Chapter 18
Author's Notes: This is for JO, Kelly, Stephanie, Heather, Millie, and Spikeskatmac for taking up my tagboard and making my especially hellacious week enjoyable. I don’t think my tag has ever been so consistently popular, and it makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside. *smoochies*
My thanks to Yani, Mari, Tami, and Amy for looking over this for me. I’m also under advisement to warn my readers that this is another angsty ride. But if you’re really nice to me, I might be persuaded to ignore homework just long enough to have another update within a week. *bribes shamelessly*
She existed in negative space. People filed in through the main doors, approached her and took her hand, complimented the house and her dress, and moved on toward the sound of the orchestra playing in the parlor. She stood at William’s side, their bodies separated by inches; she felt further away from him than she had in the whole of their relationship. Further than the early days before she’d known his name, known anything of the true Manderley or Drusilla. Further than the night she’d first lain in his bed, her body still warm from his, listening to him whimper his dead lover’s name. Further than the numerous thoughtless blunders she’d made referencing the woman who should be here. Further than anything. She stood at William’s side but they were miles apart.
He wouldn’t look at her. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. He hadn’t done more than hastily scan her dress to make sure she hadn’t managed another horrid gaffe before muttering that guests would be arriving and she was to receive them.
Buffy wondered if he recognized the dress. The one he’d removed from her trembling, virginal body so many months ago. She wondered if he thought of that night at all like she did. The way he’d caressed her, brushed soft kisses across her skin, held her hand, rocked against her as he unlocked her body’s secrets with his own.
Her life had changed forever that night.
His had not.
Buffy continued to nod and smile, greet the faceless multitude of merry strangers, feeling very much like an imposter. William had told her it would be like this—greeting people and smiling until she was certain her face would freeze. And though he hadn’t made it seem like fun, she’d anticipated it. She’d anticipated being the dutiful hostess; anticipated being the graceful woman at her husband’s side. She’d imagined moments filled with private glances and soft grins, the way they often silently communicated when unable to speak candidly. She’d thought he’d hold her hand as he did when they sat in company, gently squeezing it every time he needed to tell her something but couldn’t breathe life to words. She’d seen it all well before it happened. Standing beside William, enjoying the private way they spoke in public. Feeling anything other than how she felt now.
Every bit of her ached and William would not look at her. There was no recovery from this.
“Buffy.”
The sound of her name was so startling she nearly leapt out of her skin. Hope shooting through her veins, her eyes darted to William, but he stared stubbornly ahead; the look of a man who knew he was being watched but didn’t dare meet her glance. It took an eternity to understand the voice she’d heard wasn’t deep enough to belong to her husband, and another embarrassingly long beat before she realized Wesley was standing before her.
“Oh,” Buffy said, attempting and failing to conceal her disappointment. She flashed him an apologetic glance, which he answered in kind. “Wesley. Is there something—”
“We’re dancing,” he informed her shortly, taking her by the hand. He tossed William a look of mild disgust, then shook his head and led her away before she could even think to offer a protest.
Not that she would have protested. The air around her head seemed to thicken and the rush of blood she’d sorely missed the last hour rushed back. People around her swirled and laughed, pouring champagne down their throats and having what appeared to be a wonderful time.
People looked at her. People noticed she and William weren’t speaking.
“He’s a git.”
Buffy glanced up, surprised to find herself in Wesley’s arms. It took a few seconds to realize he was guiding her around the floor, watching her carefully, his eyes weighted with compassion.
She didn’t want compassion. She wanted William.
And despite how terrible he made her feel, her loyalty was to her husband. “No, he’s not,” she replied. “He thought—”
“Buffy, he’s a world-class, blinded wanker who doesn’t know what he has.” Wesley shivered and shook his head. “I don’t care what he thought. What he said to you was unforgivable.”
She blinked stupidly. “Wesley…he’s your friend.”
“And you aren’t?”
“You only know me because of William. He—”
“And I suppose my friendship with him automatically aligns me at his side, even when he’s a dolt?” Wesley’s eyes softened. “Will is like my brother…well, my brother were I employed by my brother. I can be angry with him and love him at the same time.”
His words were an echo of what Anya had told her upstairs. Love between siblings came with the added benefit of clear-sight, whereas the love of lovers was so often accompanied by rose-colored glasses. Anya said Buffy couldn’t be angry because she was in love with William, and perhaps that was true. Perhaps she was so starved for his affection she couldn’t be angry or defensive. She couldn’t see anything but what she would never have.
Was it possible to miss someone when they were across the room? Miss them so fiercely the fabric holding her together split thread-by-thread with each passing second? She could barely breathe for missing William. She wanted his strong arms around her; no matter how comforting Wesley might be, he wasn’t who she wanted. He wasn’t William. She wanted William so badly, wanted to beg his forgiveness and rest her head on his shoulder and let him hold her. Even if he never looked at her the same, she just needed to be in his arms.
