Title: Gentle
Author: OneTwoMany
Email: onetwomany@bigpond.com
Summary: Let's fill in some of those blanks in Chosen. B/S all the way, baby!
Spoilers: Everything that ever happened on BtVS
Rating: NC-17 (this part R for language)
Disclaimers: I own nothing. Trust me when I say I'm not worth suing.
Feedback: Love it! Onetwomany@bigpond.com
Thanks: Much thanks to Juliaabra, for the wonderful assistance and for the title.

Chapter 2


Champion.

Bloody hard to believe that she'd really called him that. Harder still to believe that she's really meant it. Most difficult of all to work out what he actually felt about it, beyond the fact it was bleedin' ironic that Spike, Slayer of Slayers, has just been knighted the pussy-whipped 'Champion' of a third.

He'd wager good money that someone on high was pissing themselves over this.

Almost subconsciously, Spike raises the amulet into his line of vision. He knows it's probably not a good sign that he's finding such a gaudy, tacky piece of jewellery so fascinating. It's heavy with magic, he can sense that much at least, and use of such things almost never ends well. But Buffy trusts in its power, and trusts him to wear it, and so he's prepared to take that risk. He's always been prepared to play the odds; not shame in going down fighting.

Going down a bleeding champion.

Spike groans loudly and rests his head against the wall behind him. He'd like to think that it is the amulet that is making him go soft and gooey about the champion shit. Stupid word, the kind of nancy-boy label that Broodboy would covet and he should mock. And yet as he tests the word on his tongue, runs his fingers over the amulet, Spike thinks he could come to like this new title. He certainly liked the look of respect and admiration in Buffy's eyes and the way her warm, strong fingers lingered on his for a second on his when she knighted him as such.

That's gotta be William making an appearance, he figures. His old self is getting braver by the day. He remembers being a little boy, dreaming of adventure and glory, of protecting the Mother country against heathens and usurpers and villainous kings of the non-Anglo variety. Lived and breathed those legends he had; although perhaps less for the warfare than the chivalry. Innocent times.

'Cause, he'd since learned there are drawbacks to that admiring-from-afar part. Got some practice at that lately. Too much practice.

Nothing he didn't deserve, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

Bollocks to that Champion crud then.

It's just not him.

Whatever Buffy hopes, whatever romantic dreams she's crafted, Spike knows he's not fighting this war for any noble purpose. He's not Peaches, with a grand fate and world-changing destiny and a yen to help the helpless. And thank God for that, because he doesn't really want to have to brood over the fate of tossers he has never met.

No, Spike is honest enough to admit that the only reason he's here is because it's Buffy's fight. And God knows he stands by his girl. Stands by her until the end of the world, if that's what it takes. Even if that means he has to face the Great Beyond dressed worse than Elton John.

Not a pleasant thought.

Spike closes his eyes against another rising tide of melancholy, sighs deeply and almost enjoys the harsh, real feel of sharply exhaled air grinding over a parched throat and raw nerves. Nerves, that what it is. Catching from the slaylets upstairs. He longs for a good dose of Johnny Cure-all to take the edge of it all, but this isn't the time for drunkenness, and he knows better than to start on the stuff when he probably can't stop. Considers lighting a cigarette instead, then remembers he's all out of those too.

Fucking lack of foresight. Always hits him at the worst of times.

Resting his head against the wall, Spike allows the noise from the upstairs rooms to wash over him. The nervous titter of the little girls, the hushed drones of Willow and her new bird - best not linger on that too long, lest it remind him of what he can't have - Anya and Xander's nightly squabble.

Sounds of companionship, camaraderie, of life he doesn't, and can't, share.

It's times like these, the quiet, lonely times, that Spike misses Dru. Been a challenge, she had, what with her mad babble and her lunatic schemes; the raving that grated on his softest of nerves. But despite her madness, her fragility, she'd been company for a century, and usually good company at that. She'd needed him, allowed him to tend her, loved him as best she good. He'd been happy being a part of something, and he misses that. Knows in his heart that he misses the constant and familiar presence of another, the comforting familiarity of a partner and friend.

He'd never admit it to Buffy, but the amulet kind of reminds him of a trinket he and Dru liberated from Bulgari on one stormy New York night. The memory coaxes forth reluctant smile, his dark queen sprawled across a countertop, decked in nothing but oversized jewels. A fun night, that was, they'd reeked a little mayhem, done their damage and left. Should probably feel bad about the whole thing, but really doesn't.

Further proof he got one twisted soul.

Spike gives the amulet another healthy swing. Pleasant memories or not, it's still the tackiest lookin' thing he's ever seen. Ironic that his fate should come down to big, sparkly jewel; not quite the effulgence William was looking for. But it's better than nothing.

It'll do. For now.

