Secrets and Lies
by selfishbeauty

Challenge: Bloodshedverse

Name: Appomattoxco

Seasons: AU

Challenge: 99

Must haves:

Buffy never really mends fences with Giles after "Lies My Parents Told Me".

Buffy dies in battle and Giles is somehow thrown back in time to season 6 and decides to play matchmaker for Buffy and Spike because he believes it was losing Spike that led to Buffy's death.

Sexy bites but no claiming stuff.

Can haves:

Giles/Anya as a side romance.

Spike and Buffy becoming parents

A wedding where Giles gives Buffy away.

Willow dying in Tara's place.


Author's Notes: This is my first time ever writing a challenge fic. Currently, my muse is dead, so I hope that this will get it going again.




Prologue



Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, his fathomless eyes focused on his fellow former watcher, raked his fingers through his disheveled hair for the tenth time in as many seconds. He looked weary and grief-stricken, relieved and repulsed, lost and stoic all at once. Finally, he spoke. “I can’t promise to be as objective as you would like, Rupert, but I am prepared to listen without interruption. Tell me what happened back there in Sunnydale; tell me what happened to Angel.”

“Perhaps I should explain how it all began… I, myself, am still vexed by it, but it is my fervent hope that you will be able to make sense of things,” Giles began as he frantically cleaned his glasses. “I have explained the… the alternate reality in which Buffy never forgave me after Wood and I conspired to kill Spike. She was appalled, as well she should have been. She is a true hero, as we all know, not like me. After the Hellmouth collapsed, after Spike saved the world, she… It destroyed her. She moved to Italy, allowed the Immortal to use her as his, um, connubial partner, to word it delicately.

“She continued her slaying duties, but she took no pleasure in them, not even in knowing that she was saving innocent lives. She rarely ate, and she slept even less. Her advanced healing abilities kept her from truly starving herself to death, but she was weaker than I had ever seen her, even when she was first called.

“I… I don’t know where to begin, but I understand that it is of the utmost importance that I explain why I did what I did. Let me tell you about the night Buffy died for the third time.”

The Death of a Slayer


“Every day you wake up, it's the same bloody question that haunts you: is today the day I die? Death is on your heels, baby, and sooner or later, it's gonna catch you. And part of you wants it... not only to stop the fear and uncertainty, but because you're just a little bit in love with it. Death is your art. You make it with your hands, day after day.

“That final gasp. That look of peace. Part of you is desperate to know: What's it like? Where does it lead you? And now you see, that's the secret. Not the punch you didn't throw or the kicks you didn't land. Every slayer... has a death wish. Even you. The only reason you've lasted as long as you have is you've got ties to the world... your mum, your brat kid sister, the Scoobies. They all tie you here, but you're just putting off the inevitable. Sooner or later, you're gonna want it. And the second – the second – that happens... You know I'll be there. I'll slip in... have myself a real good day. Here endeth the lesson.”

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Spike’s words echoed hauntingly in the mind of the twenty-five year slayer as she circled her opponent, a vicious master vampire who had summoned an army of nearly one hundred others, masters in their own rights. Buffy, with the help of Willow, Kennedy and several other slayers, Xander, Dawn, and Giles, had dispatched many of them; they had believed that the battle was finished when the oldest master left in existence had shown himself, rising up from the manhole in the dust-lined street with a small army at his back.

He, Spike, had been right in his assumption, in that eerie way he had always been right about things – about her. From the moment the Master had pierced her flesh with his fangs that fateful night in her sixteenth year, she had longed for death, and the ties she had to the world had been the only things keeping her from actively seeking out her own demise.

Now, not even Dawn was enough to give her the desire she needed to continue surviving, and that was all life was for her: survival. She had stopped truly living the moment she had fled the Hellmouth four years prior. The part of her known and loved by her friends and family had dissolved into ash as surely as William the Bloody, the slayer of slayers, had perished, burned alive saving the world he so loved – a world with her in it.

“Buffy! Look out!” Giles cried as he caught a brief glimpse of the flash of steel reflecting in the dim glow of a single streetlamp – the rest of them had been destroyed during the battle.

The blonde slayer feebly raised her arm in a move that was purely instinctive to block her heart, for her body was not ready to die even if her mind was. Unfortunately, or fortunately, as she thought, she moved too late. The blade pierced her heart in the same moment as she drove Mr. Pointy through the vampire’s chest. She crumpled to the pavement before the dust of the newly dead master had a chance to settle at her feet.

Giles, being the only one not currently engaged in battle, the only one to notice the fall of his slayer, raced to her side and fell to his knees. Drawing her head onto his lap, he reached to remove the dagger from her chest, but the slayer’s tiny golden hand closed around his wrist.

“I’m so tired, Giles,” she said weakly, her once-vibrant green eyes flat with pain as her heart clenched around the metal in vain. “Can I rest now? Please? This is it, Giles, we both know it. I can’t… heal, not from this one.”

