I'll Fly Away

4-22-02

Part 10: If I Should Fade

The blinds were always closed now.

It was one of the many little changes that bothered Xander in the early days of what he liked to call the 'The Spike Era'. For some reason, seeing the place buttoned up like a drug den 24/7 irritated him more than the cigarette butts piled on the lawn or the way the DeSoto took up three-quarters of the driveway. The car in question gleamed in the morning sunshine as Xander passed it on his way to the backdoor, casting a nervous glance at the great, squatting behemoth of chrome and fins. Being the lone dissenter in this new age of Spike-love, Xander half-expected the thing's radio to pop on of its own accord and come barreling straight at him like a Stephen King creation.

How could he not be when Buffy, who'd been gloriously sane these past two years, had suddenly skipped town, gone on holiday, cavorted all over California for two months, then come back a few figs short of a fruit tree, in Xander's ever-humble opinion. Maybe the Evil Undead had driven them into a tree, giving Buffy a head wound the rest of them knew nothing about. What else would she have turned her sainted mother's house into the Love Shack, defying convention, her Call, and the curious eyes of Doris Kroeger? The Friends atmosphere that pervaded Revello Drive made Xander slightly nauseous. All they were missing was Ugly Naked Guy.

A crack in the curtains allowed Xander a quick look-see before he reached for the doorknob. One had to be careful in the Spike Era, lest he receive a visual memory for the ages. Willow had learned this the hard way when she ventured into the basement late one night. She'd promptly turned around and walked back up the stairs, deciding that her clothes could go in the dryer in the morning. Or maybe she'd just never touch that particular appliance again.

But the way was clear today.

Xander paused for a moment, still amazed by the incongruous picture Buffy, Willow and Deadboy presented, pouring cereal and passing the morning paper around like old roomies. He was laughing over a paragraph in the local section--probably the violent and tragic death of a toddler, or the massacre of nuns, Xander thought spitefully--while Willow listened intently. Buffy stood at the coffee maker, measuring beans. Spike, by general consensus, wasn't allowed near the Mr. Coffee. Fed up after drinking rocket fuel for the third morning in a row, Buffy had slapped a Spike-ban on the pot. It joined the growing list of appliances that continually defeated him. After the electrocution incident came the Fry Daddy fiasco, followed by the freezer fracas. Then there was the blender brouhaha. Whizzing Weetabix and Type-O had resulted in a bloody, high-fiber mess.

Xander had to admit, the guy was looking a little dazed and worse for wear, with glassy eyes and an untucked shirt. Xander could sympathize. He remembered his own amazement at the sheer numbers of curlers, hair dryers and rollers Anya required in the morning, and how she could work them all into a single outlet. And he'd been awed by just how many chunky sandals he could trip over in a single afternoon. The day he went to work with one of her peach-colored bras static-clung to his back still lived in infamy.

God, he missed her.

Xander didn't know whether it was good or bad that the girls seemed to have taken Spike firmly in hand when they realized he was a mechanical flop. Xander almost smiled. Poor bastard. There was nothing scarier than a solitary male among nesting, unmarried females. Spike was stuck in there with the cramp stories, the flavored coffee creamers, the endless calorie-counting and the damning question that sent many a man riding down the cold shoulder express to couch-city: "Does this make my butt look big?"

Xander watched as Buffy, with a smile, handed Spike a mug of blood and Willow--his Willow!--actually reached out and smoothed down the rumpled bed-head that he'd been sporting a lot lately. Xander shuddered. He so did not want to think about the sleeping arrangements. That way lay gruesome gagging death. Apparently, Spike didn't have the energy to ward them off, because he just smiled weakly. Xander was instantly suspicious. It was probably all an act. Spike was like that. Conniving.

