He held up the stake that had been the leg of a chair—the broken end was perfect to punch through his grandsire’s chest. Stepping around the foot, he was to Angelus’s side in two more strides. The plunge was easy, really. He pulled his hand away as his grandsire’s form jerked, browned and turned to dust.
In both his life and unlife, he had never felt such a surge of triumph as that moment held.
Drusilla bolted up and out of the bed, looking at the ashes of her sire like they’d burned her. Maybe, in her mind, they had.
Turning from her and the remains of the bane of his unlife, Spike dusted his leather coat off and walked around the bed to the door. It was time to wait for his moment—granted, waiting wasn’t his best virtue; but it would have to be done.
“What did you do to my Daddy?” Drusilla yelled at the height of her vocal range.
If it weren’t for the head splitting pain the sound caused, he would have been nicely impressed. In the past few months, he had begun to think she was good for only two things: fucking Angelus and breaking his heart. She was a banshee as well. Who knew?
“Put him out of my misery.” He threw the words over his shoulder. Then stopped and turned to her. “Someone would have. Eventually. I was just the lucky bloke who got to do the honors.” Turning back to the door, he waved to her over his shoulder. “I’d leave Sunnyhell, Dru.”
Drusilla let off a war cry that had him spinning around. She was flying through the air, naked with black talons drawn. Her ridges were out and rage contorted her mouth.
When she was in arms reach, he swatted her out of the air. He was on her before she even hit the ground, holding her by the neck. Knowing he would have backed off any other time, yet this time was different.
Awhile back, he’d caught himself thinking that she would come back to him if only Angel were here instead. Then, somewhere along the way, his plans changed and now he wanted neither. He wanted to be rid of everything that was making his un-life hell. So his days as love’s bitch were over.
“The only thing keeping you from not being a big pile of dust is the past century, Dru. If you know what’s good for you, Don’t. Ever. Try. That. Again.” Releasing her, he stepped back.
He studied her and wondered what would happen to her, now that she was on her own. She was so much like a little girl. Shaking his head, he turned and walked to the door. But when he reached the doorway, he stopped.”
“We did have some good times, didn’t we, Spike?” Drusilla sounded as normal as him, or any other.
Frowning at the pain in his chest, he nodded. “Yeah, Dru, we did.” And before she could say more to pull him back where he didn’t need to be, where he didn’t want to be, he walked away. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he had to find someplace before daybreak. He’d come back when he was sure she was gone.
Some Months Later
Buffy stood back in the shadows of the cafeteria doorway and watched her friends. They looked so normal and she felt… numb? She wasn’t sure anymore. At least when Angelus was coming around, she could be angry or angst-y. But this… nothingness was getting boring, fast.
When people started looking at her as they walked past, she grabbed herself something for lunch. It didn’t matter what, she didn’t look—then headed over to her friends and plopped down next to Willow.
“Have you heard the news?” She said by way of greeting.
Buffy frowned. That wasn’t odd—it was how Willow usually started a conversation. Cordelia was sitting with them. Very odd.
“No, Will. What?”
“Another student was found murdered today. Shot. Again.”
“How many does that make?” Xander shoveled more food into an already full mouth.
Buffy grimaced.
“Gross much?” Cordelia moved a fraction away from him.
When had they started sitting so close?
“Three. I think,” answered Willow, a slight frown of concentration marring her forehead.
The rest of Buffy’s day followed a similar theme: no matter where she went, Sunnydale High seemed ready to burst with gossip about the murders and she seemed to be in a haze.
By the time she went patrolling that night, she was angry and frustrated at hearing so much about it. And it bugged her that it did. That it irritated her so much that the whole town was going on about something so… mundane for Sunnydale. Even her friends seemed to have forgotten that Angel was their current problem.
Evil Angel. Angelus. She had to start thinking of him in those terms. He was no longer the man she loved. She frowned. This was so not the time to get into a depressed pity party over the whole thing. How was she going to know when he would decide to come back and start torturing her again? Wasn’t that the way he did things? Torture people, like he did Drusilla? Had he given up on his goal, if he ever had one?
It didn’t make any sense.
At least when Spike was making a nuisance of himself, he seemed to have had a plan, even if it was just to kill her. All Angelus seemed intent on was driving her up a wall.
If he ever did show up again… When he did—because there was no doubt he was doing this just to bug the hell out of her—she would have to go ahead with her plans. Stake the bastard through the heart.
As she turned the corner of a mausoleum, a fist shot out and connected with her face.
“OH!” She stumbled back, covering her nose.
Over her hands, she saw a tall, beefy vampire step out of the shadows and rest his sledgehammer fists on his hips and plant his legs Peter Pan style. He glared at her he was that tall. His smile was all fang, and his ridges did nothing for his Cro-Magnon man face.
