I do not own Buffy. any original characters, places, plots, or quotes belong to Joss Whedon and Co.
Spike spent six nights after his fight with Dru as drunk as a lord, stumbling back and forth between Willy's and his crypt, dropping as many bottles of liquor as he managed to drink. After getting completely pissed that first night he'd been afraid to sober up, getting it into his head that if he just stayed drunk he wouldn't be stuck mulling everything around in his head day and night. It mostly worked, but every time the buzz started to wear off, it all came flooding back.
It just… it just felt so final. For the first time it had been him to walk away. Never, in over a hundred years, had he failed to take Drusilla back. Well, there had been that one time in South America, with the Chaos demon, but eventually he'd still gone back to her hadn't he? Love's bitch, that's what he'd been. But now…
God, what had he done?
This felt like an ending, and that was what scared him. It felt like an ending, the ending, and he didn't know what that meant. He'd turned his back on his dark princess for the first real time, turned his back on everything she' offered him - getting his bite back, ditching the chip, getting the soddin' band back together. He could've been back in black baby, and he'd said no.
He'd said no.
But it was more than that. He couldn't lie to himself, couldn't make it go away no matter how much bourbon or whiskey he spilled over his boots. He'd turned down Dru. For good. Hell, he'd threatened her, threatened to end her, really end her once and for all, because she'd threatened Buffy. He'd chosen the Slayer over his own sire.
It hadn't been a lie. He'd do it. It would… God, it would hurt. But he'd do it. Without hesitation, without a second thought - he'd kill her. To save the Slayer.
And that was it, wasn't it? He'd chosen the light over the dark, chosen Buffy and this chance at a new life over the old, over everything he'd had in a century as a Big Bad, and it had hit him like a brick. He hadn't planned to do it, hadn't known that it was in him, in his heart or in his mind, hadn't known that he was capable of such a thing. But apparently he was. Because he had.
Decided.
Done.
He'd picked his side, and it was time to start playing to win. He still needed to play it close to the chest for a while, but he had a few aces up his sleeve, and it was time to cash one in.
A cold shower worked wonders in getting rid of the funk and the fugue of a week-long bender, and surprisingly helped to clear up his head. Six days, six whole days to reminisce and mourn, and that was it. It was over. One hundred years of dancing in the dark, and after only six days he was ready to race the sun. And hey, things weren't all so bloody awful were they? Sure, there was a Hell god roaming around with a serious yen for torture, but he had a date.
A date. One shot at the Slayer, and he couldn't mess it up. He got it, he did. She wouldn't be trying to have fun. Wouldn't try to give him a real chance. No, she be bitchy and cold the whole time, holding herself apart from whatever they did, from him, in an effort to win their little war.
Spike chuckled darkly as he tugged on a clean pair of jeans and slicked back his hair. If she honestly thought that he'd scarper just because she claimed she hadn't had fun on the date she was already determined to hate, she was completely cracked. Still, he loved a challenge. The little blonde Slayer might be as stubborn as a mule, but he was more than a bit hard-headed himself, and he wanted to win this thing. It was more than the bet. He wanted Buffy to enjoy herself, wanted to give her a night of laughing and smiles, something he feared she didn't see nearly often enough. He wanted to share it with her.
Spike frowned, shrugging into his duster and patting down his pockets, checking for the keys to his deSoto. As much as he wanted those things, he wouldn't have a chance at them unless he won this bet first.
So. Down to business then.
It was a rare rainy day in Sunnydale, perfect for his purposes, and he had pulled himself together just in time. It was early afternoon, and Sunnydale high was just about to release its swarming hordes of teenagers onto the town. Spike was ready to meet them. Slinging his deSoto up to the curb in front of the school with a squeal of rubber, blatant in his rejection of a traditional parking space and his occupation of the fire lane, he got out and climbed onto the hood to sit cross-legged, lighting up a cigarette while he waited. Balancing his wrist on one knee, he blew out a stream of smoke and closed his eyes against the harsh shriek of the bell announcing the end of the school day.
Less than two minutes later a great rush of students came flooding out the doors, and Spike felt the instinctive urge to melt away from the crowd, to disappear into the shadows as was his nature. Shrugging it off with some small feeling of amusement, he took another hard drag on his cigarette and scanned the numerous faces, waiting idly for the Slayer's little sister to appear. He was getting quite a few appreciative looks from the young girls skirting his car and weaving their way through the lot, both bold and furtive, by the time Dawn appeared amidst the others, and he was more than a little disgusted by all the attention.
Dawn's face had paled when she caught sight of him and Spike could almost smell the fear coming off of her, so he shot her his best charming grin and was pleased when she visibly relaxed. The small group of girls she stood with leaned in close and began to whisper, a round of giggles ringing across the huddle. Dawn blushed and smiled, waving them off and heading in his direction, slinging her book-bag jauntily over her shoulder.
"Hey Spike," she greeted him when she got to the car, standing near the front wheel where he was perched. "Everything ok?"
"Sure thing lil Bit," he replied. "Need a little advice and I was hoping you'd take a ride with me."