And yet…whatever he and Buffy had--and it galled Xander to admit this--made her more beautiful than ever, like a flower opening its petals to the sun. A part of him would always love Buffy, would always wonder what she looked like draped only in kisses and moonlight. She was that kind of girl; a man didn't give her his heart. She took it forcibly-- with a single glance--and poor schmucks like him got visiting rights, if they were lucky. But that was an old love that secreted itself in brotherly affection, loyalty, and friendship. These were the things she could accept from him. He could never love her darkly, like Angel, like Spike. And she, the huntress, could never fully embrace a lover not marked by blood, or death, or the sweep of history. For her, it had to be men of moonlight and mystery.

Xander was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn't notice the screen door opening until Buffy stood before him, one hand wrapped around the ties of a huge trash bag.

"Hey, Xan." She was wearing cut-off shorts and sandals in the morning sunshine, and Xander idly prayed that Daisy Dukes never, ever went out of style. "What's up?"

Xander helped her tug the bulging hefty bag down the steps. "Thought I'd fix that loose knob on the basement door."

"Oh, it's not really broken-- it just lacks duct tape. But thank you." Buffy swore as the bag threatened to rip. "One disadvantage to living with Spike…"

Xander's hopes soared. "Yeah?"

Buffy waved her hand at the blue, blue sky. "He has a legitimate excuse for not taking the trash out. Spontaneous combustion and all."

Together, they dragged the offending trash out to the curb, and Buffy sent it rolling the last few feet with a well-placed kick. Afterward, she sank down on the front steps, patting the space beside her.

"So, how goes the re-wooing?"

Xander made himself comfortable on the step. "It's going. Last night she actually let me in the door."

Buffy stretched her legs out, sighing like a contented kitten. "It sounds like Anya's caving! Good for you!"

"Not really. I had to bribe her."

Buffy looked intrigued. "What did you buy her this time. More candy? Flowers?"

Xander sighed. "Blizzard insurance."

Buffy burst out laughing. "In California?"

Xander tried to look offended, but her hilarity disarmed him, as always. "Well, she has every other kind known to God and man. And you never know when a freak snowstorm might come up the coast. Stranger things have happened."

Buffy wiped the tears of mirth from her eyes. "Well, this is the Hellmouth."

"I miss her, Buff. I miss the way her hair looks weed-whacked first thing in the morning. I miss the way her hands fly when she counts money. I miss the way she eats pie. I even miss the way she always tells the truth, like a child." Xander kicked at the grass dejectedly. Then he shook himself.

Conjuring up a smile, he elbowed Buffy. "You're a woman. Go make me a pie."

Buffy elbowed back. "In the words of our mutual acquaintance, sod off!"

"Speaking of Junior, who's supervising him?"

Buffy ignored the jibe. "He's in the kitchen, I think. Why don't you go say 'Hi?"

Xander snickered. "Sure, Buff. Then the two of us can make Kraft Macaroni and play matchbox cars."

Buffy leaned her head on his shoulder and laughed. "Stranger things have happened."

***************************************************************

Xander leaned against the kitchen counter and studied Spike over the rim of his coffee cup. Steam curled up from the mug in little spirals and he imagined that this was what the vampire looked like shrouded in gaslight and fog. Xander was as morbidly curious about Spike's past as he was about Anya's life in burlap. He tried to imagine her then, making bread and spinning wool, her keen, Capitalist mind consumed with more mundane matters like surviving winter in a land of frozen hardship. It was the years between her first and second human births--the vengeance years--that he didn't like to dwell on. Xander pushed Anya's demon doings to the back of his mind for the same reason he kept Spike's at the forefront. Only in this way could he love her without reserve and still hate the vampire unconditionally.

And hate him he did.

For the nameless, faceless masses he'd drained over the course of his bloody, violent century. For not regretting a single victim among his legions of dead. For having blood bonds to Angel and love bonds to Buffy. For being pale and unrepentant and so fucking comfortable in his own skin. For tiger-crawling into Buffy's home and bed and heart and curling up amid her softness. Yes, Xander still hated him. It was just harder now that they'd moved from the shadows into the harsher, sweeter light of day. It was harder because the vampire was, so clearly, Buffy's newest, strongest tie to the world. She had to know that when she was gone, nothing on earth could hold him here.