“Buffy!” this from Dawn, who finally noticed her sister lying prone on the ground; Giles and the slayer were saved an interruption when the woman heard a roar behind her and turned to face the next vampire.

“Please?” Buffy implored. “Take care of them.”

Resignation filled him, and the former watcher smoothed his free hand, the one his slayer wasn’t clutching fiercely, over her blonde hair. He knew that the wound, even with her advanced healing, would be fatal. “I… I want you to know how very proud of you I am, Buffy,” he said quietly, as though his lack of volume would somehow prevent his voice from breaking. “I love you… like a daughter.”

Buffy’s lips moved, but Giles only heard a whisper of breath. He leaned closer, his ear near her paling mouth, and her words became clear. “I love you, too. I forgive you.”

“Buffy!” Xander and Willow shouted simultaneously as the sun peeked over the horizon in time to witness the death of Buffy Anne Summers.

It was too late; her final breath had been exhaled with her parting words to her watcher, the only real father she had ever known.

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Buffy had been gone for almost a year when an epiphany came to Giles. It was the only choice he had, really, the only decision he could make and live with. He saw it now more clearly than he had ever seen anything in his fifty-odd years of life: losing Spike had been the real cause of Buffy’s death. She had lost her spark when the vampire met his fiery end in Sunnydale five years before.

She had suffered a brief period of catatonia after the collapse of the Hellmouth. It had taken her a full week to garner the courage to speak again after she had answered his question as to what had caused the Hellmouth to implode; she had said his name: Spike. After that, she had only smiled, a horrible, hollow smile meant to reassure her sister and friends. It had been terrible to witness, that feigned smile – done for the benefit of Spike’s memory as much as for the others, no doubt.

Later, Buffy had confided in him that, as she ran from the Hellmouth, she had dimly heard the sound of Spike’s laughter echoing through the cavernous pit of fire. He had laughed, she explained, because the night before, she had confessed to him that he had the most wonderful laugh she had ever heard. He had died laughing for her, on the off chance that she would be able to hear him, or perhaps simply because he was insane.

Giles believed, as Buffy had, that he had laughed for her; he had done everything else for her.

And so, it was really the only option he had left. Somehow, he had to find a way to go back in time, to prevent Spike from dying that day on the Hellmouth and, in doing so, prevent his slayer from dying for the third and final time. Finally gathering his courage, the Englishman made his suggestion to the Wicca when she stopped in his bedroom to say good-night.

“You want me to do what?” Willow asked, her gray-green eyes trained on the haunted blue of Rupert Giles’.

“I want you to send me back into the past,” the former watcher repeated his earlier request, “back to the night of the… ah, the musical incident, after Sweet left. Yes, that seems like an appropriate time.” They had all been there, gathered together, even Spike. He needed to reason with Buffy, to get her to realize that Spike truly did love her, and that night, he had proven it. He had saved Buffy from dancing herself into an urn.

“B-but Giles, you were already there. How can I send you back in time then? There would be two of you,” the witch reasoned. She knew how it could be done, but she had reservations. What if something went amiss?

“Willow, it must be that moment, I know it. Something… transpired that night, between Spike and Buffy, something that must be changed. You’ll find a way. I have complete faith in you.”

“Is this even the right thing to do?” Willow asked tiredly. “I miss Buffy as much as you do, but maybe she’s happy where she is.”

In that moment, Giles was more Ripper than he had been in over twenty years. Rage twisted his gentle features, and he snapped, “How dare you say that?! You, of all people! After you brought her back the last time, you have no right! I am not asking you to bring her back from the dead, I am asking you to prevent her from dying… again!”

“I-if this works, then we won’t exist here, will we? You’ll change all of this… Giles, you could… you could save Tara, too,” the redhead whispered, almost a plea as realization dawned on her.

The former watcher nodded. Willow cared for Kennedy, but he knew that she would never love her as she had loved Tara. “Think on it, Willow. More than one life could be spared.”

Her resolve-face firmly affixed, the witch mentally communicated with Xander and Dawn to gain their permission. Finding that task remarkably easy, for it meant that Xander might also get Anya back, she spent the next hour explaining exactly what had happened to Tara so that he would be able to warn her past self to keep Tara away from the window that horrible morning; she filled the ex-watcher in on the few details Buffy had provided in explanation of what had happened between her and Spike the night of the musical, and finally, she lit five of the many candles Giles kept in his room, one for each year that had passed.

“Lie down,” the witch instructed.

“W-what?”

“Lie down. I’m going to swap your memories, not send you personally in time. When the past you comes to in that body, he… you’ll be confused. I’m going to tell h—you that you’ve been in a coma since that night.”

