Chapter Fourteen: The State of Things
A.N. Yes, there are more lyrics coming up. I promise I'll try and stop - it's not a songfic after all. But after listening to this the other day, I suddenly realised it was the tale of this relationship. I'd think Neil wrote it about Spike and Buffy, except it was done in 1996... Anyway. It's called Distant Sun. Go download it now.
"You're sure?" Glory said. "He actually goes to her house?"
"And she to his hotel, your magnificent ladyship."
She paced about. "She told him the baby was dead. You heard that. Why is he going there?"
"Well, maybe because the baby isn't dead."
Glory spun about. "What? How long has the baby not been dead?"
The small man cowering in front of her gave a nonplussed look.
"Er, since it was born, oh glorious one."
Glory marched over and grabbed him by the ear. "How long have you known?"
"Just a few days, I came straight back here to tell you..."
"And he goes to see it? What is it?"
"It's a baby, your-"
"I mean is it a girl or a stupid boy?"
"A boy, oh merciful and beautiful-"
She dropped him on the floor and he felt at his sore ear. Good job she was paying him so much. And not just in money. Glory's sexual favours were something to behold.
"Well, then something must be done."
"But what?"
"We have to get rid of it," she said simply.
Buffy rolled her aching shoulders. She'd spent most of the morning lugging heavy boxes of paintings around and most of the afternoon cataloguing them. It was a Sunday, and she was in the gallery all alone, the radio playing in the background to keep her from going mad.
It wasn't working.
She picked up the phone, dialled a guiltily familiar number, and said, two words. "I'm alone."
Ten minutes later the door was open - despite that she'd locked it and had the only key - and Spike had her half naked on the floor.
It had been going on for weeks now. Buffy was starting to despise herself - both for using Spike, and for needing to. Part of her wished he'd just go away and leave her alone, and part of her was so glad he was there. She felt alive when she was with him. She could just let everything slide away on a wave of mindless bliss. It didn't last long, but it helped.
And then it was back to Dawn getting tetchy with her, Willow and Tara effortlessly outclassing her in the gallery, Anya wittering on about how much more money than Buffy she'd made that week, Xander's stoic silence. He'd barely spoke to her since she'd told him that Spike was going to be a big part of Will's life. Gone was the open offer of a lift to the nursery or babysitting: now he was always too busy to help out.
Anya, with her characteristic bluntness, had told her it was because Xander thought Spike was a bad influence on them all, and he'd hurt Buffy before, he was going to hurt her again, and she was just too damn stupid to realise it.
But Buffy realised it. She was letting him hurt her. Sometimes literally. She was having to wear longer sleeves and higher necks to cover the bruises she got from him. At the time, she never minded, but afterwards she cursed herself for letting him mark her. She was sure they used to have sex without getting violent, but she could barely remember it.
Spike made public appearances every now and then, coming over to see Will in the afternoons or evenings, helping Dawn with her homework - at least she was talking to someone, and Buffy found out most of the important things in her sister's life through her lover - or taking the baby for a stroll around the park. He didn't see any reason why he and Buffy couldn't go public - after all, if she didn't want anything to do with him then why the hell was she sleeping with him? Or, for that matter, still married to him - but she was adamant that her friends mustn't know.
"Xander hates me already," she said, "and Willow thinks you're evil too."
"I'd noticed the way she left the house whenever I got near it, pet."
"Well, now they've officially moved out it does sort of make it easier."
"They? Girlfriend can't stand me either?"
"Tara - she doesn't exactly say much, does she?"
"Not a lot. But then if I was shagging Red, I probably wouldn't, either."
"You fancy Willow?"
"Course I do. She's hot. And she's a lesbian. What's not to fancy?"
And Buffy had bashed him for that, and he'd caught her and kissed her, and they'd had some more sex.
Sex was pretty much all they did. In his hotel, in her house on the rare occasions it was empty, in both their cars, the elevator at the hotel, the gallery, the park, the Bronze, back alleys all over Sunnydale. He'd turn up and within seconds they'd be pulling each others' clothes off. Sometimes Buffy went to him, if her day had been hard or she'd argued with Dawn or Xander had given her the cold shoulder.
Solace. It was all she wanted - or all she could figure out that she wanted - and what Spike was ready to give her. She didn't ask why, and neither did he.
But he was getting bolder. Making moves on her when Dawn was in the house, coming in to 'talk' during gallery opening hours, making dirty phone calls in the middle of the day. One time Buffy had picked up the phone while Tara was in the office with her, and it had been Spike, murmuring filthy things that had made Buffy get very hot, panting and wriggling, and in the end she'd simply put the phone down and driven straight to his hotel and shagged him into unconsciousness.
