Chapter Ten
It was close to eleven when she awoke the next morning. No thought to the bustle of routine or any bent whim under the guidelines of expectation. She awoke to a deepened state of restlessness, her eyes blinking at the sheen of white that met her vision. Every cell in her body shrieked at the thought of rolling out of bed.
Today was not a day to be seen by anyone.
Even so, it surprised her when she turned to meet the standardized face of the digital clock that sat on the whicker stand next to her bed. While she never let anyone interfere with her beauty rest, she very rarely slept past eight. She very rarely slept when someone else was up and making noise. And she knew from yesterday, that she rarely slept in this house.
It didn’t take long to cast blame. The heavy snores from up the hall provided all the evidence she needed. Giles was still asleep. Still asleep and doing his best subconscious impression of a semi-truck. How she had ever slept through that, she would never know.
The night came rushing back with the intended effect of a cold shower. The crustiness around her eyes attested to much of the same. She had cried herself to sleep. She, Buffy, had cried herself to sleep over something that Spike said. Spike, who couldn’t open his mouth without offending someone. Spike, whose life’s mission was to make her miserable and smother everything she cared about into a nonbeing.
Spike had been himself last night. He had lashed at her with all he could these days—his words. He had been a big, nasty, guy. Nothing to cry about. Nothing.
And yet her eyes were raw and tired. Even still.
Funny how things seemed so much less important in the morning light. She felt like such a fool. She was a fool. This wasn’t her. Buffy wasn’t one to cry over insidious remarks made to her by people—creatures—that didn’t matter. Hell, she dished it out every night. She was the Slayer of Puns: The Punny Slayer. And it wasn’t as though she and Spike hadn’t sparred verbally before. It was all they could do anymore. Technology had made it impossible to fight with their bodies, so they accommodated accordingly. Fighting was natural for them; always had been.
Only not now. Since the Bronze, they had been dancing awkwardly around each other. Last night was the breaking point. Spike finding her weakness and calling her on it. He sized her up with his eyes and made with the sultry voice and acknowledged his gratitude for small favors that were neither small nor favorable, then said things like he had last night.
There was more to it, though. She would have to be blind not to see it. His eyes as he yanked the door open. The almost hurt indictment buried in his voice when he accused her of intentionally standing him up. Of standing him up at all.
This was insane. He was Spike. A vampire. Been there, done that, got sick on the roller coaster. Whatever notions she had been entertaining the last couple days had to be over now. They had knocked themselves back to where they belonged. No more of this candor dancing around each other. She was Buffy. She was the Slayer. He was the bane of her existence: her mortal enemy. He was not some guy. And though her femininity found him utterly appealing on purely a superficial level, she would not allow him to be her next mistake.
Last night was needed. It reminded her why.
Buffy released a deep breath at that. It was eleven. Time to get up. Time to really get to work. The sooner they found Faith, the sooner this embarrassing escapade came to a stop. This bizarre, otherworldly, dreamlike escapade that had done nothing but draw attention from where it needed to be focused.
It didn’t take long to get out of bed after the initial waking up was accomplished. Within minutes, she was in front of the mirror that topped off her rented dresser, inspecting her hair before deciding it would be much too hot to leave it down. It was still slightly damp from last night’s midnight shower—taken because she knew that waking up early was out of the question, even if she also didn’t plan on sleeping too late. She affixed herself with a sloppy but acceptable ponytail, slipped into some denims and pulled a dark green tank over her head.
After she had done all she could within the confines of her room, she tossed a weary glance to the door that separated her quarters from Spike’s. It wasn’t necessary to go that way in order to get to the lavatory; actually, it was rather inconvenient. But she wanted an excuse. Any excuse. Despite the promises of just a few minutes ago that heated her subconscious, she wanted to see him. Wanted to see if things truly were back to comfortable terrain. If it was safe to hate him again.
She was contemplating ripping out the inner voice that screamed protest at the concept of hating him. Hating him was what she was used to. It was familiar. It was known. It was…
So over.
Buffy swallowed hard, detesting the fact that even after the ugly trade last night, she couldn’t find it within herself to raise that much animosity. She wanted to. Oh, she wanted to. And he deserved whatever she dished. What he had said to her, what he had implied…oh, it was enough to make her—
Cry yourself to sleep?
