| Title: Between Now And Never Author: Minx Trinket Rating: NC-17, finally! Disclaimer: Not mine. Never will be. Not dealing with it well. Spoilers and continuity: If you haven't seen 'em all, don't read this! This story takes place, oh, call it 39 and 3/4 days after "The Gift." It completes the trilogy (such a grand word for a bunch of six-page stories!) of "The End of the Line" and "Lines Get Crossed," by yours truly. Summary: Spike, long abroad, returns to Sunnydale for his Nibblet's sixteenth birthday and is surprised to discover what has changed and what has remained the same. Author's Notes: This takes place a little less than a year after the events of my "Line Trilogy" (see parts 1, 2, and 3) I think it's actually longer than all three previous bits put together! Sorry it took so long, but I was working on some stuff I've got a chance in hell of getting paid for, and for that reason, chapters will be coming slowly. You should also know, gentle reader, that I wrote this under duress. I'm not a fan of closure. But I got seduced by the idea of the scene in the Magic Box, and before I knew it my beta reader Aethyl was screaming that I had to post it and that it was part of the great tradition of community mythmaking and I don't know what-all. So here it is, but I'm grouchy about it! As to the birth name with which I christened Spike, it's a tribute to Arcadia by Tom Stoppard. Read it, revel in it, note the parallels! (No, I'm not getting a kickback from Amazon; it's just a convenient link.) Want a song for the dance scene in Chapter 1? Try "Ghost" by the Indigo Girls (lyrics available here). As for Spike cleaning the crypt in Chapter 3…hmm. Creed's My Own Prison seems about right. Acknowledgments: To my demanding readers, who drag it out of me, and to Mrs. O, for calls that last long after midnight, my thanks. Email: minxtrinket@yahoo.com *************************************** The old black DeSoto lurked slowly up Revello Drive, past innocent trees and quiet little houses full of the good, the bad, the ugly, the human. The house he sought was at the other end of the block, but as he approached it, nervous fingers grasped at his mental overcoat. What if they weren't there? the fingers whispered. What if they were? He stopped in front of 1630, the house with the old oak tree he'd hid behind while he peered, aching, through the windows, with the portico where he'd hid from the sun. Smiling, he let the memories ripple through him. The lights were on in the front window, and if he squinted hard, Spike could make out the silhouettes of his girls, passing each other in the living room, talking, breathing. He couldn't hear their voices, so he made up a soundtrack for himself: Did you clean your room? I'll do it later. That's what you said earlier. Yes, I'm very consistent. A consistent pain in my butt. It's a talent! Laughing, he unlocked the car door and reached for the handle. He grasped the warm metal bar, but then he couldn't force his arm to pull it. He could tell, from flipping of hair and shaking of shoulders, how happy they both were, so much happier than when he'd left them. Slowly, his hands returned to the steering wheel and, with one last longing look at the Summers' house, he pulled off into the night. *************************************** It was just less than a year ago that Buffy the Vampire Slayer had turned Spike's life completely on its ear for what seemed like the hundred millionth time. If he closed his eyes he could see it in vivid technicolor, in HDTV: Buffy, impossibly alive, embracing her sobbing sister with the light of the whole world shining on her, blindingly bright. Buffy, muttering mantras and prophecies, telling Dawn Though they put me in the earth, lo, I shall return to thee, Blood of my Blood, as the workman returns to his tools at daybreak, the farmer to his plow, all in due time. Buffy, turning to him and crying You, William Thomas Hodge, fear not! At the End of Days your name will be writ large in the Book of Heroes! You are essential, and beloved. All that nonsense, and more, and the others crowding into the kitchen to find out what was all the commotion, Willow fainting and Giles stumbling to catch her, and all of them crying and laughing and crying again all at once, touching Buffy's arm, finding it solid, and daring to believe again in miracles. Spike shook off the memory just in time to avoid plowing into a tree. He made his way through the cruelly familiar streets with no destination but away from the Summers' house. That house, like a photo album of his failures, like a playground full of grubby-kneed bullies, jeering, not good enough, that house was his treasure and his enemy all at once. Spike found himself coasting past the Magic Box. At those Scooby meetings, he'd felt like part of a family again for the first time in a century and believed that he had found his place. He should have known better than to think that. He should have seen the change and moved back into his crypt when Buffy returned. He should have stayed away from them both. But he thought he had the good life: killing stuff and coming home to two women he couldn't imagine living without, swimming in the sweet pain of not having either of them, not yet, not now, but maybe, maybe. He closed his eyes to the change, telling himself Buffy was still Buffy, mystical mantra chanting or no. He never looked in her eyes. Instead he'd tried to seduce Buffy with fists and banter, which she batted away like butterflies. He teased Dawn with games and private jokes. And if he noticed Dawn watching as he tumbled Buffy across the training room, both of them panting, sweating, if he noticed the strange, inscrutable expression Dawn wore as she headed up to bed on a school night, leaving Buffy and him alone on the couch, well, it was all part of the dance, wasn't it? The tension was like honey on Dawn's skin, which he'd lick from her shoulder when Buffy had her back turned. Buffy's bold "no," Dawn's timid "yes," they became all of his world. "Stupid sod," he said aloud, remembering. "You were breaking her heart." And before him was the moment he'd realized it, at a Scooby session at the Magic Box. Giles, with his easel, was sketching the layout of a Drak'kan demon's lair Buffy had discovered under the football arena. He was laying out the plan of attack. Willow was at the bookshelf, Xander