Filling in the Silence

by The Deadly Hook

Buffy thinks. Not all of her thoughts are hers...

Title: Filling in the Silence

Author: The Deadly Hook

E-mail: deadlyhook@stakeme.com

Disclaimer: Not mine. All belong to Joss Whedon and Co., who are very nice people for bringing all this to us, yes?

Rating: PG, talk and thoughts about this and that from S6.

Feedback: Still pretty new at this, so gentleness preferred.

Site: www.stakeme.com

Summary: Buffy thinks. Not all of her thoughts are hers... Third of three fics written in August 2002 in the post-S6 summer hiatus. Set in speculative early S7. AU now, but somehow the internal voice still works for me.

.........

It was the silence she couldn't get used to.

She cast a quick glance in his direction. He was walking alongside her a short distance away, weaving his way between the gravestones, just like she was. A little in front of her, as he typically positioned himself these days. Not too close. More like a couple of body lengths out of arm's reach, but well within her line of sight.

Safe distance.

The clothes she could get used to, she thought.

It was still strange, though. No denying that. Even with weeks of mental adjusting behind her, she still felt that twist in her stomach looking at him, so different. Reminding her how much he had changed.

Hair not so brilliant anymore, brown streaked with fading blond. A turtleneck sweater - god, imagine that! - jeans, and a jean jacket. The absence of the coat alone felt important. He seemed smaller somehow without it, even fragile. But looks were deceiving, as they always were with him. She knew from experience just how fragile he wasn't.

She'd seen him naked. So, really, what did his clothes matter?

His walk was different too. Not the shoulders-back, hipshot swagger she remembered. Not the lanky, loose-limbed stride. These days it was shoulders forward, head down, hands in pockets more often than not, legs striking the earth a little too fast. Curled inward, as if not wanting to be noticed. That wasn't like him at all.

If his walk hadn't changed, maybe it wouldn't be so hard to handle the silence.

The silence.

He'd talked to her when he first came back. A little. Because he'd had to. To apologize for what he'd done. To explain where he'd been. She'd listened - she still wasn't sure why she had - and tried to absorb it all. Walked away when he'd finished and hadn't seen him again for nearly two weeks. Finally decided that he could help, if he wanted. Come with her on patrol. Kill things, because he was good at that. He'd just nodded and done as she asked. Quietly. No backtalk.

Not like him at all.

She pulled her gaze away from his direction, and made a show of scanning the horizon. Hoped he hadn't noticed her looking. After an exaggerated survey of the area, she swiveled her head back around to take him in; see if he'd noticed. Nothing. He was still just walking, impassive. No curious glances in her direction. No questions. She sighed.

Worse yet, nothing on the landscape had drawn her eye. No movement, no attacking monsters, no freshly turned graves. It was the very worst kind of night to be alone with him, this silent creature, with no distractions to keep her mind from chiming in with its own soundtrack of the sorts of things he might say.

You know it had to change, pet.

If he were still here.

But I'm not, am I love? Got out of your life. Just like you wanted.

Out of her life. Finally.

She'd slowly come to realize the truth of that, over these past few weeks. The Spike she knew was gone, as surely as if he were dust. All that was left was some ghost of him, a silent shadow wearing his face. Walking next to her, fighting by her side... but never really there, never complaining, never trying to make small talk. He never chattered or annoyed or coaxed or made sarcastic comments anymore.

Sometimes she couldn't believe how much she missed that.

"I don't expect you to forgive me," he'd said, that first night when he came back, soulful, broken. "I know that what I did... isn't something you can forgive. But I am sorry. More than... More than you could possibly know. And... I understand now, really I do. How wrong I was to... to ever think that you could care for... something like me. I didn't understand then, but I do now."

All this while she stood there stunned and staring, stake in her hand, shaking with rage. Unable to understand why he'd come back at all, like this. As something she couldn't even hate properly. Something she didn't know what to feel about.

In every scenario she'd visualized for his return, she never could have imagined this.

"You were right," he'd whispered. "About everything. I am... beneath you. And I won't... forget that. Not ever again."

His eyes, remorseful, meeting hers. A promise spoken, that he'd never bother her anymore. Go away forever, if that's what she wanted. Or she could kill him, or punish him however she liked. Her choice, all of it. Because he thought she deserved that, a choice. He'd dropped his eyes then, as if he didn't have the right to look at her. Like just talking to her was more than he deserved. Like he fully expected her to strike out with the stake and didn't particularly care to see it coming. He'd made his peace.

