Stay, Part One
Okay, so maybe I didn't finish Ransomed first. :) And this is REALLY miserable hurt/comfort stuff. I must be feeling all whiny and self-pitying to write this. So brace yourself. Misery, despair, groans and lamentations.
Four years after Not Fade Away
Pairing: Spike/Buffy.
Warning: Mucho angst, I hope. Character death.
Rating: R (character death, some sex)
Distribution: Please just link to here.
Disclaimer: Joss owns 'em. I just love them up when he's too mean to them.
Note: This was inspired by diane's heartbreaking vid, Please Stay, using a song written by Warren Zevon when he was dying of cancer. It's sort of an inversion of that vid.
Please Stay
by Warren Zevon
Please stay
Please stay
Two words I never thought I'd learn to say
Don't go away
Please stay
Don't leave me here
When so many things so hard to see are clear
I need you near to me
Will you stay with me to the end?
When there's nothing left
But you and me and the wind
We'll never know till we try
To find the other side of goodbye
Please stay
Please stay
Two words I never thought I'd learn to say
Don't go away
Please stay
Spike couldn't avoid it this time. It was Dawn's college graduation, and she'd emailed him specially and demanded that he attend. He'd never been able to refuse Dawn anything, so he showed up and stayed in the shadows of the old colonnades lining the parade route. He immediately picked Dawn out of the line of graduates walking in the afternoon sun. Her mortar board was tipped precariously over one eye, and her mouth was going a mile a minute, as she discussed whatever with whoever was marching next to her. His little bit. Not so little now.
Then she stopped talking and turned her head and saw him. Funny thing that. She still had a bit of mystical in her, just like that picking him out of the crowd, out of the shadows. She smiled and waved and made a gesture that said he better be waiting right there for her afterwards.
Buffy was there, of course. Spike sensed her, though he couldn't see her. Sensed Xander Harris too, but none of the others. Just as well. He could congratulate Dawn and hand over the little present, and plead sun-allergy, then make his escape back to his hotel. With luck, he'd avoid Buffy altogether. But if not, it would be okay. Any encounter would be over quickly, as they'd have nothing much to say to each other after so long.
He hadn't seen her... well, not for five years, not since that day in the Hellmouth. About a year later, there'd been one awkward phone call (he was the one who called) the day before what he always thought of as The Final Battle, even though it wasn't final- there'd been plenty of battles since. But before it happened, he thought it would be the end, and he called her. Just to hear her voice. Not to say farewell or anything like that. Just to hear her voice again. And that was all he got, her voice, forced and cheerful, saying the predictable- how nice it was that he was undead again, and wasn't that a big crater he'd made of Sunnydale, and say hi to Angel, and oh, there's the doorbell.
So the Final Battle wasn't the end of the world, just the end of his hopes, and he didn't bother to call afterwards. Eventually Dawn tracked him down by email, and they'd kept in touch while she'd studied her ancient languages and he'd travelled the world. They actually had a professional relationship of sorts. He knew most of the demon languages, and Latin and Greek of course, but they didn't teach Sumerian and Urdu when he was an undergraduate, and he hadn't picked up more than a bit since. So he'd gotten used to faxing bits of confusion to Dawn for translation. It impressed the clients, to get the artifacts along with the provenance spelled out in both ancient and modern languages.
They met up a couple times, and she always made sure to mention Buffy, and he made sure to smile and send along his best wishes. It was over. So over sometimes he thought it had never been. Those months with Buffy seemed like a dream now. Didn't seem like him. Didn't seem like her. Dru was more real to him now, even though he hadn't seen her in a decade, and didn't really want to see her again- but inside his head she was a solid presence, occupying whole sectors of memory. Not so Buffy. He could barely remember what she tasted like, what she felt like.
He'd had lovers since then. One was serious- if it hadn't been for the whole vampire-immortality thing, he thought they might still be together. But she couldn't get past that, and so they let each other go. That meant lots of pain, but he'd gotten kind of used to that, except for her getting hurt too. But she married within a year, and had twins soon after, and he thought probably he wasn't much of a memory to her - just another wild experience in a wild time of her youth.
And then there was Amita. Not so serious, but recurrent. She was half-Brax and didn't try to pass as whole-human. Didn't cover up the dark blue streaks beside her ears or dye her hair a more conventional shade of purple. She sang in a demon band in LA, and served drinks at a demon bar, and they'd hook up whenever he was unattached and had a stopover in LA. She was cool and uncaring and he couldn't hurt her if he tried, not that he bothered to try. She worked hard never to love, and she always succeeded, and he admired that.
