On the Run

by zinjadu

Summary:

I should’ve gone for the Porsche I was eyeing off. Just enough space for you, me, and big sis…

Instead of the Winabego, Buffy agrees to the Porsche, but it turns out the road trip is just the start of the adventure. Confronted with living in close quarters and having to adjust to a different dynamic, Buffy finds herself coming to terms with the changes Spike is attempting to make in himself. Meanwhile, Spike is strugging with those changes, but knows he can't stop loving her. All the while, there's still a Hell God out there, and they'd both die to protect Dawn.

Both Buffy and Spike know this won't end well, they just have no idea what that will look like.

Chapter 1: Thunder Road

Bright spears of sunline make a hazard of the impounded vehicle lot, but Spike manages to find a bit of shade here and there as he sticks close to Buffy’s heels. The madwoman who showed up at his crypt, baby sis in tow, and said those magic words: I need your help.

So here he is in a blistering southern California afternoon trying not to burn to a crisp.

Dawn glances over her shoulder at him. Her big eyes are even bigger than usual and there’s a furrow of worry between her brows. Why she’s looking to him, he can’t quite figure. Maybe it was the whole got tortured to protect her angle. Or maybe she’s looking at him to see if big sis hasn’t really gone around the bend, what with her pulling a runner.

And that was something he never thought he’d ever see. One Buffy Summers running.

He tilts his head sharply to the side, and the niblet seems to get it. She turns back to her sister. “So, I really hope this isn’t new car shopping because…”

“Not shopping,” Buffy says, her voice tight as wire and just as ready to cut. He can’t help how his eyes cut to her just then, how he notices all the little things. The tension in her shoulders and the brittle, almost birdlike way she moves her head. On a swivel. Like prey.

Shit. They need to get a car, get it fast, and get out.

Spike manages a hop and a jump to get around other beam of sunlight and then he sees it. A Porsche. Sleek and with a damn fine engine. Those Germans, they do know how to make a car. Seems know. He risks a glance at the odo and it doesn’t even have twenty thousand miles on it. And the transmission was automatic.

“Buffy.” He keeps his voice low, even. She whips around at the sound of it. He wraps a knuckle on the window. “Reckon this’ll get us out of town fast as anything. Faster.”

Her eyes cut to it, and for a second he watches her play it out in her mind. Then she jerks her head in a sharp no. “I told you, we get everyone out.”

He should sigh, shrug, and say whatever the lady wants, and let her have her way. Only one problem. Her way is going to get someone killed. Probably her. And the very thought makes all the different parts of him want to growl and tear things apart. So, for once in his sodding stupid life, unlike, whatever, he tries to hold his ground.

“Slayer, you’ve got a choice here. You may not like it, and it’s going to leave a bad taste in your mouth, but here it is: trying to get everyone out is only going to slow you down. And slow equals capture. Simple math. But fast? Fast and lean gives you and the little bit a chance. And this,” he points at the sleek engineering delight, “will do the job.”

“No.” She says it like a reflex, but there’s no force behind it. A punch she doesn’t believe in. Little sis wraps her arms around herself, making herself smaller. Spike wants to shake both of them. Pick them both up, or knock them out, something, throw them in the car and drive. Drive until the fuel runs out and he has to siphon more.

Bloody chip won’t have it, though, so he has to get through to the Slayer that she has to make a choice: her sister and maybe the whole sodding world, or her friends.

But then, it turns out he doesn’t have to. “Buffy, what if,” Dawn’s voice trails off. There are tears in her eyes. “No, you’re right. I’m not worth it. Glory will hurt them all, like she hurt.” Big blue eyes flick over to him again, and he can’t bring himself to look back at her. He would do it again, if he had to. There’s a shuddering breath, and Dawn whispers a small, childish, “I’m just so scared.”

And as fast as that, Buffy’s resolve breaks.

He watches it happen, watches as her eyes go distant and the gears turn over in her head. Those monks, they did a bloody bang up job on Dawn, because all it took was the Slayer knowing that her kid sister was scared, and he watches as she tosses everything and everyone else out the window. Her chin juts out and there’s only the faint scent of salt from her, but no tears. Oh no, no tears.

“Spike.” That’s it. Just his name, and in it is all the tacit permission he needs.

“On it.” Good thing that the Sunnydale impound lot is about as well guarded as the local blood bank supply. But then, the little happy meals on legs have better things to do than get eaten for a bunch of cars that no one can get out. The box with the keys is locked, but he twists that off easy enough. Keys in hand, he’s back and with a push of a button, the car is unlocked and theirs.

Not much space in the boot. Dawn and Buffy both throw in their duffels. He doesn’t have anything, just the clothes he was standing about in and his duster. Then the girls get to work tin-foiling the windows and leaving him a strip for seeing out of. Then Buffy hands him a pair of welding goggles he is now damned curious as to why she has in the first place.

Some Slayers used to make their own weapons, and the image of her at an anvil is doing things to him that he really doesn’t have time for.

“Get as far as you can, and then we tell them the plan’s changed,” she tells him. He can hear the choked anger and regret in her voice. Reassurance dies on his tongue when she raises her eyes to his, though. Steely eyed determination, thy name is Buffy Summers, he thinks. Green has given way to grey, and if his blood wasn’t up, he might find it a bit sad. “Till then, you drive like hell. Got it?”

He can’t help the grin that curves his mouth and the way his whole body rocks forward, because here at last, finally, God finally, he’s something he can bloody well do. No more sitting about and nancing and pining. No more the strains of old agony. Here is action and drive and something.

“I’m your man,” he tosses off before sliding into the driver’s seat. The ignition purrs to life, and he fixes the goggles to his face. “Ready, ladies?”

“Dawn, buckle up,” Buffy admonishes. That gets a barking, sharp laugh out of him. Buffy tosses a glare his way, and that only makes his lips twist into a smirk.

“Click-clack, front and back,” he sing-songs as he puts the car into drive.

“What?” Buffy says, but then she’s thrown back against her seat as he peels out. Now, if only he’d thought to bring his tapes along. Man needs the right music for fleeing a hell god.

***

Three hours out of Sunnydale, headed east and away from the setting sun, they stop. Spike drove… well, Spike drove. Fast. Very, very fast. On an intellectual level, she knows cars could and did go that fast. On racetracks.

Around her, the car did that ting-ting thing, cooling down. He didn’t overhead the car, did he? No, no, he wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t do anything to put Dawn in danger. Weirdly. No, now is not the time to analyze Spike or his motivations. Don’t look a gift vampire in the mouth, except the last time she’d had that thought, Angel turned out to be a mixed bag of sweet and bitter, but not nearly good as bittersweet chocolate chips.

Chocolate chips never killed anyone after they made you happy.

She frowns and tries to get her thoughts in some kind of order. First, get out of the car. So she does, and looks around. They are way beyond Sunnydale. Spike and Dawn are in the gas station shop, loading up on supplies. Buffy just wishes her legs would stop being jelly. She’s not weak, just… she doesn’t know what she is.

No, that’s not true. She’s running. Running hard and fast and leaving behind her friends who had become her family all to save a girl who hadn’t been her sister this time last year. But she’s her sister now. She watches Dawn through the store window, a smile on her face in spite of the apocalyptic terror that should be making her numb. Smiling because Spike is saying something to her and picking up more candy. Like a reverse Halloween, the monster giving the normal person a treat.

Okay, Buffy, she tells herself. Time to put her friends out of their misery. She digs around for some change and dials the Magic Shop before she runs away from doing that, too. They deserve… so much more than her as a friend, a leader. She just abandoned them. And why? Because Spike pointed out a fast car and because… because Dawn was scared.

Scared and crying and wanting Buffy to protect her.

“Hello? Buffy, please, Buffy is it you?” Giles’s voice breaks into her whirling crazy.

She blinks, her lashes feeling heavy, and she can only nod before she finds her voice. “Yes.”

“Thank God,” he breathes. Down the phone line, she can just see it. “What happened? Were not able to procure a vehicle? I can help, I am certain that…”

“I had to change plans,” she says, feeling almost distant from herself. “Bringing everyone, it would have slowed me down, but you have to get out. Everyone. Get a plane, drive, just get out.”

There’s a long, long pause. The sun will set soon. They can take off the tin foil and Spike can drive all night. Just drive and drive and drive. Endlessly. Maybe if they hit the Atlantic they could—

“... makes sense, for us to scatter. However, it would be advisable to have a meeting point. We must regroup.” The back of her brain provides her with the memory of the Initiative. Regroup, central points of contact, a place from which to launch a new offensive.

“I’ll call you,” she says, giving no kind of answer. It all feels so distant already. Sunnydale, her friends. She’s untethered, unmoored. The one reason she has to run and fight and live is in a rest stop gas station buying her own weight in sugar.

“Wait a moment, Buffy, I don’t have—”

Her finger holds down the switchhook. There’s a dial tone where Giles’s voice once was. Her hand hangs up the receiver and she feels like she’s floating as she enters the store.

“I think we got all the food groups.” Spike’s accent is a now-familiar burr, bouncing over words that are too banal for what she’s just done. “Sugar, salt, and—”

“Buffy,” Dawn says, breaking into the litany. Her sister’s face lights up as she holds forth her spoils. Spike, though. She catches sight of his face, and she can watch as he literally swallows whatever he was about to say. But he wouldn’t be Spike if he didn’t catch her eye and smirk. Just a little.

Her eye roll is automatic, but he sees it, and now he’s smiling. He’s smiling, and her feet feel like they’re on the ground again. It’s just so weird because why the hell is Spike being Spike—weird, inappropriate, and above all annoying—the thing that brings her back down to earth? Probably the sheer gravitational force of how irritating he is. It gives her the drive to put back a few of the snacks.

“No one needs that many sour candies,” she says, “and I’m pretty sure no one wants to be driving a car that smells like vomit.”

“That was like, years ago!” Dawn protests. “And besides, it…” she trails off, and all three of them know what she was about to say. About to, and doesn’t. “Besides, I know how to pace myself so, there.” She sticks her tongue out, and it’s everything Buffy has to not put every last candy away. Just to put her Big Sister foot down.

“Let’s just pay for these and go,” Buffy says, glancing around at the store. There’s only a few locals of whatever town this is.

“Sure that’s a good idea?” Spike asks, voice low. “We have limited funds here.”

“Robbing places attracts attention,” she points out.

He sighs. “I suppose.” Then his face scrunches up, like he’s thinking through something, but then he shakes it off. “I’ll pay for this, just get in the car and we’ll get out of here. Come on, Niblet, give over.”

Dawn spills her goods into his arms, and Buffy watches as he picks up another gummy candy pack and slips it in his coat. She bites her lip and waits for him to return to the car. They get in and drive off. The sun is just starting to set. The reflected light still makes him wince and avoid the review mirror.

Spike fiddles with the radio, flicking between static and snatches of music that make him mutter while Dawn paws through the crinkling plastic of their so-called food supplies. She knows she needs to eat, but just right now, she can’t stomach candy. And thinking of eating, she wonders how the hell they’re going to keep Spike fed. The chip means he can’t feed off of people, but he could become a liability, and—God, she wishes she could just stop.

The world blurs by, a little less breakneck than before. There’s purple-black at the edges of the land, and she thinks it could be beautiful if she had a spare thought for pretty things.

He stops fiddling with the radio and switches it off with a grunt of disgust. “Pop shite.”

“Uh, some of us like Backstreet Boys, okay?” Dawn says witheringly.

“And some of us have taste, little bit,” Spike drawls. There’s no venom there, none that Buffy can hear.

“Your music is all just angry screaming and people playing bad on purpose,” Dawn counters between bites of the stolen sour candy. Buffy shifts in her seat. Clearly they’d been spending more time together than she’d realized, if Dawn had opinions on Spike’s music. Great, her little sister had been palling around with a soulless undead monster who… had risked everything for her. For them both.

“That’s the point. Punk is angry, punk is rebellion. Not teenybop bull. It’s got no guts or blood in it.”

“Gross. Music doesn’t need guts in it. That’s nasty. It should have cute boys.”

Buffy listens with half an ear to the argument. It sounds like one they’ve been having for a while. Well worn and familiar. It peters out, and eventually, Dawn slumps against the back seat. The sun is well down, and the road passes by in pulses of headlights and signs. In between that, though, it’s all dark. Dark and dark, endless stretching on and on.

“She’s out.” Spike’s voice is a bare whisper, just on the edge of her hearing. Buffy glances back to see Dawn’s head resting against the door, her breathing deep and even. Peaceful. Peaceful and innocent and hers.

It’s like her whole chest is cracking apart. Like someone is driving an iron bar straight into her breast bone. Her throat is too tight and her vision is getting watery and—

“Hey, hey now.” Spike’s right hand is on her shoulder, just shy of too hard. She grabs it like a lifeline with one hand while the other clamps over her mouth. “You did it.” His voice is low in her ears, low and there with an endless litany. “You did it, you got her out. We’re out, alright? We’re out, and she’s alright. She’s going to be alright. You both are, okay?”

She tears her gaze away from Dawn before she loses it entirely, and then she’s looking at Spike. Spike who is glancing between her and the road, the lines of his face limed by the dashboard lights, his expression somehow, impossibly, both intent and earnest. She lets go of his hand to wipe the tears away and sniffles only a little.

He lets go of her shoulder, both hands back on the wheel. His thumbs drum a quiet tattoo. His hand was cold—vampire, he’s always cold—but she appreciated the weight of it.

It’s a minute or two before she can trust herself to speak. There’s a whole lot behind her lips, a litany of failure, a riot of questions, but in their striving to be voiced, they jam up her throat. She swallows heavily. The sky is a swath of starry darkness. The car hums over the road.

She clears her throat. Again, quietly. “You’re good to drive, right?”

“All night,” he answers, easy and simple as someone else might promise something so much less. His eyes flicker from one mirror to the next before touching on her, light as a bird. “Could do one thing for me, though.”

“What?” She can’t help the wariness that laces her tones. Putting his unlife on the line he might be, but this is still Spike. He’s generally full of weird and off-putting requests.

“Find us a bit of music, yeah? But I swear, if you put on a boy band, I will stake myself. Like your sis well enough, Slayer, but her taste in music is real evil. Manufactured pop gobshite,” he rants, or, well, pretends to rant. Maybe half rant?

“Well, now I’m just tempted.” She grins as she fiddles with the knobs, keeping the volume low. The stations skip around between static.

“Big talk for a woman who needs a wheelman,” he counters dryly.

“Yeah, but even I know this is an automatic,” she points out, tapping the gear shift that’s handily put in D. D for drive. “I could get to a rest stop at least. Probably. Anyway, I’m surprised you didn’t go for stick. I’d assume it’d make you feel all manly.”

The smile that curves his face is way, way too delighted for what’s going on around them. His eyes practically dance, and he does that thing with his mouth, that little weird tongue flick that she kind of found distracting a time or two. “Don’t need that to feel manly, luv.”

“Pervert,” she accuses.

“Tease,” he throws back.

The radio knob twists in her fingers and it lands on a classic rock station. Quiet strains of some rock song floats through the speakers. Spike drums in time to the music and bobs his head. “Ta for that,” he says, and his eyes are fixed on the road ahead. “Best get some sleep, Slayer. I’ll wake you up when we get to a stopping place.”

“Or if something goes wrong,” she reminds him.

He raises one dark brow at her. “No, thought I’d just let it be a fun surprise. Yes,” he says before she can protest. “If something goes wrong, I’ll wake you. But for now? Do yourself a kindness and sleep.”

There’s a weird softness to his voice. The edges of his usual harsh accent rounded off. Not quite Giles fancy-English, but something, well. Softer. Spike and softness aren’t supposed to go together. Him of the kill you and everyone you love, and more recently the kill my sire to prove my love to you. And the sex bot.

Major wiggins.

But now, now she curls up in the front seat of a stolen Porsche, her sister in the back seat, and she trusts Spike enough to close her eyes.

***

The hours pass by in a steady rhythm. Thank God or the Devil both, whoever came up with late night, no talk, no BS, no ad-laden radio. Though, unlike his own road trips in the DeSoto or any other vehicle, he’s not listening to spine rattling rollicking punk fit enough to burst a human’s ear drums. Too much temptation to drum loudly and scream along. Instead, the classic rock station pumps out a steady slew of decent if not his favorite songs.

He has to change stations twice, but he finds something similar every time. Keeps him alert as the night thrums by. When he checks the mirrors, he looks back to see Dawn totally limp and laying across the back seat. Not a mystical Key at all. Instead, she’s all gangly, coltish limbs, surrounded by the remnants of beef jerky and sour gummies.

Looking at her, he feels something. Not quite sure what. Pride, maybe. She’s alive and kicking because he did what he does best: didn’t break. Keeps going. Knocked down, but getting back up. Too bloody stubborn to go out easy, him. Well, she can count on him to keep doing that. In for a penny, after all.

When his gaze lands on Buffy, he’s consistently surprised to not find himself looking into a pair of suspicious green eyes. Instead, every time, her eyes are closed and she’s even drooling a little bit. Well and truly exhausted. Out. Down for the count. So tired that she’s sleeping in the presence of someone who, a year ago would have gleefully killed her. Or tried to find a way to do so, chip be damned. Because this year, with her back against the wall, and when she cast about for someone to go on the run with, the first person she came to was him. Not the Watcher, not the Welp or the Witch. Him.

He can’t read into it. He won’t. He’s the nearest tame monster. He knows that. Knows it in his bones.

But for all that, she trusts him with the most precious thing in the world.

It makes his chest squeeze painfully, knowing that. He won’t ever have her love, but right now, in this moment, he has her trust. He’ll take what he can get.

So he drives into the night, whisper-singing along when he knows the words, tapping along when he doesn’t. Morning will come soon enough.

***

Her eyes are sticky. Her eyes are sticky and her neck feels horrifyingly stiff. Buffy winces as the world comes back into focus. Or as much focus as it can when she has no idea where they are. Somewhere in the middle of Arizona, she let herself sleep. Wincing, she straightens as much as she can in her seat.

“Good timing.” Spike’s familiar voice comes from somewhere to her left. She blinks and wishes she hadn’t. He didn’t find a way to glue her lashes together while she was out, did he? No, probably not. Not exactly his style. Whatever it was these days. “Little sis is still out cold, but the sun’s going to be up soon.”

Outside the windows, the sky is a pink-tinged grey across the suburban highway landscape. She knew this would be part of the deal, having to hole up during the day. It’s going to drive her crazy sitting still, but if he went poof then there went the only driver.

He might’ve picked an automatic, but that didn’t mean she really wanted to try to get this death trap anywhere.

“Where are we?” Her mouth feels cottony and dry and there’s a hole in her middle. Fear or hunger or both, she can’t tell. It probably doesn’t matter.

“Just past Albuquerque,” he says, and the word sounds so completely ridiculous in his mouth that she just stares at him dumbly. Blinking. Dumb and blinking. Oh yeah, big time Chosen One action there, blinking at Spike like she can barely form coherent thought.

“That’s in New Mexico,” she supplies inanely.

“Unless they moved it,” he retorts.

She digs the heels of her palms into her eyes. Maybe there’s a reset button in there. If she just pushes hard enough, it’ll make her brain work.

She didn’t think they’d get this far.

“Well, we did.”

She must have said that out loud. Did she say that out loud?

“You’re still talking out loud. Can’t say I’m surprised that the Slayer isn’t much of a morning person.”

“Not even before late night graveyard strolls were part of my routine,” she sighs.

“Don’t mind mornings, in principle. Keep night and afternoon from bumping into each other.”

“Think of the problems that would cause.”

His eyes dart to her and the corner of his mouth curves up. Her mouth curves in a mirror to his, which is funny if she thinks about it. No reflection for him, but it makes her think about how people can be mirrors for each other. Something in one of her classes. Psychology? She hopes not, since Walsh was a nut. Literature, maybe? She can’t remember, and it really is way too early for her to be trying to think of classes. Classes she had to quit entirely.

“Ugh, Buffy and mornings should be unmixy things, but you’re right. Let’s find a motel. See any likely candidates?” She sits up, pulling the seat belt across her a bit better and scans the billboards and road signs as they roll by.

“Figured you would want to stay on the edge of things. Easier to get out of town, if you’re already halfway there.” His voice is a quiet burr, and it’s weird. Spike is, in her experience, loud. Loud and taking up space with his coat and super annoying traits and general Spikeness, but sometimes. Sometimes he’s really, really quiet. Like right now, when she needs the quiet.

It’s just the hum of the car on the road and the faint strains of music on the radio.

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking,” she allows, and does her best to think about how he’s thinking along the same lines as she is.

“Then there’s something up ahead.” One pale finger points and there’s a turn off for the Motel 6. She nods and sinks back against her seat, but not before risking a glance back at Dawn. She’s going to have to wake her up soon, and then figure out how to pass the day away.

And where to go next.

The click of the turn signal is a heavy, steady tock in the quiet of the car. They pull off the highway, but only barely. In the motel parking lot, Spike gets out, his eyes fixed east with an expression of annoyance. It almost makes her laugh. A vampire not afraid of the sun but annoyed. Like it’s just a mild inconvenience that he would be a pile of ash.

There’s just not much left in her to laugh right now.

Unclicking her belt, she unfolds herself from the seat with a muffled groan. Bodies, even Slayer bodies, are not meant to be curled up in a car seat for a whole night.

“Right, then, just one question,” he says as he comes around the back of the car and pops the trunk before pocketing the keys.

“What’s that?” she asks. She’s stalling waking up Dawn, but really, if she’s going to do anything, she needs to stretch. Vital that she stretches. She knuckles her back and the leather of her own jacket creaks.

“How many rooms we getting?”

Buffy’s eyes squeeze shut, and she’s really, really wishing she’d thought about this all a lot more.

***

Spike watches as Buffy’s face goes through at least seven different minute expressions, all the way from chargrin to resignation. It’s a damn study in her features, and he ordinarily wouldn’t mind trying to suss them all out. But, well, that sun is rising pretty damned fast.

“Two rooms, then,” he says quickly. “Will stretch things a bit, but—”

“Just get the one,” she interrupts. Her eyes are fixed on a point in the middle distance. Certainly not much in the way of local scenery to be that interesting. It’s all desert scrub and highway sprawl wasteland.

She’s riveting though. Arresting—no, do not start, he chides himself. Don’t start trying to find the perfect word because there is no perfect word and, Spike my boy, there’s a hell god no doubt tearing apart anything she can get her hands on for the girl in the backseat of that shiny car you stole. Better things to do.

“Right. Can do that.” He ducks his chin and strides to the office. It’s like the office of every roadside motel he’s been through, right down to the scent of stale donuts, burnt coffee, and despair. Killing the owners of these places always did feel like a bit of a mercy. Now, though, he taps the little bell. It makes a dull, sad tonk instead of a ding. All the same it brings around a tired looking bloke of some kind of south of the border.

“Can I help you… sir.” The pause makes it a sentence not a question. Spike doesn’t much care.

“Need a room for the day. Two beds.” He holds up two fingers, just to make sure he’s being understood here. The poor bastard looks tired enough to be dead on his feet as it is.

“Very good, sir.” The words are rote, and Spike sufferers through the ritual of paying for a motel room. The key has a huge diamond key fob hanging off it with a chipped white numeral 9 blazed on it.

Dawn slumps on the hood of the car, arms crossed over her chest and a sullen look on her face. Ah, of all the things to miss, waking up the teenage mystical energy being was one he was fine with. “I just want to crash on a real bed,” she whines.

“First, bags, then bed. If you need it.” There’s more life, more bounce, in Buffy’s voice when she talks to her sister.

“Car sleep isn’t the same as real sleep,” Dawn argues. Then she catches sight of him, and the girl who wasn’t a girl last year perks up. “Please say you got a room.”

He holds up the key, the garish plastic fob swinging free. “Ask and ye shall receive.”

“Thank God.” Her voice is a weird mix of whine and groan, and as much as he likes the girl—and isn’t that a surprise, he likes the girl for who she is, a bit of spitfire and insight and determination, and Christ, those monks did make the girl out of Buffy, but she’s also Dawn. The girl watched him with big eyes after he’d struck a deal to bring down Angelus, who had cocoa with him and Joyce on the night he’d drunkenly stumbled back into Sunnydale. Or at least she did in his manufactured memories. But then, that whole thing never got under his skin like it did with everyone else.

Memory can be more real than real, he knows.

“Go on,” he says, tossing her the key. She catches it. Key for a key, his brain supplies, and he really needs to get some blood and some rest if his thoughts are starting to loop like that. Can’t afford to be off his game. Not now.

Suddenly, like she’s got boundless energy, she bounds up the stairs with all the grace of an elephant. Not quite entirely Buffy.

“You just got her out of hauling stuff duty.” He turns at Buffy’s words, but there’s no anger or heat in her voice. Just a little soft something that he can’t quite suss. Then she tosses a duffel at him. It clinks.

“Weapons for me? Slayer, I’m touched,” he quips and tosses it over his shoulder.

“What can I say, I like to get something for all my enemies-turned-getaway-drivers. Just didn’t think a Christmas card would really cut it this year, you know?”

“Think I can live with that.”

And there, hiding in the corner of her mouth is a smile. God, what he’d keep doing to get her to grin. Even now. Maybe especially now.

“Come on, let’s get in and figure out next steps.” She takes the stairs with a good deal less tromping than her sister, and he follows. The door is left ajar. After he and Buffy are inside, he shuts it. The curtains are already drawn. Dawn is sitting cross-legged on the bed nearest the windows going through some pamphlets. The rest of the room isn’t anything to write anywhere about. Shades of orange and brown, like the worst part of the 70s—the non-punk rock part—came here to roost. The laminate is peeling, and the bathroom looks awful by even his standards.

The TV probably doesn’t even get reception.

At least there’s a chair. He shrugs out of his duster and tosses it on the TV stand before pulling the chair into the darkest corner of the room.

“Spike, what are you doing?” Buffy’s question interrupts his progress. He looks at her with a wry raised eyebrow.

“Thought you needed a getaway driver, not a pile of ashes. I’m moving the chair to sleep, obviously.” It doesn’t make sense, but his hackles are up. Does she expect him to keep watch during the day, too? He can’t do that, even full on human blood, no vampire can be awake endlessly. Their bodies and demons do need rest, even if it isn’t as much as a human needs rest.

Then her expression softens. She gestures at the bed nearer the bathroom. Further away from the window. “You can have that one. Dawn and I can share, right?”

“Oh! Yeah, no problem. I mean, you have cold feet and kick sometimes, but like, I guess we could share.” Dawn rolls her eyes, clearly more annoyed at the prospect of sharing covers with her sister than anything else. Buffy can’t help but smile, smile to see her sister being so normal.

“Says the girl who is all elbows,” she retorts. The sisters bicker, and Spike sinks onto the bed that’s been declared his. Not a stray ray of sunshine to be seen on the covers.

He toes off his boots, stuff his socks inside them, and stretches out. Buffy and Dawn are both contemplating pamphlets, talking about getting some supplies while the world is still quiet. They decide to check out the supermarket not far away—within walking distance at least. Dawn waits on the landing while Buffy lingers to lock up, and Spike risks something.

“Slayer?”

She’s standing in the doorway. The rose-gold of the rising sun outlines her, and he swallows heavily. No, no, no, don’t think it, he scolds himself.

“Thanks,” he manages, gesturing at the bed. She shrugs and looks away, like she’s been caught out at something.

“Get some rest, Spike. We’ll be back with… supplies.” His brows rise up in astonishment, but before he can press, she’s closed the door with a snick and the lock is thrown behind her.

He stares past the popcorn ceiling, trying like anything to tamp down the warm feeling that’s rising in his chest. It could crack him apart. It could flay him from the inside out, her kindness. More than a punch to his nose, more than her disdain, more than her hate, kindness from her hand would be like a brand in his flesh. It would scald him down to bones.

And right now, if that happens, then she and the little bit are in that much more trouble. He has to stay Spike. Do and be what she needs him to be: a fighter.

It’s not the time to be anything else.

***

Safeway is like Ralph’s. The same red-and-beige interior design, the same too bright lights, and the same discount deals.

It hadn’t really been on her radar, how much food cost. Not before Mom—Buffy puts the apple down before she crushes it. Because if she crushes it, she’d feel compelled to pay for it, and they don’t exactly have the cash to pay for food that she’s destroyed.

“So, fruit and stuff?” Dawn holds a little basket, swinging it in her hands like they’re going for a normal grocery shop. Not a road-trip-escaping-death shop.

She supposes that the basics are the same, though.

“Yeah, fruit and things that will keep. Carrots, um.” She racks her brain. Road trips weren’t really a thing when she’d been small. Dad was always going on trips, and Mom had been busy, and Dawn—she really had to stop thinking about how Dawn wasn’t really in those memories. Because she was. She is in Buffy’s memories and her heart and her blood. It doesn’t matter how Dawn became a part of her life. She swallows and tries to think.

“Tortillas travel well, and some of those shelf stable lunch packs, I think,” she rattles off. Dawn follows her, and they buy a few fresh things. Yogurt for eating today and some cheese. Dawn reaches for the peanut butter, but Buffy puts it back. “Love the PB as much as anyone, but you are not using one of my knives to make sandwiches.”

Dawn puts it back in the basket with a look of such teenage disdain that Buffy can’t help the glare pulling her eyebrows together. “Then we get disposable knives, duh. Probably some plates, too. And spoons, or how else were you going to eat the yogurt?”

There’s a sullen, irritated part of her that wishes that she’d thought of that. That she’d remembered that disposable plates and cutlery were a thing. That she sometimes didn’t feel so dumb when little things slipped her mind. Or that things didn’t slip her mind at all. That would be way better. But she’s slip-of-mind Buffy, and probably not much can be done about it now.

“You’re right,” she says instead, forcing down that part of her that gets annoyed at her own brain. And there’s a reward: Dawn smiles. Though Buffy could do without the preening. They pick up the disposable stuff, and then Dawn dashes back down the aisle coming back with a plastic-wrapped packet of black t-shirts.

“He’s going to need more than blood, right?” Dawn is watching her from under her lashes, like she’s waiting for Buffy to toss the clothes away. “I just noticed that he didn’t have a bag, so like, that one shirt probably won’t be enough. Or his socks, or his—anyway, I figured t-shirts at least right? Then we can let him lose in a Target for whatever else he needs. Because I know he doesn’t sweat, but like, eventually stuff does smell, and that would be bad.”

“You know, did not think I’d ever buy Spike t-shirts, but you’re not wrong,” Buffy allows. The t-shirts stay.

“Hope they fit.”

“Medium is probably good enough. Guys are lucky that way. No weird voodoo women’s sizing for them.”

“Tell me about it. Like, we’re the same pants size, but—”

“I wear them better,” Buffy taunts before she can stop herself. Dawn rolls her eyes. Then there’s the big, weird purchase. This Safeway has a meat counter, but it’s early. Only one person is there, and he’s at the back slicing meat apart with some really wicked looking machines.

All the time she was with Angel, she never thought too much about how he got his blood. Found out about the whole deal with the butcher shops in town, and it made sense. Town like Sunnydale, butchers are probably the most untouchable people around. Good job security. And life security.

Then there was the time Spike was in Giles’s tub. She never bought the blood. Giles did that. But here she is, about to get blood for Spike. She has a fleeting thought that Angel always tried to keep her distant from that part of himself. Always tried to hide it. Spike, though. Well, no soul. Of course he doesn’t feel guilty about it. The chip is the only reason he isn’t his usual kill ‘em all and drain ‘em dry self.

Only, a chip wouldn’t make him endure torture. A chip wouldn’t make him go on the run.

Too many uncomfortable thoughts, and she’s just standing there. “Excuse me,” she calls. The butcher turns and nods. The universal signal of wait a minute. She rocks back on her heels. The meat on display looks pretty fresh and all the usual cuts from named parts of the animal.

“What can I get for you ladies?” The butcher is wiping his hands on a cloth, and he seems like an ordinary kind of person. Medium height and build, black hair kept under a hair net, and his face is round and polite.

“Um, I don’t suppose you have any extra… blood?” Her voice squiggles up on the word, just shy of a squeak.

“Oh yeah, sure,” he says easily. “What’re you making with it?”

“Making?” Her nose scrunches—people don’t eat blood do they. But then she remembers something on PBS, some British thing talking about. “Um, black pudding?”

“Right, you’ll want pig’s blood, then.” And just like that, he’s off to the back room. Buffy exchanges a glance with Dawn, their eyes wide and eyebrows halfway up their foreheads. They get over their combined surprise before the butcher comes back and hands over a container of sloshing, vicious blood.

“Here you go,” he says with a grin. “Good to see the young folks keeping the old country traditions alive. My grandmother loved kidneys, herself.”

“Yeah, that’s us, keeping the old traditions alive,” Dawn enthuses.

“Big on the traditions, us,” Buffy adds, nodding. “Um, how much?”

“Don’t worry about it. Tell them at check out I gave it to you. We’d just throw it out anyway.” Buffy manages a quiet thanks, and like the butcher promised, the checkout girl lets the blood go without ringing it up.

Her head is on a swivel as they leave the store, looking for those nasty little demon helpers that Glory has, but she sees exactly what’s there. Endless highway and scrub and a whole lot of nothing. It’s not a long walk back to the motel. That’s good, because after over sixteen hours of no food, she’s starting to wish she’d managed to choke down something before passing out last night. That yogurt is sounding better by the second. Had to keep up her strength. If she didn’t, then all this would be for nothing.

She just didn’t know how long she could hold it together. But she had to. For Dawn. She had to keep going, even when there’d be nothing left.

***

The click of the deadbolt jolts him out of his doze. He starts upright, only to see the girls coming back laden down with plastic bags. And somewhere in there is some blood. His nose twitches at it and his stomach tightens.

“No trouble at the store, and all’s quiet here, I assume,” Buffy says. The plastic bags crinkle as she sets them down next to the TV. He turned it on and found some mindless game shows. Better listening to something, even drivel, than sitting in silence.

“As the grave,” he drawls. She snorts, not exactly amused, but with that dry unamusement that he kind of likes to get out of her anyway.

Then Dawn is holding something out for him, and he takes it without looking closely at what she’s handing him. Could really use that blood. But then she says, “Got you these. It’s not much, and we’ll need to get you some other stuff, but I saw them and figured you’d need them. Buffy agreed.”

He looks down at a pack of black t-shirts. Dawn thought to get him shirts, and big sis hadn’t objected. More, she’d had to approve, to spend the dosh on him.

It’s small and meaningless, really. So what if he walked out of his crypt with the clothes on his back and the smokes in his duster? It wasn’t like they were supposed to think about him like that. He was here as a driver and guard dog at best. A sacrificable distraction at worst.

The little bit got him shirts.

“Thanks, Niblet,” he says. He’s not choked up. Bloody stupid thing to be choked up about. They’re just bleeding shirts. He tilts his head and quirks an eyebrow at Buffy. “Can’t have me going around shirtless, huh? Too much of a distraction.”

Buffy’s lip curls, and then she shoves the carton of blood in his face. “Pig’s blood for a pig.”

“Ta, love.” He pushes his voice into bright and chipper. The tone he knows annoys her. Then there it is, that fire in her eyes. He knows that he shouldn’t push her. That she’s hanging by a thread, this woman. Mum dead, friends behind her, and always doing her best impression of Atlas.

But when she’s angry at him, she’s not thinking about any of that.

So, because he can’t help himself—can’t help but push sometimes when it brings out her fire, when it pushes the worry in her away, when it’s so damned fun—he says, “What? No mug? Was partial to the Kiss the Librarian one myself.”

“I’ll add it to the list for Target. Oh! Should get you a thermos, actually. Better for travel,” Dawn says as she pulls a journal and a glitter pen out of her duffel. Spike carefully uncaps the plastic container of his breakfast and takes a sip.

“You’re a treasure, Niblet,” he says, and Buffy throws up her hands.

“Great, just great, my sister is making a shopping list for a vampire. This is fine, totally fine,” she mutters to herself while she gets out a yogurt. Viciously, she tears off the lid and eats it angrily. Never thought he’d be jealous of a spoon, but watching her eat, he is. “Not like we’re on the run, oh no. There’s always time for shopping.” Her litany continues, and he pays it half an ear while he drinks his own sustenance.

Another thing he can’t help: noticing that Buffy barely eats. She manages the yogurt, but can’t quite make it halfway through an apple. Even Dawn eats more than that. He can’t do much about that now, but later. After sunset. There’s a long, sunny day until that point. So. He has to wait. Never been good at waiting, but no other option for it. He finishes the blood and tosses the container in the bin.

“Leave the telly on. Need something to kip to.” Then he lays back and tries to shut out everything else. This is going to be a long haul, he knows. Even if Buffy doesn’t yet. Well, he’s done this before. Nothing new for him here. Not the first time he’s looked after someone. Especially someone who doesn’t want looking after.

Probably won’t survive the attempt, though. Still, he can’t help but want to try. It’s pathetic and insane, but there it is. There he is. He flings an arm over his eyes to shut out the ambient light that sneaks in underneath the curtains. If he’s going to be pathetic and insane, he might as well be rested for it.

Notes:

Well now I’m no hero
That’s understood
All the redemption I can offer, girl
Is beneath this dirty hood
With a chance to make it good somehow
Hey what else can we do now
Except roll down the window
And let the wind blow back your hair
--"Thunder Road" by Bruce Springsteen

Chapter 2: Running on Empty

Ketchup plops onto the map, blotting out Texas. “Damn it,” Buffy mutters as she reaches for a napkin and tries to clean up.

“Didn’t think Texas would be a good idea anyway,” Spike drawls. He’s sitting in the booth opposite her, one leg bouncing up and down while he gnaws at a nail. Dawn is in the middle chowing down on burger. Buffy’s is next to her elbow, going cold. At least she’s eaten most of her fries.

“Because it’s full of Texans?” Dawn asks. Her sister sits a bit hunched, like she’s trying to hide a little in the booth, and well. She is. Spike is clearly casing the room to the point where their waitress is jumpy coming over to them. She probably thinks they’re going to try to rob the place. Buffy knows she isn’t helping the situation when she twitches every time the bell over the door dings.

“That,” Spike agrees, “and it’s hot. And the cities are too new. Not enough underground. Not good for yours truly or being able to get out of town unnoticed. Want a bit of a warren. A place with hidey holes.”

“That your tactical position, you of the every plan you’ve ever had has failed,” Buffy points out. She knows as soon as she says that it’s not quite fair. He’s here, he’s helping, and so far so good. He fixes her with a wry look.

“Only with you, love. Since we’re on the same side of this one, might just have a shot. Anyway, between the two of us, I’m the one who has experience getting out of town before it all hits the proverbial.” He shrugs. “But, if you’ve got another idea, let’s hear it.” Then he’s chewing and picking at his nails again. It’s gross, but maybe she should just let him steal cigarettes if he can’t go without. Those might be less vile than his current fixation.

She frowns at the map. She’s spent all her life in California. First LA then Sunnydale, and now she’s got to find a good place to go to ground. The first part of her plan, which wasn’t much more than run, get out, get out, get out, has been a rousing success. At least as far as Dawn is concerned. As for everyone else? Well, she has to push away the niggling thought that she abandoned everyone else. That she’s avoiding them now by not calling them and claiming that long distance calling is not in the budget.

Focus, Buffy, focus. The map is criss-crossed with highways and byways. With rivers and mountains. She traces them, looking all over. Thing is, Spike isn’t wrong. The big sprawling cities of Texas would leave them exposed and trapped if they couldn’t get out in a car. She needs something that isn’t so car-dependent. Problem is, even she knows that most American cities have less than stellar public transit.

“I don’t suppose we could get to Europe?” she mutters.

“Not without swiping a credit card, which, could do,” Spike offers. He looks like he’s considering it.

“No,” she hisses, “no we are not doing that. Again, that sort of thing draws attention.”

“Fine,” he grouses and slumps a little. Buffy catches Dawn’s eyes, just to make sure her sister isn’t getting any ideas either. It really is not good for Dawn to be around Spike’s muddy sense of morality. Sure, put him between Glory and Dawn, Buffy would trust that. He’s given her reason to. But the rest? Spike still has a pretty loose grip on what’s right, and is more likely to let it slip from his grasp even if he knew what he had. Or hurl it away at force.

“But if it's notice you’re so worried about, might want to eat that burger.” He jerks his chin toward her fast-cooling supper.

“No one cares what I am and am not eating, Spike,” she says, studying the map again.

“Just eat Slayer,” he rumbles. There’s an angry thread to his voice, and Buffy decides to ignore it.

“You really should eat, Buffy,” Dawn says around the last mouthful of her own food.

“Don’t take his side, Dawn.”

“I’m taking my side. You’re super grumpy when you’re a hungry Buffy.”

Irritation crawls up her spine and settles in her shoulders. She grabs the burger, almost hard enough to squish it into nothing, and then takes an overlarge bite. The glare she gives Dawn and Spike have to speak louder than words, there, happy?

And, weirdly, Dawn smiles at her, just a little. A small, relieved kind of smile. And Spike, Spike huffs out a breath he doesn’t need and goes back to watching the patrons of the roadside diner come and go. The diner itself is an eerie twin to the one she worked in after she’d run away to LA. The last time she did a big runaway.

Makes her wonder if there’s some kind of cosmic diner that appears whenever someone needs to run from the hell—literal and figurative—of their life.

Or maybe it’s just her.

The burger tastes better than she’d imagined. As she examines the lines of the highways that criss-cross America, she keeps chewing until when she reaches for her burger one last time, she finds that it’s already gone. A glass of soda is pushed across the table at her, and she takes it. Spike leans back in the booth, but he isn’t looking at her.

Is he… trying to take care of her?

No, nope, not a road she’s going to go down. Definitely not. She sips on the soda and thinks.

What she needs to do is pick a literal road to really follow to a real place. A place where they can go to ground and hide. A new base of operations where she can finally call Giles from and start to figure out what to do next. A big city would be best. Easier to get lost in. Needs to have public transit, too. Easy access to other places, and a big airport would be good. Just in case.

New York would be obvious, but then that’s too obvious. And also too big, she thinks. She’d get lost, swallowed up. Also it would take longer to get there. Running was good to start, but she knows they’re exposed, too. Easier to spot.

There’s a dot that draws her eye in the center. A city that seems to have all roads spoking out of it like a wheel. She doesn’t know much about it, just one of the few books she managed to finish in high school was set there. It seemed to have everything she was looking for, at least when the book was set. She taps the map just once.

“There,” she says before folding up the map.

Spike meets her eyes and grins. A slow, sharp grin that makes the angles and planes of his face predator-sharp. “One windy city coming up, pet.”

***

As he drives, the land changes. Desert scrub gives way to rolling prairie and green, growing life. Planted fields and copses of trees to break up the monotony. Or would, if he could see it in the daytime. Instead, he sees the deer and foxes on the edges of the road, their bright reflective eyes giving seconds warning before they dart out from cover.

Which one does. It’s small, so he drives over it. The bump, though, startles the Slayer out of her doze. She’s awake as fast as a shot, eyes scanning all about. Her heart beat goes hard and fast for a second before slowing to a steady pace. Ready and waiting to have to kick into high gear again.

“Did something happen?” There’s a tight tension to her voice.

“Nothing worth waking up over.” And it isn’t, but then she’s going to press and he’s going to have to tell her that he probably ran over something cute and fuzzy. Which she’ll get upset about. He doesn’t care about the little creature—plenty more where it came from, he’s sure. But Buffy being upset, it’s like having claws in him. Claws digging into his chest, into his head. Dragging him along with a cruel whisper of naughty Spike, upsetting the lady.

“Just a pothole,” he lies. She sits back, a hand running over her face. He doesn’t need his demon’s eyes to see the darker circles under her eyes and the stress lines being etched into her face. He drums on the steering wheel with his thumbs, keeping slow time to the barely tolerable country-rock that infests this part of the country. “You should try to get back to sleep.”

She shifts. A grimace makes her face twist up, and then she sits back with a sigh. “Don’t know if that’s happening.”

The glance back at Dawn is automatic, and he follows her gaze, spying on the little bit in the rear view mirror. She’s the smart one, sleeping the night away as he drives. He pulled off a quilt from the motel and stuffed it in the boot before leaving. By the time Buffy realized what he had done, they’d been too far away to return it. But now Dawn has something to cover her while she sleeps.

“Right,” he says inanely. Not sure what else there is to say. He could try to pick and pry at a few things, but then that might ruin a perfectly good drive. And, oddly, stupidly, the last thing he wants to do is start a fight that might wake up Dawn.

The road rolls on, and he drives.

Until Buffy remarks, “Do you have some total inability to be still?”

“What?” He frowns at her, only to find her peering at him almost like one of those white coats that stuck the bloody chip in his head. Like she wants to crack him open and examine him. He shakes his head. Could really do with some smokes right now. “I’m dead, I can do still very well, thank you very much.”

“No, you can’t.” It’s such a bald statement about him, that it makes his hackles rise. Who is she to tell him what he can and can’t do.

“I can.” The edges of his voice bite. Bloody annoying woman. She looked so wonderful asleep. Sometimes maybe she should just stay that way instead of picking at him. Picking at him when he was being a good little tame monster and not doing the same to her.

“Okay, then, prove it.” The note of challenge in her voice has all the force of a thrown gauntlet. He eyes her, his jaw working like he wants to bite something. Because he does.

“Fine.” The word is clipped and sharp in his mouth. He sucks in a breath and holds it. Totally still. The dead don’t need to breathe, don’t need to move. Just keep the car on the road and don’t move. Not a bit.

“You know, I’m starting to think you have some kind of problem. I mean, you were always fidgeting when you were at Giles’s place.” His scalp itches and he can feel it in his ribs, the Buffy natter. It takes everything in him to keep his gaze fixed on the road ahead of him and not glare at her. Or scream at her. But that would wake the Niblet, so no, no screaming Spike. Would ruin the game.

“I mean, sure the tub wasn’t comfortable, or the chains, I suppose, but you were always like sucking on your teeth, which, gross by the way.”

The second she says it, his lips almost twitch and he almost, almost brings up a nail to his teeth to gnaw and worry. But no, not going to lose this one. It’s a stupid game, but he won’t lose. He can be still. Still like a pool of water, yeah. That’s the ticket. Visualize something not being in this car, which is a fine car, but not sitting next to Buffy. Buffy who is probably looking at him with those guileless green eyes with the spark of mischief in them.

God, what he wouldn’t do for her with eyes like that? Everything, anything.

Which then makes his thoughts take a sharp veer toward driving off the road, dragging her out of the car and kissing her until she can’t breathe. He sucks in air, trying to keep his brain from going haywire. But that’s enough, enough movement for the Slayer to crow a quiet, “Ha! Gotcha.”

He does glare at her, then. A long, flat level look that’s stopped cold by a cheeky grin that she’s entirely failing to hide.

“Entertained then were you, pet?” he drawls.

She shrugs. “Sort of. For about a minute. I don’t even know if you lasted a minute, which—nope, no let’s not make those jokes."

“Oh I don’t know,” he whispers, running his tongue across his teeth. “We could. Or you could find out for real.”

“No.” And just like that her tone is flinty, and so’s her face. Hard as granite and about as welcoming.

And so the dance goes on. He sighs, leaning back against the seat, letting his thumbs drum and his shoulders relax again. Maybe she’s right. He can’t sit still. Never seen the point in it, maybe. Or, after a century of fighting and fucking and doing, well. He’s not fit for still anymore.

“Just go back to sleep, Slayer.” He surprises himself, because there’s no anger, no heat in his voice.

“I told you, I don’t think I can.” It’s just shy of a whine. He can’t figure her out, and he supposes that’s part of the pull of her. Or, he has figured her out, but she’s stubborn about figuring herself out. And watching her bouncing who she is and who she thinks she has to be—it’s maddening. Then a thought strikes him, the kind of thought only can be had while driving across wide open landscapes in the middle of the night, where the lines of the road punctuate the blackness and get the brain to see the world in a different way. It drives her just as crazy. She has to watch herself struggle between what she knows and what she wants, and the distance between the two is always too much.

He presses a button, and the windows crack, just a bit. The night air rushes in, cool and crisp, with the faint scent of fertilizer. She starts, but before she can get a word in, he says, “Night air will help you sleep. Just breathe, Buffy, breathe. I’ll wake you before sunrise, alright? Find a place to hole up for the day, just like before. But you need sleep.”

The sharp point of her attention presses against his temple like a knife. He wants to lean into it, to let it bleed him. To have her see. He would cut himself to ribbons for her, on her, with her. Before he can say anything, anything that she would hate, the leather of the seat creaks, and she’s curled up and away from him, her face toward the window and the fresh air whistling in.

“It does feel nice.” There’s a softness to her, then, just for moment. Softness that begs him to match it. Then she curls a bit tighter in the seat. “Doesn’t mean you were right.”

He huffs. “Of course not.” It’s meant to sound cutting. So why does he whisper it back? All soft, softness for her where she doesn’t have to give him a scrap of it.

Gritting his teeth, he turns the radio up. Only a little, but enough to take the edge off hearing her breathe, hearing her steady, lulling heartbeat. He breathes in from his window, to dull the scent of her, because even needing a shower, she still smells like strawberries and honey and just a touch of dark.

The radio fizzes with static as he drives.

***

She wakes up slowly. No bumpies startling her out of a shallow sleep this time. The air coming in through the open window is fresh. Fresh and green in a way that she’s really not used to. California to her is LA or Sunnydale. The city or the desert, not the damp growing middle of the country that seems to roll on forever. Just a little bit longer, she wants to keep her eyes closed just a little bit longer. Maybe if she does, she can pretend that this is a better road trip. That she’s got someone better in the driver’s seat, someone who doesn’t annoy the crap out of her, someone who makes sense.

Someone who—

Her brain catches up with what her ears have been telling her. She moves as little and as slowly as possible, sliding about to catch a glimpse of Spike singing.

“The world is the world is, Love and life are deep, Maybe as his skies are wide.”

He doesn’t seem to notice her. He’s watching the road while he moves along to the music. Never still, she was right last night. He’s every kid in class who had to tap their leg or click their pen.

The music is old—parent-type old—but Spike sings out the words quietly. Making them intent, spitting, cutting, even as he could barely be heard.

“Today’s Tom Sawyer, He gets high on you, And the space he invades, He gets by on you.” He didn’t have a bad voice, but it’s jarring. Jarring in the extreme to see Spike, Spike, singing along to anything. Singing along and really getting into it. “No, his mind is not for rent, To any god or government., Always hopeful, yet discontent, He knows changes aren’t permanent—But change is—”

It should have been funny. Ridiculous. Here is Mr. Big Bad himself, singing along to old music on the radio like some kind of teenybopper. Except, he’s giving it everything he’s got. Because this is Spike, and even when he was awful and insane, he gave it his all. Even if his all wasn’t enough or right. She couldn’t fault him for putting in half effort.

More than that, he’s enjoying himself.

She should be annoyed. This isn’t a fun road trip. This is a road trip of the avoid-the-apocalypse variety, with a heaping side serve of don’t-let-Dawn-get-killed. But he’s having fun. Even if only for a moment.

“What you say about his company, Is what you say about society—Catch the witness—Catch the wit—Catch the spirit—Catch the spit.”

A lump lodges in her throat because it isn’t fair. Not fair that he gets to just… not care for one second. Not fair, and God how she wishes she could. Could just for one second let go and enjoy a moment. Just one moment. But then, there’s a really strong history that says Buffy and momentary happiness are not a good combo. Either it unleashes evil, quasi-ghosts, or drives people away. So the evil vampire gets to be all happy singer guy while she sits there, guts gnawing with worry.

“Spike, are you singing?” floats a voice from the back seat. Dawn pushes herself up, rubbing at the sleep in her eyes. The sky is going grey, the sun starting to peak over the horizon. Flat, rolling land like this, they need to pull off soon or her wheelman will literally go up in smoke. But Buffy keeps up her sleeping act. No reason to get into another fight with him.

Though, she’s not sure if their fight was a fight so much as the bickering they’ve kind of always had.

“Sorry, Niblet, didn’t wake you did I?” He’s speaking quietly in a low rumble. It takes her a second to realize he’s doing that to keep from waking her, since Dawn is already awake.

“No, no I don’t think so. Where are we?”

“Just past Tulsa. We just crossed into the Cherokee nation.”

“Cool. Never been on Indian land. Though, I suppose that’s not true. Technically the whole country is theirs.”

Spike presses his mouth shut, which she figures is relatively smart. She knows his take on the whole thing, with the very of the lacking sympathy. But he doesn’t spout off on Dawn about it, so. He breaks even there, she reasons.

“Anway, what were you singing?” Dawn presses. She leans forward, and Buffy shuts her eyes. Sleeping, she’s sleeping. Not going to open up a can of worms by being awake.

“Just a bit of Rush. Not bad, for some lads who started up before punk really got going.”

“You’re really committed to the vibe, huh?”

“If it fits, it fits.”

“I suppose I get that. Not sure what fits me, really, since I didn’t exist six months ago. Even the music I like, it’s all made up.”

Buffy aches for her sister when she says things like that. For the sense of loss and anger that’s so clear and stark in Dawn’s voice. She wants to launch out of her fake sleep, climb into the back seat and hold her sister, but then Spike snorts. “How long you going to keep being upset about that?”

“Excuse me?” Dawn’s voice raises in pitch, and this might just be the moment for a big sister wake up and the ritual smacking Spike back down. He’s doing something huge for her, for Dawn, for them, but that doesn’t mean he can be an ass—

“Look, way I understand it, you’ve technically existed for longer than pretty much anyone, even if you haven’t been Dawn all that long. But you’ve got the memories right? And we’ve got the memories. That’s real enough for me. Should be real enough for everyone else, you included.”

Buffy risks cracking her eyes open the barest fraction. Dawn’s face is in profile. She’s leaning forward, arm braced on the back of the driver’s seat. The big sister part of her brain is about to speak up about using the shoulder strap, but then Dawn rests her chin on her hand and sighs.

“That’s something to think about, I guess.” Dawn’s voice is small. Like when she was little, like when Buffy remembers her being little and being scared but knowing Big Sister Buffy was there to keep her safe.

“Yeah, well.” The discomfort oozes off of Spike. A man out of his depths dealing with a teenage identity crisis with an extra dose of mystical weirdness. Enemy turned weird obsessed ally he might be, leaving him to drown in the deep end of Dawn’s existential issues is probably not for the best for any of them, so Buffy makes a bit of a show of waking up and stretching in her seat.

“Morning, or, pre-morning,” she says, like she didn’t just hear what she heard. Probably better for Dawn not to know. Maybe she can get it out of her in another way. Or try to keep letting her know, however she can, that Dawn is her sister. Summers blood, through and through. “I hope today’s Motel Six is better than the last one.”

“It’d be hard to be worse,” Dawn grumbles as she flops back into her seat. Buffy catches Spike’s eyes, there’s a silent pact of agreement to not tell Dawn how much worse it could be. They both know how bad bad can be. Buffy lived it for a time.

The world is getting lighter, and they follow the routine that started only yesterday. Spike pops the trunk before going to pay for a room. She and Dawn haul the things up to the room. Then she and Dawn go find more food and blood.

On the way to and from the grocery store, she passes by a payphone. Dawn doesn’t even notice, but Buffy feels it pulling at her like a lead weight. She should call Giles. He would want to know that they’re still alive. But it’s a bit like her run away act to LA all over again. The idea of calling, of hearing the fear and disappointment, sits in her mouth like bile.

Instead, she escorts Dawn back to the predictably depressing motel room and hates that it feels like a refuge. That it feels safe.

She doesn’t know if anywhere will be safe again.

***

The afternoon is the worst.

Mornings, mornings he can kind of handle. They’re quiet, and it's before the sun has really gotten going. Before the sun has gone from oh maybe might singe a bit and well into make a pile of Spike ashes territory. Makes getting around really annoying. Worse, he didn’t think to grab his trusty sun shade blanket. Which he does kind of hate because it’s demeaning, but also useful.

The morning, he showers and changes his shirt—those stupid shirts that the Niblet picked and Buffy bought—while the girls go get blood and whatnot. He wakes up a bit when they come back, enough to gulp down pig’s blood without even a bit of hot sauce, then he’s out for the count.

When he wakes up, Buffy is sleeping peacefully on the bed she’s sharing with the little bit. He tries not to just watch her. To watch the rise and fall of her chest like it’s the most glorious thing he’s ever seen. Can’t do with the distractions right now. Even though she’s a lot of them. Most of them. For fuck’s sake, she’s all of them. Teasing him, getting into his head. He can’t help but pick right back.

Instead, the Niblet is awake. She’s lying on the bed with her feet kicking in the air, regarding the TV like it’s told her to do chores.

“What time is it, little bit?” he asks, more out of lack of anything else to do.

“Oh thank God you’re awake, I was like, going to go out of my mind with boredom here. There’s literally nothing on TV and Buffy is sleeping, and like I get it, you both need sleep, but hello, bored teenager here. I don’t even have a book to read.”

Spike blinks and tries to order his brain into some kind of order. That was a large dose of teenage verbal spatter for him to wake up to. “Right,” he agrees.

“Do you want to play cards?” she asks, far too perky for their current circumstances.

“Niblet, did you drink a lot of coffee?”

“What? No, no coffee, Buffy said no, but like, I miiiiight have grabbed a Coke we didn’t exactly pay for and hid it in the bag with your blood. To help keep it cold, of course.”

Unbidden, a smile pulls at his mouth. “Ta for that, then. I’m touched.”

“You’re welcome.” Little thing is so damned proud of herself, he doesn’t feel quite like quashing it. She clicks the remote and the TV—putting out a low, steady stream of inanity—shuts off with a heavy clunk. “You want to play cards? It’s like… three hours until the sun starts setting. I asked at the front desk. Said I wanted to look at the stars.”

“Cards?” Spike’s interest picks up. Then he smiles. “You know how to play poker?”

“Yeah, Xander taught me,” she says brightly, then rolls her eyes. “And Anya, too, I suppose.”

Spike’s grin is sharp on his face. “Well, then I’m sure you’ll beat me in no time. Get the cards.”

Dawn suppresses a squeal as she slides off the bed—Spike glances over, Buffy’s still sleeping away—and grabs the unopened deck that he palmed during their last fuel stop. She wrangles off the plastic and starts to shuffle. Badly. Spike holds out his hand with a little gimmie motion. She slaps the deck in his upturned palm, and he cuts them one handed. Her eyes go wide, and Spike tilts his head. He shuffles easily, shifting the cards about as easy as anything.

“How did you learn how to do that?”

“Lived for over a century. And there were some nights, had nothing to do while Dru had visions.”

“Not even… feed?”

Spike freezes for just a second, but then slowly eases his shoulders down. He takes a moment to answer, listening for Buffy’s breathing and heartbeat. He would bet even money that she’d been awake in the car earlier, when he was talking to Dawn. Now, though, she’s out cold.

“Bother you, Niblet?” he asks, pushing. Dawn rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, but you can’t do that anymore, so.” She sticks her tongue out at him. The sheer cheek of it should send him into orbit, but the girl doesn’t sit on a high horse. She’s all brash and brass, and, in spite of himself or maybe because of, he likes it. Little girl in a big world trying to hold her own with nary a lick of power except her own self.

Girl is tougher than the rest of the Scoobies give her credit for. But then, it takes a lot to get back up when the world tells a body to get down.

“Got me there,” he allows. And he can’t help it, his gaze flickers to the Slayer. “Speaking of, she eat anything?”

As quick as that, the girl is all pouty mouth and slumped shoulders. “Oh sure, you ask about her.”

Teenagers. Were they always this annoying? Usually he’d just eat them, not listen to them. In his own time, well. Different times. Different times he doesn’t want to think about. Hasn’t thought about in a long time, not since Buffy played her little question and answer game with him.

“I know you eat, Niblet. You know how to look after yourself. But Big Sis, if she forgets, where would you be, hm?” He deals out five cards each while she processes that line of logic.

“Oh, yeah, that makes sense.” She picks up her cards with a hair flip, and he notes that for later. Tells. Everyone has tells, and the Summers girls have more than most. “No, I guess she didn’t eat that much. Just a granola bar and some yogurt. You know, always thought it weird, how little she could eat sometimes. Like sometimes, she would just eat a ton, and then she’d go a while not eating. Like, doesn’t Slayage take it out of her?”

“It does.” From what he understands. Slayers are almost like vampires in that way. They can fight, go beyond human endurance and limits. For a time. All that energy needs to be replaced somehow. Even the greatest, oldest demons need something to keep them going. Baby tears or some other what-have-you. “Gonna have to work on that, then. Now, what do you want?”

Dawn glances at her cards and pulls out two. He draws two off the top—no need to cheat just yet—and hands them to her. He takes three for himself. The girl smirks, like it’s better that he’s taking three cards.

“So like, did you have kids when you were alive or something?”

“What? No!” he practically shouts. Buffy rolls a bit on the bed and mutters darkly. Spike and Dawn both freeze, but then she settles and keeps sleeping. Spike leans in close and says from behind clenched teeth, “Why the bloody hell did you ask that question?”

“Because you’re kind of good at taking care of people,” she says, then furrows her brow, thinking. “In a vampire kind of way.”

“Thanks heaps for that, Niblet,” he grumbles. “Come on, show ‘em.”

He lays out a flush, which isn’t half bad. Dawn’s cards are three of a kind, which is moderately respectable. For a practice hand.

“My deal.” She holds her hand out, and he gives the deck over. “But like,” she continues, not about to let the bloody subject drop. “You must’ve had little brothers or sisters, right? You lived like a hundred years ago. Everyone had really big families, then, didn’t they?”

Memories over a century distant float to the surface of his mind. Memories that had been locked away long before he’d died. Painful episodes of life that had meant when Druscilla had found him, life hadn’t been all that worth hanging onto. He remembers bloody sheets being carried away from Mother’s room, of pitying whispers among the staff. He remembers Father’s distant disappointment, and worse, he remembers a face he’d tried to forget, only twelve summers old, her face come over with fever that won’t go down—

“Spike?” Dawn’s voice is a sliver of the present, and it’s enough to bring him back. “You there? It’s your ante. We’re playing for M&Ms now. Colors go: brown, yellow, orange, red, green, blue. Because blue is the best M&M.”

Jarred back into reality in an American motel room, he tosses a brown M&M into the cup, matching what Dawn already put down for an ante.

“No,” he lies, “no siblings. After my father passed, it was just me and my mum. But to answer your question, I took care of Dru for a century, Niblet,” he says at last. It’s true enough, in its own way. His dark goddess, a woman of silver and moonlight, held together by the spider webs of what was left of her mind. Thinking of her now, the lump of dead tissue behind his breastbone still aches. “Can we just play poker now?”

“Yeah, alright, jeeze.” Dawn tucks her legs underneath her and studies her cards. She takes three this time, and Spike takes two. Spike throws in a red M&M, not really caring what he’s holding. Dawn bites at her lip and hesitates. Then she asks, “Was she nice, your mom?”

Spike swallows down bile, and lies again, “She was alright, I suppose. Don’t remember much.”

“Oh.” He has no idea why the girl is disappointed. Unless it has something to do with her own mum. Which, now that he’s thought of it, is exactly why she’s disappointed. And there’s sweet bugger all he can do about it.

“Happens, little bit.” Now he’s trying to be comforting, and he’s pretty sure he’s going to bollocks it up. “But then, you know, evil vampire. Pretty sure we’re supposed to forget our mums. You won’t, though. Your mum’s the kind of lady that’s hard to forget.”

“She was pretty amazing,” Dawn agrees, those big blue eyes watering. She dashes away tears, but the smell of salt lingers around her like a shroud. “Anyway, I should make sure Buffy takes care of herself. She’d want that. Buffy and I, we need to take care of each other now, but she’s like, so stupid stubborn. You’ll help, right? Don’t think I can do it on my own.”

Wry amusement curves his mouth. Of all the places he could have imagined himself, being a partner in crime with the Slayer’s little sister in a plot to get the damned woman to eat a fucking sandwich at least, was not one of them. And yet, here he was.

He raises one brow. “Yeah, little bit, I’ll help.”

She smiles, a tremulous kind of smile that holds all the unearned trust and hope a girl can have. It makes him want to crawl out of his own skin and scream. This isn’t him, this isn’t him, but he can’t stop himself. The pair of them have him at their beck and call, each in their own ways, but Spike knows when he’s beaten. When he’s been bested.

The worst part is that the Summers women did it without even trying.

Notes:

Looking out at the road rushing under my wheels
I don't know how to tell you all just how crazy this life feels
Look around for the friends that I used to turn to to pull me through
Looking into their eyes I see them running too
--"Running on Empty" by Jackson Browne

Chapter 3: Let it Ride

“Stupid ham sandwich,” Buffy mutters, wishing that she had mouthwash. The ham had not been great, but it hadn’t made her puke so she supposed she forgave Dawn for making her eat it. But that was hours ago, and her mouth still tasted like mushy bread, plastic cheese-product, and overly salty, over processed meat. And of course the culprit was blissfully sleeping in the back seat, so Buffy couldn’t even punish her with gross breath.

“What was that, Slayer?” Spike cocks his head, like he can’t hear everything she says. Stupid vampire hearing. She crosses her arms over her chest and wishes she could sleep on these night time drives. But with the running and the crappy motels, her nights and days are all choppy.

“Just talking to myself. I like to forget you’re here, as a treat to myself.” Some part of her knows he doesn’t deserve that, not exactly. It’s just all the sitting and hiding and looking after Dawn is getting under her skin. She hasn’t punched anything in days, so trading verbal barbs with Spike is about as good as its going to get for her right now.

Spike who just snorts and shakes his head like he’s heard better. “Aw, come on, Slayer, that one didn’t even have any pace on it.”

“Pace?” Her nose scrunches in confusion. “Could you use words from this world, please?”

“Pace, you know? Like a fast bowl in cricket, not that I like cricket, just that you can’t be English and not know about it.” He picks at his nail a bit as he drives. Still with the picking. Maybe she should get him some kind of gloves? She has a memory of Mom getting things for Dawn when Dawn was a baby so she wouldn’t scratch herself. Then her brain throws up some really weird mental images that she stuffs back down. Thankfully, Spike is still talking. “Though, cricket is a soft man’s game. More like your Watcher’s speed. Now, give me the footy. Can be a proper brawl at one of them.”

“Because sports are ranked by how likely a fight will break out? Does that mean you really love hockey?”

“What am I, Canadian? That’s disgusting, that is.”

“So, blood sucking fiend, and you draw the line at being mistaken for Canadian?”

“Damn right I do. Not a punk bone in their whole bloody country. Some rock n’ roll, which is still probably one of the best things humans have ever done. Couldn’t have the rest without it. That said, your lot stole it from the black fellas.”

And now, Buffy knows for certain that she’s having some kind of weird, alternate dimension experience. Because she’s sitting in a car somewhere between Tulsa and Chicago having a conversation with Spike. One of several conversations she’s been having with Spike, if she’s honest. Kind of almost-normal conversations with a soulless vampire who, for reasons she’s still shaky on, is doing his level best to help save her sister.

“Right,” she says, smiling in spite of herself. “Because you’re so worried about racial equality and recognition.”

“Not really, just stating facts.” He shrugs. “Besides, everyone tastes mostly the same, no matter their skin color.”

And there went the almost-normal. “You’re disgusting. Just when I think we might have a remotely normal conversation, you go and say something like that.”

“I am what I am, love. Nothing’s going to change that. Doesn’t mean that’s all I am.” His voice is low and kind of defensive. But not that angry, snarling defensive she’s used to from him. No, defensive is the wrong word, but it’s something quiet and solid.

“Really?” Disbelief stains her voice, and she lets him hear all of it.

“All vampires being the same, that’s like saying all humans are the same. There’s what? Five billion little happy meals right now? That’s reductive that is.”

“Reductive?”

The word hangs in the air between, a whole host of questions. Her eyebrows are raised and she can’t help but glare at the side of his head. His shoulders shift under her gaze, discomfort bleeding away before he gives her one withering glance.

“Do you have any idea how bored I was at the Watcher’s apartment? Red left a few books lying around. Read ‘em.”

Comment about everyone tasting the same notwithstanding, a smile pulls at her cheeks as she leans across the console. She’s in his personal space, just a bit. He inhales, the flare of his nostrils kind of not the worst thing? Point to her. Maybe. “Then who are you Spike? Hm?”

“Right now?” He draws out the words, tastes them. This is a weird game they’re playing now. Not the usual road trip game, but then when did she ever do anything usual? Then he huffs. “Your wheelman. Like Morgan Freeman in Driving Miss Daisy. Have to chauffeur around a cranky lady who doesn’t like me much, but we find some good terms, yeah?”

“Okay, one, surprised, confused, and going to dig on you later on knowing about Driving Miss Daisy,” Buffy says as she counts off, “Two, this isn’t where we suddenly become friends. That would require anything like normal.”

“You are very obsessed with normal, did you know that? Even when we first met, you were trying so hard to be normal. Oh does this lemonade taste right?” His voice mocks, and it makes her knuckles itch. “Fuck normal. It can fuck right off and never come back. Normal is the girls who get eaten. You’re the woman who punches back. Sod normal, love.”

It takes everything she has not to punch him. Because punching the driver of a car going about eighty miles an hour is a capital-B-bad idea. And not punching him means that she has to sit there and let those words swirl in her. Sod normal. It makes her throat close up and she braces her arms on the seat and the door next to her as she stares out the windshield. Only, it’s not the windshield and the night that she’s seeing. Or not only that.

There’s the echo of white walls and heavy duty straps and a cold, hard bed.

“You don’t understand. You left normal behind when you died.” Her eyes go out of focus.The reflective tabs and markers on the road flash by in a steady rhythm, pulling at her. Pulling something out of her, something that sneaks up from between the antsy inaction and midnight whirlies. The dark world outside wavers. “When I left normal behind, I ended up in an institution.”

The words are out of her mouth before she can stop herself. She sucks in fresh air from the cracked open window and glances back. Dawn, Dawn is asleep still. These wee hour chats with Spike, Dawn’s been passed out for them, and Buffy is grateful. Her memories resonate with knowing that getting locked away scared the hell out of Dawn. Big sister going crazy and getting put away. Away from home, away from Dawn.

Eyes shut, she lets out a shuddering breath.

“Sometimes, sometimes, I wonder if I’m not still there,” she whispers. It's a harsh, choked kind of thing. “If all this, all this is just some crazy fantasy because something happened that I couldn’t handle. Not all the time. Used to, a lot, wonder you know? But this year, after everything. Riley, Mom… Glory. God, sometimes I wish I was—”

“Stop.” Spike’s voice is a harsh, clenched jaw growl. “Look at me, Slayer. Come on, look at me.”

He’s driving, but he’s watching her with enough intensity to burn, to freeze, sharp features stark in the dashboard lights. “Breathe.”

“Spike, shouldn’t you be watching the road?” Watching the road and not looking at her like that. Not looking at her like she’s the north of his compass. She points with one finger. His eyes flicker forward, but he won’t stop looking at her.

“Not until you breathe.” It’s a weird, messed up game of chicken. She can’t take an easy breath, and he won’t look away. Hitching, almost hiccups bubble up from her stomach. Minutes ago she’d been just kind of joking around, talking to Spike because well, he was there, and they were talking, and it was better than talking to herself because that would be crazy, but now here she is going crazy. Again.

Poor Buffy, can’t keep a grip on reality. Even the reality where she’s still in a crazy house.

Spike’s lips curl in a snarl as he reaches over the center console and grabs her hand. She slaps it away by sheer reflex, but he’s persistent. His hand is large and cool around her own. Solid. Real. He squeezes. Not enough to hurt, but enough to be like a tether.

He doesn’t say anything, but he looks forward again. So there she is in a stolen Porsche hurtling toward Chicago and holding the hand of someone who tried to kill her. And it’s weirdly reassuring. Real and solid and cold, because he’s a vampire. Not human. He’s real and this whole mess that is her life is real. Real. Dawn is real, real enough, because the love she has for her sister is real. It’s bone deep and that, that can’t be crazy. Not something she feels in her bones and her heart and with every last bit of her.

His head cocks, and she knows he’s listening to her heartbeat. Stupid vampires and their senses. Slowly, he eases his hand away from hers. Both hands on the wheel again. At ten and two.

Hand to her mouth, she stifles a laugh. That gets a quality Spike eyebrow raise. “Decided to really go around the bend, love?”

“Just wondering how you learned how to drive.”

“Started on a model-T. Worked my way up over the years.”

“Ah, that makes sense.” She shifts, trying to find a comfortable spot. Problem with sitting in the same car seat for hours on end for days in a row: her butt has destroyed every possible comfort in it. Now it’s just a seat and she hates it. Arms hug around her body as she tries to relax. “I never told anyone that. Don’t know why I—I told you.”

Spike doesn’t say anything right away, which she figures is a minor miracle. Then, still watching out the windshield, he says, “You didn’t tell me, pet, you told the road. Driving on the road at night, does things to a person.”

There’s a sinking pit in her stomach, though. It feels like she’s been scraped raw. Exposed. To Spike of all people. And he’s giving her an out. Blame it on the road, on the night, on the flash of reflective strips and painted lines. She suddenly hates this car. The car, the road, her whole idea of running away from Glory. Trapped for hours in a car with someone who wanted her dead and now plain wants her. Trapped and unable to do, so all she does is circle around in her own head and spill her guts and her fears right into his ears, and—

“But don’t worry about the road,” he says, breaking into her mental whirlwind. “The road doesn’t talk. Good at secrets, the road. Or so I reckon.”

It was easier when he wanted her dead, she thinks. Sure, he would have happily drained her dry once upon a time, but it was straight forward. Even then, she possibly could have even trusted him with Dawn. Dawn who he never seemed to want to hurt, even to get to her. Because if Spike was going to kill her, he’d do it straight on. Or as straight on as he could, chip and all that.

It’s his kindness she can’t trust. His kindness makes it all twisty and weird and complicated. It brings up all kinds of questions she doesn’t even want to think about, so she doesn’t. She pushes them all down. Instead, she puts her brain on another track. A better track. Familiar. The easy answer, the lifeline.

“So you reckon?” she echoes. She nods, testing the idea. It’s not bad, as ideas go. His fingers grip the steering wheel and he checks the mirrors. The radio has been silent for hours now, so he hums a little tune to himself.

“Yup,” he says between humming that turns a little bit awkward.

She curls up, knees to her chest and watches him. Sensing her attention, he frowns at her. Maybe she’s getting loopy and tired.The loopy must be strong, because she says, “Anything you want to tell the road?”

He runs his tongue runs along his teeth. One of his tells. The one that says there’s a whole lot he’s trying not to say. His voice has a tense edge when he says, “The road doesn’t want to hear from me. Not really.”

It’s a verbal rebuffing if she’s ever heard one. Thoughts catch up with her loopy brain. What is she thinking? She asked him about his past once, and all she got was a litany of some of the worst things he’s ever done. Killing Slayers and getting off on it. Causing havoc and destruction, leaving behind a trail of bodies that she can’t even begin to add up, and only seeing the next meal, the next horizon. It was sick, it made her feel sick. She’d gone home and showered three times.

Thing is, it doesn’t square. In the car, in this damned seat and holed up in motels for far too much of the day, she’s had time to think. Nothing else to do but think. He’s a remorseless killer who would have let himself get dusted before giving up Dawn. He’s a monster who is doing everything he can to help her.

There has to be more of a reason why than he thinks he loves her.

“Does William want to tell the road anything?” she asks with zero idea what it’s going to get her, but she has to have something. Something, some kind of handle, some kind of answer. To know why. Why is he doing this? It can’t be for love, no matter what he claims. He can’t love. No soul, no love. That’s what she’s known for years.

But more than that, he got a morsel of her pain, saw something of her.

He draws in a hard breath and every line of his body goes wire-taut. His fingers on the wheel go even paler from how hard he’s holding on. For a second, she thinks he might just crash them off the road. His eyes stare straight ahead, watching the road. The road that pulls at things that are supposed to be dead and buried.

Appropriately, he’s both.

“William.” He says his own name like it belongs to someone else. Then he shakes his head and lets out a low, dark laugh. “No, William doesn’t have anything important to say, love. Was a bad bloke who came to a glorious end, don’t you remember what I told you?”

“I do.”

“So drop it.”

He’s trying too hard. Spike never really could get a handle on evasion. Or, he did but he didn’t care. He’s tense. He does not want to talk about who he was when he was alive, but not like Angel. Angel talked about his pre-vamp life like it was just more proof he should be punished. Spike, though. He’s nervous. He’s hiding something.

She never could resist a mystery.

“Bullshit.”

“Don’t.”

The threat is clear and fire-hot.

She doesn’t know what it is, the compulsion that makes her fingers itch to reach into the cracks of him that she’s seeing and tear them apart. Like she’s digging for some kind of answer. Does she care what makes Spike tick? She used to know. Blood and sex, that was Spike’s reason for doing anything. Now, though, she can’t figure it out, and it’s got to have an answer. What makes a vampire, even a chipped vampire, do a total one-eighty? Well, maybe more like a ninety degree turn, and she has a momentary self-congratulations on remembering that much geometry, before prying where she’d never pried before.

“I want to know.”

“Learn to live with disappointment.”

His jaw is doing that clench unclench thing that usually means he’s about to blow a gasket, and Buffy knows right then that she’s really, really close to pushing Spike too far. Problem is, pushing Spike too far has become a weird reflex. A reflex that kicks in at the worst possible time. “Aw, come on, don’t tell me that’s all you got.”

“Right, then.” The word is sharp and clipped. He swerves across two lanes and suddenly they’re on an exit ramp. On an exit ramp going about eighty. Her heart rate skyrockets and she braces herself. In the backseat, Dawn groans and wakes up with a sleepy protest that turns startled in an instant.

“Buffy? What’s going on?” Dawn’s eyes are bright and deer-like in the darkness inside the car. Darkness that’s suddenly banished by the lights coming on when Spike opens the door. Opens the door and flows out into the night. “Spike!” her sister calls after him. “Buffy, Buffy, what’s going on?”

Spike freezes about ten feet away from the car, his shoulders hunched up around his ears as he glances back at them. At Dawn, not her. “Fancy a break. Back soon.”

Then he’s gone.

He’s gone and Buffy’s left in a car she probably can’t drive with a sister who is freaking out more and more by the second. All because she can’t leave it alone. Can’t leave him alone. She might have more of a problem than she can handle, but right now, Dawn is freaking out. She has to put it all away and be more than Buffy, more than the Slayer. She has to be a big sister.

Everything else has to come second. It has to.

***

Mud squelches underfoot and branches slap at him. He doesn’t care. Where’s she get off prodding him like that? Like he’s some kind of wind up vampire for her amusement? Oh, let’s pick apart the pathetic little creature that’s already thrown himself at her feet, let’s see how far it goes, how deep it is. The weakness, the softness he thought he’d killed and burned decades ago.

He’d been good, hadn’t he? He’d seen her distress—and a whole lot about his picture of her had shifted a bit. Shifted and made a bit more sense. She’d been upset, and he’d done the right thing, hadn’t he? Been sodding understanding.

But she just had to pick, pick, pick. No, to dredge. To trawl in the depths of his memory, memories that are now bubbling back up. All locked away for a century. A bloody century. And now, now it’s all back up and he hates it. Hates her. Hates her and wants to tear her apart.

The thought lodges in his throat. Hard and jagged, it bursts out of his mouth, his chest, a growling yell in the night. Fingers dig into the bark of a tree and rend. Splinters stick in his skin, and the pain pulls at the demon that’s in him, that is him. He’s the demon and the demon is him. If there ever had been a line, over a hundred years erased it. They’d collapsed into one person, into Spike.

Sparing him from being William ever again. William with his soppy desires and sickly mother, and the ghosts of dead children that clung to the house. How even when he had thought he could save at least his mother, all he’d done was damn her.

Fuck.

His bleeding hands curl into fists. He wants to punch that bitch right in her gorgeous face.

He wants to crawl to her on his knees, confessions spilling from his lips. He wants to rest his head in her lap and stay there forever.

His heart doesn’t beat. He hasn’t had a soul since he died. But he hurts. He’s hurting from a thousand cuts, and he hates it. He’s not supposed to hurt anymore. He’s not supposed to ache. He’s not supposed to be twisting up in knots, contorting to fit in a place where he’s not wanted and doesn’t belong.

Except he’s here now. Nothing else he could’ve done. Anything less, anything less for her, that just isn’t in him. He just doesn’t know where that leaves him.

When he gets them to Chicago, he needs to go. Or he really will lose the last of himself.

***

“Okay, what was that all about?” Dawn’s watching her with all the teenage impudence she can muster. Which, if Buffy is honest, a lot. She’s leaning against the picnic table at the rest stop, both of them under the harsh halogen lights that draw clouds of insects.

“What was what about?” Nothing to see here. Just their driver maybe having a breakdown because Buffy couldn’t leave him alone. Super fine. This is not a problem that she kind of made. It’s just, knowing that he has any piece of her sets her whole body on edge. It’s Spike. Spike is annoying, occasionally useful, and generally too pathetic to stake.

And when those impossibly blue eyes look at her, really look at her and see her, it scares her so much that she can’t stop trying to beat the hell out of him in whatever way she can. Because it’s not him who should be seeing her, not that way. Not at all. It shouldn’t be him ever.

So why is it him?

Dawn raises and eyebrow and purses her lips. Oh, and there’s the great crossing of the little sister arms. “Uh-huh. Sure, super believable.”

Buffy pushes off the picnic table and paces away. “It’s not important, Dawn. Look, I’m—” She pauses, and then pushes forward anyway. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I messed up and that it’s scaring you. I know I had this run away plan, and I know it's your life at stake here. Dawn, if anything happened to you…” She trails off. She can’t finish the thought.

It would be like having her own heart ripped out of her chest. She’d be walking around breathing, talking, eating, sleeping. But she wouldn’t be living. Her heart wouldn’t be much more than a lump of tissue in her chest. How long could she last if she let her little sister down?

Because all of this, it’s not about the world. It’s about Dawn. She knows the easy way out, knows and still refuses. Will always refuse. Because all of this, it’s about holding her sister, about getting to watch her grow up and fall down and get hurt and get back up again and become. Because please God, someone, anyone, let her sister get to become. Let her shine and grow and be. Let her live.

“Buffy?” Dawn’s hand on her arm startles her. She sniffs and wipes away the tears from her cheeks. “Are you okay?”

No, no she really isn’t. She swallows salt and arranges her expression to be that big sister reassuring one that she’s been practicing a lot lately. “I’m fine, it’s just a long drive, you know? Kind of making me grumpy Buffy, and I took it out on Spike. Not one of my finer moments.”

Admitting that much to even Dawn makes a worm squirm in her tummy. Messing with Spike, treating him like the creepy, annoying, weirdo he is, it’s just second nature. Because that’s what he is. That’s what’s right. Isn’t it?

She’s going to get a headache at this rate. Better to patch it up and move on.

“Come on.” She takes Dawn’s arm and walks slowly into the trees where she last saw the platinum blonde of Spike’s hair. The only thing that makes him stick out at night, like a warning sign.

“Spike,” she calls. There’s no answer but the woody creak and groan of trees.

“Spike, come on, Buffy’s sorry even if she won’t say it because she’s stubborn,” Dawn yells. Buffy opens her mouth to deny every last word. Then she hears it. The crack of a tree and the rush of branches as something falls. She puts her body between Dawn and whatever is out there. Only, nothing happens.

Dawn side steps around her and walks closer to the trees. “Spike? You out there?”

“I’m here, Niblet.” Buffy whirls, and there he is with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He eyes them both like they’re the ones being crazy and moody as he lights the cigarette and puffs out a cloud of acrid smoke. Buffy’s nose wrinkles. “Fancied a smoke. I know Big Sis doesn’t like me smoking around you. Didn’t want to hear the bitching about it.”

“Buffy said that, that she took out her grumpies on you, which like, totally understand needing a break from.” Dawn crosses her arms and rolls her eyes at Buffy. Then she gives Spike a look like here we are, dealing with this crazy lady.

“Hey, I didn’t—” Buffy’s protest is cut off by Dawn, Dawn who’s apparently not done with jabbing her big sister, who totally uprooted everything to save her.

“But like, that really freaked me out, you leaving like that.” And Buffy’s watching as Dawn lays those big blue eyes and that big heart on someone who is supposed to be immune to it all. Spike takes a long drag on his cigarette and rocks back on his heels. She can see something going on behind his way too composed features.

A composed Spike is a Spike that’s trying to hide something.

“Didn’t mean to scare you, little bit,” he says softly. “Sorry about that.”

Buffy’s eyes narrow, but he’s ignoring her. And damned if she can figure out what, exactly, he’s hiding. Spike isn’t great with the in-the-moment lying. Famously bad at it, in fact. But he’s very, very good at following through on feeding people what they want to hear, especially if it gets him what he wants.

“I know you guys don’t get along, or like, you want to get along with her, but whatever. Could you guys just have a truce again? No taking out grumpy feelings and no running off and leaving us, okay?” Dawn’s arms wrap around herself. It makes Buffy’s heart sink, just that little bit further. Dawn has to be the focus, and she did pick this. She picked running. She picked Spike as the driver to get them out. She picked Spike over everyone and everything to help her protect Dawn.

She hadn’t even thought of running to LA.

Because Dawn had never felt comfortable around Angel. Not the way she felt comfortable around Spike.

And if it’s really all about Dawn, then Buffy has to deal.

“Think we can manage a truce for the rest of the drive?” she asks. He flicks the cigarette to the ground and crushes it under the toe of one heavy boot.

“I don’t know, can we?” He says it so calmly, but he’s holding her gaze like a challenge. It gets her back up and makes her hands want to ball into fists. What the hell does he want? Then he switches track on her. “I reckon I can make the next five hours. Be a good little vampire, me. What about you, Slayer?”

“I’ll endure,” she says dryly.

“Awesome.” False enthusiasm drips off of Dawn’s voice. “I hope I go back to sleep because being around you two when you bicker is the worst.”

Dawn stalks back to the car, and Buffy follows. Follows but allows herself a backward glance. A glance that catches Spike not looking at her, not looking at anyone or anything. His eyes are closed and his jaw is clenched. Like he’s bracing himself for something. It does not fill her with confidence, but she doesn’t have much choice.

She made her choice days ago, and she has no other option but to see it through. Whatever it takes. Dawn doesn’t deserve anything less.

***

Two hours past the rest stop, and Dawn sleeps in the back seat. Spike glances at her now and again in the rear view. She frowns in her sleep and twists. They’re all a bit worse for wear, all this driving. The close quarters.

He does his best to not look at Buffy. Which seems reasonable, her doing her best not to look at him.

Invectives and snarls coil behind his teeth. His breastbone aches with enough force to crack apart. But then, what else did he expect? That this would be a delight? Driving like hell to get the girls out and then what? Play insipid car games while a hell god was somewhere out there? No, not even that. While Buffy, for all her vaunted high horse riding, seemed to really delight in stomping him into the dirt.

It had been easier when he wanted to kill her. That had been honest. Easy. Simple.

Three hours past the rest stop, and Buffy’s breathing shifts. Not a hitch, but a readying. What she does right before she commits to the punch. He doesn’t so much as look out the corner of his eye. Won’t do it. No. Just drive. That’s what she brought him along to do. Drive, so he’s going to do just that. Only that.

“She really trusts you, you know.” He can barely hear her, but she knows just how good his hearing is. The glance is a risk, but he does it. Never could help himself. She’s leaning against the seat, cheek pressed against the leather. Not looking at him, though. Her eyes are fixed on her sister. Spike checks the rear view again. Girl’s sleeping with all the grace of an adolescent hound. All gangly limbs and half open mouth.

Spike presses his mouth shut tight. Truce. He’d promised to be good for five hours. Two hours to go, and then he can be done.

“Sometimes, I think she’s doing it just to annoy me. Going to you when she’s upset or in trouble.” He grips the steering wheel tight, ready for the hammer blow, but it doesn’t come. Instead, she reaches back and pulls the shitty motel blanket over the girl a bit more. “But now.” Buffy sighs. Spike is all pins and needles now. His muscles are tense, and he doesn’t know what the bloody hell is happening.

Another risk, another glance. She’s looking at him now. In the dark, her eyes aren’t that fiery green, but he knows. Knows every shade and glimmer of those eyes. Seen righteous fury in them often enough. Despair more than he liked. Happy, all too rare. This though, it’s something else. Like when she’d kissed him, barely more than a peck on literally tortured lips.

Evaluative.

He licks his lips, mouth dry. He wants to ask, to press. Every instinct he has says push her back. Push her, push her, push her. Get her to say it. Whatever it is.

But making Buffy do anything other than punch him has been impossible. Besides, he promised the little bit he’d be good for five more hours. He’s still got just shy of two hours on his clock.

“Now, I think it’s because she really does see you as safe. For her.” Buffy breathes sharply out her nose. “Hell, you’re who I went to to keep her and… and Mom safe.” She scrunches up her nose in a way that usually pulls at the corner of his mouth, because it’s damned delightful to watch her make that face. But in that moment, he can smell the salt of her tears. It sets his chest on fire like a brand.

She laughs, though there’s not a scrap of mirth in it. “You’re who I picked for this. She trusts you, Spike, and she’s comfortable with you in a way that I don’t exactly get. But I think she needs you, I think she needs us both. To get her through this, whatever it ends up being. How long we have to be on the run until we can figure something out. I can’t just—we need to work together, to protect Dawn. And you know the weirdest part? The part that I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to explain or get my head around?”

Must be the endless driving, shitty motels, and cold pig’s blood getting to him because he’s struggling to keep up. This is far from an apology or an acknowledgement, but it’s not her picking and prying at him. Not trying to run roughshod over him or beat him down into the ground. This is entirely new territory. This is her, what? Extending an olive branch?

His tongue runs across his teeth, and he asks because she’s given him the opening, “What’s that, then?”

Her mouth works silently for a moment, and when she speaks it’s as though the words are being dragged out of her. “I don’t think I would’ve gotten this far with anyone else.”

There’s an image in his mind. That little hapless coyote that’s always chasing the roadrunner. Right delightful comedy most of the time, when the stupid thing runs face-first into the side of a canyon or gets its own anvil dropped on its head. A lot less entertaining when he’s the bloody coyote. Run right into something and slammed to a stop by he doesn’t even know what.

She can’t mean that. All her little Scooby friends, the soldier boy, even the great souled wanker himself. She’s sitting there thinking that not a one of them would have gotten her this far.

Anvil, right on his head.

Fucking roadrunner, jerking the poor coyote around like that. Next time he saw the cartoon, he’d bloody well break the telly.

He flexes his fingers on the wheel and forces away every gut instinct he has to press and twist and push on the notion. Because he promised to behave. He glances back at the girl who holds his promise.

“Yeah,” he says eventually, testing the words and finding nothing really misbehaving about them. “I don't suppose your Watcher would’ve have tried to break speed records here. Unless you’re talking about possibly the slowest ever drive to Chicago.”

“Totally,” she agrees, a little bounce in her voice. She’s smiling. A tight, strained kind of smile, but smiling nonetheless. The damned coyote had mishaps with explosives, right? “I mean, who else would have total disregard for speed limits while also not crashing and killing us all? Honestly, you had the best resume. You’ve had that old shitty car for how long? And it’s still intact.”

“Buffy? Got a confession about that.”

“Let me guess you stole it?”

“No, well, yeah, of course I did.” He thought that would have been a given. He could back out, not give her one little bit of information. Maybe if he really was trying a bit harder to behave, but he can’t, can’t not tell her. Because the bloody coyote deserves a little recompense. “No, see, thing is I have crashed the DeSoto. A lot. Into the Sunnydale sign several times alone. It just… doesn’t get wrecked, the car that is. Bloody indestructible, that car.”

He watches her, road be damned, as her mouth fell open into a perfect o of surprise. Watches as creeping horror worked its way into her eyes. Watches as her whole face contorted into angry disbelief. It’s a thing of beauty and so delightful, it makes him want a cig. Just to add a little extra satisfaction to it.

“Are you shitting me right now?” she hisses

His mouth twitches, his shoulders shake, and he starts laughing. He stifles it as best as he can, but it works out of him in sniggers and snorts. “No, not even a little.”

“God damn it, Spike.” She smacks him on the arm, but not hard. And then she shocks him for the second (or third, maybe fourth?) time that night. The corners of her lips quirk and then she’s laughing too, little surprised bursts of giggles that she tries to stopper up with the back of her hand.

She can’t. Neither can he. In a stolen car screaming through the American Midwest, he’s laughing with the woman who should be his mortal enemy. Laughing with the woman who, when offered his black and unbeating heart, kicked it away from her as hard as she could. Laughing with the woman who trusts him with the most precious thing in her world.

“Spike, shhh, shit, shit. Dawn’s sleeping,” she manages between quiet giggles. Tears leak from her eyes, she’s caught fast between laughing and trying not to laugh.

“Fuck, fuck, I know,” he agrees, trying to take in deep breaths and calm down. But it’s not working. It’s so fucking stupid. All of this. It’s insane. They might as well go really around the bend and enjoy the ride. Enjoy one blissful mad moment, because who knows when they’ll have it again.

Buffy breathes in, steady and even, and eventually the giggles taper off. As hers leave her, Spike’s bout of laughter dies away. Not quite so fun being mad by his lonesome. Makes him think of Dru for a moment, wondering if she’s alright. Hopes she is, that she’s somewhere far away and happy and mad.

Someone should be, because this happy, mad moment won’t last. Because it’s already coming to a close.

Buffy shakes her head and wipes away her laughter tears. “I have no one but myself to blame. Well, here we are. Too far to turn around, I suppose. Get a different wheelman?”

“Just a bit,” he drawls, one eyebrow raised in her direction.

“Well, drive on Morgan Freeman,” she says with a sigh and an imperious wave. “Get Miss Daisy and Miss Daisy’s impossible little sister to Chicago.”

Spike nods and does the worst Morgan Freeman impression in the history of the world, but he doesn’t give a single god damn. “Yes, ma’am.”

Notes:

You can see the mornin', but I can see the light
Try, try, try, let it ride
While you've been out runnin', I've been waitin' half the night
Try, try, try, let it ride

And would you cry if I told you that I lied?
And would you say goodbye or would you let it ride?
And would you cry if I told you that I lied?
And would you say goodbye or would you let it ride?
--"Let it Ride" by Bachman Turner Overdrive

Chapter 4: You Might Think

Notes:

Thanks to everyone who has been patient. Between work, holidays, family (including kiddo) updates will be slower. But this is very fun to write, and I hope it's worth the wait.

The eastern edge of the sky slowly turns grey, stained in long strands by pink fronds at the very furthest horizon. Thankfully, the towering skyline of Chicago is between him and the impending sunrise. It sweeps across the land, low buildings and warehouses giving way to towering skyscrapers.

He’s been in Southern California too long, with its sprawling suburbia and over tanned over done lifestyle. This is a city. A build up stretch of humanity, swarming, seething together; fighting and fucking and living. A city full of hidden treasures and dark delights. Not as massive and packed as New York, and not a patch on London for age, but it makes up for it in sheer brashness.

Always liked Chicago. Good to be back.

Only, this time he’s here to go to ground and keep a mystical key turned teenager safe. Right, no small feat.

And, more importantly, he’s got to get inside before sunrise starts to make those tall buildings useless. He turns off the 55 and wends through city streets. No point in going downtown. Not yet at least. Muscle memory has him driving toward the big old cemetery on the north side. Graceland.

Shit. They need to avoid vampires while they’re here.

He’s not sure if Buffy’s realized that. If she starts playing the bloody hero here, she might as well stab the Niblet through the heart herself. Gritting his teeth, he keeps driving, looking for a motel. The sun isn’t getting any lower, and away from the skyscrapers and this close to the lake, he’s going to need a room to avoid becoming a pile of dust. He finds what he’s looking for a little bit further north.

The Aragon Arms Hotel is still standing and looks like it’s doing if not a brisk business, it’s not boarded up. It’s one of those classic Chicago brick buildings with a small green awning over the main entrance. A bit of extra shade for the sunlight disinclined. He pulls into a park out front and turns off the car.

Soft metallic clinks punctuate the quiet of the morning. Only a few people are up and about, most of them head down and coffee cups in hand on their way to the train station not too far away. His memories of the place are hazy, but he doesn’t think he killed anyone here. The Slayer would object and it would be a fight and he promised. Pretty sure he just saw it while he was out on the prowl, traipsing through the city to the sweet songs of sirens and screams.

“Buffy.” She curls up tighter at the sound of her name. Golden hair splays about in a complete mess, her clothes are a rumpled nightmare, and there’s now a permanent furrow between her brows. He can even smell her, a bit on the ripe side, but then they all are. Motel showers and limited clothing working against them all there.

She’s still fucking gorgeous and, for what seems like the millionth time, he wishes he could cut out the part of him that wants her, needs her, loves her. The part that would throw himself through hell and back if she so much as pointed.

Can’t though. Any more than he could stop how he felt about anyone else for the whole of his existence.

“Slayer,” he says, putting a little growl into it. She stirs and frowns, slowly coming back to herself. “Found us a place to hole up. Figure we got to do next steps, yeah?”

“Yeah.” She’s groggy, frowning and blinking like this morning is a bit of a personal affront. But then, she stayed up with him almost to the city limits, didn’t she? Her and that little revelation she dropped on his head. She clears her throat, but that doesn’t take away the tired scratchiness of it. “Where are we?”

“Round about Uptown, if memory serves.” He peers around, watching as the long golden fingers of the day are pushing through the exacting grid of Chicago’s streets. “Hotel of a sort here. I should be able to make the dash for a few hours yet.”

“Yeah,” she says again. The primary vocabulary word for a just-woken Slayer. Delightful. She doesn’t move. She’s sitting there, bleary and something about her a little off-kilter.

“Slayer, you all together here?” Not that he would be able to help if she wasn’t. Or that she’d let him help. But she let him help with this, and their truce feels a little less imposed than when Dawn handed it down to them.

“Yeah, no, I mean.” She breathes out, slow and even. Her heart rate slows just a fraction as she gathers herself. “I’ve been thinking about next steps. Need a—meeting, I guess. We all need to talk about it, be on the same page.”

He glances into the back seat. Dawn’s curled up under the blanket, snack packets and candy wrappers scattered all around her. “Even the little bit?”

“Especially her.”

“Right. Reckon we’re staying here a while then, yeah?”

Buffy’s grimace tells him exactly how much she relishes the thought. “Probably. Are you sure this place is secure?”

“In Chicago?” he scoffs. “No, but it’s not out of the price range and it’s not a complete dive. It’s… invisible, I suppose. Part of the scenery.”

“That’ll have to do.” She unbuckles and reaches back to give Dawn a shake. The girl, in all her teenage glory, frowns and pulls the blanket tighter around herself. Peas in pod, these Summers women. Do not wake unless necessary, he notes.

“Two rooms, then,” he says as he waits for the lorry behind them to move past.

He slides out of the car, and though the traffic isn’t much just now, he can barely hear Buffy when she says, “Still one. I think… we need to stretch the cash. And Dawn.” She gulps. “Dawn will feel safer when you’re with us, I think.”

“That so?” he drawls. His lips curve in a dangerous grin, and he knows he’s playing with fire. But playing with her is always playing with fire, and Christ, but he’s got a knack for playing with fire and not burning. Much. “No other reason then, pet?”

“Spike, I’ve just spent three days—nights—in a car with you, an equal number of days in crappy motel rooms, and haven’t a decent night’s sleep since I was fifteen. You really want to mess with me right now?” And there it is, she’s awake. Awake and blazing, with those green eyes flashing. God help him, he wants to push and press and see how close he can get before she breaks something. Or get her to break something in just the right way.

“Hey, are we there yet?” Dawn’s sleep-frogged voice drifts from the back seat, and Spike holds his hands up, a silent surrender. Truce, the sodding truce. Be the good vampire.

Buffy shoots him a little side-eye glare before talking to her sister. “Yup, we’re Chicago. We’re going to get a room and talk next steps. You up for that?”

“I guess so.” Dawn’s tone is subdued and he can hear the fear in it. It tugs at his ear, but he leaves that for Buffy to deal with. Instead, he performs the usual ritual of getting one room and ensuring it has two beds.

Then, before he can go back with room keys in hand, he stops and turns, regarding the bored looking woman at the desk. She’s past forty for a certainty, her best days behind her, but there’s a sharpness about her. Something in the brow and jaw. “Got a question for you, love.”

“What’s that, sir?” The sir is flung at him in a flat, brash accent.

“If a bloke wanted to sell a car, oh, say that a car that’s a bit too posh, any idea where he could get a decent price for it? Quick-like? Maybe take a bit in trade, too?”

Dark eyes glimmer back at him, and then flick over his shoulder to where the Porsche is parked. Flash car that is too damned recognizable. Under the radar, they’ll need to be. Not his first time on the run, not his first time trying to lay low.

“I might know a guy.” She takes out a pencil and scribbles down a number on a thin yellow strip of paper that she pushes across the desk. His fingers tap on it, but she holds it for a second longer. “You going to be trouble?”

“Looking to get out of it.” His answer must be satisfying enough, because she lets the scrap of paper go and waves him off with fake nails so long they curl. “Ta, love,” he mutters and turns just as Buffy and Dawn trudge inside with all what’s left of their world in two duffel bags. He takes the one Dawn is holding, slinging it over his shoulder, which makes her perk up a little.

It’s a small thing. Nothing at all. Buffy, though, gives him a solemn sort of nod.

Truce.

Still holding, and so is he.

***

Buffy peeks out the window. They got a room, a nondescript carbon copy of the other motel rooms but in red, facing east. The expanse of Lake Michigan stretches out, the vast inland sea of one of the Great Lakes. Just north of here is, well, Northwestern. One of those places that had accepted her and she had declined to attend. Not for the first time, she wishes she’d had the courage to go. To say to hell with it to the Hellmouth. This could have been her life here. There’s a whole world out there after all, and no Slayer has ever been able to cover all of it.

Sheesh, before modern air travel, most Slayers didn’t go much past the borders of whatever small, regional kingdom or whatever.

Though, there were a few Slayers in Roman times who had apparently done a lot of traveling. Roman roads and all that, and oh boy is she loopy as all get out. Dawn’s hogging the bathroom, and Buffy’s letting her. Letting her sister wash her hair and brush her teeth before they get down to the hard part of figuring out what they’re going to do now.

Buffy glances at Spike out of the corner of her eye. He’s stretched out on the bed further away from the window, arms behind his head and eyes closed. Three days, well, nights. He drove for three nights straight, and he pushed hard. It might just be her, but he looks a little more sallow than usual.

Dawn emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, but no peppy step.

Spike twitches and slowly opens his eyes. She inclines her chin, and he pulls himself into a sitting position, sliding down to the end of the bed, arms across his thighs. Dawn flops onto the other bed, legs kicking and bare feet dangling. They’re both looking at her, waiting on her. Two pairs of blue eyes, her sister’s soft and wide, and Spike’s intent. Kind of like a cat, watching and waiting.

She clears her throat, and hopes that crossing her arms looks more self assured and less like hugging herself for reassurance. The last time she’d run away, she’d done it on her own, and because she’d wanted to, well. Not be Buffy. Not be a lot of things.

This is different, and not just because she’s got two people along for the ride.

“First things first,” she says, surprised her voice sounds so steady. There’s so much to do, hiding all three of them together. They can’t be noticeable, and that starts with the basics. “We need to go by different names. I was Anne once, and I can do that again. Spike, I don’t suppose?” She trails off, leaving the question hanging.

He regards her blandly, but then sighs. His fingers twitch, questing for an absent cigarette. Her eyes track the movement, and he tracks her tracking. That scarred eyebrow quirks up at her, but he shrugs. “Suppose William isn’t worse for not having worn it in a while.”

“What about me?” Dawn asks. “I mean, you have a nice middle name, but I do not like mine. You’d think the monks could do better, but nope.”

“It’s easy, Dawn,” Buffy points out. Dawn’s jaw juts out. Buffy’s shoulders tense. She does not need an argument right now. They need to hammer things out and get things done. Done and set up so she can call Giles and figure out everything else. Like if there’s a time limit on Glory. There’s always a time limit for ritual stuff. There’s so much to do.

Spike leans toward Dawn, a cat-in-the-cream grin on his face. “Well, now you gotta tell me what it is, Platelet.”

“No.”

“Look, gesture of trust. Mine’s James.”

“Wait, really? You were William James…”

“Ah-ha, no no, not getting the last of it until I hear what this apparently terrible middle name is. Mind, I’ve heard some real clunkers in my time.” A beat, and then he adds, “And after.”

