Two To Tango
Chapter Five: If You Had Been Faithful

It was hypnotic, the folding, the careful laying of her clothing in the bags. If she could, she would have gone back to the apartment to get her suitcases, the pretty, matching blue ones, with wheels so she wouldn't have to carry it.

But it was pointless, going back to get her cases. Because she was going to win him back. She was going to fight. She accepted the blame for what happened, but she was going to make it right. The two of them had lived too many years in empty relationships where they loved the most to finish their relationship now. She knew about Drusilla. She knew he worshipped her, but it was always Angel for Dru. Xander had filled her in. They had been toasting his new place together and he had told her the story, mocking Spike cruelly. She hadn't said anything, she didn't think she should, but it had made her wonder. What was it about Spike that Xander hated so much? Why couldn't he see that Spike was trying to be a good person now?

Why couldn't he give Spike the benefit of the doubt?

She snorted. An unladylike sound that was absurdly loud in the small room. She hadn't given him the benefit of the doubt, she had just assumed that he didn't want her. For too many years she had listened to the same old story that countless women recounted, telling her how they had given their boyfriends or husbands chance after chance before calling in Anyanka.

She had lain in bed last night and thought rationally about what he had said. In a flash of sudden understanding, she realised he had been telling her how much he loved her. He didn't want to kill her because he loved her. She had thought he didn't want her, when in fact it was because he wanted her that he wouldn't do it.

So she had gotton up early, had spent hours carefully folding her clothes, and re-packing the bags with her clothes, shoes, purses, nail varnish and make up. It had taken longer than usual because her right arm was bound in a sling after her tussle with the vampire last night.

Then she showered, dressed, and stood quietly in front of the mirror to apply her make-up and brush her hair with one hand.

She left her bags on the bed, ready for collection later that night because, as she told herself, they would be back together and dancing in the Bronze that evening.

But as she closed the door of the shabby motel - the one Faith had stayed in, according to Willow as they walked past it during the happy days of only a week ago - she wondered if that were true.

She wondered if it would be that easy to put back together again.


She was standing in the hall outside her apartment, staring at the door. Her hands shook as she pulled the key from her purse. She had gotton the spare from Willow who had handed it over, asking if she was ok. She had replied with her usual brightness that she was fine. Xander had walked up the drive as she had walked down it. Her heart had clenched and she had held her breath, allowing him to decide what would happen.

"Hi, Anya," he had said, his voice hesitant. "What happened to your arm?"

"Hey, Xander," she had answered with the same fake cheeriness she had used to talk to Willow. "I'm fine, it was a vampire, but it's ok. I'll see you later. 'Bye!"

She had hurried on past him and had felt his eyes on his back, but she ignored it and pushed him out of her mind.

Until now.

Now, all she could think of was Xander's touch, the way she had wantonly pulled her skirt off and guided his hands. And over all the images was Spike's face, the wide-eyed look of disbelief. The way a steel door had slammed down behind his blue eyes to create a barrier between them. She didn't remember because she treasured the memory, but because it repulsed her. It didn't repulse her because it was Xander, in no way did it really have anything to do with him, it repulsed her because she had been unfaithful. Above all things, she valued faithfulness. Yet she had been the one who strayed.

She gulped, and pushed the key into the lock. She went into the apartment and noted the broken photo frame on the floor with the smashed wine bottle. The empty alcohol bottles were still on the coffee table, the remnants of one can of lager spilled across the table, soaking the chips that lay scattered over the table top over the remainder of the chocolate bar.

She tiptoed over to the bedroom; if Spike was asleep she would heat him up some blood and wake him up gently. That way, maybe sleep, the blood and the sight of her arm would pacify him long enough to allow her to talk to him. She eased the door open and frowned, the room was empty. He must have moved back to him old room. With a small shrug, she turned and opened the door to her right.

For a second, the image didn't register. She saw what she expected. Spike sleeping quietly, the dark sheets low on his naked body.

When her mind grasped what her eyes saw, she realised he was indeed sleeping and naked.

But he wasn't alone.

Buffy's head lay on his chest, his arm slung around her waist, her hair tossed over his chest. The sheets were pulled up to just cover their lower bodies, but Anya could see that their legs were tangled.

