Chapter Eighteen

Spike glanced at the door leading into the shop again, and shifted in his chair.

He and the Watcher had shared two or three, or, in his case, maybe a few more than that, beers, and were now engaged in a game of chess. He usually enjoyed the pastime, finding it both relaxing and mentally stimulating. Tonight’s match had started out being both. But for the last fifteen or twenty minutes, he’d been feeling increasingly restless, almost as if he was spoiling for a fight, and he didn’t have a bloody clue why.

After all, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t been getting his fair share of violence lately. The power dealers had been strong, each one a challenge. And, just last night, there’d been a nice ruckus when he’d run into those Ku Mi Ko Ya Da demons down by the docks. That battle had ended in a satisfyingly gory manner, with lots of blood – hardly any of it his.

Today, he’d worked off energy of a different kind. He’d spent most of it in bed with his Slayer, where the two of them had indulged in all sorts of luscious activities. Her scent still lingered on his skin, her taste in his mouth, and Spike could feel his body stirring at the memories of the hours past. Her flesh had the most amazing flavor, and her mouth was… He touched his tongue to his lower lip. Oh, yeah – luscious.

The hours of shagging had been followed up with a good work out here in the training room. Sparring with Buffy was a different kind of dance, but, in many ways, almost as satisfying.

All in all, the past week or so pretty much encapsulated his vision of the idyllic existence, and, by rights, he should be feeling sated and lazy. He wasn’t, and the fact that he was feeling uneasy and edgy instead was – well, it was bloody well annoying him.

<< Slayer? >>

The lack of any response told him Buffy had probably, like Elvis, left the building, and, once more, he pulled his eyes away from the shop door. He knew they didn’t have to be touching, or even in the same room, for this voiceless communication to work, but there did seem to be some distance restrictions. He gave an inward snort. One of these days they’d have to test the range out. Can you hear me now?

Spike rolled his shoulders, making another attempt to shrug off his disquiet. He told himself that his mood was probably just fallout from the Watcher having stirred up the past. There was certainly a lot there he didn’t much care to dwell on, especially anything involving the familial trio of Dru, Angelus and Darla. The three of them had been haunting his dreams enough lately, their voices mocking his love for his Slayer, and heaping ridicule on him for thinking she might actually come to share…

Sonofabloodybitch!

Don’t!

In an effort to distract himself, Spike pushed his heel down hard on the floor, and began tightening the muscles in his left leg. One by one, he slowly clenched each to rock hardness, from his ankle, through his calf and knee and into his thigh.

S.Q.U.E.E.Z.E.

Need. Distraction.

Anything.

Don’t dwell on the stupid, sodding dreams that repeat endlessly every time you close your bloody eyes.

S.Q.U.E.E.Z.E.

“Any time, Watcher.” Spike lit a cigarette, rather pleased with the even tone he managed to produce.

“This isn’t a speed game.”

“You could just admit defeat.”

“I think not.”

Giles moved his bishop and Spike frowned. Now that had been unexpected. He realized he’d have to reevaluate his strategy, and he welcomed the opportunity to return his focus to the game. Taking a long swallow of his beer, he studied the board, plotting moves and countermoves.

Looking satisfied with Spike’s reaction to his ploy, Giles leaned back in his chair. He’d abandoned the glass he’d been using for his own beer, and the bottle now rested on his knee, secured there by the loose circle of his fingers on the neck. “What do you think of this job for Buffy?”

Spike's frown deepened. That whole issue was probably contributing to his – testiness. “Already said, didn’t I? She’s the Slayer. She doesn’t need to take on more than that.”

Giles traced a finger along the edge of the table between them. “Yes. I must say, I share your concern.”

Spike was relieved to hear it. Between the two of them, maybe they could steer their Slayer away from this mistake. “Fairly intelligent bloke,” he reiterated.

“But I still believe it might be a good move for her.”

“Hence the ‘fairly’.” Was he going to have to reevaluate his opinion of the Watcher, too? “You don’t think she has enough on her plate?”

“Well, yes. To be honest, I’ve always thought so. I was quite distressingly lax, by my own standards, in insisting she put her best effort forward in her studies while she was at school.” Giles grimaced. “I’ve never been proud of that. However, one must admit that, in most cases, being the Slayer would be enough of an occupation for anyone.”

“You seem to be contradicting yourself, Rupert,” Spike said. He was relatively sure that those three little words – ‘in most cases’ – were about to bite him in the arse.

“I’m aware of that.” Giles paused, and the expression on his face told Spike that he was choosing his words with care. “But Buffy has never been a typical Slayer.”

“’Course she’s not ‘typical’.” His chest puffed up as pride filled him. “She’s bloody amazing. The best ever.”

And she’s mine.

“Have you ever wondered why that is?” Giles asked.

“She’s Buffy,” Spike said, as though that explained everything. Which, to his mind, it did.

“And what is it, do you feel, that makes her so strong? So successful?”

“Mystical powers? Determination and hard work?” Spike’s mouth pursed with satisfaction. “My lady’s got stones, Watcher.”

Giles made a sound of amusement. “Quite,” he acknowledged. “But, with Buffy, there’s something more. Something other Slayers haven’t had.”

Spike’s scarred brow rose.

“Friends. Family.”

Both legs tightened up this time, and not slowly. The fact that all those – people – tended to surround his Slayer didn’t sit well with him. Sometimes it was damned hard to have so many humans about. Especially when he knew that most of them would probably be grabbing for the nearest weapon if they ever suspected…

“Hangers-on,” he derided.

“If you don’t see them as more than that, you have a lot to learn about them.” Giles’ eyes locked with his. “And about her.”

“I was trapped. Before – with Glory. Everything was closing in on me, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I knew I couldn’t beat her, couldn’t win. And everyone was counting on me, depending on me to save the world. Even if it meant killing my sister. They expected me to do that. To kill Dawn. It was like everything was falling on me – like the dirt and rocks falling in on me, burying me alive. And I couldn’t cry out for help, because if I did, the dirt just filled my mouth – more people worrying about me, their concern weighing me down, making it harder for me to fight.”

He could still hear the fear and pain and despair that had been in his Slayer’s voice. That memory, along with the restlessness he was already feeling, fueled a fast flood of anger, and Spike did nothing to stem the tide. Instead, he welcomed the excuse to vent his growing uneasiness in a fight. Verbal or physical, Watcher’s choice.

If the other man didn’t bloody well understand how far Buffy had fallen – before – then he had a lot to learn about her. And if he didn’t yet understand that he was determined to do whatever he could to see that she never fell that far again, the Watcher had a lot to learn about him, too.

“Those friends make it harder for her to do her job.”

“They –”

“Don’t hit the horsies,” he sneered out the plea Willow had made in the stolen Winnebago.

“Concern for –”

“Her job is to slay demons. It’s what she was made for. And she does it. But the bloody Powers – or whoever it is that’s in sodding charge – didn’t think that was enough for her, did they? So they planted her on the Hellmouth, and they shove an apocalypse at her every year, leaving it up to her to save the bleeding world.”

“Spike –”

“Gets the job done, doesn’t she? Even when it costs her every bloody thing she bloody has.”

Even when it costs her her life.

“Yes, her duty is –”

“She was drowning in her bloody duty,” Spike burst out. His chair scraped across the floor as he surged to his feet. His fists came down against the table, and he leaned forward on his knuckles, his body slanting menacingly toward the Watcher. “Were you blind to that? Told me herself she felt like she was being buried alive be—” His voice cracked, and, furious with himself, he gritted the word out. “Before.”

Sonofabloodybitch! Was he ever going to be able to say it?

Before she died…

Died.

Died.

No.

Never.

He’d never be able to say it.

His breath was coming rapidly, and his whole body felt as though it was about to explode.

He needed to kill something.

The Watcher met his eyes, looking revoltingly calm, which pushed Spike’s anger up another notch. He overcame his first inclination, though, which was to storm out the door in a dramatic swirl of brassed off vampire, because the other man’s steady gaze made something inside of him jell.

Determination, he realized. To prove that he, too, was capable of controlling himself.

I am not, he told himself, again, controlled by any fucking chip. I control me. And I will prove it, no matter what the demons and humans around me think; no matter what my sodding family rants on about in my dreams; and no matter how often I lose all control in nightmares and…

…and…

…drain…

…Buffy.

Sleep, he had told the Watcher more than once in the last several months, was highly overrated. With every bloody day that passed, he believed that more deeply.

I will not drain Buffy. I damned well love her.

Turn her, and she’ll be yours forever.

And she wouldn’t be Buffy.

Tried to bite her this afternoon, didn’t you?

A little love play. Didn’t even break her skin.

Had to look, though, didn’t you? To make certain you hadn’t sunk your fangs into her?

Didn’t.

So close to losing all that sanctimonious control… All it took was her teeth on your neck… Could hear her blood pumping through her body, calling you… You wanted it, wanted her, her blood.

I’ll always want her blood. It’s part of her.

Yes, yeeesss. Slayer blood. You long for it. Need it. Take it. Take. It.

When the time is right, I will. When she wants me to.

Wants you to? She’s the Slayer! She’ll never want you to.

Might, someday. And when I take it, it won’t be to feed, or to turn her. It’ll be for other reasons.

