A/N: Thanks again for all the encouraging reviews. I'd welcome any constructive criticism, too, as this fic is a little outside of my "comfort zone," so to speak, and it's more or less kicking my ass. So any suggestions would be much appreciated!
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As Buffy drifted slowly back to consciousness, her first thought was to wonder why she'd worn her clothes to bed. She hadn't done that since her Doublemeat days… Fuzzily, she cracked one eye open, glanced at the clock. 3:32. Dawn would be getting home soon. Why did I--
And then it all came flooding back. Spike, the chip, the tree, the moonlight reflecting off that damn black duster, the angry/hurt look in those piercing blue eyes that always affected her way too much. She felt her stomach twist slowly, settle into a cold, heavy lump somewhere behind her abdomen. She put a hand over her eyes, wishing beyond expression that she'd woken up and found it had all been another freaky Buffy dream.
"Buffy!"
She sighed. "I'm upstairs, Dawnie."
She heard Dawn clomping up the stairs, winced a little as the door bounced open.
"Long night?" Dawn asked, leaning casually against the doorframe, a fake smile plastered all over her face. Buffy could tell she'd be getting no sympathy from that corner.
"Yup," she replied, a little shortly.
"Sooo… What was the body count for Big Bad Evil Spike last night?"
"Zero." She was too tired even to glare. "But I was watching him."
"Zero. What a shocker," Dawn started triumphantly. "Well, I gotta say--"
She was interrupted by the sound of a door slamming downstairs. "Buff? Dawnie?"
"Up here, Will," Buffy called quickly, grateful for the interruption. She sat up and ran a hand through her hair. Dawn just stared at her, eyes accusing, arms crossed.
Willow could feel the tension from halfway down the stairs. "Hey," she said brightly as she joined Dawn in Buffy's doorway, trying to pretend she didn't notice the daggers that the littlest Summers was directing at her sister. Buffy looked exhausted. Worse, she looked… two-dimensional, somehow. Her face was almost completely blank, her eyes empty. Willow's heart ached for her. Every time her best friend seemed to be getting her feet back on the ground, something came along and knocked them out from under her again.
"How was school, Dawnie?" she asked, trying to draw Dawn's fire and give Buffy at least a temporary break.
"Fine," Dawn muttered sulkily, still staring at Buffy.
Willow plowed ahead. "Need any homework help from the resident math geek?"
Ah--that did it. Dawn's glare lasered away from her sister, fixed on Willow. "I don't need any help. You don't have to tell me what to do. You're not my mother. You're not even part of this family." She whirled, hair flying, and stomped her way back downstairs.
Buffy sighed and rubbed her eyes, trying to figure out how she'd gotten a headache already. "At the risk of sounding incredibly old and decrepit… were we that bad?"
Willow raised an eyebrow, smiled wryly. "Zero to bitch in one-point-five seconds. Don't you remember?"
Buffy slumped back against the pillows. "Seems like forever ago."
"OK." Willow flung herself on the bed next to her friend, poking a finger into her ribs as they bounced from the impact. "Now you sound old and decrepit." Buffy giggled for a second, then the smile melted away into that thousand-yard stare that always gave Willow a chill down her spine. "So… you wanna give me the details on how things went with Spike?" she asked quietly, curling a pillow under her head. "You weren't exactly Miss Specificity this morning."
Buffy gave a strangled half-laugh. "Well, we had a nice little chat about the nature of good and evil, and he didn't kill anybody. That I know of. He didn't really seem to be plotting a massacre, but it's so hard to tell with vampires. Oh, and there's a tree outside his crypt that's a really crappy place to spend the night." Even with an extra blanket. She'd folded it carefully in the morning, exactly as he'd left it, but she had a feeling he'd smell her on it.
"You and Spike talked about the nature of good and evil?" Even given her earlier visit with Spike, it still caught her off-guard. "Wow." She was caught between pride at Buffy exploring deep philosophical questions, and the unspeakable weirdness of the mental image.
"Yeah. Buffy the Vampire Debate Partner." She covered her eyes with her hand again, groaning. "God. What am I doing, Will? Remember the good old days, when it was just hunt, fight, slay?"
