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Prologue
This fic is meant to take place during Season Nine (though it can probably be read with only rudimentary knowledge of the comics). It's currently outlined at around 22 chapters, and I'll try to have one out weekly. Please let me know what you think!
--
There are three constants that Buffy can always count on.
It’s been a year since Twilight, and the world has recovered swiftly, too swiftly for Buffy’s peace of mind, but nothing else is the same anymore. She works- has this been her longest job yet? Probably. She doesn’t hate it, though, and it’s pretty much all she’s qualified for, so she carries on with her coffee shop vocation and prepares for her real job as soon as she steps out for the day.
Constant Number One is that there are always vampires.
The first one she sees tonight is a small, wiry guy dressed in last year’s fashion in parkas and backing a young shopper against the wall. The woman drops her bags and begins pleading for her life in low, terrified tones. “Please, I swear! This is all the cash I’ve got!” She fumbles for her wallet, yelping with surprise when the vampire instead pins her arm against the wall. “OhGOD!”
“I don’t do that gig anymore,” Buffy quips, stepping out behind them. The vampire turns and snarls, and she’s on him, throwing him backwards and kicking him directly in the stomach. “Barista, maybe. Slayer, definitely. But god? Not my cup of tea.”
The recognition dawns in his eyes the moment hers register the markings on his neck, and she’s too entranced by them to react when he smashes a fist against the side of her head and barrels her into the closest wall, hissing, “Slayer!”
“The one and only,” she agrees, not without the hint of sadness that accompanies all memories of her greatest moment. Her greatest failure. It’s been about four years since, and she’s still not sure which one it is. “Now, where we?”
He stalks closer to her and she slides downward, knocking his legs apart and to the ground and giving him a swift kick in the head to finish and send him toppling onto his back.
It’s easy to leap onto him and land directly on his stomach, stake out and pressed to his chest before he can move. She’s only been toying with him, anyway, waiting for the opportunity to demand some answers. These vampires usually run in packs, and it’s rare to find just one so accessible. She isn’t going to blow this with an easy stake to the heart. “Tell me what’s going on with your neck.”
He sneers at her, but doesn’t say a word. Just like all the others.
She doesn’t give up, though. As one particularly annoying…friend…of hers tells her practically every night, she’s not the giving up kind, even when she’s been hunting for answers from mutant vampires for weeks and hasn’t been able to extract a thing. “Tell me,” she repeats, digging her stake into his skin.
He smirks up at her, unafraid. “Slaybitch. You think you can scare us into answers? You think that vengeful Angel of Death routine is gonna be effective?”
She flinches at that word-that name-ohgod- and he gets in a solid hit at her abdomen, racing for the nearest street and out of sight before she can continue her pursuit.
The shopper is long gone, hopefully somewhere far from the vampire. Her bags remain on the ground, a carton of eggs leaking onto the pavement. Buffy focuses on the dripping egg, pressing her hand against the side of the wall as she struggles to regain her composure.
-a mask removed, a familiar face, that smirk, those eyes, that kiss-
-but not him, never him, except it’s always been him-
-and then he turns, and moves too quickly, and she screams-
-“Buffy…what happened? Did we…did we win?”-
It’s been a year, and some moments are still too raw. Moments like an ultimate betrayal, both hers and another’s. Moments like the loss of…the death of…
It’s still too raw.
She takes a deep breath and turns to leave, carefully stepping over the eggs. There are more important things to worry about now than the past. And she has another encounter with an abnormal vampire to research now.
There are always vampires.
Her apartment is small and mostly bare, not like Xander and Dawn’s homey one, but she’s not making quite as much as they are and she’s proud of at least having a place to herself, at last. At least now, she’s finally alone and far from the disturbingly loud Xander-and-Dawn that she’s beginning to suspect that Dawn was doing on purpose. Staking her claim, maybe? Buffy quirks a wry smile as she unlocks the door. More likely, Dawn has just been enjoying the opportunity to play annoying little sister again. She’s been the one taking care of Buffy far too often lately for both their tastes, and it’s a comforting feeling to be able to roll her eyes at her little sister again.
She hangs up her coat, noticing with annoyance the muddy mark the vampire left against her shirt. And it’s one of her favorites, too. “Idiot vampires,” she mutters, swiping at it.
“Yeah, forget the murders and the feeding,” comes the amused voice from the couch. “It’s those sodding stains that the vampires really need to be killed for.”
She throws her stake in his direction half-heartedly. “Shut up. These are serious mud stains. And you know I’m crap at laundry.”
He rolls his eyes. “Well, in that case, destroy them all.”
Constant Number Two. She doesn’t know what he’s doing during the day, and she doesn’t ask again after he avoids the question. But Spike will always be in her apartment when she returns from patrol, making himself at home and pushing every boundary she puts up until she’s really to stake him or hug him or just run far, far away from him instead.
She mock-scowls at him, knocking his feet off the end of the couch and sitting down there in their place.
His feet pop right back onto her legs. “You’re back early.”
She swats at them, avoiding his gaze. “There wasn’t much going on.”
“No renegade slayers? No runaway vampires?” His eyes bore into her, and she looks away from the gentle concern she can see in them. He stares at her like he used to stare at Dawn. Like he’d stare at Willow.
Not that that bothers her or anything, because hey, she’s been happily single for years now, except for that one fling with Satsu, who’s over her anyway and very possibly dating Kennedy, if rumors from England are true, and a Spike who thinks of her as a sister or friend is totally cool. It’s better that way. It’s not like she has any residual feelings there, and that would just complicate their arrangement, anyway. So “Buffy and Spike, friends and partners and nothing more” is very much of the good.
Right.
“Buffy?” He still says her name the same way, though, with that gentle mixture of questioning and awe. “Are you there? Buffy!”
Well, maybe not awe. “Nothing,” she says hastily, focusing on him again. “I mean, there was one, but he got away. One of the ones with the wonky bite marks.”
“He got away?” Spike repeats, eyeing her with skepticism. “So now you’re just letting them go? I know that the staking isn’t-“
“Spike, please.” A tense muscle twitches in her face, and she looks down, refusing to meet his eyes. “Just drop it.”
His gaze is still hot on her, but he drops the line of questioning and straightens abruptly. “Right, then.” He shoves out a hand at her. “Take off your shirt.”
She starts. “What?” A frisson of surprised heat runs through her, and she turns reddened cheeks and an indignant expression to his amused one. “I am not-“
“Laundry, pet.” And now he’s openly laughing at her, a leer curling up one side of his mouth. “’Course, if you’re open for other matters…”
She gulps. “I’m going to change!” she announces, hurtling toward the door of her room and slamming it shut. “Don’t touch anything or I’ll kick your ass! I will!”
She can still hear his soft laughter while she yanks off the shirt, and she leans against the side of her dresser, breathing heavily. Idiot vampire. Annoying, innuendo-ing vampire. Her brain very helpfully supplies several images of Spike removing her shirt more creatively, to a far different end than laundry.
In one of them he uses his teeth.
She swallows back the intrusive thoughts. She’s been having them since, well…since Sunnydale, really. They’re just a side-effect of being a sex-deprived slayer. That’s all. Spike stars in them only because he’s around, and available, and okay, basically a sex god. It doesn’t mean anything except that she is, as always, lusty-Buffy.
“Oi! How long does it take to put on a shirt already?” The complaint jars her back to the present, and she snaps something stupid and probably not so coherent at him as she yanks on a tank top.
He’s standing right outside her room when she emerges, and he snatches her shirt immediately and heads for the bathroom sink. “You’re even worse than Dawn,” she mutters, stalking into the kitchen corner to open the refrigerator.
“Dawn doesn’t do chores,” he retorts over the running water. “Where was this vampire before he kicked you? A slop pit?”
“I don’t know.” She pulls out a half eaten container of Chinese takeout and a bag of blood from the fridge, scowling at the kitchen sink. “I told you, I’m not keeping blood stashed here if you don’t wash out your mug.”
“Same markings as always on this one?”
“A whole row of fangs, like he’d been turned by a shark. All across his neck.” She rinses out the mug, screwing up her face at the red water that dribbles over the dirty dishes to the bottom of the sink. “Have I ever mentioned how gross this blood-drinking habit of yours is?”
“From time to time.” She can practically see him grinning at her in her mind’s eye. “Listen, some of my contacts in LA have a lead. The marked vamps have been spotted en masse in a local club. It’s not much…”
“But it’s something,” she agrees. “We checking it out?”
He enters the kitchen corner, clean shirt in hand, and grabs his mug from the microwave a moment before it beeps in completion, taking a quick swig of blood. “Nah, I think I’d better go alone. A slayer’s presence might tip them off, yeah? Can’t risk losing this lead.”
She sighs. “Yeah, I guess not.” She pops the takeout carton into the microwave and takes her shirt from him. “You’ll let me know tomorrow?”
“I always do.” He smiles at her, and it’s real and sincere and it leaves her a little choked up.
And then the words burst from her mouth too quickly, unrestrained, and she winces at the uncertainty in them. “You’re just here for the free food and blood.”
His smile turns distant, and there’s an awkward pause, longer and more endless than even the one before she’d invited him in once she’d moved into her apartment. “Sure,” he says finally, and when the microwave finishes, he’s got a piece of sesame chicken in his mouth and he’s halfway out the window before she can say another word. “G’nite,” he mumbles, his voice muffled by the chicken. “You’re welcome for the shirt.”
“Goodnight,” she whispers after him, but he’s already out of sight. “And thanks.”
And there’s chicken to eat and TV to watch and a vampire mystery to contemplate, so she buries herself in other thoughts until she’s too tired to move and she falls asleep amidst the scent of tobacco and leather that marks Spike’s place on the couch.
And there’s Constant Number Three: At night, when the dreams and the horrors return, she is always alone.
--
There are three constants that Buffy can always count on.
It’s been a year since Twilight, and the world has recovered swiftly, too swiftly for Buffy’s peace of mind, but nothing else is the same anymore. She works- has this been her longest job yet? Probably. She doesn’t hate it, though, and it’s pretty much all she’s qualified for, so she carries on with her coffee shop vocation and prepares for her real job as soon as she steps out for the day.
Constant Number One is that there are always vampires.
The first one she sees tonight is a small, wiry guy dressed in last year’s fashion in parkas and backing a young shopper against the wall. The woman drops her bags and begins pleading for her life in low, terrified tones. “Please, I swear! This is all the cash I’ve got!” She fumbles for her wallet, yelping with surprise when the vampire instead pins her arm against the wall. “OhGOD!”
“I don’t do that gig anymore,” Buffy quips, stepping out behind them. The vampire turns and snarls, and she’s on him, throwing him backwards and kicking him directly in the stomach. “Barista, maybe. Slayer, definitely. But god? Not my cup of tea.”
The recognition dawns in his eyes the moment hers register the markings on his neck, and she’s too entranced by them to react when he smashes a fist against the side of her head and barrels her into the closest wall, hissing, “Slayer!”
“The one and only,” she agrees, not without the hint of sadness that accompanies all memories of her greatest moment. Her greatest failure. It’s been about four years since, and she’s still not sure which one it is. “Now, where we?”
He stalks closer to her and she slides downward, knocking his legs apart and to the ground and giving him a swift kick in the head to finish and send him toppling onto his back.
It’s easy to leap onto him and land directly on his stomach, stake out and pressed to his chest before he can move. She’s only been toying with him, anyway, waiting for the opportunity to demand some answers. These vampires usually run in packs, and it’s rare to find just one so accessible. She isn’t going to blow this with an easy stake to the heart. “Tell me what’s going on with your neck.”
He sneers at her, but doesn’t say a word. Just like all the others.
She doesn’t give up, though. As one particularly annoying…friend…of hers tells her practically every night, she’s not the giving up kind, even when she’s been hunting for answers from mutant vampires for weeks and hasn’t been able to extract a thing. “Tell me,” she repeats, digging her stake into his skin.
He smirks up at her, unafraid. “Slaybitch. You think you can scare us into answers? You think that vengeful Angel of Death routine is gonna be effective?”
She flinches at that word-that name-ohgod- and he gets in a solid hit at her abdomen, racing for the nearest street and out of sight before she can continue her pursuit.
The shopper is long gone, hopefully somewhere far from the vampire. Her bags remain on the ground, a carton of eggs leaking onto the pavement. Buffy focuses on the dripping egg, pressing her hand against the side of the wall as she struggles to regain her composure.
-a mask removed, a familiar face, that smirk, those eyes, that kiss-
-but not him, never him, except it’s always been him-
-and then he turns, and moves too quickly, and she screams-
-“Buffy…what happened? Did we…did we win?”-
It’s been a year, and some moments are still too raw. Moments like an ultimate betrayal, both hers and another’s. Moments like the loss of…the death of…
It’s still too raw.
She takes a deep breath and turns to leave, carefully stepping over the eggs. There are more important things to worry about now than the past. And she has another encounter with an abnormal vampire to research now.
There are always vampires.
Her apartment is small and mostly bare, not like Xander and Dawn’s homey one, but she’s not making quite as much as they are and she’s proud of at least having a place to herself, at last. At least now, she’s finally alone and far from the disturbingly loud Xander-and-Dawn that she’s beginning to suspect that Dawn was doing on purpose. Staking her claim, maybe? Buffy quirks a wry smile as she unlocks the door. More likely, Dawn has just been enjoying the opportunity to play annoying little sister again. She’s been the one taking care of Buffy far too often lately for both their tastes, and it’s a comforting feeling to be able to roll her eyes at her little sister again.
She hangs up her coat, noticing with annoyance the muddy mark the vampire left against her shirt. And it’s one of her favorites, too. “Idiot vampires,” she mutters, swiping at it.
“Yeah, forget the murders and the feeding,” comes the amused voice from the couch. “It’s those sodding stains that the vampires really need to be killed for.”
She throws her stake in his direction half-heartedly. “Shut up. These are serious mud stains. And you know I’m crap at laundry.”
He rolls his eyes. “Well, in that case, destroy them all.”
Constant Number Two. She doesn’t know what he’s doing during the day, and she doesn’t ask again after he avoids the question. But Spike will always be in her apartment when she returns from patrol, making himself at home and pushing every boundary she puts up until she’s really to stake him or hug him or just run far, far away from him instead.
She mock-scowls at him, knocking his feet off the end of the couch and sitting down there in their place.
His feet pop right back onto her legs. “You’re back early.”
She swats at them, avoiding his gaze. “There wasn’t much going on.”
“No renegade slayers? No runaway vampires?” His eyes bore into her, and she looks away from the gentle concern she can see in them. He stares at her like he used to stare at Dawn. Like he’d stare at Willow.
Not that that bothers her or anything, because hey, she’s been happily single for years now, except for that one fling with Satsu, who’s over her anyway and very possibly dating Kennedy, if rumors from England are true, and a Spike who thinks of her as a sister or friend is totally cool. It’s better that way. It’s not like she has any residual feelings there, and that would just complicate their arrangement, anyway. So “Buffy and Spike, friends and partners and nothing more” is very much of the good.
Right.
“Buffy?” He still says her name the same way, though, with that gentle mixture of questioning and awe. “Are you there? Buffy!”
Well, maybe not awe. “Nothing,” she says hastily, focusing on him again. “I mean, there was one, but he got away. One of the ones with the wonky bite marks.”
“He got away?” Spike repeats, eyeing her with skepticism. “So now you’re just letting them go? I know that the staking isn’t-“
“Spike, please.” A tense muscle twitches in her face, and she looks down, refusing to meet his eyes. “Just drop it.”
His gaze is still hot on her, but he drops the line of questioning and straightens abruptly. “Right, then.” He shoves out a hand at her. “Take off your shirt.”
She starts. “What?” A frisson of surprised heat runs through her, and she turns reddened cheeks and an indignant expression to his amused one. “I am not-“
“Laundry, pet.” And now he’s openly laughing at her, a leer curling up one side of his mouth. “’Course, if you’re open for other matters…”
She gulps. “I’m going to change!” she announces, hurtling toward the door of her room and slamming it shut. “Don’t touch anything or I’ll kick your ass! I will!”
She can still hear his soft laughter while she yanks off the shirt, and she leans against the side of her dresser, breathing heavily. Idiot vampire. Annoying, innuendo-ing vampire. Her brain very helpfully supplies several images of Spike removing her shirt more creatively, to a far different end than laundry.
In one of them he uses his teeth.
She swallows back the intrusive thoughts. She’s been having them since, well…since Sunnydale, really. They’re just a side-effect of being a sex-deprived slayer. That’s all. Spike stars in them only because he’s around, and available, and okay, basically a sex god. It doesn’t mean anything except that she is, as always, lusty-Buffy.
“Oi! How long does it take to put on a shirt already?” The complaint jars her back to the present, and she snaps something stupid and probably not so coherent at him as she yanks on a tank top.
He’s standing right outside her room when she emerges, and he snatches her shirt immediately and heads for the bathroom sink. “You’re even worse than Dawn,” she mutters, stalking into the kitchen corner to open the refrigerator.
“Dawn doesn’t do chores,” he retorts over the running water. “Where was this vampire before he kicked you? A slop pit?”
“I don’t know.” She pulls out a half eaten container of Chinese takeout and a bag of blood from the fridge, scowling at the kitchen sink. “I told you, I’m not keeping blood stashed here if you don’t wash out your mug.”
“Same markings as always on this one?”
“A whole row of fangs, like he’d been turned by a shark. All across his neck.” She rinses out the mug, screwing up her face at the red water that dribbles over the dirty dishes to the bottom of the sink. “Have I ever mentioned how gross this blood-drinking habit of yours is?”
“From time to time.” She can practically see him grinning at her in her mind’s eye. “Listen, some of my contacts in LA have a lead. The marked vamps have been spotted en masse in a local club. It’s not much…”
“But it’s something,” she agrees. “We checking it out?”
He enters the kitchen corner, clean shirt in hand, and grabs his mug from the microwave a moment before it beeps in completion, taking a quick swig of blood. “Nah, I think I’d better go alone. A slayer’s presence might tip them off, yeah? Can’t risk losing this lead.”
She sighs. “Yeah, I guess not.” She pops the takeout carton into the microwave and takes her shirt from him. “You’ll let me know tomorrow?”
“I always do.” He smiles at her, and it’s real and sincere and it leaves her a little choked up.
And then the words burst from her mouth too quickly, unrestrained, and she winces at the uncertainty in them. “You’re just here for the free food and blood.”
His smile turns distant, and there’s an awkward pause, longer and more endless than even the one before she’d invited him in once she’d moved into her apartment. “Sure,” he says finally, and when the microwave finishes, he’s got a piece of sesame chicken in his mouth and he’s halfway out the window before she can say another word. “G’nite,” he mumbles, his voice muffled by the chicken. “You’re welcome for the shirt.”
“Goodnight,” she whispers after him, but he’s already out of sight. “And thanks.”
And there’s chicken to eat and TV to watch and a vampire mystery to contemplate, so she buries herself in other thoughts until she’s too tired to move and she falls asleep amidst the scent of tobacco and leather that marks Spike’s place on the couch.
And there’s Constant Number Three: At night, when the dreams and the horrors return, she is always alone.
Chapter 2
There had been a time when Spike had enjoyed the clubbing scene. Together with Dru, he’d walk into a room and immediately command everyone’s attention, sheer sensuality and animal magnetism oozing into the atmosphere around him and drawing onlookers into his grasp. They would party, they’d dance- in so many ways- and then he’d feast.
Now, though, the onslaught of available bodies is only an unwanted temptation, and the willing dance partners leave him vaguely uncomfortable and guilty. He berates himself for it, but old habits die hard, and there’s something inherently wrong about finding comfort elsewhere when Buffy’s nearby, even when there’s nothing between them anymore. Instinctively, he’s certain that she’d be hurt. And that’s not something he can do, even when visiting her nightly and enduring awkward pleasantries each time has him frustrated and weary with the situation. He doesn’t hurt her. That’s not going to change.
He shrugs off an approaching woman and focuses on the crowd, all business. The club is crawling with vampires, gyrating with their human counterparts under the dim lights and beckoning others toward the bathrooms, the back door, and the darkest corners of the room. Spike is suddenly glad that he’s here. Strange markings or not, this is a daily bloodbath, and his soul is calling for an immediate end to this new threat.
His eyes alight on the closest vampire and he watches with satisfaction as she approaches, greedy and lusty and hungry. “Lovely night for dinner, hm?”
She smiles, low and feral. “I’m willing to share.”
“I’m counting on it.” In a swift instant, he has her backed against the wall, hand splayed just above her heart, a stake poking out from where it’s strapped to his sleeve and situated just right to remain unnoticed by the others around them. “Let’s talk about that bite on your neck.”
Her eyes widen with fear and more than a hint of confusion. “Bite? On my neck? I don’t have-“
He traces the mark, feeling blood pumping against his finger. She’s been feeding tonight, probably more blood than he consumes in a week. “Right here.”
She looks dubious. “Yeah. I don’t think so. Not unless…” Her body stills and tenses. “Well…nothing.”
“Nothing?” His voice is low and silky, the stake sliding closer to her heart.
She glances at it, glances at him, and he sees the instant that she realizes that he’s going to stake her anyway. “Who are y-“ she starts, and then she’s dust, fluttering to the ground as the people around her dance on.
He sighs, and casts his gaze to the next dirty little corner. If he isn’t going to get answers, he might as well get something useful done.
--
The best part about travelling the globe on a daily basis is that night is endless. No awareness of the sun- he’d gotten more than enough of that in that first day fighting with Buffy again to last him a century. Though he does catch a nap sometime between California’s nights, he’s hardly constrained by just California time. Not when his afternoons are England’s nights.
And while he’s discovered a proclivity for California over the past few years, there are some entertainments in his home country that he can’t imagine anywhere else.
“It’s macaroni and cheese, Illyria,” Faith is saying exasperatedly when he enters what was once Giles’s flat. “It’s not rocket science. You cook the pasta, you add some cheese. That’s all. Make it yourself.”
“You will do it again.” The god glares at the not-quite-slayer. “With no questions.”
“The fuck I will,” Faith mutters. “You ate my dinner, you liked it. You left nothing for me. When I tried to stop you, you put up a force field and kept me in place until you finished. And now you think I’m gonna make more?”
“You will do it because Illyria wills it,” Illyria says icily, and Spike grins with glee at the promise of the girl-fight of the century.
Faith’s eyes are narrowed and her fists are clenched, whatever strange not-magic that still fuels both the god and the former slayer lying tense between them, painting twin mosaics of cold stubbornness on their faces. Faith takes a step forward. “I will do whatever the fu- oh look, Spike’s here.” She shrugs Illyria aside, her anger dissipating, and extends the hand with the empty pot. “Have some macaroni.”
Illyria cocks her head in acknowledgement. “Spike. You are here.”
“Apparently.” He turns his attention back to Faith, quirking a brow. “Having fun with Her Majesty over here?”
“You have no idea.” Faith lets out an exaggerated sigh. “She’s been here all day, insisting that you’d be here. And you know how useless Angel is when it comes to…well, you know. Talking.”
Spike snorts. “Yeah.” He pats Illyria on the shoulder. “How about we meet outside, pet? I’ll be there in a mo’.”
“You will.” Illyria examines him coolly before she abruptly turns on her heel, stalking toward the back door.
Faith gapes at him. “I’ve been trying to do that all day.”
He shrugs mock-modestly. “’ve got a gift with the ladies.”
“I’ve noticed.” She gives him a once-over that’s almost comically suggestive, and he responds with a leer of his own. Flirting with Faith is harmless, somehow. There’s no risk of a relationship there, never has been, not when both their attentions are diverted by others. And unlike so many over the years, she’s aware of that fact as well.
“Your sources weren’t much help,” he informs her, relating the events of the previous night. He’d loved the rush, the battle, the tens of vampires challenging him and losing because he had no fear of death, no caution. He’s always been a gleeful, reckless fighter, and it hasn’t failed him yet. It certainly hadn’t failed him last night.
Faith listens, eyebrows raised and head shaking incredulously. “You killed them all.”
“Yep.” A grin spreads across his face as the memory resurfaces.
“Didn’t question any more of them?”
He shuffles uncomfortably at her cross-examination. “I got bored.”
“That was your only lead, and now you’ve got jack squat. B’s gonna kill you, you know that?”
He narrows his eyes at her. “There’ll be more tomorrow. That club was a vamp magnet. I didn’t get them all.”
“Goody for you.” Faith plops down on the kitchen table, stretching her legs and wincing as her bandaged ankle bangs against the side of a chair. “You need backup?”
“Not the kind who’d rather adopt all the vampires as her personal project,” Spike retorts, eyeing her ankle curiously. “What happened to you?”
“Bad bite on patrol. And you’re one to talk,” Faith shoots back. “I know you’re not coming here for me.”
“You mean to say that I’m not travelling all the way across the pond for your charming personality?” Spike raises an eyebrow in mock disbelief. “How can you say that? I’m hurt. Pained. Offende-“
“He’s out back,” Faith says, rolling her eyes. “Says he’s patrolling. So…brooding with stakes.”
“Naturally.” They share a smirk, though it’s half-hearted. There’s little to laugh about when it comes to Angel these days, not when he’s still trapped in endless self-flagellation, a mere shadow of what they’d once known and, in Spike’s case, hated. Well…not hated, exactly. Did he? He doesn’t know anymore, and contemplating Angel just makes his head hurt. It’s easier to needle him and play the irritating younger vampire than to try to make this any more.
It’s been so long since Wolfram and Hart and that alley.
When he makes his way out of the house, the other vampire with a soul is standing silently in the garden, stake in hand and stock-still as he stares into the night. Illyria stands beside him, tilting her head in curiosity as she observes him. “Spike is here,” she announces unnecessarily, raising blue eyes to regard him. “He reeks of conquered enemies.”
“Had some fun with a gaggle of vamps.” Spike frowns. “What’re you doing here waiting for me, anyway, Illyria? You’re not taking the ship back, are you?”
The god shakes her head, slowly and jerkily. “I am not. I have come to aid you in your battle.”
“There’s no battle, Blue. Just a few vampires with some funny bites. Nothing to write home about.”
“I will slay the vampires,” Illyria says confidently. “I will tear their heads from their bodies and make their fading dust sing praises of my might. You will take me to these vampires.”
“No, he won’t,” Angel murmurs. “He hasn’t told her that he’s been coming here. She won’t like it.”
“Can you blame her?” He claps a hand against Angel’s back, rolling his eyes at the way Angel flinches from his touch. “I could be doing something productive, y’know? Slaying demons, unraveling the social fabric of society, buying her some new boots to go with that scrumptious red top she wore Tuesday… Instead, I’m standing in a garden with a pathetic shell of a vampire during yet another pity party. Somehow, I don’t think she’d be impressed.”
Angel doesn’t look at him. “I know what you’re doing, Spike. It isn’t going to work.”
“So you’re just going to wait out here until the sun comes up and you can brood in your room instead?” He pauses, rethinks the statement. “Well, Giles’s room, really. That must be fun for you.”
“Shut up, Spike.”
He chances a glance at Angel, who’s staring at the ground, and Illyria, who’s swiveling to follow a firefly circling her head. “What’s it like, knowing that your stupidity murdered one of the only good ones left? That you sit in his kitchen and drink blood from his fridge? That you read his books and enjoy his garden only because you managed to snap his neck and take him from this world? S’a nice gig for you, innit? Shame that Buffy doesn’t think-“
The name is all he needs to say before Angel has him backed against the wall of the house, murderous eyes leveled at him and an angry hand around his neck. Illyria ignores them both, and Spike manages a smirk. “Am…am I next, wanker?”
The fury fades as quickly as it comes, and Angel turns abruptly. “I’m going patrolling,” he announces, stalking off.
Good.
When he turns around, Illyria is watching him inquiringly. “You provoked the other.”
“Yes, I did.”
“You wanted him to leave.”
“Got it in one.”
“I don’t understand. Why?”
She isn’t adversarial, just mildly perplexed, and he suppresses the defensive retort that’s bubbling up. “Because someone has to.”
--
Her expression is hooded, her body crouched, one hand gripping her weapon and the other gripping the ledge on which she awaits her foes. Blonde hair whips around her face in the wind, dark clothes barely shift against her skin, and she doesn’t move. Not yet.
A shadow moves just feet away from her and swift as a cat, she’s springing forward, her stake extended and her eyes glittering with a hunter’s joy. The vampire emerges, swinging once, twice, too clumsy in the face of its opponent’s grace. She moves like sheer poetry, an endless song of skillful warrior earning yet another victory, dodging the vampire’s attacks and finishing him with a single stroke.
She’s perfect.
She’s beautiful.
She’s smiling knowingly and calling out, “You coming down here? Or are you just going to watch?”
He smirks down at her from his vantage point on a mausoleum. “I like the view.”
Her cheeks flush adorably. “It’s a cemetery,” she informs him archly. “There’s not much to see.”
He just watches her, lips curved slightly upwards as she tosses her hair and looks away. “I’m heading back now,” she announces shakily, and he drops to the ground and follows her out, his eyes glued to the curve of her lower back.
Well, yeah, of course he’s still attracted to Buffy. She is the perfect woman, fucked up as they come but still worth it, and he’s been attracted to her since the moment he first saw her in a crowded club a bit under a decade previous. Doesn’t mean he’s going to jump her, not when she’s still hung up on Angel and has zero interest in him beyond the same attraction. Not when he’s finally found a place beyond her that is solely him and he’s no longer the man who yearns to belong to others. Even if they did still have feelings for each other- which he doesn’t, and had she ever had any to begin with?- they’d implode again, and Spike has no desire to go through that another time.
It’s not worth it. It can’t be. It can’t.
So instead, he traces her body mentally and remembers what’s beneath, and when she slows down so he can walk beside her, he tamps down his leer and announces unapologetically, “I dusted our leads.”
She heaves a sigh. “Of course you did. Tell me you got something out of them before you staked them.”
“Not as such, no, but...”
“Spike-“ She’s exasperated, and he can’t help but grin at the way her brow furrows in irritation.
“One of the ones I pulled over might’ve known something,” he concedes. “Din’t even realize she had the mark, but she seemed to have an idea of where it came from.”
“She?”
Spike glances at her. She’s walking rapidly, her eyes focused straight ahead, and her lips are pressed together thinly. “Some useless bint. I grabbed her, demanded some answers, an’ when she got too curious, I dusted her.”
Buffy nods jerkily. “Good.”
“Except she might’ve had a suspicion of where the bite came from,” Spike points out, arching a brow at her dismissal of his failure. “Probably shouldn’t have offed her.”
Buffy shrugs. “She’s an evil vampire. We’ll manage,” she says curtly, still staring straight ahead. “Are you going back tomorrow?”
He shakes his head. “I was thinking I’d go tonight. It’s soon enough that the others haven’t heard about what happened, so they won’t be on guard. I can’t say the same for tomorrow, yeah?”
“No, tonight doesn’t work. Willow’s supposed to be dropping by, and I don’t want to miss her.” They’ve reached Buffy’s apartment building, and Spike punches in the code and opens the door for her.
He follows her in, frowning. “I can go myself, pet. I can come back later tonight and give you a report, but I don’t think-“
“I’m coming.” Her voice is firm, and he watches her warily, wondering if he should be offended.
“I can get answers, Buffy. I may not have gotten them last time, but s’only a matter of time before…” She touches his cheek and his voice trails off, and all he can do is stare into her eyes.
“I know, Spike,” she murmurs. “I trust you. I just…I need to do something. I can’t wait at home while you’re out finding the Big Bad. I need to be in this fight all the way through.”
And maybe it’s what he sees in her gaze, maybe it’s what he hears in her voice, and maybe it’s her hand pressed against the hollow of his cheek, but he concedes without a second thought.
Now, though, the onslaught of available bodies is only an unwanted temptation, and the willing dance partners leave him vaguely uncomfortable and guilty. He berates himself for it, but old habits die hard, and there’s something inherently wrong about finding comfort elsewhere when Buffy’s nearby, even when there’s nothing between them anymore. Instinctively, he’s certain that she’d be hurt. And that’s not something he can do, even when visiting her nightly and enduring awkward pleasantries each time has him frustrated and weary with the situation. He doesn’t hurt her. That’s not going to change.
He shrugs off an approaching woman and focuses on the crowd, all business. The club is crawling with vampires, gyrating with their human counterparts under the dim lights and beckoning others toward the bathrooms, the back door, and the darkest corners of the room. Spike is suddenly glad that he’s here. Strange markings or not, this is a daily bloodbath, and his soul is calling for an immediate end to this new threat.
His eyes alight on the closest vampire and he watches with satisfaction as she approaches, greedy and lusty and hungry. “Lovely night for dinner, hm?”
She smiles, low and feral. “I’m willing to share.”
“I’m counting on it.” In a swift instant, he has her backed against the wall, hand splayed just above her heart, a stake poking out from where it’s strapped to his sleeve and situated just right to remain unnoticed by the others around them. “Let’s talk about that bite on your neck.”
Her eyes widen with fear and more than a hint of confusion. “Bite? On my neck? I don’t have-“
He traces the mark, feeling blood pumping against his finger. She’s been feeding tonight, probably more blood than he consumes in a week. “Right here.”
She looks dubious. “Yeah. I don’t think so. Not unless…” Her body stills and tenses. “Well…nothing.”
“Nothing?” His voice is low and silky, the stake sliding closer to her heart.
She glances at it, glances at him, and he sees the instant that she realizes that he’s going to stake her anyway. “Who are y-“ she starts, and then she’s dust, fluttering to the ground as the people around her dance on.
He sighs, and casts his gaze to the next dirty little corner. If he isn’t going to get answers, he might as well get something useful done.
--
The best part about travelling the globe on a daily basis is that night is endless. No awareness of the sun- he’d gotten more than enough of that in that first day fighting with Buffy again to last him a century. Though he does catch a nap sometime between California’s nights, he’s hardly constrained by just California time. Not when his afternoons are England’s nights.
And while he’s discovered a proclivity for California over the past few years, there are some entertainments in his home country that he can’t imagine anywhere else.
“It’s macaroni and cheese, Illyria,” Faith is saying exasperatedly when he enters what was once Giles’s flat. “It’s not rocket science. You cook the pasta, you add some cheese. That’s all. Make it yourself.”
“You will do it again.” The god glares at the not-quite-slayer. “With no questions.”
“The fuck I will,” Faith mutters. “You ate my dinner, you liked it. You left nothing for me. When I tried to stop you, you put up a force field and kept me in place until you finished. And now you think I’m gonna make more?”
“You will do it because Illyria wills it,” Illyria says icily, and Spike grins with glee at the promise of the girl-fight of the century.
Faith’s eyes are narrowed and her fists are clenched, whatever strange not-magic that still fuels both the god and the former slayer lying tense between them, painting twin mosaics of cold stubbornness on their faces. Faith takes a step forward. “I will do whatever the fu- oh look, Spike’s here.” She shrugs Illyria aside, her anger dissipating, and extends the hand with the empty pot. “Have some macaroni.”
Illyria cocks her head in acknowledgement. “Spike. You are here.”
“Apparently.” He turns his attention back to Faith, quirking a brow. “Having fun with Her Majesty over here?”
“You have no idea.” Faith lets out an exaggerated sigh. “She’s been here all day, insisting that you’d be here. And you know how useless Angel is when it comes to…well, you know. Talking.”
Spike snorts. “Yeah.” He pats Illyria on the shoulder. “How about we meet outside, pet? I’ll be there in a mo’.”
“You will.” Illyria examines him coolly before she abruptly turns on her heel, stalking toward the back door.
Faith gapes at him. “I’ve been trying to do that all day.”
He shrugs mock-modestly. “’ve got a gift with the ladies.”
“I’ve noticed.” She gives him a once-over that’s almost comically suggestive, and he responds with a leer of his own. Flirting with Faith is harmless, somehow. There’s no risk of a relationship there, never has been, not when both their attentions are diverted by others. And unlike so many over the years, she’s aware of that fact as well.
“Your sources weren’t much help,” he informs her, relating the events of the previous night. He’d loved the rush, the battle, the tens of vampires challenging him and losing because he had no fear of death, no caution. He’s always been a gleeful, reckless fighter, and it hasn’t failed him yet. It certainly hadn’t failed him last night.
Faith listens, eyebrows raised and head shaking incredulously. “You killed them all.”
“Yep.” A grin spreads across his face as the memory resurfaces.
“Didn’t question any more of them?”
He shuffles uncomfortably at her cross-examination. “I got bored.”
“That was your only lead, and now you’ve got jack squat. B’s gonna kill you, you know that?”
He narrows his eyes at her. “There’ll be more tomorrow. That club was a vamp magnet. I didn’t get them all.”
“Goody for you.” Faith plops down on the kitchen table, stretching her legs and wincing as her bandaged ankle bangs against the side of a chair. “You need backup?”
“Not the kind who’d rather adopt all the vampires as her personal project,” Spike retorts, eyeing her ankle curiously. “What happened to you?”
“Bad bite on patrol. And you’re one to talk,” Faith shoots back. “I know you’re not coming here for me.”
“You mean to say that I’m not travelling all the way across the pond for your charming personality?” Spike raises an eyebrow in mock disbelief. “How can you say that? I’m hurt. Pained. Offende-“
“He’s out back,” Faith says, rolling her eyes. “Says he’s patrolling. So…brooding with stakes.”
“Naturally.” They share a smirk, though it’s half-hearted. There’s little to laugh about when it comes to Angel these days, not when he’s still trapped in endless self-flagellation, a mere shadow of what they’d once known and, in Spike’s case, hated. Well…not hated, exactly. Did he? He doesn’t know anymore, and contemplating Angel just makes his head hurt. It’s easier to needle him and play the irritating younger vampire than to try to make this any more.
It’s been so long since Wolfram and Hart and that alley.
When he makes his way out of the house, the other vampire with a soul is standing silently in the garden, stake in hand and stock-still as he stares into the night. Illyria stands beside him, tilting her head in curiosity as she observes him. “Spike is here,” she announces unnecessarily, raising blue eyes to regard him. “He reeks of conquered enemies.”
“Had some fun with a gaggle of vamps.” Spike frowns. “What’re you doing here waiting for me, anyway, Illyria? You’re not taking the ship back, are you?”
The god shakes her head, slowly and jerkily. “I am not. I have come to aid you in your battle.”
“There’s no battle, Blue. Just a few vampires with some funny bites. Nothing to write home about.”
“I will slay the vampires,” Illyria says confidently. “I will tear their heads from their bodies and make their fading dust sing praises of my might. You will take me to these vampires.”
“No, he won’t,” Angel murmurs. “He hasn’t told her that he’s been coming here. She won’t like it.”
“Can you blame her?” He claps a hand against Angel’s back, rolling his eyes at the way Angel flinches from his touch. “I could be doing something productive, y’know? Slaying demons, unraveling the social fabric of society, buying her some new boots to go with that scrumptious red top she wore Tuesday… Instead, I’m standing in a garden with a pathetic shell of a vampire during yet another pity party. Somehow, I don’t think she’d be impressed.”
Angel doesn’t look at him. “I know what you’re doing, Spike. It isn’t going to work.”
“So you’re just going to wait out here until the sun comes up and you can brood in your room instead?” He pauses, rethinks the statement. “Well, Giles’s room, really. That must be fun for you.”
“Shut up, Spike.”
He chances a glance at Angel, who’s staring at the ground, and Illyria, who’s swiveling to follow a firefly circling her head. “What’s it like, knowing that your stupidity murdered one of the only good ones left? That you sit in his kitchen and drink blood from his fridge? That you read his books and enjoy his garden only because you managed to snap his neck and take him from this world? S’a nice gig for you, innit? Shame that Buffy doesn’t think-“
The name is all he needs to say before Angel has him backed against the wall of the house, murderous eyes leveled at him and an angry hand around his neck. Illyria ignores them both, and Spike manages a smirk. “Am…am I next, wanker?”
The fury fades as quickly as it comes, and Angel turns abruptly. “I’m going patrolling,” he announces, stalking off.
Good.
When he turns around, Illyria is watching him inquiringly. “You provoked the other.”
“Yes, I did.”
“You wanted him to leave.”
“Got it in one.”
“I don’t understand. Why?”
She isn’t adversarial, just mildly perplexed, and he suppresses the defensive retort that’s bubbling up. “Because someone has to.”
--
Her expression is hooded, her body crouched, one hand gripping her weapon and the other gripping the ledge on which she awaits her foes. Blonde hair whips around her face in the wind, dark clothes barely shift against her skin, and she doesn’t move. Not yet.
A shadow moves just feet away from her and swift as a cat, she’s springing forward, her stake extended and her eyes glittering with a hunter’s joy. The vampire emerges, swinging once, twice, too clumsy in the face of its opponent’s grace. She moves like sheer poetry, an endless song of skillful warrior earning yet another victory, dodging the vampire’s attacks and finishing him with a single stroke.
She’s perfect.
She’s beautiful.
She’s smiling knowingly and calling out, “You coming down here? Or are you just going to watch?”
He smirks down at her from his vantage point on a mausoleum. “I like the view.”
Her cheeks flush adorably. “It’s a cemetery,” she informs him archly. “There’s not much to see.”
He just watches her, lips curved slightly upwards as she tosses her hair and looks away. “I’m heading back now,” she announces shakily, and he drops to the ground and follows her out, his eyes glued to the curve of her lower back.
Well, yeah, of course he’s still attracted to Buffy. She is the perfect woman, fucked up as they come but still worth it, and he’s been attracted to her since the moment he first saw her in a crowded club a bit under a decade previous. Doesn’t mean he’s going to jump her, not when she’s still hung up on Angel and has zero interest in him beyond the same attraction. Not when he’s finally found a place beyond her that is solely him and he’s no longer the man who yearns to belong to others. Even if they did still have feelings for each other- which he doesn’t, and had she ever had any to begin with?- they’d implode again, and Spike has no desire to go through that another time.
It’s not worth it. It can’t be. It can’t.
So instead, he traces her body mentally and remembers what’s beneath, and when she slows down so he can walk beside her, he tamps down his leer and announces unapologetically, “I dusted our leads.”
She heaves a sigh. “Of course you did. Tell me you got something out of them before you staked them.”
“Not as such, no, but...”
“Spike-“ She’s exasperated, and he can’t help but grin at the way her brow furrows in irritation.
“One of the ones I pulled over might’ve known something,” he concedes. “Din’t even realize she had the mark, but she seemed to have an idea of where it came from.”
“She?”
Spike glances at her. She’s walking rapidly, her eyes focused straight ahead, and her lips are pressed together thinly. “Some useless bint. I grabbed her, demanded some answers, an’ when she got too curious, I dusted her.”
Buffy nods jerkily. “Good.”
“Except she might’ve had a suspicion of where the bite came from,” Spike points out, arching a brow at her dismissal of his failure. “Probably shouldn’t have offed her.”
Buffy shrugs. “She’s an evil vampire. We’ll manage,” she says curtly, still staring straight ahead. “Are you going back tomorrow?”
He shakes his head. “I was thinking I’d go tonight. It’s soon enough that the others haven’t heard about what happened, so they won’t be on guard. I can’t say the same for tomorrow, yeah?”
“No, tonight doesn’t work. Willow’s supposed to be dropping by, and I don’t want to miss her.” They’ve reached Buffy’s apartment building, and Spike punches in the code and opens the door for her.
He follows her in, frowning. “I can go myself, pet. I can come back later tonight and give you a report, but I don’t think-“
“I’m coming.” Her voice is firm, and he watches her warily, wondering if he should be offended.
“I can get answers, Buffy. I may not have gotten them last time, but s’only a matter of time before…” She touches his cheek and his voice trails off, and all he can do is stare into her eyes.
“I know, Spike,” she murmurs. “I trust you. I just…I need to do something. I can’t wait at home while you’re out finding the Big Bad. I need to be in this fight all the way through.”
And maybe it’s what he sees in her gaze, maybe it’s what he hears in her voice, and maybe it’s her hand pressed against the hollow of his cheek, but he concedes without a second thought.
Chapter 3
Thank you all for your feedback! :)
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“It must have been a new guy, because he didn’t know who I was,” Dawn tells them, setting a large pan of lasagna down on the table. “Anyway, I ask for Xander, and he asks me if I’m the girlfriend Xander’s always talking about.”
Xander leans in, patting Dawn on the hand. “And naturally, this one shouts, ‘He never told me he had a girlfriend!’ and slams down the phone.” He grins. “The poor guy was so rattled. He kept apologizing to me.”
Buffy laughs. “Mom used to do that all the time.” Of course, she reflects wryly, in their mother’s case, the secretaries probably hadn’t been that surprised at all. Well, maybe the one who’d thought that she was the only other woman was, but…
She shakes her head, returning to the conversation. It doesn’t do to dwell on the past, especially not when it comes to her ever-so-clichéd deadbeat dad. “We’ve been coordinating our breaks lately,” Dawn is saying. “Xander has a half hour extra, so he’s the one who has to bring the food.”
“I’m the one who has to make the food, too!” Xander protests. “I’ve become the perfect little housewife, here!”
Dawn leans into him, smiling affectionately. “Hey, I can’t help it that I inherited her incompetence in the kitchen.” She jabs a finger at Buffy. “It’s better that you cook, trust me.”
“Trust her,” Buffy echoes, her lips quirking as she watches her best friend and her sister, lost in each other’s eyes. They’re both glowing, lost in the perfect normalcy of domestic couplehood and ostensibly loving it, and for a moment, Buffy hates them for the perfection they’ve found.
She shakes that away. No, nobody deserves joy more than Xander and Dawn, two innocent bystanders who’ve been caught up in the horror and danger of her calling and gaining nothing but pain for it. If she weren’t so selfish, if she didn’t need to be with the people she loved, she’d stay away altogether and try to let them lead their lives without another mention of vampires or demons. But she can’t give up any more people she loves, and she has no right to resent them whatever happiness they’ve managed to glean even with her around.
“Buffy!” She blinks. Dawn’s face is propped up on her left palm, just inches away from hers. “Where were you?”
A melancholy passes over Xander’s face, and she knows where he suspects she had gone, to that dark place where the memories of last year’s end are still heavy and unsettled. She manages a smile. “Just thinking about how much you guys are with the adorableness.”
Dawn smirks. “Well, we’d try to find someone for you to make us sick with the sweetness if you weren’t so hung up on-“
“Like Riley!” Xander jumps in, and Buffy’s glad. She’s fairly certain that however that sentence had ended, it would have left her out for her little sister’s blood. “You two were all over each other in college.”
“Yuck.” Dawn scrunches up her face. “They were nauseating. And all they ever did was have sex. My room was one over!” she protests at Buffy’s glare. “I was traumatized!”
“I am so gonna kick your-“ There’s a movement out of the corner of her eye, and Buffy turns, rolling her eyes at the vampire who thumps into view in the window outside the fire escape. “-Ass,” she finishes, arching a brow at him.
Spike points at himself, mouths, Me? Never, and curls his tongue in front of his teeth in a leer that makes her shiver and turn away from him determinedly.
“Let’s not talk about Riley and sex,” Xander decides. “I’m a very, very, very manly man who spends all his time-“
“Overcompensating?” Dawn says pertly. Spike sniggers, flashing Buffy a grin and miming falling breathlessly into an imaginary person’s arms. He slips and drops to the floor of the fire escape with a clang that’s loud enough to hear even through the closed window, and Buffy winces.
“See what I have to live with?” Xander complains, and Buffy raises her eyebrows at them and squints back toward the window.
“You love it,” Dawn retorts.
“Mm, a little.” They share another grin just as Spike rises again, patting down his duster and flashing Buffy a sheepish smile. Xander clears his throat, affecting a pompous tone. “My only real issue with dating you, my dear Dawnie, is the riff-raff your sister keeps bringing over.”
“Riff-oh.” Dawn turns around, glancing at the vampire waiting outside the window. “Buffy, your date’s here.”
“He’s not my date.” He’s her friend, and he’s an hour early for their scheduled outing tonight. Which is not a date. Not at all.
“See, this is why we don’t invite him in,” Xander says grumpily, but there’s little heat behind it. “He comes and ruins our nice family dinners with Buffy, and we barely get those now that she’s moved out.”
“I think it’s cute,” Dawn informs him, cutting a square piece of lasagna and placing it on a plate.
“What, now you’re feeding him? First it’s lasagna, and soon it’ll be blood!” Xander scowls. “I refuse to stock our fridge with vamp juice.”
Dawn heaves an extravagant sigh. “Get over it, Harris,” she flings over her shoulder as she heads to the window.
Since his return, whatever tension Buffy had noticed between Spike and Dawn after the soul has all but evaporated. From what Dawn’s told her, they don’t talk about the past, but the once-close friends now go out of their ways to make amends regardless, even if they’ll only see each other when there are others around. There’s too much bad blood; too many years to make up for without reminding each other of their history.
Buffy understands.
Spike is settled down on the fire escape, Dawn is on the windowsill chattering to him about her day, and Xander’s watching them warily, grumbling good-naturedly about irritating vampires coming on to his girlfriend. It feels kind of right, and when Spike grins at her through a mouthful of lasagna, the sensation that runs through her is familiar, the kind of warmth that she hasn’t felt since late nights with Willow and Xander and a shrill little Dawn back in high school. Friends. Family.
“I thought you usually patrolled alone,” Xander says quietly. She turns to look sharply at him, but his eyes aren’t accusing, just curious, and she struggles to lower her automatic defenses.
“I do. Spike and I are going to LA tonight, though. There’s a club with a whole lot of our mystery vamps.” She feels almost guilty, talking about the supernatural with Xander. He shouldn’t have to cope with it, not anymore.
But he seems unperturbed, instead nodding and saying matter-of-factly, “ So it’s a date?”
“It’s not a date. Xander…” She turns pleading eyes to him. “I wouldn’t do that. Not again.”
Xander looks away. “It’s just…it’s okay. Really. I’m okay with it. We all are.” He mutters, “It beats the alternative” low, but Buffy hears it anyway and bites down hard on her lower lip. “No,” he says hastily. “No, Buffy- I don’t- we don’t- he’s been good, y’know? He hasn’t really done anything evil since long before Sunnydale- nasty, mean-spirited, and just plain asshole-ish, sure, but not evil. And it’s not really up to us, but we’re fans of anyone who makes you happy. So if he’s what you want, we’re good.”
His tone is earnest and his hands are resting lightly on hers, and it’s all she can do to choke back frustration- why now, after all these years, when it doesn’t matter anymore? Why now?- and respond firmly, “He isn’t.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” She’s positive about that, at least. “I’m alone. It’s good. It’s better for me. It’s…no more mistakes like…like last time.” She stares out past Spike, into the darkness. “When I’m with someone, either he turns into an asshole… or I do.”
She and Spike don’t talk about the past, either. And while she knows that he would vehemently disagree with her- god knows, he did it enough when they were together- it’s easier to just accept the truth as it seemed then, if only because it keeps her safely in reality in the present.
--
“So why were you early?” she wonders as she finishes up her makeup in his private bathroom. She’s applying extra eye shadow and just enough mascara to pull off the “I’m a ho, stick your fangs in me!” look, and Spike is stretched across his bed, still with the same clothes and hair that he had been wearing when he had come to get her.
Boys.
“I got bored.” There’s a whine in his voice, sardonic and pouty all at once. She grins. Most of Spike’s early days in Sunnydale are just a blur in her memory, an occasional annoyance that got in the way of smoochy times with-
-Of smoochy times.
Their earliest encounters are still burned in her memory, though, his voice as he casually threatens her life; the way he runs from her mother and her axe; and still, the laughter in his voice as he breaks into Sunnydale High during- some event, she can’t remember which- and explains, “I just got so bored,” as though that’s normal for a scheming vampire overlord.
Spike’s peculiar like that. And he calls her weird.
She adds the finishing touches to her makeup and wanders into the next room, sliding into a chair that’s already pulled up to Spike’s bed. By unspoken agreement, she doesn’t sit on his bed. He doesn’t sit on hers. Maybe it’s temptation; maybe it’s just the simple truth that two people who were as close as they had been- had done as much as they had- shouldn’t be that familiar with each other’s beds anymore.
Mm. Though she was just a few feet away from straddling Spike, tearing off that frustratingly tantalizing button-down shirt and pressing kisses down his chest to his- stop it, brain!
He’s smirking at her, hands propping up the back of his head in that purely male, satisfied way he always does. She flushes. “What?”
He cocks his head. “Nothing. You just look-“
“Cheap?” she suggests.
He wrinkles his brow. “Gorgeous,” he decides, sitting up. Her cheeks darken even more. He stretches out a hand to her. “Ready?”
She takes it, and he lays a chivalrous kiss upon her wrist. “Let’s go kill things.”
They’re still hand-in-hand when they step out of the ship and into a darkened parking lot, and Buffy tells herself firmly that it’s because they have an image to uphold. What kind of skanky bitch doesn’t show up clinging to her boyfriend like she isn’t about to run off with the next guy to arrive? That’s all this is, and if she leads the way for a moment so Spike can get a clear view of the way her dress hugs her body, well, that’s all for appearances’ sake.
She leans into Spike as he pays the bouncer, offering the closest arrival a flirty smile as she laces her fingers in Spike’s and rests her head against his shoulder. He blinks. “I need a drink.”
“Spike!” He takes off to the bar, and she’s left stumbling after him, confused. She reaches the bar a moment after him. “What the hell? You’re not getting drunk here!”
He gazes silently at her for a long few seconds. “No, I’m not. Need to be a little less uptight. You, too.” The bartender sets down two glasses of a clear liquid Buffy can’t identify, and he slides one over to her. She opens her mouth to speak, but he swiftly raises a hand. “Not gonna make you drunk, pet. ‘ve learned my lesson. This’ll be just enough for what you need.”
And for some insane reason she hasn’t figured out yet, she trusts him completely, so she lifts the glass and downs the whole thing.
And naturally, five minutes later, she’s finished her third glass and is completely giddy, laughing as she slumps against Spike in a vague simulacrum of dancing. He’s smiling down at her indulgently, and she sways erratically, murmuring nonsense words as they move. She isn’t quite drunk, but there’s a pleasant haze surrounding her thoughts, and things like self-control and vampire hunting seem a little less vital when she’s dancing with Spike.
An ear moves into her view, and she licks her lips, remembering the taste of the pale lobe. It’s probably just the…
“Oi! Buffy!” She captures it between her teeth, nibbling and teasing it playfully. “Buffy, we can’t-“
“You taste good,” she mumbles, and he falls silent, his eyes burning a hole through the side of her face. He feels good against her, too, lean and muscular and hard- very hard, in some places- and she licks a trail down from his ear and slides her hands under his shirt, splaying them across his stomach and pressing herself even closer to him- “Buffy-“ he lets out a strangled moan- and she wriggles against him…
“Are you copulating?” The voice is cold and jarring, yanking Buffy from a universe where all that matters is Spike’s arms wrapped around her. “I do not wait for your attention, Spike. You will address me now.”
“I-Illyria? “ Spike is blinking, pushing her away. She lets out a snuffled complaint, but he’s already guiding her over to sit in a booth a few feet away, a blue- blue? I really am wasted- woman following them.
A woman in a skintight outfit that only enhances an already shapely body. Buffy blinks, shaking away the buzz that’s been oh-so-fun. “That’s Illyria?” Spike has mentioned her once or twice, some sort of god that he’d been working with since Sunnydale, who’d loaned him her ship- or maybe the ship was just from her dimension? She can’t remember. “That?” Gods were supposed to be smug, over-the-top, and far too skanky to be attractive. Not gliding and graceful and looking at Spike like he was a piece of meat completely under her power. And what kind of god has blue hair, anyway? This isn’t a comic book!
“What the sodding hell are you doing here?” Spike demands, squinting up at Illyria. He’s seated himself opposite Buffy, but Illyria still stands placid in front of the booth, content to loom above them. Buffy doesn’t scoot over to offer her a seat. “I told you not to come!”
Illyria’s eyes darken. “You do not give me orders, half-breed. I go where I please.”
Wait. Is that where Spike spends his days? A thrill of fury runs through Buffy’s system, an unmistakable mine! that has her so stymied that she falls absolutely silent, her eyes fixed on the woman before her.
“This isn’t your kind of fun, love. We’re just keeping an eye out. No killing yet.” Spike’s voice is placating, an attempt to calm the god. He’s never spoken to Buffy like that.
Illyria scowls. “You were not watching vampires. You were watching her.” She turns a cool eye to Buffy, who glares back, unwilling to cave. Illyria looks away first, uninterested. “You will come with me.”
“I’m not-“
“There is a vampire with your markings leaving the club,” Illyria informs him. “Come.”
Spike springs up and follows her- like a trained seal, Buffy thinks spitefully, standing abruptly and sending a sharp pain through her head.
She’s not jealous. No, that would imply that there was something more than friends between them, and there can’t be. But what gives Illyria the right to order Spike around like this? Even she doesn’t do that anymore. Spike’s grown beyond being nothing but a faithful follower and Buffy has tried to respect that, but apparently, he’s found someone better to follow. Someone more powerful and deadly and attractive.
Annoyed, she purses her lips together and nudges past a crowd of women to catch up to Spike and Illyria, who’ve already reached the back door of the club.
“-Is still unwell,” Illyria is saying.
Spike seems unworried. “She’ll be fine. She’s- Buffy!” He frowns at her as she reaches his side. “Where’d you go?”
Buffy shrugs nonchalantly, taking another step so she’s leading the way. “We’ve got a vampire to trail, don’t we? Let’s keep the chatter to a minimum.”
“Pet, is everything-“ She holds up a hand warningly and he falls silent.
“You do not command me,” Illyria snaps, and Buffy’s gratified when Spike retorts, “This is Buffy’s battle, and if you’re not going to follow her, then go back inside and have your little bloodbath.”
And it’s even more gratifying when Illyria considers, decides, “They will all die,” and promptly turns on her heel and returns to the club.
“Thought you’d had more than your share of self-important goddesses back in Sunnydale,” Spike murmurs as he reaches her side, his hand brushing hers with each step forward.
“Yeah. Thanks.” She catches his hand and squeezes it, letting it go with an inexplicable measure of reluctance. “Listen, about before…before your friend showed up…” She swallows, turning to look at him just as he does the same, and those impossibly blue eyes should be categorized as a weapon, because she doesn’t know how she’s going to stop herself if he keeps holding her gaze like this. “I…” She licks her lips nervously, and his eyes move downwards to follow her tongue. “I must have been drunker than I’d thought. Old habits, you know?”
“’f course,” he agrees, his voice husky as he takes a step away from her. He winces, shakes his head, looks back up. “Right, then. It’s already forgotten.” His voice is cool and businesslike, and she manages a half-smile and hardens her own expression.
“Great.” He frowns, and she glances away hastily, remembering their objective just in time. “Now, where’s this vampire?”
Spike lets out a low curse. “Gone.”
Naturally.
But it’s only a few seconds before the screaming begins from inside the club and half a dozen vampires emerge from the back door, tearing off in the direction of the empty lot across the street. There’s an even larger crowd of humans heading out the front of the club, looking terrified, and Spike and Buffy watch them flee with bemusement.
“She’s not…I mean, Illyria knows not to hurt humans, right?”
“She’s gotten better at it,” Spike says reassuringly, though he looks a bit too doubtful for her tastes, and she silently vows to check on the club as soon as they get back. “Don’t we have some vampires to chase?”
“Right.” They sprint after the vampires, who are too busy running to pay them any attention. Spike is right behind her, those impossible gasps for air as he runs a steady rhythm in her ears, comforting in its familiarity and the knowledge that he’ll always have her back.
They reach a cemetery just as a low roar sounds somewhere in the distance, and the terror on the vampires’ faces multiplies even more. They vanish into a crypt and slam the door shut just as Buffy skids to a halt a few feet away.
Spike’s there an instant later, and they share a wry grin. “Go on, I know you love this part,” Spike murmurs, and Buffy smirks and slams the door open.
She blinks, disappointed. The vampires have nested here, yes, and three of them are marked clearly in the small light illuminating the crypt, but there’s nothing unusual about the environment or the vampires. No mystical texts or bloody pentagrams, nothing more than a corpse in one corner and a moaning girl tied up in another.
She lets out a defeated sigh. “Don’t tell me, you guys haven’t noticed the bites on your necks, either.”
They blink dumbly at her. Spike shakes his head. “Shall we?”
Maybe there’s no mystery at all, she considers as they lay waste to the lair. Maybe it’s just an odd coincidence that vampires across California- and according to Willow, elsewhere as well- are developing these marks. Maybe she’s just looking for an excuse to fight harder, a distraction from how mundane her life has become.
Maybe she’s just itching for this again, Spike at her back as they’re surrounded by the enemy, outnumbered and outmatched and loving it anyway.
------------------
“It must have been a new guy, because he didn’t know who I was,” Dawn tells them, setting a large pan of lasagna down on the table. “Anyway, I ask for Xander, and he asks me if I’m the girlfriend Xander’s always talking about.”
Xander leans in, patting Dawn on the hand. “And naturally, this one shouts, ‘He never told me he had a girlfriend!’ and slams down the phone.” He grins. “The poor guy was so rattled. He kept apologizing to me.”
Buffy laughs. “Mom used to do that all the time.” Of course, she reflects wryly, in their mother’s case, the secretaries probably hadn’t been that surprised at all. Well, maybe the one who’d thought that she was the only other woman was, but…
She shakes her head, returning to the conversation. It doesn’t do to dwell on the past, especially not when it comes to her ever-so-clichéd deadbeat dad. “We’ve been coordinating our breaks lately,” Dawn is saying. “Xander has a half hour extra, so he’s the one who has to bring the food.”
“I’m the one who has to make the food, too!” Xander protests. “I’ve become the perfect little housewife, here!”
Dawn leans into him, smiling affectionately. “Hey, I can’t help it that I inherited her incompetence in the kitchen.” She jabs a finger at Buffy. “It’s better that you cook, trust me.”
“Trust her,” Buffy echoes, her lips quirking as she watches her best friend and her sister, lost in each other’s eyes. They’re both glowing, lost in the perfect normalcy of domestic couplehood and ostensibly loving it, and for a moment, Buffy hates them for the perfection they’ve found.
She shakes that away. No, nobody deserves joy more than Xander and Dawn, two innocent bystanders who’ve been caught up in the horror and danger of her calling and gaining nothing but pain for it. If she weren’t so selfish, if she didn’t need to be with the people she loved, she’d stay away altogether and try to let them lead their lives without another mention of vampires or demons. But she can’t give up any more people she loves, and she has no right to resent them whatever happiness they’ve managed to glean even with her around.
“Buffy!” She blinks. Dawn’s face is propped up on her left palm, just inches away from hers. “Where were you?”
A melancholy passes over Xander’s face, and she knows where he suspects she had gone, to that dark place where the memories of last year’s end are still heavy and unsettled. She manages a smile. “Just thinking about how much you guys are with the adorableness.”
