The crowd at the Bronze is subdued and sparse, as it's a school night and edging into the early hours of the morning. The college cliental has slowly dwindled, being replaced sporadically by demons and other lurkers. Spike sinks the last ball into the corner pocket at the pool table, downing the last swig of beer.
"Right, pay up." He clicks his fingers and a skinny demon barely keeping his human shape rolls his eyes.
"Come on, man. Double or nothing."
"Nothing. Pay. Up."
The demon sighs and fishes a wad of notes out of his back pocket, slapping it into Spike's hand.
He slips it into his back pocket, and as the demon slumps off sulking into the crowd Spike's view of the bar clears. Blonde hair, petit figure and a fuck off attitude radiating from her in waves.
Well, either that's her or I've had more to drink than I thought.
He edges closer to her and sees the look of pure misery writ across her face as she thumbs at the label of the beer in her hand. He sighs, shifting uncomfortably at the desperate tug that look on her face has hooked into his gut.
Getting it bad. Don't think I could shag her out of my system now even if I tried. Can't help myself though... even getting the brush off is better than nothing. She's like an itch I've got to scratch.
"It's late, luv. Shouldn't you be all snuggled up in bed with Dearest Disappointment?" He slides into the bar stool next to her, close enough to graze her arm with his, close enough to feel her warmth, and she rolls her eyes.
"And so my horrendous night is complete." She sighs, dragging her nail down over the beer bottle's label, pulling it to shreds.
"That bad, huh?"
Buffy winces, not looking up from the nearly full beer in her hand.
"I really don't want to talk about it."
"Fair enough. Would you rather drink about it?"
"I'm all set. Thanks." She waves the beer bottle in her hand, but sets it back down again untouched.
"Proper drink sweetheart, that's not going to cut it. Oi, mate? Two vodkas." He slides one of the crumpled dollar bills from his pocket as the bartender walks by.
"Ew. No." Buffy grimaces.
The bartender returns, plonking two shots down in front of them, and Spike slides one across to her.
"Come on. It's good for you."
"It's definitely not."
"You won't know you hate it 'til you try it."
"I hate everything right now." She fingers the shot glass.
Ugh why not? Nothing's going to make me feel worser. Might as well feel numb-er.
She downs the shot and pulls a face, scrunching her eyes as the alcohol disinfects the back of her throat.
"Yup. I hate it."
Spike downs his, and signals for two more.
"No!" Buffy pushes the shot glass away as it arrives and Spike smirks.
"Drink it up, luv, and if you're a good I'll even let you punch me in the face. That always makes you feel better."
Despite herself Buffy smiles.
"Yeah well... I'll hold you to that. Can we skip to that part?" She downs another shot, scowling at the fresh hit of it. Her throat feels raw from holding tears back all day and the vodka stings as it goes down. She sighs, leaning her head in her hand. "Everything sucks."
"I sort of remember that, yeah."
"Everything hurts and sucks and is awful."
Spike clenches his hand, feeling like he's going to be unable to stop himself as he reaches out and settles his fingers carefully across her arm that's resting on the counter of the bar. There's a moment, fleeting, where she tenses, and he expects her to pull away. Spit some venom at him, or throw a punch. But she doesn't. Instead there's an almost imperceptible unwinding of tension underneath her skin. Time slows. He hasn't taken a breath in minutes, not that he needs it, but the tightness in his chest is there just the same. As of breath being held. Softly so as not to startle her he rubs a thumb over the skin of her arm, swallowing hard at the warmth underneath his hand, crackling and electric like lightning. Drinking in the silk of her.
"You look a little spread thin."
"I feel it."
She softens further underneath his fingertips.
Don't ruin this. Say something but don't ruin this. Want to keep this moment forever... Need this. More than she does, I need this.
"I know it's hard... Your mom-"
"It's not just that."
He shuts his mouth, giving her the room to talk if she wants.
Buffy bites her lip, watching as his fingers stroke higher up towards her hand. Cool but soft. Sort of strangely relaxing if she doesn't think too hard about it. If she doesn't dwell on who the hand belongs to. Just to be touched gently. Feels a little like healing. Cooling her internally from the heat of anger still prowling around inside her. Calming her down to a place where she can talk about it. No longer seething. Just sad.
