Comics!Fic: Long Time Coming (1/2)
Title: Long Time Coming
Rating: PG-13 (discussions related to sex but no actual sex)
Summary: This fic is a continuation of “Freefall, Part 2,” issue #2 of S9. Literally. Buffy’s first line of dialogue is from the issue, which was written by Andrew Chambliss. For those not keeping up with the comics but interested in reading anyway, the issue ends with Buffy encountering a mysterious boy who can somehow turn vampires into dead humans with his touch. Buffy is on the run from the police, who suspect her of being responsible for all the corpses that keep popping up.
This ridiculously long fic, which I started over three weeks ago and which just kept growing, was inspired by eilowyn when we discussed being frustrated that the comics weren’t addressing what had passed between Buffy and Spike in “Chosen.” I do not presume to claim in any way that I addressed “Chosen” well, but I gave it a shot. I'm not 100% satisfied with it, but I want to get it posted and over with before issue #3 hits the stands in, oh, hours, and I need to get back to my WIP, so here it is, all 9,500 words. *headdesk*
(And yes, I’m aware that the preview pages for #3 make this scenario impossible; I knew from the get-go that my continuation would be wildly AU and indulged in using Severin this way anyway because the circumstances were so deliciously ripe for provoking discussion and H/C.)
EDIT: Ack, my post is too long. SIGH. All right, this is getting split into two parts but only because of LJ's posting limits; the fic is meant to be read in one piece. This part is approximately 6,500 words.
Buffy looked up from the ring of dead bodies to stare at her companion. “You trying to put me out of a job?” She grinned. “’Cause I might be okay with that.”
The boy- he didn’t look much younger than her, but he was so skinny, wide-eyed, and pale that she couldn’t keep from thinking of him as a boy- hesitated, as though he weren’t used to hearing jokes and didn’t know what to make of them.
“How did you do that?” Buffy demanded. “With the glowy and the green and the making them not vampires anymore?” Her face was stretched so wide it felt like it might start hurting, but she didn’t care. This boy was the reason the dead bodies were showing up all over town- she’d found the answer she’d needed, with hardly any effort. And he could make vampires stop ticking.
Was it possible that luck was actually on her side for once?
As the boy finally opened his mouth a thud sounded behind Buffy, mere feet away, and a familiar voice said, “Something wrong, love? Thought I heard- bloody hell, where’d all the bodies come from?”
Buffy whirled to see Spike, who had evidently just jumped down from a roof. He looked up from the corpses at her, nonplussed, and then his eyes moved past her to-
Buffy whirled again, just as the boy warbled, “Watch out! He’s a vampire. I can-” His hands shone dimly again with green, smoky light, and he stepped forward-
“No!” Without thinking, Buffy launched herself at him. The boy wheezed as they hit the ground hard. He struggled against her, but it was apparent from his formless batting that his mysterious power was his only advantage.
“You can’t!” yelled Buffy as she easily held him down. Her heart felt like it was trying to beat its way out of her chest. “He’s on our side. He’s a good guy!”
After a delayed reaction the boy stopped wriggling. Buffy sat up, shifting her weight off of him slightly while still keeping one knee planted firmly on his chest. He looked at her, his lips thin and pressed tight together. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
“Don’t-” She couldn’t say ‘kill.’ “-do that to him.” The words still felt painful to say. She couldn’t look at the bodies anymore. The very, very, completely dead vampires-
“Understand?”
The boy nodded.
“Spike, back away.”
“What? Buffy-”
“Spike, please!”
She didn’t turn her head, but she heard the clomping of his boots as he did as she asked.
Slowly, ready to shove him back down again if he made any sudden movements, Buffy got off of the boy. She thought she saw a flash of resentment in his eyes, but before she could look more closely he had ducked his head to scramble to his feet.
“I thought you were one of the good guys,” he spat. Hurt mingled with the anger in his voice. “You’re supposed to slay vampires. Not protect them!”
“I am one of the good guys! You don’t underst-”
The boy turned. Before Buffy could protest he was running down the street, his feet eating pavement much faster than she would have guessed they could.
“Stop!” yelled Buffy. “Come back!”
A blur of leather blew past her: Spike was racing after the boy.
“Oy! Bratface! The lady said to- oof!”
This tackle was much more familiar, and if Buffy hadn’t been almost sick to her stomach with fear, she would have trembled at the bubbles of anticipation, the sudden sense memories of fights and fucks.
Instead, she trembled in a wave of gathering tears. “You idiot, what are you doing? I said to stay back!”
Spike squirmed under her, looking even more nonplussed, as well as offended. “You wanted him to come back! I was just trying to help!” He heaved, and Buffy found herself rolling off him onto the asphalt. Gone were the days in Sunnydale when she wouldn’t have had to use any strength to get him to do what she wanted. He jumped to his feet, and Buffy found herself screeching.
“Don’t! You can’t go after him, you can’t-”
Even though he hadn’t moved, Buffy leapt up and drove him against the nearest wall, pinning him there, remembering to use her full force this time.
“You can’t,” she repeated, her voice harsh and cracking.
Spike stared at her, baffled, annoyed, his cheek smudged with dirt from where he’d hit the ground. “Why not?”
His incensed tone, such an unwelcome relic from their past, felt like a blow. To her horror, Buffy felt tears begin sliding down her face. “Bec-c-cause he can make vampires stop ticking!”
Spike stared at her. “What?”
Buffy opened her mouth, but all that came out was a sob. She shook her head helplessly, her shoulders heaving, and as she did a flash of understanding, followed by an equally helpless expression, replaced Spike’s ire.
“Buffy?”
In other circumstances, his flummoxed expression might have amused her, but now it only made her shake harder. She wasn’t supposed to cry, was she; she was supposed to be strong and stoic and not break down in the middle of the street, even though she was a fugitive and had no money and no place to go and she could have lost him again-
His arms moved, and for a painful second she thought he was trying to escape her grasp again. Then they slipped around her back, and she realized he was just trying to change her hold on him into something more like-
-Like an embrace.
Buffy released the tension in her arms so she no longer pinned him to the wall, and in less than a heartbeat he pulled her into him, wrapping his arms around her fully. She buried her head in his shoulder without a second thought.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to- I’m sorry. I won’t go after him. I promise.”
Relief swept through Buffy, though her eyes didn’t stop leaking; maybe that was okay, though: maybe she needed to cry, for catharsis. The last few days had gotten so out of hand so quickly, and if she broke down in front of anyone else they would see it as weakness.
Bur Spike wouldn’t judge. He wouldn’t treat her like an immature, outlived-her-usefulness, too-troublesome-to-deal-with screw-up.
Buffy inhaled his familiar leather-and-cigarette-smoke scent, and even stronger sense-memories washed over her: the bitter scent of tobacco wafting into her room, enticing her to come outside where he waited; the itch in her nose on patrol that meant he was tailing her and meant to be found; the comfort she instinctively began to feel when she smelled him nearby, and the revulsion she nevertheless felt when she was at home or with the Scoobies and could smell him on her.
He’d been the only one she could be transparent with back then, too. It had to be some cruel joke of the universe’s that so many years later, she still didn’t know where she stood with her friends.
But now wasn’t the same as that year, because this time she wasn’t going to use him or run from him. In fact, Spike was so solid and steady, and his arms around her felt so achingly familiar
-like home-
that she thought she could have stayed there quite comfortably all night.
Whatever that meant.
The thought scared her almost as much as it warmed her, and it took a lot of willpower not to tense. She couldn’t stay here, and not just because of her own insecurities. She had police to avoid and living logistics to arrange and a mysterious, dangerous boy to apprehend.
Slowly, so that he would realize what she was doing, she pulled back. Only when he inhaled sharply did Buffy realize what her face must look like- puffy, scarlet, and snotty. And it was probably only getting redder now in her embarrassment.
Something in his expression made her momentarily forget her own features, though. He somehow looked lost and awed at the same time as his wider-than-usual eyes drank her in.
Her self-consciousness increased. “What?”
He startled. “Uh- nothing.” His eyes flicked away, but a little almost-smile didn’t fade from his lips.
“What is it?” she demanded.
