Tara:
The atmosphere is horribly tense as we wait in Mr Giles'
house for Angel to arrive. Conversation petered out about an hour ago after we
all ran out of small talk to exchange. Usually Xander sort of scares me, with his
brash overconfidence and the long connection he has shared with Willow. I am
nervous to be around him, because I'm not his sort of person. I can't rattle
off smart comments or witty quips, and I've suffered so much teasing in my life
that being made the butt of one of his many jokes often stings a little. But
now I wish he was here, because he'd manage to keep everyone's spirits up with
some lively chatter. Now, somehow, I feel like it should be my job to do that –
perhaps because there is no one else.
Buffy
just sits curled up in the corner, her knees drawn into her chest. I know she
is thinking about the battle to come, about Mr Giles in a coma in hospital and
about how, even if the world does survive, the reappearance of her ex-lover
could turn her life upside down anyway. If I learnt anything from seeing Oz and
Willow together it's that some loves never die, even if they're not possible
anymore. Willow will always love Oz, even if she chooses to be with me now. And
I have to accept that as a part of who she is. Willow is Willow because of the
past she has shared with him and sometimes I think I even love her more for it.
I love the fact that she has a big enough heart to fit both of us in and I love
that she is honest enough and open enough to tell me about these feelings – it
just makes our relationship stronger rather than weaker.
From
what Willow's told me about Buffy and Angel, I guess that she feels the same
way about him as Will does about Oz. He's always going to have a piece of her
heart no matter who else she shares it with. But I don't think Riley can deal
with that. He doesn't understand that what Buffy had with someone else has no
bearing on what she has with him. He wants her to be his and his alone. This
possessiveness is clear from the way that he glares daggers at Spike now –
another man in the vicinity of his girlfriend. I look at Riley and Buffy
and I worry their relationship won't make it. He keeps trying to edge closer to
her, but she pulls away. I see the hurt and rejection in Riley's eyes and the
confusion in Buffy's. There is a void between them that neither knows how to
bridge and the realisation makes me a little bit sad. I guess when you're happy
and in love, you want everyone else to be too.
Thinking
about love leads me to thinking about Willow. Well, admittedly, thinking about
practically anything leads me to thinking about Willow. Somebody just
has to mention something as innocuous as French fries and I'm already imagining
how cute she is when she eats them. She picks the fries up between her thumb
and her pinkie finger then dips them twice each in the ketchup and nibbles at
them with her front teeth. One time she got some of the sauce on her nose and I
kissed it off. I don't even like ketchup, but that day it tasted wonderful,
like fresh mountain air or summer rain, like Willow.
I
look at Willow now and my heart breaks. She seems so lost, so broken. I guess
it's difficult for her, having two of her closest friends injured like that and
then nearly dying herself. Last night she didn't sleep a wink. She just lay
awake, holding on to me tightly, like if she let go and fell asleep then I
wouldn't be there when she woke up. She once told me that she hated fire – hate
like, phobia hate. Something to do with the way it just consumed everything
indiscriminately. It didn't matter if you were rich or poor, good or evil – it
could turn you to blackness and ashes anyway. She used to have nightmares about
her family being killed in a fire, about being trapped and the smoke choking
her. Yesterday her nightmare came true and that has to be a pretty scary
experience for anybody.
Of
the four other people in the room, Spike looks the calmest, though I even
detect suppressed worry in him. I don't understand the vampire – how he can be
evil and still help us. It certainly isn't out of the goodness of his soul,
because he hasn't got one. He must have some other agenda, something he wants
or needs from us. Companionship, perhaps, since all of his kind have rejected
him as a laughing stock. Occasionally, like now, I catch him looking at Buffy.
It is a hungry, desperate look, not so much longing as greedy. I want to warn
her about him, to watch out – he could be dangerous even with the chip in his
head. But I don't think Buffy would pay much attention to me, anyway. It's not
that she doesn't accept me, it's just that she sees me more as Willow's
girlfriend, rather than a legitimate member of her inner circle of friends.
