Chapter Eighteen

She should have been okay with it. After spending the night wrapped up in Spike’s arms, his kisses nudging her into happy dreams, she should have felt safety in the knowledge that she had him back—that she was fine. But seeing it happen right in front of her made her realise how far from fine she really was.

Time had passed so slowly since Buffy had found herself back in the bosom of her friends, her renewed life so confusing amongst all the new players in her town—as well as her home. And magic! So much magic floating around her head that she could barely breathe above water anymore. And yet it had all taken a backseat—all the pain and confusion of being in a place she wasn’t meant to be—while she broke inside at Spike’s reaction to her.

The love of her friends had been a given, something she’d been able to just know, accept and move on without having to worry about, confident they would always be there. Spike had been a new need in her life before her death. He’d been a new certainty that the sudden appearance of an alternate self in her home had robbed from her. Too many days she had dragged herself out of bed, hoping that this would be the one where recognition would flash in his eyes and he would take her into his arms and kiss all her fears away. She desperately needed it. Without that reassurance that she was as much the same to him as before she died, she was adrift.

Buffy felt so selfish. It had happened last night. Not so much with the recognising but he’d declared himself hers—only to leave first thing this morning with Anne. Walked straight out her front door with the wrong slayer. The wrong Buffy. It hurt so much and even though something way down inside screamed that it was irrational, another little devil whispered harshly in her ear that she could easily lose him. That too much time had passed for him in the presence of the other one that looked like her, but was younger and still impressionable.

The other her wasn’t broken; Anne was still strong and a warrior. She’d not given in to the death wish like Buffy had—not revealed her weak streak to the one man that made her feel strong. No, Anne was whole; the younger slayer had been busily living her life, and attempting to capture the one true heart of the vampire line. And Buffy was so not okay with that that she ached.

So, as slow as events had been filtering through her mind since her return, now this tiny triumph of having Spike in her arms seemed to speed everything up. And as she watched the rapid fast-forward of time, she felt the tug of loss as he left her for the determined Anne. There was no way that Anne wasn’t going to capitalise on the time she’d engineered alone with him—remind him of her kiss, her potential, her youth and healthy outlook on life. Remind him that he had a choice of Buffy’s—and that she wasn’t the damaged one.

Spike leaving her was an image that was so clear, so gutting that it brought Buffy to her knees, tears she’d tried to hide from all the others wet and furious on her cheeks. Her body shook with the effort to hold in the pain, to hold in the lies and secrets so she didn’t blow it. Didn’t lose every chance she ever had of having what she wanted.

What she needed.

So it was that no matter how she argued with herself that Anne couldn’t take him, that Spike had loved her first and kissed her first, it was an impossible battle to tamp down her grief.

He’d taken Anne training, given up his time to the other girl he’d kissed only last night, the unpleasant memory sending Buffy into a tailspin beyond her control. She’d thought she’d won, that their talk on the porch had led him to finally accept her arms, even if the offer was only something new in her heart. But then he’d left, and Buffy couldn’t forget the devastation of seeing him kiss a girl who looked like her, was in all intents and purposes her, but so wasn’t. The memory of her own shared kisses with him, the whispered words of affection in bed through the night, the safety of his embrace faded into mere nothingness as the kiss bestowed on the one that wasn’t her ate at her and became much larger than life.

Buffy slumped against her bedroom door, feelings of pain and uselessness depriving her of the drive that got her out of here each day, that made her look close enough to the normal Buffy for everyone not to pick up on the despair that was fighting to cripple her every waking moment. Her nights were spent in cold sweats—until Spike had held her and fought away her demons.

She couldn’t let it out, hearing the soft faraway voices of her friends as they sat in her mother’s bedroom and talked. Willow still shivering in withdrawal, Xander comforting her with funny anecdotes that Buffy didn’t have the energy to hear. They discussed her changing feelings for Spike. She could hear them as they laughed happily, their joy in having her back affecting the way they reacted to her interest in Spike.

Acceptance should have suffused her with relief. Should have been just what she needed to lift her body up from the floor and find her way to her friends, being warm and cosy in their love for her and recognition of what she needed. Being happy they’d managed to see Spike in a new light while she was gone.

