Title: Soul Cages (Chapter 1 of Don’t Stop the Dance)
Author: Xionin
Rating: PG-13 this chapter.
Pairing: Buffy/Spike. Other major characters included.
Feedback: I would love to hear from you! perra_de_amor@yahoo.com
Distribution: I would be honored, just let me know where.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Mutant Enemy and Joss Whedon...which is a crime. What’s the old saying? “Youth is wasted on the young.” These characters are wasted on them.
Author's Note: This is my first piece of fanfiction. Be gentle. ;]

~Xionin

"Bloody hell." Spike grumbles as he storms away from Revello drive, his black leather armor flowing behind him with familiar fluidity. He’d left the Summers home only after making sure Buffy was back and relatively unharmed. He felt no need to stay and gloat in his capture of the demon. Argue that the 'big bad' was back. He knows it is a small drop in the proverbial bucket.

"I know what she’s trying to do," he mutters, continuing the argument with the voice in his head. "But...bloody hell!"

He winces as he recalls her words. I want *dangerous* Spike: the one that tried to kill me when we first met. "Was she kidding," he thinks aloud. She wants the one that he'd gone, quite literally, through Hell to get rid of? The one that failed her? The one that nearly…

"Well...I get it," he answers himself. "Not pulling our own, are we now? That's the point an' all, innit?." he kicks a rock on the ground with a little too much force and it careens into the side of a parked car, nicking the paint and setting off an alarm in the process.

"Bollocks!" Spike quickly rounds the corner, not wanting a confrontation with an angry car owner, unless it happened to be another nasty.

"All of us 're slackers or whatever ridin' her coattails and what-not." He reasons. "Doesn’t take a bloody genius to suss that one out, does it?" his pace slows at the realization, his anger lulling to mere annoyance.

"What a motley crew, us lot." he instinctively turns towards Willy's, the need to slam down a few drinks weighing on him heavily.

"Yeah, we’re quite a bunch of bloody warriors.” He muses. “A Wicca afraid of her own power..." he thinks of the destruction the normally gentle willow had wreaked in his absence last year. Wonders, briefly, if things could have been different had he stayed. But he couldn't have, could he. Not after...

He physically shakes the thought.

"Hell I’m bloody afraid of Red m'self," he snorts to no one. Instead he thinks of Anya, which leads to another painful memory. Again he shakes it off and searches his pockets for cigarettes.

"Let’s see..." he continues his walking analysis. "We’ve got an ex-vengeance demon with the tact of beans on toast. A self-righteous watcher with a major chip.” He admits to feeling a pang of sympathy for what Giles had been through recently.

“Guess I’d 'ave one to, if..." he doesn't want to finish that thought. Doesn’t want to think of the obliteration of the watcher's council: all those people…all those souls. Sure they weren’t exactly friends. Barely tolerated each other, really. But he…they…didn’t deserve that. No.

"Oh," he rouses himself out of the temporary bout of, whatever, "and an infuriating whelp of a handyman who's major talent is getting sliced up by his dates" he takes a moment to appreciate his own wit.

"Hmmph...doesn't take a bloody genius to know that all she's really got watchin’ ‘er back are a bunch o' scared chits and a coupla of little boys. And Giles.

“And the principal."

This stops him in his tracks. He’s inundated with thoughts of the Slayer and her new…ally.

"Didn’t know slayers had kids."

A slow smile spreads across his face and his head drops at the thought, his chest full of pride at the possibility.

"She’d make a great mum," he says softly.

“Daddy.”

Not wanting to linger on that notion, he resumes his trek to Willy’s.

"Yeah, she's got the principal," he continues glancing about: nope, no one to catch him in this one-voiced conversation.

At that thought his quickens his pace from anger, perhaps, or is it fear.

"I shoulda left," he voices to the night. "‘It’s not time for him yet' it says to the little boy. Not time. Time for what? Shoulda left, but couldna. Not when she says..."

He turns down an empty alley.

Yeah, he knows what it sounded like, but he's long given up any hope. He is nearly content just to be near her and to be there for her and the niblet in the thick of the fight.

He’s nearly content knowing that she believes in him somewhat, and that she needs him…for…anything. “Anything at all, really.”

'I’m alright' he'd told her, when inside it was killing him that she was so tender now, and yet so far away. She was responding to the brand new spark within him with gentle touches, careful concern and yet she is just as confused as ever.

But it is different. She is different. They are different...with each other. More...

"Dunno...something," he finishes the thought with a sigh.

“Need a smoke.” He searches his pockets and finds a box with one lone cigarette. His hands are shaky and he drops the pack trying to get the damned thing out. He kicks it further down the alley, near a puddle, when he steps forward and reaches down to pick it up.

“Oh BLOODY HELL!” He screams and kicks a nearby trashcan.

“Well, well…if it isn’t Sunnydale’s very own Benedict Arnold.” A large, gritty looking vampire steps from the shadows and between Spike and his wayward pack of…uh…cigarette.

“Fellas,” two vamps, a blonde and a redhead, round the corner of the building into Spike’s view. “This is the Slayer’s little lapdog.” He eyes the other two, and they circle behind.

“If you get close enough to read his collar, the name on it says Spike.” Laughter all around. Spike just rolls his eyes, but he is assessing the strength of the three.

“Here Spikey, Spike. “ The redhead chuckles a little too heartily at his master’s lame joke.

Brown noser. Spike emits a low growl followed by a slow, gutteral laugh that eventually becomes bellowing.

“What’s so fucking funny?” The leader masks his sudden apprehension with bravado.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh mate. You really don’t wanna be standin’ where you’re standin’ right now.” He looks down at the box containing his last cigarette.