Other reasons? He could almost hear maniacal laughter. You grow ever more delusional. She’ll never trust you. Never share that with you.

Spike squeezed his eyes shut, and cranked his neck. Control could be bloody elusive. He inhaled deeply through his nose, exhaled slowly, and opened his eyes to meet those of the Watcher. He knew his gaze was still flinty, but he straightened from the looming stance he’d taken over the other man.

“She gets the job done,” he repeated. His posture might be less threatening, but his voice was still aggressive. “No matter how high the price. It’d be a hell of a lot easier if her little pals didn’t harp on her for how she does it.”

“I don’t believe –”

“They expect too much of her! They’ve hoisted her onto some glorious pedestal and she frets herself silly trying to live up to all those sodding expectations, fashing herself ‘til she can barely function, and –.

“I’ve never put Buffy on a pedestal,” Giles said. “Not consciously.”

“Harris would have her carved in stone.” The sneer was back. “His perfect goddess.”

“Xander does have some –”

“Issues? Yeah. The boy is full of them.” Spike swept his hand across the chessboard, scattering the pieces.

Giles barely blinked. He merely looked annoyed that their game had been disturbed. “She –”

“She needs time. When she doesn’t have to perch on that pedestal, and she can –”

“Just be a woman?”

“She’s always a woman!” Spike shouted, trying to ignore the touch of fear the Watcher’s sarcastic tone induced. “She isn’t two people – the woman and the Slayer. She’s one, both.” His angry words seemed to echo around the training room. “If she keeps trying to divide herself in two she’ll never be happy.”

“I know.”

Giles’ quiet agreement brought Spike up short, and he stared hard at the other man. The bloke had something to say; Spike could see it in his eyes. And his ability to calmly await his opportunity to say it made Spike want to roar with frustration. How the hell did he do it? Always remain so bloody calm? It was so –

“May I speak now?” Giles asked after a moment.

“Don’t see a gag, Watcher.” His anger seemed to have, for the most part, burned itself out, and his body no longer seemed to be screaming for a fight, but, out of long habit, Spike held on to the attitude.

“Would it be possible for me to do so without interruption?”

“Depends on what you bloody have to say, mate.”

“I have several things to say. Please sit down. I dislike you towering over me, glaring.”

The reprimand intensified Spike’s glare.

“And it’s childish.”

The vampire worked his jaw and let out a low growl. He did, however, plop back into his chair.

Childish.

Sod that.

“Is not,” he muttered under his breath.

He eyed the disarrayed chess board with annoyance, some self-directed disgust, and a good bit of petulance. He’d have bloody well beaten the bloody Watcher, and now the other man would bloody force him to take a bloody loss since it was his actions that had dislodged the bloody pieces. The Watcher was a right prig about such things. And he’d probably bloody gloat about the bloody ‘victory’ as well.

Bloody hell.

“I refuse to talk about or for Xander. I believe I’ve been quite clear on how I expect the two of you to behave.”

Giles paused, seeming to be waiting for Spike to comment, but the blond refused to do so. If he could find a way to eliminate that brainless prat from his Slayer’s life that wouldn’t end with her driving a stake through his heart, he’d take it. His attitudes toward a good many things might be changing in ways he never would have believed possible, but it would take a bleeding miracle to get him to change his mind about that –

“I’ll admit that the pressures put on Buffy have been horrendous. That tends to be the nature of the Slayer’s job. Although it was always my intention to refrain from putting too much responsibility on her shoulders, I will also concede that I may not have been entirely successful in that endeavor. Buffy is the Slayer, and –”

“The buck stops with her.”

“Yes. Ultimately, I’m afraid it does.”

“She’s a buckstopper,” Spike mumbled. He’d never admit it, but he was a touch embarrassed by his outburst. Still didn’t understand why he’d been so buggering edgy, either. He picked up one of the chess pieces and began working it in intricate patterns through the fingers of his left hand. He found the movement somewhat soothing. Another long swallow of beer helped as well.

“I do understand that we, Buffy’s friends and family, known in some quarters as ‘the sodding Scoobies’,” he paused for Spike’s snort, “Might tend to place extra stress on Buffy by expecting her to –”

“Have all the answers?”

“To be –”

“More than human?”

“You really can be the most annoying creature!” Giles huffed.

“Yeah? I could name a few humans that –”

This time it was Giles who interrupted. “Buffy’s friends may sometimes add weight to her shoulders, but they also connect her to the world.”

“They drag her down.”

“They help,” Giles said crisply, “to keep her in the light.”

“Help to keep her in the light?” Spike’s hand jerked with a kind of amused contempt, and, unintentionally, the chess piece he’d been toying with flew across the room. He glared after it. “Do you really think there’s a chance she’ll cross over into the dark?”

“I’d like to be able to answer that with a resounding ‘No!’, but something has come up that… Perhaps your response to the same question would make it possible for me to give a negative answer with conviction. Would you care to share it?”

The strange response and the Watcher’s peculiar tone had Spike’s head whipping back to the other man. Those things, combined with the unusual intensity of his eyes re-ignited the flame of fear he’d felt at the Watcher’s sarcasm a moment ago, and confirmed something he’d begun to suspect earlier in the evening.

Fuck!

He knows.

The Watcher knows. About me and Buffy. Knows we’re shagging each other ragged.

Bloody, buggering hell!

He probably knew just how they were whiling away the daylight hours, and –

Spike tore his thoughts away from the many ways the other man’s knowledge could lead to disaster, and stared hard at the Watcher, stunned by another revelation.

He hasn’t tried to dust me.

He knows, and he hasn’t tried to dust me.

Or tear us apart.

Or dust me.

Why the hell hasn’t he tried to dust me?

Instead he’s asking me… Without saying the words, he’s asking me… Are you going to try to pull her into the dark?

Spike’s mind raced with the implications of the silent question, but he kept arriving at the same place, and the shock of his conclusion made it almost impossible to....

He’s bloody well asking what my intentions are.

Like a prospective father-in-law, he’s asking me if I’m going to be worthy of his daughter; if I’m going to at least try to be.

Throughout most of his existence, that conclusion probably would have sent him into gales of laughter, if he was given to such poncey displays. But, tonight, it didn’t. Instead…

Bugger.

I care. About him. About his opinion of me. I respect him and I want his respect in turn.

Bugger.

Want him to trust me, to know that he can.

Bugger, bugger, bugger.

Spike was silent for a long time, trying to come to grips with the myriad emotions swirling through him. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, strained, and sincere; the accent a far cry from his usual working class tones.

“There’s darkness in Buffy. Its part of what makes her strong, and she needs it to do her job. To survive. She needs to accept that, understand it. But she belongs in the light, and she’s grounded there. No one will pull her into the darkness. No one could.” He paused. “And only a fool would try.”

Giles’ eyes remained on him, and Spike met his searching gaze without flinching.

The Watcher’s response was equally long in coming. “I think,” he said at last, the merest hint of a smile touching the corners of his mouth. “I’ll have another beer. Can I get you one?”

~*~

“I understand my damned duty,” Buffy told him. “I mean, I know I’m responsible for the people around me, and the safety of the world and… Doesn’t he get that? Doesn’t he know that I know?”

The S’Hado Wlass demon, worn down by the long battle, stared at her. “Makdnickieg! Leeprae be tsy leehraksha ru stypat tiellie. Makdnickieg!”

Buffy rolled her eyes and kicked it in the stomach. “Why am I telling you? You don’t even speak English. Do you?”

“San dyshor esdaves pringcar a leighvl adlauraanned.”

“I didn’t think so. Okay, I know Giles says that what I speak isn’t exactly English either, but that’s beside the point. And the point is – I. Understand. My. Damned. Duty.” She emphasized her words with punches to the demon’s face. “I was drowning in my damned duty.”

“Makdnickieg!”

She spun the demon around and wrenched one of its arms up behind its back as she leaned in to speak directly into what she assumed was its ear. “Besides, Spike has changed. Every demon in town knows that. You do know that, don’t you?” The arm was yanked up higher. “Don’t you?”

Jo’Hn/Ja’Mes re belbeck ylori mic halad. Yditori lil puffshann odia neker rierach ael. Dez demo naalic emydiera.”

“I knew it! It’s all over the demon community. Spike = white hat. Well, maybe grey. But definitely not solid, dark, evil-all-over black anymore.” Another tug on the arm. “And he would never hurt us.”

“Makdnickieg!”

Buffy released the demon’s arm in order to twist its thin neck. She stepped back as it fell to the ground, and after prodding it lightly with her foot to make certain it was dead, she stared down at the fallen foe for long minutes, breathing hard.

“I don’t wanna drown.”

She inhaled, brought her breathing under control, and lifted her chin. Stupid slaying hadn’t eased her anger. At all. Stupid anger.

“I am not going to…”

To what? Explain myself? Argue with my friends?

Worry?

“I’m not going to – ooof!”

Buffy stumbled forward under the weight of the blow. Her body fell awkwardly, but she quickly rolled through the fall and regained her feet. Damn, that had hurt! She spun to face the new threat, her body tight now, and poised for battle. Oh, wonderful! Could this night get any better? She looked from the demon standing in front of her to the newly slain one at her feet. Demons were always at their best when they were avenging, um, something in their family.

