Brave New World
Chapter Twelve

Wesley and Anya weren't the only ones left up. They were, however, the only ones not training because they couldn't sleep. Doyle, Andrew and Tara had followed Willow to bed, leaving only Spike, Buffy, and Dawn fighting in the room next door.

There were a few hours before dawn and though Wes and Anya were beyond tired, neither wanted to abandon the other to a lonely vigil. Wesley wasn't in any rush to retire to a room that had Andrew in it. Doyle had yelled at him twice already and Wes was in no hurry to find out why. Anya wasn't ready to go up to bed, not wanting to hurry into the next day and ultimately the war.

So they reclined, yawning and dozing on the two couches and talked, bickering and punching each other in vague retaliation.

"I take it you're still denying the fact you fancy Doyle?" he asked after a moment's silence.

"I thought we'd been here, Wes?" she yawned. "I don't like Doyle much. He's annoying and a drinker. And he's Irish."

"And yet you like him," Wes answered.

"You're pushing it," she warned.

"But you're too tired to do anything about it," he grinned, dissolving immediately into a yawn. "Oh, come on, Anya, give it up, I can see right through you."

"Shut up."

"I'm hurt."

"You're annoying."

"Do I have to resort to threats?" he asked.

"Go ahead, it'll be funny."

"If you don't admit you have feelings for Doyle, I won't buy you a new dress to replace the one I ruined a couple of months back."

"Oh my God!" she said, sitting up. "I'd forgotten about that!"

"Really?" he laughed hesitantly. "I don't suppose you could forget again?"

She pursed her lips and settled back in the couch, shooting him a disgruntled look.

"Will you drop the I like Alan Francis Doyle bone? You've been at it since we went to kick the people out of their houses."

"Because I care," he told her sincerely. "About the both of you and I want you to be happy. So, Anya Jenkins, if you don't admit it, I'll come over there and kiss you," he pulled a face at her, she always brought out the juvenile side of him.

She sat up then, slowly, raising her eyebrows and eyeing him with a smirk. His stomach sank. Great, him and his big mouth.

"You wouldn't dare," she said.

"Oh, wouldn't I?" he responded; though wondered if she would call his bluff.

"No," she raked her eyes over him before meeting his eyes again; "I. Don't. Like. Doyle."

He frowned at her and she tossed her hair, grinning in victory. Hating that Anya might win this one; he swung his legs off the couch and stood. She blinked in surprise, but she obviously didn't expect him to come any closer.

But he did, closing the space between them rapidly. She noted the faint blush in his cheeks as he reached for her hand and drew her up from the couch. He wasn't the old Wesley, shy Watcher. He was confident now and he hated whenever Anya got the better of him. He hadn't exactly expected her to continue denying her feelings once he said he would kiss her. Trust Anya to call his bluff.

But it was just a kiss, he could do this. It was just a joke between friends. She stared at him, not quite believing he would go through with it. He leaned in to her and hesitated, before catching her suddenly around the waist and pulling her close, dropping a kiss on her lips.

She was shocked for a moment, but gently reciprocated, pleasantly surprised. He pulled away and let go of her waist, covering his embarrassment by rearranging his glasses on his nose. She batted him in the stomach and mock glared at him.

"Where did you learn to kiss like that?" she demanded.

"I must be a natural," he replied, as his blush faded at the fact it hadn't created any awkwardness. "And I do believe I've earnt something in return for that stunning display of lip-man-ship."

"You aren't going to give this up, are you?" she asked.

"Nope."

"Then fine! I like him, ok? In the way where I think he's hot, the way where I like his accent, his eyes, his hair. Even his damned annoying Irish ways. Happy now?"

"Yes… But I'd say that sounded more like love than like," he smiled cockily at her.

"Don't push it, Watcher-Boy," she warned.

He took her hand then and she raised an eyebrow.

"Don't even think it," he told her. "I'm merely making sure you don't walk into a wall while sleepwalking."

She gave him a shove and pulled her hand out of his.

"I'm not sleepwalking," she yawned. "Where are we going then?"

"To watch the others train," he answered. "it's either that or bed and I don't much fancy that. And it might be fun to watch Dawn and Buffy kick Spike's arse."

Anya contemplated that for a moment before shrugging.

"I guess," she answered, following him to the door. "And you get to watch Buffy do all those gymnastics."

She shot him a shrewd look punctuated with a smirk and he glared at her, though his cheeks flushed red.

"I don't know where you got that impression from, Anya," he replied snootily, lifting his chin.

"About the same place you got my liking Doyle from," she replied sweetly, pushing past him to the door. She stopped and looked back at him. He was gaping at her and she couldn't decide whether he was angry or horrified. She shrugged, she was too tired to care. "You coming or not?"

He hesitated, before yawning and following her to the door.

Dawn was fast asleep on one of the couches pressed against the wall, while Buffy and Spike sparred across the room. Anya settled in beside Dawn, curling in the opposite end of the couch. Wes sank blearily into a chair and watched the Slayer and vampire with vague interest.

They were all tired, but no one wanted to sleep. Buffy and Spike were too wired from their long sparring match and neither Wes nor Anya wanted to hasten toward the following day.

Spike twisted away from Buffy's kick and ducked under her arm, landing an easy punch in her side. She faltered and Spike caught her wince with a raised eyebrow.