Anything I had to say would be inappropriate and firmly under the heading of 'butting
in'. It's like Riley, Anya and I don't quite fit into their group. That hurts
sometimes, but it's just another thing I have to get used to if I want to be
with Willow.
There
is a soft knock on the door and Buffy leaps up, suddenly a whirlpool of nervous
energy, whereas before her still, staring demeanour was strarting to become
worrying. Riley tenses even further, a scowl firmly planted across his
features. Spike is suddenly anxious, the most riled I have ever seen him – he
jumps up from his chair and tries to hide in the shadows at the back of the
room. Willow beside me seems to deflate, as if she has been holding her breath
all this time and has now finally released it. She rises quickly and goes to
answer the door, sensing without asking the reluctance of all other people in
the room to do so.
Once
she has opened the door, I see a tall, broad shouldered man standing
silhouetted against the porch light. His height causes him to stoop a little
and his bulk fills the entire doorframe. This must be Angel, whom I have heard
so much about. His appearance exactly matches Willow's description: dark,
brooding and exceptionally good looking – for a guy, at least. She pulls him
into a tight hug, which he returns lightly, then Willow draws away,
embarrassed. They exchange smiles and words of greeting before Angel steps into
the room fully, followed by a small entourage. There is a bored looking
brunette I immediately know to be Cordelia, a slightly older, serious man I
assume must be Wesley and another young black guy whom I have never heard
mentioned.
Angel's
eyes meet Buffy's for the first time and they just stand there looking at one
another, neither moving. The whole of the rest of the room seems to stop and
watch them, like our eyes are drawn to the electricity crackling in the air
between them. Riley's expression is black and he turns away in disgust as Angel
and Buffy embrace and he whispers something in her ear, something that makes
her lips curl up in a smile and her eyes shine with tears.
They
pull apart and the moment is broken. The room breaks out into a babble of noise
as introductions are made and old friends greet one another. I am just trying
to overcome my embarrassment at being presented as Willow's girlfriend to
Wesley who is clearly shocked and Gunn (the third of Angel's friends) who seems
highly amused by it all, when a strangled yelp sounds from across the room.
Everyone is silenced once more as our attention switches to where Angel has
Spike pinned by the throat to the wall.
"What's
he doing here?" Angel hisses and I am a little startled by the sudden
contrast to the gentle man I saw hug Willow and Buffy a minute ago.
"Angel,"
Buffy rushes over and lays a soothing hand on his arm. "It's all right, Spike's
here to help us."
Angel
flashes her an incredulous look. "Since when did Spike ever help anybody?"
"He's
got this chip in his head that means he can only hurt other demons. Angel –
please – we've got enough to contend with without fighting each other as well."
Angel
seems to contemplate this for a while, his eyes flicking between Buffy's
imploring gaze and Spike's impassive features. Eventually he releases his grip
on the blonde vampire, letting him drop to the floor in a heap, where he sits
rubbing his sore neck.
"Hang
on a minute," this interruption comes from Cordelia, whom I am anxious to hear
speak. Willow has told me so many stories about her, not all of which fit with
one another. If she's so self-centred and shallow, then what would she be doing
working for a vampire whose mission in life is to help other people?
"Angel
might agree to anything once you bat your severely mascara-lacking eyelashes at
him," Cordelia continues. "But don't any of the rest of us get a say in this? I
for one, am not teaming up with the guy who last year tortured Angel to within
an inch of his unlife. And did I mention how utterly gross it is trying to
bandage wounds left by red hot pokers?"
Buffy
turns pale at the images Cordelia is stirring up. Somehow I don't think she's
the only one, and Spike is also looking a little nervous at this point, as
Buffy whirls around on him her eyes flashing in anger.
"Is
this true? Did you hurt him?"
Spike
shrugs, climbing unsteadily to his feet. "What a little torture session or two
between friends, eh Slayer?"
