CHAPTER TWELVE
Old Wounds
"Need anything?" Oz asked as he surveyed the dozen or so cushions of various shapes and hues clustered on the bed. "Comfortable?"
Willow patted the assortment of blankets and pillows before she replied, "I think I'm good."
Oz sat down on the edge of the mattress, held her hand, and leaned in to kiss her cheek.
"I'm doing a lot better, really," she reassured him. "After a couple of days being cooped up at home watching television, I'm pretty sure I'll be desperate to get back to the shop."
She knew it was the wrong thing to say the instant the words left her mouth. The corner of Oz's mouth quivered as he tried to maintain a cheerful demeanor, and she could feel the comforter move ever so slightly as his other hand clutched at the fabric.
"Oz, what I meant is …"
"Will," he cut her off. Even with him saying nothing except her name, Willow suddenly felt very small and vulnerable nestled in her mound of pillows and blankets. There was a world of recrimination, of regret, of worry lurking behind that solitary syllable, and the worst part was that she knew Oz would never voice a bit of it. He was too kind to her for that.
I don't deserve him.
"We need to talk about the store."
She blinked a few times in apprehension, then nodded.
He tightened his grip on her hand and continued, "First, I understand about your accident, I really do. I know what it's like to always have to fight for control of yourself, and also what it's like to lose control. You know that I understand. I don't blame you, I really don't."
Willow opened her mouth to protest that she should be blamed, that she might experience some catharsis if Oz were to scream at her in anger, but something in his gaze froze the words in her throat.
"What I do blame you for, and myself as well, is making choices that we know, deep down, are not what's best for us and our daughter." His eyes moved downward towards her abdomen. "We can't go on like this."
"Like … with the store?"
Oz stared at her with sad eyes. "Not just the Spirit Square. With all of it. All the magic, all the slaying, all the Moonridge. It's time to sell, and it's time to leave. If it was only the two us, maybe there'd be a conversation to be had, but it isn't only the two of us. I've done a lot of soul searching in the last twenty-four hours, and that's what I think we should do." He hesitated, then continued. "That's what we're going to do, Will. I hope you can understand why I feel this way."
"Of course!" She reached out and rubbed his forearm as she felt tears rising unbidden to her eyes. "It's just …"
He cut her off, "No more compromising our safety. This time, Will, we're doing what's best for our family. We're going to accept that buy-out offer, and we're going to start preparing for a new life with our daughter somewhere else."
"Where?"
"Literally anywhere else, so long as we aren't within a day's drive of this town. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't try, no, make, you realize that's what we need to do."
"And then what?" Willow asked. "We pretend that what's happening in Moonridge will stay in Moonridge? That nobody will come looking for us?"
Oz inhaled deeply before he responded, "People are dying in Moonridge, Will. It's only a matter of time before it's going to be people that we know. The slayers, and Angel, and Giles, and everyone else, they either can't, or won't, stop. Buffy lost her powers and she's still trying, and despite Dawn begging, literally begging, for everyone to leave her out of it, nobody can … not while she's in Moonridge. From the bottom of my heart, I thank Buffy and the team for what they're doing, but it can't be us anymore. And I don't just mean that it shouldn't be us, I mean it can't be us." He smiled sadly. "I'm growing old, Will. Joints that I didn't even know I had hurt every morning when I unpack boxes, and I see my father's face when I look in the mirror."
"C'mon," she admonished him, "you're middle-aged, at worst."
"The wolf is gone. Even when I wasn't … fuzzy, as you liked to put it … that power was still something I could call upon if push came to shove, something that would at least make the bad guys think twice about coming after us. That isn't true anymore, and with the baby due in November, you're out of commission magic-wise for the better part of the next four months. What, we're supposed to pray Wilkins keeps leaving us alone? I think it's actually going to be longer than four months, cause I seem to recall it won't be safe for you to cast a spell until months after our daughter is born, right?"
"Pregnancy plays havoc with the spiritual humors," Willow explained. "Until my essence reaches equilibrium, I really don't want to be messing with the primal forces of nature. But that doesn't matter, because I promise you, from the bottom of my heart, with every fiber of my being that I …"
Oz held up his hand, and, for the first time she could remember in she didn't know how long, he raised his voice. "Don't promise you won't use magic. Please, don't. I know you mean it, but if we stay in Moonridge, and maybe even if we leave, you won't keep that promise. Someone's life will be at stake, or some monster will come looking for us, and you'll feel that you have no choice, and you'll dust off the spellbook. So long as we're in Moonridge, we're sitting ducks with no way to fight back. We need to leave."
There were a million things she wanted to say, that her soul was screaming for her to voice. That leaving Moonridge meant abandoning their friends, that they had an obligation to save lives if they could, that selling their store to strangers was like tearing out a piece of her heart, that she'd stay home for the rest of the year if that's what he wanted, that she was so, so sorry, and that she'd never lose control again.
"You're right," was all she said.
Oz hugged her close, and Willow could feel her tears moistening the fabric of his shirt.
"I am unbelievably glad to hear you say that," he whispered in her ear. "I'll call the buyers' attorney today."
Willow couldn't meet Oz's eye, so she stared out the open window at the clear, sunlit sky and nodded.
. . . . . . . . .
"You still haven't answered my question about the Senior Dance," Spike teased her as he parked his car directly in front of the driveway leading into the house she shared with Giles and Olivia.
"For god's sake, Spike, we just watched Willow head home from the hospital, can't you give it a rest?" Buffy unlatched her safety belt and opened the passenger door.
"I'm just saying I think you should go, is all."
"Why? I just finished a semester of misery with those immature jackasses, and now I'm supposed to smile and mingle and pretend they weren't whispering about me every time my back was turned?"
"Now you're just being paranoid," Spike said with a wry grin. "Think about all the fun you might have. Streamers, sock hop costumes, non-alcoholic fruit punch … the list is endless, really."
