Chapter Text
The first thing Spike does when he opens his eyes and finds the viciously bright sun barrelling down on him is reach for his left hand.
The above sentence is a lie. It’s what Spike would want you to think, and it’s certainly the version of the story he would spin for the tell-all, but it is a blatant untruth. The first thing Spike did was panic because that was the sun. It was out of practiced habit that he frantically shoved his head under his duster with a discombobulated yelp, jumping to his feet from his prone position before his brain had any sort of say in the matter. The spastic jumping around that followed lasted about fifteen seconds and was rather unattractive to watch for the casual viewer, of which Spike did not yet realize he had quite a few. It took a few too many ‘bloody hells' than would be allowed on Masterpiece Theater and a desperate, albeit impassioned, rendition of the Stop, Drop, and Roll choreography for Spike to realize that no part of him was actually on fire. Hell, not a single inch of himself could even muster up the audacity to be in any type of pain. The five seconds of rational thought that Spike mustered up after that performing arts number told him that it was the Gem of Amara, you bull-headed ponce, because of course. That would make sense. It was only then, forty-seven seconds after opening his eyes, that Spike reached for his hand.
Except it makes no sense. Spike lost the gem ages ago, a fact that only reared its head after Spike made a move to grasp at it. His hand was entirely bare—bare, if not for the small but curious little scar right on the back of his hand. It was tiny, minuscule even, but it was there, and it absolutely was not before. Before. Before what, exactly? Spike couldn’t even remember. He needs to sit down. Another second of precious thought is wasted in realizing he is, in fact, already sitting down. He presses both palms of his hands against his eyes and whirls his brain into critical reasoning. Spike also takes care to scootch himself underneath a tree, in case for whatever reason his imperviousness to the great and mortal enemy of all his kind (the sun—bright and beautiful, shining and giggling, fierce and protective) proved to be a fluke.
“f*cking junkies, man,” leered an unremarkable voice from across the way. The man that called out, a 20-something kid with too-big arms and too-thin legs, alerted Spike to the small crowd that was trying so very hard to pretend like they weren’t watching him.
“One of you better get your soddin’ camera ready, because I’m having a bloody Kodak Moment over here!” Called Spike, after too much effort than he usually would give thinking of some kind of response. The indirect callout forced everyone to walk noticeably briskly away, eyes steadily on the grass directly in front of them.
He’s completely out of sorts. His brain feels like mush that unraveled after someone combed through its folds too many times with cold, analytical fingers. Fingers that prodded around where they shouldn't and mucked up the places where Spike kept all of his important bits, the last four digits of the social security number of himself. There was something ambiguously off about himself that Spike could not place, his sudden flame-retardance aside. There was a sense of anxious sadness about him that felt wholly unrelated to Spike’s typical heartbroken kind and a feeling of infuriating fragility that Spike had not felt in at least a hundred years. He was rearranged in a way that he couldn’t comprehend or grasp, and it was pissing him the f*ck off. Spike is no stranger to anger born out of frustration and confusion, however now it’s laced with an unidentifiable hopelessness sabotaging the boiling rage he needed to feel in his blood.
His blood.
It wasn’t boiling. It was rushing. It’s a subtle feeling that you wouldn’t feel if you hadn't lived two centuries without it. It's the soft race of life underneath your skin, a constant reminder of the exhaustion living causes. Your blood will rush and your pulse will throb until you die. There is no easy way out of it, no quick way to press pause on the body’s omnipresent humming, whirling, buzzing, and beating.
Beating.
A heart beating. Spike’s heart was beating. It’s flapping against the drums in his ears, pounding on the walls of its cell, screaming to get it out. “I’m not supposed to be in here!” Spike’s heart wails in a desperate plea, “I can’t be here.” The pounding against its cage grows faster and faster but no one except Spike is around to listen. He can’t even help, he can’t do anything but drown in his heart’s despairing screams. He drowns and drowns and drowns until he can’t breathe.
Breathe.
Of all the things Spike found himself immediately aware of and attuned to, breathing was not one of them. He’s so deeply lost in his blood and even more so in his head that it catches him completely by surprise when he finally notices his hyperventilations. Immediately he clasps a hand over his mouth in a desperate play for control and autonomy over a body he did not understand anymore. He waits silently, unmovingly, aside from his blood rushing and his heart beating, until the uncomfortable feeling in his chest grows too big to contain and he releases the hand from his lips with a practically cartoonish gasp, expressive in a way that would have been amusing if not for it’s dire context.
He gets up far too fast for himself and immediately gets hit with a wave of dizziness brought on by blood flowing to places it has not touched in centuries. It doesn’t slow him in any tangible capacity, and Spike stumbles out into the sun, not having the mental bandwidth to give his former celestial enemy another thought. He feels unbearably hot, and for the first time considers his floor-length real-leather coat to be inappropriate attire for Southern California.
On his feet, Spike gives himself five spare seconds. Only five seconds, because if it was up to Spike, everything that could be done would be done in the most immediate manner possible. Every extra second was a waste of a breath that he now needed to relearn how to ration. Five seconds would be more than enough time for a final regrouping and decision on how to move forward. The problem with this particular five-second rule is that Spike also doesn't have the forethought to ever begin counting, and instead stands there, panicked and more helpless than he could ever remember being, even as William. His five seconds turn into ten, ten becomes twenty, and it only exponentiates from there. After forty-one five-seconds, Spike finally screws his head on tight enough to concoct the most genius plan that he could physically and mentally accomplish, monosyllabic in its simplicity: go.
And so he does. Spike runs and runs and runs and runs. He runs under trees and on sidewalks and past people who are no longer any different from him. The action and the movement are good for him, it always seems to get his brain working in a way it doesn’t when he’s still. He can finally recognize that he’s running through the University, meaning that he's still in every demon’s favorite holiday destination. The sun looks like it’s about to set, not that that kind of thing really has to matter to him anymore. Hopefully, any ghoulies that are out tonight will recognize his outward appearance as Spike and leave well enough alone. Oh yeah, like they won’t be able to smell the humanity on him from a mile away. He needs to find somewhere to camp out at night and sleep, homey enough that it can recognize to turn away vamps. He needs food, real food, and water. He needs… he needs to sit down.
After running for nearly fifteen minutes straight, Spike finds himself fatigued down to his bones, and nearly collapses on the ground next to some kind of memorial bench, figuring that he’ll recover fast enough that he shouldn’t waste his energy trying to relocate onto it. Spike hasn’t been this physically exerted in two hundred years. He’s panting, this time entirely from exhaustion, and he finds himself annoyingly embarrassed by his athletic failure. It hasn’t even been an hour and Spike is already completely over this whole breathing rigamarole and finds that his life is already much less efficient because of it.
Spike tenderly rests his head on the seat of the bench but doesn’t dare close his eyes, already having given up too much by resting at all. He watches the college students wander past, pretending not to see him and going silent when they’re forced to cross. Spike doesn’t need a Polaroid to tell him he’s not at his most beguiling, but this is quite frankly rude. He doesn’t even bother with a retort toward any of the mindless teenyboppers and refocuses his energy on sitting. More accurately, his energy was focused on sitting and wallowing. If his hundred-some years had any takeaways, it’s that Spike was a world-class wallower. He could have easily gone pro if he hadn’t had that damn ACL injury in college. Someone should give him some kind of award, a Pulitzer for emotional devastation. Spike would accept his shiny coin with a humble, yet crowd-pleasing speech because it truly was an honor just to be nominated. He would shout out all the buggers that contributed to his misery, without whom Spike would never even have the chance to wallow: Cecily, his mum, Drusilla, the Slayer, and even sodding Angelus would have his bloody fifteen minutes. And then once the applause has ceased and the music has played him out he would return right back to this here bench, honoring Prof. Thomas Weatherford, and wallow some more. William the Bloody could wallow and wallow and wallow until the cows came home. Except, he’s not really “the Bloody” anymore, is he? He’s just William.