And a few others along the way... Now he travelled a lot, and stayed in underground lairs and expensive hotel rooms, and he had three good friends- Clem and Dawn and Charlie Gunn- and a grandsire who sometimes sent him some business and sometimes let him borrow a jet, and he thought he was actually making it work, living half in the demon-world and half in the human-world, making money off both. Keeping both safe. Slaying the worst of the demons, scaring the worst of the humans. He'd probably end up killing those too- Angel didn't have any harm-no-human scruples left, that was for sure, but he was older, and he'd always been more ruthless. Spike might eventually get to that point, killing bad guys regardless of genus, but the memory of the chip still held him back from striking final blows when it was a human on the other end of the fist. Better to leave them cowering and bleeding and rethinking their evil ways.
Maybe that was just another way to detach. He didn't know. Detachment was unnatural for him, and sometimes he overdid it. That's what Clem said anyway, when Spike refused to watch the Sleepless in Seattle DVD. (Clem thought getting annoyed by Meg Ryan was a symptom of sociopathy.)
But it felt good now. Detachment. Needed that bad right now. Dawn was coming towards him, eyes smiling, mortarboard in hand, graduation robe flying- and Buffy trailing behind.
He waited in the shadows, and Dawn came into his arms, a slim girl, solid in his embrace, the black robe all warm from the afternoon sun, her cheek salty under his lips. "Bit," he said, putting her away so that he could hand her the flat little box. Then he kept his gaze on her fingers deftly undoing the ribbon, and listened to her excited talk, and didn't look at Buffy at all.
He'd found the bracelet in Bombay two years ago, and had been saving it for Dawn- a tiny gold key on a fragile chain, but it was like Dawn- only looked fragile. It was made of some lost alloy, and even Spike couldn't break the links. "I don't know what it opens," he said, "but it's older than old."
Dawn exclaimed over it and insisted on putting it on her narrow wrist, and held it up for Buffy to admire. And Buffy came closer, into the colonnades, and dutifully touched the bracelet, and then she looked at him, and smiled.
"Slayer-" he started to say, because he was detached, but he remembered now that she didn't like being called that. "Buffy."
"Spike," she said, and came to him with her hands out, and he took them and bent to kiss her on the cheek, just as he'd done with Dawn. Only he couldn't help himself. He breathed her deep, took her in- just for a second, just breathed her, nothing anyone could see-
And it hit him, hard, like a kick in the stomach, and he fell back against the brick wall of the colonnade, and she grabbed his arm and held him up, and Dawn was chuckling, like she'd been waiting for some indication that he was still entranced- but Buffy was looking at him, hard, sharp. She shook her head once. Quick. Her hair hid her eyes just for that instant.
She knew. She knew he knew.
And she didn't want Dawn to know.
He kept his balance. Exchanged a few polite words when Xander found them- Xander was on his best behavior. Slayer-warned. Dawn-enforced.
Xander didn't know either.
Buffy looked all cheery, and he thought maybe he was just crazy, because it would show in her face, wouldn't it? In her eyes? But she looked the way he remembered- a little thin, her mouth downturned at the corners, her hair as bright as her eyes.
She wouldn't look at him anymore. Looked past him. Smiled at his shoulder. Said goodbye without touching him.
He went back to his hotel and waited till dark, and went after her, and couldn't find her. Found Dawn in a downtown bar with some friends, and she introduced him as "like, my big brother, sort of," and yanked him away because she said that her best friend Natalie was so coming on to him, and he was so dumb he didn't even notice, and Natalie was a good friend but a total slut, so not his type at all, and could he please do the designated driver thing, because she was so drunk, and she'd be so hungover tomorrow when she was supposed to report to Watchers USA for her internship....
He got her to her flat and medicated with some aspirin, and finally when she was done groaning, he asked about Buffy. And Dawn said, her voice muffled by the pillow, "Caught a night flight out to San Francisco. That's where she's living now. Last couple months anyway."
Buffy didn't want him. Nothing new. He could live with that. So he told Dawn goodbye, promised to IM her soon, and went back to his hotel room. At checkout time he packed up and went down to the parking garage and took the dark-windowed limo to the little university airport, where Angel's spare Lear jet was idling. When they were aloft, he called Charlie and told him to track down Buffy's address in San Francisco. Charlie owed him a few favors, or at least a few beers, and could be trusted not to tell Angel anything. (Charlie didn't tell Angel anything these days- safer that way.) He came through with an address in Bernal Heights, and a few hours after sunset Spike was using a credit card to break into the little enclosed porch of her bungalow duplex. He sat down on the cold concrete floor, his back pressed against the shingled wall, and gave into sleep for a minute or so.
She was still a slayer, and woke up and sensed vampire, and came charging out in her pajamas, a stake in her hand, and even after she recognized him, he knew he was in some danger. She was mad and threw the stake at him, giving him barely enough time to catch it, and then she turned and stomped back into the house. "I don't want you here."
