full 3/4 1/2   skin light dark       
 
 
Chapter 43
 
<<     >>
 
Buffy sat in the kitchen drinking coffee – Tara had long since gone back to Bond-ing with Dawn (cue drumroll). And Buffy knew she should be there with them now. But it was calm and dark and quiet in the kitchen and she didn’t want to leave.
 
Feet thundered down the stairs.
 
Spike’s feet.
 
When she heard the murmur of voices over the TV, she assumed he’d sat down with the others. But a few seconds later, Spike was standing silently in the kitchen doorway, watching Buffy huddle around her mug. The blinds were drawn and all the lights were off. She looked like she was hiding. She probably was.
 
He crept around behind her, amazed she still hadn’t noticed him. “Hey,” Spike whispered into her ear.
 
Buffy nearly jumped out of her skin. “God, sneak much?”
 
He laughed. “Aren’t you s’posed to be able to mystically sense me?”
 
Buffy twitched her shoulders uncomfortably. “Never did too well with that part.” She watched him warily, certain that whatever he’d come in here for would involve lots of noise and movement and talking and it would shatter the gentle dusky peace she’d found for herself.
 
But to her surprise, he didn’t even turn the lights on. And he was smooth and silent, pulling out a bag of blood from the fridge and pouring it into his super-sized mug without a single clink.
 
Buffy made a moue of disgust at the sudden coppery scent in the air. She wasn’t even aware she’d done it until she saw the smile slip from Spike’s face and the tightness across his shoulders when he turned to put the mug in the microwave.
 
Each beep made her flinch, before the whir of machinery started up, overpowering even the distant sound of fighting from the TV in the other room. “You eaten?” he asked, still facing away from her.
 
“Not hungry,” Buffy replied. Then – of course – her stomach growled. Loudly. Stupid stomach.
 
Smile creeping back, Spike went to the fridge and started pulling out ingredients and putting them on the counter. After he shut the door, he grabbed a pen from the junk drawer and scribbled something onto the communal grocery list.
 
Buffy was suddenly struck by his extreme at-home-ness in her kitchen. Or was it their kitchen now? His weird hodgepodge of stolen bar glasses and novelty mugs and perfectly sharp knives with cracked handles hadn’t just infiltrated, they’d occupied – found permanent homes and taken out a cable subscription. Most of grocery list was in his old-lady-scrawl – although that might just be because he never, ever, did the grocery shopping….
 
Watching him wash and prep vegetables – barefoot, hair perfectly coiffed with more product than any sane person needed – Buffy decided that all he needed was the twinset and pearls and he’d be the perfect ‘50s housewife. Maybe a frilly apron….
 
She sniggered.
 
Spike dropped what he was doing and stared at her – shocked. He hadn’t seen her look like that since … since before the hell bitch. He couldn’t think for the life of him what she could’ve found funny. But, hey, whatever works, right? ‘Cause it had to be something he’d done, didn’t it?
 
Buffy watched Spike’s face light up with … smugness? Weird. She was sure he was about to say something, but then the microwave pinged, making them both jump.
 
Buffy watched him take the mug out and shake whatever that spice was he liked over it before giving it a quick stir with his index finger. She closed her eyes while he licked it clean. When she reopened them, he seemed tense – almost nervous. She finally twigged that it must be over her reaction to his breakfast. But to her surprise, instead of being annoyed or disgusted, it just felt … domestic. That and she wondered why he wasn’t adding any Weetabix. We must’ve run out again.
 
He let out a soft sigh of contentment when he’d drunk it all down. Buffy suspected he didn’t even know he was doing it … and it was almost cute, in a weird way. Like that blissful look little kids always seem to get from eating chocolate.
 
I did NOT just compare blood with chocolate.
 
Spike gave the mug a brief rinse and put it in the dishwasher.
 
“So what are you making me?” Buffy asked, a little surprised by her own willingness to break the silence.
 
“Omelette,” he said, a little wary.
 
“With cheese?”
 
He nodded, the edges of his eyes starting to hint at a smile. “With cheese.”
 
“I like cheese,” Buffy said, as if revealing some great secret.
 
The smile broke fully across his face. “I know.”
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
“This is pathetic!” Warren shouted, looking through the pile of bills in front of him. “There’s not even a thousand dollars here.”
 
The Buffy-bot looked distressed. “Have I not pleased you? I slayed lots of vampires.”
 
“You did great, sweetheart,” Warren’s voice softened. He patted the bot’s head.
 