Dawn smirks. “Well, we’d try to find someone for you to make us sick with the sweetness if you weren’t so hung up on-“
“Like Riley!” Xander jumps in, and Buffy’s glad. She’s fairly certain that however that sentence had ended, it would have left her out for her little sister’s blood. “You two were all over each other in college.”
“Yuck.” Dawn scrunches up her face. “They were nauseating. And all they ever did was have sex. My room was one over!” she protests at Buffy’s glare. “I was traumatized!”
“I am so gonna kick your-“ There’s a movement out of the corner of her eye, and Buffy turns, rolling her eyes at the vampire who thumps into view in the window outside the fire escape. “-Ass,” she finishes, arching a brow at him.
Spike points at himself, mouths, Me? Never, and curls his tongue in front of his teeth in a leer that makes her shiver and turn away from him determinedly.
“Let’s not talk about Riley and sex,” Xander decides. “I’m a very, very, very manly man who spends all his time-“
“Overcompensating?” Dawn says pertly. Spike sniggers, flashing Buffy a grin and miming falling breathlessly into an imaginary person’s arms. He slips and drops to the floor of the fire escape with a clang that’s loud enough to hear even through the closed window, and Buffy winces.
“See what I have to live with?” Xander complains, and Buffy raises her eyebrows at them and squints back toward the window.
“You love it,” Dawn retorts.
“Mm, a little.” They share another grin just as Spike rises again, patting down his duster and flashing Buffy a sheepish smile. Xander clears his throat, affecting a pompous tone. “My only real issue with dating you, my dear Dawnie, is the riff-raff your sister keeps bringing over.”
“Riff-oh.” Dawn turns around, glancing at the vampire waiting outside the window. “Buffy, your date’s here.”
“He’s not my date.” He’s her friend, and he’s an hour early for their scheduled outing tonight. Which is not a date. Not at all.
“See, this is why we don’t invite him in,” Xander says grumpily, but there’s little heat behind it. “He comes and ruins our nice family dinners with Buffy, and we barely get those now that she’s moved out.”
“I think it’s cute,” Dawn informs him, cutting a square piece of lasagna and placing it on a plate.
“What, now you’re feeding him? First it’s lasagna, and soon it’ll be blood!” Xander scowls. “I refuse to stock our fridge with vamp juice.”
Dawn heaves an extravagant sigh. “Get over it, Harris,” she flings over her shoulder as she heads to the window.
Since his return, whatever tension Buffy had noticed between Spike and Dawn after the soul has all but evaporated. From what Dawn’s told her, they don’t talk about the past, but the once-close friends now go out of their ways to make amends regardless, even if they’ll only see each other when there are others around. There’s too much bad blood; too many years to make up for without reminding each other of their history.
Buffy understands.
Spike is settled down on the fire escape, Dawn is on the windowsill chattering to him about her day, and Xander’s watching them warily, grumbling good-naturedly about irritating vampires coming on to his girlfriend. It feels kind of right, and when Spike grins at her through a mouthful of lasagna, the sensation that runs through her is familiar, the kind of warmth that she hasn’t felt since late nights with Willow and Xander and a shrill little Dawn back in high school. Friends. Family.
“I thought you usually patrolled alone,” Xander says quietly. She turns to look sharply at him, but his eyes aren’t accusing, just curious, and she struggles to lower her automatic defenses.
“I do. Spike and I are going to LA tonight, though. There’s a club with a whole lot of our mystery vamps.” She feels almost guilty, talking about the supernatural with Xander. He shouldn’t have to cope with it, not anymore.
But he seems unperturbed, instead nodding and saying matter-of-factly, “ So it’s a date?”
“It’s not a date. Xander…” She turns pleading eyes to him. “I wouldn’t do that. Not again.”
Xander looks away. “It’s just…it’s okay. Really. I’m okay with it. We all are.” He mutters, “It beats the alternative” low, but Buffy hears it anyway and bites down hard on her lower lip. “No,” he says hastily. “No, Buffy- I don’t- we don’t- he’s been good, y’know? He hasn’t really done anything evil since long before Sunnydale- nasty, mean-spirited, and just plain asshole-ish, sure, but not evil. And it’s not really up to us, but we’re fans of anyone who makes you happy. So if he’s what you want, we’re good.”
His tone is earnest and his hands are resting lightly on hers, and it’s all she can do to choke back frustration- why now, after all these years, when it doesn’t matter anymore? Why now?- and respond firmly, “He isn’t.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” She’s positive about that, at least. “I’m alone. It’s good. It’s better for me. It’s…no more mistakes like…like last time.” She stares out past Spike, into the darkness. “When I’m with someone, either he turns into an asshole… or I do.”
She and Spike don’t talk about the past, either. And while she knows that he would vehemently disagree with her- god knows, he did it enough when they were together- it’s easier to just accept the truth as it seemed then, if only because it keeps her safely in reality in the present.
--
“So why were you early?” she wonders as she finishes up her makeup in his private bathroom. She’s applying extra eye shadow and just enough mascara to pull off the “I’m a ho, stick your fangs in me!” look, and Spike is stretched across his bed, still with the same clothes and hair that he had been wearing when he had come to get her.
Boys.
“I got bored.” There’s a whine in his voice, sardonic and pouty all at once. She grins. Most of Spike’s early days in Sunnydale are just a blur in her memory, an occasional annoyance that got in the way of smoochy times with-
-Of smoochy times.
Their earliest encounters are still burned in her memory, though, his voice as he casually threatens her life; the way he runs from her mother and her axe; and still, the laughter in his voice as he breaks into Sunnydale High during- some event, she can’t remember which- and explains, “I just got so bored,” as though that’s normal for a scheming vampire overlord.
Spike’s peculiar like that. And he calls her weird.
She adds the finishing touches to her makeup and wanders into the next room, sliding into a chair that’s already pulled up to Spike’s bed. By unspoken agreement, she doesn’t sit on his bed. He doesn’t sit on hers. Maybe it’s temptation; maybe it’s just the simple truth that two people who were as close as they had been- had done as much as they had- shouldn’t be that familiar with each other’s beds anymore.
Mm. Though she was just a few feet away from straddling Spike, tearing off that frustratingly tantalizing button-down shirt and pressing kisses down his chest to his- stop it, brain!
He’s smirking at her, hands propping up the back of his head in that purely male, satisfied way he always does. She flushes. “What?”
He cocks his head. “Nothing. You just look-“
“Cheap?” she suggests.
He wrinkles his brow. “Gorgeous,” he decides, sitting up. Her cheeks darken even more. He stretches out a hand to her. “Ready?”
She takes it, and he lays a chivalrous kiss upon her wrist. “Let’s go kill things.”
They’re still hand-in-hand when they step out of the ship and into a darkened parking lot, and Buffy tells herself firmly that it’s because they have an image to uphold. What kind of skanky bitch doesn’t show up clinging to her boyfriend like she isn’t about to run off with the next guy to arrive? That’s all this is, and if she leads the way for a moment so Spike can get a clear view of the way her dress hugs her body, well, that’s all for appearances’ sake.
She leans into Spike as he pays the bouncer, offering the closest arrival a flirty smile as she laces her fingers in Spike’s and rests her head against his shoulder. He blinks. “I need a drink.”
“Spike!” He takes off to the bar, and she’s left stumbling after him, confused. She reaches the bar a moment after him. “What the hell? You’re not getting drunk here!”
He gazes silently at her for a long few seconds. “No, I’m not. Need to be a little less uptight. You, too.” The bartender sets down two glasses of a clear liquid Buffy can’t identify, and he slides one over to her. She opens her mouth to speak, but he swiftly raises a hand. “Not gonna make you drunk, pet. ‘ve learned my lesson. This’ll be just enough for what you need.”
And for some insane reason she hasn’t figured out yet, she trusts him completely, so she lifts the glass and downs the whole thing.
And naturally, five minutes later, she’s finished her third glass and is completely giddy, laughing as she slumps against Spike in a vague simulacrum of dancing. He’s smiling down at her indulgently, and she sways erratically, murmuring nonsense words as they move. She isn’t quite drunk, but there’s a pleasant haze surrounding her thoughts, and things like self-control and vampire hunting seem a little less vital when she’s dancing with Spike.
An ear moves into her view, and she licks her lips, remembering the taste of the pale lobe. It’s probably just the…
“Oi! Buffy!” She captures it between her teeth, nibbling and teasing it playfully. “Buffy, we can’t-“
“You taste good,” she mumbles, and he falls silent, his eyes burning a hole through the side of her face. He feels good against her, too, lean and muscular and hard- very hard, in some places- and she licks a trail down from his ear and slides her hands under his shirt, splaying them across his stomach and pressing herself even closer to him- “Buffy-“ he lets out a strangled moan- and she wriggles against him…
“Are you copulating?” The voice is cold and jarring, yanking Buffy from a universe where all that matters is Spike’s arms wrapped around her. “I do not wait for your attention, Spike. You will address me now.”
“I-Illyria? “ Spike is blinking, pushing her away. She lets out a snuffled complaint, but he’s already guiding her over to sit in a booth a few feet away, a blue- blue? I really am wasted- woman following them.
A woman in a skintight outfit that only enhances an already shapely body. Buffy blinks, shaking away the buzz that’s been oh-so-fun. “That’s Illyria?” Spike has mentioned her once or twice, some sort of god that he’d been working with since Sunnydale, who’d loaned him her ship- or maybe the ship was just from her dimension? She can’t remember. “That?” Gods were supposed to be smug, over-the-top, and far too skanky to be attractive. Not gliding and graceful and looking at Spike like he was a piece of meat completely under her power. And what kind of god has blue hair, anyway? This isn’t a comic book!
“What the sodding hell are you doing here?” Spike demands, squinting up at Illyria. He’s seated himself opposite Buffy, but Illyria still stands placid in front of the booth, content to loom above them. Buffy doesn’t scoot over to offer her a seat. “I told you not to come!”
Illyria’s eyes darken. “You do not give me orders, half-breed. I go where I please.”
Wait. Is that where Spike spends his days? A thrill of fury runs through Buffy’s system, an unmistakable mine! that has her so stymied that she falls absolutely silent, her eyes fixed on the woman before her.
“This isn’t your kind of fun, love. We’re just keeping an eye out. No killing yet.” Spike’s voice is placating, an attempt to calm the god. He’s never spoken to Buffy like that.
Illyria scowls. “You were not watching vampires. You were watching her.” She turns a cool eye to Buffy, who glares back, unwilling to cave. Illyria looks away first, uninterested. “You will come with me.”
“I’m not-“
“There is a vampire with your markings leaving the club,” Illyria informs him. “Come.”
Spike springs up and follows her- like a trained seal, Buffy thinks spitefully, standing abruptly and sending a sharp pain through her head.
She’s not jealous. No, that would imply that there was something more than friends between them, and there can’t be. But what gives Illyria the right to order Spike around like this? Even she doesn’t do that anymore. Spike’s grown beyond being nothing but a faithful follower and Buffy has tried to respect that, but apparently, he’s found someone better to follow. Someone more powerful and deadly and attractive.
Annoyed, she purses her lips together and nudges past a crowd of women to catch up to Spike and Illyria, who’ve already reached the back door of the club.
“-Is still unwell,” Illyria is saying.
Spike seems unworried. “She’ll be fine. She’s- Buffy!” He frowns at her as she reaches his side. “Where’d you go?”
Buffy shrugs nonchalantly, taking another step so she’s leading the way. “We’ve got a vampire to trail, don’t we? Let’s keep the chatter to a minimum.”
“Pet, is everything-“ She holds up a hand warningly and he falls silent.
“You do not command me,” Illyria snaps, and Buffy’s gratified when Spike retorts, “This is Buffy’s battle, and if you’re not going to follow her, then go back inside and have your little bloodbath.”
And it’s even more gratifying when Illyria considers, decides, “They will all die,” and promptly turns on her heel and returns to the club.
“Thought you’d had more than your share of self-important goddesses back in Sunnydale,” Spike murmurs as he reaches her side, his hand brushing hers with each step forward.
“Yeah. Thanks.” She catches his hand and squeezes it, letting it go with an inexplicable measure of reluctance. “Listen, about before…before your friend showed up…” She swallows, turning to look at him just as he does the same, and those impossibly blue eyes should be categorized as a weapon, because she doesn’t know how she’s going to stop herself if he keeps holding her gaze like this. “I…” She licks her lips nervously, and his eyes move downwards to follow her tongue. “I must have been drunker than I’d thought. Old habits, you know?”
“’f course,” he agrees, his voice husky as he takes a step away from her. He winces, shakes his head, looks back up. “Right, then. It’s already forgotten.” His voice is cool and businesslike, and she manages a half-smile and hardens her own expression.
“Great.” He frowns, and she glances away hastily, remembering their objective just in time. “Now, where’s this vampire?”
Spike lets out a low curse. “Gone.”
Naturally.
But it’s only a few seconds before the screaming begins from inside the club and half a dozen vampires emerge from the back door, tearing off in the direction of the empty lot across the street. There’s an even larger crowd of humans heading out the front of the club, looking terrified, and Spike and Buffy watch them flee with bemusement.
“She’s not…I mean, Illyria knows not to hurt humans, right?”
“She’s gotten better at it,” Spike says reassuringly, though he looks a bit too doubtful for her tastes, and she silently vows to check on the club as soon as they get back. “Don’t we have some vampires to chase?”
“Right.” They sprint after the vampires, who are too busy running to pay them any attention. Spike is right behind her, those impossible gasps for air as he runs a steady rhythm in her ears, comforting in its familiarity and the knowledge that he’ll always have her back.
They reach a cemetery just as a low roar sounds somewhere in the distance, and the terror on the vampires’ faces multiplies even more. They vanish into a crypt and slam the door shut just as Buffy skids to a halt a few feet away.
Spike’s there an instant later, and they share a wry grin. “Go on, I know you love this part,” Spike murmurs, and Buffy smirks and slams the door open.
She blinks, disappointed. The vampires have nested here, yes, and three of them are marked clearly in the small light illuminating the crypt, but there’s nothing unusual about the environment or the vampires. No mystical texts or bloody pentagrams, nothing more than a corpse in one corner and a moaning girl tied up in another.
She lets out a defeated sigh. “Don’t tell me, you guys haven’t noticed the bites on your necks, either.”
They blink dumbly at her. Spike shakes his head. “Shall we?”
Maybe there’s no mystery at all, she considers as they lay waste to the lair. Maybe it’s just an odd coincidence that vampires across California- and according to Willow, elsewhere as well- are developing these marks. Maybe she’s just looking for an excuse to fight harder, a distraction from how mundane her life has become.
Maybe she’s just itching for this again, Spike at her back as they’re surrounded by the enemy, outnumbered and outmatched and loving it anyway.
Chapter 4
I missed last week and this one's mostly filler, but I can promise you much new information and action (of several sorts) to come after this! Your reviews, as always, sustain me, and I thank you for each and every one. :)
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All in all, Buffy muses, taking an order absentmindedly, her job isn’t bad at all. Especially since she starts at noon, giving herself more than enough time to sleep in after patrol and more than enough tips from lunch breaks to make it worthwhile. Plus, the coffee shop is usually pretty empty after the lunch breaks end and before the post-work caffeine rush, leaving the other waitress and the baristas to chat and Buffy to enjoy the combined stillness-and-bustle of an empty shop in a San Francisco afternoon.
Today, of course, they’re talking about boys. Leanne is gushing about her newest boyfriend- and this one’s already lasted a week, so it must be serious- and Tina and Josh are listening avidly, neglecting the two occupied tables in favor of scrubbing the counter thirty times over and leaving Buffy to waitress.
She doesn’t mind, really. It’s easier than gabbing with them about their love lives and enduring the frequent, “I’ve got the perfectguy for you!” that Leanne is constantly inflicting on her.
More often than not, Leanne ends up dating said perfect guy for a few days, so it isn’t all bad for her. In fact, she’s probably better off skipping the first step and not mentioning it to Buffy altogether. Shame Leanne wouldn’t appreciate that suggestion.
“Buffy!” Leanne calls her over as soon as the last coffee is cleared from a particularly filthy table. She smiles in that patented Cordelia Chase, I-know-you’ll-never-be-as-lucky-as-I-am style. “So? Meet anyone interesting lately?”
“In the past twenty-four hours?” Buffy asks dubiously. Well, yes, as a matter of fact, she’d met the gorgeous goddess who was her former lover’s partner in crime. She’d been interesting.
And Buffy isn’t dwelling on it. She isn’t spending most of her time wondering what exactly Illyria wanted with Spike, and whether Spike was willing to give it. She isn’t scowling about what might have happened when Spike was away all day. She isn’t raging inwardly about the moment she’d arrived in LA after hearing of the devastation and being told by Harmony, of all people, that her “Blondie Bear” was alive and well and had gone off exploring with the goddess.
Nope, she isn’t dwelling at all.
She pastes a plastic smile on her face. “Not really, no. But let me guess. You have?”
“And he’s perfect for you! He’s sexy and has a car and he works on the next block, so you can totally coordinate lunch breaks, and he’s got this whole-“
“Sorry, Leanne.” She passes an order to Tina. “I’m kind of taking a break from the dating scene, getting comfortable with being alone again…” Josh is smiling and nodding, but Leanne is unimpressed.
“I know what this is about,” she announces triumphantly.
“Do you now.” It comes out too wearily to be a question, but Leanne doesn’t notice.
Leanne nods vigorously. “You’re still hung up on that hottie!”
No, she is most definitely not hung up on “that hottie,” no matter how many times Leanne brought it up. And she isn’t sure whether to be amused or irritated at how well her coworkers still remember Spike, when they won’t even glance twice at Willow and Xander.
He had made an entrance, of course, sweeping in just a half hour after sunset the first time she’d worked late and flirting outrageously with Leanne until the other waitress was blushing and offering him free croissants and coffee. Even Josh had been eyeing him as he’d sprawled out onto a chair and stuck his thumbs in his jeans, and Josh was usually professional about these things.
Buffy had finally given up on glaring at him from her vantage point behind the counter and snatched up the plate of sugar-encrusted pastries from Leanne, sliding into the seat beside him and demanding, “What are you doing here?”
He had smirked. “Just giving the workplace a look-over, pet.”
She had sighed. “Spike…”
But then the smirk had vanished and in its place was the soft smile that she could never quite resist. “I wanted to make sure…after last time…I wanted you to be happy.”
And she’d gaped at him in shock, old memories returning, memories of the Doublemeat Palace and an earnest lover begging her to leave; and then he had done that thing with his eyes that made her cry every time, dammit!, and she had excused herself to the bathroom, wiped away the tears, and taken in a shaky breath.
Sometimes…when he’d do things like that, things that made her wonder if he still loved her, after all, she’d want nothing more than to kiss him. She had tried not to think about that then, instead returning from the bathroom to cup his cheek and whisper “Thank you.”
He’d smiled at her again, squeezed her hand, and promised to meet her after patrol with Mexican. And the moment he’d left, Leanne had jumped on her, demanding to know why she hadn’t mentioned her “gorgeous punk boyfriend” before then.
She’d insisted that there was nothing going on. They still didn’t believe her, not really, and especially not after Spike had started making a habit of patrolling for her on nights when she finished late and picking her up afterward.
Well…maybe it had been a little boyfriendy. It didn’t mean that they were dating. And after a few months of it, Buffy had asked him to stop coming, if only to escape the unnervingly knowing stares of her coworkers. So Leanne had assumed that they’d broken up, and Buffy had let her think that.
“They’re still friends,” Tina says with sympathy, setting two coffee mugs down on Buffy’s tray. “That must be tough.”
“Not really,” Buffy murmurs distractedly, heading for the far table. Two girls sit silently, their eyes fixed on her, and she blinks, watching them warily. It isn’t the first time that former slayers have come to harass her at work, and she’s sure it won’t be the last time, either. Some are local, some come from elsewhere, and all are bent on blaming her for a betrayal that is very much her fault. Over the course of the past five years, she’s destroyed the balance between good and evil, forced an unwanted destiny onto hundreds- thousands?- of girls, and then cut off the slayer line completely.
As slayers go, she’d once been called the best. She’s since been labeled the worst, too. She doesn’t fault them their anger. But it doesn’t mean that she’ll let them attack her.
These two might very well be slayers. One looks vaguely familiar, though she can’t place her, not under the hat and sunglasses and heavy coat. The other watches her with the sort of searing hatred that’s become familiar since the destruction of the Seed, and she’s immediately certain of what they are.
She sets down the coffee, frowning at the dark markings on the hand of the first girl. They form a latticework of black bruises, emanating from somewhere deep in her sleeve and moving outwards to cover her fingers. The girl doesn’t speak, but Buffy can feel the hatred radiating off of her, and it comes as little surprise when the second hisses, “This is all your fault.”
“Probably,” she concedes evenly, wondering if this is a safe enough setting to propose a truce. Nobody’s weapons are out, and she chooses to take that as a good sign. “Listen, if there’s anything I can do…”
The first girl’s head pops up and her mouth curls into an unpleasant sneer, and only then does Buffy make the connection. “Simone!”
The rogue slayer sweeps one pockmarked hand over the table, sending scalding hot coffee sloshing across Buffy’s top and cracking the mugs onto the floor. “You did this,” she hisses, her eyes dark behind her sunglasses. “You’re going to pay.”
Searing pain washes over Buffy, and as though from a distance, she can hear Tina’s concerned cry, but she’s fixed in place, staring in horror at the other slayer as she limps to her feet and walks out of the coffeehouse, leaning on her friend for support.
--
Josh insists that she leave early to take care of the burn spreading across her abdomen, and she agrees without an argument, her thoughts in turmoil. Simone is in town. Simone, who’s a fan of guns and slayer superiority and stamping out anyone she doesn’t like- and Simone doesn’t like anybody, really. It makes sense that she’s gunning for Buffy, and Buffy can handle that. It’s the casualties along the way that she can’t bear.
She considers calling Dawn or Willow, but thinks better of it. They’re committed to normalcy now, Dawn with Xander and Willow with a high-powered job in computers- and Buffy knows that she’s still trying to find something, but Willow won’t talk about it with her- and they don’t need to be brought into this. Simone likes to go after the people who have undermined her in the past, people like Buffy herself or Andrew.
Andrew. Crap. Andrew had left them after the last battle, insisting that he still had a responsibility to his slayers. He doesn’t call Buffy, but Xander still keeps up with him, and last they’ve heard, he’s in England with Satsu and some of her other once-loyal slayers. He’s safe. He has to be.
She slides out of the top Leanne’s loaned her, inspecting her stomach in the bathroom mirror. The skin is bright red and strains when she moves, but it’s already beginning to heal at the edges. It should be gone in a day or two at the very most. She scowls at her reflection. Her shirt, however, is gone, a casualty of war. And it had been one of her favorites, too.
Behind her, the front door opens. “I brought pizza fresh from Italy!” Spike announces.
She rolls her eyes. “It’s from the pizza store down the block, doof.”
He lets out a huffy sigh. “Well, I had to go all the way downstairs to get it. Didn’t much fancy landing in the middle of the street and getting gawked at by- Buffy!” His voice is sharp and angry as he catches sight of the burn. “What the fuck did that to you?”
She folds her arms just above it self-consciously, suddenly very aware that she’s clad only in a bra and jeans. “You know, on-the-job injury. Those coffee shops are dangerous.”
“Buffy-“ He’s lifting her suddenly, sweeping her into his arms, and before she can squirm out of his grasp, he’s laid her down on the couch and is back in the medicine chest.
She closes her eyes. “Simone was here today. She was…she’s a slayer-gone-bad. Took over an island, killed some people, tried to kill me… This is nothing, Spike. Just some hot coffee.”
“These are second-degree burns,” he informs her, dabbing some burn cream on her stomach. “Not nothing.” His hand runs over her stomach in a smooth rhythm, lulling her to peaceful relaxation, and she lets out a grateful moan. The hand freezes.
She reddens. “I…uh…I’ll do the rest.” Hastily, she rubs the cream onto the last edges of the burn, avoiding Spike’s gaze where she can feel it burning into her. He finally turns away to get up and head for her bathroom. “Wait! I can just get a new-“
But he’s already emerging, the bright pink, sparkly tank top dangling from the tips of his fingers. “This yours?” He quirks an eyebrow, smirking.
She snatches it from him. “Shut up. Leanne lent it to me after the spill.”
“So you walked the streets of San Francisco in that?”
Her eyes narrow. “Oh, like you’re one to talk about fashion. Do you even wash that shirt before you put it on every single day?” She sits up and pulls the tank top over her head defiantly, grinning at the way his eyes are immediately drawn to her very exposed cleavage as soon as the burn mark is covered. Out of sight, out of mind, huh, Spike? And now it’s time to ogle. Not that she’s complaining.
He blinks. “I look good in that.”
“And I don’t?” She pouts, half amused, half genuinely hurt.
He sits down beside her, pulling the pizza box off the arm of the couch and dropping it onto the floor. “You’d look good in a burlap sack. Pizza?” It’s all so casual that she doesn’t register his words until he’s handing her a slice.
She busies herself with the pizza, grateful for something else to look at. His hands are still a phantom against her stomach, caressing her to contentment, and she craves more of that toxic, addictive touch that had sustained her for so long when she’d been back from the dead. That could continue to sustain her now, if they only wanted it. For a moment, it’s almost enough to forget about Simone.
Almost. She lets out a sigh, but he doesn’t ask what’s wrong, and she’s grateful for it. He can always sense when she doesn’t want to talk now, a welcome change from the old Spike who never knew the meaning of letting something lie. New Spike just pats her back reassuringly and uses his other hand to turn on the TV.
It’s barely on for five minutes before her eyes begin to close. She drifts off to sleep, wondering about Simone and Spike and what it is that Simone’s blaming her for now, and why Spike’s breath smells so strongly of pepper when he lays her down and covers her with a blanket, and if she’s ever going to get over this unmitigated attraction to him so the awkwardness can end, and if he’s going to kiss her goodnight.
He does brush his lips against her forehead, so lightly that she wouldn’t have noticed if not for the pepper breath, and when she wakes up in the morning, she can’t wipe the grin off of her face.
__________________________
All in all, Buffy muses, taking an order absentmindedly, her job isn’t bad at all. Especially since she starts at noon, giving herself more than enough time to sleep in after patrol and more than enough tips from lunch breaks to make it worthwhile. Plus, the coffee shop is usually pretty empty after the lunch breaks end and before the post-work caffeine rush, leaving the other waitress and the baristas to chat and Buffy to enjoy the combined stillness-and-bustle of an empty shop in a San Francisco afternoon.
Today, of course, they’re talking about boys. Leanne is gushing about her newest boyfriend- and this one’s already lasted a week, so it must be serious- and Tina and Josh are listening avidly, neglecting the two occupied tables in favor of scrubbing the counter thirty times over and leaving Buffy to waitress.
She doesn’t mind, really. It’s easier than gabbing with them about their love lives and enduring the frequent, “I’ve got the perfectguy for you!” that Leanne is constantly inflicting on her.
More often than not, Leanne ends up dating said perfect guy for a few days, so it isn’t all bad for her. In fact, she’s probably better off skipping the first step and not mentioning it to Buffy altogether. Shame Leanne wouldn’t appreciate that suggestion.
“Buffy!” Leanne calls her over as soon as the last coffee is cleared from a particularly filthy table. She smiles in that patented Cordelia Chase, I-know-you’ll-never-be-as-lucky-as-I-am style. “So? Meet anyone interesting lately?”
“In the past twenty-four hours?” Buffy asks dubiously. Well, yes, as a matter of fact, she’d met the gorgeous goddess who was her former lover’s partner in crime. She’d been interesting.
And Buffy isn’t dwelling on it. She isn’t spending most of her time wondering what exactly Illyria wanted with Spike, and whether Spike was willing to give it. She isn’t scowling about what might have happened when Spike was away all day. She isn’t raging inwardly about the moment she’d arrived in LA after hearing of the devastation and being told by Harmony, of all people, that her “Blondie Bear” was alive and well and had gone off exploring with the goddess.
Nope, she isn’t dwelling at all.
She pastes a plastic smile on her face. “Not really, no. But let me guess. You have?”
“And he’s perfect for you! He’s sexy and has a car and he works on the next block, so you can totally coordinate lunch breaks, and he’s got this whole-“
“Sorry, Leanne.” She passes an order to Tina. “I’m kind of taking a break from the dating scene, getting comfortable with being alone again…” Josh is smiling and nodding, but Leanne is unimpressed.
“I know what this is about,” she announces triumphantly.
“Do you now.” It comes out too wearily to be a question, but Leanne doesn’t notice.
Leanne nods vigorously. “You’re still hung up on that hottie!”
No, she is most definitely not hung up on “that hottie,” no matter how many times Leanne brought it up. And she isn’t sure whether to be amused or irritated at how well her coworkers still remember Spike, when they won’t even glance twice at Willow and Xander.
He had made an entrance, of course, sweeping in just a half hour after sunset the first time she’d worked late and flirting outrageously with Leanne until the other waitress was blushing and offering him free croissants and coffee. Even Josh had been eyeing him as he’d sprawled out onto a chair and stuck his thumbs in his jeans, and Josh was usually professional about these things.
Buffy had finally given up on glaring at him from her vantage point behind the counter and snatched up the plate of sugar-encrusted pastries from Leanne, sliding into the seat beside him and demanding, “What are you doing here?”
He had smirked. “Just giving the workplace a look-over, pet.”
She had sighed. “Spike…”
But then the smirk had vanished and in its place was the soft smile that she could never quite resist. “I wanted to make sure…after last time…I wanted you to be happy.”
And she’d gaped at him in shock, old memories returning, memories of the Doublemeat Palace and an earnest lover begging her to leave; and then he had done that thing with his eyes that made her cry every time, dammit!, and she had excused herself to the bathroom, wiped away the tears, and taken in a shaky breath.
Sometimes…when he’d do things like that, things that made her wonder if he still loved her, after all, she’d want nothing more than to kiss him. She had tried not to think about that then, instead returning from the bathroom to cup his cheek and whisper “Thank you.”
He’d smiled at her again, squeezed her hand, and promised to meet her after patrol with Mexican. And the moment he’d left, Leanne had jumped on her, demanding to know why she hadn’t mentioned her “gorgeous punk boyfriend” before then.
She’d insisted that there was nothing going on. They still didn’t believe her, not really, and especially not after Spike had started making a habit of patrolling for her on nights when she finished late and picking her up afterward.
Well…maybe it had been a little boyfriendy. It didn’t mean that they were dating. And after a few months of it, Buffy had asked him to stop coming, if only to escape the unnervingly knowing stares of her coworkers. So Leanne had assumed that they’d broken up, and Buffy had let her think that.
“They’re still friends,” Tina says with sympathy, setting two coffee mugs down on Buffy’s tray. “That must be tough.”
“Not really,” Buffy murmurs distractedly, heading for the far table. Two girls sit silently, their eyes fixed on her, and she blinks, watching them warily. It isn’t the first time that former slayers have come to harass her at work, and she’s sure it won’t be the last time, either. Some are local, some come from elsewhere, and all are bent on blaming her for a betrayal that is very much her fault. Over the course of the past five years, she’s destroyed the balance between good and evil, forced an unwanted destiny onto hundreds- thousands?- of girls, and then cut off the slayer line completely.
As slayers go, she’d once been called the best. She’s since been labeled the worst, too. She doesn’t fault them their anger. But it doesn’t mean that she’ll let them attack her.
These two might very well be slayers. One looks vaguely familiar, though she can’t place her, not under the hat and sunglasses and heavy coat. The other watches her with the sort of searing hatred that’s become familiar since the destruction of the Seed, and she’s immediately certain of what they are.
She sets down the coffee, frowning at the dark markings on the hand of the first girl. They form a latticework of black bruises, emanating from somewhere deep in her sleeve and moving outwards to cover her fingers. The girl doesn’t speak, but Buffy can feel the hatred radiating off of her, and it comes as little surprise when the second hisses, “This is all your fault.”
“Probably,” she concedes evenly, wondering if this is a safe enough setting to propose a truce. Nobody’s weapons are out, and she chooses to take that as a good sign. “Listen, if there’s anything I can do…”
The first girl’s head pops up and her mouth curls into an unpleasant sneer, and only then does Buffy make the connection. “Simone!”
The rogue slayer sweeps one pockmarked hand over the table, sending scalding hot coffee sloshing across Buffy’s top and cracking the mugs onto the floor. “You did this,” she hisses, her eyes dark behind her sunglasses. “You’re going to pay.”
Searing pain washes over Buffy, and as though from a distance, she can hear Tina’s concerned cry, but she’s fixed in place, staring in horror at the other slayer as she limps to her feet and walks out of the coffeehouse, leaning on her friend for support.
--
Josh insists that she leave early to take care of the burn spreading across her abdomen, and she agrees without an argument, her thoughts in turmoil. Simone is in town. Simone, who’s a fan of guns and slayer superiority and stamping out anyone she doesn’t like- and Simone doesn’t like anybody, really. It makes sense that she’s gunning for Buffy, and Buffy can handle that. It’s the casualties along the way that she can’t bear.
She considers calling Dawn or Willow, but thinks better of it. They’re committed to normalcy now, Dawn with Xander and Willow with a high-powered job in computers- and Buffy knows that she’s still trying to find something, but Willow won’t talk about it with her- and they don’t need to be brought into this. Simone likes to go after the people who have undermined her in the past, people like Buffy herself or Andrew.
Andrew. Crap. Andrew had left them after the last battle, insisting that he still had a responsibility to his slayers. He doesn’t call Buffy, but Xander still keeps up with him, and last they’ve heard, he’s in England with Satsu and some of her other once-loyal slayers. He’s safe. He has to be.
She slides out of the top Leanne’s loaned her, inspecting her stomach in the bathroom mirror. The skin is bright red and strains when she moves, but it’s already beginning to heal at the edges. It should be gone in a day or two at the very most. She scowls at her reflection. Her shirt, however, is gone, a casualty of war. And it had been one of her favorites, too.
Behind her, the front door opens. “I brought pizza fresh from Italy!” Spike announces.
She rolls her eyes. “It’s from the pizza store down the block, doof.”
He lets out a huffy sigh. “Well, I had to go all the way downstairs to get it. Didn’t much fancy landing in the middle of the street and getting gawked at by- Buffy!” His voice is sharp and angry as he catches sight of the burn. “What the fuck did that to you?”
She folds her arms just above it self-consciously, suddenly very aware that she’s clad only in a bra and jeans. “You know, on-the-job injury. Those coffee shops are dangerous.”
“Buffy-“ He’s lifting her suddenly, sweeping her into his arms, and before she can squirm out of his grasp, he’s laid her down on the couch and is back in the medicine chest.
She closes her eyes. “Simone was here today. She was…she’s a slayer-gone-bad. Took over an island, killed some people, tried to kill me… This is nothing, Spike. Just some hot coffee.”
“These are second-degree burns,” he informs her, dabbing some burn cream on her stomach. “Not nothing.” His hand runs over her stomach in a smooth rhythm, lulling her to peaceful relaxation, and she lets out a grateful moan. The hand freezes.
She reddens. “I…uh…I’ll do the rest.” Hastily, she rubs the cream onto the last edges of the burn, avoiding Spike’s gaze where she can feel it burning into her. He finally turns away to get up and head for her bathroom. “Wait! I can just get a new-“
But he’s already emerging, the bright pink, sparkly tank top dangling from the tips of his fingers. “This yours?” He quirks an eyebrow, smirking.
She snatches it from him. “Shut up. Leanne lent it to me after the spill.”
“So you walked the streets of San Francisco in that?”
Her eyes narrow. “Oh, like you’re one to talk about fashion. Do you even wash that shirt before you put it on every single day?” She sits up and pulls the tank top over her head defiantly, grinning at the way his eyes are immediately drawn to her very exposed cleavage as soon as the burn mark is covered. Out of sight, out of mind, huh, Spike? And now it’s time to ogle. Not that she’s complaining.
He blinks. “I look good in that.”
“And I don’t?” She pouts, half amused, half genuinely hurt.
He sits down beside her, pulling the pizza box off the arm of the couch and dropping it onto the floor. “You’d look good in a burlap sack. Pizza?” It’s all so casual that she doesn’t register his words until he’s handing her a slice.
She busies herself with the pizza, grateful for something else to look at. His hands are still a phantom against her stomach, caressing her to contentment, and she craves more of that toxic, addictive touch that had sustained her for so long when she’d been back from the dead. That could continue to sustain her now, if they only wanted it. For a moment, it’s almost enough to forget about Simone.
Almost. She lets out a sigh, but he doesn’t ask what’s wrong, and she’s grateful for it. He can always sense when she doesn’t want to talk now, a welcome change from the old Spike who never knew the meaning of letting something lie. New Spike just pats her back reassuringly and uses his other hand to turn on the TV.
It’s barely on for five minutes before her eyes begin to close. She drifts off to sleep, wondering about Simone and Spike and what it is that Simone’s blaming her for now, and why Spike’s breath smells so strongly of pepper when he lays her down and covers her with a blanket, and if she’s ever going to get over this unmitigated attraction to him so the awkwardness can end, and if he’s going to kiss her goodnight.
He does brush his lips against her forehead, so lightly that she wouldn’t have noticed if not for the pepper breath, and when she wakes up in the morning, she can’t wipe the grin off of her face.
Chapter 5
It's never a good sign when Faith's home is silent. The last time this had happened, Spike had found Angel unconscious and chained up in the kitchen, where Faith had left him and stormed out after an impromptu attempt at suicide. The time before that, both slayer and vampire had been knocked unconscious by a particularly nasty gaseous demon that had followed them home one night to feed on the daffodils.
Faith is twitchy, just like Spike himself, and while a home of Angel's could be still for days before an intruder would notice the vampire watching him from the corner, Faith's house is constantly convulsing with energy, as explosive as Faith herself. An absence of Faith means an absence of life, and Spike tenses as he pushes the door open, ready for the worst. He's been away nearly a week, devoting his attentions on a futile project, and he's beginning to think that that had been a terrible mistake.
Illyria stands at the top of the loft that is Faith's bedroom, a silent sentinel who blinks at him with a grave air that staggers him. "Inside," she says simply, and steps aside.
He frowns, moving past her without acknowledgement. As he draws closer, honed vampire senses begin to pick up on the telltale signs he's missed before now, distracted by the empty home. Low, ragged breaths. A heartbeat racing far faster than is healthy. A faint moan with every shift.
Something has happened to Faith.
"Faith!" He steps forward, moving toward her bed with renewed worry and frantically surveying the room.
She's lying limp on the bed, her eyes lidded and unfocused, a hand loose in Angel's grip as he crouches beside her. A wet washcloth is pressed to her forehead and her blankets are tangled in a mess at her feet, skin shiny with feverish sweat an explanation for their confiscation.
Angel turns to glare at him, eyes flashing with worry and anger. "Would you keep it down? She's trying to sleep."
"Hey!" Faith protests, and Spike can hear a hoarseness in her voice that's never been quite so evident before. "I'm not an invalid!" She flashes Spike a saucy grin that emerges on her lips as more of a grimace. "Hey, Blondie."
"Like hell you aren't," Angel mutters, flipping the washcloth and bending over her again, his hand moving to stroke the side of her face.
She smiles wanly up at her housemate, closing her hand over his. "Hey. Shut up. I'm a slayer, remember? And I'm the one who can drive your ass crazy, so don't tempt me."
Angel grins at that, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "You just like having me at your beck and call."
Faith opens her mouth to respond, but Spike is nothing if not impatient. "Oi, if you two are done with the flirting-" And he notices with a measure of satisfaction that they both turn to him with twin glowers- "I could use an explanation."
Angel is unamused. "Where have you been all week? Faith's been like this for days."
Spike shrugs. "Doing some work across the pond. There's a slayer that showed up in San Fran, knows our hero and wants her gone. She sent me out to trace her steps, find out where she's been."
"A slayer out for Buffy's blood?" Faith repeats skeptically. "And this is news why?"
"Well, she's tried it before. Dangerous bint, name of Simone?" He sees the recognition on Faith's worn face. "Been tracking her from an island she ran. Bird killed a few of Twilight's old minions and headed to the States, leaving a trail of bodies in her wake."
He feels, rather than sees, the tension suffusing Angel's body with the mention of Twilight. "Who...who was killed?"
Spike rattles off the names, which are less than significant to him. Some generals, several sycophants and formerly loyal...no one particularly notable. Just men who've somehow gotten on Simone's bad side. "Wonky part is, though, we've been keeping an eye out for her in the city. Been out hunting for her instead of vampires with extra neck trauma. And she must be keeping a low profile, because we haven't found her or any victims. S'not her M.O. at all."
"Weird," Faith says thoughtfully. "That doesn't sound like what I've heard of Simone at all."
"Bu-" Spike pauses, glancing at Angel's rigid frame, then decides he doesn't give a damn. "Buffy says Simone used to have a Wicca working with her. Could be that she's found some way to cloak her, even without genuine magic-" He gestures to the door. "Like Smurfette's brand of power. We haven't been able to find out any more."
"Huh." Faith considers it. "Maybe she's dead," she offers, vague optimism giving her face life through the pale sickness.
"We can hope," Spike agrees, and they share a wry grin.
At the lull in the conversation, Angel stands abruptly, "I'm going out. Let me know when you leave," he mumbles to Spike, letting his fingers run through Faith's matted hair one last time.
"You said the B-word and the T-word in one conversation," Faith informs him, rolling her eyes. "He's gone to flog himself. Good thing you didn't talk about flying orgasms, too, because that always has him trying to meet the sun." She snickers humorlessly.
Spike scowls. "Don't much enjoy talking about those, either." He'd taken a house down with Buffy, and had felt pretty good about it. Naturally, the almighty Angel had had to outdo that with a move that no one could top.
It's no wonder that she hasn't been dating since.
"Yeah. You wouldn't." Faith looks at him with knowing eyes that see far too much, and he shifts uncomfortably, focusing on the foot of her bed instead, the rumpled blankets and the book beside them that's obviously Angel's- unless he's been reading Faith Nietzsche as a bedtime story- and the slim, toned legs that any red-blooded male would appreciate-
Wait.
"What happened to you?" He kneels over her leg, inspecting the odd discoloration that he'd caught from afar. "What is this?"
"We figure it's connected to whatever's doing this to me," Faith tells him. "At first, we thought that this was just a virus. Then Angel noticed the markings."
They form a pattern across the length of her left leg, faint and probably difficult to see with ordinary human eyes. He runs a tentative finger down her calf, feeling the vague roughness- interrupted only by a circle of scars, standard fare for a slayer- that marks the latticework's indentation on her skin.
"It's spreading," Faith says quietly. "Every day it goes a little further. Now it's up to my stomach and moving down my other leg."
Spike stares at it unseeingly. "And you don't know what's causing it?"
She manages a wan smile. "When Angel isn't acting like my mother-" She considers. "Well, someone's mother who actually cared- he's researching through Giles's books. Nothing so far." There's a wistfulness in her tone, and he sees it as the unspoken Giles would know and chooses to overlook it.
"'M going to talk to Buffy," He decides, rising. "She'll be mad as hell that I haven't told her about you before, but she'll rally the masses. Organize a research party. Beat this thing."
He turns to leave, but Faith's whispered, "No," stops him in his tracks.
"B...she's got enough on her mind with Simone and these vamps and pretending Angel doesn't exist." Her eyes are pleading when he meets her gaze, her face sealed with determination. "We can take care of this."
"So can we, and the resources we have-"
"Aren't for this," Faith says simply. She sighs. "Look, you and Buffy...mostly Buffy...you have this whole save-the-world thing going on, which is great. But you can't save everyone, and you can't be on top of every single thing that might go wrong, right? Someone else has gotta be fighting the other battles so B can fight her own first."
"She'd want to know." Much as he knows she'd never really gotten along with her sister slayer, she still cares about Faith, and if she finds out that Faith's in trouble and he hadn't told her...
"Not right now." Faith shakes her head. "It's just like a bad fever. Nothing serious."
"A bad fever that lasts days?" Spike asks skeptically, raising an eyebrow at her pallid and drawn face. "I believe that's what even the doctors are calling 'serious.'"
"Just drop it," Faith says tiredly, and he falls silent, not so much because he agrees with her as out of worry for her health. Even with that natural vitality, Faith is looking worn, and he doesn't want to push her further.
He retrieves Angel from outside and watches them half-smilingly from the stairs. Faith's been keeping an eye out for Angel for long enough, making sure he isn't killing himself or drowning and being useful. It's about time that Angel starts taking care of her.
Illyria is gone, but she tends to come and go whenever she feels like it, driven by interest in other matters or boredom with theirs. He wonders fleetingly if she's headed to San Francisco.That'll end well. Buffy doesn't do well with other strong women. Especially those who are stronger than she is.
Nah, she doesn't know where Buffy lives, and even Illyria can't locate one girl in a city of close to a million. He heads back to the ship, relieved, and with a few orders to the bug in charge (or possibly the one that scrubs the toilets. He never can tell them apart), he's off to bed for the duration of the trip.
It's earlier than usual, only a half hour after sundown, when he arrives, and Buffy is already gone, changed from her work clothes and out slaying. He wanders into her bedroom, inhales the scent of pure Buffy mixed with coffee on her discarded top- and hasn't that become his new favorite scent- and snatches her blanket, settling down in front of the TV.
Today he's restless, though, too busy with thoughts of Faith and Simone and his own slayer to focus, and it isn't long before he jumps up and stalks out, grabbing something for the road.
Buffy is toying with a vampire just outside Ridge Falls Cemetery, throwing him away from her each time he gets close enough to touch her. "Idiot vampire. How can you forget a bite like that?" she demands, shoving him backwards. He gawps stupidly.
Spike grins, jumping off his perch on a tree and landing a few feet behind her. "Hello, gorgeous," he drawls, shaking the bag in his hand tantalizingly.
His heart warms at the way her eyes light up at his arrival. "Hey, handsome," she returns, absentmindedly staking the vampire and sinking onto the bench across the path. "Watcha doing here so early?"
He shrugs. "Nothing on TV."
"Is there ever?" She sniffs, her eyes widening. "Oh my god. Did you bring-?"
"Buffalo wings," he confirms, pulling out the container he'd sealed them in. "Microwaved them all by my lonesome."
"Gimme." She swipes at the container, snatching it from his hands and pulling off the cover, sighing blissfully. "Still hot! Have I told you recently that you're my favorite?" She's already attacking the first piece, discarding manners in favor of sating her hunger.
He watches in amusement. "Only when I bring you food."
She hands him the container, snagging another piece before he takes his first. "Stephen was here today, and he throws a hissy fit whenever we touch any of the pastries. I've had nothing in the past ten hours but a cup of coffee." She swallows, tossing him a brilliant smile. "Picnics during patrol. Now why didn't we ever do this before?"
He nods seriously. "Demon ants. Bloody awful nuisances."
She laughs. "Of course." Her brow wrinkles. "We actually had a praying mantis lady once. She tried to bite off Xander's head."
"Good on her. That's a thick skull to try digesting."
She lays her head on his shoulder, licking off her fingers with gusto, and he nearly chokes at the imagery it spawns. It's not his imagination- it'd be easier if it were- but memories that seep down to torment him, memories of that tongue licking, and that mouth sucking, bringing him to heights he'd rarely reached in his hundred and twenty years undead and had never dreamt she'd deliver to him so many times. "Be nice," she's reproving him, but he hears it as though from afar, his eyes and mind glued to her and all he knows she's capable of.
Her pointer finger goes deep into her mouth as she hollows her cheeks around it, pumping in and out and in and out and-
"Coming?" She jumps up, sashaying away with little more than a sidelong glance, but it's more than enough for him to catch the mischief in her eyes.
She's teasing me! he realizes, stunned. It wouldn't be the first time they'd taunted each other shamelessly. The latent attraction is still there, no matter how hard they try to deny it lease, and it's hard to resist some harmless flirting that won't go anywhere, anyway. But a display of sexuality that blatant? Someone's feeling frisky tonight.
He leaves the container on the bench and takes off after her, slinging a friendly arm over her shoulder. "Anything going down tonight?"
She shakes her head. "Not even a rising. Just your standard fare of vampire and demonkind."
“Fun.”
“Mm.”
They wander down the path, senses alert and ready for action, and Buffy leans into him as they move, like lovers enjoying an evening stroll. Fuck. Not lovers, friends…friends who can walk together and flirt playfully and never, never think about a relationship of any kind. Never.
A sound distracts them, an angry roar from the distance, and Buffy takes off, Spike at her heels, her hair flying in front of him and filling his line of vision with a wild, untamed flow of golden blonde. He jogs ahead so he’s running beside her, both of them fierce with determination and thirsting for a fight, and when they finally reach a low clearing boasting a set of Fyarl demons, they jump into the fray as a single spirit possessed, warriors with little knowledge of a world beyond victory.
Each crouches at the other’s back, watching the demons with predatory awareness; and when the demon charges forward they lunge, Buffy to the right and Spike to the left, catching both enemies with natural grace.
They fight together, fall together, rise together, lost to a synchrony that exhilarates and powers on, and the Fyarl are barely a blip to their combined strength. Spike can breathe in Buffy’s sweat and blood and building arousal and he knows that his is just as strong, a fight with a worthy opponent something he’s been sorely missing lately, and he’s almost disappointed when his Fyarl falls to the ground in a bloody mess. He’s pouting down at it when he’s blindsided by a flawlessly executed high kick.
He swings around, seeing the breathless energy on his assailant’s face as she charges in for another attack, and then they’re dancing, same as always, the hits and kicks and punches as well telegraphed as if they’re fighting themselves; Buffy’s going for his face, of course, and he’s using his head as a weapon, slamming it into her chin and sending her reeling backwards.
She drops to the ground and leaps back to her feet, grinning like a madwoman and landing a punch on his gut before he can block it, and he doubles backward, falling, and yanks her down as he drops, unwilling to concede defeat.
Her lips hit his a moment before he hits the ground, and then all he is isBuffyBuffyBuffyOhGodPleaseMoreBuffy! And she’s gasping into his mouth and he’s gasping into hers, and his hands are moving, unbidden, to slide her pants down like he’s done dozens of times before- and fuck him if it isn’t just like he remembers- and she’s grinding against him with complete abandon, crying out his name as bells clang in his head, need and pleasure andnownownowBuffy! converge into-
She’s pulling away and the clanging in his head isn’t dying, and now he realizes that it’s her cell phone and what had nearly just happened. Buffy’s staring at the phone like it’s an indecipherable enigma, and it isn’t until he tries to lift her off of him that she seems to realize that she’s still on top of him. She scrambles away, her chest still heaving with need and want, her eyes wide with horror, and Spike’s relieved and offended at the same time.
Mistake. Of course it’s a mistake, and fighting always makes them lusty, so of course they’d strayed. It can’t happen again, and it won’t. That’s one thing that he knows they both agree on wholeheartedly.
But Buffy doesn’t need to look at him like he’s carrying a communicable disease, he thinks almost resentfully. Her phone goes silent as she continues to stare at him, lips parted and swollen, face flushed with passion, a perfect picture of decadence. And he knows that if they stay like this any longer, no matter how annoyed he is with her disgust, he’s not going to be able to stay away. He’ll be groveling at her feet, begging her for a crumb, years of maturation be damned, and he won’t even care.
As if someone’s heard his silent prayer, the cell phone begins to ring again, its cheerful tone jerking Spike from his musings. Buffy continues to gawk at him, her expression now inscrutable, and he takes a step forward almost automatically.
“Your phone, lov- pe- Buffy,” he finishes lamely.
She starts, blushing furiously. “Oh. Right.” She lifts it to her ear shakily. “H-hello?”
He can see the moment the girl vanishes and the slayer returns in the way her shoulders straighten and her eyes narrow. “We’ll be right there,” she tells the person on the other line, clicks off the phone, and looks up at him, her face set in a mask he doesn’t understand anymore. “It’s Willow. She’s found something.”
Faith is twitchy, just like Spike himself, and while a home of Angel's could be still for days before an intruder would notice the vampire watching him from the corner, Faith's house is constantly convulsing with energy, as explosive as Faith herself. An absence of Faith means an absence of life, and Spike tenses as he pushes the door open, ready for the worst. He's been away nearly a week, devoting his attentions on a futile project, and he's beginning to think that that had been a terrible mistake.
Illyria stands at the top of the loft that is Faith's bedroom, a silent sentinel who blinks at him with a grave air that staggers him. "Inside," she says simply, and steps aside.
He frowns, moving past her without acknowledgement. As he draws closer, honed vampire senses begin to pick up on the telltale signs he's missed before now, distracted by the empty home. Low, ragged breaths. A heartbeat racing far faster than is healthy. A faint moan with every shift.
Something has happened to Faith.
"Faith!" He steps forward, moving toward her bed with renewed worry and frantically surveying the room.
She's lying limp on the bed, her eyes lidded and unfocused, a hand loose in Angel's grip as he crouches beside her. A wet washcloth is pressed to her forehead and her blankets are tangled in a mess at her feet, skin shiny with feverish sweat an explanation for their confiscation.
Angel turns to glare at him, eyes flashing with worry and anger. "Would you keep it down? She's trying to sleep."
"Hey!" Faith protests, and Spike can hear a hoarseness in her voice that's never been quite so evident before. "I'm not an invalid!" She flashes Spike a saucy grin that emerges on her lips as more of a grimace. "Hey, Blondie."
"Like hell you aren't," Angel mutters, flipping the washcloth and bending over her again, his hand moving to stroke the side of her face.
She smiles wanly up at her housemate, closing her hand over his. "Hey. Shut up. I'm a slayer, remember? And I'm the one who can drive your ass crazy, so don't tempt me."
Angel grins at that, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "You just like having me at your beck and call."
Faith opens her mouth to respond, but Spike is nothing if not impatient. "Oi, if you two are done with the flirting-" And he notices with a measure of satisfaction that they both turn to him with twin glowers- "I could use an explanation."
Angel is unamused. "Where have you been all week? Faith's been like this for days."
Spike shrugs. "Doing some work across the pond. There's a slayer that showed up in San Fran, knows our hero and wants her gone. She sent me out to trace her steps, find out where she's been."
"A slayer out for Buffy's blood?" Faith repeats skeptically. "And this is news why?"
"Well, she's tried it before. Dangerous bint, name of Simone?" He sees the recognition on Faith's worn face. "Been tracking her from an island she ran. Bird killed a few of Twilight's old minions and headed to the States, leaving a trail of bodies in her wake."
He feels, rather than sees, the tension suffusing Angel's body with the mention of Twilight. "Who...who was killed?"
Spike rattles off the names, which are less than significant to him. Some generals, several sycophants and formerly loyal...no one particularly notable. Just men who've somehow gotten on Simone's bad side. "Wonky part is, though, we've been keeping an eye out for her in the city. Been out hunting for her instead of vampires with extra neck trauma. And she must be keeping a low profile, because we haven't found her or any victims. S'not her M.O. at all."
"Weird," Faith says thoughtfully. "That doesn't sound like what I've heard of Simone at all."
"Bu-" Spike pauses, glancing at Angel's rigid frame, then decides he doesn't give a damn. "Buffy says Simone used to have a Wicca working with her. Could be that she's found some way to cloak her, even without genuine magic-" He gestures to the door. "Like Smurfette's brand of power. We haven't been able to find out any more."
"Huh." Faith considers it. "Maybe she's dead," she offers, vague optimism giving her face life through the pale sickness.
"We can hope," Spike agrees, and they share a wry grin.
At the lull in the conversation, Angel stands abruptly, "I'm going out. Let me know when you leave," he mumbles to Spike, letting his fingers run through Faith's matted hair one last time.
"You said the B-word and the T-word in one conversation," Faith informs him, rolling her eyes. "He's gone to flog himself. Good thing you didn't talk about flying orgasms, too, because that always has him trying to meet the sun." She snickers humorlessly.
Spike scowls. "Don't much enjoy talking about those, either." He'd taken a house down with Buffy, and had felt pretty good about it. Naturally, the almighty Angel had had to outdo that with a move that no one could top.
It's no wonder that she hasn't been dating since.
"Yeah. You wouldn't." Faith looks at him with knowing eyes that see far too much, and he shifts uncomfortably, focusing on the foot of her bed instead, the rumpled blankets and the book beside them that's obviously Angel's- unless he's been reading Faith Nietzsche as a bedtime story- and the slim, toned legs that any red-blooded male would appreciate-
Wait.
"What happened to you?" He kneels over her leg, inspecting the odd discoloration that he'd caught from afar. "What is this?"
"We figure it's connected to whatever's doing this to me," Faith tells him. "At first, we thought that this was just a virus. Then Angel noticed the markings."
They form a pattern across the length of her left leg, faint and probably difficult to see with ordinary human eyes. He runs a tentative finger down her calf, feeling the vague roughness- interrupted only by a circle of scars, standard fare for a slayer- that marks the latticework's indentation on her skin.
"It's spreading," Faith says quietly. "Every day it goes a little further. Now it's up to my stomach and moving down my other leg."
Spike stares at it unseeingly. "And you don't know what's causing it?"
She manages a wan smile. "When Angel isn't acting like my mother-" She considers. "Well, someone's mother who actually cared- he's researching through Giles's books. Nothing so far." There's a wistfulness in her tone, and he sees it as the unspoken Giles would know and chooses to overlook it.
"'M going to talk to Buffy," He decides, rising. "She'll be mad as hell that I haven't told her about you before, but she'll rally the masses. Organize a research party. Beat this thing."
He turns to leave, but Faith's whispered, "No," stops him in his tracks.
"B...she's got enough on her mind with Simone and these vamps and pretending Angel doesn't exist." Her eyes are pleading when he meets her gaze, her face sealed with determination. "We can take care of this."
"So can we, and the resources we have-"
"Aren't for this," Faith says simply. She sighs. "Look, you and Buffy...mostly Buffy...you have this whole save-the-world thing going on, which is great. But you can't save everyone, and you can't be on top of every single thing that might go wrong, right? Someone else has gotta be fighting the other battles so B can fight her own first."
"She'd want to know." Much as he knows she'd never really gotten along with her sister slayer, she still cares about Faith, and if she finds out that Faith's in trouble and he hadn't told her...
"Not right now." Faith shakes her head. "It's just like a bad fever. Nothing serious."
"A bad fever that lasts days?" Spike asks skeptically, raising an eyebrow at her pallid and drawn face. "I believe that's what even the doctors are calling 'serious.'"
"Just drop it," Faith says tiredly, and he falls silent, not so much because he agrees with her as out of worry for her health. Even with that natural vitality, Faith is looking worn, and he doesn't want to push her further.
He retrieves Angel from outside and watches them half-smilingly from the stairs. Faith's been keeping an eye out for Angel for long enough, making sure he isn't killing himself or drowning and being useful. It's about time that Angel starts taking care of her.
Illyria is gone, but she tends to come and go whenever she feels like it, driven by interest in other matters or boredom with theirs. He wonders fleetingly if she's headed to San Francisco.That'll end well. Buffy doesn't do well with other strong women. Especially those who are stronger than she is.
Nah, she doesn't know where Buffy lives, and even Illyria can't locate one girl in a city of close to a million. He heads back to the ship, relieved, and with a few orders to the bug in charge (or possibly the one that scrubs the toilets. He never can tell them apart), he's off to bed for the duration of the trip.
It's earlier than usual, only a half hour after sundown, when he arrives, and Buffy is already gone, changed from her work clothes and out slaying. He wanders into her bedroom, inhales the scent of pure Buffy mixed with coffee on her discarded top- and hasn't that become his new favorite scent- and snatches her blanket, settling down in front of the TV.
Today he's restless, though, too busy with thoughts of Faith and Simone and his own slayer to focus, and it isn't long before he jumps up and stalks out, grabbing something for the road.
Buffy is toying with a vampire just outside Ridge Falls Cemetery, throwing him away from her each time he gets close enough to touch her. "Idiot vampire. How can you forget a bite like that?" she demands, shoving him backwards. He gawps stupidly.
Spike grins, jumping off his perch on a tree and landing a few feet behind her. "Hello, gorgeous," he drawls, shaking the bag in his hand tantalizingly.
His heart warms at the way her eyes light up at his arrival. "Hey, handsome," she returns, absentmindedly staking the vampire and sinking onto the bench across the path. "Watcha doing here so early?"
He shrugs. "Nothing on TV."
"Is there ever?" She sniffs, her eyes widening. "Oh my god. Did you bring-?"
"Buffalo wings," he confirms, pulling out the container he'd sealed them in. "Microwaved them all by my lonesome."
"Gimme." She swipes at the container, snatching it from his hands and pulling off the cover, sighing blissfully. "Still hot! Have I told you recently that you're my favorite?" She's already attacking the first piece, discarding manners in favor of sating her hunger.
He watches in amusement. "Only when I bring you food."
She hands him the container, snagging another piece before he takes his first. "Stephen was here today, and he throws a hissy fit whenever we touch any of the pastries. I've had nothing in the past ten hours but a cup of coffee." She swallows, tossing him a brilliant smile. "Picnics during patrol. Now why didn't we ever do this before?"
He nods seriously. "Demon ants. Bloody awful nuisances."
She laughs. "Of course." Her brow wrinkles. "We actually had a praying mantis lady once. She tried to bite off Xander's head."
"Good on her. That's a thick skull to try digesting."
She lays her head on his shoulder, licking off her fingers with gusto, and he nearly chokes at the imagery it spawns. It's not his imagination- it'd be easier if it were- but memories that seep down to torment him, memories of that tongue licking, and that mouth sucking, bringing him to heights he'd rarely reached in his hundred and twenty years undead and had never dreamt she'd deliver to him so many times. "Be nice," she's reproving him, but he hears it as though from afar, his eyes and mind glued to her and all he knows she's capable of.
Her pointer finger goes deep into her mouth as she hollows her cheeks around it, pumping in and out and in and out and-
"Coming?" She jumps up, sashaying away with little more than a sidelong glance, but it's more than enough for him to catch the mischief in her eyes.
She's teasing me! he realizes, stunned. It wouldn't be the first time they'd taunted each other shamelessly. The latent attraction is still there, no matter how hard they try to deny it lease, and it's hard to resist some harmless flirting that won't go anywhere, anyway. But a display of sexuality that blatant? Someone's feeling frisky tonight.
He leaves the container on the bench and takes off after her, slinging a friendly arm over her shoulder. "Anything going down tonight?"
She shakes her head. "Not even a rising. Just your standard fare of vampire and demonkind."
“Fun.”
“Mm.”
They wander down the path, senses alert and ready for action, and Buffy leans into him as they move, like lovers enjoying an evening stroll. Fuck. Not lovers, friends…friends who can walk together and flirt playfully and never, never think about a relationship of any kind. Never.
A sound distracts them, an angry roar from the distance, and Buffy takes off, Spike at her heels, her hair flying in front of him and filling his line of vision with a wild, untamed flow of golden blonde. He jogs ahead so he’s running beside her, both of them fierce with determination and thirsting for a fight, and when they finally reach a low clearing boasting a set of Fyarl demons, they jump into the fray as a single spirit possessed, warriors with little knowledge of a world beyond victory.
