Bag Of Bones

By Shadowlass

Chapter Four

He’d never felt so stupid, so inadequate. In life he’d often been reduced to silence by the cruelty of others with more confidence, more money. More friends. A more ready wit, and the desire to expend it. He remembered those days clearly, so long ago, when his strongest wish had been to find words to defend himself, explain his intentions, words that made sense in his mind but failed him when he opened his mouth. And now, facing Buffy, he had the sudden shameful impulse to flee, which he ignored, and to babble about how he loved her, which he also ignored.

So instead, he said nothing.

"You changed your hair," she observed softly. He almost had to strain to catch the words, even with his acute sense of hearing.

"It grew out," he murmured, as softly as she. "It didn’t seem to matter."

She studied him in silence. He thought he would go mad. But this was up to her, how it would go. He would follow her lead. It was the least that he owed her.

"You seem different," she said, her voice stronger, more certain.

For a moment his mind stopped working. She knew. Her Slayer sense had asserted itself and she was able to see it, feel it, his soul. Feel it as he did, sharp and icy and forcing itself into every corner of his being, distinct and harrowing. Burning him inside until he felt cleansed where it had touched. Would she understand? Understand what it meant, that he had done this thing for her? That he would go through this willingly, gladly, in order to make himself worthy of her?

"I mean, the hair and the unpolished nails and the—the no coat, you just look different," she added.

Spike’s heart sank. She hadn’t sensed a thing. He was the same thing to her, the thing that had attacked her. Less than that, even. He’d stopped wearing the black nail polish after he let Glory tear into him like a piñata on Cinco de Mayo and Buffy had come to him and pressed her lips against his. He’d been so bruised, so broken everywhere that he could barely feel the pressure against his mouth, but he had known it was her and not the bot. He couldn’t be so injured, so dazed, that he couldn’t sense her. It was impossible.

But after she came back they had made love to each other all over town, sweet and soft, hard and violent and making each other hurt and bleed, and she hadn’t even noticed that he wasn’t wearing the polish. Hadn’t looked at him long enough to see the hands that were touching her, even as she cried out from the pleasure they gave her.

It shouldn’t hurt so much. God.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Gave up the polish. I don’t know where the coat is. Must be somewhere around here, but I haven’t seen it." He could have sworn she flinched when he said that, but he was obviously in a mood to fool himself.

"Did Dawn tell you I was back?" he asked. He felt too formal, somehow, to use one of the nicknames he habitually bestowed. It seemed presumptuous, something he wasn’t entitled to. Not right then, not with Buffy.

But he didn’t feel like himself when he called Dawn by her name, and he wanted to feel like himself. Wanted to be Spike, wanted to be unchanged except for the little item he went to Africa for. The thing that would make everything okay.

That was the plan, at least.

Buffy continued to gaze at him without responding. Finally his words penetrated and she felt shock ripple across her mind. "What? Are you telling me she already knows?"

He hesitated. Obviously the Bit hadn’t told her sister, for whatever reason. Probably mostly that she was a typical adolescent monster. Why didn’t they have Slayers for those, he wondered absently.

Anger flashed through her as she waited for him to answer. What the hell was he was doing—covering for Dawn? Or for himself? Xander may have told Dawn the truth, but Dawn had always been willful, refusing to listen to common sense. And she had always adored Spike. Him back—her not saying a word—it was dangerous. Taking Dawn to Spike’s crypt after the bathroom was one thing—he wouldn’t have hurt her, Buffy knew that, despite what Xander had said. But the thought of Dawn keeping those kind of secrets…"Does she?" she demanded.

He nodded. "Saw her a couple days ago. She took one look and turned in the other direction. Haven’t seen her since."

Buffy absorbed that silently. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Should he say more?

Gingerly he cleared his throat. "Thought she’d told you. Thought that was why you were here."

She forgot her anger for the moment. What was she supposed to tell him? Well, after you tried to rape me I was pretty upset for an hour or two and then I whipped some bad guy butt and a bunch of stuff happened, mostly bad, and then I brought my kid sister over here for you to babysit and after I found out you had left I just kept checking your graveyard like some kind of…I don’t know what, but something? And you were wrong, I don’t love you, I couldn’t love you, but I forgive you and I need you to forgive me?

"No," she answered instead. "I was just out patrolling, and happened by and, uhh…decided to say hi to Clem." Would he buy that? It didn’t really sound believable to her. She’d never been a good liar.

He nodded, to her relief. Apparently he wasn’t as perceptive as he thought.

Actually, she’d known he was back as soon as she saw the burba weed on the sarcophagus he used as a table, and the whiskey bottles littering the periphery of the crypt. Clem was more into orange-toned, processed snack foods and fruit punch. Also the entire line of Hostess products. She’d been by often enough to check the crypt to have found out a lot of his favorite things. She’d never seen a kitten, thank god.

But Spike really hadn’t changed the crypt much since returning, not even getting things back to how he liked them. He hadn’t even taken down the O-Town poster Clem had put up a couple of months after he left. And the bottles strewn around…that wasn’t like Spike, she knew. Usually the only time the crypt was a mess was when they’d destroyed it together. While naked.

"So where were you?"

Right, then. He wasn’t going to lie to her. Even if it would be easier. "I went to see a bloke I’d heard of. I wanted—wanted—" He broke off. Christ, this was a pisser. Her standing there looking at him, all cool and calm and politely interested. And him all naked in front of her, so to speak, telling her everything there was to know and who’s to say she just wouldn’t look at him and shrug? A soul? Why’d you get that? Weren’t you listening all those times I said I could never love you? A soul doesn’t change that.

Why would it? Why would it change anything? She’d met him in an alley where he’d sacrificed a minion in order to size up her fighting skills. He’d applauded and mocked her and done his damnedest to kill her and her little school chums, and that’s how she saw him still. The soulless vampire who’d kidnapped her perfect little loverboy and gotten buried under a pipe organ for his troubles, the creature who’d snatched her best friends for a stupid spell, the demon who’d conspired with a Frankenstein monster to see them all dead. The vampire who wasn’t dust only because it was unsporting to kill something that couldn’t fight back.

That was then, of course. Now he could fight back, at least against her.