~
Willow breathes what might have been her first real breath all night as she exits the party, stepping into the cooler night air. Breathing has been getting harder and harder as of late, the air tasting so much different now that he’s gone. It’s thick and bitter, and each time she chokes down a breath Willow has to fight the urge to not take another one. Buffy would be mad at her later when she finds out that Willow walked home alone at night, but lord knows a frat party was not where she needed to be. God, a frat party! What was Buffy even thinking? Willow has never been Ms. Body Shots even when her heart was still whole. Now that Willow was split in two she could barely find the motivation to go to class, one of her most very favorite things, nevertheless dance with random guys and go all Girls Gone Wild. The anti-feminist connotation that sentiment has aside, Willow simply could not pretend to stand the sticky party haze, the Dingoes song on the tape being the last straw. If Willow didn’t know better, she would suspect that Buffy may like Riley back a little, too, and that was the prime motivation for this particular night of debauchery, however, Willow was still not impressed. She’s trying so desperately hard to not be bitter about this whole Buffy-Riley development, but boy is it becoming a bother.
Another thing Buffy could later clobber Willow for was her inattentiveness because if Buffy and the act of merely existing in Sunnydale has taught you anything, it was that vigilance was key to survival in a kooky, crazy, messed-up world like the one they are unfortunate enough to inhabit. But, if Willow was being sorrowfully honest, survival wasn’t necessarily at the very forefront of her mind. Willow should have seen Spike lying there, head resting on a notorious makeout bench, looking half-deader than Willow thought he was. She didn’t see him, eyes glued on her just-dated enough shoes, and if he hadn’t called, Willow would carry on as though he was never there at all. To her, he simply wouldn’t have been.
“Oi, Red! A little help over here please if you have a spell. Get it? Because you’re a witch and all. Spell.” The words shock Willow if nothing else but for their distinctiveness. The specific syntax of London punk vernacular mixed with the thinly veiled poshness at the heart. Even disregarding the accent, Willow could recognize the speaker as though discerning a Shakespearean sonnet from its quatrains and rhyme scheme, despite their altogether brief, yet unpleasant, time together. The recollection of that wretched day sends the chill down Willow’s spine more than the monster himself, but her fear is still so palpable, and she prays he cannot feel it.
Knowing exactly who the aforementioned words belong to, Willow should not have turned. If Willow had any sense at all, she would have run as fast as her legs could carry her back to the party where she would alert Buffy of Spike’s immediate presence and have him dealt with promptly, but sense was a thing for girls who still had something to be senseful about. When Willow turned to face him, she did it with the utmost wariness, too, taking three steps back for good measure. “Spike,” she declares, her voice doing its best to sound unkind, but it just comes out somewhat resigned and glum. Resigned and glum. Weren’t those the words of the month?
Willow can tell that Spike is trying for some sort of smile, and it’s not even a menacing one, just something to punctuate the weak attempt to lighten the mood he made prior. Try as he might, it doesn’t do much to conceal his general state of distress. His hair was as ungelled as he’d ever allowed it to be around her, and his lips were cracked and pale, looking like no amount of Aquaphor could satisfy their needs. His eyes lacked the razor-edged quality they’d had last year when he’d held her hostage, in which his eyes were doing much more of the heavy lifting behind his threats than the actual words themselves. Willow blamed the sudden softness on the dark circles he was wearing like a mask, but she couldn’t be too sure. “Think I might need a spot of help here, yeah,” and Willow could believe that. If he was trying to lower her guard down so she would take pity on him he was doing a bang-up job at it, even if she would hardly consider herself gullible. However, Spike never really seemed the type to play weak in front of his enemies. Even when he was heartbroken over Drusilla he still used physical intimidation and the luster of his power to control her. Not even being a drunken, sobbing mess had demeaned his menace.
The words rush to the forefront of her throat before she can properly examine what she’s about to say, her base instincts leaving fight at the door in favor of the much more alluring and seductive flight. “I won’t do any more spells for you, Spike. Actually, I’m pretty sure I’m out of the whole magic biz, so I can’t help you anyhow. Oh darn! That's a shame. I’m sure there are tons of other talented morally gray witches on campus that would love to help you out. I really should get going now, but, uh, have a good night?” Willow’s feet get the jump on the rest of her body, already taking her about three steps away in the direction of the party when long, calloused, warm fingers wrap around her wrist. Spike’s grip wasn’t harsh or painful but appeared far more earnest and gentle. It wasn’t hesitant, but rather a genuine attempt to catch the attention of someone he desperately needed. The look on his face was small, and could only really be described as imploring. Of course, when a known monster and previous captor grips any part of you unexpectedly, you don’t stop to consider any of those things, as Willow most certainly did not. She gasps and jerks her hand away with strict immediacy, and Spike lets it go with an astonishing lack of resistance.
He staggers up, and his body language appears a tad dazed, as though he’s woken up from a seriously intense nap, or as if someone replaced every third bone in his body with green Jell-O, and he needed to relearn how to coordinate all his limbs. He collapses onto the bench, his body leaning forward in an attempt to regain composure, as though the facade of poise would endear Willow to whatever plight he was facing “No, no, listen, it’s not like that. I don’t need a spell. Not yet anyhow. I just—”
Every time Spike begins talking Willow is hit with an overwhelming amount of logical sense and remembers exactly who she is talking to. to. She is standing in front of Spike. William the Bloody. Slayer of Slayers. He Who Has Zero Consideration for His Scalp Health. And here he is, all great and mighty and yet somehow needing her. Willow realizes all at once that she can have the power here, and the heady feeling in her gut that she’s begun to recognize as confidence strengthens. She doesn’t feel any misplaced remorse for cutting him off. “When Buffy finds out you’re here she’s gonna have you go all poofy before you can even realize the steak was inside of you. Your heart, I mean. Inside your heart!” It is only after she places her admittedly weak threat that Willow realizes belatedly that she probably shouldn’t have brought up Buffy, since, historically speaking, she’s tended to be the thing he wants most.
It takes seven stages of emotions to cross Spike’s face for Willow to realize that no, she’s not at all what he wants. He says as much a couple of seconds later, his body inexplicably open toward her and his face at least eleven types of muddled. “No, God, the last thing I need is the slayer’s little button of a nose badgering about in this one. Oh, f*ck it, maybe I do. Old Spikey’s at a loss, and he’d take any bright ideas even if they’re Blondie’s. Never thought I’d see the day when I’m begging for help from Captain Planet and the rest of you damn Planeteers. Laugh it up all you can, Red. Hate to say it but the Big Bad isn’t so bad anymore.” Spike settles against the back of the bench and turns his face heavenward, his arms stretching out lamely, downturned with hopelessness. Willow thinks it takes a lot of gall for him to say that he’s at a loss here when Willow is just barely hanging onto the conversation. She feels like she’s in high school, staring at an indecipherable poem in AP Lit, trying her best to come up with some sort of meaningful explanation behind deluded words. She continues to stare at him, head co*cked in thought, when she makes the absent-minded observation that he’s breathing heavily for doing no discernible physical activity.
Oh.
In high school, English was never Willow’s favorite subject. She would stare at these poorly translated poems that describe emotions that Willow hasn’t been lucky enough to yet feel, and try desperately to reap some form of academic significance inside of them. It was because of this struggle that when Willow found the volta, the turning point, in each piece and could therefore uncover all the layers of symbolism she felt like she had discovered the most important secret of the world. It was through identifying the turning point in every poem that Willow could break down the incomprehensible into a beautiful discovery. Spike’s chest, bobbing from the force of long deep breaths is the turning point, the volta.
