CHAPTER EIGHT

It’s been a while, has to be a month since he’s seen her. Moon had grown fat by eating the stars and shrunk away into a guilty ghost once again. Knows she’s torturing him. Too damn proud and stubborn to come to him but she has to or else it all means nothing. Every kiss, touch and sigh evaporates into insignificance. He’d never accept that. Perhaps she’d never love him but he could never let her dismiss the connection between them; the attraction that had pulled them to meet across a divide, to risk traversing such a tightrope. Every moment was a held breath of anticipation and dread. Fear of falling to his doom, fear of falling for her. But he’d been honest; he’d come clean, admitted that he’d fallen a long time ago. Whereas she could barely force herself to recall that she had met him in the middle and had to again.

He shook himself from a daze and contemplated the ethereal blue whispers of smoke curling around him and his eyes flickered to the ashtray. Black, polished to a shine and chipped where she had dropped it. When she had dropped it. When she found out about the feeding, the broken promise, how he couldn’t control his nature, how he was no Angel. She made him wish he was, made him feel regret and yearn to know the tug of guilt. And now it tugged him down. Down, an aching void screaming inside of him. Wasn’t supposed to be like this, wasn’t–

He recognised the distant chime of church bells, counted the hours. Five in the evening, two hours before night would fall and time for Dawn.

The perfunctory knock sounded once before Dawn bounded through the door.

"Hi, Spike." She chirped as she approached him and reached out to tousle some of his hair into a mess of curls. "You should use less gel, you know."

Spike’s chest heaved in a laboured, effected sigh. "Well, I do now, little miss expert on hair." He fingered at his hair in an attempt to rearrange it into a style and frowned at Dawn as she wandered over towards the kitchenette. "Oh, I got you some of that soda stuff you like."

Dawn beamed at him and ducked out of sight for a moment. She emerged with a can of pop and a beer for him, which she handed him before flopping herself into the nest of the other armchair.

"So Twiggy, how was school."

She rolled her eyes and fidgeted on cushions moulded to someone possibly four times her size.

"Not good?"

"It was blah, whatever. I’m rolling my eyes at you. Honestly, where do you think up all these names?"

"You don’t know Twiggy?"

"What that?"

"What she. Famous English fashion model of the 1960s; stick thin and pouty, the Kate Moss of her time."

"Who? And who turned you into a mooching copy of Vogue?"

Silence

"Busted." Dawn grinned. "Wait until I tell Janice."

Old-Spike glare and Dawn actually shifted, smug grin faltering into a nervous laugh. He broke on the quiet simper and apologetic shrug of shoulders she produced and relaxed into a one sided smirk.

"What’s your word? ‘Busted’?"

"What’s your word? ‘Bollocks’?"

"You won’t likely be repeating things like that outside of this room, missy."

Dawn smiled; encapsulated innocence and glee. "Of course not... arsehole."

There’s a knock. Creak of old wood and rusty hinges and she’s standing there. Caught in the threshold, bathed in half-light and casting an ominous shadow behind her. Angel and Protector of Life shadowed by Death. It echoes her every move and forebodes her very future.

He senses it again, feels the pull of yearning that it’s been so long since she’d been in his vicinity. The fizzle around her, the aura that surrounded her that was surely the smallest atoms of nature acknowledging her, worshipping her and the hope she breathes into every moment whilst retaining none for herself. She embodies pure selflessness in her willingness to sacrifice herself every day for people not even aware of her existence. In a world with no messiah she is their saviour and they make her degrade herself daily in a dead-end job. She’s a hundred-and-one contradictions - of this world but not part of it. Made more than born - a product of the worst qualities of this world. She exists because he does.

"Buffy." The only word that comes to mind and it is almost too heavy for his tongue. Names have power and she granted him permission to speak it, to whisper it against her ear as confirmation of the intimacy.

"Is Dawn ready?"

But no, it’s not Buffy who props open the door with a foot while she leans against the doorframe. Her lips form a thin line of displeasure and her stance is pure stubborn Slayer. Won’t come in, won’t come to him. But she doesn’t close the door, doesn’t lower her stare. Doesn’t move even as Dawn slips past her with wave and a shrug.

"Same time tomorrow OK, Spike?"

He nods, dipping his head in confirmation to Dawn while maintaining eye contact with the Slayer.