Well, that was familiar, in an old tooth-achey way. But when he stopped at the door, his hand flat against the invisible barrier, she said ungraciously, "I guess you can come in," never looking back at him. He followed her to the kitchen and sat at the red tile counter while she banged around making coffee and swearing under her breath. She made just one cup of coffee, in case he might get the idea he was welcome here.
Then she sat down on the stool next to his, took a sip, and set the cup down. She didn't look at him, but her shoulder was hunched up an inch away from his. "You tell anyone, I'll stake you for real."
He didn't have any answer for that. "What is it?"
She stared down into her coffee. "Nothing mystical. Liver cancer. Not much in the way of symptoms. By the time I started feeling bad, it was too late."
"Did the doctors tell you that? That it was too late?"
"Yeah. Too late for chemo. Too late for a transplant." She made too late sound like it referred to a tardy pay check, and his hands itched. He wanted to touch her cheek. Touch her somewhere. She must have sensed it because she leaned away from him, wouldn't look at him.
"You're sure?"
"I went to the leading specialist. He ran all the tests. Consulted all the other specialists. I tried the last one just the other day." She sighed and extended her arm. There, on the soft skin inside her elbow, were three healing needle marks. She didn't flinch when he touched her there. "Good news is, it doesn't get bad until the end, and that's quick."
Quick. "How long before it gets bad?"
"A few weeks. A month." She shot him a sharp glance. "I haven't told anyone."
"What about Angel?"
She looked startled, as if that was the last name she expected him to say. "I haven't told him. And I'm not going to tell him. And neither will you."
There was a threat in there, but not much heat, and that more than anything made him despair. "Angel's got sorcerers on retainer. Maybe they can-"
"No." She sounded implacable. But then her shoulders sagged. "Weren't you the one who was always saying that magic has its price? So what's the price of magicking me well, huh? Someone else will die in my place."
"Yeah. Probably."
"Angel will tell the sorcerer, make it someone I don't know. So- you know. I won't know. And so someone in China or Swaziland will die, and I'll never know. Only they'll be dead, and they're not supposed to be." Buffy glanced over at him. "You know what I mean."
"I guess." Spike thought maybe the sorcerer could act with pinpoint accuracy, targeting a serial murderer or something like that. Angel had some smart sorcerers. But he knew Buffy well enough-- even this would violate her code. "But you don't want your friends to know either. Giles, or Dawn even? Why?"
"Because. Because no one can do anything to help. And it'll just make them feel bad to know." She sighed. "But now you know."
"Yeah."
"What? Can you smell it on me? Death?" She sounded dismayed, like death might make her smell as bad as the Doublemeat Palace grease once did. Still vain, his slayer.
He closed his eyes. Felt. Opened them and regarded her. "No. Not a smell. A ... feeling. Some predator sense- so we can go after the weakest in the flock."
Now she laughed a humorless laugh, and punched him on the arm. "The weakest, huh? Dream on, vampire. I can still take you."
He rubbed his bicep- just to make her feel better. It didn't hurt. And that scared him more than anything else. She was really sick. He could see it now, in the shadows on her face, in the way she had to work to sit up straight. But she was so proud. She'd always been so proud. Pride was all that was holding her together now. Could he take it from her?
He had to try. "You shouldn't be alone."
"Yeah. I should." She slid off the stool and turned her back on him, walking through the little living room to the screen-door. She opened it and stood there, giving him her challenging look. "Time for you to go."
He rose, holding himself up with one hand on the counter. "You don't want me to stay? I will. If you want me to."
"No. I don't want you here."
It hurt. Still. Not as bad, though. It had been a lot of years since he loved her.
He pulled out his card and set it on the counter. "Okay. Call me if you need me." And then he left, his leather coat brushing her as he went past and out the door. He didn't look back even when he heard the door close.
He actually left.
Yeah, that was what she wanted. It's just - well, he didn't used to leave when she told him to leave. If she walked away, he'd dog her steps, arguing every foot of the way. If she threw him out of her house, he'd sit on the roof outside her window and smoke- she could smell it, his cigarette smoke, and know he was there. If she hit him enough- god, she'd been such a bitch then- he'd move back a bit, but he'd linger on the edges of her life, looking bruised and beautiful and so damned devoted.
She did get rid of him once. Of course, she had to kill him to do it, handing him the amulet that saved the world but burned him to cinders. And that time he left her alone for years, yet here he was back again. Only this time it didn't take much to make him go. I don't want you here. That was all it took.
She stared out through the screen door into the darkness. She couldn't feel him anywhere, even when she turned up the slayer-sense. He was really gone.