Buffy’s not quite sure what she’s watching. Spike is bargaining with Dawn, but there’s no more stubborn glint in her sister’s eyes. Instead, she’s sighing and flinging herself back on the bed like the worst injustice in the world is her own middle name. It’s perfectly fine. A family name, which is a nicer touch than Anne. Anne isn’t from anything, just a name Mom had liked—Buffy blinks hard and presses her fingers hard into her ribs.

“Edith,” Dawn admits with unparalleled disgust. “Dawn Edith Summers. It’s terrible. I’m not going to be Edith. You can’t make me, I won’t answer to it.”

Three days on the run, and she’s already getting a headache from teenage belligerence. She hadn’t been this bad to Mom, right? Besides, she’d been the Slayer. Mystical destiny—

“That’s not so bad. Knew a girl, her first name was Ephigenia. Which, seemed a bit cruel in a lot of ways,” he says. “Named after the poor girl what got sacrificed by Agamemnon to start the Trojan War. She went by Effie.”

“Okay, that’s pretty terrible,” Dawn agrees as she sits back up. Then her eyes narrow at Spike, and Buffy has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning. “Now, deal’s a deal.”

“Is at that, and I’m no welcher. Evil, but no welcher.” He puffs out a breath and glances at Buffy. She’s not sure what he’s waiting for, her permission or something? She raises her brows back at him, a silent well, go on. “Pratt,” he says simply. Then sighs. “William James Pratt.”

“Prat, as in what you called Xander and Giles more than a few times?” Buffy asks.

“Pratt, two t’s,” he says, voice terse. “Not even your bloody nancy boy Council of Poncy Watchers knew my whole name. What’s her bird did a whole thesis on me, but didn’t know it. So there, you do now, Niblet.”

“That’s kind of disappointing, if I’m honest,” Dawn says. Buffy almost pities Spike. Nothing quite like the dismissal of a teenager to really make the day complete.

“Blame my parents,” Spike says, just shy of a snarl, but she knows his snarls. Knows that if he was really angry he’d be up and pacing and moving. This is one of his I’ll-show-you snarls that he trots out when he thinks he has to be angry.

And here she is knowing Spike’s snarls? Granted, she’s heard a lot of them over the years.

She shakes her head to clear it. “Much as I’d love to get sidetracked, I really wouldn’t. So we’ll use Spike’s real name, which is kind of hilarious—” his snarl ratchets up to don’t-test-me-Slayer, but she ignores it. “—and you can pick a name, Dawn, but kind of be quick about it. Last name, we can use Schmidt. That’s grandma’s maiden name. Now,” she takes a breath, and keeps going. Because if she stops, then it all might come crashing down right now. “We need to figure out how to keep ourselves in some funds. I suppose.” She grimaces. “I could waitress again.”

“Actually,” Spike says, drawing the word out. His shoulders work awkwardly under his black t-shirt, one from that pack Dawn had bought, and he watches her from underneath his lashes. “Got a line of shoring us up a bit. Give us a bit of breathing, so to speak, space.”

“Nothing demony or illegal?” She crosses her arms and holds his gaze. He rolls his eyes.

“Illegal, but not demon-related. Just a good, old-fashioned chop shop dealer. Car’s a bit flash for staying out of sight, especially for the parts of town that are best to hide out in. Reckon we could get some dosh and maybe a trade to have a car that won’t draw so many eyes.”

“Spike, illegal can be a problem, you know that.” She tries to fix him with a hard look, make him understand that she really means it. They can’t risk one of his insane schemes.

“This is Chicago, pet.” He puffs out an amused breath. “A little illegal is almost expected. Stranger if you’re squeaky clean in this town. We’re far from ‘burbia, Slayer. Best to shed those notions. Besides, can’t sell the Porsche without papers, which we don’t have. This is the fastest solution that gets us what we need. You might not like it, but it is what it is.”

“Fine,” she grits out. It’s very, very annoying when he’s right. Right and thinking about how to help in ways that sit weirdly in her gut. The whole illegal thing doesn’t bother as much as she’d thought. She had given him the go-ahead to steal the Porsche in the first place. It was why they’d outrun… well, everyone, it seems.

“Thanks, Spike, for thinking about how to keep us alive in this mess I made,” he mutters. Well within her range of hearing. Those words, mess I made, are like a fist to her chest. Her hands clench, and before either of them can blink, she’s hauled him off the bed. Her jaw is clenched tight enough that she’s pretty sure her teeth are going to crack. He glares back at her with too-blue eyes and a jumping muscle along the line of his own jaw.

They’re never going to survive each other.

“Hey!” Dawn shouts, getting between them. Dawn, who in spite of being a mystical, ancient key, is now also a fourteen year old girl who shouldn’t be able to push apart the Slayer and a Master Vampire. Except she does. Because they both let her. “What happened to that truce I asked about, huh? There is something wrong with you both if you can’t go like, twenty minutes without fighting.”

Buffy steps back, hands up. Spike surrenders as well. Or, his hands are up, but the glint in his face and the tilt of his head are a challenge. “I said I would play nice, Slayer.”

She turns away, balled fists pressing into the laminite of the TV stand. Truce, truce, truce. It slips away from her so easily, and she can’t figure out why. In the car, like what? Two, maybe three hours ago? She’d told him the truth, that there was no one else she could have gotten this far with. The gang, God she loves them and misses them like a pull behind her chest, but there’s so many of them. All with their ideas and opinions and expectations and hopes and fears, and they’re all heaped on her shoulders like boulders.

And what? If Riley had been driving, it probably would have ended up being some army convoy. Super noticeable and not all with the stealthy. Doing it all his way, not her way. When she has the right by dint of, you know, destiny. And oh, the minor fact that Dawn is her sister.

That leaves her with the big A. If she’d gone running to LA first and asked for, what? Sanctuary? No, if Spike ended up tortured, she knows Angel wouldn’t have fared that much better if at all. If Angel had been driving it would have been… what? Dawn being very unhappy and uncomfortable for one. For another… arguments. And not the bickering-with-punching she and Spike seem to fall into, but the kind of arguing with recriminations about trust and him asking her to think about it, after she’d already done plenty of thinking and then probably just doing what he thinks is best anyway—

And oh God, why is Spike the one who sits there, thinking of things that she wouldn’t because she’s not exactly been on this side of the law before and offering them up for her, not to take something from her, she doesn’t think, but to… help. Just help.

It’s not fair. It’s not fair and she hates it. Wishes she could hate him like she’s hated him for years. Hating Spike has been a nice little touch point of reality when everything got wiggy and weird and too much. She doesn’t even have that now.

“Buffy?” Dawn’s at her elbow, tentative and worried. Buffy breathes deep and stuffs it all down.

“Sorry, Dawn, just, been a long drive. Still got those non-helpful reflexes, I guess.” She catches Spike’s eyes, and it’s not an apology, but it’s not a dig. He rolls his shoulders and lets his head loll to the side. It’s not acceptance, but it’s not being rebuffed either.

That’ll have to do for now.

She catches a lock of stray hair from over Dawn’s shoulder and moves it back. “I agree, we should get rid of the fancy car, and if that’s the least noticeable way to do it, that’s what we’ll do. We are under all of the radar here.”

“Question then,” Spike pipes up. He’s still keeping his distance, a pillar in black. “You going to trust me to do this my own self, or are you coming along, Slayer? And I’m only asking because that means the bit would be here on her lonesome.”

“Uh, I could come with—” Dawn pipes up.

“To an illegal car sale?” Buffy says, stopping that line of thought right there. “I think very much with the not.”

“Aw, come on,” Dawn whines. Buffy hooks her arm through Dawn’s and pulls her close.

“Spike, congratulations, you’ve got your first mission from the Slayer. Sell the car for as much as you can get, and if possible, get us another car to use.”

“Oh goodie. I’m practically beside myself,” Spike drawls.

“Not fair!” Dawn pipes up. “I could totally be helpful.”

“Little bit, much as I would love to introduce you to Chicago-land gangsters, I think this time would sort of undercut my bargaining power. You’ll be staying with your sister, and if I so much as smell you trying to tag along, I might just offer you up in the bargain.”

Spike’s look is pointed, dangerous, and Buffy is about eighty percent sure he’s bluffing. She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing, which would really sort of undercut Spike’s hard sell.

“Spike’s right, Dawn, and besides, we can explore the area a little, get a feel for it, while he’s out acting like a local, apparently.” The attempt at mollification is half successful. Dawn slips out of Buffy’s no longer tight grip and flops back on the bed, all wounded pride.

Then, because this whole mockery of being a Slayer can’t get any weirder, she catches Spike’s expression of what she can only describe as did-I-do-that-right? With his eyebrows slightly raised and mouth just a bit parted and questioning and maybe a little bit lost light in his eyes. And that almost makes her lose it again. Master Vampire, once Big Bad, silently asking her if he’s pulling off the whole looking after a teenage girl thing.

Even weirder, he is.

Her life is a joke on a truly cosmic scale.

Maybe she’s still face-down a puddle in the Master’s grotto of evil, and this is her brain still dying in a subjective four-years-long fever dream. Oh if only she were so lucky.

“If I have to stay behind and not help on the car sale, then I will not be Edith,” Dawn declares, frowning up at the ceiling. Buffy loves her sister with everything that she is, loves her more than the whole world, but right then, she’s seriously contemplating pressing a pillow over Dawn’s face. Her head drops into her hands and there’s a scream somewhere inside her throat, but she can’t let it come out. She just can’t—

“What’d you reckon of Charlotte?” Spike asks, something carefully neutral about his tone. Buffy’s head comes up to see Spike’s face three-quarters turned away from her. His attention flickers to her for a moment before returning to Dawn.

Dawn frowns and pouts, mouths the name silently before trying it aloud, “Charlotte Schmidt?” Dawn sits up, arms braced out behind her and there’s a teenage brand of acceptance in the upturned corner of her mouth. “Anne and Charlotte Schmidt, hanging with Willy Pratt?”

“Oi! William or nothing, you cheeky bint,” Spike growls. Which only makes Dawn giggle. That slightly dorky, low in her chest giggle that Buffy always rolls her eyes but now, on the run for her own sister’s life? Buffy treasures it.

“Alright, that’s settled then,” Buffy says before Spike can get too worked out. Though, she doesn’t think he’s that terribly offended. An offended Spike can be vicious, which he’s not being right now, so. “Anne and Charlotte can go get some food, while William,” because truce, “can rest up. And maybe use the shower.” Her nose winkles pointedly, because even a truce will go so far. Vampires might not sweat, but dirt and stench accumulates no matter what.

“One clean pet vampire coming up,” he grumbles as he stands and takes off his shirt.

“Spike!” she snaps and puts a hand over Dawn’s eyes. Dawn who tries to look around her hand. “Not in front of Dawn!”

“Bloody Puritans,” he mutters before disappearing into the bathroom. Without an unrepentant Spike to glare at, she settles for giving Dawn a stern look.

Dawn whose face is a picture of wide eyed innocence.

Total lie there.

“Come on, Peeping Tomella, let’s go get some food. See what the great city of Chicago has to offer.” Buffy pulls on Dawn’s arm, and her sister lets herself be dragged along. Time to figure out where to pick up some food, human and vampire alike, and get her bearings.

Chicago is its own beast, and if Buffy learned from her brief stint in LA as Anne, it’s better to know what’s waiting for her out there than not. It’s what you don’t know, what you don’t expect, that will throw everything out of whack.

***

Spike didn’t expect to get attached to the bloody car. It’s a fine auto, no question. Sleek lines and, even better, a damn fine engine—give the Germans their due there. But it’s just a car. Not even the one he’s had for decades and learned how to keep tuned up. No, just a bit of flash that he stole to get the girls out.

But it holds memories now. Tossing the Niblet another packet of illicit sour gummies or Cool Ranch chips, debating the finer points of punk (objectively the best music genre) versus boyband pop (objectively the worst), that one time he held Buffy’s hand and kept her grounded, but also every time she needled and pushed, and just… driving. Driving until human eyes closed and all around him was the hum of the road and the steady heart beats of both his girls—and he hates the thought as much as he loves it because even if they don’t want to his, they are because he’s theirs, which really fucks with his everything, but he doesn’t care because—

He puffs out a cloud of smoke into the still cool night air. If this chop shop fella would show up right quick, would do him a whole heap of favors. Keep his thoughts from going all around his head like a pinwheel. Fella’s liable to drive himself barmy trying to untangle what he’s been and whatever he is now.

Always has been Love’s Bitch. Usually man enough to admit it, but this time, it feels like it’s unravelling the threads of his self.

Worst bit, he doesn’t really care anymore.

“You William?” The flat, brash Chicago accent pulls at his ear and he stands up from leaning on the car. He flicks away the cigarette into the alley and takes stock of the blokes in front of him. Three men, all of the medium height but thick build persuasion, dark hair greased back and dressed in dark, unremarkable clothing. Nothing flash or out of place. Men of business, then.

“That’d be me,” he says, stuffing his hands into his jeans pockets but keeping his shoulders square. Not a threat, but no push over.

“Bring the car through the garage door and we’ll check it out.” The man in the middle is the leader, and he jerks his chin in the direction of the heavy, metal garage door clanking up.

Spike slides into the driver’s seat and maneuvers the Porsche a bit further down the alley and drives it up onto the car lift. The tools the car repair/car theft trade are organised neatly all around them. Spike takes up a space away from the most used tools and leans and watches. The garage door lowers until it hits the ground with a solid thunk.

Another man, dressed in blue mechanic’s coveralls, steps out through the office door and gets to work. Car’s lifted, and thus begins the inspection. Spike doesn’t say a word, just waits. There isn’t much talking in general, but Spike’s hearing is better than they have any reason to expect.

“Odo’s untampered, and all the mechanicals look good. Computer says electrics are good, too,” the mechanic reports to the boss man.

“Good, and what about the VIN?”

“Was impounded in some podunk town in Cali.”

Boss man’s eyebrows raise up a little in Spike’s direction. Spike makes a show of frowning and picking at the last remains of the black polish on his nails. He’s been thinking about giving up the polish for a bit, but now? Maybe he’ll go back to it. It seems to irritate the ever loving shit out of Buffy when he picks it off, and that’s kind of fun.

Since he’s never going to be more than a convenient monster for her, and he won’t ever get to so much as spar with her ever again, he might as well see that green fire somehow.

There’s a bit more discussion, which Spike mostly likes the sound of. All coming up with getting enough money to figure this insane Buffy-plan out. Boss man sidles up to him with a nod. “I was told you would be willing to take a bit of the price out in trade. Is that right?”

“If you’ve got something that’s not too flash. Not keen on being noticed.”

“Might want to do something about that hair then, guy.”

Boss man smiles like he’s made a joke. Spike resists the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he shrugs. “What am I looking at?”

“Hey, now, no rush, man. You in a hurry to get back to some lady, huh?” Boss man leers, and Spike looks down the line of his nose at this pissant and grins like a cat.

“Two of ‘em,” he drawls.

“Oh-ho! It’s the accent right? Chicks go wild for it. Alright, alright, I reckon we can do ten, and throw in something for the everyday, Romeo.” Boss man claps him on the shoulder in a way that’s friendly and hostile at the same time. “We can leave the keys and papers for the car with our mutual contact, and that’ll be that.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal then, mate.” Spike holds out his hand. Boss man claps his hand and they shake on it. Boss man squeezes just a bit more than necessary, and if Spike were human, it would hurt. Instead, Spike goes on with the handshake like nothing’s wrong. Even throws in a little polite upper crust grin he hasn’t busted out quite literally an age.

Boss man only seems off base for a second, which is enough for Spike.

It’s the little things in unlike that really make it worth unliving.

Twenty minutes later, he’s walking out the front door of the illicit garage with a duffel bag stuffed with ten thousand dollars, which is a complete rip off. A Porsche that new with that low mileage should fetch at least ninety on resale, but well. No papers and getting a car in trade that won’t get them picked up by Chicago PD (who he can’t kill now, so that would be a problem). Ten thousand dollars is a start.

He walks casually along the streets, winding through the beginnings of the dinner crowd out for a good time. A little whistle wends past his lips, and he knows he shouldn’t have a jaunty step just after an illegal deal, but he can’t help himself. Just a little spring won’t get him picked up.

The nearest station isn’t on the line he needs, but a quick look at the map tells him where to transfer. With the last bit of cash that was in his pockets from California, Spike pays for a handful of tokens, because blending in and truce. Nothing illegal, as per the Slayer’s rules. At least not something she hasn’t signed off on. That and jumping the turnstile is pretty damned obvious and so’s the cameras all around.

The train clatters along the wood and metal tracks, city lights flashing by like strobes. A sea of people crashes in and out of the train cars like a tide. He keeps to himself, holding the duffel close to his body but not too close. Not like he’s got a good weekend in Vegas with him. The human faces on the train betray weariness and boredom, with the occasional sideways glance but at him. These days, the hair doesn’t mean much. Headed north, the train car rocks on the rails, and he braces, holding on to the handhold like he’s human and needs it to stay upright. One transfer, then a few more stations, and then he’s at his stop. With ten thousand dollars under his arm.

His steps are unhurried as he walks back to the hotel. He’s done it. He’s provided. There’s something good, well, maybe not good-good like white hat good, a good feeling. A feeling of fuck, I can do this. A feeling that makes his back a little straighter, his swagger a little more assured. He’s bringing his girls ten thousand dollars, an offering to lay in front of them. A tribute. A promise.

The night shift fella at the front desk just flickers a bored gaze his way. Spike just grins, maybe a little wider than necessary, but the bloke just goes back to his magazine. Spike strides to the elevator, unable to keep the grin off his face.

At the door to the room, he pauses because he made a beeline back.

A year ago he would’ve scarpered with ten thousand dollars, no question. A year ago, Buffy wouldn’t have let him within twenty feet of her little sister or trusted her as far as said sister could have thrown him (though Buffy could throw him, and no, do not think that).

It’s a mark of how soft he’s gotten. Soft in the head, soft in the heart. Because the money doesn’t even sing a song of cigarettes and booze. Besides, he can always lift those items. Other things, those are harder to steal.

So, grinning like an idiot, he unlocks the door and sing-songs, “Honey, I’m home,” because the flash of irritation on the Slayer’s face is still worth it.

The bitty slayer is sprawled on the bed she’s sharing with her sister, shoving some noodle dish into her mouth with chopsticks, and as for the lady herself. Buffy sits against the bed, legs curling up to her chest, Chinese takeaway container beside her and mostly full. He frowns at the sight.

What is with this girl and not eating?

His brain unhelpfully suggests that he could feed her, but there’s no way the Slayer would let him do that. Let him feed her morsel by morsel until she can’t take anymore. Until she’s full, and—

She’s talking at him, because her mouth was moving and her expression is a mix of wary and expectant.

“What’s that, Slayer? I wasn’t listening, didn’t stop for dinner myself.” He shuts the door behind him and throws all the locks. Not that those locks would stop anything that would come after them, but it’s a satisfying feeling. Locking the world out. Might be something to that safe as houses notion. Feels good.

“Because you can’t,” she chirps at him, the minx.

“We got you the spiciest dish though!” the little bit offers around a mouthful of food. Then she adds, “Buffy said you like spicy things.” Spike raises his eyebrows at the Buffy’s eyes cut away from his, because he’s grinning, showing all his teeth.

“Did she now?” he drawls. The hard set of her jaw is everything he loves about her. Stubborn and angry and gorgeous. God help him, he would worship her jaw.

“Yeah, it’s that one right there, with the red exclamation point on it, and there’s blood in the fridge,” the bit says, all helpful like. Then she scrunches her nose, quite like big sis. “Did not mix them together for you, though, because gross.”

“Ta, then. Kind pair of doves you are then,” he says, laying it a bit thick, but he’s feeling… well, a word poncy old William would have loved. Best not to get too into being William. Find a way to stay Spike. If he can. If it’s not already a lost cause.

But before he picks up his portion for dinner, he crouches and sets the duffel softly at Buffy’s feet. An offering if there ever was one.

“That it?” she asks, frowning as her gaze dips down to the duffel. He can see the war in her about it. She knows they need it, knows they had to get rid of the stolen car. Doesn’t like what she had to do, what needed to get done. Knowing and accepting, two different things, and they sit at odds in her head.

“Not as much as I’d hoped, but I wasn’t in a position to haggle. We can pick up the keys and papers for the new car tomorrow, but for now.” He pulls back the zipper to reveal neatly banded stacks of green. Mostly in twenties. “Ten thousand should see us for a bit.”

“Holy shit!” Dawn exclaims.

“Dawn, language.” Buffy’s admonishment is rote and distant. She’s just staring at the money, green eyes wide and mouth parted with a puff of disbelief. Spike lets himself sit to the ground and picks up his carton and opens it up. The nose-burning scent of chili fills the room.

“That is so much money. Like, were they scary mobsters?” Dawn asks.

“Dawn.” There’s a warning in Buffy’s tone, a warning both Dawn and Spike choose to be deaf to.

“No doubt about it. Had a hint of Goodfellas about them,” he says only for Dawn to look confused.

“Goodfellas?”

“And we’re adding another movie to your watch list, little bit.”

“Spike, she’s not watching Goodfellas,” Buffy says, finally paying him some attention. The provider of the money that’s got her floored.

“Would be better than that,” he complains at the TV. The laugh track is going to drive him mad, and he’s only been in its proximity for five minutes.

“Oh because Passions is high art?” Dawn asks, brow arching.

“She’s got you there,” Buffy agrees.

“It’s got drama and character arcs and, you know, passion. This is all bland, focus-group tested shite,” he argues, gesturing with the chopsticks, which he’s always liked using once he learned about them. Kind of entertaining to eat with something that could be used to kill him.

“Whatever.” With a single dismissive word and an eyeroll, the little bit dismisses the whole argument and goes back to eating and watching terrible telly. “But thanks,” she says, “for the money. I like not starving.”

“Here to help, Niblet,” he says, ostensibly hunting through his carton of spicy chicken for the pieces of chicken—why so many vegetables—except he’s got a weather eye on the Slayer. Duffel is zipped up again, but it’s still sitting at her feet like a fatted calf. She notices him watching, and instead of her usual glare of stop looking at me creep, she’s watching him. Watching and behind her eyes, there’s something being weighed up there. Like she’s trying to balance mental scales and not sure what she’s seeing when all is said and done.

She’s evaluating him, and she wants him to know it.

So he can’t miss it when she gives him a little nod and mouths the words thank you with all the sincerity in the world in her eyes.

If his heart wasn’t already dead, it would be enough to stop it.

And he has no bloody idea what to do. Like when she’d pressed that chaste peck to his lips after Glory had tortured him. That kindness, that acknowledgement. It stops him cold. All he can do is duck his head and work his shoulders, because he knows all the words threatening to come out of his mouth are words she doesn’t want to hear. Also words she wouldn’t want her little sister hearing, probably.

Dawn’s laughter along with the laugh track breaks the tenuous spell that Buffy’s gratitude cast on him. He relaxes back against his bed, legs splayed out and picking through the carton for the good bits when he finally turns up a chili. The burst of it in his mouth is a brand, cutting through the dullness that accompanies most human food. He’ll drink his blood later. For now, he’s enjoying eating with the Summers girls.

If the older one would damn well eat.

“Oi, Slayer,” drawing her attention back to him and away from the TV, “if you’re not going to eat, give us some, yeah? Looks good.”

“You don’t need to eat human food. I’m not sure why we even got you some,” she retorts. It lacks a bit of her usual heat, though, which is a shame.

“Because you like me, and you share food with people you like, so give over if you’re just going to let it congeal,” he says, reaching for her carton.

She holds it out of his reach and shovels some into her mouth with a glare. He grins back. That’s more like it, he thinks. Then he submits to terrible Thursday night must-see-TV.

Notes:

You might think I'm crazy
To hang around with you
Maybe you think I'm lucky
To have something to do

But I think that you're wild
Inside me is some child

You might think I'm foolish
Or maybe it's untrue (you might think)
You might think I'm crazy (but all I want)
All I want is you
--"You Might Think" by The Cars

Chapter 5: Can't Stop the World

Notes:

TW: for mentions of DFV.

As a survivor myself, when writing this chapter and thinking about this scenario, the paralells were patently obvious. I do lean on the paralells, but there's nothing that I reckon is terribly confronting.

The sweetness of the jam bursts like a raspberry explosion in her mouth. And also leaks out the other side of it, running over her hand. Not caring how it looks, because she has a jelly donut and an iced mocha latte, she licks the extra jam off her fingers. She eats hunched over at the small table that’s bolted to the wall opposite Dawn, who is likewise a total mess.

“Napkins, Dawn.” Buffy hands her a stack of plain brown paper napkins. Dawn takes them all and scrubs at her white-poweder covered cheeks.

“These are so good,” she says around a mouthful of donut. “Spike, aren’t you going to eat any?” Dawn turns and gestures at the box sitting on the TV stand, lid standing open and inviting. Buffy’s wondering how many she can eat. In good conscience. Or maybe not so good conscience.

Spike’s sprawled on his bed, eyes shut, one arm behind his head. The only reason she knows he’s not sleeping is because he’s clearly listening to some music in his own head. One booted foot is keeping time and he’s tapping his fingers of his free hand on the bedspread. He cracks one eye open.

“I’ll eat whatever’s left, after you birds fly off to wherever today,” he says, and that’s it. He closes his eyes and goes back to being in his own head. Which is another mark in the weirdness factor of the last several days. Right up there with finding said donuts and coffee waiting for her when she woke up. He didn’t say anything, except when she pressed him. Even then all she’d gotten out of him was, You’d be surprised what’s open at five am in this town.

“Oh yeah, where are we going today, Buffy? I mean, I know we aren’t here to be tourists, but like… what do we do next?” The questions are ones Buffy’s been dreading. She knows what she needs to do. What’s necessary. It’s just, doing this means she’s really leaving Sunnydale and everyone else behind. One last tie, one last link to the life she’s built, it’s all falling away and she doesn’t know if she’ll ever get it back or if Glory’s continued existence means she and Dawn will always be on the run.

Instead, she squares her shoulders and affects more confidence than she feels. It was easier, even a few years ago, to run away. To hide. Computers are making it a lot harder to hide, but there are still a few places that don’t ask too many questions.

“Well, Charlotte and Anne,” she stresses, hoping Dawn will remember, “are going to the public library.”

“Wait, does Giles have a friend in the library here? Is that why we’re going there? Can we get help?” Dawn’s suddenly bright eyed and eager.

“Not all librarians know each other Dawn.”

“Well, obviously, but like, why else would we go to the library? I don’t think they have books titled So you’ve decided to outrun a Hell God.”

Spike snorts from his spot on the bed. Buffy glares at him, but it’s a lost cause since he doesn’t so much as open his eyes or stop tapping out some song with his foot in the empty air. What is it with him and always moving? He’s a vampire. Most of them love being creepy and still until they pounce. But not Spike, never him. He’s like some goth-punk shark, always moving. And now she’s picturing a goth-punk shark, and she has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling thanks to her brain’s continual meltdown.

“No,” she draws out the word carefully, good-bye weird mental image, “but libraries do have computers that are free for public use. At least the county library in Sunnydale did. I bet Chicago’s libraries do, too. We can look up ways to get a place to live and how to do it without attracting notice.”

“Oh.” Dawn deflates instantly. Not the exciting foray into the city that she’d been hoping. Buffy squeezes Dawn’s clean hand—the hand spared the indignities of bearing a donut—with her own. Like her sister is drawing strength from that alone, she straightens and holds her chin high. “Willow taught me about search engines and stuff, I bet I can help a lot.”

“I bet you can, and we’re going to need to work together. Think you’re up for big research mode?”

“You bet! I’ll bring the research mojo. You know how well I did on my history papers.”

“I do.” And there, behind her ribs, is a quiet swell of something. Something that fills up her whole chest, her whole self, a thing that says this is my sister and she’s smart and kind and so brave, and look at her. It’s a thing that brings a soft smile to her face. In spite of everything, everything, going wrong, she has her sister, and she couldn’t love her more if she tried. “Welp,” she says, forcing brightness into her voice, “we’re off.”

The brightness falls away as she stands, grabs her bag, and turns to the one person she never expected would be here, but he is. Which means she has to deal with him. “Spike.”

Both eyes are open now, startling blue in the morning light that filters in through the blinds. He quirks the scarred eyebrow at her, but his expression is… neutral. No, not just neutral. Carefully so. And that’s another ratchet up in the weird factor. Spike is a lot of things, but generally he’s a feelings-on-his-face guy. Makes it easy to deal with him, in his own annoying Spike way.

This Spike, the Spike that brings her ten thousand dollars—and no, Buffy don’t look at the duffel bag full of money that’s just sitting on the floor like it could hold anything except it’s got ten thousand dollars in it.

Nope, do not think about it. Just get to the library, and then maybe think about it.

When you’re not trying to talk to the vampire who set it at your feet like a dog coming back with a prize.

Or think about it never.

“Slayer,” he returns. God, even his voice is neutral careful. It makes her want to nudge him, or hit him. Right in the nose. Something, because a careful Spike has generally been a Bad Spike.

But then, truce. So she settles for, “Try not to get up to any trouble, okay?”

That gets her something. A little spark of malicious delight as he sits up on one elbow and presses one hand to his chest. “Docile as a lamb, me.”

It’s her turn to snort. And roll her eyes. For good measure. That’s better, and more in the range of normal Spike interactions. “Feel free to rot your brain more with daytime TV.”

“Oh, mother may I?” His words drip teasing insincerity, and in spite of herself, she feels a tug at the corner of her mouth.

“I changed my mind, your brain is already rotten. Good-bye, Spike. We’ll be back before sunset,” she says, leaving the hotel room.

“Bye Spike, I’ll see if I can talk her into getting some spicy chips for you,” Dawn adds.

“You’re a treasure, little bit,” he murmurs, and Buffy really hopes she doesn’t have to worry about Dawn’s odd crush on Spike. Not that Spike would do anything to Dawn, which is a strange kind of assurance to carry around in her head. Strange and every time she comes up against it, it sits there like a popcorn kernel in her teeth, like how did you get there?

“I know,” Dawn tosses over her shoulder and bounces out the door. Buffy follows along, keeping her mouth shut. Because the last time she talked to Dawn about her Spike-crush it came along with a helping of Major Weird News. That apparently everyone but her had figured out.

Ugh. Why couldn’t Dawn still have that crush on Xander? Sure, it kind of went to his head sometimes, but it was understandable. Simple. Little sister has crush on big sister’s best male friend. It’s textbook. But Spike? With the chipped black nails and the eyeliner, though was it just her was he using it less? No, no thinking about Spike. Just how to manage Dawn’s crush while they’re all having to live in proximity. Which is a thing she can do later.

Because if there’s one thing she’s slowly resigning herself to, it's that Spike is reliable when it comes to two things: 1) annoying her to no end, and 2) protecting Dawn.

Buffy will put up a lot of one to get two.

She pushes the down button for the elevator and waits. And sips her coffee. And waits. The elevator is really slow, but she just loops her free arm through Dawn’s and holds her close.

“Well, you ready for the library, Dawn?”

“Oh yeah, we’re going to get all the info.”

Dawn’s expression is intent and she takes a sip of her coffee. She probably shouldn’t let her fourteen year old sister have a whole coffee, but, well. It’s just not in her to take that away from Dawn today. Today, they’re going to get their feet under them and figure this out this hiding thing. Together.

***

“Jeeves, you suck.” Buffy glares at the computer screen, link after link a total mystery. Maybe she could go to the Yellow Pages? That seemed more her speed. That’s just part of the Buffy deal: swords, crossbows, and Yellow Pages. Not old, just the classics. Things that you can’t go wrong with.

Well, maybe swords and crossbows could go wrong. Especially crossbows. But not the Yellow Pages.

“I’m not finding lots of places to live,” Dawn said beside her. “It’s just a ranking list of neighborhoods by the quality of their take on, uh, an Italian beef sandwich?”

Buffy peers at the monitor in front of Dawn, frowning. “I guess Chicago cares a lot about beef?”

It’s all gone sideways so fast. She’d found her crappy apartment in LA by just showing up at the door with some wadded up cash in her hand. Problem was, doing that kind of thing wouldn’t get her a place that was safe for Dawn. Dawn deserved a place that didn’t have cockroaches or rats or a toilet that wasn’t set quite right into the floor or a kitchen that was barely more than a sink and a hot plate.

Dawn deserves the whole world, but Buffy can’t so much as get her an apartment.

She sits back in the almost broken desk chair, taking in the library around her. It’s in an old building that’s seen better days. Wooden bookshelves are spaced out evenly, and there’s a small section on a far corner that’s cordoned off for kids. There’s one frazzled looking mom in there with a boy who can’t be much older than two playing with some blocks. There are a few other library patrons, mostly people in a selection of cast off clothes and pungent body odor.

Then she spots it, the stupidly obvious sign that’s hanging over the librarian desk. It’s yellow, arrow-shaped, and pointing at the exact spot where a nice older lady librarian is scanning books through the system to a little beat of beeps. The sign reads Ask me for help!

Well. She’s had worse ideas.

“Come on,” she says, tugging Dawn up. “Let’s do this old school.”

“Buffy, are you sure that’s a good idea?” She can feel the tension in Dawn’s arm, hear it threading her voice. It’s a risk. Thing is, everything is a risk, and this risk is better than burning through that money—ten thousand dollars, and she really wishes she could stop thinking about it like it’s some kind of revelation—and then having nothing.

“No one knows where we are,” because she’s still too chicken to call Giles and find out what’s happening in Sunnydale and to all the people who got really used to her protecting them, “so I think we’re free from creepy little minion guys.”

“I guess.” Dawn lets herself be brought along. Buffy leans on the counter, and the librarian looks up. Her name tag reads Sheila, and she’s like the very picture of an older lady librarian with white puffy hair and gold-rimmed glasses that really pop against her dark complexion. Quality accessorization, that part of Buffy’s brain still firing on all cylinders, it seems.

“Can I help you, miss?” Sheila asks mildly. She doesn’t stop scanning books. Can do it by feel. Buffy’s shoulders relax, just a little. It’s probably one of those conditioned responses Walsh talked about. See a librarian, get help, things are better.

“Yes, you can, or I mean, I hope you can.” Buffy smiles, trying for something like normal person, but it’s been so long she’s been normal. She could do registration for classes and all sorts of things. Talk to doctors, talk to the funeral home director. She can do normal. (Sod normal, a voice not hers says in her head, and she really doesn’t need that voice in her head, no thank you.)

“See we’re kind of new in town. In Chicago, I mean, and we’re looking for a place to live. We tried looking online, but, uh,” she trails off. The resounding failure is still nipping at her heels. She wants to dance around it.

Sheila puts a book to the side and focuses fully on Buffy and Dawn. Buffy amps up her reassuring kind of trust me, I’m normal smile. Dawn waves her fingers a little.

“This town, it can be rough if you don’t know anyone,” Sheila says, “it’s a you gotta know a guy kind of place. Can I ask, are you girls, I mean, are you girls… alright?”

“Alright? Yes? I think so, D—uh, Charlotte? You’re okay, right?” Buffy turns, and Dawn’s eyes go a bit round, but then she nods and slumps in the universal pose of The Teenager.

“You bet, Anne, I’m all of the right,” Dawn says brightly. Buffy shoots Dawn the teeniest tiniest glare, which makes Dawn cross her arms and glare right back and snip, “What?”

Shiela, instead of scolding them or rolling her eyes, laughs. “You girls remind me of my own daughters. Trying to make a fresh start, just the two of you, then?”

“I mean, there’s Sp—William,” Dawn says, a bit of the annoyance and defiance bleeding away. Sheila doesn’t ask, but the question is on her face.

“William, he’s, uh, a friend. Of the family, of me and Charlotte,” Buffy stumbles through the explanation which is something like the truth. Truth adjacent. Or, well, maybe in the same zip code? “He drove us here. To Chicago, that is, not the library.” Her laugh feels awkward in her mouth, a strange little ha-ha-ha that she hates but can’t help.

“He got us out of a bad place,” Dawn volunteers. Buffy whirls then, because that has to be too much truth, and she carefully squeezes Dawn’s arm. Firm, not hard. Because not hurting Dawn is built into her muscle memory. Dawn spreads her hands out in front of her, a silent what do you want from me?

“Shelia, I’m so sorry,” Buffy says, turning back around, “That’s not—”

The look on Sheila’s face is a weird mix of sympathy, sympathy in her eyes, but there’s a tight, contained anger in the hard set of her mouth. “It’s alright, girls, really. You two aren’t the first young women to look for that kind of help here, and sadly you won’t be the last. Here,” she says, taking up a pencil and writing something down on a legal pad, “you go here, ask for Lydia and tell her I sent you along. They’ve got programs and housing access with not too many questions asked.”

The librarian slides the paper across the desk, and Buffy takes it up like a talisman. This is it, her lifeline. Her shot at making this work.

“Thank you,” she whispers, staring down at the slip of paper.

“More than welcome, girls.” The grin on Sheila’s mouth is brittle, but it doesn’t break. Buffy knows the feeling.

***

“Okay, round two.” Buffy and Dawn descend the stairs that lead out from the train station and veer away from the lake. Cars hum down narrow streets, all of those lined with parked cars and trees just starting to bloom. May in Chicago is way cooler than she’s used to, and she’s glad she’s wearing her jacket. Dawn’s arms are wrapped around herself, even in a sweater. Overhead, the sun doesn’t feel like a hammer. Instead, it feels like it’s just getting started.

“And after this can we please go to Target? Or find a place where I can get a coat?” Dawn grouses.

“Come on, this is spring. I thought you’d be excited for different weather,” Buffy teases.

Around the station is a clump of storefronts and businesses. A greengrocers and a butcher and lots of restaurants shoved into narrow spaces. Chicago is a city of nooks and crannies, she’s learning. If Los Angeles is all highways, byways, and disconnected neighborhoods, then Chicago is a place where everything’s all crammed together, but not tightly. Just… cosy. Except for the people on the sidewalks who shoulder on past with a muttered Ope!

Sure, she could push back, but she’s in lay low mode. And shoving a six-foot-plus linebacker guy out of her way would put her very much on the nasty creature radar.

“You just don’t notice the cold because you’re used to night temperatures,” Dawn keeps complaining. Is that something she did when she was a teenager? Probably not. Well, maybe a little, but about like real things. Like the whole might die every night detail. “Some of us are less with the all nights out—”

“Not what I do now, okay? Now, we’re going to find a place to stay, or get an idea for one.” A sullen pout appears on Dawn’s face, and Buffy can’t help but relent. Just a little. She really should take a firmer stance here, but Buffy knows how low on clothes she’s getting. Not her idea of a good time to be changing into clothes she wore three days ago. “Then we can go to Target, or a store. Promise.”

“Holding you to that,” Dawn threatens. Buffy rolls her eyes, but then they’ve arrived. It’s an unassuming doorway that looks like it leads into an apartment building. One of the kind that she’s seen all over this part of the city: brick all around with those castle thingies—crenelations—on top. The numbers on the half-circle of glass above the door are in gold and silver, a big blocky script that seems old.

Buffy unfolds the paper that Sheila the librarian gave her, and the numbers match. There’s a callbox set into the wall just before the entryway, and she pushes #2. There’s a buzz and a fuzzy voice asks, “Can I help you?”

“Um, yes? Maybe, or I hope so,” she falters a little and then clears her throat. “My name is Anne, and I’m here with my sister Charlotte, and we, uh, Sheila from the library said we should come here and ask for Lydia?”

She’s irritated with herself that it comes out a question, but she’s at the end of a very long tether here, and no clue if it's anchored. Probably not.

There’s a long pause. Dawn’s brows furrow in worry.

Then there’s a harsh buzz, and the door unlocks with a heavy thunk.

Before she can wonder, Buffy opens the door and is through, Dawn on her heels. Up the flight of stairs, she enters the office and then… with the waiting.

***

She’s going to go out of her mind. It’s been two hours. Every magazine has been flicked through, all the paperback books on the Take One! Free!!! shelf has been examined and found wanting, and daytime TV is designed to rot and/or drive someone out of their mind.

The Upper North Women and Girl’s Support Centre asked for names but not addresses, phone numbers, or anything else. Just a name and a brief what brought you to us? There are pamphlets going over the funding sources, the programs, all of it. She’s learned that it’s funded privately, focuses on housing, skills building, and wider community support. Which is great, though something feels wrong about this. Like, she’d be taking a spot for someone who really needs it.

If she could just get into an apartment and depart the motel/hotel life, then she could call Giles and—

Yeah, no. Still no idea what happens after that.

“Schmidt?” the receptionist asks the room. Buffy looks around, then it catches up with her when the receptionist eyes her and says again, “Schmidt, right?”

“Oh! Yes, that’s us.” Buffy pops up out of her seat and motions Dawn. “Come one, Charlotte, our turn.”

“Right, um, okay yeah.” Dawn follows along. They’re ushered into a nice office, all white walls and a tasteful collection of potting plants. The woman behind the desk is not exactly what Buffy expected. She’s older, but her whole look is severe. Severe, slick backed dark hair. Sharp, severe features. And, to top it all off, dark, severe clothes, all harsh lines. For all that, though, her dark eyes are warm.

“Anne and Charlotte, huh? And not from Chicago, I think.” Lydia’s accent is that flat, brash Chicago accent that’s very easy to recognize.

“No.” Buffy draws out the word, trying to gauge if she has to say where they are from. Then she gives in. “Is that a problem?”

“No, but I do want to let you know we do have a long waitlist for housing. That’s the hardest part, and that’s what you said you most need. Can I ask, what kind of accommodation you have now?”

“We’re at a hotel,” Buffy supplies.

“The—”

Lydia holds up a hand before Dawn can supply the name. “Best not to tell me. We’ve all learned the hard way that a wrong word can go a long way.”

Dawn sits back, arms wrapped around herself again. Yeah, lots of shopping after this. Buffy and Dawn, they know what they’re running from: a hell god. Which is bad, but right now they’re sitting in a room that’s seen women running from something worse: someone who said they loved them but… didn’t.

She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be using this service, but what else can she do?

“Look, I know it’s a long shot, but we have funds. We could get a real apartment, pay for it. Our friend, did I note on the form that we have a male friend of the family with us?” she asks. She’s pretty sure she did. Maybe it was her way of giving herself an out? Don’t take up a space someone in a bad spot needs. She’s the Slayer, she’s supposed to protect people, not use up resources someone else needs. Except the person she’s protecting is Dawn, and God, this is going around in her head and it’s going to make her dizzy.

“You did,” Lydia says, glancing down at the form in front of her. “And I do appreciate the honesty, however, I wanted to speak with you about that. He’s not the person you’re trying to…” she trails off, and Buffy can't help the giggle that bubbles up through her throat. She tries to stifle it because it’s got a manic edge. She clamps a hand over her mouth and everything, but it escapes. The giggle becomes a giggle snort when she catches Dawn’s eye.

“Sp—William? Hurt us, no I mean. Yeah, he’s got a bit of a past, but—” Understatement, thy name is Buffy Summers, she thinks to herself.

“But he’s, like, completely harmless now. Can’t hurt a soul,” Dawn supplies, all big blue eyes and earnest teenage regard. Which is… always going to be weird, probably. But it’s better than trying to convince her to trust Angel again.

Spike never broke into the house and drew creepy pictures while they were all asleep. Dawn hadn’t slept much after that, at least in her memories, which… are true enough.

So Buffy explains, in very abstract terms—if it was more abstract it would be hanging in some art gallery—how they ended up here. She explains that one William Pratt has known Buffy and Dawn for four years, that he drove them out of a bad situation, that he got them all the way to Chicago. That he seems to want to stick around.

Another ratchet higher again on the Spike-is-weird-o-meter. She might have to recalibrate the whole thing if he keeps doing weird stuff like helping and sticking around.

“Really,” she says by the time she’s finished, “We can pay. William, he, uh, he’s got some funds, and I have some, and we can pay and work,” or I can, Buffy thinks. The idea of Spike getting a job is so hilarious she might just lose it entirely if she doesn’t shove the thought away. “I just need… someone to take a chance on us. Like… a three month lease? With a, a.” She wracks her brain. Anya, God, she wishes Anya were here. She’s good with money and commerce and all those businessy things. What would she call it, an opinion? No. “An option!” she says at last. “An option to renew.”

Lydia’s face is a hundred percent unreadable, which is really not helping Buffy’s state of internal everything. If she could just get someone to take a chance. She doesn’t know where this will end up or how this will go, just that she needs this to work. For right now.

“I think,” Lydia says slowly, “that I know someone who might be able to help, if you can pay. Chicago, you might have heard,” Lydia’s smile is wry, “is the kind of town where you gotta know a guy. And lucky for you two, I know a guy.”

***

“Third time lucky,” Buffy mutters as they approach the apartment building nestled between narrow-build freestanding homes. It doesn’t look much different to the others in the area, just in yellowish brick instead of reddish. Afternoon sunlight slants through the tall, budding trees. Little grey squirrels chase each other around and birds flit about. It’s gorgeous. Spring in Chicago, with the crispness still in the air even in the afternoon, and the bright blue sky and wispy clouds.

“This is really nice, Buffy,” Dawn says quietly, probably taking in the cute area just like she is. “You think that… that the money will cover it?” She bites her lip, worries that shouldn’t be going through her head making her all fidgety.

Buffy wraps an arm around her sister’s shoulders and squeezes. “Hey, nothing’s decided yet. We’ll just meet this guy, and see, okay?”

There’s more assurance in her voice than she feels. It seems like a thing Mom would have done for Dawn. Put on the brave face. There’s only a small twinge now when she thinks about her altered memories. Memories of hearing Dad come home with a slam of the door, hearing Mom start in because he smelled like cheap perfume, and Buffy, Buffy took Dawn by the hand and made up all the stories that she could. Anything to keep Dawn’s attention on her instead of the fight going on downstairs.

The twinge is because while she was protecting Dawn… no one was protecting Buffy. Not the point. Never the point, because Dawn is as much a part of her as her blood and bones, her heart, her… spleen? Maybe not the spleen.

“Now, come on, this looks like a cool place to be for a while.” Could be if she keeps up with the encouragement of Dawn, Buffy will start to believe it herself.

“Yeah, just don’t want to get my hopes up, you know? It’s hard when,” Dawn trails off, the words she’s not saying might as well be a shout, a scream. Mom’s gone. For a little while they thought they’d have Mom, that they’d defeated the thing that was going to take Mom away. Only they lost her all the same. Mom’s gone, and Buffy’s barely had time to process that and what it means. They’ve barely had time. And now, all this. It’s too much, it’s too much for anyone. Even a Slayer sometimes.

“Hey there!” A bright male voice breaks into the bubble of grief and worry that’s been building around them both. Buffy turns to face a tall, dark skinned, lanky guy with a lopsided smile. “You must be Anne and Charlotte Schmidt.”

“That’s us!” The chipper tone is majorly forced, but Buffy doesn’t want to come on all gloom and doom. That probably isn’t the best way to get an apartment.

“Yeah, here we are,” Dawn adds awkwardly.

“Well, I’m Davin Thomas, good to meet you.” He extends his hand, and there’s the pleasant handshakes. “Let’s show you the apartment.” Davin goes to open the door, which lets Buffy and Dawn exchange a look. Eyebrows raised and small quirks of the mouth carry on a whole conversation of that seems easy? Too easy? No, probably not evil. I don’t know, evil is often attractive at first. Oh, so evil can be attractive, huh? STOP IT YOU.

Dawn’s grin is evil. Buffy smacks her on the arm. Lightly.

All the while, Davin is chatting, and Buffy manages to listen to most of it. “So Lydia called my dad, he’s the owner of Thomas Properties, and she said you could actually pay for an apartment, so he’s willing to approve your application provided you make a deposit by the end of business tomorrow.”

“Um, is cash okay?” Buffy hates asking it, and she hates it even more when Davin’s eyebrows practically go up his hairline.

“We, um, don’t trust banks?” Dawn offers. Which makes Buffy wince, because that’s insane. It sounds insane.

Except Davin nods sadly. “Yeah, I’ve heard that women have been tracked down when they open up new accounts. Cash is cool, we just have a few rules about it. Have to hand it over and get it counted in person.” Then he brightens. The labrador impression is growing stronger by the second. “But let’s see the apartment!”

They go up half a flight. There’s also a half flight down and the door there has a G-A on it. Ground apartments, not Buffy’s ideal. Too hard to defend. Instead, Davin stops in front of 1-B, and Buffy can get behind a first floor. Easy enough to defend, but also more escapable than a higher story.

And maybe one day she won’t have to think about property in terms of defensibility and escapability.

And one day she’ll be dead, so maybe not.

Davin unlocks the door and the deadbolt—good for keeping out human and weaker demon types—and gestures for Buffy and Dawn to go ahead. It’s… really nice. The wood floors are shiny, and the appliances are all decent and look almost new. The whole place is one big open space with a gorgeous bay window style facing the street. The hallway branches left and leads to a bathroom on the right and a bedroom straight ahead.

“It’s a one-bedroom,” Davin says, “a recent remodel, actually, so you’ll see everything’s been updated. It’s great for a fresh start. Light’s not so good on the first floor, all those trees, but it’s not too bad. There’s a fire escape on the other side of the kitchen here.” He demonstrates, and the door to the back stairs is heavy duty, and Buffy approves of that alone.

There’s just one problem. Or, well, maybe not a problem. Maybe it will be good. Because they can’t take a one-bedroom if Spike is in the picture. And this could give them both the reason they need to part ways. He’s done what he promised. Got them here, got her ten thousand dollars—she’s still not sure how she feels about that or what she should think about that, so again better to not—and now it could be time to call it quits. Quit while they’re both ahead. While he’s unstaked, and she’s not finding herself… she’s not sure what she’d find herself with Spike. But he’s changing, and it’s easier to think about him when he’s not right next to her. Easier to remember what he is.

Except. That’s reductive, isn’t it?

Dawn’s biting her lip, eyes seeking out Buffy’s. Buffy presses on, because this is too good to be true and she can’t pass it up. For Dawn’s sake, even if Dawn doesn’t agree.

“It’s amazing,” Buffy says, cutting off whatever Dawn might blurt out. Dawn frowns, but keeps poking around.

“Yeah, it’s a good area, too,” Davin says, all realtor enthusiasm. “Quiet, but easy to get to Devon street. Oh, if you girls like Indian food, you cannot go wrong with Devon. I know you’re not from Chicago, but it’s the best food city in America. Hands down.”

“That’s great, so um, what are the next steps in this, uh, situation?” Buffy asks. Maybe they can get away without IDs and maybe they can keep it simple.

“Well, before that, I just want to confirm, it’s just you and your sister right?” Davin asks.

“Yes,” Buffy says quickly.

“No!” Dawn squeals. “Bu—but what about William?” Indignant teenage eyes spear her, and Buffy’s pretty sure if Dawn had a spear, she’d throw it. “He helped us! We can’t just… leave him.”

“Look, I don’t like it.” Except she does? Cutting Spike loose seems like the best idea right now. Even though she’s been thinking it would be best to try to find a way to keep them all together. It would be easier to look after Dawn with two adults—or one adult and one leashed demon who seems intent on helping. It would be easier, in some ways. Safer for Dawn.

“But they’re not going to rent us a one bedroom for three people. That’s got to be illegal right?” Buffy’s really hoping Davin can bail her out here.

Davin’s smile falters, just a little. Turns a little sad. “Look, it’s not a law in Illinois, but generally max occupancy is two people per bedroom.”

Dawn pouts and kicks the wall. Though that didn’t sound like a wall. Buffy rounds the corner and along the wall of the main living area is a double set of accordion doors.

“Kind of big for a closet,” Buffy says absently. More space than she and Dawn would need. Dawn opens up the doors and there’s like a whole room in there. Or, half a room. It’s got some shelves up high, but not cupboards. There’s marks on the wall where maybe there was a desk at one point.

And there’s no windows.

Dawn whirls, her whole heart in her big blue eyes. Buffy feels like she’s on quicksand. There’s no safe place to step, and she knows what’s going to happen now. Spike will get shoved into this alcove space and he’ll be here. Constantly. With his Passions-watching, nail polish-chewing, singing-to-himself habits, which are new habits that now annoy her a lot, right up there with his snarky comments and petty theft and general existence. Right up there with every emotion he’s got crossing his face, with some weird compulsion to help, with taking the time to talk to Dawn like she’s a person and not a kid who should be coddled.

But she already knows what she’s going to do. Because Dawn wants him around. Dawn feels safe around him. Dawn goes to him when she can’t come to her own sister. And if he’s here instead of gone, then Buffy will know where Dawn is and who she’s with.

The one person who proved that he’d risk a dusty death to protect her.

She turns back to Davin with a grimace. “Would paying a bit extra on rent cover a third person?”

***

It’s just before sundown by the time they reach the Argon Arms Hotel again. There’d been a lot of negotiation and somehow avoiding using IDs. The whole not-exactly-a-lie about their situation: a hell god is a whole lot like an abusive relationship what with the pain, uncertainty, and constant terror.

What it comes down to is that it seems like if you know a guy who knows a guy in this city, it all kind of works out okay.

Dawn’s bouncing and smiling beside her, holding the usual complement of take out and pint of pig’s blood. “I’ve got so many ideas. We can really make it a nice place, you know? I have a few ideas about Spike’s space—”

Buffy can’t help but smile, too, because it’s good to see Dawn actually excited about something instead of living in dread. Dread she should never have to know, except, she was always going to know it. Mystical key turned human. If it hadn’t been Glory, it would have been someone. And no, no take the victory, she tells herself. Take the victory on the apartment, and… don’t get too hung up on having to live with Spike.

At least there will be a door between them at night now.

“Well, you can tell him. I’m sure he’ll enjoy you talking his ear off about it,” she says as she unlocks the door.

To find the hotel room dark. Not even the TV is on. Her stomach plummets and she knows, even before she steps further in and sees a lack of duster. Spike is gone. Her eyes zoom in on the duffel. It’s still there. In a flash, she’s on it and unzipping it. The money is there, and she gets her breathing back under control.

At least he didn’t rob them.

But he’s gone. Spike’s gone, and Buffy isn’t even that surprised.

“He wouldn’t leave,” Dawn says, but her voice is small and uncertain. “Buffy, he wouldn’t. Not you, not me.”

Buffy squeezes her eyes shut. But they all leave don’t they? Dad left, Angel, Riley. They all leave. Summers women are just too much hard work. The drive is over, he got them cash, she got an apartment—though he couldn’t have known, or maybe just assumed she’d figure it out? It all boils down to the same thing: his job is done. The truce is over.

She should be happy. He’s out of her life. Finally out of her life.

So why does it feel like she’s been punched in the gut?

Notes:

Caught with no cards up your sleeve not much to choose from
Grew up all along just thinking that you couldn't lose
Don't want to live without that security
You'd think that, with a little bit more, you'd be alright

Can't stop the world. Can't stop the world. Can't stop the world
Why let it stop you. Why let it stop you. Why let it stop you
Can't stop the world. Can't stop the world
--"Can't Stop the World" by The Go-Gos

Chapter 6: Shelter from the Storm

By the time he wakes up again, it’s just before noon. Passions is on in the afternoon at some time, but he doesn’t remember what time zone Chicago is in and if that changes the programming schedule. And as much as he loves the show (and always needs to know what’s going on with Timmy), he’s missed it for a solid week at this point. He hates having to play catch up.

More to the point though, he’s fucking bored.

Bored and restless, and if he has to be confined to this box that smells of a weird mix of Chinese food, donuts, Buffy, and the almost-human tang of pig’s blood, he’s going to chew the walls.

Well, maybe not the walls, but certainly his nails down to the quick. Done that before. Not terribly enjoyable.

All in all, his legs could do with some stretching.

Duster in hand, vampire will travel. Especially, if memory serves, Chicago has a fairly extensive and high-ceilinged series of sewers. Not quite like Sunnydale’s. Those are ridiculous, practically a whole highway underneath the town. But then, demon-deal bound Mayor would think of little things like that. Spike traipses down the stairs, not wanting to deal with the interminable wait and boxing in of the elevator. At the front desk is the woman from when he checked them in. She catches his eye and slides a set of keys and some paperwork toward him.

He picks them up with a off-handed, “Ta, love.” She goes back to her magazine, which suits Spike just fine.

Then he’s out under the awning. He should go look at the car, but—he eyes the ball of fiery death overhead. A little bit too sunny out for him to try to get to it, since he can’t see it anywhere. Well, he can deal with that later, and he stuffs the keys and paperwork in his jeans pocket.

The sun is still slightly behind the building. He’s going to have to dash, which he hates, but he thinks he spots an access point in an alley across the way. He steps out into the street, dodging cars that honk at him in a gratifying way, and skips between the shadows of the trees that branch and meet over the street. There’s a few risky breezes, but only a bit of smouldering before he’s at the access door. Little twist of the wrist and the lock breaks. Door swings open and—there he is. He breathes in deep. A sewer, but not as bad as he expected it to be.

To be fair, the last time he was in town, the eighties were in full swing. Whole city was a bit more dank, which he rather liked. Was good and proper seedy, back then.

Well, he’ll just have to figure out the lay of the land now. Do a bit of scouting-like, while Buffy and the Bit are off doing their thing. Maybe he can come back with something, too. Though, he’s not sure what would top the duffel of cash that’s sitting all innocent-like up in the hotel room. As his boots splash through a puddle of water that’s condensed off the pipes running overhead, he spares half a thought for the wad of dosh sitting up there unattended. Bird at the front desk knows he did a deal. Would she go for the cash?

Probably not, he reckons. If she was the kind to steal from gangster deals, she wouldn’t still be breathing. Besides, he hung that little thingy on the door Do Not Disturb. And he’s never met someone who would do more work where they could not. Cleaning staff won’t go in the room. Probably not.

Anyway, he’s here now, might as well keep going.

He takes a moment to orient himself, which isn’t hard at all. Chicago’s on a grid system, and he heads south first. Time to get the lay of the land, and it’s better for him to do it than the Slayer. If Chicago’s demon underworld learns that she’s in town, it could go very bad. So, best that he takes care of this bit.

Then maybe he can get something to eat.

***

From the activity around the sewer access points, Spike fair figures that both Graceland and Rosehill cemeteries are, if not infested, then have their share of vamps and a smattering of demon types. He keeps to the edges of things, not waving his banner about. Time was, that’s exactly what he would’ve done. Rolled into town, knocked around whoever thought they were the local Big Bad and set up shop.

Now, he’s taking stock and making mental notes and trying to remember how close he has to be to the Slayer to feel her like a tingle on the back of his neck. Less than a full block, he reckons, so probably as long as she stays across the street and doesn’t go into the cemetery proper, they should probably be able to fly under that particular kind of radar. Word travels fast, especially when a Slayer sets up a new shop. Last thing they need is Glory gunning for them in a city that they don’t know well.

Because he’s pretty sure this will all go pear shaped at some point, he thinks as he wends his way back through the sewers. He’s not sure how it won’t. Hell gods aren’t known for a live and let live sort of mindset. Fuck, even if the mad bitch doesn’t get her hands on Dawn to open the door to her home dimension, she might just settle for revenge and literally painting the town red.

And probably his dust, too.

Well, he’s done what he can do for now. The rest, he’ll deal with it when it happens. No point in trying to predict anything. Things have a way of bollocksing up all on their own, and fussing and fretting about it only makes a man suffer more.

Huh, maybe that Buddhist monk he ate ages ago did stick around a bit.

Spike stalks through the sewers, pacing out a mental map of the undercity in this part of Chicago. Might be useless if they have to relocate to another part of the city, but for now, seems like a good idea. He has no intention of living again like he did at the Watcher’s apartment. Well, Buffy probably won’t chain him up. Though she could, and he’s distracted for several underground blocks as he pictures her securing heavy manacles around his wrists and—

He snorts. Might as well mentally dress her up in a dominatrix get up (which he’s done before, and wanked mightily to) for all the reality it's going to get him.

Except, there are things that sear across his recent memory like a brand. That kiss after Glory’s bout of torture, holding her hand in the car, and one simple admission that he’s still not sure what to do with: I don’t think I would’ve gotten this far with anyone else.

Does that mean she’s softening toward him?

He doesn’t know. Because just when he thinks they’ve got something, she runs. Not that any of that should surprise him. This whole exercise is proof that when she can’t handle something, she runs. Though, sometimes retreat is the best of a set of bad choices, Buffy runs.

So how does he make it so she doesn’t run from him?

And if he could also turn into an indestructible vampire who could rip a hell god’s head off her shoulders, that would be fantastic, while he’s trying to figure out other impossible things.

“Sod this,” he mutters to himself. He barges out of the sewer access into the late afternoon, the long east-reaching shadows giving him enough cover. God, he’s missed being in a city where the buildings are close enough and high enough to make getting around during the day less problematic. His fingers search his duster pockets for the pack of smokes, filtched at one of their pit stops before Tulsa, and instead brush against some paper. Frowning, he pulls out a wad of bills.

In the lengthening shadows, he stares at them, a bitter, sharp, hateful memory scratches like claws on glass through him.

It would never be you.

The sheer disdain in her eyes. The righteous anger and disgusted twist of her lips. Spike and William collapsed into one moment, on that fucking setee and on the piss-covered asphalt. He’d hated her so much for making him feel that all over again. His guts had roiled with it. He had nearly come apart at the seams for it.

Only he’d found her crying on the back porch. Crying and in pain and all that rage had… evaporated. Like a mist, he couldn’t put his hands on it anymore. It wafted away, only leaving a sense of loss and a fine tang of salt behind.

She’d let him be there. Let him sit next to her and pat her shoulder and just sit. Sit and be and not say a word. He’d found himself able to be still for her.

I don’t think I would’ve gotten this far with anyone else.

In his memory the dashboard lights keep her face in shadow, but he swears there's something like acceptance in her eyes. Acceptance of what he is and what can do, that he can at least try to be a man instead of a monster. Even if he never manages it. For her, God damn him, he’d try. Even if it twisted him inside out and all around. Even if he turned to ash and dust.

He’d try, because he doesn’t know how to stop feeling. Never had gotten the knack of it, so he’s going to do the only thing he can and follow the feeling down the track as far as possible.

The bills are crumpled and a bit damp. Been out in the weather, riding around in his duster all unspent.

The night she’d paid him like a whore she hated.

The night she’d let him awkwardly comfort her while her mum was sickly.

No easy nights with the Slayer. Nothing simple, nothing straightforward. They’ve circled each other for years. It drives him around the bend. It drives him wild.

He leans against the brick, still warm from the sun and glances down the shadowed street lined with shops and narrow-doored takeaway places. “Right, might as well, then.”

***

Paper bag cradled in his right arm, he lets the plastic bag with the carton of blood dangle from his fingertips. His other hand is busy with the cigarette fresh from a new pack of smokes that he lifted from a corner store a few blocks back. The last of Buffy’s fuck you money (and wouldn’t he just, but not for money, for the delight of it, for feeling her, for tasting her, testing her, and her doing the same back, harder, faster, and shit—get a grip, you idiot, he tells himself). The last of her money spent on a few bits and bobs for himself, because he might as well at this point, he’s walking back to the hotel.

Sun’s just found it’s way to the horizon, which means he doesn’t even have to dodge between the buildings anymore. He walks along in the purpling twilight underneath the yellow-orange of city lights puffing acrid smoke behind him.

Does feel good to smoke again, and he wishes he had a beer in hand, too. Was a bit hard to palm the packet of smokes, though, and he didn’t fancy testing himself against Chicago’s most corrupt civil servants. At least not with the chip in his head. God, he really misses killing the law and order set. Really, depending on the time and place, it was damn near a public service. Not that he’s against a little brutality, but he likes his brutality to be fun. Not turned against a good and proper rebellion.

Thoughts pinwheeling freely, he traipses down the sidewalk, earning a few sideways glances, and gives approximately zero fucks. He’s headed back to his girls with no money in his pockets and a little bit of word of warning about the undead and evil set around these parts. It feels right.

Outside the entrance of the hotel, he lingers, savoring the last fag he’s going to have for a while.

Can’t be having the little bit’s lungs sullied by nicotine, which fine. Girl’s a living, breathing human. Can get cancer and all that shite. Not keen on seeing the girl waste away like that, if she ever gets it. More to the point, Big Sis isn’t keen on it.

And he can always find an alley to smoke in.

The cigarette burns down to the filter. He flicks it to the ground and smears it across the concrete with the toe of his boot. Then he shoulders his way into the dingy lobby before clomping up the stairs. At the landing for their floor, he stops, feeling something off. Then he sees it, the door is open.

He drops his bags and stalks down the hallway, hating that they’re in a hotel. No way to tell if a thief has been through, with all the people coming and going—no set of regular scents. He rounds the door with a snarl, and Buffy whirls, green eyes flashing.

It’s fast, so fast he almost misses it, but he’s had practice at watching her eyes for the tiniest changes. And he would swear on everything holy and unholy alike that he saw relief there.

***

A snarl from the hallway triggers her into action, overriding the strange, gut-sinking disappointment of finding the room empty of Spike. Which is great. She wants that feeling to go away and something or someone is helpfully offering itself up for the punishment she can dish out. She can punch her feelings into submission, and it will be amazing. Except as she turns about, hands curling into fists and weight shifting to punch, Spike is standing there.

Spike in his duster and his head cocked like he’s trying to figure out what’s happening. Then he straightens and the first words out of his mouth are the worst she’s ever heard, “Might as well go get my stuff.”

It’s like the rug of the whole world had been pulled out from underneath her, and she’s on her metaphorical butt. Spike ambles back down the hallway—she’s stuck her head out to watch—and he picks up two bags, one paper, one plastic.

“Hey, he didn’t leave,” Dawn says to her, nudging her arm.

“Pity.” The word is flat and empty, though, and she knows it. Knows it, and Dawn does too, by the roll of her eyes.

But it is a pity he didn’t leave. Because now she’s got more unwelcome, uncomfortable, and generally un as in do not want variety of knowledge. Because turning around and seeing him, seeing him coming back, it had done something to her. The pit in her stomach is gone, and her limbs feel shaky and tense at the same time. Like she’s just come off a long run.

While she’s having her own internal crazy time, Dawn’s taken the paper bag from Spike. “Anything for me?”

“Maybe,” he allows as he places the plastic carton of blood in the room’s mini-fridge. Near the back.

“Liar,” Dawn says with another eye roll. “It’s all black clothes, wait. Did you go to a store?”

Then he shrugs, shoulders working and making the duster sway behind him. “I was told that nicking stuff draws too much attention. Had some extra dosh on me, thought I’d fix myself up a bit.”

“You didn’t take…” Buffy trails off, and then he’s looking at her. His eyes are blue fire.

“No,” he bites out, “I didn’t take the sodding big pile of cash from you, Slayer.”

Great, she made it even more awkward. Dawn quietly puts something back in the bag and slides out of sight. Spike’s jaw juts out, and he wrenches his gaze away from hers, and now he will leave. She’s done it now. He’s going to leave, and it sets off her stomach again. It’s like her guts are tying into knots, and why can’t she just… what? She doesn’t even know.

“I meant,” she says slowly, trying to put some kind of order over the confusing mix of feelings that she can’t keep up with let alone get a handle on. She’s out so far on a limb that she’s surprised she’s not fallen down already. Instead, it’s like she’s constantly perched on the thinnest part of the longest branch in the world swaying in a breeze that’s always switching up direction on her.

“I meant,” she repeats, trying to put a little more certainty in her voice. Because she does mean this. Because he didn’t leave. He could have, and he didn’t. “That you could have taken some of it. It’s… it’s for all of us, and you need to eat and have clothes, because you might be an exhibitionsist, but—”

His harsh bark of laughter stops her babble. She’s hanging on by her metaphorical toes to that branch. He shakes his head and watches her from underneath dark brows. “Can’t let bitty eyes see too much, hey?”

“Um, right here! And I do not want to see anything,” Dawn clarifies, indignant and flouncing as only Dawn can. “Gross.”

That imaginary breeze is still. For now. She can breathe, and she can bypass all the weird and confusing.

His eyes crinkle like he’s trying very, very hard not to smile or laugh. She watches him, the hard lines and jaw-muscle jumping of anger bleeding away, leaving something softer behind in the set of his mouth and line of his shoulders. Like a cat going from angry and back arched to… well, not that.

Maybe it’s just been a really long day.

“Well, you girls know what I got up to,” he says as he shrugs out of his duster. “Did your research work out?”

It’s such a banal question, but before Buffy can answer Dawn is bouncing on the bed, all excitement and delight. “It did! Well, not really. Chicago is a know a guy kind of city, everyone said that today. And oh wow, did everyone know a guy. It was a super long day, but we did it! We got a place! And Buffy, it’s after sunset, we should go show him!”

Dawn’s got her by the hand, and Buffy’s suddenly caught on that unstable perch again. Why is it always harder to figure things out when Spike is right there?

Thankfully, the answer this time is easy. “Dawn, we don’t have the key yet. We have to take the deposit to them tomorrow, and then we’ll get the keys.”

“Oh, right, yeah, duh.” The disappointment is clear on Dawn’s face.

“Well, how’s about you tell me all about it, Niblet?” Spike offers, and then he holds up a hand and fishes in his duster pocket and pulls out a set of car keys, spinning them around his finger. “Tell you what, let’s go get some food while we’re at it.”

“Yeah! I’m like, super hungry, could totally eat. Actually, let’s go to Devon Street. Didn’t that realtor guy say it was a good place to get Indian? And like, Giles always said that Sunnydale didn’t have proper Indian, and I want to try it.”

“Could go for a curry, myself.”

That crazy breeze is blowing again. Just a small puff, but it still makes everything feel really, really precarious. Is she really about to go for a drive and get dinner out with her sister and Spike? And talk about the apartment that they’re all about to move into together? This isn’t normal. This can’t be normal or good or right.

But it is what it is.

And it’s been forever since she’s had good naan.

Then she grins. It’s an evil grin, and it makes Spike eye her warily.

“Yeah, Indian sounds good.” Because she’s totally going to order a garlic naan. Just for fun.

***

Spike’s nose twitches at the garlic naan sitting there right in the middle of the table. He wants to glare at Buffy, but then she’d give him that faux-innocent look, and he’d growl, and she’d tease, and then he’d be sitting there getting turned because of a pointless tug-o-war about bloody fucking garlic naan.

Living for over a century, he knows he’s bent. Enjoys it, point in fact.

But it’s new for him to be so bent as to enjoy the most petty of possible arguments. Because it would be a pointless argument with Buffy.

One day, he’s going to walk into the sun because of this woman. He knows it. Fuck, Dru knew it. Doesn’t rightly know if it will be for her, because she needs someone to go up in a pillar of flame, or because he’ll throw himself into the sunlight to just bloody well end it.

Either way, Spike knows he’s done for. So he might as well enjoy the curry along the way.

Or, to be more accurate, the onion bhaji. “Fantastic, these. Better than a bloomin’ onion,” he says and pops another in his mouth.

Buffy tears at her garlic naan and chews like a God damned challenge.

“They’re not spicy?” Dawn asks. He shakes his head and pushes the plate toward her a bit.

“Not on their own. That sauce is more coriander and that one’s more chili,” he says, pointing at the green then the red sauce.

“What’s coriander?” Dawn’s face scrunches, but before Spike can answer, Buffy leans forward and takes the second to last onion bhaji, meaning if Dawn wants one, Spike has to do without.

Bitch.

“It’s British English for cilantro,” Buffy answers. “Giles got fussy about it for ages. I told him, he’s living in America, he should get used to how we say things. And of course,” she picks apart the bhaji and pops fried strands in her mouth, “he insisted we do everything wrong, from cilantro to aluminum—”

“You do,” Spike drawls. Buffy only flips her hand at him, a little dismissal.

“Anyway, Willow looked it up. Cilantro is from the Spanish, which seeing as Mexico was like… right there, made sense. We weren’t wrong, just different.”

“Oh, well, I think cilantro tastes like soap, so, no for me. I’ll just have my crunchy onion without sauce,” Dawn concludes, then she eats hers.

Then the curries show up, and they tuck in. It’s almost companionable, passing rice and curry and getting a bit of everything on their plates. He goes hard on the vindaloo. Dawn is all over the butter chicken, and Buffy, to his surprise, is mixing them together.

“What?” she asks, one golden eyebrow raised at him. “It’s the best way to get the right spice level.”

“Far be it from me to judge the Slayer in her eating habits,” he says, mostly because she’s at least eating. Dawn catches his eye and gives him a little nod of encouragement. Not only does he have a truce with the Slayer herself, oh no. That’s not enough. He’s in a conspiracy-of-two with the Slayer’s little sister to look after her, which mostly consists of making sure she damn well eats.

“Exactly. Fighting the forces of evil has some fringe benefits in the calorie burning department,” she says. It’s light and easy, and it makes him want to flip the table. For the love of buggering fuck why does this woman think she needs to count calories? It’s something that’s been nagging at him for days now, having spent all that time in close proximity with her. She’s always justifying her actions. Always qualifying what she likes or doesn't, what she does and doesn’t do. Especially if she enjoys something, because all the gods forfend that Buffy Summers just enjoy something. It sticks in his craw like a shard, though he isn’t quite sure why.

Something of his irritation must be showing on his face, because she leans back in her chair with an almost pouty frown—the frown he remembers for a year and a bit ago, under that mad spell that had him wrapped around her little finger, and he’d said pouty, pouty lip, I’m gonna get it—and he focuses on the present. In this moment where the Slayer herself looks caught between irritation and, jaw-droppingly, what he would call anxious worry.

“What?” she asks, not quite a snap. It lacks her usual sharpness, or the sharpness he’s used to from her. “What’s with the face? I can eat, you know.”

Spike opens his mouth, but then the little bit is giving him a Look. A look that says don’t be dumb! So he spoons some vindaloo in his mouth to give him time to think. (He mentally adds pulled up by a teenager to his List of Shameful ways Spike is Fucked.) He swallows the spicy curry, having decided to take his time to enjoy it. But in that time, Buffy’s only picked at her food.

Problem is, in the time he’s been eating, he hasn’t come up with anything other than his initial thoughts. They come out of his mouth anyway.

“Just that I don’t know why you care about calories, Slayer.”

“Because I don’t want to get fat, obviously. A fat Slayer wouldn’t be able to flying tackle demons.”

“Nevermind,” he grouses.

“No, no let’s talk about this. You think I should just eat whatever I want? Like I can ignore my health? That’s not a good example for Dawn.”

Dawn who is sneaking a fully half of Buffy’s garlic naan out from under her nose, because the little bit does love her carbs. And ice cream. And everything else. Like a person.

“What? And you think counting calories and having her obsessed about being thin is?” he throws back at her.

“Oh, so you’re feminist now? Really concerned about how young women view themselves and food, huh?” Buffy snaps.

“Fuck no. But who the fuck cares if you enjoy something or not? It’s not going to kill anyone if you just like food, or ice cream, or good Scotch, or anything. Don’t gotta qualify it or justify it, and it doesn’t make you more virtuous anyway. Doesn’t make things better. Just bloody well enjoy your food, pet, own it, because I don’t give a fuck. Doubt the Niblet does either, so why the blistering fuck do you?”

She stares at him, mouth slightly parted, head tilted. The restaurant isn’t that quiet, and he didn’t think he yelled. No one is really looking at him, but the wait staff are eyeing them, just a bit. He sits back in his seat, arms crossed. Dawn’s chewing is suddenly very loud, and he wants to not be here. The Slayer is going to kill him. He knows it. One way or another, this can’t work.

Buffy licks her lips, quiet. Spike watches her, but she isn’t looking at him anymore. Not really. Her gaze is inward, those green eyes sussing out something. Damned if he knows what. Dawn shrugs and has more butter chicken.

“Mom used to say things like that in LA. Before the divorce,” she whispers, looking down at her plate of food.

Dawn’s fork drops with a clink. Little sis leans her head on Buffy’s shoulder, and Buffy rests her chin on the top of Dawn’s head. “I don’t remember that.”

“You were too little,” Buffy says softly.

Spike feels like an interloper all of a sudden. This isn’t for him. This isn’t a moment he should be around for. Joyce, Joyce had been a class act, as far as he’d been concerned, but parents, mothers, well. He grimaces and turns his face away, letting the Summers girls have their moment in the hole-in-the-wall restaurant.

The clatter of silverware draws his attention back. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. The girls eat, subdued now for calling Joyce to mind. They eat in silence, but it isn’t terrible. It isn’t an oppressive silence. More like a thoughtful one. Dawn eats slowly, but Buffy takes a few more helpings of vindaloo on her plate and folds it up in the garlic naan. She eats it and catches his eye with an amused gleam in amongst that gorgeous green.

He can’t help it. He grins. Doesn’t even try to hide it.

“So,” Dawn says into the quiet, “does this mean we can get ice cream after dinner?”

***

“Turn here, I think,” Buffy directs.

“You think,” he says, that little dry dip to his voice, but he does it. Spike turns the wheel slowly with one hand and does something with the gear shift. Downshift? Upshift? She’s really not sure. The new car they’ve got is far from new, but it kind of blends in with the other cars in the area. Sedate and inconspicuous. Spike hates it. Lots of muttering under his breath, which is his way of not swearing in front of Dawn.

He drives through the post-dinner Chicago traffic, down side streets that mostly only flow in one direction. Hence the I think. The streets look different in the dark from the inside of a car. She’s pretty sure this is the way.

“Buffy’s right,” Dawn adds. “We’re almost there!” Buffy glances back at Dawn, the seatbelt pulling across her shoulder. Her little sister is vibrating. It shouldn’t feel exciting. This is their hideout, their new unasked for home base. It’s not like they drove halfway across the country to start a new life.

Except, maybe they kind of did?

She really needs to get a cell phone and call Giles. He’s got to be losing it by now.

“Here! It’s here!” Dawn’s pointing at the yellow-brick sided building. Spike manages to park the car neatly in a space that she’s surprised could fit a bicycle let alone a four-door car. What did he call it? A Taurus? Like the horoscope. Whatever, she doesn’t know cars. Doesn’t care.

Dawn flings herself out of the car and pulls Spike out by his hand. He doesn’t resist, a smile that’s trying and failing to be sardonic tugging at the corner of his lips. Master Vampire, Big Bad, Slayer of Slayers, and he’s getting pulled along by a fourteen year old. And not resisting really. Just listening as Dawn enthuses about how nice the bathroom is and Spike’s own little nook.

Apparently, Dawn has some capital I-ideas about that nook.

“So.” Spike draws the word out. His hands are shoved in his pockets as he looks up at the darkened window that’s going to be theirs this time tomorrow. Which is a whole new level of weird. She’s going to be living with Spike. And her sister, but ugh, no, this is beyond weird. This is bizarro world, and she’s just trying to keep up. Trying to balance on that high branch in that switchy-up breeze.

“So,” she echoes. Buffy’s leaning against the hood of the car, arms wrapped around herself. May nights in Chicago really are chilly. Jackets, lots of jackets are in her future.

“Yeah, so this is great, right?” Dawn’s bouncing on her toes. “I mean, yeah, I know why we’re here, but we did it. We can get a base of operations and be safe while you figure out how to kick hell god butt, and we can do it together. No one has to… no one has to—anyway.” Buffy watches as Dawn stuffs down all the things neither of them say, can really say right now. The memory of Mom is too raw. Even remembering things about the divorce earlier, yeah. Not great. Her whole brain shies away from like a bird hopping away from a shooing hand.

“Suppose so,” Spike allows, back to the neutral careful of his tone. It’s giving her the major wiggins, how careful he’s being. But then, hadn’t she been about to cut him lose? Only to be disappointed when she’d thought he’d left?

It’s too confusing for her right now. Possibly for forever.

He’s glancing at her, and she’s glancing at him, and they’re doing their metaphorical circling again. It makes her fingers twitch to do something, so she curls them into fists. Then balls those fists under her armpits.

“Dawn, you do know that this means that if you run away from me to Spike, you’re only going like ten feet down the hallway max, right?” she says, because it’s better than talking to Spike directly right now.

Spike’s head falls to his chest, but she catches his grin that he’s trying to hide from Dawn.

“Well, we can make a secret knock, and write No Buffy Allowed sign and hang it up in front of the curtains we’re going to get for him.”

“So you’re going to get curtains and have a secret knock. You’re seeing the flaw in the logic there, I hope.”

In the yellow-orange lamplight of the street, Dawn’s indignant hair flip and put on superior look is more pointed for the shadows on her face. And more endearing. Because here’s her little sister, being a little sister. An annoying pain in her ass, but still. Dawn’s sass is unstoppable. Buffy does spare a thought that maybe the monks could have made Dawn out of a bit less Buffy. As a treat for her.

“I’ll figure something out,” Dawn counters.

“Yeah,” Buffy agrees, reaching out and snagging one of Dawn’s arms and pulling her close. “You will.”

Dawn tenses for a moment, but then relaxes into Buffy’s hold. This is all beyond bizarre. Maybe she’s finally gone full on through the looking glass. If she could just find the right potion, she’d get back home where the world makes sense.

Except home is a house without Mom in it, and that doesn’t make sense either.

And maybe that’s it. She’s out of the place that hurts so much. All the reminders of all the pain. There’s no pain in Chicago, at least not for her. Maybe one day, but not yet. Not yet.

***

Spike takes his time with the cigarette. The shoreline is quiet in the middle of the night, and he walks along in his own world trailing acrid smoke.

He’s not sure what’s happening here. He knows, because it’s writ all over Buffy’s face, that she doesn’t know either. Both of them are pacing around each other, dancing still, always, maybe forever. Dancing around each other and never quite connecting right. Both of them using Dawn as a buffer. And alright, he supposes it makes sense, the Slayer focusing on her little sister who also happens to be a mystical key.

What he’s not certain about is why she agreed to what had to be Dawn’s insistence that he stay with them. In that little nook.

A nook for Spike.

God, once upon a time, he would have been snapping, snarling mad. Not even rating a room, but now. Now it just feels like grace. A grace he isn’t sure what he’s done to receive, but he’s not about to question it. At least not to Buffy herself. He’s going to grab it by both hands and damned well run with it. Or, not run, exactly. Stay, stay and show her who he can be. Even if it twists him into knots, even if it destroys him in the end. It would be the only way he’d want to go.

So. A space for him in the Slayer’s home, in her world. A place for Spike. In her home if not her heart. He’ll take it. For as long as he can.

He puffs out another cloud of smoke and stubs out the dogend on the cement sidewalk. The fresh water of Lake Michigan laps at the shore. Always a bit weird, seeing the big body of water and not smelling salt. Still, it’s a good place. Better than others. The place where he’s finally got a chance to be… he doesn’t know what. The idea of being a white hat is still something that sits at an odd, sharp angle in his head. Something that makes his hackles go up and want to roar and find a fight to throw himself into.

Until he thinks of her, and his undead heart aches and his lungs suck in oxygen for no damned reason.

Then he still wants to fight, but he wants to fight her. Wants to test himself and her, test them both and to fall to his knees when she wins, because who is he kidding? She always wins.

She wins because she’s drawn him in. Didn’t try, she just is, and bleeding moth to the flame. He’s hers. So he might as well enjoy what he can out of this whole situation until it goes tits-up.

Now, if he can just figure out how to avoid getting roped into the Target trip Dawn was talking about.

Notes:

’Twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood
When blackness was a virtue and the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form
“Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm”

 

And if I pass this way again, you can rest assured
I’ll always do my best for her, on that I give my word
In a world of steel-eyed death, and men who are fighting to be warm
“Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm”
--"Shelter From the Storm" by Bob Dylan

Chapter 7: Lost in the Supermarket

Spike’s in Hell. It’s finally happened. He’s lost the wrong fight and had gone on to that final, dusty farewell, and now he’s in Hell. That’s the only explanation for it. For the harsh halogen lighting, the screaming babies, the old biddies haranguing red-shirted wage slaves, and the general blank apathy that not even aggressive lemon-scented bleach could wash away. To top it all off, over all of that, the speakers play a persistent selection of overproduced pop that makes him want to smash everything to smithereens.

There is a Hell, and Hell is Target.

Meanwhile, Buffy and Dawn are happy as two girls in well, a shop. He trudges alongside the cart Buffy is pushing and is seriously thinking about falling on some of the stakes in the garden department. Only, they’re plastic.

“Not even wood,” he mutters.

“You say something, William?” Buffy asks, her green eyes dancing. She’s grinning at every grumble and snarl that makes it past his lips, like she knows there’s at least ten times as many dying to break free.

Oh sure, after dropping off the deposit, they got to toddle off to the thrift store and Goodwill during the day, toting things back and forth on the El-train. Even had a few tickets for larger items—mattresses, bed frames, and a table and chair set—that the folks would deliver with the help of that Women’s Shelter. He likes thrift stores. Quality finds in thrift stores, and Goodwill isn’t so bad either. All sorts of hidden things waiting to be found. Or some really demented things. He can recall many a time when he’d bashed into such a place to find a dolly or some such for Dru.

But the Targets of the world are an abomination. A pocket of some hell dimension bubbled up into this reality and burst like a boil of branded merchandise wrapped up in plastic.

“No,” he snarls.

“You know, maybe we can make another turn around the store? Really make sure we got enough towels.”

“We have enough sodding towels, Slayer.”

“Anne,” she corrects mildly with a point of her finger and a cant of her hip. Which, he reckons is alright, even if he’s in Hell. The way she’s pushing that cart, her arms braced on the bar and her ass out just a bit, and yeah, maybe he just lingers behind her a little bit? Allow himself at least an eyeful. Could take the edge off being in Hell.

He slows his step and does just that while Buffy and the bit pick out cereal—because Target has food too, of course. Anything the store can do to prolong the Hellish experience. Hands shoved into his pockets, he scuffs and kicks his boots along the white tile, enjoying the black marks he leaves behind. Sure, that’s not evil, but it’s annoying, and kind of funny when Buffy notices and raises one eyebrow at him like she’s above being annoying. The woman is very annoying. Annoyingly gorgeous and kind and phenomenal in a fight, and fuck he really needs to have something to do that isn’t think about her. He draws a breath, going to tell her that he’s going to check out the music department—because he’s already picked up a box of Shredded Wheat (no Weetabix here, but it’ll do in a pinch)—when he sees Dawn dance around the corner. A curtain of long brown hair flips and slips, and she’s gone.

“Oi! Da—Charlotte,” he barks, and the girl herself pops her head back around the corner. She’s all big blue eyes and a waterfall of brown hair and there’s something about the tilt of her head that it throws him back over a hundred years, to another bright eyed girl, and why the bleeding fuck did he suggest Charlotte?

“What?” she asks, clearly irritated. “I was like, just around the corner.”

Then, Buffy, who is oddly calm even though little sister just went out of sight after agreeing to stay in sight, just says, “You with the humoring of the worry for now, remember?

Dawn rolls her eyes and pointedly stands at the very far end of the aisle. Buffy stands up from her lackadaisical method of cart pushing and makes a show of pondering ketchup. Spike picks at the cuticles of his nails instead of smashing through the shelves like he wants.

“You okay there?” Buffy asks him quietly. He’s pretty sure he’d just done a double take. She’s still facing the ketchup, but her eyes flick over to him. Just a quick there and gone glance. It’s nothing. It’s everything.

He shrugs. “Fine, Sl—Anne. Anne, ‘m fine. Just hate this place. Might go step out for a smoke.”

The way she takes time picking up one ketchup—they’re just ketchup, he wants to scream, not the bloody Oracle of Delphi. He doesn’t know what’s going on right now. What he knows is Dawn is already starting to chafe at being restricted. Buffy’s trying a gentler approach with the girl, which is probably not a bad idea, and he’s standing there trying not to tear the store apart because—well, lots of reasons.

“You’re looking a little pent up, so probably not a bad idea. We’ll meet you out there.”

“Yeah, alright.”

He’s agreed, but he lingers. Dawn is glaring at mayonnaise, and if this sister condiment standoff keeps going on, then he might just really go test out plastic stakes.

“Spike, we’ll be okay.” Her voice is almost gentle, and now he’s not certain if Target is Hell. But it sure as shit isn’t in the normal world.

“I know that,” he says. Then he strides past Dawn and mutters, “I’m headed out for a smoke, Bit. Pick us up something fun, would you?”

It’s just a stupid thing to stay. Something that just popped out of his mouth, but by the way Dawn’s face breaks into a grin, he thinks it might have been the rare right thing.

“Something Buffy would or wouldn’t like?” she asks.

“Dealer’s choice,” he answers.

She bounces on her toes and claps her hands together with all the glee of a little sister about to pull one over on Big Sis, and in that is an echo from a century and an ocean away. A delighted, delightful girl who had looked up to him, once upon a time.

He has to get out of this damned fucking Target.

His strides are heavy and fast. No one gets in his way as he stalks out into the night, and when he finally, finally takes a drag on a cigarette, he leans back against the wall and vows to never go into that place ever again.

***

“Okay, groceries are put away,” Buffy ticks off, “All the dishes and whatever have homes, sleeping bags set up for me and Dawn in the bedroom, and you guys are working on the Spike-nook, which is a thing that’s happening.”

Spike doesn’t turn around to look at her. Instead, he’s stretching up as far as he can to put a tension bar across the opening for the nook, already threaded with heavy black curtains. The doors came off pretty easily, since once he was in there along with the foldable camp bed, those doors couldn’t close. Dawn’s sitting on the floor unwinding a long string of twinkle lights.

“It’s going to be so awesome,” Dawn says, wiggling happily. Like a kid. Which, yeah, Dawn’s a kid. Of course she’s a kid. A kid getting to be a kid. “We get these up, and presto, awesome vampire hideout in our apartment.”

“Gotta say, more partial to vampire hideout than Spike-nook.” His back is still to her, but his duster is hung up in the front entry closet, so it's just him in a black t-shirt. A t-shirt that’s riding up, exposing a swath of pale skin. Then she shakes herself. This whole thing will never not throw her, she thinks. Spike being all… homey.

His crypt was pretty bare bones, last she’d seen it. Then again, he could just be making allowances for Dawn’s enthusiasm. He seems to make all kinds of allowances for Dawn, which Buffy doesn’t exactly find bad. There’s also the look he had on his face in Target, like he’d swallowed a hot coal. Something about Dawn is starting to twig Spike, but she’s not sure what. It could be that he’s just starting to figure out what living with Dawn all the time might mean. Well, at least Buffy won’t be enduring it all on her lonesome.

“I vote for whatever you hate the most,” she says, keeping her voice perky. The exact pitch she knows he hates. It works, because he glares at her over his shoulder and growls. Just a little bit. God, it’s just too easy sometimes, poking at him.

“Well, I think vampire hideout is better, too,” Dawn puts in. “Two against one, we win.”

“Thanks,” Spike says with a grunt as he finally gets the tension rod fixed up. “Appreciate the support, Niblet.”

“In what world is this a democracy?” Buffy asks archly and crosses her arms.

“Watch out, Slayer, you might end up with a revolution on your hands.” Spike’s voice is low and silky dangerous, but the tilt of his head is kind of irreverent. Just a bit ironic, maybe.

“Workers of the world unite, you have nothing to lose but your chains!” Dawn quotes as she throws her arms up like she’s holding a hammer.

“Spike, could you not try to incite revolutions and Communist uprisings?” But before Spike could do more than spread his hands and shake his head, Dawn piped up.

“Hey, I looked it up on my own after Anya went all uber-capitalist. It was kind of funny, talking to her about the means of production and all that. She’d get so worked up.” Dawn’s smile was entirely bratty kid sister for that moment, but then her smile faded at the edges and she fiddled with the string of lights. “Xander made me stop. It wasn’t cool, I suppose. … Buffy, are we. I mean… how long is this hide out thing going to last?”

As quick as that, the good feeling evaporates. Like a vacuum sucking up all the oxygen in the room. She kneels in front of Dawn and takes her sister’s hands in her own. “I don’t know. I wish I had a better answer for you, but I don’t. It’s been only, God, it’s only been five days, Dawn, since we left Sunnydale. Maybe, if we’re lucky, the team’s found something, but even with all the Council information. We can wait it out here better than in Sunnydale. We were too exposed there.”

“I know. I do, I just.” Dawn fidgets, legs butterflying and picking at her jeans. “I’ve been trying to be all upbeat Dawn, but it’s hard, and then I think about everyone, and it’s like. Did we abandon them, Buffy? Did we just… leave them behind? And what about Tara? Are we bad friends? Did we do something wrong?”

“No, Dawn, no. If anyone did anything wrong, it’s me. I made this choice, and I still stand by it. We had no idea what to do, and the only way to get out was to get out fast. It might not feel like it, but by leaving, you did the best thing you could to protect them. The only thing you could do.” She holds Dawn’s hands and squeezes. Dawn squeezes back, but it’s not enough. Buffy leans forward and holds Dawn tight about the shoulders. Dawn clings back. The ship of her life is so far off course it’s gone past tragic, sailed on by funny, and is now in uncharted waters she doesn’t even have a word for.

Dawn sniffs and starts to pull herself together and pull away. Buffy lets her. Pushing her hair behind her ears, Dawn glances around, sheepish but with a belligerent set to her mouth. Buffy bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning. Just for that alone, for Dawn being Dawn, Buffy would sail through any waters, be they strange, new, or entirely crazy.

“Okay, so freak out over. Can we not make a big deal out of it? I got a little weepy and worried, but I’m over it. Totally fine.” Dawn goes back to undoing the twisties around the twinkle lights.

“Got it, no worries in this quarter,” Buffy assures. Or tries to. Dawn chews at her lip, but doesn’t say anything.

“Not terribly judgmental myself,” Spike says. He’s standing a little distance off, not getting too close and holding himself awkwardly. Yeah, teenage girl upset cannot have been on his list of things this whole gig would come with. Well, since he keeps being around, means he just gets to experience the joys, too.

Dawn, though, fixes him with a look of pure disbelief. “You are super judgmental.”

“About music, which is a right and proper thing to be judgmental about, Little Bit,” he counters.

“Oh! That reminds me!” Dawn says. She flings herself off the floor and down the hall. Spike raises a curious eyebrow at Buffy, and she, well, isn’t sure what she thinks just then. This is so weirdly domestic, putting together an apartment and comforting Dawn, and it kind of throws her, having him around. Though, it’s becoming a bit more, if not normal, than something she’s getting used to.

Not to mention, she kind of wants to watch what’s about to happen, because she knows what Dawn’s gone to get.

Her little sister reappears holding a Target bag. Spike’s eyes darken at the logo, but then Dawn starts acting like a reverse Santa. A kid giving an immortal some gifts. First out is the mini-boombox. It was the cheapest thing in the store, not much more than an AM/FM radio with a cassette player. Dawn shoves it into Spike’s unprepared hands.

“That’s for just hanging out. Always need a way to listen to music,” Dawn rattles off, “and I found some tapes, cause, like apparently the Midwest is five years behind the rest of the world.”

“Niblet, if you have boyband tapes in that bag, I will smash them with a hammer,” he threatens. Dawn, however, is immune to Spike threats. She always has been, Buffy knows. They just slide right off her like water off a duck.

Maybe because she knows Spike threats mean a whole heap of diddly when it comes to her.

“No, because they play current music on the radio, but I got a few things for you.” Buffy watches as Dawn hands Spike a pile of cassette tapes. They were all in the bargain bin. “I found a couple bands that Jancie’s brother likes, but the rest is older or random stuff. Don’t think there’s any punk in there.”

His face is a study in suppression. First, his eyes go a bit wide, and he stares at the haul in his hands like he’s not sure what to do with it. Then he blinks and his jaw works, making his expression shift from surprised to wry. “That’s alright, Little Bit.”

“There’s one more thing,” Dawn says. Then she takes out the last thing from the bag. The thing that Buffy saw and thought would be a good idea. Not that she’d tell him that. It just made sense. It was logical. Dawn offers it up, and Spike sets down the boombox and cassettes to take the walkman. “It’s for when Buffy and I are sleeping, so you can listen to music when you’re on creature-of-the-night time. Even has some headphones. Again, not the greatest, obviously, but—”

“It’s right thoughtful of you, Niblet,” he says, and because there’s nothing else holding her attention, Buffy’s seeing it in real time: Spike a little bit choked up. He pushes it down and away as fast as he can, but it’s too late. She’s seen it. And it doesn’t really change anything. She’s known for years that vampires kind of echo the feelings they would have had in real life. It’s just, she’s never seen an echo that strong except in maybe a vampire that’s still new to unlife. Spike’s over a century old. All those old, human feelings shouldn’t be hanging around.

It just kind of looks like they are.

But seeing it, watching it happen and watching him push even the echo of emotion away gives her pause. She’s starting to have the uncomfortable suspicion that even if Spike’s emotional range is limited (or stunted), and that he doesn’t feel the way a person with a soul feels, his feelings are real for him. Which might just make them real enough.

It’s a concept that makes her shoulder blades twinge. An uncomfortable feeling, like someone’s leveling a crossbow at her back. That something is coming for her, and she can’t fight it.

“Well, let’s get some music going,” he says and like a kid on Christmas opens up the boombox and plugs it in. He and Dawn argue about what to play first. That isn’t what’s occupying her thoughts, though. They’ll pick something that she probably won’t like.

Regardless, that’s when she knows that, for good or ill, Spike really is in this. He’s really going to stick it out. He’s not going to up and vanish or try to wander off. She picked him for this mission, and he’s going to see it through even if it drives him crazy. Because being around Dawn will drive him crazy eventually.

That’s also when she knows that she needs to have an actual conversation with Spike, and what she’s going to ask him might push him past what he’s capable of, real enough feelings or no.

***

A cloud of acrid smoke swirls past his lips into the cool Chicago night air. Feels good being on a roof again, on the top of the apartment complex with the high, thin tree branches swaying in the night breeze. He’s only four stories up, but it’s a pocket of privacy. The Niblet and even Buffy have tried to make that nook habitable, but it’s not much good for more than sleeping and zoning out while listening to music on his walkman—and fuck, isn’t that a kick to the head? Here he is, getting prezzies from the Summers girls.

Though he supposes it’s more on the order of keeping him placated in a way that won’t annoy them.

Still, he’s feeling a bit more, he doesn’t quite know. Lost in memory. Makes sense, he supposes. With the driving and the getting set up here, there hasn’t been a lot of proper action to keep him occupied. Leaves his brain ticking over extra time. Memory swirls up around him like smoke itself, and he’s not sure what he’s going to find if he grabs onto it. So he wraps one arm around himself in an echo of being cold and lets the cigarette burn down to the stub.

He’s just about to toddle back on down to go through some of those cassettes when he hears the click of a door and the light step of Slayer feet on the metal firescape.

Just like that, he’s held in place. God save him from his own heart. Please.

She climbs up and gains the roof with more than Slayer-granted grace. There’s a confidence in her movements that’s combined with an ease that belies real power and her awareness of it. The sight of her, wearing nothing more bold than a pair of jeans and a fuzzy green sweater. His fingers itch to feel it, to feel the softness and the strength of her underneath it. He jams his hands into his duster pockets.

“Slayer,” he says. Hardly the most original of openings, but he had figured she’d be cozied up in the bedroom she’s all set to share with the Niblet. That they’d want some time to themselves. He’s not prepared to deal with her just now.

“Well, I see you’ve got your smoking spot all picked out.” She nods in the direction of his pile of discarded dogends. Huh, he’s been up here a bit longer than he’s reckoned.

“Yeah, well. You and the Bit said something about it being a no smoking building.” He shrugs, leaving the rest unsaid. No point in saying it, if she can fill in the blanks. Then he won’t have to actually say it and risk saying more than he intends. He’s already done that, gone too far, and he knows his place.

But his traitorous heart always wants more than it can have.

She leans against the crenelated bricks that encircle the top of the building, arms crossed, but she’s not angry. No, no he knows this look. It’s Buffy bracing for something. It’s there in the set of her shoulders, not tense but determined, and the way her face is guarded.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. She wouldn’t kick him out now, would she? Not after she spent dosh on him. Or leastways let Dawn do so. They’ve been on a see-saw ever since, well, forever, he supposes. Since he first showed up in Sunnydale and tried his damnedest to kill her. Back and forth, dancing around and circling. It’s just been getting harder to hang on, these ups and downs.

“We need to have a talk, you and me,” she says quietly, but with such authority. God, she’s glorious. It makes him cock his head and grin.

“Do we, now?” he asks, eyebrow raised.

“I don’t see how this will work without it. I meant what I said, Spike, I really don’t think I would have gotten this far with anyone else, and Dawn really does trust and feel safe with you. That, that means something. I don’t know what, but it does. But if this is going to work, you and me in close proximity, there’s something we need to do.”

“Alright, I’m curious what this is. Some kind of magical pact? Were you talking to the witch, and she give you a spell to make sure I don’t do a runner or something like that?”

“No,” she says with a huff that’s too dry to be a laugh. “No, not by a long shot. I’ve been thinking about this, and what we need is a clean slate.”

And he’s right back to being the damned coyote. Anvils dropping on his head all over the place. He peers at her for a long moment, not quite sure what she’s playing at. He finds what he never expected in the set of her mouth and the pointedness of her eyes. She is dead bloody serious.

“So, let me see if I got the idea, here. We’re going to, what? Say that all that we’ve done is forgotten. Well done, Slayer, you chained me to a tub, punched me in the nose a lot, and stomped on my heart good and proper, and that’s just fine. And you’re going to be all Spike, you’re an annoying pain in my ass and evil, but I’m going to just forget all the times you tried to kill me.” He scoffs. “You’re really going to wipe away, what? The last three years, start over like it never happened? Not exactly your style, pet. You’re a pretty good grudge holder, and I should know, I’ve been on the end of your grudge for years.”

“I knew this was a bad idea,” she mutters.

“Then why are you doing it?” he pushes.

“Because it’s the only thing I can think of that will make this work! God, Spike.” Her hands ball into tiny but powerful fists, and he wants to kick himself. Why is he always such an idiot? Here she is offering an olive branch, and he’s trying to bat it away.

Why can’t he take her up on it?

He sighs and he slumps against the roof’s half wall, a few feet away from her. In a soft voice, he manages a strange string of words, “Let’s hear the rest of it, Slayer. How do we do this clean slate thing, then?”

She closes her eyes and breathes deeply which always does lovely things to her chest. Oh, well, there’s a thing he could watch for a while. But then she opens her eyes and regards him with trepidation. There’s an uncertainty in her posture and arch of her brows. A wariness that isn’t fear, but more like she’s about to take a leap and she isn’t sure where she’s landing.

Makes two of them.

It stills the restless, wary part of him. This is uncharted territory for them both. Makes it feel a little less confusing and difficult, being lost, if not with, then near to Buffy.

“Like I said, I’ve been thinking about it, and it wasn’t the times you tried to kill me that stuck out.”

“Well, that’s just hurtful.” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself. He grimaces and turns his head away, but then he hears her indelicate snort of laughter.

“Spike, focus, please.”

“Right, focusing, Slayer.”

“Good.” She clears her throat and shifts against the half-wall. Her strong hands rub at her arms, and her sweater looks so soft and touchable, and that makes his fingers twitch with the urge to do just that. Focus, he’s supposed to focus. So he watches her face in the mix of star light and ambient glow of the street lights below them. The face he aches to merely press fingertips to and trace the curve of her cheek.

“Like I was saying,” she continues, tone dry, and it makes him smile to hear. “It’s expected. Vampire, vampire Slayer. We fight, we try to kill each other. Even your hare-brained schemes, working with Adam, all of that. It was business as usual, I guess. Not something that really fusses the radar, you know? The thing that, the thing that really stands out, that really hurt. It was that robot. God, it was obscene and vile, and Spike it—”

“I get it,” he snarls. He’s supposed to take this olive branch. She’s trying, but God, he’s so tired of being a punching bag. Why can’t she drop it? He got tortured by the Hell Bitch because of that damned robot. But did he give the Niblet away? No, no he did not. Nearly got dusted for his trouble. Then, Miss High and Mighty herself comes to him with this run away plan, and there he is barely recovered, and he signs up for it. Drives for three bloody nights, gets her ten thousand fucking dollars, and he’s still getting raked over the coals for the damned bot.

“I don’t think you do.” She levers herself off the half wall and glares at him. Those bright eyes bore into his, and he invades her space in one step. She doesn’t back up. No, she never does. And that’s the problem, right? That she never lets a damned thing go, that she never lets up.

Clean slate his arse.

