Part 8:

In what was beginning to be an all-too-familiar scene, Spike found himself awakened by the sound of his crypt door scraping open. He supposed it was too much to hope that it was some sort of marauding demon, and when he heard Buffy yell, "Spike!" in that demanding tone of hers, his worst fears were confirmed.

All things considered, he was tired, hurt, and pissed off, with a large dollop of inner turmoil on the side. Now, granted that all wasn’t entirely her fault, but he decided that was an entirely academic distinction, and therefore he was entitled to be petty and refuse to respond to her hollering. Which, not surprisingly, didn’t faze her; she just kept wailing like a banshee until he saw her head appear at the top of the ladder.

"You are here. Why didn’t you answer me?" she demanded.

"I’m sleeping," he growled. "Can’t you tell?"

She started down the ladder. "I’ve got something to tell you."

He snorted. "Decided I’m not worth the trouble and come here to finish me off?"

She rolled her eyes as she moved to stand next to his bed. "No. Lucky for you."

"What, then?"

"It’s Angel."

The name sent a warning shiver down Spike’s back, but he told himself not to panic. He shrugged carelessly, all bravado. "What about him?"

She looked him directly in the eyes. "They found a way to bind his soul to him. I’m moving to LA."

His brain told him that he should be feeling pain, but he felt nothing--only an icy numbness blanketing his entire body, and what felt like a heavy weight pressing down all his limbs. He doubted he could have moved if his unlife depended on it. He noted, distantly, that he guessed she had come to kill him after all. And she was just staring at him, emotionless, like she’d just told him she was going to the supermarket. "What about Dawn?" he managed finally, the words barely a whisper out of his dry throat.

"She’ll come with me," she answered, giving him a look that suggested he was a very slow child she was trying to educate. "They’ve got lots of high schools in LA."

"Right," he murmured, almost to himself. And now the pain was starting, a deep, slow burn, hollowing him out. He wanted to scream, bleed, anything to release the pressure, but he still couldn’t move. "And the Hellmouth?"

She hitched a shoulder. "Can’t stay here forever. There’s lots of evil in the world." She looked at him quizzically, almost as if she were surprised at his reaction. "I’m sorry if it… hurts you."

"Hurt" was such a small word. It occurred to him that this would be a good time for a witty remark; unfortunately, he seemed to be fresh out. "When?" was all he said.

"As soon as we can get our stuff together." She was starting to look uncomfortable. The silence stretched between them. "I have to go," she said finally, abruptly.

He looked at her, and had just enough pride left not to tell her it was OK. Something wasn’t right here, but he couldn’t put his finger on exactly what. Maybe it was the utter collapse of everything he’d built in the last three years. He just kept looking at her mutely, until she took a short breath.

"OK. Well. Goodbye, Spike." She eyed him expectantly, but he was still as a statue. She gave a minute shrug, and headed back up the ladder.

He heard the door scrape again, felt it resonate throughout his body. He stared sightlessly at the wall, and for the first time in over a century, he wished he had death to look forward to.

She stopped almost as soon as the door closed behind her, noticing with an injured air that it was raining. Raining in California? Totally unacceptable, she thought huffily. She ran a fussy hand through her short hair, then looked around carefully. Seeing no one nearby, she grasped the small stone hanging around her neck. Her brow furrowed with concentration. She seemed to shimmer slightly, to grow taller and thicker, blond hair curling into frizzy brown corkscrews. Finally, transformation complete, she adjusted her clothes, checked her watch, and retreated into a shadowed corner to wait.

And Halfrek smiled.

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Buffy dragged herself up out of sleep to find her neck stiff, her stomach complaining, and a dripping Xander staring at her with a mixture of shock and amusement.

"Wow," he commented, surveying the scene of Buffy and Willow sprawled out on the couch together, blinking sleepily, surrounded by the carcasses of various pints of Ben and Jerry’s that had selflessly given their lives for the cause. "Did I just miss some kinky girl-on-girl action here, or what?"

Willow sat up blearily, her eyes only half-open. "Unh," she managed, holding her stomach. "No, but we’ll be sure to invite you next time we…" Her eyes suddenly snapped alert as she realized Xander was sporting a black eye and a nasty-looking cut along his jaw. "What happened to you?"

Buffy, who had been curled into the couch idly trying to calculate calories, sat up instantly, ready to avenge where necessary. Xander’s bruised jaw dropped as he caught sight of the black and blue marks on her face.

"Did Spike…?" they immediately asked each other in unison, then both looked sheepish and nodded. "Yeah, but…"

Willow held up a hand. "OK. Enough with the stereo."

Relieved that there had obviously been no Dastardly Demonic Plot in need of foiling, Xander grinned a little, inclining his head. "Ladies first."

Buffy shook her head, waving a hand dismissively. "It’s nothing. We were… sparring. Got a little out of hand. No big. What’s your excuse?"

"Just a manly macho guy thing," Xander shrugged, remembering his agreement with Spike to keep the details to himself. "Two testosterone-infused individuals blowing off a little steam, mano e mano. You should see him," he continued, warming up to the story, "he--" He realized Willow was looking at him skeptically. "What? What’s with the Eyebrow of Disbelief?"

"You beat Spike in a fight?" Willow couldn’t quite picture that.

"Well, no, not exactly beat him…" Xander hedged. "He’ll be chewing his flowering onion on one side for awhile, though," he finished with some satisfaction.

"Very macho," Willow agreed solemnly. "If I weren’t gay, I’d totally want you right now."

Xander gave her a wry smile. "Ah, if I had a nickel for every time I’d heard that one…"

Meanwhile, Buffy was studying Xander as if she’d never seen anything quite like him before, her brain having cleared enough to form a few questions. "Xander?" she asked finally. "Why aren’t you at work? And why are you all… drippy?" She gestured at the growing water spots on the floor, adding, "On my carpet?"