Being happy that Spike had let down his guard and been truthful about himself while she was gone. He’d shed the bad boy image, the deadly vampire persona that wanted them all drained, and shown them his heart. Now they repaid him with familiarity—and their trust.

And Buffy felt too weak to thank them for it.

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

 

Recovery was slow, second only to the dread Willow felt seeping through her body. Her fears were numerous, and turned her back into that unconfident Willow that Buffy had bumped into when she’d first started at Sunndyale. The one craving acceptance even though she hadn’t known it; had thought having Xander alongside her was enough.

For the first time she was afraid of magic—afraid of her potential and how power could completely rip from her all the things she cared about. Tara was an obvious focus, her gut churning at every disappointed and worried look Tara threw at her. Every uncertain glance pushed Willow into a frenzy of terror, wondering if this was the second the blonde wiccan would say she couldn’t cope with more. Would announce her intention to help, but no longer to love.

Like any healthy red-blooded human, she was terrified of the monsters that had taken up residence in her town. Again, her fault through her overconfidence with magic. So many problems in their little Scooby lives could be traced back to her, and the knowledge of what she’d done to them all was an ice cold slap of reality that had Willow submitting to uncontrollable shakes. She’d come up against herself and won—well, sort of. She’d not been vamped by her own face, and that had to be a win, didn’t it? She’d faced an oversupply of evil power and had made the decision to purge herself of its effects. That got her brownie points in Heaven, right?

And then there was Anne, a superfluous slayer that was causing her best friend a world of pain and confusion, simply because someone other than her had done the freaky-memory-spell-thing to Spike.

Willow was suddenly spurred on by a moment of gratitude and guilt so great that she twisted her aching body far enough to slip her feet to the floor. She’d allowed Spike and his lack of memory to slide. Allowed Buffy to go on hurting from his indifference. Her eyes fell to the pile of open books in the corner and vague memories of Tara muttering over them while she was bed bound flitted through her memory and she smiled. It was a watery smile, but it meant something to know that despite Willow being sucked under by her own self-awareness, Tara remained the same. Concerned and devoted to everyone. Even a vampire with an involuntarily erased memory of the things that had driven him to such extreme grief.

It was going to be ugly when he remembered. Willow could sense it, along with the darkness that seemed to cloud the house lately. Knew without being told that when he remembered his existence without Buffy and then set eyes on her returned form, he could well break. A sense of self-preservation had the redhead flinching at the possibilities, but still she didn’t hide. Straightening her body as much as the pain would allow, Willow stood on her own two feet and walked like an old woman to the chair and the books. She needed to do this; needed to establish that she was still good in her heart and not the arrogant power hungry nerd that had almost created more pain than happiness.

Halfway across the floor there was a knock, Willow caught almost reaching out for the back of the chair to steady the rickety walk that had got her there.

“Come in,” she called, her voice raspy and weak despite the majority of power being dispersed into the atmosphere.

She felt too timorous to turn around. It couldn’t be Tara, her girlfriend having a presence in the room that was beyond invitation. That left too many others in the house, and Willow found herself dreading just about anyone. When the door hesitantly pushed inward, she was unable to hold back the weakened tentative smile that fell naturally to her lips as her oldest friend walked through it.

“Hey. Shouldn’t you be in bed?” Xander walked quickly to her side, holding Willow’s elbow as she began to wobble and finally managed to flop down into the chair, cringing when a book spine cracked under her weight.

“Oops?” she offered, her voice strangled in an effort to reclaim old Scooby familiarity.

“Hey, Giles will make you pay for that one,” he jibed, and then the absence of Giles and all it meant made them sombre and quiet.

Feeling more than a little awkward just hanging over Willow’s seated form, Xander swung over to the bed and took a load off. This was a weird way to start out a conversation, but it was better than nothing, and he was eager to see the real Willow break out of this mystery of evil oppression and get back to being the sweet geek he’d loved for years.

“So, you feeling a little more like you now?” He didn’t mean for it to sound callous, but typically, words fell asleep on his tongue and the substitutes sucked. Still, he cringed at the flash of guilt that dimmed the weak light in her eyes she was just starting to emit.

