Chapter Text
Spike kept a wary eye on the sky as he drove to Dawn's flat. He'd been in training the last year or so, and managed to get his sun-tolerance up to 96 seconds, enough usually so he could dash to some sort of shelter before conflagration. Pushing the vampire envelope– if he survived long enough, he'd work on that stake thing.
He parked illegally in the alley beside Dawn's flat, and then moved at a deliberate pace to her front door, just daring a sunbeam to break through the piles of clouds above. He wasn't going to let Buffy look through the window and see him dashing like a frightened rabbit down the path.
Once that wouldn't have bothered him– hey, vampire here, sun allergy, big f-in' deal– but... but it had been so long since he had seen her. And he couldn't help but want her to see him strong, capable, all that. Getting better. Making his own way. Surviving without her.
She was pacing the rug in Dawn's tiny front parlor, but stopped when she saw him. Her face brightened, and something twisted inside his chest. So many years he'd waited for that, for her just to look happy to see him. And now, just when he was making some progress away, there it was, finally, that bright face, that welcome greeting.
He held her off, kept the kiss friendly. She was with Angel, after all, and he was with Faith, whatever that meant. So he said, "So I'm here. What do you want to do?"
She gave him a look from under her lashes. The kind of look he'd better ignore. The kind of look that felt like a stake in his heart. She wanted sex. Like nothing had changed. Like he had a function and she suddenly remembered what it was.
He looked away from her, out the window to the gray day beyond. "Sightseeing? Museums? What?"
Her brows drew together. She wanted him to figure out what she wanted so she wouldn't have to say it. But he wasn't going to play that game. He'd gotten too accustomed to Faith– bold Faith, who actually said out loud what it was she wanted. Usually.
Finally Buffy said in a small voice, "Shopping. I don't have anything for this type of weather."
It was still overcast, and he was feeling lucky. So he walked with her the few blocks to Harrods, not even bothering to stay in the shadows of the buildings. When she saw the vastness of the shop, she was happy again, holding onto his arm and exclaiming at the racks of raincoats. They took cream tea in the restaurant on the fourth floor, and Buffy laughed and smiled and told him all about the classes she was taking and the new friends she had and the consulting she was doing for the LA police department. And then, suddenly, she reached across the table and took his hand.
"How are you, Spike?" she asked earnestly. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," he said. And when she insisted on elaboration, he gave her an edited version of his life (editing out Faith, at least Faith as a lover), complete with his twice-weekly tourist walks, his theatre afternoons with Dawn, and his Slayerette training, and the writing, of course.
"Are you... well, seeing anyone?"
He shrugged. "Sure."
Her face fell, and she took a deep breath and said bravely, "Is she nice?"
He thought of Faith, and smiled. "Nah. Not usually. Wouldn't know what to do with a nice lady, would I?"
Bad choice of words. She kicked him under that table– hard, with slayer strength and Buffy boots– and they ended up laughing together as he rubbed at the bruise.
The moment of amity didn't last. His cellphone rang, and it was Angel, demanding to know what was going on.
Spike was evil, or at least remembered being evil, and his shin still ached from Buffy's pointy toe. So he said, "Hang on a mo," and passed the phone across the table.
Buffy's face tensed. She drew a deep breath before talking, and then she said, "Hi." She didn't wait for his questions, just went on with her explanation. "Sorry I left without warning. I just had to get away for a while."
After a moment, she said, "Sure. Let's meet at Dawn's."
Then she thrust the phone at Spike. "Tell him how to get to Dawn's from your place."
Okay. Well, first he had to direct Angel to paper and pen (on the desk, right next to the hard copy of the sequel, but maybe Angel wouldn't notice that), and then work out in his head the number of tube stops until Angel said impatiently, "Look, I'll take a cab. Just give me the address."
"You got enough British money? Some of the taxis don't take credit cards. I keep a tenner in the sugar cannister in the kitchen–"
"Don't worry about it. Just give me the goddamned address."
He did worry– Angel had been in LA for so long, he'd forgotten what transport was like in a real city. But he recited the address (and a few suggestions for the best route, which the cabbie ought to know, but just in case), and rang off to find Buffy watching him.
"He's not so easy to take care of, is he?" she said. She was smiling a sad smile.
