Disclaimer: I am not making even a shiny nickel off of this. Joss is God, I bow before his creative genius. I really do.
Rating: PG-13 or R, depending on your sensitivity to language
Feedback: Makes my day, here or at tmeyerswa@yahoo.com
Spoilers: Through As You Were, though we can probably assume this all takes place after Season 6--all has been resolved with the Troika, Xander and Anya, Willow and Tara, etc. (God knows how Joss will get us out of this mess, but I'm keeping a safe distance!)
Summary: Can a vampire without a soul find redemption? And can the Slayer ever really love him? Angst, drama, Scoobies, and hopefully a little humor and maybe even a few warm fuzzies along the way. Buffy/Spike, of course.
A/N: I just want to acknowledge the many very insightful and intelligent posters at the various discussion boards on which I lurk: among others, the Fan Forum B/S Spoiler Board; Tabula Rasa; All Things Philosophical on BTVS; and the ScoopMe.com Buffy discussion board. Your thoughts have really helped this story coalesce (though it's not finished yet!), and though I can't credit everyone individually (mostly 'cause I can't remember who said what), I thought I'd give a general thank-you. As a relatively new fan, I continue to be extremely impressed with the general level of conversation/analysis surrounding Buffy, and I continue to be grateful to Joss Whedon for giving us such a wonderful world to interpret, enjoy, and bitch about. sniff tear And I'd like to thank the Academy. OK, on to the story.
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Spike jumped as his crypt door banged open. Buffy. He could always tell, even when he was in the lower level and couldn't see her--she was the only one who could get quite that much speed out of the heavy door. It was a wonder she hadn't broken it yet.
"Spike!" she called. He tensed immediately. She sounded breathless. Was something wrong? It was just barely dusk, too early for nasties… He started towards the ladder, but before he got even halfway there, she was already at the opening, wearing a smile so big he almost didn't recognize her. He relaxed, only to tense again immediately as she dispensed with the ladder entirely, jumped straight through the opening, dropped into a graceful roll as she hit the ground, sprang lightly to her feet and threw her arms around him. He froze, trying to ignore the wave of pleasure and pain that knifed through him. She hadn't touched him like that since… since Captain Cardboard's little visit. The night she'd destroyed his crypt, and had very nearly destroyed him. He had no idea of how to react, as the feel of her body pressed against his sent his brain cavorting along all sorts of interesting pathways…
She was blissfully unaware, as she pulled away and brandished a piece of paper at him. "You were right!"
All right. Hugging him was one thing--saying he was right, that was just the last straw. He grabbed both of her shoulders, forced her to look at him. "Slayer, have you gone completely starkers?"
She laughed, and shoved the piece of paper into his hand. The seal at the bottom caught his eye--the Council of Watchers' official symbol. He raised an eyebrow at her. He was beginning to get an inkling of what this might be about. After all, it was he who had suggested it to her, not more than a month ago…
Spike looked up from his cards as he heard the sound of the key in the lock. "Sis is home, time for dinner," he told Dawn, tossing his cards on the table. She pouted.
"You're just saying that 'cause I'm winning. When you're winning, you always say that dinner can wait."
He shrugged unrepentantly. "My prerogative. I'm older."
She tossed her hair. "Yeah. Way older." But she was smiling as she greeted her sister with a kiss on the cheek. "Welcome home, working lady. What's to eat? More Doublemeat goodness?"
Buffy mustered up a tired smile. God, her feet were killing her, her back was screaming, and she felt filthy from head to toe. But ever since Dawn had pointed out their Doublemeat-centric diet, she'd been trying to work on a little variety. So she'd taken the time for an extra stop on the way home. "Nope." She held out a plastic bag for her sister. "Chinese tonight. Veggies and everything."
"Mmm." Dawn snatched the bag eagerly, inhaling deeply. "I'll get plates. Spike, you want some?"
Spike rose, stretching. "No thanks, Bit. I've got a full fridge at home." Dawn wrinkled her nose, more because it was expected than because of any real gross-out factor, and disappeared into the kitchen.
Buffy sank to the couch with a groan, telling herself it wouldn't hurt to relax for a few minutes before she headed out to patrol. She closed her eyes and sighed deeply.
