Again I say, I don’t blame anyone if you’ve dropped this off your reading list. But I am eternally grateful to those who are sticking with me and feeding my muse. Thank you to all my readers. I can’t tell you how much your support and enthusiasm means to me.
Oh, and yes…I did a major cop-out and stole lines from Becoming Part 2 toward the end. You’ll know ‘em when you see ‘em. I really hate doing this, but it’s very important that some things remain as they are, and this was the best way to do it. I tried to make it as original as possible, but…well…yeah.
Heh. I have no problem with stealing lines from Aaron Sorkin all over the place and plugging them into fics (‘cause even he said the best writers steal from others outright) but whenever it’s actual BtVS dialogue, I get all sheepish. >.<
Anyway…and I can’t say this enough…THANK YOU to everyone who’s sticking with me. *snuggles readers*
“Drink this.”
“I said I’m fine.”
Spike rolled his eyes and shoved the glass of orange juice fully under her nose. “I don’ sodding care if you feel well enough to tap-dance on a forklift, you’re gonna drink this bloody juice if I have to pour it down your throat.”
Buffy arched a brow, her gorgeous eyes sparkling with amusement. God, a man could lose himself so easily in those eyes. After this rot about the apocalypse was in the past, Spike was definitely going to take Buffy-gazing up as his favorite hobby. She was so glorious; so wonderfully glorious in everything she did. Every sodding move she made took his proverbial breath away.
“Bossy McBossy,” she replied, accepting the proffered juice with a feigned sigh.
“I drank your blood.”
“A fact I’m well aware of, considering it was my blood.”
“An’ I’ve been around long enough to know you need sweets once you’ve donated.” He held up a hand at the burning question flashing across her face. “Don’ bloody fight with me.”
“Sorry,” she cracked unapologetically, shrugging. “It’s against my nature.”
Any other night and he would’ve gotten a brilliant kick out of her jesting; this was the sort of camaraderie which had him falling in love with her in the first place. She’d grown so used to being around him in such a short period of time, whether she wanted to acknowledge as much or not was another question. But for the way she sparred with him, verbally and with that piece of walking poetry she called a body, his insides filled with just enough hope to keep him afloat amidst troubled waters. “Jus’ drink,” he said, determined to betray nothing.
“The words ‘slayer healing’ really mean nothing to you, do they?” Buffy replied dryly, arching a brow as she lifted the glass to her lips. If he didn’t know better he’d swear she was relishing every second of this.
“Not when we’re about to go up against your wanker of an ex an’ my sword-happy sire, not to mention Angelus’s brainwashed apostles.”
She snorted appreciatively. “Don’t tell me you’re intimidated,” she replied, shaking her head. “But I suppose there’s nothing wrong with being at full strength.”
Spike smiled gently but didn’t reply. There wasn’t much time to waste in the seclusion of Buffy’s home, but the longer they stayed, the less inclined he was to leave. While he appreciated the severity of the accumulating situation around them, he was increasingly convinced Buffy wasn’t ready. Oh, she could take Angelus out. There was no doubt there. The conviction in her eyes was unlike anything he’d ever seen, but God her body was so worn. Perhaps she was immune to recognizing her own limitations, but she couldn’t hide the exhaustion in her eyes. Not from him. He’d tasted her blood now—he had a part of her inside him. He’d tasted her power and as a result, he knew her strength.
And because of that, he did know her limitations. He could see them clearly because they were not his own. Buffy was tired. Not just physically—physical exhaustion was manageable. Buffy was worn by every feasible stretch of the definition. And Angelus would know it. He’d know the second her scent hit the air.
However, it wasn’t likely Angelus would be open to postponing the apocalypse on account of white-hat exhaustion. It was very much now or never; it didn’t mean Spike had to like it. He was too worried about Buffy to give a damn about logic or rationality. In the state she was in, she’d be lucky to be a blip on Angelus’s radar.
Buffy sipped her orange juice, a long sigh rolling off her shoulders. “Happy?” she asked.
“Over the bloody moon, kitten.”
She made an adorable face which he would have kissed right off her lips were they not pressed for time and suffocating under the heavy burden of the looming apocalypse. “I don’t like orange juice,” she complained.
