SHADES OF GRAY
Disclaimer: The characters presented in this story are all the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy productions, with the exception of Clarissa and the warlock. Those, Joss can have as well, because he is God.
Author's note: This is an alternate Season Six and the first few chapters were written well before the premiere of Bargaining. It contains spoilers only for that episode. This is a Spike redemptionist fic and the pairings are as follows: B/S and W/T. Feedback is greatly desired, including flames. Shoutouts to the gang at Dancing Lessons, who inspired this group writing project.
Chapter one
Dearly Departed
Written by
Leslie, CJ, Jules and Phil
*
Giles lifted the needle and carefully-very carefully, since he was drunk-set it back down at the beginning of "Stairway to Heaven." For the eighth time. Or was that the ninth? Didn’t matter, he thought. He liked the song, and listening to it again was less trouble than trying to find something else to fit his mood. Only slightly unsteady on his feet, he made his way back over to the couch and sat down heavily, topped off his glass-single-malt Scotch, thank you, none of that American swill from down south-and let himself slide back into self-recrimination.
Four months. It had been four months, and still he was mourning Buffy’s death, feeling the guilt of letting her die, as freshly as if it were yesterday. "Yesterday." There was a song he could get into right now. He thought about getting up and changing the record, but right now "she" was busy "buy-uy-ing guh stairway to heaven," so why mess with success?
He was a Watcher, and not a very good one. Or maybe too good a one. He’d watched-and Buffy had died. And now she was in heaven. Maybe. Given the way she’d died, painfully closing an inter-dimensional portal with her own blood, she-her soul, anyway-could be anywhere. He knew where the rest of her was, of course. Six feet underground, trapped and rotting in an airless coffin. As her headstone said, "She saved the world a lot." They might as well have added that she’d died doing it. The Slayer had found the one thing even she could not slay: death.
Bits of John Donne started running through his mind. "Death, be not proud" indeed. No comfort there, not when Death had won.
He thought about going down to the Magic Box. Maybe it would take his mind off things to see what was happening there. No, for one thing, he was too drunk to drive the "little two-door tramp" that was sitting in the garage right now. The memory of Buffy’s description of his car only served to plunge him deeper into depression.
He supposed he could ask Xander to come by in the Xandermobile and pick him up, but did he really want to hang around with all of Buffy’s friends, their very presence a constant reminder of the one person who was no longer there? It wasn’t even as if he was needed at the shop. Anya was doing just fine running the place; his own occasional appearances to establish his proprietary credentials had started to seem pointless, even to himself. He was the third wheel there and the third wheel everywhere else. Xander had Anya, Willow had Tara, and Dawn…? Dawn had everyone, actually, but even she had a Someone. Spike. Having failed to protect her on the night when the world almost ended, he was taking no chances now.
Strange to think of the onetime self-professed Big Bad as a babysitter, but then, Giles reflected, taking another swallow of Scotch, the world was a strange place. Place, he repeated silently. A place for everything and everything in its place. Except him. This wasn’t his place anymore. He wasn’t sure he even had one, but if he did, it was back in England, not here in Sunnydale, where his Slayer was dead and her friends didn’t need an over-the-hill ex-librarian hanging around, getting in the way.
Lord, he was getting maudlin, he thought, taking off his glasses and wiping the suddenly fogged lenses. But, as they said, in vino veritas, and the veritas was plain. He didn’t belong here anymore.
It was time to go home.
**
The front door to the Summers house burst open, and Dawn fled for the stairs as if being chased by a demon. Instead, she was followed into the house by Willow and Tara.
“That’s not what I said,” a very frustrated Willow pleaded with her lover.
“But its what you meant,” Tara responded.
“No, it’s not. If I wanted to say, ‘You’re not one of us,’ I would have said ‘You’re not one of us.” Willow’s eyes shone with desperation, “Please, honey, can we just drop this for a while, forget I opened my big talky mouth?” The redhead gave a hopeful smile, but that faded with her girlfriend’s response.
“No. We can’t just forget this. This i-is a problem, Willow. You think I can’t understand you and your friends’ pain over losing Buffy.”
“They’re your friends, too. Do you really think everyone just lets you tag along because you’re my girlfriend? You’re not Cordelia.”
“But you’ve made it perfectly clear lately that there’s no way I could possibly understand your grief. You know, it’s not as if I’ve never lost anyone close to me before.”
Willow, feeling very hurt, replied, “I never said you had to. I know about your mother and how much that must have hurt. But I’ve never lost anyone like this before, and I can’t handle it. The closest I’ve ever come to losing someone is Oz.”
Tara’s face had been softening until Willow uttered that last word. Willow realized her faux pas almost before she finished saying his name. That had been a big sore spot between the two lately. It wasn’t Oz in particular, just any man Willow spoke of.
Willow had been so excited when Xander and Anya told them about the engagement. She had gone on and on about how happy she was for them, and how great their wedding was going to be. Tara knew that she and Willow could never have a traditional marriage ceremony surrounded by friends and family, and that hurt her. She worried that Willow’s new interest in marriage would lead her to want a more conventional relationship. Then where would she herself be left? She loved Willow and her friends. She had just started to feel like maybe they were her friends, too. They always tried their hardest to make her feel like one of the group. But Tara knew whose side they would all take if anything were to happen between her and her girlfriend.
Before Tara could say anything, Willow began to apologize. “Oh, I can’t believe I just said that. Baby, that’s not what I meant. Why do I keep saying everything so wrong? I wish there was some spell I could do to just take back this whole conversation.”
The look on Tara’s face became even more upset. “Because that’s what you do now. Every time there’s a problem, you try to fix it with magic. No matter how powerful or dangerous that magic is.”
“What are you talking about?” Willow acted surprised, but her eyes had the look of a child that had just been caught with a hand in the cookie jar.
The denial enraged Tara even more, “You think I don’t know what you’re doing? That I don’t know about the books you read at the magic shop every day and hide whenever you hear someone coming? That I don’t know what those books are about? And for Goddess’s sake, I do know what an Urn of Osiris is for.”