"Rough night?" Spike asked quietly.
Buffy's eyes snapped back open, and she realized that the vampire was staring at her with that penetrating mixture of sorrow and concern in his eyes that always made her heart beat a little faster. She'd been true to her word since Riley left, and the sexcapades between her and Spike had come to an abrupt end. They'd reached a kind of tentative truce since then, sparring together, sometimes patrolling together, until she finally agreed that with Willow unable to use magic, Spike was the most likely of their group to be able to keep Dawn out of trouble while Buffy was at work. She had to admit, it was a relief, knowing there was someone around who could protect Dawn from teenage boys or any other demons who might want to harass her. Still, she hadn't yet gotten used to coming home and finding him there, and when he looked at her like he was doing right now, it made her wonder just how safe the whole situation was.
She shrugged to cover her confusion. "Just another mind-numbing night at the DMP. I'll be fine. Just need to give the feet a rest for a minute. Right now they're yelling at me so loud I'm sure the vamps could hear me a mile away."
He watched her, clenching his jaw with the effort of resisting the urge to go to her, to massage those aches away. He began to pace the room restlessly. "This is bloody ridiculous."
"What?" She was startled at the intensity of his voice.
"You. Flipping burgers half the night, fighting nasties till the wee hours, getting up early to make sure Dawn gets off to school. It's ridiculous."
She sighed, frustrated. "You don't have to tell me, Spike. I'm living it. I just don't know what else to do. We've got to pay the mortgage, and it's not like Slayers get vacation and dental benefits."
He stopped suddenly, staring at her like she'd just said something incredibly profound.
"What?" she repeated, uncomfortable.
"Giles got paid, didn't he? For being your Watcher?"
"Huh? Yeah, Giles got paid. So?"
He rolled his eyes impatiently. "So? Watchers get paid, but Slayers don't?"
Buffy's brow furrowed as she thought about that. "Yeah. Why is that?"
"Probably because most Slayers die before they're kicked out on their own to support themselves," Spike replied with a shrug.
She snorted. "Thanks for that warm and fuzzy image."
He waved a hand, dismissing it. "C'mon, Slayer, we both know the clock's ticking in your line of work. That's not the point. Point is, you shouldn't have to be doing this. Slaying's your job. All of this other shite is just getting in the way. You had the Council of Wankers by the short hairs not too long ago. Who's to say you can't do it again?"
She was staring at him, open-mouthed. She wanted to protest, he could tell, but he could also see she was tempted. He grinned. He was right, he knew it--it just might take her a little longer to see it…
It seemed she had, in fact, seen it. He studied the sheet of nancy-boy stationery, skimming through the bullshit to see if they actually had a point somewhere. Ah, there it was: "Due to the unusual duration and exceptional quality of your work with us, we are pleased to inform you that we will be able to grant your request in the form of an annual stipend in the amount of $35,000 to be paid in monthly installments of $2,900."
He glanced up at Buffy again, who was dancing around his crypt, laughing like a maniac.
"How way cool is that?" she squealed. "`Due to the unusual duration and exceptional quality of your work.' They're paying me for not dying. Well, not permanently, anyway," she amended. She threw herself into a chair--one of the few pieces of furniture he'd bothered with after his redecoration-by-grenade--and sighed happily. "No more Doublemeat three meals a day, no more grease smell, no more zoned-out employees, no more stupid customers, no more life-sucking Doublemeat double-shifts… More playin' and more slayin', starting tonight."
It was as if a light had come on inside her--he'd almost forgotten what it looked like. He couldn't help smiling. "Congratulations."
"It's like being let out of prison or something. Thank you, Spike." She bounced up again, and let the momentum carry her towards him, flinging herself at him in a heartfelt, Slayer-strength hug. This time he got it together enough to return the embrace--he'd obeyed her unspoken request, hadn't touched her except in sparring since she'd told him it was over, but this time she'd started it, and he wasn't a sodding saint, after all.
