Nemesis by Holly

1 :: 2 :: 3 :: 4 :: 5 :: 6 :: 7 :: 8 :: 9 :: 10 :: 11 :: 12 :: 13 :: 14 ::

Part Eight: Drowning In Misery

Buffy knew she was in for a sleepless night. At first, she thought to use insomnia to her benefit: catch up on homework or get a couple of chapters ahead in her English class. Give her a good chance to shock the hell out of Willow.

But she couldn’t focus on anything without taking a detour to endless pain: pain that she had placed there. Pain that she had demanded as payment for everything she’d done over the past few weeks. With every second that she wasn’t employing to track down Spike and apologize, the heavier her burden grew. It was all her fault—as much as she had resented his departure, Buffy was unprepared to deal with his return. He might be ready, he might know what it was that he wanted, but she didn’t have that luxury.

Spike wasn’t making it any easier. He was being purposefully unvampire-like, and it was setting her off her game. If he wanted, he could come to her house and kill her while she slept. There was no reason for him not to. She had rejected him, talked down to him, and made it beyond clear that he was the last thing she wanted. His eyes had burned with anger unlike anything she’d ever seen, seasoned with layers of masterful hurt. But he had not acted on it, and she knew he wouldn’t. Why? There was nothing keeping him out of her house. He’d made no promise to her. He was a vampire. She was the Slayer. In twisted vampiric logic, he had every right to lash out. To act like the demon he was and attempt to put her in the ground for eternity.

More so. He was William the Bloody. Slayer of slayers. The fact that he hadn’t tried to kill her after such blatant provocation left her more than dazed. Rather, it should have left her dazed. It didn’t. And that hurt worse than anything she could have said.

So she was unable to sleep all because of the random appearance of her one-night stand. Spike just had to show up with his stupid eyes and his stupid hands and his stupid voice that went along nicely with said stupid hands as they caressed her just the right way while his stupid lips…

A grumble of frustration rumbled through her, and Buffy flopped tiredly on her bed in defeat.

All those stupid parts add up to a stupid vampire who will never touch you again ‘cause you had to open your stupid mouth. And don’t even pretend that doesn’t bother you. They might have been stupid lies that shouldn’t have hurt his stupid feelings in the first place, but look at where that presumption got you.

It was too much. There would be no more taking of this. Not with every vibrant emotion she’d harbored since Spike’s last visit ready and willing to burst in a thousand different directions. Raw, repressed emotion. The full burden of wanton secrecy. She couldn’t keep it to herself. Not anymore.

This was a job for a best friend. She only hoped Willow was still interested in the currently-vacant position. There was no one in the world who could fill her shoes.

The room was beginning to spin, and that was just fine with him.

The theory of time continuity amazed him…rather, it would if he cared. A hundred plus years of enjoying every sinful pleasure the earth had to offer, and he could still drink himself away into a stupor of relentless boohooing within an hour.

Spike knew well the twisted dealings of a really good kill. How the blood of a slayer tasted when she was hot off a battle. How the blood of a slayer tasted when she’s just plain hot. Most importantly, how many shots of Jack Daniels it takes to drown out the image of a specific slayer, and therein surrender himself completely to a drunken stupor.

Well, it didn’t necessarily have to be Jack Daniels. It didn’t matter what the bartender placed in front of him, just as long as it was strong and successfully doused the taste of Buffy from his mouth. Until every last strand of coherency abandoned him, and the reflection of her words became nothing more than noise falling on deaf ears.

He had just started drinking, though. The night would see a lot of liquor.

Spike tried for anger. After all, he’d never had trouble holding on to his rage. Not until tonight. Why was it that the one emotion he needed was so far out of range? He reached and stretched and tackled and wrestled it, but it escaped him all the same. So bloody frustrating. Even with everything she’d said, he couldn’t remain satisfied with simple resentment. He was owed fury and it was denied for no reason other than his own misgivings.

