Cold Comfort
Set after 'Entropy' (Buffy Season 6)
Chapter Four
Spike can't leave.
He's all set up. Called in his gambling debts, said goodbye to Clem. Got the address of Willy's sister's ex-boyfriend who's had three Fyarl raids in his hotel in St Hilda's Lake. Got a litre of single malt and a litre of butcher's best in a brown paper bag.
Hasn't got the nerve to leave Sunnydale.
He wants to, all right. He's desperate to, but he's being pulled back.
Hard to know why, hard to know what he'd be leaving exactly.He'd thought he owned this town. Those first two confident steps he'd taken onto Sunnydale soil, they echo in his head: insulting, invincible. Irrevocable.
The first time he'd fought her, he'd said, 'As a personal favour to you, I'll make it quick. Won't hurt a bit.' She'd said, 'No, Spike. This is going to hurt a lot.'
He's been fighting her ever since, though everything's changed: territory, weapons, allies - nothing constant but the fight itself. And now that's over, and she's won.
Won by walking away. She'd admitted he was right, and ignored it, pretended not to notice. A gambit any big sister knows: I'm not playing any more. One that she could have used any day of the last three years.
She knows he's right, she needs him badly. His vision isn't blinkered by right or nice or safe - doesn't need to be: what does he need to be afraid of, already dead, already knows Santa isn't coming. She trusts him to be right, trusts him to know when the Emperor is naked, and to say so.
She knows he's right, he's seen it in her face, seen a creeping softness darken her eyes to sparkless pools.
But she'd fought against it, fought dirty, cut the ground from under his feet. How could he retaliate when her only violence was against herself? She's given her life a Spikectomy, a lobotomy of the senses. He'd just been helping her out, that night outside the Magic Box, making the final cut himself. Obliging to the last.
He knows just how she'd play it, if he left. She'd get over him like he was measles, forget she'd ever known him. No-one can shut down like Buffy in the face of an unpalatable truth. She wouldn't see that the emperor was naked if he was giving her a lap dance.
Maybe she'd spare him a wistful glance, alone in her room, a single pearly tear. Is that why he's still here? Can't face being a prop in a slushy rewrite?
He thinks about how close he'd been to killing her, that first time, stepping into the Master's shoes. What has Sunnydale ever been to him but nauseating disappointment? The Slayer, the Gem of Amarrah, Dru recovered to health - they've all slipped through his fingers.
So hit the road Jack. Why's he still here?
Is it because he's used to it?
Used to sleeping in a bed, his own place. His crypt - he thinks about how it's changed since he moved in. It's still a vampire's lair, but now it looks less like that of a vampire who rooms with a thriving rag-and-bone-man, more like that of one who's gone all out to impress the girls.
Used to human company? Hostile and infrequent human company, sure - but is that it, is it people he doesn't want to leave behind? People whose lives he's saved, though he's hated them. People who've saved his life, reluctantly. Who have had the grace, occasionally, to ignore the emptiness of his threats, although he's frightened them for real before.
Who have got used to him thinking up new ways to shake their world. Good forgetters, children of the Hellmouth.
No-one's going to forgive him this last one. No-one's going to push in his door saying 'Spike, I need your help', or 'Know anything about a diamond-eating frost- monster?'
He's burned his bridges. Time to pack his trunk and say goodbye to the circus.
That's when he hears a bang, and looks up to see Anya standing there, looking tense.
He stands up in surprise, and they stare at each other for a moment. He's about to speak, when there's a flurry of fur, and something fluffy and hissing and grey somersaults through the air and lands on Anya's feet.
She screams and backs away, clinging to the doorframe. Damn, thinks Spike. That sure cuts a dash. Hyperactive snack food scares the lady into fits before you get your fat face round hello.
'What the hell is that?' she gasps. She's not just startled, she's cowering.
Great. Nice that she trusts him not to have some obscure design on her life after all that's happened. What does she think it is, some cunningly disguised hairy hand-grenade?
By this time the interruption is rolling contentedly on the floor between them, three-quarters of a rat trailing out of its mouth. Anya relaxes.
'Sorry,' she says, hand on heart, 'I thought it was a rabbit.'
He narrows his eyes at her, as if he suspects she's accusing him of taking unmentionable liberties with Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail.
