10.
It was nice out here still.
No Winter chill just yet, though it hadn't exactly been an Indian Summer this year. Not that she would know. Hadn't seen much of it cooped up in the land of the nut job. She chastised herself silently...no, that was unkind. The land of the...mentally unavailable. She sighed, turned the next page of the book she wasn't exactly reading.
God, she wanted to go home. She wondered how much longer it would be before she could convince them that she was ready now, that she was no longer 'a danger to society and to herself'. Of course if they knew the real truth, the real extent of her actions, she was sure that time would be never. But she had been saved from all that, about the only time the intervention of The Watcher's Council had been a welcome one. She had Giles to thank for her impending reintroduction to society, Giles who she had always looked up to, regarded as the father she would rather have had, Giles who had saved her life, Giles who she had almost killed with a variety of serrated weapons. She shook her head in sudden anguish, flipped another page. She shouldn't think of that, he'd told her not to. It only made things worse, things that could never, would never be changed now. Besides, those memories weren't hers. They didn't belong. That was the other Willow.
At times she felt as if her whole personality had been fractured, all the dark thoughts, the badness, the spite and jealousy that she had so often felt but refused to allow herself to externalise, had been channelled into the other Willow. As Xander had so adeptly put it,
"Like Superman...in Superman III, when he goes all bad and grimey 'cos of the tar in the kryptonite that Richard Pryor makes?"
He'd tried to make light of it and, ironically, it was the only thing that did. Xander and his constant, all-abiding cheerfulness and expansive love. She smiled sadly, he would always loved her, had proved that to her in the most spectacular fashion possible, but no matter how hard he tried, he would never understand how it felt. How the guilt and grief ate at her still, despite Tara's forgiveness. Sometimes she didn't think there was anyone who could.
"Is this seat taken?"
She shielded her eyes from late afternoon sun, surprised that anyone else would want to be out here. The young man dropped onto the bench next to her and she started in surprise as she recognised the angular profile, so incongruous in direct sunlight.
"Bit chilly. Wouldn't you be better off inside?"
She turned back to her book, uncertain what to say. Had he come hoping to bump into Buffy? Or maybe he was thinking she'd be grateful to him for bringing her the stone, that it would mend some bridges.
"I could fetch you a jumper?"
All right, this was just weird,
"If you're looking for Buffy...she left about two hours ago."
He was watching her, squinting a little at the brightness of the sunset,
"Oh. Right then."
She looked back at him, studying his face now, trying to see if there were any visual clues, anything physical that marked a difference. He'd put on a little weight, but that was hardly surprising, he'd been living on a meagre diet of pig's blood and Weetabix for almost three years, calories in that had to be pretty low. Nice though, added a bit of bulk to him, this last year he'd begun to look tired, almost haggard. Although that was probably more due to emotional torment rather than a lack of fresh haemoglobin. And his hair was brown now. She screwed up her nose, didn't like that as much.
"What?"
"Your hair...I think I preferred it before."
He rolled his eyes, felt for his cigarettes, seemed a little irritated to find them gone.
"They don't let you anyway."
She indicated a 'no smoking sign' nearby, settled back for a good, long stare. He didn't seem to mind anyway, smiled a little, stared back. Buffy was right, he was wholly different and not just in a surface way. There was something in his eyes that she was certain had never been there, although she had to admit she'd never made a habit of staring deep into them before. Was it his soul she could see? Or just the absence of something else?
"Is it quiet in there?"
He raised his eyebrows, evidentally no one had asked him that before.
"Sometimes. Other times..." he shook his head, "There's stuff to deal with, you know?"
She nodded. She did.
"I mean I'm not saying I'm going to go all Dark Avenger or anything and I still think he goes way overboard on the whole smouldering martyr bit, but I am starting to understand what he was talking about. About feeling he had to pay, to suffer..."
"Angel?"
