Chapter 15: Loss
The night was quiet, unusually so. Spike had seen it occur before, more than once, and so it wasn’t really a surprise to him. Something was happening in the town, magic or demon, something that had the humans riled up and ready for riot. Times like that, any sensible demon knew to keep a low profile and stay out of the way until things calmed down. Of course, he was anything but sensible, so he was out looking for the Slayer as he did every night.
His nose led him to the playground where Joyce had found the dead children two nights before. He wished he had been fast enough to prevent her from seeing them. She had been very upset by the discovery, as had Buffy and apparently the rest of the town. When he arrived there, candles and fliers adorned the playground, a silent vigil in the night. For once, Sunnydale’s citizens seemed to have realized that something not completely normal was going on in their town. Spike only wondered how long it would take them to get back to their customary denial.
“She’s not here anymore,” an annoyed voice behind him said.
“Who’s not here?” he played dumb without turning to face Angel.
“Don’t pretend to be stupider than you are. You’re looking for Buffy. As usual.”
It was definitely annoyance that tinted Angel’s words, and as Spike glanced in his direction, the feeling was obvious on the brunet’s face. Spike wondered if it was finally starting to sink into Angel’s thick skull that his grand-childe spent more time with Buffy than he did himself.
“Just giving help where it’s needed.” Spike pointed out as he lit a fag. “Needed and appreciated.”
He couldn’t help grinning at the last part. It was one thing to patrol and kill demons because his soul allowed him to rest better when he tried to make up for his past. It was quite another to have the woman he had a crush on overtly say she appreciated his help.
Crush. Was it still only that? It seemed that the time he spent with the Slayer deepened his feelings night after night. Could he say already that he.
“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?”
Spike was almost startled, having come close to forgetting that Angel was still there. He threw his grand-sire a wary look. His voice was still calm behind the annoyance, but that didn’t say much about Angel’s state of mind. Maybe there were safer things to do than reflect on his feelings for Buffy when the older vampire was around.
“I don’t know what you think you see, Peaches, and frankly, I couldn’t care less.”
Stay here and chat with the brooding wonder, keep patrolling alone, or find Buffy and help her. The choice was easy. Taking a deep breath, he picked up the trail he had followed to the playground. Before he could take more than a couple of steps, however, a powerful hand closed around his forearm.
“What I see,” Angel snapped, and the beginning of anger gleamed into his eyes, “is that you are stalking my girl. I know you and your obsessions, and I won’t.”
“‘M not stalking anyone,” Spike interrupted, pulling his arm free. “When the Slayer tells me she doesn’t want my help, I’ll stop offering it. Until then, sod off.”
Angel was now downright pissed off, Spike realized when the brunet stepped right into his personal space, looking down at him with amber eyes as he practically growled. He was more used to seeing the look on Angelus than on Angel, but it only proved once more that it was the same man lurking beyond soul and demon.
“You have no business trailing behind her like a lost puppy. You’re only doing this to upset me, and it’s not going to work. Now back off before I make you regret it. And it’s not a suggestion.”
Spike flicked away the remnants of his cigarette and stood his ground, staring at Angel and making it clear his threat wasn’t affecting the younger vampire.
“One,” he replied coldly, raising a finger, “I’m not trailing behind her. I’m right by her side. Where you’re not. If you have a problem with that, I suggest you talk to her, ’cause she made it clear the help was welcome.”
A muscle twitched in Angel’s jaw, and Spike had the sudden certitude that Angel had already talked to her about accepting help from any souled vamp who wasn’t him.
“Two,” he continued, now grinning smugly, “I don’t give a damn why you think I do it. Just because you decided it was useless to patrol and keep your girl safe doesn’t mean I have to think the same, or that I choose to do it to piss you off. Three, it does piss you off even if you won’t admit it straight out, and it’s a bonus for me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have humans to save. Get back to your brooding.”
As he turned his back on Angel and strode away, Spike was certain Angel’s answer would be a blow, and he readied himself for it – and for striking back. However, he soon had left the playground, and Angel hadn’t followed him. Thoughts of why the older vampire had not reacted more violently to what Angel perceived as a threat to his relationship with Buffy soon turned again toward the Slayer herself, and Spike picked up his interrupted reflection.
Crush? Definitely past that stage. Infatuation? Certainly not, he saw Buffy for what she was, and had a clear idea of her flaws. Moreover, he had an even clearer idea of all the insignificant little things that made her different and special. Love?
Maybe.
