Author’s Notes: I posted Chapter 7 today as well, so make sure you’ve read that one before you read this one. It’ll make more sense, I promise.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Credits: This chapter contains dialogue from the episode "Fool For Love" written by Douglas Petrie.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner by Phuriedae

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Chapter 8

I’ll Tell You No Lies



It seems somehow appropriate that we're doing this here, where we first met. Who knows? Maybe when he's finished I'll stake him and we can end it here, too. He's toying with me, enjoying having something to hold over me and it's pissing me off. Stupid smug vampire.

I try to tell myself that if this were Angel, he'd tell me straight what I wanted to know, without all this dancing around. I try to ignore the voice in my head that says that Angel never would have been willing to answer my questions in the first place.

"Give it to me," I tell him, the minute I'm sure we're alone. That's when I realize he's a little pissed.

He reaches for me, and it's easy enough to avoid it. I slam him up against the fence by the throat, he just grins and laughs.

"What?" I demand, narrowing my eyes. What’s so funny?

"Lesson the second: ask the right questions. You want to know how I beat 'em?" he says. I release him and he steps forward, his eyes intense and predatory. "The question isn't 'how'd I win?'. The question is: 'why'd they lose?'."

"What's the difference?" I ask. Because really, doesn't it boil down to the same thing?

Abruptly he swings the pool cue, then jabs it at my throat, stopping it bare inches away. I manage not to flinch.

"There's a big difference, luv," he says. I kick the cue out of his hands. He lets me.

"How'd you kill the second one?" I ask, my body tense and itching for a fight. He’s ready to give it to me.

"Hmmm? Bit like this..." he swings at me, but I dodge each one, then narrow my eyes.

"That didn't hurt?" I ask. Why didn't his chip fire?

"Knew I couldn't touch you," he shrugs. "If there's no intent to hurt you, then that chip they shoved up my brain never activates. If, on the other hand..."

He slips into game face and lunges, then roars in pain as the chip yanks him up short, like a rabid dog on the end of a chain. He grimaces, pressing his hands to his head. "Now, that hurt."

I don't want to admit that I was nervous there for a second. "Yeah? This hurt too?" I punch him in the stomach, then kick his legs out from under him. He wants a one-sided fight? I'll give him one. "How'd you kill them, Spike?"

He tries to get up, but I'm faster, pinning him and pressing a stake over his heart before he can really get his feet under him. I can feel him beneath me, his muscles tensed to throw me off. Instead, one strong, cool hand wraps around my wrist, pushing the stake away. I push back, willing the tip to touch the fabric of his stupid black shirt. But, in this position, we’re equally strong. The stake almost vibrates from the pressure between us.

Stalemate.

"You're not ready to know," he grunts, somehow managing to leer in spite of his position.

"I'm ready," I tell him, flattening my other palm against the hard wall of his chest. He smirks, and I know what he’s going to do.

"Okay then," he says. "Went like this." With a quick buck of his hips, he flips me off of him. I roll and come up on my feet, facing off. He jabs at me, and I can tell this time that he's intentionally missing, but I duck anyway. I, however, don't bother to pull my punches. Spike likes pain? Good, because I’m more than happy to dish it out to him. After a minute or so, I realize that he's leading me into certain moves, moving in certain ways. The alleyway is narrow, but he's keeping the fight narrower still, almost like it's choreographed and it takes me another minute to figure out why.

The second Slayer. This was her fight, and he's walking me through it, step for morbid step.

"The first," he says eventually, grinning like a maniac, "was all business. But the second, she had a touch of your style." He throws several punches, all of which I duck or dodge. He lets me grab him and throw him across the alley. "She was cunning, resourceful...oh, did I mention? Hot." Kick, punch, kick. I slam him against the fence again. "I could have danced all night with that one."

"You think we're dancing?" I ask, incredulous, even if I recognize the similarities.

"That's all we've ever done," he tells me, moving away and scooping up the pool cue. "And the thing about the dance is, you never get to stop." He swings the pool cue like a quarterstaff, position nine, hand raised to protect his face...but his expression is playful, sly.

"Every day you wake up, it's the same bloody question that haunts you," he says, his voice deepening. "Is today the day I die?"

He swings the cue and I block it, pissed now. How can he possibly know what I think? How dare he make assumptions like that?

Even if they are a little true.

