Nemesis by Holly

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Part Seven: Empty-Handed

It was the longest moment of her life, and she had had some long ones. Buffy literally saw the scene unfold in the slowest form of delayed reaction she thought possible. A breath held in raw suspension as the curtain separating the old from the new slowly swung open. The Slayer froze completely—her body reacting solely on the level of irrefutable betrayal. No, she couldn’t let this happen. Not now. Not with Spike watching.

Time relinquished its hold, and the next few seconds flew outside of the realm of control. She watched from her scouting position—disconnected from her body and viewing blindly through farsighted binoculars. She was distanced from everything that could have possibly intervened for the sake of culpability.

Thus, her body followed its most natural inclination. Buffy bolted for Angel, hands finding his shoulders as his massive frame formed effortlessly behind the drape. There was a confused grunt and a brief struggle, but she managed to push him back inside, ignoring the nearly imperceptible snicker from behind. But it worked; the peroxided vampire took the hint. In the midst of her boyfriend’s confusion, Spike wisely seized the opportunity to make himself scarce.

Disaster averted.

Temporarily.

Now all she had to do was look at Angel and explain why she was manhandling him at his home. She focused on recollecting herself, mindful but not paying full attention to the series of questions that were being fired at her, in keeping with her calamitous entrance. The room was spinning with more of the same.

“Buffy? Buffy! Are you—”

It occurred to her finally on some level of awareness that Angel was trying to communicate.

The Slayer blinked slowly, at last returning to herself. A longing glance to verify what she already understood. Spike had vanished once again. Where the younger vampire had once been, he was no longer. It hit her like a ton of bricks. He really was gone. Again. He had disappeared again in record time. Disappeared with agility with which she had never credited him. When had the bleached vampire become stealthy?

A cold thought trickled into her mind, unbidden. Suppose his disappearing act led him all the way back into his inner shell? It had taken three days to convince him to approach her. What now? Reason promised that it was his own damn fault for following through only when she decided to visit the actual boyfriend. Would he see it that way, or had he retreated far into himself with the crazy insistence that she somehow deserved this.

Anger sparked without further provocation. Spike had developed the nasty habit of doing that. Enter. Confuse things. Exit. Thanks for nothing.

He’s gone. Oh god, he’s gone. Self-satisfied prick. He better not be gone for long.

It was Spike. Spike who hated waiting as much—to be honest, probably more—than she did. Patience hardly a forte, and far from the esteem of his other virtues. However, these past few weeks had all but rewritten her understanding of the demon. More honest logic suggested that no amount of predictability would prepare her for his next move.

Which was likely a good idea for the moment. Angel was talking.

And she wasn’t listening. Again.

Whups.

Buffy shook her head. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I was walking and came by and—hey—there you were. All…stand-in-the-doorish. Figured it might be nice to drop in and say hey and, oh, what’s that you’re reading? We’re having to read A Streetcar Named Desire for English right now. Have you read it? I mean, of course you’ve read it. You probably remember when it was published. God, gotta love Tennessee Williams. It is Tennessee Williams who wrote it, right? There are so many, I—”

Rambling. Not good. While it was true that Angel was accustomed to her rambling, he was similarly attuned to the various symptoms of anxiety. Buffy plus nervousness equals guilt. Major guilt in the way of secrecy. They had been through enough of the same to grasp that understanding.

Damn. Still rambling.

“—And Vivien Leigh. She was just…well, to quote Keanu: whoa. Played Blanche great, though you really can’t compare to Scarlet O’Hara, can you? I don’t think she—”

“Buffy!”

It was a moment of delayed realization. She looked at him as though she had never heard her name before. The territory was well-matched. Following a man blindly through a labyrinth of continuous riddles, or poor jokes constructed solely for her benefit. She had never seen him look so thoroughly irritated with her.

“Buffy,” he said again with a fiery edge, his patience tested. “What are you doing here?”