“Krikenflo wofe tern ity! Txrab bitshe rifultonwas a bac onrhon dawil liamju lieradf ord!!”

Its beady red eyes glared into hers.

“Don’t tell me. Makdnickieg, right? I should have known.” She flipped her loosened hair over her shoulder and brought her fists up.

~*~

“She saves lives all the time, but it can be such a secret saving. This job could well be a very positive experience for her.”

Giles had recorded a victory in the ‘Human’ column in the little notebook in which religiously kept track of their win/loss/draw statistics. Restraining himself in the face of Spike’s moodiness, he’d wisely kept the gloating to a minimum, though he had taken care to point out that ‘Human’ was now an even dozen games up on ‘Vampire’. Without so much as a smirk, he’d inquired of Spike if he’d like a chance to close the gap.

The ‘Vampire’ did.

The chess pieces had been retrieved and set back up; the two Englishmen had downed another couple of beers apiece and had begun on yet another; and the conversation had returned to the pros and cons of Buffy entering the workforce.

“Because it would be one-on-one with people she can help.”

“Yes.”

The reasons behind Spike’s quick explosion into anger earlier had surprised him. During dinner, he’d gotten the impression that the objections he had to Buffy getting a job were based solely in selfishness; the worry that his time with her would be curtailed. But his blunt ‘She’s the Slayer, she has a job’ was apparently based on much more than that. It was obvious Spike had a very deep, and very real, fear that Buffy would be ‘buried alive’ in the mire of too many responsibilities, and that he felt a job wasn’t another she needed to take on. The discovery was a relief to Giles, both because he was happy to know that Spike had Buffy’s well-being in mind, and because it made his own belief – that a job of this type might actually help keep Buffy from drowning in her duty by connecting her more strongly to the world – much easier to argue.

She needed that – the connection to humanity. Buffy’s condition when she’d first returned to them had distressed him on a number of levels. But her detachment from her friends, and from people in general, had been one of his deepest areas of concern. He’d been pleased to see her beginning to re-establish her friendship with Xander and Anya over the last week or so. And though she still held herself somewhat apart from time to time, she no longer gave the impression she was hiding in a corner. Her exuberance wasn’t what it had once been, but then, it hadn’t been before her death either. The bubbliness of her pre-Acathla days was probably gone forever, he thought, with some regret. Inevitable, he supposed. If it hadn’t been the situation with Angel, something else would have stolen her youth from her. It was the nature of her calling.

If Spike was going to be a part of Buffy's life, Giles felt he needed to really understand Buffy's need for a strong connection with those around her – and not just with Dawn. Her friendships had always been important to her, and she would continue to need that human contact.

He, in turn, would have to help guard against those same friends adding unnecessary weight to Buffy's shoulders.

He also hoped that Spike would eventually come to accept that one of those humans was, without doubt, going to be Alexander Harris.

‘Issues? The boy is full of them.’

Mentally, Giles rolled his eyes. No, Spike didn’t have any issues. Oh no, not him! The vampire had more ‘issues’ than… well, he couldn’t think of a good analogy at the moment. But Spike most certainly had more than his share of issues.

“Put names and faces to what she’s fighting for.”

“Precisely.” The exaggerated pleasure Giles took in Spike’s ability to understand his point was, in all probability, directly proportionate to the amount of alcohol now coursing through his body. He’d overheard the two blonds taking often enough during their workouts to know that Buffy often asked Spike’s opinion, and that it held weight with her. He wanted Spike, er, on his side, so to speak. “Buffy doesn’t always see that she’d performing a valuable service. Instead, she sometimes sees herself as a killing machine.”

“She is.”

This time, Giles didn’t bother to hide the roll of his eyes at the pride dripping from Spike’s voice. The vampire’s burst of pleasure, though, was followed with a quick frown.

“But, yeah,” Spike added, his tone thoughtful, “’Killing Machine’ probably wasn’t on her ‘What I Wanna Be When I Grow Up” list.”

“Doubtful.”

“Pity, that.”

Giles’ hand hovered over one of his rooks for a good while, swaying slightly, before he actually moved the piece. “I do believe that she once mentioned she wanted to be a fireman. Er, firewoman.”

“Fireperson.” Spike’s corrected. Or, um,” his superior tone faded. “Could be its just ‘firefighter’. Which suits her best anyway.”

“I think she’s lost some of that since she graduated from high school.”

“She fought fires at school?”

Giles chortled. “She was much more likely to start them. She burned down the gymnasium when she was living in Los Angeles.”

“That’s my Slayer.”

“During the prom,” Giles elaborated, his voice, as was often the case when he spoke of Buffy, a mixture of pride and dismay. “Of course that was before she was under my guidance.”

“Wasn’t it ‘under your guidance’ that she blew up good old Sunnyhell High? Library and all? Put you right out of a job, didn’t she, mate? Not to mention the destruction of all those precious books.” Spike laid his hand over his heart. “Oh, the loss! The tragic, terrible loss!”

“There were some very rare volumes –” Giles began huffily, but he broke off at Spike’s smirk. “Yes, well… Actually, I was referring to her ability to put names and faces to those she saves. Of course, back then, she was saving the entire student body on what often seemed to be a weekly basis.”

“Or more.”

“They gave her an award – Class Protector. She was quite touched by it.”

“The sparkly umbrella,” Spike nodded as he studied the board. “The bit told me about it.”

“Dawn has shared a lot of things with you, hasn’t she? About their whole family?”

“It helped her to talk sometimes. Over the summer.” He moved a pawn.

“And did that help you?”

The other man’s face, Giles decided in the thundering silence that followed his casual inquiry, could look remarkably like it had been chiseled from stone. Bugger it, he thought. I’ve put my foot in it again. I seem to have quite a talent for it. And I can’t even blame the alcohol, because I manage to do it when I’m quite sober as well. Which I am currently not. Quite sober, that is.

“Your move.” Spike’s voice was glacial.

The last time he’d seen that expression in those blue eyes had been when Spike had been at his flat during one of his Willow-Watching shifts. He’d been complaining to the vampire about all the sleep he was missing, and he’d quite innocently asked Spike if he was sleeping any better than he had been last summer.

“I get by,” the blond had muttered.

Not fooled for a moment, Giles went on. “Perhaps you could cut back on your vigils on the Summers’ roof,” he suggested. “That would –”

“No.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest I object to the practice. I only meant –”

“No.”

Giles persisted, even though Spike’s eyes were boring into him with icy warning. “I only meant that now that Buffy is back and more herself, your presence is, perhaps, not quite as necessary. And that would give you a few hours…”

“No, Rupert. I won’t, can’t. If anything happened to them and I wasn’t there… I wouldn’t be able… I couldn’t… Promised myself I’d never fail them again.”

“I see,” he replied.

He fell silent, looking toward the telly, where Asta was about to reveal a vital clue to Nick and Nora.

Giles had tried, on more than one occasion, to assure Spike that he wasn’t responsible for Buffy’s death. But the vampire, it seemed, had not take his words to heart.

And now he was determined that nothing should happen to either of the Summers girls again.

Not on his watch.

And, to help ensure that, his watch would be all the time…

It had been staring him in the face for weeks, and he’d failed to look at it from quite this angle. Spike might present an almost casual front when it came to his rather unique form of guard duty, but Giles realized now that there was nothing remotely casual about it. At all. Instead, it was much more likely that the overriding emotion behind his actions was terror.

Yes, there was love, Giles was certain of that, and the normal desire to protect loved ones. But…

Spike was afraid of what might happen to ‘his girls’; terrified that he might lose them… Afraid to relax his vigilance, frantic to see to it that they were safe, that someone was watching out for them.

So afraid he would fail them.

It wasn’t quite natural, not only for Spike, but for anyone, and it wasn’t particularly healthy, either, for any of them. Right now, Buffy and Dawn might not be bothered by his near obsessive vigilance, but in time, it could well come to make them feel smothered. And if that occurred, Spike’s personality would probably make it difficult for him to figure out how to deal with that as well.

“How do you deal with it?”

Giles started slightly at the words, which seemed to so closely have followed his thoughts.

“What’s that?”

“Worrying about them? I mean, how do you do it?”

Spike’s tone was quiet, serious, but he didn’t turn his head, keeping his eyes trained on the screen.

“It was easy with Drusilla. I thought she was going to do something reckless, I’d go with her, have a good time of it, you know? An’, yeah, I can do that with Buffy or the bit. Most of the time. You know, hang about. But what about when I can’t be there? When Dru seemed bound for trouble and I had to leave her for awhile, I’d just chain her up, keep her out of harm’s way. ‘Course she liked chains. From my limited experience with our Slayer and chains, I’m thinkin’ she wouldn’t go for that in quite the same way. Doubt Dawn would be big on it either.”

“Spike –”

“An’ my tendency to go up in flames in the sunlight is a bit limiting as well.” Spike finally rolled his head on the back of the chair to look toward him. “How the hell do you do it?”

Really, Giles thought, how did one come to these points in life? Buffy, he answered himself. Her – unorthodox – behaviors had led him into situations no Watcher could ever dream of encountering, and so, couldn’t be expected to be prepared for. She does, he acknowledged with some pleasure, have the ability to keep life interesting.

