Triangle: Three: Spike
by spikeNdru
Part III: Spike


The British Racing Green Jaguar was decidedly out of place in this neighborhood of rusty trucks and 15 year old Escorts and Cavaliers. Gunn grinned as he smoothly pulled up to the curb. He pointed.

“It’s the basement apartment in that building.”

Buffy smiled nervously. “Thanks.”

“Want me to wait?”

“No. No, I’ll be fine. Thanks again for the ride.”

Gunn flashed a broad grin. “Anything that gets me away from the paperwork and out in the Jag is no trouble at all. Believe Me!”

“Well, good.” Another nervous smile. “See ya.”

She took a deep breath and turned to wave as Gunn pulled away. Buffy bit her lip. Why was everything always so complicated with Spike? With Angel, it was easy. She always knew where she stood with Angel. They had had an actual, defined relationship. They had seen each other as boyfriend/girlfriend and been accepted as such by their friends. They had gone out in public together. When it ended so abruptly and painfully, she had the love and support of everyone who mattered to her. She could talk to them and share her pain. Okay, Xander wasn’t exactly supporto-boy at first, and there was a smidge of “Na na na, I told you so” in his attitude, but when all was said and done, she knew he was in her corner—that he was there for her. He didn’t blame her.

When she continued to love Angel even after it happened, no one told her she “shouldn’t” love an evil, soulless thing like him, because they all—every single one of them—saw Angel and Angelus as two different people. Even Giles. Even after Angelus tortured him almost to death and killed Jenny . . . he accepted that it was okay to love Angel. They were all glad for her when Angel finally showed at the prom. No one demurred whenever she said she was going to LA to see him.

Spike, on the other hand, elicited entirely different reactions. She wondered why that was. Even without a soul, Spike had worked with them, protected them, cared for Dawn. Every single one of the Scoobies had left Dawn in “Soulless Spike’s” care at one time or another because they all knew he loved her and would never hurt her.

The mere thought of Angelus anywhere within a hundred miles of Dawn caused Buffy to break out in a cold sweat.

Why were they so different; Angel and Spike? Why was Angel viewed, even now, as the “love of her life” and Spike as her “dirty, little secret”?

Even today, it had been easy with Angel. She felt comfortable with Angel. They loved each other, would always love each other, but the relationship was over. They both knew and accepted that, and were okay with it. Game over. Move on. Everything was clear and defined.

Why wasn’t anything easy with Spike? It was all so messy and complicated and confusing!

Being with Angel was like being in the calm, quiet eye of the storm. Spike was the storm. He was like a damn hurricane, buffeting every aspect of her—soul, mind and body. Spike was a bloody “force of nature”, he was! Nothing was ever calm, clear and certain with Spike! Just when she thought she’d finally figured everything out, he’d do or say something completely unexpected and there she’d be—swept up in the whirlwind again.

Buffy paced up and down the sidewalk muttering to herself. A passing bike messenger gave her a curious look and then hastily pedaled faster.

“Oh, good, Buffy! Scare the natives!” That guy thought she was crazy. It was all Spike’s fault! He made her crazy! Always had. Quite possibly, always would. Oh, now there’s a thought! Why couldn’t Spike be just . . . normal. Like a normal guy? Everything would be so much easier if they could just sit down and talk like normal people.

Instead, he’d probably get all perceptive and insightful and confusing until she didn’t know what she was trying to say. He never accepted anything she said at face value. No, he had to dig and twist until she didn’t know what she meant or what she felt and . . . maybe she’d better go away and come back tomorrow. Tomorrow would be much better. She’d get a good night’s sleep and recover from jet lag and be able to put things into perspective.

Okay, Buffy, breathe . . . It’s just Spike! Why are you so crazed about seeing Spike? Isn’t this what you wanted? What you wished for all those nights you cried yourself to sleep after he died—just like after Mom died—and you couldn’t let anyone know how desperately you missed him? That stupid, sarcastic, slimy little weasel had wormed his way into her life, her heart, her very essence, without her noticing . . . until he was gone and then what she noticed was the big hole of emptiness where he’d been. There was the tiny, little “Dad” hole, the bigger “Angel” hole, and the huge, gaping “Mom” and “Spike” holes---she was starting to feel like Swiss cheese!

Buffy squared her shoulders and took a couple of deep breaths. She could do this! She had to do this.

She entered the apartment building and descended the steps to the basement. She knocked. Nothing happened. Oh, God! What if he wasn’t home? What if after putting herself through all this, he wasn’t even here? She knocked again, harder—she couldn’t seem to stop.

“Don’t get your knickers twisted! I’m coming!”

His voice! It was really his voice!

Spike flung open the door and they stared at each other. Buffy could see the emotions pass over his expressive face: shock, joy, uncertainty and finally a guarded wariness. She hated that she could elicit that expression.

“Buffy,” he breathed. His voice was a sigh, a caress.

“You’re really here? Oh, God, Spike, it’s really you. You’re not dead!”

He grinned. “Well, technically . . .”

Oh, great! She’d been here all of 30 seconds and already she wanted to hit him; 31 seconds and she wanted to jump his bones; 32 seconds and she wanted to be back in Rome, safely unaware of his existence.

