Title: A View Of The Ocean
Author: OneTwoMany
Email: onetwomany@bigpond.com
Rating: R, for sexual situations and a smattering of violence
Summary: A girl can dream, right?
Pairing: Spuffy4eva!!!!
Questions, comments, complaints: onetwomany@bigpond.com
Spoilers: Up to Just Rewards, but very, very vague indeed.
Thanks to: Juliaabra, Scarlettfish and Planetjess as usual

"Ungrateful...shallow...deceitful...early-onset Alzheimer's is what..."

Spike filled the seconds between each word with a punch. A left jab, gave 'em a fright. Followed with a right cross. Ducked the wanker's telegraphed hook. Another jab, this time to the stomach. A blur of black leather and the flash of silver jewellery and too-white hair. It was a familiar dance, and one Spike knew instinctively. He moved with inhuman grace against his opponents—a larger vamp who bore a sad resemblance to Mr T, and a scrawny kid with the nervous mannerisms of a skittish sparrow.

"Not so frozen when she wants to play the field..."

Easy words, but there was no heart beneath them, and Spike knew it. The rage, the battlelust, those were real enough. Been too long since he'd found his way to this area of the city, with its handful of derelict homes and row after row of warehouses stinking of mold and covertly-grown hash. Much too long. Fortunate for everyone he'd remembered there was nothin' better to cure a broken heart and a burning yen for patricide than a good old-fashioned fangs-out, fists-bloodied, take-down brawl. He was actually enjoying himself. Probably a little too much. But soul or no soul, there was something intoxicating, invigorating about the thrill of the kill. The sense of power, the smell of blood, the taste of dust on his tongue.

Death and glory and sod all else, right?

Words to live by.

'Cept it's not quite as easy as it was. Not with the memory of flashing green eyes, light reflecting off golden hair as she stood in Angel's embrace beneath that downright unnatural sun-blocking glass. He'd lost the plot and fled.

"Big 'n Stupid" broke into his thoughts with another swing, not quite so clumsy this time. Still, Spike caught the blow with ease. Bored now, he wrenched the thick arm back and pulled the vamp into a tearing hammerlock. Couldn't help but smile in gleeful delight as he heard the satisfying pop of ripping muscle and bone.

The vamp groaned in pain.

"Thanks for the distraction, mate," Spike smiled, before he kicked his opponent's knee out, whipping free a stake as the vamp went down with the grace of a stoned Fyarl demon. A disgrace to vamp-kind, really. A second later and the heavy body was nothing but swirling dust.

"Just don't make minions like they used to..."

Behind him, he could hear "Scrawny" moving, apparently trying to slip in some sneaky rear attack. It wasn't working. The wanker couldn't have made more noise if he'd been wearing bells on his feet while carrying a kitten past Dobermans. Spike side-stepped easily, watched as the kid stumbled another few steps. So bloody embarrassing that vamps of this kind actually existed.

"Nice try." He couldn't contain the smirk this time. "But I think you missed."

The smaller vamp glared at him with demonic yellow eyes, fangs dripping slightly with spittle. "Won't happen again, you traitorous fuck."

"Promises, promises."

They circled each other for a moment, and Spike was more than ready when the boy launched another punch. No grace, no training, just a few too many badly dubbed kung fu movies. With an almost lazy ease, Spike responded with attacks of his own, a punch to send the kid back, a perfectly-aimed roundhouse and a thrust of the stake. It was barely even satisfying to watch the dusting this time.

Battery fledglings were just too easy. Least the night was still young. Plenty of time to hunt down the pontificating little prick who'd apparently dubbed himself "master." Plenty of time to make him hurt. Real bad. Spike’s pretty sure he remembers how that goes. Nothing like someone else screaming to provide a little stress relief.

Yeah, that'd be neat.

"Death and glory and sod all else," he reminded himself firmly, again, kicking the scattered dust.

And sod, especially, annoying, blonde bints who had torn his heart out and then trod on it with their pointy, little stiletto heels. Who returned from Europe all unnaturally tanned, to make googly eyes at constipated hero-types with pretty sports cars, without a second thought for blokes who'd, oh, saved the world. For blokes who'd loved them more than anything else in their entire miserable existences, and who they'd said they'd loved.

Well, whatever. Fine. No need for her. Time to move on, to forget about...

