DIVERSION
She hadn't meant to take this route.
Her mind must have wandered for a second, it often happened like that these days. The patrol had become more than just routine of late, it had become a ritual. The wide arc around the perimeter of the west-side, the short cut through the alley opposite Willy's, double-back up main street past the coffee shop and then the cemetery, always finishing with the cemetery. Old habits died hard, unlike most of the vamps she met these days. Being at the top of her game was getting to be such a drag. Sometimes she thought she'd give her left arm for a challenge, something that could test her. Well, maybe not her left arm, a toe perhaps. A pinkie toe. Hearing a rustle in the bushes she was on her toes in a second, twisting through the air, stake already in her hand, poised for action.
Awww. Just a pussy cat.
Sighing she pocketed Mr Pointy. Yeah, she needed some action, that or a long holiday somewhere that smelled of coconuts and unfortunately the latter was pretty much out of the question. Take a portion of Doublemeat wages, throw in a pinch of Dawn, schoolbooks and new shoes a plenty and combine with a hefty dose of lifelong obligation and you got one big, boring cake that no one wanted a piece of. That was to say - her whole existence. She sighed again. Her life sucked and a reminder of just how much was all she needed right now and yet here she was again. In front of Spike's crypt. Her shoulders slumped a little.
It wasn't as if she missed him.
She didn't miss him.
But God, sometimes...she really missed him.
Her hand went out almost involuntarily to the door, touched the wood. She closed her eyes remembering how many nights used to end this way. A whole evening spent prowling the streets of Sunnydale, rousting the undead, making with the staking, always putting off the inevitable. Pushing it to the back of her mind, think of something else, anything else but him. Until, 'hey presto!' or 'kahboom'! She was never sure how she'd got there, but there was where she would be. One hand on his door, hating herself, hating him more for making her weak. For making her want him.
She cast her mind back to the first night, that night, the night he had told her she was 'wrong'. When she had taken out every bit of rage, all the pain she had been unable to express since they had brought her back. She had felt it boiling inside her as he had taunted her, asking her to give it to him, to take it out on him and as she had thrown that first punch, watched him stagger back, the relief had been indescribable. Staking vamps was one thing but hitting Spike, punching Spike? While she listened to him say all the things about her that she had thought about herself, it was as if he could read her mind. She heard herself denying it all, denying him the satisfaction of hurting her but all the time the feeling had been growing. He was right. She could feel that he was right and it felt good to accept it, just as it had felt good when Faith had told her the same thing. She was a killer.
It was so simple, because it was the truth. Her heart had felt like it was going to burst wide open as she had thrown him back against that wall, found his mouth with hers, suddenly wanting something from him that she had never even contemplated before that night. She had felt closer to him at that moment than to anyone, before or since. The one time with Angel, that had been intense, beautiful, a perfect expression of their love and trust in each other. But with Spike....her skin crept cold at the memory. She had felt a freedom that she had never felt before. She knew that she could reveal herself completely to him. Every pore, every blemish, every mean thought, everything she had ever felt ashamed of, disgusted with about herself, none of that mattered to him. His love was all encompassing and she couldn't seem to get enough of it.
Pushing the door inwards with one hand she stepped inside. She knew what she would find, had been here ten, twenty times before since he had left and yet it always came as a shock to her. The complete absence of any trace of him. No furniture, no TV, even the candles had all burnt down to nothing, everything covered with a thin film of dust. So cold. No wonder Clem hadn't been able to stand it for long. She was glad in a way. It had become embarrassing, the friendly way he had always greeted her when he found her on his doorstep. Even offering to share his hot wings with her, let her sit down for a chat. He knew she was hurting and thought company would help, tea, maybe a game of 'Risk'? When all the time they both knew. What was wrong with her couldn't be fixed by anything else.
She sat down on the stone plinth and drew her legs up, hugging her knees for warmth. It had never been this cold before, when he was here. Maybe the candles had warned things up. It wasn't his body that was for certain. She remembered the feel of him, stretched cool, full-length against her back, his leg through hers, feet touching, his mouth against her neck.