“I’m not particularly fond of pig’s blood, but it din’t stop me from drainin’ three bags, now did it?”
Buffy’s eyes narrowed. “Not the same thing.”
“So says you,” he scoffed playfully.
“Well, beyond the obvious factors of yuck, you were all but drained.”
Spike shuddered, his gut aching on prompt. Yes, he had nearly been drained, and were it not for the fiery woman sitting on the kitchen counter, he might not be standing where he was. Fuck, chances were he wouldn’t be standing at all. Either his blood would have drained completely and he would have withered away, or the sun would have finished him off.
Buffy’s blood had given him life. He was forever in her debt.
“Same could be said for you,” he countered softly, then clarified when she shot him a questioning glance, “Drained, an’ all.”
She rolled her eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you I’m fine?”
“Dunno. Let’s find out.” Spike arched a brow pointedly and nodded at the glass in her hand. “Drink up.”
“This is crazy.”
He grinned and shrugged. “Welcome, friends, to the show that never ends.”
“You lost way more blood than I did.”
“I had your blood to make it up for me. An’, again, it din’t stop me from drinkin’ more.” Spike paused. “This is a pointless argument, love. I’m right, you’re wrong, t’was ever thus. Drink the sodding juice.”
Buffy hesitated a beat, but her eyes were dancing. “Well, as long as we’re concerned with my blood sugar, you might wanna get me a poptart,” she replied coyly, waving with her free hand. “Second cabinet on the right.”
He arched a brow but did as she instructed, unable to hide his mirth when his back was to her. “You need to be at full strength if we’re gonna do this thing,” he said, fishing out a pack of brown sugar pastries from the open box in the cupboard. “Angelus isn’t one to fuck with half-mass.”
“Kinky,” she replied with a smirk, catching the individualized poptarts-package off his toss.
Spike fought off another grin. If he kept smiling at how bloody cute she was, she’d never take him seriously. He could appreciate the need to ward off reality with humor and deflection, but she couldn’t afford to ignore the danger looming around them. Buffy had placed a lot of stock into Spike’s help, and while her faith was something he didn’t take lightly, no amount of wishing could change the fact he was still just one vamp. He’d dust at her side of it meant keeping her alive, but if he met his maker before the apocalypse was averted, she’d have no one to rely on but herself.
Granted, if they got out of this alive, it wasn’t like their problems were over. Buffy had this crazy notion in her head that things were going to revert back to the way they’d been before. Before the ghosts at her school pitted them against each other. Before he’d gotten a taste of her soft lips. Before he’d felt the heat of her skin and dreamt of how her hot pussy would feel around his cock.
Before he’d started falling in love with her.
He didn’t know what it was going to take to convince her tonight was the end of Angelus and Angelus alone. Whatever they shared—whatever was happening between them—was only beginning.
“What happens when this is over?” Buffy asked, startling him with the sudden seriousness in her tone. Either she was amazingly attuned to his every thought and concern or this was weighing on her mind more than she betrayed. And honestly, for either of their sakes, he wasn’t sure which he preferred. “When Angel’s dust and…what happens?”
The unspoken question dwarfed her actual words, but he wasn’t about to make things easy for her. “Not sure I follow, love.”
Buffy sighed and took a quick bite of her poptart. “I don’t think…no, I know…and telling you this is probably the dumbest thing I could do, but I can’t go into this thing without knowing what’s going to happen next.”
“Slayer—”
“I can’t go back to the way things were, Spike. I know…I’ve talked about it and joked about it and pretended it’s gonna happen but I can’t…” She broke off, emotion-choked words lodged in her throat. “I can’t go from…from, well, this…” She motioned between them. “To wanting you dead again. If I have to kill Angel and then…turn around and kill you, too…it’s going to break me. I can’t turn off whatever I’m feeling like a switch or something.”
Spike inhaled sharply, barely daring to hope. “Your feelings?”
“You know things have changed,” she replied, her eyes narrowing as she shifted self-consciously, placing the poptart on the counter beside her. “I don’t make out with men at random.”
“I should bloody well hope not.”
