Part III: Allies

Spike didn’t have any choice but to walk away and stay away. As he’d sat on Buffy’s windowsill, smoking his fag, he realized that the Slayer was all too close to getting under his skin. There had been something in her eyes as she’d ridden him hard that had forged a connection.

And it was up to him to break it.

He lasted 72 hours. By that time, Spike had convinced himself that he could keep his distance, and that if he played his cards right, she’d never know he was there. He watched her through the window from across the street as she served customers, including one who got a little too familiar.

This time, he noted, she gave him a look that might have killed him under other circumstances. All Spike could think about as he watched her was that she was his—his Slayer—his to touch, his to shag, his to kill.

Her death wasn’t as appealing an idea as it had been, however. Now that he’d felt her, tasted her, he didn’t want to lose that. The thought of turning her occurred to him and was dismissed just as rapidly. If he turned her, she wouldn’t be the same; Spike knew that much.

Spike tracked her movements from the diner back toward her apartment, trying to keep her in sight and yet not risk being seen. At one point she turned, looking hard into the shadows where Spike was hiding. He was forced to backtrack slightly to avoid being seen, and when he resumed his pursuit, Buffy had disappeared.

His eyes narrowed as he considered his options. He could track her; Spike had been hunting prey for too long to be thrown off the trail now. But if he did that, it would mean admitting something that he wasn’t ready for.

There was no way he was going to acknowledge their connection.

Sensing movement without registering its import, Spike was slammed into the wall behind him, and felt the sharp point of a stake over his heart for the second time in a week.

“What do you want?”

Buffy’s voice was all Slayer. “Who says I want anything?”

“You were following me.”

“So?”

“I should stake you right now.”

“Maybe you should.”

She swore creatively enough to cause Spike to raise his eyebrows in admiration. “The hell with this.” She pushed him back against the building hard, causing the back of his head to slam into brick. For a moment, he saw stars. “Get away from me, Spike. And stay away.”

“What are you so afraid of?” he demanded of her retreating back. “You’re hiding away here, pretending that you’re some normal girl.”

She whirled to face him. “What other choice did I have?”

“I don’t know. You tell me. You’re the only Slayer I know of who had friends and family, an’ now you’ve run away from them.”

He heard her swallow hard. “You really want to know? I’ll tell you. When my mom found out that I was the Slayer, and I left to kill Angel, she told me not to come back if I walked out the door. The police think I killed Kendra, and the principal expelled me from school. Angelus killed Giles’ girlfriend before I could work up the nerve to kill him, and my friends probably hate me for everything Angelus did last year.”

Spike hated that he was feeling anything other than impatience. She was the sodding Slayer; it was nothing to him that she was hurting. He should be reveling in it, and rubbing salt in her wounds.

Instead, he said quietly, “Dru blamed me. She hated me for taking her away from her daddy.”

“And I’m supposed to care because?”

Her snide tone had him snarling. “Fine. Forget it. Go back to your pity party, Slayer. Become another worthless human, shove your head up your arse and forget everything you’ve seen.”

One sharp blow sent her stake spinning away, and with his other hand he grasped one braid, pulling her in close.

Spike was going to end this; he was going to do what he should have done a long time ago.

Buffy was apparently not ready to go out, however, because she stomped down hard on his instep. It didn’t do much good, not when he was wearing his heavy boots, but she managed to get an arm between them, catching him under the chin with a hard jab. Spike bit down on his own tongue and tasted blood.

He swore viciously, attacking her mouth with his own, forcing her to taste his blood. Her smell, her taste, everything was in his blood; Spike thought it only fair to return the favor.

They fought—sex and violence inextricably intertwined. It was lust and need and a loneliness so overwhelming that a familiar enemy was better than no one at all.

When Buffy pulled back, panting, Spike could see a smear of blood at the corner of her mouth. “Well? You gonna stake me now?” he challenged.

“Shut up, Spike.”

They groped in the dark alley, and Spike shoved his hand down the front of her pants. It gave him something of a thrill to see her orgasm, knowing that she’d likely never had a guy get her off in public.

