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Seventh, Make Time to Go Out with the One You. . . Aren’t Sure if You Like

So, I try to play off the whole kneeling between Spike’s legs and rubbing his thighs in front of the whole world thing. . . well, world of Willow anyway.

“Didn’t know you were delivering pizzas now, Will.”

Okay, that came out harsher than I intended.

“M’not.” She tucks a scarlet strand behind one ear with a shaky hand. “Just saw the pizza guy driving up, paid him, and. . . Viola, pizza!”

Trying to act as casual as one possibly can when caught in an awkward position, I slowly bring my hands to the tops of my thighs and rise, ever cognizant of three sets of eyes watching my every move. My right leg has fallen asleep with a thousand little rubbery tingles, and I stumble a bit before I regain my footing. . . with Spike lurching forward from his slouch and grabbing my arm to steady me.

This was going from worse to well. . . worse.

“A-and I swear I didn’t cast a sp. . . ,” Willow protests.

Before she can finish the sentence, I seize her arm, taking the pizza box and practically flinging the pie on the coffee table.

I drag her onto the front porch, slam the front door, and release her. We both kind of sway as we catch our breath.

“I didn’t do a spell,” Willow says in a small, hurt voice. “No need to throw me out.”

Color me a-bright-rainbow-full-of-colors confused.

“What are you talking about?”

My best friend is even more flustered now and stutters like Tara used to when she was shy around the rest of us. “Y-you know. . . with you a-and Spike and the t-touching. I-I didn’t do that. . . this time. I‘ve been staying off the magic; I *swear.*” She raises her right hand as if taking oath.

I blink, and my eyes flicker sideways to Dawn who has opened the front door and joined us with her good arm crossed over her broken one. Spike has managed to follow and is leaning against the door frame with a smirk on his face. Smug bastard. He’s enjoying every second of this.

Quickly running over all the options in my mind, I decide to tell the truth. That’s simplest, right? “There’s no spell.”

“But then. . .” Willow stare shifts from me to Spike and back to me again. “Huh?”

Dawn seizes the moment to dance around Willow and interrupt her field of vision. Thank goodness. “So, Spike moved in with us.”

“What?” Willow sounds tired, and I notice the circles under her eyes. She‘s been getting almost as much sleep as me. With almost exaggerated slowness, she eases onto the floor of the porch, using one of the posts as support. “I-I don’t understand.”

As usual, I start my babble fest. “Well, there was that thing with the social worker. . . can’t remember her name, and she found some of your magic weed, and then, she saw Spike and his blanket and caught me lying about you living here. And then, this other social worker came, and he’s a real jerk. Anyway, now there are cameras in the house, and Spike and I are pretending to be Dawn’s parental figures, and. . .”

Willow squints at me. “But. . .” She points a finger at Spike. “But he’s evil.”

Raising both eyebrows at me, Spike straightens up like a dog whose name has been called. He nods at Willow. “That’s me.”

Dawn rolls her eyes. Apparently, her patience for the whole situation is gone, and somehow I can‘t blame her. “You guys sort this out. I’m hungry.” With that said, she breezes past Spike and storms into the house.

Spike tightens his jaw, bobs his head at Willow, gives me that classic head tilt that makes me melt inside, and trails my sister into the house.

In and out of the house we go, wearing our emotions on our faces like clowns.

We’re just doing so well for the cameras.

Bloody cameras.

* * *

“So, Will, what do you think?”

“Bout Spike living with you and Dawn?” Willow is teasing now that’s she’s heard the whole story. . . or my edited version of the story sans Spike sex and the uncomfortable talk I had with him on the back porch.

“No, about the camera thing.” I take a sip of lemonade and pick up my plate of pizza. Spike was sweet enough to bring Willow and me a plate of food. (Spike and sweet in the same sentence? Call me denial girl.) Now we’re watching the rain fall to the ground in a soft curtain and happily munching.

“I’m not sure, but I don’t think it’s legal,” Willow says after swallowing a bite.

Not legal? That means all the stupid little stunts Spike, Dawn, and I pulled in front of the cameras mean nothing! “That’s good news, right? If we can prove what they‘re doing is illegal, then, Dawn‘s case gets thrown out.”

“Not necessarily. And like I said, I’m not sure yet. I think I’ll do some poking around on the net and make a few phone calls.”

“Sure that you can handle that?” I’m worried about my best friend. Even though she’s eating pizza, she doesn’t look like she’s been gorging herself of late.

