Title: 3 a.m.
Author: PrettyPoppy
Summary: After making a life altering decision, Buffy is forced to defend her choice to a very dead, (well, twice dead), Spike. Takes place about four months after Chosen. Does not follow Angel Season 5. Rated G
Author's Notes: This was originally written two years ago as a stand-alone piece, but then, after it was finished, I thought it would be a nice fit for the Shanshu fic I was writing. Well, here we are, all these years later and I never finished the Shanshu fic. Now I'm back to thinking that this piece holds up pretty well on its own.
Dedication: This ficlet is dedicated, with much thanks and appreciation, to my friend Pat, (aka shadowschild), who gave me the idea in the first place. Without her help, ideas and encouragement, this fic wouldn't even exist.
Feedback: Please? Pretty, pretty, pretty please? I may even find the means to resurrect my dead muse, if I get enough encouragement.
Distribution: Just let me know where it's going, and it's yours.
Disclaimer: Does Joss still own all this stuff? Yeah, I guess he does, doesn't he? Okay, I own nothing, Joss Whedon and company own everything. Ain't life grand?
It was late. 3 a.m. She knew it. She didn't care.
Buffy leaned her head forward against the bathroom mirror and let what was left of the steam from her recent shower seep into her every pore. She was tired. So tired. All the time. She knew why. It didn't take a genius to figure it out. There was nothing so exhausting as living a lie. Every moment of every day. And it wasn't just her friends she was lying to. No, that would have been easy. She'd done that before. For months after her resurrection. No, now she was also lying to herself. And not that she hadn't done that before either, but it had never been a constant. Never haunted her the way it did now.
She told herself that she was happy. Told herself that she was in control, that life had meaning and purpose and everything was okay. But it wasn't. It hadn't been in months.
After the fall of Sunnydale, Buffy had tried her best to keep herself together. She had done everything that was expected of her. Found a place to live - an architecturally outdated, cramped little two-bedroom apartment she shared with Willow and Dawn. Gotten a full-time job. Enrolled in a couple of summer classes at the local college. She was finding herself, wasn't she? Wasn't that it? Wasn't that the point? She was no longer The Slayer, and she wasn't supposed to be responsible for everyone else anymore. But she had found that she was. Once a leader, always a leader. She had thought that Buffy the Vampire Slayer had died with the Hellmouth. Died with . . .
No, she wouldn't think about that. Never that.
She thought she had started anew. She was wrong. Once a slayer, always a slayer. And she just didn't care anymore what happened to her future. She needed something to hold onto, and - selfish or not - she had finally decided what that was.
Buffy wrapped her white, terrycloth bathrobe tighter around her, closed her eyes and exhaled a long breath. She knew she was doing the right thing.
"Bloody hell, Slayer! What is that, shag carpeting? And orange, no less. I thought that went out in the '70's. Seem to remember being there when it did."
Buffy's heart stopped beating for a frighteningly long moment. Pulling her head up from the glass, she swung around, her eyes quite wide and disbelieving. There, sitting on the bathroom counter, was . . . "Spike?"
He smirked at her. "Yeah?"
"You're dead."
"Yeah?" He said it again.
"Dead, as in dead. As in not undead, but dead. Buried at the bottom of the Hellmouth."
"True," he said, pushing himself off the counter and landing on his feet, his familiar leather duster sweeping around his legs, "but when has a little thing like death ever stopped me before?"
Buffy reached out a tentative hand to touch him. He was only inches away in the cramped space. "Are . . . are you really here?" she asked, just as her fingers slipped silently through his deceptively solid form, answering her own question.
"'Fraid not luv," he whispered, as he watched her fingers curl up into a protective little fist.
"Then why . . .?" She looked up into his hauntingly beautiful eyes.
"Because," he said, reaching out a hand to gently caress her face, his flesh never quite touching hers, "it's what you needed."
"Really?" she asked, surprised by the indignation in her own voice. "Is this really what I need? Seeing you? Knowing I can never . . . never make things right? Knowing you're not real?"
"Hey," Spike smiled as he took a step away, clearly backing off, "you're the one who conjured me, not the other way around pet."
"And what is that supposed to mean?" Buffy crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him.
Spike shrugged. "Just that you're the one with the overactive imagination here. The defective subconscious that makes you conjure up dead men in your bathroom. I don't know, sounds like a case for a really good shrink."
