Bag Of BonesBy Shadowlass
Chapter Ten
Buffy must have gripped Willow’s hand too hard, because she cried out in pain and Xander rushed in from the other room."What is it? What’s wrong?" asked Xander worriedly.
Buffy loosened her hold on Willow’s hand, but didn’t release it. "Nothing," she said reassuringly. "I just forgot my own strength." She forced herself to give a little chuckle. It sounded artificial to her ears, but Xander didn’t seem to notice.
Willow hadn’t even looked over at him. Her eyes were still on Buffy’s face, although the rush of joy had faded from them.
And still, Xander didn’t notice. He’d never been a noticer, Buffy thought. He just ricocheted around on his hopes and fears. It made her sad, although she wasn’t sure why. She could see how happy he was. How hopeful.
"Do you want to me to go back in the—"
Buffy nodded and smiled, and he returned her nod eagerly. Why would he question her?
Why indeed, thought Buffy with a trace of bitterness. When had she ever done anything not designed to meet with her friends’ approval? When she did something she thought they wouldn’t like, she hid it. In the dark, where they thought it belonged.
Where she would have thought it belonged, once. The girl she’d been all those years ago—Buffy, their friend, the one who made their lives matter. The only pretty girl who’d give Xander the time of day, the only cool girl who wasn’t afraid to be seen with Willow. That’s what she would have thought, then—that those were things Faith would have done, but not her.
She wasn’t Faith. She never had been. Faith had been wrong about being selfish, about being above the law. But she wasn’t wrong about grabbing what she wanted with both hands. About not being ashamed of what she wanted. She hated thinking that Faith had anything to teach her, but she was right about those things. Buffy liked the rush of excitement during a battle. She liked the look of fear on vamps’ faces when they realized she was the Slayer. She liked it when Spike pushed her skirt up and bent her over the railing at the Bronze, even if he was pretty much being an asshole at the time. And she liked sitting in the kitchen with him and Giles, with Dawn upstairs doing her homework. She shouldn’t have to choose, to be just one. They were both part of her.
Last year they thought she was different, that she had been since Willow scattered herbs and chanted over her grave. They looked at her and wondered why she wasn’t the same, and she could see it: Them wishing she was the other Buffy, because she was better than what had returned.
But they were wrong. She’d been wrong, when she thought that. She was still Buffy. She walked the same way, liked the same things. She was the same girl, really. Just a little different. She didn’t have the patience to pretend any more. She didn’t want to act like she was all sunshine and roses when she wasn’t. She liked those things, but she liked other things, too. Some things the others didn’t approve of. But they were still things that were natural to her.
Vaguely she was aware of Xander returning to the kitchen. This wouldn’t be a problem. She could handle Willow. Even if she wanted to squeeze Willow’s hand, still cradled in her own, so hard that every bone broke.
She bent towards Willow again, taking care to keep her voice down. Xander was sure to be listening, eager to borrow any bit of joy he could from the reunion. "I know what you’re doing," she told her, deadly serious. "I never believed for a moment that garbage about you being cured. All your magic gone? I know you, you’re careful. You always keep something in reserve. You don’t need a lot of magic in you to work a few basic spells, do you? A nasty little curse?"
Willow shook her head inarticulately. She looked too stricken to respond.
"So what is it?" Buffy prodded. "Have you got a little stash of herbs around here somewhere? Some sage in the kitchen? Xander wouldn’t notice that, would he? So tell me," she said, getting her face right in Willow’s, "what exactly are you doing to Spike? Are you trying to kill him? Or just using him for target practice as you work your way back up to the whole global destruction thing?"
"I wouldn’t hurt Spike," whispered Willow. So softly, holding to Buffy’s unexpressed desire to keep this between them, even as Buffy’s eyes smoldered and her hand crushed Willow’s relentlessly. Willow couldn’t do anything else. She didn’t even want to. "I haven’t done any magic, I swear."
"Don’t lie," hissed Buffy. "He told me everything. And I’m telling you right now, stop hurting him. Do you hear me?"
"I’m not—"
"I said don’t lie to me!" Buffy yelled suddenly, patience gone. Goddammit, what had she expected? That Willow would just confess? That would be too easy, wouldn’t it? "You stop it, keep your magics away from him," Buffy ordered furiously, seizing Willow by the shoulders. She shook her heedlessly, not even considering her Slayer strength. Noise roared in her ears, and for a few moments she couldn’t even see anything.
The next thing Buffy was aware of was Xander shouting and trying to pry her hands from Willow’s shoulders. Willow, whose loose hair was now completely wild and whose skin was pasty with fear. Buffy released her and moved away from the couch.
"Jesus, Buffy, what is wrong with you?" exclaimed Xander, hovering over Willow protectively.
Buffy didn’t even spare a glance for him as she stared at Willow, her composure regained. "Stay the hell away from Spike," she told Willow coldly, and left the apartment without a backwards glance.
A second after she got into the hall the door banged again. She turned, anticipating Willow, but it was Xander there, eyes blazing.
"Is that who that was about? Spike?"
She stared at him, her eyes opaque. "What did you think it was? Some grand revelation on my part that Willow didn’t mean to kill my sister and beat me to death and destroy the world? That when she tried to kill Giles it was just a little mistake, that her saying sorry makes everything all right? Because she’s one of us, and so it doesn’t matter what she did, we just forgive it? No matter how big it was, and how awful, and how evil?"
"Evil?" said Xander, shaking his head in disbelief. "You’re dating Dr. Evil. That’s why you attacked Willow, isn’t it? Him? He comes back to town, and two minutes later you’re over here attacking Willow, when she’d done nothing but try to make things up to you. Oh, and just forgetting what someone’s done? You’ve made an art of it when it comes to some people. But people isn’t really the right word, is it? God, it doesn’t matter what they do, they get a free pass with you."
"I told you what happened in the bathroom is no one’s business but mine," returned Buffy in frustration. God, she wished she’d gotten up and gone to her bedroom after Spike left, or gotten in the shower, or just locked the goddamn door. Xander pretended to be outraged, but he loved knowing about it. Loved having another cudgel to use to beat her back into line.
"What happened in the bathroom, maybe. But all the times he’s tried to kill us? We’re just supposed to forget about that because he’s your boyfriend now and suddenly what he’s done doesn’t count? What he’s done to us, and to a thousand other people?"
