---
Part Three
---
Spike lightly shifted the angle of his sword blade, and aimed the point directly for Buffy's heart in a full lunge. Buffy parried Spike's thrust, dropping her sword to his right low guard as she swiftly retreated, a bead of sweat running down her forehead. She extended her sword tip, trying to use his own forward momentum to strike his thigh. But he swept his blade down in an elegant gesture, knocking it out of line beside his leg.
The blade would have gone past his body, leaving her defenseless, but she caught the motion as it came, stayed her forward momentum, and arched her tip over his in a delicate, swift twist. He fluidly moved to counter, and she found herself backed closer to the wall than she felt comfortable. Then, as his blade moved towards her waist, she dropped low on her knees, catching the blade with her own, holding it above her head, and then sweeping it back to her right side as she jumped up again. She thrust forward, landing her sword point hard on his throat.
He gagged a moment, and pulled off his fencing mask. He flexed the rubber tip of his epee against his shoe, bending the blade in an arch.
"Oh! Sorry! Too hard!"
"Nothing I can't handle, Slayer. 'Sides, bruises make me look all manly." He raised his eyebrows, and gave her a characteristic smirk.
"What did you notice about what happened there? What decided that in my favor?" Buffy asked, turning to the group standing at the far wall of the training room. A crowd of several others were practicing drills together at the other side. They would switch places after they demonstrated and then taught the skills in small groups.
No one answered. They had come relatively far, but she was going to stick with teaching them on weapons that couldn't injure anyone for another few weeks. Then they could move on to light arms, perhaps the proper use of a stake for the promising ones. It was amazing how quickly it had caught on-- mostly, at first, her former high school classmates came. But they brought their friends. Some even brought their parents. It had just grown from there. She sold gift certificates. They needed to stay alive on the Hellmouth, and she was the one who knew how to do it. And it was just an extension of her job to help prevent victims even before she had to rescue them.
Spike was exactly what she needed-- someone to divide the work with, to provide observations she may have missed, and to provide individual instruction when the enrollment grew too large for her to handle alone.
"It's tempo people--" Spike responded to Buffy's question, "Every action you try takes time, and you create a sort of rhythm with the time you're using makin' them and alternating between them. Makes a kind of dance-- Buffy here broke the tempo at an appropriate moment, and caught herself an opening with it. Breaking it in the wrong moment-- exposing your inside line to your opponent-- that gets you dead. Keep your balance, work for an opening. Works just like in the drills we taught you last time."
"And you have to remember," Buffy continued, "Even injuring a vamp will help you-- you don't have to kill every time. In fact, I'd really rather you didn't try. That's my job-- your job is to stay alive. Your first objective is to avoid any contact with the bads-- when the contact happens, it is to get away. Breaking the tempo of the fight can give you a chance to do that. Spike and I will do some hand-to-hand and show you what we mean, then I'll give you some exercises to work on in pairs."
She unzipped her canvas fencing whites from the shoulder, slipping the jacket off absently as she walked to the corner table. There she picked up a small, lacquered box, and wound the silver key on its side. She opened the lid, and walked to meet Spike in the center of the room. The music box began playing its delicate notes, the theme from Love Story. Buffy had never seen the film, but the melody was beautiful, if a bit sad, and it had been in Anya's storeroom, gathering dust.
Spike moved forward, she moved back in a nervous start. She felt strangely exposed before him, but swallowed down such tentative feelings as he aimed a swift blow for her jaw. She tilted her head to the left, and it went wide. The movement of air around it spirited past her cheek. And the gentle tune played on.
This was strange-- this was new. His eyes were intent on assessing her movements, and yet the old passion was in them. Skill and concentration had always combined with emotion for him, as they did for her, such that they found it difficult to land attacks, for the other would anticipate the motion. It was strange, yes, and yet, it was familiar-- comfortable. He seemed a bit more himself than he had been as she spun towards him, attempting to force him off balance and make him fall. He deftly moved from the side, listening to the delicate, threadbare tune of the music box, letting its rhythm define the fight.
"I think you'll notice," he said as he moved, "That our Slayer is leaving her left side exposed when she attacks."
Caught in the moment, Buffy hardly heard his words. She saw his eyes as he circled her. This was the man she knew, the spark that she had once hated-- the persistence of the life in those eyes, that seemed to mock her once, then began to challenge her in ways she could never have imagined before. She loathed those eyes, feared them, loved them desperately at times-- she fought against them, and with them, and for them she had nearly lost herself. But she was found now, and the beauty and the horror of their shared past reflected in her mind like a distant dream. If nothing else, she found she missed those eyes.
The music chimed around them and the world faded around it.
Since he'd come back, his eyes had seemed lost in worry and doubt and things she was not sure she knew or clearly understood-- but in this moment they gazed lucidly upon her, intent on a task. And that very intensity communicated itself to her own movements. No wonder that, no matter what happened to them, they seemed to end up together again.