“You did nothing wrong, Buffy,” Wesley assured her.
Then he whirled her around and landed her directly in William’s waiting embrace. The move was so surprising she nearly tripped over her dress. Just seconds ago he’d been across the room, but he wasn’t now. He was with her. He closed an arm around her middle and took her hand in his.
His eyes finally met hers. She felt so small.
“Dance with me,” he whispered.
It seemed her life had become a walking contradiction. A millennia ago, she’d realized she was in love in William and she’d known nothing in the world could ever come of it. Then he’d proposed marriage, reshaping her world, giving her new hope. For a few wonderful hours, she’d envisioned herself as his salvation. As the one to bring light back into his life. As anything other than what she actually was.
She’d envisioned becoming the lady of Manderley, only Manderley had never been hers. She’d envisioned her love for William being enough to sustain them, but the truth was far less forgiving. She’d envisioned so many things.
So many things.
When given precisely the thing she wanted the most, she never knew what to do with it. Now the thing she’d desired so fervently just seconds before was suddenly pressed against her. Suddenly swirling her around the room, and while her head continued to yearn for his shoulder, she knew somehow it wasn’t welcome.
“Love the dress,” William murmured, his fingers sliding over her shoulder to caress the lacey fabric. “Almost as much as the first time you wore it.”
Her heart broke. “Will—”
“Not now. Just dance with me.”
Buffy swallowed hard and nodded, her eyes glazing over with tears. But she couldn’t duck her head. She couldn’t bury herself away. She just had to dance, hoping no one noticed. Hoping she could make it through the next few minutes without breaking completely. Anya had been wrong—there was no way to have a good time tonight. Not with Wesley, who only reminded her of how much she wanted William, and not with William, who would never look at her the same way again.
She was in the arms of the man she loved but she couldn’t touch him. They were miles apart.
As soon as the band died, she broke away from him. Another second would have betrayed everything and then she would have been nothing but a sniveling mess in the midst of strangers. She felt him gazing after her but didn’t dare turn around lest she betray herself and break.
Buffy didn’t get very far. Cool fingers hooked under her elbow and steered her to the side and she quickly found herself in the comforting shelter of a dark corner, a wine glass unceremoniously shoved into her hand.
“Good on you, honey,” Anya said appraisingly, raising her own glass to her lips, wordlessly implying Buffy should do the same. “Leave him high and dry.”
She shook her head. “I would have embarrassed myself…he was there but so far from me.”
There was an awkward pause. “Well, let him believe otherwise.”
“I don’t know how.” Buffy glanced down, shivering. “I just want to be…are you certain it would look negatively upon William and Manderley if I go upstairs? I don’t think I can stay down here much longer. Everyone keeps…looking at me…expecting things—”
“Of course,” Anya said bluntly. “You’re the lady of the house, Buffy. This is your party.”
Buffy’s treacherous eyes wandered across the room. William stood where she left him, Wesley at his side. He was staring at her.
And she felt nothing but cold.
“Nothing about this is mine,” she whispered.
*~*~*
It wasn’t intentional. In fact, Buffy made a point to avoid William for the rest of the night. This was, however, a rather difficult feat seeing as he made no such effort to do the same. He didn’t ask her to dance again, but when her will broke and her desire to look at him overrode her desire to maintain her dignity, she found his eyes fixedly locked on her. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking—if his gaze was one of anger or regret. If he felt anything of what had happened earlier.
She avoided him with the hope he would come after her. He didn’t. He just looked, and the distance between them expanded with every second.
Thus it wasn’t intentional when she stumbled upon them. In her attempt to evade William she’d similarly made the effort to dodge Wesley, for good as his intentions might be, he was simply a reminder of what she wanted.
It wasn’t intentional but it happened all the same.
She found herself by the staircase in the main foyer, their voices carrying over the laughter and the music in the other room. And though her feet knew the proper thing to do was pivot and promptly return to the masque, she couldn’t move.
She could only listen.
“I don’t care what you saw,” Wesley was saying, his tone heated. “I don’t bloody well care if she walked down in Drusilla’s negligee. You know what you’re doing to her, don’t you?”
There was a short pause before William replied. “I lost my head.”
“You’re losing her.”
Silence filled the corridor. The walls seemed to hum.
And then he said, “I know.”
Another beat. Wesley was clearly waiting for something else, and when nothing came, his voice hit a shrill Buffy had never heard before. “And does it not bother you? This girl would walk through fire if you asked. All she wants is—”
“Wes—”
“I love Buffy,” Wesley said, then added hastily, “like a sister. You can’t keep doing this to her, Will. The way she looks at you…”
“She doesn’t know me.”
