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I'm feeling in a Spuffy mood lately and thought I'd share some really really old Spuffy fics on the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fantas_magoria! Really sorry for the typos (am an English minor from long ago but these are un-betaed).
Wide Open
Title: Wide Open
Author: Sandy S.
Rating: PG-13 (I guess?)
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Joss owns all.
Summary: Set after "Beneath You" in season seven of BtVS. S/B. Response to "Eyes" challenge.
Been a while since I did one of these, and since I'm feeling restless...
* * *
She wants to close her eyes...is desperate to blink away the wide open soul before her...
She wants to scream at him, clinch her fists, and pound him until he bursts into whirlpools of dust.
Most of all, she wants to run from the scene before her.
But she can't do any of those things.
Her nose is filled with the sharp smoky smell of decay, regret, sacrifice, and...love...
...not the pity she expected.
Her body lurches forward without her usual Slayer's grace, and without turning her eyes, she helps him off the cross to burn no more.
Art by Aydin
Soul Fashion
Rating: PG-13, for mild language
Disclaimer: All belongs to Joss and UPN. I own nothing.
Spoilers: through the first two episodes of season 7 (written right after "Beneath You" aired)
Summary: Buffy takes Spike somewhere to help him out. Way AU and unlikely to happen on the show. . .
Author’s Note: This story is an answer to a challenge set forth by Laura, webmistress of Yummy Sushi Pajamas, to write a story in which Spike and Buffy go shopping for clothes.
* * *
“I don’t want to go here.” Spike ducks his head and attempts to turn away like a small child afraid I might hit him if he displeases me.
In response to his protest, I grab his arm, intent on dragging him in. “Well, we’re going in anyway. It must be done. Tonight’s my only night off; I have to go to work for the next six days and then slaying stuff takes up the evenings. So, tonight’s the night.”
He tries to pull away from my hold, but he is helpless to stop me. The only victory he wins is that I’m not touching his bare skin. Instead, I’m tugging him by the sleeve of the hideously garish blue shirt he used for a costume yesterday.
“Nooooo,” he whispers, his eyes wide and a look of terror painting his features. “Someone might see me with you.”
“So?” We manage to enter the building at least. The cool air from the air conditioning swirls around us like a welcoming blanket and the familiar scent of new objects fills my nose.
Spike plants his feet like a cat being forced to walk on a leash, his face a stubborn mask. At least, one thing hasn’t changed. “It would be bad.”
“Why would it be bad, Spike?” I am getting a bit impatient, not that I have much patience anyway. Letting go of his sleeve, I cross my arms.
He shuffles his feet, and I notice his shoes. . . even worse than the shirt. “Because they might think. . . “ He trails off.
I wait for more, but none comes. “They might think what?”
“Lots of things. That I’m with you. . .”
“I am with you.”
“That I might hurt you. . . again.” The last part is so soft that I almost cannot hear him. Still avoiding my gaze, he clears his throat awkwardly and adds, “There might be a fight. I might hurt someone else.”
I roll my eyes. “Spike, we’re in the *mall*. Who’s gonna know us here? And why would they think you would hurt me if I’m willingly with you?”
His blue eyes meet mine for the first time, and I have difficulty reading what I see in their depths. “Do you think I would hurt you?”
The couple passing us to exit the mall cast Spike a strange look when they overhear his words. For the moment, Spike is oblivious to their stares. He’s gazing at me, and I almost forget his insane behavior, forget he has a soul now.
I hesitate. “No. I don’t think you would purposefully hurt me.” Not after what you told me earlier. Instead of relief, his eyes go wide at something he sees over my shoulder. I peek back. “It’s just Dawn, Spike. I asked her to meet us here.”
He begins shaking his head and backing toward the exit. “She’s mad at me. She wants to set me on fire.”
“Only if you hurt me, and you’re not going to do that, are you?”
He’s so much like a child who has been abused. . . all edginess and hypersensitivity. At my words, he stops moving and seems to draw into himself. I’m surprised, but then, I realize that Dawn is right behind me, and he hasn’t shown his wounded side to her even though I told her about the soul. I’m actually rather relieved that he’s going to pull himself halfway together in front of Dawn.
“Hi!” Dawn greets us with a perky grin, and her ponytail still swishing. She’s putting on a show, too, which I suppose Spike needs right now. “How are you guys doing?” She slips her hands in the back pockets of her jeans and rocks slightly back on her heels. She and I are dressed similarly in faded jeans, tiny T-shirts, and white tennis shoes.
“Fine,” I say.
“Been better,” Spike responds, his voice somewhat casual like the Spike of old.
“Ready for shopping fun?”
Spike replies, “No” at the same time I respond with “Yes.”
Dawn raises an eyebrow. “You guys are decisive as usual.”
“We’re here to shop for Spike a new wardrobe,” I insist, glancing at the blank-faced vampire.
Dawn’s smile returns. “Love the shopping. Let’s get going.”
* * *
After thirty minutes of pulling teeth to get Spike to go into a clothing store, he’s finally relented and allowed us to take him by the arms. We enter one of the trendy but more affordable shops and are immediately pounced upon by a sales woman. Great, just what we need.
“Hello!” The young woman is a redhead with a nose ring. She’s dressed in a cutoff red top that shows off her belly button and a short black skirt. Her eyes rove over Spike from his dirty shoes to the top of his bleached blond hair. If Spike were human, he would be blushing. Instead, he just squirms under her scrutiny. “Hmmm. What happened to you?”
Spike looks to me with panic on his features. If his feelings weren’t so real, I’d have laughed at his expression. So, I speak for him, “Our friend here needs some new clothes.”
“Ahhh. I think we can help you. I’m Miranda.” She locks arms with him, and he stares at her arm around his, not quite certain what to make of her. I think that if Spike wasn’t in the state he’s in, I would probably be jealous of the way she was fawning over him. She continues chattering as they walk away. “Come with me, we’ll see what we can find.”
I immediately am relieved of my burden, so I begin to browse through the women’s clothing. Dawn follows, a question brimming from her body. Holding up a cherry-colored peasant blouse, I wonder, “Think I could wear this to work at the school?”
Dawn skims over what I said, “Yeah, it’s great. Buffy, is Spike like totally insane now? I mean, what’s wrong with him?”
“I think he’s going through a lot right now, what with all the people he killed running through his head, and he’s having to deal with his human half again.” I throw the blouse over my left arm and sweep through the remainder of the sale rack, trying to ignore my own feelings of guilt at what I said to him in the past. “Dawn, why don’t you try a couple of things on?”
Dawn seems despondent at my news about Spike. Still, she picks out a soft burgundy sweater and faded denim skirt to try on. “So, does that mean we have to forgive him for what he’s done? Like Angel with his soul?”