She went back into her bedroom and knelt down on the floor to pull a small wooden box from under the bed. This was, like every house since Sunnydale, a temporary place, and she packed light wherever she went. This was all she kept, this box. She sat on the comforter and sorted through the photographs. They were just the ones she had in her wallet when Sunnydale collapsed and Spike died- all she had left of the past, of her slaying years.
There was her mother in the gallery, standing with her hand on some African artifact. She was smiling. She had four months to live, but she didn't know it.
Buffy set that photo back in the box. A school picture of Dawn, fourteen and trying to flirt with the camera, her hair long and shiny. A strip of Willow and Tara from one of those photo booths, Willow sticking her tongue out in one frame, and Tara always shyly looking down. Xander and Anya's official engagement photo- Xander was chubby and two-eyed, Anya was... well, alive, and so pretty. She'd forgotten how pretty Anya was. How proud she looked, her chin up, her mouth kind of pursed like she was about to say Mrs. Xander Harris.
(Oh, God. Half of them were dead. Mom, Tara, Anya.)
And then a group shot, outside the Magic Box on the sunlit sidewalk. Some passerby had taken it. They were all there, Buffy in the middle, and Willow and Tara and Dawn on one side, Xander and Anya on the other, Giles behind her. But as she always did with this photo, Buffy looked to the side of the building, where the alley was, a dark shadowy place with one small glowing red light. Spike's cigarette. He was there that day, but prevented by sun and general Scoobie disapproval and Buffy's unwillingness from joining the others in front of the camera. But there he'd been, in the darkness, and she hadn't even known. She'd only seen that cigarette glow years later, when she thought he was dead.
She traced the faint outline of his form, the darkerness in the darkness, and she thought of that business card (Spike with a business card- another apocalypse must be on the way) sitting on her counter. She could call him. He'd come back. She knew that like she knew her own name. If she asked, he'd come back.
But she couldn't ask. After all she'd done to push him away, it wouldn't be fair to pull him back now. She'd just be taking advantage of his loyalty. As ever.
Besides, if he still loved her, he would never have left. No matter what she said, he would have stayed.
She put the photos back in the box, and felt around till she found the tennis bracelet. Lots of diamonds, glowing bright in the overhead light. This was the last piece of jewelry she'd gotten from the Immortal. The rest she'd sold in the last few months to pay for all those medical tests and specialists. (Slayers had health insurance now, but she wasn't about to file the forms because Giles might see.) This bracelet she'd saved in case she needed to pay for a transplant. Now she had something to leave to Dawn.
The bracelet hung on her wrist- she'd lost weight. But the diamonds were still perfect, and the setting impeccably tasteful. He had such good taste, the Immortal. She remembered that much. He knew the best jewelers, the finest couturiers. The snootiest maitre'd welcomed him, and her too, while she was on his arm.
She'd been totally in love with the Immortal. Totally. More in love with him than she'd been even with Angel. It was one of those soul-consuming, ego-destroying loves. She'd forgotten everything else when she was with him- her friends and every lover she'd ever had and her past and her future. He was ... her all.
But now she couldn't remember what he looked like. Handsome. Smooth. That's all.
Strange. She could always remember what Spike looked like. Of course, he never changed much- his hair was darker now, but otherwise, he looked the same. But she remembered more than his face. She remembered his expressions, the tilt of his head when he was confused, the things he did with his tongue- curl it under, curl it up, he was such an oral type. She remembered his restless hands and his jiggling foot. She remembered the way he could stand still for about three seconds, and then he'd start moving his shoulders, or raising his arms in a stretch that pulled his t-shirt up and showed his belly, all ivory and flat and muscled. He couldn't ever sit still unless he was very very drunk.
She remembered all that, and the way he tasted too, and the velvety feel of his cool skin. And the tone of his voice when he was hurt or angry or aroused- and he was usually one of those, when he was around her. Sometimes all three at once.
Tonight, though, he had been so quiet. He still tilted his head. Still shredded his paper napkin just to have something to do with his hands. But his voice was low and calm, even when he asked her how long until she died.
She'd think his voice would break. Tremble. But no. He sounded so composed. Even when he said he'd stay if she wanted, it sounded like he didn't really care. And when she told him she wanted him to leave, he said goodbye without a fuss.
She pulled off the bracelet and replaced it in the box. She should have told Spike where she'd hidden the diamonds. Now she'd have to write a note telling Giles where she'd hidden the bracelet. Leave the note on the dresser over there. Sign it with love.
The next-door dog started barking early- he always got lonely when his owner left for work. He kept barking. She pulled the pillow over her head and tried to sleep. But finally she rose and made herself breakfast, and planned out her day- a museum, and lunch in a café downtown, and a walk along the waterfront. Nothing too strenuous. She gathered up her purse and her keys, and noticed again Spike's card.