"Yeah,"
It was almost as if the sound of his name caused pain,
"When the gypsies did that to him, he tried to pretend it didn't make a difference at first. He came on the hunt, you know, like always. At first he was worse than ever, he'd kill anything that moved, that tried to speak to him, but gradually...he changed. One night I caught him crying over this young girl he'd killed, he just couldn't do it anymore. Being a vampire, it's as if the whole world is yours, everything is offered to you on a plate, you can take what you want without... Being given a soul..."
he focused, trying to understand,
"It's like someone suddenly tuned it in. Like a radio. All the pain, the grief, all the blood and the terror. Everything I ever did, it's there whenever I close my eyes."
She swallowed hard, found herself wanting to reach for his hand.
"But that wasn't you! I mean not the real you, the now you. It was the demon that was...inside you. It's not as if you could have..."
"Stopped myself? Isn't that what I'd been doing ever since that stuck that thing in my head? Sure, the headaches were a bitch, but in the end, that wasn't what stopped me from feeding."
"It wasn't?"
He seemed weary now, as if just talking about it had put himself back there. Into the mind of the demon that had inhabited him for so long,
"I knew there must be something else. Something better than being dead."
She couldn't stop herself from smiling at that one,
"Well, you know...many things are."
"What things?"
She stared at him again. What was he trying to say? That being a demon was preferable to being alive? That he wanted out already?
"Spike...there are hundreds of things! Hundreds!"
He crossed his arms, fixed her with that razor blue stare. She frowned, angry at him for being so darned obtuse.
"Well, for Pete's Sake! There's..." she looked around, "The sky! I mean...look at that sky, you can't tell me that's not worth something. The sun...you're telling me you don't love waking up to see the sun every day now? And saying 'Hello Mr Sunshine'?"
He snorted,
"Who are you? Pollyanna? Gimme something I can work with here."
"Okay, Mr Negative!" she knew she was hitting a home-run with this one, "Food! You're not telling me you don't love how everything tastes now, I mean, compared with the blood?"
He shrugged a little, grudgingly,
"I'm not denying that my life has been enriched by certain...name brands, but you have to realise, to a vamp...blood is filet mignon washed done with the finest cabernet."
She grimaced, did he have to be so...descriptive. And was he saying that he'd done this whole 'getting a soul' thing for no good reason? That it was a bust? Being evil was better? Because if he was, she knew that wasn't strictly true. There had been a reason. Was one.
"And Buffy?"
His gaze was steady now,
"What about her?"
"I mean...didn't you do this for her? Isn't being with her better than...you know...grrrrrrr?"
She had him there. He looked at her, questioning,
"And if I can't be with her? What then? What else do I have to live for?"
Willow studied him with growing concern. Where was all this coming from? Had he talked to Buffy about this, because, from the vibes her friend had been giving off lately, it seemed that she was completely captivated with the new Spike, albeit in constant denial. Everything seemed to be going so well in the crazy realm of romance...but maybe that wasn't the case. Maybe they'd tried to mend the fences and it had failed and Spike, William, had walked away. His heart broken. His thoughts turning, once again, to....oh, this could be bad.
"What...else have you got?"
Her mind raced, how to help him? What to say? He'd lost the reason for his existence, he suffered night and day for the pain he'd inflicted. Was he right? Was death the comfy alternative? She didn't believe that, couldn't and then it came to her with sudden clarity,
"Then I guess...you just have...you."
He seemed to take that in, nodded slowly.
"And eventually, when you can forgive yourself, you can try to make a difference. Not like Angel maybe, but you can help people. You have...many skills. And there's Dawn! She really loves you and she needs you. And you have a lot of people who rely on you, not all friends..." she saw his face, "...yet, but someday, who knows. You matter. You're a person now, William. Perhaps you can even be a good one."
He smiled and after a second or two got to his feet, stared off into the sunset,
"Maybe you're right."
She watched him narrow his eyes a little, thought how kind his face seemed now, how much more relaxed. She was glad she'd been able to help him. It had been a long time since she had felt so valued, so understood.
"So you think...you'll be O.K?"
He pulled on his jacket, brushed the dead leaves off the back. Looked back at her, frowned,
"Oh, I'll be fine."
and set off across the lawn towards the trees, his shadow, cast long and narrow by the setting sun, gradually disappearing amongst them. His last line, said so soft, she didn't even hear it.
"Just wanted to know if you would be."