Willow tried to interject. “But” was as far as she could get.
“Willow, you’re trying to resurrect Buffy!”
Willow started sobbing and let it all out, “She was my best friend. She’s saved my life so many times, and I couldn’t save her. I was supposed to be her big gun. I wasn’t even a pointy stick. Buffy died because I wasn’t powerful enough.”
Tara’s anger had turned to sympathy, and now she held her lover, letting her cry on her shoulder. “Shh, honey, you tried your hardest. There’s nothing else you could have done. I’m sure that wherever she is right now she’s proud of you for all you did.”
Willow looked at her girlfriend with desperation in her eyes. “But I need her. Without her, I would have been turned into a skanky, leathery vampire. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me without her.”
As Willow began to cry again, Tara cupped her girlfriend’s face in her hands and lifted her head so that they were looking into each other’s eyes. She wiped away one of Willows tears. “You’re going to hurt for a long time. You’re going to think about her a lot, and that’s going to hurt, too. But then you’ll begin to remember her for all the great things she did, and it will start to not hurt so much. It’ll get better. And she’ll always be in your heart, in her own special Buffy place.”
Willow gave a small smile, and Tara continued. “And that may not be as good as having her here, but that’s all there is. You can’t bring her back. Even if you could, it would mess up the natural order of things. You know that.”
“I know.” Willow sounded resigned. “It’s so hard, though. I can’t even grieve for her, because every time I turn around, I see her face smiling that stupid smile, and for just a second my heart gets all ‘ooh, it’s really Buffy,’ but then my brain reminds it that she’s dead and we’re using Spike’s sex-bot in her place. And then my mind inevitably comes up with mental pictures of what Spike has done with this thing that’s supposed to be Buffy, and it’s all too yuck.”
At that Tara couldn’t help but giggle a little.
Willow looked at her in horror. “It’s not funny. This is what I go through every minute of every day. This is what you don’t understand.”
“But, Will, I…” She stopped herself, looked at the front door and then back at Willow, “I think we both need some time right now, and I’ve got some things I need to do for class. I’ll be back later tonight, ok?” Willow nodded, and Tara kissed her on the cheek and walked out the door.
As the door closed, Willow fell into a lump on the couch and started to cry again. Her tears subsided as she briefly looked up and spotted a picture on the wall. She walked over and reached her hand to it. It was of the seven best friends in the Magic Box the night of the battle with Glory. Tara was sitting there in her pajamas, totally out of it. Xander and Anya had an odd glimmer of hope in their eyes. Giles looked as stoic as ever. She herself looked confident, even though she remembered being scared to death. Spike looked strangely serene, as if he had made peace with some part of himself. And then there was Buffy. Buffy looked worn out. It was clear that she was exhausted, yet at the same time she was so steadfast and determined. The visage that stared at Willow was a ghost of the Buffy they had always known, but now it was all they had. It had been Anya’s idea to take a picture of everyone once Buffy and Spike had returned from gathering more weapons. They’d all known why, even though nobody said it. It was in case they didn’t all make it. They could have something to remember their fallen friends by. But no one had thought Buffy would be the one they would lose. Afterwards, when the initial shock wore off, Anya had a copy made for each of them. Dawn had hers framed and had hung it here in their living room. She said that it made it seem like Buffy was still there, watching over her.
It was gut-wrenching to look at, Willow thought, but at the same time, it brought her peace. She could see the look in Buffy’s eyes, the exhaustion and the fear. Now that was all over for her. Her battle was won, her grand mission completed. She could be with her mother again. That though comforted Willow. She was sure Buffy was happy, wherever she was. The last few months of her life had been so overwhelming. Now Buffy could rest. But Willow still wanted her friend back. She remembered what she had seen in Buffy’s mind while she was in her catatonic state.
Buffy is sitting on a rock in the desert. It’s dark, and in front of her a large bonfire burns. On the other side is the first Slayer. She crouches and bobs back and forth. Then she eerily tells Buffy, “Death is your gift.”
“Death?” Echoes Buffy.
“Is you gift,” finishes the First.
“I wonder what kind of gift exchange policy The Powers have?” Willow wondered out loud.
“Willow.”
Willow jumped at the sudden sound of Dawn’s voice.
“Are you okay?” the young girl asked her Wiccan guardian.
“Oh, Dawn, you scared me.” Willow quickly wiped her face, hoping to conceal the fact that she’d been crying. She could tell by the look on Dawn’s face that it hadn’t worked.
Dawn didn’t say anything about it though. “I’m going to Sarah’s. Her mom invited me for dinner.”
“But, Dawnie, I thought I was going to cook dinner tonight.”
“I’m sorry, Willow, but I just don’t want to be here when it gets back.” The girl looked defiant.
Willow tried comforting her. “It couldn’t have been that bad.”
It was a lie, though. Last night’s PTA meeting had been a fiasco.
“No, it was worse.” Dawn had so much anger in her eyes
. Willow knew it wasn’t really anger at the bot. The poor girl was angry with the world. The world that had taken both her mother and her sister from her in a few short months. The world where her father couldn’t be found, so she had to live with her dead sister’s two lesbian witch friends and a robot look-alike of said dead sister, built long ago to be a sex toy by the only real friend she had left, who was, of course, an evil soulless vampire. The world had not been kind to Dawn.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t fix the programming better.” Willow looked at her sadly.
“It’s all right. You did what you could.”
They exchanged a knowing look. They all hated that thing, but it was the only way for Dawn to stay with them.
“Well, I better get going. You know how Sarah’s mom is. All into eating dinner on time and stuff.”
“Okay. Be careful. And don’t be out too late, it’s a school night. Ooh, and if it’s dark when you’re coming home, make sure you have her mom give you a ride. Or call me. And...” Willow was cut off by the sound of the door slamming shut behind Dawn. “And when you get to his crypt, tell Spike I said ‘hi’,” she finished. How naïve did Dawn think she was? “I wonder if Dawn even knows a ‘Sarah’,” she thought out loud.