But the essential problem…Christ, he’d always led with his heart, not his head. When she’d kicked him off in that bathroom and he’d sat there, crushed by what he’d almost done, all he’d felt was horror. Horror at himself, that he could do such a thing to the woman he loved. Later, in his crypt, all he wanted to do was fix it. Make things right, so that she could trust him. Just rushed in, never even wondered if that was possible.

Because no matter how good he was, no matter how toothless, to her he would always be the same ravening monster who led an army of vampires against a schoolful of parents. No matter what he did, that was who he was to her. Every time they saw each other, he started again from that place. Had he really thought getting a soul would make her see him differently?

And no matter how badly Angel behaved, he was still her blameless, brooding darling. When he did evil, it was his demon. As if they were two different people. As if being souled were his natural state, instead of the result of a curse, a curse that could be broken at any time. But any good Spike did could be attributed to selfishness, somehow.

Dammit, he’d helped save the world more times than the poof ever had, but despite the good he’d done, to her he was still less than the git had been when he was living in alleys, eating rats. Where he’d been content to stay for a hundred years, helping no one. Was the soul that powerful, to make that self-absorbed half-life more worthy than all the times Spike had risked his life?

Like hell. That wasn’t the power of the soul, that was the power of a first impression. And his was long past.

"Spike?" Buffy repeated. "Did you hear me? Where did you go?"

He shook his head. He was buggered. He gritted his teeth so he wouldn’t shout at her, rail that he gotten a soul for her, for them, and deserved a fresh start. He knew he didn’t deserve anything. And damned if he was going to fuck this up with his impatience. It had ruined too many things for him already. "Off. I had to go. I—I couldn’t stay after—" He broke off. "After the bathroom," he said finally. Coward. Couldn’t say it, could he?

Buffy could almost feel the lid clamp down on her emotions. There were a lot of things she didn’t feel like discussing with Spike or anyone else, and the bathroom was up there. Not number one, but up there. "I don’t want to discuss the bathroom," she said. He opened his mouth to speak, and she repeated more forcefully, "I don’t want to discuss the bathroom." The won’t was implied.

Spike nodded mutely. It was typical response from her; she had always loathed talking of anything more meaningful than how to kill the demon du jour and which pair of shoes best showed off her ankles. She shied away from it, emotion. Bury things, don’t discuss them.

But it was up to her. It was only proper that she write the script for it.

He couldn’t believe she was still there talking to him. He had no idea what to say, but he wasn’t going to give up the chance. "How’s Dawn? I didn’t get to ask her when I saw her. Thought she’d mention it to you." Seemed like a safe enough topic.

Buffy shook her head. "No, Dawn’s been quiet all summer. Quiet in a slammy kind of a way," she added, smiling faintly.

He echoed her smile. Dawn could really bring on the pain to those around her, he knew. He let out a small chuckle. "Yeah, last summer she got a bug in her ear about getting her navel pierced. Two weeks of pleading followed by four weeks of slamming, plus all the sullen glares you’d ever want to see," he recalled. "I put my foot down, ‘cause I knew you’d hate it—knew—" He broke off. He’d known she would have hated it, but she’d been in the grave.

She saw his intent in his eyes and shook her head. "Thank you," she said softly. "I know you took good care of her."

"No trouble," he muttered, ducking his head. He didn’t like to think of last summer, even with her here next to him, alive and breathing and…alive. He and Snackpack had sat around a lot of nights, staring at walls and trying to come up with conversation that didn’t revolve around Buffy; it had been a lot easier between them before she died. Didn’t have to avoid any topics then.

But they’d had some fun, too, that summer. One night the two of them escaped the Scoobies and went up into the farmlands outside Sunnydale and made a little crop circle in some yokel’s field. It had ended up more misshapen than geometric, and they hurriedly abandoned their makeshift tools in the middle of the ragged formation and ran off smothering their laughter as they heard the farmer in the distance, shouting and swearing about trespassers.

Probably shouldn’t tell the Slayer about that one.

"How’s the job?" he asked. He kicked himself. What a ridiculous question. She already had enough on her mind without him reminding her about that hellhole. He hated to think of her there, her spirit atrophying for a crap paycheck. Grease on her skin and in her hair. The stench had been absolutely noxious, but he never told her. Never minded, since the smell was accompanied by her.

Buffy found it kind of uncomfortable, talking to him. What was the phrase? An elephant in the room? It was like that. She wished they could just get past it, but she wasn’t sure how to do it. But she didn’t want it there, and the quickest way to deal with it was just ignore it. She had experience in that kind of thing.

But the job was something she could discuss without worry. One of the few things that had gone well in the last several…years, she supposed. "Actually, it’s pretty good," she said, a tone of excitement creeping into her carefully controlled voice.

She saw the surprised look on Spike’s face, and understood why. "I’m not at the Doublemeat anymore," she told him. Suddenly, with unaccountable warmth, she recalled him leaning towards her. Urging her to leave the burger place, telling her it would kill her. She’d been unhappy about that, because she needed the job so desperately. And, almost below her perception, she knew she was angry because he was the only one who seemed to give a damn about it. Giles had known she had ongoing money problems, but hadn’t given her cash beyond that one-time infusion, despite the fact that he was drawing a paycheck from the Council every damn month. Xander had come in and drooled over the food and took what she gave him free. And Willow had never paid any rent, despite the fact that—

Forget that. Forget about that. Forget about her.

Spike’s expectant face drew her mind back to the conversation. "I enrolled in the summer session at UC Sunnydale, and I’m a trainee with the campus police department."

He smiled, looking pleased. "So you finally get paid to patrol."

"About time," she agreed with a faint laugh.

She studied him. He looked…softer, somehow. His face wasn’t set in such hard lines. Before, the only thing soft about his face were his lips, but now his eyes slid shyly from hers and he seemed to lack that tough shell he usually displayed. Usually, not always. She’d seen him without it a few times, mostly when she hurt him. Not by beating him, but by not caring enough.

His hair wasn’t much longer than usual, but only platinum for the last couple of inches. The rest was golden brown, and looked odd on him. Uncharacteristic. Like Santa Claus with black hair. He’d started changing his hair the year before, alternating between the tousled curls she thought of as his boyfriend hair and the slicked back, Big Bad look. Like he couldn’t decide which to be. It was curly now, messier than she’d ever seen it. Like he didn’t care, which disturbed her, although it shouldn’t.