Okay. Just this once. She picked it up and studied it, but found it unrevealing. Spike Williams- well, that was as good a name as any, she supposed. No company. No address. Just a phone number with an LA area code.
She rooted around in her purse and found her cell phone, and before she lost her nerve, she dialed the number. She could hang up as soon as he answered. Just a second though, she'd hear a voice she knew. A friendly voice.
Well, she got voice mail, and it wasn't very friendly. Just a growled "leave a message". But it was his voice. She hung up, smiling, imagining Spike trying to figure out voicemail with a hangover and a cell-phone manual. Of course he'd sound irritable.
She only called once more, this time from a payphone at the museum. Just to hear that growly voice. No message. She didn't even want him to know it was her doing these hangups. But it was nice to hear his voice. A mild charge.
Mild was how she felt these days. Mildly curious. Mildly interested. Mildly anxious.
She got home late, just as the sun was going down. She was tired and nauseous, and thought longingly of the wonton soup at China King across the park. It always soothed her stomach, and it was only a five-minute walk away.
But she walked more slowly these days, so it was twenty minutes before she returned with the little cardboard box of soup. She was on her porch, keys in hand, taking a last glimpse as the western sky turned from pink to silver, and she saw a man across in the park, tossing a stick to a dog.
The dog looked like the mutt next door, medium-sized, a white coat with darker patches. The man looked like-
Well, no. That was silly. Spike would be back in LA already, puzzling over those hangups on his voice-mail. Or dancing in a club with some woman. He hadn't looked deprived last night. Hadn't made a move on her or said anything suggestive. Could be that he was repelled by her illness- but more likely, he had his mind on some lady at home. A man who looked like Spike- well, there'd be some woman making a move on him, no matter where he went.
She hesitated, her hand on the screendoor handle. The man still looked like- but no. Spike always wore his leather coat on cool evenings like this. This man was wearing a gray sweatshirt. But he was slim and as he raised his arm to throw the stick, it reminded her of the way Spike used to toss her a stake when she needed it, easy and dead-on.
"Spike," she whispered.
And he looked up, lifted his hand in a wave.
Only a vampire could have heard.
Carefully she set her purse and the soup down on the porch, and walked down the steps and across the street. The dog came bounding over to her, but at a sharp command, stopped and turned back to Spike. She waited there on the verge of the grass, waited for him to come to her.
He took his time, brushing off his hands, zipping up his sweatshirt, bending to fix a leash to the dog's collar. Then, leading the dog, he came over to her. "Hey, Buffy," he said, ducking his head in that shy way of his. "Have you met Kilo?"
"Yeah. He wakes me up every morning." She glared at Spike. "What are you doing here?"
He wouldn't look at her. "Seems like a nice place. Good view. Right across from the park."
"Why do you have my neighbor's dog?"
Spike bent down to pet the mutt. "Part of the rental agreement."
"Rental-" She sighed. Why bother? She knew what he was going to say. But she might as well let him say it. "What rental agreement?"
"Rented the flat. Hey!" He looked up with a smile. "It's the other half of your duplex, isn't it? Share a porch even."
"Yeah. What a coincidence."
"Anyway, your neighbor sublet it to me. He decided to take a long vacation. But he said I have to take care of Kilo."
"How much are you paying?" She knew it had to be a lot, to get the accountant out of there.
Spike shrugged. "Just rent. Oh. Yeah. He made me give him my leather coat."
"Hence the hoodie."
"Yeah. That coat was the last one I had. Hey, you know, the first duster? Lasted me 25 years. And I've gone through 10 of those Italian coats in five years. Who woulda thought it?"
"Who woulda thought it." She gave him a hard look. "Don't think I'm going to hang out with you."
Spike just smiled. Maybe he thought that was going to melt her, but she was tougher than that.
"I mean it, Spike. I told you to leave. I don't want you here."
"Yeah, well, I'll stay out of your way. I got Kilo here to keep me company." He sketched a wave and left her, the dog trotting happily behind him as he headed down the hill.
He could pretend and pretend. But she knew him. He was here because she was here. And he wasn't planning on leaving her alone.
But maybe she was wrong. The next few days, she saw little of Spike. She felt him there, right beside her, but never saw him. She assumed he was gone most of the night, and asleep most of the day. He did manage, somehow, to quiet the dog in the morning, so she supposed just for that reason he was a better neighbor than his predecessor.
Finally she couldn't stand it any more. One evening, she banged on his door, and heard a flurry of barking. There was a short harsh exclamation, and the barking stopped. Then Spike opened, barechested, his hair still wet from the shower. "Yeah?" he said, rubbing his curls with a white towel. He regarded her with only slight interest, and that made her mad.