“Yeah. I can.” She catches my incredulous look and adds, “It’s not like when Oz left. I’m taking better care of myself this time. Promise.”

I accept her position without question. “Okay.” She’s my best friend; who am I to doubt her?

The wall of silence rules for a few seconds as we eat. Then, Willow asks, “So, the Spike thing is what?”

I set aside my empty plate, picking at the crumbs with my index finger. “A means to an end. A way to keep Dawn here with us and get social services out of our hair. . . for good.”

“So, Dawn doesn’t go live with your dad, and social services disappears. What’ll you do about Spike then?”

Even though she’s sitting right across from me, now I can’t look at Willow . . . not when she asks me about Spike with such directness. “He’ll go back to living in his crypt.”

“You don’t think this’ll lead him on? Cause, well, last year, breathing in his direction led him on.”

Last year was. . . last year. No one had died yet. Mom died. I died. That’s a whole lot of death between then and now. “It’s different now between Spike and me.” At least, that’s the truth.

I sneak a glance at Willow. The little crease between her eyes has appeared. “How different?”

“Well, he helps a lot more now instead of just skulking in the shadows. He’s an out-of-the-closet Scoobie now.” Willow doesn’t look convinced, so I tack on, “It’s not just cause of me either. He was helping you guys before I came back to life. He didn‘t even know what you guys had planned with the. . . resurrection spell thing.”

I flat out state Willow’s responsibility for my current situation in this world. She deserves to hear it. After all, she brought me back when I shouldn’t have returned. Plus, she almost got Dawn killed with her selfish abuse of magic.

Me? Resentful? Maybe just a little.

Willow shifts uncomfortably. “He’s still soulless.”

*Exactly* my point. That‘s what I keep telling him. He doesn‘t listen, and he’s not letting me listen. “Doesn’t mean he isn’t useful muscle to have around. I mean, a demon killing other demons is an excellent weapon.”

“Nice to know I fit in the ‘object’ category,” a gruff voice comes from behind me.

I freeze. Damn. I’m not even getting the vampire vibe off him anymore. Without turning around, I ask, “How long have you been there, Spike?”

“Long enough,” he mumbles almost inaudibly. Then, with greater volume, he adds, “So, Red. Thought I’d ask you to mind the Little Bit tonight while the Slayer and I go out.”

Suddenly, I‘m annoyed, and I twist to glare at him. “*We’re* not going anywhere tonight.”

His eyes narrow in return, but I catch the flash of hurt before he quickly buries it. “Don’t you want to get in a workout?”

My heart skips a beat. Please don‘t let Willow notice anything. “What? Eww. Get your brain out of the gutter.”

I expect a smart-ass line in response. Instead, he gives me, “I meant patrolling, pet.”

“Oh.”

Willow rescues me, “That’ll actually give me an excellent chance to check out their camera system and give Dawnie and me some time to maybe reconcile. . . or start anyway.”

“Oh.” I’m not getting out of this, am I?

“You may at least want to pretend it’s a date, Buffy,” she adds in a much less rescue-y fashion.

Spike is silent, and I hold my breath.

“For the benefit of the social workers, of course,” Willow adds as she pushes up from the ground, picking up her glass and plate.

Right.

Look at newly undead Buffy. She already has a date.

* * *

“You’re *not* wearing that out of this house!”

Balancing on the third step of the staircase, I teeter on the tips of my toes so that I’m taller than Spike. “Why not?”

“Because that is *not* an outfit for patr. . . a date!”

Shifting my weight in my highest high heels, I examine my short black skirt and cherry red blouse. My short blonde hair is freshly washed and styled around my shoulders. I’m actually quite proud that I’ve managed to hide two stakes beneath the flimsy fabrics. “What’s wrong with this? It’s what I wear all the time.”

Here I am caring about what Spike thinks of my appearance.

“The whole outfit’s not practical. You might fall in those bloody. . . ,” he waves his hand at my feet, “. . . insignificant shoes. . . and and di. . . get hurt.”

I ignore his reference to my recent passing. “I have very good coordination, thank you. And since when was this whole arrangement practical?”

Spike’s just wearing his usual black jeans and black T-shirt. For once, his long coat is missing. “Since you said so.”

Oops. I walked right into that one.

“So, on our date, I should dress in the same old thing I always wear like you do?”

Almost self-consciously, Spike touches his chest and turns his attention to himself. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You always wear black! Don’t you like any other colors?”

