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From the moment he arrived at the hospital to take Sam home, Dean had been in a mother-hen tizzy. This was funny until Dean rolled out a sleeping bag to crash on Sam’s floor at bedtime.
“Are you serious?”
“What? You’re all banged up. Thought I’d be here if you needed something.”
“Are you gonna take a piss for me? I can walk fine, Dean.”
“You got a head injury. How’m I supposed to hear you seizing from the other room? I’m staying,” Dean said, crossing his arms over his stomach and closing his eyes.
There was no point in arguing with Dean’s guilt, for that was the real reason he hovered. In his twisted mental maze of irrational duties and parental complexes, he blamed himself for Sam’s concussion and broken fingers. He should have vetted Sam’s date. Should have known where they were going. Should have. Should have.
The week passed with Dean constantly bringing him food, books, movies, pillows, blankets, as well as cards and flowers from the school. Sam insisted he didn’t need anything, but his brother remained nearby playing with a deck of cards at Sam’s desk. So they played cards to pass the time. Dean read to him from War of the Worlds, and even made him a veggie pizza.
“An insult to pizza,” Dean complained, though obviously thrilled to be doing something for his baby brother.
“Hey, where you going?” asked Dean Friday morning when he saw Sam pop on his sunglasses by the door.
“Stir crazy.”
Their neighbor, Mrs. Johnson, froze on the landing when she saw him, like a prey animal that knows it’s cornered. A lithe, dark woman rushed up the stairs and ushered her back into her apartment. Sam had never seen the girl before. He would have remembered someone that beautiful.
Dean was right behind him on the stairs.
Sam sighed. “Are you protecting me from coffee?”
“People burn their junk on that shit all the time, an’ your jewels have been punished enough this week.”
“All the weird bleeding cleared up. Bruises are gone.” Sam displayed his arm in a wrist brace and shiny pods over two fingers. “Unless you think this is gonna get me killed in broad daylight, you can back off.”
“Back off?” Dean shook his head as if he’d been slapped.
Sam sighed. He didn’t want to hurt his brother’s feelings, but they hadn’t had this much one-on-one time since before arriving in Sunnydale. Even then, on their road life Dean would disappear to a strip club or they’d part ways at a bar, work the room, go home with someone.
But three months in Sunnydale had transformed his brother from a cavalier bed-hopper to a guy who called his girlfriend every night when he thought Sam was asleep. He could hear Dean whispering sweet nothings, affirmations, and some dirty talk in the living room. “I’m sorry things got so out of hand…Honestly, that didn’t occur to me…Warned you I was shitty boyfriend material…Maybe this weekend…G’night, Buffy. Miss you.”
Sam had always been Mr. Commitment. He’d refrained from having girlfriends in high school because he knew he wouldn’t see them again once John yanked them out of town, an arrangement his brother thrived on. It wasn’t until he got to Stanford that he felt he could give a woman the attention she deserved. Hell, he hadn’t even lost his virginity until he was nineteen, his body humming under Jess’s soft touch. Road hookups didn’t come naturally to him. Ruby may have known this. Her regular appearances, her constant presence in the months Dean was in Hell, gave him a vague sense of a relationship.
In a place where up was down and down was up with weird vampires and horned demons, it shouldn’t be surprising that Dean had settled into domestic bliss, while Sam got the shit beat out of him after accidentally hooking up with a demon.
At least the sex had been amazing.
Truth was, Sam wanted some time to himself. First Madison, then Ruby, now Brittany. Had he developed a kink for monsters, or was this the darkness inside him leading him on? Or was it something simpler? Brittany hadn’t used her mind control abilities on him until she started asking for information on Buffy. He’d wanted her.
“Dean, I just want to get some coffee and some yogurt by myself. Okay?”
“Cool. I’ll go with you.”
Sam stood his ground on the sidewalk and stared at his brother, all pursed lips and fiery green eyes. It was clear to him who needed the together time more.
“Dean, I’m lonely.”
Scrunching up his face, Dean looked around. “Soooo, I go with you?”