"Neither are you." He didn't know why he said it, except that it was true. He'd spent two years trying, and she never really let him do what he did best.
She was startled, and then laughed. "Yeah. I think that's part of our problem. We aren't any good at needing each other." And then, sobering, she said, "Not sure what that means."
He couldn't speak, because something struck him with the force of revelation. The epiphany was gone almost as soon as it hit, and he stared at her, willing it back. Something about ... he shook his head, hard, trying to clear it. For just a second there, he knew why she'd never loved him back. And now all he knew is that... that she never would. Not why. Only–
But she was smiling at him, putting her hand on his, and tracing his knuckle with a fingernail, and he couldn't think– lost whatever thought he'd had. Dangerous. He wasn't good at thinking in the best of situations, and Buffy'd always disordered his thoughts even more. He withdrew his hand and stood. "Best get going. Angel'll have to be waiting outside Dawn's– and who knows, the sun could come out."
Just his luck. The sun stayed behind the clouds– well, it was London, what did he expect– and Angel was hunched, hands in pockets, under the overhang of Dawn's roof. Buffy walked up to him, reached way up to kiss his cheek, then unlocked the door. Spike considered just leaving. But then Angel looked back, and there was something hesitant in his expression.
Christ. They were afraid to be alone together.
Spike stayed outside for a moment to call Dawn and insist that she come home forthwith, even if it meant cutting a class. He could be with Buffy, and he could be with Angel, but both of them at once– nah. Too much for him. Too much history, too much emotion, too much loss.
But it turned out all it was mostly just awkward. Buffy and Angel talked about their flights, and Buffy asked Spike about her sister's progress in school, and Angel growled a bit about the weather. For this, Spike thought, I'm going to suffer for months?
At least the tension could be interesting. Instead it was sad and tedious, and he felt oppressed by that lost epiphany-- that whatever-it-was that would explain it all-- and after a quarter-hour, Spike decided he had to make a phone call, check on how the slayerettes did after he left school in the morning.
He left them in Dawn's little parlor, and went outside into the alleyway, waiting for his phone to power up. Finally he pushed the memory button and 2 for Faith.
"Yeah?" She sounded drowsy.
There was splashing going on. "You in the bath?"
"Yeah," she said. "My knee is swollen again. Thought I'd soak it."
"Are you–" Stupid question. Of course she was naked. She was in the bath. "Feeling better?"
"Sure. I'll take some aspirin before we head to the winetasting."
His heart sank. "Is that tonight?" There was a wine shop down from the Slayer Academy, and Faith had gotten friendly with the woman who set up the tastings. Spike was of the opinion that wine was a particularly boring way to get drunk, but he'd agreed to keep Faith company. It was sort of poignant, really, Faith deciding to get into wine, not that he'd tell her that. Better to complain about how a pint was a better way to spend a couple quid. That made her laugh and say that the wine she liked cost more than a couple quid.
They'd had this conversation several times. And in the end, he always agreed to drink poncey wine with her. The sacrifices he made.
"Uh, yeah, it's tonight," Faith said. "I was just ready to get out and get dressed."
"This isn't a great night for me," he said. "What with Angel in my flat, all that."
There was a moment's pause. Then she said easily, "Okay, that works out good then. Nigel was wanting to go along, and I've been telling him no. So now I can call him and say to meet me there after all."
"Nigel who?"
"You know. Nigel. The junior watcher. The one with red hair and that cute Scottish accent. He's way into wine, so I'll just go with him. See ya tomorrow in class, hon."
"Wait–"
But she'd already rung off, and he stood there, back against the brick wall, feeling the mad come on. Nigel. Red hair. Scottish accent. He wondered how cute Nigel's accent would sound with his throat ripped out.
He went back into Dawn's flat, sat down across from Buffy, noticed with half his attention that she and Angel weren't really talking to each other. They both would talk to him, however, and he made conversation for a few minutes. But then, suddenly, he rose. "Look, Dawn'll be home soon. And I got a couple things I need to do. I'll call ya."
Traffic was bad, as usual, and it took him most of an hour to get back to Bloomsbury, and another ten minutes to find a parking place. Illegal, but that was no problem. The Jag was registered to a dead vampire– Faith had managed to entice him into taking off his coat before she dusted him, and she gave Spike the car keys and kept the roll of fifty-pound notes for herself.