Stupid female hormones. Spike was many things, but he was definitely not worth crying over. Especially concerning something so trivial.
It was with that mentality that Buffy decided to embrace the day. Everything would be the way it was before. No more confusing trades, no more upsetting herself because the vampire next door was a jerk and couldn’t help himself. No. She was through. She was so completely over her temporary insanity, and starting now, she would make damn sure that he knew it.
The door separating their quarters squeaked noisily as she pushed herself into the makeshift den. She bit her lip in uncertainty, turned, and closed it without trying to betray too much noise. It yelped again and stuck before it could shut all the way. A sigh of exasperation pressed through her throat. If there was one thing she was learning from this trip, it was a testament to how much she really didn’t like old homes.
Then she turned around and the wind was knocked out of her.
For whatever reason, it hadn’t occurred to her that Spike might still be sleeping. It was late morning, the sun was nearing the crest in the sky, and as a vampire, he had no reason to be awake. Her senses hadn’t betrayed his presence in the thereabouts. She didn’t know what she had been expecting, but it wasn’t what she saw.
The trundle bed was out this time. Out but bare. The gray mattress was spotty at best, worn and sickly with the impression of many years’ passing bodies. And Spike lay atop. He was clad in nothing but jeans with the first two buttons undone; his head reclined against the pillow she had given him the day before. However, it was the blanket that got her. The blanket that he had bound and folded, and was snuggling like a lover. Soft fuzzy blue against his face; his subconscious countenance betraying a similarly forlorn disposition. His arm wound her gift into his chest, one leg venturing over to keep his depiction from rolling away from him. There and sleeping. Sleeping the day away.
There was every chance it didn’t mean anything, of course. He might sleep like that; she didn’t know. Had no way of knowing. Just because her blanket—no, the townhouse’s blanket—was being used as a snuggle toy rather than a comfort-inducer didn’t mean anything. He was a vampire. What need did vampires have for blankets, anyway?
Something changed, then. Something small but monumental. Something that made her quicken even more. As though reacting to her presence entirely, Spike shifted on the noisy mattress, crooned kittenishly at the warmth in his arms, and murmured, “Buffy,” before drifting into deeper sleep.
The walls she had spent the past night and the last twenty minutes trying desperately to reconstruct came crashing down.
Oh God.
He could’ve just known you’re here. After all: vampire.
But no. She knew it wasn’t that. Spike never called her Buffy. Never.
Her mistake came in taking her next step; the floorboard released a loud and boisterous creak, evidently doing more to wake her housemate than had the squeaky door. Spike’s eyes opened bluntly, finding hers with such immediacy that she doubted he had been asleep in the first place.
“Hi,” he said softly.
Buffy drew in a breath. “I…umm…hi.”
Their gazes held for a minute longer before he turned over, stretching luxuriously with no thought to self-preservation. “What time ‘s it?”
“Getting close to 11:30,” she replied. “We…I guess I was sleepier than I…thought. And Giles…well, not exactly expecting him up any time soon.”
A loud snore from the back room sounded out in agreement.
Spike smiled gently, moving to sit up. “Rupert drank himself from one bottle to another last night,” he observed. “Know the feelin’.”
Her gaze dropped to his chest, her mind fighting her eyes to eradicate all confirmations on how yummy he looked without a shirt on. Bad mind, bad! “You slept…in your jeans?”
A wicked smile crossed his lips. “Thought it’d be the courteous thing to do, as I usually don’ bother with anything t’all.”
Oh, double-yum. The images came before she could stop them. Spike sleeping—all skin. Spike in the nude. Spike—
Stop!
“Well, there’s one picture I’ll have to get surgically removed.”
Liar liar, pants on fire.
Buffy licked her lips, her senses flaring. You can say that again.
“Watch it, Slayer. You’re blushing.”
Dammit.
Things grew quiet again—awkward and unsure. It could only last so long. And before she knew it, he had released a deep breath and risen to his feet, regarding her with what could only be called an act of contrition. As though they had suffered through a great falling out. As though last night was the first fight between lovers while on the pathway to self-discovery.