“Oh no?” The vamp, eyeing the object on the ground, slowly and deliberately steps on the dropped box, grinding its contents to dust beneath his boot.

Spike looks down at the debris and then slowly up at the offender, his eyes flashing yellow. “No.”

He slips into game face and, in a single fluid motion of his leather duster, sends a roundhouse kick to the vamp’s face, staking him as he struggles to regain his balance.

All the redheaded vamp sees is a fist coming through the cloud of dust as Spike lands a right on his jaw. He swings wildly at his nimble elder and misses horribly.

He pays for it by receiving a kick from Spike’s steel-toed Doc Martens to his ribcage. There’s a distinct sound of breaking bones. Spike follows the kick with an elbow to the back of the head. He stumbles forward and looks up in time to say “oh sh-” as Spike pulls him back by the hair and plunges the stake into him.

This leaves the quiet vamp, who is frozen in terror. He’s obviously a fledgling. Spike can smell his panic and hesitates in his advance on the youngster, feeling a bit sorry for him. He can feel his fangs retreat as he slips back into his human appearance.

Perhaps nineteen years old, the boy has hair so blonde that it’s almost white. Coupled with the saucers he now has for eyes, he is quite the picture of fear. He’s also not in game face and looks very much like a child.

“Oi.” Spike drops his fight stance and nods to the frightened newly-dead’s head of hair. “How’d you do that…get it so-“ He steps closer, pointing at the kid with the stake. The other man cowers back a step. “I’ve never been able to m’self. Bloody uncooperative, this.” He points to his own closely cropped, blonde head. “But yours. You use peroxide?”

“Uh-uh..it-it-it’s natural, actually.” Comes the shaky reply from the retreating vamp, his Southern California accent prominent.

“Oh geeehht out, really?” Spike’s attention is now totally focused on the shiny happy strands of perfect blonde hair on the youngster’s head. He squints his eyes, searching for the tell-tale brown roots. Not seeing any, he flashes a bright smile at his confused opponent.

“Bloody brilliant, that.” Having had his curiosity satisfied, Spike resumes his predatory glowering, stake twirling in his fingers.

“Uh…th-th-thanks?” The vamp doesn’t know whether to run or what. He makes a half-hearted attempt at a defensive stance but then decides it’s better to be a coward and unlive another day. He turns and takes off running down the alley.

“Cor…runs like a little girl.” Spike muses, shaking his head in disgust. He moves to give chase but then realizes he doesn’t feel the desire for another kill. In fact the last two have left a bitter taste in his mouth. The sooner he gets that first cigarette the better. And if he’s going to have one, well, it’s like the advertisement says: betcha you can’t…

"Bugger!" he rounds the corner and throws open the door to Willy’s. Spotting a stool at the far end in the shadows, he plops down and demands a bottle of Jack and his first pack of cigarettes of the night.

Contact (Chapter 2 of Don't Stop the Dance)

Author’s note: I always like to think that there were a few moments between Buffy and Spike where she couldn’t delude herself and ignore the man in front of her. Of course, she’d always deny it afterwards, but I like the idea of her having to face her own lie occasionally and being powerless to her feelings….even momentarily.

Enjoy!
~Xionin

Buffy didn't say much after showing Willow the vision. There wasn't much to be said and Willow left the room with a wan smile, after they'd sat in silence for what must have been an hour. She said nothing about the sea of uber vamps, the flames. Nothing about the demon the shaman had tried to 'introduce' her to. Nothing about motivational speech #666. What was there to say?

Yeah, she had come down hard on everyone, but she's wasn't a motivational speaker. Their only real motivation was fear. If fear didn't motivate everyone into action then she'd use shame...or anger. It was fuzzy.

She is fuzzy. Still reeling from her 'journey through the portal. Still wondering if willow was right, but secretly suspecting that it isn't...she isn't enough.

Buffy remembers of all of their faces as she laid into them, looking at her like she was the biggest bitch on the planet. And she was, right then. She had to be. But they don't understand.

At that thought she smiled a little, remembering all of the times she'd stood, flat footed, challenging Giles in the library over his 'wait and research' methods when all she wanted to do was go out and kick some demon ass.

She thinks of all of them, but she doesn't think about him. She can't bring herself to think of what she'd said to Spike...and in front of the others. She’d surprised herself, she was so convincing. But...whatever it took. Right? Whatever it took.

And he took it as she knew he would. The pain etched across his face, masked by the anger and incredulity at her words, she saw it and still she held up her front.

"Didn’t know I had it in me" she says with no enthusiasm whatsoever.

She draws her knees up under her chin, closes her eyes and decides to take a mental vacation. The stress is beginning to tear her to the quick, and she needs a release, but none is in sight.

Willow’s quick lesson in ‘meditation-vacations’ had taught the slayer how to let go and “float away.” If only for a little while. Who knew that one day it would be her only means of escape.

No biggie. She can do this. She closes her eyes and drifts backwards to an evening she'd almost forgotten.

It was the one 'normal' night she and Spike had had in their whole, twisted...whatever it was. Okay, she knew what it was, but she's not fessing up now. Nope.

It was...so not a normal night, actually, but it's what made her...made her not hate him so much. It made her want to know more about him.

Chapter 3:

Different. Spike thinks. “I dunno...better,” he tells Clem as they lean against the bar. “I mean, we’re not together anymore, not that we ever really were...but we’re...closer.”

“Oh yeah,” Clem chimes in. “I think I get ya, Spike.” He smiles, sighing contentedly. “It’s wonderful isn’t it, when two people are in love?”

