Title: Abandoned, chapter 9
Author: Jennifer Campbell
Fandom: Buffy: The Vampire Slayer
Spoilers: Through "Tabula Rasa"
Pairing: Spike/Buffy
Rating: R -- for language and nongraphic sex
Disclaimers: Not mine. Belong to Joss.
Author's notes: Sorry for the long delay, but I'm back to writing and will resume my normal posting schedule, about one chapter a week. I hope you all forgive me and come back to read and give feedback. :0)

#

Buffy marched home in a trance, feet moving automatically along the well-trodden path. Her mind, however, was on anything except walking, or home, or any of her usual thoughts -- the ones that kept her from obsessing over her bland existence. Dawn's homework, Willow's breakup with Tara, wedding planning for Xander and Anya. Vampires. Demons. Whether Anya would go through with her threat of dressing her bridesmaids in blood larva.

Instead, she allowed herself to indulge in other thoughts, more pleasurable and painful at the same time. Spike had left ... then returned ... but for how long? She had missed his distinct aroma of smoke and alcohol, and the musty leather. She had missed losing herself in the taste of him, still fresh in her mouth from their interlude in the cemetery. Could she allow herself those escapes again, give herself to him when he might vanish at any time? It all came down to trust, and Buffy didn't know whether she trusted anyone that much anymore.

Her thoughts carried her to the front door and back to the kitchen, where she found Dawn pulling a pan of brownies from the oven. Her mouth watered at the scent. Just like Mom used to make them.

"Hey, Buffy," Dawn said while pulling off her cow-print mitts. She flipped off the oven. "Want a brownie? They're a little burned but still full of chocolaty goodness."

"Um, yeah. That sounds good. Is Willow around?"

"Nah. She went over to Xander and Anya's about half an hour ago."

"And she left you here alone?"

"It's OK, Buffy. I can stay out of trouble by myself. Willow trusts me, even if you don't."

Buffy held back her retort and instead just slid onto a stool and watched her sister struggle with the pan and a knife. She would talk with Willow later about her irresponsibility -- she should know better. They all had experienced the crisis that came of leaving Dawn to her own devices. After a few more seconds of fiddling, Dawn carried over a mass of crumbled brown stuff, piled on a napkin. She shrugged at Buffy's raised eyebrows.

"So, I'm not as good a cook as Mom. I can never get my brownies to come out perfect. But they still taste the same, if you eat around the charred parts."

"They're just fine," Buffy said graciously.

"So how was patrol?"

"Oh, the usual," Buffy said between bites. It did taste good. "Vampires. Fighting. Them getting dusty."

Dawn climbed onto a stool next to Buffy, with her own napkin full of brownie. "And how was your conversation with Spike?"

"Oh, you know Spike. He was being ..." She trailed off, realization slamming home. She went rigid, and Dawn shrank under her gaze. "How do you know about that? Were you following me? Because I swear to God if you were ..."

"I wasn't following, Buffy. I promise," Dawn blurted out. "Willow and I sort of did this spell, and we figured out where Spike was. And then we did it again to figure out where you were. And it was in the same place. Don't be mad, OK? I just wanted to surprise you by letting you know he was back, but then I was too late, and ..." She gulped, and continued in a small voice, "You're not mad, are you?"

Buffy knew she should be mad, and lecture about the dangers of magic and ground Dawn until the next Doomsday. The anger, however, didn't come, now matter how she tried to coax it. Something else took its place, all unexpected as she watched Dawn's fingers play with the hem of her turtleneck. It was something Buffy had been holding back since the night of Spike's disappearance. It started small, like an ache in her belly, but quickly grew and spread like lava through her veins. In that moment, Buffy finally was able to identify to it, that tiny thing that had been holding her back, shutting her down, making her less than human. Fear. Once she named it, she felt her universe shift.

She couldn't vocalize the moment to Dawn, who still watched her, waiting for her well-deserved chewing-out. In fact, Buffy couldn't speak at all. Her throat constricted, and emotion welled up, in her watery eyes and runny nose. She blinked to clear her vision, to hold herself in check, but she only succeeded in releasing tears into little streams down her cheeks. A sob built in her throat.

She heard Dawn's voice from far away: "Buffy, are -- are you OK? What's wrong?" Her sister seemed so small, like Buffy could pinch her between her fingertips.

Dawn set her hand over Buffy's, and the last shred of control melted away. She pulled Dawn off her stool and into her embrace. Comforting arms wrapped around her, and she cried into Dawn's shoulder, every sob wracking her entire body. Dawn wisely stayed silent, waiting for Buffy to find her voice.