She rolled her eyes and stepped out of the car. "You're worse than Giles and Olivia. Since they volunteered to chaperone back when they thought I was still going, now they're pestering me to keep them company."
"It's good to mingle with the commoners now and again," Spike said as he ran a hand through his hair and surveyed the result in the rearview mirror. "Keeps you grounded, and all that shite."
"I've got to patrol."
"Tonight, yeah, but not tomorrow. And tomorrow is dance night." Spike extended his arms and mockingly waved them to and fro to the beat of an imaginary rhythm.
A horn sounded from a stately, mildly vintage Jaguar stopped in the middle of the road on the other side of Spike's car.
Spike frowned in annoyance at the interruption but did not otherwise respond.
"You're blocking the driveway," Buffy informed him. "Giles is trying to pull in."
"Tell me you'll go to the Senior Dance, and I'll move."
Buffy gritted her teeth. "You have to be kidding me."
Giles's car horn sounded three more times in quick succession.
"I can sit here all day," Spike said as he leaned back.
"I'll think about it!"
Spike smiled and reached for the gear selector. "I'll take that as a yes."
. . . . . . . . .
Buffy rationalized waiting for Spike's departure not as avoidance, but as a nod to efficiency. She wanted to talk to Giles, Spike was notorious for butting his head in where he wasn't wanted, and if he saw her, who knew when she'd be able to get rid of him. She watched from where her handy rideshare driver dropped her off, half a block from Giles's house, as Spike chatted with her teenage self. To her embarrassment, she flinched in surprise at the sound of Giles honking his car horn.
Of course, Spike's blocking their driveway like an ass … typical.
She waited until Spike's black ego-mobile had vanished down the street before she walked to the front door. The doorbell hadn't even finished buzzing before Giles swung the door open and stared at her in surprise.
"Buffy," he said as he leaned out and peered around. "Did someone drop you off?"
"Uber," she replied. "Xander and Emmy were heading the opposite direction, and Angel wanted to see if that cop he knows was doing any better."
"Ghastly business, that," Giles said gravely as he waved Buffy inside and closed the door behind her. "Given the history of this particular killer, it is truly fortunate that Detective Lockley survived."
"Tough gal."
Giles nodded. "Indeed." He tilted his hand and looked at her quizzically. "While I'm always happy to see you, you could have driven back from the hospital either with us or with …" he briefly contemplated the notion of Buffy driving with Spike and their newest Buffy … "well, with us."
"It was a last second decision," she explained. "I originally was going to talk to Willow and Oz, but they seem like they're going to be out of commission for a while, so I came here." She flashed a winsome smile. "And here I am."
"Here you are," Giles said. She felt somewhat uncomfortable as he glanced her over with a discerning stare. "What's on your mind that is sufficiently important that you are making the rounds in person?"
"Giles!" Olivia's voice rang out in a sweet, dulcet tone that nevertheless managed to sound rather commanding. "Could you help me with something?"
"Of course," Giles called out. He smiled sheepishly at Buffy and began moving towards the stairs. "I'm sure I won't be but a few moments, hold that thought."
Buffy watched as Giles ascended and disappeared into an upstairs bedroom. She was just about to settle into the couch to wait when a familiar, though irritatingly wrinkle-free, face began descending towards her. Her youthful double was barefoot, dressed in a white gi, and had her hair pulled back in a ponytail.
Training. Still went heavy on the eye shadow, though …
Training was half, maybe more than half, of the job, after all. Six months without feeling a nagging need to step onto a mat or pick up a weight was one aspect of slayerdom she didn't miss.
"I didn't know you were coming over," Buffy said as she stopped at the foot of the stairs and absent-mindedly rubbed at the scar slashing across her lip.
"Spur of the moment," Buffy explained. "Needed to talk to Giles."
The other Buffy glanced upstairs for a moment before replying, "He might be a while. Mind picking up the pads and playing punching dummy for a round or two?"
I absolutely would mind.
"Sure," she said with a forced smile.
It had been months, and only sporadically before then, since she'd tried to keep up with their newest variety of Buffy Summers, and the experience hadn't been pleasant. She'd offered a few pointers, provided some sage words of wisdom, and then quietly tucked her bruised ego into her fashionable yet sensibly priced handbag and decided to leave the training to Giles.
Well … I need to talk to her, too. Might as well get it over with.
After reaching the large basement-cum-makeshift-dojo, Buffy did her best to ignore the flips, limber stretches, and warm-up leaps of her training partner while she rummaged through a waist high pile of pads. After she'd located a large set of well-cushioned boxing mitts, she slipped them on and kicked off her sandals. She took up position in the center of the mat, held the targets aloft, and waited.
"You sure you don't want a face mask or a chest protector?" the pony-tailed Buffy asked as she approached, assumed a relaxed, bladed stance, and held her clenched fists in front of her."
"That depends," Buffy replied as she slammed the mitts together and extended them again. "Are you going to miss?"
The only reply was a narrowing of younger, over-mascaraed eyes, and then they began.
In a way, the nostalgic rhythm of the training was a comfort. She didn't delude herself into thinking she could keep up with a slayer in a sparring match, but maneuvering mitts to simulate an unpredictable opponent was still within her wheelhouse, even if from time to time she noticed her opponent stopped a punch a hairsbreadth before it could slip past her guard or angled a kick so that it caught the edge of the mitt instead of her torso.
She probably thinks I don't know she's pulling her punches. Sweetheart, I've been doing this a lot longer than you.
When the clock on the wall indicated that five minutes had passed, Buffy stepped back and raised a mitt. "Nice job," she managed to say between deep, ragged breaths. "I particularly liked that backflip into a sidekick. Nifty."
Was I ever that annoyingly agile?
"Thanks."
Goddamn, not only is she not sweating she isn't even breathing hard. Youth and magic are wasted on the young and the … magical.
