(Note: I'm working on a graphically-enhanced version of this story. It
should be ready by early Monday, 1/7/02, and it will be at the URL below.)
DISCLAIMER: Not mine.
RATING: PG-13 for language.
CATEGORIES: Buffy, Spike, the thin line between UST and RST.
ARCHIVAL: My site only. Please feel free to link to it at www.alanna.net/btvs/happiness/
TIMELINE: Post-"Tabula Rasa"
FEEDBACK: is the cream in my coffee. [email protected]
SUMMARY: Making something of nothing. Or not.
HAPPINESS
by wisteria
+++++
Nevermind me 'cause I've been dead
Out of my body
I've been out of my head
1 Nevermind the songs they hum
You don't want to sing along
There's nothin' that I said
+++++
"I have to go."
He stares at her, lips still parted.
"Right. Where?"
"Anywhere. Away from here."
+++++
She's surprised to discover the house so quiet when they walk in. Everyone must be asleep, but it's still early. Oddness.
She scribbles a note on the back of a parent-teacher conference request. I'm sorry, it says. I can't be here now. I'll be back. Don't worry about me.
She has done this before. She'd rather not think about what happened back then. Death tends to change one's priorities.
He stands off to the side, watching her as she writes. Arms crossed over his chest, eyes narrowed. She ignores the way he stares at her. Kisses change things too.
Mom kept an emergency cash stash behind the ice cream goblets they never used. Only a hundred dollars or so, but it will suffice.
"This is wrong, you know," he calls out to her as she goes upstairs for a change of clothes.
"I know."
+++++
They drive at night.
He tells her they're going to hit Vegas. "Lots of fun there," he says in a voice she thinks is meant to be cheerful.
"I don't want fun. I've had far too many oodles o' fun tonight." Funny, even the clever lines don't sound very clever to her anymore.
He's silent for a mile or so, then he says, "Okay. Lots of money there."
Money. Yes. Money is good.
Necessary evils.
He's one of them too now, she knows. A necessary evil. Less evil these days, but more necessary.
+++++
A gas station, 3:48 a.m., Baker, CA. Two hours from Las Vegas.
He's inside, buying a map. She stands in front of the pay phone, hand poised over the key pad. Phone calls in the middle of the night are bad. They tell you terrible things, like that someone's in danger. Or dead.
But she knows they're worried. It's not like her note was exactly reassuring. Problem is, she doesn't really want them to know what she's doing, especially with Spike, of all people. Everyone just gets so damn protective sometimes. Like she doesn't know what she wants or how to take care of herself, as if that was ever an issue. Last thing she wants right now is to be coddled like she has been for the past two months.
She must have phased out, because next thing she knows, Spike's standing next to her, the map in his hand. "You done?"
Buffy shakes her head.
He grunts. "Get on with it, then. We don't have all night."
If he'd been anyone else, she would have spat out, "bite me." So instead, she mutters, "Get over yourself."
Right. Like that's going to happen.
"Can't say I blame you, though. I wouldn't want to chat with your friends either."
Trust Spike to say the stupidest thing imaginable. 'Course, she could think of stupider things for him to say, but hey.
Deep sigh, then she pulls a phone card out of her wallet. Jumping through the phone company's hoops is a royal pain in the ass; lucky for her she hasn't had too much need for long distance in the past.
Dawn answers, all breathless and worried. "Where are you? I woke up about an hour ago because I had a bad dream so I went to see if you were in your room but you weren't here and I got all scared and Tara's gone and Giles is too and Willow won't come out of her room and what's going on are you hurt?"
Buffy cringes. "Take a breath, Dawn. I'm fine."
"For real? Because if you're not, it's okay. We'll help you. I'll come get you now." Buffy hears a thud, then, "Ow! Just stubbed my toe on the closet frame."
"Dawn!" She makes her voice stern. It feels weird. "I'm okay. Really. I just --" she stops and takes a breath. "I just needed to get out of town for a little bit. Don't worry about me. All right?"
Her sister is silent for a long moment, then she says, "Are you sure? Do you need anything?"
"I'm sure. Tell everyone I'm all right in the morning, okay? Don't wake them up."
