Title: After
Author: Holly
Era/season/setting: Post-Chosen
Rating: NC-17
Summary: The battle’s done, and they kinda won. So where do they go from here?
Author’s Note: I’ve had two fic ideas that are owed to the Elysian Fields Facebook Group and our Meta Monday posts. This one is loosely based on a Spuffy essay written by the_royal_anna all the way back in 2004. In that, what would have happened had Spike not died in Chosen and had Sunnydale not turned into a crater. This fic is complete; just sharing the first part today. It was supposed to be a one-shot, but wouldn’t adhere to EF’s 15k word limit, so now we’re at three. The rest will be shared on EF and AO3.
Many, many thanks to bewildered (who helped smooth out the ending), Niamh (who helped me figure out where to split this up), and Kimmie Winchester (who was the first to reassure me it doesn’t suck) for betaing; to OffYourBird for posting the meta that got stuck in my head (so stuck; seriously, she posted it on October 19, 2020, so this has been percolating for a while); and to teragramm for the banner I snagged during the Spring 2021 round of seasonal_spuffy and then became an absolute pain about. This fic was originally this title, then a few weeks ago, I decided I’d retitle it to a Season 7 reference, then decided last week that the original title was better after all. teragramm made me variations of each, and I so appreciate it.
No one had expected to survive, least of all Spike. Now that they had, now that they all stood on the other side of this, not a one of them had the first sodding clue what to do. He was no help there, either. Clues were for other blokes, those good with plans and thinking beyond the next five minutes. They weren’t for would-be heroes still standing at the end of what should have been his last day. Watching as the woman he loved, the one who had stumbled toward him reeking of blood—the one he’d been terrified he would have to watch die all over again—moved about her home, barking orders, taking questions, and otherwise acting as though what had nearly happened down at the Hellmouth hadn’t happened at all.
Maybe she didn’t want to think about it. He knew he didn’t.
One thing became clear the longer he milled about, though. Spike didn’t have a role in this particular play. The headline news was the spell had worked. All the little Potentials were real girls now, brimming with strength beyond strength and making that preternatural awareness within him, the one that all but purred slayer, vibrate so hard that he wasn’t sure he could stand still. So, as people gabbed and celebrated, as hugs were shared as well as tears for those who hadn’t made it out, Spike ducked and weaved his way through the crowd, hoping to go unnoticed. It wasn’t until he was in the hallway that he realized he was still wearing the bauble. The toy prize Angel had swooped in to deliver, but not without stealing a kiss in the process.
Not that Spike was bitter. Except yeah, he was bitter. Perhaps more so now than he had been when the Slayer had traipsed down to see him, reeking of her ex and still with that just-been-snogged glow. The part of him that had well and truly expected to dust below ground had been at peace with his place in the world. Understood the lip service that went into turning down a bloke easy and the like. If nothing else, he’d thought he’d go out with a happy memory to carry him to the ever-after. The promise, unfulfilled or not, of what might have come after the battle, should he have survived.
But that time was now, and he knew what came next.
He got the boot, that’s what. Never mind that it was what he deserved, that he was a git for thinking it could be different, that they could be different. It was one thing to let a man hold you through the night when you thought there was a bloody good chance neither of you would be there in the morning—it was another altogether to look at him when the world hadn’t ended and see anything beyond a few hours stolen here or there. Not that Buffy had promised him anything—she hadn’t, and she didn’t owe him a fucking thing. But it had been easier knowing that, accepting it, when he’d been convinced that the after she’d mentioned before she’d fallen lips-first on Angel wasn’t possible.
Hopefully, she’d wait until tomorrow before making it official. Snippets of conversations he’d overheard above told him that most of the girls planned to stay here for a few days yet, figure out what their lives would look like now that their switches had been flipped, the evil defeated, and the future at their feet. Buffy would need a minute to truly grasp what she’d done, that she was no longer the one and only girl. That the fate of the world was no longer her burden to bear alone. And when the dust had settled, she would move on. Maybe out of Sunnyhell altogether, and no one could blame her for that. This town had kept her shackled long enough. Might as well go out and see the big, beautiful world she’d managed to, once more, save from complete destruction.
As for where Spike fit into that picture, well, he didn’t. And that was all right. Fine. He would just like an evening’s kip before he had to face what living in a world post-Buffy would look like for him. Maybe try a hand at that grand ole moving on thing he’d always been so piss-poor at accomplishing. But that had been before the soul, too. Could be all he needed was to give it a try, the way he tried all other things.
But tomorrow. Give him tonight, yeah? That wasn’t too much to ask.
He hoped not, because all he wanted at the moment—aside from a mugful of blood—was to sink back into the basement, which would still smell like them together, and fall asleep with Buffy in his nose and throat as much as she would be in his heart and mind. The heart and mind bit wouldn’t change—the rest would. He would hold onto what he had until it disappeared like so much smoke.
In the end, he opted to not battle his way to the kitchen in search of blood. Going hungry for a stretch wouldn’t kill him.
After today, he wasn’t sure anything would or could. Except her.