As she was not at all interested in playing the part of a moving punching bag for a second round, she pulled the mitts off and tossed them back into the pile of protective gear. Against her better judgment, she decided to chance offering a bit of friendly advice. "You're still flinching your shoulder when you throw a left-hand lead." Upon seeing her counterpart bristle, she waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. "But I wouldn't stress … any vamp you fight is going to be dusted before he picks up on it. Probably."
The only acknowledgement of her comment was a begrudging nod of the head.
At least she hadn't received a surly response, which represented a definite and marked improvement from when Buffy 2.0 had arrived in their universe.
If we keep up at this pace, she might be downright sociable by the end of the year. Wouldn't that be something!
The younger Buffy folded her arms across her gi and stared across the mat.
"Any other advice?" she finally asked.
Should I … ?
She hesitated, then spurred on by her recent promise to Angel that she was turning over a new leaf when it came to holding her tongue, she decided to say what was on her mind, and then be done with it.
"Maybe I could offer you some advice about Spike," she finally said.
The clock ticking on the wall was the only sound she heard for what seemed a lifetime. Not even breathing interrupted the silence that blanketed the basement, as they both seemed to be holding their breath.
"What?"
"You heard me," she said. "Spike. I've been there, and maybe I can help you not make the same mistakes I did."
"Seems like you've been wanting to get something off your chest for months now, so you might as well say your piece."
Here goes.
Buffy took a deep breath, then plowed ahead, "Earlier this year, Spike starting helping out around Moonridge. I won't deny that he was helpful. But after a few months, I began to realize he had no intention of leaving."
"You never said anything."
She nodded in agreement, then continued, "I was considering it, but then all of a sudden, Spike was gone, seemingly for good, and I thought maybe the problem had taken care of itself. But then he came back … he came back, and he began going on patrols, dropping by hospitals, saving sorority girls … okay, that last one is typical Spike … but all of a sudden, he's lending a hand everywhere, and we both know why."
"Are you worried about him lending a hand, or are you worried about where his hands have been on me?"
Buffy, surprised at the directness of the question, recoiled.
Well, she hit that nail on the head.
"Well, have they?" she spluttered. ""Been on you, I mean?"
The younger Buffy unfolded her arms and stepped closer. "Maybe, maybe not, but I don't see how that's your business."
"Your love life isn't my business?" Buffy voiced a single, loud 'ha.' "I wish that was true, but it isn't, not when it comes to Spike. I always …" she trailed off.
"Always what?"
Buffy fought down the inclination to retreat upstairs and forget the entire conversation, then continued, "I always questioned my judgment about Spike, particularly about being with Spike. When it was happening, for years after … hell, I'm questioning right now whether it was a good idea to even bring Spike to Moonridge in the first place. Given his and our history, I assumed he might have some respect and give you space. I was wrong."
"I'm not you," the very young, very unhappy looking Buffy said as she stepped forward until they stood nearly eye to you. "Why should Spike, or anyone else, think that whatever happened with you matters to me?"
"You'd understand if you knew what I know about Spike."
The comment was met with a dismissive shake of the head. "If it isn't going to help me do my job, I'm starting to think that the less I know about your personal life, the better."
"Just be careful," Buffy implored her. "Spike can be charming, and, believe me, I know how you feel when he smiles at you, but there's more to him than you realize, and some of it isn't pleasant. I'd hoped that you'd maybe make better choices than I did."
"Look, Sunnydale, if you're unhappy with your decisions, too bad, but give me space to make mine."
Buffy blinked a few times in surprise at the vehemence of the comment and also in irritation at receiving yet another unwanted nickname. "Unhappy with my decisions? What the hell does that mean?"
"You know exactly what I mean."
She was just about to reply when a knocking sound began to echo from the stairs. Both Buffys turned to see Giles rapping at the wall while fixing them with a concerned expression.
"Am I interrupting something?" he asked as he alternated his gaze between the two of them.
"Nope," the younger Buffy replied as she headed towards the steps. "We're all finished." She began to climb, then paused and patted Giles on the back. "I think Buffy came over to warn you not to date Spike. He's trouble, with a capital T and that rhymes with V and that stands for used-to-be-a-vampire. Spike's got a terrible past … nothing at all like Angel's."
She bounded up the steps and vanished into the interior of the house.
Giles turned to watch her go, then swiveled back to the somewhat shellshocked older Buffy still standing in the basement.
"Well," he finally said, "I'd say eschewing a romantic relationship with Spike constitutes rather sound advice. I'll be sure to take it, myself."
Buffy tried to maintain a straight face, but as Giles began to laugh, she found herself giggling as well.
"Well, Buffy," Giles said as he joined her. "What did you really want to talk to me about?"
"Four things," she replied. "We need to tell Willow and Oz to sell their store, we need to get Dawn to see reason, we need to get all of us, including Dana and Jess, on the same page, and I think I need to go talk to Spike."
Giles pursed his lips and considered her words. "That's a lot," he said. "Quite a lot."
"I know."
"I can't say that I disagree with any course of action you propose," he continued, "but I have a feeling one of those tasks might be more pressing, and more realistically taken care of in a single conversation, than the others." He stared down his glasses at her. "I think you know which one I mean."
Buffy groaned as she cast her eyes downward. "I don't want to go talk to Spike."
Giles benevolently patted her on the shoulder. "But you will, and making that kind of sacrifice is why you're a hero."
. . . . . . . . .
Faith propped her feet on Xander's coffee table and stared incredulously at the television. "So, you're telling me all these women, they're after the same guy, and sometimes a bunch of them sleep with him, and they're okay with getting married after all this has happened? And there are cameras recording every moment of it?"
"That's the idea," Emmy replied. "Unfortunately, the relationships don't usually work
out."
"Yeah, I wonder why!"
Xander glanced over his shoulder as the doorbell rang. "I'll get that," he announced.
Faith immediately tensed as Xander rose from the couch. "Were you expecting company?
Maybe we should all check and see who it is?"
