CHAPTER FOUR
"I thought I told you, no smoking in the house, Spike!" Buffy rages as she dumps a saucer of spent butts into the trashcan. "Except in the basement---where you belong---and outside on the porch."
Spike is sitting calmly, watching her with an air of bemusement on his face, though he is trying to catch the remaining minutes of Judge Judy on the TV. He stretches out his legs and plops his heavy boots on the coffee table.
"Sorry, babe. You must have accidentally de-activated the no-smoking sign before you left today," he says.
"And I told you also, Spike, that you are to stay in the basement when we're out of the house!" she says, roughly removing his feet from the coffee table.
"But I'm bored down there," he says. "There's not much to do but sit and figure out why you've got all those bleeding canned peaches from 1985. Do you honestly think they're still any good now?"
"Well, listen, Kato, if you've got so much time on your hands, maybe you could do a little work to help out? Like, I don't know…" she reaches for a mug on one of the in tables. "Wash out your bloody mugs after your done with them?" She spies another one on a nearby bookshelf and still another on the table by the stairs. "Three mugs? Why can't you just use one and refill it when you're ready for more."
"But the first mug was in here and I was in the kitchen. The blood was in the fridge. So I looked up in the cabinet and saw that you had all sorts of lovely mugs. Didn't know there was a limit on how many I could take out at a time."
She bends down and collects some of the magazines he's tossed haphazardly on the floor during his afternoon alone. She finds it very suspicious that most of them deal with women's health issues, one of which contains an article about self-breast exams with actual photographs.
"You're a pig, Spike. That's all I can say. You've been here over a week and you still won't lift a finger to help out."
"Oh, I've got a finger for you," he mutters, easing back further into the chair and crossing his arms to conceal which finger he was talking about.
Dawn is up in her room, lying on her stomach, her diary open to the current date. As she listens to what's going on downstairs, she cannot help thinking how her sister's bickering with their vampire guest is beginning to sound so commonplace in the house. Not a day goes by without it and she's starting to think that the day it ceases will be the day she'll have to check and see if they've killed each other.
She twirls the pen in her fingers before she begins to write.
Dear Diary,
Spike still here. Buffy still really mad. Nothing ever gets too heated between them, though. I listen. If I ever heard furniture or bones breaking, I'd call someone. So he's not the best houseguest in the world. So he doesn't clean up after himself. He's still kind of fun that have around. It took me a while to get used to the blood in the fridge. And the fact that he even though he's walking around and talking to us, he's not really alive which, when you think about it, is kind of freaky. But I think I've adjusted better than Buffy has. Way better. They're fighting now. I don't fight with him, because I can't say the things back to him that Buffy says. They're fighting now, but, like every day, the fighting will end, they'll talk about why they fought, and then they'll make up in their own non-making up sort of way.
Back in the living room, Buffy has snapped off the TV. She is standing in front of it with her arms crossed, strong against his protests.
"Hey! I was watching that!" he yells.
"Spike, I'm going to say this again and I hope I make myself perfectly clear. You have to stay down in the basement when Dawn and I aren't home. Understand?"
"But there's no telly down there. And that mattress you gave me smells like piss. Where did you find that one? Homeless shelter surplus?"
"That mattress used to be mine, thank you!"
"Well, you must have had it before you got back into life with Depends, then," he says.
Her mouth flies open. "That's it!"
Instantly, she grabs him by the collar of his shirt and lifts him effortlessly onto the floor. With the top of his tee shirt balled in her hand, she drags him into the kitchen, heading straight for the basement door, with him screaming and swearing the whole way. She is so angry, she can't hear him over the uproar of emotion bellowing through her head. She reaches for the door with one hand, throwing him in with the other. Before she closes the door, Spike makes for one final plea, but she cuts him off before he can utter a single word in his defense.
"New house rules, Spike!" she says from her side of the door. "You have to stay in the basement all the time now."
"Buffy!"
"ALL THE TIME!!!!"
There is silence from his side of the door and then three gusts of frustrated breath.
"Fine, then! I'll just finish drawing mustaches on all your friends in your high school yearbooks that you store down here."
"Oh, that's real mature, Spike. What are you, five? Can I send some coloring books down to you too?"
She takes a few breaths to calm down and leans heavily against the door. She can still feel him on the other side and wishes she had shoved him down the stairs. Before she walks away, she reaches for the lock and clicks it into place.
"That can't keep me in," he says in a muted taunt.
She storms off across the room and grabs one of the kitchen chairs, shoving it under the doorknob.
"The chair won't work either," he says.
Furious, she then pulls the whole table, with some chairs in tow, over to the door, shoving it with so much force that for a minute she thinks it's going to go right through the wood and slice him, delightfully, in half.
"And that goes the same for the table!" he says.
By this time she is already tired of this game and leaps up on the table, sitting on it with her back to the door. As the anger slowly begins to defuse, she drums her fingers on the tabletop and knocks her head slightly against the door.
