A Spark of Love
Chapter Four
Previously: Willow confronts Buffy and tells her that she needs to shut Spike out of her life. Spike won't accept this, and follows Buffy home where he finds out that he's been uninvited. While Buffy is away taking care of April, Spike goes to visit Joyce. He's unable to do anything except watch her die, and the spell is broken as soon as Joyce dies. By the time Buffy arrives, it's too late. Joyce is gone.
He'd faced demons from the depths of Hell, Angelus at his prime, and even an apocalypse or two. Not only that, but he'd confessed his love to the bleeding Slayer when he was chipped and helpless. But none of that was as scary as seeing Buffy all ragged and weak.
Spike would have liked to think that he'd been able to stick around and lend a helping hand where it was needed because Buffy really wanted him there, but honestly, he knew she just didn't have the energy to push him away. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't taking some advantage of that fact, even if it made him feel a little guilty to know that he'd be out on his bum if not for Joyce's untimely passing.
For God's sake (if he could still say that, as an unholy demon – after all, he had done more earnest praying in the last couple of weeks than ever in his adult human life), she'd uninvited him. Done all she could to try and remove him from her life, but he was sure somewhere in his unbeating heart that it was like an amputation. She thought it was for her own good, at least, but it had to hurt like hell and made her lose something she needed. At least, he hoped that was how it had felt.
He had a feeling Buffy wasn't feeling much of anything lately. Even when her mates walked in on the pair of them sitting a little too close for comfort – it was completely innocuous and, by the way, initiated entirely by Buffy – she had barely reacted, despite the hell the Scoobies tried to raise.
Then there was the Niblet to be worried about. Normally, she blathered on about the most inconsequential of things, but she'd been quiet lately. Quiet like the grave. Big Sis was too lost in her own struggles to notice, though, and Spike was afraid to butt in. Not afraid, he corrected. Rightfully wary.
Dawn had let him do her nails before the funeral, though, so that was something.
Things had started to settle into a kind of routine. He'd arrive at sunset, usually with takeout. Buffy wouldn't ask how he paid for it, and she usually wouldn't thank him, but at least she would eat as long as he was around to make sure Dawn wouldn't take everything. They would eat in relative silence. Dawn would lie and say all of her homework was finished. Buffy would reprimand her for lying. Dawn would go up to her room and sulk, finish her homework, and then come down in time to watch some crappy TV movie.
Buffy usually tried to be energetic and do something her Mum would have done, like the dishes or some such. Of course, there wasn't usually much to do, seeing as she didn't seem to be eating much except the takeout he brought. She wouldn't let him help. The spark of fire left in her seemed to have been dedicated to that one task, and she put all of her fury into it.
Then she would collapse on the couch, exhausted just from being alive, and he would awkwardly sit by her, probably closer than well Buffy would have allowed and not as close as this barely-there Buffy might have been okay with. She didn't say anything about the un-inviting, or the kiss, or really anything at all except for an occasional comment about the implausibility of some martial arts move on the dumb-movie-of-the-night.
After a couple of hours, Dawn and Buffy would fall asleep, and Spike would leave.
If Spike would have had a soul, he probably would have felt awful about how good he felt about the situation. He wasn't happy about their misery, obviously – he'd give everything he owned (which, admittedly, wasn't much) to see the two Summers women happy again. But going there every day, feeling useful…it was almost like having a family again. He didn't dare compare the feeling with his human life, but it was almost like in the very early days with Dru and Angelus and Darla. Only with less gruesome violence and more mediocre Chinese food.
Speaking of violence, no word on patrolling from Buffy. He'd taken a few quick lookabouts on his way in and out of the Summers' residence, but he was in no mood to jeopardize his good nights by bringing up a full schedule. Despite the ever-looming Glory threat, Sunnydale seemed to be pretty tip-top at the mo', and there was no need to bother the barely-breathing Slayer with worries about a few wayward vamps sucking dry the citizens still dumb enough to venture around the graveyards at night.
Yeah, this new routine was a bit of all right.
