"Voice of the Opposition"

I.

"Friendly Intermission"


Vi walked through the quiet house. The kitchen was dark. The dishes were washed. The shape of the appliances gleamed in the dark with almost unnatural clarity, as if this were a moment out of time.

The door that led to the back porch was open. It was quiet outside. Almost preternaturally quiet. Sunnydale was dead.

There was a shape on the porch, at the edge of the dark. The shape of a man, black tee-shirt and jeans, sitting on the top step smoking a cigarette.

"Couldn't sleep?" Spike asked. He spoke to her without ever bothering to turn and look to see her there.

"Couldn't make myself," Vi admitted quietly. She approached and gingerly sat down on the step beside him. "I've been up all night. I couldn't go to sleep knowing I had only so much time . . . I couldn't go to sleep, knowing that in the morning I'm probably going to die. I couldn't make myself waste that much."

"I get that."

For long moments they simply sat there quietly. She sitting beside him as he thoughtfully smoked his cigarette and stared out at the brightening dark. A few soft voices could be heard from inside the house. Restlessness at these moments in history was as infectiousas any plague. How was it even possible to sleep?

"Is it always like this at the end?" Vi asked of him. "Waiting to live. Waiting to die."

"Don't rightly know," Spike answered. He nervously took a draw off of his cigarette and stared blankly out into the early morning gloom. "Haven't really been here more n' once myself. Wasn't the same. Back then I had all these grand visions of comin' up the hero. Savin' the lil' princess. Gettin' the girl. It all went tits up in the end. This time I'm not really going into this with any expectations. I'm not a hero. I've been . . . disabused . . . of that notion. I'm just a man. Only a man. I'll stand up and simply hope it makes a difference. 'Here I stand. I can do no other.' " Spike fell quiet. He stared out at the dark for endless moments, his eyes dark and full of thought. He finally looked over at the small girl beside him. "How are you holdin' up?"

"Scared mostly," admitted Vi. "I'm terrified that everything is gonna go horribly wrong down there. That people are going to die, and I am the one who could have stopped it if only I was good enough. Look it me. You've seen me. I'm not exactly brave. I'm not strong. What kind of slayer could I ever expect to be?"

"We all do that, bright eyes," said Spike. "We all question ourselves. We're all bloody scared. I don't s'pect that's the kinda thing you'll ever get over completely. The trick is fighting through it. The trick . . . is winning in spite of that."

Vi shook her head ever so slightly. "That still seems like far too much." Her green eyes glistened. "I'm still trying to come to grips with it. I'm barely eighteen years old, and this is it. This . . . is what I am. This is the point that is going to define everything I'm ever going to be. I just hope I can do well enough to prove myself to you. Prove myself to Buffy. Prove that I was at least worth all the time you spent tryin' to train me."

Spike shook his head dismissively as he put his cigarette out against the porch. "You don't have to prove yourself to me, Vi," he told her quietly. "You'll do fine. It was worth it just to have known you."

The fiery haired girl gifted him with a slight smile. "You too, Spike," she said. Her soft words came across with a quiet clarity. "You too."