Sighing inwardly, he set about discussing – with a vampire! – how, for one’s own sanity, one must come to trust in a loved one’s instincts for self preservation.

There was a certain predictability, Giles had discovered, to Spike when it came to situations like this, and he had learned that it was best not to press him. If he pretended to ignore him, the vampire almost inevitably calmed himself, thought things over, and continued the conversation when he was ready. Of course, there was no guarantee the conversation would have anything to do with the one they’d been having before he went over all moody.

Following his own inner advice, Giles treated himself to another beer, nicked one of Spike’s cigarettes, and got back to the game. And he waited, all the while surreptitiously studying the vampire’s frozen face.

Spike was happy. He was quite convinced of that. He’d seen it in his interactions with Buffy and Dawn; had noted it more than once.

But it was brought home to him again just how thoroughly Spike had not gotten over the events of last spring; how even Buffy’s resurrection hadn’t allowed him to recover from the pain and guilt he felt over her death. He could see troubles in the blond’s face. Stress. Strain. Weariness. There were fine lines around his still somewhat sunken eyes that hadn’t been there a year ago, a lingering pain in the deep hollows of his cheeks, and in the set of his mouth. Vampires didn’t age, or weren’t supposed to. Yet Spike, now that he really looked, appeared to have done so.

Was the exhaustion he could see in him causing some of the same side effects it could cause in humans? There was so much he didn’t understand about vampires; just which human characteristics were retained, and to what degree, and which weren’t. How –

More than ten minutes passed before Spike broke the silence. “Buffy makes her own decisions,” he said.

“Yes,” Giles agreed as though there had been no gap in the conversation. “She’s made a habit of doing just that.”

“’spect she knows what’s best for her. She wants the job, I hope she gets it. Could probably use the money, too.”

No evidence of Spike’s previous anger could be heard in his voice. One thing was certain, Giles thought, reviewing the last couple of hours, conversations with Spike never became dull. He tended to go from easy-going to surly to raging quite quickly. In fact, any given five minute period could contain all three moods, and quite possibly more besides.

“She has the financial wherewithal to get along perfectly well.”

“You sure about that? We’re taking about our Slayer. The bird has something of a leather fetish. Not to mention the way the bit continues to shoot up. She outgrows her clothes faster than they can go out of style.”

Giles frowned, considering the truth of that. With Watcherly stealth, he glanced around the room to make certain they were alone before leaning toward Spike and lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I have contacted the Council, hoping to get a salary for Buffy approved. I’d appreciate it if you kept that to yourself, though. If they don’t come through, I’ve no intention of telling her I put in the request.”

“Yeah, can’t imagine that’d sit well with her. That she should ever have to give a thought to money is just – it’s obscene, ’s what it is. The sodding world should be covering her in jewels. Why the hell isn’t the Council paying her now? She bloody well works for them, doesn’t she?”

Reverting to his less stuffy, and only slightly, he assured himself, knowing it was a blatant lie, intoxicated self, Giles made a sound of amusement. “I’m not entirely sure,” he admitted. “She may have quit last year, er, before…” He shrugged. “Threats were made, countered – it’s rather muddled. But yes, I should think we’d be safe in saying that Buffy still has ties to the Council. Certainly, they continue to pay me, and I consider myself nothing but her Watcher. As to why they don’t pay their Slayers – well, that’s rather muddled, too.”

“None of them lived long enough to make demands, is that it?”

“Well…”

“And I bet the tossers like it that way, don’t they? Like their girls young, dependent, poor and abysmally ignorant. Appears they lean a bit in the chauvinistic pig direction, dunit?” He snickered. “Those stones of Buffy’s must drive them half mad.”

Giles touched his beer to Spike’s in a gesture of agreement. But before he could lift the bottle to drink, he paused, caught by something the vampire had said. “Ignorant? Of what?”

“Of their power. Of where it comes from.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, their origins. They don’t know, do they, mate?”

“Know what? What do you know?”

~*~

“They’re –” Suddenly, utterly, and understandably, confused, Spike broke off.

He didn’t know a bloody thing about the origins of the Slayer, so why had his mouth popped open as though it was about to become a font of ancient secrets, spouting knowledge and wisdom he’d never had, or even pretended to have?

He glanced at the beer in his hand, the suspicion that it had been drugged or bewitched in some way disappearing almost as soon as it formed. It wasn’t the not-as-tweedy-as-he’d-once-been Watcher’s style, and it was – well, it was just stupid.

For a moment he wondered if he’d just consumed too much of the brew. But that, of course, was just stupider. Er, more stupider.

Sure, he’d heard rumors over the years. Was only natural, wasn’t it? Talk about the Slayer, that demon nightmare-inducer in little girl form, was fairly common in some demon communities, and in most demon pubs. But it was just talk. As far as he was concerned, the speculation about the Slayer’s origins was based on nothing more than vivid, and usually alcohol soaked, imaginations. He’d never heard anything from anyone he considered trustworthy. ‘Course, aside from Dawn, he didn’t consider anyone trustworthy, which might have contributed to that last bit.

“Their power – so near to our own.”

“Yes, so near.”

“Power forged in darkness.”

“They’re –”

“—kindred,” Spike finished softly.

“Yes. Kindred.”

Sonofa--!

Spike shot to his feet, his eyes flying around the room as shock rocked through him. The Watcher was eyeing him curiously, but even without that corroboration, he knew they were alone. The whispering voices had been inside his head, and, of the three, not a bloody one had been his inner ‘I’m going to argue with and berate myself’ voice; the one he often used when making decisions, or weighing the pros and cons of a situation.

An echo, a memory? No. He’d never heard those words before. And the voices? No. Couldn’t even tell if they were male or female. They were just voices. Close voices; intimate; knowing; warm and appealing voices that set the blood racing through his veins. Calling him.

No. He’d never heard those voices before.

And just out of curiosity, did unlife have to be so bleeding full of these – unexpected – moments? It was getting to be just a bit much.

Spike shook off the odd feeling. He glanced at his beer again before coming to the conclusion that, rather than hold the alcohol suspect, having another was a bloody good idea.

“Spike?”

Feeling like he was moving in slow motion, Spike turned toward the other man, blinking. He managed to lift the hand holding his beer.

“You want another?”

“Do you know something about the origins of the Slayer? Even the Council doesn’t –”

“No.”

“Or, at least they always deny knowing anything concrete,” Giles grumbled. “If you have any –”

“No,” Spike interrupted him again to repeat his denial. “I don’t know anything.” It was the truth. He didn’t know anything.

“If you –”

“You want a beer or not?” Spike asked.

As he crossed to the dwindling supply of beer, he heard Giles sigh behind him.

~*~

She was laying back on the ground, but instead of enjoying the beauty of the brilliant blanket of stars overhead, Buffy had her arm draped over her eyes.

“Last time, she couldn’t bring herself to kill Angel, and because of that, Ms. Calendar died.”

She was not responsible for Jenny Calendar’s death. She wasn’t.

And she wasn’t going to let Xander's words make her think she was. She just couldn’t go there again.

She had thought she was. Once. At first. And for more months than she cared to remember.

Black months filled with pain and despair, anguish and mourning. L.A. Anne. Reliving the sadistic cruelties of Angelus over and over and over. Reliving her failures too. All of them. And woven through those things, the endless reliving of the last moments of Angel’s life.

“What's happening?”
“Shhh. Don't worry about it. I love you.”

“I love you.”

“Close your eyes.”

Buffy didn’t bother to wipe away the tears that trickled from the corners of her eyes and wound their way into her hair. God, it still hurt. So much. The look on Angel’s face, the…

Had he felt betrayed? Or had he, even then, understood that she’d had no choice? None? Or hadn’t there been time for anything but the shock and pain to register? Arm stretched out to her… Eyes pleading… No. There’d been time.

It’s over, Buffy. Long ago. Angel came back. He forgave you. He understood.

And so did Giles.

The scene with Xander had already taken on a surreal quality. Kind of like one of those swirling vortex thingies she’d grown so familiar with over the years; voices humming, echoing, rising and falling in pitch; but all the while just an indistinct mass of noise. Had she argued back? Defended herself? Or had her mouth just emitted senseless sounds of pain and protest as her body froze up, pulled back, withdrew into itself? Maybe no sound had made it past the nausea at all.

She did know that the confrontation had been ugly. And it probably would have gotten worse if Dawn and Tara hadn’t wondered what was keeping her, and come back to find out. Dawn had been annoyed, because she had plans, had Buffy forgotten?, but she’d soon caught on to the tension Tara had sensed immediately.

She’d answered her sister's ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ with a curt ‘Nothing’, and, without another word to Xander or Anya, who was hovering behind her cash register, looking distressed, Buffy had turned and marched out of the shop. Dawn and Tara, clearly understanding that she expected them to follow, had. The two females had kept looking at her out of the corners of their eyes on the walk home, but Buffy had been stiff and silent, and they’d wisely decided against trying to get any information out of her. Once they were safely in the house, she’d told them she was going patrolling and had left.

She wasn’t responsible for the teacher’s death, she told herself again.