Buffy flinched. She didn’t like to think about that. "He doesn’t do that any more."
Xander gave a bitter laugh. "The only reason he doesn’t is because of that chip in his head. If that chip was out, he’d been tearing his way through this town like the demon he is."
"Demons? Do you really want to talk demons?" scoffed Buffy. Damn him, how dare he judge her? The hypocrite! "You’ve dated every female demon who came to town—bug lady, mummy girl, Anya. Oh yeah, and Cordy—though I don’t know if I’d call her a real step up. If she were a demon your record would be perfect."
"I never—"
"Never what? Never had anyone in your face 24/7 about what you’re doing and who you’re dating, telling you what you’re doing wrong and how you’re disappointing them and your calling and the world and fluffy kittens and god knows what else? And generally acting like being someone’s friend gives you the right to judge everything they do? What kind of friendship is that?"
"I’ve risked my life for you," Xander shot back furiously. "I have always been your friend."
"But there was always something in it for you, wasn’t there?" Buffy demanded. "You weren’t helping out of the goodness of your heart. In the beginning you helped because you were trying to get my attention. Thought you’d get in good, I’d notice you and suddenly you’d be my dream guy. Wasn’t that more like it?"
Xander felt wounded. They’d been friends for so long, through so much, and she was attacking him? Choosing Spike over her friends? "Well, there wasn’t much chance of that, was there? Not with your vampire boyfriend of the moment around."
"I met you before I ever saw Angel, and I still wasn’t interested," snapped Buffy. "How long did that go on? Your little competition with Angel? Even after you started dating Cordelia, I could see it. I ignored it because your friendship was important to me. But now I’m kind of wondering why, since it seems to consist of you setting standards for me and letting me know when I’m falling short. How about you just try being a friend, and not the Sunnydale branch of the Watchers’ Council?"
"How about you try dating humans?" returned Xander.
Jesus, he hadn’t listened to a word she’d said, she realized in disbelief. It just rolled right off him. "How about you try minding your own fucking business?"
A hard look crossed his face. She’d never said such a thing to him before. He’d never even heard her use that word, ever. Welcome back, Spike. "Done," he said frigidly, walking back into the apartment and closing the door behind him.
***
Willow watched Xander pace around the room. He’d come back from the hall so upset he was panting. She’d heard what he and Buffy had said to each other, mostly. It would have been hard to miss, what with the loudness and all. The last time she’d heard them talk to each other that way was years before, after they had found Miss Calendar’s disk containing the spell to re-soul Angelus. Xander had been against the ensouling, arguing that Angel didn’t deserve it. He’d killed Miss Calendar and Theresa and lots of other people, and he would always be dangerous, even if they restored his soul. He’d accused Buffy of not caring about anything but getting her boyfriend back.
The thing was, he was kind of right. It wasn’t just Buffy, it was all of them. It was the way of the world. The heart wants what it wants, that sort of thing. It was the same thing that had allowed Willow to try to kill them all. To create a fireball to kill Jonathan and Andrew, knowing that they were with Xander and that it might kill him. To threaten Dawn, even though she knew Tara had loved Dawn so much—maybe even more than she’d loved Willow. Even though Willow had loved Dawn for years. Because when the heart was in pain, it didn’t think of anything except what it needed. The world ceased to matter.
And Xander had forgiven Willow. It was something she could always count on from him: His love. His understanding. Buffy had his love, too, but he didn’t understand her at all. He never had. Willow clearly remembered the day they had met Buffy. Cordelia had been cruel to Willow, as usual, this time in front of her new friend. And then Buffy had come up to her at lunch. Sought her out and made it clear she wanted to be her friend. Willow could still feel the puzzlement, the excitement, that Buffy wanted her friendship. The gratitude.
And then Xander had come, and poor Jesse, and they jockeyed around for position, trying to impress Buffy. She had barely looked at them. And as Xander continued, for weeks and months, to attempt to gain Buffy’s attention, Willow had gradually lost her apprehension that Buffy and Xander would begin dating. Because she realized that even if Angel wasn’t there, it would never be Xander. Not for Buffy. He was a friend, a companion. Not a lover. Buffy had something epic going on. It was really the only way she could have anything. Now she was 21; she’d died twice. Anything she’d have would have to be accelerated. Willow hated to think of it, but Buffy wouldn’t be around to enjoy anything taken at a normal human pace, on a normal human scale.
Xander had never really understood that.
Xander had finally realized that a superhero needed a boyfriend with superpowers, or at least a handy chip of some sort. He was thinking more the Riley sort of chip, though. Or maybe he just became sick of waiting—Willow had never been sure. So Xander had resigned himself to a brotherly role, but he thought that came with certain privileges, kind of like a consolation prize. He wasn’t the person who’d save the world, usually, and he wasn’t her boyfriend. But he could influence her. Persuade her. Shame her. It wasn’t deliberate, at least Willow didn’t think so. But having pull with Supergirl, the coolest girl in high school, gave him something. Maybe people didn’t know Buffy was the Slayer, but Xander did. One in all the world, and she listened to him. Tried to make him happy. And Xander needed that. He needed it to help define himself, because otherwise he was just a laborer with a bad family who’d thrown away his fiancée and was playing nursemaid to his emotionally crippled friend.
Xander was so much more than that. But he never saw it. He never saw what Willow did—the little boy who’d tried to keep his own clothes clean because his mother didn’t bother, the kid who’d gotten into fights in grade school because someone had made Willow cry. The teenager who’d looked at the girl he was infatuated with, saw her love for another man shining in her eyes, and risked his life to help her anyway because he would do anything for a friend. He wasn’t complex. He was brave and loyal and simple. He took everything like a body blow; he didn’t have it in him to shrug anything off. A person had to be elastic to do that, and he wasn’t. Everything was personal. Everything mattered.
"I’m going to kill him."
Willow’s attention jerked back to Xander. He was standing in the center of the living room, fists clenched. She hadn’t even noticed when he’d stopped pacing. "What do you mean?"
"Spike. It’s time someone put him out of his misery. Buffy should have done it years ago. He’s done everything he could think of to kill us, and we shouldn’t just stand around waiting for next time."
"He hasn’t tried to kill us for a long time," she pointed out. "Not since Adam—"
"Oh, that’s good, he hasn’t tried to kill us for two years! Let’s throw him a party! We’ll have hats and streamers and cake! Jeez, Will, he should have been dusted years ago, chip or no chip. That’s all that’s standing between us and him, the chip."
