staring. No... more. There's a hundred, maybe two, and eventually they surround us in a solid wall of twitchy black twiggy creatures.

"Uh, Spike?" I say, looking around at all the goblins and feeling how tired and hungry and cold I am. As much as I like a good fight, this is looking like it might be just a little more than I can comfortably chew.

"Run?" he asks, and I can see the faintest of trembles in his limbs, too.

"Great minds, right?" I say.

"Bear?" he asks.

"Bear," I agree.

We both whirl and make a dash for Pooh, who has clearly been enjoying a slaughter of his own. He sees us coming and crouches in time for us to scramble up on his back. Maybe they realize we're trying to get away, because suddenly the goblins surge forward in a group. Pooh rises, swiping at the goblins in front of him with a massive paw. I lean out over his right side, slashing at the ones trying to swarm up his flank. Spike takes out the ones on the left and to the rear. For a moment I'm not sure if we'll be able to move, but Pooh is huge and it only takes a moment for him to leap forward, trampling the goblins in his way.

Then we're loping through the woods, with a howling army at our backs.

"Seek!" I cry out, managing to activate the necklace. Then I tell it to hide us. I'm not sure if it'll work, since they're so focused on us already, but maybe the ones who aren't looking directly at us will lose interest? It's all I've got.

My right arm feels like lead as I swing at the few goblins that are still clinging to Pooh's flank, and there's other pains that my body is shutting out right now. Behind me, Spike roars, and I feel him jerk backwards. When I turn to look, there's a goblin on his back, biting at his throat and digging its claws into his chest. Without looking, he stabs backward with the spike in his hand, getting it right in the face. It screams and falls off, and Spike slumps forward against me, blood oozing sluggishly from the wound at his throat and through the torn bits of his shirt. Thank god for the lack of vamp circulation, otherwise he'd be in real trouble.

"You okay?" I ask, my throat raw from inhaling the cold air.

"I'll make it, Slayer," he says, then straightens in time to stab another goblin as it leaps at him from the right. "Por favor, mantenga las manos y los brazos dentro del oso siempre,” he mutters.

"Huh?" I ask. Spike speaks Spanish?

"Ever been to Disneyworld, Slayer?" Spike asks, as I hack at a particularly tenacious goblin that's trying to bite through my snow boot.

"Not since I was six or seven," I say.

"Remind me to take you, someday, pet," he says, wrapping his right arm around my waist. He's shaking now, and I can feel the trembles against my back.

"Oh, yeah," I say. "It'll be tons of fun riding Big Thunder Mountain with a pile of dust. They don't really keep vamp hours, Spike."

He laughs, raggedly. "What? You think humans came up with It's A Small World? Disney's run by demons, pet."

"No, it's not," I insist, checking around us. We seem to have left most of the goblins behind now, but Pooh is still loping through the woods, following the light. Far behind us I can hear the shrieks and yells of Louhi's ugly little army.

"Someday, I'll show..." Spike says, then I feel him press against me a little harder. When I twist to look back, he's passed out.

"Spike!" I shout, and his eyelids flutter open. He shakes his head.

"Be fine," he mumbles. "Just... watch my back, Slayer." Then he slumps against me again, a literal dead weight across my shoulders. I sheathe my sword and wrap his arms around my waist, prying the spike out of his death grip and shoving it back under my thigh sheath.

He's just weak. He'll be fine once we're back and I can get some blood in him.

He'll be fine.

I'm not going to lose him now.

***


When the next attack comes, I can't say I wasn't expecting it.

It's only the thick layers of my coat, sweater and scarf that protect me when Spike's demon unconsciously goes looking for blood. Maybe it's the mouth full of wool, but it's enough to jerk him out of sleep and away from my neck.

"Buffy," he says, horrified.

"It's okay," I tell him, twisting a little to look in his eyes. Somewhere between biting me and me turning around, his vamp face has disappeared.

"Didn't mean to..." he says.

"It's okay, Spike," I tell him. "Right now you look good enough to take a bite out of, too."

Some of the fear goes out of his gaze, but there's so much remorse in his eyes that it's hard to remember that he's soulless. "I didn't..." he shakes his head.

"We're both hungry, you lost a lot of blood earlier, and you were unconscious," I tell him. "Hell, even the chip wouldn't have stopped you from trying to bite me under those circumstances. I know you would never deliberately hurt me, Spike. Really, it's okay."

He's quiet for a moment, his blue eyes an open window to every thought in his head. I can see his amazement there, and understanding. Finally he relaxes, wrapping his arms around my waist again and ducking his head a little, mumbling something under his breath. "What?" I ask.

"You've bloody tamed me, Slayer," he says. "Even my… even that part of me was horrified to think of hurting you."

"Spike, you're about as tame as Pooh, here," I tell him.

"Jaws," he corrects me.

"Pooh," I tell him. "You might be okay with going along with me and doing what I say, but you're still a predator. But as long as you're not hunting humans, I'm not going to try to keep you on a leash. Everything that the guides showed me... I need you to be a predator, a warrior, sometimes. Just as much as I need you to—"

"To what?" he says, curiously.

"Love me," I whisper.

"Always have that, luv," he promises. "Always. Nothing will make me stop loving you."



***


We stop for the night, if you can call it that when the sun and moon never move, in a sheltered clump of fallen trees. The cold is intense, and even though Spike clearly hates it, we both end up facing the fire with Pooh acting like a warm, furry, giant pillow against our backs.

We're both tired, cold, and aching from the fight earlier, and it's not until the fire is going and we're settling in that I have time to take stock of Spike's injuries. When I do finally get Spike peeled out of his coat, I'm more than a little horrified at the damage.

"Fuck."

"Such a dirty word out of such a pretty mouth," Spike says, tired but still smirking. "Am I corrupting you, Slayer?"

I ignore him and instead stare, mute, at the gaping bite that tore his throat half open. Dried blood crusts it, but I can still see muscles and tendons and things that really, really, really shouldn't be out for the viewing public. Blood soaks his shirt, gluing it to his chest in icy red patches. Five nasty gouge marks across his chest are deep enough that I can see bits of bone through them. He's not bleeding, though. In fact, his exposed muscles are an ugly sort of brownish gray, with bits of ice crusting the wounds, and his skin is dead white. He looks like a corpse.

"How are you even talking?" I manage to choke out.

He shrugs and lays his head back against Pooh, deep circles under his eyes and his face so thin I can watch all the tendons in his jaw flex when he speaks. Even his lips are white, cracked and dry looking. No wonder he tried to bite me. This is a vampire when his tank isn't just empty, it's dry as a bone.

He gives an awkward little one shoulder shrug, wincing. "Dunno," he says. "Not a lot of books on vamp physiology, pet. Though I bet those army wankers could have told you."

I vaguely remember the tour Dr. Walsh and Riley took me on, and a room full of demons lying on tables, being dissected. I remember that the vampires were awake, but restrained, and the disgust I felt at watching a bunch of humans poking around inside them while the vamps snarled in pain around the leather gags. "I don't think I really want to know that bad," I tell him. "Did they... did they... were you awake when..."

"No," he says. "Whatever they did to me, they did when I was knocked out, when they first brought me in. Wasn't there long enough for them to do more."

"I'm sorry," I tell him, hunting through my bag for the first aid kit I packed. I brought gauze, which won't stop the bleeding, since there isn't any, but it will at least cover most of the damage. Or... you know, hold things together.

"Sorry they didn't have time to go poking round in my guts, Slayer?" he asks. "Sadistic bitch."

"What?" I ask, glancing up. He's got his head back, his eyes closed, and the muscles in his face are twisting like he's trying not to vamp. "No, you idiot. I'm sorry you had to go through that. Sorry that... that I let the Initiative stay around so long. Sorry that I didn't see how... how sick and wrong some of the things they were doing were. I can't be sorry about the demon slaying, and—and I can't really be sorry about the chip, but the experiments... the... it was just wrong."

His eyes open, blue flickering with yellow sparks. "You've changed," he says after a minute of studying me.

"So have you," I say. I can see the demon in him now. He's so thin, and it's so near the surface. He's starving and in pain and it's making him extra cranky. He's chipless now. He could hurt me.

But he won't. I know it. I know it the same way I know that you can't put a box of donuts in front of Xander without him stealing one, and you can't say money around Anya without her eyes lighting up. The same way I know how Willow laughs when she's happy and how Giles will polish his glasses the minute something gets uncomfortable. I know it the way I know that, in my world, at least, the sun will rise in the morning.

Spike loves me. William loves me. Even his demon loves me.

It's... I don't know what the word for it is. You know how some things just... are? That's what this is.

And the weird thing is how that knowledge settles into me. It makes me feel stronger, safer. No matter what happens in the future, Spike loves me. I never have to doubt that.

And at the same time there's this thrill to it, because loving Spike, being loved by Spike... it's not safe. It's not simple. It's not tame or comfortable. Even if I somehow manage to live to be a hundred years old... I don't think this feeling will wear off. Because it's Spike.



***


He lets me bandage him as best as I can, though he says not to wrap the wound on his neck. Something about the gauze getting stuck when it starts to heal. His shirt is a loss, it's so blood soaked, and as cold as it is we can't even wash it to try to get the blood out. The duster isn't in great condition either, but it's better than nothing, even though he looks horribly thin under its weight.

As I'm putting things back in my bag, Spike stops me with one cold hand wrapped around my wrist. "What?" I ask, looking up.

"My journal," he says, staring at the book I was about to carefully put back in my bag. "Why... You said you'd read it." He takes it out of my hand and opens it up, flipping through the pages to the end. For a moment he stares at the last page, his finger trembling a little when it traces the wrinkled spot where my tears fell on the page. "You cried." He frowns, those little lines coming back between his brows.

"I...," I swallow, not sure what to tell him, not sure what he's confused about. "Yes."

"Why?" he looks up, his head tilted slightly as if he can see through me if he just adjusts his perspective a little.

"Because you were gone," I say. I can't lie to him anymore, I realize, and I can't deny him the truth. Not that that ever mattered. Spike always could read between my words anyway. "Because I'd just found out that the guy of my dreams was you, and that you loved me. And that I'd sent you to hell because... because I was stupid."

"Not stupid," he says. "Just... in the dark. I wanted to tell you. Tried so many times."

"I know," I say. "We found all the post-its and poster boards and things. I think Giles' eyes almost popped out when he got a good look at the Magic Box."

Spike smirks. "I got bored," he says.

"Yeah," I say, smiling. "Note to self: don't let Spike get bored. Badness ensues."

He flips through some of the pages, pausing on one that got a little tear smudged midway through. He glances up at me, and something that looks kind of like embarrassment flashes over his face. "Uh... you know this is just... rot, right?" he says. "Didn't mean to upset you with it."

It's the poem he wrote for me. The one he started to write, anyway, but didn't finish.

"Can burn it, if you want," he says, looking pained. "If you got the personal tour of William's history, you know I'm a bloody aw—"

"I love it," I tell him.

"—ful poe—what?" he looks at me, blinking.

"The poem," I tell him. "I loved it. I... maybe someday you'll finish it? Or... could I read some of your others? If you still have them, I mean."

He's staring at me like I've sprouted another head, his mouth slightly open. After a second he snaps it shut.

"I... You don't... It's mostly blood and sex and death, Slayer," he says. "Don't want to read that."

"I don't know," I say. "Most of the best poems I've read have been about that sort of thing. At least the ones we read in my poetry class."

He frowns. "Like what?"

I think, then remember. "There was this... this one poem we read, a few months ago. I didn't really like you, at the time, but, it reminded me of you and I kind of hated that it did but...I memorized this one part of it."

He's looking at me with the strangest expression, and I can't help but stare back as I recite the words that burned their way into my memory all that time ago.

"dead has a smile like the nicest man you've never met who maybe winks
at you in a streetcar and you pretend you don't but really you do
see and you are My how glad he winked and hope he'll do it again
or if it talks about you somewhere behind your back it makes your neck
feel pleasant and stoopid and if dead says may i have this one and
was never introduced you say Yes because you know you want it to dance
with you and it wants to and it can dance and Whocares"

His mouth is open again.

"I thought...," I say, looking at my hands. "It just... reminded me of you."

When I glance back up there's a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Met him once," he says. "That Cummings, bloke. Was before he wrote that. Never ran into him again but I always wanted to ask."

"Full of yourself, aren't you?" I laugh, and he reaches for me, pulling me against his least injured side. He's so thin beside me, my smirking, egotistical vampire, but he's going to be okay.

"Always knew you wanted to dance with death, Slayer," he says softly. "And we're going to dance for a long, long time."

Death.

Death is my gift, the prophecy said.

It will love her beyond all others, it said.

Guess it came true after all.

Mine and mine alone.

***


Sleep happens, but doesn't last very long. And once we're awake neither of us really feel like staying put. It doesn't take that long to put out the fire and gather our stuff and get moving again. Spike's weak. Scary weak and shivery as a baby kitten, and I practically have to haul him up onto Pooh's back. He doesn't argue with me when I take the backpack and set it in front of me. I figure it was the only thing that kept his back undamaged yesterday when the goblin attacked him, but he's not strong enough at the moment to carry it. He wraps his arms around my waist and puts his head on my shoulder, breathing shallowly and shivering hard enough that he makes my body tremble along with him.

Maybe Pooh realizes that we've got to get out of here, because he picks up his pace again. It's not quite a run, but not really a walk either, and he follows the light from my necklace like he's on a hunt. He hasn't eaten in the entire time he's been with us, but it doesn't seem to bother him. Spike's too out of it to worry about it, either, which is definitely good. My last energy bar was our only breakfast, so I hope we make it home today. I'm not feeling so hot myself.

God, there's so much that could go wrong.

I can't help but start listing it all as we go, with Spike a cold, trembling weight against my back. We could get there and the portal could be gone. Or Louhi could catch up to us. Or Jack. Or the goblin army.

Or we could still have days to travel and we could starve or freeze to death by then. Well... I could. Spike could just turn into a vamp popsicle and Louhi could come get him whenever she wants.

Or we could get back, and find the portal and go home, and Louhi could take days here to prepare and then pop out five seconds behind us and freeze us all to death.

That's kinda the optimistic view.

I hate this place.

I used to like snow, used to think it was magical. Now I'd be happy if I never ever saw it again.

Spike keeps drifting in and out of consciousness. I can tell because every time he passes out, the demon takes over and I hear the shiftcrack sound of him vamping right beside my ear. It's only a little wiggy the first five times. Whenever he wakes up he sits up a little and shakes it off, murmuring apologies and swearing.

He doesn't try to bite me again, though.

Hours pass and I start to half doze myself.

It's the change in the tingles that wakes me up.

I know I put the Hide spell on, but I'm starting to get the feeling that there's something tailing us anyway. It's kind of like yesterday, when I started to feel the goblins. Like we're being watched or followed. Or maybe like we're just near something. It's not as intense, which I guess means whatever it is hasn't actually seen us, but it's bad enough that I shake Spike awake.

"Can you smell anything?" I ask.

"Thought that was disgusting," he mutters sleepily, lisping around his fangs.

"Was," I say. "Right now, not so much. Can you?"

He inhales, turning slightly away from me.

"Bloody goblins again," he says. "Not as many."

"How far?" I ask.

"Not...," he shivers, frowning, which only makes his vamp face look scarier. "Uh... behind us a ways, I think. Might be a search party, trying to track us."

Great.

Pooh sniffs then, and picks up his pace a little.

Time to go, I think.

I send out the Seek spell two more times, but we're still going the right direction. The tingles stay constant, tickling up and down my neck, warning me that we're running out of time. Pooh seems to sense the need to hurry because his pace gets slightly faster, until we're almost running again, slowed only by the fallen trees in our path.

An hour or two later, Spike growls softly, sniffing the air again.

"They're still following, but they're movin' faster," he says. "Think they know where we're goin?"

"I hope not," I say.

Time passes now in a blur of white snow and black dead trees, both of us staring ahead, trying to will the doorway home to just magically appear. The sense of being followed only increases, though, until I'm sure that if I turned my head and looked back I'd see them moving, way off in the distance now, like a tiny twiggy army.

We shouldn't have stopped to sleep, I think.

"Cave," Spike growls in my ear. "Up ahead."

I can't see that far, but I believe him. "Think they'll catch us?" I ask.

"Not if we can get through and shut the door," he says.

When the cave finally comes into sight I'm already swinging the bag onto my shoulders and getting into position to jump off Pooh's back.

"What are we going to do about the bear?" I worry.

"Sod the bloody bear, Slayer," Spike growls.

"We can't leave him!"

"I don't think we've got a choice," he says, eying the cave up ahead. The entrance is much smaller than the last one. Too small for Pooh.

"Look," Spike says, "the bear can take care of itself. You know that. Besides, it wasn't like it was being mistreated, and it'll probably just wander back home anyway."

He's right. I know he's right, but I don't like it.

Pooh comes to a halt in front of the cave. My footprints are gone from my trek out of it, buried under the recent snow from the storm, but I recognize it anyway. Behind us I can feel the increasing tingles from the things following us, urging us to hurry. Still, I can't help but pause, petting Pooh's soft fur one last time.

"I'll get you a soddin' dog, luv," Spike says, hanging onto me, panting. But he reaches out and pets the bear, too, patting it tentatively on the shoulder.

"Bye, Pooh," I say. "Thank you."

Pooh gives me a mournful look with his big black eyes. Then he snuffles at Spike and licks his face.

"Gah! Fuck! Knock it off!" he says, stumbling back. "Bloody bear."

Far off in the distance, I hear something that doesn't sound like tree branches breaking under snow. It sounds like snow breaking under feet. Lots of feet.

"Time to go," I say, wrapping an arm around Spike and hauling him into the cave.

The portal is still there, swirling like a swirly black thing.

"Ready?" I ask Spike.

"Let's go home," he says.

Together we step through.


 
 
Chapter #68 - Chapter 67: Homecoming
 
Author’s Note: I’ve heard from a couple of people who think I treat Xander unfairly. I like Xander. I think he’s a tough, funny, great character who happens to have a few massive flaws. I don’t always approve of his choices, and I think he’s often reactionary at the worst possible time, but I think he genuinely loves his friends and would do anything to make sure that they don’t get hurt. In an earlier chapter, when his leg was broken, he was fairly convinced that Spike was working against them and brutally honest about why he distrusts vampires. If he seemed unduly antagonistic, consider that he was a little drunk and a lot in pain. He doesn’t always hate Spike, and I think the two of them could be friends, under the right circumstances… but if there’s any likelihood of Buffy getting hurt by being close to Spike, Xander is going to be the first one to speak up.

Honestly, I think I write him pretty tame, compared to some other authors out there.

Anyway, that’s just my interpretation. Feel free to disagree.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae and Science







Chapter 67
Homecoming



I'm not sure what I expected.

Maybe a long black tunnel, or another magical mystery tour of some kind.

Instead, it's like stepping through a gauzy curtain. When we put our feet down, we're standing in the middle of the Magic Box, in the center of a chalked circle surrounded by candles and my friends are all sitting around, arguing.

"...I don't accept that! You're saying that Buffy is destined to be stuck with the Bleached Wonder forever? He's it? The one? But… That's... Holy SCHNIKIES!"

Xander stops mid-rant to stare wide-eyed at us as we stumble to a stop. Oh, god, it's so warm. After all that time there I feel like I've stepped into a sauna. The heat is wonderful, and for a second we just stand there, basking in it.

"We're back," I manage.

"Love you, too, Harris," Spike says wearily, blowing Xander a mocking kiss. Xander screams and stumbles over to the wall, grabbing the first weapon to come to hand. Which happens to be Oofdar, goddess of childbirth.

"Buffy!" Willow says, springing up. She doesn't come closer, though. "Buffy?"

I pull my wool hat off and yank on the scarf that's muffling my face. "That bad, huh?" I say.

"Gotta close the door, Slayer," Spike rasps, glancing behind us. His eyes widen and he stumbles forward, pulling me with him just as something plows through the portal behind us, knocking us both to the ground. My hand shoots out to break our fall, and we roll, knocking over a candle and some of the herbs burning in a bowl.

And suddenly there's silence.

I hadn't even realized that there was wind and magic whipping around in the circle with us, still. Not until it's gone, the spell broken.

Then there's yelling and people diving for weapons, and Spike and I are rolling painfully to our feet to see what came through after us. Only it pounces again, knocking Spike back to the ground and...

...starts licking his face, fangs, ridges and all.

"A wolf!" someone yells.

"Not a wolf!" Anya says. "Oh my god, where did you find one?"

"Huh?" I say stupidly.

"Get it off me!" Spike yells, flailing, and the whatever-it-is steps back and sits, wagging its tail madly. I help Spike sit up and we both turn to stare at our attacker.

It's a dog—a very big, very white dog, with black eyes and a black nose and a long fluffy tail that curls a little at the end. And there's something oddly familiar about it, though Spike gets it faster than me.

"It's the sodding bear," he says, blinking at it in confusion.

"Pooh bear?" I ask. Now that he mentions it, there's something about the way it tilts it's head. The dog whuffs, and then I know for sure. I'm not sure why my polar bear is now a dog, but I can't help the grin that splits my wind-chapped face. The dog comes over and leans against my leg, his head nearly level with my stomach, he's so tall. If he stood on his hind legs he would be taller than me. He kind of looks like a German Shepherd, I think.

"Jaws," Spike says, reaching out a hand to scratch the dog behind his ears. Pooh closes his eyes in bliss and licks at Spike's arm.

"Goddess," Tara says, "your neck." She's staring at Spike, her eyes huge. "Sp-Spike? That is y-you?"

He looks up at her. "Hello, Glinda," he says softly. She sobs suddenly, clapping her hands over her mouth. Spike looks pretty bad, especially under the bright lights in the Magic Box. His skin is paper white and translucent, showing a roadmap of blue veins under the surface. His neck looks awful, exposed above the collar of his coat, and what I can see of his chest under the duster is sunken and hollow, bones protruding through the skin. Even though his injuries aren't as bad, he looks even deader than he did when I found him.

I can see why Xander screamed. I guess the vamp face really doesn't help.

"You're all fangy," I tell him, helping him to stand up.

"Sorry," he mumbles. "Hungry. Lots of people. Hard to..."

"Oh, dear lord," Giles says. "Xander, run down to... oh, I forgot, you've a broken leg. Put down the statue and sit before you injure yourself further. Uh... Willow? We need blood—as much as you can buy. Tara, bandages, perhaps?"

Then people are moving and we're being scooped up and helped toward chairs. Spike's hand clutches mine tightly, shaking, and when his eyes meet mine I can see the demon in them, straining for control. Then something in him relaxes a little, though he doesn't let go of my hand. Someone takes my backpack off of me and pushes a chair under me. I sink into it, beside Spike, and then Pooh is curling up by our feet.

"How long?" I manage to ask Giles. "How long was I gone?"

He glances up at the clock, then back at me. "Only a couple of hours or so. We didn't expect you... so soon. I'm afraid you caught us by surprise. But..." his eyes take in Spike's condition, then go over me. "How long was it, where you were?"

I remember asking Spike, only a few days ago, almost the same question. "Longer," I say tiredly, echoing his words. "That's going to be a problem. She's got plenty of time there to prepare, and she'll be here sooner than we think. We've got to..."

"But you got Spike away," Tara says, kneeling beside me. "I th-thought..."

"I don't know," I tell her. "I don't know if it'll be enough to hold her off forever."

"You've bought us some time," Whistler says, reminding me he's still here. I'd nearly forgotten. "A couple of days, at least, I think."

"How do you know?" I ask, frowning.

He taps his head. "Telegram from upstairs," he says. "Without her pet vamp, she's going to have to find another power source. That locks her into our time frame."

Tension I didn't know I was holding is suddenly gone. Well, not gone, but not as heavy. I sag a little with relief. Then Willow is rushing into the shop, a big paper bag clutched in her arms.

"I ran," she says, panting. "It's still warm. I-I asked if they’d warm it..." She sets it down on the table and reaches in to pull out a styrofoam container with a lid. Spike's head tracks the movement like a cat watching a bird. I’m not sure he even realizes that he’s licking his fangs.

"Does anyone else suddenly have the urge to get a crossbow and a stake?" Xander says.

"Uh, Wills?" I ask. "Let me do that." She frowns but hands it over, pulling the lid off for me. Spike reaches for the container, but his hand is shaking so bad...

"Give us some room, guys," I say. I know Spike won't attack them, but I also know that he's really hungry and at the end of his willpower, and looking weak in front of a roomful of humans is going to really piss him off later. I let him take it, then try to help steady the container a little so he doesn't slosh it over the brim.He leans his whole body forward, draining the cup slowly and greedily. I can hear him swallow; watch his throat muscles work to take it in.

"Okay, new definition of gross," Xander says. "Could someone patch that hole in his throat, please? I really don't need to see that."

Sort of with him on that. Getting the cutaway view of how the vampire digestive system works? Ew.

As he drinks I can almost see his veins filling with the borrowed blood, and some starts to leak at the edges of the wounds. Tara hands me a towel, and I press it against his neck to stop any new bleeding. He blinks at me, but doesn't stop drinking until the container is empty. A new, full one is passed over and he immediately starts on it.

"Fascinating," Giles says, studying Spike as he drinks. Spike just growls at him softly, his eyes tracking all the people around him. He’s swallowing more slowly now. Some of the thinness is disappearing from his face, and the hollows under his eyes. His skin isn't quite as corpsey, either. By the third container the trembles have stopped, and he's let go of my hand, holding the towel against his neck on his own. When he finishes it, he takes the fourth container, but doesn't immediately start to drink. Instead he just closes his eyes and tilts his head back, then lets the demon fade.

"Better?" I ask.

