Chapter Seventeen

Spike’s arm reached across the bed, resting in the place Buffy should have occupied. But the appearance of Faith and the others had upset her, and she’d retreated to her workout room after dinner, taking out her frustrations on the punching bag. She’d barely noticed when he’d left her there, tired by the day. By the death, by the automatic accusation. Maybe he should have stayed with her, offered to spar, but he doubted he’d provide much challenge. Not unless he wore Harris’s fat suit, and he wasn’t sure just how much of it was suit, so it probably wouldn’t have worked out.

Still, the bed felt big and cold without her. Stupid, really, to become used to sleeping with her so quickly. They’d only spent the night together a few times before he went up in flames, and it was ridiculous to get maudlin. “Wanker,” Spike mumbled in the darkness, turning over and trying to sink into sleep.

And that was when he realized he wasn’t alone.

Angel smiled at him, moonlight slanting across his face. “Thought I’d just stay back while the others flocked around, boyo?”

Christ. “Boyo? Been into the stout again, Angelus?” Spike asked dryly, sitting up.

 Angel smiled thinly, no pleasure in the gesture. “Don’t think it means anything.”

“What?”

“Being human. Getting what I deserve. Being here, in her bed. None of it means a damn thing. No matter how real it feels, it’s just an illusion. You’re just a stand-in for me. That’s all you’ve ever been. With Dru, with Buffy, with the soul. A replacement. Nothing more.”

Coldness began to unfurl in Spike’s stomach. “Tell yourself that.”

“Come on, William, you already knew it. What, like it was just a coincidence that Buffy started sleeping with you? You were the closest she could get to me. Man, at least I had a little dignity when we were together. But you—you were just a lost puppy begging for a little love, weren’t you? God, you killed your own kind for her, looked after her whiny little sister like a damn babysitter, let her use you as a punching bag, and all she did was wipe her shoes on you. Pathetic.”

It was hard, really, for Spike to hear over the dull roar in his ears. God, that Paingel had the nerve to come in and lecture him like the goddamn queen of Sheba, when he—when he—“Punching bag?” Spike repeated softly.

“Sorry. Do you prefer whipping boy?”

Spike dropped back on the pillow, rubbing a hand over his forehead and laughing shakily. He knew her—knew her better than she wanted him to, than she wanted anyone to. She’d never tell anyone about that. She’d had a hard enough time with the others even knowing she’d let him touch her; last thing she’d tell anyone is how she’d gone in for the rough trade. Especially Angel.

“What? You thought you had this special deep connection, and her fist would just accidentally run into your—”

“A dream,” mumbled Spike. “A miserable crapfest of a dream, variation on the Angelus comes back and everyone forgets about me classic. Great. Well, let me know when the walruses start flying around the room, I’d hate to miss that part.” He turned over and buried his face in the pillow. Nice that this one was in the middle of the night; he’d forget about it before morning. Usually he got them last thing before waking up and spent the rest of the day miserable. Those were usually the days he stayed in his crypt drinking and feeling sorry for himself.

“You can’t get rid of me by turning your head,” taunted Angel. “I’ve always been there—even back when you were alive, and the laughingstock of all your friends. Then you get eternal life, and what do you do? You throw it away. You throw it away because of a girl. You sad, whipped little puke, you haven’t changed a bit. You’d still sell your soul for a piece of tail.”

“I didn’t do it for Buffy,” Spike insisted, ignoring Angel’s crudeness. And his hair. “She wanted me to leave with her.”

“Tell yourself that,” taunted Angelus. “Come on, you were going up in flames. She knew you weren’t going anywhere. She tossed you a bone so you’d die happy. Happens all the time. Don’t kid yourself—it didn’t cost her anything.”

Spike stared at Angel. God knew why he was taking this seriously, but Angel pissed him off even in dreams. “Think you know everything, don’t you?”

“More than you,” Angel agreed.

“Not about Buffy.”

“Not about Buffy? Before me, she was just a typical flake from California. I made Buffy.”