“In love?” Spike looks at Clem as if his skin has straightened out. “Who said anything about being in love?” He stares at the half-empty bottle of Jack in front of him. Clem waits patiently. “Ok, yah I’m in love. S’ never gonna change, is it?” He takes a swig and offers some to his floppy-eared friend, who shakes his head. “The girl...I hurt ‘er too much, mate,” he says softly. “S’ never gonna be more than what it is. We’re...friends now.”

***

“We’re...friends, Giles,” Buffy says, twirling an unfortunate piece of thread torn from her top between her fingers. On the other end of the phone, Giles is pacing back and forth, annoyed to find himself failing, once more, to form an irrefutable argument for his case against Spike. There is a long, tortured pause and Buffy swears she can hear him remove his glasses and pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Buffy...” he begins, still searching for the words. “I-I think you and I both know that i-it’s more...than, uh, than that.” He begins pacing again. He feels completely useless 5,000 miles away. Yes, he’s found what he’s come for: a way to de-trigger Spike and release him from the conditioning of the First. But what is to happen now? Will that all-too-necessary act push Buffy and Spike closer together with a false sense of safety? Spike isn’t safe with a chip or without one. With a soul or without one, he is a killer: one with a dangerous obsession with his slayer.

But Buffy isn’t really his slayer, anymore, is she? And he doesn’t entirely know what to believe concerning Spike’s feelings. He also isn’t entirely sure he cares.

Ripper wants him gone.

But this is the way, with Buffy. She always lets her feelings prevent her from what must be done for the greater good. She is unable to remove Spike from the equation. Just as she had been unable to remove Ben, which is why- His thoughts trail off. If it were up to Ripper, Spike would be...no more.

He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly, noting a tightness in his chest that he’d been unaware of. He realizes, suddenly, that she hasn’t responded to his last statement. He rather hopes that she will contradict him, just this once. Her silence speaks volumes that he doesn’t wish to hear.

“Buffy?”, she doesn’t respond. “Look, I...er...deep sigh...Buffy,” he settles onto one of his Queen Anne chairs and into his argument. “I know that you sense the change in him.” Giles hears the slayer shift on the other end of the phone, no doubt clenching and unclenching her fists without even knowing it. “We all do, but...but it doesn’t change history, Buffy. It only creates more possibilities for...for the future.” As soon as he’s uttered the words he knows that she will use them against him, which she does.

“I know that, Giles,” she snaps. “I'm not expecting any miracles, here, but I know what Spike has been through...w-what he’s going through and what he’s done to redeem himself to us. Not just to me,” she adds before he could protest. “He’s done these things for all of us. He wants to be...forgiven.” Giles can hear her jaw set in her determination. “And,” she continued, “I intend to give him the opportunity to be forgiven and to be the man I think he can be...the one he wants to be.

“He doesn’t expect us to forget, b-but to forgive, the way we’ve forgiven Willow.” At that Giles springs up from the chair, toppling it. He feels the anger inside of his stomach churn and travel up his spine until it reaches his scalp where his hair follicles are standing erect.

“Don’t you dare place that...thing’s...vulgar atrocities alongside what Willow experienced last year!” Giles hisses, his voice low in his rage.

Buffy is startled at the heat emanating from the words. She can’t even imagine the look on his face. She’s never heard him sound so angry before and is eminently grateful for the miles between them.

Giles regains his momentary loss of control before he continues. “That was quite different, Buffy. And I shouldn’t need to point that out to you,” he finishes, righting the chair and sits down for emphasis, though no one is there to witness the punctuation.

“Yes of course I know that,” she responds, her own anger threatening to peek through her words when all she wants is to calm him down and make him see reason. “I also know that my world changed completely because of what happened with Willow,” she admits plainly. “Just as it is changing because of what has...*is* happening with Spike.” Giles feels his heart stop for a moment. He is afraid for her to continue, but she does.

“He. Loves. Me.” she begins. “And the thing is, h-he’s loved me for a long time now,” she pauses to think about the implications of what she’s saying. As if anticipating his response, she counters.

“It doesn’t matter whether I return the feelings or not, he has loved me through it all,” she stops to let her next phrase land on fresh ears. “And it began before he had a soul.”

Giles makes a sound of disbelief, but doesn’t respond. He knows what she’s saying, but she can’t mean it...can’t understand the unbelievable implications...the ripple effect that a revelation like that would have on the order of things. Knowing the way her watcher’s mind works, Buffy changes her tone slightly.

“Giles,” she sighs. “I didn’t believe him, not before. I mean, how could I? Everything I’d known, everything you’d taught me told me that you cannot love without a soul. You can’t feel anything without a soul, right?” her question was rhetorical, and he didn’t bother to answer. She keeps speaking, mostly for herself, reasoning it out.

“Last year...there was so much wrong about the whole thing, yeah, but it’s undeniable when I look back, Giles. Why did he stick around to protect Dawn after I was...gone? You yourself said he was great with her. You said he was in mourning. How could he be if he didn’t feel the loss? Why did he take the physical and verbal abuse from us...from me...and still come back? And why did he save every one of us time and time again and fight by our sides? Because of some sick, twisted obsession? Some insane addiction to pain? I used to think so, yeah. But now...” she feels a twinge of guilt when she bitterly recalls the night outside of the police station when he’d tried to stop her from ruining her life.

Giles sits on the other end of the phone in stunned silence. He really has no words, because he is afraid that she is right about a lot of what she is saying. Still, he can’t allow himself to be swayed from his convictions. Spike has to go. Period. End of story. He would allow Buffy her last few days with Spike, and then he would confront Spike and ask him to leave...for Buffy’s sake. If she is right, and Spike has truly changed, how could he refuse?