She moved to attack, swiping towards the left of his jaw, and he caught her arm when she compromised her balance in doing so. He then pushed her forward and against the wall, pulling her neck to the side with one quick motion. He paused, and looked up.
"So we're one for one tonight?" he said, loosening his grasp on her shoulder and smoothing the strands of hair that fell over it in a vaguely conciliatory fashion. She looked in his eyes and they froze a moment. He didn't avoid her gaze, and she became keenly aware of his presence so close to her.
The moment passed, and she smiled at him and nodded down to his chest, where she had pinned the stake she had palmed during the fight. He smiled back broadly, and backed away, picking up a water bottle.
"Should have known you'd have the last word in it," he said, chuckling, "Well, isn't that my girl,." He didn't realize what he'd said, and she didn't move to correct him. She simply smiled slightly to herself, turning to the group that stood, looking somewhat perplexed, before her.
"Ok guys, now Spike is going to show you some drills while I go over and teach the advanced group individually."
---
The heady scent of earth, moisture and flowers filled Spike's nostrils as he walked home to the cemetery that night. It seemed more beautiful than any evening since he had returned. A warm breeze blew across his neck, sprinkled with a few cool raindrops, and the welcome silence of the darkness gave him a sense of peace that had long evaded him.
Being with her, really with her-- that seemed rare and impossible. But sometimes, when they were thinking of something else-- like strategy in a bout, he *did* feel close. He felt like the unfathomable distance that they had forcefully placed between each other-- the distance he had told himself time and again was impossible to cross-- that it shrunk away to nothing and left them alone, together, and at peace.
Just in a brief time-- the mere flash of moments, he had known her and known peace. He'd learned so much, and ached to talk to her again, to see her and tell her everything he had discovered, everything he felt. Sometimes-- most of the time-- he felt the horrible pain of it. But this was the joy. It was too much to hold in, and the night echoed his mood as the wind surged through the branches and played in the leaves.
He wondered, idly, if he should worry that his closeness to her brought him such happiness, when there was so little reason he should be allowed to be happy.
But it didn't seem to matter as he opened his crypt door, as he stood in it a moment, simply smelling the perfume of flowers as it blew by on a breeze, and listening to the rushing wave of the branches, where the leaves sounded like the current of a heavy waterfall.
He heard a sound of movement from inside, and a familiar voice called out to him.
"You've all changed, my William-- you're burning all over." The weary, but eternally feminine voice lilted from inside the crypt. It echoed against the stone walls. He froze where he stood.
She crawled through a shadow, pulling herself up on the stone floor, reaching one hand out from the darkness.
"But you can't leave me... you never could... I've been so frightened. There's been a terrible ripping like an ocean.... and I left all my dolls behind."
She had come back. He felt his will rise up against her, was prepared to throw her to whatever fate she had come to deserve. But somehow, something else moved with that steely pillar of anger. It undermined its root. He didn't know its name, didn't know what it could be. It felt a bit like when Dawn looked up at him from her textbook, as she did when he left the training room, and turned away. It was a new thing to him, and tore a hole in his determination. His legs felt weak, and he leaned against the doorjamb, staring out among the rows of silent stones.
When he heard the sound of her tears, he felt himself bite his lip. He turned to look at her. She could see his anger, and the conflict working within him. Her desperation made her continue, unsure even if she cared any longer should he leave her to die. At least, if they tore her apart bit by bit, she would know what it was like to cross over.
His face contorted when he saw her, beaten and bruised. One arm fell at an unnatural angle, and some of the skin was gone. What remained of her dress was stained with mud. She was so emaciated she seemed unable to stand. He wondered how it was she managed to survive this long, and find her way to his crypt. Having known her for so very many years, he was unsure if she even remembered.
She wept, straining a hand out to him, and then collapsed onto the stone. He stepped towards her, looking down on her from above. Then, he kneeled down beside her. He reached out, fingering a piece of her long hair tentatively.
"You're afraid," she whispered, "You're afraid of your own light."
He felt a wave of guilt move through him as he realized how much he pitied her. This was a creature, lying on his floor, weeping. A creature who couldn't entirely care for herself, who didn't know when to stop killing, when to move from place to place. This was the woman who had watched clouds move with him on a rooftop one spring evening, years ago. She could paint watercolors, and draw quite well. She knew how to embroider, and tended to hum old hymns as she worked. She loved violets, and preferred baroque inventions to classical opera. They sounded like time, she used to say.
He reached out a hand, pausing over her moment. The hand that hovered there fell, and touched her forehead, her cheek. He stroked her hair gently, and she pulled her head onto his knee, sobbing.
"It's ok... hush now..." he whispered, "It's ok..."