"I'm coming in." She pushed past him into the hallway.
The dog- apparently locked in the kitchen- started barking again. Spike growled, not loud, but the dog fell silent. "Looks like your place, huh?" Spike said, calm and friendly.
"Yeah." His flat was the mirror of her own- a long narrow front room, sparsely furnished, beyond that the door to the kitchen, and a set of stairs leading to the two bedrooms. But Spike's wood floor was already covered with a Persian rug, and three swords leaned against the side of the plasma TV. "I rented a DVD," she said ungraciously. "Wanna watch?"
He glanced at the watch on his wrist. (When did Spike start wearing a watch?) "Sure," he said easily. "But I have to leave at 11. Pick up a delivery at the wharf."
"Fine." She glared at his bare chest. It was still perfect- muscular and unscarred, the skin glowing like a pearl. "Put on a shirt and come over."
A few minutes later he was there with a bowl of popcorn. And a shirt. Shoes even- nice shiny shoes to go with his unprecedentedly nice shirt. And slacks. Slacks, not jeans. Expensive slacks. Expensive shirt. All black- at least he hadn't changed that much- but some sort of fine cross between silk and linen. It didn't look like the sort of outfit you wore for a midnight package pickup at the docks.
But it wasn't any of her business. She didn't want to know.
The movie was one of those modern Westerns. Lots of sweeping epic cinematographic shots of golden grain and slate blue mountains. Thoughtful themes of alienation and violence. Ample use of the F-word.
Spike complained, at least once all the popcorn was gone and the whore-with-the-heart-of-gold-and-the- breasts-of-silicone got killed halfway through. He said it was so boring he was going to fall asleep. He pretended to be asleep on the other end of the couch, and after ten unprecedented minutes of Spike-silence, she realized he actually had fallen asleep, his head on his own shoulder, his chest occasionally rising in a quiet unneeded breath.
Sometimes he was so pretty- she found herself watching him instead of the movie. The short dark hair made him look younger. Sleep made him look more innocent. It was all so- well. He was here. She didn't need to ask why. She didn't need to know that he felt... sorry for her. Better that he just pretend he happened to be here, and she pretend that she was mad at him for staying.
Of course she was. She wanted to be alone. She should probably make that clearer to him.
But she finished watching the movie, and then, at 10:45, she reached across the popcorn bowl and shook him awake. "Your package. Remember?"
He squirmed. Kept his eyes closed. Flopped over and put his head on the arm of the couch. Murmured something.
"Vampires aren't supposed to sleep at night!" she said, and shook him again. This time his arm was too far away, so she had to shake his thigh. She kept her fingers a bit too long there, maybe traced the muscle under the black cloth, and he growled and opened his eyes.
"Stop that. I'm awake."
"Your delivery, remember?"
"Right." He rose and grabbed his bowl and said, "Thanks for the film," and headed to the door.
"Wait," she heard herself saying. "I want to go."
Spike stopped at the door, bowl dangling from his grip. "But it's just a pickup-" And then he shrugged. "Why not? I'm leaving in ten minutes. If you can get ready that quick, you can come along." And then he added, very casually, "You might bring a stake, and a dagger."
Buffy was ready in eight minutes, with a shoulder bag of weapons (and some wet-wipes, in case the package was messy). It had been a while since she'd needed the artillery, and she found it oddly exciting to be out in the cool night air again, the lights of the city reflecting against the dark sky, Spike by her side and stakes in her purse. He didn't ask if she was up for this, or warn her about the risk- he just assumed, she guessed, that she wouldn't mind a spot of fighting, that if it happened, she'd be ready.
And she was. Really. She felt strong. Stronger, at least. Ready for action.
He had a Jaguar out front, a low, prowly, and black, and when she looked at it inquiringly, he just said, "Rental car." He opened the trunk and grabbed a knife from a box there, and stuck it in the inside pocket of his black sports jacket (Armani, she was sure- who the heck was dressing him these days?). Then he got in the car beside her and eased it down the hill.
Spike knew his way around- she didn't ask how- and in a short time they were down at an out of the way wharf. There was one big ship and a few white cargo containers dropped down on the dock. "Stay here," Spike said, like he was in charge, and got out of the car.
She let him get halfway across the dock, then hopped out. She felt a surge of excitement, because Spike was approaching the first container warily, like he was expecting trouble. But then all he did was knock on the aluminum side- three raps and then two, some kind of code.
The hatch opened, and Buffy could see the best-appointed container interior ever- the metal walls covered with something that looked like maroon silk, a butter-yellow brocade chaise against the back, a wetbar complete with crystal decanters. Hmm. What kind of package was this?
