My sweetest friend
Everyone I know
Goes away, in the end
You could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt
'Hurt' by Nine Inch Nails
Giles was staring sightlessly into a book as the doors of the Library crashed open. He'd wanted to do some research, advance his learning. But halfway though found his heart wasn't in it. At the loud sound outside his office he jumped twice, once in startlement, the second time from his chair and to a stake that lay ineffectually upon his desk. He picked it up with no preamble and stalked out into the main Library.
Whatever demon he had been expecting to find there, looked nothing like the actual creature that stood just outside his office door, staring at him with haunted green eyes. After a moment's pause he lowered the stake, feeling brash for picking it up in the first place. Buffy watched the movement of his hand, eyes revealing nothing. Finally she said,
"You're here. I knew you would be." before collapsing into a chair behind her. Tears began to make tracks down her naked face to drop onto her clothes. He stood, still paused in shock at her sudden appearance after what seemed like months of absence. When he moved it was not towards her, but back into his office to fetch a box of tissues and possibly some tea. Whatever she had to say, it would probably take long enough for her to get upset about her tear-streaked appearance, and tired enough to need caffeine.
Spike smacked his fist into the wall once before he realised it wasn't a good idea. The fact the thought only occurred to him afterward wasn't unusual. It was like this whole situation. Making him realise things too late, after there was nothing to do about them. It made the anger swell within him to unimaginable levels. Hence the wall-punching. But still he nursed his bloodied knuckles as he paced across the short width of the alley. His eyes darting constantly back to the dead girl.
Bad idea. Bad idea to bring her here. Bad idea to let her see that. Bad idea to try and.... Bad idea. He wondered if he'd been paying more attention he would have noticed the killing going on behind him. But decided the answer was the negative. When she was in front of him, there was no reason to look behind. Another bit of symbolism. Wasn't he being eloquent tonight? Pity it wasn't when he needed to be.
The Vampire appeared at the end of the passage way as if called by the Gods. Though Gods that would call a demon to deliver a message would not much care for the person the message was intended to. Sounded about right.
"What do you want?" Spike asked, the growl in his chest emitting before, though and after his speech. The easiest person to blame for this whole thing was standing not two feet away, and he felt like taking out some of his anger on something that would bleed and die. Not something constant and unmoving, like a wall, or heaven.
"My boys are both dead?" the Vampire asked, the words like those of a mob boss, the accent like that of an upperclassman, and the gestures like those of a predator. In some twisted way he was all that he seemed. Which was against all rules. No person --demon-- should be all that they seem. Depthless is a horrible way to be.
"Fuck off." Spike said in response. Now was not time for quaint British colloquialisms, just short, sharp, insulting words that got the point across.
"I don't think so." the Vampire said, the four words speaking the rest of the sentence for him. There was little need for him to reiterate with sounds what his approaching form and rolled back sleeves put exquisitely. His lackeys were dead, where demons were concerned, eye for an eye was not as archaic as many believed. It didn't matter that it was not Spike that killed them. All that mattered was that he would take the blame.
With no butterfly floating, but plenty of bee stings Spike launched with a fury into attack. His bruised fist connected with flesh as readily as the unbruised one, the warm blood and broken bones satisfying over the pain and disfigurement. It worked both ways of course. He was a good fighter, but even the best cannot avoid every punch thrown at him. At the end, when his hand was suspended in readiness over a pile of ashes, blood seeped from his wounds as well. But it was the unnoticed kind, the sort that caused people who didn't know how quick the body heals, to stare. Even the human body. Some would understand, mostly those who shouldn't.
As Spike rained down blows upon the Vampire he had no illusions as to why he was swinging them. This 'master' had been a physical presence at that moment. He had threatened, and he had jeered. He'd driven and manipulated. And just like the others he needed to die. Not out of justice. Nothing as good as that, but out of revenge. Out of elimination. Out of protection. Blame. When Spike picked up the same crate-splinter that the Slayer had used, perhaps it was because it carried some kind of poetic justice. But poetry seldom made things real.
Xander lay on his bed, only listening with one ear to the arguments downstairs. Soon enough it just became white noise. In the background but something he never paid attention to. He rolled a pencil between his fingers as he stared down at the book of equations and problems. The understated frown on his face fluctuated with his concentration as he drew in and rubbed out numbers and answers, the latter with disheartening regularity.
When he reached the last problem, plenty before left undone, he shut the book and placed it back into his bag, even though the floor was beckoning it temptingly. So was the bin. He rolled over onto his back to stare at the ceiling, without really seeing it. He imagined his girlfriend, miles away staring up at blue sky and most definitely not returning the favour. If he could help who he loved then there would have been little worry, but he couldn't. Though somehow his problems with Cordelia, were different to the ones of Buffy and Spike. She was not a demon. She could not kill him with her bare hands. Or if she could she was keeping it quiet. He couldn't help being concerned for his friend, because that was what friendship was. Caring. But it was also accepting. And that was a few hundred miles away. Figuratively and literally. The relationships got so tangled in his mind that sometimes it was hard to pick apart the threads and think anew. At least he was happy.
Staring upwards his face suddenly became animated with a smile. Before it had simply held glazed eyes and a solemn expression. It wasn't happy, just a curling of the lips, the ghost of a smile. One that satisfied, but gave nothing. Empty.