"Th -- the night before Spike ... left," Buffy choked out between sobs, "I went to his crypt. I was so tired of -- of life and feeling nothing, and I knew -- I knew Spike was the only one who could help me." She pulled back a little, set her hands on Dawn's shoulders. Dawn deserved to know, and Buffy had to tell someone before this secret sucked her dry. She took a deep breath, wiped her eyes, and said, "I knew he loved me, and I trusted that he wouldn't do anything to hurt me. So I -- I gave myself to him."

Dawn blinked. "You what? You mean you ... had sex with Spike?"

Buffy nodded, a fresh river of tears welling forth. "I thought he could help me feel again. Feel human. And for one night, it worked."

"And then he left." Dawn hugged her tight. "Buffy, I'm so sorry."

"Now he's back, and I -- I don't know what to do. I want him to stay, but ... I'm scared. God I am so scared that he'll just hurt me again. Leave me like Angel and Riley and ... and I can't take it anymore. I don't even belong here. It's like I'm afraid to love anyone because all I'm doing is waiting to die again." She thought back to earlier that evening, the vampire standing over her with her own stake, how she had given up. "I've been full of so much fear that I don't remember how to live."

"But you are alive. You're alive, Buffy," Dawn said, unwittingly repeating Spike's words from that blissful night, so many ages ago. "You're alive and you're here, and I love you. And Spike loves you. And the only reason he would leave again is if you pushed him away."

"We don't know that," Buffy said, shaking her head.

"I know that." She set her open hand gently against her sister's heart. "And in here, you know that, too."

"The reason he left before was ... a pathetic excuse." Damn Whistler, she thought. If I ever get my hands on him ... "I didn't push him away then. His leaving had absolutely nothing to do with anything I did."

"If you'd only give Spike another chance ..."

"I don't know if I can, or if he wants one," Buffy said with a sigh. She wiped her nose on her sleeve, and smiled weakly. "Thanks. I needed that. I mean, I needed someone to just listen."

"Sure. Anytime. And I mean that, Buffy." Dawn squeezed her hand and smiled back. "So, um, what are you going to do?"

#

"I'm gonna stake him, that's what. I'm gonna pound a stake into him so fast that he won't know what hit him. I was OK with him being back in town. I could deal. But for him to come anywhere near our Buffy ..."

"Xander, um, maybe that's not such a good idea," Willow said, trying to be tactful. "I know you have this ... thing against Spike, but --"

"Gee, could that maybe be because he's tried to kill us about a zillion times?"

"But maybe we should give him a chance to explain first. Before you -- you know ... turn him into a big, non-talkative pile of dust?"

"Yes. Talk is good. I'm all for the talking." Anya smiled brightly and set a plate of blackened cookies on the kitchen table, between Xander and Willow. "Would anyone like some dessert? They're cajun style."

Xander poked at one, like it might suddenly grow jaws. "I hate to break it to you, sweetie, but cookies don't come in cajun."

"They do if you live in Louisiana."

"And have you ever been to Louisiana?"

"Of course. I traveled all over, back in the day. I remember this one time, there was this guy in New Orleans who was cheating on his wife with some voodoo mistress of the dark. I still can't believe how many men fall for that routine, with the woman all evil and mysterious. It's so obviously an act. Anyway --"

Willow pounded the table. "Can we please stay focused here? Spike following Buffy around. Kind of a big deal."

Anya grimaced and slid onto her chair. "Sorry. But I don't see how it is a big deal. I mean, the two of you sit here arguing over whether to stake him, but your opinions don't matter at all. What's really important here is what Buffy wants. He's a vampire. She's the Slayer. It's her choice."

Xander looked ready to retort, but then changed his mind and slumped back in his chair, thinking things through. "So, what you're suggesting is that we let Buffy decide."

"Yes," Anya said. "It's a matter of trust. You ask yourself how much you trust Buffy. And we already all know the answer to that, so ... just leave it up to her."

"Now there's a novel idea," Xander said.

Willow added, "But if they've already seen each other, then chances are that Buffy's already decided, and he's either dust, or ... or not."

"Which makes this whole conversation pointless." Anya smiled brightly and started munching on one of her cookies. "So, who's up for a game of Monopoly? I get to be the banker."

#

Spike normally made a point of keeping his cool. It fit well with the overall image he worked so hard to cultivate. So losing his temper, letting that little bitch of a Slayer worm her way inside, was something he generally avoided. No matter how many times she attacked him, insulted him, or degraded him, he responded with a cocky quip or some insightful comment on her own inner turmoil. She'd get mad; he would save face. It always worked.

