CHAPTER TWO
"That was incredible!" Dawn is saying for the twentieth time as she and her sister are exiting the movie theater. It's a little past ten on a Friday night and people are out in force to see the movies at the Sunnydale Multiplex. Buffy has heard her sister pour on nothing but adulation the whole time the movie was on and she sees this trend continuing throughout the evening.
"I thought you would like it," Buffy said.
"I mean, the whole thing was great. The story, the way it was shot---everything."
"Probably won't win as many Academy Awards as the David Arquette flick, but it'll hold its own at Oscar time."
"I mean, Buffy…do you think you could do some of those moves that the girl did in the movie?"
"Oh, yeah. Totally. And I do," Buffy says. "All the time."
"Could you even do that spinny thing she does in the air?"
"Well, no, I probably couldn't do that. Mostly because I'm a person and not a digital effect."
They are heading now for the downtown district. It's about ten blocks to their home and Buffy wants to get back soon. Always, in the back of her mind lately, she's been thinking, "I've got to get home…I've got to get home…what if Mom came back." She is finding that the grieving process is sometimes as much about self-deception as it is about loss. There is a part of her that still thinks that this all hasn't really happened, that the past few days have been some sort of test for her, something that the Watchers' Council dreamed up in one of their more sadistic moments. What would you do without your Mother? You have a week to figure things out.
Well, I'd probably ask a vampire to come take care of my sister…
Spike approaches the counter at the Sunnydale Stop and Gulp convenience store.
"Pack of Marlboros in a box," he says. "Better make that two."
The blasé and rather corpulent clerk reaches overhead for the two packs and places them on the counter.
"You know, you ought to read the warnings on these things sometime. You might learn something."
"Well, since I'm not planning on being an expectant mother anytime soon, I think I'll be all right. And the carbon monoxide---love the stuff. It's the air I breathe. And the health warnings…" his face convulses into vamp mode and he watches as the clerk suddenly, seemingly makes a mental note to file for workman's comp. "Don't think I have to worry about them either."
He reaches for the packs and stuffs them into his pocket as the clerk begins to lose all speech capabilities. He wipes the vampire countenance away before turning around and walking out of the store.
So, what to do tonight, he wonders to himself as he strides down the main street. In the days before el chippo Diablo, that answer would be easy. Killing was always on the agenda. So many necks, so little time, was his motto. It has nearly been two years since he had been the Initiative's guinea pig and sometimes it was hard for him to remember the life he had before. He was certain that if those who knew him in the old country could see him now they would think, "How sad, how pathetic he is. Watching soaps on the telly all day, chain-smoking, besting other vamps and demons. Mooning over the slayer…"
The Slayer.
He could go to her house, he said to himself. He had been invited back in. She had invited him back in to sit at her kitchen table. He had held her hand, that tiny little hand. He remembers her eyes. Spike constantly watches her eyes whenever he's around her because she reveals more than she knows when she's looking at him. Sometimes there's only blind hatred, but other times there's something else that he cannot define. It's as though she's mentally adding up why he's in this world and what place he has in it. And then sometimes it looks as though she's trying to see him, really see him. And those are the times that give him hope. He must have questioned Dawn about a hundred times about her sister's feelings for him. And always, the answer was, "She pretty much hates the ground you walk on" or some variation of that.
He has been trying so hard, maybe a little bit too hard, to win her over. Why does she think he is killing vamps in the cemetery? Does she think that he gets off on that sort of thing? Well, he does. But also, he wants her to know that he can be on the side of right sometimes. He has the capabilities to be put to good use. Why doesn't she see that? He has helped her many, many times in the past year. He helped her and the other Scoobies topple Adam and the Initiative. He almost single-handedly saved her from being killed by a gang of demons at the magic shop. He showed her that her goody-two shoes boyfriend wasn't what he seemed.
That was a mistake, he thinks to himself as he lights a cigarette. I shouldn't have taken her to that nest to show her what Riley was up to when he wasn't being a big, self-righteous pain in the ass. What was he thinking? In the back of his mind, he dreamed that she would be grateful to him, that she would leap into his arms and say, "Oh, you're the only one I can trust now, Spike." Nothing like that had happened. On the contrary, she reacted with such a frosty rebuff he is still feeling the chill.
"I never should have told her that I loved her," he says to himself. "I should have waited. Let her get Captain Cardboard out of her system."