"OK." And she steps back; removing her foot and slipping back into shadow. The door falls to after her, closing will a quiet click that was more of a comma than a full stop.

He steps out. Sway of leather falling into place behind him as he fills his nostrils with the scent of deep midnight blue. Time for a beer or two, start a few arguments, break a few ugly demon faces. This could be a good night he affirmed as the comma nestled into a nook of his solar plexus.

The punch lands square in its target and is followed by a sickening crack of bone. He doesn’t have to look at the demon lying prostrate on the floor of Willie’s bar to know his nose is broken and gushing turquoise blood. His chest expands with pride and the thrill of satisfaction and he pockets the money reluctantly handed to him.

"Fair play, Spike."

"Got that right."

A mutter and shake of a despondent green head. "Cleared me out, man. The wife gonna be on my case big time tomorrow."

Damn him, like he should care, but all of a sudden he’s patting the guy on the back and urging him towards the bar. "Tell you what, buy you another drink then I’ll give you a chance to win some of this back. Can’t have the hell spawn going hungry."

"Gee, that’s good of you, Spike. That’s... uh-oh" Vermilion eyes settle upon him, rounded in awe and surprise.

Yeah uh-oh.

Scuttle of tin against gravel. "Tinker, tailor, soldier, spy... gaze up at the sky... see how they twinkle but its all a fallacy. Them twinklers are planets."

"Really?"

And there she was. Buffy. His Buffy: small, beautiful and incandescent in moonlight. He stalled, rolled back on to his heels and stared at her. Any muddled thoughts clearing as his eyes settled upon and consumed her. "Apparently."

She looked away then, at the floor, shuffled her feet, and repeatedly clenched her fingers into fists. And suddenly he understood; knew why she was there.

"You’ve been waiting for me."

A look – admittance in a fall of lids, eyelashes shadowing her cheeks for an instant before those silver blue eyes fix him once more. "This is half way, right?"

"Between?"

A shrug, a hand indicating some sort of scaled-down distance as she explained: "my place and yours."

He felt himself smile, saw her mirror it and the glint of her perfect teeth in this perfect moment. It always had to be half way and he’d been here all along. Only now he wasn’t alone. Had to touch her and she was drawing closer too, step for step. Another step and they met. He reached out and fingers interlocked with his.

"How’d patrol go?"

Her mouth wrinkled and spread into a slow smile as they fell into pace together. "Two Vamps and I finished off this Frennick Demon with a broken nose.

He laughed, felt her turn to look at him and let it continue as the comma wiggled, self-destructed and the particles re-settled into and ellipsis.

TBC

After the Fall

CHAPTER NINE:

Static instant: the fragility of perfection. The two of them cocooned in a crystallised lull of peace. Time of no significance, only hinted at in the lazy stretching of shadows inside and the quiet rustlings of an outer world awakening as they sleep on.

She stirs. Her breath hitching into a new rhythm and lashes flickering as she reaches out to him and he watches her. Sees the small smile of recognition and hears the sigh that she breaths as her fingertips make contact. "Morning." She whispers as her touch comes to rest on his neck and she nestles herself into him once more.

"Xander and Anya are getting married next week." She declares it so matter-of-factly. Such a deceptively simple statement but it’s loaded with a weight, an expectation. And just what exactly is he supposed to say here?

"Oh?" He’s pretty sure that won’t do. What does she want, his opinion? Can’t very well start talking about how if every man and woman was immortal, they would think twice about making a life-long commitment to each other. Or maybe one could stake the other and save on expensive divorces.

"Did you hear me?" Buffy had that look in her eye and he knew he was in trouble. Not physical danger, this was something else.

"They’re getting married, I heard. Just don’t see how it involves little old me, unless you want me there to hold your hand and make you feel better about being a saggy old spinster."

"Hey!" She pouted and produced a small, petulant foot stomp worthy of Dawn at her best. The arms crossed and the lip jutted just a little more but she couldn’t keep it up. Didn’t have Dawn’s sulky stamina. "And... yeah."

"‘Yeah’ what?"

Buffy inhaled deeply and released. The words plummeted from her "I’dlikeyoutocomewithme."