“Yeah, kinda, not so much, no. I’m still all with the jittery and nerves. But hey, that’s kinda Willowish, right?” She tried to flash a quirky past-Willow grin, and for the most part it worked, if you forgave the weariness and lack of naiveté that took away its softer edge.

Xander chuckled nervously. There was no handbook to guide him through this situation. Nothing in his upbringing to prepare him for how to communicate with a best friend who’d fallen into the depths of magical overdose. And he was slightly afraid of her, wondering if she was okay in herself now or if this was going to be a ‘regularly-scheduled-fall-off-the-wagon’ type of situation. Still, the Summers house was full of strange considerations these days and he needed to confide in someone. Who else but the one he’d shared all of his formative years with?

“So, how about that Spike!” He beamed for effect, trying to relay his confidence in the subject topic and cut back on his usual overwhelming need to add snark to the British undead’s character.

“Yeah.” That’s all she said, but Willow’s lips turned into a gentle and sincere smile and Xander knew that something monumental had changed over the last summer while Buffy was…wherever she was.

“I think Buffy kinda likes him.” Willow dropped the secret into the bubbling laugh of her friend and frowned. If that wasn’t a sign that she’d missed valuable gossip during her haze of the past days, nothing was.

“Oh yeah, think that’s a bit of a given. What with the pretty heavy macking that Ahn and I walked up on and the sharing of the room last night. Pretty sure the Buffster has found something in the Profoundly Peroxided Unevil Dead that all of us were slow to grasp.” Xander was stunned himself that he didn’t even feel the slightest twinge of animosity toward the new couple. Could even credit the little twig of a smile at his lips as something healthy and positive, happy that Buffy seemed to find peace in the vampires’ arms.

“Although not so slow, what with the suicide watches and stuff. I mean, if we hadn’t trusted him as much as we needed him, I doubt Giles would have fought so hard to make sure Spike stayed undusty. It’s not like we didn’t find another way to protect the Hellmouth.”

Xander cringed at that. The bot had done little but remind them of what they’d lost and then been scrap metal by the time Spike and his fit of insanity made them alter their thoughts and plans. And then they’d brought along Anne, and despite everything he still had to wonder at their mindset in doing that. Especially as it had brought its own boatload of trouble down on all of them.

“So, we’re okay with the Buffster making the friendlies with Formerly Evil Guy?” He was, he just felt like he needed to make sure he wasn’t the only one. And that he hadn’t suddenly gone insane when he’d dusted his own doppelganger. Although that was more than a remote possibility.

Willow looked like the shakes had a sudden urge to crack her bones from the inside, and it took her a moment to reply. By the time she did, there were tears in her eyes and she looked like things were getting dicey on the emotional front.

“She was in Hell, Xander. Do we have any right to condemn what makes her happy? Who makes her happy?”

All those arguments that should have been valid, all that hate that had simmered yet died in the face of Spike’s loyal protection during the summer that the one who might have been swayed by it was gone from them for good.

Unless you were Willow and couldn’t accept that death was the end.

“Yeah. I’m kinda glad that she can be happy. It doesn’t thrill me that it’s Captain Peroxide, but I guess we can’t prevent everyone’s mistakes, can we?”

“That’s deep with the acceptance, Xan. I think it will be okay. And if we can work out what this spell is that’s making him forget his history with Buffy, then…” Willow stopped, the feeling of nervousness at just contemplating spells making her feel sick to her stomach. It was too much, too soon and she just knew that Tara wouldn’t be so supportive of Willow even diving into magical research right now. Not when she hadn’t even had the chance to talk to her girlfriend about what had happened. Hadn’t had the chance to look into her eyes and see how far from Tara’s scale of right Willow had fallen.

The thought of losing the respect of her girlfriend tied her up in knots, but further having lost the gentle woman’s love for good just about did Willow in. The tears were closer, harder to hold back, and as much as Willow appreciated Xander’s desire to talk out his own acceptance of Spike, she just couldn’t do it anymore.

He left soon after.

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

 

Buffy had never thought she’d be able to sense a slayer the same way she could a vampire, but as Anne slowly came up the walk, the churning in her gut was something she couldn’t miss.

