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West of the Moon, East of the Sun by KnifeEdge
 
Chapter 22: Forget About It
 
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Author's Notes: This one is a little short, but I hope the content makes up for it. Just so you know, I love all of you, and I’m totally not above a little fan service.

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

Credits: This chapter contains dialogue adapted from the episode "Crush" written by David Fury.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner by Phuriedae









Chapter 22

Forget About It


Since Spike turned out to be such a waste of time, I spend the next couple of days making the rounds of the local demon bars, but it turns up a fat load of nothing. Whoever or whatever this Cold One is, she’s keeping a low profile.

Giles and Lydia aren’t making much headway with the prophecy either, and my dream is still a big old mess of clues that we can’t decipher. At least Giles is over his obsession with his sombrero. I hope.

Researching doesn't seem to be going anywhere either. We spend more than a few nights pouring over every book in Giles' collection trying to find information and keep coming up with big, blank zeroes. I'm so tired and frustrated by the time Giles lets me go for patrol that I take it out on whichever demon or vamp decides to pick a fight with me. Means Mr. Gordo and I don't spar as much when I go to sleep, since I'm usually worn out, but he doesn't seem to mind.

On the upside, we do manage to figure out what our little demon guys are. Svartálfar, Giles calls them, or dark elves. I always thought elves were supposed to be teensy and pretty, or, you know, like Santa Claus’ guys. Maybe these work for the Krampus. Neat thing about them is that they turn to stone in daylight, and crumble pretty easy once they do. Means I don’t have to worry so much about the dead bodies, and hey, new gravel for the walkway. Bonus.

While I patrol at night, someone usually comes by to stay with mom, just in case more of the Svarti guys show up. So far things have been pretty quiet. I haven’t even seen Spike around lately, although when I pass by his crypt at night, sometimes I hear the TV. Once or twice I almost kick his door in to see what he’s up to, but in the end decide not to. Kinda feel like I’ve been thinking about Spike way too much lately, and therein lies badness. Better just to let sulky vampires be.

And who does he think he is, telling me that I have to start begging him for his help or paying him? Hello, he’s the evil demon. I’m the Slayer. He’s lucky I don’t dust him. It’s not like he’s a person.

Only, okay, I guess I’ve just… kinda gotten used to him being around and him not showing up is sort of wigging me out.

And I’m not going to think about how wrong that is.

***


“We need quality Bronze time,” Willow says one evening while we’re sitting around researching. “They’re having a re-opening party on Friday, to celebrate the post-Olaf remodeling.”

“I wonder what insurance premiums are like on the Hellmouth?” Xander says. “You know, fire, earthquake, flood, demon-damage. Bet there’s money in demon related repairs.”

“I’ve been over my insurance plan a dozen times,” Giles tells him, without looking up from the moldy old book he’s flipping through. “Unfortunately it does not cover Acts of Troll. By the way, which of you are sticking post-its throughout my books? The gum will ruin the inks.”

“We reported it as a standard break-in and vandalism,” Anya says. “They sent an agent. He spent most of his time looking at my breasts; then he wrote us a check. I liked him.”

“So, Bronze on Friday?” Willow asks me.

“Sure,” I say. “I could use some R&R. Preferably somewhere warm with good music, good food, and dancing. I just wish my cute Bronzing outfits were warmer. This cold weather blows.”

Outside, it’s snowing again. We all turn and glare at the windows. The weather guy said we could expect three to five inches today. The temptation to throw things at the screen was pretty strong. I'm starting to think the weather guy might be a demon.

“It’s unnatural,” Tara says, staring at it. “It feels weird, like everything is starting to tip out of balance.”

“And that's bad, right?” I ask.

She nods. “Balance is everything. Not just in magic, but in nature, too. Hot and cold, light and dark, female and male, good and evil. They’re all just opposite sides of the same coin. Everything needs its opposite in order to keep the balance. Too much of one, however…”

“What happens if it keeps getting colder?” I ask. She looks at me.

“Not good,” she says. “Crops will fail. Animals that can’t survive in these temperatures will start to die out. If it spreads…”

“Not good,” I repeat. We all stare at the softly falling snow.