Willow bit back all the platitudes that rushed to her mind, and simply nodded. "Yeah. It was easier."
"I know, I know what you're not saying." Buffy looked at her, and the emptiness in her eyes was a hundred times worse than tears. "I know it's all part of the fabulous process of becoming an adult. I know that the world isn't as black and white as I used to think." She sighed, and looked away, her fingers pulling methodically at the bedspread. "But… why me? I don't know what the hell I'm doing half the time, and I'm supposed to be in charge, I'm supposed to know what's right and save the world and make the tough choices. I'm twenty-two and I am so. Freaking. Tired." She rested her head against Willow's shoulder for a second, then laughed shakily. "Bet you didn't know you'd RSVPed for the Buffy Pity Party."
Willow wondered how much Buffy had needed her, while she'd been dealing with the magic addiction, and felt a stab of guilt. "Well, you can save me a permanent spot on the guest list."
That got another tiny laugh, followed by a sigh. "I'd better go talk to Dawn." Though I'd rather go a few rounds with a nest of angry vampires--at least I know what's gonna piss them off.
"No, don't." Willow sat up, grabbed the afghan folded at the bottom of the bed, and tossed it over her friend. "You had a rough night. You should be making with the relaxation. I'll go talk to her. I don't even think she really cares which one of us she's yelling at, as long as she gets to yell at someone." She was relieved to see the tension in Buffy's face ease marginally. Encouraged, she continued, "I might even see what I can throw together for dinner. I mean, I do miss chem lab."
Buffy looked at her like she'd just offered to take her on a week-long vacation to Europe. The guilt expanded in Willow's stomach. "Really?" Buffy asked.
Willow forced a smile, smashing the guilt into a resolution to do better, to help more. "Of course. If you trust me."
Buffy smiled back. "You're the best, Will."
"You bet your sweet bippy I am. I'll call you for dinner." She rose, making sure Buffy was comfortably settled on the pillows, and headed downstairs, shutting Buffy's door carefully behind her.
In the living room, Dawn seemed determined to make as much noise as humanly possible, slamming books and backpack and notebooks around with equal fervor. Willow just watched her for a minute, giving silent points for style and execution. Finally, Dawn rounded on her.
"What?" she snapped. "I'm doing my homework."
"That's great," Willow replied calmly. "Wanna come into the kitchen and do some chemistry experiments with me?"
Dawn eyed her warily. "Would these experiments, by any chance, involve food items and in many cultures be referred to as 'making dinner'?"
Willow beamed at her. "See? You're getting smarter already."
Dawn couldn't hold back a smile, but it rapidly turned into a pout as she looked back down at her books. "I don't know why she's so mean. After everything he's done for her. Is it too much to ask for her not to kill my friends? It's not like I have that many."
"I hate to sound like a grown-up, but… this is hard for her, too, Dawnie." She went to the younger girl and ran her fingers soothingly through the long dark hair. "She's been making the big decisions and trying to save the world since she was your age. I mean, so much stuff has happened to her, it's kind of surprising she hasn't gone totally nuts. It's a lot of responsibility. And I think she's just tired."
"I hate that she's like this," Dawn muttered, her eyes still fixed on her books. "Like she can't stand being here. Like we're all such a burden for her. Like she's still really dead."
Willow couldn't argue with that. "I know." She paused for a second, then, "That's why I think we ought to help her as much as we can. I mean, we have sort of been moochy-girls lately. Maybe if we can help with the everyday stuff, Buffy can get back on track dealing with the major world stuff."
Dawn wrinkled her nose. "So by everyday stuff, you mean making dinner and cleaning up and doing chores? What's the good of having a sister with super-powers if I've still gotta clean the bathroom every week?"
"I don't think bathroom-cleaning is exactly a vital part of the Slaying arsenal," Willow returned wryly. Then she brightened. "But hey, you can say that you can do something the Slayer can't!" She deepened her voice, took on just a hint of a backwoods Southern accent. "Yup, that Slayer sure can stake them vamps, but she can't fry an egg to save her life!"
That got a reluctant giggle. "So my super-power could be cooking? That's so not fair. I want a cool super-power, like X-ray vision or flying or something."