“I…”
It took Buffy a second to recognize his bashfulness; that was so not a word she associated with Spike.
“I just…didn’t know that you…cared. So much.”
The words were warmly spoken, with affection and gratitude, but they made Buffy grow cold.
Her terror at the idea of him dying surprised him?
Did he honestly think he meant so little to her? How could he? It was an understatement of epic proportion to say they hadn’t been close the past few years, but she couldn’t possibly have given him the impression that- that-
“You think I wouldn’t…care…if you died?” Her voice didn’t sound like her own.
“No!” His vehemence was genuine, but she saw him wince, like he’d realized he had messed up.
Damn straight.
“That isn’t what I meant,” he said hastily. “I know you would- care. I just- I didn’t-” He shrugged, as though that explained anything.
Didn’t think what? she wanted to demand, but she knew that wouldn’t get her anywhere. This was obviously a gut feeling he’d had, not a precise valuation.
She’d said not even an hour ago that she would miss him if he were gone. Did he think if he died she would briefly mourn him like he was any other ally and then move happily on with her life?
Did he think that was what she had done last time?
Buffy looked down so he wouldn’t see any new tears glimmering in her eyes. Tears of anger, that’s what they were. And he didn’t get to metaphorically wipe them away.
“Buffy…” Out of the corner of her eye she saw his hand lift.
“Don’t!” She pinched the bridge of her nose to try discreetly to grind away tears before lifting her head, making sure to stare just past his ear instead of at him.
“Just don’t,” she said woodenly.
Spike exhaled loudly, though not in exasperation or long-suffering; he sounded like he was calming himself, trying to figure out his next step. Most annoyingly, despite his obvious regret at putting his foot in his mouth, he still looked touched.
“So,” she said, desperate to change topics before he could try to make amends. She had to idea what to say and glanced at the corpse-strewn ground for inspiration.
He followed her lead. “That kid’s responsible for the bobbies’ dead bodies?” As he studied the corpses, Buffy noted how his brow furrowed and jaw clenched before his expression grew detached. The fact that they were vampires was definitely wigging him.
Good.
Maybe he’d listen the next time she told him to back the fuck away. She didn’t need to be worrying about his stupid, stubborn ass on top of everything else.
“Yeah.” She tried to sound cold and just as detached. “He’s got some sort of power that kills them.”
“But he’s not just killing them,” said Spike, looking again at the bodies. If possible, he seemed paler than usual. “Otherwise they’d be dust. The police have been finding human bodies.”
“His mojo seems to-” Buffy tried to think of the right word. “Undo their vampireness.” She gestured with her foot at the African American man- vampire- who had been attacking her when the boy intervened. “He grabbed this one’s head and the fangs and wrinklies disappeared. And then he was dead.”
Spike swallowed. “All he did was touch him? So it’s an innate ability? Not a weapon?”
“He didn’t have a weapon,” said Buffy, and felt a vicious sort of satisfaction at his anxiety. She understood why Spike would prefer the boy’s power to be a weapon instead of innate; Spike’s best assets were his hand-to-hand fighting skills, and he couldn’t use those if the boy himself were fatal. Spike’s only offense would be a good defense- and in the boy’s case, that probably meant a good escape plan.
An image formed in her mind of Spike trapped, trying to evade the boy’s touch and unable to use his fists and fangs. Bile rose in her throat alarmingly fast, and she couldn’t keep from pressing a hand to her roiling stomach.
No, she was not going to freak out again, especially if it surprised him-
“That doesn’t make sense!” He paced a few steps, arms akimbo, stopping short whenever he reached a body. “If it’s a magical ability, he should have lost it when you destroyed the Seed.”
Buffy gritted her teeth. Why did everyone have to keep bringing up the stupid Seed?
“Do you think he’s human? Well, obviously he’s not just human. How’s he doing it? What’s his agenda?”
Given his pacing and the way he seemed to be thinking aloud, Buffy wasn’t sure he actually expected her to answer, but his barrage of questions hit a sore spot, nevertheless.
“Funnily enough, I was wondering the same thing!” she said sharply. “And I was on my way to finding out the answers before you showed up and ruined everything!”
He stopped abruptly and looked at her, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “What?”
“You heard me!” Her anger swelled, pulsing through her like adrenaline. “Don’t you think I was asking the exact questions before you came along and scared him?”
Spike gaped at her. “Scared him? Seems he can handle himself just fine against vamps. You’re the one who pounced on him-”
Buffy almost choked. “To save you!”
Spike’s expression softened in a way that set her stomach churning in an entirely different way. “I know, love. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve-
No no no, no loves or sorrys, no assumptions about how much he cared about her-
“I needed to talk to him! He’s the one the police want, and now he’s gone. And now he thinks I’m a bad guy! What am I supposed to tell the police? ‘I found your guy, but sorry, he’s AWOL, and unfortunately I can’t prove anything’? I can’t, which means I still can’t go home!”
Bitterness rose in her, acidic-tasting and overwhelming. It was only just starting to sink in how much things could have turned around if she’d gotten information out of the boy. Sure, in all likelihood he wouldn’t have agreed to turn himself into the police, but maybe they could have explained things to the SFPD, and at least she would have learned what she was dealing with! Now was she not only still a fugitive, but the real “murderer” would be avoiding her.
Spike looked stricken, evidently realizing the same things, but the words kept coming.
“Why are you even here? I saw you an hour ago. I thought you were going to do something useful like figure out what’s coming for me!”
Spike’s eyes flashed, and as fast as it had turned gentle, his face hardened again. “I doubled back to tell you that if you needed a place to stay while the nibblet wasn’t obliging, you could kip at my place.”
For a mind-numbing moment all Buffy could think was kip can’t mean sleep, kip can’t mean sleep. Because if it did, then she was a terrible, awful person, and she didn’t deserve to have Spike for a friend.
But it did mean sleep. She’d picked up enough British slang from him and-
Giles
-to know that.
The tears came again without warning, hot and stinging.
“Buffy!” Spike jerked forward, his arms outstretched. He stopped short of actually touching her, though, and his clear hesitation somehow made it even worse.
“I’m sorry,” Buffy choked out. “I didn’t- I-”
I didn’t mean what I said, I’m sorry I was cruel, please don’t hate me forgive me-
“S’all right.”
He finally patted her shoulder. It felt awkwardly tentative, but she was grateful for it all the same.
“It’s all right,” he repeated, in a softer voice.
Buffy took a few gulping breaths, stemming the last- hopefully- of her tears. It took effort to look at him with her red eyes and snotty upper lip. To her relief, there was no recrimination in his expression, only worry and enough tenderness to make her want to duck her head again.
A few seconds passed before Spike said, “Offer’s still open,” answering the question she hadn’t even realized she was wondering. He shrugged as though her answer didn’t matter one way or the other, but his own fidgety duck of the head betrayed him.
“Okay,” said Buffy, without having to think about it. He looked up, and her cheeks abruptly felt warm again, though not from tears. “Yes, please.”
A pleased smile flashed across his face so fast Buffy almost missed it. “Okay.” He glanced at the bodies. “Do you want…were you going to patrol more?”
“I didn’t have a plan,” said Buffy honestly. “Didn’t have anywhere to go so…” So I was just going to wander the streets looking for trouble.
God, that was too depressing to say aloud. Depressing enough even to think.
He seemed to understand. “We can take the long way, check some other areas. Or I can just tell you how to get there if you want to go off on your own…”
“No,” said Buffy quickly. “I’m done. I don’t think there’s much more I can do.” When his expression turned chagrined she hastened to add, “Not because of…I…I’m tired.” It was true, and with the admission she relaxed her limbs, allowing a good portion of her tension to melt back into the simple exhaustion she’d been resolutely keeping at bay for the past few hours. It had been so long since she’d slept.
“We can take the short way,” she added. “Unless you want to go off alone-”
“No,” he echoed, just as quickly. When she didn’t say anything he studied the bodies again with furrowed brow. “What d’you reckon we should do with these? Leave ‘em here?”
As Buffy followed his gaze, her stomach twisted uncomfortably. Rationally, she knew the corpses had been vampires, but they looked all too human now. “Probably. There are too many to try to hide.” Her stomach gave another nasty flip. Hiding corpses- it seemed so vulgar. It had been a while since she’d properly appreciated the unobtrusive convenience of vampire dust.