***


Friday night the Bronze is crazy busy. Everyone wants to see the changes, it seems. I like it. It's less gothy industrial and more sleek and modern. It’s kind of nice, being somewhere normal, doing normal things. I just wish I didn’t feel like such a fifth wheel.

I like watching my friends dancing together, though. They fit so well. It’s like what Tara said, about balance. I can kind of see it in them. Willow and Tara are so good for each other. Tara grounds Willow, and Willow encourages Tara… and even Xander and Anya balance each other in a weird it-gives-me-a-headache-to-think-about kind of way.

I finger my necklace while I tap my foot to the music. Yin and yang, sun and moon. Balance. It’s kinda cool. Be nice if I had an other half. Unfortunately the opposite of Slayer is…

Ugh… Spike?

“Can’t believe they raised the prices on the beer. Not my fault their insurance doesn’t cover troll. And the bloomin’ onion thing got remodeled right off the soddin’ menu. Only thing this place had goin’ for it,” Spike grumbles, slouching into the chair beside me. He’s wearing that black shirt he bought at Christmas. Really brings out the color of his… bruises?

“What happened to your face?” I ask. He’s got fading bruises around both eyes, over the bridge of his nose, and a lip that might have been split a day or two ago, but is now almost healed. I’ve done some damage to him before, but he looks like someone mistook him for a punching bag.

He slides me a glance. “Nothing. I fell down some stairs,” he says.

“That’s possibly the worst lie you’ve ever told me,” I say.

“No,” he says, frowning and picking at his beer label. He's got bruises on his fingers, too, like maybe they were broken. “Not the worst.”

“So what actually happened?” If he’s this battered where I can see it, I can’t help but wonder what bruises his clothes are hiding. He doesn’t seem to be sitting stiffly, though.

He smirks. “Didn’t know you cared, Slayer.”

“I don’t. But if whatever beat you up is still out there, I figure I need to know about it,” I say. Maybe it’s something to do with our MIA Big Bad.

Spike gets one of those looks on his face that I’m starting to recognize. It’s his ‘hiding something’ expression. “No need to fret, Slayer. It’s sorted.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, frowning. I thought we’d just been through the ‘If you want to help Buffy, you better actually talk’ thing a couple of weeks ago in his crypt?

“Hey, Evil Dead, you’re in my seat,” Xander says as he and the others return. Spike glares at him, and pushes out of his chair, clumsily knocking his beer over in his hurry. If I weren’t sitting so close, and I didn’t know him so well, I wonder if I’d have missed the wince that crossed his face when he grabbed the bottle with his bruised hand.

"Means it's none of your bloody business," Spike growls and stalks off.

"I think you hurt his feelings, honey," Anya tells Xander.

"And you should never hurt the feelings of a brutal killer," Xander quips, then thinks about it. "Actually, that's pretty good advice. You okay, Buff?"

"Huh?" I blink at him, and realize that I’ve been following Spike’s bleached head as he slides through the crowd toward the stage. "Oh, yeah. Just… looks like something beat the hell out of Spike."

"And that's a bad thing, why?" Xander wants to know.

"Because beating the hell out of Spike isn't that easy," I tell him. "If it was strong enough to do that…"

"Probably something to worry about then?" Willow says, concerned. "He did seem extra cranky. Also limpy."

The conversation turns to other things, but I'm still thinking about the bruises on Spike's face and his expression. I wonder if that's why he's been hiding in his crypt the last few nights? Xander gets up to buy drinks for himself and Anya, while Willow and Tara head back out onto the dance floor.

"You should go ask him," Anya says.

"Who?"

"Spike. Go ask him what beat him up," she says.

"I did. He said it was 'sorted', whatever that means," I grumble.

"Look, Spike's not stupid. He wouldn't have shown up here looking as battered as he does if he didn't want you to know about it," she says. She has a point.

"I don't think he wants to tell me," I say.

"So make him. You know, I've found that when Xander doesn't want to tell me something, orgasms usually make him more rela—"

"I think I'm just…gonna… go find Spike and ask him," I say, getting up. ‘Cause if the choice is facing down a grumpy vampire or listening to Anya talk about Xander and sex? I'll take vampire any day.

