Bag Of BonesBy Shadowlass
Chapter Seven
His heart hurt. It was subtle at first, the kind of faint ache that accompanies melancholy. Not the piercing, inescapable pain that comes with the loss of love. Spike was familiar with them both, and had no problem telling the difference.But when the pain suddenly became sharper, he awoke without a sound or a start and looked up to see Giles, standing over him, pressing the point of a stake against his chest.
"Been awhile, Rupert," Spike breathed—careful not to exhale much. Didn’t want to jostle the stake. Hadn’t seen him since they were stuck in the magic shop, when they had lost their memories. He and the Watcher had thought they were father and son, and the last thing they’d done was hug. He hoped the Watcher hadn’t gotten any ideas, because he wasn’t Angelus.
Or, of course, he could’ve come to stake him for attacking Buffy.
Giles pressed the weapon closer to his heart. Spike could almost feel the muscle giving way beneath the pressure, ready to allow it entry. As if its presence were welcome.
Well, it damned well was not. His heart could keep its buggered opinion to itself. His entire existence had proven nicely that his heart couldn’t find its way out of a one-room shack without a sign over the door, so all things considered, it wasn’t getting a vote in this case.
"I want to know about you and Buffy," Giles told him coldly, holding the wood steadily against Spike’s chest. "What happened between you. Why you left. And what you think you’re doing back in town."
Spike shifted a little. Of course, he could hold a position for hours; no circulation to worry about. Came in handy quite a few times. But that didn’t mean he liked it, and he normally roamed around like he was on wheels. Of course, he thought sourly, some of the time he actually had been on wheels.
"You don’t really need the artillery, mate, what with me being toothless and all," Spike reminded Giles.
Giles glanced towards the door. For the first time, Spike noticed that the Watcher had left it open, bright early morning sunlight streaming into the crypt.
A well-timed visit, one designed to prevent Spike from escaping if the Watcher decided he didn’t care for Spike’s answers. He could stay with Rupert and his little stake, or take his chances on the sunshine. Which was still in the fatal way for him, soul or no soul.
Of course, he could always haul the blanket with him to give him a fighting chance outside. The blanket Buffy had given him. He liked it on his sarcophagus, where he slept. Where he had slept with her, months before. He liked it there, and he liked her there, and he might as well face it, he couldn’t run from her Watcher and still hope for more from her. It wouldn’t just happen.
Christ, felt like he was still in school and called before the headmaster. Of course, the headmaster had never actually called William to his rooms, because William had never stepped out of line. But if he had called him, Spike was fairly sure he would not have threatened to drive a stake through his heart. Beat him with a switch, maybe. Stake, no.
Slowly, Giles backed away, keeping the stake at his side. Spike sat up
"What is it you want to know?" he asked warily. It didn’t sound like Buffy had told him about the bathroom. Had she told him anything at all about their involvement? Maybe the Bit had told him. Or Anya. Or Harris…yeah, Harris hated him. Only reason he hadn’t taken Spike’s head off was that Anya stopped him. Guess he owed her one.
Giles surveyed Spike. "I know you told yourself you had feelings for her. I want to know what you think you were doing acting on them."
Spike felt a surge of anger. What the hell was with these people—didn’t think he was capable of love? Thought he was too low for that? Or that Buffy was too special to be touched by the likes of him? He’d agree with that one, actually. But the alternative was not touching her, and he didn’t care for that option.
And where, he wondered, did Rupert get off imagining that Buffy was some delicate violet who had things done to her? Like she wasn’t there right alongside him the whole time. Urging him on. Taking the lead. She was the one to kiss him the first time, and the second. The one to climb on him, not the other way around. To shove him against a wall and—
"Well?"
Spike gathered himself. He wasn’t above enjoying a beautiful memory a time or two. Or twenty. "She’s an adult, Watcher. She makes up her own mind about these things. I don’t remember her ever consulting you in the past."
Giles felt irritation prick at the edges of his composure. Why, he wondered, did Spike always have that effect? "Buffy makes her own choices, yes, but in the past she—"
"In the past, she dated a bunch of worthless gits because she was trying to make the lot of you happy by acting normal," Spike snapped. How dare he try to run her life? Giles had attended one too many Pink Floyd concerts in his youth, obviously, and brain damage was the inevitable result. "I suppose Captain Cardboard was your idea of the perfect boyfriend? Bland and USDA inspected? Readily digestible, no unpleasant aftertaste? At least that’s what his little bints said."
The lack of comprehension on Giles’ face alerted Spike that he’d said too much. Kind of a common affliction with him, really. "Forget I said that," he added hastily. Giles opened his mouth to inquire, but Spike cut him off. "If Buffy wanted you to know everything, she’d tell you everything."
Giles’ mouth tightened. The insufferable delinquent. "You’re trying to interfere with the Watcher-Slayer bond—"
"Bond? You mean the one that’s so strong you skip back to England a week after she’s perfectly happy to burn up rather than keep on living? Or the one where you leave her living with an unstable witch so powerful she can raise the dead, and you don’t even check up on them? Or there’s always the one where you take your swollen chess-club brain off and leave her to try to figure out every fucking magical bit of mayhem in Sunnyhell by herself, ‘aided’ by her useless friends. Christ, their combined brain wattage couldn’t power a nightlight. Or maybe the one where—"
"I think you may be forgetting that I’m holding a stake," Giles reminded him mildly.
Spike broke off his litany of Giles’ shameful shortcomings. It really was shocking. He’d secretly kind of admired the man before he hied off and left Buffy. Left her to bear the weight of protecting the world without his guidance. Left her with a bunch of self-absorbed children who gave her no help at all, and then came back and thought he could dictate her life. "You were supposed to take care of her," he pointed out. "And you left her, like all the rest of them did."
"As did you," Giles noted, his voice remote.
Spike closed his eyes briefly. Was that how she saw it? How she felt it? "I did it for her own good."
"As did I. One of the reasons I left was so she would make her own decisions," Giles pointed out. "But I want you to think about what you can offer Buffy. You are restrained from killing only by virtue of a chip in your head. It’s not something you’ve chosen, and it’s not something you control. What happens if and when the chip fails? You claim you love Buffy, but how will you behave if you cease to love her?"
"Won’t happen," returned Spike flatly, meeting the Watcher dead in the eye.
"So you say. But perhaps you should look to the example of your grandsire," Giles advised, ignoring the way Spike bridled at the suggestion. "I won’t even mention the unlikelihood of your just happening to fall in love with the woman your grandsire and former rival loved. The psychological implications are immense. I wonder, really, if it even has anything at all to do with her."