“And…” Buffy trailed off on a long sigh. “Well, I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. Except I don’t want to kill Angel if it means things go back…and then I have to kill you, too.” A still beat settled between them. “But if I…if I had to…God, please don’t make me, Spike. Don’t make me—”
He frowned. It’d been cute at first—this line of completely erroneous thinking—but if the chit was actually serious, they really needed to work on their communication skills. “You think I could go back from this to wantin’ to kill you?”
Buffy frowned. “I thought…I don’t know. I thought you and Dru—”
Oh bloody hell. Was she serious? Did she really think so little of him?
“Are you completely daft?” Spike demanded, eyes blazing. “Dru tried to kill me.”
“Well,” she replied, shifting self-consciously, “you’re a vampire.”
Spike’s brow furrowed, irritation surging through his veins. “An’ I’d wager you thought attempted murder between lovers—”
She threw her hands in the air. “I don’t know what I thought. Only…pain and blood…I thought you guys were all about the kinky.”
“Sweetheart, there’s a big bloody difference between enjoyin’ a rough shag to tryin’ to kill your…” His voice faded, inhaling deeply. First thing after the apocalypse was averted, he was going to take Buffy somewhere secluded and perfect her education on vampires. She had some entertaining delusions, granted, but he didn’t want her developing a complex when, in actuality, she was the sort of woman which inspired complexes in others. There wouldn’t be another for him after this. He wanted Buffy—just as she was. “I admit,” he continued carefully. “Dru can make things a li’l unclear. There were a few times over the years when her sex games got so bloody, you’d wonder if she wasn’t really aimin’ to off you good an’ proper.”
Buffy’s nose wrinkled, and he didn’t blame her. He probably could have done a better job of phrasing that. “Nice girlfriend you’ve got there, Spike,” she drawled.
“Well, when you love someone—”
“You let them beat you bloody?”
“Oi! Don’t knock it.”
Spike swore inwardly the second the words left his lips. He was just digging himself a deeper trench, but now it was more a matter of defending his character. Truth be told, while he’d never objected to whatever Drusilla wanted to do in the bedroom, he’d never shared her affinity for sadism. Never. Spike preferred his sex fairly straight forward: rough or gentle, depending on his mood. But despite that, he’d never wanted to deny his savior anything. If she wanted him to bleed, he’d bleed for her.
“Sorry,” Buffy retorted, her brows arching. “I just really don’t see the appeal.”
“We’re off the bloody point anyway,” Spike replied. “Dru tried to kill me. That’s not somethin’ you jus’…forgive an’ forget.”
She licked her lips and grew very still. “I…I thought you loved her.”
So did he. It was amazing how much could change in such a short amount of time. How much a goddess of light could drown out any want of a princess of darkness. How he could watch this tiny human with such adoration when, not too long ago, he would have withered at the idea of leaving Dru—no matter how much she’d hurt him.
Things had changed. Things had drastically changed. He could no more harm a hair on Buffy’s head than he could take a daylight stroll.
There was no good way to convey his feelings about his sire to the woman he’d unwittingly fallen in love with. While his love for Drusilla had withered away to nothing more than a shadow of gratitude, he could never completely strike her from his heart. He owed Drusilla his existence, but for the first time, he felt he’d finally repaid his debt. And while he would always remain grateful to her for introducing him to the night, the wealth of what he’d once felt had deflated into almost nothing.
Dru had tried to kill him. Really tried to kill him. There was no forgiving that.
“What I had with Dru is over,” Spike said, watching her intently. Was she really so oblivious to how gorgeous she was? How painful it was to be this close to her without touching her? Without nibbling on those succulent lips and exploring the forbidden contours of her body with his eager hands? He wanted to touch her so badly. He wanted to feel her skin beneath his fingers and drown in her kisses. He wanted her to cleanse him of Drusilla’s poison and bathe him with glory only a slayer possessed.
“I don’t know what that means,” Buffy replied a long minute later. “So…you and Dru are of the past. Does…does Dru being out of your life doesn’t make you any less a vampire, Spike.”
A long sigh tore off his lips and his shoulders slumped. And that was the sodding problem, wasn’t it? He should have known the entire evil thing would arise at some point to nip him in the arse.
“What I am, Slayer,” he said carefully, “is yours.”
Buffy froze. “What?”
“’m yours. There’s…God, pet, there’s no sodding way for me to go back after this.” He shook his head, shaking harder than he wanted to admit. “I din’t plan it. This…this thing we have. Whatever it is.”