* * * * *
He must have been dozing, for the next thing he became aware of was a warm hand on his shoulder. Spike blinked open eyes he didn’t remember closing, finding hers immediately despite the dark. Maybe because of it. He was so used to looking at her in the dark.
“Hey,” Buffy said, pulling her hand back. The sounds of celebration upstairs, while not gone, had faded considerably, and he realized with a start that some hours had passed since he’d retreated to the basement. Enough that the sun was no longer in the sky, his body primed in its predator’s way, ready to go stalk the night for something sweet to eat.
It would never feel natural, he decided. Having a vampire’s impulses but a man’s sensibilities. Instinct screaming at him to do one thing while everything else screamed at him to hold back, be still, be good. Be the sort of man he’d dreamt of being once upon a time. It was different with the soul—much more so than it had been with the chip. The chip hadn’t quelled the want at all. The soul didn’t either, really, in the most primal sense, but it charged him with something he hadn’t had before. Switched the can’t to won’t, which might not have been revolutionary on its own, but was when he thought of it.
“I thought you might be hungry,” Buffy said, and held up a mug. The one he’d drained that morning before they’d headed out to the apocalypse, believing wholeheartedly he wouldn’t be around to fill it again. “Are you?”
Spike blinked slowly, then nodded and sat up. “Thank you,” he said, trying not to sigh when she pushed the mug into his hands, when her fingertips brushed his.
“You made yourself scarce pretty fast.”
He nodded again. Then, realizing she wanted to know why, said the first thing that popped into his head. “Figured it was for the best, yeah? Girls came home as slayers. Didn’t want to give them an easy target.”
Buffy drew back, her brow furrowing. “So your solution was to come downstairs and pass out in a houseful of slayers?”
“Believe I told you just a night or so ago I’ve never been much of a thinker.”
She snapped her mouth shut at that, and though he couldn’t quite make out her cheeks going red, dark as it was, the rush of her blood painted the picture well enough for him. Spike brought the mug to his mouth to hide his grin. That was his girl, through and through. He could whisper all the things he wanted to do to her while buried balls deep in that heaven of a cunt, but remind her of the moment when he’d spilled his bloody soul out for her, and she turned all shy on him.
Though maybe that was his own fault.
Either way, she recovered nicely. She always did. “Are you okay?” she asked, focusing on his right hand. The one that, just hours earlier, had been wrapped around hers and on fire. “No…scar-age?”
Spike followed her gaze. “Right as rain, looks like,” he said, shifting his attention to her hand. “And you?”
But he knew the answer. Would have even if she hadn’t flexed her fingers before hiding her hand behind her back as though it were a more intimate part of her body. Something that wouldn’t be proper to let him see lest they were more to each other than what they were.
“All good,” she said, and plastered on a bright, however forced smile. “You’d never know we went all flamey.” She shifted her weight between her feet, the smile fading. “I don’t suppose you know what happened down there, do you?”
He opened his mouth, ready to spout off something he knew he’d regret—something like, “Why don’t you ring up your honey bear and ask him, since he brought us the dangly?” but he managed to bite it back. Only just. Being a bit befuddled at his continued existence was no bloody reason to smart off at the woman he loved, especially after what they had experienced. Whatever that had been, and he reckoned that was the real reason she was down here. Nervous about the moment they’d shared and what it meant, both for its very real consequences for the world and the more nebulous consequences for them.
Would that he had an answer. Bloody hell, would that he knew what she hoped that answer was.
“Can’t say I do,” Spike said at last, and glanced down to the shiny pendant that had somehow taken out a horde of Turok-Han by means of a fancy light show. For a second there, he’d been certain he’d go up with it. It had certainly felt possible—that tug on the soul he’d mentioned, as though it were a physical thing that could be siphoned out of his body on a whim, which was a bloody terrifying thought all on its own. He’d thought that having won his soul made it a tad more reliable than Angel’s, but would be par for the bloody course to find out he’d gotten that much wrong, too.
“You’re still wearing it.” Buffy’s voice broke through the noise in his head, bringing him back to the present. She was staring at the pendant. “I thought you’d take it off the second we got out of there.”
Yeah, well, he would have too before he’d felt that jarring wrench in his chest right before it had gone up like the fourth of fucking July. After that, he’d become a lot less eager to remove the damn thing. Not that he fancied going through life with it dangling from his neck, but a bloke had to be cautious, right? He had precious bloody cargo to protect. “Dunno how it works, do we? The Great Forehead just said it needed to be worn by a champion. Don’t suppose he mentioned when it’d be safe to ditch the damn thing?”
“You think something might happen if you do?”
Spike worked his throat, lowering his eyes again. Not sure if he wanted to voice the fear, ridiculous as it was, but also knowing that Buffy wasn’t the sort of person to just drop something when told. She was like him in that. Like him in so many ways. “Bein’ an idiot, I reckon,” he said, trailing a finger along the pendant’s edge. “Just felt the way it had me down there. Right before…you know?”
