Speedway (continued)
AN: Okay, just a short explanation. You will notice in the following chapters, that I have aged them. I decided that I wanted them to be a bit older than what I had originally thought. Over the next few days, I will be fixing the rest of the text, so that the ages coincide with what I want. So, that being said, welcome to the present.
Chapter 16
Sunnydale, September 2002 (six months after the accident)
With a heavy sigh, Willow pulled down the safety grate of the elevator in the warehouse apartment she lived in. After pushing the button for her floor, she leaned against the wall, closing her eyes as the elevator rumbled loudly to the top. She was so tired, and all her thoughts were of a hot bath and bed. She really needed to think about dropping a couple of classes, the strain was starting to get to her.
When the elevator came to a stop, she pushed away from the wall and exited, making sure to slide the outer gate into place. She then walked down the long, barren hall to her door, the skirt of her short, floral dress wrapping around her legs. Her soft, tan suede boots echoed loudly in the space as she dug in her bag for her keys. Her hand had just closed over them when she heard it. A smile spread across her face as the soft, unmistakable sound of piano playing reached her ears. The haunting melody drifted down the hall, causing her steps to quicken. When she reached the door, she slid the key in and turned, pushing it open. Her clear, green eyes went straight to the piano, her heart tripping in her chest when she saw him.
Mark was sitting hunched over the keys, the only light in the room coming from the moon and street lamps outside the large expanse of windows to his left. She closed the front door quietly, not wanting to break his concentration, and started across the large space. They had moved in here three years ago, after Mark had cut his first album with his band Native Soul. They had taken the huge area and quartered it off, doing most of the work themselves to avoid the huge costs of renovations. As it were, the kitchen and bathroom had cost a fortune. But, it was theirs, and it had been paid for with the royalties from the album. To Willow's right, as she moved through the room, was the living room. The furniture was done in jewel tones, the sofa and chair over stuffed, almost begging for someone to take a nap. An entertainment center sat against the wall, complete with TV, VCR, and DVD player (a gift to Willow on her birthday). Through the living room was the area where Mark kept his instruments. The grand piano had been a splurge, but one that Willow wouldn't have done without if you had paid her. Several guitars lined the space under the windows, as well as two amps, and a couple of microphones. Mark loved the acoustics in the warehouse, and the band had often rehearsed there until their record company gave them a place.
Behind Willow was the kitchen / dining room area, which was partitioned off by screens. In the far corner was their bedroom, the only space actually surrounded by walls besides the bathroom, which sat between it and the guest bedroom, in the opposite corner. Willow's mother had nearly had a stroke when she realized the her daughter was moving in with a musician. She had then convinced her husband not to pay for their daughter's college unless she broke up with him. Willow had been amazed that after all the years of being ignored, suddenly her parents cared what she was doing. They had followed through on their threat of cutting monetary support, but the redhead had gotten a full scholarship, and had thumbed her nose at the people that had birthed her.
Willow moved silently through the room, her eyes never leaving his form. She skirted effortlessly around the furniture, not needing a light to navigate the familiar path. She delighted in the way the silvery moonlight played across the strong muscles of his lean, bare back. The inky blackness of his long hair had slipped off his shoulder, hiding the sharp planes of his face from her view.
Many nights, since they had moved in, she would awaken to quiet melodies playing softly through the rooms. She would get up to find him, memorizing the paths in the darkness. Then, she would do, just as she did now. She slid effortlessly next to him, never jostling the bench as she sat down. Then, as usual, his long fingers would play the last few notes of the song, his attention immediately shifting to her.
"You're back," she said quietly, resting her head on his shoulder. The soft, newly shorn ends of her hair tickled his arm. She smiled when she felt him brush his lips across the top of her head.
"Yeah. We finished early," he answered, wrapping his arm around her waist to draw her closer. He has been in LA for the last two weeks, his band working on their second album. Their first album had generated a number one song, 'Perfect One', and the record company was chomping at the bit for a second one.
"Good," she said, breathing in deep his scent. He always smelled like smoke, soap, and sandalwood. Whenever she smelled any of those things, she always thought of him, and home. He chuckled at her, rested a cheek against her head.
"Is he back yet?" he asked, smiling when she sighed.
"Buffy's going to meet them at the airport," she answered, closing her eyes. She felt for her friends, knowing that seeing each other again wasn't going to be easy. The last time had been for Joyce's funeral. And they hadn't even spoken. Buffy had cried for days afterwards, the combination of her mother dying, and Spike leaving again nearly breaking her. Xander had told her that Spike had spent the next week after the funeral and the race that Sunday in the bottle. Barely recovering in time to make the next race.
"Why didn't Xander?" he asked, maneuvering them so she was straddled across is lap. Willow wrapped her arms around his neck, lacing her fingers through his hair. She loved his hair, and never tired of playing with it.