Only then the ground rose up scarily fast. Or maybe he was falling to meet it. For a moment, that wasn't rightly clear. Hurt like a bitch when he hit, though. Hurt almost as much as the sudden crack of a boot on his back, followed by the poke of wood, and then the knowledge that he was kinda screwed.

"Hello, Spike."

The voice was masculine, American, dripping with sarcastic glee. Great, a gloater.

"Do I know you?" Spike said to the concrete, as he tried to wiggle for a better view.

"Oh, don't say you've forgotten me." The attempt at smooth failed. "Spike, man, I'm hurt."

"Obviously you didn't leave that much of an impression," Spike began, but the foot dug in harder between his shoulder blades, and the stake begin to push through leather. "Or I've got issues with the aural recognition thing. Hearing's not been as good since I came back from the..." He stopped. Never let it be said that Spike's dignity outweighed his survival instinct.

"Yeah, you've got issues all right."

"This my invitation to talk about them, then? 'Cause if you want me to start at the beginning, we'll be here a while."

Another slam between the shoulder blades. "Stop running that useless mouth of yours before I grind your teeth to dust."

He did. For a moment, anyway, and not entirely because of the oh-so-pleasant imagery. Concentrated instead on the scent, the feel. Vaguely familiar, but nothing special. Just another vampboy loser, only this time one who got the drop on him. He made a mental note to pay more attention to minions.

"Ah, ah, ah. No flinching or moving. Don't want to have to kill you before I tell you why."

"Heavens no, wouldn't want that! Please, tell me why you want to kill me."

It was the most sarcastic, cold tone he could summon, but the dickwad clearly didn't pick up on it.

"You're all she talks about, you know," the other vamp said, and Spike was sure he heard a tremble in his voice. Stake him now, a crying executioner.

"What?"

"Don't play the innocent slimeball with me, pal. I know you're leading her on. Giving her looks. Trading on that reputation of yours. Being mean to her in that way she likes best. Man, you've done a job on her, you sick freak. She doesn't even care that you once fucked a slayer!"

Well done, now he knew who his would-be killer was. Harmony's latest. What was his name? Walter? Winston? Wallace? Whatever. Big bloke. Former linebacker for some team that had played America's poncy excuse for football back in the sixties, before he’d been turned by someone who'd lost a wager on the other team. No wonder the fucker was heavy.

"Look, mate, she's all yours. Really. Not interested in the bint in the least. Find her rather irritating actually, voice like fingernails on the blackboard with a brain that's soggier than an overripe tomato..."

He felt the other vamp's muscles tense. Score. Instantly, he was up on hands and knees, until he felt a boot collide with his temple. The world—currently dark asphalt—spun. Then he kissed it again as his head was driven down. Bugger. This was fast becoming one of those days when he fondly remembered the basement.

"Too slow, Spike, but then you always sucked at subtle."

Sprawled, bleeding, he waited for the dusty ending. Pictured Buffy's face, as she clasped his hand in that cave, and Dru's brown cow-eyes as she'd offered him eternal life and forbidden pleasure. No regrets, he told himself firmly, trying to believe it.

But the blow didn't come.

"Wow, Spike. That was one of the most sucky escape attempts I've seen, like, ever. Were you trying to get yourself killed or more killed? Because if you were, then right now I'm just about willing to oblige!"

He thought that's what he heard, but with the ringing in his ears from the boot to the head, he also thought he must be delusional. Or that perhaps he'd already reached the great beyond. Painfully, he rolled over, wiping blood from his nose. At least it wasn't broken again, even if the concussion had made him crazy.

Then he focused on the figure standing above him and amended that to "insane and haunted by the First crazy.” And, for one brilliant moment, he was happy to stay that way.

He'd spent hours imagining his reunion with Buffy, all the different ways it might go. Usually not one for planning, he'd rehearsed everything in his head, he had. Every response, every look, every graphic detail. Her hair, her eyes, the clever, seductive things he'd say. The way she'd fall into his arms and beg to know why he hadn't believed her, and then they'd talk and share...or maybe skip that part entirely and just start with the shagging happily ever after.