No. There was nothing but hurt. He was rooted in hurt. Born there. He was intimately acquainted with all of its intricacies. God, this had to stop. First Drusilla and Angelus, then Drusilla and Chaos Demon, and now the Slayer with…her Buffyness. Love’s bitch all the way. He had an odd approach to proving himself right.

And he had seen it coming. From the moment he ran his precious car into the bloody welcome-home sign, he knew that she would be like this. He knew that every wall he’d broken down that night would be up again. She’d be guarding her precious self from feeling things that no decent Slayer should feel.

And even before that. Lying with her that glorious night. Listening to her talk, knowing that her plans would never come to fruition, even if she believed what she’d told him. The promise that what they had had meant something to her. That her relationship with Angel wasn’t what it used to be, and she had acted on something she wanted rather than an oddly-developed case of Stockholm Syndrome.

Spike had offered that morning to end it. He’d offered because he knew that when he came back, this was the welcoming committee he’d face. He’d offered but she’d declined. She’d nearly cried at the notion that he’d never return, and the knowledge had filled him with such relief that for a minute, for a split second, he thought that all might end well.

Not bloody so.

However, despite all the nastiness, there was something there. Something that spoke for every word she hadn’t said tonight. Spike knew that from experience, but he wouldn’t delude himself into thinking that the authenticity behind her claims was any less valid. Buffy had spent the last few weeks deliberately talking herself out of something, else she would not have let him as close as she had tonight before the name-calling began.

“Stupid bint thinks she’s better than me,” he snarled, downing another shot of his drink. “Jus’ ‘cause she has friends an’ family an’ people who love her an’…an’…all right, so she’s better than me.” He glared angrily but things were falling out of focus. “What gives her the bloody nerve to be better than me?!”

Another shot. Another drink. A grumble. Damn. His thoughts were still coherent. He needed more alcohol. No, the bartender looked to actually have a conscience about this sort of thing. For the first time that evening, Spike questioned the wisdom of scheduling his pity-party at a pub that wasn’t Willy’s, but knew overall that it was better this way. When he got good and drunk, he tended to talk. A lot. It wouldn’t be good if word got out to all the Sunnyhell demons that William the Bloody—Slayer of Sodding Slayers—was pussy-whipped by the very creature he was notorious for destroying. He briefly considered relocating, but decided it would be better just to steal a bottle of whatever-looks-good and conclude his binge in solitude. He had a reputation to keep, after all. And without Buffy at his side, it looked as though his reputation was all he was going to get.

But still, it was damn annoying that the bartender had a conscience. It was damn annoying when anyone had a conscience, but this took the bloody cake. Maybe he could vamp out and scare him just a bit. Bloody well make him keep pouring. Or better yet, snap his neck and drain the bastard. Not like he hadn’t been bottling up every strand of rage that was unfortunately unBuffy-related with every pedestrian or bystander that he deliberately chose not to kill. Five weeks of denying himself that haven was enough to make any vampire see white spots of wankerdom. The incessant mantra that assured him the Slayer wouldn’t like that had him faithfully perched at the verge of madness, contemplating when best to jump.

But he wouldn’t, and though he knew why, he decided to blame it on the alcohol.

“Bloody ‘ad enough, have I?” he demanded, wrestling off his stool. “Why’s that that you care…mate? I’ll…sod…I’ll…” There would be no wavering from the stupid conscience-having human. Goddammit, this was the Hellmouth! The populace wasn’t supposed to have ethics and the lot of that do-gooder crap. Wasn’t enough that he was at a place where he didn’t have a tab.

The rational part of his brain told Spike that this was the part where he paid for the drinks he’d downed. Buggering ponce. Couldn’t he tell he was in pain, here? Wasn’t enough to cripple a chap financially. Honestly, pubs and brothels should be public service establishments. Like free therapy for those who didn’t give a fuck. Dim the pain until something else came up.

There had to be someone in this god-awful town that he could pin it on. Someone with as much a reason to drink as he had. Someone who knew the Slayer and was well aware of the headaches she issued at leisure.

“Put it on Rupert’s tab,” he instructed. “Giles, right? The…librarian. The drinks are on ‘im.”

