Fic: A Dance for Tomorrow (Buffy/Spike, PG13)
I was wrong, I think, about being able to write oodles of B/S. I -feel- their dynamic, pretty instinctively, but... Spike, basically... is rather far away from me. And it doesn't help that I don't know the canon as well as I should. And also, it took me months upon months to feel comfortable with H/D, to really get a feel for their voices, long after I had a feel for their dynamic. I dunno if I ever want to go through that for any other pairing ever again.
It's such a commitment, really, emotionally tuning yourself to characters that matter to you. Like you're playing an instrument and if you've got a good ear, you feel you need to hit all the notes just right. And for that, you need practice, practice, practice.
Anyway. So yeah, I wrote one, but it's not gonna be a habit.
Disclaimer: Buffy: the Vampire Slayer is mine. Except... not.
Author's Note: it was only a matter of time. A very, very short period of time, apparently. Heh. And, um... this takes place post "Chosen", and doesn't really have any spoilers for AtS, but... um... a bit. Not so much with the spoilers and more with the way too long character study. Though... well... like I said, some major references to the end of BtVS.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~ A Dance for Tomorrow.
London definitely wasn't all it was cracked up to be, Buffy decided. For one thing, why did it always have to be so -damp- all the time? Haven't they heard of the modern convenience called sunlight? And what was with the relentless wind in the summer? And then there was the rain... and the nightlife. That extra-special kind. Yeah, there was entirely too much about London that was familiar, though the alleyways were wider and smelled of old stone and older blood.
Vampires... oodles of them. No getting away after all, for Buffy Summers.
The damp probably explained the ridiculous numbers. And she thought the -Hellmouth- was bad. Nothing compared to the perfect breeding conditions that London offered... in spades.
Somehow, it felt like he was everywhere, even when he was nowhere.
The working plan was, Spike would be around. Couldn't get rid of him, could she? Wouldn't leave her alone for a freaking second. She had almost been starting to... who was she fooling. She had definitely gotten used to it. No fat grandchildren for them, but he could afford to be spendthrift with his time, and she could... count on him. She counted on that.
Nearly stumbling over a sleeping homeless bum, Buffy cursed under her breath. She wasn't in Sunnydale anymore. She'd almost forgotten what living in a big city was like, but even so... London was something else.
She leaned against a grimy wall, taking a few deep breaths. Taking her mind off things was probably a good idea. Why did she think that her little errand for Giles would distract her? Instead, it just made her think of her old life and her old issues and more than anything, it made her notice that this was really too fucking cold for Sunnydale.
She didn't need a man. She didn't need anyone. She was fine; she was stronger than this.
Buffy shook her head, trying to clear it. Too much alcohol and it wasn't even midnight yet, her errand still undone. She laughed. Giles was so transparent about trying to keep her busy, with his attempts to be gentle and inconspicuous and -there- for her. A part of her was even really touched. It was just that it didn't -matter-.
Those first few weeks after the almost-apocalypse, she had thought retirement sounded pretty good. Her energy had been both bubbling madly and on an all time low at the same time. She was confused. She needed time to think. She needed....
Yeah. Spike. Who'd had the nerve to quibble when she finally caved, the freak! "No, you don't." Yeah, right. Because Spike was the All-knowing, the All-mighty, the god of vampires. That golden light had really gone to his head, hadn't it? Buffy wiped a tear away sloppily and pushed away from the wall, resuming her walk and continuing to ignore the minor irritation of all the constant crying.
Maybe that was part of the Slayer's job description too: make stupid vampires fall in love with you, then make with the leaving once they'd softened you up. Wasn't as quick and to the so-called point as just biting her, but it was certainly equally effective. They should've put a warning in the training manual: "Danger: dust the vamp before he loves you."
Buffy was bitter as all hell, and she reserved the right to mock at will. It was one of her most important rights. Right up there with liberty, the freedom to stake. shopping and the American Way.
No one had bothered to inform her, to stop the inconvenient crying jags and all that happy stuff, had they? Too bad she hadn't gotten the memo till today, terribly sorry. Probably just a clerical error. Spike was still kind of dead, but also not as dead as he could be. Back to being gloriously undead. Then again, since when was that news? Dead, undead, only semi-dead-- same diff, right? When you're the Slayer, anyway. Just "a" Slayer, these days, thanks to Willow.
She'd been in the appointed demon bar, waiting until she spotted her current quarry. She liked to think she had a lot more patience these days. It seemed she was early, but that just meant she had the time to appreciate the ambiance. Such as it was.
"Yer the Slayer?"
She had turned around, seeing a demon sit down next to her at the bar. Guess he hadn't heard about the new world order, then. Buffy realized would've left without another word, but there was just something about its manner. Chatty, but in an earnest sort of way. Did demons just come here to gossip? Was he baiting her? Was he about to try and eat her, protocol be damned?
Eh. What did she have to lose? "Yeah... who wants to know?"
The demon didn't give any clue with his expression. Then again, demons didn't really have more than one expression, did they? For a minute, Buffy thought he wasn't going to reply, but the demon was just getting his fill of staring at her, apparently. Not every day a Slayer came 'round, she supposed. "No one yeh'll need to concern yourself with, girlie. Y'know that Spike fellow, eh?" And then there was the magic word. Yeah, she was easy these days.
Buffy's heart had started slamming in her chest like mad, but she'd kept her face impassive. Yeah, she supposed she knew him. And that was where a really lame pun would go in her head if Buffy had been so inclined.
"To my everlasting regret. Yeah. I did. I knew him. And then he dusted. You know how it goes, don't you?" She'd smiled a thin smile. "Slayer. Vampire. Can't end well."
She was here for information, wasn't she? Not necessarily in -this- particular direction, but... no reason to alienate the clientele just yet. Polite was the word.
"So yeh've not heard--?"
"Heard what?" Buffy said carefully.
The demon made some sort of hissing, rumbling noise, making the counter's surface fairly buzz at the sound. Was he -laughing- at her? Demons laughed at her now?
"Figured yeh'd be the first to know, Slayer," the demon had said. Yeah, well, he wasn't the only one. Funny how that worked. 'Course, it'd help to know what, exactly, she was supposed to know.
"Um?" she said intelligently. "Help me out here. Not seeing the connection."