Spike shook out the newspaper, pointedly ignoring Xander's perusal.

Xander cleared his throat. Spike buried his bright head even farther in the depths of the paper. Frowning, Xander crossed to the table, and, with a flick of his wrist, wrenched the pages from Spike's grip.

The vampire glared up at him, hands still hanging in the air. "Do you mind, Whelp? A plan for world domination is slowly being revealed to me via the Dilbert cartoon."

"It's good to know you're still a hostage to your own psychotic delusions, Spike."

"Thanks ever so. What is it you want?" Spike grabbed for the paper.

Xander gestured to the cheery kitchen, the slowly cooling mug of type-O, the blinds firmly closed against the morning sunshine. "All this…must be like a soggy dream come true for you. I bet you're really happy." No, Xander wasn't bitter.

"Happy? Well, yeah. As a hungry baby in a topless bar."

Xander made a disgusted sound. "As lovely as your visuals are, Spike, paint any more and I'll have to toss my cookies in the little boy's room."

Spike shrugged and snagged his paper back. "Be my guest. There's fourteen different kinds of hand soap to choose from."

"It's a chick thing. Just wait till November, when they all get Flu at the same time." Xander laughed at Spike's horrified expression. "Buck up, buddy…why don't you go make me a waffle?"

Spike threw a napkin at Xander's head. "You right bastard."

******************************************************

Willow flipped the porch light on and crept quietly down the back steps, cat carrier in hand. In the evening gloom, she could see a small, striped figure rooting among Joyce's old flowerbeds, oblivious to impending capture. The grass was soft and springy under Willow's feet as she stole across the lawn, hoping Miss Kitty would keep chasing beetles long enough for her to pounce. So intent was she on her task that Willow failed to notice the shape sprawled directly in her path, or the plume of cigarette smoke curling languidly on the breeze.

Miss Kitty leaped into the air, hair standing on end, as Willow's startled screech shattered the silence. She kicked out at the hand that suddenly circled her ankle, letting loose a few choice curse words she'd picked up from the Harrises. The figure rolled away, and Willow realized it was talking.

"Bloody hell! Red, if you want my kidney all you have to do is ask!"

Willow leaned down. "Spike, you scared me! Don't do that!"

"Sorry, love. I was havin' a bit of fun with you." He searched the grass for his half-smoked fag, then lay back, tucking one arm behind his head. The duster gleamed like a patch of night thrown down from the stars above. "What are you doing out here, Will, besides maiming me?"

Willow began to search in the bushes and around hedges. "Looking for Miss Kitty. Its Tara's weekend to have her. We thought it would be better to trade off."

Spike nodded. "A good plan, that. You wouldn't want Fantastico to feel displaced and start acting out."

"Exactly!" Willow spied her cat peeking out from under the porch, but the two bright eyes disappeared as she moved in that direction. "But now I'll never get her!" Willow kicked a sapling. After a few more minutes of fruitless searching, she flung herself down in the grass. "Why are you laying-out-here-smoking-guy?"

"Because I asked him to stay here while I patrol." Buffy appeared in the glow of the porch light, armed to the teeth and dressed in the latest Slayer-chic. "He's very distracting."

At Willow's confused look, Spike clarified. "We're too busy doing the naked pretzel to notice any impending apocalypse."

"Oh!" Willow blushed furiously. "But I'll bet it's good for the grass!" she faltered.

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Spike, quit polluting the atmosphere and help her get the cat." She slung her crossbow over one shoulder and set off. Willow noticed that the vampire's eyes never left Buffy's small, bright figure until it disappeared around the corner of the house, and lingered even then.

That snippet of song came back to Willow from some distant year. It might have been something Tara played when they first met. Those early days were set to righteous femme songs and Wiccan chants, and laced with the occasional wolfsong.