It was nice out here still.
No Winter chill just yet, though it hadn't exactly been an Indian Summer this year. Not that she would know. Hadn't seen much of it cooped up in the land of the nut job. She chastised herself silently...no, that was unkind. The land of the...mentally unavailable. She sighed, turned the next page of the book she wasn't exactly reading.
God, she wanted to go home. She wondered how much longer it would be before she could convince them that she was ready now, that she was no longer 'a danger to society and to herself'. Of course if they knew the real truth, the real extent of her actions, she was sure that time would be never. But she had been saved from all that, about the only time the intervention of The Watcher's Council had been a welcome one. She had Giles to thank for her impending reintroduction to society, Giles who she had always looked up to, regarded as the father she would rather have had, Giles who had saved her life, Giles who she had almost killed with a variety of serrated weapons. She shook her head in sudden anguish, flipped another page. She shouldn't think of that, he'd told her not to. It only made things worse, things that could never, would never be changed now. Besides, those memories weren't hers. They didn't belong. That was the other Willow.
At times she felt as if her whole personality had been fractured, all the dark thoughts, the badness, the spite and jealousy that she had so often felt but refused to allow herself to externalise, had been channelled into the other Willow. As Xander had so adeptly put it,
"Like Superman...in Superman III, when he goes all bad and grimey 'cos of the tar in the kryptonite that Richard Pryor makes?"
He'd tried to make light of it and, ironically, it was the only thing that did. Xander and his constant, all-abiding cheerfulness and expansive love. She smiled sadly, he would always loved her, had proved that to her in the most spectacular fashion possible, but no matter how hard he tried, he would never understand how it felt. How the guilt and grief ate at her still, despite Tara's forgiveness. Sometimes she didn't think there was anyone who could.
"Is this seat taken?"
She shielded her eyes from late afternoon sun, surprised that anyone else would want to be out here. The young man dropped onto the bench next to her and she started in surprise as she recognised the angular profile, so incongruous in direct sunlight.
"Bit chilly. Wouldn't you be better off inside?"
She turned back to her book, uncertain what to say. Had he come hoping to bump into Buffy? Or maybe he was thinking she'd be grateful to him for bringing her the stone, that it would mend some bridges.
"I could fetch you a jumper?"
All right, this was just weird,
"If you're looking for Buffy...she left about two hours ago."
He was watching her, squinting a little at the brightness of the sunset,
"Oh. Right then."
She looked back at him, studying his face now, trying to see if there were any visual clues, anything physical that marked a difference. He'd put on a little weight, but that was hardly surprising, he'd been living on a meagre diet of pig's blood and Weetabix for almost three years, calories in that had to be pretty low. Nice though, added a bit of bulk to him, this last year he'd begun to look tired, almost haggard. Although that was probably more due to emotional torment rather than a lack of fresh haemoglobin. And his hair was brown now. She screwed up her nose, didn't like that as much.
"What?"
"Your hair...I think I preferred it before."
He rolled his eyes, felt for his cigarettes, seemed a little irritated to find them gone.
"They don't let you anyway."
She indicated a 'no smoking sign' nearby, settled back for a good, long stare. He didn't seem to mind anyway, smiled a little, stared back. Buffy was right, he was wholly different and not just in a surface way. There was something in his eyes that she was certain had never been there, although she had to admit she'd never made a habit of staring deep into them before. Was it his soul she could see? Or just the absence of something else?
"Is it quiet in there?"
He raised his eyebrows, evidentally no one had asked him that before.
"Sometimes. Other times..." he shook his head, "There's stuff to deal with, you know?"
She nodded. She did.
"I mean I'm not saying I'm going to go all Dark Avenger or anything and I still think he goes way overboard on the whole smouldering martyr bit, but I am starting to understand what he was talking about. About feeling he had to pay, to suffer..."
"Angel?"
