Two To Tango
Chapter One: The End of the Affair

She wondered how it could all fall apart so hard and so quickly. She never knew that things could, that her life could.

And it had only taken three days. Three days and she was left with nothing. She had lost everything. Her livelihood, the trust of her friends, the use of her right arm.

And she had lost him.

One stupid, idiotic mistake and it was all over. It didn't matter what kind of pain they had gone through to get to where they had been. It didn't matter that she loved him more than anything, because he didn't want to know anymore.

For once, she didn't care that she lived on a Hellmouth. She didn't care about money or sex.

She cared about him.

It seemed to be going ok, y'know? It looked like the Hellmouth had decided that it'd had it's fun with William the Bloody and Anya Jenkins and was going to let them go along their merry way. Then it came back with a vengeance, screwing everything up until all that was left was… This. Her, standing alone in a graveyard, crying and watching the one thing she loved most in the world walk out of her life.

She laughed a little. She could at least be honest with herself. The Hellmouth hadn't screwed things up, she had done that herself. She felt her pride rear up inside her, screaming at her that it hadn't been all her. He'd hurt her too! She blocked the memory of… No, she couldn't. Wouldn't.

She rubbed her arm, shivering. But she didn't move. Their angry, desperate yells and screams still echoed in her ears. The way he looked at her, the way he tilted his head and looked at her with a look of such regret, pain and betrayal in those blue eyes tore at her.

She tried to forget that there had been tears in his eyes.

She hated herself. She raged at everything. At herself, at him, at the people she really didn't want to think about because it hurt so much, at the graveyard, at the stupid sky and at the goddamned feeling inside that made her just want to die. Her right arm was in a sling and her left arm wrapped around her stomach as she watched him.

A wild sob rose within her, she pressed her fingers to her lips, but it pushed up and through her fingers, cutting through the still night air and filling it with her misery. She thought she saw his step falter and she stood where she was, frozen and numb, hoping he would turn around and run to her. She prayed he would scoop her up, kiss her hair, let her cry out all her pain and regret against his chest. She wished he would whisper that it would be all right, that he was sorry, that he loved her.

That they could start again.

But he was walking away, toward the cemetery gates, his coat flapping behind him.

Above all else, she hated that walk. Mainly because it carried him away from her. He was walking away, not toward her - away. And it wasn't the sexy, predator-like stalk that she adored, the one that made her drool. It was slow, as though he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. His head was bowed, his hands jammed into his pockets. He walked like an old man.

Like he really was 127.

It didn't matter that part of her blamed him. Didn't matter that part of her hated him for hurting her in retaliation for what she had done. Didn't matter that if he hadn't made such a big deal out of her request in the first place, none of this would have happened at all.

Because in the end it was her fault he was walking like that.


He never knew things could fall apart so hard and so quickly. He had lived for over a century and he had never known that things could fall apart so damned hard.

No matter how fast he felt like he was walking, the gates of the cemetery didn't seem to get any nearer. He seemed to be closer to her than ever. Every part of him was aware of here. He could feel the waves of pain roll off her and he wanted to scream. He just wanted to turn around and scream across the graveyard that it wasn't fair. She didn't get to hurt because she had started it all. If she hadn't done it, he never would have.

She had no right to hurt.

He knew he was wrong. She had as much right to hurt as he did.

But she had known what she was doing, she knew it would kill him if he found out. But he hadn't been thinking. All he was thinking about was needing the pain to just stop, he just wanted to stop feeling like the fool that always got taken for a ride. He didn't even realise what he had done before he saw her staring at him, her eyes wide.

There had been pain in her eyes and his first emotion was complete regret, a churning that started in his stomach and moved into his throat. His second thought was to grab her and shake to make her realise what she had done, what she had forced him to do.

His eyes flicked toward the gate; it looked no nearer. He thought it would be easier to sink to his knees and give in, let her watch him die. He was an old man, too old for all of this. And for a moment, he was sure that if he just stopped trying to reach the gates, the life would drain out of him and by the time she reached him, there would only be the wasted shell of a body, the blood and life sucked out of it leaving a dry husk that would turn to dust beneath her fingers.

He used to think her kisses, full of pure, sweet fire, could turn him to dust. But it was her, standing behind him, her scent, a twisted contortion of her own sweet scent, him and… No. He couldn't think about that, he didn't want to become dust. He didn't want to age.

But he felt that he would, without her. His hair would grey, his bones would become brittle, his flesh ravaged, his eyes dull. And it would be all her fault, for so long he had just needed her. He could live without blood and alcohol and fighting easier than he could live without her. But now all he needed to do was get to those gates and the thought of what he would do once he got there scared him.

Because he didn't know.

Behind him, he was aware she hadn't moved. He was glad, if she moved, got closer to him, he didn't know how he would concentrate on getting away.

Finally, he reached the gate. He always thought they were an unsuccessful attempt to keep things in at night. He grabbed one iron bar, felt the rust crumble against his palm and pulled. With a squeal, the gate opened and he paused for a moment. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't go home, not to that double room with the mingling scents of her and the memory of his biggest mistake. A mistake which, at the time, he had enjoyed.

So, he forced himself forward and pushed himself out through the gate. He turned sharply, his coat snapping with a flourish around the corner, out of the gate.

