Chapter 8- Blonde Ice

Tuesday December 19, just past Midnight

I was getting to know the back entrance to the Stake pretty well by now. Spike and I breezed past LittleHead Ted and into the Slayer's office. Spike glided over to the French doors and contemplated the ice patterns on the windows, stopping to pick out a slender cigarette from a Japanese lacquered box. I just stood around with my hands shoved in my pockets.

I prowled around the room a bit, picking up random objects. Buffy's taste ran to modern stuff, all smooth curves and organic shapes. I was holding a black Pueblo bowl when the door slammed open. The little pot rolled across the soft carpets and came to rest unnoticed under her desk.

The Slayer stepped inside the room and pulled the door shut tightly. A truly fearsome sight, even if you're the innocent party. Her blonde hair shimmered like sunlight on a glacier, drifting smoothly around her shoulders. She leaned against the door, her eyes hard as the mass of diamonds at her throat. Like she figured she already had all the answers and didn't much like what she had.

The silence dragged on for a while uncomfortably. she finally said.

I gave in first, Mrs. Giles, I'm sorry.

She took a deep breath and went to the bar How bad is it?

As bad as it gets. Murder.

She didn't seem surprised. She poured me two fingers of bourbon into a glass full of ice and walked away toward the window. Her diamonds flashed as she moved in jerky, nervous movements.

You want to tell me what happened? She asked his stiff shoulders, Or do we do this the hard way? He was as frozen as a marble sculpture and as responsive.

She swayed back to the bar, her lush curves outlined by the draped chiffon of her ebony gown. She fixed another drink and held it out to him, but he never relented in his contemplation of the frost patterned glass.

Mrs. Giles, I began, Maybe I'd better tell you.

I filled her in on everything, sparing no detail. She paid strict attention, her quick mind leaping to the same conclusions. She hit the intercom button and spoke softly to someone for a few minutes. Spike hadn't moved an inch. Only a blue trickle of smoke moved in the air.

I thought about how much they were alike, she and her consort. Restless, aggressive and faithful to the point of madness. She looked at him and he stared bleakly back. Neither of them said anything for a long minute, long enough to have taken several trains of thought to New York and back. She seemed to have come to some sort of a decision and held out her hand, but he looked back at the floor as though he hoped it might open and swallow it up.

She strode to him and grabbed his arm, turning him around to face her. Look at me, Spike. Talk to me. He voice was as cold as the icy wind blowing through town, Don't you do this. Is what Xander say true? You don't remember?
What do you expect me to say, Slayer? Some whine and crawl about how bad I feel? Not gonna happen. His eyes were frozen blue. I know what I am. A demon. Blood, glory and sod all else. I don't remember a damned thing.



Don't you think I'd ...I wish to God that I could remember. He choked out in a low, quiet voice, I feel as though I'm loosing my mind. People... Sometimes I think I should know them... remember them... But there's nothing but bits and pieces.

He raised his head and looked into her harsh gaze, I know we ... you were... we are... something... to each other. Everything else, though... I don't... I'm not sure... what's right or wrong. Whether I did these things, he added defiantly, That's it. take it or leave it. I don't much care one way or the other about now.

He stepped closer to the Slayer and glared at her, You should kill me where I stand. If you knew what I'd done...the things I could do, you'd kill me this instant. Her hard eyes softened for a second, but he didn't let up. I'm nothing but a monster, Buffy.

It was as though the room held it's breath for a long while, then loosed it in a grateful exhale.
I'm not killing you. End of story, Spike.

He sank into a club chair and buried his face in his hands.
I can't go on like this. This... every night not knowing, not remembering. Just bloody kill me and be done.

Things change. Things always change. Everyday.

She went to him and curled up on the arm of the leather chair, laying a hand on the mop of unruly white curls. He turned and looked up at the face of his salvation and I had to turn away for a moment. You saved my life. You saved my sister's life. We'll find a way to fix this.

He wouldn't look at her, curving his face away from her. I refuse to believe you were responsible for Sasha's murder. Her voice was commanding, Understand me? I refuse.

I could tell he was fighting a loosing battle. He finally tilted his head up, his eyes wild and full of unshed tears. He turned his face to her palm and kissed her hand. Whatever he had been, whatever he was, there was good in him. A tiny smile began to creep across his ravaged face and he took a gasping breath of air.

I love you, Buffy. I know this one thing, through everything. I know that I love you. I think I've always loved you.
He lay his head softly into the pillow of their clasped hands.

I walked out onto the little cold balcony and watched the stars flicker over the distant mountains. My breath made white puffs of smoke like smoke rings that dissipated into the darkness. I heard the tap of high heels behind me. It was the Slayer, gliding like a shadow in her silk gown.

She looked toward me, Norman's down front with the car. Go on home and take it easy, Xander. You're exhausted.

Nothing I could say or do mattered right now. Maybe he was nothing but a monster with more blood on his hands than Lady Macbeth. Maybe he wasn't. It was going to have to wait until tomorrow.

I headed down past the stage. Anyanka was on, wrapped like a present from Tiffany's in white silk and blue sequins, her voice smooth as honey, with the crowd in the palm of her hand. I stood and stared at her for a few minutes. I needed her. I wanted to unwrap her and curl up next to her and tell her all those things I'd been putting off. But not until I had a real night's sleep.
tbc

Music: Warren Hill--Passion Theme Rare Requests Smooth Jazz III
AN: Buffy's gown is Marlene Dietrich's by Jean-Louis from the Monte Carlo Story; Anya's is another Jean-Louis, Rita Hayworth's from Gilda.