Was it possible that she had skipped an explanation to that very question in the heat of her long-winded rambling? She blinked. “I was…patrolling,” she replied slowly. Then stopped. There was no reason she shouldn’t be here. It wasn’t as though she had come on the very thought that she would run into Spike.

“Patrolling.” Angel’s brows perked and he crossed his arms. “At my house?”

“Well, I’m not saying this is the best place to take my business, but I kinda just wandered over here and…wait, why is this even an issue? I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

Angel looked at her for a long minute. “After this weekend, I wasn’t expecting you to try and visit me anytime soon.” He glanced down and sighed. “You know, I’m tired. Buffy, I am so, so tired. I’m tired of dancing at arm’s length with you. I’m tired of walking around on eggshells whenever we talk. I’m tired of pretending that everything is okay. So rather than stand here and perpetuate something that is making us both miserable, I’m going to be painfully upfront.”

Buffy’s heart lodged in her throat. “What do you mean?”

He shot her a glance that told her full well that he knew that she knew damn well what he was talking about. “I’ve tried and I’ve watched you push me away. I’ve let you push me away. God knows I’ve wanted you to let me in and just tell me that everything I worry about is nonsense. That you wouldn’t…but I can’t. I’m going to ask you up front—once—and I want a straight answer.”

Panic shot up her spine, but she wouldn’t let him see it. She couldn’t—even if she was about to say something profoundly stupid. Even if she was about to open the gate. “Fine. I mean, okay. Okay. Take your best shot.”

Full count.

“What happened between you and Spike?”

Buffy swallowed hard. “What do you mean?” she asked again, wincing. Evidently, she had an unexplored capacity for lameness.

Angel surged with irritation and recovered one of the missing steps between them, the feral look in his eyes glowing yellow with intent. “Oh, don’t do that, Buffy. You know exactly what I’m talking about. You. Spike. Birthday ritual. I want the truth. What happened?”

She balked respectfully, even though she knew it was a dumb thing to do. The very notion that he had to ask in the first place was confirmation enough of what he already knew. Speaking the words would do little good. And yet, she found it within herself to grow angry in an illogical twist. There was little more than she hated than being cornered, despite her admitted fault. No matter that she had seen the very object of debate no more than ten minutes ago outside Angel’s home. No matter that coming clean here and now would make a world of difference in the field of the blame game. There was no time for rational solutions. “What are you…” she began, trailing off for the light of truth that sparked through, despite herself. “Did Faith—”

“How did you know Faith was here?”

“I saw her.”

Then he was angry. No word, no question about it. He was completely angry, and it astonished her. Angel had spent far too much time not caring these past few weeks, thus the display left her oddly relieved. As though there was something there worth fighting for. “Stop it!” he snarled. “This has nothing to do with Faith! This is about you and me, and I think that I have just cause to know what happened between you two that night. You can’t keep shutting me out, Buffy. I’m still here, and I think I’ve been a pretty good sport about this.”

“You are so off base now.”

“Really? Interesting theory. Maybe I’m not thinking that clearly. Maybe I am a little off my game, but I really can’t tell you how much I don’t think that’s the case.” He was so close to bursting into game face now that even she could taste it. “But as long as you refuse to tell me what happened…why you let him bite you, why you let him go…” Angel broke and shook his head again, attempting to reign in some control. “I can’t be with you when you’re like this.”

I can’t be with you, period.

God, it would be so easy to break up with him right now. And yet, she held her tongue. There was something decidedly rattling about cutting the strings of her first great love, especially when she’d be leaving him for the idea of another man. Whether or not she and Spike ever progressed to anything was another story.

“I’m like this,” Buffy replied shortly. She felt so little when she looked at him. There was nothing worth saving. “Deal with it.”

“Leave.”

The word was so short, so abrupt, that she had to do a double take to make sure she’d heard him right. He was a stranger—the image he wore was so far from any adopted in her experience. Not quite Angelus: oh no. He couldn’t stand for that, no matter how angry he was with her. That brought about too many memories. At the same time, however, not remotely in the proximity of Angel. Angel was patient and understanding. Angel talked things out. Angel never demanded anything of her. Not like that. Not with a word so cold, a command so grasping, that she could not fathom fishing for a debate.