"You didn’t want to kill him until he slept with Anya," Willow pointed out softly. She hated bringing it up to him. Hated hurting him with it. But he’d become so angry, sometimes it seemed like the only emotion he had left. "You didn’t even hate him any more. You two used to play pool at the Bronze, remember? And I remember you laughing together the summer after Buffy died."
Xander felt his throat close up. He hated to think of that. Hated to think of Buffy dead, in the ground. Cold, and gone from them. "We didn’t laugh," he muttered.
"Yes, you did. It took a long time for either of you to laugh, but finally you did."
Xander stared at the floor.
"Buffy’s the Slayer, not you. If someone’s going to be killing vampires, it will be her. It sounds like Buffy and Spike are becoming friendly again. I don’t think you should bother them, Xander. It doesn’t have anything to do with you."
The hell it doesn’t have anything to do with me. It has p—
"Right?" Willow prompted.
Xander sighed in frustration. "But she was in here acting crazy and threatening you," he protested. Willow looked so pale, so drawn. She’d been okay before Buffy stopped by with her fake friendly visit. Better than usual, at least. Xander thought it might be because she’d seen Giles again.
And now she was all worried, her face creased and marked with more pain than a 21-year-old should know. He didn’t know how she managed, all alone except for him.
He reached out and gently touched her face. Maybe he should ask a couple of the guys’ wives in to talk to her. While he was there, just to make sure everything went all right. He hated her being alone so much, but he wasn’t sure she was ready for anything more.
"Fine, fine, you win," he finally agreed. There’d be time for Spike later.
"Thank you," Willow said gratefully. She reached out, wrapped her arms around him. It was nice to get a hug, especially when you were isolated from most of the people you loved. Which pretty much described both of them.
Xander tucked his head over her shoulder and squeezed her with the same open affection a child shows a playmate. Willow hugged him back, enjoying the contact. Xander was so sweet, so uncomplicated. He wouldn’t understand what she was doing any more than he understood Buffy. Who also wouldn’t understand, not yet. But soon. What she was doing was for the best, Willow knew. Buffy had been right, she was careful.
And things were going exactly as planned.
Chapter Eleven
It was getting worse, that was for damn sure. Of course, it could be difficult to differentiate between one level of searing pain and another, but thanks to the chip and its many degrees of punishment, Spike had no real problem telling the difference. Also, the fact that he’d found it almost impossible to stand upon waking that afternoon was a bit of a giveaway.So now he was flat on his back on his sarcophagus, unable to concentrate enough to read and unable to watch TV due to the controller being on the other side of the room. He would have liked to go get it, but that would have involved standing. Unfortunately, his attempts to come up with a means of retrieving the controller without actually moving were unsuccessful. So instead he just lay there and thought.
The other night, he and the Slayer had been looking around the crypt, searching for clues, when suddenly things turned all mushy—mushy being a good thing—and they hadn’t done a lot of searching after that. Actually, Spike didn’t really remember much of what they’d done afterward. Stood there looking into each others’ eyes, like idiots in some romance novel, and then went out and…well, they’d taken a walk, but they’d run across some demons, so maybe it was patrolling?
He liked to think of it as a walk, though. The killing was just a lovely cherry on top.
But then she’d returned, an hour or so after she left, moodiness radiating from her like that unspeakable perm she’d gotten her first year in college, and told him to get his things—by which he assumed she meant his blanket—and come with her, he was spending the night at her house.
Which undoubtedly would have excited him had she not then gone on about how Willow was a sneak, and Xander was a caveman and probably planning to come over and kill him in his bed—she’d apparently forgotten he no longer had a bed, but he let it go—and that he wouldn’t be safe, so grab his stuff, now, and come with her.
Bugger if his first night in her home was going to be spent downstairs on the couch, hiding out from the Pillsbury Doughboy.
He told her he was fine and settled her down a little. Finally she’d said something about Red being responsible for the mojo, and sidekick number two having it in for him, as if he didn’t already know that one. He hadn’t been able to get it out of her if they were working together or not. Well, it was nice that some still thought of him as the big bad, right? Felt good. Well really, it felt odd. Actually, he wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about it.
At any rate, he’d told her he could take care of himself. When she shot right back with a snotty little "No you can’t," he promised he’d keep an ear open and dash through the ruins downstairs into the tunnels if he heard anything. He felt like a pansy even thinking about it. But it was a nice change to see her all het up about making sure he was safe.
Real nice.
Didn’t know that she was right about the boy, though. Harris had about as much self-restraint as Drusilla in an orphanage; if the kid knew he was back and felt up for a game of kick-the-Spike, he’d be at the crypt in three seconds flat, with an axe or a mace or just a baseball bat. One good swing for the side of right and justice and all that. Then he’d never have to look at Spike again and think of him with either of the blondes in his life. Well, he’d have to back it up with a stake or a sword, but the kid had come prepared that night at the magic shop.
Spike started a little. For the first time in…ever, he flashed back to when he’d taken them, Willow and Harris. Taken them out of the school in one of his typical drunken schemes to win back Drusilla. Harris had taken one look at him, so much older than he, so much stronger, and fought without hesitation. Fought until Spike knocked him unconscious. Spike wasn’t even going to take him, but the boy’s persistence irritated him, and so he became a hostage to encourage Red in her witchy efforts. Most people would have frozen. Let the demon make off with the girl, saved their own skins. He could have acquiesced to Spike and called Buffy to find her—she’d known immediately where he’d taken them. She’d always known him, elementally, even before either of them had thought of the other as anything more than an enemy.
Thank god Red had stopped him. There, in the bowels of the warehouse, he had ranted and sworn, cursing Dru, cursing himself for loving her. Then crying because that’s what he did when he was upset, cry. Nothing unmanly about it. Shows you’ve got emotions, don’t lurch around like some great side of beef with two expressions and a martyr complex. Spike had never been afraid to show his emotions. The day he stopped feeling, he’d walk out into the sun.
And then, because he was drunk and crying and felt like shit, he put his head on her shoulder and hoped she’d comfort him. He needed comfort, just a little understanding. It was awful to feel so alone. So unloved. But then it had drifted to him—the scent of her blood, flowing just beneath her skin. And he had vamped out and was going to—not kill her. The other. She stopped him. Thank god. Thank god she had. Buffy would never have looked at him otherwise. Never have looked at him, never have cared for him. His unlife wouldn’t have been worth living.