"They said yer his girl. I s'pose they lied." The demon focused its glowing green eyes on her. "Not good enough for him, were yeh?" it rumbled slowly. "A healthy vamp's too much for a lil girl, that's what I told 'em. Didn't believe me. Said y'were quite the prize in the sack, Slayer." Another weird buzzing noise. Was he -leering-? Was it even a he?
Buffy shuddered, groaning under her breath. Oh God, just what she needed. More of a reputation. Such a well-informed demon it was, too. Oooh, nice horns, she thought.
"Look, can we not go there? Because, trying to get drunk, not throw up right on the counter, ya know?"
Now she -knew- he was laughing. And it couldn't possibly be anything but a he. "I know how it goes. Haven't gotten any in a few months, eh? Gettin' restless. Too bad he's no use to yeh now, what with the--"
"What do you mean, 'now'?" she interrupted.
"Hrrmm... dunno if I should spill. What's innit for me, Slayer?"
Buffy just looked at him. Lip from sundry horny demons. -So- not what she needed right now. "Okay then," he said quickly. "Thing is-- I was on an errand, no biggie. Nice pay-off, nothin' strenuous, 'sides the bit o' travel. Travel's nice though, ainnit? 'Specially to such a sweet warm place. The air's drippin' with it. Whole city's like a nice... hot..."
"I get it, I get it!" Buffy cried.
"...bath." The demon's eyes twinkled a bit rakishly. He probably thought that line worked with all the girls. "Point bein', it felt a bit like home, y'know? Took me to -his- place. And what d'yeh know? Slayer's loverboy's been hanging around the ugly-- Angel, was it? Hossat for a laugh?"
"Would you get to the point?" She was trying not to grit her teeth too loudly. Still not connecting. "I am well aware Spike and Angel know each other, thanks. I'll just be going, if it's all the same then...."
"Patience, girl. Patience!" The demon expelled a smelly gust of air from its floppy folds of skin that appeared to pass for nostrils. "As I was sayin'... boy's no good to yeh now. Yer pretty little fingers would pass right through, girl. Yep. Just a trick. A soul without the edible bits. How sad's that?"
"He's a--" Buffy choked on the word 'alive', feeling quite light-headed quite suddenly. It was a good thing she was sitting down. Of course he wasn't -alive-. How stupid could she be? It took a minute to actually speak past the golfball now lodged in her throat. "You're lying!" She got halfway up off the stool, fingers going to her belt. Maybe they could take this outside. She hadn't practiced for a little while now.
"Don't much care if yeh believe me, Slayer. Yer not gonna cry, are yeh? 'Cause I like me women tough, y'know. Gotta be able to handle the... goods." He cupped the funky purplish growth between his scaly legs.
That's when Buffy leaped up from her stool, thinking it was just about time she got a lungful of some refreshing London smog.
"It's not important! Really!" she cried, pulling some stupid imitation of a smile on her face. "Thanks for the info anyway, er--?"
"Billeh," he grunted, slitted eyes glinting at her. Buffy nodded a bit stiffly, itching to run as fast as she could in any direction whatsoever. But she was still a Slayer. No running allowed.
"I'll keep that in mind." Okay, don't panic. Buffy unwound her fingers from her glass with painful precision. He could be lying. Or he could not be. Then there was the "somewhere in between" option, of course. Whatever the truth was, she should... she should call Giles... or Willow... or, there's a thought. Angel. Yeah. No reason to go off half-cocked and such.
"Careful o'that green stuff they have on tap, eh? Take me word for it. Give yeh a bitta heartburn, I hear."
"Mm 'kay," Buffy said, backing away and shaking her head a bit too vigorously. She was already reaching for her cell-phone. Right. First things first. Get out of the the bar. Fresh air would help. That's it.
Distantly, Buffy thought she was going to get metaphysical whiplash if this kept up. She had to sit down. Maybe she should just-- sit down here, by the nice garbage can. Close her eyes. Rest a bit.
Spike was-- Spike was-- Spike....
She could admit it. She was a big girl. She'd handled worse, right?
Spike was back. In LA. Right this minute. Right-- fucking-- now.
It was all she could do not start running right then, only stopping once she'd somehow gotten across the ocean between them, whatever it took. No. -He- came to -her-. That's how it went. It was the way of things... except "things" were kind of different now, apparently.
She had to breathe. Breathing was of the good.
Time for another drink, preferably not at a demon bar this time.
Also, Giles. Most likely to not give her grief about this as well as know what's up. Really couldn't deal with Angel right now, in any case.
Stumbling a bit against unnamed largeish objects around her, Buffy managed to calm down enough to sound almost normal. She could handle this, she knew that. She checked her watch. Of course, it had to be almost 3 in the morning by now, but what could you do. At least it wasn't long-distance.
She knew she'd sound almost normal when he picked up, mumbling something like "'Ello?"
"Giles?"
"Buffy?!" His voice jolted into wakefulness. "Where are you? What's wrong? Did you already find the--"
"Is it true?" she cut in. Why bother with a preamble? Her voice was remarkably steady, she noted. She honestly wouldn't have been able to say which answer she'd wanted right then, later. Tell me everything is all right, she wanted to say. Tell me none of us are the walking dead. That would work.
"Is what true, Buffy?" he said softly. Too carefully, she thought. Suddenly, Giles sounded more tired than she'd heard him in months. She already knew, even as she gathered up the breath to repeat the question.
"You -know-," she accused.
"Well, yes, but it's not what you must think. He--"
Her hand fell limply away from her ear, and it was with a distant sort of surprise that she realized she was still holding on to the phone at all. She didn't hear the rest of the sentence. It's true, she thought numbly. Giles said so... must be true. Simple, wasn't it?
"Buffy? Buffy, can you hear me--? You know where I am, right? We should all talk tomorrow-- what do you say? I'll call the others. Buffy?"
She couldn't speak. Her mouth opened and closed several times. and for some reason, her concentration was utterly absorbed in the flickering neon light from the shop windows around her. She'd been leaning against the window of an all-night coffee-and-donut chain store, and some old guy nursing a coffee-mug was beginning to turn his head in her direction with a sort of bovine curiosity. She had to leave. She had to get away, she thought, jolting out of her trance and starting to walk briskly forward.
"I can't talk about this right now. I'm sorry, Giles."
Almost as an afterthought, she snapped the cell-phone shut.