---
Spike lightly shifted the angle of his sword blade, and aimed the point directly for Buffy's heart in a full lunge. Buffy parried Spike's thrust, dropping her sword to his right low guard as she swiftly retreated, a bead of sweat running down her forehead. She extended her sword tip, trying to use his own forward momentum to strike his thigh. But he swept his blade down in an elegant gesture, knocking it out of line beside his leg.
The blade would have gone past his body, leaving her defenseless, but she caught the motion as it came, stayed her forward momentum, and arched her tip over his in a delicate, swift twist. He fluidly moved to counter, and she found herself backed closer to the wall than she felt comfortable. Then, as his blade moved towards her waist, she dropped low on her knees, catching the blade with her own, holding it above her head, and then sweeping it back to her right side as she jumped up again. She thrust forward, landing her sword point hard on his throat.
He gagged a moment, and pulled off his fencing mask. He flexed the rubber tip of his epee against his shoe, bending the blade in an arch.
"Oh! Sorry! Too hard!"
"Nothing I can't handle, Slayer. 'Sides, bruises make me look all manly." He raised his eyebrows, and gave her a characteristic smirk.
"What did you notice about what happened there? What decided that in my favor?" Buffy asked, turning to the group standing at the far wall of the training room. A crowd of several others were practicing drills together at the other side. They would switch places after they demonstrated and then taught the skills in small groups.
No one answered. They had come relatively far, but she was going to stick with teaching them on weapons that couldn't injure anyone for another few weeks. Then they could move on to light arms, perhaps the proper use of a stake for the promising ones. It was amazing how quickly it had caught on-- mostly, at first, her former high school classmates came. But they brought their friends. Some even brought their parents. It had just grown from there. She sold gift certificates. They needed to stay alive on the Hellmouth, and she was the one who knew how to do it. And it was just an extension of her job to help prevent victims even before she had to rescue them.
Spike was exactly what she needed-- someone to divide the work with, to provide observations she may have missed, and to provide individual instruction when the enrollment grew too large for her to handle alone.
"It's tempo people--" Spike responded to Buffy's question, "Every action you try takes time, and you create a sort of rhythm with the time you're using makin' them and alternating between them. Makes a kind of dance-- Buffy here broke the tempo at an appropriate moment, and caught herself an opening with it. Breaking it in the wrong moment-- exposing your inside line to your opponent-- that gets you dead. Keep your balance, work for an opening. Works just like in the drills we taught you last time."
"And you have to remember," Buffy continued, "Even injuring a vamp will help you-- you don't have to kill every time. In fact, I'd really rather you didn't try. That's my job-- your job is to stay alive. Your first objective is to avoid any contact with the bads-- when the contact happens, it is to get away. Breaking the tempo of the fight can give you a chance to do that. Spike and I will do some hand-to-hand and show you what we mean, then I'll give you some exercises to work on in pairs."
She unzipped her canvas fencing whites from the shoulder, slipping the jacket off absently as she walked to the corner table. There she picked up a small, lacquered box, and wound the silver key on its side. She opened the lid, and walked to meet Spike in the center of the room. The music box began playing its delicate notes, the theme from Love Story. Buffy had never seen the film, but the melody was beautiful, if a bit sad, and it had been in Anya's storeroom, gathering dust.
Spike moved forward, she moved back in a nervous start. She felt strangely exposed before him, but swallowed down such tentative feelings as he aimed a swift blow for her jaw. She tilted her head to the left, and it went wide. The movement of air around it spirited past her cheek. And the gentle tune played on.
This was strange-- this was new. His eyes were intent on assessing her movements, and yet the old passion was in them. Skill and concentration had always combined with emotion for him, as they did for her, such that they found it difficult to land attacks, for the other would anticipate the motion. It was strange, yes, and yet, it was familiar-- comfortable. He seemed a bit more himself than he had been as she spun towards him, attempting to force him off balance and make him fall. He deftly moved from the side, listening to the delicate, threadbare tune of the music box, letting its rhythm define the fight.
"I think you'll notice," he said as he moved, "That our Slayer is leaving her left side exposed when she attacks."
Caught in the moment, Buffy hardly heard his words. She saw his eyes as he circled her. This was the man she knew, the spark that she had once hated-- the persistence of the life in those eyes, that seemed to mock her once, then began to challenge her in ways she could never have imagined before. She loathed those eyes, feared them, loved them desperately at times-- she fought against them, and with them, and for them she had nearly lost herself. But she was found now, and the beauty and the horror of their shared past reflected in her mind like a distant dream. If nothing else, she found she missed those eyes.
The music chimed around them and the world faded around it.
Since he'd come back, his eyes had seemed lost in worry and doubt and things she was not sure she knew or clearly understood-- but in this moment they gazed lucidly upon her, intent on a task. And that very intensity communicated itself to her own movements. No wonder that, no matter what happened to them, they seemed to end up together again.