“You broke Buffy,” Spike spat. “Her romantic dark knight, mysterious and silent. Making decisions for her, condescending to her, telling her what to think and what to do. Being noble and making sacrifices and everything was for her own good and bullshit like that? How about just telling her you didn’t want to be with her if you couldn’t have her, instead of acting like it was something you were doing for her? You just had to polish your halo, didn’t you? It wasn’t about her, it was about you. Now she’s moving on and you can’t stand it. Buffy telling me she loves me? That was big. For me and for her.”

Angel just stared at him. “Hasn’t said it again, has she?”

“There’s plenty of rooms in this house, mate. And plenty of beds.”

“God, do you lose brain cells every time you die? She doesn’t love you, she loves having her slave back! She wants something done, you do it. She tells you to be a monster, you are. She tells you to be a hero, you are. You were right when you said there was no you left, just her in a dead shell. That’s all you are anymore, her weapon. Her plaything. Whatever she needs.”

Spike felt his stomach tighten again, but ignored it. He’d never minded what Buffy needed, or Dru before her. Unlike some people, he wasn’t so self-involved that it had to be all about him. “You just figuring that one out?”

Angel shook his head as if disappointed in Spike’s slowness. “So, what are you to her now? I mean, before you may have been a pity fuck, but at least you were somebody then. William the Bloody,” he intoned mockingly. “Kill her or kiss her, I guess either was fine, right? Now you can’t do one, and you don’t do the other. You’re like that boy of hers—the one in the army. Now you’re no better than Finn. She kept him around because she felt sorry for him, too,” he added. Spike flinched, and Angel laughed. “Hit a nerve? You know she doesn’t like ‘em weak—she wouldn’t give you the time of day until you could knock her around again, did she? And now you’re just another mortal around for her to protect. I mean, why doesn’t she just—”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Spike snarled.

The door to the hallway opened, and light flooded into the room. Spike blinked at the sudden brightness. He was awake, and alone. “Did you say something?” asked Buffy from the doorway.

“Just a dream,” he said after a moment, mostly to himself.

Buffy shut the door as she came in. “Yeah, I bet I’ll be having some bad dreams tonight, too,” she agreed, shuddering. It was weird to see Cordy after all this time, and as far as she was concerned the jury was still out on Wood. He’d helped save the world, yeah, but she couldn’t help thinking that the only reason he hadn’t tried again with Spike was because she’d threatened him. And there wasn’t an apocalypse hanging over their heads as a cudgel this time.

At least not that she knew of.

And as for Faith … yeah, she knew they were supposed to bury the hatchet during the spring, blah blah blah, but that forgive and forget thing had a lot more forgetting in it than she was capable of, and she wasn’t sold on the forgiving part either.

Maybe they’d be gone when she got up in the morning. It was worth a shot, right?

Spike frowned as Buffy got ready for bed. Dropped her clothes and changed right in front of him, like he wasn’t even a man. Like he wouldn’t even be affected. Like he hadn’t been in love with her forever. Hadn’t lived for her, died for her. Changed everything he was for her.

Like he was just her lapdog, and existed only for her convenience.

She slid into bed beside him. As her body—no longer startlingly warm against his skin, as it had been for so long—brushed against his, he started and pulled away, moving until he was free of her touch.

She didn’t notice. The day had been long, and soon her breathing was deep and regular.

Beside her, Spike remained tense.

~*~*~*~

She was there when Xander opened the door, sprawled on the floor, blood staining her blouse. She didn’t say a word.  He tried to ignore her. He tried to talk to her. He shut his eyes and told himself she wasn’t there. He shut them so hard he saw stars, and still she was there when he opened them. He got into bed and turned out the light, but that just made it worse. He felt like someone was sitting on his chest, pushing the breath out of him. He felt like he was going to scream, or go insane. The tension was unbearable.

He wasn’t aware of jumping out of bed and crossing the room until he was standing in the hall, his breath ragged.

