Buffy wasn’t worried about whatever it was that had happened in Dawn’s room—not at the moment. It seemed wrong not to worry about it—like she was being a bad sister—but long experience had taught her that lying awake worrying did nothing.
They’d deal with it in the morning. All of them, Willow and Buffy and Xander and Giles. And Spike, too. For the moment Dawn was safe, and Buffy could relax and sleep.
Or not.
The house was quiet, and Buffy was alone. She was in her big shiny room, which had been decorated by an interior designer, and unlike her room at home—her room in Sunnydale, all vacant and ashy and hole-in-the-groundy—it didn’t have posters of New Kids on the Block, or butterflies, or even Mr. Gordo, whom she’d neglected to pack. He’d been left in her little girl room with all the other reminders of childhood. With all her everything. All she had left of that life were a few pictures of her mom, her claddagh ring, and her “Class Protector” umbrella. Well, and a change of clothes and a pair of kick-ass boots. She did need her butt-kicking boots. One pair just wasn’t enough.
She’d thought about packing her yearbooks, and her crown from the prom at Hemery, and the volume of poetry Angel gave her, and realized that it was all too much. She would have been hauling a suitcase, not traveling light with a backpack.
They’d all left Sunnydale traveling light.
At the back of her closet was a duffel bag with a few things of Spike’s. He’d packed it before the big battle; they all packed a small bag or a backpack. They hadn’t known the town was going to collapse—they hadn’t known what was going to happen—but they wanted to be careful. Just in case they weren’t all bitten, broken, or incinerated, it would be nice to have a change of clothes, right?
When they’d finally stopped at a fleabag motel, there were far more bags than survivors—a reminder of the ones who hadn’t made it out of Sunnydale. Xander had kept Anya’s bag, of course, and Giles had said they should send the Slayers’ things to their families. Their bags, accompanied by polite little notes telling them their daughters were dead.
She was going to take Spike’s bag, of course. She couldn’t just leave it there, like no one cared. It was cruel, and he deserved better.
And it would have been a lie. She cared. She’d fought it for months—years—but she cared. She admitted as much to Angel. Hell, she’d told Spike, even if he didn’t believe her.
Before she’d made a move towards it Spike’s bag, Xander just handed it to her. Like that. Like it was nothing. Like it was assumed.
Xander had grown up. She didn’t know when it had happened, but he was an amazing man. He’d always been special—loyal, brave. And when he handed her the bag, Buffy realized he’d gone right past her and become an adult.
She envied him.
She wasn’t an adult yet, she knew. She made excuses. She looked for hiding places. She gave orders and pretended she knew what she was doing.
She made promises about cookie dough and baking and giving her time and blah blah blabbity blah, because it was easier than saying goodbye to a dream. It was easier than wondering why her dreams, at twenty-two, were different than they had been at sixteen. When she’d fallen in love with Angel, she was young. Naïve. A child. She’d hardly lived, and hadn’t died.
Okay, once. She’d died once, but that one barely counted, right?
She’d been soft and hopeful and romantic. Of course she loved Angel, of course. He was dark and handsome and suave. He gave her deep looks that suggested so much, and told her only enough to make her want more. He was mysterious, a cipher.
She was just too damn old to want a cipher anymore.
Spike had never been a cipher. Before his soul, Spike could barely keep his mouth shut for three minutes at a time. I love you, I need you, I dream about you. I killed the head of the Larquor Clan on a dare, and didn’t even break a sweat. Billy Idol stole his look from me, miserable piker. And his version of “Mony Mony” bites, the sell-out. I knew the fellow who invented hot wings, and I drank him when he messed with the recipe. Fresh thyme, my ass. Once, in bed, she’d clapped a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet. He didn’t pull back, but she’d seen his eyes flare, and then dim.
God, she couldn’t even listen to him, could she? Just wanted him to do what he was supposed to and keep his mouth shut.
Suddenly Buffy hated herself. More than usual, she amended.
She should bring it to him, right? Give him his stuff. He’d want it, since he only had the clothes on his back now. Not that there was ever a lot of variety in his wardrobe, but he could at least change. And go through his stuff. Books, pictures, letters. He should have it. She should give it to him right now, and—god, she was pathetic. Who did she think she was fooling? “Here, Spike, I thought you couldn’t wait five hours for your bag. By the way, can I come in?”
It was ridiculous, him in the room across the hall. That wasn’t where he wanted to be—right? He always wanted to be with her. It made him happy. She wasn’t sure when it started making her happy, too.
No, that wasn’t right, she knew exactly. It was when she couldn’t stand to be around any of the rest of them. When she’d come back and wished she hadn’t, and everybody looked at her with expectation. Except Spike. But then Riley came back, and she came to her senses.