Something was telling him that for a vampire to love the Slayer went against everything each of them stood for; it was only his soul talking, nothing else. But something else knew, was certain, that soul or no soul he might have fallen anyway if given the chance of knowing her. She was lovely, quick with words, funny, and a goddess when fighting. She trusted him, relied on him without showing any pity. He had no illusions she would ever have fuzzy warm feelings for him; but he knew just as well that fighting his own would have been futile. If he couldn’t have her, he’d at least spend as much time with her as possible and do his best to keep her safe.
Three hours later, his resolve was seriously tested when he found himself with what he suspected were a couple of broken ribs, tied to a pillar with Buffy in the same position on his left, Willow and Amy on his right, a pile of books under their feet, and angry citizens carrying torches in front of them. The worst, however, was that Joyce was the one who had rendered him unconscious earlier with a blow to the head and was now setting the books at his feet on fire.
Her mother’s hand reached out to touch the rope burns on her wrists, and Buffy instinctively flinched.
“I am so sorry, honey. I’ll fix these for you as soon as we get home.”
Buffy tried very hard not to sigh, but after half an hour of constant apologizing, it was difficult to remain tolerant toward her mom. Giles was apparently thinking the same, because he put down the box full of books he had been on his way to carrying out to the cars, and took his glasses off, cleaning them as he looked at Joyce.
“You need to understand that you are not responsible for what happened,” he said with a twinge of impatience after having said as much at least twice already. “You, and all these people, were under the demon’s influence; there was nothing you could have done to prevent this from happening.”
“Just like when you ate the cursed candy,” Buffy added helpfully.
For some reason that seemed to fluster her mother even more and Joyce blushed as she resumed packing books. Shrugging, Buffy picked up her full box and followed Giles out to the parking lot, coming across Spike who was walking back inside again. They deposited the two boxes in Oz’s van, and Giles told him he could leave and that they would unpack and return the intact books to their proper place in the library the next day. The burnt or soaked ones would go home with Giles. Buffy doubted her Watcher would get much sleep that night and would instead try to salvage his precious volumes.
When they returned inside to pick up the last boxes, they found Joyce once again – what else – apologizing, this time to Spike. The vampire was an image of patient suffering as he stood still and allowed the human to check the swollen area at the back of his head. He threw a desperate glance at Buffy, silently requesting her help in pulling him out of Joyce’s maternal clutches. The Slayer grinned, wondering whether to help him or watch the ex big bad deal with her mom. A quick look at Giles revealed that the peculiar scene also amused her Watcher, although his enjoyment faded when his eyes fell back on the books.
“Spike, Buffy, if you’d help me with these last boxes, I think we can call it a night.”
The blond seemed immensely grateful for the offered escape and immediately picked up a couple of boxes, wincing noticeably as he bent to them but darting out without a word.
“He’s not leaving, is he?” Joyce asked worriedly. “The wound to his head is still bleeding. He could have a concussion, and we can’t let him leave like that.”
She quickly followed Spike, and Buffy noticed that Giles was frowning as he rubbed the back of his head.
“Want me to remind her you might have a concussion too?” she said, only half joking. “I’m sure she won’t mind having another person to play nurse for.”
Giles stuttered slightly as he assured her he would be fine and picked up one of the last boxes. Shrugging, Buffy took the remaining ones and followed.
“. will be just fine,” Spike was telling Joyce as they approached the car. “Really, don’t worry about me. Please.”
“But it’s my fault you all got hurt!” Joyce insisted, gesturing to the three of them. “I should at least try to make things better.”
Giles closed the passenger door of his car as soon as they deposited the boxes. Clearly, he was preparing to flee.
“I have an enormous amount of work in front of me,” he said quickly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Buffy. Joyce, Spike, good night.”
Before Joyce could protest, he was already in his car and driving away. Spike looked ready to follow his example, but judging by her mother’s expression, Buffy doubted he would be able to get away as easily.
“You’re coming back with us,” Joyce declared on a tone that made clear she wouldn’t tolerate objections. “I can’t let you go home like this.”
Spike was evidently about to protest when Buffy intervened, taking his arm and pulling him toward the car. “Come on, Spike. You heard mom. Get in the car and she’ll make your ouchies better.”
He glared at her, muttering for her ears only: “You know I’ll heal just fine by myself.”
She nodded, never losing her smile. “I know it, but mom doesn’t and she needs to do something to show how sorry she is. Play the game, would you? It won’t kill you.”
Chuckling at her own pun, she held the car’s door for Spike before climbing after him. No way was she going through her mom’s guilt trip alone if she could have someone else to suffer with her. And the way Spike didn’t dare contradict her mom was just hilarious.