“Oh, I understand alright Slayer,” he purrs. His eyes narrow, and she doesn’t flinch but she does pause. “I understand damned well. You want to make sure I’m properly abject, don’t you? Your pet monster all house broken and tame. Except, you didn’t go running to your original tame monster, did you? No, you came to me. Me because I’m the one who will do what it takes. Who will go further than you can—”

“It’s not about that.” Her voice is just short of a yell, and it rings in the night. “Actually listen, you moron. It hurt, Spike. That robot, hurt, okay? Are you happy now? You took something from me, having that thing made, using it. Do you know what it feels like?” There are tears standing in her eyes, and once upon a time he would have laughed. He would have laughed and twisted any knife he could, but now it feels like a knife in his own guts. The hell god’s own finger twisting in his flesh. Soldier Boy’s plastic stake driving for his heart.

He feels like a trapped animal. His legs are caught, metal teeth sawing through muscle, grinding into bone. He’s gulping in air that he doesn’t need. With a snarl of inarticulate rage, rage at her, at himself, he flings himself off the building. He lands with barely a whisper and stalks into the night, duster billowing behind him.

***

Buffy blinks. Spike was there, right in her face, and now he’s not. She peers over the wall and watches the white-blond patch of his hair grow smaller and smaller as he walks away. She knew this was the likely outcome. That when push came to shove, when Spike was asked to acknowledge that one thing he did was way out of line, even for him, he left.

She doesn’t like the way it cuts into her. She doesn’t like the way it feels like she’s crawling on that high, wavering branch now. That the winds of her life have stopped, but for some reason she’s crawling. She’s really starting to hate the mental images she comes up with for herself.

Sniffing and wiping away the tears from her cheeks, she contemplates the pile of cigarette butts he’s left behind. She should clean them up. It can’t be good for them to be just left out.

But she’s tired of cleaning up other people’s messes. She’s got enough to deal with. There’s always Dawn, and then there’s getting some credit on her new Nokia brick to call Giles and the gang. See if they’re still able to help, even though she’s pulled another disappearing act. Of course, she’s got to work out positive cash flow, because they’re now down to closer to eight thousand dollars, and that won’t last forever.

God, she’s so tired. She just thought, maybe, she might have some help for this. Granted, it would have been Spike-help, so probably snarky, stinking of cigarettes, and likely to be irritating. It still would have been something.

And, maybe, she thinks as the thought unfurls, a strange ribbon in her own head that she watches unwind. Maybe she’d convinced herself that Spike was the kind of person who didn’t just leave. Heck, for all that he’s a demon, he stuck by his literally crazy ex for literal decades.

No, if she keeps thinking like this and, worse, comparing herself to Druscilla, she’s really going to drive herself around the bend. She needs to get sleep and work on next steps. Figure out the next right thing.

For some reason, though, she leans on the brick half-wall and stares up at the stars. The stars don’t leave, she thinks. Even if clouds cover them over or the sun is out, the stars are still there. Even when she can’t see them, they’re shining.

She likes the idea of that.

***

“You.” His forehead smacks into brick. “Are.” Another smack. “A fucking.” The mortar crumbles slightly. “Idiot,” he growls, and the brick cracks.

He rests his head against the broken brick siding, desperate for a cigarette, but of course he finished his pack on the roof and the rest are in the apartment. The apartment he’d been all set on sharing with the Slayer and Dawn and… being around. Help the Slayer protect the Niblet. Maybe educate them both, well, mostly Dawn, on the finer points of non-boyband music. Like it not being boyband music.

No, he had to go and snarl and snap at the Slayer because she brought up the bloody God damned bot.

He wishes he’d never had that damned thing made. He wishes the little pissant had skipped town one hour earlier, and he’d had a chance to, what? Just get over the fact that Buffy never would, never could love him? Or should he have pined away the rest of his unlife because she’d never grace him with her favor? Like some stupid pillock?

She flung it at him, and it made his guts twist up. He felt… God help him, he felt shame. For the first time since he’d died. Shame roiled in his guts for it, and the distance between Spike and Willam is collapsing at an ever increasing rate, and he can’t do this. He can’t be that man again. That useless, soppy waste. The little pushover, the little forlorn sad poet who when fresh-minted as a vampire had still been so soft.

God, no, he can’t be William again. He can’t, he won’t. He won’t go back to that settee and the sickly mum with the ghosts of all her dead children around her. With the ghost of a girl who should have lived but died fevered and delirious while he was away.

He’s Spike. He’s the creature he made himself be. Year by year, fight by fight, feeding by feeding. The creature Druscilla loved and stoked the fires of. The creature Angelus showed him how to be.

But he made her cry.

The night air is cold in his dead lungs.

It hurt her. It took something from her. No, not it. Not the robot. He did that. And it twists in his guts. It makes him want to scream and bash himself against a wall, because the pain of his body would be better than feeling this. He doesn’t have a soul, far from it, but it’s her pain that sets off a chord in him. It makes whatever he is—demon and man, or the memory of a man—resonate in sympathy with her anger and heartache.

He doesn't know what’s wrong with him. No human suffering or agony has ever made him feel like this before, not since he’s been turned, but no. That’s not quite true, is it, but before another memory can waft up, he yanks himself back from the edge.

There’s a choice to be made. He could go. He could leave. She came up that fire escape and had to know that this was a possibility. Or, or he could stay. And he knows what the price of staying is. Knows it like a keen knife to his flesh.

Maybe he could just flay himself open instead? Make an offering of body and blood, but no. He can just hear her complain about blood on the nice hardwood. Can just see that adorably scrunched nose and that little ew she makes with her lips.

Spike sighs and walks, hoping his feet know better than his head.

***

The knock startles her. It comes from the fire escape door. She approaches it cautiously, and a strange fission of relief goes off in her chest when she senses the familiar buzz of a vampire nearby.

Weird reaction, but she’s not going to examine that right now.

She opens the door, and there he is. He’s hugging his duster around him, and she’d swear he looks lost. Especially with his hair all broken free of the usual sheen of gel and all curly. Makes him look, well, like a lost boy. He peers inside the apartment, but doesn’t come in. So she steps back. He crosses the threshold. The door closes with a soft snick, and she throws the deadbolt. He paces the living area slowly, and she lets him.

He came back. A flicker of shock dances in her head, almost closer to disbelief as to what she’s seeing. She really had not been expecting that. Not after his enraged and very dramatic exit. Apparently, though, that’s the Spike of an hour ago. The Spike of now is working himself up to something.

It reminds her of how she was pacing down here while he smoked. Working herself up to put her cards on the table. Hoping he’d do the same. For Dawn’s sake if nothing else.

Which is still a strange thing to think, knowing in her bones that Spike would lay it on the line for Dawn. Sure, the torture he endured, but Buffy’s pretty sure that’s not the whole reason. She just has no idea what it is. Before she can try to puzzle at that thought, Spike finally starts talking.

“I’m not good at apologies.” His voice is so low and deep, it’s beyond a whisper. It’s a rumble in the air itself. His fingers grip at his sides, and he holds himself tighter in his duster. Like he’s trying to hold himself together. There’s a nagging suspicion in her head that he might just be scared. That there’s something about this whole situation that’s got him majorly freaked.

Not really helping with her own internal state, but she’s also pretty curious what about this whole situation is setting him off. It shouldn’t make sense. Vampire, demon, evil, but here he is. Trying.

He grimaces, that head-tilting angry-slash-frustrated one that he has, but his eyes are closed. He’s not doing that while he’s glaring at her. Instead, she has the sense that all of this is inward directed. Spike’s angry at himself.

Another thing she didn’t think she’d ever see.

“I spent a century not apologising to anyone, save Dru, and even then that was more mollifying her. Keeping her pampered and happy and all that. So. Here goes.” He draws in a breath, and finally opens his eyes. Those blue eyes that are unexpectedly intent, like he’s fighting to say what he’s saying, but also weirdly exposed. That’s the only word she has for it. He’s cracking open some part of himself, and it makes her want to run out the door.

What holds her in place is knowing she asked for this, for this apology, so she has to hear it out.

“I’m sorry I had the robot made,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry I took something from you. I… I wanted you.” His voice is a rasp on those words, raw and exposed. There’s that word again in her head. It buttons her lips, because that’s so much she doesn’t want to get into right now. He draws in a shuddering breath. “I wanted you, and I knew I’d never have you. You’d never.” His voice breaks a little. He snarls and twists his head away from her, swallowing something bitter and sharp. He’s not angry at her, she realizes. He’s swallowing his own frustrations and giving her exactly what she’s asked for. Awkwardly and in his own Spike kind of way, but still doing it. He manages a terse but honest, “I’m sorry. I was stupid. Wrong and stupid and I’m sorry. Is that it? Is that enough?”

Sometimes, in her life, when a plan works, Buffy’s not quite sure what to do with it. Like, oh hey, she got what she wanted, now what? It’s like getting a present she asked for but didn’t think through entirely. Like when one of her friends when she was back in LA got a kitten. Hannah, that was her name. Hannah got a kitten and loved it, but then she had to clean up after it and take care of it, and Hannah complained about the cat all the time. It was the start the of be careful of what you wish for lesson that she hasn’t stopped getting handed to her.

Well, she wanted this apology. Didn’t she?

She’s been quiet for a long time, long enough for him to be looking at her all again. He’s holding himself like a wounded wild animal. Wary but also waiting on her to do something, like she could open up the trap he’s caught in and he knows it. There’s so much about this that she doesn’t really want to dig into.

But she has to, doesn’t she? She started this, and it would just be wrong, she supposes, to not finish it.

“I’ve heard better apologies,” she says slowly, but too slowly.

His jaw works hard and he glares at her, arms unwinding from his midsection and shoulders squaring up. “I tried, alright, Slayer. If that’s not enough for you, then I’ll go. I’m sure you kept those receipts, or you can use all that for yourself. Happy to see the back of me I expect. Was this just one more round of kick the Spike? Get me to apologize and laugh at me for it. God, you are fucking aggravating—”

“It’s actually one of my better points, but you could let me finish what I was saying.” God, why did he make it so difficult? That whole wounded animal thought was really doing a lot of the work. Great, so she’s all up in a tree getting tossed around and dealing with wounded-animal Spike who’s all snappy. Let’s just mix all the mental visuals for fun. “I was saying I’ve heard better apologies, but I’ve also heard worse ones.”

The apple of his throat bobs and his mouth works soundlessly before he settles on a surprised, “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” Her voice dips low in imitation of him, which makes him shoot her glare at half-power so she rolls her eyes. It’s childish and stupid, but then that’s Spike. And what he brings out in her. She draws in a breath and tries to get back on track. “Anyway, look, if you can extend an apology, then I can accept it.”

Poof, the Spike-glare goes away. Just like that. Evaporating into nothing. He’s back to that kind of lost vibe, arms going back around himself. The long line of his duster bunches up around him, another kind of shield, she realizes. A shield from what, though, she’s got zero clue.

“We’re all clean slate then, are we now, Slayer?”

“Yeah, we’re clean slate, Spike.”

Slowly, his shoulders lower, and so do hers. God, she hadn’t realized how tense she’d gotten. She’s had more restful patrols, if she’s honest. It wasn’t Spike himself. She knew she could kick him around the apartment, down the block, and into next week if she had to. It was the whole situation making her tense. She was used to a different script. One where she needed an apology and the other person, the guy, on the end of it trying to find ways to not apologize.

Sure, he’d had his little blow up at her phrasing, but even then, he’d been upset thinking his apology had been rejected. She supposes she’s never enjoyed her apologies thrown back her face either.

He rocks back on his heels. She leans back on the kitchen counter. From down the hall, there’s the nylon scrape of Dawn shifting around in her sleeping bag. She’s really hoping Dawn slept through all that.

“Alright then.” He nods as if to himself. Like he’s reordering the world in his head. Then he regards her curiously. “We don’t have to do some twaddle like a fake re-introduction, do we?”

The question startles a laugh out of her. “No, that’s fine. I think we can both live without the corniness. Besides, there’s lots to do, like figure out how to work my new cell phone to call Giles and keep a positive cash flow while we’re hiding out. Oh, and kill a hell god.”

“Can’t forget that,” he drawls, but he presses a hand over his chest. Where Glory had tried to tear him apart.

“But all that,” she says around a yawn, “is a tomorrow problem. Good night, Spike.”

“Good night, Slayer,” he says, and then adds, “Buffy.”

They share an awkward smile, and she wanders ten feet down the hallway to her own pile of blankets and a cheap sleeping bag. Like she said, lots to do. And now at least she knows for sure. Spike isn’t going anywhere.

Sleep claims her quickly, and she doesn’t have time to wonder about why.

***

He watches her shuffle down the hallway. The door closes behind her with a quiet snick. And he stands there like a gormless twit for another good minute or so.

She’d accepted his apology. In a very Slayer manner, of course. Buggering Christ, when he thought she’d been kicking him when he’d been down. Seen red good and proper, because he was right there again, being dragged along and laughed at—only that wasn’t what she’d been doing.

He’s got a clean slate. They’ve got a clean slate now. All the pain and hurt wiped away. He doesn’t know if it’s as easy as all that, but he desperately wants to believe it can be.

In his little nook, he toes off his boots and flings his socks into the hamper Dawn made him put in this cramped space. He yanks the curtains shut before digging out that walkman thingy. Then he grabs a jewel case at random and pushes a cassette home into the slot. Headphones on, he stretches out on the cot. It’s slightly more comfortable than a slab of stone, far less so than the plush bed in the cave under his crypt. Still, better than the floor. It’ll do.

The twinkle lights are all red, and they put out a steady low light. More than enough for him to see by. He lets his gaze go out of focus as the music starts up. It’s not familiar, but it’s not a boyband. Takes a bit to get going, but once it does, the song has a decent driving beat and the lyrics have a bit of bite.

He’ll take it.

He’ll take a lot, endure a lot. But he always gets back up. So, question is what does he do from here? No damned clue, of course. He lets the music wash over him, and he brings to mind the image of her face, soft from sleepiness, when she wished him good night. When he did the same. Simple rote words, said a billion times over every day.

But something about getting to say those words to her.

Not the words he wants to say, not the words that sear whatever is the essence of him, but it’s something. But there’s so many words. Words that press up against his mouth, that twine around his tongue, that batter at his teeth. He can’t say them. She won’t hear them, doesn’t want to hear them, but he has to get them out, so—

He paws at his duster and pulls out a little notebook. Lifted it from that bloody hell-scape of a store. Fit into his hand and then his pocket neat as you please. A bit more rummaging, and he turns up a pen and then, for the first time in over a century, he writes.

***

The blue of the sky is crisp and clear. It’s more like a California winter morning than anything she’s ever associated with spring. She zips her jacket up under her chin and strides to the 7-11 that’s around the corner. There, she works with the attendant to top up the credit on the clunky Nokia phone she found at Target, and just like that she has a line back to Sunnydale.

She thanks the attendant and grabs a two-dollar coffee and donut combo, which comes with near instant regret. The coffee is scalding and bitter and the donut is both stale and oversweet. Ugh, she really hopes that Chicago has better coffee and donuts than this. Still, she bought it. Probably would be a waste to not eat it.

When she passes by a trash can, she throws both in anyway. Some things just aren’t worth suffering through.

Lingering in front of the main door, she has half a thought about going to a park to call Giles. Dawn had been still asleep when she’d left—not much more than a rat’s nest of brown hair coming out the top of her sleeping bag. Spike had probably been sleeping, too. She hadn’t checked.

But if someone overhears her, yeah that could be bad. All it takes is the wrong word in the wrong ear and there goes the whole point of going on the run in the first place.

Fiddling with the keys, she lets herself back into the apartment, trying to be quiet. She sits on the ledge of the bay window, looking from between the thick tree trunks just outside. She imagines it would be beautiful in the summer, with the massive trees all decked out in green. Fall is probably amazing here, she realizes, all those colors. Not like southern California. A real autumn with a riot of color and cool nights. Winter, wow, yeah, Chicago gets real snow and the branches would be bare but coated with snow, and yup, she’s totally putting off calling Giles.

If she remembers right, California is two hours behind Illinois. Her phone reads out 8:36am, so that means it’s not even 7am in Sunnydale.

Buffy keys in the number of Giles’s home phone and lets it ring with her heart in her throat. It rings for a while, and just as she’s about to hang up and try again later, there’s an irritated, clipped, “Whoever is calling this early had better—”

“Giles it’s me,” she says softly.

“Buffy,” he breathes, and the relief in his voice is enough to make a lump form in her throat. “Thank God, you’re safe.”

“I am. Dawn’s safe, too. We’re okay, Giles. Are you all, I mean, know Tara probably isn’t, but is,” she trails off, stomach squirming uncomfortably. The memory of Dawn’s fears are pointed in the harsh light of day. Had she abandoned everyone? Xander and Willow and Giles left to manage the mess, and Tara, Tara still drained of her own mind.

God, she’s a terrible friend.

“We’re as well as can be expected. Actually,” he pauses, and she can picture him fiddling with his glasses. “It turns out you did the right thing. We were paid a visit by the Knights of Byzantium. They were quite keen to find Dawn, and ah, deal with the problem. However, when it became clear that we had no idea where you were, they decamped.”

“Oh. That’s good.” Her voice is small and distant to her own ears. Well, that was a whole lot of crazy she avoided.

“Quite, yes. As for Glory, I might have a lead on exactly what she is planning and the timing required. Undoubtedly there’s some ritual involved, and often such rituals have very specific timing requirements. Otherwise, I daresay things are quiet. No doubt Glory being around has driven the local demon populace a bit further underground. Even Spike seems to be making himself quite scarce. He’s not once appeared to ask for money.”

“Oh well, about that.” She bites her lip. She doesn’t have to say this. There’s no reason Giles really needs to know where Spike is. It just feels, no, she has no idea what it feels like. She feels something like a finger to her chest, right on her breastbone. “That’s because he’s with me. Me and Dawn. Here in… where we are.”

There’s a long moment of silence. Judgmental, British silence. She picks at the paint on the windowsill because there’s no phone cord to play with. Ugh, who wants a cell phone when there’s no phone cord to fiddle with? Serious design flaw.

“Buffy, that is incredibly dangerous. Spike, he’s—”

“He’s helping, Giles. He’s honestly helping. He got us here, and I—Dawn’s safe with him. We all saw the proof of that.”

Giles sighs, and it’s staticy on the cell phone. Something about that sigh gets her back up. He’s in his apartment with his things, while she’s having to start over and keep Dawn safe. He’s in his home judging her for the calls she had to make. And here she is, trying to justify herself to him. He’s her Watcher, yeah, but hasn’t she earned a little benefit of the doubt on the judgment calls?

Will she always have to justify everything she does? She doesn’t care for that idea at all.

“I trust him with her, Giles, okay?” Her voice is firm. Clear and firm, and it kind of surprises her taking that tone with Giles. Because she does trust Spike with Dawn. And maybe there could be reasons to trust him with more, but it’s a start. A start of what, she doesn’t know, but something more than tolerating her once-mortal-enemy. “It should be very clear that right now, I don’t take that lightly.”

“No,” he says after a long moment. “You do not. Very well, it is your call, Buffy.” She rolls her eyes and is so glad he’s not here to see that. Of course it's her call. She’s the Slayer and this is her sister. It’s a thousand percent her call. “I just… please, be careful.”

Worry bleeds through his voice. It’s subtle, but she’s had years of learning to figure out Giles’s subdued British tones. It’s in the hitch and the pause and the stiffness that’s hiding a whole lot.

“I will,” she whispers back.

They say their awkward goodbyes, and Buffy leans back against the window frame before she has to start the day. Not that she knows what to do with her day. Job hunt? Not without an ID that matches the name she’s giving out, and ugh, this is going to suck. But maybe first breakfast, since the donut was terrible. With a sigh, she stands up, stretches, and turns to find those blackout-privacy curtains half open and Spike sitting on the cot, bare feet flat on the floor.

Bare Spike feet, which… okay, obviously he has feet. It’s just weird seeing him out of those big clompy boots. It makes him look softer. Right along with the sleep-tousled hair. At least, thank God, he’s wearing a shirt. Still, he’s more person-shaped in her head than she’s used to.

“Your Watcher isn’t best pleased, me being around, is he?” Even his tone is kind of soft, where even a day ago it might’ve been harsh. Clean slate. They’ve got a clean slate.

“Not especially,” she admits. She’s not sure what else there is to say. Giles doesn’t like Spike, Spike doesn’t like Giles. Well, pretty much no one likes Spike (except Dawn, and kind of Mom maybe did like him a little?) and as far as she can tell the feeling has been entirely mutual.

So why does she feel kind of bad that Giles isn’t happy about Spike being around? Like, sorry, my Watcher and father-type-figure person doesn’t like you?

Looking too close at that line of thought is going to make her go cross-eyed, like trying to do those magic eye things.

But then Spike nods and says, “Nothing new there. Buffy, look.” He pauses, and there’s something in him that looks braced, bracing. He’s going to say something, and she has no idea what. Especially since the whole apology last night, her ability to predict Spike is now suspect. He looks up at her with eyes as blue as the sky outside. “I know I’m a monster, but you, you treat me like a man, and I. I don’t know. Here we are, eh, Slayer?”

His mouth is curved in a rueful grin, self-deprecating. Because he knows this is weird. Weird to the max, but here they are.

“Yeah,” she agrees, and that makes that finger-poking feeling in her chest a little stronger. “Here we are.”

And whatever moment they’re having is broken by the suffering moaning wail of a teenager waking up. Dawn shuffles down the hallway without any kind of ceremony, her hair a mess and her long PJ pants scuffing over the hardwood. She and Spike both watch in fascination at the wild teenage girl in her unnatural habitat of before nine in the morning as she clatters with dishes, cereal, and milk.

Dawn turns and glares at both of them. “What?” she asks around a mouthful of food.

“Wondering how a fella’s supposed to sleep through that every morning, Little Bit,” Spike drawls.

“Not my problem,” she says between cereal slurps.

The despair on Spike’s face is one of the better things Buffy’s seen in far, far too long. It gets even better when he snarls, “I regret everything.”

Only she knows that it's far from one of his real snarls. More along the lines of that wounded animal snarling because it’s a habit, not because it’s really upset. Oh yeah, she’s going to get a lot of milage out of that mental image.

“Too late, Spike, you’re in it now,” Buffy tells him in a teasing sing-song. He glares at her. And yup, that’s another glare that he totally isn’t putting his all into.

He growls and rolls back into his nook, yanking the curtain behind him. She just catches a mutter of, “having a bloody moment,” and she shakes her head.

Well. Here they are.

Notes:

I wasn't born, so much as I fell out
Nobody seemed to notice me
We had a hedge back home in the suburbs
Over which I never could see
I heard the people who live on the ceiling
Scream and fight, most scarily
Hearing that noise was my first ever feelin'
That's how it's been, all around me

 

I'm all lost in the supermarket
I can no longer shop happily
I came in here for the special offer
Guaranteed personality
--"Lost in the Supermarket" by The Clash

Chapter 8: I Walk the Line

Notes:

Apologies, between holidays and sick kid, life has been crazy. This chapter is set up as things turn toward slice of life (with Glory looming in the background).

Spike pulls a shirt on, braces for the late afternoon light streaming in from between the thick trees out the window, and his foot comes down on a sneaker. Not his sneaker, because he doesn’t bloody wear sneakers. And his boots are tucked away in his own be-curtained space. He doesn’t even need to look down before he shouts, “Dawn!”

The girl herself clomps down the hallway—and sweet buggering Christ, the girl’s never been stealthy, but he’s pretty sure their downstairs neighbors hate her. Only been here a few days, and he’s waiting for hate mail to be shoved under the apartment door. She crosses her arms, her Buffy impression needing a good deal of work. The Slayer doesn’t pout when she means business.

“What?” she asks with all the teenage violence she can muster. Which is a whole bleeding lot, as it turns out. He’s just not used to it being directed at him.

He points and glares for good measure.

She stares back, big blue eyes clueless.

“Right by my nook-hideout-thing,” he says through clenched teeth, “isn’t out of the way, Niblet.”

“Yeah it is,” she counters. Then she walks all around the living area as if sheer demonstration can convey her correctness.

Spike has a brief, wild image of hurling the bloody fucking sneaker right at her head and asking if it’s in the way now. He swallows the growing ball of frustration with no small amount of difficulty. The usual method of dealing with an insolent or otherwise annoying minion is beating the tar out of them, if not outright dusting.

Can’t do that here. Clean slate or no, Buffy would kill him for hurting the girl.

Also, he does like the girl. Not like he has to keep it a big old secret now. She’s brassy and has more attitude than she has any right to without even a lick of Slayer strength to her. Must be the part of Buffy that those monks what made her put into the mix. Like they knew the kid had to be tough. And maybe he’s always had a soft spot for anything that had teeth when by all rights it should have been helpless.

He’s just never had to live with her before. Been her odd refuge when her home and her sister and her mum got to be too much, but the Slayer always came to collect her before Spike’s patience ran out (never his strongest suit, though William had been patient, endlessly so, and he could he patient for Dru, and, no he’s thinking too much, stop, you fucking ponce).

“Fact is, you, girl,” he says pointing at her, “are a slob.”

To which she only rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”

“Dawn,” Buffy says. She’s leaning against the wall that divides the hallway to the bedroom from the kitchen, all dressed for going out. Her arms are crossed but it’s not at him. It’s at her own sister. The Summers girls face off, and Spike watches from his vantage on his cot. “You are a slob, so don’t roll your eyes at Spike about it. Anyway, we need to get going or I’ll miss my meeting with Lydia at the Women’s Centre. She’s willing to hear me out on my idea for cashflow.”

“Do I have to go?” The whine, it’s the whine that’s going to do him in. It hits a pitch that goes right through his ear and makes his whole brain twinge in a way that’s almost like that fucking chip in his head.

“Or you can stay and clean the apartment?” Buffy asks the question with that false perkiness that she used to level at him a fair amount, but now it's all directed at her little sister. Who sulks.

“Fine, I’ll get ready,” the Bit groans and stomps toward him with slumped shoulders and holds her hand out. Like he’s about to sodding give her her own damned shoe what he stepped on because she can’t bloody well put anything away?!

“Oh, don’t let me get in the way,” he says as he rises to his feet and slides past her toward the fridge. Before he opens it, he lets his eyes flicker to Buffy. He’s not quite asking if he managed that right—because he doesn’t care. He doesn’t. Except he does. Clean slate, he’s got a clean slate, and now they’re tallying up something new, him the Slayer.

What the fuck they are tallying up, he’s not sure. Except he sees a little chalk tally mark go into his column in the grin she’s trying to hide and the slightly, slightly approving dip of her chin.

Rather than smile back at her, because whatever they are is too new, too unwieldy for him to want to risk no matter how much he wants to push it. Wants to point out every moment of goodness, of behaving, to push it into her face like it’s a mathematical proof that he can be good for her. Her and the Bit. Instead he digs in the fridge for his blood. Buffy’s been going out every day, looking for some low key, modest work to keep them in the black. And she comes back with food for the girls and blood for him.

He takes out a styrofoam container—pig, 5/11—and wishes the Yanks did dates proper. Still, he gets down his blood mug (from the Hell Dimension that is Target) of black ceramic that stands out from the other mugs, those all plain white. He doesn’t think about the symbolism, because there isn’t any. Buffy picked the mugs that were the cheapest, and the fun mugs cost more. She just wanted something that wouldn’t get mixed up. He does wash his mugs out after, though. Because he’s not a slob.

Pouring blood into his mug, he falls into the routine of warming up his sustenance. Two years almost he’s been on this, and it’s just… his life now. Except for that one brief mad moment when Druscilla had rolled a dead girl into his arms and her hot, sweet blood gushed into his mouth—and no, no don’t think about that. If he thinks about that, he’s going to hate choking down this pig blood.

Instead, he leans against the counter. “You think that Women’s Centre bird will go for your idea?” he asks.

Buffy’s nose scrunches up in doubt, and God. It’s adorable. No, no get all those tally marks, he tells himself. Get those tally marks and… what, he doesn’t know.

“I’m not sure,” she says quietly. Dawn’s sullenly clomps around in their room, pulling things into her backpack to keep herself entertained while on the bus. “Turns out it’s not easy to get a job without an ID anymore, not one that’s, that’s okay. I need something better than last time I hid out.”

“Waitressing, right?” The microwave dings, and it gives him something to busy his hands with as her eyes widen then narrow.

“How did you know?”

“Heard your mates talk about it once.”

“Oh.”

The suspicion is gone from her face. It leaves behind something he can’t quite suss out. Something quiet and banked. He pretends that drinking down the earthy pig’s blood is taking up his attention while sneaking sidelong glances at an impatiently waiting Slayer. If he figures out what that look on her face is, then he can know what to do next. Only, she prempts him one of the times he’s not focused on her face because that whole gazing (staring) at her is probably not on just yet.

“You haven’t had any luck yet, have you?” she asks. He’s mid-sip, which isn’t the worst thing. There’s a lot of ways he could take that question, but he knows what she’s talking about. Focus. Stay on task. Or sodding try for once. He swallows. There’s a marked lack of disgust on her face. Feels like a victory, that.

“Got a lead on something, but you’re not making it easy on a bloke, you know,” he says, because he’s not about to lose all his fun. “No demons and not on the wrong side of the law? Not exactly playing to my strengths here, Slayer. Do have the car hocking contact. Could hotwire a few likely winners, keep us in dosh, and you wouldn’t have to muck about at all.”

She crosses her arms and regards him with a wry lift of her eyebrow. And there it is. Little Bit tries to pull this off, but she’s six years (or so his memory says) and one mystic destiny away from having the authority to pull it off. Buffy, though, she’s got every last bit of authority that there is. More than he’s seen in other Master Vampires. One girl in all the world, sod that. He’s known Slayers, more than those he killed, because some had gotten away.

This girl, this woman, knows where she stands, and by God she stands there athwart the world like a titan. If he could stand, maybe not with her, he knows that’s not his place, but maybe just behind and to her left? Yeah, yeah, he could go for that.

“We’ve had this discussion more than once, and you know that aside from the unwanted attention it could bring, which by the way, it totally would. We got lucky with selling that car, but you and plans? About as unmixy as me and driving, and probably worse.” She takes a breath, all of that he’s heard before. Which is a tad, well, no, it’s really fucking insulting. His plans worked fine before she was in his life. Well, maybe there was a bit of pear-shaped that happened, but nothing he’d never been able to handle. He’s about to say so when she takes another breath, but this one has a hard inhale like she does before she does a flip or a hard kick. She’s bracing, and he waits. “I just can’t… I can’t rely on someone else for money. It’s.” Her lips curve in a bitter twist. “It’s what Mom did, and I just can’t, okay, Spike?”

And there it is, the missing piece in this particular part of the Buffy Summers puzzle. Makes sense, and well, he does recall a time when women weren’t much more than property. Not that he saw it as a bad thing at the time, was right and proper then, or cares much either way in this modern “liberated” age. No, it’s that this is a thing that shapes her, that forms the stuff of who and what she is.

He wouldn’t change the way she’s built for anything. It makes her her. If she wasn’t her, God, he can’t even imagine that. For lack of a winning and witty reply, he nods and settles on, “Alright, then.”

She blinks, taken back. As if she’s about to ask that’s it? Like she expected a fight.

He does like fighting with her, but he’d much rather it be fists and fangs, and maybe hot mouths and bodies, and he shrugs and takes another sip of his blood to cover up his cock’s instance on playing out that fantasy while she’s standing right in front of him. The girls are going to go out soon. Then he can shower. And wank. A lot. Because a bloke’s got to have some private time. And if Buffy heard him, well. There would go all his nice, new tally marks.

“Alright, I’m ready,” Dawn announces from the hallway. Bit’s changed her outfit, some boyband t-shirt, jeans, backpack, and her God damned sneakers on.

“Good, yeah, thanks, Dawn,” Buffy says, her words disjointed. Is that because of him? Is she scattered because of him? Oh, that’s an idea. Confusing her a bit, well, not too much. He very much wants her aware and willing and—down boy, he scolds himself. Girls gone, shower, then he can take care of things.

Buffy takes her purse off the hook on the wall and slings it over her shoulder as she checks for keys and whatnot. Spike and Dawn each have a set, and he enjoys the feeling of the sliver of metal in his pocket. Buffy had handed it over, put it right in his own hand with her lovely fingers. Mana from heaven. She hesitates, though, and glances back at him. He’s almost done with his blood, but he wants to nurse it until they leave.

“You good?” she asks. There’s a lot of questions inside the one, but he hears them all.

“Yeah, anything of Dawn’s I find goes right on her bed. Dirty or no,” he says, grinning at the teenage slob from another dimension. Dawn sticks her tongue out at him, and he knows he’s gone because he only chuckles and finds it adorable instead of wanting to rip the offending thing out of her head. “Luck,” he tosses to Buffy as she steps through the door.

She smiles at him. Really smiles. The kind of smile he only ever saw from afar and not often at that. There’s something there, an echo of when he saw her happy up close. Only the once and under a spell that had her in his lap. “Thanks.”

The Summers girls depart with a click of the door and the deadbolt thrown. Spike stares out the window from the safety of the kitchen—too many stray rays could make him a dusty fellow indeed. From his current vantage, he won’t be able to see Buffy and Dawn make their way to Western to catch a bus, but he can feel her, that unfurling sense of danger that means Slayer. That sense that drew him in rather than made him scarper. That sense of her that has a hook behind his chest and pulls on everything he is. It grows distant, then past the horizon of his perception.

Ceramic mug clatters in the sink as he strides to the bathroom, turns the water as hot as it will go, and wanks until he thinks he can get on with his day. Then he pumps himself into oblivion one more time for good measure. Better to be sure than risk losing one of his tally marks.

***

There’s zero reason to be nervous. Lydia is, well, intimidating isn’t the right word. But serious. Serious and severe and not keen on flip. Which, Buffy very much gets. What she’s seen, God, in some ways Buffy thinks it’s worse than demons. There are women and girls in the waiting room hiding behind their hair, curled in on themselves and almost ready to disappear or sitting straight backed with proud chins, bruises on display or, the worst she thinks, those who sit there numb. Like even terror has been stripped from them.

All by someone who professed love, devotion, and in human terms. Not creepy demon terms to get a meal, but someone who believed they were showing love by hurting these women and girls.

Really makes her wish the whole Slayers don’t kill humans thing was a bit less hard and fast.

So, Lydia is much with the serious, and Buffy tries. God knows she can be serious when she needs to be—the memory of making the Watcher’s Council blink rides high in her memory. She doesn't have a sword right now though. The sword probably helped in that scenario. Right now, sitting in the waiting room, it feels like her freshman year when she wanted to show that she could do the whole college thing. She wants to show the older, more adulty adults around her that she, Buffy Summers, can totally hack this real life thing.

She wants to be taken seriously.

Even if she’s kind of lying about damn near everything.

“Miss Schmidt,” the receptionist calls, “Lydia can see you.”

“Great!” she says, popping to her feet. Oh, that was way too perky for this office. Way wrong vibe. Her face freezes for a second in an awkward grimacing grin before she grounds herself. Big girl Slayer here, she can do this. “Thanks,” she says in a lower voice, “Come on, Charlotte, let’s go.”

“Don’t see why I have to come in,” Dawn mutters. Buffy isn’t about to start that debate. She can’t quite let Dawn out of her sight. About as far as she lets it go is Dawn hanging out with Spike in the apartment while Buffy goes on an errand, or Spike and Dawn wandering around their neighborhood to give Buffy a small smidgen of time away from her little sister. Her little sister who she loves dearly, and could also strangle sometimes.

Lydia and her office are the same as last time Buffy saw it, only a few ago. Crazy, that not even a week has gone by, filled with all the mundane moments of living. Dawn’s been pretty predictable about it all. Buffy’s memory is filled with Dawn being a slob or complaining or trying to suck up to anyone not Buffy for special treatment.

Spike had already figured out Dawn’s game back in Sunnydale. There he’d indulged it, because well, Spike. It pissed her off, so he did it. Lately, though, he’s been more resistant to giving into Dawn’s poor me routine. Maybe she should have let him babysit Dawn more often. Could have taken the shine off a lot faster.

“Anne, Charlotte, good to see you both again. I hope the apartment’s working out well.” Lydia clicked a few files on her computer, and then leaned forward on her desk, her narrow features making her look intent.

“Yeah, it’s been okay,” she says. Because it kind of has, and not in spite of basically being roommates with Spike. Because since their clean slate and his apology it’s been, well, okay. Which is miles above what she thought it would have been. And, she’s not really going to look at that too closely right now. Money. She needs money because she has no idea how long this is going to go on. It can’t go on forever. Something will give eventually, but for now, she’s not going to let herself get into dire straits. Dawn deserves better than that.

“Good. I understand you’re having difficulty getting employment. Now, obviously, I’m sympathetic to not wanting to have a paper trail, but to be fully employed you do need it. Even in Chicago. We can help you explain to your employer that your HR file would have to be under serious lock and key, though. We’ve done it before, and we’ve had a good success rate.”

Buffy bites her lip. She’s tempted. Very tempted. But, well, demons and hell gods, they can get around all those human safety measures. She just can’t risk it.

“I really appreciate that, Lydia, I really do,” she says. There’s a slight tightness around Lydia’s mouth. Oh damn, is she messing this up? She doesn’t want to mess this up. “But,” she says quickly, “I’ve been thinking about it. I mean, what if I was a… a casual employee? Nothing formal, but I have some skills that might, uh, help the women here?”

One dark brow arches, and as if that’s an invitation to continue, words spill out of Buffy’s mouth. “See, I’m pretty handy on the whole self-defense thing. I’d be happy to teach classes or something. I’m sure that’s already a thing, of course, but I didn’t see any brochures about it in the waiting room.”

Lydia leans back in her office chair, eyes evaluative. “You’re offering to teach an ad hoc women’s self-defense class and take cash in hand? But you don’t have any qualifications you can show me, I take it?”

Buffy had thought of this. All that Slayer training doesn’t exactly come with belts and certificates. That means there was only one way to make this work.

“No,” she says, then squares her shoulders, “but I can show you.”

Twenty minutes later, Buffy walks out of the Women’s Centre offices a little sweaty and a lot pleased. Trial basis isn’t ideal, but it’s way better than a big fat No. Dawn even comes out of her teenage funk to enthuse right along with her.

“Oh, when you did that cool kip up, like you showed Lydia how anyone could do it, and like, it was really smooth,” Dawn rambles. Buffy can’t help the grin that’s on her face. It almost makes her cheeks hurt.

“I mean, it’s a basic move, and it’s better to get off the ground. Feet are meant to be underneath you,” Buffy says with mock seriousness.

“Yeah, better to kick them in the dick and run away,” Dawn agrees.

“Dawn! Language!”

“Oh, what, I can’t say dick? What about penis, would that be better?”

“Oh my God, who raised you?” She lets her face scrunch up and gently nudges Dawn with her shoulder.

“Uh, Mom, duh,” Dawn counters.

“Pfft, you had it easy.” Buffy shakes her head as they get to the bus stop. The early evening Chicago sun is broken up by the mid-rise apartment buildings and store fronts. “Any time I said a bad word, and there were like so many bad words, I had to put a quarter in a jar. I can still hear it, young lady, we do not use those words in this house! Sooooo not fair you didn’t have to do that.”

“Just baby of the family things,” Dawn says, preening.

“Spoilt brat,” Buffy grumbles. Though Dawn doesn’t buy it for a second. Probably that smile ruining the whole effect.

“Uptight control freak,” Dawn counters, sticking her tongue out.

“I am not a control freak.”

“You kind of are, a little bit. But it makes sense. You’re all Power Girl, so you gotta control yourself. I mean, everyone else they don’t remember what you were like… before, but I do.”

Dawn falls silent, arms curling around herself like she’s cold. It’s not that cold, even though it’s not nearly as warm as Southern California. Buffy wiggles her fingers into the crook of Dawn’s elbow, and her sister lets her. They lean into each other. A fragment of recent memory comes to mind. Spike driving along, Dawn upset about not being real, and Buffy, Buffy had feigned sleep and listened.

What had he said? Real enough for me. The idea niggles at her, memory making a thing real.

“You do remember,” Buffy says softly as they reach the bus stop. It’s little more than a metal frame with two plates of frosted safety glass. Enough to keep the rain or snow off, she supposes. “And I’m so glad that someone does.”

Because if Dawn wasn’t here, and with Mom gone, well, no one would remember pre-Slayer Buffy. A girl that’s lost to her, but she lives in Dawn’s memories.

“She was also kind of a control freak, but only about clothes,” Dawn teases. Buffy rolls her eyes and lets her have the point. The bus shows up, and they take it up Western until their stop. The sun is thinking about setting as they walk home. Time for Spike to do his nightly jailbreak.

He’s been poking around, trying to find good sewer access. There’s a locked utility door in their apartment buildnig, which might work, but she’s been clear about the whole don’t break locks and get us kicked out thing. He rolled his eyes about that and grumbled, but didn’t press it. Then asked if he could pick the lock. Buffy had let him have that point. If only because she knew first hand how totally crazy Spike went if he was cooped up and bored. Being able to go out at night is usual, but after his sewer access wonderland in Sunnydale, she thinks he’s been spoiled.

She’s living with two totally spoiled brats. But at least one of them cleans. And to her partial surprise, it’s Spike. Though she’s never seen him clean. They just come back and the apartment is tidy. She’s pretty he doesn’t like to be seen cleaning, either some weird Victorian thing or some weird guy thing or some weird vampire thing. Though, most likely, a combo of all three options.

They pass the KFC, and Dawn whines a little. “Oh, please, then there’s no dishes!”

“No, I keep buying groceries, and we’re going to eat them Dawn.” Buffy knows she’s not much of a cook. Mostly they’re eating roasted chicken with potatoes or rice, and fresh cut up vegetables. It’s not great. Well, it’s pretty basic, but it keeps her and Dawn fed and healthy and from spending all their money going to Devon Street with all those way too good Indian restaurants.

“We don’t have ranch,” Dawn complains. Buffy unlocks the front door, shuddering at the very thought of how much ranch dressing Dawn can go through. Then she freezes.

The apartment is empty. She can feel it, the lack of someone there. Really, she should have known before she even opened the door. It’s just after the drive and setting up the apartment, Spike’s presence has turned into a familiar thing. She’s used to it in a way that, even with Angel, she never really had. She and Angel were never this close proximity for this long (eight days, she thinks, eight days of driving and hiding and getting set up, which seems like no time at all and somehow also years, but not in a horrible way, and stop thinking about this).

Whatever, she should have noticed Spike wasn’t around before a strange little knot of, not disappointment, not exactly. A knot of something sat in the pit of her stomach. It was small and much with the wiggins. And it’s all Dawn’s fault for horrifying Buffy with her love of ranch dressing, anyway.

“Yeah, really sorry we don’t have the most disgusting dressing on the planet for you, kiddo,” Buffy says. She pushes down the weird feeling. Not time for it.

Dawn shakes her head, the picture of misunderstood youth. Buffy puts away her purse and turns to the kitchen, and then she sees it. The whiteboard she’d pitched into the cart at Target is now stuck to the fridge. She’d figured they’d use it to track what groceries they’d need. Or as a reminder to buy blood, but she didn’t think Spike would forget or let her get lax on the whole him not starving thing.

The black scrawl across the whiteboard is all Spike. Each line has a different slant, as though he wrote something, left it, and then came back to write more.

Went out to get some dosh.

No demons.

Nothing illegal either.

Happy, Slayer?

“Wonder what he’s doing then,” Dawn muses.

“Honestly, knowing him,” Buffy starts, and then draws a total blank. She blinks. “You know, knowing him, I have no idea what he’s doing to get money that doesn’t involve demons or breaking the law.”

“Well, that should make you happy, right? Safer for us and everything.”

“Yeah, it’s safer.”

Does it make her happy? She’s not sure what there really is to be happy about in this whole situation. It should give her all the wiggins, all the ooky vibes that can be had, but she kind of wants to tell Spike that her idea had worked. That she’s got a trial of teaching self defense classes at the local Y, that she’s getting paid in cash from some kind of discretionary fund Lydia has.

What. The absolute. Hell?

Her little sister ponders the note for another second, then shrugs and flops down on the threadbare couch they’d picked up for fifty bucks at the Habitat for Humanity store and had been delivered by some nice people from the Women’s Centre. The TV turns on (same store, but brought home in their car because Spike and TV apparently are not to be kept apart), and Dawn flips channels until she finds something that makes her laugh.

Buffy reads his note again. Happy, Slayer?

She doesn’t know what she is right now, especially not with everything that’s happened in the last few months. If she looks at it all, it would be too much. It would topple over onto her and bury her under. She doesn’t know if she’d make it out of that, if she tried to lay it all out and figure it out. So she doesn’t.

For now, she has dinner to make. Dinner means chopping and chopping means knives. At least she knows how to deal with a knife. Even if it’s against nothing more deadly than a carrot.

***

Spike saunters down the sidewalk, headphones off kilter on his head. Better to hear, if he keeps one ear free. Not like he really needs them on to hear the music. Just makes for better listening. All the same, he likes to keep a bit more awareness about him since he’s not as familiar with Chicago as he was with Sunnydale. City’s changed a lot in only fifteen years, but he knows the old, seething heart of the City of Big Shoulders is still there under the surface.

All that aside, it’s a nice night. Bit of nip to the air, and maybe a touch of rain on the wind. He tries to remember what kind of weather Chicago gets, but he’s coming up blank. Winter, yes, that one’s a given, but they’re on the wrong end of the year for snow.

The music plays on as he walks back from the convenience store, still flush from his current scheme, a pack of smokes in one pocket alongside the rest of the dosh and a six-pack of beer in hand. Music’s not quite as fast and hard as punk, but the cassettes are in the vicinity of rock, and some of the lyrics are a bit of alright, And there's a bone in my hand that connects to a drink, In a crowded room where the glasses clink.

He turns down the alley and, in spite of the heavy tread of his boots, silently ascends the metal fire escape that runs up the back of the building. Mindful of his beer, he gains the roof. And I'll buy you a beer and we'll drink it deep Because that keeps me from falling asleep I said, How’d you like be alone and—

Buffy is running through some form, sword silver and flickering fast in the moonlight. —drowning? How’d you like to be alone and drowning?

“Shit,” he mutters, fumbling for the Walkman and the pause button. The music stops on a dime, but Buffy doesn’t. She goes through a standard sword fighting form. It’s slow, but controlled, every line of her sodding perfect.

He’s going to need to wank again after this, and he can’t do that until she’s out and it’s night, and oh fuck. Buffy completes another pass, face the picture of concentration. She’s had to have noticed him, but she’s committed to finishing the practice. And he notices her, all of her. The golden glow of her bare arms in the moonlight, the way her tanktop does nothing to hide that her breasts fill the chill in the air, the way her jeans hug her ass and legs. But most of all, it’s the whole of her, the way she flows from one pass to the next, how the sword is an extension of her.

Then she stabs with one final thrust (don’t think about thrusting, don’t) before letting out a slow breath and finishing the form. She turns to him, chin high. There’s a challenge in the set of her mouth and the arch of her brow. Daring him to say something about her sword practice.

He’s an idiot, but he knows better than to go for the obvious. Sometimes.

“Beer?” he asks inanely, holding out the six-pack. The glasses rattle against each other. It’s a high, clear counterpoint to the glorious beating of her heart. Faster than usual, but not running-rabbit fast. Like how her heart would beat while on patrol. Alert, exerted. What what her heartbeat sound like if she let him touch her? If he could worship her body like how he aches to.

Buffy, oblivious to his internal thoughts, shakes her head with a rueful grin. “Thanks, but I should rehydrate.”

She sheathes the sword and places it back in the weapons duffel they’ve hauled all the way form Sunnydale. It’s the first time she’s pulled it out since they left. Wouldn’t surprise him if she’s pent up. No Slaying, no fighting. Practice might take the edge off, but if she’s anything like him, she’s aching to run, to test herself, to live in that moment between life and death and stay standing.

All of that, though, is closed to her. By her own strictures. Stay away from demons, do nothing that will give away where they are. Not even the Watcher knows. He listens in on her conversations—can’t help it, what with the vampire hearing—and she’s careful to never say where they are.

Spike takes a beer for himself, though, since she’s not chasing him off. She’s got a water bottle, and she’s draining it. He sets the six pack down on the roof. Not keen to keep carrying it, really. And if the Slayer wants to take one after she’s had her water, well, that’s on her, then.

“So,” she says after draining her bottle, “I got your note.”

He shrugs. He’d been about to leave without writing anything, but then he remembered how she looked when she thought he’d scarpered. Both times. Girl does not like people wandering off on her. He wasn’t sure why he kept adding things, though. Seemed funny at the time.

Then there’s a glint in her eyes, something almost companionable. “Come on, you can’t leave a note like that and not tell me what you got up to.”

“Can’t?” he asks. He takes a sip of the beer. It’s a heavy lager. Lots of flavor and a pretty good alcohol content. “Oh, I think I can. Besides, where’s your sense of fun, Slayer? Have a bit of mystery.”

Her mouth thins and her gaze narrows. “Okay, let me rephrase: you can’t leave a note like that and not tell me what you’re up to.”

It’s not subtle, the different inflection. Teasing and now straight to an outright order. Shit, did he lose a tally mark? Fuck. Only a few days into their clean slate and he’s bollocksing it up. He sighs, letting the beer bottle dangle from his fingertips.

“It’s nothing bad, Slayer. Actually, kind of funny, if you think about it.”

“This is still not you telling me.”

“You’re very pushy sometimes, did you know that?” he asks before he can stop himself. Bleeding fuck why does his mouth do that? Oh, because when she crosses her arms under her breasts and fixes him with a hard gaze down the line of her nose it makes him want to sit up and beg. Which is what’s happening right now.

“So I’ve been told,” she says dryly. “Am I going to have to hit you to get information out of you again, Spike, or do you do this because you have a problem with your brain-to-mouth connection?”

“Habit,” he admits before he takes another swig. “You’re fun to rile up, Slayer.”

“God, you and Dawn both, really just love pushing my buttons,” she mutters.

“Well, I could—”

“Don’t.”

His mouth shuts with an audible snap, but he can’t help the grin that pulls at the corner of his mouth. The Slayer’s expression is one he’s very familiar with, that spark of fight that’s always begging to come out, to be released. Only, there’s something different in it. Part of her wants to square up and fight, but another part of her is… actually amused. Like she’s letting herself see how bonkers this situation is. Seeing it for what it is, not everything it isn’t—isn’t normal, isn’t safe, isn’t possibly even good. It just is.

“Alright, don’t need to twist my arm, Slayer,” he says, waving his hand as though warding her off. She shakes her head, making that gorgeous golden hair bob and sway. “You know that university that’s over yonder?” He gestures to the east.

“Northwestern? I got accepted there, so yeah I know about it.” She kneels and takes a beer out of the six pack. It feels like a victory, having her take something he’s brought to her. She still leans on the half-wall around the rooftop a good ten feet away from him, though.

“No, not that place, though, didn’t know you’d gotten in there.” There’s a quick hard, jut of her jaw, but she relaxes her face before it lingers. Ah, so the Slayer could have left Sunnydale. No doubt she’s regretting that, but he’s not going to push at that possible wound right now. Clean slate, they’ve got a clean bloody slate.

“Anyway,” he says quickly, “I’m talking about Loyola. Was walking around last night and saw an advert. Answered it today.”

“So you’re bartending on a college campus? Like Xander did?” She frowns for a moment before nodding. “I guess that makes sense, since you know your booze, but how did you get the job? You don’t have an ID.”

“Not bartending, love,” he says. There’s a little knot of awkwardness in his chest. He’s not embarrassed, exactly. It’s just, once he tells her what he’s doing, she’ll know more about him, the man he was before he died. Know that he wasn’t always bad. No boy raised in the North, him. Not running around industrializing streets causing havoc and mayhem. She wouldn’t have looked twice at poncy William. No one ever had until Dru had lifted him up and out of that life, and she’d wanted the softness. Wanted the part of him that was devoted and adoring. Needed it as much as she needed Angelus’s cruelty and torture. Dru needed the dark devil, but when all that was done, she wanted a black knight to her gothic princess.

But when he’d sullied the blackness in him for her, even Dru hadn’t wanted him. Her reappearance in Sunnydale notwithstanding. It had all been to get Angelus back anyhow, that.

It shouldn’t have hurt, but it did. Still does. An ache, but it’s old that one. Old as him being turned. Familiar, even if he hates it.

He digs for his smokes. It makes Buffy’s patience wear thin, he knows, but he needs it right now. No polish to pick off his nails. Needs to do something with his hands after all those thoughts fly across his mind. As he pulls out the pack of cigarettes, his fingers brush against the cash. He fishes out smokes and dosh alike, but with the money he holds it out to her. Three crisp twenties.

“Go on, Slayer, it’s yours. Bought the beer and ciggies, but the rest, that’s for you.” She glances at the money and then meets his gaze. She’s still, no move forward to take his offering. She was less reticent about the ten grand he’d gotten for the Porsche. “Go on, Slayer. Didn’t do anything illegal for this. Not near enough dosh for something on the wrong side of the law.” One handed, he gets a cigarette in his mouth and talks around it. “There’s a pack of blokes over at Loyola what need to know Latin and Greek, and I happen to be alright at both. Advert was for a tutor. Few nights a week. They all chip in for my time.”

“Oh. Well.” She blinks, a little taken aback, and there’s a little pout to her lips. Not sure why it makes her pout, but then she shrugs. “Giles did mention you know a few languages. Most vampires do, eventually if they live long enough, he said.” Fuck, of course she would think it was something he picked up after. All his storm and angst for nothing.

Bloody typical.

She takes the money. It fans out in her hands. It’s not much, he knows that. He could get a lot more, but again her rules hamper him. Still, he did it. He followed her rules and still found a way to make it work. Was a bit of luck, was all. She’d still holding the money, but doesn’t put it in her pocket. Then she raises one inquiring eyebrow at him. “Why is that so funny? You said it was funny, what you were doing.”

“Ah, well, that.” He sets the beer bottle on the wall, and with his hands free, he lights up and puffs out into the night. Much better. Not like he really needs the nicotine. Barely gets much from the drug this way. But it does give him something to do other than fidget and gaze at her. He manages to cut his gaze her way like he means business. “Mind, word of who I’m helping gets out, what’s left of my tattered reputation is shot. Helping you, that’s one thing. That’s a right proper bit of fighting, but this? Couldn’t show my face at poker ever again.”

Her mouth twists in a wry grin, at odds with the roll of her eyes. “I won’t go spilling to your demon buddies, Spike. I don’t even know your demon buddies. Who are in Sunnydale, I assume. Not like they’re just around the corner to gossip with. So, come on, give.”

“They’re lads studying up to be priests,” he admits.

Her mouth hangs open for a second before her eyes crinkle with mirth. “No, no way. You’re tutoring baby priests?! Oh my God, that’s, I don’t, what even is that?”

“Irony? I think it would qualify as irony.” She’s not laughing at him. She’s not laughing at him. That's alright, then. More than alright. Because it is very, very funny to be tutoring men who would be priests, all unwitting as to Spike’s nature. He chuckled to himself the whole way to where he met up with the lads in the library.

The laughter builds up and sweeps her away for a bit. Enough to make her wipe at her eyes, and he laughs with her. His own laugh is low while her’s is high, and their laughter sounds nice together.

“That’s sick, Spike,” she says between chuckles. “Sick, but, okay yeah, funny. So wrong, but… hilarious. Oh my God. I don’t even know what to say to that.”

“Don’t have to say anything, Slayer. It’s not much, and it won’t last. Term is almost over. They’re studying up for their finals. I’ll have to find something else after that.” He takes another drag on his cigarette and puffs out more smoke into the moonlight night. It really is a nice night. He picks up his beer again and takes another pull. She pockets the money he brought to her, and it warms where his dead heart sits. He brought her that, and she accepted it.

Another tally mark in his favor. Or so he hopes.

“Still, you did what I asked, Spike, and that.” Her breath hitches, that bracing hitch. Then she says, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he whispers. Looking at her is too much. She’ll see, oh God, she’ll see. She knows, but he’s not so stupid as to remind her time and again how much he loves her. If she does, then she might just send him away. He’s playing a different game now. Not snake-in-the-grass, not lying in wait for her to kill her, to claim her. But maybe something like a kind of waiting game all the same. Waiting until she can accept more than the money he brings her or helping her with the Niblet. Until she can accept that even a soulless monster can love.

He picks at the beer label. “Anyway, enough about that,” he says awkwardly. “Tell me about how it went today at the Women’s Centre. That work out?”

She lights up. The moon even seems to dim as she talks about how it went. All the moves she showed off to that bird at the Women’s Centre. Before she’s exactly aware of what she’s doing, she’s demonstrating a few things, and he says the necessary, appreciative things while desperately trying to keep his mouth from spilling all the things in his heart. The joy it is to see her move, the way her delight sets a hook in him and yanks him forward.

It’s all working out. It shouldn’t, but it is.

“First class is tomorrow, I guess,” she finishes saying, “I wasn’t sure how they’d set up a class that quickly, but there’s been a lot of interest. It’s in the early evening, so Dawn and I will be home a bit later. Just so you know.”

“Ta, for that.” Not that he knows what he’ll do while the girls are out. If he sits still too long, he’ll go barmy. Could go for a bit of a wander, or find another way to make more dosh. Sixty bucks isn’t much. He could figure out something else. Just gotta keep at it.

“Well, I think I better clean up and get some rest. Lots to do, and oh, call from Giles tomorrow for the check-in. He seemed a bit extra British last time, so either he’s got a line on something and doesn’t want to get my hopes up or he’s got squat.” She takes a sip of her beer and ponders it for a moment. “Not bad. I assume you’ll be up here for a while?”

“Yeah, I’m not going anywhere, Slayer. You toddle off to bed, I’ll be up.”

Then she slips the weapons duffel over her shoulder and disappears down the fire escape. She left her half-drunk beer behind. Spike drinks it, shivering at knowing he’s putting his lips to something that her lips touched.

Fucking Christ, he’s gone so far out the other side of love, he’s probably lost his mind.

But to see her like she was tonight—sword forms and wry humor and excitement, however small, at her plan working—it’s all more than worth it to him. Because it’s there, in the edges and corners of her face. She’s happy. In small amounts, in quick snatches, but there’s a light to her again.

And he knows he’ll do anything to see that light in her, even if it burns him to ashes to do it.

Bloody Dru. She was right after all.

Notes:

The song Spike is listening to is "Narcolepsy" by Third Eye Blind, which I can confirm was a popular band in the late 90s, and something Dawn would think is Spike's speed.

Chapter title:
You've got a way to keep me on your side
You give me cause for love that I can't hide
For you, I know I'd even try to turn the tide
Because you're mine, I walk the line
--"I Walk the Line" by Johnny Cash

Chapter 9: The Waiting

Notes:

As ever, sorry posting takes so long. Life gonna life. Also, for anyone also reading "A truce that lasts long enough...", I've had to put that on hiatus. The character-development streams were crossing too much in my head. Will get back to it, though!

Hope you all have been well out there. <3

The bar near the campus reminds him of every bar near a college campus the world over: full of college coeds doing their best to drain their brains of whatever knowledge that professors have tried to stuff in, sprinkled with the occasional said professor holding forth and getting equally blitzed. It’s dim and loud, and once upon a time it would have been his favorite kind of hunting ground. Full of people to be drawn away into the dark and into his world.

Now, he’s sitting there because after a whole day cooped up in the flat, he sure as hell isn’t going to molder in it while the girls are gone of an evening.

He wouldn’t go so far as to say it feels good, being a bit of a barfly, but it’s better than his other options. Slayer’s clipped his wings, and he gets why. It just makes his teeth itch to have to keep a leash on himself. At least fighting alongside the Slayer was fighting. It was part of that rush, the thrill, the crunch. 

Now, there’s no crunch, and it’s going to drive him barmy. Only leaves him with wandering about, and he’s found himself somewhere at least quasi-familiar.

The band on stage shuffles off—maybe a fraction better than the bands that came to Sunnyhell though nothing will ever be a patch on New York in the seventies—but he spies a little transaction going. Money changing hands. A little fizzle of a thought percolates up, but it’s cut off by an overly excited, “Will?”

Spike half turns and looks over his shoulder, and shit. The Godly Bunch are there. 

He shouldn’t be surprised or upset. He is near the campus, and they have more of a right to be here than he does. It’s just that he was fairly confident that this wasn’t a demon bar. Slayer’s rule (rules he’s playing by for so, so many reasons) is to avoid notice. And that includes avoiding demons. 

“Michael,” Spike replies shortly. Bloke doesn’t seem to notice or doesn’t care. He sidles up to where Spike sits at the bar with an inviting kind of grin on his face.

“Didn’t think we’d see you here,” Michael says, then notices Spike’s half empty beer. “You want to join us? It’s my buy.”

“Won’t say no,” he says. Not about to turn down free beer. The lads aren’t awful, as such. Horrifyingly earnest, though. All keen to help their fellow man and guide wayward souls to God. Spike supposes, having no soul, they can’t lead him anywhere. 

The bartender thunks down six heavy-bottomed glasses, all full of some, he’ll admit, half-decent American beer. Spike helps Michael bring them back. He catches a bit of the conversation.

“—too many damned tenses,” Stephen whinges. The lad is lanky and bespeckled, and he reminds Spike uncomfortably of himself in a very different life. None of the lads are similar. David’s from somewhere in Africa, but came to Chicago with his family, and is the best of them at Latin and Greek—English is hardly his first language.

Michael, a Chicago-native and die-hard Cubs fan by his own telling, is a lean fellow with a thin face, and he passes out his share of the beers. Spike hands over his to the last two, Charles and Ryan. Charles is from the south somewhere, Spike doesn’t remember which state. Ryan is from further west but before the mountains. One of those states that it’s better to drive through. For all he knows, he did drive through it. 

They chat, and Spike doesn’t pay too much attention to them, because, well, mostly he doesn’t care. The lads are banal and normal and a means to an end. Getting money in a way the Slayer won’t ream him out for. It’s times like this he wishes he could do the car-hocking thing he’d thought of. Way better money, way less human interaction. Because really, the only humans he likes are currently at the local YMCA being all girl power and learning how to kick blokes in the fork. Which is fine, he supposes. Most people probably do deserve a good kicking anyhow.

He’s just not really sure how this is his life. His life where five men studying to be priests in the sodding Catholic Church were buying rounds of beer for him. 

And he’s sharing a flat with the Slayer and her impossible kid sister.

Could try to see if the sun rises in the west tomorrow. Just for fun.

World’s upside down, but for now there’s beer that’s not eating into the funds he gets to hand over. He supposes that he could leave it for her, get a box or something and stash it there for her to find. Thing is, he can’t help but want to hand it over, to press it into her strong and lovely had, to watch her fingers curl around his offering like a goddess taking up his sacrifice.

Not that his paltry flutter of twenties was that much of a sacrifice, but it’s from him to her, and it feels like everything.

“—iam, then?” David asks. Spike catches the lads looking at him like he’s lost the plot, which he supposes he has.

“What’s that? Weren’t listening,” he says, because he wasn’t. The lads don’t take offense, though. 

“I was asking why you were out here this evening, William,” David clarifies. Always a bit too formal, his English, but it sometimes hits Spike’s ear just right. A reminder of a different time.

“Oh.” He shrugs. “Flatmates are out, so I thought I’d get myself a beer instead of sitting about.” Then he takes a sip of said beer. It’s hoppy enough that even he can taste it. He’s not sure why humans are all about these IPAs right now. They’re bitter, but at least there’s so much flavor he can pick up on it.

“Sounds nice, that you have roommates you want to be around. Mine are the worst,” Charles drawls with that twang of the American south. 

“ We’re your roommates,” Ryan says, nudging Charles in the side. Charles grins back.

Spike has the overwhelming urge to stand up and walk out. God, they’re bloody boring. Problem, though, he’s only halfway through his beer and bars tend to be fussy about walking away with the glassware. Instead, he presses his mouth together in something loosely related to a smile and nods like the lads are being funny.

The wannabe priests take the piss out of each other, and Spike lets the words fly past his ears without picking up anything. He doesn’t need to know about their lives to take their money. When his beer is done, he stands up.

“Oh, you heading out then, man?” Michael asks guilelessly. 

“Yeah, girls are waiting, probably,” he says, only to stop as five pairs of brows raise up. Aw shit .

“Girls? Your roommates are girls?” Ryan presses.

“You know, I hear they’re a thing,” Charles drawls. “Hope you know what you’re giving up, Ry.”

“I’ve had girlfriends!” Ryan protests.

“Guys, it doesn’t matter. He’s just our tutor, not in the program,” Stephen points out, and for the first time Spike actually might like one of them. 

“Give our best to the girls, Will,” Michael says with a way-too knowing grin. Spike nearly snarls.

“They’re sisters, you pillock,” he says, trying to keep the sheer anger out of his voice. “And before that starts another round of attempted humor, one of them is fourteen. Won’t hear a word like that about her, got it?”

“We are sorry, Will,” David interjects. “We are merely curious about your life, that is all. You did not tell us much about yourself other than that you are new to Chicago and classically educated. I am certain your living arrangements, however, are none of our business.”

He rolls his shoulders, taken a little aback. Not exactly used to people letting him alone. Always pushing, prodding, those Scoobies. Digging into what he’s up to. Before them, Dru, digging through his thoughts for a century, and of course, the Great Forehead himself. Drawing out every last secret and eating it all up right in front of his eyes.

“Right,” he says, shortly. Then he shrugs, because why the fuck not? Can’t spill the whole mad story, but there’s a shape that he can outline. “The girls were in a spot of trouble, got ‘em out. Staying with them while things get sorted out. Working with you lot is keeping us in some funds until it all goes back to normal.”

The reappraisal, he was expecting, but what knocks him sideways in his own head is the five expressions of approval. There’s some praise, Hey man, that’s good of you, or some variation thereof. Like these God-botherers are now happier to know him? That’s it, hamburgers are going to eat people next, and he’s going to kick his feet up and bloody well watch it happen. He’s not sure if he can take much more insanity, which is saying something.

“Hey, if you need some help finding other odd jobs, we can ask around, if you want,” Michael offers.

“Let us know what else you can do, and I’m sure we’ll turn up something,” Stephen adds.

Then all the lads pile in, making sure Spike knows how much they want to help. 

Fuck, he needs to get out of here. He manages a, “Thanks, lads, I’ll, uh, let the girls know. Sure that Big Sis will be happy to hear it.”

He’s got no clue if Buffy will be any such damn thing, but God, wouldn’t it be something if she was?

***

Buffy’s brain is a little bit all over the place because she’s got two weeks on the clock now. It’s not definite. Giles had been mondo clear on that part when she’d talked to him that morning. But the gang back in Sunnydale had pulled some epic research sessions and had found out that there was a supposed conjunction at some point within the next two weeks. They couldn’t get more specific—too many pieces of information were missing, likely literally ripped out of the minds of people before they could write it down. Still, she had a clock, now. A countdown timer to when Dawn Was Finally Safe.

She just had to keep her head down for two more weeks.

“Barbara,” she says, now in the afternoon in a workout room at the local YMCA surrounded by middle aged women in workout sweats. She trots to where a plump lady is sheepishly and apologetically attempting to twist her partner’s wrist. “You really gotta mean it if you’re going to get out of a wrist lock.”

Barbra, whose greying hair and round face scream Mom in Buffy’s brain, tuts. “Oh dear, I just don’t want to make Margie hurt. She’s been through so much you know. I mean, we all have, of course.”

“Barb,” Margaret breaks in, her accent a bit different than the Chicago-twang she was getting used to hearing. She’d said she was originally from Wisconsin, maybe? Buffy couldn’t remember. There are a lot of ladies here, many of them not young. “You gotta go for it, dear, otherwise I’m going to feel just awful about kicking your tuckus.”

Buffy bites the inside of her cheek. She’s surrounded by a horde of moms who had left some pretty shitty husbands behind, and rather than feel like a finger digging around at a raw and open wound it felt… nice. Like, maybe, in the vast cosmic scale of things, the sheer Momness that existed in the universe can’t be denied or suppressed. Just redirected.

That or she’s finally starting to understand the astronomy course she’d had to drop.

“You heard her, Barb,” Buffy says, hands on hips. “Come on, let’s see it and really go for it. Pretend Margie’s, uh, who was he again?”

“Oh, that man does not get the dignity of a name.”

“You should call him The Wanker!” Dawn offers from the sidelines. Buffy whirls around to give Dawn a patented older sister Are You Kidding Me? look from across the room. Dawn grins back, her reflection a double dose of smug little sister delight. “What? Sp—William uses that word!”

“You don’t know what it means,” Buffy retorts, and she really hopes it’s true. 

“I do so!” 

Buffy’s face scrunches up at Dawn’s assertion, but then—

“Oh, The Wanker, I like that,” Barb says gleefully. “Right, doing this to The Wanker!”

And Margie gets Barb’s wrist in a lock, and Barb’s got a light in her eyes that Buffy’s kind of proud of. She’s only been teaching these women for twenty minutes, and she’s already feeling like she’s doing something good. Sure, maybe she’s not out there Slaying. Big with the weird to be keeping that on the back burner, but helping women unleash their own fury. Yeah, she can get behind that in a big way.

Barb twists her wrist in, grabs hold just like Buffy showed her, and twists just shy of breaking. Margie goes down to her knees with a gasp of pain, but she says, “Oh well done, Barb!”

“Aw, gosh, thanks Margie,” Barb says as she helps her friend to her feet.

Buffy knows that if she lives in Chicago for a million years (which, um, please no, cause she does have a life to get back to—though she’s not sure what kind of life it is with Mom gone and everything resting on her shoulders and school and Dawn and— no don’t go there, she tells herself), that if she lives here for really long time, she’s so not going to get used to Midwestern Politeness. Well, Margie and Barb both assure her that true Chicagoians aren’t that polite compared to the rest of the Midwest. Though in Buffy’s experience they’re way more polite than people from LA and the vast swath of Southern California. 

Or maybe that was just the weird Sunnydale vortex that kept the whole town somehow oblivious to living in monster central.

Whatever. She’s still got thirty minutes of class to teach, and she has no lesson plan and is just going off of what she thinks a normal human do and learn in fifty minutes. Buffy circulates around the room, correcting form when she sees something super obvious. Dawn’s over by the smaller group of younger women, late teens and early twenties, and not for the first time Buffy feels a gulf between herself and girls her own age. She feels in some ways closer to the older women than the younger ones, having done so much and only being just able to legally drink. 

But then, these girls. One’s hiding behind a curtain of hair like Tara used to, and another is grim and hard eyed. Maybe she’s not so far off these girls, and it makes a little part of her heart hurt to think that other girls have been though as many bad years as she has.

“And how’s this group doing?” she asks, trying for somewhere less than perky but not bored. 

“We’re good,” Kiesha of the flinty-eyes says. She cocks her head of tight braids in Dawn’s direction. “Char here is a good teacher. Says she’s watched you do all the training her whole life.”

Dawn shrugs and rolls her eyes, trying to look away. Buffy tries to hide her smile and knows she doesn’t quite manage it. “That’s my little sister, always my biggest fan.”

“No I’m not,” Dawn protests, but then does the classic looking away so she doesn’t have to admit jack diddly.

“Well, let’s see how we’re going, and Dawn, who are you working with?” Buffy had two choices, since she wasn’t leaving Dawn behind with the two week countdown (and because Spike was going back to tutor baby priests tonight, and don’t laugh, don’t laugh, because she’d give a lot to be a fly on that wall). One, she could make Dawn sit somewhere and do nothing, or two, let Dawn participate. 

The anticipation of a Dawn-meltdown at being made to sit out sort of made her choice for her.

That, and, well (she didn’t want to admit this, even in the privacy of her own mind), but Spike had been right back in Sunnydale after the whole breaking into the Magic Box and Dawn cutting herself thing. Wrapping Dawn in cotton hurt only one person: Dawn. 

Besides, if she could get hurt in a fifty minute workshop-class-thing, Buffy would have all ammo to keep Dawn from trying to get into a fight.

“I’m with Kiesha,” Dawn says, gesturing at the girl with the braids. “And Jackie and Sarah are working together, but we rotate.”

“That’s a good idea, you have to practice on different people.” Buffy nods, and they all demonstrate what they’ve been learning for her. Kiesha is by far the most proficient, and explains that she has a ton of older brothers and cousins. 

Satisfied that most of her students have the mechanics down, Buffy goes back to the front and demonstrates a few more basics: how to punch and get power without overextending, throwing knees and elbows, and then, one thing she never really needs to use on vampires, but has been great with demons that do need to breathe.

“And this,” she says, twisting her index and middle finger together, “is called the educational stop, because it should educate the shit out of whoever is coming at you. Charlotte, you up for showing them?”

Dawn practically bounces up to the front. They’d practiced this last night before Dawn had gone to bed, and she’s pretty sure Dawn won’t actually crush her windpipe. “Okay!” Buffy calls out, “I’m going to come at Charlotte here like most stupid guys, not really protecting myself. You might be tempted to go for the crotch, but most guys have a pretty good flinch response there. The throat? They won’t expect it, it’s exposed, and it’s generally at easy eye level for most women.”

“Except Anne’s like, totally shorter than me,” Dawn teases. 

Buffy’s mouth purses. “I still can handle you, brat.” Then she charges. Dawn yelps, but like they practiced, her fingers come up in the twist and poke lightly against the hollow of Buffy’s throat. 

She stops.

“If she presses a little or goes hard, I would so be down on the ground, gasping for breath. That’s where you run.” Buffy takes a step back. Dawn’s eyes are a touch round, and she holds her hands quickly behind her back. “I do want you to be careful practicing this with each other. Focus on accuracy and speed, not power. It doesn’t take much power to crush a windpipe, and if a guy charges at you, his own momentum will do half your work for you.”

Buffy nods, and the ladies get to it. They’re hesitant at first, even if they hadn’t been about the other moves. This is a technique that can do real damage. The killing kind, if it all gets bad. And these women know that. They know because they’ve been on the other end of it. She watches as some of them flinch, as some of them have to take deeper-than-usual breaths, but they practice the move diligently.

There’s a warm little flicker in her chest as she watches. 

The big hand hits the ten on the large round clock hanging on the back wall of the room, and Buffy dismisses the class with a reminder that she’s teaching classes every other night. It’s not much, but it’s enough to keep them in grocery money. That stack of cash is still going to whittle down with rent and utilities, but not quite so fast.

Then there’s the sixty dollars Spike handed over last night. Ten thousand dollars in a duffel bag, she could accept. That kind of cash was insane and kind of, well, very Spike. It was the small wad of twenties that she’s still got in her pocket that she’s not quite sure what to do about. Money earned in a legal, if darkly hilarious, way.

With a quiet tug, she collects Dawn and makes for the locker room—bonus of teaching at the Y, free use of the Y’s locker room—and Dawn’s new friends follow along. Buffy changes, letting Dawn chat, but the unfortunate knock on effect is that she’s still thinking about those sixty dollars.

She could use it to buy him some blood. Because she’s got the inkling that he fully intends to hand all his cash, minus beer and cigarettes, straight over to her. Because she’s thinking that last night is serving as a preview of the next two weeks. Spike just handing over cash, Spike leaving notes on the white board, Spike with his serious attention span problem and notable impatience, sticking it out. She hates when her brain goes down that rabbit hole, because certain notions are stacking up in her brain, notions she’s really not in the space to entertain just now.

Checking her watch, she sees how late it is, and she’d rather get Dawn home before she finds out when Chicago’s vampires think supper time is. 

In the lobby of the Y, where Dawn is still talking to the girls, she taps her sister’s elbow and says, “Hey, we should get back.”

Then, before Dawn can retort, and Buffy knows what kind of retort it’s going to be by Dawn’s jutting chin, a vaguely familiar voice calls, “Anne? Charlotte?”

Buffy turns to see someone she hadn’t expected to run into again. “Davin?” she says, hating how uncertain her voice is. Because her brain is now going every which way. Is he somehow a spy for Glory? Two weeks, they have to make it two weeks, and if he’s already sniffed out her and Dawn, they are way screwed. 

“Ah, yeah, you remember.” He’s grinning at her, a boyish kind of grin that makes his pleasant face seem a little nicer. Buffy doesn’t quite trust it. Though, she’s being paranoid right? Or not. Then he says, “I heard from Lydia that you were teaching here. Was hoping to catch you. Just wanted to see how the apartment was working out for you.”

Her mouth is dry and her heart flings itself repeatedly at her ribcage like a frantic animal. “It’s fine,” she mutters.

Exits are nearby, and she can probably incapacitate this guy in about two seconds if he’s human. Five if he’s not. She met him in the daytime, and no tinglies, so not a vampire, but plenty of demons can take on a human guise when they need to. Bigger problem, he knows where they live because he showed them the apartment. And she kind of likes the apartment. It’s, well, it's not perfect, but it works and they just got it decorated and furniture in, and it’s comfortable in a way she hadn’t expected.

“Anyway,” he goes on, oblivious to the tension in Buffy’s whole body. Her muscles are practically vibrating with unleashed energy. “I do a bit of mentoring here with some of the kids from the neighborhood. Part of Dad’s giving back thing, all of us do volunteer hours.”

She blinks. Her mouth forms something like a grin, but it’s probably a grimace. 

There’s a sudden crash that hits every last part of her body. Her heart seems to stop entirely, but the rushing in her ears somehow gets louder. “Oh,” she manages, “that’s really nice, um.”

He’s smiling at her, and it takes her another second and a half to realize that the smile is expectant. 

“Look, I better get—Charlotte, Charlotte and I need to get home, okay? It’s late, and we shouldn’t be out late. Will’s waiting for us, probably.” She has zero clue if Spike is home, and for the first time in ever, she’s kind of hoping he is.

“I can hang with Kiesha for a bit,” Dawn says quickly.

Buffy glares at her. “No, you can’t. We’re going home.”

“Hey, that’s okay. Just wanted to say hi,” Davin says, holding up his hands. Well, he picked up on the tension for sure. She’s so bad at the subtle, but Slayers don’t have to be subtle, just effective. 

Okay, he’s probably not a demon minion for Glory, but her brain is possibly literally cooking from the high octane paranoia that slammed into her at just the thought of it. She’s in a city she doesn’t know, and she’s relied on a lot of kindness from strangers already. There were risks, but she thought they were calculated. Running into the realtor-guy was not on her list of possibilities, and she very much doesn’t like it.

“Well, hi, then, and bye.” Her voice is a brittle kind of perky, but she doesn’t care. She also doesn’t care that she’s dragging Dawn out of the building by the elbow. Dawn who’s grumbling and grousing and generally being her annoying self while Buffy is putting distance between herself and the unexpected.

She watches over her shoulder the whole way to the bus stop, the night air nipping at her arms as she struggles into her jacket. By the time they get to the bus stop, Dawn is in full Sulky Teenager mode. Buffy doesn’t say anything. She’s not sure what to say. She just had to get out. Flight mode is way active.

She’s not used to running. She’s run away before, but mostly from pain. Pain in her heart. Never from a fight. 

Except the fight and her heart are practically glued together this time. Not like with Angel. Everything that happened with Angel pales in comparison to this.

The thought makes her want to scream, so she stares out the front window of the bus into the dark Midwestern night. Her ghostly reflection stares back at her. She’d close her eyes to it, but she needs to stay alert. It’s night, and the local vampires could be out. Could be on this bus right now. Though there’s no tinglies. Still, other demons could be. 

The bus hums along, going over every pothole according to the report of her kidneys.

Their stop is next, and Dawn gives the pull cord a vicious yank. She strides off the bus, trying to outpace Buffy. Well, that won’t work. Buffy catches up easily and tries to take Dawn’s elbow. Dawn, though, is ready for that move and twists away. “Don’t touch me,” she snarls.

“Okay, what the hell Dawn?” Buffy snaps.

Dawn doesn’t slow down, just curls her arms around herself and keeps taking long and fast steps down the sidewalk. “You are such a freak.”

“Excuse me?!” There’s a sudden red tinge to Buffy’s vision, even as the streetlights seem to glow brighter, harsher.

“Like I was having a nice conversation with Kiesha and the girls, and you freak out because what? Our realtor was there?” Dawn spits the words with all the venom of the fourteen year old girl she isn’t. “God, you’re the worst. I know we’re all incognito—”

“No, you have no idea,” Buffy shouts, fingers digging into Dawn’s shoulder and spinning her around. “Do you know what Glory wanted to do with you? Do you know—”

“YES!” Dawn screams. Tears run down Dawn’s cheeks. Buffy’s whole insides are a horrible mix, like she’s got a blender inside of her and sharp jagged blades are whirring around and cutting her into a fine paste. 

Dawn wrenches herself out of Buffy’s now lax grip and runs. Runs for their building and hurls herself inside. Buffy follows, her feet feeling as heavy as lead. God, what’s wrong with her? She had it all worked out. A job, Spike as back up (and that doesn’t even seem weird anymore), and an apartment. Then she had the clock, and it was going to be okay. Or okay as her life ever was.

But she isn’t sure how to do this. How to be Dawn’s sister and her mom, how to watch the very heart of her walk around in the world and not want to wrap her up and keep her safe for forever. 

God, she misses Mom so much.

With blurry eyes, she lets herself into the apartment in time to see Dawn disappear into Spike’s nook with a book, a lantern, and a pillow. One hand flickers out to put up a handmade sign that Spike had made as a joke: Keep Out, Slayer. There’s a little skull and crossbones on it. He’d presented it to Dawn, and Buffy had rolled her eyes. Though she’d smiled because she knew he’d been doing it to make Dawn laugh. It had worked, then.

Now, she looks at it and her brain goes blank. 

It had been going so well. Now, in true Buffy fashion, she’s losing what she’s trying to hold onto.

***

Far from buzzed, Spike trots up the half flight of stairs to the apartment door and starts as the Slayer slides out of it. She closes it behind her with a soft snick. There’s an old reflex that kicks in at the sight of her face, all drawn and serious. The kind that’s got him ready to snarl and demand to know what he did wrong this bloody time, but then his brain catches up to what’s really in front of him. There’s a tightness to her eyes and the tang of salt on her skin. Not sweat, though. 

Most humans don’t realize that. There’s a different scent to sweat and tears, and his nose, his damn good nose, can tell that she’s been crying.

“Dawn?” he asks quickly, voice tight. So tight he’s almost strangling himself, and he doesn’t need to breathe.

“She’s okay, just… mad at me.” He lets out a slow breath. If his heart beat, it would have taken off like a rocket. As it is, the snarling urge to tear something apart that almost blotted out his so-called higher functions winds down. A little. “Honestly,” the Slayer goes on, happily oblivious to his own knee-jerk murderous response to the thought of the Little Bit being hurt. “I’m mad at myself, too. God, you’d think I’d figure it out at some point, but no, I just can’t get it. I never get it right.”

Spike knows a good self-recrimination ramble when he hears one. Seems like the Slayer is full of them. For a brief moment, he thinks of her small confession on the drive out here. That her first time talking about being a Slayer landed her in the looney bin. There’s another confession hiding in this ramble, and it makes his ribs ache. Like his whole chest could cave in, that he could take that pain if it would just stop crushing her. 

“It’s always too much or not enough. I’m always—”

“Slayer,” he says softly. He ventures a light hand on her shoulder, the fabric of her blue jumper is soft under his fingertips. “Buffy, breathe, love.”

“God, I hate this. I thought, once I had the two-week-clock, we could be fine, you know?” It’s not really a question, but he nods along. At least she’s breathing now. “But it’s like it just made everything worse. I feel like I can’t put it down, not for a second. It’s going to drive me crazy, and it’s going to drive Dawn crazy.”

Buffy’s hurting, and there’s a whole host of things he wants to do. He wants to hold her, wants to press his mouth to her temple. He wants to go out and tear apart whatever did hurt her until it’s so much bleeding pulp, only problem with that is he’s pretty sure the thing that’s hurting her is herself. He also wants to know what the bleeding fuck she’s actually on about. 

So he does what a century and more of habit has trained him to do when someone he loves is in pain but isn’t exactly making sense. “Going to need a bit more context, Slayer.” Then he eyes the landing, where they’re under a yellow-tinged, dim, and frankly ugly light fixture and sound carries all the way up to the third floor. “Just maybe in the apartment, yeah?”

She squeezes her eyes shut, nods, and then slowly twists the knob of the door. He locks up behind them—still something that kind of amuses him, even now, him getting to lock the world outside—and is summarily tugged down the hallway into the bedroom the Slayer shares with the Bit. Not exactly what he was thinking, but his feet go entirely without protest from his mouth. 

Slayer, though, she doesn’t shut the door, just gets close enough to him that he can hear her talk. 

“You know the realtor guy?” she asks. He gives her a blank look, so she elaborates, “He showed us this place?”

“In the sunshine hours, pet.” He almost sighs, but doesn't. Buffy's grimace, no doubt she's getting on her own case for forgetting. Used to make him laugh, how humans made themselves suffer for no damn reason. But now it's Buffy doing that to herself, and he wants to shake her or kiss her or just scream into the uncaring universe because hasn't this girl been through bloody enough?

Spike dips his head to catch her eyes, those beautiful green eyes. “Just give us the story, love. Not in a rush.”

The silly little story spills out of her. Saw the fellow, had a bit of good old paranoia wobblies, and gotten the Niblet caught up in it, if he's sussing everything out right. She's not looking at him while she talks, her gaze hopping round the bedroom, taking in the two narrow beds, the single, battered chest of drawers, the smattering of decorations and piles of clothing. The piles are all on Dawn's side. Spike heaped up a few things on the girl’s bed his own self before he'd toddled out for a beer.

“Anyway, that's the story. I didn't mean to get so… much,” she says with a grimace. She's coming back to herself, the Slayer. Realizing she's spilled her guts to him. Again. She shoves her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. “Really, I only meant to give context and a warning about Dawn setting up camp in your nook.”

“Hideout,” he corrects in part by habit, but also. There it is, trying to sneak past him in the corner of her mouth. God, he loves it when he can get her to do that. It feels like a victory. The only victory he's ever had with her, but that makes it even sweeter. 

He'd spend the rest of his days working for victories like that.

“Whatever,” she huffs. But she knows he knows. It's enough. “I'm really looking out for Dawn. I didn't want you traumatizing her by stripping off or whatever.”

Well, there's an easy line if he's ever seen one. He raises one eyebrow, presses spread fingertips to his chest and affects shock. “What about me? I'd be traumatized if the girl saw me in the all together.”

“I find that hard to believe.” Her nose scrunches up. He can still spy her fleeting grin, though.

“To be honest, don't fancy someone so sister-shaped getting a look at my nethers. Evil demon, I might be, but some things just aren't done.”

“Sister-shaped? How—”

“It's just the space she takes up in my head, alright? Don't,” he breaks off the bristling part of himself, the old, not-quite-so-forgotten pain having no place here. “I'll have a talk with her then.”

“That would be of the good, yes.” She’s watching him in the way he's caught a few times now. The first time had been after he'd nearly let the Hell Bitch dust him to keep the Bit safe. Like she's weighing him up, and not quite sure of what she's seeing. “And thanks,” she says, “for making the attempt.”

Marching orders from the Slayer, and not quite trusting himself to say anything back, he ducks his head in a silent your welcome before heading back down the hallway to his nook, hideout. The curtains are drawn and the little keep out sign he'd made a joke is hung up. It seems a little cruel, now.

That's not what the girl means, he's pretty sure. Loves Big Sis, she does. How could she not? But the memories in her head and heart are at odds with knowing what she is. Doesn't matter a lick to him, of course. She's the Niblet and always will be. Real enough, he'd told her, and he still stands by that. 

“Oi, Little Bit, I'm coming in,” he calls half a second before he parts the curtain and then promptly yelps. “You bloody sneak!”

He snatches his notebook out of her hands. Even dead, his heart is in his throat. God, what did she read? Did she suss it out? Well, she knows. They all know that he's gone for the Slayer, but they don't talk about it. Better to not. That notebook, though, it holds everything he can't say, can't express aloud. It holds his words because not doing anything was driving him around the bend.

Dawn’s chin juts out, and her big blue eyes are hard and angry in the dim light. The small reading lamp is on, in addition to the red twinkle lights. “What? It was sitting right on your cot. I didn't go looking for it. I didn't know you had it.”

“Wasn’t on the sodding,” he starts hotly before clamping his jaw shut so fast he might just have cracked a sodding tooth. He cracks his neck and swallows the urge to take the girl to task. Buffy wants him to talk to Dawn, to, maybe not fix it, but make it better?

Christ, and he thought the world had been topsy-turvy only an hour ago. Had nothing on this.

Notebook was bloody well not on the cot though. Was under his pillow.

He stuffs the notebook in the waistband of his jeans before sliding onto the cot and sitting cross legged opposite the girl. She hunches over and sullenly pouts at him from behind the brown curtain of her hair. Again, again, and again, he sees an echo, a shadow of another girl over a hundred and twenty years dead. It jolts him, like it always does. He runs a hand down his face, banishing the memory he's stuffed down for longer than he's been dead.

“Buffy send you in here to talk to me?” she grumbles.

He cocks his head. “Not exactly. More like warned me my hideout got invaded.”

“Whatever. I have snacks, I can wait her out. So do not want to see her right now.”

“You get anything for me? Or is this a hostile takeover and you kicking me out?”

“Red pepper chips, but no blood. I didn't want it getting gross, since I didn't know when you'd be home.” She reaches behind her to toss a packet of crisps at him. He catches him as she takes out a packet of her salt and vinegar ones.

They crack open their respective packets—neither a flavor the Slayer likes, and thus safe from her pillaging—and eat. Spike enjoys the texture and spice hot enough to register for him, and tries not to think about why the girl didn't have blood for him. Not because it disgusts her, but because she knows how fast it goes off. That she thought about it like that, that she even thought about blood and went through the whole line of logic—God help him, he loves this little girl. This impossible child who decided that he's something like a best friend and brother in a creature-of-the-night package and wouldn't let him alone. He's loved a lot over the years. Mostly Dru, and went off the deep end for the Slayer. He knows that kind of love, the all consuming passion and devotion, the way it can blot out everything else. 

The way he loves this girl, the phrase sister-shaped fits right down to the ground. It's a horrifyingly soft, soppy kind of thing. A simple, easy affection that should be beyond him but isn't, somehow. He wants to protect her as much as he wants to steal candy for her and teach her how to pick locks. Teach her what he knows and watch her thrive, watch her take on the world and probably win.

In the quiet crunch of crisps and crinkle of packets, he waits. Not sure why he's waiting, but he knows the girl well enough by now, both the Summers girls, to know that pushing won't get him anywhere.

Finally, she says in the smallest voice, “I hate it when she's scared.”

Well. Fuck. What's he supposed to do with that?

“I mean, she's always been so brave.” Little Bit talks, and he listens. He's already put it all together, but she’s started and he's not going to stop her. “So like, I'm the Slayer, you better be afraid of me. But all this stuff with Glory, I can see it. She's so scared, and today she totally freaked. And I know we have to be careful, that we need to through the next two weeks, but if she's going to lose it like that, I don't know how I can… it's my fault she's so scared, and you said I'm not evil, but when she's afraid I feel, no I know, it's my fault. And when she's afraid… I don't know what to do. She's always protected me.” The last she says with a sniffle, and sodding Christ why is it him doing this?

Awkwardly, he pats her shoulder, and manages a, “Hey now,” before the girl throws herself at him and hugs him around his middle. 

He loves the girl, but he doesn't know what to do. Doesn't know what's right, what Buffy would want him to do. The girl is crying, and he knows what he might have done years ago (the thought makes his stomach clench now, and bloody hell what is he now?). Can't do that. Won't. Instead, he hugs her back, hands bird-light on her head and back.

“I hate being afraid, but I'm afraid all the time, and it's harder when she's afraid.” It's Dawn's refrain, and she sniffles it a few times before calming down and retreating to the far end of the cot. She scrubs at her face and watches the twinkle lights.

He's even more lost than before. Problem is, he has to say something , or what's the bleeding point of him being here? Thing is, been a long time since he had call to be comforting someone not Dru. Spike's pretty sure applying Dru-tactics to Dawn is a non-starter.

She crosses her arms over her middle and goes back to the sullen pout. “I'm sure you think I'm being stupid.”

“Oh, come off it,” he says without thinking. She glares at him. He doesn’t care. He might not say the right thing, but he can give it to her straight. “We doing the pity-party again? Thought you’d sussed out that it wasn’t going to do anyone any favors, least of all yourself, Little Bit.”

“But I—”

“Yeah, Big Sis is scared. She’s got a right to be. Anyone with half a brain would be scared of a Hell God. Doesn’t mean she isn’t brave, and fuck’s sake, doesn’t mean she’s perfect. Doesn’t mean you’re not afraid either, but for the love of fuck, could you two just bloody well talk to each other instead of stomping around and getting me involved, because I’ve got no bleeding clue here, Niblet. I’m here because I can drive and I can withstand a lot of punishment,” he says, counting the points off on his fingers.

For half a second, he thinks the girl might cry again. This time because of something he said. Like Buffy’s pain, Dawn’s tears set off something in his gut. Something that seems to resonate with her pain and makes him hurt, too.

Bloody Summers women, twisting him around their little fingers. Twisting him into something else.

Twisting him so far he doesn’t mind how twisted up he is.

“And because you love Buffy,” she says quietly. There’s a calculating glint to her gaze, now, and he wants to scoff. Brush it off. No, over that, she stomped my heart too good, here for my own amusement, really. Only, he’ll never be over it. She’s the one. He knows it, feels it in every last bit of him. He belongs to her in a way he never even belonged to Dru. Dru chose him, lifted him up.

Buffy challenged him, and someone help him, because he wants to answer that challenge. To try, even if he doesn’t exactly know what that is or what it looks like.

Girl knows him too well, though. Saw right through him right back in Sunnyhell, can see through him now. Joyce could, too, see parts of him he tried to hide. She never said anything, but he reckons she didn’t mind too much what she saw under the bluster. Otherwise, why’d she give him a cuppa now and again?

So, truth, then. Bleeding, buggering shit, he hates the truth. It always bloody hurts.

“Yeah, got me there,” he says, the words thick in his throat. “Not just her, though, Little Bit.” He can’t quite say the words, like there’s stones on his chest. It hurts, fuck, why does this hurt?

Dawn’s searching his face, and he can’t quite meet her eyes, but she grins. It’s that wide, preening grin she’s got, the one that’s not been on her face for ages and ages. The hurt bleeds away.

“I knew it. You like me, too. You looooove me,” she sing-songs, nudging at his shoulder.

“Hey! Do not!” he lies, though his heart isn’t in it. The weight is gone, the crushing anticipation of what he’s known just isn’t there anymore. She wiggles happily, more like the child she is than the ball of mystical energy she was. He purses his lips and shakes his head. It’s all a pretense, but it’s all he has left. She even lets him keep it.

“I’m more likable, though, right? Cause I’m cooler than Buffy,” she presses, sidestepping the fact that William the Bloody has a soft spot for her.

“Certainly more comfortable with my approach to other people’s property, which is a point in your favor,” he says. 

She pumps her fist and gives a little, “Aw, yeah!”

“So, you ready to get out of here?” he asks, waving around at his tucked away not-even-a-bedroom.

Dawn deflates a fraction, picking at the fuzzy blanket on the cot. “She’s still out there, and I don’t want to make it worse. I don’t want her making it worse either.”

To hell with the chip, these women are going to give him a headache sufficient to fry his brain. “Not going to make it any better in here.” When she doesn’t move, he tries another tactic. “Look, Slayer’s no good at waiting, same as me. We’re both wired to fight, to leap into the fray, and all that good stuff. This waiting game, it’s got her wound pretty tight, because every instinct is screaming at her to tear into something, but she knows she can’t.”

“You seem pretty cool with it,” Dawn says, eyes narrowed.

Spike taps his temple. “I’ve had two years to get used to it.”

“Oh.” She blinks, the realization hitting her. He’s not patient, not by any means, but he’s learned how to channel some of his need to fight, to rip and rend, in other ways. To wait at least a little before letting loose.

“I seem to recall that you and me had a deal, yeah? We’re both going to try to look after her? Well, this is one of those things. Gotta think of ways to bleed off all that Slayer attack mode.”

He’s not sure if this is the best way to go about it, but when Dawn’s brows furrow and she bites her lip, he knows he’s on some kind of right track. Then she nods, as if decided. “First, step, dinner. Then I think I know where to go.”

“Do any of the rest of us have a say?” he asks dryly.

“No,” she answers. Yeah, he didn’t think so. She unfolds in an ungainly whirling of limbs and calls out, “Buffy! I think we should have dinner! You probably got wiggy because you were hungry, and I did too, and can we get Indian?”

There’s a beat, the Slayer thinking before she calls back, “Okay! Spike’s paying!” 

Spike glares at the far wall, wondering why the universe decided to torture him with this particular hell. A hell that gets worse when Dawn sticks her head back in and casually says, “Oh, I liked what you wrote.” 

He growls at her, but she only laughs.

That settles it, he’s officially an Embarrassment to Vampires, though he finds he doesn’t particularly care anymore.

***

Buffy’s not about to ask where Spike got the soccer ball from. She knows for a fact he refuses to step foot in Target ever again. Actually, she’s pretty convinced he wants to wreck the store for reasons she can’t quite discern beyond Target makes Spike uncomfortable so he wants to destroy it, which maybe is kind of understandable. 

She’s had the same urge about some places, herself.

Not that she acts on them, though.

Whatever. Spike’s got a soccer ball, and the floodlights of Warren Park don’t banish the shadows so much as throw everything into stark relief. It’s far from a cozy park, but it is full. Full of people going for a run or a walk. People on exercise equipment stations and playing games on other fields. One of them has a bunch of guys playing cricket, which she can now say she’s witnessed and can confirm is more boring than baseball. A truly remarkable feat.

Anyway, soccer. Buffy’s only slightly too full from wolfing down an amazing dahl, scooped up with a buttery garlic naan (honestly, she could do Indian way more if only for ordering a garlic naan, though one day she’s pretty sure Spike will steal it and eat it to make himself sick to prove some kind of weird, obscure point). Doesn’t stop her from running down the field trying to steal that damned ball from Spike. 

Somehow he’s fast even in those heavy boots, and he kicks the ball around easily, dribbling it and kicking it backwards and around her own attempts to steal it from him. She’s tempted to just knock him down, but that would be against her own rule of avoid notice. One she’s all but literally drilled into his head. 

And if there’s one thing she can trust about Spike, it’s that if he sees her break a rule, he’ll go out and break it harder.

Then she gets her opening. He’s gone a bit wide trying to break down the field, and she reaches the toes of her sneaker out toward the ball. At the last second, he body blocks her and kicks the ball to Dawn. Dawn who breaks down toward the net-less goal. Buffy glares at Spike, and he smiles back at her, and they both run for Dawn. It’s a race, whoever can get to her first can reclaim the ball. Whoever reclaims the ball can try to score a goal, and get points. Buffy likes points. Points means winning, and there is no way she’s lettering her mortal enemy and her little sister beat her. 

So not fair that they teamed up. 

Dawn, seeing a Slayer and a vampire pelting toward her, does the only reasonable thing and kicks the ball away from herself. It sails through the air, and Spike uses the hardest part of him—his head—to control the ball. The ball hangs midair for a breath, and then comes down. Spike rolls it along his body and curves away from Buffy, making a break for the goal. 

“Oh, no you don’t,” she snarls as she chases after him. It’s not her full run (hey there, general public!), but she’s moving and striving. Unlike her sword forms or demonstrating self-defense moves, this is what she’s been missing. The striving, the challenge, pushing herself when there’s someone on the other side of that pushing. Someone pushing back. Already, she can feel that nervous, manic energy bleeding off.

Her body is working, really working, and it makes the night sing around her. 

Spike’s close, and she goes for a sliding tackle. Her foot connects to his ankle, but he grimaces past the pain and forces a clumsy dribble a few feet away. Mid-stride, he twists his leg. The audible pop of bone slotting back into place is familiar. He grins down at her. 

“Almost, Slayer,” he taunts. Then, because it’s Spike, and he can’t help but gloat, he gets fancy. He kicks the ball up and makes like it’s a hacky-sack, bouncing it over his body easily. Buffy glares, but before she can leap up, a coltish body flies right at Spike’s side. 

Dawn’s thrown herself full body at him just as he had only one foot on the ground. Unbalanced he falls heavily to the ground. Falls, but his arms are bracing Dawn, and one hand cradles her head to keep her from cracking her face into him. It’s over in the space of a heartbeat, but she can’t unsee that. Not even a choice, that was pure reaction.

There’s a strange lump in her throat, and in that moment, she forgets there’s a game happening.

Then Spike shouts, “You little traitor!”

“I was a secret double agent this whole time!” Dawn exclaims and acts out an overdramatic evil laugh. 

“Women!” Spike cries. “Think that’s funny, do you?”

Spike’s tone makes Dawn freeze. “Uh, Spike, what are you going to—eep!”

He’s got her over his shoulder in a blink and starts spinning. Dawn’s screaming at him to stop, but she’s also giggling and squealing like a little kid. Spike sets her down, and she wobbles across the grassy field, laughing until she falls down like she’s drunk. 

“Let that be a lesson to you, girl!” he tells her, all mock severity. 

Dawn dissolves into a fit of giggles. “I am the most evil one!” she declares. Spike shakes his head, but there’s a smile on his face, too. Buffy’s heart judders. That can’t be right. No, that can’t be right at all. But she can’t look away, but it’s there in front of her now. There's no looking away from it, no denying it anymore.

“Oi, Slayer, you going to score your goal?” Spike asks, gesturing at the distant goal posts with one hand as he hauls up Dawn with the other, “or you going to stand there while I steal that ball back off you?”

Buffy looks down at the ball, then to the goal. She cocks her leg back and kicks the ball down the field. It flies through the air and hits the ground hard. A few bounces and a roll later, the soccer ball settles behind the chalk line of the goal. 

“That’s one way to do it,” he says, and turns that smile on her. It’s soft and a little wry, because even soft, it’s still Spike. 

Spike and his real enough feelings, and his willingness to drop everything and drive her and Dawn out of danger, how he held her hand in the middle of the night and reminded her to breathe, how he follows her rules and lets her know when he’s gone and coming back, how he’s so weirdly good with Dawn, and all the little things that add up to something that she kept putting away. Kept not looking at it. Couldn’t look at it, because looking at it would make it real.

Oh no. No, no, no no nononono no. 

She can’t do this now. Her brain can’t do this to her now. Two weeks. She just has to get through two weeks.

Two weeks, and then she can get back to normal.

Sod normal, love.

Spike doesn’t just love her, Buffy, whatever that means to him. He loves Dawn, too, and it’s right there plain as day. Something he shouldn’t be able to do at all. But there he is, doing the impossible, because she knows that fond-but-exasperated look on his face. It’s the same one she has when Dawn does Dawn-things.

A soulless vampire loves her little sister as though she were his own, and there’s a little part of her that suddenly, horribly, irrevocably loves him for it.

God damn it.

Notes:

The waiting is the hardest part
Every day you get one more yard
You take it on faith, you take it to the heart
The waiting is the hardest part

Oh, don't let it kill you, baby, don't let it get to you
Don't let 'em kill you, baby, don't let 'em get to you
I'll be your bleedin' heart, I'll be your cryin' fool
Don't let this go too far, don't let it get to you
--The Waiting by Tom Petty

(Further note: the Educational Stop is real, and it works.)

Chapter 10: Think About Me

Buffy’s in the backseat and is not white knuckling anything. Nope. She’s sitting there in a super zen-like state. Witness, universe at large, Buffy Summers is the epitome of zen.

The car jerks forward with a heavy clunk and comes to a sudden stop. She braces, but doesn’t yelp. No yelping, go her with the awesome big sister support.

Even if it’s currently silent because she’s pretty sure this is a bad idea.

“Little Bit,” Spike says in a place Buffy never thought she’d see him: the passenger seat of a car. “You do know what the acceleration pedal is for, right? We’ve been over this.” His tone’s drier than the desert on the far eastern outskirts of Sunnydale, but he’s far from yelling. No random bloody hells or sodding chits. If anything, Spike seems to find this whole exercise hilarious, if she’s right in reading the way his eyes glint by the illumination of the dashboard lights.

And there’s whole worlds that she shouldn’t be noticing. Like how Spike seems to have found a well of patience for Dawn or how his face softens around her little sister when he thinks no one is watching him. That no matter how wiggy Buffy finds Spike and his feelings for her, she can easily accept that he has a special category for Dawn in his head.

Sister-shaped.

There’s a host of questions packed behind that little slip he had, and she’s not sure what, if anything, she should do about them. Thirteen days, now. Thirteen days and the window Glory has to use Dawn as an interdimensional key closes. She just has to get through thirteen days.

“You mean the gas pedal?” Dawn bites out. “You’ve been in America how long?”