Last year Willow had read essentially every book there was on the turning of a vampire into a human, hoping that one day she could give Buffy the best birthday present ever and surprise her with a new and improved Angel. After weeks of comprehensive research, she hesitantly had to admit that there was simply no way, not even in the dark stuff far above her skill level. It’s not as straightforward as returning a misplaced soul. To turn a vampire like that would be to change them foundationally on a molecular level, and magic isn't too concerned with minutiae of that kind. The most logical part of Willow’s brain was telling that it simply wasn’t true and that Spike had simply taken up a couple of classes at Julliard in hopes of honing his acting skills to lure young red-headed witches to their deaths. There is no way that after only a few weeks of disappearance and seemingly by accident Spike had managed to do something so precisely impossible. And yet somehow, Willow finds herself sitting on the bench anyway.
“Spike,” she starts, even though she can see the answer flying like a train car while she’s tied to the tracks, waiting for the impact and yet still underestimating the weight of it all, “what happened?”
He startles very subtly, as though he spent the last few seconds thinking about everything else but her, and forgot that he was currently in the middle of this exact interaction. He drops his arm from above the bench and closes in on himself, clearly trying to manufacture some sort of protection from the truth. Maybe it was him tied to the tracks instead, and Willow was just hopeless to watch from the sides. Spike opens his mouth to start talking no less than five times, only to find it empty of words. Willow doesn’t mind; she’s nothing if not patient. He can’t admit that whatever happened to him has happened to him, and it’s too easy to empathize with the feeling. “Think I’ve caught a case,” he settles on, looking at his unpolished black boots.
It’s vague, and he knows it’s vague, the truth of the situation still being a tad too much for him to shoulder completely. Willow decides to flex her kindness bone (located directly between her left tibia and fibula) and puts him out of the misery he seems to be drowning in. “That case wouldn’t happen to be the human condition, would it?”
He blinks hard at that word, human, but regains himself with a vicious snort. “I hear it’s chronic. You wouldn’t happen to know where I can find a posh little nurse in a rubber dress to guide me back to health, would you?” Willow can see how hard he’s trying for lightness but his grim features are staunch in their decision not to give way.
Willow's heart is racing, it’s been racing ever since the beginning of their confrontation-turned-very-much-not-a-confrontation, but she finally acknowledges the ball tension in her lungs that’s been building all this time. Willow has no idea how to tackle a conversation this huge, and although she knows that Spike is hardly one to be called delicate, she also knows that there’s a strong possibility of her saying the wrong thing and derailing a precarious situation. She has so many questions, but most of them will have to wait until some time not in the immediate present, her curiosity be damned. “Spike this is… this is completely unprecedented! No vampire has ever in all of recorded history done what you’ve just done, and you just did it. I can’t imagine how. Everything I’ve ever read on the state of vampires has said it’s flat-out impossible, and believe me, I’ve read a hefty amount. How, Spike?”
She’s expecting some great long epic, with fighting and death and magic and love and some sort of maniacal wish-granter (all the best tales have them), only to be successfully edged when he just gives a noncommittal shrug. “Can’t remember. Head’s a bit fuzzed up. Was one way, woke up and now I’m already sporting a tan.” This was a lie. Even in the moonlight, Spike looked like he could blind a few passing airplanes with his melanin deprivation, but Willow figured that’s not what he needed to hear right now.
The topic of the mysterious impetus for Spike's newfound livelihood will no doubt arise many times in the future, but Willow realizes pushing it won’t get them anywhere they need them to be, and resolves to get more information later. “We need to get you to Giles. Even if he doesn’t know the definition of what’s up he definitely has a book that does, even if we need to translate that book back and forth a few times.”
Spike grunts at her suggestion, seemingly nonplussed by the idea. “But my bench!” he groans, an annoying lilt to his voice. He must have studied at the five-year-old child school of petulance. “I like my bench. It likes me. We’ve bonded, me and this old girl.”
“Spike, this is a makeout bench. Drunk kids stumble out here after frat parties hoping to round a few bases.”
“Jesus, Mary, and sodding Joseph!” Spike heaves himself up and gruffly staggers away from it, his face looking just about as affronted as his voice. “An insult to Professor Tom’s memory is what that is.” He shifts his shoulders uncomfortably as if trying to rid himself of the metal image of suspiciously large football players tongue-deep down a brunette communications major. Yet another aspect of Spike's situation Willow finds herself emphasizing.
“It’s ok. Professor Weatherford was probably really ugly and racist anyway, like how most of those dead professor-y types like to be.”
Spike snorts but the sound is devoid of any tangible amusem*nt. He shrugs and gestures half-heartedly towards the path. “It is what it is. Not proud to admit that I’ve laid my head in far more suspect places. Come on, Red, I’m not getting any younger. Who knows when my clock is gonna run out, now? Bring me to the wanker’s crib before I die from whatever you lot find so scary and we’ll sort me right out.” Willow nods and begins walking, careful to stay next to Spike and never in front of her. Just because the guy got his DNA realigned doesn’t mean he necessarily has a soul, however improbable as that may be, and Willow is all too wary of that. They walk in silence for a couple of blocks, and although both of them seem to prefer it that way, as soon as Willow thinks of the question it is unable to escape her mind. She knows that to ask it would be to risk the hesitant peace that’s formed between them for the time being, but she can’t help but indulge the sorrowfully growing hole in her heart whispering in her ear to just go ahead and ask it.
“So did you and Drusilla figure things out?”
Willow knew exactly what she was expecting: outrageous yelling, harrowing crying, with a chance of desperate sobs. It’s what Willow was banking on, she needed proof that at least someone could feel the same type of pain that was so inescapable suddenly. She had seen Spike like that before and knew all too well the type of hurt he was capable of experiencing. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the type of hurt she got. He stopped haltingly on the sidewalk, his spine stiffening vertebrae by vertebrae, not dissimilar to a cat rolling its back up after a nap in the sun or, more accurately, about to pounce on a mouse. All at once Willow felt that the sensible fear, founded in hard facts and evidence, that has generally subsided hit her upside the head in full force. Her heart rate quickens and she’s so sure for a minute that he can feel it, just like he could when he was less, um, organic.
He turns his face towards her in an angry snarl all too familiar on his face, and the sharpness that was previously lacking in his eyes before has made its grand return. It’s cutting, and for a minute just as terrifying as it once had the capabilities of being, and Willow realizes she has no hard evidence as to her newfound human-ocity. Well, shoot.
The step Spike takes towards her is just as wide and forceful as the quick three Willow took, preemptively anticipating a strike that doesn’t come. Instead, he just glowers at her through his thick brow bone, gaze suffocating her more than she thought his hands could. “Aren’t you supposed to be the brains around here? You shouldn’t ask questions you already know the answer to.” His voice is thick with some emotion clearly in the same family of anger, but isn’t exactly. It’s something much richer, something much more pungent. He turns quickly on his heel in a menacing flourish, his coat fluttering behind him ragefully, and walks ahead of her in a steadfast and powerful conviction.
Willow takes a large and very necessary breath, finding her rate propelled back into the green sector on the chart in her doctor’s office, with a big smacking “Healthy Heart Zone” caption under it. She lets him take the lead, even though she’s pretty sure he doesn’t know where Giles lives. Willow’s not one to let an awkward encounter sit, and finishes with a quiet “I’ll make sure to send a Hanukkah card to each of you separately.” Spike tries very hard to pretend he doesn’t hear it, but the forceful stopping of his boots and the quickened pace tell her that he absolutely has. Willow knows that she should feel bad, but tonight there were a ton of “shoulds” that she ended up ignoring entirely. There’s a quiet, evil place inside of Willow that can’t help the disgusting satisfaction she feels in knowing that he’s nursing a bruise just as tender as hers and relishes the fact that she can press her nail into it.
