“Buffy needs our help.” Willow’s gaze was fixed on the door, her mind reeling from the Slayer’s dramatic exit. “We can’t—this isn’t right. We have to make her listen to reason.”
“And here I thought we’d just tried.” Xander walked back to the living room and slumped wearily on the couch. “I don’t know about you, Will, but I’m practically glowing from the warm fuzzies.” Groaning, he leaned his head back and massaged his temple. “I had no idea Buffy felt this way.”
“She doesn’t—she would never...” Willow sighed and sat down beside him, a grave expression on her face. “Something is very wrong here, Xan. We need answers. Now. That wasn’t our Buffy. I don’t know what’s making her act like this, but if it’s not a thrall then there has to be another supernatural explanation.”
“Such as?”
Willow frowned. “A spell, perhaps... Or maybe...maybe a wish gone wrong.”
Xander straightened. “What sort of spell? Did you—”
“No!” Willow’s cheeks lit up, nearly matching the colour of her hair. “I haven’t cast anything since the Tabula Rasa. Believe me, that lesson was very much of the learned.” Scowling, she searched her brain for a possible cause to Buffy’s behaviour. “But even so, that spell wasn’t about control, it was more of a... a gift. I just wanted to help Buffy deal with the painful memories, I would never...”
She paused as the Slayer’s condemning words echoed in her head. Manipulative. That’s what she’d called her. Shaking her head, Willow dismissed the idea. I’m not like that, she thought. I was doing Buffy a favour. It was for her own good. She just can’t see it yet. She looked up, resolve face firmly in place. “And besides, my spell ended the moment the crystal smashed.”
“What if there were side-effects?” Xander asked. “What if—”
“There weren’t.” Willow was convinced of her innocence, and nobody could tell her otherwise. “It didn’t work that way. I’m telling you, Xan, this isn’t my fault.”
Sighing heavily, Xander leaned forward on the couch. “So what are you saying?” he asked meeting her steady gaze. “You think someone else has worked some witchy mojo on the buffster?”
“What I’m saying is...” Willow hesitated, taking a moment to steady her voice. “Buffy isn’t acting like herself, and if Spike’s involved, we have to find out what he’s done, and how to stop it.”
Xander’s brow furrowed in consternation. “I don’t know, Will. I just can’t picture the bleached idiot being able to pull something like that off.”
Despite the infamous bottle-in-the-face incident of senior year, Spike had never been shy in admitting his aversion to magic, and Xander could easily remember his heated words on the night of Buffy’s resurrection. He was more of a fists and fangs type of guy—brains weren’t exactly his strong point—and Xander seriously doubted that the pain-in-the-ass vampire would dabble in witchcraft, regardless of the ultimate prize.
“It has to be a thrall,” he said. “There’s no way Buffy would want a disgusting thing like Spike anywhere near her, let alone...” He couldn’t finish that sentence. The image of this morning’s kiss forever burned into his retinas.
In a flurry of excitement, Willow stood up and proceeded towards the bookcase. “We should try to contact Giles. He’ll know what books to—”
“We don’t have time for that.” Xander rose from the couch and resumed his pacing. “We need answers now. God knows what else Spike has planned for Buffy. We have to stop him before...”
Hurriedly, the young witch selected a large, leather bound volume from the shelf and flipped to the index. “I’ll do a disclosure incantation,” she said, “It’ll reveal any active spells or residual magicks that are at work. All I need is a piece of jewellery or an item of Buffy’s clothes. It should—”
Xander stepped forward, a frown on his lips. “Buffy said no more spells.”
“Buffy won’t have to know,” Willow replied, quickly turning the pages.
An uneasy feeling washed over the male scooby, and he made a hasty decision. “I’ll phone L.A.”
Willow raised an eyebrow in question. “You want to speak to Angel?” she asked.