"Okay." Dawn's voice shifts to its normal petulance. "Don't mind me or anything."
Buffy has to stifle a groan, along with the familiar urge to smack her sister upside the head. Instead, she says, "Look, I'll give you a call tomorrow night and let you know what's going on. Love you all."
Before Dawn can pipe up again, Buffy hangs up the phone.
She can feel Spike's antsiness behind her, all hovery and keyed up.
Still staring at the phone, she mutters, "That went well, I guess."
She should feel sad, she supposes. Guilty. Responsible.
But all she feels is hollow.
+++++
He thinks of something that Angelus once told him, during those few months when he was back to his evil old self.
Angelus had grinned at him as he toyed with Dru's hair, and Spike had wanted nothing more than to stake him and piss on the dust, if he'd even been able to.
"I do think I've bested even you in Slayer action, William. You killed them, but I got one to fall in love with me." His eyes had sparkled as he said it.
Spike was loathe to admit to himself how much he'd envied the other man. Not for having Buffy -- at least, not at the time -- but because there was just something so damned poetic about crushing emotions instead of bodies.
And now the times they are a'changing.
The sign glints kelly green in the headlights: Las Vegas 102 miles. He's not sure of the time, but he guestimates it's around five in the morning. They'll have to haul ass to get to the city before daylight; he still doesn't trust Buffy enough to let her drive. He pushes harder on the gas pedal, and the old car groans.
He glances over at the Slayer -- the same one who'd fallen in love with a vampire. What he could tell her about Angelus if he had half a nerve to destroy her like that. Oh, sure, she probably knows lots of stories, but only the ones that made the official accounts.
But he can't tell her because he was a participant too, and he doesn't want her to hear all that from him. She knows all the stories about him too. He has no delusions that she sees him as anything but dirt, but still. Self-conscious and all that shite.
Love's a bitch, ain't it?
He looks at the way her hand curls on her leg as she dozes. Fingers curled the same way she'd grasp a stake.
So, this is what it's like to be in love with a Slayer, right? The ever- present knowledge that if you piss her off or tread the wrong way, you'll end up as molecules littering the floor.
+++++
The casino floor is dark, just the way he likes it. The best thing about Vegas is that one can exist there for days without ever having to see sunlight. Perhaps those Mafia goons who first built the city were really vampires.
With pockets full of winnings, he looks around the room for her. Her hair like a beacon, he spots her standing in front of a quarter slot machine. One arm moves the lever up and down, but her eyes are glazed over. It's a look he has seen on her far too often lately.
"C'mon," he murmurs in her ear.
She turns to look at him, gaze still hollow.
"I cleared nearly three grand at Blackjack. Even got comped a room." The words rush out, like a whoosh of air. He can still breathe when he wants to.
She continues to stare.
He reaches out for her elbow, and she snaps back to reality. She's still silent, but she lets him lead her away from the slot machine.
They head toward the elevator. "We're staying here?" Her voice is hoarse. Lack of practice, he supposes, given the barely two dozen words she's said to him since they left Sunnydale.
"Yeah. You need a good rest."
Eyes are clear now. "I'm not going to sleep with you, you know."
"I know. I'll be a perfect gentleman."
Too bad she wasn't a lady when she was kissing him for the second time just twelve hours ago. He's learned to forgive her such things, though.
She rolls her eyes. Not quite the reaction he wanted, but at least it's a reaction.
"I can be a gentleman, Buffy. It's not impossible."
But she's already inside the elevator. He doubts she heard a word he said.
As they ascend to the nineteenth floor in an empty elevator, she finally starts talking in the Real Buffy style. "How did you manage to make like Midas, anyway?"
"Ten years or so ago, Dru and I breezed through. Caught one of the blackjack dealers behind the Mirage. Told him I'd spare him if he let me in on his tricks. He spilled, then Dru moved in for the kill."
"Oh."
He expects some revulsion from her, but she's back to being hollow again.
The room isn't posh, but it'll do. All she needs is a bed, anyway. She disappears inside the bathroom, but she doesn't close the door. He listens to her doing whatever she's doing to clean up.
A loud "Ow!" from inside, and he goes over to the door. "Stubbed my toe on the edge of the bathtub," she murmurs.
