Chapter Thirty-Four
With a tired sigh, Willow closed the door behind the last of Mark’s family. She rested her forehead on the door, and took a minute to collect herself. It had been a hectic eight days, starting the night Johnny was shot, and finally ending now. Well, not totally ending. It wouldn’t totally end until those reporters stopped hiding in the stairwell, trying to get a glimpse of them. As it were, they’d had to hire a guard to escort his grandmother, and the rest, to the airport.
Maybe now, Willow thought, closing her eyes. Maybe now that it was quiet, and the people were all gone, maybe Mark would finally start to grieve. He needed to, keeping it all in was going to drove him crazy. He’d barely said a word when Wanda kissed him goodbye, a sad look in her dark eyes. Trisha and Kelly hadn’t even tried, the two feeling slightly resentful at how he was acting. Willow hadn’t had any tolerance for any of them past the funeral. She loved Mark’s family. She really did. But the only one that she could stand to be around for longer than an hour was dead.
Another sigh erupted form her at the thought, and she let the tears that burned her eyes fall free. She’d been running around like a crazy woman for the last several days, pushing away her own grieving to attend to everything else. Now that it was over, she could finally let go. Memories of Johnny flittered through her mind, like so many leaves blowing in the wind. The last time she’d met them on the road, and he had witnessed a fight between her and Mark. He’d been one of the many that thought they didn’t argue. He’d been wide eyed and stunned to see Willow rip into him because Mark had signed a girl’s breast. Okay, so she’d had a bra on, but it was the point. He’d then been even more stunned when, not two minutes later, the fight had been forgotten, and they were snuggled together on the couch, watching tv.
Or the first time a reporter had suggested that there was something illicit going on between them, because he had taken her out while Mark was stuck in an interview. That particular reporter had seen the wrong side of Johnny’s fist that day. Of course, that had only fueled the reporter on, as well as land Johnny in a civil suit, but Willow had thought that it had been sweet that he was defending her honor. No matter how much she abhorred violence.
Pushing away from the door, she started to straighten up the disarray that came from having a steady stream of people through your home for days. She knew she could wait for the morning to do it, but she needed to keep busy. Mark was in their bedroom, watching tv. Or at least the tv was on. She didn’t think he was actually seeing what was on the screen.
She spent the next few minutes tidying things up, thinking about how lost he was. Wanda had tried to talk to him, telling him that he couldn’t stay in the bubble he had put himself in. Mark hadn’t seemed to hear her. She’d pressed on, trying to get through to him, until Willow had finally had to step in. It wasn’t working, and it was time to give it up for now. She’d seen the flair of resentment in the other woman’s eyes, but Willow couldn’t be bothered with it. He would come out of it in his own time, and not a second before it.
She was so engrossed in her thoughts, that she didn’t hear him behind her until she felt the gentle touch on her shoulder. With a short scream, she whirled to face him, her hand coming up to rest over her heart.
“Mark, you scared me,” she gasped, giving him a half smile. He looked down at her with a confused look on his face, the phone cradled in his hand. “Baby, what’s the matter ? Did you want to call somebody?” she asked him, reaching up to cup his hand in hers. Her green eyes looked into his black ones, a frown drawing her brows together.
“Johnny,” he rasped, looking down at their hands. His voice was rough and rusty, ravaged from disuse and the chain smoking he had been doing.
“What?” she asked, shaking her head slightly. He looked up at her again, tilting his head to the side.
“I tried to call Johnny.” A smile that didn’t reach his eyes settled on his lips. “I saw something on the tv that he would have thought was funny, and I picked up the phone to call him. I didn’t even think.” His words were baffled, his brow creased with a frown. “It didn’t hit me, until his answering machine picked up, what I had done.” Willow reached up and traced a thumb over his cheek, wiping away the salty tracks that slid from his eyes. “Why would I do that? How could I forget? I was there, I saw him. . .bleeding.” He looked down at the floor, and waved the hand that wasn’t holding the phone towards where he was staring, as if Johnny was right there, lifeless on their floor.
“Oh, baby. It’s okay,” Willow whispered, capturing her trembling lip between her teeth. She flinched when he jerked back.
“NO!” he snapped, anger and grief flaring in his eyes. “It’s not. It not going to be okay. It’s not okay that he’s dead.