There was no feasible approach to a reply. No rational sidestepping to avoid another nasty scene. So she did the one thing she should have done from the start. She did what she had been meaning to do all night, on one level or another.

She left.

The path she took home was a simple route that required nothing more than legs and a desire to snuggle comfortably in her bed. Jaunts through Restfield Cemetery were routine, whether or not she was patrolling. It was a habit long formed; no matter the destination in Sunnydale, there was always a shortcut through a graveyard.

Buffy wasn’t so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t notice the telltale signs of being followed; but she wasn’t worried. Only Spike wasn’t following her—he was waiting for her. Her sudden rush of adrenaline propelled her straight into his arms; the force of collision sending him to the ground, and since his arms were around her, she toppled with him. With an irritated ‘oof’, Buffy gasped and wriggled, eliciting a low moan from the man beneath her that she wisely chose to ignore. His grip on her tightened by instinct, and he flashed her a toothy grin.

“Better watch where you’re goin’, luv,” he advised huskily, gaze falling to her lower lip. “Y’never know what sort of nasties are waitin’ for you…”

Great. He was doing that thing with his voice that she liked.

“Yeah, and you’re walking proof of that, aren’t you?”

“My, my, aren’t we in a snit tonight?” His eyes danced merrily and she was not going to flush, dammit. “Though I gotta say that you made it out here a lot sooner than I’d wagered. What happened? Things not go well with your big brooding hulk?”

This was so not the position she’d had in mind for her reunion with Spike, but he didn’t seem willing to let her up anytime soon. And that wasn’t good because she was flushed and he was really close and God, she was supposed to be talking herself out of this. Not a possibility when his arm was pressing her against him like that. How was it that she was trapped when it was he that was pinned beneath her? Damn vampire.

At that, she began to struggle again, desperately ignoring the involuntary whimpers that scratched through his throat when her lower body unwittingly grinded against his lower body. It was probably a good idea to ignore that thing that was definitely not a bulge and similarly not pressed against her in a way that…ohhh…

“Let me up,” she said, cursing herself when she sounded more needy than angry.

“Why?” he echoed innocently, reaching up to softly caress her cheek. “I’m all comfy, here.”

Meltage.

“Well, I’m not.” Buffy flushed. She was such a liar. “Emphasis on the not.”

“Watch it. You’ll ruin a bloke’s ego.”

“All the better. Spike, let me up!”

“No.” His eyes sparkled with defiance, and before she could think to protest, he had raised his head and was nuzzling her neck softly. Her eyes fluttered shut and an impulsive gasp escaped her lips. If this was a play at seduction, it wasn’t working. She wouldn’t let it. Yeah. Uh huh. Keep telling yourself that. The gasp transformed into an all-out moan when his tongue darted out to taste her skin. “You’re so warm,” he murmured against her. “Christ, Buffy, do you have any idea how warm you are?”

It was the unbidden use of her name that did it. An ode to their past passion. Odd how quickly he grew comfortable enough to address her by her given name, rather than her title. Their one night together had seen it nearly eradicated from his vocabulary. Okay, so he’d slipped a time or two and had refused to abandon the ever-popular pet, luv, and—a personal favorite—kitten. But she had been Buffy to him. Just Buffy. And it was enough to drive her from herself.

Not again.

Struggles renewed with more fervor than he could have anticipated, but he released her before they became too serious. Spike’s gaze was contemplative and penetrating. She had seen that look before, but it didn’t last long enough for her to enjoy it. His eyes faded to anger.

“So,” he growled lowly as she climbed to her wobbly feet. “That’s it, then? Li’l taste, li’l tease, an’ you run back to your sodding broody bear.”

The statement was deliberately provocative, and she didn’t appreciate the sentiment. “Spike, you have eyes, right? ‘Cause the way I see it, I’m running away from Angel.”

“Yeh. Excuse me if that fails to reassure.”

