Fic: Chapter of 7 of Edge of Sorrow, Heart of Truth (Rated R)
My Season 6 rewrite continues! In which the deception deepens: a plan is revealed, but not to all.
Characters/Pairings in this chapter: Spike&Dawn, Spike/Buffy, Xander, Anya, Willow, Tara, and Doc.
POV's this chapter: Spike, Xander.
Features: Unhealthy obsessions, conspicuous absences, Chinese food, and sports metaphors.
Feedback: Yes, please!
Author's Note: Opening dream scene was previously posted as an excerpt on seasonal-spuffy.
Rating: R
Chapter 7. Source of My Virtues and My Crimes
That crowning object of my life,
The end of all my toil and strife,
Source of my virtues and my crimes,
For which I’ve toiled and striven in vain,--
But, if I fail a thousand times,
Still I will toil and strive again.
-- from “I Dreamt Last Night” by Anne Brontë
“Spike!”
At Dawn’s cry, Doc spun to face him, just as Spike pulled himself up Glory’s platform. So much for a surprise attack. The antique knife in Doc’s grasp gleamed, a sharp little devil. But first things first.
He shot a quick glance at Dawn in a split-second assessment, otherwise pinning Doc with his focus. “Nibblet, it’s gonna be okay. Jus’ hang in there, alright?”
She was a tear-stained mess, the poor thing, bound at the end of the platform. His presence must’ve helped, though, for she nodded vigorously, and tried for a smile. Spike inhaled deeply for the scent of blood. None. At least she was free of injuries--small favors and all. Instead, he was hit with a wall of fear, heady and streaked with despair.
It was a smell he would’ve relished not that long ago. It would’ve been an intoxicating combination had it been emanating from anyone else, and he still evil. On Dawn, it somehow made his stomach twist in a wave of nausea.
“This won’t take long,” he said, needing the reassurance of his own words.
Doc flashed him a smile, made creepier by its serenity. “No. I don't imagine it will.”
With a roar and a slip of his vampire visage, Spike rushed him. Doc sidestepped with surprising agility, and Spike stumbled past, unable to halt his momentum. Before he could turn around, he felt the sharp blade of the knife embed in his back, deep, his body arching on impact. It hurt like a mother. He screamed.
Clenching his teeth, he reached behind him, closing his fingers around the wet hilt. A hard yank, and the pain splintered, traveling up and down his body like jolts of electricity. For a second his brain couldn’t process the scream splitting his ears. Was that...him? Dawn? With a trembling hand he held up the newly gained weapon, and he decided it’d been worth it.
“You don’t come near the girl, Doc.”
Doc seemed to be deliberating, eyes darting between the knife and Spike’s face. “I don't smell a soul anywhere on you... Why do you even care?”
“I made a promise to a lady.”
“Oh. Well, I'll send the lady your regrets.”
Spike lunged, and Doc opened his mouth wide, his reptilian tongue shooting out to sweep Spike off his feet. Vampire speed was apparently no match for demon strength, and Spike found himself lifted up in the air, in a choke hold he couldn’t break. With his feet thrashing uselessly, he slashed at the tongue with the borrowed knife, repeatedly in quick succession. Then, quicker than an eye could see, the tongue unwound itself from around Spike’s neck to flick the knife into the air.
That gave Spike a much needed opening.
“Not a chance, you sodding reptile!” he shouted.
He gripped the clammy tongue and pulled with all of his might. Doc shuffled forward with a gurgle, his footing unsteady.
“I’d dust first!” Another pull in their tug-of-war, and Doc came into striking range. The miscalculation hit him the same moment as Doc’s fists. The bastard threw a mean right hook. Who knew? With his hands full, Spike retaliated with kicks, until Doc caught his leg mid strike, and twisted hard. Spike spun to land on his back on a jagged edge of the platform, which did no favors to his knife wound.
Just a flesh wound, he thought, consoling himself. But he knew, from the way the wind whistled in his ears, resembling a girl’s shrill cries, to the way his body struggled to right itself, with Doc still raining fists on him, that he’d gone into the fight underestimating everything, except for himself. Just a vampire. Not a superhero. This, he realized too late.
