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I
The moment that Billy Idol’s
Rebel Yell tore through the
slumberous silence in announcement of another premature waking, Buffy
knew it was going to be one of those days. It really wasn’t a difficult
call to make; she had been having
one of those days for the past
three weeks with no deviation from course. Every minute of every hour
ran in syncopated monotony with the last. Get up. Shower. Dry hair.
Dress. Attempt to eat breakfast. Brush teeth. Leave house. Go to work.
Leave work. Patrol. Attempt to eat supper. Go to sleep. Repeat as
necessary.
It didn’t take much to make her pattern fall under the heading of
one
of those days anymore. Before leaving home, she had categorized
periods of inactivity alongside notions of careful negligence. Back when
the familiar cemeteries of Sunnydale mapped her nightly routine and the
interference of rogue vampires stood as a welcomed distraction. Back in
the days prior to her hasty escape to a city that had grown too large
for her overnight. Back before her home had collapsed in on itself.
Thus, her weary acknowledgement that it was going to be
one of those
days was nothing more than blatant observation. Not a hunch. Not a
notion. Not a forethought. It was merely another day to get through.
Another cluster of hours to survive without allowing her mind to wander
to the life she had willingly left behind. The people that had been her
family for years. The people she hadn’t once thought of calling. The
people she had not told goodbye.
All except two.
Dawn was in school. That was all she cared about. She had Dawn in
school. A normal school. A non-hellmouthy school. She was living in
Dayton with Xander, who agreed to take care of her for a few months
while big sis got her head sorted. Oddly enough, Xander was the one she
could trust. The one that knew what she was going through. In the days
following the collapse of their hellmouth, she had rediscovered a
connection with her friend that had honestly gone cold since before the
big leap off Glory’s tower.
They had something in common now. They had both loved and lost twice in
two years. Xander was mourning a demon; she was mourning a vampire.
Her hand still tingled from where they had been joined by fire. She
never wanted it to stop. Never wanted that final connection she had
shared with Spike to burn out. To cease to be, just as he had.
It seemed fitting, though, that now that she had her freedom—freedom
that Spike had given her—the place that she called her home was the only
other known active hellmouth in the country. She hadn’t grown used to
the climate change yet; was still surprised when the night air grew
chilly. She hadn’t memorized each step of the few cemeteries scattered
throughout the city. She patrolled when she could. It was all she knew;
all she had truly known.
So many years trying to be a girl, and now all she wanted to be was the
Slayer.
And so she lived in Cleveland in a never-ending routine of monotony.
Right now, work. Food service, as it was the only true experience she
had. She awoke to Billy Idol every morning because the sound of a
badass-Brit singing was the only thing that could get her out of bed
most days. Billy Idol was the only singer that had enough spunk to
convince her to throw back the sheets. Had enough
Spike. The
choice of song similarly never changed. Always
Rebel Yell with
some girl wanting more, more, more, followed by examples of dancing with
yourself and descriptions of hot summer nights. She allowed the CD to
play its duration, never breaking stride in routine. Some mornings she
left it on to accompany the otherwise still air while she was at work.
Some mornings she felt the air didn’t deserve it. Either way, the same
silence greeted her when she returned at night, and she knew nothing
else until morning arrived again.
One of those days. She neither loved nor hated
those days.
It was simply habit. Another span of twenty-four hours that she kept
herself occupied so her mind couldn’t convince her to go back. Back to a
land where
those days did not exist. Back home.
But she wasn’t home. There was no home anymore. Instead, there was the
illusion of what she knew, and no place else to turn when things became
desperate. She was in Cleveland. And she planned to stay indefinitely,
even if it meant subjecting herself to a mainstream of tedium.
Working at the diner was comparable to going to a French film where all
the subtitles are in German. Everything was a learning experience based
on visual perception, located in a different stretch of the universe.
The thrill of customer-service. Buffy had only been working for two
weeks, but she knew enough to recognize the regulars. Some even knew her
by name, and all had their various squicks and ticks. The middle-aged
came in and ordered coffee for fear of the grease factor with everything
else on the menu. Children raced across the street with dollar bills
that needed to be turned into quarters for the machines out front. Old
men winked at her and made the occasional vulgar proposition. One guy,
after eying her nametag, had even flashed a toothy grin and asked if she
wanted a part in a low-budget porn movie.