Silence. Shock. Formed his mouth around the opening syllables of excuses and facts about Xander not being his number one fan but remained quiet. She must have thought about all those things. She wasn’t trying to ruin Xander’s day; she was introducing him to the fold. He stood stiffening with realisation, watching the flush of embarrassment fade from Buffy’s face. He stood a long while.

"OK." He said finally. "As long as I don’t have to wear a tux."

Buffy beamed. It was the first time he’d seen such spontaneous delight in her since... since she came back. And he was shocked further; the more he became aware of the warmth washing away at his insides.

So today was the day. The pathetic whelp’s getting married and ding-dong, how the bells are going to chime. The house was bustling with swarms of hurried activity blurring around him while he perched on a kitchen stool, one foot firmly against the floor, his toes squirming against the insole of his boot.

"Hey!" It was Miss Serenity herself. Her nose wrinkled as she drew a sly smile. Her mission clearly on display in her right hand as she neared him. "You could use a carnation." The flower was pinned into place on his leather lapel before he could resist and he stared at the offending fluff of white petals. "Oh come on now," she grinned at his scowl. "It really breaks up the black."

He couldn’t bring himself to object and instead nodded, silently toasting Tara with his mug of pig’s blood. She responded with a slight incline of the head before noticing a glint of silver that lay, catching the morning light on the kitchen bench. She picked up the earring and smiled broadly.

"Yeah, I found it."

"This is Willow’s. She’s been looking for it all over." There was a pressure against his hand. A light and momentary squeeze before she turned to rush upstairs. "Thanks, Spike."

And the kitchen stilled. Foot falls and jibbers of broken, harassed conversation could be heard coming from upstairs but for the moment he sat transfixed by the sparkle of specks of dust caught wavering in a strip of sunlight.

"You’re welcome."

"OK," Dawn giggled from beyond the doorframe. "Promise you won’t laugh?"

"I don’t make promises anymore." (Not since...)

He could almost her Dawn rolling her eyes. "OK, spoil-Spike." And with that they emerged. A whole herd of emerald green bridesmaids.

"Er..."

"Well," Dawn was bouncing at the knees while Buffy’s face was turning the exact complimentary colour to her dress. "What do you think?"

"I’m speechless and most humble to gaze upon such beauty as your colourful congregation."

The responses were diverse. Tara bowed and linked arms with a glowering Willow, gently luring her back into the hallway. Dawn had been baffled into momentary silence before seeming to recall the excitement of the day and flounced herself into momentum once more. A hasty "whatever," being her only exclamation before skipping from the room.

Only Buffy remained. She shrugged and produced a bashful smile as she twirled before him. "Hideous, ain’t it?"

"I wouldn’t say that. I think you look—"

"I wonder what Anya has against us. I know there’s that thing about not wanting your bridesmaids to upstage you but please."

Spike caught her hand and pulled her onto his lap. "You look beautiful, Buffy. You’re... glowing." He held his hand against the heat of her cheek and for a moment her big startled eyes held his.

"That’s because the dress is radioactive."

He grinned. He couldn’t help it. He’d pay the price for this sooner or later in the hail of some great battle or other, his skin boiling off his bones. But now, today on a day everybody was much too concerned with other matters to object to his presence, he could bask. "Good thing I’m impervious then." He said and, as if to prove it, he kissed her.

Everyone was hollow. Empty bodies defeated by the unexpected events of the day and lurching heavily up to bed.

She undresses mechanically, movements lacking either fluidity or grace. A beleaguered sigh as she wrestles with one stocking, finally pulling it free of her last toe and casting it into the wilderness of her twilight room. The last thing is her hair, setting it free from the pins and tousling it out with heavy hands as if trying to shake off any dust of the day that may be weighing her down.

Finally she stands naked, turning to look back at where he lays on her bed. She walks over to him. Slowly reaches out to touch him and traces the arch of an eyebrow as he looks up at her tired, pretty and vacant face. Finally she smiles. So tiny it’s almost imperceptible but it breaks the dam. A tear begins to snake its way down her cheek and it is quickly followed. He grabs her and she sobs as he pulls her down to lay beside him. Wraps her in an embrace and kisses her shoulder, longing to transfer to her some of his newly found warmth by hope alone.

She stills soon, having little energy, and shivers as if to prove the futility of his hope. But she doesn’t reach for more covers, only stretches out a little and into the curve of his lukewarm body until her back makes contact with his abdomen. There she seems satisfied for she sighs once before slipping into the lull of sleep.