“You shouldn’t handle them anyway with the police sniffing around you,” said Spike. “Asking for trouble. Maybe when they discover this lot they’ll lay off you. They think you’re in hiding.”
Or maybe they’ll think I’m even more psychotic than they suspected. Spike looked so hopeful that she didn’t have the heart to point out how much more likely her scenario was than his.
Instead, she stepped over the body closest to the mouth of the alley. He joined her without another word, and they walked to the street together. Before emerging from the alley, Buffy checked left and right to make sure there were no cop cars nearby. There was still plenty of traffic this time of night, but none of the passing or parked vehicles looked like they belonged to her friends at the SFPD. As they stepped onto the sidewalk, and within reach of the ambient glow from the streetlights, Spike moved swiftly to the side of her closest to the street, shielding her from view the way a parent would walk on the outside to shield a child from cars. She sent him a grateful glance that he didn’t notice, intent as he was on scanning their surroundings.
Seeing his careful guard, she wanted to know, suddenly, what he had been on his way to do before he doubled back to find her, the details of how exactly he was figuring out who was coming for her. She couldn’t ask, though, not now.
As minutes and blocks passed and the tension didn’t drain from Spike’s face, Buffy wondered what else was preoccupying him. His shoulders were stiff in a very un-Spike-like manner, and the way he twitched whenever another person entered view, like a dog sniffing at every passerby, made Buffy unaccountably nervous. She thought she understood his paranoia, though, and it made her chest ache in sympathy.
“He’s brunet,” she said quietly, after Spike glared suspiciously at two blond, Scandinavian-looking guys smoking outside an apartment building.
“I know. I saw him.”
Buffy was reluctant to talk about the boy after their heated words but she needed desperately to know. “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
When Spike didn’t immediately answer, worry began working itself into a suffocating knot in her throat. She was scrambling to recall as many minute details about the boy as possible when he said firmly, “Yes.”
She choked back a sigh. “Good.”
His conviction brought her no small relief, but she still hated to see him so discomfited. Spike wasn’t supposed to be twitchy and nervous around humans. He probably wasn’t afraid for his life, but knowing he had an enemy that could nullify his best defense and kill him with a touch would make anyone anxious. And if his unease upset her, she could only imagine how much he hated it.
She tried to think of something cheerful to talk about that would lift both of them from their morbid thoughts, but she knew anything she said would sound contrived, and so she busied herself watching the streets like a hawk for any sign of police or the boy. The one upside to their perturbation was that they walked fast, and it wasn’t long before they were in Spike’s neighborhood, a collection of dark, dingy apartment buildings that Buffy wouldn’t have gone within a hundred-foot radius of before she became the Slayer. Even though she knew it was irrational, given the previous places he had lived, it depressed her to think of Spike living in such gloom.
Spike produced a key from one of the pockets in his duster. The nondescript door he unlocked opened onto an equally dingy lobby with scuffed concrete floors and several rows of dented mailboxes. There was no elevator- not that Buffy thought she would trust it if there were- and they climbed five narrow, badly lit flights of stairs before reaching the top floor.
“I’d think you would live closer to the ground,” commented Buffy as he produced a second key and inserted it in the lock for unit 503. “Since higher up is closer to the sun and all.” When he shot her a wry, bemused smile, the first she had seen from him all evening, she smiled in return and shrugged to show she was fully aware that her logic made little sense.
“I’ve spent enough time living underground,” said Spike as he opened the door. “I got used to being high up when I had my ship. Can scope everything out. I usually leave by the fire escape. And…” The wry smile widened, and he gestured her forward with an exaggerated flourish. “It was the only unit available.”
As Buffy stepped past him and got her first look at his new home, she realized she should have known better than to assume his apartment would be as run-down as the rest of the place. After all, Spike was the person who had made a crypt comfortable.
The main room, a combined kitchen and living room, was smaller than his crypt and probably would have seemed cramped to the average person, but Spike had so few pieces of furniture that instead it seemed cozy. A dark green armchair and ottoman stood against the left wall, and though the small rips in the creases showed they were secondhand, the fabric was clean and looked quite comfortable. A small television stood on a stool against the opposite wall, and in between was a short coffee table, on which were scattered several books. More books poked out of a cardboard box next to the armchair, which sat in the domain of a standing lamp with multicolored shades, the kind that Buffy just knew would create a cheerful glow when turned on. A poster of the Beatles hung above the TV. Across from Buffy and Spike was an open door through which she could see a bed, and next to it was a closed door that she assumed hid the bathroom.
To their right was a tiny kitchenette with a refrigerator, sink, oven, and two squares of counter, one of which was covered with a microwave. Buffy would have been frustrated with so little room to work, but she supposed the close quarters were tolerable for someone whose meal preparation consisted of transferring blood from the refrigerator to the microwave. She hoped there was a restaurant nearby that served blooming onions.
Buffy glanced at Spike and was surprised to see he looked nervous again, albeit in an altogether different way. He wanted her to like his apartment, she thought, and felt warmth seep through her, starting from the pit of her stomach.
“I like it,” she said honestly, and another smile lit his face.
“It does me fine,” he said, with a seemingly careless shrug that didn’t fool her at all.
The only problem with it, thought Buffy, as they moved to the center of the room, was that while the armchair looked very comfortable, it was not a couch and did not seat two people.
Which was not to say that she expected to be invited to Spike’s anytime soon for a movie night or a Dancing With the Stars mocking session (although come to think of it, that would be fun).
It was just an observation.
On the other hand, she would probably be equally comfortable squeezing into an armchair meant for one…
Buffy looked down, feigning interest in the books on the coffee table so that he hopefully wouldn’t see her blush. Where were thoughts like that coming from?
“I, uh, I’m not really reading that…” Startled by his sheepish tone and expression, Buffy focused her attention and realized the book she was pretending to scrutinize was Pride and Prejudice.
“Last tenant left it here…I don’t really…”
Buffy quirked an eyebrow, trying not to grin.
“I’m also reading The Shining,” he said gruffly. “It’s way better.”
“Uh huh.”
At her amused look he said quickly, “Do you want anything to drink? I’ve got beer. Or…” He glanced at the kitchenette and grimaced. “Water.”
“Water sounds good,” said Buffy, and he ran her a mugful from the tap. As she accepted the blue china mug, she couldn’t keep from hoping that he washed them really, really well.
“You said you were tired?” he asked after she had gulped down the (thankfully, non-coppery) water. The concern in his eyes made her feel almost as snug as though she were already wrapped up in blankets.
“Yeah. Haven’t slept in over a day, what with being interrogated last night…” She couldn’t keep even half her bitterness from her voice.
His features tightened, and for a moment she was looking at someone infuriated and powerful enough to do something about it. It was an expression that was both familiar and not, given how long it had been since she’d seen him look so vicious. To her chagrin, it sent a not-un-pleasurable tingle down her spine to know he was imagining doing terrible things to the police on her behalf.
“Can’t do much about those pricks at present,” he said, also sounding bitter. “But I can help with the other.” He crossed the small living room to the bedroom door. “Bath’s here and the bed’s in there. Sleep however long you need.”
Buffy swallowed as she stepped closer. “I can’t take your bed…”
“Sure you can.” Spike pushed the door so it swung open, revealing a twin bed with messy sky blue sheets. Were they silk? Buffy wondered, and found herself gulping convulsively. Phantom sensations of silk sheets beneath her back, so immeasurably softer than the crypt floor, caressed her. She’d always wondered how much of the luxury in his crypt was his own taste and how much was an attempt to please her, make his home seem more worth her while.
That last thought was a barb stinging her back to the present, and she said, “I don’t want to put you out. I can sleep on the armchair.”
“Buffy.” He sounded infinitely patient as he said her name, and affectionate instead of patronizing. “You won’t be putting me out. It’s my daytime now anyway, remember? I’ll sleep when the sun’s up, and in the meantime I’ll watch the telly or read. The Shining,” he added quickly.