He'd clung to those dreams through the ghost phase, through the agonizing journey back from no-man's-land to undead and kicking corporeality. Had clung to them with every inch of his being. Right up until he'd seen her in the foyer of Wolfram & Hart, arms wrapped around Angel, eyes filled with adoration as she gazed at his Neanderthal mug. Watching them, Spike had felt the rise of his demon, the pleasurable-painful need to hurt things. He'd imagined the satisfying sound of Angel's neck snapping, the rush of blood as limbs were torn from that over-stuffed torso. Had also, in that moment, also forgotten every practiced conversation. Because he'd never prepared for that moment.

Nor had he prepared for this. Hours later, and he was still not able to find words.

Except one.

"Buffy..."

She stood above him, hand gripped around Mr. Pointy, as the dull light from a nearby streetlight glinted off the gold in her hair. Every inch of her was poised and battle-ready, but when she said his name her lips curved up with the hint of a smile.

"Spike."

For a moment, as their eyes met, Spike felt the sudden suspicion that she was, actually, looking at him. Seeing into his soul—her soul; she owned it fully. But the moment passed, the look faded, making way for that typical Slayer-glare.

"Friend of yours?" she asked evenly, one perfectly groomed eyebrow raised.

"Not in so many words..."

He couldn't stop staring at her. God, so beautiful, so deadly. His wonderful slayer. But he forced a smirk and a dramatic, overly-impudent sweep of his gaze up her body, deliberately taking in every delicious angle, each emphasized by the clothing that was almost shrink-wrapped around her.

"Been shopping with Faith, have you?" he observed, adding just a touch of lasciviousness to his voice. "Slayer, I very much approve."

She rolled her eyes but held out her hand.

It was an effort to force his gaze from her face to her extended palm. Short nails, painted a pale, whitish pink. Finally, found time for a manicure. A moment's hesitation, and he grasped her hand. Warm, strong. It was their first touch, almost a repetition of their last, and it sent a little trail of electricity up Spike's arm.

I love you.

No, you don't.

He hoped the significance of the moment wasn't lost on her, but if she was thinking deep thoughts she gave no sign. Always so damn controlled. The thought made his demon unfurl a little and start to grumble with anger and frustration. He stopped thinking right there.

"You look good," Buffy said as she hauled him up. "Tangible even."

"Yeah. Handy that. No pun intended."

Then they stood, uncomfortably, fingers still entwined. He was reluctant to let go. Fought the urge to pull her to him, cling to her, press his body against her slight curves and melt into her. Hold onto her and never, ever let her go. But the need to possess was easier to manage now, and he got control of himself quickly, barely hesitated when she relaxed her grip to let go.

Perhaps he was still suffering from brainstrain, but it felt like her fingers almost caressed his as she broke the contact and moved her hand to rest on her belt.

More silence, this time with the accompaniment of shuffling of feet. How very seventeen. Spike wondered if maybe he should say something, but with his demon pacing in his stomach and resentment clouding his mind, the words forming on his tongue tasted bitter, and he swallowed them fast. Replaced them with the most innocuous thing possible.

"Thanks for the rescue, luv." He kept his voice even.

"Slayer at your service." She grinned at him. Perfect, white teeth beneath pretty, pink-painted lips. "I'm glad you're not of the dead. Again."

"Yeah, me too. Death by moron would've been right embarrassing."

"No, not this," she gestured towards at the dust. "Well, maybe kind of this, 'cause one skanky minion so should not have been able to get the jump on you. But so not the point. I mean that I'm glad you're alive. Generally."

It was the kind of open, honest statement he’d never expected from her. He was sure his eyes narrowed. She looked and sounded so genuine, almost bouncy, for a moment that he was reminded of the Buffybot. Placid, pleasing, so full of nice thoughts and made to love him. Not a bit like his slayer, really, and if she was modelling herself on that to let him down easy, then he had no time for it.

"Uh huh. Always trying to please, I am."

He watched her face fall a little, her eyes cloud. She swallowed. He was hurting her. That's what he wanted, wasn't it?

Buffy recovered in a second and continued valiantly. "I know I should have called and all. But I wanted to say it in person."

She looked up and into his eyes, pupils large and dilated from the lack of light. He missed the green.

"I am glad you're back, Spike. Very glad. Here. With us. With me. And…I hope you are, too."

"Glad". That was three uses of that word now. He thought that must be significant. Not delighted or frenzied or shocked. Glad. He supposed he was glad he was back, too. Better than hell. Should be glad he'd been given another chance to even the score and all. Luckiest bloke not-quite-alive.