And it had worked tonight, too, right up until he had left her. Then the anger had spilled out, and Spike found himself brooding with the best of 'em. She kissed him, then hit him. Yelled, then chatted conversationally, then ordered him to get out of town. Girl was like a bleedin' roller- coaster ride, worse than before he had left. She needed to decide what she wanted, and right quick, before it pushed her over the edge.

He had other problems besides an erratic Buffy, though. As if she wasn't enough already. He'd have to explain to the Big Man why his team of vamps got dusted and the Slayer was still alive, and it better be a bloody brilliant speech because Spike needed to stay in good graces. Buffy would need his help tomorrow night. Much as he hated her, he also still loved her. He wouldn't let her die again.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and let his legs carry him quickly across the cemetery, back toward the mansion. Mist hovered at the tips of tombstones and obscured everything more than a few feet away, but it didn't hide the sky, speckled with stars. It was a beautiful, mild night... but a deceiving one, nevertheless. One sniff at the humid air, and Spike knew a storm was coming.

Up ahead, on a street corner, he spotted a figure leaning against a lamp post. He got closer, made out who it was, and threw up his arms. "Can't you bloody well leave me alone? Don't you have your own life to live?"

Whistler shrugged. "My life is serving the Powers, and right now that means keeping an eye on you. It's not like I want to be here. But you're so stupid that you need someone to hold your hand and keep you on the right path."

"You try to hold my hand and I will pummel you into the pavement." Spike swept passed him and into the street, knowing that Whistler would follow. "So, you're here to dispense more orders, right? Tell me to leave while the getting's good? I have news for you, mate: It's not going to work this time."

"Actually, I'm here to congratulate you."

"Yeah, right."

"I mean it. You tracked down the bad guys, infiltrated their organization, gathered information and passed it on to the Slayer. All without getting yourself killed. Very impressive."

"All right. What do you want?" Spike asked, exasperated. "There's no way you're heaping on the praise without some sort of catch."

"No catches. Cross my heart." Whistler jogged a few steps ahead and turned to cut him off, force him to stop walking. "But I do have a warning."

"Now why am I not surprised?" Spike pushed him out of the way and set off again, cutting through a rank, garbage-strewn alley at the edge of downtown.

Whistler's voice chased him from behind. "You go back to the mansion and you'll end up dead."

OK, that was it. Last bloody straw to break his back. Spike whirled around in midstep, grabbed Whistler by his fancy coat collar and shoved him against a wall. "Where in the bleedin' hell to you get all this? Some crackpot crystal ball?"

"Visions," Whistler croaked out, barely audible. His face was turning tomato red. "Powers ... send me visions."

"Well, they're wrong."

Spike released him, and Whistler crumbled to the pavement, holding his throat and pulling in raspy breaths. "Vampires," he muttered. "I gotta tell ya, all this violence is not healthy. You maybe want to think about using some diplomacy sometimes, especially with people who are trying to help you."

Spike could only stare in disbelief. Help him? Since that morning he had found Whistler in his crypt, his entire existence had been one traumatic event after another. Now, to top it off, the woman he loved would probably never trust him again. By leaving, he had blown his shot with Buffy. But it saved her life, he firmly reminded himself. Either way, with her pissed off or dead, he didn't have a chance of earning her affections. Not now.

Hell, who was he kidding? A Slayer and a soulless vampire. Together. Happy. It was doomed before it began. All I wanted was to hear her say she loved me back. Just once. And to make her smile. But will never happen ...

"I'm going back to the mansion," Spike said, resigned. "If I end up dead, that doesn't matter. Just as long as Buffy and her little sis get through this thing OK. I don't have anything left to live for anyway. Not without her."

Whistler's eyes narrowed. "Are you sure you don't have a soul?"

Spike walked away and yelled over his shoulder, "Don't come near me again, got it?"

Whistler didn't follow, much to Spike's relief. He passed a couple of people near the movie theater, but the streets were otherwise deserted, as though the residents of Sunnydale knew something was coming and thought it safer to stay in their homes. Even the town's demon population was keeping a low profile, and they usually had nothing to fear. Spike's stomach growled when he spotted a vampire feeding on some hapless woman on a nearby park bench. His mouth watered, but he kept walking.

"The Big Man wants to see you." The mansion's door guard stood aside as Spike approached. "Immediately. He's in the usual place."

The usual place was the sitting room, where Spike had walked in on the Big Man and his cronies for the first time. In the old days, Drusilla had spent most of her daytime hours there, playing with her dolls. She would blindfold them in red velvet, one by one, then set them on the mantelpiece, except for her favorite dark-haired beauty who always sat in the corner. Do you see, darling, Dru often said in her light, drowsy voice. Miss Edith is being very bad today and cannot play with the others.

