All Spike could see was the sun on her hair. Curled up against the door, he rested his head against the window, every piece of himself focused on the girl kneeling atop the roof of the farmhouse, the tool belt around her waist accentuating her thinness. Spike touched his own protruding ribs, watching her bend for a closer look at the roof, watching her slender legs stand and stretch, watching the shine of her skin, of her hair, watching her, always watching her, despite all his bitterness and misgivings, still he watched. He could not look away.
Though he abhorred this need in himself- the need to know her- the call of her presence rang inside of him, a beacon too strong to deny. Even from inside the car he felt as if the heat of her skin was upon him and he could not help but revel in that, after so many nights of cold solitude. He'd found his anger a poor weapon against the magnetic draw: Buffy, standing in the sunshine, the gold fire of her hair a halo surrounding her with light. And then, with a blink, she was gone and he shivered, startled by the sudden cold. Why does she hold my warmth inside herself? Why can I find none in my own skin? Pressing his forehead against the foil-covered glass, he waited.
Another blink and she reappeared, a hammer in one hand, a fistful of nails in the other. He peeled back the foil a bit farther, enlarging his peephole enough to see the whole of her, see the way the sun flashed and flicked behind her silhouette as she raised the hammer above her head and swung it down, then again, the repetition powerful and fluid and lovely.
He swallowed hard, feeling suddenly faint. I don't want this. These feelings, this… this sodding insatiable craving for her…this was supposed to end, dammit. All of it, all the need for her… I killed it, bore it down inside myself, threw it away with all the rest- with all the world- and then, what did she do? Broke down the spell, tore through the door and dragged me back through all the muck. And still, here I sit, such a ponce, glued to her like she's water in the desert. He snorted mockingly at himself. Water? No. A mirage, more like.
From his safe place inside the car, parked beneath the shade of a oak tree, from behind the shield of reflective aluminum, he continued to study her, feeling more than a bit like an intruder. She was repairing the roof, patching up worn places and holes, making the farmhouse habitable while she waited for Willow's ghost to make its next move. She'd told him so before leaving him to sleep hours before.
Even from across the yard he could see the sweat beaded on her forehead. The tense and tired set of her shoulders told him that her muscles were aching from the long, uninterrupted exertion. Stupid girl. She should stop, take a break. Not like the work can't wait. Wouldn't kill her to sleep in the car another night. Exhaustion's catching up to her, that and the stress of ghost pencils and jewelry from the beyond. Too worried about Red and about me to realize she's falling apart at the seams. She'll make a stupid mistake if she doesn't rest. Hurt herself,. Whack her thumb with the hammer or worse, being that high up and in the hot sun, no water. Dehydration hits and she'll be dizzy, could fall...
He traced the pleats in the foil, his fingers spidering out wide over Buffy's image. Girl could fall and lay there broken, bleeding, too damaged to call for help and I wouldn't be able to do a bloody thing. Sun's up, and she's out in the open. She could die out there, alone, and I'd still be sitting here, powerless, watching her die. Helpless.
As if hearing his thoughts, she dropped the hammer and turned around to face the car. Stretching her arms above her head, she yawned. Spike drew back away from the window, curling up on the seat and closing his eyes. Sleep, you git, he told himself, winding his hands in the blanket spread across his lap and pulling it up around his shoulders. She's the Slayer, she can take care of herself. 'Sides, you shouldn't care. Don't want to be here. Didn't ask to come, didn't tell her to fix you up a hideaway when she took away the old one that was perfectly fine, perfectly… punishing. Didn't want her to sully herself looking after a thing too evil to be borne. But here she is, being all fine and virtuous, working herself into exhaustion, all to patch up the guilt of last year, and far more of it than is her fair share
Groaning, he rolled over. The fabric of the Honda's seat was scratchy against his cheek. I didn't want this! Only one thing I asked of her- to leave me alone- and the bitch couldn't manage it, not even when she should have known, I did it partly for her. Took her witch in with me, burned myself to bloody hell in the process. And still the bitch doesn't know, doesn't understand…but how could she? She doesn't know.
The sound of footsteps silenced his thoughts. He waited a beat, hoping she'd pass by and leave him alone, but instead she paused by the other side of the door. Her presence was solid and looming even though he could sense her tentativeness. She's more unsure of herself than I've ever seen her. Girl doesn't know whether to leave me to myself or put me through her version of therapy for the recently evil. I'll say this for her, she's trying. She wants to make things right. But she doesn't know--
"Spike? You awake?"