She moved to attack, swiping towards the left of his jaw, and he caught her arm when she compromised her balance in doing so. He then pushed her forward and against the wall, pulling her neck to the side with one quick motion. He paused, and looked up.
"So we're one for one tonight?" he said, loosening his grasp on her shoulder and smoothing the strands of hair that fell over it in a vaguely conciliatory fashion. She looked in his eyes and they froze a moment. He didn't avoid her gaze, and she became keenly aware of his presence so close to her.
The moment passed, and she smiled at him and nodded down to his chest, where she had pinned the stake she had palmed during the fight. He smiled back broadly, and backed away, picking up a water bottle.
"Should have known you'd have the last word in it," he said, chuckling, "Well, isn't that my girl,." He didn't realize what he'd said, and she didn't move to correct him. She simply smiled slightly to herself, turning to the group that stood, looking somewhat perplexed, before her.
"Ok guys, now Spike is going to show you some drills while I go over and teach the advanced group individually."
---
The heady scent of earth, moisture and flowers filled Spike's nostrils as he walked home to the cemetery that night. It seemed more beautiful than any evening since he had returned. A warm breeze blew across his neck, sprinkled with a few cool raindrops, and the welcome silence of the darkness gave him a sense of peace that had long evaded him.
Being with her, really with her-- that seemed rare and impossible. But sometimes, when they were thinking of something else-- like strategy in a bout, he *did* feel close. He felt like the unfathomable distance that they had forcefully placed between each other-- the distance he had told himself time and again was impossible to cross-- that it shrunk away to nothing and left them alone, together, and at peace.
Just in a brief time-- the mere flash of moments, he had known her and known peace. He'd learned so much, and ached to talk to her again, to see her and tell her everything he had discovered, everything he felt. Sometimes-- most of the time-- he felt the horrible pain of it. But this was the joy. It was too much to hold in, and the night echoed his mood as the wind surged through the branches and played in the leaves.
He wondered, idly, if he should worry that his closeness to her brought him such happiness, when there was so little reason he should be allowed to be happy.
But it didn't seem to matter as he opened his crypt door, as he stood in it a moment, simply smelling the perfume of flowers as it blew by on a breeze, and listening to the rushing wave of the branches, where the leaves sounded like the current of a heavy waterfall.
He heard a sound of movement from inside, and a familiar voice called out to him.
"You've all changed, my William-- you're burning all over." The weary, but eternally feminine voice lilted from inside the crypt. It echoed against the stone walls. He froze where he stood.
She crawled through a shadow, pulling herself up on the stone floor, reaching one hand out from the darkness.
"But you can't leave me... you never could... I've been so frightened. There's been a terrible ripping like an ocean.... and I left all my dolls behind."
She had come back. He felt his will rise up against her, was prepared to throw her to whatever fate she had come to deserve. But somehow, something else moved with that steely pillar of anger. It undermined its root. He didn't know its name, didn't know what it could be. It felt a bit like when Dawn looked up at him from her textbook, as she did when he left the training room, and turned away. It was a new thing to him, and tore a hole in his determination. His legs felt weak, and he leaned against the doorjamb, staring out among the rows of silent stones.
When he heard the sound of her tears, he felt himself bite his lip. He turned to look at her. She could see his anger, and the conflict working within him. Her desperation made her continue, unsure even if she cared any longer should he leave her to die. At least, if they tore her apart bit by bit, she would know what it was like to cross over.
His face contorted when he saw her, beaten and bruised. One arm fell at an unnatural angle, and some of the skin was gone. What remained of her dress was stained with mud. She was so emaciated she seemed unable to stand. He wondered how it was she managed to survive this long, and find her way to his crypt. Having known her for so very many years, he was unsure if she even remembered.
She wept, straining a hand out to him, and then collapsed onto the stone. He stepped towards her, looking down on her from above. Then, he kneeled down beside her. He reached out, fingering a piece of her long hair tentatively.
"You're afraid," she whispered, "You're afraid of your own light."
He felt a wave of guilt move through him as he realized how much he pitied her. This was a creature, lying on his floor, weeping. A creature who couldn't entirely care for herself, who didn't know when to stop killing, when to move from place to place. This was the woman who had watched clouds move with him on a rooftop one spring evening, years ago. She could paint watercolors, and draw quite well. She knew how to embroider, and tended to hum old hymns as she worked. She loved violets, and preferred baroque inventions to classical opera. They sounded like time, she used to say.
He reached out a hand, pausing over her moment. The hand that hovered there fell, and touched her forehead, her cheek. He stroked her hair gently, and she pulled her head onto his knee, sobbing.
"It's ok... hush now..." he whispered, "It's ok..."
---
