Rain, rain, go away...
Actually, it could stay for quite a while. As long as it wanted to, in fact. The state that rarely received anything except sunshine certainly had a whopping number of the opposite right now. He flinched slightly as a roll of thunder growled through the air, before cocking a smile when the arch of lightning struck. The figure in the window that he was watching (read: spying on) let out a yelp at both.
Staring into the living room window of 1630 Revello Drive, he felt he could finally understand what his darling little bitch of an ex had convinced herself of: he wasn’t allowed to be a part of her life. He wouldn’t ever be a part of her life. It was unheard of. She’d had her fun with him, then tossed him away like a dishrag. Kind of like Cecily and her high-society whores had done with every man they’d seemed to fancy, except without the actual sex part -- thank bloody Satan for sexually repressed Victorian London.
Eugh. These thoughts were making him nostalgic for the time when he’d been his poofier half. And, also, they were reminding him too much of Angelus.
Huh. Now that was a disturbing thought. Buffy had, in the last year, become the female counterpart of Liam Drake.
That was all kinds of ew.
He figured he deserved it now, though. After all, he had nearly raped her. Despite the fact that in his mind, all he had been trying to do was convince the stupid wench to stop lying to herself and admit her feelings for him, his actions (as per usual) had made the message go tale-spinning in a completely different… worse… direction. For once, he had proven her right and shown himself to be the evil, heartless fiend that she reminded him that he was so many times.
It wasn’t fair, really. Yes, he had done terrible things in the past, but where in the hell had that justified Buffy beating him to a bloody pulp and leaving him in an alley, so injured that he almost hadn’t made it back to his crypt in time before the sun rose? All to save her lovely, self-absorbed ass from doing the most idiotic thing she had ever thought of doing. And she’d done worse things to him over the years. She’d dropped an organ -- not just a bloody organ, but an entire church balcony -- on his head. She had set Angelus free, and in turn, the stupid prick had stolen Drusilla from him, so in a roundabout way, he blamed her for that, too. When the bloody Initiative had first planted the chip inside his brain, he had swallowed his pride and had gone to the Scoobies for help. Not only had Buffy openly contemplated letting him starve and burn, but she had tied him to a chair and left him in the middle of that Indian attack -- and in direct path of that bear -- to get killed. And then the little bitch had convinced Giles to chain him up in the Watcher’s bathtub.
He was positive that she got off on making him miserable.
The stupid cunt had gone on to beat him up countless times for no reason at all. She had constantly made jibes and barbs at his expense, which truthfully had only fueled his hatred and anger for her. So he really couldn’t understand how in the hell he had managed to fall in love with her. Weird fluke, maybe. And when he’d finally admitted it to her, she had banned him from her home, when he’d been trusted inside for years before he’d even had the stupid chip.
Okay, so he hadn’t helped matters by chaining her up, but if the bloody chit had just listened to him for once, instead of condemning him as an evil (insert usual stupid repetitive insult here), and saying that he couldn’t love when she knew damn well better than anybody that he was capable of more love than any human being she had ever known, then he wouldn’t even have had to resort to using Dru as an example and taking things too far. Stupid obnoxious bint.
He wasn’t even going to revisit the lines she’d crossed over the past year with him after her resurrection. It hurt too much.
He was positive that she was keeping herself from loving him, even now when they hadn’t seen each other in four months. He supposed that this was the reason that things had taken a physical root, and he’d attempted to rape the woman he loved. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel guilty about it. He did -- all hell be damned, he did. He regretted it more than anything he had ever done in his existence. He had never even contemplated raping someone before, and because he was a big enormous git and lived by his emotions, he'd gotten in too deep. The sounds of her sobs and screams and the feel of her struggles were still haunting him at night.
Well, she certainly had a right to hate him now, he knew she did. And oddly, he was okay with that. Buffy’s relationship with him wouldn’t be the way it was if she didn’t hate him most of the time. And he knew that she cared about him, no matter what she told herself or anyone else.