"Death is on your heels, baby," he purrs. "And sooner or later, it's gonna catch you." He brings the pool stick down again, but this time I catch it and slam it into his smug face. It goes flying, out of reach. He just grins, panting and looking like he's having the time of his unlife. "And part of you wants it...not only to stop the fear and uncertainty, but because you're just a little bit in love with it."

There’s something in his eyes...a dare? A challenge?

Asshole. Bastard. I hit him as hard as I can, knocking him to the ground. From there it's easy to straddle him again, reaching for my stake. Then we're back where we were, a vicious, reverse tug of war. He throws me off of him and I roll to my feet, ready for whatever he’s going to throw at me next. My adrenaline is pumping, my heartbeat pounding in my chest, my skin flushed and too tight. I’m hot and panting, and if I’ve reopened the wound in my stomach I can’t even feel it. Every single one of my senses is focused on Spike, ready for his attack, braced for it.

But he doesn't attack. Instead he kneels before me, calmly, gazing up at me, his head cocked to the side, his eyes intense.

"Death is your art,” he says quietly. In the sudden stillness of the alley, his low voice feels like it’s surrounding me. Like a spell. “You make it with your hands, day after day. That final gasp. That look of peace. Part of you is desperate to know: what's it like? Where does it lead you? And now you see, that's the secret. Not the punch you didn't throw or the kicks you didn't land," he regards me with something akin to pity, and I hate it in his eyes. "Every Slayer has a death wish...Even you."

I feel the words like a punch to the stomach. I swallow, trying not to let him see how he's gutting me right now. Trying not to let him smell the fear that's choking me up.

God. What if he's right?

He gets to his feet, straightens his coat across his shoulders. His eyes are so dark.

"The only reason you've lasted as long as you have," he continues, "is you've got ties to the world. Your mum, Watcher, the Scoobies. They all tie you here. But you're just putting off the inevitable."

Oh, God. I can't listen to this. I can't. It's true...too true on some level. Why is it that it's Spike who can see straight through me? Why is it always Spike?

"Sooner or later," he says. "You're gonna want it. And the second—" he moves so fast I don't realize it until he's inches away, slapping his hands together in front of my face and making me flinch. "The second that happens...You know I'll be there. I'll slip in...have myself a real good day."

Our eyes meet, and if eyes are supposed to be the windows to the soul, I don't know what darkness it is I'm peering into. It should be empty, but there's so much there, so much raging behind his eyes, and it leaves me furious and confused.

"Here endeth the lesson,” he says, smugly. “I just wonder if you'll like it as much as she did."

I can't do this anymore. Can't look at him anymore. Can't listen to ...this. It hurts too much, stings too close to home.

"Get out of my sight," I tell him. "Now."

He just grins. "Oh, did I scare you? You're the Slayer, do something about it. Hit me. Come on. One good swing. You know you want to."

"I mean it," I tell him, because I do want to hit him. I want to pound his face bloody, destroy those eyes that see too much, tear out that tongue that can speak such painful things. And that scares me. I don't think I've ever been so angry in my entire life.

"So do I," he says, and there's something different in his eyes now, in his expression. "Give it me good, Buffy. Do it!"

I clench my hands into fists, holding back. If I punch him, whatever this monster is that's been growing in me all night is going to lash out. It'll destroy him.

He did what I asked. Is it his fault that I don't like the answers?

"Spike..." I begin, but his face changes. His lashes dip, his lips part and I have the sudden crazy idea that he's about to kiss me.

I step back, scared.

"What the hell are you doing?"

With surprising strength he takes me by the arms, his voice rough and seductive.

"Come on. I can feel it, Slayer," he says. "You know you want to dance."

And god help me, I do. I want to fight him. I want to kill him. And I want to...

No. Not that. I won't want that.

I have to get out of here.

"Say it's true," I tell him. "Say I do want to."

With a hard shove I push him away. He stumbles, surprised as he hits the ground, staring up at me in shock.

"It wouldn't be you, Spike," I lie. "It would never be you."

I won't give him that satisfaction. Won't let him know he's right. He's a monster, a soulless, evil thing. In his eyes, I can see my own ending—not at the end of my own stake, or the ruthless hands of some slimy demon, not a filthy puddle in a dark cavern. Someday, when I'm done, he'll be there, waiting for me...and I hate that there’s a morbid sort of comfort in that.

I dig out the cash I promised him and toss it, uncaring when it scatters. Spike lays there, sprawled at my feet and I suddenly want to hurt him. Hurt him as badly as he hurt me. When the words come, I'm not even sure where they came from, but they seem...appropriate.