But that wasn’t so. It just wasn’t. Not with them. They were never like this.
“Buffy,” he said quietly, all tease having abandoned his tone. “I—”
“Don’t.”
A flawless brow arched at that. “I din’t say anythin’.”
“If it’s about last night, don’t.” She endured a few seconds of his waiting gaze before turning her own to the ground, releasing a deep breath and shaking her head. “Look, I don’t know…anything, really. Talking to you recently’s been on the side of difficult. I don’t know what to say anymore.”
He could have feigned ignorance if he wanted to. He didn’t. “’Cause of what happened,” he acknowledged. “Yeh, pet. Feel it, too. I jus’ don’ know where I stand with you.”
“Well, I’m not much help in the ‘figuring out of that’,” she replied. “What…I can’t get this…and I’ve tried to be nice. Nicer, even. We have to work together, right? Up until last night, I thought you were okay with being here and helping us out and—”
“Kitten, what I said…you din’t show. I was brassed. I said some things.” He shrugged. “Din’t mean all of ‘em. Din’t…” His eyes darted to the carpet. “You din’t show. An’ what I said…” Another stressed sigh escaped his lips and he looked up again. His mindless repetition of himself nearly prompted a smile to her face. “I don’ know where I stand with you, Slayer. I don’ know what’s safe ground. Not anymore. Not since that night in the cemetery. Blew me off my rocker, you did. After what you saw me doin’…me an’ Faith—”
“You didn’t know it was Faith.”
“I knew it wasn’ you.”
Buffy bit her lip. “Is that why you reacted the way you did? Because it wasn’t me?”
He stared at her as though anteaters had started crawling out of her ears. Thoroughly stunned. Sufficiently blown away. And at a complete loss at how to reply. “I…luv, I don’ know what you want me to say.”
“The truth is always a good thing.”
“The truth’ll get me staked right an’ proper.”
She shook her head. “No. I can’t afford to stake you. You’re too valuable.”
He snickered and stepped back, rolling his eyes. “To what? This? Findin’ your rogue bird. Right bit of value I’ve given you so far.”
“Not to finding…well, I haven’t exactly…” Buffy huffed out a breath and scowled. “Just answer the question, Spike.”
“Why do you need to know? Moreover, what do you need to know? ‘F it had actually been you, you wanna know if I’d’ve taken you up on it? ‘S that it?” A dry, incredulous laugh hissed through his teeth at the look that overwhelmed her face. “I’ll tell you, Slayer, but I guarantee you won’ like the answer.” He stopped again. “No. No. I won’ tell you. This is for bloody ridiculous.”
“What is?” It was barely a whisper.
“This. Sodding all of it. I’ve been on my best bloody behavior since…’cause you gave me a chance to make it up to you. Why I should care, I have no bleedin’ clue. An’ why you haven’t come to your senses an’ tossed me in a nice sunny patch of grass ‘s somethin’ I jus’ don’ get.” He shook his head. “Isn’t like you, Slayer. Not to go to bed upset with me.” He turned to point intently in the direction of her room. “You don’ get upset with me. You get annoyed. You get frustrated. You get pissed. You threaten to turn me into a pile of dust. You play a merry round of Kick the Spike. You don’ go to bed upset.”
She didn’t bother to hide how disconcerted she was. How hard the very notion that she had fallen out of habit had shaken her. It was futile trying to anything from Spike, least of all matters such as these. “I know.”
He nodded, eyes blazing now that he had that much. “So hit me, Buffy. Scream at me. Tell me ‘m worthless. Tell me you’ll…” He broke off at the puzzled look she gave him, nearly wounded in retrospect. “I don’ know how to be the person you don’ hate. I try, an’ I bollocks up. Tried last night—wanted you to hate me a li’l. So yeh, I took a low blow. Somethin’ you would’ve brushed off before. Somethin’…” He sighed and shook his head. “But you din’t…I hurt you.”
The Slayer arched a brow. “Since when have you cared about hurting me?”
“I don’ know. I jus’…I din’t like it.” He waited and looked at her. “An’ ‘s wrong. I know it. You know it. More than soddin’ anythin’. This…whatever it is.”
