Title: Butcher's Blue

Author: hisluvpet

Series: BtVS

Genre:  Drama/Romance

Part: 1 - Down The Blue

Rating: R

Started:  09/21/04

Summary: Spike's interaction with Buffy in Something Blue kicks off a hellish voyage of discovery that might just be the making of the man.  Manifestly AU after that delightful episode, but I might pull bits & pieces from other eps as I go. 

Pairing:  Spuffy, Wara, Xanya

Disclaimer: I've got a wine cellar for any lawyers that stop by.

Posting: Let me know...then sure!

A/N: Here I gently stick my toe back into the puddle of Buffy fic.  It's been years folks, and I'm a bit nervous.  If you can't be kind, do just ignore me. 

This plot bunny (Sorry, Ahn!)  sprung out at me as I was watching  "Something Blue" for the umpteenth time.  I'm an unashamed/unbowed Spuffy-shipper, Riley & Peaches-basher, and am in pure and shameless denial of something called the last half of Season 6 & Season 7 of BtVS, and whenever the heck those wankers at ME altered Angel beyond all my patience and understanding.  This being said - I love BtVS, and Spike is the Big Baddest of them all~! 

Despite starting out with a song lyric - this is not a songfic.  I'm an inveterate quoter for my fics, as you'll see, and I've forever felt that Behind Blue Eyes *is* Spike's song.  And, hey, anything written by Pete Townshend works for me:D  So, consider it a general outline for the whole fic.

The beginning is a bit of a jumble of events from S4 eps generally, written with casual disregard for the actual canon timeline, cause I'm evil an' I can :D

Oh, and the title refers to the Cockney slang "Butcher's Hook" for "take a look".

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 Behind Blue Eyes

No one knows what it's like

To be the bad man

To be the sad man

Behind blue eyes

No one knows what it's like

To be hated

To be fated

To telling only lies

But my dreams

They aren't as empty

As my conscience seems to be

I have hours, only lonely

My love is vengeance

That's never free

No one knows what it's like

To feel these feelings

Like I do

And I blame you

No one bites back as hard

On their anger

None of my pain and woe

Can show through

But my dreams

They aren't as empty

As my conscience seems to be

I have hours, only lonely

My love is vengeance

That's never free

When my fist clenches, crack it open

Before I use it and lose my cool

When I smile, tell me some bad news

Before I laugh and act like a fool

If I swallow anything evil

Put your finger down my throat

If I shiver, please give me a blanket

Keep me warm, let me wear your coat

No one knows what it's like

To be the bad man

To be the sad man

Behind blue eyes

--The Who - Who's Next? 1971 P. Townshend

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Part 1  - Down the Blue

Down the blue night the unending columns press

In noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow....

--Rupert Brooke (1887–1915)

------------------------------------------------------------------

"Death, destruction," Spike ticked off on his fingers. "Annihilation, carnage, slaughter, havoc, massacre, murder, ravage, uh,... extermination!" he triumphed, his gaze moving up to his audience of none. 

He sighed, no appreciation for his invocation of useful vampire vocabulary.  His crypt was his, but it was still empty but for the bier he sat on and lots of dust and cobwebs.  Even the spiders had evacuated the premises since he moved in.  No one to talk to, nary a minion, not even Harmony remained. 

He was alone, stranded by daylight and his own lack of initiative.  He winced internally at his use of that word.  Rubbing the slight scar that marked his souvenir from his time in servitude to the US Government, to wit, one behavior modification chip that bloody well kept him from hurting any one or thing, thus preventing his normal feeding patterns and all the attendant delights that went along with it. 

Needless to say, all that he had been was gone.  It was horrifying, still so fresh that he sometimes forgot for stretches of five to ten minutes, then, he'd remember all over again.  His humiliation and fear at his descent back into mediocrity drenched him with misery.  Feeding off animal blood from a container, reduced to parlor games to keep himself occupied, huddling in fear during the day in his crypt, likewise slinking around at night to stay under the radar of creatures that, no so long ago, he would have engendered the greatest fear. 