Her eyes shadowed. “I don’t seem to recall promising you anything.”

There was no way to repress the shudder earned from the look he delivered. Darkened and hurt, brewing with more than resentment. For the second time that night, Buffy found herself in an incredibly uncomfortable position and hadn’t the justification to feel anger at anyone but herself. The trenches kept getting deeper and deeper and she lacked persuasion on which way to run.

But then, something strange happened. The intensity of his gaze bore her resolutely into the ground, then relented altogether. It was nothing she could have expected; nothing he could have prepared her for. The Spike she knew fed off anger to motivate his actions. He grasped and molded it until he had reason to lash out with words or fangs. He did not burn in fury for seconds only to let go.

“No,” he agreed softly. “You didn’t.”

Was that a call for pity? For the sake of argument, she was going to assume so. It was infinitely better to stick with familiar territory.

“Oh, don’t even do that.”

Spike reeled, features contorting in confusion. “Do what?”

“Make like I’m the bad guy. I told you—”

“Know damn well what you told me, pet. I’ve played it over an’ over, tryin’ to talk myself outta comin’ here, because I knew exactly what I’d find.” He scoffed at her indignant look and paced a step away before turning again to face her. “But did it stop me? Hell no. Had to come. Had to see you. Had to prove to myself that the girl I touched that night really was talkin’ bollocks ‘bout things she won’t let herself understand.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Spike scowled at her but didn’t immediately reply. He dug his hands into his duster pocket and fished out a cigarette, perking an enigmatic brow at her as it burned to life between his lips. “Whatever you think it means.”

There was a puzzled moment of retake. “What does that mean?”

A sigh tore through the air. “It means whatever the bloody hell you want it to, Slayer.”

It took a minute, but his careless brandishing of her title sank in with all the raw implications of his growing resentment. So they had come full circle. They had come full circle, or he was trying to confuse the hell out of her.

And he was still talking. And pacing. And smoking himself into a frenzy.

“I knew it. I knew it the minute I started. Bloody knew it, but did that stop me? ‘Course not.” His eyes found hers again and he flicked the half-smoked fag to the ground to extinguish it under his boot. “I knew you’d be like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like this! Li’l Miss Stake-Up-Her-Arse Slayer. Givin’ me the brush-off when all I bloody well did is what you asked.” Spike stopped once more, gaze softening by degrees. The look she had only had one night to grow accustomed to. That grasping, yearning, pleading façade that had wormed its way under her skin and haunted her for weeks. At that moment, it seemed that eons had passed since they last saw each other. “You act,” he continued softly, “like it meant nothin’ to you.”

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Before she could consider what they meant. A lie that kept growing with no one around to pull its strings. She knew what she wanted. After everything she had put herself through, she wanted to see him hurt in return. With a cold indifference, she shrugged casually. “Who says it did?”

There was nothing for a long beat. Hurt blossomed in his eyes but didn’t travel to his hands. Anger flickered within pools of vibrant torment, but didn’t leak into his stride. He was not responding as a vampire should. No. At that moment, he looked very much like a wounded man. A man that could be destroyed with something as mindless as words. And she felt it. She felt the blunt edge of her sword come back to stab her, but it was too late to take it back.

Spike’s voice was hoarse when he spoke. “You did,” he reminded her. “You said that it—”

A taste. She had a taste of it now. That blunt, raw hurt, and she wanted more. Buffy quivered with need but she didn’t allow herself time to stop and consider. She wanted to see him angry. She needed to see him angry. She needed to see that he was just a vampire. That she could forget him. That he was indeed simply a symptom of the failure of her relationship with Angel. Nothing more. She needed him to hurt and taste it for herself. She needed to make him bleed.

“Yeah,” she spat. “I say a lot of things I regret later, but I didn’t honestly expect you to take them seriously. And—let’s face it—most everything I told you that night makes the list. And you held on to it? Geez, Spike. That’s kind of pathetic. I mean, what do you take me for, anyway?”