and Anya were collecting weapons, Tara was mixing a potion, and Buffy had not arrived yet. He and Dawn sat at the table, bored, waiting to be enlightened, giddy on tea and an afternoon spent together. Playfully, he poked her ribs. She poked him back, whispering, "Stop it!" He poked again. She punched his shoulder and said, in a laughably bad imitation of him, "Sod off, bloody wanker!" Spike retorted in a high-pitched whine, "Bite me, you big retard!" "All right, that's enough," Giles said, whirling from the easel, looking for all the world like an Eton schoolmaster. He pointed at Spike. "You, stop teaching her naughty British words. She's a fifteen-year-old girl. And you," pointing at Dawn, "stop teaching him naughty fifteen-year-old girl words. It's…very disturbing." Giles turned back to the easel and Dawn stuck her tongue out at Spike. His hand shot up to grab it, and she dodged, falling off the chair and laughing. He bent over to help her up, making sure to get in a few good tickles in the process. She shrieked and squirmed. "Don't make me separate you," Giles warned. "Are they at it again?" Buffy asked, floating through the shop door in a jingle of bells. "Hi, honey!" Spike called to her, "How was your day?" His hands fell instantly from Dawn's ribs, and he threw an arm casually over the back of his chair, watching Buffy cross the room. When she reached him, she mussed his hair, then leaned down to kiss Dawn's cheek. Dawn's smile was strained, and she glanced quickly at Spike and away, that same unreadable expression on her face. He just patted her shoulder and followed Buffy into the training room. He circled her, half Astaire, half tiger, and said, "Feeling up for a tumble?" Buffy smiled at him, that strange clear light from her skin redoubled in the murky room. "Thanks for offering, but I don't think there's time for training tonight. I'd like to get those beasts cleared out of here." Spike, nonplussed, searched for a reply. The law of averages told him that if you keep baiting the hook eventually you'll snag a fish. He'd been baiting and baiting and baiting Buffy for months and, still, nothing. None of the old spark, fire, or death wish. Just bald truth. "You're no fun anymore, you know that?" he said. But if Buffy replied, he didn't hear her. He'd glanced up, only for a moment, and caught sight of Dawn through the open door. She was carrying a box from one place to another, nothing more, and was still wearing that strange face. Except it wasn't strange all of a sudden. Shame hit him like a blast of frozen wind. What have I done? he thought. She's in shreds. She's bleeding. "Spike, what is it?" Buffy asked, but he pushed past her out into the shop. He stormed up to Dawn and grabbed her arm, spinning her around to face him. She didn't have time to close her face against his searching gaze. He felt her tremble. Her eyes met his in that old, accusing stare: You're killing me. "I didn't know," he whispered urgently. "I didn't realize…" Buffy came up behind him and, placing a hand on his arm, asked, "Guys?" Neither of them looked at her. "I…I'm sorry," Spike choked, and fled the shop, leaving stunned and speechless humans in his wake. He'd barely gotten a hundred feet away when he heard her. "Coward!" Dawn shrieked. He turned. Breathing hard, hands balled into fists, she glared at him from beneath the sickly yellow streetlight, baring her teeth. "You're a coward!" "Go back inside, Dawn!" he shouted back. He didn't want her truths assaulting him too. "Make me!" "Oh, for fuck's sake!" "How could you not know?" Her words were like blows against his chest. "You stupid prick! You didn't want to know! Anything you don't like, you blink and it's gone, right? BLINK! Buffy's back to normal! BLINK! Dawn's not in love with you!" Spike cringed. "You don't know what you're saying--" "No, you're the one that doesn't know!" Dawn stormed at him, hair and arms flying. "You're the one who doesn't understand that she's not that person anymore! She's not the girl you loved. She's past it all now. She's in this world but she's not a part of it. Not like you and me." Her last words were barely a whisper, and she put out one tiny hand to clutch at his shirt. "We're still in it. We love. I love…" Spike grabbed the girl and pulled her to him, cutting the words off. He held her tightly as her tiny fists pounded his chest, as if she could will his heart back to beating. Music was drifting toward them from somewhere, maybe a nearby bar, and Spike started shifting his feet to the acoustic murmur. Side to side, first one foot, then the other, he danced Dawn slowly in circles on the pavement. He caressed her hair with his lips. Reluctantly, her hands ceased their futile effort. He could feel her breath, warm through his shirt. Her heat filled him, stirred him. There it was again, that knife edge between love and brutality, knowing he could take her, knowing he couldn't. He willed his hands to stillness and kept dancing. "Don't ask me to leave Narnia just yet, Bit," he said softly. "There's still a lot of time between now and never." When she looked up at him, the dancing stopped. Her face was still twisted in pain. She shoved him away. "It's not that easy," she said. "Why not?" "You can't fix it with 'someday.'" "Then tell me how to fix it! I don't know the right way to love you." Dawn shook her head, her eyes full of anguish. And pity. "Just…just get away from me," she stammered, and ran back to the shop. A scrap of newspaper blew past his boots and down the deserted street. "Alright then," he said to the emptiness. He walked to his car, got in, and started driving. *************************************** That had been October. It was summer again as Spike found himself walking on autopilot into the Bronze. Somehow the car had brought him here, and his legs took him inside, old habits refusing to lie down and die. At the too-bright bar he ordered himself a scotch, and another, and a few more, and he listened to the crap they were calling music and he sank into self pity and he wondered if it had been a mistake to return to Sunnydale. He reminded himself that it usually was. As if the gods themselves agreed with him, he heard a familiar voice say "Well, well, well, look what the Hellmouth sucked in." Next: Part 2| HOME | WHAT'S NEW | ABOUT | FANFICTION | BLOG | LINKS | VERBIS | NOMINATIONS | |