“Whatever it is?”
Spike arched a brow. If she wanted to be the first to verbally define their relationship, she was welcome to it. But they were both licking their wounds right now; they were both trying to find themselves. And while he knew he wanted Buffy beyond the shadow of a doubt, he wasn’t about to pressure her into the same realization. Not right now. Not on the eve of the apocalypse her ex-honey had orchestrated. Not when she was so miserably lost.
Perhaps his advanced age gave him perspective. Or perhaps he’d been prepared to walk away from Drusilla all along. He didn’t know.
Buffy, though, was all of seventeen years old. Things at seventeen seemed endless. He remembered being seventeen all too well; he’d never thought anything could last forever as much as he had in his adolescence. Not even after Dru found him sniveling in the alleyway. Teenagers thought of forever in ways demons never could. And while Spike had thought his life with Dru would be forever, time and experience had rounded the corners of expectation.
Without Buffy, things would be different. Without Buffy, he never would have realized what he could have in comparison to what he did. Without Buffy, he’d be a wallowing mess of devastation.
But there was no without Buffy. She was right with him, and he was walking away from his old life by choice. Dru wasn’t leaving him—he’d left her. And he’d left her with the knowledge his heart belonged to someone else. It’d happened fast, yes, but he’d never been more certain of anything in his life.
Never more certain of anything. He had absolutely no idea how it’d happened, but it had. And if Buffy thought she could shake him off after this was over, she was sorely mistaken.
Buffy wet her lips when she realized he wasn’t going to make anything easy on her, her eyes dropping to her lap. “Spike—”
“’m yours.” He had the idea the words were frightening her, but with the threat of the apocalypse breathing down his neck, he didn’t care. If nothing else happened—should the worst come crashing down—he wanted her to know he was at her side. He wanted her to know to whom he belonged. “’m yours.”
His fingers slid just under her chin, his palms cupping her jaw as his lips brushed hers. It’d been too long since he’d kissed her. Since he’d had her taste in his mouth. Since he’d felt her hot tongue licking his. He loved the way her lips moved, the way she whimpered into his mouth as though her control was about to be compromised. She was light. She was innocence personified. She was everything he wasn’t, and everything he wanted.
“Buffy,” he murmured against her lips, soaking in her warmth.
“Uhhh…”
Just one more taste. One more…
It wasn’t to be. He leaned in for seconds only to be interrupted by the crash of the front door as it flew open. Buffy jumped and shoved him away before her thoughts caught up with her, and while he knew she wasn’t acting out of shame, the sudden force in her movements couldn’t help but sting.
Perhaps it was fortunate his thoughts weren’t allowed to dwell on the matter.
“Buffy! Buffy, are you here?”
The Slayer’s head jerked up, her eyes fixing on his in manner of an animal staring down the headlights of an oncoming truck. He knew it was her mum without needing clarification—one didn’t tend to forget the voice of a woman wielding an axe, especially if she had a famous daughter. He reckoned by the look on Buffy’s face that she hadn’t given her mum a moment’s thought since toddling off for school. When would she have had time? Today had started with a flaming vamp-memo from her ex and had yet to end. This was just the intermission. There was no time for mums.
“I’m in here, Mom!”
Before Spike could blink, Joyce Summers had barreled into the kitchen, her wide suspicious eyes drinking in the scene before her. He could only imagine what she saw. Her daughter in a blood-stained shirt standing beside a strange man. Well, not entirely strange, but Spike had the distinct memory of being in game face and under a chunk of wall the last time he and the woman made eye contact. He didn’t expect to be recognized.
“Are you all right?” Joyce demanded. “You’re not hurt?”
Buffy’s hands came up. “I’m fine.”
The woman’s eyes fell to the blood on her shirt. “Whose is that?” She didn’t bother waiting for a response, shaking her head resolutely. “You’re not fine. We need to—”
“Wouldn’t worry,” Spike said without thinking, wincing inwardly when Joyce’s head snapped in his direction. He really would have preferred to remain as invisible as possible, but he similarly didn’t want Buffy to find herself under more pressure than necessary. The girl was going to snap and they still had a world to save. “’S mostly mine.”
She blinked. “What?”