Each crouches at the other’s back, watching the demons with predatory awareness; and when the demon charges forward they lunge, Buffy to the right and Spike to the left, catching both enemies with natural grace.
They fight together, fall together, rise together, lost to a synchrony that exhilarates and powers on, and the Fyarl are barely a blip to their combined strength. Spike can breathe in Buffy’s sweat and blood and building arousal and he knows that his is just as strong, a fight with a worthy opponent something he’s been sorely missing lately, and he’s almost disappointed when his Fyarl falls to the ground in a bloody mess. He’s pouting down at it when he’s blindsided by a flawlessly executed high kick.
He swings around, seeing the breathless energy on his assailant’s face as she charges in for another attack, and then they’re dancing, same as always, the hits and kicks and punches as well telegraphed as if they’re fighting themselves; Buffy’s going for his face, of course, and he’s using his head as a weapon, slamming it into her chin and sending her reeling backwards.
She drops to the ground and leaps back to her feet, grinning like a madwoman and landing a punch on his gut before he can block it, and he doubles backward, falling, and yanks her down as he drops, unwilling to concede defeat.
Her lips hit his a moment before he hits the ground, and then all he is isBuffyBuffyBuffyOhGodPleaseMoreBuffy! And she’s gasping into his mouth and he’s gasping into hers, and his hands are moving, unbidden, to slide her pants down like he’s done dozens of times before- and fuck him if it isn’t just like he remembers- and she’s grinding against him with complete abandon, crying out his name as bells clang in his head, need and pleasure andnownownowBuffy! converge into-
She’s pulling away and the clanging in his head isn’t dying, and now he realizes that it’s her cell phone and what had nearly just happened. Buffy’s staring at the phone like it’s an indecipherable enigma, and it isn’t until he tries to lift her off of him that she seems to realize that she’s still on top of him. She scrambles away, her chest still heaving with need and want, her eyes wide with horror, and Spike’s relieved and offended at the same time.
Mistake. Of course it’s a mistake, and fighting always makes them lusty, so of course they’d strayed. It can’t happen again, and it won’t. That’s one thing that he knows they both agree on wholeheartedly.
But Buffy doesn’t need to look at him like he’s carrying a communicable disease, he thinks almost resentfully. Her phone goes silent as she continues to stare at him, lips parted and swollen, face flushed with passion, a perfect picture of decadence. And he knows that if they stay like this any longer, no matter how annoyed he is with her disgust, he’s not going to be able to stay away. He’ll be groveling at her feet, begging her for a crumb, years of maturation be damned, and he won’t even care.
As if someone’s heard his silent prayer, the cell phone begins to ring again, its cheerful tone jerking Spike from his musings. Buffy continues to gawk at him, her expression now inscrutable, and he takes a step forward almost automatically.
“Your phone, lov- pe- Buffy,” he finishes lamely.
She starts, blushing furiously. “Oh. Right.” She lifts it to her ear shakily. “H-hello?”
He can see the moment the girl vanishes and the slayer returns in the way her shoulders straighten and her eyes narrow. “We’ll be right there,” she tells the person on the other line, clicks off the phone, and looks up at him, her face set in a mask he doesn’t understand anymore. “It’s Willow. She’s found something.”
Chapter 6
She can feel his stare burning into her, searing her to her very core and inflaming her with its intensity. She can’t turn, can’t meet his eyes- not when all she’ll see in them is disgust and anger, not when she can’t bear to face his disapproval. It would break her.
So instead, she stares straight ahead, nodding mechanically at his mumbled words and muttering something about washing up. For a vehicle that had made it to Italy and back in less than a day, Spike’s ship is going to take a surprisingly lengthy two or three hours to LA, where the main offices of Willow’s tech firm are located. But she doesn’t question it, not this time, just hurries to the bathroom with gratitude that she’ll have some time to compose herself.
She yanks off her clothing as though they’re poison, climbs into the shower, braces her hands against the wall, and sobs her heart out.
She’s ruined it again.
Bitter disappointment mingles with horror and fury. She's screwed it up again. When will she learn? When will she stop clinging so hard to the people she's lost before, jumping them against common sense and dealing with the inevitably horrific consequences?
And Spike...why does she always ruin everything with him, destroy that tenuous bond they've forged with nothing more or less than a kiss? She cares about him too much to lose him for the promise of destructive romance. And she knows better than to think that he'd be up for it.
They'd been caught up in the moment for minutes, maybe longer, and both of them had been reduced to gibbering messes, that old passion they'd never been able to find with anyone else rising up to overwhelm them again. And amidst that incoherence, that empty babbling that Spike had always been prone to, he had never once let slip the words I love you.
Her sobbing begins anew, tears of utter desolation spilling down with the shower water. She'd lost him. And it shouldn't leave her so devastated- she isn't a schoolgirl with a crush, has never been one when it comes to Spike- but that love had meantsomething, and now that it's gone she can't help but feel bereft.
This is the most she's cried since Gi- since before the funeral, and with that thought she stops, suddenly ashamed. What is she doing, crying that Spike doesn't love her- that Spike might not even like her anymore? It's not as though she wants something between them, anyway; and since when does Buffy Summers, Vampire Slayer, break down over something as meaningless as romance? She'd locked those parts of herself away long ago, committing herself to a higher cause, and that's one thing she's rarely regretted. No matter how much she cares about Spike and sorrows at what might be the end of their tentative friendship, it's not worth turning into a bawling mess in his shower.
She turns her face up to the water determinedly, letting it wash away her tears; and by the time she escapes the comfort of the shower, she's breathing easily and all business. Her composure nearly shatters when she emerges from the shower and sees Spike reading silently on his bed, but she manages a tight smile and tries not to focus on the fact that, for the first time since she's started taking advantage of the magnificent water pressure on Spike's ship, his eyes aren't raking her up and down in her bathrobe and the leer is absent from his face.
"Long shower," he grunts, his eyes fixed on his book.
She swallows. "Sorry."
"S'fine."
"Thanks." There's an awkward pause that Spike doesn't seem to notice, and she lets out a frustrated huff and snatches her spare top from his closet. "How much further?"
"An hour."
"An hour!" It had taken him only six to make it all the way to Italy when he'd been hunting Simone.
"S'a land flight," Spike informs her. "M'not leaving the atmosphere and coming back in for such a short trip." He glances up for the first time since she'd emerged. "I don't know why you're so surprised. We've done this trip before."
"It felt shorter last time," she mumbles, and the amusement in his voice comes as a relief.
"Well, you haven't started with the primping yet, love. That always speeds things up."
As does being able to talk to you without a big honkin' elephant in the room, she thinks. Instead, she tosses him a scornful look and stalks back into the bathroom with a haughty step to go dry her hair.
She’s halfway through applying her mascara when she hears a soft “Buffy?” from just behind her.
She whirls around, her heart pounding, mentally cursing her unconscious reliance on the deceptive mirror in front of her. “God, Spike, lurk much?” she demands.
He runs his fingers through his hair sheepishly. There’s a nervous energy that thrums around him, keeping him on edge and welcome to her. He’s unsure, too, and it feels natural. “I…uh…sorry. It’s just…” His eyes say what his words don’t, the worry that their friendship has been shattered foremost in his mind, too.
“Hey.” She pats him on the arm, struggling to keep it playful. “Forget about it. It doesn’t matter.”
In her mind’s eye, his face darkens, he demands, This means nothing to you? and then he’s kissing her again, his lips harsh and punishing and utterly intoxicating, and she takes him in, gasping out her feelings- feelings she doesn’t want to contemplate even in her thoughts- and is pulled into a warm embrace as he returns them.
In reality, he tugs her hair playfully, the relief suffusing his features simultaneously calming and dismaying her. “Alright.”
She smiles with him, the old insecurities washing over her again. He’d rather forget, of course. Rather pretend that it had never happened. And why wouldn’t he? He doesn’t love her anymore, doesn’t want those complications.
Neither do you, she reminds herself forcefully. You don’t want any of this.
But watching Spike grin and steal her makeup, loudly contemplating taking up guyliner again and tossing her more of those tentative beams, it’s getting harder and harder to persuade herself of that fact.
--
Willow works out in Silicon Valley, but whatever she’s found is in LA in a silver skyscraper just a half a mile from Ang- from the Wolfram and Hart headquarters, and Buffy studiously avoids asking Spike how he knows the area so well. She doesn’t want to hear about that year, doesn’t want to remember that it exists right now and what it’s stolen away from her, so instead, she follows Spike’s path through the trees and doesn’t speak until they’ve landed on the roof of the building with a gentle thump.
Willow’s already waiting by the door, a stubby little man in a suit beside her. He smiles at them with a gentleness that’s incongruous for someone as corporate as he, and Buffy can feel Spike’s twitchiness at that.
“Mr. Orkanel,” Willow introduces him. “My boss.”
“Oh!” Buffy’s eyes round in surprise. “Sorry about the…” She gestures vaguely at the ship.
“Not a problem,” Mr. Orkanel smiles again, and there’s a vaguely familiar serenity about it that makes Buffy look to Willow curiously. “I admit, I merely wanted an opportunity to see the brave young woman who saved us all.” His eyes move to Spike. “And her vampire consort.”
Spike lets out an unamused grunt, and Buffy yelps, "No! Just friend! No consortiness at all!" to Mr. Orkanel's sudden dismay.
"My apologies. I'd heard so much about you, and I'd only assumed..."
"Orkanel was an adjunct from Althenea's coven," Willow says hastily. "We...uh, we met after Tara." She tosses him a grin. "He wasn't with our people during the last fiasco because he'd been building up this company. But after everything that happened, he called me and offered me a job here."
"I remembered Willow had a way with computers," Orkanel says fondly, and Buffy finally places his serenity as the characteristic Wiccan attitude around slayers. She’s often suspected it’s more of a defense mechanism than anything, a way to keep calm around so many volatile girls, but on Orkanel, it almost seems real.
"And you wanted her?" Spike says from beside her, earning a sharp nudge for his tone. "Best friend of the girl who took your magic away in the first place?"
Buffy tenses. It's a good question, one that’s been niggling at the back of her head. Why had he seemed pleased to meet her, when she'd been certain that the magic users of the world despised her?
But Orkanel looks at her with a quiet sort of sympathy that seems to understand her completely, and, for only the second time since she'd betrayed the world, someone tells her, "Destroying the Seed? You did what you had to do. It was the only option."
No. No, it couldn't have been. It's why nobody talks about it, why Dawn and Xander avoid the topic and why Willow won't discuss her plans to undo it. No one wants to blame her outright, but everyone knows that it's all her mess.
Everyone except her personal cheering squad-the vampire tense beside her- and a man who'd clearly never heard the first part to that story. Who’d never heard of the horrors that she’d very nearly unleashed on the world, that the girl held responsible for averting apocalypses was the one to bring the worst one forth. Who doesn’t know that he’s paying the price for her sins.
Spike's fingers curl around her wrist in warning, and it's probably a good idea to listen to him instead of spilling all to the high-powered executive who's lost his powers thanks to her stupidity in unleashing Twilight. She gives him a small nod and focuses on Willow. "You said you had something to show us?"
"Right." Willow's been staring at her with eyes that know far too much, and they both shift, uncomfortable with that knowledge.
They don't talk, not like they used to. Not now that Willow’s lost everything that matters because of her. Not now that there are secrets between them. It's been a long time since they watched the sunset together and talked about Willow's plans for the future, a long time since the distance spanning the place between their worlds was last crossed.
It hurts. And she can't tell that to Willow, because the last time she'd poured her heart out to Willow, the witch had just patted her hand awkwardly and told her in a disturbingly patronizing tone that she was imagining it. That it was because she’s lost Xander and Dawn to each other, and now she was transferring her neediness to Willow. She'd been in a foul mood for days afterwards, taking it out on Spike until he'd lost patience and slammed her against the wall repeatedly until she'd promised to talk about it. She'd gotten a call from her landlord the next day repeating several complaints and requesting that she keep her "liaisons" a bit quieter from then on, and she hadn't been able to look directly at Spike for days.
She peeks at him now, sees that he's gazing at her worriedly. He always knows when she's contemplating what she's lost, can always see it in her gaze. She manages a weak smile for him, forcing it into something faux-friendlier for Willow, and slides her hand upwards to squeeze his own in reassurance.
"Thanks, Orkanel. I'll see you later," Willow murmurs, her eyes zeroing in on where Buffy's palm is clasped against Spike's hand. Buffy drops it hastily, blushing deep crimson, and Spike rolls his eyes at her with a complete lack of patience. She tosses him her best pleading expression and he melts, whatever annoyance has been eating at him gone for good, and only Willow's voice is enough to remind Buffy that now is not the time to be sharing moments with Spike.
"It's downstairs." She leads them to the rooftop elevator, punching in a code to get it open.
There is never a time to be sharing moments with Spike. Not anymore. She remembers his kisses wistfully, the wild abandon with which she'd let herself go completely. It's the little things she remembers most clearly. Spike's hand twining itself into her hair, yanking her ponytail free to get at the object of his fascination. How soft his lips are against her own. How much harder they seem when he's attacking her neck. He'd always tamped down that particular oral fixation back in Sunnydale, and she'd assumed that it was because he’s been afraid that she'd reject him, but she'd always known; because the moment he'd fall asleep when she'd still been in the crypt, his mouth would be at her neck, nuzzling and kissing and even, on one or two occasions that had had her frozen with indecision, nibbling with blunt human teeth. She would never mention it the next time she'd see him, unwilling to disclose the fact that the closeness to a slayer's anathema, the flirtation with death that it felt like, could be so potent to her.
Tonight, he'd had no such compunctions. He'd gone for her neck with rapid eagerness, quick to find that pain-pleasure that she'd always needed and never doubting that she'd accept it. And tonight, his teeth at her neck had felt like life.
"So...uh...are you two...?" Willow's speaking again, jerking Buffy out of her Spike-induced reverie and back to the present.
She glances at Spike. "Oh. N-no." Her voice quavers on the "No," and she feels, rather than sees, Spike take a careful step away from her. Gee, I'm sorry I'm so unlovable, she thinks irritably, glaring at him for a moment. He looks away.
"Sorry," Willow murmurs, and there's that quiet understanding again that shakes Buffy. "Uh...we're here."
The elevator flashes "B3" and stops with a loud buzzer that makes Buffy jump.
"We're here," Willow repeats. "She's...she's over in that corner." She gestures vaguely to somewhere on the other end of the empty parking lot. "When Orkanel brought me here to take a look, I didn't recognize her at first, not with the...well, you'll see. But that hair..." She shakes her head. "We both agreed not to get police involved. There's too much we can't explain."
"Simone," Spike murmurs, striding toward the corner Willow has indicated. "You found her?"
"Are you sure it's-" Buffy begins, but Spike cuts her off immediately.
"Think I can sense dead slayer, slayer."
"Dead!" She breaks into a run and they both halt abruptly, frozen by the sight before them. It is Simone, but Buffy can see why it had taken Willow a while to figure it out. The tattoos she'd noticed at the coffeeshop, running down her hands and fingers in a dark lattice, are now even more defined, black and glaring against skin pallid with death. They've crept up her neck, too, halting just past the edges of her face, slightly indenting the skin below them and marking it angrily.
"Fuck me," Spike breathes, and there's a quiet horror in his voice that would have struck her as odd if she weren't so focused on the body before her.
Simone had been...well, Simone had been different. Twisted. Evil, and she'd done it with powers bestowed upon her. She isn't one of the good guys.
But something had killed her, and while she can't bring herself to mourn Simone, dread overcomes her at the idea of a new threat that can take down a slayer, bit by bit, and all from the inside. And there are thousands of slayers she can't warn or defend, thousands of slayers who don't want her help when she's the only one who can give it.
"I've been looking over those markings for hours," Willow explains from behind her. "It looked like...it looked a little like magic. But I don't think it is," she added hastily. "For one thing...hey, impossible?" She spreads her hands disarmingly, even as the tension in the parking lot ratchets up another level. "And I've never seen anything quite like it before, even in books."
"Simone had a friend," Buffy remembers. "Another slayer. If we can find her, she might know something."
"I'll talk to Orkanel, see if we can try to lure her out. This Simone thing doesn't make sense, though. Wasn't she after you?" Willow's brow is furrowed in confusion. "Then why was she wandering LA?"
“I don’t know, maybe she had someone to shoot here first? It could-“
“Buffy.” The voice is strangled, as though it’s too much effort for him to even get the words out, and she turns immediately to face Spike, his tone unsettling her.
The look on his face sends a cold dread through her, the sudden awareness that something is about to change for the worse chilling her to silence. Guilt. It’s all over Spike’s countenance, clear and dangerous and ready to shatter her. “What have you done?” she whispers.
He turns to speak to Willow, and that burns more than anything else that’s happened today. “Faith has the same markings on her leg. They’re barely visible, but they’re spreading.”
“You’ve been keeping up with Faith?” Willow asks curiously. “I didn’t know that.”
Spike ignores the question. “She’s sick. I was there earlier today and she looked like death.” He shudders, staring back down at the body. “It starts early, then.”
“But Simone was able to make it in to threaten Buffy,” Willow points out. “How’d she look, Buffy? Did she seem about-to-drop-y?” She pauses. “Buffy?”
She hears Willow’s question but doesn’t respond, too fixated on Spike. Spike, who doesn’t love her. Spike, whose mysterious daytime trysts are with Faith, Faith, who’s the last hero of the slayers, who made it through the apocalypse without causing any of her own- recently, anyway- who has all of Giles’s worldly possessions and the broken vampire she used to love more than anything and now… now Spike, the one last person in the world that she had trusted unconditionally, has been spending his free time with her, too.
She isn’t sure what hurts more, that it’s Faith or that he’s been keeping this from her. Is Buffy just an afterthought, someone he drops in on nightly to pay his duties before heading back to his real life in England? ‘Lo, I’m back, just had to catch up on what good ol’ Buffy’s doing. Nah, nothing important. This is where the real action is.
She’s being irrational. She knows that. But this is a betrayal she’d never expected, not from Spike. Not from this Spike. He doesn’t hurt her. He’s promised that. He’s never promised that he would never lie to her, never hide things from her, even things that would invariably hurt her if she’d discovered them.
And in that, her trust’s been misplaced, and she can’t even think about this anymore.
She lifts her chin, her throat very dry, and croaks out, “You need to go.”
Spike’s eyes are narrowed, but she can see something else below the hostility. Is it fear? Sorrow? Guilt? “Buffy, there’s more at stake here than-“
She cuts him off swiftly. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Will you now?” Spike demands. Willow mumbles something about checking the body and bends over Simone, her hair falling in front of her face as a shield. “You can’t shut me out. What’ll you do, chase after vampires, and pretend that Faith and Angel don’t exist?” She flinches, and he repeats the name. “Angel. You can’t even say it! And as enjoyable as that was at first, there’s more at stake now than your lovers’ quarrel!” He throws up his hands in frustration. “Faith’s in trouble, and you’re going to-“
She doesn’t want to argue anymore, doesn’t want to hear him talking about Faith and friends like they’re the crux of his existence. “Just go, Spike,” she murmurs. “I need…I need to work with people I can trust.”
He stops his diatribe short, his face a mask of hurt. She stares at him, knowing that he can see the pained betrayal on her face, too. Knowing that he’ll see that she means this.
He reaches for her, hands outstretched and toward her shoulders, and she doesn’t know what he’s going to do but she wonders with faint hope if this’ll be reassurance enough to forget all this and return to how they were before tonight and everything might just be okay… but then his fingers brush her shoulders and she flinches.
It’s a minute twitch, borne of a split second wondering again just how close he is to Faith, but it’s enough, and they both know it. Spike’s eyes close with weary defeat, and he bends to brush a kiss against her forehead. “This isn’t over,” he promises, and she glares at him silently, unable to think beyond the feel of his lips on her and the nagging question of who else those lips have touched recently. He must have seen some of that in her eyes, because suddenly he’s arching an eyebrow at her skeptically and it’s so much easier to hate him when he’s acting like none of it matters, and then he swings around, mutters something in Willow’s ear, and stalks off toward the stairs.
She watches him go silently, and then there’s Willow’s arm hanging loosely around her waist, supporting her the way that she’s done so many times before it all went to hell, and she sags against her old best friend again.
“He’s right,” she mutters. “I hate it when he’s right.”
Willow pats her side affectionately. “Come on. I promised Spike I’d give you a ride home, and then you need to figure out what you’re going to do about Faith. “
You. And there’s the difference between Spike and everyone else in her life.
With Spike it’s always we.
So instead, she stares straight ahead, nodding mechanically at his mumbled words and muttering something about washing up. For a vehicle that had made it to Italy and back in less than a day, Spike’s ship is going to take a surprisingly lengthy two or three hours to LA, where the main offices of Willow’s tech firm are located. But she doesn’t question it, not this time, just hurries to the bathroom with gratitude that she’ll have some time to compose herself.
She yanks off her clothing as though they’re poison, climbs into the shower, braces her hands against the wall, and sobs her heart out.
She’s ruined it again.
Bitter disappointment mingles with horror and fury. She's screwed it up again. When will she learn? When will she stop clinging so hard to the people she's lost before, jumping them against common sense and dealing with the inevitably horrific consequences?
And Spike...why does she always ruin everything with him, destroy that tenuous bond they've forged with nothing more or less than a kiss? She cares about him too much to lose him for the promise of destructive romance. And she knows better than to think that he'd be up for it.
They'd been caught up in the moment for minutes, maybe longer, and both of them had been reduced to gibbering messes, that old passion they'd never been able to find with anyone else rising up to overwhelm them again. And amidst that incoherence, that empty babbling that Spike had always been prone to, he had never once let slip the words I love you.
Her sobbing begins anew, tears of utter desolation spilling down with the shower water. She'd lost him. And it shouldn't leave her so devastated- she isn't a schoolgirl with a crush, has never been one when it comes to Spike- but that love had meantsomething, and now that it's gone she can't help but feel bereft.
This is the most she's cried since Gi- since before the funeral, and with that thought she stops, suddenly ashamed. What is she doing, crying that Spike doesn't love her- that Spike might not even like her anymore? It's not as though she wants something between them, anyway; and since when does Buffy Summers, Vampire Slayer, break down over something as meaningless as romance? She'd locked those parts of herself away long ago, committing herself to a higher cause, and that's one thing she's rarely regretted. No matter how much she cares about Spike and sorrows at what might be the end of their tentative friendship, it's not worth turning into a bawling mess in his shower.
She turns her face up to the water determinedly, letting it wash away her tears; and by the time she escapes the comfort of the shower, she's breathing easily and all business. Her composure nearly shatters when she emerges from the shower and sees Spike reading silently on his bed, but she manages a tight smile and tries not to focus on the fact that, for the first time since she's started taking advantage of the magnificent water pressure on Spike's ship, his eyes aren't raking her up and down in her bathrobe and the leer is absent from his face.
"Long shower," he grunts, his eyes fixed on his book.
She swallows. "Sorry."
"S'fine."
"Thanks." There's an awkward pause that Spike doesn't seem to notice, and she lets out a frustrated huff and snatches her spare top from his closet. "How much further?"
"An hour."
"An hour!" It had taken him only six to make it all the way to Italy when he'd been hunting Simone.
"S'a land flight," Spike informs her. "M'not leaving the atmosphere and coming back in for such a short trip." He glances up for the first time since she'd emerged. "I don't know why you're so surprised. We've done this trip before."
"It felt shorter last time," she mumbles, and the amusement in his voice comes as a relief.
"Well, you haven't started with the primping yet, love. That always speeds things up."
As does being able to talk to you without a big honkin' elephant in the room, she thinks. Instead, she tosses him a scornful look and stalks back into the bathroom with a haughty step to go dry her hair.
She’s halfway through applying her mascara when she hears a soft “Buffy?” from just behind her.
She whirls around, her heart pounding, mentally cursing her unconscious reliance on the deceptive mirror in front of her. “God, Spike, lurk much?” she demands.
He runs his fingers through his hair sheepishly. There’s a nervous energy that thrums around him, keeping him on edge and welcome to her. He’s unsure, too, and it feels natural. “I…uh…sorry. It’s just…” His eyes say what his words don’t, the worry that their friendship has been shattered foremost in his mind, too.
“Hey.” She pats him on the arm, struggling to keep it playful. “Forget about it. It doesn’t matter.”
In her mind’s eye, his face darkens, he demands, This means nothing to you? and then he’s kissing her again, his lips harsh and punishing and utterly intoxicating, and she takes him in, gasping out her feelings- feelings she doesn’t want to contemplate even in her thoughts- and is pulled into a warm embrace as he returns them.
In reality, he tugs her hair playfully, the relief suffusing his features simultaneously calming and dismaying her. “Alright.”
She smiles with him, the old insecurities washing over her again. He’d rather forget, of course. Rather pretend that it had never happened. And why wouldn’t he? He doesn’t love her anymore, doesn’t want those complications.
Neither do you, she reminds herself forcefully. You don’t want any of this.
But watching Spike grin and steal her makeup, loudly contemplating taking up guyliner again and tossing her more of those tentative beams, it’s getting harder and harder to persuade herself of that fact.
--
Willow works out in Silicon Valley, but whatever she’s found is in LA in a silver skyscraper just a half a mile from Ang- from the Wolfram and Hart headquarters, and Buffy studiously avoids asking Spike how he knows the area so well. She doesn’t want to hear about that year, doesn’t want to remember that it exists right now and what it’s stolen away from her, so instead, she follows Spike’s path through the trees and doesn’t speak until they’ve landed on the roof of the building with a gentle thump.
Willow’s already waiting by the door, a stubby little man in a suit beside her. He smiles at them with a gentleness that’s incongruous for someone as corporate as he, and Buffy can feel Spike’s twitchiness at that.
“Mr. Orkanel,” Willow introduces him. “My boss.”
“Oh!” Buffy’s eyes round in surprise. “Sorry about the…” She gestures vaguely at the ship.
“Not a problem,” Mr. Orkanel smiles again, and there’s a vaguely familiar serenity about it that makes Buffy look to Willow curiously. “I admit, I merely wanted an opportunity to see the brave young woman who saved us all.” His eyes move to Spike. “And her vampire consort.”
Spike lets out an unamused grunt, and Buffy yelps, "No! Just friend! No consortiness at all!" to Mr. Orkanel's sudden dismay.
"My apologies. I'd heard so much about you, and I'd only assumed..."
"Orkanel was an adjunct from Althenea's coven," Willow says hastily. "We...uh, we met after Tara." She tosses him a grin. "He wasn't with our people during the last fiasco because he'd been building up this company. But after everything that happened, he called me and offered me a job here."
"I remembered Willow had a way with computers," Orkanel says fondly, and Buffy finally places his serenity as the characteristic Wiccan attitude around slayers. She’s often suspected it’s more of a defense mechanism than anything, a way to keep calm around so many volatile girls, but on Orkanel, it almost seems real.
"And you wanted her?" Spike says from beside her, earning a sharp nudge for his tone. "Best friend of the girl who took your magic away in the first place?"
Buffy tenses. It's a good question, one that’s been niggling at the back of her head. Why had he seemed pleased to meet her, when she'd been certain that the magic users of the world despised her?
But Orkanel looks at her with a quiet sort of sympathy that seems to understand her completely, and, for only the second time since she'd betrayed the world, someone tells her, "Destroying the Seed? You did what you had to do. It was the only option."
No. No, it couldn't have been. It's why nobody talks about it, why Dawn and Xander avoid the topic and why Willow won't discuss her plans to undo it. No one wants to blame her outright, but everyone knows that it's all her mess.
Everyone except her personal cheering squad-the vampire tense beside her- and a man who'd clearly never heard the first part to that story. Who’d never heard of the horrors that she’d very nearly unleashed on the world, that the girl held responsible for averting apocalypses was the one to bring the worst one forth. Who doesn’t know that he’s paying the price for her sins.
Spike's fingers curl around her wrist in warning, and it's probably a good idea to listen to him instead of spilling all to the high-powered executive who's lost his powers thanks to her stupidity in unleashing Twilight. She gives him a small nod and focuses on Willow. "You said you had something to show us?"
"Right." Willow's been staring at her with eyes that know far too much, and they both shift, uncomfortable with that knowledge.
They don't talk, not like they used to. Not now that Willow’s lost everything that matters because of her. Not now that there are secrets between them. It's been a long time since they watched the sunset together and talked about Willow's plans for the future, a long time since the distance spanning the place between their worlds was last crossed.
It hurts. And she can't tell that to Willow, because the last time she'd poured her heart out to Willow, the witch had just patted her hand awkwardly and told her in a disturbingly patronizing tone that she was imagining it. That it was because she’s lost Xander and Dawn to each other, and now she was transferring her neediness to Willow. She'd been in a foul mood for days afterwards, taking it out on Spike until he'd lost patience and slammed her against the wall repeatedly until she'd promised to talk about it. She'd gotten a call from her landlord the next day repeating several complaints and requesting that she keep her "liaisons" a bit quieter from then on, and she hadn't been able to look directly at Spike for days.
She peeks at him now, sees that he's gazing at her worriedly. He always knows when she's contemplating what she's lost, can always see it in her gaze. She manages a weak smile for him, forcing it into something faux-friendlier for Willow, and slides her hand upwards to squeeze his own in reassurance.
"Thanks, Orkanel. I'll see you later," Willow murmurs, her eyes zeroing in on where Buffy's palm is clasped against Spike's hand. Buffy drops it hastily, blushing deep crimson, and Spike rolls his eyes at her with a complete lack of patience. She tosses him her best pleading expression and he melts, whatever annoyance has been eating at him gone for good, and only Willow's voice is enough to remind Buffy that now is not the time to be sharing moments with Spike.
"It's downstairs." She leads them to the rooftop elevator, punching in a code to get it open.
There is never a time to be sharing moments with Spike. Not anymore. She remembers his kisses wistfully, the wild abandon with which she'd let herself go completely. It's the little things she remembers most clearly. Spike's hand twining itself into her hair, yanking her ponytail free to get at the object of his fascination. How soft his lips are against her own. How much harder they seem when he's attacking her neck. He'd always tamped down that particular oral fixation back in Sunnydale, and she'd assumed that it was because he’s been afraid that she'd reject him, but she'd always known; because the moment he'd fall asleep when she'd still been in the crypt, his mouth would be at her neck, nuzzling and kissing and even, on one or two occasions that had had her frozen with indecision, nibbling with blunt human teeth. She would never mention it the next time she'd see him, unwilling to disclose the fact that the closeness to a slayer's anathema, the flirtation with death that it felt like, could be so potent to her.
Tonight, he'd had no such compunctions. He'd gone for her neck with rapid eagerness, quick to find that pain-pleasure that she'd always needed and never doubting that she'd accept it. And tonight, his teeth at her neck had felt like life.
"So...uh...are you two...?" Willow's speaking again, jerking Buffy out of her Spike-induced reverie and back to the present.
She glances at Spike. "Oh. N-no." Her voice quavers on the "No," and she feels, rather than sees, Spike take a careful step away from her. Gee, I'm sorry I'm so unlovable, she thinks irritably, glaring at him for a moment. He looks away.
"Sorry," Willow murmurs, and there's that quiet understanding again that shakes Buffy. "Uh...we're here."
The elevator flashes "B3" and stops with a loud buzzer that makes Buffy jump.
"We're here," Willow repeats. "She's...she's over in that corner." She gestures vaguely to somewhere on the other end of the empty parking lot. "When Orkanel brought me here to take a look, I didn't recognize her at first, not with the...well, you'll see. But that hair..." She shakes her head. "We both agreed not to get police involved. There's too much we can't explain."
"Simone," Spike murmurs, striding toward the corner Willow has indicated. "You found her?"
"Are you sure it's-" Buffy begins, but Spike cuts her off immediately.
"Think I can sense dead slayer, slayer."
"Dead!" She breaks into a run and they both halt abruptly, frozen by the sight before them. It is Simone, but Buffy can see why it had taken Willow a while to figure it out. The tattoos she'd noticed at the coffeeshop, running down her hands and fingers in a dark lattice, are now even more defined, black and glaring against skin pallid with death. They've crept up her neck, too, halting just past the edges of her face, slightly indenting the skin below them and marking it angrily.
"Fuck me," Spike breathes, and there's a quiet horror in his voice that would have struck her as odd if she weren't so focused on the body before her.
Simone had been...well, Simone had been different. Twisted. Evil, and she'd done it with powers bestowed upon her. She isn't one of the good guys.
But something had killed her, and while she can't bring herself to mourn Simone, dread overcomes her at the idea of a new threat that can take down a slayer, bit by bit, and all from the inside. And there are thousands of slayers she can't warn or defend, thousands of slayers who don't want her help when she's the only one who can give it.
"I've been looking over those markings for hours," Willow explains from behind her. "It looked like...it looked a little like magic. But I don't think it is," she added hastily. "For one thing...hey, impossible?" She spreads her hands disarmingly, even as the tension in the parking lot ratchets up another level. "And I've never seen anything quite like it before, even in books."
"Simone had a friend," Buffy remembers. "Another slayer. If we can find her, she might know something."
"I'll talk to Orkanel, see if we can try to lure her out. This Simone thing doesn't make sense, though. Wasn't she after you?" Willow's brow is furrowed in confusion. "Then why was she wandering LA?"
“I don’t know, maybe she had someone to shoot here first? It could-“
“Buffy.” The voice is strangled, as though it’s too much effort for him to even get the words out, and she turns immediately to face Spike, his tone unsettling her.
The look on his face sends a cold dread through her, the sudden awareness that something is about to change for the worse chilling her to silence. Guilt. It’s all over Spike’s countenance, clear and dangerous and ready to shatter her. “What have you done?” she whispers.
He turns to speak to Willow, and that burns more than anything else that’s happened today. “Faith has the same markings on her leg. They’re barely visible, but they’re spreading.”
“You’ve been keeping up with Faith?” Willow asks curiously. “I didn’t know that.”
Spike ignores the question. “She’s sick. I was there earlier today and she looked like death.” He shudders, staring back down at the body. “It starts early, then.”
“But Simone was able to make it in to threaten Buffy,” Willow points out. “How’d she look, Buffy? Did she seem about-to-drop-y?” She pauses. “Buffy?”
She hears Willow’s question but doesn’t respond, too fixated on Spike. Spike, who doesn’t love her. Spike, whose mysterious daytime trysts are with Faith, Faith, who’s the last hero of the slayers, who made it through the apocalypse without causing any of her own- recently, anyway- who has all of Giles’s worldly possessions and the broken vampire she used to love more than anything and now… now Spike, the one last person in the world that she had trusted unconditionally, has been spending his free time with her, too.
She isn’t sure what hurts more, that it’s Faith or that he’s been keeping this from her. Is Buffy just an afterthought, someone he drops in on nightly to pay his duties before heading back to his real life in England? ‘Lo, I’m back, just had to catch up on what good ol’ Buffy’s doing. Nah, nothing important. This is where the real action is.
She’s being irrational. She knows that. But this is a betrayal she’d never expected, not from Spike. Not from this Spike. He doesn’t hurt her. He’s promised that. He’s never promised that he would never lie to her, never hide things from her, even things that would invariably hurt her if she’d discovered them.
And in that, her trust’s been misplaced, and she can’t even think about this anymore.
She lifts her chin, her throat very dry, and croaks out, “You need to go.”
Spike’s eyes are narrowed, but she can see something else below the hostility. Is it fear? Sorrow? Guilt? “Buffy, there’s more at stake here than-“
She cuts him off swiftly. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Will you now?” Spike demands. Willow mumbles something about checking the body and bends over Simone, her hair falling in front of her face as a shield. “You can’t shut me out. What’ll you do, chase after vampires, and pretend that Faith and Angel don’t exist?” She flinches, and he repeats the name. “Angel. You can’t even say it! And as enjoyable as that was at first, there’s more at stake now than your lovers’ quarrel!” He throws up his hands in frustration. “Faith’s in trouble, and you’re going to-“
She doesn’t want to argue anymore, doesn’t want to hear him talking about Faith and friends like they’re the crux of his existence. “Just go, Spike,” she murmurs. “I need…I need to work with people I can trust.”
He stops his diatribe short, his face a mask of hurt. She stares at him, knowing that he can see the pained betrayal on her face, too. Knowing that he’ll see that she means this.
He reaches for her, hands outstretched and toward her shoulders, and she doesn’t know what he’s going to do but she wonders with faint hope if this’ll be reassurance enough to forget all this and return to how they were before tonight and everything might just be okay… but then his fingers brush her shoulders and she flinches.
It’s a minute twitch, borne of a split second wondering again just how close he is to Faith, but it’s enough, and they both know it. Spike’s eyes close with weary defeat, and he bends to brush a kiss against her forehead. “This isn’t over,” he promises, and she glares at him silently, unable to think beyond the feel of his lips on her and the nagging question of who else those lips have touched recently. He must have seen some of that in her eyes, because suddenly he’s arching an eyebrow at her skeptically and it’s so much easier to hate him when he’s acting like none of it matters, and then he swings around, mutters something in Willow’s ear, and stalks off toward the stairs.
She watches him go silently, and then there’s Willow’s arm hanging loosely around her waist, supporting her the way that she’s done so many times before it all went to hell, and she sags against her old best friend again.
“He’s right,” she mutters. “I hate it when he’s right.”
Willow pats her side affectionately. “Come on. I promised Spike I’d give you a ride home, and then you need to figure out what you’re going to do about Faith. “
You. And there’s the difference between Spike and everyone else in her life.
With Spike it’s always we.
Chapter 7
She’s been in this room before, standing over this bed and speaking in riddles that don’t make sense until long after. She’s made the bed hundreds of times with her sister at her side. She’s thought little of it, most of the time.
But this time, the girl she remembers standing opposite her is lying on the bed, eyes wide and trusting- such an odd expression for her- and her body still and rigid, dark marks patterning across her skin and her clothes and climbing rapidly toward her face. “Gotta go, B.”
“It’s not what you think,” she hears her voice protesting. “We have no choice. There’s nothing here.”
“There’s more there than here,” Faith agrees, but it sounds more like an argument. “It’s why we live. It’s why we die. Do you see it?”
She follows Faith’s gaze to the doorway, where their two vampires stand watch, eyes fixed on the girl in the bed. Buffy doesn’t step forward because she knows she can’t, not while the bed stands between them. “I don’t.”
“Look harder,” Angel growls, and his voice sends a low shiver down her spine. She squints at him, past him, and catches sight of two yellow eyes, long, narrow slits glaring directly at her. She stumbles backwards, and there’s Spike, his hands resting on her back, supporting her steadily. His arms don’t encircle her, don’t take her in, and she senses that this fact isn’t as important as her body seems to think.
“It’s wrong,” Faith whispers. “But it shouldn’t be.”
She stares at her sister slayer, stares at Angel and Spike in the doorway as the Spike at her back remains, stares at the set of eyes before her, and wakes up with a start as her alarm blares in her ears.
“Dammit,” she mutters, the faces of her dream still fresh in her mind. She’d gotten back late last night, going home with Willow meaning that they had to wait for Orkanel to wrap up his work for the night before they were all flown back on the company jet, and Buffy hadn’t been able to sleep on the way back, too caught up in her roiling thoughts to focus on napping.
Yes, it was a moronic, callous move on Spike’s part to hold out on her, to carry on a secret life that he must have known would hurt her. If he’d only said something…mentioned it beforehand…if she’d had some warning…
No. She sighs, pulling herself out of bed. She wouldn’t have been happy with it even if she’d known what Spike was up to. She couldn’t stop him, no, but she wouldn’t have trusted him the same way, wouldn’t have put all her faith and friendship in someone so involved with the last two people in the world she wants to see.
Maybe it would have been better that way.
She toys with the idea of skipping work and getting some more sleep, but the thought of being alone with her thoughts today is a terrifying prospect.
Because as much as Spike had screwed up, she’d done worse. Faith’s life is in danger, and all she’d been focused on yesterday had been pushing away the one person who could help her help Faith. As many issues as she and Faith have, she doesn’t want to see her dead, not like Simone is. She can’t lose anyone else.
She can’t lose Spike.
Her thoughts are moving in circles now, caught between Faith, and Spike, and Faith and Spike, and Faith, and Spike, and back again until she’s staring determinedly at her reflection in the bathroom mirror and willing away her confusion.
I don’t want Spike, she recites to herself. I don’t care if Faith wants him. I don’t care that Spike’s been spending all his time with Faith and him.
I care that he didn’t tell me.
And yet, she still can’t put them all out of her mind at work that day, can’t help imagining the cozy scene between the three of them in Gi… in Giles’s old place, laughing together and researching and murmuring to each other how petty she’s being by sending Spike away. They won’t hate her- there’s too much complication there for hate- but whatever little bits of respect had remained before now would be long gone, even from Spike.
She touches her forehead, remembering his final goodbye to her the night before. It hadn’t seemed like he was finished with her. And this is Spike. He might not love her anymore- and she still feels a pang at that- but she can’t imagine a world where he’d give up on her like this, all because of one argument.
He’ll be back. He has to be. And they’ll figure out what’s wrong with Faith together.
--
It's with careful optimism that she heads back to her apartment after work. She's worked a late shift today, and while Spike won't always be waiting outside for her, he's just as likely to be lounging around in her apartment, watching the Discovery Channel with rapt fascination and eating her out of chips and home.
She screws up her face in disgust, hoping against hope that he isn't using blood as a dip again. Last time, she'd yelled at him for eating salsa on the couch, only to fire up even more when she'd peered into his bowl and realized that it wasn't salsa. And while he'd grinned unrepentantly last time and told her she was cute when she was angry (and hadn't that infuriated her even more), today is more tenuous, the comfort gone and replaced with tension. If she berates him today, he might not come back.
She inhales deeply and unlocks the door, plastering a smile onto her face. "Don’t tell me, it’s sharks again?" she wonders with forced cheeriness, heading for the couch.
The empty, untouched couch.
"Ohh..." she moans, sinking down onto it. "Spike?" she tries, glancing around as though he might be hiding behind the couch.
Crap. The kitchen is untouched, her bowl of cereal still on the table- and Spike always cleans that up, complaining about the smell of the milk- and the three bags of blood she'd defrosted this morning still in a pile at the bottom of the fridge.
It's possible that he just hasn't come yet, right? It's only a few hours after dark, and Spike's been known to lag before. Or maybe he's just as tense as she is and he's lurking on the roof, waiting for her to go patrol so they can skip the pesky talking part.
But that's not like talks-your-ass-off Spike at all, a nagging voice in her head reminds her. She ignores it, glancing warily at the fire escape.
No. If that's how he wants to play it, she's not going to feed into this by confronting him on the roof. She's going to go out and do her job, whether or not she's just lost her best friend. Slayerhood comes first. That's never going to change.
She changes quickly, shaking her head at how much of her thoughts are consumed by Spike. Even back when she and Willow had been close, when Xander had been her eternal support, she'd never given them as much thought as she always has Spike, since the year she'd returned from the dead.
He's always been there on the periphery of her reflections, whether she's been wrapped up in the idea of finding him so he can use those nimble fingers to make her troubles disappear, or, much later, coming to terms with the intensity of her lo- of herfeelings for him. There had been little she'd given her full attention to, those last months in Sunnydale, other than The First and her vampire companion. Maybe that had been why the potentials had hated her, why G-Giles hadn't had faith in her. And she'd forced both out of her mind after Sunnydale, her sole focuses on building an army and rebuilding her relationships, little time for a vampire it had hurt to think of.
And then he'd returned, and she'd jumped right back into that dangerous pit of Spike-thoughts so quickly that they had taken her aback. And the more he remains with her, the more he invades her dreams of the present and the future, her everyday life, her mind and soul...
There had been a time when that would have given Spike hope he wouldn't have been able to conceal, given him more ammunition in the "Buffy-love-me" brigade. Now, though, there's no more self-deception on either of their parts. There's no place for love in their friendship, just this caring that overwhelms Buffy sometimes with how deep within her it runs. Just the kind of relationship where she never gets bored of him, where he can brighten her day just by showing up, where she'd never admit it aloud, but she wants nothing more than to be comforted in his arms when she's in pieces...
She shifts from side to side, uncomfortable with her thoughts, and it's with immeasurable relief that she catches sight of a Gnarash demon up ahead tossing around tombstones and bellowing happily.
She hurls herself into the fray, beating at the scaly demon with practiced skill and refusing to wonder why Spike hadn't joined her yet. He'll come. He always comes. Not that I care, she adds hastily, smirking at her own contrariness.
The Gnarash's tail whips out to catch her and she takes advantage of the ploy to be shoved backwards, somersaulting against the wall of a crypt, pushing off, and propelling herself through the air toward his head, knife-first.
He bellows in pain and tries to shake her off, but she twists her knife and he's cut short, melting into a puddle of purple goo below her.
She falls with the demon, too quickly to move away, and before she can hiss out an "Oh, shi-", she's covered in sticky goo, the foot and knee where she’s landed in a crouch so deep in it that she needs to struggle to get free.
Well. Tonight's just getting better and better, isn't it?
And then she catches sight of a shifting pile of freshly filled dirt, and there's a fledgling and two other vampires to deal with before she can worry about how awful the goo is, and soon after that, a nasty-looking demon she can't identify keeps her distracted with sizzling fireballs it's blowing from its mouths and by the time that's done, she's bloody and charred and the goo has evaporated away.
"Self-cleaning demons. I like," she comments, wandering down the road that connects to the next cemetery. There's a howl up ahead and she races forward, grateful for some more mindless violence in favor of brooding over a no-show. Which she is not doing. Not. At all.
She comes in to a brawl between what looks like two Korash demons, a Vor'nisker, and three vampires, all of whom turn to stare at her the moment she appears. "Slayer," one growls, and then they're charging at her all at once with the mindless fury that almost always works to her advantage.
Almost.
She wistfully recalls the Scythe and its long reach as she snatches her knife and her stake, slashing open one Korash's innards on her right as she dusts a vampire on her left and kicks at the second Korash straight ahead, letting out a strangled gasp when he slices at her knee with a long claw. The second vampire backs away immediately, and she can see his wary face and the circular bites along his neck illuminated in a streetlamp before he tears off.
The Vor'nisker has taken advantage of her assault on the second Korash to finish what it started, and now the two demons are tussling on the ground. She casts one last glance at them both and makes a hasty decision, following the marked vampire across the path and through the streets.
The vampire gapes over his shoulder and speeds up, darting around the edge of the closest crypt and taking off in the opposite direction of Buffy’s apartment, toward the dark construction sites and empty lots that she’s never seen the need to patrol. But she’ll take any distraction she can get tonight, so she ignores the throbbing pain in her knee and follows him at top speed, dodging poles and sliding through fences until they’re deep in areas Buffy’s never before ventured to, areas where the back of her neck crawls from the vampire activity around her, where there’s a strange prickling sensation in her stomach and a sudden, instinctive terror that startles her in its primal awareness.
And suddenly, the vampire’s hurtling back toward her, eyes wide in panic, and she’s so startled by its return that it’s able to shove her aside and flee easily before she can turn to stop it. “Hey! What’s-“
There’s a low roar and her heart starts pounding, the incomprehensible terror stronger than before. Something’s coming, something enormous and terrifying and dangerous…
It appears, climbing over a small shed and roaring again, all wild brown fur and long yellow fangs, and her dazed first thought is,Oh. So that’s what it is, because its teeth are at the end of a long snout and in the perfect circular pattern that she recognizes from the necks of tens of vampires.
Her second thought is borne of an ancient sort of terror that speaks only one word in her mind, over and over again.
Run!
She stumbles backwards, struggling to remain calm, and reaches for her knife- and she’s regretting leaving her crossbow behind tonight now more than ever- trying to keep her shaky arms still long enough that she can get a good grip on it. She can’t see much more of the demon, not like this, just that slavering mouth and those yellow slits glaring out at her beyond it, and if she gets a shot…
She throws the knife, but the shot is wobbly, and she barely nicks the side of its mouth before the knife falls to the side and the creature lets out a furious howl, charging forward at her.
Run!
This time, she yields to the terror, trying to get her petrified body to move faster and more nimbly, but the creature’s too close, its teeth are snapping at her boot, biting through the rubber and millimeters away from her foot, and she slides to the ground, unable to flee anymore.
The demon lets go of her boot and rises above her menacingly, its massive form illuminated in the bright beams of the ship behind it, and she tenses, waiting for its next attack. She’s not done yet, even if her stomach has dropped long ago and her whole body is quivering with fear. It’s just a demon. It’s just a demon, she reminds her body forcefully as the creature rears back to attack, blocking out the ship’s lights-
Wait.
The ship’s-
Her eyes narrow and the quiet calm of a potentially fatal decision made falls over her, just strong enough to give the terror pause. She can do this. If she has backup, she can… Spike, that had better be you, because if I die over this, I’m so gonna kick your ass.
And she shoots up and head-butts the demon on the side of his jaw, putting all her force behind the blow, enough to budge the massive creature above her and shut herself down completely.
Concussion, she thinks dazedly, sinking to the ground. Spike?
And everything goes black.
But this time, the girl she remembers standing opposite her is lying on the bed, eyes wide and trusting- such an odd expression for her- and her body still and rigid, dark marks patterning across her skin and her clothes and climbing rapidly toward her face. “Gotta go, B.”
“It’s not what you think,” she hears her voice protesting. “We have no choice. There’s nothing here.”
“There’s more there than here,” Faith agrees, but it sounds more like an argument. “It’s why we live. It’s why we die. Do you see it?”
She follows Faith’s gaze to the doorway, where their two vampires stand watch, eyes fixed on the girl in the bed. Buffy doesn’t step forward because she knows she can’t, not while the bed stands between them. “I don’t.”
“Look harder,” Angel growls, and his voice sends a low shiver down her spine. She squints at him, past him, and catches sight of two yellow eyes, long, narrow slits glaring directly at her. She stumbles backwards, and there’s Spike, his hands resting on her back, supporting her steadily. His arms don’t encircle her, don’t take her in, and she senses that this fact isn’t as important as her body seems to think.
“It’s wrong,” Faith whispers. “But it shouldn’t be.”
She stares at her sister slayer, stares at Angel and Spike in the doorway as the Spike at her back remains, stares at the set of eyes before her, and wakes up with a start as her alarm blares in her ears.
“Dammit,” she mutters, the faces of her dream still fresh in her mind. She’d gotten back late last night, going home with Willow meaning that they had to wait for Orkanel to wrap up his work for the night before they were all flown back on the company jet, and Buffy hadn’t been able to sleep on the way back, too caught up in her roiling thoughts to focus on napping.
Yes, it was a moronic, callous move on Spike’s part to hold out on her, to carry on a secret life that he must have known would hurt her. If he’d only said something…mentioned it beforehand…if she’d had some warning…
No. She sighs, pulling herself out of bed. She wouldn’t have been happy with it even if she’d known what Spike was up to. She couldn’t stop him, no, but she wouldn’t have trusted him the same way, wouldn’t have put all her faith and friendship in someone so involved with the last two people in the world she wants to see.
Maybe it would have been better that way.
She toys with the idea of skipping work and getting some more sleep, but the thought of being alone with her thoughts today is a terrifying prospect.
Because as much as Spike had screwed up, she’d done worse. Faith’s life is in danger, and all she’d been focused on yesterday had been pushing away the one person who could help her help Faith. As many issues as she and Faith have, she doesn’t want to see her dead, not like Simone is. She can’t lose anyone else.
She can’t lose Spike.
Her thoughts are moving in circles now, caught between Faith, and Spike, and Faith and Spike, and Faith, and Spike, and back again until she’s staring determinedly at her reflection in the bathroom mirror and willing away her confusion.
I don’t want Spike, she recites to herself. I don’t care if Faith wants him. I don’t care that Spike’s been spending all his time with Faith and him.
I care that he didn’t tell me.
And yet, she still can’t put them all out of her mind at work that day, can’t help imagining the cozy scene between the three of them in Gi… in Giles’s old place, laughing together and researching and murmuring to each other how petty she’s being by sending Spike away. They won’t hate her- there’s too much complication there for hate- but whatever little bits of respect had remained before now would be long gone, even from Spike.
She touches her forehead, remembering his final goodbye to her the night before. It hadn’t seemed like he was finished with her. And this is Spike. He might not love her anymore- and she still feels a pang at that- but she can’t imagine a world where he’d give up on her like this, all because of one argument.
He’ll be back. He has to be. And they’ll figure out what’s wrong with Faith together.
--
It's with careful optimism that she heads back to her apartment after work. She's worked a late shift today, and while Spike won't always be waiting outside for her, he's just as likely to be lounging around in her apartment, watching the Discovery Channel with rapt fascination and eating her out of chips and home.
She screws up her face in disgust, hoping against hope that he isn't using blood as a dip again. Last time, she'd yelled at him for eating salsa on the couch, only to fire up even more when she'd peered into his bowl and realized that it wasn't salsa. And while he'd grinned unrepentantly last time and told her she was cute when she was angry (and hadn't that infuriated her even more), today is more tenuous, the comfort gone and replaced with tension. If she berates him today, he might not come back.
She inhales deeply and unlocks the door, plastering a smile onto her face. "Don’t tell me, it’s sharks again?" she wonders with forced cheeriness, heading for the couch.
The empty, untouched couch.
"Ohh..." she moans, sinking down onto it. "Spike?" she tries, glancing around as though he might be hiding behind the couch.
Crap. The kitchen is untouched, her bowl of cereal still on the table- and Spike always cleans that up, complaining about the smell of the milk- and the three bags of blood she'd defrosted this morning still in a pile at the bottom of the fridge.
It's possible that he just hasn't come yet, right? It's only a few hours after dark, and Spike's been known to lag before. Or maybe he's just as tense as she is and he's lurking on the roof, waiting for her to go patrol so they can skip the pesky talking part.
But that's not like talks-your-ass-off Spike at all, a nagging voice in her head reminds her. She ignores it, glancing warily at the fire escape.
No. If that's how he wants to play it, she's not going to feed into this by confronting him on the roof. She's going to go out and do her job, whether or not she's just lost her best friend. Slayerhood comes first. That's never going to change.
She changes quickly, shaking her head at how much of her thoughts are consumed by Spike. Even back when she and Willow had been close, when Xander had been her eternal support, she'd never given them as much thought as she always has Spike, since the year she'd returned from the dead.
He's always been there on the periphery of her reflections, whether she's been wrapped up in the idea of finding him so he can use those nimble fingers to make her troubles disappear, or, much later, coming to terms with the intensity of her lo- of herfeelings for him. There had been little she'd given her full attention to, those last months in Sunnydale, other than The First and her vampire companion. Maybe that had been why the potentials had hated her, why G-Giles hadn't had faith in her. And she'd forced both out of her mind after Sunnydale, her sole focuses on building an army and rebuilding her relationships, little time for a vampire it had hurt to think of.
And then he'd returned, and she'd jumped right back into that dangerous pit of Spike-thoughts so quickly that they had taken her aback. And the more he remains with her, the more he invades her dreams of the present and the future, her everyday life, her mind and soul...
There had been a time when that would have given Spike hope he wouldn't have been able to conceal, given him more ammunition in the "Buffy-love-me" brigade. Now, though, there's no more self-deception on either of their parts. There's no place for love in their friendship, just this caring that overwhelms Buffy sometimes with how deep within her it runs. Just the kind of relationship where she never gets bored of him, where he can brighten her day just by showing up, where she'd never admit it aloud, but she wants nothing more than to be comforted in his arms when she's in pieces...
She shifts from side to side, uncomfortable with her thoughts, and it's with immeasurable relief that she catches sight of a Gnarash demon up ahead tossing around tombstones and bellowing happily.
She hurls herself into the fray, beating at the scaly demon with practiced skill and refusing to wonder why Spike hadn't joined her yet. He'll come. He always comes. Not that I care, she adds hastily, smirking at her own contrariness.
The Gnarash's tail whips out to catch her and she takes advantage of the ploy to be shoved backwards, somersaulting against the wall of a crypt, pushing off, and propelling herself through the air toward his head, knife-first.
He bellows in pain and tries to shake her off, but she twists her knife and he's cut short, melting into a puddle of purple goo below her.
She falls with the demon, too quickly to move away, and before she can hiss out an "Oh, shi-", she's covered in sticky goo, the foot and knee where she’s landed in a crouch so deep in it that she needs to struggle to get free.
Well. Tonight's just getting better and better, isn't it?
And then she catches sight of a shifting pile of freshly filled dirt, and there's a fledgling and two other vampires to deal with before she can worry about how awful the goo is, and soon after that, a nasty-looking demon she can't identify keeps her distracted with sizzling fireballs it's blowing from its mouths and by the time that's done, she's bloody and charred and the goo has evaporated away.
"Self-cleaning demons. I like," she comments, wandering down the road that connects to the next cemetery. There's a howl up ahead and she races forward, grateful for some more mindless violence in favor of brooding over a no-show. Which she is not doing. Not. At all.
She comes in to a brawl between what looks like two Korash demons, a Vor'nisker, and three vampires, all of whom turn to stare at her the moment she appears. "Slayer," one growls, and then they're charging at her all at once with the mindless fury that almost always works to her advantage.
Almost.
She wistfully recalls the Scythe and its long reach as she snatches her knife and her stake, slashing open one Korash's innards on her right as she dusts a vampire on her left and kicks at the second Korash straight ahead, letting out a strangled gasp when he slices at her knee with a long claw. The second vampire backs away immediately, and she can see his wary face and the circular bites along his neck illuminated in a streetlamp before he tears off.
The Vor'nisker has taken advantage of her assault on the second Korash to finish what it started, and now the two demons are tussling on the ground. She casts one last glance at them both and makes a hasty decision, following the marked vampire across the path and through the streets.
The vampire gapes over his shoulder and speeds up, darting around the edge of the closest crypt and taking off in the opposite direction of Buffy’s apartment, toward the dark construction sites and empty lots that she’s never seen the need to patrol. But she’ll take any distraction she can get tonight, so she ignores the throbbing pain in her knee and follows him at top speed, dodging poles and sliding through fences until they’re deep in areas Buffy’s never before ventured to, areas where the back of her neck crawls from the vampire activity around her, where there’s a strange prickling sensation in her stomach and a sudden, instinctive terror that startles her in its primal awareness.
And suddenly, the vampire’s hurtling back toward her, eyes wide in panic, and she’s so startled by its return that it’s able to shove her aside and flee easily before she can turn to stop it. “Hey! What’s-“
There’s a low roar and her heart starts pounding, the incomprehensible terror stronger than before. Something’s coming, something enormous and terrifying and dangerous…
It appears, climbing over a small shed and roaring again, all wild brown fur and long yellow fangs, and her dazed first thought is,Oh. So that’s what it is, because its teeth are at the end of a long snout and in the perfect circular pattern that she recognizes from the necks of tens of vampires.
Her second thought is borne of an ancient sort of terror that speaks only one word in her mind, over and over again.
Run!
She stumbles backwards, struggling to remain calm, and reaches for her knife- and she’s regretting leaving her crossbow behind tonight now more than ever- trying to keep her shaky arms still long enough that she can get a good grip on it. She can’t see much more of the demon, not like this, just that slavering mouth and those yellow slits glaring out at her beyond it, and if she gets a shot…
She throws the knife, but the shot is wobbly, and she barely nicks the side of its mouth before the knife falls to the side and the creature lets out a furious howl, charging forward at her.
Run!
This time, she yields to the terror, trying to get her petrified body to move faster and more nimbly, but the creature’s too close, its teeth are snapping at her boot, biting through the rubber and millimeters away from her foot, and she slides to the ground, unable to flee anymore.
The demon lets go of her boot and rises above her menacingly, its massive form illuminated in the bright beams of the ship behind it, and she tenses, waiting for its next attack. She’s not done yet, even if her stomach has dropped long ago and her whole body is quivering with fear. It’s just a demon. It’s just a demon, she reminds her body forcefully as the creature rears back to attack, blocking out the ship’s lights-
Wait.
The ship’s-
Her eyes narrow and the quiet calm of a potentially fatal decision made falls over her, just strong enough to give the terror pause. She can do this. If she has backup, she can… Spike, that had better be you, because if I die over this, I’m so gonna kick your ass.
And she shoots up and head-butts the demon on the side of his jaw, putting all her force behind the blow, enough to budge the massive creature above her and shut herself down completely.
Concussion, she thinks dazedly, sinking to the ground. Spike?
And everything goes black.
Chapter 8
April's going to be a bit busy for me, so I'm not sure how regular updates will be, but we should be back on schedule for May.
This wasn't an easy chapter to write, and I'd appreciate any feedback you can give me. :)
***************
Her eyes are still glued shut when she awakens, and she doesn’t dare open them to find out where she is, if she’s half dead on the floor or in a hospital somewhere hooked into an IV. But the ground below her is soft and…okay, bed-like, and she recognizes Spike’s distinctive scent hanging over her surroundings. I’m alive. Oh. That’s good.
She keeps her eyes closed, squirming into a more comfortable position, and demands, “Where were you?”
“Where was I?” Spike’s disbelieving voice retorts from somewhere on her left. “That’s what you have to say for yourself? What the sodding hell did you think you were doing, taking on that…thing? What reignited death wish could have possibly possessed you to- to try to-“ He falls silent, and she opens her eyes with reluctance, staring up at him.
Vampire visage aside, he looks remarkably pale and drawn, fear and dread and fury all whirling around in his expression as he glares at her. And that irritates her far more than it should, because what right does he have to be mad at her when- “Well, it’s not like I had any willing backup! And I knew that you’d get me out of there once I drove that thing back. How many bug ships are stalking me in San Fran?”
A shadow crosses his face, but he brushes it aside quickly in favor of rolling his eyes at her. "Yeah, because I never show up. Sing me another tune, slayer."
She glares at him, unamused. "You weren't here tonight! I waited-" She stops abruptly, fixing her eyes on the wall behind him. He doesn't get to hear this, not now that he's let her down. Not now that he's going to act like she's to blame for his absence.
Which, yeah, she is, but of the few things in life she's been confident she can take advantage of, Spike ranks near the top of the list. It's the world they've descended into, snark and swagger and soft acceptance, and Spike had broken the rules. He hadn't come.
He's regarding her with narrowed eyes when she turns back to him. "Fair enough," he says grudgingly, simmering anger rising up to the surface. "But you're the one who wanted me to stay away. You told me you didn't want me here anymore!"
"I didn't mean it!" she snaps back. "Well, I meant it at the time, but not afterward- okay, not the whole time afterward- and..and...and why would you take me seriously, anyway?" she splutters.
Spike stares at her, momentarily speechless- and isn't that a miracle- and then, unexpectedly, he snickers.