"Because, my Californian friends," Xander answered, taking the hint and removing his dripping jacket, "it’s raining. And construction workers cannot work in the rain, so they must go check on their superhero friends and drip on their carpets." He opened the front door, slung his jacket carefully over the door-handle where it could drip in peace. Willow bounced up, peering around him to see the steady sheets of water pouring from the cloud-covered sky.

"Wow, you weren’t kidding," she grinned, delighted. "Buffy, come see."

Buffy levered herself up off the couch and joined them in the doorway. "Yup," she commented, after a minute. "Looks like rain."

"Buff-fee," Willow groaned, disgusted at her lack of enthusiasm. "It’s not just rain, it’s…" She trailed off, searching for words.

"Lots of rain," Xander finished for her.

"Yeah," Willow agreed, as if he had said something incredibly profound. "It’s weird. And cool. Like that time it snowed at Christmas."

At the mention of that particular event, Buffy felt her stomach twist. "It’s not like that," she stated flatly, and headed back towards the couch, feeling weight come crashing down on her again.

Willow and Xander exchanged a confused look as he closed the door. What was that about? he asked with his eyes, and she gave a tiny shrug. I don’t know. Xander frowned, then moved to follow Buffy.

"So," he began, plopping down on the couch next to her, trying for the right mixture of cheerfulness and concern. "This place looks like a war zone. Everything OK at Casa de Summers?"

Buffy started to say yes, she was just fine, then discovered that there was a limit to how many months, days, and hours a person could spend lying to her friends. The words spilled from her mouth, independent of her brain. "Well, I was sleeping with Spike for awhile there, and last night I realized I didn’t want to kill him, and Willow and I got into a fight because she thinks I should be alive and she doesn’t want me to be evil and take the easy way out." She glanced at Willow. "That about sum it up?"

Willow nodded cautiously, unsure of Buffy’s mood, and wondering if Xander was going to be able to take the news without spontaneously combusting. "I think so."

The prognosis on Xander wasn’t good. He was sputtering helplessly, his brain having spiraled into complete overload immediately after the words "sleeping with Spike." His mouth worked soundlessly for awhile, until finally he forced out a heartfelt, "Huh?"

It felt so good to have it out in the open at last, no matter what Xander’s reaction was, that Buffy took pity on him. "Sorry to break it to you that way, Xand," she continued, more gently. "I know it seems weird, but--"

"Weird?" Xander repeated in a strangled whisper, mindful of Dawn and Tara still sleeping upstairs. "No. Being possessed by a hyena was weird. Finding out your little sister was a ball of mystical energy was weird. This… this is so beyond the realm of weirdness, I don’t even think you can see weird from here."

Willow, seeing the pain start to creep back into Buffy’s face, tried to intercede, sitting on Xander’s other side and putting a conciliatory hand on his knee. "It caught me by surprise, too," she told him. "But if you think about it, it makes sense, in a way. I mean, there’ve been signs. We just didn’t want to see them."

"I know!" Xander exploded, still valiantly trying to keep his voice down. "That’s the weirdest thing about it!" He slumped back against the cushions, heels of his hands pressed against his eyes as if he was trying to block out some horrific image. Which he was. "Denial was nice," he muttered, anguished. "Denial was a beautiful thing."

Buffy raised an eyebrow at Willow. Despite his initial outburst, that last comment indicated that Xander was actually scoring much lower on the Wig-O-Meter than she’d expected. "So… you’re not surprised?"

He took his hands away from his eyes and met her gaze. "Buff, I love you, but I don’t think at this point your taste in men will ever surprise me."

Buffy smiled a little, looking down at her hands. She guessed she deserved that one.

Xander sighed. As utterly ax-murderer terrifying as the concept of Buffy boinking Spike was, he’d seen that shadow fall across her face way too many times in the last year or so, and he didn’t want to be responsible for putting it there again. He supposed there were worse things than Buffy falling for Spike. He couldn’t think of anything just at the moment, but he was sure he’d come up with something eventually. In the meantime, she needed him, and he’d just have to do his best to deal with it.

"OK." He spread his hands out in front of him, as if to ward off the entire topic. "I’m thinking a subject change might be the way to go here. Did you say something about you two having a fight?"

"Not as much of a subject change as you think," Buffy answered, her smile turning wry. "Will was trying to tell me it’s OK that I’ve slept with a soulless demon who might be planning to murder us all as we speak."

Xander studied her, watching the guilt and self-condemnation spread over her features. He sighed again. He couldn’t believe he was about to say this, but… "You know I’m not exactly a big Spike groupie," he began slowly. "But… I think we might have been… in some ways, anyway… a little wrong about him."

Xander doubted Buffy was even aware of the desperate hope that brightened her eyes, or the way her breath caught in her throat. It hurt his heart to see it, and he knew that no matter what he and Spike had agreed to, and no matter how he felt about the two of them, he had to tell her. "I followed Spike tonight, to keep an eye on him," he explained. "He went to a bar, drank enough whiskey to make me sick just thinking about it, and met this woman." He saw jealousy spark behind the hope, and hurried to finish. "Long story short, she hit on him, and he turned her down. I’m not sure, but I think she even knew he was a vampire, and he still said no. Even left her with cab fare."

"Did he know you were there?" Buffy asked, wondering distantly why her voice sounded so hoarse. It’s about instinct, she remembered telling him. Something you do without thinking. Without expecting anything in return.

Xander shook his head. "I think we can all agree that Spike is Confrontation Guy. If he’d known I was there, he wouldn’t have just left me alone."

For a long moment, none of them spoke, lost in their own thoughts. Finally, Willow took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Whoa." Even given her earlier conversation with Spike, it was still more than she’d expected.

"Yeah," Xander agreed quietly. "Kind of tears the fabric of your reality a little, doesn’t it?" They both looked at Buffy, but she only sat there without moving, her eyes bright again with unshed tears.

Buffy, for her part, felt as if something was slowly tearing loose inside of her, and she wasn’t sure if she should cling to it or let it go.

"Buffy?" Willow offered tentatively, as a thought occurred to her. "It’s your decision, but… I just realized something. If we’ve been wrong about Spike… and if he’s been fighting this all this time, alone…" She trailed off, unsure how to finish without putting pressure on her friend.