Xander waved away her concerns. "If the person, or demon, polite enough to announce their presence by ringing the doorbell is big enough to get through Willow and Giles's wards, it's big enough that it could just burst through the wall." He opened the door to find a short, slim brunette with dark, sparkling eyes smiling at him. To his demonically enhanced vision, swirls of red and white energy danced in and around her form.
"Colleen," he said in surprise. "Come on in." After he ushered her inside, they both joined Emmy and Faith on the couches.
"Wassup, bitch," Faith greeted Collen as she sat down.
Emmy flinched at Faith's vulgarity, then smiled sweetly at Colleen. "Hello again. I'm so glad you could make it … I have to admit, it was kind of awkward this morning to meet you for the first time in a hospital."
"Make it?" Xander asked as he fixed his girlfriend with a puzzled stare. "Make what?"
"Bachelor get-together," Emmy explained. "I invited Faith and the new slayers."
"Not so new anymore," Faith interjected.
"All the slayers …" Xander said hesitantly. After seeing Emmy subtly narrow her eyes at him, he tried to muster a more enthusiastic tone. "Great idea! The more the merrier."
Emmy gazed questioningly at Colleen. "Should we wait for Dana and Jess, or get started?"
Colleen shook her head. "Sorry, they aren't coming." She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "The Bachelor isn't really their thing."
Emmy's eyes widened in shock. "Oh, of course, how could I forget. Please tell them I'm sorry about the program choice."
Faith interrupted with a short laugh. "No need to apologize. Hell, Dana and Jess are probably just happy to get Colleen out of the way so they can have some alone time." She puckered her lips and proceeded to make loud smooching sounds.
Colleen shuddered at Faith's comment. "The walls are really thin at our condo." She sounded haunted by recollections best left unvoiced.
Xander glanced over Emmy in her knee length, wispy yellow sundress, Faith in her snug jeans and thin cotton t-shirt, and finally at Colleen in her yoga pants and sleeveless crop top, then put his hands on his knees and stood up. "Since we've kind of got a party going on, how about I mix us some drinks?" He rubbed his hands together. "Margaritas?"
Faith rolled her eyes at him. "Jesus, Harris, you haven't changed a bit. Whatever scenario you're imagining right now, it isn't going to happen."
"Margaritas sounds great!" Colleen called out with a smile. Emmy enthusiastically nodded her head in agreement.
"Coming right up," Xander promised.
. . . . . . . . .
Richard Wilkins beamed a self-satisfied smile at the room's occupants as he hung up the phone. "We have a deal!" he announced as he drummed his hands against the table. "The Spirit Square, and by extension, the Valknut, will soon be ours."
"Was that the Osbornes?" Allan asked.
Wilkins shook his head. "No, that was my legal representation, who apparently is earning their pay for once."
"Does this mean we can finally stop hearing about this stupid goddamned store?" Joshua asked as he idly flipped a knife from one hand to the other. "Not that the daily updates weren't fascinating."
Wilkins ignored the comment and glanced over at Mindy. "I'd say start getting the movers ready, but it's really just the one, small, wooden item. That shouldn't be too difficult to manage."
"What should we do with the remainder of the Spirit Square's inventory," Mindy asked as she jotted notes on a small pad.
"If there's anything else of use, grab it." Wilkins leaned back and put his feet on the desk. "We'll probably just end up junking most of the stock, or maybe it would be safer to put the whole building to the torch."
"I vote for arson," Joshua interjected.
Allan grimaced at the suggestion.
Mindy scribbled a few more times on the pad, then continued, "While you were on the line, we received a troubling message."
"Oh, I doubt any news could trouble my day," Richard Wilkins said cheerily. "Lay it on me."
"It appears that a particular third party, the one involved in Mayor Ritter's death, recently attacked a past associate of Angel."
"Which associate?"
"Detective Kate Lockley."
Wilkins leaned back and stared at the ceiling in thought. "You say 'attacked,' rather than killed, so can I assume she survived?"
"Yes."
"How disappointing," Wilkins said. "I suppose I should wish him better luck next time."
"Given that Detective Lockley now constitutes a living witness," Mindy continued, "we assume he will move his timetable up as to Angel. Should we take action to prevent it?"
Richard Wilkins's brow furrowed in surprise. "And why would we do that?"
"I was under the impression that you did not wish Buffy Summers or her friends to be specifically targeted."
Wilkins made a tsk'ing sound towards Mindy. "That was before I got today's happy news. We should have the paperwork signed today, escrow on the earliest date possible, and, frankly, I'm running out of reasons to care about whether Mr. and Mrs. Osborne or their friends stay alive or not." He waggled his finger around the room. "That doesn't mean we can break the truce, mind you. There's magic behind that agreement, and that particular spell has a penalty clause that I intend to take full advantage of. Whatever our friend with the sharp knives and the even sharper grudge wants to do, he does it on his own. You all hear me, right?"
Mindy, Allan, and finally Joshua, murmured their assent.
Wilkins resumed smiling. "It should be interesting to see how it plays out.
. . . . . . . . .
"Hey," Buffy said after Spike, black leather coat draped over his shoulders like always, had closed and locked the door to his apartment. His small patio was empty of furniture, the front door had no welcome mat, and the curtains had been drawn. Spike might no longer be a vampire, but from the looks of things, old decorating habits died hard.
Spike turned towards her, began to smile, then a moment later it quickly dissolved into a frown.
He thought it was the other Buffy.
The realization hurt, but it wasn't the knife to the gut that it might have been in years past.
"Buffy," Spike said. "Didn't expect to see you here. Hell, I didn't even think you knew where I lived. I've half a mind to be insulted that you've never asked to drop by, or invited me to drop by your place, for that matter." He walked over to her and leaned against his patio fence. "After all these months, to what do I owe the gift of your presence?"
"Invite you over? Drop by? You and Angel can't be in the same room for five minutes without fighting."
"You could still ask."
Buffy squinted as she glanced towards the setting sun. Once the last, bloody-hued rays of vanished beyond the horizon, it would fall dark in Moonridge. That meant vampires, and demons, and patrols, and young slayers in danger. She had a feeling she knew the answer before she asked her next question.
