Work Text:
“It’s my mom.”
Her voice cut through the quiet—barely more than a whisper, but the rasp of it caught on the air, caught on his intake of breath: a soothing pretense long-since matched to the rhythm of her own, catching on his and knocking them out of balance. He course-corrected after a moment, waiting for her to continue.
“Mom, she … she’s had these headaches. They want to take pictures. A CAT-scan. And—“ she stumbled, “—and she’s bringing her conditioner.”
This time he kept steady. He nodded, as if she could see him, and as if he knew what she meant. He thought maybe he did. But he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He just swallowed and kept breathing, kept pace. Their breathing, too, cut through the quiet. It occurred to him that they’d never been quiet before. It must’ve occurred to Buffy too, because after another moment she continued speaking, more smoothly now, the words spilling from her lips, and he stilled—an indefinite pause—to give the words space. Dawn had called for the ambulance upon finding their mother unconscious in the kitchen, which Buffy noted with what may have been a touch of pride, and they, the doctors, they had said she’d be okay, that everything would be okay, and her mum had said so, too, “but they don’t take expensive scans and keep people overnight and bring conditioner to hospitals when things are okay. They do those things when things aren’t okay … She was smiling, though. And she said it’s still early.”
Spike thought that he should’ve known. Perhaps he’d make Joyce some cocoa, this time. He’d bring Buffy some, too, if he thought she’d accept it. But perhaps she’d accept some words, if nothing else, and so he ventured, “She’s tough, your mum is. Always respected that ‘bout her.”
Like her daughters, he didn’t add, but he hoped that she heard it anyway. She must’ve, because the next moment she jumped to her feet, pulled her sweater more tightly around her, and made to flee back into the house.
She paused by the door. “Yeah. She is.”
He didn’t have to look to hear her smile, small though it may have been, but when he turned to see it, match it with his own, she was gone, backdoor creaking shut in the quiet.
Before her sight came back in a blur of smoke and burning, bleeding red, and before her ears were able to distinguish gleeful yelling from the roar of a motor-cycle, she had felt the silk lining of her coffin, the jagged edges of broken wood, damp earth and stones caught under torn nails. She had a body. Corporeality: a state she’d felt millennia removed from, with all of its bruises and scratches and marrow-deep aches. Her eyes, ears, her tongue and her nose could all fool her, but her hands never lied.
Of all her senses, the one she now felt most connected to and most estranged from was touch. She had always understood the world through her body, through the slap of her running feet on pavement and the warmth of her mother’s embrace; Buffy punched first, asked questions later. But the problem of living was one she couldn’t punch, and she didn’t feel like asking questions—she didn’t think she could bear the answers. She couldn’t bear the feel of softness, either, now that she knew what a pale imitation whatever she found was to the cocoon of her afterlife. Thus, she was estranged from the touch of her sister and best friends, from warm wind on her cheeks and the worn plushness of Mr. Gordo. She could bear solidity; she craved solidity. Craved hardness: the cut rock of headstones, the punches she probably could have dodged on patrol, and the hefted handle of an axe. There was no hardness in heaven, so she must have been on Earth, where everything was hard, and on her darkest days, that was all she was able to hold onto, was what grounded her.
So, when Willow, Tara, and Dawn’s chatter tuned to a different frequency, the sun-bright colors of the kitchen stretched to taffy, and her dinner turned to mulch in her mouth, she slipped out onto the back porch. Sat down. Shivered slightly in the cooling November air. Felt the slight give of the wood beneath her. Placed her palms on either side and pressed. Dragged them back and forth, felt the wood splinter beneath her fingers and scrape lightly calloused flesh.
She sensed him before she heard him. (For someone so loud, he could be remarkably quiet.) If pushed, she’d struggle to put it into words: just this skin-tight awareness of beware, vampire, prey she was usually too impatient to pay attention to. That she knew it was Spike, specifically, she had an even harder time putting into words. Maybe it was just that no one else made sense. Alone, on her back porch, who else would it be? She looked up. Only his hair distinguished him from the darkness.
“Careful there, slayer. Push any harder, your fist’ll punch through. Wouldn’t want any reason to call Harris.”