"Humiliation, shame, chagrin, degradation, disgrace, humbling, ignominy, dishonor, indignity, mortification," he enumerated listlessly, laying back on the bier and putting one arm over his eyes.  It lacked many hours to sundown, and he'd yet to sleep that day.  Endless days of nothingness stretched out before him, with nothing to do but remember what he couldn't do and to ponder why.  Well, that and think about the Slayer. 

Damn, and he'd gone all of almost an hour without thinking of that bitch.  He'd already spent the previous day exercising his extensive vocabulary to describe the Slayer and her Scooby pals; it had filled several hours, as he'd gotten quite creative.  Anything to pass the time and to not sleep.

Sleeping had not been good since the dreams had started.  He really couldn't remember not having the dreams now.  They filled all of his sleeping hours, causing him to doubt his ability to tell them from his reality.  Either way, it was a horror film that never ended.  Relentless images of the Slayer and him kissing, touching, stroking, fondling even.  Endless replays of their wedding plans and discussions about honeymoon locations.  Her face, her mouth, her breasts, her eyes.  The desire and need, hell love, he'd felt!   And, the caring, for her, her Watcher, and even her friends in a roundabout way.  Unknowing, he fell asleep and back into That Day again.

"Do you think it could just be a spell?" Buffy stopped and looked down at the sidewalk then quickly back up at him again, an odd shyness shading

her affectionate gaze.

He looked at her intensely, pausing and actually listening to her words and the intent behind them.  He had been doing that a lot today.  He wondered why he never did it before.  Always been to intent on trying to kill her or annoy her he reckoned.  He concluded immediately that he was a stupid git as this was much better - better than he deserved he was sure. 

The tiny voice that had always spoke up, and inevitably got him in trouble; blossomed with what he would have, just one day previously, fervently denied was caring.  Same stupid voice that bugged the hell out of Peaches and had been the cause of more than one beating in the early days.  Then, it had gone a bit silent during the dark days of his first abandonment.  Gradually, it had returned - becoming more and more insistent.  After the chipping, it had become a permanent player in the confused morass of his consciousness.

"No, luv.  A spell couldn't be this intense, this real," he assured her, taking her hand as they continued down the sidewalk toward the Magic Shop for the spell ingredients.  "The way I feel - I've never felt this before.  Free to show how much I care, how much I feel..." he trailed off; slightly embarrassed that he was being so open with her.

"Never?" Buffy was surprised.  "Not even with Drusilla?"

Spike felt a small pang about Dru, but it was overshadowed by the glorious sensation of loving and being loved by Buffy.  "Well, no, not really, pet.  Dru was marvelous, but not a very tender lover.  She mostly liked me to take care of her, and I was happy to do it, but I'd of liked, well, you know," he smiled shyly at Buffy.  "More. Like with you," he nodded.

"With me?" Buffy said happily, and squeezed his hand.  "I like more, too," she replied smiling back as they went on.

Happiness filled him.  Something else - contentment and purpose.  Then, he slid into another scene, where the ending of the spell and the dawning of horror in the Slayer’s eyes, and his own confusion about what had happened wrenched him from his joy.  Moreover, his own ambivalence at the feelings the whole scenario had induced. 

What exactly did he feel about her?  She was a good fighter; he'd give her that.  She had surrounded herself with family and friends to help, so she was smart.  She was beautiful - with endless power that just radiated from her.  Buffy was not a run of the mill Slayer.  Spike feared that he no longer wanted to kill her, and that scared the hell out of him as he realized he'd fallen asleep and awoke with another gasp of despair and the realization that he again was hard from fantasizing about her.

Dru had been right.  He was covered in the Slayer.  And, he tasted of ashes from the burnt out remains of his unlife, proving that she'd been right, no matter that she'd been unfaithful or not to him.  And, moreover, she wouldn't be taking him back, he knew, because forgiveness had no place in her being if it wasn't directed at her beloved Sire.  Oh, fuck, now he was thinking about Peaches, and that was worse than the Slayer by a long shot.  He groaned and rubbed his hands over his face. 