“Poor vampire,” Doc said, as if reading his mind. “Are you ready to die for your conviction?”
Instead of a sharp sting, the taunt gave him a sense of clarity, the attainment of enlightenment. Nibblet was going to live. Buffy was going to live. They had to, because he wasn’t. Saving the world demanded a price, and he, the odd one out, fully expendable, would make a great sacrifice. “Better believe it!” he shouted in between blows. “Are you?”
With that he grabbed hold of Doc and rolled off the edge of the platform. Doc’s face, twisted with shock until realization crumbled into resignation, was priceless. However briefly, Spike savored his sweet victory. Dawn would be alright.
He had one last thought in the free fall: that he was finally free, free of his sins, free of his cursed unlife, free of destiny’s cruel joke.
Then the world dropped dead.
When the world regenerated itself, one sensation at a time, Spike did not trust it to open his eyes. Or maybe it was his eyes that he didn’t trust. Why would a dusted vampire possess sight at all? Or need it? Or deserve it?
He clung to the scent of the Summers women, his personal piece of Paradise, blissfully drifting on the edge of consciousness. If there was a Heaven for reformed vampires, he was sure that’d be it. Until hunger, that wretched daily reminder of corporeal weakness, of condemned fate, alerted him of his True Nature, and his eyes shot open--
--and found Paradise to mirror the basement at the Summers house.
From his cot hugging one bare wall, he located his blanket, crumpled on the floor at the foot of the bed. Good thing he’d remembered to pull on pajama bottoms before bed, a habit quickly formed after he’d moved into the Revello house. It’d only taken one incident to convince him of its necessity, a surprise visit from Dawn that ended with ear-piercing screaming...from the both of them. A bloody wake-up call, that was. They’d resolved never to bring it up, thank the gods, but it was still days before Dawn could look him in the eyes again.
Dawn’s eyes, wet and swollen and trained on him as if he were her sodding salvation, greeting him atop Glory’s platform--
It was too much. Sitting up, he let his head drop, ran both hands through his hair, then interlaced them behind his neck, willing the image to fade. A hundred and forty days since Buffy jumped, and he was still assuming the brace position. Living in her house, he saw her ghost everywhere, in every cherished memory and fresh discovery, no matter how mundane: the stairs of the back porch, where they had sat, enemy to enemy, in companionable silence; a dust-bunny-infested pompom behind the spare bedding, providing a glimpse into her past life, a hint of greater sacrifices yet to come; a Christmas ornament screenprinted with an old family portrait, with Dawn bundled up into a baby burrito in the arms of a much younger, more exuberant Joyce, next to a man with a smug smile who he assumed to be Hank, and Buffy, just a wee tyke, beaming at the camera in pigtails with pink bow-shaped barrettes.
He needed a sodding exorcism to end the torment of his guilty conscience. Appealing to the ghost of the woman he failed, he said to the echo of his own voice, “Every night I save you.”
For all the bloody good that did.
The egg roll was doing him a world of good.
Xander had found that his world view generally improved with the filling of his stomach, especially in the company of good friends, and even better when said friends were accommodating of his dietary preferences. Being the only male of the group had its perks, such as dining family-style. He was not missing Captain Peroxide and the friendly macho posturing of trying to out-spice each other with the over-application of Sichuan hot sauce--absolutely not.
“Anyone want the last egg roll?” He made a move for it while tossing up a cursory offer. It was halfway to his mouth when the three women shook their heads in tandem. Score! “What’s in it, anyway?” he said in between bites. “It’s so good!”
Anya had the answer ready. “MSG!”
Xander sighed in appreciation. “Delicious, deep-fried MSG…” he said in between bites, tipping the empty egg roll container just in case a sneaky egg roll was hiding under the flap.
“You love it so much,” said Willow with a smirk, “if you could, I bet you’d marry the egg roll!”
Anya’s eyes lit up. Uh-oh. “Hey! Speaking of which--” She sat up taller and reached for Xander’s hand.