"...He hates me."
His fingers pause a little, before resuming the slow winding strokes across the back of her hand. Barely there at all. She knows she should pull back but she'd too tired and too miserable to deny that she wants it now.
I'll let him. And it'll be alright. It'll be alright if I don't... if I don't touch him back then I haven't done anything wrong.
"Who?"
"Riley." There's a beat the length of a couple of breaths ands he waits to see if he'll gloat. Sneer. Pull her worst insecurities out of the air like they're tattooed across her face and throw them back at her with a flourish. But when he does speak there's only softness underneath.
"What happened?"
She sighs, trying to pull the words together. Spikes hand has moved up over her own and unthinkingly she let's him slip between the gaps in her fingers. He lingers there, just hand over hand, stroking softly.
"He wants me to-" She shakes her head, starting over, letting out a bitter chuckle that's a little too close to tears. "He said I shouldn't be the Slayer all the time. That I should just... be me."
Spike nods.
"He only wants half of you. The sweet, innocent schoolgirl side of you. Not the dropkick a demon across the other side of the country side of you."
"Yes."
He smirks, but not unkindly.
"Well have you tried that? Maybe while you're at it you could try having legs just 3 days a week? You're doing far too much strutting about, all high and mighty and independent, you could try not doing that whole walking around all un-assisted thing? Just lop off the bits he doesn't like while he's around. Whatever it takes to protect his fragile sense of self-worth, pet."
Buffy can't help but chuckle at his sarcasm. She sniffs wetly, wiping the heal of her free hand under her eye before they start to flood.
I'm too tired for this. There's too much and I just... don't have room in myself anymore.
Spike's lips tighten a little, betraying the sourness rising in his throat. He signals at the bartender and another two shots of vodka arrive.
"I hate him, you know."
She pulls her arm back away from him, unlatching their fingers, as she picks up the shot and downs it quickly, pulling a face at the taste of it.
"Because of the chip in your head?"
Spike downs his own shot, grimaces but not from the taste of he vodka. The loss of her under his fingertips stings more than he'd care to admit.
"...That's part of it. I might not always play by the rules, but no one can say I don't give people a fair shot. Drugging someone. Cutting them open. That's not a fair fight. Blokes like that, that do that... they think the ends justifies the means. Slippery slope, thinking that way. You start finding more and more ends that need to be justified, as it were. And the means stop needing to be explained." He plays his fingers around the rim of the shot glass, feeling fidgety and angry at himself for aching for her. "Seen it happen enough times. You live long enough, you see it happen plenty. Insecure little boys get a bit too much power. It always ends the same."
Buffy's frozen, thinking about that tin foil pit in the initiative with all those straps. All those needles, and scalpels and-... and hacksaws. Worse things. Tools she couldn't even name.
I couldn't do that. Even when we tied Spike up he was safe. Even if it's a demon you don't hurt something that can't fight back... that's...
That's evil.
The'd felt like that the first time she'd seen the Initiative. They weren't interested in keeping civilians safe. There was no clean slay, no ultimate good versus ultimate evil. It was research. It was blurring the line of good and evil. Science without morality.
The pieces Maggie Walsh had squirrelled away to build Adam. The damage he could do... he wasn't for protection. He was for destruction. That wasn't what the good side was supposed to look like.
If I hadn't escaped the tunnels would I have been added to her box of parts?
She shivers, flinching violently away from memories but they come anyway. Of being tied down in a white sterile room as needles slipped in under her skin, insidiously gliding into her veins. Filling her with poison as she passed out of consciousness. Helpless and terrified-
no.
"Riley's not like that."
...But...
"...Sort of wish we still had the Initiative's lab. Information on healing like that would be invaluable."
"Isn't he?" Spike fishes a packet of cigarettes out of his coat pocket and lights one. "You think he'd respect your super strength, your Slayer destiny, and cosmic calling if he didn't love you? Or is it more likely that the only respect you're getting from him is because he loves you?"