I pause to examine a hunter green polyester skirt and matching sheer lace blouse. Adding the outfit to my growing pile, I face my sister. “I honestly don’t know how I feel about it, yet, Dawnie.” We approach the jewelry section of the store, and I finger a few sets of earrings while Dawn studies a turquoise necklace.
“Me either. But I suppose we should try at least. He seems like he’s in so much pain.” Dawn shifts her stack of clothing from one arm to the other.
“Maybe, it’ll just take some time,” I speculate and then nod toward the dressing room. Adjusting to Spike the way he is now was going to take a lot of time. “Let’s try these things on.”
“Do you think this is how he was when he was human?”
I think back to what Spike had told me about his past in upper class England, and I realize I know very little about what Spike was like as a human. I just know he was not well accepted even then. My stomach jars again when I remember how deeply he internalized my barb about him being beneath me. “Maybe.”
Ever observant, Dawn states, “He was probably pretty awkward and lacking in social skills. I mean, look at the way he was with us just coming into a shop.”
“But the old Spike is still there, too,” I say, wondering vaguely whom I’m trying to reassure, me or Dawn.
“Yeah. I guess so. How long do you think it’ll take him to be normal again?” Dawn chooses a stall in the dressing room, and I take the one next to hers.
“Well, it took Angel one hundred years the first time he got his back.” I slip my tank top over my head and slide the peasant blouse onto my torso.
A thump comes from Dawn’s dressing room as she slips off her shoes. “One hundred years?! Somehow, I don’t see Spike taking that long.”
“I know.” I can’t picture Spike taking as long as Angel. Spike has something Angel didn’t. . . “He has us to take care of him.”
Dawn’s scuffles cease at my words.
Alarmed, my senses go on alert, and I call, “Dawn, you okay?”
“Yeah,” came the muffled response.
“You got real quiet.”
“What you said just surprised me, I guess. I mean, about us taking care of Spike.” Sounds of trying on clothing begin again.
Tension melts out of my shoulders, and I put on the hunter green flared skirt and lace, long-sleeved shirt. The green brings out the emerald in my hazel eyes, and I fluff my hair. I’m still me. “Yeah, I sorta surprised myself. It’s just that, he’s been there for me before. . . before. . .”
“When the rest of us weren’t,” Dawn says matter-of-factly. When I say nothing, she asks, “Buffy, could you come look at this and tell me what you think?”
“Sure, I need an opinion, too.” I swing open my dressing cubicle’s door and knock gently on Dawn’s.
The door parts to reveal my little sister, seemingly quite grown up with her hair twisted up in a French twist so that her blue eyes are bright with life. Her slim form is wrapped up in the tight, low-cut denim skirt and deep burgundy sweater-shirt with flair sleeves and small ribbons on the cuffs, and her feet are cased in a pair of burgundy-strapped high-heeled pumps. She towers over me like a model.
I try not to seem too mom-ish with my next words, “My little Dawnie is all adult now.”
She grins then, destroying the mirage of being a young professional. I feel relieved in a way. “And you, Buffy, look wonderful! Beautiful!”
I survey my outfit in the hall mirror. “You think?”
She bobs her head emphatically. “Oh, yes! Definitely a working outfit.”
“Let’s go see how Spike’s doing.”
* * *
Miranda is posing politely by the men’s dressing room, and I smile at her perkiness. She returns the gesture, mentioning, “He’s still in there. Won’t let me come in. Said he didn’t want me to see.” She leans toward me and whispers, “Is there something wrong with him? He seems sort of slow.”
Anger flashes through my muscles. “No. He’s just not feeling well,” I defend Spike. He simply didn’t want her to notice he has no reflection. “Let me go see what he’s doing. Dawn, wait here.”
“Okay. I may go back over and browse some more.”
I cautiously step into the men’s dressing room. “Spike?” I call softly. “You doing okay in here?”
“Buffy?” His voice is tentative.
“Yeah, it’s me. Where are you?” My ears perk, listening for his voice.
“Back here.”
I follow the sounds to the room in the very back. I expect to find him seated on the tiny bench, but as always, he does the opposite of what I expect.
Lounging in the doorway to his cubicle, he is dressed in dark black jeans, a hunter green button up shirt without a collar, and a black denim jacket. His feet are covered with a pair of casual black shoes with laces. I hope the shock and desire doesn’t show on my face. His blue eyes are watching me shyly and sweep from my face over the rest of my body.
“We match,” he murmurs deeply without sarcasm and full of. . . love.
I shiver, but I’m not sure why. “We do,” I agree. “Gonna get that?”
“How are you affording this, Buffy?” he asks gently.
“Ummm. Credit card?”
“Thought you weren’t going there.”
“Ah. Well, I sort of found out I needed to. Have to build a credit history to help Dawn in the future,” I explain.
“Why are you doing this for me?”
“I’m doing it because. . .” Because I feel guilty. Because you took care of me. Because I want to make up for hurting you. Because I don’t like to see you in so much pain, and I don’t know what else to do. “. . . I want to.”
He says nothing and then, bows his head, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Get dressed. And pass me what you want.”
“Okay.”
I notice the various-colored T-shirts strewn about the floor of the cubicle. I point at them. “Hand me the red one, the navy blue one, and the gray one.”
Spike passes them to me wordlessly and shuts the cubicle door without argument.
* * *
I wake at two in the morning on instinct. Throwing the sheets back, I tug on my terrycloth robe and fluffy blue house slippers. Padding down the hall, I peer into Dawn’s bedroom. She’s curled on her side with her long blond-streaked hair splayed in fan-shape over her pillow. Her eyes are closed tightly, and her breathing is deep and even. After verifying that she’s safe, I tiptoe down the stairs.
The living room is empty. The blanket Spike was using to sleep on the sofa is crumpled in a heap on the floor, and I spy the clothes I bought him tonight piled on the coffee table. I let Spike stay here for the night with the condition that he seek Clem tomorrow and find a new place to live besides the crypt and the high school basement.
“Spike,” I whisper into the shadows, knowing somehow that he’s not there.
Not sure what to expect, I cautiously make my way to the kitchen, finding that it, too, is empty. My leather jacket is slung over the top of a stool next to Dawn’s denim coat. Used ice cream bowls line the counter, and a mug from which Spike drank fresh pig’s blood tonight is balanced on the edge of the sink, looking every bit as if it might tumble to the ground and shatter.
Without thinking, I hurry to the sink to re-position the ceramic piece. That’s when I see him. He’s dragged our metal garbage can into the center of the yard. Yellow-orange flames lick the sides of the metal. What the hell is he doing? My temper flares bright as the fire he’s lit. Oddly enough, the anger is accompanied by fear and compassion. Wearing a white undershirt and boxers, Spike is standing awfully close to whatever he’s burning, and vampires are highly combustible.