Well, she wasn’t going to beat herself up about her feelings any more. That time was past. If she worried about Spike that was her right. If she wanted to drop by his crypt to see him, that was her right, too.

Abruptly she stood up. "I have to go now," she told him, watching his face fall. He hid the disappointment quickly, though, she had to give him that. He had practice.

He stood back so she could move to the door without coming near him. She didn’t seem to notice. At the entrance she swung around to face him, her face diffident.

"Maybe you could patrol with me, some nights," she suggested, her tone not giving anything away.

"Yeah, I’d like that," he agreed, cautiously.

She nodded, and left without another word.

Spike took a deep breath. He’d been dreading it so long, and now it was over. She’d been there, his home, and she looked at him without hatred. Without contempt. Kindly, almost. He should have hated for her to look at him with kindness, but somehow it seemed closer to tenderness than pity.

Maybe he was fooling himself. He did it fairly often. It was comforting. And, of course, ignoring reality made it easier to focus on his goals. When he was in Brazil with Dru, if he’d seen what he would become—chipped, the Slayer’s willing slave, a punching bag for Harris—Harris—and, unbelievably, souled—he would have taken a nice morning walk. But all those things had come in small increments, and he had adapted. That’s what superpredators did, if they wanted to stay superpredators. Or just stay alive, and partake in the simple but substantial pleasures of spicy Buffalo wings, reasonably good house bands, and the not-inconsiderable joy of laughing his ass off at the gits on Road Rules. Live to drink and dance and fall in love and fuck into sinuous states of languor.

Ah, ignoring reality, one of the keys to living well. Good thing he’d mastered it so long ago.

So he was more than pleased with how this evening had ended. Buffy talking to him like a person, inquiring about him. Not accusing, just asking. Being interested in where he’d been and what he’d done.

Not hating him.

Spike strode around the crypt, the excitement bringing on an excess of energy. He felt like running around and shouting at the top of his voice. He had always had a hyperactive streak, and when he was keyed up he almost didn’t know what to do. It had led to many of his more unfortunate actions.

He moved to the refrigerator, hoping a little blood would calm him down. As he reached for the handle he noticed his nails, short and clean and bare. No polish. Her words returned to him, and he felt his heart contract painfully. Didn’t hate him, but still hadn’t ever really looked at him. When he had been looking at her, absorbing the amazing unbelievable sight of her in his arms, she had only been looking towards oblivion.

What right did he have to complain? She’d noticed now, at least. He’d known what he was doing. Known what she was doing. If it hurt, that’s what made it life. He’d told the Slayer that, a year ago. That there was no guarantee of bliss. Life was pain, years of it until a stranger draws you down an alley and takes you from one life to birth you into another. And after that you meet the sunrise or an errant stake and ash over until everything you were was gone. Pain. It was the way of the world.

The world, incidentally, sucked.

Restlessly he paced around the crypt, wishing for…hell, who knew? Something to throw. Something to drink. Something to do, dammit. Fuck! Fuck, yeah! His present. He felt stone cold sober after his talk with the Slayer. His senses were sharp, he could smell a wino taking a piss three blocks over. One whiff of that sack of hair and bones and he’d know the bastard, be on him faster than mold on French cheese.

Well, provided it was a demon.

He stalked over to the chest, and stopped dead. Of course. Of course, of course. He shouldn’t have expected any less. It wouldn’t have been his unlife any other way. The chest was bare.

The bundle was gone.

Chapter Five

Sometimes he felt as if he would break from the strain of it. Like he was bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders — he’d never understood the saying before, but now it made perfect sense. He didn’t think he could manage another minute of it, but he went on the same as always. He didn’t have a choice.

When he left Anya, he’d felt terrible. Actually, felt wasn’t exactly the right word; he was pretty numb at the time. Just certain that what he was doing was the right thing for both of them. The safe thing. The only thing. Which went to show how much he knew.

Pretty much par for the course. He was just surprised that he wasn’t back in the basement. It was his natural home, wasn’t it? He’d gotten out of it only with Anya’s help. He felt that at any moment he might slide right back into it. De-evolution in progress.

It was only with her that he had gotten a steady job, one that didn’t involved bartending or delivering pizza. Or worse. The substitute male dancer gig in Oxnard had been worse. Just being in Oxnard made it worse. He’d started going out with Anya, and suddenly he’d found a job. A career. Fine, it wasn’t sophisticated; being a construction worker didn’t impress anyone. But he had a good job, with responsibility, and was in charge of men with more age and experience. He told them what to do and they did it.

He wondered that it hadn’t disappeared along with Anya.

She hadn’t disappeared, of course. She was right there at the Magic Box. The whole place had been rebuilt. He’d gotten Giles to suggest that Xander be the one to do the repairs. He would have done it free, but Anya refused. Through Giles, she refused. She said she’d rather get someone who knew how to see a job through to the end.

It was for the best, really. He had enough on his plate, more than enough. Willow was back from that place and staying with him, and it was his job to make her feel better. His most important job, even more than supervising his crew or patching things up with Anya. Besides, patching kind of implied there was something left to stitch together. Anya had made it plain to him that there wasn’t. He hadn’t even been back to the shop after it was rebuilt. It had been his second home for two years, but now he didn’t even know what it looked like inside.

He knew he wasn’t wanted there.

But Will did want him with her. She needed him. Tara was gone. Oz was gone. For all intents and purposes, Buffy was gone, at least as far as Willow was concerned. She never asked Xander about Will, never let him mention her name. He’d tried often enough, when Willow was first in that place and desperate to make amends with Buffy. When she’d cried every time Xander visited and she saw Buffy wasn’t with him.

Absently Xander grabbed a bottle of dish detergent from the drugstore shelf and dropped it into his shopping cart. He used to eat lunch with the guys at the site, but since Willow had come to live with him he’d taken to running errands at lunchtime. It would have been easier, really, to do it on the way home from work, but she spent enough time alone as it was. He could have taken Willow with him, but he didn’t think she was that comfortable around people yet. He understood.