And so... the post-mortem. A definitely human thing of analysing cause and effect; reason and motive; wrong and right. The undead find no need to examine a corpse. They how it died because they killed it and there’s no question of right and wrong – only survival. What’s done is done; you do it then move on. That was the code of his creed. That was how it was supposed to be. But instead he was sat there, at Buffy’s feet, quietly attentive. In the room, but not part of the inner circle of ‘Scoobies’.

"I don’t get it." It was Willow talking. Her eyes set to the floor. "If thing’s weren’t right couldn’t they just talk it out?"

Tara knew double meaning when she heard. She reached out to her ex-lover and Willow’s eyes flinched to Tara’s at the contact. "Sometimes people just need time. They need to get away in order to think because the situation’s too... volatile to withstand the moment. You gotta let the dust settle, then... then we can talk."

Willow’s eye’s widened, pouring with hope. "Talk?"

"And... and make up for lost time." The handhold strengthened, reaffirming some sort of both supernatural and completely natural bond between them that seemed to lend strength to both in Xander and Anya’s ‘volatile moment’.

"I think it’s over." It was Buffy. Her voice was so quiet and Spike could sense the trembling of her fingers as they neared his neck.

"But why?" Dawn snivelled, her voice muffled by the congestion of her pink, weeping nose. "They really love each other."

Silence and then Buffy spoke the truth: "Sometimes that’s not enough."

Spike gasped. Partially from the eventual contact of her fingers and partly from the realisation of her statement. She’d let the past go along with all adolescent fairy tale notions of Prince Angel on his white high horse. But it wasn’t surrender or resignation to the futility of love. She’d simply had to take herself there in order to come back to him. To find out truly whether or not the Platinum Plum himself was enough. And he was here. That was all he ever needed to know.

TBC

PART TWO

CHAPTER TEN:

The waitress was holding a powder shaker over two mugs and wearing a wide and fake smile. "Sprinkles?" She sung and Spike took a step back from the manic stare in her eyes.

"Uh, no. It’s good."

"Spike, I want chocolate sprinkles!" Dawn whined; bouncing in anticipation of the sugar rush the cocoa would give her.

"OK, just on one." He signalled to the waitress with his index finger and she shook for all she was worth. The result was not a light dusting of powder but an avalanche that flattened the peak off the foamed cream into something that resembled a cocoa erupting volcano. Spike stepped in a saved the cup before she could do more damage. "Uh, thanks." He nodded, quickly pulling away from the serving bar to find a table.

"Wow!" Dawn’s eyes eclipsed the circumference of the mug as she surveyed her drink.

"Yeah, you’ll be buzzing about all night."

She only smileche that flattened the peak off the foamed cream into something that resembled a cocoa erupting volcano. Spike stepped in a saved the cup before she could do more damage. "Uh, thanks." He nodded, quickly pulling away from the serving bar to find a table.

"Wow!" Dawn’s eyes eclipsed the circumference of the mug as she surveyed her drink.

"Yeah, you’ll be buzzing about all night."

She only smiled to confirm his prophecy before delving into the foamy cream with her spoon.

Several minutes later and the cream-berg had been cleared, revealing the rich dark hot chocolate underneath. There was always a moment of seemingly deep contemplation as Dawn stared into her cup before she decided to add another sachet of sugar for good measure. The packet crinkled once, twice, and thrice, as shook the sugar loose before tearing it in half and pouring the contents into her cup at an excruciating, meticulous fine rate.

"Dawn Summers: performance artist drinks cocoa."

There was no response and, come to think of it, she had been unnaturally quiet that night. Uh-oh – This didn’t bode well.

"Spike?" She finally asks, slowly and quietly. Didn’t bode well at all.

"Yeah?" He replied simply, gritting his teeth against inevitability.

"Where did you go?"

"Uh... you’ll have to be a tad more specific Bit. Been a fair few places in my un-life." He was stalling and she knew it. He made a show of feeling around for his wallet and once he had located the corresponding shape in his inner pocket he patted it for good measure.

"When you left... after... when the others wouldn’t let you see me. Where’d you go to?"

"Africa."

"Africa?" Dawn was understandably puzzled. Her cocoa spoon lay forgotten on a bright red coaster.