"No," he muttered, flapping the blanket over his head. He wasn't sure she heard him, but he'd be damned if he repeated himself. Damned. I am, that. Anyway, she'll go away if she thinks I'm asleep and then I can get back to…He gritted his teeth, disgusted with himself. Brooding.
"Spike?"
She walked around the car. Spike could hear her circling and realized she must be looking for a gap in the foil large enough to see him through. She wouldn't open the door, he knew. The sun was still high enough to be a danger to him and she would be mindful of that. Thoughts of the sun combined with the darkness underneath the blanket made him recognize how sleepy he actually was. He shifted his legs into a more comfortable position, careful not to move enough to rock the car.
"Fine, don't answer," she said, frustration weighing down her words. He flipped a fold of blanket away from his eyes and saw the outline of her hand, black against the silver-gray window. With a shaking finger he touched the shape of her palm, envisioning its creases, the life and love lines he remembered better than he'd like.
She sighed, or maybe he only imaged she did, but the crunching noise of her footsteps as she walked away from him was undeniably real. Good night, goldilocks, he thought fleetingly, flopping his head back into the cushion. He was tired, so tired suddenly, and he wondered if the days of driving non-stop from Sunnydale to the farm in a loaded silence had caught up with him. Cracked days, with her too nervous even to babble and me… nothing I had to say would've pleased her. Not then, not now. Not ever. Better to sleep, then. Better to stay quiet.
Her voice shouting back to him was the last thing he heard. "I'll be back for you at sunset, and you'd better be ready to talk!"
Pet, I'll never be ready to tell you what you're wanting to hear.
*****
The holes in the roof were patched over solidly, if crookedly. Hammer in hand, Buffy gazed up from the front yard with pride. Xander would be proud, she thought, and bit down on her lip, puzzled by the feelings his name did not bring. Guess that's what healing is. One day his name makes me teary, the next, nothing.
She left the hammer on the edge of the porch and picked up her suitcase from the pile of things she'd brought from Sunnydale. She had waited to bring them inside until the place was aired out a little. There wasn't much: one suitcase for her clothes and weapons, another for Giles' loaner clothes for Spike, and the cooler full of blood packets. They wouldn't stay fresh too much longer, she realized. Setting her suitcase back down, she took the cooler inside the farmhouse.
The kitchen wasn't the cleanest, but Buffy had swept the floor and dusted off the long countertop and the high, wooden cupboards above. She hefted the cooler onto the counter and began pulling out packets and counting them. Four, five, six… maybe two dozen. That's a lotta waste. There are starving vampires in Africa, you know.
"Not as starved as your vampire was, Buffy."
She froze as the cold words slapped her in the back. The cross in her jeans pocket- Willow's cross- seemed to grow heavier. I know that voice, I know who that is, but how can I, how can I… Gulping down her fear, she inhaled a slow, calming breath. When she was sure her voice would be steady, called out without turning around. "Willow?"
A icy gust of air hit her from behind. It blew her hair over her eyes and slammed her against the counter. Holding tight to her courage, Buffy said, "I know it's you, Will. I found your pencil and your cross. Talk to me. You never skimped on the words before. You've got my attention; I'm listening. Tell me what you want."
The wind grew stronger, and colder. It picked up dust and dirt clumps from the floor. Small pieces of wood and paper and other things Buffy could not identify whirled around her, some sharp as they hit her. It occurred to her that running away might be the way to go, but the wind cut her off. In an instant, it intensified into a storm so powerful, Buffy's feet were swept out from under her.
Clinging to the edge of the counter with a desperate grip, Buffy spat out a mouthful of hair and blinked hard. She tried to keep her eyes open, her ears throbbing at the howling of wind and crashing of debris.
"Willow!" she shrieked as her fingers slid on the slick linoleum. "Why are you doing this! Haven't you hurt me enough!"
The ghost laughed. "Buffy, you don't understand. You don't get it."
Something solid hit her in the side. The cooler, she realized. Then came a wet splash over her back. A tangy, metallic smell arose. She screamed as something slapped her across the back of the head, and more wetness ran down her body. Sensations faded into each other as the wind gusted in a spiral, propelling objects against her so fast they were formless, insensible.
Fear twisted in her stomach, tasting bitter as it rose up her throat. Something's happening, something's happening, she thought, her grip nearing the edge of the counter. Something's happening, and I can't see, I can't breathe, I can't think… A large object struck her squarely on the head and with the pain came darkness.
The hardness of the wood beneath her prone body was the next thing she felt. She couldn't tell how long she'd been out for, but the sun had set. Rising gingerly to her knees, she touched the lump on her temple, wincing. Her blood-soaked shirt and jeans made squishing sounds as she stood. Holding her hands out away from her body, she glared into the empty void of the house and growled, "Next time you come, you're gonna be one dead ghost. I mean… deader ghost. Umm, I mean…" She leaned heavily against the wall, sighing. "I mean, I don't want to do this anymore, Will."