He was in for quite a surprise one night, however, when he dropped by with arms full of things he could pronounce a hell of a lot better than the bloody Americans running the restaurant, only to find the Slayer looking almost…peppy.
"Well, somebody had her Wheaties this morning," he said, bemused. Buffy yanked the bulging bags from his arms and spun around, trotting rapidly to the kitchen and talking as she walked.
"We can have these tomorrow. I'm cooking."
"You're – what?"
Sure enough, some very….interesting aromas were meeting his enhanced vampire senses.
Not all of it smelled bad, though. He could pick out some kind of meat that seemed positively delicious. "Cooking," he repeated. "Why?"
Buffy busied herself with finding places for the various containers in the fridge. It wasn't hard to do – he was pretty sure she hadn't been grocery shopping since Joyce – well, in a couple of weeks. "Because I'm tired of just sitting around on my ass while Willow bakes cookies and Xander drives Dawn to school and you bring home takeout…"
That was sound logic, enough, at least by Slayer standards. But – had his ears deceived him? "What's that, love?" he asked, emboldened a little by Buffy's newfound perkiness. "What do I do, exactly?"
She looked at him blankly. "You bring back takeout. Thanks, by the way. I…don't think I said it before."
Spike was reasonably certain that she had just referred to Revello Drive as home – contextually, his home – and he was dying to push the issue except, well, already dead. He opened his mouth to ask a little more, but Buffy shoved some plates into his arms.
"Less talking, more setting," she instructed. "We're having everybody."
He glanced over the number, mentally assigning Scoobies to plates. The Watcher, the boy, Anya, Red, Tara, Dawn, Buffy…
"And one to grow on," he murmured, a little surprised in spite of himself. Unless he was mistaken, Spike himself had scored a table setting.
This is it.
Buffy had battled countless evils, sent her own boyfriend to Hell, and ended so many apocalypses that she'd lost count. She had even died and come back to life. She had fought Cordelia Chase over the Homecoming Queen title.
None of that compared to the horror of trying to be a grown-up and host a (semi-)grown-up dinner party.
To start off with, she'd made the mistake of letting Dawn roast the potatoes, so they ended up burnt and over-seasoned. She couldn't remember where Mom had kept the good silverware, so Buffy had to piece together some mismatched forks and knives from the day-to-day drawer. Spike had insisted that he was not going to "sit through a whole bloody dinner with the Scoobies without the help of a little alcohol", and he came back with at least five different bottles, almost certainly illegally obtained.
And that was all before the rest of the gang even showed up.
"Xander! Anya!" she greeted enthusiastically after the first knock at the door. Buffy gave them her very best My-Life-Is-Together smile.
Anya returned it with a lightbulb smile of her own. Xander, instead, wrapped his arms around Buffy almost instinctively.
"How are you holding up?" he asked, his voice a little rough with emotion. She snuggled into the warmth for a brief second before breaking away.
Nope, no emotions for her today. "Better," she said, mostly-honestly. "Really."
"Good!" Anya said immediately. "It must be hard, doing all the things that Joyce used to do. Humans really are amazingly resilient."
Unsure what to say to that, Buffy ushered the pair into the living room, but before she could call Dawn back in (or try to explain Spike's presence, which she was so not ready to do, fyi), there was another knock at the door.
Once inside, Giles faced Spike wearily before turning to Buffy. "I don't suppose you have any scotch on hand?"
Before she could muster a reply (one that would sound suitably defensive of Spike without in any way implying that in the rare moments that the haze of grief lifted he was the first thought to come to mind), Spike snorted. "Like I could stand being here lookin' at your mug without something to take the edge off. I've got you covered, Rupes."
Giles almost smiled.
Buffy was spared from witnessing any more of their weird almost-bonding by yet another knock. Willow's hug nearly knocked her over; Tara, meanwhile, just stood by with a comforting smile. "Uh, we brought c-cookies," she said, thrusting the plate forward.
"Thanks. I guess everyone's here now, so we can…" She gestured vaguely toward the dining room.
Oh god, the dining room. She was barely conscious of her body for a second, only experiencing the events of weeks before. And remembering, even at that moment, the Christmas before, where everyone had been so happy…
Tara touched her shoulder gently. At her questioning look, Buffy nodded. "I'm fine," she said softly.