Even without the conclusion, the words hit Buffy like Olaf’s hammer. Her eyes darted up to meet Willow’s, then Xander’s. What she saw there was something she’d almost forgotten--concern, yes, and still a little frustration on Xander’s part, but also overwhelming love. Support. She felt whatever it was inside her tear loose a little more, and her eyes overflowed.

"I have to go," she blurted suddenly, standing up with none of her usual grace. Willow and Xander stood with her, and Xander grabbed her arm before she could make it halfway to the door.

"Take a coat, it’s raining," he told her, while Willow rummaged in the closet. She emerged with a somewhat dusty raincoat, and held it out to Buffy.

"Have you got an umbrella?"

Buffy shook her head. "I’ll be OK." Her heart was pounding, and for a second she just stared at her friends, panic licking at her throat.

"What’re you going to tell him?" Willow couldn’t help asking.

Buffy laughed a little, the tinge of hysteria returning. "I don’t know." Then she smiled shakily at them. "I…" She couldn’t find the words. "Thanks," she said finally, lamely. Their encouraging smiles gave her just enough courage to duck out the door and into the rain.

It wasn’t until she was outside, hurrying along with the rain plastering her hair to her head, that she remembered she had no idea just exactly what she was going to do.

-----------------------------

Halfrek, on the other hand, had a very specific plan. Her failure with Dawn had been nagging at her for months, and finally she’d realized a return to Sunnydale was a necessity to salve her pride. Another quick glance at her watch told her it was time. She’d decided to go for the dramatic entrance, to make up a little for her less-than-dramatic exit several months before. She snapped her fingers--not really necessary, but she felt it added a certain style--and appeared in a puff of smoke on the lower floor of Spike’s crypt.

"Hello, William." He didn’t appear to have moved since she’d left him earlier.

He had no idea how long he’d been sitting there, staring at the wall. Ordinarily he supposed her appearance would have made his bad day worse, only on this particular occasion, that was impossible. So all he could muster up was a kind of tired hostility. "What do you want?"

"I want to help you, of course," she told him, in much the same tone Buffy had used on him not too long ago.

"You’ve helped me plenty, Cecily," he returned, and felt the first stirrings of anger.

"Have I?" She preened a little. Spike remembered she’d never been big with the sarcasm. Or with the brains in general, come to think of it.

"Oh, yeah," he continued, swinging his legs around to the edge of the bed. "If you hadn’t been such a bitch to me all those years ago, I wouldn’t have met Dru, and she wouldn’t have turned me, and I wouldn’t have had this glorious opportunity to fall in love with bloody Slayer." He swung a fist into the wall on the last word, welcoming the pain.

Halfrek liked to think that, over the years, she’d perfected the sympathetic look. "I hear Angelus had his soul bound to him."

Rage flashed through him, white-hot, and before she could blink, he had his hand wrapped around her throat. "Mention that name again and I’ll pull that damned pendant off right through your neck."

Her eyes widened a little, but she regained control quickly. "All right, William, no need for violence," she managed hoarsely.

He released her with a jerk. "Stop calling me that. The William you knew is dead. And a good thing, too." He turned his back on her. "How did you know?" he asked after a moment.

"It’s all anyone can talk about," she replied, sounding surprised. "Or have you forgotten how quickly gossip moves in the demon world?" She looked at him pityingly. "Oh, Spike." She gave his name just a hint of careful emphasis. "Have you been away for so long you’re forgetting the rules already?"

That stung him, she could tell. He whirled back around. "Why are you here?"

She answered his question with one of her own. "Why didn’t you kill me?"

It was the last thing he’d expected. He blinked at her for a second, taken aback.

"You killed everyone else, with those awful spikes," she continued, moving a little closer to him, a hint of her highbrow accent returning. "Why didn’t you kill me?"

On any other day, he would have at least lied, and quite possibly made the question moot by just killing her right then. But today, he was too sodding tired. "I wanted you to know what it felt like to be alone," he told her in a low voice.

A tiny crease appeared between her eyebrows. She’d obviously been expecting a more flattering answer. Well, he’d devoted some of the most embarrassing moments of his life to flattering her, and figured that was enough to last him roughly through eternity. "Well…" He could see her trying to regroup, forcing cheerfulness. "I can’t really agree with your reasoning, but I suppose I do owe you--if you’d killed me then, I’d never have found the job satisfaction I have now."

He sighed, tired of the bullshit. "What are you trying to say, Cecily?"

She smiled at him. "I’m offering you something. A gift, if you like."

Oh, God. "What?" he asked warily. If she said she was offering herself, he swore on Dru’s grave that he’d snap and kill them both.

Her smile widened, and she laid a hand on his arm. "A wish."

He groaned and rolled his eyes. "Surely you don’t think I’ll fall for that. Demons aren’t supposed to grant wishes for other demons."

She shrugged. "You’re a special case. A… fence-sitter," she finished, after searching for the right word. "D’Hoffryn has agreed to make an exception."

He had to admit, that was intriguing. It would be nice to get something in return for three years of humiliation and suffering. But he wasn’t about to tip his hand so easily. "What could you give me that I can’t get for myself?" He spread his arms wide, mockingly. "The chip’s out. The world is my oyster. What could I possibly want?"

Halfrek paused just long enough to make him curious, then said simply, "To forget."

And "intriguing" got a rapid upgrade to "almost too good to be true." He considered it for a moment, studying her. "So I’d forget her, and she’d forget me, and I’d be… free again?"

Halfrek nodded. "You could stay here, or I could take you somewhere else--Prague, London, anywhere you want."

Spike could practically taste it: the blood warm and rich in his mouth, the surge of power, the recklessness and glory and desperate energy. No little girl staring up at him with those big, trusting brown eyes; no sneers and punches from the rest of the demons; and most of all, no tiny, blonde, fascinating Slayer to rip his heart out and dance a jig on it with those ridiculous shoes she insisted on wearing. Of course he knew Halfrek would be doing it for her own reasons, but he didn’t think he necessarily cared what those were. After all, if she could rid him of this nasty conscience rash he seemed to be developing of late, what would it matter?