Buffy reached out and toyed with the chain. He inhaled, waited to see what she would do, not surprised when she lifted it. “It’s the soul, right?” she asked, and that didn’t surprise him either. “You said you felt it.”
“Yeah.”
“You think this is tied to it?”
“Think I’d rather not find out.”
She hesitated, met his gaze again and held it as she removed the thing the rest of the way. “Not afraid of that,” she said, and balls, what was a man supposed to do with that? Could be angry, he supposed, seeing as it was his soul they were discussing, and it hadn’t exactly been a picnic to win. But anger wouldn’t get him very far, especially when he wagered what she was saying was she wasn’t afraid the soul had been knocked loose, and truthfully, it was only a wild hair on his part. Paranoia, most likely, given what had happened down there. Given how uncertain he was about everything. Why not throw the soul in for good bloody measure?
Buffy lifted the pendant to eye level, then set it in her palm, pooling the chain. “We need to find out what happened,” she said, though in a tone low enough she could have easily been talking to herself. “I mean, I like my apocalypses thwarted and all, but the not knowing how part doesn’t really rest well with me.”
Spike wanted to know what had happened, too, though not for the same reason. But that was a matter for a different time. “What are you doin’ down here, Slayer? Aside from playin’ hostess.” He lifted the mug she’d given him, then threw back a healthy swallow. “Shouldn’t you be celebratin’ with the masses?”
He might have missed it had he not known her as well as he did—the way her eyes widened, the flash of something across her face before she chased it away with a neutral expression. Buffy stuffed the dangly in her pocket, looked at the floor that separated them as though hoping to find the answer there. “Do you want me to go?” she finally asked in the same tentative, searching voice she’d used two nights ago, observing that Faith still had her room.
The answer hadn’t changed for him, but things were different now, weren’t they? It was one thing for her to cuddle up next to him at the end of the world—quite another for her to be here with him when there would be a tomorrow, and a day after that, and another after that. Forever and ever, amen. Or at least until the next time Armageddon came knocking. Another year, most likely, if experience were anything to go off.
He should let her off the hook, tell her he’d be fine. Start thinking about moving on now that the First was defeated. She didn’t need him anymore. And he…
Well, he would love her. Just like he’d loved her yesterday and loved her now. All his tomorrows would be spent loving her. She knew that, too. What she aimed to do with it, if anything, was a different matter.
“I’ll go,” Buffy said, taking a step back, taking her warmth with her, and it was only then Spike realized he hadn’t responded.
In a flash, and without thinking, he was on his feet, hurrying to get ahead of her. Déjà bloody vu. “Don’t,” he said before he could stop himself. “Didn’t mean to… Bugger, just don’t know what to do now.”
He thought she might ask what he meant. She didn’t.
“I don’t either,” she replied with a tragic little smile. “I didn’t go down there to lose but I didn’t expect… I don’t know what I expected, to be honest. Not to be back here, at least. It’s all just a little…”
“Overwhelming?”
“That’s the word, yeah.” Buffy met his eyes again, looking so much like she had the other night after she’d come down here after her clandestine graveyard snog. Hopeful and hesitant all at the same time, like what had just happened hadn’t meant rot, and maybe it hadn’t. Maybe he was the one with all the baggage that needed dropping. Wouldn’t be all that surprising, considering how much of it he carried.
“Spike,” she said a moment later, “can I… I was just hoping we could…like last night?”
He swallowed. And there was the rest of it. The thing he’d been bloody well determined to not consider or romanticize or regard as anything but the brilliant send-off he was sure she’d intended. It had just been them, surrounded by dark and expectation, and he hadn’t thought she’d go for it. Hadn’t been daft enough to hope that maybe he would be able to touch her like that again. Feel her warmth beneath his hands, her breath against his skin, her hair teasing his cheeks, her heat pulsing around him.
But she had. She had, and he hadn’t been brave enough to ask what it was. Had thought it better to spend his last few hours assuming he knew what it meant than daring to hope he knew the answer. And if he were being honest, that was part of the reason he was down here too. Not sure what to do with himself now that he’d made it to fight another day—now that the things he’d thought he’d die knowing were questions he was forced to live with.
For the first time since stepping back inside Revello Drive, Spike allowed himself to hope. “Which part of last night?” he asked.
The way he was standing now, he could see it when her cheeks went a bit pink, and he fell a little more in love with her. He always thought he was as in love with Buffy as a man could be, and she was always proving that he could always fall deeper.
“I… The after part,” she said a moment later. “The part where you held me as I fell asleep.”
The hope took a hit but didn’t quite die. Seemed to be a bad habit around here. “Right.”
