(Lyrics from Jo Dee Messina's My Give-a-Damn's Busted, title from a lyric in Diamond Rio's Love a Little Stronger.)
Special thanks to Selene for the gorgeous artwork for this story.
-Nominations Received-
She didn’t know why she’d thought that he’d wait forever for her. Really, there was so much water under, over, and all around the bridge that had been them that she couldn’t even let herself be surprised that he’d given up. She’d given him every reason to.
That didn’t mean that it didn’t hurt.
Of course she’d known that she’d run into him here; it was the reason that she’d taken the assignment, though Giles had tried every way possible to convince her to allow him to send someone else. After all, it didn’t take a Slayer to deliver a load of research materials. No matter what, however, Buffy was determined that this time, it would be her playing courier.
She’d heard from Andrew that Spike was back from the dead only to have to prepare herself for the likelihood that he was lost again; ever timely, Andrew had seen fit to come clean with the revelation of Spike’s resurrection the day after they’d gotten word of the siege against the Senior Partners’ forces in Los Angeles. Furious—though whether with Andrew, Angel, Spike, Giles, herself, or some combination of all of them, she wasn’t quite sure—she’d staunchly refused to join the salvage mission, declaring that if Spike wanted nothing to do with her, then that’s what he would have. No amount of persuasion, of cajoling, of outright bombast over her immaturity could convince her otherwise, and so she’d stayed behind in Rome with the Immortal while everyone else she’d come to care about jetted across the world to save the two vampires with whom she’d shared her life.
She had realized the pettiness of her actions less than an hour after the plane had departed, but by then it was too late. Even if she’d managed to find another flight—even if she’d managed to make it to Los Angeles ahead of everyone else—she still hadn’t been a part of that first mission. That was an action that would speak louder than anything else she could do. Miserable from the realization, she’d sent the Immortal packing with a reassurance that it would do him no good to come back around and settled in for the long, lonely life she was fairly certain that she deserved.
She was relieved when she’d heard that both Spike and Angel had managed to survive, though the losses their core group had suffered were massive. The rescue forces hadn’t done so well, either, and a number of the newly-empowered Slayers had met their end in a Los Angeles alley. They had been successful ultimately, however, and that had been what was important—the mission had been accomplished.
So why had the only bit of knowledge that impacted her at all been the stinging notice that Spike would be joining Faith on the Cleveland hellmouth? Everything else that had happened—the deaths, the injuries, the near-misses and the win—and the only thing that mattered was that she’d lost him again. But this time, he wasn’t dead, wasn’t unable to come to her—he was choosing to stay away, just as she had. It was something she’d never expected from him, and it hurt more than she could say.
And here she was, searching out he and Faith in the bar in which their super had told her they spent much of their downtime. She didn’t care to think about the fact that Spike and Faith shared a super, much less that they shared an apartment, and so she focused on the fact that the bar to which she’d been directed was a country bar. Not once had she foreseen this, not at all could she imagine either Faith or Spike in such surroundings… but there they were, against the bar on the far wall, laughing over bottles of beer.
She’d always known that Spike had a sort of sixth sense for knowing when she was near, and he proved it by raising his head and pinning her with a stare within moments of her having spotted him. Faith followed his gaze and raised a brow before standing and walking over to the pool tables, exchanging a few words with one of the men there before taking up a spare cue. That left Spike—alone, watching her, waiting on her to make the first move.
God, how much she’d screwed all of this up. How much she wanted to fix it.
Taking a deep breath, she practically darted towards him, afraid that if she didn’t rush, she’d never even take the first step. Once she was by his side, though, she couldn’t make a sound, couldn’t even manage to greet him.
“Buffy,” he said quietly, tone almost indifferent as he nudged the stool next to him towards her with his knee. Wordlessly, she sat down, her hands twisting as she stared fixedly at him. After a few moments, he sighed before chuckling slightly. “Pet, could you maybe speak or blink or somethin’? I’m startin’ to think they’ve sent the ‘bot.”
“Sorry,” she stammered quickly, flushing as she stared down at the bar. “For a lot of things,” she added in a rush as she looked back up at him.
“Are you now?” he asked conversationally, investing no more emotion in the phrase than he would’ve into a question about the weather.
“Yes. If it matters, Spike… if you care… I’m really, really sorry.”