Buffy doesn’t mistake Giles’ silence for agreement. She knows her watcher too well. She knows he would rather finish his argument face to face. He is well aware of his power over her, his parental privilege. She takes the opportunity to build a stronger case.

“When...when mom,” she hears his breathing change. “When she…” She can’t say the words. “Spike came to me. He came to kill me, shotgun and all.” Giles grunts, but she ignores it. “I don’t think he would have, even then, but...” she wonders if he would have been able to do it, or more importantly, if she would have fought against it.

“He showed up wanting to kill me. I saw him as he approached, but I didn’t let him know. I don’t think I cared.”

“Oh God, Buf-,” Giles tries to interrupt her.

“You don’t understand,” she stops him from continuing. “I felt so...lost, Giles. I didn’t want to be strong Buffy or reliable Buffy or slayer Buffy. I needed to be the-girl-that-someone-would-comfort Buffy. I wanted to cry and scream and tear my hair out. I was numb and frightened at the same time, Giles,” she wipes the tear forming in the corner of her eye.

“Spike saw me, sitting on the steps, wrapped up in my grief, and he stopped whatever it was he was planning to do. He came over and sat down with me and...he...h-he comforted me, Giles. He gave me comfort without asking questions about what was next or how I was going to handle it. He was just there for me.

“He’s always there for me, even now. And I’ve never...” her voice brakes. “I’ve never given him the time of day when it didn’t suit my needs. I'm disgusted with myself when I think of last year,” she says, again more to herself than to him. “I don’t know how he took it.”

Buffy shudders as the memories pour in. She has an overwhelming desire to not be on the phone, to find Spike and to tell him how sorry she is. But she can’t do that, can she? Not right now. Not just yet. Giles exhales slowly on the other end. She’s almost forgotten he was there.

“I’ll..I’ll be back shortly, Buffy,” he says, clearing his throat as he concludes that he’s lost this particular battle. “We’ll, uh, continue this then.” She doesn’t say anything, just nods and hangs up the phone. It’s only then that she realizes she isn’t alone in the room.

“Oh, hey Dawnie,” she says a little too cheerily. Dawn is standing in the doorframe, arms crossed, a curious expression on her face. Buffy hangs up the phone, her back to her younger sibling.

“When Spike said ‘I did it for you’ earlier...downstairs,” Dawn had been turning the words over and over in her mind. She sees Buffy stiffen, waiting for the inevitable question. “What did he mean? He did ‘what’ for you?”

“Dawn,” Buffy really doesn’t want to have this conversation right now. She turns to face the icy blue eyes of the young woman.

“Was it his soul?” Dawn’s gaze never brakes away from her sister. Buffy can sense the storm within her, the words between her words. Still, she can’t bring herself to answer.

“Do you love him?” Dawn asks point blank, her face unchanged. Buffy starts to give her standard-issue response, but she catches herself and answers after a long sigh, settling on the edge of the bed.

“Dawn...I don’t know.” Buffy hopes that would be a good enough answer. She pats the space next to her in invitation.

“Yes you do, Buffy.” Dawns adult anger shakes her adolescent frame. “ You know.”

Chapter 4:

Spike’s been drinking for hours, but isn’t drunk enough for his tastes.

He knows that he shouldn’t get too sloshed, what with the First back in the mix, so he leaves Clem at Willy’s happily launching himself into another boring argument about the realism of Beverly Hills 90210.

Spike couldn’t bring himself to comment on that tripe. He knows exactly what is in that zip code: lots and lots of soddin silicone. He spits in disgust as he remembered biting down into some juicy model only to find out she wasn’t naturally juicy.

“Bleedin’ Barbie doll,” he mutters, recalling the bleached blonde with the plastic body parts.

He walks, no, strides back to Revello drive with a new mission in mind. He is going to show Buffy what she claimed she wanted: the Big Bad...back for the party. “Yeah,” he says, pounding his fist on his chest as he rounds the corner to the back of her house. He doesn’t realize it, but he‘s practicing his smirk. He catches himself, and starts to laugh, when he sees her in the window of her room. He comes to an abrupt halt, as he stares up at her.

She is looking out the window just as he approaches. She sees him stop and their eyes lock through the darkness. The air stirs with palpable electricity, as a moment passes between them. Spike walks over towards the back porch and soon Buffy emerges from the back door. The kitchen is full of SITs and she has to answer a few house-related questions before slipping out. She obviously doesn’t want them to see whom she is meeting, Spike snorts to himself.

“Hey,” she says, thinking how lame that sounds, as she closes the door behind her.

“Hey yourself,” he responds, trying hard to put as much disinterest in his voice as possible.

“So...” she sits down on the step.

“What.” He leans against the tree and takes out a cigarette. Buffy can’t remember the last time she’d seen him smoke one.

“Where’d you go?” she asks. Innocent enough question.

“Out.” His short answer should have been expected, but she feels slightly annoyed.

“O...k” she wants to find a way to break the defensive barrier he’s wearing around him like a shield. She looks up at him and then over to the area where the SITs had been training earlier. Make-shift weapons lie scattered about the browning grass. So much for being all discipline-y and cleaning up after yourselves.

“What...you want specifics?” he looks up at her, taking a long, slow drag from the cigarette before exhaling just a slowly, twisting his lips to allow the smoke to curl about his head like a crown. She turns her head back towards him and shakes it.

Spike puts his disinterested smirk into practice. Not much to tell, really. Killed something for you. Saved your ass again. Got pissed.