The bartender seemed content with this and nodded, moving to serve his next customer. Some lucky ponce who hadn’t had enough. And what was that, anyway? Who actually told people to leave when they’re right cooperative, paying customers? This wasn’t bloody Cheers, it was…

Spike stumbled out of the bar like a drunken buffoon—which he supposed was the point—into the quieted downtown streets of late-night Sunnydale. It didn’t surprise him that the uglies weren’t lurking about; he knew enough to recognize their regular haunts, but the thought was wasted on him for something else entirely.

He didn’t get far. He ran into someone.

Quite literally.

Oh, bloody hell.

It was actually amusing for a second. Either that, or the alcohol was getting to him. The girl dove to the pavement to collect the things she’d dropped, all the while muttering a thousand hurried apologies. Spike was vaguely aware that any decent man—tipsy or not—would be helping her with her plight…then remembered he was neither decent, nor, by society’s standards, a man. But it was his fault and bugger these gray areas. The Slayer couldn’t expect him to remain all proper and domesticated, could she? Especially with the…

His internal ramblings went on until he realized that the girl had collected her things and was staring at him immodestly.

“SPIKE?!”

Yeah, that was his name all right. Did she really have to shout it?

“’Ello…ummm…” He struggled for a minute, waving a bit as gravity tugged at his balance. What was her name again? He really should remember. After all, he had threatened to take her once, in his attempt to quench weeks’ worth of pent-up sexual frustration. There was also something about a broken bottle. Bugger if he could remember anything once the slobbering drunkenness went away. “Willow. ‘S that it? ‘Course tha’s it. What’s cookin’, luv?”

There was nothing for a long minute, and had he been more aware, he would have noted the definite lack of fear behind young eyes. Well, maybe some fear, but not enough to accommodate the knee-knocking terror a self-proclaimed Big Bad deserved. Some fear but not enough.

Instead, she just screamed his name again. “SPIKE?!”

The vampire grumbled. “Bloody hell, could you not shout? Yes, it’s me! Spike. The one an’ bloody only. Who’d you think it was? Carol King?” He took a step backward, hand going to his forehead in ode to misery. The coherent thoughts he’d tried to block out were running in spades, now.

This was the Hellmouth. A poor sap couldn’t even get nice and properly drunk without something intervening.

Maybe he just hadn’t had enough. His mind floated unwittingly to Willy’s again. Sod all worries of other nighttime nasties hearing of his miserable plight. Spike cared bugger all about society’s rules—be it demon or otherwise.

But there was that reputation to maintain, and that was something he was not willing to endanger. Not with the Slayer acting all high and mighty on top of her not-so-white stallion. Bugger. That.

Something grabbed his hands. Powerfully. Oh, right. Willow. He’d forgotten she was there. He yanked them back to his sides in a blink. “What’re you doin’?”

“Checking for a bottle. I’d like to avoid the ‘in-face’ incident.”

Damn. She remembered.

“If I were you, I’d run,” he advised in a voice that was not-at-all intimidating. “Creature of the night, ‘ere. I might do somethin’…creature-ish. Why don’ you jus’ sod off like a good li’l witch?”

There was a second’s hesitation as she actually seemed to consider the suggestion. “Well,” she said slowly, “no. ‘Cause you’re all drunk-like and…well, you know what they say. Friends don’t let friends drive drunk…a-and even if the commercials don’t specify, I’m sure that extends to mortal enemies and stuff. Not that you’re my mortal enemy. More like…mortal enemy by association. Besides…there’s some stuff I’d like to—”

“Stop talking so damn fast.” Spike pressed a hand to his forehead and stumbled a bit. “An’ listen to a bloke when he tells you to scamper off. Or ‘ave you forgotten jus’ like she bloody well forgot? ‘m dangerous. ‘m a nasty, nasty killer an’…” He trailed off in thoughtful consideration, beyond mortified when a choked sob rumbled through his lips. Damn good thing I didn’t go to Willy’s. “Oh God. Tha’s it, innit? Tha’s why she…” Another beat and anger replaced blubbering sorrow. If he had been on higher awares, he would have noticed Willow jump about a foot and a half in the air when he roared, and her consequent surprise when he failed to burst into game face. “God, that stupid bitch! I’ll drain her dry jus’ like I should’ve. Bloody show her who’s all easy to forget.” Another pause, then he broke down again. “God, I’m so unhappy.”