How was Willow able to do that—be in the same room as him, afterwards? While she told him what ingredients she needed? And later, when she’d sat at the Thanksgiving table with him. That had been only days after he’d burst into her dorm room and held her down on the bed and tried to kill her. Offered to make her like him. Offered? Threatened. Christ.
How was it she was able to look at him without hatred? He’d never felt it coming from her, and he noticed those kinds of things. Had felt it often enough, right? Felt it as William, felt it as Spike. Never felt it from her.
So why would she do something now? If Buffy was right, of course; she wasn’t always. Was it because of what he’d done to Buffy? Sometimes a wrong done to someone you love can hurt more than one done to you. And she loved Buffy, was devoted to her. Buffy’s anger at her wouldn’t stop that. Like him, she didn’t give up love easily.
Could she blame him for Tara’s death? He hadn’t been there, of course, but he’d known where king geek lived. But Willow didn’t know that, surely. None of them did.
The bathroom was enough, though. Didn’t need anything else.
He’d see. He had time. This couldn’t kill him, right? Just hurt like hell.
***
It was so much easier to think at home, with all the peace and quiet. Which was why Dawn was there, instead of at school like she was supposed to be. Buffy had work and class almost all day, so Dawn didn’t have to worry about her. She’d hear if Giles came home, and it would be easy enough to sneak out without him hearing her; he wouldn’t notice, he was like a thousand. Or maybe she wouldn’t even bother—she could tell him it was a teacher inservice day.
Of course, he’d probably mention it to Buffy, and Buffy now kept a copy of Dawn’s school schedule on the refrigerator.
For a moment Dawn felt an unpleasant twinge in the pit of her stomach. She doesn’t trust me. She dismissed the thought with a toss of her head. Fine with her, what did she care?
Buffy would say it had nothing to do with trust. Giles would probably say that, too: That she was just taking an interest in Dawn. And honestly, it was better than last year, when Buffy wouldn’t have noticed if she lived or died. Or if Social Services had taken her, like they had threatened to last winter. That had been close.
Dawn didn’t like to think about it. Even when Buffy had spent all her time staring at walls and doing god knows what—Spike, mostly, from what Dawn gathered—it was still better than what she’d get elsewhere. And it was nice with Giles back, and the three of them sat around the table together. It was almost like having Mom back. It made her feel safe to have Giles around, and Buffy was laughing more and seemed like a real person again. It was like things had been a few years ago, back when things were normal, except for Mom being gone.
Normal. Maybe that wasn’t the right word to use, when things were never that way. Maybe it was normal for things to be unsettled, and people to come and go. Maybe she couldn’t count on anything.
But Dawn didn’t like to think of her life being that way. Sometimes, when she thought of her mom, it was like that was so long ago she couldn’t even remember it. Like she was an old woman remembering her childhood. And she was only with Mom for a year. Less than a year. Most of what she knew about her life was what the monks had put in her memory, made-up stuff. But she missed it, and missed her mom, sometimes more than she could stand.
Buffy wasn’t anything like Mom, and she wasn’t made to be anyone’s mother. Not just because she wouldn’t live long enough, but because she couldn’t love anyone enough. Not anymore. To be a mom you had to love someone more than you loved yourself, and Buffy didn’t give that much of herself to anybody. Not since Angel left.
That was hard to remember too, sometimes. What it was like when Buffy was like any other girl. And she was, even when she was slaying, back when she was in high school. He broke her, Dawn thought. He was trying to help her, and instead he broke her. For some reason it was worse when he left than when he’d turned into Angelus. She barely remembered when he’d turned all evil—of course, she hadn’t realized at the time what was happening, but she managed to fit together bits and pieces of what people had said, and figured it out. Oh, and she’d asked Spike last year, and he’d told her the whole thing. Thought she was old enough to handle it, and he’d been right.
And now Spike was back and Buffy was doing what with him? Dawn wasn’t sure. Buffy had been out with Spike ‘til after two in the morning on Friday night—not that Dawn was spying on her—and she’d mentioned him a few times to Giles since, like it was normal for her to talk about Spike at the breakfast table. She’d never done that before.
Of course, Dawn had also never come into the kitchen and found Spike and Buffy sitting together eating popsicles before. With Giles, yet.
God knew where Giles was. He’d been gone most of the time he’d been back, and it wasn’t like he had friends or anything. Maybe he was visiting Willow. Buffy went crazy whenever Willow was mentioned, but that was some strange Buffy thing. Dawn had never been sure how she decided what was acceptable and what wasn’t; forgive Angel for trying to end the world, check; forgive Willow for trying to end the world—woah, sorry. Not happening. It was like she chose at random. Buffy said it was because Willow was going to kill Dawn, but that didn’t make sense. She would have been killed when Acathla sucked the world into hell, and that didn’t stop Buffy from jumping on the forgiveness train.
Spike had come out lucky. Guess Buffy hadn’t hit his name with her little "unforgiven" dart, or S-P-I-K-E and W-I-L-L-I-A-M added together meant something good on her numerology chart, or whatever it was she did to decide.
It had been so strange to see him there, downstairs. She hadn’t expected it. She really thought the only time she’d see him was skulking around town, trying not to let her catch a glimpse of him. He hadn’t come around, because he knew that would be a stupid thing to do, and whatever else he was, he wasn’t stupid. He was rotten creep and deserved everything she was doing to him, but he wasn’t stupid.
Maybe she should stop.
It didn’t seem to matter as much anymore. He was back, and Buffy was okay with it—again with the luck there—and Dawn wasn’t sure any longer. She’d missed him, although she bitterly resented the feeling. Maybe it would be better just to forget all about it. She hadn’t done all that much anyway—not nearly as much as she’d planned. He’d noticed, she’d heard that much in the kitchen, but she’d really barely started. It was frustrating, though; she’d been so excited while she made the plans and carefully timed her visits to his place, and it gave her a kind of giddy thrill of accomplishment. He’d never suspect her. Not in a million years.
Yeah, maybe she should stop.
Maybe.