At this moment, something grabs him and he is instantly lifted off his feet and plunged into the darkness of an alleyway. His back feels the hardness of a stone wall, not before his head is nearly knocked senseless by the force of being driven into it. His shoulders are pinned and his feet dangle precariously above the ground. He struggles to see in the blackness, and can discern a figure before him, black and hulking and smelling of every waste product on the West Coast. He is too dazed to think and as he maneuvers to free himself from the creature's grasp, but he is pinned once again, this time by arms thrust from either side. Three against one, he quickly assesses. I guess I had this one coming…
"We've been looking for you, Spike," a voice snarls in front of him.
"Really? You Scientologists have gotten a little militant with your membership drives, haven't you?" he replies coolly, though, if he had a beating heart, it would be racing.
He is forced once again against the wall and for a minute he sees stars.
"Shut up, Spike! You're lucky that we got to you first. The others wouldn't be so kind," the voice says again.
"What do you want?"
"The word is out, Spike. You've been knocking off vamps at night. Helping the Slayer. Rumor is that you're in love with her."
"Slayer? Don't know her. Is she a Scientologist too?"
"Don't try to be funny," the voice is closer now, like a knife blade against his neck. "I bet you have a stake on you, now."
"Steak? Don't be silly. I'm a vegan."
"Search him!" the voice commands.
Briefly, his feet are reunited with the ground. One of the vamps holds him as he is stripped roughly of his leather duster. Once he is free of their grasp, he finds a window of opportunity to flee, but before he can take a step, something sharp pierces the skin on his chest, just barely.
"Then what you do call this?" the voice asks.
"How'd that get there?" he says. So this is what the end is going to be, he thinks to himself. Cornered by three smelly vamps in an alleyway. I always hoped for better…
"Did the Slayer give this to you?"
"No, I made it myself. You can tell by the craftsmanship and attention to detail. It's a Spike original."
"Then you're to die by your own weapon. You can see for yourself that it really works."
The vamp draws back his arm with the stake curled in his fingers. How does one prepare for this, he wonders. Does hell happen right away or does that come later?
In the seconds that he waits in agony for the final plunge, there is a blood-curdling scream of death, but it's not his. His ears catch the sound of dust raining down on the sidewalk below. He squints to see a tiny figure, her own stake in her hand, at the ready for another kill.
"Did I interrupt something?" he hears Buffy say. And it is the most beautiful sound he's ever heard.
The hands that had been holding him fast to the wall now tense, then fall away. Spike rallies himself to throw a punch, but his knees buckle, and he finds himself on the ground, his palms violently smacking the sidewalk. He raises his head weakly and sees that the two who were holding him are now approaching the Slayer. She is saying something to them. Her voice is strong without a twinge of fear.
Then the kicks begin. And the punches. The alleyway echoes with the sounds of her fists pummeling hard, her grunts and thrusts. One of the vamps is tossed next to him and lies there dazed, as Spike's hand suddenly finds his stake is within reach. But he can't quite get to it. Then he hears that terrible, gushing sound every vamp dreads---that sickening crunch of bone and sinew as chiseled wood meets heart and the vampire's life is over. Again, dust powders the ground. Now the vamp next to him has successfully regrouped and he charges towards Buffy, tackling her from behind. Spike hears the struggle. There is something in him now that wants to fight, gives him the strength to rise and spring to action. Off the ground and running, he can barely see his target, but he hears the two in front of him. He reaches out in the darkness and his hand finds the woolen texture of a shirt drawn taut against a wide, muscular back. He pulls the stake back and then plunges it deeply into the body, the corpse disappearing in a howl beneath his curled fist.
Silence rules the alleyway and there are no words for a long time between the two of them. He has just saved her life again. And again, there are no thank you's. He waits to hear those words every time and every time, his patience is undermined by her stubbornness.
But she saved my life this time…why?
She is moving now. Something on the ground has attracted his attention. His leather duster, lying now in a pile of dust that could very well have been his had she not intervened.
"Is this what they wanted?" she asks as she holds up the coat, shaking it free of the vamp's remains.
"Nice to know some people in this town still have fashion sense," he says.
She holds the coat for a moment before turning it over to him. But there are still no words of gratitude, from him or from her.
"Did you know them?"
"No. I don't think so. They're probably the same sort that broke into my crypt the other day. Smashed my TV. Tried to set the place alight. Stupid bloody vamps. Don't even know that stone doesn't burn."
"How do you know that vamps did it?"
"They stole all my blood from the fridge. Either it was the work of vamps on a rampage or some bizarre tactics of a rather vigilant wing of the Red Cross."
"Why are they singling out you?"
"Because some of the vamps in this town don't like the fact that Spike wields a stake against his brethren now, I suppose."