My mind numb, I rush to the kitchen door, which is cracked open. In my haste, I stumble over Dawn’s leather boots and my garden flip-flops that line the floor next to the door. Spike doesn’t respond despite the racket I’m making. Picking myself up, I approach him slowly, alert for any move he might make.
His face is a mask of pain, and my feelings swirl, the anger fading. Worry takes the place of rage. “Spike? What are you doing out here?”
Still unmoving, he mumbles, “I’m burning it up.”
“What? What are you burning up?” I attempt to catch a glimpse of what’s in the garbage can.
“It isn’t me anymore.” His face is unchanging, the light playing across his skin.
“Spike, shouldn’t you back away from the fire? You are sort of flammable.” A breeze blows, and I wrap my arms around myself to shelter myself.
“It’s no problem. Soon it will be finished. I promise. I won’t hurt anything.”
I lay a hand on his bare arm, and he jumps as if startled. “Spike.” He allows me to guide him back from the heat and the danger. Then, I peer over at whatever’s burning.
Shock registers on my face at what’s there. . .
His leather duster. . . he’s burning his leather duster. My heart skips a beat, and I realize he must have searched for it in the house after Dawn and I fell asleep.
Without turning to him, I ask, “Why are you burning your coat, Spike? I’ve never seen you without it until you forgot it here.”
Silence fills the night air for a moment. The only sound is the crackle of the fire.
His tone is flat. “It doesn’t fit anymore.”
“You haven’t gained any weight, Spike.”
He sighs tiredly. “It’s not me anymore. I’m not that person anymore.”
I face him, brushing his arm with my fingertips. “Who are you, then? You certainly aren’t the clothes in the house. Who are you?”
Spike stands before me emotionally naked, his eyes filled with familiar life but also something else altogether. “I don’t know.”
The end.
Art by Aydin
What's Hair Got to Do with It?
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Everything belongs to Joss and UPN.
Spoilers: Everything up through the first two episodes of season 7.
Summary: Follow-up to “Soul Fashion.” Also related to the challenge from Laura at Yummy Sushi Pajamas to write a story about fashion in the Buffy-verse. Again, this is not quite a fluffy story. Buffy POV. Buffy washes Spike’s hair, and then, they get ready for the evening.
* * *
Testing the water with my fingertips, I note that the running fluid has just the right amount of warmth. Honestly, I don’t know why I’m attempting to make this the right temperature. As a vampire who’s not sensitive to temperature, he won’t be bothered either way. Bringing the hose to the other side of the sink, I let the water flow over the soft but dirty curls. I focus on the hair, moving my fingers through the strands, avoiding his face. . . his stare. I needn’t have bothered because soon I realize that he’s keeping his eyes closed.
“You have nice hair,” I comment before thinking about what I’m saying. “Why do you keep it full of gel all the time? The curls are nice.”
“Really? No one says that.” His voice is low and full of wonder that I rarely hear.
My heart feels a little better, knowing that I gave him a compliment. . . not that one kind word made up for. . . . The other day, I actually read somewhere that to make up for negative messages a person receives, he or she has to receive twice as many positive messages. Spike will need many, but I don’t know how I can give them all. . . or if I even want to try.
“Buffy?”
“Hmmm?”
“Where’d the water go?” He raises his eyebrows at me.
The fluid is pouring just beyond his hair. I move the stream back in place. “Oh. Sorry.”
He promptly closes his eyes again. . . like an obedient little boy. He’s so different that I don’t know what to make of him. Half the time, he’s talking gibberish, and the other half of the time, he’s there but quite childlike. I wonder vaguely if this is what Angel was like when he received his soul.
Then, I remember that I have a captive subject here. Apparently, his memory is intact even if he is off his rocker some of the time. “Spike. I have a question.”
His blue eyes are lucid when he re-opens them briefly. “Sure.”
“What was Angel like when he got his soul?” I hold my breath as soon as I ask the question, preparing myself for any possible reaction from the unpredictable vampire.
Spike tenses and is silent for several minutes. Not sure what to say next, I begin lathering up the shampoo and scrubbing his scalp. He relaxes slowly under my touch.
After what feels like an eternity, I ask, “How come we never did this when. . . you know? It would have been nice.”
Again, I receive no response from the unmoving vampire. Finally, he speaks, “Angel. He got really quiet. . . withdrew from all of us. . . even Darla. He never liked to talk about it.”
“Oh.” A twinge of disappointment flew through me.
“It was disconcerting because with no soul, he was. . . could be quite cruel with us. . . moody. So, when he withdrew, we didn’t quite know what to do with him. He became unpredictable in his predictability. . . like a, like a snake. But, he wasn’t. . . wasn’t like me.”
“Oh,” I repeat.
I turn the water back on to rinse his hair. As if transfixed, I watch the suds wash away from the curls, taking the dirt with them. A crazy thought appeared in my head out of nowhere. . . . One of my gifts is forgiveness. Can I forgive Spike? I don’t believe I’ve ever thought of doing that.
“So, he wasn’t. . .”
Even out of his mind, Spike is able to tell the truth. “He wasn’t insane. He didn’t hear the voices.”
I barely miss a beat. “Ready for conditioning?” I pick up the bottle and squirt a generous amount in my palm.
He wrinkles his nose. “Conditioning? Conditioner makes things soft, shiny. It’s not for people like me.”
I smirk. “Too bad.”
* * *
Perched on a stool across from me, Spike is watching me apply makeup as I get ready for the meeting with the gang. (Xander’s condition for having Spike present at the meeting was that he get cleaned up. . . not that he volunteered to help or anything.) Thankfully, I’m sitting at the at the kitchen breakfast bar, eating a sandwich at the same time. . . not in the bathroom or my bedroom. I’ve learned that if I eat something before the meeting, I eat fewer of the doughnuts that Xander inevitably brings.
“Buffy.”
I swallow the bite of food and set aside the makeup mirror and pressed powder compact to take a sip of lemonade. “Yeah?”
“Why do you wear makeup?”
If Spike of old had asked me that, I would have punched him. I wince at that realization. “I don’t know.”
“Sure you do. Everyone does what they do for a reason. . . like politicians and monkeys.” His face is earnest, and his words make some sort of sense.
“Yeah.” I think for a moment. “Well, I guess I want to look good. I mean, I want to look fresh and clean.”
“Why? You look pretty without makeup.” He leans onto the counter, and I’m just a little afraid of him coming closer.
I offer a small smile. “Thanks. But I still think I won’t leave home without it. I mean, people would run from scary Buffy without makeup. Even the vampires would be scared.”
“Why does it matter what they think?” He reaches out to steal a carrot from my plate and pops the mini-vegetable in his mouth. Chewing slowly, something crosses his face, something akin to pain. “Is it okay I took a carrot?”
