Useless Desires
Prologue
“When we treat a man as he is, we make him worse than he is; when we treat him as if he already were what he potentially could be, we make him what he should be.” ~Goethe
Leaving felt different this time. Before, it had always had the flavor of a bad melodrama, all sweeping gestures and threats to return—if not literally then at least in his head. This time, Spike truly believed he was leaving for good.
More than that, he felt it.
He stood astride his bike, chest heaving in unnecessary gasps, sick to his stomach, as impossible as that seemed. Soulless vampires did not feel guilt, remorse, shame, or any of the other emotions that were twisting his insides into knots.
It was unfair, he decided. Completely unfair. It wasn’t as though he’d done anything wrong. So he and Anya had sex. So what? They were demons, unattached—and because other people had detatched from them, not because they’d wanted it that way. The sex had been comfort, and it had been—nice.
Nice not to have to battle for dominance, nice to know his partner wasn’t going to proceed to rip out his heart in the postcoital afterglow. Nice to be appreciated as a guy who smelled nice and made sure the woman in question was happy.
What does he get for it? An attempt on his unlife by Xander and a dressing-down by Dawn—who didn’t know the half of it. Spike was fairly certain that if Dawn knew exactly what had been going on these last months, she’d have been more sympathetic, but he had more class than to tell the girl he’d been shagging her sister. It wasn’t his place.
The Niblet had said Buffy was upset, though, and that had sent him over to talk to Buffy, to apologize.
Never mind that he didn’t have anything to be sorry for.
She’d hurt herself. Spike had seen it immediately. He should have waited. Waited till he was completely sober, at least. No point in waiting until she was ready to listen, since that would be the day after never.
He hadn’t gone over there to hurt her—that had been the farthest thing from his mind. And then she’d accused him of trying to put a spell on her, and she wouldn’t tell him why she hadn’t let Xander kill him.
“You know why,” she’d said. What kind of bullshit was that?
Spike thought maybe he could get her to admit it if he could just get her to feel. If he could just put his hands on her, he could make her crazy in the best of ways.
The first “no” hadn’t registered. Or it had, but she’d said it so many times before and hadn’t meant it that he’d thought it was another game. Buffy was always messing with his head.
The second time she’d said it, though—it was the tone. His hands had been more forceful, and he’d touched warm skin, and he just wanted to make her feel it again. He was desperate to make her feel it—to make her admit that she loved him.
Why else would she have saved his life?
Buffy had managed to shove him back, falling to the floor in the process, overbalanced and hurt as she’d been. He had stumbled back against the door, realizing belatedly that she had meant this no. What made it worse was that he hadn’t truly wanted to stop. He still believed that he could make her feel it if she would only let him.
There had been only one rule that Spike had lived by all his life and unlife. He didn’t hurt the girl—not the one he loved. Not if he could help it.
Tonight, though, Spike had wanted Buffy to admit that she had feelings for him. Not that she loved him even, just that she cared. All he wanted was one crumb—and he’d been willing to take it by force.
They had both stood, horrified by what had almost happened—Spike even more so than Buffy. He had managed to gasp out an apology, but the Slayer wasn’t having any of it.
Spike closed his eyes, remembering their last words.
“Buffy, I’m sorry—”
“Just go, Spike.”
“I will. I have to.” A pause. “I’m leaving.”
“You should.”
“For good, Slayer. I’m leaving for good. I can’t—”
There were no more words after that. Buffy had stared at him with those huge, accusing eyes of hers—and Spike saw himself truly for the first time. He was a monster. Not just that others thought of him as a monster, but that he truly was one.
Spike had very nearly raped the woman he loved—and he hated that he was capable of that.
He wanted to blame Buffy. Wanted to blame her for playing with him, for using him, but that was pointless. Spike had allowed himself to be used, and it hadn’t been all bad. Spike had played the games too, and had enjoyed some of them.
No, it was him, and it was time to leave. Spike couldn’t stay, not when he was becoming the very thing he’d sworn to Buffy he never would be.
It was time to figure out who he was again.