The only reason he had come here tonight was to find his effing duster. He had left it on the banister of the stairs before he’d left, and he knew that the bitch had probably thrown it in a garbage heap or something -- he would really kill her if she had, that coat had sentimental value attached to it, after all -- but it was worth a try to see if he could spot it anyway.
And... okay, so he’d wanted to get a little glimpse of her, too. Could he really be blamed?
Memories of her filled his mind. He knew that one thing she had coveted when she’d come to get her fix was his coat. He’d allowed her to try it on one night, just for the hell of it, and the image of her dancing and whipping around in the too-big-too-heavy-all-around-huge duster still stuck with him. She had been acting like such a child that night, and it had been absolutely heartwarming -- and at the same time, heartbreaking -- to see. Because roundabout the time Angelus had been set free, Buffy had long ago lost that innocence about her that allowed her to be so carefree.
But how the hell could he be such a heartless monster if the joy on her face at letting her borrow his coat had warmed him from the inside out?
He was laying low, otherwise. Buffy had no doubt informed her friends about their little misadventures in the Summers’ bathroom, and Harris had probably winged it from there, threatening hellfire and brimstone with Evil Dead this and Captain Peroxide that. If he wasn’t careful then he’d probably meet his death at the pansy’s hands, and his death was something that he had reserved solely for Buffy. But for now, he wasn’t planning on letting her discover that he was back for a while yet. It was better to just stay out of the way and contemplate how to make her feel guilty for the things that she’d done to him.
Hey, he wasn’t going to be the only guilty one. Buffy wasn’t the innocent victim in all this. She wasn’t the evil bad guy either, but she had done her fair share of being the cruel one. For five years, he had allowed her to beat on him, being able to retaliate the first two years, but being a victim of her hostility for the last three. And it wasn’t just her physical blows to him that broke his heart. Her words were equally as cutting, as vicious, as bad as the worst thing he had ever done to her.
His mind called up a scene outside of the Bronze last year. It was the night she had asked him about how he’d defeated his first two Slayers. And a visible flinch, a roll of pain swept over him as he recalled the words she’d said to him after his ill-fated attempt at a kiss:
"Say it’s true. Say I do want to... It wouldn’t be you, Spike. It would never be you. You’re beneath me."
She had made him cry that night, he remembered. Words so angry, and hate-filled and cutting, words that he hadn’t heard since the night of his turning one hundred and twenty-two years ago, words that he’d thought he’d left behind him...
And that bitch had brought them right back up again with icy glee at his expense. Maybe she hadn’t known how badly she’d hurt him by saying those three words, but he definitely knew that she’d gotten a sense of victory and merriment at rejecting him so brutally, so openly, to his face.
She had always treated him with a sense of disregard. When he’d become chipped, she had dismissed him as a threat, instead choosing to think of him as a clipped puppy. Not a one of the bloody Scoobies believed he was still dangerous after that stupid piece of metal had been installed in his brain. A bit foolish of them on their part, as Spike could have easily burnt the town down for years now, had he chosen to do such a thing at all. Instead, he had decided to get his kicks in by helping them fight the ‘good fight,’ and they had never even realized how badly he'd suffered in the demon world because of his unnatural urge for loyalty to them.
He was just grateful now that the creepy green-eyed wish-granter had taken the chip out when he’d reinstalled William’s soul inside of him. Spike wouldn’t kill innocents -- he hadn’t done so for three years, and hadn’t wanted to until Buffy had rejected him all over again last year. He figured Demon Guy knew it wouldn’t be a fair fight between the others and himself if Spike wasn’t allowed to defend himself from harm. He’d only figured out that the chip was gone when he’d gotten flat-ass drunk one night, and struck up a bar fight with a native that had actually had the gall to openly make fun of his curling two-toned hair.
He hadn’t killed the guy. Rather, the little twit had jerked one curling lock right out of his head and Spike had struck him because of the pain. The worst he had done was break the poofter’s arm.