"Yeah, I went to Africa."

There’s no point stalling any longer. Perhaps he’d been waiting for her to ask him all this time because he found it impossible to summon up any resistance. When the inevitable "What for?" came he drew his elbows onto the table and hunched forward with a sigh.

"My soul."

Dawn’s eyes once more eclipsed her cocoa mug.

"Oh my god!"

"Dawn—"

"Oh my god!"

"Look—"

"Oh my god!"

"See, the thing is—"

"Oh my god!" This one was accompanied by a strange giggle and an animated gesture of both hands fluttering at each side of her face. Another bounce or two and her mouth threatened to form another ‘oh’.

"Dawn!" He had her attention and she stopped mid flow. "Right, now—"

"Oh my god, Buffy doesn’t know, does she?"

He slid back in his seat and nodded. "And she’s not going to."

"But why? It’s not like it’s a bad thing and you know what’s she’s like—if she finds out you’ve been keeping something from her she’ll go nuts."

He emitted another sigh and sank back further, as if he didn’t have the energy to draw breath that he needed to talk. "It’d just... complicate things."

"How? You know how Xander and Willow feel about you. Well, if they knew you had a soul then they’d have to accept you—you’d be just like..."

Yet another sigh and he was sickening himself with repetition. His fingernails picked at the edging of the veneer table, itching for a cigarette. "Go on, you can say it."

"Angel."

"I like this place."

He watches Buffy as she emerges from the bathroom and surveys her surroundings. As if sensing his attention she pauses and stands quiet for a moment. One hand combs through her hair and the other plays with the hem of the red shirt she is wearing. His shirt. He takes in the image: the half-light reflecting pale highlights onto her legs, the curve of her thighs, the shirt hem skimming her buttocks and revealing that she is otherwise naked. It’s then she smiles and begins to near him, peeling through one shirt button at a time until it drapes open and wide and she is stood before him.

"You have fun with Dawn?" She asks, reaching out to touch her fingertips to his cheek. He leans into it and she cups one side of his face, then the other as she sinks down to straddle him.

"Ye—ah," is all he can bring himself to say and the sound is alien; husky and broken by the moment of contact as she settles her weight into him and rolls against him.

"I like it—" her hitches catches as she rocks, trembling from the friction of his jeans. "That you spend time with her." And she stills as if deciding what she has to say is better said without distraction. "I worry about her... about how she feels about me and my friends doing what we do... how she fits into that."

"She seems to cope with it fine. Got a good head on her shoulders—if you forget the teenage vacuity." He longs to touch her. There are inches of bare golden flesh within arm’s reach but he knows he must wait. This importance, this is Buffy talking to him, opening up to him.

"That’s just it. She’s a teenager. She’s fifteen. When I was her age I’d saved the world three times, I was hanging about with a middle-aged librarian, sneaking out at night to kill demons and mooning over someone old enough to be my great, great, great, et cetera, et cetera, grandfather. But that was my life. I didn’t get any choice. I’m the Slayer."

He senses her point but feels the need to prompt her anyway. Since the miracle of her resurrection she just kept on surprising him. Now she was trying to make sense of her past by understanding Dawn’s present.

"And Dawn didn’t have any choice in being The Key. But otherwise she’s just an ordinary teenage girl. She has a unique destiny too but I also want her to have a childhood. She’s part of me, Spike—she’s made from me—she’s" there are tears in her eyes, threatening to spill and something expands in his chest at the sight of her. "She’s my daughter."

Buffy clings to him, not crying, just clutching at him. His hands slip round to her back and with palms against her bare flesh he simply helps to hold her in place. She says something into his shoulder but it’s muffled beyond comprehension so she tries again, into the crook of his neck.

"Thank you for keeping her safe. I... I love her so much and, oh god..." she trails off into a whisper that makes him shiver with joy and dread. "I love you."

And this time she’s pulling at his clothing, mewing in pangs of frustration at the way his stubborn T-shirt refuses to budge so he helps her out as she moves on to his jeans, quickly freeing him from the constraints of the zipper.

"Buffy?"

She stops in mid-action, hovering over him. Palms cup at his cheeks once more as she meets his eyes and nods to confirm her words. "Spike." His name is a mere breath on his face as her lips near his.

TBC