Spike half-expected to see her as he entered the room, eyes lit with madness, but all he found was the Big Man, lounging in a easy chair, watching the crackling fireplace. He looked so young, and innocent as the child he had been when turned. His legs dangled inches above the floor, too short to reach down. The other chairs were empty.

"William, come here," the Big Man said, with the ease of one used to being obeyed, and Spike walked over. The seeming-child turned his ageless eyes on him, and Spike shuddered. "William. That's such a nice name. Regal, royal. But it doesn't fit you. Perhaps we should give you a nickname."

Spike snorted. "What did you have in mind?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe 'William the Bloody.' How does that sound?"

Spike blanched.

"No?" The Big Man smiled grimly. "Perhaps a different one, then. How about 'Spike'? Does that suit you better?"

This time, he didn't hesitate. With supernatural speed, Spike turned and tore from the room, bowling over a group of vamps on his way down the hall. The Big Man knew. How could he have possibly figured it out? Had he had Spike followed when he met with Buffy?

No matter. The most pressing urgency was to get out of the mansion. He was breathing heavily, despite the futility of it, as he pounded toward the staircase that would lead him to the entry hallway. An army of footsteps hounded him from behind. He was being chased. But they were too far behind to catch him before he could reach the door. Spike couldn't help but grin. This was just like old times, with Drusilla, Angelus and Darla, running from an angry mob, adrenaline pumping. Gods, he had missed the chase.

At the bottom of the staircase was another group of burly vamps, all in their game faces, waiting to cut off his escape. Some carried stakes. When they saw Spike, they started up, fighting each other to get to him. Vampires at both ends of the stairs -- no escape that way. So in one smooth movement, Spike vaulted the wooden railings and landed catlike on the floor below. He sprinted passed his surprised posse, reached the front door, threw it open and ...

Collided with the biggest vampire he had ever seen.

Spike hardly reached the guy's shoulder. He might as well have run headfirst into a wall. He rebounded onto his back, then found himself being hauled to his feet by a mob of grasping hands. His arms got pinned behind his back, too tight to wriggle out. Not for the first time, he wished he had a bigger, stronger build, more capable of breaking free.

"Hey watch the hair," he said as someone pulled on it from behind. Someone else -- or perhaps the same anonymous vamp -- slapped his butt. The others laughed, and Spike's felt his face heating.

Moments later, he looked up to see the Big Man descending the staircase, one tiny hand gliding along the railing. Behind him walked another vampire, one that Spike knew he knew from somewhere. Then it clicked. It was Chubby. The vampire he had pummeled outside a bar, the one who led him to Carlos in London. The one Spike had spared. And now that moment of mercy was coming back to bite him in the ass.

"I knew I should have killed you!" Spike yelled while straining against his captors. "You bloody well betrayed me! You better watch out, because when I get outta here, you're dust!"

Chubby smirked.

"Now, now, Spike, that's no way to talk," the Big Man said. "Charlie here trailed you this evening, on my orders, to see how you would handle your first set of instructions. I told you to kill the Slayer. Instead, you gave her information. I'm very disappointed."

Spike's captors drove him to his knees, on level with their leader. One of those tiny, smooth hands reached out to cup his chin and force his face upward, to meet the Big Man's eyes. Spike expected anger, but he saw sadness. It left him without words.

"I had hoped you would be what you said," the Big Man continued. "But instead you chose to betray me. Normally, I would simply have you killed, but I must know what you told the Slayer."

"What, you mean Chubby here wasn't listening in?"

"Tell me, Spike. And I'll make your death quick and painless."

"I suppose then, that if I refuse, I'm in for a night of hot pokers?" Spike forced a grin. "Right then. I told her we were all having a cake party. Balloons. Streamers. Those little candles that don't go out when you blow on them."

The Big Man sighed. "You will talk, Spike. I promise you that." He stepped away and waved to his minions. "Take him to the courtyard and chain him up. The sun will rise in a few hours."

With that, they dragged Spike away, down the familiar passageways and through an ornate door. A light film of clouds had drawn over, obscuring the stars. And the beautiful greenery and night-blooming flowers that Drusilla had love so much were absent, dormant for the winter, but their brown vines crawled down the walls like spiders' legs. The vampires chained Spike in handcuffs against such a wall, hands above his head, vines poking into his back. All of them left, except for two guards, one at each door.

Well, Spike didn't like to admit it, but Whistler had been right. Coming back had been a gamble, and he had lost. He didn't know what the Big Man had planned, but he knew it would be unpleasant. Maybe even enough to make him talk --

No. No, that would never happen. Glory hadn't been able to make him to spill, even when she had smashed glass in his face and poked her fingers into his heart. He had withstood a god, and he would withstand this. Until the sun rose. And then it would be over.

#

TBC ...