"Gettin' there," he says, then sits up a little straighter, eyeing the people in the room warily. "Someone want to fetch that pizza over here?" he asks. "Can smell it."

"I didn't think you needed human food?" Lydia says, heading for the box on the counter.

"Not for me," he says. "Her. Which of you wankers let her wander off into a hell dimension with nothing more than some energy bars? I've a good mind to eat the lot of you."

Giles, Willow and Tara manage to look ashamed. Anya just smiles, her eyes still fixed on Pooh. Xander snorts. "Like to see you try, Chips Ahoy. Besides, it's not like the Buffster gave us time to go grocery shopping. No, it was all 'We have to save Spike.' Gratitude wouldn't hurt, you know."

"'Preciate the help," Spike says, looking around at all the others. Then he flashes a quick smirk at Xander. "’Specially the loan of the sleeping bag."

"Spike," I warn him. Xander looks confused. "It... Sorry, it got kinda destroyed," I lie. "I'll buy you a new one."

"Oh," Xander says. "No big, Buff."

Lydia hands me a paper towel with a slice of pizza on it. The smell hits my defrosting nose at about the same time and my stomach lurches forward like a new-risen vampire at the scent of fresh blood. Oh. God. Food. The first bite floods my mouth with saliva, and then before I know it the slice is gone and I'm blinking at the paper towel in confusion. A new slice magically appears, and I finish it almost as quickly, then look up to see the room staring at me in shocked fascination.

Suddenly I know exactly how Spike feels when we watch him eat.

I'm still hungry, but I leave the third slice on the table, picking it into smaller bites so I don't look like such a pig.

"Better?" Tara asks.

"Getting there," I say, sharing a smile with Spike.

Giles polishes his glasses. "Obviously your quest was successful," he says. "Could you fill us in on what exactly happened?"

I sigh. "Any chance the debrief can wait until after I get home and shower and change at least? The last week has been—"

"Week?" Willow says. She glances up at the clock.

"Yeah, week, maybe more. Really hard to tell time there. I've got the jet lag from hell. Literally," I say.

"Of course," Giles says. "I can give you a ride home right now, if you like. We can finish things up there?"

"Yeah," I say, tired. I'd really like to shower and then crawl into bed for the next month, but I realize we don't have time for that. "Can we stop off at Spike's crypt and pick some things up for him first?"

"Your house? You're taking him home?" Xander asks.

I just blink at him for a moment, confused. "Yes," I say, finally. "Where else would I take him?"

Spike makes a sound, a soft little noise that no one is close enough to hear but me. I glance over at him and in his eyes I see something spark and shine, something that was missing before. Slowly, as if trying it on for size, a smile stretches across his face. I feel my own echo it.

He really is sort of dumb, my vampire—I've been trying to tell him for days, in as many ways as I know how, but it's only now sinking in? Oh well, I love him anyway.

And now he's finally starting to believe me.

***


I help Spike crawl into the back seat of Giles' penismobile, then I slide in beside him. Pooh Bear ignores Giles' cry of surprise and jumps into the passenger seat, sitting there for all the world like the most well-trained giant dog you've ever seen.

"Why did you feel the need to bring a dog back with you?" Giles grumbles, sliding into the drivers seat.

"It's not really a dog," I tell him.

"Well, it's drooling on my window like one," he says, eyeing Pooh warily.

"I'll explain later," I say, snuggling against Spike's arm. He wraps it around me, pulling me against his side. A month ago I would have been wigged by how well I fit there. Heck, three days ago, Sunnydale time, I would have, too.

I feel like I've aged a century or so since then.

I doze, waking up fully again only when Giles pulls up in front of Restfield's gates. "Wait here," I tell Spike. "I'll pick up your stuff for you. Anything in particular you want?"

He watches me, and I wonder how I managed to miss seeing the love in his eyes for so long. It's right there at the surface. "Smokes," he says after a moment.

I roll my eyes and climb out of the car. If the weather was bad when I left for Hell... it's not gotten better. But it hasn't gotten worse, either. There's still storm clouds building overhead, stacking up like skyscrapers, and the wind is still sharper than a knife. Compared to Louhi's hell, though... it could be Tahiti. I'm a little surprised when I hear a car door slam, and then Giles comes puffing up behind me through the snow.

"Buffy," he says, then seems to get stuck. He clearly wants to polish his glasses, but he's got his hands stuffed deep in his pockets.

"Weird to think I was only here this morning," I say, since I'm not sure what he wants. "It feels like a month ago. Look, my footprints are still here."

"It—it was a week there, you said?"

I sigh. "Honestly, I don't know," I tell him. "Time was pretty wonky. And trying to get there... It might have been a day or a hundred years. I don't know. Whistler was right. It wasn't easy."

He doesn't seem to know what to say to that. "You've lost weight," he says, eventually.

"Diet from hell," I tell him, pushing open the door to Spike's crypt. Inside everything is just the way I left, it, though the torch has burnt out, finally. Giles doesn't say anything, just follows me down the ladder.

"I'd no idea he had a lower level," he says, peering around Spike's bedroom with interest. "It's not a mansion, of course, but it's... surprisingly civilized."

I guess it is, though I hadn't ever really thought about it that way. I know him well enough now to see how this place appeals to both sides of him. The demon loves the whole crypt cliche, but William needs the romance of a real bedroom.

Giles wanders over to the table pushed up against the wall in the corner and starts going through the books stacked there. I find a black duffel bag in a corner beside Spike's trunk and start stuffing clothes into it. "Buffy," Giles says, as I debate over which of Spike's button downs to bring. "I realize that it was necessary to—to retrieve Spike in order to prevent Louhi from using him to power her return, and I appreciate that what you must have gone through in order to do so was... difficult. However, we need to consider that, in all probability, Spike is still tied to Louhi. She may yet attempt to use him."

The blue one, the red one and the black one that I liked at Christmas, I decide. "So we'll find a way to prevent it," I tell him. "Willow and Tara can do a spell. Or maybe Whistler has an idea."

Giles mutters something under his breath, but I don't really catch it, just something about Whistler and the word "pillock". Deciding that hurrying so I can get back to the car is more important than trying to speed Giles along the info highway I go to the shower niche and start scooping Spike's bath stuff into the bag, too.

"I'm not saying we should make a hasty decision, of course," Giles says, finally. "However, Buffy, we may need to—to consider more...uh, more permanent alternatives, if Spike is still bound to Louhi. We cannot risk her continuing to use him. She's already more powerful than I'm sure we can deal with."

That gets my attention. I look up.

"Oh, my god," I say, frowning. "You think we should dust Spike."

"No!" Giles says. Then frowns. "Well... if it's necessary."

"It's not going to be necessary," I tell him. " I cannot believe that I went to hell and back to rescue him, and the minute I get him home you think we should stake him. Are you insane?"

"Buffy, you do remember that we're talking about Spike, don't you? He's an unreliable ally at best, and a soulless, bloodthirsty killer the rest of the time. The only reason I've not asked you to slay him thus far is because I understand your reluctance to kill something that cannot fight back. However that may not be a luxury we can afford any longer. I know that this last year you've... well, you've inadvertently grown close to him and...and you went through a great deal in order to find him. However, you don't seem to understand—"

"Oh, I understand," I tell him, getting angry now. "I understand way more than you think. That whole thing about me being tested before I'd be allowed to get to Spike? It was all about the understanding. There's nobody on earth who gets exactly what Spike is more than I do. Not even him. And I did not go through all of that to get him back only for you to stake him. Spike is on our side, Giles. He's one of us. And he's not going anywhere."

"Buffy," Giles says, putting on his Watcher face; the one that really pisses me off. "If the choice comes down to Spike or the world—"

"It won't," I tell him. "Hello, prophecy. Kinda big on the whole Spike's-destined-to-help-me-save-the-world thing. Again. And, hey, since when do you ignore prophecies?"

"When those prophecies are suggesting you bind yourself to a vampire!" Giles says, the vein in his head throbbing.

"Do what?" I say, confused.

He sighs. "Nevermind. It... We can discuss it later, when all involved are present."

"Well, if it's important enough for you to want to tell me privately that I ought to stake Spike, then I think I deserve to hear the reason for it," I say, still pissed.

Giles just blinks at me, then gets to polishing his glasses. "The prophecy, it mentions a-a ritual. Before, when we thought it was referring to an artifact, we assumed it was in order to activate the artifact's power. After we... well, once it was clear that the prophecy was referring to Spike, we did some further research. There is a... a very rare ritual that can be done. Once it's completed it will break any remaining hold Louhi may still have over Spike, and prevent her from establishing a new one."

A ritual. A ritual he doesn't want me to do.

"What kind of ritual?" I ask.

"A, er... enjoining ritual. It would... well, it is designed to allow two beings to share strengths, much like we did when you faced Adam. It's generally only possible between... vampires or demons. Though the prophecy would seem to suggest that it is possible for it to work between a Slayer and a vampire," Giles says.

"And you're not reaching for the stinky herbs because...?" I ask.

Giles sighs and leans back against Spike's desk. "Because... I fear the cost is too high," he says.

“Would the First Slayer show up and try to kill us in our sleep again?”

“No,” Giles says. “I-I don’t believe so. It doesn’t involve invoking the spirit of the First Slayer at all. As far as we can tell, it’s more... personal, using your individual spirits and traits.”

A little shiver of fear goes through me. "Would I... would I die?" I ask. "Or... get all fangy?"

"No!" he says. "No. That would... be worse, true. But, Buffy, it would mean that you and Spike would be... bonded, perhaps indefinitely. You might never be free of him."

"Are we talking Siamese twins here?" I ask.

"Nothing quite so extreme," Giles says with a tight smile. "More...It-it would allow you to call on one another’s strengths in times of need. You would share a mystical connection that would negate any claim Louhi still might have on Spike, and it-it would make you both stronger." He pauses for a moment. "Buffy, this would mean giving up any hope you may have of ever being with Angel. While the, uh, the ritual doesn’t take into account emotional attachments... I cannot imagine that it would be easy for you to have a relationship with Angel while... linked so intimately with Spike."

Whoa. Giles brought up Angel? Voluntarily?

That can only mean that he wants me to take this extra seriously. Or not do it at all.

Only, the pang of disappointment that I ought to be feeling over the thought of giving up Angel? Not there. Maybe you can only give someone up so many times before that part of you goes numb—and I've given up Angel so many times and then some. Yeah, there was a time when I had hoped that Angel would see things differently and come back. But I've grown up since then. I've seen too much. While there will always be a place for him in my heart, the love I feel for him isn't anything like what I'm starting to feel for Spike.

I don't think you can love someone without knowing the best and worst of them, Spike wrote in his journal.

Angel was always hiding the worst parts of himself from me, and always trying to change the parts of me he didn't approve of. I know why, now, but... I can't imagine a lifetime, even one as short as mine is supposed to be, with someone who never lets you really get to know them.

And I know Spike. I know his faults, his fears. I've seen the best and worst of him and... somehow I think that even though I know him now almost as well as I know myself, he'll never stop surprising me. A life with Spike would never be boring, and binding ritual or not, I know he'd always be by my side, helping me fight. That's just the way he's made, the way I'm made. We'll make our mistakes—neither of us is perfect. And we'll probably argue and bicker until the end.

But we'll love each other. We'll be together. Isn't that what matters?

Giles is staring at me like he expects some kind of answer.

"I gave up Angel a long time ago, Giles," I say carefully, not sure yet that he's ready to know that I'm in love with Spike.

"Spike is hardly a replacement, however," Giles says. "We're talking about a monster, Buffy. He doesn't have a soul. He's nothing like Angel. You would never have a normal life."

I laugh. I can't help it. "You're right. Spike doesn't have a soul. He doesn't need one. And we should be thanking our lucky stars that he's nothing like Angel. Because Angelus could never be half the man Spike is without one. Angelus would have gotten that chip out, or found ways around it, before he ever thought to turn to us for help. He would have killed us instead of fighting at our sides. I know exactly what sort of monsters they both are, now, and believe me when I say this, Giles... Spike is a far better choice."

He doesn't look convinced.

"As for normal? How was I ever going to be normal? I'm the Slayer. Even if I should somehow manage to outlive every other Slayer before me, it's not like that part of me is just going to disappear one day. It'll always be part of me. One of my best friends is a witch, the other is dating a woman who is over a thousand years old and who used to curse men's parts off... not exactly normal. Even if you somehow could magically take all that away and then stick me out in Normal, Iowa, or something, I'm still going to know that there are vampires and demons and that the world might just end every May unless I do something to stop it. Normal passed me by years ago, sitting on the front steps of Hemery High, when a tweedy little man told me that I had been Chosen to save the world. I'm never going to get it back, and all this trying... it's done nothing but make me unhappy. I get that now."

Giles looks slightly stunned. Like maybe I punched him in the stomach or something when he wasn't looking. After a moment he closes his mouth and clears his throat.

"Well," he says, finally. "That's remarkably, er..."

"Mature?" I say, smiling.

Giles blushes and ducks his head. "Not that you aren't. You've grown a great deal, this last year."

"Kinda had to," I remind him.

"Yes," he says. "Well... Still, Buffy... Spike?"

"Why can't you just say you don't like my boyfriend, Giles?" I say, picking up the duffel bag and tossing in Spike's cigarette pack and the lighter from his nightstand and the boots that he left by the bed.

I'm halfway up the ladder by the time Giles recovers enough to say, "Boyfriend?"

***


Snow is blowing in through the open crypt door upstairs, but Giles doesn't seem to notice it, or the paw prints in the snow leading to the crypt and back. There aren't any additional footprints, but there wouldn't be. My vampire is sneakier than that. I wonder how much he overheard?

Back in the car, Spike appears to be half asleep in the back seat, with Pooh curled up in the passenger’s seat. Their act would be utterly convincing if it weren't for the snow caked around the soles of Spike's shoes. He pretends to wake up as I climb in beside him, but the arm he places around my shoulders is tighter than before, and there's heat flashing in his eyes.

I just smile and cuddle into his side. Giles gets into the driver's seat without a word.

When we get to my house, I help Spike out, even though he's a big faking liar-head. Then I get out the duffel bag and sling it over my shoulder. Pooh clambers over the seat and darts out behind us, then spends a few minutes getting to know every scent in my yard, and leaving a few of his own.

"Men," I snort. "Why do you always have to go around and mark everything you think is yours?"

"Least some of us don't do it with urine," Spike snarks.

"Some of us can't," Giles says, pointedly, in a way that I'm sure he thinks is going to insult Spike.

"You sayin' you do, Rupes?" Spike says, eyes wide and innocent. "Didn't know you were that kinky. Next time I nick your scotch I'll have to wash the bottle first."

Giles just sputters.

"If the pissing contest is over, boys, do you think we could maybe go inside? I'm cold, and dirty, and I really want a shower now, cause... ew," I say.

Giles looks embarrassed, and Spike pretends to, which is the most I can really hope for, I guess.

"Will you...ah, need assistance?" Giles asks, trying to be polite.

"Showering?" I ask, confused.

"Think we've got it covered," Spike says. "Though you just keep getting kinkier an—"

"What Spike means to say," I interrupt, "is that we're good."

"Evil," Spike corrects.

"But if you could pick up some more blood, maybe?" I say. "And some hot food, before the others get over here, it'd be really appreciated."

"Make mine spicy," Spike asks. Giles just rolls his eyes.

"Of course, Buffy. I'll see what I can do. We'll reconvene in two hours, then?"

I yawn. "Only if there's going to be a lot of coffee."

Giles nods and gets back in the car as I help Spike to the door. I dig the key out of my backpack and unlock it, and then we're home.

____________

Author’s (Non-Spoilery) Postscript:

And you thought I was done with Pooh Bear… Trust me, he still has a part to play in all this. :)

Speaking of trusting me, though… I know some of you out there are anti-Claim, and it’s possible that the implications of this chapter might have you a bit itchy in the pants area. I would just like to state for the record that, first, this story is in many ways a fairy tale: it is based on several fairy tales and it uses fairy tale tropes—but it attempts (not always well) to make those tropes work within the reality the show constructed. If you’ve enjoyed it this far, then I don’t think that you’ll be terribly disappointed by anything in the upcoming chapters.

Second, and I will state this as emphatically as I can: the ritual to which Giles refers is not a claim. It might bear a slight superficial resemblance, but I set out to do something here that I hadn’t seen done before in fanfic and I wanted to try. I’ve got nothing personal against claim!fics—I even really like a few of them—but I wanted to try something different.

All I ask is that you trust me just a little further. You’re free to hate me afterwards, if you like.

 
 
Chapter #69 - Chapter 68: Vanity
 
Author’s Note: Remember my warning about fairy tale tropes in the previous chapter? This one includes a fanon theory/fairy tale trope—but I’ve tried to address it in a realistic way. Hopefully.

WARNING: The first section of this chapter is pretty smutty. Sorry. I tried to tell my betas that it was maybe a little unnecessary, but they both put their feet down and told me to suck it up and leave it in (did you see what I did there? With the double entendres?). They say I owe you guys, cause you’re all awesome readers (which I happen to agree with), but… if smut ain’t your thing, you might want to skip to the next section once the showering starts.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae and Science







Chapter 68
Vanity




"Gahhhhh!"

"What? What's wrong?" Spike asks, opening the bathroom door, sounding slightly panicked. Luckily I was done with what I'd shut the door to do, but it was what I saw in the mirror when I went to wash my hands that has me freaked.

"Don't look at me!" I cover my face with my hands.

"What? Why?" Spike asks, coming into the bathroom and standing behind me. In the mirror, of course, I'm alone, which is good. One monster in the mirror is plenty. I can't really believe that's me. My hair is greasy and gives new meaning to the term 'hat hair', and the ends are dry as straw. I've lost weight, and my face is way thin, with dark circles under my eyes. My nose and cheeks are wind burned, and my lips are cracked and dry and way too pale. No wonder my friends didn't recognize me.

"I'm hideous!" I say, blinking against the stinging tears that are building in my eyes. "How can you stand to look at me?"

Spike takes me by the shoulders and turns me to face him. There's an amused smile playing over his lips. "Same way you manage to look at me, I imagine," he murmurs. "Never been so grateful not to have a reflection in my unlife. Besides, a hot shower will put you to rights, pet. Five minutes and you'll be gorgeous again."

"More like five days, a trip to a spa and the salon, and a miracle," I grumble. At least he didn't lie and tell me I was beautiful. Though it would have been nice.

He smiles a little, the motion stretching his gaunt cheeks. He's healing slowly; the hole in his neck isn't quite so gaping anymore and has started to scab in places. He must've taken the duster off in the other room, which gives me a good look at the thinness of his torso and the bloody scratches across his chest. At least they’re healing slightly faster than his neck. I trail my fingers over his prominent collarbone, then down over his ribs, feeling each bone beneath the skin. The muscles in his stomach tighten at my touch.

With a tight look on his face he leans over and turns on the shower, adjusting the hot water. Then, with a glance at my face to see if I'm okay with it, he reaches for the hem of my sweater. I let him peel it and the shirt under it over my head. My tank top is the next to go. For a moment he just stands there, staring at my breasts, lust flickering in his eyes.

And suddenly I don't need him to tell me I'm beautiful.

The rest of my clothes seem to disappear in a blur. Then he's shucking out of his jeans. Under the bright lights in the bathroom, he seems surreally pale. I can't help the blush that rises to my cheeks when I realize that, in spite of everything, he's getting hard. I'm not sure how he manages to ignore it, but he does as he helps me into the tub and pushes me back under the blissfully warm water.

I can't help but moan. God, it feels so good to be warm. Even Spike feels warm as his body leeches heat from the water and the rising steam in the air. "Let me," he whispers in my ear, turning me around so that my back is to his front. I can feel his... I can feel him pressing against me, but he doesn't grind it against my butt like I would have expected. Instead I hear the snap of the shampoo cap, and then his fingers are in my hair massaging the shampoo into a thick lather.

"Oh, god," I murmur, leaning back into his touch.

"Like that, kitten?" he asks, though he's the one purring. I make some kind of noise that means yes, and he increases the pressure a little, kneading my scalp free of all the tension of the last few days. "Rinse," he says softly, turning me again so that my head dips back under the water. When I open my eyes I find him staring at his fingers as they trail through my hair, working out the last of the shampoo. He looks like he's concentrating on something really important.

Spike’s eyes meet mine and he smiles, a real genuine smile that makes me feel like someone switched on a light inside of me. I smile back, and he seems to light up, too. His smile widens and his eyes crinkle ever so slightly at the corners. "See?" he says. "Gorgeous."

My heart thumps hard in my chest at the look in his eyes.

I step further under the spray and pull him under with me. The water straightens his curls and rinses the blood and grime from his skin. He tilts his head back slightly, letting the water pour over his face. The wounds on his chest aren't nearly as bad as they looked a minute ago, now that I can see them better. His neck looks better, too, without any blood smeared around the wound. He hisses a little as the water hits it, quickly angling his body away so that it doesn't hurt as much.

I reach for the shampoo that I took from his crypt. I'd set it and his other stuff on the edge of the tub earlier when I came in, and now I'm glad. I'm even more glad that Spike's not too tall for me to do this. I always wanted to wash Angel's hair, but he'd have had to kneel for me to reach. Also, he really didn't like his hair being touched. Spike, on the other hand, starts purring as I lather his curls, and I'm glad I get to do this for him. Glad that it's him. "Like that?" I tease.

"Don't suppose you'd want to help me bleach it, later?" he asks on a groan of pleasure. "Probably need a touch up by now."

I finger the bright ends of his hair. It doesn't look bad, two-toned like this. But it also doesn't look like Spike. I remember missing the bleach, during my little time trip. It suits him, in a weird way, like the black nail polish and the big ugly boots. I guess learning to love someone for the good and the bad in them means learning to like their bad fashion choices, too.

"Okay," I tell him. When he glances at me in surprise I only grin. After a moment, he answers with one of his own.

"My turn?" he asks, scooping up a bottle of my conditioner. I nod and turn around, eager to feel his fingers in my hair again. Within minutes he's got me moaning again, pressing back against him.

"God, you're good at that," I murmur.

"Want to know what else I'm good at?" he whispers in my ear. I shiver a little when his tongue traces the edge of my earlobe, and instantly I'm wet and achy for him. I can't remember anyone ever having this kind of effect on me. All Spike has to do is touch me and I'm so turned on...

I half expect him to turn me around or bend me over, but he doesn't. Instead his fingers carefully rinse the conditioner out of my hair, then trail down my throat to tease the skin just behind and below my shoulders with gentle, barely there touches. Goosebumps race down my arms, in spite of the heat. And then he's redefining sex for me all over again.

Feather light touches on my skin, finding places I didn't even know were sensitive. Cool fingertips trace the undersides of my breasts, the skin just inside the curve of each hipbone, below my ribcage. Each new spot makes me shiver and gasp and press back against him. I can feel him, hard and ready, nestled against my butt, but he doesn't rub it against me. He doesn't even twitch his hips. With inhuman patience he just traces my body. Little touches here, there, making my skin come alive. My eyes drift shut so that I can better sense it all.

As he trails his fingertips over the curve of my hip and around to trace the super sensitive skin just below the curve of my butt, I feel his lips ghost over my throat. I gasp, arching back against him, tilting my head so he can have better access. His other hand plays over my stomach, drifting up to paint warm water over the tip of one incredibly hard nipple. I can feel myself getting wetter, aching, my entire body now just one big instrument that he's playing like a master.

His tongue laps lightly against my jugular, which drives my Slayer senses crazy. The tingle that's normally reserved for just the nape of my neck seems to shoot straight through my body until I can feel it in the tips of my breasts, and between my thighs. Vampire! it's screaming.

"That's it," Spike whispers, and I realize I'm the one doing the grinding, moving against his still body like a cat begging to be pet. I'm whimpering, too, wanting something more than just all these tiny teasing touches.

But Spike is evil.

His tongue teases my throat; one finger flicks my left nipple while his other hand drifts down to play lightly with the curls between my thighs. My skin feels too hot, too tight, too sensitive for all of this. I need...

I need...

"I know what you need," Spike murmurs against my throat. "Can hear your heart pounding, smell you getting so wet and slick for me, feel your nerves getting tighter and tighter. All you need is the right... touch..."

He pinches my nipple, and taps a finger against my clit, just once. With blunt teeth he nips at my throat.

"Come," he whispers in my ear. "Come for me, love."

And I do.

And so does he, spilling himself with a hoarse growl against my lower back.

For a moment we simply stand there, panting together under the warm water, our bodies trembling. I've never experienced anything like that before, never thought such a thing would be possible. He barely touched me, and I didn't really touch him much at all, and yet...

Spike lets out a long, shuddering breath. "Buffy," he murmurs, resting his head on my shoulder. I can feel his cool breath against my back. "Love you," he whispers into my skin. "Love you so much."

"I love you, too, Spike," I whisper back.

***


We finish out the last of the hot water before we manage to get out of the shower. It's only our growly stomachs and the cold air that keep us from taking as long to get dressed. It feels so good to be in clean clothes, and I can't help but linger a little with the blow dryer, trying to make my hair look semi-normal again. Finally I have to put the dryer down or risk making my hair worse than it already is. When I turn around, Spike is leaning against the doorjamb, dressed head to toe in black once more. He almost looks like the old Spike, though he's still too thin and his two-toned hair gives it away. He's smiling softly at me, this look of awe on his face, like he can't quite believe he's here.

"We should talk," I say, before I can think better of it. That's me, smooth segue-girl. Spike stiffens, then scowls. "Don't be a bonehead," I tell him, knowing he's thinking I'm going to break things off with him. "I just... I know you overheard Giles and me earlier. We should talk about that."