"I don't need a shrink."
"Really?" he asked in eager mockery. "Then what the hell am I doing here?"
Buffy turned back toward the mirror and started to absently brush her hair, her chin tilted up just enough to give the impression that she was above caring. "I am very tired. That's all. I haven't had a decent night's sleep in days, and I'm just . . . I don't know . . . just . . ."
"Hallucinating?" Spike provided. "Let me guess. You're Ebenezer Scrooge and I'm just a rotten potato, right?"
"You're a rotten something," Buffy threw back at him, refusing to meet his gaze in the mirror.
The mirror.
Buffy blinked, and then let her gaze travel nonchalantly to the right side of the mirror, where she could clearly see Spike's exasperated expression staring back at her. Their eyes locked for a single moment, then she tore herself away.
"Okay," she said, trying very hard to convince herself that she wasn't crazy, "I am not going insane. There is not a twice dead vampire standing in my bathroom. And that certainly is not his reflection in the mirror. I am asleep," she stated matter-of-factly. "That's all there is to it."
"Right, and I'm playing Vegas next week."
Buffy swung around and glowered at him. "What do you want?"
"I don't know. I'm not the one who-"
"Conjured you up," she finished for him. "Yeah, I know. So what? I'm supposed to have all the answers?"
"No. Not all." He moved toward her again.
"Don't." She held out her hand to keep him away. "Please," she nearly whimpered.
He stopped. If he had been solid, her palm would have rested flat against his chest.
Buffy lost herself for a moment. "If you're just a figment of my imagination, why can't I touch you?" She stared up at him. "If I made you up, why can't I extend the fantasy however far I want to?"
"Why do you think, Slayer?"
"I . . . I don't–"
"Of course you do. You know why."
Buffy let her eyes drop. She stared at his chest, trying to convince herself that she didn't know what he was talking about.
"You think it's wrong," he elaborated for her. "You think you don't deserve to be with me. To touch me. Not even in dreams. You think you're undeserving. Beneath me. But you're not." He stepped to the side, moving around her outstretched arm and inching closer to her. "What's bothering you, luv?" His voice became a husky whisper and Buffy had to tear her eyes away from him in order to breathe.
What was wrong? Nothing was wrong. Nothing at all.
"Everything's fine," she said, to the rust colored tiles on the floor.
"Right, everything's fine and you just normally have conversations with dead people."
"You're not a person," she said, lifting her head defiantly, trying to contradict him in any way she could. She regretted it as soon as she said it. "I didn't mean it like that."
Spike shrugged it off. "No problem. I'm dead. What do I care? 'Sides, I'm your version of Spike, right? You can't really offend me unless you want to."
Buffy turned away again, trying to think. She didn't know what was going on. Maybe this was just her subconscious talking. But maybe it was something more sinister. Something like–
"The First?" Spike provided. "Oh come on, you can do better than that, pet. Not The First, I promise." He drifted away from her. She watched him in the mirror; saw his gaze flicker down her body for the briefest moment. "Wish I had been though."
Buffy's heart caught in her throat. She couldn't bear to look at him. She had to tell him. It was only fair.
Buffy closed her eyes and tried to quiet her already frayed nerves. A part of her hoped that when she opened them, he would be gone. If he wasn't, she'd have to admit the truth.
Buffy opened her eyes and looked in the mirror. He was gone. A great rush of air escaped her lungs as she relaxed against the sink. "Thank God," she murmured quietly to herself.
"So, you wanna tell me, or not?"
Buffy swung around in shock. He was standing behind her, just out of sight of the mirror. She hadn't even felt him. "Tell you what?" she managed somehow, through a short, gasping breath.
"You know," he said, staring her down, backing her up against the sink.
She didn't know why she was retreating. He couldn't really touch her, but the image of him before her was so real, so vivid, she wouldn't have been surprised if he had just reached out and grabbed her.
"I . . ."
"Buffy," he said sternly, practically scolding her.
She swallowed hard. He already knew, didn't he? He was just waiting for her to say it. "I . . . I'm going to see Angel. I'm going to stay with him. I'm . . ."
"Not done baking yet." He made a move like he wanted to touch her, but then seemed to realize that he couldn't. He dropped his hand to rest on the counter beside her.
Buffy's mouth stayed open for one awestruck moment. Then she finally found her voice. "I most certainly am done baking. I," she said, lifting her head proudly in the air, "am cookies."