"He's MIA." Mark frowned at that. Willow just shook her head, not wanting to get into it. There was plenty of time to tell him in the morning. After they had said a proper hello. Leaning down, she covered his mouth with hers, sighing as he opened for her. Their tongues twined lazily around each other, feeling no need to rush. As hard as the separations were on them, it was the time together that kept them going. When he was on the road, she would fly out on weekends to see him. For her birthday the year before, he had played a show, then flown back in time to surprise her. It was hard, but they made it work, the fear of life without the other making any problems pale in comparison.
Mark's hands slid up her legs, the sensation sending chills rushing over her skin, and a hard rush of arousal slammed through her body. The kiss turned urgent, their laziness forgotten as their bodies sought to come together. Mark shifted a bit to pull his shorts down, never once breaking his feast on her mouth. Willow held on as she felt his fingers brush against her sex, her hips surging forward to invite them further in. He hooked a finger around the cotton of her panties, pulling it aside. The tip of his shaft grazed her slick heat, causing them both to moan. With a thrust, he was inside, filling her to completion. She broke away from his mouth to throw her head back, her hips shifting in time with his in a hard, fast rhythm. They never thought it odd that they never seemed to get enough of each other. They had been luckier than their friends, doubt and fear never threading their way into their lives, making the road more difficult than it had to be.
Mark's lips closed over a hard peak through her thin dress, and her fingers tightened in his hair. She used her knees against the bench to ride him harder, her inner muscles clamping over him as she started to fall.
"Oh God!" she cried, as tremors exploded over her, her movements becoming frenzied.
"Willow!" he exclaimed, following her over the edge into oblivion, holding her to him as his shaft pulsed deep within her womb. She stroked her fingers lazily through his hair, whispering her love as they calmed. Then, Mark stood, the bench flying across the floor, and started to walk to their bedroom, kicking his shorts off as he moved. He was still buried to the hilt inside of her, his length hardening with each step. Willow started to bounce against him, seeking friction once more. His arms tightened around her waist, stilling her as best he could so he could get them to the bed in one piece.
Once they fell to the cool, cotton sheets, Willow's clothes were quickly disposed of, all thoughts of a bath and sleep banished for the night.
~*~*~
Cordelia walked through the small house, picking up toys, and straightening things as she went. She didn't allow her mind to wander as she did this, concentrating solely on making her house tidy once again. She looked around the tiny living room, with the beige carpet, and royal blue drapes. The futon couch with the black cushions sat under the window, it's throw pillows freshly fluffed. A blue recliner sat across from it, turned to face the tv against the wall. A huge potted plant bloomed crazily next to the tv, threatening to overtake it any day now. A glider rocker sat next to the recliner, it's joints creaky from many hours of rocking. Xander had promised to oil them, but something always seemed to come up.
A smile, followed by a wave of hurt and anger, rushed over her at the thought of her husband, and she had to force it back. No time for negativity. Not when her daughter was sleeping soundly in her white and lavender bedroom, with pictures of ponies dancing in her head. And not when she had to get up and go to work in the morning.
Turning away from the living room, she walked down the short hall to her daughter's room to put the toys away. She placed them carefully in her toy box, and walked over to the princess castle bed, and looked down at the tiny, dark haired form of her four year old daughter, Jasmine. The little girl with her mother's looks and her father's sense of humor slept peacefully, one tiny arm wrapped around the stuffed teddy bear that her Uncle Spike had sent all the way from New York.
Cordy smiled, and brushed a strand of hair away from her face, before turning and leaving the room. Sighing, she pulled the door to, and walked back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of coffee.
The kitchen was a warm room. The dark faux brick on the walls giving it a country feel. The counters were simulated wood grain, as was the floor. A bar separated the kitchen from the dining area, where a set of glass doors opened onto the patio. Cordy took her mug, and walked to the table, picking up a pen as to finish her paperwork. She had been running the gallery since Giles had left, and while she had loved every minute of it, she was glad that he was coming back soon. He had left her in charge, giving her the freedom to order new merchandise, and to hire new employees. Which was what she was doing right now. Anya Torrents had a degree in art, and was very knowledgeable about little known artists. Cordy thought she would be a good hire, especially since the gallery had started to showcase the local artists.
She sipped her coffee as she finished off the tax paperwork, getting it ready to send to the accountant the next day. She did all this, all the while ignoring the nagging thought in the back of her mind. The thought, that no matter how late she stayed up again tonight, he wasn't going to come home. Yawning widely, she closed the folder, and stood, stretching. She took her cup to the sink then went down the short hall to her bedroom, moving without the benefit of a light. She didn't let herself think as she got ready for bed, just went through the motions of brushing her teeth and now short dark hair. Then, she slipped one of his t-shirts over her head, taking a moment to breathe in the familiar tang of his aftershave that clung to it, before slipping between the cool sheets of her empty bed. She shifted a bit, trying to get comfortable, grabbing his pillow and holding it close, her eyes closing against the tears threatening to spill. With a forced determination, she settled deeper into her covers, and blanked her mind, willing sleep to come. Which, blissfully, it did.