They walk the rest of the way in silence. Misery loves company.
~
Spike did try his best to pretend like he didn’t know where he was going and made a big show out of pausing at every crossroads and glancing around, clearly waiting for Willow to take the lead in their walk. He figured that explaining to her that of course he knew where Buffy’s watcher lived, he spent a year trying to kill her for heaven's sake, and it had unfortunately taken much more research than he would have reasonably preferred, would not help him seem more pitiful and helpless. Spike doesn’t want to seem pitiful and helpless. There are a million and one nasty, horrible words that Spike would get engraved on his tombstone before someone even thought of him as pitiful and helpless. That being said, the pitiful and the helpless are the folks that Buffy and the rest of the JROTC Unit are so keen on assisting. That's the difference, isn’t it? Spike needs assistance, he doesn't need help. The two are entirely different problems, yeah?
The walk to the apartment was agony for all Spike was concerned. Red must’ve ripped out the page in the dictionary that included the word “subtle” when she asked about Dru, and God, thinking about Dru was positively the last thing he needed to do. More so than even that, Spike couldn’t handle the suffocating bile in his throat that tasted blatantly of embarrassment and shame for having to go to Willow, and by extension, Buffy, to have them deal with his problems. He's more grown of a man than any others, and Spike just knows that there’s some other pressing act of dastardly evilness that deserved their attention far more promptly than he does. He can just see the Slayer’s face so clearly already in his head, her delicate eyebrows all twisted in disgust, ambivalent to the ephemeral pain inside of him that threatens to take him down with every step, every memory his brain loses a fight with. No amount of punching and kicking will knock her off of her gilded high horse.
Spike knows he should just give up on whatever this is now. He’ll forge some legal documents proving his existence and get an apartment above a Chinese restaurant, spending each day watching terrible soap operas in an uncomfortable chair because he can’t read without his hands shaking. He’ll get some terrible minimum wage job that eats him from the inside out, but never as much as the horrors of his past will, the burning memory growing stronger and stronger until it overtakes him eyeballs to entrails, and he throws himself into his new metaphorical sun. The Doublemeat Palace is always hiring.
By manually forcing himself to breathe the entire twenty-minute walk, Spike gives his body something to focus on, something to hold on to. He finds himself counting each breath in and each breath out, and it's ridiculous and yet enviable that every other human seems to be doing it with such ease. The regulation of the fluctuating and uncomfortable fullness in his chest is too much, and his body needs to do it all the time. No amount of fact and biology could convince Spike that it was innate. He’s so focused on himself, and the steady repetition of numbers in his head that he doesn’t realize at first that they’ve arrived at their destination.
The courtyard is familiar enough to Spike, as he was here once before quite some time ago, lurking about behind bushes like a sodding conspiracy nut trying to catch a sasquatch. Even that was less embarrassing than showing up like this. His dread is thick and unwieldy, and his boots have never felt this heavy. They only sink further into the ground when he catches the worried expression on his companion’s face, and he hopes to God she isn’t rethinking her decision to help— ahem— assist him. As ruefully dreadful as this whole ordeal is, her assistance feels necessary. He doesn’t want to give up. He doesn’t want to work at the Doublemeat Palace.
“What’s with the frown, Red? I’m not gonna pull anything unbecoming of myself. I don't bite. Not anymore at least.”
The girl has the audacity to look taken aback, as though she was offended by the insinuation of his violence. Spike is unhappy to admit that he doesn’t blame her, but he was simply responding to the sour candy causing her face to twist.
“Oh. Well, that’s nice to know. It’ll make this whole thing a lot easier the less we’re eaten. And it’s not even that, it’s just Giles, he might not be home. He and Xander were supposed to patrol tonight because Buffy was taking a night off. I don’t know when they’ll be back.”
Spike shouldn’t be surprised to know that Buffy takes nights off but he is. It seems a bit dangerous for a Slayer to have a break no matter how much she deserves it. A near-geriatric Brit and a teenage boy with a monkey’s brain (and style aptitude) are no comparison to the angel herself, no matter how many stakes they sharpen. What if they had run into Spike himself that night, in his previous state of existence, instead of a lower-class fledgling? There would be at least two more dead bodies with names similar in scheme to Hupert and Cander. Of course, Spike understands that this isn’t necessarily fair. The pressure of being a Slayer would objectively be too much for any average person to bear, even if they get weekends and holidays, but it’s not like she can form a union and demand a livable work environment. That was always one of the many injustices of the world that Spike could acknowledge as a vampire, but couldn’t be paid a hundred quid to care about. Spike uncomfortably finds that he cares now.
“It shouldn't be a problem, the light inside is on, no?” Spike inquires, noticing the yellow emerging softly from the windows and door crack. “I don't take Rupert to be the type of man to go willy-nilly with the electrical.”
“Actually you’d be wrong about that. Giles tends to keep the lights on when he's not home for an extra safety precaution. Less likely for demon ransackings and the like.” ‘The like,’ Spike deducts, being the body disposal of dead girlfriends. He’s not sure if Willow has come to that same conclusion yet.
She blinks suddenly, as if surprised by the information she’s handing out, and sloppily corrects, “But there are all sorts of charms I put on this place anyway, so no demon should bother, unless they're asking for a mighty zap to the brain.” The girl is clearly lying through her teeth. She hasn’t even been practicing magic for two years, and there’s no shot in hell she could successfully arm a whole building like that on her own. Spike appreciates the attempt, though.
He sags down mightily onto a metal patio chair, a truly terrible instrument of torment, and rolls his neck back. “So what’s the move then? Wait it out here? Don’t know how he’d feel exactly about me tending to his pansies.”
Willow twists her face, about to say something, when there's some sort of thump from the inside of the apartment, the hollow bluntness of wood on wood. Spike’s eyebrow shoots up at the excessively posh way the following expletive resounds “Goddamnit, Xander!”
“I think they’re home.” Spike astutely observed through a long, hard investigation and rigorous dedication.
There’s some more muffled arguing behind the walls that Spike can’t even bother to eavesdrop on and makes for the door, his nervousness showing itself in an unsteady heartbeat that’s rather annoying. The thing is, Spike isn’t exactly sure why he’s so dead set on going to this lot for assistance. They famously and rather loudly don’t appreciate his wiley charms and antics, and the thwarting of his every move also doesn't lend itself to best pal material. That being said, Spike can’t pretend like he has any immediate knowledge of someone else who could find out how this has happened to him. That’s gotta be it, Spike settles on. The flicker of hope that jolted him from his wallowing when he saw Willow walk past was because of their unquestionably accurate reputation for solving supernatural mysteries in a timely manner. To be honest, when he saw her he wasn’t thinking that hard. He just knew deeply somehow that this was the path to take, and so of course he took it. It’s a very real possibility that Spike took the wrong path, and he is feeling that now.
“Uh, Spike,” says Willow, her voice now trailing a little behind him, “Maybe I should go in first and uh, take the lead. Just manage the situation a little. Xander and Giles can both be a little jumpy with the vampire thing.” It’s hitting Spike that this isn’t going to be one-on-one with the watcher, and Spike is gonna have to deal with the colorful commentary thrown at him by the Slayer’s pet dog that has convinced itself that he’s a real boy. Spike didn’t fancy a pint with Xander and preferred his company from other walks of people.
Nevertheless, he takes a step back and gestures for her to move forward, receding into the shadows. Willow politely knocks, and Spike knows it’s more a formality than anything else. The door opens after a few seconds of scattered footsteps, and there the Nancy is in all of his long-faded glory.