"I—"
"But Angel left town so that Buffy could live her life. Live it as a human, not as a consort to a creature who cannot walk in the sun or give her children. And there was less to worry about with Angel. He had a soul, and was guided by more than merely his feelings for her."
I have a soul, thought Spike with bitter resentment. But he said nothing. The Watcher was not going to be his test subject for that little piece of news. Spike somehow doubted that he would be a receptive audience.
"How many people do you suppose you’ve killed over the years? A thousand? That would be a very modest guess, wouldn’t it?" said Giles. He clearly was not looking for a response. "You’re what, 200? Even if you only killed a person a week, that’s more than 10,000, isn’t it? And really," Giles added, shoving his point home, "you didn’t just kill to survive, did you? A vampire could survive on a person a week, but a nickname like ‘William the Bloody’ isn’t earned though moderation…is it?"
Spike didn’t reply. He wasn’t anywhere near as old as Giles thought, but the estimate of 10,000 victims was still terribly low. Unspeakable low. Unimaginably.
He’d needed to survive, dammit. That’s what vampires did, they killed and they ate. What was he supposed to do? Stand on a street corner with a tin cup and a sign? Will growl for blood? He was a vampire. It had delivered him from mediocrity, he’d told Buffy. That was nothing but the truth. As a human he’d been pathetic. A target for bullies, scorned by women, desperately taking refuge in poetry. Drusilla had made him a man in more ways than one. Spike had eclipsed William entirely, and it hadn’t just been his demon. It was the man inside him as well, hungry for conquest. Aching to get a little of his own back. Somehow, it had turned into a lot. And he’d loved every bloody minute of it.
What was he supposed to do? Apologize? Hello, demon. It was what came naturally. Had come naturally. Ripping and tearing and running wild. Energy and lust pumping through his veins, alive for the first time. Acceptance. Admiration. Other vampires, humans, looking at him with awe, with fear. Not contempt.
"I—I—" Spike began hopelessly. He would never hurt Buffy. Never hurt her again. Other people—well, who the hell knew? He didn’t feel like it at this particular moment, but that was no guarantee. The chip was still humming in his brain, its painful little electrodes muzzling him. Keeping him in check. But it wasn’t alone now. Not alone.
"I want you to think about what I’ve said, Spike," Giles told him, crossing to the crypt door and slipping the stake into his jacket pocket. "Buffy may be content to have you in town. But as you pointed out so eloquently, not so long ago she was also content to dance herself to death. When you were involved before, it was secretly. No one knew. Now, I’m aware of it, and I will be keeping my eye on you. So I strongly suggest you think before you do anything, Spike. Anything at all."
***
The pounding on the door woke Xander out of a sound sleep. It was dreamless, and that made him happy. He hadn’t dreamed anything pleasant in a long time, which was sad. Before, no matter how bad his life had gotten, he’d always been able to take refuge in dreams. Now he was happy just to sleep straight through the night.
He dragged himself to the front door without bothering to put on his robe. It was barely seven in the morning; whoever came that early could be terrorized by the site of Xander in his jammies, he was past caring. Maybe they’d take it as a hint not to come so early.
In the past, he might have been worried at being roused that hour. Was it an emergency? Was he needed? He knew that wasn’t happening now. The only person who needed him was in his spare room. As for the world possibly ending, would they even be aware of it? They didn’t do research any more. Buffy still patrolled. At least he thought so; he hadn’t gone with her in…well, since she died. She could—
"Xander? Are you there?" came Giles’ voice through the door.
Xander pulled the door open hurriedly. Giles had left Sunnydale as soon as he’d recovered from his injuries, moved back to England and hadn’t been heard from since, more or less. He’d called Xander a couple of times. Willow said he called her during the day occasionally, to check on how she was doing. Xander had been relieved to hear that. Giles’ apparent disinterest in all of them had hurt him. Made him wonder if Giles had ever really cared about them, other than for the help they might provide Buffy. Made him wonder how he could just turn off his feelings for people he had been around every day for the last five years.
Xander could never do that.
"What is it?" he asked in concern as he stepped back so Giles could enter.
"Did you know? Why didn’t you call me?" Giles demanded. He didn’t mean to sound so harsh, but talking with Spike had unsettled him. The things Spike had said to him—surely Buffy didn’t feel that way. That he’d abandoned her. She knew he had left for her own good. She had agreed with him, told him he was right to do so. She’d gone to the airport with him and kissed him goodbye. She hadn’t seemed upset. Certainly she would have said something if she were.
Xander had no idea what Giles was talking about. "Know what?"
"That Spike’s returned."
Obviously, Xander hadn’t known. For several moments he just stood there in shock, looking like he’d received a blow to the head. Then his expression began to clear and anger filled his face. "Are you telling me that little—"
"Giles?"
The two men turned at the sound of the tentative voice. Willow was there in the hall doorway, wrapped in a chenille robe. The same one she’d used at Buffy’s, Giles noted.
"Has something happened?"
"It’s nothing, Will," Xander told her. She knew nothing of what Spike had done. Buffy had been adamant that Willow not be told. At first Xander had thought that she hadn’t wanted to distress Willow with such upsetting news, but eventually it became clear that Buffy simply wasn’t interested in telling Willow, ever. It was this major thing, but it was something Willow would never know because Buffy had cut her out of her life. Willow didn’t even get second-hand information about her. Xander hated it, but he didn’t want to tell Willow about it either. There wasn’t anything they could do about it. Before now.
Now, Spike was back.
"It seems Spike has returned to Sunnydale," explained Giles, relaxing a little. Obviously, the children had known nothing of it. He hated to think of not being told.
"Oh, that," nodded Willow.
Unbidden, Xander felt a curl of apprehension lick along his spine. "What do you mean, ‘oh, that?’" he asked tensely.
"Well, yesterday I went out—just for a walk," Willow added hurriedly, cutting off his protests. Xander was so protective. What did he think she was going to do? Walk into traffic? Or maybe walk into the Magic Box and stock up on ingredients?
Actually, both of those options had their merits.
"So, I went out on a walk and I passed by Buffy’s and I—uh—thought maybe I’d say hi, and Giles and Buffy were talking, and I overheard," Willow finished somewhat lamely.
"You know not to go there," Xander exclaimed in agitation—his concern about Spike pushed to the side for the moment. Jesus, the last time Willow had gone over there Buffy had told him that if Willow ever came back, Buffy would…he didn’t like to think about it. She’d told him to keep Willow the hell away. Said she could pretend Willow didn’t exist if she didn’t see her, and that was the best thing for all of them. He’d told Willow, again and again, not to try to see Buffy. He thought he’d gotten through to her.