“It’s not that I don’t… I do. I want to. Believe me, I am really finding it hard not to throw myself at you right now.” The color in her cheeks deepened. “But it needs to… My head is all over the place. I really didn’t think we’d be here tonight, and I don’t want things with us to be…”
For someone who had spent the past few weeks turning every minor conversation into a long speech, the Slayer seemed suddenly rather short on words. It was that, more than anything, that snapped Spike out of the rather selfish haze he realized he’d been wandering in since they’d gotten back. How much what had happened out there on the Hellmouth—and what hadn’t happened—would have knocked Buffy off her feet. She’d spent the last few months gearing up to fight a war everyone had thought unwinnable. Even with the revelation that had saved the day, even with the confidence she’d given him the other night after the First’s last nocturnal visit, to be standing on the other side of an apocalypse was a heady thing. Especially one like this, where she was both the cause and the savior. Where she’d assumed responsibility for more than just the world, but a whole army of girls just like her, some of which had walked out to battle this morning but weren’t upstairs enjoying the spoils of victory. When among the dead were faces attached to names attached to histories; when part of her was almost certainly in mourning all those she’d lost.
Like Anya. Anya hadn’t come back. Anya had died saving bloody Andrew, of all people. No one had seen that coming.
It would be very easy for Buffy to fall into him, make him a comfort shag. A celebration shag. Use him as she had the year before, and it would be just as easy, the way he felt now, to let himself be used. Mistake physical intimacy for sentiment he knew better than to ever think he’d have atoned enough to deserve.
The fact that she was telling him this meant she gave a damn.
At length, Spike nodded, working his throat and stepping closer. Close as he would let himself get—every other move was hers to make. Or not make. He’d love her just the same.
“I’d like that,” he said thickly, not sure he’d ever meant anything as much as he meant this.
The relief that rolled off her was a physical thing. He saw it in her smile, in the sudden brightness of her eyes. In everything she showed him through word and action and more.
It didn’t matter what tomorrow brought. Right now, this moment, Buffy was with him. Giving him the only parts of her she had to give.
And knowing that meant the bloody world.
* * * * *
Buffy had saved the world plenty of times, but she’d never changed it before. Not really. Spike wagered that was the difference in what came after. There was no lull, no time to relax, no sleeping in the following day or any of the other comforts he would have thought owed to her after a fight like the one they’d been through.
Instead, the morning after the latest apocalypse, Spike had been roused from sleep to the less-than-dulcet tones of an argument. He’d blinked his eyes open and there they’d been—the Slayer and her watcher, standing opposite each other in the middle of the basement. Buffy’s arms had been crossed, her back ramrod straight, her jaw pulled tight. Enough, in other words, to convey that she was seriously brassed and likely doing what she could to keep from saying something she’d regret.
Turned out Rupert had decided that twelve hours was enough time for rest and relaxation. He’d come downstairs to discuss the plan moving forward, now that the battle was behind them and the world once again safe. What to do about all the little mini slayers that had been normal girls the previous day and were now brimming with strength they likely didn’t understand. Buffy had retorted that she hadn’t thought that far ahead—that now they had time to think, figure out what the right move was. Take the time they’d bought themselves with their victory to determine how best to move forward.
But Rupert had an answer at the ready. And that was the crux of it. He hadn’t come down to get her thoughts, he’d come down to tell her what to do. The what—move to England. Dig through whatever the Council of Wankers had left behind, the resources that hadn’t gone up in flames with the rest of them.
Essentially, uproot her whole bloody life not twelve hours after winning a war that had nearly swallowed the town whole.
“What about Sunnydale?” Buffy had asked, looking a combination of exhausted and determined that a smart man would have heeded. “It’s not like this will just stop being the Hellmouth, Giles. We ended this apocalypse. There’s always another one. And the one after that, and the one after that.”
“And there will be reinforcements,” he’d replied, the words tired, like he’d said them past the point of their meaning anything. That was certainly possible—Spike couldn’t be sure how much of the conversation he’d missed on account of being asleep. “You can’t tell me you wish to stay here forever.”
“I never said I did. I just said I’m not going to turn my life upside down and move to the other side of the world to help you restart an organization that tried to have me killed more than once.” Buffy had dropped her arms. “I’m not the one with nowhere to go, Giles. Have you talked to Faith about it?”
“Faith?” He’d sputtered the name like he’d never heard it before. “Buffy, you know as well as I do that Faith isn’t up to this task.”
“Well, you seemed to think she was a few days ago when you ganged up with the others to have me thrown out of my house.”
That had stolen the wind from the watcher’s sails. For a second, at least. But he hadn’t been keen to let go of the argument, and neither had Buffy, so they’d gone on for another few minutes before Buffy had barked that she wouldn’t be making any more big decisions anytime soon. Part of switching on the slayers meant seizing control of her life, meant she got to call some of the shots. And at the moment, she was too exhausted to think about leaving behind everything she knew and take on something like this.
“You have activated an untold number of girls,” Rupert had said in a careful, measured tone. “We have no idea how many there are or what it means.”
“I know,” Buffy had replied, and her voice had cracked, one of those rare showings of vulnerability. “And I don’t take that lightly. But I also deserve a break. I’ve been going full speed for eight years. I haven’t had a moment to myself since… I don’t even remember. Hell, I can’t even get any rest by dying, and not for lack of trying.”
“Buffy—”
“I’m not saying never. I’m saying not right now. I don’t know how much more of myself I have to give, especially when I know that when I try, I’m going to be told it’s not enough.”