Together they walk back into the lighted main street, emerging as triumphant gladiators to Dawn's cheering approval.
"Did you get them?" she asks.
"Yeah, we got them," Buffy says. "You didn't watch, did you?"
"Nope. I heard a lot, though."
The three walk in silence, not really as an ensemble. Spike walks slightly behind, wondering if he's being included in the excursion or if he's being left behind without so much as a good-bye. Finally, he catches up to Buffy, touches her by the shoulder. She doesn't turn or even acknowledge the gesture, but keeps her stride steady and her eyes straight ahead.
"Buffy," he says. "Buffy, why did you do that?"
"Don't flatter yourself," she says. "I heard threatening voices in the alleyway and thought someone might be in trouble. I didn't know it was you."
"But even after you saw it was me," he says. "I mean, it's your birthright to protect the innocent, not other vampires, right?"
"It's my job to kill vampires," she nearly hisses.
"But there were four vampires in the alleyway. And one of them didn't get a stake."
All of a sudden, she grabs him and sends him swirling into a nearby lamppost. His face is pressed against the cold metal, her stake is pressed against his back. She leans her head near his and whispers in an icy, steely voice, "Sorry, Spike. Didn't want you to feel left out."
He manages a nervous, thready laugh. "Rough treatment for someone who just saved your life."
She relinquishes her hold and he slips away from the lamppost. "You didn't save my life," she says, "I saved your life."
"Oh, right. And the bloody vamp who grabbed you from behind. You had him sunk in the side pocket, didn't you?"
"I could have had him," she said. "I still had my weapon. I saved your life, Spike. Not the other way around."
"Buffy, you're forgetting the lessons I taught you. Lesson the first: a slayer must always reach for her weapon. He already had his at the ready. He had you from behind, love. You could have been drained dry."
"Oh, please! I was about to flip him like a pancake! You were the one who was all helpless and struggling. Didn't take me much effort to finish them off. What was your problem?"
"Buffy, there were three of them!"
"So? I staked a whole nest before."
"And you didn't kill all three. I killed the third." He points at her violently with his index finger. "I killed the third!"
"OK, so you killed the third. But I killed the one who was about to make you Satan's new boy toy."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah!"
"All right then!"
"All right!"
"Then I guess you saved my life!"
"Yes, I did!"
"Well, thank you!"
They have been shouting to the tops of their lungs. And now there is a hush. They are standing directly across from each other. She is so close he could touch her, but he doesn't. He can feel something like a caress in her the words that come next.
"You're welcome," she says.
Dawn is off by herself, having watched the whole thing, wondering if her sister was about to forget her promise to their mother: I'll never stake a vamp in front of Dawn. But Buffy would never stake Spike. Not now, not ever, Dawn felt certain, especially after witnessing their sparring up close. Buffy loves the fight, Dawn thinks to herself. It's not so much the kill, but it's the fight. And she loves to fight with Spike. She sees for herself how Buffy likes to toy with him, likes to feel the pain break across his face when she's not even throwing a single punch. Buffy did nothing to inspire Spike's love for her, but she has done nothing to discourage it, either. Dawn feels sure that if she merely ignored Spike, then he would go away. And she also sees what has really kept her sister winning all this time. She doesn't give up, and she must always be right. When she feels herself losing, she climbs further, strains harder, fights stronger. And she also knows why Spike is so hooked on her. With her sister Buffy, he has finally found his match.
Although Buffy is clearly the victor this time, this does not keep Spike from trying for a rematch. He follows the sisters as they head for their home, as though he thinks of himself as part of their clan, as though he is one of them. He desperately wants to be, its seems, almost to the point of being pathetic. This little taste he's had of being in Buffy's house, invited in as a friend almost, has left him hungry for more. Dawn heard what he said in the alleyway, how the other vamps have been after him.
He's not wanted anywhere he goes, Dawn thinks. He doesn't have anywhere to go. And the other night he was sitting on my living room floor making me laugh. He acted like he belonged there. Or maybe I made him think he belonged there. But it's no wonder he likes us better than the vamps. We'll never kill him. Buffy will never kill him.
"Spike," Buffy says at length. "I need you to watch Dawn tomorrow night. I have a feeling that during my downtime, the cemetery's gotten full of vamps again. If there were three on you tonight, there are probably three hundred more where they came from."
"Aww…I'm all a quiver. Out to nab my enemies before they have a chance to have a little pin the stake in Spike fun again."
"Spike, let's just get one thing straight. I am not protecting you. You are protecting Dawn. That is what I asked you to do."