Anyway. His self-righteous little pet was meandering around the living room, puttering about, looking for something or another. By the look of it, she was alone. Sigh. Tonight wasn’t the night to find his precious coat. It was lost to him until he revealed himself to his ex-lover. Which he wasn’t planning to do... but it wouldn’t hurt to give her a little shock.
Buffy groaned out loud. "Dawn, where did you put my purse?!" she yelled upstairs.
Oh. Right. Dawn was spending the night at a friend’s tonight. She was alone in the house, and Xander had offered to take both Giles and Willow in, when they returned; Giles was to continue the Devon coven's work of helping Willow cope with Tara’s murder, the Flaying of Warren, and the control of Willow's seriously out of whack magic.
She spotted a splotch of leather behind the living room couch and her eyes brightened. She darted for it, kneeling on the couch and stretching her arm behind it until she grasped the black shoulder strap of her genuine leather purse. She checked it over, searching the insides and out for any missing contents. It was better being safe than sorry. She had a new job now, and what with the reopening of Sunnydale High School -- her Sunnydale High School, the one and only, not the cheap imitation copy that Dawn had gone to for her freshman year -- it was probably of the good that she was being so careful with her valuables. Hoodlums who were not Dawn could have ransacked the damn thing anytime they wished at the opening ceremonies.
Oh, God, she groaned mentally. Did I seriously just use the word ‘hoodlums’? I’m using Giles-Speech! And I'm getting old! So, so of the bad!
Ah, that was better. Back to Buffy-Speech it was.
She sighed as she yanked the purse over the back of the couch, satisfied that nothing had gone missing. Well, the only things in there were a pack of Tic-Tacs (citrus flavored, natch), a mini-notebook, a few pens, a stake and two vials of Holy Water -- she doubted any young whipper-snapper would find those of value unless there was a new vampire-slaying force out there that she had no knowledge of.
She used the ‘whipper-snapper’ punch purposely this time.
She screamed when she caught a glimpse of something attempting to crawl across her hand to get to the wall. Buffy dove into melees of vampires and demons head-first and usually came out unscathed, but when it came to spiders, she ran around like a chicken with it’s head cut off. Goddamn it, as if she wasn’t already mega-wigged by a bunch of other creepy-crawlies, of course there would be one sitting right there on the wall that was --
Well, okay, one that was no bigger than a pea, but it had eight legs, it crawled, and it was not a little bundle of cute, so it equaled gross!
She jumped back, equally startled when that stupid thunderstorm made its presence known again with a loud rumble that shook the house on its foundation. She had never liked thunderstorms, had always been extra scared of them since she was a little girl and had seen what one had done to a house in Texas on the television.
She moved to the window and pushed away the drapes slightly, worrying her lower lip. She hoped Dawn was okay. Then she shook her head for not having confidence in the sixteen-year-old. Dawn had been through a hell of a lot worse than a thunderstorm in the past two years.
She jumped back again slightly and gasped when the lightning accompaniment revealed a figure standing in her lawn. Another crack, and she saw that the figure... was Spike.
Her heart leaped up into her throat. She hadn’t seen him since that awful night in her bathroom. She’d gone to his crypt to enlist his help in protecting Dawn, and had discovered to her (characteristically ignored) heart-constricting disappoint that he had been the latest of a Buffy-Relationship Gone Bad to skip town.
She hadn’t allowed herself to think of him, and had forbidden anyone from even mentioning his name the entire summer, especially Xander (who had gotten way too into the self-righteous power trip that Spike’s mistake had infused in him).
Well, that was to say, she didn’t think of him until she was alone. It was kind of hard not to think of him when she dug his beloved duster out of the back of her closet and wrapped it around herself, breathing in the comforting, lingering scent of spice, tobacco, peppermint, and Drakkar Noir.
Although the first two were for obvious reasons, the last two she remembered specifically. On one particular night together, when she hadn't been quite as dismissive of the "relationship" they shared, she had confided that she adored hard candy peppermint swirls, since they reminded her of her grandmother and the years before her destiny had literally called. As a special treat, he’d surprised her with a bag full that he’d been keeping hidden in an inside pocket of the duster, a shrug and a simple statement that he "just knew."