He looks down at her foot, examining the trickle of blood from the split nail.
Hungry. He's so hungry.
It would be beautiful to wipe it away with his finger, then lick it dry. Too beautiful.
He walks away quickly, toward the window, but he doesn't open the drapes to the sunlight. Damned temptation.
He stands there and waits for more noise. She's like a cat, not a mewling kitten he uses for other gambling pursuits. The only clue she has even moved is the rustle of the bedclothes. When he turns around, she is under the covers.
"Thanks," she murmurs.
He looks away. "Right. No problem." Flicking a hand toward the rest of the room, he mutters, "Comfy chair. I'll be here if you need anything."
She's already asleep.
He settles himself in the chair, which isn't comfy at all. He watches her sleep.
He used to sit and watch Drusilla sleep too. Until he felt safe with her, he had to stay awake and watch her, lest she get up to wickedness when he wasn't paying attention. Then when she was sick a few years ago, he'd watch over her. She'd had a nasty habit of biting her tongue when she slept.
Funny how unlife turns out. If someone had told him two years ago that he'd be acting as a Slayer's caretaker....
After a while, he stands up and walks over into the bathroom.
He wants to stare at himself in the mirror. See what she sees in him.
But the reflection is empty.
+++++
"Gonna be light soon," he says as they hit the freeway at three in the morning, leaving the too-bright lights of Vegas behind. She stirs in the passenger seat. She was only pretending to sleep, hoping it would make him stop talking. It worked for a little while.
She keeps her eyes closed for a few more minutes and stills her body as much as she can. She won't give him the satisfaction of thinking that his voice can wake her up.
Finally, he says, "Look, I know you're awake, so don't give me that old song and dance."
She doesn't respond.
He growls in frustration and she's glad. He's back to the Spike version 1.0, not the new version 2.0, the one whose upgrades include the feature of following her around like a lovesick puppy or knowing just the right thing to say to make her feel better. She prefers the original Spike, because at least then she knew what she was getting.
"Slayer, I let you get your beauty sleep back at the hotel, but you just had to sleep until half-three in the bloody morning. Now, you can either switch seats with me and learn how to drive this thing or else come up with a way for ashes to steer a car."
"Don't call me 'Slayer,'" she finds herself saying.
Even without looking at him, she can sense his double-take.
"Pardon me? Last time I checked, you were a vampire slayer."
Yeah, and twenty-odd hours ago, she was Joan and he was Randy. Ah, the good old days.
"Spike?"
"What, luv?"
No 'Slayer' this time, but he's still calling her 'luv'. She reminds herself that he says that to everyone.
"Why didn't I get to be someone else?"
"Sorry, I don't follow you there." He began to slow the car down. Nobody was behind them to honk at the deceleration.
She wishes it weren't dark so she could at least stare out the window at something. They're driving through the mountains now. Those must be pretty. Since she can't look, all she can do is talk, and something about the lack of visual stimulation makes her chatty.
"Most people, when they get amnesia, get to start over. Become someone new. But who was I? Same slayer, different first name."
"Ah, so that's what this is about? The bloody amnesia spell?" The car's now to a complete stop. "Hold that thought, and get over into the driver's seat.
She sighs and opens the door. Her muscles scream from cramps as she walks around to his side of the car. He's standing next to the backseat door, and she practically has to veer over onto the interstate itself to keep from brushing against him. He'd like that too much.
He holds the door open as she settles herself into the driver's seat, and she hopes like hell he won't do something stupid like try to position her hands on the wheel. Pre-empting that notion, she gets into the stance. She's driven before, after all, though those trips were usually full of metal crunchiness and other assorted badness.
Spike climbs into the backseat and she forces herself not to look at him in the rearview mirror as she adjusts it to see the big black blob of nothingness in the rear window.
"Right, okay. Turn the ignition and--"
"I know how to start a damn car," she spits.
"No need to get huffy, Buffy."
"You're a poet and you didn't know it," she throws back at him, feeling marginally clever for the first time in hours.
"That was unnecessary." He practically growls.
What-the-hell-ever. She'll never figure him out, not that she'd ever want to.