***
It hadn’t worked the first time, and he had no idea why he was back. As Spike crossed the Magic Box towards Anya, beaming behind the counter like a crazed lighthouse, he accidentally glanced at the large table on one side of the store. It couldn’t be the same table they’d polished, could it? Well, strike that first thought. It hadn’t worked either of the times he’d come to Anya for help.
Then a knife-like pain sliced into his solar plexus, and he remembered exactly why he was there.
"Good afternoon, Spike," Anya greeted him cheerfully. "Are you here on business or pleasure, perhaps to discuss our mutual friends Giles and Buffy? I know many amusing anecdotes about each of them, some of which you may not have heard."
Spike regarded her skeptically. Since when had she become all sociable with him? The best he could say about her before was that she’d never seemed particularly interested in his death. And then they’d had their unfortunate indiscretion, and that was that. But then she’d been pretty nice when he came in last time, and the other night she’d been quite friendly—although he thought most of it seemed directed at Giles. But that didn’t even make sense, since cozying up to him wouldn’t score points with the Watcher.
It was always a good idea to get things off on the right foot, wasn’t it? thought Anya. And seeing as how it was really time to move her relationship with Giles forward, welcoming his friends was an excellent place to start. Well, a personal observation indicated interest. Such as when Giles showed up at the Magic Box just as Willow was about to turn Buffy into table scraps, and immediately remarked on how different Buffy’s hair was. And neglected to mention Anya’s.
Really, hair was always a good place to start. "I notice your hair has new and exciting variations in color. I was discussing it with Giles last night, and wondering if perhaps it was an expression of your inner pain."
Spike scowled. Apparently the question wasn’t to his liking. Perhaps hair was a sore subject with him?
"Is yours?" he returned.
Anya blinked. "Well, that’s different," she said.
"How?"
"Well, it—it just is."
"If you say so," Spike returned politely. He’d been polite several times lately, dammit. Sometimes he didn’t hardly feel like himself. "I was wondering about countercurses."
"Countercurses? Didn’t you and Buffy figure out who did it?"
Spike glared at her, then felt himself perk up a little as he realized he was giving her a nasty look. Here now, he wasn’t hopeless yet, was he? Things were looking up after all. "No, we didn’t find anything. Pain’s not bad—" which was a lie—"but there’s no real reason I shouldn’t just get rid of it, is there?"
Anya nodded agreeably. Once again, he’d come to her shop for her professional guidance. And this time she had just the thing. "As a matter of fact," she told him, "I have a wonderful counterspell I used to diffuse Willow’s power when she destroyed the Magic Box."
Spike did a double take. That was one he hadn’t heard. "This occurred during her attempt to destroy the world, I take it?"
"Yes, that was it," Anya agreed cheerfully. She probably wouldn’t have been as chipper if the shop’s insurance hadn’t paid off so handsomely. But really, with its history of mayhem and disaster, what responsible shopkeeper wouldn’t be well-insured? It was simply a matter of good business.
Spike glanced around the completely transformed shop skeptically. All new, totally rebuilt. "So, just how effective was this counterspell?" he asked gingerly.
"Oh! It was highly effective, I assure you. Willow was out of control—first she tried to run over Buffy and Xander and Warren’s virginal cohorts with a Mack truck, then she was going to kill them over here. But I started in with the protection spell and Willow couldn’t do magic on anyone," she concluded, pleased.
"So, what happened to the—"
"Oh, she couldn’t work any magic on anyone else, but she could still spell herself. So she did a magic that made her enormously strong. Like an elephant, or an especially large—"
"Right. Sounds good. What do I need to do for that?"
Anya smiled happily. She didn’t think a member of the Scoobies had put so much faith in her advice since Buffy had accepted her suggestion to use the troll hammer against Glory. They did have a tendency to ignore her recommendations, despite the fact that she had more experience than the rest of them combined. She was a thousand years old; she had been to multiple realities.
Of course they had too, but they didn’t remember them.
"Just this," she told him, pulling a piece of paper out from a drawer by the cash register and handing it to him.
He looked at the sheet of paper. The words didn’t look right, so he squinted. "What the devil is that? It’s not Greek…."
"No, it’s Babylonian. Just keep repeating that and you should feel much better."
"Keep repeating it? For how long?"
"Well, for as long as you want to counteract the curse."
"What?" Spike exclaimed in disbelief. "You just want me to go around chanting all day?"
"Well, you do want the pain to stop, don’t you?" Anya pointed out.
"Yes, but that sounds like another kind of a curse, doesn’t it?" asked Spike testily. Dozy bint. Did she really think he would just go around reciting ancient gibberish 24 hours a day? Even Dru gave it a rest sometimes.
"You wanted an effective spell-repellent, and I gave you one," Anya said. "Nobody said these thing were easy. If they were, people would just give their children protection spells at birth and any attempt to magic them would be useless. Not to mention I’d lose 35 to 50 percent of my business."
Spike peered at her with—well, it almost looked like disapproval. "So you do a brisk business in baby curses?"
Anya rolled her eyes. He and Giles both had sexy voices, and they both smelled good, but the resemblance ended there. She wasn’t even sure why the two of them were friends. Maybe it was the opposites attract theory? Much like she and Giles, although in a platonic, nonphysical, just-friends who drink tea and discuss…whatever sport was enjoyed in England kind of a way? "No, not babies. But the kind of thing you seem to want would never wear off. And that kind of spell doesn’t exist."
"Well, have you got anything at all? A little more short-term?"
"Well…you could try a crystal."
"Crystal?" he repeated. A vampire, carrying around a crystal? God, he’d be a laughingstock.
"Some of my customers swear by them," she assured him.
He wasn’t really convinced, but the pain…hell, he’d try anything once. "Do I have to chant?" he inquired. Damned if he was going to spend the rest of his unlife muttering extinct languages until he finally died of boredom.
"No chanting," Anya assured him, holding out a jagged, cloudy blue stone. "As long as it remains opaque it’s still effective, but you have to keep it on your person for it to work. Go ahead, it’s not going to bite."
"Are you guaranteeing that?"
"Are you paying for that?"
Spike gave her an aggravated look, then drew out his wallet. He hated to pay for things; it went against his philosophy. "How much?" he asked grudgingly.
Anya shook her head. "Don’t worry about it,’ she told him. He was friends with Giles, and dating Buffy, who was closer to Giles than anyone, and she’d learned a lot about human relationships during her involvement with Xander. Her relationship with Willow, for instance, had never recovered from Anya’s early attempts to make Willow pay for the items she took from the shop with no concern for their expense.