He was thinking of this, how smart she was, what a good felon she made, as he entered the wineshop and saw her at the back table, clinking glasses with a redheaded ponce. He crossed the room in three strides, and touched her shoulder. She acted surprised to see him, but... but he thought it was acting. Wondered which one of them she was giving notice to, Spike or the ponce. She gave him a smile, a knowing one, and he smiled back. She was a right one, Faith was. Lucky for her that he knew her so well. Understood her so well. Accepted her. Didn't get too mad at her.
Nigel was regarding him like an interloper. Ha. Little did he know. But Spike had learned politeness, or relearned it, and used it whenever he thought it might be effective. So he put out his hand. But Nigel looked away. Spike considered breaking his nose, but thought better of it. Instead he let his hand hover there in the air, all denied and rejected, and finally let it drop to his side.
He didn't get on with the Watchers who worked in the rebuilt Watchers Council across from the Slayer Academy. They treated him like he was scum. Didn't matter how often he'd saved the world, how many slayers were indebted to him for their lives. Didn't even matter that their boss Rupert Giles got drunk with him every other week. Spike was a vampire, and that's all that mattered to the narrow-minded little nancy-boys.
Now Spike turned to Faith, made that more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger face, and saw her jaw getting tighter and tighter. Faith was loyal. Most important thing to her– loyalty. She didn't care much for principles, but that was a principle to her. She was loyal to her friends, and no one insulted them without getting injury back.
She said in a low voice, "Hey, Nigel. You know what?"
Nigel smiled at her. He thought he'd won with his poncey display of snobbery. "What?"
"Spike saved two of the slayerettes last week. They were about to get ripped apart by three Slojon demons, and he threw himself in there. Took on all three. Beat them too."
Spike shrugged modestly. "All in a night's work."
Nigel's smile kind of wavered. Faith added through gritted teeth, "He saved your life too, years ago, and you don't even know it. Or you wouldn't be dissing him like that." She took Spike's arm and said, "I hear they got some good Argentinian malbec over there. Let's go try it."
And she turned her back on Nigel.
Game, set, and match.
"You didn't have to do that, pet," Spike said. "Can take care of myself."
"Ha. You love it when I stand up for you." Faith hugged his arm closer. Her breast was warm and plump against his bicep. "Or you love it when a Watcher gets what-for."
Well, he couldn't argue with either of those statements. So he let her drag him to the malbec table, and he even nodded at the wine steward whose main job was making sure that no one got more than two mincy ounces at a time. But that didn't matter, because Faith was frowning judiciously as she tasted the Shiraz, and then the Malbec, and she listened hard to the difference as defined by the wine steward. Oenologist, that's what he wanted to be called. But Spike wasn't ever going to call him that.
Except maybe to Faith. He had to accept this wine thing with Faith. Had to pretend there was nothing funny about Faith, the prison-break queen, wanting to learn about wines. Wanting to be classier. Couldn't ever say what he thought, that it was adorable.
And it was. Fucking adorable. It near broke his heart now, watching how she obediently (and Faith was never obedient) held up the glass and looked at the color of the wine and pronounced it "ruby" and smiled with triumph when the wine steward (sodding oenologist) said, "Just so." And how she took a sip– just a tiny sip, yeah, his Faith who grabbed sensation with both hands and drank whole tankards of life, but she took just a tiny sip, and said something about chocolate overtones and a tannic aftertaste. (At least she swallowed and didn't spit it out– at least she was his Faith in that respect.)
Of course, he was unrepentant. He grinned at Faith over his wineglass than drank it off in one mouthful. But it was easy for him. He'd been born into an aristocratic family, and reborn into the first (or second, opinions varied) best vampire family, and insecure as he might have been about other aspects, he never once worried that he might be using the wrong fork or drinking wine the wrong way. Even if he was, it didn't matter, because he was born into privilege. But for Faith, well, it mattered. And so it mattered that he didn't point it out, didn't laugh when he found her solemnly reading the latest Booker Prize winner, didn't chuck her under the chin and call her adorable when she wanted to be more classy. Didn't make her self-conscious.