"Bloody hell," he mutters, running a hand through his hair and looking sheepish. "You were just gone for ... I got worried."

"Which is why you took the time to leave no footprints?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Bugger," he says, scowling at his boots. I take his hand and lead him into my bedroom. I perch on the bed, and he sits beside me, looking about as tired as I feel.

"How much of it did you hear?" I ask, not sure where to begin.

"Watcher would rather stake me than go through with this ritual thing," Spike says, flatly.

So pretty much all of it, I guess. That makes things sort of easier. "Do you know what it is?" I ask.

"Just what he told you. Joiny ritual thing that would mystically connect us for as long as we both shall live... or... exist. Whatever," Spike says with a sigh.

"You don't look happy."

Spike glances at me from beneath his lashes, then gets up and starts to pace. His jaw is all clenchy. "No," he says finally, "I'm not happy about it."

Oh.

It never occurred to me that Spike might not want to be bound to me. I thought...

"Don't be daft, you stupid bint," Spike says, crouching in front of me. Though the words are mean, his tone isn't. "I'm not happy about it because... I want you, yes. More than I've ever wanted anything on this soddin' planet, I want you. An' I want you to love me the way I love you." He stops for a moment, thinks about it. "Scratch that. I'm still selfish. I want you to love me better than I love you. Because you can, because you're good and soulful and you loving me... God, Buffy. It makes me feel like a man. Like... like all this, everything I've been through getting to this place, this time, this moment... like it was worth it. And like—and don't you dare tell anyone I said this or I swear I'll bite your tongue off—like maybe there's a chance for me to be something more. Something better."

He means it, too. I can see it shining in his eyes. Then he scowls. "But what I don't want is for you to bind yourself to me because of some soddin' prophecy that says you have to. Yeah, I'm for saving the bloody world and all, but not... not if it means you'd be bound to a creature you still loathe. Not if it means I'd spend the rest of however long I have on this planet knowing that as much as I love you, you're still wishing I was Angel or... anyone other than me."

Spike laughs a sort of hysterical giggle. He drops his head against my knees to take a couple of hugely unneeded breaths. When he looks back up at me, the expression on his face is twisted with self-mockery. "Talk big, don't I? Truth is... you're willing, I'll do it. Because I am a selfish bastard, and I do want you all for myself, and because I plan to make sure you stick around for a bloody long time."

"How long?" I whisper.

There's something hard and determined in his eyes. "Long as I can keep you that way, luv. Thing is... The thing is, Watcher said that it doesn't usually work with humans. Which makes me wonder. Normally rituals like this—ones between vamps and demons—it only works because of something in the blood... whatever it is that makes us immortal..." He bites his lip and watches me through his lashes. "But... if Rupes is right, it'll work between you an' me. I don't know what that means, exactly. I just... wonder if it doesn't mean that you might be sticking 'round a bit longer than anybody thought."

"What do you mean?" I ask, confused. "You think... maybe there's something in my blood that makes me... part demon?"

Spike frowns. "No. You're not part demon. But... Slayers are sorta the flip side of the vamp coin, yeah? I mean, you've got the same strength, speed, you've got the sped up healing abilities, too. Technically, vamps, we're not entirely immortal. We can be killed just like you can. Difference is that there's so many of us, and only one of you. Sure, you can pick off the weakest of us, but those of us that are stronger, smarter... we last longer. If there were a thousand Slayers about, hunting down vamps…wonder how long some of them might live?"

"You're saying you think maybe Slayers are... what? Not entirely mortal?" I ask.

Spike shrugs. "I don't know, do I? Just... trying to suss it out, same as you."

I think about that for a minute, what it might mean, if it were true.

"Would I...," I lick my lips, remembering some of Angel's reasons for not staying with me. "Do you think that I'd get old? I mean, you love me now, but... what if I'm old and wrinkly and I have to slay with my cane?"

Spike shakes his head, chuckling. "I'd love you just the same, pet. But if it's true...I'm not sure about it, luv, but I don't think you'll get much older physically as it is."

"Huh?"

"Don't know many humans whose bodies stop aging after they hit their late teens," he says, watching my face carefully.

"Spike, I don't look like a seventeen year old," I tell him.

"Yeah, you don't look like a teenager any more, but most of it's in how you carry yourself, and in your eyes. Seen too much and done too much, I wager. And you've lost that last bit of baby fat. But in here..." he taps his finger against my chest and closes his eyes and I get the weird feeling that he's listening to things inside me. "All that Slayer healing is keeping you in top shape, repairing anything that breaks down. Don't know for sure, of course, but..." He shrugs, struggling with it. "Might just be wishful thinking on my part."

A shiver goes down my spine. I'd never really thought of it before, but... what if he's right? He's right about the healing. I rarely ever scar, and while I get sick sometimes... What if... I can't wrap my head around it, the idea that... that, that without that death wish Spike once mentioned, or barring some accident, I might actually BE a Cheeto. Or... you know, like Peter Pan?

While everyone else gets to grow up, grow old, live their normal lives and die in their normal beds... I'll stick around like Styrofoam. One more way that being the Slayer has robbed me of everything normal.

Then again... there's this eternally young, eternally handsome—well, maybe not so much at the moment, cause he's still looking pretty skinny—vampire here. One who loves me. Who will love me until he's dust. And if I do this ritual thing... At least I might not have to worry about getting all wrinkly while he stays young and pretty forever.

Still, the thought that eventually I might have to watch my friends grow old without me... it's not a happy thought.

Spike shrugs at my frownies. "'Course, there's always plastic surgery, pet, if you're afraid things are starting to sag," he says with a leer, effectively shattering all my morbid thoughts.

"Oh my god, Spike," I say, rolling my eyes. "You are such a pig."

"Oink oink," he says, then climbs onto the bed beside me and picks up Mr. Gordo from my pillow, turning the stuffed pig to look at me. "Handsome fellow," he comments with a smirk. "Can see the resemblance." He flops back and snuggles against the pillows. "Let's sleep on it, Slayer," he says. "No need to make life altering decisions when we're both run ragged."

I sigh. He's right. I hate that he's usually right. But I need time to process what all of this means, and we only have a little while before the others show up demanding to know what happened in hell and what we're going to do about Louhi.

Spike reaches out a hand and pulls me down beside him. I snuggle up against his chest and nestle my head into the crook of his shoulder, thankfully on the non-holey side of his neck. Then he brushes a kiss against my forehead. "Sleep, luv," he murmurs. "We can decide how to save the world later."

"I'm not getting plastic surgery," I mumble into his t-shirt.

"Thank god," he says. "Do you have any idea how bad silicon tits taste?"

"No," I say, yawning, and feeling myself starting to drift off now that I'm no longer moving. "And I don't want to know why you do."



***


I feel like I've barely dropped off when Spike wakes me up a little while later. "Scoobies are downstairs," he complains, burying his face in my hair.

A minute or so after that I hear the thud of a door shutting and a low murmur of voices as the others sneak around downstairs trying to be quiet. "Like a herd of bloody elephants," Spike mutters. I giggle a little, then yawn. Guess we have to get up, though I could easily sleep for another week. My stomach chooses this moment to growl and remind me that three slices of pizza are not nearly enough to make up for a week or more of nothing but snow, hot chocolate, and power bars. A minute later I smell what can only be the deliciousness that is Chinese food wafting up the stairs.

Spike sniffs and sits up. "I call dibs on the Kung Pao," he says, sliding off the bed. "And if Harris even thinks about touching it, I'll bite his arm off."

"You don't even need people food," I complain, my mouth watering.

"So?" he smirks, helping me up. I check my hair in the mirror and give it a quick brush, then slick on some lip-gloss to hide the worst of the damage to my lips. Spike's practically vibrating in the doorway, but he lingers until I'm ready. Then we head downstairs together.

Willow meets us at the bottom of the stairs.

"Oh," she says. "I was just... coming to wake you."

"Tell me there are egg rolls," I say, desperately.

She grins. "Extra orders. We ordered triple of everything we normally get. Oh, and ... and there's more blood. It's already heating in the microwave," she says, looking at Spike warily.

"Ta, Red," he says, and disappears into the kitchen.

The others are all in the living room, setting out more than a dozen containers and cartons of food on the coffee table. Pooh is frisking around between everyone, sniffing everything and wagging his tail furiously. Someone hands me a bowl piled with fried rice and chicken and egg rolls. I sink onto the couch and dig in. A few minutes later, Spike joins me, settling beside me with a huge thermos of blood. He commandeers a carton of spicy Kung Pao and some chopsticks of his own.

"You're a lot better at that now than you were the first time," I say, smiling as I watch him shovel chicken into his mouth.

"Have a hundred years of practice, now, don't I?" he says, expertly snagging some rice out of my bowl and not dropping a grain of it before he pops it in his mouth.

"How do you know how good Spike was with chopsticks a hundred years ago?" Willow asks.

I glance at Spike, not sure how much he wants me to tell. He stiffens, then shrugs. "Might as well, luv," he says softly.

I look around the room and finally find Whistler standing by the wall, watching me steadily over the rim of his beer bottle. "Did you know?" I ask him. "Did you know what they were going to...ask of me before I found him?"

He makes a face. "I knew you'd be tested," he says. "They didn't really give me specifics."

Beside me, Spike growls. "You're Whistler."

"Guilty," Whistler says, with a shrug. "And before you start getting all indignant, you might want to remember that without a little bit of help from the guys upstairs your ass would still be on ice, Blondie. It was her choice to go after you, and I'm not sure even the PTB could have stood in her way. We just sped up the process, is all. You could still be stuck there, you know."

"She didn't need to see all that," Spike snarls.

"Yeah," Whistler says. "She did. Was the only way we could know for sure."

"What? That she knew exactly what sort of damaged goods she was buying?" Spike asks.

"That she loved you, you moron," Whistler says, effectively shutting everyone up. Spike just blinks at him, stunned. "She had to know you...all of you. She had to choose. Frankly, I think you're kind of a bum deal, but, hey, she likes you. And so, apparently, do the PTB. Who'm I to argue with their choice of Champions?"

"Whoa, whoa... wait a second," Xander says, coughing around a mouthful of spring roll. "Back the truck up. Buffy's not in love with Spike. I mean, yeah, she rescued him but that was because of Louhi. Right?"

He turns pleading eyes toward me, and I feel the others all do the same.

"Was kinda hoping to put that revelation off until after we'd saved the world," I say quietly.

"Buffy," Giles says. "I think maybe you ought to explain exactly what you went through. Perhaps that would... well, perhaps it might make it easier to... to understand."

I frown and poke at my food, but everyone is staring at me and I know I'm not going to get out of this that easily. Spike's hand slides around behind me, to rest against my back. It's a comforting sort of gesture and it gives me strength. Funny how I can face down demons, take a field trip through hell, and save the world, but the thought of facing my friends and their judgment scares the crap out of me.

I take a deep breath, then another. Focusing on Spike's hand on my back and Tara's open and listening face, I begin.

"Okay, so, after I stepped through the big swirly portal thingie I found myself in New York, about twenty or so years ago..."








 
 
Chapter #70 - Chapter 69: Confessions
 
Author’s Note: This is a really talky chapter, and some of it might feel a little like a rehash. I tried to keep that to a minimum, though. No warnings, except for excessive dialogue and some cheesiness.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae and Science





Chapter 69
Confessions



I don't give them everything. Some of it I know Spike wouldn't want them to know, and some of it I know he really didn't want me to know. A couple of times I realize I've mentioned something that I forgot to tell him the first time around because his fingers tighten ever so slightly on my back before relaxing again.

But I talk about New York, and Nikki, and the subway trip back through time. I describe how Nikki showed me some of the worst things that Spike had ever done, though I try not to go into too many details. I explain how, after reading Spike's journal, I knew that he'd changed, and that the monster he had been before wasn't what he was now. I tell them exactly what her last words to me were, and how she gave me the coat.

Then I describe China, and the other Slayer and seeing Spike kill her. I explain how she showed me that Spike was a warrior, though I leave out the bit about the Slayer he didn't kill. I show them the sword she gave me.

When I get to the part about Spike's past, I try to simplify it a bit. I know Spike doesn't want them to know what he was, but Giles stops me and makes me go back. I stumble for a minute, trying to figure out what to say, but Spike saves me the trouble.

"I was a ponce, alright?" Spike interrupts, glaring at Giles. "A right proper Victorian git. Went to Eton, Cambridge, graduated top of my class. Only thing I knew about fighting back then was how to duck and the closest I ever got to a brawl was bein' set on by half my form one night for some minor offense or another. I was a bleedin' gentleman. The sort of nancy-boy who would rather write poetry about some chit who'd never love him back than keep a soddin' mistress. Night I got turned I was sobbing out my broken virgin heart. Not my finest moment."

Giles looks floored. Lydia looks like she's just seen the Holy Grail.

"They made Drusilla be my guide for that part," I say softly, picking up the story. "She... made me be in Spike's head, the night he crawled out of his... his grave."

"Fuck," Spike says, staring at me in shock. "Bloody hell, you didn't tell me that."

"Oops?" I say. "I... it didn't seem that important. Just..."

"Not something I ever would have..." Spike's hand trembles for a minute, against my back. "She shouldn't have made you watch..."

"I get it now," I say softly. "Why you breathe."

"Buffy—" he says, but I hush him with a finger over his mouth.

"I get it now," I tell him. "That was the point, wasn't it? Learning to understand you? That's why they made me see all those things with Angelus, too."

"Angelus?" Xander says. "He was there?"

Spike meets my eyes for a moment, then nods. So I talk. I talk about Spike and Drusilla's hunts, and how Angelus made Spike learn. I tell them about watching Angelus beat him in an alleyway, and about the wedding and all the things that I had to witness. I even give them a slightly cleaned up version of the night Angelus beat Spike after screwing Drusilla in front of him.

"I know now," I say. "I know why Angelus is the way he is without a soul, and why Spike is so much more human." I show them the spike that Drusilla gave me.

When I turn to look at Spike, I know what he's thinking. I know that the last part, with his mother, was the worst thing I could have seen, and I know he doesn't want them to know about it. His jaw tightens slightly, but the look in his eyes tells me to do what I have to do.

"And then I was walking through the portal and into Louhi's world," I hear myself saying, "and freezing my ass off."

Spike's hand stills against my back, and if the others notice that I've skipped something, nobody comments on it. Which is good, because I don't want to tell them. They know everything they need to know about human William and there's no reason for them to know how deep his pain goes. They don't need to know about his mother. They wouldn't understand.

So instead I focus on describing hell, and the weird dimension with its unmoving sun and moon. They sit, quietly, and listen as I explain about Louhi's city, and seeing Jack, and how I got to Spike. I don't hide the condition I found Spike in, but I do skip over the part about him not having his chip anymore. I tell them about how we escaped, about the storm and the goblin army, and Pooh. I leave out the sexcapades, of course.

***


By the time I'm done my throat is raw from talking and my food is cold.

Without a word Tara picks up my bowl and takes it into the kitchen. A minute later I hear the microwave turn on.

"That's pretty much it," I say into the silence.

"How long were you there, Spike?" Giles asks softly.

"Long enough," Spike says, his voice hard. "Stopped measuring days and just concentrated on how long it had been between the hell bitch's visits. If there were an Olympic event for torture, Louhi could give Angelus a run for the gold."

"Did you learn anything while you were there that... that could be of use?" Giles asks.

Spike gives him a look full of disbelief. "Sorry, was too busy enjoying all those Turkish delights to pay much attention. What do you think, you berk?" He sighs. "'Bout the only thing I know is she's pretty much emptied the city down there. Figure she's been sending her minions up topside for awhile now and we've only seen the tip of the iceberg."

Tara comes back in and hands me my food and gives Spike a full thermos of blood. He nods at her gratefully.

A memory flickers. "Anya said that Louhi likes to stack the decks," I remember, glancing over at her. She’s still staring at Pooh in rapt fascination. Pooh is lying across Spike's feet, his big ears swiveling as if he's following the conversation. "Anya?"

"What?" she asks, looking up.

"Louhi, stacking decks? Any idea what she's doing with all these demons up here?" I ask.

Anya blinks. "She'll have a backup plan. And probably a backup plan for her backup plan."

"A Xanatos gambit," Xander says.

"A what?" I ask, frowning.

"Gargoyles," Spike says, surprising all of us. "What? It's a good show. What Harris meant is that Louhi wouldn't have pinned all her hopes on me taking her to prom. She'll have found another way to get there, just in case I stood her up."

"Actually," Anya says, "There's a good chance that the whole thing with Spike was just to buy her time to find a better power center. She needed him... but maybe she only needed him until she was strong enough for something bigger."

"Like the Hellmouth?" I suggest and watch the various expressions of fear flicker over everyone's faces.

"Probably," Anya says, chewing her lip. "But she'll need a way to power opening it."

"Crazy bitch feeds on pain," Spike says. "She'll need more of it than she was able to pry out of me."

"What do you mean, feeds on pain?" Giles asks. "Perhaps if we know more about how she feeds we might be able to stop her."

Spike's jaw clenches for a moment, then he scowls. "There's all sorts of pain, isn't there? Physical pain is the least of it, but that's where she starts. Stronger she gets, the deeper she goes. Mental, emotional pain... that's where she gets her real strength. Everything that's ever cut you, every hurt you've ever suffered, everything you might ever have felt guilty about. She digs in and draws it out of you, over and over again."

I look at him, wondering, but he refuses to meet my eyes.

"But you managed to block her, somehow?" Giles asks.

"Yeah," Spike says. "I did. It's human pain she needs. Demons aren't much for mental or emotional anguish. I didn’t feed, kept the demon at the surface, refused to let it fade. Most she could get out of me was a little physical pain, and the demon never minds that."

"You refused to feed?" Giles says, looking surprised. "You must have been there for months, though. Is that why you looked so...?"

"Told you it wasn't funny," Spike says.

"Er... yes, quite," Giles says.

"Can she still feed off you?" I ask, worried.

"Don't know," Spike says, frowning. "Can't unless she's near me. She needs to be close by, I think. But if she were to show up, or if we were to have to fight her... I don't know."

Giles and Whistler exchange a glance.

"This ritual thingie," I say. "It would prevent that?"

"Wait a minute," Xander interrupts. "We're not seriously considering that thing. Giles? I thought we were ... uh... looking for another way to, you know, break up Spike and the Snow Queen."

"We are," Giles says. "We—"

"You're staking my heart here, Rupes," Spike sneers. "Know what your other plan was. Thought I ought to come down with something dusty, did you?"

"Hold on, wait... you all discussed this?" I ask, frowning. "While we were gone you guys all talked about this?"

Everyone else exchanges guilty glances. God, when will my friends stop trying to orchestrate my life? By their time I'd been in hell for a couple of hours and they spent it trying to decide whether or not I should be with Spike?

"Were you even going to tell us?" I ask.

"I was," Whistler volunteers. "Prophecy crap. It's all part of that whole Slayer's Knight thing. In order to defeat her, kid, you're gonna need all the weapons you can get. You don't do this... there's a damn good chance she'll kick your ass and spirit Spike right back to where you just found him. But you do this thing and not only will it break her hold on Fang-face here, but it'll give you a major leg up on her Royal Frostiness. Your choice, of course."

"How does it work, exactly?" I ask.

Whistler sigh. "Knew you were gonna ask that. Thing is... you and Spike, you're like opposite sides of the same coin. You're pretty strong, on your own, but put together, you're gonna be even stronger. The way the ritual works... you gotta figure out what he's got, that you don't, that makes him stronger than you. And vice versa. You do a little hocus pocus, say the magic words, swap some blood—"

"Blood?" Xander asks.

"Yeah, blood," Whistler says.

"Why blood?" Xander asks. "Why couldn't it be, you know, friendship bracelets? Or locks of hair or something."

"It's always blood," Spike says. "Blood is life, lackbrain. Why do you think we eat it? It's what keeps you going, makes you warm, makes you hard. It's the tightest bond there is. 'Course there's blood involved."

"Oh, please. Don't pretend you're not just itching for a chance to sink your fangs into Buffy," Xander says. "She might ... have a thing for you, but she learned her lesson after Angel, didn't you, Buff? You can't trust a vamp to keep his fangs to himself."

Spike growls and stands. Even as thin as he is, he looks dangerous. Xander doesn't back down though. He gets right in Spike's face.

"Not gonna bite her," Spike says. "And even if I had to, I wouldn't drain her. Not for the world."

"Yeah, well, we know how you are with Slayers, Chip Boy. Betcha can't eat just one," Xander snarks.

"Matter of fact, I only did eat—" Spike starts, but I interrupt before that road can lead to badness.

"Stop it, both of you," I say. "Whistler...?" Slowly, Spike and Xander both sit down, eying each other like two male tigers ready for a fight.

"Before these two clowns so rudely interrupted," Whistler says, "I was gonna say... basically the ritual allows you to share your strengths. You'll probably both end up a little stronger, or faster, but it goes deeper than that. And the connection will prevent Louhi from establishing a hold on either of you. She'll still be able to feed, but not like she can with Spike right now."

He pauses, then says. "You should know that there's a good chance that doing this might, ah, extend your tenure as the Slayer."

"How long?" I ask.

"We don't know," Whistler says. "Let's just say that the list of prophecies about you on your own could fill a book. But the ones about you two together... that's why we've got libraries."

That makes everyone shut up for a minute.

"You know what you’re asking, don't you?" I say, meeting his eyes.

He holds my gaze for a long moment, then nods.

"Yeah," he says. "It means that you're never going to be normal, and you'll be signing up to fight the good fight for a long, long time to come. Other Slayers... they'll fight, and they'll eventually get to rest. But, barring a successful apocalypse, or a really tragic accident, you're gonna be sticking around for a while."

"You mean, Buffy would be immortal?" Willow asks, frowning. Xander looks like someone just hit him.

"Immortal is a funny word. It means unkillable. Very few things are actually immortal—some things, like vamps, are just slightly less mortal than others. Buffy and Spike do this thing..." Whistler says, still meeting my eyes. "They can still be killed. It'll just be harder."

Spike takes my hand in his and gives it a squeeze.

"It's too much...," Giles says. "Too much to ask of anyone. To not only to give up her—her mortality but..."

"I never really had it, though," I say. "Did I? Is Spike right, about Slayers? That we don't get old?"

Whistler makes a face, obviously knowing exactly what I'm talking about. "It's not something the PTB like getting around, you know. Most Slayers never live long enough to figure it out," he says. "But... yeah. Sorry, sweetie. When you won the Slayer lottery, you won it big time. There was never any chance of going back. The only Slayer retirement plan is the permanent one."

I nod. Around me, I notice, my friend's faces reflect shock, surprise, and in some cases they look like they'd figured it out ages ago.

"Okay," I say. "I get that I don't have a lot of choice here. When do I ever? But Spike... This... this is his decision, too. Not just mine. And you're pretty much asking him to defy his nature, everything he is... forever."

Only, I know that he'd do it anyway. It's not me that needs to hear this, though.

"Been there, done that," Spike says quietly. "Been doing that for years. Ever since that night when I made a deal with a bitchy little blonde Slayer to save the world. Besides... not like the whole champion gig doesn't come with perks."

"Perks?" Whistler says, amused.

"She's pretty damn perky, isn't she?" Spike says, leering at me.

"Hey!" I say, but I don't really mean it.

"But-but Spike doesn't have a soul," Willow says. "How can he be a champion?"

"He doesn't need one," I say. "The whole time trip thing made that kinda clear. Having a soul doesn't make you a champion. It's all about choice, really."

Whistler steps forward, setting down his beer and looking way more serious than usual.

"She's right. It's about choice. You understand what you'd be giving up?" he asks Spike. "You know what this means, right? 'Cause I need to hear it from you in order to appease the boys upstairs."

Spike looks him straight in the eye. "I know what I am. I know what I've done. Spent more than a century bathing in blood and the pain of the innocent. And it was fun. But that's not what I want anymore. I know now, what pain is. Little shaky on remorse and what all but... I get pain. It's never gonna be easy for me. You could stick a soul in me and I doubt it'd make it any easier. I've got a lot to make up for. Might take me another hundred years or more, but... I'm gonna try. That's all a man can do, right? Try?"

When he's done, everyone is quiet. Finally Whistler nods. "Good enough for me," he says.

"How do we do it?" I ask. "The ritual?"

"Oh, the usual," Whistler says. "Sand in a circle, bunch of smelly herbs, some candles, say a few words. Toss in some wine and you could make a night of it. There's this great Cabernet S—"

"Think I get the picture," I say. "And what'll happen after?"

"I don't know exactly. Like I said before, you'll share strengths, but after that...," Whistler says. "We've never done this before, understand. Not with a Slayer and a vamp, anyway. Some of it's going to be learn as you go. All I know is that the Powers stamped it with their seal of approval."

"Bloody reassuring to know that the Powers That Be are wingin’ it up there," Spike mutters.

"I don't like it," Giles says. "Surely there must be some other way..."

"This Louhi bitch is only one step down from a god. You know of some way of defeating a god that the PTB aren't aware of, throw it on the table," Whistler says. Giles clamps his mouth shut. "That's what I thought."

"Buffy," Xander says. "Are you sure you want to go through with this?"

I appreciate his concern. Hell, I appreciate all of their concern, but something I learned that night when I accidentally sent Spike to Hell? Listen to my friends, love them, but trust my own instincts and judgement. I can't let them always make decisions for me.

"I'm sure that we're done talking about it for now," I say. "In the end, this is between me and Spike. We'll talk about it later, after we've had some more sleep. Right now I think we need to focus on what else we can do to stop Louhi. Whistler, Lydia, does the prophecy have any more brilliant ideas?"