And he’d managed to discover that she adored the scent of Drakkar on his very own, going out and nicking a bottle of it to wear specifically in her presence. She remembered countless times when she’d watched him spray it on himself every evening especially for her.
Dammit, and now she’d gone and done it. The tears were starting to well up, and the thought came unbidden to the forefront of her mind: I miss you.
And she did. She really, really did. He’d become a huge staple in her life, and it hurt her to realize how big the void he’d left actually was. Going over to the crypt with Dawn to check up on Clem, she always found herself wondering if that day would be the day that she’d see him again. She’d find him curled up in his ratty old chair, his legs splayed apart, one arm wrapped around his stomach, the other arm hugging the remote control that Dawn had given him to his bare chest, watching some funky movie on his little television set before he turned to see her, smiled broadly, and began complaining about the cruddy reception because the cable company was too damn cheap to wire the cemetery for the good stuff.
If she hadn’t had more self-control, she would have earnestly begun to cry.
The thunder rolled and the lightning struck again, but this time when she looked, the man she’d denied her love to was nowhere to be found.
Her heart constricted again. It had been an illusion. She hadn’t seen him at all.
It had just been nature’s way of making her face up to the lies she’d told herself.
Spike wasn’t going to come back. He would never be there anymore, to give her that tiny, knowing smile before holding a peppermint up to her face to make her grin and tell him what was wrong. He wasn’t going to be there to laugh in genuine mirth when she donned his duster and danced around like a little pixie on way too much caffeine. He wouldn’t be there to give her the hard, cutting truth, when he knew she didn’t want to listen, but also knew that it was something she needed to hear.
He wasn’t going to be there to tell her he loved her no matter what she said and did to him.
He wasn’t going to be there.
She wiped at her eyes and went up to bed.
After all that time of trying to get him to leave -- she'd finally succeeded.
He'd left her.
Spike looked up at the sky, his face being pelted with the drops of rain. He hadn’t known that she would be crawling around in front of the window at that exact moment. And it broke his heart to see the stunned look on her face when she’d seen his silhouette.
That singular look had swiped away any of the hostility that he’d been feeling for her since he’d come back from Africa, and it wasn’t fair. He wanted to be mad at her. He wanted to stop loving her, he wanted to hate her, he wanted things to go back to the way they were before all this horrible bull had happened.
He wanted to forget that he’d ever been in love with Buffy Anne Summers.
He wanted to forget how beautiful she was when she smiled, and how incredible she was when she took action, and how fierce and protective she was of her loved ones, and how amazing she was when she was fighting, her motions like devastating poetry. He wanted to forget how much being in love with his enemy had destroyed his life.
She looked more beautiful than he’d ever seen her tonight.
He’d forgotten how much he’d missed her.
He sighed and continued on down the road to his crypt, shoving his hands in the pockets of his soaked black jeans. In a last ditch effort to push away the heart-wrenching feelings digging into his heart, he called up the image behind the Bronze again, then shook his head.
"Am I still beneath you, Buffy?" he asked the sky.
It would really help if she could hear him, or if the sky could answer. Instead, the rain just kept coming down. And Spike kept walking.
He doubted he would ever get an answer.
Buffy had every reason to hate him, but he had more than enough reasons to hate her, too. And yet, as much as he tried -- he could try all fucking night, and it still wouldn’t get him anywhere. He couldn’t stop loving her. And loving her hurt him so, so much. Why couldn’t he stop?
He’d been convinced that the chip had been doing this to him, that his demonic nature had been suppressed for so long that it gave rise to other feelings, other emotions that, as a soulless demon, he should not have had access to. But it wasn’t the chip, and that much was obvious, because the chip was gone, and his feelings weren’t. He still felt short of breath (figuratively) whenever he caught a glimpse of her lovely eyes.
