Chapter 18: Old Ghosts
Wide-eyed in surprise, Spike could only stare at the human Faith had just staked by mistake. They had been on their way to take a shot at the Eliminati cult and its leader, Balthazar, when a vamp had distracted them; then this man had come out of nowhere. What had this fool been doing out here at night?
Blood seeped past Buffy’s hand where she was trying to stop the flow. The man convulsed, a few more times, then he was dead. Not as quick as staking a vamp, but just as effective. The scent of blood was overwhelming and Spike had to push back his emerging demon visage. He craved human blood so much that to see it spilled like this and not be able to take advantage of it was maddening.
“We gotta go!” Faith said, on the edge of panic.
Spike could only agree with her and closed his hand around Buffy’s forearm to make her stand. She turned and looked at him, and he winced at her stunned and horrified expression. The Slayer wasn’t used to seeing humans die, that much was clear.
“There’s nothing you can do for him,” he told her. “Let’s go.”
She nodded absently, threw a last glance at the body and ran alongside Faith. Spike remained there an instant longer. He felt nothing for the dead man, having seen enough cadavers in his years, and killed a fair share of them, not to mind them so much; yet at the same time, he was all too aware that, not that long ago, he would have been as horrified by this death as the humans had been. And so, he had sympathy for both Slayers. If he knew Buffy half as well as he thought, she would feel guilty for this, for not having been able to save this one human even if she saved dozens each night. As for Faith. Hard to tell how she would react, but Spike doubted anything good would come out of this. She had been increasingly daring lately, testing the limits to what a Slayer could do. Her little stunt the night before about stealing weapons and escaping the police had amused him, but this. this was the kind of things that would either make her or break her.
He finally ran after them; and when their scents separated, he didn’t need to think to follow Buffy’s. He caught up with her as she stopped running.
“‘T wasn’t your fault.”
She looked up at him, her distress blatant.
“You couldn’t have done anything to save him,” he insisted.
“Then why does it hurt so much?”
He sighed as he raised his eyes to the sky. He was still a little wary of her finding out by simply looking at him that he was now soul free; it was utterly ridiculous, he was sure of it, and yet he couldn’t help it.
“You’re asking the wrong bloke, luv. ‘M not used to being on the innocent side of the…”
His voice trailed off as he turned his head to face the approaching vampire. Angel looked grim, and his expression only darkened when he saw Buffy and Spike standing together.
“What’s going on?” he demanded, gaze going from one blond to the other. “Are you hurt, Buffy?”
She hid her bloodied hand and made some kind of excuse. Clearly, she didn’t want to tell Angel, and if her warning glance was any indication, she didn’t want Spike to tell him either. Angel was many things, but completely stupid wasn’t one of them. He saw she was hiding something, and Spike suspected he would be on the receiving end of a few questions eventually. It wouldn’t be until later though, because as the brunette quickly explained, Giles and the new Watcher had been captured and needed rescuing.
Giles’ hand was shaking, and he couldn’t manage to insert the key in the lock to open his door. Without looking at him, he gave the keys to the vampire, silently requesting help that was given without comment.
“Up for a drink?” Spike suggested as he pushed the door open and followed Giles in.
“Yes, but not the kind you’re thinking,” the Watcher replied. “Tea seems a lot more appropriate than anything stronger, tonight.”
That earned him an appraising glance from cool blue eyes. Refusing to meet that gaze, he walked to his kitchen and busied himself there, filling out the teakettle, putting it to boil, taking out a cup. His hands were still trembling, however hard he tried to make the shaking stop. He was infinitely grateful that the vampire was in the living room, helping himself with Giles’ best scotch, rather than close enough to see, again, how much the events of the evening had affected him.
Giles had kept his calm, when confronted to Balthazar and the promise of torture, ready to hold his tongue even as his replacement spilled all he knew at the first mention of physical pain. But now that the danger was behind him and he was home and safe, painful memories were resurfacing and he couldn’t help flexing his hand repeatedly, as if to assure himself that his fingers were fine, not broken. The irony that the rescue party had included the two vampires who had once been his captors wasn’t lost on him.
He was startled out of his thoughts by the heavy sound of glass on the kitchen counter and raised his head to see Spike filling the tumbler before pouring a finger of scotch into his own cup.
“I told you I didn’t want any,” he snapped.