She manages to make it back on the road and she's up to 75 mph before she lets her muscles relax. This stretch of road is fairly straight, which is good, but she knows some more mountains are on their way, along with the sunrise.
"As you were saying, you're mad because you had to be a slayer again when you got the memory wipe?"
"Mad? No. Frustrated? Yes."
"So you don't want to be a slayer, then?"
"Would you?"
"I think not, because then I'd have to dust myself and that could get messy."
Buffy grits her teeth. "I don't want your humor, Spike."
"Then what do you want from me?"
She rewards his lack of charm with a lack of response.
"Fine. Whatever." She listens to him rustling in the backseat, the noise almost drowning out his words as he continues, "Being a slayer's your destiny. Can't escape it."
Sure enough, the mountains appear again and she focuses on the road to keep from swerving off some cliff or whatever. "Joan didn't know she was a slayer. She -- I -- actually seemed to enjoy it."
"And you don't?"
"Quit asking me questions."
"Hey, you're the one who started the talking, Buffy-Joan."
"I'm probably not going to feel like talking to you like this, Dr. Spike, ever again, so just let me do it, okay?"
It's his turn not to respond.
"No, I don't enjoy it anymore. Heaven kind of ruined it for me." She pauses to take a breath and feel the way the gas pedal vibrates under her foot. "I wish the spell hadn't worn off. Everyone was so much happier. Major weirdness, what with the whole Giles and Anya thing, but still. It was better."
"It wouldn't have lasted, you know." His voice is muffled, and she looks at him in the rearview mirror. All she sees is blackness.
"I would have made it last."
He laughs. "Sure you would've. You'd have been bored out of your mind within a day. It's like I told you a few weeks ago. You're not a shopgirl or anything else you want to call 'normal'. This is your life."
"Oh, and what's the big prize behind door number one, Monty? Early death and putting your loved ones in danger?"
"Well, it's not something you can walk away from, you know. It's what you're trying to do now, and while I'm having a marvelous time with Miss Peaches up there in the front seat, you'll have to go back to it someday."
She sighs as she watches the first fingers of orangy light appear over the mountains.
"Can someday be a long time from now?"
"It can be as long as you want, luv."
+++++
END, Chapter One.
[email protected]
DISCLAIMER: Not mine.
RATING: PG-13 for language.
CATEGORIES: Buffy, Spike, the thin line between UST and RST.
ARCHIVAL: My site only. Please feel free to link to it at www.alanna.net/btvs/happiness/
TIMELINE: Post-"Tabula Rasa"
FEEDBACK: is the cream in my coffee. [email protected]
SUMMARY: Making something of nothing. Or not.
HAPPINESS
by wisteria
+++++
Nevermind me 'cause I've been dead
Out of my body
I've been out of my head
1 Nevermind the songs they hum
You don't want to sing along
There's nothin' that I said
+++++
"I have to go."
He stares at her, lips still parted.
"Right. Where?"
"Anywhere. Away from here."
+++++
She's surprised to discover the house so quiet when they walk in. Everyone must be asleep, but it's still early. Oddness.
She scribbles a note on the back of a parent-teacher conference request. I'm sorry, it says. I can't be here now. I'll be back. Don't worry about me.
She has done this before. She'd rather not think about what happened back then. Death tends to change one's priorities.
He stands off to the side, watching her as she writes. Arms crossed over his chest, eyes narrowed. She ignores the way he stares at her. Kisses change things too.
Mom kept an emergency cash stash behind the ice cream goblets they never used. Only a hundred dollars or so, but it will suffice.
"This is wrong, you know," he calls out to her as she goes upstairs for a change of clothes.
"I know."
+++++
They drive at night.
He tells her they're going to hit Vegas. "Lots of fun there," he says in a voice she thinks is meant to be cheerful.
"I don't want fun. I've had far too many oodles o' fun tonight." Funny, even the clever lines don't sound very clever to her anymore.
He's silent for a mile or so, then he says, "Okay. Lots of money there."
Money. Yes. Money is good.
Necessary evils.
He's one of them too now, she knows. A necessary evil. Less evil these days, but more necessary.
+++++
A gas station, 3:48 a.m., Baker, CA. Two hours from Las Vegas.