"Maybe," Lydia says, blushing a little now that she's been called to the floor. "Uh... If— if Mr. Giles and Mr. Whistler would care to help me I'm sure I can translate some more of it tonight."

"Okay, good," I frown. "What about magic? Willow, Tara, can you put together some spells that might be useful against her? We're going to need something to counteract some of her abilities. That whole freezing you where you stand is going to make fighting her a problem."

They nod. "W-we can look," Willow says. "I don't know if... if she's that powerful she can probably... but we can try."

I turn to Xander and Anya. "Anya, I need you to sit down and think of everything you know about Louhi, everyth—are you even listening to me?" Anya is still staring at Pooh. What the hell?

"Oh! Sorry," she says, looking up.

I frown at her, then down at Pooh, connecting dots. It's not a wolf, she'd said, when he came through the portal earlier. Where did you find one?

"You know what Pooh Bear is," I say.

"If you're not going to call him Jaws, Slayer, you could at least give him some dignity and call him Bear," Spike grumbles.

"Fine," I say, "Bear. You know what Bear is, don't you, Anya? Before we came through the portal, he was a massively huge polar bear. Now he's a massively huge dog."

"Technically," Anya says, "he's not really either. He's whatever he needs to be, though they pretty much stick to animal forms." Bear is watching her, his ears tilted in her direction, listening.

"What is he? A demon?"

Her eyes go wide. "Oh, no! He's not a demon at all. He's a spirit guide. They're kind of... warrior guardians. You see them sometimes when you're doing certain kinds of spells or trances, and sometimes they show up to protect people at important moments. They're really rare, and incredibly powerful."

I remember a mountain lion, leading me through the desert.

"But... from what you've said, I think maybe Louhi had captured him and was using him, maybe stealing his power. You freed him. I don't think you've bound him to you, but... he seems like he wants to stick around and help with the fight," Anya says. Bear's mouth opens in a lazy grin, tongue lolling. He gets up and pads over to Anya, who sits very still and watches him with wide, amazed eyes. Bear leans up—he doesn't have to go very far since he's pretty big and Anya's pretty small—and licks her face. She giggles and reaches out tentatively to pet him. With a groan he leans into the caress for a minute, then licks her face one more time before turning and coming back to his spot at Spike's feet.

"He really seems to like Spike," I say.

"Maybe he's decided to be Spike's guide," Anya says. "I'm not really sure how that works, but different spirits tend to latch on to different kinds of people."

"Okay, so... that's something in our favor, right?" I say. "We've got a powerful spirit warrior on our side now, too."

The others nod.

"Okay," I say, thinking quickly. "Spike and I still need to get back up to full fighting strength. Which unfortunately means more sleep, I think. We also need to talk about this whole ritual thing. Giles, I need you and Lydia and Whistler to go through the prophecy, and whatever books you can find on Louhi again. Wills, Tara, you're on magic duty. Get me whatever useful spells you've got. Anya, I need you to try to remember everything you know or have ever heard about Louhi and any of the demons she might have working for her. I need to know of any possible weaknesses."

"Guess I'm making the donut run," Xander says, sulking. "Or.. hobble, as the case may be."

"Sorry, Xan," I say. "But I need you to be army guy right now. We know that mortal weapons can't harm Louhi, but if she's got her demon army up here, we may need to find a way to fight off a lot of them, fast. Think Giant Snake Demon. Work with Anya. We need you to find ways to fight off whatever she throws at us."

Xander's eyes light up. "I can do that," he says.

"We also need to figure out where Louhi is going to try to get power from. If she can't feed off Spike, she's going to have to get her power from somewhere, and on a short schedule—for us, anyway."

Now everyone is nodding, coming together. This is why my friends are amazing: give us a crisis and we're totally together, like one big machine.

I stand up, forcing myself not to sway. God, I'm still tired. That nap earlier barely took the edge off. But from here on out, I'm going to have to make whatever rest I can get count. "One more thing," I say, feeling Spike rise and stand beside me. "I don't want to take the chance of Louhi attacking us when we're divided. Try to stick together as much as possible. Anyone who wants to is welcome to stay here tonight. Willow, can you maybe do a protection spell on the house? Something to warn us if any demons try to attack?"

"Sure," she says. "I brought stuff with me. You know... in case. I figured... well, better safe, right?"

"Good," I say.

"We'll make a run to the Magic Box," Giles says, "And get whatever books and supplies we need. I agree with Buffy, there's safety in numbers. We should all stay here, tonight."

"I'll get out some extra pillows and blankets," I say, and head for the stairs. "Someone can take the sofa, and there's a cot in the basement. There's the bed in the spare room... it's a little cluttered, but—and there's... there's m-mom's room."

"Buffy—" Spike says, reaching for me. I meet his eyes and see the concern in them.

"It's okay," I say, softly. "Mom would... it'd be okay."

He leans in and kisses me. Not a sexy kiss, though I don't think it's possible for Spike not to be sexy. It's just kind of how he is. This is a boyfriend kiss; the kind that says I love you, and it'll be okay. And it kind of is.

As we turn to go up the stairs, I hear the others moving around below, gathering things, picking up the leftovers from the Chinese food, getting their coats.

"Oh my god," Xander says, suddenly. I stop and turn around to see what he's freaking about. His eyes are on me and Spike on the stairs.

"What?" I ask.

"You! And Spike! You had sex!" he exclaims. Then his face drains of color. “You had sex in my sleeping bag!” Everyone freezes.

Well, almost.

"Well, I for one say finally," Anya says. Then she grins. "How's his stamina?"

I feel myself blush, and Spike leers a little, tongue behind his teeth. "Best eight hours of my unlife," he says.

"Oh dear lord," I hear Giles say before he bolts out the door.

***


"Buffy?"

Spike looks at me and shrugs, then heads into the bedroom. I turn around to face Willow, who is standing at the end of the hallway looking... guilty?

"What's up?" I ask.

"I'm sorry," she blurts.

"What huh?"

She takes a deep breath. "It was—it was my idea, to enchant the necklace," she says. "You didn't want to do it, but... I just wanted to help, and I thought...And if we hadn't, then maybe Spike would have won that challenge and you guys wouldn't have had to... And... If I’d known what you’d have to go through, what he would have to go through... "

"Willow, it's okay," I tell her. "Yeah, it was hard, but... I think it's what we had to do, you know?"

She nods and frowns, twisting her fingers in the strap of her purse. "We should have trusted you," she says. "It's just... it was Spike. Mr. Grumpy-pants, I'm-gonna-shove-this-bottle-through-your-face Spike."

"I know," I say, getting it.

"Are you sure... I mean, I know down there you said that... but are you sure that you ...w-want Spike?"

"I know it's—well, it's not anything I planned. But yeah, I do," I say. "I'm kinda massively in love with him. Sometimes... we don't get to pick who we fall in love with."

"I get that," Willow says, smiling. "But if he hurts you, I'm totally turning him into a frog, ‘kay?"

"Only if you can do it before I kick his ass," I tell her, with a grin. Then we're hugging and I feel like it'll be all right. Somehow, it's going to work out fine.

“Not entirely sure I want the details on this one,” she says. “I mean, not unless they’re really romantic or something. Are they... romantic?” The look on her face says that she can’t picture Spike and romance going in the same sentence. I can’t picture them not.

“Some of them,” I confess.

She just raises her eyebrows. “Spike?”

“I know,” I tell her. “Believe me. But... there’s more to him than I ever thought. He’s got... layers.”

“So do onions,” she points out.

“So does cake.”

“Spike is cake?” Willow asks, scrunching her nose up.

“Spike is...” I pause, trying to think how to describe him. “Spike is Spike.”

“And you love him?”

“I do,” I tell her. “I really, really do.”

“More than Angel?” she asks.

The bedroom door suddenly seems interested in our conversation. Spike and I are going to have to have a talk about eavesdropping. Not that it’s likely to make much of a difference.

“I’m... I’m not sure that you can love someone more,” I say. “Do you love Tara more than you loved Oz?”

Willow thinks about it for a minute. “No,” she says. “Just... differently.”

“If he came back again?” I ask.

“I’d still be with Tara,” she says. She gets it, I think.

“Are we... are we good?” I ask. “I mean, I know you don’t love Spike...”

“No,” she says. “But you do. And, while it’s kinda majorly strange... that’s what matters. Still—got that frog spell ready and waiting. You just say the word.”

“I won’t,” I tell her, smiling and giving her another hug. That big weight on my chest lifts a little.

"Here," she says, digging in her bag. She pulls out a velvet sack tied shut with a cord. "It... well, it's the stuff you need, for the ritual. And instructions. I thought... I know we're running out of time and I thought you might want to do it, and maybe you wouldn't want to make a big thing of it, so..."

"Thank you," I tell her, hugging her again, tighter. "Thank you so much."


 
 
Chapter #71 - Chapter 70: Together
 
Author’s Note: If, when you were reading Part I, you ever thought to yourself “Gee, KE is really long winded and she really didn’t need to include all this stuff. We’re fans, we KNOW this stuff backward and forward.” Well… this chapter is one of the reasons why I kept what I kept. Technically, you could say that all of Part I is foreshadowing for this chapter.

WARNING: This chapter contains smut. Plot-smut. Smut that is pretty much inseparable from a major plot point. I suppose I ought to apologize for that, but… I’m not really that sorry about it. So, if it gets to be too much for you to read and you want a summary, send me a note or an email and I’ll provide you with one.

Second warning: we’re getting really close to the end. There’s only a small handful of chapters left. Just thought you might like a heads up.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae and Science








Chapter 70
Together



"What's it like?" I ask, a while later. I'm sitting on the bed, in the dark, waiting. I hear him move across the room, in the shadows, and the tingles on the back of my neck track his movements, even though there's not really enough light to see him. For a moment, the situation is so familiar that it makes me smile.

"What's what like, pet?" Spike says softly. Flame sparks, and he touches his Zippo to a candle on the dresser. Light spreads, glowing softly through the room, softening the edges of things and making the shadows dance. Spike pads barefoot to the next candle, his pale chest gleaming in the candlelight, the scars on it nothing but faint lines now. His eyes are really dark as he stares at me, making me aware of all the skin my pajamas show off. Skin that I kinda left bare just for him.

From the look on his face it's easy to see that he likes it.

"Never getting old," I say, twisting my fingers in the cord of Willow's bag. "Watching other people age and... you know... go on?"

His jaw flexes, but he looks thoughtful, tilting his head to study me.

"Don't know," he says softly. "Not really. After my mum... wasn't anyone left I cared about. After... never really kept tabs on living people. Mostly just... you know." He shifts, watching me carefully.

"Ate and ran?" I suggest.

"Yeah," he says. He heaves a sigh and moves to the third candle, the light getting brighter as he touches the flame to the wick. "This... you and your chums are the first humans I've ever been around for an extended period of time. Don't know what it'll be like, watching them grow up, get old, die. Suppose it'll be like watching anyone you love die, in a way. It'll break your heart, you'll heal, and go on. And you'll carry the memory of them with you, wherever you go."

There are tears building behind my eyes and I feel like I'm mourning people who are still alive. It's a weird feeling.

"Then again," Spike says, as he lights the last candle, beside the bed. "We are talking about the Scoobies and the Hellmouth, luv. Who's to say what'll happen? Could be we won't be the only ones 'round here with extended lifespans. Though if Harris ever susses out a way to live forever I suggest we move. No way can I stomach that git for more than a few decades at a time."

The thought of an immortal Xander is funny. Or maybe I'm just hysterical, because I start giggling and then can't stop. Spike sits beside me, gathering me up into his lap and holding me tight while the giggles turn to sniffles and sobs. For a moment I feel like I'm back in our dream room, and he's Mr. Gordo again.

"We don't have to do this," he murmurs into my hair when I finally calm down. His fingers draw little circles and patterns over my back. "We're both damn strong. We can find a way to beat her."

"But that doesn't change anything," I say, breathing in his scent and drawing my own little designs on the almost unmarked skin of his chest. "I'm still... not really mortal. At least... at least if we do this, I might live to enjoy eternal youth. I wouldn't be alone. I'd have you there. Wouldn't I?"

"Have me regardless, pet," Spike says, and I feel him smile as he kisses my forehead. "Told you before, you'll have to dust me to get rid of me. Question is... would you want me there?"

He asks it casually, but when I look up into his eyes I can see what he's really asking. God, how did I go so long without being able to see Spike? It's all there, in his eyes. Every feeling, every thought, every single insecurity.

"I love you," I say, willing him to believe me. "I love you in ways I didn't even know were possible. I... You're not perfect. You're a long, long way from perfect, Spike. But I love the man you are, and the man you're trying to be. I want to see what you can become. I believe in you. You can be whatever you want to be."

The moonlight glimmers on the tear tracks I'm sure he doesn't even know are marking his face. "A man," he says, hoarsely. "One that deser—-one that deserves you. I love you, Buffy. So much."

I cup his face in my hands. "I love you, too," I say. "Don't leave me."

"Never," he promises, kissing me. "Never leave you. Never."

Then all there is is the incredible feeling of Spike's lips on mine, kissing, devouring, tasting. He nibbles at my lips, then sneaks his tongue into my mouth and tastes me and it's oh so good. Spike tastes like toothpaste, with a hint of cigarettes and whiskey and Chinese food, and I smile against his mouth because it amuses me that my vampire brushes his fangs before bed.

Actually...

"What?" he asks, pouting a little when I pull back to study him.

"Where do your fangs go?" I ask curiously.

Spike blinks at me, exasperated. "Woman, I'm five minutes away from an absolutely glorious shag and you want a bleedin' biology lesson?"

"You're going to bite me, aren't you?" I ask, meeting his gaze.

His anger retreats and once more I'm staring at insecure Spike, shy and unsure of my reaction. "We're really doing this?" he asks.

"Candles are already lit, and the stinky incense, and there's a mess of sand that's going to take weeks to vacuum out of the carpet. Shame to let it go to waste. Also, good chance we might die tomorrow if we don't," I point out. "It... You'll have to bite me, won't you?" I can't quite help the wince that goes along with that question. I've been on the wrong end of more pairs of fangs than I really want to think about, so I know how it hurts. Not that there's really a right end to a pair of fangs.

"Don’t have to, not if you don’t want. Could use knives, instead. But... I’d like to," he says, and his eyes drift to my throat and the scar there. For all of his protests the other day about biting, I know it’s something that he wants. Maybe it’s just a vampire thing, but... I kinda get it, too. It’s intimate. Important. Doesn’t make it less scary, though.

"It won't be like that," he says softly, kissing the scar on my throat. "Won't hurt a bit."

"You promised me that one time before," I remind him. "Only that time you were trying to kill me."

A grin flashes across his face. "I wasn't lying," he says. "Meant every word. It doesn't have to hurt, luv. And if it does, it's a good sort of hurt."

"A good sort of hurt?" I say, raising my eyebrow at him. He smirks, then shifts me so quickly that I don't have time to blink. Suddenly I'm straddling him and feeling how hard he is through the flimsy cotton of my pj bottoms and the thick denim of his jeans.

"Yeah," he growls, his mouth near my ear. "Like when I'm pounding inside of you, luv, stretching your tight little quim so wide it hurts just a little, even while you're screaming for more."

Oh.

Oh, god.

He rocks his hips against me, his hands guiding my hips down, grinding us together, and I can't help the little noise I make. He purrs his approval against my ear. "Like it when I do that, don't you, sweetheart? Like it when old Spike makes it hurt just a little, hmm? Just the thought of it's got you all hot and wet for me..."

A tremble goes through me, and I can't help it. He's right. God, even when he's using weird British words that are probably really dirty... I can't help it. I want him.

Still, he shouldn't look so darned smug about it.

I pull back. "Okay," I say, trying not to pant. "Point taken. But—"

"Not taken," he growls, thrusting against me again. "Point is still bloody hard and starting to chafe against my zip. Be a love and undo me?"

"Spike! Would you shut up and answer my question?"

"Which question?" he asks.

"If you're going to bite me then I think the least you could do is tell me where your fangs go when you're not all... bumpy!"

"I am bumpy!" he growls.

"Spike!"

He sighs, frustrated. "Fine, but I'd have thought Angel would have—" He stops, staring at my face. "Oh. Guess the great Poof didn't."

I swallow, hard. "No," I say. "He didn't."

Spike stills, calming himself visibly. "Here," he says, softly, and reaches for my hand. He opens his mouth and places my fingertips against the front edges of his teeth, so I can just feel his gums. Then he takes my other hand and places it against his forehead, just over the bridge of his nose. His eyes are very blue and gentle as he stares into mine.

Then he vamps.

I didn't know it could be done so slowly. I feel the bones in his face shift under his skin; under my little finger I feel his eyebrows fade away entirely. His teeth shift, too, growing longer, sharper, deadlier, the bones and even his gums changing shape in order to hold the larger teeth. His eyes shift from blue to gold, gleaming in the candlelight.

It's not like I've never touched a vampire's bumpies before, but this is different somehow. It's so weird to feel the demon emerge under the skin, feel his teeth change. He nods at me, and I let my fingers explore his face fully, even running my fingers carefully over the sharp points of his fangs.

Spike closes his eyes and purrs. With his demon on display, the sound is louder than usual, and I can't help the soft giggle that escapes me.

"What?" he says, as I draw my fingers away.

"Big Bads purr?" I ask, amused.

"Bloody right, they do," he says, his voice thick-sounding around his fangs. He shakes off the demon.

"Which is your real face?" I ask quietly, reaching back up to trace the scar over his eyebrow.

"This one," he says, matching my tone and leaning his face into my palm. "I've always thought it was this one."

I kiss him then, and he kisses me back, and it's not as urgent as it was a few minutes ago. It's sweeter, softer. His hands cradle my head as if I'm something precious.

I touch his jaw, his throat, his shoulders, his chest. He's almost healed, if not fully back to his old size and strength. Still, there's so much power in his lean muscles... it's incredible. His fingers slide under my tank top and explore my stomach and back. Then he tugs at the top and I lift my arms over my head so he can pull it off of me.

God. The way he touches me is amazing. His fingers feel cool against my skin, his mouth even more so as he licks and nibbles his way down my throat. He pauses over the scar, licking it and sucking at it until the skin there is super sensitive. I half expect him to bite me then, but he doesn't. Instead he moves lower, kissing my breasts, sucking at my nipples, moving me gently onto my back and stripping my pajama bottoms off of me.

I want to touch him everywhere, but he's making me feel so good. Maybe Spike knows magic, because everywhere he touches me tingles, tensing and relaxing under his hands and mouth. When he settles between my thighs, I don't even feel the embarrassment that I felt the first time. Now I know how good it can be, the magic he can work with his fingers and tongue. There was a time when I used to think this was icky, but now...

Oh, god. Now I know better.

"Spike," I murmur, arching my hips off the bed to meet him, and he stills me with a hand splayed over my belly. Then his fingers slide into me, filling up the achy empty place there, and he touches something that makes me moan and clutch at the bed.

"Shh," he whispers, cool breath ghosting over my very, very hot skin. "Relax, kitten."

The hand on my stomach presses down then, at the same time as the fingers he has inside me press up, massaging. His tongue laps at my clit.

An orgasm rips through me with all the subtlety of a freight train. Before I can scream, though, he's lifting me up and rearranging me, kissing me thoroughly all at the same time. I'm still trembling, little aftershocks pulsing through me, when he slides into me. Somehow he's moved us to the floor, to the middle of the sand circle.

"Fuck," he moans. "You're still coming. Oh, fuck, Buffy. So tight."

I can feel myself clenching around him, and it feels so good. Even though it hurts just a little, he's right. It's a totally good kind of hurt. "Spike," I whimper, wrapping my arms around his chest. We're sitting up, with me in his lap, straddling him as he sinks deeper into me. His hands are on my hips, guiding me down.

"Bloody hell," he pants against my shoulder. "So hot. Fuck. Never gonna get tired of this. Never."

When he finally bottoms out inside of me, we sit still for a long moment, gasping and just enjoying feeling so connected. I've never felt like this before with any other guy, never felt like they were so deep inside of me that they were a part of me. I want this. I want this forever.

"We should hurry...uh... ritual thingy..." I say.

"That was coherent," he laughs, but his voice is as shaky as mine.

"Brain not so worky," I say. He laughs again.

“Can do it now,” he says. “We’re in the circle, candles lit. Just gotta say some words.”

"Are we supposed to be... all groiny for this?"

"Doesn't say," Spike says, fumbling for a moment for the card Willow left us with the instructions, "but it makes it more fun, don't it?" He punctuates his question by rolling his hips against mine, thrusting deeper and making me moan. "It’ll make it hurt less, too, when we get to the blood bits. Don't suppose you read Latin?"

"Right now I don't think I can read my own name," I say. Spike smirks.

"Alright then," he says, softly, moving very slightly inside of me. "You know what you need to do?"

"Yeah," I gasp. "Now?"

"In a bit," he says. "Right now, just feel."

I shiver against him, feeling his arms wrap around me. His hands skim up my back, holding me down tightly on him. Inside of me he's getting warm, borrowing my heat and soothing the ache all at once. He starts to murmur something, in Latin I guess, cause I don't understand a word of it. All I know is that his voice is low and growly and making me tingle all over.

I feel the magic starting to build around us, making all the hair on my arms and the back of my neck stand on end. Through it all, Spike keeps murmuring the same phrase over and over. The candles flicker, then blaze up brighter, the scent of the incense gets really strong. My inner muscles clench around him and he groans, kissing my collarbone, my neck, my shoulders. In the moonlight his skin is so pale and white. I can't help but lean forward and taste it, kissing and sucking at the muscles in his shoulders and throat.

When I kiss the place where his pulse should throb, he groans, his arms tightening around me. "There," he whispers, his hips rotating slightly, nudging me in just the right place to make me shiver and moan. Oh...

I kiss him there again, then lick the same spot, over and over. He growls softly, his mouth finding the old scar on my throat and doing the same to me. We're barely moving, but I can feel another orgasm creeping up on me, even stronger than the one before. The more I kiss and suck at his throat, the more he does it back to me, and the stronger the feeling becomes. My skin is too tight, and I can feel my climax hovering like a huge wave, waiting to roll over and take me with it.

But it doesn't. Like a tsunami it just keeps building, higher and higher and higher. I'm trembling on top of him, every muscle tight and achy, my inner muscles clenching around him so hard I'm sure I'd break him if he were anything other than what he is. His skin under my mouth tastes so good, and I suck at it hungrily. His mouth is just as busy at my throat, and I know tomorrow I'm going to have one hell of a hickey.

But it's not enough.

The tension keeps mounting and we freeze, only our mouths moving against the other's skin. Inside me I feel my orgasm continue to coil, dangerously tight. If I don't do something soon, when it happens it might just kill me.

I need...

God, I need...

Spike.

I bite down. Hard.

My teeth aren't sharp, but I still draw blood. Just a little. It should be icky. It should be gross. I vaguely remember that when I tasted Dracula's blood it was gross.

It's not. It's... oh, god, it's Spike. It tastes incredible, and I suck at the wound I've made, hard, trying to take him further into me. He growls deeply and it shoots a bolt of pleasure through me so hard I'm surprised I don't come. "Now, luv," he gasps.

Dimly I remember the words on the card, the instructions I'm supposed to follow. I have to name Spike's strength, the thing that makes him stronger than me.

Good thing I already know.

"Your blood," I gasp, tasting it on my tongue, "your heart."

"Yes," he agrees, "Oh, yes." And then I feel his fangs slide into my skin, and it feels... I have to... I need to...

"Spike," I whimper, feeling my orgasm reach, stretch, start to crest.

"Your blood," he whispers and I feel him suck gently at the wound he's made. "Your soul."

Shocked, for a moment I can't help but pull back and stare at him. His eyes are blue and steady as he stares into mine and I realize what he's just asked for. "Your soul," he whispers. "Please."

"Yes," I agree, and together we climax, with a scream and a roar. Every nerve ending in my body ignites with pleasure until I'm on fire with it. I bite down again, tasting his blood in my mouth and feeling him sucking gently at my throat until we're a circle, a whirlpool, mixing together, twisting around each other, becoming something new.

He's inside of me, all the way inside of me now, part of me.

I can feel his pleasure like an echo of my own, throbbing and pulsing through me. I can feel his demon roaring in triumph, feel William sobbing with joy, feel Spike's incredible love for me wrapping around me and gathering me close.

Spike's strength has always been his ability to love and now... It's intense. Incredible. I can feel his love for me and it's so much. So, so much more than I ever expected. It's enough to drown me in it.

And all I can do is give him my love in return. In comparison to his I worry that it's not enough. How could anyone ever feel anything as intensely as Spike does?

Except I can feel him in me now, reaching deep, stripping away all the walls I've built inside of me, greedily searching for my heart, my soul, opening me up inside and baring me completely. And what's there isn't small at all. You're full of love, the First Slayer told me.

And I am.

Oh, god. I am.

I feel it burst out of me like a phoenix, blazing and bright and hot. And Spike absorbs it greedily, hungry for it, needing it even more than he needs my blood.

I can feel that. I can feel him.

We're not alone anymore.

And we never will be again.

***


A long time later I resurface.

It's dark again, and the room smells like burnt out candles and incense. I can feel something rough and sandy under my back, and the length of Spike's body pressed against my side. His arms are a comforting weight around me. He's breathing slightly, which means he's awake—but I already know he's awake without having to check. There's something in me now, in what used to be some empty corner of me, and in it I can feel Spike. It's sort of like my tinglies, only stronger. Most of what I feel there is simply his presence, but every now and then I feel a small pulse of something through it. Right now it's telling me that Spike is awake.

His hand drifts up to move the hair out of my eyes.

