New York 2009
As Buffy neared the door of her apartment she heard the T.V. blaring from within. Great, so he was awake. Well, she couldn't count on him sleeping for ever unless she gave him a poison apple or enchanted spinning wheel or something. Again, the stuff of fairy tells, so far removed from her reality. Sure the monsters were real, but the happily ever after, not so much. Besides, she didn't know if Spike would even eat an apple. He definitely seemed more like junk food guy than healthy fruits and vegetables guy. The only time she had seen him eat a vegetable it had been an onion and it had been deep fried. But it wasn't like he had to worry about keeping the doctor away. One of the benefits of being dead, she guessed, you could eat whatever you want.
And as for a spinning wheel, he probably wouldn't even know what to do with that. Not that she would either. Actually, he might even have a better idea than she did. When were spinning wheels from anyway? Was their time Spike's time or William's time. Willow or Giles would know, but she had no idea.
Not that it mattered, really. The point was that there was no way for her to keep avoiding him. Not without major mystical intervention. And that so rarely ended well.
At least, she had been lucky enough to get out of the apartment that morning without him waking up. She had hurried out, making as little noise as possible, leaving with her hair still damp for fear of using the hair dryer. And he had slept through it all. Slept like the dead, she thought wryly. Which, of course, he was.
She had been at the school all day. On Tuesdays she had her biology class and the three hour lab that went with it. Kinda a boring bio bonus required by the school which she would have happily, more than happily, done without. The professor had kept them the whole time, which usually would have made for a very bored and very pissed off Buffy, but today she had been almost happy to be in class. She would take any excuse to avoid going back to her apartment. Going back to him. She had considered hanging out on campus until after dark, but had decided against it. After all, it was her apartment. She was not going to let her stupid vampire house guest keep her away from what would have to be home, at least for the next three months. At least for as long she was stuck here.
So now she had to stop being avoid-o girl, and deal with him. At least the volume of the television gave her a few minutes to steady herself, steel her resolve, before she went in to face him. Their past few tête-à-têtes had been brutal, and she was so not ready for another. She took a few deep breaths to calm herself, before unlocking the apartment door and entering it.
He was lounging on the couch watching some stupid soap opera. She sighed, some things never changed. It didn't matter how much they had been through, how much of a soap opera their own lives had become, Spike still loved bad day time television. It was so weird for a vampire, and not at all scary for a Big Bad. William the Bloody glued to Days of Our Lives and As the World Turns. It was fucking ridiculous. She imagined the fit he must have thrown when Passions was cancelled. He probably had gotten very drunk and very violent when he found out his favorite soap was going off the air. She felt herself almost grin, but stopped herself. Grinning would be a bad idea. Grinning about Spike would be a very bad idea.
"Honey, you're home," Spike drawled, looking up from his stories to greet her.
"And you're still here."
"Still light out, love, don't have much of a choice to be anywhere else. At least not in one piece. Although there could be lots of little pieces, all sailing off to join the great cosmic clusterfuck," he concluded thoughtfully. "Rather poetic if you think about it. Not a bad way for a bloke to go. Fitting," he grinned
"You know what, that's actually a pretty nice thought. Glad you're feeling contemplative," she responded dryly.
"So, what did you learn at school today?" he inquired sarcastically. A performance of nonchalance. An attempt to kind his awkwardness, his unease, his fear.
"Save it, Spike. We are so not doing this," her tone was sharp, hard. It had to be. She had to make herself clear.
"Doing what?"
"The pretending that everything is okay."
"Is that why you bought me dinner?" he gestured to the brown paper bag she was holding. "Can smell it from here, Slayer. Didn't know you delivered."
She looked down at the bag she was holding, and then slumped onto the couch next to him, defeated, resting the bag on the floor. True, she had stopped at a butcher shop on Arthur Ave and bought him blood. At the time it had seemed like the right thing to do, even though she suspected that it was a very bad idea. She didn't seem capable of stopping herself when it came to him. Always giving into impulses, even when she knew it would hurt her, or at least aggravate or annoy her, in the long run.
"After I let you in to save you from becoming all dusty, I figured it would be really stupid to let your ass starve," she explained, dismissing the gesture.
"Well, I appreciate it. You not letting me turn into Bag O'Bones. Means a lot or means something anyway."
Well, it was something, wasn't it? And definitely not something he had expected. Her bringing him blood like this. As he had sat in the apartment all day, his stomach gurgling and growling, he had figured that she would bloody let him starve. Without a second thought too. There was a time when she would have. And then there was a time, another time, a later time, when she had held the packets of blood for him, feeding him because he was dangerous and had to be tied to a chair in her room to keep everyone else in house safe. He had seen so much of the old Buffy, the Buffy that had looked at him with distain and disgust as he drank blood through a straw from the Watcher's novelty mugs, that he had forgotten about the Buffy who had so tenderly cared for him, who had gently wiped the blood from his face and told him she believed in him. She was flipping back between these two versions of herself so quickly, changing the channel before he could suss out exactly which program he was watching.
He looked down, avoiding her gaze, but she could hear the emotion, the confusion in his voice.
She could not let him think that there had been any affection behind or coded within her buying him blood. Only pragmatism. "It was nothing. Really doesn't mean a thing. Didn't know if any of the shops would be open after dark. You can check that on your way to your class tonight." She wasn't sure if he was teaching a class tonight. She just really hoped he was. She just really needed him to leave.
"Cancelled my class for tonight, pet."
"And why is that?"
He turned to look at her expressionlessly. "Don't think it would make a very good first impression, showing up to class like this." His face looked better than it had the night before, but still, discolored with bruises and healing cuts, it did not look good.