Buffy had complained to her boss, Kevin, about that. He’d merely
snickered, given the man a thumbs up, and returned to his office.
It was intolerable, but she didn’t think she could do anything else now.
Now was a time for self-reflection. For trying to make it on her own.
For clearing her head and allowing the scars marring her past time to
heal. It was just a matter of time. Days. One after another. Everything
was taken with a grain of salt and a tight smile. It was odd biting her
tongue when every innate instinct told her to snap a witty rejoinder to
those who drained her not-so-infallible patience. Twenty-three years had
schooled her to speak whenever she felt like it, and it was difficult
teaching anyone new tricks.
That was the strategy, however. Tolerance. The secret to surviving
one of those days. And that was what today was. What yesterday was.
What tomorrow would be. One of
those days.
Funny. Both times she lost a vampire she’d loved, she ended up in a
strange town behind the counter of some low-class diner. She remembered
the series of nightmares she’d had after sending Angel to Hell.
Remembered waking with pain. Remembered the flashes of him she thought
she’d seen around Los Angeles. Remembered everything.
Remembered and envied. At least then, there had been some emotion.
Spike’s death had left her hollow. Cold. An emptiness worse than
nothing. As though he had taken her heart with him when he died. She
felt barren and alone. She knew not to look for him, and her nights
remained dreamless. The Powers didn’t even grant her the solace of his
face while she slept.
So she worked. She hunted. She staked the few vampires that were fleeing
to Cleveland with the absence of Sunnydale, leaving her with the
conclusion that the reputable hellmouth in Ohio wasn’t nearly as active
as the Council had led her to believe over the past few years.
And as the day progressed—the day that was a carbon copy of so many
before it—she became more certain of that very conviction.
The day went by normally. One guy intentionally spilled his drink as she
was passing, hoping to get her clothing wet as well as a view of her
backside as she bent over to clean up the mess. Two kids got into a fist
fight outside of the restaurant, and Cindy, one of Buffy’s coworkers,
took the smaller child into the back to clean up his cuts. Kevin made
three passes at her, all vulgar and grounds for a sexual harassment
complaint. She let them go. There simply wasn’t a will to care about
anymore. If Kevin wanted to be nasty, she’d let him.
As long as his passes came in the form of words and not touches. Then
she feared her secret identity would be blown. No one touched her these
days. She simply didn’t allow it.
Cindy offered to drive her home, as she did every night. Buffy smiled
her thanks but declined. For whatever reason, the other girl couldn’t
get it into her head that the oogly booglies that made most single white
females scream for cover simply didn’t bother her.
No one offered rides in Sunnydale. Everyone cut through the cemetery.
People who died with massive neck wounds in suspected triple-homicides
were not front page news. She came from the land where finding teenagers
dead and stuffed in lockers was an everyday occurrence. Anywhere else,
it would merit national news. Not in Sunnydale.
Sunnydale was gone, though. And now she lived in Cleveland—the
disappointingly tame all-American hellmouth.
Tonight there was patrol. Every night, there was patrol. She would
return to her empty apartment, watch the
Daily Show for something
to laugh at, then collapse and wait for the cycle to restart.
She very much hoped something bumpy showed itself tonight. The adrenalin
rush would be a welcome change.
“What’s a pretty young thing like you doing out here at this time of
night?”
Buffy whirled around, her arm raised, stake ready. Then she blinked when
her eyes clashed with the surprised terror of a middle-aged
groundskeeper. A shrill sound tore through his throat and his hands flew
up in semblance of neutrality. “Didn’t mean anything by it, Miss!” he
swore. “Just wanted—”
She rolled her eyes and lowered her stake. “Some words of wisdom…” She
flashed a glance to his name badge. “Larry. Approaching someone after
dark in a graveyard? Not the best judgment call.”
“The grounds here are closed for the night.”
“Yeah. I’m just making sure nothing snuck in.”
Without waiting for a reply, she whirled around and continued on her
way.
Yet another thing that would never happen in Sunnydale. Closed
cemeteries?
Buffy didn’t make it very far. A welcomingly familiar growl split
through the night air. It seemed she would be getting some action
tonight, after all. She grinned tightly to herself and picked up her
pace, feet following her senses. Tinglies abound; a tight, coveted
sensation filled her insides.
“All right,” she said loudly, “I know you’re there. Come out; come out,
wherever you are. Fresh, powerful blood here, all ripe and ready for the
taking. And hey, since I’m bored, I’ll even let you win for the first
ten minutes or so. Let’s do this thing.”