After the bathroom—after Spike attacked her—she never imagined he could be something to her. Their relationship was wrong, twisted. Unnatural. But when the First took him from her basement she’d known she was kidding herself. What they had was twisted and unnatural, but it wasn’t wrong. It couldn’t be.
She wouldn’t let it be.
***
Spike stared at the ceiling. Damned unpleasant night, if anyone asked him. Of course, no one would. Creepy thing wearing his skin and bothering Dawn? Sounded just like Sunnydale, no matter what Buffy said. He planned to keep an ear open to make sure Dawn wasn’t interfered with during the night.
All in all, a hell of a homecoming.
Not that he’d had a bad reception, really. Everyone had been quite civil, excepting Rupert, who was still on the stiff side. ‘Course, he was probably born on the stiff side—he probably found public school to be too unstructured. Hoped they’d add in a little more discipline, find stronger canes for punishments and all; didn’t do when they broke, right? Self-righteous sod.
She’d touched his face. Gently, sweetly. Kindly.
Not romantically.
He wasn’t sure he wanted it if it wasn’t romantic.
What the hell was he doing here anyway? He was drawn to her, helpless. It wasn’t a great feeling, but he couldn’t stop himself. He’d always been love’s bitch, and she liked him to feel her foot on his neck. What could he do? Go away and pretend Buffy didn’t exist? Pretend he didn’t love her? Pretend he gave a hang about the rest of the world, when all he could think of was whether she was looking at him, whether the smile reached her eyes when she looked at him, whether she leaned close when they were talking?
God, he really was a pathetic bastard, wasn’t he?
Why he’d even come to this cookie-cutter suburb, anyway? For a woman who didn’t love him? No, she loved him, he reminded himself. Of course, she didn’t say “You’re the love of my life and have eradicated the memory of what’s-his-name from my mind,” or give him a great big kiss along with the love. In fact, it was a damned non-specific declaration of love, to his mind; she might have said the same thing to Harris. And he was so exhilarated, and so frightened, to feel the cleansing burn of his soul as it blazed through the cavern, that the moment, which he would have treasured and nursed along in his memory any other time, was pushed aside in his rush to save Buffy. To save Buffy, and finally die a hero.
It beat dying in an alley any day.
What did she have? Why was it always her? She was a cruel bint, careless with his love. His feelings. Taunted him, mocked him, and finally walked away from him as he cried his damned eyes out. Took what he had to give and didn’t give anything herself, just absorbed everything he did for her like it was her right. And he couldn’t say she was wrong, because he’d do it all again a thousand times. He’d—
Jesus. Was he thinking about Buffy, or Dru?
Dimly, he thought of Harmony. Why hadn’t he loved her? Because she’s Harmony, a voice replied in his head. Haven’t you met the girl?
Or maybe because, as whiny and petulant as she was, she didn’t need him. Maybe he really was the sick little fuck Darla always said he was, and he couldn’t care for a woman unless she needed him. Yeah, if Harmony had just—Oh, who am I kidding? Spike thought in disgust. Bugger the psychological bullshit. Harmony would have needed a brain transplant to do more than get my motor going. Followed by a personality infusion.
Love was a selfish bitch goddess that had grabbed him by the balls back when he was William Hudson, and hadn’t let go since. Try to understand her, and she’d just give him a squeeze to remind him who was boss.
She was. He’d recognized that long ago.
So maybe Buffy loved him like a brother. Disgusting thought, that, but it didn’t change anything. She was here, so he would be here. Nothing else he could do.
Nothing else he wanted to.
***
Xander didn’t know. The others could say it was an incubus or whatever, but the others only knew half the story. They didn’t know about Anya, that one day she was just there when he got home from a bar late one night, drowning his sorrows. Sometimes she appeared as blithe as if she’d just gotten home from the Magic Box. Sometimes he walked into the room and she was sprawled on the floor with blood streaking the front of her blouse, eyes fixed and glassy.
He should have told them. He knew that, knew he should have gone out and awoken Giles and the others the first time she’d appeared, but he was shocked, and confused, and grateful. At first, he was grateful.
Crazy thing to be grateful for, right? To be haunted?
Maybe he was crazy. Maybe. It happened to all of them, right? Buffy ties them up and leaves them for a demon to gnaw on, Willow goes black-eyed and tries to destroy the world. If his form of crazy was Anya haunting him, he couldn’t complain. It made sense that he wouldn’t have some big, dramatic craziness like the others. His friends were superheroes, but he was just Xander. It used to bother him, but he’d gotten used to it a long time ago. And hey, he hadn’t tried to kill a whole bunch of people lately, right? So score one for the common man.
And there were worse things than seeing her. Leaving her, for instance. At their wedding. At the school. Nothing could be worse than that.