But she’d gone over again anyway. What could he do? How could he protect her? He didn’t want her in an institution again. It hurt his heart to think of her there, trapped, locked up like she was nothing. But god, if she was going around to see Buffy…Buffy was adamant. And he couldn’t watch Willow all the time. He had to go to work. And he had to trust her that she was staying away. What was the alternative?
Willow wasn’t even looking at him. "What did Buffy say?" she asked wistfully, her eyes on Giles. "Did she mention me?"
Dear god, how could she look at him with such hope? Buffy had screamed at her on the street like some kind of shrike the previous day. She had sounded quite unbalanced, really. He’d actually been afraid Buffy might strike her, yet Willow seemed to have no idea of just how angry Buffy was.
Or, he admitted to himself, she was just too persistent to be discouraged. Willow had always pushed forward through difficult times. It was something he admired about her. He remembered how tenderly she had cared for Tara after Glory had stolen her mind, and winced.
"I’m sorry," he told Willow. "She…she spoke mostly of other things."
"You mean about Spike?" Xander asked. "What did she say about him? Is she going to st—see him? Is she okay? Is she upset? Did she say whether—"
Giles cut off his babbling. "Xander, what are you going on about?" he asked in bemusement. He’d seldom seen Xander so discomposed.
Xander looked around in utter frustration. He was not supposed to talk about it in front of Willow. Or in front of Giles, probably. Buffy hadn’t told him that, but they’d had a lot on their minds the last few times he’d been around Giles.
"Yeah," Willow added. "They broke up months ago. Why would Buffy be all upset now?"
"Well, it’s—it’s only natural," Xander improvised wildly. "Remember when Riley came back? Him and his wife—what was her name? Mary Sue?"
"Sam," Willow corrected. "Buffy wasn’t happy, but I think that’s mostly because she suddenly had Ms. Perfect shoved in her face. Spike didn’t—he didn’t come back with a girlfriend, did he? Because that would just upset Buffy. She got the most awful look on her face when she saw—" Willow broke off hastily. She’d been about to say, when she saw Spike with Anya, but Xander didn’t need to hear that. But she saw, from the crushed look on his face, that he’d made the connection for himself.
"No, he’s alone," sighed Giles. "Apparently you two know even less about it than I do." Which was amazing, him being isolated other side of the planet and all.
"So how did you know?" asked Willow.
He replied without thinking. "Anya told me."
There was a stricken silence in the room. Finally Xander said, "She called you?"
Giles shook his head. "She came to see me, actually. Teleported, or whatever is the acceptable term for vengeance demons."
"She came to see you?" Xander repeated, his voice hushed. "Has she done that before?"
Giles fidgeted. He hadn’t really thought about how to address this before coming over. Perhaps he should have. "Once or twice," he admitted.
Xander just nodded dumbly. He’d never mastered the skill of keeping his emotions off his face, or out of his voice. At least he could try not to talk. Maybe he could walk around with a bag over his head. That should take care of it. "I have to get ready for work," he said hollowly, turning to head back to his bedroom, leaving Giles and Willow in the living room.
It was still early. Not yet eight. He was due on the construction site, but there was time left for what he wanted to do. After that little piece of news he wasn’t heading straight to work. He had a stop to make first.
***
Why did bottles hold so little? It was one of life’s little mysteries. Like hot dogs, or Enrique Iglesias.
Nice little visit he’d had from Ripper. Earned himself his nickname there. Came in, said a few things, made Spike feel like crap. All in all, a good day’s work for Watcherboy.
Fuck him. Who did he think he was? Thought he knew everything. Didn’t even know how old Spike was—wasn’t that enough of a clue that he didn’t have a…clue?
Got to lay off the booze, Spike thought vaguely. Wasn’t doing him any good at all. Probably killing off his brain cells. Wait, could dead brain cells be killed?
Another of life’s mysteries.
So the Watcher thought Spike’s love for the Slayer had something to do with the Poof? Ridiculous. If he’d wanted to get back at that big girl’s blouse he would have gone after Darla. She was undead again, last he’d heard. And despite what Giles and Buffy and everybody else in Sunnydale thought, she was far more the center of his existence than Buffy had ever been. His whole fucking existence had revolved around Darla. It wasn’t just the blood bond between them; he was fascinated with her. He’d been with Darla for more than a century. Even with the soul, he wouldn’t leave until she forced him too. He ate the dregs of society and hoped that would be enough to earn him her favor. When it hadn’t been, he’d scrabbled around alleys and dank holes and hadn’t cared if he lived or died. And as soon as Darla was brought back to life, they were together again, according to Dru.
Meanwhile, the Slayer was up here going about her daily life, trying everything she could to protect her sister. And he was down there with Darla. Didn’t even come up to help fight Glory, the self-involved git. Yeah, that’s some eternal love for you.
Spike finished the bottle he was working on a began another. Dropped the first to the floor as he lolled in his armchair. Hadn’t even bothered to turn the television on, which was probably a bad sign.
He thought of his present. His now absent present. He started to giggle stupidly. He really was rather shit-faced at the moment. He’d had a sharp ache in his gut the entire time the Watcher had been there and it had taken a long time and a lot of booze to make it go away. Damned curse.
What was that poem—Kipling, wasn’t it? Rag and a bone and a hank of hair? He knew it, but it was a long time ago. That’s what he was, right? Nothing but the contents of that package. Except for the powder, he didn’t know what that was about. But the rest…that’s what he was before the soul, right? Empty, without meaning or emotion or—
Fuck that! Spike straightened up, his head unfogging a bit. He hadn’t been empty, he’d loved and thought and felt as deeply as anyone. Shitload more than some. He had never been empty. Life would have been easier if he had. Wouldn’t have hurt so much.
He wondered when he’d see the Slayer next. Maybe Buffy could help him with his little present. It was her job, wasn’t it?
No, mate, her job is killing your kind to protect her kind. Not protecting demons from scary bones and hair. Shouldn’t bother her with it anyway. She had enough on her plate, feeling all guilty about the Bit.
Still, if she was coming around he could straighten up the place a little. Make it more the kind of place she’d want to be, and less of a hole. He stood up to start with the cleaning, but his head started throbbing and he staggered a bit. What was that? Too much booze, or was he starting to sober up? Hadn’t been drinking as steadily the last fifteen or twenty minutes. Had let down the pace.
He bent to retrieve the bottle at his feet, and instead knocked it under the chair. Hunkering down, he stuck his hand underneath and rooted around for it. He didn’t find it. But he did find something else. A snug little package.
His secret admirer had paid him another visit.
Chapter Eight
As soon as Buffy opened the door and saw the strained, anxious look on Xander’s face she knew why he was there."You heard Spike’s back," she said calmly, standing back so he could enter. Thank god Dawn had already left for school. She had no idea where Giles was, he’d been gone when she got up.