Afterwards, he would never be able to figure out exactly how their mouths got entangled, or how the pleasant warmth turned to scorching heat in an instant. But suddenly her hands were all over him and her mouth was devouring his and her body was pressed against him so tightly he was glad he didn't have to breathe, because he'd have rather taken a stake to the heart than push her away. He could hear her heart pounding, feel the blood racing in her veins, smell her arousal--and then it was over, as quickly as it had begun. She pushed him away, breathing hard, eyes wide with shock, one hand over her mouth. Everywhere that she'd touched him, his skin was aching with the loss of her. It hurt worse than sunlight. And the look on her face was worse, twisting all the heat and exhilaration in him into a lump of cold lead in his stomach. He should've known.
"Spike, I--"
"Don't bother, luv," he cut her off roughly, turning away to pour himself a drink at the table in the corner. Déjà vu all fucking over again. "You've said it all before." He tore the cork out of the scotch bottle, slopped amber liquid into a glass.
"I shouldn't have--I'm sorry. I can't--"
"Can't love me. I know. I'm a thing, I'm a demon, I'm a monster, and I'm beneath you. I leave anything out?" Sarcasm helped cut through the knot in his throat.
"Spike…"
"What?" he snapped.
"I didn't come here to get into this. I came here to thank you. For helping me, and taking care of Dawn, and everything else. It's made a big difference. Made things easier."
He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "For you."
"What?"
"Made things easier for you, you mean. Fucking hell, Buffy, you are one of the most selfish women I've ever known." He couldn't seem to stop the words now, wasn't sure he wanted to. Damn, but she brought out the worst in him sometimes. "You wanted my touch, I gave it to you. You didn't want it, I backed off--kept my hands to myself like a sodding poof even though I wanted you so badly I thought it would drive me mad sometimes. But I did it, because you asked me to, because you said it was killing you. I played by your rules and I made nice to your little friends and I fought by your side and never once did I touch you. And now, you get all caught up in the moment and feel like a bit of a snog, and once again I'm convenient for you--until you've had your fun, of course. And then you look at me like I'm some… slimy bit of demon goo you got stuck on those bloody stupid shoes of yours, and I'm supposed to feel better because I helped you?" He swept both hands across the table, sending glass and alcohol flying, a sound erupting from him that was half-growl, half shout. "Everything I've done has been for you, and I've asked for nothing in return. And in spite of everything, you still won't trust me, you still haven't bothered to find out what I really am."
She stepped close to him, eyes blazing. "We both know what you are, Spike. You're a vampire. You can't be anything else. The chip can hold you back for a little while, but a chip isn't a--"
"A soul?" He laughed derisively, disbelieving. "You think that's the be-all and the end-all, the secret to fighting the good fight and making the world safe for puppies and Christmas? A soul? Don't be so bloody naïve. Your little geek friend Warren has a soul, and that didn't stop him from offing his ex when she got a bit uppity. A soul didn't stop that idiot Ben from selling out your sister to Glory last summer. Just because a soul turned the Grand Poofter from Angelus into your precious Angel doesn't mean it's some magical cure for all evil. Really, pet, I know philosophy isn't your strong point, but you'd think you'd've figured that one out by now." She was too angry to speak, glaring at him in a way she hadn't in over a year. What the hell, I can't get any deeper in it. "Shades of gray, Slayer. You should know--you are one yourself."
That did it. He could almost see her temper snap. "Oh, so we're back to me being the one that's wrong? Dirty? Tainted somehow? I went to heaven when I died, Spike. Something tells me you won't be having the same experience."
It wasn't just that she said it that stopped him cold. It was the way she said it--vicious, icy, calculating. In one second, she'd demolished everything they'd built over the past weeks.
He forced his face into an expressionless mask. "Get out." His voice was low, dangerous.
"Gladly," she hissed back. Snatching up the Council's letter, she strode towards the ladder. "I was stupid to think you could be a part of my life, in any way." She climbed up the ladder and disappeared, never once looking back.
He heard the crypt door slam. He just stood there, unable to move, too numb even for tears, feeling truly dead for the first time in as long as he could remember.
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She stayed away for nine days, unwilling to apologize first. Finally, out of some half-formed fear that he'd somehow managed to dust himself, she grumbled her way over to his crypt. But she was eight days too late. He was gone.
She never felt the tears.
TBC