Still, he didn’t like the gleam of satisfaction in her eyes, didn’t like the feeling that she knew he was interested. She just kept smiling at him, and he fought to keep his poker face.

"It would be just like none of this ever happened," she whispered, staring up into his eyes.

As soon as she said it, his mind was suddenly flooded with memories: playing gin with Dawn, Willow’s smile from the day before, Harris’ apology later that night, the sudden grin that split Buffy’s face when she got in a particularly good takedown, the little smile she couldn’t quite hide after he’d seduced her into having sex on her kitchen floor, even the image that was burned into his brain of the terrible-beautiful swan-dive that had ended his world for one hundred and forty-seven days. Like none of this ever happened.

He found that the thought of forgetting hurt almost as much as the remembering.

Is this what it’s going to be like? he raged inwardly, frustrated. The woman last night was bad enough. Am I going to have to choose every bleeding day?

He had the uneasy feeling that the answer was yes.

Halfrek was still waiting patiently for his answer, sure of her victory. He focused on her again, gave her a hint of a smile.

"All right," he whispered back. "I wish…" He paused, lowered his voice even more. She leaned forward, and he murmured in her ear. "I wish… that you’d get the hell out of my crypt before I drag you out, piece by piece."

The mixture of insult, shock, and disappointment on her face brought him the first sliver of joy he’d felt in a long time. "But…" she protested weakly.

"I mean it, pet," he continued with dangerous cheer. "It’s been a couple of days since I killed anything, and if you want to know the truth, I’m getting just a little bit antsy." He flexed his hands suggestively.

"But…" she repeated, scrabbling to gain back the ground she’d lost. "A vampire loving the Slayer? That’s just wrong!"

He simply shrugged, grinned at her. "What can I tell you, luv? I’m a rebel."

"You…" She wracked her brain, but she couldn’t find an answer for that one. Spike clucked his tongue.

"Y’know," he went on meditatively, hooking his thumbs in his pockets, "it used to be that being a vengeance demon meant something, but I guess they’re just letting anyone in these days, aren’t they? Even brainless society chits with no talent and no vision who wish a few boils on a man and think it makes them the second coming of Hecate." He shook his head. "Sad, really."

"Fine," she huffed, turning a rather unusual shade of red, her demon visage creeping back over her human face. "I try to do you a favor, out of the goodness of my heart, and--"

He was on her in an instant, grabbing her shoulders. "The goodness of your heart? You don’t have either of those things, Cecily, and we both know it." He shook her, hard, then threw her back a few steps. "Get out. Come near me again, and I’ll kill you." She started to speak, but he held up a hand. "You can sod off, and live, or keep yammering at me, and die. Your choice, pet."

Halfrek blinked and turned even redder. He wondered idly what the chances were of her exploding. Too much to hope for, he guessed.

She was spluttering. "I… you…what…" While he was still trying to decide if that counted as yammering, she gave a final indignant, frustrated screech, snapped her fingers, and disappeared.

Spike felt a strange tickling in the back of his throat, and when he opened his mouth, he discovered it was a laugh. He gave the bedside table a cheerful kick. Damn, that felt good. He surveyed the room appraisingly. Not much to it, really. Anything he cared about would easily fit in his DeSoto.

It was becoming painfully obvious that he couldn’t get out of this. Maybe it was time he got into it.

Change of scene wouldn’t be so bad, he thought to himself. Not going to be helping the bloody helpless or anything like that, but there are enough demons around to keep me busy for awhile before I have to start on the humans. Buffy didn’t love him, that was clear, and never would, and he figured three years was just about long enough to be beating his head against that particular wall. She’d made her choice. Now he wanted his own answers, ones that weren’t all wrapped up in her, in what she’d think, in how she felt. The Little Bit might shed a few tears over his going, but she’d be all right, and he could drop in on her from time to time, without Buffy knowing.

All in all, it was time to get the hell out of Dodge.

He hauled a battered suitcase out from under his bed, threw it open, and started packing.

TBC

Part 9:

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When Buffy arrived at Spike’s crypt--cold, bedraggled, and terrified--she noticed three things: first, Spike was outside. During the day. Moving back and forth between his crypt and that black boat he drove, his arms full of something she couldn’t make out, but was probably either illegal or dangerous. She glanced up at the sky. All right, so the cloud cover was pretty dense, but if he got caught by a drive-by sunbeam after all he’d put her through, she was fairly sure she was going to have to find a way of resurrecting him so she could have the satisfaction of dusting him herself.

The second thing she noticed was that he was singing to himself. And not very well, either. She’d spent just enough time with Giles to recognize it as a Rolling Stones tune. "I said yeah… oh yeah… oh yeah…" Spike crooned, tossing whatever he was carrying into the trunk. "You’ll never make a saint of me…" He headed back inside.

The fact that he was singing in the first place, not to mention his choice of music, was enough to startle a giggle out of her. And then, as she drew closer, she noticed the third thing: the bundle he’d been carrying was a duffel bag. And there were a few more in the trunk beside it. She thought she could identify a few of the shapes inside them--books, weapons, alcohol bottles. Spike Necessities. Her heart began to pound. And when he came back outside lugging a tattered suitcase, she suddenly found she couldn’t breathe.

He’d sensed her, of course, and even though he’d refused to look at her, the knowledge that she was nearby had been enough to knock quite the hole into whatever enthusiasm he’d managed to muster up. He tried to ignore her, hoping as he ducked back inside that maybe she’d give up on torturing him and just go away. No such luck, of course. When he came out into the rain again, she was standing right next to his car, far too close to ignore. Even with the rain plastering her hair to her head and an oversized raincoat wrapped around her, she was beautiful enough that he felt a stab to his heart. Bitch. And she was looking at him with an expression of such hurt and betrayal that he wanted immediately to make it better, whatever he’d done.