"Xander! Its your friend Willow on the line. Pick it up!" a voice called from below. Ordering rather than asking. He knew how his parents hated to be thrown off kilter in the middle of a really good row.
And a real smile crept through the fake one, for the smallest of moments in time. And he reached for the receiver. It was a smile of anticipation. Of hope. It reflected back in on himself and brightened his chest so that when he spoke, there was none of the darkness that his eyes held in his voice.
"Hey Will."
"How could he think that was all right?" Buffy questioned, as if the man before her had all the answers. She half expected him to have, as if he were her constant rock in the current. Lion in the Wardrobe. Jesus on the cross. But it was a selfish desire to martyr him just because she needed a hero. A saint. The truth.
"Because all he was thinking about was you. Don't get me wrong, Buffy, you should probably stake him a thousand times over for what he's done. But this last indiscretion was because all he could see was you. He didn't understand that it was the killing you hated, just the thought of him doing it. In his mind, he probably thought he was doing something noble. Giving up the hunt and the kill for you. He's a demon, he doesn't understand how precious we hold life."
"So in Spike's twisted world, he was doing good?"
"No... not doing good. He was pleasing you. Or thought he was. His motives were still selfish. He wasn't thinking about the world, or saving lives, not like you have to. Not like a hero does. He was thinking about getting you." the Watcher's brow wrinkles in the way that someone's does when midway through a sentence they realise they were wrong about the beginning, "So I suppose ostensibly I was wrong. Yes, in Spike's world he was doing good, because it was all for you."
"It doesn't change anything though."
"No. And it shouldn't. But you have to understand, Buffy, if you want to try and love this demon, that it what he is. A demon."
"Try and love..." Buffy sighed and shook her head as if the clear that concept through her brain. "With Angel I didn't have to try. It came to me as naturally as breathing. Surely trying to love means there is no real love there."
"Or just repressed love." Giles set down his comforting cup of tea, next to the Slayer's untouched one. Perhaps there was symbolism there too. He was about to say something that he didn't quite like the sound of, even in his own head. But the truth didn't become untrue just by being left unsaid. The world was not formed by words, just destroyed by them. "If you really want to love someone. If your desire is that strong. How do you know you don't already?"
"But a killer. To love something that's wrong, surely that makes you wrong as well."
"Love shouldn't corrupt you, Buffy. It should strengthen you. Make you realise that you are beautiful. And that others see that too. If its real, then it can only make you strong."
"I don't know if I love him, Giles."
"I don't want you to love him." Another truth. "I can't lie about that. He's dangerous. He's amoral. But I can't stop you. I tried with Angel, so many times I tried when I shouldn't have. If you've come to me to make it stop, then I'm sorry, because its something I can't do. If you love him, if, then I can't help you to stop." Another shake of the head from her, a frown, a pursing of lips, "I don't mean that to be frightening. But who you love is very much your own business. Not mine."
"He doesn't love me."
"...Are you sure?" he asked, words tumbling out into the laughing void that had just heard that certain statement.
"How can he when he does things like this?"
A soft smile was on his face, the first after what seemed like years. It was hard to be reasonable to his Slayer about the demon she did, or did not, love, because he hated that Vampire. He had proved before the summer that he could not love a demon. Her near-admissions to him hurt. Because they made him doubt his decision. Made him wonder if he should have saved her rather than killed her. But also in the same instant they reminded him that she had died the day he'd left her, not the day he'd plunged a stake into her heart. An inexcusable low, then a self-assuring high all in the moments they spoke.
"I'm not sure what they teach in school now. And I hate saying that because it makes me feel old. Older than I am. But surely they've taught you about circular arguments in English. I believe we're going back to the beginning of our conversation."
"You must hate me, Giles."
"I cannot conceivably think why I should."
"Perhaps not hate then. But disappointment? Don't you feel that?" she said the words as if she was almost begging him to confirm her suspicions.
"I can't... pretend that wasn't an issue. Isn't an issue. When you told me about what happened tonight, I would have gladly killed Spike for you. Not because of his crime, but because he upset you. I'm disappointed because I know you came to me understanding that would be my first reaction. You wanted that easy solution to your problems, which tomorrow, or a week from now, you'd hate me from carrying out. I'm disappointed because now, even after all our talking, I would still gladly kill him for hurting you." Giles smiled, it was a thin sad smile that showed much self-reflection, "But at least you still know me. And I you." Without pause for her to digest this he continued, "I suggest that we both go to bed now, being insightful can be exhausting. Think about what we've spoken of. And come to the Library tomorrow Buffy, I've missed you." he said the last looking into her face. He features had remained impassive through most of his speech, but now they softened.
"I've missed you too." she admitted, and finally they both smiled in unison, showing an affectionate solidarity that was had always been present. A comprehension somewhere between father-daughter and friend. An understanding of things unsaid that would be tautological to say. Something clichéd and real, as so many clichés are. Like that one about love, and it hurting.
(Author's Note: Too sappy? To predictable? Too small? Too strange? Too late at night for me to be writing? Hell yes. Things needed patching. Not sure when the next installment will be. Thanks for the reviews everyone.)