There was a roar from the other room. William’s voice cracked and he sputtered something else—something Buffy didn’t hear. Not that she wanted to hear anymore. Not that she could move away. Her blood had frozen in her veins and her tired eyes threatened to weaken her resolve with more weeping. But she couldn’t move away. Not even as her heart split and shattered, scattering along the perfect marble floor. Not as William’s muffled voice, thick with emotion she’d never before heard, broke over the laughter again.
“…and she can’t. She can’t know me,” he was saying. “She can’t know that part.”
“Because you say so, I suppose?”
There was a pregnant pause followed by a rustle of fabric. She envisioned him wiping his eyes and mirrored the image her mind presented, terrified she would do something to announce her presence. She suffocated on the gulps of air she denied her lungs and drowned in the tears swelling in her throat.
Her feet refused to move.
Not while William spoke. “She can’t know that…seeing her dressed like…I felt like I’d fallen into…she could’ve been…and I couldn’t touch her.”
A long-suffering sigh rumbled through Wesley’s throat. “I know,” he replied, defeated. “I know that. But Will, Buffy is
not Drusilla and she never will be. Either accept that or start being honest with her…just stop these blasted mind games. They’re killing her, and God knows she doesn’t deserve that.”
Feeling finally returned to her legs and at once she found herself moving. Moving, moving, moving until she was back among the guests. Back among people who laughed and drank and danced. People who looked at her and whispered things. Was she crying again? Buffy hardly noticed. She pressed a hand to her cheek but her skin was dry. She met Anya’s concerned eyes and quickly turned away. She didn’t want more lectures on bravado anymore than she wanted more wine. She didn’t want anything but for the night to be over.
Perhaps this was a dream. Perhaps she had yet to wake up. Perhaps it was actually the morning before the ball and she had a chance to do everything again.
Oh God. How could a broken heart pound so hard? Didn’t it know it was broken?
The air around her head was warm. Eventually, the music drowned into a dull buzzing and the dancing figures swirling across Manderley’s majestic floor slowed, caught in a time rift only Buffy could see. She stood awkwardly to the side, her face a porcelain mask. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t pretend to smile anymore. Anytime someone approached her, asking her questions or wondering if they could get her something, her lips would part and some seemingly intelligible response would tumble forward. Whatever she said was enough to purchase solitude.
Enough to replay the conversation she hadn’t meant to hear until she felt her ears would bleed.
William was right. She didn’t know him.
She didn’t know him at all. He hadn’t wanted her to know him. Not once. Not once had he let her in. He would smile at her and squeeze her hand and kiss her brow. He would make love to her body and take her on walks to the Happy Valley, but he didn’t let her know him. He didn’t want it.
He hadn’t let her close because he wasn’t meant for her. He was meant for Drusilla.
And he always would be.
“Buffy.”
She glanced up wearily. It was Anya.
“Buffy, I think you have a headache.” The words were slow and deliberate, the unspoken message unmistakable. “A very bad headache. Why don’t you go lie down and see if you feel better?”
Several seconds passed. People laughed. The air hummed.
“I have a headache,” Buffy said, barely hearing herself.
Anya nodded. “Yes. I was wrong before. You shouldn’t over exert yourself…especially when you’re feeling ill. You’re too…generous with your guests.” She motioned to the shapeless blur of people behind her. “Please, go lie down. You’ll feel better. The music can’t be helping.” A pause. “With the headache.”
Buffy nodded and turned, walking without direction. She navigated dancing couples, bypassed circles of guests who were enjoying a good anecdote, flaming the inner inferno with the roar of their merriment. Back into the darkened foyer where she’d been just moments before, but it was empty now. Back until her tired feet were confronted with the task of carrying her upstairs.
A sudden gasp of life in the corner directed her gaze to the west. Winifred was swept in Wesley’s arms, their mouths fused together with passion which twisted Buffy’s stomach.
Thankfully, they didn’t notice her. No one did.
No one save Jasper, who waited for her at the head of the stairs and faithfully followed her to her room.
*~*~*
Buffy laid awake hours after the party died down. The dog was at her side, resting, her hand tunneled through his fur and enjoying the cold comfort of the rise and fall of his even breaths. She’d never let Jasper on the bed before but she didn’t think she could bear to stomach the evening alone.
Not after everything.
So she lay. Her face was cold and wet, the whole of her trembling every few seconds—every time the memory broke through the barrier and replayed the conversation she’d heard in the foyer. Every time she heard William say she didn’t know him.
She didn’t know him, and he couldn’t touch her.
How long had he known this? Did he intend to speak with her?
She didn’t know. All she knew was she couldn’t sleep.
Instead, she sat with Jasper and watched the empty space beside her. The space where William slept.
Only William wasn’t there.
And as night rolled into morning, realization hardened and sank. He wasn’t going to join her.
He left her thoroughly alone.
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ghostgirl13's prompting. Therefore, I lovingly dedicate this story to her. She kept me on my toes, even when I didn’t want to be kept.