Buffy found things far less funny half an hour later. She had finished helping her mother clean and bandage Spike’s wrists – he had struggled so much when the fire started that the ropes had made him bleed. Despite Joyce’s plea, the vampire had refused to let her bandage his head too, grudgingly agreeing to some antiseptic being applied. Buffy had teased him when he had made a face at the sting of the disinfectant, sticking her tongue out at him when he had growled half heartedly until her mother had sternly told them to stop acting like kids. Now it was Spike’s turn to smirk smugly as she remembered why she usually didn’t bother with cleaning her small cuts.
“But it stings!” she protested as her mom insisted to apply a little more antiseptic to her wrist. She caught Spike with his mouth open, probably ready to make some smart-ass comment, and she gave him a glare that made it clear a stake would be in his near future if he dared say a word. He laughed, but kept quiet.
Once satisfied that they were fine, Joyce ordered them to remain in the living room while she prepared some hot chocolate.
“T’s nice,” Spike commented after a few seconds.
“What is?”
He pointed to his bandaged wrists and hers. “Having someone who cares that much. You’re lucky.”
Buffy was about to point out that if she allowed her mom to know about all her injuries, Joyce would quickly freak out; instead she nodded and smiled as she watched her mom in the kitchen.
“Yes, I’m lucky,” she admitted fondly. “And so are you. Wasn’t it worth getting a soul just so you can be part of the good guys and be pampered by my mom?”
She realized, even as she said it, that he had hinted a couple of times at a pain she could only imagine and that no, this probably wasn’t worth a soul, not by a long shot. But before she could take back her words or quickly change the subject, he returned her smile, with a hint of shyness that reminded her of William.
“Yeah, it’s worth it.”
Joyce came back with warm mugs and settled between them on the couch. It was the first time Buffy shared a cup with the two of them, and she had the strange thought that she could get used to it. It was oddly comforting to have this quiet moment of peace. She listened, slightly amused, as Spike assured her mom that he’d be fine and that there really was no need for him to spend the night in the house. Joyce finally relented, and if Spike seemed relieved when Buffy glanced at him, he also appeared to be very pleased.
As Joyce placed both their empty mugs on the coffee table, Buffy leaned against her, sighing softly when a maternal arm came around to hold her close. By Joyce’s movements, Buffy guessed that her ex-nemesis was also being pulled into a hug. She smiled to herself, remembering the first time these two had met and the notable role an axe had played in that encounter. She was about to remind them of the incident when Spike gasped audibly. Joyce moved back, and Buffy stood, wondering what had him doubled over in obvious pain.
“Spike? Are you alright?”
A few seconds passed before he replied, his voice wavering as he stood.
“Fine. Just fine. Think my ribs are cracked. Should go and feed. Get some rest.”
He was out of the house before either of them could protest. Putting this odd behavior on the count of the events of the night, Buffy didn’t worry about it until he failed to turn up for patrol the next evening.
I left the house, left them, and ran all the way back to my crypt, cracked ribs or not. When I arrived there, I sank to my knees. Cried until I had no tears left in me. Not sure if they were tears of relief or sorrow. Maybe both. Maybe much more than that. Maybe I cried because it was already awfully clear that I’d been as close to heaven as I’d ever be, and that I had lost all chances to ever be that close to it again.
So yeah, I almost was roasted. Not the first time, not the last. This is the Hellmouth, after all, and danger is a part of what it means to live here. I don’t hold a grudge against the people who put us to burn; I’d probably have walked right along with them if the demon had affected me too. Anyway, what happened after made it worth it.
Joyce insisting for me to accompany them home, her concern for my health, the way she fussed over me exactly like she fussed over Buffy, all of it was a treat. She acted with me as if I had been family. As if I’d been her son. It wasn’t the first time; she had been doing it ever since that summer, when I had unintentionally taken Buffy’s place in her life. But it was the first time it was so blatant that I couldn’t convince me it was wishful thinking on my part. And, coming so soon after the visit of the ghost of Christmas past, so soon after I had admitted to myself seeing Joyce as a mother figure, it meant a lot.
I don’t think it would have been enough though, if it hadn’t been for Buffy. She didn’t remind her mom that my vampire constitution was such that I would heal whether my cuts were cared for or not, or that a concussion was not a risk for me. She played the game, helped Joyce patch me up, let me help in return, and at no time did I feel as if she were acting out of pity. She accepted my presence there, teased me in the same breath as she did Dawn, and I lost my last doubts that she might have been lying to me on Christmas Eve. She did trust me, trusted that I belonged to her side of the fight. And that word, belong, sums it all up.
That night, for the first time in more years than I care to remember, I belonged somewhere. Accepted for who I was, not what others wanted me to be. I had a family, friends, and I wasn’t fighting alone anymore.
I didn’t need to shag, to reach perfect happiness; I just needed to feel accepted. Loved.
Love’s bitch to the core.
That’s how I lost my soul.
Pathetic, huh?