"What are you thinking about?"
and her glib reply,
"That you should think about socks."
Had they ever really talked? It seemed like everything that needed to be said they said in other ways, physically, with touches, with small sounds, noises in the backs of their throats. With the wordless locking of their eyes as he lay over her, her face inches from her own, their breathing ragged. There was nothing she could add to that. He knew everything already, although she had tried to deny it a thousand times. That evening he had caught her off guard;
"Do you even like me?"
she had felt compelled to answer truthfully for the first time, but couldn't. All she could manage was the luke-warm,
"Sometimes."
It wasn't what she had wanted to say but it scared her so much when he got that way. His face wiped clean of everything but his love for her, his need, making him completely human to her for just a second. She was afraid that, if he knew that, he would use it against her. Somehow trick her into forgetting what he really was. A monster. An evil, dead thing. Not a man, not something worthy of love. But his face.
Sometimes when he had been sleeping she'd found herself lying awake, just staring at him. How could it be that something so beautiful could be so...wrong. He looked like an angel when he slept and she had wondered what would happen if he were to wake up and see her looking at him that way? Would he laugh? Would he feel he'd won because he had made her care for him. Maybe that was his plan all along? He had killed two slayers, maybe this was just a new method. Convoluted that was true, but just as effective. He was killing her from the inside instead of the out.
But deep down she knew this wasn't the truth. He loved her. He had proved it time and time again and after a while she had come to rely on it. One of her only two constants, Dawn's love and his. She knew why her sister loved her, lord knows she didn't have a choice in the matter, but she could never understand why he did. She had even asked him once. One night after she had come looking for him, feeling so completely alone, and found him lying fully-clothed, on the bed downstairs. He had been reading and for a moment she had stood there in the doorway, watching him, thinking how it odd it was that he had not sensed her enter. His head was resting on his hand as he turned the pages and when he finally spoke, his voice soft but filled with an undercurrent of laughter.
"If you want to put the kettle on love, I'll be done in a minute."
She had flushed, disconcerted at being caught in a stare,
"I was just wondering what you were reading. Maybe 'Guide to Slaughter'? Or 'Brain Surgery for Beginners'?"
He snorted and put the paperback down, after carefully marking his page. Feeling in his top pocket, his took out a cigarette, lit it, appraised her with one eye.
"So, what?" his tone was still gentle, sensing her vulnerability, "You just came to look? Or are you buying?"
She felt a stab of irritation. Why was he always so full of himself? But almost as quickly as it came her anger had faded, to be replaced by a familiar void.
"Tell me why you love me."
The words had tumbled out before she had a chance to edit them, make them sound less needy. The look on his face made her head hurt, naked emotion.
"You know why."
She shook her head to hide the threatened tears, allowed him to take her arms, lift her face to his. That look again, she couldn't bear it.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing. I just feel...I was lonely."
That had been true at least and even though she knew it wasn't enough for him she felt his grip on her soften, his arms slide round her waist, his lips find hers. Her fingers fumbled the buttons on his shirt as he kissed her, and then hands felt cool flesh, palms rested against his chest. One of his found the small of her back, pulled her into him and then backwards onto the bed. They came apart, gasping, his eyes searching hers.
"I know you. That's why."
So simple. How was it he always knew everything, could see right through you, know just where it hurt. Came with the territory she supposed, you had to know how to hurt if you wanted to cause pain, to kill.
And then that night in the bathroom came back to her again, suddenly and with the cold clarity of a nightmare. His face as he had pushed her down had told her everything she ever needed to know about pain. Even as she had fought him off the misery had far out rode the fear and anger she felt. That he could do that, that he could turn what they had together into something so hideous, that had hurt more than the bruises. What was it her mother and Willow had said, "Spike, he's so...twisted", and she had forgotten that. Allowed herself to be fooled into thinking that he had changed.
Her heart felt like lead in her chest, he had seemed so sincere. That night she had come to him wanting an answer, she had let herself start to consider it, that what he said he felt might be real, that his love for her had altered him somehow. She knew the danger of it, of letting her guard drop but she had wanted so badly to believe it and when he threw her down that night, part of her was saying 'I told you so' . But, his face. She couldn't forget his face.