Screwing the wand into the mascara, I laugh at his need for me to tell him what he can and cannot do. Has he always been this way? “Yes, silly. There’s a whole bag in the fridge.”
“Carrots are good for bunnies but not me.” He stands, glancing toward the refrigerator. “Got any blood?”
“Nope. Have some lemonade, though.”
Slouching back down, he asks, “Why does it matter what they think?”
“You aren’t going to leave this one alone, are you?”
He offers up a Spike-esque grin. “Do I ever?”
I shake my head. “Well, I guess I care what other people think of me. I mean, most people judge themselves by getting feedback from those around them, and I guess I do the same. I guess people were nicer to me when I wore makeup in junior high, so I kept wearing it.” I shrug.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, eyes downcast. “I get feedback, too. From lots of people. Some of them are dead.”
My heart skips a beat, and I bite my lip, glancing away. All the horrible names I called him come flooding back in a mad rush. “I know.” Thoughts race through my head as I search for something else to say. “Sometimes, you have to know when to listen to the feedback and when to ignore it. It’s a tricky thing like a balance, but you can do it.”
Spike inhales my words like oxygen. “Buffy?”
“Yes?” I am unrolling my lip-gloss to apply a layer to my lips, but at the last second, I decide to shove the stick in my pocket. I’ll put it on later.
He touches his hair, which is bleached solid but also soft and clean and curling against his forehead. I resist the impulse to reach out and stroke the locks. “Will you fix my hair for me? I mean, I’ve always just gelled it, and I thought. . . since you said. . . I would try it different.”
“Okay.” I grab my brush and round the kitchen island where he sits up straight in wait. I frown. Has he forgotten how short I am? “Spike, slouch.”
He slouches, and I brush his hair. An almost imperceptible but familiar purr rises out of his chest at my touch. Part of me wants to drop the brush and leave the house immediately. The other part of me wants me to hug him. I choose in between and continue to brush his hair so the curls loosen into soft waves that lay off his forehead.
“Buffy? How do you know which feedback to listen to?”
The knot in my stomach had eased but now reasserts itself. “Hmmm. I don’t know.”
“I mean, there’s all these people. . . these things telling me that I’m bad. And I understand why. I mean, wouldn’t you be mad at the lion who mauled your child even if the lion was sorry?”
“I-I guess so.” I set the brush aside. But isn’t there a time when a person has to put aside the things of the past and accept him or herself in the moment? Isn’t there a time when a person has to forgive him or herself to move on? I can’t say these things to Spike. I’m not the person who should be telling him these things. Hell, I’m not the person to be telling myself these things.
Unable to think straight anymore, I grab my stakes, keys, and small purse, slamming my dishes in the sink. Spike observes me without a word.
“Come on. Let’s go. The gang’s all waiting. Dawn’s already over there.” Exiting out the back door with Spike following, I turn the lock and make certain it’s secure.
“Where are we going?”
“Xander’s,” I reply nonchalantly, knowing he won’t like the answer.
“Oh, bugger,” comes his standard response, for which I’m actually quite grateful.
* * *
Pressing the doorbell, I straighten my shoulders and prepare for the rush of people. . . the rush of complaints because I brought Spike even though they know I might bring him. For his part, Spike stays far back against the wall opposite the door, appearing nonchalant.
To my surprise, only Xander is in the doorway after the door swings open. “Hey, Buff.”
“Hey. Where is everyone?” I make an attempt to peer into the apartment.
Suddenly, Xander frowns. “What did you bring the evil dead here for? *Insane* evil dead, on top of that, actually.”
After the discussion I had with Spike at the house, anger flashes white-hot at my friend’s words. “Xander, there’ll be no name-calling tonight. And we need Spike’s help.”
Xander meets my eyes with his dark brown ones because even though my decision is a small one, it’s definitely significant. Something triggers in his expression because he acquiesces, “All right. Come on, tall, dark, and. . . well, not so tall and not so dark.” He gestures at Spike to join us in the apartment.
Spike strides quietly forward and crosses the threshold. “Thanks.”
Xander nods stiffly but without sarcasm. “No problem. Welcome to my abode. Be she ever so humble. Dawn and Willow headed to the store for some snacks.” He glances at Spike. “Didn’t know you were coming for sure, or I’d have sent them after some blood, too.”
Spike sinks uneasily onto the sofa. “It’s okay.”
Xander wanders toward the kitchen. “Beer? Spike, Buffy?”
We both decline the alcohol, and I settle across from Spike on the recliner.
Xander fishes a can out of the freezer and returns. “Like them ice cold,” he explains at our raised eyebrows. “So, Spike, those the new clothes Buffy bought for you?”
Spike’s wearing the grey shirt and black jeans from our shopping expedition the other evening. “Yep.”
Crickets can be heard in the next several seconds of awkward silence. Spike is saying as little as possible because he doesn’t want to sound too insane. I’m not sure quite what to say to these two men who have made a hobby. . . no, a profession. . . out of hating one another, and Xander just doesn’t want to stick his foot in his mouth, which is no small feat in and of itself.
Then, the doorbell rings again. Xander hops up a little too eagerly. “I really have to give you people keys.”
Willow, Dawn,. . . and Anya appear in the doorway with their arms laden with grocery bags.
“Hey, guys!” Willow is her usual effervescent self as she deposits her burden onto the kitchen table.
Dawn is just as enthusiastic. “Hi, Buffy! Hello, Spike.” She takes out the plastic cups and begins filling them with ice and pouring diet soda.
Anya hesitates as Xander stares her down. “Hello, Xander. Would you please let me in before I drop these?”
“What are you doing here, Anya?”
She smiles and pushes past him. “Helping.”
Xander looks uncertain. “Okay.”
Anya bustles to the table, placing her bags near Willow’s. Beginning to help Willow empty bags, she pulls two bags of chips out of the bag. Xander comes us behind her and tries to open one of the bags. She slaps his hand.
“Hands off, Harris,” she scolds. “Wait for everyone else first. You’re the host. You’re supposed to do that.”
Willow grins at Xander and hands him a plate. “Dig in.”
He grants her a return smile. “Thanks.”
Anya calls to Spike and I like we are much further away than the living room. “You guys going to eat? Spike, what’s with your hair? It’s different!”
Spike rises and reluctantly accepts a plate from Anya. I’m right on Spike’s tail and also receive a plate.
“And Buffy!” Anya cocks her head to study me. “Something’s different.” She squints her eyes at me and scans over my body, finally settling on my face. “I got it. No lip-gloss.”
I start to reach for the makeup in my pocket but catch Spike scrutinizing me closely, so I take the diet soda he hands me instead.