~*~*~
Buffy paced restlessly around the waiting area outside the gate at the airport. Her nervous fingers twisted the ring on her left hand, the small diamond cutting into her skin. People passing the young woman dressed in faded blue jeans and a pink tank top, wondered what could have such a pretty thing so addled. Her heart was pounding against her chest, and her palms were sweating at the thought of seeing him again. She could kill Xander for taking off and leaving her to deal with this. She felt a pang of guilt at that selfish thought, knowing that the brunette had his own share of troubles, but dammit. She didn't want to deal with this. Not yet. Not when she thought she had finally gotten over him. She could admit that she still loved him. Probably always would. But, she had a new life now. One that didn't need the complication of Spike Giles. And everything about Spike was complicated.
She should have sent Dawn to do this. The seventeen year old had gotten her license the day after her birthday this past summer, and was always looking for a reason to drive. Plus the fact the she was chomping at the bit to see Spike. But Buffy hadn't wanted the girl to deal with the angry, hurt man who was sure to emerge from the plane. So, she had volunteered when Giles called, brushing away his protests and offers to take a cab.
Now, though, she wished she had let him. With each minute that brought the landing of the plane closer, Buffy's panic rose. She couldn't even really say what she was so panicked over. She was older, happy with her life, and content with the choices she had made. She had a feeling though, that when she saw him again, all of that was going to change. She had to remind herself, several times, of just why they broke up. And he was coming back a broken man, if Giles' reports on his mental state were any indication. His leg had healed, and he was walking without any outside assistance. But his vision couldn't be repaired, not without a risky operation that could leave him blind as easily as it could fix the problem.
Buffy forced herself to sit down when she caught herself gnawing on the her nonexistent thumbnail. Taking deep breaths, she rested her head in her hands. It had been over a year since the last time she had seen him. She remembered, standing next to Dawn at her mother's gravesite, the light rain beating down on their heads as the heavens themselves seemed to weep for Joyce Summers' passing. She had been surrounded by her family and friends, only two notable presences not felt. Her father. And Spike. Somewhere near the end of the sermon, Buffy had felt a pull to look over her shoulder, and she did. There, at the edge of the crowd, dark stubble marring his cheeks, his white hair in a wild disarray, Spike stood, his dark suit crumpled from the hours he had spent traveling to get there. Their eyes locked for a long minute, sympathy and support singing along the lines of the bond that could still be felt by both of them. Too soon, her attention had been drawn back to the grave, her grief slightly lessened at the knowledge that he was there. But when she had turned back to go see him, to talk to him, he was gone. If not for confirmation from Giles that yes, he had been there, she would have thought that he was a figment of her imagination. That night, after all the people had finally gone home, and Dawn had demanded to spend the night at Willow's, loathe to stay in the house where her mother had died, he had shown back up. No words were spoken as they stared at each other. None were needed.
Almost immediately, they were in each other's arms. Clothes flew as she sought to outrun her grief, her mind screaming that she shouldn't be doing this. They would only break each other's hearts again. But all thought was lost when he had plunged into her, deep and hard, the feel of him taking all her pain, and all her doubts away. She clung to him that night, trying to hold onto him, knowing that when the morning came, he would be gone, making their joining even more bittersweet.
And in the morning, when she had woken up alone, the only evidence of his ever being there the soreness between her legs, and the rose resting on the pillow by her head, she had started to cry. Finally releasing the pain that she had been pushing away over her losing her mother, and the intense, blinding hurt at losing him once again, she had huddled in her bed, not coming out until she was cried dry. Then, she had picked herself up, and shut away the girl she had been. She had a sister to raise, and a house to pay for. No time to worry about lost dreams. So, she had gone out and gotten a job, leaving the running of the gallery to Giles and Cordelia. It was there, that she met Riley Finn.
She was on her second day as a bank teller, nervously left on her own for the first time. He had been her second customer of the day, right after the little old lady who didn't understand that she couldn't take the one hundred dollars in unrolled coins as a deposit. Once the manager had come over and diffused the situation, she had been prepared to quit. But then she had looked up at her next customer, his smile large and kind, and had decided maybe this job wasn't so bad after all.
He had introduced himself, and had almost immediately asked her out to dinner. She had smiled, but refused, her heart still raw from Spike's second departure. He had laughed, and said maybe some other time. Then, he had left, leaving her to ponder the tall, very well muscled man with the sandy brown hair, and open face. Every week he had come in, he had asked her out, until finally, she had accepted. They had been together ever since.