Lying on the smooth wooden floor of the gallery, naked, arms and legs entangled, it was almost easy to imagine it was all normal. But Spike knew that in a few minutes she'd get up, drag her clothes on, try and make sense of her hair, and leave, without very many words to him.
He reached for his jeans pocket and lit up a cigarette, counting down to her inevitable exit. Five, four, three-
"Hey," Buffy said, "no smoking in my gallery."
"Stop me."
She grabbed the cigarette and stubbed it out on his stomach. Spike shot bolt upright.
"Ow! Bloody hell, woman!" He stared at her. "That fucking hurt!"
Buffy shrugged, standing up and going after her clothes.
"And she's off," Spike remarked, lying back on the floor, rubbing the burn on his stomach. "You know, Dru used to do that."
Buffy said nothing.
"Did I do something wrong?"
She turned back, fastening her jeans. "No," she said. "You know this isn't about you."
"Funny how you know exactly what I want to hear."
"I mean I - forget it."
"Not even talking to me now, pet. You know, you really know how to make a man feel wanted."
He stood up and pulled on his jeans, shrugged into his shirt.
"You're leaving?" Buffy paused.
"Damn right I am. For once. Before you chuck me out." He threw his duster on. "And don't bother coming over tonight. I'm closed for business," he said, flicking the Open sign as he stalked out of the gallery.
Buffy scrunched up her eyes. This had to stop.
She went into the office, got the phone book, and started dialling.
She didn't come over that night, or the next. She didn't call him to come to the gallery, and when he came to see Will, Buffy left the house before he could say a word to her.
The reason became clear a few days later, when Room Service brought up a big fat package addressed to Lord Spellingdon. He ripped it open, and found divorce papers.
He called Buffy's house and Dawn answered. It was hard to keep the fury out of his voice.
"Dawn. I need to speak to your sister."
"She's not here. She went out for a run."
"Did she take her phone with her?"
"Uh..." He heard her moving about. "No, it's here."
"Tell her to call me the second she gets in. And if she won't, you call me and I'll speak to her."
She picked up the measured calm in his voice. "Is everything okay? Did something happen?"
"No. Everything's fine. I just need to speak to Buffy."
"I'll tell her to call," Dawn said, sounding puzzled. "Bye, Spike."
"Bye, niblet."
He put the phone down, and realised his hand was shaking. He reached for his packet of fags, the bottle of bourbon, and the CD remote.
Spike had a large CD collection, and at the forefront were naturally the Sex Pistols. The ones he kept on public display were all punk or hard rock, a few classics like the White Album and Dark Side Of The Moon thrown in for good measure.
But right at the back, where no one could see them, were the ones he needed for comfort. Leonard Bernstein. Bryan Adams. Crowded House.
He took out Recurring Dream and put it on. Then he drank some more bourbon. Then he relaxed a bit.
'Tell me all the things you would change
I don't pretend to know what
you want
When you come around and spin
my top
Time and again, time and again...'
Sodding Summers woman. She spun his top whenever she felt like it - and what did he get? The pleasure of her company? It wasn't even that pleasurable any more. Oh, the sex was still amazing, and there were moments - usually when she was asleep - that he looked at her and her face was soft, young again, her arms held him tenderly. She was his, really his, mind, body and soul.
And then she opened her eyes. And that bloody mouth.
'No fire where I lit my
spark
I am not afraid of the dark
Where your words devour my
heart
And put me to shame, put me to
shame...'
Shame? She should know something about that, Spike thought bitterly, lighting another fag. She'd been so ashamed the first time, and then after the Bronze, and then... And then she'd started coming to him.
Well, there was fire, but not the sort he wanted. If he looked behind her eyes she just
looked... well, dead. There was just
darkness there. He knew he should give
up, but he also knew there was something deep down there that he could get
at. If she was totally dead inside, then
how could she do the things she did?
'You're still so young to
travel so far
Old enough to know who you are
Wise enough to carry the scars
Without any blame, there's no
one to blame...'
He closed his eyes. Neil, mate, he thought, how did you know? Did you meet Buffy or something?
Except about the blame.
They were both to blame. But
then, she was only doing what she did, because of what he did, and he only did
what he did because of what she did... So who was to blame?
'It's easy to forget what
you learned
Waiting for the thrill to
return
Feeling your desire burn
And drawn to the flame...'
It'd burn them both eventually. He rubbed his stomach. Already had, in a literal sense. The thing was neither of them could stop. He craved her even while he was with
her. He needed her, even if she did
leave him feeling empty. Every time he
swore he'd say no next time, and every time he took her back. Forgot everything he'd resolved. All for the heat of her. Moths and flames.
'And I'm lying on the table
Washed out in a flood
Like a Christian feeling
vengeance from above
I don't pretend to know what
you want
But I offer love...'