He's inside, buying a map. She stands in front of the pay phone, hand poised over the key pad. Phone calls in the middle of the night are bad. They tell you terrible things, like that someone's in danger. Or dead.
But she knows they're worried. It's not like her note was exactly reassuring. Problem is, she doesn't really want them to know what she's doing, especially with Spike, of all people. Everyone just gets so damn protective sometimes. Like she doesn't know what she wants or how to take care of herself, as if that was ever an issue. Last thing she wants right now is to be coddled like she has been for the past two months.
She must have phased out, because next thing she knows, Spike's standing next to her, the map in his hand. "You done?"
Buffy shakes her head.
He grunts. "Get on with it, then. We don't have all night."
If he'd been anyone else, she would have spat out, "bite me." So instead, she mutters, "Get over yourself."
Right. Like that's going to happen.
"Can't say I blame you, though. I wouldn't want to chat with your friends either."
Trust Spike to say the stupidest thing imaginable. 'Course, she could think of stupider things for him to say, but hey.
Deep sigh, then she pulls a phone card out of her wallet. Jumping through the phone company's hoops is a royal pain in the ass; lucky for her she hasn't had too much need for long distance in the past.
Dawn answers, all breathless and worried. "Where are you? I woke up about an hour ago because I had a bad dream so I went to see if you were in your room but you weren't here and I got all scared and Tara's gone and Giles is too and Willow won't come out of her room and what's going on are you hurt?"
Buffy cringes. "Take a breath, Dawn. I'm fine."
"For real? Because if you're not, it's okay. We'll help you. I'll come get you now." Buffy hears a thud, then, "Ow! Just stubbed my toe on the closet frame."
"Dawn!" She makes her voice stern. It feels weird. "I'm okay. Really. I just --" she stops and takes a breath. "I just needed to get out of town for a little bit. Don't worry about me. All right?"
Her sister is silent for a long moment, then she says, "Are you sure? Do you need anything?"
"I'm sure. Tell everyone I'm all right in the morning, okay? Don't wake them up."
"Okay." Dawn's voice shifts to its normal petulance. "Don't mind me or anything."
Buffy has to stifle a groan, along with the familiar urge to smack her sister upside the head. Instead, she says, "Look, I'll give you a call tomorrow night and let you know what's going on. Love you all."
Before Dawn can pipe up again, Buffy hangs up the phone.
She can feel Spike's antsiness behind her, all hovery and keyed up.
Still staring at the phone, she mutters, "That went well, I guess."
She should feel sad, she supposes. Guilty. Responsible.
But all she feels is hollow.
+++++
He thinks of something that Angelus once told him, during those few months when he was back to his evil old self.
Angelus had grinned at him as he toyed with Dru's hair, and Spike had wanted nothing more than to stake him and piss on the dust, if he'd even been able to.
"I do think I've bested even you in Slayer action, William. You killed them, but I got one to fall in love with me." His eyes had sparkled as he said it.
Spike was loathe to admit to himself how much he'd envied the other man. Not for having Buffy -- at least, not at the time -- but because there was just something so damned poetic about crushing emotions instead of bodies.
And now the times they are a'changing.
The sign glints kelly green in the headlights: Las Vegas 102 miles. He's not sure of the time, but he guestimates it's around five in the morning. They'll have to haul ass to get to the city before daylight; he still doesn't trust Buffy enough to let her drive. He pushes harder on the gas pedal, and the old car groans.
He glances over at the Slayer -- the same one who'd fallen in love with a vampire. What he could tell her about Angelus if he had half a nerve to destroy her like that. Oh, sure, she probably knows lots of stories, but only the ones that made the official accounts.
But he can't tell her because he was a participant too, and he doesn't want her to hear all that from him. She knows all the stories about him too. He has no delusions that she sees him as anything but dirt, but still. Self-conscious and all that shite.
Love's a bitch, ain't it?
He looks at the way her hand curls on her leg as she dozes. Fingers curled the same way she'd grasp a stake.
So, this is what it's like to be in love with a Slayer, right? The ever- present knowledge that if you piss her off or tread the wrong way, you'll end up as molecules littering the floor.