"Hi," I say, smiling up at him. His eyes are very blue in the dark.

"Hey," he says, softly.

He looks... beautiful. All sleek, pale skin and ripply muscle.

"How long?" I ask.

"Not long, maybe an hour?" he says.

I reach up and touch the place where he bit me. There's a raised scar there, but no puncture wounds. It's almost totally healed.

I frown. "How much did you—?"

"Couple of sips is all," he says. "Knew you'd taste like fire. God..."

"You're all healed," I say, sitting up and studying his body. He lifts his arms over his head and stretches under my gaze, totally male and pleased with himself. There's barely any marks on him, only old scars, and a bruise on his thigh that's fading even as I watch. "I know my blood is powerful but..."

"Think maybe I've picked up some of your healin' powers," he says, studying me. His head is tilted slightly to the side and he's got a funny look on his face. "Think maybe you've got a few of my talents as well."

"Huh?" I ask.

"You normally see this well in the dark?" he asks.

Oh.

Oh, wow.

I blink, taking in the details of my room. A room that normally would be lost in shadow with all the lights out and only a little bit of light trickling in through the window. A room that I now can see pretty damn well.

"How's your hearing?" he asks. I frown, concentrating.

"Pretty much the same, I think," I say. Then I sniff. "Smell's the same, too. Thank god."

He rolls his eyes. "What's so bloody disgustin' about an advanced sense of smell?"

"You can smell icky things," I say.

He purrs. "All I can smell right now is you, Slayer, and you smell delicious."

"Ew," I say, aware of how sweaty and gross I am right now. Not to mention...

Spike laughs, "S'not so bad, luv. Right handy skill, sometimes."

"I'm okay with you having that particular skill all to yourself," I say, smiling. Then I frown, confused. "Spike... you asked for my soul."

He smiles, and it’s his insecure little-boy smile. "Was supposed to figure out what makes you stronger than me," he says. "What'd you think I was gonna pick? Your keen fashion sense?"

I can't help but laugh. "No... I mean, well, that wouldn't have hurt. But... does this mean that you...?"

He looks at me, tilting his head slightly. "No," he says. "Not one of my own. I don't think. Haven't come over all broody and guilt stricken at any rate. But... it's like you're in here now, too." He presses a hand to his chest. "Figure it'll make it a bit easier to suss out where that line is I'm gonna have to toe. Help me fight for the right reasons and all."

Oh. Inside I can feel his love, like a flicker of cool fire, soothing my fear. I guess I know what he means.

He reaches for me, pulling me back down beside him so he can kiss me. "Guess we'll figure out what else we share eventually, yeah?"

"Yeah," I say, softly, feeling like I'm swimming in the blue of his eyes. I can feel his love for me wrapping around me again. When he kisses me, it's even more intense than it was before.

"Got all the time in the world, now," he murmurs against my lips.

"We could die tomorrow," I point out. "Louhi..."

"Isn't here right now."

"But—"

"Hush, Slayer, gonna take care of you now. See to you proper. Magic n' rituals are nice and all... but I'd rather shag you till the sun comes up. We can worry about tomorrow when it gets here."

Fingers skate up my thigh. I moan.

"Spike..."

"If you try to stop me, Slayer, so help me—"

"No stopping," I gasp. "Love you."

He doesn't answer. Not with words. His mouth is busy.

But the tangled pulse of love and lust and joy that I feel through our connection then is so strong that it sends me tumbling right over the edge.

***


The alarm goes off, startling us both.

"Time to get up," I say with a sigh. I'd rather be wrapped in his arms.

"Scoobies will be here soon," he says. Downstairs there's the sound of glass shattering.

"What was that?" I say, sitting up.

"Window," Spike says with a frown. When I turn to look at him, he's already on his feet and dressed.

"That was fast," I say. He smirks.

There's a cry somewhere downstairs, and before I know it I'm dressed and heading for the door. Lights are on below, and the front door is open. The living room window is shattered and a cold wind blows the curtains into the room. Spike is frowning at the mess. I step outside, but there's nothing, no tracks in the snow. It's as pristine and white as a sheet.

"Buffy!" someone yells in the kitchen, and I'm moving as fast as I can. Faster than I should be able to. Spike stays at my side.

Anya lies on the floor in the kitchen, unconscious. The back door is open and Riley is kneeling over her.

"Riley?" I say, confused. "What are you doing here?"

"You told me to call the ambulance," he says, frowning. "Anya's hurt."

"You shouldn't be here," I say, confused.

He shrugs. "You're the one who wouldn't let me in," he says. Then he grins, and his face twists, shifting, vamping. "But maybe you can love me now?"

"Don't be a git," Spike says, and punches Riley in the face. Something lands at my feet. I bend to pick it up. It's a pair of fake plastic fangs. Riley's face is human now, and starting to bruise where Spike hit him.

"They didn't fit anyhow," Riley says. "Could you hand me the phone?"

When I pick it up, it makes a funny clicking sound. "I think there's something wrong with Riley," I say. "He needs help."

When I look back up, we're not in the kitchen anymore. We're standing in Giles' living room.

"Okay," Spike says. "That was bloody weird."

Giles is searching through his desk. "I told you to stop writing in my books, Spike." He pages through one, frustrated. "I can't read this," Giles says. He hands it to me, and I open it, unfolding it into a map.

When I lay it out on the desk I can see all of Sunnydale spread out below me. "Look at all the undead real estate," I say, frowning at all the cemeteries, which are colored in black.

"You're looking at it wrong," Spike says. He flips it over. It's the same view, but now instead of the dark spots indicating the dead, they show all the rest of Sunnydale. "Look at all the Happy Meals," Spike says. He's right. The living still somehow outnumber the dead.

I hold the map up to the light. The two sides negate one another, turning the whole map gray. In the middle of it, there's a shadow growing like a tumor, spreading out. "Louhi," Spike says as the shadow spreads into the streets, spider-webbing out like poison through veins.

"How do you fight a shadow?" I ask Spike.

"Simple, luv," he says. "You turn off the lights."

He reaches for the lamp and clicks the button, plunging us into darkness.

We're back in the dream room; only now I can feel Spike beside me, sense his every move. We spin so we're back to back, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. Two halves coming together to make a whole, a coin with two faces.

In the darkness, something growls.

My Slayer sense goes wild, acknowledging Spike's presence at my back but focusing on the other demons in the room. When the first hit comes I'm ready for it, blocking it easily and turning it back on my opponent. Behind me, Spike snarls, lashing out, too. The demons feint again, then rush us both, and we both spin into the fight. All these months of training in the dark...

Somehow I'm even faster than before, stronger. I can sense Spike on the edges of my awareness, I know where he is, how he's fighting. I know when he takes a punch to the face, and when he hits his demon with a roundhouse kick that spins it toward me. I catch it, snapping its neck before it knows that I'm there.

There's a sharp echoing snap as Spike finishes the other demon.

The lights come back on.

We're standing in the hospital, staring down at the corpses of two of those ugly clown demons. "Lei-Achs," Spike says, kicking at one of their heads.

A black stain oozes out of the demon's head and pools under it, then spreads out, running down a nearby hallway.

"Follow it?" Spike says.

"Yeah," I say.

The trail of black blood leads down a long corridor, lined with doors. One swings open as we pass. Inside, Anya is sitting up in a bed, her arm in a sling. "I used to be a demon," she says. "Now I'm stuck in this stupidly breakable human body. I could die, you know! This hurts!"

"I know," I say.

"She'll have a backup plan," Anya says. "And a backup for her backup plan. I'd get the hell out of Sunnydale, if I could. You can go now. I have to figure out how to have orgasms with only one working arm. Check on Xander for me?"

"Okay," I say and follow the trail of blood.

Another door swings open. This time it’s Xander sitting on the hospital bed. He's got a bandage around his broken wrist, and one leg in a cast.

"What happened to you?" Spike asks him.

"Troll," Xander says, indicating his wrist. Then he points at his leg, "Vornir demon."

"Does it hurt?" I ask.

"Mostly just my pride. Do you think next time Riley can wear the dress? I'm getting a little tired of being the damsel."

A third door swings open. This time, it's Riley. The doctor is putting a bandage over the stitches on his chest.

"Always knew I'd never be able to keep up with you," he tells me, sadly. "My heart works differently than yours."

A nurse comes to Riley's side and takes his arm. Instead of taking out a syringe, she vamps, biting down hard on Riley's forearm. I start forward, but Riley holds up a hand. "It's okay," he says. "It's just blood work. She needs it. It's supposed to hurt."

"Riley," I say. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not really here, you know," he says. "I did the smart thing. I got out." Spike growls behind me. Riley vanishes.

"Wanker," Spike says. "Shouldn't need to apologize to him."

"I hurt him," I say.

"He hurt himself," Spike says. "C'mon."

The blood leads us into a waiting room. Giles is sitting on one of the plastic chairs, holding an ice pack to his head. Willow is crying on Tara.

"What's going on?" I ask.

"I don't know what to wear," Willow says. "What do you wear when it hurts so much?"

"Don't worry sweetie. I know what to wear. It's always sudden," Tara says. "Even when it's not."

"What happened to you?" Spike asks Giles.

"Not much, apparently. I'm only the Watcher. These things aren't concerned with me," he says. "You'd better clean up that mess." Giles points at the wall.

There are post-its stuck all over it.

"What do you think I can do?" Spike asks. "You all never noticed me."

"Yes, well, we can see you now," Giles says. "You made certain of that. Since you're a Cambridge man, you figure it out. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go tend to my wounded pride."

He gathers Willow and Tara up and ushers them out, leaving us with the wall of sticky notes. Spike looks at me, and I look at him. "What do we do?" I ask.

"Dunno," Spike says. "I usually just used them to try to get attention."

"Maybe that's what they're for," I say, studying the notes on the wall. "Look, there's writing."

"Toth," Spike says. "What the bloody fuck is a Toth?"

I check out another note. "Mara," I read off it. When I glance at the rest they all seem to have the names of demons on them. I peel it off the wall then look at the rest. Finally I stick it back down beside the note marked "Krampus."

Spike watches me for a minute, then peels a note off the wall, too, shuffling its position. There are duplicates of some words, and we have to shift things a few times in order to make room, but eventually it starts to come together. I'm only sure that we're doing something right when the notes start to make a pattern. It's nothing as recognizable as a word or a picture, but there's still a pattern.

"This one doesn't fit," Spike says, holding up a single purple sticky note. I read the writing on it.

"Olaf. Wasn't that the name of Anya's troll guy?" I ask.

"Yeah," Spike says. "It ought to go right there next to Krampy Claus, but it doesn't seem to fit anywhere."

He hands it to me. I close my hand around it, feeling the paper crumple. When I open my hand, there's a purple crystal in my palm instead.

The temperature drops abruptly, the room filling with cold. A chilly hand closes over mine, but it's not Spike's. When I look up, I'm staring into the iced over eyes of Jack Frost.

He mouths something at me, and his fingers burn frostbite into mine. Somewhere beside me, Spike growls.

"I don't understand," I tell Jack.

He whispers it this time, just as Spike leaps—

***


—and we both wake up in a tangle of limbs on the floor.

"No mortal weapon," I murmur.

Spike groans and drops his head against my shoulder. "An' I thought eating hippies was a real mind trip."





 
 
Chapter #72 - Chapter 71: Beneath You
 
Author’s Note: No warnings on this chapter—except for excessive talky bits. Title is not in reference to the First Evil or Season 7.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae and Science







Chapter 71
Beneath You



The TV is on in the living room when we finally make it downstairs and I can hear the droning voice of the weatherman predicting snow, again, sometime in the next forty-eight hours. There are voices in the kitchen, and the smell of coffee makes my mouth water.

The others look up as we come in. "Morning," I say, then squint at the clock. "Or... mid-afternoon, I guess."

"We thought you guys could use some sleep," Willow says, glancing back and forth between me and Spike, her eyes wide with surprise. "You... wow. How... how do you feel?"

Anya is... Anya. "You no longer look like you’re about to keel over. I guess it's true. A good night's sleep fixes everything."

I'd say it wasn't that bad, but... I saw my reflection last night, and what I look like this morning. It's a big improvement. Maybe I got a little of Spike's healing powers, too. Or maybe my Slayer healing was taking care of things big time. Either way, at least I don’t look like death warmed over, and Spike no longer looks like Skeletor.

"Thanks," I say, and reach for a donut. Spike hands me a cup of coffee, then moves toward the fridge.

"There still blood left from last night?" he asks.

"Second drawer on the bottom," Willow says, looking at Spike's filled out frame questioningly.

"Cheers," he says, and gets out his blood to heat up.

“What’s that?” Xander says, staring at me.

“What’s what?” I ask, confused by more than just his question. I’m hungry... or, not me exactly. Spike’s hungry, I think. Somehow I can feel it. It’s not the horrible pangs he suffered the night he crawled out of his grave, when I got to piggyback in his head. It’s more like my morning stomach rumblies. My stomach lurches a little at what he's hungry for, though. That’s gonna take some getting used to.

“That!” Xander says, leaning over the counter top to pull my hair out of the way.

“Hey,” I say, stepping back at the same time as Spike whips around, snarling. “It’s no big,” I say.

“No big? He bit you!” Xander says, standing, holding himself up using the counter instead of his crutch. He whirls on Spike. “You bit her!”

Spike rolls his eyes and drinks his blood. “Of course I did, you git. What did you think that ritual entailed? Jumping in and out of a circle and shaking gourds?”

“But... but... chip!” Xander said.

“It didn’t hurt,” I say. “Really.”

“Yeah, and setting my leg didn’t hurt, either, did it? Figures if you could ignore the chip long enough to do that you could stand it long enough to take a bite out of Buffy, huh, Mr. Masochist? I thought you said you weren't going to bite her,” Xander snarls, rounding the counter.

“It wasn’t like that, you pillock,” Spike says, but he doesn’t get a chance to explain. Xander slugs him, hard, in the jaw. Spike drops his mug, splashing blood down the front of his shirt and on the floor. When he looks back up at Xander he’s in game face.

“Spike—” I say, but he growls low.

“Feel better?” he asks Xander.

“You’re still here, so, no,” Xander says, bristling. “You don’t get to hurt Buffy.”

I grab his fist before he can punch Spike again. “You don’t get to make that decision for me,” I tell him.

“What? Buffy—” Xander says, blinking at me.

“I love you, Xander. I do. You’re my family and my friend, but what Spike and I do is none of your business. He didn’t hurt me, and he didn’t do anything that I wasn’t okay with. This was my choice, and you need to respect that,” I tell him, staring him in the eyes so he gets what I mean.

I feel him sag slightly. “I just... I care, Buff. And... and when Angel...”

“Spike isn’t Angel,” I tell him. “Believe me, no one knows that better than I do. I don't know how many times I have to tell you this, but he’s on our side now. He’s been on our side for a long damn time, but we were all too blind to see it. He doesn’t deserve your anger, or your resentment,” I say, glancing at the others who have all slowly trickled into the kitchen. “I made my decision, and I chose Spike. When you hurt Spike, you hurt me, too. So, please, don't do this. We have more important things to deal with right now than petty insecurities and old grudges.”

There’s a noise from the doorway, and when I look up, Giles is standing there. “Am I to assume that all this male posturing means th-that it’s done, then?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s done.”

“Then, you’re absolutely right,” he says. “We’ve more important things to discuss. If you two are quite through?”

Xander and Spike regard one another warily.

“I don’t like you,” Xander says. “But if you don’t hurt her, I won’t hurt you.”

“Same to you,” Spike says, straightening. His eyes flash gold and I can tell that it’s only his promise to me that keeps him from proving his strength to Xander. “That was your last free shot at me, Harris. And I won’t hurt her. Not for the world.” Then he smirks. “Well... not unless she asks real nice.”

“Spike,” I warn, rolling my eyes. “Other things, remember?”

“Right,” he says. “You want to tell them about our trip through the lookin’ glass last night, ducks, or would you rather wait until after I change my...uh, bloody shirt?”

***


We gather in the living room again. Together, Spike and I fill in the others on the dream from last night.

“It was a Slayer dream?” Giles asks. “You’re sure.”

“Positive,” I say.

“And... and you say Spike experienced it as well? How extraordinary. This connection you two share—” Giles says.

“Yeah, fascinating,” I say. “You can put us in separate rooms and do experiments on us another time, Giles. Right now I think we need to figure out what it all meant.”

Giles blinks. “Right. Of course. Right. Ah... you said the Olaf note didn’t seem to fit the rest of the pattern. In what way?”

“I don’t know. It wasn’t like it was a picture or anything. Just... it didn’t seem to go,” I say.

“Yeah,” Spike said. “Every time I tried to stick it down it wouldn’t stay put.”

“So perhaps there was something about Olaf that was different from the other demons you’ve fought this year,” Giles says.

“Well, there was the purple crystal thing,” I point out. “We never did figure out what the sitch was with it.”

“Do we still have it?” Giles asks.

Willow nods, pulling out a small velvet bag. “Here,” she says, dumping the crystal out of the bag into her hand. “I thought I’d hold on to it. I-I’ve still got all our notes on it, too.” Tara pulls a notebook out of the stack on the table and starts flipping through it. “They’re coded in purple and blue,” Willow says.

“Here,” Tara says. “Um... it—the crystal was used as a prison. There was a coven of witches, about nine hundred years ago. They bound Olaf to the crystal, and then kept it in a safe place for several hundred years. Then it vanished.”

“And turned up here,” I say.

“An’ I still think it’s weird that a crystal that housed Anya’s ex just happened to show up in the shop where she works, nine hundred years later,” Spike says.

“It’s almost like someone put it there,” I say. “But why?”

“You say they kept it in a safe place?” Giles says. “Aside from the obvious reason, why?”

“According to Willow’s notes they didn’t have the means to destroy it,” Tara reads. “It says that it ‘housed the power of a god, and could not be destroyed by mortal hand.’”

“Mortal hand,” I say, thinking back. “Louhi can’t be harmed by a mortal weapon.”

“You think they’re connected?” Xander asks.

“I don’t know,” I say, frowning. I feel like I have two puzzle pieces that ought to fit together but I can’t figure out which way to turn them to get them to work. “Maybe. What about the other dream stuff? The Leia demons? The map? Riley pretending to be a vampire?”

“Lei-Ach,” Spike mutters. “Felt like it was trying to point us at something, pet. We—” he stops, lifting his head and staring at the TV. “Turn it up,” he says.

We glance at the TV. We’d left it on, but turned the sound down low. With Spike’s vamp hearing, however, he must have picked up on something. Anya is sitting closest, so she leans over and turns up the volume.

“—The storm is located directly over the small town of Sunnydale, California and it continues to build. Meteorologists claim that they’ve never seen anything like it before,” a reporter says. The view switches to a scientist guy.

“We’re looking at a major blizzard, building directly over the city. We expect it to hit sometime in the next forty-eight hours. It’s sending out a cold wave that is affecting most of central and northern California, as well as nearby states. This storm defies all known weather patterns...”

The scene switches back to the reporter, who is standing somewhere downtown, with massive stormclouds looming ominously overhead. “Local officials are preparing for what they’re calling ‘The Storm of the Millenium.’ Citizens of Sunnydale are being urged to take all possible precautions in preparation for the storm, including stocking up on food supplies, wood, and water. Many are being evacuated to local shelters in anticipation of widespread power outages. Sunnydale utilities say they’re simply not prepared for the kind of burden the ongoing cold weather has been putting on the system.”

This time the view switches to city hall, and some officially-looking guy at a podium. “All residents are being urged to move to one of the three emergency shelters. Sunnydale Elementary and UC Sunnydale are both accepting evacuees. Anyone who may need medical attention, or who is accompanying someone who needs medical attention, should go to Sunnydale Memorial. We’re looking for volunteers to help staff each of the evacuation centers. Right now, Sunnydale Memorial is anticipating at least a thousand evacuees..."

In my head, something clicks.

"Giles," I say, "do you have a map of Sunnydale?"

"I do," he says, digging into a pile of research paper and handing me a folded map. I recognize it immediately. It's the one from my dream, the one that Riley and I used months ago to try to figure out where to find Toth. I open it up and lay it flat on the coffee table.

"I know where Louhi's going to get her power center," I say, staring at the spot on the map that was hidden by the shadow. "The dream..."

Anya sitting on a hospital bed, arm in a sling. "Now I'm stuck in this stupidly breakable human body. I could die, you know! This hurts!"

Xander, in his casts. "Does it hurt?" I ask.

"Mostly just my pride. Do you think next time Riley can wear the dress? I'm getting a little tired of being the damsel."

Riley, being patched up by the doctor, the vampire feeding from his arm. "It's okay," he says. "It's just blood work. She needs it. It's supposed to hurt."

"I hurt him," I say.

"He hurt himself," Spike says. "C'mon."

Giles, Willow and Tara, in the waiting room. Giles with ice on the back of his head. Wills and Tara are crying. "What do you wear when it hurts so much?" Willow says.

So many different kinds of pain. Physical, mental, emotional, spiritual—all in one place.

Spike looks over my shoulder, frowning, then, "The hospital," he says, connecting the dots.

"That TV guy said they're expecting several thousand evacuees. All those sick and dying people. All that pain. It'll be like a buffet," I say.

"You're certain, Buffy?" Giles asks.

"It makes sense. Most of the dream kept leading us back to the hospital, and the shadow on the map was right about here," I say, pointing at the map.

"Then we need to get there first," Xander says. "Figure out how to stop her."

"What if her army is already there?" Anya says.

"Then we'll have ourselves a real good time," Spike says, a grin on his face.

"But... she's practically a god," Anya says, looking panicked. "We can't fight a god. And being near that much pain is only going to make her more powerful. We're all going to die. I don't want to die. I'm still waiting on my tax return."

We all pause for a moment, absorbing that.

"Well," Spike drawls. "So long as we have our priorities straight..."

"We're not going to die," I tell her. "No one is going to die tonight. And we don't know that she's a god. From what I've seen she's just a sadistic bitch who is badly in need of a day at the tanning salon. And even if she is a god, that doesn't mean she can't be defeated, right? Olaf was pretty hard to beat, but we just had to... you know, hit him hard enough. Find his weakness. Same with the Mayor—"

"Oh!" Willow says. "Oh!"

"What?"

"The—the crystal!" she says, picking her notebook up off the table and flipping back to the section Tara was reading from a little bit ago. "It says... ‘ it housed the power of a god, and could not be destroyed by mortal hand.' Olaf! Anya... how exactly did you curse Olaf? I mean, did you make him just a regular troll?"

Anya looks confused, then suddenly brightens. "No! I... I... I was so angry, and he... he was so disgusting. He thought he was some kind of god among men, and I said that the best he could ever be was a god among trolls..."

"Anya...," Xander says, looking at his girlfriend with a strange expression on his face. "You... you made a god? As in... made one?"

"It would explain why he was so strong, and why we couldn't kill him," she says, then she looks at Xander. "Are you going to lecture me now?"

"What?" Xander asks. "No. I—"

"Because I'm feeling really very good about myself right now, which is much better than feeling fatalistic and panicked. So if you don't mind, would it be okay if we saved the lecture for after the big battle? I promise to be properly ashamed of my actions, even if they did happen more than a thousand years ago. Provided we both survive, of course," she says. "I can even wear the school girl out—"

Xander carefully puts his hand over Anya's mouth, thankfully muffling the rest of that sentence. He waits until she stops trying to talk. "It's just... you made a GOD," he explains. "I'm...so very, very proud of you."

Anya's eyes widen with shock, then she melts. "Mmmeemmy?" she says into Xander's palm.

"Really," he tells her.

Oh. That's so sweet.

I feel Spike shift restlessly beside me. Then his hand tentatively strokes the small of my back, just under the hem of my sweater. Through the magic that binds us, I can feel his insecurity. I give him a smile, and his mouth quirks, then his eyes heat in a way that makes me shiver.

"Okay," Willow says. "So, if Anya made a god, and...he was trapped in this crystal, doesn't that sort of mean that we might be able to trap Louhi in it, whether she is a god or not?"

"Giles?" I ask, turning to face him.

"It... certainly seems possible," he says. "If the crystal is strong enough to contain a bound demon god, it might be strong enough to hold her. At least for a time."

"Can we trap her in it?" I ask. "Do we know how?"

Willow looks excited. "Remember when I mentioned that I'd emailed the coven that originally had the crystal? Well, they sent me a copy of the spell that was used to trap Olaf. I-I didn't think much of it, except, you know, cool spell, 'cause we'd already sent Olaf on his one way cruise to Troll land but... I think maybe if we tweaked it...?"

"God!" Anya suddenly exclaims. "I made a god!"

"Yes, I do believe we've established that," Giles says.

"Nobody likes a bragger," Willow mutters.

"No," Anya says. "I mean, yes... I mean. He's a god, right? Well, doesn't that mean his hammer isn't, you know, mortal? Louhi can't be beaten with a mortal weapon. Well, what better to hit on a maybe-god with than an actual god's weapon?"

"No mortal weapon," I say. "In my dream, when I took the note that said Olaf on it, and... that Jack guy was there. That's what he said, when I was holding the crystal. Maybe Anya's on to something?"

"Smart girls are so hot," Xander says.

"Here to help," Anya says. "Don't want to die."

A glimmer of a plan starts to form, but it's going to need some work.

Time to get down to business. I can feel myself settling in, letting the Slayer part of my mind take over. Surprisingly I can also feel Spike hovering at my side, his demon pacing and impatient for what is promising to be a ton of violence and destruction. I should be weirded out, but instead it's energizing, feeding that part of me that thrives on the fight as much as he does.

