Spike's POV
I was right. After a trip to the demon bar, it didn't take long for the gossip to get to me - that the Milson brothers were the ones who attacked her. The ones who are consequently going to die tonight.
I slip the bartender a fifty over the counter. She examines it closely, seems satisfied and leans closer, "I heard they're based in an abandoned office building, the one behind the museum. If you're going after them, I wouldn't. I'll tell you that for free."
"Thank you." I leave without a doubt in my mind. I head straight there - I don't need anything, not even a stake, because I am going to rip their heads off with my bare hands.
"Well look who it is!"
I stand in the doorway, fists clenched at my side, but I am calm. I will not be weakened by my stupid, old heart and lose.
"Spike, hello," the oldest brother stands, "To what do we owe the pleasure? You finally got the money you owe us?"
"You wish, mate. I'm here about my girl."
The other brother laughs, which makes the rest of his thick-skulled cronies guffaw too. I count seven overall.
Good. They're all here.
"It's just business, Spike." he says with a carefree grin that is begging to be punched off his face.
"My business," I prod a finger to my chest. "Mine. Not hers."
As they start to realise I don't have their precious cash, they close in on me, all snarls and bumpy foreheads. "Your deaths are for her." I say, before I land my first blow.
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Staring at the ash and emptiness of the place, I should feel accomplished, but I can't stop thinking about Y/N and the fact that she's as good as gone. I'm too old to be feeling sorry for myself, but the pang of regret beats in my chest like a heartbeat. A constant reminder.
I decide I should bring her the things she left at the crypt. A hairbrush that smells like her shampoo (coconut), her clothes, an assortment of fuzzy jumpers and soft joggers and frog-shaped slippers I brought her because she always complained that the crypt floor was too cold.
I go to leave them on the Summers' doorstep, but someone opens the door just as I place the box gently on the doormat.
"I'm just leaving her stuff." I say.
"Thanks."
It's her. I look up and she's slightly less purple, just as pretty and strangely not furious at me. A small smile tugs on her lips and I stand frozen, staring at it.
She looks from right to left, must assume it's safe and closes the door behind her. I notice her shiver in the evening air as she's wearing what looks like pyjamas borrowed from the slayer. "Can we sit?" she asks, gesturing to the steps in front of the house. I simply nod. What have I done to deserve this second chance?
"I want you to know... that I really appreciated you letting me live with you."
I don't say anything, I only stare off into the distance, my eyes feeling heavy.
"It meant a lot - it, it means a lot. But it's best I stay with Buffy now. It's not like she'll let me leave, anyhow," she laughs. She plays with a ring on her hand, twisting it around and around. "Thank you for dropping my stuff."
"Yeah. No problem." I stand and she does too and we're facing each other on the steps. Although I'm not too tall, I look down on her and feel another stab of guilt for enabling the Milsons to beat her up. She's not defenceless, but she's so short. And mortal.
"I'm sorry, for what it's worth." I tell her, her shining eyes locking onto mine. It makes me want to throw up, but I don't understand why.
"For what it's worth... You did make me feel safe. I trust you. But, I do want to stay here."
"I get it." I say, scuffing my shoe on the step.
"You'll visit?" she asks hopefully, her hand on the door knob.
"Yeah, pet."
She smiles, and just before she slips back inside, she says quietly, "You're still one of my best friends, Spike. And despite what happened, I still feel like I can take on the world when you're beside me."
Her last words repeat in my brain like a stuck record long after the door clicks closed.
You're beside me.
Beside.
Not beneath.
Beside.
Memories that used to resurface just to mock me mean nothing anymore. You're beneath me - the words that have come to haunt me, dissipate into the usual chaos of my mind and fade far away.
She thinks I'm beside her.
And I am.
I knock on the door - well, more like pound - and when she opens it, I fling my arms around her in a display of stupid, emasculating, glorious weakness. She makes a stuttering noise, and I say into her hair before she can do anything, "Thanks, love."