“Did all you vampires take lessons from Spike?” She uttered the words unconsciously. “Why is it always the nose?” No bones were broken and she was pretty sure there would be very minimal swelling. She hoped so because boy would this be a tale to explain to her mom.
“Oh, nothing much, Mom. I was just out hunting vampires like I do every night and he came out of nowhere and just punched me in the nose. I think it’s a conspiracy. Spike sent it out in their newsletter—Ten Ways on How To Make the Slayer’s Life More Difficult.”
Yeah. That would be just great.
“Who’s Spike?” Cro-Magnon man asked, somehow frowning through his thick brow and ridges.
Rolling her eyes, she dropped her hands from her face and made fists. Tonight wasn’t the night for banter.
Hauling back, she landed a solid punch on Cro-Magnon’s chin. She even smiled when he stumbled back a step. She quickly lost any satisfaction she had when the vampire stepped forward and lunged at her.
Her eyes widened.
Ducking, she twirled out from under him—the swipe of his arms breezed over her head and moved her hair. Coming to a stop by his side, she wailed a few double punches to his ribs and pulled a stake out as she stepped out of his reach as he wheeled around.
Her heel caught on a stone and she overbalanced. Eyes widening comically, arms failing, she went down on her back with a thud and an “Ummfp.” Cro-Magnon vampire made a mistake and followed her down.
Raising her stake, she angled the wood and met him halfway. Her weapon hit his ribs and went through to his heart.
Lying there, she looked at the dark sky as she took a deep breath. Her chest slowly eased. She hated close calls like that. Sitting up, she grabbed the stone that tripped her and pitched it at the mausoleum. The rock burst apart and left a gritty divot in the stone.
Feeling less like she was about to throw a tantrum, she got up and started dusting herself off. As she was doing this, someone started clapping, from a distance but slowly got closer.
Blinking the surprise off her face, she patted herself down one last time, picked her stake up off the ground and turned as she straightened.
Spike stepped out from behind a tree and its shadow. He stopped clapping with one final pointed clap and folded his arms across his chest as he leaned back against the tree. “Good show, slayer. Not enough play, but some nice tricks, that.”
“I thought you were wheelchair bound, Spike?”
As much as Spike wanted to deny it, the other slayers didn’t compare to Buffy. She left them all behind and presented a greater challenge then they ever had. Her fighting alone held some aspect of sex that confounded him.
What was he thinking? All fighting had a hint of sex—whether it was to get hot for someone at home or because he was hot for his opponent.
He frowned. Something was off with that thought. Mentally grinding his teeth, he forced his mind on track.
Fighting and the fresh aspect of sex appeal the slayer’s fighting style gave her -- he straightened suddenly. He hadn’t noticed it before but the wind had shifted between them. He dropped his hands to his sides.
“What? No wounded ego?” Buffy asked, distracting him from his thoughts.
“Didn’t come here for that.” He took a predatory step away from the tree.
His lips twitched with satisfaction as she stiffened with awareness. The light of it was brightened her eyes. When he took another step forward, she jerked her stake up, aiming for his chest without a thought. Stopping, he held his hands up.
“Easy, slayer. Didn’t come here for that either, as much as it would be.” Keeping his hands where she could see them, he eased to one side. “Came with a bit of cheer.”
She frowned as she followed his measured circle around her.
“Too much Queen’s English for you?” He smirked when she growled at him. Actually growled. He liked that. “Good news, love.”
“I’m not—”
He held up a hand and rolled his eyes. “I know, I know. ‘Not your love.’ Time for new material, slayer.”
“Point. Get to it.” She was glaring now.
“Stop butting in.” He continued before she could bite, “Angel”—boy was that hard to get out—“can now fit in an urn.”
All the fight went out of her in the blink of an eye. Her wide eyes went unfocused and searched the ground, like she was trying to put his words into a frame of reference she understood. “I don’t believe you.” She looked up.
She did. The knowledge was there on her pale face and in her too-large-for-her-face eyes. She knew in her heart of hearts he wasn’t lying. She believed him.
“Saw the blighter go poof myself.” He meant to sound pleased but…
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” She pointed her stake at his chest again.
She was pissed … with him. He’d meant for it to be this way. Why did it feel wrong?
“No. Just a fact.” His voice came from a distance to his ears.
With that, she stepped into his personal space and stared him down from her shorter stance. “Why aren’t you rubbing it in?”
“Not the way I thought things would be.” Why had he said that?
She sniffed. “What does that mean?”
“Means,” he took a breath and almost choked on it. When had she started smelling so god damn good? “Means, I didn’t see things as clearly as I wanted. Best laid plans and all that rot.” Why was he telling her? “Didn’t understand. ’til now, that is.” Yet, he kept speaking.
He should shut the hell up.
“Never mind.” She shook her head. “Who killed him?” she asked with a voice gone cold. He looked into her eyes and they had undergone the same freeze.