Just then the door from the garage swung open and the Buffy-Bot all but skipped into the house. “Hi, Willow.” It beamed its picture-perfect smile at her, “How are you this evening?” Before Willow even had a chance to respond it asked, “Where’s Dawn?”
“She’s eating dinner at her friend Sarah’s house,” Willow replied.
The Bot looked perplexed. “She eats there a lot. Common courtesy indicates that we should have Sarah over here to eat soon.”
Willow almost chuckled at the thought. “Sarah has some strange eating habits. I don’t think she eats anything you can cook.”
That confused the Bot even more.
Willow stood, turned and started up the stairs. “I’ve got some studying type stuff to do. If I don’t see you before you go, have a good patrol tonight.”
***
"Anya, I said no!"
"I think ruffles are sexy." Anya pouted, smoothing a crease on Xander's tux.
"You would," he teased. "Seriously, Ahn…I'm not going to wear a poo-brown tux with ruffles to our wedding," he replied, staring critically at his reflection in the tiny fitting room mirror.
"All right, so I'm not a fan of the color, either. But those ruffles…" Anya's hand played with the material of his shirt. "This is better than when you were shirtless and digging at Thanksgiving."
"Look, we have plenty of time between now and the wedding. I can find another tuxedo that makes me look just as sexcellent…" Xander brushed a lock of hair out of Anya's eyes. "And we can save the ruffles for the honeymoon."
Xander leaned in slightly, planning to kiss her. He stopped when he saw the pained expression in her eyes. "Ahn?"
"Guilt," Anya replied. "Once again, there's tons of it, and it's weighing me down."
She plopped down on the fitting room bench, avoiding Xander's gaze. Slowly, he pulled off the brown tux jacket and unbuttoned the top of his frilly shirt. Sitting next to her, he asked "What do you feel guilty about?"
"Just about everything. I'm so happy we're getting married, but I hated having to tell people after Buffy died. They all congratulated us, but it didn't seem right…being so happy when everyone else is sad." she glanced at Xander. "And I am sad. It hurts a lot thinking about Buffy, and it’s even worse when I look at the Bot."
"I miss her, too. A lot. We all do," he answered. "She died for us, and that's a hell of a lot to take in." His hand covered hers. "I know it's difficult. Sometimes I'll see something real funny and want to tell Buffy. When I realize I can't tell her anymore, it rips me up inside." His voice broke, and Anya squeezed his hand.
"It's confusing," she added. "Death is a horrible, painful thing. I don't like it. I don't like how I can talk to Buffy one day, then attend her burial the next. When Joyce died, I didn't know how to react...I still don't. Is there even a right way?"
Xander shook his head. "We all deal differently."
Anya caught his eye. "Help me," she pleaded. "Help me survive this."
"Always," he pledged, leaning in once more to kiss her and succeeding this time. After a moment he pulled away, flashing her a smile before standing up.
"Have you noticed the weirdness between Will and Tara lately?" he asked, removing the tacky tux.
"You mean the tension so thick I could cut it with a knife?" Anya thought for a moment. "That is, of course, if tension was tangible." Xander glanced at her, waiting for an answer. "Yes, I have noticed. Who hasn't?"
"It's just…" he paused, putting on the green sweater he’d come in with, "One more thing to think about." He slipped on his pants. "I think the last thing Dawn needs right now is for her guardians to be bickering all the time."
"She can always talk to Spike about it," Anya replied.
Xander rolled his eyes. "So in order to escape the trauma of living with a robot of her sister and two fighting witches, she seeks comfort with a vampire?" He opened the fitting room door, letting Anya walk out first, then following her out of the store and into the street.
"I don't think it's that bad," she responded. "Spike cares for Dawn. They have that whole brother-sister bond."
"I know," Xander admitted. "He does care for the her, but that still doesn't change the fact that she's had a difficult time this past summer."
"So has Spike," Anya added.
"So have all of us," Xander retorted bitterly.
Anya stopped walking abruptly and faced Xander. "Problem. You have one, and I don't like it. Is it about Spike? Because I thought you got over that a while ago."
“No. My problem’s not with Spike,” Xander replied. That was true. Xander had formed a truce of sorts with Spike since Buffy’s death.
The morning Buffy died, Spike had lost it. On the verge of hysterics, he’d tried to step into the sunlight. He’d wanted to stand over her as the flames engulfed his body, his ashes surrounding her. Giles had stopped him, grabbing Spike’s shoulders, throwing him to the ground. They had argued, Spike insisting he was to blame for Buffy’s death, until Xander had stepped in, trying to reason with him. Telling him it wasn’t his fault didn’t help; he just tried to push past Xander into the sun.
Xander had punched him at that point. It sent Spike flying off his feet, his head slamming harshly on the cement. Dazed and confused, Spike hadn’t put up much of a fight as Xander dragged him into the sewers and led him back to his crypt. As soon as they entered it, Spike had collapsed on the cold ground.
“Why, Harris?” he’d asked. “Why do you care what happens to me?”
“The last thing we need is to lose you, too,” Xander had replied. Suddenly remembering Buffy, he’d sunk to the floor next to Spike. His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “You can’t die. Not now.” He’d choked up, struggling to keep the tears from pouring. “You can’t die because we need you. We need you because Buffy’s dead.” Saying it out loud was what had done it. Xander had cried. Suddenly uncomfortable in front of Spike, he stood up and brushed the tears from his face. “Just promise me you won’t give up.” When Spike nodded, Xander headed out the door, but he’d made it only half way across the cemetery before his legs gave out and he found himself on the ground once more. Grief smothering him, this time he’d sobbed freely.
Part of him had expected Spike to give up, one way or another. When he hadn‘t, Xander’s respect for him grew. Now, months later, they got along much better.
“Well, if it’s not Spike, what is bothering you? You know I don’t like angry Xander," Anya reminded him.
"I'm sorry, all right? I’ve just been having a hard time lately."