Never had been "evil" enough for Angelus, wasn't Dru's "Daddy", and was never interested much is lording over minions other than to do a specific task.  Hell, he'd even been totally bored being Master of Sunnydale.  There was so much to do, he didn't want to hang about, dispensing pearls of wisdom to the idiot minions and thinking up tasks for them to do.  Being forever challenged by the up and coming Big Bad that came to the Hellmouth to prove itself. 

He really just liked simple stuff - a match featuring Man U on the telly, spicy food for the sheer entertainment value, and the odd human for a snack should he get hungry.  His hunts were that - hunts to eat.  He didn't play with his food, and had never seen the point of it.  Slayers were another story; they were purely about the battle and he loved every moment of each of the fights he'd had with the three he'd fought.  His favorite by far

was Buffy, though.  Their fights were exquisite and he treasured them.  Never mind he'd lost; he'd given good account of himself, and, prior to his chipping, had been certain that he'd get her eventually. 

In the mean time, it'd been too much fun to give her up.  That, and deep down in a place that he denied existed within him, he thought the world was a better place with her in it.  Which might have been another reason he'd teamed up with her to take down Angelus to save the world. The less thought about that, the better he'd always told himself.  Now, it replayed in his head along with the Technicolor comic-tragedy that had been his engagement to the Slayer and the fantasies it had inspired.

The anger hit him suddenly - relentless and churning.  He had been something, a Master Vampire.  Overnight, he’d become nothing again, and, again, he was powerless to change it.  It was the lack of power over his own destiny that was the ultimate loss.  Coupled with these strange feelings he'd been having, it served to confuse him all the more.  Nothing was the same, and nowhere to go that the same situation wouldn't surround him.  It felt anticipatory, but he had nothing, obliteration.

At least three more hours to sunset and a change in scenery, if not situation.  Sleep pulled at him, and he succumbed.  The Slayer's arms encircled him as he picked her up and kissed her, murmuring, "I love you," as he carried her to a beautiful bed piled high with pillows and satin sheets in blood red.  She arched her back as he kissed her neck, whispering, "I love you, too."

He awoke with a start, panting, almost crying, unsure which horror was worse, the fact that he'd dreamt Buffy saying that she loved him, or that his declaration was not a fantasy at all.

TBC

Title: Butcher's Blue

Author: hisluvpet

Series: BtVS

Genre:  Drama/Romance

Part: 2 - The Blue Foil

Rating: R

Started:  09/21/04

Summary: Spike's interaction with Buffy in Something Blue kicks off a hellish voyage of discovery that might just be the making of the man.  Manifestly AU after that delightful episode, but I might pull bits & pieces from other eps as I go. 

Pairing:  Spuffy, Wara, Xanya

Disclaimer: I've got a wine cellar for any lawyers that stop by.

Posting: Let me know...then sure!

A/N:  More Cockney slang – Gary Glitter = pint of bitters (beer of a type to us Yanks;)

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Thou hast also given me the necks of mine enemies, that I might destroy them.

--Samuel 22:40-42

The stars turn slowly

in the blue foil beside them

like the eyes of a mild savior.

--James Tate (b. 1943)

---------------------------------------------------------

It was entirely possible that he had been stuck in one of those time loops things that they were always going on about on Star Trek.  He kept falling asleep, dreaming, waking in dismay at what he’d been dreaming, then falling back asleep again.  Endless torture and introspection - basically the same thing to him. 

He had never spent too much time thinking about why he did things; he just did them.  He’d spent enough time when he was human doing that sort of second guessing rubbish.   He hadn’t been very active lately.  With the breakdown and dispersal of the Initiative, he wasn’t getting this damned chip out anytime soon.  Not that it had been his focus lately anyway.  Nothing had been really.  The point of doing anything rather escaped him at the moment.  To be honest, and he was relentlessly honest with everyone, especially himself, there wasn’t much point of anything.  And, that sounded too damn much like brooding to him, and he swung his legs around and sat up on his bier. 