She glares at him, her ire rising at his mirth, but there's something about Spike laughing that's always made her breath catch in her throat, and when she recovers from that, she thinks about what she’s just snapped and him and lets out a snort of laughter of her own, and then they're both dissolving into hysterics together, Spike without a hint of anger and she with more than a little self-mockery. "Talk about mixed signals!" she gasps out, tears of mirth slipping down her face and catching onto her hair.
Spike brushes away the damp strands absently, his eyes still shining with laughter. "'m used to it from you. Don't let it stop me."
Oh. She stops laughing abruptly, the reminder of old times sobering her at once. "I could have used you today," she says quietly, praying that he'll take it for the apology it is. "You're...I count on you." It's hard to confess that even now, after a year rebuilding a friendship that couldn- shouldn't be more. She's gotten too used to keeping her feelings from Spike, too wary of the way he'd have once used them as a weapon or shrugged them off to be honest with him. But she's not going to repeat old mistakes, not going to continue with awkwardness and painful distance until Spike turns his full focus on Faith and-
Unresolved issues much? She winces. Spike isn't Gi... Giles. But she knows better than to waste away another relationship until another man she...she cares about is lying dead before her with only the slightest reconciliation before he's gone. She can't afford to do that again, especially when it's Spike and they've danced this dance before.
He shifts forward in the chair he's wrapped around- her chair, and she realizes very suddenly that she's sitting in his bed for the first time in a year and the images that are coming to her are just as rapid and where is my brain today? as last time- to cup her cheek. "No, I shouldn't have kept it from you, pet. 'was my fault."
She shrugs, trying not think about how close he is. The back of his chair serves as a barrier between them, a reminder that she can't cross that line again, and she brushes away the intrusive desires, annoyed at herself. This is why his bed is off-limits.
She forces a scowl and struggles to remember what he'd just said. "Yeah, it was," she agrees cheerfully, tossing her hair.
"Oi!" He jerks up at that. "No, it wasn't! 'm just trying to be the bigger..." He sees the laughter in her eyes and glares. "You're scrambling my melon, aren't you?"
She scrunches up her nose. “What does that even mean?” She scoots backward, far enough away from him that she can think again. "I know. I overreacted. But you know I have Faith issues."
"Yeah." He gazes silently at her, his expression remorseful but determined. "'m not going to stop going there now. 'm needed."
"Needed?" she repeats dubiously. "Since when are you and Faith such good buddies, anyway? You barely even spoke to her when you came back. What could have possibly prompted you to go gallivanting off to-"
"Buffy." His voice is soft, unrelenting. "You know this was never about Faith, right? I have to...we've jus' been trying to get Angel-"
She flinches at the name, trying desperately to shove the mental images that are bubbling up away from her.
You still my girl?
Always.
And there he is, back again after so long and whispering words of sweet seduction in her ears, and she's not sure if it's the intoxicatingly, mind-numbing glow that surrounds her that's making her give up her soul to him so freely, or if that's just an excuse she needs to tell herself because all she wants is him, is someone who loves her, someone she can connect with, and this is the one person who always has, and it's so much simpler to believe his excuses than to push him away-
Slap. The hand against her cheek is nothing if not mild, but it's enough to jerk her from her reverie of times long gone and back into this world, where Spike is gearing up for another smack.
She holds up a hand hastily, rolling her eyes at the disappointment that broadens across his face. "I'm here. You were saying?"
He doesn't meet her eyes, and she wonders what he thinks is going on, what he thinks she's dwelling on. If he thinks she's pining over Angel. This isn't about him. It's about her greatest failure, the moment when the world was on the line and she had thrown it away for her own needs. It's about repercussions that still remain, about the destruction of the Seed and magic and the slayer line, and if she spends all her time thinking about it, she'd never be able to keep fighting.
"-to get Angel back to that idiotic, self-righteous bastard that he's always been," Spike concludes.
She steels herself against his name this time. "So...what? You're suddenly Angel's sponsor in Big Bads Anonymous? Last time I saw you two together, he was busy throwing you around in the sunlight and you were giving me homoerotic subtext that was really much hotter before I thought that you'd actually done it."
Spike smirks. "Yeah, well, that was Twilight." She flinches again, but he barrels on. "I spent a year before all that with Angel, remember? Can't say that we became besties and spent all our free time braiding each other's hair, but we...we reached an understanding. He's my sire, pet. And we might have tried to kill each other a couple of times, but it wasn't all bad." His face softens at the memory, and bile rises in her throat at the reminder of That Year.
She swallows back almost all her questions before one slips out. "Is that why you stayed?" She doesn't want to do this, doesn't want him to glimpse her feelings of betrayal and call her out on it. Doesn't want him to-
She'd never been to the Hyperion Hotel, but Willow knew the path and directed her with that odd, other-worldly specter of hers, a ghostly apparition floating at her side. “Right here,” Willow had murmured, patting her hand down in a simulacrum of a comforting gesture. It had felt like the First, and she’d shuddered.
She pushed the door to the silent hotel open nervously, it suddenly occurring to her that she didn’t really have a plan there. She’d just heard about a disaster in Los Angeles involving the vampire with a soul and she’d run, terrified for Angel. It was what they did, right? He’d been there for her last apocalypse- brought a weapon that killed her vampire, and she was determined to do the same for him, even if it was just in mopping up the aftermath.
But the Hyperion was empty, and she began to wonder if this had been a bad idea. Angel wasn’t there- was he gone? She’d know if he were dead, wouldn’t she?
“Buffy?” The voice took her by surprise, and she spun around, staring up at the girl emerging from the back room. “Omigod, Buffy Summers! What are you doing here?” Harmony Kendall. Former classmate. Vampire. Occasional pain in her ass. As though she’d suddenly remembered that fact, Harmony took a step back, holding up her hands protectively. “Don’t kill me! I haven’t fed off human blood in almost a year!” She began babbling on and on about her old job, and how amazing it was, and how she was finally on her own and independent, and how even though her boss had gotten cranky and tried to destroy the company, Angel wasn’t that bad, once you got to know him-
“Wait.” Buffy raised her hand, her other hand still toying with her stake threateningly. “Angel? You worked for Angel?”
Harmony nodded, rolling her eyes. “I don’t know what he was thinking. No one can take down Wolfram and Hart, not even him. And now I need a new job.” She brightened. “But he wrote me a reference letter! And the other evil law firm in town is hiring!”
“Evil law…? Never mind. Harmony. Where. Is. Angel.” She enunciated each word carefully, fixing her best slayer glare on the vampire.
The other girl shrugged. “I don’t know. They were here for a few days, recovering, but Angel was all broody and I had to hide. He was gone when I got back, and my Blondie Bear and that nasty goddess of his were already on their way out. Not that I care about him,” she said hastily. “No matter how often he begged- and he totally did all the time, I swear- I wasn’t going to sneak off into a closet with him for a quickie. I had responsibilities. And self-respect and stuff.” Her eyes widened as though she’d just remembered whom she was talking to. “But we didn’t! I know you had a thing, and I wasn’t going to get in the slayer’s way. Nothing happened, promise!”
And she could only stare blankly at Harmony, wordless, because what she was saying didn’t make sense. Couldn’t make sense. Not in this world. Not in a world where she’d seen Spike die.
Not in a world where it was incontrovertible that he’d come running back to her the moment he was returned to unlife.
Harmony had started talking again, apologetic- she hadn’t realized that Buffy still didn’t know, why hadn’t Spike called her or anything before the next apocalypse? That had to smart, huh?- but Buffy had tuned her out, shame and self-loathing and recriminations all attacking her at once at the realization. It hadn’t taken long before she’d redirected her anger at Spike, hadn’t been long before she’d taught herself that his betrayal meant nothing to her and his love had meant even less. And she’d seethed and brooded but never cried, because Spike wasn’t worth her tears, okay?
And here he is again, staring at her face with that intent gaze that always means that he’s seeing too much but not comprehending it the way he should. “I stayed…love, what was I supposed to do? I was a ghost for a while there, bound to the building, and it kept me from buggering everything up.” He clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I got to thinking, realized there was no place for me in Camp Slayer, not anymore.”
She gapes at him. “That’s what you thought? Do you know who we had training the girls at first? Kennedy, who thinks that ‘maggot’ is a term of endearment for her soldiers. We needed everyone we could get!” But he’d never really been interested in training the potentials, she remembers suddenly. The only time he’d ever really worked with them had been that one time that the two of them had taken the potentials out for a night with Sunnydale’s Most Wanted, and that had only been because she’d asked him. And kind of a date. With many potential-sized chaperones.
His voice is pained. “You didn’t need me. I wasn’t…you gave me a sendoff. You said… as a farewell gift to a dying man. I wasn’t going to force that back on you.”
“Force-“ She stops, thinking of that final year in Sunnydale, the depth of her feelings for Spike then. The way he’d been the last person she could rely on, the only one she did. The way she’d forgiven him for the badness that had come before and he had her, and all they had to give to each other was… “It wasn’t like that.”
“Wasn’t it?” He’s still watching her carefully, as though this answer is the answer, and suddenly she’s tugging her covers higher to her waist, needing something tangible between them. “Buffy, did you mean it?”
She doesn’t know why he cares, now that he’s over her. Some old validation, maybe? An ego boost? She struggles to remember the world before she’d found Harmony at the Hyperion, before Spike’s abandonment had turned her memories sour.
She had felt about him…exactly how she feels now. Time has only strengthened that bond. And he doesn’t love her.
She catches his gaze, lets him see her turmoil and knows that he won’t recognize it for what it is. “Does it matter anymore?”
He slumps in his chair, and there’s a lump in her throat that she tries valiantly to swallow. “Suppose not.”
They both turn away at the exact same moment, staring fixedly at the ground and sneaking glances at each other surreptitiously.
Naturally, Spike’s the first to break the silence. He loves causing these awkward moments, she notes wryly, but he’s just as good at dispelling them. “So you thought that it was…studly?” He arches an eyebrow at her dubiously.
She sighs at that memory, her less than gracious “Welcome back, thanks for saving our lives again” speech from last year. “Well, it was,” she points out weakly. “With the whole giving-up-your-life-for-us thing?”
“Didn’t have much of a choice, did I?”
“Even so.” She shrugs helplessly. “Look, you showed up right when everything was…badness was happening, because of me, and I was embarrassed and snippy and you were going to be snarky anyway, so I thought I’d head you off, and besides, it’s not like you really needed another ego boost...”
She’d also made a promise to someone else moments before, someone who’d given up eternal happiness for nothing more than her, and she’d been determined not to betray him by accepting an old lover as anything more than a business associate. But she isn’t nearly callous enough to tell Spike that.
Or brave enough to talk about that particular stupidity.
“And speaking of ego, Faith!” she says hastily. “Did you see her today? How’s she doing?”
“Nice segue, pet.” He smirks halfheartedly. “Didn’t go today.”
“Oh.” She can’t help but smile at that, even as she reminds herself not to look too deeply into it. “I was thinking…we should probably go and talk about Simone with her. Brainstorm a little, see if they’ve been exposed to something…”
His eyebrows shoot up. “We?”
“We,” she says firmly. There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, a building dread at the idea of seeing him again that threatens to overwhelm her, so her she talks quickly. “England’s what, eight hours ahead? How long is the trip? Am I going to have to skip work?”
But Spike’s grinning like the cat that got the cream. “I called your work already, left a message for that pretty little Leah chit and told her you were sick and wouldn’t be coming in tomorrow. We’ll be getting to Faith’s in about three hours, noontime there.” He runs a hand through his hair, sheepish yet unapologetic at the same time.
She stares at him blankly. “You were going to force me there?”
“I knew you’d do the right thing,” he says simply. “You always do.”
I don’t, she thinks. And she’s three hours away from facing proof of that.
This wasn't an easy chapter to write, and I'd appreciate any feedback you can give me. :)
***************
Her eyes are still glued shut when she awakens, and she doesn’t dare open them to find out where she is, if she’s half dead on the floor or in a hospital somewhere hooked into an IV. But the ground below her is soft and…okay, bed-like, and she recognizes Spike’s distinctive scent hanging over her surroundings. I’m alive. Oh. That’s good.
She keeps her eyes closed, squirming into a more comfortable position, and demands, “Where were you?”
“Where was I?” Spike’s disbelieving voice retorts from somewhere on her left. “That’s what you have to say for yourself? What the sodding hell did you think you were doing, taking on that…thing? What reignited death wish could have possibly possessed you to- to try to-“ He falls silent, and she opens her eyes with reluctance, staring up at him.
Vampire visage aside, he looks remarkably pale and drawn, fear and dread and fury all whirling around in his expression as he glares at her. And that irritates her far more than it should, because what right does he have to be mad at her when- “Well, it’s not like I had any willing backup! And I knew that you’d get me out of there once I drove that thing back. How many bug ships are stalking me in San Fran?”
A shadow crosses his face, but he brushes it aside quickly in favor of rolling his eyes at her. "Yeah, because I never show up. Sing me another tune, slayer."
She glares at him, unamused. "You weren't here tonight! I waited-" She stops abruptly, fixing her eyes on the wall behind him. He doesn't get to hear this, not now that he's let her down. Not now that he's going to act like she's to blame for his absence.
Which, yeah, she is, but of the few things in life she's been confident she can take advantage of, Spike ranks near the top of the list. It's the world they've descended into, snark and swagger and soft acceptance, and Spike had broken the rules. He hadn't come.
He's regarding her with narrowed eyes when she turns back to him. "Fair enough," he says grudgingly, simmering anger rising up to the surface. "But you're the one who wanted me to stay away. You told me you didn't want me here anymore!"
"I didn't mean it!" she snaps back. "Well, I meant it at the time, but not afterward- okay, not the whole time afterward- and..and...and why would you take me seriously, anyway?" she splutters.
Spike stares at her, momentarily speechless- and isn't that a miracle- and then, unexpectedly, he snickers.
She glares at him, her ire rising at his mirth, but there's something about Spike laughing that's always made her breath catch in her throat, and when she recovers from that, she thinks about what she’s just snapped and him and lets out a snort of laughter of her own, and then they're both dissolving into hysterics together, Spike without a hint of anger and she with more than a little self-mockery. "Talk about mixed signals!" she gasps out, tears of mirth slipping down her face and catching onto her hair.
Spike brushes away the damp strands absently, his eyes still shining with laughter. "'m used to it from you. Don't let it stop me."
Oh. She stops laughing abruptly, the reminder of old times sobering her at once. "I could have used you today," she says quietly, praying that he'll take it for the apology it is. "You're...I count on you." It's hard to confess that even now, after a year rebuilding a friendship that couldn- shouldn't be more. She's gotten too used to keeping her feelings from Spike, too wary of the way he'd have once used them as a weapon or shrugged them off to be honest with him. But she's not going to repeat old mistakes, not going to continue with awkwardness and painful distance until Spike turns his full focus on Faith and-
Unresolved issues much? She winces. Spike isn't Gi... Giles. But she knows better than to waste away another relationship until another man she...she cares about is lying dead before her with only the slightest reconciliation before he's gone. She can't afford to do that again, especially when it's Spike and they've danced this dance before.
He shifts forward in the chair he's wrapped around- her chair, and she realizes very suddenly that she's sitting in his bed for the first time in a year and the images that are coming to her are just as rapid and where is my brain today? as last time- to cup her cheek. "No, I shouldn't have kept it from you, pet. 'was my fault."
She shrugs, trying not think about how close he is. The back of his chair serves as a barrier between them, a reminder that she can't cross that line again, and she brushes away the intrusive desires, annoyed at herself. This is why his bed is off-limits.
She forces a scowl and struggles to remember what he'd just said. "Yeah, it was," she agrees cheerfully, tossing her hair.
"Oi!" He jerks up at that. "No, it wasn't! 'm just trying to be the bigger..." He sees the laughter in her eyes and glares. "You're scrambling my melon, aren't you?"
She scrunches up her nose. “What does that even mean?” She scoots backward, far enough away from him that she can think again. "I know. I overreacted. But you know I have Faith issues."
"Yeah." He gazes silently at her, his expression remorseful but determined. "'m not going to stop going there now. 'm needed."
"Needed?" she repeats dubiously. "Since when are you and Faith such good buddies, anyway? You barely even spoke to her when you came back. What could have possibly prompted you to go gallivanting off to-"
"Buffy." His voice is soft, unrelenting. "You know this was never about Faith, right? I have to...we've jus' been trying to get Angel-"
She flinches at the name, trying desperately to shove the mental images that are bubbling up away from her.
You still my girl?
Always.
And there he is, back again after so long and whispering words of sweet seduction in her ears, and she's not sure if it's the intoxicatingly, mind-numbing glow that surrounds her that's making her give up her soul to him so freely, or if that's just an excuse she needs to tell herself because all she wants is him, is someone who loves her, someone she can connect with, and this is the one person who always has, and it's so much simpler to believe his excuses than to push him away-
Slap. The hand against her cheek is nothing if not mild, but it's enough to jerk her from her reverie of times long gone and back into this world, where Spike is gearing up for another smack.
She holds up a hand hastily, rolling her eyes at the disappointment that broadens across his face. "I'm here. You were saying?"
He doesn't meet her eyes, and she wonders what he thinks is going on, what he thinks she's dwelling on. If he thinks she's pining over Angel. This isn't about him. It's about her greatest failure, the moment when the world was on the line and she had thrown it away for her own needs. It's about repercussions that still remain, about the destruction of the Seed and magic and the slayer line, and if she spends all her time thinking about it, she'd never be able to keep fighting.
"-to get Angel back to that idiotic, self-righteous bastard that he's always been," Spike concludes.
She steels herself against his name this time. "So...what? You're suddenly Angel's sponsor in Big Bads Anonymous? Last time I saw you two together, he was busy throwing you around in the sunlight and you were giving me homoerotic subtext that was really much hotter before I thought that you'd actually done it."
Spike smirks. "Yeah, well, that was Twilight." She flinches again, but he barrels on. "I spent a year before all that with Angel, remember? Can't say that we became besties and spent all our free time braiding each other's hair, but we...we reached an understanding. He's my sire, pet. And we might have tried to kill each other a couple of times, but it wasn't all bad." His face softens at the memory, and bile rises in her throat at the reminder of That Year.
She swallows back almost all her questions before one slips out. "Is that why you stayed?" She doesn't want to do this, doesn't want him to glimpse her feelings of betrayal and call her out on it. Doesn't want him to-
She'd never been to the Hyperion Hotel, but Willow knew the path and directed her with that odd, other-worldly specter of hers, a ghostly apparition floating at her side. “Right here,” Willow had murmured, patting her hand down in a simulacrum of a comforting gesture. It had felt like the First, and she’d shuddered.
She pushed the door to the silent hotel open nervously, it suddenly occurring to her that she didn’t really have a plan there. She’d just heard about a disaster in Los Angeles involving the vampire with a soul and she’d run, terrified for Angel. It was what they did, right? He’d been there for her last apocalypse- brought a weapon that killed her vampire, and she was determined to do the same for him, even if it was just in mopping up the aftermath.
But the Hyperion was empty, and she began to wonder if this had been a bad idea. Angel wasn’t there- was he gone? She’d know if he were dead, wouldn’t she?
“Buffy?” The voice took her by surprise, and she spun around, staring up at the girl emerging from the back room. “Omigod, Buffy Summers! What are you doing here?” Harmony Kendall. Former classmate. Vampire. Occasional pain in her ass. As though she’d suddenly remembered that fact, Harmony took a step back, holding up her hands protectively. “Don’t kill me! I haven’t fed off human blood in almost a year!” She began babbling on and on about her old job, and how amazing it was, and how she was finally on her own and independent, and how even though her boss had gotten cranky and tried to destroy the company, Angel wasn’t that bad, once you got to know him-
“Wait.” Buffy raised her hand, her other hand still toying with her stake threateningly. “Angel? You worked for Angel?”
Harmony nodded, rolling her eyes. “I don’t know what he was thinking. No one can take down Wolfram and Hart, not even him. And now I need a new job.” She brightened. “But he wrote me a reference letter! And the other evil law firm in town is hiring!”
“Evil law…? Never mind. Harmony. Where. Is. Angel.” She enunciated each word carefully, fixing her best slayer glare on the vampire.
The other girl shrugged. “I don’t know. They were here for a few days, recovering, but Angel was all broody and I had to hide. He was gone when I got back, and my Blondie Bear and that nasty goddess of his were already on their way out. Not that I care about him,” she said hastily. “No matter how often he begged- and he totally did all the time, I swear- I wasn’t going to sneak off into a closet with him for a quickie. I had responsibilities. And self-respect and stuff.” Her eyes widened as though she’d just remembered whom she was talking to. “But we didn’t! I know you had a thing, and I wasn’t going to get in the slayer’s way. Nothing happened, promise!”
And she could only stare blankly at Harmony, wordless, because what she was saying didn’t make sense. Couldn’t make sense. Not in this world. Not in a world where she’d seen Spike die.
Not in a world where it was incontrovertible that he’d come running back to her the moment he was returned to unlife.
Harmony had started talking again, apologetic- she hadn’t realized that Buffy still didn’t know, why hadn’t Spike called her or anything before the next apocalypse? That had to smart, huh?- but Buffy had tuned her out, shame and self-loathing and recriminations all attacking her at once at the realization. It hadn’t taken long before she’d redirected her anger at Spike, hadn’t been long before she’d taught herself that his betrayal meant nothing to her and his love had meant even less. And she’d seethed and brooded but never cried, because Spike wasn’t worth her tears, okay?
And here he is again, staring at her face with that intent gaze that always means that he’s seeing too much but not comprehending it the way he should. “I stayed…love, what was I supposed to do? I was a ghost for a while there, bound to the building, and it kept me from buggering everything up.” He clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I got to thinking, realized there was no place for me in Camp Slayer, not anymore.”
She gapes at him. “That’s what you thought? Do you know who we had training the girls at first? Kennedy, who thinks that ‘maggot’ is a term of endearment for her soldiers. We needed everyone we could get!” But he’d never really been interested in training the potentials, she remembers suddenly. The only time he’d ever really worked with them had been that one time that the two of them had taken the potentials out for a night with Sunnydale’s Most Wanted, and that had only been because she’d asked him. And kind of a date. With many potential-sized chaperones.
His voice is pained. “You didn’t need me. I wasn’t…you gave me a sendoff. You said… as a farewell gift to a dying man. I wasn’t going to force that back on you.”
“Force-“ She stops, thinking of that final year in Sunnydale, the depth of her feelings for Spike then. The way he’d been the last person she could rely on, the only one she did. The way she’d forgiven him for the badness that had come before and he had her, and all they had to give to each other was… “It wasn’t like that.”
“Wasn’t it?” He’s still watching her carefully, as though this answer is the answer, and suddenly she’s tugging her covers higher to her waist, needing something tangible between them. “Buffy, did you mean it?”
She doesn’t know why he cares, now that he’s over her. Some old validation, maybe? An ego boost? She struggles to remember the world before she’d found Harmony at the Hyperion, before Spike’s abandonment had turned her memories sour.
She had felt about him…exactly how she feels now. Time has only strengthened that bond. And he doesn’t love her.
She catches his gaze, lets him see her turmoil and knows that he won’t recognize it for what it is. “Does it matter anymore?”
He slumps in his chair, and there’s a lump in her throat that she tries valiantly to swallow. “Suppose not.”
They both turn away at the exact same moment, staring fixedly at the ground and sneaking glances at each other surreptitiously.
Naturally, Spike’s the first to break the silence. He loves causing these awkward moments, she notes wryly, but he’s just as good at dispelling them. “So you thought that it was…studly?” He arches an eyebrow at her dubiously.
She sighs at that memory, her less than gracious “Welcome back, thanks for saving our lives again” speech from last year. “Well, it was,” she points out weakly. “With the whole giving-up-your-life-for-us thing?”
“Didn’t have much of a choice, did I?”
“Even so.” She shrugs helplessly. “Look, you showed up right when everything was…badness was happening, because of me, and I was embarrassed and snippy and you were going to be snarky anyway, so I thought I’d head you off, and besides, it’s not like you really needed another ego boost...”
She’d also made a promise to someone else moments before, someone who’d given up eternal happiness for nothing more than her, and she’d been determined not to betray him by accepting an old lover as anything more than a business associate. But she isn’t nearly callous enough to tell Spike that.
Or brave enough to talk about that particular stupidity.
“And speaking of ego, Faith!” she says hastily. “Did you see her today? How’s she doing?”
“Nice segue, pet.” He smirks halfheartedly. “Didn’t go today.”
“Oh.” She can’t help but smile at that, even as she reminds herself not to look too deeply into it. “I was thinking…we should probably go and talk about Simone with her. Brainstorm a little, see if they’ve been exposed to something…”
His eyebrows shoot up. “We?”
“We,” she says firmly. There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, a building dread at the idea of seeing him again that threatens to overwhelm her, so her she talks quickly. “England’s what, eight hours ahead? How long is the trip? Am I going to have to skip work?”
But Spike’s grinning like the cat that got the cream. “I called your work already, left a message for that pretty little Leah chit and told her you were sick and wouldn’t be coming in tomorrow. We’ll be getting to Faith’s in about three hours, noontime there.” He runs a hand through his hair, sheepish yet unapologetic at the same time.
She stares at him blankly. “You were going to force me there?”
“I knew you’d do the right thing,” he says simply. “You always do.”
I don’t, she thinks. And she’s three hours away from facing proof of that.
Chapter 9
She’s grouchy and snippy and he’s tense and unsuccessfully tamping it down. It isn’t a good match.
“This wasn’t your decision!” she snaps angrily at Spike.
“Think this is something I’m looking forward to? No, it was yours,” he says calmly, following her as she storms through his ship, shoving bugs aside- barely concealing an automatic shudder as she does- until she finally makes her way to his shoddy excuse for a bridge. “Remember?”
“Not now! Not like this!” What had given him the right to make this decision for her? And while she’d been touched by his faith in her almost three hours before, now she’s looking for someone to blame, something to rant about as they near Faith and Angel. “You screwed up everything!”
And Spike is stubbornly refusing to lose his temper, and that’s frustrating her even more. “You’ll thank me later.”
She whirls around, ready to punch that taut look off his face, but he’s already turned away and busied himself with something on the nearest console. “It wasn’t your right. You’ve been taking away my choices all night tonight! First you steal my demon, now you kidnap me and force me to go…to go there!”
“Didn’t steal your demon,” Spike informs her, narrowing his eyes at something on the window in front of him. “Big Ugly ran off the mo’ I tried to land on it. You can go try to get yourself killed again tonight.”
“You didn’t kill the demon?” Now she has reason to be furious, and she’s glad for it. “That thing is going to go off and kill more…more…vampires!” she finishes lamely. “Or…or just get them mad and encourage them! And then people are gonna die!”
“Vampires?” Spike frowns at her. “That’s what’s been biting them?” He eyes her warily. “You didn’t get chewed up, did you?”
She shakes her head irritably. “That’s not the point! The point is, you just-“
“Oh I get the point here, love.” And it’s with a measure of relief that she can see the annoyance building on his face. “Come.”
He’s got his hand on her arm and is dragging her into the next room before she can object, slamming the door shut and slamming into her with a blow to the head so sharp that she sees stars. She barely has time to give him a wounded look before he goes for her face again, and it’s all she can do to block his fist and kick him in the gut instead. “What the fuck are you doing, you idiot?”
He beams stupidly, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet with that gleeful carelessness that he always gets when they fight. Whatever had been bothering him before, it’s gone now. “Come on, Slayer. You want a fight? Give it to me.”
She hurls herself at him again, anger and confusion propelling her forward until they’re sparring back and forth, blocking blows and fighting dirty and if Spike keeps up this sick fascination with trying to make her nose bleed, she’s going to remind him who started that in the first place, and…
…And now she’s jumping on him as he spins away from her, legs wrapped around him as he staggers forward and into a wall, and then they’re both falling to the ground, loose-limbed and breathing hard. Spike’s still laughing, and her irritation has melted away with the battle and she can’t help grinning a little, too, rolling off of him so that they’re side-by-side, lying on their backs and gazing up at the ceiling as they wind down.
This is all she needs, a forced unwinding before confronting her demons, and now she’s relaxed and a little closer to ready. Spike knows, of course. He always knows exactly what she needs, and she can’t help but feel a wash of affection toward him for gifting that to her again. Why are you so frustratingly perfect sometimes? Sometimes. When he isn’t being an ass or a perv or lying to her or not giving her his unconditional support-
I am so spoiled. But she rests her head against the side of his chest anyway, unable to keep the grin off her face even when the ship shudders down in landing procedure.
He nudges her. “What is it?”
Her grin widens. “Nothing. Want to go…?”
And then reality sets in again, and she springs away from him so quickly that she skids backwards against the wall. “Spike!”
He blinks up at her, eyes lidded over and sated as though he’d just- not thinking about that!“Hm?”
“Spike! I’m all sweaty and gross and now we’re here and Faith’s going to see me like this and that’s not okay!” She folds her arms reprovingly. “How could you do this to me?”
He makes a face. “You look gorgeous as always, pet. Much better than Faith.”
She can’t keep the smile off her face. “Really?”
He takes her proffered hand and pulls himself up. “Absolutely. Girl looked like she was on death’s door last I saw her. Harris is more attractive than she is right now.”
“Idiot.” She bats away his hand playfully, pushing aside selfish relief and the nagging reminder that there’s another person she doesn’t want to see looking like this. “How are we doing this? Mad dash through the sun?”
He nods. “You first. Get the door open, I’ll come running.” He leads the way back to the entry door on the bridge, snagging a suspiciously familiar-looking blanket from a shelf near the entrance.
“Is that mine?”
Spike ignores her. “We’re in the farmhouse just behind Faith’s place. Go in through the back door.”
“Don’t order me around.” But she squeezes his hand and pushes the door open, overwhelming dread rushing over her the moment she glimpses the little flat and the carefully tended garden- one she knows neither Faith nor Spike would ever have the patience for cultivating. Which means…
“Buffy.”
She licks dry lips as Spike drops a friendly kiss on the top of her head. “You’ll be fine.”
She steps out into the not-quite English sunlight and hurries toward the cottage ahead.
And she probably should have expected it, but it still shakes her when Angel opens the door.
She stares at him. He stares back, and for a moment, she envies his poker face. There's nothing in his expression, just a solid wall that shields her from his emotional depths. And she knows that her face is awash with painful, dangerous memories, and he can see it all.
"Buffy," he says blankly.
Then she's blown to the side by the whirlwind of energy that is her partner, smoke already trailing from the top of his head as he barrels into the house. "Knew there was a reason why I only visited after nightfall," he says ruefully, and she stretches out an automatic hand to steady him. She feels him shift his other arm and reach out to bump his hand against hers comfortingly, and it's just enough to pull her gaze from Angel's.
She closes her eyes briefly, feeling his own still burning into her. "You got in okay?"
"Yeah." Spike nods to Angel, and she can sense the suddenly returned rigidity in his stance beside her. It surprises her at first, accustomed as she is to Spike's carelessness about the Twilight situation, but then she remembers- this is how it's always been, hasn't it? Angel and Spike, wary and caught up in macho pissing contests that have little to do with her and everything to do with their shared history.
Unbidden, her fingers move to encircle his risk in a replica of the comfort he'd given her, and she can feel him relax as they face their shared fear. "We've got news about Faith," Spike announces. "Thought we'd both come and talk to her."
Angel jerks. "Faith? She's not..." He gestures helplessly at the open stairwell in front of them. "She's not doing well." The mask falters for just a moment as Buffy turns to stare at him again, and it's only Spike's hand on hers again that pulls her away.
"Buff-" Angel stops mid-word, his voice strained and his eyes blank. "I-"
"Please don't." Her voice escapes her lips in a faint whisper, and catches on the second word. “I can’t…”
She turns deliberately, focusing desperately on the rest of the house. She can’t do this now, not the anguished, tear-filled discussions by which her relationship with Angel has been defined since they’d first clashed when she’d turned seventeen. She has too much to worry about with Faith and Spike to work things out with Angel.
She’s in the same room as he is and is still thinking coherently, which she counts as a step forward. “The…the house looks the same,” she remarks quietly. Well, not quite the same since the last time she’d been there, when Faith had turned it into a disaster area hunting for the book Giles had left her- and hadn’t she wondered then what Giles was thinking, giving his books to someone with absolutely no respect for them?- but it’s as tidy as it had been the few other times she’d visited, small and homey and peaceful. Angel’s influence.
But it still feels like Giles, and that hurts all the more when she’s standing with her back to the vessel of his death. The vessel she’d unleashed.
She’d killed Giles through her own rashness and thoughtlessness. And that fact has never been more real than now.
A loose arm slides around her waist, gentle and firm, and Spike’s voice is murmuring in her ear, “You slipped away, love,” pulling her back to the present. She swallows and nods and allows him to steer her back to Angel. She stares at her former lover for a moment, watching the flash of pain that crosses his face at the sight of Spike’s possessive grip on her, and finds that she can’t hurt for him, too. Not when she’s hurting for the rest of the world.
“Thanks,” she murmurs, pulling away from his grasp. She knows Spike well enough to guess that needling Angel must be one of his favorite pastimes, and while there’s a part of her that hates refusing Spike anything, especially when he’s being so supportive, she rebels at the idea of him pretending to care to get a rise out of his rival. “I’m going to-“ She gestures to the stairs.
“Right.” Spike is staring at Angel now, something dark and regretful in his gaze, and she hurries away before the mood gets any heavier.
Faith’s room is open and she’s lying still in what must have once been Giles’s bed, her eyes lidded with exhaustion and her face pale but for the faint beginnings of a familiar dark pattern crawling up her neck to just below her jaw. She hasn’t looked this bad, not since-
“You put me in the hospital?” a hoarse, wry tone emerges from Faith’s dry lips, and Buffy realizes that she’s spoken aloud. “Bygones and all that, right? S’cool.”
Buffy’s stomach drops. “Faith…”
A marked hand pops up to wave weakly. “Hey, B. Nice of you to drop by.”
“I should’ve come earlier.” She should have, and it has not nearly as much to do with Faith’s illness as with the fact that she’s been letting someone else she cares about- as irritating and obnoxious and frustrating as the other slayer is- slip away from her.
Faith twitches her head in a shake. “Nah, I get it. It can’t be easy to be around Big ‘n Broody down there.” She jerks a thumb at the doorway. “I know I signed up for outcast camp when I took him, but hey- it’s nothing new for me, y’know?”
“You’re not an outcast.” Not like Buffy is, in a world where even her most trusted lieutenants from years previous won’t work with her anymore.
“Yeah? The other slayers- the ones who still see themselves as slayers, even- are holed up five miles away from here. You know how often they’ve visited? Once, and that was to order me to keep ‘my vampire’ out of their patrolling territory. I’m a traitor again…practically as bad as you.”
There’s a definite smirk on Faith’s face at that observation, but Buffy swallows her natural indignation at Faith’s (well-deserved) accusation and instead schools her features into something more somber and murmurs, “Thanks. For doing what I couldn’t.”
Faith blinks up at her, and Buffy can tell that she’s surprised. “Buffy…” She doesn’t finish the sentence, and that’s kind of okay, because Buffy gets it, and now they’re both quiet, morose and lost in memories of a simpler time when nothing was simple but at least it was all on a smaller scale, somehow, and the bad guys were defeated and no beyond their little group knew the cost.
“I’m going to stop this thing,” Buffy promises. “Is there anything you can tell me? Anyone suspicious you’ve met recently? Any places you’ve-“
But Faith is shaking her head weakly. “There’s nothing. This came from nowhere. I just woke up sick one morning, and Angel spotted the markings on my leg. A few days later, I couldn’t get out of bed. And now I’m dying, right?”
“You’re not going to-“
“B.” Faith’s voice is knowing. “You wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t going to die. What happened?”
And she can’t lie to a doomed ally, so she tells her about Simone in halting tones, skipping nothing because they can’t afford to sugarcoat the truth. Faith doesn’t look that far behind Simone, and that alone is enough to fill her with dread. “I don’t know what else we can do, or where Simone’s been that you both could have developed the same virus, but I’m going to figure it out.”
There's so much that Faith can retort to that, so much she can use to attack her sister slayer. Buffy's got no leads, no ideas, and she's waited far too long to claim to be worried about Faith now, right? But they've both matured, more than Buffy would have ever suspected was possible before the Twilight fiasco, and Faith takes her by surprise. "Of course you will," she murmurs. "You're the hero."
She closes her eyes and Buffy bends to brush a kiss against her one-time friend's forehead, brushing away matted hair stuck to Faith's skin with sweat. She can't recall the envy and longing that she'd felt toward Faith since Giles had first turned to the other slayer, not anymore. Not when she’s Faith’s last hope.
She moves from the bed quietly, Faith’s light snoring already ringing in her ears and the low tones from downstairs drifting up to the stairwell.
“-Before or after you decided to jump the villain train?” Spike’s asking Angel coolly, and she freezes, a hand reaching out to squeeze the banister as she listens.
“That’s irrelevant,” Angel retorts. “Didn’t see you complaining much. You’ve got what you’ve always wanted, haven’t you?”
Spike’s voice is icy cold. “You have no idea what I want. Or what I have.”
“You’re going to lose it,” Angel murmurs. “Buffy’s in just as much danger as Faith. This virus…we both know it’s specifically affecting slayers. It could be her next.” A dark chill settles over Buffy and she turns to descend the stairs abruptly.
“I’m never going to let that happen,” Spike is growling when she reaches the bottom floor, and both vampires jerk abruptly at her intrusion.
She moves to Spike immediately, touching his clenched fist and watching the tension slide away. “Hey.”
He smiles at her. “Was Faith able to tell you anything?”
She shakes her head. “Nah. But I’ve got some ideas.” It’s a lie, of course, but Angel doesn’t need to know that. And Buffy doesn’t plan on giving up until Faith’s okay, so it doesn’t matter.
But he knows. It’s odd. They’ve spent more years apart than they’d ever spent together, and yet, he can still see straight through her to the scared, helpless girl beneath the façade. “There’s a slayer base not too far from here,” Angel says abruptly.
“Five miles.” She’s staring up at Spike, her fingers toying with his sleeve as she addresses the vampire standing behind her. “Faith said.”
“Right. You can…you can try talking to them. It’s some of your old lieutenants, I think. And Andrew. They might know something.” Angel’s voice is even as he speaks, and she can’t choke out a response.
Spike says it instead. “Thanks…you big idiot,” he adds, almost as an afterthought borne of the realization that he’s being too civil, and Buffy can’t help but grin.
She turns just in time to see Angel smirk, and it fades away as quickly as it comes. “Just…help her, Spike. She doesn’t deserve this.”
It takes Buffy a moment to realize that he’s talking about Faith, not her, and the embarrassment of that error forces the words from her. “We will,” she says firmly, meeting Angel’s eyes.
“Thank you.” His words are simple and sincere, and for the first time in a year, she feels like she might someday be able to forgive him his sins.
Her own, she isn’t as sure about.
“This wasn’t your decision!” she snaps angrily at Spike.
“Think this is something I’m looking forward to? No, it was yours,” he says calmly, following her as she storms through his ship, shoving bugs aside- barely concealing an automatic shudder as she does- until she finally makes her way to his shoddy excuse for a bridge. “Remember?”
“Not now! Not like this!” What had given him the right to make this decision for her? And while she’d been touched by his faith in her almost three hours before, now she’s looking for someone to blame, something to rant about as they near Faith and Angel. “You screwed up everything!”
And Spike is stubbornly refusing to lose his temper, and that’s frustrating her even more. “You’ll thank me later.”
She whirls around, ready to punch that taut look off his face, but he’s already turned away and busied himself with something on the nearest console. “It wasn’t your right. You’ve been taking away my choices all night tonight! First you steal my demon, now you kidnap me and force me to go…to go there!”
“Didn’t steal your demon,” Spike informs her, narrowing his eyes at something on the window in front of him. “Big Ugly ran off the mo’ I tried to land on it. You can go try to get yourself killed again tonight.”
“You didn’t kill the demon?” Now she has reason to be furious, and she’s glad for it. “That thing is going to go off and kill more…more…vampires!” she finishes lamely. “Or…or just get them mad and encourage them! And then people are gonna die!”
“Vampires?” Spike frowns at her. “That’s what’s been biting them?” He eyes her warily. “You didn’t get chewed up, did you?”
She shakes her head irritably. “That’s not the point! The point is, you just-“
“Oh I get the point here, love.” And it’s with a measure of relief that she can see the annoyance building on his face. “Come.”
He’s got his hand on her arm and is dragging her into the next room before she can object, slamming the door shut and slamming into her with a blow to the head so sharp that she sees stars. She barely has time to give him a wounded look before he goes for her face again, and it’s all she can do to block his fist and kick him in the gut instead. “What the fuck are you doing, you idiot?”
He beams stupidly, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet with that gleeful carelessness that he always gets when they fight. Whatever had been bothering him before, it’s gone now. “Come on, Slayer. You want a fight? Give it to me.”
She hurls herself at him again, anger and confusion propelling her forward until they’re sparring back and forth, blocking blows and fighting dirty and if Spike keeps up this sick fascination with trying to make her nose bleed, she’s going to remind him who started that in the first place, and…
…And now she’s jumping on him as he spins away from her, legs wrapped around him as he staggers forward and into a wall, and then they’re both falling to the ground, loose-limbed and breathing hard. Spike’s still laughing, and her irritation has melted away with the battle and she can’t help grinning a little, too, rolling off of him so that they’re side-by-side, lying on their backs and gazing up at the ceiling as they wind down.
This is all she needs, a forced unwinding before confronting her demons, and now she’s relaxed and a little closer to ready. Spike knows, of course. He always knows exactly what she needs, and she can’t help but feel a wash of affection toward him for gifting that to her again. Why are you so frustratingly perfect sometimes? Sometimes. When he isn’t being an ass or a perv or lying to her or not giving her his unconditional support-
I am so spoiled. But she rests her head against the side of his chest anyway, unable to keep the grin off her face even when the ship shudders down in landing procedure.
He nudges her. “What is it?”
Her grin widens. “Nothing. Want to go…?”
And then reality sets in again, and she springs away from him so quickly that she skids backwards against the wall. “Spike!”
He blinks up at her, eyes lidded over and sated as though he’d just- not thinking about that!“Hm?”
“Spike! I’m all sweaty and gross and now we’re here and Faith’s going to see me like this and that’s not okay!” She folds her arms reprovingly. “How could you do this to me?”
He makes a face. “You look gorgeous as always, pet. Much better than Faith.”
She can’t keep the smile off her face. “Really?”
He takes her proffered hand and pulls himself up. “Absolutely. Girl looked like she was on death’s door last I saw her. Harris is more attractive than she is right now.”
“Idiot.” She bats away his hand playfully, pushing aside selfish relief and the nagging reminder that there’s another person she doesn’t want to see looking like this. “How are we doing this? Mad dash through the sun?”
He nods. “You first. Get the door open, I’ll come running.” He leads the way back to the entry door on the bridge, snagging a suspiciously familiar-looking blanket from a shelf near the entrance.
“Is that mine?”
Spike ignores her. “We’re in the farmhouse just behind Faith’s place. Go in through the back door.”
“Don’t order me around.” But she squeezes his hand and pushes the door open, overwhelming dread rushing over her the moment she glimpses the little flat and the carefully tended garden- one she knows neither Faith nor Spike would ever have the patience for cultivating. Which means…
“Buffy.”
She licks dry lips as Spike drops a friendly kiss on the top of her head. “You’ll be fine.”
She steps out into the not-quite English sunlight and hurries toward the cottage ahead.
And she probably should have expected it, but it still shakes her when Angel opens the door.
She stares at him. He stares back, and for a moment, she envies his poker face. There's nothing in his expression, just a solid wall that shields her from his emotional depths. And she knows that her face is awash with painful, dangerous memories, and he can see it all.
"Buffy," he says blankly.
Then she's blown to the side by the whirlwind of energy that is her partner, smoke already trailing from the top of his head as he barrels into the house. "Knew there was a reason why I only visited after nightfall," he says ruefully, and she stretches out an automatic hand to steady him. She feels him shift his other arm and reach out to bump his hand against hers comfortingly, and it's just enough to pull her gaze from Angel's.
She closes her eyes briefly, feeling his own still burning into her. "You got in okay?"
"Yeah." Spike nods to Angel, and she can sense the suddenly returned rigidity in his stance beside her. It surprises her at first, accustomed as she is to Spike's carelessness about the Twilight situation, but then she remembers- this is how it's always been, hasn't it? Angel and Spike, wary and caught up in macho pissing contests that have little to do with her and everything to do with their shared history.
Unbidden, her fingers move to encircle his risk in a replica of the comfort he'd given her, and she can feel him relax as they face their shared fear. "We've got news about Faith," Spike announces. "Thought we'd both come and talk to her."
Angel jerks. "Faith? She's not..." He gestures helplessly at the open stairwell in front of them. "She's not doing well." The mask falters for just a moment as Buffy turns to stare at him again, and it's only Spike's hand on hers again that pulls her away.
"Buff-" Angel stops mid-word, his voice strained and his eyes blank. "I-"
"Please don't." Her voice escapes her lips in a faint whisper, and catches on the second word. “I can’t…”
She turns deliberately, focusing desperately on the rest of the house. She can’t do this now, not the anguished, tear-filled discussions by which her relationship with Angel has been defined since they’d first clashed when she’d turned seventeen. She has too much to worry about with Faith and Spike to work things out with Angel.
She’s in the same room as he is and is still thinking coherently, which she counts as a step forward. “The…the house looks the same,” she remarks quietly. Well, not quite the same since the last time she’d been there, when Faith had turned it into a disaster area hunting for the book Giles had left her- and hadn’t she wondered then what Giles was thinking, giving his books to someone with absolutely no respect for them?- but it’s as tidy as it had been the few other times she’d visited, small and homey and peaceful. Angel’s influence.
But it still feels like Giles, and that hurts all the more when she’s standing with her back to the vessel of his death. The vessel she’d unleashed.
She’d killed Giles through her own rashness and thoughtlessness. And that fact has never been more real than now.
A loose arm slides around her waist, gentle and firm, and Spike’s voice is murmuring in her ear, “You slipped away, love,” pulling her back to the present. She swallows and nods and allows him to steer her back to Angel. She stares at her former lover for a moment, watching the flash of pain that crosses his face at the sight of Spike’s possessive grip on her, and finds that she can’t hurt for him, too. Not when she’s hurting for the rest of the world.
“Thanks,” she murmurs, pulling away from his grasp. She knows Spike well enough to guess that needling Angel must be one of his favorite pastimes, and while there’s a part of her that hates refusing Spike anything, especially when he’s being so supportive, she rebels at the idea of him pretending to care to get a rise out of his rival. “I’m going to-“ She gestures to the stairs.
“Right.” Spike is staring at Angel now, something dark and regretful in his gaze, and she hurries away before the mood gets any heavier.
Faith’s room is open and she’s lying still in what must have once been Giles’s bed, her eyes lidded with exhaustion and her face pale but for the faint beginnings of a familiar dark pattern crawling up her neck to just below her jaw. She hasn’t looked this bad, not since-
“You put me in the hospital?” a hoarse, wry tone emerges from Faith’s dry lips, and Buffy realizes that she’s spoken aloud. “Bygones and all that, right? S’cool.”
Buffy’s stomach drops. “Faith…”
A marked hand pops up to wave weakly. “Hey, B. Nice of you to drop by.”
“I should’ve come earlier.” She should have, and it has not nearly as much to do with Faith’s illness as with the fact that she’s been letting someone else she cares about- as irritating and obnoxious and frustrating as the other slayer is- slip away from her.
Faith twitches her head in a shake. “Nah, I get it. It can’t be easy to be around Big ‘n Broody down there.” She jerks a thumb at the doorway. “I know I signed up for outcast camp when I took him, but hey- it’s nothing new for me, y’know?”
“You’re not an outcast.” Not like Buffy is, in a world where even her most trusted lieutenants from years previous won’t work with her anymore.
“Yeah? The other slayers- the ones who still see themselves as slayers, even- are holed up five miles away from here. You know how often they’ve visited? Once, and that was to order me to keep ‘my vampire’ out of their patrolling territory. I’m a traitor again…practically as bad as you.”
There’s a definite smirk on Faith’s face at that observation, but Buffy swallows her natural indignation at Faith’s (well-deserved) accusation and instead schools her features into something more somber and murmurs, “Thanks. For doing what I couldn’t.”
Faith blinks up at her, and Buffy can tell that she’s surprised. “Buffy…” She doesn’t finish the sentence, and that’s kind of okay, because Buffy gets it, and now they’re both quiet, morose and lost in memories of a simpler time when nothing was simple but at least it was all on a smaller scale, somehow, and the bad guys were defeated and no beyond their little group knew the cost.
“I’m going to stop this thing,” Buffy promises. “Is there anything you can tell me? Anyone suspicious you’ve met recently? Any places you’ve-“
But Faith is shaking her head weakly. “There’s nothing. This came from nowhere. I just woke up sick one morning, and Angel spotted the markings on my leg. A few days later, I couldn’t get out of bed. And now I’m dying, right?”
“You’re not going to-“
“B.” Faith’s voice is knowing. “You wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t going to die. What happened?”
And she can’t lie to a doomed ally, so she tells her about Simone in halting tones, skipping nothing because they can’t afford to sugarcoat the truth. Faith doesn’t look that far behind Simone, and that alone is enough to fill her with dread. “I don’t know what else we can do, or where Simone’s been that you both could have developed the same virus, but I’m going to figure it out.”
There's so much that Faith can retort to that, so much she can use to attack her sister slayer. Buffy's got no leads, no ideas, and she's waited far too long to claim to be worried about Faith now, right? But they've both matured, more than Buffy would have ever suspected was possible before the Twilight fiasco, and Faith takes her by surprise. "Of course you will," she murmurs. "You're the hero."
She closes her eyes and Buffy bends to brush a kiss against her one-time friend's forehead, brushing away matted hair stuck to Faith's skin with sweat. She can't recall the envy and longing that she'd felt toward Faith since Giles had first turned to the other slayer, not anymore. Not when she’s Faith’s last hope.
She moves from the bed quietly, Faith’s light snoring already ringing in her ears and the low tones from downstairs drifting up to the stairwell.
“-Before or after you decided to jump the villain train?” Spike’s asking Angel coolly, and she freezes, a hand reaching out to squeeze the banister as she listens.
“That’s irrelevant,” Angel retorts. “Didn’t see you complaining much. You’ve got what you’ve always wanted, haven’t you?”
Spike’s voice is icy cold. “You have no idea what I want. Or what I have.”
“You’re going to lose it,” Angel murmurs. “Buffy’s in just as much danger as Faith. This virus…we both know it’s specifically affecting slayers. It could be her next.” A dark chill settles over Buffy and she turns to descend the stairs abruptly.
“I’m never going to let that happen,” Spike is growling when she reaches the bottom floor, and both vampires jerk abruptly at her intrusion.
She moves to Spike immediately, touching his clenched fist and watching the tension slide away. “Hey.”
He smiles at her. “Was Faith able to tell you anything?”
She shakes her head. “Nah. But I’ve got some ideas.” It’s a lie, of course, but Angel doesn’t need to know that. And Buffy doesn’t plan on giving up until Faith’s okay, so it doesn’t matter.
But he knows. It’s odd. They’ve spent more years apart than they’d ever spent together, and yet, he can still see straight through her to the scared, helpless girl beneath the façade. “There’s a slayer base not too far from here,” Angel says abruptly.
“Five miles.” She’s staring up at Spike, her fingers toying with his sleeve as she addresses the vampire standing behind her. “Faith said.”
“Right. You can…you can try talking to them. It’s some of your old lieutenants, I think. And Andrew. They might know something.” Angel’s voice is even as he speaks, and she can’t choke out a response.
Spike says it instead. “Thanks…you big idiot,” he adds, almost as an afterthought borne of the realization that he’s being too civil, and Buffy can’t help but grin.
She turns just in time to see Angel smirk, and it fades away as quickly as it comes. “Just…help her, Spike. She doesn’t deserve this.”
It takes Buffy a moment to realize that he’s talking about Faith, not her, and the embarrassment of that error forces the words from her. “We will,” she says firmly, meeting Angel’s eyes.
“Thank you.” His words are simple and sincere, and for the first time in a year, she feels like she might someday be able to forgive him his sins.
Her own, she isn’t as sure about.
Chapter 10
Chapter 10! It's been almost a year since I've gotten this far into a fic, and I owe it to all your wonderful encouragement. As always, thank you! :)
-----------
The slayer base is unexpectedly large. Granted, it's nothing in comparison to the old training area in Scotland, but Buffy hadn't expected a mansion of quite this magnitude, sprawling lawns nearly a quarter of a mile long stretching out to greet them and a wrought-iron gate towering over them high enough to lock out even a slayer and her vampire.
Spike lets out an impressed whistle. "Looks like the littlest brat got herself some funding."
"The littlest- No, Kennedy was always well off," Buffy informs him, remembering the other slayer's early days in Sunnydale, back before she'd cast off her spoiled roots. "I guess...maybe this is her house?"
"Could be." Spike isn't nearly as terse with her as he'd been prior to their first stop, and she's relaxed, too, the relief that the dreaded first visit with Angel and Faith is behind them giving them both a sense of liberation that's almost alien to the set of restless blondes. And Buffy isn't allowing the dread of seeing others whom she'd failed to overwhelm her, not when she's already been drained of all the emotional energy she can carry on a single day.
So she grins perkily at Spike and hits a buzzer affixed to the gate…
A voice, vaguely familiar even through the buzz of static, comes back through the speaker almost immediately. "-No, Jess, you can't take over international patrols! There are six other girls on line, and just because you have an in with- Hang on." The girl's voice is suddenly directed at them. "Hello?"
...And her determination to avoid any more self-directed regrets comes crashing down the moment she places the voice. "Satsu?"
"Hello?" Satsu repeats, sounding irritated. "Who is this?"
"It's..." Her voice trails off just as recognition dawns in Spike's eyes and he nearly chokes.
"That Satsu?" Now he looks positively gleeful, and she swats him on the back of his head and turns back to the speaker.
"It's...uh, it's Buffy. Buffy Summers," she clarifies, though she doubts Satsu needs the elucidation.
There's nothing but silence on the other end, and slow doubt begins to build. If there’s one slayer out there who'd let her in, it'd be Satsu. Then again, if there’s one slayer who has reason to reject her outright...
"In the interest of safe relations with the slayers, you'd better tell me what exactly happened with her," Spike says seriously, and she wonders if he's even noticed that they're locked out, or if he's still in the lustful haze that seems to envelop him every time Satsu's name comes up. "In precise detail."
"Spike..." she says warningly. He's done this before, at least once a week since Xander had let the details of her tryst with the other slayer slip months ago, and she's still regretting explaining the situation to him.
She stares up at the closed gate. "She might hate me."
"Don't see why she would," Spike retorts. "You shagged, but you never lied to her about how you felt. S'fair, and if she can't handle that, s'her own bloody fault." There's a bitter edge to his voice, and she turns to him, immediately concerned.
"Spike-" But there's nothing to say to that, not when he's lost to old self-hatred, so she reaches over to wrap an arm around his waist and lays her head on his shoulder. "Don't." They're both tactile people, communicating with touch in ways they've never quite been able to in words, and she can tell from the way he reaches to her that he's understood.
The past is the past.
We've both done wrong.
I forgive you.
He nuzzles her ear and she knows that he's fine when he murmurs, "So, is she the best you've ever had?"
"Spike!" She whacks him on his side hard, outrage blending with amusement. "Shut up."
"It's a perfectly valid question!" he protests, leering through his pain.
"In what dimension?" She is so not going to give him the answer he wants. Never in a million years. It isn't even true.
-Except for that first night, taking down that house. That had been more memorable than even the space-sex last year, which had been oddly foggy even while it was going on and she hadn't felt like herself during. Or, well, that time with the cuffs had been something, that fearful moment when she'd realized that she trusted Spike with her life more than she trusted herself with his not withstanding. And there had been all the badness that had surrounded their trysts to darken them, but once a year had passed and she'd realized that she lov… that she considered him a friend, she'd found that she remembered them with ever-increasing fondness.
"Pet." Spike is nudging her. "You're all glazed over."
She blinks back to his smirking face. Yeah, he knows what she's thinking about.
"Angel isn't that good," he mumbles, the protective smirk firmly in place.
Or not.
And she's tempted to let it go, but the old fears aren't nearly as strong as her need to force that insecurity from his gaze. "How would you know?" she demands. "And besides, I wasn't thinking about Angel," she tells him, and the wonder that envelops his eyes makes something warm uncoil in her heart.
"You really..." His voice trails off, and she's starting to feel uncomfortable. So what if he'd always been her favored partner? He’s sexy and adventurous and considerate, and he had always been fully aware of those facts. This shouldn't come as a surprise to him.
She turns away, sighing with relief at the distraction. "Hey! Guess Satsu doesn't hate me after all." The other slayer is walking toward the gate, her stride brisk and businesslike and a companion struggling to keep up. "Wait, isn't that...?"
"Bugger," Spike mutters. "Not him!"
Andrew reaches the gate just as Satsu opens it silently, and he immediately throws himself into Spike's arms. "You're back again, here to deliver us from peril! He ever returns, a dark knight drawn to embrace the light!" he says triumphantly.
Buffy and Satsu stare, bemused. Spike apparently decides that he's had enough when Andrew's arms tighten around his back, and he bats him away immediately and hurries to hide behind Buffy. "Oi!"
"He was just saying hello," Buffy reproves him, not bothering to conceal the laughter in her voice.
"I hate you," Spike grumps, and Buffy's still grinning when she turns to Satsu.
"So...uh, what did Andrew mean by peril?"
Satsu eyes her coolly, whatever affection had once been there gone, and Buffy's stomach drops. "That's really none of your business."
Buffy glances to Spike for support, but he's too busy ogling Satsu, his eyes roaming over her body with unrepentant glee before he turns and does the same to Buffy.
"When you're done," she says primly, her cheeks rouging despite herself at the way he's looking her over.
"Not yet! Nearly have a mental picture." Spike pouts attractively, and she reddens further.
She elbows him with extra force and turns back to Satsu. "Look, we're trying to help. If you're in trouble, we can do something."
Satsu folds her arms, unimpressed. "What, try to destroy the world again? You show up with another vampire boyfriend while our girls are dying slowly, and we're supposed to think that you'll bring us anything but more disaster?" Her hostility is borne from more than just righteous anger; there's also a pain unique to personal betrayal that Buffy recognizes well.
"I'm nothing like Angel!" Spike protests immediately.
"He's nothing like Angel!" Andrew echoes.
Buffy ignores them both, latching onto the one important thing that Satsu had let slip. "Did you say girls are dying?"
Satsu doesn't respond.
"Weird pattern on their bodies?" Buffy presses on. "No leads? Getting weaker and weaker?" Satsu pales. "It's killing Faith, too."
She sees the moment when Satsu surrenders, when she sags in her place and looks down at Buffy with bleak weariness. "You'd better come inside."
--
The slayers are staring.
She doesn’t blame them. It isn’t every day that the bane of the slayers walks through their halls, accompanied by a vampire who screams danger, their arms bumping with every step and their guides stony-faced as they lead them through the house.
Andrew’s still there, and Buffy’s surprisingly grateful for that. He’d been one of them for long enough that she thinks of him as family, and even now, he doesn’t seem to hold the same grudge as the others do.
She’d asked him about it when Satsu had gone to find Kennedy to invite Spike in, and he’d shrugged easily. “You screwed up. All great heroes screw up. The Enterprise were the ones who brought the Borg to the Federation. Han Solo was trapped in carbonite. I helped Warren try to kill you. It’s all part of your heroic quest for victory.” He darts a glance at Spike, who’s smiling a genuine smile at him that makes both Buffy and Andrew melt. “You’re the good guys.”
He’d said it with such conviction that she’d nearly hugged him, and even now, she can’t wipe the grin off her face whenever she looks at him. There’s something about Andrew’s hero-worship that’s reassuring in this world where everything’s changed, and his understanding is more potent than even Spike’s. Andrew is just another innocent bystander to the Twilight fiasco, after all, and his forgiveness means more than she can express to him.
“That’s where the girls train,” Andrew chatters, gesturing toward a large ballroom. Several of the slayers turn to the door to gape at them, and Buffy stares back, mustering up a smile that feels like more of a grimace. She recognizes too many of these girls from the final battles, from the higher-ups who’d had their own cells or individual missions. These are the girls still dedicated to the mission, even after Buffy had turned so many of them away from it. These girls are still slayers.
“You’re all here in England?”
Kennedy turns around from where she’d been walking with Satsu for the first time, the same bitterness on her features that Buffy had seen back before she’d left, when Buffy had pleaded with her not to leave Willow. “We still have the Council resources at our disposal. Our slayers are deployed everywhere.”
“Oh. That’s, um…that’s pretty impressive.” She can’t think of more to say, so she smiles awkwardly at the other girl.
Kennedy gives her a frosty look. “No thanks to you. But at least next time you try to destroy the world, we’ll be ready to eliminate you first.” She tosses a withering glare at Spike. “Just let us know before you fuck this one.”
She’s opening her mouth to retort when Spike beats her to it, moving forward so quickly that he’s just a blur until Kennedy’s pinned against the wall, a furious vampire at her throat. “You don’t talk to her like that!” he snarls, his face so contorted that Buffy thinks he might go into vamp face right there, in Slayer Central.
Satsu takes a step forward, three slayers who’d been in the hall now right behind her. Andrew fidgets uncomfortably. Buffy chews her lip, considering. “Spike…”
He growls irritably. “No! She has no right to-“
“Spike.” She puts extra calming force into her voice, moving to lay a hand on his shoulder. “Forget it. She isn’t worth it.” Kennedy’s angry and hateful and probably still blames her breakup on Buffy, but she isn’t worth losing the kinda-support of the other slayers over. And with the occasionally volatile Spike as her sidekick, it’s up to Buffy to be cool-headed, big-picture girl.
Thankfully, he’s just as intelligent when he isn’t defending her honor, and he shoves Kennedy at Satsu and returns to his spot beside Buffy. She squeezes his wrist and glares at Kennedy, daring her to say anything more.
Instead, it’s Satsu who speaks. “That was out of line,” she admits, and Buffy’s nearly certain that she’s talking about Kennedy, not Spike. “Let’s just…let’s get you to the girls.”
Kennedy turns on her heel to accelerate away from them immediately and Spike quickens his step in response, leaving Buffy and Satsu trailing after them and Andrew holding up the rear. There’s an uncomfortable silence, and Buffy finally blurts out, “We’re just friends.”
“Hm?”
“Spike and I,” Buffy clarifies. “Just so you…I mean, the slayers…just so you guys know.”
Satsu turns to her, and there’s a sad smile on the other girl’s face that brings a lump to Buffy’s throat. She doesn’t want to hurt Satsu. Satsu is…Satsu’s always been special, her favorite, and that had nothing to do with sex or sexuality and everything to do with a young, idealistic fighter who’d have done anything for the boss she’d loved. Special. And someone else with whom sex had complicated the equation. “No, you aren’t,” Satsu murmurs. “I’m not blind.”