"Tell me about it. I've read in self-help books that sharing your feelings helps you deal with them. It better work, because I spent a lot of money on that book and…"
"Everything. Everything's bothering me. I don't even know where to begin. Why don't we start with the Buffy Bot?" Xander ranted. "It's bad enough one of my closest friends died, but it's even worse to be reminded of it every day. I look at that…that thing, and no matter how much it looks like her or talks like her, I know it's not her. Just a shell…a cheap imitation of the great person she was." He started walking faster. "Then, two of my other friends are constantly at each other's throats, mainly because of Will's magic. That's another thing…Will. She's been my friend ever since I can remember, and I'm starting to worry about her."
"She's gotten very powerful," Anya agreed. "That's why they're fighting, right? Because Willow's getting too powerful?"
"I don't know. Neither of them wants to talk about it, and I don't blame them. I don't want to talk about this anymore either," Xander finished, rubbing his eyes.
A thick silence surrounded them, the hot sun beating down harshly. The awkward pause grew, as pedestrians walked by without giving so much as a glance in their direction.
Anya took a step forward, closing the gap between their bodies. She pulled Xander into a fierce hug, clutching him and refusing to let go. "I’m sorry. I’m sorry things have been so rough lately, and it hurts me to see you suffer. I know I can't change what's happened, but there's one thing I can do… support you." She pulled away from the bear hug, cupping his face. "I'm going to be your wife. I will be there when you wake up and right by your side when you fall asleep. When your world crumbles, or something dark is tugging on your soul, I'll be ready to listen. I'm not just Anya anymore…I’m a part of you, too. So when you're wounded, I’ll be prepared with plenty of emotional Band-Aids.”
Xander grinned at Anya’s choice of words.
“I’m going to be Mrs. Xander Harris, beside you through thick and thin, sickness and health, rich or poor. As long as I’m around, you’ll never have to go through anything alone. Pain, anger, sadness, hatred…I’ll help you. Always.”
To Xander’s surprise, Anya’s speech had moved him deeply. “Thanks.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” Anya insisted
“No, Ahn. I do. Thank you. Thank you for reminding me why I’m marrying you; why I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” Xander’s hands found hers, and he held them firmly. “I love you.”
Anya, close to tears herself, whispered the words back and met Xander’s lips for a short but sweet kiss.
Hands still joined, they continued down the busy street, blanketed by a comfortable silence. Anya, of course, was the one to break it.
“I still like that frilly tux,” she persisted.
Xander groaned in protest. “I’m not changing my mind. Brown ruffles are definitely out!”
Anya pouted playfully. “You won’t consider it at all?”
“Never! I’ve already forgotten it exists,” he replied lightly.
“Fine,” Anya sighed, defeated. “You’re right. We shouldn’t even be thinking about tuxedos yet. We have plenty of time for that.”
Xander nodded. “Exactly.”
“What we should focus on are the invitations.”
“Oh, man!” He had totally walked into that one and hadn’t even realized it.
Anya grinned mischievously. “I saw some absolutely gorgeous ones the other day. They had classy calligraphy lettering and embossed roses. I want them.”
“How much were they?” he asked. They sounded nice; Anya must have better taste in invitations then tuxedos.
She sighed. “Too much. So I thought maybe we could buy one invitation and try and find some spell to duplicate it.”
“Ahn, they’re not going to print up only one invitation.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” Xander reasoned, “if they did that people could just photocopy them, and…“
“Xander! You’re a genius! Who needs magic when there’s a copy place down the street?” Anya was getting excited. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”
Xander decided not to tell Anya just then, that he didn’t want photocopied invitations.
“We can use such fancy wording, too! This is going to be great,” she stated. “We agreed on an outdoor wedding, didn’t we?”
“No,” Xander corrected. “We considered it. We didn’t choose one or the other.”
“True. But you know what I just thought of?”
“What?”
“We haven’t even talked about the most important part of our wedding.” Anya looked troubled. “I was waiting for the right time to bring it up, and now’s as good a time as any.”
“Okay,” Xander replied, trying to think of what could possibly be so serious. He could have sworn they already discussed the major details.
Anya faced him and stared very seriously into his eyes. “Our wedding cake. Do you want chocolate or vanilla?”
“Well, I…“ he began.
“And we have to get those little people to put on top of the cake. Aren’t those customary? I’d like to have a mini-us on our wedding cake.”
Xander laughed. It had been an extremely long time since he had laughed. It felt wonderful; in fact just, being around Anya lifted his spirits.
He was looking forward to the wedding already.
****
She came to him again, as she did so often these days, her long, golden hair cascading down her neck and smelling of freshly picked lilacs. How beautiful she is, he thought to himself as she glided toward him. How utterly perfect. And just when it seemed to him that she couldn’t be any more lovely, she smiled at him, that devastating, glorious smile that had always reminded him of the midday sun. It had been a long time since he had seen the real thing, but now he basked in the warm glow of her, the scent...the heat. He allowed himself to smile back at her, a weak pathetic thing by comparison, but it was all he had to offer her as he reveled in her beauty. Suddenly he felt ashamed that he was so close to her, that something so vital, so pure, would be sullied by his unclean gaze. Who was he to look at her this way? What was he? Nothing. Evil. Twisted, corrupt, and evil. A vampire.
He tried to back away, but she was still coming toward him, no longer the figure of desire that she had been but now changed into something frightening. She was still fiercely beautiful beyond his capacity for words, but the warmth was gone, replaced by the cold, battle hardened features of the warrior that she was. She was the Slayer, the awesome killer of the undead, the destroyer of all that was unholy in the world, and she was coming for him. He was running now, desperately seeking an escape from her wrath. Try as hard as he might, though, there was no escape. Everywhere he turned, she was always there, always accusing, always asking the same questions.
“Why didn’t you protect her, Spike? I counted on you to protect her. Why didn’t you save her? Why did you let me die?”
He didn’t answer her. He never did. He couldn’t. There was nothing to say. None of the clever retorts that he had never seemed to lack when she had been alive came to his undead lips now. She had trusted him with the most precious thing in the world, the one thing that she had treasured above all else. Her sister. Dawn. He had promised that he would defend her until the end of the world...and he had failed her.
