Two To Tango
Chapter Four: The Fire That Hurts

He didn't miss her. At least that's what he kept telling himself. He didn't burn for her, didn't wish she here, filling the room with her irritating chatter, her infuriating scent. He didn't miss her settling in her lap, nibbling at his ear before grabbing the remote control and turning over to some shopping channel. He was glad she wasn't here, 'cause now he could watch the Passions marathon and then there was the few episodes of Providence, that he found quite interesting, what with the ghost mother and all...

He had moved out of the room as soon as he got home from his search for her. Grabbed all of his things and threw them onto his bed in his old room. Then, in a fit of blind rage, while the imagined moans of his girl filled his head as he saw her writhing beneath Xander bloody Harris, he threw her things into some bags and dumped them by the door. And he had sat himself on the couch, with chips, dip and her chocolate spread before him on the coffee table neatly bordered with five cans of lager and two bottles of whisky. He had blown a load of money on that little lot. He sat watching Passions and chain smoking to cover the smell of her that had managed to permeate every goddamned inch of the apartment.

Although he told himself he didn't want her, however much he said she was just a live-in screw, a shag that shared the rent and that she didn't really matter beyond that, he knew it wasn't true. In fact, he was constantly burning for her. One little look or the simple brushing of fingers was like fuel to the fire and the flame would flare within him until he couldn't see straight and he started to breath hard and fast.

He lit another cigarette and heaved his heavy boots back up onto the table, sinking down into the couch.

He didn't hear the key slide into the lock.


The smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol hit her as she slipped inside, the theme tune to Passions swirling down the hall. She hesitated, wondering if she should come back later. But where was she supposed to go? She couldn't go to Buffy's because her house was full and Tara wasn't there to talk to. And she obviously couldn't go to Xander's. She had spent the day at the shop and Xander had carefully avoided it, a fact of which she was glad.

But this was her home; she had as much right to be here as -

Spike was slumped in the couch, she stared at him as he gulped back some whiskey and rammed a handful of chips into his mouth. Instinctively, her eyes flickered to the curtains, they were tightly drawn, the final rays of sunlight filtering away.

Then her eyes fell on the empty space on the wall. There had been a picture of her and Spike, grinning maniacally, so entwined even she couldn't tell where she ended and he began. Her eyes ran down the wall and saw the shattered remains of the frame and the dark green glass of a wine bottle, the white wine glistening over the photo.

She tried to pretend it didn't hurt her to see that. She tried to force herself beyond the sickening guilt. It had hit her, halfway through the day, that he must feel how she did when Xander left her. The thought had made her sick.

"Spike."

Her voice was small, carefully announcing her present. He turned in the couch, stared at her blankly and shifted back again.

"Spike," she said again, her voice soft and weak with tears. "Spike, please…"

"Spike, please," he mimicked in a high voice, then his voice became gruff. "Bugger off."

"I… I live here," as soon as the words left her lips, she realised just how very ridiculous that sounded.

"Not anymore," he answered, still not looking at her. "See, Anya, I put the deposit down on this place, I pay half the rent, more my place than it is yours."

"But… Where am I supposed to go?"

"Mmmm, I wonder," he turned away briefly. "How about Xander fucking Harris?"

"I'm not going there."

"Didn't stop you last night."

"I was angry last night, I didn't mean…"

"Shall I tell you a thing or two about anger?" he asked, getting up and pacing over to her. She cowered slightly, he was burning with suppressed anger and she could feel it. "Anger is what I'm feeling right now. Anger is what is making me want to rip your bloody head from your shoulders. Anger is what is keeping me up all day 'cause every time I close my eyes, I see you shagging the bastard that left you. Anger is what is making me hate you and I never thought I'd feel that, not about you. Tell me, Anya, are you glad you did it? Happy you can go back to your nice normal life? Was it a heartbeat you wanted? Heat? A man that breathed? 'Cause he sure as hell ain't got nothing else going for him. So what was it, Anya? What were you looking for, eh? A fucking pulse?" his voice rose, his yells echoing around the apartment.

"No," she whimpered.

"Then what the hell was it?"

"I wanted someone to want me," she whispered.

"Want you? Want you? Where have you been the past few months? Haven't I shown you just how much I want you every bloody day?"

"I didn't… I wanted… Can't we just… Go back?"

He blinked at her.

"You what?" he looked genuinely confused.