"Where are you heading off to tonight, Spike?"
She could sense his evasiveness before he even began to speak. "Don't see why that's any of your affair, but if you must know, out and about."
"Out and about? That's what I get?"
The muscles in his jaw clenched in irritation before he replied. "Looks like it."
"You're going to help patrol, aren't you?"
The muscles along his cheeks protruded a little farther. "Not with you, I'm not, and since that's the case, why do you care?"
"You know why I care, Spike."
He moved closer. Months of the sun's rays had given him a tan, and as he approached, she spotted a few lines creased in his forehead. Slayers were used to searching for the telltale beats of a vein, or a sudden flush of color to the skin. Spike exhibited both. Seeing his flesh exhibit the indicators of life, oddly enough, felt unnatural to her. She realized that not once since he'd rejoined the living had they touched, not even to share a hug or a handshake.
He would be warm … like Angel.
"Maybe you explain to me why you care, Buffy," Spike said. "Cause, I must admit, I'm at a bit of a loss. You and I are done, remember? Have been for a long time." He began making a show of searching through his pockets. "As I recall, you've given quite a few monologues on that topic, and I jotted most of them down. Let me see if I can recite them back to you."
"Stop it, Spike."
He continued his mocking search. "No really, they must be here,"
"SPIKE!"
Spike stopped and tilted his head at her. "Say what you have to say. You and I, we're well past beating around the bush."
"She isn't me," Buffy said. The simple statement, once freed from her lips, felt like they opened a floodgate in her soul.
Spike is either going to see reason, or I'm going to make him see reason.
She continued, "Give her the chance to have her own life."
"Is that what you're doing right now, Buffy? You're trying to give her that chance? Cause this kind of feels like the opposite of that."
"Spike, I'll admit we had some good times, and I know how you feel about me."
"Felt," Spike corrected her.
"Fine, felt. Past tense. As in, not anymore. But this isn't fair to an eighteen-year old woman who is in a brand new universe. You're hundreds of years old, and you have the advantage of having known me for decades. In some ways, you know more about her than she knows about herself. The situation isn't fair, and I'm here to talk you out of taking advantage of her."
"Take advantage of her?" Spike's eyes narrowed and he stood very still as he addressed her. "Heck, you guys are the ones that hitched her to the vampire-slaying plow pretty much the moment she walked through that portal … but I'm the one who might take advantage of her?" He scratched thoughtfully at his chin. "Bit of déjà vu to this, am I right? Except, it wasn't that long ago, as vampires consider time, that you said you were taking advantage of me."
"And what was happening back then, Spike? What was I going through? I just came from another dimension, I was traumatized, and you let me live with the guilt that I was being unfair to you. How could you do that?"
Spike had the decency to glance away and sound regretful when he replied, "Maybe we were taking advantage of each other. Hell, you did beg for a lot of it. Literally." He smiled at the memory.
"Are you trying to piss me off, Spike?"
The smile vanished. "I still don't see why you and me has anything to do with anyone else."
"Because it's her," Buffy yelled. She took a deep breath and forced herself to stay calm. "Yeah, she's her own person, I get that, but c'mon, you want her because she's me in the ways that would matter to you, Spike."
"She isn't you, and maybe this conversation isn't about her, at all. Maybe it's about you being pissed that I've moved on. Whether it's with someone, or no one at all, I've moved on, and maybe you can't handle it."
He hasn't forgotten how to push my buttons.
"Okay, now you have officially pissed me off, Spike," she spluttered. "What, you're going to move on from me, with me? How the hell does that work?"
"Are we done here?" Spike asked. "Cause I kind of feel like we're about to start going around in circles."
"I want you to leave Moonridge," she informed him. "Not right this second, nothing that dramatic, but soon."
"Buffy, maybe you haven't been paying attention, but you don't have a lot of allies. You want me to leave now?"
She nodded. "I think it's for the best."
"No," he replied. "I'm not going anywhere." He held up a finger in warning. "Don't ask again."
Buffy steeled herself to speak the next words. "If you stay, I'll have to tell her about us. It wouldn't be fair to her if I didn't. And if I have to do that, if I have to talk about you, Spike, I'm not going to leave anything out that I think she deserves to know. This isn't her world, and she deserves honesty about what happened here." Buffy inhaled deeply before continuing. "I'll have to tell her everything."
Spike's face went ashen white, and his hands began to spasmodically clench.
"What do you mean, everything?" he asked in a quiet, serious voice. "You mean stuff like that misunderstanding with Lord Carroll? I know that didn't start out pretty, but when I realized what the colonies' most necromantic of founding fathers was really up to, I betrayed him right quick. You know that."
Buffy shook her head. "Not about Lord Carroll, Spike."
"What then?" Spike asked. "What is this terrible dark secret about me that you think she hasn't already read about in Giles's journals or heard about in one of his history lessons?"
He knows exactly what I am talking about. He just wants to make me say it.
"It wouldn't be in any of Giles's notes," she said. "I'm talking about what you did back in Sunnydale. What you did to me. Right before you went to Africa to get your soul back. That's the sort of information, if you're going to keep sticking around, that she needs to know."
It had been a long time since Spike had looked at her with hurt in his eyes. Scabbed-over wounds in her soul began to ooze as he gazed at her.
"Did you tell her about Angel?" he asked accusingly. "About the things he did as Angelus back before a pack of gypsies cursed him?" Spike glanced away, and she suspected it was to try to hide his emotions from her. "Since you're all about full disclosure, did you tell her about Jenny Calendar lying dead in her own bed?"
"Not directly from me, but she knows," Buffy replied. "She read, and Giles spoke to her, about Angelus. Also, she knows about Willow nearly ending the world, and Tara's death, and Giles helping the Watchers Council poison me … which I am still really pissed about, by the way … and Xander's hyena-phase and idiotic love spell, and all the rest of it, including the terrible mistakes that I made. We decided, right from the start, that we wouldn't keep secrets from her." Buffy forced herself to speak the words, "But some of the things that happened between us, Spike, I couldn't write them down. I don't want to talk about them, even to this day, but if you stay, I think I'll have to."