Buffy turns, brow furrowed.
"What do you mean?"
Spike shakes his head sadly, letting out a long stream of smoke.
"Love and respect aren't the same thing, you know. If he only respects you because he loves you, how long before you find yourself with your own chip?"
"The Initiative doesn't exist anymore."
Spike grins icily.
"Bully for you, pet. Good thing there aren't other ways to control someone, eh? Dodged a bullet there."
Buffy shakes her head.
"He's not like that." She repeats, but the words don't come out with any conviction.
"No? I'm sure this is all for your own good then. Offering to lighten the load, because he's such a gentleman."
"I'm just asking to take some of the burden off you."
Why is it I can never hide anything from Spike? It's like he can read my mind...
Spike's eyes haven't left her face. Cool blue eyes that feel like they're looking straight into her brain.
Buffy swallows.
"Isn't that what you do though? When you love someone, you offer to shoulder the burden?"
Why am I defending him?
Because you love him... right? She thinks to herself, and wavers at the uncertainty.
"Sure. You offer." Spike takes another drag of the cigarette that's starting to burn down in his hand. "But you don't make them feel like they're the burden. If you love someone no part of them is a burden."
He stubs out his cigarette in an ashtray, blowing out a last lungful of smoke.
"I hated Dru sometimes you know? When she'd-" he bites his tongue, feeling his gut turn inside out from the pain. Thinking of all those times... fucking Angel in front of him as he watched helpless from a wheelchair. Pawed at and caressed demons in front of his very eyes, as if he was little more than a backdrop to her own insanity. Worse things. Deserted him completely, knowing how much agony it caused him to be apart from her...
"... but she was never a burden to me."
He's silent for a long time, watching her watching him back.
She's not going to just fall into your arms, you pillock. No matter how badly you want it.
Not with that asshole still in the picture.
She turns away, staring back at the bottle in front of her to avoid his gaze.
"What would you do? If… if you were in his position?"
"If you were mine?"
She freezes. "I'm not saying that."
Despite the dead heart in his chest he still feels like it missed a beat. But that's what you meant.
She pinches her lips shut, closing her eyes so she doesn't see his. Stiffens a little when she feels his fingers folding a sheath of her hair back, tucking it behind her ear.
"It makes you tired doesn't it sweetheart? Being the strong one all the time. You want to share it with someone, but not someone who'll call you weak afterwards. Not someone who'll try to take it from you. You do want to share it. But only when it's right."
"What makes it right?" She sighs, wiping more tears out of her eyes. "Why can't it be right with Riley?"
"You know why. He wants to be fighting instead of you. Not next to you. Or for you. He doesn't want a Slayer, pet. He wants a damsel in distress. You can't be that for him without sacrificing a piece of yourself."
Buffy swallows back more tears. There's a harsh burning now in her throat of constantly holding back her emotions, mingled with the sharp taste of the vodka.
Maybe I'm drunk, but everything he says is true.
Why does it have to be him saying all this.
Why can't it be safe sweet Riley. Kind, mostly thoughtful Riley who most of the time just wants to help, even if it is misplaced. Even if does come across as controlling sometimes I know he's doing it because he cares. But I don't want to be cared for like a weak little girl. I don't want someone to take my job and do it for me. And I don't want to be made to feel like the bad guy for saving myself all the time. For saving him too. He gets so resentful if he's not the hero of the day it's ridiculous...
"...I want it to be over." She whispers.
A cold flood of dread fills Spike's stomach, swells his throat shut completely.
Which part? Joyce's illness? Or the Slayer life?
Or... Life, entirely?
Too much talk of death wishes and near misses has clouded his mind, despite the easiness with which he can usually read her, all those beautiful micro-expressions that flit across her face as she thinks and talks and moves like an open book, as though it's all for him. No one else seems to notice it...
But now he can't tell which facet of her misery she's talking about, the indecision of what to say clamping his mouth shut entirely.
He blinks hard trying to dispel the paralysis of his vocal chords, but as he struggles for the words she slips out of her seat.
"Buffy..." but she's already out the door, swallowed up by the dark.