"The fridge might work," Spike offers in a teasing voice that comes right into her ear.
And for a minute she contemplates moving the appliance, but then abandons the idea and the table, deciding he's not worth the effort this or any other day.
Dawn has heard scuffling in the kitchen below, but no actual breakage. When she hears the sound of her sister's footsteps crossing over into the living room, she knows the situation has been resolved. For now.
Yeah, my sister hates him. It's in her genes, I think. But still, every once in a while, I'll see something different in her when she looks at him. It's like she's trying to like him, but can't talk herself into it. Like when we're all sitting together watching TV or sitting at dinner. He'll say something funny and she'll try not to laugh. I know she's trying not to laugh because it looks like she's about to explode and she shuts her mouth really tight. I wonder how she looks at him when no one's watching her. I've seen how he looks at her, too. The boy's got stuff in his head that I'm told I'm too young to understand, but I know. He's crazy about her. He has to be to put up with what he does. I don't know, diary. From one day to the next, I don't know if I'm going to find them kissing each other or killing each other. But I'll keep you posted.
"Buffy, I can't find Mom!" Dawn says. "I've looked all over the house and she isn't anywhere!"
Buffy wakes very slowly. But the emergency in her sister's voice makes her spring up in bed.
She strips the covers off and hits the ground running.
"When's the last time you saw her?" Buffy asks, tearing down the upstairs corridor.
"The same time you did. Last night when she went on her date with Brian."
Buffy looks in her mother's room. The bed has been undisturbed.
"She did come home last night, didn't she?" Buffy asks.
"You talked to her, Buffy."
Buffy decides that rather than disturb her sister further, she will comfort her.
"Maybe she had to go out for something this morning. Maybe we're out of milk or something."
"She would have told us, Buffy. She wouldn't just leave like that, would she?"
"Have you checked all the rooms in the house?"
"Yes! Even the basement! Oh, wait. There was one room I didn't check. The living room. I didn't check the living room."
"Well go check it then, Dawn. That's where she probably is."
"You're right, Buffy. She's probably in the living room."
Dawn takes off down the stairs and as she does, a strange thought comes into Buffy's head. I can't let her go into the living room. That's where Mom is and Mom is…
"Dawn!" Buffy calls after her sister, taking off in her direction as fast as she can. "Dawn, wait!"
She can hear Dawn's voice, high and pleading. "Mom? Mom? Are you in the living room? Mom?" and then the voice stops abruptly and there is a scream. By this time, Buffy has come into the living room. Their mother is lying on the sofa, completely still, her eyes open wide and unresponsive. Dawn is screaming so loud that she can't hear Buffy's words. All at once, Dawn collapses on her mother's stilled form on the sofa.
"Mommy! Mommy!" Dawn screams over and over. "Mommy, I need you! Mommy, please don't go! Please don't go!"
Buffy awakes.
She's had this dream before, often. This was the first time that Dawn found the body, though. In the others, she is always the one, as it were in reality as well. Every time she has this dream, she is so glad she was the one who found her mother. She is so glad that she was there, that afternoon.
Her flowers are still in the entryway…She looks over at her clock. It's 4:30 in the morning. She has been sleeping about an hour, maybe an hour and a half. She doesn't want to go back to sleep now. That dream may be awaiting her in her sub-conscious again. She has visited her fears tonight. She doesn't want to meet up with them again.
The night is deafeningly quiet. Lights are out all over town. It is cold and her flannel pjs fight wimpishly against the chill as she walks out onto the back porch. She folds her arms and sits down on the top step.
This is where she goes to be alone often. But ever since she became the slayer, she has never been truly alone. Always someone lurking, always someone who thinks her number is up. But tonight she is alone. And it's an odd feeling for her. Her mother gone, her sister asleep. No worries.
But there are.
She feels a sob rising in her throat and doesn't even try to battle it. She's alone, after all.
But in an instant there is a shadow over her. There are a few seconds of resentment. But she is too self-absorbed to really care. She doesn't care if it's Dracula himself behind her.
"Buffy…" she hears a voice say behind her.
She doesn't respond. She can't. Her voice has been cut off in a deluge of sudden tears. She hates herself as she chokes out her sobs, hates herself for being so weak, hates herself for not being able to defend Dawn even in her dreams…
A presence plops itself beside her. Close. Jean-clad legs. It's not Dawn. The body is cold. She doesn't acknowledge Spike's presence. She just begins speaking.
"Maybe if I had been a better daughter, she'd be alive," she says, sniffing. "Maybe if I had been more of the daughter she raised, and not the daughter I became, later, after all this 'Chosen One' crap started to happen. She never understood. I don't think she had a clue in all her life what I was about. She deserved better. I mean, here she found out I was the Slayer. And then she found out Dawn was the Key. I wonder sometimes if she wished, 'God, I wish I just had normal daughters like everybody else?'"
"Normal daughters are overrated," Spike says.