Buffy's thoughts careened in buzzing little circles, like a tiny army of angry mosquitoes. She wobbled around, heading in the direction of that human-looking club she'd passed on her way. Not so much in the mood for dancing, but the noise would be good. As long as it wasn't punk, she was okay with any kind of music-- or noise, as the case may be.
She really hated punk, though. Yep. Buffy giggled. Good thing she was really rather drunk right now, though for some reason none of this seemed any less real.
She'd kind of missed hating him, though usually she'd just been blessedly numb. Most days she'd woken up wishing it had all been a bad dream. She was finding a newfound respect for Spike, holding all of that in during that summer while she was gone. The problem was-- there was nothing, really, to -distract- her. Life was mundane. Almost smooth. It was awful, realizing she had time to -think- now. No real way to burn off all her energy. No vampire to drive her insane. Every Friday night was hers to watch TV and reassure people yet again that no, she didn't want to go out right now, maybe later.
She really didn't -try- to watch any of his favorite shows. She didn't try to see Spike in every bleached blond head she passed. She just did.
It was starting to seriously piss her off. The stray soda can went flying about fifty feet, disappearing into the night.
Spike. William. Not exactly the same old, same old Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde deal anymore. He'd been different and the same at the same time, and somehow, all the fight had drained out of her with the first look. Those deeper currents in him-- she could always sense them. It was just that finally they'd all been bubbling close to the surface. Almost lending a sort of warmth to him. No more games. Just... Spike.
He would've said he was just hers.
She'd thought she had known exactly who he was, and then she felt like she'd had no idea, really. More than once, Buffy found herself wondering if her life was ever going to get less confusing. It would at least help if the dead would stay dead, wouldn't it? Possibly, this was a moot point if the dead were undead to start with. Buffy wasn't sure about that either. Her head was starting to pound, though, so there was that.
Everything was so messy when he'd come back with the soul. All hurt looks and vulnerable posture and it felt like someone was rattling her ribcage. She'd have thought it was the soul, but she'd seen it before, in glimpses, when she hadn't been trying too hard to look away. He was so alive and so in pain, even breathing the air around him made her ache a little. God, she'd wanted him. He could probably smell it on her-- she'd seen his nostrils flare, and that tell-tale tick in his jaw. She felt so guilty, too. His pain wasn't supposed to do that to her. The thought that he needed her used to make her want to scrub her body down with harsh bristles. This Spike had looked like he'd break if she touched him the wrong way, and she'd probably deserved that, but she didn't want to break him at all. She'd just wanted to hold him. Hold him and not let go anymore.
He hadn't done more than look, though. She'd kept expecting him to snap, to jump her, all that time, and he didn't. Didn't lay a hand on her. Asshole. Always had to make things difficult, didn't he. She couldn't blame him, of course. She knew it wasn't even the soul that was to blame. And allowing herself to let him see her-- really see her-- that was intimate enough already. More intimate than they'd been before, right? One step at a time. They weren't going to hurt each other this round. This was foreplay, that's all... dancing just like before. God, everything was foreplay with them, she thought.
She hadn't especially been surprised when she'd accidentally found that beat-up old journal, tucked neatly beneath his mattress. She'd even seen him writing in it once or twice when he thought no one was looking. Or maybe it was just her he kept no secrets from. Sometimes Buffy wished she -could- wear her heart on her sleeve, even if only for one night... maybe then she wouldn't be so consumed with regret right now. Consumed with what if's and virtually bursting with the need to -tell- someone, like she'd told Spike when she'd come back. Except there was no one to tell.
It was almost ironic, because one could say she'd been living with his ghost for months now. Sometimes she still woke up expecting to turn over in bed and find him facing her, because he'd never been able to fall asleep with his back to her. Her body remembered him even when she didn't, aching to curl around a Spike-shaped pillow, almost expecting to feel that particular tingle that always came with his eyes on the back of her neck. She would've thought he could tell that she'd been telling him those three little words with the way she touched him for days and months, with the way she didn't look away anymore, with the way she stepped closer and closer, completely comfortable in his presence. A part of her had thought-- hoped-- feared-- that he could just read her like an open book.
Buffy had torn out that one page carefully from his silly journal the night before. She would put it back if-- when-- they came back. Just a good luck charm, that was it. Maybe she would tell him when they came back. It certainly gave her something to look forward to, didn't it? Just do this one little thing, and she was home free. Free to-- maybe-- possibly-- perhaps tell him. One day, she'd thought. One day, there'd be no more running, and nowhere she could imagine wanting to run to, except into him, against him, at him. No more cookie-dough. Just... cookies. Not even bitter cookies. Spike-and-Buffy-shaped cookies, all ready to eat.
Nearly at her chosen dance club, Buffy laughed bitterly, lost in the memory. Bitter cookies, indeed. She really should stop with the cookie analogy before she found herself writing cookie poems in journals.
The bouncer looked at her warily. "You look a bit sloshed already, Ma'am." Because obviously, she hadn't noticed.
"Just let me in, all right? I'm not in the mood for this right now." Buffy pulled a few more buttons open on her blouse. That should do it.
"Uhhh--" His eyes glazed over immediately. Men. Can't live with 'em, can't stake 'em unless they're demon-spawn. "Go-- go on, then," he finally managed.
"Thaaaaanks, Mister," she whispered, leaning closer to him, then danced around and ducked behind his bulky frame. Too easy.
Buffy's hand went automatically to the back-pocket of her jeans. There it was, still, distracting her from the colored flashes and the sweaty bodies and the god-awful noise. The stupid slip of paper with his scent on it. She supposed Spike didn't really smell like that anymore. Didn't smell like anything. Not that he'd ever had much of an aroma besides the leather and the cigarettes, not to mention the lingering tang of blood. Never quite left his mouth, that taste. Buffy shared it every time she'd kissed him.
Without really thinking about what she was doing, she retreated to the farthest, darkest corner of the place. Didn't actually want to be around people at the moment. Though you could scream quite loudly here before anyone would grow concerned. Every place had a bonus. Tiny little trickles of pointless luck that didn't change a thing.
She remembered slipping the page into a pocket, some part of her feeling its crinkly, delicate presence as she'd fought, without even being aware of that extra tiny trickle of strength.
What was even more embarrassing was that she still hadn't read it, really. A part of her thought that it'd be -over- somehow, if she did. That's it. No more mystery. Nothing to look forward to. No more Spike.
