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A/N: Thank you for reading and reviews.
Luv, Spuf
Chapter 34: ‘Gonna’ Run Huh?’


A/N: Short, short and shorter chapter for me, sorry.


For the first week after Buffy broke it off with Will, she was okay. All right, she was wasn’t okay, she was miserable, but she sure played the part of a ‘keeping it all together’ kind of gal.

She ran her and Angel’s household, like always; went to work on the days she was supposed to, like always and socialized with her friends, like always.

The fact that Olivia was having Buffy come into the Gallery more often now. Especially while she was gone on business, helped the young confused woman keep her mind busy.

Thursday evening had been the hardest night of all for Buffy as it was one of the times she would have gotten together with Will. Instead, this Thursday she had joined Tara and Willow at The Bronze for dinner, where she informed them that she was working things out with Angel.

Her ‘affair’ with the mystery man was officially over. Willow had hugged Buffy, “it’s for the best, sweetie, I’m sure,” the red head had comforted her, while Tara just nodded her head gently. Buffy did not miss the look of sympathetic concern that passed between the two lovers.

By the time Sunday night had come, Buffy was missing whole meals and had lost over five pounds already. Something that did not suit her already too tiny frame at all.

The only reason she was ‘resting’ at all, was because she was sneaking her husband’s sleeping pills off and on before bed. Finally, by Sunday, Buffy was so thin and had such dark rings under her eyes, that even Angel ‘had’ to notice.

At dinner he stopped shoveling food into his mouth long enough to ask her if something was wrong, “I’m worried, Babe,” he mumbled with a mouth full of roasted chicken. “You’re too damn thin and you look like you haven’t slept in a week, what’s wrong?”

‘What’s wrong?” she responded in her own mind, “ Well, for starters, Angel baby, I miss my blue-eyed lover. Miss the closeness we shared and the love we made. Funny, how now, when it’s too late you look at me with so much concern in your closed dark eyes.’ Buffy rolled her green eyes in exasperation.

‘What’s wrong?’ she continued her inner convo. ‘I miss the open blue oceans of Will’s eyes, his adoration of me, his belief in who I really am, not who ‘you’ think I should be. What’s wrong? I want him back, my William; the poet, my lover and everything we could have had together. But you wouldn’t understand, the only thing you’ve ever loved Angel, is yourself.’

Instead she answered out loud, “not a damn thing,” curtly and went back to shuffling chicken and salad around on her plate. Angel looked stunned by Buffy’s simple profanity and sighed but said no more during dinner.

By the time Sunday came around, Spike was beyond being okay, he was miserable, plain and simple and did no acting to hide it. He holed himself up in his apartment, drinking himself into a stupor nightly while listening to angstsy alternative rock music.

Spike tried to convince himself that Buffy ‘had’ just used him, like she said, never really cared for him, but the romantic poet in him knew differently.

“She loves me,” he muttered, drinking Jack Daniels right from the bottle, “she loves ME!”

Why his Princess had decided to reject their love, throw him out like so much garbage, he didn’t know, but there was something evil afoot here and it had nothing to do with Buffy loving Angel. That much, Spike knew for sure.

Still, he drank himself into a stupor every night, afraid that if he didn’t, he’d not be able to resist the urge to storm over to Buffy’s house. If he allowed himself to do that, he’d not be able to stop himself from kicking her fucking oak front door in and dragging her out of there.

So, every night for a week, Spike would drink himself into a near coma, listening to alternative rock, angstsy songs. For some reason, his new favorite was ‘Time is Running Out’ by Muse.

TIME IS RUNNING OUT (Muse)

I think I’m drowning
Asphyxiated
I wanna break this spell
That you’ve created

You’re something beautiful
A contradiction
I wanna play the game
I want the friction

You will be the death of me
You will be the death of me
Bury it
I won’t let you bury it
I won’t let you smother it
I won’t let you murder it

Our time is running out
Our tims is running out
You can’t push it underground
You cant’t stop it screaming out

(that’s enough, sorry)


The music blared on full volume, so Spike wasn’t surprised on that Sunday evening when a loud pounding sounded at his own apartment door.

“Go the fuck away!” he shouted, not caring if the person outside heard him or not.

“Spike!” came Clem’s strong voice, “open the door man, now, or I swear to God I’ll kick the damn thing in and you’ll have to pay for it!”

Spike stumbled over to his front door, forgetting he wore only a pair of boxers and opened it slightly, “what the fuck do you want?” he asked his friend gruffly.

“I want to talk to you, Spike,” Clem answered, a little bit calmer then before. “I want to help you, friend.”

Shaking his blond head, Spike let Clem in but muttered bitterly, “no help for me, mate.”

“Man, Spike,” Clem mumbled looking around the apartment, “you look like shit and so does this place. Forget to clean up lately?”

Spike groaned and clasped his throbbing head, “did you come to deride my housekeeping or are you here for a real reason?” he growled. “If you’re here to to tell me to ‘buck up’ then you can ‘fuck off’ and leave now!”