“Where’s Spike?” Buffy had been sitting at her back porch ever since the sun had gone down. Every second of her day had been spent in miserable contemplation of this girl who wore her face, who’d tasted her boyfriend’s lips, and what on earth Spike could be doing by spending the entire day with her.

Her conclusions hadn’t come up with anything good. Had instead fed her riotous heart a steady diet of conjecture and probable lies that she just couldn’t ignore. Buffy hated this; everything about this. She was alive when she should be dead. She had her double living in her house when her face should be the only one in this entire world. And her Spike couldn’t even remember all the little things about their history together. Not the hate, not the violence, not the change of his feeling into love, and not Buffy’s fervent wish at the end that it could be different. But he remembered every minute he had spent with Anne.

Everything about her was wrong, was too different for her to deal with and the very worst was that this arrogant little upstart was taking over her life—leather pants first, then friend. She’d taken over her Hellmouth with a cool confidence that Buffy couldn’t feel in her own bones anymore. It was so hard to feel anything but a need to see death, to retrieve finality from a vampire kill that she was achieving less and less with Anne on the scene. The only thing Buffy had thought she could have to herself was Spike’s love. Knowing how he loved—how he stayed devoted for a century if needed—it had come as quite a blow to find the intensity gone.

Desolved into a friendship with the other her. The younger, more serious and yet perky her. The her that was succeeding at Buffy’s own life while Buffy wasn’t even along for the ride. It tore raggedly at something so deep that it couldn’t heal, couldn’t do anything but weep and cry for the former slayer as she once was.

It made Buffy’s sense crumble and her actions sharp. Spurred on by whispered words of her own futility, Buffy was on her feet in a fit of irrational fury. She rushed the other slayer, her fists locked onto a surprised target and left her howling when she missed. Anne’s face was a picture of shock, her eyes huge and her feet well spaced, hands up ready for a fight that she’d never expected.

“Hey! What are you doing? I’m not the enemy.” Anne’s voice was high, frantic in her effort to calm down the woman Spike called his Buffy. The girl was seemingly deaf. Pleas for patience and time fell into an abyss that must have swallowed the original slayer’s control. It was getting harder to dodge the strikes, and when Buffy’s fist connected hard with Anne’s cheekbone, the newcomer felt ready to wage war. She didn’t come here for this. She wasn’t magicked into this world to fight a girl that was elementally herself.

Her wounded cry of disbelief awarded them an audience, Willow and Xander opening the bedroom window and staring in shock as Buffy lost control and tried to beat her doppelganger to a pulp.

Once her own control snapped, Anne attempted a flurry of kicks and punches, remembering what Spike had taught her about how to move, how to interpret the enemy. But Buffy was strong and experienced—and Anne was hurting. She felt rage swell and bang at her insides, screaming to be allowed to be let loose so she could rid this world of a resurrected slayer—give her back the chances at life that this one’s return had deprived her of. Spike; she could kill this Buffy and take back Spike. Commonsense flew out the window at every blunt contact of Buffy’s fist, every bruise compounded by Buffy’s kicks.

“I won’t let you,” Buffy screamed, her face red and ugly in her pain and fury. Her fists were bleeding, scraped against the skin of a girl. “You can’t have it all. This is MY life; he’s MY vampire. He loves me and I won’t let you take him. I need him.” Tears blurred Buffy’s target, but fuelled hatred still made her direction accurate. Frenzied blows crunching against bones knocked looser with each parry.

“Buffy!” called Xander, the horror in his voice missing its mark as Buffy seemed to not hear him, her eyes focused in deadly intent on her opponent. “Buffy, stop!” No impact.

Anne remained silent, locked on to the other’s rage and waiting for the moment she could strike and win—the one that never came. Not as she grew weaker and more broken. Not as she became more confused with knocks to the head and irrational accusations.

Sniffling and gasping for air, Buffy only saw herself, feeling satisfaction at each new flow of blood as she pummelled herself good. Her face, ugly and misplaced—taken from comfort and warmth. Pulled violently from love. She wanted it back and knew it could never be hers again. And even the one thing she thought she could rely on wasn’t hers. Didn’t even really know her. Revelations flew from her mouth, gasps and heartbreaking knowledge almost crippling the above-ground observers. Heaven. It was finally out and the pain still didn’t stop.