The end.
fantas_magoria! Really sorry for the typos (am an English minor from long ago but these are un-betaed).Wide Open
Title: Wide Open
Author: Sandy S.
Rating: PG-13 (I guess?)
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Joss owns all.
Summary: Set after "Beneath You" in season seven of BtVS. S/B. Response to "Eyes" challenge.
Been a while since I did one of these, and since I'm feeling restless...
* * *
She wants to close her eyes...is desperate to blink away the wide open soul before her...
She wants to scream at him, clinch her fists, and pound him until he bursts into whirlpools of dust.
Most of all, she wants to run from the scene before her.
But she can't do any of those things.
Her nose is filled with the sharp smoky smell of decay, regret, sacrifice, and...love...
...not the pity she expected.
Her body lurches forward without her usual Slayer's grace, and without turning her eyes, she helps him off the cross to burn no more.
Art by Aydin
Soul Fashion
Rating: PG-13, for mild language
Disclaimer: All belongs to Joss and UPN. I own nothing.
Spoilers: through the first two episodes of season 7 (written right after "Beneath You" aired)
Summary: Buffy takes Spike somewhere to help him out. Way AU and unlikely to happen on the show. . .
Author’s Note: This story is an answer to a challenge set forth by Laura, webmistress of Yummy Sushi Pajamas, to write a story in which Spike and Buffy go shopping for clothes.
* * *
“I don’t want to go here.” Spike ducks his head and attempts to turn away like a small child afraid I might hit him if he displeases me.
In response to his protest, I grab his arm, intent on dragging him in. “Well, we’re going in anyway. It must be done. Tonight’s my only night off; I have to go to work for the next six days and then slaying stuff takes up the evenings. So, tonight’s the night.”
He tries to pull away from my hold, but he is helpless to stop me. The only victory he wins is that I’m not touching his bare skin. Instead, I’m tugging him by the sleeve of the hideously garish blue shirt he used for a costume yesterday.
“Nooooo,” he whispers, his eyes wide and a look of terror painting his features. “Someone might see me with you.”
“So?” We manage to enter the building at least. The cool air from the air conditioning swirls around us like a welcoming blanket and the familiar scent of new objects fills my nose.
Spike plants his feet like a cat being forced to walk on a leash, his face a stubborn mask. At least, one thing hasn’t changed. “It would be bad.”
“Why would it be bad, Spike?” I am getting a bit impatient, not that I have much patience anyway. Letting go of his sleeve, I cross my arms.
He shuffles his feet, and I notice his shoes. . . even worse than the shirt. “Because they might think. . . “ He trails off.
I wait for more, but none comes. “They might think what?”
“Lots of things. That I’m with you. . .”
“I am with you.”
“That I might hurt you. . . again.” The last part is so soft that I almost cannot hear him. Still avoiding my gaze, he clears his throat awkwardly and adds, “There might be a fight. I might hurt someone else.”
I roll my eyes. “Spike, we’re in the *mall*. Who’s gonna know us here? And why would they think you would hurt me if I’m willingly with you?”
His blue eyes meet mine for the first time, and I have difficulty reading what I see in their depths. “Do you think I would hurt you?”
The couple passing us to exit the mall cast Spike a strange look when they overhear his words. For the moment, Spike is oblivious to their stares. He’s gazing at me, and I almost forget his insane behavior, forget he has a soul now.
I hesitate. “No. I don’t think you would purposefully hurt me.” Not after what you told me earlier. Instead of relief, his eyes go wide at something he sees over my shoulder. I peek back. “It’s just Dawn, Spike. I asked her to meet us here.”
He begins shaking his head and backing toward the exit. “She’s mad at me. She wants to set me on fire.”
“Only if you hurt me, and you’re not going to do that, are you?”
He’s so much like a child who has been abused. . . all edginess and hypersensitivity. At my words, he stops moving and seems to draw into himself. I’m surprised, but then, I realize that Dawn is right behind me, and he hasn’t shown his wounded side to her even though I told her about the soul. I’m actually rather relieved that he’s going to pull himself halfway together in front of Dawn.
“Hi!” Dawn greets us with a perky grin, and her ponytail still swishing. She’s putting on a show, too, which I suppose Spike needs right now. “How are you guys doing?” She slips her hands in the back pockets of her jeans and rocks slightly back on her heels. She and I are dressed similarly in faded jeans, tiny T-shirts, and white tennis shoes.
“Fine,” I say.
“Been better,” Spike responds, his voice somewhat casual like the Spike of old.
“Ready for shopping fun?”
Spike replies, “No” at the same time I respond with “Yes.”
Dawn raises an eyebrow. “You guys are decisive as usual.”
“We’re here to shop for Spike a new wardrobe,” I insist, glancing at the blank-faced vampire.
Dawn’s smile returns. “Love the shopping. Let’s get going.”
* * *
After thirty minutes of pulling teeth to get Spike to go into a clothing store, he’s finally relented and allowed us to take him by the arms. We enter one of the trendy but more affordable shops and are immediately pounced upon by a sales woman. Great, just what we need.
“Hello!” The young woman is a redhead with a nose ring. She’s dressed in a cutoff red top that shows off her belly button and a short black skirt. Her eyes rove over Spike from his dirty shoes to the top of his bleached blond hair. If Spike were human, he would be blushing. Instead, he just squirms under her scrutiny. “Hmmm. What happened to you?”
Spike looks to me with panic on his features. If his feelings weren’t so real, I’d have laughed at his expression. So, I speak for him, “Our friend here needs some new clothes.”
“Ahhh. I think we can help you. I’m Miranda.” She locks arms with him, and he stares at her arm around his, not quite certain what to make of her. I think that if Spike wasn’t in the state he’s in, I would probably be jealous of the way she was fawning over him. She continues chattering as they walk away. “Come with me, we’ll see what we can find.”
I immediately am relieved of my burden, so I begin to browse through the women’s clothing. Dawn follows, a question brimming from her body. Holding up a cherry-colored peasant blouse, I wonder, “Think I could wear this to work at the school?”
Dawn skims over what I said, “Yeah, it’s great. Buffy, is Spike like totally insane now? I mean, what’s wrong with him?”
“I think he’s going through a lot right now, what with all the people he killed running through his head, and he’s having to deal with his human half again.” I throw the blouse over my left arm and sweep through the remainder of the sale rack, trying to ignore my own feelings of guilt at what I said to him in the past. “Dawn, why don’t you try a couple of things on?”
Dawn seems despondent at my news about Spike. Still, she picks out a soft burgundy sweater and faded denim skirt to try on. “So, does that mean we have to forgive him for what he’s done? Like Angel with his soul?”
I pause to examine a hunter green polyester skirt and matching sheer lace blouse. Adding the outfit to my growing pile, I face my sister. “I honestly don’t know how I feel about it, yet, Dawnie.” We approach the jewelry section of the store, and I finger a few sets of earrings while Dawn studies a turquoise necklace.