Now, she stared blindly at the jagged lines, the messy scribbles and crossed out patches, various blood-stains splattered everywhere, not needing to see them to know they were there. She couldn't read through the wavering in her eyes anyway-- all the lines kept dancing and her fingers kept moving, always moving. She never got any rest, especially in the dark. She was tired. So tired. All she'd wanted was to rest, but a Slayer never got to wish for things like that. Hey, that's how the cookie crumbles, right?
They would ask, for course. Just let yourself go, Buffy. Just let go, you'll feel better.
And of course, she would answer. No, she was all right. She always had been before, in the end.
It was all she could do not to burst out laughing, remembering it. Because how funny was that? Her instinct had been to go talk to Spike, this past summer. And it would've been just too hilarious if she -could- have, too. Back when she was screwing him into the ground every night, she'd kind of missed that. Being able to look him in the eye without wanting to choke and start running from herself-- or the person she'd let him make her. Didn't matter.
She remembered how he'd told her about the dreams, when she'd come back. Those dreams where he did something differently and it was okay, where he was enough to save her. She'd never had dreams like that, had she? No. Instead, she just saw his face on fire, and the look of joy and wonder in his eyes, as if he was doing exactly what he wanted, and she couldn't begrudge him this one last thing, right? She wasn't that selfish. She may need him around, but this was bigger than them. This wasn't about her-- she knew that. She had to let it go.
Get a bloody grip, Slayer.
She could almost hear it, too. Ah, the good old days, when Spike was a selfish fucking bastard, end of story. Were things really so much simpler a few years ago, or was it that she'd been younger? Buffy's head hurt if she thought about it, so mostly she didn't.
"For Buffy," it said at the top of the page. Buffy still couldn't see it through the rhythmic flashes of the so-called ambient lighting in the club, but she knew that much by heart. That's what had caught her eye in the first place, anyway. It was -for- her, so it was practically hers anyway, wasn't it?
Buffy blinked. It occurred to her that she'd never actually told him to stay... undead for her. Maybe he had, anyway. The thought almost made her smile. She did remember telling him she wasn't ready for him to leave yet, so she had been pretty clear on the subject after all. She still wasn't ready for that, she thought.
It figured that it had taken some stupid horny demon to tell her the happy news. Clearly, she was high up on the list of her ex-boyfriends' priorities these days. Buffy suppressed a maudlin sniffle. This was really getting out of hand.
She considered calling Angel, demanding-- something. What?
She still wasn't buzzed enough to deal with this yet. Buffy's stomach felt hollow, swirling sluggishly with way too much booze. She was probably going to throw up soon. A perfect cap to the brilliant night so far.
He didn't tell her. How could they -both- not have told her? How was she going to forgive them this? Why was -she- always the one saddled with the whoppers, anyway? Where had the cowboys gone?
Buffy crumpled up the delicate piece of paper in her fist, wishing she could grind it into dust. She probably could, come to think of it. On the other hand, maybe she should read it first. Buffy stumbled around, looking for a bathroom. Better lighting conditions and hey, could throw up at the same time. Two thrill-rides for the price of one.
Miraculously, there wasn't any ongoing sex at the moment, though there had been quite recently, by the smell of it. Kind of a proper venue to read Spike's little... thing. Buffy made the mistake of taking a deep breath and her eyes watered. Throwing up first, then.
Splashing some water on her face afterwards, Buffy paused to stare at her reflection in the dingy mirror. Still there. Looked a lot like a ghost, though, what with the lanky dull hair and the shadows beneath her eyes. Not to mention the ghoulish twist to her mouth. Perfect. -Now- she remembered why she never got drunk alone. Buffy laughed weakly.
Well, no more procrastinating. Might as well lean against the nice tiled wall and utilize the lovely fluorescent light-bulbs so thoughtfully provided even though they flickered something awful. She sighed, wondering how she'd come to this. Oh, right. He's dead. Except not. Yay.
And who was at their mental best after throwing up three times and drinking more in one night than they had the whole rest of their lives, anyway? She had excuses, dammit.
Buffy bit her bottom lip anxiously. It was just a stupid poem. What was wrong with her? And no, she wasn't going to start crying again. Just say no. Okay then. Good. She was good. Right.
"I'd wait small eternities if you had only asked," he'd written in that careful script.
That was just the beginning, of course. Lots more self-proclaimed Bloody Awful Poetry to go.
"But I'd live or die for you always.
Even I have ceased believing in forever, love
Yet tomorrow and tomorrow again, I'll stay
Between you and your death, Slayer.
All my eternities, large and small, and no pretense.
If I could, I'd lay them at your feet in silence--
I couldn't stop answering; you don't need to ask.
No goodbyes between us, and no regrets--
The dance is never done until the dust had settled,
For I'd not trade the world for a reflection
Still wishing for a single memory of you--
Already mine."
Buffy had to close her eyes. Too much. Too much. This wasn't-- it just wasn't.... It wasn't him, was it?
Or maybe it was. No going back now. She'd seen him in the end, hadn't she? And she'd told him what she thought, seeing his reflection. The light... all that light... she could still see it pouring out of him, any time she shut her eyes.
Maybe this was how he wanted it, and he was trying to tell her something with his silence... something about waiting, or letting go... or trust. The thought made her stomach clench something awful yet again, but she took deep breaths, focusing on that light. It was so... so beautiful. Or maybe that wasn't the light.
Maybe he was just an asshole with insecurity issues. Simple as could be.
Without even thinking of what she was doing, Buffy fished out a pen from another pocket and started to write on the other side of the tattered paper, smoothing it down on her thigh. She was already picturing the look on Spike's face when he got actual mail. Possibly even better: the look on Angel's face when he found out who said mail was from. Buffy giggled a tad hysterically.
Something made her pause before she wrote the S. Buffy blinked, and then as carefully as she could, she wrote "William", feeling a tiny, inexcplicable thrill run through her as she did. She couldn't actually write him anything substantial. Or maybe his name was the substantial thing. Or... maybe she wanted to see what would happen if they looked at each other at the same time. That was all. No words necessary. No touching. That was a good thing now, too. Because. Well.... That.
Very slowly, Buffy began to smile, almost dreamily.
"Show yourself to me. When it's time," she wrote finally, folding up the paper, unable to keep still. "I can wait now."