Buffy elbowed Spike hard, though her eyes shone with gratitude.
As it was, his interference didn’t distract the woman as long as he would’ve liked. Satisfied the blood wasn’t due to a mortal wound, the look in Joyce’s eyes swayed from concern to suspicion, and her tone followed suit. “Buffy,” she said levelly, “terrible things have happened. What were you doing?”
Spike blinked and said perhaps the worst thing he could have said. “What, your mum doesn’ know?”
Yeah, definitely the worst thing. The glare Buffy shot his way verified as much.
“Know what?” Joyce demanded.
Buffy was trembling so hard he feared she’d inadvertently drill a hole through the kitchen floor. He wanted so badly to reach out and reassure her with a touch, but something told him it wouldn’t be much help under the mother’s wary eyes.
Though perhaps a touch would have prevented the Slayer from completely falling off her rocker. “That I’m, uhh…in a band. A-a rock band with Spike here.” She shot Spike a sharp glance, silently begging him to back her up.
Bugger. He was such a fool for her.
“Right,” he heard himself saying. “She plays the…the triangle.”
“Drums,” Buffy corrected quickly.
He fought off a grin at the visual, but he wasn’t about to contradict her. If his girl wanted to play the drums in their lie, by God, she’d play the drums. “Drums,” Spike echoed with a nod. “She’s hell on the old skins.”
Something told him their brilliant cover story wasn’t sticking.
“Hmmm,” Joyce mused, clearly unconvinced. “And, uh, what do you do?”
He cleared his throat. “Well, I sing.”
There was a thick pause. Buffy plastered on her brightest aren’t-I-the-picture-of-innocence grin, which, as expected, had the reverse effect. Joyce palpably wavered between confusion and incredulity, ultimately falling completely over to suspicion again. Her eyes landed on the blood-splattered shirt once more before she completely took in Spike’s appearance.
“Buffy,” she said carefully. “A girl is dead. The police were here earlier; they’re saying you’re responsible.”
“Rot,” Spike growled before he could stop himself.
“Spike!” Buffy hissed.
“No, that’s complete rot. I can’t believe your mum would even…” He turned to the woman, eyes flaring dangerously. And he noted, with more than just some satisfaction, his love for the Slayer hadn’t affected how menacing he could look when it was necessary. The barest hint of accusation in the woman’s voice had red flashing across his eyes. Cowering right now would be the smart thing to do.
Joyce was a lucky woman. Had she been anyone but Buffy’s mum…
“The police said—”
“The police?” Spike barked incredulously. “Are you naturally this thick?”
Buffy elbowed him again, but he ignored her. There wasn’t any oomph behind it anyway.
“If you think she’s capable of killin’—”
Intimidated or not, Joyce was going to hold her ground. “I’m not going to be lectured by a stranger in my own home.” She crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing. “Why don’t you show yourself out?”
Spike huffed. He wasn’t going anywhere. Regardless, he couldn’t help but swell with warmth when Buffy grabbed his wrist to keep him from moving. She knew just as well as he did that he wasn’t budging; this was her way of providing support, and it meant the world.
“Mom, I need him.”
“Oh Buffy, come on—”
And for whatever reason, something in the girl snapped. It was unprecedented. Unpredictable. Not even Spike saw it coming. One second she was standing there, her small, powerful hand wrapped around his wrist, and the next her eyes were flashing and her shoulders were thrown back with courage unlike anything he’d ever seen. He was used to Buffy the Confident Slayer. Buffy the Confident Girl was a completely foreign concept, and she had him enchanted upon first glance.
“You want the truth?” she snapped, plowing ahead before Joyce could get a word in. “I’m a vampire slayer. Spike here? He’s a vampire.”
Spike nodded awkwardly when the woman turned her eyes to him in question. What else was there to do?
“And right now, we have to go save the world.” Buffy nodded at him, and that was that. He moved immediately for the back door, collecting the sword they’d propped between the cabinet and the door-handle and resting it against his shoulder. He moved and Buffy kept talking, standing across from her mother, who was frozen with astonishment. “The girl who died? Kendra? She was a friend of mine. A good, good friend. And the people who killed her are going to end the world. They have Giles, too. Spike and I are going to stop it. So you stay here. We’ll take care of everything.”