Thirteen days, Buffy reminds herself. Get through that. Oh, and Spike’s oddly reasonable suggestion that Buffy and Dawn both be comfortable driving the car in case something goes sideways. Like him being dust.

Spike only raises one scarred eyebrow. Again with the not taking of the bait. “Start it up again, Niblet, and this time, find the balance point before you let out the clutch.”

Lips pursed, Dawn twists the keys in the ignition, and Buffy takes a deep breath. Dawn so doesn’t need her backseat driving—especially when Buffy can’t really throw stones about being a terrible driver. She hates that fact. Sure, cars and Buffy are generally unmixy, but it’s always felt so cliche: the California blond can’t drive. The car sputters into life, and Spike twists to watch Dawn. No seatbelt for him, because, well, unless they drive straight into a tree, Spike can survive car accidents. That and she can see he’s got his hand very, very close to the handbrake. Not so close that Dawn would notice, though. He’s a moron sometimes, but not completely stupid.

Dawn’s fingers flex on the wheel. She shifts into first, and then Buffy isn’t sure what happens. There’s a moment where the car feels suspended, about to go but held back, and then Dawn breathes out slowly through her lips. The car rolls forward slightly. Barely more than five miles an hour, but making steady progress around the darkened parking lot.

“Hey! I did it!” Dawn’s whole face lights up. Then she glances at Spike and back and Buffy, beaming and beautiful. Her hands also turn the wheel, and they’re suddenly turning right.

“Eyes front, girl,” Spike drawls, and Dawn snaps her attention back to the world outside the windshield. She takes control of the wheel and heads into a turn, looping them around the parking lot.

“I got it,” Dawn protests. “See? I’m turning and everything now!”

“Oh, brilliant, we’ll be off to sodding NASCAR next.”

“How do you know about NASCAR?”

“I really wish I didn’t. Now, rally racing, that’s where it’s at. You Yanks and going around in circles.”

“I bet you didn’t know that NASCAR racing has its roots in bootlegging,” Dawn says off-handed in that way that Buffy knows Dawn’s delighted that her random history knowledge gets to come out. Before finding out Dawn was the key, she would have said Dawn’s love of all that old stuff was due to exposure to Giles at a young age. Now, though, Buffy wonders if she loves all those old things because she is, on some level, an old thing. No way to know for sure.

Probably a monk-gifted Giles imprint. That sounds about right.

That tidbit also makes Spike sit up a bit, his attention focusing on Dawn. “That so? Well, gotta say, puts a bit of a spin on it.” Then shrugs. “Still bloody boring to watch, though.”

“When did you watch NASCAR?” Buffy asks, because she can't help herself. Can’t help but push him, prod at him. He’s just so… prod-able, and nope. Do not go there. “If you hate it, I mean. Anyway, did you even get that channel on your crappy TV?”

Spike’s eyes flicker to her as Dawn makes another round of the parking lot. The yellow lamp-lights of the parking lot are dim, and the world outside feels like they’re on the highway again. There’s a world outside the car, and there’s a world inside of it. Never the two shall meet except for the light that steals inside in patches as they pass under an errant glow.

Spike shrugs. “At your Watcher’s flat. One day, was the only channel that came in. Didn’t care for it, but old Rupert hated it more. Was hilarious, seeing your Watcher hate what was on the telly but try to figure out if it was worth it having it out.”

“I’ve changed my mind, you’re not evil,” she says. Spike mutters an affronted hey, but she fixes him with a level look and a raised eyebrow. “You’re petty.”

“I’m not—Niblet,” he says suddenly, head cocked, “You need to shift up to second.”

“Okay, okay, I can do this.” Dawn holds herself stiffly, one hand off the wheel, the other on the gear shift. Then she does something with her feet. Buffy feels the car decelerate slightly, but then it jerks forward as Dawn pulls the gear shift back. “Yes! I hit second!”

“We’ll be on to third gear in no time,” Spike drawls. Dawn does a patented Happy Dawn Wiggle while keeping the car going more or less straight. And because Buffy’s in the back seat, because she can see it all, there’s that flicker of softness on his face as he watches Dawn again. It’s tinged with a bit of pride this time.

Then he covers it over, eyes fluttering until his face is rearranged in a picture of benign boredom. He let his head loll to the side. “Anyhow, I was being very evil, thank you very much. Old Rupes might hate me, but I was a house guest, all technical like. And he’s a toff. He went back and forth all day, trying to suss out if it was better to let me watch the telly how I wanted or if he’d turn it off no matter what I said. Pure torture for a bloke like him, and it was worth it.”

“Okay, two things. One, Giles probably was debating about how annoying you’d be when he’d turn off the TV. And two,” she says, ticking off on her fingers, “operative use of the word was there, Spike. Sort on the shallow end of the evil pool.”

“Hey!” His indignation is immediate and hilarious. She knows she’s grinning from ear to ear. And she knows it riles him up even more. God, why is it so fun to do that to him? Always has been. Like their soccer game last night, each of them trying to win and doing whatever it took.

“Oh yeah, you’re the Big Bad, still. You just live in a little nook,” she teases.

“Hideout,” he growls.

“Uh, guys, kind of need concentration to drive here,” Dawn says.

“Very evil of you, teaching Dawn to drive,” Buffy presses.

“She doesn’t have a permit, does she?” he shoots back.

“That’s a stretch even for you.”

“Guys,” Dawn pleads, “could you cool it?”

“Fine,” Spike snaps, but Buffy’s pretty sure he isn’t talking to Dawn. Then he does. “Niblet, shift into neutral and brake.”

“Hey! I’m driving here!” Dawn objects.

“Do it,” he orders, then grins right at Buffy. It’s sharp and wide and his eyes hold hers, all bright and full of challenge. “It’s time for Big Sis to have her turn.”

“Then can I please stay out of the car?” Dawn asks plaintively.

“No,” Buffy and Spike both say at the same time. Buffy glares at Spike. “That’s how you want to play this?”

He jerks his head to the side. “Come on, Slayer, let’s see what you got.”

“You are both so weird,” Dawn mutters as she slows the car to a stop. Buffy barely registers that Dawn’s sliding out of the car and getting into the backseat with a huff. Buffy’s jaw is tight.

“Aw, what’s this? Slayer afraid of a little driving about?” Spike taunts.

“Like hell,” Buffy snaps. She’s out of the car in a flurry of motion, unbuckling her seatbelt, pelting out the passenger side door and then striding around the back until she throws herself into the driver’s seat and buckles back up. Both her hands are on the steering wheel and with false sweetness turns to Spike. “Well, oh Evil One, you ready?”

“Figure I better ask the Bit in the backseat. It’s her life in peril here,” Spike shoots back.

“I’m buckled,” Dawn says, hunkered against the seat, “And for the record, you’re both crazy and this makes no sense.”

“Not crazy, Dawnie,” Buffy replies in a chipper voice that she can’t quite feel anymore. She can feel her sudden burst of certainty starting to evaporate. Cars, ugh. Why did it have to be cars and driving and something that she just couldn’t get? No matter how much Mom or even Riley tried (and he’d been so sweet about it, and not even mad that she’d kind of clipped a lot of curbs), driving was something that kind of didn’t mesh in the brain of Buffy.

“You’re right barmy, Slayer,” Spike says, voice all low and growly, like he’s barely holding his anger in check. It makes her spine stiffen.

“How hard can it be?” The question is blithe, and it’s like her body goes on autopilot. Right hand twisting the key, the car starts up in a sputter. It’s in neutral. Mom’s car was an automatic, but Riley had owned a manual. Driven it all the way to Sunnydale from Iowa, he’d said. He’d tried to show her how to shift, but every time she’d tried her brain had gotten in the way. She can feel it about to get in the way again.

Then Spike does that really annoying thing where he sucks on his teeth before he opens his mouth, saying, “Any time, Slayer, unless you’re afraid.”

Buffy’s face scrunches up, and her brain takes a backseat (haha, she knows what she did there). She curls her hand around the gear shift and her feet find a balance point between the clutch and the gas. The car’s riding the line of going and not, and then she just lets her feet do what they want to do, left up and off as her right foot comes down on the pedal, and they’re off. Dawn yelps as the car lurches forward. It’s a little uneven, and Buffy takes the corner fast, shifting down into second gear, her body not looking to her brain for guidance. She’s driving, letting lessons she’d always been too freaked to really listen to, to filter down her nerves. Letting the feel of the car tell her what to do.

Suddenly, it clicks. Driving is like any other physical thing: feedback, push and pull. The car knows when it needs to shift, she can hear it in the rev of the engine going high. Third, third. She needs third gear, because she wants to go fast. Faster. Maybe she can get this driving thing after all. Foot on the clutch hard, she lifts off the gas and blindly tries for third. The gears grind, and she grimaces. Her brain is catching up now, that this was stupid, that she’s stupid, and that she’ll never be able to do this normal and simple thing. It’s slipping, her concentration, that special Slayer-like state where her body does what it needs to do.

It’s slipping away until a cool hand circles her right wrist and helps her find third gear. The gear shift slams home and the car jolts forward with renewed vigor.

Then something else happens, and hoo boy she didn’t think of driving as sexy until now. Spike’s cool touch is gone from her skin as soon as she’s shifted up. Now, though, the skin of her wrist feels like it’s on fire, that she his hand wasn’t cool, but a brand. And how he drove her hand home, and she felt the gears catch and the car speed up, and oh no. Heat pools in her cheeks and… other places. That cannot be right. Her eyes are fixed out the windscreen, but she can feel his attention on her like a finger pressing into her temple.

She breathes out in a huff and lets the car roll to a stop before putting it neutral and killing the engine.

Dawn squeals and throws coltish arms around her neck. “You did it, Buffy! You drove! Hell yeah, take that driver’s ed. You were awesome!”

“Thanks Dawnie,” she says, only a little shaky. She presses her hands over Dawn’s and she tries to focus on that. It’s better, focusing on Dawn and not anything—anyone—else. Except she can’t stop how her eyes slide to him. Spike sprawled in the passenger seat, his face a careful neutral mask.

“Not bad for your first showing, Slayer,” he drawls. His fingers play at the window seal, nails clicking against the glass.

“Yeah, well. I stopped thinking so hard about it.” Which is true. But then, it was always hard to think when she really got into it with Spike. He just was so damned irritating sometimes. Well, almost all the time. Except recently. Well, no. He’s still irritating. Irritating because now he’s become confusing.

Except for tonight when he’d thrown down a gauntlet. God, her head is spinning around way too much from all this.

“This is so cool,” Dawn babbles, “we can go for drives, now, and oh! Can we drive into Wisconsin? Margie and Barb make it sound really nice, and there’s like, all the cheese.”

“Cheese is of the good,” Buffy agrees, letting Dawn distract her. Because what the fuck was that? No, that was a blip. A weirdness. Spike was just being Spike. Annoying and irritating and frustrating and always pushing at her buttons—she frowns at him. Spike catches her expression and tenses. Then she dismisses it. Spike didn’t get her angry on purpose. That would be insane… and totally like him.

Whatever, she’s not going to get anywhere thinking like this.

“We should celebrate,” Dawn suggests. “First successful Summers driving duo. Many more to come!”

“And here I thought I was the menace on the road,” Spike mutters.

“How do you want to celebrate, Dawnie?” Buffy asks. Yes, they should celebrate, she decides. The driving thing and because it’s another day down, and another day without Glory is a great day. A banner day. And talking about this is better than thinking. The brain of Buffy is as mystery to even her sometimes, and there’s now a whole lot of stuff that she wants to shove down and drown out.

“I was thinking we could get some movies, cause like, I get that movie theatres are probably a no-go, but we could watch movies! Otherwise, why’d we get a VCR?” Dawn asks. Buffy’s instantly grateful. Movies. Perfect. They can rent something and the movie can blot out all those weird thoughts that she shouldn’t be having. Because if she’s having them, then something’s wrong with her. She’s got a sister to protect and a world to guard and, well, maybe no monsters to slay right now. She can’t be thinking about the monster that’s sleeping down the hall and helping and generally being not monstrous.

Because not monstrous is about as far as she can stretch her thoughts now. Even when she knows those words aren’t even close. Aren’t right. She doesn’t want to think about what words might be.

“Movies sounds good,” Buffy agrees, then she thinks about what she’s going to say next. “But Spike should probably drive.”

“Agreed. I mean, none of us have a license, but he hasn't had one the longest.” Dawn nods with all the wisdom her fourteen (or just shy of one) years have earned her.

Buffy grins. “Can’t argue with logic like that.”

***

Holy shamoly, the wall of rentals is huge. Is it a Chicago thing, or just the fact that Sunnydale has a whole monster problem that sort of puts a dent in the urge to rent movies late at night? Well, okay, Chicago is a huge city and Sunnydale is a rinky-dink town with a questionable amount of cemeteries.

Still, that’s a lot of movies to pick from.

The harsh halogen lights hum over head, which doesn’t help with the overwhelmed by choice feeling. That means she’s even more blindsided when Dawn slides up next to her and says, “So, what’s with you being all wiggy around Spike lately?”

“Wiggy?” Buffy wrenches her gaze away from the display and frowns at Dawn. “I’m not wiggy about Spike.”

“I said around not about.” Dawn’s eyes narrow, and it takes some real Slayer bravery to meet her eyes. Sometimes, Buffy thinks it's not fair that Dawn can manage to meet certain things head on, things that Buffy would much rather scoot away from and never look at directly. After all, Buffy’s the Slayer. The Slayer shouldn’t feel like her head and heart are a whirling carousel that she can’t quite handle anymore, like it’s going too fast for her to get on, and then when she somehow manages to mount up, she can’t get off.

And now she’s added another mental image to her list. Sheesh, she’s really got to stick to one metaphor. Maybe that could be her next New Year's Resolution. If she makes it that far, that is.

“Hello? Earth to Buffy? Oh my god!” Dawn says suddenly, “you’re thinking about him right now, aren’t you?”

“Very far off base, there, Dawnie,” Buffy says, and it’s nice when she can be honest. Because she’s not thinking about Spike, not exactly. Maybe the thoughts are Spike-adjacent, which is a mind-trip of its own. That Spike is in her thoughts this much when it isn’t what did that idiot do now? or can I kill him yet? Well, it’s certainly different, to use the Midwestern word for it.

Freaky is another. Freaky could also apply.

Dawn pouts and idly picks up one of the display cases. “Fine, keep it all to yourself. Bottle it all up, like you always do.”

“Hey, I’m not bottling things up,” Buffy protests. (Lies, she’s lying now, and it’s too late, because Dawn knows her and knows that's what she does. She wasn’t always like this. She remembers when she didn’t stuff everything down, when she threw her whole heart out there. She remembers what happened to her heart afterwards.) But she needs to stop Dawn from prodding at this, because with the three of them in close quarters, it will get really old really fast. The last thing she needs is Dawn trying to Parent Trap her and Spike. Or renting The Parent Trap. “Anyway, why are you so invested in the idea of me and Spike? It’s not like the last,” she pauses and lowers her voice, “vampire I was with was someone you liked. I thought you wouldn’t want a repeat of that.”

Of course, because Buffy expects that to yank Dawn back to reality, Dawn continues to offer proof of her teenage status by rolling her eyes and snapping her tongue like it should all be so obvious.

“Because Spike’s my favorite, duh,” she says as she puts the case back on the shelf.

Buffy’s staring at Dawn with open horror. “Spike,” she says dumbly, “Spike is your favorite? Spike? My brain is going to melt out of my ears.”

“Um, yeah, like obviously. Come on, Buffy, like, Angel was all broody and made you miserable and I will never forgive him for Georgie Porgie the Hamster. And he was like never around. He didn’t care about me or Mom at all—”

“That’s not true, he—”

“He wasn’t around. Or you didn’t bring him around. You were all super in love with him, but you didn’t bring him to the house. You totally disappeared on us that year.”

“There were… circumstances,” she hisses, but Dawn’s flat expression tells her that’s a non-starter. Right, change of tactics, then. “Anyway, I brought Riley home.” All it earns her is another eye roll. “Oh my god, stop doing that or I will find your eyeballs on the floor one day, I swear.”

“Riley was nice, until he made you miserable, too. I don’t know everything that happened, but I know it wasn’t good. And for a guy who said he had tons of little cousins, he like never knew how to talk to me. Like I was a little kid who didn’t know anything, which was super annoying. Spike doesn’t do that. He’s honest. Sometimes kind of a jerk, but honest. I like honest, even if it hurts. Because do you know how much it hurt that you kept—” Dawn buttons her lips together and ducks her head. Her long brown hair falls around her face, and Buffy really wishes she was better at the heart stuff. That she could figure out what was wrong with her, because what had once felt so easy is now so hard.

“Hey, Dawnie, hey,” she says, slipping her hand into Dawn’s and squeezing. “I’m sorry. So sorry about keeping that from you. I know how much it hurt you, and I wish I’d been smarter.” The other justifications sit behind her teeth, but she swallows them. They sit in the hollow of her throat, leaden, but unvoiced. Mom would know what to do right now, know what to say to Dawn, how to help her understand. Buffy’s never been that smart, though, so all she has is her hands and her heart and all the things she doesn’t know how to say.

“Love you, you know. And you’re pretty tough, to want the truth even when it hurts,” she says, and hopes that’s enough.

Dawn’s head lifts and she sniffs back the last of her tears. “Yeah, I know.”

The bell over the door rings, and their Spike-free zone is now compromised. He glides between the stacks, and it’s still odd to her to see him without that heavy leather duster. But it marks him as memorable, so lately he’s opted for something like that jacket he wore when he took her on the attempt at a surprise date. Which, yeah, it’s a lot easier to remember why he’s so wiggy-making for her. Spike and his obsession that twisted him around. They’ve got a clean slate, yes, but that doesn’t mean she just forgets. Though, he’s been a lot less twisty lately. Even if he’s not always telling her everything, he tells her enough. Especially when she asks.

It means something, that. That when she asks, he gives. It’s not a fight, at least not more than the usual bickering they both fall into.

“You girls got a movie yet?” he asks, head cocked and watching them both. Though he’s tracking Dawn a bit more than Buffy. It’s some of the vampire-predator stuff she knows he can’t put down, but she’s starting to think he might just be channeling for something other than being, well, a predator. Like how even predators look out for their young.

Great, there’s another weird thing for her to be thinking.

“Not yet,” Dawn says, voice steady. “Was just working my way up to the start of the new rentals. I like to go backwards because everyone starts at the start and then they miss out on the good stuff.”

Buffy smiles at the wonder that is Dawn’s brain, and waves her on. Spike lingers next to Buffy, though he watches Dawn follow the wall of video cases around the corner of the store. He quirks an eyebrow in Buffy’s direction and says, “She alright?”

“Yeah, she’s fine. Just had a little moment. We’re doing better, though. Not freaking out,” Buffy answers. This is acceptable ground, talking about Dawn. That seems fine, as far as things go. He does, for lack of a better term, seem invested in keeping Dawn not just safe but happy. As happy as they can all get while in their current situation. Though, if Buffy thinks about it, Dawn’s happier than she has been since before, well, Mom got sick. It’s like they’re in a bubble of non-reality. Or, maybe that this space is giving them both a break from the insanity that’s been the last six months of their life.

“Good. Not exactly my forte, talking the Little Bit out of the proverbial tree.”

“You kind of manage it though.”

“Reckon that’s more good luck.”

“You tell her the truth. Turns out she likes that.”

“Huh.” It’s the whole non-reaction from him that’s weird for her. She’s used to Spike and his big reactions or playing it cool so hard that it’s obvious he’s covering up a big reaction. He doesn’t usually go for understated. That’s kind of the opposite of the Spike that she’s used to. Makes her wonder when the other shoe is going to drop, though she’s starting to think that maybe it won’t. Though, of course, sneaky shoes, that’s when they do drop.

“Anyway, you pick a movie yet?” she asks, because hey, Blockbuster, totally a place to have this easy no-brain-involved conversation. Surprise arches his brows up and his mouth parts a fraction. She grins, because yeah, she got him there. Then it catches up to him, that he’s showing her something he isn’t sure he wants her to see. His expression shutters again.

“Any movie?” he drawls, head lolling and gaze flickering toward the curtained off section of the store.

“Obviously not any movie, you weirdo,” she scolds. His grin is immediate, and she’s wondering if he just got the better of her in this little exchange.

“Just making sure, Slayer.” He holds up his hands in a surrender she totally knows he doesn’t mean.

Then Dawn barrels back with a display case held out like it’s a rare, treasured find. “This! This is what I want!”

Buffy catches Dawn’s arm and peers at the title. Spike takes one look at the cover—Heath Ledger and Julia Stiles and other actors posed under text that screams teen romantic comedy, which is yeah, on brand for Dawn—and sighs before wandering off. She just catches a muttered, “bleeding teen movies,” and smiles.

“You got it, Dawnie, first up for the night for sure,” she says brightening, because she is so going to make Spike suffer through this. It’ll be like winning. Winning what, she’s not sure, but winning all the same. “Oh! Do you think they’ve got movie popcorn up at the front? Let’s go check it out.”

Dawn’s answering smile is wide and beautiful, and Buffy doesn’t know how many nights like this they’ll have but for now, it’s good.

***

They’re only ten or so minutes into 10 Things I Hate About You when Spike, who had been lounging on the far end of the couch, expression flat and bored, suddenly sits up and stares in shock (actual shock) at the TV. “Oh bloody hell, you’ve got to be sodding joking! This—it’s Taming of the Shrew!”

“Quiet!” Dawn scolds from her spot on the floor, “Heath Ledger is being cute!”

“Taming of the Shrew?” Buffy asks, frowning. “Isn’t that the one where the girl is brow beaten into marrying the jerk guy?”

Spike stares at her, open mouthed, and something like outrage in his bright blue eyes. (Okay, why is she noticing how blue his eyes are? They’ve always been like that, right? Stop it, Buffy.) Then he snorts and shakes his head.

“S’not what happens if you’re watching a good production. Kate is not tamed at the end of the play, not by half,” he says.

“How’s that work, then? I mean, Shakespeare wasn’t exactly big with the progressive, was he?” The question is strange in her mouth. She has vague recollections about high school English, and the one day she’d done really well thanks to a bit of telepathy. They’d been reading Othello. The play where Othello murders his lover because, big surprise, jealousy. Whatever insights she’d borrowed (okay, stole) that day were a blur. That whole time was a blur because she’d learned way too much that day.

“For his day, in his comedies, bloke actually wrote most of his women to be the smart ones. Knew what was going on, for the most part, and were pretty active.” Her complete surprise at Spike knowing about Shakespeare, while formidable, is sitting behind how he’s talking about it. Not like he’s giving a lecture, not trying to impart some kind of knowledge from on high, but just… talking about it. Off the cuff. And not like she's stupid for not knowing this already. Then he grins, gaze going distant. “Always liked Beatrice the best, myself. Kate’s not bad, don’t get me wrong, but Beatrice, she had the best lines.”

“You have legit opinions about characters in Shakespeare plays. I think we can revisit that the Big Bad isn’t quite so bad,” Buffy teases, and she almost reaches out to push at his shoulder. Almost, but at the last second catches herself. She tucks her feet underneath her on the couch, but it doesn’t exactly feel like giving ground.

“Just ‘cause I know a good bit of entertainment when I see one doesn’t make me less evil. Anyhow, Kate’s going to give that fella what’s supposed to be Petruchio a fair piece of her mind, and he’ll push back, but then—”

“Spoilers! And too much talking!” Dawn squeals.

“Oh, you know how the movie’s going to end, Little Bit,” Spike says, nudging her with the toe of his boot. “The two main couples end up together, la-ti-da. Interesting bit is what they all say in the middle.”

“Which I won’t be able to hear if you’re talking,” Dawn points out. Then she very meaningfully turns back around and stares so hard at the TV, Buffy wonders if it’ll withstand the sheer weight of her sister’s attention.

Spike sprawls back against the couch, playing at being resigned. He’d made to escape into his nook, but then Dawn had shoved a bowl of popcorn at him which triggered another one of those shocked-and-uncertain expressions to flicker over his features. Now he’s watching the movie, and Buffy’s watching him. Not like, staring at him. That would be weird. And rude. But every now and again, out the corner of her eye, she watches him, and she catches a few things. He knows the words. When the characters start saying something that even the Buffy Brain can identify as Shakespearean, Spike knows the words.

That doesn’t exactly mesh with what he’s told her about his life before he died. Obviously, he lied a fair amount about that. The question was: what parts did he lie about? All of it? Not the woman who had spurned him and sent him into Druscilla’s path, she didn’t think. The general shape of that had been real, but the details seemed insubstantial, some dingy pub that had sounded like the Bronze more than anything else. Not like how he’d given her all the details about her sister Slayers who he’d killed. Brimming with details. Overflowing, really. Way, way too many details.

She can’t get a hold on anything, because her thoughts are spinning around and around.

They have a clean slate. A clean slate and she shouldn’t keep thinking about all the things he’s done. Everything he’s claimed and all the things she doesn’t know, because that’s a part of her she can’t shut off. The Slayer part, the part that senses him and screams enemy. Only, it’s not screaming so much anymore. These days it’s just Spike, a familiar tingle on the back of her neck like how she used to know when Angel was nearby, not any other vampire.

And isn’t that it’s own kind of trip. That she knows Spike’s presence like she used to know Angel’s.

Dawn standing and stretching breaks her out of her thoughts. The credits are rolling, and somewhere along the way her carousel thoughts spun her brain around through the whole movie. She knows she watched it. The TV images hit her eyeballs, and the quippy lines hit her ears, but they just didn’t sink into her brain.

“Time for the next one!” Dawn declares as she ejects the tape. Dawn still struggles with the be kind, rewind ethos. Buffy makes a mental note to rewind it later.

Spike reaches over the end of the couch and digs the other tape out of the plastic bag. Dawn gleefully shoves the cassette into the player, and presses play with one hand while shoveling popcorn into her mouth with the other.

“What’s this one about?” Dawn asks.

“Bit of a crime flick, I think,” Spike says, picking at the fabric of his jeans.

“You think?” Buffy asks.

“Seemed fun, didn’t look too close at it,” he says with a shrug.

Buffy raises a dubious eyebrow, and when the previews appear, she’s got a sinking feeling. They’re all super violent movies with an R rating. She leans forward and takes up the case, grimacing.

“Dawn pause the movie,” she says, and her sister does. Then she turns to the vampire who might be the weirdest thing to ever happen to her. “Spike, this is an R-rated movie.”

“So?” Oh god, she thinks, he’s legitimately clueless. He was born before movies existed. On top of that, she’s pretty sure Spike would take the MPAA rating system as a personal affront.

“Eeee! Yes, I’m going to watch my first R-rated movie!” Dawn grins and claps.

“No, you’re not!” Buffy objects.

“I promise, I won’t look at the gross and/or weird bits.”

“There shouldn’t be any need for you to look away!”

“Not like I got Pulp Fiction,” Spike mutters.

“Dawn, you can’t watch this,” Buffy insists.

“Why not? Just because some bored middle aged people with crazy high ethical standards decided to totally make up a rating system because originally Hollywood just made any old kind of movie, and they were totally repressing creative and artistic freedom—”

“Okay, going to pause you there.” Buffy holds up a hand, and for a wonder, Dawn shuts her mouth. Though those big blue eyes are clearly brimming with a fight. “First, Dawnie, where do you find out about all of this? Before you get defensive, I’m actually asking here.”

“Oh.” A little bit of the fight goes out of Dawn’s expression, which was Buffy’s main aim. See, she can learn how to handle Dawn. It’s just taking a lot of mistakes first. Mistakes she wishes she didn’t have to make, but can’t seem to stop making. “Well, Willow leaves her computer out sometimes, and I just look stuff up that seems interesting. Janice and I were talking about how it’s hard to tell the difference between some PG-13 movies and some R-rated ones, and I thought, ‘oh, I bet there’s an answer on the internet.’ And there was! Mostly it has to do with sex, violence, and the number of swear words. It was on a news site, too, a real one.”

“That’s, okay, that’s actually impressive.” It really is. Buffy’s impressed at Dawn’s follow through. At how she doesn’t stop until she has an answer that satisfies her. Buffy can relate to that, even if Dawn’s curiosity is more academic than Buffy’s own. More than understand it, she can feel kind of proud of it.

“Really?” Dawn asks, like she’s lighting up from the inside.

“Yeah, really.” Buffy sighs and sits back. “Okay, if there’s not that much of a difference, and if this is a crime flick there’s probably more violence and swear words rather than… other stuff.” No one needs to tell her that it’s problematic that Dawn, her fourteen year old mystical key of a sister, can say the word sex whereas Buffy still struggles sometimes. She also knows the problem is with her. “You can watch it, but the second I say it’s going too far, we’re done, got it?”

Dawn nods so fast that Buffy wonders if her head might pop off. Then she wiggles around in her super happy Dawn way and presses play. The opening credits start, and Buffy immediately knows why Spike picked this movie no matter what he claims. It’s British.

It’s British, and weird, and very convoluted. And Dawn’s asleep in thirty minutes. So much for her concern about the delicate morals of adolescent mystical keys.

“Little Bit’s crashed out, Slayer,” Spike says, echoing what she already knows. “You want to finish the movie?”

She weighs the options for a minute while the characters on the screen pelt around after each other, getting more lost in the tangled web of mishaps that’s unfolding. It’s funny, in a dark kind of way. She shrugs. “I kind of want to see how it ends up.”

He lets out a breath he doesn’t need, slow and even, and his whole posture is very still for a second. Then he nods and lets his leg bounce a few times before he presses a hand into his knee, forcing it to stop. Buffy curls up on her end of the couch and watches the movie. It is hard to follow, and she would need to watch it more than once to really see how it fits together. That second watch would probably be best off not near Spike, either.

She’s doing it again, sneaking glances at him as he watches. The soft downlights in the apartment make him look slightly less pale than usual. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think he was a normal guy. Sure, heavy on the punk aesthetic (or like, all the way in with both booted feet), but it works on him. The sharp planes and angles of his face are familiar—they’ve argued toe-to-toe and nose-to-nose so many times, she knows his smears and snarls and anger, and more recently those abject, hopeful glances that she couldn’t parse out but should have before Dawn spilled the undead beans.

Familiar. His face is familiar, like anyone’s would be, if they’d been a strange part of her strange life for the past several years.

It’s the setting of them that’s so wildly different. He’s holding down the other side of the couch, black-denim clad legs splayed out, his torso sunk into the cushions. She’s not sure if she’d call it relaxed. Spike doesn’t relax so much as go boneless like a cat, and like a cat, she’s pretty sure he’d leap up into action if a demon busted down the door. No, not sure. She knows. Knows in her bones he’d leap up and stand between Dawn and whatever was after her.

Her lip is suddenly between her teeth, and there’s a lurching sensation in her chest.

She jerks her head toward the TV and stares ahead and tries to pick up from where her attention wandered. These are not Buffy-Approved-Thoughts, she tells herself. She shouldn’t be looking at Spike like… that.

He snorts a laugh at something in the movie, and she’s looking again. The way his grin curves his mouth, a little crooked and sharp.

Evil. He’s evil.

Only, that’s Spike insisting he’s evil with his words while doing things like teaching her and Dawn how to drive (even if he annoyed her so much she drove to spite him, which isn’t a clear good or evil thing so that’s probably a break-even), watching movies with them, and generally giving Buffy everything Buffy’s asked for. That’s one she can’t quite get over. She asks, and he delivers.

It doesn’t square with her understanding of vampires as ultimately selfish creatures. Because if Spike is being selfish, he’s being selfish in a way that looks pretty damn human. If his selfishness is just being near her, then she’s known human beings to do similar things, to go to crazy lengths just to be around someone they love.

She’s done that herself. Everything she did to be close to Angel, to keep him, as much of him as she could. To soak up being near him until she thought she could burst for wanting him.

It was the best kind of pain, she’d thought at the time. That perfect, bittersweetness that proved how big her love was. How amazing that she’d found something bigger than herself at her age. That nothing else could be like that ever again.

And thinking of it like that, she kind of wants to smack her younger self.

Pain doesn’t make love real—pain is just pain. It hurt, and the hurting should have told her something. But if love doesn’t hurt, then it ends up like how it ended with Riley. There was no pain, not until the end. It had been light and sweet and, if not always easy, then something she could come home to. Until she couldn’t. Until his pain about her not needing him blew back on her.

She’d needed Angel, but hadn’t needed Riley.

Where did that leave her heart?

“Well,” Spike said into the spinning top of her thoughts, “that was a bit of alright entertainment. What did you think, Slayer?”

“Huh?” Another credits roll flickered on by, and great. She’s lost track of another movie. She’d watched it, sure she had, but again it had slid off her attention like water off a duck’s back. Face scrunching, she’d tried to fake it, “It was a bit, um, involved.”

“Had a bit of shaggy dog, I’ll grant you, and not of the type that Red’s former is,” he drawls. The VCR keeps going. Neither of them seem inclined to get off the couch to stop it.

“Willow’s with Tara now. She’s gay,” Buffy points out, not sure exactly why she’s pointing it out at all.

“Oh for the love of—” Spike grumbles, eyebrow twitching. “You people and your neat little boxes. Gay, straight, alive, dead, all just a bunch of rot.”

“I dunno, the alive-dead distinction’s pretty clear,” she says, a smile trying to appear on her face. She bites the inside of her cheek. No smiling. No smiling and bantering with Spike. Again.

Spike, who half-turns to her and gestures down at himself with a bemused expression on his face. Her eyes, without any permission from her brain, follow the invisible line his hand traces, running down the line of his body. Which, Xander once called compact but well muscled, so thank you to her brain and Xander for the way her cheeks heated up. But no, Spike wasn’t coming onto her, but pointing out the whole undead thing.

“Undead is still dead,” she manages to say. He shakes his head and snorts, like he’s finding the whole conversation funny. She’s not sure what’s funny about it. It should be, on paper, but she’s back to being way, way too aware of him. It reminds her of last year, her last year of quasi-normal when the worst thing she’d had to worry about was her killer psych professor and her pet monster-slash-son thing. How Spike had always just been there, and having him around like that had set her on age, because God damn it if there had to be a vampire in her life, why him? Why him and not Angel, she’d wanted to scream.

And that’s official, her brain is way too all over the place for thinking about Spike anymore. Spike and everything he’s been doing, how he’s been helpful and here and how he loves Dawn and what it means that he even has a sister-shaped spot in his head to neatly fit Dawn into.

Sister-shaped. What does that mean? She wants to know, but also—she has big sistering to do.

“And on that note,” she says, levering herself up from the couch. “I better get her into her actual bed. I’ve got more classes to teach tomorrow. Do you.” She hesitates, fingers flexing like they miss holding a stake. Not to stake him (and isn’t that just different, and she’s also starting to like that Midwestern verbal tic), just for something to do, something she understands, something that’s easy and straightforward and not full of all sorts of confusing thoughts. “Do you have your study group tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. There’s that shuttered expression on his face again, and its wigging her out. Spike isn’t supposed to be like this. It’s like he’s holding himself back, which is another heap of weirdness for her. “Might be late,” he says, “blokes want to buy me some beers or summat. Not going to say no, if they’re paying.”

“Yeah, that’s, that’s good.” She stands, wiping her hands on her jeans, and then squats to pick up Dawn. Dawn, who’s a little more gangly than she used to be (never was, but that doesn’t matter because Buffy remembers the tiny baby, the chubby toddler, the rambunctious little kid), but not that heavy. Buffy adjusts her hold and picks up her little sister like she remembers doing a thousand times before.

“G’night, Slayer,” Spike says when she’s halfway down the hall. It’s too narrow of her to turn around, so she tosses a quiet “Night, Spike” over her shoulder and tucks Dawn in.

When she comes back out, Spike is nowhere to be seen. She can’t even sense him nearby, which means he’s not in his nook. Then she hears it, the faint creak of metal. He’s gone up to the roof again, which has turned into a makeshift training space for her and his go-to place to smoke.

She should shower. Should crawl into bed. Get some sleep. Use at least some of her brain power for trying to figure out how to take the fight to Glory once Dawn’s safety isn’t an issue any longer.

So many shoulds.

Buffy steps out the backdoor, locks up behind herself, and climbs up the fire escape.

Notes:

I don't hold you down
And maybe that's why you're around
But if I'm the one you love
Think about me
I don't hold you down
And maybe that's why you're around
But if I'm the one you love
Think about me
—Think About Me by Fleetwood Mac

Because I am a Christine McVie stan, y'all. And MvVie feels more like Buffy than Stevie Nix (no shade on Stevie, tho).

Chapter 11: King of Pain

The smoke fills his lungs, hot and acrid and stings in just the right way. His body doesn’t take up the nicotine like a human’s would. It’s all about the action and the feel—gives his hands something to do, and if his lungs burn, then he doesn’t pay too close attention to any other part of him that’s hurting.

Worse, it’s his own bleeding fault.

He could have left. Didn’t. He could try to not be around so much, try to skirt around both the girls and stay out late. Could find himself in someone else’s bed (an actual bed, which would be nice instead of a sodding cot). All sorts of things he could do, but won’t. Won’t because he can’t stop. Can’t stop offering. Offering up himself, what bits of him that aren’t too pathetic to be laughable.

What he needs now is a spot of space. Space to stew in his own unrequited love without being surrounded by how the Slayer smells, how she moves, how she breathes, how magnificent her heart beat is. God, he knows it so well by now, he could tune out the world and imagine it, he’s pretty sure. That beautiful thump-da-thump-da—

He spins on his heel, boots scraping against the gritty rooftop, and there she is. Because no, no that wasn’t his imagination. Her and her maddening heart beat are right in front of him.

There’s a scream inside of him dying to come out, because can’t he just be left alone for Christ’s sake? She doesn’t love him. Never can, never will. He’s made his fucking peace with that—okay, maybe not, maybe it still burns. Burns him up from the inside, all the feelings and words he can’t say—the words that Dawn saw, and now he can’t even look at that notebook again because if someone sees—he wrenches his head away from her and glares out into the chilly May night.

Clean slate. They’ve got a clean slate and he’s been watching those tally marks go up in her eyes (or is that all in his head, bugger it, he doesn’t know), thing is he doesn’t know what it’s talling up to, and fuck but he hates maths. He was never good at sums, but he knows this math well enough. William, Spike, whoever he is, he’s never enough. Not for anyone.

How could he be?

Oblivious to his thoughts, the Slayer scuffs her sneakers as she makes her way across the roof to where he stands. Spike’s content in the long-sleeved t-shirt he picked up from a thrift shop on his walk home one night. Buffy, though, she curls her arms around herself, even wearing a green plaid flannel over a plain white tee. Apparently that’s all the fashion here for this time of year, and the Slayer’s foregone her usual sartorial habits for blending in.

Makes him wistful for the halter tops she used to favor when patrolling. Especially when she didn’t wear a bra.

Though, she still looks good in the local fashions. The fabric looks soft, and he has a brief mental diversion about running his hands down it, feeling how it conforms to her body before ripping it off.

“—lo? Earth to Spike?” She’s caught his eyes with her own, and he shakes himself out of the image, which only makes him more frustrated. Even in the night, there’s a glow to her. The kind of glow a man should weep to be so close to and not touch.

Spike takes a long drag on his cigarette, holds it, and slowly lets the smoke stream out of his mouth. “There something you need my help with, Slayer? Niblet need a bedtime story, or can a man smoke in peace?”

“Your bedtime stories are not age appropriate,” she snarks with a wrinkle of her nose. Bint even goes so far as to wave her hand in front of her face, which almost but not quite hides the grin curving her mouth. The slight grin that he craves and adores.

Thus, his torture continues. Teaching the Little Bit to drive had been alright—irritating, but there’d been the now-familiar flush of pride in his chest at seeing her get it. Because of him. Had been a rush, or something close to, watching the girl light up and knowing he’d helped her get there.

Getting Buffy to drive, though. Christ, he should have realized getting her angry would have worked. Hardly planned, that, but then she’d been flush with contrary fury and tried to find third gear, and his choices had been to let her stall the car out and possibly fuck up the transmission or guide her hand. He’d chosen the latter, and fuuuuuuck, that had been enough to make him squirm in his seat to hide his sudden stiffy.

Her hot skin under his hand as they’d slid the stick shift into gear, it had been everything and not enough at the same time.

“Girl’s fourteen,” he counters. That’s better, talking about Dawn. Maybe that’s how he can survive this. Talk about Little Sis, because this is all about her, after all. He can do that. Stick to that.

“She’s barely one, like in actuality,” Buffy says. She leans against the half wall of the roof, arse sticking out as she peers over the side.

As quick as that, his resolve evaporates. Nope, no, he can’t stick to just talking about Dawn. Not with the Slayer looking soft and delectable like she is, always is, not with her at ease around him while he feels like he’s going to combust. What made him think he could do this? Day in, day out?

He flicks the dog end away, letting it fall over the edge of the building. The ash falls, and the cigarette is like a falling star. A small point of light to be snuffed out by contact with the ground. He grips at the roof wall, fingers digging into the cracked brick and mortar.

“Then what’re you doing up here, Slayer?” he asks, unable to keep a growl out of his voice. Go, he wants to plead with her. Please, just go—leave, because being close to you and not having you will kill me, and I can endure it if I can have time to get my head on straight. Problem is, there’s no getting his head on straight around her. She sends him every which way, because what he wants to do is one of the things he can’t. He can’t, because he’s tried already and it won’t change anything, and it’s enough to make a man, even a man such as him, weep.

“Geeze, grumpy much?” she says, shaking her head. That golden hair sways and falls over her shoulders. Hair so soft, what he wouldn’t give to touch it just once. To feel those strands slip through his fingers. To press his nose close and take a full scenting of her. Then she puts a hand up to forestall him. “I thought you were enjoying movie night, what gives?”

His jaw unclenches a fraction at that. He had been enjoying himself. That teen movie hadn’t been a bad take on Taming of the Shrew, and that Lock, Stock, and what-have-you flick had been fairly entertaining. It had been… nice. Dawn on the floor, and Buffy on the couch with him. Though, she’d been as far away from him as possible. Socked feet tucked up underneath the curve of her delicious ass. Message received loud and clear—clean slate they might have, but the Slayer wasn’t about to cozy up to him.

Doesn’t matter that he’s trying, that whenever she’s getting to her ragged edge, he’s been there. That he helps with the Niblet and gets the Slayer to bleed off some of her energy. Doesn’t matter that he’s following her rules and doing exactly what she wants.

It doesn’t make sense. She keeps him at a distance, like she can’t relax around him sometimes, and then she does this. Comes up onto the roof where she has to know he is—shows up without so much as a hard edge to her face. Skin so soft and glowing. Because she glows. Clouds cover the moon, scent of rain on the breeze, but the ambient light of the streetlamps are enough for him to see by, enough for him to see how she lights up the night like the sun itself.

“What gives?” he echoes, letting a little spool of irritation unfurl from his chest. She pulls him into this mad scheme, he does all she’s asked of him, but she still treats him like he’s a sodding hazard. And she asks what gives?

“Yeah, Spike, what gives? You’re all way bad moody now. You were fine like ten minutes ago.”

“That’s what you think is it?”

“Well, then the Oscar goes to you, because, again, you with the seeming of the fine. What, were you seething with rage at how they updated Shakespeare?”

“Don’t care about the bloody film, Slayer.”

“Whatever, I don’t need this,” she snaps. “I came up here because I’ve had a question in my head all day. You said—”

“Alert the presses.”

“Do you have a quota on being a jerk that you have to fill every day? Because that’s what this feels like right now. Gotta get your kicks in before I get some shut eye, huh?”

“No, was more wondering what you’re doing up here at all, Slayer,” he says slowly, drawing each word out. He pushes off the low wall and faces her head on. Only way there is to fight with her, even if it's with his mouth instead of his fists. Though if only he could really fight with his mouth, capture her perfect soft lips with his own (because he knows how soft those lips are, the one kiss she gave him like a lady granting favor in full chivalric trope that was never meant for him) and really fight. To press his body close to hers, to fight over control and pleasure until they were both mad for the wanting.

“You know, I’m not sure it’s worth it anymore. I was wondering if there was anything else to you, Spike, but clearly there isn’t. You put on a mask of playing nice when you want to, but you’re just a punk asshole underneath, because that’s who you are, no matter the what.”

“Anything more to me?” he scoffs. “Oh, Slayer, there’s heaps to me. Heaps you don’t want to know.” He damn near purrs the words at her, oozing just that fraction too far into her personal space.

Stubborn chit doesn’t back down.

His face softens, loving how stubborn she is, how she’s more than a match for him. She’s victorious already. He’s already conquered territory as far she’s concerned. But just because she’s got him by the short and curlies doesn’t mean he has to always play the good boy. Because he can’t quite believe she actually wants to know about him. That doesn’t make a lick of bloody sense. Only time she wanted information about him was the Slayers he’d done in. Not him.

She searches his face, her chin jutting out and her eyes blazing. He tries to glare back, but there’s too much happening in his head. Then she steels herself, like she’s about to leap into the fray and doesn’t know how it’ll go.

“I have to know. This is about Dawn, so I have to know,” she repeats, like it’s some kind of justification. “When you said Dawn takes up the sister-shaped spot in your head, Spike, what did that mean?”

The question stops him dead. Which is funny if he thinks about it, but he’s not thinking at all right now. The night around suddenly fades away. Echoes come to him. Memories echo until they crescendo and crash through his mind, until they sweep him backwards a hundred years and more.

Caught in the rip-tide of remembering he sees Dru. Dru with her dark hair flying, her beautiful mouth pulled in an ugly snarl, scratching him for letting another girl go, her sharp nails close to his eyes, close enough to make him think she would pluck them out. His dark goddess, wanting more of a monster than she found. Screaming at him to forget, why can’t he just forget? Then Angel—Liam—looms large, his bulk overshadowing the fledging Willy had once been. Finding girls, asking if this or that one looked like her. And then destroying them by inches. Because he’d found a weakness, and so he did what Angel always did when something was weak—played. Until Spike pushed it all down, until Spike forgot. Until he forgot so hard that it was like she’d never been there. Until the parts of him that had loved her were as dead as the rest of him.

But he’s been remembering her now. Her ghost, her remnants have been floating up to the surface, and now they fall onto him like a deluge. The girl who had made a dreary home with a distant father bright and happy. A girl who had brought joy and laughter, who had hung on his every word, all his poems and stories a delight for her untutored ears.

A little girl with big blue eyes and curly brown hair who had fallen ill with fever and died sweating and coughing her lungs bloody.

A girl he’d come home too late to read to one last time.

The whispers that followed him in parlor rooms, the pity that wore thin until the jeers came back. So he buried her in his mind, put her away on a shelf and never touched the box labeled Charlotte Victoria Pratt.

It crashes over him like a wave and pulls at him, a riptide of memory. He struggles to the surface of the present, fighting with everything he has not to be dragged down into memories he doesn’t want or need. Not now, and not in front of Buffy. And he can’t do this. He can’t do this. He won’t do this.

He won’t be that useless milksop again. He won’t be the weak idiot, the boy who needed moulding into a monster, not anymore.

“Don’t, Slayer,” he says, voice low and coiled, another echo. When she tried to push, when she’d asked him to confess something in exchange her own slip about the looney bin she’d been packed off to once. She’s asking again, trying to dig. To get something out of him that’s a more than a century dead and gone, and no. No, he won’t let her have it. Not that, not the sad, pathetic, sniveling parts of him that just won’t fucking die.

“What? Don’t ask a simple question?” She waves her arms in exasperation. He could tell her, but everything in him screams to not. To keep it hidden. No one can know. He shouldn’t even know.

She should have stayed forgotten. And safe.

“No such thing,” he snarls. He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “Look, Slayer, it doesn’t matter, alright?” She opens her mouth, but he preempts her. Moving fast, he’s all the way in her space, nose-to-nose, toe-to-toe. “I’m here, Slayer. I’m doing all the mad things you asked of me, but that doesn’t mean you own me. Doesn’t mean I don’t get some time away from you, your righteousness, and the Bit. Doesn’t mean I perform on your sodding fucking command.”

Her breath is warm on his face. He wants to kiss her. He wants to smash his forehead into her perfectly imperfect nose. He wants to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness and let it all spill from his stupid mouth. He wants to snarl and scream and fight.

She hasn’t given an inch of ground, not one damned inch, and so he sees it as she searches his face and there, in the way her eyes flicker and tighten—hurt. It’s gone so fast he’s sure he’s imagined it. If it was ever there, in its place is anger. Sharp and bitter. Her lips curl.

“I don’t know why I expected anything else,” she snaps. In a huff and a flip of perfect golden hair, she strides back across the roof to the fire escape. Her first tread makes the whole thing clang and vibrate like a struck bell.

“Good!” he calls back, mouth moving independently of his brain. “You shouldn’t have!”

She half turns back to him, and even in the barely there light of the street lights below them, he can see the tally marks falling away. “Enjoy your time alone, Spike. I hope you enjoy it.”

Then she’s gone, back over the edge of the roof. Fast as that, it’s all over.

Spike staggers back to the roof’s half wall and slides down it until he’s sitting there on the dirt and grit. He brings his legs up, resting his arms on his knees. His head is spinning and his chest aches. Aches so much, he wonders if his ribs have cracked apart and his heart has been pulled out. But no, he’s not dust, so the useless lump of dead flesh is where it’s supposed to be.

“Bloody fucking shit,” he growls at himself. His head lolls to his chest, and his hands grip at his head, as if he could crack his own skull apart. Or hold it together. He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know how he’s going to keep doing this.

***

To hell with Buffy’s rules. Spike grips the knob at the bottom of the apartment building’s staircase and twists. The lock brakes, and he steps into the cool basement. He makes a slow circuit of the place. There are shelves stacked with tools and odds and ends—all stuff he vaguely knows is meant to repair things. In the far corner, there’s some heavier tools and a couple of cylindrical style vacuums. He runs his hands along the cool, slightly moist brick, trying to feel for a weakness. A place where they might have bricked over a way out.

It takes a few minutes, but he finds an exit. Even better, all they did was put a bit of shelving in front of it. It’s a doddle to move the shelf and rearrange a few things to give himself access. He should care more about putting things back to rights, to making sure the maintenance fellow doesn’t see that someone’s been in here. Again, though, Spike can’t bring himself to care. He just has to get out.

Out and away.

Was better, when Buffy and Dawn were out and about most of the day, looking for work or finding summat else to bring back home—to the apartment, not home, not for him. Now, Buffy’s got her girls to teach and not much else to do. She fills up whatever space she’s in, and so that means he needs to get out. If he’s gone before she wakes up, then so much the better.

Space, he needs space. He’ll wander on back eventually, he knows. Knows it in his bones such that he stood in front of that blasted white board trying to suss out if he should write a damned thing. If she deserved it or not. He knows he’ll come back because he wrote Out for a walk, and managed not to write bitch on the end of it. He knows because he made a promise, of a sort. Nothing he said with his mouth, but one he’s been making over and over since Glory strung him up as her own personal pinata and didn’t find any candy. He’ll dust before he lets Dawn get hurt, before Buffy has to endure that pain.

It’s all the rest he can’t do right now.

But he knows himself, and a man has limits. He’s reached his. She pushed him there, asking about things she has no clue about. No idea what it dredges up. Things he can’t handle and be what Dawn needs.

Spike breaks the latch on the heavy metal door and steps into an old maintenance area. He takes an experimental sniff, testing the air. It’s not entirely stale. Reminds him of some of the old twists and turns of the London underground—the part that went deeper than the trains. Forgotten places where men died down in the dark and were bricked over in the name of progress. Spike follows the faint shifting of the air and shifts into gameface to see better in the darkness. The world transforms into a black-and-white picture in sharp relief. He finds a narrow egress, not entirely closed off, and he squirms out into the greater Chicago sewer network.

The lights aren’t on, old bulbs surrounded by heavy metal cages to protect against accidental breakage. Spike shrugs and lets his feet wander. He could wander all day, and he knows he will. Pop up here and there if he can, steal some smokes and some whisky before rolls himself back topside for the night.

Spike rocks back on his heels and settles his headphones on his ears. Just because he’s trying to stay away from the Slayer’s no reason to exist without music. Maybe if he finds the right music, he can drown out the complicated bundle of feeling that’s roiling inside him like a writhing mass of snakes. Feelings he doesn’t dare try to handle because he knows as soon as he does he’s going to get bitten. Bitten and hurt, and he just can’t fucking do this again.

He can’t keep coming up short, coming up wanting.

Squeezing his eyes shut, and hating, loathing, the wetness behind them, he jams down the play button on the Walkman.

Music blares into his skull, hard and heavy. Not as fast as he likes, not punk, but if he’s honest with himself, punk hasn’t been the same since the seventies. Eighties pop ruined it. He bobs his head along and picks up the lyrics here or there—There's no sex in your violence, Try to see it once my way, Everything zen, everything zen—and he manages to hum a few bars. Yeah, that’ll keep him from thinking too hard or too much about anything he doesn’t want to.

While he’s out, might be a good idea to get some extra cassettes. Dawn’s friend’s older brother doesn’t have the worst taste, but fuck, he’s really missing his stuff right about now.

***

The sun’s set, and Spike gets himself to the Loyola campus. It’s not as familiar as other campuses he’s been on—UC Sunnydale was familiar in a bad way, but there was a time over a hundred years ago when he walked between the gothic facades of Cambridge—No. He fair snarls at himself, which sends a few young co-eds skittering away from him. Which is good. He’s hardly in a mood to keep having memory assault him just now.

Only, he’s walking toward the library where the lads have their study group, and he knows walking into that library is going to stir up something. Live long enough and anything can remind a person of something else. He lingers around the corner to light up. The routine gets him out of his head for a second, and he’s half-singing along as he fishes a cigarette out of the pack.

“Hey, you know those will kill you right?” It’s Michael, and Spike starts, ripping the headphones off his head. One snags his ear, but he manages not to wince. Michael backs up, hands raised up. “Whoa, Will, man, sorry, didn’t mean to freak you out.”

Spike takes a long drag on his cigarette, forcing his face into a neutral mask. Fuck. Fucking headphones. He likes them, but they do let him tune out the world around him. Kind of nice, honestly, to not always have to be picking up every little thing now that he’s not the hunter he used to be. But he hates being caught unawares.

More bad memories lie that way, so he puffs out a cloud. Again, away from the human with his cancer-prone lungs. Bloody hell, he’s gotten soft.

“It’s fine, mate,” he mutters. Absently, he thumbs the Walkman to pause, and the music abruptly cuts out. “Just taking a ‘mo.”

“Right, yeah.” Michael hikes up his backpack with an awkward smile. All fresh faced and clean, dark hair done up nice. Spike sniffs, with a hint of cologne? On a fella about to be a priest, Michael sure likes to spruce up. The boy shuffles his feet. “Anyway, I heard someone singing, and hey, it was you. Surprised to see you smoke, I guess.”

“Wasn’t singing,” he denies. No need to get into that. Singing along as a vampire? Christ, he bleeding hopes not. He might be an Embarrassment to Vampires, and himself, but there are things he’s not doing. Like singing and prancing about like some nonce.

“Sure, that wasn’t you going hard on Glycerine there. Not a bad take, by the way.” The boy smiles, wide and white and… oh shit. Spike knows this little song and dance from way back. Lads trying to suss each other out. Easier now a days. Shit, back during his time in New York, was easier to bag the right kind of bloke than any bird.

One of the baby priests is keen on blokes, and to really make things wild, looks like the boy is trying to chat up Spike.

Well, if that isn’t one for the books.

Spike shakes his head, not sure what he’s supposed to do now. If it weren’t for Buffy, Spike wouldn’t have any doubts about pressing the lad against the brick of the library and snogging him proper. Of pressing their bodies close and promising all sorts of things, lips in the shell of Michael’s ear and their cocks only separated by denim.

But there is Buffy, and Spike’s heart wants her. Wants to lay his head on her lap and beg for forgiveness he doesn’t know if he’ll ever earn. Wants to bury his head in between her legs and eat her until she screams. Wants to love with his body and his words and even the demon that’s in him wants to curl up at her feet and just be.

The boy could be a good distraction, though. Could try to blot out all that he can’t have. As if that would ever work. Even while fucking Michael, Spike’s pretty sure he’d be thinking about the woman who won’t love him.

“S’alright song, I suppose,” he allows. There’s a thread of tension now, between him and Michael, and Spike doesn’t like it. This was supposed to be a way to get dosh and have a laugh, because it’s objectively god damned fucking hilarious. Wasn’t supposed to pull him in another direction, especially when he’s so twisted and turned that he can’t suss out a damned thing. For lack of other options, Spike tosses the cigarette to the ground and snuffs it out with his boot. “Best get on, then.”

Spike strides for the library doors, Michael at his heels. The familiar musty-paper scent of books press in on him more than usual, and it’s a double hit of memory: his own time among stacks like this and his imprisoned time in the Watcher’s flat. Simpler times, both, than where he is now.

Behind the main stacks, there’s private rooms. Lads booked one out for the study session, and Spike slips inside. Michael follows, and before Spike can get a word in edgewise, the boy blurts out, “Will can sing!”

The lads all sit upright and start peppering him with questions: Charles starts by asking if he can play guitar? Yes, is the answer and he keeps it at that (because he hasn’t touched one for over twenty years, not after Dru tore it out of his hands, the chords upsetting the pixies a time too many, he supposes).

Does he know any songs by heart? Ryan asks. That’s another yes, and he lists punk songs to a round of head shakes. His lips curl in a snarl, but then David nods solemnly. Has Will considered singing on stage? The answer is a fast fuck no. He’s not a performing monkey.

Then they pile on him, with the we thought you needed money and Spike, for the first time ever, just wants to get to the bloody Latin.

“The fact is,” Stephen says, pushing his glasses further up his face. “You can get good money in town for providing live music to different venues. Hardly professional, but they’re always looking for someone to bring in patrons.”

“Especially in the summer,” Micahel says. “This town, summer is time for music. We do it all here. Rock, blues, country, even punk. Though, I’d say you’d get more money by doing some more contemporary alt rock.”

“Bars around Wrigleyville would love you, man,” Ryan says. “Put on a good look, and you’ll get the ladies to flock in. And where the ladies go, the guys go.”

“Or, he could always play in Boystown,” Michael says, eyeing him like a sodding ingénue. “I have some friends there, could set it up.”

There’s a round of ooooooooh yeah from the rest of the lads, and that answers a question Spike didn’t have until just then. All of them know about Michael, and Spike’s the last to suss it out. Well, he’d been hit over the head with it, but still.

“Not a bleeding performance artist,” Spike snaps. In the silence, the hum of the overhead lights drills into his ears, a counterpoint to the grinding of his blunt, human teeth. Fuck, he doesn’t want this, doesn’t need this. David makes a calming gesture and the other lads ease back into their seats.

“Will,” David starts in that oh so reasonable tone of voice, but shit, if it doesn’t work. Maybe that one will make an alright priest. Not that he cares. “We did not mean to offend you. If you do not wish to perform in bars, then of course you should not. We were merely excited to be able to help you, as you have helped us.”

“Yeah, not to mention you’d get to keep your night owl hours, you said you like,” Ryan adds.

“Heard it's decent money, too,” Charles says.

“Can be. Especially, if we go for Boystown bars,” Michael points out.

Spike looks from face to face, not sure what to do with any of that. They’re all looking back at him, Micahel included, with a vague sort of hopefulness. Hopeful that he’ll let them help—fuck’s sake, he can’t remember the last time someone wanted to help him. Not help him because they had to or they were too good (Buffy, she’s too good, too good for him, fuck, he’s sure he’s fucked it now, but he needed space and there wasn’t any and—). They want to help him because they’re who they are and they think they know him, just a little.

Still, it feels, feels nice.

No, nice is too small a word. Too simple. He stares hard at the table, not wanting to look at their faces, at their eyes anymore. He hopes he looks like he’s thinking, but the only thing going through his head is some kind of high-pitched whine. It’s too much, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Except he does know. Every time he’s got something, he wants to keep it, to hold onto it. To selfishly hold it close and never let it go.

He raises his head and makes a show of considering, waggling his head back and forth. “Yeah alright,” he says, attempting reluctance. There’s a chorus of cheers, and the lads quickly sussing out what to do next. “Right, right, celebrations and finding a guitar later,” he says, “can we bloody well get to the Latin now?”

“Only if we gotta,” Charles drawls. “Way less fun than working on your debut.”

Spike flinches. It’s certainly a bad idea, but right now, he doesn’t really care.

***

Spike ponders the white board before he leaves the apartment. His own previous message Going to pick a fight has been erased messily—there’s still streaks of black marker across the white. In the middle of the fuzzy erasure is an angry message from the Slayer: Out of blood, deal with it.

Oh, she’s gotten better, he thinks to himself. Instead of hoping he stakes himself on a fence, she’s not getting him blood like she has been. Not for a few days now, not since he told her off on the roof. Not since he mucked it up, but he can’t bring himself to get too upset about it. Was all her fault, that. Pushing and poking and prodding. Man’s got a right to space, man’s got a right to what’s his. Even if it’s sweet fuck all.

Well, his turn to leave a new message. He erases the board clean and uses his right hand, making the letters more messy than usual. Taking the car, might crash it.

“Ugh, you are so lame.” Spike starts, nearly ruining the cross through the T, and turns to see Dawn standing there. She’s in what Spike’s started to recognize as her Everyone’s An Idiot But Me pose—crossed arms, raised eyebrow, and snarky tilt to her head. Spike leaves the marker uncapped on the kitchen counter. Slayer hates that and so he does it.

“Am not,” he defends. What’s this little chit doing anyhow? Well, okay, Dawn he likes (loves, he loves her, but God damn it, he can’t handle anything soft right now because it might make other things spill out, things meant to be inside his dead chest). He sighs and works his shoulders awkwardly. “Look, Little Bit, knew it wouldn’t last, yeah? Me and the Slayer playing nice. Just not natural, as it turns out.”

“Well, what happened to both of us looking out for her, taking care of her while she’s protecting me? You think I like doing this all alone, making sure she eats and bleeds off that crazy Slayer energy? I can’t keep up with her Spike, but you can—”

“S’not my place, Niblet. Never was, never will be. Was an idiot for even thinking it. I’m here to kill anything that looks crossways at you, and that’s it. Seeing as how the Slayer’s got you buttoned up just fine, don’t think that’ll be much of a problem.” He brushes past her, but Dawn, the evil child that she is, blocks him from the door with her body. Makes him have to choose between staying stuck or trying to hurt her to get out. Hurt her and hurt himself in the process.

And she knows he won’t hurt her. Fuck.

“She’s going to be back from the Cermak soon, so we don’t have a lot of time, okay?” There’s a stubborn jut to her chin and a hard glint in her eyes (those big blue eyes, that—no. No, please, stop remembering, he pleads with himself.). “You guys were doing fine, and then all of a sudden you’re back to being majorly annoying, she’s pissed, and I don’t get it! All she says is Spike knows what he did, and like, what could you even do? Not like there’s another Buffybot running around.” Her eyes narrow and she says, “there isn’t is there?”

“What the bleeding hell, no! Learned my lesson didn’t I? And I said sorry for that, good and proper!”

“Wait, you actually apologized for the bot?” Dawn grips his jacket, and it’s like he’s suddenly grounded. This girl shouldn’t be able to do that to him, but she does. This impossible girl who holds an echo of a memory that shouldn’t even matter to him anymore. But she does.

“Yes,” he grits out the words. “Look, I gotta go, pidge. Lads are waiting, and I gotta earn dosh. Only other thing I’m good for around here, alright. Just let me do it.”

“Spike, please,” Dawn’s pleading now. Making no bones about it. Those big eyes are shiny with unshed tears. His throat is closing up, and he can’t do this. He can’t be here. Not in the same place as Buffy who will never love him back and Dawn who loves him but reminds him of pain he thought he’d buried. There’s only pain for him in these four walls now. He thought he could endure it, but he’d been an idiot.

No torture Angel dreamed up had ever been this cruel. Had put him in a spot that felt good and at the same time so unbelievably wretched.

“Please,” she repeats, “don’t go. Stay here, and I don’t know, tell the guys you got a cold or something. They don’t know you can’t get sick. We can figure this out. You don’t have to leave.”

Yes, yes he does. That’s exactly why he has to leave.

Spike shrugs and twists out of his jacket and sidles around Dawn to the door. She makes to grab his shoulder, but he’s too fast. He’s down the stairs and with the sun setting, he uses the front door. No sense in letting the girl or her big sister know he’s got his own egress.

“You jerk!” Dawn screams after him. He can hear her scream for a bit longer, and it rips at the inside of his ribs until he’s too far away to pick up her voice even on the breeze.

Bereft of his jacket, he’s missing his smokes and the dosh he’s been keeping for his own supplies, but he’s still got a few bills in his pants pockets. Has a thought of hopping a bus, but he’d rather just walk to the train station. Lets him avoid sunlight better, for one thing. For another, the crisp evening air helps clear his head.

Certainly needs it, because he’s going to need his head in the game tonight for sure. He wasn’t lying to Dawn when he said he was going to meet the lads. Tonight, though, isn’t a study session. It’s Spike’s final, in a manner of speaking, what he’s been spending the last three days studying up on.

With the Slayer not caring about his whereabouts, was easy to sneak away for most of the day and practice. His fingers were awkward at first, two decades away from the instrument he’d picked up on a lark after one night at CBGB, and Dru had loved until she’d not. But he doesn’t get tired in the way a human would, and it was good to have a distraction. Something to let him stop thinking about Buffy and all the ways she was driving crazy (all the ways he’d fucked it up again).

His jaw clenches as his mind goes down twisty paths he doesn’t want to follow. So he starts going through all the lyrics in his head.

The lads had certainly pulled out all the stops to help, once they’d decided something. Ryan found him a guitar and Charles painted it black. David found the sheet music, and Stephen had finagled a room to practice in. And Michael, Michael had made all the arrangements. Apparently five blokes what don’t have girlfriends (well, one of them obviously wouldn’t but still) can get a lot done even between studying for their finals. That’s been the confusing bit, though he isn’t looking too close at it. If he does, he might be convinced he was something other than what he really is. Best not to get bogged down there. This is only a bubble, a blip. Best to get through it for now and never think about it ever again.

At the station, he puts in his token and jogs up the stairs. He waits on the platform until the train comes, and he joins the throng. The train clacks along the elevated track, and he balances easily as it heads south. Addison station, he disembarks, surrounded by a teeming mass of humanity.

Strange to think that not long ago, he would have been able to draw one out of a crowd, draw them into the dark and play and feed. Now, though, he can’t do that at all, so he barely thinks about it. Hits him, though, from time to time when he’s in a crowd like this. He misses the rush, the thrill, but the bloodshed’s a bit more abstract lately. Had more fun playing a bit of football with the Slayer than he had in ages. Even before the chip, even before he first showed up in dear old. Sunnyhell. Now there had been a true dance, a game, a challenge.

God, she’d been glorious on that field. Giving it almost everything she had, and he’d been doing the same. That tackle she’d gone for. Beautiful, her hair streaming out behind her like the trail of a golden comet, the intent and determination on her face, all of it to win. Fuck, she was marvelous, and for a second he thought she’d looked at him and seen something. But like always, it was gone before he could be certain. Only a trick of the light, really, to see anything in her eyes but toleration.

Anyway, even if he was tallying up toleration with her, it’s all gone now.

Spike reaches Roscoe’s bar without any trouble—the Chicago street grid does make it dead easy to find a place. He goes around the back and knocks. A large hairy fella with an egg-smooth pate and wearing enough leather to make Spike’s own fondness for the material seem tame frowns down at him.

“Hey mate,” Spike says, bored. “I’m William, here to be on stage tonight.” He still can’t quite believe he’s doing this. This is stupid, but the price was right. Five hundred for one night’s work is hard to turn down. Could take a bit more off the top, get some really good shit to drink himself into a stupor in the apartment maintenance closet. If he smelled strongly enough of whisky, then he might not smell the Slayer so much (only he’d know her scent anywhere, through anything, God he’s so buggered).

The mountain of a man brightens. “Hey! Will, yeah, Michael said you’d be by. He brought around your guitar earlier today, and everything’s set up for you in the wings. Glad to have you. And Michael wasn’t wrong, you’ll bring them in for sure.”

Fella gives him the old up-and-down, and normally it would feel right lovely getting the eye, but instead it feels hollow. What’s it matter when the one person he wants to look at him like that has gone back to being unable to stand the sight of him?

“Ta, mate,” he says, and lets himself be ushered inside. Then he asks, “Don’t suppose you got any smokes on you?”

“Oh, sorry, sweetie, no smoking inside anymore.” The big leather hairball winces sympathetically, his voice sing-song and a tad high. “Anyway, I’m Josh, and if you need anything, you just let me know. I’m in charge of taking care of talent.”

Spike chortles in spite of himself. “Sure you are, mate,” he says. Then he takes an unnecessary breath. “Well, let’s get this show started.”

Notes:

I've stood here before inside the pouring rain
With the world turning circles running 'round my brain
I guess I'm always hoping that you'll end this reign
But it's my destiny to be the king of pain

There's a king on a throne with his eyes torn out
There's a blind man looking for a shadow of doubt
There's a rich man sleeping on a golden bed
There's a skeleton choking on a crust of bread
--"King of Pain" by The Police

Chicago notes: Cermak is a real grocery store chain in the Chicago area, and Roscoe's is an LGBTQ+ bar in Northalsted AKA "Boystown" that's been there for ages. Yes, your humble author loves, and misses, Chicago a lot. <3

Author notes: I finally gave you, my friendly readers, the reveal about Charlotte! But of course getting close to something that hurt makes Spike lash out. It's very much part of who he has been, but don't worry. He'll get better. Eventually. <3

Chapter 12: Fire and Ice

Notes:

Many apologies for taking so long. The day job is rather long sometimes. Also, the kiddies here were giving me a devil of a time and this chapter took many re-writes. Not to mention that writing about a musical performance is not my forte. I did my best, and I hope it worked well. Thank you all for your patience. <3

Three days of Spike being an avoidant asshole—his continued existence only verified by increasingly passive-aggressive white board notes, the occasional wad of bills from his tutoring gig, and reports from Dawn—and Buffy’s wondering why the hell she even bothers. It’s not like she likes him. Or liked him much before a few days ago when her heart had a weak moment, gave a little lurch, and sent her brain into a very weird new direction.

That’s the problem, she figures. She started to think of him as something person-shaped rather than the vampire pain-in-her-ass that he actually is. The worst part, she thinks, is that she almost believed it. Almost thought, hey, maybe Spike isn’t entirely irredeemable, and now she’s feeling—feeling something. Something she doesn’t like and doesn’t want to name, even in the privacy of her own head. But there’s no one else with her on her walk back from the Cermak. Just her and her wheeled shopping cart in the bright spring sunshine.

She is thankful that Dawn understood that this needed to be a solo shopping trip. It’s hard to mutter to herself if Dawn’s around, and Dawn is, for the first time in a long time, not all the way on Team Spike anymore. Which, that’s another fun buzz of satisfaction, thank you very much, asshole vampire from a stupid country that has stupid slang.

The actual worst part is that she can’t talk to Willow—Willow or Mom. And there it is, the lump in her throat that she’s been trying to avoid for days.

Mom would know what to do. Heck, Mom could probably sit Spike down and make him behave.

He always did like Mom. Kind of even behaved around her. Not even in a behaving for Spike sense, but like in a real legit, behaving sense.

Buffy blinks away tears, because she can’t do this. Can’t burst into tears in the late afternoon of a gorgeous spring day, the breeze sending the budding branches swaying. Red leaf buds fall around her alongside helicoptering maple leaf seeds. The world around her smells green and growing in a way southern California never did. The sky is a clear, crystalline blue dotted with fat white clouds that, today, are moving up fast from the southwest.

It’s gorgeous here, she thinks not for the first time.

Her cellphone is heavy in her jacket pocket, and she flips it open. She shouldn’t call. She really shouldn’t call. Willow has enough going on, and it’s not like Buffy actually wants to tell her best friend any of this. Especially not with Tara still being… hurt.

She winces at her own selfishness. Her fingers close up the phone and curl around it. She presses the silver plastic to her forehead and breathes out slowly. This is stupid, she tells herself. Her and Spike fighting, it was always going to happen, clean slate or no. They’re meant to fight. The brief window of time where they weren’t fighting, that’s the aberration. That’s the part that’s wrong.

Tightening her grip around the handle of the cart and stuffing her phone back in it’s pocket, Buffy heads back to the apartment. She got things to make spaghetti tonight, and even she can brown meat, pour out a jar of sauce, and boil pasta. She and Dawn will have a nice, well decent, dinner, and Buffy will not be waiting on pins and needles waiting for the telltale tingle up the back of her neck that means vampire and in particular translates to Spike.

Even now, she’s not sure what she’s going to do when she sees him in person again. Her fingers curl into a fist, and she doesn’t think she can hold back from punching him in the nose, because how dare he, she thinks.

Thoughts whirling around her head, she only barely notices that her shoulder jars awkwardly. She looks back, and the cart wheels have caught on an uneven crack in the sidewalk. It’s barely a challenge to muscle the cart over it, and it distracts her from thoughts she doesn’t like. It’s better that way, she knows, if she doesn’t actually think thoughts that are problematic. It’s better to avoid them entirely so she doesn’t end up feeling—exactly like she’s feeling right now.

Gritting her teeth, Buffy doggedly hauls the cart the rest of the way to the apartment building that can’t be home. Even though she sometimes catches herself thinking the word home about it. She unlocks the front door, then the foyer door, and mutters as she hauls the grocery cart up the half flight of stairs. How do people on the top floor do this? They don’t even have Slayer strength to make it less crappy.

“Dawn!” she calls out, stepping into the apartment. “I’m back!”

“Good,” Dawn says, suddenly leaping up from the couch, Spike’s jacket clutched in her hands. “Because we’ve got a place to be, after we find it.”

Then Dawn pulls two things out of a jacket pocket. One is a matchbook with a bar’s name emblazoned on it, and the other is a piece of paper that looks like it was crumpled up. Buffy unfolds it and reads: Roscoe’s: Live music every night! New local performers!

***

Spike can’t stop his leg from jogging. He wants to hit up the bar and get a bit of the liquid courage before getting up on that stage. Fuck, he’s over a century old. He’s killed damn near half of Europe and two Slayers! He shouldn’t balk at a little performance.

Except, a whole lot is closer to the surface than it’s been in years—decades—and the last time he did anything near to this, well.

That was the night Dru’d murdered him.

Can’t bring himself to regret that. Opened the world to him, even if it came along with heaps and heaps of pain. Also brought him to Buffy. If he hadn’t been Turned, he would have lived and died a pathetic scrap of nothing and never known the brilliant radiance (was that redundant, oh sod it) that was Buffy Summers. Never have caught her scent and held her hand and kissed her silly, even if it was under a bloody spell.

He’d never have bollocksed it up either. So close. He’d been getting close to something, he’s sure now, looking back. Why the buggering fuck does he get a moment of clarity now? Christ, story of his pathetic, stupid existence.

Spike rocks back in the chair in the small, so-called green room in the back of the bar. No bloody clue why it’s called a green room. It’s decent enough, he supposes, with photos of performers past and with some plastic plant and a mirror he can’t use. Instead, he’s had to resort to doing himself up by muscle memory. But he’s back to his usual look with fresh black nail polish, a bit of the old punk eyeliner, and did his best to get his hair to look wild instead of soft and curly. Or so he thinks by the feel of it.

God damn it, he wants a drink, but drinks would cut into the dosh he’s supposed to get for this, and as much as he wants to scream at Buffy or run screaming from her, he can’t bring himself to cut into the funds he’s earning for her. Even if he thought of it earlier, push come to shove and he can’t make himself do it. Which is deeply pathetic, but then he’s always been pathetic for the women he loves. What else is new?

There’s a knock at the door before Josh pokes his head in. “Hey Will, you’re on in ten, and Michael said to break a leg.”

“Ta, mate,” Spike manages. Been a mantra of his while he’s been cooling his heels while the bar staff have been setting up. Josh gives him a beaming smile and departs, leaving Spike alone with a ticking clock countdown.

At five minutes to showtime, Spike gathers up his guitar and glances down at himself. He’s all in black, which is well, that’s the look. Black tee, black jeans, black boots. Even the guitar is black. He’s gotta get out of his own bloody head and do this.

Then he hears Josh announcing him, and Spike mutters, “Fuck it,” and swaggers onto the stage with a cool nod. Spike easily spots the priestly lads in the crowd. Being sodding supportive, which he decides he doesn’t hate. He peers out into the eight o’clock crowd, things just getting started for some of the lads and ladies here tonight. There’s a weight of attention from a few of the other blokes in the bar giving him the old once-over, which isn’t a bad stroke of the ego if nothing else.

Then the guitar is plugged into the amp and he doesn’t have any choice.

“Right, then, I’m William, and I’ve been told these are songs you Yanks like.” There are a few appreciative chuckles, and then—then he plays.

***

First, they’d had to put the groceries away because she wasn’t going to let food go to waste. Though, yeah, with a duffel bag still chock full of eight thousand dollars (and damn it, she’s not supposed to think about because then she’s thinking about Spike’s face as he set at her feet, and why did he have to pull the asshole thing again?), well, she could afford to throw away some groceries. She just doesn’t want to have to return to the smell of things gone bad, so, time burned there.

Second, she and Dawn had no idea where this mysterious Roscoe’s was. The flyer advertises the music, not the address. Apparently anyone who knows about the place knows where it is. One trip to the library and asking around later, and she and Dawn are standing at the train station only for the train to be totally packed with people in Chicago Cubs caps and jerseys.

It takes three trains before there’s space for them to squeeze in between families and groups of friends all talking about one player or another. Dawn presses close to her, and the whole train is sweaty and stuffy. It’s made worse by having to wear a jacket in the chilly spring evenings. Dawn’s also looking flushed and sweaty under her heavier clothes. Buffy holds onto one of the vertical bars near the doors and braces as the train rocks on the tracks. Dawn sways with her, and every time the doors woosh open there’s a blessed blast of fresh air that gets harder to gasp up when more people pile in.

One approximate eternity later, the garbled voice of the conductor calls out Addison station. The train empties in a flood of bodies. Buffy grabs Dawn’s hand and pulls her through the torrent of humanity that’s all heading down the stairs. She and Dawn wait out the mass exodus on the platform. Eventually, they’re the only two people on the platform, and they head down the stairs to the street level. All the sports fans stream into the stadium. Buffy points her feet away from it and toward the waters of Lake Michigan.

“What were the directions again?” she asks Dawn.

Dawn’s eyes go distant, because of course the printer at the library was broken. No MapQuest for them. Dawn’s got a good memory, though, and Buffy’s relying on it. “A few streets, and we’ll run into Halstead, and it’s on the corner of Halstead and Roscoe Street.”

“Great, let’s go.” Buffy strides into the night. It’s been a long day, chasing down where Spike’s gotten himself to. It stokes the fires of her irritation all over again—stupid vampire, making me chase him down again.

“Buffy,” Dawn says quietly, her steps slowing. “What do you think Spike’s doing? Like, really, I know I was all for figuring this out, but what if it’s not good?”

Buffy stops and takes a deep breath. Cars zip by, their headlights picking up the faint first traces of rain. Small, cold raindrops strike her cheeks and lips, like a cool kiss. She shakes off the thought.

“I’m not sure,” she says, wavering. There’s a whole lot of possibilities, and she’s not exactly sure why she’s chasing after him. He could just be out to pick up someone. Which is a thought that feels pointy and jagged in her brain. Not like it would be weird for him, or anyone really. It could be good, get whatever is his damage out of his system, as long as he keeps his mouth shut about her and Dawn. As long as he keeps to the whole don’t draw attention thing. But it’s Spike, and her knuckles itch like she wants to punch him because she has to know. She has to dig up whatever he’s trying to hide. It’s a reflex at this point. “But we’re going to find out and make sure he’s nothing too stupid.”

Dawn hugs her arms around herself. Her voice is small. “I just don’t know why you guys are fighting again. You won’t tell me, and he was all it was never meant to last, Little Bit,” Dawn’s voice mocks Spike’s accent so badly, Buffy almost laughs. Then her sister’s shoulders slump and confusion is etched on her face. “It was good for a little while, wasn’t it?”

The rain pelts her harder, and Buffy moves them under an awning. “Dawnie,” she starts and then stops.

Had it been good?

That’s a question for the ages. The answer is hard to grab hold of. There had been good parts, she thinks. It’s the good that makes right now so—so frustrating. It was like they’d reached some new stage only to go catapulting backwards. It reminds her too much of other times she’s dealt with emotional whiplash. And that pisses her off even more, because how dare he give her emotional whiplash. That’s for people who—people she cares about, and no, she’s not going to care about Spike. That’s not what can or should happen.

Except she’s here, obviously caring, instead back at the apartment making a lacklustre dinner. Right, round two of trying to explain something to Dawn when she can’t sort it out for herself.

“Dawnie, I just need to know what he’s up to, and then we’ll figure it out from there. If he’s not putting you in danger, then—I don’t know. We just need to get through a week and a half. Ten days, and then we can figure out what to do next.” Buffy squeezes Dawn’s hands, hoping they can get through this.

“Without Spike.” There’s dejection and accusation both in Dawn’s voice and face, and Buffy’s trying really hard to not feel like her sister is back to taking Spike’s side over hers. It’s petty and immature, but it makes Buffy’s spine go ramrod straight.

“I’ll do whatever I need to do to keep you safe, Dawn, even if it’s cut Spike lose.” Her voice and heart feel hard as stone for a moment. Before Dawn can retort anything, she grabs her sister’s hand and pulls them down the street. They dash from awning to awning and stand uncomfortable and irritated with each other as they wait for the light to change. When it does, they rush across the street and quickly duck into the bar that’s obviously Roscoe’s.

Whatever she’d been expecting, it isn’t this. The rainbow flags are one give away. The way men and women are paired off is another big old clue. Not exactly subtle, and Buffy’s remembering Spike’s whole gay, straight, dead, not dead line about it all being pointless boxes makes her wonder if Spike’s here to pick up a guy. Which, okay, if that’s the answer, she’s got what she needs and she should leave.

Then, through the crowd, she sees a tall guy in leather with a big mustache appear on the stage. He says something about a new act for the night. Something about alt rock favorites, and give the new guy a hand.

A few people around her peer at the stage. There’s a group of guys at one table who all whistle and clap expectantly. And the last thing Buffy ever expected to see appears. Spike. Spike with a guitar is on stage.

He’s setting up, plugging something into the guitar, and Buffy pulls Dawn back into a dark part of the bar, because she is not giving away to him that she’s near now. Dawn yelps a protest. Buffy digs her fingers into Dawn’s arm just enough to cut off whatever her sister would say and tip off Spike. Stupid vampire hearing.

“Buffy,” Dawn hisses at her, “what the hell?”

She opens her mouth to answer, but the words are knocked right out of her mouth by Spike stepping up to the mic and saying, “Right, then, I’m William, and I’ve been told these are songs you Yanks like.”

One breath, a beat of her heart, and then he plays.

Oh shit.

In the corner of her vision, Dawn’s bobbing along and there might be a smile on her face, but for Buffy, all she can see is Spike like the worst tunnel vision in the history of ever. Spike all in black—even his nails now, she can see as he strums the guitar, making the contrast with his pale skin and platinum hair all the more stark. His hair that’s not gelled back into that damned helmet. Like how he looks when he’d been driving all right or when he’d wake up in the motel bed next to her and Dawn, tousled and soft with an edge of something wild.

Then he’s singing, and no no nonono! This is not fair. His voice is low and rich, and God, she wants to dig her fingers into that voice.

He’s on the stage, surveying the crowd as the chorus hits, “It's the little things that kill,

Tearing at my brains again, The little things that kill, It's the little things that kill, Tearing at my brains again, The little things that kill.”

Spike doesn’t have a soul. She knows that for a fact. Watching him sing, though, the only thing she can say is that he’s putting everything of himself in it. The dead, black thing that’s his heart, the demon, whatever that’s making up Spike, his voice carries it all out of him like he’s turning himself inside out on that stage.

From the other side of the bar, someone whistles. Spike’s eyes, bright and alive even though he’s undead, cut to the left and his answering grin is as sharp as a knife.

“I touch your mouth,” he sings, “My will is food, Addicted to love, I'm addicted to bullshit, I kill you once, I kill you again, We're starving and crude, Welcome my friends—”

“This is so awesome!” Dawn says right into her ear. Buffy winces. God damn it, he’s not supposed to become even cooler to her little sister. “Guess this answers what he’s been doing.”

“Yeah,” Buffy manages as he finishes one song and starts up another. The lyrics wash over her. They’re quasi-familiar. She half-recalls something she heard through dorm room doors. Guys liked this music, all heavy guitar and driving beats. She never listened to it before. Now, she’s huddling in the darkest corner of the bar with her sister and she can’t stop listening to it.

Spike’s up to song number three when the bartender approaches them. She’s a tall woman with a military-short cut, tattoos all up and down her arms, and wearing a tanktop with the bar name across it.

“Can I get you girls something?” she asks.

Buffy shakes her head as Dawn says, “Oh! Can I have fries and a Coke?”

“Dawn!” Buffy exclaims, but luckily no one can hear over Spike belting out, “Love and hate, get it wrong, She cut me right back down to size, Sleep the day, let it fade, Who was there to take your place?”

“Hey, sorry,” the bartender says to Buffy. “I figured since you guys were here, anyway, I’ll give you a bit to decide.” There’s nothing but open kindness on the woman’s face, and Buffy wants to kick herself.

“No, it’s alright. My sister, she can have that, that’s okay,” Buffy says, trying to keep herself simultaneously behind the other patrons but also keep watching Spike. The whole situation is surreal, like it's a really bad dream. Makes her almost want to look around for the Cheeseman, but she’s pretty sure she’s awake. Then she gives in to fate and says, “I’ll have the same.”

“You got it!” The bartender rings in their order. Buffy fishes some money out of her purse, which is thankfully enough to cover what shouldn’t be but probably will be dinner.

It doesn’t take long for the fries to arrive, and they’re pretty good. Spike’s still doing his set, or whatever it’s called. She watches and listens, and okay, now that she’s getting used to it, his voice isn’t that captivating. It’s how he sings and plays, with all of himself, nothing held back. That’s Spike all over, she supposes. He doesn’t hold back because he doesn’t know how. Or doesn’t care.

“Excuse me,” someone says, and Buffy and Dawn pull their food back. “Sorry,” the man says as he leans over the bar. “Five beers for our table, and one for Will. On us.”

Buffy and Dawn exchange glances.

“You got it, Michael. Gotta say, wasn’t sure about your Latin tutor being on stage, but I’ll say, the guy brings it.”

“I know, he’s pretty good. Thanks, Kate!”

Again, before Buffy can stop her, Dawn’s tapping a strange man on the shoulder. What the hell is she even teaching Dawn self defense for? “Hey! You know Will?”

“Uh, yeah.” Suddenly this Michael guy, who seems pretty normal, looks wary. “What’s it to you?”

“Oh! We know him, too. I’m Charlotte,” Dawn says, holding out her hand. Michael’s eyes suddenly go really wide, then he smiles like he’s just met an old friend. Buffy’s got a sinking feeling in her stomach. Why? Why is Dawn like this? Worse, what did Spike tell his baby priests about her and Dawn?!

“Charlotte, and you.” Michael turns to her, his whole face lighting up. “You’ve got to be Anne. You’re Will’s girls! Deus! What are you two doing in this corner? You’ve got to be here to cheer him on, right? Come on, we’ve got a table up front. Bring your drinks and fries.”

“Dawn, what the hell are you doing?” Buffy snarls in Dawn’s ear. Michael’s already chatting to the bartender about how Buffy and Dawn know the talent. It makes her want to sink into the floor. This is bad. This is all of the bad.

“That’s got to be one of Spike’s baby priests,” Dawn says as quietly as possible. “Latin tutor? Totally is.”

“We are not going to sit up front,” Buffy says stridently. “Not going to happen.”

“If you’re not going to, I am.” Dawn flips her hair and, with implanted memories of years of practice, Dawn evades Buffy’s grab, taking her fries and her refilled drink with her. Left with no choice but to follow her sister, Buffy slinks behind Michael and is treated to a quick round of introductions while she tries to hide from Spike’s gaze as it roves over the audience.

This is so unlike her, it’s starting to make her mad. She shouldn’t be here. She’s pretty sure the last thing Spike wants is her seeing him like this. Not that she should care what he wants, not after how he lashed out at her or how he’s been acting for the past few days, and yet. Her stomach clenches as she sits. Her fries taste too salty now, and she pushes them to the middle of the table.

Spike’s strumming the intro for another song, this one she knows. It played on the radio enough that she even knows the title. The first verse rolls over her in that deep voice of his, and she’s suddenly feeling like she’s stuck to her chair.

“It must be your skin, I'm sinking in,” he sings, eyes hooded like he’s about to lean in for a kiss, “It must be for real, 'cause now I can feel, And I didn't mind, It's not my kind, It's not my time to wonder why.”

She shifts uncomfortably, because oh god, this song. There’s something about it that pulls at her body. The way her nipples feel tight, and there’s an ache between her legs. Her face has to be on fire, because she’s sitting here next to her sister and five dudes studying to be priests and she’s more turned on than she’s been in years.

Her irritation and horniness and awkwardness combine to spark a whole lot of anger in her brain.

For the third time that day she rages at him inside her own head. A neon, ten foot tall lettered How dare he?! blazes across her mind.

Then, her luck or his luck, or luck in general runs out, because as the verse finishes up, his jaw working gorgeously (oh God, whyyyyy?) his eyes open and land right. On. Her.

His whole face is a study in shock and horror. Spike. Feeling shock and horror.

That ratchets down her anger long enough for her to attempt an awkward curling, wave of her fingers. Dawn has zero restraint and beams at him, waving happily and giving him two big thumbs up of teenage approval. One of the guys, Ryan, she thinks, points at her and Dawn and grins as if to say check it out man!

It lasts a second. Buffy can hear that he’s dropped the song, then he picks it up.

“I'm never alone, I'm alone all the time, Are you at one? Or do you lie? We live in a wheel where everyone steals, But when we rise, it's like strawberry fields, I treated you bad, you bruise my face, Couldn't love you more, you've got a beautiful taste.” He’s singing, but his gaze isn’t roaming around anymore. It’s locked straight on her.

Briefly, all too briefly, his eyes are soft. Like he’s trying to get her to hear something. It almost works. The grand gesture, the swoon-worthy words, but she is not that girl anymore. She can’t be that girl ever again. Chin up, shoulders back, she glares at him, a hard you won’t win that way.

Her anger is reflected on his face, and it makes his jaw jump. His voice turns raw and harsh. Each line is a punch aimed in her direction. Her shoulders square, and they’re now playing the most public game of chicken. She is so not going to break first.

Spike’s got a lot on the line, though, being on stage. He won’t back down either.

“I needed you more, you wanted us less, I could not kiss, just regress, It might just be clear, simple and plain, Well that's just fine, that's just one of my names, Don't let the days go by, Could've been easier on you, you, you, Glycerine, glycerine, Glycerine, glycerine.”

The last echoes of his voice over the speakers fades away, followed by the final strains of the guitar. They’re glaring at each other across the bar. Buffy’s teeth are grinding against each other, because what the hell does he have to be angry about? He’s the asshole here, she reminds herself. The asshole with the sexy voice and rocking the look and making her think that he could be actually person shaped for a quick minute.

His nostrils flare and he jerks his head sharply before he takes a totally unnecessary breath and says, “On a break, folks, be back in a tick.”

Then he sets the guitar down on a stand and disappears backstage.

Six pairs of eyes glance at her, because she was not subtle. She leans over to Dawn. “You okay here for a minute?”

“Uh, yeah, I think I’m safe around these guys,” Dawn says. All five men pull their best innocent faces, which actually kind works. She couldn’t have imagined a group of more clean cut and guileless looking dudes. “Anyway, they can tell me what Will’s like as a teacher. I need to know these things.”

“He’s pretty good, actually,” the one with glasses says. Steve, she thinks.

“Great, good. Just… stay put,” Buffy says, and she sidles out of her seat and heads for the backstage. One of the staff almost gets in her way, but Kate the bartender calls out to let Buffy through. She knows the talent, after all.

Oh yeah, she’s not letting this one go. Spike’s got this coming from miles back, and Buffy’s not going to go easy on him this time.

***

He’s not panicking. No, he’s a century old God damned Master Vampire. Killed his first Slayer at only twenty years or so dead. Was raised up (or, more accurately, tortured a lot) by Angelus and Darla themselves and would have the scars to prove it if he didn’t heal so well. Slaughtered his way through Europe, and had all manner of nasties come at him and he’d survived.

Not sure if he’ll survive this.

Buffy’s found him. Found him and sat there and listened to him sing, and fuck. He’s so buggered. She wasn’t supposed to hear that. Wasn’t supposed to know that no matter how much she drives him mad, he’s still all hers. It’s there in those sodding songs. Love and passion and desire and abject worship. Regret and desperation, all mixed together.

He can’t do this. The green room is too small, and he can’t breathe. He doesn’t need to breathe, but the air is too stale, and he tumbles himself out into the alley behind the bar. It’s raining now. Not that hard, but he can make out the rumble of thunder in the distance. It’ll get worse later. Right now, though, it keeps him from feeling like he’s going to burst into flames all on his own.

The alley door clangs open behind him, so like how Buffy used to throw open his crypt door that he knows even before catches a tendril of her scent (apple, honey, vanilla, but no blood now, and he realizes he misses that, the tang of blood around her, shit, he’s so gone for her). It’s her. It’s always her. He turns to face her, rain patterning across her cheeks and lashes and into that golden hair made dark by the night. God, she’s so beautiful.

Beautiful and pissed. He knows he’s got a problem by how that does it for him more. She crosses her arms across her breasts, holding her denim jacket closed.

“Spike, what the hell are you doing?” she snaps. The question itself is like a slap. Why? Why does she have to be like this? What’s so wrong with him that she can’t accept how he feels? She doesn’t have to feel it back, but Christ, would it kill her to admit that what he feels is real?

Probably would. The thought makes him bare his teeth and snarl. “Whoring myself out like a good little income earner, Slayer. Just like you wanted.”

“Like I wanted?” she echoes, tone suddenly incredulous. “Spike, have you lost what little brain you have left? This is exactly the opposite of under the radar. You’re performing on a damned stage!”

“That’s your objection?” he scoffs. His fingers twitch, aching for a cigarette, but they’re in his jacket. The jacket he shrugged out of a few hours ago to escape Dawn. Dawn who’s sitting with the lads and looking like she was having a fine old time. Shame that Big Sis has such a stick up her perfect arse.

“That’s the least of my objections.”

“Really? Well, let’s hear them all then. Might as well get it off your tiny chest, Slayer, because God knows if you go too long without playing Kick the Spike, you clearly get your knickers in a twist.”

“You’re a pig.”

“Play another tune, Slayer.”

“My problem is you are!”

“That so?”

He’s close to her now, a mere handspan away. Rain curves along her cheek. God, what wouldn’t he give to follow the fall of a raindrop across her flushed skin. A thump of her strong heart, a breath from her vital lungs, a world of words hang between them, said and unsaid alike. He knows what they’ve said, but it’s everything they haven’t said that’s filling up the gap.

Except, he knows what happens when he tells her things about himself. Tells her how he feels and craves and hurts and yearns.

He gets put back in his place.

She still hasn’t answered his last challenge. Usually she’s snappier than this. He holds his nerve and his place. Not leaning forward and not pulling back. Her chin lifts, and the fragile thread between them snaps.

“Yes,” she grits out. “Yes it is. That’s a huge risk, Spike, to me, to Dawn—”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he snaps. “Not it bloody well isn’t. Slayer, this is Chicago! There’s a hundred bars if there’s one, not to mention all the real venues. One little gig at one bar isn’t going to signal the damned calvary!”

“You aren’t listening!” she screams.

“No, you aren’t!” he roars right back.

There’s a loud and indelicate cough from the doorway. Josh leans out, his round features strained, “Uh, Will? Your ten is almost up. Gotta get back on the stage to get the payment. Sorry, man. How it is.”

“Oh, don’t worry about Will.” The Slayer’s all false perky now. “I’m sure he won’t let you down.” With a flip of her annoyingly perfect hair, she strides back into the bar. Spike allows himself the indulgence of standing in the rain for another ten seconds before stomping back inside. Josh hands him a bar towel.

“You going to be okay?” the bar manager asks. Spike runs the towel through his hair and figures that’s good enough. Not like he’ll die of hypothermia.

“Yeah, mate, I’ll be alright. I just—” he cuts himself off. He doesn’t know what. Or if he’ll ever be alright ever again. God, life had been simple before her. Go where he wanted, do what he wanted. As long as he had Dru and people to eat, he was content. Content, but not happy. Not like he’d been struck by lightning. Not like every last particle of him was straining, trying to be something he wasn’t, but he wanted to try. For her, Christ, he wanted to try.

He’s been trying. Trying so damned hard, all the time. Except, except that night three days ago on the roof. He hadn’t been trying then. He’d been in his own head and getting up himself and telling himself all sorts of things to keep him from thinking hopeful thoughts. Because in the end, it’s the hope that kills you. He was so tired of it, tired of trying for every last sodding second, that he gave up ground he’d already crawled over.

Something she said niggles at him and he reaches for it. She snidely said let you down. He follows the thread and pulls it apart.

Let her down. The thought unfolds rapidly sending a shock through his bones. He let her down, and he doesn’t think it’s about the sodding musical show routine he’s got going on.

One end of the thread in metaphorical hand, he followings it. First: Spike let Buffy down.

Second: that means Buffy expected things of Spike. Not the usual expectations of Spike to be obsessive and, in her words, a creepy weirdo. Buffy expected something more of Spike. Maybe not to behave, but be less a monster, more of a man.

Third, and importantly: Because he told her that’s how she made him feel.

And oh God, what if. She started to believe it? That what he felt could make him be better? Could make him want to try, did spur him to try?

Clarity comes too late. His unbeating heart drops to about his useless stomach. He’s the one who’s bollocksed it up, he’s pretty sure. No, he knows. Worse, he has no idea how to get it back. Words won’t be enough. Slayer’s a woman of actions. More, he doesn’t think I’m sorry I’m a stupid berk will cut this time.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Bleeding, buggering, fucking shit.”

“Will, okay, you’re having a crisis or something? You want me to get Michael?” Josh offers.

Spike jerks his head sideways in a short sharp no. “Nah, mate. Look, girl out there? Bit of a situation.”

“I’ll say.”

Spike’s pulled people’s spines out for less, but going two years on the chip, and he’s barely twitchy about things like that. Anyway, he’s distracted as his brain fizzes and pops with mad schemes to try to get her to give up the anger for one second and listen to him. At least long enough for him to beg to be back in her good graces.

She won’t listen to him, she’s too brassed. Not brassed about the sodding performance, even if that’s what she’s decided to harp on about. It’s deeper than that. Deeper means he’s got to do something. Only thing he can think of right now is— “Mate, complicated don’t begin to cover it, but I reckon I only can do one thing at this point. Do me a favor and give her the dosh at the end of the show, alright? It’s all her’s anyhow.”

“Are you sure? I mean, it’s five hundred bucks.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Josh shrugs. “Okay, it’s your money. You can do with it what you like. I’ll let her know. Anything you want me to tell her?”

There’s a thousand things Spike wants to tell her. There’s nothing that would ever be good enough. “Nah, just the cash.”

Josh has his marching orders and sets off to do whatever bar managers do. Spike shakes himself and gets back on the stage. The lights are mellow, no spotlight in this place. Music is meant to keep people buying beer and fries. Buffy’s still there, though she’s trying to pull Dawn away from the lads. The lads who are putting up a bit of a protest. Then Josh walks over, and Spike watches the exchange. Buffy glares at him, like it’s his fault the money comes after he’s done his set.

He busies himself with checking the guitar and amp. Strums a bit, warming up his fingers from being out in the cold May rain. Though he can’t help but keep a weather eye on Buffy. Josh is still talking, and something he says gives Buffy pause. There’s a barely there softening of her jaw and shoulders. Her head half turns toward him, and then, miracle of miracles, she sits back down. Dawn preens happily, and well, that’s something.

There’s a challenge in her eyes though, something he can feel the knife-point of from where she’s sitting.

Never could back down from something like that, him. He steps back up to the mic, and there’s a pause in the conversations in the bar. An expectant hush. Oh shit, they’ve got expectations now, and bloody hell that’s worse. Still, he didn’t get this far by reverting back to William’s terror of performing.

“Let’s give you all a bit more to listen to, eh?” he says, letting the resonance of his voice do some of the work for him. The rest of it is in the posture, the pose. The one that says I’m here, I’m bad, and you want it. Buffy’s rolling her eyes, but he can sense a shift in the crowd. He runs his tongue across his blunt, human teeth, and he starts the second half of his set. Quiet, lulling strains of the guitar fill the bar, and he purrs, “Past the road to your house, That you never call home, Where they turned out your lights, Though they say you'll never know, I remember running through the wet grass, Falling a step behind, Both of us never tiring, Desperately wanting.”

Then he’s off to the races, and it’s a thrill, a rush. Feeding on the way the bar patrons nod along and sing the words with him, it’s a connection. Then there’s Buffy. There’s always Buffy. It’s a force of will, but he manages to not focus on her like he did for Glycerine. He’s never far off from glancing her way, though. His throat grows raw. A sip of water sees him right, then the next, and the next, then, at last he’s come to the final song of the eclectic mix the lads put together for the latter half of this farce.

He picked the songs, and he regrets and doesn’t regret them now. Some lyrics make her grip her glass so hard, he’s surprised she’s not sending shards and Coke everywhere. Then there’s the ones that catch her off guard, the ones that make her part her mouth with a small o of surprise before coming back to herself, remembering that she’s supposed to be angry with him.

His thoughts pinwheel, shifting fast between like what you see, Slayer and serves her right and going through variations of please see me, see what this is, because it’s all for you. Recent, obsessive practice and a boyhood spent memorizing poetry are what keep him from dropping lyrics, though he can hear the guitar has gone sloppy as anything.

One song then the next, he hurls himself through the set. The lyrics trip off his tongue, rumble out from his chest until he comes to the end.

“In the air, I'm tasting your perfection, Forgive me, dear, for my misdirection, As I crawl beneath this torture you adore, I fall face to face with my scars you've ignored,” he growls into the mic. As he sings, Josh lumbers through the crowd. Spike’s heart leaps into his throat, but he can’t stop singing. Buffy turns and pockets the cash.

“So tell me why it don't feel the same, Tell me why I've got to feel this way, Yeah you leave, you're gone, And I'm left here with the blame, So tell me why it don't feel the same,” he howls into the dimness of the bar. Buffy’s pulling on Dawn’s arm. The girl resists, and the lads are pleading some kind of case, but Buffy’s adamant. There’s that firm shake of her head, and he knows he’s lost.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. His heart is bleeding, he’s bleeding. It’s happening again. All over again, he’s put himself out there the only way he can and the woman he loves doesn’t care.

“All my props. I swear they were in order, Even with the warnings of your thunder, Now I pause to let my silence scream tonight, While you roam like a serpent satellite,” he sings, trying to cover the break in his voice and failing. Buffy’s got Dawn up and they’re making their goodbyes to the priestly boys. He speeds through the bridge of the song and flings himself toward the end, “So tell me why it don't feel the same, Tell me why I've got to feel this way, Yeah you leave, you're gone, And I'm left here with the blame, So tell me why it don't feel the same.”

The last lines of the song hang in the bar like tendrils of smoke. There’s a hush, which is bloody embarrassing. The whole damned bar cottoned onto the drama in their midst. Then his erstwhile students (such as they are) clap and whistle. The rest of the bar does likewise, and once upon a time a reception that warm would’ve been a balm for the sniveling snot he’d been. Now, he barely registers it, the world narrowing to a tunnel. He can’t let it go tits up now. Not now that he’s got one end of the tenuous thread that’s stretched between him and the Slayer.

The thread he’s probably broken, but God help him, he’s got to try.

He doesn’t know how to stop.

Spike’s already off the stage, guitar flung toward the lads. One of them catches it, and he’s out in the driving rain. Thunder rumbles around him like a living thing. Against the glare of headlights and streetlights, he sees Buffy and Dawn huddled together and making tracks for the station.

He puts on a turn of speed and follows.

***

Five hundred dollars makes an uncomfortable wad of cash in her pocket. Even more uncomfortable for the rain pelting down. She’s soaked to the skin within minutes, her denim jacket doing sweet fanny adams to keep her dry. Dawn’s a little better off in her jacket-and-sweater combo, but Buffy knows they need to get Dawn inside and warm fast.