Maybe that's why she'd walked away then. She didn't want to think about what she thought he deserved.

Didn't want that, pet? Too complicated for you? Too bad. Joke's on both of us, then.

His voice came to her like this more and more these days. His old voice, whispering in her head. Almost a separate persona, one that existed just to point out things that she'd rather not hear. Just as he would have.

She wouldn't have thought she'd have ever missed that, either.

And here I thought you hated hearing me talk. So then, let's talk. I really was nothing to you, wasn't I?

God, it seemed so real sometimes. She could hear the disbelief and hurt in that voice. The sadness. Things she knew he couldn't really feel. No matter how real it seemed sometimes.

You know, I never could make myself really believe that, before. That you thought that. Thought I knew what kind of girl you were.

It wasn't really even him talking. She knew that. She was just talking to herself.

Thought it must mean something to you. That you wouldn't do all that with just anyone. Not with someone you hated. Wouldn't look into my eyes like that. Let me touch you like I know you've never been touched before. Didn't think that was like you.

It was just a stubborn part of her brain trying to process things. Or maybe... trying to preserve something of her Spike. His wit, his insight, all his irritating complexity. Those were important things to remember, weren't they? Even if he'd never really been hers. Not really. Not real.

But I was wrong, wasn't I? Didn't mean a thing. All those times you came to me, took me, gave in to me, cried out for me... just something to pass the time.

Oh, she hated him sometimes. Hated him so much for the way he'd hurt her that it made her tremble. The kind of hate that woke her in the night, shaking and scared from yet another dream about him, one where he was trying to say something to her and she refused to listen, and the hurt and the anger there in his eyes, and why couldn't he just understand without having it spelled out for him, why couldn't he just see it like he saw everything about her and leave her alone because it was the only way either one of them would get out of this even remotely whole, the only way...

Just your whore, right? That was all you wanted. Not like I was God's gift or anything.

He should have seen it. He should have known. She had never had been any good at hiding the truth from him.

I guess it's true, then. I just was there. Like Everest. Just... convenient.

Maybe that's why she'd begun to hear him in her head like this.

Cold comfort.

Like a conscience.

And you knew I loved you. You said you didn't believe it, but you knew. You just didn't care.

"Spike?" she said aloud, stopping suddenly, not even sure why she'd spoken up. He turned toward her, wincing only slightly at the sound of the name. She'd asked once what she should call him, when he first came back. This new person. He'd shrugged. "Doesn't matter," he'd said.

Your choice, pet. Pick whatever you like, her mental Spike chided. Up to you to decide what I should be, now that nothing left of me cares enough to bother. William's long dead. Haven't been Spike in an age. Maybe not since your mother hit me with that axe and I didn't just rip her throat out. Could have, you know. Ever wonder why I didn't?

In fact, she had wondered. One of the many mysteries of their long aquaintance. Like why she'd never killed him. In spite of many, many chances. And oh so many legitimate reasons.

Wasn't sporting, her being there, came the whispered answer in her mind. You were worth more than that. Worth more than an easy kill while you cried over your dead mum. Worth waiting for a better day.

She let the thought roll around her mind, absorbing it, the simplicity of it. Her mind flipped through examples, sorting, classifying. So many occasions, the chances had been there, and he'd never taken them. Most times, it was because she'd kicked his ass and he'd had to take off running, and let's not think about why you always let him run, never chased him, let him go but then there was...

Bright sunlight, crowds in the quad in the middle of the day, humiliation and heartbreak fresh in her mind, making her feel small and pathetic... and there he was, that damned gem on his hand making him barely short of invincible, stronger than he'd ever been... and still he'd wasted time on taunting her, goading her, trying to get her worked up into a good rage. Did you bruise the boy? What did it take to pry apart the Slayer's dimpled knees? Maybe you weren't worth a second go. Who was it that told me that? Oh, that's right. Angel. Kicking her while she was down. Taking his time with it. Waiting for her to fight back.

Waiting.

Hw much of what was between them came back to that need? To face each other as equals. To give as good as they got. No cheap victories, worth nothing. The need for an opposite number who understood.

Very good, pet. Now try this. How is it that you know what I felt about that? Or think that you know? What part of you is it that speaks for me?

"Yes?" he asked her quietly, and she startled, suddenly. She'd forgotten that she'd called him. What had she wanted to say?