She didn't know quite what she meant, but maybe he could tell her. Slipping the battered piece of paper back in her pocket, Buffy headed out towards the light and the noise. She wanted to dance.
~~
It's such a commitment, really, emotionally tuning yourself to characters that matter to you. Like you're playing an instrument and if you've got a good ear, you feel you need to hit all the notes just right. And for that, you need practice, practice, practice.
Anyway. So yeah, I wrote one, but it's not gonna be a habit.
Disclaimer: Buffy: the Vampire Slayer is mine. Except... not.
Author's Note: it was only a matter of time. A very, very short period of time, apparently. Heh. And, um... this takes place post "Chosen", and doesn't really have any spoilers for AtS, but... um... a bit. Not so much with the spoilers and more with the way too long character study. Though... well... like I said, some major references to the end of BtVS.
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~~ A Dance for Tomorrow.
London definitely wasn't all it was cracked up to be, Buffy decided. For one thing, why did it always have to be so -damp- all the time? Haven't they heard of the modern convenience called sunlight? And what was with the relentless wind in the summer? And then there was the rain... and the nightlife. That extra-special kind. Yeah, there was entirely too much about London that was familiar, though the alleyways were wider and smelled of old stone and older blood.
Vampires... oodles of them. No getting away after all, for Buffy Summers.
The damp probably explained the ridiculous numbers. And she thought the -Hellmouth- was bad. Nothing compared to the perfect breeding conditions that London offered... in spades.
Somehow, it felt like he was everywhere, even when he was nowhere.
The working plan was, Spike would be around. Couldn't get rid of him, could she? Wouldn't leave her alone for a freaking second. She had almost been starting to... who was she fooling. She had definitely gotten used to it. No fat grandchildren for them, but he could afford to be spendthrift with his time, and she could... count on him. She counted on that.
Nearly stumbling over a sleeping homeless bum, Buffy cursed under her breath. She wasn't in Sunnydale anymore. She'd almost forgotten what living in a big city was like, but even so... London was something else.
She leaned against a grimy wall, taking a few deep breaths. Taking her mind off things was probably a good idea. Why did she think that her little errand for Giles would distract her? Instead, it just made her think of her old life and her old issues and more than anything, it made her notice that this was really too fucking cold for Sunnydale.
She didn't need a man. She didn't need anyone. She was fine; she was stronger than this.
Buffy shook her head, trying to clear it. Too much alcohol and it wasn't even midnight yet, her errand still undone. She laughed. Giles was so transparent about trying to keep her busy, with his attempts to be gentle and inconspicuous and -there- for her. A part of her was even really touched. It was just that it didn't -matter-.
Those first few weeks after the almost-apocalypse, she had thought retirement sounded pretty good. Her energy had been both bubbling madly and on an all time low at the same time. She was confused. She needed time to think. She needed....
Yeah. Spike. Who'd had the nerve to quibble when she finally caved, the freak! "No, you don't." Yeah, right. Because Spike was the All-knowing, the All-mighty, the god of vampires. That golden light had really gone to his head, hadn't it? Buffy wiped a tear away sloppily and pushed away from the wall, resuming her walk and continuing to ignore the minor irritation of all the constant crying.
Maybe that was part of the Slayer's job description too: make stupid vampires fall in love with you, then make with the leaving once they'd softened you up. Wasn't as quick and to the so-called point as just biting her, but it was certainly equally effective. They should've put a warning in the training manual: "Danger: dust the vamp before he loves you."
Buffy was bitter as all hell, and she reserved the right to mock at will. It was one of her most important rights. Right up there with liberty, the freedom to stake. shopping and the American Way.
No one had bothered to inform her, to stop the inconvenient crying jags and all that happy stuff, had they? Too bad she hadn't gotten the memo till today, terribly sorry. Probably just a clerical error. Spike was still kind of dead, but also not as dead as he could be. Back to being gloriously undead. Then again, since when was that news? Dead, undead, only semi-dead-- same diff, right? When you're the Slayer, anyway. Just "a" Slayer, these days, thanks to Willow.
She'd been in the appointed demon bar, waiting until she spotted her current quarry. She liked to think she had a lot more patience these days. It seemed she was early, but that just meant she had the time to appreciate the ambiance. Such as it was.
"Yer the Slayer?"
She had turned around, seeing a demon sit down next to her at the bar. Guess he hadn't heard about the new world order, then. Buffy realized would've left without another word, but there was just something about its manner. Chatty, but in an earnest sort of way. Did demons just come here to gossip? Was he baiting her? Was he about to try and eat her, protocol be damned?
Eh. What did she have to lose? "Yeah... who wants to know?"
The demon didn't give any clue with his expression. Then again, demons didn't really have more than one expression, did they? For a minute, Buffy thought he wasn't going to reply, but the demon was just getting his fill of staring at her, apparently. Not every day a Slayer came 'round, she supposed. "No one yeh'll need to concern yourself with, girlie. Y'know that Spike fellow, eh?" And then there was the magic word. Yeah, she was easy these days.
Buffy's heart had started slamming in her chest like mad, but she'd kept her face impassive. Yeah, she supposed she knew him. And that was where a really lame pun would go in her head if Buffy had been so inclined.
"To my everlasting regret. Yeah. I did. I knew him. And then he dusted. You know how it goes, don't you?" She'd smiled a thin smile. "Slayer. Vampire. Can't end well."
She was here for information, wasn't she? Not necessarily in -this- particular direction, but... no reason to alienate the clientele just yet. Polite was the word.
"So yeh've not heard--?"
"Heard what?" Buffy said carefully.
The demon made some sort of hissing, rumbling noise, making the counter's surface fairly buzz at the sound. Was he -laughing- at her? Demons laughed at her now?
"Figured yeh'd be the first to know, Slayer," the demon had said. Yeah, well, he wasn't the only one. Funny how that worked. 'Course, it'd help to know what, exactly, she was supposed to know.
"Um?" she said intelligently. "Help me out here. Not seeing the connection."
"They said yer his girl. I s'pose they lied." The demon focused its glowing green eyes on her. "Not good enough for him, were yeh?" it rumbled slowly. "A healthy vamp's too much for a lil girl, that's what I told 'em. Didn't believe me. Said y'were quite the prize in the sack, Slayer." Another weird buzzing noise. Was he -leering-? Was it even a he?