Silence for a long, long moment. No visible reaction. No telling flicker of the eyes. No angry growl. No shoving her away or sinking his fangs into her throat. No sign that he was a vampire. He wasn’t going to bleed, dammit. He was going to deny her that privilege.

“All of it?” he asked at last, taking a step forward. “Everythin’ you told me that night was a bunch of rot?” Spike seemed to be considering, walking forward again, and she couldn’t stand it. “Hmmm,” he mused thoughtfully. The air between them stilled with strands of unguarded longing. That which she couldn’t feasibly push aside. Couldn’t hide from him. In spite of all the barriers she placed, every brick she laid, he saw through it. He saw enough to know that her words weren’t entirely her own. That there was enough lie in them to make something else the truth. They stared at each other for long seconds, and she couldn’t help the small shudder that coursed through her system when he moved to innocently brush loose locks of hair from her eyes. “Is that so,?” he asked softly, voice distant. She fought to remember what they were discussing and failed miserably. All that mattered was that he was here. He was here at last, touching her, filling the void that had all but swallowed her whole. Making something right after the weeks of wrongdoing. And she loved it. “I hope not.” His mouth was on her throat then; hands outlining her arms without touching her. Long, teasing seconds, then his tongue traced a pathway to her ear, a rumble of approval shuddering through his body as he muffled something about her taste. Buffy’s lips parted and a loud gasp tore at her throat, and when his teeth tugged at her ear, she all but fell completely complacent in his arms. “’Cause I’ve thought about it,” he was murmuring. “Every bloody night.”

It wasn’t much of a battle, she realized. Nothing more than the nasty barbs turned back and forth. Those that had cut more than she would consider. This was new; she wasn’t used to this. To feeling the need to relinquish that hurt before she was done inflicting it. And he made sure. He made damn sure that it was her mouth attacking his, her hands reacquainting themselves with his body. Spike allowed her to explore for what seemed like forever before returning her fiery touch. Before running his hands over her body, familiarizing himself with the curves he had long ago committed to memory. He cupped a breast ardently, stroking her nipple through layers of clothing, capturing her moans in his mouth as his other hand ventured south. She broke for a gasp of air and her head crooned back, allowing him access to her throat as his attentions honed in precision. Nimble fingers outlined her hardened bud with feverish anticipation, and when he bent to nip at it, she knew she wasn’t going to last. Here in the cemetery with the air around them silent save for their shared whimpers, as need and want melted stubbornly into one forbidden entity. When he finished teasing her breast, his mouth retraced her skin and possessively captured her lips once more. There was nothing to fight. Not when he kissed her like that. Her body was attuned to his touch and she was vaguely aware that, if he continued like this, his ministrations were going to make her lose herself far more rapidly than even she could fathom. He had only started touching her; it would be a good long while before he stopped.

For whatever reason, that thought broke through the lust-addled haze, and she numbly realized with astute awareness what she was doing. What she was allowing him to do. Her mind fought for reservation but found none. Not with his mouth on her, his hands and…oh God, where were his hands? The faint voice that she had shoved to the back of her mind finally screamed its protestations loud enough, so that she might hear them. With a strangled cry, she pulled back, shaking her head with newfound resolution. “No.” Her mouth defiantly wrested another kiss from his before remembering her argument. “No.” She kissed him again. Have mercy, she could drown in him. Whiskey and cigarettes. Leather and danger. Everything that she shouldn’t want. “Spike, stop…no!” Her hands finally released their grip on his peroxided locks and moved to shove him off of her completely. Pants intermingled in the air as they regarded each other, attempting to reclaim composition. God, he couldn’t look at her like that.

Buffy waited until she knew she could trust her voice. Until she knew that she wouldn’t rush headlong into another painful relapse. She couldn’t let him touch her. “This is wrong,” she said obviously, earning an incredulous glance. Conviction could not waver. Not again. “I was stupid for letting it happen once—”

“Not once,” he corrected, panting slightly. So odd that he would need more time to recuperate than she did. “That night lasted forever, Buffy. An’ forever wasn’t long enough.”