“No...I was just...um...curious,” she looks away again, suddenly uncomfortable being the object of his disaffection. She brings her arms up around herself, noticing a bite in the night air. Instinctively, Spike steps away from the tree, puts the cigarette between his lips, and slips out of the duster, offering it to her.

“Thought maybe you and, er, Principal Demon Hunter had gone patrolling.” Bloody wanker staring ME down.

Buffy stares at him for a moment, her temper trigger itching. That’s what this is about, geez!

It takes her a moment to realize that he’s offering the coat to her because of the cold. She reaches out and takes it, smiling thinly and nodding her head to thank him.

“Nope. Tired.” She is telling the truth. She’s beyond tired.

When the coat leaves his fingers, Spike feels his resolve soften. He watches the slayer pull it around her shoulders. She looks so small and fragile, he wants nothing more than to hold her and...

“Spike...I was thinking,” she begins. He’s grateful for the interruption. He’d promised himself that he would never hope for that again.

“Yeah?,” he replies a little too brightly.

“Yeah,” she says, almost inaudibly. “It’s not right. It hasn’t been right in a long...well...ever, really.” Buffy laughs a dry, bitter laugh.

Spike’s determination to be obstinate with her dissipates as he tries to understand what she means. He looks down at the cigarette in his white fingers and drops it to a patch of dirt, grinding it out. He approaches the slayer and sits beside her, at a safe distance. He stares out into the same space she’d been boring a hole through.

“What are you on about?” The words come out more gentle than he’d wanted them to, but there is no use for pretense. It’s quite obvious that she wants to tell him something. The need for it hangs about her like the coat draped around her shoulders.

Buffy either doesn’t notice his attempt at detachment, or just doesn’t acknowledge it.

“Buffy?” He turns toward her a bit. “Luv?”

“I-I'm sorry, Spike.” Buffy says it to the air, but he hears her.

“For?” He cocks his head and lets the word hang there for her to make the choice. She can tell him what she is sorry for, or she can back down. He’ll let her have her way again.

“Everything.” It is a simple statement, but he chooses to misunderstand it.

“You were right to say those things, pet,” he says. Turning from her he looks down and picks a splinter from the step below him, toying with it. “We all need to get our act together. Sometimes you need the harsh words.”

“No,” she says quietly, looking up at the night sky. The stars were out. She remembers loving nights like this for patrol. She would hurry through the kills just so she’d have time to sit on a bench and look at the sky. There were fewer street lamps in the cemetery, less light pollution to cloud your view.

He turns to her, fully this time, staring at her trying to bring her back from wherever she is...trying to will the words out of her. He wants her to pour it all out there in the open, so that there would be no more delusion, no more false hope. Whenever she spoke half-truths, it left doubt. And where there was doubt, there was hope, and hope brought with it pain, and self-loathing.

Finally she turns to him, resting her head back against the railing. She looks into his eyes. She could still see the blue, even in the shadows.

“Cerulean,” she thinks aloud.

“Pardon?” He’d expected her to say something, but this certainly wasn’t it. Buffy smiles at the confused wrinkle in his brow. He really is a beautiful man.

“Your eyes,” she says, sitting up and closer to him to see them better. “They’re cerulean.” Spike feels the smile on his lips before he can think to stop it.

“That’s a big word, Buffy,” he teases. She returns the smile and her eyes drift around his face, his hair. She looks down his body and reaches out to take one of his hands and study it. The skin is impossibly smooth in places, rough and calloused in others. She remarks, internally, on the appropriateness of that fact.

Spike can’t read this moment, doesn’t know how to react to it. This isn’t at all what he expected after tonight. This tenderness. This intimacy.

He watches her thoughts roll around in her head. She’ll speak when she wants to, he thinks to himself. Whatever she has to say can wait. She’s touching me, and sod it all, I am a slave when she does.

His body screams at him to reach out and touch her hair, but he doesn’t feel he has the right. Still, his free hand moves of its own volition. Tentatively reaching out to give her time to protest.

When she doesn’t, he reaches around and lifts the hair from her shoulder, letting it fall through his fingers; the silkiness sends a current through his limbs. His body, feeling the familiarity of her closeness, reacts naturally; much to his embarrassment.

She doesn’t seem to notice. She continues to study his fingers. She steals a glance at him while he runs his fingers through her hair. Such rapture from such a small thing: the textbook definition of love.

She’s never seen it before, pure love, at least not directed at her. She’d seen it between Willow and Tara. She knows that what she and Angel had was...is...was...amazing. Theirs was a love stronger than anything. Losing him felt like the end of her life, the end of the world. But she’d been very young, and he was her first.

And then there was Riley, whom she never really loved. She knows that now.

And here sits this man that has been through the absolute best and the absolute worst with her and for her and...he is still there. He’s sitting here letting her hold his hand, letting her get this close, and not asking why, or for how long, or making any demands or protestations or threats. Buffy studies his unpolished nails, noting that she’s never seen them in their natural state; gleaming like mother-of-pearl.

Spike watches her watching him. What is she doing? Is this her way of saying goodbye? Has she changed her mind and decided to accept my offer to leave town?

Of course, he would. He never went back on his word, but she had asked him to stay. Perhaps she’d found the closure she needed and was ready for him ‘not to be there’.

His hand moves to her forehead and he brushes the hair out of her eyes. It’s something he’s done so many times before, but now...allowing him to be this close again...he wants to cry. He is utterly lost in her. She is his whole bloody world.

Bloody poofter. He smiles sadly.

She notices the smile. She looks up into his eyes again. Yeah, Cerulean...like twilight. Maybe a little of the poet in him has rubbed off on her. She smiles at the notion.