The bot grinned. “I said ‘your money or your life!’ just like you told me to. And then I took both!”
 
“It’s not your fault the scourge of Sunnydale is stony broke,” Warren said. “Stupid suburban Hellmouth.”
 
“I tried to tell you,” Andrew said smugly. “Demons don’t use people-money.”
 
“What do they use, then, oh fount of all knowledge demon?” Warren sneered.
 
Andrew looked over at Jonathan for support – but he had become suddenly fascinated by the musty old book he was reading. Turncoat! “I don’t know!” he whined. “It depends on the species.”
 
Warren groaned theatrically. “We’re already more than halfway through the bank heist money. And while this is truly a kick-ass lair, eventually I want to get out of my mom’s basement.”
 
“You could stop lighting cigars with fifties,” Jonathan muttered.
 
“What was that, Jonathan?”
 
“Nothing! Nothing. Just, um, reading aloud over here.”
 
Warren watched him for a few seconds. “What we need is something that’ll give us enough to build something really impressive.”
 
“Can we have an island?” Andrew asked, getting excited.
 
“I don’t see why not,” Warren said.
 
“Or….” Andrew suddenly looked ready to cream his pants, and his voice was full of holy reverence. “We could build a Death Star.”
 
Warren and Jonathan shared a look, then turned back to Andrew and simultaneously said, “No, Andrew!”
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
Anya had been absolutely right about the madness of closing the shop on a Saturday in the lead-up to Halloween.
 
There was a group of twenty-odd disgruntled customers outside the door by the time Giles got back – all of them clamouring for attention. By the time he’d done the rounds of obsequious apologies and assured them that, yes, Anya would be back on Monday, he was wishing desperately he’d been just a little bit less alcoholic in the immediate aftermath of Buffy’s death. He vaguely remembered getting through both of his “emergency” bottles somewhere in the haze of day two or three….
 
He’d hired Anya so he could avoid days like this, when his feet hurt and his face ached from too much placatory smiling. But at least he wasn’t wearing a hat.
 
He was amazed to discover that not having all of Buffy’s friends constantly underfoot had not made everything easier, as he’d always assumed it would. He missed the chatter, the jokes, and – God help him – the donuts. But mostly he missed how their presence had meant he could nip into the back for a cuppa whenever he wanted, with some assurance that nothing too awful would happen to the shop while he was away. Alone, it was well after four o’clock before there was enough of a lull that Giles felt justified in putting out the “Back in five minutes” sign and escaping to the office.
 
It struck him, suddenly, that Anya must be exhausted from doing this every day all these months. Perhaps they should discuss hiring an assistant, at least part time, so that Anya could—
 
Giles’ mind stuttered to a halt. What would Anya do with more free time? He tried to think of things he knew she enjoyed, and all he could think of were vengeful torture, counting money, and sex.
 
Didn’t she mention bowling once?
 
He was just picking up the kettle to go and refill it while trying – and failing – to imagine Anya bowling, when the phone rang.
 
“Magic Box,” Giles said, too exhausted to bother with pleasantries.
 
“Giles? You are there. Excellent.”
 
Giles nearly dropped the phone. “D-Davis?” Davis was a Council colleague – and most certainly not a friend. Why on earth would he be calling?
 
“It has been most tedious constantly getting the machine.”
 
“Why—”
 
“Helen will be relieved to hear you’re alive and well,” the other man added smarmily.
 
“Helen?” Giles repeated, dazed.
 
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your own girlfriend, man?”
 
“She’s not my girlfriend,” Giles said sharply.
 
Davis laughed merrily. “Does she know that?”
 
Giles sighed and rubbed at his forehead. “Two and a half dates hardly constitutes a deep and meaningful relationship. Not that it’s any of your business.”
 
“It became my business when she started ringing the bally office,” Davis snapped. “We knew your disappearance wasn’t work-related, even if she didn’t.” His voice regained its smug children’s-television-presenter quality. “So here we all are.”
 
“How did you know where I was?” Giles asked weakly.
 
“Rang Devon, in the end. Terribly uppity bunch – shame they’re such powerful allies.”
 
Giles relaxed slightly. The Coven had had much the same opinion of the Council. “They don’t have this number.”
 
“No. But it is on the Magic Box website! Hardly rocket science, old boy.”
 
“There’s a website?”
 
Davis laughed again. Giles thought he might even have heard a knee-slap. Sometimes he wondered if Davis thought he was in a Wodehouse novel.
 