"How long have you known?" Xander demanded rawly. His voice was so rough it sounded like he was gargling rocks.
"A few days now," she admitted, moving over to sit on the couch.
He followed her, mimicking her movements. She doubted he was aware of what he was doing—he was completely distracted.
"Why haven’t you staked him?"
Buffy stared at her hands, clasped together in her lap. Like a little girl in church. "What good would it do?"
"Well, it would rid the earth of one soulless, bloodsucking fiend who, incidentally, tried to rape you not so long ago," he reminded her harshly. How could she just shrug off what Spike had done? To her, to others? Her indifference shocked him. It wasn’t her. It wasn’t the Buffy he loved.
Buffy hated having this conversation with him. She hated his knowing. His judging. It was what they did, her friends. Decide what standards she should be held to and let her know when she wasn’t up to par. "That’s between us," she told him.
"Us? Are you telling me there’s an us?" he asked in disbelief.
She considered that. "We’re friends," she said finally.
He couldn’t believe she was acting this way—it was exactly the way she’d been with Angel. Like all of the things they did, all of the evil, didn’t matter as much as her having a boyfriend. Like they had a "Get Out of Jail Free" card. "He kills people," he pointed out.
"You’ve killed people," she reminded him.
Xander stared at her, shocked. "What are you talking about?"
"Remember last year, when you called up that dancing demon who killed all those people? You of all people knew how dangerous demons are, and you summoned him anyway. None of us ever called you on it," she pointed out quietly. "None of us ever said a word."
"I never meant to—"
"I almost died, Xander. Remember?"
He closed his eyes in a hopeless attempt to forget. Of course he remembered. He’d thought he was seeing her die for the third time. He was so frightened, so horrified. He couldn’t think, couldn’t move. Couldn’t help her. It was a nightmare.
"Do you remember who saved me? It wasn’t you or any of the others. It was Spike. He grabbed me even though I was smoking and he’d go up too if I burst into flames. He went in where the rest of you wouldn’t."
"He’s a demon," Xander said desperately.
"So is Anya," Buffy shot back. "I notice you don’t seem to mind so much with her."
"She is—was—a former demon," Xander corrected warily. He never liked to think about it. It was easy to push to the back of his mind, because she’d had no powers when they were involved. That made ignoring it easy. So he wouldn’t have to wonder how he could love someone who’d done the things she had.
"I like Anya, but I’m not going to give her credit for being forced to become a human," Buffy dismissed. "I remember all those grisly stories she used to tell about her glorious days as Anyanka. She didn’t regret the things she did at all. She just regretted not being able to do them any more."
"Like Spike’s ever regretted anything," Xander scoffed, hurt.
Buffy was silent for a moment. "He’s regretted things," she said quietly.
She had seen it in his eyes.
***
The thing that mattered about presents was the thought behind them. Spike had always kept that in mind during his years with Drusilla, which helped him endure celebrations she marked not with the tender love-gifts he gave to her but with odd things that made sense to her damaged mind: a dead fern, a box of ceramic tiles, a lady’s hat. Once, she wrapped up the book he was reading and presented it to him with great flourish. They were lovingly meant, he knew. He was never certain of her exact thoughts, but he felt sure they were warm.
His new present was a little doll. Not like Dru’s. This one was twigs wrapped together and bound with twine to form a human figure. The essential thought behind this one was, I’ve seen "The Blair Witch Project."
So at this point Spike knew the bugger a) hated him, and b) had crap taste in movies.
Kind of a disappointment after the bones, really. All things considered, his anonymous friend was falling off on the job. The lack of effort really kind of hurt. Nobody took pride in their work any more.
He’d been staring at the doll for hours, sitting in his good chair, looking at it balanced on top of his television. For a while he thought it might have hypnotic powers, but then he realized he was still just pissed and snapped out of it. He’d been going at the bottle pretty good after Ripper left, but hadn’t had anything for awhile, and was pretty close to sober.
But he still couldn’t tag the sender. Tucked in the scarf with the twig figure were fresh herbs and leaves so fragrant he couldn’t pick up any trace of human scent beneath them. Eucalyptus leaves and rosemary and some other things he couldn’t identify. Plus some shriveled, blackened rose petals that disturbed him more than the rest put together. The rest was just a pile of mulch, as far as he was concerned, but the rancid petals seemed like a warning, or maybe a metaphor: everything withers. Everything has its day, and then dies. And although he’d walked the earth for a century and a half, he was as vulnerable to death as any human. One unlucky break and there’d be less of him than those shriveled petals, just a little dust marking where he’d been.
Of course, the doll had been highly effective at summoning those abdominal pains again. So it wasn’t a complete loss, right? At least not for the blighter who wanted to get to him so bad.
For a moment his thoughts turned to Giles. He was a good candidate. Had he come in and dropped it off, then found he couldn’t hold his wad and decided he might as well finish it then? God, the man was cold; Spike hadn’t seen ice like that since the winter he and Dru spent in Minsk. All righteous, he was, and fierce about protecting his girl, except not enough to stay with her. What the hell kind of love was that? If you love, you stay. That’s what a man did. A real man.
Abruptly an image flashed in Spike’s mind: Buffy on the ground, her blood pouring out a bullet wound. In the shoulder, maybe? Hurt like hell, but non-fatal. Or the leg—enough to floor her but not enough to leave her with a limp? Where did it happen? Did Warren get to her when she was out patrolling, alone since Spike was gone and the Scoobies were off involved in their own lives? All alone, and every rotten evil thing knew she was out there every night?
Evil thing, he thought with a rise of distaste. He couldn’t say she had it wrong. He had been evil. Now, things were different. He was different. Not sure how different, yet. He’d always wanted to help her, make her happy. Not everything in him had been evil.
He’d never been a thing, though. Never just a thing. She’d wanted to put in him a place where he didn’t matter, and it was easier that way. Didn’t matter how she treated him if he was just a thing. Then he was just an accidental indiscretion, a puddle she slipped in, easy to wipe away.
Warren…Christ, Spike had been there in the basement with the little motherfucker. The same night he and the Slayer were first together, he’d been there with Warren. And all that time, all those things that happened to Buffy, and the whole time it had been Warren and his loser friends. He’d known where they were all along. If she’d just told him about them, about anything other then where she liked his tongue or how hard to hold her down, he could have told her. Told her and saved her being shot, saved Tara from dying and Willow from going crazy and Buffy from hating herself for not protecting Dawn better. Saved them all. God, why couldn’t she have told him?