Buffy sagged against the wall, and Spike leaned pushed her back, keeping her in place. “I’m goin’ home with you tonight.”

Her expression was unreadable. “Okay.”

~~~~~

She couldn’t bear thinking about how disappointed her friends and family would be in her, taking up with another vampire. Buffy could comfort herself with the idea that she hadn’t fallen in love with him; she knew that if she had to, she could kill Spike without hesitation.

If that’s true, why haven’t you killed him yet?

The small voice was quickly stifled, just as it was any time it suggested that it might be time to go back to Sunnydale, or that she should at least call her mom, or send a postcard, letting her know that she was still alive.

Buffy feared doing any of those things, because it would mean risking rejection yet again. She couldn’t face the idea that her mom, Watcher or friends wouldn’t welcome her back.

And they certainly wouldn’t welcome her back if they knew what she was doing with Spike—maybe that’s why she was doing this.

Buffy sat cross-legged on the bed, watching him as he took a drag and blew smoke out the window. “What is it like?”

“You’ve never tried?”

She shrugged, not wanting to admit that she hadn’t out loud. Spike took the two steps necessary to cross the room and handed her his lit cigarette. Buffy glanced at it skeptically, then looked at him.

His raised eyebrow was a challenge that she couldn’t ignore, and she put her lips where his had been and drew in a deep breath. The coughing fit was expected, as was his subsequent laughter. Buffy gave him a hard shove and took another drag, determined to get it right.

She’d screwed up her life so badly, Buffy didn’t think that adding one more bad habit would hurt, not when seemed to have fallen into the practice of having sex with vampires.

Spike snatched the cigarette from her hand as she started coughing again. “You don’t need that, Summers.”

“Why not? I’m going to die anyway, right? Might as well be sooner as later.”

“Who says?” he demanded, his voice rough. “You could live forever.”

Buffy stared at him. “As a vampire?” The thought both intrigued and disgusted her. “You want to turn me?”

“Hell no.” Spike stubbed out his cigarette on the windowsill and dropped the butt out onto the ground. “What would be the fun in that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Been there, done that. You wouldn’t be the same person anymore.”

“I thought you would want that,” Buffy replied. “I wouldn’t be the Slayer anymore.”

“That what you want?”

“I don’t know.” The admission was wrung out of her, almost against her will. It had been so long since there had been anyone she could talk to that it was something of a relief to finally speak with someone who knew who she was, and who knew her situation.

Spike didn’t reply, staring out the window.

“What is this, Spike?”

“S’pose you could call us allies. We never did call off our truce.” His expression was sardonic, knowing.

“So, you don’t kill me, I don’t kill you?”

“That works for me.”

“What about all those people out there you’re feeding off of?”

“Do you really care about them?” he challenged. “They don’t care about you. They’re the same people stiffin’ you on your tips an’ grabbin’ your arse in that diner.”

Buffy stared down at her hands, at her chipped and ragged nails. “I don’t know.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know, huh?”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“They say that’s the beginning of knowledge, knowing what you don’t know.” After a pause, he asked, “You got anything else to wear, Slayer?”

“Why?”

“’Cause I want to show you something, but it’s gonna require you to dress up a bit.”

Buffy looked at him warily, wondering if she dared go with him, wondering what she was getting herself into. She supposed it didn’t really matter now that she’d slept with Spike. Who was around to care if she went out with Spike?

“I think I can find something.”

~~~~~

Spike had been a bit surprised when Buffy agreed to go out with him. It didn’t seem quite like her, and he had to wonder what the motivating factor was. He showed up wearing what he normally wore, knowing that the focus wouldn’t be on him, but on Buffy.

He was of two minds about warning her what kind of situation they were walking into. Although he’d love to see the expression on her face when they entered the demon bar, he was a little concerned about what her reaction was going to be. Immediately walking in and starting to kill occupants—

Might be kind of fun now that he thought about it. Spike had never hesitated to pick a fight before, and he wasn’t about to start now.

