Big thanks for the reviews on the last chapter.
Real life is being mean and i am getting short on time to write, let alone answer all feedback, but i try to answer as much as i can.
Chapter 19 - Hiding Behind Words
The small, golden cross gleamed against Buffy’s skin, and Spike couldn’t take his eyes off it. He kept staring at it, unable to understand what it meant. Afraid to understand.
It had been four days since Joyce’s passing. Four days since Buffy had started avoiding him. He kept trying to tell himself that he was imagining things, that she was only too busy, too sad, too anything to turn to him and just let him be there for her. But then, his eyes would fall back on that small, golden cross again, and he would wonder. Was it a sign that she was clinging to vestiges of a religious background she had once admitted meant very little to her? Or a warning for Spike not to come any closer?
He noticed it as soon as he saw her. He had made an early patrol, as he had done each night for the past few days, before coming to Revello. It was Dawn who had opened the door, stared at him, then turned her back on him as he was about to step closer and hug her, throwing over her shoulder a bitter, “Buffy’s in the dining room.”
As it turned out, Buffy had not been alone in the dining room, as Spike had hoped. She rarely ever seemed to be alone these days. Her Watcher was by her side and they were going over some papers. Willow and Harris sat at the table too, having dinner and urging Dawn to eat. Buffy looked at him when he entered the room and gave him a small nod as he approached; but before he could reach her, her attention returned to whatever she had been writing. And his eyes were drawn to the glint of gold at her neck.
If she had been warmer to him, he wouldn’t have given the cross a second thought. But after seeing how she had retreated from him since his return from Los Angeles, and how she was practically ignoring him now, he could do nothing but worry. What had he done? What hadn’t he done? What should he do now to make things better?
Dawn left the table and went to bed, and Buffy barely noticed. Xander rose from his seat and announced that he needed to get home and would accompany Willow back to her dorm; and again, Buffy was practically oblivious. It wasn’t just with him that she was distant, Spike realized, and somehow that thought reassured him. But when he asked her whether he should leave too – hoping, of course, that she’d ask him to stay – she nodded distractedly and told him she’d see him the next night. Spike’s hands fisted in his pockets, and he followed after the two humans, banging the front door shut behind him.
“Hey, just because I can repair it doesn’t mean you should break it.”
The attempt at humor was lame, even by Xander’s standards, and Spike just glared at him as he lit a cigarette.
“Someone’s in a bad mood,” Willow commented.
“You think?” he spat. “Now why would I be? Because she’s so closed off I can barely talk to her, maybe? She doesn’t give a damn whether I’m there or not!.”
“Yeah, well, excuse the girl who just lost her mom for not being in a cuddly mood,” Xander defended Buffy. “Can’t you think with your brain, for once, rather than other organs that I am definitely not going to mention?”
“It’s got nothing to do with that!” Spike grunted, exasperated. “Joyce... The lady was the first of you lot to accept me back when I was souled. The first to treat me decently. I know what Buffy’s going through, and I could help if she would just bloody well let me!”
Xander looked away at the same time as Willow reached out to Spike and rested her hand on his trembling arm. He took a deep breath and tried to calm down.
“Give her time,” she murmured. “Tomorrow is the funeral, and after that things will settle down. Just give her time.”
Spike wasn’t convinced; but there wasn’t much he could do about any of it.
One by one, the strangers, the people she vaguely knew, and then her friends and sister all left, and she remained alone, standing by the fresh grave. She had seen many of these during her years of patrol. But this one, of course, was different.
The sun was shining on her, but she could barely feel its warmth. And in exactly the same way, she knew Spike was close, she could feel that a vampire was nearby and simply knew it had to be him, but his presence brought her no comfort. Or rather, she was unable to let him comfort her. Unable to rely on him again. She had done that too much in the past months, she realized it now. She had to go through this by herself. If only to prove that she could.
Time passed, but she didn’t feel the hours go any more than she felt anything else. And when the sun set at last, quiet steps behind her warned her that someone was approaching, a vampire her Slayer sense told her. Except that, when she looked at him as he stopped next to her, it wasn’t the one she expected. Yet, she didn’t feel any surprise at discovering Angel by her side.
“I’m sorry,” he offered, like so many others before him, and she nodded grimly.
“I’d never thought you’d come,” she said after a few seconds of silence that weighted heavily on her.
“Why? Because we’re not together anymore? I still care about you, Buffy. I always will.”
