Forward to Time Past by Unbridled Brunette

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Chapter 53

Spike wasn’t sure whether to laugh at Dawn’s revelation or pull out his shotgun and kill them all. In the end, he merely gave into temptation and lit a cigarette.

“Well, that is just chock full of irony, isn’t it? Do you think they were trying to help me prove my point to her? If so, I’d say they made a bloody good job of it.”

Dawn looked confused.

“Uh…what?”

“Never mind. Just tell me what the Slayer had to say about it…about them ordering her to get a job.”

Spike thought he spoke casually, but Dawn wasn’t fooled. She crossed her arms across her chest and shook her head. “They weren’t exactly ordering her,” she began. When she saw his face, however, she hastily added, “I don’t really know how she reacted. Xander showed up right after they started talking about it, and he caught me spy—uh, listening. He drove me to school and that was the last I heard about it. I haven’t been home yet.”

“Well, you ought to go home,” Spike answered irritably. “All the pressure they’re putting on her, she’s liable to crack. You reckon she might like to have someone there with her when she does?”

Dawn bridled at that.

“Well, why not you?” she retorted. “You’re the one who spent all last night with her. And—” she suddenly looked amused “—she was definitely in a better mood because of it. Before the rest of them got hold of her, I mean. I was upstairs, but I heard her humming when she first walked in the door, and it was classical music at that. Who would’ve thought Buffy even knew any classical music?”

Spike winced.

“Yeah, well. Don’t be spreading that one around, all right? About her being here all night. There’s no imagining how the Injustice League would react. From what I’ve heard, the Watcher nearly had a coronary when he found out she’d had it on with me while I was human.”

“Since when do you care how they react?” Dawn asked. “You’ve pretty much made a hobby out of cheesing everybody off.”

“I care because of how it would affect Buffy. God knows, she’s got enough on her plate right now without adding any more to it.” Spike’s voice was dull. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dawn raise her eyebrows skeptically.

“You should go see her,” she pressed. “I’m going home now; you can walk with me.”

“Don’t think so, Bit. Not today.”

“Why not?”

Spike turned his back on her and didn’t answer. Truth be told, he didn’t think he would be welcome at Buffy’s house even if he decided to go. After all, he was supposed to be a secret.

The autumn air was surprisingly chilly, and as soon as Buffy stepped over the threshold, she considered going back inside for her coat. However, even that task seemed too arduous, too wearying to carry out. She sank down on the back porch steps. Other than her own bedroom, it was the only place she could go to be alone. She needed to be alone now; she needed to think. She needed to breathe in that crisp, clean air and relax the tightness in her chest.

Bills.

Her heart began to gallop and her shoulders tensed at the mere thought of the thick stack of white envelopes that now lay on her kitchen counter. To her friends’ credit, they had broken the news to her as gently as they knew how. Also to their credit, they likely would not have mentioned it so soon after her return had the situation not been desperate. The mortgage payment was past due; the utility companies were threatening to shut off their service, and the bank accounts had long been emptied of their contents in order to pay bills during her absence.

Of course, though dire, the situation was not hopeless. They tried to assure her of that. In fact, Willow had already found her a prospective job, a position working as a Tae Bo instructor at Sunnydale University’s student gym. It paid ten dollars an hour, which Willow assured her was prime, but Buffy had her doubts. After all, her mother must have cleared at least three times that at the gallery, and it had certainly not made her wealthy. Moreover, the thought of returning to the University and having her former classmates see her as an employee—a dropout—made her cringe. She might as well stamp “miserable failure” across her forehead. But what other choice did she have? She had no truly marketable skills, no higher education to fall back on. If she could spend her days capitalizing on her physical prowess…well, she felt she really wasn’t in a position to complain about it.

She was supposed to interview with the gym’s manager the following day. Industrious creature that she was, Willow had already taken it upon herself to set it up. When she had told Buffy about it that morning, it was obvious that she expected to receive gratitude from her friend for her efforts, and Buffy wearily complied. She knew there was little point in questioning why no one else had thought to contribute to the household expenses, and no point at all in complaining about the suddenness of the announcement. This was her life now and there was no point in fighting it.

She watched as a breeze stirred up the dead leaves on the lawn, making them dance in the late afternoon sunshine. It was odd that Giles had been so quiet though, she thought. He hadn’t spoken a word while Willow expounded on the virtues of the job she had found; he didn’t even seem to be listening. His eyes were glazed as if he was lost in some other thought, and his mouth had been set in a tight line. Buffy wondered why he even bothered to attend the financial summit if he was not planning to be involved in the proceedings, but she didn’t bother to ask him. His goodbye to her, once the unpleasant affair ended, was nothing more than a perfunctory nod. It made her uneasy. She wondered if he could have found out about her romp with Spike, although she couldn’t imagine how he might have. Then again, perhaps he was only angry with her for her unexplained absence, an issue around which everyone seemed to be carefully skirting.