“Speaking of which,” Xander talked over Anya, occupying his hand by grabbing the moo shu pork, “I think I’ve had enough egg rolls.” Anya looked murderous. He was going to pay for it later. Could they tell he was panicking? He racked his brain for a convincing segue. “And why are we having our usual Sunday Chinese, delicious though it is, at the Magic Box instead of the house, and on a Saturday night? And where is the Unevil Undead?”
Willow and Tara glanced at each other, looked away just as quickly, then put down their chopsticks in sync. That was a little creepy. Cute, but creepy.
Willow cleared her throat. “I’ve been thinking about life on the Hellmouth. Losing loved ones and strangers alike, year after year. Surviving demons and vampires and government conspiracies as if it was a normal part of life. Watching cemeteries expand beyond city limits. Aren’t you tired of all the deaths?”
Realization hit him like a ton of bricks. “You’re moving away,” said Xander, the moo shu pork suddenly losing its glamour.
“On the contrary,” said Willow, apparently startled that Xander had reached the wrong conclusion. “Xander, you may say that I’m all in. Uh, no more ground balls. I--I’m not going to strikeout looking. I may be a pinch hitter but I’m stepping up to the plate in the big leagues now. You’ll see--it’s going to be a whole new ball game!”
When nobody said anything, Willow continued, “Watch me throw the Hellmouth a curveball, hit it out of the park, and deliver a grand slam!” She thrust a small fist into the air. Tara peered at Xander and Anya in turn. Anya looked like she had added confusion to her rage. Willow waved her fist again, with extra conviction.
“Okay, Will?”
“Yeah?”
“First of all, no more baseball commentary for you.” said Xander. “You’re ODing on sports metaphors.”
Willow gave Xander a sheepish shrug.
“Secondly, I get it. Isn’t that why we rallied around the Slayer? We met her and with a collective heave of relief, we all cried, ‘Buffy Anne Summers, you’re our only hope!’ and pledged our undying loyalty to her and her cause. We’ve been fighting the good fight. We’ve even been winning, you know, big picture view. We lost Buffy, but we haven’t lost the fight.”
“But we can do so much more! Evil doesn’t play by the rules, why should we?” Impassioned and impatient, Willow jumped up. “We don’t have to take it. We don’t have to be resigned to death! We can be heroes!”
Xander leaned back. This take-charge Willow still took some getting-used-to. “Uhm, not sure with the recruitment vibe I’m getting from you. We’re already living the ‘Be all you can be’ life. All we’re lacking is a uniform. What’re you saying, Will?”
An audible indrawn breath, then Willow dropped the canon ball: “We are going to bring Buffy back!”
No dream, no matter how vivid, was going to bring Buffy back. This, Spike understood logically. Emotionally, however, bloody logic can bugger off before he knocked it arse over teakettle with a mean left hook. He willed the lingering dream to scarper, while simultaneous cravings battled for his attention. He needed a smoke to occupy his fidgeting fingers. A pint of blood to ease his hunger, tame his bloodthirst. A half bottle of top-shelf scotch, not to ring in oblivion--no, he’d need five times that, easy--but just enough to dull the longing for a certain dead Slayer, like cocooning a wicked blade with a pile of fluffy little cotton balls. He had the house to himself--Dawn was staying at Janice’s for the weekend, and the witches were God-knows-where, so he could finally be himself, which was apparently succumbing to vices. Some vampire he was, to be bound by his physical frailties. Or was it his humanity?
The white hats always took it for granted, how he hastened to dance to their every tune, as if being a vampire was optional, and behaving according to his nature merely a lifestyle choice. They never appreciated how isolating it was for him to betray his own kind, how much sheer willpower it took to get him to walk side-by-side with those happy meals on legs, even if he was muzzled by the chip, even as he saw them as brothers and sisters in arms. Right, he’d like to clock a timer on how long Xander would last carrying out his daily activities with a box of pizza alongside him before he’d cave in and devour the whole thing, social norms be damned.
Spike put the brakes on the brooding. He was no bloody ponce. The chip was forced on him by the Initiative, but throwing his lot in with the Slayer, that was on his own head. He’d told the Watcher that he’d remain in Sunnydale, looking after Dawn, taking up the slaying. That was exactly what he planned to do, even if it meant playing house with the humans. Fortunately for him, no new Slayer had been called to replace Buffy in guarding over the Hellmouth, disappointing sodding Quentin Travers. Well, good. Spike was relieved to have no baby Slayer dog his steps, cramp his style. No new Watcher to win over, to convince that he was on the side of Light.