"You're beneath me," I tell him, and turn and walk away.

From behind me, I hear him make a noise. A harsh, quick indrawn breath that he lets out like a sob.

I don't turn around.

I don't dare.

***

The walk home is painful.

The wound in my stomach hurts, but I don't think I reopened it.

The wounds Spike left in me with his words hurt even worse.

I don't have a death wish...do I?

I want to live, like I told Giles. I want to live a long time. I didn't ask to be the Slayer, didn't want it—but now that I have it I'm not sure I'd want to give it up. Been there, tried that...didn't work. And yes, I know that means that every day that I wake up there's a chance I might die, but I didn't really believe that before. Not ‘til now.

It's not that I thought I was immortal. What I told Spike was true, I thought I could handle myself. Lately the fights have been easy, with the exception of my invisible friends. And Eddie Van Hairdo last night.

He's wrong. Spike is wrong.

I don't have a death wish. I'm going to live. I'm going to live as long as I possibly can, if for no other reason than to spite him.

I got careless. Sloppy.

I'll train harder, be better. Be the best Slayer that ever lived...

It's Spike who has the death wish. Not me. He ever tries that again, and I will stake him. Chip or no chip.

***

When I get in, I go to the kitchen and open the fridge, staring into it for a bit, blindly. Then I remember the grocery list.

I can do that. Simple. Mundane. The kind of thing that proves I'm living and planning to be for a while yet. I grab the list off the fridge door and start jotting things down.

Later, when I go upstairs, I notice mom's light is still on. It's late, but not that late...still, she should be resting. Instead she's...packing?

"Hey, I finished that grocery list for you," I say, sinking down on the bed.

"Oh, great. Thanks honey," she says, looking distracted.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"I'm fine," she says. "Have you seen my conditioner?" I frown.

"Have you looked under the sink?" She always keeps a spare bottle there. When she comes back in with the bottle, I ask, "Where are you going?"

She pauses. "Oh, I was hoping to put this off but...you know the nothing I've been dealing with for the past couple of weeks? Well, it might not be nothing."

Oh...god. Could this day get worse? Please, don't answer that. I know: Hellmouth. You don't say stuff like that out loud.

"What is it?" I ask, scared all over again.

"I'm staying overnight at the hospital for observation. I'm getting a CAT scan."

Worse. Definitely worse.

"It's only one night, and they say if there is something, it's still very early if they didn't catch it before. I'm going to be fine,” she says, trying to reassure me, but I can tell she’s really trying to reassure herself.

Okay. I can do this. Breathe. Smile for mom. Don't break down now. I'm the Slayer. I can do this.

"I know you will," I say, and wish I could believe it.

***

Once she goes to bed, I put on a jacket and go out on the back porch.

It's quiet here, and I desperately need quiet. Today has been...God, today has been a rollercoaster and I'm still reeling.

The thing with Spike, with the stake...I push it away. Right now all I can think about is Mom. Will she be okay? What if it's...No, I won't even think about that.

I hate to cry, but the tears are there. It's just been such a long, horrible day. With a sob, I bury my head in my hands. At least here I can break down a little, with no one watching.

I'm so tired. All I want is to not have to be strong. Not have to deal with this anymore.

It's the tingles that alert me, but I don't care. Spike, somewhere close and coming closer. It's only when I hear an odd noise that I finally look up.

He's standing only a few feet away, hair gleaming white in the moonlight, a rifle cocked and ready in his hands.

Suddenly all I can think is...he was right. He's there...waiting. And at the moment, I don't really care.

"What do you want now?" I ask, but I think I'm asking what's taking him so long. His head cocks to the side, the furious, determined glint in his eyes fading, replaced by something else. Something unsure. Uncertain.

I turn away, unable to meet that gaze.

"What's wrong?" he asks, and now I have to look at him, this vampire who has wanted me dead from the moment I met him; who is standing there with a gun in his hands while I'm making no move to defend myself and asking me what's wrong as if he cares.

I don't know what to say. Don't know what to do. I could list everything that's wrong in my life right now and it would take ‘til dawn. "I don't want to talk about it," I say.

He lowers the gun.

"Is...is there something I can do?" he asks.

It crosses my mind then: I know why a Slayer might have a death wish. It’s so much. Too much, sometimes. Having to be this strong, having to worry about...saving the world, and fighting demons and somehow at the same time you have to have this life, full of people and normal worries and cares. And you have to do it alone, always alone, even when there are people there beside you.