A minute later, as she looked at everyone gathered around the dining room table, like a real family – she sort of was.
Of course, they weren't the most functional family. Willow tried to conjure up some barbecue sauce for the chicken (per Xander's request) – she succeeded in producing the sauce, but forgot to specify a container. Giles took to the scotch quickly, which seemed to make Xander a little uneasy. Anya, in a rare attack of understanding, decided to distract him by regaling them all with tales from her Demon Glory Days ™. After Buffy finally persuaded her to stop, Tara collapsed in a fit of hopeless giggles as Dawn created a new culinary delight involving the burnt potatoes, some peanut butter, and a few dill pickle spears. Spike made some rude comment to Giles, which resulted in the Watcher taking even more scotch and the vampire stomping out to the back porch for a smoke break.
Once the noise subsided a little bit, Buffy glanced around and cleared her throat a little bit. She felt the pressing need to say something, even if she wasn't sure exactly what until she opened her mouth. "I, uh…I just want to thank everyone for coming, tonight. And – and for everything, these past few days. Weeks. It's been…it's meant a lot to me what everyone has done."
The others smile encouragingly.
Wait, they expect me to say more? That was all I had.
Then she thought of something else to say, something she felt like she had needed to say for a while. She didn't consider herself a super-duper touchy-feely kind of girl, but that didn't mean she was totally emotionless. "I…I love all of you," she added. The words tasted a little funny, but in a good way. Like toothpaste.
Of course, her ex-enemy, current-friend, potential-smooching-buddy had chosen that exact moment to walk in, invading her field of vision. Nobody turned to look at Spike; he might as well have been invisible to everybody except Buffy.
He was all she could see.
Those dark eyebrows shot almost up to his hairline at her words. She could almost see the thought forming, and she began to cringe when he opened his mouth. Off her look, however, he closed it again, but it didn't really matter. She already knew what he was going to say, and she knew that while he would have played it off as joking, he would have meant it. (The amount of analysis she put into a single Spike-expression was beginning to be downright scary.)
She couldn't say that to him, couldn't grant him that crumb. But there was one thing she could say.
Keeping her eyes locked on his and ignoring the butterflies in her stomach, Buffy continued. "I care about all of you way, way more than I could try to say. You're my family."
He leaned a little further forward and tilted his head, as if to say, even me?
Buffy gave a quick nod, heart suddenly pounding. She berated herself for it, but her heart just took that as an invitation to throb even harder. She began to seriously worry about her other organs.
Spike smiled, slowly. The butterflies in her stomach seemed to turn into lava.
Not even a thousand hellgods could have wiped that smile off of her face.
Spike silently argued with himself for the rest of the night about whether or not he should offer to stay. By the time that only the Watcher and he were left, he had almost decided not to push his luck any further.
"Night, Giles," Buffy said suddenly. She embraced him, and Spike thanked whatever deity didn't hate him too much for the Watcher's slight intoxication. He barely spared Spike a second glance as he stepped outside the door.
Spike cleared his throat. "Well, I guess I'll be - "
"Drying," she interrupted, thrusting a towel into his hands. "We don't keep slacker-types around."
His eyebrow shot up of its own accord, trying to cover up the pleasure the Slayer's words gave him. "Going to be keepin' me, around, are we?" he said, in as a damn an even tone as he could.
Buffy rolled her eyes. "Don't get any ideas." She began striding to the kitchen, moving in that way that he loved best, her hips all swivelly and fluid. Dawn smirked at his expression and pretended to gag.
Oh, that's it, Bit. His lips curled as he slung the hand towel over his shoulder and flashed her two fingers on his left hand – just as Big Sis turned around to catch him.
"What kind of dirty British thing are you showing to my sister?" she demanded, putting one hand on those delightful hips. Spike felt his tongue flick along his teeth, a completely unconscious gesture, but he lengthened the motion for Buffy's benefit.
And, as he'd hoped, her heart sped up. Well, well. He was getting somewhere – even if that somewhere was dust on the Slayer's floor.