Spike‘s lips quirk, and he spreads his arms to me. “Looks like you dressed to match me. We fit.”

Okay. That’s it. Spike and I so do *not* fit, especially together! “Fine. I’ll change.”

Willow appears at Spike’s side as I start to stomp back up the stairs. “Buffy? Enough with the arguing already. You better get going on your *date* before it gets too late.” She taps her watch. “It’s already 10 o’clock.”

I pivot on Spike. “I can wear the heels?”

Spike snorts. “Fine. Don’t say I didn’t tell you not to.”

I scamper down the stairs toward the front door, snatching my light leather jacket from the coat rack. Can’t have Spike getting too many ideas. I pull the coat over my shoulders, push my left arm through a sleeve, and hold the door open for Spike with my newly cloaked arm. “After you.”

Spike shakes his head at me before passing me and intentionally brushing his arm against my lone bare one.

I shiver in a cloak of deep, penetrating waves of desire.

Oh.

I’m a Slayer in big, big trouble.

With determination to fight my feelings, I shrug on my jacket and follow the vampire into the night.

* * *

Focusing my Slayer senses, I weave my way through the cemetery, dodging tombstones and stepping over flower arrangements with the deft grace of a huntress. The moon is full above, casting a hazy white glow over the graveyard and heightening the need for silent movement. A light breeze trips over the edges of the tree leaves and lifts the ends of my hair, making me feel light and somehow more powerful. My ears remain perked for any sound that is out of the ordinary. I cradle a wooden stake against each palm, ever ready for dusting.

No vampire better cross my path. That’s all I have to say.

Spike can’t keep up with me.

Well, that’s a bit of a stretch.

At first, Spike stalked along beside me, but when I ignored him, he disappeared behind, melting into the shadows like a ghost.

Good.

I want to shake him. I have to protect myself because if I’m alone too long with him, how am I going to focus on patrolling?

There are vampires out there who could kill innocent men, women, and children while I’m. . . handling Spike.

A scratching, almost like a rat climbing through the walls of an old house, resounds from my left, and I hone in on the noise, being silent as a whisper as I circle round and come at the noise from between two large bushes. I find myself on the perimeter of a grave secluded from the rest of the graves and surrounded by a few trees whose branches are blocking the moonlight. The ground next to the small marble tombstone is covered in freshly turned soil.

A new grave.

New soil coupled with scratching can mean only one thing. . .

A fledgling vampire is rising.

Squatting to the ground to wait in the brush, I grip the stake in my right hand and slip the other in the waistband of my skirt.

In an instant, the breeze changes, and the gust pushes aside the tree branches over the tiny clearing, illuminating the grave in a ghostly light. A hand thrusts forth from the soil, sending crumbles of dirt raining across the headstone.

Without warning, clumps of earth begin pouring from above, pummeling my shoulders, arms, and head. The light intensifies to an almost blinding white, and I spring forward to escape the onslaught only to crash into the emerging vampire. My high heels squish into the soft, damp dirt, and I vaguely think that Spike will be soon be pelting me with “I told you so’s.” The vamp grunts softly on impact with me, and his newborn strength pushes me so that I hit the icy stone behind me.

Using the energy from falling to lurch off the uncertain ground onto the firmer grassy areas around the grave, I hear more scratching sounds. . . like a thousand rats clawing under the ground. The noise increases exponentially with each second, mirroring the thunder of my heart and the unevenness of my breath.

Somehow, someone has buried an unknown number of vampires in this clearing, and I couldn’t detect them until they were all rising at once.

I blink rapidly in the sudden complete darkness, trying desperately to see the fledgling that I know is somewhere around me. My head is pounding with the almost thrum of approaching danger. Maybe I can at least dust him before the world around me is consumed with who knows how many other vampires.

Before I can do anything, the steady rock beneath my feet begins to rapidly melt away like a sugar cube in hot coffee. The stake drops from my hand as my arms fly out to grasp onto anything.

But I’m too late to find a grip.

I try to cry out for help. . . for Spike whom I know is out there somewhere, but no breath passes my lips. Like a fish out of water, I find myself gasping for air that’s not to be found, and my body is consumed by cold arms and bodies that are grabbing and pummeling at me from all sides.

Death wants me back.

* * *


I blink.

Yellow. . . all I see is a blurry soft-gold color over me.

And I can breathe again! Air is actually entering and leaving my lungs without effort.