"I bet that's why."
"Why, what?"
"Why, after I fought, and bled, and nearly died to get my soul back, you never gave me and you another shot. A real one, I mean. Because of something a dead demon tried to do to you." He looked at her accusingly. "All your excuses, that was just bollocks, wasn't it?"
"Not … bollocks … but maybe not the whole truth," Buffy admitted.
"But Angelus? That you can forgive?" Spike asked. "What's so different?"
"Angelus didn't try to rape me."
Spike visibly flinched at her words.
"Despite all the other horrible, monstrous things Angelus did, I don't have to carry that particular memory around with me."
"What, do you think that's still inside of me?" Spike asked. His eyes widened in realization. "You do, don't you? This isn't about being honest with someone, it's about warning them." He shook his head and bit his lower lip in anger. "You've been a bloody slayer for nearly twenty-five years and now conveniently forgotten how vampires work?" He tapped his temple. "There's no soul at the wheel with a vamp, Buffy. You know that."
Buffy slowly shook her head. "It's about her knowing the truth about the people in her life. No secrets. Not about something like this. If you don't leave, I can only assume it's because of her, and if that's the case, she deserves not to be blind about our past."
"You sure this isn't about you and me, Buffy?" he asked. "Cause somehow, I can't shake that feeling."
"It's not about us, Spike. I think deep down, you know that."
The cold, distant look in Spike's eyes as he gazed at her was as piercing as a knife. He considered her words for a time, then pulled his jacket tight and stepped closer.
"At least you feel safe enough around me not to flinch," Spike rasped at her.
I almost did.
Buffy wrinkled her nose and frowned at him. "Very funny, Spike. Now, we've heard each other out. You don't want to admit it, but you know I'm right. Don't you think it would be healthier for everyone, including yourself, if Buffy Summers … any version of her … just stopped being a part of your life?"
"Buffy, you do what you have to do," Spike said. "I'm running late for a patrol."
Without a backward glance, he walked past her, curled around the corner of the building, and vanished.
Buffy briefly waited to see if he would come back, but at the minute mark, with no sign of Spike's return, she turned to go.
That could have gone worse. Could have gone better, but also could have gone worse.
. . . . . . . . .
"I'm sorry, did you say you were at Spike's?" Angel asked he pulled away from the curb and glanced in the rearview mirror at the apartment complex they had just left. "Why? Also, how does Spike afford a place this close to the University? Come to think of it, how does Spike afford any place?"
"Angel, can I ask you something?"
He glanced over at her as he pulled onto Moonridge's main road. "Absolutely. You know that. But first, what the hell were you doing at Spike's?"
"We both know why Spike is still in Moonridge, we just don't talk about it. Giles pretends that a slayer's love life is none of his business, Faith and her posse think it's a joke, Xander and Willow like to poke fun about how Spike being with someone a fraction of his age isn't any different from your falling in love with me …"
"You and I were completely different, Buffy," Angel protested. "We were true love. It was meant to be." He rubbed his hand on her knee. "I think we've proved that."
She placed her hand on top of his. "That's sweet, but we're getting off topic. There's a reason Spike is in Moonridge, and it isn't to help out with patrols."
Angel removed his hand from her knee and tightened it on the wheel. "He's here because he's obsessed with you. Oh, he wanders off, he pretends he's moved on, he'll drunkenly send me photos of his conquests …"
"What!"
Angel ignored her and continued, "but deep down, he's never gotten over you."
Buffy stared out the passenger window. "Again, that's sweet, but you know the me he's here for isn't … me."
"Maybe it's both of you that he wants?" Angel mused in a wistful, almost reverent tone. "Maybe at the same time?"
Buffy rolled her eyes at the comment. "C'mon. This is serious."
"Buffy, what is going on? The last couple of days you've been vanishing for hours on end, I know you're not responding to campaign messages because people are calling my office non-stop trying to find you, then I get a text that you need to be picked up at some address I've never heard of … and apparently it was Spike's apartment. Spill it. What's up?"
"Back in January, remember how we all sat down and decided there'd be no secrets from her? That whatever one Buffy knew, the other Buffy had a right to know?"
"I remember," Angel said with a nod. "Every battle you've fought, win or lose, it might help her find her way. Also, and I don't want to get as philosophical as Oz on the topic, in certain respects she has a right to know everything because there's no logical distinction between you both."
"I would say she needs to know about other things, besides battles … right?"
Even though she kept her eyes straight ahead, she could feel Angel's questioning glance.
"Buffy, enough with the hypotheticals. What's this about?"
Might as well just say it.
"I think I need to tell her about Spike and me."
Angel splayed his fingers on the wheel and inhaled through clenched teeth. "Buffy, you need to give your Anyaverse self a bit more credit. I'm pretty sure she put together a long, long time ago that you and Spike were involved. Hell, I think she kinda knew before she got in Xander's convertible."
"Everything … about Spike. Not just the broad strokes, but some of the gorier details."
Angel shrugged. "You mean like that time he sold us out, at least for a while, to an evil necromancer? Or how he tried to kill you for years? That sort of thing?"
Buffy rolled her eyes at his phrasing but chose not to get in another argument on the subject of Spike. "Pretty much everything, yes. Would that be wrong?"
"You know that if I think it will piss Spike off, I'm more likely to tell you to do it, right?"
Buffy stared at him for a good long while before she replied, "I don't think that's true. I think if it's something petty, you'd absolutely love to see Spike pissed off, but that's not what this is. This is serious."
"You want my advice?" Angel began. "I seem to recall you said something to all of us along the lines of 'if I turned eighteen again and lost all my memories, is it something that I would want to know? If that's the case, then please tell her.'" Angel patted her knee again. "I thought that summed it up pretty well."
