In all honesty, Buffy didn’t know whether or not to be grateful when Fred neglected to demand answers. It was hard enough closing the door with Spike on the other side; a lengthy discussion would positively wear the Slayer out. And she knew this from experience; were she home and in different company, her every encounter would be a topic of dissection and interpretation.
Though admittedly, a thousand years ago and under different circumstances, she and Fred likely would have bonded over fatty snacks as Buffy related the silky contours of Spike’s lips in full detail. But things had changed, and she was so much older now. So much older than she’d been just a few months ago. She was the mate of a vampire—the eternal mate of a vampire, from what Spike had related. She was tied to him forever through blood. Because of the night they’d shared. The night wherein she’d selfishly jumped his undead bones and used the feelings she knew he had for her to erase all remnants of Sunnydale from her grieving mind.
She’d used him, and she’d been rather shameless about it. But it wasn’t as though she’d felt nothing for Spike—quite the contrary, she’d felt more than she rationally should have. Ever since he’d cornered her in the halls of Sunnydale High, no matter they’d both been under ghostly influence, a spark had ignited in her belly. A spark she’d done her best to ignore since he first stepped out of the shadows and into her life. He was gorgeous. He was dangerous. Compared to her roll in the sack with Angel, Spike had been warm and considerate, as well as a surprisingly good shoulder on which to lean. Not only that, he’d cared for—and about—her. He’d genuinely cared about her. She might have fucked him silly upon arriving at their motel, but he’d made love to her afterward. In the shower. On the bed. After violence came solace, and Spike was there to provide it.
Now, however, her feelings for Spike were caught in a tangled web of confusion. Never had she thought his reentrance into her life would coincide with a crisis of this magnitude. Even before he reappeared, she’d wanted him back, she’d regretted leaving, and while every part of her ached for his touch, things were different now. Perhaps Buffy was feeling things due to the claim. She didn’t think so—she felt no less conflicted now than she had before leaving Sunnydale.
Buffy simply hadn’t been prepared for forever. She was only seventeen, for crying out loud. She barely knew how to reconcile her feelings for Spike with what she’d already been through; now they had forever hanging over them. It was too soon for her healing heart to be tossed into another relationship—a relationship like the one she was seemingly destined to have with Spike. One twisted with passion and anger and fire. Everything she never wanted to touch again. Not so soon after killing Angel.
Not when she hadn’t yet determined if she was truly grieving him or if her pain came from being the one who killed him.
Either reality wasn’t pleasant. Every time Buffy thought she was on her way out of the hole in which she’d dug herself, her foot would catch and her hands would slip and she’d feel herself sliding further into darkness. She’d thought she was over killing Angel a couple times now only to be proven wrong by the way her stomach would churn every time she recalled the betrayal in his eyes. But that was it—guilt. She felt guilt. She didn’t think she actually missed him, and the strange thing was, it felt wrong not to pine for his arms or ache for his lips or the soothing reassurance he provided in…well, turning up cryptically to tell her she was about to die.
It felt wrong not missing him.
Almost as wrong as the unfair allegations she’d leveled at Spike tonight. Perhaps she had overreacted to killing Angel and under-reacted to what Dru had done to Spike because Spike had walked away. Mentioning Dru as a possibility for Spike had been a low blow—one she’d known to be impossible for reasons which had nothing to do with the insane vampire’s tendency to shish kabob her former lovers.
The way Spike looked at her before she’d left him, Buffy had known he wouldn’t go back to his sire. He might not come after her for the sake of pride, but she’d known Drusilla would be at the very bottom of the last resorts.
And yet, she’d thrown that out there. She didn’t know why.
Buffy sighed. Perhaps it was because an angry Spike was a less confusing force than the Spike who looked at her like she was a treasure buried by God. She knew how to respond to anger; responding to affection was too difficult right now.
“So…” Fred said, startling the blonde out of her musings. “The vampire…”
Buffy wet her lips. “Yeah,” she replied. “He’s a vampire.”