She got her answer when a demon strolled out onto the halogen-lighted dock.
A female demon. Red skin and bright blue hair. Big tits. Small waist. Lots of silver lycra covering the curves.
Spike fell back a step. Then he smiled. It was that smile. The fuck-me, I'm-yours smile that, yes, probably, he had smiled at others over the years. But Buffy found that she still considered this particular smile for her alone. She crossed over to stand beside him, withdrawing the dagger from her bag. And she smiled too, not quite so charmingly.
The demon paid no attention at all to Buffy and her shiny dagger. She gazed limpidly at Spike. "You are my escort?"
"Yeah," he said,. "Name is Spike." He extended his arm, and the demon oohed, and put her little hand on the crook of his elbow, like they were at a ball or something. Buffy cleared her throat. Spike glanced over at her. "And, oh, yeah, this is the slayer. She's supplying the muscle."
"And what do you supply, darlin'?" the demon asked with a throaty chuckle that Buffy supposed was meant to be sexy.
And Spike fell for it. Or at least he smiled that smile again. And when the demon said very prettily that she would love to sit in the front seat so she could see more of the city sites, Spike said, "You don't mind sitting in back, do you, slayer?" not bothering to listen for her answer. He was way too busy opening the car door and helping the helpless demon get her lycra-ed ass and legs inside safely.
Then they got underway, and that demon got even more aggravating. She started speaking some demon language, and Spike responded, and they exchanged comments and laughs like they were old friends.
And then, as Buffy watched from the backseat, the demon reached out and put her hand on the gearshift.
Spike's hand was already there.
Okay. So Buffy was sort of jealous. So it was irrational, considering how hard she'd tried to push him away. But she looked at those two hands, the scarlet one on top of the ivory one, and no matter what she told herself, there it was. She was jealous.
She didn't have any right. She knew that. And that was why she didn't take out her dagger and stab that scarlet demon hand.
Spike drove up to a big house in the hills overlooking the bay. Whoever this demon was, she was important. And that was the way he treated her, like a very important, very attractive personage. When he stopped the car on the circular driveway, he said, "You're up, slayer," as he got out to scout the floodlit area. And Buffy, because she was a pro, gritted her teeth and readied herself. Just in case.
The demon finally took notice of her. "Slayer," she said, rolling the word around on her tongue. At least she was speaking English. "The vampire there. He is... very charming, isn't he?"
Buffy didn't know how best to answer this. Finally she said, "Some people have thought so."
"But you don't?" the demon asked.
Buffy said shortly, "He has his moments."
"Ah. Yes. Well, I suspect he has many moments." The demon smiled back at her, very white teeth gleaming in the darkness. "It is so pleasant to find, in a foreign land, someone who speaks my language- and who smiles so... charmingly."
Buffy glared out the window, and when Spike finally circled back, she shoved open her door. "Time to go," she said, dagger in hand. Spike opened the demon's door, putting his own body between her and whatever. All gallantry.
Buffy got on the other side of the demon, reminding herself of the mission. Always the mission. Protect and preserve, except she wasn't sure why she was protecting and preserving a demon when she was a slayer. She was going to have to discuss this with Spike-
Spike was giving the demon instructions, pointing to the blank air between them on the house. "You can't see it, but I set up a force field that's calibrated to you alone. You can go through, no problem. And you can reach out and pull someone else through. But no one can get through without you-"
Just then the sky opened up and three paratroopers descended on long cables. They came from nowhere- no plane, no copter, just the dark sky and cables reaching up and up, and camouflaged warriors dangling at the bottom.
Spike gave her a shove. "Get her behind the field! I'll stay and-"
Buffy wanted to protest. She was the slayer here- she was the one who gave orders... the one who stayed and fought....
But this was Spike's job, not hers. So she stuck the dagger back in her belt and as the warriors dropped around her, she grabbed the demon by the lycra and jammed her the few feet across the driveway towards the house. There was a buzz as the demon barreled through the force field, and a snap as it closed behind her.
Buffy whirled, dagger in hand, and ran back to Spike. He was handling all three of them in the way she suddenly remembered- taunting them, laughing at them, moving slow and sexy like this was a dance. The cables had vanished, and the three masked warriors- demons, humans, she couldn't tell- were circling, and still Spike kept talking. "Who's on first? Step right up and try and take me."
Of course, they didn't take his suggestion to come one by one to get their punishment. They swarmed, falling back only as Spike made a swath with his sword, and then two coming in from the flanks.
Buffy jumped between them, the old adrenaline coursing through her and filling her with a strength she'd almost forgotten. "Need some help?"