Damn. The Witch was still there. It was obvious that she wasn’t going to pay attention. Since when did the little redhead develop a backbone? Perhaps he was too drunk to come across as threatening. “Does Buffy know you’re in town?” she asked softly.

Hearing the Slayer’s name nearly shocked the hell out of him. As though he hadn’t been thinking about her—raving about her—all night. As though she weren’t the bane of his existence. Buffy. Spike frowned, smiled, then frowned again.

Brutal bitch.

“Fuck the bloody Slayer,” he snarled. “She th-thinks she’s all better than me jus’ ‘cause she’s all perky an’ noble an’ has that thing she does with her…” His eyes grew hazy for a minute with fond recollection before he remembered that he hated her. “Well, she can fuckin’ rot, for all I care. Show her who’s better than who. Stupid, worthless bitch.”

Willow watched him passively, mouth forming a line of understanding. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Take what as a what?”

“Buffy knows you’re in town. You’ve seen her.” When his eyes narrowed, she shrugged indifferently. “It’s kinda obvious…with the bitterness and the drinking. She tends to rub that off on people, a-at least of the recent, anyway. Well…more since you last left town, but—”

At that, his gaze sharpened, eyes coming into focus for the first time since stepping out of the pub. It finally occurred to him that he was standing in the middle of the street, chatting with the Slayer’s best pal. Chatting, as in not threatening. “Huh’s’at?” he asked. “You say the Slayer’s been more than her plain bitchy self since—”

Willow met his eyes knowingly, and the wisdom he saw there was astonishing. She was the sort of close friend who saw right through to the problem, even if the problem didn’t want to be seen. And she’d seen Buffy’s problem.

“Thing about Buffy,” she said, oddly conversational. “She’s good at lying to Giles, her Mom, even Angel, but she’s always told me the truth. I mean, about everything. So, these past few weeks…I’m guessing that I finally met the not-so-truthful side to Buffy. I know something’s up…and it’s pretty obvious that it has something to do with you.”

“You…you know?” The vampire stumbled forward and grasped hold of her shoulders, flinching when the girl ‘eeped’ and twisted herself to freedom. “Sorry,” he mumbled before he knew what he was saying. “Whas’sit you know?”

“Well,” she continued after a minute. “Not a lot. But enough to know that the freaky mood swings didn’t start until after the birthday/locked-with-Spike-for-hours-at-a-time thing. So, survey says…Spike related.” A frown. “Kinda sad. This is the most I’ve, well, been able to talk about her…and you…without getting my head bitten off. And really, no offense, but minor wiggins that it’s you I’m talking to and not—”

“’Course,” Spike sneered, pacing himself a miserable step away. “Bloody well figures she wouldn’t talk ‘bout me. ‘Cause I’m so easy to forget, right? I’m easy to forget. Me! William the Fucking Bloody!”

Willow flinched visibly when she registered that his temper had turned violent again, but made no move to run when the opportunity arose. It was more than obvious that he was not going to hurt her. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind.

“…where the bloody hell does she get off calling me forgettable?” He was pacing now. “I’ll show her who’s forgettable. If she thinks I’m forgettable, she’s ‘bout to forget what was forgotten…” He blinked and met her eyes once more. “You followin’ me, Red?”

“Buffy said you’re forgettable?”

There was another sob at that. One he couldn’t help. God, this was pathetic. The Big Bad reduced to a sniveling crybaby, relinquishing all of his woes on the shoulder of the Slayer’s best chum. Fan-fucking-tastic. If only Drusilla could see him now. “She said she hasn’t thought about me once. But she had the tape. She had—”

“What tape?”