With that, Spike opened another bottle of Jack Daniels and poured it into a 16 ounce glass with ease, “wanna’ drink?” he smirked at Clem.

‘No’ Clem shook his head. He sat down on the couch and eyed his best friend with concern. “Have you eaten lately, Spike?” he asked, apparently already knowing the answer.

“Yeah, matter-of-fact I have, last time Buffy was here I…..”

Clem raised his hand in a defensive gesture, “too much information, man. Sit your ass down and listen to me,” he ordered.

Surprisingly, Spike did just as he was told, although he more fell onto a chair close by and not the couch.

“How long are you going to lock yourself up in this hell hole you’ve made, Spike?” Clem asked, looking around at the usually neat apartment. “How long are you going to hole up in this self exile you’ve made for yourself? A week, a month? How about forever? Why don’t you just drink yourself into a coma and make everything easier for you and the rest of us?”

Spike stared at his friend in surprise, this guy had some balls to talk to him like that.

“I’m going away, going home,” Spike suddenly blurted out.

Clem looked mildly surprised for a minute then stood up slowly.

“Gonna’ run, huh?” the dark haired man chuckled, “gonna’ just drink yourself blind for a while then run off to where? England? Put as much mileage between you and the woman you love as you can? Jesus Spike, I figured you for less of a coward then that!”

“What the bloody hell am I supposed to do, Clem?” he screamed. “She told me she didn’t love me, wanted to work things our with that fucking moron she’s married to!”

Spike kicked the coffee table and then stood there for a few seconds, “bloody fucking hell! That hurt!” he cried and flopped back down on the couch.

Clem laughed out loud, “good! At least you can still feel something!” Sitting down on the coffee table, facing his best friend, Clem got a serious look on his face. “So, you really believed her, huh,” he asked Spike, “believed she doesn’t love you?”

Spike couldn’t answer that one.

“Well,” Clem sighed, “I think Buffy does love you, very much. The young woman that sat in our bar and talked about you that morning loves you very much, Spike. Maybe even more then you deserve, but there’s no accounting for taste.” He smirked good naturedly and chuckled.

“Look,” Clem continued seriously, “I don’t know what happened between you and Buffy, what she said, what you yelled, you know, all that crap that happens between two people in love, but, I know this. You love Buffy and she loves you, I’m am sure of this. You say you’re going back to England, okay, go, but first don’t you think you should go to see ‘your girl’ and tell her you are leaving and she ‘is’ the reason why. If you don’t Spike, if you don’t go to her and tell her, you’ll regret it until the day you die. I’m sure of that too.”

Spike sat, staring at his rather blurry looking friend, pondering his words of wisdom. “Yeah, you’re right, mate,” he whispered, “just hope ‘my girl’ doesn’t have me thrown out of her Gallery on my arse.

That night, after Clem left his apartment, Spike flopped into his bed, the one he and Buffy had shared a week or so before. Spike hadn’t bothered to change the sheets, unusual for him, he washed them at least once a week, but this time he’d left them on longer.

They smelled of Buffy, of him and their love making, all vanilla and tobacco, their intermingled scents. He had come to a decision, Spike had; he’d go over to Buffy’s Gallery tomorrow, waltz in and use any excuse to see her and talk to her.

If she turned him away, well then so be it, he’d go ahead and leave this fucking town; away from her, his Princess and go home to England. Only, he hoped that she wouldn’t turn him away, he hoped and prayed that she would fall into his arms and come home with him, here to his apartment, their ‘haven’ and their own paradise.

Spike had once promised Buffy, not so long ago that he would never leave her. More then anything, he wanted to so keep that promise, more then the one he’d made a week before, not to contact or see her. He ‘had’ to see her.

Buffy was cataloging some new items that Olivia had purchased in Chicago on her buying trip. Monday was busy, even at the quiet Gallery she worked at, so it kept her mind occupied, well, kind of occupied anyway.

She was just finishing up an inventory of the new American Artist collection when she heard her boss, Olivia say to someone, "an original Christina’s World! Oh, Buffy Travers will be so thrilled. Let me go get her!”

Olivia hurried into Buffy’s office, visibly excited by something. “Buffy!” she cried happily, “there’s a young man here, British, he’s got a lovely endowment for the Gallery. I think it might be your Mother’s original print of Andrew Wyeth’s ‘Christina’s World’ and you must come see it!”

Buffy stood up numbly and headed for the showroom, more then certain that this was indeed her Mother’s original print of the painting and just who this British man was.


A/N: Okay, I’m going to go do some real life stuff now. I wanted to write and write this chapter until I’d had Buffy and Spike confront each other, but…..anyway, I’m going to keep ‘my promise’ and have some Spuffy……oh never mind, just read the next chapters, you’ll see! Hehehehehehe, please read and review, thanks, luv Spuf!





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