*****
It was a dream, only a dream.
Spike knew that, and yet… and yet the firmness of Buffy's arms in his hands felt so real, the brush of her hair against his face, and the taste of her blood running over his tongue as he drank from her so deeply… it was all real, far too real. He willed himself to awaken but could no more break free of the dream than he could have broken Willow's magical grip inside his head that night.
Pain gnawed inside his skull. Behind him, Willow laughed. She was talking, as was Buffy, but he couldn't understand their words. His whole reality consisted of nothing but Buffy's blood, Buffy's skin, and beyond that, the deep regret and fury in his heart, and Willow's rape of his mind.
Silent screams surged up inside him, muffled by the deafening drone of Willow's magic. He wanted to tell Buffy to throw him off and run, but the crushing weight of the spell numbed his throat, numbed everything except what he wished it to: the pain, the fear, the knowledge that Buffy was dying and that he, who had fought for a soul so he'd never harm her again, was killing her.
Coldness filled him, bones and muscle, and he knew something in him was dying. Something that had survived his turning, survived the wretched inauguration into vampire life, survived his time in a wheelchair, survived Dru… he thought it might be his humanity. It curled down like a fetus, burying itself to deeply to be recovered.
And Willow loved knowing that. She read it in his thoughts and he could feel the heat of her at his back, in his thoughts, his very cells, and when she allowed him to close his eyes from the fading heat of Buffy's white neck, he shamed himself with the rush of gratitude he felt.
Then came a pressure on his back, gentle but persistent. Buffy's hands, he realized, and would have cried if Willow would've let him, but she didn't. She was talking again and this time he made an effort to listen…something about making it up to him? She wanted to help him? The words made no sense, but he clung to them. If she wanted to help him, perhaps she'd let him go, let Buffy live. 'Cause how else could she help? What else could possibly matter if Buffy died with his fangs in her neck?
Nothing. And that's what he felt until the screaming started. First a man's low battle cry, and then the shriek of a woman, high pitched and familiar. It echoed off the walls of his mind and broke the hold of Willow's spell with such suddenness, he howled in pain. Collapsing on top of Buffy, he felt his human face returning. The witch's scream, not Buffy's. Not Buffy's.
Sound came back gradually. He heard a struggle being fought, but it was behind him and Buffy was below, and his only concern. Rolling off of her, he stroked her pale cheek, leaving behind a smear of blood. "Pet?" he whispered, smacking her lightly. "You're alive, I know you are. Didn't take enough to kill you, no matter what the witch wanted, I…"
Her eyes opened and met his, their compassion startling him. Of all the looks she'd given him over the years, tenderness had never been among them. He reveled in it, brief as it was, for after a moment her eyes skipped over his shoulder and widened with panic.
"Giles!"
She lurched forward on the muddy ground, too weak to stand. "God, what are you
doing!"
Spike turned and saw the Watcher holding off the Witch with a long, thick wooden torch, lit with a vigorous flame. Willow was sprawled on the ground, her clothes smoking where Giles had struck her with the last of his magic. "What I must," he said, never looking away from Willow's furious stare.
"Daddy's got balls," Willow sputtered. She wiped blood from her mouth with the back of her hand. "What's next? That was it for you. You're running on empty. Don't think you can stop me with that little match. You knocked me down but I've still got a tricks up my sleeve." Pursing her lips, she started to blow, her mouth glowing with magic.
Giles thrust the torch forward. It hit her squarely on the chin, knocking her backwards. "Willow, you must stop." His face was lined with dread but, Spike thought, carefully composed in an effort to keep his obvious horror to himself. "I don't want to harm you, but I will if I must."
"You'd…"
She broke off, coughing. "You'd hurt me? Kill me? I thought I was your girl,
Giles. Your daughter. You'd kill your own daughter?"
"You are no child of mine," Giles said. A dangerous light flashed out of his eyes; not magic, but rage. Spike stood up, ignoring the shaking of his legs. He inched closer to the Watcher. Giles choked his hands up higher on the torch. "Willow, this.. this is no longer revenge, don't you see that? The score has been settled. You're only hurting yourself."
Not true, Spike thought, but kept his mouth shut. He glanced down at Buffy who was watching her friends with terror. Blood gushed down the side of her neck, soaking her shirt. "Pressure on that, luv," he whispered, pointing to her neck.