A smirk tugged on Spike’s lips. His girl had balls of brass. He knew her heart was thundering. He knew her pulse was racing. He could smell waves of tension rolling off her small, perfect body. But her voice didn’t waver or crack. There was nothing but conviction when she spoke. She was a vision of perfection—a tower of fortitude unlike anything he’d ever seen. And if he lived a millennia, he’d never forget this moment. Never.
She was perfect. And he was lost to her.
“They have Mr. Giles?” Joyce echoed, dumbfounded.
“Angelus an’ Dru,” Spike confirmed with a nod, even if his input was unneeded. “They’ll decorate the rug with his librarian guts if we don’ get a move on.”
Buffy’s nose wrinkled in disgust but she shot him a grateful glance nonetheless. She knew what he was trying to do. She knew without needing to be told.
“We should call the police.”
Spike rolled his eyes. Again with the sodding police.
“No. We’re not calling the police. Spike and I are handling it.”
“Handling what? What is happening?”
There was a long, tempered pause. “I’m sorry, Mom, but we don’t have time for this.” Buffy turned to him fully and nodded. “Spike?”
“The night awaits, pet.”
“No!” Joyce protested. “I am tired of I don’t have time or you wouldn’t understand. I am your mother, and you will make time to explain yourself.”
Buffy didn’t even spare her a glance. “I told you, I’m a vampire slayer.”
“Well, I just don’t accept that!”
Spike snickered and shook his head, fully prepared to ignore the psychotic woman and get to it, but he noted almost immediately that Buffy wasn’t budging. And when he turned around, he could feel anger rippling off her body like tiny shock waves. She was frozen in the doorway, and he knew without having to be told the last strain of her will had snapped.
“Buffy,” he said softly, encouragingly. He didn’t even know if she heard him.
And a few agonizing seconds later, he had his answer.
“Open your eyes, Mom,” she said slowly, her voice trembling, every inch of her fighting for strength he feared the day had already stolen. “What do you think has been going on for the past two years? The fights, the weird occurrences. How many times have you washed blood out of my clothing?” She fisted her red-smeared shirt demonstrably. “Blood like this, and you still haven’t figured it out?”
“Well, it stops now!”
“No! It doesn’t stop. It never stops!”
Spike remained silent, but he could smell her tears and it tore him apart.
“Do-do you think I chose to be like this?” Buffy continued, her voice dangerously close to teetering toward a shrill. “Do you have any idea how lonely it is? How dangerous? I would love to be upstairs watching TV or gossiping about boys or…God, even studying! But I have to save the world. Again.”
“No. This is insane. Buffy, you need help.”
It was truly amazing how people could listen without hearing a damn word. And Spike wasn’t about to stand idly by; he’d already seen something too personal for words, and while his insides were quivering with rage, he knew how it sounded to outsiders. The woman hadn’t seen anything but blood. She had no proof.
Well, she was about to get some.
“She bloody doesn’t, you infuriating bint,” he snarled, fangs descending. He drank in Joyce’s horror with grim satisfaction, motioning quietly for Buffy to join him. “Accept it or not, the girl’s on a timetable. If you wanna be here to chat this out in the mornin’, I suggest you stop preventing us from—”
“What the hell are you?”
Buffy rolled her eyes. “He’s a vampire, Mom. Get over it.”
“I don’t—”
“We’re leaving.”
“No. No!” Joyce paraded forward intently. “I am not letting you out of this house. Not with—”
“You can’t stop me.”
“Oh yes, I—”
It was over too quickly for Spike to appreciate; all he saw was the aftermath. There was a crashing sound as the woman toppled back, and when it was over, Joyce had been shoved against the island in the middle of the kitchen. She was gasping for air as though her head had been held under water, and staring at her daughter like she held the face of a stranger.
Buffy turned back to him, her heavy, determined eyes ready. She looked ready to cry, but her voice betrayed nothing. “Let’s go,” she said.
“You walk out of this house,” Joyce screamed after her, barely recovered, “don’t even think about coming back!”
Buffy didn’t even pause. She reached for his hand, and he gave it to her.
There was no more time for pausing. No more time.
They had a world to save. There would be plenty of time once this nasty business was behind them.
God, he hoped.
TBC