And even though we're not magically connected, I feel my friends around me, doing what they do best. I've got the best backup team a Slayer ever had. Witches, Watchers, people and even demons who are dedicated to the same cause: protecting the world.

"Alright, gang," I say, standing up and looking down at the map of Sunnydale on the table. "We need a plan..."



***


"That's the plan?" Spike looks at the page of notes Willow lays in the middle of the coffee table, several hours later.

Okay, so... it's short.

Really short.

It was longer but... we sort of ended up crossing some stuff off when we realized it wouldn't work.

"At least it'll be easy to remember," I say, defensively.

"And it's better than yours was, Blood Breath," Xander adds. "What was yours again? Oh. Right. 'Let's just go kill the bitch.' Good plan. Solid. Workable."

"This coming from the glorified bricklayer," Spike snarks. "Too bad I won't get to watch you beat off the demon hordes with your crutch there, Rear Window."

"Hey, I can beat them off just fine," Xander says. Then he blushes. "And I mean that in a completely non-sexual way."

"If you two are done?" I say.

Xander and Spike look at each other, then shrug. "We can pick it up again later," Xander says.

"I'll put you down for next Tuesday, shall I?" Spike says.

"Works for me," Xander says.

At least they're not trying to kill each other.

"Everyone's clear on what we're going to do?" I say, standing up and looking around at all the people I care most about in the world. And Whistler. And Lydia. "All right. Remember, we need to keep the human casualties down. This bitch is gunning for pain, we're going to bring it. She might be powerful, but she’s not unbeatable. If a bunch of... magic-y guys back in the Stone Age could banish her, we can, too."

There are a few faces that don't look so sure. Lydia, in particular, looks kind of green. Then again, this is her first apocalypse. But Willow has her determined face on, and I can tell Xander's ready to rock and roll. Beside me, Spike is practically twitching he's so impatient to go. Anya looks pale but she's holding it together, and Tara looks worried, but otherwise okay. There's a little bit of Ripper lurking in Giles' eyes, and Whistler just shrugs and adjusts his hat. At Spike's feet, Bear gets up, yawns and stretches, then sits and looks at me expectantly.

Time to go.

"Let's move," I say. "Be at the hospital, in position, in two hours."

With an almost audible pop, the power goes out.

For a moment, we all sit there in the dark room, listening to the sound of the wind picking up outside.

Time, I think, has just caught up with us.

"Be at the hospital, in position, in one hour," I say. "Less, if possible."



***


Giles drives Lydia, while Willow, Tara, and I pile into my mom's SUV with Spike at the wheel. Whistler, Xander and Anya pull out onto the street behind us, then turn and head in the other direction, on a mission of their own. Overhead, clouds are still building ominously. The streetlights reflect off them, they’re so low. The temperature has dropped noticeably. I crank the heat way up to compensate, and Willow and Tara huddle together in the backseat. Bear sits in the far back, staring out the window.

The streets of Sunnydale are mostly deserted, this long after midnight. There are only a few cars heading toward the evacuation shelters. Most of the power seems to be out all over town. Cops stand, shivering, at the intersections, trying to direct what little traffic there is, which makes Spike cranky since he can't speed. He spends a lot of time swearing and muttering about how human laws shouldn't apply in apocalypse situations.

It occurs to me, for the first time, that just because we did the ritual, it doesn't mean we're guaranteed to win. There's too much that could go wrong, too many people that could get hurt. Like Whistler said, the ritual just makes it harder to kill us, so we still could be killed. I could die tonight. Spike could die tonight.

Of course, I'm the Slayer. Everyday that I wake up is a day that I could die. I've lived with that knowledge for a long time now, and Spike's nasty little pep talk a few months back only drove it home.

But the idea of Spike dusting... He'd just be gone.

Spike glances at me. "I'm not gonna die, luv," he says. "Stop fretting."

"You don't know that," I say.

"I'm old and canny, and you know I don’t give up easy," Spike says. "You don't have to worry about me. Not gonna get taken down by this hellbitch again. And I'm not gonna let her harm you, either—not a single golden hair on your sweet head, Slayer. We'll take her down. Swear it. Thinkin' all morbid like that, just gives her more power."

A hard knot of determination coils in my stomach. He's right. I don't have to worry about him. He's got my back, and I've got his.

Together, we can do this.

***


At the Magic Box, Wills and Tara snatch spell ingredients off shelves, while Giles, Spike, Lydia, and I head for the weapons cache. I've already got my sword belted around my waist, and Spike's strapped a few knives on, and stuck the railroad spike through his belt.

"Can you shoot a crossbow?" I ask Lydia. She's looking a little freaked, her eyes huge behind her glasses.

"Uh... we—yes, I was trained, but... it's been a while," she says.

"It's easy," I tell her. "Aim the pointy end at the demon, shoot, reload. Lather, rinse, repeat."

"Easy," she murmurs, holding the crossbow at arm’s length.

"Iron weapons," Spike tells Giles, handing him a couple of axes and a mace. "Those goblin things practically disintegrated. Won't have to hit them hard, either."

"Hit them?" Lydia says, blanching. "I...you think we'll be that close?"

Spike smirks. "No worries, luv. Just give 'em a poke, and they'll fall right on over."

"A poke?" Giles says, lifting an eyebrow.

"You make it sound so dirty," Spike says, curling his tongue.

"Will you two be okay?" I ask. "It's a big job."

"We'll be fine, Buffy," Giles says. "You concentrate on Louhi and keeping her distracted long enough for the spell to work."

Willow and Tara come into the training room. "Okay, we've got everything," Willow says. "I hope."

"Should we do the other spell here?" I ask.

"At the hospital," Willow says. "I don't know if I can make it last more than a couple of hours, not for so many people."

Lydia looks worried. "But... won't we just be walking into her trap, then? She'll see us coming."

Spike smirks. "No worries, pet. I've got a better way in."

"How?"

Spike glances at me slyly. "Sometimes the thing you're looking for is right beneath your nose."






 
 
Chapter #73 - Chapter 72: Pain
 
Author’s Note: I’d warn for violence, but… we’re kinda at the big battle scene. Violence is sort of the name of the game.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae and Science






Chapter 72
Pain




Spike leads us through the sewers, with Bear trotting at his heels. Their pale hair gleams faintly in the light from my necklace. Giles and Lydia follow him. Behind them, Willow and Tara have their hands clasped, and they're murmuring together so softly that the sound of the water rushing by covers it. I'm bringing up the rear, Olaf's hammer a heavy weight in my hands.

Somewhere above us, Xander, Anya, and Whistler are hopefully setting up for their part of the plan.

I feel like I always do right before a possibly major apocalypse: tense, nervous, my muscles tight and ready to go. Only, I'm not alone. I've never truly been alone. The first time, going up against the Master, was the closest I ever got to it. I had Spike and Xander backing me up when I fought Angelus. The whole gang was there when we took on the Mayor, plus the entire senior class. And last year... last year I was joined with my friends.

My family.

It gives me hope, makes me feel strong.

That part of me that's connected to Spike feels him respond in kind. Together, we're going to bring this bitch down and send her back to Hell where she belongs.

"Down here," Spike says, ducking through a crack in the sewer wall. Thankfully we get to leave the stinkies behind. It's dark down here, aside from the bobbing light from my necklace. In the rock I can see old bits of bones.

"Is this a cemetery?" I hear Lydia whisper to Giles up ahead.

"Not exactly," Giles says. "I don't think these are human."

A misshapen skull leers out of the rock as we pass. Ew.

Sunnydale: built on rock and bones. Features: excellent school system, lush parks, picturesque cemeteries, and one Hellmouth. Come for the sunshine and affordable real estate, stay for the Apocalypse.

***


The tunnels eventually dump us out into what I assume is the hospital basement. I'm not getting any demon tingles yet, which could be a good thing or a bad thing. Good cause, hey, not down here with us. Bad because it means that the dinner buffet may have already started.

We follow the signs down long hallways dimly lit with emergency lighting until we reach the stairwell access, where we gather in a circle.

"Willow? Tara? You guys ready?" I ask.

They both take deep breaths and look at each other. "Yeah," Willow says. "We can do this." They close their eyes and start to chant. Spike and I meet each other's eyes and grin.

How do you fight a shadow?

You turn off the lights.

***


Once the spell is finished, we creep up the stairs to the main floor. The power here is out, too. Only emergency lights are on, and some of them flicker alarmingly. It's colder here, my breath fogs in front of my face as if we're outdoors and not in the middle of the hospital. Somewhere in the distance, I hear whimpering, and a scream.

"Looks like the party started without us," Spike says.

The corridors are deserted, but we still sneak down them. "Where is everybody?" I ask.

Spike lifts his head, sniffing their air and listening. "Lots of people barricaded in rooms, seems like most of them are up a floor, in one big group. Stinks of demons in here."

"The cafeteria," I say, thinking. It's the only place in the hospital big enough to hold a ton of people. We head in that direction, looking for a stairwell to take us up. Spike is bristling with frustration.

"I hate this," he mutters. "Sneakin' about. Let's just go."

"Not yet," I tell him, even though I'm feeling just as impatient. "Plan, remember?"

"Never did well with plans," he grumbles.

"Stairs," Giles says, pointing. We head up.

When we open the door to the second floor, things are worse. Lights are broken, furniture is overturned and demons are milling around in the corridors. Down the hall I hear thuds, like someone is trying to batter down a door.

"Into the hallway, up against the wall," I say, then go through first. The others quickly follow. Even Bear presses up against Spike's legs, out of the way.

None of the demons in the hallway pay even the slightest bit of attention to us.

Go Willow and Tara.

I flash them a quick grin. Only Willow manages to smile back, but it's tight and nervous. I know how she feels. It's one thing to trust a "Don't Look Here" spell when it's cast just on me... but now I'm trusting it to cloak all of us. There are enough of those evil demon elves, and several Lei-Ach demons wandering around to make a fight in close quarters like this a really bad idea.

We need to get the demons out of here.

"Come on, Xander," I growl.

At that moment, the sound of an explosion rocks the building.

"About bloody time," Giles says, surprising me. Spike smirks.

Every demon in the hallway turns toward the sound. Then there's a second explosion, which rattles the hospital so hard I can feel my teeth clack together. Most of the demons head for the stairs. They snarl and growl as they thunder past, jostling us a little but otherwise not even glancing in our direction.

"Let's go," I say, when there's only a handful left down at the end of the corridor, trying to break down the door to the cafeteria.

We fan out into the hallway, Spike, Bear, and I in front, with Giles and Lydia flanking us, crossbows ready. The demons at the end of the hall don't seem to notice as we head toward them. Not until we're on them, and then it's far too late.

Spike snaps the neck of the first demon he passes, while I slide my sword through the neck of another. Bear pulls down what looks like another Mara demon, savaging it with fangs that are almost as long as my fingers.

That gets the attention of the rest of them, but when they turn to face us they seem confused. I can practically feel Spike grinning as he launches himself at the next one. It's not a fair fight, but we don't have time for fair.

Then it's over—at least here, by this door.

There's a weird surge, then, and the emergency lights flicker ominously. For a moment my vision goes dark, and I feel a stabbing pain in my chest. A sob tears my throat as the pain hits, vibrating through me like a physical ache.

Dad leaving, putting his suitcases in the car...

Angel mocking me, telling me how awful I was...

Giles drugging me, removing my powers...

Angel biting into my throat...

Mom, lying on the couch, her eyes open and staring blindly at the ceiling...

A stake through my gut and death in the eyes of a vampire...

Riley in the helicopter flying away...

Angel disappearing into the smoke...

Mom laying in her coffin...

Spike...

And then Spike's there, his love pushing it away, flooding me, filling me up. I come back to myself with a gasp as the pain dissipates.

All over the hospital, screams are ripping through the darkness, most of them coming from the other side of the door. A few of them come from my friends. Willow mutters a harsh word, and then it seems to pass, their faces clearing.

"Okay," she pants. "That was not fun."

"What did you do?" Giles asks, his voice hoarse.

"Protection spell," Willow says, her voice strained. "I set it up earlier, in case... in case we needed it. I can't... it's too much to do the whole hospital, though."

Spike's eyes flicker yellow. "You're bleeding," he says.

Willow swipes at the blood trickling from her nose. "Oh," she says. "It's... it's fine. It was just... more than I thought it'd be."

Tara looks concerned.

There's still some screaming and whimpering coming from behind the door. It takes me exactly two seconds to kick it open.

Several hundred pale faces turn to stare at us.

Or... not. They stare at the doors in panic and confusion, their gazes sliding right past us.

"Giles, Lydia," I say. "You know what to do. Keep them safe."

Lydia nods tightly, but Giles grips my arm for a moment.

"Be careful," he says to me.

"I will," I promise. Then Giles turns to Spike.

"I don't like you," he says. Spike raises his eyebrows. "But I would greatly appreciate it if you brought her back to me, alive and in one piece."

Oh.

"I swear," Spike says, totally serious.

They nod at one another, like men do when they're doing that manly communicating thing where they don't talk. Giles takes Lydia by the arm, and they slip into the cafeteria, then turn and shut the door behind them.

"Let's go," I say, turning away and heading for the stairs.

***


We're running now, Spike and I barely breaking a sweat, Bear's claws clicking on the concrete steps. Behind me I can hear Willow and Tara panting as they try to keep up. I'd forgotten how tall the hospital is, how many floors. It feels like it goes on forever, this long stairway. It doesn't go to heaven, 'cause we don't deal in that here.

Spike takes down the first demon just as I sense it, grabbing it and flipping it over the railing. It sounds like it falls for a long time but we're still close enough to hear the sickening crunch when it hits the bottom of the open stairwell.

There's another one of those weird surges, and more screams. Dimly I feel a flash of pain, but nothing like earlier. This is a sucker punch to the gut and the heart, there and then gone, and then Spike is filling me up again, his love stronger than the pain.

"What is that?" I ask.

"Louhi," Spike says, his voice grim. "She's feeding."

God. If that's how she feeds, and Spike was with her for months...

"Willow?" I ask, over my shoulder, still moving.

"We're good," she pants.

So we keep climbing.

Every so often a demon gets in the way, either lunging through an open doorway or clattering down the stairs. Still, they can't see us, not until it's too late. In close quarters like this, we're limited. Mostly we just end up tossing them over the rail. Spike has the railroad spike in his fist, though, and I've got one of my favorite daggers and Olaf's hammer. They're both crusted with blood and worse by the time we get to the top floor.

I slam the door open, and then we're in a wide hallway where the lights flicker overhead. Whimpers and moans and screams come from behind the double doors that line the hall. "This way," Spike says, nodding at a sign pointing toward the roof access and the helipad. "She'll be on the roof."

I remember her tower. Apparently she's got a thing for heights.

We're halfway down the hall when the lights flicker again and another surge hits, stronger this time. Up and down the corridor, behind the doors, people start screaming. Distantly I feel a throb of pain, but it's easier to suppress now. Behind me, Willow gasps, and Tara cries out.

"Buffy," Tara says.

Willow's panting hard, blood trickling from her nose, and her pupils are so big that her eyes look black. Bear growls at her. "Wills!" I say, grabbing her by the shoulders and giving her a hard shake. "What are you doing?"

"They're in so much pain," she whimpers. "I—I have to stop it."

"Willow, we don't have time. You can't protect them all right now. We have to go. We have to stop Louhi, then the pain will stop. But I can't do it without you," I tell her.

"Buffy," she says. "I can't... I have to..."

Spike snarls at her. "Do I need to go get a broken bottle, Red?" Willow's eyes shift to Spike. She shakes her head.

"No," she says, and some of the black bleeds out of her eyes. "No, I'm... you're right. We stop Louhi."

"Good," I tell her. "Let's go." Tara wraps an arm around Willow and adjusts the strap of the bag she's carrying. Her eyes look huge, and her face pale, but she seems to be holding up. It's Tara's first apocalypse, too. You don't get used to them.

We hurry down the hallway, trying to ignore the screams and whimpers all around us. Abruptly the hall ends in a set of double doors. Spike kicks them open and we spill into a big room full of medical equipment, beds, and doctors and nurses who are doing their best to work around their own pain to help the injured. The doors at the opposite end of the room lead to a ramp up, and they stand open, snow gusting in through them. All we have to do is cross the room.

Except in the middle of the room, waiting, his sword held loosely in his hand, is Jack Frost.

We skid to a halt.

"Vampire," Jack says, his eyes focusing on Spike. Then he shakes his head, frowning. His weird blue eyes drift over us before he finally manages to see me. He gives a dry, raspy laugh. "Slayer. How clever. She'll never see it coming." His dry voice and lack of inflection remind me of Oz.

"Sorta the idea," I say. "Guess you were expecting us?"

His eyes flick to the hammer in my hands.

"You got my invitation," he says. I frown, and something in my head clicks.

"You left the crystal in the magic shop," I say.

"Someone had to. That hammer may be what tips the scales," he says. "I'd have gotten you something classier but..."

"So... what? You've been secretly working against her all along?" I ask, confused.

"I thought she was my goddess, once," Jack says. "I was wrong. I loved her. The only thing she loved about me was how much pain she could cause me."

Inside me, I feel Spike's emotions clench, like a fist.

"So why keep working for her?" I ask.

"Because I'm not strong enough to defeat her on my own. She's had me for too long," he says. "I'm going to have to fight you, you know. It's nothing personal. It's simply what she expects me to do. I'd appreciate it if you didn't kill me."

"Fair deal," Spike growls from behind him. He punches him in the kidneys, and Jack reels, surprised. He shouldn't have taken his eyes off Spike. "How 'bout we just beat you black and blue instead?"

Jack whirls around, finally realizing his mistake as Spike lands another punch to his face. "You owe me," Spike says.

"I do," Jack says. His eyes blaze with blue frost.

And then the two of them tear into each other. They're a blur of black and white and blue, of fangs and claws and glowing demon eyes. For a moment I consider diving in, but I can feel what Spike's feeling right now and he says this is his fight. This is payback for the pain Jack put him through months ago, and all that time in the tower.

So I watch, because Spike doesn't need me to protect him.

Around us the doctors and nurses and patients are still bustling, trying to work, trying to heal, trying hard to ignore the growls and snarls and roars of the two monsters in their midst. Maybe the spell is helping, I don't know.

I can't take my eyes off them.

Spike's blows are vicious and powerful, the railroad spike almost a natural extension of his arm. Jack's sword is a blur of icy white, slashing out. Somehow Spike deflects every blow, slipping in under Jack's guard and tearing at him with fangs and iron.

But it's not enough. Jack doesn't take nearly the amount of damage he should. And Spike is getting frustrated. I can feel it.

I wish he'd stop playing around.

His head swivels to face me, even as he blocks a flurry of blows, the sound of ice and iron ringing out in the echo-y room. "Then toss me your bloody sword, luv," he growls.

Oh. Right. Jack can only be harmed by enchanted weapons.

The Slayer's sword makes a silver blur as it spins toward him. Spike neatly plucks it from the air, twirls it, spins just in time to meet a downward slash of Jack's icy blade. Then the sound of ice against steel rings out, over and over, as the fight picks up speed, now that the two of them are more even.

Jack may want us to defeat Louhi, but she either still has some power over him or he's that afraid Spike will kill him. Maybe a little of both.

Because he's beautiful and deadly, my vampire. I knew it once, before, in what I thought was a dream: it's a brutal dance, and he's a master at it. Jack... he doesn't stand a chance. Like the Slayer who gave me the sword, Spike turns the weapon into an extension of his arm. I once had to sword fight Angel, and Angel was fast... but Spike is faster. Where Angel relied on brute strength, Spike is clever. Each flick of the blade is sly, surprising Jack into attacks he never planned to make, openings he never would have given.

Then Jack's blade breaks beneath the sword, and Spike lashes out—once, twice, three times. Blue blood oozes from three parallel cuts on Jack's chest, then the demon drops to his knees, beaten.

"That was payback," Spike growls, leveling the sword at Jack's throat.

Jack closes his eyes.

Spike heaves a deep breath, then glances at me. His eyes are stormy, but I can feel him inside me, and he's perfect.

"And this—this is mercy," he says, withdrawing the sword. Jack's eyes open, staring up at Spike, bewildered. "I'm a little shaky on how it works, so don't be testing it, mate." Jack nods once, clutching at his wounds.

Then he smiles.

"She'll never see you coming," he says.

***


The open doors lead out to a covered area with a small building set in the corner. I guess it must be some sort of control tower for the helicopters. The landing pad is just beyond it, but the building blocks our view. Louhi is out there. I can almost feel her.

"Will that work?" I ask Willow, pointing at the building.

She nods, wrapping her coat around her tighter. It's so cold up here, and it'll be colder out in the open, on the roof. "It's close enough, and p-protected," she says.

"Okay, when she's distracted, then go," I say. Willow nods. Tara's face is white and frightened, but determined.

"Buffy," Willow says, and I know how she feels.

There's always the chance that this is the last one. Maybe not the last apocalypse ever, because as long as I live I'll make sure that doesn't happen... but it might be the last thing I do. The last thing she does, or Spike, or any of us.

We wrap our arms around each other. "I know," I tell her.

"Don't suppose you two would want to get all cuddly like that when this over?" Spike asks. "Possibly naked?"

"He's such a pig," I tell Willow.

"Actually," Tara says, her smile tight but grateful, "I'd like to see that, too."

We both turn to look at her. She just blushes and ducks her head. "Just... trying to take my mind off stuff," she says.

"Let's do this," I say, checking my weapons one more time.

Spike grabs my elbow, turns me to face him, then he kisses me. For a moment I forget about the cold and the snow and the fact that we might be less than twenty yards from the place where we'll die. I forget that the world might end tonight. For a moment, all there is is Spike.

Then he pulls back. "We're gonna have to try this sometime when we're not on a deadline, yeah?"

I laugh. "How about tomorrow?"

"Deal," he says. "This mean it's time for me to go play hero?"

"You already are," I say. "Or did you miss all that crap about being the Slayer's Knight?"

***


When Spike, Bear, and I step out onto the helicopter pad, the sky overhead is dark and heavy with clouds and the first flakes are starting to fall. It's cold here, the wind harsh and bitey. Like everything about Louhi, it's clearly meant to cause pain. There's not a lot of light up here, but with my nifty new vision, I don't actually need that much to see.

The demon-witch stands in the middle of the roof. Well, hovers, actually. She's drifting a few feet above the snow-crusted blacktop, her long hair drifting up over her head towards the sky in smoky tendrils. Her eyes are closed and she has her hands out, palms up, like she's enjoying the cold flakes stinging her skin.

She's also slightly taller than I remember. Or maybe that's just the drifty thing.

Another of those pulses shudders through the building. Distantly I can hear screaming and moaning again. This close to her the pain is worse, tearing into me like talons, only to suddenly be stopped again by Spike.

Her eyes open.

"Pretty vampire," she says, her gaze landing on Spike. "You have come back to me."

"Sorry, bitch," Spike says, slipping into game face. "'Fraid William's already been taken." Then he shrugs. "On second thought, I'm not sorry at all."

Louhi scowls and stretches out a long-taloned hand toward Spike—then she hisses, flinching back. Spike starts to circle around her.

"So," she says. "Your Slayer found you after all. And yet she sent you up here all alone to face me?"

"Who said I was alone?" Spike asks.

I hit her from behind with the hammer.

She shrieks with pain, spinning around to see what hit her.

"You!" she hisses, and when her gaze lands on me I suddenly freeze, unable to move as she heads toward me. Spike circles around behind her."I should have known you were here, meddling little Slayer. Haven't you learned anything?"

"Yeah," I say. "I learned a fun new game. You should try it. It's called Blindman's Bluff."

Spike hits her this time, with the sword he's still carrying. We figured that, while it might not hurt her, it'd probably distract her a little. We're all a little surprised when the sword slashes through her skin, drawing blood. She screams, spinning to face him again, and the wound heals almost instantly. Still, it did some damage.

"Or maybe it was Monkey in the Middle," Spike says, grinning at me. Two weapons are better than one. I can see she's frozen him to the spot this time, and lost track of me. I move around her again.

"What is this?" she hisses, swiveling her head, trying to find me.

Which is when Bear takes his turn, diving at her, snarling, and tearing at her with long white fangs. More blood. Let's make that three weapons—Bear not being mortal at all does a bit more damage than either of us. She brings up a hand and flings Bear away. He lands hard against the low wall around the roof, yelping slightly in pain. Then he picks himself right back up, his coal black eyes filled for the first time with pure hatred, saliva dribbling from his fangs.

I wait until Louhi's turning again, blindly, toward Spike, before I hit her again. She whirls, yowling like a cat and flying back from the force of the blow. "Don't you just hate it when there's something important right in front of your eyes and you can't see it?" I say when she pins me again.

"Oh, you think you're clever, do you?" she says, clutching her bleeding thigh and drifting slightly higher. Her white eyes burn with hatred and pain. "You think I'd be defeated so easily?"

Power surges around us, suddenly, and I gasp—

—My mother lying on the couch, gone and I never got to say goodbye and she's dead dead dead and I loved her so much and how did I never tell her that? And my father isn't returning my calls or coming to see me on the weekends anymore and I thought that he loved me but he didn't and I'm just another inconvenience in his life and I loved him and Giles betrayed me and drugged me and took away my powers and I trusted him how could he do that? and Angel is saying such cruel and awful things and I loved him and I thought he loved me and I have to kill him or the world will end I have to and I don't want to I love him but now he's got his soul again but I'm still hurting and he's walking away and the pain in me is so much how can I hurt this much? and Riley is gone now and I'll never be able to tell him that I was sorry and Spike is gone and it's all my fault because he loved me really really loved me and...

...He loves me. Spike loves me. He's here, and he's hurting because I'm hurting, deep down I can feel it, feel his pain, and I can feel him...