Buffy nodded thoughtfully. "Following my own advice is probably a good idea."
"Isn't this all academic?" Angel pointed out. "Spike's misdeeds are pretty well covered in the Watcher journals. Why don't you just point your DoppelBuffy in that direction and give her a verbal nudge? Something like, 'Maybe you should check this out before you slay and chill with Billy Cheekbones tonight?'"
"She's already read all that stuff," Buffy replied. "What I'm going to tell her won't be in any of the journals."
Angel looked at her in confusion. "Wait, are we talking about something he did before, or after, he had a soul."
"Before. Just before, actually."
The car fell silent for a long while after that before Angel spoke again, "Buffy, you and Giles spent years working on your journals. Didn't you say your entire goal was to create something a young slayer might actually read and find helpful? If there's something Spike did that our newest Buffy should know about, why isn't it in the journals."
She resumed staring out the window as she searched for words with which to respond. A wave of tiredness, of exhaustion, of old trauma forgotten, but not exorcised entirely, welled over her.
If I was her, I'd want to know. Wouldn't I? That High School sensitivity seminar on 'power imbalances' seemed pointless when I was a slayer, but now? It makes a lot more sense.
Angel pulled to the side of the road and stopped the car.
"Hey!" Buffy protested. "What are you doing?"
"If you wanted to talk about whatever Spike did, you'd have told me by now," Angel said through clenched teeth, "so I won't ask." His jaw jutted towards her, and his brow was furrowed with anger. "You have no idea how my curiosity, my very angry curiosity, is running rampant right now, but I'll do my best to stay on topic. For a vampire, the worst thing about regaining your soul is the guilt you feel towards all the people you hurt. Do you know what the second worst thing is?"
"Regretting your wardrobe choices?"
Angel ignored her attempt at levity. "The second worst thing is knowing that all the atrocities the vampire-you committed, it did so while drawing from your memories, your personality, from you … hell, who's to say where you end, and the demon starts? Angelus channeled dark, monstrous things that were in me, and that truth is equal parts frightening and disgusting. Maybe they were parts of my personality buried deep, maybe parts I don't want to think about, but that's reality. Spike maybe isn't as vocally introspective as I am, but I'm sure he feels the same way."
"I don't want to believe any of that is true."
Angel checked the side mirror for traffic, then accelerated the car away from the curb and grinned at her. "That's why you're a hero, Buffy."
She stuck out her tongue and made a gagging sound. "Did you and Giles buy the same quote calendar, or something?"
"What?"
"Never mind."
Angel pulled off the main road and onto the winding, black-asphalted street that led to their townhouse. The trees had turned a baked, deep brown, and despite endless sprinkling at night large patches of scorched, dry grass marred the lawns.
"So, tell the other-Buffy? Is that what you're saying?"
"You'd want to know, wouldn't you?" Angel asked.
I would.
She nodded. "I gave Spike a chance to leave town, and he wasn't interested. If she's ready to hear it, I'm ready to talk." Something occurred to her. "If Spike does leave, we're down a fighter."
"Connor's still asking if we want to let his Ul-thar cultists patrol … I guess they've been trickling into town and are getting stir crazy."
"More of them have arrived?" Buffy asked in consternation. "How many?"
"I think there's around forty or so, now."
Buffy blanched at the notion of that many vampires, tame or not, huddled in one place. "The Airbnb neighbors must love the constant chanting of Connor's name, not to mention the incense." She considered Angel's proposal, then shook her head. "Vampires hunting vampires and demons? No thanks. I'd be afraid they'd get recruited. Heck, I'm not so sure we shouldn't stake them all and be done with it."
"Connor wouldn't care if we eliminated them," Angel reminded her. "He only humors them because they're useful."
"I hate to say it, but we might need them," Buffy said with a sigh. "If his vampire cultists are bored, maybe he could request more shrines? They seem to love building shrines."
"They're actually getting pretty good at it," Angel said excitedly. "Some of the woodwork detailing has gotten really impressive, and one of the vamps figured out how to stain …"
"Angel," Buffy said by way of interruption.
Angel caught himself and cleared his throat. "I'll let Connor know."
. . . . . . . . .
When Buffy spotted in the shadows of a tall, looming oak a lean figure wearing a black leather coat, she breathed a sigh of relief. "Where the hell have you been? We were starting the patrol at nine, remember? I've already dusted two vamps, no thanks to you."
A red glow sparked from the shadows as Spike stepped closer; she realized he was holding a lit cigarette. She watched in distaste as he took a long draw and then flicked it away."
She frowned at him, then tread over to the still smoldering cigarette and stamped out the embers.
"Thought you quit?" she asked. "Not that you asked my opinion, but I can't say I'm the biggest fan of the smell of smoke."
His blue eyes were pale and cold as he gazed at her. "I told you I was thinking of picking the habit back up."
Something in his tone felt defensive and, strangely enough, threatening? She fought the urge to step back and put some extra distance between them.
What's going on with him?
"Hey, you do you," she said. "But maybe don't leave me hung out to dry on a patrol so you can take a smoke break?"
He tilted his head at her questioningly. "What, am I clocking in here? I'm a volunteer. Where are the other slayers? Aren't you all sisters, or something? All for one, and one for all, share a single brain, yadda yadda yadda?"
"They've got their own patrol routes."
"Right then," Spike said heatedly. "Best get on with yours."
She noticed that he made no move to accompany her, and that his phrasing had left deliberately ambiguous whether he intended to join in the patrol, at all. As she stared at his shadowed form, she realized that the same exhilarating palpation of adrenalin she'd experienced the first time she'd met Spike was washing over her once more. From her toes to the crest of her head, a surge that was half-excitement and half anxiety tingled through her nerve endings.
I'm pretty sure I know why Spike's acting this way. No help for it. Might as well ask.
"Spike, who's Drusilla?"
The sound of his breathing stopped, and he narrowed his eyes at her. "You should know. Wasn't she in your slayer coloring books?"