Her throat tightened, though she couldn’t have explained why.
“I know,” she conceded. “It’s just…”
And then she realized something. Spike had gone to LA, half convinced that Angel might have lost his soul; she had never asked him how things had gone. There had been too much going on for her to remember why he had left, or even to care.
“You still have your soul, right?” she asked, feeling a little stupid even as she heard the words leave her mouth. “I mean, of course you do, you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”
A strange, sad smile curled his lips, and he tilted his head to one side.
“Let’s walk,” he suggested. “It’s hardly the place to discuss my soul.”
She glanced at the grave before following him, and could almost feel its physical presence behind her as she walked away.
“Yes, I still have it,” he reassured her after a few steps, bringing her back to the conversation. “I’d have thought Spike would have told you.”
She bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted blood on her tongue. “I haven’t… Spike and I haven’t talked much since mom…”
She couldn’t say the word. She just couldn’t.
“I understand.”
She snorted softly. “No, I don’t think you do.”
“Then tell me?”
She shook her head, ready to explain that he was hardly the person she ought to have discussed this with. And then it dawned on her that, maybe, he was just that. He knew her as much as Spike did, or so she believed, and he knew Spike just as well. Maybe he would understand. Maybe he would even understand better than she did.
“There was a time,” she began, speaking softly, slowly, “when I could have taken anything coming at me by myself. I was strong, inside as well as out. I didn’t need anyone. But since I’ve been with Spike… I’ve come to rely so much on him; it scares me. He’s always there for me, and I expect him to be. I expect it so much that when he’s not there it feels just… wrong. So wrong I don’t even realize what’s wrong, because I’m not used to it happening. And that’s too much. I shouldn’t depend on anyone like that.”
Eyes glued to the ground in front of her feet, she waited for Angel’s support. He had to understand. He was a fighter, like her, he knew about the dangers of relying too much on anyone. But the words of support never came.
“I think you’re wrong, Buffy,” he said with a quiet determination to his words. “You’ve never been truly alone. You’ve always had people supporting you. Giles, your friends, me, your mother…”
He paused for a second, at the same time as Buffy squeezed her eyes shut tight. What was she going to do now that her mother was gone?
“Spike is just the latest,” he continued. “And frankly, you could have found much worse. If you let him, he’ll give you his strength when you need it, but that doesn’t make your strength any less. It doesn’t make you any less.”
She didn’t know how to reply to that. She didn’t even know what to think about it. And so, for long minutes, she was quiet as she kept walking by his side amidst the graves. It felt familiar, in a way, and reminded her of long gone times when she had loved him as more than a friend. But along with the memories came the realization that, for one thing, she wouldn’t have traded what she had with Spike for anything in the world, and also, Angel was right. She had always relied on others, to various degrees. She just trusted Spike enough to have accepted more of his support until now.
“It’s funny,” she finally commented. “Last time you were in town, you tried to convince me that dating Spike was a bad idea. And now…”
“I still think it’s a bad idea,” he cut in, completely serious. “But recently, I’ve come to understand that sometimes you just have to accept the help offered to you before you burn yourself out. And that’s the last thing I’d want to see happen to you.”
Sitting on the marble floor just past the entrance, he slowly smoked his way through a pack of cigarettes as he watched the world outside come to life under the sun. The cemetery felt different than it did at night, perhaps because there were no vampires or demons lurking about, except for him, of course. The place was silent save for a few birds chirping, but the silence reflected calm and peace, whereas at night it crawled with fear and violence.
By midmorning, a couple of men who were probably employed by the funeral home started preparing the site, and what Spike had been trying very hard not to think of was suddenly shoved right into his face. It would only be a few hours before Joyce was buried. These hours trickled by, one painful grain of sand after the other, leaving Spike too much time to reflect on how terribly mortal Buffy, Dawn, and the rest of the gang were. He had never been attached to any human like this before, not since becoming a vampire; the idea that this was only the first of possibly many funerals he would attend was almost enough to send him running to the oblivion offered by a few good bottles – or even, running out of town. Angel’s words came back to the front of his mind; Buffy would die, sooner or later. What would he do, then?
The time finally came, and dark silhouettes gathered around the grave and its coffin. Putting out his cigarette against the floor, Spike got to his feet, pulled the door open a little wider, and stood in the doorway. He could see Buffy and Dawn, side by side, and behind them what remained of their family. He could hear, also, the words of the priest as they drifted on the wind toward him. They held no meaning to him, but he forced himself to listen, and somehow it made him feel closer to the ones he could not join in the sun.