“Oh, Willow, hello. Buffy said that you would be attending a party tonight, is there any problem? I can assure you Xander and I haven't found anything out of the ordinary on our patrols.”
“Except for the blood-sucking fiend that you let get away!” called a tinny voice from inside the apartment. This kid. Spike is already rolling his eyes.
Spike expects him to brush it off, as is the way of the watcher, and is proven wrong by the abrupt head swing Rupert gives and his call of, “Oh would you please knock it off! Unless my memory fails me terribly I seem to recall your steak missing his heart,” of which his tone is dripping—-nay, drowning in exasperation.
Giles moves to the side in a welcoming gesture for Willow but not before Xander could exclaim “Well clearly yours shrunk two sizes today, you tweed-clad grinch.” He takes off his glasses and rests the back of his head soundly against the door frame, and Willow doesn’t make any move to go closer.
“Um, actually,” she begins, worrying her lip in her teeth, and Spike feels his heart rate start to accelerate. She better know what she’s saying, or else Spike is sh*t out of luck here. “There has been a bit of an issue. Not even an issue, per se, more of a conundrum.” For the shortest of seconds, Willow’s eyes dart to where Spike is hiding, and he’s about to step forward before he thinks better of it. She’s nervous. He needs to give her a second.
“The conundrum wouldn’t happen to be a pissed-off vampire with a stake sticking out of his lower sternum, would it?” Chimed in the wandering voice of the boy, being ever the unhelpful git he has made himself to be in Spike’s head.
Willow stands taller and looks a tad more confident. Spike’s stomach rolls and he prepares to step out. “No, no, it’s not like that. It’s more, well. I need both of you not to freak, okay? Absolutely no freakage allowed, and that means no stakeage either, you’ll see why. Especially you, Xander.”
“Willow, I must say I’m growing rather concerned, If you..” The watcher starts, but Spike doesn't let him finish. Or, more accurately, Giles had every right to finish his sentence, but Spike stepping out from the cozy home he made in the shrubs takes any passion to finish right out of the bloke. “Willow, come inside right now!” Spike cringes inwardly at the visible panic running through the man’s face at just his simple appearance. The Spike from a day ago would’ve been giddy at the idea of instilling that much instant fear. Now it just makes him uncomfortable.
“Aw come on, that’s no welcome wagon, is it? You people have no Southern hospitality. It’s common decency, really, to invite a lad in.” Spike’s hoping Giles won’t. He’s hoping to make a bit of a grand entrance here.
“Spike, wait—” attempts Willow, but she is sharply cut off by a large clamor of something metal from inside, and Spike can only assume it was the kid acting like a butterfingers instead of eating one.
“Willow, please tell me that was your voice I just heard and you’ve been getting really good at your British accent.” Xander's head pops around a corner and he stumbles back into the couch at the sight of him. Giles grabs Willow's arm and pulls her inside as soon as he can think to do it, and she yelps out in surprise.
“Now this, this is freakage guys!” Willow tries to organize them, but Xander swiftly steps in front of her and puts an arm defensively in front of her. Chivalry isn't dead, who knew?
Giles gains a steely look in his eyes and his posture changes in every slight way from top to tail. Someone must’ve found the small little “on” switch on the back of his neck because, from all of Spike’s limited experience with the fellow, he’s never had this much point intensity, as though one wrong move would unleash a very real danger onto him. He’d seen the man tortured and beaten down, and aside from the obvious visual similarities, Spike wouldn’t think that it was the same man in front of him now, blazing with angry confidence. “Buffy has thwarted you countless times before, Spike, and I see no reason for her not to continue this pattern. You’d be wise to stay away from Willow, and the rest of us for that matter. Whatever you’re looking for you won’t find here.” Somewhere in the middle of that line, a cross appeared in one of his hands. Spike flinches on instinct, and he knows that it isn’t helping his case, none of this is.
With one steady breath, Spike takes one large step over the threshold of the door frame with a newfound ease. Spike hears the cross clatter to the floor more than he sees it, his eyes far more interested in the look of terror and astonishment on the boy’s face. It’s almost comical, really, the way his jaw drops like he’s a cartoon character, his arms sputtering for purchase on something, and grabbing Willow’s shoulder and a clump of her hair. To her credit, she looks mildly annoyed, both by Xander and Spike's overly theatrical display. What can he say? He’s always been a showman. Spike picks up the cross and it feels like nothing other than the cool grainy wood. He turns it over a couple of times in his hands, just because he feels that much more like a prick, and looks up with a smile that is less smile and more grin. When Willow found him by the bench some time ago he was far more broken than he would feel comfortable exhibiting publicly. He’s not making that mistake again.
“I’m not looking for anything in particular, Watcher. Maybe just a bit of empathy, a book or two if you can spare. A few wise words might be nice.” He gives the cross back to Giles, and the look on his face has softened so considerably that any trace of the previous harshness was gone, and it had given way to the quiet stupefaction that Willow adorned when she realized. He was no doubt reading through his obscenely large collection of texts in his head, trying to figure out the how and the more important why.
“I found him on a park bench on campus,” chimes Willow across the room, patting Xander’s hand away from her. “I really think it’s real. He doesn't know how either. He says he woke up and bam! Humanity! Like it was the flu or something.”
It’s at this exact moment that Xander seems to catch on, and slack isn’t a strong enough word for that boy’s jaw. “You mean to tell me that… Nuh-uh, no way. This was never on the table when it came to vampires. Not in any of those books that I pretended to almost read. He’s faking. It’s the Gem or something.”
Spike rolls his eyes and sits down on the couch with a flourish, coat adding just enough drama for him. “What are you gonna do? Stake me? I heard finding the heart is almost as hard as finding a woman's love button. Helpful hint, it's the thing inside of me beating.” Xander coughs on nothing but the wasted potential that lives in his throat, and Spike turns back to the Watcher, eyes closed and hand rubbing the side of his face. God help anybody cursed to look this bloody British.
“Say, you wouldn’t happen to have any water lying around? Word on the street that’s kind of a necessity for you people, and seeing as I’m one of You People It seems only right.” Willow nods and starts towards the kitchenette. She’s a nice girl, Spike thinks, and he surprises himself with the teensy wave of affection that grows for her. He has to get used to that too, now, the whole admiring people for disgusting reasons like possessing kindness and consideration. Christ, is he going to become kind and considerate?
Giles walks across the room somewhat pointedly, and Spike raises an eyebrow at the heavy-duty crossbow that he slings out from behind a cabinet. “Oh now we’re talking,” supplies Xander, who has moved as far away from Spike as the enclosed apartment would allow. Someone give this kid a medal of valor.
“Won’t you please be quiet?” With a swift, practiced movement the bow is aimed right at him and the beating thing inside his chest. If Spike didn’t know better he would call Giles a badass. Spike doesn’t, in fact, know better, and he does, slightly, ever so barely, think he’s a badass.
“Oh, now, Rupert, you don’t need to do all that just for me. The company plates and some sparkling wine would be more than enough.” Years of being a vicious killer of other vicious killers have taught Spike one very valuable lesson: Never let them see you sweat. It’s coming in clutch now expeditiously.
Giles is clearly not enjoying Spike’s reindeer games and sticks squarely to the matter at hand. “From the top. How are you a human, why are you a human, and why are you here?”
Willow darts out at this time to give him a novelty mug filled with cool water. He accepts it graciously with a quick “Thanks, Red.” His mother taught him manners and he uses them when prompted. “Watchers Make the Best Lovers?” Spike reads from the cup, his expression falling into its favorite standby leer. “You telling me they gave these out at the company picnic? Here I thought you lot were nothing but a bunch of Puritans.”