“Clever girl,” Giles praised. He removed his suit coat, trousers, dress shirt, and tie before stepping out of his shoes and socks and slipping beneath the blankets dressed in an undershirt and boxers. As an afterthought, he removed his glasses and set them on the bedside table. He closed his eyes. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Willow, who had improved her understanding of the language, began a fierce chant in Latin, and her fiery locks paled to the ethereal white of a goddess. Her gray-green eyes darkened to ebony, and an instant later, they blazed a gentle golden color as energy merged and parted, the rift between time periods was opened, and finally closed again. With a weary gasp, her shoulders slumped, and from the startled cry on the bed, she knew that the spell had worked.

“W-willow? Where I am?” the past-Giles in his modern body asked shakily.

Finally hauling herself to her feet, the redhead smiled weakly and took one of his hands. She felt horrible for lying to him, but it was the only choice she had. “What’s the last thing you remember?” she asked gently.

“Buffy, um, just told us, or rather sang that, ah, she had been in Heaven. Oh, Willow, what have you done?”

Cringing inwardly, she pressed on bravely. “You’ve been in a coma since then, Giles. When Sweet left, he must have… done something, c-caused a mini-earthquake, I guess. A beam collapsed and hit you on the head; I’ve been trying to wake you since then.”

“H-how long?”

“Five years.”

“Oh, dear Lord…” I Remember


Giles sucked in a harsh breath when he found himself back in his back – his body from five years ago. He was momentarily stunned by the differences; there was less pain in his shoulder from the rotator cuff he had re-injured that final day on the Hellmouth, his knees ached less, and he was five pounds lighter. In the next second, he remembered the task at hand, but rather than stopping his slayer as she raced away from the group, he caught the leather-encased arm of her shadow, called out another name. “Spike!”

The blonde vampire turned to face Giles, confusion etched on his features at the urgent tone the watcher had cried his name with. “Yeah?” he asked in feigned nonchalance.

“T-this is very important, Spike,” Giles stated firmly. “Whatever happens tonight, whatever Buffy says to you… You mustn’t kiss her or… or touch her in any way, do you understand?”

“Listen, Watcher, I appreciate the concern – well, in point of fact, I don’t, but –” he wisely fell silent when Giles’ grip tightened on his arm.

“Listen to me, now. Listen. Not tonight, not now, not while she feels cold and empty, not when she wants to hurt and be hurt. You claim that you love her; prove it.”

The confusion in Spike’s eyes slowly became curiosity, and finally understanding. The watcher knew something the rest of them weren’t privy to, something that might change the course of their lives depending on whether or not he acted accordingly. He had never been known for being a thinker; he followed his blood, but the pleading expression in Giles’ eyes gave him pause.

“Don’t hit her,” he continued, “and for the love of God, never tell her that she came back wrong. It’s a miracle that she came back at all. Don’t fight her, Spike, and if she wants to hit you…”

“If she wants to hit me, she can soddin’ well hit me if that’s what she needs.”

“But it isn’t!” Giles protested. “Restrain her if you can, but never hit her back. Walk away if she refuses to calm down.”

“What happened, Watcher?” the vampire queried.

“Her life depends on it, Spike. That’s all I’m going to tell you. Well, that, and she needs someone to confide in, someone she can trust. Would you do anything for her?”

“I’d give my bloody unlife for her, you know that,” replied Spike, his fierce tone reflected in his eyes.

“Then show me,” he pleaded. “Show her the kind of man you can be. Show her that… that she’s more than just the slayer.”

His full lips held in a grim line, Spike nodded resolutely. Something, though he wasn’t certain what, had happened to the watcher. Perhaps he had seen into the future, a vision as Drusilla often did. Whatever it was, the vampire knew that he had to change his ways or Buffy would die again. The thought made his blood run truly cold rather than room temperature. “I will. Better let go of my arm now, I’ll see if I can catch her.”

Releasing Spike’s arm, Giles dragged a hand through his hair, hair that was more brown than the silver he had been forced to grow accustomed to. As the vampire turned away, he strode in Willow’s direction – he had to stop her from performing the spell that would cause her break-up with Tara. Then, he would put a stop to Warren, Jonathon, and Andrew’s game before it could be put fully into play. He was a man on a mission, and nothing would stop him.

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Spike found Buffy standing alone outside, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as she shivered from the chill in the air. He had never seen her look so fragile, so diminished, and it made his undead heart clench in his chest. On impulse, he removed his duster and wrapped it around her shoulders.

The sudden sensation of warmth jarred the slayer from her thoughts, and she turned startled green eyes on the vampire. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words would come. She had expected some kind of glib remark, a reminder of what he had once said – that every slayer had a death wish. Instead, the lips that so often twisted in a smirk formed a solemn expression, one of concern. “Don’t pretend you care, Spike,” she baited him.

Surprising even himself, the vampire refused to take the bait. Instead, he shook his head and settled a hand on the center of her back. “C’mon, pet, I’ll walk you home.”

When the normally temperamental vampire remained grim and worried in his appearance, Buffy deflated, withdrew into her own mind as she started down the street. It was always so cold where she was. It was Hell.