“Monty Python. She said—”

A frown marred Willow’s brow. “Monty Python? What does that have to—”

“Bloody told the stubborn bint that she’d like it all right ‘f she gave it a try,” he explained, reaching for his cigarettes. “The lot of it prob’ly went over her pretty li’l head. Jus’ like everythin’ else. Wonder ‘f that was bleedin’ forgettable, too!”

Willow was following, albeit rather slowly. A short game of connect-the-dots, then her eyes widened like saucers and she leapt to the inevitable conclusion. “Oh! S-so that’s why she’s been renting Monty Python movies like mad these past few weeks. God, and I thought Giles was having her undertake some bizarro training ritual or something. I mean…yeah, I haven’t talked to her in a few days…well, willingly, that is…but I couldn’t get her to watch anything but Monty Python. And dammit…if I have to sit through The Holy Grail one more time, I’m gonna—”

There was a sober twist at that; Spike leaning forward as the words reached his ears. It was unwise to allow himself to hope, but there it was. A smidgeon of hope. “What are you saying?”

“Well, that whatever you said obviously wasn’t as forgettable as she tried to make you believe.” Willow nodded. “Trust me, I know Buffy. She wouldn’t make with the overdone British humor for just anyone.”

The revelation came so fluidly that it nearly took him by surprise. Sheer, simple logistics. It occurred to him that he and Willow could become relatively good pals in some distant, parallel existence.

Then he snapped back to himself.

“Red…”

“Yeah?”

“What’re you doin’ here?” He waved to the street dazedly, then pointed to himself.

“Me?! What am I doing here? Hello!”

“’S a free country.”

“Yeah, but last time I checked, it wasn’t…” She stopped in mid sentence. “Okay. From the beginning. I was on my way back from the magic shop. Supplies for a truth spell…for…why am I telling you this? Why are you here?”

Spike offered a defiant smirk. “’Cause I wanna be, tha’s why. Stupid bitch can’t tell me where to go. I’m a rebel. I’ll show her…” There was a momentary pause. “Shouldn’t you be soddin’ off? Evil vamp an’ all. I’m dangerous. I could kill you at any minute, an’—”

Willow’s eyes widened comically as though just then realizing where she was, and whom she was talking to. “But…but you won’t. I know you weren’t going to…I mean, you won’t hurt me.”

Her innocence charmed him. He didn’t know whether to be pleased or disappointed at the display of trust. “Ummm…I’m rememberin’ a certain bottle-in-face incident.”

“Yeah, and I already checked. Remember? A few minutes ago? You’re officially bottleless.” The redhead nodded proudly, then winced as she ventured her luck further. “A-and even if you did…have a bottle…you wouldn’t use it.”

At that, he scoffed. “How do you know? ‘m evil!”

“You wouldn’t…because of Buffy. I mean, what happened with you and Buffy.”

Spike froze. “What do you know about me an’ Buffy?” he demanded suspiciously. “Did she tell you? What has she told you? What—”

“Well…like I said, not a lot. I was kinda reaching, but judging by your reaction, I’m thinking I reached in the right direction.” Willow hazarded a step forward. “I know enough to know that you won’t hurt me.”

A rush of anger shimmied up his spine for no reason other than instinct telling him that it belonged there. No vampire should have to listen to such a ridiculous accusation. What burned even more was the knowledge that she was likely right. He wouldn’t hurt the Slayer’s pal. He couldn’t hurt anyone else, after all. Buffy wouldn’t like it. It wouldn’t do well to fall off the wagon with someone as intimately connected to the object of his affection as Willow Rosenberg.

But she didn’t need to know that. Well, she already knew that, but he didn’t need to go do any fool thing like verify it.

“’Course I would,” Spike scoffed. “I’m bloody evil!”

Bugger, she didn’t look convinced. “I-I know you’re evil,” she agreed. “And I’m not saying that I’m thrilled knowing what my best friend did with you in order to merit having this conversation in the first place. A-and by ‘knowing’ I mean ‘pretty damn sure.’ You’re all weepy and all, but not about Dru, so…and I don’t know why she would’ve done it. I mean, she totally loves Angel and—”

There was a quieted, almost broken growl at that. Willow winced.

