Buffy sighed as she made her way through the dark streets of Sunnydale, wishing—not for the first time in this freak show she laughingly called her life—that she could somehow get out of patrolling. Actually, the killing-things portion of it all sounded pretty good; she needed some outlet for everything that was building up inside of her. Some outlet that didn't involve… him. Bringing her quickly to the not-so-pleasant (or maybe too pleasant) aspect of patrolling these days. She could feel him already, like she had some kind of internal radar. He was close, but not too close. Moving towards her, though. There was probably a metaphor in that somewhere, but she'd always kind of sucked at those types of things. Those were Giles types of things, not meant for the mind of Buffy. Besides, Spike wasn't a metaphor, he was Spike, and he was getting awfully tough to avoid. And she was dreading seeing him more now than she ever had in his pre-chip days.
Pre-chip Spike had been easy. He'd brew up some lame evil plan, she'd show up, kick his ass, and he'd slink off to fight another day. It had even been kind of fun, in a Slayer-y sort of way; there was something inherently right about having an evil adversary, a worthy opponent, both physically and verbally. He'd been one of the few who could challenge her, even at the beginning. They understood each other, hated each other, respected each other, and both of them had a feeling that eventually there'd be only one of them left standing. Of course, Buffy always assumed she'd be the stand-y one, but she'd have been happy kicking his ass for years on end before it had come to that. There was something almost comforting about it, actually. When your life was as chaotic as Buffy's was, any kind of continuity was a relief.
Then there had come Riley and the Initiative and that whole kettle of really unpleasant government fish, and suddenly it was chips ahoy, and she just didn't feel right about staking Spike anymore. The balance of power had shifted. Of course, verbal sparring was well within acceptable limits, but actually killing a creature who was now basically defenseless seemed like a bad habit to get into. Not to mention a waste of time. She had her hands full enough killing things that were dangerous, she didn't need to bother with neutered ex-enemies. Spike had certainly done his best to make it extremely tempting a time or two--his botched attempt at setting the Scoobies against each other, for example--but overall, she'd have been willing to let him live out his unlife in peace and pig's blood. If.
If. Oh, that big fucking If. If he hadn't messed things up. If he hadn't moved in on her mom and her sister. If he hadn't decided he got off on her constantly beating him up, and chained her in a crypt with his psycho demon ex(es) and demanded that she admit there was a chance for the two of them. If he hadn't protected Dawn while Buffy was dead. If he hadn't looked at her when they brought her back as if he never wanted to look at anything else. If he hadn't sat on her back porch with her a dozen and more times and somehow understood when she wanted silence and when she wanted words.
If he didn't love her.
Because as much as she'd tried to deny it, she knew it was true. He loved her. It was totally sick and wrong, against Nature and the Powers that Be and any other higher power she'd ever heard of, and he sometimes had a pretty twisted way of showing it, but he loved her. Without any trace of a soul. Without any remorse for the hundreds of innocent people he'd killed. He was a vampire, and she was the Slayer, and he'd proved his love to her at so many times and in so many ways it was useless to pretend it wasn't real.
So she'd stopped trying. She knew real love when she saw it. So Spike loved her. So what? OK, major wiggins, especially at first, but ultimately no big, right? A soulless vampire could love--well, but not wisely, wasn't that what Dru had said? Never mind that it called into question everything she'd ever thought about vampires, that he seemed to somehow be developing a conscience, that he made her wonder if a vampire needed a soul in order to find redemption. Nevermindnevermindnevermind. Those thoughts were too big for a twenty-one-year-old girl who'd clawed her way out of her own grave just a few months back. She needed to slay first, ask questions later, and believe that Spike was the exception. The freak, even. Poor Spike, caught between worlds. She should feel sorry for him. And if he got his kicks by lurking in her front yard and trying to make her feel better when she was depressed, who was she to deny him that? He was harmless. She was safe with him. All was still well in the world of Buffy, at least as it related to Spike.
And then he'd touched her.