She continued to watch. She waited until he disappeared out through the gates before bowing her head and following him. When she reached the gates, she knew which direction he had taken. He turned left, in the direction of Willy's. It would have been so easy to follow him. To be able to keep seeing him, watching him him. But she didn't. Instead, she turned right, towards the Summers' house and prayed that only Tara would be home.


Dawn stood at the top of the stairs and watched as Tara led a shaking Anya into the living room. Slowly, she sat down on the top stair and listened to the muted conversation.

"How's your arm?" she heard Tara ask.

"Fine."

"Willow said it was a vampire…"

"Yeah. Did you have fun?"

"Fun?"

"At that conference thing."

"It wasn't meant to be fun, Anya, it was educational."

"Oh."

"What's happened?"

There was a long silence and Dawn slid down the stairs a little more and leaned forward.

"Anya? Anya, what's wrong?"

"Me," the answer was a squeak. "I'm wrong. I was wrong. He was wrong. We're wrong, Tara."

"We - ? Spike? You and Spike are wrong? Anya, you're perfect together -"

"Then why aren't we together anymore?"

Dawn scrambled up, ran silently to her room, dressed and slipped out of the window. Tara, unaware that Dawn was even up, sat quietly for a moment, before taking Anya's hand and squeezing lightly. She thanked the Goddess that something had been up with Buffy, so Willow had taken her out.

"Anya? Do you want to talk about it?"

She shook her head, then slowly lifted her eyes to Tara's and nodded. She sniffed, wiped at her eyes and took a deep breath before recounting the tale in a soft voice…


Dawn ran quickly down the streets, towards Willy's, stake clutched in her fist. She remembered the route from that summer before her sister came back, when she had gone to look for him, for someone to talk to. She hated being shut out. It was starting to be ok. Her and Buffy were getting along, they would talk and joke over breakfast now she was happier with her new job in the school.

But a couple of days ago it went wrong.

Buffy had burrowed back inside herself, with even Willow barely able to coax her to talk about what was wrong.

Spike had regained the wide eyed look of loss he had had back in that summer.

And Anya had been hiding away in the shop, avoiding everyone and running off every few hours to sob loudly in the bathroom.

She came to the entry to Willy's and shoved the door open, adopting a haughty stance she had copied from Buffy as she strode across to the bar. She saw him immediately, slumped at the bar, hair sticking up in all directions, his hand waving blearily at Willy to give him another drink.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

He groaned and didn't even turn his head in her direction.

"Go away, Buffy."

She felt a buzz of pride at the fact she had been mistaken for the Slayer by someone who at one time had been in love with her. Then came the fury at being mistaken for her sister when she was a completely different person.

"It's me, Spike."

He lifted his head, his hand pressed to his forehead as he stared at her. He squinted, trying to see her clearly. When he recognised her, his eyes grew wide and he grabbed her wrist, the swift movement causing him to sway on his barstool. She caught hold of his forearm to steady him and eased him back onto the stool.

"What you doin' 'ere, Bit?" he asked. "You shouldn't be 'ere, I told you that before. Go 'ome."

She almost smiled at his incoherent speech, but instead sat firmly down and glared at him, pointing the stake at him.

"Anya's at home, Spike. Tara's got back now from that educational trip thing she went on, which she said wasn't fun, by the way. Now Anya's crying and whimpering all over the couch."

"So you snuck out?"

"Well, yeah. I head Anya say two broke up," she nibbled her lip nervously. "It's not true, is it, Spike? You two are still together, right?"

He gave a bitter laugh that ended in a sob. Her mind wandered back a few years to when she had sat on the kitchen counter and watched him sob into his hot chocolate as he moaned about Drusilla. He had laughed then, through his misery, "She's out of her mind. That's what I miss most about her."

"Nah, Niblet. 'Fraid that freak show's come to an end."

Something inside her lurched to a sickening halt. She had been waiting for him to laugh, tug a strand of her hair and tell her that it was all right, that it was just a row and he'd buy her something pretty and he'd make it ok, she didn't have to worry. It had happened often enough.

Dawn had made it her personal responsibilty to go and see him if she heard he and Anya had had an argument. And it was always the same, he'd tell her it was all right and then sweep Anya off her feet with a romantic dinner or a dramatic public apology she couldn't fail to resist. But it was different now. There was no worry hidden by bravado. It was all out acceptance and Dawn couldn't stand it.

She wouldn't admit it to anyone, but she liked having a stable and loving couple around. It made her think that maybe things would be ok. Tara and Willow were stable and loving, but it somehow meant more to her that Anya and Spike stayed together. Neither could be called normal and Dawn herself wasn't normal. But if they could be happy and in love, it could happen to her too, right?

"What do you…?" she couldn't form the question. She knew what he meant. She tried again. "Why?"

He smiled ruefully at her. "You wouldn't wanna to 'ear it," he lifted his hand again."'Nother one over 'ere, Wil -"

She slammed his hand back onto the bar top and glared at him.

"Tell me," she gritted out.

She needed to know. Needed to know the morbid details because this way she could see the fault and put it right. She had to try.

"You sure you wanna 'ear this?"

"Yes."

"Fine," he inhaled deeply and let the breath out in a long sigh. "Started three days ago…"