“Shouldn’t have worn the heels, love.”

I turn my head toward the familiar voice and grimace as every muscle in my body cries out with a single motion. Funny, all my sexy Spike thoughts have gone down the toilet. “Ha ha.”

I wiggle my toes and discover I’m no longer wearing shoes.

Something soft and moist runs over my forehead. The touch feels wonderful. The voice that accompanies the feeling soothes me even though I don’t want it to. “You almost let that vamp kill you.”

My mind is having trouble focusing. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t remember?” The motion over my head pauses, and his surprise is unhidden.

“All I remember is. . .” I hesitate. Everything in my head is a blur. . . kind of like my vision right now. I shake my head, groaning at the pain.

“You saw something, didn’t you, pet?”

Flashes of arms and legs, blinding light, and showers of soil fill my mind’s eye. “Yeah. . . I-I think so.”

He says nothing for several seconds before he asks, “How many times have you seen something that wasn’t. . . like that?”

“Heard,” I whisper, closing my eyes.

A cool hand touches my forearm. “What?”

“T-there were sounds, too.”

“What kind of sounds, love?”

Rats. . . lots and lots of rats. That makes no sense. “Dunno.” I bring my hand to my head as if touch can shake my memories loose.

“How many times have you. . . experienced something like that?”

Irritation shoots through me. I wish he’d just leave me the hell alone. Isn’t he making this harder for me by constantly reminding me that something’s wrong with me? “*Don’t know.*”

Impatience highlights his tone, “You’d better figure it out.”

Abruptly, he leaves my side, and I re-open my eyes to find the world is slightly less fuzzy and bright. I determine not to speak again until he apologizes for being so intrusive. He’s the vampire; I’m the Slayer. For all intents and purposes, he should be a pile of dust right now.

I know I’m being irrational, but I don’t care at the moment.

Spike can’t stand silence for too long; he’ll come up with something to say.

What he chooses to say better be off the topic of me falling apart.

I have more important things to think about. . . like keeping Dawn out of the clutches of social services.

I’ve pretty much made up my mind to be stubborn, so I’m startled at what comes out of my open mouth, “So, this type thing is similar to what you saw with. . .”

His voice is muffled, “Angel. Yes.”

“*Angelus*,” I insist.

He emits a humorless laugh, “Whatever. Angel, Angelus. . . essentially the same being.”

Despite my brain’s better judgment, I sit up on what I realize is a pile of mats and face the now significantly less blurry form across whatever space we’re in, “No! Angel without his soul. . . he has no choice in his behavior.”

His volume doesn’t raise a notch. “That’s just what you like to tell yourself. Makes you feel better about how things turned out between the two of you. Makes you feel less responsible for what he did.”

I hate when anything he says contains a grain of truth.

I cross my arms over my sore midsection. “It’s common knowledge. Vampires are soulless. . . and therefore lacking in a conscience and therefore *evil.*”

He gets closer so that I can see the seriousness of his expression. He better watch himself, or I’ll clock him. . . despite the beating I’ve taken. “Won’t argue on the evil vampire bit. But in reality, all beings have a choice. . . soul or no soul.”

“Okay, Mr. Smarty Pants. You’ve lived so long; you’ve seen pretty much everything. Or you think you have. Name one instance where that’s the case.”

Then, he’s no longer in my face, and he turns his back on me. “If you don’t know by now, pet, I can’t help you.”

For reasons I can’t fathom. . . or let myself fathom, I stand in what I now recognize as the Magic Box training room. With a slight limp from pain in my knee, I reach out and place my hand in the small of Spike’s back. I can feel the strength of his back muscles through his cotton shirt. He’s so strong. . . . He could have let me die tonight, and he didn’t.

“What happened. . . out there tonight. . .” I hesitate. “I-it’s never happened before.”

Statue-like, he still doesn’t face me. “No? That’s good.” He sounds tired.

My heart rate accelerates. “W-what does that mean?”

“I’m not sure.” He steps forward away from my touch.

He’s not letting me close. My whole world feels like it’s falling apart. What happened in the graveyard tonight doesn’t make any sense at all, and now he’s rejecting me.

Hot tears bubble up from nowhere and course down my cheeks. My legs threaten to buckle as I start to shake.

“Spike. . . I-I’m scared.”

I’d forgotten my injuries until his arms are around me, and then, bright stars sparkle in my eyes. I groan despite my best efforts.