She’d thought she was; had, at the time, been certain it had been a direct result of her inability to kill Angel. Giles, though, had thought differently. Of course she hadn’t known that. Then. They really hadn’t talked about it, not in any depth. Not right away, or for a long time. Maybe it had just been too difficult for both of them. Buffy had felt guilty, on all kinds of different levels, and Giles had been mourning Jenny. Then Buffy’s own mourning and depression had sent her into dark, lonely places…

And, well, to L.A.

It wasn’t surprising that they’d avoided the subject like some virulent form of a really icky flesh eating virus for ages.

When they’d finally talked about it, months after her return from her masquerade as ‘Anne’, and long after he knew the truth about the final battle with Angel, Giles had told her firmly that she was not responsible for Jenny’s death.

Angelus was responsible for Jenny’s death.

Further, Buffy could not be held responsible for the vampire’s actions, nor for his emergence from Angel, either. Neither she nor Angel had had any inkling of the dangers of consummating their relationship.

None of them had.

Except, possibly, Jenny.

Buffy had admired the teacher, and had been happy to see the relationship developing between her and Giles. It was probably because she’d liked her so much that she’d felt so betrayed when she’d learned that the teacher had been sent to spy on Angel, and on her. And, later, after, that fondness only made it harder to accept that there had never really been a chance to make things right between them.

How much Jenny had known about Angel’s curse, and just when she’d known it, was something Buffy had never been exactly clear on. She didn’t know if Giles had all the details either.

But she knew that Giles was right when he’d told her firmly that Jenny had never been a random bystander, ignorant of the risks of involving herself in the battle between good and evil. Nor had she been drawn into the battle because of a friendship or any other type of relationship with Buffy. Instead, Jenny had been involved, in some ways, since before her birth; chosen, some might say, in much the way Buffy herself had been.

By the time Buffy and Giles finally talked about the teacher, it was clear that her Watcher had given the whole sequence of events a lot of thought. Buffy could still hear most of his words; his careful turn of phrase and his serious, sincere voice. She could still hear the pain that had been in his voice too, for both of them; for all of them.

Angelus had killed Jenny, and only Angelus was responsible for her death. That much he’d said more than once. And he’d added Gilesy stuff about how difficult it had been for him to see her so torn between love and duty, in part because he knew she would face similar situations again. As her Watcher, he’d told her, it would always be his duty to remind her of hers. As a man who cared for her, he would often hate having to do so.

They’d talked until Buffy had felt comfortable accepting his reasonings and reassurances.

But now…

No.

I won’t go there again. Won’t let something Xander said make me feel like my hands will forever be stained with Jenny Calendar’s blood. I can’t let it pile up on me, can’t take it on… I can’t. Been there, done that, still dealing with the buried alive nightmares, which she knew perfectly well had to do with more that just actually having been, well, buried alive. She wasn’t perfect. She never would be. She could only do her best.

And sometimes she would fail.

If she didn’t learn to accept that…

But Xander's words had still hurt. A lot. She wondered if he held her responsible for other things, but before she could explore the idea, she forced the speculations away.

No.

Can’t.

Won’t.

Buffy's arm fell to her side, and she opened her eyes to the night sky. It should have awed her, calmed her, but instead her mind was starting to un-vortex the argument with Xander, and words and phrases that had come out of his mouth began swirling inside her head, creating their own mini-vortex of repeating words. Quiet words. He’d never really raised his voice, which had somehow made it all worse. Made it seem more reasoned, more rational.

Wrong. Unnatural. Dangerous. Blind. Not thinking right. Thrall. Plot. Spells. Not yourself. Not right. Mistake. Backfire. Chip. Soulless demon. Bodies in pieces all over town. He was becoming entrenched. And that meant that he’d be sitting right there when that chip stopped working. Which it would. Nothing worked forever. It would stop working, and Spike would be there – inside, grinning from ear to ear in anticipation. And the killing would start.

“He’s a vampire. It’s what he does. He kills.

“Do you think he’ll kill you first? Or Dawn, and make you watch? Maybe he’ll be more like Angel was, and start with your friends; take us out one by one. You have to push him away, get rid of him. It’s your duty. If you don’t, innocent people will pay.

“They’ll die.

“It’s your duty, Buffy.”

Growling, Buffy jack-knifed into a sitting position.

“I understand my damned duty!”

She got to her feet, and started pacing back and forth in front of a row of headstones. The Mouke family didn’t protest her angry striding, and she took their silence as permission to continue. She really, really wanted another good slay, but since she’d already made two sweeps through this cemetery, she figured she’d exhausted its current population of slayables. Even if she went elsewhere, seeking out something demony, chances were dealing out the death wouldn’t silence the words in her head.

She needed to think things through. Reason things out. If Xander could sound all reasonable and calm about all this Spike stuff, then she could be reasonable and calm too.

“Right, Kari?” she asked one of the headstones, before shifting her eyes to the next. “Matt? I’m an adult, right? I can try to sort this all out.

“Let’s see.” She raised a finger. “First. Thrall. I am not in thrall to Spike. I’ve been in thrall. It feels totally different. Check. No thrall.

“Second. Plot. Pleeease. Spike? Plot? Okay, I’ll admit Spike has a certain fondness for plots. But he so sucks at them. I mean, even worse than I suck at undercover. Which is major suckage. Check. No plot.” She eyed another headstone. “Are you keeping track of this, Denny?”

Of course, a tiny, and much less sarcastic, voice inside her said, what’s happening with you and Spike right now is everything he claimed to want last year, and everything you’d have sworn would never happen.

Ever.

Another finger jerked up. “Third. Spell.” Buffy's voice was tense and angry, and determined to drown out that quieter voice. “Right. Spike did some kind of spell that affects me, and Dawn, and Giles, and even Tara? Spike? If he could do that kind of magic, he never would have kidnapped Willow to do some love spell to get his precious Drusilla back. So, no, I don’t think so!”

Who said, the voice argued, calmly. That Spike did the spell? What about his naked witch friend?

“Giles and Tara checked her out! She’s one of the good guys!”

Like Willow?

“Damn it! Damn, damn, damn…” Buffy's voice trailed off. She was frustrated. Exhausted by a string of sleepless or restless nights. And still angry. Not to mention that trying to calm herself down and think things through rationally was not exactly one of her strengths. She could do it, of course, and had. But it often took effort.

“I can do effort,” Buffy muttered. “Damn it.”

She lowered herself back to the ground, and leaned back against one of the Mouke family headstones. Her head twisted to catch the engraved name.

“You don’t mind, do you, Jodi?”

Jodi didn’t seem to.

“Thanks.”

Spike.

Strong, hard body, deep groans of pleasure, knowing hands. Wicked, wonderful thumb. Body thrusting. Deep. Deeper.

Oh god.

Okay, a little more effort. Um, in a totally different direction.

She straightened away from the headstone, and rolled her shoulders, sitting up straight in one of those Zen/Yoga/Whatever positions Giles had tried to teach her. Buffy closed her eyes and spent a few minutes practicing relaxed breathing techniques. She’d needed them a lot since she’d come back, and she’d learned that she could calm herself; center herself fairly well with them when she needed to. She blew out a long, slow breath.

In the end, it all pretty much boiled down to one question: Is Spike still evil?

No.

He’s not.

Is he?

No. Definitely not evil.

Right?

I don’t know.

No. He’s not –

Hazel eyes shot open as a sense of utter and complete shock electrified Buffy's entire body. A different question had come to her, and her eyes narrowing grimly.

Why is it, she wanted to know, that I have never once asked myself that question since I was brought back?

~*~

“I have another favor to ask,” Giles said.

Spike's head was bent over the board and he didn’t lift it, but his eyes rolled up to the other man. “That right?” he asked.

“It’s about Buffy's training.”

Spike’s chin came up, jutting aggressively. “What about it?”

“Oh, please! You’re not going to subject me to another of your temper tantrums? It’s only been an hour since the last one, and I’ve long since realized that one per night is my absolute limit. And don’t,” he jabbed a finger toward the other man, “Go all broody on me again, either!”

“I do not brood!”

Giles tried. He honestly tried, but it was no use. He erupted into laughter, nearly tumbling from his chair as he bent forward at the waist. “Oh, right! You don’t brood! Not you! Whatever could I have been thinking?! No brooding! And no ‘issues’,” he made exaggerated air quotes around the word, “either, I imagine. I shall try my best not to imply such heresies again!”

“Yooouuuu,” the vampire slurred out. “Are sizzled.”

The Watcher reined in his mirth, and straightened up in his chair, primly composing his face. “Well, yes,” he was forced to admit. “But I can still ask favors. I’m quite certain that’s within my rights. Not,” he added with an unsteady glare, “That it does me a lot of good to do so, if I’m asking those favors of you.”

“Seems to me our Slayer’s looking pretty good.” Spike returned to the matter at hand, displaying all the defensiveness Giles had grown used to. “And if she’s going to be training less because of some bloody do-gooder/feel-gooder job, she can’t afford to let up when she is training. You know I get the best out of her.”

“Oh, I quite agree – you do. I wasn’t about to ask you to step aside. On the contrary, I was wondering if, perhaps, I could impose on you further.”

Spike tipped his head, revealing his curiosity. He managed to do this while drinking more beer, and Giles took a moment to admire the skill, wondering if he could emulate it.