Spike fell into step beside her, and after a long pause, he inquired, “Do you believe in fate? That everythin’ that happens… there’s a reason for it?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” she retorted, bitterness dripping from her voice as blood dripped from an open wound.

Really, the vampire thought, the two weren’t so dissimilar. “When I said that every slayer has a death wish… I think part of it is that they want to know if this is the end. The want to know if there’s somethin’ other than this, and now you know.”

“And I lost it!” she cried dismally. “I was there, and I was so happy, and now I’m cold all the time, and everything is so different than when I left it. Things change so fast…”

“Believe me, pet, I know. It seems like it was only yesterday that the typewriter was the greatest invention in the world, and electricity seemed like magic. The world can change in a second, Buffy.”

Something in Spike’s words seemed to strike a chord with the slayer, for she calmed almost instantly and cradled her forehead in her hand. “You should know,” she said softly.

“They thought you were trapped in Glory’s Hell dimension, luv. Red, Glinda, the demon, and the whelp, they all did. W-we all did. They did it to save you,” he said firmly, as though his tone could somehow will her to believe it. “Bein’ here in this world, a world without you in it, it… that was Hell. For all of us, ‘specially the Bit.”

“I don’t want to talk anymore, Spike.”

The vampire stiffened – in more than one way – at the sultry tone on the slayer’s words, and he nearly forgot Giles’ warning when he noticed the way she was studying his lips. Drawing in an unneeded breath, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead. “‘S a good thing we’ve got you home, then,” he replied weakly. Ignoring her look of disappointed longing, he opened the door to her home. “Go on, in with you.”

Buffy, shocked beyond belief that Spike had ignored a blatant come-on, slipped the duster from her shoulders and offered it to him. “Thank you,” she whispered, “for this and… everything.”

A myriad of emotions flickered in his eyes, and he inclined his head. “Don’t mention it, pet. You’ve got the house to yourself for the moment, so you’d better get in a good dose of primal scream therapy while you can.”

“Primal… what?”

Laughing softly, the vampire explained, “John Lennon and Yoko Ono used to drive out to the middle of nowhere, get out of the car, and scream their bloody heads off. Said it was therapeutic. That, or you might try eatin’ somethin’ chocolate. Helps me.”

“You eat chocolate?!” the slayer asked in disbelief.

“Course! It’s not bloody normal not to like chocolate!”

A small but genuine smile touched Buffy’s lips, and she teased, “I thought you didn’t want to be normal, Spike.”

The slayer was teasing him. He would have had a heart attack if it had been physically possible. As it was, he merely gaped at her momentarily before gathering his resolve and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’m not normal, but chocolate is just one of those things, y’know? Go on, then. You look tired.”

“Good night, Spike, and I might try that scream thingy.”

“G’night, Buffy,” he answered as she closed the door. Seeing that the slayer was safe inside, he moved to his spot beneath the tree in the front yard, watching and listening for any sign that the Scoobies needed help.

As Buffy crawled into bed, a single thought came to the forefront of her mind. Since Sweet’s departure, never once had Spike called her ‘Slayer.’

tbcAnywhere But Here

Giles had decided to stay. After all of his talk about how she needed to reacquaint herself with life without his presence and support – something he had insisted would make it easier for her to simply give up, he had changed his mind. Her venerable if old-fashioned father-figure, one of the few constants in her life, had suddenly decided that leaving her would be detrimental rather than helpful, and Buffy was appreciative.

In the days since the musical incident, the slayer had thought long and hard on what Spike had told her, that they had all believed she was trapped in a Hell dimension, they’d thought they were saving her from an eternity of pain and torment. It was definitely something to think on, and in her moments of perfect clarity, she understood why they had done it. After all, her sister had something similar when their mother had died, and for a brief moment, elation had overcome reason – she had hurried to the door to embrace her mother only to find the front porch empty.

Her mother was safe and happy. Buffy knew that as surely as she knew that the sun would rise each day – provided some strange supernatural phenomenon didn’t prevent the natural order of things. Her mother, the slayer knew, was where she had been, in a dimension of warmth, peace, and all-encompassing love.

Buffy’s heart, or at least what remained in tact, ached when she thought of the happiness she had been torn out of, and her thoughts continued on the downward spiral until she heard a familiar tapping at her window. Spike. With a heavy sigh, Buffy climbed out of bed and moved to the window, opening it the rest of the way. “What do you want, Spike?” she asked tiredly.

“Just checkin’ in on you and the Bit,” he explained, his tone almost shy. “She left this at my crypt the other day, and I think she’ll be needin’ it back.” Rather than climbing through the window, the vampire passed a thick notebook to Buffy – Dawn’s history notes.

“Yeah,” the slayer agreed, “she’ll definitely be needing this. She has a history test next week and has been looking all over for it. I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.” Setting the notebook aside to give to Dawn in the morning, Buffy climbed through the open window to sit beside Spike. Inviting him into her bedroom seemed too personal, somehow. After a pause, she added, “Thanks for bringing it over.”