Buffy
immediately pins him to the wall again, in much the same fashion as Angel did
earlier, but this time she produces a stake from her pocket and holds it
threateningly above Spike's heart. The tension in the room soars to new
heights. "I should have staked you a long time ago. And if you dare lay another
finger on him-"
The
front door bangs as Riley storms angrily out of it, his expression unreadable.
Buffy turns back in surprise, uselessly calling after him, while Spike takes
the opportunity of this distraction to slip out of her grasp and away through
the back entrance to the house. Buffy noticing Spike's escape and furious over
Riley's departure, frustratedly slams her stake into the bare wall, her Slayer
strength plunging it through the plasterboard. She swears uncharacteristically
into the silence that now hangs heavily in the air, as it becomes gradually
clearer to the newcomers just what a mess Sunnydale is in at the moment.
Riley:
I
sit in Willie's bar, studiously ignoring the assorted demons that surround me.
It makes me laugh to think that six months ago I would hardly have dared set
foot in this place without a backup team of six soldiers all touting machine
guns. Now, I don't even have a weapon, no gun, no tazer, no stake, nada. It
should worry me a bit, I guess, especially as I think I recognise the vampire
sitting next to me – the one eyeing my neck – from one of our containment
cells. But I don't really care. My life doesn't matter to me that much anymore.
I used to have such purpose, such drive, then my whole reason for being
collapsed underneath me. I was falling; I'm still falling, with only Buffy to
cling on. She's meant to pull me back up, but at the moment it feels more like
she's trying to push me down.
I
have a sudden urge to turn to the hostile (the vampire) and ask him if
he wants his blood on tap rather than from a bottle. I want him to take me
outside and rip my throat open so I know what it feels like. I want to see the
stars dance in my vision and feel the hot blood gushing out of me then maybe
I'll understand finally. Maybe I'll know what she sees in him, why she comes to
life when he walks into the room.
I
know that he bit her, she would never talk to me about it but I know anyway.
I've seen the scar on her neck, the two perfectly round holes where his fangs
dug into her. The skin seems to burn there, to pulse with heat and life, and
she goes tense anytime I try to kiss it, like it belongs to him or something.
The rest of her body I can have – she's fine about that – but not this
little strip of skin. And somehow it just makes me want it even more. Dracula's
bite faded within days – didn't even leave a mark – but his is still there a
year and a half later, mocking me every time I look at Buffy's otherwise
flawless skin, like he branded her his.
That
has to be the difference, the source of their connection, what he has that I
don't. The blood, the danger, the dark side, the sharp fangs piercing her neck.
I want to tell her to get help, that her obsession with vampires is going to
kill her, to kill us, our relationship. But I'm afraid she'll tell me she
doesn't care, that it's the night she wants. I'm afraid of what is inside my
own girlfriend, afraid that I don't even know her. She's the Slayer and I can't
even possibly imagine what that means. I fell in love with the sunshine and
roses part of her. When I look at Buffy I see a golden girl with a sparkling
laugh – the girl who wears Yummy Sushi pyjamas and stuffs popcorn into her
mouth by the handful. I understand that part of her, I feel comfortable with
it, and I wish that was all there is to her, because then things would be so
much simpler between us.
But
there is so much more to Buffy. Stuff she won't let me see, or stuff that I
just can't see. That's why I'm here, I suppose, to learn more about the world
she has lived in since she was fifteen years old. I thought I knew about what
lived in the dark. I thought I had it all figured out, but then she showed me
just how wrong I was. And I loved her for it. She opened my eyes, showed me the
light – she was my light. But then I found out it wasn't just light she was
showing me, it was darkness too and I began to think that it's easier to go
around with your eyes shut. But Buffy needs someone who lives in her world, who
understands the deepest parts of her and I have to be that person if we're
going to stay together. And we can't split up, I love her, I need her too much,
she's my life. So, I sit in the bar among the demons, pretending it brings us
closer together, while she sits at home with her ex-vampire lover. While he's
supporting her through a tough time I'm out here feeling sorry for myself,
because I can feel her slipping further away from me with every second that
passes and there's nothing I can think of to do to stop it.
