End of Days

Not much Spike in this one, but what there is, is choice.

Buffy comes downstairs from her conversation with Faith. Spike is coming through the front door at the same time. When he sees her, carrying the axe, there's a moment of relief. But he doesn't want to let her see he was worried.

"Honey," he says, a little flippant, "You're home."

"Yeah." Buffy's reply is soft, and a little embarrassed. Spike sees, tries to deflect it.

"And you did it," he says. "Fulfilled your mission." He's proud of her. "Found the Holy Grail." He gets a better look at the axe. "Or the Holy Hand Grenade, or whatever the hell that is..."

"Right now we're going with scythe," Buffy says, and holds it up so he can get a better view. "You like?"

"Well, pointy and wooden is not exactly the look I want to know better," he says, "But it does have flair." He looks up at her. "I can...see why a girl would ditch a fella for one of these." There's a tinge of hurt in the words, maybe a hint of reproof, too, and she looks down.

"I'm sorry about that."

And that's all he needs. "Doesn't matter," he says, literally shrugging it off as they move toward the back of the house. "You're back in the bosom. All's forgiven." Perhaps he doesn't mean just the Scoobies, either. But... He pushes past her, gets in front of her, stops. Gotta keep things on the square, here, not let her think...untoward things. "And, uh, last night," he says, "It was a glitch. A bit of cold comfort from the cellar dweller." He's trying hard to sell it. "Let's don't make a thing out of it." But he can't look at her for that last part; his eyes flick to the toes of his shoes. It's so obviously not what he wants her to do, but it's what she probably wants. He takes a breath, meets her eyes again.

But... "Great," she says, after a slight, uncomfortable pause. There's a flicker of...something that might be disappointment on her face for a second, and then she sucks it up. "I have work to do."

"Oh, yeah," Spike says, "Another solo mission, of course." There's that hint of hurt again.

"Yeah," Buffy says, "it is," and her tone says, wanna make something of it?

"That's fine," Spike says, offended. "You don't have to get shirty about it.

"I'm not shirty!" Buffy says, offended right back. "And what is 'shirty,' anyway? That's not even a word."

"All right, all right," Spike says, giving in. "Big secret mission, it's fine." Yeah, in the same way it's fine when your co-workers exclude you from the fun stuff...

"It's not a secret," Buffy says. "Well, I mean, it -is-, but that's the point of the mission. Find out the secret." She looks at him, her face open. "This thing," and she looks at the axe, "was forged... I don't even know. I mean, something about a tomb on unconsecrated ground. That's what I hve to do, I need to find out what this is and why I have it."

"That's the thing the preacher man was so anxious to keep out of your mitts?" Maybe a little niggle of worry starting...

"That it is."

"Well, maybe I'll swing by the vineyard when you go, make sure he's sitting tight." Spike's eyes narrow; he doesn't like Caleb, and he's going to have Buffy's back.

"Great," she says, but her tone says just the opposite. She was expecting him to offer to come with her, since that's what he was so obviously hinting at.

"Okay," Spike says, and he means just the opposite, too. Couldn't she tell he wanted her to ask him along?

He turns, walks toward the kitchen, leaving Buffy standing there. She's not happy. After a second, she calls after him. "You're a dope!"

He's at the door, but that's enough to stop him. "I'm a -what-??"

She follows him into the kitchen. "You're a -dope-," she says. "And a blockhead. -And- you're shirty." What happened the guy who could read her like a book? Couldn't he tell she wasn't happy with the way the conversation was going?

"Have you gone completely Carrot-Top?" Spike says, very confused now.

Buffy holds up the axe. "Do you see this?" she says, and her tone is fierce, bordering on brassed off. "This may actually help me fight my war. It may be the key to -everything-, and the reason I'm holding it...is because of -you-. Because of the strength that -you- gave me last night."

His eyes widen. Is she really saying what it sounds like she's saying?

"I am -tired-," she goes on, "of defensiveness and weird mixed signals. You know, I have Faith for that." She's Had Enough, now. And he's...confused. He takes a deep breath, looks away, trying to figure out what she wants.