“Spike…” She bit her lip as she stared past him into the dark little bedroom. The bed looked so inviting…
“Unless you think I have, like, cooties or something,” he said. “I don’t have any spare sheets.” His attempt at jocularity fell flat halfway through when his shoulders hunched ad he looked down.
That decided her. “Of course not,” she said, and automatically laid a hand on his arm, startling him into looking back at her. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.” She held his gaze until he nodded, and then she stepped past his outstretched arm into the bedroom.
There were a few more books in here besides Stephen King, including several poetry anthologies, and curtained windows next to the bed. The pillow on the bed was lumpy, as though well hugged. She let her fingertips brush the sheets.
Silk.
* * *
For what felt like the hundredth time since she’d lain down, Buffy opened her eyes to read the digital clock on his bedside table. Despite her lethargy, the faint but steady headache behind her temples, and the languor gluing her limbs to the bed, she was still awake after an hour. Worries about what would happen the next day- what would happen in a few hours- gnawed at her, keeping her mind restless even though the rest of her was exhausted.
Should she go to the police and tell them about the boy? Would they skip straight to arresting her? That was probably the rational thing for them to do given how she had skipped custody last time they’d given her the benefit of the doubt…
She couldn’t afford to end up in jail, but she also couldn’t afford to stay on the lam. Literally. After cleaning out her bank account for the loan collector, it was even more vital that she be able to go back to her job. Even if going home was somehow not an option, she still needed to be able to buy food.
And boy did she want to be home. She’d worked so hard to get a nice, new apartment, and now she couldn’t even go to it.
What did Anaheed and Tumble think of her right now? Would they even let her back into the apartment? Anaheed worked a nine-to-five job, but Tumble worked shifting service industry hours like she did, and she couldn’t for the life of her remember this week’s schedule. Was there anytime tomorrow when they would both be out and she could sneak home and grab some of her possessions?
She really needed a change of clothes, for starters. Her own toothbrush and a shower with her own hair products would be nice, too.
Even if she got some of her things…what then? Would Dawn and Xander be willing to help her tomorrow? Their summary rejection ached like a physical bruise, and she found herself squeezing Spike’s pillow. She would never have sent them fleeing out a window if they needed shelter.
She could try asking Willow for help, assuming Willow was even speaking to her. The Wiccan had never instituted a silent treatment after the Seed was destroyed, but Buffy couldn’t get rid of the feeling that one was imminent; she was still waiting for the day when Willow wouldn’t answer the phone when she called.
Failing Willow, there was Spike. She knew instinctively that he wouldn’t turn her away if she asked to camp out here another few nights while she sorted out her problems. Her certainty in him was both comforting and guilt inducing. His reappearance in her life was still so new that it felt like taking advantage of him in a way that it wouldn’t have if she stayed with one of the Scoobies.
She listened for sounds of him from the living room. He hadn’t turned on the TV after all, probably because he knew she would be able to hear it, and this consideration only added to the weird mixture of guilt and pleasure rolling through her as she lay in his bed. She hoped he was reading as he’d said he would. If he were sleeping, he should be in his own bed.
As her head pounded harder, Buffy smushed her nose against the pillow and inhaled. She could smell Spike all around her, cigarettes and leather and whiskey and shampoo and Spike-musk. She hadn’t been near a bed that smelled so thoroughly of him since their few nights together on the cot in Sunnydale; his room on the bug ship had been too crowded with the scents of oil and metal and machinery to really smell like him.
The familiar odor was both relaxing and invigorating. She felt like she could sink into his mattress, but on the other hand she also couldn’t keep from remembering all the thoroughly non-sleep-involved activities they used to do together, and those were anything but restful…
What was he doing in the other room? Did he like the idea of her sleeping in his bed? Did he care about that sort of thing at all anymore?
“I didn’t know that you…cared. So much.”
He obviously thought that she didn’t.
A short sigh escaped her, and Buffy flipped onto her back. She stared at the dark ceiling, not even bothering to close her eyes. She had no time in her life for invigorating, but the memories of their nights in her basement, of just being held, were rapidly lodging in her consciousness in such a way that she knew they wouldn’t easily be uprooted. She had had very little trouble falling asleep those nights, in his arms, when she had been just as tired and even more stressed.
To think that those days- and that relationship- now seemed simple. Who would have thought that someday he’d be giving her a place to sleep?
She couldn’t stay at Spike’s indefinitely, even if he let her and even if the novelty was appealing in its own way. She had to make peace with the police, and even more importantly, she had to find the boy and figure out what was his deal; she had to make him realize she wasn’t the enemy and in turn ensure that he wasn’t going to make himself her enemy.
And she absolutely, positively had to make him understand that Spike was not, under any circumstances, to be touched.
A shiver rippled through her, and Buffy checked the clock again. At this rate she was going to sleep the day away and keep Spike from his bed during his “night,” too. She imagined his arms encircling her and sinking into sleep.
One glance at the clock later, she sat up and floated to the door.
Spike was dozing in the armchair, with Pride and Prejudice open and facedown against his chest. When the bedroom door creaked his head jerked up, his eyes snapping open.
As they stared at each other, nerves started bouncing around Buffy’s stomach. What if the memories didn’t mean the same thing to him that they did to her?
“What’s wrong?” he asked, in a gravelly voice.
“Can’t sleep.” Buffy hesitated.
He cocked his head, a mannerism so familiar that her knees felt liquid-like for a moment. “Can I get you anything?”
“Do you want to sleep with me?” Buffy blurted. Heat seared her cheeks. “Lie down with me, I mean? Sh-share the bed.”
He blinked. His scarred eyebrow rose slightly.
She swallowed. “You’re obviously tired, too, and you shouldn’t be on the chair in your home. I- I can’t sleep, and I thought- maybe-” If you held me- But she fumbled the words, suddenly unable to say something so intimate. After so long, it seemed such a presumptuous thing to ask.
Myriad expressions crossed Spike’s face, chief among them hesitation and, she was ninety percent sure, longing. Hopefully, she wasn’t projecting the latter.
When he still didn’t speak she said, trying to sound jovial, “I don’t bite.” She cracked a grin. His eyebrow rose higher.
A fluttering, vaguely panicky feeling took hold in her chest.
“If that’s what you want,” said Spike, and the fluttering slowed. He still looked uncertain as he stood, though, and Buffy found herself nodding like a bobble head toy.
“I’m sure.”
She turned back into the bedroom, and after a second he followed. As soon as he crossed the threshold she pushed the door closed in a final sort of way. It was final- and satisfying- but it also turned his eyes into mere gleams in the dark; she couldn’t discern his expression anymore.
Though perhaps, given his uncertainty, that was best for her self-esteem.
She slid back under the sheets, and he followed suit when she scooted over. The bed was small, but when angled toward him, Buffy didn’t feel squashed. He lay on his back instead of trying to spoon her, though, which was slightly disappointing but probably to be expected given their long time apart.
She shifted onto her back, too, and that did make it a bit of a tight squeeze. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Yup.”
A few seconds passed, and then she realized there was only one pillow. “Here, you should take the pillow, it’s yours-”
“Buffy, I don’t want it.”
His tone brooked no argument. Feeling slightly embarrassed, Buffy stayed quiet.
A minute passed without either of them moving or speaking. All right, so this wasn’t exactly being held, but Spike was next to her, and for the moment they were both safe, and at three o’clock in the morning that was all she really needed.
Buffy closed her eyes and breathed deeply, trying to concentrate on the solid comfort of him next to her. Spike lay still as well, which was not what she expected. She was used to him fidgeting before sleep- moving his head to find the best spot on the pillow, rubbing his thumb against her arm- the same way he fidgeted all the time when he was awake.
Dismay filled her as the implication sunk in: he wasn’t comfortable lying with her anymore. The realization burned in her gut and throat and cheeks, and Buffy knew she had to say something before her humiliation ruined the night completely.
“Spike…”
Maybe she should just go sleep on the armchair herself.
“Sometimes you bit,” he said, and she froze.
Sometimes she…what?
Their heads turned at the same time, and her eyes had adjusted enough to see his nervousness.
“It- it was a joke,” he said quickly. “You said you didn’t bite- but sometimes you- never mind. Forget I sa-”
Buffy rolled onto her side and slid her arm across his torso, and Spike shut up.