“Good to know.” He took a long swallow of his beer, and she stared uncomfortably at her hands, completely at a loss.
The silence grew oppressive, stretching out between them, heavier by the minute. Out of the blue, Spike’s low growl caught her attention, and she looked up and followed the direction of his gaze to see Faith walking away from the jukebox, winking at him as she walked out the front door.
“Pushy bint,” he grumbled quietly as the first few strains of a melody filtered through the bar.
“Excuse me?” Buffy asked, confused.
“Faith. Pushiest bint that ever there was. Makes you look like an amateur,” he clarified, reaching for the pack of cigarettes by his hand and shaking one out.
“I… I still don’t understand,” Buffy prodded, completely lost.
“The song, pet. Listen to the song.”
“Oh,” Buffy whispered before lapsing into silence, focusing on the words that were just beginning.
Well, you filled up my head
with so many lies.
You twisted my heart till somethin' snapped inside.
I'd like to give it one more try,
But my give-a-damn's busted.
You can crawl back home, say you were wrong;
Stand out in the yard and cry all night long.
Well, go ahead and water the lawn:
My give-a-damn's busted.
“First night I was here, Faith brought me to this bar. We got good an’ wasted, an’ I heard this song. Thought about you,” he confessed, taking a long drag off his cigarette. “Still do.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“I don’t know what else to say, Spike,” she countered, blinking back tears as she looked at him. “I know that sorry’s not enough, but it’s all I’ve got. I’ve… I’d like to think I’ve changed, Spike… and I’d like the chance to show you. But if you want me to just leave, I can do that, too.”
He stared at her silently for a long while, and although she began to fidget uncomfortably, she held his gaze. If this was all he wanted from her—one honest look, no more hiding—then she was determined to see it through.
“Is it gonna be worth my while?” he said finally, grinding out his cigarette in the ashtray as he tilted his head to study her.
“I… I think so. I hope so. That’s up to you… but I’d really like to try.” *Honesty’s the best policy, Buffy… it’s all you’ve got.*
“Wouldn’t be easy. No more pettiness… no more selfishness. No more lies and bein’ hateful for the sake of it. From either of us.”
“I think I can do that. I’d like to do that,” she agreed, holding his gaze, willing him to believe her.
“All right then,” he answered quietly, and she blinked as she stared at him, not entirely certain that she’d heard him correctly.
“So that’s a yes?” she asked hesitantly, biting her lip.
“Couldn’t be anything but a yes, Buffy. Told you once… no matter what I try, ‘s all about you. Even tryin’ to give up didn’t change that.”
He kissed her then, a tentative, chaste press of his lips to hers, but somehow it was the best touch she’d ever experienced. She smiled and scooted towards him and was leaning forward to kiss him again when she jerked back suddenly as a thought occurred to her.
“Faith?” she asked, wide-eyed, heart clenching as she watched him start to laugh.
“Faith… lets me sleep on her couch, Buffy. There’s nothin’ goin’ on. She’s just a bit of all right, and good company, an’ I haven’t found a place of my own yet—that’s all.”
“Oh.” Relief set in, and the floodgates opened. Tears she hadn’t known how to shed—hadn’t felt deserving of shedding—spilled down her cheeks, and she burrowed into Spike’s shoulder when he pulled her over into his lap.
“Enough of that, love. Come on now… show me that pretty smile,” he murmured, rocking her as she sniffled and tried to pull herself together. Her watery smile prompted a tender one of his own, and she leaned forward into him again, nuzzling into his neck.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered again, pressing a kiss against the column of his throat.
“Enough, Buffy.” Spike pushed her back gently, catching her eye and giving her a small smile. “Can’t move forward if you don’t let go of what’s past, yeah? Let’s just go from here, all right?”
“All right.”
They walked to the door, her hand in his, Faith winking at them as they passed her on the way out. They were nearly to the car when Buffy spoke again.
“Spike?”
“Yeah, love?”
“Can we find a place of our own? I don’t think both of us are going to fit on Faith’s couch.”
His laugh, and her girlish giggle, brought a grin to the face of the dark-haired girl who’d been watching from the door. Pushy she might be, but she got the job done, Faith thought as she walked back to the pool tables. And she’d be getting her couch back.