God, he needed a drink.

As it turned out, he needed several drinks. It was much later that, sitting alone at the kitchen table, he realized that no matter what he did, no matter how much he thought he’d changed, he was still his father’s son. And how much did it stink that the thought made him just want to drink more?

“Yeesh … don’t tell me you do this every night?” asked Cordy from the doorway. “Geez, Xander, for some reason I expected better than this. Although I’ve had so many visions I probably have brain damage, so don’t read too much into that.”

“No, I do not do this every night!” exclaimed Xander defensively. “I found a body today, remember? It wasn’t a great day.”

Cordelia put her nose in the air and swanned into the room. Xander scowled. “And what about you? I would have thought you’d be a big movie star by now. Or, you know, a rich man’s plaything.”

Cordelia smiled sweetly, as she often did before inserting the needle. “And I would have thought you’d be a pathetic lush—or Buffy’s lackey. And hey! Right on both counts.”

Xander shook his head in amazement. Cordy was as big a shrew as ever, obviously. For some reason, he found himself smiling. “Welcome home,” he said under his breath.

“What?” said Cordelia, not looking up from current activity of opening drawers and cabinets in a shamelessly nosy display.

“Nothing,” Xander dismissed. He wasn’t sure what he’d meant, or even which of them he was talking to. “What are you looking for?”

“Tea. That pizza was disgustingly greasy.”

Xander got up and moved next to her. “Here,” he said, reaching past her to snag a cupboard open. “Chamomile or lemon sage or ... Lipton, I guess.”

Cordelia didn’t reach for the boxes of tea. “I’m sorry,” she said after a moment.

“About what?”

“About Anya.”

Xander froze, his hand still on the cabinet door. They’d all lost so many people, starting back with Jesse. You’d think they’d talk about it, but they never did. Once they were dead, it was—not out of sight, out of mind. Not that. Just not a topic of conversation. The others hardly ever mentioned Anya any more. Maybe they thought it would be painful for him. And it was, but it was kind of a relief, too.

And besides, she was right upstairs. “Yeah. I’m sorry too.”

They were both quiet for a minute, lost in their own thoughts. Then Cordelia pulled down the chamomile, and Xander remembered to let the cabinet go. After a few moments of looking lost he sat back down.

“It’s amazing we survived,” she murmured. “Do you ever wonder what our lives would have been like if we grew up someplace normal, instead of the middle of Hellsville, USA?”

Xander considered it a moment. It would have been safer, for sure. He wouldn’t have seen his friends turn into vampires, probably, or fought a giant snake at his high school graduation. Or met Buffy, and seen Willow blossom under her friendship. Or learned how to carve stakes and fight monsters and be brave. Or lost Anya. Or met her.

“You know, I’ll … take what I got,” he said after a moment. It wasn’t like he had a choice, anyway. “What about you?”

“You know, I was offered the chance to be a TV star. A big one. Like some kind of perfect cross between Jennifer Aniston and George Clooney, with less plastic surgery.”

“So some agent was trying to scam you—”

“Not an agent. A demon. And he wasn’t trying to scam me, he—okay, he was, but I was really going to be a star. But I said no.”

“Why?”

Cordelia hesitated. It sounded so stupid. “I was doing important things. I was helping. I knew what I did mattered.”

“Feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. And now that they’re all with Wolfram & Hart and doing their own things, it’s like they don’t need me anymore. Like….”

“Like they’re grown beyond you?”

“Yeah. Like that.”

Xander smiled wryly. “I could write a book on that.”

Cordy studied his face. He looked so much older now—nothing like twenty-one. He looked middle-aged, like she felt. They’d both lost so much. He hadn’t mentioned all he’d lost, but he wore some of it on his face. “Xander? You’re not the Zeppo.”

“Zeppo? What?”

“Zeppo … useless…”

He’d forgotten. It had hurt like hell at the time, but all he had to do to realize she was wrong was save the school and everyone in it, so no big. Now all he could think of was how hard she’d been trying to hurt him. The way she’d been hurt when she found him with Willow.

