TITLE: Near-Life Experiences 2/?
AUTHOR: tanith
SUMMARY, ETC.: See previous parts.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: A long chapter to make up for the short prologue. Also, some fluffiness to make up for season 6. The flashback takes place several months after OaFA, in my own twisted AU.
XXXXXXXXXXXXX
The fight for control of the radio is an oft-waged battle, never truly won.
William Barnet is at the wheel ("It is *my* car, after all") but his eyes are not on the road. Instead, they are fixed on Anne's face, her sweet smile causing him to scowl. "If I have to listen to any more of this new age crap..." he threatens, already reaching for the dial.
Anne swats his hand, playfully. "It's soothing," she says.
William looks down at his hand, pale skin tinted red where his wife's fingers connected. "Bloody typical," he mutters. "You can still hit me even though I can't return the favor."
This earns another one of Anne's deceptively sweet smiles. "I'd have thought you'd be used to it by now," she says, and starts humming the new Chips Ahoy! jingle.
Ladies and gentlemen, Zoe thinks, my parents.
"Ooh, turn here," Anne says, cutting off her humming abruptly and pointing out the passenger side window. William turns the car, seizing the opportunity to flip the radio station to 80s rock.
Anne and Zoe's eyes roll heavenward, simultaneously.
This sucks, Zoe thinks. Outside her window, mile after mile of flat, brown farmland slides by. Toto, I think we're still in Kansas. She sighs, letting her head flop back against the seat.
"Dad," she says, "tell me a story."
He turns to look at her, eyebrow arched, slow smile playing across his lips. She smiles back; this is her favorite part of the night, and - aside from the dream - her favorite 20 minutes in every 24 hours. William clears his throat.
"Once upon a time..."
*************
Dawn looked up from her homework as the doorbell rang. Right on schedule, she thought, the corner of her mouth teasing up in a little half-smile. She pushed her schoolbooks away, grateful for the distraction, and went to answer the door.
Spike stood in the doorway, an axe slung over one shoulder. "Hullo, Nibblet," he said. She motioned for him to come inside, and he did, pausing to lean the axe up against the wall by the coat tree.
"Buffy's still in the shower," Dawn said, making her way back into the kitchen. She plopped herself down on a stool, turning to face Spike and wrinkling her nose. "Doublemeat smell."
He nodded sympathetically. He took a glass from the cupboard, filled it at the sink and took a swig.
"There's blood in the fridge," Dawn offered.
"This is fine. Whatcha working on, Bit?"
She made a face. "I have to memorize these lines and then perform the scene in front of the class."
He quirked an eyebrow. "You're in theater?"
"It's for English." Then she laughed. "You're making that, I feel old' face."
He took another sip of water. "Times have certainly changed since I was in school."
"You mean you never had to be Juliet to some pimply kid named Brad's Romeo?" Dawn asked, a wistful expression on her face.
He chuckled. "Can't say I did. But here, let me see if I can help you with this..."
*************
Buffy smiled as she toweled off her hair. Bursts of laughter could be heard drifting up the stairs. Clearly, Spike had arrived.
It had been three months since she had called off their sexcapades. In that time, they'd come to a surprisingly comfortable arrangement: he'd help with Dawn and patrolling, and the two of them and sex would never again be mentioned in conjunction.
What had been surprising, however, was how *nice* it had been. Buffy had always considered (when she considered such things, in other words, rarely) nice to be a rather wimpy word that didn't say very much. But that's exactly what it had been like between her and Spike once all the issues that the s-e-x had dredged up were removed from the equation: nice. Comfortable. Natural. Border-line fun.
Even better, Dawn was smiling again; Buffy'd even caught a glimpse of a genuine grin the other day. And, Buffy admitted to herself, she was happier, too. It was like the first few months after she been brought back, sans the post-resurrection depression. She finally seemed to be getting over that, and now she could talk to him again, genuinely, without pressure. It was good to have someone to talk to.
And good to have a routine, Buffy thought, changing into patrol-worthy clothes. It kept things normal, or as normal as one could hope to get on the Hellmouth. Buffy shoved a stake up her sleeve and trotted down the stairs, smiling slightly at the thought of what passed for normal in her crazy life. Then she saw the scene in the kitchen and stopped cold.