“You just don’t want any loose floorboards around.”
“Well, no. Can’t deny I don’t fancy that.”
“I don’t know. Could be useful. There are vampires afoot, you know.”
“That so?”
He stepped out into the light.
“Somehow, they still haven’t learned to stay out of my way. They’re kinda dumb, really, vamps, when you think about it.”
Spike walked forward to stand an arm’s length away, boots muffled on the grass, drawling, “You do have a special kind of talent for attracting ‘em.”
His face twitched, as if suppressing a wink. The movement was sharp, quick, a strike of flint.
Of the many adjectives that could’ve been used to describe Spike, soft was not among them. Everything about him was hard; from the cut of his cheekbones to the gravel of his laugh to the remarks that always hit far too close to home. Except—
Except his eyes, when directed at her. And so Buffy vowed not to look into them.
Instead, she looked vaguely over the hard set of his shoulder, mouth twisted into a sardonic almost-smile.
“What are you doing here, Spike?”
He pursed his lips and seemed to be considering his answer. Then, abruptly, he rolled his eyes and thrust a hand into one of his duster’s pockets, bringing out a book with a peeling, bright cover.
“Dawn’s,” he explained with a small shrug. “Found it tucked under the sofa cushions earlier when I was searching for my lighter. Must’ve left it over the summer.”
At the mention of it, Buffy’s fingers dug down into the porch a little harder. There was a barely audible crack; Spike’s eyes immediately shot to her left hand. For a moment, it looked like he was about to apologize and dread clenched somewhere deep in her gut.
Some must have shown in her eyes because he shut his own, coughed, and said, “Should I go ahead or...?” He waved the book half-heartedly in the air.
“I can give it to her.”
“Right.”
A slightly awkward silence settled between them when Spike didn’t immediately hand it over. Instead, he walked over and leaned against the railing, eyes softening, softening, too soft—
Belatedly, Buffy remembered to look away.
“You alright?”
“Just getting some air.”
Inside, something clattered loudly; Dawn’s shriek followed, then Willow’s high-pitched giggle. Buffy winced, then finally relaxed her fingers.
“And it gets a little loud, sometimes.”
“And the bit? Not seen her in a tick,” Spike said. His voice, too—soft, too soft, change the subject—
“She’s good. I think. We don’t talk much, but I think she’s good.” Buffy grasped for something else to say, came up blank, gave up.
Gave up, too, some of the tension in her body when Spike said, “Good. That's good.”
His voice was still soft, but this time she let it wash over her, loosen the coil of her spine. She chanced a look up at his face but he was looking away, up at the house, where the others were still laughing. Dawn’s giggle was the loudest. The softness in his eyes spread down to the curve of his lips and Buffy felt a brief pang of jealousy—for whom she didn’t know—which she quickly suppressed. She looked back out into the dark.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it then, to your peace. Your quiet.”
The quip about that being a first didn’t come. Instead, she nodded; chanced another look, met his gaze. The softness was a little easier to bear this time.
“Thanks.”
He nodded too, gaze holding, warming, burning, burning—then shuttered, darkened, cooled. As if newly forged, hot-liquid limbs setting, tensing into action, he detached from the railing and took off back through the garden.
“Spike!”
He turned back, head tilted.
“The book?”
Not missing a beat, he tossed it at her; a smirk on his face. “Just keeping you sharp, slayer.”
It hit her square in the chest, the impact hard.
The first time one of the girls laughed in his presence, Buffy hadn’t even been there.
(Maybe because she hadn’t been there.)
The sun had just dipped below the horizon, and everyone else was in the living room to go over some strategy-or-another. Or maybe just that week’s chore schedule—Buffy approached them with the same attitude: all forceful business tempered by the occasional wry smile and aborted eye roll. (They were usually shared with him, but he refused to look at that too closely). Spike had stepped out for a moment of quiet.
Not that there was any space on Revello that could be considered truly quiet anymore with the walls full to bursting with hormonal, excited-terrified teenage girls, shrieks and giggles reverberating through the house all day. Case in point: the three girls tumbling on the lawn. One of them was stretched in a backbend, tangled tawny hair hanging down to brush the grass. She was the first to see him slip through the door, her arms buckling for just a second in surprise.
