In The Space Between
I've recently updated several older chapters to fix some typos I missed in my editing – a huge thank you to Brunettepet for pointing them out!
In the morning, Buffy walked the few kilometers from her mother's house to the college for her Monday classes. She paused by the big, old tree in her front yard, a sad smile spreading across her lips as she looked from the small pile of cigarette butts to her bedroom window. Her gaze falling back to the pile, she realized with a start that the butts were fresh, no more than a night old. The sadness of her smile drained away, leaving something between astonishment and contentment to dance upon her features. The strange sense that she might not have lost as much as she had feared began to bloom inside of her.
Chapter 8: As The Laughter Keeps Us Coming Back For More
"You realize your plan will fail." Illyria's back was to the hell god as she spoke, surveying the grassy parkland that spread itself out below the condominium. Leaving one's back open to attack was either a sign of foolishness, or an insult to the would-be attacker. Illyria did not consider herself a fool. Glory, however, was another story indeed.
"Is that a threat?" the blonde huffed.
Illyria rolled her eyes. "No, it is a statement. The Key you require is under the protection of the Slayer, and the Slayer is under the protection of my vampire." She turned then, eyeing up the hell god. "My vampire is under my protection."
"Are you saying that you've spent the last week camping out in my condo, just to come to the conclusion that not only will you not help me find my Key, you're actually going to help those… insects… keep it from me?" Glory's voice rose both in volume and pitch, her eyes flashing dangerously.
Illyria kept her gaze level, the corner of her mouth twitching slightly into a small smirk, just one of the vampire's traits that she had begun to allow to rub off onto her. "Precisely," she smiled darkly as the hell god sprang to her feet and charged toward her. She rather enjoyed violence.
The hell god's hit never made contact, as Illyria blocked her fist in a single smooth movement that sent Glory off-balance, stumbling to the right, recovering with her back against the wall. "You don't want to fight me, Glorificus," Illyria said, her voice cold. Deep down she had been hoping that this outcome would result at some point. After years in a dimension in which time had been measured by the bodies of her slain enemies, this deadly dance her vampire rejoiced in had become something she needed. After all, if she could not have the entire world at her feet (where they rightfully should be), then she would at least destroy those who would try to even touch her.
The hell god blinked, her hands gathering back into fists, "That's just what you want to think, Illyria," she hissed as she leapt forward.
Illyria smiled her thin-lipped smile and once again blocked Glory's hits, this time sending her opponent tumbling to the floor. She reached down with one tiny hand and pulled the hell god up by her pampered blonde locks and stared at her coldly, "I can destroy you, Glorificus," she whispered softly, "But I think it will prove to be much more interesting if I don't just yet."
Spike woke from a dreamless sleep to the sound of Summers women speaking in soft voices. He lay tangled in the thin sheets of the cot that sat in the basement, and if it weren't for the fact that he could hear Joyce's voice rather than the high-pitched squeals of Potentials filtering down to him through the floorboards, he could almost have convinced himself that he was back in that last year in Sunnydale.
"I have one last round of tests this evening," he heard Joyce saying, "But the doctors haven't found anything at this point."
"Spike could be wrong," he heard Buffy say hopefully, "I mean, in his time or dimension, or whatever, Riley never came back. And he came back here. So…"
"So maybe while he's near death, I won't be?" Joyce's reply was reproving. Apparently she had figured out from the little Buffy had admitted about this dimension's Spike's dusting and the news reports of the "severely beaten and unconscious young man" who had been "rescued" from the Bronze, exactly what had happened.
"Uh, yeah, about that…"
"You nearly killed Riley?" Dawn's voice was oddly triumphant. "That's so cool!"
"Dawn!" Joyce's voice interrupted harshly, though she softened it with a sigh. "This isn't what I wanted to talk to you girls about. I wanted to tell you that I've been rather unfair to you. I thought, even when my illness was at its worse, that it wouldn't..." she seemed a bit lost for words. "I never dreamed that I would be leaving you girls alone. And I let that illusion keep me from doing important things to protect your futures."