He whispers in my ear, “I’m here. I’m sorry. . . it’s just. . .”

I catch my breath and match his tone, “I hurt you.”

Boy, I’m admitting some interesting things to myself tonight. Must be because I’m feeling vulnerable.

“Yeah,” he acknowledges.

I snuggle into his embrace and bury my face into his chest. Figure that’s the only way I can hold myself up. “W-what did you see happen out there?”

“You were fine, and I was following you.”

I sniffle. “What else is new?”

“And then, at the grave when the vamp punched through the ground. . .”

“Everything went bonkers. . . so bright,” I finish for Spike.

“I just saw you start to fight him, and you staggered around like you. . .”

“Dirt was falling all over me. . . from somewhere,” I finish lamely. “A-and the rats. . .scratching. . .”

His hand twines in my hair. “The vamp grabbed you. . .”

“The ground. . . went away, a-and all these d-dead a-arms. . .” A sob escapes unbidden, and tears blossom and fall anew.

“Shhh.” His arm tightens around my waist. “You’re safe now. I dusted the vamp and brought you back here.”

“Was. . . did he?”

“He was beating you pretty badly, but I pulled him off of you before he could bite you. He met a dusty ending. I promise.”

I can’t seem to stop crying. Spike lifts me gently and carries me to the pile of mats. He slides on top of them and cradles me in his arms.

As soon as the sobs cease and the hiccups are under control, I ask a tentative question, “T-this is what happened to Angelus. . . his victims?”

Spike says nothing as he formulates an answer to my question. Then, “I believe so, love.”

I look up to search his eyes. “Why is it getting worse?”

“Explain what you mean.”

I stare off at the display of weapons on the Magic Box wall. “B-before. . . what happened tonight was just a dream. . . a nightmare.”

Spike shifts his weight slightly. “I think that it’s getting worse because you’re talking about it. . . or at least thinking about it more.”

“About what?” I already know the answer.

“How you came back.”

I feel like a child asking her parent too many questions. “B-but. . . what’s wrong with me?”

Spike changes position again so that I’m upright in his lap, but his arms are still supporting me. “Buffy.”

Now he’s got my attention. He’s using my name. I lower my eyes to avoid his gaze.

“Buffy, you were taken out of. . . a place where you were at peace and thrust into this world of death. . . of sacred duty. . . of unhappiness. You had to dig your way out of your own grave. You had to deal with the fact that your most trusted friends took away that peace and presented you with pain.”

I’m crying yet again.

He changes the focus off me, “Angel’s. . . Angelus’s victims went through something very similar. They were at peace. . . happy with their lives. The torture they endured. . . it was very traumatic. . . more than many of them could handle, including Dru. Their minds rebelled against such trauma. . . it couldn’t be happening to them. They denied it, but the memories of what they endured. . . were enduring remained bubbling under the surface.”

The picture is becoming clearer. “They. . . the memories. . . the trauma. . . c-came out.”

“Yes. They had dreams. . . they saw and heard things that weren’t there. I saw it all.”

I shake my head. “B-but I’m supposed to be stronger than them. . . I’m the Slayer. This shouldn’t be happening to me.”

“Dru was strong. Her faith in God was almost unbreakable, but Angelus persisted, and she broke. Poor woman was never the same again. She had nightmares for the longest time, and her mind. . . not always very clear. And little things stressed her.”

“And you took care of her. . . like you’re taking care of me.” My eyebrows furrow, and I almost pout. I’m too drained to be angry. “I don’t need you to take care of me.”

Before he can respond, I add with a trace of bitterness, “You just like women who need you to take care of them. You like to keep us down, so you can do whatever you want.”

“That’s not true!” Spike retorts, gripping my elbows. “I’m here because I. . .” The storm in his eyes winks away. “I’m here because I know that unlike Dru, you have the strength and tenacity to beat this, too. I *want* you to be the feisty Slayer I know and. . . care about.”

Choosing to ignore the implication about his feelings, I ask my most burning question, “Think I can?”

He sighs. “Can what?”

“Stop this stuff. . . the nightmares. . . the hallucinations. . . from happening to me?”

“Yes.”

And to top off my shocking revelations of the evening, I dip my head close to his. “Will you be there with me?”

“What do you think?” he breathes, his lips millimeters from mine.

“I think. . . this has turned out to be some date.”

With every nerve in my body singing, I dive into the deep end of unknown territory.





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