“I know my role has been, shall we say, mostly suu-uupervisory since Buffy’s return. As a sparring partner, you challenge her in ways I could never hope to equal. Further, your methods of working with her seem to,” he dithered for the right word, “appeal to her in some way. She’s more willing and enthusiastic about her training than she’s ever been since I became her Watcher.” He considered that. “Perhaps she’s just determined that you not get the best of her. Or,” he smiled, pleased with the idea, “She enjoys beating you up, which is perfectly understandable, even a-aaadmirrrable.” Giles shrugged. “Whatever the reason, you apparently have ‘the stuff’, and the results have been bloody brilliant. I thought, perhaps, if I could prevail upon you to take over her training entirely, I could use the additional time researching this unfortunate situu-uuation with Willow.”

Giles drained his bottle and, on his second try, set it carefully on the table. It tumbled to the floor, and he stared at it, surprised it had managed to accomplish such a feat.

“If Willow ever starts talking to us again, that is,” he went on, unfazed by the realization that solid objects could now, apparently, pass directly through the chess table. After all, he was a highly regarded – in some circles – Watcher from the vaunted Council of Watchers; one who had landed the plum assignment of working directly with the current Slayer. He’d seen much stranger things than tables with substantial-ability issues! “It will be a bit of a problem finding out what’s happening with her so long as she refuses to come out of her house. Even Xander hasn’t been able to lure her into the open. I must say, it’s bloody inconsiderate of her.”

Giles reached for Spike’s cigarettes and lighter, helping himself to another smoke. The air in the training room was thick with it.

“So, I can depend on you?” he asked.

“Be happy to help, mate, especially if it means engaging in a bit of the rough and tumble with Buffy on a regular basis.”

“I am certain,” Giles intoned, “You mean that in a strictly training-related sense.”

“Right.” Spike smirked and raised his bottle to his lips.

Giles beamed, choosing to ignore the vampire’s expression. “I’ll make a Watcher of you yet,” he said casually, quite pleased with his progress in that direction.

Spike spewed beer all over the chessboard.

~*~

“It’s wrong Buffy,” Xander had said. “This whole friendship thing with Spike. It’s wrong. Think about how it was before you died. Killer, monster, bloodsucking fiend, shell of a loser, evil disgusting thing. Is any of this ringing a bell?”

Yes, she’d said all those things about Spike.

“What’s so different now?”

He is. Spike. He’s different.

She’d known he was different, had recognized it in him almost from the moment she’d come back. At least that’s how it seemed now.

She’d turned to him, over and over. Had gone to him with her problems, her fears and worries. He was the only person, aside from Dawn, that she’d felt drawn to, attached to. He was the one she’d – sought. Every time. And that was strange, she had to admit.

“We weren’t pals”, Spike had said, and it was true. But now they were. Why?

“He’s done nothing but be there for me since I was brought back,” she said aloud, her voice fierce.

Strong arms bringing her out of nightmares, soft, deep voice in her ear. “I have you, Buffy. Shhh, love, you’re safe. Just breathe. Be calm. I have you. You’re safe, love. I promise, I’ll keep you safe.” She didn’t think she could have survived those first – weeks? months? how long had she been back, anyway? – without him.

And he’s worked with me, helped me train. He’s, like, all drill-sergeanty-determined that I get my skills back. All ‘up to snuff’. And he’s helped me in other ways – he’s given me back the confidence I needed to do my job – that sacred duty that was chosen for me.

But none of that explained the fact that she never questioned any of it. That she’d never wondered why, or what, or anything else. At all. She’d just sort of been go-with-the-flow girl.

God, she’d never even once really thought of Spike as a vampire, or, if she had, it wasn’t as if his being a vampire was something she should be concerned about. Instead it had just been kind of like: Dawn's my sister, Tara's sweet, Giles is English and Spike’s a vampire.

Which was so not like her.

Even when she’d been contemplating the whole ‘relationship’ thing; her hesitations had stemmed mostly from the knowledge that she wasn’t in a particularly strong place emotionally, and that starting a relationship probably wasn’t a great choice at the time. Vampire just hadn’t been part of the consideration.

Again – not like her.

Like Buffy. The old Buffy. The one who had taken a dive off a tower to save the world.

That Buffy would have agonized herself to death over the thought of a relationship with Spike.

Or laughed herself silly.

Buffy’s anger had long since melted away, leaving only confusion.

She didn’t like confusion. She’d had enough of it when she’d first been torn out of heaven. Basically, she’d come back with squat for memories. She hadn’t even known, with any consistency, who the people around her were. Thankfully, that fuzziness seemed to have passed, and except for the continuing problem with the passage of time, which was annoying, but usually work-out-able, she felt like she’d pretty much adjusted to being back in this world.

Were her changed feelings for Spike just a normal progression of those that had begun in their relationship after he’d withstood Glory’s torture to protect Dawn?

Buffy leaned back, bumping her head back against the headstone she was leaning on. “Sorry, Jodi,” she muttered. Still blind to their beauty, her eyes went back to the stars overhead, thoughtful now.

The kind of trust that she’d begun to place in Spike before her death might explain a growing friendship with him now. But friendship didn’t explain the other things, the so-not-normal things that had been happening between them. The wonderful bursts of warmth between them, the unspoken communication; they’d never really talked about those things, and she’d never really questioned them. Why? Why had she just seemed to – accept them?

Why had he?

The not questioning of weird stuff wasn’t normal behavior for either of them.

Was some – force – affecting both of them?

No!

Was it?

< You make me feel so warm inside. >

<< Heating up from the inside out. >>

< Spike. I want that back, so much. Wanna feel that again… >

<< Bein’ inside each other? On the sofa? >>

< Yeah. >

<< What was that? >>

< Who knows? Who cares? >

<< Didn’t scare you, then? >>

< No! Did it scare you? >

<< Not hardly. But still, unnatural… some force, maybe. >>

< A good force. Only good could feel so – good. >

<< Hate to break it to you, Slayer, but evil can feel pretty good, too. Why do you think it seduces so many? >>

< Do you think it was evil? >

<< No. It was good. I could – tell, somehow. >>

< Me, too. Promise me that we’re gonna find that again. >

God, even then – when they’d talked about the fact that some force seemed to be affecting them, they hadn’t explored it any further. Normal Buffy and Spike would have been determined to find out what was going on. Instead, they’d only wanted to ‘find it’ again, to ‘go there’ again.

Why?

And what had that been? That unbelievable sensation on the sofa in her living room?

Blood pounding, power, pain, passion. Wonder. Oh, god, inside him, touching, knowing, flowing through him, all through him; inside… inside…

God, oh god, please… Spike…

Her body jerked and Buffy realized that her fists were clenched, and that her breathed had grown rapid and uneven. God!

Whatever that had been, it hadn’t make her feel in the least ‘twitchy’. Was that why she’d so quickly assumed it was something ‘good’, or, at the very least, not evil? Spike had thought so too.

Or so he’d said.

Of course that’s what he said! Because that’s what he meant! He wouldn’t lie about that, or about anything to do with that. Not that. It had been too… Too amazing. For both of them.

They’d never felt anything approaching that again, nothing remotely similar.

Buffy bent her head, resting her forehead on the knees she’d drawn up. She wasn’t surprised by the longing that flowed through her, or by the prick of tears. She didn’t, however, allow them to fall. I still want that back, she thought. Whatever that was, I want it again. So does Spike. Maybe that’s why we never talk about it. It’s just too – hard. Too emotional or something.

Too much.

And really, what could they say?

But still, their lack of trying to figure out what was happening with them was just – odd.

And odd, she reminded herself, does not necessarily equate to Big Evil Conspiracy.

Grrr.

Spike's not evil. Not any more.

He’s good.

Even if some people want to argue that he’s not really good, he’s doing good. It’s, like, a start.

She couldn’t deny, though, that she could still feel the darkness in him. Sometimes, she felt it moving through him, just like… Just like she sometimes felt it in herself. The darkness the flowed just under the surface.

She controlled hers, though, and he could control his, too, couldn’t he? He seemed to be. And even if some people thought otherwise, he didn’t need a soul for that.

Oh, god. Old Buffy probably never would have said that either.

Was the soul the control? That had certainly seemed to be the case with Angel.

Buffy ground her forehead against her knees wearily. She didn’t understand the soul anymore. She just didn’t. Angel without a soul had been a monster, Spike without a soul…

…wasn’t.

How could she make sense of that, when it went against everything she’d been taught, everything she’d believed?

I’m tired, she thought again. So tired. I can’t make sense of much of anything right now. Maybe I just have too damn much stuff ricocheting around in my brain.

“Maybe your brain is having a little trouble recovering from your time in hell,” Xander had said quietly. “Because something is different. You, your whole – you’re not acting like yourself. What if… What if something happened when we brought you back? What if you –?

Buffy could hear the fear in his voice, and she knew that he was honestly horrified to have to say whatever it was he was about to say.

“We brought you back from the dead, Buffy. That’s, like, huge. And Willow… I’ve always trusted Will, you know that. But these last few weeks, seeing what’s happening with her – the kinds of things she’s gotten into... What if she cut some corners or something, did something, I don’t know, reckless? What if it caused you to…?”

“To what? Come back wrong? Is that what you’re saying?”