Sure, she'd initiated it. She'd been exhausted, angry, desperate to get away from the conflicting mass of emotions that surrounded her friends. And there he was, so different, so solitary, so straightforward, and so much in love with her. She'd tried everything else, and she just wanted to stop thinking for awhile… She was singing before she knew it. As those icy eyes snapped back and locked on her, she felt a flutter in her stomach and for the first time began to wonder if this was such a great idea. But it was too late to stop now, he was drawing her like a magnet. The flutter intensified, expanded into full-grown butterflies. And then his lips touched hers and everything in Buffyverse turned inside out and upside down.
She'd asked for fire, but this was more. He was like lava, pouring into all the little cracks and crevices she'd thought were long dead, lighting her up from the inside. And yet his hands were so cool on her hot skin, brushing her cheek, sliding over her hip. He groaned involuntarily, pulling her closer to him, and the desperation in his touch thrilled her. He wanted her this badly, she could reduce him to this. Power coursed through her, and she felt in control for the first time since her return to earth. But even as she began to find some solid footing, he changed the angle of the kiss, and all thoughts of her own power flew from her mind. I guess a hundred years' practice makes you pretty good at this stuff, her mind babbled as her knees began to buckle. She was drifting, melting, lost in him…
And suddenly all her Slayer fight-or-flight instincts came roaring to the surface. Loss of control was bad, loss of control got you dead, and she had to get out of there. Panic nearly choked her, and she tore herself away without a word, sprinting off into the darkness as if her life depended on it. She only got a few blocks away before her knees gave out and she slumped to the ground, breathing hard, head whirling, trying not to feel guilty (for kissing him or for leaving him?), hoping to God he hadn't followed her. That night, she'd added Spike to the ever-growing list of Things That Confuse the Hell out of Buffy. It was getting to be a pretty long damn list.
Before long, though, she realized that Spike was in a category entirely by himself on the confuse-o-meter. The musical extravaganza, and even their little make-out session at the Bronze—those could have been little things, easily explained away. But then there had been That Night. That insane, horrible, glorious night when he'd attacked her, when he'd told her that she came back wrong, and she was so twisted up with shock and pain and guilt that she'd kissed him just to get him to shut up, to stop the pain for one second. But once she'd started, she didn't know how to stop, and her hands seemed to be moving without bothering to consult her brain, and suddenly he was inside her and it was incredible and she would've laughed at the look on his face if she'd been able to breathe. And then he started moving, and his face was pressed into her collarbone, and he was murmuring incoherently, and she could feel every nerve sizzling like she'd turned into a human firecracker. She floated weightless and thoughtless on the sensation. For the first time in months, there was no room in her for pain.
It had taken falling through the floor to bring her back to herself, and even then, it had only been for a second. His eyes had been closed at first as he lay beneath her, but as soon as he opened them, everything seemed to slide back into focus. She was overwhelmed by the sudden, inescapable knowledge of where she was, what she was doing. This was Spike. Beneath her, inside her. Spike. She was having sex with Spike. She never knew if that realization would have panicked her, because as soon as she had it, she saw the way he was looking at her. No shields, no defenses, he was staring at her with naked longing. Love. Wonder. Primal hunger. And a kind of proud defiance. A challenge, almost, and yet a question at the same time. This is me, she could almost hear him saying, take it or leave it. She could feel how much he wanted her, feel the effort it cost him to hold perfectly still. And yet he was giving her the choice, in a way that seemed to suggest she'd be sorry if she turned down what he was offering, humble and confident at the same time. It was a combination only Spike could have managed. And for one second, everything was OK. She didn't need to try to make everything fit together; it just flowed, seamless, simple. She nodded just the tiniest bit, in answer to his unspoken question, and felt a thrill of joy arrow up her body, into her throat, like hot mercury. The tightness in her chest eased, for the first time in… well, forever. Then, in case he hadn't gotten the message, she moved her hips deliberately, and everything fell away again.