"Mom," Buffy said softly, "You don't need to…"
"Yes, Buffy, I do!" she interjected. "And I shudder to think what you and Dawn must have gone through in that other dimension where I didn't take the time to get things in order." She paused, the fight leaving her voice, "I called your father. He's been neglecting Dawn's child support payments ever since you turned eighteen, Buffy, and while I've gotten along fine without them, he should know that he is still responsible for the two of you. Especially if I'm gone. He might not like it, but he's going to start paying them again. And he's going to try harder to stay in touch with you girls."
"Mom," Buffy began, her voice catching in her throat, "Nothing's going to happen to you. The doctors are going to catch whatever is wrong, and maybe…"
Again Joyce cut off her eldest daughter, this time with a sigh. "And I wish that we could guarantee that. But we can't. Even if there's nothing wrong, I could walk out of the house and to the corner store one day and all it would take is one bad driver…"
"Mommy?" Dawn's voice was tiny and fragile, "Can we please talk about something else now?" Spike could hear the wince in Dawn's voice, so childlike in this moment. She would grow so much in the next two years.
"Oh honey," Spike heard Joyce murmur, his hearing straining now to catch every word. "I just want the two of you to be safe if anything ever does happen to me. With any luck, I'll be here for a long time to come. But if I'm not, I don't want you to be left in the lurch without me."
Spike closed his eyes, imagining the three women sitting on the couch, arms wrapped around each other in the comfort of family. A fierce swell of love rose up in his throat and a desire to protect them from any and all pain that dared to come near them rushed over him like a wave. They were his women, whether they knew it or not, and he only wished, desperately, that he could do anything real for them. But how does someone who barely exists in the world at all even begin to look after those who do? The sick feeling of impending loss washed over Spike as he hung his head in the basement. The only thing he could really do to make their lives better was to get out of it. As soon as they were safe.
"So one more night of searching for your demon god without any luck," Buffy began, her voice artificially perky as she strode alongside him, her mind obviously on her mother's last round of tests.
"You know you can go home," he began to offer, only to have her roll her eyes at him.
"I need to patrol anyway, so really? Might as well have the company."
He snorted, "'cause that's real safe when you're as distracted as you are, Slayer."
"What's that supposed to mean?" she glared at him, pulling a face that just made him wonder at how young she still was, as compared to the Buffy he'd known. At the lack of reaction he gave her, she sighed, stretching out her arms, "Then I guess it's just as well that you're here then. You can help me fight." She paused for a moment, "You can still fight, right?"
Spike gave her a wan smile. "Guess you'll find out soon 'nough, pet," he nodded towards a particularly ugly creature that was dragging itself out from the forest bordering the cemetery. It was a mass of scales, fangs, and claws, but anyone watching would have seen the instant spark of light that brightened the eyes of both of the fighters as they settled into their deadly dance.
Spike leapt into the fray with fervour, the frustrations and stresses of the last week and a half rolling off his shoulders as he punched and kicked and taunted the nightmarish demon that simply growled and gibbered in reply. He was a whirl of motion and he was disappointed to find himself with an arm around the thing's surprisingly fragile neck. The crack of breaking vertebrae was no less satisfying. He let the body slump to the ground beneath him, leaping lightly off of the monster's shoulders, only to find himself looking straight into Buffy's confused gaze.
"Uh, doing my job for me, Spike?" her voice was uncertain, though she was trying to hide it with humour.
He shrugged, "Spent the last few years in a demon dimension, love. You pick up a few tricks."
He watched her look from him to the demon and back. "That thing is three times your size and you took it down with your bare hands!"
He shrugged again, "You could've done the same. We gonna keep looking for more big bads then?"
He missed the truth of Buffy's reaction, and she couldn't have been more grateful. She'd been prepared for her Spike's style, which was, in essence, to sit back and watch her take down something huge and terrifying. This Spike was both terrifying and beautiful to watch. This Spike had taken the act of violence and had hewn it into some glorious and awful work of art. His certainty that she could have taken down the demon wasn't something that she shared. Not without some kind of weapon, at least. Not alone. Not in under five minutes. Not while taunting the, well, in this case only, poor thing.
