Chapter 7: Of Monsters and Men

Buffy stepped back from both boy and vampire, shock coating her every movement. "What?" she whispered disbelievingly.

"He did! He killed my mother! He murdered her! He's a fucking murderer! A fucking bastard!" Spike was raging now, slipping out of even Buffy's iron grasp and lunging back upon Angel. Spike was recklessly throwing thunderous punches as if in a homicidal trance, with every available person trying to keep him back. Angel ducked most of them and threw a few defensive punches of his own.

"I don't know what you're talking about," He gasped, kicking out Spike's legs from under him.

"Spike, you're crazy, Angel's never hurt anyone before!" Buffy thrust herself between him and Angel, obstructing him.

"Never hurt anyone, has he? He's a goddamn vampire isn't he?!"

Again, Buffy froze in her tracks. "How did you know that?"

"I SAW HIM KILL MY MOTHER! Ripped apart her neck, he did, sucking the life out of her!" His eyes misted over, replacing murderous rage with momentary grief.

"I d-didn't, I haven't---"

"Shut up, you son-of-a-bitch! Shut up, you murderer! You fucking murderer!!" His hand hung in the air, stake waving threateningly.

"Spike." Buffy's voice struggled to remain calm, but was wavering uncontrollably. "You're delusional. Angel hasn't fed off of a human in eighty years."

"Then he is a vampire! And he murdered my mother!"

"NO." Buffy's voice turned ice-cold. "Angel has a soul. He is a vampire, but he hasn't touched any human being for years now. Not since he got a soul."

Spike turned his angst-ridden face to Buffy and sneered at her in disgust. "And you. You, of all people, a vampire slayer. You've been shagging him, jumping his dead bones like some kind of whore?!"

Angel threw a massive punch that easily split Spike's lip and busted the side of his face open into a bloody mess. "Don't talk about her like that," he growled.

"Or what?" Spike turned back to Angel cockily through black eyes. "You gonna kill me? Bite me? Drink my blood like you did my mother's?!"

"Stop it!" Buffy screamed. "Stop saying that!"

"Everyone's looking," Xander whispered, indicating the rest of people of the Bronze, who were watching the second fight this evening with interest.

"Don't care. Let 'em see in how many seconds flat I can stake this pissant." Spike hefted the broken pool cue in his hand.

"Try me," Angel growled. Upon invitation, Spike flew back, his leg flying up and thrusting against Angel's chest, mid-torso. Angel fell back, but regained footing and ducked some of Spike's clumsy throws in order to pummel him repeatedly. Even after Spike was in submission, Angel continued beating him harshly, the iron tang smell of blood becoming more and more distinct and the crunch of bone heavy in the air.

"Stop!" Buffy grabbed Angel by the shoulders and threw him off Spike, who sat slumped in a half-conscious heap. Dropping to her knees, she unfeelingly shook him, though battered. "Ok, you win. Take on a vampire, insult his girlfriend and see just how soon you're dancing the victory dance around a big pile of dust. Now tell me what this is about!"

Spike spit up blood lazily and glared at her through furrowed brows. "I told you. He killed my mum. I saw him."

"He hasn't. He has a soul now. He used to kill and eat people, but now he doesn't. He's been given a soul and he fights against the forces of darkness---just like you and me. He's good."

"Nice story, luv, but you forgot one part. The part where he attacks my mum at night in a dark abandoned alley, throws me aside and kills her, right in front of my eyes."

"Spike---"

"I saw him!" His voice was insistent and harshly firm. "Him with a slutty blonde! Both of them vampires!"

Angel suddenly paled, even under the pallor of death. "A blonde?" he whispered.

"Yeah that's right! Don't think I don't remember!" He struggled to get up, but Buffy held him down. "But you don't want to remember, do you? Don't want to remember that you forced a little nine-year old to witness his mother being eaten by two creatures of the night!"

"Oh god." Angel stumbled back against the wall and a light of recognition went across his face. Buffy tightened and looked to him with worry.

"Angel . . ." She crept towards him oh-so-slowly. "It's not true . . . right?" But his expression was answer enough.

"1989 . . . London . . . back of a deserted pub . . ."

"You remember now?! The way she screamed for mercy and got on her knees in front of you, but it only made you bite harder?!"

"She was saying that I could take her . . . but just not William . . ." Angel's eyes shone with clarity. "She meant you . . . y-you kept crying . . . again and again . . . oh god, I can still hear it . . ."

Buffy shirked from his words. "No . . ." Angel heard the fear and denial in her voice and reached for her.

"Buffy . . ."

"No!" She wiggled out of his grasp. "You're lying!"

Angel tried to recollect the memories through gasps. "I had left America for London in the late 80s, just to see if things were better for me there. I avoided all people, I lived in the back alleys. But Darla . . . she found me . . . she drugged me and forced me to feed off of a girl. A young mother . . ."

"Didn't look like she was forcing you to do anything you didn't want to! You sucked her dry!"

"I didn't know what I was doing!" Angel yelled, but Buffy still shook her head repeatedly. "Darla wanted to feed off of you, but I forced her out of there before she could."

"So you had enough sense to leave the kid, but take your time killing the mother?!"

"I d-didn't know---"

"It doesn't matter! It doesn't make you any less a murderer! It doesn't mean that you're some neutered dog just cause you don't flash your fangs while sober!"

"Spike, that's enough!" Buffy's said, her voice flinty and firm.

"How can you defend him? He's a vampire, and he's killed my mother, soul or not!!!" He struggled to get back onto his feet, but slipped clumsily on shaky legs. Oz and Willow grabbed him for support and inspected his battered face and body. His eyes had already ballooned into puffy dark circles and his nose, mouth and chin all formed a caked mass of blood that ran down his face.

"He looks pretty bad," Oz said quietly, turning to Buffy. "He might need stitches. I think we should take him to hospital."

Buffy stood hopelessly with Spike and the rest of her friends to the right of her in the glaring light of the Bronze's multi-colored lamps and a guilt-ridden Angel standing to her left, caught in between the shadows of the dark-lit corners. Angel's eyes pleaded with her silently and for a moment, Buffy felt the inclination to run with him, far from the Bronze, far from her friends, far from Sunnydale forever.

"Buffy?" Angel pronounced her name softly, but it could pierce her so accurately with precision of a stake to the heart. She stared at him through tears, seeing both her boyfriend and a murderer. His face was boyish, imploring, innocent, but all she could see were the harsh ridges and facial bumps and yellow glinting eyes he wore when he sank his teeth into Spike's helpless mother and drank the life force out of her like a feral animal.

"I-I---" She glanced fiercely between the two sides, both with faces expectant, waiting. Buffy was caught; caught in between the two worlds she wanted the most. One was the normal life of a teenage girl her age, one, which included weeknights of going to the Bronze with her friends and gossiping and studying and worrying what she would wear tomorrow to school. The other had nothing normal in it, and only centered on this vampire before her. A life lived in the darkness with monsters and demons. A life that included only living for someone already dead. Both were irrational and impossible compared to the way of life that presently claimed her. She wanted both and instead got nothing.

"Buffy, we should go," Xander reminded her, tugging her hand gently.

"Huh? Yeah, okay." Breaking out of the painful stare, she turned her back to Angel and followed her friends out of the Bronze. He silently watched her leave and suppressed the impulse to run after her and grab her back near him, but he only had to look at the retreating, limp form of a bloodied Spike, hanging off the arms of Buffy and Oz to remind himself why he didn't.