He understood, too, why Buffy was angry. He’d been there, he’d heard what Willow said to Buffy in the Magic Box. In the Magic Box, when she looked at Buffy and decided that she wanted to beat Buffy to death. It still frightened him. Will, his oldest friend. He loved her, she was more necessary to him than water. Than Anya. He had to know she was well. And standing there, her skin drained of color like a corpse—like a vampire—and her hair a dull black, she was nothing like the friend he loved. She looked at everyone she loved and decided to kill them because she was suffering.

And that wasn’t Willow. He knew her better than anything in the world. More than Marvel Comics minutiae, more than how to carve a good stake, more than the music of Patsy Cline, which he’d had plenty of opportunity to appreciate over the last few forevers.

So he understood why Buffy was upset with Willow. He was, too. But he forgave. She’d been driven mad, and she’d broken. She was trying to get better now, and Buffy was not helping. Not being a friend.

What did it take with Buffy? Hadn’t they forgiven her everything she’d done? All the times they’d nearly died because of her…or her boyfriend? Hey, boyfriends, now. Her and her homicidal honeys.

It had only been a few weeks before Warren shot Buffy and Tara, and everything got so bad, that she’d laid them out in her basement, trussed up like Thanksgiving turkeys, and released a monster against them. Against them, her closest friends. Her own sister.

But he hadn’t been there. She hadn’t wanted him to die. Sure, they loved her. They made excuses for her attempt to murder them. She was under the influence of a mind-altering chemical. It wasn’t her. But she hadn’t wanted him to die. She’d been lucid enough for that. Enough to make an exception for him.

Of course, at the time Xander hadn’t thought it was an exception. Why the hell would Spike be included? He didn’t rate high enough for Buffy to consider him a hindrance to her imaginary life. He was just a pest. An annoyance. Sometimes he was useful muscle.

Xander hadn’t realized just how true that was.

It hadn’t been a one-time thing, she’d told him later. He wanted an explanation—a justification—but at the same time he didn’t want to know any of it. He shouldn’t have to hear it. It should never have happened. What had happened to her? She wasn’t the same girl any more. The vivacious, quippy girl who’d turned away from the popular crowd to befriend him and Will. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d been that girl.

When Willow had insisted they bring Buffy back, she said she knew exactly what to do. That Buffy would be herself. Happy. Happy and alive. But Willow was wrong, it was obvious from the start. Buffy came back all silent, her eyes unfocused and disinterested. And then getting involved with Spike….

That had ended about as well as could be expected, what with Spike being a monster and all. Attacked Buffy in her own house, tried to rape her, and then fled to god knows where. Too cowardly to face up to his actions. And he had mocked Xander for leaving Anya? Well, he’d left Anya for her own good. If Spike ever did anything unselfish the world would start turning backwards.

He didn’t have to worry about Spike, though. He was gone. He was smart enough to realize he’d gone too far and that Buffy would stake him if he came back to town. And obviously he wanted to live more than he wanted Buffy. He was a demon. It was the only way he could be. It was impossible to go against nature.

Waiting in the checkout line, Xander glanced at the contents of his cart. It looked like he’d gotten everything they needed, but he’d forgotten to write a list. Maybe he’d ask Willow to write one next time, but she’d probably say she want to go, too. But she didn’t, really, she’d just say it to make him feel better. So he wouldn’t worry about her as much.

Buffy was back on track now. She had re-enrolled in college and gotten a better job, a job with a future. She was rid of Spike, thank god. She was making the house more her own, re-doing her mom’s old room.

Which was necessary, of course. They’d both scrubbed the carpet more than once, but the blood stains wouldn’t come out. Tara’s blood, seared into the room in which she’d lived for such a short time.

It would be Buffy’s room now. New carpet, new paint. She’d sold her mother’s old bedroom set and new furniture was going to be delivered. She was moving out of her little girl room. It was a step forward. She was making a claim on adulthood.

But she was making it in the place that Willow should have been. Where she should would have felt comfortable and safe, in the room she had shared with her lover, with her closest friend in the next room and the girl she loved like a little sister down the hall.

That’s where Willow should have gone after she left Goldenbrook, not to him. What did he know about taking care of somebody? Buffy had met his parents, she had to realize he didn’t know how to do that. It went against everything he’d learned while growing up. He’d learned to destroy, not nurture. Everything he didn’t ruin was an accident. He’d driven away the woman he loved, thrown her away. He couldn’t heal anybody, even himself. Buffy and Willow had been inseparable for so long, and now Willow was just another taboo subject, like Angel and Riley.

"Buffy roadkill," he muttered. The checkout clerk looked at him curiously. Xander just averted his eyes and thrust some money at him. What could he say?

He hated himself for even thinking such a thing about Buffy. She’d given more than anyone ever would. Ever could. But he wondered again where that light-hearted girl had gone. She’d made everything better, and they all needed that now, more than ever.

***

Willow surveyed the pile of neatly folded towels and socks with satisfaction. She liked doing things like this, they made her feel normal. She wanted to get back to normal.

Willow laid the last folded dish towel on top and began putting things away. She knew where everything was; she’d rearranged most of the kitchen cabinets and all of the drawers since moving in with Xander. She needed something to do, and he seemed to just want her to sit in the couch all day, frozen in the position she’d been in when he left for work. She was ready to do things, all sorts of things. He just didn’t realize it yet.

The Watcher’s Council, of all things, had taken care of her. Placed a psychiatrist at Goldenbrook to help her. Not because they cared, of course, but because they were worried. A major supernatural threat that even the Slayer was helpless against must be dealt with. Contained. Neutralized.

After months of treatment the doctor was satisfied. She was soothed in mind and body. There was nothing left in her to cause the council concern; the magic had been burned out of her somehow, propelled by the dosing Giles had given her. She was cured.

The sessions with the Council’s doctor had been interesting—at least once she had recovered enough to actually realize what was going on. She told him about her life. Her feelings of helplessness as a child and young teen, when her mother was sweet but disinterested and her father merely disinterested. Willow had actually preferred to spend her days at Xander’s, which had to be the first sign of incipient insanity. She told the psychiatrist about her early forays into magic, holding nothing back. How the spirit of that gypsy woman had possessed her and she was able to restore Angel’s soul.