It’s not okay that that little. . .BITCH is still alive.” Willow wanted so desperately to reach out to him, and soothe him in some way. She didn’t, instinctively knowing that he needed this. “WHY?” He threw his head back, arms flung out to the side and screamed at the ceiling. “WHY!WHY!WHY!” He whirled around and heaved the phone across the room, shattering it against the wall. Willow clasped her hands and raised them to her mouth, her heart breaking again at the desperation in his voice. “WHY THE FUCK DID THIS HAPPEN!?” He stalked around the apartment, picking random things to hurl. She just watched him, not caring about the destruction he was causing. She gasped when he snatched the platinum record off the wall, staring down at it with so much hate, it made her ache. When it went flying through the air, she jumped involuntarily. Mark watched it break and fall, hands fisted and chest heaving. “AAAAHHHH!!!” He screamed, falling to his knees, and slumping forward. “Why wasn’t it me?” This was said so low, that she almost didn’t hear him. Her eyes widened in horror at that. She rushed to his side, her hands gripping his shoulders.
“Don’t say that,” she demanded, trying to force him to look up at her. “Don’t you ever say that. Do you know what it would do to me if it was you? I loved Johnny. We all did. And it sucks,” her voice broke then, thinking that there weren’t strong enough words to describe what it was, ” that he’s gone. But wishing it was you doesn’t do any good now. You have to think about what he would have wanted. Do you think that he would want you doing this? Hell no. Yes, he’d want you to scream, and cry, and get drunk, but he wouldn’t want this.” She waved a hand around the disaster that had been their apartment, then gripped his shirt again. “I love you. Don’t say that you want it to have been you.” She was crying in earnest now, her fingers turning white from the force of her grip in his shirt. He looked up at her then, feeling as if a wall was breaking inside of him. Her anguish screamed through him, making him realize what he had just done.
“Oh, no. Baby, God no. I never want to leave you.” He reared up on his knees, his hands encircling her face, his lips covering hers. “Never.” Their kisses were bruising, their touches rough. He hauled her against his chest, squeezing her tightly against him, burying his face in her hair, and drinking in the sweet smell that clung to her. She held on, rubbing her hands over his shaking shoulders, and through his hair, relief flooding through her that he seemed to finally be letting it out. He pulled her with him when he collapsed on the floor, both heedless to the mess they rested on. They stayed like that, as the sun faded in the sky, drawing a close to another day.
~*~*~
“Hey, Dawn.” Two weeks after the funeral, Spike stumbled into the kitchen and straight to the coffee pot. He poured what was left from the pot Buffy had made before she left for work and put the mug in the microwave. Dawn’s nose wrinkled at the thought of four hour old coffee.
“You know, if you didn’t spend all night playing with that car of yours, then coming home and keeping me up the rest of the night, you might actually get that fresh once in a while,” she told him, chuckling at the blush that crept up his cheeks.
“Dawn. You shouldn’t talk about that stuff,” he admonished, embarrassed.
“Why? You’re the ones doing it. I’m the one that’s scarred for life from listening to it,” she said pointedly. He scowled at her, then turned away to retrieve his cup from the microwave.
“So, why aren’t you in school?” Dawn shrugged a shoulder and twirled the pencil she was holding in her hand.
“Buffy worked it out with Snyder to let me get my assignments and work on them from home, until all the hub bub winds down.” She looked down at the book she was supposed to be reading then back up at him. “Do you think we can stay here?” He nearly choked on his coffee at her quiet question. His bright blue eyes locked with hers.
“What?” She fidgeted under his intense stare and threw the pencil down.
“Can we stay here? I mean, we’ll probably be moving in here after you guys get married anyway, and it just seems silly for you guys to do the sleep over thing. I mean, you are a little OLD for that.”
“Hey!” he snapped, walking over to sit next to her. “What brings this on, pet?” Her gaze dropped to the table.
“Well, it’s just. . .”
“Tell me.” He tucked a finger under her chin, and tilted her head up.
“It’s just that, ever since Mom died, it just doesn’t seem like home anymore.”
“Have you talked to Buffy about this?” She rolled her eyes, but he saw the fear hiding just behind the surface.
