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thorns & roses – part two

Loving Buffy was more than desire, Spike lamented, as he emptied a second bottle of Jack Daniels down his throat and leaned back in his over-stuffed chair. It was torture.

Bleary-eyed, he tried to focus on the dimming light seeping under the crypt door. Sunset approached, and another evening with the Slayer was about to begin. Tossing the useless bottle against the wall dramatically while appreciating the sound of glass breaking then crashing onto the hard floor of his crypt, Spike growled in frustration. He was still bloody fucking sober. "How much does a bloke have to drink to get drunk," he shouted. Definitely not the way to start a night with the Slayer. His entire stash of Jack Daniels, diminished by half in an afternoon, and he wasn't nearly as sloshed as he needed to be.

“Ain't love grand?” he muttered, settling back in his chair as his mind began to wander aimlessly through the days and hours of his long life before fixing itself on a passage...a poem...no a damn sonnet!

"From fairest creatures we desire increase…that thereby beauty's rose might never die…but as the riper should by time decrease,” recited Spike, before bursting into a sound he hoped was laughter, and not the knotted groan he felt deep in his chest. "That's William Shakespeare, you bloody fool, not William the Bloody."

"What is needed is more Jack," he demanded, saluting the empty room. "Can't have that William, that sorry poet named William, making an uninvited show of himself."

Standing slowly and fighting the compulsion to fall forward onto the crypt floor, Spike scanned the room, searching for another full bottle of Jack while remaining motionless next to his chair. "No more William. Won't allow it,” he chirped, immediately recognizing (and loathing) his use of William's upper crust accent.

Then abruptly, Spike became aware of a noise - or knocking - he determined from the pounding he first thought resided only in his head. “Someone's knocking at my door?” he whispered, lowering his voice deliberately. Talking to one's self when no one was around was appropriate, he explained silently. Now if someone bloody hears, then it becomes insane or the babbling of a drunk. But he was bloody fucking sober!

“So insane, it is…” he whispered again.

Spike paused when the knocking he thought he'd heard a moment before returned. Couldn't possibly be the Slayer for another round, he thought; it wasn't dark enough yet.

"Oh yeah, never knocks, anyway,” mumbled Spike, ignoring the sound as he resumed his search for a third bottle of Jack.


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There it was, Dawn sighed, “Spike's place.” Like a naughty movie Buffy never let her finish watching, Spike's crypt was a filthy, dirty hole where only bad girls went to be…well…bad…or at least that's what Buffy'd said. “Ewwww!” she'd squealed. “You can't visit Spike, Dawnie. End of discussion. His crypt is dark, cold, dirty and nasty. Only badness happens there, believe me.”

“Well, geez, he's a vampire, isn't he?” Dawn inhaled sharply, recalling Buffy's orders that simply didn't make sense. She'd spent loads of time with Spike when Buffy was gone. Being afraid of him never crossed her mind. Even when she was small, and he was really the Big Bad – he never tried to eat her. Still today she was a little nervous. Couldn't really pinpoint why, though. Perhaps, she'd spent too much time with her big sis, and some of her fear of Spike rubbed off.

Taking a deep breath, Dawn squared her shoulders and marched across the remaining twenty feet of cemetery grounds to Spike's crypt. Whatever the reason for her discomfort, she decided, “Gonna ignore it.”

Pushing the heavy door open, just enough to squeeze her slim body through sideways, Dawn craned her neck hoping to spot the blond vampire in the darkness of his chamber. The change from hazy sunlight to the dimness of Spike's crypt made it hard for her to see. “Spike,” she whispered, tiptoeing into the crypt. Not the big entrance her sister would have made, that's for sure. But Dawn didn't barge into anything like Buffy did. She sauntered. A little taller, a little more lithe, it was only right for her to claim saunter as the way to describe her style for entering a room.

“Spike,” she called again.

“Here, Nibblet,” he growled from somewhere behind her.

“Spike!” she squealed. Then determined to convey as much cool as her shaky voice could muster, she added, “Hey, how ya' doin'?”

“Dawnie?”

He sounded a little pissed. "What was that about?", she wondered.

“What do you want, pet?” he almost snarled. “And why aren't you in school? Still daylight out there, init?”

Spike was pulling on a dark-red shiny shirt, and buttoning it seemed somewhat of a problem, Dawn noticed. He kept cursing and glancing down; each look lingering longer at the button that didn't seem to want to go through the hole. And whoa! When had Spike started wearing shirts! Not black t-shirts, mind you, but a shirt with colors that freaking had to be buttoned? Dawn nearly asked him. But, he seemed a little too pissed, so she decided it might not be the time to discuss his wardrobe.

“Wanted to see you. It's been a long time since we hung out, you know.”