The thought of Spike pushed all concern for Giles out of her head. How she wished she could go to him now. She would rest her head on his broad shoulder and tell him her worries. Of all people, she knew Spike would sympathize with her. He’d lost his father at age nine and gained the title of head of the family once he reached thirteen. Regardless of the wealth that came with them, the responsibilities must have been tremendous. He would understand the painfully constricted sensation in her throat, the throbbing tension at the base of her skull and in her shoulders; he would have felt them, too. He’d shouldered his load and, more than anything, she wanted to ask him how he’d borne it.

Of course, she couldn’t run crying to Spike whenever she had a problem. This wasn’t 1880 and she was supposed to be an adult. At any rate, he was already annoyed with her about her friends. The last thing she needed to do was place added strain on an already complicated relationship—and more than anything else, their relationship certainly was complicated.

Buffy was being very careful not to think about all the bad things he had done in his past or to consider all the bad things he might do without the microchip to hold him back. He had promised to be good now, and she believed him because he was William. But she still didn’t want to think about it.

Instead, she found her mind wandering back to the night before. When she closed her eyes, she could almost feel him nibbling at her collarbone, tracing with his fingertips the small curves of her breasts, the hollow of her abdomen. Just as they had in London, his hands trembled when he touched her. However, it wasn’t nerves this time. He knew what he was doing now, and he didn’t always wait for her to take the lead. She melted under his touch, but the expression in his eyes confused her. Behind the desire, they seemed almost sad, almost pained; it hurt just to look into them. When she asked him why he looked like that, he picked up her hand and put it to his chest, over the place where his heart no longer beat.

It hurts a little—

What does?

—shedding old calluses.

It was almost pathetic, the amount of time he devoted to waiting for her.

Of course, Spike had known she wouldn’t visit during the early part of the day. She hadn’t slept in almost forty-eight hours and was long overdue for a rest. He’d spent most of the day in bed as well. But after Dawn woke him—and after she left—he couldn’t seem to settle down.

As the afternoon melted into early evening, he began to look for her in earnest, although, of course, he told himself he was not. But he kept to the crypt’s upper level, paced the floor restlessly, picked up books and dropped them, sat down, stood up again and then paced some more. He changed his clothing to rid himself of the cigarette stink and cleaned the crypt by shoving empty bottles and dirty clothing beneath the furniture. All the while, he told himself that he had to be patient. She’d have to spend some time with the Bit before she came to him. After all, there was dinner and homework to get through, maybe some of that sisterly bonding for which they seemed so long overdue. Likely, she would not come for a few hours yet. Three hours, maybe, but not more than that. Surely, not more than that. After all, she had seemed almost reluctant to leave that morning; she must be eager to see him, to be with him. She wanted to be with him.

She did.

She did.

She did.

At half-past nine, Spike grabbed a bottle, threw himself down in front of the television, and stared blankly at a game show that’s object seemed to be forcing people to eat insects for money. His fingertips dug into the shabby arms of the recliner, and his teeth ground against the mouth of the bottle when he drank.

Come, goddamn you. Come.

It was almost midnight before she did. Spike didn’t hear her come in. He had dozed off in front of the television and still sat slumped in the chair with his legs spread and his head dropped to one side, a dented flask held loosely in one hand. Buffy slid into the seat with him, her fingers spider-walking along his chest as she nibbled at his earlobe.

“How’s this for a wakeup call?” she murmured when his eyes opened.

A drowsy chuckle from Spike. Still half-asleep, he sat motionless for a moment and let her make up for all the distress she’d caused him. She kissed her way along his neck and throat, slowly making her way to his mouth. When she reached it, she paused, whispered playfully, “Did you miss me today?”

Well, yes…

His answer got lost in the indistinct rasp that accompanied it, a sound caught somewhere between a grunt and a moan. He was already hard and her hand was on him, wedged between their bodies and rubbing lazy circles over the damp spot that had formed at the crotch of his jeans. She smelled different today, a faint sweetness of violets mingling with the already delicious scent of her flesh. He breathed it in, knowing that it was meant for him, and the surge of lust that followed was instantaneous, almost Pavlovian. For a second, he thought that he was going to come in his trousers like some lovesick, pockmarked teenager.

“Buffy…”

His hips jerked beneath her and the hand holding the flask suddenly released its grip. He tried to catch it, but desire had fogged his brain and made him slow to react. The container fell against Buffy’s right leg, splashing her with its contents.

When she realized what it was, Buffy made a small cry of disgust and pushed herself off him. The look of utter revulsion in her eyes didn’t fade as her gaze moved from the red drizzle of pig’s blood on her thigh to Spike’s face. He felt it keenly but didn’t comment. Instead, he pulled off his shirt and tossed it to her so that she could clean herself up.