That’s the reason she’s letting her Slayer speed come out, half lifting Dawn along with her. Not the familiar zing up her spine that tells her Spike isn’t far behind.

“Buffy! It’s pouring! We should have waited for a taxi!” Dawn yells over the booming thunder and honking of cars. “Or let Stephen drive us home!”

Buffy presses her lips tightly together. There’s nothing good that will come out of her mouth right now. Lightning flashes across the sky and the big, Midwestern trees bend and crack in the wind. The storm sweeping over the city feels like an echo of the storm in her head—in her heart. It’s too big, too much. All those little admissions to herself, turned back around on her, and then twisted up. She doesn’t even know what she thinks right now. It’s too chaotic, too messy.

She resists the temptation to jump the turnstile, slamming two tokens into the slot, as she hauls Dawn up the stairs to the platform. They huddle together under the awning while the train pulls into the station. She bustles Dawn inside and sags against the seats.

An old man in a long, tan coat gives her and Dawn a sympathetic look. “Got caught did you?”

Buffy nods, wrapping an arm around Dawn’s shoulders to keep her warm. Teeth chattering, Dawn doesn’t harangue Buffy. She doesn’t have to. It’s another freak out, she knows. Buffy flipping out and charging ahead. (Running away, no, not running away, it can’t be that, except that’s what she does when her heart—stop, she tells herself. Just stop.)

“Yeah,” she manages. She glances back at the platform as the doors close. It isn’t a trick of the light what she sees next: the brilliant shock of Spike’s hair all but flying up the stairs—full on vamp speed, the fucking idiot. A hiss passes her lips. The doors of the train pull shut, and for a second Buffy relaxes as the station falls behind her.

But she forgot that this is Spike she’s dealing with, and the moronic vampire never knows when to quit. He sprints along the platform, but after that she can’t see what happens. Her heart flings itself against her ribs so hard and fast, she thinks she might be sick.

The doors open and close at every stop, but she can’t see him. The rain streaks across the windows, blurring the neon lights of bars and the warm yellow squares of apartments. The conductor calls out Granville station—their stop.

Buffy wastes zero time hauling Dawn up. The old man shoots her a worried look. Dawn’s huddled in on herself and not talking much, but they’ll get home quickly. She hopes. Bracing for the rain, Buffy runs out of the train and down the steps. They turn away from the water into the teeth of a gale.

“Buffy,” Dawn chatters, arms curling tight around her thin frame. “Buffy, c-c-can we go home fast?”

All along the street, the stately trees whip wildly back and forth, spring leaves torn from branches that curl like claws. The street lights aren’t much better than small bulbs of orange light.

She’d curse herself for an idiot—did she really need to get out of that bar that fast? Why, she thinks angrily at herself as she keeps Dawn moving.

“Just a couple blocks,” Buffy promises. Which isn’t usually too bad, but these are Chicago blocks, and no one told her that this city gets crazy storms that are cold even in May. They’re both soaked to the bone before they get to the next light when she feels another zing up her spine.

Anger flares up hot in her belly before she realizes that the zing isn’t familiar.

It’s not Spike that’s close to her.

“Well, well, well, and here we thought hunting tonight would be pointless.” The vamp is in full game face and is dressed in jeans so baggy it’s like he’s got two dresses on. Buffy squares up between him and Dawn as more step out of the alley and cut her off from every avenue of escape.

On a normal night, even with Dawn to protect, five vamps wouldn’t even be a fair fight.

This isn’t a normal night.

But like hell she’s going to let them know that. Chin raised, Buffy eyes the one that’s posturing like he’s the leader. “Oh, it’s about to get very pointy.”

She reaches for the waistband of her jeans by sheer habit only to come up empty. Her insides clench. Shit.

Notes:

Fire and ice
You come on like a flame, then you turn a cold shoulder
Fire and ice
I want to give you my love, but you'll just take a little piece of my heart
You'll just tear it apart
Movin' in for the kill tonight
You got every advantage when they put out the lights
It's not so pretty when it fades away
'Cause it's just an illusion in this passion play
--Fire and Ice by Pat Benatar

Songs sung by Spike (on the record at least) in this chapter are:
--Little Things by Bush
--Comedown by Bush
--Glycerine by Bush
--Desperately Wanting by Better than Ezra
--Why Part 2 by Collective Soul

All relatively popular for the time period (so says the internet and my teenage memory, lmao), and, I like to think, fitting in to some degree with Spike's general aesthetic. YMMV.

Chapter 13: Bad Moon Rising

Notes:

TW for a fairly brutal fight scene, particularly from Spike's POV. The fellow does love his violence, and we don't shy from that here.

Also, I now have a one whole buffer chapter! I'm very excited to have been able to accomplish that, and I hope to stay on a better posting schedule. Thank you to everyone who has read, left kudos, and commented thus far. It means so much that people keep up with this fic, even when my posting is... not regular. Such is the life of a single mom. <3

Spike runs up the station stairs just as the train’s doors close. His boots hit the platform, and the train’s pulling away. Zero hesitation, he runs alongside it. If he can just get one hand on it, one of those handles the conductors use, he can sling himself onto the train. The handle is there, just out of reach of his fingertips. Train’s picking up speed, and he’s got little and less time. And little and less platform.

One jump, he leaps onto the fence at the end of the platform, and pushes off for another jump. The fence is slick under him. His boots squeak in protest as the rain hammers down. He’s sailing through the air, all the vamp speed and strength he’s been sitting on for weeks. (Months, if he’s honest, because what’s the point in a fight if there’s no real savor to it? And fighting Buffy were the best fights he’s ever had.) His fingers close around the cold, wet metal of the back rail of the train. A rictus grin of victory flashes across his face for a second before the train makes a hard bank to the left. Strong he might be, but the rain makes everything slippery. He’s not prepared, and he’s not got a firm hold. The train throws him off like a dog shaking off water, and Spike tucks and rolls as he falls onto the tracks.

“FUCK!” he screams into a peal of thunder. Then, for good measure, “Buggering, fucking, shit!”

Growling, feeling himself go practically feral, because there’s only one blinding thought blaring across his brain in fifty foot high neon lettering: don’t let her get away.

Once, he knows what that would have meant. Chase down food, prey. Run through the night like a predator and catch a tasty morsel in his jaws.

Now it means run to Buffy and throw himself at her feet. Every last part of him, from his memories of being William to the demon that’s so much a part of him he doesn’t know where he ends and it begins, just wants her. From those extreme and distant points all right through the middle to where the thing that’s him stands—he wants to tell her, to tell her… so God damned much. It’s there, in him, the dam ready to burst.

But he can’t do that if she’s hell bent on running away from him and if he can’t catch her.

Gritting his teeth, Spike puts his head down and runs along the tracks. He’s got ten or so minutes at this time of night before the next train comes. If he’s fast and lucky, he might make it. If not, well. He can always jump down to the street. Not ideal, but like hell he’s stopping now.

He’s never been able to stop when he’s got a goal in his sights, and now that goal is Buffy and finding some way to make it alright again.

***

Rain sluices down Buffy’s spine, cold and biting. She keeps one arm out to shield Dawn. It’s not much of an attempt. The five vamps have them surrounded, and Buffy knows the odds aren’t in her favor tonight. The rain will make her slow.

“Come on, girlies,” the leader says, stalking forward and learing. “You don’t want to keep your sweetness all for yourselves, right? Gotta share with the class.” The heavy ridges of the vampires’ demonic faces keep the rain out their eyes, while rain runs into her eyes. She has to link fast to keep her vision clear, which is so not fair.

“As lines go,” Buffy says, trying to sound more collected than she feels. But her heart rate is steady in her own chest. She can feel it. So can they. She’s not afraid, and they can hear it. It gives a couple of the lackeys pause. She can use that. “I’ve heard better.”

The leader frowns in a split-second of confusion, and Buffy takes that as her opening. No warning, her body uncoils like a spring. She rushes at the leader, gets under one his outstretched arms and tosses him over her shoulder. He hits one of his lackeys, sending them both sprawling onto the wet ground. Dawn is hot on her heels, and as Buffy spins them around, she’s now got five vampires in front of her instead of all around her.

“Okay, that was unexpected.” The leader rolls to his feet, shaking the throw off. “But some fancy moves won’t save you, bitch.”

On some unseen signal, all five charge. Buffy flows between their blows, blocking and turning their strength and momentum against each other. Her muscles sing and burn with a fierce determination. God, it’s been ages since she’s had a real fight. The thought is short lived, just like she’s supposed to be, because without a stake or a way to take off their heads, it’s all she can do to keep them from surrounding her again. She has no choice but to start to back down an alley, keeping herself between the vampires and Dawn. Dawn, who in Sunnydale could be relied upon to run for help at least, or try to pick up something to fight them off, is chattering and huddling in on herself.

Dumpsters and black-bagged garbage make the alley more of a funnel. The cement is slick, though, and Buffy spends too much time keeping her balance in her sneakers.

One of the smaller vamps, a scrawny thing who couldn’t have been more than fifteen when he was turned, suddenly lunges forward, one skinny arm reaching around Buffy’s waist like a snake. Reaching for Dawn. Buffy twists away from the vamp she had been fending off to grab the offending arm and with a sharp thrust of her knee, she breaks it. The scrawny vamp howls, demonic face twisting in pain and rage.

For a second, Buffy wonders if the scrawny one will fight through the broken bones and keep coming, but he falls back. She blinks. Okay, so she’s used to a different kind of vamp, then.

That doesn’t stop the rest of them from redoubling their efforts. She’s tiring out, and they can hear it. Her breathing comes harder and faster, and her heart rate is pumping up higher and higher. The movement is keeping her warm, but Dawn doesn’t have a clear path to run, and it’s Dawn who has her held here.

They’re at a stalemate, a moment where the vamps pull back a little to regroup and rethink their tactics. Which is only going to make Dawn’s condition worse.

“Dawnie,” she whispers. Buffy flexes her fingers and scans the area. Can’t there be a pallet or something handy? Anything wooden she could break apart? Some of the fire escapes look to be made of wood, but that’s all solid timber. She could break it, but it would take too long.

“St-st-still h-h-he-he-here,” Dawn chatters. God damn it. She can’t have come this far to have it end like this.

She’s done this. She’s led Dawn down this path. She’s the one who ran away, who keeps running away when things get too tough. Even now, she’s backing up as the five jackals are closing in on her. If only she had a weapon. Something she could use.

“Well, boys,” the leader says as they pace across the alley like the predators they are. “Looks like we don’t have just any girlie here. I think we’ve got the Slayer herself.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be in SoCal?” one asks, stupidly.

“Think you guys are confused,” Buffy says, because yeah, they’ve figured it out. Even if she and Dawn don’t die here, if just one of these idiots gets away, she might as well feed Dawn to them. If word gets out, Glory finds out, and not only will Dawn be dead but the whole world will be along with her. The one silver lining to the apocalypse, Buffy won’t have to live in the world after failing her sister. Failing Mom.

“No, I don’t think so,” one of the lackeys says, his head swaying back and forth like a snake’s. It made Buffy’s monkey brain want to smash his skull in. Or maybe that’s her Slayer instincts. Can be hard to tell, sometimes. “She looks right. Saw a picture on the ‘net, talking about the Hellmouth. Gotta be here.”

“Okay, which freaky demon is going around taking pictures of me?” she blurts out before she can stop herself.

Behind her, Dawn eeps. In front of her, the vamps grin like hunting dogs and prowl closer.

God damn her mouth.

“Alright, then, might as well get this over with,” she says almost to herself, and she unleashes violence. Numero Uno comes in hard and fast on her right. Buffy’s not holding back as she grabs both his arms, holding him still long enough for a quality crotch-kick. Not her favorite, since vamps don’t react the same as living guys to that move, but it’s enough to send Uno stumbling backwards. That throws off Numero Dos’s line of attack, bringing his face right into Buffy’s fist with a satisfying wet smack. Rain drops fly off the jerk’s face. It’s almost a pretty sight.

Numero Tres hurls himself at her, and Buffy gets him with a fast kick in the ribs. Vamps don’t breathe, but she kicks hard enough to splinter bones. Tres snarls with the thunder, and this vamp, unlike Scrawny, fights through the pain. He gets his hands on her leg and throws her up in the air. The world spins around her, lit by flashes of lightning and the refracted light of streetlamps at the mouth of the alley. Then the ground rushes up to meet her, hard.

Air whooshes out of her lungs as she hits the pavement, the dirty, rain-slick ground abrading and gashing at her skin. Her jaw cracks, and the world dips and tilts for a second.

Then they’re on her and Dawn, hands pulling, yanking, and Buffy feels them. That fission in her bones that says vampire all around her. She fights, kicks hard, throwing them off. Dawn can’t do that, though. Dawn’s screaming, but it’s high and thin underneath the thunder.

Suddenly, the screaming stops.

Buffy’s heart squeezes painfully. There’s an overwhelming temptation to lie there, to let them tear her apart. She’s failed.

She’s failed.

I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so, so sorry.

As fast as she thinks that, one pair of hands are suddenly gone from her. She feels them tear away, the pressure hard enough to bruise through her wet clothes.

“Get up, Slayer, unless you want to let me have all the fun,” snarls a hard, harsh voice. Buffy rolls to her feet to see Spike at the mouth of the alley standing between a shivering Dawn and the vamps. The vamps that are now between her and Spike, who’s got the stance of a predator and the rain slicks runs over his dark brows. For a second, the sight makes her think of one of those army movies Xander likes—the action guy showing up in the rain and ready to fight.

Say that for Spike: he’s always ready for a fight. Good thing, so is she.

Her body coils. The vamps are confused now, glancing between her and Spike with stupid, slack jaws.

She catches his eyes and finds herself grinning. “Sorry, can’t do that. I like ruining your fun.”

“Yeah, good thing I don’t mind,” he retorts.

Together, they charge.

***

“No stakes!?” Spike screams at her as he dodges a clumsy blow from one of the sorry excuses for a vampire he’s fighting.

“Sorry,” the Slayer yells back in the least sorry tone he’s heard in his whole sodding unlife.

“Guess we do this the hard way!” he calls back over the crash of thunder. He probably shouldn’t want to laugh like a madman, but fuck, it’s been an age since he’s been in a proper fight. He’s needed this, too, with the Slayer being all manner of confusing and the living situation being just as barmy, all topped off by fucking cracking his chest open and laying his heart out for a whole bar to see.

Hadn’t been much of a choice, running after Buffy. He always would run toward her, run straight for the one girl in all the world who should have killed him a hundred times over but never did. The spot of sunshine in his otherwise night-bound existence. Always had been drawn to what would hurt him—even as the nonce he’d once been.

“What’s that?” she yells back.

Now, though, now they’re fighting in concert, and it’s so much better than the music he bleated out for a wad of cash. It’s a symphony of kicks and punches and dancing around each other. She doesn’t miss a beat, the Slayer, taking his outstretched hand and letting herself be tossed, feet first, into the beefy vampire’s face.

“We rip their fucking heads off!” he answers as he closes in after her and gets his hands on the vamp that’s just gone down under the gorgeous power of her legs. He kneels, legs either side of the blighter and wrenches with strength he hasn’t unleashed in a bloody fucking age. Yellow eyes go wide and panicked as skin stretches, tugging and resisting. Spike snarls down at the bastard, because this is the one that had tried to yank the Niblet away. With a roar, he bends all his strength and pulls back for a bit of extra leverage.

With a hearty and delightful pop, the skin separates and so does the spine. Dust turns to a thin veneer of mud underneath him, quickly washed away by the downpour. Spike rises to his feet, head low and forward, all the predator coming out of him now. The bones of his face shift. His vision sharpens in the stormy night, and he grins.

“Alright, who’s next?” he asks quietly.

The four remaining vampires glance between him and the Slayer. Dawn’s behind them now, huddled and shivering. Spike can hear her heartbeat fluttering. That’s not good, but there’s a whole lot of violence in front of him.

The four vampires turn tail and run.

“Well, that’s disappointing,” he says.

“Get them!” Buffy orders. He stares at her dumbly for a second, and then she glares at him. “If word gets out the Slayer’s here?”

She doesn’t have to finish the question. Spike tears after them, tackling one to the ground and slamming his head hard enough into a brick wall to crush his skull. More dust. Then Buffy’s launching herself at another one. With sheer brute force she grabs one vamp by the hair and saws his neck against the dull lip of a metal dumpster.

Lightning flashes overhead, and Spike wants to imprint the vision that is Buffy in all her glory onto his brain for eternity.

But there’s no stillness in the Slayer. She’s already running for one of the last two, and he’s got a bead on the other one. She runs, head down, arms pumping, and outpaces him easily. One step, then another, and she vaults for a fire escape. She catches the bottom rung in her hands and wraps her legs around the neck of one of the two remaining vampires. For half a second, Spike considers that vampire the luckiest bloke in the whole sodding world. What he wouldn’t give to have her legs around his head—the demon that’s in him snarls and snaps and purrs at the very thought. Fuck, it would be amazing.

The vampire doesn’t need to breathe, though, and he’s fighting back against Buffy’s attempt to decapitate him like she’s a Bond villain.

“Spike!” she screams, “the last one! He’s getting away!”

Attention back on the last hapless fuck, some scrawny boy holding his arm funny and hobbling away, Spike runs. He puts on a turn of speed, boots splashing through puddles that are nearing Great Lake territory. Spike tackles him to the ground. The panic on the little shit’s face means absolutely fuck all to him. Instead, inside of him, the demon and he are crowing wildly, chanting kill him kill himkillhimkillhimkillhim. This pathetic stain was about to hurt what’s theirs, and fuck if it won’t feel good to make sure he can’t.

“Shouldn’t have gone for these girls, mate,” Spike growls at him, and squeezes one hand around the vamp’s thin neck. The fucker claws at Spike’s face with his good arm. Spike wrenches it away hard enough to break it. The crack of bone is beautiful in the thunderstorm, followed by the scream of the scrawny vamp. Spike doesn’t let up until he feels the bone snap and separates under his hand and there’s more dust washing away underneath him.

“SPIKE!” The scream is wild and high, and it knocks him right off the giddy rush of violence. He whirls to his feet as Buffy’s gathering a limp Dawn into her arms.

His undead heart suddenly lodges in his throat. Rain drums on his head as he runs back to see Dawn’s lips are turning a horrifying shade of blue under the streetlights. It takes half a moment, then he’s locked his ears to the weak and now irregular beat of Dawn’s heart.

There’s a terrible knowledge in Buffy’s eyes, and he knows it's reflected in his own. “Spike, she’s so cold.”

“Hold her close as you can,” he tells Buffy, his whole self suddenly bottoming out. Oh God, oh God, please no. Was this how she looked as she died? Was this how she faded away? Only a little girl, so little, so young, and—

“What?” The question from the Slayer is inane. Bloody California girls.

“Body heat, you can have it, I can’t. Run, hold her close, keep her as warm as you can. I’ll do the rest.”

He doesn’t wait for her to say anything, because there’s no time. He’s running faster than he can ever recall running. He’s running heedless of anything else, just to get back to the apartment and do what he can to keep that girl alive. One block, then another, and then he’s at their apartment door. He doesn’t even fumble at the keys. It’s no thought at all to break the lock and kick the doors open. Leaving wet boot tracks behind him, he takes the stairs two at a time and shoulders the door open. The door frame splinters and gives, and fuck that’s going to be annoying later, but right now he doesn’t give a single fucking shit.

Buffy’s right behind him, her own heart rate sky high. Dawn’s is losing its rhythm beat by irregular beat. How long was she in the cold and wet? Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He barrels into the bathroom and turns on the water. His own skin is frigid, he’s sure. Still, he sticks his hand in—the water is barely lukewarm, and that’s a good start.

“Get in, both of you,” he tells the Slayer. And the Slayer, as much as he loves her, wouldn’t be the Slayer if she didn’t balk.

“Spike, getting more wet is a bad idea, isn't it?”

“It’s the best way to warm up, you silly bint. Water’s lukewarm, but warmer than the rain outside. Gotta warm up slow, or you’ll get shock or some such. Will be worse for her.”

Buffy hesitates, biting at her lip.

“Buffy, please, there’s no time.” He’s pleading now, because Dawn’s heart isn’t getting any stronger. The apartment isn’t that warm, and he’s going to fix that, too, but right now the girls both need to not be freezing and water’s the best way. “Do you trust me?” he asks, and then drops his eyes to Dawn’s too pale, blue-lipped face. “Do you trust me with her?”

The furrow in Buffy’s brow eases. It’s not gone, but it’s not so clear either. “Alright. Get us some dry clothes, then, and—”

“I know what I’m about, Slayer,” he says, as they maneuver Dawn into the tub. Buffy joins her sister under the spray, blond locks wetted again to her scalp. “Make it warmer slowly, alright? Go too fast, and that’s just as bad as staying cold.”

The fear that sparks in her eyes at that thought is about as painful as a stake to the heart. Bloody hell, he can see it. That she would have cranked the heat, not knowing that would have been a good way for Little Sis to end up dead, too. Buffy huddles around Dawn’s limp form.

Spike leaves the bathroom, tracking water everywhere. He’ll deal with that later, too. He pulls out towels, all of the ones he can find, and soft warm sweats for both girls. He leaves the underthings alone, because, well. Seems safer on a lot of levels. In the bathroom, Buffy’s barely turning the knob for the hot water, but already Dawn’s heart is starting to stabilize. Spike lets out a slow, steadying breath.

“She’s doing better,” he tells her. Buffy nods dumbly, like her whole brain can’t absorb anything else right now. Spike hangs up the towels and places the sweats on the counter. “Got you things. I’ll close the door, but I’m… I’m here, Buffy.”

Her eyes raise up to meet his own. Green, but also grey and with small flecks of amber. All the glorious detail that he wants to drink in, but in this moment sears him. Because in those eyes is a wealth of riches, a treasure trove of feeling that should, by all rights, turn him to dust for how bright they are. Her fear, no terror is there, along with weariness and anger and, even more piercing, hope. The apple of his throat bobs, and he wants to cling to her feelings, because his own are a thin sliver away from pouring out of him. He can’t go back there, he can’t, he won’t.

Except, he thinks that no matter what, he’s going to be pulled back into that sinkhole no matter what he wants.

“I know,” she answers at long last before turning her attention back to Dawn.

Spike leaves the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He presses his forehead to that same door and closes his eyes tight. Suddenly, he’s trembling. Not from the cold. The cold doesn’t affect him the same way. No, the trembling is all from a threatening cascade of memory that’s looming over him like a tsunami wave. Gritting his teeth, he pushes off the door and strides down the brief hallway to inspect the door.

It doesn’t take long to see that it’s buggered. The seat for both the door latch and the deadbolt are ripped clean through. The downstairs doors are likely in the same condition.

Nothing for it, Spike shuts the door and sets his boots at the base to keep it shut. He’ll have to stay awake all night and be on watch, but that’s a small price to pay for making sure both the girls get some good shut eye. Then he keeps moving, because if he stops, if he stops—he knows what’s going to happen if he stops. It’s inevitable. It’s been coming for him since he gave Dawn permission to use his dead sister’s name, since he took the Porsche, since he started looking out for her back in Sunnydale—since he could remember the little girl with big blue eyes who stared at him from between the stairs’ railing while he sat making small talk with Joyce before helping Buffy save the world for the first time.

She’d stared at him, and he’d caught her at it. All he’d done then was press a finger to his lips while Joyce had been looking the other way and winked. The girl had fled upstairs in a swirl of long dark hair, and that had been that.

It hadn’t happened like that, but it is what he remembers. So it’s good enough for him.

Dawn Summers, the girl who shouldn’t be but was. The girl who doesn’t but half remind him of another girl an ocean and a century away.

Spike draws in a shuddering breath and kicks himself back into motion. He strips out of his wet clothes and pulls on the black sweats he’s been using to keep Dawn from seeing him in the nude (he hadn’t been lying when he’d told Buffy it would traumatize him to let Dawn catch him out, because even as a vampire, some things just weren’t done.), and a new shirt. The wet clothes he stuffs in the washer, waiting to add the clothes Buffy and Dawn had come home in.

Their heart beats are evening out, and he can make out a low murmur of voices from the bathroom. Dawn sounds groggy, and Buffy still has a high-strung edge to her voice. There’s a rustle and a shift. The water turns off. Spike has an overwhelming urge to burst into the bathroom and make sure they’re alright. Though he’s pretty sure if he does that, Buffy would pop him right in the nose for his trouble.

Instead, he looks around for more to do. Then he zeroes in on the kitchen, and his gaze catches on the kettle he insisted on. Yeah, a cuppa. He could make a cuppa.

***

Dawn’s awake, and Buffy’s heart can beat again. Oh God. She wants to hold Dawn and never, ever let go. She wants to shake herself for being an idiot. She wants to punch Spike in the nose for being a moron of the highest order.

Most of all, she just wants to cry. But she can’t. No crying for Buffy while something’s going on. That’s the problem with how she cries. Once she starts, she doesn’t stop, and she knows better than to get distracted by her own feelings. Instead, she focuses on getting her and Dawn as dry as possible.

Dawn’s sluggish and sleepy, but moving. Her lips are pink again, and her skin is warm to the touch.

“I think this shirt is ruined,” Dawn laments groggily. She peels off the sopping wet and grit-covered once-glittery shirt and flings it to the bathroom floor where it lands with a splat.

“Yeah, but what about these jeans?” Buffy asks, teasing quietly. She helps Dawn wiggle out of the denim that’s all but plastered to her legs.

“They’re all super tight and sexy now.”

“Oh God, ew. Please, I never want to hear you say that word ever again.”

“What? Sexy?” Dawn drawls, dopey. Then she coughs, and Buffy leans Dawn onto her shoulder and keeps her upright. Buffy does the towel drying, and she remembers when Dawn was little and they took baths together. Really, Buffy was too old to be taking baths under parental supervision, but Dawn was in there, and Mom had loved time with both of them together.

“Hey, you remember those bath toys we had?” Buffy asks.

Dawn’s eyes go fuzzy with memory. A smile curves her sister’s mouth. “Yeah, there were some boats and wind up turtle? I loved the turtle.”

“Please, the dolphin was where it was at,” Buffy teases. She aggressively towels Dawn dry, scrubbing until every last bit of water is gone on her sister’s body. Then she helps Dawn into the sweatpants and shirt and sweater that Spike pulled out of the dresser. There’s another set for Buffy, and she tries not to think too hard about Spike going into her room and taking her things.

At least this time he did it for a good reason.

“So cliche,” Dawn counters. Buffy towels herself off and gets dressed in short order. Their clothes are a wet jumble on the floor, but she can’t bring herself to worry about that right now. She guides Dawn out of the bathroom, Dawn leaning on her more than Buffy likes. On some level, Buffy knows Dawn’s mostly wrung out at this point, but she can’t get over how she thought Mom was fine until she wasn’t. Until Buffy came home and Mom was dead because of an invisible thing inside of her. The thought of waking up and finding Dawn gone—she blinks and her throat threatens to close up.

Then the floorboards creak, and she knows Spike did that on purpose. To give her some warning.

“I’ve got a cuppa for you both,” he says, voice soft and quiet from the far end of the hallway. From only ten feet away. “Would be good,” he adds, “to get something warm in your bellies.”

“Tea?” Buffy asks, just as quiet. She’s got them half turned, so she can see the corner of his mouth quirk up.

“Cocoa,” he answers.

For no reason at all, her heart squeezes so hard it’s painful.

“Ooooh, cocoa,” Dawn murmurs, “I deserve cocoa for almost freezing to death.”

Both Buffy and Spike go stock still at the simple declaration. Their eyes meet, and there’s a twist to his face that she’s pretty sure is mirrored on her own. A grimace that betrays how much neither of them like that idea.

“Come on, then,” he says, gesturing at the couch. Buffy walks Dawn there and pulls her sister close. Spike kneels on the floor and offers up two mugs, handles facing toward them. Dawn takes hers and sips greedily. Buffy holds hers by the handle and with her upturned free hand. The corner of Spike’s mouth twitches to watch Dawn drink up, then a careful mask falls into place as he sees Buffy’s not had a sip.

“Not poisoned, Slayer,” he rumbles. There’s a sudden flash of irritation in her chest. Irritation because, please could he stop being upset at every little thing she does?

“Seriously? You think that’s my problem right now?” she shoots back.

Dawn sets her mug down on the side table with a loud thunk. “Okay, you two are officially the worst. I almost died, and you’re pissed at each other over cocoa, which by the way, Spike, not bad. Not as good as Mom’s, but not bad.”

Spike flinches like Dawn not only hit him, but hit him enough to hurt. Buffy finds herself wanting to recoil, too. This isn’t fair. She’s not being fair to Dawn at all. And she knows this is her fault. If she hadn’t run, if she didn’t run every time something happened that she couldn’t handle—but she’s always run. She can’t stop running when she can’t fight. And she’s always been able to fight with Spike.

“Sorry, Little Bit,” he says, and that tugs at Buffy’s ear. Sorry, he said sorry. The man who can barely apologize to her can let that word trip off his tongue easily for Dawn. It should piss her off more, but instead it melts some of the chill that she’s sure is still in her bones. Even after she’d cranked the water to near boiling heat. “Your mum made the best cocoa this side of the pond, but I’ll be honored with not bad.”

“You should be,” Dawn says.

“Dawnie,” Buffy starts, but doesn’t know how to finish it. She leans her shoulder against her sister’s, and it’s a relief when Dawn sinks into her as she wipes away the cocoa mustache with the back of her hand. “I think we’re both tired from the fight. Was a rough one without stakes.” It’s not a lie, even if it’s not the whole truth.

The roll of Dawn’s eyes tells Buffy that her little sister won’t be fooled so easily. Luckily, Dawn’s tired enough not to press her on it. “Yeah, that looked pretty crazy. What I saw of it.”

“Was a good bit of rough and tumble,” Spike allows, which really? But then, fine, vampire. Buffy stuffs down the irritation that keeps coming back like some kind of demented carousel. Every time she thinks she’s seen the last of it, something he does makes it come back.

“You’re so weird,” Dawn judges. “And I’m tired.”

“I’ll help—” Buffy says, but Dawn’s standing on her own and puts a hand out. Buffy can’t stand up without either knocking Dawn down or spilling the cocoa, or, more likely, doing both.

“I’m going to sleep. Please no yelling if you’re going to fight,” she says, and then shuffles away on bare feet. “Goodnight, Buffy. Night, Spike.”

“Night, Platelet,” Spike says softly.

“Goodnight, Dawn,” Buffy says back. “I’ll be in shortly.”

Dawn shrugs, like it doesn’t matter to her. And then she and Spike are left to their own devices. She should down the cocoa if only because a warm drink does sound good right about now, and those fries from the bar aren’t doing much for her after that fight. Then she should go to bed and try to find sleep instead of staring at Dawn all night to make sure she’s still breathing. All those shoulds sit there, waiting for her.

Instead, her hands grip the mug so tightly, she can hear the ceramic start to squeak under her fingers.

Then it’s plucked from her and set down on the floor next to where Spike’s kneeling. Hands free, she curls her arms around herself and bends double. She presses her face into thighs and quivers at the thought of what almost happened tonight. Her lungs burn, and she eventually gives in and heaves in great, gulping lungfuls of air.

“No, no nonono,” she pleads with herself in a quiet, plaintive whine.

“Slayer.” The voice is deep and velvet and comes from somewhere, but she doesn’t pay attention to it.

“Not now.” But it’s too late. She’s crying. She tastes salt in the back of her throat and there’s a burn in her eyes, eyes she squeezes shut like that can stop what’s about to pour out of her.

“Buffy,” he whispers, and there’s suddenly a gentle, tentative touch to her shoulder.

She sits up with a gasp, pressing herself against the back of the couch. She feels like a wild animal, ready to snap and snarl and bite at anyone or anything that comes too close. Why? Why is it always him? Him looking at her with those blue eyes that are so very, very soft. Eyes that should be hard and cruel and hateful, but instead look at her with more tenderness than she can credit.

Her leg longs to lash out and kick him right in the chest. To stop him from looking at her like that. Because he can’t.

Spike’s searching her face. She doesn’t have any idea what he’s seeing there, but she knows she doesn’t want him to see it. She’s so tired of him seeing her. It’s unfair. It’s unfair and she hates it, but she can’t stop crying. Her knees are up to her chest and she buries her face again, one arm flung over her head like she can muffle the sound even more somehow. The salt of her tears irritates the scrapes on her face. It feels fitting that burning sting and pulls more heaving sobs from her chest until there’s something gently draped around her shoulders. The weight startles her out of her crying jag as her fingers quest and find the fuzzy softness of the fleece blanket they got at Target, aka Spike’s personal hell dimension.

Between the blanket and recalling how much Spike hates Target, the spell of her own freakout breaks, and she raises her head up and wipes away her tears with her hands. She winces as her fingers trace the abraded skin of her cheeks and chin, making her hiss. Slowly, she’s getting her breathing back under control. Spike’s not in her immediate line of sight, though she can feel him nearby as a mellow tingle across the back of her neck, something so subtle she can mostly tune it out.

It feels good, and she’s angry that it feels good. It means she’s not alone. It means Spike’s still seeing far too much of her.

Then she hears the happy little beeps of the washing machine. She twists and sees him stabbing buttons with one finger before yanking out the detergent thingy and scooping some powder in. She can’t help but notice the sopping wad of cash spread out on top of it. The cash she stuffed in her pocket, the cash he earned. There’s a sudden, vicious urge to throw that cash out the door to never have see the stuff that caused all this trouble.

Only, she knows that the cash isn’t the problem.

“You know how to use the washer?” Her voice is thick and horse from all the crying.

He raises one eyebrow at her, mouth slightly slack with incredulous surprise. “This what you want to get into, then is it?”

“Seems better than other options,” she quips as she reaches down for the cocoa. It’s gone tepid. She takes a sip anyway. There are too many feelings (real adjacent or actually real, the line is too blurry for her to keep thinking like that now) on his face for her to keep up with. Instead she rests against the back of the couch and lets her head loll slack. Outside the big bay window, the storm still rages in fists and bursts of lightning and the crash of thunder. The trees whip hard enough to creak, and the thin branches clatter like monster claws against the glass.

It’s kind of hypnotic. The washer starts up with a low mechanical hum behind her.

Spike pads back down the hall, making noise on purpose again. In the edges of her vision, he sits on the floor, legs crossed, bare feet pale against the blackness of the sweats he wears to sleep.

“Yeah, probably is,” he agrees. He idly picks at his sweats, then his nails. They’re black again. Probably all done up for his show.

She doesn’t want to do this anymore. Problem is, she doesn’t know what this means. The this of it all sits beyond her reach. She doesn’t know how to get there from inside her own head.

“Spike,” she says without looking at him. But she doesn’t need to look at him to feel the weight of his undivided attention. He’s even stopped fidgeting and gone stock still. What is it about her that can do that to him? Sometimes he’s such a boy, all the energy in the world to burn, so much so that it comes out in fidgets and fiddling with whatever’s to hand until there’s a switch flipped inside of him. Then he’s Ultimate Focus Guy.

When she doesn’t say anything for a bit too long, her thoughts doing that carousel whirly, he offers up a tentative, “Buffy?”

Her fingers dig into the softness of the blanket. She can do this. She has to do this. For Dawn, she has to do this.

“I know we have a clean slate, and it was good to do that,” she starts off, still not quite wanting to look at him. If she looks at him, she doesn’t know exactly what she’ll see except that it’s something that should be impossible but isn’t. The motion of his nod pushes her to continue. “But we can’t keep doing this, Spike.”

Notes:

I hear hurricanes a-blowing
I know the end is coming soon
I fear rivers overflowing
I hear the voice of rage and ruin

Don't go around tonight
Well, it's bound to take your life
There's a bad moon on the rise
--"Bad Moon Rising" By Creedence Clearwater Revival

Chapter 14: Doctor My Eyes

“But we can’t keep doing this Spike.” Buffy’s gaze is fixed on the storm outside. The storm where the Niblet nearly died. Where he’d nearly lost—again. But then the Slayer hands down that pronouncement that should set off a storm in him. It should. It would have, before. But before, it hadn’t been Dawn’s heartbeat fluttering down to nothing. The girl who, before anyone else, decided that he’s someone who counts. Even if it’s just for her.

Buffy’s decision should wind him up and spin him out. Should make him snarl and snap and want to hurt her.

It doesn’t.

Instead, he feels the rightness of it. This is all his fault, isn’t it? From their fight to that bloody performance in that ruddy bar to chasing her out into this storm to putting Dawn at risk. All of it can be laid at his feet—the one thing he’s around for, to protect the Bit, and he’s buggered that up.

He’s ruined a lot of things, when he was alive and when he was dead. Par for the course, really. But this time, this time he thought he’d manage to get it right. He had been getting it right, until three days ago and he kicked off this whole sorry series of events.

Dawn—she’d looked so cold. So still. So… dead. Those moments between one heart beat and the next had been some of the longest of his whole unlife. Even now, he’s got one ear out for her heartbeat. It’s steady again, steady and even. If he focuses just a touch more, he can make out her sleep-deep breathing, and it’s among the best sounds in the world for him right then.

He wasn’t too late tonight.

He might be in the future, and he won’t let that happen. Even if it makes him feel like a dog being kicked out of the house. Bad Spike, naughty Spike. Didn’t do right, so get lost. Fuck, he hates feeling like this, but it’s better than Dawn winding up just like Charlotte.

“Yeah,” he says thickly, head falling to his chest. “I’ll pack up, then, shall I? Though, might want me to stay until the door’s fixed, and no I’m not going to be sorry about breaking it to get her inside faster—”

“You want to leave?” There’s a shocked, almost hurt quality to her voice. No, it can’t be that, that wouldn’t make any sense, he can’t hurt her, not really. Well, he had, he supposes. The Bot hurt her, but otherwise? In so many ways he can’t touch her, not even to hurt her.

“Not a matter of wanting, Slayer.”

“Then why are you going to pack?”

“Because it’s my bloody fault isn’t it?” he hisses. No yelling. The Bit’s asleep, and he won’t wake her. “Girl nearly froze to death, and I know you wouldn’t have gone out into that storm if I hadn’t mucked up at the bar. If I hadn’t—” he cuts himself off with a growl and a vicious jerk of his head. Tension coils across his shoulders and up his neck. He wants to shake her until she punches him. He wants to place his head in her lap and hold her, to let her hold him.

Two impossible things, so he settles for standing up and pacing the floor as quietly as he can.

“I get it, I’m a bloody useless git, alright? But I’m not about to be the reason she dies. Because I can’t, Buffy, I can’t. Not again, I can’t—fuck.” He scrubs a hand through his hair, turning away from her. She can’t see this, not this part of him. No one can, no one should. The soft, weak parts of him. The parts of William that won’t go away. The ones that he can’t stop bubbling up to the surface around these bloody Summers women.

“That’s what I’m saying too,” she says quietly. He turns, and there she is, the Slayer wrapped up in a blue fuzzy blanket, a mug of tepid cocoa in her hands (he made that for her, and she drank it, and no, there can’t be anything else between them, not even tally marks now). It should make her look weak, but she’s sitting on the couch like it’s a sodding throne, the blanket her stole, and the lift of her chin is that of a queen he’d swear anything for. Even the scrapes on her face add something to her, mark her as the warrior she is.

He opens his mouth, but she holds up a hand, forestalling him. “I’m going to talk, and I don’t know what I’m going to say because Buffy and words are not the bestest of buds, if you follow me. I need you to not interrupt me or make assumptions, okay? Not until all the words are out, because I don’t know where I’m going to go with this. Just… listen to me, alright? Can you do that?”

Bloody hell, not like he can do otherwise now, can he? Slayer might as well have nailed his feet to the floor.

“I’ll try, Slayer,” he says without knowing how the hell he’s going to keep quiet if she says something that he doesn’t want to hear. Likely she will. It’s the Slayer. The Slayer and him, and they never said anything they didn’t mean to each other, even the words that had sharp edges. Especially those.

“Okay,” she huffs, then repeats, “okay.” She’s steeling herself up for something, and it sets off all kinds of aching in his chest. An ache bad enough to feel like his ribs are going to break from the demon that’s in and is him coiling up all through him. Her gaze goes out of focus, and she’s facing him, but her eyes are fixed at a point over his shoulder. He watches as she summons a will to look at him straight on. Then she starts talking, and the world stops making sense.

“Spike, you scare the shit out of me.”

He scoffs, “Like hell I do—”

“You with the quiet,” she reminds him, pointing one imperious finger at him. No queen, no empress, no goddess could probably command him half so well as her. Spike shuts his mouth. “Great, now I’m thrown off,” she grumbles. She shucks the blanket off and puts the empty cocoa mug in the sink, turning the faucet on to fill it with water.

“Stupid, mouthy vampires,” she mutters to herself while Spike taps his fingers on the side of his legs to keep from talking again. It’s like he’s having to sit on himself, to push the parts of himself down that want answers and knowing and everything. He said he’d let her talk, so. Man of his word. Least so far as someone he loves is concerned. And he loves her. Still, always, until he’s dust and beyond. Until the stars go out and the universe closes shop.

So. Quiet. For Buffy, he’s going to be quiet.

“Okay, trying this again,” she says, hopping up on the kitchen counter. Her grey sweats are baggy, and the heavy sweater hands off her slim frame. He might adore her in the slinky stuff and even the tight jeans and flannel shirts that gape just right, but seeing her all soft and at home. In front of him, it stuns him stupider than usual. All he wants to do in that instant, in spite of everything, is hold her and feel her body against his. Just to feel her, what a gift that would be.

“You scare the shit out of me, Spike. Not in the way you think, but I know me. I’m having some, like, top tier level clarity right now. Probably a post-crying jag thing that I’m riding high on. I know me, and when I’m scared, I run. When I can’t handle something, I do my best to get out and get out fast. I mean, let’s be real. I tried to run from the Master, I tried to run from dying in that cave. I did run from Sunnydale after I killed Angel—” Spike stiffens at the mention of the Great Ponce. Rather than so much as let a sound escape, though, while Buffy’s feeling confessional, he digs his nails into the palms of his hands and waits. “The whole summer, I was gone, I tried to run away not from what I’d done, but from what I felt. Then Glory comes around, and I’m running again, because I know I can’t beat her, not as things stand right now. Because I’m afraid, Spike. And tonight, tonight I ran away from you, because… because—”

Her breath hitches. His whole self leans toward her though his feet don’t move. All that he is, yearns.

“And I ran from Riley, too,” she says, jumping tracks fast. He can’t quite follow the line of her thoughts, but his lips are pressed together and he is maintaining silence. She scrubs a hand over her nose. The tip is red and her eyes are rimmed the same way from the crying. Doesn’t make her any less beautiful, because her beauty is more than her body, it’s her. A few tears can’t wash that way. “I ran from him before he could run from me, but then hey, big surprise, he ran, too. Cause I’d cut out first. I run when I’m afraid. Afraid of something that’s going to hurt. And you… the way you feel, Spike, that you do feel, it scares me because—”

The heavy, beautiful thump of her heart is fast in his ears, and he’s trying to process what she’s saying, trying to keep up. The twists and hurts of her head, of her heart, are a maze that he would gladly spend an eternity finding his way through. Doesn’t mean it’s easy. Then she shudders and steels herself. It makes his chest squeeze with painful delight. There she is: the Slayer. His Slayer, if only in the privacy of his own mind.

She licks her lips, and in spite of her resolve, her voice is a hushed, birdlike thing. “Because if you can feel so much, if you feel what you feel, as who and what you are right now. Do you know how much it hurts that Angel couldn’t and scares me that you can?”

His teeth crack together hard enough to hurt. He wants to fling himself out the window at hearing that. Fuck. Bloody hell, is he always going to be measured by that bastard? Always, forever, not enough. Man and monster alike, never enough of one or the other for anyone.

“I know it doesn’t make sense, because like duh, soul, it makes him a totally different person—”

“Fucking rot,” Spike snarls. Buffy glares at him, eyes as hard as agates.

“Thought I was pretty clear that you weren’t supposed to talk. I’m working something out here.”

“Yeah, and you’re working under the idea that Angel and his more entertaining counterpart are that sodding different.” Spike can’t help it. He chortles. It’s an ugly sound, and it propels Buffy off the counter until she’s right back in his face and there’s a fight in her eyes. But there’s a fight in him, too. And he’s damn well ready to have this out.

“Don’t you dare—” she threatens.

“Oh, I’m gonna dare a lot, Slayer,” he rumbles at her, catching her eyes in the way a predator does its prey. She locks on, but there’s no back down in her. “You want to talk, fine. Here for it, so let’s bloody well do this, because I know that man. Dru might’ve sired me, but him? He made me. Twenty fucking years, he beat me, he flayed me, he—” Spike swallows the whole litany, because those facts alone were enough to make the Slayer flinch. Fuck, he doesn’t want to hurt her. Seems to keep doing that anyway. Might as well give her the truth, then. He blinks, surprised to feel wetness on his lashes. If it’s going to hurt, it should hurt them both.

“I’ll tell you a truth you’ll never hear otherwise, Slayer. I woke up, I crawled out of the dirt and after a fine old bender, I went home and tried to save my mum. Yeah, woke up, and I was still a sodding momma’s boy. She was dying by inches, coughing her lungs bloody, and I thought I had the cure for her. Nevermind that she said a nasty piece to me afterwards, I still loved her. Love her, even now. And if that weren’t enough, no, it wasn’t enough, I wasn’t enough of a monster for them who had changed me, made me more. There were times, times where I didn’t feel like breaking a neck or drinking someone dry. Know what it was, who they were?” He crowds her a little, but she doesn’t back down. Instead, she’s looking into his eyes, trying to see through him, inside him. He can feel the quest of her gaze, as if she’s going to catch him out in a lie. There’s no lie in him anymore. He’s going to turn himself inside out and see what happens.

“They were girls. Little girls. Girls with big blue eyes and long brown hair,” he says thickly. “Girls who looked like my little sister. And he killed them.”

***

Buffy’s insides bottom out. She feels lightheaded and off balance. Like she’s going to be sick. But while her body’s gone all tilt-a-whirl, her brain has finally, finally stopped spinning. She’s not battered by crazy winds, she’s not on a precarious branch. Her mind is catching up to all the little things she’s seen but hadn’t understood until Spike gave her the answer. The answer that he might as well tore out of his own chest from how he’s breathing in a totally unnecessary but pained heave.

For a long moment, they’re staring at each other. Then Spike wrenches his head away, his jaw working furiously and silently. Like a man waiting for a blow.

It’s that expectation of her hitting him that makes her stuff her hands under her armpits. The hardwood is cold on her feet. She’s had enough of being cold for one night. There’s miles to go before she gets to sleep now, she’s pretty sure. (Just the life of a Slayer, talking through weird emotional complications with the mortal enemy you’re betting your sister’s life on, the mortal enemy who’s in love with you and oh, just dropped that he was physically and psychologically tortured by your ex for about twenty years, which you also kind of figured but it’s another thing to hear it, while also needing to talk about your uncertain feelings that alternately scare you and piss you off.)

God, her life is so far beyond normal, she doesn’t even have a scale for it. Buffy’s pretty sure there’s only one thing to do in a situation like this.

“I don’t know about you, but I think I’m going to need more cocoa,” she says.

Spike whole body jerks. She might as well have punched him for the slack jawed expression on his face.

“What about you?” she prompts.

His mouth clicks shut and he cocks his head at her. Those eyes, those blue, blue eyes search her. Whatever he’s looking for, she won’t ever be able to figure out, but he seems to find it when he rocks back on his heels and says, “Could go for a cuppa, yeah.”

Making cocoa buys her a few minutes of not having to talk or think about the whatever-the-hell this is going on between them. The urge to run still fires up and down the muscles of her legs, but she just learned a hard object lesson about running away from Spike. He’s always going to come after her. Angel had once called him relentless. Relentlessly annoying, she’d thought for a long time. Now though—God, why is the one guy who seems preprogrammed to follow through, to stick around, to want to help even if he doesn’t always know how, is him?

It feels like a kick to the ribs sometimes. Other times, though, lately, it feels like she’s learning to breathe past an old injury.

Spike claims the far end of the couch by the window, putting himself in the way of the slight draft from the painted over sills. The kettle whistles, and Buffy pours hot water into two mugs full of cocoa mix. It’s just the packet stuff, but it’s warm and chocolate adjacent. She hands him one, and he takes it from her hands with what she can only call reverence. Buffy folds her legs underneath her as she sits on the opposite end of the sofa, the whole awkward mess sitting between them.

The tree outside the window continues to tap frantically on the glass in the storm, occasionally accompanied by the rush of cars through the rain. Buffy debates turning off more lights, to spare her eyes, but decides against it. The warm downlights in the living area keep the whole apartment from feeling too… something she doesn’t want it to be yet.

“Don’t know what you’re after, pet,” Spike says into the quiet. He’s holding the mug against his chest with one long-fingered hand, and guh, why is she thinking like that? Soaking up the warmth, that’s what he’s doing.

“I don’t know either,” she admits. She stares into the mug like it can give her an answer. Swirling the mug sets off ripples that let her eyes relax. “I just know I can’t keep doing this with you.”

“What’s this, then?” he asks, voice curling viciously on the this.

“Waiting for you to blow up again. I still don’t get why you exploded at me three days ago, and it was a jerk move, even for you—” A muscle in his jaw jumps, and Buffy is half tempted to throw her cocoa at him. It would be a waste of her drink though. “Honestly, okay, so sue me for not going about this in the nicest way, but I didn’t come out of the gate swinging, Spike. I thought we were managing the whole mortal enemies in close quarters thing, but I never know what’s going to set you off.”

Spike sighs, head tilting back and forth so she can hear the crack of his neck. It’s an agitated motion, but there’s a distance in his eyes.

“You know it now,” he says quietly. “The shape of it, at least. I didn’t—Slayer, it’s dead and buried, that. A hundred and thirty years dead. Dead before I was. Didn’t account on a few things with the Bit, I’ll grant, and it’s gotten under my skin again. Thought I’d shelved it. Turns out, hadn’t quite. Or it got knocked loose.” He chuckles, a dark low sound in the quiet apartment. “The things that make you weak, Slayer, those are the things that get scoured out of you hard and fast when you come up out of your own grave. It came back, is all, and being around you doesn’t help either.”

“You cannot be telling me it’s my fault for you blowing up.” Her tone is flat as the land around them. Spike twists his head away and growls. At himself, she thinks.

“No,” he says shortly. “No, it isn’t. But that’s the problem isn’t it? I can’t sodding help it, Buffy.” He’s staring at the far wall with abject desperation, it’s another shred of proof that Spike feels big feelings, no matter what she’s been told about vampires in general. Spike might just be one of those outlier thingies she’d learned about before Professor Walsh went psycho and then went dead. If vampires were put on that bell-shaped curve, where would Spike be? Far to one end, she can say that for sure now. Question is, what’s it mean?

“I wanted to cut it out of me, to not love you, but I do. I love you, and I love the girl, too, but you.” He draws a shuddering breath like he actually needs the oxygen. “I said it all already, didn’t I? You didn’t care for it then, won’t care for it now. I just—I needed a break, was all. Get my head back on straight, and then you were there. And you were asking about her, even if you didn’t know it, and—it hurt, Slayer. Learned how to handle being hurt ages ago, and that’s to give it right back. Only way I know now.”

There’s a lot he isn’t saying. She can hear it, in the way his voice strains. His gaze is still fixed at the far wall, like he’s afraid to look anywhere else. Buffy takes a sip of cocoa as she tries to sift through what he said, but her brain shunts all the words out of her mouth without bothering to process first.

“Being here hurts you,” she says. He flinches her statement, no matter how softly she’s spoken. “Being around me and Dawn, it’s painful for you. And you’re here anyway.”

He cuts a quick glance in her direction, a self-deprecating grin curving his cheek, sharp and not at all amused. “Sucker for punishment, me, especially for someone I—well, you know.”

She did know. I’d do it. For someone I loved—I’d do it. Spike knowing Willow would go after Glory. Spike doing anything to get Dru back. Spike letting himself be tortured nearly to dust. Taking on the pain so someone else wouldn’t have to.

“I’d say we have that in common.” The words aren’t ones she meant to say, but they’re true regardless. Spike’s head swivels so fast if he’d been human he would have wrenched something. As it is, his eyes are bright and wild, and she has to stop that right quick, because she feels something, but it can’t be— “I meant in general. The things I do for my friends, my family. I’ll take it all on, all the hurt, all the pain I can for them, but when it comes to myself? I can be a big ole’ chicken.”

His gaze softens. “No you’re not, Slayer.”

How is it that he can say things that make her want to simultaneously punch him and kiss him? And there’s another stack on the pile of confusing feelings for Spike that she has to sort through but doesn’t have the space to do it. Buffy rubs her forehead and hopes this won’t give her a headache.

It probably will. God she wants to sleep, but no sleep for her. Not until this is hammered out.

“Right, we’re going to get back on the original topic,” she says, sidestepping everything about this she doesn’t want to talk about right now. Classic move, but hey, he derailed the whole conversation in the first place. Only fair. “I said, I said you scare me, because—” Her chest pinches, ribs aching. She can do this. It’s not hard. Except it is. It is because she used to throw her heart out there, feel her big feelings and soak it all up. Until she’d been crushed. Utterly and completely crushed. So crushed that she’d kept herself buttoned up with Riley. He’d messed up, for sure, but Buffy’d never let her guard down. She could see that now. Problem is, Spike’s always had a way of sneaking under her guard.

“Because I don’t want you to go,” she admits. “You’re here and you are helping and you’re good with Dawn, and yeah, you’ve helped me when I’ve been freaking out about stuff. Which kind of freaks me out, too, because hey, didn’t we used to try to kill each other a whole lot? And yeah, we have a clean slate, but it’s still much with the wiggy—the whole change in how we are. But then, then you just blow up at me and we’re fighting. I know why now, but that doesn’t help the Buffy of three days ago. You’ve got your, okay, your feelings, and you need a break from me and Dawn sometimes. You need to tell me that, Spike. I can’t read your mind. Not a Slayer power, and trust me, it’s better that way. Besides, apparently I couldn’t read vampire minds even when I did have telepathy, so—”

“Wait a tick, you had telepathy for a minute? When? And how do you know you can’t read vampire minds? No, no, don’t want to know that.”

“Funny encounter with a demon my senior year. I got the mind whammy and could hear everything, which in a high school, big with the ew. Though I will say, I loved Cordelia, she always said what she was thinking.”

“Sounds like a laugh riot.”

“I only almost went crazy again. And I found out some things I so didn’t need to know about my mom and Giles. But again with the off-track. Geeze, are you trying to make this difficult?”

“No, but you drop a little tidbit like that, and a bloke gets somewhat curious. But I think I get the point.”

They’re both settled into their ends of the couch. Spike’s twisting the mug back and forth in his hand while she tries to gather her thoughts again. Now she’s coming to it, the idea that’s been bubbling up in the back of her mind for a while. Ever since he put himself on the line, ever since he did what she needed, even when she didn’t always know how to ask for it.

“I think we could try to be friends,” she says at last. There were a whole lot of possibilities for how Spike would handle that statement, but Spike, being Spike, does something Buffy doesn’t expect. He goes very, very still and holds her eyes with his own. One dark brow, the scarred one, the one she knows was cut by one of her sister-Slayers, raises up in query but not his usual pushing, prodding query. It’s almost tentative, a word she never would have used for him before.

There’s that cracking in her ribs again, an old injury that’s been there so long she’s gotten used to it, used to the hurt. Doesn’t even notice it anymore, until something triggers it back into life. Until it starts to ease.

“Is that what we are, Buffy? Are we friends?” His voice is dark and low and thick, thick with all those big Spike feelings that still freak her out because they shouldn’t be there. Shouldn’t but are.

“We could be,” she manages to say. Then very quickly, “I can’t promise anything more than that, Spike. How you want me to feel, I can’t—”

“Never asked you to, pet.”

“Uh, that time you chained me up says different.”

“Right, not one of my finest moments.”

“Do you have any?”

“Slayer.”

“Honestly asking here.”

“I have several, but none you’d care to hear.” He shakes his head, tone wry. With a soft thunk, he sets the mug down on the window sill before leaning his forearms on his thighs. It looks so normal. If it weren’t for that faint pull of him on her Slayer senses, she’d say he was. Part of her knows that’s how vampires hunt, by blending in, but Spike’s never hunted that way. He stood out. Now, here, she’s seeing—being shown—a different part of him. She’s torn between wanting to curl her legs up to her chest and letting her feet press against his legs for no reason she can summon to mind. Just that she wants to. Instead, she waits.

“Look, I’m gonna speak a piece, and then you won’t have to hear it again, and we can try to be friends. I’ll do my best at that, but let’s face it, I’m going to mess it up. Don’t have the best track record where you’re concerned. Anyroad, here it is.” He steels himself, and then he faces her, stark naked honesty writ all over the sharp planes and angles of his features. “After everything, after getting you and the Niblet out here and all this, you should know that when I say I love you, it’s just that: I love you, Buffy. It’s not something I chose or wanted, but I feel it. You’re—God, you have no idea, you make a man—me—want to try. And being around you, it’s more than I deserve, but I want to keep trying. And if being with Dru taught me anything, it’s that you can’t make someone love you. She never did, not the way I wanted, but it never stopped me from trying. All you can do is try. Like I said, I know I’ll muck it up again, but that doesn’t mean I want to stop trying. So. I’m sorry about blowing up at you. I shoulda asked for a moment, or something, and I’d like to be your friend, if that’s something you want.”

She’d been dreading that Spike would bring up that he loves her, but this wasn’t how he went about it last time. With the chains and his crazy ex and the death threats. Probably super romantic by vampire standards, but much with the awful by hers. This time, though, his words ring true in a way she never would have been able to imagine without the experience of the last week and a half. From fleeing Sunnydale until now, seeing him up close and actually seeing him. Spike is relentless. She knows that. Relentless in his hunt, in his goals, and in love. Because he loves her enough to try. To fight against everything he is and keep trying. To take his licks, get back up, and try even more.

He won’t quit. It’s either a mark of someone very, very stupid or—because she’s coming around to the notion that impulsive doesn’t equate to stupid—someone who means every last word.

“I do,” she says at last. “Want to be friends, that is. But! We actually need to talk to each other instead whatever these last three days were. We can’t afford that. Dawn can’t afford that. I nearly let her get killed tonight.”

“Slayer, that wasn’t you,” he grumbles with a dismissive gesture. “That was those bloody fledges and me driving you out into that storm.”

“No,” she says, holding up a forestalling hand. Because if he can admit when he’s messed up, surely she can do the same. A soul still had to count for something, right? “No, that was me. I didn’t have to run, but I did. There were other options to get home tonight, but I didn’t see them. We’ve got a clean slate, and now we’re going to try to be friends. That means if you need space, then you need to tell me that. If I need something, I’ll—”

“Actually tell me instead of leaving me to guess. Though, I reckon I do alright most of the time.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. And yeah, I’ll try, too.”

Spike smiles at her, soft and there he is, the man she’s starting to see. The man he’s very slowly becoming. She’s not his redemption or the superhero girlfriend he can’t keep up with. She’s his—oh God, she’s his inspiration. Not on a pedestal, not out of reach, but the person who makes him want to put his feet on a different path. To be better. Because once Spike decides on a course of action, he follows it. He gets knocked down, gets the stuffing tortured out of him, but he’s changing, and he’s changing because of her.

The idea feels too big, too much to be set on top of the whole night. Her arms ache, and the scrapes on her face need more attention. She can feel the pull of them on her skin.

“Friends, then,” he says quietly.

“Good,” she breathes. “Good.” And she doesn’t know what to do now. “I’m gonna clean up I guess?”

He ducks his chin, a silent acknowledgement. She busies herself cleaning mugs and putting them in the dish rack. The kitchen back in order, she forces herself not to look back at him. Spike is probably going to do Spike things, which is fine. Totally fine. She doesn’t need to check up on him. They had the hugest of conversations, yeah, but he’s fine. She’s fine. They’re fine.

A spot of black catches the corner of her vision, and she glances down to see Spike’s boots set against the door. Then she sees the door. It’s super destroyed.

There’s a flare of annoyance, but then she remembers how Spike ran hard and fast to get back here, to get the water started up, to get Dawn inside and warm. Scared. He was scared, too. Because there’s a reason there’s a sister-shaped spot in his head. Dawn fills it now, and he loves her, but he lived through what’s now Buffy’s worst nightmare once before.

She pops her head around the corner of the wall. Spike’s still sitting on the couch. He’d been staring out the window, but it’s like can sense her attention because he turns toward her.

“Spike, I don’t suppose you’d stay up for the night? The door’s kind of totally destroyed.” She thinks she sounds friendly. Or at least not angry. She can do this, she can totally do this. Not like she wouldn’t have done the same, honestly.

“Was already planning on it,” he says with a bare curve of his mouth. “Also listening to the Niblet’s heartbeat. Steady right now. Good and strong.”

Buffy blinks back the wetness that threatens to sting her eyes all over again. God, she’s so wrung out. “Yeah, that would be—be really good of you.”

“Not a worry, pet, and no news is good news, yeah? You best get some rest.”

“Should, and here’s hoping.”

She nods, but instead of going to bed she lingers. He’s watching her, waiting. “Thank you,” she says at last, and then, surprising herself, “And if you ever want to talk about her, your—your sister. I don’t know. I guess, that’s what friends do, they listen. I could—I could listen. Look, I’m sure you don’t want to, but—”

“Buffy.” Her name is a quiet plea in his mouth. She presses her lips together. Great, so being friends was her idea and she’s already messed it up. Good going Buffy. God, she’s so stupid sometimes. Whirling self recriminations get pulled up short when he says, “I’d like to tell you about her one day. Might be good to remember her finally.”

“Oh.”

“See you in the morning, love.”

“See you in the morning, Spike.”

Then Buffy finally, at last, flees one last time. Flees down the hallway and to the room she shares with Dawn. Before crawling into her own narrow bed, she checks on Dawn. Her sister is huddled under only all the blankets. Buffy recognizes a few from her own bed, but doesn’t begrudge it tonight. Dawn breathes deep and even and sweet, almost like when they were little. There’s no furrow between her sister’s eyebrows, and her face is relaxed and easy in sleep.

Buffy risks this, one quick kiss to Dawn’s forehead.

“I love you, and I’m sorry,” she whispers to her sister. “I’m going to do better. We both are. For you.”

It’s a promise, and one Buffy fully intends to keep. For Dawn, she’ll face the scariest stuff imaginable. For Dawn, she’ll face herself.

***

The night is a long one for Spike. He puts all his attention on the input from his ears, and the storm outside doesn’t make it easy. Can’t even put on the telly, since that would take up his attention and his hearing. He made a promise, and he’ll damn well keep it. Any promise to Buffy is a sodding oath, and he won’t be foresworn. Not with her.

Does make him wish he’d brought the guitar back home, though, to give his hands something to do. As it is, he’s picking off his nail polish at an alarming rate.

Other thing, he’s trying not too hard to think about everything he and the Slayer said to each other tonight. That way lies madness. He could sift over every last look, every last hitch in her breathing, the changes in her scent. Does she really want to be just friends, or does being a friend to the likes of him spook her in and of itself?

No, he can’t be thinking that. Friends. They’re supposed to try to be friends now, and bloody hell, isn’t that more than he ever thought he’d get. More than he deserves.

What he told Captain Carboard still holds true. Man’s got to try. He won’t ever stop trying for her, but it’s taking on another dimension now. At first, it was trying to get close to her, to be with her. To drown in everything that was Buffy Summers. These last days, though, since she came to him with terror in her eyes and a scared little sister under her arm—he wants to try to be something for her. To be more. Whatever that means, he doesn’t know. No clue where he’s going to end up or what he’ll be at the end of it.

But when he exposed the secret he kept from even himself for so long—she didn’t balk. Didn’t kick him around or remind him that he’s dirt. As the storm rages outside and he listens to two beautiful still beating hearts, it feels like a whole hell of a lot. It feels like everything.

Notes:

Doctor, my eyes have seen the years
And the slow parade of fears, without crying
Now I want to understand
I have done all that I could
To see the evil and the good without hidin'
You must help me if you can

Doctor, my eyes
Tell me what is wrong
Was I unwise
To leave them open for so long?
—"Doctor My Eyes" by Jackson Browne

Chapter 15: Somebody to Love

Buffy can admit it, as much as it pains her, but Chicago bagels just hit different than anything California could offer. They aren’t merely doughy rounds of bread with a weird crust. They are fluffy and perfectly chewy and very good with the full fat cream cheese that she never would have gotten for herself.

Which is why she’s on her second of the morning when she’d promised herself that she’d keep more of them as a peace offering for Devin when he came around to look at the ruined doors.

“Yeah,” he says, eyeing the splintered wood of the door jam, “the door’s pretty busted.”

“It’s kind of impressive, really,” Dawn says around her own bagel. Sesame seeds fall on the nice hardwood, making Buffy’s eye twitch. “Like, bam, there went the door! Totally freaky.”

Buffy hastily swallows her own slightly too large bite and manages, “Uh, right. Very with the freaky. That guy, um, totally following us home in the storm and trying to get in here.”

It’s far from the worst lie she’s ever told, with its whole loose connection to the truth. Some guys (who happened to be vampires) did try to grab her and Dawn in the storm, Spike did help her fight them off, and there was a big rush to get home, warm up, and the doors were broken open. All true facts. Devin, in his business hours attire of black slacks and a white polo with the real estate logo on it, shoots her a I don’t totally believe you, but I’m buying it for now look. Bagel notwithstanding, that makes her miss Sunnydale a whole lot. Almost any excuse would work on the locals, cops, and general public alike. She thinks it’s something to do with the water—why she’s glad Mom had gotten a filter installed last year.

“Are you sure you don’t want a bagel?” she offers hopefully. Devin stands to his full height and eyes the brown bag sitting on the counter.

“You get ‘em from that place on Touhy?” he asks.

“Yeah, well, Will did, like really early.” Like before the sun came up early, because Chicago has a 24-hour bagel place. That feels like priorities Buffy can get behind. Overall, she’d managed some sleep, but knowing about the broken doors had propelled her to wake up way before she generally liked to admit the world existed. Spike had offered to get some good breakfast for her—claimed he was getting antsy from sitting in place all night.

He’d come back with the bagels, the cream cheese (Spike had turned a total deaf ear to her complaints about the full fat), and a coffee for her. Then he’d disappeared into his nook face first like a kid falling into bed. Full on flopping down. It had been, well, kind of cute. Anyway, she’s pretty sure he’s still out. Good thing Spike sleeps like the dead man he is.

“Cool.” Devin busies himself making up a bagel, asking politely to use the toaster and everything. While he does that, he says he’ll get the maintenance guy here today. They need to fix the basement access door anyway. Dawn catches Buffy’s eyes, a gremlin grin on her little sister’s face because they both know who broke that door, too. Buffy puffs out her cheeks and shoots Dawn a don’t you dare glare. It has approximately zero impact, but Dawn seems more content to eat her bagel in the messiest way possible to silently drive Buffy crazy.

To think, Buffy had been half out of her mind with terror last night. She should remember that every time Dawn almost dies, her sister makes it through, and then becomes more annoying. That has to be some weird superpower.

Buffy nods along, feeling oddly relieved as Devin says that they won’t be charged for the door, but then he says, “And are you guys going to file a police report?”

“Uh,” Buffy says, her brain not firing on all cylinders in spite of the coffee.

“It’s not necessary!” Devin says quickly. “We don’t need that kind of documentation, since you’re staying with Lydia’s recommendation and all that.”

The toaster pops, and he smears cream cheese along the almost-burned top. She probably should have toned the setting down after Dawn made hers. Dawn of the it’s not toast if it’s not slightly charred persuasion. Buffy aims for golden brown like a reasonable human. Devin lays on the cream cheese pretty thick. Buffy doesn’t begrudge him that. The full fat stuff is amazingly delicious. Stupid vampire. Not like he has to fuss about calories. And oh damn, she needs to get him more blood today. They’re trying to be friends now, and friends get each other food as evidenced by her quickly disappearing bagel, and he didn’t pick up anything for himself, she doesn’t think.

Buffy blinks, realizing she’s been staring into space thinking about Spike and food and blood and not being wigged out by any of it. “Sorry, long night, bit spacey even after the coffee.”

“Yeah, it was a crazy night,” Dawn says, trying and failing to be supportive. Then she wipes her sesame seed covered fingers on her jeans.

“D—Charlotte.” Ugh, she’s the worst secret identity girl ever, but this can’t be borne. “Oh my God, napkins are a thing.”

“I’ll vacuum later,” Dawn counters with pitch perfect adolescent indolence.

“Will is still sleeping.”

“After he wakes up, duh.”

Devin chuckles, and Buffy bites her tongue. They so do not need to be performing Summers sister bickering for this guy. “I’ve got an older brother, and he’s like you. Super into things being clean.”

“It’s an older sibling thing?” Dawn asks. “That must be it, cause she’s like a total neat freak. Though not as bad as Sp—Will. You think for how he used to live, like not into cleanliness. Turns out, he hates clutter.”

“He hates your clutter,” Buffy retorts. “I don’t have clutter.”

“Please, he’d never—” Dawn starts, and then shuts her mouth with oh so obvious side eye at Devin. Devin catches the oddity of the exchange and carefully wipes his fingers off on a paper towel.

“Hey so, I just want to make sure, I mean, are you two doing okay with Will here?” Devin asks in a very, very quiet whisper. His gaze cuts to the not exactly totally up to code nook. Devin has given them a lot of slack and benefit of the doubt. Buffy knows that’s because they came via the Women’s Centre. It still makes her feel a tad scummy, but her options are still of the limited variety.

Buffy hears all that he’s implying and, if Devin had asked a day ago, the answer would have been a big old hell no. Now, though. Buffy glances at Dawn, who doesn’t know the whole story of her conversation with Spike—and certainly not where the name Charlotte came from, because Buffy’s pretty sure spilling the beans on that one to Dawn would be in the unfriendly category—but she knows that they’ve got a new equilibrium established. She pops the last of her second bagel into her mouth and places the plate in the sink.

“Honestly.” Buffy looks Devin right in the eyes as she’s talking, hoping he’ll see that it’s the truth. “Will’s been good. Living in close quarters like this isn’t always easy, and we aren’t used to it, but he’s a—a friend. And he’s come through for me and Charlotte before. I appreciate what you’re asking, but really, it’s good.”

“Yeah, Will’s the one who made sure I didn’t freeze to death,” Dawn adds. The gremlin grin makes a reappearance, and she says, “Which it’s a super great friend move.”

Devin’s smile isn’t totally reassured, but it’s better than the furrow of worry on his face. Ten days, and they can get out of here, Buffy figures. Their cover only has to hold for ten more days. “Right, well. I guess being not from here, you all weren’t used to a Chicago spring rain—”

“Oi!” Spike pokes his head out of the nook. He’s got total grumpy face, but the way his hair is curly and tousled completely big time undercuts the irritation. Still, he’s looking down the line of his nose at Devin, even though Devin is a good six feet tall and standing up. “Some of us are trying to get some kip here, Slayer.”

“Slayer?” Devin asks, turning to Buffy with raised and curious brows.

She takes it back. She’s going to kill Spike. Of all the stupid things to say. Spike’s eyes go wide, because yeah, there it is she thinks at him, you idiot. Then she sees him think so fast it’s surprising. “Old nickname for, uh, Anne I’ve got. Cause she slays, you know? On the mats in that self defense whatnot.”

“Right,” Buffy says quickly, and oh there went a nervous, awkward laugh. “Old nickname. One of those in-joke things friends have.”

“Exactly,” he agrees quickly, the apple of his throat bobbing. Oh god, she called him a friend in front of Devin, who she barely knows, and he’s looking like he just got an unexpected gift. “Old friend type joke. We have those cause—”

“Go back to sleep, you weirdo,” Dawn says, coming to the rescue and shoving Spike’s head back through the curtains. He lets himself be shoved, but that doesn’t stop the indignant sputtering and a muttered bloody hell, getting shoved about by little girls, I am.

“Nothing new for you there,” Buffy whispers, and she knows he heard her by the muffled snort from his nook.

“Alright, yeah,” Devin says at last, “I see what you mean. Sorry, it’s just one of those things I’ve had lots of training sessions about what to look out for. Anyway, it’s good that you have a friend like him.”

The idea’s starting to take root, that Spike hasn’t been a friend to her since only last night. He’s been trying to be her friend for a while now. The kind of friend who would get in her pants, sure, but also the kind of friend who would put everything he is on the line for her. It’s complicated and weird and messy, the whole idea, but it’s there. She wraps her arms around herself, not sure why. There’s that old-injury kind of ache behind her ribs again. Not where she’s been stabbed or staked, but something closer to her heart.

“Yeah, it is.”

***

Spike’s head bounces off the mat, which as far as things go, not the worst thing he’s been thrown against. Even better, Slayer did the throwing.

“And that,” she addresses the class of older women, “is how you put an attacker down fast.” Then she turns to him, her hand held out. Because they’re all pretending he’s human and needs it, but she doesn’t have to do it.

Friends, she said friends you fucking nit, he tells himself firmly.

Problem is, he knows he’ll never merely be her friend. He’ll always love her, even if she never comes around. Only, it doesn’t hurt so much anymore because at least he’s starting to be on the inside of her life. It’s more than he’s had before. Cecily was nothing at all, looking back on it. A besotted boy’s dream girl who barely knew he existed. But Dru, he doesn’t know if he’d ever been on the inside with her—if there’d been any space for him between the stars and the dollies and Angel. But Buffy, Buffy’s started to let him in, and it feels like a bloody hosanna. Which should burn him up, but it doesn’t. It warms him.

He takes her hand. She pulls, and he rolls to his feet. Their hands fall away from each other, and it takes an effort of will not to reach for her again with his fingers.

An effort of will and the whole bloody class of middle aged Midwestern women watching with avid expressions. To top it off, he picks up what he thinks is a titter in the back. Christ, the things he does to prove he means what he says.

That afternoon, after the door had been fixed, he’d been in the kitchen making some Weetabix blood—blood Buffy had picked up from the shops—and casually made a stupid offer.

“Meant it, Slayer, to make it up to you, me being a stupid git,” he’d told her. By the wary expression on her face, she hadn’t quite known what to do with that. Then he’d damned himself and had said, “You need help with your classes or summat?”

“Actually!” she’d said, perking up before her grin had turned sharp. “I could use a crash test dummy, and you fit that description pretty well.”

So here he is, the official punching bag for a ladies self defense class.

“I know it looks like a crazy move at first, but trust me, we’ll practice this in stages so everyone can do it.” Buffy stands in front of the class, a bright believing expression on her face. The kind he never knew from teachers in his day. “I brought Will in so none of you have to be afraid of throwing your partner or worry about injuries from falling.”

One of the women raises her hand, and pipes up, “What about him? He’s been kind enough to volunteer, but we don’t want to hurt him.”

Buffy immediately breaks into a chuckle, but at the shocked looks of the ladies, cans it. Spike looks anywhere but the Slayer, because he’s trying to hide his own smile. Hurt? These ladies? Not hardly. He knows if she sees him grinning, it’ll set her off again, and not a one of these birds would understand why.

“No,” Buffy says quickly. “No, you really can’t hurt him. He doesn’t feel pain like a normal person.”

“Oh, I’ve heard about that!” That’s some other woman, this one with a perm that would do the eighties proud. “Doesn’t that make it more dangerous?”

“Um,” Buffy says.

“Don’t worry, love,” Spike pipes up. “Been like this a while, and I know what I’m about. Know how to fall without taking an injury.” Buffy’s aborted snort-laugh means he loses the fight against his own grin. They share a smile, and that alone sends a jolt of delight through him.

“That and his skull is, like, the thickest thing ever!” Dawn adds from her bench in the back. That sends a giggle through the whole lot. Dawn’s cheeks puff out just like Buffy’s, and she says, “What?! What did I say?”

“Oh, nothing sweetheart,” another Midwestern mother says easily. Who then promptly eyes Spike up and down. Yeah, he should have anticipated that, especially since he’s had to ditch the coat and is standing there in jeans, t-shirt, and no boots on account of the mats. Buffy meanwhile is in shorts and a tank top, all golden limbs practically glowing even in the harsh lighting of the gym. He shouldn’t look at her too long or his jeans will bloody well give him away.

Cricket, remember the rules to cricket, he tells himself. Problem, he can’t remember the rules for cricket. Stupid, poncy game anyhow.

Buffy breaks the lot of the ladies into pairs, and they all work on the technique right up to the point of the flip, which is when he’ll come in. Spike sits on the bench with Dawn stealing her chips until Buffy calls him over.

Like a dog called, he trots over at her word. Doesn’t hate it in the slightest though. “What is it, pet?”

“Barb’s having a little trouble with the move, and I think the best thing for her is to just do it,” Buffy explains. Spike nods.

“Makes sense. Overthinking it’s the worst way to go. Best to just go for it,” he agrees.

Barb, the woman in question, turns big, trepidacious eyes toward Buffy. “Oh, Anne, I don’t know,” she says in her flat Midwestern tone.

“Come on, Barb, you can do this,” Buffy encourages. Then points imperiously at him. “You,” she says, and then pauses. There’s a host of admonishments in her face, but she pushes them away and tells him, “Go with the throw more than you would normally, if you get that?”

“Yeah, I got the idea,” he says, understanding what she means. He turns to Barb, who’s nearly as tall as he is, and solidly built. Though he knows it would be a mistake to think that she’s weak underneath her layer of padding. Women in these classes, been through a lot. People who have been through that, stronger than most reckon. “Gonna come at you, love,” he tells her, speaking low and careful like he did to Dawn once, when the girl needed it, “no hard feelings, yeah?”

“Oh,” she breathes, a sliver of amusement in her eyes, “you could come at me any day, young man.”

Buffy’s nose wrinkles and her eyes scrunch up. It’s bloody adorable. There’s a few of those titters around them, and judging by Dawn’s loud Ha! the Bit heard it all too well. Spike barks a low laugh. “Fair enough.”

Then, without warning, he lunges. Barb reacts, not as fast as Buffy, but Spike’s not going nearly as fast as he can either. He goes with the throw, as requested, but the woman does have the technique mostly down. All it takes is letting his shoulder tuck, and he lands easily on the mat.

“Oh! I did it! Hot dang!” The old bird pumps her fist.

“Go Barb!” another bird says.

“Thanks, Margie!” You okay there, young man?”

“He’s literally neither of those things,” Buffy mutters under her breath. It makes him grin lopsidedly. He levers himself up, not popping up like he could. Doing his best to appear human and plodding for the audience.

“Right as rain, love.” He puts a touch of purr in it for her, and smiles a bit more as she flutters.

No harm in giving the old girl something to dream about.

“Will,” Buffy admonishes. “How about you help some of the others?”

“I live but to be thrown around by ladies.” He presses his hand over his unbeating heart, a thread of the man he’d been pulled to the surface. Earns him a few more half-nervous, half-eager giggles from the class. Buffy’s mouth purses, but he can tell it’s to keep from smiling. It’s the way her eyes dance, the brightness of the green and those flecks of amber that he adores.

Then he proceeds to get thrown to the mat enough times that he loses count and even the most eager and handsy of the middle aged birds start to feel a bit self-conscious at how many falls he’s had. Not that it actually hurts, any of it. He’s practically throwing himself to the floor on occasion, and even Dawn’s hit him harder before.

Still, most of the birds are looking confident by the end of the class. He’s not sure what it is, but it seems, well, alright that he’s done this. Most of them are mums, and they got kiddies to go home to, and blokes they’d all rather forget. He hesitates to think the word good, because he’s still not sure that good and him belong in the same thought, but it’s not bad. Certainly, it’s different. That’s about as far as he’ll go.

Class breaks up, and Buffy offers up a few motivational words. All very nice as that sort of thing goes, he supposes. Though he tunes it out to go get his coat and boots back on and take his time with a cigarette before they leave.

“You’re a ham,” she accuses later on the drive back from the Y. It’s still rainy, off and on, and none of them were all that keen to take public transit after the other night.

Spike toys with the gear shift while waiting at the red light. Driving takes a lot longer now that he’s got to obey road rules, girls in the car and avoiding the machine that is the Chicago PD. It’s tedious, but he’s made it a game with himself. See how annoying he can be to Chicago drivers by following the rules. He privately calls it the Game of Malicious Compliance, and he gets a point every time the driver behind him loses it.

He’s got lots of points.

The light turns green and he slowly rolls out after looking both directions.

“Cause I’m salty?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows at the Slayer.

Her lip curls. “Oh my God, all of the ew.”

“I don’t get it,” Dawn says from the back seat. “Wouldn't it be because you smoke, right? Because ham is smoked.”

Buffy’s jaw juts. “Don’t,” she orders before he can reply. “Don’t you dare.”

“She’s fourteen, she’ll find out sooner or later,” he protests as he goes a sedate two miles under the speed limit. The bloke in the car behind them gestures wildly.

“I vote later.”

“Aw, come on, Buffy, I can totally handle it,” Dawn says.

“I can’t.” Spike snickers at the Slayer’s hard tone. Buffy thwaps his shoulder. Do that again, he mentally begs, but manages to keep his mouth shut thanks to the idiot behind him flashing his brights. Wanker. “Anyway, you, with the hamming it up back there. What was that about?”

Spike flexes his fingers on the steering wheel. The one cigarette in the Y’s doorway doesn’t feel like enough. Rain’s been keeping him inside more than he likes, which means less smoking. Pack is lasting longer, but at what cost? Then an idea hits him, and he turns on the indicator way before he needs to. It ramps up the pillock behind him that much more.

“Figure your birds would be less wound up, having a bloke around, especially one that looks like me, if I played around,” he says. Buffy doesn’t say anything for a long moment, though he can feel her evaluation of him, can almost hear it like the beads of an abacus clicking together.

“Aw, that’s so sweet,” Dawn says in a teasing sing-song, “you were being nice.”

“I was blending in,” he growls. “Slayer’s orders.”

The Little Bit is the furthest thing from phased. She’s known for years (real or not) that when it comes to her, he’s all bark and no bite. Literally. Even before the chip. In the rear view mirror, those big blue eyes, eyes so like Charlotte’s it stuns him sometimes, roll practically back into her head, which is very unlike his sister ever was. “Please, you’re like, totally nice to old ladies. You liked Mom a lot.”

“Knew better than to get on your mum’s bad side. She knew how to use an axe.”

“She still had it. Kept it in the basement.”

“Course she did. Lady like your mum, knew the value of a good axe.” There’s a wistful ache in his chest for his mum and Joyce alike. Two women who died thinking the worst of him. He wishes he’d had a chance to show them that there was more to him, though he’s not sure what that more looks like.

“Thank you, Spike,” Buffy says, cutting into the sudden turn of reminiscence. Then she clarifies, “For helping tonight, and not freaking out my students.”

“I dunno, I reckon it would take a lot to rattle those tough birds.” He’s trying to downplay it. Not sure why, but he is. A reflex, that. A strange push-pull. He wants her to see him, but not see the soft parts of him. The parts of him that Dru only liked when she wanted them, punished him when she didn’t want the soft, when she wanted the hard monster instead. The parts of him that Angel and Darla gouged out of him. Except they never could, not entirely. He just got very good at hiding them.

“It would, but it means a lot that you did it anyway.” Buffy leans her head against the window. Spike sneaks a glance, the light misting rain leaving droplets on the window and refracting the streetlights and glaring shop signs across the golden tint of her skin. Bloody hell, she’s always gorgeous. It would take his breath away if he had any breath to steal. As it is, his dead lungs clench. “So, thanks.”

“More than welcome, love,” he says softly. Friends. They’re friends now, or becoming friends. Unlike those tally marks, this doesn’t feel fragile, like some deck of cards. It doesn’t feel real either. A mad dream that he’ll wake up from too soon.

The engine idles at another stoplight. The sense of unreality stretches. It hits him again where they are and how far they’ve come in such a short span of time.

Then Dawn leans forward from the back seat, “Can we stop to get fries? I’m hungry.”

As fast as that, reality reasserts itself. Nothing good lasts. Spike shrugs. “Drive through?”

“No, we have food at home,” Buffy says sharply.

“We don’t have fries,” Dawn counters.

“I’m with the Bit on this. I could go for some chips,” Spike agrees, because friend he might be trying to be, but it’s also entertaining to wind her up. “And, I’ll pay, Slayer.”

“You said all your money is really my money, but fine. I want my own,” Buffy says. “Only a small for me though.”

Spike nods. “Large it is.”

“Hey!”

“Good idea, Spike. She’d just steal ours otherwise.”

“Always looking out for you, Little Bit.”

“This is slander,” Buffy says, but the corners of her lips are twitching. “Lies and slander.”

“Sure, Slayer,” Spike says as he pulls into the Burger King, “whatever you say.”

He gets her a large. She steals some of his chips anyway. He doesn’t mind in the slightest. It’s the kind of thing friends do.

***

Days slip by, a routine building up, turning an escape into a new kind of normal. It hits her, occasionally, how well her brain adjusts to new situations. How all their brains do. She’s not sure if it’s a Slayer-adjacent thing or a human thing (well, human and vampire thing), but either way, there’s a growing familiarity with the shape of days that are getting longer and longer. Spike grumbles about it, but she convinces him to make a key for himself, to access the basement, rather than breaking the lock again.

That’s a fun if totally bizarre afternoon of Spike showing Dawn (and by proxy Buffy who did her level best to watch movies and ignore her little sister’s cat thief origin story) how to make a key mold for places he wants his own access to.

Her and Dawn need to eat, and Spike needs blood. Errands don’t stop, and Buffy doesn’t mind the walk on her own with the cart to the store and back. The apartment needs cleaning, though she avoids that. She finally catches Spike doing dishes, singing along to whatever’s on his Walkman as he scrubs a pot she only marginally burned food on the bottom of. He’s got his headset on, the music turned up loud enough that she can hear it from the doorway when she gets home. Buffy can’t resist. She sneaks up behind him, and in a flash, pulls one headphone off his ear and yells, “We’re home!”

Spike’s scream had been shrill and girly. Buffy had collapsed laughing so hard she cried.

After classes at the Y, Buffy doesn’t stop Dawn from talking her into getting frozen custards, because that five hundred dollars from Spike’s music gig is burning a hole in her pocket. They walk arm-in-arm, and Buffy is surprised to feel that Dawn’s arm is solid. Her little sister, putting on actual muscle, and it sets off a complicated mix of pride and feeling like she’s failed. Pride because Dawn is learning how to kick ass, and she can actually do the moves in spite of her general clumsiness. The sense of failure is because Dawn shouldn’t have to fight. She’s not sure how to resolve the difference, so she doesn’t try. Instead, she enjoys her totally indulgent frozen treat before Spike picks them up after a study session with his priests-in-training and finds another empty parking lot for driving lessons.

Dawn gets all the patience a century plus vampire has, which isn’t much since that vampire is Spike. Buffy watches, though, as he swallows every grumble and irritation to coach Dawn through her occasional freak outs. Mostly, he affects boredom and lets Dawn drive to her heart’s content. Now that she’s letting herself look for it, now that she knows what to look for, Buffy sees the softness in the hard lines of his face when he looks at Dawn. She wonders how often when he looks at Dawn he’s seeing his dead sister. She wonders if she’ll ever know the whole story, or if that’s one of those things that Spike will keep close to his chest. For some reason, the idea pulls down at her.

Until it’s her turn to drive, and Spike takes that as tacit permission to rile her up. Because apparently the brain of Buffy, against all sound driving advice, can only drive while in a zen state brought on by Spike-induced anger.

The irritating thing is that it works, but the thing she isn’t sure about is the smug look on Spike’s face because, usually a smug Spike makes her knuckles itch. But the way he looks down the line of his nose and the things it does to his cheekbones, oh damn, he has fine cheekbones, is the thought that pops into her head. Which is super annoying, and that makes her angry all over again.

Soccer isn’t a refuge either. Dawn is a total opportunist, switching loyalty at the drop of a hat. Buffy’s pretty sure Spike is bribing her with unwholesome amounts of gummy snacks. She’s never caught him at it, only found a few remnants of packaging. That aside, Buffy knows when push comes to shove, Dawn can always be counted on to mess with Spike because it’s funny. Buffy’s stopped keeping score, though, and it feels like victory when she could do that body-roll thing with the ball and got a goal off of it.

She doesn’t factor in that Spike tripped over his own feet, distracted at the move. Doing that would mean she’d have to examine why he gets distracted when she does something like that, and she’s not doing that because they’re trying to be friends. Not like this is the first time she’s had to navigate something like this, and she can do it. Totally can.

Except there’s one night after Spike had painted Dawn’s nails because God forbid Spike not be in movement for three seconds, and he’d snapped his fingers at her for her hand. She’d balked until he’d pointedly glanced at the TV. The movie Dawn had picked was the cringiest of teen dramas, and Buffy had been trying to summon one iota of caring. She had shrugged and gone along with it.

When her hand slips into his, she knows immediately that she’s miscalculated. Friends' hands don’t feel like that. Don’t feel strong and sure and gentle at the same time. All his attention fixes on applying the polish evenly—vaguely she notices that he does a really good job and she suddenly knows who did Dru’s nails, and oh God, a century, he took care of her for a century in thousands of tiny ways. Spike’s focus is like a laser, just zoom, right into what he’s doing. What would that attention be like? That intense focus that’s starting to make her stomach do flippies.

She’s so messed up. That’s the only explanation. She gets off on being around guys she shouldn’t be around. That’s got to be it. And the whole freaky situation, it’s got her head so turned around she can’t stow her own stupid urges for two weeks. Urges she wouldn’t have at all if they weren’t in this weird situation.

Then he leans forward and blows gently across the wet polish. His breath is cool, and she presses her legs together trying to ignore the tingly sensation that blooms inside of her.

The worst part, the worst part, is she can see the twitch of his eyebrow and the flare of his nostrils, and God damn creepy vampire super smelling. She braces for a coy glance up, a smirk, anything really. Instead, Spike lets her hand go and begs off the movie and practically flees to the roof. Buffy’s left with one hand done and the other bare. Dawn calls after him, teasing he’s not getting a tip if he doesn’t finish the job, but Buffy tells her to just finish the movie and does her best to focus on the bland drama, too.

She removes the polish after Dawn goes to bed, not wanting to be lopsided. Not wanting to be tempted to ask him to do the other hand.

A week slips by. Seven days, one following the next in a way that she can only categorize as comfortably weird, until she’s three days away from having to actually figure something out, and her cell phone rings while she’s making dinner.

It’s Giles.

***

“Oh shit!” Buffy exclaims, rushing to the stove. She quickly pins the phone between her ear and her shoulder, trying to listen to Giles while she desperately scrapes up onion and ground beef from the bottom of the pan. Non-stick her ass.

She turns the range fan to high.

“Buffy,” Giles shouts over the noise. “I know you need to keep Dawn fed, but perhaps now is not the time to work on dinner?”

“Dinner’s dead in the water anyway.” She pouts, because she’s kind of enjoying being able to feed Dawn real food. It feels like a tiny measure of success. It also gives her an equally tiny window into what after might look like. That there could be an after. A Buffy who can make dinners in a Chicago apartment can also make dinners in a house in Sunnydale, and that Buffy can actually take care of Dawn and keep her safe and healthy and happy until she’s eighteen and Buffy can sleep again.

If she doesn’t think too hard about how she’s going to get to that after. If she’s even in that picture through the window at all.

“Pizza!” Dawn pipes up from her spot on the floor, cards in hand and an organized mass of M&Ms on a plate.

“No, there needs to be more vegetables.”

“Tacos? I’ll eat the beans this time, I promise.”

“That, Little Bit, is a lie.” Spike wags a finger at her, undercut by a smirk on his face, and gets a classic Dawn-sticking-her-tounge out rebuttal. “Anyway, your ante.”

“Spike, could you guys stop playing M&M poker before dinner?” She’s not annoyed, exactly. Spike bribes her with half his winnings, and yeah, she’s officially corruptible now. But he gives her all the blue ones. It sets a bad precedent, which should close up that tiny window about after the Hell God escapade is over, but instead it gives the picture beyond that window more texture. Deepens the field of view.

Buffy turns off the exhaust fan, the smoke gone now, which means she gets the full force of Giles’s audible sigh regarding Spike still being around.

It’s one of those many things they don’t talk about—Spike being around, Spike sticking to his word. Spike trying.

“Buffy, I appreciate all that you have done and are enduring—” Spike snorts, at Giles’s tone on enduring, stupid vampire hearing, “but there is, I am afraid, a delicate matter. We’ve come up with a few items that could help us fight Glory once the window for the ritual closes.”

“Yeah, the Sphere of Dragon—”

“Dagon.”

“That, and the troll hammer. Sounds like fun, using that. Never been much of a hammer-girl before.”

“Indeed.” There’s a pause that indicates Giles is doing his glasses cleaning thing. Stalling. There’s something he doesn’t want to talk to her about, which raises the hairs on the back of her neck. She half turns away from Dawn, not wanting her sister to see her freak out. Spike, though, has a thread of tension down his spine and his head cocked. He’s listening, the evil eavesdropper that he is, but she doesn’t entirely hate it. Spike knowing means she doesn’t have to tell him whatever the oogy thing is. Or figure out how to tell him without Dawn knowing right away.

“We, that is, Willow and Anya oddly enough, came up with the idea, and while it has its merits, I understand it would be… uncomfortable—”

“Spit it out, Giles,” she says in a huff.

“We think the, ah, bot would be useful as a distraction.”

The edges of her vision go red, and she turns to glare at the side of Spike’s head. There’s a twist to his shoulders, a tilt to his head that’s cringing. Yeah, he’s heard, and he knows she’s pissed.

God, she hates that thing. So very, very much. She hates being reminded of it, what it was used for. Friends. Clean slate, and friends. She’s not sure how to make it all fit together. She’s not sure if it ever will, the things he’s done and the person he’s trying to be. There’s no line, no thing that she can point to and say here, this is when he became better. It’s a continuum with no clear defining point. She doesn’t like the fuzziness.

“We must use every weapon at our disposal, Buffy, and I think it behooves us to put that… thing to some use. Willow has been able to reprogram it to some degree already,” Giles says. Buffy’s eyes shutter half shut. He’s not asking permission. They’ve already done it. The veto power of being the Slayer must wear out at this distance. Her friends are the ones who have been scrambling in the wake of her flight east. They’re the ones who have been living every day in a town where a Hell God has been after Dawn.

“Fine.” She fires the word out of her mouth like a crossbow bolt.

“Three days, Buffy,” Giles assures her. The sound of his voice is a tether back to Sunnydale. One she wants to cling to. One she wants to snap. “Three days.”

“Yeah, three days,” she repeats. Three days until the time frame for the ritual involving Dawn and her Mystical Keyness runs out. Three days until Buffy can climb into a car, get back to Sunnydale and fight a Hell God.

The idea still sends a quiver of dread through her. They’ve been planning on their nightly check-ins. Cataloguing, figuring it out, coming up with the best battle plan they can. There’s a weird tower in Sunnydale now that most people can’t see, but Tara’s mind drain has a sickening benefit: she can see through whatever obscuring spells Glory’s put up to cloak her preparations. Again, the guilt claws at her stomach. So many sacrifices have been made already. Buffy can make a few more, even if at the end it's herself.

She and Giles say their goodbyes before she flips the phone shut with a quiet click.

Dawn and Spike are haggling over what color M&M has greater value again, which she thinks they should just make a chart for. The one time she suggested that, though, they both looked at her like she was crazy. Apparently arguing is part of the fun? Buffy doesn’t get it, but it occupies them both.

She turns and regards the ruin of what should have been dinner.

Three days, and there’s still eight thousand dollars in the duffel bag under her bed thanks to her and Spike having some income. Eight thousand dollars sitting there doing nothing at all. Three days means they won’t even need to pay another month of rent. What’s the point, she wonders, of having all that money?

“We can get Chinese tonight,” she says. Dawn pumps her fist with a triumphant yes!

Spike gives Dawn a grin, but when his gaze shifts to her, there’s wariness in the cant of his head and hesitation (of all the words she never used to apply to Spike, those are right up there, but she can’t deny what she’s seeing, not anymore—she doesn’t have the energy for that much denial).

She slips the car keys off the ring by the door and tosses them to him. He catches him easily in his left hand. It prompts him to ask, “Where to, pet?”

“I’ve heard good things about Chinatown from my students, we might as well go check it out.” She grins to see Dawn dive for their room to put on going out clothes. Buffy busies herself throwing out the ruined dinner attempt and running the dirty pan under the sink. Spike stuffs his feet into his boots and rocks back on his heels.

He doesn’t ask why she’s changing her mind. She’s fairly certain he already knows. He knows Slayers, after all. Killed two of them, and there’s a thing she shouldn’t try to think too much about. Another thing that adds to the pile of confusion that is Spike.

“Made the Bit’s night, you have,” he tells her. Buffy nods.

She’s not sure what’s going to happen after three days, after the countdown is over. After she gets back to Sunnydale. But she’s so damned tired of not living as much as she can. As much as she wants that picture of after that she can see through that tiny window, she doesn’t know if she’ll be in it. She wants to be, but—

“Ready!” Dawn crows, showing off her thrift store Doc Martens and Bomber jacket Spike had come home with one day. He’s good at taking care of Dawn. Better than anyone would have been able to imagine. She knows why now, and that’s good, she thinks. Dawn still needs looking after.

***

Rain’s mostly moved on. Spike blows a cloud of smoke out his mouth, the acrid cigarette smoke floating up to join the wispy clouds that drift across the spray of stars overhead. He tries not to think too much about anything. Not about the last week that’s seen Buffy let him into her life, if only as a friend, and not about the growing abstraction in the Slayer’s eyes since her Watcher called earlier.

Problem is that though he’s not actively thinking about it, there’s no lying about the sinking feeling behind his breastbone. It belies what he doesn’t want to acknowledge. All Slayers get tired. All Slayers see only one way out eventually. He’s been the instrument of their rest twice over.

Buffy, though, she’s always had so much life to her. Even when they first met in the alley and then when he’d hunted her through the school—God, what a thrill that had been. Still makes the demon that’s him practically purr to think of it. The testing, the fighting, the dance of it all.

Damned Watcher, his bloody fault for calling and putting Buffy back in mind of what’s waiting for them back in Sunnyhell. That’s the devil of it, he knows. It’s so bleeding human, to look ahead and suffer before the suffering needs to happen. He’d done that himself, back when he had a pulse. Being a demon means only suffering when the pain comes, because the pain always comes. The trick is not anticipating when the blow will come, when the knife will cut. Doing that, that’s a sure way to suffer for eternity.

What makes the ache worse is knowing that she hasn’t been suffering. Not for damn near a week now. The small moments he’s lived for—driving with her though the night or those cozy moments in the apartment. He’s taken every chance he could to show her that he could fit inside her life, that he could make himself fit, be the kind of man—any kind of man at all. Someone for her and the Bit both.

There’s an urge to pull her up to this roof, to get down on his knees and beg her. Beg her to stay, to not look for that distant shore of eternity that’s the call of all her kind. It comes with the knowledge that Buffy wouldn’t let him. Wouldn’t let him or anyone pull her off the path she deems necessary.

It’s part of who she is, part of what he adores, loves about her.

It’s something he hates. The selflessness, the willingness to sacrifice. Why, he wants to scream at her, why does it have to be you?

The loud clank of the metal fire escape pulls his attention out of his own thoughts, the thoughts he doesn’t want to be thinking anyway. He leans back against the wall to watch Buffy hop over the edge. Last time they were both on this roof, it hadn’t gone well. As it is, she’s cautious about her approach and dressed down—baggy jeans, sneakers, and a bulky sweater to ward off the remaining damp chill.

He could tell her that it doesn’t matter what she wears, he’ll always want her. Regardless, she’s made the attempt to give him space, though she’s clearly got her own agenda in mind. The weapons bag over her shoulder clatters as she hikes it further onto her shoulder. She hesitates.

“I could come back later, when you’re done, if you’re up here for a—a break,” she offers, gesturing vaguely. There’s that distance to her face. Too many things on her mind. Spike flicks the half-smoked stub down and grinds it under his boot.

“S’alright, Slayer. My head’s on straight,” he says quietly. She nods. He doesn’t say yours isn’t. The truth rides behind his teeth, but he’s learned—through painful lessons—that telling Buffy the truth when she isn’t ready for it is a losing proposition. He doesn’t mind a good fight. Yet, as much as he doesn’t care for ones he knows he’ll win, he’s less interested in the ones he knows he’ll lose. No fun to be had either way.

“Okay. Alright. I’m going to train. I need—I need to train.” Her words and tone are clipped. All short and sharp. She wastes no time going through the bag and picking up something heavier than her usual favorite. A maul, to stand in for the troll hammer she’s going to be using come their return.

Barely had to eavesdrop to hear the plans, and then Buffy did fill in him and Dawn. Though she kept quiet about the Bot, Buffy did. To be fair, that’s not a fun one to explain. Spike won’t bring it up if she won’t, that’s for sure.

She’s still kneeling by her bag, and Spike isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do now. Leave, probably. “Well,” he says lamely as he heads for the ladder.

“Spike.” Her voice forestalls him. He turns. She’s looking up at him, and for the first time in years he’s struck by how young she is. Barely twenty. Even he died at twenty-seven, though she’s done more living than soppy old William had managed. Her skin is pale and drawn in the starlight, but she’s still radiant. If he had any breath, she’d steal it away.

“Slayer,” he intones. Then she pulls out a short-handled axe, the kind of thing he tends to prefer since it’s closer to using his fists. She holds it out to him, her hand around the head of the axe, the haft extended toward him.

“I could use a sparring partner.” Then a faint color blooms on her cheeks. “If you think we could get around the chip. Like in the—the alley? You weren’t really trying to hit me.”

His head jerks to the side, not caring much to remember the night he’d tried to kiss her, the night she’d pushed him down. But they’ve come a long way since then. Haven’t they? Has he? The answers elude him. He slips his hand around the axe haft anyway.

Some lessons he still hasn’t learned, it seems. Buffy stands, maul heavy yet coming alive in her hands. More of a sword girl, this Slayer. He usually sees echoes of the New York girl in her, but with a weapon, there’s more of the Chinese bird about her. The surety and focus. Spike picks up another axe, and tests the balance of holding them in each hand, making a show of considering the offer.

Then he lunges, going full speed. He aims for the maul, which is fucking stupid, but it’s how he keeps the chip from sending him to the ground in agony. Buffy catches on fast to what he’s doing, and she treats his attacks like they are really coming for her. He pushes her, going for quick strikes, aiming to get her off balancing and going for her weak side. Her jaw clenches and there’s a hard determination in her eyes.

No complaints about not being ready. Yeah, he could have predicted that. She’s the Slayer. She’s got to always be ready.

She catches one axe with the head of the maul and shoves, sending him back hard. He slides across the roof, boots scraping through the grit. He can’t help it, the grin that pulls at his mouth. He swings the axes low and circles her.

“Come on, Slayer, let’s stop playing,” he says. Not much of a taunt, but he’s rewarded with a flicker of amusement in those green eyes.

“Oh, was that you playing? I thought you were working for it there,” she teases. There’s a grin hiding behind her lips, and oh, he’s going to win one from her even if it costs him the match. There’s more than one kind of fight here, and Spike knows which one he’d rather win.

She closes the distance first this time. The maul swings dangerously close to him, he barely deflects with the flats of the axes. She uses the momentum of the heavier weapon beautifully, directing the head down in perfect arcs. He twists out of the way of one blow that would have shattered his shoulder, and fuck now he’s hard. Can’t let that slow him down.

Spike lets her push him back, or that’s what she thinks. He draws her in, keeping just out of distance until—he hooks the slim curve of the axes on the long handle of the maul and yanks it hard. Buffy follows the momentum of the maul, spinning past him, but before he can tap her shoulder with the butt of the axe—a touch, a touch, he would declare—she drops and rolls across the roof, popping up with a flip of her hair like a sodding shampoo commercial.

Oh bleeding hell, he’s going to have to wank so much after this. Going to run the whole damned building out of hot water.

She’s breathing heavily, her small, pert breasts hinted at under the baggy sweater. He wants to cut her out of the damned thing and kiss, tongue, mouth every damned inch of her.

“Gonna have to do better than that,” she taunts. It’s there, growing, the flicker that’s her. It’s the fight that brings it out in her, but he can see some part of her folded away. She’s not here. Not all the way. Some part of her is getting ready to leave. Leave for Sunnyhell. Leave for… somewhere beyond that.