Three years ago, if he had hurt her, made her cry, she could picture the expression of triumph, the joy he had felt in her suffering. After he had attacked her, when he had come so close to...all she could remember seeing there was anguish and try as she might, she couldn't forget it. Long after the bruises had disappeared and after everything else was over, she still couldn't resolve it in her mind. If he really was evil, if he hadn't changed, why had he been so sorry? He had tried to say it but she had cut him down. He had never meant to hurt her.
She picked up one of the candles from the windowsill. And where was he now? Clem had intimated that he might be back, that he had just taken some time to clear his head or something, but four months now and still nothing. Every vamp in Sunnydale had been here and the place had been picked clean, there was nothing left of him. She turned and walked to the trap door, lifted it and smelt the faint acrid smell rising up from downstairs. Mould mixed with cordite and fried bugs. She let the hatch drop back, letting her breath out again slowly and then, she held it.
She had almost forgotten what it felt like. The slow rise of the short hairs on the back of her neck, the dry mouth, but suddenly it was there like an old friend and she felt her heart double-beat. Although her feet hadn't moved she knew the door had opened behind her and letting the candle slip from her hand to the floor, she tilted her head to the side.
"Long time no see." she said quietly.
She saw him relax a little, rest his weight against the door frame. Still he didn't speak. His face was hidden in the shadows and she noted with a stir of surprise that something was different about him. Was it the coat, the absence of the coat? His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of a leather jacket, his signature boots replaced with what looked like, were those trainers? Her brow creased a little in confusion. Was he going to speak? Ever again? Perhaps he was waiting for her to say something else. She scuffed a toe in the dust at her feet. Like what. Glad to see you're not...what? More dead? Sorry about your TV? The words came to her unbidden and were out of her mouth again just like before.
"I missed you."
She saw him shift slightly, draw himself a little more upright. He exhaled, his breath a white cloud in the chill of the crypt. Slowly he stepped down towards her, into the light.
"Missed you too."
She hadn't meant to take this route.
Her mind must have wandered for a second, it often happened like that these days. The patrol had become more than just routine of late, it had become a ritual. The wide arc around the perimeter of the west-side, the short cut through the alley opposite Willy's, double-back up main street past the coffee shop and then the cemetery, always finishing with the cemetery. Old habits died hard, unlike most of the vamps she met these days. Being at the top of her game was getting to be such a drag. Sometimes she thought she'd give her left arm for a challenge, something that could test her. Well, maybe not her left arm, a toe perhaps. A pinkie toe. Hearing a rustle in the bushes she was on her toes in a second, twisting through the air, stake already in her hand, poised for action.
Awww. Just a pussy cat.
Sighing she pocketed Mr Pointy. Yeah, she needed some action, that or a long holiday somewhere that smelled of coconuts and unfortunately the latter was pretty much out of the question. Take a portion of Doublemeat wages, throw in a pinch of Dawn, schoolbooks and new shoes a plenty and combine with a hefty dose of lifelong obligation and you got one big, boring cake that no one wanted a piece of. That was to say - her whole existence. She sighed again. Her life sucked and a reminder of just how much was all she needed right now and yet here she was again. In front of Spike's crypt. Her shoulders slumped a little.
It wasn't as if she missed him.
She didn't miss him.
But God, sometimes...she really missed him.
Her hand went out almost involuntarily to the door, touched the wood. She closed her eyes remembering how many nights used to end this way. A whole evening spent prowling the streets of Sunnydale, rousting the undead, making with the staking, always putting off the inevitable. Pushing it to the back of her mind, think of something else, anything else but him. Until, 'hey presto!' or 'kahboom'! She was never sure how she'd got there, but there was where she would be. One hand on his door, hating herself, hating him more for making her weak. For making her want him.