“Me either. But I suppose we should try at least. He seems like he’s in so much pain.” Dawn shifts her stack of clothing from one arm to the other.
“Maybe, it’ll just take some time,” I speculate and then nod toward the dressing room. Adjusting to Spike the way he is now was going to take a lot of time. “Let’s try these things on.”
“Do you think this is how he was when he was human?”
I think back to what Spike had told me about his past in upper class England, and I realize I know very little about what Spike was like as a human. I just know he was not well accepted even then. My stomach jars again when I remember how deeply he internalized my barb about him being beneath me. “Maybe.”
Ever observant, Dawn states, “He was probably pretty awkward and lacking in social skills. I mean, look at the way he was with us just coming into a shop.”
“But the old Spike is still there, too,” I say, wondering vaguely whom I’m trying to reassure, me or Dawn.
“Yeah. I guess so. How long do you think it’ll take him to be normal again?” Dawn chooses a stall in the dressing room, and I take the one next to hers.
“Well, it took Angel one hundred years the first time he got his back.” I slip my tank top over my head and slide the peasant blouse onto my torso.
A thump comes from Dawn’s dressing room as she slips off her shoes. “One hundred years?! Somehow, I don’t see Spike taking that long.”
“I know.” I can’t picture Spike taking as long as Angel. Spike has something Angel didn’t. . . “He has us to take care of him.”
Dawn’s scuffles cease at my words.
Alarmed, my senses go on alert, and I call, “Dawn, you okay?”
“Yeah,” came the muffled response.
“You got real quiet.”
“What you said just surprised me, I guess. I mean, about us taking care of Spike.” Sounds of trying on clothing begin again.
Tension melts out of my shoulders, and I put on the hunter green flared skirt and lace, long-sleeved shirt. The green brings out the emerald in my hazel eyes, and I fluff my hair. I’m still me. “Yeah, I sorta surprised myself. It’s just that, he’s been there for me before. . . before. . .”
“When the rest of us weren’t,” Dawn says matter-of-factly. When I say nothing, she asks, “Buffy, could you come look at this and tell me what you think?”
“Sure, I need an opinion, too.” I swing open my dressing cubicle’s door and knock gently on Dawn’s.
The door parts to reveal my little sister, seemingly quite grown up with her hair twisted up in a French twist so that her blue eyes are bright with life. Her slim form is wrapped up in the tight, low-cut denim skirt and deep burgundy sweater-shirt with flair sleeves and small ribbons on the cuffs, and her feet are cased in a pair of burgundy-strapped high-heeled pumps. She towers over me like a model.
I try not to seem too mom-ish with my next words, “My little Dawnie is all adult now.”
She grins then, destroying the mirage of being a young professional. I feel relieved in a way. “And you, Buffy, look wonderful! Beautiful!”
I survey my outfit in the hall mirror. “You think?”
She bobs her head emphatically. “Oh, yes! Definitely a working outfit.”
“Let’s go see how Spike’s doing.”
* * *
Miranda is posing politely by the men’s dressing room, and I smile at her perkiness. She returns the gesture, mentioning, “He’s still in there. Won’t let me come in. Said he didn’t want me to see.” She leans toward me and whispers, “Is there something wrong with him? He seems sort of slow.”
Anger flashes through my muscles. “No. He’s just not feeling well,” I defend Spike. He simply didn’t want her to notice he has no reflection. “Let me go see what he’s doing. Dawn, wait here.”
“Okay. I may go back over and browse some more.”
I cautiously step into the men’s dressing room. “Spike?” I call softly. “You doing okay in here?”
“Buffy?” His voice is tentative.
“Yeah, it’s me. Where are you?” My ears perk, listening for his voice.
“Back here.”
I follow the sounds to the room in the very back. I expect to find him seated on the tiny bench, but as always, he does the opposite of what I expect.
Lounging in the doorway to his cubicle, he is dressed in dark black jeans, a hunter green button up shirt without a collar, and a black denim jacket. His feet are covered with a pair of casual black shoes with laces. I hope the shock and desire doesn’t show on my face. His blue eyes are watching me shyly and sweep from my face over the rest of my body.
“We match,” he murmurs deeply without sarcasm and full of. . . love.
I shiver, but I’m not sure why. “We do,” I agree. “Gonna get that?”
“How are you affording this, Buffy?” he asks gently.
“Ummm. Credit card?”
“Thought you weren’t going there.”
“Ah. Well, I sort of found out I needed to. Have to build a credit history to help Dawn in the future,” I explain.
“Why are you doing this for me?”
“I’m doing it because. . .” Because I feel guilty. Because you took care of me. Because I want to make up for hurting you. Because I don’t like to see you in so much pain, and I don’t know what else to do. “. . . I want to.”
He says nothing and then, bows his head, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Get dressed. And pass me what you want.”
“Okay.”
I notice the various-colored T-shirts strewn about the floor of the cubicle. I point at them. “Hand me the red one, the navy blue one, and the gray one.”
Spike passes them to me wordlessly and shuts the cubicle door without argument.
* * *
I wake at two in the morning on instinct. Throwing the sheets back, I tug on my terrycloth robe and fluffy blue house slippers. Padding down the hall, I peer into Dawn’s bedroom. She’s curled on her side with her long blond-streaked hair splayed in fan-shape over her pillow. Her eyes are closed tightly, and her breathing is deep and even. After verifying that she’s safe, I tiptoe down the stairs.
The living room is empty. The blanket Spike was using to sleep on the sofa is crumpled in a heap on the floor, and I spy the clothes I bought him tonight piled on the coffee table. I let Spike stay here for the night with the condition that he seek Clem tomorrow and find a new place to live besides the crypt and the high school basement.
“Spike,” I whisper into the shadows, knowing somehow that he’s not there.
Not sure what to expect, I cautiously make my way to the kitchen, finding that it, too, is empty. My leather jacket is slung over the top of a stool next to Dawn’s denim coat. Used ice cream bowls line the counter, and a mug from which Spike drank fresh pig’s blood tonight is balanced on the edge of the sink, looking every bit as if it might tumble to the ground and shatter.
Without thinking, I hurry to the sink to re-position the ceramic piece. That’s when I see him. He’s dragged our metal garbage can into the center of the yard. Yellow-orange flames lick the sides of the metal. What the hell is he doing? My temper flares bright as the fire he’s lit. Oddly enough, the anger is accompanied by fear and compassion. Wearing a white undershirt and boxers, Spike is standing awfully close to whatever he’s burning, and vampires are highly combustible.