“You really weren’t joking when you said you’d lost touch, were you? But I suppose you weren’t there that long, all told. Even if your Slayer had a remarkably long run.”
 
Giles wanted to hit him. Five years. Only a lifetime.
 
“Look, Giles, you know me – not the nosy type – but you’ve bunked off work for more than a week now with no word to anyone, and tongues are starting to wag.”
 
Giles opened and closed his mouth several times, at a complete and utter loss as to what to say.
 
“A man with your sort of history can’t just disappear.” Davis let out a patient sigh. “It’s not anything to do with the Hellmouth is it? Because you really must tell someone if it is. We may not have an active Slayer right now, but there are always … options.”
 
“No!” Giles almost shouted. “Nothing like that.” He didn’t dare guess what sort of options Davis might consider.
 
“Most glad to hear it.”  Davis paused. With sudden and unexpected sympathy, he added, “I know you and your Slayer were … close. But Giles – Rupert – it’s no good keeping on like this. Whatever it is that’s called you back there, you need to let it go.”
 
Giles desperately wanted to laugh. “I, er, I do apologise for not leaving proper word. I shall certainly ring Helen directly to ensure she doesn’t bother you again.”
 
“Appreciate it.” All traces of sympathy gone, Davis said, “But you still haven’t told me why you hared off to Sunnydale in such a god-awful hurry.”
 
“There was a problem with the shop,” Giles started, thinking furiously. “Hellions in Sunnydale. I, er, I was needed to sign things. Insurance. You know.” It was all perfectly true. Just … a day or so late.
 
“Ah,” Davis said, oozing genial affability again. “I always thought it was something like that. But you know Travers. Always keen to get to the bottom of anything … unusual.”
 
“Of course,” Giles said warmly. Tit.
 
“So we’ll expect you back any day, then? Understand your ticket out was one-way. Assume it was timing or some such. Last-minute. All that. But no reason for you not to be back by Monday week, is there?”
 
“I’ll keep you posted.”
 
“Good-good. Ta ra, then.”
 
Giles’ fingers were trembling when he replaced the phone on the hook. He had not devoted a single second’s thought to what he would tell the Council about Buffy’s resurrection.
 
Bugger. Bugger, bugger, bugger.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
Davis stared at the phone. The hellions story was … plausible. Quite possibly true. But not certain. He picked up the receiver again, and started dialling a completely different California number.
 
“Smith? Davis here. I presume you still have someone in position?”
 
“Yes, sir, Anna—”
 
“Don’t tell me her name, you idiot!”
 
“Sorry, sir.”
 
Davis smiled benevolently. Smith knew how to speak to his superiors. “I want you on stand-by. She may need to act, and soon.”
 
“Yes, sir. Er, November Sierra or, uh, Juliet Bravo, sir?”
 
“Not clear yet,” Davis said thoughtfully. “But I’ll be in touch in the next two weeks with instructions.”
 
“Yes, sir. I’ll be waiting, sir.”
 
Davis hung up.
 
Giles would be watched, on his return. And perhaps it was time the Council sent an operative to Sunnydale….
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
“I have an idea!” Andrew squealed.
 
“Does it involve cheese?” Jonathan asked.
 
Warren and Andrew both stared at him.
 
Jonathan shrugged. “I’m hungry.”
 
“We could put lasers on sharks,” Andrew said proudly.
 
Warren blinked a few times. “You’re watching Thunderball, aren’t you?”
 
“Maybe.”
 
Jonathan frowned. “How would that get us money?”
 
“I dunno.” Andrew shrugged. “But it’d be cool.”
 
“God, you’ll be suggesting freeze rays next,” Warren muttered. “Such a geek!”
 
“What about something like what Richard Pryor did in Superman III,” Jonathan suggested. “You know, stealing all the rounded partial cents from payroll.”
 
“I have blocked that film entirely from my mind,” Warren said with a shudder. “There were two Superman films. Two! And don’t even get me started on Supergirl.”
 
“But evil Superman!” Andrew said. “It was Christopher Reeve’s best performance ever.”
 
“I thought Rear Window was more impressive,” Jonathan said thoughtfully. “I mean, who would’ve thought he’d go back to acting as a paraplegic?”
 
“Forget all that. The point is the money,” Warren said. “And that whole salami-slicing thing is not only lame, but it’s been done to death. No way that goes undetected these days.”
 
“Fine,” Jonathan sighed. “What’s your idea then?”
 
“The M’Fashnik worked without a hitch. I think our kind of specially-armed robbery is the way forward.”
 