(He hoped, somewhat desperately, that it wasn’t fear.)
Then she visibly steeled herself. The girl spotting her noticed; May, maybe? Or is that the backbend girl? She kicked the third who was sprawled out on the grass, facing away from the house and chattering on about something—some piece of gossip, sounded like. He was relieved to recognize her as one of the first girls. Molly. He knew her, for all he sometimes wished he didn’t.
“Hey!” Molly rolled over to see what the fuss was about, then promptly rolled her eyes. “It’s just Spike.”
A flood of warmth rushed through him at that, tinged with affront, then apprehension. Or was it fear? Some disdain certainly, I’m a vampire for fuck’s sake.
This immediately prompted another flood of guilt, and that one he knew for certain; knew how to live if not to deal with.
“Yeah, but he’ll tell Buffy we’re out here,” May hissed, shooting him a wary look.
“Why, ‘cuz the sun’s down and all the beasties are coming out to play?”
She startled at that—she must have forgotten about vampire hearing.
He tapped his ear. “One of the beasties, pet.”
She flushed. “Only just,” she said, crossing her arms defensively.
“You won’t tell, will you?” Molly piped up, eyes big and imploring.
It reminded him of Dawn. (They all reminded him of Dawn, when they didn’t remind him of Buffy—the bitty firecracker he’d once promised to kill.)
“Of course he’ll tell,” backbend girl said in a vaguely German accent (Greta, then?) and kicked off to flip back to standing, now facing away from him.
He couldn’t help but bristle at that. He stamped down on it quickly.
Not planning to attack it anymore, are you.
“He tells Buffy everything,” May—he really hoped her name was May—grumbled in agreement.
“What say the three of you don’t leave me with anything to tell her then, eh?” He leaned back for a moment, head turned leftward and ears straining to catch Buffy’s voice through the walls. “Sounds like she’s started in on laundry duty and that always takes half a mo’ with the way you lot tear through your clothing. So if you hop to it, you might be able to snatch a shopping stint before she moves on to bathroom duty.” He tipped his head meaningfully. All three were now looking at him, eyes widened in varying degrees of horror. “’Course, if she realizes you’re missing, she may decide to throw in one of those infamous Buffy Summers lectures.”
Greta snorted. “What would you know about her lectures?”
“Oh, I’ve been subject to a fair few in my time. Don’t expect we’ve always been—” his voice faltered, ever so slightly, “—all amiable, do you?”
The girls exchanged a look; May mouthed amiable, Greta rolled her eyes, and Molly giggled.
Yeah, amiable’s a bit of a joke, innit. He didn’t know what else to call it; anything less felt—empty—anything more—well.
“Alright, in with you. Or I will tell her.” He nearly flinched at how harsh he sounded, patience run out. But it did the trick; a moment later, they’d slipped past him, clearly trying to soften their steps, and the door fell shut behind them.
Spike let out a long sigh. Folded down onto the steps. His fingers twitched for a cigarette he tried to no longer smoke. And he watched as the burning amber of the sky gradually cooled and darkened. When the few stars visible in suburban California started coming out, the door creaked open again. He became caught somewhere between stiffening and relaxing because it was Buffy; he didn’t need to turn to confirm it, not with the electric current running up his spine. He turned anyway, just a gentle swivel, and noted that she looked surprised to find him there, though he didn’t quite know why.
With a stab, it occurred to him that maybe she wanted to be alone. But then she smiled, just a soft curving of her lips, some tension leaking from the set of her eyes—alright then.
“Troops all marshaled?” he offered neutrally.
“Finally,” she groaned as she dropped down next to him on the steps. “Takes an hour just to get them to settle down. Especially when three of them slip in twenty minutes late.”
“That so?”
“They were all giggly; not exactly stealthy.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“Not a clue,” he said, a touch too quickly.
Buffy noticed.
“Alright, you caught me. But I sent them in right quick. Don’t suppose they can blame me for tattling when you guessed it yourself.”