Willow smiled at her, though her smile turned a little sad as something occurred to her. "You know, the funny thing is, Buffy just wants to be normal."
Dawn snorted, finally meeting Willow's eyes. "We're never gonna be normal. Ever."
"I know," Willow sighed. "But come on--we can pretend."
"I still think we're getting the short end of the stick," Dawn muttered, but the protest was mostly for show as she followed the redheaded witch into the kitchen.
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"So?" Dawn asked proudly as everyone sat back in their chairs. "What's the verdict?"
Xander patted his stomach, smiled amiably at her and Willow. "Well, Dawnster, I can honestly say I've never had a culinary experience quite like it."
"The spinach was the color of money, and the consistency that money might be if you boiled it a really long time and mashed it up together," Anya offered, too brightly. "Of course, I don't know why you'd want to do that to money, but still, it was an intriguing sensation." She smiled encouragingly at Dawn.
Willow was excavating in the remains on her plate. "Maybe the anchovies weren't such a great idea."
"It was great, Will," Buffy put in quickly, as Xander mouthed "Anchovies?!" incredulously at Anya and turned a little green around the edges. "Thank you. And thank you," she added to Dawn, who turned bright red and smiled at her sister for the first time all day. To be honest, Buffy didn't even really know what the meal had tasted like--it just felt so good to be eating something she hadn't had to cook or bring home in a paper sack. Looking down at the kaleidoscope of colors swirled together on her plate, she figured it was probably best if she never knew exactly what poor, unsuspecting food items had been sacrificed for the cause. It was the thought that counted, right?
"Well, we'll do better next time," Willow replied, looking meaningfully at Dawn, who was still so pleased at the compliment that she didn't even roll her eyes. "I'm not as good with the cooking as I am with the baking, I think."
"I can help out, too," Tara offered. "Cooking was considered a pretty vital skill for the women in my family."
"I intend to have the men in my family learn how to cook. And do the dishes, too. Lots of relationships could be saved if the man would just learn how to do dishes." Anya commented, squeezing Xander's hand.
Xander smiled fondly at her. "I think that's my cue." He got up and began clearing dishes.
Buffy looked around the table at her friends, realizing how few of these simple group meals they'd had since Joyce had died. It was good to have everyone together for reasons that didn't involve the impending end of all life as they knew it. And thanks to Willow's and Dawn's sudden possession by Martha Stewart, she actually got to sit back and enjoy it. She felt almost peaceful.
Oh yeah. Except for the fact that her vampire ex-lover was hanging around town, possibly planning to kill them all. The lanky peroxide blonde vampire ex-lover, actually, as opposed to the big brooding spiky-haired vampire ex-lover. God, I can't believe I have to clarify that. How pathetic a Slayer am I? As much as she'd enjoyed hanging out with her friends, it had been eating at her all night. Even Willow's well-intentioned plan to give her time to relax only gave her more time to think, and thinking… well, it hurt, no two ways about it, and it only made her more confused. She needed some action. She pushed back her chair abruptly.
"Thank you guys, for all the help. And I hate to bail, but it's getting late. I should get with the patrolling." She tried to ignore how everyone tried not to look at each other, how the unspoken questions suddenly thickened the air. So much for group bonding.
Xander set down the dishes he'd been gathering. "Need any backup?" he asked, letting the question hang on two levels.
She gave him a quick, mirthless grin, shrugging into her jacket. "Thanks, but no. I don't think I'll run into anything I can't handle." She crossed to Dawn, kissed the top of her sister's head. "'Night, Dawn. I won't remind you about your homework, 'cause I know you have it covered." Dawn looked up at her, stunned into silence, sulk completely derailed. Buffy held back a smile, despite the tension. Wow. I should try that more often.
"Be careful," Willow told her, looking like she wanted to help but had no idea how.
Buffy nodded as she picked up a couple of stakes and shoved them into her pockets. "Yep. See you guys tomorrow." Feeling the adrenaline start to pump through her, washing away the ache in her chest, she ducked gratefully out into the night.
