Chapter Thirteen

It was one of those not-so-rare moments when he felt utterly baffled by her. She had appeared out of nowhere, spoken to him as casually as though they had seen each other only yesterday…looked at him with eyes that were blank, closed-off. His heart leapt at the sight of her then began to pound nervously. He touched a hand to his head in response to her comment, but he said nothing. Her abrupt appearance had backed him into a corner, and he didn't feel safe leaving it until he knew where stood with her.

Buffy, it appeared, did not share his apprehension. She looked him up and down, her eyes finally coming to rest on his hair, which she had remarked upon just moments before; it was bleached again but still curly and unkempt.

"So, Spike…long time, no see." Her tone was casual, as though she were passing the time with a stranger at a bus stop.

He stared at her, completely baffled. The only thing he could think to say was "Willow set me up."

Buffy drew a breath, thought a moment, and nodded. "Hmm…yep. Yep, she did."

His face reddened with anger and something that was not anger. "I can't believe she would do that—"

Buffy shrugged. "She was worried."

Tired of having to look up at her, Spike scrambled to his feet. "Still—"

Buffy interrupted him. "So I hear you're in a new line of work."

"Did you?" He leaned against a tree trunk, trying to copy her air of cool indifference. He couldn't pull it off—his hands and his voice were shaking. He put his arms behind his back and cleared his throat loudly.

"I did. Dawn told me all about it." Her lips twitched in what might have been the beginnings of a smile. "Stealing money from vampires, huh? How noble."

"Well…" He shifted against the tree trunk, avoided her eyes, and managed a more casual facade. "The way I figure it, the vamps don't need it anymore. Being dead tends to make a bloke less materialistic, you know. And there is no point in letting good currency go to waste."

"It's stealing."

"Yeah, and staking them is murder. Between the two, I think taking the cash is the less noteworthy crime. You should try it, love. You would be surprise how quickly a few nicked dollars can add up. It might get you out of that nasty financial trouble you've been in."

He expected her to be sanctimonious about it, to give him a lecture or at the very least, a smart-ass remark. Instead, she seemed to be seriously considering his proposal. There was moment of expectant silence, a moment when he left the safety of his tree to better gauge her reaction. The cool mask had dropped from her face and seemed to be on the point of laughing. He drew closer, expecting a joke, a friendly gesture.

Instead, she knocked him on his ass.

Had there been any kind of warning, Spike would have been able to keep his balance easily. She didn't hit or kick him—just put her hands on his shoulders and shoved. But she moved so damn quickly. He didn't even see her cross the few feet that separated them. The hard push caught him off guard and he stumbled backward, tripping over a rock and falling on his butt. He didn't get up. He was back in the corner again, uncertain. He didn't want to get up until he knew the ground was a steady.

Buffy looked down on him as he sat there on the grass, his legs stretched out in front of him, his head tilted up toward hers. Her eyes filled with sadness. "Why would you do that to me?"

Spike hung his head. He didn't have to ask her what she meant. He knew.

"I—I was trying to…protect you," he explained hoarsely.

"Protect me?" Her voice rose with disbelief. "Protect me? Protect me from what? What Big Bad required you to skip out on me in the middle of the night, Spike?"

"I was trying to protect you from me," he mumbled. "I thought it would be better if I left when I had the chance…before you could convince me not to."

She offered her hand to him. "Get up, for pity's sake."

He climbed to his feet.

"So why do I need protection from you?"

"You know the answer to that," Spike replied. "I know you asked Willow…and I know Willow told you. You should be happy, Buffy. You were right all along."

Her brow furrowed in confusion. "Right about what?"

"About me. You said I was evil…that there was no good in me. You were right. Must be those slayer instincts of yours letting you know." His voice was so bitter she flinched.

"Spike…you have no idea just how sorry I am for saying that; if I could take it back I would. I didn't mean any of it. I was upset the night I said that, and I was taking my anger out on you. It wasn't right and I am sorry for it."

"Well you shouldn't be. Sorry, that is. You were right to hate me…right to say those things. I'm unwholesome…and that which is unwholesome must be destroyed."

She had been standing passively by until the last sentence. When she heard that, she grabbed his arm. "You haven't tried to do anything to yourself?"

He laughed bitterly and shook his head. "Can't. Not enough guts. Not enough heart. You have all my heart and you won't let me."

Buffy tried to blink away the tears that were rapidly filling her eyes. "You're right," she told him. "I won't."

His eyes met hers briefly. "I'm not coming back with you, Buffy. I meant what I said in my letter…I've made up my mind that I am not going to put you through that."