Buffy pursed her lips and took a cautionary step forward. “I don’t mind not fighting with you, Spike. It’s strange, I’ll grant you, but I’m not missing the screaming matches. And yeah, it is because of what happened. Because you…you helped me.”
“Told you that wasn’ for you, luv.”
“Even so. You could’ve done something. You didn’t.”
Spike stared at her for a moment. “You’re puttin’ a lot on faith here.” Her mouth threatened to give way to a grin. He paused, reconsidered his wording, and rolled his eyes. “Trust. All this jus’ because I din’t shag the bird?”
“It’s more than that.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t I just…do.” Buffy released an aggravated sigh and ran her hands over her brow, palms pressing into her temples to wan away the immediacy of a headache. “It was something, Spike. It was. More than you wanna admit. And ever since, you have been trying. If it wasn’t something, you wouldn’t bother to try. I know you well enough by now to know that. But you have. And last night—”
“I—”
“Last night when I…forgot to come back, you were more than angry. You were worried.”
His eyes widened in protest. “Was not!”
A thin smile tickled her lips. “It’s okay to worry about me.”
“Take that back!”
“Spike—”
“’m a vampire, you daft bird. I’m an evil, soulless son of a bitch. I don’ dawdle with worryin’ about people. I especially don’ worry ‘bout Slayers.” He shook his head again and released another disbelieving laugh. “You’re a piece of work, Summers. Never knew your ego complex was this—”
“Stop. Just stop.”
“Why should I?”
“Because it’s bull and you know it.” Buffy held up a hand when his eyes widened in protest. “Well, come on, brainiac. If you wanted to play that hand, you should’ve traded in your cards a while ago.”
He made a face. “That has to be the worst poker analogy ‘ve ever heard.”
“I could try again, if you want.”
They paused on the same beat and cracked nearly identical smiles.
“Look,” Buffy began a minute later. “I know it’s…it’s weird for me, too. More than weird. But I…this is something I wanna try.”
“What?”
“Not fighting with you. I mean, as long as you have that…thing…where you can’t…” She paused to lick her lips as his eyes darkened in reminder. “You came to us for a reason, Spike. You could’ve gone to anyone. Your fledglings…demons who knew and feared you. You could’ve gone to them and told them anything. You didn’t. You came to us.”
The vampire frowned. “Never thought ’bout it like that.” He was silent for a long minute—pensive, then his eyes drifted back to her. “You’re right, pet. I like this better than the other. Whatever we’re playin’ ourselves up at. ‘S better.” A small, genuine smile crossed his lips then. “So, what now? We stuff our differences aside an’—”
“We work through them.”
“’m not gonna join your bloody gang. Slayerettes Anonymous? Not—”
“I wouldn’t ask you to. I just…”
The peroxide Cockney nodded at that. “Somethin’ else, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeh. I feel it, too. Been drivin’ me bum-shaggin’ outta my mind ever since…” She flushed and looked away. He grinned in spite of himself. “Any ideas what it is?”
“No. I…this is—”
There was no need to say any more. Spike held up a hand and nodded again. “Gotcha, luv. So…until t’night then…what do we do? An’ ‘f you suggest you run ‘round town with Red again, ‘m liable to throw myself outside jus’ to spare another day of boredom.”
Buffy looked genuinely puzzled at that. “You were bored?”
“Here’s a hint: the telly’s a babysitter for kiddies. Not for Big Bads.”
“Since when?”
He grinned wryly at her. “Funny girl.”
Another beat moved between them. The electricity in the air was palpable. Tension alongside shades of desire she wasn’t ready to acknowledge. Her plan of indifference had failed her completely. She saw him now. Saw him, and he definitely saw her back. Buffy wasn’t the most experienced of girls, but she knew enough when that look overwhelmed a man’s eyes. Deliberate or not.
Her hands itched with the sudden urge to touch him. That was nothing she needed.
“Well…I’m gonna go to the house and see if I can scrounge us up some munchies.” Her eyes lingered on his pale chest. She never thought she would be partial to pale skin, but she was. Spike with a tan wouldn’t be as sexy as Spike without a tan, and she didn’t know exactly why.
Of course, she would need to see Spike with a tan before she set up a basis of evaluation.