There was a slow nod as though Fred were carefully weighing the information. “And…you’re the Slayer.”
“This is very true.”
“And…he’s not slayed.”
The thought of dusting Spike had her stomach curling in pain all over again. “No, he’s not,” Buffy said firmly, her tone icy. “And he won’t be.”
“He’s Spike. The one who gave you money?”
She raised a hand to her throat, her fingertips caressing the bite mark. “Yeah,” she agreed. “He’s the one who gave me money.”
Fred wet her lips. “Okay…are you going to elaborate or are we gonna just go over the facts until one of us falls asleep?”
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Buffy replied, shuffling uncomfortably. “Spike’s a vampire. He…our relationship is complicated. And—”
“You said you were waiting for him.”
“I was.”
Fred frowned. “And you let him go? I thought…I don’t know, you hadn’t mentioned anything, but I got the impression that you were kinda looking for him.” She swallowed hard and wiggled, as though realizing she’d betrayed more than she’d intended. “Not that I’d know, or anything. But the way you talked about him when you mentioned the money he left you…it wasn’t much, but I…I thought you…I thought you wanted him back.”
The reaction was instinctive. “I do.”
“And he went away?”
Buffy’s eyes narrowed. “I know you heard what was said,” she replied skeptically. “We weren’t exactly quiet, and he wasn’t—”
“He’s angry.”
Justifiably so, she thought with an inward sigh, but the words she said were, “It’s complicated.”
“He thought you were waiting for him, too.”
“Again with the ‘I was.’” Buffy shook her head, folding forward in despair. “I don’t know. I don’t know. We were enemies not too long ago.”
Fred nodded sympathetically. “’Cause he’s a vampire?”
The answer seemed more than obvious. “Well…” Buffy’s brows furrowed. “Yeah. But more than…when we first met, he basically—no, not basically—he told me outright he was gonna kill me.” A pause. “He didn’t, obviously.”
The brunette inclined her head. “Obviously.”
“But…it got…” Angel’s face floated to the forefront of her thoughts; Buffy shivered and quickly shoved him down again. She didn’t want to think about him anymore than she already had, and though she suspected divulging her whole sordid history with Angel would give perspective to the complicated mess in which she’d entangled herself with Spike, she didn’t want advice. Even with as unconditionally understanding as Fred was proving to be, Buffy was too gun-shy and jaded from experience to wade intentionally into deeper waters. She didn’t want to be told where she’d gone wrong and where there was to go from here.
Namely because the option terrified her.
No matter their past, no matter what had brought them where they were, Buffy’s wounded heart knew it could fall easily again. And she wasn’t ready. She wasn’t ready for anything permanent. Anything which would truly have her falling in love again. And she knew—she knew—if she allowed Spike to care for her, she would end up losing herself all over again.
This time, there was no cushion. Nothing to keep her heart safe. While she knew Spike would never do anything intentionally to hurt her, the harsh reality of his true nature would eventually unmake her. Angel had been harnessed with a soul; there was nothing harnessing Spike.
Perhaps before he’d actually come back, she’d thought she could overlook it. Before he told her this thing they had would be forever.
Because they were mates.
They were claimed.
She was so selfish. She’d wanted him, and now she had him…only her tattered heart didn’t know what to do. Which course to take. She kept backing herself into corners only to cry foul whenever her skewed motives were challenged. But how could she hope to explain what she wanted when she didn’t know herself?
“Can I make a teeny observation?”
Buffy glanced up. Fred’s timid expression had her both tightening with tension and bubbling with laughter. There was nothing to lose, she supposed, thus gave her friend the go ahead with a nod.
“That Spike guy…if…I don’t know what any of the words he said meant, but it seems to be…something involving the both of you?”
Buffy swallowed hard and nodded. “Yeah. It is.”