“Tattling?”
“They made me promise not to tell you, for all that they cast doubts on my ability to do so. Apparently, I’m not very trustworthy.”
“I guess they do have some sense then.”
Something tightened in Spike’s throat, just for a moment, but her accompanying smile, the twinkle in her eyes, loosened it again. He grasped for something to interrupt the too-familiar awkwardness that bloomed between them—when nothing came to mind, he settled for shaking his head. Buffy didn’t say anything either, and he wondered if that meant she didn’t feel it.
Maybe just don’t mind it.
He didn’t know which option he found more disquieting. Once again, his fingers twitched for a cigarette; as it was, he could just barely restrain himself from reaching over and taking her hand.
Suddenly, the mirth faded from her eyes, and her mouth and forehead tensed into a frown. “God. Was I ever that young?”
Her eyes were plaintive and unspeakably old.
“In theory,” he answered. “Probably. Dunno. Not since I’ve known you.”
She shifted to look at him more fully and raised an eyebrow. “You met me in high school.”
“No high schooler ever made me tremble like you did.”
Buffy snorted. “You seemed pretty untrembly to me. Then again, you did run away a bunch.”
“To regroup.”
“You ran away from my mother.”
“No shame in that. I’ve had few foes more fearsome. You must’ve gotten your steel from somewhere.”
“Well, you didn’t know me before I was a slayer. Playdough has more steel than I did.”
He laughed. “I don’t believe that.”
“Believe it. I could be kind of a bitch, I guess, but that’s about it.”
“Well, that part didn’t change much.”
She gasped in mock outrage, made to playfully punch him. At the last moment she held back, however, her knuckles merely brushing his shoulder. Spike kind of wished she hadn’t. He tried signaling as much with his eyes, but she had turned away again, gazing out into the bushes, which were now shaded with dark purple.
“I don’t know. You said, once—I don’t know if you remember—that becoming a vampire made you feel alive for the first time—” she glanced over to see him nod, “—and I think in some ways, it was the same for me. But in others, I kind of think that was the first time I died. At least, some part of me did. I guess something had to replace it. Not to mention the times I actually died,” she added, lips quirking.
“Times?” he asked sharply.
“You didn’t know?”
“That you’ve died more than I have? No.” Some note of betrayal leaked out with his words before he could stop it.
“Why’d you think there are two slayers?” she asked with another raised eyebrow.
He’d never really considered it; Buffy was the only slayer that had mattered to him in years.
“That was before you met me, too. Not that long after I moved here there was this prophecy that I’d die and release the Master from his prison down by the Hellmouth.” She shrugged. “It came true. He bit me, left me in a puddle, and I drowned. Xander and Angel found me, and Xander did the whole CPR thing. I was only out for maybe a minute, but that was enough, apparently.”
“How–"
She anticipated his question. “I was sixteen. Didn’t handle it all that well that time either.”
Her lips quirked again. Spike looked away; they were skirting too close to the events of the year before. Buffy seemed to have no such compunction and continued.
“I guess there was also last spring when Warren shot me, but I don’t really know if that one counted or not. Willow had the grace to save my life before trying to kill me again.” When he looked confused again, she added quietly, “it was after you—after you left.”
“Fuck.”
“That about covers it, yeah.”
There didn’t seem to be anything else to say to that, and so they sat there, the heaviness of the moment enfolding them. There was an odd comfort to it. For a moment, Spike considered apologizing, but dismissed it just as quickly. Then, echoing a night two years prior, he patted her shoulder: gently, and nearly as awkwardly.
But this time—this time she responded with a soft smile (that didn’t quite reach her eyes).
When they finally saw each other again, the first thought that popped into Buffy’s mind, somewhat hysterically, before the what the fuck and the how dare you and the thank god of it all, was that they should have been on a porch. She noted as much with smiling eyes two hours and too many tears later. He chuckled, gravel-rough, and pulled her into a hug.
His embrace was hard and soft, cool and warming, so she vowed to find them a porch to meet on.
“At the very least a balcony,” he said. “Or a fire escape.”
She laughed. “Deal.”