On cue, he found himself back on the tower facing the demonic creature known to him only as Doc. He watched helplessly as the demon plunged his knife into the girl, twisting it hideously and cackling with maniacal glee. She screamed, blood flowing everywhere at once, dripping down her legs and forming vast puddles that threatened to drown him. Her blood was everywhere now, at his feet, in his mouth...on his hands. As the blood poured out of her body, she continued to scream, his name a curse on her innocent young lips. He cringed as it became an unbearable chorus of despair. Spike. Spike. Spike.
“Spike?”
He woke to find himself lying on the cold marble slab that he used as a bed, staring up at the very worried face of Dawn Summers. He groaned as he sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. Bloody hell, he thought to himself, how much more of this can I take?
“Morning, Niblet,” was what he actually said. “How was school today?”
The girl looked at him carefully and, with obvious concern in her voice, replied “Are you okay? I mean, you look like hell and all...”
“Yeah, I’m ok, luv, honestly. Could do with a cigarette, though. There’s a pack of smokes in my coat, if you’d be so kind.”
Nodding, she put down her backpack and grabbed his black leather duster from its perch atop his battered recliner and quickly rummaged through the pockets while he tried to pull himself together. The dreams were coming more frequently now-almost every night, in fact-and growing more and more vivid. He had never cared much for sleeping anyway, but now the very thought of slipping into unconsciousness terrified him. He fought it with every fiber of his being, but eventually he would feel himself sliding toward oblivion, and then a new round of horrors would begin. Dawn finally found the package of fags and tossed it to him.
“Damn” He muttered. “Only three left.”
“You shouldn’t smoke so much. It’s really not good for you...” Then she smiled as she realized the absurdity of lecturing a vampire on the perils of lung cancer.
It was good to see her smile, he reflected. She so rarely did it anymore. None of them did. Not since that terrible day. Had it been four months already? It seemed like only yesterday, but then again, since he had existed for nearly a century and a half as both human and vampire, he supposed four months was nothing in the grand scheme of things.
“Anyway,” she continued, “it’s not morning, it’s almost five in the afternoon. I’ve been out of class for a couple of hours now. And for your information, school sucks, and I’m never going again.”
She plopped down unceremoniously onto the recliner, a particularly bitter expression clouding her otherwise pretty face. Spike sighed. He had a fairly good idea what the problem was going to end up being, but he felt obligated to ask anyway.
“Ok, pet, what’s bothering you now? And it’s still morning to me. Sundown isn’t for over an hour yet. I’m a vampire, remember?”
“Gee, grumpy, much? What do you think’s bothering me, Spike? Huh? It’s that stupid thing again. It humiliated me in front of a bunch of people at school last night, you know at that PTA thing Willow and Tara made me go to-with it. A bunch of kids were laughing at me today at lunch hour. I hate it, Spike. I just hate it.”
While she spoke, she had been getting increasingly agitated. Spike took a drag off his cigarette but said nothing. Not a lot for him to say, really. He knew exactly what she was talking about, just as he knew without a doubt that it was all his fault. Not for the first time, he wished he had never met that bloody little wanker Warren or forced the nerdy computer genius into doing what he had done. But he had been desperate then. So bitterly lonely and rejected that he had come to the mad conclusion that if he couldn’t win the love of the woman of his dreams, then he would replicate her. Create a perfect woman out of nothing but wires, metal and plastic. Or something like that, anyway. Spike’s Victorian-era mind was incapable of grasping even the most basic concepts of 21st century robotics. All he knew was that it had worked. She had looked like Buffy Anne Summers. She had even sounded like her- well, a much chirpier version of her-but what was important was that she had felt like her. She had loved him and catered to his every whim, no matter how sick or twisted. She had been perfect in every way. Except for one. She wasn’t Buffy, could never be Buffy. It had all been a colossal mistake, just another in a series of Spike-initiated disasters, which he now regretted more than he could possibly express.
What really bothered him was that he knew this wasn’t actually about anything the bot had done or said at the Niblet’s school. It was her continued presence in all their lives that was the issue. As long as she existed, she made them face the undeniably harsh truth that the real Buffy Summers was dead; and had been since late May. It was killing all of them an inch at a time, just as if it were some form of cancer or another terminal disease. Even Spike, who had been technically dead for well over a century, could hardly stand to look at it without feeling an immense sense of loss and grief. And guilt, he thought. Never forget the guilt.
He knew that the others didn’t blame him for what had happened that night. Not really. They had been too lost in their own oceans of pain to point fingers at him. And if he looked at it logically, he was forced to admit that there wasn’t much he could have done to stop Doc from cutting Dawn and starting the ritual that had opened the portals to all the other dimensions. Doc had been a powerful demon, much too strong for any one vampire, even Spike. But grief and guilt were never logical; and Spike felt both with an intensity he had not experienced since his transformation into a vampire all those many decades ago.
“So what exactly did she say that was so bloody terrible?” He knew it wasn’t important, but he felt as if he had to say something to her.
“She... it...” To Dawn, the bot was always “it”. “It got up and told everybody in the room that I was a virgin.”
She said it with such a sense of exaggerated horror that he almost choked on the cigarette he still had in his mouth. As it was, he burst out laughing, which only succeeded in making her more angry.
“It’s not funny, Spike,” she fumed at him in the imperious manner she had clearly inherited from her older sister.
“Sorry, sweetie but it really kind of is.” He paused for a moment. “Er, you are, right? Still a you know...”
“Ewww, how can you even ask me that? As if. Besides, it’s none of your business.” As she said that, she gave him the American version of the old two-fingered salute, which in this benighted country consisted of an extended middle finger.
Spike shook his head in exasperated fascination. Sitting there, with her caught simultaneously in fits of anger, grief and utter heartbreaking charm, he realized how precious this girl had become to him during the past year. She was so much like Buffy but at the same time...not. Only a few weeks past her fifteenth birthday, she had her older sister’s charm and wit, and was definitely showing signs of developing the same breathtaking beauty that characterized the Summers women, not just the two sisters but their mother, as well. He felt another twinge of sadness at that thought, remembering how much he had always liked Joyce. She was gone, too, struck down by a burst blood vessel in her brain, only scant months before Buffy’s own tragic death.