How she’d never really felt like herself since.

It had been only a few months after that when she started behaving peculiarly. Cheating on her adored boyfriend with an close friend. Spending less time working on the computer and more time on her magic. Experimenting with a coven. She didn’t even make valedictorian. And then the sudden attraction to Tara. She felt compelled, barely able to make her own decisions. The intense shot of magic Giles had given her had somehow brought her back to herself, cast out those strange impulses. They weren’t bad, necessarily, but they weren’t her.

The psychiatrist had been delighted.

Two weeks later, Willow had been released. The doctor flew back to England, planning how best to tell the Council of his great success. They would no doubt be very pleased.

She didn’t care if they were pleased. Willow loathed the Council, had ever since Buffy and Joyce were nearly killed during the Cruciamentum, when the Council had weakened Buffy and then set her against a crazed vampire. And when they came back, while Glory was looking for Dawn, they’d made Buffy jump through hoops just to tell her that Glory was a god—she hated them. They were smug. They were useless.

But the really terrifying part was how easy they were to fool.

They thought some dead gypsy made her do things? She made her own decisions. She’d told the doctor what he wanted to hear in order to get out of there. Her heart had been broken, but her mind was intact. She didn’t belong there. They couldn’t fix anything.

She was the only one who could do that, and she’d already set her plan in motion.

***

She didn’t even know why she was friends with Janice. Dawn wasn’t especially trying to stay out of mischief, but Janice...sometimes being with her was like sticking your hand in a blender. She had "trouble" tattooed on her forehead.

Actually, she had "trubble" tattooed on her forehead, because she thought it was funny that way. Also, it was on her hip, not her forehead. But the point stood.

For years Dawn had been in the habit of being her friend, and tried reflexively to impress her. Janice wanted to do this? They did it. Dawn usually did it more. Their friendship was more about Janice than it was about Dawn, and it was the only way she was really able to get her part in—the alternative being to simply listen and agree and be the number two in the friendship. More the number two than she was already. She’d been number two all her life, and she didn’t want to be it any more than necessary. There really wasn’t much to recommend the position.

But this afternoon, they’d met up with the two skankiest guys Dawn had ever seen, and Janice nudged her like that was a good thing. Look, Dawn! Yellow teeth! And holes in their jeans that showed they weren’t wearing underwear. Dawn really would have preferred living with the delusion, thank you. And then Dawn thought: hey, Janice is the one who set us up with vampires. And then never even apologized about it. Dawn was supposed to apologize if she opened her mouth while Janice was going on about her new shade of nail polish, but the whole nearly-getting-Dawn-killed thing? Not apology-worthy.

When she thought that, it was suddenly, whoosh! She didn’t want to impress Janice anymore. In fact, she didn’t even want to speak with Janice again. Her mom was nice, but Janice was a creep. A little second-hand mom time here and there wasn’t enough to make hanging around Janice worth it. Although maybe she could call if she felt bad, or something. Just to say hi.

To Janice’s mom, that is.

She had to get her mom-ishness where she could. Buffy was all absorbed in…Buffy, and Dawn couldn’t even remember the last time someone had kissed her cheek. Which was stupid, because she was too old for that anyway. But sometimes it was nice for someone to kiss you goodnight, to feel your forehead if you had a stuffy nose and hug you extra-hard when you were blue.

Buffy was better at arm-patting.

What had Buffy meant, anyway—"I want to show you the world"? It sounded like some made-for-Lifetime movie, one she wouldn’t watch even if her only other choice was homework. Oh course, it didn’t mean any more than Buffy’s other big-time pronouncements. How many times had Buffy given her that I’m-better-and-everything’s-going-to-be-fine-now spiel? Six or seven times, at least. Didn’t mean a thing.

Dawn had stopped paying attention after number four.

Still, things were a little better than last year. Buffy had started making dinner regularly, and although she was a pretty bad cook, it was still better than anything Dawn could make, plus the benefit of her not having to make it. Actually, Dawn could tell that Buffy was trying, although she wasn’t good at it. Buffy had bought her new school supplies on her way home from work, but that kind of pissed Dawn off, since she would have liked a say in the selection, thanks. Last year Spike had taken her, and let her get whatever she wanted. He’d paid for it, not shoplifted, which surprised her.

Humming, Dawn moved to her bureau and opened the bottom drawer, pushing aside her seldom-used mittens and knitted winter hat. She didn’t know why she was even keeping them, they just took up valuable drawer space. She had other stuff she needed to keep tucked out of sight.

Beneath the winter gear, that’s what she wanted. She pulled out the folded towel and carried it over to her bed, unfolding it carefully. Didn’t want to damage it.

She smiled as she unwrapped the scarf inside to study the jumble of bones. Had Spike even noticed it was gone? Maybe he was drinking too much to see straight—there were bottles everywhere in his crypt. But he couldn’t stay drunk forever. He’d sober up some time.

And then when he was sober…that’s when he’d start to feel it. It might not bother him too much yet, but it would get worse. Dawn knew exactly how to make him suffer.

The bag of bones? Maybe it would upset him. But he’d realize soon enough that it was only the beginning.

Chapter Six

She knew something was wrong the moment she touched the handle of their front door. She’d made it clear to Dawn that the doors were to be kept locked at all times, even when they were home. They used to leave them unlocked, but that was a dangerous habit, and Buffy had put a stop to it.

Laying her book bag on the front step, Buffy eased the door open. Whoever it was must have thought the house would be deserted; Dawn was usually over at Janice’s after school, and Buffy had class. No one was supposed to be home.

From the kitchen she could hear voices, muted. One of them pitched higher, and Buffy’s heart stilled, and then began to race. It was Dawn, and she was upset. Buffy abandoned stealth for speed, and ran to the kitchen, bursting through the doorway, ready to fight.

Dawn and Giles, sitting together at the kitchen table, looked up at her with surprise evident on their faces. Between them was a plate with a few cookies and a litter of crumbs, and in front of Dawn was the remains of a glass of milk.