Of course, the time at the Bronze that Anya had encouraged a vampire to kill Willow probably hadn’t helped their friendship either.
But she’d learned since then. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, Xander had told her several times. Usually while sounding frustrated. It was a saying she’d never really understood, considering that several products were made especially for the extermination of flies, but none, as far as she was aware, for their attraction.
"You sure?"
Anya nodded vigorously. With a big smile. She was going to start things off right this time. Not like last time, with Xander. This time would be better. How could it not be? It was Giles. That was like a built-in assurance of quality. "Tell Giles I said hello," she told him firmly. "And that I’m happy to help."
***
It was a coincidence that the pain in his gut was easing, Spike told himself as he strode through the cemetery, back to…well, probably just watch TV and hope the Slayer showed up. No way a crystal could do squat for him, no matter what Anya said. She was a shopkeeper, they were supposed to move the goods.
But she hadn’t even accepted payment. Why would she tell him it was effective if she wasn’t even going to make a profit? That didn’t even make sense. The curse was plainly starting to affect his mind. Further proof that the crystal didn’t work.
He pulled it out of his pocket and studied it. Of course, he couldn’t really see it in the dark. Still looked cloudy, so that was good, right?
Maybe he could have a hole drilled through it and wear it like a piece of jewelry. He always did like his stuff, thumb rings and chains and—well, lookit that. Light escaped in a thin line under his crypt door; no waiting tonight. Hello, Slayer.
Absently he let the crystal fall to the ground. Didn’t need it with her around, not to mention didn’t want to explain about it. He never seemed to feel the pain when she was around anyway. She had too large a presence when she was around him; he couldn’t contain both the pain and his love for her. The pain lost in those moments.
He swung open the door and started towards her eagerly. He’d hated being away from her the last few days.
He’d been quiet when he opened the door, and she had her back to him. But he must a made a sound when he saw her, because she swung around, shock on her face. Only it wasn’t Buffy.
It was Dawn.
Chapter Twelve
For a moment they stared at each other, both too surprised to move. Dawn’s eyes darted around wildly, as if she didn’t know what to do or where to look.Suddenly Spike started towards her. "Niblet—" he exclaimed, reaching his hand out. She flinched and he pulled it back, stopping several feet away from her, aware of an uncomfortable resemblance between this meeting and the one between him and Buffy the week before. He kept his distance; he didn’t want to crowd her. She hadn’t been overjoyed to see him before, and now she looked all tense, like a half-grown animal that would flee if he moved suddenly. Which, he supposed, was exactly what she was.
"Dawn," he murmured, gesturing widely with his arms. Letting her know that he welcomed her, that his crypt was again open for her girlish confidences and unexpected visits.
She made no move towards him, her forehead puckered with worry. He must have surprised her so much she’d forgotten what she wanted to say. Or maybe he’d walked in as she was rehearsing it, as she was wont to do. Although she usually rushed ahead and forgot her careful phrases. She was impulsive, like him. She was more like him than Buffy, really.
He caught the absurd thought as it flashed through his mind and smiled at Dawn. Sometimes, when his head was elsewhere, he thought of Dawn as if she were his child. His and Buffy’s. She didn’t look like either of them, but the lost, mulish expression on her face—she was their child, all right. As broken as any they could have raised themselves.
"Does your sister know you’re here? You didn’t walk here by yourself, did you? In the dark, without a sweater or a stake?"
She shook her head wordlessly. For someone who’d made a pretty good trek to see him, she wasn’t very talkative. When he’d smiled she looked like she was going to burst into tears, and he wasn’t sure if she was really up to talking. But she wasn’t making any move towards the door. Perhaps she wanted him to take the lead. Maybe she was just giving him the opportunity to…explain himself? Tell her that he hadn’t meant to attack her sister like an animal and then leave her huddled on the bathroom floor? That he’d never do anything like that again to Buffy—or to Dawn? That it had all been a terrible dream, and she could just go back to her life again without hating him and fearing for her sister?
He wanted to sit down and talk with her, but the ratty chairs seemed too casual for this talk, somehow. He almost went to sit on the sarcophagus on which he slept, but that seemed inappropriate. Obscene. They remained standing.
And silent.
He could only take so much silence, at least around some people. "What…what did your sister tell you?" he asked finally.
She cast a vaguely suspicious glance at him.
"Do you mean the other night—"
Spike shook his head, but didn’t answer for a moment. Then another. He didn’t want to answer at all. But she was looking at him, waiting for him to continue. "A few months ago. Before I left. I—" he broke off. She was still looking at him steadily, her face…blank? Or indifferent?
He tried again. "I left because—"
"I heard why you left," Dawn interrupted flatly.
Spike swallowed. His mouth felt curiously dry. "So Buffy told you—"
To his surprise, Dawn laughed. "Buffy? It’s not the kind of thing she’d talk about, is it? Xander’s the one who spread the news."
Harris. He should have expected as much. Must have been eager to tell the Bit—not care how it made her feel, as long as Spike came out covered in shit.
Which he deserved, of course. But Dawn didn’t deserve having to know. No way did she deserve that.
He felt a flush of anger at Xander, that his hatred of Spike overwhelmed his affection for the Niblet. Called himself her friend and probably thought he was the brother she’d never had, but he’d hurt her right quick enough, hadn’t he? Proof that having a soul wasn’t a cure-all for general wankishness, Spike noted humorlessly. Fuck—dumping his bride, judging Buffy, crushing Dawn—what hadn’t he done?
Didn’t tell her anything but the truth, did he?
Shut up, brain, Spike thought, ruthlessly pushing the thought away. He was not the Magnificent Poof, and not going to mark off the next century in his day planner for concentrated wallowing with time off for the occasional mope.
"Did, um, did your sister talk to you?" he asked carefully. He wanted to handle things exactly right with her. He was haunted by the feeling that he was on a tightrope and the slightest imbalance would ruin everything. Everything would fall apart; Buffy would hate him, the Bit would walk in the other direction when she saw him. And still he would have the soul, pulsating inside him like a living being, making him aware, skin-crawlingly aware, of the uncountable things he’d done wrong over the last 150 years and the few things he’d done right. All he had to do was misstep, unbalance just a little, and it would all be over.
Dawn nodded. Her face was so impassive for a child. It didn’t seem right.