“Slayer?”
“I’ll just…let you…get ready.”
He cocked a brow. “For what?”
“We’ll figure it out…after…we eat.”
She almost made it to the door, barely aware that she was moving until his voice stopped her. Again as her hand reached for the handle. The soft baritone of his tenor bidding her halt before she could leave him. Before she knew what she was doing, she had turned around to face him.
And immediately wished she hadn’t. While his appearance hadn’t changed, the very sight of him was enough to shake her foundation. He was standing in the middle of the den in nothing but jeans with the first few buttons undone. His hair was ruffled. He had no shoes on. He was vulnerable and strong in the same picture. He was Spike as she was only now beginning to see. A temptation that she could not give into.
“I was,” he said.
Buffy licked her lips subconsciously, not noticing the way his eyes fixed on her tongue the minute it poked out of her mouth. Nor did she notice the deep breath he took that seemed to undulate every muscle in his body.
Well, okay. So she noticed the rippling muscle part. She just didn’t note the reason.
“You were?”
“Worried.” Spike’s eyes were uncannily soft, a small smile of concession playing across his features. “Can’t hide it, I guess. ‘F we’re gonna do this, let’s do it proper. I was worried about you last night. Don’ know why, but I was. An’ I din’t like it. Din’t like not knowin’ where you were…not knowin’ whether or not I could get to you ‘f you needed me. I…” He caught her large, imploring and more than panicked gaze, swore slightly and broke off. “Yeh…I was worried. Jus’ wanted you to know, s’all.”
She did. She had.
She just didn’t know how to deal with it.
That was the second time that she had left the house after talking to him, shaken, breathless, and aroused. And dreading it. Dreading whatever it was that was building between them. Dreading the inevitable pain that came along with it. Dreading the face of her duty as she spared with the needy wants of her desire. Dreading the full of it.
He had called her Buffy in his sleep. Buffy. Not Slayer. Not pet, luv, or kitten. Not anything but who she was. Right out loud. By name.
Buffy.
That thought shook her more than anything. It alone proved that this was real. Whatever this was, it was real.
And she had no idea what to do about it.
*~*~*
The main house was surprisingly occupied for being as late as it was.
Of course, when she saw what they were doing, it was hardly cause for surprise.
The sight was nearly humorous. It was a cold day in hell when the Scoobies met people on the outside who took to them with any degree of hospitality. And true, while their acquaintance with the White House staffers barely exceeded twenty-four hours, the casual demeanor they shared with each other would have easily suggested otherwise. Josh, Donna, and Xander were all on one settee; Anya at her boyfriend’s feet, making a comment here or there about capitalism and how democracy was a failed experiment that she had seen many cultures implore without success. For the most part, she went ignored. Wesley, Willow, and Sam were on the opposing davenport, watching with rapt attention. And Toby was in the back with a cell phone to his ear. He would watch for a few seconds then bark at the unfortunate soul on the other end, stop, and repeat as needed.
For such an outlandish bunch, it almost looked as though they belonged that way.
Buffy’s eyes traveled wearily to the small television set with admittedly crappy reception, a small smile tickling her mouth. “When did he start?” she asked.
“Shhh!” came the collective reply.
Donna met her gaze and smiled helplessly. It was Sam, however, who finally registered that someone had asked a relevant question and turned to her, offering a wan smile. “Sorry,” he said. “We’ve never had to watch him like this and—”
“Shhh!”
“He started about fifteen minutes ago,” the blonde assistant clarified, whacking Josh across the knee before he could berate her interruption again.
Buffy nodded. “You guys finally just decided to use the laptop?”
“All talkers will be bodily removed from the premises,” the Deputy Chief of Staff warned, not tearing his gaze from the screen. He seemingly ignored the fact that Anya spoke when she pleased and his own colleague didn’t shut up for more than thirty seconds at a time.
“Ah, ah.” Toby held the phone away from his ear, other hand in the air in a noncommittal command for order. “Here it comes.”
“What?”
“Shhh!”
Bartlet’s image fizzed a bit as he shifted again. While Buffy was the last person to sit down and watch a Presidential address, she had to admit to herself that the little she had seen of their Commander in Chief had left her impressed. He made public speaking look so easy when it was one of her great fears.