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Two hours later, she was reflecting angrily that this was quite possibly the most boring, uneventful, completely evil-less night in the history of Sunnydale. She'd been through every graveyard in town--well, every one except for one--and there was nothing. Not even drunks outside the bars. All was right with the world, all was calm, all was bright, all was freakin' quiet on the Western front.
It was driving her nuts.
Finally, she couldn't avoid it any more. She forced herself to change direction, marched grimly in the direction of Spike's crypt. Being in Sunnydale, she got there much too soon. She was almost hoping she'd find him in the midst of some unspeakable act, so she could just stake him and be done with it, but he was just standing outside his tomb, leaning against the outer wall, wreathed in smoke. Watching her. She could feel the heat from his eyes even at a distance, and had to stop for a second despite herself as her knees went a little weak. She hated it when he did that to her.
Spike had been puttering uselessly around his crypt when he'd suddenly been hit with a wave of supremely pissed-off Slayer pheromones. He'd had just enough time to light a cigarette and look casual when he saw her, steaming across his graveyard like the Little Engine That Couldn't Find Anything to Kill and Was Pretty Brassed Off About It. He saw her pause for a second as she saw him, then plow on with renewed determination. He swallowed a grin. Maybe this night had some hope for it after all.
"Slayer," he greeted her calmly, as she glared challengingly at him.
"Spike," she spat, wondering why she could sometimes feel him smirking, even though his mouth was still. Yet another annoying thing about him.
"Slow night?" he inquired innocently, knowing the answer. Her pent-up frustration was getting him a little more hot and bothered than he wanted to admit, and he tried to ignore it. She might have been the sexiest damned thing he'd ever seen, but as she was still deciding whether or not to kill him, he had a feeling it would be best for both of them if he kept that opinion to himself. Besides, he was still pissed off about the night before.
"Yeah," she replied shortly. "How did you know?"
He shrugged, all nonchalance. "Did a quick sweep earlier." Actually, he'd nearly been climbing the walls until he sensed her coming. An entire day cooped up inside with his hungry demon had been more than a little nerve-wracking, despite his friendly visitors.
"Looking for dinner?" she sneered, latching onto any possible point of contention.
He raised an eyebrow at her. "Lots of humans out and about tonight, luv. You see any dead bodies strewn about looking a bit dehydrated?"
She frowned. "No."
He dropped his James Dean act, just for a second, laughed a little. "Kind of ironic, innit? The one night the Hellmouth decides it'd rather stay home, and here we are, all dressed up and no one to--"
"You wanna fight?" she interrupted suddenly, the words rushing out like steam from a tea-kettle.
He looked at her, a little surprised, then shrugged and flicked away his smoke. "Yeah, all right."
She lunged at him.
They'd sparred many times, but never like this. There was an edge this time, a kind of desperate energy, an unspoken hint that this time, she might really, he might really. Spike threw himself into the dance with the kind of abandon he hadn't felt since… well… the last time she'd really tried to kill him. It took him back to the glory days of Prague and Paris and New Orleans, when a second death was always just around the corner. Buffy simply enjoyed the complete mental shutdown as instinct and adrenaline took over.
The fight ranged all over the cemetery, all flashes of leather and grunts of pain and, in Spike's case, the occasional wild laugh. Graves, tombstones, crypts, trees, nothing was sacred--everything was simply a prop for their deadly performance. Spike's face was lit with a kind of fierce, manic glee; Buffy was all business, grim determination, her brow furrowed as if he was a problem she was trying to solve. The air between them seemed to crackle with energy as they punched, kicked, ducked, flipped, circled. There was no energy wasted on playful banter, only grace and focus and heat and challenge.
Finally, Spike put too much speed into an attack and she had him, using his own momentum to flip him over so quickly that before he even had time to rearrange ground and sky, she was straddling his torso, breathing hard, stake hovering just above his heart. Since she didn't seem to be planning on doing more for the moment, he took the opportunity to look at her: face flushed, hair tousled, chest heaving, all taut muscle and coiled energy. He couldn't hold back a smile of sheer admiration.
"God, you're good, Summers."