“Sorry,” she amended quickly, and her eyes widened as she realized the significance of their trade. There was no clause anywhere in the world of demonology to suggest that she should ever feel compelled to apologize to vampires. “Ummm…right. But something of the important nature did happen. And she’s been so…doom and gloom ever since. I think she misses you.” She waited until he had his eyes—that tender gaze that reflected nothing but astonishment—before continuing. “Not that I approve, but…I guess you deserve to know. And I’m pissed enough at her for being so ‘non-best-friendy’ to really…really not care what I say. I kinda have no room to judge until I know the whole story.” There was a scowl. “Even if I am bitter about that entire bottle-in-face thing.”

“Sorry, pet.”

The response was instinctive. “It’s okay.” Another pause. “Bah! Has anyone told you how wiggy you are when you’re not trying to kill everyone?”

“Yeah. A lot, in recent memory.” Spike scoffed and shook his head, mouth curling around his cigarette. “’S not as if I din’t try, y’know. I’ve tried a lot. A good, clean kill. Right quick. Drown the memory of her into someone’s throat.” He eyed Willow’s jugular nostalgically for a long minute, averting his gaze when he saw her begin to squirm in discomfort. “Bloody hasn’t worked, though. Stupid bitch has ruined me. Ruined me then tossed me aside. Ain’t love grand?”

There was a long, pregnant silence as that last statement rang cold through the air. Willow, astonished. Spike, horrified. Neither knew what to say.

“L-love?” the redhead stuttered.

“I din’t mean that,” he corrected hastily, running a nervous hand through his hair. “That’s bloody rubbish, so don’t go preachin’ it to your li’l Scoobies. ‘S jus’ a sayin’. You got me?”

Despite her nod, Willow did not look convinced. The frown marring her brow left little to the imagination. “Right. Right. Be-because if that…I mean, if you did love—”

“I don’t!”

“I know. Totally on board the Spike-Not-With-The-Buffy-Lovin’ train. Got it.” She bit her lip hesitantly. “But if you did, that would mean that you—”

“It doesn’t bloody matter what it would mean!” Spike was pacing in earnest now, looking everywhere but at the redhead and smoking himself into a heated frenzy. “I don’t love the stupid Slayer, all right? ‘S bad enough that she’s got Angel wrapped around her li’l finger. I bloody hate her, got it? Can’t stand the sight of her. That sodding holier-than-thou attitude an’ her shampoo-commercial hair. Says I’m forgettable, does she. Not bloody likely. Bet I could rip her throat out an’ get another chosen bird ready for the takin’, an’ things would get back to the way they oughta be. See how fast I could forget her then!”

His rant lapsed into silence. Willow took a deep, collective breath and her eyes narrowed with scrutiny. “…But you won’t right?” she all but whispered. “Not after what happened!”

“You’re basin’ a lot of your assumptions on a night that you claim to know nothin’ about, pet.”

“Okay—yeah,” she admitted begrudgingly. “For the last time, you’re right. I don’t know what happened. Buffy’s been Miss Distant for…well, since it happened. She hasn’t told me anything. Hasn’t talked about it at all. But I know that there was something there, between you two.”

A flawlessly arched platinum brow curled nicely behind a stream of smoke. “Oh, do you, now?”

“Well, yeah! And, I might add, ‘duh’! Even if I didn’t suspect a thing before, just listening to you has pretty much released the full kit and caboodle. And Buffy…she gets all jittery and defensive every time someone brings you up! She’s been giving Angel the MEGA brush-off without explanation, and not in a guilty kinda way.” It was amazing watching a human illuminate with interest—almost as such as watching a vampire. Spike cocked his head curiously. The Slayer had done much the same while they were locked together, once she found a topic that she was passionate about. The same with Willow now. A sermon in the making. He wondered if she knew just how alive she was. “And I totally don’t get it. I don’t. It’s gross and icky and…she loves him, for crying out loud! She—”

He couldn’t conceal his wince if he tried. The notion was too much to bear. “Been there already. Got the message right clear the firs’ time.”