“You also said you didn’t need anyone to get you home,” the vampire replied with a shrug. “Think you’d have had that door open yet if I hadn’t tagged along?”
The words could have stung as much as a slap, but the calm tone of the vampire took the edge off. At the same time, however, it made them worse. It felt too much like Spike knew exactly where Giles was, emotions wise, and the human didn’t like that idea so much; it made him feel too vulnerable for comfort.
“I appreciate the help, but I think it’s time for you to go.”
Even as he took his cup from the counter and turned to his whistling kettle, Giles could feel Spike’s eyes on his back, and it was a struggle not to let the shaking start again.
“Right,” the vampire said after a few seconds. “‘Had stuff to tell you, but I suppose that can wait until tomorrow. Or maybe the Slayer will tell you. No rush anyway.”
The words had a hint of bitterness in them, the disappointment of someone whose help was refused. Before Giles could try to explain to the vampire that neither him nor any other vampire was exactly the person he felt safest with at that moment, the front door closed and he was alone.
Giles’ tea grew cold on the countertop as he gathered a few ingredients and did the spell he had memorized. He trusted Spike – as much as he’d ever be able to trust a demon – but he had a deeply set feeling that he wouldn’t be able to sleep before his home was safe again.
Annoyed, Angel watched Spike and Giles leave together, the Watcher protesting that he was fine and could get home by his own means, the vampire refusing to hear him. Angel couldn’t help feeling twinges of resentment mixed with regret that Giles would barely speak more than two words at a time to him while he apparently had given Spike his friendship. Added to the jealous feelings of knowing Spike and Buffy patrolled together practically every night, and to that strange complicity they had shared earlier, it was becoming too much to bear. He and Spike had a long overdue explanation in front of them.
He walked Buffy home, unsuccessfully trying to determine whose blood had been on her hand. Not hers, he knew that much, and not Spike’s. What had happened? And why wouldn’t she tell him?
“I’ll tell you,” she promised as they reached Revello Drive. “Just, not tonight, OK? I’m exhausted. And I can’t talk about it now.”
He bit back the comment that Spike knew what was going on while her own boyfriend didn’t. The last thing that would help would be to sound whiny.
They had stopped in front of her house. Angel knew he wasn’t welcome there; Joyce had made it clear on the brief occasion when he had seen her.
“Do you think.” Buffy started hesitantly.
He cupped her chin, turning her face up toward him and stroking her cheek.
“Think what?” he murmured, hoping she was going to tell him at last what had happened.
A smile pulled at his lips when she flushed slightly, stuttering as she said: “I’d really. I mean. it would be nice. Could you spend the night? Or at least a few hours? I just need.”
Too late, he realized he had dropped the smile and removed his hand.
“I just wished you could have held me,” she finished dejectedly, clearly knowing already what his answer would be.
His words cut, yet he had to give them. “Buffy, we can’t.”
Her gaze hardened. “There’s no ‘can’t’ about it. You don’t want to spend the night with me, just say so.”
With that, she ran into her house, and all he could do was watch her go. It broke his heart; yet at the same time, he knew there was no other way. He wouldn’t take a chance with his soul – and even less with her life.
His mood darker than ever, he directed his steps toward the graveyard that hosted Spike’s crypt. He expected he’d have to wait for Spike, but coincidentally they reached the mausoleum at the same time. Spike scowled when he saw him, but didn’t prevent him from entering his home.
“What do you want?” he asked abruptly as he threw his duster on the back of the one and only armchair.
Angel watched him go to his fridge, retrieve blood from it, warm it in a microwave. There had been improvements since his last visit, proof, if he had needed one, that Spike wasn’t planning to go anywhere anytime soon.
“Whose blood was it?” he asked abruptly, certain that Spike would know what he was talking about.
“‘M pretty sure the Slayer doesn’t want you to know,” Spike replied with a smug grin. “Or else, she’d have told you herself, don’t you think?”
His fists closing despite himself, Angel walked deeper into the crypt.
“If you don’t tell me.”
“You’ll what?” Spike interrupted. “Beat me up? What would the Slayer think?”
“That’s the other thing. You’re getting too close to her. I want you to stop.”
Spike snorted as he retrieved his blood from the oven. “And I want blood that taste better than this crap,” he said as he made a face. “Too bad we don’t always get what we want, huh?”
“Spike.”