Truth be told, the Scoobies seemed to accept him fine, since it had been Buffy who had handpicked him for Dawn’s protection. They way they acted, it was as if the Scoobies had canonized her to sainthood. In the early days following her demise, Buffy’s words had been quoted like true gospel. The endorsement from Giles had put the last nail in the coffin of his domestication. He wasn’t going to brood about how much of their acceptance was due to necessity--someone had to look after Dawn, to help keep up the ruse that Buffy was still alive and kicking her spinning crescent kicks. The bot had been handy for slaying as they watched each other’s back, but despite Red’s best effort, the bot’s babysitting programming had been woefully inadequate. The combination of her lack of cooking aptitude and her propensity for pyrotechnics was second only to the Slayer’s own. Spike would rather chance setting his hand on fire than risk the bot almost burning down the house. Again.
Without Buffy, Red took over the group in the power vacuum. There were bits of uncertainty here and there, of discussions and objections, but with each passing day Red’s status as interim leader solidified more. Pretty soon it was taken as read. Spike and Willow were never impolite to each other, but by tacit agreement, gave each other a wide berth. Just as well.
Spike gave the future a passing thought. Not sure how much further their lot could keep up the ruse, but for as long as he could get away with it, he was going to see to it that Dawn had someone watching over her. A reformed vampire amounted to piss poor material for a homemaker, but they’d muddle through, wouldn’t they? ‘Course he was not going to be a gormless git and sponge off the Summers savings, or what was left of it. Right. No bloody chance of him going corporate and turning into a nine-to-fiver, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t get himself gainfully employed while keeping strictly to the straight and narrow.
The filtered sunlight through the basement window was making him drowsy. Without Dawn to occupy his time, he fell back into bed, thinking of Buffy as he always did before letting his eyelids droop, his breathing ease. Blood and booze and smokes could wait. Now, he hoped for a more pleasant dream.
~ To Be Continued... ~
Characters/Pairings in this chapter: Spike&Dawn, Spike/Buffy, Xander, Anya, Willow, Tara, and Doc.
POV's this chapter: Spike, Xander.
Features: Unhealthy obsessions, conspicuous absences, Chinese food, and sports metaphors.
Feedback: Yes, please!
Author's Note: Opening dream scene was previously posted as an excerpt on seasonal-spuffy.
Rating: R
Chapter 7. Source of My Virtues and My Crimes
That crowning object of my life,
The end of all my toil and strife,
Source of my virtues and my crimes,
For which I’ve toiled and striven in vain,--
But, if I fail a thousand times,
Still I will toil and strive again.
-- from “I Dreamt Last Night” by Anne Brontë
“Spike!”
At Dawn’s cry, Doc spun to face him, just as Spike pulled himself up Glory’s platform. So much for a surprise attack. The antique knife in Doc’s grasp gleamed, a sharp little devil. But first things first.
He shot a quick glance at Dawn in a split-second assessment, otherwise pinning Doc with his focus. “Nibblet, it’s gonna be okay. Jus’ hang in there, alright?”
She was a tear-stained mess, the poor thing, bound at the end of the platform. His presence must’ve helped, though, for she nodded vigorously, and tried for a smile. Spike inhaled deeply for the scent of blood. None. At least she was free of injuries--small favors and all. Instead, he was hit with a wall of fear, heady and streaked with despair.
It was a smell he would’ve relished not that long ago. It would’ve been an intoxicating combination had it been emanating from anyone else, and he still evil. On Dawn, it somehow made his stomach twist in a wave of nausea.
“This won’t take long,” he said, needing the reassurance of his own words.
Doc flashed him a smile, made creepier by its serenity. “No. I don't imagine it will.”
With a roar and a slip of his vampire visage, Spike rushed him. Doc sidestepped with surprising agility, and Spike stumbled past, unable to halt his momentum. Before he could turn around, he felt the sharp blade of the knife embed in his back, deep, his body arching on impact. It hurt like a mother. He screamed.
