Title: Hang Up the Chick Habit
One-shot. 2000 words
Rating: PG-13 for language.
Warnings: Post-NFA and Chosen, may contain some slight spoilers for the comic.
Summary: They run into one another in Lisbon, and Spike goes back to chain-smoking.
Disclaimer: Mutant Enemy, Joss and others own everything. I merely play.
A/N: So it's come to that. Dedicated to my beloved enabler.
HANG UP THE CHICK HABIT
"Weren't you on fire, last time I saw you?"
"Am always on fire when I see you, Slayer."
"I walked straight into that one, didn't I."
Buffy does not seem very surprised by his alive status, the first time they meet after they destroyed the Hellmouth together with Sunnydale. Whenever he allowed himself to daydream about their reunion – and whom is he kidding, he indulged in that a lot – he would imagine her surprise and shock in vivid, Technicolor detail. He had her crying, and shouting, and perhaps even hitting him for staying away, letting her think himself dead.
That he daydreamed about being hit says a lot about him, in block capitals. He does not care to ponder that even on his best days, and this one's well below average.
They run into each other in Europe, Lisbon, a vampire nest. She throws him a stake like they'd done that yesterday. He becomes the last bloodsucker standing and her gaze is heavy on him. He avoids her eyes.
"I'd have thought you might throw that at me rather than to me."
"You never were much of a thinker, Spike. Don't go starting now."
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Nothing easier than falling back into bad old habits. He waits a moment and follows her back to her place, guided by her smell, something he could never forget, try as he might. Not that he had. Hidden in the shadows, he spends the night outside her window, chain-smoking the way only someone who doesn't breathe can. He realises she probably knows full well he's outside. Slayer instincts honed and strong; that, and he's predictable. At one point she opens the window and he puts out the cigarette in a furious hurry, lest she see the light, almost setting himself on fire in the process.
Would serve her right if he burned on her doorstep. Leave dust for her to tidy up. She'd hate that.
This thought brings a smile back on his face.
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She found out months earlier, via the Council. Something has to be said for an almost unlimited expense account and hundreds of pairs of eyes (plus one pairless, as Xander would supply) all around the world, keeping tabs on anything they possibly deem relevant.
They sent Willow to tell her. Apparently, they expected her to have a fit.
"Buffy, there's something funny going on in Portugal."
"Funny ha-ha, or funny-weird?"
"Def on the weird side."
Then there was wall-punching and a certain amount of furious pacing, followed by a lot of explaining on Andrew's part.
"I'm not allowed to hit him, am I, Willow?" Buffy asked, looking at Andrew like he was a stain on her very favourite white shirt.
Willow drew in a breath and shook her head.
Life just wasn't fair.
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She's so very over feeling responsible for his misplaced feelings and emotional maturity of a junior high student. She didn't make him the man (vampire) he was. She didn't force him to make her the object of his obsession. She's in her twenties, and she doesn't need that kind of a burden.
She doesn't go looking for him.
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"When did you find out?"
"Yeah, cause that's really relevant right now, Spike."
Their second meeting is carefully orchestrated by Spike. He's dressed up in his leather coat (admittedly, not a rare occurrence) and he almost cleaned his shoes. There's light in the form of a fire-breathing demon, music of clunking steel in the air, a fast food nearby, and as for the thrill – well, he's still highly inflammable. If all goes well maybe they could catch a movie afterwards…
Spike parries the descending blade and jumps to avoid the flames. Okay, so he might have gone a bit over the top with the setting. He admits that.
"Step back, Spike!"
Buffy does an action movie leap, kicks the creature square in the chest and as it stumbles back, she takes a swing and hacks its head off.
"Now that was entertaining."
The demon falls to the ground, oozing orange all over. Spike checks his coat for tears, burns and stains. It's perfectly good Italian leather.
"My question, Slayer," he reminds her flatly, when she turns her back to him.
"Is there any use telling you? You'll just call me 'liar' again," she replies, accusingly.
"When did I-" It takes a moment for the meaning to sink in. "You were lying then!"
"That's so not the point."
"I think it sort of really is!"
She looks at him tiredly, sword still in her hand. If she wanted to, she could probably kill him in less than twelve moves. She's in her top shape, reflexes and speed amazing even for a slayer, and his last two years were dubbed "Taking it easy".
"Whatever, Spike. It's you who owes me an explanation, not the other way round. I'd thank you to remember that."
She turns on her heel and leaves, hips swaying, sword still in hand. His hands shake as he lights a cigarette.
"Oh, bugger."
Sure, she left him the corpse to get rid of. Ever the dirty work guy. He really shouldn't be surprised.
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He chose Portugal because he still remembers the language, because unlike Italy or France, it does not bring back too many memories and, last not least, because according to his sources the local slayer cell is laughable. At least compared to any other slayer cell.
He isn't looking for another occasion to play a bloody hero. He'd had his fill in that alley, arm to arm with Gunn, Illyria and Angel.
All he wants is a peaceful unlife, with fresh blood, cable and window shades.
What he specifically doesn't want is interaction with slayers, and one in particular.