"Let's just get to the truth, here, okay? I...I don't know how you felt about last night, but I -will not-..."

He stops her. "Terrified," he says, not looking at her.

That sets her back, and for a second she can say nothing. Then, softly, gently, she speaks. "Of -what-?"

He looks at her, wanting so badly to say something, and she's obviously expecting an honest answer. "Last night was..." But he stops. It's too much to say, and isn't he supposed to be not pushing?

She looks back at him, all big-eyed and waiting, and maybe there's a tenseness--she's almost holding her breath hoping for the right answer. And of course, he guesses wrong about the answer she wants.

"God," he says, "I'm such a jerk. I can't do this..." Can't honestly give her the answer he thinks she wants? Can't risk opening himself up so she can hurt him again?

But she looks at him, compassion in her eyes. "Spike...," she says. It's definitely "go on."

He takes a breath. "It was the best night of my life," he says, very softly, laying himself wide open. She gives a tiny nod, the barest hint of a smile. That's what she wanted to hear.

But her reaction terrifies him. "If you're gonna poke fun at me," he says, trying to keep his voice from shaking, "you'd bloody well better use that." His eyes indicate the axe she's holding. "Cause I couldn't bear it." He's showing her his naked soul, now, and it would be so easy for her to destroy him... "It may not mean that much to -you-," he says, "but..."

She smiles at him. "I just told you it did," she says, gently. Carefully, so as not to spook him.

He sighs, and it's a release of the fear. Most of the fear... "Yeah," he says, "I hear you say it, but..." He wants to believe her, but the memories of the past two years still hurt. He pauses. "I've been alive for sodding ever, Buffy," he says, calmer now. "I've done everything. Done things with you I can't even -spell-. But... I've never...been close. To anyone. Least of all you."

She swallows, and drops her gaze. It wasn't his fault he was never close to her, and she knows it...

He notices her discomfort. "Til last night." He shakes his head, amazed, still, at what happened between them in the stranger's house. "All I did was... hold you. Watch you sleep." His expression softens. "And it was the best night of my life." He's almost whispering, but the joy in his voice is clear. "So, yeah. I'm..." He takes a deep, shaky breath. "Terrified."

"You don't have to be." Still careful of him. But she's completly in earnest.

His eyes widen, his head tilts. "Were you there with me?" It's almost inaudible; he's blown away by the possibility.

"I was," she says. Hope blooms in his face.

"What does that mean?" He's the one being careful now, careful not to push too far.

But he has. "I don't know," she says, and it's obvious that she's out of her depth. "Does it have to mean something?" She's not trying to hurt him, but now she's as raw and vulnerable as he is.

"No," he says, perhaps sensing her disquiet, wanting to make it easier for her. And then the pain catches him. He blinks, draws back. In on himself. "Not right now." It's an answer to her question, and it's also a request.

"Maybe when..." Perhaps she's responding to his pain, or perhaps his withdrawal from her makes her unhappy. Hard to tell.

"No," he says. That's it, he can't take any more of this from her right now. "Let's just...leave it."

"Okay," Buffy says, but it's a little reluctant.

He goes to the door. "We'll go be heroes," he says, and opens the door. His gaze drops from hers, and his smile is forced as he goes out, closing the door behind him.

She nods, tries to smile, but when the door closes, her face falls, and there is the tiniest wobble of her chin.

In the unconsecrated tomb, Buffy has taken care of Caleb with an axe slash across the belly. He laughs, but then, with a surprised expression, he falls, his eyes wide and staring.

Buffy turns to Angel. "See?" she says, "Under control."

"Well," Angel says, pushing off the column he'd been leaning against and coming to her, "At least you could say you were glad to see me."

She does better than that. She leans up, kisses him. It's not a peck, it's a real kiss, and it goes on and on...

Spike, who's apparently just arrived, hot on Caleb's trail, watches, his face tight with hurt and anger.

Beside him, the First/Buffy watches the couple kissing. "That -bitch-," it says, in a tone of smarmy false sympathy.

Spike's eyes narrow and his jaw clenches as he watches.

--

Dori

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