Except that right now, he didn't give a fuck about that other hell, 'cause he was standing in his own, drowning in her again, even as he knew—knew—that his thirst for her would never be sated.

That she belonged to someone else.

"Yeah, life's dandy right now." His voice sounded high and pathetic. "I'm so 'glad' I came back too."

"Good. I wouldn't want you to feel like I did. Before...To need...I wouldn't want you to feel as lost as I did after I returned. Or to act like I did."

He wondered if that was meant to be an apology, but that was another thing he had no time for.

"Oh, no need to worry about that, pet. I'm completely free of the need to fuck things behind dumpsters in filthy, secret alleys."

Score. The soft look in Buffy's eyes vanished instantly, and she was back to pissed off.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Means what it sounds like it means, pet. You're a smart bird. I'm sure you'll figure it out."

He heard her blood pressure rise, the beating of her heart, the smell of anger. He wanted to stop this here and now, put the light back in her eyes, but his demon rose and roared in defense of his battered heart. Stay away, make her stay away, maintain some dignity. But not like this. Had to be a better way. His stomach lurched into a somersault as he tried to work out what the hell was going on, inside and out.

Finally, Buffy sighed, and he fancied that she looked almost vulnerable. Tender. She wasn't going to play games. "Okay, you are so weirding me out here, Spike. I wanna talk about stuff and you're getting all avoid-y on me."

He chuckled, a harsh sound devoid of humor. "Oh, sweet irony."

"What..." She stopped, licked her lips, and he felt a swell of guilt rise within him at her lost look. Damn soul, made everything harder. "Did I do something wrong? Something that made you leave? I don't...why?"

"Why? Take a stab."

"I don't know, Spike. I mean, I know you didn't believe me when I said that I loved..."

He cut her off with a wave of his hand. "Nothing to do with that, pet. Over, burnt to a crisp, just like me." He paused to take a breath, easily ignored her shudder. "Just didn't fancy hanging around to watch you smack lips with Mr. Big back there."

"What?" She stared at him like he was crazier than a pissed chicken. "How could you think that?"

"How could I not? You standin' there, groping each other in the middle of the foyer..."

"....And since when would that have that stopped you anyway?"

Oh, so typically Buffy.

"Since I got my balls back, and, with 'em, some bloody dignity. Not stickin' around to watch you swap spit with my grandsire. Rather go wash my privates with holy water. Probably less painful, too."

For a moment, she simply stared at him. Face flushed, hands balled into fists. He wondered if she was going to hit him. He'd welcome it, knew he deserved it. Hit him and leave, she would, and he'd go find some more stake-fodder and cheap liquor to smother the goddamn pain.

But instead of hitting him, Buffy threw her hands up in disgust, fists taunting only the air.

"Oh my God, do I have to pound things through your thick skull with a mallet? I. Am. Not. With Angel! There. I can not put it more simply than that. So cut out the attitude, because it’s making me mad. And you don't want me mad."

He blinked. No other reaction to make as the words "not with Angel" repeated on continual loop through his misfiring brain.

Buffy fixed him with a glare that could freeze a nun's heart. "You know what? You're right. It is ironic. And you've got every right to find my attempts at this talking thing amusing. But I'm trying here, and...shit, Spike, when did we suddenly reverse roles here?"

He shrugged. "Fucked if I know. Seems everything's screwed up these days."

Buffy nodded, cast her eyes over the now-deserted lot. "You working?"

"Yeah, actually, I am. Things to do, you know..." His answer was defensive, instantaneous. But this time, he cut himself off before any more damage was done. Mouth slightly open, he paused to consider for a moment, weighed the question. He still wasn't quite certain what she was all about tonight, but burning within him was low, dull heat, a flicker of hope. "But it's nothing important," he amended quickly.

"Good." Her lips curled up into a smile again, and she reached out to touch his arm gently. He thought he could feel the heat of her fingers through the leather. "You have a car?"

"Er…well, yeah." Kinda. Not his, exactly. But Angel would never miss it. Or maybe he would, and that would be even funnier.

Buffy's smile got even wider. "Let's get outta here, okay? Go someplace...else."

"Lead the way, then."

And so he followed her, again. And even though he recognized that her control over him was kind of pathetic, he decided that he didn't care. A well-trained puppy, he was. Just waiting to be kicked.




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