Spike had half-expected Rupert to continue as though he hadn’t heard a bloody word, and privately resolved that if that happened, he’d remind the prat that he still owed him one after what had happened with Wood. But he hadn’t had to. The part of the watcher that was more father than mentor had thankfully kicked in, and he’d agreed.
And just like that, everything started to change.
The little Potentials—who were no longer Potentials—were the first to leave, though at a trickle. Some had homes to go back to, others did not. Some fancied sticking with Buffy, only to realize that she truly had no desire to lead them any longer. It wasn’t apathy on her part—more exhaustion, and the inability to continue to play general. Those that wanted to stick with the makeshift family they’d been living with these last few months hung around long enough to learn just what Giles intended to do back in England.
To Spike’s surprise, Faith decided she did want to be a part of the new slayer order and signed on to tag along with the watcher. See if she could sharpen the leadership skills she’d only just discovered and channel them into some good. Wood opted to follow, having no reason to stick around Sunnydale now, even though the high school was still standing. The entire principal gig had been more or less window dressing as it was—an excuse to be near the action, the Slayer, and now that the Slayer he was shagging was off on a new adventure, there he would follow. Spike couldn’t say he would be sorry to see the back of him, even if Wood’s hatred of him was more than justified. He didn’t trust that the man wouldn’t try to come at him again now that the danger was gone, and despite everything, he truly hadn’t wanted to find himself in a position where he had to kill in order to survive. Especially not a bloke from whom he’d already taken everything.
But of everyone that took their leave of Sunnydale, it was Willow’s departure that caught Spike the most off-guard. Part of him had always assumed the Scooby Gang would remain constant, that the whole sodding world could come tumbling down and there they would stand, a force the baddies learned to regret underestimating. Like Faith, Willow wanted to be a part of the rebuild. She’d been juiced up on good mojo and cured of the nerves that had tagged her all bloody year, and had a hankering for more of that. Helping the other slayers as they were found or came out of the woodwork, creating something new and good as part of her reparations for all the bad. That Kennedy was keen to embrace the slayer lifestyle likely lent a hand as well.
The day Willow left seemed as good a time as any. By that point, the house had completely emptied of all but the Summers sisters. It was oddly disconcerting, the quiet halls, the lack of footsteps up and down the stairs, and all the other little hallmarks that came with the absence of other people. That the exodus hadn’t happened all at once didn’t make the transition any easier. He’d sat back and watched, one by one, as the girls filtered out and set out on their own adventures, but there had always been more of them ready to spread out a little wider, make a little more noise to make up for those who had gone. But then the last girl had packed her bag and that had been that. No more pitter-patter above his head as he tried to catch some kip in the basement, no more giggles or whispers or furtive looks when he and Buffy were in the same room. One day he woke up and the house was back to just one slayer.
Not even Harris stuck around, opting for a new flat, despite Buffy’s overtures that he was welcome to stay as long as he fancied. Losing Anya had hit him hard, and he hadn’t been much for company. Harder to drink alone if there were others around and all. Buffy made him promise not to hit the bottle too hard and didn’t call him on the comforting lie he fed her in turn. Spike wagered the next stretch for her, as she settled into her new reality, would be daily checkups on her remaining Sunnydale friend to ensure he hadn’t drunk himself to death. Perhaps there would be some tough love in the future. That sort of thing the Slayer was especially good at.
But after watching Willow and Kennedy walk out the front door with a mind to never return as residents, Spike stopped ignoring the little voice that urged him to do the proper thing and follow suit. He’d gotten good at tuning it out, mostly because he wanted it to shut the hell up—wanted to give Buffy the time she needed to decide if she wanted him around, not ready to face the fact that her silence on the matter was his answer. There had been no shortage of opportunities. Full days together spent sorting through the minutiae of having survived the apocalypse. Again. There had been loads to talk about, and they had. Touched on every bloody topic under the sun, as far as he was concerned, except the one that mattered.
Not anymore.
“Slayer,” he said as he entered the kitchen, only to pause when he found her with her hands braced against the sink and her head tipped back as though working kinks out of her neck. Every line of her artwork of a body pulled tight, either with fatigue or worry over something she hadn’t yet shared with him, or both. For a second, he thought about backing right out. Postponing again, giving her some space. But then she sighed and turned to face him, her eyes betraying both sadness and exhaustion she’d become a pro at dancing around, and he lost his excuse.
“Hey,” she said, her voice cracking. “Sorry. Just… Weird day.”
Spike nodded as though he understood. Maybe he would one day. “Take it there were no issues, then,” he said. This was what he had been reduced to. Bloody small talk. “Seein’ Red and her lady off, that is.”
A facsimile of a smile flickered across her face. It was painful to look at. “Yeah,” Buffy replied, wrapping her arms around herself the way she did when she was trying to guard against an emotional blow. Not that it did any good, of course, because the blow had already come. No matter how strained and tense things had been between her and Willow, and no matter that they would almost certainly see each other again soon, the redhead’s departure marked a change that couldn’t be measured the way all the other changes had been. It was personal. “Just gonna be weird, is all,” Buffy went on, still with that wince trying to pass itself off as a grin. “And quiet. I don’t think it hit me how quiet the house was until… Well, right now. With everyone gone.”