I
turn to the vampire next to me and open my mouth to say something (bite me,
drink me, kill me, tell me what it is I'm missing, show me what death tastes
like…), thinking that maybe Buffy will finally notice me when I'm dead.
Maybe she'll cry over my corpse, maybe I'll come back and she'll finally let me
touch that spot on her neck. The vampire's eyes flash briefly gold, as if he
senses my intention, and I see the hunger in him, the desperation, the need for
the hunt, the kill, and I turn way, disgusted. Whether it's with the creature
next to me or with myself I'm not sure, I just know I won't be feeling any
fangs in me tonight. I am too weak, I can't take that chance with my life. I'm
Riley Finn, country boy from Iowa – I never used to go in any bars, let alone
those frequented by demons. What happened to me? Where's the man I used to be,
the one I used to know?
I
order another drink, my third of the night. That's another thing that's changed
about me. I never used to drink a drop – alcohol blunts your senses, I was
taught, but now I like them blunt. I like to see Buffy's golden hair like a
halo above her head and hear her voice like music. I want to drown all my
doubts and insecurities, make the world bright and shiny again instead of dark
and shrouded in shadow. And it even works for a while, which is why I keep
doing it I guess.
A
presence settles down on the bar stool next to me. Spike. God, could my evening
get any worse? I hate this vampire almost as much as I hate Angel. Almost, but
not quite, because at least I'm partially superior to Spike. I have Buffy,
which he never will. I may not have all of her and it may not be forever, but
for the moment it's plenty enough to throw in Spike's face.
"Buffy
didn't stake you then," I remark without looking over at him. It surprises me
and it doesn't. Buffy has had plenty of chances to stake Spike in the past
year, but she hasn't taken any of them. She claims it's because she doesn't
like to kill defenceless creatures or because Spike can be paid or coerced into
helping the gang. Sometimes I think maybe she likes having him around. Another
dangerous guy in Buffy's long list – someone to fight with, to flirt with. It's
the vampire connection again, the lure of the undead. Present me with the issue
in terms of a psychology thesis and I could explain it to you perfectly. Transference.
Buffy has unresolved feelings for her first love Angel, which she is
projecting on to individuals with similar traits to Angel, i.e. other vampires.
But when you're talking about your own girlfriend and the lingering attraction
she has for her ex-lover causing her to make fuck-me eyes at your mortal enemy
– then things get a bit more complicated.
"Nope,"
Spike answers me with a self-satisfied smirk. "Slayer never could stay mad at
me for long," he turns to the bar tender. "I'll have a bloody Mary – and with
none of that tomato juice crap either."
"What
about Angel?" I ask, desperately hoping that Spike will tell me some tale about
Buffy dressing the other vampire down. At this point I would welcome any news
of an argument between the two of them, even if it was only over Spike.
"Slipped
out the back when he wasn't looking," Spike shrugs. "Wasn't exactly difficult
considering all the gaping he was doing at your girlfriend."
I
feel anger flare up inside of me. "He can look all he wants – Buffy's with me
now."
"Yeah,
right then why isn't she actually with you, instead of getting all
friendly with my poofy-haired Grand-Sire?"
"Your
what?"
Spike
bursts out laughing and I want to punch him for it. What could possibly be
amusing about this situation?
"Boy,
that chit of yours never tells you anything, does she? You two ever think of
fitting a conversation or two in around all that shagging you do?"
His
comment shuts me up for a minute. Somehow Spike has managed to put his
incredible powers of intuition to work again. He's right. Buffy I hardly ever
talk anymore. She doesn't tell me all the intimate details about her life, like
how she's feeling or how her day went. Thinking about it, she never really did.
Our relationship started out amidst such stress, what with finding out about
our respective secret identities and all the trouble with the Initiative, that
we never actually developed a solid basis of friendship to our love. We have
always been very physical with one another, though, which I have taken as a
sign of the continuing stability of the relationship. After all sex is supposed
to bring people closer together, right?