She moves to catch up with the others and Buffy hurries after her, flushing when Spike tosses her a wry grin.
We are.
Her heart lurches. And I hate it.
She brushes aside the thoughts, annoyed at herself for them. When will she learn? When will she finally stop trying to bring lo-sex into the picture and ruin all they’ve struggled for until now? There might not be anyone in the world as suited for her as Spike is. But she’d rather live her life loveless and alone than lose Spike, and it’s past time to resign herself to that fact.
“Here they are,” Kennedy announces, pushing open a door, and Buffy steps inside, welcoming the distraction from her thoughts.
The room must have started as someone’s bedroom. There’s one large, four-poster bed to the far side, and a desk and dresser have been shoved into a corner to accommodate the other four cots set up in a row beside them. One of the girls is sitting up and reading a book, the latticework still crawling up her arms. Another is lying still, pale and drawn, her eyes fixed on the television set resting on the dresser. The last three are sleeping, tossing and turning and letting out pained moans as they succumb to the illness attacking them.
“Leah,” Buffy whispers, recognizing the closest one. Her former lieutenant looks to be in even worse shape than Faith, too weak to even roll over completely in her sleep. “She’s…”
“She came back from Scotland when she couldn’t figure out what had happened to her,” Satsu whispers. “At first, we’d thought that she had contracted it from something there, but then one of the girls from Kenya reported the same markings.” She nods toward the girl watching TV. “The symptoms are the same. But that’s about all that they have in common.”
“Aside from them both being slayers,” Kennedy points out.
Satsu frowns. “There’ve been slayers for forever. They don’t live long, but they’ve lasted longer than this without being infected.” Two sets of eyes move to regard Buffy, and she looks away, a slow dread mounting from where it had lain dormant since she’d heard about Faith.
Slayers had lasted for millennia untouched. Only now has that been threatened. What had changed?
Only Buffy, who’d made everything different. Who’d wreaked havoc on the magic of the slayer line and then had cut it off completely two years later. Who never, never thought of the consequences.
And now those consequences are going to kill all those who’d followed her.
--
“I don’t know,” Willow repeats for the third time. “I don’t know enough about the egg or the scythe beyond what I’ve told you already. The spell I did in Sunnydale wouldn’t have hurt them like this.” Now she sounds defensive, and Buffy hurries to placate her.
“I know. You did it perfectly, and everything’s been fine until now.” She sighs, slumping down on the couch.
It had been a long day, made even longer by the endless trip back. She’d endured Satsu’s awkward goodbye and had given Kennedy her number, and even the hostile slayer had seemed gratified by that acknowledgement. “We’ll call you if we find anything out,” Satsu had promised, and Andrew had enfolded both Spike and her in a bear hug and promised to keep in touch.
Then she’d been alone with her thoughts again, snuggled against Spike on that hideous green couch of his that she kept meaning to force him to replace, watching a movie on his laptop and struggling to find the words to express her newest fear.
She doesn’t want to see the disappointment on his face, see his faith in her waver. So she’s silent and gloomy and when he drops her off at home and orders her to get some sleep, she makes a beeline for the phone and calls Willow. Willow will have answers. Willow always has answers.
Willow has no answers.
“There might be something,” Willow says hesitantly. “The scythe…it cracked in half when you broke the seed, didn’t it?”
She nods, then realizes that Willow can’t see her and mumbles, “Yeah.”
“Well…it could have corrupted the original spell. Or somehow been tied to the slayer essence. I don’t know.” Willow is silent, and Buffy can imagine her helpless shrug. “Without my magic, I can’t even try to find the essence of the scythe. I can try checking around online, but that’s about it.”
Buffy thanks her numbly and hangs up the phone.
The seed had had to be destroyed. Spike has reminded her of this time and again. Even Xander has pulled her over on occasion and told her that she’d done the right thing. They’re both sensitive enough not to point out that it had had to be destroyed because she’d put the world at greater risk.
It’s not like she doesn’t know that already. It’s not like she hasn’t spent hundreds of sleepless nights dwelling on it.
It’s not like tonight isn’t going to be one of them.
-----------
The slayer base is unexpectedly large. Granted, it's nothing in comparison to the old training area in Scotland, but Buffy hadn't expected a mansion of quite this magnitude, sprawling lawns nearly a quarter of a mile long stretching out to greet them and a wrought-iron gate towering over them high enough to lock out even a slayer and her vampire.
Spike lets out an impressed whistle. "Looks like the littlest brat got herself some funding."
"The littlest- No, Kennedy was always well off," Buffy informs him, remembering the other slayer's early days in Sunnydale, back before she'd cast off her spoiled roots. "I guess...maybe this is her house?"
"Could be." Spike isn't nearly as terse with her as he'd been prior to their first stop, and she's relaxed, too, the relief that the dreaded first visit with Angel and Faith is behind them giving them both a sense of liberation that's almost alien to the set of restless blondes. And Buffy isn't allowing the dread of seeing others whom she'd failed to overwhelm her, not when she's already been drained of all the emotional energy she can carry on a single day.
So she grins perkily at Spike and hits a buzzer affixed to the gate…
A voice, vaguely familiar even through the buzz of static, comes back through the speaker almost immediately. "-No, Jess, you can't take over international patrols! There are six other girls on line, and just because you have an in with- Hang on." The girl's voice is suddenly directed at them. "Hello?"
...And her determination to avoid any more self-directed regrets comes crashing down the moment she places the voice. "Satsu?"
"Hello?" Satsu repeats, sounding irritated. "Who is this?"
"It's..." Her voice trails off just as recognition dawns in Spike's eyes and he nearly chokes.
"That Satsu?" Now he looks positively gleeful, and she swats him on the back of his head and turns back to the speaker.
"It's...uh, it's Buffy. Buffy Summers," she clarifies, though she doubts Satsu needs the elucidation.
There's nothing but silence on the other end, and slow doubt begins to build. If there’s one slayer out there who'd let her in, it'd be Satsu. Then again, if there’s one slayer who has reason to reject her outright...
"In the interest of safe relations with the slayers, you'd better tell me what exactly happened with her," Spike says seriously, and she wonders if he's even noticed that they're locked out, or if he's still in the lustful haze that seems to envelop him every time Satsu's name comes up. "In precise detail."
"Spike..." she says warningly. He's done this before, at least once a week since Xander had let the details of her tryst with the other slayer slip months ago, and she's still regretting explaining the situation to him.
She stares up at the closed gate. "She might hate me."
"Don't see why she would," Spike retorts. "You shagged, but you never lied to her about how you felt. S'fair, and if she can't handle that, s'her own bloody fault." There's a bitter edge to his voice, and she turns to him, immediately concerned.
"Spike-" But there's nothing to say to that, not when he's lost to old self-hatred, so she reaches over to wrap an arm around his waist and lays her head on his shoulder. "Don't." They're both tactile people, communicating with touch in ways they've never quite been able to in words, and she can tell from the way he reaches to her that he's understood.
The past is the past.
We've both done wrong.
I forgive you.
He nuzzles her ear and she knows that he's fine when he murmurs, "So, is she the best you've ever had?"
"Spike!" She whacks him on his side hard, outrage blending with amusement. "Shut up."
"It's a perfectly valid question!" he protests, leering through his pain.
"In what dimension?" She is so not going to give him the answer he wants. Never in a million years. It isn't even true.
-Except for that first night, taking down that house. That had been more memorable than even the space-sex last year, which had been oddly foggy even while it was going on and she hadn't felt like herself during. Or, well, that time with the cuffs had been something, that fearful moment when she'd realized that she trusted Spike with her life more than she trusted herself with his not withstanding. And there had been all the badness that had surrounded their trysts to darken them, but once a year had passed and she'd realized that she lov… that she considered him a friend, she'd found that she remembered them with ever-increasing fondness.
"Pet." Spike is nudging her. "You're all glazed over."
She blinks back to his smirking face. Yeah, he knows what she's thinking about.
"Angel isn't that good," he mumbles, the protective smirk firmly in place.
Or not.
And she's tempted to let it go, but the old fears aren't nearly as strong as her need to force that insecurity from his gaze. "How would you know?" she demands. "And besides, I wasn't thinking about Angel," she tells him, and the wonder that envelops his eyes makes something warm uncoil in her heart.
"You really..." His voice trails off, and she's starting to feel uncomfortable. So what if he'd always been her favored partner? He’s sexy and adventurous and considerate, and he had always been fully aware of those facts. This shouldn't come as a surprise to him.
She turns away, sighing with relief at the distraction. "Hey! Guess Satsu doesn't hate me after all." The other slayer is walking toward the gate, her stride brisk and businesslike and a companion struggling to keep up. "Wait, isn't that...?"
"Bugger," Spike mutters. "Not him!"
Andrew reaches the gate just as Satsu opens it silently, and he immediately throws himself into Spike's arms. "You're back again, here to deliver us from peril! He ever returns, a dark knight drawn to embrace the light!" he says triumphantly.
Buffy and Satsu stare, bemused. Spike apparently decides that he's had enough when Andrew's arms tighten around his back, and he bats him away immediately and hurries to hide behind Buffy. "Oi!"
"He was just saying hello," Buffy reproves him, not bothering to conceal the laughter in her voice.
"I hate you," Spike grumps, and Buffy's still grinning when she turns to Satsu.
"So...uh, what did Andrew mean by peril?"
Satsu eyes her coolly, whatever affection had once been there gone, and Buffy's stomach drops. "That's really none of your business."
Buffy glances to Spike for support, but he's too busy ogling Satsu, his eyes roaming over her body with unrepentant glee before he turns and does the same to Buffy.
"When you're done," she says primly, her cheeks rouging despite herself at the way he's looking her over.
"Not yet! Nearly have a mental picture." Spike pouts attractively, and she reddens further.
She elbows him with extra force and turns back to Satsu. "Look, we're trying to help. If you're in trouble, we can do something."
Satsu folds her arms, unimpressed. "What, try to destroy the world again? You show up with another vampire boyfriend while our girls are dying slowly, and we're supposed to think that you'll bring us anything but more disaster?" Her hostility is borne from more than just righteous anger; there's also a pain unique to personal betrayal that Buffy recognizes well.
"I'm nothing like Angel!" Spike protests immediately.
"He's nothing like Angel!" Andrew echoes.
Buffy ignores them both, latching onto the one important thing that Satsu had let slip. "Did you say girls are dying?"
Satsu doesn't respond.
"Weird pattern on their bodies?" Buffy presses on. "No leads? Getting weaker and weaker?" Satsu pales. "It's killing Faith, too."
She sees the moment when Satsu surrenders, when she sags in her place and looks down at Buffy with bleak weariness. "You'd better come inside."
--
The slayers are staring.
She doesn’t blame them. It isn’t every day that the bane of the slayers walks through their halls, accompanied by a vampire who screams danger, their arms bumping with every step and their guides stony-faced as they lead them through the house.
Andrew’s still there, and Buffy’s surprisingly grateful for that. He’d been one of them for long enough that she thinks of him as family, and even now, he doesn’t seem to hold the same grudge as the others do.
She’d asked him about it when Satsu had gone to find Kennedy to invite Spike in, and he’d shrugged easily. “You screwed up. All great heroes screw up. The Enterprise were the ones who brought the Borg to the Federation. Han Solo was trapped in carbonite. I helped Warren try to kill you. It’s all part of your heroic quest for victory.” He darts a glance at Spike, who’s smiling a genuine smile at him that makes both Buffy and Andrew melt. “You’re the good guys.”
He’d said it with such conviction that she’d nearly hugged him, and even now, she can’t wipe the grin off her face whenever she looks at him. There’s something about Andrew’s hero-worship that’s reassuring in this world where everything’s changed, and his understanding is more potent than even Spike’s. Andrew is just another innocent bystander to the Twilight fiasco, after all, and his forgiveness means more than she can express to him.
“That’s where the girls train,” Andrew chatters, gesturing toward a large ballroom. Several of the slayers turn to the door to gape at them, and Buffy stares back, mustering up a smile that feels like more of a grimace. She recognizes too many of these girls from the final battles, from the higher-ups who’d had their own cells or individual missions. These are the girls still dedicated to the mission, even after Buffy had turned so many of them away from it. These girls are still slayers.
“You’re all here in England?”
Kennedy turns around from where she’d been walking with Satsu for the first time, the same bitterness on her features that Buffy had seen back before she’d left, when Buffy had pleaded with her not to leave Willow. “We still have the Council resources at our disposal. Our slayers are deployed everywhere.”
“Oh. That’s, um…that’s pretty impressive.” She can’t think of more to say, so she smiles awkwardly at the other girl.
Kennedy gives her a frosty look. “No thanks to you. But at least next time you try to destroy the world, we’ll be ready to eliminate you first.” She tosses a withering glare at Spike. “Just let us know before you fuck this one.”
She’s opening her mouth to retort when Spike beats her to it, moving forward so quickly that he’s just a blur until Kennedy’s pinned against the wall, a furious vampire at her throat. “You don’t talk to her like that!” he snarls, his face so contorted that Buffy thinks he might go into vamp face right there, in Slayer Central.
Satsu takes a step forward, three slayers who’d been in the hall now right behind her. Andrew fidgets uncomfortably. Buffy chews her lip, considering. “Spike…”
He growls irritably. “No! She has no right to-“
“Spike.” She puts extra calming force into her voice, moving to lay a hand on his shoulder. “Forget it. She isn’t worth it.” Kennedy’s angry and hateful and probably still blames her breakup on Buffy, but she isn’t worth losing the kinda-support of the other slayers over. And with the occasionally volatile Spike as her sidekick, it’s up to Buffy to be cool-headed, big-picture girl.
Thankfully, he’s just as intelligent when he isn’t defending her honor, and he shoves Kennedy at Satsu and returns to his spot beside Buffy. She squeezes his wrist and glares at Kennedy, daring her to say anything more.
Instead, it’s Satsu who speaks. “That was out of line,” she admits, and Buffy’s nearly certain that she’s talking about Kennedy, not Spike. “Let’s just…let’s get you to the girls.”
Kennedy turns on her heel to accelerate away from them immediately and Spike quickens his step in response, leaving Buffy and Satsu trailing after them and Andrew holding up the rear. There’s an uncomfortable silence, and Buffy finally blurts out, “We’re just friends.”
“Hm?”
“Spike and I,” Buffy clarifies. “Just so you…I mean, the slayers…just so you guys know.”
Satsu turns to her, and there’s a sad smile on the other girl’s face that brings a lump to Buffy’s throat. She doesn’t want to hurt Satsu. Satsu is…Satsu’s always been special, her favorite, and that had nothing to do with sex or sexuality and everything to do with a young, idealistic fighter who’d have done anything for the boss she’d loved. Special. And someone else with whom sex had complicated the equation. “No, you aren’t,” Satsu murmurs. “I’m not blind.”
She moves to catch up with the others and Buffy hurries after her, flushing when Spike tosses her a wry grin.
We are.
Her heart lurches. And I hate it.
She brushes aside the thoughts, annoyed at herself for them. When will she learn? When will she finally stop trying to bring lo-sex into the picture and ruin all they’ve struggled for until now? There might not be anyone in the world as suited for her as Spike is. But she’d rather live her life loveless and alone than lose Spike, and it’s past time to resign herself to that fact.
“Here they are,” Kennedy announces, pushing open a door, and Buffy steps inside, welcoming the distraction from her thoughts.
The room must have started as someone’s bedroom. There’s one large, four-poster bed to the far side, and a desk and dresser have been shoved into a corner to accommodate the other four cots set up in a row beside them. One of the girls is sitting up and reading a book, the latticework still crawling up her arms. Another is lying still, pale and drawn, her eyes fixed on the television set resting on the dresser. The last three are sleeping, tossing and turning and letting out pained moans as they succumb to the illness attacking them.
“Leah,” Buffy whispers, recognizing the closest one. Her former lieutenant looks to be in even worse shape than Faith, too weak to even roll over completely in her sleep. “She’s…”
“She came back from Scotland when she couldn’t figure out what had happened to her,” Satsu whispers. “At first, we’d thought that she had contracted it from something there, but then one of the girls from Kenya reported the same markings.” She nods toward the girl watching TV. “The symptoms are the same. But that’s about all that they have in common.”
“Aside from them both being slayers,” Kennedy points out.
Satsu frowns. “There’ve been slayers for forever. They don’t live long, but they’ve lasted longer than this without being infected.” Two sets of eyes move to regard Buffy, and she looks away, a slow dread mounting from where it had lain dormant since she’d heard about Faith.
Slayers had lasted for millennia untouched. Only now has that been threatened. What had changed?
Only Buffy, who’d made everything different. Who’d wreaked havoc on the magic of the slayer line and then had cut it off completely two years later. Who never, never thought of the consequences.
And now those consequences are going to kill all those who’d followed her.
--
“I don’t know,” Willow repeats for the third time. “I don’t know enough about the egg or the scythe beyond what I’ve told you already. The spell I did in Sunnydale wouldn’t have hurt them like this.” Now she sounds defensive, and Buffy hurries to placate her.
“I know. You did it perfectly, and everything’s been fine until now.” She sighs, slumping down on the couch.
It had been a long day, made even longer by the endless trip back. She’d endured Satsu’s awkward goodbye and had given Kennedy her number, and even the hostile slayer had seemed gratified by that acknowledgement. “We’ll call you if we find anything out,” Satsu had promised, and Andrew had enfolded both Spike and her in a bear hug and promised to keep in touch.
Then she’d been alone with her thoughts again, snuggled against Spike on that hideous green couch of his that she kept meaning to force him to replace, watching a movie on his laptop and struggling to find the words to express her newest fear.
She doesn’t want to see the disappointment on his face, see his faith in her waver. So she’s silent and gloomy and when he drops her off at home and orders her to get some sleep, she makes a beeline for the phone and calls Willow. Willow will have answers. Willow always has answers.
Willow has no answers.
“There might be something,” Willow says hesitantly. “The scythe…it cracked in half when you broke the seed, didn’t it?”
She nods, then realizes that Willow can’t see her and mumbles, “Yeah.”
“Well…it could have corrupted the original spell. Or somehow been tied to the slayer essence. I don’t know.” Willow is silent, and Buffy can imagine her helpless shrug. “Without my magic, I can’t even try to find the essence of the scythe. I can try checking around online, but that’s about it.”
Buffy thanks her numbly and hangs up the phone.
The seed had had to be destroyed. Spike has reminded her of this time and again. Even Xander has pulled her over on occasion and told her that she’d done the right thing. They’re both sensitive enough not to point out that it had had to be destroyed because she’d put the world at greater risk.
It’s not like she doesn’t know that already. It’s not like she hasn’t spent hundreds of sleepless nights dwelling on it.
It’s not like tonight isn’t going to be one of them.
Chapter 11
WHAT IS THIS IS THIS AN ACTUAL UPDATE.
Augh this is not easy to write
(bits of the updated summary stolen shamelessly from Moscow Watcher @ LJ's lovely rec and summary of this fic! Thank you for both!) :)
-----------------
She wakes up in the morning to an emphatic note from Spike on the cereal box that she’d “better eat right today” and instructions to take out the plate in the fridge. He must have realized later in the night- much, much later, after she’d finally fallen asleep- that she hadn’t had any meals during their trip and come back to make sure that she made up for it, and it’s such a sweet gesture that she heats up his blackened omelet and wolfs down as much of the edible bits of it that she can.
Nutritious breakfast or not, she’s still stumbling into tables and forgetting orders all morning, trying desperately with more caffeine than she’s consumed in a long time to keep her eyes open long enough to get through work. Calling in sick the day before makes the perfect cover, at least, and she's able to use her presumed illness as an excuse to Josh for her utter exhaustion. Leanne isn't nearly as convinced, making sly comments about what she must've been doing with the blond hottie to wear herself out so completely, and even Tina is grinning and teasing by midday.
She finally snaps during the slow afternoon hours. "We're not dating, okay? We had to go somewhere upstate and got back late. That's all. No hot monkey sex or- I don't know what you're thinking, a rave? None of it."
"Okay! Jeez, Buffy, overreact much?" Leanne rolls her eyes and prances off to go flirt with the gay couple at the corner table, her earlier interest as quickly forgotten as it had come.
Buffy swallows her frustration and focuses on rubbing down the table. Leanne's just being herself, and it's not the other girl's fault that Buffy's thoughts have the slayer so unnerved.
She wonders how Faith is doing, if Leah's in much pain. If Satsu and Kennedy have put together the pieces and figured out what's causing the slayer-virus. If Willow knows anything yet. If Spike...
Right now, she wants nothing more than to lose herself in Spike, to have him patrolling at her side and assuring her that they'd beat this thing. But that would involve telling him what she suspects, and she can't. She's certain that it would tear her apart to admit it to him, and she can't afford to be weak right now. She needs her strength more than ever.
So an hour before sunset, she leaves a hurried note for Spike and heads over Xander and Dawn's apartment. It won’t take Spike long to find her, she knows, but she needs a buffer or she’ll spill everything to Spike in moments.
That’s the problem when all your friends move on and only your…Spike…is around. There’s nowhere to hide from those knowing eyes anymore.
--
Xander’s eyebrows shoot up when he opens the door. “Buffy! I didn’t know that you were planning on coming over tonight.”
She blinks at him. “Not that it isn’t swell to see you here again,” he adds hastily. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Dawnie’s been worrying about you.” He stumbles over the words, frowning. “You can take care of yourself, of course, but we’ve missed you, and…”
Something is stirring inside of her, emotions she’s kept tamped down for a day now- or a year, if she’s completely honest. There are some things that even her shared history with Spike doesn’t really touch, things that she doesn’t dwell on when he’s around because it all feels so distant from their relationship. But standing here with Xander, it’s impossible for those feelings not to bubble up. “I went to Giles’s house yesterday,” she blurts out.
Xander’s eyes widen and he steps aside silently, closing the door as she enters the room. They’re both on the couch immediately, she wrapped in his embrace and gulping in air with loud, audible choking sounds. “It’s not…I’m not…” She tries needlessly to say something, anything that might stop the imminent breakdown she’s been so determined to avoid, but it’s too late, now that the floodgates are open, and Xander’s whispered words of comfort can’t hold her back anymore.
She doesn’t cry, exactly, just shakes and gasps and buries her face in Xander’s shoulder as he tightens his grip around her, and when the sobs have finally passed, they’re both staring at each other with desolation. “What…how does it look?” Xander whispers. “The same?”
She nods woodenly. “Ang- Faith keeps it up.” Xander is possibly the only person out there who cares less for hearing about Angel than Spike- and even Spike isn’t as opposed to Angel discussion as he’d once been- and she isn’t going to bring him up now. Not during this discussion. “It’s like…it’s so Giles.” She laughs shakily. “Books everywhere, piled up on the tables and the shelves, homey without being too crowded, and I think I smelled tea boiling in the kitchen.”
Xander takes in a sharp breath. “God, Buffy…”
“And Faith’s dying.” She can’t stop talking. Why can’t she stop talking? “Not just Faith. Other slayers. There’s this disease, I don’t know what, but it’s already killed Simone and Faith’s getting worse and worse. And I think it’s from me, Xander. I think I’m the one who’s done this to her.”
She lets out a frustrated whimper, rubbing the heel of her hand against wet eyes. “Willow thinks it’s the scythe that’s doing this. Because I broke it destroying the seed. And since doing that got rid of magic, there’s no way for us to…” There’s nothing. It’s worse than ever before, because even with deadlines and imminent death, there had always been magic to fall back on. Willow had always been able to do a spell. Giles had always found the perfect one. Buffy had gone into battle against the tangible, and Willow had fought the mystical.
And what do they have to war against science, against virus and disease? Her head is aching at the hopelessness of the situation, memories of stolen glimpses into hospital rooms and her mother’s dead eyes staring into nowhere seeping into her thoughts even now. The events of last year have left them all helpless to respond, and now she can only pull away from Xander and murmur blankly, “I really fucked everything up, didn’t I?”
“You didn’t-“
“I did.” She swallows. “I gave…I gave Twilight an in. Unleashed it on the world because…well, I don’t know why I did it. I don’t even understand what I was- I loved Angel, but I was furious with him when he pulled that mask off. He’d been killing my girls. I wasn’t going to listen to his reasoning! And then there was that glow, and then…”
“You fucked everything up?” Xander suggests dryly, reaching over to snatch a chocolate chip cookie from a plate on his coffee table and passing it to her.
She ignores it. “That started it. Not some demon or evil or even a bunch of idiot nerds. Me. I screwed up, I had to destroy the seed, I couldn’t save…save Giles, and now I can’t save these girls and I’ve eliminated their only way out from the world.” Her eyes fall shut as she slumps against the couch again. “Who needs the Big Bad when you’ve got the slayer to wipe out the good guys?”
“Hey.” Xander slides an arm around her again, firm and supportive. “You know I love you, right?” He doesn’t wait for a response. “You’re basically my best friend and my sister and my personal idol all wrapped up into one lethal blonde package.” She opens her eyes long enough to see him flash her a grin that fades into earnestness almost immediately. “And yeah, this is bad. This is probably the most badness we’ve had since Twilight- and I’m talking those god-awful books, not the vampire with a mask,” he cracks, and she can’t stop her lips from curling upwards into a smirk. “But it’s not the world in danger, which is always a plus, and no matter what you say, you can do this.”
He squeezes her arm. “You never stop trying. You never give up. You can be caught in space with some crackpot power who wants to give you eternal happiness and a spanking new world and you’ll still come back to fight for us.” She closes her eyes, willing him to stop and let her hate herself, but this is Xander, and the day he lets that happen is the day that there’s no world to save. “You’re pretty much a superhero, Buff. You can do anything- you have done anything- and I have faith in you.” He smiles sheepishly. “And we’ll help, too, if we can. We might not be your sidekicks numero uno anymore, but Dawn’s still good with the research and I know a great donut shop two blocks down.”
She laughs at that, tears clouding her vision as she leans into his shoulder affectionately. “You know you’ve always been more than that, right?”
“I saved the world once,” he agrees immediately. “Of course, that was by getting thrown around by my evil Sith Lord of a best friend, but I do what I can.”
“Stick with what you know best,” Spike’s voice drawls from behind them, and Buffy starts and turns to the side of the couch by the fire escape, where he’s watching them unsmilingly. “Me, I like the jelly donuts. Round and puffy with that nummy red goo inside.”
Xander blinks. “Did your boytoy just call me a donut?”
“Spike.” She can’t hide her annoyance from him, and it seeps into her tone as she glares at him. There are few times in the past year when she’s genuinely wanted him away, and she can tell that he’s taken aback by this now. “What are you doing here?”
He stares at her. “Patrol? We’re picking up pizza on the way because I know you haven’t eaten anything filling since breakfast, and why are you here, anyway?”
“Dinner and a show,” Xander cracks, and Buffy turns to send him a glare of his own. He shrugs. “Buffy’s my friend, Evil Dead. She can go wherever she wants.”
“Not without telling me!” Spike scowls. “We have a system. And we need to go before any vampires supposed to rise tonight pop up and go a-killin’. That alright with you, Pudgy?”
Buffy glances back and forth between the two men, guilt rising at the tension on both their faces. It isn’t Spike’s fault that she can’t open up to him about this. And it isn’t Xander’s that she’d decided to use him as her buffer. “Guys…”
Xander holds up a hand. “Hey, I’m spoken for. No macho pissing contest for me.” He raises an eyebrow at Spike. “Come in. Take your prize. Get her one of those cheese stuffed pretzels that she loves but won’t admit she wants because she thinks she looks piggish when she’s eating them. Go patrolling, watch TV, make with the vampire sex…whatever.” He makes an obligatory grimace. “Make Buffy happy, kay?”
“Yeah.” Spike doesn’t step into the apartment, not even after Xander’s impromptu invitation. “You coming?” He pauses, stares silently at her, then turns to the stairs of the fire escape without so much as a farewell.
Xander wrinkles his brow. “What’s gotten him all cranky?”
“I should go,” Buffy murmurs, standing. “Sorry I went all…” She gestures to what she can now see in the mirror is her splotchy red face.
“Hey.” Xander pats her shoulder. “I’m your friend. I’m supposed to be here when you need to talk. And I don’t think I’ve been doing that as often as I should since you moved out.” He brushes damp bangs back behind her ears. “I miss you.”
It’s suddenly hard to get the words out. “I miss you, too.” She hugs him hard, so tightly that he’s choking good-naturedly for air, and things feel a little more all right than they’ve been in a while. “Thank you.”
He shrugs, embarrassed. “It’s all I can do. You save the world, I give pep talks.” Her eyes are shining at him, and he ducks his head. “Go. Punch Spike out of his hissy fit, or whatever foreplay is for you two. Not that I want to know!” he adds hastily as she heads for the window.
She’s still grinning when she makes her way up to the roof, but her expression falters when she sees Spike standing stonily in front of his ship, his eyes cold and his mouth set. “H-Hi. Sorry I didn’t tell you-“ She narrows her eyes, remembering herself. “But you’re not in charge of my comings and goings! I don’t need to leave a note whenever I go off to visit my sister!”
“Dawn wasn’t there,” Spike informs her.
“I didn’t know that!”
“Didn’t you?”
She doesn’t know where he’s going with this, but it’s pissing her off. “No! And stop staring at me like that!”
“Like what?”
“Like you- like you hate me!” The words burst out of her and she can’t take them back, so she settles instead for steeling her features and glowering fiercely at him.
He softens immediately. “I don’t hate you, love. I was worried. You weren’t yourself yesterday. And then you were missing.” A shadow draws a pall over his face. “And you’ve been crying.” His fingers move to mirror Xander’s actions moments before, and she shivers under his gentle touch. “What’s wrong, pet?”
She can’t say. He can’t know how close she’s been to shattering- how close she still is, even after Xander’s profession of devotion- and how she may be the reason they’re going to lose Faith. But she’s selfish and needy and can’t push him away, so she closes her eyes and enjoys the sensation of his fingers ghosting against her cheek, his cool breath grazing her forehead, his body mere inches from hers.
When he tenses against her, she nearly breaks down again. “Right. Xander talked you through it, yeah?” He says the name with loathing she hasn’t heard in years, and she recoils instinctively.
He takes it as rejection, as she’d feared he would. “C’mon. Pizza, or one of those pretzels you apparently adore. S’getting late.”
He jerks toward the entrance to the ship and she tries to grasp his hand in silent response, but his fingers are stiff and immobile against her own, and they lurch into the ship unsteadily, together and miles distant all at once.
Chapter 12
You are all beautifulwonderfullovely, and your reviews make the heartache that is writing this fic worth it! So much love for all of you.
Chapter 13
Please note: some brief discussion of consent issues and "glowy aphrodisiacs," if you catch my drift. Buffy’s views on the matter are Buffy’s views, not mine.
----
Morning brings new clarity, and not just from waking up stretched out on the couch with Spike’s beloved leather duster wrapped around her- though that does bring a smile to her face. It’s a promise that he’ll be back- a cold comfort in the face of all the conflict they’ve suffered recently, but a comfort nonetheless.
She clutches it closer to her for a moment, inhaling the leather with a twinge of discomfort. Nothing’s changed, though, has it? Spike’s still angry, and it’s only her vulnerability that has brought out his warmth for the time being. They’ll be back to tense conversations and abrupt departures in no time, and she’ll be again devastated in the silent wasteland that is his absence.
How is it possible to feel this much affection for someone so infuriating? She presses her lips to the smooth fabric in her hands, frustration warring with longing until frustration wins out and she drops the duster to the ground and stalks off (returning immediately to smooth out the coat and lay it down neatly on the arm of the couch before she’s off again) to the kitchen to brood over a bowl of cereal.
She’s sick of being a slave to Spike’s whims when it comes to the tragedy bearing down upon them. Sick of having to spend her days waiting for news from where things are actually happening, while she’s helpless to communicate without a go-between. And now that she’s confronted her fears for the first time, the idea of doing it again isn’t nearly as intimidating, so she digs through old papers shoved deep into a messy kitchen drawer until she finds the scrap with a hastily scrawled note on it. Giles’s phone number, one she’d almost left behind when time had come to move into this apartment. She hadn’t wanted the memories, and she certainly hadn’t wanted to speak to Faith back then, but she’d kept it regardless, mindful that it might come in handy some day.
She leaves the paper on the table before she leaves for work, and when she returns hours later, it beckons still. It’s late, late enough that Spike would ordinarily already be there for dinner and patrol. And judging from the duster still draped over the couch, he’s going to miss it again, and that’s enough to spur her to action.
She dials the international number, wincing at the thought of the cost of the call. It’s worth it, though, if only to hear from Faith in her own words what’s going on.
She realizes her mistake only after the other line is picked up. “I am so sorry. I completely forgot the time difference!”
There’s a weighty pause. Then, “…Buffy?”
Mistake number two, because of course Faith isn’t answering phones in her condition. “Oh.” She sinks into the couch, her hand grasping for the duster beside her automatically. “Hi. Angel.”
“Buffy,” he repeats helplessly. “Why are you…Spike left hours ago.”
She licks dry lips. “Right. Um…he’s just not here yet,” she hurries to add, unwilling to share her reservations when it comes to Spike, especially not with Angel. “And I was wondering…uh, how’s Faith doing? Have you found anything?”
Heavy sigh. “They took blood today. There’s something irregular about it, so they’re sending it to a lab better equipped for study. It might just be slayer blood, it might be something else that they can actually help with. They’ll give us the results when they have them.” He growls lowly. “It shouldn’t take this long when she’s so close to…” His voice trails off, and she can hear a low whimper from beside him, a whisper of a voice. Faith. “It shouldn’t take this long,” he says finally, and she can hear him walking, imagine him closing the door with one last glance at the frail figure on the bed.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “God, I’m so sorry.”
He barks out something that might be a laugh. “You? You’re telling me that you’re sorry? There is no way you can ever say that to me again, Buffy. Not after what I’ve-” He stops abruptly.
She lays her head against the cool leather beside her. There are words she can say now, reassurance or denial or a thousand insistences that he’s not to blame for last year, but that much she knows he doesn’t merit. “Do you think I did it?”
“What?” He sounds puzzled.
“I broke the scythe. Maybe unleashed something on the slayers.” Why is it so much easier to talk about this to everyone except the one person whose opinion matters most?
“You broke the scythe because you had to. Because of what I did.”
“We did,” she corrects, and then there’s awkward silence as she struggles to think of anything but that day. Anything but that elation, soaring through the sky and unimaginable heights of pleasure that are still blurry in her mind. Anything but being in Angel’s arms and it feeling so right that it could only be magic causing it.
“No, not we!” And he sounds genuinely annoyed at that. “Buffy, you’d spent the minutes before that shouting at me and throwing me into trees! You weren’t planning on…you know. You were violated!”
Violated. Spike had said that once before, too, but she’d brushed it off. It had made her feel wrong, dirty, even, in ways that she hadn’t wanted to think about, especially when it had come to a conversation with Spike. It hadn’t felt like violation, even if it was fuzzy in her mind. Not with that much love behind it. “No. I was…we were both under that glow.”
“I knew- well, suspected what was coming.” Angel’s breathing, and it unnerves her. He isn’t supposed to seem so human. She tightens her grip on Spike’s coat and waits. “I was prepared for it. I didn’t think about what it really was that we were doing until a few months ago. And Buffy,” he murmurs. “Oh god, Buffy, what I did to you- before and after- it was-“
He sounds weak, broken in ways that she hasn’t heard from him since Christmas Eve nearly a decade ago, and there’s a part of her that longs to wrap her arms around him and comfort him, cry with him as they both share pain that’s always been unique to their relationship. She loves him even now, unlikely as it may seem after all these years; and forgiveness has never been a question, even during the anguish following Giles’s death.
“I don’t hate you.” The words escape her lips so quietly that she barely hears them herself. “Not now. You were doing what you thought was necessary.” Her voice strengthens. “It was wrong.”
“Yes.”
“It was stupid, and evil, and you killed so many people that I cared about…but you didn’t kill Giles. Not directly. I blame you for a lot that went wrong- the parts that I don’t blame myself for,” she adds wryly. “But I can’t hate you for killing Giles when it wasn’t you.” Angel starts to object, but she cuts him off. “I looked into your eyes and I saw Twilight. And…and being around you, I still see it happening, see something that looks like you…with Giles, and…” She’s talking through tears and she can’t remember when they started, spilling down her face and along the leather of the duster she’s clinging onto like a lifeline. “It wasn’t you, but it still hurts like it was! And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now, because I couldn’t even look at you for a year, but this is going to hurt forever. And it hurts even more when I think about how much my fault it is, and how if it isn’t you, then it’s both of us, and I can’t just move to a different country to escape me!”
“Buffy…” His voice is just as strained as hers, struggling for equanimity when she’s completely broken down on the other line. “Please, don’t.”
She stares blankly at the black TV screen in front of her. “I can’t let more people die. I can’t lose Faith. It’s so utterly selfish, but if I lose anyone else I care about, I’m not going to be able to live with myself. I can’t watch it happen again.”
“It might,” Angel acknowledges mournfully. “And if you think that isn’t killing me, too…Faith’s given me more than I deserve. And if this is something we can’t stop…”
She lets out a laugh that sounds nearly hysterical through her tears.
He pauses. “What?”
“It’s just…” She closes her eyes, feeling the pain overwhelm her again. “I’ve been spending too much time with... He’d tell me that we could do this. And you give me the truth. It’s strange.”
“Yeah.” And Angel suddenly sounds disconsolate. “I shouldn’t have… I don’t know. Maybe he’s right. But you guys tend to win your battles. It never worked like that in LA.” She wipes away her tears, breathing evenly again as he continues. “But maybe the idiot’s got a point. We’ve got to keep fighting, right? It’s the only way to make amends.”
She nods slowly. “Especially if this slayer-virus is something I caused.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and she’s about to check if he’s still there when his voice comes back, tentative and slow. “This might be- is- completely out of line, but I do still love you. Probably always will, no matter what happens next. And I know it doesn’t mean anything anymore, but…”
“I know.” There’s no future with Angel, she knows that, but he’ll always have a place in her heart, no matter how far apart they’ve grown. “I love you, too, Angel.” The words seem almost sweet instead of troubled this time, sentiment alone, free of any expectations.
There’s nothing left to say then other than goodbye, and she hangs up the phone with a heart both heavier and lighter and stands, moving to put it back in the receiver…
…And there’s Spike in the kitchen, a plastic cup shredded beyond recognition in his hands and a thunderous look on his face.
Oh. Oh god. If he’d been angry about her confiding in Xander…
“Y-Your coat’s on the couch,” she says quickly, her heart shriveling up into nothingness at his expression. “You left it behind yesterday, but I didn’t ruin it or anything. I know how protective you are over that thing. Uh…I haven’t gone on patrol yet.” She checks the oven clock. “Which makes sense, because this is the usual time when I leave. And hey, you’re on time! No air traffic today?” She’s fully aware that she’s babbling, but her mouth stubbornly refuses to stop. “This is the first time in a week, I think, if you count the day that we both missed patrol because we were in-“ Do not mention England! her brain screams, and then she’s left without anything else to say without word vomit escaping.
Spike doesn’t smile. “We should go patrol,” he says shortly, pausing to frown at her for a moment. “Have you eaten yet?” His face is tight, whatever concern might be in his words lacking in his eyes.
She nods quickly, eager to get out of the apartment and this situation. He just keeps staring. “No,” she finally admits under his steady gaze. “But I can get something afterward. I’m not hungry,” she says truthfully. Whatever appetite she might have summoned after her talk with Angel is gone since Spike first stared at her the way he is now. “Can we just go kill things?”
He doesn’t answer, and she can see his fists clenching and unclenching around the last remains of the cup he’d torn apart.
“Fine. I’m going,” she says sourly, her good mood from her talk with Angel gone and replaced with irritation and uneasy guilt that she knows isn’t rational. “Feel free to stay behind and sulk on the couch.”
He scowls at her, but she can hear his footsteps behind her as she stalks toward the door. She doesn’t look back, annoyance building. He has no right to be this angry with her. He doesn’t own her. He doesn’t even love her. He has no say in who she chooses to talk to, and he definitely doesn’t get to make her feel guilty about it!
They’re already in a cemetery, the dust of the first vampire of the night settling around her, when she’s finally had enough and whirls around. “What’s your problem?” she snaps. “What gives you the right to dictate my life?”
He looks so deer-in-the-headlights stunned that she’d laugh if she weren’t so furious. “You go visiting there every day! And I make a phone call and you’re all huffy?” She charges forward, stake in hand, and there’s a twisted sort of satisfaction at the way his eyes widen before he notices the vampire rising behind him. “Maybe if you’d start showing up and giving me more than one-sentence information, I wouldn’t have to go out of my way to find other people to talk to.”
He’s speechless in the face of her righteous fury, and she spins again, heading down the cemetery path. She stops short as another thought occurs to her, turning to face the swiftly angering vampire. “And…god, Spike, I couldn’t even say his name a few weeks ago, and now I finally feel like I’ve resolved some of that, and I thought that that at least would mean something good to you. But no, you’re too busy being angry that I-“ She throws up her hands. “Is this still about Xander?”
“I don’t care about that wanker,” Spike snarls, and she can see fires of rage and lust burning in tandem in his eyes. He likes her worked up, and right now, she finds that more infuriating than ever before. “I care about you! And ‘f there’s one of us who isn’t talking, love, that’d be you. You’re the one who won’ tell me what’s going on in that warped little brain of yours.”
“You’re not my exclusive confidant!” she retorts, the guilt creeping back up. He isn’t the first one to hold back, and it’s harder to be angry with him when reminded that she’d been the one to initiate the silence. But she had reasons. He just has…jealousy?
“Clearly,” he snaps back, stung. Definitely jealousy. “Since you’d rather share with Angel than tell me what’s bothering you.”
“So this is about Angel then.” Her eyes narrow, her mouth opens-
“Maybe this time you’ll wait until you’re off the planet to start the shagging? Save us the sonic boom before-” He chokes back the last word, his eyes widening with belated horror as he sees her face pale. “Buffy, I didn’t-“
She doesn’t have time to think before her fists are out, punching his face with newfound fury and shame and shock and internalized hate that she’s never felt quite so acutely as she does now. And Spike returns it, because they’re far from a time where she needs to hit and he readily accepts. He slaps her hard, sending her careening backwards into a grave marker, and she uses that momentum to push off of it and head-butt him in the chest.
And okay, she feels a little warmth when he’s too distracted making sure she isn’t badly hurt by the tombstone to defend himself. “I can’t believe that you’re so fixated on the fact that I spoke to Angel!” she snaps, breathless.
“I can’t believe that you’d come to him instead of me!” Spike growls, regaining his balance and charging at her again. “So you think you did this? That’s what you’ve been moping about?”
She parries his blows, ducks and throws him by the legs over her shoulder, sending him careening headfirst into the side of a crypt. “How long were you eavesdropping on my conversation?”
“As long as you didn’t notice the vampire in your apartment!” Spike shoots back, climbing to his feet and rubbing his head gingerly.
She takes a few steps forward, suddenly worried at the speed by which he’d hurled into the stone wall. “You okay?”
His response is a faster-than-sight strike to her head. “Had yourself a pity party? Talked about destroying the world?” He sneers distastefully. “Contrary to popular belief, the world doesn’ begin and end with Buffy Summers.”
She stares at him, blocking a half-hearted swipe and giving him one of her own. “What are you talking about?”
“You!” He wheels around, throws up his arms, and moves in a frustrated circle. “So convinced that you’re the be-all, end-all cause of all evil in the world! Yeah, you fucked up last year. Doesn’t mean this is your fault. Doesn’t mean this is your problem! Maybe s’time you stopped blaming yourself and started being useful!”
She punches him. Hard. He slides down against the back of the crypt wall, his arm hanging on to hers and pulling her down with him until she slips unintentionally into his lap. “S’not always your fault, or your responsibility, pet,” he says softly, holding her in place with a hand sliding up against the skin of her back.
She can’t breathe, not this close to him, his hardness pressing into her and her hand unconsciously smoothing down his hair. This isn’t like other times, when heat of the moment is an easy scapegoat. Her rage is all but abated, the violence of before enough to relieve their frustrations.
Well, some of their frustrations, anyway.
His eyes are soft but shielded, raw lust the only emotion that she can see, even millimeters away from him. All she needs to do- all either one of them needs to do- is to tilt forward, letting their lips meet. Change everything. Give them what they crave.
Would it be so bad? A stubborn part of her libido demands. Giving in to this? She’s been studiously careful not to get too close to Spike, not to repeat old mistakes. But would it be a mistake? They’re different now. And why would it be so awful to be together until feelings develop?
“Buffy?” Spike whispers, his voice ragged and needy.
Her palm moves downward to trace his cheekbone. And in that moment, she thinks that she’s never understood his position during their relationship better. This is different than a burgeoning relationship with some random guy. It’s Spike, who doesn’t love her anymore. And nothing’s worse than being in a relationship when the love is one-sided.
She shivers against his cool hand, suddenly terrified that her eyes are going to give her away. Are going to give away something she’s kept so precious that she’s only just now beginning to comprehend it. And with a sinking heart, she realizes that the distance between them is insurmountable.
She leans forward to brush a kiss against his forehead, lacing their free hands together. “I was afraid,” she confessed.
“Eh?” he says unintelligently.
“Why I didn’t tell you.” She flushes a little, pulling away from him. Her hand doesn’t leave his. “I didn’t want you to be disappointed with me. You mean…” She can’t finish the sentence, to bare so much of her heart to the man who doesn’t want it. “You’re my best friend.”
He doesn’t respond, just rises unsteadily and pulls her up, letting go of her hand to wrap his arm around her waist in silent affection. She rests her head against his shoulder. “Patrol?”
“Burgers.” His voice is rough with emotion that she can’t quite identify, but he’s gentle and smiling for the rest of the night and she’s finally beginning to think that things might begin to be okay again, at least for the two of them.
----
Morning brings new clarity, and not just from waking up stretched out on the couch with Spike’s beloved leather duster wrapped around her- though that does bring a smile to her face. It’s a promise that he’ll be back- a cold comfort in the face of all the conflict they’ve suffered recently, but a comfort nonetheless.
She clutches it closer to her for a moment, inhaling the leather with a twinge of discomfort. Nothing’s changed, though, has it? Spike’s still angry, and it’s only her vulnerability that has brought out his warmth for the time being. They’ll be back to tense conversations and abrupt departures in no time, and she’ll be again devastated in the silent wasteland that is his absence.
How is it possible to feel this much affection for someone so infuriating? She presses her lips to the smooth fabric in her hands, frustration warring with longing until frustration wins out and she drops the duster to the ground and stalks off (returning immediately to smooth out the coat and lay it down neatly on the arm of the couch before she’s off again) to the kitchen to brood over a bowl of cereal.
She’s sick of being a slave to Spike’s whims when it comes to the tragedy bearing down upon them. Sick of having to spend her days waiting for news from where things are actually happening, while she’s helpless to communicate without a go-between. And now that she’s confronted her fears for the first time, the idea of doing it again isn’t nearly as intimidating, so she digs through old papers shoved deep into a messy kitchen drawer until she finds the scrap with a hastily scrawled note on it. Giles’s phone number, one she’d almost left behind when time had come to move into this apartment. She hadn’t wanted the memories, and she certainly hadn’t wanted to speak to Faith back then, but she’d kept it regardless, mindful that it might come in handy some day.
She leaves the paper on the table before she leaves for work, and when she returns hours later, it beckons still. It’s late, late enough that Spike would ordinarily already be there for dinner and patrol. And judging from the duster still draped over the couch, he’s going to miss it again, and that’s enough to spur her to action.
She dials the international number, wincing at the thought of the cost of the call. It’s worth it, though, if only to hear from Faith in her own words what’s going on.
She realizes her mistake only after the other line is picked up. “I am so sorry. I completely forgot the time difference!”
There’s a weighty pause. Then, “…Buffy?”
Mistake number two, because of course Faith isn’t answering phones in her condition. “Oh.” She sinks into the couch, her hand grasping for the duster beside her automatically. “Hi. Angel.”
“Buffy,” he repeats helplessly. “Why are you…Spike left hours ago.”
She licks dry lips. “Right. Um…he’s just not here yet,” she hurries to add, unwilling to share her reservations when it comes to Spike, especially not with Angel. “And I was wondering…uh, how’s Faith doing? Have you found anything?”
Heavy sigh. “They took blood today. There’s something irregular about it, so they’re sending it to a lab better equipped for study. It might just be slayer blood, it might be something else that they can actually help with. They’ll give us the results when they have them.” He growls lowly. “It shouldn’t take this long when she’s so close to…” His voice trails off, and she can hear a low whimper from beside him, a whisper of a voice. Faith. “It shouldn’t take this long,” he says finally, and she can hear him walking, imagine him closing the door with one last glance at the frail figure on the bed.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “God, I’m so sorry.”
He barks out something that might be a laugh. “You? You’re telling me that you’re sorry? There is no way you can ever say that to me again, Buffy. Not after what I’ve-” He stops abruptly.
She lays her head against the cool leather beside her. There are words she can say now, reassurance or denial or a thousand insistences that he’s not to blame for last year, but that much she knows he doesn’t merit. “Do you think I did it?”
“What?” He sounds puzzled.
“I broke the scythe. Maybe unleashed something on the slayers.” Why is it so much easier to talk about this to everyone except the one person whose opinion matters most?
“You broke the scythe because you had to. Because of what I did.”
“We did,” she corrects, and then there’s awkward silence as she struggles to think of anything but that day. Anything but that elation, soaring through the sky and unimaginable heights of pleasure that are still blurry in her mind. Anything but being in Angel’s arms and it feeling so right that it could only be magic causing it.
“No, not we!” And he sounds genuinely annoyed at that. “Buffy, you’d spent the minutes before that shouting at me and throwing me into trees! You weren’t planning on…you know. You were violated!”
Violated. Spike had said that once before, too, but she’d brushed it off. It had made her feel wrong, dirty, even, in ways that she hadn’t wanted to think about, especially when it had come to a conversation with Spike. It hadn’t felt like violation, even if it was fuzzy in her mind. Not with that much love behind it. “No. I was…we were both under that glow.”
“I knew- well, suspected what was coming.” Angel’s breathing, and it unnerves her. He isn’t supposed to seem so human. She tightens her grip on Spike’s coat and waits. “I was prepared for it. I didn’t think about what it really was that we were doing until a few months ago. And Buffy,” he murmurs. “Oh god, Buffy, what I did to you- before and after- it was-“
He sounds weak, broken in ways that she hasn’t heard from him since Christmas Eve nearly a decade ago, and there’s a part of her that longs to wrap her arms around him and comfort him, cry with him as they both share pain that’s always been unique to their relationship. She loves him even now, unlikely as it may seem after all these years; and forgiveness has never been a question, even during the anguish following Giles’s death.
“I don’t hate you.” The words escape her lips so quietly that she barely hears them herself. “Not now. You were doing what you thought was necessary.” Her voice strengthens. “It was wrong.”
“Yes.”
“It was stupid, and evil, and you killed so many people that I cared about…but you didn’t kill Giles. Not directly. I blame you for a lot that went wrong- the parts that I don’t blame myself for,” she adds wryly. “But I can’t hate you for killing Giles when it wasn’t you.” Angel starts to object, but she cuts him off. “I looked into your eyes and I saw Twilight. And…and being around you, I still see it happening, see something that looks like you…with Giles, and…” She’s talking through tears and she can’t remember when they started, spilling down her face and along the leather of the duster she’s clinging onto like a lifeline. “It wasn’t you, but it still hurts like it was! And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now, because I couldn’t even look at you for a year, but this is going to hurt forever. And it hurts even more when I think about how much my fault it is, and how if it isn’t you, then it’s both of us, and I can’t just move to a different country to escape me!”
“Buffy…” His voice is just as strained as hers, struggling for equanimity when she’s completely broken down on the other line. “Please, don’t.”
She stares blankly at the black TV screen in front of her. “I can’t let more people die. I can’t lose Faith. It’s so utterly selfish, but if I lose anyone else I care about, I’m not going to be able to live with myself. I can’t watch it happen again.”
“It might,” Angel acknowledges mournfully. “And if you think that isn’t killing me, too…Faith’s given me more than I deserve. And if this is something we can’t stop…”
She lets out a laugh that sounds nearly hysterical through her tears.
He pauses. “What?”
“It’s just…” She closes her eyes, feeling the pain overwhelm her again. “I’ve been spending too much time with... He’d tell me that we could do this. And you give me the truth. It’s strange.”
“Yeah.” And Angel suddenly sounds disconsolate. “I shouldn’t have… I don’t know. Maybe he’s right. But you guys tend to win your battles. It never worked like that in LA.” She wipes away her tears, breathing evenly again as he continues. “But maybe the idiot’s got a point. We’ve got to keep fighting, right? It’s the only way to make amends.”
She nods slowly. “Especially if this slayer-virus is something I caused.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and she’s about to check if he’s still there when his voice comes back, tentative and slow. “This might be- is- completely out of line, but I do still love you. Probably always will, no matter what happens next. And I know it doesn’t mean anything anymore, but…”
“I know.” There’s no future with Angel, she knows that, but he’ll always have a place in her heart, no matter how far apart they’ve grown. “I love you, too, Angel.” The words seem almost sweet instead of troubled this time, sentiment alone, free of any expectations.
There’s nothing left to say then other than goodbye, and she hangs up the phone with a heart both heavier and lighter and stands, moving to put it back in the receiver…
…And there’s Spike in the kitchen, a plastic cup shredded beyond recognition in his hands and a thunderous look on his face.
Oh. Oh god. If he’d been angry about her confiding in Xander…
“Y-Your coat’s on the couch,” she says quickly, her heart shriveling up into nothingness at his expression. “You left it behind yesterday, but I didn’t ruin it or anything. I know how protective you are over that thing. Uh…I haven’t gone on patrol yet.” She checks the oven clock. “Which makes sense, because this is the usual time when I leave. And hey, you’re on time! No air traffic today?” She’s fully aware that she’s babbling, but her mouth stubbornly refuses to stop. “This is the first time in a week, I think, if you count the day that we both missed patrol because we were in-“ Do not mention England! her brain screams, and then she’s left without anything else to say without word vomit escaping.
Spike doesn’t smile. “We should go patrol,” he says shortly, pausing to frown at her for a moment. “Have you eaten yet?” His face is tight, whatever concern might be in his words lacking in his eyes.
She nods quickly, eager to get out of the apartment and this situation. He just keeps staring. “No,” she finally admits under his steady gaze. “But I can get something afterward. I’m not hungry,” she says truthfully. Whatever appetite she might have summoned after her talk with Angel is gone since Spike first stared at her the way he is now. “Can we just go kill things?”
He doesn’t answer, and she can see his fists clenching and unclenching around the last remains of the cup he’d torn apart.
“Fine. I’m going,” she says sourly, her good mood from her talk with Angel gone and replaced with irritation and uneasy guilt that she knows isn’t rational. “Feel free to stay behind and sulk on the couch.”
He scowls at her, but she can hear his footsteps behind her as she stalks toward the door. She doesn’t look back, annoyance building. He has no right to be this angry with her. He doesn’t own her. He doesn’t even love her. He has no say in who she chooses to talk to, and he definitely doesn’t get to make her feel guilty about it!
They’re already in a cemetery, the dust of the first vampire of the night settling around her, when she’s finally had enough and whirls around. “What’s your problem?” she snaps. “What gives you the right to dictate my life?”
He looks so deer-in-the-headlights stunned that she’d laugh if she weren’t so furious. “You go visiting there every day! And I make a phone call and you’re all huffy?” She charges forward, stake in hand, and there’s a twisted sort of satisfaction at the way his eyes widen before he notices the vampire rising behind him. “Maybe if you’d start showing up and giving me more than one-sentence information, I wouldn’t have to go out of my way to find other people to talk to.”
He’s speechless in the face of her righteous fury, and she spins again, heading down the cemetery path. She stops short as another thought occurs to her, turning to face the swiftly angering vampire. “And…god, Spike, I couldn’t even say his name a few weeks ago, and now I finally feel like I’ve resolved some of that, and I thought that that at least would mean something good to you. But no, you’re too busy being angry that I-“ She throws up her hands. “Is this still about Xander?”
“I don’t care about that wanker,” Spike snarls, and she can see fires of rage and lust burning in tandem in his eyes. He likes her worked up, and right now, she finds that more infuriating than ever before. “I care about you! And ‘f there’s one of us who isn’t talking, love, that’d be you. You’re the one who won’ tell me what’s going on in that warped little brain of yours.”
“You’re not my exclusive confidant!” she retorts, the guilt creeping back up. He isn’t the first one to hold back, and it’s harder to be angry with him when reminded that she’d been the one to initiate the silence. But she had reasons. He just has…jealousy?
“Clearly,” he snaps back, stung. Definitely jealousy. “Since you’d rather share with Angel than tell me what’s bothering you.”
“So this is about Angel then.” Her eyes narrow, her mouth opens-
“Maybe this time you’ll wait until you’re off the planet to start the shagging? Save us the sonic boom before-” He chokes back the last word, his eyes widening with belated horror as he sees her face pale. “Buffy, I didn’t-“
She doesn’t have time to think before her fists are out, punching his face with newfound fury and shame and shock and internalized hate that she’s never felt quite so acutely as she does now. And Spike returns it, because they’re far from a time where she needs to hit and he readily accepts. He slaps her hard, sending her careening backwards into a grave marker, and she uses that momentum to push off of it and head-butt him in the chest.
And okay, she feels a little warmth when he’s too distracted making sure she isn’t badly hurt by the tombstone to defend himself. “I can’t believe that you’re so fixated on the fact that I spoke to Angel!” she snaps, breathless.
“I can’t believe that you’d come to him instead of me!” Spike growls, regaining his balance and charging at her again. “So you think you did this? That’s what you’ve been moping about?”
She parries his blows, ducks and throws him by the legs over her shoulder, sending him careening headfirst into the side of a crypt. “How long were you eavesdropping on my conversation?”
“As long as you didn’t notice the vampire in your apartment!” Spike shoots back, climbing to his feet and rubbing his head gingerly.
She takes a few steps forward, suddenly worried at the speed by which he’d hurled into the stone wall. “You okay?”
His response is a faster-than-sight strike to her head. “Had yourself a pity party? Talked about destroying the world?” He sneers distastefully. “Contrary to popular belief, the world doesn’ begin and end with Buffy Summers.”
She stares at him, blocking a half-hearted swipe and giving him one of her own. “What are you talking about?”
“You!” He wheels around, throws up his arms, and moves in a frustrated circle. “So convinced that you’re the be-all, end-all cause of all evil in the world! Yeah, you fucked up last year. Doesn’t mean this is your fault. Doesn’t mean this is your problem! Maybe s’time you stopped blaming yourself and started being useful!”
She punches him. Hard. He slides down against the back of the crypt wall, his arm hanging on to hers and pulling her down with him until she slips unintentionally into his lap. “S’not always your fault, or your responsibility, pet,” he says softly, holding her in place with a hand sliding up against the skin of her back.
She can’t breathe, not this close to him, his hardness pressing into her and her hand unconsciously smoothing down his hair. This isn’t like other times, when heat of the moment is an easy scapegoat. Her rage is all but abated, the violence of before enough to relieve their frustrations.
Well, some of their frustrations, anyway.
His eyes are soft but shielded, raw lust the only emotion that she can see, even millimeters away from him. All she needs to do- all either one of them needs to do- is to tilt forward, letting their lips meet. Change everything. Give them what they crave.
Would it be so bad? A stubborn part of her libido demands. Giving in to this? She’s been studiously careful not to get too close to Spike, not to repeat old mistakes. But would it be a mistake? They’re different now. And why would it be so awful to be together until feelings develop?
“Buffy?” Spike whispers, his voice ragged and needy.
Her palm moves downward to trace his cheekbone. And in that moment, she thinks that she’s never understood his position during their relationship better. This is different than a burgeoning relationship with some random guy. It’s Spike, who doesn’t love her anymore. And nothing’s worse than being in a relationship when the love is one-sided.
She shivers against his cool hand, suddenly terrified that her eyes are going to give her away. Are going to give away something she’s kept so precious that she’s only just now beginning to comprehend it. And with a sinking heart, she realizes that the distance between them is insurmountable.
She leans forward to brush a kiss against his forehead, lacing their free hands together. “I was afraid,” she confessed.
“Eh?” he says unintelligently.
“Why I didn’t tell you.” She flushes a little, pulling away from him. Her hand doesn’t leave his. “I didn’t want you to be disappointed with me. You mean…” She can’t finish the sentence, to bare so much of her heart to the man who doesn’t want it. “You’re my best friend.”
He doesn’t respond, just rises unsteadily and pulls her up, letting go of her hand to wrap his arm around her waist in silent affection. She rests her head against his shoulder. “Patrol?”
“Burgers.” His voice is rough with emotion that she can’t quite identify, but he’s gentle and smiling for the rest of the night and she’s finally beginning to think that things might begin to be okay again, at least for the two of them.
Chapter 14
Something about having Spike genuinely there with her breaks her out of the guilt-filled stupor that’s consumed her for a good part of the past week, and the burden of the next two days is easier to shoulder with him at her side, watching her fight with unadulterated glee, making sure that she eats enough, constantly jibing at her until her early insecurities aren’t nearly as strong. It’s amazing how just telling him about her fears is enough to spur her forward, the old weariness all but gone in the face of her determination.
They’d scoured the area where Simone’s friend had died, found her abandoned little apartment, and left after hours of fruitless searching. No clues on that end, no details about Simone or what she’d been doing.
Faith had been hooked up to an IV at home the day before, her blood work still a mystery and Spike reports that Angel’s worn and hopeless. He’s using Twilight’s funding to ensure that Faith gets home-based help, but even money can’t do everything when the doctors can’t do anything.
Faith’s always been tenacious. It gives them a little more time, but that’s running out, and Spike’s had his hands full forcing Buffy to forget her worries and focus only on their impossible mission.
She chews on the inside of her cheek thoughtfully as she cleans out the coffee filters in the back room of the coffeehouse, wondering what they can do tonight. There must be something else to find in their area, some other clue to what’s going on. Willow’s still hunting for leads on the scythe, but she’s already told Buffy apologetically that she doesn’t think there’s anything. Not without magic. Angel’s doing research, but so far, all he’s found is numerous dead ends. There’s nothing.
“Buffy?” Tina pokes her head into the back. “You’re done for the day, right? I’ll take over for you.”
“Thanks.” She does the early morning shifts only once a week, but they still tend to leave her drained, and she’s looking forward to a long nap before Spike arrives.
“Oh, and there’s someone in front for you.”
Or not.
She’s hoping it’s Willow- and there’s something she hasn’t felt in months- and it’s a mild surprise when she spots Dawn at one of the front tables, lifting her fingers in a half-wave as she texts someone rapidly on her phone. “Hey.”