"Feeling a bit delicate, eh, Slayer?" he asked.

That pricked Anya's interest and she looked up. She always enjoyed the Spike and Buffy show.

"What?" she snapped, putting her hands on her hips.

"Barely touched you, Buffy, didn't even set the chip off," Spike pointed out and jutted his chin in the direction of her side. "So it couldn't have hurt enough to make you wince. You been in a fight?"

"No," she answered, but there was a slightly too defensive note to her voice.

"You haven't been injured in a previous training session, have you, Buffy?" Wes asked.

"Of course not," she scoffed.

"So what," Spike asked, reaching out, grabbing the edge of her top and yanking it up. "Is that?"

Anya leaned forward and gasped at the dark bruise winding around her side to her back. Buffy wrapped strong fingers around Spike's wrist, twisting visciousy and dragged his hand off her. She smoothed the top back down and glared at him.

"Don't you touch me," she hissed.

"Buffy, what happened?" Anya asked. "Who did that?"

"I got hurt during training," Buffy answered. "It's not a big deal."

"But you just said you didn't," Wes said.

"I forgot, ok?" she cried. "What? You've never made a mistake, Wes?"

He blinked and recoiled a little. He was suddenly very far away from the warm fuzzy feeling he had earlier. That friendly warmth from Anya, the weird stomach churning feeling that came from kissing her. Suddenly, here was the woman whose opinion he cared about, whose respect he cherished telling him with words, tone and body language that he wasn't as liked by her as he had thought.

"There was no need for that," he told her.

"You never lash out at Wesley," Anya said in a mystified tone.

"I'm tired and I'm worried, all right?" Buffy threw up her arms in defeat.

"We're all worried, Slayer," Spike said, he narrowed his eyes at her, studying her. "Right now, kinda worried about you."

"Spare me," she snapped and walked out of the room.

Spike and Anya exchanged glances and Dawn stirred. Wes stood up, face set angrily as he turned to Spike and Anya.

"Anya," Wes started. "I think Dawn would be more comfortable in bed."

"Yeah," she nodded, taking the hint and gently stirring Dawn.

Wes followed Buffy out of the room and Spike tailed him, not about to let the Watcher take all the Slayer's flak. Spike and Wes watched Anya guide a stumbling Dawn up the stairs before turning to look for Buffy.

They found the back door in one of the old parlours open and slipped out, finding Buffy seating on the stone steps, jaw clenched in anger.

"Are you going to tell us what's going on, Buffy?" Wes asked, voice tight but careful.

"No, because there's nothing going on," she answered without turning around.

"Pull the other one, Buffy," Spike said. "It's got bells on. Now, I've been around for a few years and I know a thing or two about Slayers," he paused, seeing her stiffen. "And I've never seen a Slayer bruise that badly."

She stayed silent and the two Englishmen exchanged glances.

"That's true," Wes agreed. "Please, we're just trying to help you."

"Well, you're not," she stood up, rounding on them angrily. "You're not helping! Either of you! None of you are helping me! This whole thing is on my head, not yours! It's me that everyone expects to have all the answers, not you! And however hard you try to be second in command, Wes, you're not. I'm first, second and third in command. So yeah, there was a problem, I dealt with it. End of."

Wes sank further into the chill realisation that Buffy still held the same opinion of him she always had. And for one second, his affection and respect for her wavered into old territory, backing into his old opinion of her.

"I don't know what's happened to you, Buffy," Wes said coldly. "But I rather think I prefer the old you, the one who didn't think she was God. I'm sorry if you think I'm muscling in, but believe it or not, you need the help. Remember back when this started? I do believe you thanked me for holding this all together."

"He's got a point, Buffy," Spike added. "As I recall, it was you and Wes here that put Willow back together. As far as I've seen, you and him have always been a team. You want to take this out on anyone, take it out on me. I'm the one that started this."

"Yeah, it was!" she replied. "And don't stick up for him! He can do that himself! Don't play the martyr, Spike, it doesn't match the Black Hat."

"Buffy," Wes cut in, as Spike curled his fingers into fists and leaned forward, glaring at Buff., "I don't think this is helping. I don't think all this friction will help us in this war."

"Nothing's going to help us in this war, Wesley!" Buffy shouted.

Spike and Wes started, the cold, empty truth of her words ringing in the air between the three of them.

"We've got a fighting chance," Spike protested. "You've said that, we've all said it."

"Saying it's one thing, Spike," Buffy told him. "I happen to know that there's more to it than that."

"This isn't helping," Wes put a calming hand on Spike's arm, squeezing a little. "Buffy, how did you get that injury?"

"You want to know?" Buffy cried. "You really want to know?"

"Yeah," Spike said.

"Faith," she spat. "Faith was here. She threatened me; in fact, it was pretty funny. We fought; I kicked her ass, again. So what are you two going to do about it? Go to the Mayor's and talk at her? 'Cause, let's face it, there's nothing else you can do. Spike's got a chip and there's no way Wes could face a Slayer. Has me telling you helped? Changed anything? No. So there was really no point to any of this. Thanks, guys. This really helped. I really needed this right now."

She pushed between the two of them and stomped inside up to bed. Spike turned slowly to Wes and raised an eyebrow. Wes looked at Spike, eyes wide. He ran his fingers through his hair.

"Bloody hell," he sighed.

"I've been saying that a lot lately, mate," Spike replied.