Oh God...the smell. I'm going to be sick.
He won't let go.
I pull and tug and try to pry him away, but he clings like a leech to the cross.
And it's killing him.
"Let me rest, let me rest."
I sob helplessly and try again. "You can. You just have to let go."
A shudder goes through him and the smoke grows oily.
It's hit bone.
"Spike!" I scream at him, grabbing him around the waist and yanking as hard as I can.
When did he get so strong?
Or...
Or is he just so determined?
"Please..."
Oh God, please let go, Spike. It's killing you.
"Must make amends," he mumbles, his voice tinged with heart- rending exhaustion. "Must earn forgiveness. Only then...can I rest in peace."
He sang that to me once, all angry and hurt and full of pride.
Now he's just broken.
He...he did this for me.
And it's killing him.
I once told him that our relationship was killing me, but it was nothing like this. I never went mad. I never tried to end my life.
Not really.
The smoke makes me gag, but I push through it and around to the other side of the cross. I don't look at his wounds, only his face.
There's such resignation there.
And sorrow and grief and guilt.
No pain, though. He's reached that place that's outside physical pain. I can see it in his empty eyes.
This has to end now.
Grabbing his hand, ignoring the blood and burnt flesh that comes off on my fingers, I take shallow breaths and try to pry him loose.
"No. Must suffer for my sins. Leave me be."
"Idiot." I grit my teeth and break one of his fingers at the second knuckle.
He yelps in shock, but lets go of the cross. Before he can tighten his other hand, I shove him backwards and he stumbles free, then collapses, whimpering.
The sight of his ruined chest makes my stomach churn, but I refuse to be sick.
Not yet.
Once I have him bandaged and fed, then I'll puke up my guts.
He needs me to be strong.
He never really needed me before. Always wanted me, but never needed. Not like this. Not...when he doesn't want to.
Falling to my knees next to him, I lightly touch his shoulder, wince as he flinches back in pain and fear.
"Spike?" I speak softly and slowly, as if to a child. "We need to go home."
"...Am home. Here, in Hell."
"This isn't Hell. You were the one to show me that. Let me return the favor."
Slowly he turns his head to look at me and the tears in his eyes send a wave of tenderness through me.
I'm still angry at him, and afraid of him, and I don't know if I hate him or...like him.
But...he needs me.
And there's no one else.
Behind the tears, I imagine I can see his soul burning, beating to survive. It's tarnished a bit around the edges and slightly dim from disuse, but it's there.
And he got it for me.
This is not a gift I can refuse.
"Help me."
"I will."
And I gather him close and listen as he weeps.
The End