Again he nodded, his tongue suddenly feeling too big for his mouth. “Think you know better than to take the calm for granted.”
“I do,” Buffy agreed quickly enough. “This is me loving the calm. Give me all the calm. It’s just…” She shifted as though to shrug but didn’t drop her arms so the movement came out more a spasm. “I’ve never lived in Sunnydale without Willow. Even when she was gone last summer, I knew she’d be back, you know?”
He did and didn’t. He’d been gone himself, after all. “Was thinkin’ about that,” he heard himself say. “Been thinkin’ about it for a minute now, actually.”
Buffy blinked. He didn’t blame her. That had been one hell of a clumsy segue. “Thinking about what?”
“Well…everyone’s leavin’. Or left, as it is.” Spike rubbed a hand along the back of his neck, knowing she’d pick it up as a nervous tic but unable to stop himself all the same. “Entire reason for me stayin’ here was to keep the First from messin’ with my head. At the start, at least. And after—”
“You want to leave?”
She asked that like there was a simple answer. Like he had the first sodding clue how to begin to put into words what he wanted. Like his own bloody head hadn’t been bloody spinning since the start of this. Telling him she believed in him, letting him hold her at night, assuring him that she’d been there with him the whole time, then throwing herself at sodding Angel. And yeah, it hadn’t been much, but it had been enough. She’d still come home to Spike, still chosen him to be her champion, still cuddled up to him that night. Then that next night, the one right before everything might have gone up for good, she’d come to him again, touched his face, kissed his lips, and asked him if they could just have one night for them. Being the weak sap he was, starved for her as he was, he’d said yes. Might have begged her with that yes. And he’d spent the next few hours touching her as he’d never thought he would again, being touched the way he never had been, and losing himself inside of her again and again until he could have wept. Hell, he might have wept. There had been a lot whispered then, and it had meant nothing and everything all at once, because they were going to die the next day and that was all right. Everything was all right, so long as he had this crystalline memory to see him off to the hereafter.
Then he hadn’t died and neither had she. But everything had changed.
And now she wanted to know if he wanted to leave her, too, and he felt bloody blindsided. It wasn’t the words alone that did it. It was everything. Her round eyes, the startled look on her face, the hurt in her voice. All of it combined to deal a walloping blow to the gut that Spike felt as though it had been an actual strike. He hadn’t had everything he wanted to say planned out or anything—hell, hadn’t even been sure what there was to say, except that with the threat gone there was no excuse for him to darken her doorway anymore. That he wouldn’t haunt her life if she wanted to move on with it, wouldn’t stand in her way or make things awkward. The things they had discussed before—and hadn’t discussed since the Hellmouth had closed—hadn’t been promises. They’d been placeholders. He wanted her to know that he understood that, give her the out she seemed to crave before things between them became too strained.
But at the same time, he couldn’t lie to her. So he didn’t.
“Not particularly, no,” Spike replied, keeping his gaze steady on hers. “Right cozy little set-up downstairs, though I miss havin’ an actual bed.”
God, he loved making her blush. Even if that wasn’t what he’d meant.
“Wasn’t askin’ for an invite, love,” he continued, pleased when his voice didn’t shake. When none of him did. This was the closest thing to a real conversation they’d had in days. “Just sayin’ as far as long term goes, I’d want somethin’ better than a bloody cot. And I thought you might fancy gettin’ your house back. Just you and the Nibblet.”
Buffy was nodding, but the gesture didn’t match whatever was happening behind her eyes, which were wide. Almost panicked, like she might start sobbing at any second. “I-if that’s what you want,” she said, blinking and looking down.
“Buffy. Did you not hear me?” He shuffled his feet as though to close the distance between them, brought up his hands to take her shoulders, then thought the better of both. Spike had never before appreciated just how precarious their relationship was until that moment. Until he didn’t know whether he was within his rights to step forward and wrap his arms around her, bring her into him so she could feel him and he could feel her, and hope that perhaps they’d understand each other better that way. She’d slept in his arms more than once now, though after Faith and Wood had taken off, she’d gone back up to her room without much fanfare. Combined with all the time they’d spent not talking, he was lost at bloody sea. “Said I don’t particularly want to leave. But it’s not about what I want, is it? It’s your house. Thought I might be foolin’ myself in thinkin’ you still want me around.”
“You’re not,” she blurted, her skin flushing darker still. “You’re not, it’s… It’s a lot still. I have a lot. I know that doesn’t make any sense but it’s just… I’m not in a place to have this conversation right now.”
“Wasn’t tryin’ to push you—”
“I just need more time. Everything is changing and I really, really don’t want to make another mistake where you’re concerned.” Buffy was looking everywhere but at him. “But I’m still not ready for you to not be here. So…stay?”
He appreciated that she phrased it like that—made it a question. Gave him the illusion that there might be another answer, even if he knew bloody well that there wasn’t. “’Course I’ll stay. If that’s what you want.”