She cast her mind back to the first night, that night, the night he had told her she was 'wrong'. When she had taken out every bit of rage, all the pain she had been unable to express since they had brought her back. She had felt it boiling inside her as he had taunted her, asking her to give it to him, to take it out on him and as she had thrown that first punch, watched him stagger back, the relief had been indescribable. Staking vamps was one thing but hitting Spike, punching Spike? While she listened to him say all the things about her that she had thought about herself, it was as if he could read her mind. She heard herself denying it all, denying him the satisfaction of hurting her but all the time the feeling had been growing. He was right. She could feel that he was right and it felt good to accept it, just as it had felt good when Faith had told her the same thing. She was a killer.
It was so simple, because it was the truth. Her heart had felt like it was going to burst wide open as she had thrown him back against that wall, found his mouth with hers, suddenly wanting something from him that she had never even contemplated before that night. She had felt closer to him at that moment than to anyone, before or since. The one time with Angel, that had been intense, beautiful, a perfect expression of their love and trust in each other. But with Spike....her skin crept cold at the memory. She had felt a freedom that she had never felt before. She knew that she could reveal herself completely to him. Every pore, every blemish, every mean thought, everything she had ever felt ashamed of, disgusted with about herself, none of that mattered to him. His love was all encompassing and she couldn't seem to get enough of it.
Pushing the door inwards with one hand she stepped inside. She knew what she would find, had been here ten, twenty times before since he had left and yet it always came as a shock to her. The complete absence of any trace of him. No furniture, no TV, even the candles had all burnt down to nothing, everything covered with a thin film of dust. So cold. No wonder Clem hadn't been able to stand it for long. She was glad in a way. It had become embarrassing, the friendly way he had always greeted her when he found her on his doorstep. Even offering to share his hot wings with her, let her sit down for a chat. He knew she was hurting and thought company would help, tea, maybe a game of 'Risk'? When all the time they both knew. What was wrong with her couldn't be fixed by anything else.
She sat down on the stone plinth and drew her legs up, hugging her knees for warmth. It had never been this cold before, when he was here. Maybe the candles had warned things up. It wasn't his body that was for certain. She remembered the feel of him, stretched cool, full-length against her back, his leg through hers, feet touching, his mouth against her neck.
"What are you thinking about?"
and her glib reply,
"That you should think about socks."
Had they ever really talked? It seemed like everything that needed to be said they said in other ways, physically, with touches, with small sounds, noises in the backs of their throats. With the wordless locking of their eyes as he lay over her, her face inches from her own, their breathing ragged. There was nothing she could add to that. He knew everything already, although she had tried to deny it a thousand times. That evening he had caught her off guard;
"Do you even like me?"
she had felt compelled to answer truthfully for the first time, but couldn't. All she could manage was the luke-warm,
"Sometimes."
It wasn't what she had wanted to say but it scared her so much when he got that way. His face wiped clean of everything but his love for her, his need, making him completely human to her for just a second. She was afraid that, if he knew that, he would use it against her. Somehow trick her into forgetting what he really was. A monster. An evil, dead thing. Not a man, not something worthy of love. But his face.
Sometimes when he had been sleeping she'd found herself lying awake, just staring at him. How could it be that something so beautiful could be so...wrong. He looked like an angel when he slept and she had wondered what would happen if he were to wake up and see her looking at him that way? Would he laugh? Would he feel he'd won because he had made her care for him. Maybe that was his plan all along? He had killed two slayers, maybe this was just a new method. Convoluted that was true, but just as effective. He was killing her from the inside instead of the out.
But deep down she knew this wasn't the truth. He loved her. He had proved it time and time again and after a while she had come to rely on it. One of her only two constants, Dawn's love and his. She knew why her sister loved her, lord knows she didn't have a choice in the matter, but she could never understand why he did. She had even asked him once. One night after she had come looking for him, feeling so completely alone, and found him lying fully-clothed, on the bed downstairs. He had been reading and for a moment she had stood there in the doorway, watching him, thinking how it odd it was that he had not sensed her enter. His head was resting on his hand as he turned the pages and when he finally spoke, his voice soft but filled with an undercurrent of laughter.
"If you want to put the kettle on love, I'll be done in a minute."
She had flushed, disconcerted at being caught in a stare,
"I was just wondering what you were reading. Maybe 'Guide to Slaughter'? Or 'Brain Surgery for Beginners'?"