He had to consciously focus on keeping his mouth shut, otherwise he’d have apologized to her, sorry git that he was. And he most definitely had nothing to apologize for. I’m not the one traipsing off to L.A. for a life of hair gel and heroic martyrdom with Peaches.

She might have noticed his face darkening with anger, but she was too busy trying to keep her heart beating through the vise that seemed to have closed around her chest.

"What are you doing?" She was pretty sure she was the one who said it, though the weak, hoarse voice certainly didn’t sound like hers. She didn’t think he’d actually do it, not again…

"I’m having a sodding tea party, what does it look like I’m doing?" he replied, hurt making his sarcasm even sharper than usual. "I’m leaving, sweetheart. Just a bit too much Hell in the Hellmouth for me these days." What did she expect, that he was just going to hang around and pine for her? All right, that probably was what she was expecting, and with good reason, too, but his little victory over Halfrek had left the taste of power in his mouth. He wasn’t anxious to let that slip away.

"Leaving?" she repeated breathlessly, the color draining from her cheeks. He just stared at her, utterly confused. She’d left him first, hadn’t she?

Buffy noticed distantly that Spike was goggling at her as if she’d gone completely nuts. She’d been numb at first, but then she felt a slow burn of rage building inside her, getting hotter by the second, growing exponentially until it forced a single word from her mouth:

"No."

"No?" Spike echoed, incredulous.

"No." She shoved him out of the way, ignoring his halfhearted protest, and moved to the trunk, curling her fingers around the first bag she saw. "My father left." She yanked the bag out of the trunk, heaved it twenty feet and through the open door of his crypt. "Angel left." Another bag thumped beside the first. "Riley left." Another. "Giles left." Another, this one landing with a crash that gave Spike the sinking feeling he’d be heading to the liquor store sometime soon. She didn’t even notice, slamming the trunk closed, grabbing him by the front of his jacket. "And you." She shoved him up against the side of the car, her eyes burning into his. "Are not. Leaving."

Looking down at her, he realized that even though he had no idea what she was about, some corner of him was cheering her on. He thought that he might love her most when she was like this, all fierce and commanding and take-no-prisoners. But then his pride reasserted itself, and his own temper began to boil over.

"I’m not leaving? What about you? Thought you’d be halfway to L.A. by now," he sneered, curling his tongue inside his lower lip in the way that he knew drove her round the bend.

Instead of hurling back some scathing retort, though, she just looked at him blankly. "L.A.?" What the hell was he talking about? A sudden fear shot through her. "Is Angel all right?"

The name cut him, as always, but he was determined not to let her see it. "You tell me, pet. You’re the one buggering off to start a glorious new life with him."

"What?" Now concern was starting to creep through the wall of anger. Had he ingested some sort of weird vampire drug? Been attacked by a hallucination demon? "What are you talking about?"

He rolled his eyes, furious that she was making him say it. "I’m talking about you, prancing down here not three hours ago and sharing the happy news that you and Soul Boy are going to be spending the foreseeable future seeing which of you can bore the other more. My money’s on Peaches, there, but I suppose you never know." She was still looking at him as if he were speaking a foreign language. A light clicked on suddenly in the back of his brain. Either she was suffering from some sort of Hellmouth-induced amnesia, or…

"Spike." She made an effort to speak slowly and clearly. "I was asleep three hours ago. I went home after I left you last night, and I’ve been there ever since. Ask Willow. Ask Xander."

That clinched it. "Halfrek," he growled menacingly. A red haze drifted across his vision as he indulged in several vivid fantasies as to what he’d do to the frizzy-haired demon if he ever got his hands on her again.

"Halfrek?" Buffy’s eyes grew hard. The only thing that had stopped her from killing the so-called "justice demon" was that she was a friend of Anya’s, but she was beginning to regret that decision. "You’re telling me Halfrek told you I was leaving for L.A. to be with Angel?"

"She didn’t just tell me about you, she was you." He shook his head, scrubbing a hand through his dripping hair. "I knew there was something wrong about her… you’d never have been up so early on a weekend."

"You confused me with Halfrek?" she asked, incredulous. "God, do I just have no personality? Why is it that whenever someone steals my body, no one can seem to tell the difference?"

"I don’t think well in the morning!" Spike protested defensively. Then, grasping at straws, "I knew the difference between you and the robot, didn’t I?"

Her eyes flashed dangerously. Hmm. Perhaps not the wisest topic to bring up at the moment. She took a step towards him, and he tensed immediately, ready to defend, but then she stopped and forced herself to take a deep breath. Fortunately for him, she had bigger fish to fry.

"Why would she do that?" She concentrated on keeping her voice perfectly even.

Several answers came to mind-because she’s a raving bitch put on this earth to torment me, for example, though he supposed that description could apply to Buffy, too-but he knew the main reason was simple. He shrugged. "It’s her job. She looks for weaknesses, and she takes advantage of them."

"And I’m your weakness?"

Well, she didn’t have to look so bloody pleased about it. "Enough with the twenty questions, luv," he muttered irritably. But still, the anger and hurt was beginning to fade under the onslaught of enormous relief, and he remembered something. And one side of his mouth quirked. "Can we go back to the bit where you’re not letting me leave?"

Buffy could feel her face turning red, and she cursed the self-satisfied look in his eyes. But she stood her ground bravely, trying to muster up as much dignity as possible despite her resemblance to a drowned rat. "Well, I’m not."

He cocked his head a little, gave her that quizzical look. "Why not?"

He seemed genuinely surprised, and she felt a pang of guilt, though she tried to ignore it. Her brain was babbling away, offering more than a few answers to his question: Because the last time you left, I couldn’t breathe right for a week. Because I like the way it makes my heart beat faster, wondering if you’ll sneak up and ambush me during a patrol. Because when I’m miserable, you know when to talk and when to shut up. Because you get me, even though it scares the hell out of me. All of those answers, and a hundred more, and she opened her mouth and blurted out, "Dawn."