The expressions on the other lost its impact. The name of Anne was wiped from her mind as Buffy poured all the vitriol she felt into her attack. Hate at the world for calling her and making her responsible for it. Hate at the ones who thought it right to drag her back into it. Hate at whoever it was that had seen fit to take her Spike from her—who changed the world she’d existed in too much for her to find security.

No, she didn’t see Anne at all now. Only herself—and failure. And this was what tired her fists and body and allowed her to back away, barely recognising the slumped body now crimson with blood. Panting heavily, Buffy stood back and screamed, the pain and emptiness finally finding release. It exploded from her body like a violent wave and she slumped on the ground exhausted and wailing like a tortured animal, holding out her battered and torn hands. Fresh blood dripped from cuts that she didn’t notice, couldn’t feel as her heart broke and split apart.

When she finally lifted her eyes to see the crumpled and rasping Anne, guilt stayed absent and her resentment refuelled its fire. “You want it all? You have Dawn, my friends, and Spike. You even took my job. You can have it all, just kill me. Send me back to where I was, where I won’t have to see it anymore.” Buffy stopped, sobs building painfully in her throat as the revulsion rushed through her. Shaking hands raised around her own throat, squeezing tighter against the moans she couldn’t stop on her own.

And then the one thing she didn’t want impressed upon her. Comfort and warmth—Anne’s arms as she attempted to stop the panic and share her own grief. It took being Buffy to really understand the pain and anguish of being what she was. Not having died wasn’t a barrier that Anne found difficult to breach. The wanting of peace lived alongside a slayer every day she breathed. She may never have passed into that veil of quiet, but she’d wanted it on more than one occasion. She just hadn’t completely given up yet. And Anne had more than one motive to help this Buffy. Being herself was important, and she liked to hope that if the situation were reversed, she’d care enough to save herself.

“I could never take what is yours, Buffy. I would never want to. I want things of my own. I’m not here to replace you. I’m here to protect you.” And then her own pain choked her voice and she squeezed another admission passed dry lips. “And Spike wants you. Not me. You. Don’t let him go.” With a final squeeze, Anne struggled to her feet, grimacing in agony as her bones ground against each other, and made it slowly up the steps and into the house.

“But he kissed you.” It was a whisper and Anne was already gone so couldn’t argue against it, but the reminder brought fresh sobs to Buffy’s heart. They may have made progress the previous night, but Buffy wasn’t secure. Not when they’d snuggled and then he’d raced away to spend the day with Anne. Not when everything was so uncertain and nothing was the same.

Willow dug her nails into Xander’s arm, her weakened body shaking as tears poured freely down her cheeks. To be witness, to know the faults of what they’d done—of what Buffy had been concealing behind hesitant smiles and eager participation in group time—was too much for the recovering redhead and she fell back from the window with a whimper, the barest sound making Buffy aware finally of her audience.

The truth was out and she winced, her body trembling as she slowly looked up, caught Xander’s horrified realisation before turning and continued sobbing into the cup of her hands.

The fight hadn’t released her from the pain—instead, it gave her more to feel guilty about. Spilled her secret for all.

And still Spike wasn’t home.

 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

 

Long, narrow, cold, shallow. It crept in on all sides, squeezing and confining until it pushed him through by power of mystical hatred rather than his own legs. The friendless jag of rock extended further, almost pulsing with evil as the thing bounced against its walls, leaving bloodied handprints against the cold stone. There was nothing else, no other physical presence to explain the rush of escape, but the animosity and purpose behind the pursuer didn’t need physicality. Didn’t need anything but outrage and the origins of pure evil.

And the cavern never got any wider.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Her flesh had felt familiar, though her name conjured no joy of memory. Buffy; being with her last night had felt new even though she said it wasn’t. Well, not that they’d been a couple—no spell could have made him forget that, even if he had been adrift in the horrors of loss. But it wasn’t like he’d never had her in his arms before. She’d told him of the moment, long before when they’d been tricked into love by a spell. It just reminded him that someone was playing Russian roulette with his memories. With his life.