* * *
Part 2
Rating: PG-13 (discussions related to sex but no actual sex)
Summary: This fic is a continuation of “Freefall, Part 2,” issue #2 of S9. Literally. Buffy’s first line of dialogue is from the issue, which was written by Andrew Chambliss. For those not keeping up with the comics but interested in reading anyway, the issue ends with Buffy encountering a mysterious boy who can somehow turn vampires into dead humans with his touch. Buffy is on the run from the police, who suspect her of being responsible for all the corpses that keep popping up.
This ridiculously long fic, which I started over three weeks ago and which just kept growing, was inspired by eilowyn when we discussed being frustrated that the comics weren’t addressing what had passed between Buffy and Spike in “Chosen.” I do not presume to claim in any way that I addressed “Chosen” well, but I gave it a shot. I'm not 100% satisfied with it, but I want to get it posted and over with before issue #3 hits the stands in, oh, hours, and I need to get back to my WIP, so here it is, all 9,500 words. *headdesk*
(And yes, I’m aware that the preview pages for #3 make this scenario impossible; I knew from the get-go that my continuation would be wildly AU and indulged in using Severin this way anyway because the circumstances were so deliciously ripe for provoking discussion and H/C.)
EDIT: Ack, my post is too long. SIGH. All right, this is getting split into two parts but only because of LJ's posting limits; the fic is meant to be read in one piece. This part is approximately 6,500 words.
Buffy looked up from the ring of dead bodies to stare at her companion. “You trying to put me out of a job?” She grinned. “’Cause I might be okay with that.”
The boy- he didn’t look much younger than her, but he was so skinny, wide-eyed, and pale that she couldn’t keep from thinking of him as a boy- hesitated, as though he weren’t used to hearing jokes and didn’t know what to make of them.
“How did you do that?” Buffy demanded. “With the glowy and the green and the making them not vampires anymore?” Her face was stretched so wide it felt like it might start hurting, but she didn’t care. This boy was the reason the dead bodies were showing up all over town- she’d found the answer she’d needed, with hardly any effort. And he could make vampires stop ticking.
Was it possible that luck was actually on her side for once?
As the boy finally opened his mouth a thud sounded behind Buffy, mere feet away, and a familiar voice said, “Something wrong, love? Thought I heard- bloody hell, where’d all the bodies come from?”
Buffy whirled to see Spike, who had evidently just jumped down from a roof. He looked up from the corpses at her, nonplussed, and then his eyes moved past her to-
Buffy whirled again, just as the boy warbled, “Watch out! He’s a vampire. I can-” His hands shone dimly again with green, smoky light, and he stepped forward-
“No!” Without thinking, Buffy launched herself at him. The boy wheezed as they hit the ground hard. He struggled against her, but it was apparent from his formless batting that his mysterious power was his only advantage.
“You can’t!” yelled Buffy as she easily held him down. Her heart felt like it was trying to beat its way out of her chest. “He’s on our side. He’s a good guy!”
After a delayed reaction the boy stopped wriggling. Buffy sat up, shifting her weight off of him slightly while still keeping one knee planted firmly on his chest. He looked at her, his lips thin and pressed tight together. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
“Don’t-” She couldn’t say ‘kill.’ “-do that to him.” The words still felt painful to say. She couldn’t look at the bodies anymore. The very, very, completely dead vampires-
“Understand?”
The boy nodded.
“Spike, back away.”
“What? Buffy-”
“Spike, please!”
She didn’t turn her head, but she heard the clomping of his boots as he did as she asked.
Slowly, ready to shove him back down again if he made any sudden movements, Buffy got off of the boy. She thought she saw a flash of resentment in his eyes, but before she could look more closely he had ducked his head to scramble to his feet.
“I thought you were one of the good guys,” he spat. Hurt mingled with the anger in his voice. “You’re supposed to slay vampires. Not protect them!”
“I am one of the good guys! You don’t underst-”
The boy turned. Before Buffy could protest he was running down the street, his feet eating pavement much faster than she would have guessed they could.
“Stop!” yelled Buffy. “Come back!”
A blur of leather blew past her: Spike was racing after the boy.
“Oy! Bratface! The lady said to- oof!”
This tackle was much more familiar, and if Buffy hadn’t been almost sick to her stomach with fear, she would have trembled at the bubbles of anticipation, the sudden sense memories of fights and fucks.
Instead, she trembled in a wave of gathering tears. “You idiot, what are you doing? I said to stay back!”
Spike squirmed under her, looking even more nonplussed, as well as offended. “You wanted him to come back! I was just trying to help!” He heaved, and Buffy found herself rolling off him onto the asphalt. Gone were the days in Sunnydale when she wouldn’t have had to use any strength to get him to do what she wanted. He jumped to his feet, and Buffy found herself screeching.
“Don’t! You can’t go after him, you can’t-”
Even though he hadn’t moved, Buffy leapt up and drove him against the nearest wall, pinning him there, remembering to use her full force this time.
“You can’t,” she repeated, her voice harsh and cracking.
Spike stared at her, baffled, annoyed, his cheek smudged with dirt from where he’d hit the ground. “Why not?”
His incensed tone, such an unwelcome relic from their past, felt like a blow. To her horror, Buffy felt tears begin sliding down her face. “Bec-c-cause he can make vampires stop ticking!”
Spike stared at her. “What?”
Buffy opened her mouth, but all that came out was a sob. She shook her head helplessly, her shoulders heaving, and as she did a flash of understanding, followed by an equally helpless expression, replaced Spike’s ire.
“Buffy?”
In other circumstances, his flummoxed expression might have amused her, but now it only made her shake harder. She wasn’t supposed to cry, was she; she was supposed to be strong and stoic and not break down in the middle of the street, even though she was a fugitive and had no money and no place to go and she could have lost him again-
His arms moved, and for a painful second she thought he was trying to escape her grasp again. Then they slipped around her back, and she realized he was just trying to change her hold on him into something more like-
-Like an embrace.
Buffy released the tension in her arms so she no longer pinned him to the wall, and in less than a heartbeat he pulled her into him, wrapping his arms around her fully. She buried her head in his shoulder without a second thought.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to- I’m sorry. I won’t go after him. I promise.”
Relief swept through Buffy, though her eyes didn’t stop leaking; maybe that was okay, though: maybe she needed to cry, for catharsis. The last few days had gotten so out of hand so quickly, and if she broke down in front of anyone else they would see it as weakness.
Bur Spike wouldn’t judge. He wouldn’t treat her like an immature, outlived-her-usefulness, too-troublesome-to-deal-with screw-up.
Buffy inhaled his familiar leather-and-cigarette-smoke scent, and even stronger sense-memories washed over her: the bitter scent of tobacco wafting into her room, enticing her to come outside where he waited; the itch in her nose on patrol that meant he was tailing her and meant to be found; the comfort she instinctively began to feel when she smelled him nearby, and the revulsion she nevertheless felt when she was at home or with the Scoobies and could smell him on her.
He’d been the only one she could be transparent with back then, too. It had to be some cruel joke of the universe’s that so many years later, she still didn’t know where she stood with her friends.
But now wasn’t the same as that year, because this time she wasn’t going to use him or run from him. In fact, Spike was so solid and steady, and his arms around her felt so achingly familiar
-like home-
that she thought she could have stayed there quite comfortably all night.
Whatever that meant.
The thought scared her almost as much as it warmed her, and it took a lot of willpower not to tense. She couldn’t stay here, and not just because of her own insecurities. She had police to avoid and living logistics to arrange and a mysterious, dangerous boy to apprehend.
Slowly, so that he would realize what she was doing, she pulled back. Only when he inhaled sharply did Buffy realize what her face must look like- puffy, scarlet, and snotty. And it was probably only getting redder now in her embarrassment.
Something in his expression made her momentarily forget her own features, though. He somehow looked lost and awed at the same time as his wider-than-usual eyes drank her in.
Her self-consciousness increased. “What?”
He startled. “Uh- nothing.” His eyes flicked away, but a little almost-smile didn’t fade from his lips.
“What is it?” she demanded.
“I…”
It took Buffy a second to recognize his bashfulness; that was so not a word she associated with Spike.