It’s not bloody fair, he thought bitterly. The lil bit’s been through more sodding havoc than entire countries should have to deal with. And yet she seemed to be handling it better than the rest of them, at least on the surface. Spike, perhaps because he had so recently been accepted into their ranks, could clearly see that the Scoobies were slowly but surely coming apart at the seams. Willow was increasingly preoccupied with her magical studies, leaving more and more of Dawn’s welfare in the hands of the bot, even though she knew better. It was also obvious that the other half of the Wiccan duo was less than thrilled about that, but Tara had always been a tough read for Spike. He had a distinct feeling that there was more to her than met the eye-much more, in fact-but it was nothing he could ever put a finger on. That daft Harris whelp and his less than subtle fiancée seemed to be coping well enough, but then again, they had each other to lean on, didn’t they? That left Giles. Old Rupert’s a broken man, Spike mused. Why shouldn’t he be, though? Buffy had been more than just a Slayer to him. She’d been his daughter in all but name, and her death had shaken him as much as it had Dawn, or Spike himself. Of course, that begged the question of why Spike even bothered to grieve for her at all. Why did he care?
After all, what exactly had he lost in comparison to the rest of them? She hadn’t been a daughter or a sister or even a close friend, until very recently. What had Buffy really been to him other than a continual pain in the backside that he had never been able to successfully eliminate? She was the only Slayer he had ever come across that he couldn’t beat, no matter how hard he tried. Eventually it had come to him, long after Drusilla, his sire and lover for decades, had left him precisely because she had seen it. William the Bloody, one of the most ruthless vampires in the history of the world, had fallen madly, passionately in love with a girl whose sole mission in life was to end his. Who did not, could not, ever love him back.
S’truth, he thought. Why don’t I just bloody well end it now and take a brisk walk in the sun. It’s still light out. It would all be over in a few seconds. No more pain or guilt. None of it. Just eternal rest. Well, either that or endless suffering in the blackest pits of hell, depending on your belief system. He sighed again. Who was he kidding? Buffy might be gone, but Dawn was still here. She still needed him.
“What are you, spacing out or something?” The anger in her voice snapped him out of his reverie.
“No, luv. I’ve heard every word you said. I just don’t know what you expect me to do about it.”
“Talk to Willow,” she pleaded. “Please. Get her to get it off my back. No. Tell her to shut the stupid thing off. I can’t take looking at it anymore. It’s not her, Spike. It will never be her, so why do we have to keep pretending it is? Why? Tell me why!”
She was sobbing, the tears flowing down her face and her voice cracking in grief. Spike’s heart, cold and dead as it was, broke at the sight. He walked over to the recliner, where she had curled herself into a ball.
“Shh, Dawn, please, you know I can’t do that. We need her. As long as she’s up and running, the rest of the nasties that lurk in the shadows will stay away. I’m sorry, pet I just can’t do it. I know how much it’s hurting you. Don’t you think I know that? I see the pain in your face. It’s tearing all our guts into bloody little ribbons, but it’s got to be done. To protect the rest of Sunnydale, whether the daft buggers appreciate it or not. It’s what Buffy would have wanted, you see. It’s what she stood for. We all have to honor that. Do you understand, Dawn? Do you see that?”
He’d spoken a little too harshly, he realized, when he saw the look of agonized horror on her face.
“Oh God,” she whimpered softly, the sound of her pain tearing entirely new chunks out of him. “I’m a stupid, selfish brat. I know that’s what Buffy would want, Spike, I really do. But it hurts. It... hurts ...so much, so much... I can’t stand it. When Mom died, I thought I was gonna die, too. I missed her so much. Buffy...Buffy made me see that we had to let her go, because that’s what Mom would have wanted. But now they’re both gone Spike, and I loved them more than anything in the world, and I just don’t think I can take it anymore.”
She was weeping openly now, so hard that her breath was coming in short gasps. Spike, not knowing what else to do, knelt down and took her in his arms. She instinctively reached out and grabbed him, throwing her arms around his neck and hugging him for dear life.
“I want my sister back, Spike. She shouldn’t have been the one to die. It should’ve been me.”
“No,” he whispered to her as gently as he could, the stinging in his eyes making him realize that he was crying, too. “Never, ever say that. This was not your fault, baby. Please, if you never believe another word I say, believe that.”
And somewhere, deep within himself, he made a decision.
“I swear, Dawnie, I’ll get her back. No matter what it takes, I’ll find a way to bring her back to you.”
She pulled her head back and stared at him for a long moment, as if trying to fully grasp the enormity of what he had just said. Then, instead of saying anything, she leaned in closely to him and kissed him on his lips, an exquisitely pure gesture devoid of anything but love. The intensity of it nearly blinded, him but he couldn’t bring himself to let go of her warmth. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she ended it, pulling back and resting her head on his shoulder.
They were still in that position when a very worried Tara came looking for them a few hours later.
*****
As she walked through the cemetery, the last on her list to patrol for this evening, she found herself thinking about the events of the past twenty-four hours. No matter how hard she tried, she could not understand why Dawn had been so upset with her. All she had done was state how proud she was that her little sister was not engaging in premarital sex. The fact that she had done it during a crowded PTA meeting in front of the majority of Dawn’s teachers, fellow students and their parents shouldn’t have bothered Dawn as much as it obviously did. As a matter of fact, she was becoming increasingly alarmed by Dawn’s continued acts of rebellion. The girl was constantly challenging her authority and creating friction within the household. Even Willow was starting to lose patience with her. Of course lately Willow seemed to be losing patience with everybody, so that might not mean too much. It was all just so puzzling.
She continued to check between the headstones in the older and more overgrown part of the cemetery, but there was little sign of any unusual activity tonight. Just as well, she thought to herself. She’d been feeling rather tired lately, a bit worn down. She’d tried to mention it to Willow but her friend had been so busy these days that most of what anyone said to her seemed to go unnoticed. Now that she thought about it, all her friends seemed a bit distant lately. Oh, it wasn’t that they were rude or anything. Never that. It was just that they always seemed to be in a hurry to be somewhere else.