The ceremony finished, he watched as, one by one, the humans left, until finally Buffy remained standing alone by the fresh grave. He wondered if she knew he was there, wondered whether he ought to call out for her, whether she would welcome his presence when he finally could join her. He wondered, and remained where he was, still and silent.
At long last, the sun was low enough on the horizon that Spike could step out of the crypt and start toward Buffy; she still hadn’t moved, and he was getting worried about her. Because of his worry, perhaps, or because of his grief, he didn’t notice Angel’s presence until his grandsire said his name. Taken by surprise, Spike tensed and turned toward the thick group of trees Angel was stepping out of.
“Who told you?” were the first words out of his mouth, and he didn’t realize the question mattered so much until he had asked it.
“Does it matter?” Angel asked back, but confronted by Spike’s blank look he added after only a second: “Not her.”
Relaxing ever so slightly, Spike tilted his head to one side and observed Angel critically. “Why are you here?” he questioned harshly. “Days ago you said you were done with this game.”
“I know. But a few days can make a lot of difference.”
Spike merely stared at him, prompting Angel to explain himself further. “I just realized that even if I don’t win the game, it’s still worth playing. For those who care about me.”
Frowning, Spike wasn’t sure what to make of Angel’s words. What had happened since they had last talked to change his mind so?
“Do you mind if I go talk to her? Just for a minute?”
One more thing to be confused about. Angel asking permission of Spike, of all people, about anything? It was so incredible that Spike found himself nodding, albeit reluctantly. And after all, this wasn’t about Buffy, Spike, or Angel. It was about Joyce, and Spike respected that; which didn’t mean he didn’t remain suspicious.
“Just a minute,” he repeated. “And I’m right here so don’t even think about doing anything stupid.”
Buffy didn’t seem particularly surprised when Angel approached her, and Spike tried his best not to grind his teeth. Without getting any closer, he watched them, listened to them, and followed them when they started walking through the cemetery. The minute he had granted Angel had long passed, and he should have known better than to spy on them – he should have known better, also, than to let them be so cozy together. Yet, he did both. He let them talk, listened to them, and understood, piece by piece, what had been going on in Buffy’s mind that she hadn’t been able to explain. It stung that she was opening herself to someone else, and even worse, to Angel, but at least now Spike knew.
Not one second too soon, Angel finally gave his goodbyes. Before Spike had even taken two strides toward Buffy, her voice rose in the night, quiet and strong all at once.
“Are you going to show yourself, now?”
It took Spike a second of confusion to realize she was talking to him.
“Only if you want me to,” he replied, and she turned toward him, the ghost of a smile flirting on her lips. “You knew I was there,” he stated the obvious as he came to her; she slipped into his embrace easily, forehead pressed to his neck and voice muffled against the lapel of his duster.
“Aren’t you always?”
And in an instant of perfect, luminous clarity, Spike understood that Buffy hadn’t spent the last hour and half talking to Angel. She had been talking to him.
“Dawn is spending the night at Wills’ and Tara’s,” she said as we reached the front door.
I didn’t know what she expected me to say so I kept my answer short. “OK.”
She unlocked the door and then looked back at me. “I don’t… I can’t…”
The words seemed too hard to say, so I tried to make things easier for her.
“I understand, luv. I’ll just… go. See you when you’re ready.”
What I meant was, I’d just stand under her window as long as I could and wish I were up there with her.
“No, that’s not it,” she said with a slight shake of her head. “I can’t be alone in there. I don’t… I don’t want to be. Will you please stay with me?”
My throat was tight at the idea she thought it necessary to say ‘please’. Of course I would stay with her. Didn’t she know yet that I was ready to do just about anything for her? Or was the problem that she was all too aware of it?
We went up to her room, and she excused herself to take a shower. I debated joining her, but I wasn’t too sure how she would have welcomed me, so I didn’t. I went to clean up after she was done, leaving her to get in bed while I tried to cool down. Hell, I knew sex had to be the last thing on her mind, and it should have been the last on mine too, I suppose, but I just couldn’t help it. Being with her, being in her room, being on the point of sleeping in her bed had my body on edge and ready for a round or ten. I took care of my little problem under the spray of scalding water, but it didn’t help for very long. As soon as I was back in her room, the little problem was back in full force, and I was pondering whether to get back into my jeans or find sweatpants when she pulled the sheet open for me, inviting me to lay down as I was – minus the towel, I suppose. Who was I to refuse a lady, huh?