"What
did you mean just then?" I finally ask Spike.
"Angelus
and I are blood," he admits with something I think is reluctance. It is the
first sign I have seen of any emotion in Spike apart from indifference, anger
or amusement. "He turned my Sire. He was there the night I was Made and the
night I Rose." For a minute I think he is going to say something more but then
he stops abruptly, draining his drink and demanding another.
"So,
you two go back a long way." I enquire carefully, eager to know more about my
rival (my two rivals), but sensing this is not a topic Spike exactly enjoys
discussing.
He
snorts and his eyes assume a far-away look, like he is remembering better days.
"One-hundred-and-thirty years give or take."
"One-hundred-and-thirty
years!" I squeak. I hadn't given much thought to how old Spike was. I guess I
always knew he'd been around a while, but the Initiative's theory had been that
vampires were animals rather than magical creatures – hence they aged like us.
We had thought that they just evolved alongside humans, intimidating their
appearance by a process of natural selection in order to blend in with their
prey. I was only just getting used to the idea that vampires were actually
people at one point, that they were just infected by the demon and kept animate
by ancient magicks. Factors like eternal life were still somewhat beyond my
grasp of comprehension, so to hear that the creature sitting next to me – who
looks no older than a 25 year old man – is actually over a century old is
pretty astounding.
"How
old is Angel then?" I am insanely curious now. If Angel helped turn Spike then
he has to be even older than the bleached blonde vampire himself.
Spike
thinks for a minute. "As far as I can remember that psycho-bitch Darla Sired
him somewhere around the middle of the Eighteenth Century."
I
quickly do the sums in my head. That made him 250 years old. I think
about what he must have seen, done, killed, in those two and a half
centuries and my mind boggles. How I can possibly compete with someone with
that much life experience? Though, it is me Buffy is with, not him. The only
question that bothers me is whether Buffy chose me because she wanted to or
because she just couldn't have him.
"So,
you knew Angel when he was evil?"
Spike
nods. "Yup, I was one of the chosen few cohorts of the Great Scourge of Europe
himself. Bloody prick he was too."
"Now
why doesn't that surprise me?" I answer, taking a gulp of my drink as I do so.
"Oh,
you don't know the half of it," he comments in a surprisingly emotional tone. I
turn around to look at him and the brash, insensitive Spike is back grinning at
me and I think I just imagined the years of suppressed pain and resentment in
his voice.
He
lights up a cigarette with practiced ease, changing the subject with equal
casualness. "So, you just going to let Peaches steal your woman or are you
gonna fight for her?"
"I
don't need to fight for Buffy," I rise easily to Spike's bait. "She loves me!"
"Really?"
He smirks, blowing out a mouthful of smoke. "And when was the last time she
told you that?"
I
glare at Spike my face red with anger. I am trying to be outraged by his suggestions
and his questions. My relationship with Buffy is none of his business and he
has no right to be talking to me like this, none at all. But another part of
me, somewhere deep down that the alcohol hasn't reached yet, is weighing the
meaning of his words. When was the last time Buffy said she loved me? I
can't remember. In fact I can't remember her ever saying it at all. She's
hinted at it enough times, but has she ever actually come out with it outright?
I don't know. I've assumed she's been in love with me for so long now, that I
don't stop to analyse her exact sentiments anymore – maybe I should.
Spike
takes advantage of the conversation pause caused my confusion and upset to
stand up off his bar stool and shrug back into his leather coat. He drops his
cigarette butt onto the floor and crushes it under his foot. "Better get used
to drinking alone, Finn," he remarks, the bitter tone returning to his voice.
"You're going to be doing it a lot in the future. Angelus always gets his girl.
Always."
With
that he strides confidently out of the bar, leaving me on my own staring at an
empty beer glass. I should go home to Buffy, sort some of this stuff out, be
the supportive, loving boyfriend she needs right now.
I
order another drink.