She came to learn that he was the football coach at the high school, his dreams of an NFL career dashed when he blew out his knee in his junior year of college. Buffy had spent the first six months of them being together telling herself that this was what she wanted. A nice, safe man who was devoted to her, and had no use for race cars. She spent the next six months believing it.
However, as every second ticked closer to bringing Spike back, she felt that belief start to shatter. Buffy sprang up from her seat once more, when the announcement came that the flight from Atlanta had landed. She watched the gate with anxiety clutching at her as the people started to file off. When she finally saw Giles, her smile was large and genuine. He had become a sort of surrogate father to all of them over the years, his quiet dependency a balm for their troubled lives. He raised a hand in a wave, his face tired and strained. She started over to him, her hazel eyes searching the rest of the people for the telltale white hair.
When she saw him, she staggered to a stop. His usually proud form was slumped, his handsome face haggard. His hair was laced with dark roots, the locks a mass of unruly curls. He was too thin, his black jeans and t-shirt hanging on his slim frame, the added thinness making his already sharp cheek bones sharper. But, it was his eyes that had her heart seizing in her chest. Still the same brilliant blue, the look of confidence and mirth was gone. In its place was a look of hurt and defeat, the look making her think that he had given up on life. He looked over at her, and she saw the dark bags marring the skin underneath. She saw a flair of something nasty in his eyes, and had to fight back the wave of tears that threatened to spill.
Forcing her feet to start moving again, she walked over to them, forcing a smile onto her face.
"Hello, Buffy," Giles said, his voice tired. Spike stayed silent, regarding the woman approaching them with disinterest.
"Hi, how was the flight?" she asked, clasping her hands in front of her. The motion caused the light to flare off the ring on her hand, and Spike's eyes widened when he saw it. He looked away from them, ignoring their small talk, and for the first time thankful that his vision was marred, so he didn't have to see her clearly out of the corner of his eye. He started to pray violently for a cigarette and a drink, promising himself that as soon as he could get away from them, he would get himself both.
"Will?" Giles drew his attention back to them, "Are you ready to go get the bags and go home?" Home, Spike thought. Is that what this was? No, home was behind the wheel of a race car, the wind rushing through the windows and the smell of the track filling his nostrils. This wasn't home. Nothing would ever come even remotely close again.
"Yeah," was all he said to his father, however, and he started to walk away from them, not wanting to see the pity in their eyes. Buffy turned and walked with Giles, studying the still fluid gate of her ex. Even with the limp, he was graceful, his too thin frame still moving like a cat.
"How is he?" Buffy asked Giles quietly, glancing over at him.
"Not good, I'm afraid. He's started drinking. Heavily. It was worrisome while he was still on the pain medication, but he managed not to kill himself. Won't listen to anybody about it. Not me, the doctors. I'm hoping that being home will help him. Seeing his old friends. And you," Giles added, looking down at her. He saw the flare of resentment in her eyes and sighed. She could lie to herself all she wanted, he thought. He was hoping beyond hope that his two children could find their way together once more. They needed each other like they needed air, and he was afraid for them if they fought it too long. Mistakes had already been made. How many more needed to be made before they stopped being so stubborn. Giles was of the firm opinion that if they had been together, the pain of Joyce's death, and the anguish this accident was causing his son would not have been as crippling.
"I don't see how I can help. What was between us is long over," she denied, stepping onto the escalator to go downstairs. Spike had made sure to stay as far away from them as possible, his stance rigid. Her heart broke for him, but there was nothing she could do.
"Just being there, when he needs, should be enough," Giles told her.
"Giles, I have a life. One that doesn't involve him. Now, I'll do what I can, but I'm not dropping everything." She knew she sounded bitchy, got her confirmation of it by the look that crossed Giles' face, but she couldn't help it. She had to distance herself from this. It wasn't her place anymore.
"Whatever you feel you can do, Buffy," Giles said, stepping off the escalator and moving to catch up with his son, leaving Buffy to stand and stare after him. She watched father and son walk to the turnstile holding the bags, tears threatening to spill once again. *Good job, Buff. If there's an award for insensitivity, you just won it,* she told herself, miserably. With a sigh, and a heavy heart, she walked after the two Brits, hoping to get this over with soon so she could escape back to her nice, safe life.
Buffy watched as the two Giles men made their way into the apartment. As they disappeared inside, she rested her head on the steering wheel of her mother's SUV, taking deep breaths to stave off the emotion threatening to choke her. The last twenty minutes had been tense and silent, neither male feeling the need to talk, and Buffy finding herself with nothing to say. She didn't think that Spike would want to hear about anything that had been going on in her life, especially since it involved another man. And she didn't know what other safe topics they could talk about that he wouldn't already know.