“No! No, not wrong. Just – not right, a little – off, maybe…”

His voice had trailed off lamely, and that was when Dawn and Tara had appeared at her side.

More than anything else Xander had said, that had sent a frisson of fear through her. Because…

Because she knew things weren’t ‘quite right’, that they were ‘a little off’.

She knew Spike wasn’t the only one who was different. She was, too.

She couldn’t explain it, but she knew it. I feel like me, but at the same time, I know I’m not quite how I was before…

And it’s not just people suggesting that I’m nicer or more polite or other insult-the-old-version-of-me stuff like that. Those things, she figured, were probably just heaven leftovers. She’d been surrounded by peace and love for hundreds of years, and it had left its mark on her.

She hadn’t really been such a rude bitch, anyway, had she? The question brought an immediate cacophony of voices from the past. Bitchy Buffy, Bitchy Buffy, Bitchy Buffy, heinous bitch, stuck up tight ass, Queen of Bitchonia, Top Bitch in Class, blah, blah, blah… Okay, so there had been bitchy moments, or, er, days. Okay, fine – years. A Slayer couldn’t be Miss Sweetness & Light all the time!

She had changed. She didn’t understand how or why, but she still knew it; felt it. If she’d been forced to say how, though, her first instinct would have been to say the changes were within herself, with how she looked at herself.

She’d never considered that her judgment might be skewed, or that her relationship with Spike amounted to taking reckless chances with her own safety and with that of those around her. It had never even occurred to her.

Like a lot of other things, apparently.

She was the Slayer. She shouldn’t – care – about a vampire the way she cared about Spike. She shouldn’t. It was wrong. Even Spike had said so – before. Before she’d died. Said he knew that the feelings he had for her were wrong – that he knew that.

So why, since she’d come back, was this – whatever it was – with Spike the thing that felt most – right?

She didn’t have any answers; wasn’t even sure if she knew what the questions were, or who to ask. And maybe she was afraid of what she might find out.

Because she wanted the answer to the ‘Is Spike still evil?’ question to be ‘No.’ She wanted him to be good, to be changing, because – well, because she just did.

Buffy climbed back to her feet, kicking at some dry leaves. She was angry again, and kind of fed up with the world in general. She was also really, really tired. She knew she should go home, try to sleep.

Oooh! Maybe she’d dream about Spike turning her while they were making love again! Cause that was sure to help relax her and get rid of all the whirling words in her head!

Damn, damn, damn.

~*~

Giles' car was still parked in front of the Magic Box. Buffy frowned, her steps faltering, as she tried to figure out why that would be. The lights were off, and it was late. Really late.

She’d better check it out, she supposed. It probably qualified as one of her duties. Buffy took a moment to sweep her eyes quickly over the surrounding area. Good, Xander's car wasn’t anywhere in sight. She didn’t think she could handle seeing him again right now.

The door wasn’t locked, but the little burst of adrenaline she felt upon that discovery quickly died down when she heard two voices – two English voices – coming from the direction of the training room.

They didn’t seem to be arguing, and the lack of other noises seemed to indicate they weren’t in the midst of battling evil-doers. But their discussion was certainly – animated. And kinda loud.

Buffy made her way through the darkened shop, stopping just inside the smoky training room.

Oh, brother.

They were seated at the chessboard, but several pieces had been knocked over, and they obviously weren’t playing. Instead, they seemed to be, well, um – drinking beer. Lots of beer, if the number of empties littering the floor around them was anything to go by. Buffy stared at the discarded bottles, surprised that Giles would allow such – disarray – to occur. She tilted her head, curiously reading the label on one of the unfamiliar bottles that had found its was almost to the shop door. Old Peculier. She glanced again at the duo at the table, and back to the empty bottles.

Peculiar. Okay, that seemed eerily appropriate.

“… beyond the pale,” Giles muttered, taking another swallow of his beer.

“Should be eaten, really.” Spike copied his motion, but drank more than a swallow.

“Quite.”

“No respect.”

“None. A complete and utter lack of anything resembling it, in fact.”

“Bleedin’ shame is what it is.”

“Intolerable,” Giles agreed.

Buffy moved further into the room. “I give up. What are you two talking about?”

Two bodies pivoted toward her. Two pairs of eyes met hers. Giles looked distinctly uncomfortable. He covered by lifting his beer bottle to his lips and taking another swig.

“What?” she pressed when they didn’t answer right away.

“See, love, it’s the young pups.”

“Huh?”

“Musicians.”

“And again with the – huh?”

Spike looked plaintively toward the other man. “She won’t understand, mate.”

“She’s far too young.”

“You’re her Watcher, Rupert, old man. Tell her.”

“Not I. She’s your bird. You tell her.” Giles took another long draught of his beer. “And,” he snorted, “The experience will do you good. After all, it will be one of your responsibilities!”

“Bugger that! I told you –”

“You’re both completely trashed,” Buffy interrupted. Her disgust was tempered by the fact that they actually looked kind of – well, not exactly cute, but…

“I say,” the men chimed in together. “That’s unfounded!”

Realizing they’d spoken the same phrase, they looked at each other and grinned foolishly. They followed the grin by touching their beer bottles together and taking another drink.

“Oh, it’s – um, founded,” Buffy insisted. She looked from one to the other. Oh, for god’s sake. But as long as they didn’t plan to make a habit of it… “What. Ever. What is it that should be eaten? Not that I’ll eat it, because – eeeww. But is it some demon I need to take care of?” Another slay would probably do her good.

“Would you?” Spike looked pleased.

“A name? A description? Something to go on?” she pressed.

Giles leaned eagerly in her direction. “Axl Rose,” he supplied.

“And Michael Stipe,” Spike added. “Human, you know. Out of my jurisdiction.” He frowned. “At least, I think they’re human.” He turned to Giles. “Could be demons, you know.”

“I say! That would bloody well explain a lot!” Giles paused, lighting a cigarette as he seemed to be giving that idea further thought.

Giles smokes?!!?

“I believe you’ve hit on it, dear fellow.”

Okay, she knew they’d learned to get along better, but ‘Dear fellow’? ‘Dear fellow’? Giles to Spike? A Giles who smoked? Wigginess was happening.

“And what exactly have these two done to bring about the Wrath of Drunken Vampire and Equally, or Possibly Even More, Drunken Watcher?”

“They dissed the Beatles, love!” Spike exclaimed. “Called the most brill music ever written ‘elevator music’!” He turned to Giles. “How could she not know that? Have you been neglecting her education?”

“Don’t try to lay the blame at my door!” Giles protested. “I’ve told you – it’s young people!” His voice took on a pompous overtone. “And as regards this particular young woman, I shall expect you to do something about it forthwith.” Giles shifted in his chair and pointed his burning – !!!!! – cigarette accusingly toward her. He glared, and the pompousness dissolved. “Those four lads changed the world. They should be shown the proper respect by those who come after.”

“Didn’t they say that, like, ten years ago or something?” Buffy asked in exasperation. She’d never even known either of them to actually listen to the Beatles. Was this their way of working through the recent death of George Harrison? Maybe it was like an Irish Wake or something. Um, slightly delayed, and for an English guy. Oh god, she hoped they weren’t about to break into a drunken rendition of ‘Here Comes the Sun’. She’d always kind of liked that song, and being forced to listen to the two of them sing it in right now could ruin it for her forever.

Giles ignored her, looking instead back to Spike. “As a group, young people tend to be completely ignorant of so many things of importance.”

“It’s bloody unbelievable.” Spike was forced to agree.

“Quite beyond the pale,” Giles muttered, taking another swallow of his beer.

“Should be eaten, really.” Spike went to copy his motion only to find his bottle empty. “Get you another, mate?” he asked, rising.

“Please.”

Deciding that – this – was truly one of the weirdest things she had ever encountered, but still finding it oddly comforting after the Suck-O-Rama night she’d had, Buffy left them to it.

~*~

They were making love. He knew exactly how to move to make her groan, how to touch her to make her gasp. They’d done this hundreds of times, thousands. She knew his body better than she knew her own, and he knew hers. She was going to come, could feel the beautiful build up of pressure, the wild pleasure. Then his fangs were buried in her neck and he was drinking her, coming violently inside her, taking her – oh god, no, draining her, turning her, even as she called out that she would love him forever. Forever and ever and ever...

This time, the familiar dream had Buffy shooting off the bed before she was even fully awake. She spun back toward it, her hands coming up defensively, as though she needed to protect herself from Spike. But he wasn’t lounging there, fangs dripping with her blood.

Damn it! I knew I’d have this stupid dream again!

Her eyes shot to the window, and her senses reached out, but he wasn’t there.

Right.

Right.

Slowly, Buffy’s breathing returned to normal.

He was at the Magic Box, boozing it up with her Watcher. At least they seemed to get along alright with each other, unlike Spike and some people. She’d seen them have civilized conversations and everything. While sober!

God, just, um, yesterday afternoon, she and Spike had talked about how and when to tell the gang about the whole couple thing, and she’d suggested that Christmas might be a good time. Buffy could just imagine how some people would react to that. Despite evidence to the contrary, she’d kept trying to tell herself that things between Spike and Xander weren’t hopeless. After all, they could fight together when they needed to – that had to count for something, didn’t it? Tonight, though, had put an end to that bit of delusional thinking.