Granted, he was a politician. He was supposed to be verbally smooth.
“One hundred and thirty six years ago on the date of April 18th, 1863, General Grant led his army from the western bank to the Eastern at Big Bluff and into the line of Confederate fire. With his army joined with Sherman’s, he—”
It was impossible to hear what the President said next. Toby was yelling into the phone.
“What the hell is this, CJ? He went from talking about the progress we’ve made since the inauguration to Ulysses S. Grant?” There was another pause. “He’s skipping it?! What do you mean he’s skipping it?!”
That was all it took; everyone in the room was sufficiently distracted.
Sam’s eyes were large and worried. “What happened?”
The Communications Director was shifting from one leg to the other, his features taut and irritated. “The President is skipping sections F and G.”
“Why?”
“The attachment was blotchy.”
The color drained from Willow’s face. “What?”
Toby quirked his head to the side. He looked ready to break something, which was not good, as the house was old and filled with antiques. “The attachment was blotchy. And CJ couldn’t reach me until this morning.”
“So, what’s he doing?” Sam asked, tossing a brief glance to the television.
The President continued as if spurred by unearthly enthusiasm. “…encircled the town, forcing many civilians underground for the duration of the Federal occupation…”
The elder man took a dramatic pause and huffed a deep breath. “He’s improvising.”
“…news articles printed on the back of wallpaper…”
“What?” Josh demanded. “He’s what?”
“…while the country was drawn into an irrevocable standstill. Lee’s invasion of the North in Gettysburg had resulted in the loss of more than fifty thousand American lives. The siege of Vicksburg ended the next day, and as a direct result, the Confederate army lost control of the Mississippi river. Vicksburg would not celebrate the birth of our nation for another eighty-one years because of this defeat. Because its citizens, your great town’s heritage, stood at the brink of inevitability and watched a way of life…”
Willow shrugged, tossing a cautious glance to Toby, whose expression was stony at best. “He sounds all right to me,” she offered meekly.
“All right? All right?” The Communications Director stepped forward with fierce intent. “The man is the Commander and Chief: he needs to sound better than all right. He needs to sound proud. He needs to sound presidential. He needs to do better than stand up there giving America a history lesson!”
“The speech was blotchy,” his Deputy said.
“Sam, so help me, I will find a way to blame this on you. What?” Toby snapped attention was drawn back to the phone. It lasted only a second. He stopped, rolled his eyes, and turned back again. “Donna?” He waited for her eyes before he tossed the cell across the room.
“…in a war that cost America the lives of six-hundred thousand citizens. Here at the gateway of Mississippi, we stand at the foundation of our Union’s conservation…”
“Tomorrow’s headlines: President stop in Vicksburg and town stops celebrating the Fourth,” Josh commented dryly. “I don’t think he realizes that patriotism down here means something different than where we come from.”
“Ahh, let’s not sell our friends short,” Xander said. “We come from the land of the free, the home of the brave. I think—”
“Yes, CJ, the bread pudding was delicious, I…” Donna trailed off when she realized her voice was being broadcast across the room. She offered a small grin, paused, and tossed the phone back to Toby.
Buffy pursed her lips. Given the sentiment of the group, perhaps it would be a better idea to go across the street to Hot Mama’s Tamali’s. There was every possibility that they sold something edible.
Possible, but unlikely. If all else failed, she could call a cab, or walk to the Rosalie house where the woman had been selling pralenes the day before.
As if sensing her detachment, Willow tore her eyes away from the President for a minute longer. “Buff? Do you need me to—”
The Slayer held up a hand. “Nah. I’ve got it covered. You just…watch the speech.”
“I don’t know. You might want to get up and walk away very fast,” Sam advised, indicating the ever-increasingly fuming Toby. The comment prompted a giggle out of her friend, and that alone told the young blonde what she needed to know.
Her friend was giggling again. She wasn’t about to abandon the source of her merriment so soon, nor would she be asked to.
After all, Buffy had Spike to work with. Work and unfinished business.
It was impossible to tell if the spooling in her belly was anticipation or dread.
Funny how Spike was never too far away from any extreme.
TBC