The look on his face is truly priceless. His other hand rests on top of hers and her smile fades. He must misunderstand her reaction, because his brow wrinkles again and he goes to move his hand, but she quickly covers it with her free one. She knows he is waiting, patiently, as always.

“I don’t really know where to begin,” she says truthfully, tears threatening to spill. Spike feels himself relax. She does have something to say, and he is ready to hear all of it, good or bad, and in her own time. No pushing.

“Well,” he brushes the back of his fingers against her cheek and gazes with unabashed emotion into her hazel eyes. His smile is slow and warm and full of love.

“I hear the beginning is a good place.”

Voices Inside My Head (Chapter 5 of Don't Stop the Dance)

He’s listening, every word that she utters washing over him like warm syrup, like the rhythmic, gentle waves of a calm sea. There’s no order to her thoughts. They’re random and he understands. It’s not easy, putting something so intangible into words: the Whys and the Hows.

He’s listening to her thoughts spill forth and it’s like so much fine wine. He’s drunk again just from the sight and the sound of her, but his head is clear and his unbeating heart gets lighter and lighter with each syllable...each smile...each bat of her feathery eyelashes when she looks up at him.

She doesn’t hate him.
She’s forgiven him.
Can he forgive her.
Of course, luv.

He thinks it, but he doesn’t say it because he doesn’t want to break the spell of her.

Does he understand what he means to her?
No, tell me.
More than he realizes.

Does he understand what a journey he’s on?
Yes, it’s the one to you.
Perhaps.

What made him go to Africa? No, don’t answer that.
Don’t need to answer, you already know.
Yes, I do.

She looks down. It hurts to think of last year.
I know. I'm sorry.

She’s so sorry for everything.
No need, but thank you.

She wishes things could’ve been different.
They can. They are.

But she was so confused then.
Was?

She smiles, looks up...such beautiful eyes. Yes, was.

She doesn’t think she is anymore.
She knows me so well...knows what I'm thin—

He stops mid-thought and swallows hard, his Adam’s apple dipping impossibly low. He realizes that her lips had stopped moving a while ago. Her voice is inside his head, inside of him.

There’s a moment of panic as he recalls his encounters with the First. But the warm fingers tracing circles on the back of his hand do not belong to evil and he eases down from that notion.

The backdoor opens. Xander sticks his head out. He’s about to call for Buffy when he sees her and the blonde bloodsucker sitting on the step, knees touching, hands entangled their fingers stroking one another’s, silently gazing into each other. He fights down the nausea rising from the pit of his stomach. They don’t seem to notice him, so he watches, his anger brewing. He should probably feel guilty for invading Buffy’s privacy, but he dismisses it. It’s just Spike. He thinks to himself.

Xander watches. A little unsure of what’s going on, he still doesn’t like it. He’s been watching them for several minutes and neither of them has uttered a word. Their facial expressions are changing subtly, one reacting to the other, but no words. Perhaps it’s a thrall, like with the Master, he thinks, and he steps out of the door with the intention of breaking their concentration. At that moment, Spike finally speaks.

“Wha?” Spike’s eyes are wide, tears dancing on the rims. He cocks his head, as if he does not quite understand something.

“I-I said...” Buffy stutters aloud, “I think th-that maybe...I kinda love you too.”

Fragile (Chapter 6 of Don't Stop the Dance)

Spike is about to say...something...when they both hear Xander behind them.

“What!? You......you-you WHAT!?” his face is a kaleidoscope of reds and pinks as he tries to process the information screaming through his brain.

Buffy and Spike’s heads both snap around to see the source of the disturbance. Xander’s ears are glowing in the yellow light from the kitchen window. Buffy’s mouth drops open. Spike looks away in disgust and then his eyes drift back to Buffy, searching her face for a sign of the familiar backpedaling she does whenever they’re caught in an intimate moment. He silently notes it absence, as well as the fact that they’re still holding hands. He inwardly smiles.

“Buffy,” Xander tries to continue, searching for control. “Tell me PLEASE tell me you’re kidding and that, PLEASE GOD, this is part of some big plan to trick the First

“O-or that you’re under some spell! God!! His hands reach behind him for anything that will support his trembling knees. He finally finds the wall and tries to recover from, what he feels, is an enormous betrayal. She can’t do this to us again, she can’t.

“Xander...”, she says, cursing herself for not having found a more private place for her moment with Spike. Buffy knows from the look on Xander’s face, that her friend is about to lose it; she stands up, trembling, the duster pooling around her knees. She and Spike let go of each other simultaneously.

Both are suddenly, painfully, aware of the loss of contact yet they don’t miss a beat. Spike stands by her side, his hand resting in the small of her back, lending her support. Aware of (and grateful for) the gesture, Buffy tries to think of something to say that won’t send Xander over the edge.

“Save it, Buffy.” Xander spits out bitterly, before she can form a word. The sting in his voice is a shock to her. His eyes are wide and blacker than their normal chestnut brown. He is gasping for air as if he were struck in the chest.

Spike feels his jaw clenching as the apology forming in the back of his throat morphs into an angry growl, his demon itching to come out and teach the child a lesson in respect. But he knows that this is between the two friends and he backs down.

“I’d better, uh –“ Spike looks at Buffy and then sweeps up the duster and climbs the remaining step. He brushes past the whelp as he reaches for the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Xander steps over to block Spike’s path. “You tell me what the hell that was?!” he demands.