She had removed the cross from her neck.
I let her set the pace. She curled right against my side, and the flannel of her nightshirt, so soft, felt like sandpaper against my skin. We simply cuddled for a while. Yes, I’m a cuddling vampire. Go ahead, laugh.
Later on, we reached for each other, and made love. But it felt like more than a simple physical act. It was an affirmation of life – which is kind of ironic, when you think about it, seeing how I appear to lack a pulse.
Morning came, and even though I woke, I stayed right where I was. She had said she didn’t want to be alone, and until she said otherwise I would abide by her wish.
She was up before me, and I found her in the kitchen, sitting at the island, a cup of coffee in her hands and burnt pancakes in the trash. I was a little disappointed – to say the least – when she tensed up as I hugged her. She then told me she needed to run some errands, and left the house faster than I could ask whether I ought to leave. My hopes that she was ready to accept whatever support I could give her had been short lived. She admitted, later, that she ran away that morning because she felt guilty about having had sex when her mum had just been buried.
I decided to stay, telling myself that she would have expressly told me if she had wanted me to leave. Bored doesn’t even begin to describe how I felt that day. That and uncomfortable. Everywhere I looked, there were pictures of Joyce. It made me acutely aware that I didn’t have a single memento left of my human years. Of my mother. And once I started down that path…
No, I didn’t brood. I never brood. That’s for the likes of Angel, not me.
But anyway.
The Bit came home late, and she ran up the stairs so fast she didn’t see me in the living room. I went up the steps, just to say hi, let her know I was there. She was sitting on the floor when I pushed her door open. There was an open magic book by her side, a jar full of what looked like earth in front of her, and a deer caught in the headlights look on her face. Didn’t take me long to put two and two together.
“I hope it’s just dirt you have there.”
Her eyes widened a little more.
“If the spell calls for anything more than that, you're into zombie territory, and that's bad news.”
The word ‘zombie’ seemed to send a jolt through her, and she shivered.
“Spike, I…I wasn't…”
“I know good and well what you're up to. That book you've got is infamous.”
I had had my hands on a copy of it, a few decades back. A bit of fun reading that I had stealthily removed from Dru’s possession. I never did anything with it, simply because I only use magic if I have no other solution, but I remembered what kind of things were in it well enough.
“Please…” she stammered, “don't tell Buffy. I just ... I have to get her back. I have to.”
I knew what she meant. I understood all too well. And after spending several hours reminiscing… It still surprises me that I talked to her about that, even if I never actually said I was really talking about. And no, I’m not…
No.
I know I told Dawn. Didn’t I just say that? But just because I told her doesn’t mean…
No.
Fuck. You.
I told her about my mother. There. I said it. Happy? I told her that I knew someone whose mother had been such an important part of his life, that when he was turned, he decided to make her immortal, like him. And that the dream of eternal maternal love had turned into a nightmare come straight from hell, because it wasn’t her he had brought back, just like it wouldn’t have been Joyce if Dawn had gone through with her spell. I told her…I told her some memories are too precious to be messed with. And she understood what I was saying, probably even more than I wished she had; but I guess it was worth it.
It stopped her from doing that damn spell, but it didn’t solve everything right away. There was an interesting breakdown and teary session between her and Buffy when the Slayer came back, and I left them for some much needed sisterly bonding. There was also the question of the spell book. I took it back to the store, yelled a bit at Giles who was flustered that the Bit had lifted something right under his nose. I got also more than suspicious at the Witch; she and Tara were there, and Willow had guilt written all over her face. I ranted a bit at her, too, while I was at it, and the simple fact that she didn’t protest told me I was right. I calmed down, eventually. Shared a drink with the Watcher when everyone else had left. Finally told him about the bot, and while he was rather dubious about all of it at first, he eventually admitted it wasn’t such a bad idea, provided that the bot would be able to fight well enough.
As it turned out, fighting wasn’t much of a problem. Neither was its physical resemblance to Buffy. Warren knew what he was doing, and he had done a superb job. No, the problem definitely wasn’t that the bot wasn’t good enough.
Rather, the problem was that the damn machine was intent on jumping my bones at every bloody occasion.