The crossbow falters, and Giles is noticeably embarrassed and has lost some of his focused conviction. “I— You— It was a gift. From an old friend. Custom printed. Never mind the mug, and don’t dodge my questions. Tell me the whole of it.”
Spike sighs and sits up, ignoring Xander’s heckle of “Oh this oughta be good” and takes a slow sip of the water. It’s like blood but it’s not. The two taste absolutely nothing alike, and the thickness, texture, and temperature make the two drastically different liquids, but the feeling of it running down his throat and leaking onto his lips scratches an itch inside of Spike that only blood was able to fill previously. Granted, it’s far less intense than drinking blood ever was, but it’s a satisfaction all the same, a fulfillment of a compulsory need left unattended to.
“Well, Red pretty much got it spot on earlier, but I’ll go into the weeds if you fancy.” For the first time, Spike is forced to fish back in his brain for the last known memories he has before waking up, and even those are a little fuzzy. “I was back in town, right, doing my dastardly deeds and whatnot. It was around the 10th, I’m pretty sure, if we’re trying to get the timeline down.”
“Six days ago,” notes Willow across the room. Six days isn’t too bad. Spike had feared that he’d blacked out for months, even though that fear was depressingly unfounded. Even if he had blacked that time out, he’d had nothing to miss and no one to miss him.
“Alright then, six days ago. I was prowling about, causing mayhem, etcetera. Was on campus, too.” Spike closes his eyes and thinks as hard as his beat-up brain would allow. “Someone zapped me!” he recalled, finally “with a pokey electric thing. Zapped me good until I was out.” The time after that is completely, ceaselessly blank when he tries to look back on it, a complete lost cause. “Next thing I know I wake up in broad daylight outside, on campus, too. No burning, no dusting, heart beating, lungs flowing. Ran like a loony cow until Willow found me.”
Giles puts the crossbow down on the counter behind him, the gears turning a tad too rapidly for Spike to completely follow. “So it’s other people, or beings, then, that did this. The ones that, uh, ‘zapped’ you.”
“That’s one conclusion, sure,” says Spike, a little ashamed that he hadn’t thought of that entirely yet. The past few hours have moved so maliciously fast that Spike hasn’t had much time to think about anything, even if the Watcher had managed to figure that part out in a matter of seconds.
“You’re telling me you believe this guy?” Says Xander, the thorn in the bloody lion’s paw. “I mean come on, Giles, you’re not that gullible. He had Willow!”
Willow seems less than satisfied at her use in Xander’s argument, “Hey, my autonomy is robust and functional, thank you. I walked over here with Spike. You didn’t see him earlier. He’s breathing, you can see that he’s breathing.” Great, now Spike is once again aware of his breathing, and he’s finding it hard to do it at all, especially now that three pairs of eyes are now looking at him.
Giles moves closer to him, and there’s a practiced softness in his steps and his eyes that reminds Spike of a father, despite the little experience he had with one personally. From the looks of things around these parts, Giles ends up playing the part of the father more than a Watcher or librarian. He sits down hesitantly on the edge of the couch and Spike compulsively finds himself sitting straighter. “I believe you, Spike. Despite whatever my better judgment may be telling me, it’s hard to argue with what I’ve seen. When you live on the Hellmouth you learn to trust what you see above whatever predispositions you may have.” Everything about him, his voice, his posture, his expression, is so earnest that it startles Spike to his bones. “If we are going to move forward, however, I’m going to need you to be less…” Giles waves his hand at Spike in a ‘you get the gist’ gesture.
“Charming and charismatic?” Spike fills in.
“More like rancid and devious,” Objects Xander.
“I was thinking more petulant and irksome,” finishes Giles, which, fair.
“Hey, Petulant and Irksome are the names of my—”
“That’s enough, Xander. It’s best if you get home now. Take a cross in case you run into any trouble.” Xander sputters out a weak protest at Giles’s order but the man stream rolls through it. “Willow, go find Buffy wherever she may be and update her on Spike’s new condition. Try to keep her away from the apartment until morning, when I speak to her I would like to have a better picture of what’s going on. Spike will stay the night here with me.”
Spike sits silently touched with a begrudging respect. Giles is able to look an entirely unprecedented situation in the eyes with a calm decisiveness and gives orders so sternly and kindly that it feels wrong to even protest. “Are you sure that’s such a good idea, Big G?” Alas, some people still will. “I mean he did kidnap me and Willow a swift twelve months ago. My, how the time has flown. I just don’t think it’s such a good idea to leave you alone with him, even if he is…” a deliberate pause “...human.” What a ugly word, that is.
“I can handle myself, Xander,” says Giles, and Spike doesn’t doubt that in the slightest. “Please, do get home.”
The kid huffs and makes for the door, grabbing the same cross from earlier and battered steak on his way. “Fine, but don’t come crying to good ol’ Xander when you wake up without your entrails,” and the door closes with just a touch of dramatic loudness.
“Aren’t entrails by definition your organs once they’re exposed?” inquired Willow, making to follow her oaf of a pal. “How can you wake up without them?” She also takes a cross. It must be the hottest accessory of the fall. Boy, how the fashions have changed since Spike’s time.
“Beats me,” Spike adds to Willow’s lingering question. “I can only make sense of a quarter of the jabber that guy spills.” He turns to Giles and continues, “So, bellboy, I’m staying here then? Take me to my digs, won’t you?”
“I hate to disappoint you, Spike, but I’m afraid this is it. For a sofa, you’ll find it has rather lovely back support.” It’s hardly the Shangri-La, but knowing Spike's current situation as well as all the places he’d been forced to inhabit once upon a time, he can’t find it in his new and improved heart to complain. This sofa is as much of a luxury as Spike supposes he can get his hands on.
Willow says a final goodbye, laced with a promise to inform Buffy, and closes the door with much less rigor than Xander managed. Spike’s fingers start twiddling thinking about how Buffy will react to the whole him-ness of the situation. Spike doesn’t quite understand it, and he doesn’t think he very much wants to, but there is an unwanted part of him that for some god-forsaken, ugly reason cares about Buffy’s opinion of him. Buffy! The chit that’s been terrorizing and ruining his life for years past. He supposes that it doesn’t matter, that he’s not the same person and therefore doesn’t have the same hatred in his heart for her, and that is why he cares. But it feels a little different than that, though. When Giles mentioned her name earlier Spike felt a traitorous swoop in his stomach simply at a reference to her.
He tells himself it’s fear. He doesn’t believe that either.
It’s just the two of them now. Spike doesn’t peg himself as a particularly awkward bloke, but if there was any moment to use that term, it would be now. He’s never actually spoken to Giles one-on-one or in any true capacity before this, and he finds himself a little confused about where to start.
Thankfully, Giles does it for him. “So, Spike, I’ve never had to deal with a situation quite like this before, and I do hope that you’ll forgive me for any bumps that we run into. You do understand that what you, for lack of a better word, accomplished here is, well, it’s damn near impossible. There’s been talk in a lot of circles, mostly dark magic, about turning a vampire into a human, and although there have been various hypotheses, there’s no written record of it ever working.”
“Yeah, yeah,” says Spike, pulling the mug to his lips, “The girl said about as much earlier. I’m a sodding modern miracle.”
“You jest, sure, but you’re not wrong. However, I think I may have an idea about how this has happened to you.” Spike's eyebrows shoot up, and he can almost feel his ears following every word the watcher’s about to say like he’s a cartoon dog. Yes, Spike thought Giles would be able to help him, but he hadn’t figured that he would have answers so soon. “Buffy has mentioned that she’s been seeing these men head to toe in army dress with masks, lurking about campus at night. We don’t know very much about these figures, granted, but it’s a start. Her account of them seems to go along with your, uh, ‘zappy thing’ description, anyhow.”