“I think it’s better if the Slayer tells you,” he responds slowly. His voice is low and calm, but the ire behind it is evident. He stares into the boy, teeth grinding, to let him know that it is only out of respect for Buffy that he hasn’t grabbed him by the throat and knocked some sense into him.

Xander wants badly to lay into Spike, but the reaction to his obvious challenge is so...reserved. He loses a bit of his conviction and finds himself acquiescing in the stare-down match and moving out of the way and closer to Buffy. She’s looking past him to Spike who nods as he slips into the duster. Something silent passes between them and he disappears inside.

Buffy shifts her gaze to Xander. He is looking at her with an expression she never thought could live on that face. She turns and sits on the step once more, preparing herself for conversation that she wasn’t expecting to have so soon, but one that she is prepared for.

Chapter 7:

“Ok, “ Buffy sighs. Xander is sitting next to her on the step. His anger has given way to disbelief and he is mumbling to himself, shaking his head to clear it. “Look...Xan.” Her voice is calm but firm. “First of all...what the hell and secondly...what gives you the right?” Xander snaps around to look at her. He can’t believe she’s angry with him. I’m the one that gets to be angry here.

“What gives me the right?” He glares at her, his mouth hangs open in an ‘as-if’ expression.

“Yes! What, d’you think that that was okay?”

“I what, questioned your sanity? Too damn bad, ‘cause right now, I'm still questioning, Buffy.”

“You were eavesdropping!”

“I was – was WHAT?” His nostrils flare and the heat is rising from his neck again.

“Xander, this is my house – MY house and I am entitled to have a private conversation with whomever I choose.”

“Ssspike” he hissed, “is NOT a whom.” He’s barely a ‘what’. “I don’t care if he has a soul, Buffy. He’s a killer. Plain and simple. And you of all people shouldn’t be alone with him. He shouldn’t even be here, in this house. He’s evil.”

“Oh really?” Buffy still can’t believe Xander’s world could be so black and white. Even after Anya, he has no room for the gray.

“He can’t help it, h-h- he’s a vampire, Buff...a demon!” Xander doesn’t understand why the hell she can’t see that.

“A demon.”

“Yes, a demon.” Maybe she gets it? Not betting on it.

“You mean like Anya?” Buffy knows she’s hitting below the belt, but she doesn’t know how else to get Xander out of this delusion that life is so cut and dry.

“N-no that’s different.” Whenever anyone reminds him of Anya’s past, Xander finds it tough to come up with a plausible defense. “That’s not who she is anymore.”

“Exactly.” Buffy thought her point was well made.

“Don’t try to tell me that she and Spike are alike, Buff. I won’t sit here and listen to that crap.”

“Why is that so hard for you to understand?” Buffy is running out of arguments, but she’s determined not to lose her friend.

“Why?” Xander holds out his left hand. “Anya – EX-demon. Ex, get it? And Spike?” He holds out his right hand. “Hmmm...let’s see, yep STILL a vampire. Any questions?”

Buffy resists the urge to get up right then and walk away. She can feel Spike on the other side of the backdoor and she wants nothing more than to go to him. Xander has worn her patience thin, but she decides to give it one last try.

Go upstairs, babe. I’ll meet you there shortly. Alright, pet.

She takes Xander’s hands into her own and places them on her lap, forcing him to look at her full on.

“Xander.” She searches for the right words. “You love Anya...still, right?” He hesitates and then nods slowly. Pain alters his expression a bit, but it doesn’t quell the anger and frustration. “Did you love her when you left her at the alter?” At that he tries to pull away, but Buffy carefully uses her slayer strength to keep him there.

“Yes, I did.” He answers reluctantly, defeated. “Do you have a point here that doesn’t lead to ‘I love Spike’”? Buffy squeezes her eyes shut and smiles bitterly.

“No, I don’t” she says looking directly at him, her chin raised in determination. Xander does break away from her then and resumes his head shaking. It’s not clearing him up, though. She smoothes her hand across his back, trying to soften what she is about to say. He’s painfully aware of how much he loves the girl beside him and is relieved to find that she feels the same. He was beginning to think that her friends had become inconsequential.

“I do love him, Xan.” His eyes close as he suppresses the urge to shout at her again. “I know you don’t understand it. I don’t really understand it myself,” she says more to herself than to him. “Well, maybe I do.” She smiles, but then realizes that Xander doesn’t know the man that’s upstairs in her room. “He’s done a lot for me, Xan.”

She reflects on her earlier conversation that took place on these very steps. They had become her confessional.

“And we haven’t?” Xander looks at her. “Your friends? Y’know, the ones that really love you and not for any vicious, self-serving reason?” He is desperate to get through to her, as much she is to get through to him.

“What selfish reason does Spike have for loving me, Xan? What reason could he possibly have for saving my life? Dawn’s life? Giles? Will’s?” She hesitates, exasperated. “Yours, Xan?” He turns his head away, letting out a stunted laugh.

“Mine?” He looks at her for confirmation. He begins to recall the blonde vampire swinging to the rescue a few times, but quickly dismisses it. “When did he ever...”

“More times than I can count, Xander.” She smiles because she knows that it’s beginning...beginning...to seep in: that gray.

Does Everyone Stare (Chapter 8 of Don't Stop the Dance)

It takes every ounce of strength he can muster to stand inside that door knowing what Buffy is facing outside. Worse than any demon or monster, she is confronting the unmitigated wrath of a friend alone. Spike wants nothing more than to go out there, shake Xander until he understood, and then wrap Buffy up in himself and take her away somewhere quiet and peaceful.

If he notices the SITs all, one by one, distracted from their activities by his presence and his state, he doesn’t acknowledge it. He ignores the whispers and the giggling.