"Right, then," he mumbled to himself.  "I’m off to Willy’s to see about a gary or two."  Alcohol was as good a method as any to divert his churning thoughts.  Patting his pockets, he located his fags and lighter, and lit one up as he wandered over to his shelf of belongings to enquire on the balance of the exchequer.  A couple of singles and one tenner, good for a few rounds and reason enough to get out of his crypt, whose walls were starting to close in. Grabbing his duster, he strode out.

Spike paused to drop the butt of his fag on the ground and ground it with his heel, giving it a vicious twist.  Oh, yeah, you’re a real tough one there, he reflected derisively as he shrugged into his duster.  Adjusting the coat with practiced ease, he heard the unmistakable sounds of fighting.  His head came up; a hunter poised facing into the slight wind, concentrated for a moment, and felt her.  Slayer was beating up on the nasties again tonight.  He sighed in memoriam of Better Days and wandered over in the general direction of the altercation.  Free entertainment and him with a front row seat.

The smell of blood wafted up to his nostrils and he analyzed it with the insouciance of a connoisseur.  Demon blood, a lot of it of one type, and, just a hint of…Slayer blood?  The speed of his steps increased unconsciously as he proceeded toward where he heard the fight coming from.

He rounded the corner of the George Henry Robinson crypt (Filius et frater carissimus), and was met with a barrage of gore littering the ground.  Several demons that looked a cross between a crocodile and a gorilla lay on the ground, dripping deep orange ichors from their nose slits and puncture marks on their bodies.  He made a quick check of the area and found the Slayer over to his right battling no less than three more of the creatures. 

Involuntarily, he snarled.  Othanyskr demons – vicious, cunning, and most of all deadly to those of the human persuasion by virtue of the poison secreted by gland by their middle claw.  Their modus operendi was to hit hard, slash with their claws, and let the poison do its work.  Then, they would feed.  Such a large group, he was shaking his head as he kept going toward the Slayer, unsure what the hell he was going to do to help. Then, he mentally whacked himself on the head for even entertaining the idea of helping the Slayer voluntarily.  A moment later his resolution was forgotten as he wracked his memory for details about the creatures, but could only come up with they were a pack type of demon, hunting together for protection.  For all their formidable appearance, they had a rather tender skin under the dull gold scales it sported, which also explained the puncture marks, as he watched Buffy kick another hole that spouted blood in the side of one of her opponents with the heel of her boot.

Spike didn’t call out, not wanting to disturb the fight.  He stopped suddenly, wondering all of a sudden why he was being so solicitous of the Slayer.  Ought to be rooting for the demons to take her out.  But, even before he finished that thought completely, he was on his way again, circling around behind and to the left of the Slayer. 

She didn’t look too good, having a seeping wound on the forehead, a large dark stain on the left shoulder of her blouse, and she stood awkwardly, leaning to the right and she struck out at the demon in the middle, shoving it back by a direct strike on its snout.

"Spike, what the hell are you doing here?" she panted, finally noticing him.

"Come to critique your technique, Slayer," he replied snidely.

Buffy snorted as she shoved yet another of the demons back with a kick, but it was not as forceful as a few minutes ago, and she didn’t even break its skin.  Uh, oh.  This is not of the good she mused, swiping the blood out of her eyes.

"Make yourself useful, why don’t you," Buffy called out, huffing a little as the demons backed on and looked at Spike, as if trying to gauge the threat level now that he was on the scene.

"Strictly Switzerland here, luv," Spike replied with mock regret.  "Not my choice," he added sardonically at her moue of displeasure.

"Terrific," she muttered as the Three Stooges decided Spike wasn’t going to keep them from their dinner and tried to encircle her.  "Could you at least go for help?" she said quietly, knowing that if he did go, they would probably be responding to pick up what was left of the pieces of her body after demon snackage.

