Chapter Twenty-Three

 

“You bloody bitch!” Spike exploded.  “Does it feel good, little girl?  Does the dark stuff do it for ya?  Does causing pain to your friends make you feel all better?”  His eyes narrowed as he watched Willow shrink away from him, almost smelling the remorse that ate away at her minimal composure.  “We warned you, told you you’d go belly-up.  Don’t you have any bloody control what-so-ever?”

 

Spike spun back and forth, his demon flashing in pure rage, leaving the other occupants of the room to balance haphazardly on his livid tension.

 

“Now she’ll think everything we said, everything we did, only happened because of a bleeding spell.  BLOODY FUCKING HELL!”  Spike roared in fury and frustration.  “I bloody hate you lot, sometimes.”  He pivoted on his heel and strode to the door, leather duster flapping angrily around his ankles.

 

Suddenly he stopped, his body humming with repressed violence as he stared fixedly at the door.  “Glad you can see again, Watcher.  Now do something ‘bout her before she really fucks something up.”  He couldn’t look at them.  Tears welled up in his eyes as a wound in his heart so profound took hold and encouraged him to vengeance.  He wanted to rip the little witch limb from limb, soul or no soul!

 

He remembered the original spell, the sickly sweet marriage proposal and his and Buffy’s shared disgust at its end.  This had been nothing like it, and though he had actually popped the question, now that they were free of the spell, the feeling was still there, and he couldn’t recall any sense of unnaturalness about the act.  He knew that all the looks, the little touches, the meshing of one future life and deeds to the present had tipped him so far in her favour that he couldn’t conceive of being anything other than hers to do with as she chose.  He wanted so badly to be her mate, to be her love eternally that it seemed natural to give her the equivalent human dedication.  In truth, he was not so far removed- barely at all actually- that the romantic in him didn’t get a thrill out of a ceremony with her wearing white and a gold band to ward off other human males.  Like that bloody great git, Finn.  He refused to go down that road again.  She was his, and the world needed to know it.

 

Bloody hell!

 

She needed to know it.

 

But Buffy thought he didn’t mean it.  He saw it in her eyes before she had fled the Watcher’s flat.  Knew that she had remembered their flashes of the spell and was terrified that his wanting had been inspired only from magic.  She didn’t know that he had been staring at that ring in eager contemplation for what felt like a lifetime.  She probably thought that his bite was an ill-timed accompaniment to the engagement, and if there was no spell, there would be no wedding, and there most definitely should be no claiming.

 

His understanding reached its limit by that point.  How could she not know that his feelings for her had always been so deep that all the things that had occurred earlier were what he wanted, had always wanted?  No spell could have obliterated his hopes quite so fantastically as this.  She was being bull-headed and stubborn.  And as usual, she had no faith in him.  They had just shared the most wondrous, amazing night of their lives cherishing all that they could be to one another, and she debunked the lot by believing it could only have happened due to a stupid my-will-be-done spell.  Well then, she deserved to suffer.

 

His feet had been moving steadily toward Revello Drive, unconsciously drawn by the fading vanilla signature scent of her.  He hadn’t even noticed that he could sense her like that, but he wasn’t surprised.  They were fundamentally entwined.  Mortal, supernatural, they had the approval of Powers far beyond them, and she thought it was a bloody spell.  Bleeding stupid women always read him wrong.  What the hell was it about him that caused them to distrust so spectacularly?

 

Well, unlike the previous incarnation of himself, he refused to chase her.  He had shared the brightest part of himself with her tonight, he had given her his soul, his heart, his mind and his love.  If she wanted to disbelieve then good on her.