Spike grabbed the remote and
stopped the CD. Silence filled the room.
That was getting a little too close for comfort.
Someone knocked at the door and Spike glanced wearily over at it. "Piss off," he yelled.
The knock came again.
"Please go the fuck away."
"Spike," came Buffy's voice, and he threw his empty glass at the door. It made a thud, then fell down to the thick carpet, unbroken.
Stupid sodding piece of shit glassware. Things can't even break when you want them to.
He stomped over to the door, yanked it open, and stomped back to his chair without looking at her. With no glass, he had to drink straight from the bottle. He lit up another cigarette and inhaled so deeply half of it was gone by the time he breathed out.
Still she said nothing.
Eventually he took another swig of bourbon and chanced a glance at her through the reflection in the big panoramic window. She stood quietly. He could see jogging clothes in her reflection. So no nakedness, this time. Can't have everything.
"Night falls and she appears," he said, half to himself.
"I thought face to face might be better."
"Really? So that's why you sent me these," he chucked the packet of papers in her general direction, "without any warning."
"I thought the last year might have been warning enough."
"Why didn't you do it before?"
Her answer was simple. "Couldn't afford it."
"So you stayed married to me for financial reasons?"
"Hey, I never asked for a cent from you."
True, Spike thought, but you still got a fortune. He ached to tell her about all the paintings, the artefacts, the sculptures he'd sourced, bought, stolen, for her. But Spike had inherited more than a title from his father: he'd got his stupid pride, too.
He stood up and faced her. Sweatpants, vest and a little hoodie. Pink cheeks. Messy hair. Adorable.
"So that's it," he said. "Over. Or are you still gonna come here looking for cold comfort?"
"That's over too," she said quietly. "I-"
She broke off, and Spike watched her intently.
"I'm sorry," she said finally. "I've been using you. I'm sorry."
He didn't say anything. There wasn't anything he could say. He didn't even know if he was angry or touched or confused or hurt or all of the above.
"Will you sign?" Buffy asked, and he was still a while longer before he shook his head.
"No."
"Please don't make this harder."
"I couldn't, pet. Look at us - married less than a year and already there are divorce papers."
"There would have been papers earlier if-"
"If you hadn't been so sodding proud and refused to ask anyone for help," Spike snapped.
Buffy dropped her eyes, but she didn't say anything.
"God, what does it take to get a bloody reaction out of you?" Spike yelled. "All you do is sodding mope and shrug and bloody cope," he said it like a bad word.
"What am I supposed to do? Sit around and cry because something else in my life has gone wrong? Spike, I am tired of crying. You know after Mom died, I cried for two weeks solid? Seriously. With no provocation. I couldn't stop crying."
"Hormones," Spike muttered.
"Well, maybe, but don't forget my mother had just died and my husband was-" she held up her hand "-as far as I knew - fucking someone else." She shrugged. "They put me on the Pill to work things out. Settled my hormones. Meant I was only crying for about twelve hours out of every twenty-four, instead of the whole lot."
Spike nodded. He'd figured she was on some kind of contraception, because she'd stopped asking for condoms. Then he'd seen the packet in her bathroom, and decided not to press the issue. Right now, it wouldn't help anyone for her to get pregnant again.
"You think divorcing me will help?"
Buffy sighed, and for the first time since she'd walked in, moved from her spot on the carpet. She flopped down in one of the plush chairs opposite Spike. He remained standing.
"I can't see how it could make anything worse," she said.
"No? Is it even going to make any difference? I'm not going to just go away, Buffy-"
"I didn't say you had to. You can still see Will, as much as you like. You're a good father," she said quietly, and right then Spike knew he'd do anything to keep her.
He got down on his knees in front of her and took her hands. "Buffy. Please. Tell me why you're doing this?"
"Because there's no reason for us to be married."
"There's no reason for us to be apart, either."
"There are-"
"No reasons," he repeated firmly. "You thought I'd cheated, but I didn't. You told me Will was dead, but he isn't." A thought occurred to him. "Dawn has him?"
She nodded.
"I still love you, Buffy," Spike said quietly. "I loved you a long time before I realised I did. And I'm not going to stop loving you because of some stupid misunderstanding or this.. this apathy or whatever it is that's wrong with you."
"You think there's something wrong with me?"
"You hardly speak to me unless you're actually fucking me. No, don't flinch - that's all you've been doing is just fucking me. Emotionless sensations-"
"How can you say that?" Buffy whispered.
Spike raised his eyebrows. Oh, was he getting somewhere?
"The whole time, I've just been trying to... I was so angry and I just needed... You made me feel, Spike, something that wasn't misery and lethargy. Sometimes you got me so mad-" she broke off, tracing a recent bruise on his cheek. "Dawn said you told her you'd taken up boxing," she said with a slight smile.