“Hi. You’ve been all absentee sister lately.” But Dawn’s smiling, the barb of the comment softened by the understanding on her face. “Xander told me what’s going on. How’s Faith?”
“Worse.”
“Oh.” A shadow crosses her face, the stirrings of worry and fear that Buffy sees in the mirror every day since she’d first heard. Then it’s gone, and Dawn’s beaming again. “But I have something that might help you. Xander was working at a hospital in Fremont this morning, plastering up a hole in the wall of one of their quarantine centers.”
“Is that safe?” Buffy wonders inanely, taking a seat and drumming her fingers on the table. As nice as it is to see Dawn, her bed beckons, the lost comfort a reproof for ignoring Spike’s orders to go to sleep last night in favor of watching bad late-night soaps with him. He’s going to be so irritatingly smug tonight if she can’t keep her eyes open on patrol. “Uh…Does he have to get into a spacesuit or something so he won’t catch the disease?”
“No risk of that here,” Dawn says grimly. “He was talking to some of the workers. Turns out, the room housed three girls with weird bruises on their skins that no one could identify. And one of them just…knocked a hole through the wall and escaped quarantine a few days ago. Just like that.”
Realization jerks Buffy from thoughts of bed, a potential new lead even more tantalizing than sleep. “Slayers.”
“Slayers.” Dawn nods. “The other two are still at the hospital, though, in another quarantine ward. So if they know anything…”
“Yeah. I might even know the third,” Buffy says thoughtfully. It would explain why Simone’s friend’s apartment had seemed more abandoned than Spartan, why she’d only just turned up again a few days before.
They traipse out of the coffeehouse together, heading for the closest train on the next block. “Everything okay?” Dawn asks suddenly. “The way that Xander tells it, you’re a total mess these days.” At her sister’s sharp look, she amends, “Well, he didn’t say it like that! But I’m not dumb. Visits to Giles’s house? Short, anguished confrontations with the Big Forehead himself? Spike all grumpy? Of course you’re in pieces.”
Buffy punches her arm, not altogether playfully. “Shut up. I’m fine. I’m doing better. Angel and I even talked about stuff a few days ago. And that’s starting to…well, make sense, at least.”
“Wait, you spoke to Angel again?” Dawn pauses mid-step, turning a worried glance to her sister. “How was Spike about that?”
“What does Spike have to with any of it?” Buffy demands, annoyed. “Why does everyone seem to think that Spike has some right to all my other interactions?”
An incoming train roars past, and Dawn takes that moment to shout over it, “Well, I think that I’d have a right to know if Xander was hanging out with his ex- y’know, if they weren’t all demons or dead.”
“I’m not dating Spike!”
Dawn smirks. “Yeah, okay.”
“I’m not.”
“Sure.”
“And I can speak to Angel whenever I want, and Spike can get cranky about it, but that doesn’t matter because we’re. Just. Friends.” They take their seats on the next train, and Dawn mulls over Buffy’s comment for a split second before she perks up again, undaunted by the glare now fixed on her.
“So what did you and Angel talk about, anyway? Don’t tell me that you’re best buddies and perfectly happy now,” she says warningly. “I kind of like this world.”
Buffy shrugs self-consciously. “That’s really none of your business. But…I don’t know. It’s better now. I’m not going to date him anytime soon- or ever,” she adds hastily at the dark look in her sister’s eyes. “That ship sailed a long, long time ago. But I think that maybe we can work together if we have to.”
“Like now.” Dawn is silent for a long moment. “So what is going on? Do you have any ideas?”
“Just one.” They keep their voices low, avoiding curious glances from the other passengers as Buffy tells, yet again, the story of her doubts, the scythe, and the slayer curse that she still suspects she might have unleashed on her girls. And even with Spike’s voice in her head reminding her that she isn’t the source of all evil and that there are other factors, it’s impossible for her not to feel the same old recriminations and self-doubt.
When she finishes, Dawn’s glaring at her, arms folded in stubborn disapproval. “Spike’s right. You are an idiot.”
She blinks. “What?”
“You’re blaming yourself for this? Buffy, you broke the scythe a year ago! And these cases have only started recently.”
“That we know of,” she objects, frowning at the idea. There could be hundreds of slayers, the ones who hate her and would never contact her about it, all falling victim to the virus, no way out and no hope left.
Dawn rolls her eyes. “Yeah, because if this had been happening for the whole year, you never would have found all these cases now. Come on, Buffy, you’re just looking for reasons to blame yourself. Why would Faith be so far along when you’re perfectly healthy?”
She’s already thought about this. “I died. So maybe I’m not part of the slayer line anymore. And since it starts at Faith, she’s one of the first to be targeted.”
“Except she isn’t first,” Dawn points out. “You said that Simone was already dead when Faith was only beginning to get sick. And that some of Kennedy’s girls were just as sick. It doesn’t make sense.”
Doubt is building within her, fueled by Spike and Dawn’s words and that stubborn part of her that really doesn’t want this to be her fault, no matter what history has taught her. “I don’t know. But if you have any better ideas…”
“Here’s one,” Dawn retorts. “If you were out to do some mega-evil, who’re the first people you’d try to take out?”
“Slayers.” It’s a fair assumption, one that they’ve discussed briefly in the past. “But Simone wasn’t exactly a beacon of good. And Angel’s been researching this virus in the Watchers’ Diaries, and he hasn’t found any sign of it. This is something new.” The more she thinks about it, the less likely it seems. “And what use is targeting just a tiny percentage of slayers when there are so many more left to stop you? Satsu and Kennedy alone have dozens, and only a few are sick. It’s just not of the useful.” She smirks suddenly, the winning argument against Dawn in her hand. “Spike thinks so, too.”
Dawn’s scowl grows, shrinks, returns with a vengeance as a smirk to rival her sister’s. “So what else does Spike think?” she taunts, the slightest of suggestion in her voice- and for Dawn, that’s pretty much heavy innuendo. When did her little sister get so pushy about her romantic life, anyway? “How’s that going for you?”
Buffy winces. “We’re not talking about that.”
“Why not?” Dawn whines. “Look, I’ve had my issues with him before, but he’s pretty okay now.” She shrugs halfheartedly. “And if I had to choose anyone for you, it’d be him, because you’re perfect together, and he makes you happy- when he’s not making you rage,” she adds as an aside, grinning at the thought. “And you’re both obviously in love with each other, so why do we even need to have this conversation?”
It’s tempting to go back to fighting about the slayers now. At least that’s something that she can answer. “We’re not in love with each other,” Buffy says finally.
Dawn frowns. “But you’re in love with him.”
She can’t refute it, not when something erupts within her to object a denial that pointless. It’s hard enough keeping it from Spike. She can’t lie to Dawn, too. So she remains silent until Dawn finally ventures, “And he’s in love with you.”
“No.” And it’s still painful to say it aloud. “He isn’t.”
Dawn raises an eyebrow. “Is this Spike we’re talking about? ‘I’ll do anything for you, my whole life revolves around you, I cross half the planet every day to see you’ Spike? Have you seen how he looks at you? It’s so bad that half the time, I have to yell at him for being indecent. Like he wants to just grab you and-“ She makes a face. “And I’m so not going there.”
Buffy shudders. “Good. And if you never, ever talk about me or Spike like that again, it won’t be too soon.”
“Right.”
“Yeah.”
“But…”
“It’s not love,” she says firmly, and she can feel trusted defenses fall with every word. “I know that it seems…but it’s not love.”
“So…friends with benefits?” Dawn suggests, managing to smirk even through the perturbed look in her eyes.
“Dawn!”
Their stop is announced and Dawn manages to escape her sister’s slap and duck out the doors of the train before Buffy can catch up to her. “You two are so blind,” Dawn mumbles when Buffy’s finally able to wind through the crowd and climb the stairs to the street behind her.
“Can we just focus on the slayers?” Buffy says wearily. She spends enough time dwelling on Spike alone to waste even more of it now. And whatever progress she’s felt like she’s made with Spike in the past few days is gone now, lost to Dawn’s intrusive questions about something that’s beyond her control and probably a bad idea, anyway.
Bad. Much with the badness. Very much.
“Fine.” Dawn scowls. “How are we going to find them?”
That’s something that she’s good at. Buffy Summers: breaking rules and tracking down the out-of-bounds since 1997. And so it doesn’t take long before they’re both securely ensconced in doctor’s coats and unlocking the door to the quarantined ward right in front of a clueless set of nurses on watch.
The two slayers lying on opposite beds in front of them aren’t nearly as far along as she’d thought they’d be. For one, they’re barely beginning the battle with the disease, and one of them doesn’t even have visible marks. And both are alert enough to turn and glare at her as one.
She pulls out a chart, pretending to ignore their stares. “I’m, uh…”
“Buffy. We know,” one spits out.
Buffy squints at them. “Do I know you?” Come to think of it, they do look familiar, and she thinks she’s seen them before harassing her on patrol. So the anti-Buffy brigade that roams San Fran has been hit, too.
The first turns away in disgust, but the second slayer, the one without the latticework, eyes her thoughtfully. “Why are you here? Did Maedre get the word out to you?”
“Maedre?”
“She was with us before we were moved. Not from around here, but she also had the markings, so we thought she might have gotten help.” The slayer looks almost hopeful, and Buffy’s heart wrenches at the memory of the furious friend of Simone’s who’d denied any knowledge of other victims in need.
“I don’t know,” she lies, moving to sit on the bed beside the other girl. “How far along are you? You don’t seem-“ She stops short as the girl raises her hospital gown to show the pattern emanating from the side of her waist, nearly covering her entire torso.
“I didn’t even think it was anything at first,” the girl admits. “I’d been out fighting a few days before, so I thought it was just some weird black and blue marks. And then Tray started getting them, too, and that’s when we went to a doctor. They put us here.” She sighs. “And since then, all they’ve done is take blood and make worried noises over our checkups. I’d leave, too, but what’s the point? No one else can help us.”
“Buffy can,” Dawn objects, stepping forward. “She’s been hunting for the cause for days. Can we see-“
“Sure.” The girl pulls her gown higher, pointing at her side. “That’s where it started. And Tray’s started on her wrist.”
They look like Faith’s and Simone’s and all the other slayers’, the same pattern of markings running across their skin to mottle and raise it. Buffy traces the path, pausing only at an area of the slayer’s waist that isn’t quite as rough.
Or rather…a familiar circle of roughness. It’s one she knows well when there are few who’d recognize it, one that only someone who’s seen it hundreds of times before could single out amidst the bruises. “You were bitten by that vamp-eater,” she notes thoughtfully.
“Vamp-eater?” the girl frowns.
Tray perks up from the other bed. “That damn monster terrorizing half of San Fran’s undead? Yeah, I think we’ve all had at least a few run-ins with it.” She rubs her wrist, wincing. “I managed to get away without any injuries most of the time, but Arianna was nearly mauled.”
Arianna shrugs good-naturedly. “Hey, I was doing fine. That thing doesn’t kill people anyway, just vampires. It’s just terrifying, and…” She’s still talking, but both Dawn and Buffy have stopped listening, their eyes meeting with sudden clarity. And in tandem, they’re both up and grabbing Tray’s wrist before she has a chance to stop them.
“Hey!” But Buffy’s already studying the pattern, finding the scars of the demon bite just centimeters from where the bruises begin.
“You don’t think…” Dawn breathes, and Buffy’s nodding vigorously.
It has to be. Demon bites, close to where the disease starts, but not close enough that they’re obviously the cause. The disease isn’t visible immediately, ensuring that it won’t be tracked down to a random demon, and the demon is targeting vampires instead, leaving the slayers’ defenses down. Cleverly executed, a survival instinct to fight slayers with the only weapon they can’t combat. Utter ignorance.
And she remembers fear, unnatural, primitive terror that had overtaken her at the moment of contact. As though the slayer itself had been straining within her to escape a natural enemy.
It has to be.
“We need to talk to Angel. Find out if he’s seen these demons in his area.” It’s too much to hope now, but she can’t help the rush of excitement that runs through her at the revelation. This is something. Something tangible, beyond magic and theories and simple science. And if it’s true, they’ve been going about their research all wrong.
She makes the phone call the moment she enters the house, dismissing the time difference as irrelevant in the face of more important news. “Call Willow,” she instructs Dawn. “She has Kennedy’s number. Let the other slayers know what’s going on, to stay away from the demon. We need to figure out what we’re fighting. I’ll tell Angel that we’re going to have to up the research-“ The phone line is picked up, and she turns back to her call. “Angel?”
“Buffy!” Angel sounds just as startled to hear from her as last time, but she chooses not to dwell on that. “Spike’s not here.”
“I know.” He’s due at her house soon, if he comes as early as he has been since they talked things out. “I need to ask you something. Is there a demon in your area? Kind of huge and nasty-looking with, like, an aardvark mouth?”
“The one that’s been biting the vampires?” Angel sighs. “Yeah, we’ve had a couple of them. Faith managed to slice off one’s snout, but I saw another one out hunting a few days ago, so they’re still around.”
“Faith sliced off its snout?” Dawn perks up at her words, eyes wide.
“Not before it took a chunk out of her leg. We had to-“
Buffy cuts him off. “How long ago?”
“What?”
“When did this happen? Last month? Earlier this year? Just before she got sick?”
There’s a heavy pause on the other line. “Just before…you don’t think…?”
“I most definitely do.” Dawn is talking excitedly on her cell phone, nodding enthusiastically and motioning to Buffy. “Hang on.”
“Tell Angel that we’re coming over.” Dawn clicks off the phone. “I called Xander, too. We need to track down this demon in Giles’s books and figure out how to reverse the demon venom.”
“Research party?” Angel says dubiously.
“Research party,” Buffy confirms. “Call Kennedy, warn her about the demon. No sense in getting more slayers infected. We’ll be there in a few hours.”
“Be where?” It’s Spike at the window, eyebrows raised expectantly at them, and Buffy can’t contain her elation anymore, not now that they’ve finally got a lead. She rushes to him, throwing her arms around him as soon as he steps into the apartment.
“It’s the beast! That vamp demon’s been poisoning slayers, not some weird scythe thing. You were right.” His arms snake around her waist, pulling her closer, and she inhales his scent with heady enjoyment before she finally moves back to smile tentatively at him. “You were right.”
There’s a soft smile playing at his lips as he murmurs, “Think I should take out an ad in the paper, pet?”
She’s supposed to slap him now, make some snarky comment about how he should enjoy it while it lasts. But not when he’s looking at her like that, when they’ve finally gotten somewhere and everything’s kind of perfect for a moment, wrapped in Spike’s arms with that awed grin he gets sometimes directed at her in full force.
They never hug. They’ll curl up next each other on the couch, and she’ll lean against Spike and he’ll give her a half-embrace, but she can’t remember it ever being like this, arms tight around her and looking down at her as though she’s his. And even in its incongruity it feels more natural than anything else in a long time.
I love you, she doesn’t say, and he doesn’t respond. And of all the times unspoken, of all the words unsaid, these three have never felt so close to her lips as when she’s enfolded in the embrace of the man she loves, in a moment that feels blissfully unending.
“What are you snickering at?” Spike says crossly, looking over her shoulder at Dawn, and Buffy reluctantly separates from him to peer at her sister’s smirking face.
“Nothing,” Dawn says innocently, giving Buffy a significant look from where she’s laughing at them both. “I’m just happy that we’ve worked this out.”
Spike softens, turning back to smile at Buffy. “Yeah. Me too.”
And she’s lost again.
They’d scoured the area where Simone’s friend had died, found her abandoned little apartment, and left after hours of fruitless searching. No clues on that end, no details about Simone or what she’d been doing.
Faith had been hooked up to an IV at home the day before, her blood work still a mystery and Spike reports that Angel’s worn and hopeless. He’s using Twilight’s funding to ensure that Faith gets home-based help, but even money can’t do everything when the doctors can’t do anything.
Faith’s always been tenacious. It gives them a little more time, but that’s running out, and Spike’s had his hands full forcing Buffy to forget her worries and focus only on their impossible mission.
She chews on the inside of her cheek thoughtfully as she cleans out the coffee filters in the back room of the coffeehouse, wondering what they can do tonight. There must be something else to find in their area, some other clue to what’s going on. Willow’s still hunting for leads on the scythe, but she’s already told Buffy apologetically that she doesn’t think there’s anything. Not without magic. Angel’s doing research, but so far, all he’s found is numerous dead ends. There’s nothing.
“Buffy?” Tina pokes her head into the back. “You’re done for the day, right? I’ll take over for you.”
“Thanks.” She does the early morning shifts only once a week, but they still tend to leave her drained, and she’s looking forward to a long nap before Spike arrives.
“Oh, and there’s someone in front for you.”
Or not.
She’s hoping it’s Willow- and there’s something she hasn’t felt in months- and it’s a mild surprise when she spots Dawn at one of the front tables, lifting her fingers in a half-wave as she texts someone rapidly on her phone. “Hey.”
“Hi. You’ve been all absentee sister lately.” But Dawn’s smiling, the barb of the comment softened by the understanding on her face. “Xander told me what’s going on. How’s Faith?”
“Worse.”
“Oh.” A shadow crosses her face, the stirrings of worry and fear that Buffy sees in the mirror every day since she’d first heard. Then it’s gone, and Dawn’s beaming again. “But I have something that might help you. Xander was working at a hospital in Fremont this morning, plastering up a hole in the wall of one of their quarantine centers.”
“Is that safe?” Buffy wonders inanely, taking a seat and drumming her fingers on the table. As nice as it is to see Dawn, her bed beckons, the lost comfort a reproof for ignoring Spike’s orders to go to sleep last night in favor of watching bad late-night soaps with him. He’s going to be so irritatingly smug tonight if she can’t keep her eyes open on patrol. “Uh…Does he have to get into a spacesuit or something so he won’t catch the disease?”
“No risk of that here,” Dawn says grimly. “He was talking to some of the workers. Turns out, the room housed three girls with weird bruises on their skins that no one could identify. And one of them just…knocked a hole through the wall and escaped quarantine a few days ago. Just like that.”
Realization jerks Buffy from thoughts of bed, a potential new lead even more tantalizing than sleep. “Slayers.”
“Slayers.” Dawn nods. “The other two are still at the hospital, though, in another quarantine ward. So if they know anything…”
“Yeah. I might even know the third,” Buffy says thoughtfully. It would explain why Simone’s friend’s apartment had seemed more abandoned than Spartan, why she’d only just turned up again a few days before.
They traipse out of the coffeehouse together, heading for the closest train on the next block. “Everything okay?” Dawn asks suddenly. “The way that Xander tells it, you’re a total mess these days.” At her sister’s sharp look, she amends, “Well, he didn’t say it like that! But I’m not dumb. Visits to Giles’s house? Short, anguished confrontations with the Big Forehead himself? Spike all grumpy? Of course you’re in pieces.”
Buffy punches her arm, not altogether playfully. “Shut up. I’m fine. I’m doing better. Angel and I even talked about stuff a few days ago. And that’s starting to…well, make sense, at least.”
“Wait, you spoke to Angel again?” Dawn pauses mid-step, turning a worried glance to her sister. “How was Spike about that?”
“What does Spike have to with any of it?” Buffy demands, annoyed. “Why does everyone seem to think that Spike has some right to all my other interactions?”
An incoming train roars past, and Dawn takes that moment to shout over it, “Well, I think that I’d have a right to know if Xander was hanging out with his ex- y’know, if they weren’t all demons or dead.”
“I’m not dating Spike!”
Dawn smirks. “Yeah, okay.”
“I’m not.”
“Sure.”
“And I can speak to Angel whenever I want, and Spike can get cranky about it, but that doesn’t matter because we’re. Just. Friends.” They take their seats on the next train, and Dawn mulls over Buffy’s comment for a split second before she perks up again, undaunted by the glare now fixed on her.
“So what did you and Angel talk about, anyway? Don’t tell me that you’re best buddies and perfectly happy now,” she says warningly. “I kind of like this world.”
Buffy shrugs self-consciously. “That’s really none of your business. But…I don’t know. It’s better now. I’m not going to date him anytime soon- or ever,” she adds hastily at the dark look in her sister’s eyes. “That ship sailed a long, long time ago. But I think that maybe we can work together if we have to.”
“Like now.” Dawn is silent for a long moment. “So what is going on? Do you have any ideas?”
“Just one.” They keep their voices low, avoiding curious glances from the other passengers as Buffy tells, yet again, the story of her doubts, the scythe, and the slayer curse that she still suspects she might have unleashed on her girls. And even with Spike’s voice in her head reminding her that she isn’t the source of all evil and that there are other factors, it’s impossible for her not to feel the same old recriminations and self-doubt.
When she finishes, Dawn’s glaring at her, arms folded in stubborn disapproval. “Spike’s right. You are an idiot.”
She blinks. “What?”
“You’re blaming yourself for this? Buffy, you broke the scythe a year ago! And these cases have only started recently.”
“That we know of,” she objects, frowning at the idea. There could be hundreds of slayers, the ones who hate her and would never contact her about it, all falling victim to the virus, no way out and no hope left.
Dawn rolls her eyes. “Yeah, because if this had been happening for the whole year, you never would have found all these cases now. Come on, Buffy, you’re just looking for reasons to blame yourself. Why would Faith be so far along when you’re perfectly healthy?”
She’s already thought about this. “I died. So maybe I’m not part of the slayer line anymore. And since it starts at Faith, she’s one of the first to be targeted.”
“Except she isn’t first,” Dawn points out. “You said that Simone was already dead when Faith was only beginning to get sick. And that some of Kennedy’s girls were just as sick. It doesn’t make sense.”
Doubt is building within her, fueled by Spike and Dawn’s words and that stubborn part of her that really doesn’t want this to be her fault, no matter what history has taught her. “I don’t know. But if you have any better ideas…”
“Here’s one,” Dawn retorts. “If you were out to do some mega-evil, who’re the first people you’d try to take out?”
“Slayers.” It’s a fair assumption, one that they’ve discussed briefly in the past. “But Simone wasn’t exactly a beacon of good. And Angel’s been researching this virus in the Watchers’ Diaries, and he hasn’t found any sign of it. This is something new.” The more she thinks about it, the less likely it seems. “And what use is targeting just a tiny percentage of slayers when there are so many more left to stop you? Satsu and Kennedy alone have dozens, and only a few are sick. It’s just not of the useful.” She smirks suddenly, the winning argument against Dawn in her hand. “Spike thinks so, too.”
Dawn’s scowl grows, shrinks, returns with a vengeance as a smirk to rival her sister’s. “So what else does Spike think?” she taunts, the slightest of suggestion in her voice- and for Dawn, that’s pretty much heavy innuendo. When did her little sister get so pushy about her romantic life, anyway? “How’s that going for you?”
Buffy winces. “We’re not talking about that.”
“Why not?” Dawn whines. “Look, I’ve had my issues with him before, but he’s pretty okay now.” She shrugs halfheartedly. “And if I had to choose anyone for you, it’d be him, because you’re perfect together, and he makes you happy- when he’s not making you rage,” she adds as an aside, grinning at the thought. “And you’re both obviously in love with each other, so why do we even need to have this conversation?”
It’s tempting to go back to fighting about the slayers now. At least that’s something that she can answer. “We’re not in love with each other,” Buffy says finally.
Dawn frowns. “But you’re in love with him.”
She can’t refute it, not when something erupts within her to object a denial that pointless. It’s hard enough keeping it from Spike. She can’t lie to Dawn, too. So she remains silent until Dawn finally ventures, “And he’s in love with you.”
“No.” And it’s still painful to say it aloud. “He isn’t.”
Dawn raises an eyebrow. “Is this Spike we’re talking about? ‘I’ll do anything for you, my whole life revolves around you, I cross half the planet every day to see you’ Spike? Have you seen how he looks at you? It’s so bad that half the time, I have to yell at him for being indecent. Like he wants to just grab you and-“ She makes a face. “And I’m so not going there.”
Buffy shudders. “Good. And if you never, ever talk about me or Spike like that again, it won’t be too soon.”
“Right.”
“Yeah.”
“But…”
“It’s not love,” she says firmly, and she can feel trusted defenses fall with every word. “I know that it seems…but it’s not love.”
“So…friends with benefits?” Dawn suggests, managing to smirk even through the perturbed look in her eyes.
“Dawn!”
Their stop is announced and Dawn manages to escape her sister’s slap and duck out the doors of the train before Buffy can catch up to her. “You two are so blind,” Dawn mumbles when Buffy’s finally able to wind through the crowd and climb the stairs to the street behind her.
“Can we just focus on the slayers?” Buffy says wearily. She spends enough time dwelling on Spike alone to waste even more of it now. And whatever progress she’s felt like she’s made with Spike in the past few days is gone now, lost to Dawn’s intrusive questions about something that’s beyond her control and probably a bad idea, anyway.
Bad. Much with the badness. Very much.
“Fine.” Dawn scowls. “How are we going to find them?”
That’s something that she’s good at. Buffy Summers: breaking rules and tracking down the out-of-bounds since 1997. And so it doesn’t take long before they’re both securely ensconced in doctor’s coats and unlocking the door to the quarantined ward right in front of a clueless set of nurses on watch.
The two slayers lying on opposite beds in front of them aren’t nearly as far along as she’d thought they’d be. For one, they’re barely beginning the battle with the disease, and one of them doesn’t even have visible marks. And both are alert enough to turn and glare at her as one.
She pulls out a chart, pretending to ignore their stares. “I’m, uh…”
“Buffy. We know,” one spits out.
Buffy squints at them. “Do I know you?” Come to think of it, they do look familiar, and she thinks she’s seen them before harassing her on patrol. So the anti-Buffy brigade that roams San Fran has been hit, too.
The first turns away in disgust, but the second slayer, the one without the latticework, eyes her thoughtfully. “Why are you here? Did Maedre get the word out to you?”
“Maedre?”
“She was with us before we were moved. Not from around here, but she also had the markings, so we thought she might have gotten help.” The slayer looks almost hopeful, and Buffy’s heart wrenches at the memory of the furious friend of Simone’s who’d denied any knowledge of other victims in need.
“I don’t know,” she lies, moving to sit on the bed beside the other girl. “How far along are you? You don’t seem-“ She stops short as the girl raises her hospital gown to show the pattern emanating from the side of her waist, nearly covering her entire torso.
“I didn’t even think it was anything at first,” the girl admits. “I’d been out fighting a few days before, so I thought it was just some weird black and blue marks. And then Tray started getting them, too, and that’s when we went to a doctor. They put us here.” She sighs. “And since then, all they’ve done is take blood and make worried noises over our checkups. I’d leave, too, but what’s the point? No one else can help us.”
“Buffy can,” Dawn objects, stepping forward. “She’s been hunting for the cause for days. Can we see-“
“Sure.” The girl pulls her gown higher, pointing at her side. “That’s where it started. And Tray’s started on her wrist.”
They look like Faith’s and Simone’s and all the other slayers’, the same pattern of markings running across their skin to mottle and raise it. Buffy traces the path, pausing only at an area of the slayer’s waist that isn’t quite as rough.
Or rather…a familiar circle of roughness. It’s one she knows well when there are few who’d recognize it, one that only someone who’s seen it hundreds of times before could single out amidst the bruises. “You were bitten by that vamp-eater,” she notes thoughtfully.
“Vamp-eater?” the girl frowns.
Tray perks up from the other bed. “That damn monster terrorizing half of San Fran’s undead? Yeah, I think we’ve all had at least a few run-ins with it.” She rubs her wrist, wincing. “I managed to get away without any injuries most of the time, but Arianna was nearly mauled.”
Arianna shrugs good-naturedly. “Hey, I was doing fine. That thing doesn’t kill people anyway, just vampires. It’s just terrifying, and…” She’s still talking, but both Dawn and Buffy have stopped listening, their eyes meeting with sudden clarity. And in tandem, they’re both up and grabbing Tray’s wrist before she has a chance to stop them.
“Hey!” But Buffy’s already studying the pattern, finding the scars of the demon bite just centimeters from where the bruises begin.
“You don’t think…” Dawn breathes, and Buffy’s nodding vigorously.
It has to be. Demon bites, close to where the disease starts, but not close enough that they’re obviously the cause. The disease isn’t visible immediately, ensuring that it won’t be tracked down to a random demon, and the demon is targeting vampires instead, leaving the slayers’ defenses down. Cleverly executed, a survival instinct to fight slayers with the only weapon they can’t combat. Utter ignorance.
And she remembers fear, unnatural, primitive terror that had overtaken her at the moment of contact. As though the slayer itself had been straining within her to escape a natural enemy.
It has to be.
“We need to talk to Angel. Find out if he’s seen these demons in his area.” It’s too much to hope now, but she can’t help the rush of excitement that runs through her at the revelation. This is something. Something tangible, beyond magic and theories and simple science. And if it’s true, they’ve been going about their research all wrong.
She makes the phone call the moment she enters the house, dismissing the time difference as irrelevant in the face of more important news. “Call Willow,” she instructs Dawn. “She has Kennedy’s number. Let the other slayers know what’s going on, to stay away from the demon. We need to figure out what we’re fighting. I’ll tell Angel that we’re going to have to up the research-“ The phone line is picked up, and she turns back to her call. “Angel?”
“Buffy!” Angel sounds just as startled to hear from her as last time, but she chooses not to dwell on that. “Spike’s not here.”
“I know.” He’s due at her house soon, if he comes as early as he has been since they talked things out. “I need to ask you something. Is there a demon in your area? Kind of huge and nasty-looking with, like, an aardvark mouth?”
“The one that’s been biting the vampires?” Angel sighs. “Yeah, we’ve had a couple of them. Faith managed to slice off one’s snout, but I saw another one out hunting a few days ago, so they’re still around.”
“Faith sliced off its snout?” Dawn perks up at her words, eyes wide.
“Not before it took a chunk out of her leg. We had to-“
Buffy cuts him off. “How long ago?”
“What?”
“When did this happen? Last month? Earlier this year? Just before she got sick?”
There’s a heavy pause on the other line. “Just before…you don’t think…?”
“I most definitely do.” Dawn is talking excitedly on her cell phone, nodding enthusiastically and motioning to Buffy. “Hang on.”
“Tell Angel that we’re coming over.” Dawn clicks off the phone. “I called Xander, too. We need to track down this demon in Giles’s books and figure out how to reverse the demon venom.”
“Research party?” Angel says dubiously.
“Research party,” Buffy confirms. “Call Kennedy, warn her about the demon. No sense in getting more slayers infected. We’ll be there in a few hours.”
“Be where?” It’s Spike at the window, eyebrows raised expectantly at them, and Buffy can’t contain her elation anymore, not now that they’ve finally got a lead. She rushes to him, throwing her arms around him as soon as he steps into the apartment.
“It’s the beast! That vamp demon’s been poisoning slayers, not some weird scythe thing. You were right.” His arms snake around her waist, pulling her closer, and she inhales his scent with heady enjoyment before she finally moves back to smile tentatively at him. “You were right.”
There’s a soft smile playing at his lips as he murmurs, “Think I should take out an ad in the paper, pet?”
She’s supposed to slap him now, make some snarky comment about how he should enjoy it while it lasts. But not when he’s looking at her like that, when they’ve finally gotten somewhere and everything’s kind of perfect for a moment, wrapped in Spike’s arms with that awed grin he gets sometimes directed at her in full force.
They never hug. They’ll curl up next each other on the couch, and she’ll lean against Spike and he’ll give her a half-embrace, but she can’t remember it ever being like this, arms tight around her and looking down at her as though she’s his. And even in its incongruity it feels more natural than anything else in a long time.
I love you, she doesn’t say, and he doesn’t respond. And of all the times unspoken, of all the words unsaid, these three have never felt so close to her lips as when she’s enfolded in the embrace of the man she loves, in a moment that feels blissfully unending.
“What are you snickering at?” Spike says crossly, looking over her shoulder at Dawn, and Buffy reluctantly separates from him to peer at her sister’s smirking face.
“Nothing,” Dawn says innocently, giving Buffy a significant look from where she’s laughing at them both. “I’m just happy that we’ve worked this out.”
Spike softens, turning back to smile at Buffy. “Yeah. Me too.”
And she’s lost again.
Chapter 15
You've all been wonderful, and I thank you for your feedback! Early update this week, and we'll see if I can get another one out before the end of the week, too. :)
This lovely banner was made by Tumblr's nurfherder, who has also begun drawing Embers in comic form here. You can click to enlarge and bask in the magnificence! ;)
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“So what does this do?”
“Dunno.”
“How about this?”
“Ask the bugs.”
“C’mon, you must know what something on this ship does.”
“Swiftly crossing the line from polite to irritating, Harris!”
Xander rolls his eyes. “You completely fail at being a guy, you know that?”
“Yeah, like you’re the picture of male virility,” Spike retorts, smirking, and Buffy rests a hand on his arm in gentle reproach.
The three of them are crowded on what passes for a bridge on Spike’s ship, Xander inspecting the controls with interest and Buffy leaning against the wall, content to watch the two boys go at it. Dawn has had a sudden attack of bug fear, and she and Willow have gone out wandering to find a place without the creepies crawling around, deep in the ship.
“Hey! I build stuff! I happen to be very confident in my masculinity, thank you very much!” Xander says indignantly at Spike’s amused skepticism. “You’re the one who can’t even work the controls of his own ship!”
“Don’ need toys to be the consummate male,” Spike purrs, and Buffy tries to swallow past a sudden lump in her throat that’s mysteriously appeared at the look on his face. He turns to face her, a knowing glint in his eye. “Isn’t that right, love?”
She flushes. “Spike…”
Thankfully, Dawn chooses that moment to storm in, the bugs all but forgotten in her anger. “Is this my sweater?” she demands. “I’ve been looking for this for months!”
“I borrowed it?” Buffy says sheepishly. They’d gone up to Seattle a few months before after Spike had heard about a Gunareg demon snatching up children from their beds at night, back when Buffy hadn’t had her own apartment and she’d been making liberal use of Dawn’s closet. “And I was going to- Wait… Aren’t those my earrings?”
Dawn dodges her grasping fingers and hands the sweater to Xander. “Hang on to this,” she says hastily. “I’m going to head back to Spike’s room now, kay?”
“No more going through my drawer!” Buffy calls after her hasty retreat. Okay, maybe there are a few more of Dawn’s things in there…but to be fair, Dawn’s been stealing her clothes for years, and taking some of the things that would look so much better on Buffy is a public service. Really.
“You have a drawer in Spike’s bedroom?” Xander repeats dubiously.
She snatches the sweater from his arm and turns away. “I’m going to find Willow. Let me know when we land!”
There’s a conversation she isn’t having, not after Xander’s questions, not after Willow’s gentle prying or Dawn’s teasing, and it’s a welcome interruption when Spike pokes his head into his room to inform them that they’ve landed.
Of course, that means seeing Angel, and judging from the three hostile figures behind her, this isn’t going to be getting any easier.
It’s still dark out in England, the barest lightening of the sky a herald to the coming day, but she’s still mildly surprised to see Angel pull open the door before they even knock. “I’ve been organizing the texts you might need,” he murmurs, turning away from her to look directly at Spike. “I’m going to go patrol until sunrise.”
“Wait.” She grabs him by the forearm, bent on stopping him from going. It can’t be like this, not anymore. If nothing else, her conversation with Angel had been cleansing, giving them a chance to cooperate without the pain, and she’s determined to keep that opportunity. “The more people we have researching, the better.”
Behind her, Xander snorts disdainfully. Angel’s arm flexes against her palm, and she shivers despite herself.
And then there’s Spike, an old smirk back on his face as he watches the proceedings. “I’n’t this awkward?” he drawls, amused, and whatever tenseness had accompanied her since she’d opened the door dissipates at the laughter in his eyes. Spike loves discord. She’s feeding into that now and he’s enjoying it fully, and she can’t help but smile at how happy it’s making him.
She turns around, bracing herself for what she’s going to say next. Time to face the elephant in the room before its presence kills Faith. “Come on. We have slayers to save.” She raises her eyebrows at her sister and friends. “I promise, no nookie this time unless Spike gets really obnoxious.”
Dawn snickers. Willow and Xander both look stunned that she can kid about it- and she’s a little stunned, herself. Angel pulls away from her abruptly, turning around to walk to the bookcase in a brooding whirl of black leather. And Spike… Spike looks like he’s just eaten something unpleasant. As, say, poison.
She rolls her eyes and slips her arm through his. “Come on, vampire. We have things to do.” She feels, rather than sees, him relax, even if he’s still scowling outwardly.
Don’t you know you’re my only vampire? He grabs a book and hands another to her, and when he takes a seat on the couch, she settles down on the floor beside his legs.
“So what exactly are we looking for?” Dawn asks, seating herself between Spike and Xander. “Big demon, big teeth?”
“Kind of funny-shaped,” Buffy interjects. “A snout-y kind of thing? And the teeth are at the end of that.”
“Like an aardvark!” Willow drops to the floor between Dawn and Xander, her face lighting up with the realization. “Except not with that tail, more like a big, pudgy body and lots of fur.”
“How’d you-“
“I’ve seen it.” Willow turns to shrug toward Buffy’s direction. “Orkanel’s offices are in LA, remember? I’m there a lot. And the city’s crawling with those demons. That’s what we’re hunting down? They don’t even look that dangerous,” she says thoughtfully.
“I guess not,” Buffy admits, and from Willow’s description, they really don’t. But she can still remember the terror, the primal fear she’d experienced in the face of a creature she couldn’t defeat. She remembers running from the not-that-dangerous-looking demon as though her life had depended on it (and now she knows that it had), remembers being handicapped by panic… “But they are,” she says finally, leaning into Spike’s leg. He runs his fingers through her hair absently. “And I guess we’re meant to underestimate them.”
There’s a morbid silence, broken only by Spike perking up to ask Angel, “How’s Faith?”
Angel’s seated at the kitchen table, out of sight of the rest of the Scoobies, but Buffy can still see him from her place by the doorway, see the way his shoulders sag at the question. “Not well,” he says finally, turning to stare at her. She meets his gaze steadily.
Xander raises his face to look up at the bed barely visible on the second level. “She’ll be fine,” he says, with confidence that Buffy almost envies. “She’s got us, right?”
--
Research is slow, and somewhere between the third and fourth hour, Dawn falls asleep, curled at the longer end of the couch with a lightly snoring Xander. Buffy climbs up to fill her vacant spot, resting her head against Spike’s shoulder. “Anything?”
“Not yet.” He strokes the bare skin of her arm unconsciously. “You should get some sleep, too. We don’t know how long this is going to take.”
“I can take off from work for a few days.” She yawns. “I’m good about showing up. They won’t mind a family emergency. But Xander probably can’t miss work, and Dawn has both school and work, plus Willow-“
“I’m okay with the staying,” Willow puts in, still engrossed in the text she’s perusing. “I told Orkanel what’s going on, and he had me put on a ‘special project’ until we’ve found what we needed.” She tosses them a half-grin. “Now dontcha wish you had a boss like mine?”
“Mine isn’t bad,” Buffy says loyally. “And he’s not even some money-making Wiccan, just a normal guy.”
“I don’t like him,” Spike informs her.
She nudges him playfully. “What’d he do now?”
“I don’t like the way he looks at you.”
“He’s gay!”
“-Like you’re not important,” Spike finishes darkly. “Like you’re just a minion.”
“Josh?” Buffy pokes him. He’s always finding some reason to dislike the men in her life, and even Josh’s blatant ogling of the vampire eye candy when Spike had first come to the coffeehouse isn’t enough to dissuade Spike that he isn’t out to get Buffy, in whatever way possible. “No, he doesn’t.”
Willow rolls her eyes. “Not everyone can worship the ground Buffy walks on,” she says pointedly, smirking at Spike. “That’s the downside to a secret identity. And would you really want this guy to be all over Buffy?”
“Careful, witch.” Spike growls lowly, his arm moving automatically to pull Buffy closer to him. She closes her eyes contentedly, listening to Willow teasing Spike and Spike retorting with completely unwarranted threats, wondering if Angel listening from the outside and craving to be one of them again, if…
…And then there’s Xander’s voice, jolting her back to wakefulness with a too-loud, “I think I found something!”
She shakes her head, blinking out of sleep with groggy awareness. Sometime during her napping, Dawn had gotten up and she’d sprawled across the couch, Spike’s lap her pillow and her book poking into her back uncomfortably. “What time is it?”
“Eleven.” Spike moves to rub her back absentmindedly, kneading away the kinks from her sleep. “I gave Donut Boy some dosh and he got you breakfast. Croissant?”
She pulls herself up, taking the sugary pastry from Spike. “Mm. Thanks, Xander.” Spike clears his throat. “You okay, Spike? Sounds like you need a drink,” she says innocently, watching his eyes darken with frustrated annoyance.
“Buffy, take a look at this,” Xander calls from the kitchen, and she moves from Spike reluctantly, climbing over Willow’s slumbering body to check Xander’s findings.
Angel’s absent from the kitchen, and Dawn and Xander have commandeered the room instead, chowing down on donuts and flipping through the Watchers’ Diaries. “Here.” Xander points to a small paragraph in his current book. “’The demon has amassed a monstrous army of proportions unseen in the area, and it boasts two of the lamiabane in addition that have my slayer incapacitated by terror while in battle.’”
“Lamiabane,” Buffy repeats, squinting down at the page. “It sounds like it could be-“
“But here’s the weird part,” Dawn interjects, reading on. “According to this watcher’s accounts, the lamiabane thing was harmless. Or mostly harmless, I’m not sure. He writes it off as an annoyance, nothing too dangerous.”
“Maybe we got it wrong.” The idea nearly breaks her right then and there, another theory lost to oblivion. “Maybe the demon didn’t spread the virus.”
“Harmless?” And there’s Spike’s voice, doubtful and sardonic. “More likely, the watcher got it wrong. That slayer live long?”
“Another three months.” Dawn frowns at the text. “Killed by the demon king, not a disease.”
“Then this lamiabane’s not our demon,” Spike points out reasonably. “No slayer’s gonna last three months without her watcher noticing that she’s been infected, yeah?”
Unless if she hadn’t been infected, if she’d somehow avoided being bitten. Buffy had, and she’s sure that she isn’t the only one. “Keep looking into other demons,” she orders them, wandering over to the fridge to prepare a mug of blood for Spike. On second thought, she gets a second glass and sticks it into the microwave, too. “But don’t write off the Lima Bean thing entirely.”
The microwave beeps a few moments later and she takes the first cup out, eyeing the silhouette visible from behind the half-wall on the top floor warily. “I’ll be right back.”
Faith is limp and silent, the only hint of noise in the bedroom coming from the low beeping of a heart monitor. The room has been transformed, the newly installed ad hoc medical equipment giving it an air of finality that shakes Buffy to her core. Faith’s just…fading away, the slayer who’d loved life a little too much now losing more and more of it each day.
“She hasn’t opened her eyes since yesterday,” Angel murmurs. He’s holding one of Giles’s books open as he stands vigil over his housemate, his gaze fixed on the body on the bed. “It takes too much out of her.”
“Oh,” is all she can think to say, passing him his blood before she speaks again. “You must…it must be hell, watching this.”
“I’ve seen a lot of death. I’ve caused a lot of death, slow and agonizing like this is,” Angel says quietly. “Only once before did I have to watch someone I loved die that way, and even that doesn’t compare to this. Neither of them deserved it. I might, but Faith…Faith doesn’t deserve this.”
“No.” And she wonders at what he’s said, at how he counts Faith among his loved ones. “She’s done a lot for you, hasn’t she?”
His head dips downward in a nod. “Once…once I believed in her when no one else did. Maybe I saw myself in her, I don’t know. But she needed someone, and I needed to be that someone.”
“I remember.” She remembers hurt and betrayal and the pain of not being the one Angel had chosen, the rejection he’d leveled at her and the accusations he’d made, the long ride home after knowing that he’d found new purpose without her. She’d been so young, so caught up in lost love, and he’d lashed out in all the right places and left her heartbroken.
She doesn’t say any of it, but he must have heard it in her voice, because he stiffens and goes on quickly. “And when I’d finally crossed a line- the line that couldn’t be uncrossed- she came back for me. Believed in me.” There’s a sudden smile in his voice, one born of nostalgia and affection. “Dragged me out of my misery and dumped me into the shower when she’d decided that I was stinking up the apartment, ordered me to go patrolling one night when she wanted to go clubbing, chained me up when I tried to meet the sunrise. She didn’t give me a choice in healing myself, didn’t give me the option to give up. I’m not going to give up on her.”
“I understand.” And she does, just as she understands the slight curl of Faith’s mouth as Angel speaks. This isn’t about jealousy or rejection anymore. They’re all past that. And while there’s still that petty part of her that yearns for the Angel who’d deny Faith for her sake, even that selfishness is quiet in the face of Angel’s devotion to Faith now.
She wants to be loved. But that’s not Angel’s place in her life anymore.
“I’m not leaving here without answers,” she tells him, leaning over to squeeze Faith’s limp hand in support. There’s a subtle twitch, a sign that the other girl knows she’s there. “We’re going to keep looking.”
She descends the stairs two at a time, smiling softly at Spike as he glances up to meet her gaze. “You hanging in there, pet?” he asks, rising to follow her into the kitchen.
“Yeah.” She hands him his mug and settles down in the seat beside Dawn, pulling over one of the Watchers’ Diaries from the unread pile. “Anything we can find, right?”
“Another mention of lamiabane,” Dawn offers, holding out her book. “But this one’s interesting. Looks like the watchers used it.”
“They what?” Buffy snatches the book and reads aloud, Spike peering over her shoulder with curiosity.
“After six days of searching, we’re forced to concede the impossible. Divya has betrayed us for her demon lover.“
“That’s so sweet!” Willow coos as she wanders in, rubbing her eyes. They stare at her. She shrugs. “Demon, slayer, star-crossed love? Seems kind of…”
“Familiar?” Xander cracks, raising his eyebrows.
Buffy ignores them. “I have contacted the Council, who have been prepared for this eventuality. An Uri’lan’i lamiabane will be sent out, courtesy of the Council coven, to locate Divya. We anticipate little difficulty.”
“And that’s where it ends.” Spike downs the last of his blood with a gulp and drops his mug into the sink. “Uri’lan’i, though…sounds kind of familiar.”
“It should.” And there’s Angel in the doorway, something akin to optimism in his eyes. “We killed one once, remember? Napoli, 1884.”
Spike nods slowly. “Dru was sick. She’d been feeding off of cholera victims, and we’d gone to get her help…” He grips Buffy’s shoulder suddenly. “There were vampires running for miles, terrified of the creature ravaging the hospital.” He pauses, his face whitening even more than normal at the memory. “They called it Uri’lan’i, didn’t they?”
“How’d it look?” Willow asks curiously, and Spike’s hand tightens even as he takes a step back.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “We…”
“We burned down the hospital,” Angel says flatly. “Killed hundreds of diseased humans, and never thought of it again. The Uri’lan’i had been taken care of.”
“Oh, god.” Buffy feels nauseous. It’s rare nowadays that she and Spike are confronted with reminders of the fact that he was once evil, and she isn’t quite sure how to process anymore. He’s different now, she reminds herself as he pulls away from her abruptly to shove past Angel into the other room. This is hurting him more than it’ll ever hurt me.
And remembering the guilt that’s consumed her since last year, the way she’s been torn apart for nearly destroying everything precious in life and the way he’s forced her to focus on the good instead, it’s all the more simple to follow Spike to the bookcase.
She slides an arm around his waist and ducks under his arm. “Any ideas?”
He stares at her.
“Spike,” she says patiently, and her voice is laced with sympathy and understanding. “I know it’s not easy. I can’t…I can’t imagine what you’re…but that’s over now. That’s not you. I know that. Talk to me?” It’s almost pleading, and she can see as his eyes clear from their despair, as they bore into her own for a moment and widen with awe.
For a moment, she thinks he might kiss her. Instead, he leans down to press a cool cheek against her own, his lips millimeters from her neck. “You are extraordinary, Buffy Anne Summers,” he whispers against her skin, and the goosebumps that break out at his words have nothing to do with his cool breath at her neck.
Her fingers toy with the bottom of his shirt, stroking the soft skin beneath. “I…um…do you know where we might find something about these Uri-thingies?” she blurts out, and he pulls away almost reluctantly.
“Now that we have a name, it’ll be easier,” Spike agrees, but he’s looking over her shoulder as he speaks, his eyes on-
-Angel. Oh. But as she watches, her former love just gives him a short nod and joins them at the bookcase. “Right…here,” he announces, flipping through a book he pulls off one of the higher shelves. “Uri’lan’i. See also: lamiabane. This is it!”
There’s a picture of what is undeniably the demon that’s been wreaking havoc on them for months, round and furry body incongruous next to the snarling snout tipped with yellow fangs. And she still feels a shiver of dread at the picture alone.
Angel glances at the page. “Designed with the mystical ability to hunt down slayers. But it’s harmless to them. It feeds off of vampires, and it’s supposed to be calm…”
“That’s not even a little bit true,” Buffy interjects.
“Maybe not.” He frowns. “They’re also supposed to be rare. And under control.”
“Someone’s been tampering with them,” Xander agrees, coming up behind them to take the book from Angel. “Making them aggressive, attacking slayers…”
“It doesn’t say anything about venom, either.” Buffy frowns thoughtfully. “You don’t think that someone did that, too? Maybe we’re-“
“We’re not wrong,” Spike says with a stubbornness that makes her meet his eyes gratefully. “The demon is connected to the disease. We know that already. The only question is, how do we undo it?”
Willow raises a tentative hand. “I have an idea.”
--
Willow’s idea involves working with her boss to capture a lamiabane and analyze its saliva in some high-tech facility, and much as Buffy wants to be involved in the cure, this is one thing she can’t help with. Science and Buffy are most definitely not mixy.
So instead, she has Spike drop off her friends at their respective homes and they brave the sunlight on the roof to get him inside for the remainder of the day. They watch daytime soaps until even Spike is bored and fall asleep against each other for hours before the sun goes down and it’s time to patrol.
And for the first time in weeks- maybe even years, since they’d last come up against an undefeatable foe- Buffy is energized by hope.
This lovely banner was made by Tumblr's nurfherder, who has also begun drawing Embers in comic form here. You can click to enlarge and bask in the magnificence! ;)
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“So what does this do?”
“Dunno.”
“How about this?”
“Ask the bugs.”
“C’mon, you must know what something on this ship does.”
“Swiftly crossing the line from polite to irritating, Harris!”
Xander rolls his eyes. “You completely fail at being a guy, you know that?”
“Yeah, like you’re the picture of male virility,” Spike retorts, smirking, and Buffy rests a hand on his arm in gentle reproach.
The three of them are crowded on what passes for a bridge on Spike’s ship, Xander inspecting the controls with interest and Buffy leaning against the wall, content to watch the two boys go at it. Dawn has had a sudden attack of bug fear, and she and Willow have gone out wandering to find a place without the creepies crawling around, deep in the ship.
“Hey! I build stuff! I happen to be very confident in my masculinity, thank you very much!” Xander says indignantly at Spike’s amused skepticism. “You’re the one who can’t even work the controls of his own ship!”
“Don’ need toys to be the consummate male,” Spike purrs, and Buffy tries to swallow past a sudden lump in her throat that’s mysteriously appeared at the look on his face. He turns to face her, a knowing glint in his eye. “Isn’t that right, love?”
She flushes. “Spike…”
Thankfully, Dawn chooses that moment to storm in, the bugs all but forgotten in her anger. “Is this my sweater?” she demands. “I’ve been looking for this for months!”
“I borrowed it?” Buffy says sheepishly. They’d gone up to Seattle a few months before after Spike had heard about a Gunareg demon snatching up children from their beds at night, back when Buffy hadn’t had her own apartment and she’d been making liberal use of Dawn’s closet. “And I was going to- Wait… Aren’t those my earrings?”
Dawn dodges her grasping fingers and hands the sweater to Xander. “Hang on to this,” she says hastily. “I’m going to head back to Spike’s room now, kay?”
“No more going through my drawer!” Buffy calls after her hasty retreat. Okay, maybe there are a few more of Dawn’s things in there…but to be fair, Dawn’s been stealing her clothes for years, and taking some of the things that would look so much better on Buffy is a public service. Really.
“You have a drawer in Spike’s bedroom?” Xander repeats dubiously.
She snatches the sweater from his arm and turns away. “I’m going to find Willow. Let me know when we land!”
There’s a conversation she isn’t having, not after Xander’s questions, not after Willow’s gentle prying or Dawn’s teasing, and it’s a welcome interruption when Spike pokes his head into his room to inform them that they’ve landed.
Of course, that means seeing Angel, and judging from the three hostile figures behind her, this isn’t going to be getting any easier.
It’s still dark out in England, the barest lightening of the sky a herald to the coming day, but she’s still mildly surprised to see Angel pull open the door before they even knock. “I’ve been organizing the texts you might need,” he murmurs, turning away from her to look directly at Spike. “I’m going to go patrol until sunrise.”
“Wait.” She grabs him by the forearm, bent on stopping him from going. It can’t be like this, not anymore. If nothing else, her conversation with Angel had been cleansing, giving them a chance to cooperate without the pain, and she’s determined to keep that opportunity. “The more people we have researching, the better.”
Behind her, Xander snorts disdainfully. Angel’s arm flexes against her palm, and she shivers despite herself.
And then there’s Spike, an old smirk back on his face as he watches the proceedings. “I’n’t this awkward?” he drawls, amused, and whatever tenseness had accompanied her since she’d opened the door dissipates at the laughter in his eyes. Spike loves discord. She’s feeding into that now and he’s enjoying it fully, and she can’t help but smile at how happy it’s making him.
She turns around, bracing herself for what she’s going to say next. Time to face the elephant in the room before its presence kills Faith. “Come on. We have slayers to save.” She raises her eyebrows at her sister and friends. “I promise, no nookie this time unless Spike gets really obnoxious.”
Dawn snickers. Willow and Xander both look stunned that she can kid about it- and she’s a little stunned, herself. Angel pulls away from her abruptly, turning around to walk to the bookcase in a brooding whirl of black leather. And Spike… Spike looks like he’s just eaten something unpleasant. As, say, poison.
She rolls her eyes and slips her arm through his. “Come on, vampire. We have things to do.” She feels, rather than sees, him relax, even if he’s still scowling outwardly.
Don’t you know you’re my only vampire? He grabs a book and hands another to her, and when he takes a seat on the couch, she settles down on the floor beside his legs.
“So what exactly are we looking for?” Dawn asks, seating herself between Spike and Xander. “Big demon, big teeth?”
“Kind of funny-shaped,” Buffy interjects. “A snout-y kind of thing? And the teeth are at the end of that.”
“Like an aardvark!” Willow drops to the floor between Dawn and Xander, her face lighting up with the realization. “Except not with that tail, more like a big, pudgy body and lots of fur.”
“How’d you-“
“I’ve seen it.” Willow turns to shrug toward Buffy’s direction. “Orkanel’s offices are in LA, remember? I’m there a lot. And the city’s crawling with those demons. That’s what we’re hunting down? They don’t even look that dangerous,” she says thoughtfully.
“I guess not,” Buffy admits, and from Willow’s description, they really don’t. But she can still remember the terror, the primal fear she’d experienced in the face of a creature she couldn’t defeat. She remembers running from the not-that-dangerous-looking demon as though her life had depended on it (and now she knows that it had), remembers being handicapped by panic… “But they are,” she says finally, leaning into Spike’s leg. He runs his fingers through her hair absently. “And I guess we’re meant to underestimate them.”
There’s a morbid silence, broken only by Spike perking up to ask Angel, “How’s Faith?”
Angel’s seated at the kitchen table, out of sight of the rest of the Scoobies, but Buffy can still see him from her place by the doorway, see the way his shoulders sag at the question. “Not well,” he says finally, turning to stare at her. She meets his gaze steadily.
Xander raises his face to look up at the bed barely visible on the second level. “She’ll be fine,” he says, with confidence that Buffy almost envies. “She’s got us, right?”
--
Research is slow, and somewhere between the third and fourth hour, Dawn falls asleep, curled at the longer end of the couch with a lightly snoring Xander. Buffy climbs up to fill her vacant spot, resting her head against Spike’s shoulder. “Anything?”
“Not yet.” He strokes the bare skin of her arm unconsciously. “You should get some sleep, too. We don’t know how long this is going to take.”
“I can take off from work for a few days.” She yawns. “I’m good about showing up. They won’t mind a family emergency. But Xander probably can’t miss work, and Dawn has both school and work, plus Willow-“
“I’m okay with the staying,” Willow puts in, still engrossed in the text she’s perusing. “I told Orkanel what’s going on, and he had me put on a ‘special project’ until we’ve found what we needed.” She tosses them a half-grin. “Now dontcha wish you had a boss like mine?”
“Mine isn’t bad,” Buffy says loyally. “And he’s not even some money-making Wiccan, just a normal guy.”
“I don’t like him,” Spike informs her.
She nudges him playfully. “What’d he do now?”
“I don’t like the way he looks at you.”
“He’s gay!”
“-Like you’re not important,” Spike finishes darkly. “Like you’re just a minion.”
“Josh?” Buffy pokes him. He’s always finding some reason to dislike the men in her life, and even Josh’s blatant ogling of the vampire eye candy when Spike had first come to the coffeehouse isn’t enough to dissuade Spike that he isn’t out to get Buffy, in whatever way possible. “No, he doesn’t.”
Willow rolls her eyes. “Not everyone can worship the ground Buffy walks on,” she says pointedly, smirking at Spike. “That’s the downside to a secret identity. And would you really want this guy to be all over Buffy?”
“Careful, witch.” Spike growls lowly, his arm moving automatically to pull Buffy closer to him. She closes her eyes contentedly, listening to Willow teasing Spike and Spike retorting with completely unwarranted threats, wondering if Angel listening from the outside and craving to be one of them again, if…
…And then there’s Xander’s voice, jolting her back to wakefulness with a too-loud, “I think I found something!”
She shakes her head, blinking out of sleep with groggy awareness. Sometime during her napping, Dawn had gotten up and she’d sprawled across the couch, Spike’s lap her pillow and her book poking into her back uncomfortably. “What time is it?”
“Eleven.” Spike moves to rub her back absentmindedly, kneading away the kinks from her sleep. “I gave Donut Boy some dosh and he got you breakfast. Croissant?”
She pulls herself up, taking the sugary pastry from Spike. “Mm. Thanks, Xander.” Spike clears his throat. “You okay, Spike? Sounds like you need a drink,” she says innocently, watching his eyes darken with frustrated annoyance.
“Buffy, take a look at this,” Xander calls from the kitchen, and she moves from Spike reluctantly, climbing over Willow’s slumbering body to check Xander’s findings.
Angel’s absent from the kitchen, and Dawn and Xander have commandeered the room instead, chowing down on donuts and flipping through the Watchers’ Diaries. “Here.” Xander points to a small paragraph in his current book. “’The demon has amassed a monstrous army of proportions unseen in the area, and it boasts two of the lamiabane in addition that have my slayer incapacitated by terror while in battle.’”
“Lamiabane,” Buffy repeats, squinting down at the page. “It sounds like it could be-“
“But here’s the weird part,” Dawn interjects, reading on. “According to this watcher’s accounts, the lamiabane thing was harmless. Or mostly harmless, I’m not sure. He writes it off as an annoyance, nothing too dangerous.”
“Maybe we got it wrong.” The idea nearly breaks her right then and there, another theory lost to oblivion. “Maybe the demon didn’t spread the virus.”
“Harmless?” And there’s Spike’s voice, doubtful and sardonic. “More likely, the watcher got it wrong. That slayer live long?”
“Another three months.” Dawn frowns at the text. “Killed by the demon king, not a disease.”
“Then this lamiabane’s not our demon,” Spike points out reasonably. “No slayer’s gonna last three months without her watcher noticing that she’s been infected, yeah?”
Unless if she hadn’t been infected, if she’d somehow avoided being bitten. Buffy had, and she’s sure that she isn’t the only one. “Keep looking into other demons,” she orders them, wandering over to the fridge to prepare a mug of blood for Spike. On second thought, she gets a second glass and sticks it into the microwave, too. “But don’t write off the Lima Bean thing entirely.”
The microwave beeps a few moments later and she takes the first cup out, eyeing the silhouette visible from behind the half-wall on the top floor warily. “I’ll be right back.”
Faith is limp and silent, the only hint of noise in the bedroom coming from the low beeping of a heart monitor. The room has been transformed, the newly installed ad hoc medical equipment giving it an air of finality that shakes Buffy to her core. Faith’s just…fading away, the slayer who’d loved life a little too much now losing more and more of it each day.
“She hasn’t opened her eyes since yesterday,” Angel murmurs. He’s holding one of Giles’s books open as he stands vigil over his housemate, his gaze fixed on the body on the bed. “It takes too much out of her.”
“Oh,” is all she can think to say, passing him his blood before she speaks again. “You must…it must be hell, watching this.”
“I’ve seen a lot of death. I’ve caused a lot of death, slow and agonizing like this is,” Angel says quietly. “Only once before did I have to watch someone I loved die that way, and even that doesn’t compare to this. Neither of them deserved it. I might, but Faith…Faith doesn’t deserve this.”
“No.” And she wonders at what he’s said, at how he counts Faith among his loved ones. “She’s done a lot for you, hasn’t she?”
His head dips downward in a nod. “Once…once I believed in her when no one else did. Maybe I saw myself in her, I don’t know. But she needed someone, and I needed to be that someone.”
“I remember.” She remembers hurt and betrayal and the pain of not being the one Angel had chosen, the rejection he’d leveled at her and the accusations he’d made, the long ride home after knowing that he’d found new purpose without her. She’d been so young, so caught up in lost love, and he’d lashed out in all the right places and left her heartbroken.
She doesn’t say any of it, but he must have heard it in her voice, because he stiffens and goes on quickly. “And when I’d finally crossed a line- the line that couldn’t be uncrossed- she came back for me. Believed in me.” There’s a sudden smile in his voice, one born of nostalgia and affection. “Dragged me out of my misery and dumped me into the shower when she’d decided that I was stinking up the apartment, ordered me to go patrolling one night when she wanted to go clubbing, chained me up when I tried to meet the sunrise. She didn’t give me a choice in healing myself, didn’t give me the option to give up. I’m not going to give up on her.”
“I understand.” And she does, just as she understands the slight curl of Faith’s mouth as Angel speaks. This isn’t about jealousy or rejection anymore. They’re all past that. And while there’s still that petty part of her that yearns for the Angel who’d deny Faith for her sake, even that selfishness is quiet in the face of Angel’s devotion to Faith now.
She wants to be loved. But that’s not Angel’s place in her life anymore.
“I’m not leaving here without answers,” she tells him, leaning over to squeeze Faith’s limp hand in support. There’s a subtle twitch, a sign that the other girl knows she’s there. “We’re going to keep looking.”