When Buffy answered his knock, she was wearing a pair of tight black pants and a white t-shirt. Spike raised his eyebrow. “Nice.”

“This is as dressy as I can get.”

“You’ll do.” He ran an admiring eye over her figure. “Ready to go?”

Instead of replying, she exited the apartment, locking the door behind her and falling into step next to him. “What’s this all about, Spike?”

“Figured you could use the opportunity to drown your sorrows.”

She raised her eyebrows, but didn’t reply, and she was quiet when she climbed into the passenger seat of the Desoto. Spike had cleaned things up a bit, but he’d half-expected her to protest him driving. Instead, she leaned back in the seat and watched the scenery pass by out the window.

“So, where exactly are we going?”

“A place I know of.” Spike wasn’t quite sure how to break the news that he planned on taking her to a demon bar.

Buffy gave him a skeptical look, as though sensing his subterfuge. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“Dunno. Think you might if you kept an open mind.”

“I came, didn’t I?” she countered. “I think that shows an open mind.”

He didn’t respond, mostly because he wasn’t quite sure why she would be with him in the first place, why she hadn’t staked him when given the chance. Spike didn’t know what that said about how open her mind might be.

~~~~~

Buffy nearly turned around and walked out after entering the bar. It was clear from the outside that it was something of a dive, and inside, she realized that it was a demon bar.

It reminded her of Willy’s. How was it that something like that could suddenly make her so incredibly homesick? How was it that the longing to go back, to pretend as though the last four months hadn’t happened, could be triggered by a demon bar?

“You comin’ or goin’?”

Spike’s impatient question had her taking another step forward; Buffy didn’t want him to think her a coward, and she didn’t want to explain her reluctance. He guided her towards the door with a hand on her back. “Bottle of Jack,” he called to the bartender, a demon with four arms, all kept busy by the demands of patrons.

Buffy looked around, wondering if she was the only human, and wishing she’d thought to bring more than one stake.

“They won’t bother you,” Spike murmured into her ear. “You’re with me.”

“And that makes a difference, because?”

He gave her a wicked grin. “Because I still have my reputation, an’ they don’t know who you are. Let’s keep it that way.”

Buffy followed him; there didn’t seem to be another choice, and other than the frat party she’d attended back in Sunnydale, she’d never really drunk alcohol. Although she didn’t trust Spike, Buffy knew that he wouldn’t drug her.

He didn’t need to.

“So, why are you doing this, Summers?”

“I don’t have anything better to do.”

“That’s the only reason?”

“What about you?” Buffy was keen to turn the tables on him. “Why haven’t you killed me yet?” It was a tacit acknowledgement that he could have, that Buffy would have let him. Hell, she’d already died once.

Spike suddenly looked fierce. “He’s not worth it.”

“What?”

“That soddin’ wanker isn’t worth one of the tears you’ve shed over him.” Spike’s voice was low and intense, his blue eyes bored into her across the small table. “You’re throwin’ your life away.”

“Because I’m with you?”

In a flash, his expression became closed. “Forget it.”

“I could say the same to you,” Buffy said, the words surprising her as much as they had him, judging by the expression on his face. “She cheated on you. She didn’t love you, not like you loved her. Why should you waste your time moping around over her, if you think I’m wasting so much time mourning Angel?”

For a moment, Buffy was certain that he was going to hit her, that Spike would stand up and walk out, leaving her behind. The moment passed, however, and his scarred eyebrow went up. “Touché.”

It hit Buffy then in a way that it hadn’t before—she was going to have to go home. She didn’t know when, but she was going to have to face the music. Maybe some of that showed in her face, because Spike shook his head and poured her a drink. “Not tonight, pet. Don’t think about it tonight.”

“Then you don’t either,” she commanded. “Don’t think about her.”

“Just about you.”

“Okay.”

Buffy didn’t know what it meant, but later—much later—when Spike was helping her into his car, she wished it could work. She wished that she wasn’t the Slayer, that she didn’t have a duty, that she could be free to disappear.

She knew that it was a false hope.