“Well…wouldn’t it be better to figure it out together?” the brunette suggested shyly, casting her eyes downward immediately. “If you try and do it separately, you might come to different conclusions and just open up the door to more trouble.” She paused. “He’s…ummm…vulgar, but there was a lot of hurt in his voice.”
The vulgarity to which she referred likely referenced Spike’s numerous descriptions of his night with Buffy as fucking; something which smarted but remained true to what had occurred. She hadn’t allowed for anything other than fucking at first. “The vulgarity came from the anger,” she said softly. “I hurt him. I didn’t want to hurt him.”
“So—”
“It’s complicated.”
“And it will continue to be complicated until you uncomplicate it.”
Buffy glared. “You will not fool me with your logic.”
“Well…you care about him. I care about you. By right of contrast, I guess…” Fred sighed. “I don’t wanna step on your toes, but I want…you seemed…different with him. He…can vampires…feel? ‘Cause I wouldn’t’ve known he was a vampire if you hadn’t said anything. He seemed to…feel a lot.”
A shiver settled over Buffy’s shoulders. “He does.”
“And about you.”
“He does.”
And Buffy cared about Spike. A lot.
Too much.
Too fast. Too soon. Her heart couldn’t take it. But there was nothing she could do about it. There was nowhere to hide.
And worst of all, Fred was right. Fred was absolutely right.
Space would bring peace. She and Spike needed to talk. She needed to understand what was happening. She needed him.
“Fred,” Buffy whispered softly. “When Spike comes back…don’t let me send him away, okay?”
“You—”
“Just don’t. He makes me go crazy with confusion. But the second I get away from him, I want him back.” She trembled and glanced up, worrying a lip between her teeth. “I left him and I’ve missed him. And then tonight…I just know I’m not ready for what he wants.”
“What he wants?”
A pause. “I’m not ready for…but maybe we can…just until…”
Her voice trailed off, taking words with it. The slate in her mind blanked. There was no way to finish a thought when she hadn’t yet decided how to proceed. How to go about the next day. And the day after. And the day after.
She needed Spike and she needed space. It was a classic Catch-22, and she didn’t even know what that meant.
Perhaps she could be with Spike if he allowed her time to heal. If he was with her without confusing her with sex.
She didn’t want to be without him in the interim; she just wanted time. So when she was ready to love him—truly—there would be no reservations.
She only hoped, when she tried to tell him, he would understand.
That she wouldn’t make things worse.
Though she anticipated his arrival like nothing else, Buffy was strangely unsurprised when Spike failed to show up the following day. She’d felt his decision to stay away the second he had reached it—nothing revolutionary, more a sudden understanding. A sense of knowledge she couldn’t explain but accepted as truth all the same.
She understood. After what had happened, she’d want to be away from herself as well.
Still, she couldn’t deny it hurt.
“I spoke with Mr. Binns,” Fred said over lunch. “This morning…when I stepped out to get the paper, I saw him. The apartment’s yours if you want it. I told him…he’s taking some furniture, but he’s willing to sell some to you.”
Buffy’s brows hit her hairline. “His furniture?”
“His wife’s going to a home and he’s moving into a much smaller apartment. He says he can leave you with the bed, one of his sofas, and the kitchen table.” Fred shrugged and nibbled on the crust of her sandwich. “Not a dresser or a television, though. Or anything else. And he wants five hundred dollars.”
“Five hundred dollars?”
Fred nodded. “For the bed and sofa…and the table. Which, really, all things considered, not too much. I mean, yeah, secondhand, and you’ll have that old-person smell to get out, but for LA prices, it’s not too shabby. How much of Spike’s money do you have left?”
Buffy inhaled sharply, ignoring the twinge his name shot to her heart. “Enough,” she said. “He left me with…a lot. More than…well, a lot.”
“Where’d he get it, do you think?”