Spike was stunned. He had expected the slayer to take the notebook and dismiss him. In truth, he had no idea why she had permitted him to linger, much less joined him on the roof. “Don’t mention it, pet.” Again, he waited for a harsh rebuttal that never came. Instead, she simply stared at nothing and gave no reaction that she had heard him. “Buffy?”

“Why are you still here, Spike?”

“You never asked me to leave,” he replied. God, he wanted to shake some sense into her, anything to rouse her from her nearly catatonic stupor. Where was the girl who had foiled his plans time and again, who had beaten him senseless at every turn? Was she still dead, a frail ghost of her former self occupying the all too familiar shell? Had Buffy, in a strange way, become something of a vampire herself? “I should get goin’,” he concluded, but as he rose, he caught sight of something that halted his movements: the slayer nodding her head in denial.

“It’s okay. Stay.” Her tone was flat, just as her once-luminous eyes held no sparkle.

Settling himself beside her once more, the vampire drew his cigarettes from his pocket and, at her nod of acceptance, lit one. “I… I don’t know if it would help to talk, an’ you don’t have to, but… I’m here.”

“You’re always here,” she replied with a pained smile. “Why are you always here when I’m miserable?”

“I reckon ‘cause that’s when you’re alone, pet,” he teased as he took a drag off his cigarette.

“Can we go somewhere?” she asked suddenly. “Willow and Tara are here with Dawn, and Giles is asleep on the couch. I just can’t… sitting still, it makes it worse.”

“Yeah, I never was one for sittin’ around like that, myself. You wanna go anywhere in particular?”

“Anywhere but here.”

Pushing to his feet, Spike dropped down from the ledge and offered Buffy his hands to aide her in jumping down. He chuckled at her look of utter disdain. “Sorry, pet. I forgot that you’ve been doin’ it for years.”

Glowering at the vampire – for once good-naturedly, Buffy not only leapt off the ledge with the same amount of grace Spike had displayed, she somersaulted on her way down and landed perfectly. “Do I look like I need any help?” she challenged.

“Maybe with your stupid hair,” Spike quipped.

“God, what is it with you and my hair? You should talk, Captain Peroxide.”

“Oy! I’ll ‘ave you know I use bleach, not peroxide,” the vampire protested as he started down the street. He had teased the slayer, and she was taunting him in return. The William part of him was so elated that it almost knocked the Spike part of him flat on his undead arse. Gah!

An instant later, the slayer came to a shocking realization. She felt more like herself, like she had been before her second death, when she was with Spike. They were bantering the way they always had; he treated her like Buffy, not a fragile child to be coddled.

“Buffy?” the vampire prompted after moments of stillness.

“Just thinking.”

The rest of the journey was made in silence, Buffy leading the way. If Buffy had wanted to discuss what she was thinking, Spike reasoned, she would have elaborated on it rather than simply stating that she was thinking. For once, the normally verbose vampire was content to be quiet. When the blonde pair finally halted, Spike gave a saddened smile; they were at Joyce’s grave.

Buffy folded her slim legs under her and sat beside the grave, glancing at Spike expectantly. After he sat across from her, she said, “Mom always liked you. She said that you were the only one who understood her fascination with Timmy. God knows I never did.”

“She was a right good woman, your mum,” he said honestly. “I always liked her. I mean, not many people, much less women, would think o’ chargin’ a Big Bad with a fire ax. ‘Get the Hell away from my daughter!’ She had moxie.”

“She was always so strong… stronger than me.”

“Here, now. No one’s stronger than you, luv.”

“Glory was,” she whispered, dropping her gaze to the grass covering her mother’s grave. It was no longer splotchy and yellowed; it was now a vibrant green and seemed thicker than the lawn covering the other plots, as though her mother’s nurturing spirit had lingered in the ground and urged the grass to grow.

Leaning over to brush a lock of hair behind her ear, Spike remorsefully agreed, “She was stronger, but you were smarter. There’re different kinds of strong, pet. Your mum was all kinds of strong, and she never could’ve done a tenth of what you do physically.”

“I think she is… where I was. Don’t you?”

“Buffy, if anyone on this soddin’ planet deserved peace, it was your mum. You bloody well know she’s in Heaven. ‘S the only place a Summers woman can go,” he said firmly.

The vampire’s tone was so sincere and forceful that Buffy had no choice but to believe him. If she, whose calling was slaying, had been accepted into Heaven, then her mother, who had been the picture of kindness, certainly was at peace. It was as she had suspected, but somehow, hearing Spike’s confirmation made it all the more real. “Yeah,” she said finally. “Mom’s happy.”

A sudden inspiration came to the vampire, and he smiled – it was more of an elated beam than a simple smile, as he made his request. “Do somethin’ for me, Buffy. Close your eyes.”

“What?” the slayer demanded, nonplussed by the order.