He had kept in touch with the rest of their circle of friends, often seeing Mark while he was on the road. Xander and Cordy had spent a weekend down in Florida, right before the accident, the tickets to Daytona, as well as the stay in the hotel a gift from Spike. She knew that they had celebrated together afterwards. Even though he had come in fifth, that was still plenty to be happy about.
Hell, he'd even called her mother once a week once he had found out she was sick. He had told her, the night of the funeral, that his biggest regret was not being there at the end. He had always respected and liked Joyce, and was saddened to see her pass. The illness had taken a long time to kill her, the tumor slowly growing over the years. By the time she had gone to the doctors to get something for the headaches she'd been having, the tumor on the base of her spine had been inoperable. He remembered what it was like to lose his own mother, the wounds still fresh in his heart, and he would have wanted to be there for Buffy, and Dawn. Despite their being apart.
He also sent letters to Dawn, as well as little trinkets that had whatever city he had been in at the time emblazoned across them. The only one he didn't keep contact with, was her. And she couldn't say she blamed him. They were over, and she didn't have the right to expect anything from him.
She hadn't expected it to hurt so much to see him. To know he was in pain, and she couldn't help him, was tearing her apart inside. He had barely looked at her, and hadn't said a word to her. Just got into the car, and slumped low in the backseat, staring out the window as the houses and shops went by.
Sighing, she pushed away from the steering wheel, took one last look at the apartment, then put the SUV in gear. With a heavy heart, she pulled into the road and started home.
~*~*~
"Will, would you like something to eat? You didn't eat anything on the plane," Rupert asked his son as the somewhat blonde stalked into the apartment. Spike didn't answer him, just walked past the familiar leather furniture, and the walls lined with his father's treasured books, and went down the hall to his room. Giles took off his glasses and cleaned them as he listened to the definitive slamming of the door. His eyes drifted closed against the worry he harbored, the tension of the last few months finally starting to catch up to him.
It had been a relief to find out that his son would require no further surgery on his damaged leg. The breaks had been cleaner than the doctors had first thought, and they had healed relatively quickly. Spike would only need physical therapy once a week now that he was home, and that would only last until the bone was completely healed.
He had wished that Spike had been happier about the news. But, then, it wasn't the use of his leg that was keeping him out of a race car. Car owners, as well as NASCAR licensing officials wouldn't trust a driver that couldn't see. His peripheral nerves had been damaged so badly, that he could barely see outlines. Not something you want in a driver. He couldn't see what was to the left or right of him with out fully turning his head, a condition that could prove fatal on a race track.
Harker Sheldon had told them as much in the meeting they'd had before heading to Atlanta to the rehabilitation center there. Spike had felt that since he had been the Winston cup champion his second year out, that afforded him some loyalty from the man that had been his boss for the last five years. Unfortunately, Mr. Sheldon, although sympathetic, was first and foremost a business man. Spike had been paid for the remainder of his contract, and had been released. To Giles, it had seemed to be the final nail in the coffin. Spike had withdrawn inside of himself, barely speaking to anyone, allowing his father to make the decisions regarding his recuperation. He had also started to drink, usually passing out at night, with the bottle still clutched in his fist. He barely ate anything, choosing instead to drown himself in liquor. Giles was at a loss as to what to do. His son was in pain, and he had no clue how to help him.
Spike had steadfastly refused the idea of a psychiatrist, and no amount of badgering from Giles had been able to change his mind. He hoped that being home, with direct access to his friends once again, would help. He'd call Xander in the morning, and let him know that they were back. Maybe he could talk some sense into Spike.
With a sigh, Rupert replaced his glasses, and walked into the kitchen, glad to be home. Thoughts continued to tumble around in his head, and he found himself asking Rosemary to look out for their son, to maybe guide him on some way. He scoffed at himself even as he did it. His analytical mind didn't believe in things such as the afterlife, but in this instance, he prayed for any help for his son.
~*~*~
Spike stood just inside the doorway, looking around the room of his youth. His father hadn't changed much, except to come in with a shovel and clear out the mountains of dirty clothes he had left in his haste to pack and leave before Rupert had come home that day. His posters still hung on the walls. His double bed still had the same (hopefully clean) sheets on it. The picture of his mother still sat on the dresser, next to the picture of him and Buffy at the Fourth of July picnic. Everything he had left behind was still where he had put it, and Spike wondered vaguely if Giles was hoping that if he left it so, Spike would eventually come home.
Dropping his bag on the floor, then the duster on top of it, Spike moved to the dresser and snatched the picture of him and Buffy up. He looked long and hard at the image, seeing their happy faces, but too far removed from it to actually remember it. With a scowl, he put it back face down, then turned to go back to his bag. Shoving the leather to the floor, he pulled the zipper back, and rooted around for the bottle he had shoved at the bottom. He pulled it out triumphantly, staring at the label a second before twisting the cap off.