The blond ignored the warning, and stared at him defiantly. “If there wasn’t room for me, I wouldn’t be getting too close. Nothing prevents you from going on patrol with her. Or from helping with research, or whatever else her gang does. You’re not there. Your loss.”
What had only been a suspicion before was now a complete certitude for Angel.
“You love her.”
Even before Spike started denying, his eyes had answered with perfect clarity. Angel felt like hitting him. Felt like turning his back and going away, back to Buffy, maybe. Would she still welcome him, if he did? He couldn’t, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to. It didn’t mean either that he was blind enough not to see that Spike was right. If Angel had given her the attention and affection she craved, there would have been no room for his grand-childe.
“You love her,” he repeated blankly, more to himself than to Spike, who was still trying to deny. The protests finally ceased.
“What if I do?” the blond said after a pause.
Angel shrugged. “You can’t touch her any more than I can. How long until it drives you insane?”
To Angel’s surprise, Spike laughed. A dry, bitter laugh, but still a laugh. “You still like playing the martyr, don’t you? A hundred years older, and you haven’t changed a bit.”
“And you still enjoy a good beating it seems,” Angel retorted, his anger rising.
“Come on, Peaches, admit it. You love playing the drama queen. Woe is me and all that rot. Won’t try to be with Buffy now, even when you’ve been told it’s safe. What is it? Your soul likes to hurt? It won’t let you find some comfort and quiet in the one place where you could.”
The brunet lashed out without thinking, a simple slap but hard enough that Spike took a step back at the impact.
“Truth hurts, doesn’t it?” the younger vampire spat as he returned the blow.
Angel tried to control his temper and not start a brawl. It wouldn’t solve anything, no matter how good it would feel. “You have no clue what you’re talking about.”
Spike’s eyes were slowly filling with amber. “That’s always what you say, but I’m thinking I must have hit pretty close for you to react like that. And it’s not even because I know what it’s like to have one now. No, it’s just experience. You were too fucking scared to give us a chance back then; you’re too scared to give her one now.”
“I tried,” Angel growled, coming very close to shifting to his vampire features. “I tried and was sent away like a dog.”
“Darla sent you away.”
That was all he said, but the unspoken words were loud and clear, the claim that another vampire might not have refused him help. There was a challenge in Spike’s eyes, now blue again. He was waiting for Angel to contradict him, say he didn’t believe him. But Angel couldn’t, because he did believe. He’d never have thought it before, but hearing it said plainly and calmly left no room for doubt. And if that was true, maybe the rest was too. Maybe he was scared. Maybe happiness was only a breath away and safe for all concerned, but he was too scared to reach for it. What was certain was that he had a lot to make up for before he earned the right to be happy.
“Stay away from her, Spike,” he ordered as he walked away, but even to his own ears the command held no conviction, and he knew Spike wouldn’t obey.
I would have expected Angel to dust me for simply admitting that I felt something for the Slayer. For his girl. After all, only a few days before he had gone all caveman-like on me because he didn’t like the idea that I patrolled with her. And there, he accused me, threatened me, but it all sounded. I don’t know. Forced maybe. He played the jealous part because that’s what he was supposed to do, no other reason. What he didn’t say was more eloquent than what he did say. Just like what he didn’t do with Buffy was more eloquent than any gesture. He had given up, already. He hadn’t admitted it to himself, and he wasn’t anywhere near ready to admitting it to anyone else, but he had given up on being with her. When Joyce came after us a few weeks later, she just gave him the excuse he needed.
The Watcher. I can’t say it didn’t hurt when I came by the next night and found myself locked out. I had thought I had found a friend, thought that bit of watching while he was being tortured was behind us. Since the spell was clearly directed at me, it put an end to my illusions, especially after the dreadful night I’d had. I understood, abstractly, why he had done it, it was all too clear that being between the hands of vamps and on the point of being tortured again had brought him back to less than pleasant memories. I suppose it helped seal my decision. If things kept on as they were, I’d never be truly and completely a part of the group, and all the patrols and camaraderie in the world would change nothing.
Maybe it wouldn’t have lasted long anyway and I would have shaken things up eventually. No, not maybe. Probably. I was keeping a tight rein on myself, on my thirst for blood, and it was getting increasingly difficult. Patience was never my strong point. I had decided to wear a white hat because I thought it’d help me win the Slayer; but it wasn’t enough. It was time for things to change.