Buffy shuddered, groaning under her breath. Oh God, just what she needed. More of a reputation. Such a well-informed demon it was, too. Oooh, nice horns, she thought.
"Look, can we not go there? Because, trying to get drunk, not throw up right on the counter, ya know?"
Now she -knew- he was laughing. And it couldn't possibly be anything but a he. "I know how it goes. Haven't gotten any in a few months, eh? Gettin' restless. Too bad he's no use to yeh now, what with the--"
"What do you mean, 'now'?" she interrupted.
"Hrrmm... dunno if I should spill. What's innit for me, Slayer?"
Buffy just looked at him. Lip from sundry horny demons. -So- not what she needed right now. "Okay then," he said quickly. "Thing is-- I was on an errand, no biggie. Nice pay-off, nothin' strenuous, 'sides the bit o' travel. Travel's nice though, ainnit? 'Specially to such a sweet warm place. The air's drippin' with it. Whole city's like a nice... hot..."
"I get it, I get it!" Buffy cried.
"...bath." The demon's eyes twinkled a bit rakishly. He probably thought that line worked with all the girls. "Point bein', it felt a bit like home, y'know? Took me to -his- place. And what d'yeh know? Slayer's loverboy's been hanging around the ugly-- Angel, was it? Hossat for a laugh?"
"Would you get to the point?" She was trying not to grit her teeth too loudly. Still not connecting. "I am well aware Spike and Angel know each other, thanks. I'll just be going, if it's all the same then...."
"Patience, girl. Patience!" The demon expelled a smelly gust of air from its floppy folds of skin that appeared to pass for nostrils. "As I was sayin'... boy's no good to yeh now. Yer pretty little fingers would pass right through, girl. Yep. Just a trick. A soul without the edible bits. How sad's that?"
"He's a--" Buffy choked on the word 'alive', feeling quite light-headed quite suddenly. It was a good thing she was sitting down. Of course he wasn't -alive-. How stupid could she be? It took a minute to actually speak past the golfball now lodged in her throat. "You're lying!" She got halfway up off the stool, fingers going to her belt. Maybe they could take this outside. She hadn't practiced for a little while now.
"Don't much care if yeh believe me, Slayer. Yer not gonna cry, are yeh? 'Cause I like me women tough, y'know. Gotta be able to handle the... goods." He cupped the funky purplish growth between his scaly legs.
That's when Buffy leaped up from her stool, thinking it was just about time she got a lungful of some refreshing London smog.
"It's not important! Really!" she cried, pulling some stupid imitation of a smile on her face. "Thanks for the info anyway, er--?"
"Billeh," he grunted, slitted eyes glinting at her. Buffy nodded a bit stiffly, itching to run as fast as she could in any direction whatsoever. But she was still a Slayer. No running allowed.
"I'll keep that in mind." Okay, don't panic. Buffy unwound her fingers from her glass with painful precision. He could be lying. Or he could not be. Then there was the "somewhere in between" option, of course. Whatever the truth was, she should... she should call Giles... or Willow... or, there's a thought. Angel. Yeah. No reason to go off half-cocked and such.
"Careful o'that green stuff they have on tap, eh? Take me word for it. Give yeh a bitta heartburn, I hear."
"Mm 'kay," Buffy said, backing away and shaking her head a bit too vigorously. She was already reaching for her cell-phone. Right. First things first. Get out of the the bar. Fresh air would help. That's it.
Distantly, Buffy thought she was going to get metaphysical whiplash if this kept up. She had to sit down. Maybe she should just-- sit down here, by the nice garbage can. Close her eyes. Rest a bit.
Spike was-- Spike was-- Spike....
She could admit it. She was a big girl. She'd handled worse, right?
Spike was back. In LA. Right this minute. Right-- fucking-- now.
It was all she could do not start running right then, only stopping once she'd somehow gotten across the ocean between them, whatever it took. No. -He- came to -her-. That's how it went. It was the way of things... except "things" were kind of different now, apparently.
She had to breathe. Breathing was of the good.
Time for another drink, preferably not at a demon bar this time.
Also, Giles. Most likely to not give her grief about this as well as know what's up. Really couldn't deal with Angel right now, in any case.
Stumbling a bit against unnamed largeish objects around her, Buffy managed to calm down enough to sound almost normal. She could handle this, she knew that. She checked her watch. Of course, it had to be almost 3 in the morning by now, but what could you do. At least it wasn't long-distance.
She knew she'd sound almost normal when he picked up, mumbling something like "'Ello?"
"Giles?"
"Buffy?!" His voice jolted into wakefulness. "Where are you? What's wrong? Did you already find the--"
"Is it true?" she cut in. Why bother with a preamble? Her voice was remarkably steady, she noted. She honestly wouldn't have been able to say which answer she'd wanted right then, later. Tell me everything is all right, she wanted to say. Tell me none of us are the walking dead. That would work.
"Is what true, Buffy?" he said softly. Too carefully, she thought. Suddenly, Giles sounded more tired than she'd heard him in months. She already knew, even as she gathered up the breath to repeat the question.
"You -know-," she accused.
"Well, yes, but it's not what you must think. He--"
Her hand fell limply away from her ear, and it was with a distant sort of surprise that she realized she was still holding on to the phone at all. She didn't hear the rest of the sentence. It's true, she thought numbly. Giles said so... must be true. Simple, wasn't it?
"Buffy? Buffy, can you hear me--? You know where I am, right? We should all talk tomorrow-- what do you say? I'll call the others. Buffy?"
She couldn't speak. Her mouth opened and closed several times. and for some reason, her concentration was utterly absorbed in the flickering neon light from the shop windows around her. She'd been leaning against the window of an all-night coffee-and-donut chain store, and some old guy nursing a coffee-mug was beginning to turn his head in her direction with a sort of bovine curiosity. She had to leave. She had to get away, she thought, jolting out of her trance and starting to walk briskly forward.
"I can't talk about this right now. I'm sorry, Giles."
Almost as an afterthought, she snapped the cell-phone shut.
Buffy's thoughts careened in buzzing little circles, like a tiny army of angry mosquitoes. She wobbled around, heading in the direction of that human-looking club she'd passed on her way. Not so much in the mood for dancing, but the noise would be good. As long as it wasn't punk, she was okay with any kind of music-- or noise, as the case may be.