“No, that’s not it! Look, Brittany was a mistake. I’ve felt sort of desperate to be with someone lately, and I didn’t think twice when she came along.”
“You’re blaming Little Sammy?”
Sam sighed. They were in public, so he’d let the not-at-all-apt dick joke slide. “Yes.”
“She was hot. Until her glamor thingy wore off when Buffy set her on fire. Then she was a different hot.” Dean smiled at his own joke.
“Compromise? We get breakfast now, and you hang out with your girlfriend tonight,” Sam suggested.
“You’re goin’ skirt chasing already?”
“No, I just can’t stand another night of ‘Baby, I miss you. What are you wearing?’”
The bag was heavy with Tara. No, not Tara. Things Tara had owned that, Willow reminded herself, were also owned by many other people. It was just stuff.
It had taken several days, both because of the emotional toll and because she’d insisted on doing it alone, but Willow had finally turned Buffy’s old bedroom into her room. Step one to setting up her room was sorting out Tara’s things. The books, which were the bulk of Tara’s stuff, Willow was keeping along with her jewelry, clothes she always pictured her in, and a few things to snuggle at night. Everything else was in one nearly-bursting trash bag.
Keep moving.
She met Buffy at the top of the stairs. “What in the bag, bag lady?” she asked.
“Um, it’s Tara’s clothes.”
“Oh,” she said, suddenly hesitant. “What are you doing with them?”
“This is what’s not snuggleable. Is that, uh, weird, to snuggle the clothes of a dead person?”
“When I miss mom, I spray a pillow with her perfume and hold it. If it’s weird, we’re weird together.”
“At least the company’s good then. Anyway, I thought I’d take the rest of her clothes and some of my less Willow-is-a-grown-up outfits to Goodwill.”
“Don’t tell me the pink, fuzzy sweater’s in there!” said Buffy with a pout.
“Not this exact bag. That one’s still in my room. The smiley face patches gotta go. Besides, some of my old clothes are just the wardrobe of a different, less confident, less lesbian person. Also, I’m proud to say I’ve reclaimed two corners of my room.”
“I’ve been meaning to do that too. Put away dance-at-The-Bronze-all-night Buffy and give I-am-a-role-model Buffy more blouse room.”
“You don’t think Dean would take you dancing?”
“I’ve seen him dance! Sometimes when he’s blaring his rock music and making food he’s really excited about, he’ll let loose in the kitchen. I can’t figure out if he dances like a dork to make me laugh or if he actually dances like a dork.” She grinned, lost in the memory. “Anyway, the closet’s past due. Do you remember that skanky outfit Dawn was wearing when she was grinding on RJ?”
“I don’t think outfit or wearing are applicable words in that case.”
“Well, it was my shirt. My shirt she’d cut up a bit, but it was still my stringy, semi sheer base. It’s not that those things don’t have a time and a place, but I’m not sure that time and place are near me right now. I’m sort of focused on school, work, and making sure I look like an adult who can care for a teenager if anyone comes knocking.”
“Your boyfriend will be devastated.”
“My boyfriend’s thirty-one. He’d better be okay with me dressing more like a professional adult than a professional party girl. Here, let me carry your bags downstairs. You go judge my mini-skirts.”
Over an hour later, a pile of mini-skirts, babydoll dresses, and halter tops littered Buffy’s bedroom floor. Willow looked at the bright, sparkly pile then at her friend’s khaki, brown and black closet. “Are you sure you want to do this, Buffy? I feel like this is less a closet cleaning and more a personality-ectomy.”
In response, Buffy pulled off her t-shirt and slipped into a pink sequined handkerchief halter. “Yes, officer, I feed my sister three meals a day, vegetables included. No, I do not think pizza is one of the four food groups. Yes, I make sure she gets plenty of sleep, does her homework, and goes to school. No, she hasn’t tried to recently kill herself via speeding train because of melodramatic teen heartache.”
The implication overwhelmed her, and Willow sat on the bed. “Honey, are you worried someone is going to take Dawn away from you?”
Face buried in her hands, Buffy sat beside her. “We had parent-teacher conferences this week. Three teachers mentioned Dawn missing a lot of school; one of them said she was going to file a report with Child Protective Services until Principal Wood corroborated my story. So yeah, a spoonful of worried here.”