Nothing.
“Oh come on.” Her stake arm fell again. “Don’t be another wussy vamp.
I’m so sick of wussy vamps.”
The air was still for several more seconds. Still, but not vacant. The
sensation rattling her body refused to waver. The vampire was still
there. Still watching her. Lurking somewhere in the shadows.
Then it hit. A wave of familiarity so potent, it made her gasp aloud.
No. No, it can’t be.
Another growl pierced the air. There was a flash of blonde and a rush of
fangs. He lunged for her from behind a mausoleum, arms tightening around
her as they collapsed to the ground. Her stake tumbled from her hand as
numb astonishment flooded her being.
Feeling.
The vampire raised his head and she about burst into tears.
“Spike. Oh God, Spike, is it…” She frowned. “Am I dreaming?”
He didn’t respond. Didn’t even make like he’d heard her. There was
something dangerously feral in his eyes. Something primal. Something she
had never seen before. And it didn’t matter. For a fraction of an
instant, the weight of the world no longer mattered. Spike was back.
Even pinning her to the ground, the full weight of his welcome body
pressing her into the ground, his hands grasping her wrists to the point
of pain; it didn’t matter to her. Spike was with her, now.
I’m dreaming. God, I know I’m dreaming.
But she wasn’t. She couldn’t be. Spike wasn’t the stuff of dreams; he
was bigger than dreams. Her nights had never been haunted by him; too
small to constrain him to the fog of her subconscious. No, since his
death, he had dominated everything. The thought of him. The want of him.
Missing him in this new place, every crude remark to tumble through the
lips of her vile customers simply served as reminders of the one she’d
lost. Not for the way they were said…Spike would whisper the dirtiest
things to her when they were in the throes of passion. Covered in love,
of course, with the added guise of concealing his feelings from her as
their bodies moved together. For months, he had provided the allusion of
consolation without the mention of love, because that was what he knew
she wanted. And even though the thought of what she had put him through
that year made her ill, there was some twist of comfort whenever she
heard something remotely Spikeish touch the air.
Comfort that drowned into longing. Longing that had long since left her
hollow.
Only Spike was here.
Once a lifetime ago, Angel had attacked her after returning from the
dead. Like an untamed animal escaping the bowels of hell, he had
attacked and she had fought him. Spike was on top of her now, his fangs
drawn to her throat. And yet, there was no mode of attack. No want to
harm. No need to kill. None that she could sense.
“Spike?” she whispered again, tugging her hands free and running her
fingers through his hair. “Spike, it’s me.”
He sniffed at her, his head drawing back. There was no familiarity in
his eyes. Nothing whatsoever. He saw her, yes, but he didn’t know who he
was seeing. Confusion flashed across his face and quickly turned to
anger. His eyes hardened and she had lost him again, the want of answers
abandoning him for the more immediate sanctuary of her heavenly throat.
“Spike—”
There was an answering growl and a flash of fangs. His body slammed hard
against hers when she attempted to get up, the aching familiarity of his
erection pressing her between her legs. Buffy threw her head back and
moaned. Reality was gone, and now there was nothing but this. A vampire
she had loved and lost, and he was growling at her as though the past
few years could be forgotten in a blink.
She had lived too long to worry with this anymore. Twenty-three years
had somehow spanned into the duration of several lifetimes, but her body
refused to age with wisdom. Instead, she was the fallen Slayer. The one
that had liberated the rest only to know death at the hands of the one
she loved. The one she had let bow out with a note to martyrdom, only to
meet her demise at the end of his fangs nearly ten months after she had
left him to close the Hellmouth.
His fangs sliced into her skin, and her body exploded with completion.
She threw her head back and moaned even as he snarled into her, pulling
her blood into his mouth, his hips moving sensually over her in mocking
semblance of the dance they had come to know by heart. As though he knew
her body, even if he didn’t know her face. He murmured incoherently into
her bloody skin until the chord struck and his head flew back, his eyes
widening with something akin to recognition.
Buffy’s eyes blurred. He hadn’t taken much; he’d barely tasted her. And
the sensuality behind his bite overrode the strings of pain tugging at
her flesh. There was blood dribbling down his chin. Blood that she owed
him for what the past spring had robbed them both. And he saw her then;
really saw her. Saw her with something that ached of recognition, even
if he was still far placed from knowing her.