But now he didn’t know; maybe he wasn’t just going nuts. Maybe it was something big, something bad. Something Big Bad-like. Dammit! There hadn’t been any Big Bads for a few months, not since they left the Hellmouth, and he was kind of getting used to it. Because relative peace and quiet? Surprisingly appealing compared to hell gods, secret military experiments, and being Dracula’s butt monkey.
“You don’t have to look at me like that,” Anya said, drawing his attention to her. He hadn’t realized he’d been staring at her. Actually, he’d forgotten she was there.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m a ghost.”
“You are a ghost,” Xander pointed out.
“Well, yes … but not in evil phantom sense,” Anya clarified. “More in the loved-one-haunting-you-for-your-own-good kind of way.”
“How do I know?”
Anya rolled her eyes. “What have I done that’s so evil?”
Xander ignored her question. “So you don’t know anything about it?”
“I’ve told you twice already, I don’t know anything about what Dawn saw.”
“Or Spike coming back?”
“Or Spike—I’ve already told you about a hundred times. Of course, you weren’t paying attention; I guess some things never change.”
Xander willed himself not to say anything. Her visits were great for opening old wounds. Nothing like twisting the knife a little.
“What do you mean by that?” Anya asked suddenly, bending forward intently.
Xander jumped. Sometimes he forgot she could read his mind.
“Of course I can read your mind,” Anya pointed out. “I’m a product of your mind that your unconscious is projecting to alleviate your guilt at leaving me at the altar and introducing me into a situation which eventually got me killed through no fault of my own.”
Xander flinched. “Anya, I—I—” he broke off, frustrated and exhausted. He’d missed her more than he ever thought he could miss anyone. More than he’d missed Jesse after dusting him, more than he’d missed Cordelia when she left him, even more than he missed Buffy after she died. He’d ached like hell then. It hurt so long and so hard, until finally it started to subside, and despite himself, he began to accept her absence. Until Willow insisted she be brought back.
But he couldn’t do that with Anya, because she wouldn’t leave. He couldn’t move on, couldn’t mend. He couldn’t stop mourning her, because she wouldn’t let him.
“Why are you here?” Xander asked softly, desperation edging his voice. He’d asked the question many times before, and the answer was always the same.
“Because you want me here, Xander. Why else?”
Xander shut his eyes tightly, refusing the sight of her. He thought of her, coming to him in his room every night. Of Spike, returning from the dead. And whatever had been in Dawn’s room that night, terrifying her. Was it all connected? Or was it just the detritus of the Hellmouth, clinging to all of them?
“Anya, I—” Xander began quietly, opening his eyes, only to break off. Without a word, she had left.
It shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did. It was the same every night. She never said goodbye, always left him hanging. Every night his soul was rubbed raw by the time he fell asleep, grieving anew, knowing she’d return again the next day and then leave without a word.
At first he thought she stayed because she loved him. Now he wasn’t so sure.
Whatever it was, it sure didn’t feel like love.
***
Spike couldn’t fall asleep. Instead he lay in bed, listening to the house. Listening to the house and not sleeping.
He wasn’t where he wanted to be. He wanted to be across the hall, with Buffy. Instead he was—
What was that sound?
Spike stopped breathing and listened, but heard nothing. After a moment he relaxed, disgusted with himself. He was developing an imagination in his old age, apparently. Which, since he’d had a hell of an overactive imagination when he was a human before, really seemed quite appropriate.
That’s when something slammed into his door.
Spike leapt out of bed, swearing and dragging his jeans on. A moment later he jerked the door open, prepared to fight for all his puny little human body was worth.
Buffy gasped and almost dropped the duffel bag she was holding. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, cheeks pinkening. “I didn’t mean to wake you up. I just wanted to give you this,” she added hastily, thrusting the bag at Spike. He took it, but just stared. “It’s yours,” she reminded him.
“Yeah … yeah,” he agreed after a moment. Never thought he’d see his old stuff again—thought it was gone for good, alone with Sunnydale and the Hellmouth, but apparently, like his duster, it had a few lives left. Which was nice, because it wasn’t like he could get some of that stuff again. Some things couldn’t be replaced.
He raised his gaze to Buffy’s face again, questioningly. “This was a big thing to you, huh?”
“Well … yeah, I figured you’d want your stuff ….”
“It’s three in the morning,” he pointed out in surprise. Buffy shrugged, and made no move to return to her room.
Spike wasn’t sure what to say. He never was with her, but he always tried. Usually got him kicked in the mouth, but he did try. “Would you like to come to bed?” he asked quietly.
Buffy smiled faintly. “Yeah,” she replied softly. He moved to let her pass and she walked into the room, pulling the door shut behind her, leaving the duffel bag abandoned in the hall.
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