"Here's to you, Jack," he mumbled, before tipping it back and taking a long swallow. He relished the burn that followed the liquor down his throat, sighing as the soothing heat suffused his body. He then reached into his pocket for his cigarettes, lighting one and taking a drag before moving to the window to open it. He then sat on the ledge, and alternately smoked and drank, his mind turning over the events of the last five years. All of it culminating into the sharp point of the accident that stripped away the last thing he had ever wanted.
When he had first pulled on a fire suit and gotten into a car, he had put up with the insults that had been flung at him. What did a Brit know about stock car racing? Why wasn't he in the Indy league, since that was where most Europeans raced? He ignored them, and strapped in, taking to the asphalt track as if he had been borne there. It was hard, being an Englishman trying to make it in a world dominated by good old southern boys, but by the time he had finished his first race, he had their respect. By the time he had won his tenth, they hated him. He was brash, and aggressive, going just short of being fined to win a race.
The fans couldn't decide whether to love him or hate him. He was young, had the looks of a model, and a driving style that rivaled that of the Intimidator himself. With his distinctive white hair, and the rakish scar cut through his brow, he was a photographer's dream. With his tendency to rub paint, and pass in the most dangerous of moves, he was the other drivers' worst nightmare. But, his distinctive style had earned him the Championship his second year, a feat unprecedented to this day. He had won the Daytona in his third year, giving him a high like nothing else. He was soon sought after for ads and commercials, his popularity pushing the sport even more into the spotlight, taking up where the late Earnhardt left off.
He had plenty of money, and lots of pretty girls vying for his attention. Life had been damn near perfect. The only thing that had kept it from being so was the lack of THE pretty girl he wanted, and his best friend. The last time he had seen Buffy, he hadn't meant to. He had only planned on going to the funeral, and saying hello to his friends, and Nibblet, then take the first flight back to Florida. He had skipped out on the pre-racing festivities down at Daytona to attend, ignoring his owner when he threatened to put someone else in the car, permanently. He hadn't paid any mind to the threat, knowing full well that Sheldon wouldn't be so stupid. Besides, he had promised to be back for the race on Sunday, and that was the important point.
So, he had gone to Sunnydale, prepared to visit and run. His heart still hurt from the break-up with Buffy, even though it had happened almost four years prior. He didn't think he'd ever get over her. Every other time he had been back in town, he had made an effort not to see her, and this was to have been no exception.
However, almost as soon as he had shown up at the rain drenched cemetery, she had turned and looked at him. It had been like no time had passed, and they were back to being able to read each other's thoughts. Then, when the eye contact had been broken, he had fled, afraid of the feelings still churning around inside of him. He had spent some time walking around town, not noticing where he was going until he found himself outside of her house. He cursed himself even as he climbed the steps and knocked on the door. It had only taken one look at her tired, devastated face for him to have her in his arms, their lips fused together as if he had never left. Their joining that night had been the realization of several sleepless nights, their bodies demanding to be together, even if their minds wouldn't cooperate. He knew then, how much he still loved her. How much he would always love her.
It didn't change anything, though. He still raced, and she was still scared. So, he had left, early the next morning, leaving nothing behind save the red rose on her pillow. He had then flown straight to Daytona, having probably the worst race of his career. Afterwards, he'd crawled inside of a bottle and stayed there for a week. He didn't even care that he had gotten fined by his owner. It didn't matter, not when his heart was freshly bleeding from walking away from Buffy a second time.
Then, the following year, just a mere six months ago, the accident. He'd watched it, time and again on the telly, the sportscasters toting it as the worst since the one that had taken Earnhardt away. But, at least it hadn't killed him. Spike almost wished it had. When the doctors had handed out their news, he'd felt like he had died anyway, so what was the difference? He could have the operation and see again. Or, he could come out of it blind. Even he knew the risks weren't worth it. No matter how much he wanted to race again, being blind was not an option.
Now, here he was, back in the place where it had all started. And she was wearing an engagement ring. Yep, life was pretty much shit right now. He didn't want to admit to himself just how much he had been wanting to see her. Some part of him had hoped that things would go back to the way they were. He should have known better.
Spike let out a bitter chuckle, tossed his cigarette out the window, and took another long swallow off the bottle. Hot tears spilled down his cheeks as he thought of all he'd lost, his heart seizing painfully in his chest. It didn't matter anymore, he told himself, drinking more to help convince himself.
~*~*~
The next day Cordelia looked up at the sound of heels clicking across the linoleum of the gallery floor. She sighed as she saw her mother walk in, her purple, linen suit impeccable, her sleek, dark hair twisted into a bun. A cloud of Chanel enveloped her, encircling Cordy as she leaned down to brush a kiss across Katherine's smooth cheek.