Buffy strode over to a window and pushed it open, leaning out to breathe deeply of the cool night air. Couldn’t she just relax? Get some real rest?

She was so incredibly sick of these stupid dreams.

Spike was not going to drain her. Wasn’t going to turn her. She knew it. Knew it. Even if the chip stopped working, even then…

He would never hurt her. Never.

<< Use. Your. Teeth. >>

Buffy tried to shrug away the unease the thought now aroused, reminding herself that she certainly hadn’t minded at the time. At all. In fact, his words had excited her wildly, making her go all molten lava-y inside.

“Don’t. Stop.”

So maybe he likes biting a little. He’s a vampire. They have that whole biting thing going on. That doesn’t mean he would bite me. Or um, anyone. He can’t.

<< Tell me I didn’t hurt you. >>

He looked at your neck. For blood. He didn’t even know if he’d bitten you.

He can’t. The thought repeated over and over in her mind. Dreams or no dreams – he can’t bite me. Chip.

And it was more than that, more than the chip.

Spike had changed. Really changed. And he wanted to keep changing.

He hasn’t said that.

He’d told her he’d changed – long ago, just before he’d chained her up and told her he loved her. But, since she’d come back, it was just one of many things that they’d apparently never thought to talk about. She could see changes but… He’d never said that he wanted to change, and he’d never again said that he was willing to turn his back on the whole evil thing, or that he could be good.

But he did, he could, he wanted to be good.

She was sure of it.

She was…

… sure.

~*~

Author’s Notes

Awakenings is done! Awakenings is done! Woo-hoo!!!! Snoopy dancing at Mary’s house!! Join me!

Hello everyone, and Happy New Year! I had so hoped to get this out before Christmas, a holiday gift to those still with the story, but illness, and the accompanying drug induced brain fuzziness, kept that from happening. (If interested, see personal tale of woes for further excuses explanation on delay.)

Before I say one more thing – huge thank yous to Kumiko Yada for her incredible generosity! Kumiko, you were a life-saver. Thank you so much!

It was a long update, so just a couple of quick notes:

The final scene of Awakenings was written long, long ago, months before Seeing Red aired. (Sometimes it actually scares me to realize how long I’ve been working on this.) I was almost screaming at the television when the duster got left behind in that ep. But, after giving it a lot of thought, I decided to go ahead and keep that part of my story intact.

The chip issue, however, I totally stole. I felt that the only thing that Buffy could do that would completely devastate Spike was question his devotion to Dawn by implying he might be a danger to her. I hope I’ve successfully set up the characterizations so that Spike's reaction rings true, and doesn’t seem completely contrived.

Journeys just won its 45^th fan fiction award. I feel truly honored. (And grateful and shocked, etc.) Thank you so much to everyone who has nominated it, voted for it, and participated in judging it. I’ve met so many wonderful people online in the Buffy fandom, and I just cannot tell all of you how much your support and encouragement has meant to me.

Next up: Part Three - Revelations.

All together now: One. More. Time. Woo-hoo! Awakenings is done!

About Live Journals

I get asked about Live Journals a lot, invited to join the LJ community, and offered codes by generous people. Unfortunately, at this time, I just have to say ‘no’. My time is so incredibly tight already, and if I get involved in a chatty community, Journeys will never be finished. It’s not that I’m not interested – it’s more that I’m afraid I might get too interested. My guess is that a lot of readers wouldn’t be too happy about that, since updates are already slow enough.

Personal Tale of Woes (or why it took two months to get this chapter out)

The last couple of months have consisted of one disaster after another, starting with the roof that was leaking when I sent out the last chapter in November. Water got into the walls of the house, and I, along with Electrician Guy (who, of course, I know, because I live in a tiny town and am related to almost everyone, or, failing that, went to school with their parents or siblings), decided to shut off the power to the family room (where the tv is) until everything had time to dry out. Result: no tv for around two weeks (which included 3 Wednesdays, and the last 3 new eps of Angel).

My Builder Guy, (plays ball with my two older boys) comes out to look at the roof. It's 13 years old, and it's completely shot. I get to put on an entire new roof! But, since it's winter here, that can't be done until spring because the roof won't seal properly in the cold weather. So Builder Guy and Assistant Builder Guy (cousin to my daughter-in-law, brother to my hair-dresser, and dated The Daughter a couple of times) tar up the worst spots. Since it didn't rain into the family room the next time we got rain, I'm hoping the tar will hold it until spring when Builder Guy can come put on the new, lovely (I’m so sure), and extremely expensive roof.

Then the computer died, and I took it in. (Computer Repair Guys Eric One and Eric Two, no relation.) Disgusted with how much trouble I've had with it, I decided, after much heart-searching and re-budgeting to break down and buy another computer, thinking that having a working back up will help me to stop biting my fingernails, and to sleep better.

So, several days later, I pick up the phone and order a new laptop, even though it's, like, a huge stretch money wise...

The next day, my house feels unusually cold. I do my usual Capable Woman stuff, which consists, in this case, of going downstairs and staring at my furnace. I cross my arms and glare. I make threatening gestures and throw in one or two obscene ones for good measure. I even flip the on/off switch once or twice, proud that I not only know that such a switch exists, but where it is! The furnace is not in the least impressed or intimidated. It’s running, but, for some reason, is neglecting to actually release warmth of any kind into the house.

I call the furnace people, get out the heating pad and the extra comforter, bundle up in them, and sit down to work on Journeys on a computer I managed to borrow for the day.

My house plants die.

Furnace Repair Guy (my mom was his grade school teacher, his sister is my daughter-in-law’s aunt) comes.

Yes. I need a new furnace.

This cannot be delayed until spring because I live in Wisconsin and it’s winter.

Snow.

Ice.

Wind chill factors of, like, 30 or 40 degrees below zero (Fahrenheit).

Jumping up and down with excitement, I tell Furnace Repair Guy, ‘Yes, yes, yes!! Go ahead and put in a new furnace!! Does it come in dark blue? Or – ooo-ooo – deep wine?’ My joy knows no bounds. New roof, new furnace – I love spending money on fun stuff like this!!

So, while I’m celebrating the holidays at my office Christmas luncheon, the new furnace goes in. I get home and meet up with the Furnace Installer Guy (I went to school with his dad, have known him since he was two, and I’m pretty sure he’s asked The Daughter out a couple of times, but that she refused. I’m also pretty sure she would have said ‘yes’ to his brother.) My plants are still dead, but the house is warm, so I give him the thumbs up. He leaves.

An hour later I turn on the TV and my satellite dish no longer works!

It’s Friday night at seven. Someone is pretty bloody lucky the Packers were not playing on ESPN that weekend.

Monday morning I call the furnace people, and Furnace Installer Guy comes back out to check if they may have cut a wire or bumped the dish or something weird like that. (He asks how The Daughter is.) He can’t find any evidence that they came anywhere near the dish, etc. (And really, I didn’t think they had, but the coincidence was just too suspicious.) 

It’s Thursday before Satellite Dish Guy (no relation, but I got to know him fairly well when our old satellite dish got struck by lightning three times in a two year period several years ago) can get to my house to reconnect me to the wonderful world of color. I asked after his wife, Linda.

All this time, I’m still computerless, although I was occasionally able to beg, borrow or steal a laptop for a few hours. My extremely untrustworthy laptop, Kenny (think South Park), was vacationing in Minnesota, trying to ‘find himself’, and Hope (the new laptop) hadn’t yet arrived. I wasn’t getting any writing done, which was driving me nuts, nor was I getting any of my 5000000002 e-mails answered, or often, even read. Grrrrr.

Then, to top it all off, The Daughter called to tell me that she had dropped out of college (it’s her senior year!!!), and that she was going to go into massage therapy.

At that point, I more or less gave in, said ‘Gosh, isn’t life endlessly interesting!?’ and sat down in my comfy chair with a stack of books. I spent days and days reading (when I wasn’t at work). This is never a hardship for me, and I’m pretending it was a planned vacation.

Humor me.

At any rate, things eventually returned to normalish. I now have television again, two working computers (knock on wood), and a warm, dry home. I also have no money. Unfortunately, I think my plans to go to Las Vegas for WriterCon may have to be cancelled, but I’m trying to figure out if I can work that out (meaning I have to decide if I’m willing to throw the whole thing onto the credit cards, and am trying to discover if I have any relatives who work for the airline industry).

I won’t even go into the whole issue of being sick as a dog from Dec. 21 through Jan. 2, or that my meds more or less made concentrating on such a trivial thing as writing impossible. (And may have severely affected the editing of these last chapters, so try to go easy on me.)

However, it’s a new year, and things will improve! I enjoyed The Return of the King, which I went to with all my kids and their significant others, and I was able to spend time with a bunch of my other relatives before I got sick.

Plus, let us not forget, Awakenings is done!

And every night now, I go to sleep and dream of a lifetime of long, wonderful – and totally free – massages!

Life, what the hell can you do?

Mary

January 5, 2004

Financial aid and notes of commiseration and/or one-upmanship can be sent to:

Mary, The Apparently Cursed

22 Spike and Buffy Lovers Lane

Tiny Little Town with a Church and a Bar, Wisconsin

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