Things had to be different this time. Had to be. They weren’t teenagers flirting in class. They brushed against death every day. For so long he’d lived with the idea of immortality that he took—well, not the long view, he was too impatient for that. But it had become easy to assume things would work out for him. He had time on his side.
Buffy, however, died on a semi-regular basis, and eventually it would be permanent. She was nearly 22; her time was marked. He had to grab at any time they had together. It could never been enough, because someday there would be a demon too strong, an ascension she couldn’t stop, or just a fledging who caught her when she was tired and had dropped her stake. And then she’d be gone. A few minutes later, he’d be gone too, because there wouldn’t be any point in continuing.
Time to be all responsible, he thought, getting up from the chair. He wished he could slide into his duster, but it was gone.
Let’s see how things went when they tried them like adults.
***
The first thing Spike heard when he stepped on Buffy’s porch was the Bit, screaming at her sister at the top of her lungs. "Stay out of my room, I’ve told you a thousand times!" she shouted, sounding even more like a possessed banshee than she had before Spike left. Christ, she could give dolphins lessons in the ultrasonic shrieks.
Spike realized he was smiling even as he thought about what an annoying little chit she was. He’d missed her something fierce. She and the Slayer, they were a good package deal. He always felt lucky to be around the two of them.
He withdrew into the shadows of the porch before he was noticed. His hand had been on the doorknob, the habit of someone who wasn’t confident of his welcome if he knocked but wanted to enter anyway. It wasn’t how he should act, now.
Besides, he might not be able to enter without an invitation. He wasn’t sure he wanted to find out if he needed one. It would hurt. It was stupid, it was unreasonable, but it would hurt. He had wide experience in such matters.
From the kitchen the Slayer’s voice drifted out, calmer than her sister’s. "I was just straightening up. If you kept it neater, I wouldn’t—"
"Whether it’s neat or not has nothing to do with you! It’s my room, I can make the decisions!" Dawn shouted. "Why don’t you just concentrate on not flunking out this semester?"
"I could say the same to you," shot back Buffy. From the faint gasp Spike heard Platelet make, she wasn’t accustomed to Buffy returning her fire. The sounds of feet stomping, out the kitchen door and up the stairs, were Dawn’s final statement on the matter. Followed by the decisive slamming of her bedroom door, of course.
Ah, the slam. Good to know some things haven’t changed.
Beat it, mate. She’s got enough on her plate right now, Spike thought, turning to head off the porch. Behind him the kitchen door creaked open, and he froze, as guilty as if he’d been caught skulking under her tree again, staring up at her bedroom window.
"Spike? What are you doing?"
"Just, uhh…just thought I’d drop by, see if you wanted to go patrolling," he fabricated. Wasn’t going to dump that stupid curse crap on her now, she had more important things going on. He turned to face her and saw the light from the kitchen silhouetting her face, lightening her hair to pale gold as she stood in the doorway.
Buffy sighed. It had been a pretty lousy day. First Xander, and then a geology test she was pretty sure she screwed up, and then an argument with her supervisor, who had half her experience and made twice her pay.
It had been a lousy couple of days, really. She and Giles…she didn’t remember things ever being so awkward between them. The only bright spot had been last night with Spike, when she’d said everything she’d been holding in and he didn’t tell her the things she thought and felt and did were wrong. Just listened to her and rubbed her back during the worst and made little crooning noises in her ear. Nice noises.
And now she was just plain tired, and couldn’t stand the thought of spending the night walking around a deserted cemetery, looking for something to kill.
"Actually, I thought I might take the night off," she told him with a shake of her head.
"Oh—well, I’ll just—" Spike began, backing up.
"You want a popsicle?"
"What? A what?" Spike asked in surprise.
"Or a pudding pop?"
He just looked at her in confusion, like she’d spoken a foreign language. She backed away and held open the door. "Come in, Spike."
He moved into the house almost apprehensively. It was the first time she’d welcomed him there since Halloween. He’d been there for her endless birthday party, and at other times, but hadn’t been welcome. Even when they touched each other, away from the others, he knew she hadn’t really welcomed his presence there. Merely allowed it.
When she asked him in—was that a re-invitation? Or simply a courtesy? Had she put the spell on the house again, to keep him out?
Well, it wasn’t for him to know. Wasn’t his right to ask, and for that matter—oh, hell. "Did you revoke my invitation?"
Buffy pulled her head out of the freezer compartment and looked at him in surprise. "I—"
"You did, didn’t you? I mean, I understand. It was only practical. Really, when—"
"No."
They stood in silence in the kitchen, looking at each other. Waiting for the other to break the silence.
"Why didn’t you?" asked Spike softly, with wonder in his voice.
What could she say? She should have done it, really. Of course, she wouldn’t have asked Willow, but she could have gone to Anya or Giles. But they would have wanted to know why, and she didn’t want to tell them.
She’d seen the look on his face before he rushed out of the bathroom. The look of shock, of hurt. For once not because of something she’d done to him, but something he’d done. She didn’t have to worry about him. Not that way, at least. It was unreasonable. It was probably irrational. But it was something she just felt, and she’d always followed her instincts.
"I guess I just never got around to it," she told him quietly, ignoring a twinge of guilt over the facile answer. She had uninvited Angelus as quickly as possible, but had always been reluctant to do that with Spike. After he helped her with Acathla, she should have done it. They weren’t friends, only temporary allies. She should have done it when she came home and found him in the kitchen with her mother, taunting Angel as he was held back by the barrier she had chosen not to remove. And then a year later he was back, after the Gem of Amarra, trying everything to kill her, and still she hadn’t uninvited him. She didn’t have the spell cast until he’d told her how he felt about her. The idea of him thinking about her that way overwhelmed her.
She should have realized then that there was something between them. She couldn’t name it, but the signs had been there all along. She had tried to ignore him, but couldn’t bring herself to keep him out.
Spike didn’t question her easy answer, merely nodding. He knew there was more to it than that, but he was willing to accept what she gave him. He always had been.
He sat down at the kitchen table, taking the time to relish the moment. He hadn’t sat there since the previous summer, when she was gone. The kitchen was an intimate place, for family, and now she was welcoming him into it.
He’d had wild dreams when he left for Africa, but she disarmed him completely. The simplicity of sitting with her, in her mother’s house, with her baby sister upstairs, was more satisfying than anything he’d known. He’d left to change for her, but somehow she’d changed, too. She wasn’t the same girl who protected herself so fiercely. She wasn’t pushing him away any more.
"Was it a bad day, love?" he asked gently. She seemed so tired.
"Yeah. A bad week, really," she sighed, sitting across from him and handing him a popsicle.
Did she mean him? Of course she means you, you stupid git. Who else could make her feel so bad—other than the Poof, of course, he’d always been great at that. "I’m sorry, I’ll go," he told her, pushing back his chair.