Xander snorted. “Yeah, about as much as I fancy another case of Syphilis.” He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head in frustration. “Look, the way I see it, they’re part of the same blood-sucking family. And as much as the thought of chatting it up with Captain Charisma, makes me wanna rip my own arm out, just so I’ll have something to beat myself over the head with, I don’t have a choice.” He sighed, hands clenched by his sides as he met his friend’s gaze. “We need to know if Spike has a thrall, and Angel is the best person to tell us.”
Willow had to admit he had a point, although she still thought her idea was quicker. “And what if he doesn’t?” she asked.
“Then we’ll go the spell route.” Xander’s voice was low as he reluctantly gave his approval. A smile crept over his best-friend’s lips, and he quickly rushed to amend his statement. “But only if we talk to Buffy first. We can explain why we need to do it. We have to know if there are outside forces at work here or...or if she's with him of her own free will.”
“Xander?” Willow’s voice was soft, almost apprehensive, as she placed her hand on his forearm. “What if Buffy really does love Spike? What do we do then?”
He stopped mid-stride and met her anxious gaze. “I don't know, Will,” he whispered, “I just don’t know.”
Xander had to believe his friend was under a mystical influence, because if she wasn’t, if Buffy was indeed thinking clearly, then that meant her angry words came straight from the heart. Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Xander squared his shoulders and headed for the phone. He forced a smile to his lips, as he glanced at the dog-eared scrap of paper that was tacked to the corkboard and carefully dialled the number. As he waited for someone to pick up, Xander was confident that he was acting in Buffy’s best interests.
Three minutes later, with Angel’s furious roar thundering down the phone line, Xander was confident he’d just made matters a whole lot worse.
The autumn leaves skittered around Buffy’s feet as she wandered along the sidewalk. She had no conscious destination, her mind too busy rehashing the heated argument to care where she ended up. As she turned into a back alley, an icy gust of wind chilled her to the bone, and absent-mindedly, the Slayer shrugged into the duster she’d been carrying since her impressive departure from Revello Drive. Willow and Xander wanted her to be the girl she was before—the happy, fun loving Buffy who asked no questions and always got the job done.
How was she supposed to tell them that the Buffy they knew no longer existed?
How did things ever get this bad? she thought , as she breathed in the scent of the aged leather, gaining comfort from the familiar masculine scent. How could I have allowed them to boss me around so much that they just expect me to jump through their hoops?
It was a hard concept for Buffy to come to terms with. These were her best friends, and yet, over the years she had repeatedly let them control her life. They rarely supported her decisions, instead, imposing their views, and pressuring Buffy into believing they knew what was best for her. And to her shame, she had allowed it. Buffy could blame noone but herself, for obeying them without question. She was the Slayer. The Chosen One. The idea that she could keep Sunnydale’s demon population under control, but was somehow incapable of managing her own love life was laughable. Clearly, Willow’s prior matchmaking skills left a lot to be desired. Sparkage and good arms aside, Buffy had known from the start that there was something missing with Riley. If it weren’t for her friend’s insistence that she give normal a try, Buffy was certain her relationship with the T.A would have fizzled and met an early demise.
If there was one thing that Buffy and her inner-slayer agreed on, it was the belief that real love and passion went hand in hand with pain and fighting. She needed that intense range of emotions, and Buffy regretted that she’d ever thought of settling for less. In her quest for that elusive normality, Buffy had tried so hard to make the relationship succeed with Riley—so consumed with what logic dictated she should want, that she stubbornly ignored the wishes of her own heart.
Well not anymore, she thought. At long last, Buffy knew what she wanted, and she was determined to grab the bull by the horns. Or more accurately, Spike by the— Stop it! Bad Buffy! Her lips formed a bittersweet smile as she remembered the vampire’s creative, if somewhat misguided, declaration of love. “I’m drowning in you,” he’d said.
Score one for intensity.
How many times had Buffy longed to revisit that day? If only she’d had the courage to stand up and fight her deep-rooted insecurities, who knew what could have happened. Spike had stood there, solemn and exposed, daring her to deny the feelings that simmered between them. What could have happened if she'd been brave enough to give him that crumb he so desperately sought?