"Fine," she answered. "But I have made up my mind, too. I need to talk to you and I am not leaving until you let me."

"Talk to me about what?"

She glanced toward a rapidly approaching group of mourners. A funeral was about to take place about four plots down from them.

"Do you have—is there some place we can go to be alone?"

He nodded.

Buffy held out her hand to him. "Take me there. I have some stuff I need to tell you."

Spike looked at the proffered hand for a moment, but he didn't take it. From the hurt looked on her face he knew she thought this was a snub, but it wasn't meant to be. He just knew that if he touched her, even once, even briefly, he would lose himself in her. And he had to stay strong. For her sake, he had to keep his distance.

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Spike kicked the door shut behind them. He reached past Buffy to flip a light switch on the wall, and when he did Buffy could see clearly the agonies he must have been suffering the past fifteen days. His face was gaunt, his eyes sunken and ringed in black. The swelling had gone down around his eye, the effects of his experience with Nikolai completely gone. But there were some new bruises around his cheekbones and his jaw, as well as a rust-colored scab that marred the beauty of his full bottom lip—tokens of his fight with the she-vamp Dawn had described, no doubt. He was very thin.

Spike saw her looking at him and quickly turned away, seemingly embarrassed. "Right this way then," he mumbled. "Have a seat."

There was only one piece of furniture in the room, a dilapidated sofa draped with a white sheet. Buffy gingerly perched on one corner, her eyes darting to take in the blank white walls, the drab gray carpet. The place seemed no more comfortable than his crypt in the cemetery—maybe less so. Her throat closed up at the thought of him here, alone, so long.

"Aren't you going to sit down?" she asked him.

He shook his head. Her presence seemed to agitate him. He paced the length of the room, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "You said you wanted to talk," he said. "Talk."

Buffy opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, something small and furry sprang onto her lap. She gazed down at the black-and-white kitten with surprise. "Spike…is this yours?"

He gazed at the animal without much interest. "Clem gave him to me…sort of an apology."

"And you're keeping it as a pet?"

He laughed without humor. "Didn't have much of a choice in the matter. I seem to have lost my taste for them."

The kitten batted at Buffy's crucifix necklace and meowed. She rubbed it behind the ears gently. It was fat and healthy, wearing a bright red collar with a little bell. Buffy turned the collar so she could read the brass nameplate.

Randy.

"Nice name."

Spike glanced at her, saw her smile, and looked quickly away. "First thing that came to mind," he said.

Buffy set the kitten on the floor. It immediately began to attack a dust bunny that lay half-hidden under the sofa.

"Spike…"

"Yeah?" He wasn't looking at her. He had his back turned to her, facing the wall like child being punished in school.

"Spike…please, look at me."

"I can't." His voice was trembling.

Buffy stood up, approached him slowly from behind. When she was within reaching distance she took him by the shoulders and turned him around so that he was facing her. He submitted to this but quickly dropped his head so she couldn't see his eyes.

"Spike…" She took his chin in her hand, tilted his head up. "I can't talk to you when you won't even look at me."

He met her gaze reluctantly. His eyes were bloodshot and a little swollen, as though he had been crying when his back was turned. "So talk," he muttered. "I'm looking now. Say whatever you have to say."

She looked at him sadly. Her chin quivered just a little as he asked, "Why did you leave me?"

"I told you…I wanted to protect you."

"I don't need protection from you," she told him. She reached up to touch the half-healed cut on his lip, but he jerked away. "Do I?"

"You tell me. I did almost rape you in your bathroom. If that doesn't connote distrust I don't know what would."

The scene in the bathroom flashed through her mind, but Buffy quickly dismissed it. "That doesn't matter now, Spike. It's in the past. You're a different person now…you have a soul, a clean slate."

"Tabula Rasa," he said sotto voce. Then, out loud: "Yeah. Right. Go on and fool yourself. Tell yourself I'm good and changed. Make yourself believe you can trust me…and just wait to get burned again."

"You're saying you would hurt me?"

"I'm saying I'm evil! I—I thought that when I went to Africa I would be able to absolve myself of all these…" His stopped, clenching his jaw as though trying to endure some terrible anguish. Finally, he went on. "Thought I'd be the clean slate you were talking about. But I'm not. I'm the same. I've always been the same. Born in hell and bent on destruction, that's me. Can't be good even when I want because the good isn't in me! I'm all…black inside. Black and dead. Rotting. Why would you even want something like me?"

Something.

Buffy moved forward, ready to put her arms around him. But he backed away from her, kept backing away until he was pressed against the wall. He turned his head to one side, wouldn't look at her until she placed her hands on his shoulders. "Spike…"

"What?" he asked. He tried to sound cocky, annoyed. He failed miserably.