“Careful what you ask for, Slayer,” he growls. Then he throws one axe toward her. She bats it out of the way, like he counted on. There’s a warning sizzle from the chip, but he aimed a hair wide. Playing it fast and loose, but then that’s how he’s always been—how he’s wanted to be, how he’s become. How he still is. Whatever he’s turned into, loving Buffy, that’s still true about him.

He follows the axe, rushing her and holding nothing back. She brings up the maul. Axe blade bites into the heavy wooden haft, and he yanks back, pulling the maul from her grip. They’re both unarmed but far from without weapons. Buffy’s hands come up, blocking his punches that fly just past her cheeks, her ribs. She’s twisting, turning away from him, but he’s getting closer. He’s not trying to hit her, but he’s got her focused on defending.

Then he steps inside her guard, a stupid move, because she’s suddenly got his wrist in a vice grip. Like the one she’s taught her students. One twist, and she could break his wrist, break his whole damn arm. She grins up at him, cheeky victory shining out of her eyes.

She leans close, mouth a whisper from his own, and she breathes, “I win.”

Oh fuck does she even know what she’s doing? Then she blinks, taking in whatever expression is on his face, because then she sees it. Sees that he’s so abjectly hers. Her expression begins to shutter, and he wants to throw himself off this buggering apartment building for it. She shouldn’t have to do that, she shouldn’t ever have to do that, to put parts of herself away.

“Don’t count your chickens, love,” he rumbles. There’s a bare furrow of her brows, but he gives her no time to react. Spike collapses the distance between them and presses his mouth to hers hard. She pulls back, but he chases her with lips and teeth. The bones in his captured wrist grind together, straining against her hold. Her fingers tighten. She could do it, she could snap him into nothing. He’d take it. He’d take it all for her.

The pressure on his wrist is suddenly gone, her fingers gripping his head, clawing into his hair. He pours himself, everything that he is, demon and man alike, into the kiss, into her. He’s a dead thing, and there’s no way he can pull her back into life, but God, he wants to try. Try to remind her that there’s more than sacrifice, more than pain and misery in this sodding world. He’ll give her all of it, everything he can, everything that’s in him to give. It’s all hers.

She wrenches away from him, gulping down breaths, and he’s sucking in air like he needs it, too. Her eyes are dark and wide in the night, hair mussed, and her lips—Christ her lips are bruised and wet and he aches to taste them again. She tastes like soy sauce and chili from dinner, but she feels like a goddess in his mouth.

Her eyes search his, and he can’t keep the sheer terror off his face. It’s soft and weak, but he might as well lay it all on the table. He’s waiting, waiting for her to say friends don’t do this, and go back down to the apartment. The seconds tick by with the wild beat of her heart and slowly steadying rhythm of her breathing.

“Buffy, I—”

She presses a thumb over his lips, silencing him. They stand, clutching close in the starlight. He swears his heart nearly beats to be like this with her. Her eyes search over his face, like she’s looking at him for the first time. Slowly, agonizingly, her lips draw closer to his. He holds stock still. He broke first. He was always going to break first, but not the second time. If she chooses this—

The press of her lips holds an echo of the one she gave him in his crypt, like a lady’s favor after he’d nearly dusted protecting Dawn’s identity. It starts slow and soft, then she presses into him. Her whole body is against him, breasts against his chest, legs to his legs. Fire blooms between them, and he’s going to burn. If he’s the kindling that she needs to make it through the night, then he’ll damn well burn.

Her mouth grows hungry. She parts her lips, tongue questing after his, which is all he needs to let loose the reign he’s been keeping on himself. They devour each other, both of them starving for something the other can give. The kiss is a blissful eternity, it’s too hellishly short. She has to breathe. A bloody shame, that, but there’s other avenues to explore. He presses kisses to her cheeks, along her jaw, behind her ear.

“Buffy, you’re so beautiful, so hot. Magnificent, love, you’re a bloody marvel.” The litany falls off his lips like a prayer, pulled from him by her breathy pants. Her hands curl in his hair, nails scraping his scalp and then down his neck. A growl rumbles in his chest. “Tell me what you want, Slayer, give it you, all for you, Buffy, tell me what you want.”

“I—I—” the words stick in her throat. The throat he kisses, that she lets him kiss. The hollow that he flicks his tongue out to taste. Her skin, oh God her skin is flavored with her strawberry body wash, but under that is her clean sweat and a hint of her musky arousal.

“Love that I can make you breathless, pet, but you gotta gimme the words,” he tells her as he skims his mouth up the other side of her neck and around the shell of her ear. Could he do this forever? Maybe. No. Yes. Whatever she’ll let him do, for however long. This is madness. This is everything.

“Spike, I—” she manages, gulping down air, and then her hands are in his hair again and she wrenches his mouth away from her. He leaves with a whimper. She’s holding him with all her considerable strength. It’s enough to make him burst. Her pupils are blown wide with desire, but the ring of her iris is a green flame.

Yes, he wants to crow. There she is. There she is! His Slayer, Buffy, all passion and life and alive.

There’s a hard set to her mouth, and it’s like cold water dashed over his head. She’s angry, but angry is better than defeated before the fight’s started. Let her hate him for this, he thinks, so long as she lives.

“You’re never going to get a coherent answer if you keep distracting me, you dope,” she tells him.

“Huzzat?” is his brilliant response. The hard line of her mouth curves up, and the light in her eyes glimmers in the night, bright enough to outshine the stars.

She brings his head closer to hers, her lips hovering over his. “I think,” she says, one nip to his lips. “That I want,” another nip, and her breath hitches before she says, “you.”

That’s all he needs to hear. He crushes his mouth to hers again, raw and wanting, in the night. His hands skim down her body and then hoists her up. Her legs go around his waist like they were always meant to be there, and he doesn’t know how far this will go, only that he doesn’t want it to stop.

Notes:

But everybody wants to put me down
They say I'm going crazy
They say I got a lot of water in my brain
I got no common sense (he's got)
I got nobody left to believe in
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

Oh, Lord
Somebody (somebody), somebody (somebody)
Can anybody find me somebody to love?
(Can anybody find me someone to love)
--"Somebody to Love" by Queen

Note: THEY FINALLY GOT THERE. Y'all, y'all, thank you for sticking with me through the slowest of slow burns. It only took *checks wordcount* 110k words. SHEESH. Stubborn idiots, I swear. Anyway, the start of the pay off begins!

Also, if you're in Chicago, do go to New York Bagel and Bialy on Touhy. It's legit.

Chapter 16: Because the Night

She’s kissing Spike. No, check that. She’s full on making out with Spike. He’s got her hoisted up, and her legs are around his hips, locked at the ankles. His arms are sure and steady, and his hands are firm on her ass. She opens her mouth wider, teasing his tongue with her own. His strong fingers squeeze her ass, and it sends an electric thrill up her spine to her nipples and straight across to her clit at the same time. Her head lolls back at the sensation as she gulps down oxygen.

She’d forgotten what it was like to kiss someone who doesn’t need to breathe.

Mouth free, Spike murmurs words into her skin that feel like worship, “Bloody gorgeous girl, so hot, burn me up, want to feel you, baby, can I feel you?”

Words and lips press to her throat, her jaw, her cheeks, the shell of her ear as he backs himself into the half wall that encircles the rooftop.

“Can I feel you, Buffy?” he asks again, voice strained. She meets his eyes again, ocean-dark and pleading in the night. His hair is all curly and disheveled—her handiwork, and she likes the look of it. She can undo him as much as he can undo her. Arms looped around his shoulders, she digs her fingers into his hair again, nails scraping along his scalp. He arcs into it like a cat seeking touch.

Leaning into him, her hips grinding into his, she can feel his erection pressing at her centre in spite of the layers of denim between them. A breathy pant escapes her lips and blows across his parted mouth. His nostrils flare and the apple of his throat bobs. “I want to feel you, too.”

“Oh God yes,” he gasps, and there’s a sudden flurry of acrobatics that Buffy’s momentarily impressed. One of his hands comes up under her sweater—the sweater she’d hoped would keep them in friend territory, but who the hell was she kidding?—fingers skimming over her back until he lifts it over her head, keeping her braced with his other arm. He throws it somewhere, and he promptly hoists her up a touch higher to bring his mouth to her breasts through the fabric of her bra.

“Oh, God,” she moans. His tongue circles one nipple, the friction of the lace on her bra adding to the sensation. His left hand is firm and hard on the middle of her back, holding her to him, as his right hand teases and twists her other nipple. Small circles of tongue and finger working in concert draws a whine from her throat. She can feel his grin against her breasts.

“Make you feel so good, baby, yeah?” His voice is a rumble against her skin, pulling another lapping wave of anticipation from her centre. “God, love, I can smell you, you smell so good, taste so good.”

Her brain is already starting to bliss out, but she wants more. More of this, more of him. She scrabbles at his shirt, irritated that he’s got her bared but he’s still covered by way too much fabric. He fights her though, switching the position of his mouth and hands, like that could distract her.

“Don’t,” she pants. He freezes. Then she gets a fistfull of t-shirt and rips. “Don’t be greedy.”

He gazes up at her, stunned, before a totally evil grin curves his mouth and his eyes dance with predatory delight. “Always going to be greedy for you, pet, but you like what you see?”

Buffy’s staring. She doesn’t care. Spike is cut. Pale skin stretches over very well formed muscles. The lines of his body are lean. She lets her fingers brush against this collarbone and then down his chest. He’s not breathing at all, still as a statue like he’s afraid if he does anything the spell that’s between them will break. She traces his muscles lower, down his abs and the taper of his waist, then she brushes the buckle of his belt. Her eyes raise up. There’s so much in his face, in his eyes. It’s too much, she thinks, and she wants to look away, but she can’t. She’s held there by a desperate reverence that’s obliterated the cocksure grin.

God, does he have any middle gears?

No, no he doesn’t. And she doesn’t mind that at all. Not anymore.

She kisses him again, hoping that’s enough of an answer for now. He kisses back, hungry and, well, greedy. His hands touch every part of her that’s bare to the night. She should be cold. The night is still chilly, but she feels like she’s on fire. Her skin is too hot, and his hands, his body, his mouth, are all cool. They keep her regulated, bleeding off her heat, taking it into himself and then reflecting it back on her. She can feel his own skin warming, and she likes that. That she can heat him up like this, her hands gripping his shoulders, his arms, pulling at his back.

More, she wants more.

“Wanna give you more, love,” he rasps in her ear. Had she said that aloud? She can’t tell. Her brain is fuzzing on pleasure. Then he sets her down and turns them around. Her back is to the wall, and some part of her is horrified that they’re going at it in public like this. That she’s gone all want take have and doesn’t care.

Except, is it that bad? If it’s all mutual? If the shoulds and oughts melt away into what feels good? What feels like something more real that she could have imagined?

Then he’s bending, kissing his way down her body. Her breasts are bare. When did that happen? He’s nuzzling the soft skin of her breasts, no fabric between them, and then takes one nipple between his fingers and twists. She arches back, gasping as the sensation laps through her body, making her clit pulse. Her fingers squeeze his arms hard. He growls and nips at her other nipple, sending a sharp shard of pleasure straight to her pussy.

“Oh baby, you can give me all you got.” Spike’s voice is rough and raw, and it also goes straight to her core. He looks up at her from his knees like a man in fervent prayer. “I can take it, Buffy. I can take it and I’ll beg for more, baby.”

That’s when it hits her. She can’t hurt him. Or, if she does, Spike will like it. That he doesn’t just like her body for how it looks, but he adores her for what she can do. He treasures how strong she is, how tough she is. She’s not too much for him.

She doesn’t have to hold back.

Her belly does a little flippy that has nothing to do with the growing yearning ache between her legs. His head cocks to the side, like he can sense something in her is changing. Chest heaving like she’s some romance heroine, she reaches down and lets her fingers follow the curve of his cheek and trail along his jaw. He turns his head, pressing a quick kiss to her fingertips. Then he pops the button on her jeans and drags the zipper down with a rough, metallic rip before pulling her panties down along with her jeans in one smooth movement.

“Wanna taste you, love,” he murmurs. Panic suddenly rears up in her, but he doesn’t go straight for her pussy. Instead, he kisses along her thighs, around her hip. His fingers press into her flesh, firm and real—not feather-light, not treating her like she’s delicate either, because she can take it, too. Oh God, she wants to take it. But there’s a squirming in her, a discomfort that’s building.

“Spike,” she pants. He’s drawing closer to her mound between her legs, the dark blonde curls she hasn’t cleaned up in ages. Embarrassment blooms across her skin in a flush.

“So hot,” he purrs, “so hot and wet for me, baby.”

“Spike!” she snaps, pulling his head away with a rough yank. He glares up at her, clearly upset at being wrenched away.

“Slayer, don’t interrupt a man who’s about to have a treat,” he growls.

Her cheeks go flaming hot. “You don’t have to,” she says quickly. The edge comes off his glare, replaced by confusion in the tilt of his head. “I mean, look, points for really playing to it, but I know that’s not, um, you don’t have to, okay? I’m not tidy… down there, and—”

Spike’s on his feet in an instant, his thumb pressed to her mouth. It should be insane. She’s standing on a rooftop in Chicago in May, bare assed with her pants and panties around her ankles and a half naked former mortal enemy shushing her. Instead it feels, of all the ridiculous things, safe.

“Buffy.” Her name is so soft in his mouth. It’s not fair that he can say her name like that. “Buffy, are you telling me those berks you were with didn’t want to taste this honey?” The fingers of his other hand are suddenly on her pussy, gently parting her lips and stroking her wetness. She moans and pitches forward. All he’s doing is stroking the outside of her lips and she feels it in her whole body.

“That it, Slayer?” His voice is rich and dark on her title, and oh, she could like that. “Those boys make you think this wasn’t the best thing they’d ever have their mouths on? Will be for me. Want to taste you, to eat you. Want you to ride my face until you scream, baby. Will you let me, Slayer? Will you let me be here, Buffy?” On the here, one finger slips inside of her slowly. She clutches at his shoulders, her legs already trembling. Not with weakness, but because she wants to throw them around him again. To squeeze him, to grind into him until the line between them blurs.

“Yes,” she gasps, “yes, yes, I want it, Spike.” Her whole body is alive to him, anticipation tingling through her breasts, up her spine, and down to her pussy. She can feel the slickness of her own want on her thighs as she squirms under his touch. He growls at her admission and kisses her hard. Their teeth clack together, and it should be awkward. It feels like everything she wants. Hard and soft, push and pull, fighting and dancing, their bodies striving together.

He kisses and licks his way down her body again, making her breath come in little pants. On his knees again, Spike laves his tongue over the curve of her hip bone while he shucks her fully out of her jeans and panties and sneakers until she’s naked on a rooftop. Then he gently lifts her legs over his trim yet muscled shoulders, first the right then the left. He’s holding her weight easily, her back supported by the rough bricks of the wall. Even that scrape feels good, though. More sensation.

Her head lolls forward, letting his eyes lock onto her hers as he slowly laps her pussy. He runs his tongue up her slit, giving her broad strokes to her wet lips.

A moan escapes her throat and her head threatens to loll back. Spike growls, the sound sending shivers of pleasure though her. “Look at me, Slayer. Look at where I am for you.”

His voice pulls her head back down. It’s gut-clenchingly intimate, watching him as he laps and licks and sucks at her. As he nuzzles his nose gently against her clit, sending shooting stars of pleasure from the top of her head down to her toes. Toes that curl until her legs lock around his shoulders and her thighs squeeze his head.

Then, unexpectedly, his tongue dips past her folds and inside of her. It makes her whole body shudder, and she groans, suddenly grinding against his face. His tongue plunges in and out of her, making her gasp. His name tumbles over and over from her, a refrain of Spike, oh God, Spike, please, oh God, yes, yes, don’t stop, please don’t stop, Spike.

She can’t keep her eyes on his, but he doesn’t force the issue. Instead, all that focus, that focus she squirmed about two days ago, is on her. On her body, on her pleasure. Her fingers find his hair again and hold on for dear life as he withdraws his tongue and slips two fingers inside of her. She can feel them, strong and long, and they keep up a steady pace while he sucks on her clit.

Buffy lets go.

She lets go of everything.

Of everything, all her experiences that told her to hold back, all the things telling her to be a certain way, all the things that told her she couldn’t come undone.

Words tumble out of her mouth, raw and needy, but true. Spike, oh God, yes, fuck, yes, oh God, I’m gonna come, Spike, I want to come, please, please, fuck, please.

His growl reverberates through her pussy, and she feels herself become wetter. Spike does something with his fingers, finding some spot inside of her as he licks from the base of her clit all the way up her nub, and she unravels. Time stops, and her body bucks, chasing the sensation that he keeps feeding her. More and more, she tumbles through freefall until at last she crash lands with a keen and an explosion of pleasure as she clenches around him.

Slowly, the world comes back into focus. She’s draped over Spike, spine curving over him so her hair brushes his back. He’s still got her legs over his shoulders, and he’s holding her up by dint of vampire strength. His mouth and nose are still pressed to her wet sex, but it’s tender and soft. Gentle as she slips down from the heights she was driven to.

One of his shoulders dips, then the other, and her legs slide off him until she’s sitting across his lap, held in his arms so no part of her naked body has to touch the grit and dirt on the roof. His erection presses into her side, straining the fabric of his jeans, but he doesn’t seem to care about that as he presses a kiss to her temple. His face is slick with her, well, her. He hasn’t wiped it away, and it doesn’t feel disgusting. She’s not sure how it feels. That would require higher level thought processes, which she is so not up for right now.

“You’re a bloody revelation, love,” he mutters into her hair. His fingers stroke her arms if not lightly, not like she’ll break, but gently. A counterpoint to the hard, shattering orgasm that she’d just had, courtesy of the vampire wrapped around her now.

“Not so bad yourself, mister,” she says, feeling a little bit drunk. He chuckles, and she likes how it makes his stomach move. She presses a hand there. He tenses, but then relaxes under her hand.

“Ta, pet, like to think I proved I was up to scratch.” There’s a strain to his voice, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

She pulls back, shooting him a patented are you stupid? look. He shrugs. The movement of muscle and skin hypnotize her for a moment. Then he says, “Didn’t know if you’d want that.”

“I kinda thought that’s what we were going to do, then someone took a detour.” She walks her fingers up his chest and prods over his unbeating heart. It doesn’t bug her like it should.

“All my fault is it? Seem to recall someone giving me delightfully filthy encouragement,” he hums, lips skimming over her ear. She wiggles in his lap and punches him. Not at full strength, but enough to make him feel it. The jerk that Spike is, he only chuckles and circles her wrist with forefinger and thumb. His grin is wolfish in every sense. Sharp and predatory, and oh there’s a whole lot about that’s supposed to be wrong but she likes it. “Anyhow, thought I told you I could take what you’ve got.”

There’s that stomach flippy again, and it’s followed by that ache under her ribs that makes her suck in an almost pained breath. An old wound sitting under her ribs that hits her hard, sometimes. One that makes it hard to breathe. Makes it hard to formulate any kind of response.

A shiver runs down her spine, and that jolts him in a different direction. “Best get you back inside, love. Wind’s picking up.”

She nods, because that’s objectively a true statement. The trees that line the streets below sway and crack in the strengthening breeze. He reaches for her jeans and she shucks into them before stuffing her feet in her sneakers. She finds her sweater and the tatters of his shirt. She lets those fall to the rooftop, not quite able to look at him and knowing she’s blushing horribly. He takes up the weapons bag over his shoulder. She almost takes it off him, because she can take care of her own weapons, thank you very much. Then he cocks his head at her in a silent question. As if he’s asking if she wants to take it. He’d give it back to her without a second thought, she thinks. He didn’t take it because he thought she couldn’t. He did it because it was there and a thing to do and he could. She makes a small negating gesture and climbs back down the fire escape.

The metal clangs, and she winces at the sound of it in the night. Spike follows her, boots heavier than her sneakers, but he’s surprisingly stealthy when he wants to be. Once inside, he throws the deadbolt behind them and holds out the weapon bag for her.

It’s an out. She could take the bag and disappear into the shower and then into her room. Hide in her bed and pretend that Spike hadn’t just eaten her out and given her the best orgasm of her life. Like he hadn’t pulled her out of whatever resolute but bleak place she’d gone to inside her head. She’d be in her bed alone. Alone and waiting for that hard stone of dread certainty to reform inside of her.

She steps into his space, but instead of the bag, she places her hands over his belt buckle. He goes still again, a marble statue marvelously carved in exquisite detail. She takes a half step back and tugs him along by that tempting buckle.

“I thought,” she said slowly, trying to find the words that are right, “that you said something about taking what I’ve got.”

He follows her, eyelids fluttering until he draws in a steadying breath he doesn’t need. The bag drops to the floor with a clatter. “Oh Slayer,” he rumbles, “think you’re going to be the one taking it.”

“Big talk,” she teases, which is different. Sex has never been, well, fun before. Loving and tender, and sometimes just physical sensation, but this is more of that back and forth that’s teasing and play. She’s never thought of sex as a way to play. He takes her hands and dances her back toward the nook that’s sort of his room.

“Not just talk, pet,” he teases back. There’s a wicked light in his eyes, and his tongue curls behind his teeth in a way that usually irritates her, but now makes her nipples tighten and her pussy throb. Oh damn, what a difference one mind-blowing round of oral sex makes.

Quickly, Buffy glances down the hall. The door to the bedroom is shut. Spike catches the line of her attention and cocks his head. “Sound asleep.” He reaches past her, parting the curtain that cordons off his sleeping area. “Though, might not be, if you scream like you did on the roof.”

“I didn’t scream,” she says, trying to sound authoritative, but it comes out more pouty than she wanted. He captures her bottom lip with a nip of his teeth, sending another flutter through her.

“Wanna bet?”

“You’re on.”

He captures her head in his hands, staring into her eyes. He searches for something there as he breathes in deeply. His nostrils flare, and some part of her, the Slayer part, knows he’s scenting like he would for prey. It should be gross, but right now it makes her feel like she’s some kind of drug he’s trying to mainline. It’s heady, knowing how much he wants her.

Then, because neither of them can take it anymore, they kiss and bite and nip and fall onto the cot, bodies sliding together, and part of her whirls thinking—just how many times Spike can manage to get her naked in one night?

Twice, turns out, it’s at least twice.

***

The Slayer is in his bed—okay, cot, but he’s not going to quibble. Feels like a dream, except no dream’s felt so real. The silk of her golden skin under his hands belies the iron strength of her muscles as her legs straddle his lap. He adores all of her, shucking her out of her sweater again, her bare breasts greet him once more. Her bra is somewhere on the roof in ribbons, he’s pretty sure. Works for him. Less to get in the way.

Buffy’s hot hands grip and clutch at his shoulders, at his arms, they skim down his back, leaving trails of fire.

“So hot, burning me, Buffy, love it,” he mutters in her ear. “Touch me all you like, love, however you like.” She puffs a warm breath against his cheek, and the rich scent of her arousal hits him anew. “Ah, baby likes to hear that, does she?”

“Spike,” she pants.

“Hmm?” he hums against her collar bone.

“Do you ever shut up?”

“That’s not a no, love.”

There’s a mullish set to her jaw, then, and God, he loves it. Loves her so bloody much. Then she yanks him up and kisses him. Hard. He smiles into the kiss, and he feels her mouth stretch likewise. They grin and kiss and nip, tongues and lips hungry.

Her hands sneak between them, fumbling at his belt buckle. He might be trying to be more than what he is for her, but he still wants her desperately. Wants to bury himself in her wet heat and lose himself in her strength.

“However I want, you said,” she breathes against his mouth.

“Oh God, yes, please.” He’s begging. He doesn’t care. His belt buckle is undone, and he’s almost bucking against her like a sodding school boy.

Buffy grins. Impishly.

Her hands leave his pants alone and take his arms, pinioning them behind his back. He’s now sitting longwise on the cot, the thankfully closed curtains to one side and the string of red lights tacked to the wall bathing her in a gentle glow, casting those delicious curves of hers in alternating patterns of light and shadow.

“Stay,” she orders. Then she lets go. She’s trusting him to do as he’s told. To stay, to let her explore. He swallows heavily. Her hands trace the lines of his face, then follow down his neck and across his shoulders. He’s never been touched like this before, and it’s going to kill him. It might just bring him back to life. Her hands are so, so hot to his skin, and strong, but curious. Eager, but not demanding.

She’s stroking him, caressing him, mapping him like she’s gone on a bloody expedition.

He shivers under her touch, wanting to touch her back, but she told him to stay. “Buffy,” he says, because she didn’t tell him to be quiet. “Use your mouth on me love, please.”

“What, this mouth?” She points at those perfect lips, lips swollen from their kisses. He strains toward her as much as he can while keeping his arms pinned behind himself. He’s been chained up before, tied up, made to endure. But this is different. He could stop at any time without any effort, but she’s trusting him.

“Want your mouth, love, gave you mine, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

Then she does what he’s pleaded for. Oh God, she does it. Her hot, magnificent mouth is on him, kissing down the line of neck, and he babbles Buffy, yes, love, your mouth, baby, so hot, so good, like that, yes, as she keeps kissing, and fuck nipping at his skin. She tongues his nipples, and his hips jerk hard once. His erection, still agonizingly behind denim, brushes against her hot core. He can feel the heat of her between them, and it’s torture to be so close yet so far.

Fuck, he won’t ever get enough of it.

Then she sits back up with a flick of that beautiful hair. He wants to sink his fingers into her hair again, to press his nose into it and smell her, to take in as much of her as he can. His fangs itch to come out, to taste her, to sink into her. Then her hands are back over his belt, distracting him. She slowly draws the belt out of the loops before casting it aside. Has him suddenly thinking of all the fun they could have with a belt.

The thought is promptly driven from his head when she pops the button of his jeans and drags the zipper down. His cock springs free. He watches her face, though, and he’s a selfish git for loving how her eyes go wide and her mouth forms into a small hungry O.

“Want something, Slayer? Something you might like to have for yourself?” he drawls. It’s tempting fate, asking her that, but like the lady said. He really can’t shut up. Uncertainty flickers across her face, and there’s hesitation in her fingers as they curl and uncurl close to but not quite touching his cock. “Buffy.” She meets his eyes at her name. He wants to use his arms, to hold her, to bring her close, but she hasn’t let him go yet. His throat is tight with all the things he wants to say, aches to say. When he does speak, there’s more vehemence in his voice than he expects. “I can take it love, I want it. All of you. Don’t you dare hold back, you hear me? Not one sodding ounce.”

He thought he’d been in love with her before, been in awe. It’s nothing compared to seeing her jaw take on a determined set that he knows so well, but cast in a different light by the playful quirk of her lips and the fire that set off in her eyes. Baby likes to play.

Something he’s known for years, but never thought, never dreamed it would be like this.

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” she says huskily as one hot little hand wraps around his cock. He bucks into her touch, those flames that are her spreading through him. His balls already ache, have been aching since he pressed his face to her beautiful cunt and tried to devour her, since she came apart on his face and around his fingers.

She pumps him, slowly at first. Almost like she’s fascinated by his foreskin, how it pulls back over the head of his cock. It’s agony and bliss all at once. His arms tremble not from exertion but from sheer force of keeping them back, from not touching her. He can smell how much she wants to be touched, too. God, she’s wet all over again, the scent of her arousal filling up the small space. Her pert tits bounce as she works him up and down, almost like she’s riding him. It drives him wild, drives to babbling, Harder baby, like that, oh Buffy, don’t you dare stop, squeeze me, hurt me, Slayer, fuck, Buffy, yes, yes.

Her panting breaths fill his ears along with his own babble. The more he talks, the faster and harder she pumps him. She gives him everything he begs her for. It makes her bold, the minx, and she cups his balls with her other hand. Breathing deep, he pulls her scent inside of him as she squeezes and jerks him, as she keeps her hot hand tight around his cock. Then she flicks her thumb over the tip, smearing his own precum against his length.

Incoherent words pour out of him, her name, pleas for more, promises that he can take it. His hips buck, and he almost breaks. Almost moves his arms to touch her, to rip off her jeans and hilt himself inside of her.

Then she leans forward, beautiful mouth near his ear, and she reminds him in a sing-song that’s delightfully breathless, “Can’t you take it, Spike?”

She sits back, and he glares at her. Through clenched teeth, he snarls, “Give it to me good, Buffy.”

Every muscle trembles with the force of staying still while she picks up the pace with her hand. It’s punishing, edging toward pain, and he jerks into her hand. Their pants come together in short, sharp gasps. Fuck, this is turning her on. It’s turning her on to do this to him, and Christ, he’s losing it. His body isn’t his anymore, it’s hers. His balls tighten and every thrust has him growling low in the back of his throat.

“Buffy, Buffy,” he pants, trying to warn her. She leans over him, stroking him, but she’s not looking at his cock anymore. She’s looking at him. She’s watching him, his face. He comes hard in a suspended, mad moment. It’s a rush, flowing out of him, spattering his stomach, and—he swallows heavily—hers.

Her sticky right hand stays near his cock, gently holding him while her other hand curls around the nape of his neck. She’s keeping their bodies close together as he evens out, and oh God, he could fucking weep. A pink tongue darts out to lick her lips, a measure of that uncertainty returning to her features.

Like hell if he’s going to let that happen. He presses his forehead to her cheek and nuzzles her with his nose. “Hey there.”

“Hey,” she says, voice somehow shy after all that. It’s dizzying, how fast this girl can go from burgeoning dominatrix to blushing co-ed.

“Don’t suppose I can have my arms back?” He needs to hold her, now, in the aftermath. Show her he’s fine, better than fine. He’s sodding elated, and he’s wishing that he had half a chance of talking her into getting a hotel room and really going for it.

“Oh, yeah, um, yes. Sorry.”

“S’alright.”

“It is?”

He wraps his arms around her, pulling her close, heedless of the mess. It seems to have slipped her mind, too. Good. Excuse to shower together later. “Slayer, might’ve escaped your notice, but I wasn’t complaining.”

“No, definitely noticed you were, um, enjoying yourself. It’s just—nevermind, it doesn’t matter.” She curls into him so she’s crosswise on him, legs draped over his knees. Quite comfortable with all this sudden closeness, she is. Makes him wonder how long she’s been thinking about it. Didn’t matter that he could smell that she wanted him sometimes. He knows that there’s a difference between what the body wants and what the heart wants. If it was just her body, that would be one thing, but he thinks, maybe, just maybe, some part of her heart wants him, too.

The idea stills something in him he didn’t know could be stilled. Like he could wait for sodding ever if it was for her.

He brushes a stray lock of hair back from her shoulder.

“I didn’t think I was that kind of girl.” Her voice is so small that he wants to go find all her moronic exes and tear them into tiny pieces. Especially Peaches. No, the soldier boy. Fuck, all of them. How dare they? How dare they do anything to make this titan of a woman think she was less than for being exactly who she was. She’s the Slayer, and if ever there’s a woman of fire, of passion, a woman who was made to break shackles and stand tall as a mountain, it’s her.

Problem is, he doesn’t know what to say. Or, rather, what he should say, what’s the right thing to say. The human thing. He’s been playing at being a human for a couple of weeks now, but it doesn’t fit right on him. He is what he is, but then again, that’s not all he is. Didn’t he tell her that on the drive out? Or something like that. Only thing he can think of is what he can see as the truth, so that’s what comes out of his mouth.

“Alright, you like a bit of rough play, love. So what? Last I checked, I was asking for it. Quite literally, and you provided. Right thoughtful of you, really, taking a bloke’s preferences into account.”

“But I liked it.” She squirms, and oh yes, she liked it. Her heady arousal was and still is clear to him, a cloying scent in the air between them. He should take care of that for her, but her head’s not in it right now. Wouldn’t be as good if she’s not with him, and he should know. He knows what it’s like to be with someone who isn’t there. With Dru it was one thing, she was never there at all, but Buffy? Being with her and not at the same time would destroy him.

“I know, and it’s brilliant that you did. Don’t get in your head about it, love. Feels good, and we both like it? Then it’s all fair game. All those shoulds? What’ve they done for you?”

“Kept me from going mad with power?”

“Shame, could’ve been fun, that.”

She glares at him, but the power of it is belied by the dance in her eyes. The smack to his shoulder is strong, though, and he grins at the hit. “Wait, hitting you isn’t a deterrent.”

“Not in the slightest,” he tells her, unable to keep the grin off his face. Her face, though scrunches up in a playful kind of disgust. He’ll take it.

“This is weird,” she says with a huff. He cocks his head in a silent question. She picks at the blanket on the cot and shrugs. “I don’t think I ever talked to my other boyfriends about sex this much, and here I am, having a real, actual conversation with you about the sex we just had and, and wow is that a thing I didn’t think I’d say—Spike, why are you staring at me like that?”

He’s staring at her like an idiot. Boyfriend. She said other boyfriends. The implication in the language is clear, but does she know just what she said? It catches up to her in a moment. Rather than wait for the back pedal, he gets out in front of it. Best to take the pain now, like he knows how to do. “I know you didn’t mean it, Slayer.”

Her gaze turns inward, and he’d give anything to know what’s going on in her head. He watches as she turns some idea over, looking at it from different angles. Then she says, “I didn’t not mean it.”

***

Buffy’s pretty sure she’s broken Spike. Which, considering this is the guy who’s been beaten, starved, tortured until he’s almost dust, and still gotten back up and tried to fight everything around him, is kind of impressive. To think, all these years, all she had to do to thwart him was declare that he wasn’t not her boyfriend. Remarkable, A+ effort, round of applause. New Slayer tactic discovered.

“Spike?” She nudges his shoulder. The pressure makes him start, and she’d laugh at his expression of complete confusion if she didn’t feel something similar. His mouth works silently for a moment, trying to form words, only to shake his head and discard them all. Oh wow, not only did she break Spike, she stunned him into silence. Is there some kind of award for that? There should be an award for that.

Of course, now she actually wants him to say something. Typical.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Uncertainty and hesitation creep back into his expression. He’s not meeting her eyes, but he carefully picks up her hand, the hand she’d been, um, giving him that really rough handjob with. It’s sticky with his semen, which okay, she can think the word now. Great, personal growth about sex words. He doesn’t hesitate when he spreads his fingers wide and she places her hand over his. They don’t lace their fingers together, just press palm to palm. They’re both majorly messy. She should be trying to get back into her sweater or rushing to the bathroom to clean up, but inside and with those curtains closed, Spike’s nook is reasonably warm and cozy.

It’s a bubble. Outside those curtains is reality, but in here, here there’s something happening. Something more than sex. Though what that could be—

“I don’t know either,” she admits.

“Very helpful.” The words are dry with a bitter twist.

She rears back to glare at him. “Hey, you don’t get to get all bad moody on me because you started this. What happened to the agreeing to talk?”

“Well, I’m no good at it, obviously,” he says, voice harsh. His expression shutters and he twists his head back and forth, like he’s arguing with himself. A sigh escapes him as he lets his head fall back to the wall with a soft thunk. “You know what I feel, where I stand, Buffy. Been there a while now.”

“How long?”

“What?”

“How long have you been there, Spike? Feeling the way you do? Because from my perspective, you sprang it on me like a month or so ago, and since then I’ve lost my mom and am facing a Hell God. So excuse me for not knowing what I want right away, geeze. What is it with guys wanting to—”

His lips capture her mouth, and holy shamoly, his mouth should come with a warning label because she’s tingly right down to her toes. Which, yeah she’s known that Spike kisses are damn good for a while now. She remembered way too much of Willow’s Will Be Done spell for her liking. It’s also distracting and getting away from the point. She wrenches herself away, pulling a soft growl from him.

“That wasn’t fair,” she says, breathless.

“Evil,” he counters, grinning.

“Your mouth is evil. Evil and distracting. I was saying—”

“Yeah, I heard what you were saying, Slayer, and I’m a right idiot for, well. Heaps of reasons. Know a bit of your past, don’t I? Don’t mind me, then, just a greedy bastard who wants you all right now, but I can wait, Buffy. You’re worth waiting for, deciding what you want. If it’s me, I’ll be here. And if not—you’ll be straight with me? Won’t find you with some bleeding chaos demon.”

“Worlds of no to that. Aren’t they slimy?”

“Very.”

Fingertip to fingertip, she presses against his hand with hers. He pushes back, matching her pressure. A point of balance. “Then I’ll pass on the chaos demon, big time.”

“Alright,” he says haltingly. Like he’s having to swallow something down. “That’s… alright, then.”

Though his hand is cool, she can feel his free hand hovering over her back. Then it’s there, caressing her bare back, up and down the length of her spine firmly. It’s an awkward picture, or it should be. She’s still across his lap, his jeans barely tugged down to his thighs, and they’re both a mess. There should be cleaning up and parting of the ways. She should go back down the hall and sleep in her own bed. All those shoulds that pile up on her shoulders—how many of them are ones she has to carry and how many did she pick up because she thought she had to? Which ones can she discard?

Some of those shoulds are already out the window. Could she get rid of a few more? For a little while longer, at least, to keep other thoughts at bay.

She tilts her head up and presses her mouth to the sharp line of his jaw. Spike’s cheekbones might be amazing, but so’s his jaw. He sighs out a breath, and his cock—which had been mostly behaving itself—is suddenly at half mast at her hip. She trails more kisses along his jaw, down his neck. There, on his right side is the silver bite scar. She skirts it, not sure what to do about that. Spike’s left hers alone, too. Later, she’ll figure that out later. Now, she’s content to kiss her way across his chest lick at his nipples. The gasp of breath she draws from makes her feel powerful.

Then he grips her hard by the shoulders and pulls her up, straddling his lap and his cock. His mouth ghosts over her skin. Cool breath tickles her breasts, and she arcs back, giving him easier access. He takes a breast nearly fully into his mouth and sucks. She bites her lip to keep from moaning, making it come out a mewling whine. He releases her with a wet pop of his mouth and nuzzles her as he pulls her close.

“Want to be inside you, Buffy,” he rasps against her. “Want to feel your sweet cunt around my cock. Hot and wet, baby. You want me inside you?”

She shouldn’t like those words, but oh God, his voice is deep and rich, the burr tickling her ear and going right down her spine. It makes her swell to hear it. “Yes,” she gasps, “yes, I want that, I want—I want you, Spike—I want you in me.”

Her cheeks are on freaking fire, but there’s no mocking grin on his face now. There’s only sheer wonder as he nods with a gulp. Like he’s been given some sacred trust. Firm hands settle at her waist and together they wriggle and writhe to get the rest of their clothes off. She kicks her jeans somewhere behind her, and Spike pushes everything off the cot with his feet.

“I can take it, like it rough, Slayer, but don’t think this cot is rated for all that we can do,” he says. Buffy nods, dimly aware that yeah, camp cots are probably not rated for Slayer and vampire sexy times. Though what would work isn’t clear to her. Probably because she’s kind of distracted by Spike’s cock again, and yeah, she can’t help but think of it as a cock. It’s pressing against her stomach now, thick and hard. Her hips rock, like the place between her legs can’t wait to have it.

“Um, how, then?” She doesn’t like how her voice is breathy and uncertain. Again, she’s with a guy who has oodles of experience and she doesn’t.

“Nothing too crazy. Kind of the opposite, really. Lay on your side with me.” He shuffles down, and she follows. They’re face to face in the red-lit darkness, bodies close together on the narrow span of the cot. His hand runs down her body, over the line of her ribs along the dip of her waist to the flare of her hip. Then he takes her thigh and guides it over his sharp hip bones. She hooks her leg over him and holds him near her.

His sharp features are close, close enough to touch. She traces the lines of his face, thumb against his mouth. He captures her thumb with his lips and sucks, tongue swirling over the pad of it. He sucks in time to his cock nudging at her entrance.

Oh God, she thinks. Oh God, I’m really, really going to have sex with Spike.

Then, oh hell yes, I’m going to have sex with Spike. The second thought surprises her and doesn’t at the same time.

He’s got a hand between them, spreading her lips apart as the tip of his cock slowly enters her. She sucks in a hard breath, eyes going wide. He slips inside her with agonizing slowness. They’re both whimpering, his muffled by her thumb in his mouth, but hers are going to be too loud. His other hand comes between them, and he offers the blade of his hand to her teeth. She bites down. Not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to make his chest rumble with purring delight. The pressure of her teeth on his skin makes him jerk his hips forward and he’s suddenly in her. She feels him filling her, spread and oh, God, so full.

The hand that had been coaxing her open grips her ass and together they rock. Slow. He keeps the pace deliberately, maddeningly slow. She reaches down and grips his ass hard, trying to get him to speed up, but he won’t, the bastard. In and out, slow and wet, they come together. The sound of their breathing is ragged and harsh, muffled by hand and thumb. Under that, under the blood pumping wildly in her ears, is the slick and slide of their bodies coming together and then apart. Full, then empty, over and over and over.

Everything takes on a haze, and her mouth falls open with soundless gasps, releasing his hand. Spike angles back slightly, her thumb popping out of his mouth, and from under his brows looks up at her with drunken delight. “Look at us, love, oh fuck, look at us love,” he tells her.

Buffy’s face scrunches and her head thrashes. She does and doesn’t want to. It would be too much. Already, she’s feeling too much. Slow and deliberate, in and out. She thought they would be all hard and fast, but this, this is more than she expected, and looking at them? She’s never done that before.

“You’re beautiful, Slayer. Bloody hell, look at you taking my cock, look at your magnificent pussy, Buffy. Look at us together,” he urges.

Spike doesn’t have the Thrall, but she feels the pull of his voice. Not a command, but a plea. Her head dips down to her chest and she forces her eyes open. It’s hard to see, entirely, in the shadow-dark place where their bodies come together. He angles her leg up as he stretches back, giving her a view of them. His cock sinks into her, half hidden by the dark curls they both have. Watching this, seeing her taking him, a quiver runs through her pussy, her whole body, making her toes curl.

“Oh God,” she groans, shivering as their hips work together. Spike slips in and out of her with a constant, husky refrain so hot, so wet for me, Buffy, God you feel so good, baby, burn me up you do, do you like my cock in your cunt, baby? Do I feel good to you?

“Yes,” she rasps over and over. Spike Spike, yes, oh God, please, please, want it, I want you, oh God, you fill me up.

At the last admission, he moans, stifling it as he crushes his mouth to hers. They collapse into each other, tongues mimicking the sliding of their bodies below. In and out, she wants to devour him even as she whimpers and moans into his mouth. His hand is between them again, thumb stroking her clit with that same punishing slowness.

She digs one hand into his hair, nails scraping along his scalp, and with the other she cups his ass and presses him to her with all her strength. From slow to frenetic in an instant, they’re rutting, grinding against each other, chasing each other’s pleasure. She can feel him writhing against her, and she wants it, oh God, she wants to feel him in her like this, as he—as he—

His hips buck against her, hard. The cot squeaks alarmingly underneath them, but those final thrusts are at just the right angle. First one firework, then another goes off behind her eyes. Pleasure shoots up her body, uncoiling from the base of her spine and tingling all through her. Her nipples rub against his chest, almost pulling a scream from her before Spike captures her mouth again. She screams into his mouth instead. He swallows it, swallowing down her pleasure as he growls his release into her mouth. She feels the rush of his climax, and she grips at his cock inside of her, wanting more. Pulling at his cock with her muscles. He bucks again inside of her and against her clit, triggering another round of fireworks. Their bodies jerk together for a few more breathless moments, riding down the last shockwaves of pleasure.

Buffy throws herself against his chest with a muttered whoof. Her whole body shudders and shivers. Spike gulps down breaths he doesn’t need. It makes her laugh.

“Uh, Slayer, not exactly a thing a bloke likes to hear afterwards,” he slurs.

“You’re breathing,” she says between giggles.

“So?”

“I made you breathless.”

He regards her for a long, suspended moment, that terrible softness in his expression. “Always have, love.”

Well. Damn. But if she goes all swoony then he’ll win that round. To hell with that. She prods his chest. “What? Back when you were trying to kill me?”

“Thought we had a clean slate?”

“We do, but you brought it up.”

“Well, since you asked, Slayer, I reckon I was a goner for you the second I saw you. Full of life in a way I hadn’t seen in a long time. Clever and powerful and bloody magnificent, saw that from the first. Didn’t figure out the whole of it until, well.” He points a finger at his head like a gun and gestures vaguely. The chip. It made him slow down. Still, it’s weird. Her nose scrunches.

“There’s something seriously wrong with you.” There should be whole buckets of judgment in her tone, but instead it comes out playful. She’s even smiling. Her brain is telling her two things at the same time: vampires are weird and gross is getting a signal crossed with he’s talking about feelings openly. So sure, the answer isn’t what she wants, but it’s an answer. Not something she had to try to infer from weighty silences or cryptic warnings. Not something blindsiding her because he didn’t think she couldn’t handle what he felt.

“Vampire,” he says with a shrug.

“Yeah, no getting around that,” she agrees and presses a barely there kiss to his lips. Because she is alive. Right now, she feels it. God, she can’t remember the last time she felt so full, so electric. Alive in a dead man’s arms.

“Buffy,” he moans against her mouth. She blinks and looks down to confirm what she’s suddenly feeling and, yup there it is again.

“Uh, does that thing ever get tired?”

“For you, not at all.”

He starts to nibble at her ear again, and oh damn it, why does that feel so good? She arches, giving him more access. With an effort of will, she pushes him away, both hands on his chest, but gently. Firmly, but gently. He puts on an exaggerated pout.

“I should shower,” she tells him. He opens his mouth to reply, but she talks over him, “And so you should you, and then I should get some sleep. In my own bed unless you want approximately a million questions from Dawn.”

He snorts. “She’s not stupid. She’ll figure it out sooner or later.”

“So you really want the teenage inquisition?”

“Is there a comfy chair?”

“You are a total dope.”

He shrugs. “For you. I thought that was bleeding obvious.”

There’s too much in his face, in his eyes. She can’t quite meet it, because it’s already happening. The glow is fading and she’s caught between too many different things. Old pain that cut down to the bones of her. A more recent yawning hollowness that’s threatening to swallow her whole. And now, a jolting, brilliant life line that she wants desperately to cling to, but doesn’t know if it’s enough or right, but God, she wants it.

In the moment, she wants it enough that she puts on her big Slayer pants and decides to be brave. She leans forward and kisses him again. He kisses back, letting her in, letting her cover him over. When she breaks away, she touches his face, and he leans into her hand.

“I don’t know what this is, Spike, not to mention it happening in the weirdest place.”

“Chicago’s not that weird.”

“I’m going to hurt you.”

“Promises, promises.”

“Spike, focus,” she tells him. He presses his mouth shut and she receives the gift of Spike’s insta-focus. She presses a hand to his chest. No heart flutters there under his breast. It’s dead and still. But there’s so much life in him, somehow, and he gave it all to her tonight. “I don’t know what this is,” she repeats, “but I—I don’t know a lot right now. I don’t have the headspace for figuring this out, and in three days we have to go back and.” Her jaw clicks shut, teeth grinding together.

The hard knot of dread that had been blotted out reappears suddenly. Dread of what might happen, what she’s going to be walking back into. It even manages to blot out the usual fear of what happens after she sleeps with a guy. That isn’t even a real consideration next to the yawning pit of terrible certainty within her, the certainty that she got a too-short reprieve from courtesy of Spike.

Tenderly, he skims his fingers up her arms and over her shoulders to press against her back, pushing her into him. His face turns up to hers. There’s something shuttered behind his expression, but before she can try to parse it, he nuzzles at her neck.

“I know, love. Promises to keep and miles to go before you sleep and all that.” His voice is a rumbling darkness against her skin. “Not in the woods on your own, though.”

The words tickle at a memory of high school and English class, but what tugs at her now is the meaning inside of those words.

She blinks fast, not wanting to cry. That shouldn’t make her want to cry, but he says it with all the sincerity he shouldn’t be capable of. It makes zero sense, but here he is: the guy who won’t quit and won’t quit on her or Dawn. He just happens to be a soulless vampire. That old pain under her ribs throbs before receding to a dull ache.

“Lucky me.” Her voice is thick, but he doesn’t call her on it.

“Reckon I’m the lucky one, but we can fight about that later, pet.”

“What makes you think it will be a fight?”

“I hope it’ll be. Always want to fight with you. Best fight there is.”

“Something is very seriously wrong with you.”

His chuckle rumbles against her stomach, and she somehow manages to extricate herself from the tangle of their limbs then out of his nook. He digs out her sweater and jeans, holding them out to her. She stuffs them in the washer on her way to the bathroom where she cleans up as much as possible. Spike had been warned off joining her after he’d suggested it, and he amazingly sticks to her strictures. There might be a sliver of disappointment, but not too much.

Clean, though only in a towel, she steps out the bathroom to see Spike in a pair of sweats putting his jeans in the wash, too. The shirt, however, is a casualty of her impatience. She owes him a new one.

“Good night, Spike,” she says. Then, before she can second guess herself, she dances close to him, raises up on tiptoes and gives him a peck on the cheek.

In the dimness of the hallway, only lit by the light from the entryway, she’s not sure but she thinks there’s an odd gleam to his eyes. The apple of his throat bobs. “Night, Buffy.”

She backs into her bedroom, opening the door behind her and stepping through. It closes with a soft click. Dawn’s sound asleep, which oh wow, means she's very lucky. Dawn also left a light on by the bed. Buffy puts on a pair of pajamas and crawls into bed. The heavy blankets are a comforting weight. As she drifts to sleep, she wonders what it would be like to fall asleep next to Spike. To not have to worry about so many shoulds, to be free of the weight of expectations that aren’t always her own.

To think that she could banish the gnawing anticipation of the end.

Notes:

With love we sleep
With doubt the vicious circle
Turns and burns
Without you, oh, I cannot live
Forgive, the yearning burning
I believe it's time, too real to feel
So touch me now, touch me now, touch me now
Because the night belongs to lovers
Because the night belongs to love
Because the night belongs to lovers
Because the night belongs to us
--"Because the Night" by Patti Smith

Here we go, no chickening out for either party! I'm proud? Thanks everyone for reading this far, and all the comments and kudos that kept me motivated to get here. Hope you enjoy where things go next. Fingers crossed I can get the next post up on schedule (two weeks time). It's shaping up to be a long one.

Be well and be safe out there.

Chapter 17: Get It While You Can

Buffy winces at the slant of light currently trying to sneak underneath her eyelids. Rude. The sun is rude. Rude and deeply inconsiderate. She’d been sleeping, but now she’s awake. Awake and alone in the, if not harsh—as per the red numbers of the second-hand clock radio, it’s mid-morning—the annoying light of day. The remnants of last night aren’t so easily faded by the sunlight, but they’re fading all the same. That lingering electric jolt of living turns into a dim outline, and she’s left with that hard knot at the center of her. Like a hungry stone, eating up everything else inside of her.

Three days, counting today, until she’s back on the road. The road that feels like a long, black ribbon that’s coiling around her wrists, her ankles. Her neck. She doesn’t want it to be like this. She doesn’t want to be like this. Problem is, she doesn’t see any other way to be. Not like having sex with Spike is a permanent solution to her problem. It was a lightning bolt, to be sure, a singular, brilliant moment that lit her up from the inside out. But when the thunder and the after image fades, the storm’s still there.

Well, she could spend all day in bed and get exactly nowhere. There’s another temptation. Molder. That seems possible. The ceiling is plain white and dull. It’s a blank canvas. There’s a flickering in her mind, and the 3D, technicolor memories of last night replay in her mind’s eye. Spike’s taut, defined muscles and his hard cock, the clean, cool taste of his skin, and the heady growls and snarls and purrs he made last night. Beyond that, beyond what they’d done, there’s the single admission.

I didn’t not mean it.

She’s officially an idiot. Buffy Summers, college dropout with terrible taste in men. Vampires. Whatever.

Worse, she’s pretty sure that whatever happens, she’s going to destroy someone else. Again. God, what compelled her to say that? It had felt true enough last night. It had also felt gauzy. Insubstantial. A thing she can barely even feel with her fingertips.

Closing her eyes against the daylight and maybe even her own swirly thoughts, Buffy grinds the heels of her palms into her eyes. She already knows Dawn’s up and about. It’s let her have her own mental review of all the things she’s messed up in private, but Spike wasn’t wrong last night. Dawn’s not stupid. What if Dawn figures it out? She’s an observant kid, and it’s not like Spike can lie worth a damn. Panic’s footprints lightly skip up her spine.

“God damn it,” she mutters and hauls herself out of bed. She went to bed in sweats and a t-shirt, but she pulls on a flannel overshirt to ward against the lingering spring chill.

Opening the door, she’s greeted by Dawn’s too perky morning voice asking, “Why do you like Weetabix? I’ve tried it, and it tastes like nothing.”

There’s a clink of spoons in dishes. Buffy shuffles down the hallway to see Spike and Dawn sitting on the couch, each of them with bowls of cereal. Dawn’s got some frosted horror while Spike has a bowl of bloody British weirdness. Spike’s chewing a mouthful, but his expression is thoughtful. They’re watching The Price is Right, though from Spike’s head tilt, he’s heard her leave the bedroom. He doesn’t give her away, though.

“S’got a good texture,” he explains. “Can’t taste much, pidge, except big flavors. Spicy stuff, that really comes through. Sweet’s okay, but enough sugar a vampire can taste? Mostly just tastes like sugar. Chilis come in all sorts. Anyhow, that leaves me with texture. Like crunchy stuff, soft stuff. Marshmallows are squishy.” He takes another bite. Blood drips off the bottom of the spoon like milk. It doesn’t make Buffy’s stomach turn to see it.

Too weird, don’t think about that. She needs to stop thinking in whirly, swirly patterns that lead nowhere. That means coffee.

“I guess that makes sense,” Dawn allows. She takes a bite, mirroring Spike’s cereal consumption. Sitting on the couch together they kind of look like a family. There’s that window again, that she’s looking through. A window on the other side of the fight with Glory. It looks nice. She’s not sure if she wants it, or if she wants it but can’t trust in it.

“Morning,” Buffy says, shoving aside all the swirly thoughts. Coffee, coffee will make the morning better. She goes to fill up the Mr. Coffee only to find it already prepped. Not hard to figure out who did that—Dawn wouldn’t think to prepare Buffy’s elixir of goodness if her life depended on it.

Something about waking up to coffee ready to go gives her a warm feeling all over. Then there goes that hungry stone in her tummy, eating up all the good feelings.

“Morning!” Dawn chirps back. “You should come sit, Buffy. Someone got the dollar on the big spinny wheel.”

“Glad to see daytime TV is still educational,” Buffy says, watching the percolator percolate. Then she mumbles, “Percolate is a funny word.”

Spike snorts, and that makes her smile in spite of herself. That would be fun. Saying things she knows only he can hear, just to see what she can get out of him. Wonder what else she could say? Naughty things would probably drive him right up the wall. A faint blush warms her cheeks, and she checks the line of her thinking. Coffee. She wants coffee.

“Angel didn’t eat,” Dawn says apropos of absolutely nothing. Buffy goes stock still, a sudden tension coiling through her whole body. They do not need Spike ranting about Angel right now. They don’t. She doesn’t.

“That,” Spike says around a mouthful of bloody cereal, “is because the Great Wanker likes to flagellate himself, what with the poncy soul and whatnot.”

“Flagel—”

“No! No, that is not a word Dawn needs to know, Spike,” she says, turning around and glaring at him. Spike returns her look with zero concern. He just rolls his eyes.

“Why not? S’a perfectly fine word. Sides, haven’t you read The Scarlet Letter yet, Platelet? Lots of self-flagellation in that one. And it’s literature, so you can’t get mad, Slayer.”

Buffy vaguely remembers the book, and she also remembers not liking it. Hester had been shunned and shamed for sex while the priest guy had just whipped himself for feeling bad. Her nose wrinkles up at the memory. “She hasn’t read it yet, and she doesn’t need to know the word.”

“You know, these cool things called dictionaries exist,” Dawn says dryly.

All she wants is coffee. Coffee and some quiet time to—well, not process. She can’t process. Three days doesn’t leave her a lot of time to do anything other than train and get their supplies ready to go. She barely has enough time for her last classes at the Y tonight. So she gives up this one fight.

“You’re right,” she says with a sigh. Dawn’s fourteen, and padding her in cotton, it hadn’t done her any favors. It had seen her come home and try to slash her own arms open. “It means whipping, or that’s what I remember from the book. Is that right Spike?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, means that.” He’s watching her like someone might watch a feral cat, not sure if she’ll bite or scratch, but hoping she won’t. Dawn, though, frowns into the now probably soggy cereal in her bowl.

“So you’re saying that Angel is trying to punish himself by not eating human food?” she asks Spike. Buffy turns her back on the conversation and anticipates coffee.

“Probably. Thinks he deserves it or some rot. Can’t enjoy anything, cause he used to enjoy, well. Things you really shouldn’t know about, Little Bit, and that’s me saying it, so you know it’s bad.”

The coffee burbles through the filter. Buffy focuses on that. This is weird. Really, really weird. She can hear Spike holding back, the cautious notes in his voice. She can’t begin to parse out how that makes her feel, so she doesn’t. Not right now.

“I guess,” Dawn huffs. “Do other vampires eat human food?”

“As a rule, no. But I’ve always liked it. Moreso after the chip.”

“That makes sense, what with the no humans to eat. Oh, do different people have different textures? Like around the neck?”

“You’re a very strange girl.”

Spike’s verdict makes Buffy’s mouth twitch, like it’s trying to grin to spite her.

“You didn’t answer me.”

“No, I did not.”

“You’re afraid of Buffy, aren’t you?”

“Obviously,” he says without missing a beat. There it is again, that electric jolt, that spark of lightning. Because Spike admitting that she could kick his ass, and more, the tone in his voice is matter of fact. Zero jealousy, zero hangups. She’s the Slayer and she’s stronger, and he—he loves it. Loves her, not in spite of it but because of it. Because it’s part of the whole package.

Buffy pours a cup of freshly brewed coffee for herself and ponders doing a bagel run later. For now, she makes her way to the couch and sits down in between Dawn and Spike.

Dawn curls into her side, and Buffy steadies the mug in her right hand while putting her left arm around Dawn’s middle. The commercial break ends, and Bob Barker calls down another contestant. Spike grumbles something that's like bloody Bob Barker. She doesn’t ask. It feels simple, sitting like this. Coffee, breakfast, mindless daytime TV.

It could never be simple. She knows that. There’s too much going on to ever let it be simple. Soulless vampire, the end of the road that’s looming up, her impossible sister, and underneath all of that is an old pain that’s cut her to the bone.

But she lets it be simple for the next twenty minutes, and it feels nice.

***

“We’ve got three days left, so that means we’ve gotta Little Mermaid this situation,” Dawn tells him not ten seconds after the door closes behind the Slayer. Off for a run, Buffy’s still thinking about what’s waiting for her back in Sunnyhell. Spike knows she won’t stop thinking about it, night of passionate sex or no. The woman has a mission, the Slayer does, and she’ll see it through. He could see that in her this morning. The far away cast to her face, the long-distance focus of her eyes.

Spike shakes his head, trying to dislodge the slithering certainty that Buffy’s getting ready to pack it in and try to suss out what the hell the Niblet’s about.

“Little Mermaid? You talking about the poor thing what got turned into a—a, whatsit, spirit of air? Not sure how that applies here, Little Bit. Less—well, I suppose I am lacking a soul like the mermaid, but not keen to play that part. Don’t think I could pull off the look.”

Dawn stares at him with her mouth half open in stunned confusion. Not a look he often sees on the girl, and it’s hilarious.

“What does any of that have to do with getting Buffy to like you?!” she screeches suddenly.

“In the story,” he says slowly, “the little mermaid can’t get the prince bloke to love her, and her sisters try to convince her to kill him so she can be a mermaid again. But, of course, the soppy thing, she can’t do it, so she throws herself into the sea but turns into some spirit of air or some rot. Supposed to get a soul or summat eventually. Rubbish story.”

His memories of Charlotte come and go, mostly hazy but sometimes so sharp and clear that it’s like trying to pick up shards of glass. Charlotte had loved that story. Had said she’d be one of the good children who helped the poor mermaids move to Heaven on faster. How many times did he read it to her, when he’d had a heartbeat and breath and warmth? When she’d been small and had only wanted her brother to read to her. “You do the voices, William! No one else does the voices.”

Dawn’s gormless confusion gives him time to put himself back in mental order. And the pile of dishes in the sink need sorting. Irks him, having clutter. Man and vampire alike, makes him feel closed in if there’s too much piling up. Spike runs the kitchen faucet hotter than any human would be able to tolerate. Makes sure the blood washes off the bowls before he sticks them in the dishwasher.

“I meant,” Dawn says, stressing the word like that should have been obvious, “the Disney movie. You know, with Ariel and Sebastian and Flounder and Prince Eric? Ursula the creepy sea witch with an octopus body, which I’ve always had questions about, but that is not important. We gotta go full on Ariel and Eric here and get you two together. You know, shalalala, don’t be shy, you know you wanna kiss the girl?” Then her face scrunches. “Only, I don’t want to see the kissing, duh. That would be majorly gross for my eyes.”

“They made that into a children’s movie?”

“Yeah, except Ariel and Eric end up married.”

“Talk about butchering the source material.”

“Oh my God, you sound like Giles. The Disney ending is way better, and didn’t you say the story you know is rubbish anyway?”

“Just cause it’s rubbish doesn’t mean it’s worse than that tripe you watched as a bitty thing.”

“You clearly are unaware of the Great Disney Rewatch that occurs every summer.” She crosses her arms, drawing herself up like she’s an authority on the matter. Well, he supposes she is.

“Clearly,” he agrees. Dawn stares at him, like she’s waiting for him to say more. He’s pretty sure he’s figured out the girl’s angle. Problem, he doesn’t know which way to jump. Buffy wants the whole of last night to stay between the two of them, which. Alright. Not his favorite thing to hear. He’s more of a shout it from the rooftops kind of bloke. Buffy, though. She’s got the mission and no room for much else. Doesn’t not sting, but it’s the kind of sting he can endure.

So long as there’s something on the other side of it. If there’s an after, God what wouldn’t he endure for Buffy? Or for the Niblet. For the both of them.

He’s been silent long enough. It prompts Dawn to make a noise like a dying sea mammal. “So are you off the I love Buffy train, then? Which, by the way, I won’t believe for a second. You’re still here, so obviously you still love her.”

“Not sure if that logic holds, Niblet.” Bowls and mug and spoons get loaded up in the dishwasher, which is mostly full. Still could handle a few other dishes, he reckons. All the same, he puts detergent in the holder so it’s ready when it is full and closes it.

Dawn just stares at him with those raised eyebrows and an expectant look on her face. Then she pointedly glances at the dishwasher and then back to him. Bloody hell, he knows what she’s thinking and the bitch of it is that she’s not wrong. He’s doing housework like some kind of kept man, which, there’s an idea. Doesn’t really mind cleaning. Had to keep things nice and tidy around Dru. She’d liked things just so. Kept him occupied during daylight hours, among many other idle pursuits before TV had really come into its own.

Then the girl breaks.

“Okay, fine, you’re going to be dumb on purpose and you’re going to lose your chance, and once we get back to Sunnydale, she’s not going to give you the time of day—night. Whatever. Then you won’t come around to the house, or if you do, she’ll just tell you to go away, and I won’t be able to go visit you in your crypt and—”

“Dawn,” he tries to break into her verbal stream of consciousness, but the girl barrels on ahead.

“But it doesn’t matter, because you’re going to just give up, and then Buffy’s going to give up, and I know what happens when Buffy gives up. I wasn’t like, there there, but I have memories of what happened after she left, after Angel. When she tried to stop being herself. I watched her go away, and sometimes I think—I think she’s going away again.”

It’s like he’s taken a solid horse-kick to the chest. Dawn’s not just worried about losing him. He’s not the main focus—of course he isn’t. That would be flattering, but he knows his place in this hierarchy they’ve got.

“But!” Dawn points up with her finger, like an old Cambridge don making a point. “If we make her happy enough, then she’ll stay. Cause she got so sad and depressed with Ang—everything that happened. Happy Buffy, though, a happy Buffy would stay. And if you two are together, if you can get together, then she’d be happy. Because I’m not—I’m not enough. She won’t stay for me, but she might stay for you, and—”

“Dawn,” he snaps and shakes her shoulder. She clamps her mouth shut, arms curling around herself. Christ. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say. It’s not anything he didn’t tell the Slayer herself, in a way. The end is closing in, and she wants out. Too much piled on those shoulders. Even the strongest shoulders buckle and bend after enough weight. He tests the idea, and then says, “Truth, Little Bit? Even if it hurts?”

Jaw mullish, the girl nods. There’s a sheen to her eyes, but she nods. “The truth, even if it hurts.”

“Tough girl, you,” he says. God, he loves her so much. This girl who should flinch and cower, but faces the world head on. Way the monks made her, but patterned her on Buffy. And she’s doing it on her own now, picking up where Big Sis left off. He pulls in air he doesn’t need, bracing. Then he says, “Let’s say it’s true.” He swallows a grimace, that night in the alley burning for new reasons now. “Let’s say there was something between me and the Slayer. Still wouldn’t be enough.”

“But, why not? If she has you, then she won’t be so—”

“No one’s enough.”

Confusion furrows her brow and turns down her mouth.

“Maybe if Joyce—if your mum was around.” He hates the words even as he says them, for how they make Dawn curl back in on herself, how it makes her eyes so damably wet. The truth, he promised her the truth. Had once been a way to dig at the Slayer, that Spike the soulless vampire could give a teenage girl the truth the white hats were afraid of. Now, though, it’s more than that. Something he and Dawn share, the two of them. “No one can replace your mum, and it’s not just her. It’s what she meant. That there were some things that the Slayer didn’t have to worry about. Now, it’s all on her, and—she’s gotta want it for herself, Little Bit. She’s got to want to stay for its own sake. She’s gotta find a reason to hold on with both bloody hands, and no one else can do that for her.”

God, doesn’t he know that? No matter how he and Buffy were together last night, the heights they drove each other to, the electric discovery of bodies and preferences and delight in each other—it’s fleeting. The echoes of passion and desire won’t stop someone like the Slayer. The duty and destiny she’s got are too much of a fucking albatros around her neck to be any other way. He wishes he could figure out how to make it all less of a burden. Could obliterate the pain at the heart of her. All he can do is blot it out for a span of time. Too short a time.

“How.” The word is small and almost helpless in Dawn’s mouth. Spike’s tempted to pull the girl into a hug, but she finds strength in herself yet. Though she still has a bit of a sniffle and wipes away tears with the long sleeve of her shirt. “How do we make her want to hold on, then?”

“Dunno,” he sighs. “If I could figure that out, I reckon I would have managed it by now, yeah?”

Dawn bites at her lip and sinks against the kitchen counter. Spike hates seeing her like this. It’s too much like how she was in the sewers on the night she tried to bring Joyce back. No, it’s exactly like that. Only there’s no spell ingredients to gather up or demons to fight. Just a girl who wants her sister to stay with her, and Spike—Spike who can’t figure out a way to give her that. Because as much as he wants Buffy to stay for him—because, please God, could he have more of her, a little more, please—he doesn’t want Dawn to go without either.

Girl needs her big sis. And between him and Buffy, one of them should find a way to do right by their little sister. His chance is gone.

“I wish we could give her just, I don’t know,” Dawn sighs. “A fun night out? Like, there’s a lot of Chicago, and we could do more, right?”

Spike jolts, something the lads told him about springboarding from the depths of his brain. He rifles through his jacket pockets. Then he finds it, the flyer.

“Spike, what is it?” Dawn’s at his elbow. Quickly, he flips her the flyer and she takes it in her small hands. Then she meets his eyes. Eyebrows raised and a flicker of hope threading between them.

“What do you reckon?” he asks.

Dawn nods. “I think it’s a start.” Then she smiles. “We’re so going to Little Mermaid this.”

Spike picks up the dish towel and throws it in her face. Her indignant hey! is followed by a dishtowel at his face. By the time Buffy comes back from her run, the apartment is a disaster of towels, pillows, and blankets. Slayer takes one look at them, her mouth open as if she’s trying to summon the will to say something. Then she shakes her head and goes for a shower. Dawn dissolves into a puddle of giggles, and Spike—Spike picks up the clutter.

***

“We’ll miss you, Anne.” Buffy hears that refrain all through the late afternoon and evening. Her students, who she’s kind of sad to leave, seem just as sad to know that she’s leaving. Still, rather than pull a hasty exit and leave everyone high and dry—and oh boy does she know not to do that—she put in her notice with Lydia last week. Lydia had barely frowned that day in her office while Buffy had sat there awkwardly.

“I’ll be sorry to see you go, Anne. I think the program has done wonders for some of our client’s confidence and sense of safety in the short time you’ve been here.” Lydia’s severe vibe had still been in full force that day—it probably never went away.

“Yeah, well, things back home, they’re about to be a lot better. I hope,” she’d added unnecessarily. But it had escaped her before she’d been able to stop it. It was the truth, more truth than she’d wanted to admit to.

“I wish you the best of luck in that,” Lydia had said. Buffy had gotten up to leave when Lydia had said, “Anne, if you ever find your way back to Chicago one day, and things are better for you, don’t hesitate to come back to us.”

Buffy had lingered in the office for a long beat, her hand resting lightly on the doorknob. There’d been nothing compelling her to linger, and yet.

“That would be nice,” she had said, voice thick. Then she’d exchanged a nod with the women’s centre director and been about her day.

The thought had been with her for the past week, the idea that maybe she could make her way back to Chicago one day. Once, she had only ever wanted to leave Sunnydale. When she’d had the offer to go to Northwestern—a university barely twenty minutes by transit from the apartment she now occupied—she’d felt like it was a dream. A dream she’d given up to be the Slayer. To guard the Hellmouth because it was who and what she was.

But surely there had been plenty of Slayers who hadn’t been on the Hellmouth. And the world still turned.

It had been a wild jumble of thoughts that she’d shoved in a little box marked Later. Then there had been Giles’s call, the hard place she’d gone to in her heart, and then Spike. Hoo boy there had been a lot of Spike. Oodles of Spike. Spike’s mouth between her legs, his cock in her hand, and his whole body stretched out against hers, lean and gorgeous and—

“Anne? Anne, you there honey?” Barb asks, her Midwestern twang shattering the crystalline memory of last night’s sexcapades.

“Yeah, sorry, just a lot to think about, going back.” She attempts a reassuring smile that she doesn’t feel. Quick as that, she’s brought back down to knowing what’s at the end of the road. The literal road that leads back to Sunnydale.

“Of course, but I’m sure you and Charlotte will manage, and you’ve got Will to help.” Margie waggles her eyebrows in a way that would have had Buffy halfway up a tree a week ago. It’s a joke. She knows it’s a joke. Only, now it’s not actually a joke. All the same, her lips twitch in an attempt to give the whole thing away.

She’s not good enough to squash the reaction, and both Midwestern mom’s eyes go wide. They look at each other, then at Buffy. Buffy quickly and quietly says, “Charlotte doesn’t know yet, and she’d be insufferable, and I don’t know what I’m doing and—”

Buffy clamps her lips together. Dawn’s still in the locker room getting changed and saying goodbye to her friends. Damn it, this is not what she wants to be thinking about.

Though she probably should think about it. But thinking about it—the whole her and Spike thing—it feels like it should be a minefield when it actually feels… easy. It feels like she could fall into something so easily, and that—her chest aches, that old spot under her ribs. The place that broke when she was seventeen, and then again at eighteen. The place she’s kept hidden. The place that she’s close to letting Spike touch.

Margie gently cups Buffy’s elbow. “Sweetheart, you gotta do what’s right for you, at the end of the day. If it’s with that young man, then it is, and if not, that’s alright, too.”

“Sometimes, I think something’s wrong with me,” she whispers. God, she misses Mom so much right now, but she doesn’t know if she ever could have told Mom this. Mom who would look at her with that weary expression and sigh Oh, Buffy, like Buffy couldn’t ever understand. Barb and Margie are moms, but they’re also strangers. Strangers she’ll never see again, and in some way, it’s not as terrifying to tell them about the hard pit of fear that sits in her heart. “I feel like I can’t love like how I used to, or I’m going for the exact wrong guy. I can’t do normal, and I feel like I’m turning to stone sometimes. That it’s better to be stone—”

“Oh hey, now, Anne, sweetie no,” Barb says quickly. With her hand on Buffy’s shoulder, the two older women direct her to a quiet alcove away from the main door. “We all know what it’s like to try to pick up after, after living through some awful things. You think you can’t risk yourself again, that there’s no one out there who would take you as you are. But honey, there is. Even if it’s not him, there is someone out there who will see you and adore you as you are.”

“And you’re never going to love two people the same way,” Margie adds. “My first husband, oh Lord, I did love that man. I fell for him hard. It’s what kept me with him for far too long, thinking that love, my love, would be enough. It wasn’t, but that wasn’t my fault. Now my Frank? How I love him, it feels bigger than what I ever had with my ex. Different, but something we built together, piece by piece.”

Barb nods, “My George is the same, and oh landsakes, it was so hard to fall in love again. Poor George, he put up with a lot! But he told me over and over again, he never saw it as putting up with anything. The parts that were hurt, he cared for those, too.”

It sounds like a fairy tale to her. Someone who would love all the parts of her, even the ugly pieces. The parts of herself she doesn’t like very much. The petty, angry parts. The hurt, scared parts.

She peers into those weathered, strong faces, searching for she doesn’t even know what.

“Anne, whatever you decide about that man—and Lord knows he’s pretty enough to tempt a saint—that’s for you to figure out. Either way, whatever you decide, don’t let it be out of fear, alright? You can be afraid to leave, but you can also be afraid to try. Don’t let fear make your choices for you, honey.” Margie offers up a kind, motherly smile. Tears collect in a gob in Buffy’s throat. She chokes it down.

“Thank you,” she manages to say. And then, because to hell with it, she throws an arm around each of her students and squeezes. “Thank you, both.”

They both pat her back gently, and she soaks up the maternal concern like a dried up kitchen sponge. “Any time, sweetheart. Though, I suppose not since you’re moving on.”

Buffy nods, and she manages to get her whole snot and tear situation under control to say her final goodbyes before Dawn emerges from the locker room. Dawn who is looking oddly peppy. Buffy stows her emotional matching luggage set in the face of Big Sister antenna going up in a major way.

“Hey, you ready to go?” Dawn hikes her pack up and grinned brightly as they exit the Y.

“Uh-huh, yup,” Buffy says cautiously. She’s waiting for something to happen, because Dawn’s totally got up to something face. Which, Buffy’s petty sure if she’d had such a crappy poker face, she never would have gotten through her junior year of high school without Mom catching on sooner.

And that’s a train of thought that stops at every station on the line of regret, so she pulls the metaphorical stop cord and focuses on Dawn. Dawn who is clearly about to angle for something.

“Okay, so I know we should go back home and have dinner, but like we aren’t going to be in Chicago much longer anymore, and Spike and I found out about this thing called Mayfest happening tonight. Well, it’s happening all day, but it goes until like ten, and it’s right off the Red Line, it sounds really fun. Could we go, please? Spike said he’d meet us there,” Dawn says in a rush. Buffy narrows her eyes. There’s no doubt that Dawn’s up to something. Though, the mention of Spike sounds innocuous. Probably nothing weird. She hopes. That said Dawn and plans are about as mixy as Spike and plans, which is to say un. She’s not sure if she should trust something that Dawn and Spike came up with together.

She should go home. She should get dinner together. She should train. All those shoulds piling up on her shoulders. The pile that she’s getting tired of carrying. The pile she doesn’t know how to set down.

Each thought is a pull in a different direction. Follow along with Dawn and head toward Spike or put the kibosh on things right now and go away from him. She could stand there all night and not reason her way out of the mental standoff she’s having with herself, so she breathes and thinks about the spot behind her ribs. That old aching pain that’s been with her so long that she’s grown used to it. The direction away—it sends a stabbing jolt through her to think of it, and that propels her toward.

Buffy flips her hair over her shoulder, loops her arm though Dawn’s, and puts on a bland, pleasant expression that Dawn should know better than to trust. “Sure, sounds like fun.”

“Yes! I mean, really? Okay, yeah, let’s go!” Dawn bounces on her toes, and Buffy steps out of the Y for the last time. There’s a fission of regret, of leaving something behind, but she’s got something else waiting for her. The real job of being a Slayer and Dawn’s big sister. And maybe, just maybe, a life after that, too.

For now, though, she’s going to Mayfest, whatever that is, with her sister. And Spike.

It’s only as they’re getting off at their stop that the thought hits her. Is Dawn setting her up on a date!?

***

At this point, in spite of the priestly career path Michael’s chosen for himself, Spike’s fairly certain that the bloke’s family has a fair few connections. That’s how he’s finding himself taking over a small stage, even after his stunt of running off-stage at Roscoe's got him blacklisted. Not that he cared, as such, but it would have been nice to bring in more dosh this past week. Show the Slayer he can do more than bust demon heads.

Well, now he’s up for round two of performing like a bleeding monkey in front of a pack of humans. No money on the line this time, just the vague idea from Dawn that Buffy would actually like seeing him do this—if he doesn’t muck up and pick songs that’ll send her running.

“You all set, Will?” Michael asks. The stage itself is small, a quick set up sort of deal with metal struts and a plywood floor popped over top. The scaffolding holds the lights and cordons off the so-called backstage area.

“Yeah, seems like.” He tests the tuning of the guitar. “Ta for returning this, Stephen.”

“More than welcome,” Stephen says, a small, satisfied smile on his face. “I wasn’t sure if you’d ask for it back, so I hung onto it.”

The night is crisp, but the sheer mass of humanity makes the air heavy and thick. The fug of sweaty people mixes unpleasantly with the mish-mash of scents from every kind of cuisine courtesy of the food vendors set up at the festival.

He’s still not sure if this plan he’s cooked up with Dawn is good, as such. No, check that. He’s pretty sure it’s complete trash. Better than the chains, though. Maybe next time he’ll chain himself up and see what Buffy does. Could be interesting. Well, now he’s gotten himself distracted at that thought and missed what the other lads are saying.

“It’s been good to know you, Will,” Charles says, holding his hand out. It takes Spike half a second to realize the boy wants to shake his hand. Wants to thank him. He does what’s expected, a whole round of handshakes and goodbyes. Ryan, who barely passed but didn’t fail. David who got the highest score of the bunch. Stephen, who seems a little less like William than Spike recalls of himself. Somehow, more fussy, which is something of a relief.

There’s a round of goodbyes, and Spike summons the wherewithal to tell them, “You were alright students, I suppose. Be well, lads.” Earns him wry grins and punches to the arm except from David who nods solemnly.

“And you, Will,” David tells him.

“Guess we’ll see you if we see you,” Ryan says, and then lads go their own ways. Off to enjoy the festival or whatever baby priests get up to before they take their holy orders. Still can’t quite believe he tutored Latin to Catholic priests in training. Dru would’ve laughed herself back into sanity, maybe, knowing what he’d been up to.

Spike picks at the strings of the guitar and glances at the purpling sky for a sense of the time. Buffy would be finishing up her last class just about now. Dawn’s got the hard job, he supposes. Getting the Slayer to venture out. But if anyone can do it, it’s the Niblet.

“Will, are you… okay?” Michael asks. Spike’s head whips up and around, alternately pissed and surprised that he didn’t notice Michael lingering.

“‘M fine,” he says. Rocks back on his heels and rolls his shoulders. “Right as rain.”

“Look, I know you and the girls are heading back to wherever you came from. We haven’t pried, and I’m not going to now. I just hope you know you’ve got friends here who hope it goes well.”

The idea hits Spike like a fist to the gut. Drives air out of his dead lungs. A dark thread pulls his brows down and curls his lip. “We’ll find out.”

“Again, not to pry, but is there a reason why it won’t?” Michael asks. Much as Spike didn’t mind the lads (okay, he likes the lads, they were alright and didn’t treat him like dirt, which, it’s been a minute since he’s been around so many people who don’t actively hate him, kind of missed it). So, much as he likes the blokes, he’s not in a mind to turn this whole thing into a sodding confessional.

“Points for trying, but I was raised Anglican,” he says dryly. It is true, if over a hundred and forty years ago. Was baptised and confirmed. All the steps. Until he died. No funeral. Mum hadn’t known what had happened to him. Dru had put him in the ground somewhere and waited for him to emerge.

The sympathy in Michael’s expression gains an edge of amusement. “I won’t hold that against you.”

“Thanks, ever so.”

Maybe if he’s silent for long enough, Michael will go away? Worth a shot. Spike strums a few chords, fixing on the sound and how it hits his ear. Yeah, he thinks he’s got it. No time to pick new songs. He’s gone for what he knows best.

“Well, can’t make you talk, man, and I can’t make you listen. That’s the thing about trying to help someone. You can’t do it on your terms, has to be on theirs. It has to be about them, not you. Hope I see you around one day, Will. Take care of yourself.” Michael claps his hand on Spike’s shoulder and hops off the stage. Before he’s swallowed up by the crowd, Spike calls out to him.

“Michael!” he barks. Michael turns, looking up at the stage from the littered street. “You too, mate.”

Michael ducks his head with a smile and leaves. Off to find the other lads no doubt. Spike shakes his head, trying to shake off everything except the steps of the probably ill-fated plan to get the Slayer to want to keep both feet firmly on this side of the Great Beyond. Except, he can’t quite. Michael’s words keep sneaking up on him as he practices chords.

Which was probably the fucking point, and he hates that it’s working.

He knows souls exist. All literal like. He doesn’t have one, doesn’t want one. Smacks of self-mortification, which is Angel’s Irish-Catholic bag all the way down. But he’s not sure if half measures would ever be enough for Buffy. And demons, they can’t change. He’s been told that over and over. Sometimes he thinks it’s rot. Other times, when he’s face to face with all the things he can’t do—

Can he help Buffy and not be in it for himself? What does that even mean? Dawn wants to help Buffy because she doesn’t want to lose a sister. The Scoobies don’t want to lose a friend. And he wants—God how he wants. Wants her. Craves her. Wants to take her inside of himself and hold her for forever. And yet, he knows that doing that would be no better than caging her. And the Slayer, Buffy, is a woman meant to be free, unfettered and unrestrained. Anything less would make her less, and he could never let that happen. She’s too bright, too radiant, too—sod it—effulgent.

How can he love and let go at the same time? The idea itself doesn’t make a lick of sense to him. Only confirms what he knows. That he’ll never be a good fit, no matter how hard he tries.

The edge of the sky has the faintest haze of light left. Can’t see the stars in this part of the city, though. They’re all blotted out by the riot of man-made light. Almost his time. A few humans who have good musical taste wander his way as he checks the amp and the connection.

He really bloody hopes Dawn managed to get Buffy to agree quickly. Would defeat the purpose of this whole Little Mermaid scenario if she isn’t here for it. Though he’s still fuzzy on why the crab is Jamaican of all things.

***

Mayfest is, in a word, crowded. In another word, loud. Maybe it’s telling that she’s been on edge for years that she doesn’t exactly like loud crowds anymore. The Bronze is one thing—familiar territory and most vamps have learned to steer clear since that’s her hangout. That and most Sunnydale residents know what to do in the event of demon attack: hide behind Buffy.

Here, though, she knows that vamps and demons are in this city (she can’t forget that night in the rain, the vamps cornering, and Dawn—Dawn going so, so cold), but she doesn’t know this city nearly well enough for her own peace of mind. And the people have no clue about the supernatural.

She squashes the bad turn of thoughts. Festival and fun. She agreed because it made Dawn happy, so she’s going to try to do that. Buffy loops her arm through Dawn’s and gives her sister a smile. Dawn does a happy wiggle, eagerly trying to see every last vendor and stage. They weave through the press of people. So many people, she doesn’t even feel the chill that’s been lingering most nights. Buffy’s not exactly sure where they’re going, or how Dawn knows where to meet up with Spike. Maybe Dawn’s counting on Spike to find them? It would make sense. He’s pretty good at literally sniffing her out.

Which, yeah, it’s creepy, but also kind of reliable? Weird.

Then she hears what she thinks is a familiar voice, “Twenty, twenty, twenty-four hours to goI wanna be sedated.”

“You didn’t,” she says to Dawn, though there’s no anger behind it. More like disbelief. Dawn did not put Spike up to getting up on a stage again. Did she?

Dawn’s grin is a thousand watt gremlin smile as she grabs Buffy’s hand in both of hers and pulls. “Surprise!”

Knowing the futility of resisting (which is a phrase that she thinks Xander would find funny), she follows the sound of Spike’s voice. It’s less rough than that night in the bar. More bounce to it. And there he is, on a small stage, pale and lean under the lights.

“Holy cow, I didn’t think he’d go all out!” Dawn yells into her ear.

“You’ve met Spike, right?” Buffy yells back.

Dawn waves to the stage, and Spike’s kohl lined eyes catch sight of them. A smile creases his face when he sees Dawn and then when he looks at Buffy, oh damn. He shouldn’t look that good in full seventies gear—full Billy Idol, but Billy Idol wishes he looked that good. Sleeveless black tee that’s really showing off his arms, a whole lot of metal jewelry that shouldn’t work but does, and his hair is a belly-flipping sexy mess.

He doesn’t look that different from some of the people around the stage rocking out with him, but Spike was around in the seventies. Makes her wonder if he started some of the looks?

Spike finishes up the song and goes into another, then another. They’re all punk songs, she’s pretty sure. A few she recognizes but only because the classic rock station in Sunnydale would play them occasionally. They’re all fast and fun. He’s playing, she realizes. Playing the guitar, yeah, but playing with the music itself. And Buffy feels herself smiling and bopping along with Dawn and the crowd around them.

Then he approaches the mic. He tilts his head, like he’s thinking about something, and licks his lips.

“Thanks for the reception, Chicago. Got one last song for you, but uh, it’s a bit different,” he says. Beside her, Dawn emits a very high pitched noise that sounds like eeeee! She quickly swallows it when Buffy glances at her sharply. Spike clears his throat. Buffy looks at him again. She’d swear he’s nervous about something, if she didn’t know him as weirdly well as she does now. “Feel free to sing along. This is a good one for that.”

He strums on the guitar, the first strains familiar. It makes her think of a different time, when she was younger and happier. In high school when all the boys loved Oasis as much as she loved Mariah Carey.

“Slip inside the eye of your mind. Don’t you know you might find a better place to play.”

Spike sings, and Buffy grabs Dawn’s hand pulling her into a swaying dance. Her sister shoots a stormy look at the stage, but it dissolves into a grin as Dawn moves to the music, too. Around them the gathered crowd sways to the music, and on the chorus she’s surrounded by, “And so, Sally can wait, She knows it's too late as we're walkin' on by, Her soul slides away, ‘But don't look back in anger,’ I heard you say.”

It catches her, the life of the crowd, the sudden feeling of connection to everyone around her, the people she knows and the people she doesn’t at all. She’s buoyed up, and the moment feels effortless in a way so little has in a long, long time. They all sing along. Spike’s right, it’s a good song for a crowd. She joins in as it goes on.

“Take that look from off your face, 'Cause you ain't ever gonna burn my heart out.” She belts out the words with the rest of the crowd. Spike’s gaze finds her, and it’s like a jolt to her whole system. It doesn’t stun her, instead it lights her up. His face lights up, too. A way he shouldn’t even be capable of, but he is. God, he is.

Dozens of voices fill up the air, a raucous final chorus, “So, Sally can wait, She knows it's too late as she's walking on by, My soul slides away, But don't look back in anger, don't look back in anger, I heard you say.”

Then, it’s Spike alone, one final line, “At least not today.”

The crowd claps and whistles as the song ends. Spike ducks his head and waves awkwardly. Like he didn’t expect the cheering. She and Dawn linger while the next band comes on stage and Spike makes his way over to them, guitar slung across his back.

“Spike, that was awesome!” Dawn enthuses right away. Buffy’s glad of that. Saves her from having to do it, because okay, okay, it was pretty good. She never thought she’d be into the guy who does the singing and the guitar playing, but wow does she get it now.

“Ta, Niblet, was alright set.” he says. Then both Dawn and Spike are looking at her, and oh that’s her cue to say something. Her brain scrambles to come up with something that won’t give away the whatever she has with Spike but isn’t too mean because she’s not evil.

He’s evil. Or, he was evil (because she’s pretty sure evil doesn’t mean doing everything he’s done for her and Dawn these last few weeks) and now he’s—something else. God, her brain is going to melt out her ears and they’re barely interacting.

“I knew some of those songs,” she says, words awkward and stilted. Then she perks up, “Surprised you didn’t go for Wonderwall, though. Doesn’t everyone love that song?”

“Wonderwall is over done and not half as fun for a crowd,” he tells her. Then he juts his chin out to Dawn. “You got my stuff?”

“Um.” Dawn bites her lip and tries to look innocent. “Oops?”

“My smokes were in that bag,” he whines. “And I gotta go around without my jacket. Hate being without a jacket.”

“Well, at least you look good,” Buffy says without her mouth so much as consulting a single neuron. Dawn draws in an excited breath, her face painted with delight, while Spike. Spike goes dead (literally, ha! She cracks herself up) still. There’s an internal scream in her head. She manages to blurt out, “I mean, if you like the look! You pull it off. Because you were there when it was invented and—I’m going to get food!”

Her final declaration falls out of her mouth with all the grace of a brick. Like a brick, it leaves both Spike and Dawn stunned and confused. In the aftermath, she stomps away looking for a vendor with a line that isn’t too long. Waiting to give her order, Buffy tries to get herself back under some semblance of control. It was the singing and the crowd. Really it was the crowd that got her all losey with a side of gosey.

She orders three hotdogs “Chicago style” and is upset to see mustard. There’s not even a ketchup bottle to be seen anywhere. Weird city, Chicago. Stuffing her money back in her purse, she weaves through the crowd back to where she left Dawn and Spike, who’s easy to spot thanks to his hair. They don’t see her, though, and Spike doesn’t even tilt his head in her direction. That’s weird. Spike usually twiggs to her presence faster than any vamp she’s ever encountered. They’re standing oddly close and both of them look—Buffy frowns—upset? Slinking closer, she listens.

“Hey, I call ‘em like I see ‘em, and you’re a big old chicken vampire. Final verdict.”

“Don’t you dare, Niblet. You might be little sister shaped, but I will rip off your fingers calling me a sodding coward.”

“Then why didn’t you do the song?”

“Because this isn’t a bloody Disney movie, you stubborn chit!”

Dawn and Spike are almost nose-to-nose. Dawn’s got that hard set to her mouth, and Spike’s got his finger right in Dawn’s face. Buffy doesn’t think she’s ever seen the two of them argue. Not like this. That’s not something they’re supposed to do, she thinks. She’s the one who argues with Spike, that’s her thing, that’s—she pulls her line of thinking away from that and strides into the fray, playing peacemaker between a century plus vampire and her teenage sister.

It would be funny if it wasn’t insane.

“Hot dogs!” she says, holding out the food between the two of them. Dawn’s all instant smiles and thanks and starts chowing down. Spike takes his, but doesn’t eat it right away. Instead, he’s watching her. Buffy smiles and eats, and okay, the mustard isn’t terrible. Not her favorite, but why are the buns all covered in poppy seeds? It makes extra mess.

Spike shrugs, the guitar slung over his back shifting with the movement.

“Ta, love, though you might want to watch out for the—” Spike starts to say when Buffy bites down and her mouth explodes with heat. She spits the offending bite onto the ground and fans at her open mouth. Spike says, “Sport peppers.”

“You didn’t warn Dawn!” she accuses.

“Girl deserves it. Also.” They both glance at Dawn, Dawn who is happily chowing down with a thumbs up. “That girl has a terrifying palette. Proof she’s unnatural.”

“Hey!” Dawn smacks him on the arm, which of course makes Spike grin. Easy as that, the weird argument they were having is forgotten. Buffy wonders what that’s like, to just not get so fussed about stuff.

“S’true. That’s my final verdict.” Spike over enunciates his words, clearly flinging them back at Dawn before he takes a bite of his own hot dog like he’s proven a point. Then he nods at Buffy and holds out his half eaten hot dog. “Give us your peppers, love.”

So Buffy picks out her peppers and squidges them onto the uneaten part of his hot dog. She watches as he eats it, and okay, why is her brain going haywire watching Spike eat a hot dog? She can’t explain it, so she eats and wipes her poppy seed covered fingers on a napkin. After a standing dinner, she lets Dawn drag her around to different stages. Spike follows along behind them. Never too far away, but letting Dawn co-op Buffy’s time. They listen to bands, but if they don’t like them, they can just wander away to another one.

Dawn asks for a dessert, and they find some donut stand. Spike claims he doesn’t want one. That means she and Dawn are stuck trying to figure out what to get, so they get a whole half dozen. With that many donuts, Spike angles for a jelly in spite of his earlier claims. Buffy tries to keep it away from him. He’s not that much taller than her, and the length of her arm is long enough to keep the best donut out of his greedy hands.

“You don’t even need it!” she protests.

“Jelly can be tart! And it’s the best texture contrast!” he insists.

Dawn grabs a second donut, watching them fight. Buffy eventually stuffs the whole thing in her mouth so he can’t have it and glares at Spike as she eats it. His indigitation is so out of place it makes her laugh, and then she almost chokes, which makes Spike laugh and the Chicago locals edge away from the crazy people.

“So, it’s nine-thirty,” Dawn says out of nowhere as they wander away from another band stage.

“Is it?” Buffy asks, looking around for a clock. There isn’t one, and she doesn’t have a watch on. She’s got her mobile phone on her, but she doesn’t want to drag it out to check the time.

“Spike.” Dawn stresses his name, like it’s supposed to mean something. Then she enunciates very clearly, “It. Is. Nine. Thirty.”

Buffy knew something was up, she’s known the whole time. But this is the nail in the proverbial coffin, which is a funny thought to have considering present company. Was Spike buried in a coffin? That feels like a strange thing to ask out of nowhere. That and she’s kind of curious at this point what this whole night is about. Especially after Spike’s second show on a stage, which was way better than his first, in her opinion. This one so far has remained hypothermia free.

“What’s at nine-thirty?” she asks as guilelessly as she can manage. Dawn’s grinning like a gremlin again. Spike, though, looks almost resigned.

“Something the Little Bit heard about from her mates at the Y,” he says, though it’s like he’s reading off a cue card. “They do fireworks at Navy Pier this time of year on Saturdays, and today’s Saturday, so.”

“It’s at ten, and we can make it. If we get a cab.” Dawn bounces on her toes like a kid. Because she is a kid. And Buffy, even knowing that this thing is probably some kind of weird setup, can’t really nix this. Not now, not when they have to go back so soon. Two more days after today is over, so maybe, maybe she can put off those shoulds. For one more day.

“Sure, why not?” she says, and that’s enough for Dawn. They hail a cab—Spike digs out some cash to pay the fare, and they tumble out of the cab and walk down the pier. It’s like stepping into another festival. People throng the sidewalks and boardwalks. Some have ice cream, others have other treats on sticks. Dawn, though, aims for the ferris wheel like a bolt from a crossbow. Buffy lets herself be pulled along again, a soft spreading feeling behind her breastbone.

The memory isn’t a real one, but it’s real for her. When they were a family and went to the Santa Monica Pier. When Dawn dragged her around to ride after ride, upset that she couldn’t go on any of them. Until the ferris wheel. She’d wanted only Buffy in the basket with her, and Buffy had promised—she’d promised—

Cold fingers lightly graze the back of her neck, starling her. She jerks to see Spike standing beside her. He scrubs at his eyeliner, smudging it, but then tilts his head toward her. Quickly, she smears away the tears threatening to spill out of her eyes. Stupid memories and feelings. She doesn’t want them now. She’d been having fun. She wants to keep having fun.

They wait in line and get into a basket. Spike sprawls on one side, guitar between his legs, while Dawn curls into Buffy’s side. The ferris wheel shudders into life, and they’re rising up into the air. Buffy sits against the metal railings and sparse padding, face turned out toward the water. As they climb higher, the cool, fresh water breeze off the lake picks and tugs at strands of her hair. Dawn’s too. Buffy tucks the errant strands behind her own ears, and then Dawn’s.

She turns to glance at Spike. Behind him the buildings of Chicago claw into the sky, their combined light blotting out the stars. Turns the sky above the city into a swath of blackness, an echo of the lake stretching into the east.

Then an explosion rocks the night. She jumps in her seat, but she sees the glimmer of fireworks reflected in Spike’s eyes. He smiles at her, that soft smile that she’s given up thinking he shouldn’t be capable of. He does it, so duh, he’s capable of it.

“Isn’t this great, Buffy?” Dawn asks, still curled up right next to her. Buffy takes it all in. The brilliant cityscape, the vast stretch of black water, and the cascading colors of fireworks crackling and cracking in the black sky. Her arm tightens around Dawn’s shoulders.

“Yeah, it is.” And she means it. In the moment, she really does. The problem, she knows, with moments is that they always end.

Notes:

In this world, if you read the papers, Lord,
You know everybody's fighting on with each other.
You got no one you can count on, baby,
Not even your own brother.
So if someone comes along,
He's gonna give you some love and affection
I'd say get it while you can, yeah!
Honey, get it while you can,
Hey, hey, get it while you can,
Don't you turn your back on love, no, no!
--"Get It While You Can" by Janis Joplin

Thank you to everyone who has been reading, leaving kudos, and you fantastic commenters. Really keeping me going on this thing. <3

And yes, Chicago really does do hotdogs that way. Great food town if you like meat. XD

Lastly, Spike obviously performs "I Wanna Be Sedated" by the Ramones, and also "Don't Look Back in Anger" by Oasis. The latter of which is brought you by my bar experiences where if that song comes on, everyone sings along. No questions, no exceptions. You just DO. Be kind out there.

Chapter 18: Human Touch

Notes:

A smutty chapter, for those who want to avoid/want to read. Whatever floats your boat. Also, warning homophobic slurs courtesy of the vampire who learned the lingo decades ago.

They’re moseying back from the train station by the orange glow of the street lights and carried along by the green scent of spring. Buffy’s got an arm around Dawn’s shoulders while Spike saunters along behind them. He’s keeping an ear out for any hungry demons, but so far so good.

Then Dawn says the quiet part aloud, “I really hope there’s no vampires tonight.”

“At least we have some wood to stake them with this time,” Buffy says easily.

“You packing, Slayer?” Spike asks.

She glances back at him, grin coming to life on her face. For an instant, she’s back. She’s with them—him. “No, but your guitar would do in a pinch.”

“Oi! We are not busting this up ‘less we have to,” he protests. It’s half hearted. Course he’d smash this thing to pieces and dust whatever beastie is bloody stupid enough to try to hurt the girls. Still, principle of the thing.

“Then we better get home,” she says, and there it goes. The playfulness. The life. Home doesn’t mean the apartment they’ve been living in. It’s Sunnyhell and all the problems that are still festering there. God, he wants to pile both Summers women in fucking Ford Taurus he’s got and drive until he can’t drive anymore. Maybe drive them everywhere and nowhere. Some great sodding American road trip and just never go back. Back to the place Buffy’s responsibilities are waiting for her. Waiting to pile on those shoulders and weigh her down.

She should be free. But she won’t free herself.

The night unfolds around them as they walk the rest of the way home—no sign of a bus and he’s not sure if they would get on it anyhow. Pleasant enough out as May heads into June. Nights are warmer, but Buffy’s still a tad shivery. Southern California girl and all. Really makes Spike wish he had his jacket, the one he’s been using in this town instead of his distinctive duster. Bloke should have a jacket of some sort, otherwise how’s he supposed to offer it to a lady?

At the apartment building, Buffy unlocks the doors—doors that Spike had practically torn off the hinges just over a week ago. All fixed and secure now.

“That was so fun,” Dawn says again. Girl’s been saying it heaps, like if she says it enough Buffy will think that one night of fun is enough to blot out all that’s dragging at her.

“So you’ve said,” Buffy agrees, wry grin on her face. Yeah, Slayer’s sussed it out. Spike sets the guitar down next to the TV.

“Well, I’m like super beat,” Dawn says. “Though, I could use some music to listen to. Spike, can I borrow your Walkman?” Irritating girl that she is, she doesn’t even wait for him to answer. She just dives into his nook—hideout, fuck even he calls it a nook in his head—and holds up his Walkman like a trophy. “Thanks, I’mgoingtosleepnow—night!”

Then the girl all but flees into the room she shares with Big Sis. The door shuts behind her with a firm slam. Leaves him and the Slayer alone in the living area of the apartment. Just them and the second hand furniture. Buffy snorts. “Well, I kind of already figured this was a set up, but she’s just gone and really made it obvious. How’d she get you to go along with it?”

“Who says she did?” he retorts. Mere raise of the eyebrows signals her disbelief, which yeah. She’s right, but like hell he’s going to give up the game that easily.

“Oh I don’t know, there’s you singing again and the festival and the ferris wheel and the fireworks.” She counts off each point on her strong fingers. Fingers that last night had been wrapped around his cock, had dug into his skin. It’s almost hypnotic for him, watching her do something so mundane with those magnificent fingers. “Not to mention the whole,” she gestures at him, “look.”

He tilts his head and slinks up to her in a way that’s pure vampire. All smooth movement that’s slightly too fast for a human. In her space inside of a heart beat. Her heart beat that picks up. Not afraid but oh, that uptick tells him so, so much. Her hands push against his chest. Not enough to rock him away, but enough to make him strain to get his lips near her ear.

“You like the look, pet? A bit of punk do it for you?” he rumbles. He knows the answer. Wants her to say it. Needs her to say it.

“Uh,” she puffs, and he thinks he can hear her brain going slightly haywire. Then her fingers, those strong, strong fingers he wants to kiss and lick and have on him again, curl into his shirt. “Maybe it does. A little.”

The admission does more than make his brain go haywire. It’s full on fireworks, like the ones they saw over the lake not half an hour ago. He’s staring at her open mouthed and shocked stupid. She wins, flush with victory. Can’t be having that.

“Oh, kitten, you want to have a bit of sport, do you?” he growls.

“Not sure.” The look on her face, Christ butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth when she goes all icy like that. But fuck, he loves it. “Feels that might be letting Dawn win.”

“Ah, but you’re losing out either way,” he tells her. True as it is, there’s so many ways for him to lose here. Could he win another night with her now to lose her in the long run? Or would losing now mean losing for forever? Or—he doesn’t know, but he’s always fancied a gamble. His hands settle on her hips, firm and more sure than he feels. They’re in a strange clench, her pushing, him pulling, but neither of them willing to back down. “All depends on who you hate losing to more, Slayer. Me, or the Bit.”

Green kaleidoscope eyes search his face. This isn’t how he expected this part of the night to go. Seems too easy. Had to fight her to kiss her last time. Now, she’s practically throwing herself at him, given the Buffy of it all. He’s not sure why, but the thought sits oddly in his head. It should be more of a fight, shouldn’t it? Her all good and proper, but then she’d said he wasn’t not her boyfriend.

Fuck, he doesn’t bleeding know.

Spike leans forward to capture her mouth, but she pulls away. He follows. Can’t help it. She dodges, but each time, each nip at her mouth, she lets him get closer. Their noses brush past each other. That touch alone is a thrill. Then she lets him catch her, capture her mouth. He doesn’t hesitate. Her lips are soft and open under his with a sigh. His tongue sweeps into her mouth, tasting her, drowning in her.

Then she wrenches herself away, gorgeously mussed and gasping for breath.

“Bad idea,” she says as she gulps down air. Spike presses himself close to her.

“Brilliant idea,” he says between kisses and nips at her neck. The kisses make her puff and pant, but the nips, those make her moan and whimper, and fuck that’s a bit of knowledge he wants to have fun with.

“Not—not here,” she manages. Spike rears back, not sure if he’s heard that right. The tip of her pink tongue darts out wetting her lips. “Could we, um, go to the roof? I mean, not sure what—”

“On it,” he says, not letting her follow that train of thought too far. If she starts thinking, she might back out. Whatever they are, he’s not about to let this chance pass him by. Not about to miss an opportunity to prove to her with his body that she’s alive.

Spike grabs an armful of his own blankets. Doesn’t need them to sleep, not really. He just likes them. Buffy snickers, but she helps him haul the black quilt and soft fuzzy blanket up to the roof. He spreads them out in record time. It’s not much, but it’ll keep the grit off of her. Then she’s staring at the nest of blankets they’ve made, her lower lip caught in her teeth.

No, no, she’s having second thoughts. He can practically see them. Swept up in the rush of it, she was willing to go along, but now, looking at what they have to make due with—Spike picks up her hand and places it around his neck. She doesn’t pull him close. Instead, they stay a good foot apart. The night air is cooling between them.