He expected her to say something cruel or to tell him to leave. Instead, she latched onto the neckline of his shirt and pulled him into the kitchen with her, eyes flaring all the while. Her heart sounded like a bleedin' hummingbird, to boot.
"Gonna punish me, Slayer?" he asked, suddenly feeling daring. After all, she was the one still holding on to his hot little body for dear life, wasn't she? 'Course, it was because she was brassed off, but that was practically a permanent state for Buffy.
For normal Buffy, he realized suddenly. Real Buffy. Not this woman who'd been nine-tenths vegetable for a long minute. Yeah, she was glaring and fuming, but she looked alive.
And damn him, Spike wanted to grab hold of her and never let go.
Before his brain could send the message to the rest of his fool body that actually hugging the Slayer was bloody suicidal, one hand had made its way to her upper arm. Buffy looked at it, bemused and beautiful.
The air had changed, and he was breathing entirely too much of it for someone who didn't strictly need to. His chest was almost heaving, as if trying to make up for the last hundred or so years of only using his lungs for smoke breaks and witty threats. His head spun like he was starving, even though he distinctly remembered having fed a few hours before coming to the get-together.
Very, very slowly, Buffy let her own arm snake underneath his, until they were standing in a kind of half-embrace. He took an even deeper breath, savoring her scent. Her warmth. Almost unconsciously, he pulled her closer, wrapping both arms loosely around her waist. She leaned into the touch, against all his belief. He felt the Slayer take a long, ragged breath against his chest.
It took him a moment to realize she was crying. Curse words in a dozen languages, not all of them human, flew through his mind. Bleedin' hell, he finally settled on. What does she expect from me? He'd comforted her before, that night he'd come to kill her, but not like this. Not with an armful of sobbing Slayer and the knowledge that the wrong she was crying over he could never right.
And he wasn't near ready to tell her he could identify.
Spike patted her back awkwardly, smoothing her hair with his free hand. He let his fingers get lost in the slight waves, wondering how quickly his own heart would be beating if it still could. He imagined it would have shattered his ribs by now.
After a minute, Buffy quieted and pulled away wordlessly, moving to the sink. He followed in equal silence.
She didn't look at him for more than a split second until after all the dishes were washed, dried, and put away. Figuring he was no longer needed, Spike began to head to the living room to grab his duster when he felt a hand catch his arm.
They looked at each other for a long moment. He was hardly close enough to lean in and kiss her, but it wouldn't have taken more than an instant. But Buffy was in charge of this little show, at least for now. He watched her face carefully.
Her expression softened as she looked at him. "Good night, William."
His given name. Well, what did you know? Spike could tell by the Slayer's expression that even she hadn't expected for that to come out. He tried to conceal his shock, and only replied softly, "Good night, Buffy."
For the first time in a while, Buffy woke up with real feelings in the pit of her stomach, besides "check on Dawn", and "what if I never got up". It was strange, something beyond fear or apathy, but still generally sort of negative. After a minute of flipping through an imaginary emotional dictionary, she pinpointed the feeling as anxiety.
She was nervous. Nervous about…Spike. It was like her brain wouldn't stop replaying the night before. It was worse than when she'd kissed him, because this time she had a terrible sense that if she had kissed him she wouldn't have been able to tear herself away.
And that was bad and wrong and…some other adjectives that she would be able to think of if it wasn't morning and she wasn't still in bed, rubbing at her eyes and waiting for her alarm to go off in two minutes.
Bad and wrong, she repeated to herself, after the alarm went off and she set herself to making up the bed. Wrong and bad and not okay.
Wrong and bad and not okay and icky – okay, not icky – but wrong, definitely wrong, she continued, as she pulled cereal out of the cabinets. And by cereal, she meant one half-empty box of Cheerios. Not even Honey Nut. Just Cheerios.
Okay, so she'd add "go shopping" on her to-do list, somewhere between "panic over attraction to another dead guy" and "figure out how to foil plans of hellgod archnemesis".
It was gonna be a fun day.