His face fell, and though he pulled the mask of indifference down quickly, she still had time to see how deeply she’d cut him. Part of her, the running-hiding-hurting-coward part, cheered as it always did at anything that increased the distance between them. But the part that had driven her here in the rain to tell him who-knows-what--that part was frowning disapprovingly. She spared a second to wish that all the various parts of her would just get the hell together and agree on something, but she had a feeling that was too much to ask.

He shook his head, furious at himself for even the bare sliver of hope, started back inside to retrieve his bags. "She’ll be fine. Don’t waste my time, Slayer."

Shit. He was serious this time, and if she didn’t say the right thing, or at least a better thing than what she’d just said, he’d leave. "Xander told me," she tried, which was as close as she could get to what she meant to say.

Shit. He stopped, cursing the whelp and wishing his own right hook had been just a little less inebriated--with any luck, on any other day, they’d’ve had to wire the boy’s jaw shut, and then he wouldn’t be in this position. Bad enough she’d de-fanged him; worse that she knew it. He turned back reluctantly. "Told you all about my dark night of the soulless, did he?" He clucked his tongue, sarcasm sour in his mouth. "Never send a boy to keep a man’s secret."

Secret? "I would’ve thought you’d want me to know."

His mouth curved bitterly. "Why?" He threw out his arms, sending droplets flying, and began pacing back and forth like a caged animal. "So I could get the credit? Are you still singing that tune, about how I never do selfless and altruistic and heroic good deeds like you do?" He stopped pacing long enough to glare at her. "Damn right I don’t. And I never will, as long as I can help it. I’ll take whatever credit’s due me, and more if I can." He moved a step closer, and the intensity in his eyes had her retreating a step before she caught herself. "I didn’t want him to tell you because you’ve changed me, and I didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of knowing it." He barked a short laugh at the shock on her face. "Isn’t that what every woman wants to hear? You changed me, Buffy. Before I knew you, I knew what I was. Now I don’t know anything, except that I’m done letting you bloody women--" he spat the word like a curse--"run my unlife. Been doing it for a century and a half, now, and I’m done." He stared her down, fists clenched, oblivious to the driving rain. "You turned everything about me upside down, and there’s not much I can do about that," he finished quietly, intently. "But I’ll be the one to set it right again. And I’ll do it my way."

She watched him, his eyes hot and impossibly blue in that pale face, and she realized he hadn’t looked so strong, so determined, since… she couldn’t remember the last time, actually. It terrified and excited her, and the excitement terrified her even more. Her heart was pounding again. She wondered if he could hear it. He met her gaze in silence for a long moment, challenging, then, when she didn’t respond, shook his head in disgust and turned his back on her, striding purposefully towards his crypt.

Her heart seized, her throat closed, but she managed to croak out, "Wait!"

"No point," he tossed back over his shoulder, his steps never faltering.

Panic. For so many reasons. "Spike, please," she called desperately.

He couldn’t help it. His feet stopped moving before he’d even had time to think about it. "Please" was not a word that fell easily from the Slayer’s lips, at least not in non-orgasmic situations. So it caught at him, and he stopped. But he wouldn’t look at her. "Why?" he asked simply, eyes trained on the ground, waiting for her to run away like she always did.

Jumping off that tower into the portal was a day at the mall compared to this, she thought with a hint of hysteria. "Because… I want you to stay," she forced out, her stomach churning and her palms beginning to sweat even under the rain. She saw his back stiffen, like she’d shot him, but he didn’t take a step either forward or back. "Because we’re both broken, and as totally bizarre and wrong as it might be, maybe we can help fix each other. Because this thing with us is there, even though we both wish it wasn’t, and I’m tired of lying about it. And I’m tired of the angst and the arguing and the drama. I’ve got enough demons to fight. I don’t want to fight that one anymore."

Spike was thankful that his heart didn’t beat, otherwise he was pretty sure it would’ve been knocking a sizeable hole in his chest right about now. As it was, he hardly dared move for fear he’d break whatever spell she was apparently under.

He still wasn’t moving. She was baring her soul here, goddammit, how dare he not even dignify her with a response? Especially considering he didn’t even have a soul to bare. Typical, she seethed inwardly, feeling the tears well up hot in her eyes. "You made me care about you, you bastard, even though I want to kill you about fifty times a day--including right now, by the way--and after all that, you just think you can walk away? Well, fuck that, and fuck you. It’s not that easy."

Ah, there was his girl. Hadn’t seen much of her lately. Also, he was pretty sure he’d caught the word "care" in there amongst all the vitriol, and that crumb alone was enough to make him want to unpack his bags and redecorate his crypt for long-term tenancy. Still, he wasn’t entirely certain he wanted to give up the recent burst of independence that Halfrek’s visit had touched off. Though major portions of his body were babbling at him to take what he could get before she changed her mind, he needed to hear the terms. He turned to face her. "So what are you saying, pet?"

She took a deep breath. "I’m saying we try this. For real." She could feel the Grand Canyon of Fear opening up in front of her as she spoke, but she barreled on anyway. "Eyes open. You don’t try to convert me to the Dark Side, and I work on giving you the benefit of the doubt."

He wondered distantly if he was dreaming, decided he didn’t care if he was. "Fair enough," he replied quietly.

She nodded jerkily, looking as green around the gills as he felt. "OK." Then her eyes grew serious. "I’d like to say I trusted you before Xander told me about the bar, but we both know I don’t get that luxury." He nodded back, understanding. "I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, because of what you did--or didn’t do--last night. But if I’m wrong about you, I’ll kill you. You have to know that."

He met her eyes evenly. "If I change my mind, you’ll know it. That’s all I can promise."

"Fair enough," she echoed him, and they both stood there in silence for a second, just looking nervously at each other. Spike felt as if someone had just offered him a lifetime membership to the Sunnydale Blood Bank, and he wasn’t sure quite how to deal with it. Vampires were built to handle pain, fury, even exhilaration, but not joy. He didn’t have the first clue what to do with so much happiness pouring through him, like a flood, like a tidal wave, swamping him. He panicked. Thoroughly.