Buffy blinked, feeling almost like she was waking up from a dream. "I…" She scrambled off of him, straightening her clothes, shoving the stake back in her pocket. He just watched her, head cocked slightly, a tiny, quizzical smile on his face, and she suddenly realized: she couldn't have done it. Strong as she was, there was no way she could have found the strength to push that stake through his chest, feel him crumble into dust beneath her. Just thinking of it made her heart contract painfully. I couldn't do it. Oh, fuck, I couldn't do it. The realization scared the holy hell out of her. She turned, started to stumble her way out of the graveyard.
Oh, no. He wasn't letting her get away that easily. "You're born to this," he called after her, levering himself to his feet, and was pleasantly surprised when she actually stopped. She still had her back to him, but at least, for once, she wasn't running off. "It's what you're meant to do. Why're you always running away from it?"
Death is my gift. Looks like a Slayer is just a killer after all. "What are you talking about?" She couldn't look at him, but she couldn't seem to walk away, either.
He could hear the tension in her voice, knew she was close to the edge, but he pressed on anyway. At least he could still make her feel something. "I've had more than a few dancing partners in my life, pet, and I'll tell you, none of them could touch you. I know it's your great fateful duty and blah blah blah, but fucking hell, Buffy, you should at least enjoy it. You used to. What the hell happened?"
Now she whirled on him, eyes hot and swimming with tears. God, why did he always know how to push her into overload? "I grew up," she snapped. "Funny thing--you kill enough, it gets old eventually. Unless you're you, I guess."
"It's not about the kill." He advanced on her, then stopped, considering. "Well, not really." He ignored her frustrated eye-roll, moving closer until he was just barely out of her reach. "It's about the fight. About your nature, about throwing everything you are on the line, and winning. You treat it like a weight, but it's a gift."
Death is my gift. "A gift?" she repeated bitterly. "Then I hope whoever gave it to me kept the receipt."
"Easy for you to say. You've never been weak."
That caught her off-guard. "I haven't always been the Slayer."
He waved a hand, dismissing her. "Yeah. You used to be just another one of the girls. Except for being sodding homecoming queen and head cheerleader and hell knows what-all else. Probably had a gaggle of empty-headed Buffys-in-training flitting around you like moths to a bleeding flame. Oh, and lest I forget, your boy-toy was captain of the football team. Am I right?" He reached for a cigarette, but held her eyes, daring her to prove him wrong.
He wasn't, of course, though she had no idea how he knew all that stuff about her. Maybe Dawn had been blabbing. "Maybe," she replied defensively. "So?"
He barked a laugh. "So? That's not weak, pet. It's just a different kind of power. You have something in you. Something I haven't seen in all my years, and I've been around awhile. You have a kind of power that other people have fought and died for. Yeah, you have to make the tough decisions sometimes. But isn't it worth it? It is a gift, no matter how much you bitch about it, and you'd throw it away because you want to be… what? Normal?" He shook his head, took a long drag on his smoke. "Ask Willow about normal. Hell, ask the whelp, he's the bloody poster boy for it. And then tell me you want it." He lowered his voice, feeling the words scrape past the sudden lump in his throat. "I know normal, pet. And I can tell you, I'd rather die--again--than go back to it."
She could feel the tears coming, and tried desperately to smash them back down where they belonged, out of sight. Who was he to tell her about her life? He was a vampire, for God's sake, a vampire whose idea of a romantic profession of love was chaining her in a basement with his wigged-out demon ex-lover. What the hell did he know? Who was he to make her cry, when almost nothing else seemed to touch her?
And why didn't she want to kill him?
The last question was too much. She had to get out of there. "Dawn's waiting," she managed finally, hoping he didn't notice her fist dashing the tears from her eyes.
Spike growled/sighed, a sound he seemed to need often when dealing with her. He was so bloody sick of the Buffy Summers Merry-Go-Round, the two steps forward followed by the ever-popular three steps back. He'd always thought of himself as a tenacious bugger, but even he had his limits.
"Fine," he said finally, through his teeth. "Give the Little Bit my best." He couldn't quite keep the bitterness out of his voice.
"Uh-huh." She turned, began picking her way through the tombstones. He watched her retreating back for what felt like the thousandth time, and tried to remember why he'd come back here in the first place.
TBC