Buffy leaned over, resting her head on Willow’s shoulder. “The whole RJ thing really got me thinking, too. I know some of it was the curse, but she was so desperate for his attention. She kept saying that she couldn’t compete with me, and that I took things from her. I never knew she thought of me that way. She felt so unwanted, she tried to kill herself. And what did I cry over that night? My boyfriend who wasn’t even my boyfriend at the time.
“Dean was telling me about all the things he did for Sam when they were growing up. He’s only four years older, and he practically raised his brother. Sam’s smart. He’s kind. He’s well-mannered.”
“Dean’s not those things,” Willow pointed out.
“He is! He defaults to macho tough guy because he spent his entire life looking out for Sam. I’ve been Dawn’s guardian for nearly two years, and I’ve mainly acted like she’s a burden.”
“Buffy, you’ve done more than that. You died for her.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, Will, but you know I’m not a great parent.”
“Because you’re not a parent!”
“But I have to be! I’ve got to start acting like it, or – Every time Dawn feels unwanted, she does something desperate. She runs away. She steals. She lies down in front of a damn train like a 1920s damsel. I need her to feel wanted, seen, or best case scenario she’ll fall for the first guy who ticks those boxes.”
Buffy laid down on the bed. Willow laid beside her and held her hand. “You’re not doing this on your own. Xander and I, heck, even Dean and Sam, are here for you. If Dawn feels like she’s not loved, that’s on all of us, not just you.”
There were days that Buffy felt like the Universe was out to get her – usually the days when something declared its intentions to grind her bones to dust – but other days she felt like she was the luckiest girl in the world. Willow made her feel the latter. She was so engrossed in hugging her coparenting friend, she didn’t hear the heavy boots coming down the hall.
“Am I too early for the lingerie pillow fight?” Dean joked, his face lighting up over whatever fantasy popped in his head upon finding his girlfriend and her best friend hugging in bed.
Willow rolled her eyes and headed for the door.
“I don’t think she likes me very much,” Dean said, as he slid on the bed next to Buffy.
“She likes you. She doesn’t know what to do with you.” While Willow thought Dean was good for Buffy, she was a little put off by his swagger and charm. What Buffy called adorable, Willow called, “Reminiscent of guys who made me do their homework or get shoved in a locker.”
“You know girls don’t have pillow fights in their lingerie, right?”
“Yeah, I’m not a complete idiot.”
“Xander was devastated when he found out.”
Nestled in his arms, she tried to clear her mind, focusing on the tha-thump of his heartbeat.
They hadn’t seen each other since the morning they took down the handsy, mind-controlling demon. The morning she’d found him trembling and silently weeping in the shower. They hadn’t talked about it, their list of issues already too long. She wasn’t eager to see Sam, and Dean wasn’t eager to leave his side; so they hashed out their problems over the phone. The lying. The hiding. The uncertainty. The shame. She’d wanted to be in his arms the entire time. Wanted to feel the heat of his skin on hers as she got lost in his perfect mouth. Maybe the phone was better. Nothing to distract her other than the rumble of his voice.
He kissed her head, sighing happily when she pulled out her ponytail so he could play with her hair unimpeded. No, touching was better than the phone.
“Am I too early? Thought we could have dinner, but if you got a thing planned with Willow–”
“No, you’re perfect.”
Ghosting his fingers up her back he asked, “What’s got you down?”
“Just life stuff and growing up things.”
“Life stuff just keeps comin’, but you can tell the growing up things to fuck off.”
“Is that what you do?”
“I hold on to what happiness I can, age be damned.”
An image popped into her head of Dean flirting with blonde coeds at bars across the country. She sat up, examining her smiling boyfriend in the dim light. “Do you like my shirt?”
“Yeah…You don’t usually – hello.”
He lost his train of thought when Buffy shut the door and stripped down to her thong. She shimmied into a baby blue halter and mini skirt she hadn’t worn since high school. For added effect, she grabbed another elastic and quickly put her hair in pigtails. “How about now? Do I look pretty?”