She’s a vision in jeans and a soft pale green long-sleeved shirt, and her hair tumbled just so from their kisses in the apartment. Four stories up, the breeze picks and tugs at golden strands of her hair. His fingers are moving before he has a say in it, tucking a lock behind her ear. His fingertips brush her cheek as she turns to look at him, a wry twist to her mouth but something much softer in her green eyes.

“So,” she says at last, “was that a date, Spike?”

He tilts his head, and he knows the echo. Not a month or so ago, he’d tried. Tried to cram himself into her life will she or no. It had hurt. It still hurts, the rejection, the bitter galling sting of it. Except now, in this moment, it’s not a flung accusation.

“Yeah, Buffy.” He leans toward her, because he always will. “It was a date.”

She walks her fingers up his chest, and oh thank Christ, they’re back on track. “Novel approach, having my little sister plan it.”

“Little Bit said something about pulling a Little Mermaid. Can’t say I ever saw that one, so I was a tad lost until she told me that the Disney version is different to the one I knew.”

“Begs the question though, which one of us is Ariel and which one of us is Prince Eric? I’m not sure if the analogy holds.”

“I’ve no sodding clue, either.”

The flash of her teeth are white and bright in the night. “Still, it’s kind of sad that you had to get my sister to finagle the whole thing.”

He barks a laugh, because oh yes, she’s with him. The fire and the refusal to back down. He lets one finger trace down the line of her neck, skirting the bite marks that aren’t his. Her mouth parts as she leans into his touch. It sets a flare off inside of him. Tease all she likes, she wants him.

“She’s a devious girl, and I’m very proud,” he says quietly enough that she has to lean a fraction further toward him to hear. Buffy’s eyes catch his. There’s a flicker of uncertainty, but then her gaze lingers on his mouth. Tells him all he needs to know. He slides closer to her. She doesn’t back away. Of course she doesn’t. Won’t back down, this woman, and God, he adores her for it.

She’s by all appearances still, but he can feel the heat radiating off of her like a flame. Her breaths come in soft pants as he skims his face close to her, mouth a hair’s breadth above her skin. Her scent fills his nose, strawberry and vanilla and the copper tang of blood. Always blood, it’s part of her, in her nail beds and at the root of her. Her hips shift, letting another scent waft to him—the musky, heavenly scent of her desire.

Rather than say anything, because he knows the words that threaten to break right out of his ribs, words she can’t return yet—if ever. But he can give them both this. He blows a cool breath over her skin, making her shiver and a small mewling sound escape her gorgeous mouth. He has half a hope that she’d get on her knees and take his cock in that amazing mouth. Probably won’t, but a man can dream. This all feels like a dream.

He lets his fingers trail down her arm until he reaches her hand, then he takes it. Pulling back slightly, just enough to make sure they can see each other, that there’s no way she could ever pretend that it isn’t him that’s doing this to her. He holds her gaze as he brings her hand to his mouth. He starts at her pinky, pressing a kiss to the pad of her fingers one by one until he reaches her thumb. Her back arcs, emphasizing the pert swell of her breasts, as she lets out a breathy sigh.

Still holding her gaze with his own, he’s drunk on the sight of her with her golden hair soft about her face and her lips parted and wanting. Then he turns her wrist up and kisses the inside of it, just on the pulse point. He feels her heartbeat against his lips, a tactile mirror to the eager beat of her heart in his ears.

“Spike—” She catches her lower lip in her teeth to keep from moaning too loudly. That’s all the encouragement he needs. He pulls her to him and then down. Down to the pile of blankets that don’t do much to soften the roof. Doesn’t matter. Her mouth is on his, kissing and biting. A growl rumbles in his throat and he flips her on her back. The move takes her by surprise. Enough so that he can pin her wrists above her head with one hand.

He does it before he can think it through and he stares down at Buffy. Her golden hair is a magnificent halo around her head, and her skin is luminous, but it’s the expression on her face. Those green eyes wide and mouth parted, not in desire but—shock?

It’s the expression that turns him practically to stone. It was an instinct, a knee jerk reaction. And well, he wants this. Wants her under him, wants her bound—not to lord it over her, but to let her let go. There’s a yearning ache in him to let her come undone and be there to put her back together. So she’ll know that she can unravel, and he’ll be there. He’ll bloody well be there.

Only, she sure as fuck didn’t care for the chains the first time. Not his finest moment. And yeah, she’d liked having him pinned. Didn’t mean turn about was fair play. He’d just hoped, maybe, they could—

“Spike,” she says cautiously as she arches her body toward him. Her heart beat isn’t wild. It’s steady. Not afraid, she’s not afraid. Her fingers touch his hand, curling around his knuckles. It’s awkward, but a point of connection he can’t deny. He lets her go. Lets her go and he sits back on his heels.

“Buffy, I—did I cross a line?” he asks. He doesn’t know. Pretty sure he’s gone too far again, can’t be trusted. Can’t understand. He’s too much of a monster.

Maybe he should offer to get a bloody soul, just to make it easier on her. There’s a dim recollection of some legend out Africa way, because like fuck is he going to get the damn thing and not have it tacked on properly. If he got cursed like dear old granddad, Spike’s pretty sure he’d lose his soul the second Buffy did damn near anything in his general vicinity.

“Not… exactly. You,” she hesitates as she sits up, hair falling over her shoulders. He wants to touch it, but forcibly stops himself from reaching for her. “You don’t know where the line is?”

He gives her a long, level look. “When I was human, the line was not so much as the glimpse of an ankle until marriage. As for vampires, not much for lines generally.”

“So you need a way to know where the line is,” she says slowly, as if she’s turning each word over and examining it before saying it. “And I need a way to tell you easily.” She purses her lips, thoughtful. Then, as if she’s testing the idea even as the words leave her mouth, she says, “We need a safeword, then.”

There’s no keeping the surprise off his face. He’s staring at her open mouthed like a gormless idiot. A smile twitches once, twice on his lips, and then he bursts out with a wild laugh. “Bloody hell, this is the greatest night of my unlife. How do you know about safewords?”

“I might’ve read an article about it one time,” she says with a discomfited squirm. Like hell he’s going to let her off that easily.

“Why?” He draws the word out as slowly and pitched as low as he can. “Oh why, Slayer, were you reading such a naughty article?” Her skin practically bursts into flame, she’s suddenly so warm. Oh to touch her, but if he does that, then he’ll never know. And he very much wants to know.

She mumbles, “I was trying to spice things up with, um, Riley. Didn’t work, but hey, I know about them.”

“Well his bloody loss, then, love. Or, oh no, don’t tell me, the little lamb couldn’t take what you’ve got?” The whole thing has his brain pinging from one extreme to the next. Gut churning jealousy straight through to maniacal glee that Buffy wants to explore her kink. And by God, he’s a bloke willing to go down every last avenue with her if she damn well wants. Anything. Everything. God, he’s tempted to offer to be in chains this sodding instant.

Problem: he has no fucking clue where to get chains in this town at this hour.

“Not—not exactly.” Her cheeks are on bloody fire, but she’s not staring him down. She’s not defiant. Gaze fixes to a corner of the roof. Her hands are in her lap. Those gloriously strong, powerful hands. Small, but Christ do they pack a punch. A punch he misses sometimes. Then off hand mentions, quick asides, things she covered over, begin to stack up in his mind. There’s a picture there, a picture that Spike doesn’t like the look of—of a woman of fire told to douse herself.

“Love, did he not want to, or was it that he—”

“He thought it was, um, of the freaky. And not something he thought a girl like me would be into.” She says it all blithely, but there’s hurt under it all.

Spike, for a moment, sees red. “I’m gonna kill him.”

Buffy snorts. “The chip?”

“Can get around the sodding chip. Don’t think I couldn’t, if I put my mind to it.”

“Yeah, you tried my freshman year. You weren’t very good at it.”

“I probably wasn’t really trying that hard, if you think about it.”

“Oh.”

The roof offers little distraction save for the sway of the treetops in the breeze and the clouds overhead. There’s a vulnerability to her that surprises him, even though he’s seen it more than a time or two. She’s such a mighty figure in his mind, it’s easy to forget that she can be hurt so easily. He’s trying to scrape together a coherent thought that isn’t about proving to the woman sitting across from him that she’s a marvel and anyone who made her think otherwise deserves to be in the sodding ground.

He fails miserably, so he falls back on a question that will probably get him punched but is compelled to ask anyhow. “So, out of curiosity, what is your safeword?”

“What makes you think I already have one?” she asks, raising her chin and glaring at him. There’s a cocky, delighted crow sitting in his chest to see her rise to the challenge. Just like that, she’s back. She’s back with him, not in the well of past hurts that delve into her heart. Hurts that she might just let him salve one day, let him be part of healing over. He could do it, would do it.

“Slayer, it’s you. You like to have all your weapons at the ready, you do,” he drawls. Spike risks a slide closer, his fingers dancing along the round of her shoulder. She doesn’t wrench away, so he leans in, head cocked in the way he knows annoys and also, against her better judgment, amuses her. “Now come on, be a love and tell us.”

Her lips purse and her cheeks puff out. Spike holds her gaze, his expectations clear on his face. No matter how she tries to preen and pose, Buffy likes to play. He’s seen it, known it for years. Gotten to experience it, finally.

Then the damn woman surprises him again by capturing his chin in her fingers and holding him still. She searches his face. Been doing that a lot of late, she has. This whole time since they’ve run out of Sunnydale. Buffy’s looking for something in him, and bugger him if he knows what it is. He follows the line of her gaze as it traces over him, desperately hoping to see the moment where she decides. Whatever it will be.

At long last she releases him with a huff and a dismissive flip of her hand. “It’s pineapple.”

“Pineapple it is, pet.” He gives her half a second to pull away—it’s enough time for her to react if she wants to. Must not, because he closes the distance between them, going for her wrists again. She lets him, oh fuck yes, she lets him. He stretches her arms over her head, and she’s stretched out underneath him. It’s intoxicating, seeing all that power under him like this. Then he gets his head in the bloody game, because he’s on a mission now. He lowers himself over her. Heat pours off of her like a bonfire. His mouth skims the shell of her ear.

“Gonna taste you, love.” With his blunt, human teeth, he nibbles along the curve toward her earlobe. Gently, he draws it into his mouth and suckles. She rewards him with a gasp and those strong hands grasping at his shoulders.

Working around her ear, he presses a kiss just behind it, making her wriggle. Grip firm on her wrists, he covers her with his body. He’s so bloody hard, aching, straining behind the fly of his jeans. Her gasp tells him she’s felt his cock against her thigh. He rasps his adoration against her skin, Feel what you do to me, Slayer? All for you, baby, all for you.

Her head lolls back, golden hair spilling against the fabric of the quilt as he kisses down her neck before flattening his tongue against the line of her jugular and tasting his way back up. She hisses, pressing her legs together, and sweet Christ, the musky scent of her is bloody magnificent.

Then Buffy, pliant, brilliant Buffy, gasps a single word in his ear. “Pineapple.”

With a groan, he disentangles himself and damn near throws himself to the far edge of the blankets. Dead lungs strain for oxygen they don’t need. His jeans are too tight, his sodding skin is too tight. He feels like he’s going to fly apart even though he was the one holding her down. Then she puts him back together with two words.

“You listened.”

“Yeah, that’s the point of a safeword, innit?”

“You’re trying, aren’t you?”

His head cocks. There’s more than one conversation happening right now, Spike is pretty sure. He’s an old hand at that, but rather than the stars Dru heard, Buffy’s having a conversation with herself. Both probably equally batty, but then he might just have a type. “Always will, love, for you.”

Buffy catches her bottom lip in her teeth, biting against a burgeoning grin. Though she can’t hide the wicked, delighted glint in the dark verdant wealth of her eyes.

They’re close to something here. He can sense it. Damn near taste it.

“Tell me, kitten,” he rumbles in her ear, “do you want to play?”

Her breath catches, her scent coils around him, and she fills his senses to overflowing. Then, blessedly, mercifully, she whispers, “Yes.”

***

Welp, that’s it. She’s gone full Bad Girl Slayer, and she does not care, because Spike is teasing her nipples through the fabric of her shirt and rubbing his erection against her thigh like they’re horny teenagers. Because they’re kissing each other like they’re trying to devour each other even though the roof is hard and not exactly comfy in spite of the thick quilt below her. Because the second she says pineapple he wrenches himself away with a low, agonized groan, but he does it.

On her word, one simple word, Spike does what she wants. It puts all the control in her hands. She knows she’s toying with him. He knows it, too. She’s pretty sure he enjoys being toyed with. The grin barely leaves his face as they part.

Spike is pressed against her the instant she nods again. His fingers cup her ass, strong and firm through the denim. Her hips lift instinctively, and he’s frotting against her leg again. The rich burr of his voice gives her a worshipful litanty, Buffy, Slayer, so hot, smell so good for me, you do, feel amazing like this, you’re a wonder, a bloody marvel.

He kisses down the line of her neck, skirting her bites again. She’s going to ask him about that one day, but her brain blisses out when he presses a kiss to the hollow of her throat and then licks all the way back up to the spot behind her ear that makes her squirm and make a plaintive sound in the back of her throat.

It takes all her willpower to keep her eyes open, to not lose herself in the feel of him against her. In the way his touch makes her skin feel electrified. Her breath comes in small gasps. Fingers curl in, the blunt ends of her nails pressing hard into the back of his hand. He keeps doing that, holding her wrists above her head. She’d tried that, before, with Riley. Only, she hadn’t felt like she’d been pinned at all. His hold hadn’t even been his full strength. A feather-light thing that hadn’t done much for either of them.

Spike, though. He’s holding her with all his strength. She could strain against it. Hell, she could break his hold, but it would be a struggle. An effort. The idea of really fighting him for it makes a corner of her mind zing, but then he skims his hand up under her shirt. In a smooth motion, only letting go of her wrists to complete the move, he takes off her shirt and shucks her out of her bra. Then, before she can protest the lack of his touch, he cups her breast, thumb circling her nipple teasing it into a stiff peak. Her body strains up into his with a gasp. The hard line of his cock is obvious through his jeans and she rubs herself against it. They both groan.

“Sodding hell, Buffy,” he gasps. His mouth doesn’t stop. Kissing, licking, nipping. Talking. God, he does talk a lot, but she feels like she’s soaking it all up. Like a dessert soaking up the rain of his adoration. “Gorgeous girl, bloody gorgeous girl you are. Wanna do something, pet, but you got your word right? You got that word, don’t you?”

“Uh-huh,” she manages, drunk on freeing herself from whatever kept her bound up inside her own head. The thought makes her giggle. She was keeping herself bound in her head, but now she’s kind of bound in real life. Meanwhile, inside her own head she feels—feels free.

“Something funny, love?” he asks, head tilted. He’s not annoyed. That’s obvious. Well, duh, Spike kind of eats up everything she does, but she didn’t think even he’d be okay with her having a little private giggle during. Her memories of sex and laughing prior to Spike are a sum total of zero.

“Sort of,” she admits, “but I’ll explain it later. What, um, are you going to do?”

“You’ll see,” he tells her with an unfairly sexy grin. Oh shit, it should be illegal for him to look at her like that. Down the line of his nose with the guyliner and the sexy tousled hair. Especially with how his skin looks less sallow and more like alabaster in the moonlight. “Your word, baby, you got it?”

“Yeah, yeah I have it.” She speaks in a semi-breathless rush, suddenly tingly all over.

Spike ducks his chin and then lets her wrists go. Before she can do more than pout in protest, his hands go to his belt. Slowly, he unbuckles it. Her eyes are drawn to it like iron to a magnet. Her mouth parts and she licks suddenly dry lips. Then he draws the belt out of his belt loops like he’s putting on a show. In a way, she supposes, he is. He’s giving her time. Time to use her word. She won’t though. Not now. Maybe later, but now she wants to see what he’s up to.

Carefully, cautiously, he stretches over her with the belt and slips it under her wrists. She looks up at his face as he fastens it. She kind of expects a glimmer of triumph—Spike’s finally getting to tie her up. What she sees is abject worship. Like he can’t believe this is happening at all. It makes that old ache under her ribs practically a memory, but it’s replaced by a wild pounding. Like her heart wants to leap out of her chest and go into his.

“That should be alright. Test it,” he tells her. “Make sure you’ve got circulation, love.”

“Right, yeah, um.” Buffy flexes her fingers and yeah, it feels okay. “It’s good, I think.”

He cocks his head down at her. “No word?”

“No word,” she breathes. His gaze is locked to hers for a long, attenuated moment. Like the distance between them is as pulled as far apart as it can go, and then, then he snaps back to her.

One of his hands holds hers down again. His other hand, though, is busy and deft. He pops the button on her jeans and starts to pull them down. Wiggling and raising her hips, she helps kick off her own clothes. Then she’s just left in her panties on a rooftop. His mouth is on her before she can take in a hitching breath. Down the line of her throat, across her collar bones, and then to her breasts. He teases her nipples, switching between mouth and hands, palming and pinching and sucking and licking. She’s writhing, the quilt underneath her bunching at her thrashing movements.

“Wanna say your word yet, Slayer?” he asks, voice low and dark against her skin.

“Not,” she pants, “not letting you win that easily.”

The glint in his eyes is the challenge that’s in her own. It’s got to be weird, how they can’t help but push each other.

Then he says, like it doesn’t matter to him, “Have it your way, kitten.”

Spike kisses and licks his way down her stomach. Her hands aren't held down anymore, but she doesn't want to move them. There's something she can't define about being stretched out and open. When he dips his tongue into her belly button, she can’t believe how she gasps and bucks. His chuckle rumbles right through her bones. It makes her legs fall open, splaying apart like she’s begging him to be there. To bury himself inside of her and give her what she wants.

Except Spike, a vampire practically famous for poor impulse control, veers off course and kisses his way down her left leg. He stops just above her knee and pays special attention to the dimple there. It draws a horribly pathetic whimper out of her. Between the frotting earlier and this, she’s practically sopping between her legs. She can feel her panties are totally soaked, and she wishes he’d rip them off and just damn well fuck her. But the bastard is playing with ankle, circling his forefinger and thumb around it and running that up her leg until he has to break the circle. The flat of his hand presses firmly into her flesh, massaging muscles that have been working hard since she was fifteen and barely known a night’s rest. Her calf, then her thigh, then around to the round of her ass. He presses and grips. Tension is worked out of her muscles, but there’s a throbbing ache between her legs.

She watches him, almost wanting to beg him, but she bites her lip so hard she tastes pennies. His nostrils flare, and then there’s that predator-sharp gaze.

“Buffy,” he rumbles, crawling up her like a jungle cat. His mouth hovers over hers, and she launches herself up at him. He sucks on her lip, moaning into her mouth. The moan makes all her parts spark. Cool fingers follow the line of her waist and pull down her panties before pressing into her. Her head lolls back, lip slipping out of his mouth with a wet pop. Her world goes out of focus as he inserts one finger, in and out, in and out, and then another, spreading her.

Her arms are still above her head, and she might be feeling pins and needles, but she doesn’t care. Legs splayed, some part of her thinks she’s a total slut, but she likes it. Spike is doing whatever he wants to her. She’s given him control, and it feels like she’s flying.

Then his fingers withdraw from her entirely. Her hips undulate up. Up and seeking his cock. Eyes squeezed shut, skin on fire, and nipples stiff and hard and sensitive enough to make her shiver at every slight breeze, she babbles, Please Spike, please, I want it, please, touch me, please keep touching me.

“I’ll keep touching you, promise,” he purrs. God, she could sink her teeth into his voice when he goes that low. She feels it in her pussy, when he talks like that. Then, the bastard that he is, switches his hands and massages her right leg the way he did her left.

Eyes popping open, she glares at him as he ministers to her with a benign smile on his face. Which is total bullshit. Spike’s never been benign in his entire literally damned unlife.

“Just say the word, kitten,” he drawls as his hands work up her leg. Firm and sure and fucking smug. There’s a part of her that wants to kick him. Kick him hard enough to launch him off the roof for toying with her like this. Problem: her legs want to wrap around him and bring him to her core. “Say the word,” he repeats, “and I’ll bring you home.”

Jaw jutting out, she glares at him. “Like hell.”

“Have it your way, love.” He shrugs, and then, the asshole that he is, stretches out over her but keeps his hips away from her. Goes so far as to pin one thigh to the ground with his knee so she’s spread and wanting and aching. Then with his free hand he gently massages her clit right over the hood. She's moaning and panting, but when she thinks she's getting close, he stops. It makes her keen. Then he gives her something else. He hovers his mouth over her neck, first one side, then, oh God, the side with the bites. He inhales deeply and then licks and nips, making her whole body thrum. Then he leaves that part of her alone again, his lack of mouth an ache, but his fingers are on her clit again. She’s close to the edge, her edge, then he stops. Back to her neck again, he keeps switching her about, and it’s driving her out of her mind. So far out of her mind that she feels like she’s whiting out behind her own eyes. Everything is a keening blur of sensation. She’s keening and whimpering and almost crying, and she can’t take it anymore.

She taps out. “Pineapple,” she gasps at last.

Spike crushes his mouth to hers and his hand leaves her bound wrists. He pulls away for exactly as long as it takes to strip himself. For a single perfect moment, she sees his body in the moonlight. Hard muscles marble pale outlined by shadow, and his cock straining and beaded with precum. She moans at the sight of him. A part of her notices that he looks as frenzied as she feels, that the slow march of driving her out of her mind was something he endured, too.

Well, she thinks with wild satisfaction, he did this to himself.

Then he’s over her, cock nudging at her clit. It makes her whimper again as electricity dances up her spine.

“Spike,” she breathes, “I said, pineapple, I said it.”

“Right, love, you did, you did,” he answers.

Gulping in that needless breath, he lines his cock up to her entrance. He holds himself above her, waiting until she meets his eyes. She loops her tied-together arms around the corded muscles of his neck, letting her fingers claw into the lean lines of his back. She nods, staring into eyes dark and yearning. Those eyes, how can he yearn even when they’re like this? It’s a wildly coherent thought, but then he slides inside of her. His cock is hard and fills her soft spaces, and she’s flying again.

His hips snap to hers, over and over and over. Driving into her. Her hips rise up to meet his, straining for the right angle. His cold breath brushes her cheeks, but the eye contact doesn’t waver. She won’t look away. Doesn’t want to look away as they come together.

Then he changes his angle, and the breath is driven out of her as some part of him grinds against her clit at each thrust. She rocks her hips against him as his chest brushes her nipples. Locking her legs around his back, she urges him on. Kicking at him with her heels, and he collapses onto her, burying his face in her neck. Pants and moans and groans leave them, along with agonized versions of each other’s names on their lips. It builds in her, her climax, and muscles of her pussy pull and squeeze at him. She can feel his hard length inside of her, and she wants more. He gives her more, and harder until she has to squeeze her eyes shut as she loses herself in the sensation of his strong body loving hers.

Nails of her still bound hands dig into his skin, and he suddenly fists her hair and pulls her head to the side. Alarm prickles along the back of her neck, but he doesn’t shift his face. Instead, blunt human teeth latch onto her neck. Right. Over. The. Bites.

Explosions go off behind her eyes and a scream wrenches out of her throat. She flings his name into the night, a wild, wanton Spike that breaks the quiet. His thrusts go wild as she feels herself clenching around him. A babbling, incoherent, Buffy, Slayer, fuck, love, love you, baby, yes, kitten, you take my cock, you take it.

He’s still thrusting, and she’s losing time behind her eyes as the world dissolves into pure sensation, pleasure shooting up and down her body. Her pussy swelling and pooling with sensual amounts of wetness, and her clit is pulsing and pounding. Lightning, again, from the top of her head to her toes and out her fingertips. More and more until it’s overflowing, until the banks of her are bursting.

Then, frighteningly, she’s shaking. Shivering. Almost like she’s convulsing. She can’t stop it.

“S-Spike,” she stutters, “t-t-too m-much. I-I, pineapple.” She flings the word at him, and he goes stock still. Pulling back, he takes in the state of her. There’s a wild, terrified slackness to his jaw. In the next instant, he slides out of her and pulls the fuzzy blanket around her before holding her to his chest. The climax isn’t done with her yet. Her whole body jerks in the circle of his arms, but in the blanket it doesn’t feel like too much.

It’s like she’s got chills, she’s still shaking. Spike holds her, careful not to touch her skin like he knows it wouldn’t be helpful right now. Instead, he’s using the blanket as a buffer. He does press his mouth against her temple, though he isn’t running his mouth like usual. He’s breathing. Slow, steady breaths. She matches the breathing. Drawing air into her lungs through her nose, out through her mouth. The blood stops rushing in her ears.

“There you go,” he says, because oh yeah, he can hear it too. One hand rubs her back through the blanket. “Sorry about that, pet. Looks like I missed the mark again.”

Buffy lets her head tip back with a frown. “Here I was thinking you’d be disappointed.”

“How the bloody hell could I be disappointed, Slayer? You just—you, the belt, and bloody hell, you just let me, Christ, you let me.” Spike’s voice goes a little squeaky, which would be funny if it wasn’t for an old worry that’s been with her for a long, long time.

“You know, me not being able to, um, you know—” Chewing on her lip, she can’t quite get the rest of the words out. When will that stop being a thing she thinks about? That she can’t do sex right? If she thinks about it, it’s ridiculous. Angel didn’t have a soul—and he’d been trying to hurt her in the way only he could with a young previously virginal girl. Then Parker and the ditching and Riley and the ditching.

Spike nuzzles at her cheek, making her think of a cat again. He is kind of feline sometimes. All grumpy and affectionate by turns, and then bitey when overstimulated, and oh. Bitey. Spike breaks into her thoughts before they can go anywhere else, “Happens, you know. You got living nerves and whatnot. Probably more sensitive, and that isn’t a bad thing. Something to suss out, is all, if you’re not brassed at me for, well, taking it too far.”

“Kind of on brand for you, taking things too far,” she retorts. “Anyway, I did have my word. I kind of just didn’t want to let you win.”

“We gotta introduce you to the concept of a draw, Slayer. Thing that’s in proper football.”

“A draw? Oh no, don’t like the sound of that.”

Spike’s chuckle is as warm and rich as a mug of hot chocolate. The kind she had once at a fancy place in LA where they did pot chocolate, all melted chocolate and cream that made her brain fuzz on the sheer amount of sugar. Okay, she’s probably losing her mind if she’s comparing Spike’s voice to food. Or she’s hungry. Or both.

“Either way, Slayer, we best get cleaned up, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

After he undoes the belt around her wrists, they help each other stand up. Buffy’s legs have only a slight tremor, thank you very much. She is not totally legless. It’s a little awkward, finding their clothes again after Spike flung them somewhere. If this keeps happening, she’s going to have to teach him about setting things aside in a reasonable place. That thought alone startles her. Holy crap, how did she go from Spike is gross and creepy to make sure he knows to not mess up my clothes after tearing them off of me? Well, no, she knows how they got here. It just takes her by surprise when she counts out the days in how little time it took to get there.

Or, maybe it's not something that's only been going on for days. The thought stays with her as she gets dressed and all the way back down the ladder before they slink back into the apartment. Spike leaves the quilt up on the roof. For later, she wonders, or just because he knows she wouldn’t want to bring it back inside. Too dirty. From the roof grit, she thinks furiously at herself. That doesn’t stop the full body flush from blooming on her skin.

Spike, being Spike, notices, But he doesn’t call her on it. Instead, it seems like there’s something he’s working himself up to. She’s reminded of when he slunk back to the apartment way back at the start of this thing. After she demanded an apology for the Bot and he cracked open a part of himself for her. It’s in the way his head is angled away from her and his shoulders are bunched up. Even the curve of his spine, it’s like he’s bracing for something.

In spite of all evidence to the contrary, Buffy braces for Spike to tell her that they’re done. That he’s going to try to cut her loose or that he’s had his fun and he’s over it. Finally gotten the Slayer screwing out of his system and—she stands ramrod straight, nails biting into her palms. It can’t be that. Can it?

“Slayer, Buffy, I—” There’s a faltering hesitation to him. Not something she usually, or ever, sees on him. Then he jerks his head to the side. “Nevermind. Forget it. Can’t do this cause it’s stupid, and I’m stupid. ‘Night, Slayer.”

“Whoa, whoa, you don’t get to just decide that,” she hisses. One, two, steps and she’s closed the distance between them. He practically bristles at the invasion of his space.

“Decide what? That—that I’ve gotten enough tonight. I don’t want to muck it up alright, and you’ve given me, God.” His anger ratchets down. The apple of his throat bobs as he visibly pulls himself together. “You don’t know what you’ve given me tonight, love. It was—it was everything. Shouldn’t ask for more. Anyhow, it’s stupid.”

For a terrible moment, she’d really thought it was over. That when he said he’d gotten enough, it was the end of the whatever-it-was between them. She’d sucked in a breath like she’d been stabbed right in an old wound that hadn’t healed quite right.

Then he’d changed the script on her. He wanted more. More of her, more of this.

Buffy rests her hand on his wrist. His gaze drops to her hand. Spike’s gone startled-tense. “Come on, you can tell me, right? Or,” her mouth curves in a grin as she catches his eyes, those blue eyes that hold more feeling than she’s ever been able to square away. “You going to use the word and call it off?”

“Oh.” Delight, wicked and wild, blooms across his features. “Kitten’s got claws.”

“Spike, give or get over it,” she orders. He rolls his shoulders. It’s something he does when he wants to look like he doesn’t care. His hands, though, tell another story. Slowly, he presses his hand to her palm and closes his fingers over the back of her hand.

“Was wondering, more like hoping, you might let me—” One of those unnecessary breaths, he braces himself and watches her out the corner of his eyes. “Let me take care of you. You know, clean you up, hold you for a bit? Kind of the done thing. Anyway,” he says quickly, “didn’t that naughty article of yours cover that part? The after?”

Mouth frozen in a small O of surprise, she can’t even begin to label all the feelings she’s feeling. They cascade through her. A torrent of warmth and tenderness and affection and the feeling that they’re mirrored by him. No reflection for a vampire, but he can feel, and he feels so much, and she feels so much. She’s so full. Buffy pulls air into her lungs, and it’s like she’s breathing without any kind of restriction or structure for the first time in a long, long time. Like she can draw the fullest, deepest breath she possibly can. Like before now, she’s been cinched and banded and told to run as fast she could only to always fall short. That’s why, she realizes. You can’t run if you can’t breathe.

“It did,” she says, voice soft and quiet. “It sounded really nice. After.” It had sounded more than nice. It had sounded intimate and loving in a way that she hadn’t really been able to picture until just now.

“Can be nice.” He’s watching her, waiting on her word. Buffy’s shoulders drop and relax as she tugs him toward her.

“Spike,” she says, swinging their clasped hands between them. “Would you take care of me?”

The expression on his face, she doesn’t have all the words for it. She can only call it poignant. A man getting everything he dreamed of but never dared think possible. “Yes. Oh, please, yes.”

***

Water sluices down Buffy’s golden back in warm rivulets. They’re both in the cramped confines of the bathtub shower, and in spite of his cock having its own ideas and the general fact he always wants her, he’s enjoying this moment for what it is. The come down, the after, the connection after he’d driven her to a high so shattering she’d been trembling under him and against him.

The washcloth is soft and leaves trails of soap bubbles on her skin. One arm then the next. He’s thorough, lifting her arm and going so far as to kneel and wash her feet one at a time. She turns and giggles down at him, smile making those glorious eyes dance and her wonderfully imperfect nose scrunch in that playful way that might just be his.

Steam fills up the air. The space between them is hazy, but he drinks in the sight of her. Even if it goes no further than this (but oh, please let it keep going, going for as long as she’ll let it), he’ll always have the memory of locking his own belt around her wrists, of watching her watch him with trust. Enough to make even the demon that he is weep.

More, he did it right. Was right for her. Doing this, too, it’s giving him more than he’s known in over a century. Her pink painted toes nudge at his thigh and point at the dumbest part of him. He shrugs. Not like he can give his cock orders. Though, she could. No, no that’s not what’s happening right now.

Spike stands and reaches around behind her. They’re close, chest to chest. Her gasp is a lovely sound in his ear. It would be easy, so easy, to hoist her up and fuck her against the shower wall. But he promised her something, and he wants to follow through. He shuts the water off, and they’re suddenly bereft of the constant source of warmth. He leaves the shower first, stepping over the rim of the tub and holds out a fresh towel for her. She steps into it, letting him wrap it around her. Toweling himself off, he pulls on a pair of clean sweats before gently drying Buffy off. And she keeps on letting him.

Dry, he holds out the pajamas she snuck into her room for like they’re some kind of offering. She takes them and gets dressed while he busies himself cleaning up the bathroom. Putting away towels, capping body wash. He catches her watching him, amusement in the lift of her eyebrows. He raises an eyebrow back at her. She taps her mouth and points to the east wall. Dawn’s sleeping.

Spike cocks his head, and yes, the Little Bit is asleep. And probably worn out the batteries of his Walkman by now. Girl isn’t stupid, and he wonders how long he and Buffy are going to do this song and dance. The thought begins to tarnish the moment and his thoughts, so he pushes it to the side.

Bathroom tidy, he takes Buffy’s hand in a gesture that predates his death. Back down the hall, he’s got a choice. Could cuddle up on the couch for a minute, but he doesn’t want to do that there. Feels less intimate. Doesn’t want that, doesn’t want less with her ever again.

“Know the cot’s not quite as comfy, but,” he struggles to find the words. Fuck, why is it so bleeding difficult sometimes? To say all the things that are in him? Well, he knows why. Doesn’t make it any easier.

“Yeah, okay. Can’t stay long, but you and Dawn did make the nook pretty cozy,” she says. Christ, how can she unmake him in a sentence and not even realize it. Does she know? Does she know how much he wants this, as much as he wants to move in her, move with her, to press their bodies together and strive, this is so much greater than even that. In the quiet after when he’d been booted from beds and told he couldn’t measure up.

“Like to think I’ve got practice, making things comfy,” he drawls, mentally kicking his rubbish thoughts away from the present. The past, that’s all the past. Buffy’s here now, and she fills his world.

He sinks onto the cot and shuffles all the way to the wall, giving her as much space as possible. The fuzzy blanket didn’t get dirty (thankfully, because he quite likes the thing, all soft and whatnot), and he gets under it. Buffy hesitates. For once, Spike’s hackles don’t go up at her uncertainty. A whole heap of new things for her tonight, and here’s one more. Getting under a blanket with him.

Rolling her eyes, at herself he reckons, she slides under the covers and curls into him. Spike reaches out and tugs the curtains closed. Like last night, the red twinkle lights play across her features, casting her in patterns of light and shadow. Sadly, they wash out the green of her eyes, but he knows it’s still there.

There’s a manic part of him that’s screaming, roaring that she’s in his arms, in his space. The rest of him, though, is struck bloody well dumb. Because this is the Slayer, the best Slayer he’s ever faced, and she’s willingly in the circle of his arms, letting him rub her back in slow, lazy circles as she breathes her warm, living breath against his bare and dead chest.

“Spike?” His name is a question. Angling his head down, he finds her gaze set on some point over his shoulder. “I read an article, but how do you know about this?”

“Uhhhhhh. Why—why. Do you need to know?” He hates how his voice rises, how the panic rising in him is as fast and sharp as a thrown dagger.

“I suppose not. I get curious, I guess. I mean, I am all too aware that you—what you used to be like. But Angel never was super forthcoming. And I don’t know, you’ve got all this experience, and I don’t, but if I know, maybe it won’t feel so, um, unbalanced?” She gnaws at her lip again. Makes him lose himself for a moment, when she bit her lip hard enough to bleed and he sucked her magnificent blood down right along with her moans. Fuck, he’s going to be hard for ages if he keeps thinking about that.

Then he catches up to what she’s saying, and well. He’s far, far from a good man. He knows that. But like bloody fucking hell is he going to be worse than Angel when it comes to her.

Also, girl’s got a funny notion of unbalanced.

“Could be unbalanced if you tried, love,” he tells her. “You got the power here, and you know it. So I know how to do things, but you? You’re the one calling the shots.” He watches the idea take root in her. She’s not sure about it. Not entirely. Then he takes a bracing breath and plunges ahead. “Anyhow, you know I was in New York in the seventies, right?”

“Yes,” she says, voice and expression flat. “I am aware.”

“Right, well. Before that, was a bit of a scene. The kink community was pretty thick on the ground, along with the poofters and dykes—”

“Whoa, way wrong terms!”

“That’s what you’re going to get upset about?”

“You did what you did in the past. No one can change that, but you can change the words you use in the present.”

“... You went to some seminar about how to talk to your gay friend, didn’t you?”

The pouty lip makes an appearance, along with the usual associates: mullish jaw and narrowed eyes. Before he can so much as comment, she nestles further against him. “Maybe,” she mutters against his chest.

Can’t help it, he chuckles. Could just picture it. Buffy sitting there all eager to be a good friend. Christ, she’s so good. It comes off of her in waves, he thinks. That’s why he’s changed. She can’t help but be so good some of it comes off on the people around her. And thank Christ he’s stuck close to her, to become better so he can be with her. The thought of trying to be his old self again, for all the blood and rush and crunch—doesn’t compare to tonight.

“More story now,” she demands, poking his chest with one very pointy and strong finger. He puts on a wince, which she smartly doesn’t believe in the slightest.

“Not much more to the story,” he says. “Got involved in it for a spell. Group stuff mostly. Was a lark, and Dru had fun. Didn’t.” He grimaces. “Didn’t dine where we slept, if that’s what you were going to ask.”

“I wasn’t.” Her voice is suddenly small. He’s buggered it up, he knows that. Was having a nice moment, and just because he had to one up Angel, now he’s got her remembering how he’s a monster and doesn’t even have a sodding soul to redeem him. It’s just him, and it won’t ever be enough.

He’s shut his eyes, because he can’t bring himself to look her in the eye now. Then he feels the warmth of her hand on his cheek. Before he can open his eyes, to make sure this isn’t some trick, he feels her forehead press against his. “I know what you are Spike,” she says. “I can’t forget. But you—you’re here now. You’re who you are now, and I think—I think I kind of like this guy.”

“You do?” The William of him comes to the fore unbidden. Or, no. He was bidden. Pulled up from the depths of himself, though to be honest the pathetic sap isn’t that far below the surface these days. Eyes open, he searches her face. Doesn’t know what he’s looking for, if he’s more terrified of revulsion or acceptance. Either would undo him, both options make him quake.

“Yeah, even if you annoy me sometimes.” She’s grinning, and he waits for it. “Or a lot of the time.” There it is. Doesn’t even mind. It’s part of the dance they do, and he wants to dance with her for as long as he can.

“Could say the same about you, Slayer,” he taunts, but gently, voice a low rumble. She smacks at his chest. Barely a love tap. He’ll take it. He’ll take it all. Spike presses a kiss to her temple. The thrum of her blood is a warm push against his lips.

“I like this after,” she sighs into him. “Can we have this for a while longer?”

“Course, love,” he says, curling around her. “Long as you like.”

***

The red lights don’t help her see much in Spike’s nook. Buffy lifts her head off of the pillow, trying to get her bearings. How long did she sleep? From the crusties behind her eyes, probably only a couple of hours. She can’t see much save for Spike’s body beside her. He’s cool, but it feels nice. She’s always slept warm. Could be handy to have her own personal heat sink.

He’s shuffled down on the cot, head resting on her chest. Unsurprisingly, the vampire has pressed his ear right over her heart. It should freak her out. Should have her tumbling out of the cot, out of his nook, out of his arms faster than she could blink. Instead, it feels… comforting. Does he find it comforting, she wonders, to listen to her heart? Not for freaky blood reasons, but to just… listen to it?

She breathes deep, then wonders if she’s going to wake him up. Well, she probably should wake him up before she sneaks back into her room and her own bed. And yet, she wants to stay.

Oh, oh how she wants to stay. Stay here, and here is a whirl of images and feelings—the apartment, the Y, her students, Navy Pier and Dawn and fireworks, and Spike. A dozen different versions, all of them ones she knows, and one of them is the one in her arms right now.

Her fingers thread through his platinum hair. The touch makes him stir. He lifts his head from her chest slowly. Sleep doesn’t cling to him the way it does her. Alert and grinning at her, the dope that he is.

Then he frowns, but before she can ask what’s wrong, the curtain of Spike’s nook is flung back with the harsh jangle of metal hooks on the metal rod. Light from the living room window floods the nook, outlining the figure of Dawn. Dawn who is pointing at them with manic glee and declares, “I knew it!”

Notes:

Oh girl that feeling of safety you prize
Well it comes with a hard hard price
You can't shut off the risk and pain
Without losin' the love that remains
We're all riders on this train

 

So you been broken and you been hurt
Show me somebody who ain't
Yeah I know I ain't nobody's bargain
But hell a little touchup
And a little paint

 

You might need somethin' to hold on to
When all the answers they don't amount to much
Somebody that you can just talk to
And a little of that human touch
--"Human Touch" by Bruce Springsteen

I maintain that Spike's love of jackets is a Victorian holdover when men wore jackets, damn it. Completes the look.

Also, the belt makes a return! If one mentions a possible sex prop, then it must be used within three chapters. I don't make the rules.

Chapter 19: Handle with Care

Notes:

Smut warning for the final section. :)

Buffy’s not sure who she’s going to kill first, Spike, who is being suspiciously quiet, or her sister. Her sister who is dancing around the apartment’s living room and chortling like a third rate cartoon villain.

“I knew it! I knew you guys were going to get together! Oh! Oh, was it the singing? Buffy, did you go for the signing? I mean, that was pretty good, though I think he totally wussed out on the song. Whatever, it happened! Yes! This is the best day ever!”

“Dawn!” Buffy shouts, trying to get her sister’s attention. Dawn, though, is on an unstoppable verbal tide of glee.

“Oh, oh! Can he move in after we get back to Sunnydale? Like, duh, probably in the basement, but it would be cool if he could be around all the time, and we could get him like his own minifridge.”

“Dawn!” Her name has all the stopping power of a soft cheese.

“So are you guys like together-together, or are you just knocking boots?”

“DAWN!”

Their upstairs neighbors finally pound on the floor. That makes Dawn press both her hands over her mouth, but her eyes are bright and shining and joyful. Buffy lets her head fall to her chest and rubs at her temples. She didn’t want to do this. Tomorrow night, they’re supposed to drive out of Chicago and make it back to Sunnydale. She doesn’t need this on top of everything else.

“Sorry, Buffy,” Dawn says with exactly zero apology in her tone. “I’m just really happy for you, is all. Like, this is good right?”

Buffy screws her eyes shut. Last night—and God, she’d been so stupid, thinking she’d just wake up before morning because that’s what she usually did, oh no. Apparently, bondage and shattering orgasms totally put her down for the count. Only, it wasn’t just the sex. Curling up with Spike, that sense of being cared for. Tended to—the sense of being able to breathe.

“You’re happy, right?” Dawn asks, smashing Buffy’s thoughts to itty bitty pieces.

This is what she didn’t want. She doesn’t want Dawn’s questions while also feeling Spike’s laser-focus attention. Stuck between her sister’s overwhelming excitement and Spike’s big feelings, there’s little old Buffy who doesn’t feel much like the Slayer and more like a girl who’s not sure if she can trust happy anymore. She likes the idea of it, but isn’t sure if it’s going to ever fit right on her. Like a dress that she loves the look of, but when she tries it on, it sags in some places while being too tight in others.

“Dawn,” she says, and that’s as far as she gets. She doesn’t know how to answer any of those questions. Though, there is one thing she can do. She raises her head and narrows her eyes at her sister. “How the hell do you know the phrase knocking boots?”

“Oh that,” Dawn says with an off-hand flick of her hand. “I heard Anya say it before Xander reminded her that was something I shouldn’t know about. But like, I’ve had health class Buffy. I know that sex is a thing that people do, otherwise, well, I guess that’s not how I was born, not really. Other people, though, that’s how people happen.”

“It’s too early for this.” Buffy’s voice is thin and sad even to her own ears. Then she looks over her shoulder to Spike. He’s ensconced himself as far back into his nook as he can go. All but pressed into the corner and conveniently out of Dawn’s line of sight. Oh, the bastard. He’s watching her with a shuttered expression. No idea if he’s doing that because he doesn’t know which way to jump or if it’s because he doesn’t know which way she’s going to jump.

Which is probably understandable since she doesn’t even know which way she’s going to jump.

Then Dawn pokes her head into the nook and grins at Spike like the partner in crime that she is. “I told you it would work! We Little Mermaid’d the shit out of this.”

“Dawn, language!” Buffy scolds by sheer reflex.

Spike, also apparently on reflex, scoffs, “Telling you, Niblet, that the Disney version is bollocks.”

“You know, there’s a big old lack of thank you Dawn, and ta, Little Bit—”

“I do not sound like that!” Buffy protests.

“Accent’s all wrong,” Spike says.

“Here I am, having done all the hard work and zero acknowledgement,” Dawn rants, going back to pacing the living room. “At the very least I should be getting pancakes and bacon. But instead I’m getting yelled at about language and how Disney butchers classic children’s tales. You two have the worst priorities.” Dawn finishes her tirade by flopping on the couch with a sulky pout and overdramatic kick of her feet.

Buffy can’t help it. She turns back to Spike. He’s looking as off-base as she feels. Which, great. Neither of them know what to do. Usually Spike can handle Dawn when Buffy’s at a loss, which, wow okay, she’s really been relying on Spike to handle the emotional state of a fourteen year old girl.

“And another thing!” Dawn says, sitting up. That hits Buffy’s limit for little sister rants sponsored by an overblown sense of authority.

“No more things!” Buffy interrupts. “I don’t know if I can handle any more things! No, I know I can’t!”

“Well you could start by answering one question!”

“Oi, now, Little Bit,” Spike says. It’s not quite a snap or a growl, but it’s firm. Thankfully still in his sweatpants, he shuffles off the cot as he pulls on a shirt—of the many things Buffy mandated that Spike be as dressed as possible around Dawn, and he does it now by habit, she thinks—and stands hands on hips looking down at the girl he sees as his own sister. “You ambushed us both this morning, so you can’t get high and mighty about Big Sis being on the back foot here.”

Surprise and confusion paint Dawn’s face. Then her cheeks puff out. “You’re being so unfair.”

“Unfair?!” Spike’s voice warbles. “Un-bloody-fair? Girl—”

“Yeah, unfair! I totally deserve to know what my home life is going to be like!”

“Dawn, don’t you dare pretend that this is about knowing what things are going to be like when we get home!” Buffy’s on her feet now, standing next to Spike at the back of the sofa and glaring down at Dawn. She blinks, suddenly realizing that she’s… standing next to Spike and they’re… parenting Dawn together?

Her jaw clenches so tightly her teeth squeak.

Dawn, though, sinks into the couch cushions, big blue eyes shifting from Buffy’s face to Spike’s, for all the world looking like a kid with their hand caught in the metaphorical cookie jar. For the first time, Buffy’s watching as Dawn starts to realize that maybe, just maybe, having her sister-slash-guardian and her vampire best friend-slash-older-brother figure on the same side might not work out that great for her.

Put like that, Buffy’s almost half convinced that asking Spike to move in would be worth it. Just to keep her chaos gremlin of a sister in line.

“I was just trying to help,” Dawn says, voice small.

“Gloating kind of ruins the helping, Dawnie,” Buffy says wearily.

Dawn perks up. “So you admit I helped!”

“I’m going to kill her,” Buffy says to the air.

“Wait, so I’m about to have been tortured for nothing?” Spike asks, for all appearances upset. But now that she knows what to look for, she can see how he’s playing it up. “That’s just rude, Slayer.”

“That’s me. Zero respect for torture endured when my little sister is being a total pain in the butt.”

“Fine, if you want to be totally confusing for everyone around you, I don’t want to be around you,” Dawn declares. She slides off the couch and slinks back to the room she and Buffy have been sharing.

Buffy grips the back of the sofa. Fingers dig into the upholstery hard enough to make the wooden frame underneath it creak. She stares at the far wall. In the black mirror of the TV, she’s a lone figure obscured by the glare of way too early morning sunlight filtering in through the tree outside the big bay window.

Standing up, she cants her hip and rests it against the back of the sofa, arms crossed over her chest. Spike’s watching her with a tilt to his head. She wants to lash out at him. Blame him for not waking her up, for landing them in the exact situation she didn’t want. It would be easy. An easy out. Paying out on Spike is a years-long habit that she knows she should break, but breaking it would mean—a lot of things.

Then, he does what he’s been doing for a while now. Totally flipping the script on her.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Shoulda gotten you out of there before she woke up.”

Buffy scrubs at her face. “I didn’t ask you to.”

“Should’ve figured.”

“Didn’t we cover that neither of us can read minds?”

“Least not anymore.”

“I told you, you do not want that power. It comes with a side helping of crazy.”

“Never been crazy myself. Might be a lark. All the loonies do seem to have a grand old time of it.”

“Unless you get chucked in the loony bin.”

“Nah, wouldn’t let them bin you, love.”

“Oh my God, you have a type.”

“Saying that like you don’t.”

The corner of her lip twitches. Once, twice. Three times and she’s snorting and laughing until tears leak from the corners of her eyes. Spike isn’t laughing, but he’s got that soft smile that, now that she knows how much he really, really cares, has the edges of concern in it. He likes seeing her laugh. He wishes she was laughing for the right reasons.

God, what a mess.

It takes a minute or so of gulping down air. Spike waits her out, not trying to get her to calm down or talk sense into her. Just waiting. Though, he cautiously runs his hand down her arm until he can curl his fingers under hers. She lets him and squeezes. Squeezes hard. He squeezes back. It’s almost painful. Painful and real.

One breath, then another and she’s back under control. Then she takes her hand back and wraps her arms around herself. “I need to talk to her. She won’t—won’t understand.” Buffy doesn’t say that she barely understands herself.

“Better take her out to breakfast, then.” Spike’s fingers twitch. Toward her, she thinks. He stuffs them in his sweats pockets. She’s not sure if she wants him to reach for her again or not. She’s not sure what she’d do if he did.

“I’m not sure if this is a conversation I want to have in a cafe.” She snorts, thinking of how she’d have to code it in case someone overhears. This isn’t Sunnydale where the freaky is something people either know about or have military-grade blinders about.

Spike works his jaw and has approximately a thousand things flit across his features. Then he huffs and tilts his head away from her. “Just figured you’d rather not have that conversation around me.”

Buffy’s eyelids flutter shut. Right. Vampire hearing. Spike would be able to hear, and while he probably could shut it out, he wouldn’t. Spike is, well, Spike. He’d be unable to stop himself. But he’s taking the step to remind her of that. It’s not perfect, but it’s something that she’s starting to value more. It’s Spike trying.

The whole thing feels unwieldy at times. Mostly at times like this. When she’s caught up in the moment, when it’s mouths and hands and bodies, it’s easy. Way, way too easy. Even in the aftermath, when it’s just them in that nook, when their arms are around each other and he looks at her like she’s a gift—she can almost believe it.

In the harsh light of day, though, standing next to him and contemplating what comes next. It all slips away from her. All that’s left is the feeling of trying to climb out of a sandpit. The whole landscape shifts and slides under her fingers until she’s right back where she started.

“I—” she starts, and then clears her throat. “Anything you want me to pick up?” she asks. It’s banal and simple. It’s avoiding a whole hell of a lot.

Spike shakes his head. “Was thinking I’d find a way to occupy myself while you girls are out. Already sussed out the best tunnel routes, so I reckon I should get blood and stock up. Maybe swing by a hardware store for a cool box and whatall. Easier than trying to find what we need on the drive back.”

“Look at you, making a reasonable plan,” she says, trying to lightness in her tone. She doesn’t quite hit the mark. If he hears the miss, he doesn’t call her on it.

“Bound to happen, sooner or later,” he says with a shrug.

There’s a gap between where she is and where she’s going. She should head to her shared bedroom with Dawn. Should cajole her sister into a breakfast out, should probably spend more time with Dawn in general. Should make herself do something. Instead, she feels a pit of dread form up again in her stomach. Everything’s about to kick back into motion again. Plans and life and the drive. Thinking about that three day drive back, about how long it will take and the hours she’ll have to sit in the passenger seat and know what’s at the end of the road.

It feels worse than the certainty that’s sitting at the center of her. That yawning, hungry road that will eat her to pieces if she lets it. Running away was one thing. Running toward, yeah she does that. This feels like something on a different order of magnitude, though.

Buffy scrubs her face and stands up. Spike tenses, as if he’s ready to, not catch her, but do something. He’s caught between action and stopping himself from reaching for her. Another thing she’s not sure how to sort out. Does she want him to let her go, or does she want him to hold on? There’s no answer that comes to the surface. She turns away and heads to her room and the sister inquisition.

***

Cigarette dangling from his mouth, Spike stalks through the Chicago access tunnels. A week or more, and he’s gotten the local area pretty well mapped out. Good thing, too, seeing as his head is full of thoughts that have nothing to do with what he told Buffy he was going to do. Which, yeah, he’s going to do that, too, but not before he tries to get himself under some kind of control.

No shaking the last two nights, the best two nights of his whole sodding existence. Nothing else comes close. The sheer connection, like an electric current between them. How when he touches her, when she’s touching him, it feels like he’s able to touch some part of her that’s not her skin or her body. The glorious part of her that’s her. The ineffable essence of her that he’ll never be able to capture in words, no matter what the Niblet thinks of his incompetent scribbling. It also feels like she’s reaching him. Whatever he is, he feels it. Feels it when her hands grip him and she stares into his eyes, when he’s sunk inside of her and she pulls him closer, when in the come down she doesn’t pull away.

Has him pinballing in his own head when she’s not around. Easier, when she’s close. When he can smell her and see her and hear her heartbeat and steady breathing. He feels grounded. Without her, though, he’s hanging by a tether. It’s too much and not enough at the same time. She overwhelms him so easily. The magnificence of her that pulls at everything that he is—man and monster alike—pulls him up and calls him on like a bloody siren. Not for the first time, Spike understands old man Odysseus, tied to the mast with unstoppered ears. To hear the beauty of great deeds and remain unscathed.

Only, Spike knows he’s not unscathed. Not unchanged. He is changed. Fuck if he knows what he’s become, though. Not like he can tell, being inside his own head and all.

Especially no buggering clue if whatever he is now will be enough for her. Desperately, pathetically, he hopes he is. That right now she’s taking Dawnie out to some cafe for what Yanks think is a breakfast and she’s forced to admit that she loves him. Or, at least, that she’s starting to love him and wants him in her life. In both their lives. That there’s something real happening. That, somehow, at the end of this, he’ll be allowed in.

That, underneath what she tells Dawn, what they’re cobbling together is enough to keep her on the good side of the dirt.

Ash flecks and flakes away from the dog end of his cigarette. Spike flicks it down to the concrete and grinds it under the toe of his boot with more force than necessary.

“Best get to it,” he mutters to himself. Daylight’s burning, and he’s set on getting everything he needs before sunset. Sunset when he’ll have one last night to try to touch Buffy Summers and hold her to him. Because as much as he wants in, for the first time in over a century he wants something else more. Something he hopes he can do by sheer dint of bloody mindedness and refusal to let go.

He wants her to keep breathing. Whatever it takes.

For now, though, he better get himself to the hardware store and see if they’ve got a cool box and some of those cold packs. Last thing he needs is to show up in Sunnyhell, trying to take on the Hell Bitch again and not being full up. Might pick up a few other things, too.

Power tools could be some fun payback for the torture.

***

“So,” Dawn says around a mouthful of syrupy pancake. “Are you and Spike together-together or just—?”

“Don’t say it,” Buffy warns.

Dawn rolls her eyes and, in sarcasm thick enough to be its own sedimentary layer, says, “Special hugging?”

Buffy sips at her coffee, delaying the answer for as long as she can. The cafe is cute and not too crowded since it’s closer to noon than morning. Only a few other patrons, a white-haired pair of old ladies drinking tea and playing cards, and a single older guy who's looking through the newspaper.

“That’s a hard question,” she says slowly. Dawn blinks at her dumbly.

“That’s a hard question?” Incredulity drips off of her sister’s voice.

Buffy feels a squirm work through her hips, but she squashes the movement. Calm and collected. And yet. Even though Spike’s probably far away—at the hardware store by now, she guesses—she feels the phantom weight of his attention. Of those big feelings that she’s not trying to say don’t exist anymore. That wall between them is gone, smashed to tiny pieces. As are a whole lot of other walls.

She has so few walls left.

“It’s not like we don’t have a complicated history,” she says dryly. That’s good. It’s true, too. Angel, at least, had come to her with his own brand of help at first. Spike had rolled into town with the objective of killing her and healing his crazy lover. All the weirdness and back and forth over the years should keep her from even remotely considering all the things they’ve done.

But he’s different. Somewhere along the way, all those differences have piled up and toppled over into something else.

Dawn bites down on a strip of bacon while Buffy stirs her muesli bowl a little more.

“I guess,” Dawn says, only a little sullen. “I just—whatever. You won’t care.”

“Dawn, don’t say that. Of course, I care. You’re my sister. I know this whatever-it-is with me and Spike might be confusing.” Buffy’s pulled up short by her sister’s glare and she corrects, “Okay, it is confusing. How we can be… together but not. But I have more important things to think about other than the disaster that is my life. I have you to think about.”

Dawn pushes her fork around on her plate. The clink of silverware against the ceramic reverberates against Buffy’s teeth. She covers Dawn’s hand with her own and holds it tight. As tight as she dares.

“Dawn, you’re the most important thing, person,” she corrects quickly, “the most important person there is to me. I love you so much. No one made me love you, I just do. You have to come first. Now more than ever, you will always come first. Any guy, he’s always going to take second, and thinking about him is going to take second. Doesn’t matter who it is, doesn’t matter how he makes me feel—”

“How does Spike make you feel?” Dawn asks quickly. Buffy stifles a scream.

“Oh my God, why?” It’s a plaintive, pathetic question. She’s the Slayer, but she’s being roundly defeated by her little sister. Dawn’s hammering on the point, and yeah, she knew this wouldn’t be easy, but damn it, she can’t even get her own thoughts in order!

The old ladies having tea cast a few glances their way, but shake their heads and tut. The old guy is totally hidden by his newspaper, and there’s no sign of the waiter. No one’s going to save her from any of this. Not that she needs saving, except. Dawn’s gone full Sullen Teen. Buffy takes that back, she totally needs saving.

She needs saving from her little sister and her pointed, prodding questions. She needs saving from her own heart. Her heart feeling like there’s a different answer to everything the deeper she digs. She can feel the surface of her ossifying, hardening over like bone, closing over the part of her that’s tender and pained and hurt, but under all that, under everything, there’s a—a reaching, grasping part of her. God, how she wants to hold on.

If she could just trust that someone will hold onto her right back. Just as tight and fierce and never, ever let go.

She could almost, almost think that he would. If anyone would, it would be him.

She doesn’t know if it’s enough.

“Dawn,” she manages at last. Then she licks her lips and tries again, reaching for her sister’s hand. Not long ago, she pressed bloody hand to bloody hand. Summers’ blood. They’re one and the same. Same blood, same bones, same heart. Her heart, walking around in the world. Sitting right across from her. The heart she has to protect no matter what.

“Dawn, I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry it can’t be perfect. I’m sorry I’m not better. I can’t give you answers because I don’t have them for myself. And before you ask about knocking boots again.” She puts up a hand to forestall the question, because Dawn’s already got her mouth open to blurt something horrifying at her. “I can’t answer that because I don’t know what we’re doing. We kind of… fell into it. Didn’t plan it—honestly, if Spike planned it, I’d be surprised. All his previous plans were pretty terrible.”

“I know! I told him that, a lot. That’s why I planned the date night.” Dawn beams with pride. “Can you at least admit I did a good job?”

Buffy sighs, but knows better than to deny Dawn any victory. That would create a different kind of monster. “Yes, you planned a better date night than Spike did, though the bar was very low. Congrats.”

“You just don’t want to admit that it was awesome,” Dawn grouses, but it’s got an undercurrent of smug satisfaction. She takes another bite of her crunchy bacon.

“I will admit nothing,” Buffy says primly before taking a bite of her own breakfast.

Dawn rolls her eyes, though she’s grinning. Yeah, yeah, point to Dawn. “Fine, I won’t ask more questions about you and Spike, but! Only if you promise to tell me if you guys are actually dating or whatever.”

“You will be the first to know,” Buffy promises.

“Cool—I mean. That’s alright, I guess.” Though she’s trying to play it cool, there’s no disguising pleased teenager smugness. Buffy lets her have it. They finish their breakfast, Dawn recounting some of her discarded ideas for the date night. She also highlights all the ideas that were impossible due to a lack of freezing temperatures. Apparently winter in Chicago is full of events, too, like the Christkindlmarket and ice skating in Millennium Park—two options that Buffy can’t help but like the shape of. Yet, for all that she likes the shape it makes, the picture that almost comes together, there’s an emptiness to it.

The last time she went ice skating had been with Angel.

After that year, after Kendra and Acathla, she hasn’t given much thought to her former passion. Another thing shunted out of her by the Slayage. She should feel bereft, but instead there’s nothing.

Buffy manages to keep a smile on her face as Dawn babbles, as she pays the bill, as they amble home. Dawn’s got her arm looped in the crook of Buffy’s. Her sister takes another step, almost at the building’s main door, but is yanked back by Buffy not moving.

“Buffy? Aren’t we going to go in? Pack and stuff?” Dawn asks.

“Yeah, I’m just, I should call Giles, and it’s a nice day,” she says. It doesn’t feel like a lie. Dawn disentangles herself and heads up to their apartment with a flip of her hair. Buffy lingers, face raised up to the Midwestern spring sky. Broad, light green leaves spread across the wide blue sky that’s peppered with white fluffy clouds. The last helicopter seeds of the maple trees flutter to the ground, and tree trunks and phone poles sport street cleaning notices. Notices that won’t matter to her because they’re going to pile into a car tomorrow night and leave. Leave this city and its markets and bars and wild rains and swaying trains and the refuge that it’s been. A glimpse of a different life—a life that she knows now was never going to be hers.

There’s only one destination for her now. The only one that’s ever been in store for her.

In that moment, breathing in the fresh, clean-water scent of the air, so different from the dry-dusty sent of the air in Sunnydale, she knows. She knows what has to happen. That long road staring her down, daring her to flinch. She won’t flinch, she can’t. Not with Dawn in the cross hairs.

Overhead the clouds move on, and she stands in a speckled spot of sunshine, feeling the warmth on her skin. She knows.

Buffy dials a familiar number and a familiar voice says, “Buffy, is everything alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, Giles, it’s—look, there’s a change of plans.”

***

Orange borders the sky, bleeding to a purplish red before the saturation of night goes to black. Spike dangles his legs over the half-wall that circles the roof, booted feet kicking at the weathered brick. Venus glints overhead in the fading light.

Year’s coming to the middle, waxing toward summer. This far north, the days would be long and the nights even shorter than in Sunnydale. Something to be said for the southerly climes—more predictable hours for vampires. In spite of the whole sunlight issue, he’s still managed to finagle a few things beyond the necessary. A plan for their last night in this place that’s been a home and a refuge.

Like a herald’s trumpet, the metal clank of the fire escape announces the Slayer’s arrival. There’s no helping how he turns to look at her, dressed in jeans and a dark blue t-shirt. Her usual mode since being in Chicago and she had to leave all her wardrobe behind in Sunnyhell. God, he misses the halter tops and the leather pants and the boots. Down to basics, though, she still holds his attention. Iron to a magnet, planet around a star. She holds him through the sheer fact of her existence.

Wrinkle in his plans and visions, is that irritation that’s in the cross of her arms and proud tilt of her chin.

“Way to be majorly unsubtle with the whiteboard,” she says in a non-greeting. All he’d done was scrawl, On the roof, Slayer.

“Had a good day then with the Niblet, did you?” he asks amiably. Could’ve written something far more blatant, and he almost tells her so. Swinging his legs back over the ledge, he lands with a heavy thump on the rooftop.

“This is very confusing for her.” Not quite a snap. There’s a tension thrumming through her that a deaf, dumb, and blind man could sense. It makes the whole air hum. “She saw that not and told me to have fun. Which.” Her face scrunches up. “Not okay.

“Wasn’t intending—” The words, the lie, stick in his throat at her flat expression. “Alright, got all sorts of intentions, me. Can’t blame me on that, but doesn’t mean you gotta go along with them. You want to cuss me out and kick me off the roof, fine. You want to talk? Can talk. You want to rip my clothes off and ride me until we’re both seeing stars behind our eyes, be my guest. Way I figure it, the girl knowing is a good thing.”

“Good?” Her voice ratchets up into a range just shy of a shriek. Oh, bloody fuck, he can’t keep up. Dru at least was consistently crazy. He knew to stay on his toes and had spent decades learning the rising and falling tides of her madness. “Spike, I can barely figure out how I—what I—I can’t figure out anything right now, and it’s only made worse by Dawn knowing. She—I did my best to talk to her, but.”

Spike feels like he’s run into a concrete wall. They’d been close, so bloody close. Now, she’s done more than pull away. She’s fucking put up a sodding pallisade. Like he’s some barbarian raider at the gate.

Well, maybe he is. Except, he’s not here to conquer. Fuck, he wants to be conquered. He’s already claimed and marked out territory, far as she’s concerned. How many times can he do this? How many times can he lay himself at this woman’s feet only for her to not understand that he’s hers? Can’t she see?

Relentless, he’s been called. Even a relentless bloke has limits. Has a point where he can’t go a single step further.

Is that now? Or is it the next step?

“You look at me, and I—” he says in a rough sing-song, then stops. Fuck, fuck, fuckfuck. Bloody, buggering shit, no. He shouldn’t do this. This is insane and inane and soppy, and this isn’t a bleeding Disney film. Then he catches the way the fading sunlight gleams in her eyes.

Bloody hell, the Little Bit was right. He resolves that she can never know. Wouldn’t ever hear the end of it.

Well, then. In for a penny.

“You look at me, and I—
I don't know what you see
No words pass between
All the places we've been and the places we could be

Did they break your heart?
Did they throw you out on the street?
Well I know you’ll get back up
Girl, you’ll get back on your feet

The road is dark, and it keeps rolling on
You got no one beside you or so you think
But I would go down that road with you
Drive right up and over the brink

Did they break your heart?
Did they throw you out on the street?
Well I know you’ll get back up
Girl, you’ll get back on your feet

And when you see that I’m still here
Would you know that it's for love and not for fear?

Did they break your heart?
Did they throw you out on the street?
Well I know you’ll get back up
Girl, you’ll get back on your feet

And when you see that I’m still here
Would you know that it's for love and not for fear?”

It’s shit. Utter trash. A lyrical bit of drivel that took him ages to cobble together. From his first, awkward scribblings after they moved into the apartment until a couple of nights ago. More modern than his old style—not that his old style was worth a sodding bent bob. Doesn’t even have much of a tune to go with it. He’s winging it, flying by night. Only can hope that she wants to come along with him.

Perfect pink lips try to form words. Has him by tenterhooks, each faltering attempt. Then she manages a soft, “I don’t know that one.”

“Can’t see how you would,” he says, turning his head away from her. “Didn’t exist, not really, until just now. Songs only happen when they’re sung, I suppose.”

“You wrote that? For me?” Oh fuck, how can the girl break his heart like this? How can she not believe that she’s worth a thousand songs, each more magnificent than the last? All she’s getting right now is something that’s barely fit to be called poetry hammered amateurishly to a plonking beat. She should have ballads, odes, sonnets, whole bloody operas in her honor.

“Buffy—”

“Is that, is that the song Dawn wanted you to sing?”

The question pulls him up short. “How’d you know?”

“Heard you two arguing last night,” she admits, almost sheepish now. From the thorny bramble of moments ago, she’s that uncertain young woman who appears now and again. The young woman who doesn’t show herself all that often to anyone, let alone him. Except, she does now. Is that the problem? That she doesn’t want him to see this side of her? Or that she doesn’t want to admit it exists? That Dawn—anyone—knowing means she has to own up to parts of herself that she doesn’t want to?

“Well, now you know. That was the Bit’s plan. Sing a song all romantic like for you. Though, seeing as how that went last time on the stage, I begged off.”

“At least there wasn’t a rainstorm.”

“Small favors.”

Well, now it’s awkward. They’re too far apart. Fought her the first night. She all but threw herself at him last night. Now? Now, she’s pulling away again. Michael’s advice comes back to him. To love her and let go.

Never been good at letting go. Especially not when what he wants to do most is hold her to him.

Hold her in this world.

“Buffy, I—you. I wanted to give you something tonight. Last night and all before,” he doesn’t say the rest. They both know what’s coming next. There’s a tightness in his throat. Last night felt like a gift. Tonight feels precarious. Up and down, round and around. Tension makes her spine ramrod straight.

“Don’t have much,” he says wryly. He makes his way across the rooftop. The quilt from last night is still here, and a few additions. Not much. It’s all makeshift and paltry. What little he could scrabble together on short notice. She finally notices the cinderblocks and the rope, but rather than lead her over to them, this is his move to make. He shucks out of his jacket and then his shirt before he kneels on the quilt. “All I’ve got is me, Buffy. All that I am, for whatever it's worth, even if it’s nothing, it’s still yours.”

Then he holds out two ends of rope and presents his wrists to her.

If he could think of it as a game, he’d say that he’s committed an audacious opening gambit. He’s kneeling in front of the Slayer, the killer of his kind, half-stripped and at her mercy. Offering to be entirely at her mercy. Bound and served up. A sacrifice upon the altar of her.

Her strong fingers curl and uncurl around her arms. She swings them awkwardly and takes the rope from him. Tongue darts out to lick at her lips.

“How?” Her voice is thready. She clears her throat and asks, “How did you get all this?”

He tilts his head up at her. Contemplates spinning a tale, but decides against it. Grinning, his teeth flash in the night. “Turns out there’s a Mexican bloke by the name of Oscar at the hardware store who’ll do a lot for a cool fifty bucks.”

“You got a day laborer to set up a makeshift bondage scenario?” she blurts out, incredulous. A laugh hides behind her words. Better still, that tension is ratcheting off of her.

“Oi! It’s, yeah, alright, it's a bit lackluster, but I’m trying here alright?”

“I didn’t say it was bad!”

Her eyes crinkle with suppressed amusement. It’s a stupid argument, but it feels like them. Like what they could be. She’s coming back to him, living now. Not in the fight that’s half a country away. Then she steps close to him, close enough that his nose is practically touching the dip in her stomach. Her fingers brush his cheeks, right thumb stroking at his cheekbone while her other hand sinks into the hair at the back of his head. She tips his head back and up, and there it is. Connection. The threat between them that’s electric, lightning in its brilliance.

The scent of her is so close, close enough to taste. His tongue darts out. Almost makes his eyes roll back in his head at the torturous nearness and yet not near enough.

“How do you do that?” she asks quietly.

“Do what, love?” His voice is low and full of all the things he wants her to do to him.

“Make me think it’s okay.”

“Because everything you do is bloody marvelous to me.”

Sun’s set. Venus shines bright above them, though the stars haven’t come out just yet. Still shy. Should be shy, for the beauty that’s with him on this blasted rooftop. For the light that shines out of her eyes—the kind of light that shines all the brighter in the dark.

Then she’s bending down and kissing him. And for a little while, Spike knows she’s holding on, too.

***

“Not like you can cut off my circulation, love,” Spike tells her, a manic bounce in his voice. Okay, in the category of unexpected is Spike being into getting tied up. All her previous experience says he didn’t care for it, but then he’d been a prisoner.

That makes her rapidly wonder about her whole freshman year. Well, that puts a different spin on things. Maybe. She veers away from that line of thinking. Those are not right now thoughts.

Because right now, he’s kneeling on the quilt as she’s behind him, tying knots around each of his wrists. The ropes are anchored to several cinder blocks each. Spike likely could, with some effort, free himself. It’s basically enough to keep him from breaking out casually. She leans over his shoulder, hair brushing his bare shoulder. He shivers. It’s not cold and he’s a vampire, so yeah. He’s shivering because her hair is on his skin.

God, he’s such a freak. A freak for her.

She wishes she didn’t like that so much.

“I thought,” she says, hoping her voice comes out husky and teasing, “that it was the principle of the thing.”

He twists his head and growls at her. Not a grrr, gonna eat you growl, but a grrr gonna eat you out growl—and oh no, she knows the difference between Spike’s evil growls and his sex growls, which are also likely categorically evil. But they’re evil for how they send tingles all over her skin and make her nipples ache and her pussy throb.

Stupid sexy vampire.

She tests the knots and they hold. Damn, she’s probably going to have to cut him out at the end of this. Though, he’d probably like that, too. And, now that she thinks of it, so will she. Standing, she circles him, one finger trailing along his bare shoulders. She follows the dip of his deltoid and traces his collar bone until she presses her finger into his sternum. He’s gazing up at her from underneath those dark brows, tied up but hardly abject.

The way his eyes hold hers, she feels that lighting bolt connection between them, but it’s frozen. Like a snapshot.

It was one thing to use her safe word and have Spike tie her up. When she’d read that article, she’d sort of figured it would be her getting tied up. She hadn’t given much thought to being the person doing the tying and the ordering.

She half expects Spike to offer up a bunch of suggestions when she doesn’t launch into something. Instead, he tilts his head and waits. His arms are bound, stretching back toward those heavy cinder blocks, his chest pushed forward. Like he’s exposing his heart for her. Her palm flattens out and she presses it over where his heart should beat. His skin is cool and his muscles are hard.

He’s dangerous. Chip or no, Spike is dangerous. The dangerous predator tied up and at her mercy. She skims her hand up his neck, along his jaw. What parts of him are the most dangerous, she wonders. His hands are bound, but as ferocious a fighter Spike is, he’s never bested her. No, his hands aren’t dangerous.

One finger traces his lips. His mouth parts, and he takes shallow, eager breaths. Oh, his mouth is very dangerous. That mouth that usually doesn’t stop until it’s occupied. That’s a thought. She could gag him. But then she raises her gaze from his mouth to his eyes and knows, no, no the most dangerous part of Spike is how he looks at her. Every single emotion possible, some she can’t even name, is visible in the dark ocean of his eyes.

“Stay put,” she orders.

“Yes.” The apple of his throat bobs, and it’s almost a question, something he’s testing the sound of, “Mistress.”

That word sends an unexpected fission down her spine. Not Slayer, not Buffy, not any other random word that passes as a British pet name. Mistress.

The article had said that could be part of the whole thing, Master and Mistress. She had a hard line in the sand about the word Master. No way had she ever thought of calling anyone that. For so, so many reasons. But Spike on his knees, bound, calling her Mistress? Holy shamoly, she could get used to that. In this moment, it makes her feel how powerful she is. Really feel it and know how much strength is in her body.

She snatches up his discarded t-shirt, twists it into a rope, and holds it in front of his face, waiting. Will he buck, will he balk?

“Do you need a word—” she licks her lips, not exactly sure she wants to call him Spike right now. Is he Spike right now, or is he someone else? Considering as how she’s not Buffy or the Slayer; she’s Mistress. Vampire isn’t right—that’s not the game they’re playing. There’s only one other appellation to hand, and she uses it, “William?”

His gaze is a riptide, pulling her in. Seeking her, holding her. Adoring and aflame at the same time. She was right, his eyes are definitely the most dangerous part of him.

“Won’t.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“I won’t need it, Mistress. Anything you want, you know I’m yours.”

Buffy regards him warily, not sure if that’s a good idea. The article said it was super important, but then he is a vampire. Still, it feels like a challenge hidden inside the picture of submission, and oh, yes, he’s still Spike. He wouldn’t be Spike if he didn’t push. She smiles, a bemused, thin kind of smile. A Mistress kind of smile, she thinks. She can feel the sense of control settling over her like a gauzy dress. Not a costume, but a thing she can put on and take off at need.

“We’ll see,” she says archly. She bands the twisted t-shirt around his eyes, tying it off behind his head. He inhales sharply, scenting her. It would be easy to tap his nose and tell him to stop it, but she lets him keep that for now. One thing at a time. She tugs the fabric of the makeshift blindfold over his face, doing her best to keep it secure. “Tell me, can you see anything?”

“No, Mistress,” he answers, voice thick.

“Good boy,” she breathes across his cheeks. He shivers.

Standing back, she contemplates her handiwork. Spike’s kneeling and bound and blindfolded, the pale swath of his chest rising and falling, taking in gulps of air. He’s scenting her, she knows. He can’t help it. Probably literally can’t. Then his head cocks, and yup, he’s gone for the hearing. Buffy crooks a finger under his chin, making the line of his throat stretch taut.

“Don’t try to get around it, William,” she tells him. He swallows, chest going dead still, and nods.

“Yes, Mistress.” Oh, damn, maybe she should have gagged him for how rough and aching his voice is. He’s tied up, and she’s still the one squirming her legs together because of the sudden want throbbing in her.

His whole body is taut. Taut and still and hers. Buffy kneels in front of him. The question isn’t what she wants to do, but where to freaking start? There’s so much she hasn’t done, that they haven’t done. All the things she’s suddenly wanting. All the things that there’s not enough time for. She blinks quickly. If he can somehow sense all the tumbly feelings that are bouncing around inside of her, all this—his weird, quasi-sweet, honestly-freaky, but above all honest attempt to give her something—will come crashing down.

Then his head ticks to the side, exposing the delectable line of his jaw and long line of his neck.

Well. That’s a good a start as any. Also, vampire. Could she really have started anywhere else?

Grinning, she leans forward and starts kissing and licking and sucking, drawing gorgeous gasps and moans from him. His shoulders strain against the ropes, but he doesn’t move to break them. Instead, he submits to her explorations of her mouth. She explores the hard ridges of his collarbones and then dips into the valley that’s the hollow of his throat. Her lips feel a rumbling growl that’s practically a purr there. She smiles into his pale skin.

More, she wants more of him. Wants to watch him come undone and know that she’s done that, and he’d know, too, and they’d both know and it would be theirs.

“You need to lay down, William,” she says, enjoying that every time she says his name it makes him whimper just a little bit. Then she puts a bit of steel in her voice. “Now.”

“Yes, Mistress, I can lay down for you. Would lay anything down for you.” The ragged edge of his voice feels, not like a victory, but something. Something precious.

Together, they get him arranged. A scootch back to get some slack in the ropes, because dislocating his shoulders would sort of put a kibosh on the mood. Then he lays himself out on the quilt, arms stretched back toward the heavy cinder blocks. It’s an inverse of last night, when he’d trussed her up with his own belt. She’d been flying then, but this time she’s the one in control.

She crawls up his body, letting her hair tickle the hard definition of his abs and chest. He hisses like her touch burns him. His fingers clutch at the ropes. Then she goes back using her mouth. She’s never really explored a guy like Spike before. It’s not just how his body looks, but how responsive he is. Every time she bites at a nipple, he gasps. Every time she runs her tongue down a muscle she’s just had to taste, he moans. She’s confined herself to his upper body, occasionally moving up to kiss him in long, lazy kisses that she starts and stops. That’s when he breathes her in. She allows him that, because she has to breathe at some point.

Then, without any warning, she unbuttons his jeans and starts pulling them down.

“Fuck, Buffy, yes, please, oh God,” he rambles as his cock springs free. Buffy stops, panting and feeling every part of her body responding to him. But he didn’t use the right words, she thinks. She presses one hand to her thundering heart, trying to figure out what she wants to say. He licks his lips, blindfolded eyes searching for her. “Buffy, I mean, Mistress?”

There’s a tremor in his voice, a cracked open part of himself, and she decides she might be in control, but she’s not cruel.

“William,” she says softly, wrapping one hand around his cock. He bucks into her. She presses her other hand to the pale skin stretched over his hipbone. “You’re going to have to control yourself, now.” One stroke of his cock, then another. His arms tense as he grips those ropes to make his knuckles practically glow white in the dark. “No words, can you do that for your Mistress? Moan and groan, growl and purr all you like, but not a single word. Can you do that for me, William? You can answer, but that’s it.”

He’s panting in time to her slow, steady strokes. Some part of her thinks she shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as she is. How she’s giving orders and he’s under her power. How his body—he—is so utterly hers.

“Yes, Mistress,” he says like a man at prayer. And then he moans and groans and bucks as she plays.

Buffy’s had sex, but she’s never really had a lot of up close and personal time with a penis before. Parker had tried to get her to do blowjob, but she hadn’t gone for it. Hoo boy had that been a thing that she’d gotten in her own head about at the time. She’d tried for Riley, but one little incident with her grip being too firm and whoop there that went. And he’d commented that it had felt wrong for him—having a woman on her knees.

So the penis had sort of gone in, and that had been that. Now, she’s got one under her complete control, and she’s got to admit it. Spike has a nice penis. Long and thick with a very nice curve to it. When she pumps him, pulling the foreskin over the head, it’s slick with precum. She even examines his balls and the dark thatch of hair that’s at his base. Obviously Spike’s not a natural blond, but she didn’t think his hair would be so dark.

Licking her lips, she wonders how long she can keep this up. Hell, how long he can keep this up as his head thrashes and his hips buck all the while his jaw is clenched against a string of words she’s sure is clamoring to be free.

Spike really relies on being able to run his mouth.

She’s taken that away from him, and it’s like he’s being literally tortured. All because she’s got her hand around his cock. Then she decides to add the other, rolling and squeezing his balls. The sharp intake of his breath is a sure sign she’s on the right track. Then she’s thinking about those blowjobs again, the one she’s given and the one she didn’t want to give—and there’s Spike’s cock just there. Kind of looking… like she wants it in her mouth.

Before she can think too much about it, Buffy yanks down his jeans—making him groan—lines herself up—making his pointless breath hitch—and slowly takes his cock into her mouth.

Spike growl-moans, like he’s pissed off he can’t say a damned thing, but he manages to keep words from his throat. Well, that deserves a bit of praise, she supposes. She releases his cock and tells him, “Good boy, William, now let your Mistress enjoy herself.”

He whimpers (a sound she didn’t know he’d make, and holy heck, can she get him to do it again?), nodding and keeping to her strictures.

Buffy takes him again, her lips around him. He fills her mouth in a different way to how he fills her pussy. Then there’s the taste of him. Slightly salty, but only slightly because he doesn’t sweat, but cool and silky and heavy but in a good way. She presses her forearms into his hips, holding him there as she sucks and nips and licks. Spike freaking whimpers as she sucks, cheeks hollowing out.

Smiling around his cock, she feels a surge of pride. Yeah, she totally got him to make that sound again.

Growing more sure of herself by the second, Buffy reaches one hand up to trace those gorgeous muscles, flicking one nipple. That makes him buck with a groan and a hissed f sound, but he doesn’t actually say a word. She’ll let it pass. Then his breath comes in harder, more frantic pants. He’s quivering under her touch, under her mouth. She wraps her free hand around his base as she pumps in time to the pace her mouth has set. Her own legs squirm together. She wants this, wants him.

Her hand keeps pumping, and she takes her mouth off of him long enough to say, “Come for me, William.”

He gives her a keening whine by way of ascent. Then she goes back to the cock that belongs to her now. She’s got him in her mouth again, sucking and pumping and working him until he’s pulsing in her mouth. Buffy wants more. So she takes it, and swallows as much of him as she possibly can, and Spike’s release spills in her mouth, cool and salty, along with a roar. Buffy swallows him down and holds herself up on shaky arms.

They’re paused in a strange tableau. Spike can’t see her, but she can sense his attention even through the blindfold like a weight. Buffy crawls up the lean lines of him, hair falling in a curtain around her shoulders, to where he’s raised his head up and is, she thinks, desperately waiting for her. She sits on his chest, because she can and because it predictably makes him moan. Then, with gentle hands she undoes the blindfold. It falls away, and oh shit, she shouldn’t have done that.

The most dangerous part of him has always been his face, his eyes.

There’s a thousand things in his eyes if there’s one. And the one thing that blazes there like a beacon is the one thing she’s not sure if she can have anymore.

Spike loves her. And Buffy, Buffy knows she’s going to break his heart.

His head cocks, but he still isn’t saying anything. Does the control stop afterwards or when she says? She doesn’t remember.

Buffy bends in half and presses a quick kiss, almost chaste, to his lips. “Very well done. You can have your voice back, now William.”

His mouth works silently. The apple of his throat works some serious over time. All the while his blue eyes shine in the night. Shine for her. She thinks he might say it. He’s already sung it, that song, that sweet song that she never could have imagined coming from him, but did. She thinks she might be ready to hear it, no matter what else happens later. In this moment, it might be okay, for just this moment.

Then he cracks a crooked smile. “You’re bloody magnificent, love, you know that?”

There’s still a frayed quality to his voice, but he says it with such fervor that she can’t help but preen. “Well, maybe I’m a natural?”

“Fucking oath, you are.” He’s grinning like a total idiotic sap. She shakes her head and leans over to start undoing one knot. “Where’s the fire, pet?”

Buffy stops and regards him curiously. “I thought this was the aftercare part? Unless you’re not into that for yourself?”

His head tilts, platinum blonde curls stark against the black quilt. His voice is a hushed, dark thing. “Wouldn’t mind it, but sort of reckon we might as well get some milage out of this set up.”

“Is this your way of asking for it to be my turn?” she asks wryly. Then Spike surprises her, and she’s officially going to give up trying to predict Spike. Spike has gone fully out the other side of confusing and into some new territory she doesn’t know the name of at all.

“Was more thinking you could leave me tied up and keep having your wicked way with me. Reckon you might like to ride me hard and put me up wet, so to speak.”

Buffy’s still sitting on his chest, keenly aware of the pulsing want between her own legs. She kind of thought, well, she isn’t sure what she thought. Then she pictures it, him underneath her, arms tied, her setting the pace, the rhythm, the angle. Everything.

“Spike.”

“Yeah, love?”

She wets her lips with her tongue before kissing him hard and spreading her body over his. Then she pulls back, arms braced on either side of his head and grins. “I’m going to fuck you.”

By the way his eyes roll back into his head and he groans, Buffy feels like she owes the mysterious Oscar the day laborer at least another fifty bucks.

Notes:

I'm so tired of being lonely
I still have some love to give
Won't you show me that you really care?
Everybody's got somebody to lean on
Put your body next to mine, and dream on
I've been uptight and made a mess
But I'll clean it up myself, I guess
Oh, the sweet smell of success
Handle me with care
--"Handle with Care" by Traveling Wilburys Revue

Bonus of Spike being canonically bad at poetry, the sub-par song lyrics you invent are fine being sub-par. I tried, friends, but I'm more in the prose than poem field.

Chapter 20: Go Your Own Way

Spike’s not sure if he’s set himself up for the most exquisite torture or best bloody night of his existence.

Buffy’s kissing him again, her hot body laid atop his own. Not naked, though he reckons that’s only a matter of time. Problem, he’s let himself be bound. Which, yeah, was kind of the point. Whole gesture he’s set up, and bloody fuck had the Slayer gone for it. Couldn’t have predicted the exact turn of events, though. Her sweet mouth on his cock while she’d blindfolded him, using his given name, Christ. His world had narrowed to the feel of her lips and tongue and all the attention she was giving his cock all the while had to damn near crack his own teeth to not say a damned word.

Brilliant, magnificent woman, the Slayer. Maddening, demanding woman, the Slayer.

Fuck, he loves her so bloody much.

Then she pulls away, body rising over his with a flip of that damned shampoo-commercial hair. Still smells of her soaps, the cheap kind from Target—floral scent a shade too strong—but he can still smell her underneath that. The tang of her skin, the musk of her arousal. Had even tasted himself in her mouth. That had nearly undone him all over again, knowing she’d taken him in.

Her eyes are marginally unfocused, but she takes him in with that gaze. Sodding Christ, he could drown in those eyes. If he could drown. No, he thinks he could. Somehow, if a vampire could drown, it would be him and it would be in her desire-dark eyes.

She traces the line of his arms, from wrist to shoulder. His muscles strain against the ropes. The scrape of cinder blocks against the roof is gritty. Buffy quirks an eyebrow at him. With slow, deliberate movements, she presses each wrist down onto the quilt-covered rooftop. She’s arced over him, hair a golden fall around her face. He gazes up, lost in her.

“Are you going to behave, Spike?” Her voice is husky and rough. No hiding the quiver that runs through him, and she smiles as she feels it. Still, he’s not a sodding pet. Not some tame thing. He’s hers, but he’ll never be tamed.

“Wanna be bad,” he drawls, running his tongue over his teeth. “Maybe you’ll just have to punish me, Slayer.” There it is again, that slight hesitation in her. Not used to this kind of play. She wants it. He knows she wants it. He stretches his fingers over his bindings, lightly stroking the back of her hand. “Won’t break, love.”

“Right,” she agrees with a sharp downward jerk of her chin. Then there’s something else in her face, some deeper consideration. “You don’t break.”

Then she’s kissing him again, but not on his mouth. It takes him a moment to catch up to what she’s doing. When he does, he has to bite down on his tongue to keep from making a bloody fool of himself. She’s kissing and licking and loving all the places that Glory had torn apart. All the wounds he’d taken to keep Dawn safe, to keep Buffy’s heart intact. The single kiss she’d given him back in Sunnydale hadn’t been much more than a chaste thank you. Her mouth on him now is something else, something he doesn’t have the bloody words for. He’s staring up at the stars as she kisses the spot where a Hell God dug in her finger and twisted. The memory of the pain ebbs as Buffy replaces it with herself.

When she takes his head in her hands and kisses him slow and sweet, it’s a mercy because the stars were going blurry.

Then she’s gone urgent again, her tongue in his mouth. He kisses back with everything that he is. Tongue and teeth. She responds in kind. The smell of her arousal hits him again, musky and hot, and he groans into her mouth.

Then the bitch bloody. Stands. Up.

A pained moan crawls up out of his throat as he body strains toward hers. All of him strains for her. His arms, his chest, his cock. Fuck, could he tangle up her legs and get him back on top of him? He could try.

He stops thinking as her thumbs hook into her jeans and she shimmies out of them with a wiggle of her hips. Her panties are—oh God, lacey. Lacey panties, he warrants lacey panties! Probably some pack from the hellscape that is Target, but he doesn’t care. Would endure a thousand bloody big box stores to see her in those pale purple things. Then she’s shucking out of her simple t-shirt. Oh bloody hell, she’s got a matching bra. She’s golden skin and shining hair and thin confections of undergarments standing over him like a Valkyrie.

“Like something you see?” she teases, running a hand down her taut stomach. His mouth works soundlessly, a keening want lodged in his chest. One perfect foot presses on his chest, forcing him to lie back fully. Hadn’t even realized he’d strained up against the ropes. “What, nothing to say, Spike?”

The rooftop is hard on the back of his head, quilt or no, as he studies her. “Do you want some words, then, Slayer?”

“What’ve you got?” she asks arch and regal and bloody, buggering Christ. Fine, he’ll give her some fucking words. Words, not his, but they ring true in him all the same.

“Bid me to live, and I will live / Thy protestant to be; Or bid me love, and I will give / A loving heart to thee,” he recites. Her breathing hitches, doing torturously remarkable things to her tits. He should feel smug that he’s got her. Got a hook in her. Instead, all he wants to do is keep feeding her words, pouring himself out for her.

“A heart as soft, a heart as kind / A heart as sound and free / As in the whole world thou canst find / That heart I'll give to thee.” She smirks a little on those lines, his heart is blackened and unbeating, but it’s hers. For her, it’s soft. For her, it’s kind. Does she know the power that she holds? To take a heart like his and make it into something else? The rest of the poem, a thing he’d read decades ago, rises from his memory, a memory forged in the fires of endless recitation, built on endless reading as a soft, timid boy. He’s not that boy anymore, nor is he the vampire he was. He’s something else now; he’s hers.

He casts his voice out into the night, for her and her alone: “Bid that heart stay, and it will stay / To honour thy decree; Or bid it languish quite away / And 't shall do so for thee.

“Bid me to weep, and I will weep / While I have eyes to see; And having none, yet I will keep / A heart to weep for thee.

“Bid me despair, and I'll despair / Under that cypress tree; Or bid me die, and I will dare / E'en death, to die for thee.

“Thou art my life, my love, my heart / The very eyes of me; And hast command of every part / To live and die for thee.”

The air is alive between them as his voice fades, carried away by the wind from the lake. She’s staring at him like she’s never seen him before, all wide eyes and parted lips. In a way, he supposes she hasn’t. Not this side of him. No one has, not for long, long years. For all that he’s naked and bound, it’s her gaze that’s got him all but flayed open.

Testing his tongue to make sure it still works, he asks, “How were those words?”

“Good,” she says quickly. A long, slow exhalation escapes between her perfect lips. Her body’s signing to him, a siren song, and he’s fucking Odysseus tied to the mast all over again. “Those were really, really good words.”

As if a trance, she reaches behind herself and unhooks her bra. It falls to the ground like a lilac-colored autumn leaf. She sways forward, the foot on his chest sliding across his chest and over his shoulder, then her other foot comes up and she frees one leg from her knickers. They drop near his head, soaked with her scent. He wonders if he could get them into his mouth? To taste her—that thought screeches to a halt as both her feet straddle her head. Until she’s standing right over his head. He’s staring right up at her magnificent quim, the wet heat of it so close and yet so bloody far away.

Then, before he can whimper or strain, she sinks down over him. Her calves tuck under his shoulders, lifting his face up to her glorious sex. She’s holding his gaze as his mouth meets her cunt. He feels his eyes want to roll back in his head as her sweet honey smears across his lips and runs over his tongue. Instead, he manages to fucking master himself and watch her watch him eat her out. No hands to him, all he has are his mouth and eyes, and he fucks her with both.

Strong fingers sink into his hair, nails scraping his scalp, and she rides his face. He laps at her juices, quests his tongue past her lips and into her wet heat. She sucks in a hard breath. Her pert tits bounce, nipples cherry red and hard, but fuck he can’t touch her. So he marks every shiver, every hitch, every twitch. Then he finds her clit and gently begins to lavish attention to it, that tight bundle of pleasure right here for his bloody delight.

A keen builds in her throat, and oh bloody, sodding—she takes her free hand and teases at her own breasts. Squeezing, pinching. If he had to breathe, he’d be in dire bloody straits, but thankfully he doesn’t. He watches and memorizes what she does to herself. Can do it to her later, what she likes, what she wants.

Head lolling forward, she pants and bucks and grinds as he puts his mouth to the best possible use. She doesn’t let up, doesn’t stop. He doesn’t want her to stop, no matter how his cock is aching, or his balls beg for release. Fuck, he might just come from bringing her off like this. Can’t say anything, though, can’t tell her how sweet she is on his tongue, how hot she is over him. Instead, he lets loose a rumbling purr, and it fucking. Makes. Her. Whimper.

He smiles into her cunny. Ah, yes. Vibrations. Spike purrs and sucks, purrs and laps, purrs and sinks his tongue inside her. Her breath comes in short, sharp gasps, and then the dam of her breaks over him. She’s a frenzy, a writhing, glorious storm that drenches him. A wordless, fevered scream breaks from her throat. Then she pitches forward, holding herself up on her arms while her hips still roll slowly through her come down.

Time doesn’t matter to him while he’s in the best place in the whole sodding world. He presses one almost-chaste kiss to her mound. A shiver tickles up her spine, but prompts a soft, half-drunk sort of giggle from her. She raises up her hips, leaving him bereft of her delicious heat. He lets out a small whine of protest, which only makes her snort.

“Don’t be dramatic,” she scolds him as she shuffles back down his body.

“Says the woman who wanted words,” he counters. She lays half on him, all warm and sated as a cat in the sunshine. Even better, her hand is lazily playing with his cock. Oh yes, she could keep doing that. She nestles her head into the crook of his neck, kissing him. His eyes flutter half closed as he soaks up the feel of her.

“You’re the one who recited poetry at me,” she grouses. It’s a put on. He can hear it.

Spike’s chuckle jostles them both. “Didn’t know poetry got you hot.”

She doesn’t stop touching him, but her grip is looser. Which, mildly disappointing, but she’s propped up on one elbow looking down at him. Her gaze is distant, fixed on some point in the middle distance. “I was in an intro to poetry class before I had to drop it with… everything. I really liked it. I think I was doing okay.”

The longing is crystalline and near to shattering in her voice, no matter how she’s trying to mask it. That normal life she wants so badly, the normal life that got her locked in the looney bin once and this year got fully blown to smithereens by a Hell God and a dead mother and a mystical sister. A young woman who found something she liked and wanted to keep it.

“Did you have a favorite?” he asks. She furrows her brow, considering the question. A dozen things flicker through her eyes before they dim.

“We didn’t get very far in the semester,” she demurs.

“Come on, Slayer, not a soul here to tell,” he teases.

“Oh, the vampire thinks he’s clever.”

“Got you in my evil trap, didn’t I?”

“As evil traps go, not so great. You’re the one all tied up.”

“Yeah, and you took the bait. Me. Got you right where I want you now.”

“And where is that?” she asks archly.

Spike glances down pointedly to where her hand is still working him, which is kind of surreal even for him. Bound and stretched out, her sticky honey all over his face, and here they are on a rooftop in Chicago, having a conversation while naked. About poetry, well, poetry-adjacent. Sweet sodding fuck, he’s never had anything like this before.

“You’re a dope,” she says, but doesn’t stop touching him. If anything, her grip is firmer. Tells him heaps of things that grip. She doesn’t want to talk about poetry, doesn’t want to wander down the mental road that runs back to Sunnydale and everything she’s lost and everything that’s waiting for her. Spike isn’t about to argue for lingering there. He gives her what she wants, then, and bucks into her hand.

“Might be, but nothing’s wrong with my memory. Seem to recall you promised to fuck me, Slayer. You a welcher?” he goads. The light of a challenge ignites in her eyes.

“I don’t know what that means, but I’m going with no, I’m not,” she says as she straddles him. Her hands are hot brands on his chest while her wet heat is so close to his cock. It twitches, searching for her centre.

She slides down his stomach, marking him with her wetness. He groans, wishing he had his hands free. Should’ve let her cut him loose. Too late now, because she’s gone for it. Her entrance is just over the tip of his straining cock. Lower lip caught in her teeth, she works herself onto him. Taking him in slowly, she rises and falls, spreading and spreading, until he’s buried to the hilt in her. The muscles inside of her squeeze his cock while her thighs press hard against his hips.

She rides him however she likes, and he can’t do more than watch. Watch as her tits bounce, as her mouth falls open, and her hair spills around her shoulders. He has to do something. Bucking up into her isn’t enough. As fantastic as it feels to be covered in her, there has to be more. Something he can give her.

All he has is his voice, and she liked the words before, so. “i like my body when it is with your

body. / It is so quite new a thing. / Muscles better and nerves more. / i like your body. i like what it does, / i like its hows. i like to feel the spine / of your body and its bones,and the trembling.”

The angle of her hips changes, a tight circle as she works against him. His head dips back, the words flumbling away from him as he groans.

“More,” she demands breathlessly. “More words.” Nails dig into his skin, scratching where she had been tender before. His shoulders, his chest, claws grace his flesh. The pain sharpens him. Getting a fraction of control back, Spike meets her gaze once more.

“-firm-smooth ness and which i will / again and again and again,” he says as she lifts up on her knees and comes down on him again and again again. “kiss, i like kissing this and that of you / i like, slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz / of your electric furr,and what-is-it comes / over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs.”

Her breathing hitches at a higher pace, and he feels her flutter around him. Climax building, she fucks him. Coming down hard on him, she pitches forward with her hands bracing on his chest. The sheer strength of her would drive the breath from a living man, but thank fuck he’s dead. The next line? What’s the bloody next line? Everything is being driven, ridden out of his head, but the feel of her hot, slick quim around his cock and her weight on his body.

Buffy’s heart rate is going at a gallop, and so is she until her muscles squeeze him so bloody hard that he bucks and feels himself spilling into her sweet cunny as she’s coming down on his cock and grinding her clit into his body. His head clears a fraction and the final lines float up from the haze.

“and possibly i like the thrill,” he says, pitching his voice as low as he can, but it comes out with a groan. “of me under you so quite new,” he finishes as she does, twisting the last line around to fit the moment. Of under her, him. It’s right. Might be a demon, but he knows what’s right, and that’s this—them in this moment as she huffs and gaps the last ebbs of her orgasm.

“That,” she manages, sucks in a breath, and says again, “that was e.e.cummings, wasn’t it?”

Spike can’t help it. He sniggers like a school boy. Probably because she’s driven everything else right out of his brain.

She thwaps him upside the head. “Don’t be gross.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“The laughing spoke for you.”

He manages a rough approximation of a shrug while still bound. She tucks a fall of hair behind her ear, and he tracks it with his eyes as the fingers of his left hand twitch. A soft smile curves her mouth when she reaches out and threads her fingers with his. There it is, again, the stillness that he’s never felt before. The calm and quiet that settles over the restless, wild part of him. Holding her hand. That’s all it takes.

Makes him wonder what it would take to reach her, the way she’s reached him. Makes him hope that he’ll figure it out before the end.

***

Spike’s being weirdly compliant. Well, maybe not weirdly, since she’s the one soaping down his scratches—she gave him those, and he all but arcs into like a cat as she cleans them. It’s not necessary to clean them. He literally can’t get infected, but it’s how these things are supposed to go. So she’s cleaning, and yeah, he’s purring again.

Another thing she didn’t know vampires could do. Another thing she’s not sure if it’s a vampire thing or a Spike thing.

Those scratches, they make a funny feeling squirm in her guts. From Spike’s perspective, they’re probably not that big a deal. She’s hurt him worse in their actual fights, not to mention the literal torture he’s been through, the torture she kissed and licked away tonight. Now that had felt good. It had felt powerful, overlaying the pain Glory inflicted with something else, something softer and kinder. Something hers—even if she’s not sure that soft and kind are really her anymore.

The water is warm, and makes him feel like a living person instead of a dead one. His pale skin is unblemished around the scratches. She runs the pad of her finger over the raised red scrape on his shoulder. He glances over the same shoulder at her, to where the single scar he has is cut through his eyebrow. She knows how he got that one, knows exactly who gave it to him. There’s a see-sawing tilt in her head, and she shoves it all aside. It’s more than she can deal with right now. Her eyes drop back to his shoulder and she keeps scrubbing.

“All good, I think,” she manages to say. Spike rolls his scratched up shoulders and turns off the water. All that’s left is the faint plip of water dripping off their bodies. She climbs out of the shower-tub combo and hands him a towel. He takes it, scrubbing at his hair and body. She busies herself toweling herself off and pulling on her pajamas. Then when he steps out, she startles him by pulling a soft t-shirt over his head. It’s a weird moment, the off-cant angle of his face as he stares down at her in startlement.

Buffy turns away from the impossible flash of feeling in his eyes and gets first his left arm through one sleeve, then repeats the process for his right arm. When she kneels down and holds out the black sweatpants he favors, it’s a relief because she doesn’t have to see his face. Gingerly, he steps into them and she pulls them up around his waist. She allows herself a final pat to his stomach, as if to say all done.

His hand sneaks under hers and brings her knuckles to his mouth. There are thick rope burns on his wrists. Another wormy wiggle in her stomach, seeing that. She shouldn’t have tied him so tightly. That wasn’t right, was it?

She presses her lips together.

“Buffy,” he whispers, disturbing the still bathroom air. They didn’t turn on the fan to avoid waking Dawn, and she regrets it. The whole place is humid and close, and she’s going to start sweating if she stays in here for a second longer. She shakes her head and opens the door.

On silent feet, he follows her, chucking the towels into the washing machine before stopping with a low huff. “Don’t suppose it really matters, does it? Leaving tomorrow and all.”

“Yeah.” It’s like some of that humid bathroom air is stuck in her throat.

Closer, he slinks. She should be taking care of him, now. That’s what the article said. That’s what he did for her. Why can’t she do that? What’s stopping her? In the moment, everything had felt right. It’s the after that’s giving her all the problems.

It always has, the after.

Spike nudges her toward his nook. Buffy doesn’t resist, letting him curl around her on a crappy cot under a fuzzy blanket. She stares up at the ceiling cast in alternating lines of red light and shadow. He’s holding her loosely, nose pressed to her temple and breathing her in. Does he know? Can he sense it? Spike’s always had a very annoying knack for seeing through her, for seeing past all the walls and guards and getting not just under her skin.

You’re in my guts, my throat.

You’re in my tendons, my bones.

A long, shuddering breath fills her lungs. Spike presses a kiss to her temple. This isn’t right. She isn’t right.

“S’alright, love,” he tells her in that low, rich voice. “I’m alright. Would wear your marks any day. Badge of honor and pride, make no mistake. Felt good, too.”