Clenching his teeth, he reached behind him, closing his fingers around the wet hilt. A hard yank, and the pain splintered, traveling up and down his body like jolts of electricity. For a second his brain couldn’t process the scream splitting his ears. Was that...him? Dawn? With a trembling hand he held up the newly gained weapon, and he decided it’d been worth it.
“You don’t come near the girl, Doc.”
Doc seemed to be deliberating, eyes darting between the knife and Spike’s face. “I don't smell a soul anywhere on you... Why do you even care?”
“I made a promise to a lady.”
“Oh. Well, I'll send the lady your regrets.”
Spike lunged, and Doc opened his mouth wide, his reptilian tongue shooting out to sweep Spike off his feet. Vampire speed was apparently no match for demon strength, and Spike found himself lifted up in the air, in a choke hold he couldn’t break. With his feet thrashing uselessly, he slashed at the tongue with the borrowed knife, repeatedly in quick succession. Then, quicker than an eye could see, the tongue unwound itself from around Spike’s neck to flick the knife into the air.
That gave Spike a much needed opening.
“Not a chance, you sodding reptile!” he shouted.
He gripped the clammy tongue and pulled with all of his might. Doc shuffled forward with a gurgle, his footing unsteady.
“I’d dust first!” Another pull in their tug-of-war, and Doc came into striking range. The miscalculation hit him the same moment as Doc’s fists. The bastard threw a mean right hook. Who knew? With his hands full, Spike retaliated with kicks, until Doc caught his leg mid strike, and twisted hard. Spike spun to land on his back on a jagged edge of the platform, which did no favors to his knife wound.
Just a flesh wound, he thought, consoling himself. But he knew, from the way the wind whistled in his ears, resembling a girl’s shrill cries, to the way his body struggled to right itself, with Doc still raining fists on him, that he’d gone into the fight underestimating everything, except for himself. Just a vampire. Not a superhero. This, he realized too late.
“Poor vampire,” Doc said, as if reading his mind. “Are you ready to die for your conviction?”
Instead of a sharp sting, the taunt gave him a sense of clarity, the attainment of enlightenment. Nibblet was going to live. Buffy was going to live. They had to, because he wasn’t. Saving the world demanded a price, and he, the odd one out, fully expendable, would make a great sacrifice. “Better believe it!” he shouted in between blows. “Are you?”
With that he grabbed hold of Doc and rolled off the edge of the platform. Doc’s face, twisted with shock until realization crumbled into resignation, was priceless. However briefly, Spike savored his sweet victory. Dawn would be alright.
He had one last thought in the free fall: that he was finally free, free of his sins, free of his cursed unlife, free of destiny’s cruel joke.
Then the world dropped dead.
When the world regenerated itself, one sensation at a time, Spike did not trust it to open his eyes. Or maybe it was his eyes that he didn’t trust. Why would a dusted vampire possess sight at all? Or need it? Or deserve it?
He clung to the scent of the Summers women, his personal piece of Paradise, blissfully drifting on the edge of consciousness. If there was a Heaven for reformed vampires, he was sure that’d be it. Until hunger, that wretched daily reminder of corporeal weakness, of condemned fate, alerted him of his True Nature, and his eyes shot open--
--and found Paradise to mirror the basement at the Summers house.
From his cot hugging one bare wall, he located his blanket, crumpled on the floor at the foot of the bed. Good thing he’d remembered to pull on pajama bottoms before bed, a habit quickly formed after he’d moved into the Revello house. It’d only taken one incident to convince him of its necessity, a surprise visit from Dawn that ended with ear-piercing screaming...from the both of them. A bloody wake-up call, that was. They’d resolved never to bring it up, thank the gods, but it was still days before Dawn could look him in the eyes again.