She looked at him in surprise. "No, I don’t want you to go. It’s nice to finally relax," she said.
A stupid thrill of warmth rushed over him. "Why don’t you tell me about it," he suggested cautiously.
"It’s just everybody—everybody is being a pain right now," she said, rolling her eyes. "Giles flew in yesterday and started making these fatherly sounds and telling me I’m handling everything wrong. I know he wants to help, but he’s pushing too much and kept asking about Will—about Willow, and about you, and—why are you looking like that?"
Spike wiped any trace of expression from his face, but too late.
"What do you know?" she demanded. "Is it something about Giles—has something happened that—"
"Buffy, do you know where I put my—" Giles froze a few steps into the kitchen, transfixed by sight of his Slayer sitting at the kitchen table, calmly eating cheap iced confections with her former mortal enemy.
"Hello, Rupe," said Spike, leaning back and making himself at home. He favored the Watcher with an obnoxious smile and enjoyed the expression of distaste on the man’s face. Come into his crypt and threaten his life, would he?
He sneaked a glance to Buffy, who’d drawn her shoulders together tightly before releasing them with an obvious effort. He straightened up a little, regretting his juvenile glee in taunting Giles. Even if he did deserve it, the wanker.
Perhaps he should go. He pushed back his chair. "I think I’ll just be going," he told her, rising.
"Sit down, Spike, and have another popsicle," she told him flatly. It wasn’t an invitation. He sat.
"Would you like one, Giles?" she asked sweetly. She wasn’t trying to be a bitch, but this was a declaration of independence, dammit. She could have who she wanted in her home, when she wanted. As often as she wanted, in any room.
"I think not," he answered, his voice a little remote. Like he was trying not to show her the frosty disapproval she could tell he felt.
A thread of guilt shot through her heart. He loved her. He only wanted things to go well for her. He just didn’t realize she was old enough to decide those kind of things for herself. "We have pudding pops…or tea," she added, a little desperately.
"Tea? You didn’t tell me you have tea," said Spike plaintively.
She glared at him, and he looked abashed. She looked back up at Giles. "Please?" she asked hopefully.
He wavered. He didn’t want to. It was like giving up. Spike was bad for her, he couldn’t pretend otherwise. But the hope on her face…"All right," he sighed, moving to the stove to turn on the kettle and remaining beside the counter as the water warmed up. It would take awhile.
He understood completely.
The three of them looked at each other uncomfortably. This is nice, thought Spike. It’s sort of like meeting the parents for the first time. Only after you’ve tried to kill them.
They were still silent when Dawn swept into the room, making a beeline for the refrigerator and ignoring the others like they didn’t exist.
Spike stood again, feeling a little ill. He had never asked Buffy if Dawn really knew what happened in the bathroom. Giles didn’t know, obviously, or he would have staked Spike straight out that morning. "Hi, Niblet," he said softly.
Dawn swung to face him, hair fanning out behind her. She’d gotten so good at ignoring Buffy and those around her that she hadn’t even noticed him.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded, sounding very much like a younger version of her sister.
Spike cast an appealing glance at Buffy, unsure how to handle it.
"I invited him," she told Dawn calmly, moving to stand next to Spike. Protectively, Spike thought, although that was absurd.
"You invited him?" Dawn repeated in disbelief. "What kind of a genius decision was that? I mean, anyone who—"
"That’s enough," Buffy said firmly. "We’ll talk before you go to bed."
"Don’t bother," Dawn sniffed, turning on her heel and leaving the kitchen. Buffy followed her without thinking, the sounds of their argument fading up the stairs.
The sharp keen of the kettle sounded, breaking the bemused silence in the kitchen.
"Welcome home," said Giles acidly. "Tea?"
Chapter Nine
"Sugar?""No, I don’t like mine sweet," Spike replied.
"What a surprise," sighed Giles.
Spike looked at him suspiciously as he accepted the cup of tea. If the Watcher’d had the opportunity, he probably would have put poison in it. Not that it would have done any good, but Spike kept his eyes on him anyway. It was good to be prepared. He preferred having only one person at a time after him, anyway.
Though who’s to say it wasn’t Giles the whole time? He’d had the chance. And in spite of his professorial air, the Watcher was probably one of the most dangerous men Spike had ever encountered. If he didn’t want Spike hanging around Buffy, he wouldn’t hesitate to remove Spike by any means necessary.
Spike recalled almost two years before, when he had briefly reunited with Drusilla and—Spike had tried to forget about it—chained and threatened Buffy. Love me or else. He had gone to the Magic Box, later, in an attempt to ingratiate himself with the Scoobies, and for a moment Ripper had surfaced. The glimpse had chilled Spike—frightened him more than Angelus ever had. More than Adam. Hell, he was scarier than Darla, and that was saying something.
"Looking to kill me, Rupe?" he asked pleasantly. Might as well discuss this like gentlemen and all. Probably went to the same schools, albeit a hundred years apart. Why, he could be my great-great grandson, thought Spike. Except for the dying a virgin part, of course.
Giles smiled at the suggestion. Actually, he’d been considering the many known methods of killing a vampire—stake through the heart, beheading, fire, sunlight, that curious poison with which Faith had infected Angel—and wondering which of them was the most painful. He thought he might like to experiment and find out for himself. Purely for scientific purposes, of course.
"I’m not really sure why you’d think that," he told Spike mildly. "Other than the fact that this morning I requested that you examine your motives before pursuing a relationship with Buffy, and tonight I find you making yourself at home in her kitchen. You seem to have reached your decision rather quickly."
"Our decision. I was invited here," Spike returned, a little pride tingeing his voice. Damned if he had to lurk on the fringes of the Slayer’s life any more.
"Spike, the only reason I am accepting your presence here is because Buffy asked me to. She has suffered quite enough disappointment, and I don’t want to see her hurt."
"We’re together on that one, then," said Spike evenly. "And don’t flatter yourself, Rupert…I’m not sitting here making nice with you because of the scintillating conversation either."
"We seem to be clear on that, then. But keep this in mind, William…no matter how civil I may be for Buffy’s sake…I have my eye on you."
***
"Dawn, I know this probably seems a little…strange to you?" Buffy suggested. Maybe she shouldn’t have voiced it as a question. Did Dawn need things laid out firmly, or brought up gently? Buffy wasn’t sure.
"Strange? Strange? How about insane? After what he did, how can you just let him back in? Like everything’s fine? Like it was nothing?"
Buffy sat on the bed beside Dawn and touched her back softly. She was surprised Dawn didn’t push her away. "It wasn’t nothing," she said quietly. "I don’t want you to ever think that. And I don’t want you to ever let a man treat you like that. But Spike—things were different between us right from the start. It wasn’t like any other relationship I’ve had, and it wasn’t very healthy."