The rest of the night was a blur of half-light and marble skin and challenge and caresses she wasn't sure if she'd dreamed or not. It all felt like a dream, anyway, safe and dark and thrilling and somehow out of time, like a kind of haven where she didn't have to hurt anymore, didn't have to question. But if there was one thing Buffy Summers had learned, it was that all dreams come to an end sometime. And this particular one came to a screeching halt when she woke up the next morning, saw Spike--Spike--lying there like some chiseled, pale, unspeakably cocky Greek god, and remembered:
Oh, yeah. This is my life. And it sucks.
Humiliation. Shame. Panic. Confusion. She almost wished she'd studied harder for the SATs, if only so she might have known an appropriate word for the way she'd felt that morning. Though she wasn't even sure they made words for her particular situation. Left my little sister alone all night while I had sex with my mortal enemy, gee, what do you mean that's never come up before? Any clarity she'd felt during the previous night vanished like a dusted vamp. She told herself she hadn't known what she was doing, banished the memory of the challenge and question in those blue eyes, now fixed on her with smug satisfaction.
And it got worse the second they started speaking. And, astonishingly, even worse when they'd stopped speaking and started kissing again, and, OK, the kissing part was pretty damn good, but then suddenly she realized he was saying something about fucking a Slayer and the shame went right down to her toes. He'd almost had her with that seemingly sincere, "Stay, I'm stuck here," and not ten seconds later he was proving what a pig he truly was. And then he had to bring Angel into it, which was totally uncalled-for, and that was just the last fucking straw.
So she'd said the most hurtful thing she could think of, even took her time to find just the right word that would cut the deepest. She hadn't been working on witty repartee for years for nothing, right? For half a second before the anger took over, he looked like she'd just stabbed him. And in that flash, she felt guilty, and powerful, and then weird for feeling guilty—this was Spike, after all—and by that time he was on his feet again, telling her she'd never had it so good as him. Which may have been true, but she'd have died before she admitted it. Then the sparring, the threats, the punching, and the leaving, and that pretty much summed up another classic morning-after in the life of Buffy Summers. Oh, and there had been the panty incident, which she chose to gloss over. She wondered briefly if he still had them, and then realized that that train of thought could not possibly lead her to any good place, so she shoved it to the back of her mind again.
Spike had told her, after that night, that everything had changed. And as much as she'd tried to deny it, he was right--for a demon, he was annoyingly perceptive. And that had as much to do with the change as anything else. He was dangerous again, now, and he knew it, because she wanted him and just being near him turned her to jelly, and wasn't afraid to use that. He knew her, as she was now, maybe better than anyone else in her life. He had a way of cutting through all the bullshit and getting right to the heart of a matter, and that terrified her. And yet she knew he would never hurt her, and he risked a crispy death most days of the week when he stopped by her house in broad daylight, and sometimes he looked at her with almost childlike wonder at this new intimacy between them. He'd waltz in with that little we-did-it-and-you-know-it smirk and then half a second later, he'd be saying something so honest and tender it tore at her heart. She just couldn't figure it out, and the balance of power seesawed so frequently she was beginning to forget which end was up.
And she needed to know who had the power. She needed to know what was right and what was wrong. She was a Slayer, and when it came right down to it, everyone in the world fit into a category: Dangerous or Safe, Weak or Powerful, Good or Evil, Slay or Don't Slay. It had to be that way, because sometimes she had to make quick decisions that wouldn't wait for her to explore all the intricacies of a situation. It had worked pretty well, right up through the part where she'd taken one for the team, like a hero should, and jumped into the portal. But then they'd brought her back, and she didn't know who to trust, and nothing made sense. Willow was a magic junkie and Xander was marrying a demon and her sister was a mystical key that, as far as they knew, didn't open anything anymore, and Buffy didn't even know if she herself was human. Everything was falling apart, and she was trying so hard to keep it together.