A wide, bright grin spread across Dawn's face and she nodded eagerly. "Get into a mysterious black car with a mysterious stranger? Heck yes!"
Spike frowned as he slid off the hood, flicking away his cigarette butt. "Not making a habit of that are you?" he asked with real concern.
Dawn rolled her eyes and climbed into the passenger seat, waiting until he got in beside her and started the engine before she answered. "No, I haven't been getting rides from strangers," she said in an exasperated tone. "Having the Slayer for a sister kinda drives the whole 'stranger danger' thing home. But it's cool - this'll be great for my reputation. I might not go to school at all tomorrow."
Spike cocked an eyebrow in her direction as he guided the car slowly through the crowded lot, occasionally hitting the horn when groups of students lingered a little too long in front of his bumper.
"My friends think you're hot Spike," she said bluntly. "They'll think we're sneaking around, dating… making out. Ya know?"
"What?!" he yelped, jumping in his seat and hitting the brakes hard. "You're bloody fifteen! What's wrong with you bints?"
Dawn just rolled her eyes. "Wow," she commented dryly, examining her fingernails. "Been out of the dating game a while haven't you?"
"Oh bloody hell," he growled under his breath.
A week and a half after that night, Buffy had almost managed to forget about the whole thing. Willow and her mom must have seen something in her face that they weren't sure about, because neither asked her what the result of her talk with Spike had been. The vampire himself seemed to be laying low – Buffy'd seen neither hide nor bleached blonde hair of the menace since the confrontation with Dru in the cemetery. She'd been worried at first; thought that maybe she should check on him, make sure he hadn't done something stupid, changed his mind and run off to get his chip removed and get his Big Bad back on. That night had played hell with her mind – she couldn't imagine what it had done to his.
She'd shaken the feeling fast. There was no way she could have broached the subject without revealing that she'd seen the whole thing, and she would've been… she would've been scared to do that. She'd stumbled into something deeply personal that night, something she shouldn't have seen, had no right to see. And it had… well, it had freaked her out, and forgetting about it seemed the best option.
So she had. Buried it, all the things she'd heard and all the things it meant in the very back of her mind where it would hopefully never see the light of day again. Thankfully she had other things to focus on; Glory, for example. And God wasn't that a sad, sorry state of affairs? That she was thankful for the negative attentions of a wrathful, pissed-off Hell god because it meant that she didn't have to think about Spike.
Strangely, said wrathful, pissed-off Hell god seemed to be laying low in recent days as well. The Hellmouth had been quiet, eerily quiet, and Buffy feared that this might be the calm before the storm, the steady, silent warning before the boom. She and the Scoobies had been hitting the books double time, desperate to find something, anything that would help her in the fight that she could feel building just over the next rise. It prickled at the hair on her arms, hung over the back of her neck like a heavy black cloud, waiting. The end of the world, all the demon armies of hell, those she could face down without a shiver, but the quiet? The calm? Those things made her nervous.
A week and a half. She thought she'd gotten away with it. Thought it was over. Hoped, prayed that Spike would just let it drop, deal with his own issues and leave her alone. Of course, she wasn't so lucky. A whole week and a half later, and she came home from patrol to find a note slipped into the crack of the door jamb. She was exhausted from a short battle earlier that night, covered in a thin yellow goo from the oozy, drippy, blob-shaped thing that had exploded when she swung her short-sword through it, and she wanted nothing more than to get home, strip off, and scrub down, but the sight of that thick, tri-folded letter stopped her dead.
She approached it slowly, like she might a rattlesnake, roundabout and cautious. She reached for it twice before she pulled it from the door, surprised by the weight of the paper, parchment really, a softly-textured, cream colored parchment. She ran her fingertips over the sharp creases, tested the weight of it in her palms… She knew it was from Spike, didn't have to read it to know. Turning the letter over, she admired the delicate curving strokes of rich black ink that spelled her name across the front of it. It was a lovely calligraphy, something that surprised her – she would have expected Spike to write in harsh, slashing lines that pressed heavily on the paper.
Unable to stall any longer, she carefully unfolded the paper and found herself torn between dread and a strange, warm feeling jumping around in her belly that might have been… anticipation if she let it. There were only five words on the page; short, direct, brooking no argument in his flowing black script.
Friday. Ten o'clock. I'll patrol.
Buffy folded the letter back up and sat down on the porch steps, staring out into the night. For a minute she was quiet, just watching the stars and listening to the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze, letting her mind go still, letting it all fall away. Just a minute, and she was calm. Relaxed. Empty. Weird, right? She had always been the queen of over-thinking it, of ruminating on mistakes and agonizing over what could have been. Now? Tonight? She let it go.
It was the burnt sugar smell coming from her gummy, gooey clothes that broke the spell, forcing her to her feet with a sigh as she shrugged out of her jacket, careful not to get anything sticky on the letter. It had been a long time since she'd gotten a little note from anyone, and even though it had come from Spike, even though it was a brusque, rude demand, for some reason she wanted to keep it safe. On the way to the shower she stopped by her room, opening the false bottom of her weapons chest. Slipping the letter inside, she closed the lid and locked it tight.