"Hello, Mother," she said, giving her a tight smile.
"Hello, darling. I've come to take you to lunch," Katherine told her, her eyes telling her she wouldn't take no for an answer. Still Cordy tried.
"Mother, I can't. Giles isn't coming back to work just yet, and Anya is still learning the ropes," she explained, waving a hand in the direction of the pretty, young blonde woman speaking to a customer about an early work of De Vinci's. Katherine barely spared the girl a glance, her clear, grey eyes turning to steel.
"I'm sure she will be just fine, dear. I have something I wish to talk to you about. Now, get your things. I'll meet you out at the car." Cordelia sighed as her mother walked out of the gallery, a headache already forming behind her eyes. Her mother had commanded, and now she was expected to follow. Resigning herself to her fate, she walked over to Anya and told her she would be gone for about an hour. Then, she went to go get her purse and meet her mother in the car.
Katherine Chase studied her daughter over the rim of her White Zinfandel. It saddened her to see Cordelia wearing the red, COTTON obviously Kmart suit, and the imitation leather pumps. The only jewelry she was wearing was the plain, cheap band that man had slipped on her finger the day they got married, and a pair of obviously cubic zirconia earrings. Alexander Harris had done nothing but bring her daughter down since they had met, and it was Katherine's mind to pull her daughter out of the obvious slum she had dropped herself into.
Cordelia sat across from her mother, ignoring the scrutiny that she was being put under, to push her food around on her plate. To think, she actually used to LIKE water cress salad. Now, hamburgers and hot dogs on the grill were what she called Nouveau cuisine, and she wouldn't have it any other way.
"Cordelia, dear, your father and I were talking last night, and we feel. . .in light of this new situation, that you should come home," Katherine started, taking a delicate sip of her wine. Cordy's eyes drifted closed briefly, fighting hard against the anger that hit her.
"Mother, I am home," she said, leveling her dark eyes on her mother. The older woman's lips twisted in disgust, telling her daughter just what she thought of that.
"Darling, he left. I told you that day he came storming into the house, with the ridiculous idea of getting married, that that's what would happen. He's no good. Never has been." And never will be, she added silently. Cordelia's finger's gripped her fork hard, as she stared at the woman that had birthed and raised her.
The memory of that day came to her, crystal clear. She had been in her room, crying for like, the eighth day straight. She had just told her parents about the pregnancy, and the fight that had followed had crumbled the last of her hold on her emotions. She had looked up when she heard the yelling, jumped up when her door burst open and revealed Xander, who was followed closely by her father. In an instant she was in his arms, gripping him tightly as he whispered his sorries between kisses. He loved her, he wanted her and their baby, and could she forgive him for being such an idiot? Jefferson had tried to physically remove Xander from the room, only to pull back in shock when the brunette boy had reared on him, telling him to get the hell away from him and his woman. Cordelia had let with him that day, leaving behind everything she had ever known, to be with the man she loved. They had driven straight to LA, where they could get married, no questions asked. When they got back, Jefferson had threatened them with his lawyers and the police. But, since Cordy was barely two months shy of her eighteenth birthday, it was kind of pointless. So, he had pulled the ultimate, and cut Cordy off from all support. She wanted to play at being a mother and married, she could do it without his money. She hadn't cared, and neither had Xander.
They were young, in love, and expectant parents. They just knew that they could overcome anything. And they had. The first three years had been great. Hard, but great. They had moved into a tiny apartment over the garage where Xander had gotten a job, and they had both managed to finish school. He doted on her and Jazz, and they were happy. It wasn't until last year, that things started to fall apart.
Her parents had wanted to be a part of their granddaughter's life, and Cordy couldn't deny them. She now wished that she had.
"Mother. That's not fair. If you and Daddy hadn't spent the last year reminding him of what he can't give us, he wouldn't have lost sight of what he COULD give us," Cordelia shot back.
"Cordelia, it's not our fault that he has issues. Those seeds were sown before we ever did anything. It's time for you to let go. Come home. We'll make sure you and Jasmine are taken care of," Katherine countered, stabbing viciously at the salad in front of her.
"We're doing just fine. Thank you," the younger woman said, her voice tight. Katherine's fork hit her plate with a clatter, and she sat back in her chair, sparks shooting from her grey orbs.
"I don't see why you continue to hold onto this farce of a marriage. You are Cordelia Chase, you deserve better." Cordy was shaking with anger, her mother's one sidedness making her seethe.