 

He changed direction mid-stride and headed to the cemetery, a sudden nostalgic need to see his old crypt.  Staying at Angel’s place, while warm and cozy with electricity and running water, it was also stifling and not really him. The crypt though?  That had atmosphere. That had style.  And right now it had comfort.  It also had privacy, and for once he didn’t want to be around anything with a heartbeat, especially since he couldn’t rip it out.  Damn chip!  Then he cringed.  Bloody soul!  As if he would do anything anyway except rant and rave like the impotent git he was.  Guilt slammed into him like a thousand pound sledgehammer and the tears he had been holding at bay threatened to overwhelm him.  Thankfully he saw the crypt door and stumbled his way there.  One violent kick smashed the door open and a small huddle of three vamps jumped at the sudden invasion.

 

“Well, fellas.  Looks like a little squatters rights?  Wanna hand to unsquat?”  He brought game face forth as fists flew, connecting hard with the bumpy and feral faces of his kin, images of himself masking their true identity.  All he saw amongst the rapidly increasing dust mounds were visions of himself and all the things she hated.  He had sold himself out for her, stripped himself bare of his century long identity, made himself small and less, to be more, for her.  His demon had willingly surrendered to the inevitable.  His love was true and all-consuming, but he wanted it to be conscionable. In getting her what she deserved, when was he ever going to get what he deserved?  A little hope, a little light, a little sanity, a little trust.  Love, when the bloody hell was he going to get that?

 

Blinking for a moment in confusion, he made his way to the sarcophagus and wondered what she would have done if he had refused to stay in Angel’s flat?  Just seemed like another pass down to him.  Another way to pigeon-hole him into what he wasn’t and didn’t want to be.

 

He could understand why they did it.  For centuries Angel had led his family- slowly growing throughout the age- on a merry, resplendent ride on the coattails of humanity.  They had stayed in underground squalor only when their existence was in danger, usually due to the over enthusiastic activities of the youngest family member; William.  Any other time they lived it up in wealthy mansions and hotels, sometimes even paying for the privilege with human money.  They were respectable demons.

 

When Angelus had left and torn their family apart, Spike had still followed the example set forth and kept Drusilla in splendour and comfort.  Only in Sunnydale had he resorted to hideouts like the factory, and underground caves.  Only when he was to confront the Slayer had he felt a need to emphasise his evil nature, and evil lived in the dark, in hiding.  A crypt, a factory, a cave, all with no access to life’s mod cons and electricity, reinforced the bad.  He had wanted her to think of him as evil, as a monster that would rip out her throat and relish the sound of skin tearing and blood gushing.  He had never stopped to wonder why it had been so important for him to have her believe him dangerous.  He was a Master vampire, danger was a given.  Maybe even then he knew, perhaps it was a song on the air that he was about to become fallen and would never again be what he was. 

 

He had come to her town but not to seek her out, that had been a generous bonus of the fates. At least he had thought so at the time.  He had come to heal his love, but his devotion to his black beauty had been the beginning of the end.  He understood now.  Dru had known all along.  He was positive she had known from the moment she made him, and for the first time he wondered why she had brought him along when she knew that he was never meant for her?  The fates had a real wacky sense of humour.

 

Emotion exhausted him, and he collapsed flat on his back, an arm covering his eyes as he thought back to earlier in the night when he had the most beautiful of girls in his arms, making love to her and receiving love like he only ever had in his dreams.  And now he feared he had lost her.  He could feel her turmoil through the claim, not strong but it was there.  He was glad that he wasn’t close to her as the fury rose once again, his head nearly exploding with some nasty words he was dying to spew at her.  He couldn’t stand that he was the one who had to work hard at making her see what they had.  He slammed his head back on the lid of the sarcophagus in fury, and was about to roar his frustration to the bones in the crypt, when he picked up a scent that made him feel ill.  Recognition had him jumping up, every nerve suspended for action as he took stock of his surroundings.  Seconds allowed him cover and he slid under the necessary morbid cloak, relief suspended as he heard them enter the crypt.  Stealth was not their friend as they crept around, searching and seeking the escapee. 

 

The lid grated against stone as it slid to the side, revealing nothing but an antique corpse.  The soldier shuddered in disgust.  “All clear,” he called and they headed out once again, Riley Finn in the lead, a determined scowl marring his face.