“Where are we gonna find a big enough score in Sunnydale?” Andrew asked.
 
“Who says we have to limit ourselves to Sunnydale?” Warren asked. “It’s just a matter of time before we find something. In the meantime, we need to be ready. We play to our strengths – we plan.”
 
“Where’s the fun in that?” Andrew whined.
 
“We’ve got everything we need in our temporary lair now. If we watch our spending and keep sending our Slayer out for top-ups, we’ve easily got enough to spend a few months planning. When we’re ready? We go on a spree. Maybe in the spring.”
 
Jonathan grinned. “Like we’d be the apocalypse?”
 
“Exactly!”
 
Andrew laughed – maniacal laugh number four. It seemed appropriate.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
Tara switched the TV off and got a grateful half-smile from Buffy. They were alone in the living room now, Spike and Dawn having just left – to buy a new car, of all things. Apparently whoever or whatever it was that had tried to kill Spike last weekend had been more successful with his car. Tara was struggling to picture Spike in a car with visible windshields, let alone a modern model. Although it must be even weirder for him – he said he’d had his car forty years.
 
Tara surreptitiously peeked out from behind her textbook to look at Buffy again. She was still curled into a ball under a blanket in the corner of the sofa, but she was back to the thousand-yard-stare, now pointed at the wall just above the TV. Tara had hoped Buffy wasn’t going away like that anymore. But maybe she was just learning to do it where no one could see.
 
Tara wondered suddenly if anyone was openly acknowledging Buffy’s, well, brokenness since the resurrection. There’d been a certain amount of ‘oh no, nightmares’ at the beginning, but Tara got the impression that, like her, they were all following Buffy’s lead and acting like nothing was wrong. Dawn really wasn’t kidding about that denial thing.
 
Tara wished– not for the first time – that this group of people who loved each other like family and who were so selfless and dedicated and capable at confronting and battling evil could be just a little bit better at acknowledging and dealing with each other’s emotions. All of the issues that Tara had observed herself – and most of the ones Willow had described to her from the past – boiled down to not talking to each other, usually out of fear of the fallout. Tara had been amazed at how easily they’d accepted Willow and her as a couple – from the depth of Willow’s fear and anxiety, she’d expected homophobia at the very least. But there had been nothing – at least, nothing beyond the exact same distrust of outsiders she’d observed with Riley and Anya.
 
It had made such a difference to Tara when Dawn asked how she was doing this morning – and with an expectation of a true answer instead of a convenient one. She wondered if anyone was asking Buffy. Spike was, probably – because you couldn’t really hide anything from him. It was one of many reasons that he made Tara uncomfortable.
 
Tara didn’t want to idly stand by and watch Buffy drown. Whatever Tara decided about living here – or about Willow – she knew she didn’t want to keep doing that Scooby thing where you pretend everything’s fine when it really isn’t. Tara cleared her throat and licked suddenly dry lips. “B-Buffy?”
 
After a few seconds, Buffy blinked hard and turned slightly unfocussed eyes on Tara. “Hmm?”
 
“Look, I, I know we’ve never b-been close or anything. A-and you’d probably rather talk to Sp—”
 
Buffy flinched.
 
“Someone else,” Tara corrected herself quickly. “But I can see that you’re, um….”
 
Buffy’s eyes seemed to grow impossibly large.
 
Tara started talking faster, almost breathlessly, unconsciously ducking her head so that her hair was shielding her. “If you’d p-p-prefer that I just act like everything’s fine, then, you know, I c-can. But I thought, maybe, you’d want to know that it’s okay – with me – if you’re, you know, not-okay. If you know what I mean.”
 
She anxiously watched while Buffy’s face wavered, half-crumpled, then wavered again. And then she seemed to call on something inside herself, and it was like she wiped her own fragility away like chalk off a blackboard and Tara was left staring at the straight spine and perfectly calm eyes of a warrior.
 
Tara was suddenly terrified that she’d been wrong – that there was a really-real reason they all feared each other’s reactions so much. But to her surprise, instead of being angry, or dismissive, or denying anything, all Buffy said was:
 
“Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.” Her voice was quiet, but clear and decisive. And then she smiled, slipped off of the sofa, and went upstairs.
 
Tara wasn’t at all sure what to make of it. But at least she’d tried. It was Buffy’s choice now, whether to take her up on the offer.
 
She put down her textbook, and walked slowly and steadily towards the kitchen. For the first time since the breaking of the memory spell, she felt like she was ready to talk to Willow.
 
 
 
<<     >>