If only her innards would be still. Then she could figure this out. What if he’s the one who brings it out in her, this side? Or was it there all along and that’s why Angel and Riley left? Not that any of it matters anyway, because she’s going back. Oh God, she’s going back.

“Can hear your heart rate, Slayer. You’ve got something setting you off.” Why is his voice so gentle, so tender? She shouldn’t want to hurt him more, but she kind of does. Wants to push away all this softness. He gave her so much. He’s given her everything he has, and for a brief span of time she felt powerful.

Now instead of afterglow, it’s like a void has set up shop inside of her and is consuming her from the inside out.

Problem: Spike won’t let it go.

“Yeah,” she agrees, voice raspy. “But can we talk about it later? I am a tired Buffy.”

“Won’t have much time in the morning, ‘fore the Bit wakes up.” There’s a sulky pout in his voice. She threads her fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp in that way she’s learned he soaks up. Like how she soaks up his adoration, his words, his devotion. Soaks it up, but then somehow ends up wrung out afterwards. Or as if there’s some kind of hole in her heart, and no matter what she puts in there, it always has a way of escaping. Slithering out.

His purr is loud in her ear. It should make her smile, smirk, scoff. Big Bad all contented kitty under her hands.

There’s no expression on her face that she can feel.

“We’ll talk, I promise, but sleep first,” she says.

“Yes, Mistress,” he whispers, a tease and a promise both.

Buffy eyes drift shut, but she can’t sleep. Doesn’t let herself. She’s good at it, not sleeping. Lately, it’s been harder to sleep—except for in Spike’s arms—than not. Even now, part of her wants to drift. To let it happen. To let sleep pry her away from her brain and heart and give her some kind of oblivion even if it's never long enough.

Instead, she keeps herself awake by going through the next steps in her head. What will happen once she knows Spike is out cold. That will be the hardest part, she thinks. No, she knows. Spike might sleep like the dead, but he’s apparently attuned to her. She shifts, he shifts. Her heart rate picks up, and he comes to. All she can hope is that she kind of actually wore him out. Not the best hinge for her plan, but it’s all she’s got.

Trick is, how to tell if a vampire really is sleeping or not? Every now and again, even in his sleep, he draws the occasional, random breath, as if his body still hasn’t entirely gotten the message that it’s dead. Buffy opens her eyes. He doesn’t move. Then she slides slightly out of the circle of his arms. Not all the way, but enough to give her distance. Then she holds her breath and slips out of the cot. She’d left the curtains open on purpose. No clink of metal rings on a metal pole to give her away.

She stands, arms going around herself. Don’t look back at him, she tells herself. Don’t look back and don’t watch him sleep. Don’t look at that face in sleep with the mussed hair and the softened lines of his face.

Don’t care about what she’s doing to him.

Buffy’s bare feet are silent on the cold hardwood. The door to her room opens with a barely audible click. She pauses, waiting. Of the many places where her plan could fall apart, now is another one. Doors are loud in the night. She should know. All those nights sneaking out before Mom had her face forcibly turned to the Slayer stuff.

Teeth sink into the inside of her cheek, stopping her mind from going down that line of thought. One foot in front of the other. That’s her goal. The door opens without a sound—hooray for quality maintenance—and she pulls her packed duffle out from underneath her bed. It’s packed with clothes and a portion of the cash stash. No weapons, but there are weapons enough waiting for her at the end of the line.

Oh God, don’t think that. She wants to scream at herself.

Instead, she focuses on getting dressed. Simple jeans, t-shirt, and a sweater. Nondescript clothing that won’t raise any eyebrows. She stuffs her socked feet into a pair of thrift store Converse that had been painted with sparkle glitter. They’re silly and girly and she likes them more than she should. These, at least, she can take with her.

Then she lays out a piece of folded paper and weighs it down with her cell phone. Dawn will see it, hopefully right when she wakes up.

Buffy checks the read out of the time on the phone. Half past three in the morning. Cutting it close, but she can linger a little longer.

Then she turns and faces her sleeping sister. Dawn is sprawled on her bed, a coltish mess of limbs and long, soft hair. Her mouth is parted with a soft snore. Like this, Buffy feels a lurch in her whole self. In every single bone and muscle of her. A mystical key given flesh, made out of Buffy, but her own person. Her sister. Her love.

She blinks and wonders if that’s the problem. If when the monks made Dawn they took the softest, kindest parts of Buffy for it. That’s why it feels like there’s a part of her walking around in the world, of her but separate. Why it feels like the mere thought of her in danger makes Buffy want to gibber in terror. Why there’s not enough Buffy left for anything else. Not that it’s Dawn’s fault. Even thinking it, Buffy can’t be mad. Instead, she feels something like a relief. If the good parts of her are in Dawn, then that’s okay. That’s alright. She can live with that.

Buffy ghosts a hand over Dawn’s forehead. Then she hikes her duffel over her shoulder and closes the door behind her, but leaves it open a bare fraction.

Slowly, she crosses the ten feet of hallway. The front door is right there. She gets a hand on it. The metal knob is cool under her hand.

This is the plan now. She knows that. She made this call, because it’s always her call in the end. Her choice, her fight. She shouldn’t be having second thoughts now. Buffy inhales sharply, the oxygen filling her lungs, inflating her chest. Her heartbeat is steady. This is right. It has to be right.

She turns the knob.

“Wasn’t sure you’d do it,” he says from behind her. His voice is low and tightly controlled. Her shoulder blades jerk like she’s been hit by an I-beam.

She could just go. He can’t stop her. Even without the chip, he never would have been able to stop her. Instead, she pauses and lets her head turn. A mere fraction, enough to see the shape of him but not so that she has to look at him.

If she looks at him—she’s not sure what will happen.

“I have to do this. It has to be this way,” she whispers.

“Very noble, very stupid. Very annoying, Slayer.” Yup, there’s the growl, but it’s not one she knows. It’s different from his usual angry heat. This is colder. A hard lump sits in her stomach. It’s been there a long time, she thinks, and it’s growing. Growing and eating at the edges of her. Heat makes it shrink, but coldness, that makes it bloom.

God, this is so messed up.

Her mouth is desert dry, and she feels the cracks all along her lips. Even to the corners of her mouth, like all the spit has evaporated right out of her. Makes her think of when she’d spent hours ice skating and the cool, dry hair had been murder on her skin until Mom had taught her about moisturizer.

“I’m catching the six a.m. flight out of O’Hare. I’ll get a bus back to Sunnydale. I—I left a note.”

“Don’t want a sodding note, Slayer. I reckon the Little Bit doesn’t want one either. Bloody hell, can’t you even fucking look at me, woman?”

He’s come up behind her, cool breath on her neck. There’s no body heat, but she can feel him all the same. The wire-taut tension of him. It resonates with the same tension in her. Her fingers grip the strap of her duffel tight enough to make the fabric protest.

She turns in a whirl, not hitting him, but checking him with her shoulder to force him to back up. To force him to give her space.

Those dangerous eyes, eyes as fathomless and blue as the ocean, stare at her with a wild anger. His features are stark. The sharp angles of his face scored with a scratch, the pale circumference of his wrists burned by ropes. He’s covered in her. She can see it. She’s made him hers, and she’s leaving.

“I have to do this—”

“Like fucking hell you do!” His protest is whispered, mindful of Dawn still sleeping, but that makes the tenor of all the more desperate. The way his voice warbles and breaks. “I told you, I showed you, I’m in this Slayer. Not going to walk or run from it. I’m here. Would be anywhere for you and the girl both, don’t you see that? Don’t, please, Buffy, don’t do this.”

“I have to,” she breathes. Her whole throat feels raw. Scraped raw, like talking any louder would render her unable to speak for… for a long time. Spike recoils as if she slapped him. His lip curls, and she can see the venom in him rising like a tide. Her mouth works, and tacky words fall from her lips like bile. “Because I can’t—I can’t. But you can. You can keep her safe.”

“We can keep her safe,” he presses. A step forward, his head lowered. He’s trying, trying to reach her. Hold her eyes with his own. She fights him, getting away from the pull of his gaze. “Have kept her safe. Won’t break, me. Didn’t we prove that? I’m not breakable.”

That’s not quite true, she knows. Because she’s watching him break. And she’s the one breaking him.

“Can fight right on next to you and keep the Bit out of it. I’m not bloody Captain Cardboard, boy who can’t keep up, and I’m sure as fuck not Angelus. Not going to walk out on you after curtain call, love. I. Don’t. Leave.” Each word is a thrown challenge, but not through clenched teeth. They’re words hurled at her feet, like someone trying to cast a line to a drowning man.

Hold on, hold on to me.

Buffy feels that odd detachment, like she’s in her body but not. It’s been happening more and more lately. It used to be something that only happened now and again. A big fight, she thought it was the Slayer part of her taking over. But now she knows differently. It happens outside of a fight, that means it’s a part of her.

There’s an abstracted sense of distance. Buffy watches the life line pass on by.

“And if I lose?” she asks quietly.

There it is. The yawning hole at the center of her. The pull of her own end—end of the road, end of the line, all roads lead back here—it rises up in her like a tide of the void itself. Not blackness, because even blackness is something. This is simply nothing.

He shakes his head, a hard jerk to the negative. “You won’t. Won’t let it happen.”

“Because you and plans are so mixy,” she says, a sad smile playing about her mouth. Even though there’s nothing to smile about or anything left to play for. It’s all done now. She’s done.

“Buffy—”

She closes the distance between them. Her sudden movement shocks him. Shocks him and shuts him up. Thumb pressed over his lips, she looks him in the eye when everything in her tells her that this is dangerous. His eyes are the most dangerous part of him. But she needs him to understand. To do the one thing only he can do.

“I don’t think I would’ve gotten this far with anyone else.”

If it was true then, on the drive out here, then it’s more than doubly true now. No one else could have gotten her this far. Not to Chicago, and not to this place, where even though she’s hollowing out, she had something for a little while. Something that was hers.

“She’s my heart.” The admission is cloying and tacky. The words threaten to make her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth, make her lips pull apart like there’s a resin stretching there. Something wants to hold her mouth closed, and she’s fighting it as much as she can. It’s not very much. “Spike, she’s my heart walking around, out in the world, and you saw it. You saw it. And I can’t, Spike. Don’t make me, don’t make me change course now, because I can’t. I love her so much, and you—you know how much. You’re the only one, the only one, please, I need you to protect—”

“Pineapple,” he says against her thumb. His voice is higher, crackle-crinkling, and he’s fraying. She can see it, around his eyes, in the line of his shoulders under the t-shirt. The t-shirt she dressed him in, to take care of him for too short a time. He’s coiled underneath that black fabric, the tension begging to be released from every muscle.

Buffy presses her lips together. There’s more she has to say, but she can do this for him, at least. She can honor that one word. The world is blurry as she backs away from him. Her duffel is no weight at all. It’s an anchor dragging her back to Sunnydale.

There’s so much more she could say, but she can’t. His sister, her sister, both of them girls she never really knew, but she feels them. Feels Dawn like a missing rib. Feels the real Charlotte like a phantom next to Spike’s shoulder.

And if one of them is her heart, and he loves her, and he loves Dawn, then she knows what he’ll do.

The neat corner she’s backed him into.

One step, then another, she backs away. Back toward the door. Spike stands in the liminal space that’s not kitchen, not living room, and not hallway. The middle space between them all that apartments have. The middle place where nothing and everything happens. His feet are pale and stark against the hardwood, the tendons standing out like he’s physically keeping himself from launching forward to intercept her.

Her hand is on the door knob. The deadbolt is already thrown. Half flight of stairs, landing, another half flight, two doors and then out into the night. She lingers.

“The note is—” she starts.

“Bloody. Fucking. Pineapple,” he snarls.

His face is a rictus and his eyes—oh God, his eyes are an inferno. There’s no way he’s still undusty with that sheer amount of rage inside of him. He’s a hunter poised to attack, a predator ready to kill.

Buffy turns the knob and runs out into the night. The air is cool, and it hits her like a wall. She sucks in a hard breath. The taxi is waiting, the motor idling. She flings herself into it heedless of how it looks. The driver—some tired looking man of middle years with more gut than hair—glances at her in the rear-view mirror with not much more than weary resignation.

“O’Hare, right?” he asks in the brash Chicago accent.

“Right,” she manages to choke out.

His eyes hold hers in the mirror for a second longer, then he sighs. “Seatbelt, miss.”

“Oh, yeah, I—”

Her reply is cut short by a shatter of glass from above them. Something small and black sails out into the street and lands with the sharp crack of breaking plastic and electronics. Her breathing hitches as she fumbles at the seatbelt. The driver suddenly looks at her with more worry, but he’s already got the car moving before she’s clicked in.

“Sorry, miss, that looks like a rough one,” he says, going a good ten miles over the limit.

Maybe, if it wasn’t for her time kind of working at the Centre and teaching the clients from there self-defense, Buffy wouldn’t have put it together. Wouldn’t have understood that this probably wasn’t this guy’s first time driving a girl away from a bad place.

She wants to tell him that he’s got it wrong. That he’s driving her away from one of the better places she’s known. Against all reason and sanity, she’s leaving safety and running headlong into the abyss. Into the very thing that’s going to eat her up from the inside out. The thing that’s going to kill her if she isn’t good enough.

Because this time, she’s pretty sure she’s not.

All she can say, though, in a weary voice is, “Yeah, yeah it was.”

***

The hole in the window is jagged and messy. Usually, Spike loves the sound of breaking glass, especially when he’s the one breaking it. It’s followed by the should-be satisfying smash of the stereo on the pavement below. The stereo the Slayer and the Bit bought him all those days ago. Back before—before everything. Before the world changed, before he changed.

Before he knew what it was to love her so fully, so completely.

Now he does, and he knows what it is to watch her walk out. To slip through his fingers like she was never there to begin with. Never thought he’d feel a fucking ounce of sympathy for the solider boy, but he does now. You poor sod, he thinks, you poor fucking sod.

Spike doesn’t know if the thought is for the boy Buffy never loved or—well, he supposes the appellation fits them both.

He doesn’t need to breathe, but he’s gulping down air like a landed fish. Fingers curl into fists so hard his knuckles pop and shift.

Destruction can’t sate him this time. Can’t distract him or blot out what’s just happened. The slight of Buffy fleeing—the golden flip of her hair as she turns away from him, the bright sheen in her green eyes, the last touch of her on his lips. He’s standing still and shaking at the same time. Could a vampire’s body fly apart from sheer, screaming—bloody fuck he doesn’t even know what this is that he’s feeling. This feeling of being torn into shreds and wanting to fling himself right out the window, too, only there’s something holding him back. One thing.

“You’re the only one, the only one—”

The door to the bedroom opens. He can’t hear it, but the airflow is different, and Bit’s footsteps aren’t stealthy.

“Buffy?” she calls sleepily. “Spike?”

A growl builds in his throat, but he cuts it off as hard as a choked down nail. It snags on him the whole way down.

“‘M here, Little Bit,” he forces out. He’s surprised there isn’t blood on his lips after he speaks.

“Spike?”Dawn blinks against the soft yellow downlights. Her light brown hair is tousled from sleep and her pajamas hang off her coltish frame. Then there’s those big blue eyes, and he’s seeing double.

“William?” Charlotte’s in her nightgown, peering into the library where he hid away after Father’s funeral, all big blue eyes and dark hair curling around her ears.

His hands dig into his hair, squeezing at his scalp. The chip. This is all the chip’s fault. This pain. This agony. Past and present collide in a terrible admixture that threatens to undo him. Has already undone him. He’s just catching up to it. The chip put him on this path, and he hates it. Hates with all the fiery passion he has in him. If he digs it out of his own head, would that even work? Would it reset him? Would it make this stop?

“Where’s Buffy?” she asks, though she’s holding the mobile and a scrap of paper in her hands. She doesn’t want to look. She can’t look.

Look at how he failed. Did all he could to make the Slayer stay, to give her something to hold onto. Gave her everything he had, paltry though it was, and still.

You’re beneath me.

There’s a roar, a scream, a sob in his chest, in his throat. It sticks there, an abortive, stillborn thing. Like all those ghosts of dead children in a poison house, the house that had been his all those long dark years ago, they mock him now.

“Headed back without us, Niblet.” The pet names, he has those. He has her, still, this girl who might just be all that he’ll ever have left of Buffy. Of his own sister. Those big blue eyes and long brown hair and stubborn jaw and snotty attitude.

The grind of plastic is loud in her small hand. The mobile straining under her grip. He reaches for her, fingers stretching, curling in and out in touch/don’t touch war he’s having with himself. Then, because he loves this girl, the heart of the Slayer herself, he curls his fingers around her shoulder and grips hard enough to bring her focus to him. Her eyes are glassy, but her body’s tense as a drawn bow.

“What’s going to happen?” Dawn asks. It’s a question that has so many others inside of it. A stacked Russian doll that leads all the way down into an infinitesimally small point. A point that somehow drags him down.

“William, what’s going to happen now?” The question is too big for his sister’s small, delicate frame. For all that Father was distant to William, he was moreso to Charlotte. A daughter of his later years, Father had left his daughter to the care of his wife and soft son. Kneeling, he takes her hand and squeezes gently.

“I’m going to take care of you now,” he tells her. Past and present are constant, twining things. Snaking through each other and slipping from his fingers. Purchase is impossible. There’s a gnawing knowledge in the core of him—Charlotte died. Not from anything he could have stopped. Fever and illness had taken her before he’d been dead himself. But Dawn is strong, and the world is different, and he’s different.

Strong enough, Buffy had said. He can kill anything that comes for the girl, but is he strong enough for the girl herself? He squeezes her shoulder and her gaze finally focuses on the paltry fellow she’s left with. He’s no kind of replacement for anyone else. Never has been, never will be. But he won’t stop trying.

He’s never been able to stop trying.

“I promise, Dawn, I’ll take care of you until the end of the world.”

Charlotte collapses into his arms, a small featherweight of relief. “I know you will, William.”

Dawn meets his eyes and time stops fracturing around him until all that’s left is him standing in the apartment kitchen under the soft downlights. The floorboards are cold on his feet, and he’s distantly aware of the green air of spring whistling in through the broken window.

Dawn is not Charlotte. It’s only a thin veneer of physical resemblance that unites them in the long years of his mind. Dawn isn’t his own little sister. She’s not even, exactly, Buffy’s. The Slayer said she was her own heart, but that’s not right either. She’s Dawn. Dawn with her chin jutting out and her strong jaw and sniffing back her tears until she’s left with a cloak of fiery indignation.

“No,” she says through grit teeth, “you won’t.”

Notes:

DON'T HATE DAWN. We're cutting here, because this is where it cuts before going back to Buffy. There's more to this scene, and it will be explored. There's a lot going on in Dawn's head right now and no one is privy to it. Please don't get mad at her here until she's had a chance to explain her reaction.

Further, terribly sorry, but those who read the ducky fic already know, I'm going on holiday (next week!), and I won't be back until August. I've totally obliterated my lead on this fic, so please send positive vibes as I frantically attempt to get a lead while on holiday. Fingers crossed, I'll be back to posting this on August 8th if I can get my act together.

Now, to the poems! Spike recites two. First is To Anthea, who may command him anything by Robert Herrick. Second is i like my body when it is with your by, as Buffy correctly noted, e.e. cummings. I know people like to use Neruda, but I have issues with old Pablo, so I went for something a little different.

Lastly, the song:
If I could
Baby, I'd give you my world
How can I
When you won't take it from me?
You can go your own way
Go your own way
You can call it
Another lonely day
You can go your own way
Go your own way
--"Go Your Own Way" by Fleetwood Mac

Chapter 21: The Sound of Silence

Notes:

CW for Buffy's canonical depression/death wish.

O’Hare smells funny. No getting around it. Buffy’s nose scrunches as she scrunches herself into a diabolically uncomfortable plastic chair. Did demons design airports? She’s starting to think that might be possible. The massive analog clock clicks closer to boarding time with all the speed of a stoned tortoise. It’s a special kind of torture, watching that clock count off the seconds and minutes, the long red hand speeding around the circle until, tock! the minute hand clunks forward. Forward in time, further away from the apartment and to leaving Chicago and closer to being back in California, back in Sunnydale. Back to facing down the inevitable that she ran away from.

Why had she thought running away would work this time? It never had before. She tried to run away from the Master. Had accepted her fate and drowned for her trouble. She’d tried to run away from Sunnydale, Acathla, and re-souled Angel. All she’d found in LA were grabby assholes, a sharp, stabbing misery, and oh, right, demons.

Damn it, she didn’t even think to bring a book for this wait. Not that she could have managed to read anything. Her eyes are scratchy and her throat is dry. And oh yeah, the smell. She can’t figure out what that smell even is. There’s something faintly dairy-based about it, but it’s not exactly spoiled milk or cheese. There’s also some pervasive tinge of grease and char, she thinks. All in all, it’s a deeply unappetizing smell that would put Buffy off food if she was hungry in the first place.

The minute hand of the clock tocks again with a terrible sense of finality. This is it. This is all the time she has left.

Buffy’s head lolls forward, forehead to her knees. She tries to breathe in deep, even breaths. The kind of breaths that they say help people with shock or something. All breathing does, though, is make her smell more of that over-processed dairy stench that pervades the terminal. With a small whimper, she shifts, pressing the heels of her palms against her closed eyes.

How much longer? How much longer until she can get on the damned plane? Then maybe she can sleep. Buffy eyes the clock. Five in the AM. An exhausted groan works its way out of her throat. She watches in a glassy-eyed daze as flight crew eventually show up, get the gate ready, and make barely intelligible announcements. Buffy’s gratified that none of the perkily dressed women are actually perky. The airline uniform is crisp, but to a woman, their expressions radiate what Buffy’s come to understand as “Chicago doesn’t give a fuck” vibes.

More people show up. Other passengers. Most of them are dressed in suits or pants suits, with clean lines and shiny shoes. Buffy curls further into her chair in her jeans and sparkly sneakers, with her washed but makeup free face. All these adults, real adults around her with real jobs and real lives, flying off to some meeting or conference. They can’t know that she’s sitting there, the reason why they’re all living their lives. The gulf between her and all these adult humans is so huge as to be impossible to bridge. The breadth of oceans, the distance between stars.

A crackly announcement informs all the waiting passengers that it’s time to board the plane to Los Angeles. Buffy stands, hoisting her duffel over her shoulder, and her boarding ticket in hand. She shuffles along the line, glad of some movement before being trapped in a metal tube for four and a half hours.

She finds her seat, a window one, thanks to Giles for that one. She doesn’t think she could have handled this if she’d gotten a middle seat. Probably would have screamed and tried to open the plane door mid-flight, if she’d been stuck between people obviously going to important meetings while she, while she—

The duffel scrunches under her seat, a half filled slump of tough, black nylon. Buckling her seatbelt and drawing it tight over her lap, Buffy curls her knees up and rests her head against the wall (doesn’t it have another word, the inside wall of the plane, she’s not sure, but as strange it sounds to call it a wall, she doesn’t have another word to hand so wall will do). Her eyes close, which turns out to be a tactical mistake.

Eyes closed, she can’t help but see his face. That pale, sharp face. With those bright, glimmering blue eyes. How he stood poised to unleash himself. A fighter, through and through, but there was nothing for him to hit. Only her, and even if he could have hit her, she’s not sure if he would have. He’d knocked Druscilla out once, no, twice that she’s aware of. Willing to lay out his sire, his maker, his lover for over a century. Would he have knocked her out to stop her if he’d been able? She doesn’t know.

Officially not predicting Spike anymore. She’s settled on that at least.

Nothing else in her is settled. Her body is still, but it’s like there’s a jangling line of cans inside of her. Like from Home Alone, when tiny Macaulay Culkin set up trip wires that tug at her insides. Except instead of Joe Pesci and Daniel Stern, it’s the memory of her too-brief time with Spike. Those passionate, heedless couplings that shattered any notions of what sex was supposed to feel like—because God help her, nothing she’d ever known had felt like that. Like being plugged directly into an electric socket and lit up from the inside out. Like the cliche fireworks. Like something precious and fragile. Like something wild and riotous. Too many contradictions that shouldn’t fit together, but do.

A tin can jingle of memory pulls at her: Do I contract myself, very well, I contradict myself.

It had been on the syllabus of her class—the class she’d had to drop. The class she’d really started to like (and since when did the undead recite poetry with eyes that burned like stars and make her whole body sing—no, don’t go there, she tells herself). The class, she thinks, when she’d figured out that poetry wasn’t thinking, it was feeling. She had always been iffy on the thinking front—never able to think as fast or just like the other kids in her class. But feeling? Oh, she got feeling. She had buckets of feeling. Too much. Until—

Until all that feeling had almost ended the world. And she’d tried not to feel so much. Tried not to let it out.

Now, that makeshift tripwire of warnings is a cacophony inside her own head.

Another crackly, staticky announcement comes over barely functional speakers. The message is garbled. Buffy gets the gist. They’re going to take off now. The engines whir up. It’s a reprieve.

She should sleep. She’s just not sure how she can if she can’t close her eyes and not see him. Not see the expression on his face, that of a man who looked like he’d been served his own heart on a plate and told to eat it.

God, she’s so tired. Thankful she showered, but tired. Her eyes are scratchy, and her whole body feels desiccated. Like she’s been put through a low-heat oven for hours. Even her clothes feel wrong and scratchy.

Buffy tries to empty her thoughts, to find that meditative place she’d learned to reach only last fall. Before everything changed. Before Dracula (ugh), before Dawn (which makes a squirmy, unpleasant feeling worm through her guts, because she can’t help but think that it cheapens how much she loves her sister—her heart, all the best parts of her), before Mom.

Suppressing a whimper, Buffy braces in her seat as the plane fights against gravity and she tries not to feel a sympathetic kinship with a several thousand pound tube of metal. The ground gives away, the vast midwestern landscape not so much shrinking but expanding below her. Out and out, the vast rolling fields of green and trees, bracketed by the long blue expanse of Lake Michigan and broken by the occasional river. The plane tilts, climbing higher and higher, turning west.

It’s pretty, if flat. The wide open space feels so different from the LA of her childhood—bracketed by the unending sprawl and smog and the very, very distant San Gabriels. The ones she could only see on a clear day. But there’s something about the way the sunlight slowly oozes out over the landscape, the grey sky tinged with pink then a faint orange as the green land seems to turn golden for an all too brief moment. Little more than a flicker, a there and then gone moment, as the sun fully crests the horizon and blazes across the wide world. The sight pulls her in even as the drone of the engines makes her eyes flutter.

Before the cabin announcement comes on to say she can unbuckle her seatbelt, she’s already asleep.

***

There’s a shake of her shoulder, and Buffy’s heart is promptly in her throat. She jerks and tries to whirl, but there’s something low and tight across her lap. The person next to her, a middle aged white man with a paunch and a bad salt-and-pepper comb over, but a wide, worried expression on his plump face, holds his hands up. His mouth moves, but it’s lost in the whir of the engines like the wah-wah-wah of adults in the Peanuts cartoons.

“Huh?” is her incredibly with it response.

“Wasn’t me,” he says she thinks not for the first time. His pinched eyes dart to the stewardess who’s half leaning into the row, her red-painted nails curling away from Buffy’s shoulder.

“Sorry to wake you, miss,” the stewardess says in a flat voice that isn’t sorry at all. “You need to bring your chair to the upright position before we land.”

“Oh, yeah, okay.” Buffy manages the barest acknowledgement before fumbling around at the buttons. She must have done that before take off. When she pushes the button, the seat sproings into her back with a jolt. She scrubs at her eyes. The stewardess moves on. The middle-aged traveller beside her eyes her warily. Buffy turns her face away and watches outside the window as LA sprawls below her. It’s only mid-morning in California, hooray for time zones. Between the time of year and the time of day, there’s no marine layer rolling in off the ocean anymore. All burned off by the southern California sun. It exposes the gleaming hubs of skyscrapers and reveals the mish-mash of Los Angeles neighborhoods for her to view. She stares down at them with unseeing eyes.

There’s a dislocated sense that she should feel something. Disappointment. Apprehension. Anything at all. Instead, she’s looking at LA and the emotions she should feel like they’re mere scenery—the places she’s passing by.

The plane makes noises and jounces through the air.

It would be kind of hilarious, in a dark, fuck this is my shitty life, kind of way if the plane crashed. If what brought the Slayer down wasn’t a demon or a vampire or even a Hell God, but a pocket of bad air. The thought tugs at the corner of her mouth in a way that lacks mirth.

Buffy watches the plane land, the ground growing closer and closer. Looming, even though it’s below her. Then the plane touches down. The middle aged man beside her sighs. His fingers uncurl from the arm rest that he co-opted for himself. Buffy doesn’t mind. She understands wanting to have something to hold onto. Wanting to be able to curl your fingers around something solid and real when the rest of the world is out of control.

There’s a phantom hardness under her hand, then, the memory of Spike’s hand holding hers. Those long, strong fingers twining with hers. A grip nearly as hard and strong as her own.

Grimacing, she digs the thumb of her left hand into the palm of her right. He’s not here.

The plane taxis to the gate. Spike’s not here. She left him behind to care for Dawn. To do the thing she knows he can. What she’s kind of known about him for years now—Spike will take care of someone he loves, and he loves Dawn. Not the way he loved Druscilla, but in the purest way Buffy can imagine. The same way she loves Dawn. With all the fierceness and exasperation that only a little sister could inspire.

The plane stops. There’s more arcane and mechanical noises that Buffy doesn’t understand. Then comes the ding of a seatbelt sign being turned off and the simultaneous metallic clicking of dozens of people unfastening their seatbelts. Buffy does likewise, but doesn’t stand. All those business people do, clamoring for their suitcases stuffed into the overhead compartments. Her fellow travellers ooze off the plane, a slow moving line of frustration. Buffy stays in her seat. When her row companion, bad comb-over man, leaves, he offers her a tight smile. The kind of smile people give strangers. Buffy pulls out her own duffel and slings it over her shoulder, joining the disembarking throng.

Feet trudging along, Buffy doesn’t pay much attention to the inside of LAX. She lets the tide of people carry her along toward the exits. To where she can get a cab and head to the bus station. Giles had offered to pick her up from the airport. Buffy had declined. It was better for him to stay, to keep an eye on things and the rest of the gang. Until she got back.

This wouldn’t be the first time she’s ridden a bus back from LA with a stone where her heart should be. With an effort of will, she doesn’t think about the way to finish that thought.

As she reaches the baggage claim carousels, she takes a moment to read the signs. Things have changed since she was here last. The last time she got on a plane it had been for a family vacation. Mom and Dad had taken her and Dawn (well, just her, but Dawn’s in the memory now, wound through Buffy’s own life like a shining, bright thread) to Hawaii. Dad had just gotten a promotion at work and they had more money, and Mom and Dad had wanted to spoil her and Dawn. They’d ridden in a cab to the airport. Dad hadn’t wanted to risk his new sporty car in the airport parking lot. Buffy had felt so very grown up. Making sure Dawn behaved and that she was a good traveller for Mom and Dad. She remembers standing here as they waited for their bags to appear, Dawn fretting that they wouldn’t ever come, Mom soothing those fears, Dad impatient to be away and Buffy, Buffy had held Dawn’s hand and made a game of guessing where all the people coming off the planes were going.

Now, all those people are leaving LAX back to their lives. Their lives spinning along just like the planet itself.

Buffy wonders what will happen when she stops spinning.

The nylon strap of the bag rasps under hand as she hikes it higher onto her shoulder. She makes for the exit only to be brought up short by an accented voice calling out her name.

Her heart races, beating so hard she wonders if it will burst out from behind her breastbone. He can’t have done it. Can’t have beat her here. There’s no way. And he wouldn’t bring Dawn here. Protect her, she told him. She’d placed Dawn into his keeping, and he wouldn’t.

Throat tight, she turns, dreading what she might see only to find—

“Wesley?” Her voice rises in disbelief. There’s no way that this—rugged? When did Wesley get rugged? It’s too much for her brain to process. He looks like he could use a good bath and a shave, but there’s a polite if awkward smile on his stubbly face.

“Indeed,” he answers. He half reaches for her duffel, but then curls his fingers away and gestures for them to head toward a different exit. The parking garage. “I know you did not want Giles to pick you up, but he rang me to ask if I could assist you getting to the bus depot. A lucky thing, too, since we only just returned ourselves.”

“Returned?” That’s all she’s got, these one word questions. Wesley nods eagerly as she falls into step beside him.

“Oh yes, we were in another dimension for a time, and have only recently been able to come back. It was quite the, ah, adventure.”

“Who was ‘we’?”

Wesley’s expression grows strained. “Myself, of course, and Lorne who you have not met. A quite interesting fellow in his own right. And, well.”

“Angel,” Buffy supplies. Then she feels it, the sense of vampire that’s also familiar. Or was once familiar. Deep in the parking garage, he’s leaning against a car that’s got blacked out windows. For a second, she thinks of Spike’s boat of a car. The massive thing with fins and likewise blacked out windows. She knows he wasn’t the only vampire to figure out how to beat driving around in daylight hours. It just seemed like such a Spike thing. To throw caution to the wind and drive around when he could dust at any second. Like he took it as a personal challenge, the sun.

As she gets closer, Angel uncrosses his arms and stands, but doesn’t come toward her. She stops and turns to Wesley, face as impassive as a stone wall.

“Cordelia had fallen into that dimension, you see,” Wesley babbles. Yeah, the rugged look is mostly a look. His smile is as limp as overcooked pasta. “We rescued her.”

“Okay,” she says with a nod. She doesn’t have much more in her than that. Then she takes another step. Wesley doesn’t. “Aren’t you—?”

“Ah, no. I will make my own way back to the Hyperion. We rescued another person, and well, Fred is still adjusting. I would like to make sure she’s well.” That awkward, conciliatory smile is back. Then, against all history and precedent, Wesley squeezes her arm in a way that’s meant to be reassuring and kind. For a heartbeat, Buffy wishes this Wesley had showed up in Sunnydale. The Wesley he’s becoming.

Everyone’s out there becoming something, she thinks. Becoming more than they once were. Meanwhile, she—

“Buffy, if you have need of us,” he trails off.

“It’s not the end of the world,” she says. Not anymore, she thinks. It’s just making sure a Hell God won’t try to track down Dawn again and end it anyway. Whenever the ritual whatsit will be ready again.

“No, well, very good,” he says, suddenly so like Giles, she almost wishes her Watcher was here instead. “I must get back. Make sure our new guest is well. Goodbye, Buffy, and be well.”

“Bye Wesley,” she says softly. He walks away. Buffy turns back to Angel. The sense of him is persistent across her Slayer senses. That prickle down the back of her neck that means some supernatural creature is around, sharp in a way that tells her that it’s powerful, and quasi-famililar. Half remembered. Not quite so familiar as Spike. Obviously not. Spike was in her apartment, in her space, in her—and oh shit, will Angel be able to tell?

There’s a sudden pit in her stomach.

She doesn’t want to deal with this. How could she even explain it? That Spike gave her a lifeline that no one ever has before? No one ever could? How he’d made her alive in a way she’d thought forgotten about?

The most alive she’s been in years has been in a dead man’s arms, and it’s not the arms of the dead man in front of her.

God, how messed up is her life? What’s left of it, at least.

Steeling herself, Buffy closes the distance between herself and her former one-and-only. Not that now, not by a long shot. Still the first man she loved. Really loved and gave her heart to. And he crushed it. It wasn’t him, but it was him, and—

“I didn’t ask for the pick up,” she says, retreating into a comfortable bitchiness she feels would have made Cordy proud.

“No, but I—when Wesley said you were landing here, I thought. I thought we could have a chance to… talk.” He leans down a little, like he always does when he talks to her. She used to think it was because he was so tall and she was short (still is short, stupid genetics). He was coming down to her level. Now, now it feels like he’s crowding her. Looming while trying to look like he’s not looming.

The ground rose up to meet her on the plane. It loomed larger and larger until she was on the ground and the ground was all around.

Oh no, she’s really losing the plot now. Damn it.

“Not sure what there is to talk about, Angel.” She doesn’t have a watch, but she knows the bus to Sunnydale will be leaving soon. She can’t afford to miss it.

“How about you going back to fight a Hell God without backup? I could—”

“I’m going to stop you right there,” she says, holding up a hand.

“Buffy—”

“I’m not doing this. There’s a plan. Giles and the gang and I, we had a plan. Have a plan. And if it doesn’t work—”

“It still could be the end of the world, Buffy. Giles explained the basics to Wesley, but Wesley could read between the lines. If Glory isn’t stopped, she’ll just keep looking for Dawn.”

“I know.” Her voice is quiet, and kind of small. A resignation is there. She doesn’t want to dwell on it. That won’t do anyone any favors. Not herself, and certainly not Dawn. Buffy shakes her head. “Am I here for a lecture or a ride?”

The question startles Angel back to himself. Or out of himself. Buffy’s not sure which. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right. Let’s, uh, go.”

She strides around to the passenger side of the car before he can move and opens her own damn door. The duffel bag drops to the floor between her sparkly sneakers. She leans against the door, nose crinkling at the back paint. It’s necessary, but she doesn’t exactly like the fact that she’s going to be riding in a blacked out car. Far from any kind of celebrity vibe, it makes her feel hemmed in. Trapped.

Angel slides into the driver’s seat. The car starts with a rumble, and they’re off. She closes her eyes to shut out the disassociated sensation of moving but surrounded by blackness.

It makes her think of another drive. The only other drive that she can think of, the only one that really matters anymore. That dark drive out, when the road stretched out under a dark and starry sky. Why didn’t she let him stop and look up? Why did she have to run so far and so hard? Would it have been the worst thing in the world to meander? To take their time and really see the stars? Moments she didn’t let herself have. Moments she didn’t even imagine she could have.

She’s imagining them now. She’s imagining not committing to this plan even now that she’s flown halfway across the country for it. To having stayed. She’s imagining waking up in Spike’s arms—or him in hers—waking with lazy kisses and soft touches that grow insistent and needy, but oh God, needy in the best way.

Waking up and wondering what Dawn cooked up, half terrified, half curious, and a thousand percent certain she won’t eat it, but knowing that there is some edible food in the house and that Spike will find a way to make her eat it. That’s as far as she gets, a single morning, this morning when she could have stayed, but didn’t.

Buffy grimaces, forehead pressing into the cool window that provides no view at all. No view of anything.

She has to be stronger than this. There won’t be any room for hesitation or fear when she goes up against Glory. That’s why she did what she did. She knows that. Knows that in every last fibre of her.

Except, she’s not that strong.

Her brain circles back around to Spike, to the vampire himself. To the soft, cool press of his lips, the strong grip of his fingers. The adoration and fervent desire, the aching yearning in his voice, at odds with the crisp, sharp retorts that could fall out of his mouth. Spike’s mouth a hair’s breadth over her own, his whole self a whisper away, as she’s a whisper away from herself, too.

“—alright, Buffy?”

For the second time, she’s drifted off to be woken up by someone in the middle of talking to her. The car’s stopped, no longer running. Not even the idle hum of the engine.

“I’m up,” she manages. Better than her response on the plane. Hooray for small steps.

Angel shifts in the driver’s seat, torso twisted toward her. The expression on his face, she knows it. That patient one she remembers from when he started showing up back in Sunnydale. When she’d say something silly and young. The way his smile would be pained and confused. Not finding humor in whatever she said, but something like fault. It reminds her of Riley, when she’d do the same thing. Or Riley reminded her of Angel, and oh wow. Talk about a revelation that should have been obvious.

Neither of them remind her of Spike. Spike who would grin wide and sharp when she said something totally Buffy, where the corners of his eyes would crinkle and his eyes would dance, and she knew all of him could dance.

Everything you do is bloody marvelous to me.

Oh God, she’s fucked up so badly.

“I just… I know this year has been hard on you Buffy. Harder than any other. If there’s anything I can do to help you or Dawn,” Angel says. Buffy blinks. It takes her a second to catch up to what he’s saying.

“I’m not telling you where Dawn is, Angel. I don’t even know for sure.” And that’s true. Spike’s probably bundled Dawn into the shitty Ford Taurus he hates and has taken off for…somewhere by now.

“What if she needs protection? Wesley didn’t say anything about her, but—”

“She has protection. Spike’s with her.”

The words are out of her mouth, a statement of fact. Her eyes go out of focus, as if she could look through all those thousands of miles between her and Dawn and see how she’s doing. Could see her holed up in some motel with Spike for the day. Then it’s shattered by a strained, disbelieving shout.

“Spike?!”

Buffy regards Angel, unable to summon up enough of anything to react beyond a tired raise of her eyebrows.

“Buffy, you can’t—I mean, Spike? You’re trusting Spike with Dawn?”

“Yes, I am.”

The answer is simple, and the strongest her voice has felt since she fled their Chicago apartment. Angel inhales a deep, unnecessary breath, then his eyes narrow. There it is, the vampire scenting thing. So gross. It’s freaking invasive. That’s why she doesn’t like it. She can’t help what scents she picks up. It feels like cheating, and she hates it.

Except, she didn’t hate it when Spike scented her, when he would bury his nose in her hair and breathe deep like he craved even the smell of her.

“I can smell him all over you.” The words are a rumbling growl out of Angel’s mouth. The hair on the back of Buffy’s neck stand up, screaming warning! Angry vampire! But the rest of her is oddly still. The fingers of Angel’s left hand grip the steering wheel while his right hand reaches for her.

“Spike and Dawn and I had a place, where we were,” she says, careful to not say Chicago. Sure, he might know she flew in from O’Hare so Chicago would be logical, but she’s not going to confirm it. Maybe Spike’s taking Dawn to Wisconsin. There’s supposed to be good cheese up there. “We were all in one apartment. Close quarters.”

“Buffy you can’t trust him—”

“I can,” she interrupts, tone sure. Surer of anything else right now. Because she can. She can trust Spike with Dawn, with the last soft parts of her in this world.

“He’s a killer,” Angel insists.

“Yes, he is, and he’ll kill to protect her,” Buffy counters. She shakes her head and opens the car door. Strong California sunlight slices into the dark interior. It holds Angel at bay. One sneakered foot lands on the pavement, but she doesn’t climb out of the car all the way. Instead she regards her first love, the man she thought she could, somehow, marry. All those sweet, girlish notions of forever. But forever is a long time. They can barely have a right now. And right now, she’s had enough.

“He told me about her,” she says, meeting Angel’s furious gaze with her own much milder expression. It’s not in her to be angry about this. That would be too much for her body to handle. Instead, she feels more of that detachment, that sense of things passing her by that she should feel but can’t. All she has left to her is the truth.

“Who?” Angel presses.

“His sister,” Buffy answers. Angel freezes. Stock still as only a vampire can. “William’s little sister, and the girls who looked like her. Not much, and I didn’t ask. There wasn’t… time.” A splinter of regret works itself underneath the bone of her ribs. She’d meant to. Meant to ask and learn more about the young girl who had died long before William had. Before he’d become Spike. She never would know more now. Maybe he’d tell Dawn, and then Charlotte could live on in some way. That long lost little girl won’t now, not with her.

“Buffy, that wasn’t—wasn’t me. I mean, it was, but—”

“It doesn’t matter what it was or wasn’t. What matters right now is that he loves Dawn. Loves her like she’s his own little sister, and he’ll protect her. Whatever it takes.”

Then she stands up and out of Angel’s car, duffel bag dangling from her loose fingers. The parking lot of the bus depot is a searing desert of asphalt and gleaming cars. At the far end, the depot terminal looms, a mid-century brick construction that wasn’t pretty even when it was new.

“He’ll let the world burn,” Angel says. There’s a grim invective to his tone. A harsh judgment. Buffy peers back into the darkened interior of the car, a furrow trying to take up permanent residence between her eyebrows. “He’ll let the world burn to protect someone he loves, Buffy.”

Then, probably coming across as totally insane, Buffy smiles. Because how can she not? She didn’t have that kind of strength. She’d killed Angel to protect the world, and that was one kind of strength. Spike, though, has another kind. The kind that takes one look at the world and all it demands and says fuck you. Strength enough to defy it. Defy everything for the sake of who and what he loves. Maybe no one else would see it, but she does. Now. She saw it before she left, and maybe that’s the best thing she was capable of giving him at that point. The acknowledgement that his love was big enough to not save the world but to fight it.

Her features soften, the smile falling and faltering away leaving behind only a remnant, a ghost.

“That’s what I’m counting on.”

***

If Glory doesn’t kill her, the diesel fumes might. Buffy sits squished into a seat near the back of the bus. The ventilation isn’t the greatest, hence the fumes. Idly, she thinks that of course her return to Sunnydale is marked by a journey of weird smells on top being uncomfortable in nearly every way imaginable. Planes aren’t her favorite—so many strangers and so much grossness. Buses are a matter of necessity. Getting a flight from LA to Sunnydale wasn’t in the cards, because apparently they only fly in and out so often and whoops, she picked the wrong day to fly. Then there was the Angel of it all, and yeah, she’s just not going to think about that.

Times like this, she wishes she’d been better at meditation. Way back when, after Dracula but before Glory became A Thing, she’d been really getting somewhere. She’d gotten over the whole Last time Giles got me to meditate, he shot me full of drugs and nearly got me killed oogies (or maybe she still hasn’t, but got better at shoving them down?). Well, either way, she’d been rocking the focus thing. She’d been total focus girl.

Now, she can barely focus her eyes on the landscape rolling past. On how the world speeds by, first as a series of highway barriers that are meant to cut the noise down for whoever managed to score an LA address, then until the land begins to rise and curve. Until the landscape is revealed as parched scrub and stark desert mountains. There's a harsh beauty in this landscape, the rise and fall of it, the peaks and valleys.

Buffy can’t help but think of the wide horizons of the Midwest. The spring-greenness of the grass that even the most avid Sunnydale lawn groomer could never quite achieve. The huge expanse of Lake Michigan and how strange it was that a body of water that big smelled fresh. No salt.

She can taste salt at the back of her throat, but she ignores it.

There’s no fleeing the ribbon-road of her thoughts as the bus drives. She’s slept too much too recently. Years of being the Slayer, she can function on as little as three hours. Anything more than six feels insane. So she’s horribly, torturously awake for the diesel smell that’s slowly joined by other, less pleasant ones from the bathroom, and the fuzzy imagined scenes of what might have happened if she’d driven back with Spike and Dawn. Another three nights on the road. Three nights packed into a passenger seat trying not to scream or lose her mind in front of Dawn. Three days holed up in a motel room where even if she shut down in the privacy of the bathroom, Dawn would know.

Three turns of the Earth where Spike would have tried. Because he always tried. She can’t quite picture what that trying would look like, but she knows he’d do it. He’d done it before. His cool hand in hers, grounding, real. Now, when she reaches, there’s nothing, and she thinks she might be going crazy again. For real this time. After all, crazy people are the ones who do the same thing over and over again and expect a different result.

Hours on the bus exist in a similar time distortion as time in an airport, she thinks. The trip takes forever and no time at all. She feels every mile in her bones. She sees the Sunnydale sign far too soon.

***

Water hot enough to scald runs over her head and down her shoulders. The gleaming white porcelain of the tub shouldn’t be so calming to her. Of course, this is the tub where they chained up Spike for a while, so standing in it is like being close to him. As if she could pick up some of those residual fuck you vibes that he imprinted into the tub though the soles of her bare feet. Her toes try to curl, to grip. There’s nothing to grip.

Her hand reaches out to turn off the valve when the water begins to run cold. There’s no direction from her as she feels more and more detached from her body.

The metal links that hold up the shower curtain clink as she pushes the curtain aside and reaches for a too-thin brown towel. A totally bachelor towel she might’ve teased Giles about once upon a time.

A sudden, wrenching jerk pulls at her ribs. Something that doesn’t so much sneak up on her as it pounces on her from nowhere and claws at her insides.

Mom knew how to keep towels fluffy. There are fluffy towels back ho—back at the house. At the house that was once a home, but without people in it, it’s just an empty place. She gets it now, why vampires need an invite. There’s something inside, something that fills up the space that keeps them out. Only by reaching a hand out can they be pulled in. Would anything fill up the spaces of her that way anymore? The way she’d felt more like herself in a long time, only to cut herself off from it.

Because she had to. She had to.

Teeth chattering, Buffy curls her arms around her naked and wet torso. She pulls the towel around herself and steps onto the grey, fuzzy bathmat. She wiggles her toes against the cloth and avoids looking in the mirror. It’s all fogged anyway.

She slowly dresses, pulling on dry jeans over her damp legs and sliding on a white long sleeved shirt. Covered, she cracks open the door of Giles’s bathroom. The living room is quiet. Even with the whole gang here there’s a thick blanket of hush over them all. Tara included. Tara who sits curled and tucked into Willow’s side like a child. Her hand is better. Or, at least not in the cast. There’s a fission of guilt around the blonde witch. Tara, her mind ripped away from her, scrambled by Glory’s assault, and Buffy had put her in the rear view to save Dawn. Had barely looked back as she’d tried to live and ended up living a pretend life. A life that wasn’t hers. Made up out of second hand things and gauzy ribbons of implications, people seeing what they wanted to see. What she let them see.

It hadn’t been real.

It had almost been real. No. For a very brief span of time it had been real. The realest thing she’d ever known. As real as a lightning strike, and just as permanent. Here and then gone, only known by the echo of thunder and a lingering after-image.

Arms crossing under her breasts—she’s not holding her arms around herself, not about to curl away into nothing, no, she’s not doing that—she faces her friends. From the couch, Willow’s face is strained and stricken, new lines around her eyes and mouth. Are they all only twenty-one? Twenty-two? Buffy feels like she’s watching Grease, wondering how they convinced anyone that the cast were high schoolers.

Xander and Anya are squished into an arm chair together, holding on to each other. While Anya’s expression is tight and scared, Xander’s watching her with a kind of understanding that’s snuck up on her. When, after the confusion around the Bot, he’d said he’d get why she’d have sex with Spike (and oh boy does she get it now too, but no, no more getting or having, not for her). A spark of that sympathy after Spike had been tortured into nearly dust. Something so gentle that’s in him that she hopes he gets to keep it. Keep that soft and kind part of himself. That he won’t bury it under fear or anger or anything else that makes all those good parts ossify.

Then Giles’s hand is on her shoulder. He joins them from the kitchen and presses a mug of tea into her hands. Her fingers curl around the warmth, but it’s the wrong kind of warmth. She wants cocoa with marshmallows from cool hands—hands that remember how Mom had made it.

Buffy sets the mug down on the coffee table with a quiet thunk.

Tara smiles vacantly at the steam rising up into the air. “Are we having a tea party? I-I know how to make crumpets, but—not everyone is here.” She glances around with a confused frown. “The bright girl, she’s missing, and someone else. The monster who saved me.”

“I know, baby,” Willow says, voice wet and thick and tremulous. Gentle fingers stroke blonde hair away from a confused face. “But the bright girl can’t be here. It’s not safe.”

“Oh.” Buffy’s guts twist as Tara turns over that information in her ravaged mind. Then she smiles. It’s as sweet and empty as a grocery store sheet cake. “I remember. The monster keeps the bright girl safe.”

“Yeah, you got it right, you remembered. You’re so good, sweetheart.” Willow’s about three seconds from sobbing. Buffy swallows bile, and from the sour expressions on everyone else’s face, she isn’t alone. Tara beams at the praise and goes back to nuzzling against Willow’s soft sweater.

“I take it Spike agreed, then,” Giles says quietly. He holds his glasses absently in one hand, but he’s looking at her directly. Seeing her.

Buffy’s chin jerks down. “He wasn’t happy about it, but he’s going to do it.”

“So we’re trusting Spike with Dawn’s safety? That’s the linchpin of the plan to keep the world safe?” Xander challenges, the soft, understanding parts of him falling away. Because apparently there’s a limit to it. Why is that, she wonders. What’s the limit on kindness? The boundaries of caring? The perimeter of love? Who puts up the barbed wire and warning signs that says “not you”?

“I am,” she sighs tiredly. She’d really rather not have this conversation again. Once with Giles was enough. Twice with Angel was unnecessary. A third time wouldn’t be lucky, because if the whole gang piles on now—

“Vampires can be very devoted if given the opportunity,” Anya says wearily. Tired brown eyes meet Buffy’s, and in that moment, Buffy feels the weight of the ex-demon’s gaze in a way she usually doesn’t. Gone is the detachment Anya tries to maintain that only gets displaced by the sporadic, frantic worry about Xander or fitting in. And Buffy knows that she’s given Anya too little credit. Anya who is brash and recounts her demon days happily, but she’s here. Even if it’s for Xander. No, it’s better because it’s for Xander. Anya stays for love. That’s the best reason there is.

Buffy wishes she knew what that was like.

“I’m not going to rehash everything. We don’t have the time or the energy.” Buffy’s voice is a rasp as she speaks. She wishes it was stronger, that she was stronger. But she’s not Joyce Summers’s daughter for nothing. Turning to Giles, she asks, “Is everything ready for tomorrow night?”

“I believe so,” Giles answers. It could be her imagination, a trick of the lighting. All the same, to her it looks like Giles’s expression softens.

“Good, then everyone get some sleep, and.” She takes a breath. Her friends, they look to her, turn to her like she has answers. She wants to run back out that door and never look back. She wants to get on her knees and beg them to stop. She wants— “We’ll load up at the Magic Box just before sunset.”

There are nods all around. Buffy sees her friends to the door, making sure they all make it to their respective cars. Not that she’s worried. Giles reported that even the vampires were scarce lately. Glory wasn’t happy when one vampire got away, so she’s made the rest pay for it.

After a goodnight so subdued that it was practically comatose, Buffy lies down on the bed in Giles’s guest room and stares at the dark ceiling. She lies still and barely breathing, hands clasped over her chest. Her chest where, in the place behind her ribs, she had almost been touched again. Now she doesn’t know if that place even exists anymore. She’d say there’s a void inside of her, but even that would be a feeling. Instead, there’s no feeling at all.

Eventually, when sleep claims her, there are no dreams for which she is grateful. Instead, all she knows is formless blackness. It’s a relief.

***

The hammer of a troll god in one hand, Buffy hefts it.

“So, you got the power of Thor, huh?” Xander quips. Buffy regards him with a slow turn of her head. She can tell they’re all on edge. She’s not so much quippy girl. Usually there’s more confidence and snappy remarks. She knows that. Knows that like she knows so many other things, but can’t bring herself to do anything about it. It’s freaking them out.

She should probably care more about that, too.

“Yeah that’s me, Thor and powerful,” she attempts. It falls flatter than a pancake onto the floor but with a similar sad splat.

Xander’s smile grows more sickly. There’s a stench of acrid sweat in the Magic Box. Willow’s patting Tara anxiously. The mad woman seems to be more comforting to the witch than the other way around. Anya’s grimly hefting a short sword while Giles has an arming sword. Neither are among her favorites. The bot—it’s standing in the corner, head down. The long fall of hair hides her—it’s—face. Buffy turns away from it. Willow and Anya had dressed it in her clothes. Clothes she used to care about a lot more.

A night and a day, and now she’s ready for the fight. Or as ready as she ever is.

Deliberately, she sets the hammer down on the floor. The handle thunks against the counter. Faces turn toward her, faces with sickly twists of mouths and pinched corners of eyes. She pulls the phone on the counter closer toward her. The plastic of the phone receiver is cool under her fingers. It’s not quite a hesitation. Not exactly. It’s a consideration. A thought that doesn’t have form or completion. Merely a fluttering notion.

“Buffy,” Giles begins. That decides her. She picks up the phone and dials.

The line rings. It rings and rings. There’s no squirm in her stomach, no hitch in her heartbeat. Only an abstracted understanding. Yeah, she thinks, that’s fair.

None of this is fair.

There’s a click and a sudden rushing sound before a hesitant voice asks, “Yes?”

Buffy’s eyes close briefly, and she wishes she hadn’t done this. Dawn’s voice reaches across she doesn’t know how many miles (can’t know, will never know, not ever again).

“Dawn,” she says, and she hears the sharp intake of breath from her sister.

“Buffy! Don’t worry! We’re—”

“Don’t tell me!” she snaps. There’s a ratchet of tension along her spine and shoulders.

“Right.” Dawn’s voice is just as terse. No mere thread of anger, but a swath. As wide as the rolling plains she’s been through. The Buffy of two days ago might have bristled, might have balked and bridled. The Buffy of two days ago was in Chicago in the arms of a dead man who made her feel alive.

“I love you,” she says, and then, then she knows it’s true. It’s the only thing left in her. To call it a feeling is too small. It’s a physical ache, the part of her that was cracked open and ripped from her to create her sister. Yet she doesn’t begrudge it.

That’s when she also knows that Mom died loving her. Because all parents, all good parents, would do the same. Would break open their own ribs to give their children what they needed to survive, to thrive. Buffy can’t do anything less.

“Dawnie, I love you so much,” she says, a cloying thickness clogging up her throat.

“Buffy, Buffy, I love you too, why—” Dawn’s voice is suddenly small and teary. The child she is and isn’t at the same time. But oh, those words. Those words make a curve appear on her too-dry lips.

Then there’s a muffled hey! and a grunt before she hears the exact voice she didn’t want to hear. The low and rumbly voice that she remembers giving her so much beauty, so much tenderness and heat and so much everything. All of him could be in his voice, as much as in his eyes. What she gets, though, is a snarling, “Slayer.”

“Spike,” she returns, wishing all the life had gone out of her voice. It would be easier on him, she thinks, if he had nothing. If he was left with that last memory. Left with the destruction of whatever they might have been instead of any glimmer of hope. No crumbs to follow back to her heart.

Dawn needs to know she’s loved. Spike craves it. And her traitorous heart crawls up into her mouth and softens her voice. She knows he’s heard it by the sharp inhalation that’s almost lost under the background driving noise.

“Spike, I’m sorry,” she admits. It doesn’t even feel like a loss to admit that to him. It’s going to destroy him, hearing that. Would it make it harder for him to look after Dawn? Probably. But she can’t stop herself. “I’m so sorry. If there had been any other way, any other choice—”

“There was. You did this anyhow.” He’s speaking through clenched teeth. His anger growls and snaps, but she hears the pain underneath it. Not judgment like she’s used to. Pain. His pain.

Eyes open, she stares into the middle distance, because otherwise she might picture his face. Might remember the way he nearly flew apart as she left. The tick of his jaw, the coiled tension of his body, the desperate agony in his blue eyes.

The noise of the road fills up her ear. No music, no breathing. Nothing at all. If she didn’t know any better, she would assume he’s thrown the phone out the window. There’s so many things she could say to him. Things she should or shouldn’t. All those words clamor up her brain and throat and mouth.

Then, like he’s been doing for weeks now, Spike sets her free. He sets her free with a word, a soft, entreating, “Buffy…”

And she can give him one thing, at least. At the last.

“Goodbye, Spike,” she says, voice stronger than she expected. “And… thank you.”

She gently places the receiver back in the cradle. It clicks home. Buffy ponders it, wondering if Dawn will try to ring back. Or if Spike will. Or if he did throw the phone out the window and Dawn’s now screaming at him about it. Well, if anyone can endure and hold their own against a screaming Dawn, it’s Spike. She did okay there, she thinks. Spike’s resourceful and not as stupid as he pretends, and Dawn’s tough. A lot tougher than her.

Buffy’s finally come to understand the difference between strong and tough. She’s strong, but she’s just as breakable as anyone else in other ways. In the ways that really matter.

The handle of the hammer is familiar and welcome in her hand. She hefts the whole weapon and holds it in two hands.

“Xander.” One of her two best friends starts at the sound of his name. He regards her with a lick of his lips and a swipe of sweaty palms on his pants.

“What’s up Buffster?” he asks.

“What you said about the hammer, what’s that about?” Her question is without inflection, and if it upsets anyone she can’t quite notice. She’s not looking at them anyway.

“Oh!” He brightens. Well, she supposes thinking about anything not Glory and their hardest, worst fight yet. Yeah, that would brighten her up, too, if she could make her brain go in that direction. “The hammer of Thor, it could only be held by those who were worthy. Whoever had it would wield the power of Thor.”

Worthy. Buffy looks down at the hammer, not sure if the word fits her. Chosen, unfortunately yes. Slayer, yup right on the nose. But worthy? She’s not sure if anyone is worthy of the kind of power she has, or whatever she can do with it. Or what she’s done to the people she loves most in this world. She looks at them, her friends, her family. Or most of it. Willow cackling with magic and Tara’s mind ruined. Xander drawn into fight after fight with nothing but his heart. Anya grim and scared. Giles, stoic and the one of them who actually enlisted.

She’s not sure if any of this has made her worthy, but it’s what she has to do all the same.

“Well, let’s get this show on the road and see if this hammer was worth the trouble,” she says, aiming for upbeat. It’s obvious that she misses the mark by the way sickly expressions sour a fraction further. Buffy slings the hammer over her shoulder and leaves the shop. Behind her, her friends gather up their things with a clank of weapons and the hatefully perky voice of the bot as it comes back online.

Buffy marches out into the night and doesn’t think about all the things she’s left behind. About how her heart isn’t with her anymore, and how she’s glad of it—as much as she can be glad about anything—here at the end of the road.

Notes:

In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
'Neath the halo of a streetlamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence

And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share
No one dared
Disturb the sound of silence
—“The Sound of Silence” by Simon and Garfunkel

Thanks to folks on the EF discord for thoughts on the song. <3

Further note: O'Hare really did smell like that back in the late 90s and 00s, I swear to god.

Chapter 22: Radar Love

Notes:

Apologies for bumping back this update to post the one shot last week. Upside, I'm back to having a buffer chapter. Yay!

“I promise, Dawn, I’ll take care of you until the end of the world.”

Charlotte collapses into his arms, a small featherweight of relief. “I know you will, William.”

Dawn meets his eyes and time stops fracturing around him until all that’s left is him standing in the apartment kitchen under the soft downlights. The floorboards are cold on his feet, and he’s distantly aware of the green air of spring whistling in through the broken window.

Dawn is not Charlotte. It’s only a thin veneer of physical resemblance that unites them in the long years of his mind. Dawn isn’t his own little sister. She’s not even, exactly, Buffy’s. The Slayer said she was her own heart, but that’s not right either. She’s Dawn. Dawn with her chin jutting out and her strong jaw and sniffing back her tears until she’s left with a cloak of fiery indignation.

“No,” she says through grit teeth, “you won’t.”

“The bloody fuck—!”

“Because we’re going back to Sunnydale.”

Bint’s jaw juts out, all pugnacious and so sodding adolescent. He could rip her arms off right about now. Her whole head. Maybe her spine would come along with it, and he could use it like a whip and smash her skull with her clearly deficient grey matter against a wall. Either way, he’d be saving her the trouble of being killed by a Hell God.

Spike tries to get a handle on himself. His hands clench and unclench, his head twists and his teeth grind, making the muscles in his jaw jump. The only sound in the apartment is the rustle of leaves coming in through the broken window pane. His mouth works silently. Words, he can use fucking words.

“Like bloody hell we are,” he snaps.

Blue eyes so flinty they’re practically grey stare back into his own. The demon that’s in him and is him, they’re together on this: protect the girl. Any way he can. Against any agony, against any hurt. Against even the burning brand of his own idiotic heart. He wants to go, to pack up this girl and race the Slayer back to literally bloody Sunnyhell. To find a way to be there, at the end, to fight with everything that he is.

But the Slayer stopped him sure as nothing else ever has in his whole unlife.

“Spike, she’s my heart walking around, out in the world, and you saw it. You saw it. And I can’t, Spike. Don’t make me, don’t make me change course now, because I can’t. I love her so much, and you—you know how much. You’re the only one, the only one, please, I need you to protect—”

The strain in her voice, the tightness of her features, Spike recalls it all as if through a haze, even though he just lived it. A haze of his own heartache. The cold burn of knowing he’s not enough, that he’s never been enough. Man and monster alike, always falling short.

Dawn’s lips purse and her eyebrow quirks. Her composure is a thin veneer, but she’s not letting it go.

“We’re leaving,” she stresses, “for Sunnydale.”

“Dawn—!”

“And you can’t make me do anything, you know.” Her hands ball into fists at her side. She’s vibrating with tension now. With anger. With all the rage that only a child can fuel. A child who sees something wrong and won’t, can’t understand why it’s wrong. Only knowing that it is wrong. “You can’t hurt me, so I’m going to fight you every step of the way. I’ll kick, I’ll scream. Eventually someone will notice and do something. I’ll tell them you’re kidnapping me, and that my sister is in Sunnydale, and I will get home—”

Spike steps into her space. They’re damn near nose to nose. Girl’s shot up, but he’s still taller. Not by much, but that doesn’t matter. From the first, he had to learn to deal with those who thought his smaller size meant they could push him around. Little Bit has half a brain cell still working in that mad noggin of hers because she takes a half step back and swallows heavily.

“Bloody brilliant plan, that. Get me locked up, then what?” he snarls. “You ride to Big Sis’s rescue with your spindly little arms?” He gripped her upper arms. They were thin enough he could practically encircle them with his fingers. She makes to pull away, but he knows the limits of the chip. He holds her, not tight enough to hurt but enough to stop her. Gives her a little shake to make his point. Then he lets her go with an almost gentle backwards shove. Snorting, he remarks, “Pull the other one, Niblet, it’s got bells on.”

“Don’t you want to help her?” Dawn spits at him through bared teeth. Oh, claws have come out, but the girl forgets. Thinks she’s got the hurt, but she has no fucking idea. Then she hits him with a fucking sucker punch. “I thought you loved her.”

“Dawn,” he growls. Voice low and a warning. Her name is a warning. A warning she doesn’t hear.

“If-if you loved her so much, you wouldn’t stay here. You’d be out that door. You would have made her stay! You wouldn’t let—”

“No one fucking lets the Slayer do anything, you daft chit!” he shouts right into her face. She flinches. He doesn’t feel that bad about it. Because she’s not wrong. It’s nothing that isn’t stomping through his own head with bigger and tougher boots than even he wears. “She’s a force and a fire and a flood. Never was any stopping her. And she trusted me with one damned thing. With the most precious thing she’s got, and I’m not going to fucking screw that up! So now you listen to me, girl,” he says, cold and low. That as much as anything else makes her flinch. Good. If she’s paying attention she might just live, and he can do what Buffy asked of him, do the last thing she wanted him to do. Until he’s dust. No, until the Niblet is old and grey and dies all peaceful like in her sleep and then he can go fucking dust himself and take himself out of this fucking world.

A world that won’t have Buffy in it.

“You listen to me but good. Big Sis gave me one last thing to do for her, and you damn well know I’m going to do it. You and me, we’re packing up and getting out of here and not for Sunnyhell. Cause unless all your sense has dribbled entirely out of your ruddy ears, that Hell Bitch can literally suck your location out of the Slayer’s head. Only reason you’re still all girl shaped is becuase that trick doesn’t work on the undead, Little Bit, oh, and because I didn’t break under torture that would’ve fucking made Angelus blush, you spoiled little shit. Not going to give on this, girlie, not one sodding inch. So pack your bloody bags, and hear this: We’re. Not. Going. Back.” He bites out the last words, every muscle in him wire-taut. Taut to the limits of tension. What’s the tensile strength of a vampire? He’s probably twenty seconds from finding out.

Dawn blinks. Head turning away, the fall of her long hair is a whisper of capitulation. Of sorrow. The tang of salt fills the living room. Her chin trembles.

In all his years, he didn’t much care that he was a monster. He reveled in it. Gloried in it. He feels it now, though. In his guts and behind his ribs. The bad, bad man who’s scaring a little girl. Half a step back, he rocks on his heels, the hardwood cold and biting. He scrubs a weary hand over his face, feeling all his combined nearly hundred and fifty years. Christ, the girl but makes him feel old sometimes. Makes him feel old and feel too much.

His throat works soundlessly as he tries to pull the fraying, fractured pieces of himself back together.

“I’m not.” The words are halting. He holds her gaze with his own, trying to make her see. She’s the precious thing. The most precious thing. “I’m not going to screw it up. Not this time.”

“She’s going to die, Spike.” It’s a wail and a moan and a lost girl. What is he, in the end, to care for a lost girl? A monster? A man? He doesn’t know, not anymore. Here at the end, what even is he to hold this trust? For Buffy to have trusted him with her heart that’s a key and a girl alike. Dawn—girl, key, heart—scrubs her runny, snotty nose with the back of her wrist. “She went back to die, and I can’t—I don’t—”

He feels it, then, in him. The demon that’s been with him for so long, the line between them ceased to be. It’s burning, it’s making him burn. He rubs at his breastbone, an unfamiliar weight settling there. He doesn’t know what the weight is, but it could crush him all the same. There’s a twisting, writhing thing inside of him, something seeking to break free. And it hurts.

Bloody fuck. He can no more watch the Little Bit (his Little Bit) dissolve into a puddle of tears than he can Big Sis. Hands that had stopped shy of hurting pull the girl to him now. She tucks her head under his chin and clings. Clings as only a child or a kitten can.

“Bloody hell,” he breathes. Dawn clings tighter. As tight as those spindly arms can manage. She sobs onto his t-shirt, snotty and salty and disgusting and human.

“I can’t, either,” he admits. It doesn’t cost him much. Dawn’s always (in his memory, which is as close to facts as any of them have) been in a category of her own. Slayer’s kid sister, but not prey. Wasn’t done. If only because Angelus would’ve done it. She withdraws from him, scrubbing at her face and sniffing. One arm goes around her middle again. The cold night air seeps in through the broken window.

“You think I don’t want to go?” he asks almost gently, brokenly. “Don’t want to pile you and the weapons into that fucking Ford and speed straight for dear old Sunnyhell? I do. But Slayer—she needs you safe, Little Bit. That’s the only thing I got to go on now. I’m not a good man, Dawnie. Don’t know what the right thing is, but I reckon the Slayer’s word is best I can do. She says this is what I do, so I do it.”

“Who says,” Dawn says haltingly. She sniffs and pulls back. He tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, an echo of when he’d been William and Charlotte had been in tears about something or the other. But Dawn, unlike Charlotte, lifts her chin defiantly. “Who says what Buffy wants is the right thing?”

Spike raises disbelieving eyebrows at her. “Points for sticking to your guns, pidge, but she’s the Slayer. Pretty much the authority on the right thing to do.”

“No,” Dawn points out, somehow shifting back into snotty teenager with zero compunction about having just bawled her precious little eyeballs mere seconds ago. “Buffy’s my stupid big sister with a stupid martyr complex. She’s going to fight Glory without me around because she thinks she has to sacrifice herself and no one else should get hurt ever. Well, newsflash! I’m already hurt. I’ve been hurt. I might get hurt more! Hurting is like, a thing that happens. You can’t protect me from it, and neither can Buffy. All those girls at the Y, getting away from shitty boyfriends and husbands or whatever? No one protected them either, not when they needed it. Not until they stood up and got out. Well, this is me standing up, and I’m not going to let you or anyone stop me. I’ll go here with my spindly arms and everything. I’m not. Letting. Her. Die. Not without a fight. And I don’t care about what’s right. I care about my sister. And I know that for someone you love, you go through the fire. She taught me that. So, are you in or are you out?”

Her tirade hits him hard. Another angle from how Buffy came at him. He’s not sure much more his bruised and battered heart can take. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, between the Slayer’s injunction, the Bit’s determination. The split in himself is becoming a fracture, a growing chasm ready to cleave him in two. The centre is breaking apart, cracking right down the middle, and it fucking hurts.

Spike holds her head tenderly in his hands, to have something to hold together because he can’t manage it for himself. Thumbs trace away the tear tracks on her cheeks.

“You’re a brilliant, mad girl, and they really did make you out of her, didn’t they? All the best parts of her.” They stare at each other, each lost, each stuck. He takes in her stricken expression and tear stained face that can’t erase the defiant point of her chin or the hard, set line of her mouth.

And then he sees it. Sees it as his hands fall away from Dawn’s face. As he looks past the girl and sees it all clear as a cloudless night.

The best parts of the Slayer, but not just the Slayer. Buffy.

Buffy trusted him to protect Dawn so she could go and save the world. Because her heart’s so big that it cares about the entire rotten ball that spins on through the blackness. Big enough to fight on for all those people who don’t give a fucking toss about what she’s sacrificed, what she’s given. Don’t and won’t ever see the light that pours out from her, that radiates like the sun itself. That pierces all the dark places and banishes shadows.

Banishes demons. Demons like him.

Never has been in him, that righteousness, even as a man. What he’d wanted, what he’d craved had been love, connection. Then, later, he’d learned to fight, fight for who he loved. Because without love, what the bloody hell is there? What’s the point of a world without it? Just a ball of mud and water and mewling mouths and stupid happy meals on legs, that’s what. Without love there’s no Man U or poetry or even sodding dog racing.

Slayer might fight for the world, but bugger it all to hell, he’s going to fight for her.

The tearing, gaping sensation at the centre of him ebbs. His chest doesn’t ache, his head doesn’t pound. The halves come together. The push and pull that’s been yanking him around since the Slayer went on her merry fucking way stops.

She might hate him for this. He’s spent so long trying to be what someone else wanted, what someone else needed (what she wanted, what she needed), to go against her now—could be seen as a betrayal of her trust. But he knows, knows down to the bones of him that not fighting for her is something deeper than that. Because better that she hate him and be alive than care for him and be dead.

Decided, his gaze comes back into focus.

“Get your things,” he tells her. That pointed chin trembles, but then she sees the choice in his eyes. She draws in an expectant breath. He feels it in him, the rush, the thrill. He’s going back into the fight. A devil’s grin curves his mouth. Dawn’s face lights up. Then he says the words he was probably always going to say anyway, “Pidgeon, we’re gonna fly.”

***

Just over the border into Iowa—fucking Iowa, it’s a lousy state that should be wiped off the map by a bloody meteor—Spike fills up the tank of the bloody Ford Taurus. Dawn’s in the convenience store, gathering up supplies for herself and more ice for the cooler. It’s going to be a near thing, getting to Sunnyhell with the blood that was left in the fridge in the apartment, but he’ll get through it. Been through worse, that’s for sure.

Though, might not be in the best fighting shape. Gonna have to find a way to deal with that, but that’s not a right now problem. The right now problem is the sun’s rising over the vast and bloody boring landscape with not much to stop it.

Dawn exits the service station with a double armful of purchases, including three energy drinks. She raises one challenging eyebrow at him. Spike shrugs. With a nod that’s less confident than he’d like, Dawn pops the can open and slugs back the drink. Bloody hell, he hopes her hands don’t shake.

“Just keep on I-80 headed west, then turn for Denver,” he tells her around the cigarette. Only got a few left to him. Dawn couldn’t buy a pack, and he was busy filling up the car. These stops have to be faster than fast.

“Yeah, I can do that.” She takes another long pull on the drink. Spike flicks the dog end to the ground, not bothering to put it out.

“Not much to going in a straight line, Niblet.”

“Just a straight line, yeah, okay.”

He slides into the passenger seat. The door shuts with a hard thunk. There’s a heavy quilt at his feet. Will be bloody stifling under it once the sun comes up good and proper. Reckons there’s another hour or so until the ball of death gets too high for him to hide by slumping in the seat.

Slayer could’ve done him a good turn and left them high and dry just after supper. Then he could’ve been driving all night, be all the way to Denver by now, but no. Bitch had to leave after shagging him senseless. Getting him to pour his sodding, soppy heart out for her. Fuck. He might just kill her after he keeps her alive for that.

Dawn gulps and settles into the driver’s seat. He eyes her. Nerves jingle-jangle all over her. Right, gotta keep the Bit’s eyes on the prize here. He can’t drive the whole way on his own. If he tried, it would take too bloody long and the Slayer would be just as dead. Dawn’s fingers curl and uncurl on the steering wheel. Then she eyes the gear shift like it’s a snake.

“This is it, Little Bit, rubber literally hitting the road. I taught you how to drive, didn’t I?”

“Like, on city streets. Not… this. Going this fast. What if—”

“Now’s not the time for second thoughts,” he tells her, though softly. “We’re committed now, pidge, and I’m not going to back down. You?”

“No! But what if I get pulled over? Or what if there’s an accident, or—”

“We see sirens coming for us, you gun it,” Spike says, holding up his hand and counting off on his fingers. “There’s an accident, I keep you alive, nick another car, and we keep moving. Anything else, I can flash fang and get us out of it. Now, you going to back up Big Sis, or are you looking for an out?”

“Right,” she says to him, then looks out the windshield into the grey light that’s slowly turning gold. Just after six. Slayer’s on her fucking plane by now, no doubt about to overtake them. All the more reason to go. Then she says to herself, “Right.”

Like he taught her, Dawn shifts the car into first and pulls out of the petrol station and merges back onto the highway. It’s far from smooth, a few grinding gears, but once she gets into fifth, all she has to do is not crash. Spike slumps in his seat, not sure how he’s going to manage being a sodding passenger for long.

Outside the window, the sun’s rising. Spike’s leg jogs without his bloody permission. He clamps a hand over his knee.

“Gonna need to give you directions for around Denver,” he says, mostly to fill up the silence. “Somewhere close to the Colorado border, gonna need to turn onto to I-76, and then…”

He repeats the directions, Dawn echoes them back. It’s not much to pass the time, but it becomes like a mantra. One step then the next, all the way back to Sunnyhell and the Slayer and then—then he’ll find out if he can do one last damned thing for her.

***

All those energy drinks mean more stop offs than Spike wants. This is their fourth one, and they’re barely on the other side of Lincoln come noon. With the sun hammering down overhead, he’s inordinately grateful for the covering over the petrol pumps. Spike fills up the car. No reason to have more stops than they have to. Grates on him, having to stop. He should have remembered that the girl shouldn’t have had that much liquid, but he hasn’t had to use the loo in over a century.

Humans. Get all fussy about a bit of blood drinking, but if he thinks on it, they’ve got way more fluids to be dealing with. Which is worse, when it comes to it?

Dawn hustles out the bathroom in the service station—he can see the doorway from his spot by the car. She approaches the counter with some dosh for the fuel. That’s when Spike notices the teller noticing Dawn. She glances out at him, eyes wide, before she shakes her head and flees back toward the car.

“What was that about?” Spike climbs back into the passenger seat.

Dawn shrugs. “I don’t know, it was weird.” She checks her blind spots—been getting better after a few close calls. Bloody moronic the whole written test idea, he thinks. Best to get on with it and learn by doing.

“Weird how?” he presses. Dawn shifts gears almost smoothly now, which is a relief to his ears. He might hate this car—has given thought to burning it when all’s said and done—but they do need an intact transmission to get to Sunnyhell.

“I dunno, just… weird.” With that unhelpful assessment, the girl gets them back on the highway as the sun is going to start being more dangerous. Was one thing when it was coming in through the back window. Now, it’s about to start dipping toward the western horizon, which means it’s going to be creeping its way right toward him. He should get out some foil or some such, but that has a way of attracting the wrong sort of attention.

“Well, it’s all in the rearview now.” That’s all he can say about it. There’s not much else to do—fuck he hates being a passenger. He fiddles with the radio dials, but all he gets for his trouble is mournful, twangy country. Fuck, he’d rather listen to baseball, the most tedious American sport. Can’t even get a proper footie game out in this blasted swath of wheat and gormless bumpkins.

Spike glares at the encroaching line of sunlight. It’s going to be a bloody long day.

***

They’re past the turn off for Aurora when sirens wail into life behind them. Dawn squeaks. For the first time in over a fucking century, Spike wishes he didn’t have that little sun allergy problem in a real and visceral way. Getting Dru out of Prague and back on the other side of the pond had been one thing, but he’d been whole then. Unfettered and at the top of his game. Had been beaten to shit saving her, but that hadn’t been a problem when he’d been able to feed freely, and travel at night like a proper vampire.

Now, though, he’s fucking handicapped in more ways than one.

“Don’t panic, Niblet,” he grumbles as he peeks his head out of the fucking quilt. If they all live through this, he’s going to demand the lover Wiccas make up some sodding magical sunscreen for him. Can’t be riding to the rescue like this. It’s fucking humiliating.

“But they’re getting closer!” she protests.

“Are you speeding?”

“Um, no?”

“Then check!”

Her eyes dart down to the dash. “Could the speedometer be wrong?”

“Could be,” he allows, “but isn’t likely. Seemed just fine driving around the Windy City.”

“I’m going to pull over.” She gulps and clicks on the indicator.

“Niblet, I thought I told you to gun if we got into this situation.”

“But shouldn’t we wait until we’re all stopped? Then has to like, get back to his car first right?”

“Dawn—”

“What?!” Her voice is high and squeaky and scared. “We can’t go faster than the police, and it’s daylight! What if, they just to tell us about a tail light that’s blown out?”

“During the day?” He snaps. It’s too late. Dawn’s pulled over and turned off the car. Bloody fuck. He wants to shake the girl, but he’s hampered by that purifying sunshine that’s spilling out over the dashboard and creeping close to him. Too much later, and he’ll have to roll into the back seat and cover himself over best as he can.

Dawn licks her lips, a tangle of nerves. Spike eyes the copper in the side mirror. Looks like a typical member of the breed. Beefy and dull, a bloke what likes having a bit of power at the end of a gun. He steps out of his cruiser with the slow, measured pace of bobbies the world over.

“Spike, what’re we going to do when he wants to look in the trunk?”

“Why the bloody hell would he want to look at the trunk?” This is fast leaving frustrating behind and heading into irritating with anger-inducing on the horizon. “Wouldn’t be in this if you’d just floored it, Bit.”

“I couldn’t do that!” she yelps. “And anyway, how are we going to explain the bags of money and weapons?”

“We aren’t,” he grits out as the copper draws even with the driver’s side window. “Just wait for it.”

Thankfully, she doesn’t ask wait for what? Instead, she cranks down the window and offers up a sickly smile to the mirrored sunglasses staring down at her. “Can I help you, officer?”

“You can, miss,” he says with a flat drawl. Bloody Americans, bloody middle-of-the-country hicks. “You mind telling me how fast you were going just now?”

“Um, seventy? Isn’t that the speed limit, I’m pretty sure I saw the sign—”

“Seem a bit young to be driving, miss.”

“Oh, well I’m learning, but I have my adult passenger right here, making sure I drive all, um, legally.”

“Hey there,” Spike says, smiling without showing his teeth. Copper bends down to peer into the car, to get a better look at him. Tips down his sunnies.

“You sure you know this fella, miss? Doesn’t sound like he’s from around here.”

“He’s my um, brother—” at the copper’s blatant disbelief, she quickly corrects, “half-brother. Older, obviously. And, um—”

“I’m going to ask you to get out of the car, sir,” copper says. Dawn turns big eyes on him. Spike tilts his head and lets his teeth show. Time to end this farce.

“Make me, piggie,” he taunts.

“Spike!” Dawn shouts, high and panicked.

“Get out now, you damned kidnapper!” the officer shouts, hands going for his gun. He’s fast, but Spike’s faster. All the speed he has to him, Spike flings himself across Dawn, reaches through the open window and pulls the copper inside the car. The right kind of pressure on the man’s wrist and the gun goes clattering to the ground outside the car.

“Drive!” he shouts.

Dawn stares as Spike fights against the buzzing, burning pain in his head as he tries to restrain the copper without actually hurting him. Bastard isn’t making it easy, especially in the tight spaces of the car. There’s a finger trying to hook into his eye. Better stop that right fast. Spike bars an arm over the man’s elbows, pinning him.

“DAWN,” he roars, “DRIVE!”

She throws the car into first and peels out. Gravel flies up from the back tires pinging on the road. Spike gently, relative to what he could do, flips the cop into the back seat. Wasting no time, he slides between the front seats and sets his arm as a bar across the cop’s chest. The cop claws and batters at him, getting one hand free and pressing on Spike’s jaw, hooking into his mouth to try to force his head to wrench painfully. What the piggie doesn’t know is fighting the Slayer and demons and being tortured by Glory, this doesn’t do much more than tickle. More annoying is the constant litany of “you won’t get away with this!” and “kidnapping innocent girls!”

“Not this time, mate.” Spike doesn’t bite down on the bastard’s fingers, though he wants to. Not the time to have the chip take him out. It’s already causing a fuss in his head. Methodical like, keeping his left barred over the cop’s chest, Spike uses his right to find the pepper spray and chuck it behind him. Then the walkie receiver gets crushed. The cop’s eyes go wide at that. Spike laughs as the acrid tang of fear wafts off the bastard in blue.

Dawn’s panic, however, isn’t really letting him savor this moment.

“Spike! Oh my God, what’re we going to do? This so bad, all of the bad.” She’s rambling as much as she’s swerving while trying to look back at him.

“Just keep the car on the road, Niblet,” he barks at her.

“Gonna pay for this asshole. Kidnapping’s a federal crime!” The copper’s struggling, trying to move Spike’s arm, to get some leverage, but he can’t. Humans, they’re so weak. Chip’s warning him, though. Bastard might struggle enough to hurt himself and set the blasted thing off.

Spike doesn’t respond verbally. Figures he can communicate his lack of caring with a demonstration. Reaching across the car, Spike opens the passenger side door. Dawn screams, frantically downshifting as she breaks. The copper’s eyes, visible without those reflective sunnies hiding them, go as big as dinner plates. Spike can’t help but laugh.

“Time to see if piggies fly,” he drawls as he shoves the copper out of the car. Dawn’s screaming, he’s laughing. The car’s still going at a good clip, so the interfering arsehole bounces. On the first bounce, the electric shock lances through Spike’s head. He braces in the back seat, well away from the sunlight pouring in from the open door. Keeps one eye cracked open, but none of the other bounces set off the chip.

Could be good to know, that.

“Oh God, oh God, Spike! You just… a police officer!” Dawn’s breathing is fast and frantic. He can hear her heartbeat going a thousand miles an hour. And the chip is damn near got him locked up. They can’t stay here.

“Drive, pidge,” he orders as he carefully, slowly pulls the door shut. “Get to the next town, and then we’ll regroup.”

“Okay, okay,” she pants. There’s a tremble and a shake to her. Sunlight’s not on her shoulder, so. He curls his hand around her shoulder and squeezes.

“Had to be done, Dawnie.” It’s an effort to keep his voice low and even. Like how he used to when Dru had a bad day. Little Bit doesn’t respond in the same way, of course. She’s younger, but also, made of sterner stuff in some ways. She nods, gulping down her own bubbling anxiety. He doesn’t miss the flicker of her gaze in the rearview mirror. Not much help there. It would look like she’s alone. She’s not though. The two of them, they’re in this race to save the Slayer together.

He keeps his hand on her shoulder until they reach a likely spot for the next steps.

***

They’re losing time. Trip to the hardware store was necessary. Had to get supplies. Then he had to scope out the best place. Time slips out of his hands. It would make his heart race if it wasn’t a dead lump in his chest. In spite of that, though, he can sense the building, restless energy in him. There’s a twitch in his legs and a clench in his shoulders waiting to be unleashed.

There’s a fight at the end of this race, and every fibre of him longs to throw himself into it. That tussle with the copper only gave him a mild taste. He wants the main event, and sometimes he’s not sure if it’s Glory or Buffy he wants to tear apart more.

Dawn tags along behind him, head on a swivel. He tells her, quietly but firmly, that she’s gotta stop doing that. She then practically clings to him and keeps her head down. Bloody hell. The teenage barnacle is going to make the next steps difficult, especially since it’s still daylight and he’s got to dodge the sunshine.

He has Dawn drive around the town. Grand Island, which is a bloody aspirational name for a town in sodding Nebraska. Then he spots it, a train yard. Lots of blokes work the train for long hours, meaning there’s lots of cars to hand that aren’t being checked on the regular. Dawn circles the blocks a few times while Spike tries to spot any cameras. When he doesn’t see any, he directs her to park under the shade of a tree that’s just on the street side of the lot. They leave the Ford fucking Taurus and go shopping.

The perfect candidate stands out to him. A heavy old beast of a red truck that can run on petrol, spit, and evil intentions. Slinking through the sparse shade between cars, Spike approaches the truck and with his tools. A practiced jimmy pops the door open easily. He scrambles in after a quick check on Dawn by the fucking Ford. She’s got the necessities out of the old car, waiting for him.

Spike tucks his head under the dash and finds the wires. He rubs his hands together with glee. Old cars, dead easy to nick. The right wires, a spark, a turn—he jams one of many screwdrivers into the ignition, and now he’s in business. Bent low to the steering wheel to avoid the sunlight, he drives the truck out of the parking lot and pulls up by the Ford. Dawn throws all the bags in the back and makes to climb in.

“Not so fast, Niblet.” She stares at him, the strain of stealing a car all over her face. He supposes this is a bit of a step up from smokes and the gummy lollies he’s confined himself to for a while now. “Gotta drop the old car away from the parking lot here. Too close, too obvious. You follow me, alright, then we’ll get back on the highway.”

“By myself?" Her voice squeaks.

“Unless you want them on us faster than we can outrun them? Yeah, Little Bit, all on your lonesome.”

She stares at the Ford and chews on her bottom lip. Then she draws in a break that’s on the wrong side of shaky, but she nods. “Okay, just… don’t dust, alright?”

“Not planning on it,” he tells her. She climbs into the Ford and starts it up. Sweet Christ is he going to be happy to see the back of that one, only wishes he could set it on fire, but that would be too much attention. He pulls away in the truck, and Dawn follows along. To himself, he mutters, “Least ways, not yet.”

***

An hour outside of Grand Island, Dawn finally relaxes. Took her a minute to get used to driving the larger, less responsive vehicle. Doesn’t even have power steering. Won’t bother him any. Can’t wait for his turn to drive, to be honest. Might come a bit sooner as they get closer and closer to the Rockies. Once the sun gets behind those peaks, Spike can get behind the wheel and gun it.

Until then, though, he’s relegated to the cramped space behind the bucket seats, little more than a one foot well there. One of these days, he’s going to kill Angelus for destroying the Gem of Amara. Would’ve been bloody handy about now, that little bauble.

She’s driving well now, smooth and easy. Then she pipes up, “I think that was my fault. The police officer.”

“How you figure?” Spike tries to find a comfortable position and fails. Again. Not a bad vehicle, this but bloody hell he didn’t think this part through at all.

“The gas station attendant. He asked me if I was okay. I said I was. He thought you looked suspicious. I think he called the cops on our car.”

“Yeah, I thought that might’ve been the case.”

“Aren’t you mad?”

“At who? The copper? Bloody well right I am. Stupid bastard, could’ve hurt you.”

“I meant at me. You know, for doing something that brought the cops down.”

Spike rolls his eyes heavenward, even though he knows no one up there will ever smile kindly down upon him or take pity that he—a relatively remorseless vampire—is somehow having to field the emotional tribulations of a teenage girl. It would be funny if it wasn’t so… well, irritating. And if he didn’t love her so much. Does love her. Loves her with a purity he’s never loved anything else. She’s his Little Bit, his Niblet.

For all that Buffy conquered him, Dawn snuck up on him and stole a piece of his heart while he wasn’t looking.

Yeah, he loves this girl. But she’s bloody self-centered sometimes.

“Not mad at you, Little Bit. I am bloody suspicious, dodging the sunshine and how I look. Not unexpected.”

“You expected a cop to be called on us?”

“Not expected so much as figured it highly likely.”

“Is this why all your plans fall apart? You know they can mess up but do them anyway?”

Spike opens his mouth to reply, but then the sentence catches up to him. He thinks about all the things he’s done and the luck he’s skated by on and the way he’s known for a good hundred and twenty years that, no matter the scrape, he’s stronger and faster than humans and bloody-minded enough to hold his own against other demons. His mouth shuts with a snap.

“Just bloody drive, pidge,” he grumbles at her, shifting around again. Failing to find a comfortable spot again. “This won’t be the last thing we steal.”

Dawn’s muttered, sarcastic, “Awesome,” is the last thing he hears before he lets himself settle into a light doze. Not the sleep he needs, but it’ll have to do for now.

***

They’ve passed Denver and are climbing into the Rocky Mountains. Spike’s taken over driving the truck. At a rest stop near Fort Morgan, they’d swapped the Nebraska plates for Colorado ones. The old plates he crunched into a tiny ball and chucked them out the window as the high peaks rose up the distance.

Now, driving through the pass, Spike focuses on where he has to go next. Once they exit the tunnel, he needs to tear through the rest of Colorado and Utah as fast as he can. Racing the sunrise and going for sheer distance. His fingers flex on the steering wheel and shift smoothly through to fifth gear once they’re out the other side.

Night falls. While Dawn tries to stay awake, she can’t for long. He digs around for the blanket in the well behind the seats and drapes it over her. She curls up under it. Outside the car, at elevation, the air is cool and crisp. The insulation isn’t quite as good on a modern car, in the cab of the truck. He puts his duster over her too for good measure. Cold never bothered him much anyhow.

With practiced ease, he lights a cigarette. He cracks a window and makes sure the smoke trails out of it, and he drives. The world blurs by. He fiddles with the radio dials and finds a classic rock station. Keeps the volume low though the night.

***

Seeing the speed limit as a mere suggestion has several advantages. One, it’s fun. Two, it keeps him ahead of whatever police bolo is out for his arrest. Not that he’s planning on letting the coppers take him, but it’s bloody annoying. Especially with the chip in his head. Three, it means they get to Vegas just as the sun is rising.

Buffy never would’ve let him drive so fast with her sister in the car.

The one downside, though, is that he’s bloody knackered. Won’t be any use to Buffy as he is. So, that means rest, as much as he doesn’t want to. And one other thing. Another thing Buffy wouldn’t like, but the bloody bitch isn’t here so she doesn’t get a sodding vote. Thinking that doesn’t keep him from thinking about what she would want though. Fucking irritating to have her absentee vote counting in his own damned head.

“Bloody hell,” he grumbles. Then he wakes up Dawn. She frowns, whines, and pulls the blanket and duster over her head.

“Come on, Little Bit, gotta get up.” He pokes her in what he estimates is her middle. Not hard. Just enough pressure to make it impossible to ignore him.

“Ugh, what?! I got like… crappy sleep.” Her hair is a rat's nest as she sits up, glaring at him.

“I got no sleep,” he counters dryly. “We’re going to change over and then hole up for the day once we’re inside the California state line.”

Dawn’s face shifts from grumpy to drawn in a heart beat. “What about Buffy, she’s got to be back in Sunnydale right now. What if-what if we’re too late and they’ve already had the fight and—”

“Then some hours won’t make a difference, Little Bit.” He hates the words even as he says them, even though he knows they’re true. Doesn’t help how he wants to drive until he is dust, until the sun comes up and fries him inside this ruddy tin can. Only way to make it better is if he could burn Buffy along with him, her and her fucking death wish. A snarl builds in his throat, but he chokes it down. Niblet doesn’t need any of that. Not hers to carry. Just his. His and the Slayer’s.

“Look, the original plan was we get back and take a day. Rest up, gear up. I reckon that’s what she’s doing today. Slayer knows the importance of making sure her weapons are to hand, and she won’t go half cocked on this one. She’ll do it right. For our part,” he takes a breath and swallows down every instinct that urges him to push harder, faster. But he’s gotta try to be a bit more clever about things this time. For the Slayer and the Niblet both. “You and me, we drive as close as we can but stay out of town. Keep off that Hell Bitch’s radar until the last second. There’s one place I’ll want to hit up, and I’ll call it out when we’re close. But as it is, Dawnie, it won’t help Big Sis any if I’m too bloody knackered to do anything but dust on her.”

Dawn rubs at her eyes and pouts. It’s a lot to throw at her. But the girl nods. Blearily and sleepy, she still nods. Game for the next steps.

They change places. Spike found a parking garage, and he even pays for their time there. Better than busting open the gate and running up a signal for the police to come sniffing around. When they get to a convenience store, Spike stays in the cab of the truck while Dawn gets herself a coffee. She drives slowly, barely matching the speed limit. Then they reach Lancaster, California around midday.

Time for one last stop off.

***

One hour before sunset. They’re a scant ninety minutes outside of Sunnydale. It’ll be cutting things close, but when is that new for him?

Slayer’s going to be loading up soon. Best time to fight a Hell God will be at night, when all the townies are in their beddie byes. She won’t pick a fight until the bystanders are off the streets. Thinking of her, it’s as if he can feel her, somehow, across the distance. Can sense the way she moves through the world with a dogged, dragging step. He wants to pick her up and shake her until her bones snap and crack under his hands. To at least be the one to take her out of the world if she wants that so badly. He wants to hold her close and curl around her until whatever’s coming for her takes a bite out of him instead. To keep her in this world for as long as he damned well can.

The physical distance is cut down between them, but the paces between him and her head, her heart? He’s got a sinking feeling he might as well be on the other side of the planet. That no matter how close he comes, it’ll always be too far. Never close enough. Xeno’s fucking paradox.

He takes a long drag of his cigarette to keep him in the sodding present. Smokes it down to the filter and flicks it to rest under the Thank you for not smoking sign in the hospital parking garage.

Dawn’s already in the building, scouting it for him. She’ll come out when she knows where they’re storing the blood. Human blood. He’s running on fumes, in spite of their roadside stop in a no-tell motel. Even vampires have their limits, and on the pig swill he’s been relegated to, his limits are a lot closer than he likes.

‘Sides, if the Slayer didn’t want him and the Bit going off the reservation, she could have damn well stayed with them to make sure of it. Her own damned fault, really.

His fingers twitch for another cigarette by the time Dawn comes back.

“They’ve got supplies all over the hospital, mostly in the ER, but there’s a longer term supply fridge at the far end of the OR. You’ll need this.” She slips an orderly’s ID badge into his hand. On impulse, Spike cradles the back of her neck and presses a kiss to her forehead.

“Well done, Little Bit.” There’s unvarnished pride in his voice. Learned that from him, she did. He pockets the ID.

She stands up as tall as she can. “Thanks, Spike.” Then she grins, all cheek. “Your turn to get the snacks.”

He barks a laugh and sets out to rob a hospital of their precious human blood.

***

Sun’s just dipped below the horizon, and Spike’s back in the driver’s seat, when the mobile phone rings. It’s a tiny, mechanical sound. Dawn starts at the unexpected noise. She stares at it like the blue square screen is some arcane device.

He tips his head toward Dawn who’s looking at the phone like it’s a nasty spider. Not difficult to suss out who’s calling. He’d be spitting mad, except, Dawn’s face. She’s scared. His Little Bit, scared that this call, it’s going to be the last one.

“You going to answer that, Niblet?” Manages to keep his voice soft. Girl doesn’t deserve the anger that rightfully belongs to the Slayer.

Niblet flips the phone open and in a warbling voice asks, “Yes?”

“Dawn.” Buffy’s voice through the phone is tinny and thin. It pulls at him all the same, like he could somehow pour himself over the airwaves themselves and appear beside her. Some mad Star Trek plot, but he wants it all the same. To fight for her, to fight her. The two halves of him, to possess her, to lift her up, are at odds again. He grips the steering wheel. The leather creaks under his fingers.

“Buffy! Don’t worry! We’re—” Dawn tries to reassure her sister, but the Slayer cuts her off.

“Don’t tell me!”

“Right.”

God, he wants to thrash the Slayer something fierce. Doesn’t she understand what she’s doing to her own sister? That taking all that on, that breaking under the strain isn’t strong. It’s bloody stupid. The world on her shoulders, that bloody albatross around her neck. Again, he shuttles between wanting to kill her himself if that’s what she wants so badly and wanting to worm himself under her burden and lift it with her. To take the scourge on his own back, if it would just fucking let her stop.

Glaring out the windshield, he hears the Slayer’s tears in her voice over the phone. “I love you. Dawnie, I love you so much.”

“Buffy, Buffy, I love you too, why—” Dawn’s voice is breaking, and he can’t take it anymore. With a growl, he grabs the phone against Dawn’s indignant, “Hey!”

Phone against his mouth, spits out a sharp, “Slayer.”

“Spike.” By her tone, butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. He can picture her, pursed lips, ice queen stare. Then, because she loves to kick his feet out from underneath him, her voice softens and words pour out of her. “Spike, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. If there had been any other way, any other choice—”

“There was. You did this anyhow.” Those words, those sharp, cutting words are out of him before he can stop them. Dawn’s face is the picture of irritated disbelief. Driving, he can’t give himself the full body shake he knows he fucking needs. Letting out a slow breath, he finds the softness in him for her, the softness that she brought out and held and wanted. Her name is a prayer in his mouth. “Buffy…”

“Goodbye, Spike,” she says before the rest of the sentence can go anywhere. “And… thank you.”

The phone goes dead just as they pass the sign that tells them they’ve got ten miles until dear old Sunnyhell. Ten miles could be too far. She’s going out to the field of battle now. Only reason she called was to say goodbye. They’re so close, so bloody fucking close, and they could also be too buggering far away to make a sodding lick of difference.

Spike wants to scream. Wants to chuck the phone out of the window. He wants to rant and rage and break the world right down the middle.

Beside him, Dawn plucks the mobile from his unresisting fingers. He’s driving without seeing exactly where he’s going.

“Spike what are we going to do?” Dawn asks. Spike grips the steering wheel. Ten miles. He’ll show them all ten ruddy miles. Ten miles. That’s nothing.

“Brace yourself, Niblet,” he tells her. That’s all the warning she gets. Depressing the clutch, he downshifts into fourth. The truck lurches forward, a jerky, protested move. The engine revs, close to the red line as they speed up. Seventy, eighty, ninety, a hundred. They crest a hundred and ten and the suspension becomes pointless.

The Welcome to Sunnydale sign rears up and blinks on by. They reach the edge of town, and Spike barely slows down. He skips gears down into second, keeping the revs up on the narrower town streets to the engine’s louder protests.

Then a flash of lightning catches his eye.

“Spike, do you think?” Dawn asks as she cranks down the window. The night air rushes in, pulling at her long curtain of hair. The sky above them is clear and there’s no scent of rain. Just the pure wrath of split ozone.

"Wouldn't surprise me.” He’s talking through clenched teeth as he muscles the car down city streets at sixty miles an hour. Then he sees it. The construction site with a wild, rearing tower. The sky above is rent by more flashes of blue-black lightning, and then there’s a swing of a wrecking ball. That’s when he hears it. The Hell Bitch’s laugh. That fucking laugh. Heard it as she dug into his flesh, as she scored him, as she beat him and flayed him, as she broke his bones and pushed his body to the limits of dusting.

“Dawnie, don’t clench your jaw,” he tells her as he flings an arm out to brace across her chest. She lets out a small eep as he speeds up. The rev counter goes past the red line. The truck, a good solid ton of pure American steel from a bygone era, roars across the road and through the chainlink fence. Buffy’s on the ground, and he has half a thought of slowing down, but no. His girl, she’ll roll away, and she does with just enough time for Spike to drive and into the fashion victim from hell. The bounce of her body is a satisfying arc into a concrete wall that collapses around her.

Spike slams on the breaks. The ass of the truck swerves across the dirt. There’s silence on the field of battle. No one but him knows what just happened. It’s a gift of time. He spends some of it looking at Dawn. She’s a little rattled, but curled tight around his arm. He nudges her toward the door. “Get to the witches,” he tells her.

She nods and opens it, spilling out and scrabbling away from the truck and making for the lady who can shoot lightning now. Spike, though, he’s got to be in the thick of it.

In the stunned silence and the settling dust, Spike kicks open the driver’s door and half hangs out. His duster flares out behind him. Faces stare at him in shock. Harris in the cab of the wrecking machine. His bird and the watcher holding weapons and fending off a cadre of the freaky little minions. Can’t see the witches, which is for the best. Dawnie’ll find them.

Then he sees her. The only her there is for him in this whole bloody, rotten world. She’s staring at him open mouthed. It hasn’t caught up to her yet, what she’s seeing. There are cuts on her face, a bruise already forming around her eye. There’s dirt and tears in her shirt. For all that, she’s radiant. Golden hair and tanned skin and the glorious fact of her existence. She bloody well glows, lighting up the dark. A beacon. One that guided him back across half this stupidly huge country.

The sight of her alone sets him to smiling like a mad man. All wide and sharp, tongue tracing the points of his canines. He jumps down from the cab of the truck. The thud of his boots on the ground is a satisfaction to go along with the Scooby’s shock.

“Hello, kiddies.” He spreads his arms wide, as if to take it all in. “Daddy’s back!”

Notes:

I've been drivin' all night
My hand's wet on the wheel
There's a voice in my head
That drives my heel
It's my baby callin'
Says: I need you here
And it's a half past four
And I'm shifting gear

When she is lonely
And the longing gets too much
She sends a cable
Coming in from above
Don't need no phone at all

We've got a thing that's called Radar Love
We've got a wave in the air
Radar Love
—“Radar Love” by Golden Earring

Because I took away Spike's line, "Get in kiddies, Daddy's putting the hammer down," so I had to balance the scales. Obviously.