You're beneath me. God, she saw it now as if she was still there. And at that moment, it had been true. He was nothing to her then. Helpless in all but his words. Is that why she'd waited, waited until he could fight again, back up those words with strength and force? Really, who's screwed up?

Seconds ticking by and found herself still staring back at him, into confused blue eyes, a carefully expressionless face. Patient. Waiting.

This soulful someone who walked beside her now and tried not to look at her.

What was he to her now?

"Nothing," she mumbled. "I was just... thinking." She returned to walking, and after a pause, heard him follow suit. Let her mind continue to wander as she watched her feet striking the grass. There was something waiting to be understood there, just near the surface. What she wouldn't give to solve this puzzle at last, to understand her own thoughts, to know what he'd been thinking. To know what this thing between them had been.

You ever wonder why I fell in love with you?

Maybe if she was lucky he would tell her.

You hated me. Your friends hated me, and I hated them... don't have any illusions about that. Why, then? You think that one morning I just woke up and decided I wasn't pathetic enough?

She let herself remember. The heat rising in her face as she listened to him awkwardly trying to spell it out for her, citing the example of "two people in the workplace," and how "feelings develop." She'd pretended not to know what he was talking about.

You really think it was as simple as that. That I was in love with pain, wasn't that it? Shows what you know. When I was evil, I was my own man. Soulless vampire, yes, but I had self-respect. Went after what I wanted, took it and made it mine.

Like you tried to do with me.

No, not like. You don't understand anything. You made me want to be a man for you. Change for you. You were worth that. Worth all the crawling and the debasement and your fists in my face if that's what it took. But that wasn't what you wanted, was it?

No, it hadn't been.

You wanted a monster. Something to take it all out on. A shameful little secret you could leave behind in the darkness while you camped out into the sun. No blame to you. No love. Because good girls don't love monsters, do they?

No. I could never be a monster's girl.

You think I didn't know, did you, that you were getting back at your friends. Make them pay for assuming too much. Blame me. Shabby way to go about it, but... oh, wait. Forgot. I can't feel anything real. So it didn't matter then, did it?

"Buffy?"

She turned to face him, knowing what she'd see, him standing there in his blue jeans and streaked hair like some country singer, concern in his eyes. "Is something wrong?" he asked, brow furrowed slightly in puzzlement. Watching her.

The face she knew. The body she knew. The voice in her head laughed.

Oh, that's a good one, mate. You're on the right track now. Keep at it. Ask her a bunch of nosy questions, and you'll muck it up just as fast as I did. Enjoy the beatings.

Mocking himself. Only it was her head, wasn't it. Her mind.

"Nothing's wrong," she whispered. "Maybe. Unless... the losing my mind part counts."

Now he was coming closer. What was he doing? She stumbled back, gasping, her heart suddenly pounding hard.

"Keep away from me!"

He stopped. Pulled back. Put his hands in his pockets. Looked away, like he always did now, jaw tight. Like he would rather be anywhere else than near her anymore. She had the dimmest flash of memory, of something else like this...

...whisper in a dead man's ear doesn't make it real...

...and suddenly it was too much, all of it. She let herself crumple, drop to her knees, pulled herself into a tight ball of misery remembering that yes, she'd been the one to start this, the one who wouldn't let him walk away. She'd pushed and pulled till he'd finally broken, till he couldn't keep up anymore and she was left listening to a dead man whispering in her ear...

...and that was as real as it would ever be, more real than it had ever been, because it was too late now for anything but old memories and old regrets and missed opportunities and times she should have killed him but didn't, couldn't, wouldn't, and now there was nothing but sadness in his eyes and hers too, and no fight between them would ever be equal anymore...

"I thought that you would understand," she said, and now the tears were finally coming, the ones she'd held back for so long, running down her face, dripping trails onto her neck, and she knew he wasn't even looking at her, that he'd already pulled away, because he couldn't help her anymore, nothing he did or said could help her, and he wouldn't even try. She'd forced him into this corner, and he'd let her do it, and now they were both trapped there, no way out but one.

"I should go," he said, staring off into the distance. "I don't think... I shouldn't stay. Not if it's going to bother you like this, having me here." He scuffed his feet in the dirt, a gesture so unlike him it made her head hurt, watching it. He looked up, and there were his eyes. Sometimes they looked like his.

What's left of me knows better than to believe in miracles, love.

She let herself cry then, face buried in her knees, and didn't bother to explain it to him, because he wouldn't want to know, not after everything. Not now.

Because sometimes it was just too late.

- end -