"My name is Cordelia Harris. That's who I am, and I like her A LOT more than I ever liked Cordelia Chase," she shot back. "I let you get into my marriage. First, by letting you buy the house. Granted, we're paying you back for it, but I never should have talked him into it. It's as much my fault as it his that we're having troubles right now, and I'm not ready to give up. I WANT my marriage, Mother. I wish you would understand that," Cordy said, dropping her fork onto her plate, any appetite she'd had was definitely long gone now.
"If you don't want to come home, that's fine. The house could be yours, free and clear." Katherine dangled in front of her daughter.
"Why aren't you listening to me?" her daughter snapped, her slightly raised voice drawing the attention of the other diners.
"Cordelia, lower your voice," Katherine hissed, eyes darting around the restaurant. Cordelia glared at her mother, then threw her napkin onto the table. She stood, her body held regally as she got to her feet.
"Mother, back off. This is MY life, and if you want to be part of it, and Jazz's, you WILL stay out of my marriage." With one last, pointed look, Cordelia spun on her heel, and stalked out of the restaurant, leaving Katherine sitting in an embarrassed silence.
~*~*~
Giles dropped his keys in his jacket pocket as her made his way into the gallery. Spike had sequestered himself into his room, and didn't seem to be coming out, so he had decided to go to the gallery to get some work done, and check over the things that Cordelia had left for him. He moved quickly across the parking lot, leafing through the pamphlets in his hands. He was going to try one more time to get Will to consider going to a psychiatrist, maybe seeing if Xander or Mark could help talk him into it. He was disappointed that Buffy didn't seem more willing to help, but he could also see her point of view.
She was getting married, even though they hadn't set a date yet, she was engaged. He didn't figure that Riley would appreciate her running to help her ex. And Riley wasn't a bad man. If anything, he was solid, dependable, and polite. Giles couldn't say that he disliked the man, but he just didn't see the fire that had been so evident between his son and Buffy. He had been on a similar path himself, before he had stumbled, literally, into Rosemary. She had been fire personified, passionate about just about everything, and spurring the same reaction in him. He had loved her fiercely, and wanted that for their child.
So enraptured in his thoughts, he didn't see the young blonde woman until he was practically tripping over her. His hand darted out to steady her, and he was immediately reminded once more of a different time, a different woman.
"Oh, dear, excuse me," he said, giving the woman a smile. She answered with her own, her large blue eyes sparkling.
"Oh, no, excuse me. I wasn't looking where I was going," she said. "Is there anything I can help you with? I'm new here, but I'm sure I can help you find what you're looking for," she offered, smiling again. Giles found himself staring at the beautiful woman, and quickly stammered to cover.
"Uhm, er, y-y-y-es. Actually, I'm the curator," he got out, taking off his glasses to clean them, remembering too late the papers in his hand. Her face brightened as she recognized him.
"Oh, you're Rupert Giles? Well, I am very happy to meet you. My name's Anya Torrents. Cordelia just hired me," she said, holding out her hand to shake his. He replaced his glasses, and took her soft hand, feeling a rush of heat sing up his arm. He immediately felt like a dirty old man, and extracted his hand quickly.
"Er, good. Uhm, speaking of Cordelia, do you know where she is? I need to speak to her," He asked, hoping to distract himself from the attraction he felt for this young woman.
"Actually she went out to lunch with her mother. She should be back soon."
"Oh, very well. When she gets back, could you tell her I'm in the office?" he asked, already starting to walk away. He hadn't been this nervous around a woman since his wife, and he wasn't sure he liked the feeling.
"Sure. I'm looking forward to working here Mr. Giles. It seems like a wonderful place," Anya said with another luminating smile.
"Well, er, yes. I'm sure you'll enjoy working here," he said, retreating quickly. Anya watched him go, her eyes appreciating the way he moved.
"Yes, I think I will like working here, very much," she said to herself, turning to greet the customer that had come in.
AN: A quick note for some of the things I referenced. The Daytona is the Super Bowl of Nascar racing, even though it happens at the beginning of the season, instead of the end. The entire week beforehand is called Race Week, and it consists of a series of races and other events that lead up to the Winston race on Sunday. Earnhardt and the Intimidator, are in reference to the late Dale Earnhardt, who lost his life last year at the Daytona 500. He was arguably the best driver ever (in my fiancé's humble opinion that is) , and his driving style was what earned him the nickname. That's just a little FYI for those that don't know any Nascar history. L.
Chapter 18
"Do we have to talk about Buffy?" Dawn asked, her voice soft. *Bugger,* Spike's mind screamed. For the first time in months, he wished he hadn't drunk so much. Maybe then he would be able to get a firm grasp on the situation, and handle it like the mature adult he supposedly was. "I missed you, so much," she breathed, stepping just a little closer to him. His stunned mind blanked out, as panic set in. He couldn't quite reconcile the image of the little girl he had left behind with this older, more mature version. He had been right in his first opnion of her. She WAS a looker.