Her shaking fingers found the wound. The feel of blood brought her eyes back into focus. "Of-of course," she stuttered, covering it with her palm. She was in shock, and no wonder. Spike pulled off his tee-shirt and tossed it to her. "Thanks," she said, using it as a compress.
"How sweet," Willow chortled, jumping to her feet. "Aren't they sweet Giles? Remember when they were gonna get married? That was my wish then, my 'will-be-done'. Guess they have my magic to thank for all the wild monkey crypt sex."
Giles' shoulders twitched. "You'll not get a rise out of me with that, Willow. Not after everything else you've done tonight. And Buffy's beyond arguing at the moment."
"But I'm not." Spike moved to Giles' side, counting on the Watcher's boundless composure to keep him from a punch in the face. "And Red, you and I…. we're far from through."
"Spike," Giles growled, "Either act helpful or leave."
Spike heard the message beneath Giles' words- don't piss off the apocalyptically-minded uber-power witch, please- but the anger was alive in him and he could not help himself. "This is gonna end one way or another, Watcher, and if I were you, I'd chose the grand finale where Buffy gets to live."
Giles' eyes were shuttered as he watched Willow gaze at them with predatory interest. "No. Willow is still…"
"What, your friend? Bullocks." Throwing out his arm, he pointed at the Witch and shouted, "Willow is dead! But Buffy's still alive."
"Not for long, Spikey," Willow said. A drunken smile grew on her face. "I can feel my legs again. The power's coming back and soon none of you will be able to stop me."
"Don't hurt them." Buffy's voice was weak, unrecognizable. Defeated, but still trying to save the day. That's my girl. "Please, Will. Don't hurt them anymore."
It made Willow laugh. "Hurt's all that's coming, Buffy." Cocking her head reflectively, she added, "Except to Spike. He's been hurt enough by you, don't you think?"
"What's your plan, Red?" Spike asked. He clapped his hands together. "Whatever it is, let's get on with it. I'm ready." That's right. Get her away from Buffy, get her distracted, and end this bloody game.
Willow closed her eyes, breathing deeply. "Got just enough left in me, I think. Here's a gift for you, Spike. A gift for all the people Buffy made suffer. I'll give you a place where you'll be safe from her."
Buffy and Giles exchanged a look of confusion. Stepping forward, his jaw clenched, Giles said, "No more magic, Willow. No more."
"Didn't you hear? Willow is dead." The Witch waved a hand at the crypt, and at her incantation, the spell enveloped the crypt in a watery-looking bubble, a sort of bag of waters. Proud of herself, she giggled. "Sanctuary of the damned. Pretty, isn't it? All the blue water. He'll live out his immortality trapped there, safe as houses. He won't be able to hurt anyone, and no one, Buffy, not even you will be to hurt him." She nodded her head towards Spike. "Step on in. The water's warm. It will seal behind you."
"She really expects him to go in there?" Buffy coughed, bracing both hands in front of her in the grass. "No way. No."
Shooting to her feet, her strength back, Willow said, "Better to live alone than be your whipping boy. You wanta hurt everyone who loves you- no more, Buffy. I'm taking that from you. I'm taking him from you. Now you'll know how it feels."
"Willow…" Giles' body jerked as Willow lashed out at him with a stream of crackling energy. It enveloped him, holding him as he convulsed in pain. Blood ran from his forehead, pooled at the corners of his eyes, but he maintained his grip on the torch, clinging to it. Bowing her head against her knees, Buffy let out a long, low moan.
"Enough yet? " Giles fell to the ground and Willow gave him a wave. "Hello, I'm back again. No more magicks to tie me up with, huh?"
"No more," he gasped, dragging himself to his knees. He clutched the torch with both hands.
"You first, then," she said, "Then you, Buffy. And I see little Dawnie over there hiding under the bushes. She'll have to wait her turn though." Tipping her chin back, she leered into Giles' face. Her eyes were black and shiny with power. Blue energy crackled at her fingertips. "Daddy's been asking for it."
"Giles!" Buffy dropped Spike's shirt from her neck and staggering to her feet. She made it three steps before toppling back down. "God, Giles, run!"
He shook his head, raising the torch. "This ends here."
Not that way, though. We're ending this, we're ending it for good. Spike pulled his flask from his back pocket and opened it with a quick movement. "You ready, Watcher?" Without waiting for a response, he tipped the flask forward and doused Willow with its contents.
Everyone froze in place, awareness of what was about to occur horrifying them. Even Willow stood still, her red hair darkening with wetness. She gaped down at the alcohol covering her body. Raising her arms out, she dropped her head back and closed her eyes. "Go on," she said. "Go on, Giles. End this. Please."