Throw Spike into the mix, and it was all just too much. No one had ever accused Spike of making sense. He was any and all categories at any given time. Prided himself on it, even, but it wasn't just an act. It seemed to come naturally to him, and it drove her nuts. He'd killed a hundred years' worth of innocent people. Yet he'd saved the lives of her friends. He was a soulless vampire. Yet he loved her, and he clearly loved Dawn, too. He was evil. Yet he seemed to understand her on a fundamental level that few of her friends even acknowledged. He was so not the right guy for her, and yet in a way he was the obvious choice. And that scared the holy hell out of her.
To top it all off, she knew that Spike was actually the least confusing relationship in her life right now. He'd had no part in dragging her out of Heaven, like Willow and Xander had; he was still around, which was more than she could say for Giles; and, unlike Dawn, he wasn't angry at her for something that wasn't her fault. As long as Buffy had been the Slayer, everyone had always wanted something from her: protection, guidance, strength, leadership, sacrifice. And now she even had someone who needed mothering. Everyone always needed her to do something, to be something. Difficult things. Spike, on the other hand, didn't want anything from her, except to be near her. He didn't take. He gave. She didn't have to hold back with him, didn't have to hide--he was strong enough to take anything she might throw at him, physically or otherwise. And the relief of that was… indescribable.
Then again, this was the same guy who'd spent a century cutting a bloody swath through most of Europe with his psychotic girlfriend, and she had no idea what he'd do if he ever found a doctor who could perform a chipectomy. Not that he seemed to be scouring the medical community these days, but still. Buffy had fulfilled her quota of boyfriends who had a tendency to suddenly wake up evil, thanks very much. And, as long as she was on the topic of Angel, it was difficult to avoid comparing the two. Even though both vampires would've had steam pouring out their ears at the very idea that they could even be mentioned in the same breath. The Two Vampires Who Loved Me, she thought ruefully. A cautionary after-school tale. But then, she compared all the men in her life to Angel. He was her first love, first lover, first everything, and some part of her would always believe that someday they would find a way to be together.
But Angel was gone, and he was building his own life now in L.A. with Connor and maybe even Cordy, and most of her knew that she had to move on. Besides, she wasn't sure that Angel would even want to be with her now, things had changed so much. He had been the perfect romantic hero, her knight in shining armor, and she was always halfway in awe of him. When she was sixteen, that had been exactly what she wanted, what she'd thought love should be like. Spike, on the other hand, was an equal, a companion, and he seemed to understand and even love the darkness in her that she was so afraid to let Angel see. Angel was warmth; Spike was fire. Angel was subtle; Spike wore his heart on his sleeve. Angel was safety; Spike was danger. She also had to admit she liked the way Spike seemed to really live in this world, that he loved the Sex Pistols the Ramones and Passions and he cared about whether or not anyone would ever love Pacey. Angel had always been more of a Proust and Byron sort of guy, which she had respected, but which had always sort of intimidated her.
Oh yeah, and then there was the sex. Had she mentioned the sex? Not really much of an option with Angel, and Riley, while in many ways a truly wonderful guy, was more the strictly missionary-position type. Maybe it was the military training or something--the easiest position from which to perform the basic act, resulting in mutual pleasure and potential procreation. With Spike, though, it was a whole new world. Sensuous, sensual, inventive, and confident, with just a hint of danger; he could turn her on anytime, anywhere, and he gloried in it. And the flip side was, she could do the same to him--she could drive him to the edge of control with just a twitch of her muscles. It was intoxicating, empowering, and humbling at the same time.