"Best I could come up with." He had to keep her smiling. "Maybe I should. Reckon I'd look good with those big fat gloves on..."
"Those shiny shorts," Buffy giggled.
"Oh yeah. Would I be hot, or what?"
She stroked his cheek again. "It might mess up your face."
"I was getting a bit tired of being so pretty anyway. You know, the first time a woman faints at the sight of you is flattering, but when they do it every day it's just boring."
She was rolling her eyes now, but still smiling. Spike nearly laughed in delight. It had been so long since he saw her smiling properly.
He touched her lips. "I meant it," he said.
"About the boxing?"
"About you. Us. I still love you, Buffy. Always will. I'm not about to give up on you."
"Even when I'm such a basket case?"
"I like to think I enjoy a challenge."
She closed her eyes. The smile faded.
Damn.
"Spike, it's not going to work-"
"Why not?" He was pleading now, still kneeling there in front of her, holding her hands.
"It just - it can't. We're too different."
"Can't we want it to work?"
"Is wanting enough? I wanted you to come to me after Will was born-"
"I did! I did come. And you told me to go. Remember?"
She squeezed her eyes shut. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, and she didn't protest when Spike put his arms around her and held her. She sniffed against him, then her arms slowly sneaked around him.
Spike closed his eyes and held her tight. Neither of them said anything, neither moved very much. Buffy sighed against him, and Spike said, very softly, "I don't pretend to know what you want, but I offer love."
Buffy went still.
"Not that I thought I'd ever be quoting song lyrics to you, love, but-"
"It's easy to forget what you learnt," she sniffed. "Waiting for the-"
He pulled her head up and stared at her in amazement. "You know Crowded House?"
"Tara had a CD. I made a copy."
He stared some more.
"Never had you down for a fan, though," Buffy said, and he realised she was teasing him.
Oh, sweet lord, his Buffy was back.
"Well, I'm full of surprises," he said, giving her his best smile. He brushed his lips across hers, and it hardly even qualified as a kiss, but it made his pulse quicken.
There was a long silence.
"Maybe," he breathed, "this isn't a good idea. We should-"
"It's a good idea," Buffy said, and kissed him properly. But not a hard, angry kiss; a soft, sweet one, like the ones they'd shared when they were a proper couple. Married. Baby on the way. Happy. Blissful.
Once they'd started with the kissing it got rather hard to stop, so they didn't stop. Kissing turned into touching, and touching to stroking and licking, all of it sweet and slow.
And then Buffy's eyes connected with Spike's, and she smiled, and he smiled, and he tore her hoodie off and threw it halfway across the room. She wrapped her arms tight around him, pulled at his t-shirt, pushed at his jeans, rubbed her heel against the small of his back.
"Go on," she said, as he pulled her sweatpants down and slipped his fingers between her legs. "Now. Please."
He slid into her, and it was so good he lost balance, falling backwards against the glass-topped table. It, unlike the shot glass, shattered into millions of pieces, and Buffy yelled in alarm as Spike grabbed hold of her and rolled her free from the debris, protecting her with his body.
"Oh my God," she laughed. And Spike was so entranced by that laugh that he completely forgot he'd just rolled over several feet of broken glass. They made love for the first time in months: energetic and happy and pleasurable. And when it was over, Spike pulled Buffy in close and kissed her and held her, and she didn't make any move to leave.
Eventually she sighed. "I should-" she began, and Spike felt like hitting her, no - hitting himself. He should have seen it coming.
"Go, right," he said, starting to move away, but she shook her head, frowning.
"Don't go. Going bad. Stay," she said, and, confused, Spike did as he was told.
"I was going to say, I should probably call Dawn," she said. "She told me to call you and, um, the next thing I knew I was sort of here, so..."
Spike grinned and kissed her forehead. "Dammit, I guess one of us has to move."
"Otherwise this could be very entertaining," Buffy giggled, picturing them both trying to get to the phone without breaking contact. She kissed his nose and disentangled herself-
And then she stopped.
"Spike," she said urgently, and grabbed his arm.
"Ow," he said.
"Yes, ow!" He was still half-wearing his shirt, and she pulled it off him.
"Ow!"
"Sorry." She stared at his arm. It had gone straight through the glass and taken most of his weight when he rolled them away from the wreckage. It was cut to shreds. Buffy could see bits of glass stuck in there.
"You need a doctor," she rose to her feet.
"It's fine," Spike said.
"It's clearly not!"
"Your concern is touching, love, but really, I just need to get the glass out. I'll be fine. I've had worse."
Buffy touched the bullet wound on his shoulder - the wound that had been her fault, so bloody long ago.
She kissed his injured hand. "I'll call Room Service," she said, "they'll have bandages."