She descends the stairs two at a time, smiling softly at Spike as he glances up to meet her gaze. “You hanging in there, pet?” he asks, rising to follow her into the kitchen.
“Yeah.” She hands him his mug and settles down in the seat beside Dawn, pulling over one of the Watchers’ Diaries from the unread pile. “Anything we can find, right?”
“Another mention of lamiabane,” Dawn offers, holding out her book. “But this one’s interesting. Looks like the watchers used it.”
“They what?” Buffy snatches the book and reads aloud, Spike peering over her shoulder with curiosity.
“After six days of searching, we’re forced to concede the impossible. Divya has betrayed us for her demon lover.“
“That’s so sweet!” Willow coos as she wanders in, rubbing her eyes. They stare at her. She shrugs. “Demon, slayer, star-crossed love? Seems kind of…”
“Familiar?” Xander cracks, raising his eyebrows.
Buffy ignores them. “I have contacted the Council, who have been prepared for this eventuality. An Uri’lan’i lamiabane will be sent out, courtesy of the Council coven, to locate Divya. We anticipate little difficulty.”
“And that’s where it ends.” Spike downs the last of his blood with a gulp and drops his mug into the sink. “Uri’lan’i, though…sounds kind of familiar.”
“It should.” And there’s Angel in the doorway, something akin to optimism in his eyes. “We killed one once, remember? Napoli, 1884.”
Spike nods slowly. “Dru was sick. She’d been feeding off of cholera victims, and we’d gone to get her help…” He grips Buffy’s shoulder suddenly. “There were vampires running for miles, terrified of the creature ravaging the hospital.” He pauses, his face whitening even more than normal at the memory. “They called it Uri’lan’i, didn’t they?”
“How’d it look?” Willow asks curiously, and Spike’s hand tightens even as he takes a step back.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “We…”
“We burned down the hospital,” Angel says flatly. “Killed hundreds of diseased humans, and never thought of it again. The Uri’lan’i had been taken care of.”
“Oh, god.” Buffy feels nauseous. It’s rare nowadays that she and Spike are confronted with reminders of the fact that he was once evil, and she isn’t quite sure how to process anymore. He’s different now, she reminds herself as he pulls away from her abruptly to shove past Angel into the other room. This is hurting him more than it’ll ever hurt me.
And remembering the guilt that’s consumed her since last year, the way she’s been torn apart for nearly destroying everything precious in life and the way he’s forced her to focus on the good instead, it’s all the more simple to follow Spike to the bookcase.
She slides an arm around his waist and ducks under his arm. “Any ideas?”
He stares at her.
“Spike,” she says patiently, and her voice is laced with sympathy and understanding. “I know it’s not easy. I can’t…I can’t imagine what you’re…but that’s over now. That’s not you. I know that. Talk to me?” It’s almost pleading, and she can see as his eyes clear from their despair, as they bore into her own for a moment and widen with awe.
For a moment, she thinks he might kiss her. Instead, he leans down to press a cool cheek against her own, his lips millimeters from her neck. “You are extraordinary, Buffy Anne Summers,” he whispers against her skin, and the goosebumps that break out at his words have nothing to do with his cool breath at her neck.
Her fingers toy with the bottom of his shirt, stroking the soft skin beneath. “I…um…do you know where we might find something about these Uri-thingies?” she blurts out, and he pulls away almost reluctantly.
“Now that we have a name, it’ll be easier,” Spike agrees, but he’s looking over her shoulder as he speaks, his eyes on-
-Angel. Oh. But as she watches, her former love just gives him a short nod and joins them at the bookcase. “Right…here,” he announces, flipping through a book he pulls off one of the higher shelves. “Uri’lan’i. See also: lamiabane. This is it!”
There’s a picture of what is undeniably the demon that’s been wreaking havoc on them for months, round and furry body incongruous next to the snarling snout tipped with yellow fangs. And she still feels a shiver of dread at the picture alone.
Angel glances at the page. “Designed with the mystical ability to hunt down slayers. But it’s harmless to them. It feeds off of vampires, and it’s supposed to be calm…”
“That’s not even a little bit true,” Buffy interjects.
“Maybe not.” He frowns. “They’re also supposed to be rare. And under control.”
“Someone’s been tampering with them,” Xander agrees, coming up behind them to take the book from Angel. “Making them aggressive, attacking slayers…”
“It doesn’t say anything about venom, either.” Buffy frowns thoughtfully. “You don’t think that someone did that, too? Maybe we’re-“
“We’re not wrong,” Spike says with a stubbornness that makes her meet his eyes gratefully. “The demon is connected to the disease. We know that already. The only question is, how do we undo it?”
Willow raises a tentative hand. “I have an idea.”
--
Willow’s idea involves working with her boss to capture a lamiabane and analyze its saliva in some high-tech facility, and much as Buffy wants to be involved in the cure, this is one thing she can’t help with. Science and Buffy are most definitely not mixy.
So instead, she has Spike drop off her friends at their respective homes and they brave the sunlight on the roof to get him inside for the remainder of the day. They watch daytime soaps until even Spike is bored and fall asleep against each other for hours before the sun goes down and it’s time to patrol.
And for the first time in weeks- maybe even years, since they’d last come up against an undefeatable foe- Buffy is energized by hope.
Chapter 16
Thank you all again! I'm absolutely floored by the support and feedback that this fic has gotten thus far, and I'll keep trying to live up to your expectations. :) This chapter kind of got away from me, and though it's been beta-ed already, I'm not promising that I won't go back and make more edits on it. :/
This lovely banner was made by Tumblr's nurfherder, who has also begun drawing Embers in comic form here. There's another one up now, and it's absolute perfection! :)
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An entire day goes by without any news. Willow’s boss has managed to use his extensive resources to capture one of the lamiabane in LA, and they’re trying to extract its venom for research. Faith remains stable- well, alive, anyway- but just barely. And Buffy and Spike patrol because there’s little more for them to do.
“It’s what you do best, innit?” Spike informs her when she complains later that night. He twists her hair between his fingers thoughtfully where it’s pillowed on his lap. “Slay the baddies, be they vampires or hellgods or irritating little mosquito demons. You’ve been doing more than your part until now. S’time to leave it to the other pros.”
“I hate being useless,” she mumbles, disentangling herself from him to face him properly. “Isn’t there something I can beat up?” She perks up. “I should probably try to get rid of the lamiabane wandering San Francisco, right? The slayers here don’t know that it’s a threat.”
A low growl builds in his throat. “You’re not going anywhere near that damn beast.”
She purses her lips at him, mischievous, though she’s already conceded mentally. “You’re not the boss of me.”
His eyes narrow. “I still have a set of chains in my ship,” he threatens.
And the words come out without forethought or worry. “That a promise?”
His eyes widen almost impossibly large, his hand in her hair suddenly tense and stiff. She’s inches away from him, close enough to do everything that she’ll be regretting in the morning-
-or maybe not, she argues, her mind conjuring up a picture of what a morning after could be like for them, all sleepy smiles and sloppy kisses and maybe a slow shower together. Spike would insist on making her breakfast and she’d try fruitlessly to save yet another frying pan from his good intentions, and then he’d attempt to persuade her to skip work for some more naked time but she’d go anyway and do her entire shift with a stupid grin on her face-
-and then his face gentles and he flicks her playfully on the forehead. “No lamiabane-hunting,” he says firmly, pulling her back against his shoulder.
She closes her eyes, barring intrusive dreams from her thoughts. That way lies madness she can’t deal with anymore. “Okay.”
He stays so late that she knows that he’s just keeping an eye on her, and as infuriating as that is, she’s too tired to do more than mumble half-hearted insults into his shoulder as he laughs at her feeble attempts to wound him. “Go to bed, Summers.” He nudges her. “You can’t serve coffee on five hours of sleep.”
“Watch me.” But he promises to be back as soon as he can, making only a quick stop to look in on Faith. They don’t know how quickly Willow might be able to develop an antidote, and a few hours can make all the difference in delivering Faith a cure.
She’s already muddling her way to bed before he’s left the apartment, and the rich laugh that follows her stumbling attempts into her bedroom is still ringing in her ears as she snuggles into her blankets and surrenders to slumber. And when she awakens several hours later by the shrill ringing of a telephone, she’s almost surprised that he isn’t there anymore.
The phone rings again and she lifts it sleepily. “Huh?”
“Leah’s dead.” The voice is crisp, the words cold and wooden and belying anguished turmoil just below the surface. Buffy’s known Kennedy long enough to recognize it. “I thought you’d want to know.”
She sits up, suddenly wide awake. “Oh god. Leah’s…”
“Dead. Do I need to repeat it again?” Kennedy snaps. “Gone. Finito. No heartbeat, and not in a stake-happy way.”
Something closes up her throat entirely, not allowing any air in. “I’m sorry,” she chokes through it. “How…um. How long ago did it happen?”
There’s a weary sigh on the other line, a concession of equal sorrow from the other slayer. “About an hour ago. Near the end…I don’t think it hurt her as much. She couldn’t feel anything by then. Death…it was probably more peaceful for her.”
Leah had been one of her favorites, once upon a time, one of the best and brightest of the young slayers and a faithful lieutenant. They’d only spoken once after Twilight, and she’d been uncharacteristically demure while another slayer stood between them and censured Buffy for her misdeeds. Afterwards, she’d gone over to Buffy and told her, eyes grave, “I think… it musta been the last thing he did, but Giles saved my life during the battle. Pulled me out of the way of a dragon’s flames.”
She hadn’t said anything more and it had been small comfort, but the single kindness of a single slayer had touched Buffy, helped to drive away resentment at the lot of them for their hatred. It had been Giles’s last rescue, his last great deed…
Dead now.
“Thank you for calling,” she says shakily. “We’re trying to find a cure. Something…for the other girls, I guess. You’ve heard what’s causing this?”
“Willow told me.” Kennedy’s silent for a moment. “How’s Faith?” she says finally, and there’s a familiar kind of regret in her voice, a sorrow that only another who’s regretting old abandonments might recognize.
“Not far behind Leah,” Buffy admits. “But she’s hanging on. Angel’s taking care of her.”
The icy hostility returns. “Angel should be dead.” And there’s vehemence in Kennedy’s voice, raw hatred and anger.
“He’s taking care of Faith,” Buffy repeats. In the end, they’re all measured by their evil, aren’t they? By a thousand sins, a thousand missed opportunities and shattered good intentions. But to dwell on that is to reject the good that can still be done. “Hospital equipment and all. You should get in touch with him. He might be able to help your slayers, too.”
There’s a distinctly outraged snort from the other end of the phone. “That’s not happening,” Kennedy barks out, and Buffy can imagine her forehead wrinkling, expressive eyes darkening into rage and disbelief.
“I know. I know.” Buffy inhales slowly. “I know he’s probably the only person in the universe you hate right now more than me. But if he can do anything…if there’s some way to slow down this disease before more people are lost…”
“I’ll think about it.” Kennedy’s voice is curt, but it lacks her earlier rancor. “Good luck.” She hangs up the phone abruptly, leaving Buffy in thoughtful silence.
Leah’s gone, and that pains her more than she can afford to think about right now. But Kennedy is finally coming back.
She naps for a couple of hours before it’s time for work, and when she rises again, her thoughts are still on Kennedy and the slayers in England. Kennedy’s proud- perhaps dangerously so- but she has to believe that the other girl would do what might be needed to save her sister slayers. Even if it involves Slayerville’s Least Wanted.
She’s smiling as she pushes open the door to the coffeehouse, pondering the prospects of a Kennedy who doesn’t hate her completely, who might even pool their resources and learn to trust Buffy past her early failures. After a year of wallowing in the awareness that she’s despised by the girls she’d empowered, it’s a cautiously good feeling.
I deserved it. I screwed up to epic proportions. But my punishment may yet be coming to an end.
Her internal voice sounds mysteriously like Spike’s echoing it, and her smile widens even more at that thought. She can’t wait to tell him about this, to watch him understand and rejoice with her.
“Someone got laid!” Leanne sings out, pulling herself up to sit on the counter. “Was it Spike? It was Spike, wasn’t it?”
“I didn’t get- No, it wasn’t Spike! Nothing Spike!” Buffy says hastily, hurrying over to the machines to fill up on some suddenly much-needed caffeine. “Spike is nothing!” She frowns at her phrasing. “I mean, he’s something, but not my something. Because that’s never happening. Duh. Really.”
“Uh-huh.” Leanne crosses her arms disbelievingly. “And you actually look like the stick’s out of your ass because…”
“I got some good news,” Buffy says, rolling her eyes. “More is incoming.” She should know better than to hope for a cure so soon, but Willow’s been enthusiastic on the phone, more unguarded than she’s been around Buffy since before Twilight. Progress. It’s addictive, and she’s craving it more and more as the days go by.
“Come on, sweetheart.” But Josh is grinning at her, too. “You’ve got customers.”
“Right. I knew that.” She ducks back around the counter to tend to the filling tables, flushing when Josh tosses her a conspiratorial wink. So this is what it’d be like if she ever brought anyone home.
Sex sex sexy times. That thing she’d given up on since she’d realized that finding a boy would involve missing out on Spike-filled nights. She’d even tried once on a night she’d gone out dancing with Dawn and Xander and caught the eye of the one unattached straight guy in the club. They’d talked, they’d danced, he’d even bought her a drink and told her that she was beautiful…and then she’d wondered if Spike was going to leave if he didn’t know where she was and she’d had to run out immediately. He’d been abrupt and jealous as soon as he caught on to what she’d been doing, and she’d been annoyed…but she’d still admitted to herself, at the end of the night, that she’d preferred a tension-filled night with Spike to a carefree one with some other guy.
So maybe I’ve got it bad. He’s frustrating, infuriating, perverted and childish and- oh, did she mention bloodsucker? And yet…
And yet. She remembers crying on Tara’s lap years before, admitting that Spike had been the only thing that could make her feel alive. She’d hated him for it then, and he’d loved her all the same, even as he’d resorted to undermining her own goodness in hopes of tempting her to the dark. And it’s years later, years without depression or soullessness, and he’s still making her feel more and more alive whenever she’s with him, granting her courage and unwavering support and making her laugh and cry andlive…and for the first time since Riley Finn had accused her of being distant before he’d left Sunnydale to rejoin the military, she’s felt as though she’s had something to offer a guy, too. Not much- nowhere near what he does for her- but every time she can bring that awed expression to his face, every time she can stun him with her faith in him…it means the world to her, more than anything else.
Spike matters more than anyone beyond her tight little circle. She’s long ago accepted that as truth. And even if he never loves her back, she’d rather be alone with him than in a relationship without him.
She’s such an idiot. But she can’t bring herself to care very much.
It’s after midday when the phone rings behind the counter, and Buffy busies herself with a table packed with guys as Tina’s stand-in for the day takes the call. Time to focus on non-Spike-related things, before Leanne catches wind of what’s distracting her and-
“Buffy, right?” Tina’s stand-in gestures to her when she nears the counter, tugging nervously on his curly brown hair. “Sorry, she said she could just leave a message and you looked busy, so…”
“Who was it?” Buffy asks immediately, flashes of hope shooting through her. If it’s…
“Someone named Willa, I think? She said something about a breakthrough, and that you should meet her in LA as soon as you can.” The boy turns back to mixing drinks, leaving Buffy nearly breathless with exultant joy.
An antidote! It has to be; it’s the only reason why Willow would need them. And on a day like today, when things are finally starting to shape up, she can believe that deliverance has finally arrived from the reigning threat, the one that seemed nearly impossible just days before.
It’s going to be a busy afternoon. The instant that Spike gets back, they need to be on their way to deliver the cure to Faith and the other slayers. Someone’s going to need to distribute it to hospitals where slayers might not have the same connections to Buffy, someone’s going to need to try and finish off the Lima Bean Guild before they infect more and more slayers, someone’s going to need to find the perpetrator… they have work to do.
She turns to the register without preamble. “Josh, I need-“
“To go. Got it.” He smiles warmly at her. “You’ve only got another hour to your shift, anyway, and Leanne and Taro can cover for you. Don’t worry about it.”
She thanks him quickly, grabbing her jacket and fleeing back to her apartment. Spike’s ship isn’t visible on the roof, but she’s still almost disappointed when he isn’t awaiting her at home, ready for action.
She calls Willow and is unsurprised when her friend doesn’t pick up. She’s probably calling the others, letting them know of her victory and that help is on the way for Faith. Maybe she’s even told Angel already, and Buffy can imagine the relief on his face at the news.
Is Spike still with Angel? She’s pacing now, impatient and anxious and eager, and it takes about ten seconds for her to decide that the money for another call to England is worth speeding Spike up. Hey, maybe she can even persuade Angel to count these calls as part of Faith’s medical bills, and then she’ll be able to buy that dress that’s been taunting her from the window across from the café for the past two months.
Excuse firmly in place, she dials a number that’s swiftly becoming familiar and waits for Angel to pick up. “Buffy?”
“How’d you know it was me?”
He laughs shortly. “Caller ID. No one else calls from abroad. Spike left already.”
“Why do you always assume that I’m calling for Spike?” she demands playfully. “You know, maybe I’m calling to chat, or check on Faith, or- How long ago did he leave?”
“Couple of hours. And Faith’s the same.” The worry’s still there, permeating the wires between America and England to travel straight to her, and Buffy can’t help but grant him the same hope Willow’s given her already.
“Willow left me a message. I think she’s found something.” She grins at the sharp inhalation she can hear on the other line. “I just need Spike to get here so we can go to LA and find out what’s going on.”
“Go without him!” Angel says, and she blinks bemusedly, the idea occurring to her for the first time. “This is life and death!”
She shakes her head. “It’s not worth it. It’s a six hour drive to LA from here.”
“And an hour flight!” Angel’s voice is insistent. “Go. I’ll pay for it, I don’t care. But Faith needs help now!”
“I know.” She’s humbled by his urgency, already beating herself over the head for not considering it before. “But I can’t…not without Spike. He’d take less time to get to you from LA than any flight, anyway. And if we’re trying to get to Faith as quickly as possible, we need him.”
“Okay. Okay.” Angel’s breathing hard, the most human sound she’s ever heard from him. “Maybe we’ll go, meet you there?”
“Calm down. Breathe. Do vampy meditation exercises, I don’t know,” she instructs him, her smile returning at his so remarkablyhuman panic. “You keep Faith alive. We’ll be there as soon as we can.” She pauses. “How long ago did Spike leave?”
It’s going to be at least another two hours, and she’s as restless as Angel had sounded on the phone, channel surfing and speed walking around the block and even picking up dinner on the way home for lack of a better thing to do.
The answering machine is beeping when she returns to her apartment, and she realizes suddenly that she’d forgotten her cell phone at home that morning and neglected to check it since. There are two missed calls from Willow from the early morning, three from Dawn, and another one from Xander.
“Hey, Buffy, I think we’re on to something, so if you can call me back…?”
“Willow again. Buffy, we have it! Well, theoretically, anyway, but Orkanel’s already phoned the lab to ask them to work on developing it. Come to LA, kay?”
“Buffy, it’s Dawn. Willow just called. Is Spike there yet? Because Xander and I are thinking about getting a head start on this antidote thing, driving in to LA now and seeing if we can get it to Faith asap. Where are you?”
The call on the machine is a quick one from Xander, telling her that they’re a few miles from LA and that they’re all waiting for her. She heads up to the roof anxiously, itching to punch or kick or slay something-
And right on cue, Spike’s ship arrives, boldly settling down beside her in plain daylight. The door slides open, and she leaps through, bowling over a blanket-clad Spike. “Buffy?”
His hands are at her shoulders, supporting her above him with a firm grip. She beams down at him. “We need to get to LA. Now!”
A bug scuttles off, and she can almost hear the bored sarcasm in its voice as it commands, “Do as Spike’s queen orders.”
The ship rises with a lurch and she slides out of Spike’s grasp to lie beside him. “Spike’s queen?”
He licks his lips. “And don’t you forget it.”
Her cheeks are warm as she pulls him up, offering him a squashed bag with their Paninis inside. “Willow’s found an antidote. And I’m pretty sure that Angel’s about ten minutes away from making another deal with Twilight so he can fly to retrieve it himself, so time is of the essence.”
Spike laughs, biting into a cheese Panini with relish and addressing his crew over her shoulder. “You heard the lady. Fast as you can go, no worries about being seen.” He turns to Buffy. “We don’t care about UFO rumors, do we?”
“Judging from the way the public dealt with vampires?” Buffy rolls her eyes. “Expect to be hailed as the next messiah.”
He considers it. “Harm would love having an ex in the public eye. S’good for her image,” he says mock-seriously.
She crosses her eyes at him. “You’re not dating her again, Blondie Bear.”
He pouts. “And here I so dearly wanted to reconnect with that brainless bint. But if you insist…”
She gestures grandly. “I suppose I can’t keep your love from each other forever. Go! Leave me!”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He lifts her into his arms and races to his room, the unexpected gesture making her laugh and bat at him until he drops her unceremoniously on the couch, directly on top of a hardcover book he’d left there.
“Ow!” She tugs out the book from under her and throws it at him.
He catches it, frowning. “You lost my place.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She shifts to the side so he can sit, still rubbing her rear where it had hit the sharp corner of the book. “Gimme food.”
He breaks the second Panini in half and gives her the smaller piece. She waits. With a defeated sigh, he hands her the rest. “Tell me this isn’t all you ate today.”
She shrugs, sobering at the memories of the call that had buoyed her and destroyed her appetite at the same time. “Kennedy called this morning.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Kennedy? That’s a step in the right direction, yeah?”
“Kind of. I mean, yeah. Very much. But…” She shakes her head. “Leah’s dead.”
“Leah?”
“One of the sick slayers, the redhead? She and I…we worked together a lot. We were pretty close. And we’re just one day too late for her.” Buffy stares sightlessly at her Panini. “I’ve been so excited about this cure that I haven’t even thought about her.”
Spike’s hand is soft in hers. “You’re doing all you can. Everyone is. You can’t punish yourself for something beyond your control.”
“I’m just so full of grief these days.” She closes her eyes, willing forth calm that she isn’t quite feeling yet. “And I can’t…I just don’t know where to hold it anymore, because it’s ripping me apart and I can’t exist like this any longer. I can’t balance all these deaths that I’ve caused, all the ones that happen because I’m too slow, all the ones that I find out about after the fact…Spike, I’m afraid that I’m going to stop functioning if I keep dwelling on all these deaths. But I can’t not dwell, because what kind of person would I be if I didn’t-“
“Stop.” Spike squeezes her hand. “Stop. You didn’t do this, pet. It isn’t your fault. You save who you can, and you mourn the rest afterwards. Got it?”
She buries her face in the leather of his coat, unwilling to answer his question. “What would I do without you?”
“Less bugs, more coffee?” he suggests, but he’s grinning when she peeks up at him. “Not nearly as fun.”
“Says you.” She swallows the last of her Panini. “After this is over, we’re going on vacation. Somewhere sunny with a happening nightlife of both the human and vampy variety so you don’t get all pouty and bored. I’m thinking Hawaii.”
His eyes crinkle into a smile. “I think that can be arranged, love.”
“Mm.” She might have just asked him out for a weekend away, but he doesn’t seem to notice, so she leans against him without another word and lets him absentmindedly toy with the waistband of her jeans as he reads his book.
The trip is shorter than usual, only a little under an hour, and though she should probably be worried about air traffic and all the things Spike always insists that he has to avoid, she doesn’t bother when they’re this close to a cure. Willow’s phone goes straight to voicemail, so Spike orders the ship down onto the roof of the same building they’d gone to last time and they make the mad dash for the elevator together.
“Which floor?” Buffy wonders, eyeing the long list of buttons inside.
“Lobby, I’d wager. Get us where we need to be.” Spike frowns. “Try your sis, will you? See where she is.”
There’s no answer on Dawn and Xander’s phones, either, and for the first time since Buffy had first gotten Willow’s message, she feels a wave of trepidation wash over her. “I hope everything’s okay.”
“Yeah.” Spike shifts uncomfortably. “You think we should wait on the ship for now?”
But that’s not an option, not when so many slayers are at risk and time is of the essence. “We can’t,” she says firmly, pressing the “L” on the wall before she can change her mind. The elevator rocks slightly, sliding downwards, and then she remembers. “Hey, didn’t this elevator need a code last time?”
Spike dives for the red stop button at the same moment as she does, their eyes meeting and realization dawning. “It’s a trap!” Something’s gone horribly wrong, someone’s been manipulating them to this point, and they’ve walked directly into an ambush been set up exclusively for them.
And the elevator isn’t stopping, the pings as it moves from floor to floor continuing as they hit buttons frantically. “Get the doors open!” Spike orders, and they each take one side of the sliding doors, superhuman strength pulling them open together just as they realize that the elevator’s moving too quickly for them to get the doors to an individual floor open without losing their hands.
“Crap. What now?” The elevator reaches the lobby and keeps descending, past the four basement levels, farther down than any building without some nefarious purpose should exist, and Buffy tenses against Spike. “We’re going to be buried alive.”
“We’re not going to be buried alive,” Spike says grimly, tightening his grip on her wrist. “No one builds an elevator shaft this deep when they could jus’ dump their enemies into an open grave and hope it’ll keep ‘em.”
“Been there, done that, didn’t work at all.” The elevator’s slowing to a halt now, and Buffy fumbles for a stake as Spike retrieves some kind of miniature dagger. “Listen. Um…if we die…”
“We’re not going to die,” Spike says shortly, and the elevator doors slide open into what appears to be roughly the size of a sports arena, well lit and clean and mostly empty, save for the five lamiabane charging directly toward them.
Her heart stops. And then there’s Spike, running at them full-tilt and shouting a warning at her to stay back, and she can’t help but follow his charge.
This lovely banner was made by Tumblr's nurfherder, who has also begun drawing Embers in comic form here. There's another one up now, and it's absolute perfection! :)
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An entire day goes by without any news. Willow’s boss has managed to use his extensive resources to capture one of the lamiabane in LA, and they’re trying to extract its venom for research. Faith remains stable- well, alive, anyway- but just barely. And Buffy and Spike patrol because there’s little more for them to do.
“It’s what you do best, innit?” Spike informs her when she complains later that night. He twists her hair between his fingers thoughtfully where it’s pillowed on his lap. “Slay the baddies, be they vampires or hellgods or irritating little mosquito demons. You’ve been doing more than your part until now. S’time to leave it to the other pros.”
“I hate being useless,” she mumbles, disentangling herself from him to face him properly. “Isn’t there something I can beat up?” She perks up. “I should probably try to get rid of the lamiabane wandering San Francisco, right? The slayers here don’t know that it’s a threat.”
A low growl builds in his throat. “You’re not going anywhere near that damn beast.”
She purses her lips at him, mischievous, though she’s already conceded mentally. “You’re not the boss of me.”
His eyes narrow. “I still have a set of chains in my ship,” he threatens.
And the words come out without forethought or worry. “That a promise?”
His eyes widen almost impossibly large, his hand in her hair suddenly tense and stiff. She’s inches away from him, close enough to do everything that she’ll be regretting in the morning-
-or maybe not, she argues, her mind conjuring up a picture of what a morning after could be like for them, all sleepy smiles and sloppy kisses and maybe a slow shower together. Spike would insist on making her breakfast and she’d try fruitlessly to save yet another frying pan from his good intentions, and then he’d attempt to persuade her to skip work for some more naked time but she’d go anyway and do her entire shift with a stupid grin on her face-
-and then his face gentles and he flicks her playfully on the forehead. “No lamiabane-hunting,” he says firmly, pulling her back against his shoulder.
She closes her eyes, barring intrusive dreams from her thoughts. That way lies madness she can’t deal with anymore. “Okay.”
He stays so late that she knows that he’s just keeping an eye on her, and as infuriating as that is, she’s too tired to do more than mumble half-hearted insults into his shoulder as he laughs at her feeble attempts to wound him. “Go to bed, Summers.” He nudges her. “You can’t serve coffee on five hours of sleep.”
“Watch me.” But he promises to be back as soon as he can, making only a quick stop to look in on Faith. They don’t know how quickly Willow might be able to develop an antidote, and a few hours can make all the difference in delivering Faith a cure.
She’s already muddling her way to bed before he’s left the apartment, and the rich laugh that follows her stumbling attempts into her bedroom is still ringing in her ears as she snuggles into her blankets and surrenders to slumber. And when she awakens several hours later by the shrill ringing of a telephone, she’s almost surprised that he isn’t there anymore.
The phone rings again and she lifts it sleepily. “Huh?”
“Leah’s dead.” The voice is crisp, the words cold and wooden and belying anguished turmoil just below the surface. Buffy’s known Kennedy long enough to recognize it. “I thought you’d want to know.”
She sits up, suddenly wide awake. “Oh god. Leah’s…”
“Dead. Do I need to repeat it again?” Kennedy snaps. “Gone. Finito. No heartbeat, and not in a stake-happy way.”
Something closes up her throat entirely, not allowing any air in. “I’m sorry,” she chokes through it. “How…um. How long ago did it happen?”
There’s a weary sigh on the other line, a concession of equal sorrow from the other slayer. “About an hour ago. Near the end…I don’t think it hurt her as much. She couldn’t feel anything by then. Death…it was probably more peaceful for her.”
Leah had been one of her favorites, once upon a time, one of the best and brightest of the young slayers and a faithful lieutenant. They’d only spoken once after Twilight, and she’d been uncharacteristically demure while another slayer stood between them and censured Buffy for her misdeeds. Afterwards, she’d gone over to Buffy and told her, eyes grave, “I think… it musta been the last thing he did, but Giles saved my life during the battle. Pulled me out of the way of a dragon’s flames.”
She hadn’t said anything more and it had been small comfort, but the single kindness of a single slayer had touched Buffy, helped to drive away resentment at the lot of them for their hatred. It had been Giles’s last rescue, his last great deed…
Dead now.
“Thank you for calling,” she says shakily. “We’re trying to find a cure. Something…for the other girls, I guess. You’ve heard what’s causing this?”
“Willow told me.” Kennedy’s silent for a moment. “How’s Faith?” she says finally, and there’s a familiar kind of regret in her voice, a sorrow that only another who’s regretting old abandonments might recognize.
“Not far behind Leah,” Buffy admits. “But she’s hanging on. Angel’s taking care of her.”
The icy hostility returns. “Angel should be dead.” And there’s vehemence in Kennedy’s voice, raw hatred and anger.
“He’s taking care of Faith,” Buffy repeats. In the end, they’re all measured by their evil, aren’t they? By a thousand sins, a thousand missed opportunities and shattered good intentions. But to dwell on that is to reject the good that can still be done. “Hospital equipment and all. You should get in touch with him. He might be able to help your slayers, too.”
There’s a distinctly outraged snort from the other end of the phone. “That’s not happening,” Kennedy barks out, and Buffy can imagine her forehead wrinkling, expressive eyes darkening into rage and disbelief.
“I know. I know.” Buffy inhales slowly. “I know he’s probably the only person in the universe you hate right now more than me. But if he can do anything…if there’s some way to slow down this disease before more people are lost…”
“I’ll think about it.” Kennedy’s voice is curt, but it lacks her earlier rancor. “Good luck.” She hangs up the phone abruptly, leaving Buffy in thoughtful silence.
Leah’s gone, and that pains her more than she can afford to think about right now. But Kennedy is finally coming back.
She naps for a couple of hours before it’s time for work, and when she rises again, her thoughts are still on Kennedy and the slayers in England. Kennedy’s proud- perhaps dangerously so- but she has to believe that the other girl would do what might be needed to save her sister slayers. Even if it involves Slayerville’s Least Wanted.
She’s smiling as she pushes open the door to the coffeehouse, pondering the prospects of a Kennedy who doesn’t hate her completely, who might even pool their resources and learn to trust Buffy past her early failures. After a year of wallowing in the awareness that she’s despised by the girls she’d empowered, it’s a cautiously good feeling.
I deserved it. I screwed up to epic proportions. But my punishment may yet be coming to an end.
Her internal voice sounds mysteriously like Spike’s echoing it, and her smile widens even more at that thought. She can’t wait to tell him about this, to watch him understand and rejoice with her.
“Someone got laid!” Leanne sings out, pulling herself up to sit on the counter. “Was it Spike? It was Spike, wasn’t it?”
“I didn’t get- No, it wasn’t Spike! Nothing Spike!” Buffy says hastily, hurrying over to the machines to fill up on some suddenly much-needed caffeine. “Spike is nothing!” She frowns at her phrasing. “I mean, he’s something, but not my something. Because that’s never happening. Duh. Really.”
“Uh-huh.” Leanne crosses her arms disbelievingly. “And you actually look like the stick’s out of your ass because…”
“I got some good news,” Buffy says, rolling her eyes. “More is incoming.” She should know better than to hope for a cure so soon, but Willow’s been enthusiastic on the phone, more unguarded than she’s been around Buffy since before Twilight. Progress. It’s addictive, and she’s craving it more and more as the days go by.
“Come on, sweetheart.” But Josh is grinning at her, too. “You’ve got customers.”
“Right. I knew that.” She ducks back around the counter to tend to the filling tables, flushing when Josh tosses her a conspiratorial wink. So this is what it’d be like if she ever brought anyone home.
Sex sex sexy times. That thing she’d given up on since she’d realized that finding a boy would involve missing out on Spike-filled nights. She’d even tried once on a night she’d gone out dancing with Dawn and Xander and caught the eye of the one unattached straight guy in the club. They’d talked, they’d danced, he’d even bought her a drink and told her that she was beautiful…and then she’d wondered if Spike was going to leave if he didn’t know where she was and she’d had to run out immediately. He’d been abrupt and jealous as soon as he caught on to what she’d been doing, and she’d been annoyed…but she’d still admitted to herself, at the end of the night, that she’d preferred a tension-filled night with Spike to a carefree one with some other guy.
So maybe I’ve got it bad. He’s frustrating, infuriating, perverted and childish and- oh, did she mention bloodsucker? And yet…
And yet. She remembers crying on Tara’s lap years before, admitting that Spike had been the only thing that could make her feel alive. She’d hated him for it then, and he’d loved her all the same, even as he’d resorted to undermining her own goodness in hopes of tempting her to the dark. And it’s years later, years without depression or soullessness, and he’s still making her feel more and more alive whenever she’s with him, granting her courage and unwavering support and making her laugh and cry andlive…and for the first time since Riley Finn had accused her of being distant before he’d left Sunnydale to rejoin the military, she’s felt as though she’s had something to offer a guy, too. Not much- nowhere near what he does for her- but every time she can bring that awed expression to his face, every time she can stun him with her faith in him…it means the world to her, more than anything else.
Spike matters more than anyone beyond her tight little circle. She’s long ago accepted that as truth. And even if he never loves her back, she’d rather be alone with him than in a relationship without him.
She’s such an idiot. But she can’t bring herself to care very much.
It’s after midday when the phone rings behind the counter, and Buffy busies herself with a table packed with guys as Tina’s stand-in for the day takes the call. Time to focus on non-Spike-related things, before Leanne catches wind of what’s distracting her and-
“Buffy, right?” Tina’s stand-in gestures to her when she nears the counter, tugging nervously on his curly brown hair. “Sorry, she said she could just leave a message and you looked busy, so…”
“Who was it?” Buffy asks immediately, flashes of hope shooting through her. If it’s…
“Someone named Willa, I think? She said something about a breakthrough, and that you should meet her in LA as soon as you can.” The boy turns back to mixing drinks, leaving Buffy nearly breathless with exultant joy.
An antidote! It has to be; it’s the only reason why Willow would need them. And on a day like today, when things are finally starting to shape up, she can believe that deliverance has finally arrived from the reigning threat, the one that seemed nearly impossible just days before.
It’s going to be a busy afternoon. The instant that Spike gets back, they need to be on their way to deliver the cure to Faith and the other slayers. Someone’s going to need to distribute it to hospitals where slayers might not have the same connections to Buffy, someone’s going to need to try and finish off the Lima Bean Guild before they infect more and more slayers, someone’s going to need to find the perpetrator… they have work to do.
She turns to the register without preamble. “Josh, I need-“
“To go. Got it.” He smiles warmly at her. “You’ve only got another hour to your shift, anyway, and Leanne and Taro can cover for you. Don’t worry about it.”
She thanks him quickly, grabbing her jacket and fleeing back to her apartment. Spike’s ship isn’t visible on the roof, but she’s still almost disappointed when he isn’t awaiting her at home, ready for action.
She calls Willow and is unsurprised when her friend doesn’t pick up. She’s probably calling the others, letting them know of her victory and that help is on the way for Faith. Maybe she’s even told Angel already, and Buffy can imagine the relief on his face at the news.
Is Spike still with Angel? She’s pacing now, impatient and anxious and eager, and it takes about ten seconds for her to decide that the money for another call to England is worth speeding Spike up. Hey, maybe she can even persuade Angel to count these calls as part of Faith’s medical bills, and then she’ll be able to buy that dress that’s been taunting her from the window across from the café for the past two months.
Excuse firmly in place, she dials a number that’s swiftly becoming familiar and waits for Angel to pick up. “Buffy?”
“How’d you know it was me?”
He laughs shortly. “Caller ID. No one else calls from abroad. Spike left already.”
“Why do you always assume that I’m calling for Spike?” she demands playfully. “You know, maybe I’m calling to chat, or check on Faith, or- How long ago did he leave?”
“Couple of hours. And Faith’s the same.” The worry’s still there, permeating the wires between America and England to travel straight to her, and Buffy can’t help but grant him the same hope Willow’s given her already.
“Willow left me a message. I think she’s found something.” She grins at the sharp inhalation she can hear on the other line. “I just need Spike to get here so we can go to LA and find out what’s going on.”
“Go without him!” Angel says, and she blinks bemusedly, the idea occurring to her for the first time. “This is life and death!”
She shakes her head. “It’s not worth it. It’s a six hour drive to LA from here.”
“And an hour flight!” Angel’s voice is insistent. “Go. I’ll pay for it, I don’t care. But Faith needs help now!”
“I know.” She’s humbled by his urgency, already beating herself over the head for not considering it before. “But I can’t…not without Spike. He’d take less time to get to you from LA than any flight, anyway. And if we’re trying to get to Faith as quickly as possible, we need him.”
“Okay. Okay.” Angel’s breathing hard, the most human sound she’s ever heard from him. “Maybe we’ll go, meet you there?”
“Calm down. Breathe. Do vampy meditation exercises, I don’t know,” she instructs him, her smile returning at his so remarkablyhuman panic. “You keep Faith alive. We’ll be there as soon as we can.” She pauses. “How long ago did Spike leave?”
It’s going to be at least another two hours, and she’s as restless as Angel had sounded on the phone, channel surfing and speed walking around the block and even picking up dinner on the way home for lack of a better thing to do.
The answering machine is beeping when she returns to her apartment, and she realizes suddenly that she’d forgotten her cell phone at home that morning and neglected to check it since. There are two missed calls from Willow from the early morning, three from Dawn, and another one from Xander.
“Hey, Buffy, I think we’re on to something, so if you can call me back…?”
“Willow again. Buffy, we have it! Well, theoretically, anyway, but Orkanel’s already phoned the lab to ask them to work on developing it. Come to LA, kay?”
“Buffy, it’s Dawn. Willow just called. Is Spike there yet? Because Xander and I are thinking about getting a head start on this antidote thing, driving in to LA now and seeing if we can get it to Faith asap. Where are you?”
The call on the machine is a quick one from Xander, telling her that they’re a few miles from LA and that they’re all waiting for her. She heads up to the roof anxiously, itching to punch or kick or slay something-
And right on cue, Spike’s ship arrives, boldly settling down beside her in plain daylight. The door slides open, and she leaps through, bowling over a blanket-clad Spike. “Buffy?”
His hands are at her shoulders, supporting her above him with a firm grip. She beams down at him. “We need to get to LA. Now!”
A bug scuttles off, and she can almost hear the bored sarcasm in its voice as it commands, “Do as Spike’s queen orders.”
The ship rises with a lurch and she slides out of Spike’s grasp to lie beside him. “Spike’s queen?”
He licks his lips. “And don’t you forget it.”
Her cheeks are warm as she pulls him up, offering him a squashed bag with their Paninis inside. “Willow’s found an antidote. And I’m pretty sure that Angel’s about ten minutes away from making another deal with Twilight so he can fly to retrieve it himself, so time is of the essence.”
Spike laughs, biting into a cheese Panini with relish and addressing his crew over her shoulder. “You heard the lady. Fast as you can go, no worries about being seen.” He turns to Buffy. “We don’t care about UFO rumors, do we?”
“Judging from the way the public dealt with vampires?” Buffy rolls her eyes. “Expect to be hailed as the next messiah.”
He considers it. “Harm would love having an ex in the public eye. S’good for her image,” he says mock-seriously.
She crosses her eyes at him. “You’re not dating her again, Blondie Bear.”
He pouts. “And here I so dearly wanted to reconnect with that brainless bint. But if you insist…”
She gestures grandly. “I suppose I can’t keep your love from each other forever. Go! Leave me!”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He lifts her into his arms and races to his room, the unexpected gesture making her laugh and bat at him until he drops her unceremoniously on the couch, directly on top of a hardcover book he’d left there.
“Ow!” She tugs out the book from under her and throws it at him.
He catches it, frowning. “You lost my place.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She shifts to the side so he can sit, still rubbing her rear where it had hit the sharp corner of the book. “Gimme food.”
He breaks the second Panini in half and gives her the smaller piece. She waits. With a defeated sigh, he hands her the rest. “Tell me this isn’t all you ate today.”
She shrugs, sobering at the memories of the call that had buoyed her and destroyed her appetite at the same time. “Kennedy called this morning.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Kennedy? That’s a step in the right direction, yeah?”
“Kind of. I mean, yeah. Very much. But…” She shakes her head. “Leah’s dead.”
“Leah?”
“One of the sick slayers, the redhead? She and I…we worked together a lot. We were pretty close. And we’re just one day too late for her.” Buffy stares sightlessly at her Panini. “I’ve been so excited about this cure that I haven’t even thought about her.”
Spike’s hand is soft in hers. “You’re doing all you can. Everyone is. You can’t punish yourself for something beyond your control.”
“I’m just so full of grief these days.” She closes her eyes, willing forth calm that she isn’t quite feeling yet. “And I can’t…I just don’t know where to hold it anymore, because it’s ripping me apart and I can’t exist like this any longer. I can’t balance all these deaths that I’ve caused, all the ones that happen because I’m too slow, all the ones that I find out about after the fact…Spike, I’m afraid that I’m going to stop functioning if I keep dwelling on all these deaths. But I can’t not dwell, because what kind of person would I be if I didn’t-“
“Stop.” Spike squeezes her hand. “Stop. You didn’t do this, pet. It isn’t your fault. You save who you can, and you mourn the rest afterwards. Got it?”
She buries her face in the leather of his coat, unwilling to answer his question. “What would I do without you?”
“Less bugs, more coffee?” he suggests, but he’s grinning when she peeks up at him. “Not nearly as fun.”
“Says you.” She swallows the last of her Panini. “After this is over, we’re going on vacation. Somewhere sunny with a happening nightlife of both the human and vampy variety so you don’t get all pouty and bored. I’m thinking Hawaii.”
His eyes crinkle into a smile. “I think that can be arranged, love.”
“Mm.” She might have just asked him out for a weekend away, but he doesn’t seem to notice, so she leans against him without another word and lets him absentmindedly toy with the waistband of her jeans as he reads his book.
The trip is shorter than usual, only a little under an hour, and though she should probably be worried about air traffic and all the things Spike always insists that he has to avoid, she doesn’t bother when they’re this close to a cure. Willow’s phone goes straight to voicemail, so Spike orders the ship down onto the roof of the same building they’d gone to last time and they make the mad dash for the elevator together.
“Which floor?” Buffy wonders, eyeing the long list of buttons inside.
“Lobby, I’d wager. Get us where we need to be.” Spike frowns. “Try your sis, will you? See where she is.”
There’s no answer on Dawn and Xander’s phones, either, and for the first time since Buffy had first gotten Willow’s message, she feels a wave of trepidation wash over her. “I hope everything’s okay.”
“Yeah.” Spike shifts uncomfortably. “You think we should wait on the ship for now?”
But that’s not an option, not when so many slayers are at risk and time is of the essence. “We can’t,” she says firmly, pressing the “L” on the wall before she can change her mind. The elevator rocks slightly, sliding downwards, and then she remembers. “Hey, didn’t this elevator need a code last time?”
Spike dives for the red stop button at the same moment as she does, their eyes meeting and realization dawning. “It’s a trap!” Something’s gone horribly wrong, someone’s been manipulating them to this point, and they’ve walked directly into an ambush been set up exclusively for them.
And the elevator isn’t stopping, the pings as it moves from floor to floor continuing as they hit buttons frantically. “Get the doors open!” Spike orders, and they each take one side of the sliding doors, superhuman strength pulling them open together just as they realize that the elevator’s moving too quickly for them to get the doors to an individual floor open without losing their hands.
“Crap. What now?” The elevator reaches the lobby and keeps descending, past the four basement levels, farther down than any building without some nefarious purpose should exist, and Buffy tenses against Spike. “We’re going to be buried alive.”
“We’re not going to be buried alive,” Spike says grimly, tightening his grip on her wrist. “No one builds an elevator shaft this deep when they could jus’ dump their enemies into an open grave and hope it’ll keep ‘em.”
“Been there, done that, didn’t work at all.” The elevator’s slowing to a halt now, and Buffy fumbles for a stake as Spike retrieves some kind of miniature dagger. “Listen. Um…if we die…”
“We’re not going to die,” Spike says shortly, and the elevator doors slide open into what appears to be roughly the size of a sports arena, well lit and clean and mostly empty, save for the five lamiabane charging directly toward them.
Her heart stops. And then there’s Spike, running at them full-tilt and shouting a warning at her to stay back, and she can’t help but follow his charge.
Chapter 17
First of all, ALL THE AWARDS to Nurfherder, who is basically the reason why this chapter exists in its current form and not the disaster it was beforehand. Oh, and she's also the reason for the early update, because her Embers comics are doing things to my heart I can't explain and keeping me writing, as are all your wonderful reviews! Thank you!
Chapter 18
Well, it's about time for exposition, right? And while the comic writers like to add some space orgasms in between to spice it up, I think I'm going skip those and go with something a little less pornographic, sorry. =) We'll return to our regular programming next chapter. :)
In other news, I've managed to turn this chapter and the next two into only two chapters, so we're down to twenty chapters total. Won't be long now... Thank you for all your encouragement and support! Much love to y'all! :)
This lovely banner was made by Tumblr's nurfherder, who has also begun drawing Embers in comic form here. :)
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“You!” But the first moment of surprise is immediately replaced with an it-all-makes-sense-now epiphany, and Buffy Summers isn’t known for contemplating new revelations when there are asses to kick. She grabs the closest thing that can be used as a weapon- in this case, what looks like a cattle prod leaning against the wall- and runs toward Orkanel, swinging it at him threateningly.
One of the guards moves to block her, grabbing her by the wrist and trying to shove her back, but even the enormous man towering over her threateningly isn’t stronger than a slayer, and she shoves him aside and goes back for Orkanel, single-mindedly focused on the leader.
Until the cool metal of a gun is pressed to the side of her head. “Don’t move,” another guard speaks up from behind her, and she freezes instinctively, her hand still tight around the cattle prod.
“Drop your weapon,” the guard orders. She lowers it, surreptitiously flipping the forked end as she does. All she needs is a distraction, and she can-
With two of its keepers distracted, the lamiabane lunges forward, caught up in the promise of slayer blood, and the gun loosens against her skull just long enough for her hand to shoot out and jam the cattle prod into the guard’s knee. He curses loudly, and she takes advantage of his distraction to yank the gun from his hands and level it at Orkanel, her left hand moving to point the cattle prod at the lamiabane threateningly. “Tell your men to back off,” she snaps, grimacing at the pain in her leg at her swift movements and taking a shaky step forward.
Orkanel nods blithely, raising a hand in assent. “Of course.” But he doesn’t look very concerned, and she tenses automatically, glancing around the room with wary eyes directed at undisturbed guards. Spike, where are you already?
“The lamiabane are quite the danger, yes?” Orkanel says suddenly. “That bite must be very painful.” He glances at her left leg with critical eyes. “And while they naturally avoid humans, this breed is still quite dangerous when it comes to any prey.”
“What’s your point here? Because I’m not much for automatics, but I think this one’ll do nicely,” Buffy points out, cocking the gun experimentally. She sees the flash of fear in Orkanel’s eyes before he’s calm again, and it makes her almost nauseous, even after all she now knows that he can be held responsible for. She’s not a killer. And she doesn’t know what she’s going to do with him, but no matter how much she wants to wipe the smug confidence from his face, it isn’t going to be like this.
He smiles knowingly. “Any prey,” he repeats. “Your pet vampire, your best friends, your little sister…” He nods to a large window that covers the side of the room, overlooking the arena. “All gone because you wouldn’t behave.” She stops cold, a dark and terrified chill running through her that has nothing to do with the slayer-hunting demon a few feet away. Orkanel gestures to a chair beside the window. “Now, why don’t you take a seat?”
She edges closer to the window, her weapons still raised, and glances down at the room below, where the lamiabane she and Spike had killed earlier still lie in testament, where Dawn and Willow and Xander are all huddled against one wall as Spike stands in front of them protectively. And with defeated reluctance, she lowers the gun.
“Well done.” A guard takes it from her, shoving her down into the chair and wrapping chains around her arms and legs roughly, ignoring her strangled cry at his handling of her injured legs. Soon, she’s trapped in the chair and chained to the wall beside the window, a clear view of her friends in peril below and Orkanel’s suddenly concerned expression before her. “We’ll have to do something about that bite,” he says suddenly, turning to rummage through a desk behind him. “We can’t have you dying of the lamiabane venom.”
“Your concern is touching,” she snaps out through gritted teeth. “But I thought that was kind of the whole point.”
Orkanel glances up at her, startled. “Oh, you really haven’t worked it out yet, have you? Quite disappointing.” He twists something open that she can’t see and turns around, holding up a small needle. “Why do you think I opened that building in San Francisco? Why I hired your best friend as my associate? Why you haven’t been harmed until now?” He sighs heavily. “I was so cautious about the San Francisco area, freeing only one lamiabane there to take care of the other slayers present. You, after all, are the one slayer who needs to live through these attacks.” He’s walking toward her as he speaks, and with his final words, he stabs the needle into the side of her arm. “Simone had said that you had no contact with the other slayers. I’ve been moving gradually because I didn’t want to have to hold you for this long.” He sighs. “But Simone had been a disappointment all along. I might’ve known.”
“Simone. You were working with Simone?” The throbbing in both bites lessens almost immediately, returning to a manageable ache as whatever Orkanel had injected in her- Is it an antidote? Please, let it be an antidote- works its magic. “But she’s-“
“Dead. Yes, she was useful while she lasted,” Orkanel acknowledges sadly. “Full of fervor and hatred and eliminating some of the ones who would persist in destroying this world we’ve built. I found her when she was still amassing troops out in Italy, and I’ve been working with her since…but once she learned that you were off-limits, that my goal was her eventual death, I’m afraid she wasn’t nearly as willing to help. And she became a liability.”
“But…why?” And she isn’t sure she wants to know the answer, but she needs it regardless. “Why do I need to stay alive? Why are you doing this? Because as far as revenge goes, you’re doing a pretty crappy job of it,” she points out, testing the hold of the chains with legs returning to full strength.
“Revenge?” Orkanel shakes his head. “Oh, no, naïve young slayer. I’m afraid I have a bit more on my mind than simple revenge. You deserve death, certainly.” And there’s something chilly and unyielding in his eyes at the words. “But you’re the last slayer of the line, the last untainted by the spell you wrought upon the line, and so you need to survive.”
“I’m not-“ She stops. She isn’t going to expose Faith to Orkanel, to give him any more ammunition for whatever genocide he’s planning. And while she wonders at keeping her friend alive as a prisoner, at allowing Faith life at a cost, she knows the other girl’s decision without further meditation.
The antidote is so close, and Buffy doesn’t intend to leave without it. “I’m not going to let you hurt them,” she finishes lamely.
Orkanel smiles. “Do you think you have a choice? We’ve bred thousands of the beasts, enough to wipe out every last slayer on the face of this Earth. I’ve only held them back to keep you unaware, to keep you far from danger and far from revelation.” He frowns. “I didn’t count on your vampire being in contact with other slayers, or you discovering the lamiabane so soon. You weren’t to know until hundreds had died.”
Bile rises in her throat at the image, at Faith and Satsu and Kennedy and hundreds more falling to a disease while she lived in blissful ignorance thousands of miles away. “Why? They had nothing to do with taking away the magic. This wasn’t their fault, just mine.” She inhales slow, tired breaths. “I did it. I broke the Seed. No one else needs to be hurt for me.”
And Orkanel laughs, not quite mockingly. “Do you think that I’m like your little friend, set on obtaining the impossible? On finding her demon lover and returning magic to the world?” He shakes his head. “No, this is about balance. Three years ago, a foolish little girl decided to tip the scales of good and evil, and the Earth has been crying out since.”
He turns to pace the room pensively. “We Wiccans were concerned about the ramifications. Some praised your decision, stood behind it and worked with Willow Rosenberg and your abominations. Some split, left the coven, sought to right the balance before evil itself stepped forward to do the same.”
“You went to Simone.”
He nods. “A slayer set on murdering other slayers? If nothing else could repair the balance, it would be her. I used her for my purposes, aided her when she needed it, and we worked until you unleashed Twilight on the world.” His eyes darken. “It was a tragedy far worse than even I had anticipated. And then I knew that nothing could be resolved with just a rogue slayer and her team. It was up to me to restore balance, to eliminate the excess slayers before Twilight rose again.”
“So…what? This is for the greater good?” Buffy’s words are scathing, her tone furious, and she’s struggling not to take his words to heart. More good, Bigger Bads. Spike had said it once, right after Twilight. But she hadn’t thought of it since, hadn’t contemplated the original spell as anything more than regaining the ground that the First had stolen from them. She’d had to do it, to save the world, and she can’t regret it happening. “Murdering girls slowly and painfully? That’s not heroism, it’s sociopathic. You’re twisted. And it won’t work.” She glares up at him. “The slayer line is over. All the potentials have been activated. And if you kill them all, no one’s gonna be left to be called next.”
But Orkanel is smiling at her claim. “Do you think I haven’t considered that, little girl? The slayer line remains, and it continues through you alone. The vessel of the spell is broken and reformed, the missive of the slayer remains, and you will linger here until a new generation will give rise to new potentials.” He moves toward the back of the room, past the guards and the lamiabane, and retrieves something from the back wall that makes her gasp. “I could hardly believe my luck when Willow brought it in to research it,” he remembers, lifting the repaired scythe and placing it delicately on his desk. “The Powers are certainly with me now, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’d say that the last time these Powers started up with me, I forced magic out of the world,” Buffy points out, her eyes glued to the scythe, feeling old power and energy running through her at just the sight of it. “I’m not so sure they like you as much as you think they do, huh?”
Orkanel waves his hand dismissively. “Never mind that. Magic will return slowly, in due time. A world this steeped in power has cracks, enough for it to seep back into our world. By then, the slayers will be gone, and the world can return to harmony again.” His eyes glitter with cool malice. “And until then, you will suffer as we have, seeing the murder you’ve wrought. Seeing the way you’ve doomed all these girls to certain death, to watch your world fall apart the way you’ve brought it on to so many others.” He nods to one of the guards, who retrieves what looks like a walkie-talkie and speaks into it rapidly. “And we’ll begin now, yes?”
She follows his gaze to the window beside her, down to the arena where Dawn and her friends have been held prisoner. They’re sitting now, Dawn bent over Spike and wiping at his injuries with a tissue while he scoffs, Xander speaking in low tones to a devastated-looking Willow. And panic bubbles up, fast and terrified and frantic. “No. Don’t hurt them, they had nothing to do with this- with any of this!” She struggles against her chains, her heart crying out in sheer frustration. “They’ve suffered just as much as you have!” She remembers Willow’s grief, the distance between them now. Xander had almost lost Dawn, and they’d all lost Giles. And Spike had been uninvolved until after they’d had no choice but to fight back. “They’re innocents here!”
“Tragic, really,” Orkanel agrees. “Their only great sin is that you care.” And the door to the arena rises open and a herd of lamiabane emerge, more than they’d fought before.
Abruptly, Spike runs to the other side of the room, shouting something she can’t quite hear. “My. I didn’t think the vampire would be the coward,” Orkanel comments interestedly.
She ignores him. Spike has a plan, of course, and she has more faith in him than to write him off immediately. And sure enough, the lamiabane herd turns to chase him, drawn in by their natural prey instead of the humans gathered on the other side of the room.
A word escapes her, a voiceless “No!” that Orkanel hears regardless, and he steps forward to stand beside her, his eyes fixed on what’s going to be a bloodbath below.
“Perhaps I’ll have the beasts retrieved once your lover is gone,” he muses. “Spread out the pain, let each death cause maximum grief.”
“Oh, god,” she whispers, and then there’s Xander, hurtling across the room to taunt the lamiabane, to distract them from Spike. One turns away from Spike to lurch toward Xander, and Buffy watches with breathless terror as Xander dodges its teeth to headbutt its snout. Spike shouts something urgent from where he’s using his dagger to defend himself against another one, but Xander ignores him, pummeling the lamiabane with stupid, stupid! intensity.
And Dawn’s moving, too, leaping onto Xander’s demon and stabbing at it with what looks like the tooth of one of the dead ones, shouting obscenities loud enough for Buffy to hear them and hanging on for dear life until it shakes her off and sends Xander flying across the room, momentarily stunned.
“They’ll fight and fight until they can’t fight anymore,” Orkanel notes. “And you’ll curse yourself for what you’ve done, for what you deserve, but you’ll never be able to undo it.” He looms over her, the Wiccan serenity gone and replaced with a cold sneer. “All because of you. Just another travail you’ve brought upon your people.”
And there’s a stubborn voice in her mind, one she recognizes even as its speaker continues to shout down lamiabane in the arena below, and it resists Orkanel’s words even as she feels the burden of them weigh her down even more.
I love you all, she says silently, watching as Spike makes his way over to Dawn to forcibly throw her out of danger. She says something that looks like Screw you! and runs back forward to defend her friend. Willow watches helplessly from where she and Xander are caged in by another lamiabane. I’m so sorry.
There’s a flash of blue in the window, so quick that when Buffy blinks, it’s gone, and she stares down at her friends again with renewed urgency. Spike is getting that delicious ass of his most thoroughly kicked, and she strains against her restraints with desperation as a lamiabane fixes its teeth on his neck, instantly incapacitating him.
“It’s interesting, actually,” Orkanel says conversationally. “The coven has kept several of the lamiabane on hand for millennia, and there’s no record as to why their venom only dazes vampires but kills slayers. In fact, it’s never been reported to the watchers, never a threat that they felt needed eliminating, because the original lamiabane were so sedate that no slayer be at risk from one of them. It took months before my people were able to turn the lamiabane into weapons.”
“Goody for you,” she mumbles, blinking when the blue flash reappears in the window’s reflection. For a moment, it nearly leaves an impossible imprint on the glass, and she shakes off defeat, her boldness returning. “You know you’ll never be able to get rid of all the slayers, right?”
Orkanel raises both shoulders in a simple shrug. “No matter. I only need enough gone so that the danger to the balance is lessened. As long as I have the last original slayer, I control the slayer line still.”
“Wonderful.” She wonders if that’s what’s going to happen when Faith dies, if she survives to the next generation of slayers and can pass forth the power. Orkanel has already doomed his own plan- the one part of his plan that she endorses- and he has no idea, too caught up in elaborate designs to discover his one fatal flaw.
“Do you feel it?” Orkanel murmurs suddenly, moving to stand behind her. “That helplessness, the knowledge that someone else is destroying everything you love?” She looks down, watches a bloody Spike stagger at a demon that’s lumbering toward Dawn. “All for your misdeeds. For your selfishness and betrayal. You’ve destroyed them.”
And something rebellious rises within her, perhaps brought on by the frustration at being trapped, or by the nearness of her scythe, or by the swirling darkness she can see reflected in the mirror…or maybe by the words of someone she loves finally getting through to her…and she shakes her head disgustedly. "No." She straightens. "You know what? It isn't. All this time, I've been finding any- every reason possible why I was responsible for this. I've been blaming myself and hating myself for it. But it's not me. I'm not the one who developed the lamiabane. I'm not the one who's trying to kill my friends and my slayers. That's all you. So congratulations, Orky. This is your show, and I’m nothing but the audience.”
And then she pauses, because there’s rightness to her words that she hears only now, once they’re coming from her own mouth. She’d done things- awful, disastrous things- a year before. Some had been her choice, some hadn’t, and some had merely placed her in a role and forced her into them. And yeah, she holds fault for parts of it, but it isn’t just her burden.
This isn’t her burden, and as keenly as she feels the deaths of the fallen slayers, it’s time to put the blame where blame is due.
“Brave words,” Orkanel acknowledges easily. “Easy to speak, more difficult to believe.” He smiles, glancing down at the arena. “We’ll see what you’re pontificating when your vampire is nothing but dust, when your friends are cursing you with their last breaths. Won’t we?”
It isn’t going to come to that, Buffy thinks with grim acceptance. The cavalry’s here.
In other news, I've managed to turn this chapter and the next two into only two chapters, so we're down to twenty chapters total. Won't be long now... Thank you for all your encouragement and support! Much love to y'all! :)
This lovely banner was made by Tumblr's nurfherder, who has also begun drawing Embers in comic form here. :)
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“You!” But the first moment of surprise is immediately replaced with an it-all-makes-sense-now epiphany, and Buffy Summers isn’t known for contemplating new revelations when there are asses to kick. She grabs the closest thing that can be used as a weapon- in this case, what looks like a cattle prod leaning against the wall- and runs toward Orkanel, swinging it at him threateningly.
One of the guards moves to block her, grabbing her by the wrist and trying to shove her back, but even the enormous man towering over her threateningly isn’t stronger than a slayer, and she shoves him aside and goes back for Orkanel, single-mindedly focused on the leader.
Until the cool metal of a gun is pressed to the side of her head. “Don’t move,” another guard speaks up from behind her, and she freezes instinctively, her hand still tight around the cattle prod.
“Drop your weapon,” the guard orders. She lowers it, surreptitiously flipping the forked end as she does. All she needs is a distraction, and she can-
With two of its keepers distracted, the lamiabane lunges forward, caught up in the promise of slayer blood, and the gun loosens against her skull just long enough for her hand to shoot out and jam the cattle prod into the guard’s knee. He curses loudly, and she takes advantage of his distraction to yank the gun from his hands and level it at Orkanel, her left hand moving to point the cattle prod at the lamiabane threateningly. “Tell your men to back off,” she snaps, grimacing at the pain in her leg at her swift movements and taking a shaky step forward.