Spike finds himself nodding, “Yeah, mate, that’s about as good a place as any.” It sounds sarcastic without Spike necessarily meaning it to, and he notes that in the future he needs to work on toning down his bite. He doesn’t want to bite people anymore, what a topsy-turvy world it now is.
With a nod and an awkward shuffle, Giles procures a couple of thin, uncomfortable-looking blankets from a hidden linen closet in the corner, and a tough-looking pillow. He places them cautiously on the edge of the sofa and it’s all over the man’s face that he has something he wants to say, and Spike has yet to figure out if he wants to hear it. “Thank you,” Spike tries, grasping onto something that feels right to say now, “for hearing me out, I suppose. I expected there to be a bit more of a rigamarole to all of this. Appreciate your understanding and such.” Spike attempts a genuine smile, and he’s not sure if it entirely works, but Giles is a smart enough man to grasp the picture. Spike is genuinely appreciative of his help, but that’s a muscle he hasn’t flexed in ages, so it’s a little stiff and sore.
“Right, then. If you need anything I’ll be upstairs, most likely awake. I have my books to entertain, and I could hardly ignore research this irresistible.” The man rests an arm on the doorway, and looks around quickly, with uncertainty, before the question stumbles from his lips. “Your soul, then?” Behind the vagueness, Spike knows exactly what Giles is asking and it makes him shiver. It’s unignorable, now.
“Oh, yeah.” A heavy, silent moment passed between them, as suffocating as it was necessary. “Guess Angel isn’t so special after all, is he?”
There’s a twinge of a smile on the Watcher’s lips. “No, I suppose he isn’t. Goodnight, Spike.”
Spike nods and offers a terse “Night” in exchange, lays his head back on the couch, and gazes at the ugly stucco ceiling. The faux velvet of the couch was a little unpleasant, if you ask him, and it certainly prioritized style over comfort, as stiff and stuffy as the man who purchased it. The soul, the one that Spike has successfully managed to pretty much avoid for the past two hours or so, prods at his skin in scratchy, uneasy digs. Every time Spike attempts to set his mind on something important, i.e. what he could possibly use his newfound life for, he feels memories from the past hundred and something years dance across his eyes, re-searing themselves into his brain with entirely new meaning. As far as Spike was concerned, being human was nothing but unpleasant thoughts and feelings, hindering in ways he knew he was better than.
The hours tick by. There's a glow coming from the lofted room above that’s trying very hard to remain inconspicuous, and Spike knows he's not the only one awake right now. The silence is brutal, and the quiet rustling of papers is hardly enough to focus on. It’s around 3 AM that Spike calls it quits on trying to sleep, worried about what he’d turn into left ruminating with his thoughts and memories for any longer. He reaches for the duster he’d slung haphazardly across an overstuffed armchair and finds the sacred inner pocket that houses the same paperback copy of Wuthering Heights that’s been there for almost thirty years. It’s worn and ugly, and Spike flinches at the blood splatter on the page edges, but flicks it open to a random page anyway, needing the security, the relief that this book gives him. God, what kind of f*cking person takes comfort in Wuthering Heights, of all the bloody novels. It’s a baby blanket for the mentally unsound. For Spike.
Spike reads from the light of the moon as he has done on so many nights before, and doesn’t sleep a wink.
~
Buffy is pleasantly surprised to admit to herself, and to whoever may be concerned, that she’s having a good time at this party. Sure, Buffy was beside herself in wanting to go, but that doesn’t necessarily constitute a completely, one-hundred percent foolproof night of fun, a statistic evidenced by essentially every other party she’s attended in the last four years. But as the night has gone on, and the party has thinned out a bit, Buffy has seen no sign of anything going haywire. Not a single zombie, vampire, or zombie-vampire cross-pollination in sight. The music is loud, the drinks are reasonably strong, and the company isn’t bad.
Riley Finn is a strange one, but in a so gorgeously not strange way. He’s blond, for crying out loud! He’s awkwardly funny and nice, and she’s seen him in daylight loads of times, so she can scratch that off the list. He was acting weird enough at the beginning of the night, but he must’ve had a beer or something because he’s loosened up considerably, and he’s mostly the reason why the night was going so not-bad.
Buffy felt bad about Willow leaving, granted, and that remained the only true mar on the night. Buffy had gone to this party under the guise of it being for Willow, even if that wasn’t accurate. She needed this night pretty desperately. Memories of Angel seem to keep popping up in the places she least expects them, and a little partying is a necessity in ensuring that Buffy doesn’t get overwhelmed by the Slayerness of it all. And even so, in the past when Buffy had been at her worst, Willow was always the first one to tell her to just get back up on her feet because the band at the Bronze that night was too good to pass up.
Never mind it all; Buffy will spend more time with Willow tomorrow. She’s been at the party long enough that it wouldn’t even matter now anyway, and this really is a good song. Riley shuffles a bit clumsily to Sixpence None the Richer and grabs her hand in a not-so-subtle attempt at steadying himself, and offers her a sheepish smile. “A little bit of constructive advice,” Says Buffy, putting to use her practiced flirting voice, “asking a girl to dance should not be the very first card you play.”
Riley laughs and it’s deep and heavy, as large as he is. “You mean to tell me I’m not killing this right now?” His thumb moves in circles around her wrist, and Buffy knows that he knows exactly what he’s doing.
She purses her lips and feels the gloss she so carefully applied earlier in her dorm room as stayed put, a huge thank you to her trusted Juicy Tube, and his eyes track every moment. It's fun, Buffy thinks, to flirt without abandon with a guy with about as much baggage as a child staying one night at his grandmother’s house. It’s light and fun, and Buffy feels so gloriously girl. She sways her hips in time with the guitar as Riley finds a firmer handle on her shoulder and hip. “Well, for the best results, I can only recommend you practice at least three more songs.”
His thumb circles her hip and Buffy fights the urge to giggle. There are no electric bolts up her spine the way that Angel’s touch would have given her, and yet she doesn’t really mind. She’s not looking for another soul-crushing, heart-bursting out of its seams romance like that. As much as she loved him, the intensity of it all was suffocating, and the grief of the breakup was somehow even more so. It was healing to have a boy touch her and for her to not particularly care.
“Well shoot,” says Riley, moving almost imperceptibly closer, “I was angling in there for five.”
“On the table, for sure. We just have to see how much you improve. ” A giggle, a hair flip, a long blink. “I’m a very thorough teacher.”
Riley makes for a deliberate stumble, and Buffy could see that move coming from a mile away but smiles at it anyway. “And I am clearly a very behind student.”
It’s all very nice. Buffy feels pretty, and her shoes aren’t too uncomfortable. Riley’s hands are warm, and his voice is kind, and he’s basically a whole Abercrombie model. A little piece of girlhood that was taken from Buffy feels restored. She looks into his eyes as the song swells up for the final chorus, and baffles herself with the thought that he reminds her of Owen. That’s a name she hasn’t thought of in a long time and a night that she often forgets to remember. That date with him seemed so important to her, more than most else, and now she couldn’t even tell you his last name or what class they had together. And now here’s Riley, dancing with her, plagued with that certain Owenocity that Xander had rambled about.
Buffy thinks about kissing him. Despite the lack of the overwhelming want to kiss that she’s grown accustomed to, sees no reason in not, so she tips her head up in anticipation. “You know, Riley—”
“Buffy!”
It’s Willow, her voice not panicked, necessarily, but urgent most definitely, and Buffy is off of Riley in a matter of seconds, touch forgotten.
“Will, what’s wrong? Riley said you left.” A very familiar slayer-like concern comes over her and her feet instinctively jump to a steadfast, yet anticipatory stance, the one she defaults to every time a threat may be near. Ready to leap into action as soon as necessary yet unwilling to be knocked down.