“I don’t know and I don’t wanna know. I just…he got it for me.” Of this, she had no doubt. Just as the sun would rise and the moon would glow, she knew Spike had procured the cash for her sake. He’d done it so she wouldn’t be left to herself when she walked out the door and ostensibly out of his life. He’d done it so she’d have something on which to rely.
“And your landlord’s okay with this?” Buffy asked softly, her heart racing. The notion of renting her own apartment was so far beyond her, and yet somehow it didn’t seem strange to be sitting here, discussing it as though it was an actual possibility.
Namely because she knew it was.
She knew she was going to take it. She was going to be a grownup and sign a lease and everything.
And the decision came so easily, Buffy knew she was going to be in Los Angeles for a while. A long while.
Time needed a chance to heal her heart. She was still broken from what had occurred in Sunnydale. Not only with Angel—if Angel factored in at all. A part of her felt so detached from it she wondered why he kept surfacing at all. And yet he did—the perpetual bad penny, Angel was the perfect mood-killer. If ever a party needed a pooper, one need look no further.
Perhaps Angel kept surfacing because he, alive or not, was the thing standing between her and Spike. Not out of love; out of warning.
Buffy had already seen the worst love between slayers and vampires could do. She wasn’t eager to try again.
Not that warning herself did any good. The rest of her was thoroughly sickened with a need to see Spike. A need to throw herself in his arms and beg forgiveness for being so flighty and uncertain. She didn’t want him to leave her—the thought was crushing. She didn’t want him to leave her, but she wasn’t ready to be what he wanted her to be. What he needed her to be.
She wasn’t ready to be the girlfriend. The mate. The lover.
Right now—just right now—she needed to be friends. And if he understood that…God, she hoped he understood that.
“He’s fine with it,” Fred agreed, her voice dragging Buffy from her cynical musings. “Really fine with it…as long as you can afford to give him two months’ rent in advance.”
“I can.”
There was a skeptical pause. “I…I haven’t even told you what the rent is.”
“Believe me, I can afford it.”
“Spike’s money?”
Buffy swallowed hard, ignored the twinge once more, and nodded. “Spike’s money.”
“Wow…he gave you a lot, didn’t he?”
That would be the understatement of the year.
It wasn’t like she had anything to pack. In fact, the most strenuous part of moving into Mr. Binns’s apartment came with signing the lease. It required two forms of photo identification and her birth-certificate; three things Buffy had left in her mother’s possession. Her intermediate license, while had never been revoked, was rather invalidated as she hadn’t passed the driving test or…any test. But it still had her picture beside her name in a secure, governmental fashion.
And it was still in Sunnydale. Along with her student ID, her social-security card, and her birth-certificate. And everything else identifying her as Buffy Summers.
Fortunately for her, Fred’s landlord was the sort who could be bought off. It cost a pretty penny, but thanks to the William the Bloody Foundation, she had money to spare.
Not a ton, but some.
So she had an apartment. An apartment she could hold for two months at least. An apartment, a bed, a couch, and a table. She’d need food and clothing and utilities. The sort of luxuries she’d taken for granted while under her mother’s roof.
Fred assured her a job at the library. A job meant money, which was good. Money meant budgets, which were bad, as Buffy was something of a shopaholic. Plus she and math were unmixy forces.
This being-an-adult thing was really going to suck.
But the suffocating pressure of living in the real world was worth the freedom of being her own provider.
And then there was Spike. Spike, who while angry with her, would never leave her alone.
At the first knock to her front door, a sense of underlying peace filled her.
Buffy inhaled sharply, her pounding heart betraying her nerves. Her bare feet padded across the worn carpet floor. She was at once startlingly aware of what little she owned. The rooms were practically empty. She had nothing with which to offer guests.
But Spike wasn’t a guest. He was…she didn’t know what he was, other than hers.
And here. Spike was here. He’d come back.
A small smile graced her lips when her eyes crashed with the sea of tumultuous blue. The soft eagerness on his face took her breath away.
She leaned against the doorway.
“Come in, Spike.”
TBC