Instead, she’d denied his feelings, denied his ability to love, and thrown in his lack of a soul for good measure. All Spike had asked for was a chance, and she’d been too much of a coward to do anything but attack. Buffy shook her head at the painful memory. Okay, at the time it wasn’t love. At least, not for her anyway. But it was something. A spark—the recognition of a kindred... well, not soul obviously, but they’d shared an understanding.
And wasn’t that just the ultimate kick in the teeth?
Spike—card carrying member of the soulless brigade—was capable of such depth of feeling that he could love her more completely then any man she'd ever known.
As far as Buffy was concerned, the less said about Angel and his ‘James Bond-esque, licence to brood, here today, gone tomorrow’ soul the better. However, both Parker and Riley had met her checklist of normality—human, souled up, very much with the pulse having—and both had hurt her beyond the telling. Her previous lovers were instrumental in creating the icy tendrils that gripped her heart, and she was thankful that Spike’s dogged persistence had finally melted through her defences.
After everything they’d seen, all the dangers they’d overcome, it was astounding that her friends still didn’t understand the complexities of her life. Spike did. He’d told her all those months ago that death was on her heels, that a part of her was desperate to know what it was like, where it led. Well, thanks to an obsessed Hell God with a bad perm and lop-sided ass, Buffy had chosen to make the ultimate sacrifice. She now knew first-hand what waited on the other side, and for better or worse, a new life stretched out before her. Regardless of the turbulent start to the day, Buffy wasn’t going to give up a chance of happiness with the man she loved.
Not for the scoobies. Not for anyone.
Not again.
The Slayer made a cursory traffic check, before crossing the street and absent-mindedly continuing along her patrol route. An almost giddy smile blossomed on her face as she thought about the events of the previous night. The kisses they’d shared in the park had awoken a passion that had lain dormant for far too long. Nevertheless, once they’d returned to the house, she'd told Spike that she wanted to wait. Despite the fire that raced through her blood, the frightened girl inside was afraid of rushing in and ruining their burgeoning relationship.
She’d half expected Spike to protest, or at the very least try to change her mind in his usual unsubtle way. Instead, he'd accepted her decision and held her with such unguarded tenderness, that it hadn’t taken Buffy long to throw caution to the wind. She wanted him. All of him. And as Spike held her writhing body in his arms, a look of wonder etched on his face, the Slayer knew she wanted that connection with him on all possible levels.
Surprisingly, as Buffy’s questing hands reached for his zipper, Spike had halted her actions, insisting that when he made love to her, it would be in his bed, and not on her couch. Forgoing his obvious discomfort, Spike held her as he stroked and teased, whispering such naughty things in her ear that Buffy’s body shuddered into orgasm right there in his lap. It was incredible. And if that made her a tease, well... she’d just have to make it up to him, wouldn’t she?
The thought alone sent a wave of heat coursing through her veins. It wasn’t like she’d never imagined it before. Buffy had a stash of secret fantasies starring the snarky vampire that no slayer should ever admit to. On countless occasions in that previous year, whilst her missionary—literally—was dutifully plugging away between her thighs, it was the image of bleached curls and piercing blue eyes that pushed Buffy over the edge into oblivion.
As the Slayer imagined what it would be like to give herself up to Spike’s more-than-capable hands, she failed to notice the familiar grave markers and derelict crypts of Restfield Cemetery pass her by. Would it be soft and gentle caresses that carried them to the dizzying heights of passion? Or more likely, a wild, explosive coupling that brought the walls crashing down around their ears.
Whatever the reality, one thing was certain. Buffy needed to know, needed him...and soon.
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Chapter End Notes:
A/N Hopefully this chapter has provided a bit of insight into the scooby mindset. In all fairness the Spuffy kiss would have been a shock, but I did need to show the darker sides of both personalities, and my fangirly heart needed to vent my frustrations with the way Buffy is so weak when faced with her friend’s disapproval in the show.