“As long as it’s what you want too. As long as I’m not making you.”
“Told you already, didn’t I?”
Buffy nodded, though she still seemed a breath away from tumbling apart. “I just don’t want to… I know I’ve been crazy mixed-signal girl recently and—”
“Slayer, you don’t—”
“No. I have. Believe me, as crazy and mixed-signally as I am out here”—she gestured at the space around her—“it’s been even worse in my head. I keep wondering if I made the right call, not going with Giles to England. All I wanted was to not be tied to Sunnydale the rest of my life, but the first chance I get to leave, I decide… I just can’t.” She blinked hard, shaking her head. “I panicked. This place might be the literal mouth of Hell, but—”
“But it’s home,” Spike said softly. He was both surprised and not surprised to find himself using the same tone he’d once used with Dru—the sort to cut through the loudness only she could hear, remind her that even if down was a long way to fall, he’d be there to catch her. Buffy’s particular brand of crazy was something entirely hers, though. He didn’t need to catch her. She was always there to catch herself.
But by the same token, she needed to remember that sometimes it was all right to be caught. To let someone else do the rescuing now and then.
To be a different kind of brave. The sort that others might mistake for selfish.
“Yeah, it’s home,” she said with a miserable little smile. It faded almost as soon as it touched her lips. “Do you think I made the right call?”
He might never get used to this version of her—the one who was uncertain, who looked at him like he was a man, who asked him questions and genuinely valued the answers, even if it had been happening for months now. Months of her belief in him lighting him up from the inside.
“I think you’ve earned the right to do whatever you bloody like.”
She rolled her eyes, and that felt right too. More like her. “Way to not answer the question.”
“Buffy, you want to go to sodding England, pack a bag and buy a ticket. If you want to stay here, stay here. Thought the whole bloody point of switchin’ on the slayers was to take it off you, wasn’t it?”
“It was actually to save the world, but thank you for finding a way to make it sound as selfish as possible.”
Now he rolled his eyes. God, if she wasn’t the most infuriating woman on the planet. “That’s not what I meant.”
“But it comes down to the same thing, doesn’t it? I made the call. I pulled the trigger. I changed the lives of…thousands of girls. And when I was asked to go and help Giles sort through this next chapter, I said no.” Buffy tore away, fixing her gaze on the floor. Her cheeks were still red, only now with a different kind of heat. And it occurred to him just what a selfish prat he’d been the last couple of weeks. Waiting for Buffy to realize that he was still there, to notice all the things between them that were unfinished. Her whole bloody world had been upended and he’d expected her to shake it off, roll with the punches, not carry her victories the same way she did her failures, because no good deed went unpunished. No world saved came without its consequences. Buffy would live or die with whatever decision she made—that was just who she was. And it was one of the endless reasons why he loved her.
Spike breathed out slowly, intentionally. “Did she say somethin’? Willow?”
The lack of an immediate answer was an answer in itself.
“Well, she can sodding stuff it. What does she know?”
Buffy snorted. “She’s one of the most powerful witches in the world. I think she knows stuff.”
“About magic, yeah. What the fuck does she know about bein’ the Slayer?” He waited until he had her eyes. “Was always a choice for her, wasn’t it? Never was that for you. Never got the chance to say no.”
“I dunno. I did quit a lot.”
He fought a grin. “Explains why the world’s ended so many times, that does. You’ve been slackin’.”
The words had their intended effect. Buffy ducked her head, but not before he caught her smile. Some of the tension rolled off her shoulders as well—not so much that he was daft enough to believe it wouldn’t come back, but enough for the moment. Enough that he knew he’d reached her, which meant he could reach her again.
“I’m just not used to saying no,” she said a moment later. “Willow was going on about how I made this big decision for all these girls—how I just changed their lives in a blink—and all I could think was someone did the same thing to me. How it’s just been me for eight years now. I’ve died twice for this world, and I almost died again not even a month ago, and now it’s not just me anymore and shouldn’t that mean I get a break? Maybe not forever—I mean, definitely not forever—but just a little one. Can’t I figure out what I want first? Can’t they do anything without me?”
“Preachin’ to the choir here, love.”
Buffy sighed, rolled her head back. “So why do I feel like this?”
“Because you’re you.”
“Thanks,” she said dryly. “That’s very helpful.”
Spike shrugged. “Thought you preferred me honest. That’s it, you know. You’re you. If you’re not out there givin’ all of yourself, all the bloody time, you feel like you’re lettin’ others down. Bitch of it is, they’ve gotten so used to you givin’ all—more than anyone should ever be expected to give—that you sayin’ no makes ’em think you’re calling it quits for good. Anyone who knows you knows that’s a bunch of bollocks.” He hesitated, then decided fuck it, and took a step closer. Deeper into the undeniable gravity well that was Buffy Summers. “Every single person on the sodding planet could be a slayer, and you’d still lead the charge when it comes down to it. Can’t help but be in the thick of things. But the way I see it, part of bein’ a leader is knowin’ when to step back. You trained a whole army here. Prepared the girls who were here how to do the job. So let them bloody do it. Trust that you did right by them, and they can do right by others. You’ll pick up your stakes when the world needs you. It doesn’t right now.”