"You aren't black inside. You're not dead or evil. You're human, very much alive…very good. You're just…confused."

"Confused? Buffy, I tried to rape you!"

"I know that. But then you tried your damnedest to make up for it. You got a soul, Spike. You became human—for me. You didn't have to—"

"But it didn't do any good," he whispered, broken. "None of it did any good."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because it's true! I still…I feel bad inside. A lot. Sometimes I want to—to do bad things. Sometimes I go ahead and do them. So you see…I haven't changed. The demon is still in me—the demon is me—and there is nothing I can do to change that."

"What have you done that is so bad?" she questioned. Her voice was soft, her hand on his shoulder almost caressing.

Spike glanced down at his feet then back up at her. His eyes were pained. He told her about the lady in the supermarket; about the violent, angry urge to destroy he had felt. His heart pounded as he spoke, his throat aching with the certainty that she would hate him now.

Buffy touched the collar of his shirt lightly with one finger, drawing it aside. She traced his collarbone down to the hollow of his throat, enjoying the feel of his soft flesh warming to her touch. "Spike, everyone feels that way sometimes. I do. It's a part of being human, anger. The fact that you can feel anger and control it shows how far you've come."

"But I didn't control it."

She smiled. "Okay, snapping at some old lady is not exactly the nicest thing in the world to do…but it doesn't make you evil. Heck, it doesn't even make you bad. I mean, catch me at the right time of the month and I could definitely surpass you on rudeness to strangers."

"That isn't all."

She pressed her finger into the hollow of his throat, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, the quiver of his pulse. "What else?"

He told her about the vampire. The hatred he had felt for her, the sheer enjoyment he received in the fight. He told her how he hadn't wanted to kill her right away because he wanted to make the pleasure of the kill last. And the pit of his stomach gnawed as he waited for the look of disgust to spread across her face. But it didn't.

"Spike, I feel the same way when I'm fighting. You yourself pointed it out. I think maybe it is part of instinct…the hunter and the hunted. She hurt you and you hurt her back. Of course it felt good."

Her hand had drifted up his throat, stroking his chin before moving up to touch his mouth. Spike closed his eyes, hypnotized by her soft words, by her hands. He might have given himself over to her completely had she not spoken again.

"Besides…you only just got your soul," she said, as though it had just occurred to her. "So it is only natural you feel like a vamp some of the time; you aren't used to not being one yet. The longer you have it the easier it will be. Angel said—"

"DON'T!" he snapped, suddenly snapping out of his stupor. He pushed past her and began pacing the floor again. "Don't say that name! Don't compare me to—to him! Is that all I am to you? A replacement for Angel? Just another chapter to add to your book of redeemed vampires?"

Buffy, at first shocked by his anger, suddenly smiled as she understood it. She grabbed his hand, preventing him from completing the circle he was making around the room. "No," she said. "I am not using you as a replacement for Angel. I don't see you as Angel. You are so unlike Angel it's laughable."

"Laughable?" he asked, stricken. Angel had been her pinnacle of perfection and he, Spike, was so unlike Angel it was laughable? What did that say about him?

"He was supposed to be my one great love," Buffy explained. "Brooding, soulful Angel…with his studiedly pained gaze and his—" She stopped, shook her head. "I was never supposed to love anyone like that again. I was supposed to remain faithful to him in my heart and die with his name on my lips. It was the way we both wanted it to be."

"How Romeo and Juliet of you," Spike said dryly. He sounded sarcastic, bitterly amused. He sounded almost himself.

Buffy laughed, wiping away the tears that threatened to spill over from her eyes. "Shut up, dummy, and let me finish."

"So finish."

"I wasn't supposed to love anyone like that again," she went on. "And then…you came along. Again. Chipped and chain-smoking outside my house. Following me around like a puppy, giving me candy one minute and building sexbots in my likeness the next. You drove me nuts! You scared me. You hurt my feelings and you pissed me off…Then you fell for Dawn. I watched you with her, protecting her, treating her like a little sister. The night I—when I jumped, I knew she was safe because you loved her. You were so good to her while I was gone—you tried to be good to me when I came back but I wouldn't let you. But I…I saw how wonderful you could be and I…I just fell in love with you so completely…"

He shook his head, disbelieving. "But you said—"

"I know." She reached across the space separating them to touch his cheek. "I was so scared to let you know. After Angel I was so…It was so hard for me to trust any man. And you were a vampire. I was so afraid it would end badly, that you would end up hurting me. So I hurt you instead. I pushed you away and pulled you back…I beat you up in every way I could. I tried my damnedest to chase you away. That night you left for Africa I thought I finally succeeded…and I was glad. That night in the bathroom seemed to be proof that I was right; I couldn't trust you. But I was sad, too. I had wanted so much for it to work out…even as I tried to sabotage it I wanted it to turn out well. Then you were gone and I knew it wouldn't be okay like I'd hoped."