"I’m still going to do things my way," he told her, defensive, as if she’d just suggested otherwise.

She blinked, surprised. "OK."

"I’m not going to get a job and become a useful member of society."

"OK."

"I’m not going to parade around in a sodding white hat."

That mental image, especially coupled with the profound seriousness of his tone, was enough to make her mouth quirk up on one side. "Spike."

"What?"

"Shut up."

He furrowed his brow, mouth half-open, insulted, until a thought occurred to him. And then he smiled at her: a slow, dangerous, suggestive smirk that sent a flash of heat straight down to her toes.

"Make me."

She couldn’t have said afterwards exactly who jumped who, she just knew that suddenly his mouth was on hers and she was wrapped around him so tightly she could feel even his tiniest muscles flexing and every nerve in her body was sparking like a firecracker. Too long, too long, she kept repeating in her mind, and Spike’s brain was swimming as he realized that this was what she tasted like when there were no barriers, no hesitations, and a desperation to remember instead of to forget. Her hands clutched at his arms, and she felt a primal satisfaction knowing she’d leave marks on the pale skin. "Mine," she whispered fiercely into his mouth, and he smiled and growled his agreement.

Soaked to the skin, they staggered together towards the door of the crypt, never breaking contact, laughing through kisses as they stumbled over Spike’s abused duffel bags. They barely managed to shove the heavy door closed before they were tearing each other’s clothes off.

"Bed," Spike muttered hoarsely as she tossed his precious duster aside and began tugging impatiently on his shirt. He pressed kisses along her collarbone as he stripped off the heavy raincoat.

"Too… ohhh… far," she sighed back, her breath catching as he hit a particularly responsive spot. "Now." She gave up on the buttons, tore the shirt, and started in on his belt buckle.

He laughed low in his throat, and picked her up, carrying her a few feet to the mattress lying on the floor of the crypt. He’d intended to try stuffing it in the DeSoto to take with him to parts unknown, but seeing how matters stood at the moment, he thought he’d save that experiment for later.

She looked around for a second, surprised at the sudden appearance of his bed, then shrugged. "Convenient," she murmured appreciatively, and dove back into the task of peeling off his wet jeans.

"I thought so," he replied, grinning against her skin, and then they were naked, and she was touching him, and all thinking became suddenly out of the question.

------------------------

Part 10:

-----------------------------------

Afterwards, she lay curled against him, hair clinging damply to his shoulder, drifting. They could still hear rain pattering steadily on the stone roof. He’d managed to get up long enough to dig a blanket out of his discarded luggage, and now he was just lying there, listening to her breathe, wondering if he could convince her to just stake him right now so he could go out on a high note. Not likely, he realized, and then moved on to wondering just what it said about their relationship that her not wanting to kill him was a new development.

Buffy had a feeling that she was still going to have some major recoil to deal with from this whole series of events, but for now she was content to just stay in this unlikely haven and enjoy the benefits of having finally made a decision. “Well,” she murmured in his ear, sending shivers down his spine, “the world didn’t end.”

“Mmm,” Spike agreed indistinctly. “Always a good sign in these parts.”

She sighed lazily, and raised her head just enough to check her watch. “I think that’s a record.”

“Doubt it,” he replied, fondly remembering some of their multi-hour marathons.

She giggled, and swatted his shoulder. “Not that, you moron.”

“Then what?” There were other kinds of records now?

“Twenty minutes. That’s the longest we’ve ever gone without fighting after…” She felt her cheeks growing hot, told herself wryly that if she could do it, she should probably be able to say it. “After sex.”

He shrugged, just enough to joggle her head slightly. “Only because we haven’t been talking. Give us time, love, we’re out of practice.”

She smiled. “I’m not worried.” Then she added, yawning, “Too bad there’ll probably never be any kind of arguing shortage. ‘Cause you and I’d get rich.”

“Awfully mercenary of you, Slayer,” he noted approvingly. “I’m proud of you.” He settled a hand underneath his head, and drew her closer with his other arm, unable to shake the uneasy feeling that this could all explode at any second. Still, he planned to take full advantage of it while he could, no matter how surreal it seemed.

“Been hanging out with Anya too much.” She refused to analyze the shiver of excitement that spiraled into her stomach as he tightened his hold on her. She glanced around, her eyes falling on a duffel bag that seemed to have sprung a leak. Now that she thought of it, there did seem to be a distinct alcohol edge to the smell of rain and sex that permeated the room. Hmm. “I think I might’ve spilled some of your puke-inducing substances.”

“Smashed them beyond all recognition, more like. There was a bottle of triple-cask Balvenie in there, too.” Ordinarily, he’d’ve been mourning the loss, but considering the circumstances, he couldn’t really find it in himself to care. Not that he wasn’t going to milk this for whatever it was worth.

“Triple-who Bal-what-ie?”

He gave a long-suffering sigh. “You’re a right Philistine, you know that? You college birds think it’s all Monarch and Busch Light. Wouldn’t recognize good alcohol if it bit you on the ass.”

“I’ve been bitten plenty by your alcohol, thanks. Besides, you probably just stole it anyway.”

He waved the hand that was resting on her waist. “Beside the point. You still owe me.” Then, his hand drifting higher and a lascivious grin sliding across his face, “I have a few ideas for how you can repay me, though…”

“You have one idea,” she scoffed, pushing his hand away. “The same idea you always have.”

The grin didn’t waver. “Don’t hear you complaining…” Well, she certainly intended to. Definitely. Just as soon as he stopped kissing her.

Only problem was, he didn’t stop. He just kept on kissing her, and now there were other body parts involved as well, and as she lay there, tangled up with him, listening to the rain drumming on the roof, feeling his cool skin against hers, she could feel whatever had been tearing loose inside her earlier dangling by a thread. One more kiss, one more caress, and she’d be lost. She pulled back before her brain could shut down completely.

Spike looked at her, and she could see the questions and hurt beginning behind the haze of lust in his eyes. Clearly, he thought this was the preface to another of her dramatic exits. She wanted to reassure him, but as usual, she struggled with the words.