The response was instinctive and couldn’t be helped for anything. “Right. Sorry.” There was a fleeting lapse before her words caught up with her. “Ah! Stop doing that!”

“Doing what?”

“Acting like…well, not a vampire!”

Spike blinked, unsure whether or not to be insulted. “Oh. Sorry.”

“You did it again!” Willow cleared her throat and glanced upward. “Were there smoochies?”

Spike was torn between surprise and amusement, and he had no idea which side of the fence he favored. “What?”

“You. Buffy. Were there smoochies? Twisted, wrong, cabin-fever-induced smoochies? Is that what happened?”

There was nothing for a few seconds as she withstood his gaze of scrutiny, followed by the reprieve, when his mirth could no longer be contained and he burst out laughing. Spike was unreachable for several long seconds as he tried to cap his amusement. Straightening, catching her eye, and falling to bits all over again. When at last he did find his voice, there was no hint of denial in response to her inquiry. Nothing and yet something. Something more. Something unthinkable. “God, Red,” he gasped. “You’re either a villainous she-devil or the picture of innocence. Bloody ‘smoochies’, indeed.”

That took a beat to comprehend.

Another to digest.

And then all fell aside to make way for all-out astonishment. “More than smoochies?!” she shouted, lowering her voice when the vampire winced in silent reminder of his healing headache. “Y-you…you two…there was more than smoochies? Was there groping? Did you two have sex?!”

“Oi! ‘m not tellin’ you anythin’. ‘S my business, innit? ‘Sides, if the Slayer hasn’t piped up, I wager she doesn’ want you to know.”

“But if you hate her,” Willow reasoned, “why do you care what she wants? I wouldn’t think that’d be a priority.”

A long beat as he wrestled with that thought. Then he scowled.

“I’m not talkin’, all right! Jus’ sod off. Find another vamp to pester. ‘m through.” With that, Spike pivoted sharply and began in the other direction, consigning his cigarette to the pavement. An annoyed huff that was more for show. Yeah. Like it’d be that easy.

“You’re going to have to do better than that to get me to go away,” the abandoned redhead warned brazenly before taking off after him. She wheeled to block his path, eyes set with determination. “See this? It’s called Resolve Face. No one backs down from Resolve Face.”

Spike stared at her blankly as though she had grown another head. “Go home, Willow.” A simple side step and he was on his way again, knowing full well she would not pursue. There were certain boundaries one had to consider while conversing with a vampire. Despite how brave she was, the Witch knew better than to chase him down. It was dangerous.

That, however, did not hinder her voice.

“She misses you!” He stopped dead in his tracks. “Listen, I don’t know what happened, or what she told you…besides the stuff about being forgettable…which I think you know is ridiculous. She’s done everything but forget you.”

Spike didn’t trust himself to look back. “You mean it?”

The hope laced in his voice could warm the coldest of hearts. Small, vulnerable. The face of a child granted his greatest wish. “Yeah. In a sick, perverse way…yeah, I really mean it.”

A moment ticked by.

The sigh that rang through the air was as relieved as it was heartbreaking. As though he had been cast a forbidden lifeline. He turned to face her and risked a step forward.

It was only then that Willow realized the weight she had given him, and moved hastily to retrieve it. “I don’t condone it! It’s wrong and icky and really gives me the wiggins—”

“Then why tell me this?”

That was a good question. She gnawed a minute but already knew the answer. “Because I hate seeing her miserable, even if we are fighting. She already has the Slayer thing. Adding…whatever’s driving her to be so unBuffy like…it’s not good for her.”

Spike expelled a deep, thoughtful breath. “Miserable?” he whispered. “You said she’s miserable? She’s been miserable without me?”

“Well…I dunno if it’s you, but she’s been like that…like this since you two…since you left. I just…” Willow sighed. “I just want to see her happy. I want things to be better for her. Even if I don’t approve…’cause if it’s…if…and ewww. Still not wanting to picture everything. But if it means that…then I’m not—”

A small smile tickled Spike’s lips, and he nodded. “Thanks.”