As a group, they have stopped walking. Dawn is at the end of the line, giving the vampire and his erstwhile slayer room to talk, room to spat, room to throw each other around until Kingdom Come. But she thinks that they have stopped fighting for the night.
"And I said that I would," he said.
It is difficult for her to say the next sentence, but she squeezes it out, nearly closing her eyes as she does. Certainly she can't place her stare on him.
"I saved you tonight because right now…right now I have to…rely on you. You're the only one who can help me. I hate to say it, but you are the only one."
Her desperation is etched on her face in broad strokes. In the lamplight she looks many years older than her twenty years. Her face is tired, careworn. The young woman has gone and left her house in a shambles. But still there is a vague confidence about her. And her devotion to her sister is no palpable for a moment, for just a moment, Spike envies her. She is the most human human he's ever known. He was basking in this knowledge that he was the only one in the world she could rely on. He has guessed at that, and she just confirmed it for him. His life was worth something to her.
Vampires have only one person to fear…and that's the slayer. This one may threaten and strut around with a stake she says is intended for me, but she won't kill me now.
"Buffy, I gave you my word."
"It's the word of a vampire."
"But it's my word to you. And I…" He's not going to say it again. He's said it alone, he's said it to her, many times, but there is no use. And he makes up his mind right then and there not to say it to her again until she returns the sentiment.
And he knows that it's his time to leave. He could get down on bended knee and plead his case to the slayer once more, but tonight he feels pretty good about himself. His life is worth something to her. And suddenly it doesn't matter that he's going back to a ruined crypt where there's no place to lie down and no place to store his blood. She needs him.
And he adores her more than ever.
The two sisters stand together as they watch him walk away. The tension in Buffy's shoulders abates as he disappears into the darkness. Dawn's inquisitives snaps the silence like a twig in the forest.
"I don't know, Buffy. I'm starting to feel a little sorry for him," Dawn says.
Buffy did pity him, but not the way Dawn did. She pitied him because he was a damn fool. She would never love him. And he would never stop loving her.
The next night, Buffy is returning from the graveyard. She was wrong in her estimation about there being three hundred vamps lurking about the cemeteries. There had to be twice as many as that. In the first hour she encountered five, the next, six more. As she's walking, her stakes click together like pick-up sticks in her satchel and she almost feels like a little girl returning home from a play date, if it weren't for the fact that she feels so aged and robbed of all energy. She hasn't been in training for nearly a week and she fears it is starting to show. She wasn't able to kick as well tonight, not as high, not as fast. Her instincts weren't as keen tonight. She had to forcibly turn off her thoughts many times to keep her mind on the job. Three vamps got away and she didn't even bother to chase them.
Maybe Spike did save my life last night, she says to herself as she walks.
She could feel the vampire's breath on her neck, his arms gripping her tight. He had a grasp on her that she couldn't wriggle out of anyway she tried. He was a strong one and he had caught her at a weak moment. She should have heard him sneak up behind her. No, she should have never turned her back to a vampire. That left her vulnerable, open for the kill. There was that moment when the vampire's incisors touched her skin. Her weapon was in her hand, but she couldn't do a thing with it. Her arms had been pinned beneath her in his terrible grasp. And then, all at once, the arms disappeared, the weight of the body as well. He had been killed. And the person she had to thank was Spike.
Last night she had been too proud to utter the words. They never even occurred to her. She had to put on that act, that "Girl Power bit" as Spike once called it. "I saved your ass, Spike. You didn't save mine." If she had told him that the opposite were true, she would never hear the end of it. She could never put herself in a position of owing something to him. There could be no weaknesses in the Buffy foundation. She had to be strong and straight all the time. If he knew that he has actually saved her life…
She didn't want to think about it.
She enters the house and all his quiet. It's a Saturday night and Dawn usually stays up to watch Saturday Night Live, but this night she has gone to bed early, it seems. But then Buffy glances at the time on the VCR and realizes it's after one o'clock in the morning.
Damn, no wonder I'm so tired, she says to herself wearily.
But it appears that no one else is up either. The TV is on, but no one is watching it. She sees Spike's white head glowing in the dark over the top of the chair he is sitting in, but he does not move, even when she says his name.
"Spike?" her mouth is dry and her voice comes out in a rasp. In her irrational, tired mind she thinks he might be dead. But if he were dead, he'd be dust.