+++++
The casino floor is dark, just the way he likes it. The best thing about Vegas is that one can exist there for days without ever having to see sunlight. Perhaps those Mafia goons who first built the city were really vampires.
With pockets full of winnings, he looks around the room for her. Her hair like a beacon, he spots her standing in front of a quarter slot machine. One arm moves the lever up and down, but her eyes are glazed over. It's a look he has seen on her far too often lately.
"C'mon," he murmurs in her ear.
She turns to look at him, gaze still hollow.
"I cleared nearly three grand at Blackjack. Even got comped a room." The words rush out, like a whoosh of air. He can still breathe when he wants to.
She continues to stare.
He reaches out for her elbow, and she snaps back to reality. She's still silent, but she lets him lead her away from the slot machine.
They head toward the elevator. "We're staying here?" Her voice is hoarse. Lack of practice, he supposes, given the barely two dozen words she's said to him since they left Sunnydale.
"Yeah. You need a good rest."
Eyes are clear now. "I'm not going to sleep with you, you know."
"I know. I'll be a perfect gentleman."
Too bad she wasn't a lady when she was kissing him for the second time just twelve hours ago. He's learned to forgive her such things, though.
She rolls her eyes. Not quite the reaction he wanted, but at least it's a reaction.
"I can be a gentleman, Buffy. It's not impossible."
But she's already inside the elevator. He doubts she heard a word he said.
As they ascend to the nineteenth floor in an empty elevator, she finally starts talking in the Real Buffy style. "How did you manage to make like Midas, anyway?"
"Ten years or so ago, Dru and I breezed through. Caught one of the blackjack dealers behind the Mirage. Told him I'd spare him if he let me in on his tricks. He spilled, then Dru moved in for the kill."
"Oh."
He expects some revulsion from her, but she's back to being hollow again.
The room isn't posh, but it'll do. All she needs is a bed, anyway. She disappears inside the bathroom, but she doesn't close the door. He listens to her doing whatever she's doing to clean up.
A loud "Ow!" from inside, and he goes over to the door. "Stubbed my toe on the edge of the bathtub," she murmurs.
He looks down at her foot, examining the trickle of blood from the split nail.
Hungry. He's so hungry.
It would be beautiful to wipe it away with his finger, then lick it dry. Too beautiful.
He walks away quickly, toward the window, but he doesn't open the drapes to the sunlight. Damned temptation.
He stands there and waits for more noise. She's like a cat, not a mewling kitten he uses for other gambling pursuits. The only clue she has even moved is the rustle of the bedclothes. When he turns around, she is under the covers.
"Thanks," she murmurs.
He looks away. "Right. No problem." Flicking a hand toward the rest of the room, he mutters, "Comfy chair. I'll be here if you need anything."
She's already asleep.
He settles himself in the chair, which isn't comfy at all. He watches her sleep.
He used to sit and watch Drusilla sleep too. Until he felt safe with her, he had to stay awake and watch her, lest she get up to wickedness when he wasn't paying attention. Then when she was sick a few years ago, he'd watch over her. She'd had a nasty habit of biting her tongue when she slept.
Funny how unlife turns out. If someone had told him two years ago that he'd be acting as a Slayer's caretaker....
After a while, he stands up and walks over into the bathroom.
He wants to stare at himself in the mirror. See what she sees in him.
But the reflection is empty.
+++++
"Gonna be light soon," he says as they hit the freeway at three in the morning, leaving the too-bright lights of Vegas behind. She stirs in the passenger seat. She was only pretending to sleep, hoping it would make him stop talking. It worked for a little while.
She keeps her eyes closed for a few more minutes and stills her body as much as she can. She won't give him the satisfaction of thinking that his voice can wake her up.
Finally, he says, "Look, I know you're awake, so don't give me that old song and dance."
She doesn't respond.
He growls in frustration and she's glad. He's back to the Spike version 1.0, not the new version 2.0, the one whose upgrades include the feature of following her around like a lovesick puppy or knowing just the right thing to say to make her feel better. She prefers the original Spike, because at least then she knew what she was getting.
"Slayer, I let you get your beauty sleep back at the hotel, but you just had to sleep until half-three in the bloody morning. Now, you can either switch seats with me and learn how to drive this thing or else come up with a way for ashes to steer a car."