Spike said that the reason I’m still here is because of my family, friends. But most Slayers don’t have that. I know, I read all those Watcher journals. They were really big on that lone Slayer crap before me. But sometimes it feels like more of a burden, having so many people to look out for, care for.

We like to say that we ‘save the world’, a lot. But for me the world has faces, names: Mom, Xander, Willow, Giles, Riley, Tara, Anya...I fight to save them, so that they can have a world to live in. So that they can be safe. But it means that when one of them is hurt, I hurt. When they bleed, I bleed. When one of them is sick...

It makes you tired. It makes you wonder how bad it would be to just pass on the burden, to lay down your stake or whatever and let the next girl do it. If I were truly alone...I can see how a Slayer might look into Spike’s face and see death, not as something to fear or fight, but as a friend.

I don’t want to die. Not really. There’s too much I have to live for, and my mom needs me right now. Needs me to be strong. But I’m so incredibly tired. Today has just hurt so much—and not just in the painful abdominal wounds sort of way. If Spike wanted to take his chances and try to kill me right now, I’m not sure I’d have the energy or strength to fight him off. But he doesn't seem like it's even crossed his mind that he could. That this is his chance, his moment to slip in.

Instead he steps forward and sits beside me, puts the gun away. For a moment, I feel his eyes on me. Then slowly, as if he's afraid to or uncertain how to do it, he gently pats my back.

It's all I can do not to burst into tears then.

Comfort, from the one creature in this world that shouldn't give it. This mockery of compassion from something that loathes me. That I'm sworn to kill.

He withdraws his hands and folds them in front of him. We both look down.

For once, Spike doesn't speak. Doesn't talk. Doesn't prod the wound to see how much he can make me bleed. For once, he's still, silent and listening.

And I realize that it's not just this once. He sees me. Sees through me. Understands me better than any of my friends, than Giles, even better than my mom, sometimes. It doesn't seem to matter, right now, that we're mortal enemies. Right now he's there, not pushing, not asking me to be anything or do anything.

Out of nowhere the thought comes: he respects me.

"It's my mom," I whisper finally. "She's...sick. She collapsed a few weeks ago at work and...they've run all these tests, but they don't seem to know what's wrong." I wait for him to make a comment, something snarky and rude. He doesn't. He just listens, watching me quietly, his expression patient. "And tonight...she told me she's going in for a CAT scan. You know what that is?"

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I know what it is."

"It means...it means there might be something. Means...it means it might be bad," I say. I can't say the word. Won't say it. If you say it, it makes it real.

"I don't know what to do," I say finally, spreading my hands helplessly. "This isn't something I can fight. It's not something I can rescue her from. God...do you have any idea what that's like? To be so helpless while someone you love is..."

"Yeah," he says, very, very softly. "I do."

I look at him, surprised. He swallows, starts to say something, then thinks better of it. I want to ask him who. I want to ask him when, but the look on his face stops me. I can see it in his face: pain, helplessness. Enough to make me think he does know, that he gets exactly how I'm feeling right now.

Somehow...that's enough.

***

We sit, silent, for a long time, until I'm too tired to stay awake anymore. When I finally stand, Spike does, too.

"Buffy," he says, then stops.

"Spike," I say. "Lets...lets just not right now, okay? I'm tired and I just want to go to bed."

He nods, his jaw working. "Right," he says, running a hand through his hair. "Sweet dreams then, Slayer."

I laugh softly. If he only knew. Then I can't help but wonder...

"Spike?"

He's halfway down the stairs now, but he stops, turns back.

"Ah...Do you...Do you know a Mr. Gordo?"

He blinks at me, as if he can't decide if I'm insane or just exhausted.

"Your stuffed piggie?" he says, one eyebrow raised. "Can't say as I've ever been properly introduced."

I roll my eyes. "No...wait. How do you know Mr. Gordo is a pig?"

He gets a strange look on his face, and I realize that if vampires could blush, he would be. "Ah...remember Red's little spell last year? The...um..."

Oh...Oh! Crap.

"We talked about Mr. Gordo?"

"Not in any context you'd care to remember, pet," he says, and then I'm flashing back to a conversation about me moving into his crypt and the things I'd want to bring...Now I'm really blushing.

"Oh, never mind."

"Why'd you ask?" he tilts his head, openly curious.

I shake my head, too embarrassed now to continue. "Not important. Just...nevermind."