I follow my Slayer sense in order to find him. Now that I’ve gotten used to following the tingles with Mr. Gordo, finding Spike is way easy. He's leaning up against a column, standing half in the shadows, watching the band. I realize he's not wearing his duster tonight. Wonder why?

"What do you want, Slayer?" he asks, not taking his eyes off the stage.

"Will you tell me what did that to you?" I ask. His eyes slide my way.

"No," he says. "Told you, it's nothing for you to fret over."

"Yeah, well, I'm fretting," I tell him. Then I remember his new rules. "I'll pay you."

"Don't want your cash right now," he says. I roll my eyes.

"Fine, what do you want, Spike?"

He glances up at the stage, then out at the dance floor, frowning. "I've had what you might call a very bad week," he says. The band strikes up a cover of a Santana song. Spike sets his beer down on a table and grabs my hand. "C'mon," he says, tugging me toward the dance floor. His hand on my wrist is big and his grip strong but not tight. I could break his hold if I wanted. Only, his fingers are bruised so…

"What are you doing?" I ask, digging in my heels instead.

"I want to dance, Slayer," he says, rolling his eyes impatiently. "If you're gonna stand there an’ harass me, can we at least move while you're doing it? Besides, your chums are already dancing. Might as well, yeah?"

I bite my lip, considering. On the one hand, it's Spike, on the other… maybe he'll answer my question. Besides, I do kind of want to dance, and this is a good song to dance to. "Fine," I tell him. "But you get handsy and you lose body parts."

"Fair enough," he says and tugs me out onto the floor.

"Man it's a hot one," sings the lead, clearly trying to pretend that there isn't a foot of snow outside. "Like seven inches from the midday sun. I hear you whisper and your words melt everyone, but you stay so cooold…"

This close I get a better look at the bruising around his eyes, and the healing cut on his lower lip. I'm suddenly filled with the desire to beat something myself.

"Who beat you up, Spike?" I ask.

"Told you, not your business," he says. "Now shut up, you're ruinin' the music, Slayer."

"Will you at least tell me if it has anything to do with our Ice Demon problem?" I ask. He huffs a sigh and spins me, so that my back is to his front. His hands rest at my hips, but he never quite crosses the line into risqué territory, which surprises me. I've danced with total strangers who weren't as polite as Spike is being. Of course, he has more incentive to keep all his parts in one piece.

"All work and no play make Summers a dull girl," he murmurs near my ear.

"Spike—," I say, and start to turn, but his hands firm on my hips, keeping me in place and moving to the beat.

"Remember the other night, that last poem I recited?" he asks, leaning close.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"You should look it up, Slayer," he says, his voice rumbling low against my ear. It's the coolness of his breath that makes me shiver. "Old Jack was good with hitting the right beat."

"Spike—"

"Hush, Slayer," he tells me. "Just… let it go, for now, yeah? Was my own bloody fault. That's all you need know."

I sigh. He probably pissed off somebody while gambling. It wouldn't surprise me. I decide to just leave it and enjoy the rest of the song. It's been a long time since I danced with someone who knew what they were doing, and with him behind me, I can pretend that it's not Spike.

At least until he spins me around again.

Spike, as it turns out, is a really good dancer. His right hand settles at my waist, his left hand wrapping around my right. My free hand automatically comes up and cups the nape of his neck, my fingers just brushing the soft hair there. You'd think all that gel and peroxide would leave his hair coarse, but instead it's wickedly soft and I have to clamp down on the urge to push my fingers deeper into it. He's not too tall for me, and it's hard not to notice that under his clothes, Spike's body is lean and muscular—and I totally remember from that glimpse at Christmas exactly how muscular.

The song has a Spanish rhythm and he leads me into the beat, matching my movements as easily as he would in a fight. His eyes meet mine, challenging and teasing at the same time, never looking away, and I feel myself respond in kind. Suddenly we're not just dancing, we're fighting on the dance floor. Only instead of punches and kicks, the fight is in the sway of our hips, in the slightest pressure of his hand on my waist, or the way I move into his space. The crowd seems to melt away until it's just him and me and the throbbing beat of the music.