“This… it’s so much,” she said finally, softly. She swallowed, looked down, then back up at him. “It scares me.”

He breathed a mental sigh of relief that she seemed to be showing no sign of the patented Buffy Summers Insult and Exeunt, but the mixture of fear and defiance in her expression caught him off guard. “Me too,” he told her with a kind of determined honesty, momentarily stripped of his defenses.

Her eyes were huge. “Things could suck tomorrow.”

He nodded. “Or later today. Or even five minutes from now.” Despite the seriousness of the situation, he couldn’t quite resist the smirk. “Well, maybe twenty-five minutes from now,” he amended, and was rewarded with a blush and a tiny smile. I can still make her smile. There’s some hope, then. “No use trying to predict the future, love. You do what you need to do, and deal with the consequences as they come.”

She pouted a little. “I like to plan. I’m a planner.”

“And I like to enjoy the ride.” The double-entendre was there, of course--he was, after all, him--but she could see that he meant it. The ridiculousness of it all suddenly hit her, and she began to laugh.

“It’s so… wrong,” she managed, between gusts of laughter. “We’re nothing alike, we’ve tried to kill each other, we’ll never go a day without arguing, and somehow, still, we… balance. How is that?” She shook her head, totally at a loss.

Spike just watched her laugh, this tangled, infinitely complex web of dark and light who was the Slayer, who was Buffy, and thought about the exquisite pain of loving her. She looked whole for the first time in a long time. It occurred to him that he might have a little bit to do with that. He grinned into her tired/amused eyes.

“Fate’s a bitch, pet. I think she and Love must be sisters.”

His tepid attempt at armchair--or mattress--philosophy only made her laugh harder. She flapped one hand helplessly, though he knew better than to believe she was ever helpless. “Stop… with the… talking… God, I’m so sick of talking…”

Well, if that wasn’t an invitation, he didn’t know what was. Her laugh slid into a sigh as his mouth moved along her jawline, down her throat, where he could feel the blood pumping beneath her skin. Even though he’d done it a hundred times, it still drove him to the edge of control, and suddenly he felt her stiffen under him. She put one hand on his shoulder, pushing him back. She looked steadily into his eyes for a moment before slowly, deliberately turning her head to the side.

Offering.

Spike’s mouth went dry, and his borrowed blood heated with the heady combination of lust and hunger and adrenaline. She stared at the wall, and he could hear her heart pounding, see her pulse racing. He found he couldn’t move.

What the fuck are you doing? Buffy’s brain was screaming at her, while her Slayer instincts shifted into overdrive, crying out for her to grab the nearest stake and finish this. But whatever anchor she’d been clinging to was gone, and she found herself overwhelmed with the irrational need to give him something, to prove something to him, to atone somehow for all the ways she’d been wrong. In some indefinable way, the situation, their relationship, seemed to call for something extreme, and this was the most extreme thing she could imagine, lying there waiting for him to drink the blood that was rushing frantically in her veins.

Spike just kept staring at her, smelling her fear and uncertainty, floored by this profound statement of trust from the woman who swore she’d never trust him. Never does anything halfway, does she? he thought fuzzily. Not just accepting the demon in him, but inviting it, though it obviously shook her to her core. No one, not even Dru with her dark, deadly kiss of salvation, had ever offered him a gift like that. He wanted to give her something in return, give her everything, to atone for everything he’d done wrong in his desperate, hopeless pursuit of her. But he wanted to take, too, and the conflict held him utterly still, teetering on the brink.

Finally, when he didn’t move, she snaked a hand up his arm, pulled his head down to her neck. And shuddered as he bit down. With blunt, human teeth.

“I would’ve…” she whispered, shaking with tension, wondering why there were suddenly tears in her eyes.

“I know,” he soothed, his mind and body and heart all swimming with the effort of refusing her. He honestly hadn’t had any idea what he was going to do until she pulled him down to her, and then he’d remembered like a bolt of lightning: balance, she’d said. They balanced. So he’d chosen the only way he could think of to acknowledge her nature as she’d acknowledged his. And despite his firm conviction that he held the all-time world record for Most Well-Intentioned Actions that Got Completely Bollocksed Up, he had a feeling as she kissed him that this one time, anyway, he’d made the right decision. But the strain had shattered his control, and he channeled all the heat and hunger into touching her, wanting to be closer, always closer…

She felt his hands growing more insistent, gripping harder, but the tears were clogging the back of her throat now. She pulled back again, and his eyes were naked as he choked out a breathless laugh.

“Stop-and-go traffic’s hell on the engine, luv,” he managed hoarsely.

She smiled, and if she’d dared put a name to what wrapped itself around her heart at that moment, she might have called it love. “I want to show you something.”

He raised an eyebrow. His body was pretty much insisting on “immediately if not sooner,” but still… Never let it be said that William the Bloody turned down a sex game. “All right.”

She flipped him over on his back with practiced ease, straddling him, sending another shot of lust straight to his groin. He grinned in anticipation, distantly trying to remember where he’d packed the handcuffs. But she didn’t appear to need any props--just leaned down until he could feel her warm breath on his ear.

“I love what we do,” she told him, beginning a small trail of feather-light kisses down his neck. “I love what you’ve shown me.” Her mouth drifted along his shoulder, then his chest, punctuating each word. “But I wanted to show you something I know…” She stopped, and looked up at him. The cocky self-assurance on his face was slowly melting into a kind of bemused fear. They were in uncharted territory now. She cupped a hand to his cheek, wondering again at how such a powerful creature could look so vulnerable, and leaned down till her mouth was centimeters from his. “This… it doesn’t always have to hurt.”

And she kissed him, gently but thoroughly, trying to pour into it everything she wasn’t brave enough to admit to herself yet, much less to him. Spike wasn’t sure whether he was tasting her tears or his as he speculated on the real possibility of dying of this strange combination of happiness and terror. Not a bad way to go, he reflected distantly, and held her tighter as outside, the rain poured from a sunny sky.

END