Orkanel nods blithely, raising a hand in assent. “Of course.” But he doesn’t look very concerned, and she tenses automatically, glancing around the room with wary eyes directed at undisturbed guards. Spike, where are you already?
“The lamiabane are quite the danger, yes?” Orkanel says suddenly. “That bite must be very painful.” He glances at her left leg with critical eyes. “And while they naturally avoid humans, this breed is still quite dangerous when it comes to any prey.”
“What’s your point here? Because I’m not much for automatics, but I think this one’ll do nicely,” Buffy points out, cocking the gun experimentally. She sees the flash of fear in Orkanel’s eyes before he’s calm again, and it makes her almost nauseous, even after all she now knows that he can be held responsible for. She’s not a killer. And she doesn’t know what she’s going to do with him, but no matter how much she wants to wipe the smug confidence from his face, it isn’t going to be like this.
He smiles knowingly. “Any prey,” he repeats. “Your pet vampire, your best friends, your little sister…” He nods to a large window that covers the side of the room, overlooking the arena. “All gone because you wouldn’t behave.” She stops cold, a dark and terrified chill running through her that has nothing to do with the slayer-hunting demon a few feet away. Orkanel gestures to a chair beside the window. “Now, why don’t you take a seat?”
She edges closer to the window, her weapons still raised, and glances down at the room below, where the lamiabane she and Spike had killed earlier still lie in testament, where Dawn and Willow and Xander are all huddled against one wall as Spike stands in front of them protectively. And with defeated reluctance, she lowers the gun.
“Well done.” A guard takes it from her, shoving her down into the chair and wrapping chains around her arms and legs roughly, ignoring her strangled cry at his handling of her injured legs. Soon, she’s trapped in the chair and chained to the wall beside the window, a clear view of her friends in peril below and Orkanel’s suddenly concerned expression before her. “We’ll have to do something about that bite,” he says suddenly, turning to rummage through a desk behind him. “We can’t have you dying of the lamiabane venom.”
“Your concern is touching,” she snaps out through gritted teeth. “But I thought that was kind of the whole point.”
Orkanel glances up at her, startled. “Oh, you really haven’t worked it out yet, have you? Quite disappointing.” He twists something open that she can’t see and turns around, holding up a small needle. “Why do you think I opened that building in San Francisco? Why I hired your best friend as my associate? Why you haven’t been harmed until now?” He sighs heavily. “I was so cautious about the San Francisco area, freeing only one lamiabane there to take care of the other slayers present. You, after all, are the one slayer who needs to live through these attacks.” He’s walking toward her as he speaks, and with his final words, he stabs the needle into the side of her arm. “Simone had said that you had no contact with the other slayers. I’ve been moving gradually because I didn’t want to have to hold you for this long.” He sighs. “But Simone had been a disappointment all along. I might’ve known.”
“Simone. You were working with Simone?” The throbbing in both bites lessens almost immediately, returning to a manageable ache as whatever Orkanel had injected in her- Is it an antidote? Please, let it be an antidote- works its magic. “But she’s-“
“Dead. Yes, she was useful while she lasted,” Orkanel acknowledges sadly. “Full of fervor and hatred and eliminating some of the ones who would persist in destroying this world we’ve built. I found her when she was still amassing troops out in Italy, and I’ve been working with her since…but once she learned that you were off-limits, that my goal was her eventual death, I’m afraid she wasn’t nearly as willing to help. And she became a liability.”
“But…why?” And she isn’t sure she wants to know the answer, but she needs it regardless. “Why do I need to stay alive? Why are you doing this? Because as far as revenge goes, you’re doing a pretty crappy job of it,” she points out, testing the hold of the chains with legs returning to full strength.
“Revenge?” Orkanel shakes his head. “Oh, no, naïve young slayer. I’m afraid I have a bit more on my mind than simple revenge. You deserve death, certainly.” And there’s something chilly and unyielding in his eyes at the words. “But you’re the last slayer of the line, the last untainted by the spell you wrought upon the line, and so you need to survive.”
“I’m not-“ She stops. She isn’t going to expose Faith to Orkanel, to give him any more ammunition for whatever genocide he’s planning. And while she wonders at keeping her friend alive as a prisoner, at allowing Faith life at a cost, she knows the other girl’s decision without further meditation.
The antidote is so close, and Buffy doesn’t intend to leave without it. “I’m not going to let you hurt them,” she finishes lamely.
Orkanel smiles. “Do you think you have a choice? We’ve bred thousands of the beasts, enough to wipe out every last slayer on the face of this Earth. I’ve only held them back to keep you unaware, to keep you far from danger and far from revelation.” He frowns. “I didn’t count on your vampire being in contact with other slayers, or you discovering the lamiabane so soon. You weren’t to know until hundreds had died.”
Bile rises in her throat at the image, at Faith and Satsu and Kennedy and hundreds more falling to a disease while she lived in blissful ignorance thousands of miles away. “Why? They had nothing to do with taking away the magic. This wasn’t their fault, just mine.” She inhales slow, tired breaths. “I did it. I broke the Seed. No one else needs to be hurt for me.”
And Orkanel laughs, not quite mockingly. “Do you think that I’m like your little friend, set on obtaining the impossible? On finding her demon lover and returning magic to the world?” He shakes his head. “No, this is about balance. Three years ago, a foolish little girl decided to tip the scales of good and evil, and the Earth has been crying out since.”
He turns to pace the room pensively. “We Wiccans were concerned about the ramifications. Some praised your decision, stood behind it and worked with Willow Rosenberg and your abominations. Some split, left the coven, sought to right the balance before evil itself stepped forward to do the same.”
“You went to Simone.”
He nods. “A slayer set on murdering other slayers? If nothing else could repair the balance, it would be her. I used her for my purposes, aided her when she needed it, and we worked until you unleashed Twilight on the world.” His eyes darken. “It was a tragedy far worse than even I had anticipated. And then I knew that nothing could be resolved with just a rogue slayer and her team. It was up to me to restore balance, to eliminate the excess slayers before Twilight rose again.”
“So…what? This is for the greater good?” Buffy’s words are scathing, her tone furious, and she’s struggling not to take his words to heart. More good, Bigger Bads. Spike had said it once, right after Twilight. But she hadn’t thought of it since, hadn’t contemplated the original spell as anything more than regaining the ground that the First had stolen from them. She’d had to do it, to save the world, and she can’t regret it happening. “Murdering girls slowly and painfully? That’s not heroism, it’s sociopathic. You’re twisted. And it won’t work.” She glares up at him. “The slayer line is over. All the potentials have been activated. And if you kill them all, no one’s gonna be left to be called next.”
But Orkanel is smiling at her claim. “Do you think I haven’t considered that, little girl? The slayer line remains, and it continues through you alone. The vessel of the spell is broken and reformed, the missive of the slayer remains, and you will linger here until a new generation will give rise to new potentials.” He moves toward the back of the room, past the guards and the lamiabane, and retrieves something from the back wall that makes her gasp. “I could hardly believe my luck when Willow brought it in to research it,” he remembers, lifting the repaired scythe and placing it delicately on his desk. “The Powers are certainly with me now, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’d say that the last time these Powers started up with me, I forced magic out of the world,” Buffy points out, her eyes glued to the scythe, feeling old power and energy running through her at just the sight of it. “I’m not so sure they like you as much as you think they do, huh?”
Orkanel waves his hand dismissively. “Never mind that. Magic will return slowly, in due time. A world this steeped in power has cracks, enough for it to seep back into our world. By then, the slayers will be gone, and the world can return to harmony again.” His eyes glitter with cool malice. “And until then, you will suffer as we have, seeing the murder you’ve wrought. Seeing the way you’ve doomed all these girls to certain death, to watch your world fall apart the way you’ve brought it on to so many others.” He nods to one of the guards, who retrieves what looks like a walkie-talkie and speaks into it rapidly. “And we’ll begin now, yes?”
She follows his gaze to the window beside her, down to the arena where Dawn and her friends have been held prisoner. They’re sitting now, Dawn bent over Spike and wiping at his injuries with a tissue while he scoffs, Xander speaking in low tones to a devastated-looking Willow. And panic bubbles up, fast and terrified and frantic. “No. Don’t hurt them, they had nothing to do with this- with any of this!” She struggles against her chains, her heart crying out in sheer frustration. “They’ve suffered just as much as you have!” She remembers Willow’s grief, the distance between them now. Xander had almost lost Dawn, and they’d all lost Giles. And Spike had been uninvolved until after they’d had no choice but to fight back. “They’re innocents here!”
“Tragic, really,” Orkanel agrees. “Their only great sin is that you care.” And the door to the arena rises open and a herd of lamiabane emerge, more than they’d fought before.
Abruptly, Spike runs to the other side of the room, shouting something she can’t quite hear. “My. I didn’t think the vampire would be the coward,” Orkanel comments interestedly.
She ignores him. Spike has a plan, of course, and she has more faith in him than to write him off immediately. And sure enough, the lamiabane herd turns to chase him, drawn in by their natural prey instead of the humans gathered on the other side of the room.
A word escapes her, a voiceless “No!” that Orkanel hears regardless, and he steps forward to stand beside her, his eyes fixed on what’s going to be a bloodbath below.
“Perhaps I’ll have the beasts retrieved once your lover is gone,” he muses. “Spread out the pain, let each death cause maximum grief.”
“Oh, god,” she whispers, and then there’s Xander, hurtling across the room to taunt the lamiabane, to distract them from Spike. One turns away from Spike to lurch toward Xander, and Buffy watches with breathless terror as Xander dodges its teeth to headbutt its snout. Spike shouts something urgent from where he’s using his dagger to defend himself against another one, but Xander ignores him, pummeling the lamiabane with stupid, stupid! intensity.
And Dawn’s moving, too, leaping onto Xander’s demon and stabbing at it with what looks like the tooth of one of the dead ones, shouting obscenities loud enough for Buffy to hear them and hanging on for dear life until it shakes her off and sends Xander flying across the room, momentarily stunned.
“They’ll fight and fight until they can’t fight anymore,” Orkanel notes. “And you’ll curse yourself for what you’ve done, for what you deserve, but you’ll never be able to undo it.” He looms over her, the Wiccan serenity gone and replaced with a cold sneer. “All because of you. Just another travail you’ve brought upon your people.”
And there’s a stubborn voice in her mind, one she recognizes even as its speaker continues to shout down lamiabane in the arena below, and it resists Orkanel’s words even as she feels the burden of them weigh her down even more.
I love you all, she says silently, watching as Spike makes his way over to Dawn to forcibly throw her out of danger. She says something that looks like Screw you! and runs back forward to defend her friend. Willow watches helplessly from where she and Xander are caged in by another lamiabane. I’m so sorry.
There’s a flash of blue in the window, so quick that when Buffy blinks, it’s gone, and she stares down at her friends again with renewed urgency. Spike is getting that delicious ass of his most thoroughly kicked, and she strains against her restraints with desperation as a lamiabane fixes its teeth on his neck, instantly incapacitating him.
“It’s interesting, actually,” Orkanel says conversationally. “The coven has kept several of the lamiabane on hand for millennia, and there’s no record as to why their venom only dazes vampires but kills slayers. In fact, it’s never been reported to the watchers, never a threat that they felt needed eliminating, because the original lamiabane were so sedate that no slayer be at risk from one of them. It took months before my people were able to turn the lamiabane into weapons.”
“Goody for you,” she mumbles, blinking when the blue flash reappears in the window’s reflection. For a moment, it nearly leaves an impossible imprint on the glass, and she shakes off defeat, her boldness returning. “You know you’ll never be able to get rid of all the slayers, right?”
Orkanel raises both shoulders in a simple shrug. “No matter. I only need enough gone so that the danger to the balance is lessened. As long as I have the last original slayer, I control the slayer line still.”
“Wonderful.” She wonders if that’s what’s going to happen when Faith dies, if she survives to the next generation of slayers and can pass forth the power. Orkanel has already doomed his own plan- the one part of his plan that she endorses- and he has no idea, too caught up in elaborate designs to discover his one fatal flaw.
“Do you feel it?” Orkanel murmurs suddenly, moving to stand behind her. “That helplessness, the knowledge that someone else is destroying everything you love?” She looks down, watches a bloody Spike stagger at a demon that’s lumbering toward Dawn. “All for your misdeeds. For your selfishness and betrayal. You’ve destroyed them.”
And something rebellious rises within her, perhaps brought on by the frustration at being trapped, or by the nearness of her scythe, or by the swirling darkness she can see reflected in the mirror…or maybe by the words of someone she loves finally getting through to her…and she shakes her head disgustedly. "No." She straightens. "You know what? It isn't. All this time, I've been finding any- every reason possible why I was responsible for this. I've been blaming myself and hating myself for it. But it's not me. I'm not the one who developed the lamiabane. I'm not the one who's trying to kill my friends and my slayers. That's all you. So congratulations, Orky. This is your show, and I’m nothing but the audience.”
And then she pauses, because there’s rightness to her words that she hears only now, once they’re coming from her own mouth. She’d done things- awful, disastrous things- a year before. Some had been her choice, some hadn’t, and some had merely placed her in a role and forced her into them. And yeah, she holds fault for parts of it, but it isn’t just her burden.
This isn’t her burden, and as keenly as she feels the deaths of the fallen slayers, it’s time to put the blame where blame is due.
“Brave words,” Orkanel acknowledges easily. “Easy to speak, more difficult to believe.” He smiles, glancing down at the arena. “We’ll see what you’re pontificating when your vampire is nothing but dust, when your friends are cursing you with their last breaths. Won’t we?”
It isn’t going to come to that, Buffy thinks with grim acceptance. The cavalry’s here.
Chapter 19
This lovely banner was made by Tumblr's nurfherder, who has also begun drawing Embers in comic form here. :)
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If she hadn’t been so focused on her friends’ peril below her, she might’ve missed the dim reflection in the window, so faint that she needs to turn all her attention on it to see what’s happening. A woman behind them, appearing as if from nowhere, disabling the guards so silently that none of the men even turn to see her. She casts a blue reflection brought on by her mass of Smurf-tastic hair, and Buffy’s never been so glad to see someone she dislikes (on principle) before.
Orkanel’s attention moves from Buffy to the arena. “And he keeps fighting,” the former warlock murmurs. “Impressive. Does the survival instinct leave when the soul enters?”
“Like you’d know,” Buffy mutters, twisting her neck to face her captor. As she’d hoped, he blinks down at her, the window- and the movements he might have seen in it- forgotten. “Aren’t you supposed to be about preserving life? There must be something in the Wicca handbook about murdering people you don’t like. Big no-no, I’ve heard.”
The distraction works, and Orkanel’s eyes are back on her. “My interests lie in the true scheme of things. I care little about individuals, particularly those so entrenched in your atrocities,” he says stiffly, shifting her chair so she can face him properly. Behind him, Illyria holds out a palm, reopening the dark portal that Buffy had seen her create before. “To destroy a band of abominations and the ones who would protect them is hardly more than a necessity to safeguard the balance. I do what needs to be done.”
“Right.” Angel emerges from the portal, glancing at her worriedly, and she nods, eyes still on Orkanel. “So do I.” Buffy pulls forward in a quick movement, propelling herself upward just long enough to smash her forehead against Orkanel’s skull with the force needed to sprawl him to the floor. The whiplash jerks her back against the window, stunning her momentarily, and when she blinks again, Angel is bent over her, untying her shackles with busy concern.
“Thanks.” He releases the final chain around her legs and she stands, faltering a bit until he catches her in a steadying embrace. “How’d you get here?”
Angel squeezes her once in a quick hug before turning to the man unconscious on the floor. “The Mutari generator ran off magic. Since…everything, it’s been slowly feeding Illyria back her-“ She blinks at him. He shakes his head, bemused. “You didn’t call. I got worried.”
“Oh. Well, thanks for that.” Her smile is nothing if not hesitant, unused to emerging in his company. “When did-“
She stops. Illyria is reopening the portal, and there’s a girl coming through, with a frame slighter than Faith’s, if just by a little, and the shadows of other girls behind her, crossbows at the ready. And Buffy’s utterly dumbfounded.
“What?” Kennedy demands, scowling extra hard, and failing to hide a smirk. “You’re the one who told us to call him.”
And then there are nearly a dozen slayers swarming out to join her, Satsu and Rowena and others she recognizes from the old days, all armed and wary and ready to back up the vampire they’ve reviled to save the slayers who need it. And Buffy can only stare in wonder at the trust they’ve shown in her words, enough to climb through a portal to nowhere and wage war on the say-so of their most hated nemesis. After all she’s done, after all they’ve seen of her…
“How do we get down there?” Kennedy asks, her eyes focused on the arena where Xander’s trying to fight off a lamiabane that lumbers after Willow.
“Door on the side, down the stairs, through the hallway,” Buffy tells her, eyeing a fallen gun beside one of the guards.
Angel glances at them both, dismissive. “Go. I’ll take care of him.” Orkanel lets out a low moan, stirring restlessly.
It might be easier to let Angel do whatever he’s going to do, to run downstairs now to retrieve Spike and the others and never think of the man whom she’s left in the clutches of an angry vampire. It’d be simpler, to say the least, and she can see in Angel’s expression just how uncomplicated the decision is for him.
But that’s not what she does. “You go down. I’m going to help Angel.”
Kennedy looks from the vampire to the slayer, and there’s more in her narrowed gaze than Buffy can measure- respect, doubt, pity, revulsion. But she nods reluctantly. “Okay. Let’s go!” The girls tear off out of the room, leaving only Angel and Buffy and five unconscious captors, and a blue goddess crouched over the lamiabane in the corner with vague interest.
Satsu is the last to leave, inspecting something on the desk beside them; and when Buffy turns to inquire about it, there’s a smile on Satsu’s face that the younger slayer hasn’t shown her in over a year. “Hang on to this,” Satsu offers, tossing something red and curved and shiny in her direction.
Buffy catches the scythe, and it’s all back again, searing into her veins with potency and certainty that she barely recognizes anymore. There’s strength and fortitude and the power of the thousands who came before and the thousands that follow, the knowledge of rightness and the crippling responsibility that can’t allow her to obey said knowledge blindly.
It’s what had made her a leader of legions, what granted thousands of girls a choice even as it stripped them of others, a blessing and a curse and a weapon and a symbol all at once.
It’s not what she was made for, and she’s learned that lesson too well to forget it now.
“Satsu!” The girl turns, her hand on the doorknob. “Take it. Go kill some demons.” And Buffy tosses her the scythe and turns to the window where Spike is still fighting a losing battle, the smile on her face her only response to the other girl’s bewilderment.
Below, Kennedy bursts into the arena, firing a gun that she must have snatched from one of the guards and chasing the lamiabane that had been terrorizing Willow. Spike looks up, startled, and leaps back into the frenzy with a shout of bloodlust that makes Buffy grin.
“He’ll be fine,” Angel says, and there’s no anger in his voice, just quiet relief and maybe a hint of resentment that saddens her even as she understands implicitly. “We have work to do.” And he grabs Orkanel by the throat and shoves him into the wall, his restraints clattering in protest but no match against an angry vampire. “Call off your demons!” Angel orders.
Orkanel manages a smirk. “Impossible.”
Angel vamps out. “Make. It. Possible.” His fingers tighten around the man’s throat, and Buffy can see it purpling before she yanks at the vampire’s arm.
“Stop it! Angel, no!”
The vampire growls. “He’s trying to murder your people! He’s nearly murdered Faith already!”
“I know! You think I don’t know that?” She glares at the man, held in midair and staring down at her, hate and venom in his eyes. “But I don’t kill. Not like him. I don’t.”
“You won’t have to,” Angel rumbles through his game face, his visage cold and furious and frustrating weeks spent watching Faith’s descent toward death clear in his gaze.
“I don’t,” she repeats, and there’s steel in her voice. She can’t afford indecision or ambiguous choices, not with this. She can’t become a monster, even if both the men who stand before her have already resigned themselves to such. And Spike would scoff, she knows, but at the same time, this has always been one of the reasons why he’s lov- respected- her, and it’s that respect that has defined so many of her decisions lately. She has friends- family- who trust her to do the right thing. And there’s no second option here.
It’s miraculous, really, the way that Angel listens even through his rage, the way he lowers the man reluctantly to the ground and his game face melts away. “You killed me,” he mutters, and there’s a pout in his voice that’s oddly reminiscent of the last time they’d met in Sunnydale.
She ignores it, but nudges him affectionately and turns back to the smug-looking Wiccan. “Call off the lamiabane, or I might change my mind.”
Orkanel scowls. “I don’t control them. I set them free where slayer activity is strong. If you want them dead, you’ll have to find them all and kill them one by one.” The skepticism in his voice is a clear indicator of how low he considers the odds of thathappening, and Buffy doesn’t object when Angel slams him against the wall again.
“You must have deployment plans,” Angel points out through gritted teeth. “Routes, drop-off points…”
“No records,” Orkanel spits out, but both his captors see the way his eyes shift to the desk for an instant before he speaks.
Buffy moves to it, skimming through folders and documents and listening to Angel’s low threats with half an ear. “The antidote?” she calls out, frowning at a particularly scientific-looking sheet.
Orkanel doesn’t speak for a long time, not until there’s a sickening crack and Angel’s holding his limp hand and bending another finger back. “Yes! Damn you, that’s what you need!”
“Angel!” And she’s horrified but not nearly as surprised at she might have been a few years ago, not at the darkness on the face of the vampire she once loved more than anything or the naked terror on the face of his victim. “Angel, we can’t-“
“You won’t have to,” Angel repeats, but he drops the man back to the ground, swiping the side of his neck once to draw blood before he turns away. “We’ll need to develop this antidote,” he says abruptly, striding over to where Buffy is pulling open drawers in the desk. “I can work with the doctors in London to-“ He stops, his stare fixed on Buffy.
She raises the box she’s just found, within which fifteen needles are arranged, each full of the clear liquid that Orkanel had injected into her. “You might want to start with these,” she says shakily, handing them over to him.
“Yeah,” Angel echoes, and he only casts one last glance at Orkanel before turning to the last conscious individual in the room. “Illyria?”
The god looks up from her new acquisition. “This beast is fierce and worthy,” she announces. “I will keep it as a pet.”
“Step up from your last pet,” Angel mumbles, ignoring Buffy’s curious look. “I need you to take me back to Faith.”
Illyria cocks her head. “As you wish. I will return for the beast and the warriors.” She throws out her hand again, reopening the portal and vanishing through it with Angel before Buffy can object.
And then Buffy’s alone in the room with Orkanel, unarmed and defenseless as the now-unrestrained lamiabane turns its attention to the rest of the people present. Buffy tenses, fists at the ready and the fear not nearly as strong now that Angel is in possession of the antidote.
But the lamiabane doesn’t charge for the slayer first, not when it’s easily distracted by the scent of blood emanating from its master’s neck, the blood that Angel must have- no, he couldn’t, but she can’t force herself to believe it- drawn with this in mind. And Buffy can’t stop it in time when it charges for Orkanel and bites into his fragile, human skin, too quick for even the slayer to pull it away.
She jumps onto it anyway, beating at it with the automatic need to protect that comes built-in even with the bad guys, but by the time it turns around to snarl at her, Orkanel is gone, fallen in the place where he’d sought to destroy her family instead.
She closes her eyes and moves to the door.
She isn’t a killer. But she won’t mourn this time.
--
Downstairs, the lamiabane are mostly subdued, their attacks rendered harmless against that many armed defenders. Dawn and Xander are both injured, but only slightly, and Buffy is automatically apologetic to see that three of the slayers also sport nasty-looking lamiabane bites. “We’ve got an antidote,” she assures Kennedy, who’s staring at her gnawed arm with morbid fascination. “Angel’s going to develop more.”
In front of them, Satsu slices open a lamiabane with the scythe, her elegant grace stopping the few remaining demons before they can move any closer to the other girls. “We’ll need to find all the slayers who’ve been hurt,” Kennedy says, her eyes on the last slayer still fighting. “And the other demons need to be destroyed before they can bite anyone else. Andrew has a pretty good system, though. He’s the one who helped us collect all the lost slayers after last year.”
“I’m glad.” And she is, glad that Kennedy is so capable now, that the slayers are moving on with leadership that isn’t going to break them, that the hostility she’d come to accept as a given is finally gone. “Illyria’s coming back, I think. You can look through all of Orkanel’s documents while you’re waiting for her, see where he sent out all the demons. I don’t think they travel far from where they’re dropped.”
“Yeah.” And Kennedy gives her a grudging nod, one that isn’t quite acceptance but is far from resentment. “Thanks. For getting us here.”
It’s easier than it’s ever been to smile at the slayer she’d never gotten along with. “Thanks. For getting us out.”
“Yeah.” Satsu strikes down the last demon, and Kennedy barks out an order to regroup upstairs.
Buffy catches up to her before she leaves through the open arena door. “Listen. Um…there might be…the demon…” She doesn’t know how to explain Orkanel’s death. There’s justification, of course, but she’s never been one to fall to easy answers when a human is dead on her watch. No matter how much the human might have deserved it.
“I got it.” Kennedy looks perturbed for a moment before she nods slowly. “We’ll look out for those guards. They might not have weapons, but they’re still pretty nasty looking even without their boss.” She wrinkles her brow. “Do you guys have a way out?”
“The code still works,” Willow speaks up from where she’s standing by the elevator, the doors open again and the light above it blinking. She smiles tentatively at them both. “We’ll meet you at Angel and Faith’s?”
Kennedy nods at her ex, and there’s a meaningful silence that has Buffy feeling out of place, suddenly. “See you.” She steps through the arena door, last among the slayers to leave.
Willow’s smile vanishes immediately. “Buffy, I’m so-“
“Don’t.” And it’s so simple to hug her once-best friend, to assure her that they were all duped and it isn’t her fault- because it isn’t- to say all the things to Willow that Willow had said to her a year before, back before things had soured. And things aren't okay yet, because maybe they never will be, but it's a start, one that they've both sorely needed. And after that, she moves to Xander and Dawn, checks them over carefully, ignores Dawn’s eyeroll and assurance that she’s fine, and helps them all to the open elevator.
And then, finally- finally!- she runs to the one she’s been worried about most, where he’s slumped against the wall and covered in blood that she’s relieved to discover is mostly not his. “Spike. You with me?” Heedless of the goo and gore, her hands are running over his body, scrutinizing him for injuries and meeting his eyes with sudden nervousness as she recalls their last exchange.
He blinks up at her uncertainly, and she can sense his indecision and a startling amount of fear. Is he afraid of her?
Of course he is, after all that’s come before, after words spoken and retracted and hidden out of insecurity last time, and here they are again, her admission hanging between them.
She takes his face in her hands, unperturbed by the sticky mess that it’s become, and kisses him softly and poignantly. “I love you,” she reaffirms, pulling away to help him stand, turning away from him when he doesn’t speak in return. What she wants…can it really be that far away, when she feels so connected to him? But his silence seems a cool indication, a simple rejection that staggers her even now.
There’s a muffled sigh from beside her. “Bugger this,” Spike decides, twisting her around and yanking her back to his lips, tangling against her with all the fierceness that she’s remembered of him for years now, and for a moment, everything is forgotten but his mouth against hers, his acceptance and affection and- dare she presume?- love overwhelming her in a sea of never-ending kisses that leave her no choice but to accept him gladly, in any form she can.
Chapter 20
So when I started this, a low-rated, comics-dependent fic, I didn't expect much feedback...and I'm therefore completely stunned and heartened and just plain grateful for how much of such I've received, from people who've stuck with me throughout, from the Tumblr folks who've messaged me after each chapter or posted about it on their blogs (What? I run fyspuffy! I'm going to see all your tagged Spuffy posts! ;D), from some of my favorite writers in fandom. It's been incredible, and I can't thank you all enough for your responses.
Much thanks also goes to Tova for keeping my Buffy in check and mocking away the sappiness, and Liann for reminding me that it can't be too easy- and I've been operating on that advice since. And special thanks also to those of you who've left thoughtful feedback that has had me redefining everything I know about Spike and Buffy and Spuffy and the comics and revising my own perspective on what S9 needs to be. You've been amazing. :)
Next up: probably a rewrite of The Rose, at which point it may pop back up on all the sites it used to call home. And much, much anticipation for S9. =)
This lovely banner was made by Tumblr's nurfherder, who has also begun drawing Embers in comic form here. :)
There are three constants that Buffy can always count on.
It’s been hours since the battle, hours spent dispatching the rest of the guards at the complex and setting an interested Illyria on the lamiabane barracks that Buffy had discovered in the other hallway and retrieving any documents that Orkanel had left behind. Kennedy does some impressive intimidation of one of the guards and gets even more information out of him, and Buffy is content to watch silently, a familiar warming presence at her side. Willow opts to follow the slayers though Illyria’s portal and Dawn pushes for the same, tossing Buffy significant glances that she refuses to react to, and then it’s only Buffy and Spike who remain to fly the ship back to England.
Constant Number One is that there are always vampires.
She awakens hours later against a hard, male chest that her body recognizes instantly, even if her mind takes a minute more. Her legs are tangled with his, his arm is tucked under her, and her head is pressed to the unbeating heart of the vampire that holds her. He stirs beneath her, and she realizes suddenly that he’s been awake for a while.
Oh, yeah, and they’re both fully clothed.
He gives her a sleepy smile. “’Lo.”
“Hi.” She sidles up against him, suddenly nervous again.
There had been an awkward pause back when they’d gotten back to the ship, one that had both of them looking anywhere but at each other and his bed. And she’d realized then just how much she wanted him, more than ever before, to be wrapped in his embrace and he deep inside her murmuring words she’d never repeat outside of bed. She’d worried in the past that she wouldn’t be able to control herself around him if their relationship had turned physical, that all that they’d worked for in friendship would fizzle away. Now she panics at the thought that sex will corrupt love instead.
This hadn’t been about sex, last time, and it won’t be now, so she’d climbed into his bed and shifted all the way to the side of it, leaving more than enough space for him to follow. And he’d crawled in right next to her, pulling her into his arms, and she had had nothing more to say but I love you again, the words emerging with more and more ease each time she speaks them.
She had decided to be open-Buffy, honest-Buffy, and his eyes fill with quiet awe and adoration whenever she shows it. And if his only response is another kiss, one that leaves them both panting and heated and needy, so be it.
Even if it aches at her every time the words go unanswered. Even if now that it’s a new day she’s feeling unsure and torn about the whole situation, if the old dread is back in full force and his smile offers no reassurance. Even if she’s developing a sinking feeling that they’re trapped in the same rut as before, and he’s a closed book to her insecurities.
She jerks away from him, almost defiant, and the laughter in his eyes at that is his only response. She narrows her own eyes at him. “What?”
He pulls her closer. “You’re so bloody gorgeous,” he murmurs, and there’s immediately a warmth in her cheeks that silences her again.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” she says finally, unable to resist pressing a kiss against his jawline. One becomes many becomes a trail across his neck, and then desire is back in full force, leaving her wet and aching for him and grinding against evidence of his own need for her as he reciprocates with nimble fingers reaching under her shirt on an upward climb.
When they pull away from each other again, moments away from making another bad decision, he’s regarding her seriously. “We should talk, love.”
It’s difficult to fight hope now, when she’s already in his arms and yesterday’s admission can’t be retracted. And no matter how many times she warns herself that this won’t end well, her heart stubbornly refuses to accept it. “Yeah.” The ship bumps down right then, and she manages a smile. “After?”
“After,” he confirms, and they emerge from the ship together minutes later, his fingers loose around her wrist in quiet possession that Buffy doesn’t mind all that much today. It makes Xander roll his eyes as they blow past her friend basking in the sunlight- or what passes for it here- with Dawn snuggled against him, but one challenging glare from Buffy is enough to make him shake his head and nod grudgingly.
Faith is sitting up in the kitchen, eating a bag of chips and yelling at Angel, the latticework smudged grey against her skin. “I swear, if you don’t stop hovering… B!” Her face lights up. “Spike! Please, get this idiot out of the room so I can actually enjoy that thing you call freedom!” But she’s grinning as she says it, and the affronted look on Angel’s face melts away as he meets her eyes.
“She won’t sleep,” he gripes to them, his gaze not leaving Faith. “She’s talking about patrolling tonight. Tonight!”
“I’ve been doing nothing but lying in bed for weeks. No way in hell I’m spending any more time there.” She shakes her head. “I can’t believe I missed all the fighting.”
“We’ll try to save you some vicious slayer-killing demons to wrestle next time,” Buffy says seriously.
“Might even let you get torn into a bloody mess,” Spike agrees.
“Unarmed,” Buffy clarifies. “You know, if that’s what you really want.”
“We’re very accommodating.”
Faith rolls her eyes. “Oh, don’t tell me it wasn’t fun!”
“It was fun,” Angel says grimly, and Buffy can see exactly what he classifies as enjoyable written in his eyes. She understands. She doesn’t like it, but she understands.
Faith hits him playfully and turns back to the blond duo. “Thanks,” she says, all humor gone. “You bailed me out big time. I owe you.”
Words elude Buffy at the earnestness in the other slayer’s eyes, the simplicity of the gratitude from someone she doesn’t know how to respond to. Luckily, Spike has no such compunctions. “You put up with that big lunk,” he retorts, nodding to a scowling Angel. “We owed you.”
“Shut up, Spike.” But there’s no anger in Angel’s voice, and when he turns to busy himself with the soup pot on the stove, Buffy suspects that it’s more to hide his expression than for any other reason.
Faith moves to join him, and Buffy watches them quietly, slayer and vampire absorbed in their work and the simple peace that comes from a victorious battle. She leans against her own vampire and smiles.
“They seem close,” Spike notes as they settle down on the couch together.
“Yep.”
“You all right with that, love?”
She can hear the tension in his voice, the barely contained jealousy simmering just beneath the surface, and she reaches out to take the hand that isn’t tucked behind her into her own. “Mostly,” she admits. “I’m not going to say that a part of me isn’t kind of…resentful, I guess? Wrong word. Uh…”
“Jealous?” he suggests, and it’s a mark of how far they’ve come that neither of them pulls away, even at the edge in his words and the stiffening of his hand in hers.
She closes her eyes. “No. It’s not something I want. I just have some issues with giving up things that…that used to be mine.” She shifts to look up at him, her eyes tracing the contours of his face, reading the softness in his eyes. “Or still are. Are they?”
His face clears, and he lifts their joined hands to press a lingering kiss against her skin. “Always.”
There are always vampires.
She works a late shift the next morning, having fallen asleep on Spike’s couch in the middle of a conversation with Dawn the day before and awakening late in the night to find herself wrapped in Spike’s arms in her own bed. She’d missed another full day of work without even calling, and the only way to appease Josh had been to offer double shifts the next day.
Much as she wanted to spend it with Spike, who hadn’t even shifted when she’d crawled out of bed. They had things to talk about and maybe more, and she wonders if he’s already left, frustrated, when she hasn’t returned home yet.
The time away from him has given her insight, reminded her of what she’s been afraid of all along. She’s done this with him already, done the relationship where one is in love and the other isn’t, where love and sex and violence mingle into something bitter and wrong. And she isn’t as strong as he is. She can’t come out of something like that with her heart intact. She’s risked her heart enough during the past few days, and it’s time to put up the barriers again.
It has to end before it begins in earnest. Before her love is twisted into something else.
Leanne is chattering in her ear about a failed date the night before when the door to the coffeehouse opens and two girls Buffy recognizes enter, looking healthy and happy and more than a little shy. She bolts from Leanne immediately to take the two slayers’ orders. “Dawn gave you the antidote?”
Arianna nods, smiling. “You found it! I mean, I thought you would, but you really did!” She pats Tray’s arm as though to reassure herself that the markings really are fading. “They didn’t want to let us out until it all cleared up, but we were…convincing.” She winks conspiratorially at Buffy.
“I’m sure,” Buffy grins back, evoking even a reluctant smile from Tray. “Listen, I don’t know if Dawn told you about-“
“Kennedy? Yeah.” Arianna looks troubled for a moment. “I don’t know if I’m ready to go back to being a slayer. Not when the world hates us and won’t understand…but I’ve got Kennedy’s number now. Just in case.”
“Just in case,” Tray echoes, but there’s a longing in the more hostile girl’s tone that startles Buffy even as hope rises up again. It’s not a guarantee. It doesn’t mean reunification. But it’s a start.
“Friends of yours?” Leanne asks when they leave, and Buffy’s left watching them from the window as they head across the street.
“Not really.” But she still manages to irritate Leanne with her high spirits for the rest of the afternoon, easy satisfaction born from a world that’s beginning to repair itself at last.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think that you actually got laid,” Leanne grouches as they clean up after closing time. She looks up from her table suddenly, her eyes lit with realization. “Or maybe…”
Buffy turns around to follow Leanne’s gaze to the door, and warmth spreads through her at the sight of the vampire waiting impatiently behind the glass entrance. “Oh. Right.”
“Get out of here,” Leanne orders her. “Josh is already gone for the night anyway, and if I have to spend another minute with you when you’re this obnoxiously happy, I might have to slap you.”
She doesn’t need any more convincing, and she’s already yanking off her apron and heading for the door when Spike finally manages to pick the lock and push the door open. Then he’s twisting her around and kissing her hard, tugging her into his arms and backing her against the wall to tighten his grip on her, leaving her gasping and whimpering into his mouth when they finally detach.
“Disgusting,” Leanne sniffs, not bothering to disguise the envy in her voice.
Buffy grins. “Goodnight, Leanne.”
She doesn’t ask Spike about the kiss when they leave the building and head toward the graveyards, though it still has her mind spinning. Passion…they’ve always had it, and this is no exception. It doesn’t mean anything more as long as he doesn’t love her, and she needs to stop it. Now. Before she gets hurt even more. Before he gets hurt and leaves her for good.
“Long day,” she says finally.
“Endless,” Spike agrees. “Nearly went stir-crazy waiting for you all day. And you left your phone at home so I couldn’t even reach you there.”
She winces. “Right. I really need to stop doing that.”
He bounces on his heels suddenly, his face lighting up with the delight she recognizes from one too many bar fights. “Oh, yeah. And I made dinner!” he announces, beaming. “You didn’t have much in your cabinets-“ And he levels a stern glance at her at that- “But I put together some of the grub that isn’t spoiled and made a pie. …Sort of thing,” he amends.
She tosses him a suspicious look. “Did you burn anything?”
“Just the pie,” he says modestly. “But s’good! I tried it!”
She pokes him. “Spike, I came in last month and found you eating hot sauce from the bottle. With a straw. I don’t trust your taste buds.”
He sulks, head down, lower lip outthrust, and mumbles, “Angel made soup.”
And now this abrupt burst of culinary interest makes sense. “Angel doesn’t eat,” she points out soothingly. “I’m sure it was a disaster.”
He gives her a grudging, “Probably,” appeased for the moment, and they keep walking together, a little too close to be casual, hands bumping against each other until he finally catches hers in his own nonchalantly and gives it a gentle squeeze. Her lips curve up in a soft smile despite herself, and while doubts threaten to sour the moment, she forces them away.
After we take care of this, she vows. Then I’ll tell him I can’t do it. Not now.
She feels a frisson of fear run through her when they turn toward the old construction area, and she grips his hand harder. “It’s over there.”
“Let me-“
“No.” He’s still bruised up from the battle, and she’s spent the day on her feet, easily moving around with little residual pain in her legs. “We’ll do this together, okay? I’ll shoot, you stay unless it gets too close.”
Terror builds again, and Spike hands her a crossbow from her weapons bag and pulls out an axe of his own. She aims. Waits.
And then the San Francisco lamiabane is tearing towards them, a mass of fur and fury and gnashing, fatal teeth bared at her. She draws her crossbow back, lining it up with the creature barreling toward her, aims, and fires directly at the underside of its throat. At the same time, Spike races forward, heedless of her irritated warning, dodges the thrashing beast, and levels a blow at the demon’s neck that embeds his axe into its side.
The lamiabane lets out a startled snuffle, a low whine emitting from somewhere just below the axe, and promptly flops over on its side, dead. Spike yanks his weapon out of it, wincing disgustedly at the goo that covers it. “’S it just me, or are these things getting easier to kill?”
“Practice,” Buffy says knowingly. “Also, sharp objects. Always of the good.”
“Yeah.” He wipes off the axe on the lamiabane’s fur, cursing when it sticks to it instead. “Sodding demon.”
“Well, maybe if you’d let me take care of it, like I told you to, you wouldn’t be stuck with a filthy axe,” she points out, not without some smugness.
He twists his neck to glare at her. “M’not your lapdog, Buffy. And I finished it off on my own, didn’t I?”
“So not the point.” She yanks the axe from his hand, bending the handle back to its storage position and tucking it into the weapons bag. “You can’t just…you’re injured!”
“S’my choice to make to fight,” he says coldly. “Not gonna do what you say jus’ because I’m back in your bed.” He ducks out of pure instinct, dodging the fist she levels at him just as instinctively.
She spins around, throwing up her hands in sheer frustration. It’s starting again. “I can’t! I can’t do this!” she barks. “Not again!”
“Oh, there’s a surprise,” Spike scoffs, and she can hear the hurt in his voice, not nearly as strong as the resignation. And that shatters her even more.
“No. No, I really can’t. I can’t do this one-sided relationship thing when there’s nothing else…” She stops, breathing heavily, tears of aggravated helplessness welling up again. “I’m not going back to that!”
There’s nothing from Spike, no response, no retort or denial or anything at all, and she can feel her eyes stinging at the silence behind her. “I can’t lose you again,” she whispers, and she walks away without a second glance back, even when she hears him murmur her name with a sort of hopeless confusion.
And there’s Constant Number Three: At night, when she finally reaches her room with shoulders shaking from her turmoil, when she changes into pajamas and sinks into a bed that smells like Spike and useless hopes, she’s alone. As always. And it’s for the-
The door to her room slams open, and Spike stalks in, thunderous expression visible even in the darkness of her room. “Are you completely daft?” he demands.
She sits up, tugging her covers up around her. “Spike-“
He cuts her off. “What are you on about? One-sided? You said yesterday that you loved me, and now we’re back to this?”
“I do love you!” The unfairness of the whole situation is beginning to sink in, transforming despair to outrage. “You’re the one who spent years chasing me, and then decided to get over me the minute I showed interest in you. ‘No, you don’t?’ What gives you the right to-“
“Get over you?” He shakes his head violently, moving with frightening speed to stand in front of her, eyes blazing. “You really are daft. What could have possibly made you think…how could you…” He sounds genuinely bewildered, so much so that she waits silently for him to continue. “Where have you been the past half a decade? Is it so impossible for you to fathom the level to which I’m besotted with you? What does it bloody take for you to understand that I love you?” He isn’t angry, not really, just aggravated and beseeching and perplexed. “How many times must a man tell you he loves you before you stop trying to sabotage yourself?”
And there it is, the words she’s craved, the admission that she’s wanted for so long that she’s finding it impossible to believe that they’re here now, unearned, undeserved, too easy to be true. “I’m not sabotaging myself!” she protests, letting her blanket drop and turning to face him. “I’m just… you love me?”
He crouches down to stare directly into her eyes. “You love me?” he echoes, and she can’t muffle a sudden chuckle.
His eyes go wide with offense, and she hastens to explain. “It’s just…we’re both such idiots, aren’t we? Dancing around each other, so convinced that we’re not- when we are-“
He softens. “Yeah. Yeah, we are, pet.” It’s the most natural thing in the world for her to lean forward as he does, bringing their lips together in a soft kiss. “I love you, Buffy. You know that.”
She thinks of the way he looks at her, takes care of her, lets her take care of him and love him and fight and be with him. And it’s impossible to doubt it anymore. “Love you,” she murmurs, standing up to wrap herself in his embrace, her kiss pressed against his unbeating heart and his soft against the top of her head. “But…”
“None of that,” he says, swift to stop her doubts.
“We fight all the time.”
“S’fun. Turns me on.” She can hear the leer in his voice.
“You don’t listen to me.”
“You don’ listen to me.”
“You spend half your time across the planet.”
“’ll stop doing it every day. We can go out on your day off, yeah?” He smoothes her hair down. “Don’t I owe you a trip to some tropical island somewhere?”
“But…” She’s flailing now, searching for excuses, and they’re both fully aware of it.
And Spike isn’t known for his patience, so it comes as no surprise when he shoves her back onto her bed and demands, “Do you want me or not, Buffy?”
And it’s so simple, when he puts it like that. “Oh, I want,” she breathes, her eyes fixating on the black-clad chest she can see moving in and out as he contains his frustration. “I want- and I love!” she includes hurriedly. “I really, really love.”
“Love,” he murmurs, sitting beside her and pressing soft kisses down the side of her face. “What now?”
A part of her wants to pull off her top right there and then, to rip his clothes off of him and show him exactly how much she loves him with some tricks that she hasn’t forgotten in all their years apart. But they have time and honesty now, two things they haven’t really had since the moment Spike put on an amulet over three years ago; and that’s a gift she’s determined not to squander.
She laces her fingers through his. “Wanna go kill stuff?”
He takes advantage of the way she turns to face him to seize another kiss from her, one that she returns with fervent desire before he disengages himself to respond, his eyes shining with the awe and love that she knows is mirrored in her own. “Always.”
Much thanks also goes to Tova for keeping my Buffy in check and mocking away the sappiness, and Liann for reminding me that it can't be too easy- and I've been operating on that advice since. And special thanks also to those of you who've left thoughtful feedback that has had me redefining everything I know about Spike and Buffy and Spuffy and the comics and revising my own perspective on what S9 needs to be. You've been amazing. :)
Next up: probably a rewrite of The Rose, at which point it may pop back up on all the sites it used to call home. And much, much anticipation for S9. =)
This lovely banner was made by Tumblr's nurfherder, who has also begun drawing Embers in comic form here. :)
There are three constants that Buffy can always count on.
It’s been hours since the battle, hours spent dispatching the rest of the guards at the complex and setting an interested Illyria on the lamiabane barracks that Buffy had discovered in the other hallway and retrieving any documents that Orkanel had left behind. Kennedy does some impressive intimidation of one of the guards and gets even more information out of him, and Buffy is content to watch silently, a familiar warming presence at her side. Willow opts to follow the slayers though Illyria’s portal and Dawn pushes for the same, tossing Buffy significant glances that she refuses to react to, and then it’s only Buffy and Spike who remain to fly the ship back to England.
Constant Number One is that there are always vampires.
She awakens hours later against a hard, male chest that her body recognizes instantly, even if her mind takes a minute more. Her legs are tangled with his, his arm is tucked under her, and her head is pressed to the unbeating heart of the vampire that holds her. He stirs beneath her, and she realizes suddenly that he’s been awake for a while.
Oh, yeah, and they’re both fully clothed.
He gives her a sleepy smile. “’Lo.”
“Hi.” She sidles up against him, suddenly nervous again.
There had been an awkward pause back when they’d gotten back to the ship, one that had both of them looking anywhere but at each other and his bed. And she’d realized then just how much she wanted him, more than ever before, to be wrapped in his embrace and he deep inside her murmuring words she’d never repeat outside of bed. She’d worried in the past that she wouldn’t be able to control herself around him if their relationship had turned physical, that all that they’d worked for in friendship would fizzle away. Now she panics at the thought that sex will corrupt love instead.
This hadn’t been about sex, last time, and it won’t be now, so she’d climbed into his bed and shifted all the way to the side of it, leaving more than enough space for him to follow. And he’d crawled in right next to her, pulling her into his arms, and she had had nothing more to say but I love you again, the words emerging with more and more ease each time she speaks them.
She had decided to be open-Buffy, honest-Buffy, and his eyes fill with quiet awe and adoration whenever she shows it. And if his only response is another kiss, one that leaves them both panting and heated and needy, so be it.
Even if it aches at her every time the words go unanswered. Even if now that it’s a new day she’s feeling unsure and torn about the whole situation, if the old dread is back in full force and his smile offers no reassurance. Even if she’s developing a sinking feeling that they’re trapped in the same rut as before, and he’s a closed book to her insecurities.
She jerks away from him, almost defiant, and the laughter in his eyes at that is his only response. She narrows her own eyes at him. “What?”
He pulls her closer. “You’re so bloody gorgeous,” he murmurs, and there’s immediately a warmth in her cheeks that silences her again.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” she says finally, unable to resist pressing a kiss against his jawline. One becomes many becomes a trail across his neck, and then desire is back in full force, leaving her wet and aching for him and grinding against evidence of his own need for her as he reciprocates with nimble fingers reaching under her shirt on an upward climb.
When they pull away from each other again, moments away from making another bad decision, he’s regarding her seriously. “We should talk, love.”
It’s difficult to fight hope now, when she’s already in his arms and yesterday’s admission can’t be retracted. And no matter how many times she warns herself that this won’t end well, her heart stubbornly refuses to accept it. “Yeah.” The ship bumps down right then, and she manages a smile. “After?”
“After,” he confirms, and they emerge from the ship together minutes later, his fingers loose around her wrist in quiet possession that Buffy doesn’t mind all that much today. It makes Xander roll his eyes as they blow past her friend basking in the sunlight- or what passes for it here- with Dawn snuggled against him, but one challenging glare from Buffy is enough to make him shake his head and nod grudgingly.
Faith is sitting up in the kitchen, eating a bag of chips and yelling at Angel, the latticework smudged grey against her skin. “I swear, if you don’t stop hovering… B!” Her face lights up. “Spike! Please, get this idiot out of the room so I can actually enjoy that thing you call freedom!” But she’s grinning as she says it, and the affronted look on Angel’s face melts away as he meets her eyes.
“She won’t sleep,” he gripes to them, his gaze not leaving Faith. “She’s talking about patrolling tonight. Tonight!”
“I’ve been doing nothing but lying in bed for weeks. No way in hell I’m spending any more time there.” She shakes her head. “I can’t believe I missed all the fighting.”
“We’ll try to save you some vicious slayer-killing demons to wrestle next time,” Buffy says seriously.
“Might even let you get torn into a bloody mess,” Spike agrees.
“Unarmed,” Buffy clarifies. “You know, if that’s what you really want.”
“We’re very accommodating.”
Faith rolls her eyes. “Oh, don’t tell me it wasn’t fun!”
“It was fun,” Angel says grimly, and Buffy can see exactly what he classifies as enjoyable written in his eyes. She understands. She doesn’t like it, but she understands.
Faith hits him playfully and turns back to the blond duo. “Thanks,” she says, all humor gone. “You bailed me out big time. I owe you.”
Words elude Buffy at the earnestness in the other slayer’s eyes, the simplicity of the gratitude from someone she doesn’t know how to respond to. Luckily, Spike has no such compunctions. “You put up with that big lunk,” he retorts, nodding to a scowling Angel. “We owed you.”
“Shut up, Spike.” But there’s no anger in Angel’s voice, and when he turns to busy himself with the soup pot on the stove, Buffy suspects that it’s more to hide his expression than for any other reason.
Faith moves to join him, and Buffy watches them quietly, slayer and vampire absorbed in their work and the simple peace that comes from a victorious battle. She leans against her own vampire and smiles.
“They seem close,” Spike notes as they settle down on the couch together.
“Yep.”
“You all right with that, love?”
She can hear the tension in his voice, the barely contained jealousy simmering just beneath the surface, and she reaches out to take the hand that isn’t tucked behind her into her own. “Mostly,” she admits. “I’m not going to say that a part of me isn’t kind of…resentful, I guess? Wrong word. Uh…”
“Jealous?” he suggests, and it’s a mark of how far they’ve come that neither of them pulls away, even at the edge in his words and the stiffening of his hand in hers.
She closes her eyes. “No. It’s not something I want. I just have some issues with giving up things that…that used to be mine.” She shifts to look up at him, her eyes tracing the contours of his face, reading the softness in his eyes. “Or still are. Are they?”
His face clears, and he lifts their joined hands to press a lingering kiss against her skin. “Always.”
There are always vampires.
She works a late shift the next morning, having fallen asleep on Spike’s couch in the middle of a conversation with Dawn the day before and awakening late in the night to find herself wrapped in Spike’s arms in her own bed. She’d missed another full day of work without even calling, and the only way to appease Josh had been to offer double shifts the next day.
Much as she wanted to spend it with Spike, who hadn’t even shifted when she’d crawled out of bed. They had things to talk about and maybe more, and she wonders if he’s already left, frustrated, when she hasn’t returned home yet.
The time away from him has given her insight, reminded her of what she’s been afraid of all along. She’s done this with him already, done the relationship where one is in love and the other isn’t, where love and sex and violence mingle into something bitter and wrong. And she isn’t as strong as he is. She can’t come out of something like that with her heart intact. She’s risked her heart enough during the past few days, and it’s time to put up the barriers again.
It has to end before it begins in earnest. Before her love is twisted into something else.
Leanne is chattering in her ear about a failed date the night before when the door to the coffeehouse opens and two girls Buffy recognizes enter, looking healthy and happy and more than a little shy. She bolts from Leanne immediately to take the two slayers’ orders. “Dawn gave you the antidote?”
Arianna nods, smiling. “You found it! I mean, I thought you would, but you really did!” She pats Tray’s arm as though to reassure herself that the markings really are fading. “They didn’t want to let us out until it all cleared up, but we were…convincing.” She winks conspiratorially at Buffy.
“I’m sure,” Buffy grins back, evoking even a reluctant smile from Tray. “Listen, I don’t know if Dawn told you about-“
“Kennedy? Yeah.” Arianna looks troubled for a moment. “I don’t know if I’m ready to go back to being a slayer. Not when the world hates us and won’t understand…but I’ve got Kennedy’s number now. Just in case.”
“Just in case,” Tray echoes, but there’s a longing in the more hostile girl’s tone that startles Buffy even as hope rises up again. It’s not a guarantee. It doesn’t mean reunification. But it’s a start.
“Friends of yours?” Leanne asks when they leave, and Buffy’s left watching them from the window as they head across the street.
“Not really.” But she still manages to irritate Leanne with her high spirits for the rest of the afternoon, easy satisfaction born from a world that’s beginning to repair itself at last.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think that you actually got laid,” Leanne grouches as they clean up after closing time. She looks up from her table suddenly, her eyes lit with realization. “Or maybe…”
Buffy turns around to follow Leanne’s gaze to the door, and warmth spreads through her at the sight of the vampire waiting impatiently behind the glass entrance. “Oh. Right.”
“Get out of here,” Leanne orders her. “Josh is already gone for the night anyway, and if I have to spend another minute with you when you’re this obnoxiously happy, I might have to slap you.”
She doesn’t need any more convincing, and she’s already yanking off her apron and heading for the door when Spike finally manages to pick the lock and push the door open. Then he’s twisting her around and kissing her hard, tugging her into his arms and backing her against the wall to tighten his grip on her, leaving her gasping and whimpering into his mouth when they finally detach.
“Disgusting,” Leanne sniffs, not bothering to disguise the envy in her voice.
Buffy grins. “Goodnight, Leanne.”
She doesn’t ask Spike about the kiss when they leave the building and head toward the graveyards, though it still has her mind spinning. Passion…they’ve always had it, and this is no exception. It doesn’t mean anything more as long as he doesn’t love her, and she needs to stop it. Now. Before she gets hurt even more. Before he gets hurt and leaves her for good.
“Long day,” she says finally.
“Endless,” Spike agrees. “Nearly went stir-crazy waiting for you all day. And you left your phone at home so I couldn’t even reach you there.”
She winces. “Right. I really need to stop doing that.”
He bounces on his heels suddenly, his face lighting up with the delight she recognizes from one too many bar fights. “Oh, yeah. And I made dinner!” he announces, beaming. “You didn’t have much in your cabinets-“ And he levels a stern glance at her at that- “But I put together some of the grub that isn’t spoiled and made a pie. …Sort of thing,” he amends.
She tosses him a suspicious look. “Did you burn anything?”
“Just the pie,” he says modestly. “But s’good! I tried it!”
She pokes him. “Spike, I came in last month and found you eating hot sauce from the bottle. With a straw. I don’t trust your taste buds.”
He sulks, head down, lower lip outthrust, and mumbles, “Angel made soup.”
And now this abrupt burst of culinary interest makes sense. “Angel doesn’t eat,” she points out soothingly. “I’m sure it was a disaster.”
He gives her a grudging, “Probably,” appeased for the moment, and they keep walking together, a little too close to be casual, hands bumping against each other until he finally catches hers in his own nonchalantly and gives it a gentle squeeze. Her lips curve up in a soft smile despite herself, and while doubts threaten to sour the moment, she forces them away.
After we take care of this, she vows. Then I’ll tell him I can’t do it. Not now.
She feels a frisson of fear run through her when they turn toward the old construction area, and she grips his hand harder. “It’s over there.”
“Let me-“
“No.” He’s still bruised up from the battle, and she’s spent the day on her feet, easily moving around with little residual pain in her legs. “We’ll do this together, okay? I’ll shoot, you stay unless it gets too close.”
Terror builds again, and Spike hands her a crossbow from her weapons bag and pulls out an axe of his own. She aims. Waits.
And then the San Francisco lamiabane is tearing towards them, a mass of fur and fury and gnashing, fatal teeth bared at her. She draws her crossbow back, lining it up with the creature barreling toward her, aims, and fires directly at the underside of its throat. At the same time, Spike races forward, heedless of her irritated warning, dodges the thrashing beast, and levels a blow at the demon’s neck that embeds his axe into its side.
The lamiabane lets out a startled snuffle, a low whine emitting from somewhere just below the axe, and promptly flops over on its side, dead. Spike yanks his weapon out of it, wincing disgustedly at the goo that covers it. “’S it just me, or are these things getting easier to kill?”
“Practice,” Buffy says knowingly. “Also, sharp objects. Always of the good.”
“Yeah.” He wipes off the axe on the lamiabane’s fur, cursing when it sticks to it instead. “Sodding demon.”
“Well, maybe if you’d let me take care of it, like I told you to, you wouldn’t be stuck with a filthy axe,” she points out, not without some smugness.
He twists his neck to glare at her. “M’not your lapdog, Buffy. And I finished it off on my own, didn’t I?”
“So not the point.” She yanks the axe from his hand, bending the handle back to its storage position and tucking it into the weapons bag. “You can’t just…you’re injured!”
“S’my choice to make to fight,” he says coldly. “Not gonna do what you say jus’ because I’m back in your bed.” He ducks out of pure instinct, dodging the fist she levels at him just as instinctively.
She spins around, throwing up her hands in sheer frustration. It’s starting again. “I can’t! I can’t do this!” she barks. “Not again!”
“Oh, there’s a surprise,” Spike scoffs, and she can hear the hurt in his voice, not nearly as strong as the resignation. And that shatters her even more.
“No. No, I really can’t. I can’t do this one-sided relationship thing when there’s nothing else…” She stops, breathing heavily, tears of aggravated helplessness welling up again. “I’m not going back to that!”
There’s nothing from Spike, no response, no retort or denial or anything at all, and she can feel her eyes stinging at the silence behind her. “I can’t lose you again,” she whispers, and she walks away without a second glance back, even when she hears him murmur her name with a sort of hopeless confusion.
And there’s Constant Number Three: At night, when she finally reaches her room with shoulders shaking from her turmoil, when she changes into pajamas and sinks into a bed that smells like Spike and useless hopes, she’s alone. As always. And it’s for the-
The door to her room slams open, and Spike stalks in, thunderous expression visible even in the darkness of her room. “Are you completely daft?” he demands.
She sits up, tugging her covers up around her. “Spike-“
He cuts her off. “What are you on about? One-sided? You said yesterday that you loved me, and now we’re back to this?”
“I do love you!” The unfairness of the whole situation is beginning to sink in, transforming despair to outrage. “You’re the one who spent years chasing me, and then decided to get over me the minute I showed interest in you. ‘No, you don’t?’ What gives you the right to-“
“Get over you?” He shakes his head violently, moving with frightening speed to stand in front of her, eyes blazing. “You really are daft. What could have possibly made you think…how could you…” He sounds genuinely bewildered, so much so that she waits silently for him to continue. “Where have you been the past half a decade? Is it so impossible for you to fathom the level to which I’m besotted with you? What does it bloody take for you to understand that I love you?” He isn’t angry, not really, just aggravated and beseeching and perplexed. “How many times must a man tell you he loves you before you stop trying to sabotage yourself?”
And there it is, the words she’s craved, the admission that she’s wanted for so long that she’s finding it impossible to believe that they’re here now, unearned, undeserved, too easy to be true. “I’m not sabotaging myself!” she protests, letting her blanket drop and turning to face him. “I’m just… you love me?”
He crouches down to stare directly into her eyes. “You love me?” he echoes, and she can’t muffle a sudden chuckle.
His eyes go wide with offense, and she hastens to explain. “It’s just…we’re both such idiots, aren’t we? Dancing around each other, so convinced that we’re not- when we are-“
He softens. “Yeah. Yeah, we are, pet.” It’s the most natural thing in the world for her to lean forward as he does, bringing their lips together in a soft kiss. “I love you, Buffy. You know that.”
She thinks of the way he looks at her, takes care of her, lets her take care of him and love him and fight and be with him. And it’s impossible to doubt it anymore. “Love you,” she murmurs, standing up to wrap herself in his embrace, her kiss pressed against his unbeating heart and his soft against the top of her head. “But…”
“None of that,” he says, swift to stop her doubts.
“We fight all the time.”
“S’fun. Turns me on.” She can hear the leer in his voice.
“You don’t listen to me.”
“You don’ listen to me.”
“You spend half your time across the planet.”
“’ll stop doing it every day. We can go out on your day off, yeah?” He smoothes her hair down. “Don’t I owe you a trip to some tropical island somewhere?”
“But…” She’s flailing now, searching for excuses, and they’re both fully aware of it.
And Spike isn’t known for his patience, so it comes as no surprise when he shoves her back onto her bed and demands, “Do you want me or not, Buffy?”
And it’s so simple, when he puts it like that. “Oh, I want,” she breathes, her eyes fixating on the black-clad chest she can see moving in and out as he contains his frustration. “I want- and I love!” she includes hurriedly. “I really, really love.”
“Love,” he murmurs, sitting beside her and pressing soft kisses down the side of her face. “What now?”
A part of her wants to pull off her top right there and then, to rip his clothes off of him and show him exactly how much she loves him with some tricks that she hasn’t forgotten in all their years apart. But they have time and honesty now, two things they haven’t really had since the moment Spike put on an amulet over three years ago; and that’s a gift she’s determined not to squander.
She laces her fingers through his. “Wanna go kill stuff?”
He takes advantage of the way she turns to face him to seize another kiss from her, one that she returns with fervent desire before he disengages himself to respond, his eyes shining with the awe and love that she knows is mirrored in her own. “Always.”
If you are under the age of 17, please use your head and do not read fics that are labeled "NC-17". Parents, I cannot control what your children are reading, so please be advised that the majority of the fics archived here are NOT suitable for those under the age of 17.
I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer and I am in no way making any profit from this site. This is for pure entertainment purposes only.
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