A word. One.
“Slayer.”
It was as though the world had emerged from black and white, and she was
back in the land of color. A rush of emotions unlike anything she’d felt
for months suddenly crippled her, and she burst into long, hard sobs.
Her arms wound around his neck and tug him back down to her. It
registered distantly that an untamed vampire was not an ideal cuddling
buddy, but the heavens would crash before she let him go. Right now, she
needed to feel him against her. Cherish the familiarity of his body and
assure herself one last time that she was not asleep, conjuring a
reenactment of the night the fates had given her back Angel, only recast
as another vampire.
The vampire she loved as a woman; not the one she had mourned as a girl.
Spike buried his face in her throat and lapped delicately at the wound
he’d given her. “Slayer,” he murmured again, like a child who had
discovered a new word and wanted to share it with the world over and
over again. “Slayer.”
“Yes,” she cried against him. “Yes, Spike. I’m the Slayer.”
He purred contentedly, rather pleased at being right. Whether or not he
understood her was another concern. He knew her. At least on some level,
he knew her. Knew her as the Slayer, whereas just minutes ago, he had
not known her at all.
How long they stayed like that, she didn’t know or care. Only that Spike
whimpered when she let go of him, his eyes glossed over with need and
longing. God, she knew that look so well. The part of him that was most
human; the part of him that fought for freedom and had gone to win back
his soul for the intent of righting what he felt had been his greatest
sin. This was her William at the surface. Angel had been all demon when
he returned—as the demon within him, as with all other vampires, was the
greatest driving force.
Not so with her Spike. The look on his face killed any doubts.
“Do you…” Buffy found herself asking, dusting her slacks off. “Do you
know me, Spike?”
He studied her for a long minute, then shook his head. No.
Her heart broke. “Are you sure?”
He shook his head again.
“Can you speak?”
A puzzled look washed over him at that. She had heard him call her by
the name that had dominated their relationship during those first few
years, and yet, it seemed to be the only thing he knew.
Her eyes fell to his clothing. No jeans, rather sweats. No patented
black-tee, rather rags. And he had no duster.
“What happened?”
He frowned and followed her eyes.
“Spike?”
He turned away, jaw clenching. A familiar look of guilt flashed across
his face. And she understood. Likely the former property of a bum in an
alley, or whoever had been misfortunate enough to be the first to cross
his path. And again, the man shone through with startling clarity.
Clothing. Spike had sought out clothing.
“Spike?”
He looked back at her at that, placing a hand over his chest. “Hurts,”
he managed, his eyes shining.
Buffy was positive her entire body shivered at the word. “The soul,” she
whispered. “Spike…you…” She smiled lovingly and wound her small hand
around his, tugging his fingers away from his heart. “Do you remember
who you are?”
“Spike.”
“You remember that?”
He gave her a dry look.
“You know that from me, don’t you?”
He nodded.
Well, obviously. She kept calling him Spike; he would likely figure out
that was who he was.
“Do you remember anything?”
There was a long silence at that. Then, uncertainly, he shook his head.
She drew in a deep breath and glanced down, not wanting him to see how
deeply that hurt. One thing at a time. Just minutes ago, he had been
ready to tear her throat out. Now he was purring as her thumb caressed
his hand, his eyes warming with every beat that passed between them.
She needed to get him home. Needed to find out why he was back, though
the why hardly mattered. The fact that he was with her at all eased the
numbness with feeling she hadn’t even known she missed. It was wonderful
just seeing him. Basking in the warmth of his presence. The warmth he
gave her simply by being.
“Come on,” she said gently, tugging at his hand. “Let’s go home.”
Spike flashed her a quizzical look.
“My home,” she clarified. “I have an apartment. Kinda a rat-trap, but
it’s better than nothing. Honestly, I think your crypt was more posh.”
More confusion. She smiled and batted a dismissive hand. “I’ll call in
sick tomorrow,” she said, more for her benefit than his. “Get you some
good clothes. Something you’ll fit right into…like a black tee and a
pair of jeans? Maybe some Doc Martins?”
Yeah. As though she had that sort of money. Well, she had cash on
reserve that Giles had insisted on giving her, despite her hesitance of
taking anything from him. Their relationship hadn’t recovered since the
big fall out the year before, and she doubted it ever would.
That didn’t matter now. Nothing mattered. Spike was with her.
And that was all she needed.
TBC