He snorted and put the paperback down, after carefully marking his page. Feeling in his top pocket, his took out a cigarette, lit it, appraised her with one eye.
"So, what?" his tone was still gentle, sensing her vulnerability, "You just came to look? Or are you buying?"
She felt a stab of irritation. Why was he always so full of himself? But almost as quickly as it came her anger had faded, to be replaced by a familiar void.
"Tell me why you love me."
The words had tumbled out before she had a chance to edit them, make them sound less needy. The look on his face made her head hurt, naked emotion.
"You know why."
She shook her head to hide the threatened tears, allowed him to take her arms, lift her face to his. That look again, she couldn't bear it.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing. I just feel...I was lonely."
That had been true at least and even though she knew it wasn't enough for him she felt his grip on her soften, his arms slide round her waist, his lips find hers. Her fingers fumbled the buttons on his shirt as he kissed her, and then hands felt cool flesh, palms rested against his chest. One of his found the small of her back, pulled her into him and then backwards onto the bed. They came apart, gasping, his eyes searching hers.
"I know you. That's why."
So simple. How was it he always knew everything, could see right through you, know just where it hurt. Came with the territory she supposed, you had to know how to hurt if you wanted to cause pain, to kill.
And then that night in the bathroom came back to her again, suddenly and with the cold clarity of a nightmare. His face as he had pushed her down had told her everything she ever needed to know about pain. Even as she had fought him off the misery had far out rode the fear and anger she felt. That he could do that, that he could turn what they had together into something so hideous, that had hurt more than the bruises. What was it her mother and Willow had said, "Spike, he's so...twisted", and she had forgotten that. Allowed herself to be fooled into thinking that he had changed.
Her heart felt like lead in her chest, he had seemed so sincere. That night she had come to him wanting an answer, she had let herself start to consider it, that what he said he felt might be real, that his love for her had altered him somehow. She knew the danger of it, of letting her guard drop but she had wanted so badly to believe it and when he threw her down that night, part of her was saying 'I told you so' . But, his face. She couldn't forget his face.
Three years ago, if he had hurt her, made her cry, she could picture the expression of triumph, the joy he had felt in her suffering. After he had attacked her, when he had come so close to...all she could remember seeing there was anguish and try as she might, she couldn't forget it. Long after the bruises had disappeared and after everything else was over, she still couldn't resolve it in her mind. If he really was evil, if he hadn't changed, why had he been so sorry? He had tried to say it but she had cut him down. He had never meant to hurt her.
She picked up one of the candles from the windowsill. And where was he now? Clem had intimated that he might be back, that he had just taken some time to clear his head or something, but four months now and still nothing. Every vamp in Sunnydale had been here and the place had been picked clean, there was nothing left of him. She turned and walked to the trap door, lifted it and smelt the faint acrid smell rising up from downstairs. Mould mixed with cordite and fried bugs. She let the hatch drop back, letting her breath out again slowly and then, she held it.
She had almost forgotten what it felt like. The slow rise of the short hairs on the back of her neck, the dry mouth, but suddenly it was there like an old friend and she felt her heart double-beat. Although her feet hadn't moved she knew the door had opened behind her and letting the candle slip from her hand to the floor, she tilted her head to the side.
"Long time no see." she said quietly.
She saw him relax a little, rest his weight against the door frame. Still he didn't speak. His face was hidden in the shadows and she noted with a stir of surprise that something was different about him. Was it the coat, the absence of the coat? His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of a leather jacket, his signature boots replaced with what looked like, were those trainers? Her brow creased a little in confusion. Was he going to speak? Ever again? Perhaps he was waiting for her to say something else. She scuffed a toe in the dust at her feet. Like what. Glad to see you're not...what? More dead? Sorry about your TV? The words came to her unbidden and were out of her mouth again just like before.
"I missed you."
She saw him shift slightly, draw himself a little more upright. He exhaled, his breath a white cloud in the chill of the crypt. Slowly he stepped down towards her, into the light.
"Missed you too."