"Yeah,"
It was almost as if the sound of his name caused pain,
"When the gypsies did that to him, he tried to pretend it didn't make a difference at first. He came on the hunt, you know, like always. At first he was worse than ever, he'd kill anything that moved, that tried to speak to him, but gradually...he changed. One night I caught him crying over this young girl he'd killed, he just couldn't do it anymore. Being a vampire, it's as if the whole world is yours, everything is offered to you on a plate, you can take what you want without... Being given a soul..."
he focused, trying to understand,
"It's like someone suddenly tuned it in. Like a radio. All the pain, the grief, all the blood and the terror. Everything I ever did, it's there whenever I close my eyes."
She swallowed hard, found herself wanting to reach for his hand.
"But that wasn't you! I mean not the real you, the now you. It was the demon that was...inside you. It's not as if you could have..."
"Stopped myself? Isn't that what I'd been doing ever since that stuck that thing in my head? Sure, the headaches were a bitch, but in the end, that wasn't what stopped me from feeding."
"It wasn't?"
He seemed weary now, as if just talking about it had put himself back there. Into the mind of the demon that had inhabited him for so long,
"I knew there must be something else. Something better than being dead."
She couldn't stop herself from smiling at that one,
"Well, you know...many things are."
"What things?"
She stared at him again. What was he trying to say? That being a demon was preferable to being alive? That he wanted out already?
"Spike...there are hundreds of things! Hundreds!"
He crossed his arms, fixed her with that razor blue stare. She frowned, angry at him for being so darned obtuse.
"Well, for Pete's Sake! There's..." she looked around, "The sky! I mean...look at that sky, you can't tell me that's not worth something. The sun...you're telling me you don't love waking up to see the sun every day now? And saying 'Hello Mr Sunshine'?"
He snorted,
"Who are you? Pollyanna? Gimme something I can work with here."
"Okay, Mr Negative!" she knew she was hitting a home-run with this one, "Food! You're not telling me you don't love how everything tastes now, I mean, compared with the blood?"
He shrugged a little, grudgingly,
"I'm not denying that my life has been enriched by certain...name brands, but you have to realise, to a vamp...blood is filet mignon washed done with the finest cabernet."
She grimaced, did he have to be so...descriptive. And was he saying that he'd done this whole 'getting a soul' thing for no good reason? That it was a bust? Being evil was better? Because if he was, she knew that wasn't strictly true. There had been a reason. Was one.
"And Buffy?"
His gaze was steady now,
"What about her?"
"I mean...didn't you do this for her? Isn't being with her better than...you know...grrrrrrr?"
She had him there. He looked at her, questioning,
"And if I can't be with her? What then? What else do I have to live for?"
Willow studied him with growing concern. Where was all this coming from? Had he talked to Buffy about this, because, from the vibes her friend had been giving off lately, it seemed that she was completely captivated with the new Spike, albeit in constant denial. Everything seemed to be going so well in the crazy realm of romance...but maybe that wasn't the case. Maybe they'd tried to mend the fences and it had failed and Spike, William, had walked away. His heart broken. His thoughts turning, once again, to....oh, this could be bad.
"What...else have you got?"
Her mind raced, how to help him? What to say? He'd lost the reason for his existence, he suffered night and day for the pain he'd inflicted. Was he right? Was death the comfy alternative? She didn't believe that, couldn't and then it came to her with sudden clarity,
"Then I guess...you just have...you."
He seemed to take that in, nodded slowly.
"And eventually, when you can forgive yourself, you can try to make a difference. Not like Angel maybe, but you can help people. You have...many skills. And there's Dawn! She really loves you and she needs you. And you have a lot of people who rely on you, not all friends..." she saw his face, "...yet, but someday, who knows. You matter. You're a person now, William. Perhaps you can even be a good one."
He smiled and after a second or two got to his feet, stared off into the sunset,
"Maybe you're right."
She watched him narrow his eyes a little, thought how kind his face seemed now, how much more relaxed. She was glad she'd been able to help him. It had been a long time since she had felt so valued, so understood.
"So you think...you'll be O.K?"
He pulled on his jacket, brushed the dead leaves off the back. Looked back at her, frowned,
"Oh, I'll be fine."
and set off across the lawn towards the trees, his shadow, cast long and narrow by the setting sun, gradually disappearing amongst them. His last line, said so soft, she didn't even hear it.
"Just wanted to know if you would be."