And so Spike sits in the basement and waits for Buffy to need him.

Waits for the end of the world.

If it really was the night before the End of the World, then someone forgot to tell Mother Nature.

All around Buffy, Sunnydale's remaining citizens are going their business. Chirping crickets play up a storm, moths and un-identifiable buggy things swarm around the porch light, a frog croaks from it's watery home in the neighbour's pond. It's life as usual for those creatures lucky enough not to know better.

And yet, even admit the racket, it's all so strangely quiet and still, like she's walking through a surreal dream world. There's no hum of passing traffic, no drifting tones of too-loud radios or chatter of couples out on an evening stroll, not even the ever-annoying and usually inevitable screaming of the Nguyen children fighting over bedtime toys. Sunnydale's more intrusive inhabitants have fled, leaving a host town nestled in an aura of impending doom. So heavy, nearly tangible, is the air of expectancy that it's as if the air itself understands that something is coming.

Buffy knows she should appreciate this unusual quiet, that she'll long for silence tomorrow, when sounds of war will rage and burn and scream through her ears. But tonight the quiet is far from comforting. It's ferocious, menacing, a cunning ally of the living, creeping darkness and nightmares. She wonders idly whether this night will leave another scar on her psyche, whether the calm will now always remind her of an approaching storm, a likely apocalypse, the last hours before the end of the world.

But she cuts herself off quickly. It's thoughts like that explain why she's never the introspective type.

Sighing and shaking her head to try to free the cobwebs, Buffy kicks at the dust and leaves that litter the porch. Stupid brain, dwelling on the fear. Never helps. They're gonna win. She believes that. Knows it. But the pep talk isn't enhancing her mood.

It's in these contemplative moments that Buffy can finally admit that it's not the battle that's got her scared.

It's her. And what's become of her.

She remembers, in painful detail, how she'd stood at the doorway to Xander's hospital room, watched Willow comfort him as he in turn tried to be strong for her. Even as she fought back tears and mounting hysteria with every ounce of strength she possessed. How she'd wanted to run to them, throw her arms around him and hug him till they melted together, until her strength flowed into him, healing him of injuries received through the folly of trusting her.

But instead she'd stood still, repositioned her mask pushed down the tears, the mounting hysteria, the soft and tender feelings. Spoke to them instead of battle plans and tactics and things of steel and ice. No wonder they stared back with hard, cold eyes.

What had become of her that she could no longer even open herself up for Xander? Wonderful, beautiful Xander, who'd stood by her all these years. Who loved her and idolized her and followed her without question. Who gave so freely of his massive heart?

But, God, she'd let it all go for Angel. One glance, and she'd humped him like some superheated ho in heat.

She's not quite sure what she was thinking, or even if she was thinking at all. She understands that in that moment she'd allowed emotion, raw and pure, rare, to take a hold of her. And it had felt good, so good, to allow the memories of him to swell and flow within her. The sensation of his touch, so innocent and gentle; the image of his large form fighting beside her, back when slaying was fun; the recollection of a time when heroics made her feel good, of when she'd laughed and saved the world before curfew and still had time to shop.

But most of all, she remembers that she'd loved him. Loved him with everything she was, and everything she had. Fully, passionately, instantly, every nerve leaping and dancing at his presence, every cell in her body yearning to be with him.

I kiss you and I want to die.

Pain and hurt and passion and mystery. Devotion, dedication, two against the world as stars and planets collide.

Isn't that was love is?

And then she thinks of Spike and she just doesn't know.

She doesn't know if she can love anyone like she loved Angel, or if she even wants too, or if she's brave enough to try something else. Isn't sure she really even knows what love is anymore, or if she has enough to give her new champion what he so truly deserves.

What had happened to her heart? She'd lost it somewhere, but at least this year she was actually looking. Last year, she'd borrowed Spike's. Borrowed it, used it, abused it. And despite everything, he still wouldn't take it back. He's still here, now. Always will be. She can't loose him if she tries, and she knows now that she doesn't want to.

And right now, that's all that matters.

In that moment, standing on her mother's porch, she vows that if she survives tomorrow, she's sorting herself out, moving herself on. Re-locating some place with crowds and people and acres of malls filled with shoes and low rise jeans. Somewhere she can find anonymity and privacy amongst the crowds, where she can be reminded that life goes on despite the darkness. Somewhere she can allow herself to be happy, one small step at a time.

But that still leaves tonight.

Sighing, Buffy leans against the porch rail, stares into the night. What does one do on one's last night of life, anyway? Can't shop, can't party, nothing good on TV.

Then she remembers: You be with the people who love you. The people you love.

And tonight, possibly her last, only one person comes to mind.

Swallowing, Buffy turns toward the house, determination in her stride. It's time for the introspection to stop.




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