Spike laughed. A strong, jovial, disbelieving laugh, as he pushed himself away from the sink. "You're cookies?" He asked. "Well if you're cookies, then I must be Mother Theresa."
"I didn't mean 'cookies' literally. I meant–"
"I know what you meant." His tone sobered.
"I'm cookies," Buffy said quietly, trying to reassure herself.
"And that's why you're so happy about running to Angel? You're so ready to go to him, that you've conjured me up to give you a hard time about it?"
"I . . . I know what I'm doing. I know what I need."
"You don't know anything about need." Spike advanced on her, before she knew what had happened. He pushed her up against the sink once more, and she gripped the edge tightly in her already trembling fingers. "You don't know . . . what it's like," he struggled with the words, his voice heavy with emotion, "to need someone Buffy. To love them. To love them so much that you would die for them. Have you ever done that Buffy? Have you ever died for anyone, without wanting to take it back?"
That stung.
Buffy tried to blink the tears away as he continued to stare down at her.
"Do you need him Buffy? Do you really need him? Or do you just want him? Want him to take all of this," he stretched his arms out around him, indicating the inadequate room, her inadequate life, "away from you? You want him to rescue you Buffy, nothing more."
Spike stepped away then, shaking his head as he did.
Was that pity she saw?
"I love Angel. I have always loved Angel," she intoned, like a child reciting lines in class, "I need him to–"
"What? Survive?" he asked her harshly. "No, you don't. You need you Buffy. That's all you've ever needed."
"No, it isn't." She couldn't stop the tears now. "I'm sick and tired of being needed! I don't want to be needed. Even by myself. I want someone else to do it. Someone else to take all the pain, and the hurt, and responsibility and make it all go away." She took a moment to catch a ragged breath. "That's what I want."
"And Angel's just the one to do it."
Buffy let her eyes fall to the floor again. Her bare toes toyed lazily with the furry carpet. "Well, there is no one else."
She didn't feel him, but she could see him walking toward her. He stopped just an inch away, and put his fingers beneath her chin, somehow managing to lift her eyes to him without ever touching her face. "There's you," he said simply.
"I don't want it to be me. I'm sick and tired of it being me."
"I know. But you have to have faith Buffy."
"Faith?" she scoffed bitterly. "You're telling me about faith? You died for the world. And what did it get you? Nothing. A sense of peace? Eternal salvation? Maybe. But did you ever get what you truly wanted? What you truly needed?"
"It's not about what we want Buffy, it's about what we deserve."
"And you deserved better." She looked away from him again, unable to suffer his scrutiny any longer.
He smiled. She didn't know how she knew - she wasn't looking up at him, and she certainly couldn't feel him - but she knew.
"I got what I deserved Buffy. All I ever deserved."
"That's not true." She locked her eyes with his again. She had no choice. She had to face it. "You didn't believe me. The only thing you ever asked of me and I . . ."
"It's all right luv. I don't blame you."
"Well you should."
"Why?" he asked, the word barely a whisper, yet cutting deep into her soul.
"Because I should have told you sooner. I should have told myself sooner. I should have made you believe . . ."
"The truth is the truth pet." He gazed at her lovingly, longingly, as if he would willingly die again just to touch her one more time.
"You're right. It is. And the truth is Spike, that–"
There was a knock at the door. Buffy tore her eyes away from Spike and turned toward the sound.
"Buffy, are you almost out? I really need to use the bathroom." It was Dawn.
Buffy nearly choked in frustration. "I'll be out in a minute," she said through clenched teeth. She turned back to Spike intent on finishing the thought. But he was gone.
"Spike?" she whispered his name as quietly as she could, hoping that Dawn didn't hear. She hadn't spoken his name out loud in front of her little sister since that fateful day last May.
Quickly, Buffy did a little turn around the bathroom. She could see every corner in one sweep, including behind the bunched up shower curtain.
Spike was gone.
Damn her and her stupid imagination!
Damn Spike and his stupid meddling!
If he wasn't already dead, she'd seriously start thinking about killing him.
He was right. Even in her ridiculous, hallucinatory daydreams he was right. She hated him for it. Hated him with all her heart and all her soul. Almost as much as she loved him.
Fine, if she wasn't cookies, she wasn't cookies. She'd just have to wait, until Spike thought she was done baking. Somehow she knew it was going to take a very long time.
END