'No,' he says. 'It's a kitten.'
'That's not a kitten.'
Spike throws a frustrated glance at the ceiling. He's had a few instant-gratification daydreams about what would happen if he saw Anya again, and this wasn't it.
'Right,' he says. 'It's my mother-in-law. I get confused. Was there something?'
Anya goes on as if she hasn't heard him.
'That's a cat. Kittens are smaller. And not as sharp.' She rubs her shin.
This is a touchy subject for Spike.
'Just so happens I haven't got round to eating this one yet,' he says defensively. 'Had a lot of luck lately. Didn't want to give myself indigestion, did I? Besides, it's a good mouser. And it keeps my feet warm at night.'
Anya smiles and perches on a coffin.
'I know your blood doesn't circulate, Spike,' she says kindly. 'You don't have to feel ashamed because you own a pet.'
He starts to protest at that, but she carries on brightly,
'It's attractive for a feline. What do you call it?'
'I call it dinner,' he snaps. She looks a little crushed by his tone, and he sighs. Lights a cigarette and gestures her to his chair. She sits down, neatly avoiding treading on Dinner.
'Drink?' he offers. She nods.
He has two diet cokes in his 'fridge, he knows. He just doesn't want to admit what they're doing there. He gets a soda out and hands it to her. It's warmish, because he's unplugged the 'fridge, ready for flight.
'So how d'you find me?' he asks. It's occurred to him that there aren't many people in Sunnydale that it's safe to ask where he lives. She looks blank.
'I know some people,' she says.
Old links, he supposes. Anyanka had clout.
She shifts uncomfortably in her chair.
'I just wanted to say thank you,' she says. 'For the other night. And to explain.'
Spike hopes she means the night of the argument, not that other other night. He doesn't think he can face an Open University lecture on that dimly-lit, incoherent hour in the shop.
'D'Hoffryn - he- after theā¦' Her hands are twisting in her lap. She claps them firmly onto her knee and starts again. 'He offered me my powers back, and I refused, I did. I'd spent all this time and effort learning to be human, I didn't want all that to be wasted. So I said no. But then he offered me a deal - my pendant back for a month, no strings. To help me decide.' More softly, 'It seemed like a bargain.'
He can hear the apology in her tone, but he's genuinely nonplussed. She's looking at him now; he's never seen quite how beseeching her usually bright eyes can look, half-drowned. What's she expecting? A beating, a benediction? A message to the Scoobies?
'That's grand,' he says. 'Glad it wasn't buy one, get one free. But if you're hoping I can put in a good word for you with the Brady Bunch, I'm afraid they're not returning my calls.'
She looks puzzled, and for a moment he thinks Xander's lessons have neglected popular culture. But then her brow clears.
'No,' she says. 'I just wanted you to know. You seemed kind of unimpressed - you know, by the whole life-wrecking-insane-bloody-cow deal.'
She's looking down, and can't see his eyes on her. She doesn't know he's been starving for human contact, for thoughts that aren't about Buffy. She doesn't know how long it's been since anyone's cared whether he's impressed, and said so. She looks up, and says with a watery smile.
'I don't think the Brady Bunch would be interested anyway. They're not really returning my calls either.'
Spike thinks of Xander's glazed eyes suddenly filling with tears, of his garbled, baffled stand of loyalty.
She doesn't know, he thinks. Poor little bit. He catches this surge of soppiness before it gets any worse, but he's left feeling more altruistic than a vampire ought to feel. He'll tell her, he thinks, and likes the idea of easing some of the cramping grief he can see in the tensed lines of her body. It gives him a rush, a little like the one he got a hundred and eighteen years ago from eating his old head-master. It's a mini-revelation - he'd thought good guys relied on an inflated sense of their own porridge-eating, vest-wearing virtue for kicks; never realized being nice could make you feel this good.
Anya's looking around, taking in the coat he's wearing, the packed lunch in the pocket, the unplugged 'fridge.
'Are you - going someplace?' she asks. He can tell her casualness is feigned, and his heart gives a dry leap. She cares. All thoughts of orchestrating a happy ending for her and Xander leapfrog each other out of his mind. He leans forward in his seat, looking at her; his hand almost touching her, caressing the air around her knee.
'Come for the ride?' he says.