...losing Drusilla for the millionth time and Angel tearing him down for the thousandth time and one more girl rejecting him for the hundredth time and he's lost his mother, his mother only the once and it hurt him so much and then there are faces, hundreds of thousands of faces of people screaming and crying and begging and hurting hurting hurting and he's the cause of that hurt and that's what makes him a monster a monster that can't ever be loved ever be anything but hated and reviled such a dirty filthy loathsome thing that can't ever change...

...only he has changed and I know he's changed and I want to tell him that, tell him how much he is and I just want to wrap my arms around him and promise him that that it'll stop the pain will stop eventually and I love him and I'll always be with him always always and that love ...

Love is pain.

My eyes snap open.

Love is pain.

The Slayer forges strength from pain.

I am full of love.

I am full of pain.

I am strength.

"Too late," Louhi says.

She swells like a balloon somehow, her skin splitting and stretching and reforming into something awful and terrible to look at. Whatever beauty she'd worn like a mask is gone, and the face of the thing left behind is like the face I saw in my nightmare, only worse; a hundred-thousand times worse, craggy and covered in veins, with broken sharp teeth and white, white eyes and a weirdly distended jaw like a snake's with a flickering tongue. Her body stretches until she's bone thin, her skin stretched pale and transparent over her skeleton like some kind of fur-less anorexic thing. Bones burst from her shoulder blades, growing quickly with more of that too white, veiny skin stretching over them until she has massive bat-like wings. The knobs of her vertebrae become a bony spine between them. Her hands and feet elongate, the claws nearly as long as my hand and diamond sharp.

All in all, I'd say she definitely takes the prize for World's Ugliest Hell Bitch.

I dive for the hammer at the same time as she flaps her wings, lifting herself up from the roof and taking to the sky.

"Fuck," Spike mutters.

"Yeah," I say. "Why did we decide not to bring crossbows again?"

"Wouldn't work on her anyway," he says.

Up above us, Louhi is circling against the belly of the clouds, the tattered remains of her dress and her smoky hair trailing out behind her. She shrieks and does something with her hands...

"She can only focus on one of us at a time, right?" I ask.

"Right," Spike says.

We exchange a glance, and then he's off and running toward one end of the rooftop while I head for the other. Bear takes off in a third direction, all of us steering away from the little building where Willow and Tara have hopefully begun their spell.

On my heels, something explodes against the roof. Shards of ice fly up and sting the back of my coat, which is thick enough that most of them bounce right off. Great. Figures it would be me she'd focus on.

With her up in the sky she's got the advantage. If we could ground her somehow... But Wills and Tara are busy, and Spike and I are limited by the weapons we brought, and Xander...

Something fiery arcs up into the sky and explodes in a shower of colored sparks—fireworks. Yes! Xander found Spike's old cache of fireworks. Oh my god I love him!

Louhi does not. She shrieks in rage, swatting at the burning embers that have stuck to her skin. Another one shoots up from the opposite side of the hospital, exploding near her and forcing her to dive to avoid more sparks. They're being careful, I can see, trying not to shoot directly over the hospital, but it's limiting Louhi's ability to maneuver, forcing her lower. Another one goes off overhead.

Ohhh, pink. Pretty.

Louhi screams and tucks her wings in tight, heading for the rooftop again. She lands, heavily, raising her wings to protect herself. The building shudders under her weight and I realize she's a lot bigger than she was.

Good. More of her to hit.

I aim for a wing, and grin at the sound of bones crunching beneath the blow. She spins, unwieldy now that she's been grounded. I dive as she gathers more magic to hurl in my direction. More ice shatters around me just as I hear her shriek in pain again.

Looks like Spike took out the other wing.

We take turns, smashing at her with the hammer or slicing her with the sword every time her back is turned to one of us. Her wings end up helping us, keeping her from seeing behind her, giving us time to become invisible again. Still, she's big, and she's nasty, and stronger than she looks.

Faster, too.

Spike lets out a yell as she snags him with one massive claw, her razor talons tearing into his flesh. His pain echoes through me like a shot, and I nearly stumble. "Fools," Louhi hisses through five-inch fangs. Then I watch in horror as her wings snap out, the bones healing as she sucks the pain out of Spike.

I bring the hammer down hard, on her wrist. She lets go of him and he slumps to the ground. Bear darts in behind her, his fangs sinking into her hamstring hard enough to draw blood before she shakes him off. Then she rounds on me, limping.

"We can do this all day," she says, with a demonic grin. "The more you fight, the more pain you will be in, the more I can feeeeeed."

I hit her in the jaw with the hammer. "Try feeding with no teeth, bitch," I say. Then hit her in the face again. Black blood gushes from her mouth and nose. "You're gonna have to suck my pain through a straw."

When I go to hit her again, though, her fist catches the hammer, holding it in place. She snarls, showing me a gaping maw full of teeth like giant yellow splinters, some of which are broken now, and the rest are blood smeared. She laughs, and with a wrench she rips the hammer out of my hands and tosses it over the side of the roof, then back hands me hard.

She reaches for me, and I see Spike stagger to his feet from the corner of my eye. His eyes widen as he takes in the scene. Louhi's wings snap out, blocking my view. Spike roars, and then Louhi staggers for a moment, letting out a screech of pain. When she spins, I see why. The sword is sticking out of her back. It must've caught up on a rib bone, though. It's not that deep.

Still, it gives me an idea.

Snarling, Louhi limps toward Spike. I climb to my feet, then take a running start, vaulting up onto the demon queen's bony back. I grab on with my legs, fisting one hand at the base of her hair where it's not as smoky. She shrieks and launches herself skyward, trying to shake me off. She can't reach me, though, perched between her wings. I wrench the sword out of her back and slash at her wings. Still, it doesn't seem to slow her down, and she's healing right before my eyes.

"Give me that!" she screams, reaching back as I go to swing again. I manage to avoid her, but the sword isn't doing enough damage to keep her grounded. She flies higher, trying hard to shake me off, but I've got a death grip with my legs on one of her vertebrae and I'm right between her wings.

"You're going back to hell," I tell her.

"I'll take you and your vampire with me," she says.

To the east, the clouds begin to tear apart, and I realize that it's dawn. Sunlight streams through the open clouds, bathing the rooftop in light. I glance down and watch as Spike scrambles across the roof, heading for the shade of the overhang and the shadow of the control tower, Bear at his heels.

Around me pressure seems to be growing, and inside of me I feel Spike panicking. When I glance down at the roof, he's staring up at us in horror.

The spell. Oh, god, they've almost done it. I can feel the magic pulsing in the air. I can't be on her when the spell kicks in, but...

I look down. It's a long, long, long way to the rooftop. Longer still to the ground. From up here the world seems huge and the people in it tiny. There's a small battle being waged in the parking lot, and I know Xander, Anya and Whistler are down there, holding off the demons. Somewhere in the building Giles and Lydia are guarding the people inside. In the control tower, Willow and Tara are doing their thing; and on the rooftop, Spike stands alone in the shadows, his heart crying out to me.

From up here, everything is beneath me, and yet in that minute, with the sun pouring over it, I can't help but love it—this world and the people in it who fight and live and love and hurt and struggle and go through their days never knowing that some of us are out here, protecting them from the evils they can't even imagine; this world, full of love and pain that I was born to die protecting.

And yet, the faces of my friends are the ones I see the clearest: Giles, Xander, Willow, Tara, Anya and Spike. I love them, and they give me strength to go on fighting, no matter what... even to the end.

Guess today is it. I hadn't planned on it, but I knew it would happen, eventually.

And at least, at the end, I got to know what love is.

Somehow, despite the distance, I meet Spike's eyes.

I love you.

And with all the pain and love and strength in me, I plunge the sword deeply into Louhi's back, between her shoulder blades, through her chest and into her frozen heart.

She screams, and I gather my feet under me, pushing off of her as hard as I can.

Magic surges around us. And then several things happen all at once.

Louhi vanishes.

The clouds above us rip themselves apart.

Spike runs out into the sunlight, smoke already rising from him as the deadly rays sear his skin.

The edge of the rooftop rises up to meet me.

I close my eyes.

For a long, aching minute, time slows to molasses.

And then something hard, leathery, and on fire hits me like a wrecking ball, knocking me off trajectory and out over the parking lot.

Spike.

"Not today, Slayer," he rasps in my ear, turning us in midair.

The last thing I see are Spike’s eyes staring into mine as we hit the ground and everything goes dark.





Author’s (Non-Spoilery Postscript):

If you kill me, you won’t find out how it ends.


 
 
Chapter #74 - Chapter 73: Breathe
 
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae and Science





Chapter 73
Breathe




"Breathe."

Can’t.

"C'mon, luv," a voice says in my ear. "Breathe."

Strong hands stroke my sides, soothing and encouraging me at the same time.

My mouth works and my chest heaves but there's no air.

"Shhhh," says the voice, warm and rumbling and familiar. "I've got you. Spike's got you. Breathe for me, pet. Just got the wind knocked out of you is all. Breathe."

I gasp in a breath, then another, both shallow and ragged but oh, god, good. My throat feels torn, like I was gargling with glass. A relieved chuckle reverberates beneath me. It takes me a minute to teach my lungs how to work again, and even once I do they burn and don't seem to want to take in full lungfuls.

"Breathe," Spike whispers in my ear. "It's alright. I've got you. Just breathe for me, sweet girl. That's it. My brave, stupid Slayer. Breathe."

My whole body hurts, like someone just dropped me off a twenty-storey building. Which... if I'm remembering the last however many minutes right... yeah.

I open my eyes. The light is weird. Kinda dim and blueish and filtered. Wherever I am it's cold, and there's weight pressing loosely down on top of me. I'm lying on something hard and bony, too.

Spike.

He looks up at me, the right side of his face seared and blackened along the length of one sharp cheekbone and above his eyebrow. Blood trickles from his nose. But his eyes... his eyes are smiling and full of love and hope as he stares up at me.

"What happened? Did we win?" I ask.

"I think so," he says, laughing softly. I cough a couple of times, trying to make my voice sound less sand-papery. "Alright then?" he asks me.

"I don't appear to be a squished Buffy," I say, reaching up to touch the unburnt side of his face. "You?"

"Feelin' a bit flame broiled, but I can wiggle my toes, so... yeah," he says, smiling crookedly.

"Toe-wiggles are good?" I ask, loving the little crinkles around his eyes.

"Means nothing important got busted this time," he says, pushing the hair out of my face. Then he gets serious-face. "Thought I was gonna lose you for a mo' there, Slayer. Don't you ever, ever do something like that. Almost gave me a bleedin' heart attack."

"You have to have a heart beat to have a heart attack," I tell him.

"You know what I mean," he says, scowling at me.

"I know what you mean," I say, tracing the line of his jaw with one finger and listening to my heart rate slowing down now. "That was a really dumb thing you did, too, you know. Running out in the sun like that. I'm surprised you're not extra-crispy."

Spike shrugs but looks troubled. "Me too," he says. "But I'm not gonna complain."

"Where are we?" I ask.

"That bloody huge drift of snow along the side of the parking lot," Spike says. "If I aimed right. Little hard to judge when you're flying through the air, on fire, and trying to catch an angel before she falls." His voice is soft, and his eyes awed. Then they flash angrily. "And if you ever fuckin' try something that bloody stupid again, I swear to god I'll kill you myself, Slayer."

I laugh and press my forehead against his shoulder.

"I have a new-found respect for heights," I tell him. "Flying... totally overrated. I'd much rather walk. Besides, kinda lame up there. Everything I love is right here, on earth."

Spike takes my head between his hands and smiles up at me in this way that makes it totally impossible for me to not kiss him. Mmmmm...

When I draw back he's got this slightly goofy look on his face, then he laughs. "Know what?"

"Hmmm?"

"I changed my mind," he says, leering a little and curling his tongue in a way that reassures me that everything below waist level is working for both of us. "Turns out, I don't mind bein' beneath you after all."



***


Voices interrupt the kissage a few minutes later.

"Buffy?!"

"That would be Harris," Spike murmurs. "Keep quiet an' maybe he'll go away."

"Buffy?! Spike?"

Spike blinks at me, like he didn't expect Xander to be calling his name. I smile at him, press a quick kiss to his lips and yell back. "Down here!"

"Oh, thank god," someone says up above.

Then the snow on top of us is being shoveled away and hands are reaching down to help the two of us out of our snowy almost-grave.

Arms immediately wrap around me tightly. "Little bruised here, Xan," I say. "Not so hard."

"Oh!" he says, letting go slightly. Tear marks are tracking down his soot-smudged face. "Right. Oh, god. I thought..."

"Yeah," I say, a little shakily, now that I can look up and see how far I fell. "Me, too."

Giles is pulling Spike out of the snow. Thankfully we fell on the shadowed side of the hospital, so Spike is safe from the sun for one more day. He and Giles eye each other for a moment. Then Giles reaches out a hand. After a second, Spike clasps it. "Thank you," Giles says. "I was wrong to distrust you."

Spike nods. "I'd dust before I let anything happen to her," he says.

"I know," Giles says. "Thank you, Spike."

"Careful, Rupes, that stiff upper lip is lookin' a bit trembly there," Spike says, but it's not as snarky as usual. Then he eyes Giles warily. "You're not gonna cry on me, are you?"

"No," Giles says, straightening his shoulders and sniffing. "I should think not."

"Good," Spike says.

"Buffy!" Willow and Tara come running across the parking lot. "Oh, god, we saw you and... Oh!"

Willow flings herself on me, crying and holding me so tight I'm in danger of losing my breath again.

Then she tears herself off of me and wraps her arms around Spike. "And you!" she says, "with the sun and the... Oh. You saved her. Thank you, so much, Spike. Thank you." Spike's eyes are huge in his face, and I'd laugh at him if it weren't so totally sweet. Tentatively he wraps an arm around Willow and hugs her back.

"There, there," he says, patting her shoulder. "S'alright now, Red. Not gonna let anything happen to Buffy."

"Thank you," she says tearfully, then stretches up and kisses him straight on the mouth. "Cookies!" she exclaims suddenly. "I'll bake you cookies! Whatever kind you want."

"Uh," Spike says, and then Willow's hugging me again and Spike is staring at me, his hand at his mouth, looking so adorably confused and wigged out that I can't help but laugh this time.

Then Bear is barking and jumping around Spike, and Tara is hugging me and then Anya is hugging Giles for some reason and everything is pretty much all right.

Almost.

"Gee, hate to break up the festivities," Whistler says, sauntering up. "But there's one little piece of business that needs wrapped up." When we all just stare at him a little blankly, he groans. "Gotta spell it out for you guys every time, don't I? You did trap Louhi in that crystal, right?"

"Oh!" Tara says and reaches into her spell bag. She pulls out the crystal and shows it to us. Before it was just, you know, purpley. Now the inside of it is dark and shadowed, like there's something poisonous inside.

"We need to destroy that, before she figures out how to get out," Whistler says.

I glance around. Not far away I see the thing I need.

Olaf's hammer is half buried in a car roof, so I have to wrench it loose. Then I carry it back over to the group. "Put it on the ground," I tell Tara. She sets it down and the others step back to give me room. But I don't lift the hammer yet.

Instead I look at Spike. "Want to save the world?" I ask him. He looks at me, surprised.

"Thought that was really your gig, luv," he says. "’M just the hired help."

"Not any more," I say. "Equals, right? Besides, prophecy says no mortal hand, right? Well, you're not exactly mortal, are you? And... I figure you'd probably like a little revenge."

A grin flashes across Spike's face then. Oh, yeah. He's still got some evil in him. He steps up beside me and hoists the hammer, looking down at the crystal.

"For the last time," he says to it. "SOD OFF, BITCH!"

Then he smashes the hammer down and turns the crystal and its contents into nothing more than glittery dust.

A warm breeze gusts out of nowhere, picks up the dust and scatters it far and wide.

Louhi's gone.

"Well," Spike says, after the moment has been appreciated. "So... what do the good guys do after they finish saving the world?"

We all look at each other. Xander's propped up on one crutch, and it's covered in blood and gore. Anya's still holding a crossbow, and there's a cut on her head that's dripping blood into her eye. Lydia's pantsuit is torn and stained with something dark and icky, and Giles has a bruise forming along his jaw. Spike's got several gashes across his chest again, Bear is favoring one paw, and I'm feeling kind of limpy myself. Only Willow and Tara and Whistler seem unhurt.

The parking lot is a mess, there's demon corpses everywhere, stuck through with arrows. Wherever the sunlight has hit them, though, some of them have turned to stone, or ash. There are a couple of fires burning somewhere, and I really don't want to know what Xander blew up earlier. Sirens wail in the distance.

"Pizza?" I say.

"I can pick up some movies," Xander says.

"NOT Apocalypse Now," Willow tells him.

"What about Alive?" Spike asks.

"Isn't that the one where the people crash in the snow and end up eating their dead?" Anya asks.

"Yeah," Spike says. "So? It's thematically appropriate. Also, funny."

"He's still got a long way to go, doesn't he?" Tara says.



***


Much later, I'm lying on the couch, my head on Spike's shoulder, watching the credits roll.

"Buffy," Spike murmurs in my ear.

"Mmmm?"

"Explain to me why I just watched a movie that had singing and dancing puppets?"

"Because it was the only thing everyone agreed on," I say sleepily, burrowing under his arm.

"I didn't agree on it," he says.

"You were overruled," I say. "Good guys do these things democratically."

"Yeah, well, since we were the only two who managed to stay awake for the whole bloody thing, you'd think my vote would have counted more," he grumbles. I glance around at my friends, who are all curled up or sprawled out across my living room, snoring soundly. Spike's fingers trace patterns over my hands. "You ought to get some sleep, luv," he says after a while.

“Still kinda wired," I tell him. "Besides, this is nice, sitting here, with you. Me with the seeing, you with the talking. Nobody fighting or trying to kill each other. I am basking Buffy."

Spike chuckles softly. "Yeah," he says. "Have to remind myself sometimes that it's okay to talk when the lights are off."

"I like your voice," I tell him, feeling kinda blushy all of a sudden. "I've always liked your voice."

"That right?" Spike purrs. "Never gonna shut me up now, Slayer."

"Oh, I can think of a few ways to shut you up, Spike," I say, smiling smugly.

Weirdly, that's all it takes, because then he's quiet for a long time, just tracing my fingers with his. "Whatcha thinkin'?" I ask when I can't stand it any more.

"Just...uh, up there, on the roof," he says. "You... when Louhi was attacking us with the... I felt what you felt, what she was doing to you. And then..."

"Then I felt what she was doing to you," I say softly. "That's... what she did to you, while you were in her hell, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Spike says. "I didn't..."

"It's okay," I tell him. "I know. It's okay."

He gets quiet for too long again.

"So, what happens now?" he asks.

"Hmmm?"

"I mean, we did it, saved the world and all that... what happens now? Do I... go back to my crypt and you go back to your chums and we meet up in the graveyards and engage in verbal foreplay? Or..."

"Do you want to?" I ask, sitting up slightly.

"What?"

"Go back to your crypt?"

He frowns at me, "Uh... right now?"

"I mean... is... Do you want to stay there or..." Somewhere in the back of my head I hear Spike's mom, telling me that love means risking things. "It's just... I've got this big house and... with mom gone I'm kinda rattling around in here, but I don't want you to give up your crypt if you don't want to and... I kinda... we've been sleeping together every night for almost a year and I kinda..."

Spike's eyes are very dark in the dim light, as the last of the credits roll across the TV screen. Outside the sun is just starting to go down.

"Yeah?" he asks.

"I love you, and I know we did the ritual and all and ... but if you don't want to stay with me, I get it," I say.

"Slayer?" Spike says.

"Yeah?"

"You asking me to move in with you?"

"Maybe? Sorta? Yes?" I say.

"Oh," he says. "Good. 'Cause I was going to anyway, just... would've been a bit difficult trying to sneak ‘round without you knowing I was here most of the time."

I laugh.

"But first things first," he says. "If I'm sharing your bed, that New Kids on the Block poster has GOT to go."

***


A little while later, everyone is up, and we're standing around the kitchen, eating leftover pizza.

"You did good, kid," Whistler says, leaning against the counter beside me.

"Thanks," I say. "So does this mean you're off the hook with the PTB?"

"Not yet," he says, his voice low. "I'll be keeping tabs on you two to see how things go. Not much on the books prophecy-wise for a little while—and I think you've circumvented a couple that would've come about if things had gone a bit differently. Just... uh... keep an eye on your witchy friend there."

"Willow?"

Whistler hands me a card with a name and number on it. "Put that somewhere safe. You'll know if you need to use it," he says.

"Ooookay. Wanna vague it up some more?"

"Well, no sense getting you worried if it doesn't happen, right?" he says. "But better to be safe."

"I guess," I say, watching Willow and Tara smiling at each other and laughing. Still, I remember my dream from a few months back. Maybe there's something there that needs watching.

"Anyway," Whistler says. "I'd like to say it's been fun, but I think I got some Mara goo on my boots and that's gonna be a bitch to get out, you know. Not really used to being a front-lines sort of guy."

"You did pretty good," I say. "Glad we had your help."

"Right back atcha, dollface," he says. "I'll definitely be seeing you around. Maybe next time it won't even be for an apocalypse."

"We can only hope," I say.



***


Much later, after almost everyone has trickled home, Spike and Bear and I go for a walk. The sky is clear for the first time in weeks, and every star is out in the sky. The moon hangs full and bright above us. Spike's hand is still warm from being inside and the heat he's leeched off of me, and it feels nice, to be walking hand in hand.

Bear frisks ahead of us, all of his injuries cleared up, I guess. He's sniffing every gravestone in sight. The snow is starting to melt, and the wind is warmish when it blows around us.

"Never thought I'd have this," Spike says. "Have you."

"Sure you did," I say. "Isn't that the vampire motto? Want, take, have?"

"Most vampires don't want the sun," he says, turning me so my back is against a mausoleum. I let him. His eyes are so dark and the heat in them makes my heart beat hard in my chest. Spike traces a finger over the pulse in my throat. "Told you before, I'm addicted."

He leans in and kisses me, and god, it's as perfect as before, only now there's no hurry. It really does feel like we've got all the time in the world. Maybe we do?

Bear gives a little bark, then wiggles between us, planting his huge paws on Spike's shoulders and licking at his face.

"Oi! Off, you dumb mutt. I'm kissing my girl," he growls. Bear snarls playfully, then bounds around in the snow. Spike swipes at him, but Bear just grins, tongue lolling, then darts past him, barking. For a moment the two of them wrestle, enjoying the last of the snow. Then Bear somehow manages to pin Spike and starts licking his face in earnest. "Off! Dammit. Crap, Slayer! Get your dog off me!"

Bear jumps off of him, then rushes into the darkness as Spike climbs back to his feet, wiping his face. "Stupid dog," he says, but he's grinning.

Bear barks again, then trots around the corner of a gravestone.

Only this time he's not alone.

A shiver goes down my spine.

"Uh, Spike," I say. "Do you...?"

"Big kitty," Spike murmurs.

A golden mountain lion pads slowly beside Bear. They stop a few feet away, the cat blinking at us calmly. Bear sits beside it and grins. "It's got your eyes, Slayer," Spike murmurs. "Think this one's yours."

"Yeah," I say softly, remembering a trip in the desert that really wasn't as long ago as it feels. Then something else occurs to me. "I think it is, blondie bear."

Spike glares at me. Bear gets up and circles Spike once, twice, whoofing and rubbing his big head against Spike's hip so he can get scratched behind the ears.

"Thanks," Spike tells him, and his voice is a little rough. "This goodbye then?"

Bear moans, then shakes himself all over and grins. He pads over and nuzzles the mountain lion, which bristles for a moment with indignation, hisses, then head butts him and nuzzles him back. Spike laughs. "Yeah," he says after a minute. "She's yours."

"Bye, Bear," I say. "Thanks." Bear whoofs.

Then the two of them turn and take off into the darkness at a run that no normal animal could hope to match.

For a minute Spike and I stare after them. Then he looks at me.

"Think they've got the right idea," he says, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

"Huh?"

"Run," Spike says, grinning. He scoops up a bit of snow and flings it at me. I shriek and duck, and then we're off and running among the headstones, caught up in a game of strength and speed and skill that no one else could ever play.





Author’s Postscript:

Only one more chapter and an epilogue to go… And I’ll probably post them back to back tomorrow.


 
 
Chapter #75 - Chapter 74: Surprise
 
Author’s Note: I want to take a minute to thank my betas profusely. All of them.

Phuriedae and Science get most of the credit—and they totally deserve it. Especially Phurie who was with me from day one, who encouraged me and talked me through months and months of rough drafts, corrected me on Buffyverse and Angelverse lore and characterizations, and whose unwavering support and encouragement allowed this fic to be written. Also, she came with me over from the Labyrinth fandom and I would have been totally lost without her. (And have you bothered to really LOOK at that gorgeous banner she made me? It was absolutely perfect and I cannot thank her enough.)

Science joined me just recently, for the end of Part II and all of Part III. Her fresh POV and insight let me really polish the end of this story to a high gloss shine and I’m indebted to her for it.

Special thanks also go to Pika-la-Cynique, who handled all my French translations no matter how weird or freaky they got. Lixxle, who clamored unrelentingly for smut and was extremely patient (for her) about waiting for it. Thistledear, who kept quietly reading along and prodding me for more. And also my husband, who proofed the whole thing, despite his distaste for fanfiction and Buffy (though I think he doth protest too much) and romances, and made sure that my fight scenes were appropriately fight-y.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae and Science





Chapter 74
Surprise




"Hello, cutie."