Buffy skidded to a halt, as surprised as they were. Giles, after all, had returned to England after he recovered from his injuries. There was really no reason for him to stay in Sunnydale, was there? Nothing to keep him here.

"Giles? What are you doing here?" she asked blankly. But then her brain started to work, and she came to the most obvious conclusion: impending apocalypse. "Is there some Hellmouthy beast about to destroy the world?" she asked cautiously. It had only been a few months since Will—since the last time. Those things usually only happened in spring. It was nice and regular. Like everybody coming back in September from wherever they’d been all summer.

Hey, it had happened again. It was fall, and Giles and Spike had both returned. It was like magic.

Like magic. Abruptly her mood soured. She’d missed what Giles was saying, but shifted her attention to him now.

"—would have notified you immediately of course, so don’t worry about that. Really, I just came for a visit. I was concerned."

He was visiting because he was concerned about her? That was bizarre. The first time, he’d left her with a day’s notice. Left her with no mother, no father to speak of, a sister to care for. She was just getting used to being alive, and he left her. Because leaving really was the best way to express concern, or at least that’s what they all told her before they left. Some variation thereof.

He’d just found out she’d been pulled out of heaven, and he left anyway.

No visit for six months. He came by finally, to save the world. That was big enough for him to visit. Nothing less. So what was he doing here now? The last time he’d left, in June, she’d told him to go, she was fine. But he hadn’t listened when she’d asked him to stay, so why did he listen when she told him it was okay to leave? Did what she said suddenly count more?

Stop it, she thought. It doesn’t have to be like this. Act like an adult. Be an adult.

Buffy shook her head, dismissing her bitterness. His concern. "Why would you be worried?"

He opened his mouth, but Dawn beat him to the punch. "Spike’s back," she announced loftily. She hadn’t wanted to tell Buffy before—couldn’t stand the thought of it, and besides, Buffy might suspect something—but if Buffy was going to hear about it, Dawn wanted the satisfaction of being the one to tell her.

Buffy shifted her gaze to her sister. "And you’re just now telling me?" she inquired with mock surprise. "Because you’ve known for days."

The smile dropped from Dawn’s face, but she quelled her rising panic quickly. Buffy didn’t know anything. She couldn’t. Not unless she’d been going through Dawn’s things—of course, that would be just like her! "How did you find out?" Dawn demanded furiously, jumping to her feet.

"Spike told me. Apparently he didn’t want to lie to me," said Buffy, trying but failing to keep the anger out of her voice. It pissed her no end that her own sister had lied to her about it, but a soulless demon had told her the truth.

Oh, who was she kidding? Maybe the soul was overrated anyway. The world had nearly ended a few months ago because a souled witch was angry. And Buffy had spent months before that chasing after three completely souled, completely dangerous assholes, one of whom was the one who had pushed Willow over the edge—

Shut up, she told herself. No one made Willow do anything. She made her own decisions.

And so did Buffy.

"You talked to him?" Dawn gasped. "After what he did—after—"

"Dawn, that’s enough," rushed out Buffy, heading Dawn off. She hadn’t told Giles about what happened in the bathroom, and she wasn’t about to. It wasn’t his business. It was between her and Spike. No one else ever should have known.

"But he—"

"Excuse us," Buffy said to Giles, tugging Dawn out of the room. She was being gentle, but not giving her sister a choice.

In the entryway Dawn wore a typically sullen expression, one that surely Buffy had given up by the time she was 16. The only thing Dawn wore more often was Buffy’s favorite sweater.

"Did you tell him? About what Spike did?" Buffy asked quietly, trying to keep her patience. She knew she had a tendency to snap at Dawn. It had only worsened after Dawn had become so remote. She had absolutely no idea how to set things right between them, but she had a great handle on making things worse.

Dawn’s eyes grew hostile. "I didn’t tell him anything," she said coldly.

Even trying to treat Dawn gently she’d been too harsh, Buffy realized. Sometimes it was difficult to remember she was dealing with her younger sister, someone who depended on and looked to her for guidance and affection. Or had.

"Dawnie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. I was just so surprised to see him," Buffy said soothingly.

Dawn didn’t look convinced, but her expression eased a little.

"Just walking in and finding him in the kitchen with you was a shock," Buffy added.

A chill settled over Dawn’s face again. Apparently that hadn’t been what she thought Buffy was going to say. Buffy wasn’t sure what Dawn wanted. "I mean, I just—"

"It’s fine," said Dawn stonily. "I have homework anyway." She disappeared up the stairs, going, going, gone.

It was a view Buffy was very familiar with, but she didn’t know how to change it.

***

Judging by the apprehensive look Buffy had given him, it looked like Dawn had nearly blurted out why Buffy and Spike had parted ways.

Buffy didn’t even notice him as he watched the sisters from the doorway. Strange, how he and Buffy had known each other so long and so well, yet had grown increasingly estranged. It wasn’t the distance, couldn’t be. When he’d returned to Sunnydale the previous fall, Buffy had maintained a perfect remoteness from him. From everyone. Everyone except Spike, apparently. Giles had thought that his returning to England would provide the jolt necessary to bring her back to herself, but she’d only sunk in deeper.

He hadn’t let her know that he was coming. As much as it shamed him to feel that way, he didn’t want her to have a chance to brace herself before he arrived. To prepare a story with which to fob him off. She was dear and brave, but she loved her secrets. That was nothing new. How long had she kept Angel’s return from the dead to herself? Despite the danger to herself and others?

He didn’t want her to have the opportunity to plan any further deceptions. Or, if it came to that, to warn Spike.

If it came to that.

Dawn had been surprised when he’d shown up on the doorstep, but seemed pleased to see him. They’d been having a perfectly civilized conversation when Buffy had burst in. Dawn had been speaking to him with unusual frankness. She was upset. Upset about Janice. About Buffy.

About Spike.

He’d been surprised she’d even mentioned him; she seldom had since Buffy returned, sensing his dislike for the vampire. He’d only just put up with Spike after Buffy’s death, knowing they needed his help with patrolling and looking after Dawn. He was rather good at both.

But Giles had never felt entirely comfortable about Spike’s association with Buffy and the others. Even years ago, when Angelus had been so determined to end the world, Giles would have cautioned her against trusting Spike to assist her in defeating Angel.