"Don't call me 'Slayer,'" she finds herself saying.
Even without looking at him, she can sense his double-take.
"Pardon me? Last time I checked, you were a vampire slayer."
Yeah, and twenty-odd hours ago, she was Joan and he was Randy. Ah, the good old days.
"Spike?"
"What, luv?"
No 'Slayer' this time, but he's still calling her 'luv'. She reminds herself that he says that to everyone.
"Why didn't I get to be someone else?"
"Sorry, I don't follow you there." He began to slow the car down. Nobody was behind them to honk at the deceleration.
She wishes it weren't dark so she could at least stare out the window at something. They're driving through the mountains now. Those must be pretty. Since she can't look, all she can do is talk, and something about the lack of visual stimulation makes her chatty.
"Most people, when they get amnesia, get to start over. Become someone new. But who was I? Same slayer, different first name."
"Ah, so that's what this is about? The bloody amnesia spell?" The car's now to a complete stop. "Hold that thought, and get over into the driver's seat.
She sighs and opens the door. Her muscles scream from cramps as she walks around to his side of the car. He's standing next to the backseat door, and she practically has to veer over onto the interstate itself to keep from brushing against him. He'd like that too much.
He holds the door open as she settles herself into the driver's seat, and she hopes like hell he won't do something stupid like try to position her hands on the wheel. Pre-empting that notion, she gets into the stance. She's driven before, after all, though those trips were usually full of metal crunchiness and other assorted badness.
Spike climbs into the backseat and she forces herself not to look at him in the rearview mirror as she adjusts it to see the big black blob of nothingness in the rear window.
"Right, okay. Turn the ignition and--"
"I know how to start a damn car," she spits.
"No need to get huffy, Buffy."
"You're a poet and you didn't know it," she throws back at him, feeling marginally clever for the first time in hours.
"That was unnecessary." He practically growls.
What-the-hell-ever. She'll never figure him out, not that she'd ever want to.
She manages to make it back on the road and she's up to 75 mph before she lets her muscles relax. This stretch of road is fairly straight, which is good, but she knows some more mountains are on their way, along with the sunrise.
"As you were saying, you're mad because you had to be a slayer again when you got the memory wipe?"
"Mad? No. Frustrated? Yes."
"So you don't want to be a slayer, then?"
"Would you?"
"I think not, because then I'd have to dust myself and that could get messy."
Buffy grits her teeth. "I don't want your humor, Spike."
"Then what do you want from me?"
She rewards his lack of charm with a lack of response.
"Fine. Whatever." She listens to him rustling in the backseat, the noise almost drowning out his words as he continues, "Being a slayer's your destiny. Can't escape it."
Sure enough, the mountains appear again and she focuses on the road to keep from swerving off some cliff or whatever. "Joan didn't know she was a slayer. She -- I -- actually seemed to enjoy it."
"And you don't?"
"Quit asking me questions."
"Hey, you're the one who started the talking, Buffy-Joan."
"I'm probably not going to feel like talking to you like this, Dr. Spike, ever again, so just let me do it, okay?"
It's his turn not to respond.
"No, I don't enjoy it anymore. Heaven kind of ruined it for me." She pauses to take a breath and feel the way the gas pedal vibrates under her foot. "I wish the spell hadn't worn off. Everyone was so much happier. Major weirdness, what with the whole Giles and Anya thing, but still. It was better."
"It wouldn't have lasted, you know." His voice is muffled, and she looks at him in the rearview mirror. All she sees is blackness.
"I would have made it last."
He laughs. "Sure you would've. You'd have been bored out of your mind within a day. It's like I told you a few weeks ago. You're not a shopgirl or anything else you want to call 'normal'. This is your life."
"Oh, and what's the big prize behind door number one, Monty? Early death and putting your loved ones in danger?"
"Well, it's not something you can walk away from, you know. It's what you're trying to do now, and while I'm having a marvelous time with Miss Peaches up there in the front seat, you'll have to go back to it someday."
She sighs as she watches the first fingers of orangy light appear over the mountains.
"Can someday be a long time from now?"
"It can be as long as you want, luv."
+++++
END, Chapter One.
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