Sword out, Spike turned slowly, so they were back to back, almost touching. "Not as much as they do."
The warriors were wary now that the numbers were more equal. Buffy couldn't see their eyes under the black masks, but she could read their bodies- moving cautiously, lightly on the pavement. That one there on her right was the leader, and the other two were waiting from some signal. She didn't give him any more time. She threw the dagger at his head, sinking the point into the mask just above his eyes, then flung herself at him and jammed her palm against the hilt. The howl of pain cut off abruptly- she must have severed some nervous system conduit- and she grabbed back the dagger and turned to see Spike holding off the other two.
They still fought well, even without their leader, keeping Spike occupied- first one feinting and then both attacking. Buffy jumped on the nearest one's back and plunged the dagger into the neck, withdrawing it to stab again at the same spot. The warrior reached back and grabbed at her wrist, and she jammed the dagger into his palm. "Go for the eyes!" Spike yelled, hurling his sword away and pulling a short knife from his belt.
Buffy clung to the warrior's back, trying to evade his clawing hands, trying to reach around his head, and - half-blinded by sweat and blood- she turned the dagger around and pulled. She hit bone and knew she'd missed the eye, so she yanked the dagger out and tried a little higher. The point met something mooshy, and she cried out with pleasure as the warrior collapsed slowly under her.
Spike was dispatching his own adversary, adding a few unnecessary insults and a kick as the warrior fell to the ground. Automatically- like it was years ago- Buffy and Spike high-fived. The perfect team.
This, at least, they'd always done well together.
And she was okay. Panting, knees weak, elbow throbbing. But no one would ever guess that she was sick.
Spike didn't remember her illness, apparently. He cut short the congratulations. "Grab them and pull them into the brush over there," he said. "I'd best go check on her."
"Yeah, right." Buffy watched him swagger towards the house- that inimitable Spike swagger, all sex and victory. The demon was waiting on the other side of the force field, and as soon as Spike approached, she reached out and grabbed his hand, drawing him through.
"And I get stuck with cleanup duty," Buffy muttered. She dragged one warrior after another into the bushes, looking up in time to see the demon, all smiles, handing Spike a card.
"Got to take the slayer home," he was saying, glancing back at her.
"I hope it doesn't take long," the demon cooed.
The slow burn started inside Buffy. Okay. So it wasn't so slow. A quick burn. So the demon- safe behind her forcefield, her silver lycra catsuit kept pristine- was all ready to reward him, and Spike was already to be rewarded.
And Buffy, her blouse all slimed with the blood of honorable combat- combat helping Spike out, in case he'd forgotten- was no longer a partner, now just a passenger.
She let this burn through her all the way home. How could he be so stupid... so ungrateful... so easy? How could he be such a ... a dog to make a date right in front of her?
As he parked the car in front of their house, she let the words burst out. "She's just going to use you. Like a sex-toy."
"Oh, right," he shot back. With a single, sharp motion, he set the emergency brake. "Only you get to do that."
"I didn't mean-" she sat there, breathing deeply. Got to get under control, she told herself. "I only mean that you have to have seen it."
"You mean the only reason a woman might want me is for sex. Point taken." He got out of the car and closed the door firmly behind him, then strode to his apartment.
Buffy got out more slowly. Okay, that was progress. He felt sure enough of her to get mad at her. At least he wasn't treating her like an invalid.
Of course, he assumed she thought - she sighed. How could he think that? It had been, what? Six years since they had sex.
Since she used him as a sex-toy. And that's what he remembered.
But that was exactly why she kept the relationship platonic after that. Didn't he understand?
He should understand. Not that she'd ever explained it. But he should have understood. She kept herself back because- because it was wrong, what they once did. What she once did. And it was wrong what he was planning with that demon.
In her flat, she stripped off the dirty clothes- absently realizing it had been months since she'd had to spray stain-remover on a blood splatter- and got in the shower. Then she heard the groan of pipes that meant the hot water heater next door was also revving up. Spike must be in the shower too. Naked. A few yards through that wall. She put her hand on the tiles and let the water course over her, and thought, I can't. I can't do this to him.
But once she was dry and in her flannel pajamas in front of the TV, she found herself listening not to the re-run of late-night news, but to the noise of activity next door: the dog's bark, and Spike's low voice soothing him, and the slamming of the front door-
She was out on her porch in an instant. She didn't know she could move that fast anymore. Spike was still on his steps, holding his cell-phone in game-face so he could better see the number on a card. That demon's card. He was going to call her and-
"Spike," she said, and he looked up, the game-face fading into his usual features. Then she pushed open her screen door. "Come here. Stay with me tonight."
He stared at her for a moment, and then, slowly, he pocketed the phone. "Okay."