"…And if you said this life ain't good enough,
I'd give my world to lift you up,
I could change my life, to better suit your mood.
‘Cause you're so smooth.

And it's just like the ocean, under the moon
it's the same as the emotion that I get from you,
you got the kind of lovin that can be so smooth, yeah,
gimmie your heart, make it real, or else forget about it…"


As the song drives toward the end, we're matching each other's movements almost as if we can read each other's minds. Each step is an attack, parry, thrust, riposte, retreat. I didn't know dancing could be like this, and I can't tell if it's because it's Spike or if it's something else. He dances as if he were born to it, and I wonder if this is what dancing was like when Spike was alive.

Curious, I can’t help but ask, "What were you? Before?"

He gives me a funny look. "Miserable," he says, and spins me out and back so fast I forget about talking until the song is almost over.

"…Oh, let's don't forget about it…
Gimmie your heart, make it real…
Let's don't forget about it, oh no…
Let's don't forget about it, yeah…
Oh, no, no…
Let's don't forget about it."


Spike dips me, slightly, just at the end, our bodies pressed together, length to length. His eyes are lost in shadow. Then he pulls me back up with him, and I can feel the velvety texture of his shirt under my palms and the hard wall of his chest against mine like we’re in slow motion.

The crowd applauds the band, but we just stand still, staring at one another, panting a little. This wasn't a dance as much as it was a battle, and neither of us is sure who won. My heart is pounding loudly, threatening to beat right out of me. Spike takes a deep breath, his eyes intensely blue under the dance floor lights, like the hottest part of a flame.

"Go on back to your chums, Slayer," he says, his voice pitched low, but still audible over the noise and the music. "They'll be pissing themselves right about now."

"This isn't over, Spike," I tell him, only I’m not sure what I’m referring to.

"No," he agrees. "It's not."

With that he bows mockingly, and then disappears into the crowd.

I have no idea what just happened, but I also know that it’s probably better not to think about it too much.

"What the hell was that, Buffy?" Xander wants to know when I get back to the table. "Since when do you dance with the dead?"

A memory floats to the surface. 'You think we're dancing?' I asked. 'It's all we've ever done,' he said. I stuff it down deep, into the place where I keep most of my other Spike-related bad thoughts.

"I told him you were trying to get answers out of Spike," Anya says, rolling her eyes.

"Did you?" Willow wants to know.

"No," I say, frowning. "But I've got a hell of a lot more questions."

***


When I get home I relieve Giles from his mom-sitting duties, much to both of their relief. “Any sign of our tiny demon friends?” I ask Giles as he’s putting on his coat.

“Not a glimpse,” he says. “They may have given up on the house.”

“Or found a new hobby,” I say. “Spike made a cameo appearance at the Bronze tonight. Something did a number on him, but he’s not talking about whatever it was.”

“He didn’t seem to have any trouble with the last set,” Giles says.

“Yeah,” I agree. “It’d take either a whole lot more of them, or something pretty strong to put such a hurt on Spike. But all he’d say was that it was his own fault.”

“He’s not especially popular with the demons in town anymore,” Giles points out.

“True. Maybe he just tried hustling the wrong guy at pool or something.”

It’s not ‘til after Giles leaves that it occurs to me that if it were a human who did the damage, Spike wouldn’t have been able to fight back. With that chip in his head, even Tara could beat him up.

***


I run it over with Mr. Gordo that night after sparring but he doesn’t have any helpful opinions, either. Though he does seem to agree with me that it’d take more than human strength to do much lasting damage to Spike. Kind of a relief, in a way. Protecting Spike really isn’t in my job description, but the idea of him being beaten up by humans doesn’t exactly sit well with me either. Yes, he’s annoying and evil, but…

It’s just easier if I only have to worry about killing the demons and protecting the humans.





No-longer Spoily Credit: Song lyrics excerpted from Rob Thomas’ and Carlos Santana's "Smooth."


 
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