Kennedy clears her throat and the girls all look at her. She mouths the words “STOP STARING” and embarrassment leads them all to half-heartedly resume whatever it was that they were doing. Kennedy, of course, continues to stare, as does Willow who has just come into the room.

“What’s up?” she whispers into the brunette’s silky hair. She plants a quick kiss on her cheek before she crosses behind her and rests her hands on the counter.

“Dunno.” Kennedy quickly and quietly replied, her eyes never leaving the vampire. Spike is staring at the ceiling, mumbling something to himself. “Maybe he’s gone all wacko again.”

Willow starts to chuckle at Kennedy’s comment, but there is something about the way Spike is behaving that perplexes her. He seems preoccupied with whatever is on the other side of the door. He turns to face it, his hand toying briefly with the knob, and then he stops and curses under his breath, banging his head on the wall with a loud thump. She witnesses this vignette several times.

All of the other eyes in the room are trying not to look at him openly, but their all aware of his every movement, their natural slayer instincts kicking-in...well, instinctively. Willow, continuing her observation of the blonde, gives Kennedy’s hand a quick squeeze and then moves around the other side of the counter to the window. She parts the curtain slightly and peers outside. She sees two figures on the steps: Buffy and Xander. Willow moves closer to Spike, her confusion and curiosity growing proportionally.

“H-Hey, Spikey” she tries to sound nonchalant, it comes out perky. “How’s it, uh, hangin’?”

Spike rolls his head toward her. She sees a mixture of anger, desperation, and fear and (...love?) in his eyes. She’s never noticed before that they were blue.

“Hey Red.” His voice is like gravel. Spike pulls himself up and stands facing the door once again, looking at it as if it were made of shit. “Their having a talk,” he says, gesturing through the door to the figures on the steps that he can’t see, but that he could feel.

He feels Buffy’s heart rate rise and fall like the tides. He smells the sweat that must be shining on Xander’s upper lip as he listens to Buffy’s explanation. What he can’t hear is what she is saying. There is too much bloody noise in the kitchen: chattering girls and clanging dishes. He wants to scream.

And Red’s standing here, looking so concerned. He suddenly feels a little ashamed at having been so short in his words. He smiles thinly and watches the relief unfurl her knit eyebrows.

“Is it serious?” she asks innocently. He wants to laugh out loud, but an alternate meaning to her question shapes itself in his mind. Is it...serious.

“I dunno,” he answers after a moment. “I hope so.” He smiles at her. Willow’s brows are newly woven and she decides to give up on deciphering the riddles. She walks back over to Kennedy and sits on a stool determined to wait for less cryptic answers from Buffy and Xander. Spike resumes his silent loathing for the door standing between finally knowing and not knowing.

Go upstairs, babe. I’ll meet you there shortly. Alright, pet.

Spike wonders if he’d just imagined that little exchange. Buffy calling him ‘babe’? Perhaps he’d imagined their whole conversation outside. He reaches up and brushes the tips of his fingers down the door, letting out a sigh.

He turns to walk out of the kitchen, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone, but he feels compelled to look at Willow. Not to his surprise, she’s staring right at him. Her countenance is, in a word, disconcerting. He quickly exits and heads to Buffy’s room. He can feel Willow’s eyes on his back as he mounts the stairs. Her voice stops him.

“What’s happening here, Spike?” she says, loud enough for him to hear, but not for anyone else to pick up. He squeezes the railing and then turns to look her in the eye, slightly afraid of what he’ll find there.

“I told you,” he tries to sound completely calm, “they’re talking.”

“About what?” She’s not letting this go. Something has Spike bristling. She can feel the storm inside of him and she can hear...she can hear...

“Buffy,” Spike says as the Slayer approaches behind Willow. He fails to mask the relief in his voice or in his body language. Willow turns to her friend and immediately notices the redness of her eyes.

“Oh hey, Buff –“ perhaps light and friendly is the way. “What’s shakin?” What’s shakin? What’s hangin? I sound as if I’m channeling Disco Stu.

“Will.” Buffy manages a smile before she allows herself to look at Spike. Willow knows that look. She’d seen it before. When Angel was around, but before things went south. Spike turns and continues up the steps and out of sight. Buffy then refocuses on Willow.

“I think Xander may need someone right now,” she says with a twinge of something...guilt perhaps...in her voice.

“Uh, ok. Buffy –“ Willow is going to get to the bottom of this one way...or another. “What’s going on? You’re all weepy – don’t think I didn’t notice – Spike’s mopey and, well, downright weirding everyone out. You and Xander have some sorta fight? ‘Cause you know he loves ya and-“

“I know he does,” Buffy interrupts. “I know a-and he wants what’s best for me, for everyone. The problem is, Will“ she continued, leaning on the wall, suddenly fatigued. “He doesn’t know what’s best...not even for himself.

Willow gets the full meaning behind Buffy’s words. No holding back there. Xander’s never been a cheerleader in the Spike camp, nor was he Angel’s for that matter.

“Oh.” is all Willow can muster.

“Yeah, oh.” Buffy agrees. “Lots of ‘Oh’ to go around.” Willow sits on the step, eye level with Buffy, waiting for more. Buffy takes a deep breath.

“Will...” Buffy isn’t sure if she is ready for another round of kick-the-Spike-and-Buffy, but Willow deserves an explanation. She’s just praying that Giles didn’t decide to take the Concorde and is about to walk through the door just as she’s finishing up. That would really be...

“I'm listening, Buff.” Willow says to rouse her friend back to the present. She gives her a reassuring smile and takes her hand.

“Thanks,” Buffy finally smiles and exhales.