This Spike could teach her a thing or a two. And that scared her. Not so much because it meant that he might be dangerous, or that he could possibly beat her, but because, well, she was looking forward to being taught. And that was just weird.
The rest of the night progressed in the same way. For once, Buffy let herself hang back, letting Spike do the fighting and her do the watching. It was a bizarre reversal of their normal roles, and it unnerved her, but with the same sick fascination she would use to pick at a scab or pull off an old band-aid, she kept watching. She took mental notes, not just on that nifty new technique (or ten) he threw in here and there, but on him. The way each fight left him looking more relaxed, more certain of himself, and less gloomy than he had before. It was almost as if she were watching layers peel themselves away, revealing a Spike not-so-different after all from the one she had (she could admit it now, couldn't she?) been starting to care about.
"You planning on contributing?" he said finally, wiping a bit of blood from the split lip he'd received earlier after dusting several fledglings with ease.
She stared at him for a long moment, as he unconsciously licked the blood from his hand, wondering just how much difference a soul actually made when push came to shove. "I was taking notes," she said finally, as she watched him raise an eyebrow at her lengthy silence, "You learned some new moves."
She was glad he let it drop. They walked home without talking, though Buffy could almost feel the contented hum that vibrated through the vampire beside her. Something within her felt a little haunted and empty. Another part didn't want to stop watching him. She gave him a sideways glance. He was such a complex mixture of old habits and new actions. She didn't know how to classify him. He wasn't like Angel. Angel didn't hum. Angel had never felt so alive while walking beside her as Spike did now. She found herself wishing, somewhere inside, that he would stay like this, and drop his strange, sad, knowing moods. She couldn't cope with those. This… well she couldn't really cope with this either, but this at least… the train of thought came to a shuddering stop. This she liked. This she related to. This she could get used to. This… and she gave him another sideways glance…
She'd been looking at him funny the whole walk back to her mother's house. It wasn't his fault he'd picked up a few new tricks for keeping himself alive. Of course, he found himself now wondering if she was debating whether she could still beat him and if she couldn't, just how important it was to keep him around. He still half-expected her to pull out her stake and threaten him with it. It had been her trademark move during this time period. Instead she kept looking him with alternating confused glances and a slightly dazed expression. She was trying to classify him. This much he could tell. She had always been good at putting things into neat little boxes in her mind.
"What are you looking at?" he growled finally, meeting her sideways glance with a glare. Her strange looks were beginning to unravel the buzz he was still feeling from the thrill of the fight. It had felt good to kill something. Things he wouldn't have to feel guilty for later.
She shook her head slightly, a perplexed look in her eyes. "You," she admitted softly.
Spike stared at her for a long moment, speechless. Something in her monosyllabic answer suggested that she might really be trying to see him. And that was a mildly terrifying thought. Perhaps this dimension was more different than he had first thought. Or perhaps he had just caught a more innocent Buffy off-guard. In either case, he wasn't sure he wanted to pursue the point.
He watched her slip her house key out of her pocket, as they approached the house. "That's kinda weird," she said softly, staring up at the darkened windows, "Mom was supposed to be back from the hospital tonight."
"An' the bit?" Spike prompted.
"Dawn's sleeping over at her friend's house," she replied distractedly, stepping up to the front door and unlocking it slowly. Spike followed behind her, a sinking feeling in his gut. He listened to Buffy call for her mother as she wandered through the house. His gaze settled on the answering machine. It's tiny red light blinking repetitively. "I can't… I don't think she's…"
"You have a message," Spike gestured at the insistent red light, his eyes meeting Buffy's sympathetically. She was scared. She stood still, watching the red flashes like a deer caught in headlights. Spike sighed impatiently, closing the gap between the machine and himself and hitting the play button.
"Er… yes, hello? This message is for Miss Buffy Summers. This is Dr. Greene. I… have some bad news. You may want to sit down. Your mother has suffered from a severe brain aneurysm. A level 5 on the Hunt and Hess scale. She's extremely lucky she was already in the hospital when it occurred. We are currently performing an emergency surgery and we believe that she has a good chance of recovery. I must warn you that she will likely be in a coma, though she shows good signs of health and quite possibly will escape this mishap without brain trauma. We have every faith that she will recover…"
The machine beeped. "End of message. Time of message eleven fifty-two pm. To replay message, press the replay button. To hear the next message, press next."