“I just…didn’t know that you…cared. So much.”
The words were warmly spoken, with affection and gratitude, but they made Buffy grow cold.
Her terror at the idea of him dying surprised him?
Did he honestly think he meant so little to her? How could he? It was an understatement of epic proportion to say they hadn’t been close the past few years, but she couldn’t possibly have given him the impression that- that-
“You think I wouldn’t…care…if you died?” Her voice didn’t sound like her own.
“No!” His vehemence was genuine, but she saw him wince, like he’d realized he had messed up.
Damn straight.
“That isn’t what I meant,” he said hastily. “I know you would- care. I just- I didn’t-” He shrugged, as though that explained anything.
Didn’t think what? she wanted to demand, but she knew that wouldn’t get her anywhere. This was obviously a gut feeling he’d had, not a precise valuation.
She’d said not even an hour ago that she would miss him if he were gone. Did he think if he died she would briefly mourn him like he was any other ally and then move happily on with her life?
Did he think that was what she had done last time?
Buffy looked down so he wouldn’t see any new tears glimmering in her eyes. Tears of anger, that’s what they were. And he didn’t get to metaphorically wipe them away.
“Buffy…” Out of the corner of her eye she saw his hand lift.
“Don’t!” She pinched the bridge of her nose to try discreetly to grind away tears before lifting her head, making sure to stare just past his ear instead of at him.
“Just don’t,” she said woodenly.
Spike exhaled loudly, though not in exasperation or long-suffering; he sounded like he was calming himself, trying to figure out his next step. Most annoyingly, despite his obvious regret at putting his foot in his mouth, he still looked touched.
“So,” she said, desperate to change topics before he could try to make amends. She had to idea what to say and glanced at the corpse-strewn ground for inspiration.
He followed her lead. “That kid’s responsible for the bobbies’ dead bodies?” As he studied the corpses, Buffy noted how his brow furrowed and jaw clenched before his expression grew detached. The fact that they were vampires was definitely wigging him.
Good.
Maybe he’d listen the next time she told him to back the fuck away. She didn’t need to be worrying about his stupid, stubborn ass on top of everything else.
“Yeah.” She tried to sound cold and just as detached. “He’s got some sort of power that kills them.”
“But he’s not just killing them,” said Spike, looking again at the bodies. If possible, he seemed paler than usual. “Otherwise they’d be dust. The police have been finding human bodies.”
“His mojo seems to-” Buffy tried to think of the right word. “Undo their vampireness.” She gestured with her foot at the African American man- vampire- who had been attacking her when the boy intervened. “He grabbed this one’s head and the fangs and wrinklies disappeared. And then he was dead.”
Spike swallowed. “All he did was touch him? So it’s an innate ability? Not a weapon?”
“He didn’t have a weapon,” said Buffy, and felt a vicious sort of satisfaction at his anxiety. She understood why Spike would prefer the boy’s power to be a weapon instead of innate; Spike’s best assets were his hand-to-hand fighting skills, and he couldn’t use those if the boy himself were fatal. Spike’s only offense would be a good defense- and in the boy’s case, that probably meant a good escape plan.
An image formed in her mind of Spike trapped, trying to evade the boy’s touch and unable to use his fists and fangs. Bile rose in her throat alarmingly fast, and she couldn’t keep from pressing a hand to her roiling stomach.
No, she was not going to freak out again, especially if it surprised him-
“That doesn’t make sense!” He paced a few steps, arms akimbo, stopping short whenever he reached a body. “If it’s a magical ability, he should have lost it when you destroyed the Seed.”
Buffy gritted her teeth. Why did everyone have to keep bringing up the stupid Seed?
“Do you think he’s human? Well, obviously he’s not just human. How’s he doing it? What’s his agenda?”
Given his pacing and the way he seemed to be thinking aloud, Buffy wasn’t sure he actually expected her to answer, but his barrage of questions hit a sore spot, nevertheless.
“Funnily enough, I was wondering the same thing!” she said sharply. “And I was on my way to finding out the answers before you showed up and ruined everything!”
He stopped abruptly and looked at her, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “What?”
“You heard me!” Her anger swelled, pulsing through her like adrenaline. “Don’t you think I was asking the exact questions before you came along and scared him?”
Spike gaped at her. “Scared him? Seems he can handle himself just fine against vamps. You’re the one who pounced on him-”
Buffy almost choked. “To save you!”
Spike’s expression softened in a way that set her stomach churning in an entirely different way. “I know, love. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve-
No no no, no loves or sorrys, no assumptions about how much he cared about her-
“I needed to talk to him! He’s the one the police want, and now he’s gone. And now he thinks I’m a bad guy! What am I supposed to tell the police? ‘I found your guy, but sorry, he’s AWOL, and unfortunately I can’t prove anything’? I can’t, which means I still can’t go home!”
Bitterness rose in her, acidic-tasting and overwhelming. It was only just starting to sink in how much things could have turned around if she’d gotten information out of the boy. Sure, in all likelihood he wouldn’t have agreed to turn himself into the police, but maybe they could have explained things to the SFPD, and at least she would have learned what she was dealing with! Now was she not only still a fugitive, but the real “murderer” would be avoiding her.
Spike looked stricken, evidently realizing the same things, but the words kept coming.
“Why are you even here? I saw you an hour ago. I thought you were going to do something useful like figure out what’s coming for me!”
Spike’s eyes flashed, and as fast as it had turned gentle, his face hardened again. “I doubled back to tell you that if you needed a place to stay while the nibblet wasn’t obliging, you could kip at my place.”
For a mind-numbing moment all Buffy could think was kip can’t mean sleep, kip can’t mean sleep. Because if it did, then she was a terrible, awful person, and she didn’t deserve to have Spike for a friend.
But it did mean sleep. She’d picked up enough British slang from him and-
Giles
-to know that.
The tears came again without warning, hot and stinging.
“Buffy!” Spike jerked forward, his arms outstretched. He stopped short of actually touching her, though, and his clear hesitation somehow made it even worse.
“I’m sorry,” Buffy choked out. “I didn’t- I-”
I didn’t mean what I said, I’m sorry I was cruel, please don’t hate me forgive me-
“S’all right.”
He finally patted her shoulder. It felt awkwardly tentative, but she was grateful for it all the same.
“It’s all right,” he repeated, in a softer voice.
Buffy took a few gulping breaths, stemming the last- hopefully- of her tears. It took effort to look at him with her red eyes and snotty upper lip. To her relief, there was no recrimination in his expression, only worry and enough tenderness to make her want to duck her head again.
A few seconds passed before Spike said, “Offer’s still open,” answering the question she hadn’t even realized she was wondering. He shrugged as though her answer didn’t matter one way or the other, but his own fidgety duck of the head betrayed him.
“Okay,” said Buffy, without having to think about it. He looked up, and her cheeks abruptly felt warm again, though not from tears. “Yes, please.”
A pleased smile flashed across his face so fast Buffy almost missed it. “Okay.” He glanced at the bodies. “Do you want…were you going to patrol more?”
“I didn’t have a plan,” said Buffy honestly. “Didn’t have anywhere to go so…” So I was just going to wander the streets looking for trouble.
God, that was too depressing to say aloud. Depressing enough even to think.
He seemed to understand. “We can take the long way, check some other areas. Or I can just tell you how to get there if you want to go off on your own…”
“No,” said Buffy quickly. “I’m done. I don’t think there’s much more I can do.” When his expression turned chagrined she hastened to add, “Not because of…I…I’m tired.” It was true, and with the admission she relaxed her limbs, allowing a good portion of her tension to melt back into the simple exhaustion she’d been resolutely keeping at bay for the past few hours. It had been so long since she’d slept.
“We can take the short way,” she added. “Unless you want to go off alone-”
“No,” he echoed, just as quickly. When she didn’t say anything he studied the bodies again with furrowed brow. “What d’you reckon we should do with these? Leave ‘em here?”
As Buffy followed his gaze, her stomach twisted uncomfortably. Rationally, she knew the corpses had been vampires, but they looked all too human now. “Probably. There are too many to try to hide.” Her stomach gave another nasty flip. Hiding corpses- it seemed so vulgar. It had been a while since she’d properly appreciated the unobtrusive convenience of vampire dust.