Dean grinned like an idiot, lust in his eyes and a noticeable bulge in his jeans. “Buffy, you always look pretty.”
Undeterred, she stripped again, this time redressing in khakis and an oversized cream sweater. “How about now?”
Dean squinted at her, more curious than aroused. “If I keep saying you look pretty, are you going to keep changing outfits? I gotta confess, my favorite so far is the thong.” Pulling her back into his arms and gently kissing her neck, he asked, “What’s gotten into you?”
She still felt like she was cresting on a sea of troubles. Between Dawn and her nightmare visions, upcoming midterms and upcoming reviews, rehabbing Spike and all the words Dean struggled to say, she wasn’t sure how long she could paddle.
His confession still rang in her ears; the future neither of them felt they could touch worried her. They used protection – most of the time, but it couldn’t possibly be enough. “I went to the clinic yesterday. I go back Monday to pick up my birth control.”
He didn’t flinch. “That’s good. Smart.”
“I thought if my options were pills or no sex, the answer was obvious. Because I can’t. I just can’t. Not as The Slayer. That always comes first.”
“I know. I know, Buffy. We really don’t have to talk about this. It was just a weird dream. I have another dream where I’m playin’ guitar for The Stones, but you don’t see me taking lessons, do you?”
But that’s not your favorite dream, she thought. “Okay.” She snuggled into Dean’s shoulder, closing her eyes while he rubbed her back.
“The miniskirts and halter tops are going to Goodwill.”
“Tell me you’re at least keepin’ the cheerleader uniform.”
“Dawn cut that to pieces a couple weeks ago.”
“Damn it, Dawn!” The joke fell flat. As much as they wanted to return to normal, it would take more than one morning of desperate sex and a week of phone calls.
“So I had an idea, and – never mind.” His voice was almost shy.
“Are you trying to kill me with curiosity? Spill!”
“Okay, you said Halloween is a monster no show, an’ I was thinkin’ you and me need to spend some time together. Maybe it would help if we didn’t do it here? Maybe we could get outta town for Halloween?”
Vacation together? Giddiness bubbled inside her, making her lightheaded. “That is the best idea! Where should we go?”
He shrugged and smiled, clearly pleased she liked his idea. “Wherever you want, Girly.” And for the first time in a week, he kissed her.
Spike didn’t remember much about the night Buffy – the real Buffy – saved him from the basement and the constant press of her – the pushy, judgemental Buffy in his mind. Or was she not part of his mind? Creature or hallucination, it had not visited him since he moved into Xander’s.
No one smiled at him. No one said they were happy to see him. Xander shoved him in a closet now called a bedroom only to kick him to the couch later. Dawn threatened to burn him in his sleep.
Buffy told him to get better then left.
He tried. Small flashes of humanity awoke in him. He began to read poetry again, Keats mainly. He slept too much, especially for a vampire who didn’t need to sleep at all. He didn’t need to eat either, but he tried making food, doing something human. Xander complained about the unwashed dishes.
Xander complained about everything from the time he got home to sunset when Spike would disappear into the night. Spike couldn’t blame him. Buffy was lucky enough to have surrounded herself with good friends, people who loved her. He remembered what it was like to have a pack, a family. When someone hurt one of the group, they hurt the entire group.
He thought over his apology a thousand times, but nothing worked. What could he possibly say to make it right?
Through the trees, Spike watched Buffy, kneeling by the fresh grave, stake ready. Between the moonlight shining on her hair, turning it a pale gold and her white lace shirt, she had an overall angelic appearance.
He recited to himself:
“Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain,
Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies;
Without that modest softening that enhances
The downcast eye, repentant of the pain
That its mild light creates to heal again.”
She was alone. In his hundred plus years as a vampire, he’d never met anyone as capable as her. Still, he worried. The Hellmouth was rumbling and It was watching. He wasn’t sure what It was, but the phrase filled his nightmares, like a whisper from unseen lips. It was coming for her.
“Nice night for star-gazing,” he said, emerging from his hiding spot.
Buffy glared at him before turning her face to the stars and grinning a small, private grin. “Not with you.”