“Wanting to see me no reason to skip out on the books, love.” He finally got the shirt buttoned; Dawn nodded to him, giving him her approval. He bowed slightly in response before stumbling over to the television set where finding the power button became Spike's new issue. He kept reaching for it, and missing it, and trying again before turning to glare at Dawn as if she was the reason, he couldn't turn it on.

“You aren't looking so good, Spike. Is something wrong?”

“No, not really. Just had a busy night of beating back a few loose demons.”

“Didn't Buffy patrol with you?”

He laughed. “Yeah, she was…helping out quite a bit. She has a real knack for wearing a demon down."


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Willow smiled and waved quickly to get Buffy's attention before plopping down in the booth near the front door of the Double Meat Palace . As usual, she arrived a few minutes before her friend's first break of the day – a little ritual the two women established after Willow nearly killed Dawn and drove Tara away. On those days when Buffy worked back-to-back shifts, Willow dropped by at 4 p.m. craving a vanilla-flavored soda and a small bag of fries. Willow needed to visit Buffy. Not for the food. She and Buffy relished their time together for grown-up-girl-talk away from Revello Drive and the forever pissed-at-the-world Dawn. Still Willow knew the drop-bys were key for both of them for a number of reasons, not just Dawn. It kept them from pulling their hair out about their never to be average lives. But no, not really, thought Willow, while twirling a few strands of red hair idly with her fingers. They were both damaged, sure, but Willow had never wanted to be average.

Then the fierce desire soaked through her, and the overwhelming urge almost toppled her to the floor.

"Magic," she whispered. Willow stifled a moan as she looked around the restaurant to see if anyone noticed the power surge that had flooded into the place. No, it was just her. Willow the Witch, getting the buzz, and yearning to cast a few million spells or at least use just a little bit of magic to make life easier, less lonely, and more tolerable.

As the power scorched over her, Willow exhaled slowly. For the hundredth time that day, she fought the desire that came with knowing if she wanted to change the world – she could – with a snap of her finger, a wiggle of her nose. Willow shivered as the surge waned.


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Willow waved to Buffy again to make certain she'd been seen. Buffy nodded in response and turned to say something to one of her co-workers before grabbing a few items and ambling over from behind the counter.

Buffy dove into the seat opposite Willow, a small bag of greasy sustenance and a soda in her hands and a not so bright smile on her lips. Willow couldn't help but notice how exhausted she looked. Had the same dark circles under the eyes, puffy nose and dry lips that Willow had spotted on her own face in the bathroom mirror that very morning. Crying all night will do that to a girl, or was it screwing all night, or both? She tried to remember.

“Hey, Will,” greeted Buffy. “How are things on the home front?” The restaurant smelled like sour beef and mustard on a stale sesame seed bun, observed Willow as she watched Buffy snatch the uniform cap from her head and drag her fingers through her short bobbed hair.

“Dawn and I had another run in,” she began. “Her counselor called. She cut a few classes. Lied about it…you know, the usual.”

“Shit, shit, shit,” grumbled Buffy without emphasis.

“Yeah, we've got a ton of that,” Willow smiled broadly, as Buffy scooted closer to the wall, curling her legs up onto the bench.

Willow was committed to wearing a happy face on Double Meat Palace days. Made it easier for her and Buffy to start a conversation. Maybe they could even really talk, she hoped. Not just wait out the long silences in-between questions and answers neither woman really wanted to hear. Or, was that talking? She wondered.

“Seriously, Dawnie's gonna be the end of us, Will.” Buffy was rubbing her brow while staring at the bag of fries she'd placed on the table in front of Willow. “I'm really trying to get it. I know she's loves me. I love her. We both do.” She looked up at Willow, confirming that she'd meant 'her', before leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table. “I just don't get why she's so angry…with me. I know why she's angry with you…kind of makes sense. But me? All I did was get brought back to life. Is that so wrong?” Buffy cringed as if she'd been slapped by her own words. Willow could tell that something else had come into her mind, which was even less pleasant than the latest Dawn crisis.

“Hey, we'll be able to deal with this. I'll ask Tara to take her out or something,” Willow offered.

“Oh, you okay with making that call?”

“We're talking. Nothing big. Can't do big. But at least she answers the phone…”

“That's good,” Buffy paused, staring at the tabletop with such concentration; she appeared to be searching for her next sentence in the tile. "Just wanted to tell you that...okay, nothing earth shattering, now, but, maybe slightly, out there." Buffy stopped drawing circles on the table with her fingernails and looked up into Willow's eyes. “Last night, I felt really good for a while, Will. The slaying, and the just being me, felt good.”

Willow smiled sincerely. “How'd it feel…feeling good?”

“Feeling good?” Buffy answered with a question. “Mostly good and mostly unsure about what's good…you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” said Willow.

to be continued...





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