He looks as though he wants to say something, then decides not to. "Get some sleep, luv," he says, shaking his head as if he thinks I'm nuts. He turns to go.

"Spike?"

"Yeah?"

"You ever bring that rifle back to my house—"

"And you'll stake me. Yeah, yeah. It's gone. Don't even know why I have it anyway. Go to sleep, Slayer. Can go back to hating me in the morning." With a wave that's nearly a salute, he's gone, disappearing into the shadows silently and leaving me wondering if I can.

Go back to hating him.

I wonder when I stopped.

***

It takes Mr. Gordo awhile to show up. When he does, it's the same as always. He approaches the bed slowly, warily, and climbs in on his side.

I spent the time between falling asleep and his arrival doing some thinking, remembering our game the other night and thinking over what happened last night. And some of the things Spike said.

When Mr. Gordo settles in, I take a deep breath.

"I almost died, last night," I say. "There was a vampire...big, stinky Van Halen reject vampire. He got me with my own stake. Stabbed me with it. If it hadn't been for my boyfriend...I'd probably be dead."

There's no response from the other side of the bed.

I have a thought.

"You're not him, are you? Van Halen guy?"

NO. The tap is emphatic. Okay. That's...good. Definitely of the good.

"Then tonight...this really annoying vampire that I know, he told me about the two Slayers he killed. And it scared me. A lot. Because...I think he might be sort of right. Not about me having a death wish, because I totally don't. But...about me thinking I'm so good I'm immortal. I mean, not that I think I'm actually, you know, immortal—but maybe I got a little...overconfident."

I wait, but he doesn't move, or respond. Okay...probably not Spike then. Spike would have responded to that, wouldn't he? I can't imagine ever telling him that he's right and him not taking the opportunity to rub it in my face.

"So...I know this is weird. This whole dream thing...it's weird. But I don't think you're going to kill me, and I'm not going to kill you. So, if you wouldn't mind, maybe we could...spar? Together? Sometimes? I mean, not right now when I'm all ...leaky, cause that would probably be bad for both of us. But I heal really quick so..."

Still no response, which makes me nervous. Which then makes me babble more.

"It's just, with the hide and seek thing the other night, and the invisible demon guys I had to fight I thought, maybe it would help me if I trained in the dark, you know? Without relying so much on the whole seeing thing. ‘Cause last night, that totally wasn't working. And if I could get faster, follow my instincts better, then maybe I can liv—"

A cool hand touches my shoulder. Strokes it soothingly, if a bit hesitantly. I hadn't even felt him move, but I know he's right beside me now, and suddenly, all the tears from earlier that I'd held back come pouring out.

"Oh, god," I say, and sob into my hands.

His hands come up and stroke my arms gently, rubbing little circles against the skin. Then he carefully gathers me up and settles me beside, tucking my face against his chest as I sob brokenly. It feels...god it feels good. The arms around me are cool, but strong, and under the thin t-shirt, he's solid and unyielding. It's kind of like how Angel used to feel, but he's not as big as Angel. He fits around me better.

And it feels so good to let go, to let someone else be strong for a little while. Here I don't have to worry about being brave for my mom, or the hero for my friends, or a leader, or a good pupil. I don't have to worry that I'm being judged and found wanting, or that he's going to stab at me with his words.

Here I'm still the Slayer, but I'm Buffy, too.

I cry until I'm out of tears. While he rubs soothing patterns against my back and hair, I cry for my mom and how worried I am about her, and Riley and how distant he feels. I cry out all the fear from the other night, and the anger from my confrontation with Spike.

When I'm done, I'm exhausted, but I feel better. I wipe my hands across my face and push my hair back.

"Thanks," I say. "It's just been a really bad day. I guess I needed that."

I pull back, staring hard into the darkness, knowing he's only a few inches away and wishing suddenly that I could see his face. I want to know what he's thinking. Want to know what he looks like.

He catches my wrist before I even realize that I've reached up to try to touch his face.

No, he taps gently against my wrist.

"Sorry," I say. Reluctantly I scoot back to my spot on the bed. He slips away to his. Whatever boundary we've crossed tonight seems to have been a temporary thing and we're both more comfortable when we're on our own sides.

"About the sparring...," I start to say.

Yes. He taps against the post.

"Okay," I say. "I'll...I'll let you know when I'm healed up, then, and...we can try it."

I settle back against my pillow and snuggle under the blankets, worn out.

"Thanks," I say softly. A soft tap is his only response. It sounds like ‘you're welcome.’

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