Which brought her back, again, to the confusion. The sex with Spike was great, sure, right up until she remembered how utterly, completely, and in all ways wrong it was. Pretty much a complete mood-killer. So she'd say something to drive him away, and he'd look hurt and betrayed, and she'd feel guilty, and then wonder why she was feeling guilty for hurting a soulless killer, if it was even possible to hurt him (it is, you know it is). And by that time they'd be shouting at each other, and she'd stomp off and swear never to touch him again. Until the next night, when he'd show up in her path. She couldn't turn him down because it was good to have someone to watch her back, and he was the best training partner she'd had since Faith, and before she knew it the sparring became touching became kissing became sex became guilt became shouting, and they'd be right back in the same cycle. It was exhausting, but she couldn't seem to stop.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she couldn't help noticing that she'd said and done a fair number of pretty horrible things to him during those little skirmishes, and he hadn't left town yet. In her experience, being a male and loving Buffy Summers seemed to have a direct relationship to leaving town, the continent, or sometimes even this mortal coil. A "tragic chain reaction," Ben had called it, shortly before proving the rule himself. The list seemed to grow every year: Angel, Riley, Ben, Giles, even her father. She was sure it was only a matter of time before Xander fell victim to it and took off for parts unknown. Spike, on the other hand, seemed determined to stay. He was like some demonic Hell Weeble, wobbling but refusing to fall down. It was, to a certain extent, tearing the fabric of her reality. And the longer he stayed, the more the tension built between them, and the guiltier she felt for hiding it from her friends, and the more she sensed that sooner or later he was going to force her to make a decision, and the less prepared she felt to make that decision. She was holding on to the edge of sanity with the very tippy-tops of her polished fingernails, and she was afraid that the slightest nudge would send her careening off into the great unknown.
Yet here she was, going to meet Spike, the King of the Nudgers. And his nudges had been feeling more like shoves, lately, and she was already in deeper than she wanted to be. No way to avoid him without shirking her duties, and in her heart of hearts she knew she really wanted to see him. Which was frustrating in itself. If only he would be one or the other--be the warm-and-fuzzy crying-shoulder or the ardent lover, the heartless enemy or the loyal companion. But she knew that would never happen. Spike was Spike, and he had his own set of rules, and she was beginning to get the feeling she'd never really figure him out. So the only solution was to put off the inevitable confrontation as long as possible, and hope that somehow in the meantime she'd manage to find an answer.
She stopped suddenly, feeling every nerve in her body spark. He was there, behind her. She could feel the air building up an electric charge between them. She turned slowly to look at him, standing there with his arms loosely at his sides, ready for action, moonlight slanting across his face. God, he was gorgeous, from his bleached hair down to his steel-toed boots. It hit her like a punch in the gut, every time. He was smirking, as usual, all feline grace and coiled tension.
"Slayer." His voice, with that rich accent wrapping around every syllable, was pure sex. Just that one word turned her insides to Jell-O. And he was doing that defiant little fuck-you thing with his tongue again, curled inside his bottom lip, and she had to rein in her mind before it started having a field day remembering all the other interesting things he could do with his tongue…
On the surface, she was all unruffled calm. "Spike," she replied coolly, walking towards him.
"You ready?" He asked her that every night, and she knew he wasn't talking about patrolling. Yet every night, she pretended he was.
"If you are." She shrugged, trying to look as if she couldn't care less.
He shattered that illusion easily, just by leaning towards her, a predatory grin curving his lips. She felt adrenaline start to rush through her, preparing her for whatever might come next. Her breath caught in her chest. Damn him. "I'm always ready, luv," he whispered, his mouth barely brushing her ear.
The laugh that bubbled out of her was totally unexpected, spilling out of her mouth before she could stop it. "Yeah, I'm starting to get that," she told him, smiling in spite of herself. He stepped back, his own smile quizzical and slightly pleased.
And then they just stood there, staring at each other, not moving. Her heart began to race again. He cocked his head slightly, in that way he had of looking at her like she was some kind of puzzle he was trying to solve. The question hung unspoken in the silence between them, and for a split second, she almost drew breath to answer it.
Then the panic licked at her suddenly-dry throat, and she couldn't do it. Not tonight, she pleaded silently. I can't decide, not yet. She watched a muscle in his cheek relax, and relief flooded through her. He wasn't going to press it.
"Come on." She'd just dodged a bullet, and she couldn't wait to change the subject. "The nasties aren't going to off themselves." She turned, knowing he would follow.
"Right behind you, pet," he drawled casually, sending chills up her spine. Not tonight, she repeated silently, like a mantra. Not tonight. Then, as she heard his footsteps start up behind her, some corner of her brain whispered: No, not tonight. But soon.
Soon.