Dawn’s eyes, wet and swollen and trained on him as if he were her sodding salvation, greeting him atop Glory’s platform--
It was too much. Sitting up, he let his head drop, ran both hands through his hair, then interlaced them behind his neck, willing the image to fade. A hundred and forty days since Buffy jumped, and he was still assuming the brace position. Living in her house, he saw her ghost everywhere, in every cherished memory and fresh discovery, no matter how mundane: the stairs of the back porch, where they had sat, enemy to enemy, in companionable silence; a dust-bunny-infested pompom behind the spare bedding, providing a glimpse into her past life, a hint of greater sacrifices yet to come; a Christmas ornament screenprinted with an old family portrait, with Dawn bundled up into a baby burrito in the arms of a much younger, more exuberant Joyce, next to a man with a smug smile who he assumed to be Hank, and Buffy, just a wee tyke, beaming at the camera in pigtails with pink bow-shaped barrettes.
He needed a sodding exorcism to end the torment of his guilty conscience. Appealing to the ghost of the woman he failed, he said to the echo of his own voice, “Every night I save you.”
For all the bloody good that did.
The egg roll was doing him a world of good.
Xander had found that his world view generally improved with the filling of his stomach, especially in the company of good friends, and even better when said friends were accommodating of his dietary preferences. Being the only male of the group had its perks, such as dining family-style. He was not missing Captain Peroxide and the friendly macho posturing of trying to out-spice each other with the over-application of Sichuan hot sauce--absolutely not.
“Anyone want the last egg roll?” He made a move for it while tossing up a cursory offer. It was halfway to his mouth when the three women shook their heads in tandem. Score! “What’s in it, anyway?” he said in between bites. “It’s so good!”
Anya had the answer ready. “MSG!”
Xander sighed in appreciation. “Delicious, deep-fried MSG…” he said in between bites, tipping the empty egg roll container just in case a sneaky egg roll was hiding under the flap.
“You love it so much,” said Willow with a smirk, “if you could, I bet you’d marry the egg roll!”
Anya’s eyes lit up. Uh-oh. “Hey! Speaking of which--” She sat up taller and reached for Xander’s hand.
“Speaking of which,” Xander talked over Anya, occupying his hand by grabbing the moo shu pork, “I think I’ve had enough egg rolls.” Anya looked murderous. He was going to pay for it later. Could they tell he was panicking? He racked his brain for a convincing segue. “And why are we having our usual Sunday Chinese, delicious though it is, at the Magic Box instead of the house, and on a Saturday night? And where is the Unevil Undead?”
Willow and Tara glanced at each other, looked away just as quickly, then put down their chopsticks in sync. That was a little creepy. Cute, but creepy.
Willow cleared her throat. “I’ve been thinking about life on the Hellmouth. Losing loved ones and strangers alike, year after year. Surviving demons and vampires and government conspiracies as if it was a normal part of life. Watching cemeteries expand beyond city limits. Aren’t you tired of all the deaths?”
Realization hit him like a ton of bricks. “You’re moving away,” said Xander, the moo shu pork suddenly losing its glamour.
“On the contrary,” said Willow, apparently startled that Xander had reached the wrong conclusion. “Xander, you may say that I’m all in. Uh, no more ground balls. I--I’m not going to strikeout looking. I may be a pinch hitter but I’m stepping up to the plate in the big leagues now. You’ll see--it’s going to be a whole new ball game!”
When nobody said anything, Willow continued, “Watch me throw the Hellmouth a curveball, hit it out of the park, and deliver a grand slam!” She thrust a small fist into the air. Tara peered at Xander and Anya in turn. Anya looked like she had added confusion to her rage. Willow waved her fist again, with extra conviction.
“Okay, Will?”
“Yeah?”
“First of all, no more baseball commentary for you.” said Xander. “You’re ODing on sports metaphors.”
Willow gave Xander a sheepish shrug.
“Secondly, I get it. Isn’t that why we rallied around the Slayer? We met her and with a collective heave of relief, we all cried, ‘Buffy Anne Summers, you’re our only hope!’ and pledged our undying loyalty to her and her cause. We’ve been fighting the good fight. We’ve even been winning, you know, big picture view. We lost Buffy, but we haven’t lost the fight.”
“But we can do so much more! Evil doesn’t play by the rules, why should we?” Impassioned and impatient, Willow jumped up. “We don’t have to take it. We don’t have to be resigned to death! We can be heroes!”