“Sorry about that, pet. Didn’t mean to douse you. I forgot I was holding dinner leftovers.” He kept his tone light, and it was the right thing to do. She offered him a weak smile.

“It—it’s all right. I was just…surprised.” She used the shirt to dab at the stain on her leg and grimaced when she realized it wasn’t coming out. “Guess I’ll be picking up some Shout on my way home.”

Spike nodded uneasily, feeling as if he had just done something terribly wrong. It wasn’t just the clothes she was upset about, he realized, and it wasn’t just the blood. It was that he drank the blood. He wasn’t sure how to fix that.

“Love, I really didn’t—”

“Do you have any water?” she interrupted.

“Got some club soda. Suppose that would work just as well.”

“Better, actually. Would you get it?”

He crossed the room and pulled a half-empty bottle out of his refrigerator. She seemed to have collected herself by the time he returned, and when she took it, her smile was genuine.

“I’m afraid I’m going to mess up your shirt—”

“’s all right. I’ve got others.”

“What are you doing with club soda anyhow?” she asked as she dabbed some of it onto the stain.

“Mix it with gin if I’m feeling posh and don’t have any tonic. Can I—uh—” Unsure of how to finish the sentence, he gestured to the room in a mute offer to fetch her anything else she might need.

“I’m fine.” She bent her head over her work and there was a stretch of quiet before she spoke again. “I guess it’s just going to take a little getting used to…the whole blood-drinking thing. The idea that my boyfriend can go…you know…homicidal sometimes.”

Spike struggled not to show how much that comment annoyed him. It wasn’t as if having a blood drinker for a lover was new to her; she’d been through it all before with sodding Angel. He wasn’t the only one who could go homicidal. Angelus—

Of course, her experience with Angelus was probably the source of her concern.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but feel resentful. How in the hell could she expect him to be good when it was constantly insinuated that he was not? A bit of trust from her end would have been nice.

Cross now, he decided to shift the conversation to a matter she would find distressing. Let her suffer for a change, he thought.

“So…I hear you’re joining the American workforce.”

“How did you find out?” she asked, surprised. Spike snickered.

“You’ve got to ask? Your little sister is just a regular fount of information these days.”

“Of gossip, you mean.” She looked depressed, but Spike was still heartsick himself and it made him spiteful.

“So, go on. Tell me. When does the search for gainful employment start?”

“Actually…I already have an interview. Tomorrow. Willow helped me set it up.”

Spike clenched his teeth.

“Damned decent of her to do that,” he answered sardonically. “What’re you trying out for?”

She told him, and he snorted.

“Right, then. So, you’re telling me that you’re going to spend your days teaching fat college girls how to kickbox.” His words were dripping with sarcasm.

“Well, it’s not like I have any better offers rolling in,” Buffy answered waspishly.

He narrowed his eyes. “What about afterward? Are you going to use your off time to patrol? Don’t you think that schedule will get a little tiring?”

“I haven’t really thought about the patrolling part,” she admitted.

“Yeah, well. Think about it. You know you’ll never be able to give it up. Bloody hell. Of all the jobs for her to find for you—”

“At least it’s a job that pays! I need the money!” Buffy exclaimed. She threw down the shirt and turned to him, her eyes blazing. “It’s easy for you to stand there bitching about how it’s beneath me and how tiring it’s going to be. You don’t have a thousand dollar a month mortgage payment or a notice from the water authority saying that you’re about to be cut off—you don’t have a younger sister that you’ve got to take care of—”

“You’re damn right I don’t. I also don’t have a couple of freeloaders leeching off the things I do have. When the ship is sinking, Buffy, it’s an indication you need to throw out the deadweight.”

“Willow and Tara are my friends—they don’t have anywhere else to live—”

“Let them pay rent then, or find a new place. By God, you aren’t the only adult in that house and you aren’t the only one capable of singing for your supper.”

Her bottom lip began to quiver.

“You know…you could at least pretend to be supportive about this. I’ve got everyone else telling me what to do…but not telling me how to get it done…and I just want somebody to…to just…” Her voice choked.

“Bleeding Christ—”

He crossed the space separating them in two long strides. Part of him expected her to shove him away, curse him, even to leave; but as he slid his arms around her shoulders, she pressed forward against his bare chest, stood on her toes so that she could bury her face in the crook of his neck. When she began to cry, Spike felt as if someone had removed his entrails.

“Love—don’t—” he said helplessly. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have said all that—”

She shook her head, smearing hot tears across the top of his shoulder. “You don’t understand. Mom took care of everything—she never told me about it—I never learned how to do it. Everything’s already so behind and I don’t know what to do. How can I catch up? Even if I get that job, it won’t pay nearly enough to—” Her words broke off into a strangled sob.

Spike shushed her gently, pressing a kiss into the top of her head and crooning in a voice almost too soft for her to hear: “Money’s easy got, Buffy. It’s easy got.”

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