My mind numb, I rush to the kitchen door, which is cracked open. In my haste, I stumble over Dawn’s leather boots and my garden flip-flops that line the floor next to the door. Spike doesn’t respond despite the racket I’m making. Picking myself up, I approach him slowly, alert for any move he might make.
His face is a mask of pain, and my feelings swirl, the anger fading. Worry takes the place of rage. “Spike? What are you doing out here?”
Still unmoving, he mumbles, “I’m burning it up.”
“What? What are you burning up?” I attempt to catch a glimpse of what’s in the garbage can.
“It isn’t me anymore.” His face is unchanging, the light playing across his skin.
“Spike, shouldn’t you back away from the fire? You are sort of flammable.” A breeze blows, and I wrap my arms around myself to shelter myself.
“It’s no problem. Soon it will be finished. I promise. I won’t hurt anything.”
I lay a hand on his bare arm, and he jumps as if startled. “Spike.” He allows me to guide him back from the heat and the danger. Then, I peer over at whatever’s burning.
Shock registers on my face at what’s there. . .
His leather duster. . . he’s burning his leather duster. My heart skips a beat, and I realize he must have searched for it in the house after Dawn and I fell asleep.
Without turning to him, I ask, “Why are you burning your coat, Spike? I’ve never seen you without it until you forgot it here.”
Silence fills the night air for a moment. The only sound is the crackle of the fire.
His tone is flat. “It doesn’t fit anymore.”
“You haven’t gained any weight, Spike.”
He sighs tiredly. “It’s not me anymore. I’m not that person anymore.”
I face him, brushing his arm with my fingertips. “Who are you, then? You certainly aren’t the clothes in the house. Who are you?”
Spike stands before me emotionally naked, his eyes filled with familiar life but also something else altogether. “I don’t know.”
The end.
Art by Aydin
What's Hair Got to Do with It?
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Everything belongs to Joss and UPN.
Spoilers: Everything up through the first two episodes of season 7.
Summary: Follow-up to “Soul Fashion.” Also related to the challenge from Laura at Yummy Sushi Pajamas to write a story about fashion in the Buffy-verse. Again, this is not quite a fluffy story. Buffy POV. Buffy washes Spike’s hair, and then, they get ready for the evening.
* * *
Testing the water with my fingertips, I note that the running fluid has just the right amount of warmth. Honestly, I don’t know why I’m attempting to make this the right temperature. As a vampire who’s not sensitive to temperature, he won’t be bothered either way. Bringing the hose to the other side of the sink, I let the water flow over the soft but dirty curls. I focus on the hair, moving my fingers through the strands, avoiding his face. . . his stare. I needn’t have bothered because soon I realize that he’s keeping his eyes closed.
“You have nice hair,” I comment before thinking about what I’m saying. “Why do you keep it full of gel all the time? The curls are nice.”
“Really? No one says that.” His voice is low and full of wonder that I rarely hear.
My heart feels a little better, knowing that I gave him a compliment. . . not that one kind word made up for. . . . The other day, I actually read somewhere that to make up for negative messages a person receives, he or she has to receive twice as many positive messages. Spike will need many, but I don’t know how I can give them all. . . or if I even want to try.
“Buffy?”
“Hmmm?”
“Where’d the water go?” He raises his eyebrows at me.
The fluid is pouring just beyond his hair. I move the stream back in place. “Oh. Sorry.”
He promptly closes his eyes again. . . like an obedient little boy. He’s so different that I don’t know what to make of him. Half the time, he’s talking gibberish, and the other half of the time, he’s there but quite childlike. I wonder vaguely if this is what Angel was like when he received his soul.
Then, I remember that I have a captive subject here. Apparently, his memory is intact even if he is off his rocker some of the time. “Spike. I have a question.”
His blue eyes are lucid when he re-opens them briefly. “Sure.”
“What was Angel like when he got his soul?” I hold my breath as soon as I ask the question, preparing myself for any possible reaction from the unpredictable vampire.
Spike tenses and is silent for several minutes. Not sure what to say next, I begin lathering up the shampoo and scrubbing his scalp. He relaxes slowly under my touch.
After what feels like an eternity, I ask, “How come we never did this when. . . you know? It would have been nice.”
Again, I receive no response from the unmoving vampire. Finally, he speaks, “Angel. He got really quiet. . . withdrew from all of us. . . even Darla. He never liked to talk about it.”
“Oh.” A twinge of disappointment flew through me.
“It was disconcerting because with no soul, he was. . . could be quite cruel with us. . . moody. So, when he withdrew, we didn’t quite know what to do with him. He became unpredictable in his predictability. . . like a, like a snake. But, he wasn’t. . . wasn’t like me.”
“Oh,” I repeat.
I turn the water back on to rinse his hair. As if transfixed, I watch the suds wash away from the curls, taking the dirt with them. A crazy thought appeared in my head out of nowhere. . . . One of my gifts is forgiveness. Can I forgive Spike? I don’t believe I’ve ever thought of doing that.
“So, he wasn’t. . .”
Even out of his mind, Spike is able to tell the truth. “He wasn’t insane. He didn’t hear the voices.”
I barely miss a beat. “Ready for conditioning?” I pick up the bottle and squirt a generous amount in my palm.
He wrinkles his nose. “Conditioning? Conditioner makes things soft, shiny. It’s not for people like me.”
I smirk. “Too bad.”
* * *
Perched on a stool across from me, Spike is watching me apply makeup as I get ready for the meeting with the gang. (Xander’s condition for having Spike present at the meeting was that he get cleaned up. . . not that he volunteered to help or anything.) Thankfully, I’m sitting at the at the kitchen breakfast bar, eating a sandwich at the same time. . . not in the bathroom or my bedroom. I’ve learned that if I eat something before the meeting, I eat fewer of the doughnuts that Xander inevitably brings.
“Buffy.”
I swallow the bite of food and set aside the makeup mirror and pressed powder compact to take a sip of lemonade. “Yeah?”
“Why do you wear makeup?”
If Spike of old had asked me that, I would have punched him. I wince at that realization. “I don’t know.”
“Sure you do. Everyone does what they do for a reason. . . like politicians and monkeys.” His face is earnest, and his words make some sort of sense.
“Yeah.” I think for a moment. “Well, I guess I want to look good. I mean, I want to look fresh and clean.”
“Why? You look pretty without makeup.” He leans onto the counter, and I’m just a little afraid of him coming closer.
I offer a small smile. “Thanks. But I still think I won’t leave home without it. I mean, people would run from scary Buffy without makeup. Even the vampires would be scared.”
“Why does it matter what they think?” He reaches out to steal a carrot from my plate and pops the mini-vegetable in his mouth. Chewing slowly, something crosses his face, something akin to pain. “Is it okay I took a carrot?”
Screwing the wand into the mascara, I laugh at his need for me to tell him what he can and cannot do. Has he always been this way? “Yes, silly. There’s a whole bag in the fridge.”