Spike gazed at Buffy for a moment, taking in her thin, tightly pressed lips and the sudden paleness of her face. He pressed the next button.
"Uh, yes. This is Dr. Greene again. I was cut off," muttering about infernal machines could be heard under the doctor's breath before he continued, "We understand the strong desire of family members to see their loved ones as soon as possible, but we do request that you wait until tomorrow morning to arrive at the hospital. Until the surgery has been completed, and a post-operative evaluation has been completed, there is little more we can tell you. And even less that you can do. Try to get some sleep in the meantime." There was a pause as the doctor seemed to struggle to find something better to say, "I am very sorry you have to hear this on a recording."
The machine beeped and the electronic voice began to roll through its peppy set of commands and menu options. Spike silenced it with a click of the off button. He looked at Buffy, at the tears that were welling up in her eyes and the tremble in her fingers as she reflexively formed them into fists. "Sleep?" she whispered raggedly. "He expects me to sleep while my mother is in a coma and in surgery?"
Spike sighed softly, walking towards her slowly, awkwardly reaching out and patting her shoulder. "He's prob'ly a surgeon, love. They have no people skills."
A sob wracked its way from Buffy body as a tiny, hoarse laugh escaped her lips. The sob won and Buffy seemed to crumble into Spike's arms. He folded his arms around her, an expression of disbelief, wonder, and something akin to joy, filling his face. He ran a hand over the back of her head, smoothing her silky hair against her scalp and her neck, while pulling her closer, letting her bury herself in his shoulder, her tears escaping her eyes to soak into his t-shirt. "Shhh," he murmured softly, stroking her back and her hair in a steady rhythm, "It'll be ok, love. Your mum, she's a tough bird. And you heard the doctors; they think she'll recover. She'll be alright." He desperately hoped he wasn't lying.
She hiccupped softly, her choked sobs fading and her breathing slowing down and following the steady time of Spike's touch. Spike stilled as she snuggled tighter into his embrace. "I think I got your shirt all wet," she sniffled, her voice muffled by his shoulder.
"S'ok, love," Spike hoped his voice wasn't as strangled as it sounded to his ears.
"I don't understand," she murmured softly, still sniffling as she pulled away, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. "I never cry, and now I'm…" she bit her lip, obviously composing herself against another onslaught of tears. She stared at him with sad eyes, "I'm sorry."
He shook his head, helplessly ensnared by the tremble in her lower lip and the softness of her voice. He was a man lost, drowning in something too much larger than himself to control.
"I should go to bed," she said flatly, turning away, shutting down the emotional side and shutting out the world after a slip like that. Spike realized with a start that the last time he had seen her cry… he'd been the one to wipe away the tears then too. And just hold her. The best night of his life.
"Buffy," he heard himself say, "You don't…"
"Don't what?" she prompted, turning to face him, her face all business with no trace of tears.
"Don't need to carry it all alone." She stared at him for a long moment, her lips slightly parted. He took a hesitant step towards her.
She smiled weakly, "I'm the Slayer, Spike. This is what I do. This is what I have to do. I have to keep it together. If I don't, who will?"
He let his gaze fall. Every answer he had to that question was likely to be thrown back into his face. "Right then," he began, lifting his head to stare at her hard, his own weak smile in place, "Just a convenient shoulder to cry on. Best to go on up to bed and forget it ever happened, right?" He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
The mask slipped from Buffy's face. The nonchalant tough act falling away to reveal someone lost and in pain. "You're so not convenient, Spike," she said softly, shaking her head slowly, as she wrapped her arms around herself. He watched her swallow and look anywhere but at him. "Do you think," she faltered a little, her gaze fixing on the living room couch, "Do you think you could just sit with me for awhile? I… I don't really want to be alone."
Spike stared at her in disbelief. He really had slipped into an alternate dimension.