She really hated punk, though. Yep. Buffy giggled. Good thing she was really rather drunk right now, though for some reason none of this seemed any less real.
She'd kind of missed hating him, though usually she'd just been blessedly numb. Most days she'd woken up wishing it had all been a bad dream. She was finding a newfound respect for Spike, holding all of that in during that summer while she was gone. The problem was-- there was nothing, really, to -distract- her. Life was mundane. Almost smooth. It was awful, realizing she had time to -think- now. No real way to burn off all her energy. No vampire to drive her insane. Every Friday night was hers to watch TV and reassure people yet again that no, she didn't want to go out right now, maybe later.
She really didn't -try- to watch any of his favorite shows. She didn't try to see Spike in every bleached blond head she passed. She just did.
It was starting to seriously piss her off. The stray soda can went flying about fifty feet, disappearing into the night.
Spike. William. Not exactly the same old, same old Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde deal anymore. He'd been different and the same at the same time, and somehow, all the fight had drained out of her with the first look. Those deeper currents in him-- she could always sense them. It was just that finally they'd all been bubbling close to the surface. Almost lending a sort of warmth to him. No more games. Just... Spike.
He would've said he was just hers.
She'd thought she had known exactly who he was, and then she felt like she'd had no idea, really. More than once, Buffy found herself wondering if her life was ever going to get less confusing. It would at least help if the dead would stay dead, wouldn't it? Possibly, this was a moot point if the dead were undead to start with. Buffy wasn't sure about that either. Her head was starting to pound, though, so there was that.
Everything was so messy when he'd come back with the soul. All hurt looks and vulnerable posture and it felt like someone was rattling her ribcage. She'd have thought it was the soul, but she'd seen it before, in glimpses, when she hadn't been trying too hard to look away. He was so alive and so in pain, even breathing the air around him made her ache a little. God, she'd wanted him. He could probably smell it on her-- she'd seen his nostrils flare, and that tell-tale tick in his jaw. She felt so guilty, too. His pain wasn't supposed to do that to her. The thought that he needed her used to make her want to scrub her body down with harsh bristles. This Spike had looked like he'd break if she touched him the wrong way, and she'd probably deserved that, but she didn't want to break him at all. She'd just wanted to hold him. Hold him and not let go anymore.
He hadn't done more than look, though. She'd kept expecting him to snap, to jump her, all that time, and he didn't. Didn't lay a hand on her. Asshole. Always had to make things difficult, didn't he. She couldn't blame him, of course. She knew it wasn't even the soul that was to blame. And allowing herself to let him see her-- really see her-- that was intimate enough already. More intimate than they'd been before, right? One step at a time. They weren't going to hurt each other this round. This was foreplay, that's all... dancing just like before. God, everything was foreplay with them, she thought.
She hadn't especially been surprised when she'd accidentally found that beat-up old journal, tucked neatly beneath his mattress. She'd even seen him writing in it once or twice when he thought no one was looking. Or maybe it was just her he kept no secrets from. Sometimes Buffy wished she -could- wear her heart on her sleeve, even if only for one night... maybe then she wouldn't be so consumed with regret right now. Consumed with what if's and virtually bursting with the need to -tell- someone, like she'd told Spike when she'd come back. Except there was no one to tell.
It was almost ironic, because one could say she'd been living with his ghost for months now. Sometimes she still woke up expecting to turn over in bed and find him facing her, because he'd never been able to fall asleep with his back to her. Her body remembered him even when she didn't, aching to curl around a Spike-shaped pillow, almost expecting to feel that particular tingle that always came with his eyes on the back of her neck. She would've thought he could tell that she'd been telling him those three little words with the way she touched him for days and months, with the way she didn't look away anymore, with the way she stepped closer and closer, completely comfortable in his presence. A part of her had thought-- hoped-- feared-- that he could just read her like an open book.
Buffy had torn out that one page carefully from his silly journal the night before. She would put it back if-- when-- they came back. Just a good luck charm, that was it. Maybe she would tell him when they came back. It certainly gave her something to look forward to, didn't it? Just do this one little thing, and she was home free. Free to-- maybe-- possibly-- perhaps tell him. One day, she'd thought. One day, there'd be no more running, and nowhere she could imagine wanting to run to, except into him, against him, at him. No more cookie-dough. Just... cookies. Not even bitter cookies. Spike-and-Buffy-shaped cookies, all ready to eat.
Nearly at her chosen dance club, Buffy laughed bitterly, lost in the memory. Bitter cookies, indeed. She really should stop with the cookie analogy before she found herself writing cookie poems in journals.
The bouncer looked at her warily. "You look a bit sloshed already, Ma'am." Because obviously, she hadn't noticed.
"Just let me in, all right? I'm not in the mood for this right now." Buffy pulled a few more buttons open on her blouse. That should do it.
"Uhhh--" His eyes glazed over immediately. Men. Can't live with 'em, can't stake 'em unless they're demon-spawn. "Go-- go on, then," he finally managed.
"Thaaaaanks, Mister," she whispered, leaning closer to him, then danced around and ducked behind his bulky frame. Too easy.
Buffy's hand went automatically to the back-pocket of her jeans. There it was, still, distracting her from the colored flashes and the sweaty bodies and the god-awful noise. The stupid slip of paper with his scent on it. She supposed Spike didn't really smell like that anymore. Didn't smell like anything. Not that he'd ever had much of an aroma besides the leather and the cigarettes, not to mention the lingering tang of blood. Never quite left his mouth, that taste. Buffy shared it every time she'd kissed him.
Without really thinking about what she was doing, she retreated to the farthest, darkest corner of the place. Didn't actually want to be around people at the moment. Though you could scream quite loudly here before anyone would grow concerned. Every place had a bonus. Tiny little trickles of pointless luck that didn't change a thing.
She remembered slipping the page into a pocket, some part of her feeling its crinkly, delicate presence as she'd fought, without even being aware of that extra tiny trickle of strength.
What was even more embarrassing was that she still hadn't read it, really. A part of her thought that it'd be -over- somehow, if she did. That's it. No more mystery. Nothing to look forward to. No more Spike.