Spike leans against the doorjamb, dressed totally in black, every bleached white hair slicked into place, dangerous and annoyingly cool.

"I can't do this anymore!"

Spike ducks the pencil that I just hurled across the room.

"Don't suppose you could find something less deadly to throw about?" he complains. "What's the trouble?"

I shove the papers on the table away from me. "This," I say, settling into my sulk. I've been building up to it for the last half hour, but the stupid vampire was out ... doing stupid vampire stuff. Spike sets a paper bag with the logo of the local butcher on the countertop and saunters my way. He picks up a piece of paper, scanning it, then sucks on his cheeks for a minute.

"Talk about your pound of flesh," he says. "These all hospital bills?"

"Enough of them," I say, putting my head on my arms. "You'd think that there would be some kind of post-apocalypse holiday where they can't send out bills for a month or so. It's barely been a week. I mean, I've got to eat, right? The least the PTB could do is send me a fruit basket or something."

I pick up the checkbook and glance at the numbers to see if they've changed in the last fifteen minutes. They haven't. I sigh. "Mom's insurance covered most of it but... I don't think Slayers are equipped with magical money managing skills. No matter what I do, I can't make the numbers in here come up to more than the numbers there." Suddenly a thought occurs to me. "Hey, you were all Victorian guy, right? Didn't you have to like, balance ledgers and stuff, back in the day?"

"Back in the day?" Spike asks, raising an eyebrow.

"You know what I mean. I've read historical romances. That's what you guys all did, right?" I say. "Look—in this corner we've got hospital bills, funeral bills, mortgage, utilities, and a bunch of other stuff that says ‘pay me.’ In this corner is income."

"Little guys are scrappy," he says.

"Be the adult this time?" I beg.

"Think my accounting skills moved out along with the soul, luv," Spike says.

I moan again and drop my forehead onto the table. "I'm gonna have to get a job, aren't I?"

Spike strokes my hair. "We could always rob a bank, I suppose," he says.

"That would be wrong," I tell the table. "But tempting." The phone rings. "If that's a collection agency, tell them I have an axe and I know how to use it."

Spike laughs and gets the phone.

It's kinda weird, being so domestic, but at the same time, it's almost natural. The last week, since everything happened, we've been taking one day at a time. We still bicker, still argue, but then Spike hands me the remote, or I get him a cup of blood, and then we go out and kill something.

And now that all the snow has melted, it's a heck of a lot more fun.

"'Lo, Rupes," Spike says, into the phone, then frowns. "Yeah, she's here." He hands me the phone, a weird look on his face. "Something not right," he murmurs.

"Hey, Giles, what's up?" I ask.

"Buffy, I need you and Spike to come down to the shop. It's not an emergency, but... I'm afraid something has come up."

"Giles," I say. "If you tell me there's a new prophecy or that the world is gonna end in the next week, I'm going to be a very grumpy Slayer. One apocalypse per spring, that’s the deal."

"Oh, no... nothing apocalyptic," he promises. "But there may be... er... fireworks."

I don't manage to get any more out of him than that before he hangs up.

"What do you think?" I ask Spike. "What's going on?"

"There were people there," he says. "In the background. Your friends and... others. They were trying to be quiet."

"Surprise party?" I guess.

"You know someone named Travers?" Spike asks.

"Crap."

***


The fact that they want to see both of us doesn't really bode well.

Even though it's dark, we slip in through the sewers and into the storeroom underneath.

"Can you hear anything?" I ask Spike. He's paused midway up the stairs with his head tilted toward the ceiling.

"Bunch of stuffy blokes reprimanding Lydia for the most part," he says. "Wankers. Want me to kill 'em?"

"No," I say. "You're still supposed to be chipped, remember?"

He looks down at where I'm waiting. "Yeah," he says, softly. "I remember. I'm still chipped, Slayer, for as long as you need me to be."

He's totally sincere about it, but there's something coiled in him, that dangerous part that isn't tamed and doesn't want to be tamed.

And I'm not sure I want to tame it, because it's what makes him Spike. It's the monster in him, and the warrior, and it's just as important to who and what he is as the poet and the man. I know he's not going to go around killing people anymore, but I can tell he's not happy about the restrictions the chip placed on him.

Maybe it's time we told everyone?

"Think it's safe?" I ask, meaning the Watcher's Council that's currently taken up residence in the Magic Box.

Spike just raises his eyebrows.

So we go up the stairs, him as silently as only a vampire can and me being extra stealthy. We pause for a moment at the door so I can listen.

"..some of the these things are extremely dangerous, Mr. Giles," says a voice that I recognize immediately. A shiver goes down my spine. "Yet you have them out for the general public?"

Giles mumbles something I don't quite hear.

"Yes, well, I'm afraid we'll need to suspend your... commercial endeavors here until we have concluded our appraisal of the situation."

"They're shutting the store down?" I whisper to Spike. "Can they do that?"

"Only if you let them," he says.

On the other side of the door, Travers is speaking. "Your Slayer is late, Mr. Giles."

"I wasn't aware that she was on your schedule," Giles says. "I wasn't aware that either of us were, for that matter. If you'll recall, you fired me, and Buffy quit."

"The Slayer cannot quit," Travers says. "It is her Calling. Her sacred duty. Clearly she hasn't shirked her responsibilities, though it appears that leaving her alone has resulted in her being disastrously misguided. You must admit that this situation is untenable, and wouldn't have occurred had Miss Summers been properly supervised."

Spike's hand on my arm is the only thing that keeps me from busting down the door.

"Patience, pet," he whispers.

"I don't have to answer to them," I say.

"No," Spike says. "You don't. Wankers didn't want to help you, you don't owe them a damn thing."

"All they've ever done is try to get me killed," I whisper back.

"Maybe they should be the ones called 'Slayers of Slayers,'" Spike says. "Certainly done in more than any vampire ever has."

"Buffy is an adult," Giles says. "This last year has more than proved her maturity, without any guidance from the Council—aside from Ms. Markham, who was the only one of your number intelligent enough to recognize the signs of an imminent apocalypse and brave enough to come and face it head on. If anyone here deserves a reprimand—"

"Careful, Mr. Giles," Travers says, his voice hard. "Remember your place and the power the Council wields. This... all of this, can be gone. Shut down as if it never were, and your Green Card can vanish in the same puff of smoke."

"That's it," I growl, and push the door open, not really caring when I scare the crap out of the guy standing in front of it. Giles and Lydia are sitting at the research table, and the gang is perched up on the loft balcony, watching everything going on below. I catch Willow's eye and she shakes her head slightly, giving me her best 'Not-Good' Face.

"Miss Summers," Travers says, whirling around to see what the disturbance is. Spike emerges behind me. "And William the Bloody." A dozen crossbows swivel in our direction.

Spike sneers at them. "Ah, the Council of Wankers," he says. "In the flesh... and blood." The emphasis he puts on the last word doesn't slip past most of the Watchers.

Travers ignores him, turning his beady little eyes on me. "You've been busy, Miss Summers."

"Yeah," I say. "We just saved the world from turning into a giant ice cube. What've you been up to?"

Travers doesn't bat an eyelash. "It's come to our attention that we have been, perhaps, a bit lax in regards to your activities here on the Hellmouth."

"What? You mean, like, not informing us of a really important prophecy that you've known about for a century now?" I ask.

I think I can actually hear his teeth grinding, but he smiles at me. "Yes, well, to be fair it seemed to be little more than the ramblings of a madman. Hardly worth your time."

"Funny," I say. "'Cause it seemed to be totally worth my time. We wouldn't be here if it hadn't been for that."

Lydia gives me a tight but grateful smile from her seat next to Giles. She looks like she's been through the wringer a few times. I know how she feels, but I don't think I need to take the Council's crap anymore.

"Be that as it may," Travers says. "I fear that without the Council's help the prophecy has been grossly misinterpreted. Normally such things are vetted, you see, to prevent mistakes or... unfortunate consequences." He glances at Spike, who snarls at him. "There's no need for such posturing, creature. Mr. Giles and Ms. Markham have already advised us of your... condition. We're well aware that you pose little threat to us."

"Yeah. You're so brave. Which is why you've got all those crossbows and crucifixes," Spike sneers. He turns to look at the Watcher standing only a couple of feet away, who is holding out a wooden cross with a trembling arm. Spike growls and the Watcher yelps, edging back a foot or two, which only makes Spike laugh.

Travers just does his creepy old man smile again. "We've come to rectify our mistake, Miss Summers. We'll need to do a thorough investigation into your training and techniques, but we're prepared to allow you back under the Council's wing, and provide you with a fully qualified Watcher capable of assisting you in your duties."

"I already have a Watcher," I tell him.

"Mr. Giles no longer works for the Council," Travers says.

"No, he works with me," I tell him. "And he's the only Watcher I want, or need."

Giles' mouth twitches for a minute, trying not to grin. Travers grimaces.

"Provided he passes our investigation, we may be persuaded to allow him to resume his former position—with a probationary period under Council supervision."

Spike's hand touches my back again, and I realize I'm so tense I'm ready to hit something.

"Why do I think that you're not just here to offer me and Giles our jobs back?" I ask.

"Well, there is one other problem that needs dealt with," Travers says. Beside me, I feel Spike go very still. "I apologize for letting things get so completely out of hand, but you must realize that we simply cannot allow one of our Slayers to be so... intimately connected with a vampire. We were willing to overlook your prior transgressions with the vampire Angelus, due to his souled status and his choice to distance himself from you. However, this... alliance simply cannot be allowed. I'm very sorry, Miss Summers."

And before I realize what he's about to do, he nods. There's a soft thwack and a whistle as a crossbow bolt files through the air. Several voices shout "No!"

Spike jerks, and when I turn to look at him, he's holding the shaft of the bolt in his hand... but the rest of it is embedded in his chest, directly over his heart. Pain lances through my chest, and I feel a hard tug through our connection.

His eyes go wide, and he roars with pain. Around the bolt, darkness spreads in slow motion and I expect for him to dissolve right before my eyes.

Only he doesn't.

Spike somehow manages to rip the bolt out of his chest. The darkness solidifies, and then all that's left is a bloody hole in his chest and a really pissed off vampire.

"It didn't turn to dust," someone says.

"Spike?" I ask.

His game face slides into place.

"But... I hit the heart," another British voice says. "It's wood. I hit the heart. Why didn't it die?"

The Watchers shift nervously, and Spike growls, deep and feral. When I turn to look at him, Travers appears shocked, and for the first time, scared.

Still, Spike holds his ground, growling softly, his yellow eyes tracking every Watcher in the room, his muscles tight and ready to pounce.

"Slayer?" he asks, and I know what he wants.

And I'm through playing games.

"Go for it," I say.

Spike grins, showing a mouthful of fangs.

Then I spin and kick the crossbow out of the hands of the nearest Watcher before yanking the crucifix out of the hands of the other. Spike's nothing more than a black blur, unleashing nearly two years of pent up anger and frustration. Crossbows snap into kindling and wire; crosses smoke briefly as he snatches them out of the Watchers' hands and tosses them away. Watchers scream and scramble, trying to get away from him and over it all Travers is yelling.

"You said he couldn't hurt us!" he screams, and Giles and Lydia, horrified, back away into the corner under the loft while Spike herds the rest of them into the center of the room like a wolf cornering a flock of sheep.

I can tell he really wants to hurt them, but he seems to satisfy himself by punching out the guy who shot him. The Watcher collapses into the arms of his colleagues, clutching his bleeding nose. Spike just sneers and paces around the rest, including Travers, who is shaking hard and brandishing a silver cross around his neck.

"I knew that ridiculous story about a computer chip couldn't be true," Travers says. "I knew it. And you've allied yourself with this monster, this creature..."

"Yeah," I say. "About Spike's chip. It's not there anymore. Louhi took it out when he was in Hell. We might've forgotten to mention it."

From the direction of the loft I hear Xander start to say something, then shut up.

"And yes, Spike is part of my team now," I tell them. "My team. I've got two Watchers, two powerful witches, a former vengeance demon, and a guy who's clocked more field time than any of you. And now I've got one of the strongest vampires on earth fighting at my side. And I'm not going to let anyone put him back down. Now you can accept that, and go away. Or you can just go away. I really don't care. Because here's the thing. We don't need you, Mr. Travers. We've gotten along just fine now for more than two years without the Council's help, and we'll keep doing it, because that's what we do. But without me? You're just a bunch of old guys sitting around watching Masterpiece Theater in a big musty old library. Without me, you don't have a purpose."

Travers slowly lowers his cross, meeting my eyes.

"So here's what you're going to do," I tell him. "You're going to go away. Go back to England and your books, and if you ever find anything that might be of use to us, you let us know immediately. No more withholding information, even if you think it's dumb. Lydia is going to be our... uh...ambassador—"

"Intermediary?" Spike suggests.

"Yeah, that," I say. "Because I like her, and because I don't think she'll lie to me. She can do this from here or from there, that's her choice. Giles will be reinstated as my Watcher, with full pay—"

"Retroactive," Giles coughs.

"Paid retroactively from the date he was fired," I say. "He will be allowed to keep and run the shop, and you won't ever have him deported. And you will never, ever, ever try to put a hit on Spike again. Got all that?" Travers' face tightens. I glance over at Giles and Lydia, who are both wearing tentative grins. Up in the balcony, my friends are doing the same.

"Two more things," Spike says, surprising me.

"I don't think—" Travers says, but Spike just snarls again, interrupting him.

"Two more. First—I've known more than a few Slayers in my time. I've watched them fight for you wankers, bleed for you, die for you. And what do you give them in return? Nothing but grief. This girl, she just signed up for a long-term Slayer contract, so I think it's about time for you lot to do her a good turn. As long as she's willing to work for you, she gets a salary."

"A what?" Travers asks. I blink, shocked.

"A salary," Spike says. "Regular paychecks every month, enough to cover her bills, her schooling, and everyday needs, with more than a bit left over for pin money. She's got to fight every night, the least you can do is make sure she doesn't have to sling burgers just to make ends meet."

"And your second request?" Travers asks.

"She gets to take time off, now and then. All expense-paid holiday, wherever she likes. She's got to save the world, she ought to get to see some of it."

Something in my chest that I didn't know was bolted down suddenly flutters its wings.

"And that's it?" Travers asks. "Nothing for yourself, vampire?"

"I've got everything I want," Spike says softly. "But if you ever try to hurt her again, I'll kill you. All of you. Just thought you might like fair warning."

Travers nods, then looks at me.

"Do we all understand each other?" I ask, hardly daring to hope.

"I think we do," Travers says.

***


Later, after they go, the rest of us sit around the table in the Magic Box, recuperating.

"Congratulations, Buffy," Giles says. "Well done."

"I thought vampires didn't do anything altruistic," Tara says to Spike.

"We don't," Spike says.

"But... you asked for money for Buffy."

"Yeah," he says. "She was gonna make me her bloody accountant. Bugger that. Besides, you think I want her coming home every night reeking of Doublemeat Palace grease?"

Tara laughs, but I know she can see through him as easily as I can.

"Thank you," Lydia says to me. "I-I dreaded what they'd do to me, were they to find out."

"Think you'll stick around here?" I ask.

She glances at Giles and blushes deeply. "I... well, if I'm welcome...," she says. Giles smiles at her.

"Of course, you're always welcome."

Something clicks.

"Oh my god!" I say, glancing between the two of them. "You two... are you?"

"Didn't you know?" Spike asks, glancing at me, amused.

"No!" I say.

Spike curls his tongue behind his teeth. "Rupert, you dirty dog, you."

"Shut up, Spike," Giles says, but he's ducking his head and looking sort of pleased with himself.

"Hey," Willow says, "How come you didn't dust?"

Spike grimaces and fingers the bloody hole in his shirt. "Don't know," he says. "I felt... I felt it take. Then... it didn't."

"I felt it, too," I say. "Like a pain in my chest, then a tug. It was weird."

"I've got a theory," Giles say. "I... wasn't sure, but—after you fell, Buffy—you ought to have died. No human, not even a Slayer, could have fallen so far and not been seriously injured after. Even with the snow and Spike to break your fall. And Spike... ought to have burned. How long does it generally take, for a vampire of your age to burn?"

"Not as long as it took me to get across that rooftop and into the shadow of the hospital, that's for damn certain," Spike says, looking contemplative.

"I've a theory that, this binding ritual... it connects your life forces. So long as one of you lives, I don't believe that the other can die," Giles says. "We cannot be certain but... it would explain why Spike failed to burn completely in the sunlight, and why you survived the impact, Buffy. And earlier, Spike's failure to dust, despite the arrow through the heart."

"Huh," I say, looking at Spike.

"We're not testing it, Slayer," he says.

"There was a mention in the prophecy, to that effect," Giles says. "It was just, buried under the potato bits, so I didn't think much of it, at the time."

"Potato bits?" Spike says, raising his eyebrow.

"Oh, yeah," I say. "Apparently our crazy prophet was big into potatoes."

"Potatoes," Spike repeats. "Mind if I take a look?"

Lydia and Giles blink at each other, then shrug. Lydia gets up and goes to get the prophecy. She flips it open and finds the right section, then hands it to Spike.

Apparently Spike reads French pretty well. He flips through it like it's a paperback novel. Then he puts it down and glares at Giles.

"You," he says, pointing an accusing finger at him, "are a disgrace to the mother country and all Watchers. Potatoes indeed." He snorts and tosses the book into the middle of the table.

Giles frowns. "Are you saying... what are you saying? That we've misread..."

"Look, your prophet was English, yeah? When was this written?"

"Ah... approximately 1880, I believe," Lydia says.

Spike crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. "Yeah, and in 1880, before I crawled out of my grave and took up a liquid diet, had some angelic twat started nattering at me about chips, I'd have thought he meant potatoes. As in 'Fish and.'"

"The chip," Giles says. "You mean all this time, his... talk about the merits of potatoes was really talking about..."

"You're a moron," Spike says.

Giles groans. "I do believe, for once, you might be right."

"So," Xander says, "uh... about that chip? It's really gone? As in, gone gone?"

"With the wind," I say. "Louhi removed it when she took him."

"Right," Xander says. "So... uh, the other night, when I hit you..."

Spike just slants him a look so full of "duh" I can't help but giggle just a little.

"Right. Uh... Well, thank you, for not killing me," Xander says. "So... you're really on our side now? No more killing people?"

"Told you before," Spike says, "you can choose to be something other than what you are. Rising above your inner nature—makes you a man. Not saying it's gonna be easy, though."

"But we're going to help," I say, looking Xander in the eye. "Because it's what we do, right? Help?"

Xander nods a little reluctantly. The others do, too. We've all changed, this last year. Some of us in big ways, some of us in little ones. There’s been love and loss and grief. We’ve matured. And even though there’s been bad stuff, we have to keep going, have to work to make things better. Like Spike says, it’s never going to be easy, but we still try.

When it comes right down to it, we're family—a weird one, sure, a little dysfunctional and all, but...family. Maybe it’ll grow, over time. Maybe it’ll get smaller. But I know that right now, I’m surrounded by the people I love most in the world, and that’s what gives me the strength to go on.




 
 
Chapter #76 - Epilogue: Compass
 
Author’s Note: I just posted Chapter 74 so make sure you’ve read that first.

This thank you is for all of you who have gone on this long, long journey with me. I’ve loved hearing from so many of you—all the people who’ve written to tell me how much they enjoyed this story, or how it’s helped them through bad times. The lovely thing about fanfic is being able to interact with an audience, and you all have been wonderful. Thank you for letting me, and my story, into your lives for a little while.

That said, I do want to be clear on a couple of points: at this time I cannot possibly imagine writing a sequel to this story. For one thing, have you LOOKED at the word count? It’s huge! I’ve never in my life written so much on a single story. And I feel like I’ve pretty much tied up all the loose ends I wanted to tie up, and explored all the little things I wanted to explore with this story.

That doesn’t mean I’m done with writing Buffy fanfic, though. I’ve already got another story in the works—though it’ll likely be some time before I’m ready to start posting it. It’ll be long, too (though probably not this long), and explore the characters from a totally different angle. If you’d like more information, or would like to see sneak peeks of it, or find out when I’m getting closer to posting it, you can follow my livejournal for updates. I also plan to spend some time talking about this fic, and answering questions about it over there.

Once again, thank you for coming with me on this journey. I’ve loved writing it and sharing it with all of you.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae and Science






Epilogue
Compass




There's a vampire in the room.

There's a vampire in the room, and he's coming closer.

It's dark, but I can still see him in the moonlight through the window; my slightly enhanced vision picks him out of the shadows as he prowls toward the bed. He's dressed in black: black t-shirt, black sweats, but his skin and hair gleam snow white in the moonlight. A warm spring breeze drifts in through the open window and tousles his curls a little. I smile. My vampire. My Mr. Gordo. My Spike.

Slowly he peels the shirt off over his head, and the moonlight turns him to white marble.

"Turn on the lamp, luv," he says. I do. "Look at you," he murmurs, tilting his head to the side a little. "Like a golden goddess."

I laugh. "Are you just going to stand there and stare, or what?" I ask, pretending to yawn. "I've got a ton of stuff to do tomorrow and—"

Spike drops his pants, which pretty much shuts me up. "See something you want, Slayer?" he asks, leering a little, curling his tongue.

"I see you," I say. "I want you."

He crawls onto the bed, all sleek, predatory muscle and dark eyes. "'M yours, Buffy," he says, covering me and bending his head to mine. "Always yours. Love you, so much."

"I love you, too," I tell him. Inside of me, through our connection, I feel his joy. It's so strong, it makes me gasp. He smiles down at me. A real smile.

"My girl," he says, slightly awed. "I've got you."

"You really do," I tell him. Something flickers across his face, sort of uncertain. "What?"

He ducks his head a little. "Got you something," he says. "But... don't know if you'd want it."

"You got me a present?" I ask.

"Well," he says. "Something I've had, actually. For a long time. I don't know why I kept it but..." He swallows, then opens his fist. Lying in his palm is the little gold filigree ring I saw in his room all those months ago. "Was... it was... my mother's," he says softly, in William's accent. "I thought, after meeting her, you might not mind having it?"

"Oh," I say, remembering Anne's face, asking me to save her son, to love him. "Oh, yes. I'd be honored."

Spike's hand trembles a little, when he slides it on my finger. I remember last year, Willow's spell and a similar moment. His hand had trembled then, too, and I wonder how much of our lives, of everything we are, comes full circle this way. Only this is better, because it's not magic. It's real.

Spike leans down and kisses me deeply, his entire heart in it, and I try to give it back, to tell him how much I love him, how much I need him. He groans, and rolls off of me, pulling me with him so we're kissing and cuddling, side by side. "So," he murmurs against my skin. "Got a big day planned for tomorrow, hmm? Guess I ought to get busy and wear you out proper." His lips slide along my throat, teasing the scars there.

"Mmm," I moan. "Yep, big day. All about the big." I wrap a leg around his hip and pull him against me.

"What's so bloody important then?" he asks, teasingly. "No baddies lurking about, snow's all gone. Gonna go to the beach, pet? Wear one of those strappy little scraps of nothing? Make yourself all tan and pretty for me?"

"Well," I tell him. "First I need to go buy some of those strappy little scraps of nothing. I thought maybe you'd want to come to the mall with me and... help me pick some out?"

Spike goes very still. Then he leans up on one elbow and stares down at me. "You want me to go to the mall with you and watch while you try on bikinis?"

"Well, yeah."

His eyes almost cross for a second. Then...

"This just a ploy to get me to carry the bags, Slayer?"

"Depends. Is it working?"

"Fuck, yes," he breathes, and devours my mouth.

Laughing, we twist around each other, kissing, a study in contrasts and opposites that somehow totally balance and fit together. If Spike is my heart, I'm his soul, and together we're something even stronger than just vampire or Slayer.

I used to think a lot of things: that vampires were only demons, that having a soul made you good, that demons couldn't change.

I used to think that being the Slayer meant being hard, closed off, alone.

I used to think that the best way to love was at a distance, that you should keep the ones you love at arm’s length—to protect them, and yourself.

I know now that not all demons are the same. That the capacity to love can change someone more than a soul. That real love—the deepest, strongest kind—it digs right down inside and finds out who you are, who you're meant to be. That love can heal, and help you grow. That we hurt because we love, and that pain can give us strength.

Pain is how you know you're alive.

I had to be blind to see.

I had to go to Hell and back to understand.

I hold with those who favor fire.

Lydia says that I should write it all down from the beginning. She thinks that it will be a "fascinating guide for future Slayers"—you know, in case I'm too busy to talk to them or something.

Spike says I should write it all down because he wants to know how I fell in love with him—but then, he's selfish that way. He also wants me to "go into detail about the dirty bits." I just roll my eyes.

Willow says I should write it all down because it's like a fairy tale—only weirder and true.

I suppose people will want to know if we lived "happily ever after."

I'm the Slayer.

Spike's a vampire.

We don't always get the "happily" part.

But I think, together, we might manage the "ever after."


THE END



Begun: January 7, 2010

Finished: August 19, 2010

Posted: June 9 - September 29, 2010



In Greek mythology, Cupid was the God of Love. He was sent to punish the mortal woman, Psyche, but accidentally scratched himself with his own arrow and fell in love with her instead. Believing herself cursed forever to be alone, Psyche was told to go to a secret place where she would find her husband. In the dark, without seeing his face, she fell in love with him. However, through fear and distrust she was persuaded to light a candle to see the face of her lover—and as a consequence, he was taken from her. Psyche risked everything to get him back. She went on many journeys, through many challenges, even into the Underworld and back, and in the end she was rewarded with her lover. Cupid went to the gods and begged, and Psyche was granted immortality, that she might always remain at his side, and was transformed into the deification of the human soul.