Dawn was standing up on a stool, trying to contain her sniggering behind the pages of a book. Then she seemed to realize that she was supposed to be reading from it, and glancing down at the page, muttered between giggles, "Ay me!'"
Her eyes drifted downward, to where Spike knelt, his arms extended towards Dawn's makeshift balcony like a jester before his king's throne. "She speaks! O, speak again, bright angel, for thou art as glorious to this night, being o'er my head, as is a winged messenger of heaven,'" Spike said, apparently from memory, and in a jarringly different voice, full of Shakespearean flourish.
"O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?'" Dawn managed to get out between further bouts of laughter. Spike gave her a disapproving look.
"You cut me off. Your cue's bosom of the air,' remember?"
"You stopped!"
"I was *taking* a dramatic pause."
At this point, Buffy could contain herself no longer, and burst into a fit of giggles that rivaled Dawn's own.
Spike made his this is me blushing, minus the physical symptoms' face and got awkwardly to his feet. "Er, hi pet," he said. "Just helping the Bit with her English homework, seeing as I'm English, and, er..."
"No, don't stop!" Buffy said, still laughing. "You're absolutely great." She shook her head, as if she was trying to make sense of it all, the mirth still flowing. "I mean, that accent, and the kneeling... You're great. I love you."
There was a moment of utter silence. Then Dawn's book fell from her hand and landed on the floor with a *thunk*. Two pairs of eyes darted quickly to where it had fallen; by the time they looked up again, Buffy had already fled.
Spike raced after her. He tore outside, and in the darkness, was just able to catch sight of her retreating back. He followed, wondering vaguely why she was heading toward the cemetery. Did her own slip of tongue disgust her so much that now she had to go and kill something? Well, better it than me, Spike thought bitterly. But still he ran.
He was so consumed by the need to catch up with her that he never noticed the approaching vampire until it was punching him in the face. He reeled backward, smacking into a tombstone. He looked up at the big vamp in front of him, tasting blood on his lip. Big Ugly thwaped meaty fist into meaty palm and flashed him a toothy grin. Probably smiling at the thought of connecting said fist with my more sensitive bits, Spike thought, followed quickly by, Bugger. He'd left his axe at Buffy's.
"Traitor..." the vampire hissed.
Spike rolled his eyes as he pulled himself to his feet. "Yeah, yeah, I'm a regular Benedict Arnold." He threw a punch that unfortunately had very little effect on the vampire's meaty jaw.
"Who's Benedict Arnold?" the vampire asked, shoving Spike back down to the ground. Before Spike even had time to react, it had him pinned with one large, meaty knee. I shouldn't try to fight when I'm distracted, he thought.
"I'll tell you if you let me go," he said.
"Actually, I don't care," the vampire said, reaching up and snapping a branch off a nearby tree. It hefted this makeshift stake, and Spike was just beginning to feel a flicker of fear when an explosion of vampire dust rained down on him.
Buffy took a step back and let her stake drop casually to the ground. "I care."
Spike pushed himself up onto his elbows. "Do you mean that, pet?" he started to say.
He didn't got beyond "Do y--" before his words were muffled under the onslaught of her mouth. "No more running," she said when she came up for air. "No running ever again."
*************
An odd silence permeates the car once William has finished his tale. Anne is looking at him, worry etched in her features, her eyes practically screaming, "So what are we doing now?" In the rearview mirror, the empty space where Zoe sits stares back at him, mockingly.
"Must all of your stories end with you and mom macking?" Zoe asks finally.
Anne titters, nervously. "They don't *all*," William insists, relieved.
"I mean, before I was born, didn't you guys do anything el--" She cuts off abruptly, head snapping up. "Sun."
Silence again descends. But this is a normal silence, a daily event: the great motel scramble. They are experts by now, and in a matter of minutes, they are pulling into the parking lot of a Motel 6. Zoe collapses almost as soon as they are in the door. Anne makes sure that the curtains are drawn tight before curling up in bed next to her husband. She wraps her arms around his chest, reassured by his quiet, unnecessary breathing. She closes her eyes and tries, unsuccessfully, to sleep.
XXXXXXXXXXXXX
TBC