"So that’s different from your other relationships how?" Dawn said skeptically.
Buffy stared at Dawn. She was trying to have a serious conversation, to let Dawn in, but her sister wasn’t making it easy.
She tried again. "Spike was the only one I could talk to after I came back. I relied on him and then it…became more. But I wasn’t comfortable with the idea of a relationship with him, and I was afraid of how everyone would react. I handled things badly some of the time. Well, most of the time. I hurt him. We hurt each other. And things happened. He thought the best thing to do was leave. But we’ve talked, and…we’re friends again, and are trying to handle things differently this time."
"Friends?" Dawn repeated. "So now you’re friends?"
"Yeah," said Buffy awkwardly. "Friends."
"And you’re just going to forget about—"
"I’m moving past it," Buffy corrected. "We’re moving past it."
Buffy waited to see if Dawn had any more questions. The cool way Dawn regarded her made Buffy a little uneasy.
"Dawn, I want you to be comfortable with this. Spike’s going to be around here. I know you two used to be close, and I don’t want to—"
The sound of breaking glass and a harsh shout downstairs cut off Buffy’s explanation. Spike! The two girls leapt up, and Buffy raced downstairs with Dawn at her heels. Twice in as many days Buffy skidded to a stop in her kitchen, this time transfixed by the sight of Giles kneeling on the floor, cleaning up the remains of a teacup, while Spike ranted and swore at…Anya? What was she doing there? Buffy hadn’t seen her in months.
"Bloody hell, haven’t you ever heard of knocking?" Spike demanded. "It’s considered the polite thing to do ‘round these parts."
"And you would know that how?" inquired Giles.
"Well, when I drop in to see Giles I usually don’t knock—I don’t really have to do that these days, after all," said Anya comfortably.
"These days?" repeated Spike. "You mean Fridays?"
"I mean since I regained my demonhood."
Spike looked at her in amazement. "Regained your demonhood? You’re a V.D. again?" He couldn’t help snickering under his breath. V.D.
"You might remember the preferred term these days is justice demon," reminded Anya.
"J.D. Yeah, that’s much better," agreed Spike dryly. "So when did this happen?"
"Oh, it was quite awhile ago. Shortly after my non-wedding. Before we engaged in the emotional comfort of intimate relations," she specified, to the horror of everyone in the room.
Spike glanced at Buffy apprehensively. He knew, from what Snacksize had told him, that she’d been terribly hurt by that. Even if at the time she’d looked at him like she wanted to kill him in the most hideous manner possible.
Buffy didn’t look especially happy now, for that matter. Her lovely mouth had thinned into a disapproving line, the way it did when he put his hand up her skirt right after she’d put her clothes back on and turned into a vestal virgin.
The Watcher didn’t look all that thrilled, either, though Spike didn’t know why he’d care. Probably just his priggishness coming out at the mention of "intimate relations." Been so long since he had any, he was trying to remember what the term meant.
"Nice to relive old times," Spike muttered, wishing everybody but Buffy would fly off and do something else. Fat chance. The Watcher and the newly re-minted Demon Girl were settling in at the table like they planned to stay all night. So much for his nice evening with Buffy.
"Yes, it is a pleasant way to spend time," agreed Anya. "We have so many fine times in common, all sorts of averted apocalypses and that kind of thing. So have you told Buffy about the bag of bones?"
Spike felt rather than saw Buffy swing her attention to him. Thank god he hadn’t told Anya about his soul; she had all the discretion of a bowl of rice pudding. He forced himself to laugh nonchalantly. "No worries there," he dismissed. He noticed Dawn slip from the room and regretted that she’d even heard the mention of that evil piece of business.
"Well, it’s not nothing; someone’s trying to kill you," pointed out Anya. Spike seemed to have gained the human tendency of sweeping inconvenient facts under the rug. She was surprised; he was usually quite blunt. "And apparently they want to scare you good first."
Spike sent Anya a killing glare. Him, scared? Well, justice demons weren’t chosen for their astonishing feats of mental ability, were they?
"Kill him how?" said Buffy to Anya sharply.
Anya smiled at her. This was nice, wasn’t it, the four of them? Kind of a double date, except for Buffy and Spike not being involved any longer, and Giles not being aware of his and Anya’s involvement. "I’m not sure, they didn’t leave a note. Probably they didn’t want Spike to kill them. Oh, did you smell the bundle?" she added to Spike.
Spike groaned. "Fine, I give up. No, I did not smell the bundle. The bundle is gone. No one can smell it."
"Why would anyone want to smell it?" asked Buffy, wrinkling her nose.
"So Spike could identify the person who left it for him. You know, vampire senses," Anya pointed out, tapping her nose helpfully.
Her voice grates, thought Spike. Had her voice always been so grating?
"I guess that’s what your little query earlier was in aid of," Giles said to Spike.
"What? What query? Speak English, Giles," Buffy exclaimed. Turning to Spike she added, "Why didn’t you tell me this? Have there been any others?"
A guarded looked crossed Spike’s face even as he tried to deny it.
"No, don’t bother, I can see there have been. Come on, we’re going to your place. I want to check this out," she told him, jerking her head towards the door. "You two stay here and keep an eye on Dawn."
"Fine, fine, I’ll tell you everything," Spike said in frustration.
"Damn right you’ll tell me everything," Buffy mumbled, disappearing off the porch with him.
"Well, that was a fun time! Wasn’t that fun, the four of us together? And we seem to be alone now," Anya pointed out to Giles with a big smile. Was it too big? She dimmed it a little. She was attempting to convey her amenable nature and how much she enjoyed spending time with his friends. Although she’d never really thought of he and Spike as friends. But they’d been here having tea together, so who knew?
Giles turned to her. "Anya, how long have you known about this sack of bones that was given to Spike?"
"Oh, I’ve known for a long time. Almost as long as he has," she said importantly. Spike had recognized her professional expertise and came to the right place. Even if she hadn’t been able to help him. "He came by the Magic Box to ask my advice on what the curse could be."
"Curse? There’s a curse involved?"
"Oh, yes. Apparently he’s in considerable pain. I think he’s expressing it with his hair. Did you notice his hair?"
"Yes, his hair," repeated Giles distractedly. "So he’s back, and someone’s put a curse on him, and he’s dating Buffy. Good god."
"He’s dating Buffy? Why didn’t he tell me? Nobody tells me anything," Anya complained. Just because she and Xander hadn’t gotten married, suddenly nobody came around to chat. It was kind of hurtful. Like they’d never really been friends.