Those incredible blue eyes that she had never thought to see again, darkened with concern.

“Buffy, are you alright? Dawn! Is Dawn . . .”

“No! No, everyone’s fine. No emergency, no big evil brewing . . .” She tried for lightness. “You didn’t call, you didn’t write. . .”

“I wanted to . . . if you knew how much I wanted to . . . I just didn’t know how . . .”

“It’s easy! You just pick up the phone—” she mimed dialing, “put it to your ear and talk in the other end.” She saw a shutter come down in his eyes as she felt his withdrawal. She winced, and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. That was stupid. I just . . . I dreamed of this day for so long. I thought if I could just see you one more time, I’d talk to you . . . really talk to you and I’d get a chance to tell you all the things I never told you before, and I could make up for all the thoughtless pain I caused you and finally make things right. But here I am, and I don’t know how to talk to you or even how to begin to say what I wanted to, so I’m all nervous and flippant . . . but what I really am is scared!”

His eyes softened as he looked at her.

“Um. Can I come in?”

“Oh. Sorry.” He stepped back and his arm made a sweeping gesture of welcome. “It’s not much . . .”

“No, it’s fine. Much better than a crypt.”

“They don’t really have them in LA.” A fleeting smile crossed his face. “With real estate at a premium here, they tend toward small, tasteful, little bronze markers.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“This is really awkward, isn’t it? Maybe we should just jump into bed and—”

“No.”

“No?” Her voice was tentative and halting. “Are you . . . you don’t want me anymore? I mean, not that I’d blame you . . .”

“I don’t want you like that.” His voice was low and savage. “No more mindless fucking that damn near destroyed us both. You used me to fill the hollow emptiness in you, but you sucked out everything that was me until I was hollow and empty, too. I never felt more alone than when I was with you, Buffy . . . so, you tell me who was the real vampire in our encounters!”

“You’re right. Of course, you’re right! Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”

His eyes softened. “That’s the first time you’ve ever really said that to me.”

“I know. And I mean it. I can’t tell you how sorry I am for the things I did . . . the way I treated you. When you were dead—when I thought you were dead—” She took a deep breath. She could do this! It was way past time. “There was no big evil that had to be fought, no responsibilities that I could use as a distraction to avoid thinking . . . I couldn’t put off dealing with things because there was nothing immediate and important and world-shattering that I could use as an excuse. I had time to think . . . too much time to think. Everybody had their lives to live and I only had me. And I didn’t like ‘me’ very much. How could anyone else like me if I didn’t even like ‘me’?

“You kept telling me I was perfect and special and wonderful, but I didn’t feel it. I felt petty and bossy and resentful and empty. So how could I believe you when you told me you loved me? I knew I wasn’t lovable, so in my mind, that made you either stupid or deluded or manipulative, and that’s the way I reacted to you.

“I kept telling myself you didn’t really love me—you couldn’t love because you didn’t have a soul, but that was a lie. You were capable of more love than anyone I’ve ever known. But if I accepted that—that an evil, soulless vampire was capable of really loving someone with every fiber of his being, what did that make me, that I couldn’t? I told myself I loved Dawn and my friends---but I didn’t! I didn’t! There was only a cold, dead place inside where the love was supposed to be. Where I wanted it to be instead of . . . nothingness. So who’s the real vampire? You’re right, Spike . . . it’s me. It’s always been me.”

Buffy discovered she was sobbing---great wracking sobs torn out of her insides, and she couldn’t seem to stop. And then Spike’s arms were around her and he was holding her and stroking her hair and saying “Shush” and “Hush” and “Let it all out, Buffy” and it felt so good, and he felt so good and, God! How she’d missed this!

She clung to him and cried until she felt light and empty inside. But this was a good empty. Scrubbed clean.

Sitting up straight, she ran her hands over her face, tossed back her hair, and smiled.

“I feel like a crockpot!”

He tilted his head and raised one eyebrow.

“Not sure I followed that, love.”


“Okay. I was a crockpot—full of warm, bubbling stew. And then the stew got scooped out bit by bit and there was only a little bit left on the sides and bottom, but the crockpot never got turned off, and after awhile, the remaining stew got burned and hard and crusty, and when I put anything else in the pot, it’d get hard and crusty, too. But now, I feel like the bowl was finally put through the dishwasher and now it’s all clean and shiny and ready to be filled with something completely new . . .”

Her voice trailed off. Oh my God—how lame was that? A crockpot! This may have been the most inane analogy she’d ever come up with! Or . . . maybe not. There was that thing with the cookie dough . . . What was up with her and food metaphors, anyway?

She blushed. “Okay. That sounded really stupid, but you know what I mean!”

Spike smiled and it lit up his whole face.

“Yeah. I do.”

*Spike smiles like a child,* she thought. *Happy, open, trusting, full of love. After all he’s been through, it’s nothing short of a miracle that he can still smile like that.*

She felt an answering smile spread across her own face.

“So, do you think there’s any chance we could maybe start over? I mean, right from the beginning, and do things right this time? Spend time really getting to know each other from where we are right now, without all the baggage?”

“I’d like that,” he said softly.

Buffy stuck out her hand.

“Hi! I’m Buffy.”

He took her hand in both of his.

“Spike.”



THE END


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