"She was," Buffy acknowledged, "along with some sketches so I would know who to look for."
"So, you know who she is, and that she has history with me … with you … heck, with just about everyone. Why bring her up now?"
Buffy realized she was trembling as she stepped closer. "I've been noticing for weeks, every once in a while on patrol, you'll drag a vamp off, twist its arm a bit, and whisper to it. At first, I thought it was a pre-dusting taunt, I occasionally do that myself, but I realized I kept hearing the same name. Drusilla. Why are you asking questions about her?"
Spike glanced away. "I forget sometimes how damn sharp slayer ears can be."
"Well?" she asked as she crossed her arms. "Who is she?"
"Who is Drusilla?" Spike asked with a sigh. "An ex, as I suspect you already know. I've known her a long time, almost right from the beginning, in fact. I'm worried she might be in town, and I'm trying to find out if any of our local creatures of the night have seen her."
"Why?"
"Cause she's mad as a hatter, as the saying goes, and likely to hold a grudge."
"No, I mean why do you think she's in town?"
"Oh," Spike said as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Truth be told, I thought I smelled her. A couple times now, going all the way back to spring."
"Smelled her? You're serious?"
He shrugged. "Believe me or not, it's the truth."
"Why all this effort to find her?" Buffy asked. "She's just another vamp, right? Why not tell us about it? Why not tell me?"
Spike leered at her, a cruel, twisted expression that didn't reach his eyes. Her stomach twisted and her throat went dry as she looked away.
"Maybe I was looking for a bit of the old slap and tickle?" he jeered in a coarse, rough tone. "What's it to you?"
"Nothing."
You're not going to get a reaction out of me, Spike.
Spike reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a shiny silver flask. "You sure about that?" he asked. He tilted his head back and drank deeply, his throat rhythmically moving with each swallow.
"Drinking and smoking?" she asked. "You're one moody son of a bitch tonight … what the hell is going on with you?"
He took another swig and then tucked it away. "We need to talk."
"Can't it wait till after patrol?"
"Seems to me like there's things between us that maybe need saying." His voice was heavy and thick both from the alcohol, and maybe something else. "Things that maybe need saying now, or they ain't ever going to be said."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm leaving," Spike informed her. "Moonridge isn't good for me, and maybe I'm not good for you."
Her blood ran cold. "You've done the whole vanishing act before, remember? There's no need for a repeat performance, and I'll decide what's good for me." She was embarrassed at how high-pitched and feverish she sounded.
"Sounds like you want me to stick around, after knowing me for what, six months?"
"Sometimes it feels longer. Sometimes, like now, a lot shorter."
"Do you even know what I've done? To people important to you? To you, Buffy?"
"I know what kind of person you are now," she replied. "The kind who saved my life, for one. And who risked his universe to do it. I know that."
Spike waved off the comment. "I'm talking about before." The shadows seemed to pull closer as he leaned back against the dark wood of the oak tree's trunk. "When I was still a vampire without a soul."
She grew still. In the past few months, she had tried to make a better effort to wade through Giles's and Buffy's journals, but the parts she'd skipped, a lot of them pertained to Spike. "I know how vampires work," she began, "and I also know that you must have been different. If you hadn't been different, you wouldn't have tried to get your soul back."
"Gotten my soul back? Sacrificed myself for love?" Spike's voice was tinged with bitterness. "I was a monster. Probably still am, but moreso before."
"I know how vampires work," Buffy protested. She pulled a stake from a loop at the back of her belt and tapped her chest. "Slayer, standing right here, remember? Vampires are really bad … that's why I slay them. But that's not you."
Spike seemed to settle back even further against the trunk of the tree. "There shouldn't be secrets between us, Buffy. Not ever. You deserve the truth. I did horrible things to you. I betrayed you, and I hurt you, and the moment I got my soul back, I would have cut my own soddin' arm off if I could take it all back, but I can't. I think you needed to know. I think you deserve to know."
"You aren't him anymore." She walked beneath the shade of the tree and place her hand on his arm. She could feel his whip-cord muscles bulge beneath her fingers as he tensed from the contact, and her pulse raced as the branching shadows wrapped them close. "You aren't him, and I'm my own person. You ask what I know about you? I know I don't want you to leave." The tips of her fingers tingled when she removed her hand from his arm. "This isn't about Drusilla … what is going on tonight?"
Spike opened his mouth to answer, and then snapped it closed.
An instant later, she recalled a conversation in the basement of Giles's house, the pieces fell into place, and she knew.
That. Fucking. Bitch.
"Buffy!" she gasped in anger as a red film descended over her eyes. "What, did she put you up to this? Threaten you? The patrol can wait, I am finding her and …"
Spike was on her so fast she had no time to react. He grabbed her arms and loomed over her, his mouth parting in the dim light as his eyes opened wide with emotion. She was sure he was going to kiss her, would have bet anything on it, but his face merely hung above hers as he searched for the right words. She wasn't sure if she was relieved or if it was the most disappointing moment of her life.
"This isn't about her," he finally said. "Buffy may have gone about it the wrong way, but she's right. Nothing good, nothing real, can ever start from keeping secrets. You deserve to know the truth about me."
She knocked his arms away and stood back. "Honestly, the next time I have to say this, I might have to punch you: whatever you did before you had your soul, that wasn't you."
He considered her statement for a moment. "Maybe, maybe not, but you needed to know, anyway." His shoulder brushed hers as he walked past, stepped across the grass and onto the sidewalk, and then rapidly began striding into the distance.
"Where are you going?" she yelled. "I still have to patrol!"
He didn't bother turning as he called out to her. "I already told you."
An instant before Spike vanished entirely, she saw the small red flicker of a lit cigarette. Something inside her snapped and withered as his form receded into the night. The warm night air was suffocating her beneath the tree, and she desperately wanted to go home, curl up in bed … or maybe in a bath.
She tucked the stake back into her belt loop and resumed her patrol.
Buffy and I are going to have a chat real soon.