Willow laughed as Miss Kitty darted between Spike's feet, sending him sprawling. He grumbled and reached for his cigarettes. "I knew there was a reason I liked ALF."

Willow lost Miss Kitty under the hedge, then sat down to rest before resuming the chase. "I think Tara's seeing someone else."

Spike shook his head. "I always knew Glinda had a screw loose."

Willow sighed. "Spike, do you still think I'm biteable?"

"Absolutely. Always did. Why, the very first time I saw you, running into a supply closet with the cheerleader, I thought, 'Wow. I'd make a snack out of that girl if she wasn't running into a supply closet with the cheerleader.'"

Spike watched in satisfaction as Willow brightened at his words. Actually, he thought he might have seen her earlier, dancing at the Bronze, but maybe not. He only had eyes for Buffy that night.

That was the beginning.

"Hey, guys." Tara's soft voice cut through the summer night. She stood nervously at the edge of the grass, oatmeal hair shining softly and eyes luminous in the half-light.

"Tara!" Willow scrambled to her feet. Miss Kitty emerged from the trees and began to give herself a bath, as if reassured by the presence of somebody sane.

Spike slipped around the corner of the house, leaving the witches to bundle Miss Kitty into her carrier.

*************************************************

Buffy stood looking down at the headstone, arms wrapped protectively around her middle. Years had passed, and still she found no peace with her mother's death. It was a tragedy more dark and deep and sad than anything she'd known before. She bent and fluffed the pink buds, one for every August Joyce lived. No, there was no peace. Even now, her grief was as raw as a freshly dug grave.

As she straightened up, Buffy felt a sleek arm wrap itself around her waist. Then she was drawn back against a leather-clad chest. Buffy wrapped her arms over his and they swayed together. His hair smelled sweet, like the cut grass where he'd teased and flattered her best friend.

"Spike?"

"Hmmmm?"

"Promise me you'll never die."

**************************************************

He would promise her no such thing, of course. That was a tender lie lovers told each other in the best of times and regretted in the worst. Life was full of shadows, and no one could predict when they would begin falling toward the west.

So he just tightened his arms around her and whispered in her ear:

"Mmmmm. Pretty." Buffy smiled contentedly. "Did you write that?"

He rested his chin on her shoulder. "No, love. I was never that good."

Buffy turned in his arms. Their mouths were inches apart. "I think you're good."

One dark eyebrow climbed. "Yeah?"

"Uh-huh." Her eyes were fixed on his lower lip. He bent down to capture her mouth with his, but a commotion behind a nearby mausoleum had them both spinning reflexively in that direction.

Two teenagers came stumbling around the vault, clearly drunk, probably high. They staggered toward Buffy and Spike, giggling madly. There was something familiar…Apparently, Buffy had the same thought, because she grabbed one of the girls and spun her into a patch of moonlight.

"Janice?"

Dawn's friend burped, making Buffy back up a step. "Buffy?" she shot back.

Spike held the other girl up by the back of her jacket, keeping her at arms length to avoid the alcohol fumes rolling off her person. "You two should know better than to traipse through cemeteries at night."

"We're not scared." Janice was apparently fearless when drunk. Spike was tempted to vamp for her and fix that problem.

"Little girls like you should be at home, tucked up in bed."

Janice uncoiled like a cobra. "Are you gonna do the tucking, big boy?"

"I think not." Buffy removed Janice's hand from Spike's collar. The girl shoved Buffy away and began to lurch back in the direction she'd come, her friend trailing behind.

Buffy and Spike followed at a distance. "Lets just make sure they get home all right."

Spike nodded. Buffy slipped her hand into his. "I'm kind of glad Dawn was away all summer. Janice is a bad influence."

TBC

*The song Willow quoted is by Indigo Girls

*The lines are from a poem called "Creed" by Mary Ashley Townsend