The look on her face was unlike any he’d ever seen there before—only no, that wasn’t quite true. He had seen it before, but only once. A fleeting glimpse while the world threatened to come tumbling down around them. Buffy looking at him with tears in her eyes—tears and more than tears. She had burned, joy and sorrow in equal measure, that shared certainty that they were living their last together. And pride. She’d looked at him and she’d been proud. He’d made her proud.
“Thank you,” she said now, then glanced down with a hard breath. “Thank you. I…I really needed to hear that.”
She more than needed to hear it—she needed to believe it. But he didn’t say as much. He knew better than most that there was nothing anyone could convince Buffy to do. He could give her a speech or two but whether she listened would be on her.
“You ever need me to tell you how incredible you are, you know where to find me,” he replied. “’Specially since I’m your permanent houseguest.”
Buffy breathed out a laugh and nodded. And it was something, being on the receiving end of that. Chalk it up to another of the many things Spike doubted he’d ever get used to. After so many years watching her give her smiles and her laughter and her love to other people, being one of the lucky few who could bring that shine to her eyes was worth everything he’d been through to get to this point and then some.
“Umm,” she said a moment later, her entire body relaxed, like she was at peace with the conversation from before. He hoped so. “On the subject of you being a permanent houseguest, you know there’s room upstairs for you. I-if you want.”
“That right?”
“Yeah. I mean, Willow moving out means my old room is… Well, my old room.” She seemed to catch herself then, and she grinned a self-conscious little grin. “It wouldn’t be forever,” she went on, her voice now taking on a pitch he associated with her rambling. “I…I mean obviously, if… Have I mentioned I’ve been mixed-signal girl recently?”
Spike studied her for a long beat, willing his thoughts to calm. Knowing they wouldn’t, not really. Not when they involved her. The part of him that was uncharitable wanted to push, see where he could get her to lead him if given proper motivation, but that was also the part tied to his soulless past. The selfishness that was still there, innate as he wagered it was with all humans, but tempered now as it hadn’t been before.
Everything that had happened with Buffy over the last few months had been at a crawl and not without setbacks. Letting him hold her all night, then going off and snogging Angel the next day. Choosing him as her champion, making love to him on Apocalypse Eve, but only because it might be the last chance for both of them. Holding his hand down there in the cavern, her eyes reflecting the flame that had burst from their joint skin—and he’d been so certain she would tell him that she loved him, and he’d been so ready to hear it, even if it was nothing more than a nice send-off for a dying bloke. That she cared that much meant it had to be true, at least on some level.
Only that moment had ended. The vampires had gone up, crumbled to ash, the medallion had stopped glowing, the Hellmouth had stopped pulsing, and the battle had been won. Just like that.
Buffy had squeezed Spike’s hand hard enough to crack bone, gasping and looking around, blinking her shock. The sudden absence of sound, of roars and crumbling stone and the taunts of the First, had been so jarring he’d wondered for a second if he’d lost his hearing. But no, she had been there. Her fingers around his, their palms touching, the flame gone but not the heat.
It had taken a bit, believing what they were seeing. Or, in their case, not seeing. No more Turok-Han. No more anything, save the rubble and the bodies of the fallen. In an instant, everything had quieted.
And they still had bugger-all idea why.
Considering that, considering all the changes in Buffy’s life that had avalanched as a result, the least Spike could do was grant her time.
After all, he had it to spare.
But if he were to go upstairs, slide between the sheets of a bed that was hers, he wanted her in it. Beside him. Over him. Around him. He wanted her scent in his lungs and her warmth against his cold. He wanted all the things he knew he didn’t deserve—and maybe that wasn’t fair but fuck it, it was what he wanted. Move upstairs and it’d be easy for Buffy to think of their arrangement as permanent, and he couldn’t do that. He could stay until she sussed out what she wanted but not longer than that. Not unless what she decided she wanted was him.
He didn’t want to play house with her, and he figured he’d been more than upfront about it.
“Better for my complexion if I stay in the basement,” he said at last, forcing a smile. “Less chance to get fried durin’ the day, at least.”
Buffy nodded, though he could tell she was disappointed. He decided not to wonder after that too much.
“Well,” she said, “door’s—or room’s—always open to you if you change your mind. Though, on second thought, maybe it is safer downstairs. Less chance of being woken up due to the snore-athon that is my sister.”
“Can’t be worse than a whole houseful of prepubescent birds, now can it?”
“You’d really, really think so.”
He chuckled and she smiled—another one of those hard-earned true Buffy Summers smiles—and he realized he had it wrong. He’d play house. He’d stay until she wanted him gone. He’d do anything to be near that. To be the one putting that look on her face.
It was all he’d wanted when he’d won the soul. Now that he had it, he’d relish every bit of it he got.
Even if he would always crave more.
Such was bloody life.
Originally posted at: https://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/736065.html