"And when I came back?"

"I was angry. You did that to me and then you just left. Later, when you told me what happened, I was confused. I hurt you again because I was feeling vulnerable again, and it frightened me. I wanted you…but I was afraid to say so."

"You should be."

"No, I shouldn't. I trust you." Her arms slid around his neck, drawing him closer.

Spike accepted her embrace, but he didn't return it. He merely stood there as she pressed her cheek against the side of his neck, trying to keep himself numb, to ignore the part of his heart—and his body—that was begging him to respond.

"I'm a demon, Buffy."

"I know."

"No. You don't. I am a demon, Buffy. Present tense. I was always a demon…and now I'm still one, deep down inside. I'll never be clean."

"You think I don't know all about you, Spike?" Buffy asked. "You think I don't know how you started out? I know how vampires are born, Spike. I am the slayer, after all."

"Yeah and I was a vampire and still didn't know," he responded bitterly. "What's your point?"

"My point is that is doesn't matter how or where you start out. Look at Dawn; two years ago she didn't even exist. She was just a mass of mystical monk mush. Now she's my sister and I love her; I would do anything for her. The fact that she started out as the key doesn't matter to me. That isn't what she is now."

"Dawn is different." Spike reached around to hold her then thought better of it and let his hands drop. Strong. He had to be strong for her.

"How is Dawn different?"

"She was a mass of light, a ball of energy. She was pure. I'm…a thing. I was created from soiled dust in the image of Lucifer himself. I was sent to the earth to destroy. How can I be anything but evil? How can I expect you to love me?"

His voice choked as he spoke, a single tear escaping from the corner of his eye to slip down his cheek. When it reached his chin Buffy leaned up and kissed it away. He closed his eyes, his expression almost as full of pain as pleasure. "Buffy…"

"It doesn't matter to me how you started out," Buffy whispered. Her mouth was against his neck so he could feel the words as well as hear them. "It doesn't matter to me what you were or what you've done…you're good. To me you are wonderful."

The pain grew, overtaking the pleasure in his eyes. "I'm not…"

"You've made some pretty big mistakes," she acknowledged. "But in here"—she touched his heart lightly—"you are good, gentle...loving."

"I'm an embarrassment."

"You're not," she cried, wincing at the reminder of her cruelty. "I'm a fool, that's all. I couldn't see you for what you were because I was worried what my friends think."

"What changed?"

"The night we discovered Nikolai had you…the night I thought I might not see you again…I realized I don't give a damn what my friends think. It's not worth it. I don't care what they think of me…I love you."

"Don't," he whispered. "Don't say…"

"Why not?" she whispered back. "It's true."

Her mouth was just a kiss away. Her warm breath like a caress to his aching, lonely mouth. It had been so long…so long and God it felt so good to be so close. Her hand on his chest was like a balm drawing out the hurt. He was weak—so weak. Dizzy with love and unable to push her away. He should have pushed her away. For her own good he should have kept her at arm's length. Instead, his arms went around her and he pulled her even closer to him. Held her there.

"Do you love me, Spike?"

He knew he should have said no, should have sent her on her way to find something that resembled a normal life…But her whispered words tickled his ear, the gentle pressure of her body against his was so soft, so healing. He couldn't move away.

"Do you love me, Spike?" she asked again. She nuzzled his neck and he shivered with pleasure. "You haven't forgotten how, have you? In all the confusion and misunderstandings…in all the pain…you haven't forgotten how to love me?"

"I…"

"Tell me." Her voice was barely audible over the sound of their breathing.

"I can't…"

"Yes, you can." Her mouth brushed his earlobe, giving him gooseflesh as she whispered again, "Tell me."

"I love you." Spike breathed the words reverently, like a prayer.  He reached behind her back and undid her braid, letting her beautiful gold hair spill down around her shoulders. He buried his face in it, inhaling her scent, before he went on. "You're a flood in my heart…a fire in my gut. You…consume me. I'm—"

"Mine," she finished.

He laughed shakily. "Well yes…"

Her lips traced the line of his cheekbone, crossed his temple until she reached his ear. She nibbled delicately at the outer edge as she spoke, and the words were as gratifying as the caress. Maybe more so.

"Make me yours," she said.

He looked into her eyes and smiled.

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End of Chapter Thirteen