She didn't need any of that. She was great as she was, and he wished he could tell her that without making her feel like he was criticizing the wine sampling and the lit classes and the tickets to the symphony.
But he knew it would humiliate her if he made a deal of it. And he couldn't do that.
And he had a weird feeling she was doing it for him. Somehow. Like he'd like her better if she drank the right kind of wine and read the books. He wished he could tell her that he didn't care about that, without making her feel like an idiot.
We all have our vanities, dear Angelus.
Weird. Darla's light, sardonic voice in his head. When had she said that? Oh, yeah. When he'd changed his name to Spike, and insisted everyone call him that, and Angelus refused, and called him Willie, or WillYAM when he was mad. Spike's unexpected ally was Darla, the one he hated, the one who hated him. (Family, though. That still mattered then, back in the glory days of vampiredom.) She didn't think it was laughable, how he tried to be tough, didn't think it was necessary to remind him that he started out unlife the ponciest vampire around.
If he wants to be Spike, let him be Spike. We all have our vanities, dear Angelus. And then, when Angelus persisted, she repeated it this way, We all have our vanities, dear Liam.
Yeah. Darla. The expert in personal relations. But she was right. Everyone had vanities, and that was the point of greatest vulnerability, and he wasn't about to stake Faith in that particular soft spot.
So as they walked back to her flat, she asked what concerts she should attend at the Barbican this season. And he shrugged and actually looked at the brochure she'd pulled out of her pocket. Once, he'd liked more than the Ramones and the Clash– back when he was growing up, he'd loved Bach and Beethoven and little bits of Lizst, and he pointed out those, and even agreed to attend one– only one– concert with her. Only one. Only Beethoven. (Maybe Lizst too.)
Even sip by sip, she'd gotten a little drunk, and she was smiling as they walked. "So how're your visitors doing?"
He didn't want to talk about his visitors. "Okay."
"Where's Buffy staying? At your place?"
He regarded her narrowly. She had to know better. "With her sister."
Faith pretended to be studying the symphony brochure. But it was dark, and she didn't have vampire vision, and they were walking too fast for the streetlamps to offer much illumination. "Be kind of awkward, I guess. The two of them at your place."
Spike spoke without thinking, out of some deep well of bitterness. "Don't know why they'd bother, since–" He broke off.
But Faith must know what he was thinking. Casually, she said, "I don't get this perfect happiness thing. I mean, who gets perfect happiness? I been happy enough in my day, but I bet it's always been less than perfect."
Spike didn't know where she was going with this. "Where you going with this?" he demanded, because he thought maybe he should ask.
"Nowhere. Just sayin'. Can't believe, if they really wanna do it, they don't just do it."
"Don't want to risk it."
She shook her head. "Don't want to risk it. Pretty sad excuse. You'd risk it, wouldn't you?"
"Risk losing my soul?"
They were in her street, and she started fumbling in her purse for her key, like that, not the conversation, was what she found important. "Yeah. In trade for being with Buffy again."
There it was. Faith was playing– playing like she was playing. But he knew her body– had fought and loved it that much– and it was tense as a bowstring. Waiting.
So he said, "No risk to me. Couldn't lose my soul if I tried."
She gave him a look that said he'd failed the test. And then she smiled. "You wouldn't get perfect happiness anyway."
Already failed. Couldn't fail worse. "Why not?"
Now she was laughing. "No such thing. Not in our world." She stopped under the front door light and kissed him with that pretty mouth of hers, leaning against him– and then she pushed him away, still laughing, just a gentle push, but she was a slayer, and it set him back several feet.
"Can't I come up?"
Faith looked up at him, all sweet and tart, and said, "You got a houseguest, remember?"
"It's just Angel. Don't want to be too hospitable."
"Maybe he's gone to be with Buffy. You think?"
Spike reached out and took her hand. He wanted to be with her tonight. That way he wouldn't have to be with Angel, or find himself driving to Dawn's and climbing in the guestroom window. "Let me come up. Try that experiment again. Got a new idea might work."
She just put her finger to her lips – hush – then touched him lightly on the chest, and disappeared inside her hall. The door slammed just behind her, and the sound echoed through the quiet mews. Through him too.