Buffy had believed so wholeheartedly, after the entire mess with Angelus, that a person had to have a soul to feel anything, and all her doubts and denials had led him to believe that way, too. But if that were so, then why had he felt so horribly guilty before he’d even received his restored soul? What did that say about him? What did it mean? Had he had his soul all along, and the visit to the wish-granter had just brought it back to the forefront? What was so different about him, that he could feel love, hate, sorrow, passion, tenderness, guilt and remorse above all other vampires, whereas they didn’t? Had his soul been carried over when Drusilla, the silly, damaged bint, had turned him?
What was wrong with him?
He had always felt he was an aberration in the vampire world. The only time Angelus had ever been proud of him during his vampire existence was the revenge tactic that had won him his moniker. Angelus had no longer seen him fit to be a vampire after that. He was different, because whereas Angelus and Darla simply held each other’s company as a form of convenience, Spike had truly loved Drusilla. Of course, Spike hadn't realized until years later that Drusilla hadn’t truly loved him, but after he knew, he’d felt that his love for her had been enough to sustain the both of them for the first hundred years.
The only thing that had ever gained him respect in the vampire world had been his slaughter of the two vampire Slayers. That had been done to both spite Angelus and to hopefully gain the smallest iota of pride from his sire. Spiting him had worked, but earning recognition from the Scourge of Europe was a thing that would never again occur. As much company, as vicious and nasty as it was that he carried, Spike was as alone as could be determined. He’d been much too different from the other, more sinister vampires.
The one and only time that he’d met his great-great grandsire, Joseph, the Master, the 600-year-old vampire had taken an instant disliking to him, and had denounced him to his face before his court, Darla and Angelus at his side. Drusilla had been the only one to take up for him, due to their affection for each other, but it had been clear to him -- and everyone else -- that she was amused by the proceedings.
To his own family, Spike had been a nothing, and had only shown promise because of the Chinese Slayer that he’d killed at the time.
And now... there was Buffy. He’d fallen in love with the well-known killer of his kind, when he knew full well that the only reason she let him live with the chip in his head was because he couldn’t defend himself. He’d tried everything he could think of to make her like him, he had even given up his all-black attire for one evening in hopes that she would possibly notice him and acknowledge him as something other than an annoyance, a hindrance, and a reluctant ally. She had rejected all of his efforts, and when she finally had accepted him into her body, it had only been because of the devastation that her resurrection had caused her. And her final rejection after that had hurt worse than before.
So in his human life, he had been rejected by Cecily because he was simply not enough of a man. Drusilla had eventually rejected him in favor of their Sire because Spike had not been enough of a vampire. The vampire world rejected him because he felt human emotions. And Buffy rejected him because he was neither man, nor monster -- he was a thing. An evil, disgusting, soulless thing.
He just wasn’t bloody good enough for anybody, was he?
He snorted to himself. Like to see her try an’ call me soulless now.
It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair.
Angel’s soul was a curse. The brooding bastard hadn't wanted it in the first place -- it had been thrust on him, and he'd spent a century - what else? - brooding over it. Sure, now it made him work harder to achieve redemption, so he could keep his soul and maybe one day become human, but he'd let nearly a century go by before he'd even decided to want to do anything about it. And that was by the Powers' interference.
Maybe Spike’s soul -- which was without a doubt his -- was a good thing. Maybe his curse was becoming a vampire. Because if Drusilla hadn’t sought him out and turned him, then he wouldn’t have lived this long. And he wouldn’t have met Buffy.
But then, he wouldn’t be an outcast - because that was what he was. Nothing but an outcast. Too demon to be a human. Too human to be a demon. He just didn’t fit in anywhere.
Now he knew how Angel felt, and for possibly the first time in a century, he respected the trials that his grandsire had gone through. Spike was still different, though. Yeah, he had his soul and everything, but Angel had it easy. Angel had something to work for. And all Spike had was love for a woman who scorned him. A woman that he could never really, truly have. A love that would never be requited.
Yeah, Angel definitely had it easy. Compared to him, anyway.
Spike pulled open the door to his crypt and slipped inside. This year was going to be absolute hell.
No doubt about that.
To be continued...