Xander leaned back. This take-charge Willow still took some getting-used-to. “Uhm, not sure with the recruitment vibe I’m getting from you. We’re already living the ‘Be all you can be’ life. All we’re lacking is a uniform. What’re you saying, Will?”
An audible indrawn breath, then Willow dropped the canon ball: “We are going to bring Buffy back!”
No dream, no matter how vivid, was going to bring Buffy back. This, Spike understood logically. Emotionally, however, bloody logic can bugger off before he knocked it arse over teakettle with a mean left hook. He willed the lingering dream to scarper, while simultaneous cravings battled for his attention. He needed a smoke to occupy his fidgeting fingers. A pint of blood to ease his hunger, tame his bloodthirst. A half bottle of top-shelf scotch, not to ring in oblivion--no, he’d need five times that, easy--but just enough to dull the longing for a certain dead Slayer, like cocooning a wicked blade with a pile of fluffy little cotton balls. He had the house to himself--Dawn was staying at Janice’s for the weekend, and the witches were God-knows-where, so he could finally be himself, which was apparently succumbing to vices. Some vampire he was, to be bound by his physical frailties. Or was it his humanity?
The white hats always took it for granted, how he hastened to dance to their every tune, as if being a vampire was optional, and behaving according to his nature merely a lifestyle choice. They never appreciated how isolating it was for him to betray his own kind, how much sheer willpower it took to get him to walk side-by-side with those happy meals on legs, even if he was muzzled by the chip, even as he saw them as brothers and sisters in arms. Right, he’d like to clock a timer on how long Xander would last carrying out his daily activities with a box of pizza alongside him before he’d cave in and devour the whole thing, social norms be damned.
Spike put the brakes on the brooding. He was no bloody ponce. The chip was forced on him by the Initiative, but throwing his lot in with the Slayer, that was on his own head. He’d told the Watcher that he’d remain in Sunnydale, looking after Dawn, taking up the slaying. That was exactly what he planned to do, even if it meant playing house with the humans. Fortunately for him, no new Slayer had been called to replace Buffy in guarding over the Hellmouth, disappointing sodding Quentin Travers. Well, good. Spike was relieved to have no baby Slayer dog his steps, cramp his style. No new Watcher to win over, to convince that he was on the side of Light.
Truth be told, the Scoobies seemed to accept him fine, since it had been Buffy who had handpicked him for Dawn’s protection. They way they acted, it was as if the Scoobies had canonized her to sainthood. In the early days following her demise, Buffy’s words had been quoted like true gospel. The endorsement from Giles had put the last nail in the coffin of his domestication. He wasn’t going to brood about how much of their acceptance was due to necessity--someone had to look after Dawn, to help keep up the ruse that Buffy was still alive and kicking her spinning crescent kicks. The bot had been handy for slaying as they watched each other’s back, but despite Red’s best effort, the bot’s babysitting programming had been woefully inadequate. The combination of her lack of cooking aptitude and her propensity for pyrotechnics was second only to the Slayer’s own. Spike would rather chance setting his hand on fire than risk the bot almost burning down the house. Again.
Without Buffy, Red took over the group in the power vacuum. There were bits of uncertainty here and there, of discussions and objections, but with each passing day Red’s status as interim leader solidified more. Pretty soon it was taken as read. Spike and Willow were never impolite to each other, but by tacit agreement, gave each other a wide berth. Just as well.
Spike gave the future a passing thought. Not sure how much further their lot could keep up the ruse, but for as long as he could get away with it, he was going to see to it that Dawn had someone watching over her. A reformed vampire amounted to piss poor material for a homemaker, but they’d muddle through, wouldn’t they? ‘Course he was not going to be a gormless git and sponge off the Summers savings, or what was left of it. Right. No bloody chance of him going corporate and turning into a nine-to-fiver, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t get himself gainfully employed while keeping strictly to the straight and narrow.
The filtered sunlight through the basement window was making him drowsy. Without Dawn to occupy his time, he fell back into bed, thinking of Buffy as he always did before letting his eyelids droop, his breathing ease. Blood and booze and smokes could wait. Now, he hoped for a more pleasant dream.
~ To Be Continued... ~