“Flattered you’d even think of it.”
“This is two nights in a row, Spike. Are you stalking me again?”
“Coincidence, not shenanigans, I swear. Nothing wrong with a man getting out for some fresh air.”
“You. Don’t. Breathe.”
“Cut a guy some slack, alright? I’ve just been out, hoping to run into some sort of nasty to kill, and twice now I’ve seen you all alone.” He licked his lips, taking in the curve of her legs, the thump of her pulse. “Rare sight these days. Makes the mind wonder.”
A couple nights back, the Winchesters had shown up at Xander’s for poker. Spike had made himself scarce, but when he returned, Xander was tipsy and chatty. Spilled a few of Dean’s secrets, including that he and Buffy were back together. So went the rumor, but Spike had watched her patrol every night this week and yet to see so much as a bowleg of the cowboy.
She turned her attention back to the grave; he wasn’t even worth keeping an eye on. Like he was a feeble old man cat-calling young women. Rage flooded him, but he tried to swallow it. He wanted to talk with her; his demon wasn’t invited. Sitting beside her on the grass, his white-knuckled fists shoved in his pockets, he tried conversation.
“We didn’t get much of a chance to chat yesterday. You doing all right?”
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye yet said nothing.
Fill for me a brimming bowl
And in it let me drown my soul:
But put therein some drug, designed
To Banish Women from my mind.
“‘Aven’t seen your boy toy in a bit. His arm ever ‘eal?”
“Dean’s not any of your business,” she said quietly.
In vain! away I cannot chace
The melting softness of that face…
Had she but known how beat my heart,
And with one smile reliev’d its smart
A ring-bedecked hand broke ground.
“Really? Tall, dark and doofy rolls into town, sweeps you off your feet then drops you. Who catches you? I do.”
Buffy glared at him. “Nice fiction you wrote there. Should have gotten it fact checked though. If I need catching, I do it.” Her staccato words drummed against him. “Besides, we’re doing fine.”
The vampire pushed herself from her grave before zeroing in on Buffy as her first snack. They circled each other, the vampire oblivious to her mouse-like state.
Spike took a few steps back to watch the slaughter. “Right. Right. Well, I guess you’re only a few months in. Your relationships don’t usually start cracking up until six months. Marked my calendar for a full implosion in March.”
Yanking the new vampire back by her hair, Buffy plunged the stake into her heart. “You need a hobby,” she said, brushing off the dust and walking deeper into the graveyard.
“I need a friend, Buffy!” The words tumbled out of him like a sickness he need to expel. “How do you expect me to be a bloody person when none of the living, breathing people I know want to be around me? It’s not like this was recent! I’ve been dead over a hundred years, and I don’t remember.”
Buffy stopped in her tracks. For the thousandth time, she reminded herself that she never asked Spike to hunt down his soul. Never promised him her affection. You don’t have to rehab the man who tried to rape you.
She turned to face him, the vampire who for the longest time was the only person who understood her, the only person who could look at her darkness and not run away screaming.
“What was the long term here? You did the Hell gauntlet to get your soul. I’m not going to act like that’s nothing, but that’s huge for you. Did you think that would make me love you?”
His clenched jaw and firm brow softened. “It’s a right bit more than flowers. Has lover boy even done that?”
Buffy sighed. She refused to be a prize. “Spike, I’m glad you got your soul back, but you could give me the freaking moon – or, uh, something more pocket-sized – and that doesn’t mean I have to love you. I’ve made my choice.”
“I see that! You think I’m blind?” he scoffed.
She crossed her arms and stared at him. “Why are you following me?”
He sucked in his cheeks and looked at the grass. “I need a friend, Buffy. Got this ball of humanity burning in me and no one to share it with.”
“Spike, I can’t–”
“Look, I know the Love Boat set sail without us. I know you’re all about the new shiny, but it’s not like I can start things up again with the vamps I used to run with or, ‘ell, do bloody speed dating. I’m lonely.”