Buffy cried out, but no one looked at her. All eyes were on Willow, posed as if crucified and waiting for the final blow.
With a gasping sob, Giles tipped the torch down and caught the center of Willow's shirt on fire. The ignition was immediate; the heat intense. Flinging the torch away and falling to his knees, Giles held his hands up towards Willow. "I'm… I'm… oh, Willow…" he stuttered, his voice broken. He pushed his hands over his face.
Willow did not move or even scream as the flames engulfed her. She simply stood and watched the stars. The only sounds were the blazing of the fire and the sobs of those who loved her.
Buffy crawled to him and he wrapped his arms around her, stoic-faced. Knowledge of what was to come nipped at him but Buffy's tears on his neck were current and hot, and he felt, finally, a huge ache carve itself out of his chest. I'm sorry, Red. So sorry for you. He stroked Buffy's hair, the light of the fire stinging his eyes.
They leaned together, covered in mud, and cried quietly as they watched Willow burn in an eerie silence.
*****
"Spike…" Buffy opened the back door of the Honda in a quick jerk and grabbed his shoulder. "Spike, wake up."
"What…what's wrong," he slurred, jolting awake with a gasp. Scrubbing his face with his hands, he squinted up at her. "You're all wet."
She pulled her sticky shirt away from her body, grimacing at the slurping sound it made as the fabric came off her skin. "Look closer. Smell anything food-like?"
"Blood?" Jumping out of the car, he held her by the elbows and looked her over, concern overpowering his grogginess. "You're hurt? I knew it, I knew something would happen… so much blood, where's it coming from?" Spinning her around, he checked her back. "Where's the wound?"
She tried not to smile. It wasn't funny, really, but for a second she let herself forget about the ghost and lingered on the care with which he examined her, on the tempered bruskness of his hands. He cares. He still cares about me, no matter how mad he is, he cares. "Umm, Spike…"
Releasing her, he leaned against the side of the car, sticking his hands in his pockets as if restraining them. "You're grinning like a loon. Does that mean you're fine?"
"I'm fine. Freaked, but fine. It's not my blood. I meant it when I said I smelled like food."
"The blood from the cooler?" He blushed as his stomach growled. "My blood?"
"Don't worry, there's enough left to last you the night and I'll get more tomorrow. Or you could just suck it off my clothes. Ghost Willow turned on the mystical hurricane machine and everything in the house got all blow around. It was crazy, beyond crazy, really. Some of the packets burst open." Cautiously touching the bruised lump on her temple, she said, "I kept trying to get her to talk to me, but the cooler bashed me in the head. That's the last thing I remember."
"Sounds like she's the same ole witch to me," Spike said and there was something in his voice, something strange that turned the words into a subtle question.
Can't deal with this now. Whatever's going on in his head, it's gotta wait. "Maybe." Buffy shrugged. "I dunno."
"You dunno? What is there about this that confuses you? She attacked you, tried to kill you…" And again, despite the meaning of his words, the questioning tone was there.
Does he want me to say it wasn't Willow? Is that what he wants? But I'm tired and I'm filthy and I can't… I just can't right now. "It wasn't like that. I mean, yeah, big scary ghost wind, and I got hurt, but…. like I said, I don't know. Something about this feels off to me. Way off. Why would she be trying to communicate if she's all homicidal? Wouldn't she skip the intimidating part and go straight to the killing?"
"She didn't before."
"But see,
that's kinda my point. She's done the fear thing. Why would she go back to
that? Wouldn't she be trying to do what she couldn't before? The only thing
I've gotten out of her so far is that she wants to tell me something and that
I'm apparently a big idiot because I'm not getting it."
"S'not like she's being overly clear, pet. Wind, pencils… come on, you think she'd blurt it out."
"Ghosts are different. We dealt with them before, back at the high school." She rolled her eyes. "They love their metaphors."
"What if…" He coughed, a false cough made to buy him time. She could almost see the wheels of his mind whirling as he groped inside himself for whatever words he had to tell her. This has got to be bad. Coughing again, he said, "Buffy, we've got to talk. I have to tell you…"
Not yet. Not yet. I need time to get my head back together. The blood on her shirt was drying. It made her skin itch. Undoing the buttons, she wrinkled her nose. "I'm gonna go wash up. There's a pond behind the barn that's swimmable. You coming?"
"Buffy. You wanted to know."
"I do. Not now though. I can't stand being the human scab. Come on whenever you're ready. I've got soap and stuff."
He watched her walk across the yard. Even gory and soiled, he was struck by her beauty and could not look away.