“Won’t touch you, pet, I promise. Just close them.”

Eyeing Spike warily for long moments, she finally relented and closed her eyes. She wondered what the vampire had planned for her; he had said he wouldn’t touch her. If she admitted it to herself, his promise not to touch her was disappointing.

“Right, then,” he began. How could he find a way to say what needed to be said without sounding like a truly magnificent ponce? “Remember the last time you were happy, pet? Really happy?”

Buffy frowned. Already, she didn’t like the way this was going, but then, there wasn’t much she did like these days. “I remember,” she said finally.

“You don’t have to tell me about it, but remember how you felt. Just… picture it. Where you were, what you were doing, what it was that made you so happy. Right?”

“Got it.”

“When you start to think about what you’ve lost, remember that feelin’ and hold onto it, because that’s how… that’s how we all felt when we saw you again. It was the happiest moment of my unlife, Buffy, an’ I know it was the happiest moment of the Bit’s. W-she got you back.”

Buffy’s eyes opened slowly, a little greener than they had been moments ago; there was a spark of life that had been missing until then. “T-thank you, Spike,” she stammered. She remembered how happy she had been when she had believed her mother would be fine, that they would somehow defeat Glory, and it made a little more sense to her. “The others… they don’t understand how I can’t be happy… because they are. You understand and… you can explain… How?”

“I’ve lived for soddin’ ever, Buffy,” the vampire replied. “An’ I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer. I gotta know how to simplify things for myself, and then when the smart people need an answer, I have one.”

“Keep it up with the self-flagellation and you’ll turn out like Angel,” the slayer taunted. For some reason, it bothered her that Spike had called himself stupid, but she couldn’t say it so openly.

“Oy! You take that back! I am nothin’ like that ponce. We have very different coloring.” In an attempt to get her to smile again, Spike pretended to preen.

A brow arching in surprise, Buffy giggled; it was a sound she had not heard in so long that it startled her. She had actually laughed a genuine laugh.

“I’m just sayin’, luv, I’m not known for bein’ a thinker. I follow my blood, which does not always flow in the direction of my brain.” This earned him another small laugh from Buffy.

“Spike?”

“Yeah, pet?”

“Thanks.” Intervention

“Xander, will you sit down for a moment?”

Giles’ tone halted the dark-haired man, and he flopped down in a chair across from the former watcher. Anya had escorted Dawn to school at Buffy’s behest, and the slayer was presumably at home having a discussion with Tara and Willow – one of those girl talks Xander had no desire to be privy to. “What’s shakin’?” he asked lightly.

“I, ah, I need to talk to you about Anya,” said the Englishman. He felt torn; on the one hand, he knew what would happen if he didn’t intervene, and on the other, he felt that it was not his business.

“You’re not going to fire her, are you? I know she’s a little blunt, a little strange, and all around greedy at times, but she’s a good worker.”

Disappointed, Giles replied, “No, I have no intention of firing her. This had nothing to do with me. Have you, um, have you been having second thoughts about the two of you?”

Xander gaped. Was it really that obvious? Had Anya noticed? “How did you know?”

“You’re a young man, you’ve experienced and seen more than anyone should have to deal with, and it can be confusing at times. Believe me, I know.” He had, after all, been baffled by his relationship with Jenny, and by the time he had made up his mind, it had been too late.

“Look, Giles, I get that you’re trying to be all fatherly after the whole Glory thing, but we’re good,” said Xander defensively. As he rose to continue unpacking the new shipment of books – he always helped around with the shop on his days off – Giles caught his arm.

“How would you feel if something were to happen to Anya?” the former watcher asked morbidly.

“Uh… awful? Giles, what’s gotten into you? You know how I would feel if something happened to her.”

“It feels a bit like a gaping hole in your heart,” Giles explained knowingly, “and nothing ever closes it. Nothing. If Anya died tomorrow, what would you regret most?”

“Not… not marrying her, trying to make a good life for us, I guess. Why are you going wiggy? Are you sure you’re Giles?”

“You rescued me after Angelus tortured me; I said that they made me see the things I wanted, and you asked why I would see you, do you remember?”

Content that Giles was in fact Giles, Xander settled down in his seat again. “Okay, so, you’re, what, thinking about Jenny and trying to keep me from making the same mistake?” As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted his bluntness. To his surprise, the Englishman didn’t cringe.

“You could say that, but, um, just think of all the things you love about her. Don’t do anything rash in a moment of panic. I know how you react in dire situations, Xander, you’re usually the most level-headed.”

At that moment, Anya barged into the store and rolled her eyes dramatically. “I’m in desperate need of a few good orgasms, here. Buffy asked me to walk Dawn to school to make sure she was actually going so she could have some alone time with Willow and Tara – did Buffy turn gay and decided to participate in a threesome? Anyway, I got Dawn to school, and some pimply-faced boys kept staring at my breasts. They made me feel slimy, so we have to go now.”