"Why? Might put the fear of God or at least the fear of you in them. Be sure nobody will miss any homework assignments. Not with the Big Bad prof in charge." She grinned and he chuckled before they both caught themselves, stopping abruptly. She had to stop doing this. Slipping into this old familiarity with him. But it was so easy, seemed so natural, felt so right. She had to stop doing this. She was angry with him, right? Hated him for hurting her. She couldn't be laughing with him now. Buffy changed her expression from one of amusement to one that she hoped passed for searing hatred and unadulterated rage. Things were easier, safer, that way.
He tilted his head, looking at her. She was behaving so oddly, sending him so many mixed signals he needed a bloody decoder ring to figure her out emotional Morse code. One minute she was laughing with him, the next throwing sodding stakes with her eyes. If looks could kill, then the Slayer had those down pat.
"Alright, Buffy," he said softly, cautiously. "So, where do we go from here?"
"We don't go anywhere," she snapped. "You go out and find an apartment. You go away. And I go to class and the go back to England. There is no we going anywhere. There is no weness at all."
"Balls," he said standing up from the couch. "I can't take any more of this."
"You can't take this any more? You came to me, you idiot. Remember?"
"Yeah. Well, I suppose did. Must of had a daft notion that you might actually not treat me like shit. Stupid of me, I know," he said, his voice half way between a grumble and a growl.
"You so cannot blame this on, Spike. I didn't ask you here. I didn't invite you over for a fucking slumber party. I let you in because I had to. You didn't give me a choice."
"You could have just fucking let me die. Bloody wish that you had."
"No. I couldn't let you die. You knew that. You knew that I would let you in. But I don't want you here. I actually want to be as far away from you as possible. Like another continent or even another dimension would be perfect."
"Right then," he looked hurt, then angry, "I'll be out of here in a few hours. Once the fucking sun goes down. You won't see me again, Buffy. Can't bloody take this anymore. You with your fucking mood swings and your defensiveness and your sodding righteousness. I can't fucking deal with you anymore. I've taken enough bloody abuse and dealt with enough mixed fucking signals to last me the rest of my bloody unlife. I've fucking had it. You want me out. Fine, I'm fucking out of here, Slayer." Seething, he grabbed his duster and moved to the door before remember that the sun was still up. He was trapped. No way he could storm out and end this stupid, pathetic scene. He settled for impotent fuming and pacing. He would have kicked a hole in the wall, but that would have just gotten her more brassed off and bitchy and he had bloody had enough of that. So he restrained himself. Once the sun went down he could lose himself in violence.
There was a long silence before Buffy answered, tears welling up in her eyes. "I can't do this anymore," she murmured, her head cradled in her arms. She looked up, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Spike. No. Wait. I don't want you to go. Not really. I say I do. But I don't mean it."
There she had said it, realizing, admitting, the reason she had so desperately avoided him. The reason she had wanted to flee to England. Had wanted to be so far away from him. It wasn't because she was angry, or because she hated him. No matter what she might tell herself. The reason was that now that she had seen him again, she could not let herself let go. She had wanted to force the separation because she was not strong enough to sustain it on her own. She had tried to drive him away with anger and harsh words, inciting his own rage, because when it came down to it, she was not strong enough to stay away. Her weakness in this moment proved it. She had almost been free of him, but she could not let him go.
And, she guessed, denial, of her feelings, of her weakness, was easier when he was not near her to remind her of everything she wanted, of everything she had lost.
He was before her in an instant, kneeling down in front of her, his mood, his tone completely altered. Guess she wasn't the only one whose mood hung on a sodding pendulum. He was her bitch, at least that he was fucking sure of. The moment she offered him the smallest morsel of hope, the slightest sliver, it brought him to his bloody knees. "What do you mean, then?" his words unsure, anxious, eager, barely more than a whisper. His eyes searched her face, full of fear, confusion, and desire. Wishing desperately for her answer and completely afraid of what she might respond.
"I don't know. I don't know anymore, Spike. Things used to be so clear. So easy. Now its all greyish and I just don't know. I should be furious with you, Spike. I should hate you and hit you and yell at you again for being a dufus. For dying. For leaving me. For not coming to me when you came back. For hurting me again. After everything I've been through. Everything we have. I should tell you to leave, or walk out of here myself, and never think about you again." Spike opened his mouth about to say something. "But I can't. I'm not strong enough. I should hate you, but I can't. I should leave you, but I won't. All I know is that I can't keep doing this with you. But I'm still not ready for you not to be in my life. I'm just so tired of this all and I don't know what to do."
It killed Spike, as much as a dead man could die, to see her like this, her eyes full of tears, her lower lip trembling, her words of hurt and angry and confusion tumbling forth. It broke his unbeating heart to see his Slayer so exhausted, so unsure, so lost, and it was torture to know that he was the source of it all. "Buffy," he moved to her, held her, whispered her name over and over again. Trying to sooth her, to reassure her, to show her that his love for her was unaltered. He was still hers, would be until he died. In the permanent sense of the world. Eventually she quieted.
"We don't need to figure it out now, pet," he reassured her. "Just knowing that you want me here, even just a little, well, that's enough for me. Lived on whatever crumbs you'd throw me for years. Was enough for me then, and its bloody plenty for me now."
"Then what should we do?" she asked, her nose red and stuffy, eyes blood shot from her tears. Spike thought she looked beautiful.
"We could, you know, hang out. Watch the telly or something," he offered.
"That's, well, it's lame actually."
He shrugged. "It's a start, isn't it?"
"I guess so," she readjusted herself next to him on the couch. Not touching him, certainly not cuddling, but close, the hostility gone, the defensiveness departed.
Spike flipped through the channels, trying to find something to watch. Most of it was complete rubbish. Not that it mattered, really. Buffy had fallen asleep almost at once, and he could spend the whole night just watching her. The telly, really, was just an alibi.