“Don’t worry about it,” he mumbled.

“After all, you’re used to what happens when you hurt women,” said Anya serenely.

Cordy watched in shock as Xander shoved his chair back so hard it fell over. “Jesus, will you leave me alone?” he ranted to the corner of the kitchen.

God, she thought in astonishment.

He was insane.

~*~*~*~

“Back so soon—and all alone? It is a sad evening for you.”

Ethan dropped his coat on an armchair and paid no mind to Dierdre; she could be such a harpy. He’d had enough excellent brandy with Mr. Gunn that her barbs didn’t penetrate his sense of satisfaction—that all was right with his world, and wrong with the rest of it. “Did you miss me?”

“What do you think?”

“I’ll take it that’s a yes.”

“I had nothing to do,” she said, annoyed.

Ethan rolled his eyes. She could be such a drama queen. And it was in this mood that she was her most dangerous, but unfortunately, he was a little too relaxed to care much. “You could have gone visiting,” he reminded her. “It’s not like I’m your only option. Just the best looking.”

“There’s no reason to do anything right now,” she countered. “Everything’s falling into place—haven’t you learned by now that rushing doesn’t help anything?”

“You know, you could appear to him as that teacher he was so ridiculous about,” suggested Ethan, warming to the idea. He let the thought linger in the air and took a liking to it. “Yes, you could tell him that if it weren’t for him she’d still be alive and happy and probably have several completely obnoxious children with named for states or characters in obscure books. Something Calendar—that was her name.”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Dierdre in annoyance. “If I appear to him he’ll figure it out. And that would ruin all our fun, wouldn’t it?”

Ethan’s mood soured. “Yes, you’re probably right. He does like to squash my fun. I really did prefer him when he was Ripper. All reckless and dark and dangerous.” He hated to give up the idea. He’d never forgotten the way Ripper had mooned over that callow girl as if she were the only thing on earth. Pitiful. It was like Ripper had forgotten who he really was underneath it all.

“You know, I know what I get out of our little arrangement,” said Dierdre, a typically joyless smile curling her mouth. “But what are you getting from it?”

Ethan chuckled. “It amuses me. They’re in such disarray—they have no idea what’s happening.”

“They never have,” said Jenny. Ethan’s face darkened at her appearance and she laughed, sleekly transforming into Dierdre again. “But that’s what makes it fun, isn’t it? The way they keep trying. Boats against the currents, borne back ceaselessly.”

“Boats?”

Dierdre rolled her eyes. “Never mind,” she said dryly. She didn’t know why she bothered, really, but he wasn’t completely without his uses. Besides, he was as amusing to her as his friend was to him. And she was in need of assistance these days, since the battle royale with the Slayers that had so badly weakened her. Ethan was petty and infinitesimally small, unable to imagine anything beyond the ken of man, jealousies and slights not worth mentioning, but he had a talent for mischief. Until her strength returned—and she knew it would not be in the lifetime of any who now walked the earth—she would need such as him.

“Or you know what you could do? You could appear to him as—”

“Are you trying to annoy me?”

“Oh, would it kill you to throw me a bone?”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t think you have any cause for complaint. I’ve always taken care of you,” she reminded him sweetly—a patently false claim that made him grit his teeth.

“Except, say, when the Initiative captured me.”

She shrugged. “That was different.”

“Of course it was different—you were strong then. Now you need me if you want to do more than throw shadows on a wall.”

Dierdre’s eyes sparked, and Ethan suppressed a smile. Oh my, he’d done it now, hadn’t he? He did enjoy riling her up, although he knew it was really rather stupid of him. He never had been able to keep his finger off a cut. But what could she do? She needed him now more than he needed her. She didn’t have the power to do much of anything without his help. As for him, she was merely a convenient way to pick at Ripper. He’d always found such ways, and always would.

It was just that most of them were not nearly so amusing.