She couldn’t have this conversation now. Not when she was so blessedly unprepared. He had been gone too long, and he was assuming way too much. This couldn’t happen here. Where exactly did he get off thinking he could disrupt everything again? He hadn’t given her time to answer. Or he had, but he had decided it wasn’t what he wanted to hear and had made with the toe-curling smoochies, as though it would change her mind. Asshole.

Buffy hoped her anger poured through her eyes. It needed to. “It doesn’t matter. I told you I needed time, and I’ve made my decision. Stay away from me.”

There was a long beat of silence as he considered her, head tilted curiously. “Is that what you really want?” he asked, taking a step closer.

Closing distances equals bad decisions and more making out…and she didn’t want to do that. Uh huh. “Y-yes.”

The gleam in his eyes told her well that he knew otherwise. Hidden there beneath layers of hurt. Good. Her words weren’t being wasted. But he wasn’t stopping on their account. He was nearing still, and soon that distance she needed would be gone again, and they both knew what that meant. “You mean you haven’t wanted me here all along?” he asked, tone adapting that husky front all over again. “Touching you?” A hand ran up her arm, gently caressed the swell of her breast, before falling at last on the button of her trousers. “Kissing you?” His mouth nipped at hers, grinning widely when he earned a long moan of concession. He took that as grounds to continue and permitted his fingers entrance, slipping inside her slacks completely and rubbing her pussy through the fabric of her panties. His other arm wrapped around her waist to hold her to him when her knees buckled. Lips and teeth on her again. Oh, this was not good. Well it was, but not when she was trying to tell him to leave her alone.

A rumble at her ear. Spike’s tongue traced the lobe lovingly before murmuring, “Making you growl out those sexy li’l mewls. Mmmm. God, baby. I—”

Buffy’s body was screaming even before she pulled away. Not that it did any good. He followed with aching persistence. It was then that she grew angry, and with a shove that did nothing to mask her conviction, she sent him to the ground. “No!” she barked. “God! Stay away from me!”

Spike was on his feet again the next instant, gaze marred with the realization that he had crossed a line. He tried to reach for her but she wouldn’t have it. He looked at her apologetically and released a trembling sigh. “Buff—”

She was fully aware of what would happen if she let him talk. She stepped away, eyes burning with malice. Hurt. More hurt. He had fully denied her the blood she needed. Own wants be damned. Not like this. “You wanna know the truth?” she spat. “Not once. I haven’t thought about you once.” It was amazing how effortlessly that lie spilled from her lips, and moreover, how true it sounded. And there it was. The pain she wanted. Pain laced with incredulity. No, no. There would be no want of doubt by the time she was through with him. “In fact, you weren’t that hard to forget. Don’t make this any more…”

It surprised her when it hit her. The full wave of every vindictive word and the entirety of their effect. Eyes that weren’t meant to blaze with such life were suddenly so vibrant that she found it difficult to breathe. There it was. Everything she told herself she wanted from him. Anger. Pain. Blood. Maybe he would grow livid enough to do something violent. Maybe he would hit her. Kick her. Make her remember why she was doing this. Make her remember that he was a vampire.

She waited for it, but it never came. Nothing but the relentless phase of hurt. What she had told herself she needed. What she couldn’t stand to look at.

Buffy wasn’t sure exactly when she turned to run away; she wasn’t fully aware she had moved at all until she tripped over a headstone. Then she was running again. Running back to Revello Drive where she couldn’t see his eyes. Where she didn’t have to weigh the reward of getting exactly what she wanted.

He hurt now. Hurt because of her. All for doing what she asked. What she wanted him to do. He had left and come back. He was here now and she…

And it wasn’t just him. It was Angel as well. The two men in her life hurt because of her.

Vindictive bitch.

A stifled sob at that. Tears that she couldn’t prevent. Dear God, what’s wrong with me?

That was what she took with her. Her body called for both, but her heart settled on the image of her would-be peroxided nemesis. The face of his hurt would keep her company tonight.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

No two words to leave her lips had ever rung with more truth.

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