“Yeah, right. She’s been trying to play family since it happened. Wanting to keep things as normal as possible. The thing is, nothing is normal. We’re living in Mom’s house, but we’re doing nothing to make it OURS. It’s still Mom’s.” She didn’t know if she was saying it right, but Spike looked like he understood.
“You know I don’t mind, Nibblet. It’s up to Buffy though. I’ll talk to her when I get home tonight,” he said, standing.
“Okay?” She nodded, and picked up her pencil again.
“Thanks.”
“Absolutely.” He ran a hand over her hair as he left the kitchen to get dressed and head to the garage and meet Xander.
~*~*~
“Tyler. Hey, it’s Spike. How’s it going?” Spike leaned back in his chair, and kicked his feet up on the desk. “That’s great. I’m looking to put a crew together. Yeah, I got a car. Who’s driving? Uhm, me. Yeah. They cleared it. No, I’m not bullshitting you. So, you in?” Spike tapped an unlit cigarette against his knee while he listened. “Oh, I see. Well, I hope that works out for you. Yeah. Give me a call if you change your mind. Alright. Bye.” He glared at the phone as he hung it up, finally lighting the cigarette.
“Let me guess. Got an offer from some other owner, with a driver that doesn’t have vision impairment. Sorry and don’t call me, I’ll call you,” Xander said, walking into the office.
“Something like that.” Spike sat forward and looked over at his friend, smoke curling around his head. “You know, there was a time when people were fighting to work with me.” He shook his head, fighting back a flair of bitterness.
“We’ll find em, Spike. Don’t get all down. Don’t think any of us could handle that again. Especially with everything that just happened.” Spike grunted in agreement, smoking thoughtfully.
“Maybe we should try the dirt tracks. We still have three months to Daytona. That should give us enough time to whip em into shape.” It was now the beginning of November, and they had until February. He’d already talked to NASCAR officials to get a number assigned, and had been amazed to find out that his old one was available. Sheldon had apparently let it go when he fired Spike. The blonde had taken it as a sign, and had quickly paid the fee. Once they sent the car off to be painted, it would be black. It was whether or not they would have a sponsor, that was still up in the air.
“Have you talked to Mark?” Spike shook his head, an eerie feeling passing over him when it seemed Xander had read his mind.
“No. And I don’t want to call him. Just cause life has moved on for us, doesn’t mean it has for him yet.”
“It has.” They both turned to see Mark, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. The only sign that he wasn’t one hundred percent was the haunted look in his eyes.
“Hey man.” Xander stood and walked over to him, shaking his hand and pulling him into a brief hard hug. Spike did the same, then settled back in his chair, while the other two men sat.
“How’re you doing?” the Brit asked him, stabbing out his cigarette.
“Getting along,” was the answer. Not much could be said in return, so they sat in a comfortable silence. “Having trouble getting a crew together?” Mark asked, leaning back into his chair, and resting his ankle on his knee. Spike heaved a heavy sigh and glanced at Xander.
“We’ll get one together. S’not a problem.” He waved a hand, dismissing it, but Mark saw the worry in his eyes.
“Let me make a few calls. Knew some guys back when you started. I know a couple aren’t attached to any teams right now. Let me see what’s going on with them.”
“Really? Awesome,” Xander said, smiling.
“Now, about the sponsorship.” Spike’s smile faltered, but he managed to keep it in place.
“Hey, don’t worry about it. I understand.” Mark smiled sadly at him, shaking his head.
“That’s not what I mean.” He glanced between his friends, pulling out a cigarette. “I still want to do it. But, I want a modification on some of the specs.” Spike’s brows drew together.
“Anything. It’s up to you, after all.”
“Good. I can’t hang around right now, though. I’ll call you tonight. We’ll talk then. Have a meeting with the brass at the record company.” He looked less than thrilled at this. “They wanna know what me and Ralph are gonna do,” he said, his voice a near whisper.
“How can they try to make you decide that so soon?” Xander was shocked.
“It’s all about the mighty dollar, folks,” Mark said bitterly. He leaned forward and put out his cigarette. “I’ll call you,” he repeated, standing and shaking Spike’s hand again. He then saluted Xander and walked out, his mind in a whirlwind. He didn’t know how they could expect him to go on in this group without his cousin, his musical soulmate.
Xander and Spike watched him go, their problems suddenly seeming not so big.