Xander blushed furiously at Anya’s bluntness, and as she tugged on his arm, he grinned at Giles. “You heard her. I’ll have her back before the store opens.”

To Xander and Anya’s surprise, Giles merely shook his head and waved them toward the door. “Go, take the day off. This is, ah, one of those days where I would prefer to work the register myself.”

“It wouldn’t hurt for you to price the new candles a little higher, and don’t forget to count the money. All of these new bills are confusing.” All but dragging Xander from the shop after her, Anya continued her rambling, “Do you think the new bills were designed to confuse people, because I do. The fifties look like fives, not that I’ve seen more than one of the new fifties. People can be so stingy…”

As Anya’s voice faded, the ex-watcher could only smile. He would make things right somehow; Buffy’s life depended on it. Patrolling

Spike woke with the realization that he was not alone in his crypt; his vampiric senses told him so. Not only was someone else there, but that someone was a woman – and not just any woman, Buffy. The slayer was in his crypt?! He could have sworn his undead heart had started pounding at the thought of Buffy willingly visiting him, but then he remembered that she only came to him when she needed a favor.

Dragging on his jeans and a clean t-shirt, he hurried into the upper level of the crypt to find Buffy sitting on the couch fiddling with the hem of her sweater. At his approach, she simply glanced up from her position and offered a small smile of apology.

“Somethin’ I can do for you, pet?” he inquired as he took a seat in the chair.

“It’s after dark,” she replied. “Tara and Willow have taken Dawn to see the new Lord of the Rings movie. Didn’t they just make one last year?”

Laughing softly, the vampire answered, “It’s a trilogy, Buffy. You should read it sometime, or at least watch the movies.”

“You do remind me a little of the elf,” she teased, waiting for an explosive reaction. She was not disappointed.

“Bloody Hell! I don’t look anythin’ like that buggering ponce Legolas! He nances like a faerie! That’s it! I’m dyin’ my hair black, I swear to –”

“It was a joke, Spike!” the slayer giggled, bringing his rant to a crashing halt. “I just wanted to see how you would react.”

“Oh. Good. Still might have to dye my hair, though.”

Shyly, Buffy said, “I like it. It suits you.”

Spike’s scarred eyebrow nearly reached his hairline at that comment. She liked his hair? Bloody… “Is somethin’ wrong? Not that I’m not glad you’re here, but you usually only come here when you need help or someone to watch Dawn.”

“I was just thinking… I’d like to try that primal scream thingy, and I can’t do it here.”

“I can take you somewhere,” the vampire offered.

“After patrol,” Buffy agreed. “Which you’re welcome to help with. What was it… a spot of violence before bedtime?”

He could only stare slack-jawed for a moment. Buffy had invited him to accompany her on patrol… and she wanted him to drive her somewhere afterward. He hadn’t yet gotten used to the abrupt halt to her seemingly never-ending game of kick-the-Spike, and now this. “Sounds good,” he said finally.

For her part, Buffy was shocked that Spike hadn’t made any of his trademark quips, nor had he made any overtly sexual comments. It was as though he had changed overnight – the night of the musical. She wondered if it was residual magic, or if he genuinely cared as much as he said he did.

Without another word, the vampire pushed to his feet and pulled on his coat, glancing at Buffy as though to ask if she was ready. When she stood, he opened the door of his crypt and held it open, shuddering inwardly when he recalled the first time he had held a door for her and her violent reaction to it. This time she merely smiled and stepped outside.

Buffy pressed a wooden stake into the vampire’s hand and told him to try not to fall on it. Glancing over her shoulder with an enigmatic smile, she turned the corner and studied the line of tombstones and crypts, waiting for her first kill.

“I didn’t know you cared, pet,” he called after her as he closed the door to his crypt and jogged to catch up with her.

Oh, shit. That had sounded like concern, and as soon as she realized it, Buffy cursed inwardly. Scoffing, she replied, “As if.”

“What’s with the valley-girl speech?” Spike questioned.

“Um, hello, I’m from LA. We all talk like that there.”

“Just another face in the crowd, then? You’re not like them.”

“No,” she said wearily. “I’m the slayer.”

“Yeah, but ‘s not what I meant. You’re Buffy Summers, the one an’ only sister to a key that doesn’t open anythin’, friend to lesbian witches, a whelp, an ex-demon, and a watcher who got sacked because he loved you too much. You’re that Buffy first.”

“And a vampire.”

“Eh?”

“I’m a friend to a vampire, too.”

“Told you once, pet, whatever you an’ Peaches are, ‘s not friends.”

“I didn’t mean Angel.”

Spike gaped openly, but he was saved the moment of awkwardness when a newly risen vampire made the grave mistake of rushing Buffy’s back. He flung to stake before the slayer could turn full-circle, and by the time she had, ashes were at her feet.

“Damnit, Spike!”

The vampire winced. He should have known she was building up his confidence only to crush it again. To his surprise, she only handed him the stake and pouted.