She makes a half-circle around the chair until she sees him, full-on. He is sound asleep. His mouth is slack, slightly open, and there are small, hushed sounds like a muted ocean roar coming from the opening between his lips. She has never seen him sleep before and for a moment, she is enchanted. It is a novelty to see him this way. She has wakened him from sleep before, but has never taken the time to study him, see what he's like when he's not animated and full of the anger that possesses him most of the time she's with him. His brows are slightly knitted, as though something is concerning him even in the peacefulness of this drowse. His left hand is tucked under his chin; the other, nestled in his lap. His left leg is crossed over his right, which dangles to the floor. His instincts are as keen as hers, and she wonders if he is just pretending to sleep, but she detects no motion from him. And the sound of his slumber is lulling her to sleep as well.
But then, the eyes flutter and he sits bolt upright in the chair. His eyes focus on her immediately. And the smile that greets her is a scold sent her way, for standing there and watching him for so long and not saying a word.
"That's it," she says. "You don't get your $5.50 tonight, Spike."
He stretches and moves his hips over the seat of the chair, almost seductively. "Sorry. Must have drifted off."
"Must have. You were snoring so loud the neighbors called."
"And what did you tell them?" he asks, playfully.
"Vampire in the house," she says.
He smiles. "Vampire in the house."
She smiles too. She hates it, because sometimes, there's something about him that just makes him smile. When he's in her house this late, and after he's looked after her sister all evening, he seems so different. There's no monster in him. It's easy to forget who he is because he's trying so hard to be someone else. She forgets easily. Without that chip, he'd spring up, bury his mouth in her neck, bite deeply, empty her quickly. But with the chip, he's sitting there, calmly, a bit drowsy, rubbing his face like a cat.
"I didn't get much sleep today," he says. "There was more trouble at the crypt."
"Oh?"
"Some vamps heard about what had happened last night."
"God. Are you guys on the internet or something?"
"It's a small town, babe. Vamps hear things. We have ears, not modems."
"What happened?" she is suddenly aware that her question makes it seem as though she cares.
"Well, as the sun set, I was sitting there, minding my own business, when the door came crashing down. There were just two of them this time. Two I can handle. Don't worry, pet. I dispatched them. Had the stake at the ready."
Whenever he makes a point, Buffy has noticed that his jaw does this funny shift, like a flinch, only slower. And he purses his lips afterward. It is a smug, self-satisfied look but tonight, she interprets it differently.
"They know about you, don't they? They know that you have been helping me."
He doesn't respond automatically. He purses his lips again and drops his eyes.
A sudden, clear thought develops in Buffy's mind. Oh, my God! He's really risking his life for me! It's not a question of killing other vamps for the fun of it. He has to now. Because of me!
"Oh, my God," she says. And she repeats it several times.
There are several reasons that inspire her continued exclamations. For one, she has told herself over and over again that Spike has no soul. He cannot feel. He cannot own a conscience. His life is the kill, is the blood. Even with the chip in his head, he still wants to kill. She can still feel his anger, his resentment for being tamed against his will. He is feral and cagey, restless in his desire to do evil, she has always said to herself. And that's what makes him dangerous. He's the clichéd timebomb waiting to go off. But tonight he is sweet and giving and good to her. Good to Dawn. Good to see him sitting there in her house, in her favorite chair, looking sleepy.
"Spike, why…" but she knows the answer. She asked him for a favor. And he would do anything in the world for her.
He stands up then. He stands up, and she feels instantly dwarfed, a pygmy against a Brobdignagian. He reaches for her face. He cradles her chin in his hand. She grabs his wrist, not wrenching it away, but just holding it there.
Again, he has to look into her eyes. Though it is dim, he can still see the gold rings around the green and they seem wider. Her eyes are giant pools of harnessed green sea, churning.
"What are you thinking?" he asks.
A slayer never reveals what's she's thinking to her prey. But he is not her prey now. His hand his cupping her chin and she is holding it there.
"I'm thinking that…you should stay here," and she wonders who is saying that when she hears the words. She can feel her lips moving, but it seems astounding even to her that she has just invited him to stay. "If you're going to protect Dawn, I need you alive."
The shock filters through him, the after effects shifting around in his mind, playing out on his face in a series of slight, silent movements.
"Pet," he says.
There's enough fight in her left to volley that term of endearment. "Don't call me that," she says.
He leans his head in close, whispering into her ear, "What do you want me to call you, then?"
Buffy feels his lip rub against her earlobe and his breath flows down the canal in a gush of passion. She closes her eyes, briefly, and dizziness causes her to sway slightly. His arms go to her shoulders to steady her.
"What do you want me to call you?" he asks again.
Something in her snaps to attention, though his longing for her is flowing through her like a raging river. As she's about to be taken down by his desperation, she eases her stance through her lips.
"Call me Slayer."