"D'you think Spike'll come by tonight?" Dawn said, through a mouthful of Cheerios. She swallowed and grimaced. "By the way, I think those expired, like, last year."
"Sorry," Buffy said absently. "I think we might still have some Pop-Tarts…Why wouldn't he come by?"
Her sister shrugged, like it was no big deal. Which clearly, it was no big deal. It wasn't like she needed Spike. It wasn't even like she wanted to see Spike. He was just a short (not hulking, which wow, that was a nice change), bleached (which, okay, was weird but kind of suited him), annoying vampire who just happened to have really good taste in Chinese food and was also mad wonderful at kissing.
Not that she was thinking about kissing him. At all.
"I mean, he probably figures you're feeling more you, right? You invited everyone over and everything."
"That's not…I didn't…he knows that…"
Dawn gulped down her orange juice. "I gotta go. Oh, and Buffy? Maybe when you go talk to Spike you should use actual sentences."
"I'm not going to go talk to Spike!"
An hour later, she found herself pausing in front of the door to his crypt. He was essentially a friend now, part of the gang in some weird way. Should she knock? Her usual strategy was just to bust down the door, but that seemed freakish and inappropriate when she'd been crying in his arms (literally) the night before. But knocking seemed so awkward and formal.
Not to mention, there was a chance he'd burn up in the sunlight trying to answer the door.
Buffy compromised by letting herself in quietly, shutting the door behind her. "Spike?" she said quietly.
Nothing. She was reminded way too much of the last time she came here to find him, and how things had ended that night. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to get out every last toe-tingling memory like it was toothpaste out of a tube.
Trying to find something to get her thoughts away from that particular subject, she wandered over to a coffin and picked up the black nail polish that was lying haphazardly there. Effortlessly, she lifted herself to sit atop the coffin and began to toy with the lid of the polish.
He loves me, he loves me n- oh, this is stupid. Duh. He loves me. So not the issue here. She absently unscrewed the top and began applying the polish to the pinky nail of her left hand. Where is he, anyway? I guess he's sleeping. He sure sleeps a lot for a dead guy. Holding her hand out, she inspected the results. Hah. Maybe I should tease him about needing his beauty sleep.
Suddenly, she remembered how he'd looked at her the night before. The angular curve of his cheekbones meeting his chin. Blue eyes burning brightly like the hottest part of a fire. Full lips slightly open, like she was so delicious he had to breathe her in with all of his senses.
She swallowed and began applying the nail polish more hurriedly.
"Buffy?"
Oh sh- The brush slipped and she ended up painting a black line down her index finger. She wiped the polish against her jeans and closed the bottle, looking up to meet Spike's eyes.
Or that was the plan, anyway, until she realized that her eyes had been confronted with a very wet, towel-clad vampire. Spike's hair fell in loose curls over his forehead, which only seemed to bring out the bones of his face in even sharper contrast. His chest – which she absolutely refused to purple-prose, even in her own mind – was completely bare, and only a kinda ratty towel hung low around his hips. He was barefoot.
And the room was suddenly airless.
He frowned at her in confusion. "What are you doing here? Give a bloke some warning. Almost walked up here completely starkers."
Once she deciphered the meaning behind the British-ness, that thought didn't exactly make her mind less jumbly. "I, uh…I was just here. To do the – the talky thing. About us. Wait. Not us-us, just – Dawn said you might think that you weren't needed or whatever now, and well, you still are. Maybe not needed, I mean, we're fine, but you know. Wanted. By her! And me, I guess. In a completely not…bad…way."
Spike squinted. "Seem a bit flustered, Summers," he commented, moving a little closer to her. "But I appreciate the thought, if I correctly dug it out of all the babble."
Buffy crossed her arms defensively. "Well, excuse me," she said, with a little less of an edge in her voice than she'd intended. "You'd be all flustery too, mister, if I was the one walking around mostly naked."
His adam's apple bobbed. "A valid point," he said, looking away. His voice had taken on that husky quality that she liked more than she wanted to. "I'll get my kit on, yeah? There's stuff in the fridge, while you wait. Unless you want to watch the show."