The vulnerability of his declaration hit her like an ocean wave, knocking her over and cooling her in one swift blow. In a near whisper, she said, “If things were different in my life right now, I - I’d help you. But I’m barely treading water here. Dawn’s having problems –”
“What’s wrong?” He perked with interest.
“Teenage melodrama. She’s overreacting to a bunch of stuff, but I can’t keep ignoring the big ugly feelings driving her there.”
“Maybe I could –”
Buffy shook her head. “You’re not one of Dawn’s favorite people anymore.”
Spike nodded, neither of them wanting to name Dawn’s reason. “So this isn’t about what’isname?”
“You know his name.” She started walking toward the middle of the graveyard where Dean was waiting for another vampire to rise, their fourth that night.
Spike followed. “Doesn’t mean I like saying it.”
“You should go. Dean’s not exactly pro-Spike.”
Spike shrugged, his lips pursed in a devil-may-care pout.
Standing by a disturbed grave, Dean ran his hands through his hair, his face soft with child-like worry. “I got some poofy on me,” he complained as Buffy walked up.
She traced her fingers over a swelling red mark on his jaw. “You’re bruised.”
“Lucky hit.” He bit his lip and gazed at her, the danger around him vanished in her orbit.
So Xander hadn’t been lying. Buffy was back in the semi-injured arms of the man Spike had saved from certain death only a week before. Didn’t get so much as a thank you, he grumbled to himself. I deserve at least a fucking fruit basket.
Spike flicked his lighter, took a drag on his cigarette while leaning against an angel statue, and glared at them through the smoke. “You two are nauseating, like a couple of rutting teenagers.”
To Spike’s satisfaction, all the doe-eyed adoration drained from Dean’s face as he tensed his jaw and glared. “Why the fuck are you here?”
Buffy stood between them, her hands pushing against Dean’s chest. “He’s not here to cause trouble. He’s – he’s patrolling.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, seriously! You don’t ‘ave the market cornered on do-goodery,” Spike groused.
But Dean wasn’t being sarcastic or doubting Spike’s intentions. Dean looked…impressed. “That Sluggoth demon wasn’t a one-time thing? You do this every night?”
Spike took another drag and shrugged. “It’s this or listen to Xander and Anya’s cycle of shout and shag.”
“Xander and Anya what?” Buffy asked, more than a little excited to hear the gossip.
“You didn’t know? She was still scared of D’Hoffryn after moving out of your place, so she moved in with the ex. (Means I’ve been sleeping on the couch, by the by.) They argue. They fuck. Like normal people.”
“Was that the last poofy?” Dean asked, ready to move on.
“For this graveyard,” Buffy replied with a sigh.
Curious, Spike flicked his ash and straightened up. “You got a lot of ‘em?”
Buffy pulled a half dozen slips of paper from her pocket. “It’s like playing Whack-a-Mole… Stake-a-Fang?”
“You hear anything about an influx of poofies?” Dean asked him.
“Yeah, my mates an’ I all get together for knitting parties and chat ‘bout which neighborhoods to turn first.”
Dean took the papers from Buffy and handed two to Spike. “Obits for some freshly dead in a graveyard across town. Probably freshly undead by now.”
Spike curled his lip in disgust. “I don’t take orders from you.”
Snatching the obituaries from Dean, Buffy slapped them in Spike’s palm. “Help or go away.”
Shoving the slips in his coat pocket, Spike said, “She could teach you a thing or two about commandering.”
Hand in hand, Buffy and Dean walked past him.
He followed a few feet behind them, taking in the way she brushed his arm, the way he grinned at her, smitten. When Buffy smiled at Dean, she looked content and peaceful, that unicorn smile Spike had always chased.
Part of Spike wanted to vomit, expel the poison of loving someone who won’t love you back. A darker part of him wanted to pummel the cover model, see what new shape he could make that pretty face. But most of him was heartbroken for Buffy. She wanted so badly to fit in with normal people that she kept latching on to men like Captain Cardboard who hit the road the moment things got hard. Dean may have put up with an arrow through the shoulder, but he didn’t know what the Hellmouth could spit out.
Or maybe he did.