Now, she stared blindly at the jagged lines, the messy scribbles and crossed out patches, various blood-stains splattered everywhere, not needing to see them to know they were there. She couldn't read through the wavering in her eyes anyway-- all the lines kept dancing and her fingers kept moving, always moving. She never got any rest, especially in the dark. She was tired. So tired. All she'd wanted was to rest, but a Slayer never got to wish for things like that. Hey, that's how the cookie crumbles, right?
They would ask, for course. Just let yourself go, Buffy. Just let go, you'll feel better.
And of course, she would answer. No, she was all right. She always had been before, in the end.
It was all she could do not to burst out laughing, remembering it. Because how funny was that? Her instinct had been to go talk to Spike, this past summer. And it would've been just too hilarious if she -could- have, too. Back when she was screwing him into the ground every night, she'd kind of missed that. Being able to look him in the eye without wanting to choke and start running from herself-- or the person she'd let him make her. Didn't matter.
She remembered how he'd told her about the dreams, when she'd come back. Those dreams where he did something differently and it was okay, where he was enough to save her. She'd never had dreams like that, had she? No. Instead, she just saw his face on fire, and the look of joy and wonder in his eyes, as if he was doing exactly what he wanted, and she couldn't begrudge him this one last thing, right? She wasn't that selfish. She may need him around, but this was bigger than them. This wasn't about her-- she knew that. She had to let it go.
Get a bloody grip, Slayer.
She could almost hear it, too. Ah, the good old days, when Spike was a selfish fucking bastard, end of story. Were things really so much simpler a few years ago, or was it that she'd been younger? Buffy's head hurt if she thought about it, so mostly she didn't.
"For Buffy," it said at the top of the page. Buffy still couldn't see it through the rhythmic flashes of the so-called ambient lighting in the club, but she knew that much by heart. That's what had caught her eye in the first place, anyway. It was -for- her, so it was practically hers anyway, wasn't it?
Buffy blinked. It occurred to her that she'd never actually told him to stay... undead for her. Maybe he had, anyway. The thought almost made her smile. She did remember telling him she wasn't ready for him to leave yet, so she had been pretty clear on the subject after all. She still wasn't ready for that, she thought.
It figured that it had taken some stupid horny demon to tell her the happy news. Clearly, she was high up on the list of her ex-boyfriends' priorities these days. Buffy suppressed a maudlin sniffle. This was really getting out of hand.
She considered calling Angel, demanding-- something. What?
She still wasn't buzzed enough to deal with this yet. Buffy's stomach felt hollow, swirling sluggishly with way too much booze. She was probably going to throw up soon. A perfect cap to the brilliant night so far.
He didn't tell her. How could they -both- not have told her? How was she going to forgive them this? Why was -she- always the one saddled with the whoppers, anyway? Where had the cowboys gone?
Buffy crumpled up the delicate piece of paper in her fist, wishing she could grind it into dust. She probably could, come to think of it. On the other hand, maybe she should read it first. Buffy stumbled around, looking for a bathroom. Better lighting conditions and hey, could throw up at the same time. Two thrill-rides for the price of one.
Miraculously, there wasn't any ongoing sex at the moment, though there had been quite recently, by the smell of it. Kind of a proper venue to read Spike's little... thing. Buffy made the mistake of taking a deep breath and her eyes watered. Throwing up first, then.
Splashing some water on her face afterwards, Buffy paused to stare at her reflection in the dingy mirror. Still there. Looked a lot like a ghost, though, what with the lanky dull hair and the shadows beneath her eyes. Not to mention the ghoulish twist to her mouth. Perfect. -Now- she remembered why she never got drunk alone. Buffy laughed weakly.
Well, no more procrastinating. Might as well lean against the nice tiled wall and utilize the lovely fluorescent light-bulbs so thoughtfully provided even though they flickered something awful. She sighed, wondering how she'd come to this. Oh, right. He's dead. Except not. Yay.
And who was at their mental best after throwing up three times and drinking more in one night than they had the whole rest of their lives, anyway? She had excuses, dammit.
Buffy bit her bottom lip anxiously. It was just a stupid poem. What was wrong with her? And no, she wasn't going to start crying again. Just say no. Okay then. Good. She was good. Right.
"I'd wait small eternities if you had only asked," he'd written in that careful script.
That was just the beginning, of course. Lots more self-proclaimed Bloody Awful Poetry to go.
"But I'd live or die for you always.
Even I have ceased believing in forever, love
Yet tomorrow and tomorrow again, I'll stay
Between you and your death, Slayer.
All my eternities, large and small, and no pretense.
If I could, I'd lay them at your feet in silence--
I couldn't stop answering; you don't need to ask.
No goodbyes between us, and no regrets--
The dance is never done until the dust had settled,
For I'd not trade the world for a reflection
Still wishing for a single memory of you--
Already mine."
Buffy had to close her eyes. Too much. Too much. This wasn't-- it just wasn't.... It wasn't him, was it?
Or maybe it was. No going back now. She'd seen him in the end, hadn't she? And she'd told him what she thought, seeing his reflection. The light... all that light... she could still see it pouring out of him, any time she shut her eyes.
Maybe this was how he wanted it, and he was trying to tell her something with his silence... something about waiting, or letting go... or trust. The thought made her stomach clench something awful yet again, but she took deep breaths, focusing on that light. It was so... so beautiful. Or maybe that wasn't the light.
Maybe he was just an asshole with insecurity issues. Simple as could be.
Without even thinking of what she was doing, Buffy fished out a pen from another pocket and started to write on the other side of the tattered paper, smoothing it down on her thigh. She was already picturing the look on Spike's face when he got actual mail. Possibly even better: the look on Angel's face when he found out who said mail was from. Buffy giggled a tad hysterically.
Something made her pause before she wrote the S. Buffy blinked, and then as carefully as she could, she wrote "William", feeling a tiny, inexcplicable thrill run through her as she did. She couldn't actually write him anything substantial. Or maybe his name was the substantial thing. Or... maybe she wanted to see what would happen if they looked at each other at the same time. That was all. No words necessary. No touching. That was a good thing now, too. Because. Well.... That.
Very slowly, Buffy began to smile, almost dreamily.
"Show yourself to me. When it's time," she wrote finally, folding up the paper, unable to keep still. "I can wait now."
She didn't know quite what she meant, but maybe he could tell her. Slipping the battered piece of paper back in her pocket, Buffy headed out towards the light and the noise. She wanted to dance.
~~