The air grew oddly comfortable. Loose and reflexive. Almost as if they were nothing more than old friends, catching up after a chance run-in. Familiar in the strangest sense of the word.

And then he was oddly protective. The Slayer’s best friend had provided what the Slayer herself had denied him. It was unnerving…and left him with the strangest sense of responsibility. He had to see her home. A girl walking around this town at night was not the wisest venue, even if said girl was a witch.

“Well, you oughta be runnin’ off. Prob’ly got some sodding thing like bookwork waitin’ for you,” he observed before his face contorted with a frown, something else occurring to him. “’Course, there might be a lotta nasties between here an’ where you live. The Slayer wouldn’t want you gettin’ yourself killed…hell, the stupid chit would prob’ly blame me.”

Willow blinked. “Are you offering to walk me home?”

“What? No! Don’t be ridi…” The war was lost with the reissuing of Resolve Face, topped with a quirked brow. A sigh of concession and his shoulders drooped in defeat. “Yeh. I guess so. But not for you, an’ not for the Slayer, either. I jus’—”

“Then why at all?”

Yeah, Spike, good question.

“’Cause the girl’s ruined me, y’know. Lookit this. The Big Bad reduced to a sodding night watchman.”

“You don’t have to if you—”

Another sigh. This one of defeat. “No, no. Lead the way, Red.”

He didn’t blame her for shuddering in hesitation. Hell, he would, were he in her shoes. The girl had a decent head on her shoulders. Her awkward reservation—that which he was used to seeing—reminded him of himself at that age. God, what a bloody nightmare that had been.

“You can’t come in, you know,” she told him as though he were expecting it.

“Well, that’d be a problem if I was lookin’ for a soddin’ invite. I don’t want to come in. What’s the bloody point? ‘S bad enough that I made the offer in the firs’ place. What, you think I’m gonna kill you now?” He chuckled richly and reached once more for his cigarettes, lodging one between his lips. “Hell, ‘f I wanted you dead, I coulda killed you a long time ago…as you have delighted in remindin’ me over an’ over again.”

Willow stared at him for a long moment, trying to determine whether he was serious.

“God, what happened to you?”

Spike glanced up bitterly. “What do you think? You don’ reckon I know that the world would make a whole lot more sense ‘f I could kill the bitch? Trust me, I tried. Din’t work. Couldn’t.”

The revolution was enough to make anyone freeze—if not for the spoken vow, then definitely for the tacit implication of the l-word. Willow knew enough to refrain from mentioning that ludicrous notion again. “You tried?”

“’Course I did. Had her all to myself, din’t I?” A fond smile crossed his lips to contradict the harsh words that escaped them. “Couldn’t do it, though. I have no idea why, but I couldn’t do it.”

And to that, she had nothing to say.

They walked in silence for a few minutes—the level of familiarity lingering still with vague hints of mistrust. It was nothing the vampire did not expect. Hell, the night had been full of surprises. If anyone had told him that he would be playing escort to the Slayer’s pals come nightfall, he would have laughed, then ripped the accuser’s head off. Such allegations had no place near an evil thing.

There was still something, though. Something he needed before retiring. That crumb of hope he had been clinging to. Buffy was miserable without him. She wasn’t just miserable. It was because he wasn’t there.

“Red?”

Willow started slightly at the break in their quietude, but neither made mention of it. “Yeah?”

“What you said ‘bout Angel. Did you mean it?”

“What”

“Angel. She really been…giving him the cold shoulder?”

“Oh. Right,” she replied with a small smile. Spike deserved to know the truth. “Yeah. She really has.”

He nodded his gratitude as his body released its manifest tension. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” When he didn’t reply, Willow jumped the gun and wrestled it away from him. “No, really don’t mention it. She’d probably kill me for telling you.”

Another long silence with no reply. Then he laughed.

“’Course, Red,” he guaranteed her. “Mum’s the word.”

There it was. A promise from an evil thing. Nothing to place bets on.

Oddly, it was rather comforting.

Submit a Review!