He bloody hated magic. Could remember the one big spell he’d attempted in order to get Dru back to strength. That had gone beautifully, even if he had somehow managed to set the place on fire and then got himself caught under a massive bitch of an organ. Broke his back up good, crippling him in body but not mind. Yeah, that spell had had consequences too. Dru being an unfaithful bint for one. Yeah, bloody hated magic, and when he found out who was jerking him around this time they’d lose their oversized head. Of that he was bleeding certain and determined.

He’d been too distracted through training. It wasn’t fair to Anne, and he’d barely had enough grace to not wax lyrical on the virtues of his newly realised Buffy love, but he still had been unable to focus on the younger slayer for any length of time. He gathered enough wit to show her the moves, then got lost in his automatic response to her efforts. It was a wonder she hadn’t flattened him, but even if she had managed to knock him unconscious, he’d only dream of Buffy.

He’d finally sent her packing when the urges of his body to get back to Buffy became too much and he needed space to calm himself down. Fighting always revved him up, even now when he couldn’t attack so much as defend. Still, he was helping Anne. Even in his distracted state he could see the improvement of her moves. Could see the slow filtering of improvisation in the way she now fought. He felt good that he might have helped to keep her alive. Who knew how long she’d last back in that pretend world that had been created around her existence? Her days had been numbered already; now she could live as long as Buffy.

That thought nosedived in his gut and Spike felt the crippling sensation of grief. He hadn’t so much cared at the time—when this resurrected Buffy had quietly reclaimed her home—but now he felt the stab of pain as if it were new. Right, wasn’t good to be thinking of slayers in the past tense then. Time to move on.

Sending Anne home ahead of him, Spike let ideas float around in his head and wondered what he could do for the woman he was being told was the love of his life. Not that he didn’t believe it. There was something there—something that soaked through his skin and branded him besotted. Something that reminded him he had a heart and that it broke quite spectacularly on occasion. Yet as hard as he struggled, no image matched the feeling and he was left feeling bereft that something so meaningful had been callously stolen from him.

He wanted it back.

Buffy consumed every part of him now. Just the events of one night—the acceptance of one night—and he was a mushy puppy that wanted to race home and get petted and snuggled till he purred. No wait, animal metaphor mix up. Spike smiled, and continued strolling through the night. The streets were still active—not everyone aware yet that numbers of dead were escalating. Sunnydale had always hung onto their rights to the night through a perverse need to be in control, even though it often meant they lost their pulse. Spike marvelled at their guts—and shook his head at their stupidity. No point being a martyr if it just got you dead.

Still, he whistled as he passed the shopfronts, pausing at an attractive flower display before continuing on his way. A delayed image of Buffy holding a bouquet of yellow roses tickled his fancy and he backtracked to buy them.

“Bloody hell you’re a git, William.” Yet he was smiling and admiring them, for the first time retiring his instincts for the night and admitting to himself he was slipping slowly into love. And it felt good. Really good. Unlike the fully functional Willow that vamped out as she blocked his path and the beefy minion that hemmed him in at his back.

The redhead looked him up and down, coming last to the bunch of flowers that were held tightly in his fist.

“Awwww, is Spike in wuv with the widdle slayer?” Her smirk had a touch of insanity that blurred her lips and Spike felt a start of doom. This is what it was like to let your heart free and take the risk. It bit you in the ass every time. He could smell the danger in the air, knew that something was about to go down, and he’d sent Anne home. With weapons. All he had on him was a useless bunch of petals and they wouldn’t do anything—not even make the bitch look pretty.

“Well lookie who it is. The Master’s little fucktoy. How does the old codger make his mouth so grapelike? You got a fruity flavoured pussy?”

Her expression soured immediately and Spike fought the urge to bolt, not liking his chances of getting too far. Yet, sometimes that was the only option you had.

Spike threw the flowers in her face, wishing he had just one stake in his jeans pocket. He punched her hard in the face and swivelled to take a shot at the minion she’d brought along. He went down with an effortless thud and Spike decided to make a run for it. He didn’t get far, a forceful thud against the back of his skull knocking him to his knees and then out.

His last thought before darkness became his world was that such pretty yellow flowers clashed violently with the vamp’s red hair.

They’d suited Buffy much better.