“You left Xander right shitfaced the other night,” said Spike, catching up to them. “Chatty little bird too. Told me all sorts of goodies ‘bout you. ‘E said you’re a long-time fighter; got into it when your mum was killed. ‘E said angels – actual bloody winged holier-than-thous – moved you ‘ere not just from the future, but from a different dimension. Tallest tale I ever ‘eard.”
“How is this you helping fight vampires?” Buffy asked. “Did we get a different training video?”
“I’m sticking my neck out. Only right I get to know who for,” Spike replied.
Dean stopped and looked at Spike, inspected him head to toe; the intensity of his gaze unsettling. “You’re doing this for Buffy.”
Good answer. Spike shifted his weight, leaning into the hunter. “An’ who do you do it for? And you can’t steal my answer because we all know you were getting rough and ugly with demons long before Buffy.”
Dean smiled, his eyes cold, his tongue caught between his teeth. “Hey, Buffy, you mind waiting by the car?”
Skeptical eyebrow raised, her eyes darted between her boyfriend and her ex. “I’ll wait over there,” she said, pointing toward the road, “but I’m not letting you two out of my sight.”
When she was out of earshot, Dean said, “What’s your problem, fang-face?”
“My problem?” Spike laughed.
“I heard all about your stalking game. She doesn’t want to be with you, dude. Back off.” There was bite in Dean’s voice.
“I know that,” Spike said quietly, looking away as he took another drag. “After what I did…I tried to be a better man, but it was too late for us. I can’t go back in time to sort it all out. It is what it is.”
“So what’s with the lurking?”
“One, vampire. We don’t prance an’ twirl about. Advanced lurking is sort of the game.”
Dean crossed his arms and rolled his eyes.
“My problem’s you,” said Spike darkly. Being moved to a Hellmouth couldn’t be a Heavenly reward for a job well done, so either Dean was being punished, or he was hiding from something big. Neither option would be good for Buffy.
“Again, she doesn’t want to be with–”
“I know!” shouted Spike. “Don’t need to ‘ear it a thousand times. Look at us. You see a theme? Buffy’s a nice girl with a thing for the bad boys, for men who hurt her.”
Dean stepped back like he’s been slapped. “You think I’m going to hurt her? You know she could beat the shit out of me right?”
“Not that kind of ‘urt, you git.” It is watching. “Buffy and I ‘ave ‘istory. It’s ugly and bloody and bloody beautiful. I went from wanting to kill ‘er to wanting to make sure she was alright. I went from delighting in killing Slayers to getting my soul back for one. She’s a ‘ell of a woman.
“The tight spot is that regardless of ‘ow she feels about me, I will always love Buffy. Always. I know she doesn’t love me, never did. I was the low point in the low point in ‘er life. She’s picked ‘erself out of the gutter and moved on, but I will always want the best for ‘er. I’d like to think that’s me, but I’m barely functional with a soul. Maybe you’re that something better, with your weird super strength and machete skills. What’s the story there anyway?”
Dean continued to silently stare at the vampire.
“Anyway, I’m not plannin’ to move in on your territory. I’m just keepin’ an eye out like I always ‘ave. None of the yahoos around her understand the weight of what she’s carrying. Besides, there are dark days coming. I can smell it on the wind.”
“You can smell it on the wind? Come on, dude, that sounds lame,” Dean chuckled.
“Laugh all you want, lover boy, but I’ve seen it. I’m not talking everyday dark an’ ghoulies. Ancient evil. That which maims and burns until the entire world is ash, and it has set its sights on your girl.
“Xander said you’ve been doing this most of your life, crisscrossing the country to fight ghoulies and spooks, but nothing you’ve seen compares to the shit the ‘ellmouth spits out. Think you’re ready for that?”
“More than,” said Dean with a growl.
Spike had to admit, the man had fire, but wasn’t his whole life on the road just another form of running away? “So did the others, but they ran off, left ‘er alone as soon as the map said ‘’Ere be dragons.’ Let’s hope when the time comes, you’re at least ‘alf the man she thinks you are.”
“That ain’t me.”
“Let’s ‘ope not.” Spike tossed the butt of his cigarette at Dean’s feet and disappeared into the night.