“Carrots are good for bunnies but not me.” He stands, glancing toward the refrigerator. “Got any blood?”
“Nope. Have some lemonade, though.”
Slouching back down, he asks, “Why does it matter what they think?”
“You aren’t going to leave this one alone, are you?”
He offers up a Spike-esque grin. “Do I ever?”
I shake my head. “Well, I guess I care what other people think of me. I mean, most people judge themselves by getting feedback from those around them, and I guess I do the same. I guess people were nicer to me when I wore makeup in junior high, so I kept wearing it.” I shrug.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, eyes downcast. “I get feedback, too. From lots of people. Some of them are dead.”
My heart skips a beat, and I bite my lip, glancing away. All the horrible names I called him come flooding back in a mad rush. “I know.” Thoughts race through my head as I search for something else to say. “Sometimes, you have to know when to listen to the feedback and when to ignore it. It’s a tricky thing like a balance, but you can do it.”
Spike inhales my words like oxygen. “Buffy?”
“Yes?” I am unrolling my lip-gloss to apply a layer to my lips, but at the last second, I decide to shove the stick in my pocket. I’ll put it on later.
He touches his hair, which is bleached solid but also soft and clean and curling against his forehead. I resist the impulse to reach out and stroke the locks. “Will you fix my hair for me? I mean, I’ve always just gelled it, and I thought. . . since you said. . . I would try it different.”
“Okay.” I grab my brush and round the kitchen island where he sits up straight in wait. I frown. Has he forgotten how short I am? “Spike, slouch.”
He slouches, and I brush his hair. An almost imperceptible but familiar purr rises out of his chest at my touch. Part of me wants to drop the brush and leave the house immediately. The other part of me wants me to hug him. I choose in between and continue to brush his hair so the curls loosen into soft waves that lay off his forehead.
“Buffy? How do you know which feedback to listen to?”
The knot in my stomach had eased but now reasserts itself. “Hmmm. I don’t know.”
“I mean, there’s all these people. . . these things telling me that I’m bad. And I understand why. I mean, wouldn’t you be mad at the lion who mauled your child even if the lion was sorry?”
“I-I guess so.” I set the brush aside. But isn’t there a time when a person has to put aside the things of the past and accept him or herself in the moment? Isn’t there a time when a person has to forgive him or herself to move on? I can’t say these things to Spike. I’m not the person who should be telling him these things. Hell, I’m not the person to be telling myself these things.
Unable to think straight anymore, I grab my stakes, keys, and small purse, slamming my dishes in the sink. Spike observes me without a word.
“Come on. Let’s go. The gang’s all waiting. Dawn’s already over there.” Exiting out the back door with Spike following, I turn the lock and make certain it’s secure.
“Where are we going?”
“Xander’s,” I reply nonchalantly, knowing he won’t like the answer.
“Oh, bugger,” comes his standard response, for which I’m actually quite grateful.
* * *
Pressing the doorbell, I straighten my shoulders and prepare for the rush of people. . . the rush of complaints because I brought Spike even though they know I might bring him. For his part, Spike stays far back against the wall opposite the door, appearing nonchalant.
To my surprise, only Xander is in the doorway after the door swings open. “Hey, Buff.”
“Hey. Where is everyone?” I make an attempt to peer into the apartment.
Suddenly, Xander frowns. “What did you bring the evil dead here for? *Insane* evil dead, on top of that, actually.”
After the discussion I had with Spike at the house, anger flashes white-hot at my friend’s words. “Xander, there’ll be no name-calling tonight. And we need Spike’s help.”
Xander meets my eyes with his dark brown ones because even though my decision is a small one, it’s definitely significant. Something triggers in his expression because he acquiesces, “All right. Come on, tall, dark, and. . . well, not so tall and not so dark.” He gestures at Spike to join us in the apartment.
Spike strides quietly forward and crosses the threshold. “Thanks.”
Xander nods stiffly but without sarcasm. “No problem. Welcome to my abode. Be she ever so humble. Dawn and Willow headed to the store for some snacks.” He glances at Spike. “Didn’t know you were coming for sure, or I’d have sent them after some blood, too.”
Spike sinks uneasily onto the sofa. “It’s okay.”
Xander wanders toward the kitchen. “Beer? Spike, Buffy?”
We both decline the alcohol, and I settle across from Spike on the recliner.
Xander fishes a can out of the freezer and returns. “Like them ice cold,” he explains at our raised eyebrows. “So, Spike, those the new clothes Buffy bought for you?”
Spike’s wearing the grey shirt and black jeans from our shopping expedition the other evening. “Yep.”
Crickets can be heard in the next several seconds of awkward silence. Spike is saying as little as possible because he doesn’t want to sound too insane. I’m not sure quite what to say to these two men who have made a hobby. . . no, a profession. . . out of hating one another, and Xander just doesn’t want to stick his foot in his mouth, which is no small feat in and of itself.
Then, the doorbell rings again. Xander hops up a little too eagerly. “I really have to give you people keys.”
Willow, Dawn,. . . and Anya appear in the doorway with their arms laden with grocery bags.
“Hey, guys!” Willow is her usual effervescent self as she deposits her burden onto the kitchen table.
Dawn is just as enthusiastic. “Hi, Buffy! Hello, Spike.” She takes out the plastic cups and begins filling them with ice and pouring diet soda.
Anya hesitates as Xander stares her down. “Hello, Xander. Would you please let me in before I drop these?”
“What are you doing here, Anya?”
She smiles and pushes past him. “Helping.”
Xander looks uncertain. “Okay.”
Anya bustles to the table, placing her bags near Willow’s. Beginning to help Willow empty bags, she pulls two bags of chips out of the bag. Xander comes us behind her and tries to open one of the bags. She slaps his hand.
“Hands off, Harris,” she scolds. “Wait for everyone else first. You’re the host. You’re supposed to do that.”
Willow grins at Xander and hands him a plate. “Dig in.”
He grants her a return smile. “Thanks.”
Anya calls to Spike and I like we are much further away than the living room. “You guys going to eat? Spike, what’s with your hair? It’s different!”
Spike rises and reluctantly accepts a plate from Anya. I’m right on Spike’s tail and also receive a plate.
“And Buffy!” Anya cocks her head to study me. “Something’s different.” She squints her eyes at me and scans over my body, finally settling on my face. “I got it. No lip-gloss.”
I start to reach for the makeup in my pocket but catch Spike scrutinizing me closely, so I take the diet soda he hands me instead.
The end.
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So, are you posting, too??
Maybe I'll write something new. I need to re-watch eps.
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Thanks for joining us!
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These were some of the first fics I posted on the Crumbling Walls Archive (I think that was the name of the archive).