"Tell me about it," sighed Giles. He hesitated for a moment. "Anya…do you understand why I moved back to England last year? I did it to help Buffy…to help all of you. She was just happy to tread water. And she can be so many things, but she would never be any of them with me there. I was supposed to be a rock to keep her stable, but I was more like an anchor, weighing her down."
"I’m sure she knows," said Anya soothingly.
"I don’t know…when I talked to her yesterday, she seemed so distant," Giles said with uncharacteristic wistfulness. He couldn’t bear to think of Buffy relegating him to that place in her heart with all of the men who had disappointed her. He had only ever wanted the best for her. It had been kinder to allow her to grow, surely, than to stand in her way.
"Anya, when I was here in the spring Buffy told me a little about her life. Things were very much confused at that point, of course—"
"What with Willow trying to destroy the world and everything," put in Anya helpfully.
"Yes, my dear, thank you—she told me some things that had happened and it sounded like a melodrama. Everything in everyone’s life spiraling downwards until it hit bottom. Was that an accurate picture?"
"Well, I—I don’t know exactly how—" Anya struggled to comfort him. She saw that he needed it, but wasn’t sure how to provide it. Lie? Wasn’t that was humans traditionally did in situations like this? But how could it help? It would just be false comfort. It wouldn’t help, really, because Giles was smart and would see through it. And her honesty would show him that she respected him too much to lie.
"Actually, everyone’s life pretty much went to hell," she told him frankly. "Not the good kind of hell either, but the kind with no fresh air, and lots of accordion music."
Ohh. Giles looked so masculine with his mouth hanging open. Most men would look like a trout, or possibly a bluegill, but Giles looked adorable.
"Went to hell?" he repeated faintly.
"Oh, yes. I always wondered why you left again, since things went so badly the first time. But now you’re back…and you’re going to be staying, right?" she asked hopefully.
"Went to hell, did you say?"
***
Buffy studied the stick figure. "A doll. Are you sure this wasn’t Drusilla? Because it kind of sounds like Drusilla."
Spike shook his head. "If Dru wanted to hurt me I’d be in chains by now, with a hot poker halfway up—"
"Okay, okay," said Buffy hastily. "That’s enough. No need for a diagram. Show me where you found it."
"Under there," Spike said, pointing to the good chair.
Buffy moved over to the chair and peered underneath, sticking her cute little ass in the air. Spike appreciated the view. Considering that a few days before he’d been waiting for her to come by and kill him, he was thrilled to be in the same room as her.
Of course, he always had been.
"Well, I can’t see anything here n—eww! A Twinkies wrapper!" Buffy stood, holding the crumpled plastic in front of her. "Clem’s, I presume."
Spike laughed. Really laughed. It was amazing to be with her, relaxed, open, without having to wonder when she’d turn back into Buffy Summers, Supergirl, who hated him and the things they did together and resented the fleeting moments she gave him.
"Yeah, that’s more his kind of thing than mine. I guess I should do some more cleaning, get rid of all the junk."
Buffy nodded absently, mind still on the task at hand. "Now, you said the bones are gone?" she asked. "What happened?"
"Well, I went out for…something, and when I came back they were gone."
"Well, how long were you gone?"
Spike considered. He was pretty smashed at the time, didn’t really have a great grasp of time. "An hour or so?"
"And what did you do?"
Spike was silent for a moment. A lot had happened to both of them since he’d slept with Anya, but he didn’t want Buffy to be reminded of it. Hell, he wasn’t eager to remember it himself. Wham, bam, hello guilt trip.
"I went to the magic shop to get a handle on how the curse was going down," he said finally.
Buffy felt a little chilled. A little disconnected. "So you went to Anya for help rather than come to me."
Spike reached out to squeeze her hand. "God, pet, I didn’t know how you felt about me. It was—it was nothing. I wasn’t thinking. She couldn’t help. If she was what I needed, she’d be here with me now, not you."
She turned her hand in his until their palms met. Returned his squeeze. "We’re not talking about the curse any more, are we?" she whispered.
He felt his heart flip over. "I guess not."
She gave him a shy smile. "Good."
***
It was late, and for a moment, when he first opened the door, Xander thought he was dreaming. He blinked, thinking he might wake up, or that his eyes would clear and reveal an empty doorway.
But when he focused again Buffy was still standing there, small and alone in the hallway.
"Buff—" he murmured in astonishment. She hadn’t been by his place since May. A few days after they’d seen Anya and Spike together. After that everything fell apart so fast, and then the next thing he knew Buffy had put Will’s things in boxes and suitcases and put them by her front door and told him to take them. She didn’t want them in her house anymore.
He glanced behind him; he wasn’t sure why. So she wouldn’t see Willow, and go ballistic? So Will wouldn’t see Buffy, and start to cry? "Buffy—"
"Is Willow here?" Buffy asked.
Where else would she be? Apocalyptics Anonymous? More likely she’d been back peering in the windows of 1630 Revello Drive. "Umm, yeah. It’s kind of late now, and I don’t like to leave her, so maybe I could stop by your place tomorrow if you need to talk?" he suggested gingerly.
"Actually, I’m here to see her," Buffy said with a small smile.
It took Xander a moment to absorb what she said. A wild smile streaked across his face as her meaning sunk in. It was the happiest day of his life; he thought his heart might crack open.
"God, god yeah, Buffy, come in," he said eagerly, urging her in. "She’s just—she’s in the kitchen, we had a midnight snack and she’s washing the dishes. Let me get her, I’ll go, I’ll get her."
Xander rushed out of the room, not noticing and not caring that he was becoming incoherent. A moment later he was back again, holding Willow’s hand and tugging her forward like a child, murmuring something Buffy couldn’t hear.
Willow stepped closer to Buffy, wonder on her intelligent face. It had been so long since Xander had seen her like that. It was like she was once again the sweet girl he’d always loved.
"Buffy," Willow breathed, moving forward suddenly to fling her arms around Buffy. Buffy drew Willow down to sit beside her on the couch, and Xander moved to join them, but Buffy turned her face up to him.
"Could I have a few minutes alone with Willow?"
He got up immediately. Of course, they would have a lot to discuss. He should have realized it; he was just so excited he wasn’t thinking. "Of course. I’ll just—just go finish the dishes," he said, heading back into the kitchen. He felt like skipping.
Buffy watched him leave. When she turned back to Willow, she found the redhead’s searching eyes hadn’t left her face.
She bent closer to Willow. Willow moved closer, too, eager to follow her lead. Buffy was relieved. That made things easier. When she spoke, it was right in Willow’s ear, as she tightened her hand over Willow’s.
"Just what in the hell do you think you’re doing to Spike?"