"You and me… Can't we get back together? I still love you, Spike, I do. It was a mistake. A stupid mistake and it'll never happen again. I swear, just give me another chance. That's all I'm asking."

"All?" he asked. "That's all you're asking? You're asking for everything!"

He pushed past her and grabbed her bags he had dumped by the door, thrusting them into her arms. He pulled a small wad of cash from the cookie jar on the kitchen sideboard and handed it to her.

"Goodbye, Anya," he answered.

"Spike, no, I -"

He dragged her keys from her hand and opened the door. He pushed her out of the apartment and slammed the door. She stood outside the door and stared up and down the empty hall.

"Spike?" she called. "Spike?"

He wasn't going to answer, why should he? She turned slowly and walked quietly to the staircase.


Her things were bunched under her arms, the money in her purse. She was heading down the street to the motel and sighed. Maybe she could go to LA; it worked for Spike when he left that time. God, she couldn't do this. She couldn't live in a damn motel. She'd never really been this alone before and she didn't know if she could do -

The hands snaked around her mouth and waist and with a sharp tug, yanked her back. The bags fell to the floor and she stumbled back.

Great, she thought. I've got another vampire on my back.

"Listen, pet. Vamp gets you from behind, you elbow 'em right in the gut, got it?"

She heard the lesson roll through her mind and her elbow jabbed back, she twisted away from the vampire, taking advantage of his momentary shock.

He lunged forward as she started to run and she fell forward, catching herself on her hands and feeling her right arm give way beneath her. She reached out with her left hand and grabbed her purse, rolling over to beat the vampire over the head. He pulled back and glared at her.

"Always keep a stake with you, Sunshine. You listening to me? Good, I don't want to lose you to some wanker vampire. Now, here's a stake, go put it in your purse now. Go on."

She rummaged in her purse and wrapped her fingers around the thick wood of the stake. She drew it out and held it up as he leaned in to sink his fangs into her neck. She squeezed her eyes shut and didn't open them until she felt the dust sprinkle over her face and body.

She sat up slowly and brushed herself down, wincing as she tried to move her right arm. She pulled her bags toward her and pushed them under her arms and carried on down the street, right arm cradled against her chest, head bowed.


He'd been waiting for sunset. Now it had come, he could get the hell out of this damn place and not have to come back until Dawn, hopefully drunk enough to sleep until sunset.

Why he had to come to a one-club town like this, he didn't know. Ok, so he didn't have a major yin for LA, but at least if you looked hard enough, you could find an English pub with actual English beer. But no, he decided to come back to this stupid town. With it's stupid little kiddies club that didn't even sell the flowering onion anymore, dammit.

He pushed through the crowd of people, clutching what was laughingly called beer in one hand and sitting down heavily in a dark corner.

"Hi, Spike."

Great. Buffy. Fun, fun, fun. He really didn't need this right now.

"I said, hi, Spike. Modern culture states that's it's polite for you to at least grunt a reply."

"I'm not in the mood, Buffy."

"I figured that. I dropped by the shop to see if Anya was around. Dawn said she was crying in the bathroom."

"So?"

Buffy raised her eyebrows and sat down beside him. Another time, he would have done anything to make her stay. But then again, another time, she would have walked on by. Oh, she would have tossed him a scathing comment, of course, let's not forget that. But here she was, and she wanted to bond.

"What's up?"

"Nothing."

"Then why aren't you and Anya making hay?"

"'Cause there's no more me and Anya."


Buffy stared at him at he finished the story, her mouth gaping, working to try and find words.

"Bloody hell, woman!" Spike said finally. "I've just told you that the woman I love screwed Xander because she thought I didn't want her and you're not saying a soddin' word."

"Why… Couldn't you have… The chip?"

"Huh?"

"The chip, why didn't you tell her you couldn't turn her 'cause of the chip? Wouldn't that have been easier than saying you didn't want to?"

"We're both talking about Anya here, right?"

"Um, yeah?"

"If I'd blamed the chip, the daft bint probably would have offered to slit her wrists and I could just drink, wouldn't have to hurt her, wouldn't have made any difference…. Anyway, I wanted her to get it…. I wanted her to understand that I couldn't kill her… Not for anything."

"If it's any consolation, Spike," Buffy said, covering his hand that rested on the table with hers. "I get it… I understand."

He stared at where her hand covered hers and sighed, struggling to force air into his lungs and back out again, wondering about the heat sprending up his arm.

"Yeah, love, I reckon you do."