“I wanted to get the first one,” she griped. “That totally wasn’t fair, I didn’t even see him!”

Shocked nearly to the point of speechlessness, Spike nodded dumbly. “Right. You can get the next one.”

“Good… and thanks.”

Spike could only nod again because… she hadn’t meant Angel.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Three dusted vamps apiece under their belts, the vampire and the slayer soon found themselves in the wooded area not far outside the city limits of Sunnydale. It had taken ten minutes of arguing on Spike’s part to persuade Buffy that she had to wear a helmet. Finally, she had consented, but only after Spike had gunned the engine and threatened to leave without her.

“So, what now?” Buffy asked as she swung one leather-encased leg over the side of the motorcycle.

“Now,” said Spike, silencing the purr of the motor, “you scream.”

“Nuh uh, I’m not doing it alone,” she protested. “And… do you have to scream anything in particular?”

“It’s not a test, pet, it’s therapy. You scream whatever you want, like this.” To drive the point home, the vampire shouted wordlessly.

“Oh. In that case…” Buffy released a blood-curdling scream not unlike the one she had used to defeat the Gentlemen, and Spike’s cringe was lost on her. Once she started, however, she couldn’t seem to stop.

She shouted her pain to the moonless skies, kicked at the dirt and grass with pointed heels, and slammed her fist into the bark of a fragile tree. It snapped in half at the punishment, and Buffy’s knuckles came away bloody.

It was only when the slayer’s hand darted out for a second blow that Spike caught her wrist. “You’re bleeding, Buffy,” he said quietly. “And you killed the bad tree.”

The hand in Spike’s grip trembled, and Buffy noted with amazement that his eyes were locked on hers rather than the blood that trickled from her knuckles. Without thought as to what it meant, she wrenched her hand free of Spike’s grasp and held it up. “My mom always used to kiss my cuts and bruises. It makes them better,” she told him confidently.

“Do you know what it means, pet? Offerin’ your blood to a vampire, that’s… it’s like a blood oath. No matter what happens, we’ll always be there for each other.”

“Friends ‘til the end?” she asked lightly in a show of acceptance. “I guess I won’t need a friendship bracelet. It’s going to heal soon.”

Sucking in a breath he didn’t need, Spike lowered his mouth to the bleeding wound, laving the ragged edges of flesh with his tongue. As he struggled to keep his features from shifting, he noticed that Buffy was watching him intently, and as her tongue darted out to moisten her lips, he groaned. It would be difficult enough to keep from ravaging her as it stood, and for the first time, he hated that the blood of a slayer was such an aphrodisiac.

Angel hadn’t been able to stop. The thought came unbidden to Buffy’s mind as she watched Spike clean the wound of blood. After the first taste, the love of her life, the one who vowed to keep her safe, who insisted he wanted only to hold her heart, had not been able to stop from drinking deeply. Spike, her once arch-nemesis, on the other hand, hadn’t even lost his human guise. She was astounded.

Spike shifted long enough to slice his tongue on his fang, but then his features reverted to normal, and he used the tiny droplet to heal the slayer’s knuckles and seal the pact. It wasn’t a claim, but it was an oath that they would always come to the aide of the other; for now, it was enough. Lifting his head, he nodded his approval when the skin knitted back together. “There, it’s better.”

“Thank you,” she said simply.

“You’re welcome,” he answered, studying the tree Buffy had killed. He picked up the top half and drew a knife from his boot, cutting off the branches quickly.

“What are you doing?” she asked curiously as she sat down on a nearby stump to watch him.

“Makin’ a stake,” he replied. “‘S only fair that the poor tree didn’t die in vain, after all.” The comment elicited a laugh from the slayer, but after that, she fell silent. Spike didn’t try to force her to speak – it was a comfortable silence. After he finished the stake, he offered it to her proudly; it was wicked looking with a point sharp enough to pierce even the thickest of hides.

“It kind of puts Mr. Pointy to shame,” she admitted, tucking the stake into the sleeve of her sweater. “Thanks.”

“It’s gettin’ late.”

“I don’t feel like going home yet, but we could go back to your place. It’s not as cold as it is here.”

“I’ve got one of those space heaters,” he replied with an affirming nod as he straddled the motorcycle and kicked the brake off. Only when Buffy strapped on her helmet did he scoot forward to make room for her.

“This stupid thing is giving me helmet-hair,” she complained, her arms encircling his waist firmly. Why did he smell so good? Shouldn’t he start to smell… well, dead? “And why do you have a heater if you don’t feel cold?”

“With the Bit droppin’ by all the time, I didn’t want her to be cold.”

Again, Buffy was stunned. Spike, whom she had always believed to be the most thoughtless and selfish of his kind, was turning out to be the most considerate man she had ever met – humans included. Ugh, bad Buffy. She shouldn’t even be going there, but she had to admit that she felt at home around him, the slayer of slayers.

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