"But she did everything she could to make our lives as normal as possible. She loved us. I remember her loving the both of us. But that's not really true, is it? There was only me. But why are those memories of the three of us the most vivid of all? I remember Dawn's face when she didn't get the Barbie Dreamhouse she wanted for Christmas. She got a Barbie car and some clothes instead. 'Dawn, you can use Buffy's dreamhouse,' Mom said. But I saw Mom's face. I know if Toys R' Us had been opened on Christmas day, she would have broken into it to get that dreamhouse for Dawn. Hell, I could have broken into it for her."
"Barbie dreamhouses. The eternal female want and regret," Spike says.
"But I know it's always a parents' worst nightmare that a child will die. Mom always looked at that twenty-five-year old limit with dread. Like it was on a calendar in her mind. Whenever we celebrated my birthday, I could always hear her saying to herself, 'She made it to this one. But my daughter's not going to live past twenty-five.' I think she wanted to protect me. All her life. But she couldn't. Our positions were kind of reversed. I had to protect her. Mom…" She misses calling someone that. She misses hearing herself say it and have someone respond to it. She misses smelling her mother's scent as she's fresh and clean and bathed in Crabtree and Evelyn, going to the gallery or to the kitchen, whether it's to put in a pop tart or defrost a roast. She misses her.
She buries her head in her hands. There's no stopping the sobs now. She couldn't stop them, even if a nest suddenly invaded the back yard. Even if demons were striking their fists against the front door. Even if the person next to her put his hand on her shoulder.
"Slayer," he says, his hand on her shoulder. "Slayer."
There is movement in him then. Not just to touch her, because that's all he's wanted for the longest time. But because the sobs he is hearing are making him listen to his heart. This, he is rusty on. What does one do aside from lending a comforting pat? There is the hug, a gesture she may find too offensive, though she's clearly lost in her pain. She can't judge him at this point, he feels sure. She can't fight back. She needs someone…
The arm which had been on her shoulder encircles her back, the hand attached drawing her close. Her head falls like quicksilver on his shoulder. She wants this, he says to himself. She wants me to hold her, comfort her…
Her forehead is near, bold, open. Tender. Her lips are down below, but right now there is her forehead. And his lips are closer to that part of her face. They find themselves there, and he waits for the protest in her. His lips. Lips. Lips of Spike! She had once said in disgust in the aftermath of Willow's spell. But tonight they are not refused, not on her forehead anyway.
He tries her cheek. They are welcome there too. He even senses her straining a bit so that he can reach effectively. But what about her mouth?
He whispers into the side of her face. "You can tell me to stop," he says.
"All right," she says.
"Do you want me to?"
He waits for her answer. But she inclines her lips towards his, his desire bursting in gallons, flowing in river rapid strength into her soul.
His lips are on hers. Here is their first kiss. Yes, this is how he's imagined it. Buffy is tentative at first, unsure. But she gives in. She gives in when she feels how ardent his lips are, how intent, how quick they are to satisfy.
She presses himself against him. Her mouth is open, receiving every longing he has had for her twenty times over. He moves his hands across her back. So tiny, so delicate. He cannot believe she has beaten him so many times. Or that she is now in his arms, kissing him. And there is no spell. She is giving herself to him willingly. He knows this because she keeps murmuring "mmmm" and drawing his face closer. And there is night and there are no sounds except for those radiating from their shared affections.
Their mouths briefly part. He smooths her hair and her longings scale the height from her eyes to his.
"Buffy…" she says. His lips follow her jawline to her neck and he breathes against her collarbone. "I want to make you mine…"
There is just the hint of teeth against her neck. There is just the brief thought that the being she's with is the last person she should be kissing because she's felt his teeth endeavoring to rip into her neck before, meaning to kill her, But it's not so much the teeth that bother her tonight than what he said as he was perusing her neck with his lips. "I want to make you mine…"
If that chip weren't in his head…
She could have easily given in. The minute she felt his hand unbuttoning the top of her pajamas…
"No!" she says. "No!"
Spike affects that stunned look, last seen when he found out he had been de-invited from her house. Her house.
"Buffy…" he tries. "Please?"
"I can't," she says. "I can't!" and she reaffirms this by standing up suddenly, effectively slipping from his grasp.
He stands up with her. "Slayer," he says.
She flashes one last determined look in her eyes before fleeing for inside. "I just can't."
But Spike is not ready to give up just yet. His arm enacts further pleas as she tries to enter the house, grabbing her, tugging her tight against him. He rams his hardness against her and thrills when she gasps and doesn't try to run away.
"You need me," he says.
She is imbibing all the naughtiness of his words with dull acknowledgments. She hears his words, but she cannot give in. Not on this night with her mortality so much on her mind.
She retreats into the house. Spike is alone in the place where he first found her wounded. And now his heart aches worse than if she had pushed a stake into it. At least he would be gone if she had. But he remains.
She sets off for the upstairs. He returns to the basement.
The night goes on.