“Does it matter? Save you the heartache, I’d think. As I see it, you might owe the bloke.”
She grabbed the lapels of his coat and pulled him down to her. Maybe that had been the wrong thing to say, and not for the obvious reason; he felt her grip down to his toes. He wanted to wriggle his shoulders.
“Who?” Her voice broke.
It seemed he was doomed to blindness. She wasn’t mad at him. She had thought there might be a chance for her and Peaches. Even if she and her pals somehow made him all soul having again, Angel would never risk losing it again. And the slayer was a right temptation.
The Slayer was mad at the world.
Against everything he had built himself on, he understood that about her. Empathized. Shared. Dru had caused him the same hurt.
His mind rebelled at that point. Reaching up, he knocked her hands away. Shoving her, he turned away. But he was spun back around just as soon by her small fist.
He didn’t block her first blow, didn’t even try. He welcomed it. Things were normal this way. They were fighting, dancing to their offbeat tune. The blows, the kicks, the give and take they learned in their exchanges were familiar.
Just as events in the last few minutes had, the wind changed her mind and shifted between them. He was kidding himself. He didn’t know what had changed. But it was there, had been since he wanted her kill that hulked-out-Neanderthal vampire. He didn’t know where. When. Why.
But that difference was there, screaming in his lack of conviction, there when he let her knock him to the ground. That oddity, the change, broke wide open when his back hit the ground.
Unbidden, he tumbled her down on top of him. Catching her by the hips, he steadied her. Then kept her there, straddling his hips when she meant to get up and off him. He locked eyes with her, followed her gaze when she tried to break the forced contact. He wanted something, and, just maybe, he could find it in her eyes. He’d know what it was when he saw it but until then…
Buffy stopped and willingly held Spike’s gaze. Her heart started again. Pounded.
His eyes shone with it again. That undefined emotion, motive … whatever. It was the same something that had been there when he had been rambling on about not understanding. It shocked her, startled her, even scared her to find a spark of … reciprocation. Her mind bogged down as she came close to naming it. Like the concept of Spike and that emotion being together in the same neighborhood was too incomprehensible.
When his hands came up along side her face, she jerked. He stopped and held his hands in a peaceful gesture. All the while, he kept her eyes with his. She took a deep breath.
Slowly, he started to move his hands. When he finally cupped her ears, his gentle touch surprised her, caused her to jump in his loose grip. He framed her face; his thumbs lined her cheeks, like a cool rose petal, and his long fingers tunneled through the hair at the nap of her neck.
He applied the smallest amount of pressure as he pulled. She resisted, unsure on so many levels. When she continued to hold back, Spike rose up and came to her. She pulled away as much as his hands would allow. She shifted as he came toward her, pulling at his hands, and still, he used only the slightest of force on her.
She felt herself falter, fall toward him. He titled his head up, tried to bridge the distance. Releasing his hands, she pushed against the wall of his chest. As always, he didn’t budge, he pushed forward. His slow determination and gentle approach kept throwing her off. She increased the pressure on his chest.
He flicked her hair off his fingers and grabbed her hands off his chest. He pulled her closer, brought her chest to his and started to wrap his arms around her. She reared back and toppled them. She ended up on her back with him cradled on top of her, her hands still trapped in his.
She pushed at him with her body, and he raised their locked hands above them, trapping her body, her head. She could only watch him. The play of emotions over his face held her, captivated, even as she knew he was planning to kiss her. Maybe do more. Was she going to be able to stop him? Did she want to stop him? Was this her time?
He tilted his head, studied her face. She saw doubt but it was overpowered by that unnamed emotion flashing in his electric blue eyes. Why hadn’t she noticed his eye color before?
As he lowered his head, his eyes continued to roam her face but came to rest on her lips. His crystal blue eyes were open, wanting—his eyes, even for the doubt that came and went, held no shame. In that moment, whether he knew it or not, he desired her. She closed her eyes to the sight, ignored her reaction to it. And he was there, pressing his mouth to hers.
Some deep seeded instinct had her resisting again, struggling in his grip. He held her down, pressed her body into the ground with his. He released her hands in favor of her shoulders—his grip was stronger, his fingers close to biting. With her hands freed, she tried to punch him. As he grabbed her swinging fist and brought it down to the ground, she grabbed hold of his coat. She pushed, then pulled on him before she slide her hand up under the collar of his coat and down his back. The planes of his back were hard.
He started to pull away and she followed him, took the exchange farther and slanted her mouth over his. Like cool water, he slid back into her mouth. She rolled them over, pressed him into ground and brought her hand down over his chest, feeling his shoulder as she went.
Spike went to deepen the caresses but stopped. He pushed her up and broke the connection, studied her as she watched him.
Then she was on the cold ground, watching as he ran off.