"What did she say?" God, what, was he going to offer corrections? No, she said she cared about me, then I grabbed her? Oh, she forgot the part about how I said trust is for old marrieds! Can’t leave that out!
"She said you’re friends. But that’s not what you are, right?"
Friends. Seemed an awfully cold way to describe how he felt about her. "Well—" what could he say? I love your sister more than I can say because I was never more than a crap poet and ordinary words can’t describe it? I got a sodding soul shoved into me so she could trust me, and if that isn’t love fuck if I know what is?
"You came here to ask me that?" he probed gently. He wasn’t going to gainsay Buffy, even if friendship was a piss-poor way to describe their relationship. A memory jolted into place and he saw himself with Buffy and Angel in the magic shop, years before, telling the two of them that they’d never be friends; they would experience the highs and lows together, but nothing as bloodless as friendship. What a dolt he’d been, what a fool; Drusilla had been right all along. He hadn’t even seen Angel before him as he’d said it, imagining himself with Buffy instead. As if she and Paingel had ever argued about anything. As if they’d shagged more than that first disastrous time, as if they’d ever had the spleen to hate each other. They didn’t have passion and fire between them, they had dreams and silences. They barely knew each other. Angel didn’t want to know the Slayer, her depths, her capacity for savagery; he wanted only the pristine maiden warrior—St. Joan in ankle boots. Still indulging in his taste for underage girls, even with his soul, Spike thought with distaste.
But Spike loved all of her. He loved her selflessness, her ferocity, her devotion to those she loved, the way she’d suddenly shove him down and crack his belt to see the red marks it made across his flesh. All of it.
"No, that’s not why I came," said Dawn, drawing him back to the moment. Away from Buffy, where his thoughts still lingered. As usual.
He looked at her kindly. "Then why, kitten? Dawn," he corrected himself carefully. She wasn’t ready for that. Of course, who’s to say she ever would be? It was her sister he attacked, after all. Her only family. The woman he said he loved. Why in the hell would she ever become ready for him to act all brotherly with her again? Why would she even want to be in the same room with him?
"I just came to tell you it’s okay. I’m fine with it. We don’t have any problems. That’s all," she told him, moving past him towards the door. She should have left as soon as he came in. Come up with some b.s. excuse and gotten out of there as soon as she could. But he’d walked in, and started talking to her, and looked so hopeful. Looked at her the way he sometimes looked at Buffy, like he’d do anything to make her happy, he just didn’t know what that was. And all of a sudden all she could think about was how much she’d missed him and how angry she was at him. Why had he done it? Didn’t he know how wrong it was—how hurtful it would be? How could he do that, to Buffy, to her?
And then she remembered why she was there and realized she had to leave, immediately. So she told him everything was fine, and it would be. Because Spike never questioned her. He trusted her. And that was going to be her golden ticket out of the crypt. She was going to get away scot-free.
She was almost at the door when his hand closed over her elbow.
"You’re not walking home alone in the dark," Spike told her. "Come on, I’ll go with you."
Dawn smiled at him without effort. When you were that relieved, smiling wasn’t a problem.
Besides her, Spike stopped abruptly. "Hold up a minute. Is that bag yours?"
Dawn turned back to face the crypt, her eyes quickly picking up what he was referring to. Her backpack, abandoned near the wall. God, she’d almost forgotten it. She’d only been there a minute or two before he arrived, and didn’t have time to do her thing yet. She was very careful about it. You could plan it out as much in advance as you wanted, but there were still things that had to be worked out in person.
It could have been worse. He could have walked in a couple of minutes later, and then she really would have had a hard time explaining herself.
"Yeah, that’s mine," she answered quickly, moving past him and grabbing it. Why shouldn’t she be casual about it? It was just supposed to be books and stuff, right? She swung it over one shoulder and turned back to him. "Let’s go."
***
"And school? Is history still—"
"It’s fine," answered Dawn curtly.
Besides her Spike flinched. Her responses had become shorter and shorter as they crossed town. Soon she would be grunting her answers, and after that he expected that she’d just glare if he asked her something.
Yeah, she was fine with him being back all right. What a load.
He knew her. Knew her better than anyone, better than Buffy did. Buffy saw Dawn through the resentful eyes of an older sibling whose role as the pampered baby of the family was supplanted. Who loved her sister enough to die for her, but not always enough to assume responsibility for her care and feeding. She still loved Dawn like a sister, when she had to be her mother. Of course Buffy didn’t see her clearly. Of course.
She was punishing him. That much was obvious. He could imagine her coming by to see him, to beard the lion in his den, to show him that she was above any fear or resentment. She didn’t want any of that to touch her. She wanted to be too cool for that.
But she wasn’t cool, and she never had been. She was temperamental, mercurial, intense. A bit like him, really. Neither of them was able to hide their emotions worth a damn. For a few precious moments her mask had dropped, and she’d looked wistful and vulnerable and like she wanted a hug. And then it slipped back into place before he could do anything, but he’d seen it. He wasn’t kidding himself.
But he had no idea how to bring it out again. He had no idea how to make things up to her. Alive 150 fucking years, and he couldn’t even figure out how to patch things up with a teenager. Even a former green glowy key whose life he’d tried to protect again and again.
He was useless.
"Well, you know, I can always help with geometry," he told her.
"Hmm," Dawn replied.
Down to the monosyllables now.
Her house loomed up before them. Spike didn’t know whether to be relieved or frustrated. They needed to spend a lot more time together, but their conversation seemed to be deteriorating. "I could come in and help you with your homework now," Spike offered.
"I’m fine," Dawn said, her voice remote. "Giles is home, he can take care of it. I don’t want to bother you."
"It’s no bother," Spike assured her a little anxiously. She’d never been so chilly to him before. It made him feel odd, like there was something wrong with the earth’s rotation and his balance was off. Maybe he was coming down with an inner ear infection, although he’d never heard of a vampire getting an infection. He did feel rather dizzy, actually. Lightheaded.
He felt better when he was around Buffy. He hadn’t seen her for a few days, and he needed to be around her again. He needed her more than blood. More than…he couldn’t even think of anything else that rated. Passions and jalapeno poppers and Guinness made existence pleasant, but they weren’t necessary. Blood was necessary to sustain his body, and Buffy was necessary to sustain everything else.