“You shouldn’t handle them anyway with the police sniffing around you,” said Spike. “Asking for trouble. Maybe when they discover this lot they’ll lay off you. They think you’re in hiding.”
Or maybe they’ll think I’m even more psychotic than they suspected. Spike looked so hopeful that she didn’t have the heart to point out how much more likely her scenario was than his.
Instead, she stepped over the body closest to the mouth of the alley. He joined her without another word, and they walked to the street together. Before emerging from the alley, Buffy checked left and right to make sure there were no cop cars nearby. There was still plenty of traffic this time of night, but none of the passing or parked vehicles looked like they belonged to her friends at the SFPD. As they stepped onto the sidewalk, and within reach of the ambient glow from the streetlights, Spike moved swiftly to the side of her closest to the street, shielding her from view the way a parent would walk on the outside to shield a child from cars. She sent him a grateful glance that he didn’t notice, intent as he was on scanning their surroundings.
Seeing his careful guard, she wanted to know, suddenly, what he had been on his way to do before he doubled back to find her, the details of how exactly he was figuring out who was coming for her. She couldn’t ask, though, not now.
As minutes and blocks passed and the tension didn’t drain from Spike’s face, Buffy wondered what else was preoccupying him. His shoulders were stiff in a very un-Spike-like manner, and the way he twitched whenever another person entered view, like a dog sniffing at every passerby, made Buffy unaccountably nervous. She thought she understood his paranoia, though, and it made her chest ache in sympathy.
“He’s brunet,” she said quietly, after Spike glared suspiciously at two blond, Scandinavian-looking guys smoking outside an apartment building.
“I know. I saw him.”
Buffy was reluctant to talk about the boy after their heated words but she needed desperately to know. “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
When Spike didn’t immediately answer, worry began working itself into a suffocating knot in her throat. She was scrambling to recall as many minute details about the boy as possible when he said firmly, “Yes.”
She choked back a sigh. “Good.”
His conviction brought her no small relief, but she still hated to see him so discomfited. Spike wasn’t supposed to be twitchy and nervous around humans. He probably wasn’t afraid for his life, but knowing he had an enemy that could nullify his best defense and kill him with a touch would make anyone anxious. And if his unease upset her, she could only imagine how much he hated it.
She tried to think of something cheerful to talk about that would lift both of them from their morbid thoughts, but she knew anything she said would sound contrived, and so she busied herself watching the streets like a hawk for any sign of police or the boy. The one upside to their perturbation was that they walked fast, and it wasn’t long before they were in Spike’s neighborhood, a collection of dark, dingy apartment buildings that Buffy wouldn’t have gone within a hundred-foot radius of before she became the Slayer. Even though she knew it was irrational, given the previous places he had lived, it depressed her to think of Spike living in such gloom.
Spike produced a key from one of the pockets in his duster. The nondescript door he unlocked opened onto an equally dingy lobby with scuffed concrete floors and several rows of dented mailboxes. There was no elevator- not that Buffy thought she would trust it if there were- and they climbed five narrow, badly lit flights of stairs before reaching the top floor.
“I’d think you would live closer to the ground,” commented Buffy as he produced a second key and inserted it in the lock for unit 503. “Since higher up is closer to the sun and all.” When he shot her a wry, bemused smile, the first she had seen from him all evening, she smiled in return and shrugged to show she was fully aware that her logic made little sense.
“I’ve spent enough time living underground,” said Spike as he opened the door. “I got used to being high up when I had my ship. Can scope everything out. I usually leave by the fire escape. And…” The wry smile widened, and he gestured her forward with an exaggerated flourish. “It was the only unit available.”
As Buffy stepped past him and got her first look at his new home, she realized she should have known better than to assume his apartment would be as run-down as the rest of the place. After all, Spike was the person who had made a crypt comfortable.
The main room, a combined kitchen and living room, was smaller than his crypt and probably would have seemed cramped to the average person, but Spike had so few pieces of furniture that instead it seemed cozy. A dark green armchair and ottoman stood against the left wall, and though the small rips in the creases showed they were secondhand, the fabric was clean and looked quite comfortable. A small television stood on a stool against the opposite wall, and in between was a short coffee table, on which were scattered several books. More books poked out of a cardboard box next to the armchair, which sat in the domain of a standing lamp with multicolored shades, the kind that Buffy just knew would create a cheerful glow when turned on. A poster of the Beatles hung above the TV. Across from Buffy and Spike was an open door through which she could see a bed, and next to it was a closed door that she assumed hid the bathroom.
To their right was a tiny kitchenette with a refrigerator, sink, oven, and two squares of counter, one of which was covered with a microwave. Buffy would have been frustrated with so little room to work, but she supposed the close quarters were tolerable for someone whose meal preparation consisted of transferring blood from the refrigerator to the microwave. She hoped there was a restaurant nearby that served blooming onions.
Buffy glanced at Spike and was surprised to see he looked nervous again, albeit in an altogether different way. He wanted her to like his apartment, she thought, and felt warmth seep through her, starting from the pit of her stomach.
“I like it,” she said honestly, and another smile lit his face.
“It does me fine,” he said, with a seemingly careless shrug that didn’t fool her at all.
The only problem with it, thought Buffy, as they moved to the center of the room, was that while the armchair looked very comfortable, it was not a couch and did not seat two people.
Which was not to say that she expected to be invited to Spike’s anytime soon for a movie night or a Dancing With the Stars mocking session (although come to think of it, that would be fun).
It was just an observation.
On the other hand, she would probably be equally comfortable squeezing into an armchair meant for one…
Buffy looked down, feigning interest in the books on the coffee table so that he hopefully wouldn’t see her blush. Where were thoughts like that coming from?
“I, uh, I’m not really reading that…” Startled by his sheepish tone and expression, Buffy focused her attention and realized the book she was pretending to scrutinize was Pride and Prejudice.
“Last tenant left it here…I don’t really…”
Buffy quirked an eyebrow, trying not to grin.
“I’m also reading The Shining,” he said gruffly. “It’s way better.”
“Uh huh.”
At her amused look he said quickly, “Do you want anything to drink? I’ve got beer. Or…” He glanced at the kitchenette and grimaced. “Water.”
“Water sounds good,” said Buffy, and he ran her a mugful from the tap. As she accepted the blue china mug, she couldn’t keep from hoping that he washed them really, really well.
“You said you were tired?” he asked after she had gulped down the (thankfully, non-coppery) water. The concern in his eyes made her feel almost as snug as though she were already wrapped up in blankets.
“Yeah. Haven’t slept in over a day, what with being interrogated last night…” She couldn’t keep even half her bitterness from her voice.
His features tightened, and for a moment she was looking at someone infuriated and powerful enough to do something about it. It was an expression that was both familiar and not, given how long it had been since she’d seen him look so vicious. To her chagrin, it sent a not-un-pleasurable tingle down her spine to know he was imagining doing terrible things to the police on her behalf.
“Can’t do much about those pricks at present,” he said, also sounding bitter. “But I can help with the other.” He crossed the small living room to the bedroom door. “Bath’s here and the bed’s in there. Sleep however long you need.”
Buffy swallowed as she stepped closer. “I can’t take your bed…”
“Sure you can.” Spike pushed the door so it swung open, revealing a twin bed with messy sky blue sheets. Were they silk? Buffy wondered, and found herself gulping convulsively. Phantom sensations of silk sheets beneath her back, so immeasurably softer than the crypt floor, caressed her. She’d always wondered how much of the luxury in his crypt was his own taste and how much was an attempt to please her, make his home seem more worth her while.
That last thought was a barb stinging her back to the present, and she said, “I don’t want to put you out. I can sleep on the armchair.”
“Buffy.” He sounded infinitely patient as he said her name, and affectionate instead of patronizing. “You won’t be putting me out. It’s my daytime now anyway, remember? I’ll sleep when the sun’s up, and in the meantime I’ll watch the telly or read. The Shining,” he added quickly.
“Spike…” She bit her lip as she stared past him into the dark little bedroom. The bed looked so inviting…
“Unless you think I have, like, cooties or something,” he said. “I don’t have any spare sheets.” His attempt at jocularity fell flat halfway through when his shoulders hunched ad he looked down.