She gave him a dirty look. "I'll take a double pass. Trying to cut back on my blood-drinking."
"There's beer, too. And sodas, for the Bit. Think there's still chips and salsa left as well. Help yourself."
Well, Buffy wasn't one to look a gift salsa in the mouth, especially when she hadn't been grocery shopping in half of forever. She was sprawled in the not-too-uncomfy armchair, crunching away happily, when Spike returned. To her surprise, he wasn't wearing all black, but had instead chosen a tight-fitting red shirt to go with his customary black jeans.
Trying not to look too appreciative, she immediately began talking. "So how come you eat so much human food, anyway? I mean, I guess it's a matter of taste or whatever, but you don't really need it. I don't really have a full sample of vamps, really, but I know Angel almost never ate. Is it an age thing, maybe? Or are you just weird?"
For a second, she wondered if she'd left the fridge open, because a strong chill had settled over the room as she spoke. Spike was clenching his jaw a bit as he stalked to the fridge to retrieve a bottle of beer.
"So should I just start expecting to always be compared to bloody Angel?" He looked like just saying the name physically pained him. "Yeah, we're both undead. I learned to unlive with that fact. The similarities end there."
Buffy thought about pointing out their mutual penchant for dramatic coats and pretending to be badder than they were, but thought that might not go over well. "I'm just saying," she said rather sullenly. "No need to blow a gasket. Whatever that means. You know, that sounds kind of dirty, now that I think about it, so I'm gonna…not think about it."
Alas, but the joke failed to dent the legendary Vampire Hissy Fit. In fact, Spike's glare only intensified as he settled into the chair next to her. "You're just saying what? That I'll never be the magnificent, perfect Sir Broods-A-Lot? Yeah, I know. Think Dru hammered that into me hard enough, thanks."
"That's not what I -"
"I know I don't have a bloody soul, all right? I know I'll never be worth anything to you. I know that I'm still a monster in your eyes, and mine too, as a matter of fact. No need to start comparing me to Angel just to prove that point."
"Spike, you're being ridiculous."
"Am I? Because I don't see the Great Angel coming out of the woodwork to defend himself. In fact, I haven't seen him in quite some time, since long before Soldier Boy packed up and left." He fixed his murderous gaze to the wall somewhere above her head. "Did he even bloody call you when Joyce…?"
"He didn't call," Buffy said calmly, but before Spike could interject another tirade, she added, "He came to see me."
He blinked at her, looking shocked. "When?"
"The night of the funeral. You were…at home with Dawn, I think. I stayed at the grave past nightfall. I think, in a way, I knew he'd be there."
She hadn't told anyone about Angel's visit, not even Dawn or Giles. Honestly, she hadn't spent much time thinking about it after that night. It was like being with him was some little slice of perfection, but it was so removed from what she knew as reality that it seemed like someone else's life.
Spike set his jaw. "Did he – did you – "
She sighed. And welcome to the other reason I didn't tell anyone. "Nothing really happened. We might have kissed once or twice, but if we did, it's none of your business," she said in a warning tone.
He seemed to deflate a little bit, looking nervously down at his hands instead of into her eyes. "Right. Sorry I asked."
Should I – she wondered briefly, but some connection between her brain and her tongue momentarily shorted, and she just barreled on. "He, um, he did smell you on me. Which is way on the 'super' side of the freaky scale, in case you wanted to know."
He looked up at her, eyes suddenly lighter. "I'm surprised he didn't try to turn me into dust, then. I imagine he'd jump to the…worst conclusion."
Buffy sighed. "I told him the truth – or some of it. That you were on the side of the good guys now. That we weren't…together, or anything like that, but that you had been comforting me and helping out with Dawn."
Then, in the softest voice she thought she'd ever heard him use, Spike asked, "Did you tell him that I – that I love you?"
"He didn't ask," she replied smoothly, and now she was the one unable to meet his eyes. "But…he did ask if I was in love with you."
Spike didn't ask what she said, and she felt that he never would, so she continued, "I told him no…but I also told him not to be surprised if I changed my answer sometime." She finally looked back up at him.
"Possibly even soonish."