Of course, he had been in no position to do so. He was busy being tortured, which Spike had been content to allow as he nurtured his own plans.

Later, after the Initiative had succeeded in doing what no Slayer had ever been able to—leash Spike—the vampire had flatly refused Giles’ suggestion that he consider the opportunities the chip presented. To forge a new path, to align himself with good, since he was unable to indulge in evil. Spike had made clear he wanted no part of redemption. He would rather enjoy what wickedness came his way, through Adam and Harmony and others, than make any movement towards the light. He wanted no part of protecting humanity.

And he was back. Dawn had seen him. And naturally he had made his presence known to Buffy; he had centered his life around her for the better part of two years. The only things Spike knew how to do were fight and fixate on women. In Buffy he had found the ideal outlet for both his preoccupations—first wanting to kill her, then wanting something else.

Yes, it was good he had returned.

***

"It doesn’t disturb you—his return?"

Buffy shook her head and forced a smile. It was uncomfortable, sitting in the living room talking to Giles about Spike. It was wrong, she’d never talked to him about her personal life. She remembered when he’d asked how she’d known that she was responsible for Angel losing his soul, and she felt so miserable and looked at him and he’d known. And she felt like garbage.

It wasn’t the kind of thing someone who’s like a father to you should hear. And now she was an adult, she was 21, and she still didn’t feel comfortable talking about her private life with him. She would have liked to have asked her mother if that was normal, but that wasn’t an option. And she wouldn’t have felt comfortable asking her mother about such things in the first place.

She relied on her own judgement, and she always had.

"It’s his home," Buffy replied simply. "Where else would he go?"

It was his home, she knew, because she was there.

She was being deliberately obtuse, Giles felt sure. "If you’re not comfortable with his presence, he can be made to go elsewhere," he pointed out.

Buffy stiffened. "What? Threaten him into leaving?" she asked, her voice tense. She knew Giles was only trying to help, but it was wrong. It seemed like most of the Scooby interaction with Spike had involved coercing him to cooperate under the threat of death. He could assist them in defeating whatever the new big bad was, but he couldn’t fight them. Hell, even Dawn could hurt him if she wanted to, and he couldn’t do a thing about it.

Suddenly she remembered last spring, patrolling in his graveyard. She’d broken up with him weeks before. He’d left Xander and Anya’s wedding before…well, before Xander did. She and Spike had run into each other and started talking, and they were getting along fine. Then Xander and Willow had come in and Xander, feeling angry and guilty about leaving Anya, had torn into Spike. Snarled at him and then knocked him down, like he was the dummy in her training room, just there for someone to abuse.

Inside Buffy winced. And she’d always been number one with the punch.

Giles was still talking, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter what he thought about Spike, or what Xander thought or even Dawn. No one was interfering with him. They’d done enough, all of them.

"He’s here and he’s not going anywhere," Buffy said flatly. "I’m fine with that. We’ve talked and things are okay."

Giles considered her statement. Spike might have seemed unthreatening when the two had spoken, but they had no idea how he would react to being around Buffy after she had rejected him; his reaction to Drusilla’s rejection had involved kidnapping Willow and Xander to procure a spell to enchant Drusilla, and then ended "happily" with him torturing her.

In short, not something Buffy should have to deal with because of a slip in judgement when she was depressed.

"You may think everything is fine, but you can’t—"

The rest of his argument disappeared as Buffy leapt to her feet, staring out the front window. "Jesus, what is she doing here?" Buffy ground out, lunging towards the door and wrenching it open. She stalked across the lawn with jerky strides to the small figure under the tree.

Willow, face tilted to the ground but eyes looking upward, gazed intensely at Buffy. Hungrily, Giles thought. Like she hadn’t seen Buffy in months.

Buffy flew to Willow as if to stop her from making any move closer towards the house. Giles didn’t know when Willow had appeared; she hadn’t been there when he and Buffy had sat down.

"What do you think you’re doing here?" Buffy snarled. "I told you to stay away!"

"I—"

"Do you have a death wish? Because if you come here again, I’ll forget that Slayers don’t hurt humans," Buffy spat out. "Now get out of here! Now! Or do I have to call Xander again?" she demanded, advancing on Willow as if she would grab the girl. Willow backed up hurriedly, casting Giles a frightened glance.

He nodded to her. "Go," he mouthed, and she turned and disappeared into the growing twilight, shoulders slumped. When he turned back to Buffy, she was already in the house, shutting the door behind her, not realizing that he wasn’t with her. Or not caring.

He followed her inside, and found her pacing mindlessly in the front room.

"That was rather unusual," he noted neutrally. "May I take it that wasn’t the first such scene?"

Buffy cast him a wild-eyed glance. She was completely undone, and clearly in no mood to talk.

"It really doesn’t seem realistic to expect that Willow will never come here again, does it?" he prompted gently. "I think it might be better if you dealt with this situation instead of just ignoring it."

"Deal with it?" Buffy scoffed. "Which part it? The part where she tried to kill me? Or the part where she tried to destroy the world?"

"Both parts, I should think," he returned calmly. "Angel tried to do both, and you forgave him."

Buffy froze in her tracks. He knew immediately he’d said the wrong thing. But how could she forgive such a thing for one person she’d loved, and not another? Buffy looked at Willow and saw the murderous witch who’d attempted to end the world. He looked at her and saw the timid child she’d been before Buffy came to Sunnydale—the friendless girl who had to work up her nerve to speak outside of class, who’d shifted her eyes from the gaze of others, lest she see their derision. She was far more innocent of her crimes than Angel. And she depended on Buffy’s love and approval far more than he ever had.

Buffy glared frostily at him. He would not be able to reason with her, he knew, not until she calmed down.

"I need to take a walk," she announced coldly, glancing around, looking at everything but him. She stalked over to the corner of the living room, picked up a large shopping bag full of god knows what, and moved past him.

Giles couldn’t stop himself. "Are you going to see him?"

"Yes," Buffy replied tonelessly. She didn’t even break stride as she left the house, and Giles, behind her.

***

She’d brought him a blanket. Just handed him a big paper bag and let him rummage inside and there it was. She’d never given him anything before.

