Chapter 27 - Burdens

January, 1999:

“Back already?” She grinned. “It hasn’t been twenty-four hours.”

“You,” Angelus ground out, “need to stop making my life more difficult.”

“I’d say for the last few months I’ve been making your life anything but…difficult.”

“I can’t work without minions.”

“Hey, just cause I’m banging you doesn’t mean I’m stopping the Slayage. You stopping the killing? Hmm, didn’t think so.”

“Go slay all you want. But lay off what’s mine.”

“Dude, a vamp’s a vamp. You can always make more.” She shrugged and then smiled. “Long as you’re here, wanna go again?”
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Spike didn’t put in an appearance the next night, though if her Slayer sense was anything to go by, he wasn’t that far behind her. The night after, he appeared about halfway through her patrol with Wesley.

“You’ve been following me, haven’t you?” she demanded as he came to walk beside her.

“Maybe.”

Buffy looked away. “For how long?”

“’bout a week.”

“Are you watching my back or something? Like before?”

“More like just watching.”

“Again with the creepy. Well, cut it out,” she said, glancing at him. “I don’t like it.”

Spike grinned. “Then this would be stalking, for the record.”

Buffy looked at Wesley, who walked a few paces ahead of them. He hadn’t spoken since Spike appeared, or even acknowledged him.

She sighed. “If you’re going to be around anyway—you could have helped me the other night, you know.”

“Did you need my help?”

“No!” she suddenly exclaimed. “A world of no.”

“Not like he was about to do you in.”

“Ugh. Fine. So what, was Wesley right? You’re just lurking around until you get another chance at a dose of Buffy blood?”

“Wasn’t my plan, but it sounds like a good one.”

They passed under a streetlight and Buffy paused in the glow.

“What was your plan?”

Spike seemed to study her. “To get you outta my head.”

“Is it working?”

“No,” he admitted.

She started to walk again, and they fell into an awkward silence. Spike didn’t seem inclined to say anything more, and Buffy couldn’t think of anything else she wanted to say. One small, feminine part of her was thrilled that he hadn’t gotten over her. The other part was insulted that he was trying to get over her. But the biggest part was asking why she should care at all, since she was the one who had left him.

A vampire on the next side street provided a welcome distraction. Spike was completely forgotten as she sized up her opponent.

Buffy stepped forward as the vampire growled, and held her stake high. He grabbed at her, but she evaded, jumping back. She made the next move, bringing her stake down toward his heart. He ducked, dropping to the ground and kicking her legs out from underneath her as her momentum carried her past. The next thing she knew, she was on the pavement and he was on top of her; her stake arm was pinned and his mouth was on her neck.

Then suddenly he was gone, ripped from her with such force that her arm was twisted painfully in his grip as he was yanked away. She grabbed her stake and stood, only to see Spike systematically thrashing the vampire with brutal efficiency. She was slightly struck, and just a little horrified to see him in full action. I can’t beat that, the thought came.

To her right, she noticed Wesley watching as well. After a moment, he caught her glance and gave her a look. It was detached, but there was also a ‘See?’

However, before she could decide exactly which thing Wesley was trying to make a point about, a completely different thought entered her head. If Spike hadn’t been there—would Wesley have been fast enough?—that could have been it for her.

Sure, she knew that what she did was dangerous, but this had been a wake up call. One wrong move, one mistake, and she would be on the ground and dead.

Buffy knew that Faith had died young, but in her mind she had somehow equated it with her being a murderer. However, now a whole new idea occurred to her.

She turned to face Wesley.

“How long do Slayers live?”

“Buffy…”

“How. Long.”

“Rarely longer than a few years.” He sighed. “A year is average.”

“Oh my God.” Buffy felt tears welling up in the corners of her eyes. She saw him start to say something else. “Don’t. I’m leaving.”

As she made for the street, Wesley turned to look at Spike, who had beaten the vampire unconscious and was watching Buffy’s retreating form.

Wesley walked over and staked it. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

Spike shrugged.

“It seems I’m in your debt once again.”

“Didn’t do it for you,” he spat.

Wesley paused. He knew he could be venturing into dangerous territory. But he also had to know what Spike intended toward Buffy. “Why did you do it? To save her life?”

Spike spun on him. “Of course to save her life! What the bloody hell do you think?!”

“I don’t know what to think anymore. Frankly, your actions are all over the board. One moment you’re smitten, the next predatory. I don’t know what you’re playing at, Spike, but—”

“Yeah? Well, neither do I.”

The statement took Wesley by surprise. “Are you trying to decide?” he asked.

“What?”

“Decide what to do. This following her, watching her. You’re obsessed.”

“Shut. Up.”

“You don’t know whether you want to kiss her or kill her.”

The next instant Wesley was struggling to breathe. He was slammed against the brick wall and Spike’s hand was tightening around his throat.

“I don’t have that little dilemma with you.”

“Buffy will—” he gasped.

“Think you mean that much to her?”

“—she’ll hate you f-for the k-killing.”

Just as Wesley was sure he was about to lose consciousness, the pressure on this throat vanished. He coughed and sputtered while Spike watched with a clinical look, as if he weren’t the one who had nearly choked him.

After a moment, he stepped back and Wesley slid down the wall.

“What did she say to you?”

Wesley didn’t look up. “That what you did tore her up inside.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “Good that we’re not together then.”

Wesley risked a glance upward.

Spike was gone.

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Buffy went back to the office to pick up her car, and she realized that she didn’t really feel like going home. Instead, she unlocked the door and went inside, heading for the back room. When Wesley came back ten minutes later—looking rather disheveled—she was furiously hitting the punching bag.

He watched her a moment, then asked, “Would you like to spar?”

“Fine.”

“Staffs?”

“Fine.”

She continued punching while he got the equipment and set things up. He tossed her a staff, and they began to circle.

She hit, he blocked. “A year, huh?”

“I’m sorry.”

She lunged, he feinted. “So when were you going to tell me? That I’m not going to live long enough to graduate college?”

“It’s not something most Watchers bring up. It doesn’t usually occur to the girls, frankly. They’re too young to understand the risks.”

She blocked, and then went back on the offensive. “That makes it okay?”

“No,” he admitted.

“Were,” hit “you,” jab “going to,” twist “tell me?!”

“When it came up.”

“When it came up? I almost died tonight.” Strike, twirl. “Spike saved my life. Again.” She knocked his staff away and swept his feet out from underneath him.

“Yes, I was already painfully aware of that fact.” He sat up. “I seem to be making rather a poor go of it this evening.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“If it’s okay with you, I think I’d like to be alone now.”

“It’s fine.” Wesley got to his feet and exited the room. Buffy heard him gathering up his things, and then he left. The lights in the office were out, and the door was locked behind him.