That decided her. “Of course not,” she said, and automatically laid a hand on his arm, startling him into looking back at her. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.” She held his gaze until he nodded, and then she stepped past his outstretched arm into the bedroom.
There were a few more books in here besides Stephen King, including several poetry anthologies, and curtained windows next to the bed. The pillow on the bed was lumpy, as though well hugged. She let her fingertips brush the sheets.
Silk.
* * *
For what felt like the hundredth time since she’d lain down, Buffy opened her eyes to read the digital clock on his bedside table. Despite her lethargy, the faint but steady headache behind her temples, and the languor gluing her limbs to the bed, she was still awake after an hour. Worries about what would happen the next day- what would happen in a few hours- gnawed at her, keeping her mind restless even though the rest of her was exhausted.
Should she go to the police and tell them about the boy? Would they skip straight to arresting her? That was probably the rational thing for them to do given how she had skipped custody last time they’d given her the benefit of the doubt…
She couldn’t afford to end up in jail, but she also couldn’t afford to stay on the lam. Literally. After cleaning out her bank account for the loan collector, it was even more vital that she be able to go back to her job. Even if going home was somehow not an option, she still needed to be able to buy food.
And boy did she want to be home. She’d worked so hard to get a nice, new apartment, and now she couldn’t even go to it.
What did Anaheed and Tumble think of her right now? Would they even let her back into the apartment? Anaheed worked a nine-to-five job, but Tumble worked shifting service industry hours like she did, and she couldn’t for the life of her remember this week’s schedule. Was there anytime tomorrow when they would both be out and she could sneak home and grab some of her possessions?
She really needed a change of clothes, for starters. Her own toothbrush and a shower with her own hair products would be nice, too.
Even if she got some of her things…what then? Would Dawn and Xander be willing to help her tomorrow? Their summary rejection ached like a physical bruise, and she found herself squeezing Spike’s pillow. She would never have sent them fleeing out a window if they needed shelter.
She could try asking Willow for help, assuming Willow was even speaking to her. The Wiccan had never instituted a silent treatment after the Seed was destroyed, but Buffy couldn’t get rid of the feeling that one was imminent; she was still waiting for the day when Willow wouldn’t answer the phone when she called.
Failing Willow, there was Spike. She knew instinctively that he wouldn’t turn her away if she asked to camp out here another few nights while she sorted out her problems. Her certainty in him was both comforting and guilt inducing. His reappearance in her life was still so new that it felt like taking advantage of him in a way that it wouldn’t have if she stayed with one of the Scoobies.
She listened for sounds of him from the living room. He hadn’t turned on the TV after all, probably because he knew she would be able to hear it, and this consideration only added to the weird mixture of guilt and pleasure rolling through her as she lay in his bed. She hoped he was reading as he’d said he would. If he were sleeping, he should be in his own bed.
As her head pounded harder, Buffy smushed her nose against the pillow and inhaled. She could smell Spike all around her, cigarettes and leather and whiskey and shampoo and Spike-musk. She hadn’t been near a bed that smelled so thoroughly of him since their few nights together on the cot in Sunnydale; his room on the bug ship had been too crowded with the scents of oil and metal and machinery to really smell like him.
The familiar odor was both relaxing and invigorating. She felt like she could sink into his mattress, but on the other hand she also couldn’t keep from remembering all the thoroughly non-sleep-involved activities they used to do together, and those were anything but restful…
What was he doing in the other room? Did he like the idea of her sleeping in his bed? Did he care about that sort of thing at all anymore?
“I didn’t know that you…cared. So much.”
He obviously thought that she didn’t.
A short sigh escaped her, and Buffy flipped onto her back. She stared at the dark ceiling, not even bothering to close her eyes. She had no time in her life for invigorating, but the memories of their nights in her basement, of just being held, were rapidly lodging in her consciousness in such a way that she knew they wouldn’t easily be uprooted. She had had very little trouble falling asleep those nights, in his arms, when she had been just as tired and even more stressed.
To think that those days- and that relationship- now seemed simple. Who would have thought that someday he’d be giving her a place to sleep?
She couldn’t stay at Spike’s indefinitely, even if he let her and even if the novelty was appealing in its own way. She had to make peace with the police, and even more importantly, she had to find the boy and figure out what was his deal; she had to make him realize she wasn’t the enemy and in turn ensure that he wasn’t going to make himself her enemy.
And she absolutely, positively had to make him understand that Spike was not, under any circumstances, to be touched.
A shiver rippled through her, and Buffy checked the clock again. At this rate she was going to sleep the day away and keep Spike from his bed during his “night,” too. She imagined his arms encircling her and sinking into sleep.
One glance at the clock later, she sat up and floated to the door.
Spike was dozing in the armchair, with Pride and Prejudice open and facedown against his chest. When the bedroom door creaked his head jerked up, his eyes snapping open.
As they stared at each other, nerves started bouncing around Buffy’s stomach. What if the memories didn’t mean the same thing to him that they did to her?
“What’s wrong?” he asked, in a gravelly voice.
“Can’t sleep.” Buffy hesitated.
He cocked his head, a mannerism so familiar that her knees felt liquid-like for a moment. “Can I get you anything?”
“Do you want to sleep with me?” Buffy blurted. Heat seared her cheeks. “Lie down with me, I mean? Sh-share the bed.”
He blinked. His scarred eyebrow rose slightly.
She swallowed. “You’re obviously tired, too, and you shouldn’t be on the chair in your home. I- I can’t sleep, and I thought- maybe-” If you held me- But she fumbled the words, suddenly unable to say something so intimate. After so long, it seemed such a presumptuous thing to ask.
Myriad expressions crossed Spike’s face, chief among them hesitation and, she was ninety percent sure, longing. Hopefully, she wasn’t projecting the latter.
When he still didn’t speak she said, trying to sound jovial, “I don’t bite.” She cracked a grin. His eyebrow rose higher.
A fluttering, vaguely panicky feeling took hold in her chest.
“If that’s what you want,” said Spike, and the fluttering slowed. He still looked uncertain as he stood, though, and Buffy found herself nodding like a bobble head toy.
“I’m sure.”
She turned back into the bedroom, and after a second he followed. As soon as he crossed the threshold she pushed the door closed in a final sort of way. It was final- and satisfying- but it also turned his eyes into mere gleams in the dark; she couldn’t discern his expression anymore.
Though perhaps, given his uncertainty, that was best for her self-esteem.
She slid back under the sheets, and he followed suit when she scooted over. The bed was small, but when angled toward him, Buffy didn’t feel squashed. He lay on his back instead of trying to spoon her, though, which was slightly disappointing but probably to be expected given their long time apart.
She shifted onto her back, too, and that did make it a bit of a tight squeeze. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Yup.”
A few seconds passed, and then she realized there was only one pillow. “Here, you should take the pillow, it’s yours-”
“Buffy, I don’t want it.”
His tone brooked no argument. Feeling slightly embarrassed, Buffy stayed quiet.
A minute passed without either of them moving or speaking. All right, so this wasn’t exactly being held, but Spike was next to her, and for the moment they were both safe, and at three o’clock in the morning that was all she really needed.
Buffy closed her eyes and breathed deeply, trying to concentrate on the solid comfort of him next to her. Spike lay still as well, which was not what she expected. She was used to him fidgeting before sleep- moving his head to find the best spot on the pillow, rubbing his thumb against her arm- the same way he fidgeted all the time when he was awake.
Dismay filled her as the implication sunk in: he wasn’t comfortable lying with her anymore. The realization burned in her gut and throat and cheeks, and Buffy knew she had to say something before her humiliation ruined the night completely.
“Spike…”
Maybe she should just go sleep on the armchair herself.
“Sometimes you bit,” he said, and she froze.
Sometimes she…what?
Their heads turned at the same time, and her eyes had adjusted enough to see his nervousness.
“It- it was a joke,” he said quickly. “You said you didn’t bite- but sometimes you- never mind. Forget I sa-”
Buffy rolled onto her side and slid her arm across his torso, and Spike shut up.
* * *
Part 2