"Is your sister here?" he asked Dawn, leaning a bit on the porch railing.
Dawn barely looked at him. "No, she has a late class tonight. She won’t be back for a couple of hours.’
"Oh. Are you sure you don’t want me to wait with you, Bit, and I can look over your work—"
"I’m fine," said Dawn, unlocking the door and slipping through without ever opening it enough for him to mistake it for an invitation. "Goodnight."
The closed door made it clear she wasn’t interested in his response.
***
He wasn’t much for bench sitting, usually, unless he was holding his lady’s hand and surveying some lovely scene. Like a serene ocean, or the aftermath of a good night’s fight.
But by the time he was halfway to his crypt he’d been doubled over, holding onto trees for support. And when he’d passed by Sycamore Park he decided to take advantage of one of the benches, to avoid the undignified, but at this point highly likely, chance of collapsing on the side of the road.
Before, the pain in his gut had been steady and…not mild, but not like this. And somehow his head was involved this time, and it was hard to balance. And all of it was washing over him in waves, and all he could do was wait for it to stop. Miserable and vulnerable. God, it was like being a human again.
After a while he became aware that the intensity of the pain had diminished, and tentatively straightened up. Still hurt like blazes, but now he felt more like himself, at least. It was okay, he didn’t have to move yet. The crypt wasn’t going anywhere. He had hours yet before sunrise to make his way back there.
It might take all of them.
He was sitting there, concentrating on not moving, when he became aware of being watched. He moved his head slightly and sighted her, standing on the sidewalk a few yards away, watching him with undisguised interest.
"Come here," he said, wincing slightly as he heard the gravelly tone of his voice.
Willow did as he told her, sitting next to him and watching him with a slightly concerned expression. He did his best to seem like the old Spike, because there was no use in everybody knowing he felt like shit.
"I know what you did," he told her.
A startled expression crossed her face.
"To the man who killed…." he trailed off. She nodded.
"Good for you."
Willow blinked. No one had ever said something like that to her. They were all, that’s what laws are for. Those aren’t things for you to decide. You can’t take the law into your own hands. The wheels of justice, and all that.
She felt so bad. She could never atone enough for what she’d done, what she’d tried to do. For trying to kill Buffy, Giles. Dawn and Xander. The world.
But not Warren. Not for a moment had she regretted what she’d done to him. The only thing she’d do differently with him is make it take longer. Hurt worse. Because she was still hurting, still suffering. It was over way too quick for him. He should have had to suffer like her. Didn’t like losing his skin? Poor baby.
The only she regretted about killing him was that she hadn’t been discreet. Buffy and Xander and Anya, they’d found out. If she’d done it right they wouldn’t have known a thing. But she’d always been a good student.
She learned from her mistakes.
"Are you and Buffy—together, now?" she asked carefully.
He looked surprised by the question. Well, why wouldn’t he be? When had she ever shown an interest in his personal life before?
He hesitated. "We’re—friends," he said finally, settling on the word Buffy had chosen to describe their relationship.
He still didn’t like it.
She continued looking at him, her eyes calm and curious.
Didn’t look much like a black magic woman at the moment, Spike thought. Of course, he’d never noticed her looking any different the entire time she’d been plotting to resurrect Buffy, so what did he know?
"Buffy thinks I’ve put a curse on you," she said tentatively. "Do you believe that?"
He froze. It was as if she’d known what he was thinking. Although, in all honesty, she’d always been perceptive. More so than Buffy. But this was…eerie.
He studied her face and shrugged. Hell, he’d always got on well with Red, even with the weight of his past misdeeds—when he’d kidnapped her and Harris, when he’d put a wedge between them and Buffy, when he’d tried to kill her in the dorm room she shared with Buffy. He thought, absently, that she probably remembered the dorm incident only in terms of herself being too plain to bite. Ridiculous, he’d told her as much, but he didn’t think she could hear that enough.
He shrugged. "If you say you didn’t, I believe you," he told her honestly. She’d been friendly to him all along, especially the summer after Buffy died. She’d invited him to Buffy’s party without a lot of prodding.
And she knew, like him, what it was to have her heart ripped out.
"Good. I wouldn’t hurt you," she said.
"I’m sorry about—you know," Spike said softly.
Willow was silent for a moment, absorbing his sympathy. She’d had little enough of it. Tara was dead and Willow felt like she was the only one who mourned her. The others had just forgotten. It was as if she’d been a speed bump in their lives, something to get past on the way to the next exciting beast or lover or job.
It wasn’t fair. Tara deserved better. She had been so much more than that. She deserved to have an honored place in their memories, not be a footnote to their college years, like dorm food or a lousy professor.
"Thanks," Willow murmured.
"She was right tasty," said Spike without thinking, then mentally kicked himself.
Willow looked a little startled, but then she laughed. "Yeah, she was," she agreed. She glanced around. She didn’t know what to say, but it was nice to talk to someone besides Xander. She loved him, but a little variety was good. "So you’ve got a soul now?"
Beside her, Spike froze.
"It’s okay, I won’t tell," she assured him hurriedly. "You haven’t told Buffy yet, have you? Because I think she might have told Xander if you had. Well actually, I think she might have screamed it at him."
"How did you know?" Spike asked after a moment. No one had noticed a thing. Not Buffy, his beloved. Her Slayer senses and their intimacy had told her nothing. Not Anya, endowed with the supernatural abilities of a demon. Not Dawn, his former shadow, with her magical origins. "Are you dabbling in magic again? Because you should realize by now that those things are dangerous—"
"No one knows that more than I do," she said quietly. "Tara taught me how to read people’s flow; I don’t need to do magic to see your soul. You’re wearing it the way you used to wear your duster."
She had no idea why he flinched.
"I should get back now," he muttered, getting up from the bench and starting down the block. He didn’t look behind him, and he didn’t see her stare after him, long after he had disappeared from view.
It took a while for him to reach the crypt, what with all the pausing and gulping in huge lungfuls of air and steadying himself on handy graves. It seemed like he’d been walking for years, and he could barely continue. Fixing his eyes on the door, he forced his feet to move even as he wanted more than anything to lie down and moan and…god knows what. After what seemed like forever, he was close enough to believe he would actually make it. Ten feet, five, almost there….
Then he was inside, on his knees, shuddering, crying, his stomach clenching. And then a wash of red covering the floor in front of him, as his body rejected that which sustained it.