"We fought, we shagged, she left…. She always leaves."

Isn't that what he had said that time he and Tara came to find her at that motel? Wasn't it? Then why was she still here? She was supposed to leave after they…. That's what he said, "She always leaves." So why was she still there?

She could have stood there forever and not have realised it. In fact, it was only a few moments before a tiny sound escaped her lips. Spike muttered something and shifted, causing Buffy to curl tighter around him. His eyes fluttered open and his gaze fixed on her. He moved quickly, sitting up and sliding back against the headboard. It jolted Buffy out of her sleep and she glared up at him before she froze. Staring at him, she turning her head slowly. Her hand darted out and tugged the black satin sheet up to protect her modesty.

"Oh, God," she said. "Anya, I… This isn't what it looks like…"

"What is it then?" Anya directed her painfully cold question at Spike. He shook his head and it fell forward onto his chest.

"Anya… I didn't… Just…"

"Shut up, Buffy," Anya snapped. "Well, Spike? What happened? You obviously didn't have sex because according to Buffy, this isn't what it looks like. So, what the hell is this?"

"Anya," Spike started. "What are you doing here?"

"I was here to apologise for what I did to you. I felt bad. Do you?" her voice broke and her face crumbled in a vain attempt to hold in the tears. "You're supposed to love me! Not her! She called you nothing, Spike! What about me?"

"I'm sorry, Anya," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

"You know, I'll just go so you two can talk," Buffy scrambled out of bed, holding the sheet to her chest and grabbed her clothes from where they lay scattered over the floor. She slipped into her jeans and shirt, clutching her ripped underwear as she approached the door and Anya.

Anya glared at her, the strong Slayer who stood in front of her, her head bowed and her face a bright crimson. She felt a surge of empowerment; the Slayer was cowed because of her, Anya.

"Anya, I'm sorry," she said. "Could I just go and you two can -"

Almost of its own accord, Anya's hand swung up and slapped Buffy hard enough to leave a bright red mark on her left cheek.

"Get out," she hissed. "I don't ever want to see you again. Ever."

She thought Buffy would cry and a sadistic part of her rose up and hoped she would because Anya would love to see the Slayer cry. But Buffy just sniffed and nodded, scooting around Anya and leaving the room. Anya could hear her crying as she ran out of the apartment. Good, she thought.

She cast Spike once more glance, turned around, and walked calmly back into the living room. She walked carefully around the apartment, picking up stray items that belonged to her and pretending she was alone in the apartment.

"Anya."

She looked over at him briefly; he stood in the door of his old room in black jeans and shirt. She clutched a cushion she had bought and two small ornate boxes she had bought because they were beautiful. And decorated in red and black, Spike's favourite colours.

"Goodbye, Spike," she answered flatly and turned away.

"What happened to your arm?" he reached out and she flinched away. "Are you all right?"

"Fine. It was vampire. Attacked me while I was trying to find a motel," he bowed his head in shame at this.

"It didn't mean anything," he started, looking up. "I was upset after you and Harris. You saw me, I was getting drunk all day…" he carried on talking as she made the way to the door, following her, his hand outstretched but falling short of actually touching her. "I went to the Bronze. I was pissed, Anya. Buffy was there; she didn't have a date… We were talking… She got drunk… We were drunk as hell; it didn't mean anything… I was drunk, Sunshine -"

"Don't call me that," she hissed. "And don't you dare say you were drunk. I was drunk, what I did didn't mean anything. I'm not in love with Xander anymore. I was never as in love with him as you were with Buffy. So don't tell me that meant nothing to you, Spike, because she didn't leave, she stayed and slept in your arms!"

"But I did it because you hurt me and I -"

The cushion and trinkets fell to the floor as, in the same way it had last night, Spike's voice echoed in her mind.

"Here, not like that, love. Clench your fist like this… Yeah like that. Now just hit, go on, just - ow!"

Her small fist connected to his damned cheekbone in a spectacular left hook.

"Goodbye, Spike," she repeated and walked out of the apartment as he clutched his face.

She supposed she'd have to unpack her bags now.