Wishes don't happen to be horses. Not his wishes anyway.
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The second time around, they sent Xander to talk to her. It's pretty clever of them – they know how she can't really be angry with him, what with Anya, and the eye, and all the guilt between them, which makes their friendship what it is.
"How are you today, Buff?"
"Menstruating, thank you very much. And you?"
"You'll never let me live that down, will you? That joke just isn't funny anymore."
"It is, and always shall be. What brings you to my humble abode this early in the morning?"
"There's something – well, funny. About the prophecies we recovered in Africa."
"Funny-ha-ha, or funny-weird?"
"I'd go with weird."
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She's done some growing up since Sunnydale. She's travelled. She got a degree. She had two non-vampire lovers and a lesbian drunken one-night stand that she really doesn't feel comfortable discussing. Or remembering.
She had three wisdom teeth extracted. She saved the world four times.
She likes to think she's a better person for all that. That she'd be able to avoid her old mistakes.
She doesn't really want to put that to test by meeting Spike of all people. Vampires. Whatever.
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"Why are you here?"
"You know, some people think it polite to exchange greetings before asking personal questions."
"I'm a rebel."
He follows her to a pub, and sits down next to her. She orders a Bloody Mary. So does he.
"I guess that means you don't floss, too."
She looks amazing. Maybe it's just his memory playing tricks on him, or maybe it's just that she's no longer half-starved or suicidal… But she was stunning back in that last year in Sunnydale, roots, and bags under her eyes, and all, and now she is radiant, awe-inspiring. He wonders if everyone sees it.
"Stop staring at me, Spike. And if you're waxing poetic about my breasts in that head of yours then I don't want to hear a word of it."
"You're avoiding my question."
"You could say that."
"Are you planning to answer me? Preferably sometime before sunrise?"
"You are full of questions."
"Then have another one – why won't you leave me alone?"
She's a terrible liar.
"Wish that I could. Official Council business."
"Ah yes, 'cause you're that chosen one – no wait, you're not. Three hundred other slayers and God knows how many Watchers and no one had time this week."
"Careful with the humour, I'll pull my stitches."
"In addition to being a rebel, I'm also a joy to be around."
She meets his eyes.
"I thought we owed you as much. For me to show up in person, not to send some lackey."
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Spike makes a list of all the things Slayer – Buffy – owes him for. Then he laughs at himself and spends yet another night outside her small flat, watching the light in the window, littering the sidewalk with cigarette butts.
At the rate he's smoking, soon he'll have to rob shops or sell his car.
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The third time around, Giles himself came to her, and that's when she knew things were serious, and she wasn't getting out of that one.
"Hello, Buffy."
"Hi."
"Faith sends greetings."
"And here I was thinking this wouldn't be awkward!"
He sat down on a stool, taken from in front of her desk, and took off his glasses.
"That's not why I'm here, Buffy."
"Of course not."
"There's… There's just something funny about-"
"Let me guess. You don't mean funny-ha-ha."
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"Why didn't you want me to know?"
Spike stifles the impulse to pretend he misunderstood her question. She's not the only one tired of their ever-so-amusing games.
"And why should I?"
"Well, there was this whole deal about you being obsessed with me, our own perverse version of friendship and, hey! Me not wanting you dead."
"And to me, there was this whole deal about you lying to me that you love me and me going down saving you all. A proper hero. Perfection. Let Angel try and beat that. It's not the same to say, 'I died for you, except for the not being dead part'."
She furrows her brow but doesn't protest. Maybe she, too, understands about heroic exits.
"Why did you seek me out? And please, no bullshit about official Council business and asking me in person."
"I figured… That maybe we could have a second chance. To try and be civil adults, when it's not 'ten minutes to midnight, we're all gonna die' deal."
He takes a sip of his blood-based beverage. There are places like Willie's all around the world; in Lisbon, too.
"First of all, algebra was never my forte, but I'm pretty sure we'd had more than one chance. To be civil adults."
She smiles a bit at that. His hand instinctively flies to his pocket, checking for cigarettes. He thinks he doesn't use his car all that much anyway.
"And second of all," he continues, "if I understood you correctly, aren't we all actually gonna die?"
"You know what I mean!"
He knows what she means.
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It's a huge mistake, going up these stairs. He was comfortable down there, in the tree shade.
He's going to end up bloody and trampled once she's through with him, and that's if he survives the end of the world she's trying to involve him in, yet again.
He couldn't stay away.
She opens the door before he knocks. Slayer instincts. Her hair is wet. He hesitates before speaking.
"So... when's your apocalypse?"
"Not in another two weeks."
He laughs at that. "What was the rush about then?"
"It's good that you came."
That earns her a wolfish smile, or at least that's what he thinks a wolfish smile should look like. "I'll refrain from voicing my answer to that," he replies, raising an eyebrow.
She grimaces. He leers. She'll bloody well have to deal, 'cause that's the sort of guy he is. He leers. He makes jokes about ambiguities of simple verbs.
"I really missed you," she says, and invites him inside.
the end