She stopped short as something moved past an old crypt on her right. Crouching down, she used her heightened senses to their full extent, and then nearly jumped out of her skin when a large alley cat went tearing through the underbrush, leaving the overgrown grass dancing noisily in the moonlight. She paused to regain her composure and found herself staring at the side of the crypt. She had seen hundreds of them in her lifetime, but these days they all seemed to remind her of one thing. A very special thing. Of all the strange things that had been happening during the past several months, the thing that bothered her most was the continued absence in her life of the man of her dreams. Scratch that, she thought. The vampire of her dreams. Spike.
He was still in Sunnydale, of course. She knew that Dawn still sneaked out to visit him in his crypt from time to time, but every time she had gone there to see him, he hadn’t been home. And on those rare occasions when he did visit the house, it was always to see Willow or Tara. He never came over unless she was out on an errand or patrolling. She pouted at that. She would have been jealous if not for the fact that her two Wiccan friends had been lovers for nearly two years. It just didn’t make any sense at all. She and Spike had been so close once, so loving. How could he continue to avoid her like this? He was her vampire, and she was his girl. His Slayer. His Buffy.
Blissfully unaware of her mechanical nature and having completed her final sweep of the night, the robot walked back toward the entrance of the cemetery. As she reached the main driveway that led out to the street, she suddenly found herself confronted by three fairly large male vampires. She knew they were vampires because they were all in game face, sporting long pointed fangs and slightly raised ridges on their foreheads. Well, that and the fact that they all smelled like they had been dead for at least six months. The first one charged toward her immediately, perhaps in the vain hope that he could catch her off-guard. If that was his plan, then he was about to get the worst shock of his unlife.
She sprang out of his way with ease and quickly plunged a wooden stake through his back and into his heart. As he burst into a cloud of dust, she did a flip over the heads of the two remaining creatures and landed behind them. Startled by her speed, they hesitated for just an instant before whirling around to face her. That brief delay proved to be fatal, as she pulled another stake from her boot with her right hand and drove it into one vampire’s chest, at the same time hurling the other stake at his partner with her left. Both stakes hit their targets with a sickening crunch that was immediately followed by the inevitable crumbling into piles of vampiric dust.
“Geez,” she said out loud to no one in particular. “That was too easy. We really need to get a better class of vampire around here.”
“You really think so?” replied a voice out of nowhere.
Suddenly the bot was surrounded by a small army of vampires, at least ten of them, who had all seemed to materialize out of the darkness in an instant.
“Well then,” continued the speaker, a thin, dark-haired woman in a flowing red dress who was obviously the leader. “Let’s see how you handle us.”
******
Her name was Clarissa and, despite her relative youth, at least as the undead measured it, she was a fairly accomplished vampire. A very minor film star during Hollywood’s silent era, she had been turned in the late 20’s and had spent the intervening decades haunting the seedy underbelly of America’s movie industry. These days, though, it was hard to tell the difference between the seedy underbelly and the respectable mainstream. It was all sleazy, and for a vampire to admit that, there had to be something wrong somewhere. She’d lived in the sewers and back alleys of North Hollywood for years, but lately she had been becoming more and more discontented with the living conditions in the greater Los Angeles area. It just wasn’t the same anymore.
It was the people, of course. The time was when the buses would be loaded with fresh-faced young kids, right out of the heartland, all corn-fed, looking to make their fortunes and just ripe for the plucking. No longer, though. The continuous corporate downsizing that had attended the studio mergers in the 80’s and 90’s had managed to have an effect on nearly the entire population of Los Angeles. It was a wonder there was anything left of the film industry, and, as in all one-industry towns, everybody made a living off of the movies one way or another, even the vampires.
Especially the vampires, she had thought to herself grimly as she watched her beloved hunting grounds become havens for thousands of Central American immigrants, while at the same time, the handful of undead overlords who ruled the City of Angels continued to prosper and feed at will, leaving lesser beings like Clarissa to fight one another over the scraps. It just wasn’t fair. Besides, she had always detested Mexican food. It gave her gas.
So, some time ago, she had decided to try her luck in a smaller venue, somewhere up north. Sunnydale had seemed to be the logical choice. It was quiet but large enough to support the small number of vampires she had surrounded herself with over the years. Best of all, it was located directly on top of a Hellmouth, always a good sign. There was, of course, one very big catch. Sunnydale, California, was home to the one thing that chilled most vampires to the very core of their undead bones. The Slayer.
Clarissa had been hearing about this particular Slayer for years. She’d first surfaced in L.A. in the mid 90’s and had since proved to be a colossal pain in the ass for all of demon-kind. The rumors were that she was the best that had ever lived. That she was unstoppable. Unkillable. That very concept intrigued Clarissa to no end. She had never met a human who couldn’t be killed. Not if you applied the right kind of pressure. And over the last several months, she had thought of all sorts of interesting ways to squeeze. Now the girl that she had come all this way to meet was standing directly in front of her, waiting to meet her fate.
She was a luscious little thing, too. Not quite what she had expected, but certainly agreeable to her discerning palate. Small, blonde, extraordinarily pretty, and obviously very healthy. It was almost a shame she wouldn’t be able to turn her. She might be fun to play with for a century or two. But Clarissa had already planned this encounter and letting the Slayer walk away, in any form, was just not in the cards. She motioned to the vampires closest to the girl to hem her in, to keep her off balance, while Clarissa made her move. These particular vampires were a couple of the small group of local minions she had recently recruited to her cause. They were a pathetic lot, these Sunnydale vampires. When she had arrived in town a few weeks ago with her small clutch, she had been disgusted to find that they had been living almost entirely on a diet of rats, sometimes supplemented by the odd house pet or two. They hid in their crypts and cellars by day, and skulked through the shadows at night, never daring to challenge the fearsome killer of the undead. The vampire slayer known as...
“So tell me, my dear,” she practically purred at the girl. “Exactly what type of anti-depressants was your mother on when she named you Buffy?”