"It’s for me?" Spike asked in surprise. "You bought it?"

"It was around the house. I thought you could use it," she replied, feeling antsy. It was still a little awkward to be around him. Not as much, but a little. She wanted to just rush past this stage and hit the next one, which had to be better. "I noticed your old one was gone."

Noticed on one of her many visits to check the crypt.

"Yeah, I saw that. Clem must have set it on fire, or lost it in a poker game," said Spike softly, still amazed that she’d brought him something—anything—but especially something to keep him safe. His ratty old one had protected him on countless trips to see her, to visit the Magic Box, and to steal her underwear.

It had lain over them when they slept. Tangled under them when they weren’t sleeping.

He wished Clem hadn’t lost the blanket, but her giving him the new one was…nice. Pale blue, with little stars embroidered on the trim. He recognized it now; he’d seen it on her bed several times. She seldom bothered to make her bed.

Of course, she didn’t know he’d been in her room all those times. There was really no reason for her to know.

"You up for patrolling?" she asked briskly.

He nodded. He didn’t mind that the moment was broken. He was just glad they’d had it at all.

They walked through the cemetery in silence for a while. Buffy seemed preoccupied, and he didn’t want to interfere. Well, that was a bloody lie, he wanted to stick his nose in every inch of her business, but he was going to handle this well, even if it killed him.

"What do you do when you do something stupid, and it comes back to bite you on the ass?" she asked suddenly.

Spike was startled. For a moment he thought she was talking about his soul, but that was ridiculous. She didn’t know about it. Couldn’t…right?

"What kind of thing?" he asked cautiously. Feeling his way around.

She hesitated, then plunged ahead. "In the spring—right after you left—a bunch of stuff happened." She waved her hand in dismissal as he opened his mouth. She wanted to get this out now, or she’d just shove it to the back of her mind again. "Warren—the guy who built the robot for you—was bugging me all year. He’s the one who killed that girl, the one I thought I’d killed. He decided things would be easier with me out of the way, so he shot me."

Spike froze, unable to breathe. Forgetting he didn’t need to, but suddenly desperate for air. "You—you—" Suddenly he was tugging at her clothing, searching frantically for the wound, as if it were fresh and he had to staunch the bleeding. Why hadn’t he been there? What kind of a bastard was he? He’d left because he was selfish. Wanted her to love him, so he went off to get something to make it possible. Didn’t even think about staying and making sure she was safe.

She pushed his hands away. She thought, calmly, that she probably should be having a flashback to the bathroom, but that seemed so far away now. So many things had happened, and it was starting to seem like something that had happened in a movie, not a part of her life.

"I’m fine," she said shortly. "But one of the bullets hit Tara, and killed her."

He pulled his hands back. The Good Witch gone, huh? He felt a little nauseous. She’d been a pretty thing. Sly, too. He liked that in a woman.

And she was good to the Bit, and treated her like a mum would.

"Sorry about that," he murmured sincerely.

Buffy nodded. "Anyway, Willow went berserk and killed Warren and went after his friends. She got a big jolt of magic and tried to kill me—" She continued talking despite his horrified attempts to interrupt—"and then she decided it would be better to simply destroy the entire world. Giles and Xander stopped her. They stopped her. I couldn’t do a damn thing."

They were both silent for a moment, absorbing her words. Then, softly, Spike asked, "Is that why you’re upset? That you felt it should have been you to stop her?"

Buffy looked at him in surprise. Where had he gotten that? She knew the world didn’t revolve around her. "No," she said impatiently. "It was because—because months ago, after she’d broken Dawn’s arm—I chose her."

Spike stared at her without comprehension. He could tell what she was saying was very important to her, but he had no idea what she meant.

"I chose her over my sister," Buffy continued bitterly. "I should have thrown her out that night. She’d taken my sister out and then gone and gotten her magic crack and then nearly got Dawn killed. And I let her back in the house. Dawn was there, we’d just brought her back from the hospital, remember? Her arm was in the cast, and Willow was down the hall, in our mother’s room. And Willow sat on the bed and shivered and I felt terrible for her and I thought, a friend would help. I have to help. She didn’t mean to hurt Dawn. So I let her stay, and I took everything in the house that was magical at all, even the Kokopelli statue, he was our mother’s, Dawn loved him," Buffy explained almost incoherently, her voice starting to crack. "I took it all and threw it out. Some of it, Dawn begged me to let her keep. But I said no. That’s not what friends do.

"And then, after Tara was killed, Dawn tried to help Willow. I took her to your crypt so you could keep her safe, but you weren’t there. Why weren’t you there?" she asked, beginning to cry. "Clem was there but he couldn’t keep her in. And then she met Willow, and Willow tried to—she tried to—" She broke off, crying. He touched her shoulder and she turned into him, burying her face against him as he stroked her back.

"She tried to kill Dawn. She was going to kill her. I’d ignored Dawn’s pleas for her, forgave her what she’d done to Dawn, and she was going to kill her."

***

It was later, much later that Buffy returned home, and she didn’t see Giles in the shadows of the porch as she slipped up the stairs and into the house. She’d been gone for hours, and he had been left with plenty of time to think. He really didn’t like his conclusions.

An ugly incident, and her first impulse was to go to Spike. How long had that been going on? Had she been doing that last fall, before he’d left?

Unbidden, he recalled helping a drunken Buffy up the stairs one night. Abruptly he realized that she hadn’t been drinking alone. And she’d never let a word slip. All those night patrolling—had she been alone then? It was good that she’d apparently felt she could confide in someone. But Spike? Nothing healthy could come of it. And considering how everything had worked out for…everybody, he couldn’t have been doing much good.

Obviously, nobody had.

When Giles had spoken to Xander, before he’d left for England, the boy had become agitated when Spike’s name had been mentioned. That wasn’t uncharacteristic, really, considering the nature of Buffy and Spike’s involvement. When she had been involved with Angel, even before he lost his soul, Xander had been almost irrational about the vampire. A hatred of demons, maybe, although he seemed to have gotten beyond that in his relationship with Anya. And certainly jealousy had played a part. Perhaps that was all it was this time. Perhaps.

But then again, perhaps it was time he went to visit Spike for himself.

 

 

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