“Nothing’s wrong necessarily, there’s just been a bit of a… situation.” Willow’s pointed glance at Riley tells Buffy all that she needs to know, and she nods, turning to the boy now behind her.
“Riley, I really did have a great time tonight, but-”
“I get it, you’re needed elsewhere.” His smile is still as kind and amiable, and he is still every bit the Steve Rogers that he usually is, but his arms are crossed in front of him and he’s stepped back a few paces. “Just don’t tell me that you snuck away to the bathroom when I wasn’t looking and called Willow to pry you out of here.” Riley’s face is all good-natured, but something about it feels a little forced.
“Oh no, not at all! It’s just, that my friends can be a little, you know? They get themselves into a lot of situations, and I’m the situation-outer girl.” It’s stilted, but she’s not trying to be, and she is once again reminded of Owen. You would think after all these years of practice that she would be better at excuses now.
He pats her strangely on the shoulder, but Buffy takes it like it is as a sign of goodwill. “Go ahead. We’ll talk soon,” and Buffy wishes she could say she thought twice before leaving with Willow, but she didn't. She knows better.
She stops when they get a couple yards away from the house, and does a once-over through Willow to make sure she isn’t harmed in any way, scratch-free and put-together, yet another one of the Slayer habits Buffy can’t get out of. “So tell. What’s going on?”
Willow looks around, nervous, but about what Buffy could not tell. If she had to take a gander, it seemed Willow was more tense about talking to Buffy than whatever issue there is. “I think that maybe we should go back to the dorms first. Sit down, relax a bit, not jump to any conclusions.”
This is strange. This is strange and Buffy doesn’t like it. If the situation was truly this non-pressing, then why did Willow even come here and pull her away? It seems like nowadays Buffy can’t have even an ounce of fun. “Willow, come on. Is there even anything at all, or did you just want me home with you?”
Willow flinches at the words, and Buffy regrets them pretty much as soon as they’re out of her mouth. Of course Buffy doesn’t blame Willow, Buffy knows how debilitating a breakup can be, but she’d be lying if she said living with Willow’s constant misery was easy. The downtrodden look on Willow’s face was enough to make Buffy feel terrible about it anyhow. Willow could be a compulsive puppy-kicker and Buffy still wouldn’t have the heart to stay mad at her with that face.
“That’s not… no, Buffy, God. I just… I have news. And I don’t know how well you’d take it. I figure if you’re gonna throw things we should do it away from the onlookers that’d commit you for an episode.” Willow’s getting bitey and impatient, but so is Buffy.
“Willow, it’s that bad?”
“No! I don’t know! Giles said—
“Giles said?” Buffy was so over her lapse into sympathy for Willow at this moment and found it a little hard to contain her attitude. Willow drags away from the best night that Buffy has had in an amount of time that Buffy is too embarrassed to admit right now. If someone needed to be saved, or something needed to be killed, the information needed to be delivered in a swift and efficient manner, maybe a “Buffy, there’s this rampaging demon on Peach Street! Kill it now!” or don’t waste her time. For Willow to assumedly tell Giles and still act cagey about the whole situation and expect her to fly into a rage honestly a little insulting. “Spill. Everything. Now.”
Willow doesn’t say her next statement necessarily to Buffy, but more to the unappealing trash can behind Buffy, eye contact being one step too far for Willow. “It’s Spike.”
Buffy’s heart sinks. She should have expected this. Of course he would come back. He always comes back, no matter how far into yesterday she whoops his ass. Their last meeting was a little too close for comfort as far as Buffy was concerned, and she was hoping that this go-around he’d take a long sabbatical before coming back to Sunnydale to enact diabolical revenge. “He’s back?”
Willow brings her eyes back to Buffy, finally deigning it important enough to do so to toss aside her anxieties. “No, no. Well, yes, but not like that. Buffy, Spike is human.”
What?
“What?”
“Spike is human. He’s not a vampire. He was back in town, probably for you, when he was knocked out by something and woke up a week later and he’s human. I found him tonight, right after I left the party, by the Makeout Bench, and oh, Buffy I know what you’re thinking but you didn’t see him. He was breathing, like chest moving up and down downward dog yoga breathing. He walked into Giles’s house, oh yeah, I took him to Giles, by the way, which I don’t know if that was the best idea but it was the only thing I could think of to do and I didn’t want to just bring him straight to you if he was, in fact, human without fact checking with Giles first because what if you did the punching thing that you do sometimes to vampires and he wasn’t a vampire? But he walked into Giles’s house without being invited and held a cross and drank the water I gave him! And he looked so… not evil. He looked like a guy with intimidating fashion sense and nothing else. If you saw him, Buffy, you would believe it.”
Not even the crickets could move themselves enough to make a sound, too busy eavesdropping and processing the information. The party festivities could be heard faintly, and next to them, a drunken couple passed without much thought. That just made it worse, but then again, nothing could possibly make it any better. Buffy felt like throwing up.
“And this isn’t a bad thing!” said Willow, gaining a second wind, “It’s just a new thing. But at the end of the day, that’s one less bad guy off the streets, you know. Maybe he’ll join our side! Even though you hate him now, maybe he’ll be a really good guy, and like our demon expert. Like those ‘look into the mind of a serial killer’ TV specials or something.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Willow, he’s lying. We need to go to Giles right now and—”
“Giles said to keep you away from the two of them until morning while everything settles and he researches.”
“Giles is going to die!”
“No, he won’t. Spike is human. Buffy, please.”
“There’s no way.” And Buffy meant it. There couldn’t be a way. Buffy has spent the last three of her teenage years falling asleep to the idea of an Angel that breathes. One that could love her and not lose a soul. She would put her head on the pillow and imagine that it was his chest, softly thumping with every precious heartbeat. Even beyond Buffy’s dream for a normal life was Buffy’s dream for him to have a normal life. It was the utmost thing that she had ever wanted, and it was given to Spike.
Willow doesn’t dignify Buffy’s last comment with a true response, because then the two girls would just be going around in circles. Instead, Willow just gazes empathetically at Buffy, as though she herself can feel the pressure building behind Buffy’s eyes and knows exactly how fast her heart is beating.
“Why?” Buffy asks, chastising herself immediately once she hears the break in her voice, a soft moment of weakness that she doesn’t need Willow hearing right now.
“We don’t know,” explains Willow, placing a comforting hand on Buffy’s shoulder, “And neither does Spike, I don’t think. We’re gonna try to work it out. I think he really needs our help.”
Buffy blinks hard, trying to give herself the illusion of composure, “Will, I’m going to have to see him. See if it’s true. If anything happens to Giles—”
“Nothing will happen to Giles,” Willow says as though she actually believes it. “I was already planning on heading back to the dorm and getting a spell we can use just to make sure once and for all that he’s a human-human. You know, if seeing him in the middle of the sun isn’t enough.” Willow smiles warmly and gently, but Buffy doesn’t have the heart to return it. She doesn’t have the heart for very much, at this particular moment.
“Let’s see about that spell,” says Buffy, nodding in the direction of their dorm. Willow looks grateful at Buffy seemingly surrendering to Willow’s truth, but in all honesty Buffy is a little too stunned and fragile to do much else than go home. Spike, according to hearsay, is human. Spike, according to hearsay, now belongs in the category of things labeled “What Buffy Needs to Protect.” Spike, according to hearsay, is weak, pathetic, and lost. Spike, according to hearsay, is living a life that should have belonged to Angel.
On the way back to the dorm, Buffy and Willow get jumped by this freaky vamp with a stake sticking out of his lower sternum. He wasn’t very much of a fighter, but he did have blond hair and blue eyes, and tonight that meant something to Buffy. She punches him far too many times than she needs to and doesn’t even pun when he dusts to his own stake.