The four members of her clutch grinned at her. Clarissa was notorious for playing with her food. The five Sunnydale vampires simply looked sullenly from the slayer back to their new master, unsure as to who was going to get the upper hand.
“Oh, I don’t know,” shot back the girl, “probably the same ones that you were on when you picked out that dress.”
Clarissa detected no fear coming from the Slayer. As a matter of fact, her usually uncanny olfactory senses were picking up nothing at all. Strange, that. Still, she had never actually faced a Slayer before, so anything was possible. She continued on.
“Aren’t you a little worried that you’re slightly outmatched here, Slayer?”
The reply was curt. “I might ask you the same question.”
Clarissa actually laughed out loud at that. “My, my what an absolutely charming little creature you are. But I think you’re forgetting something here, my dear.”
The Slayer remained unfazed, continually looking for a point of attack while she considered her next response.
“And what’s that, exactly?” The girl fairly spat the words back into the vampire’s face.
“I have you outnumbered ten to one and completely surrounded.” As if on cue, the vampires closed in on their prey, taking care to stay as far out of staking range as possible.
The Slayer snorted in contempt at this revelation. “And you’re obviously forgetting that you’re dealing with a vampire slayer.”
As she uttered the words, the girl launched herself full-bore at Clarissa. The other L.A. vampires immediately moved to intercept her, but they needn’t have bothered. Half way through the charge, the Slayer executed a nearly perfect somersault, obviously attempting to land on the other side of the ever-closing ring of vampires. Nearly perfect. For whatever reason, the girl missed her mark and was swatted down by one of the Sunnydale vamps, who had been lurking on the edge of the circle. The Slayer went crashing down on top of him, and then as she rolled off, rammed a stake into his heart with a flawless backhand thrust.
“Very impressive, said Clarissa as the vampire exploded. She was smiling sweetly when she followed up with “but I’m afraid it’s you that forgot one tiny but important little detail, sweetie.”
The girl refused to comment, obviously trying to deny the vampire the full pleasure of her defeat. She was still trying to maneuver, to somehow salvage a victory, no matter how small, from this battle. Realizing that this was the closest she was going to come to a response from her prey, Clarissa sighed.
“You forgot the one eternal truth that plagues all of mankind,” she stated bluntly. “That no human is bullet-proof. Not even a vampire slayer.”
With that, Clarissa pulled out the semi-automatic pistol she had been carrying in a holster on her leg and emptied the entire magazine into the young woman.
“Well, you can’t say I didn’t warn the stupid little ho, can you?” she said to the vampires standing closest to her. She felt flushed with victory. Her first time out against a Slayer and it had been an almost flawless kill. She was almost giddy with relief and power. She was so nearly overcome with pleasure, in fact, that it took her a moment to realize that none of the other vampires were sharing in her obvious joy.
“What’s the matter with you idiots?” she demanded, “Haven’t you ever seen a vampire use a gun before?”
When one of the Sunnydale vamps, clearly almost in shock, pointed to where the slayer was lying, Clarissa turned to look for herself. What she saw nearly staggered her.
“What the...?” was all she managed to get out.
The slayer was moving. She wasn’t moving very fast, but she was definitely crawling along the ground. And there was something clearly not right about her. Well, in addition to the fact that she had just had fifteen bullets pumped into her stomach at point blank range that is. She appeared to be giving off some sort of electricity. Clarissa, now totally confused, cautiously edged toward the damaged, but still possibly dangerous girl. No, something was really not right here. Where was the sweet smell of freshly spilled blood? She was obviously leaking something from the gaping bullet wounds in her stomach, though. The vampire reached down and touched some of the fluid with her fingertips and then quickly pulled them back in pain.
“Acid!” she yelped. Acid? What kind of freak had acid for blood? Visions of Aliens quickly filled her mind. She had seen every single movie in the series at least twice. Even that really dumb one with Wynona Rider. Alien Resurrection. Oh, please.
One of the local vamps had worked up enough courage to approach the thing, for thing it appeared to be, and now he turned it over on its back. A collective gasp went up from the assembled bloodsuckers. Clarissa was, characteristically, the first one to recover her power of speech.
“The slayer’s a robot? Hey…”, she turned to a couple of the locals, “did any of you guys know the slayer was a robot?” When they all shook their heads negatively, she sighed.
“Well, don’t that beat all?” When they remained stationary, she barked out “Don’t just stand there, morons”. And then in her best Bruce Davidson as Willard voice, “Tear it up!”
The four remaining Sunnydale vampires, finally realizing that the person they had feared all this time was not only helpless but nothing more than a machine, went at it with gusto, pulling apart limbs and stomping moving parts into unmoving junk.
Clarissa soon tired of the fun. It had still been a good night, but now she was completely puzzled. How long had that thing been posing as the Slayer? More importantly, had there ever been a Slayer? Turning the idea over in her mind, she came to a quick conclusion and called Terry over. Terry was her current paramour and had been with her for a number of years now. She had first met him at a Vincent Price film festival at UCLA in 1965. He had been her favorite ever since. He put his arm around her shoulders and nuzzled her neck. She purred a bit at that. Slaughter, even of non-humans, never failed to arouse her. She turned around and kissed him lightly on his lips.
After moment she pulled back and asked him, “You know what this means, don’t you?”
“Uh, Silicon Valley’s made a lot more headway in robotics than we were led to believe by that article in ‘Newsweek’?”
She slapped him playfully across his cheek. “Well, that, too.” She smiled at him, a wicked smile full of cunning and blood.
“It means, my dear, that somebody put that thing here to scare us off. As if we’re a bunch of stupid crows. Which also means there is no real Slayer. She’s gone, probably dead. Maybe has been for a while now. Which means that Sunnydale is an open town again.”
Hah, she thought to herself. So much for the invincible Buffy Summers.
She looked at Terry with unadulterated lust in her eyes.
“Tell ya what, lover,” she said “Lets go out and find somebody to eat.”
Arm in arm, they strolled down the walkway to the street, flanked by the rest of her followers.
“ Oh yeah”, she chuckled softly, “I think I’m really gonna like it here in the ‘burbs.’
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