"Don’t know that it would help you out," he told her seriously.  This was a very bad situation he pointed out the obvious to himself.  He moved closer to the Slayer, still trying to figure out some way to help her.  Buffy looked at Spike and realized that he wasn’t leaving and that he was going to help her.  There wasn’t time to puzzle it out, so she just went with it.  She'd get back to it if she survived.  Then, the three demons, with no signal that was apparent to the two of them, attacked.  The one on the left came after Spike, and the other two concentrated on Buffy. 

Spike crouched low, put his left shoulder into it, clenched his teeth, and pretended he was fouling a particularly ugly mid-fielder for Liverpool.  The heavy demon struck his shoulder just as he gave a mighty shove.  The move completely bowled over the creature and it howled its displeasure.  Spike howled back, but stopped suddenly as he realized that his chip had not fired.  It had not fired!  A snarl of joyous mayhem issued from him as he pounced on the Othanyskr and began pounding on it.  Blissful pain-free violence continued for several minutes, then it was broken by a harsh low scream from the Slayer.  Without thought, Spike reached down and briskly twisted the neck of the demon, breaking it instantly.  He jumped to his feet and ran over to where Buffy had been battling the other two.  He swore viciously as he saw the Slayer laying on the ground, the other two demons plus a heretofore-unseen third that had come to join the fight standing over her, their intent obvious.

"Get the bloody hell away from her!" he roared, but didn’t wait for them to move and waded into battle with the remaining demons.

The three Othanyskr snarled back, and made strange hissing noises that were probably some form of communication.  Spike didn’t care.  He just started bashing.  A flurry of blows came from the demons, but he didn’t feel any of them.  He didn’t even feel the joy at fighting that he’d experienced short minutes ago.  It was merely a means to an end.  She was down and most likely severely hurt.  Nothing else mattered but that, not even the puzzling idea that he would even care about her.  The feelings that drove him were stronger than anything else, even instinct, habit, or professed preference.  He would save her, and that meant the three demons had to die, the quicker the better.

Suddenly, there was no noise except his panting.  Wiping blood from his face, a mixture of his own and the demons’, he ascertained that there was going to be no more resistance from the Othanyskr.  Still riding high on the strange feelings that had caused his rampage, Spike crouched over Buffy and checked her over.  Beside the injuries he’d noted before, he saw a large lump on the left side of her head above her ear and more troubling several scratches on her left forearm.  He knew that they held poison, because the scratches were already turning bile green and weeping profusely. 

He picked Buffy up as gently as he could and started off for the Watcher’s apartment, knowing that the rudimentary first aid he could apply in his crypt was nowhere near what the Slayer needed.  As he made his way out of the cemetery as fast as he could, he felt a slight dizziness and shook his head.  Passing under a streetlight, he shifted Buffy slightly to get a better hold on her.  There, in the harsh fluorescent lighting, he saw matching scratches on his chest.  They didn’t have the same ominous secretions that the

Slayer’s injuries had, but they looked nasty enough.  He made a mental note to ask Giles for some help with his injuries after he looked after Buffy.  The Watcher just might actually help him in exchange for saving his Slayer tonight.  Maybe.

--------------------------------------------

Stumbling up to Giles’ doorstep, Spike leaned on the bell, never letting up until a very disgruntled Watcher opened the door.  Giles didn’t say anything for a few seconds, just gazed in horror at Buffy.  Then, he shook his head slightly, and Spike could see the mantle of Watcher descend over him.

"Bring her in," Giles ordered.  "Put her on the couch.  I’ll get the first aid kit."

Spike laid Buffy down as gently as he could, lifting her legs up on the couch, then pushed the coffee table back from the couch to make room. Giles returned carrying his rather comprehensive first aid kit and knelt down next to him. 

Pulling out items and getting straight to work treating her injuries, the Watcher tersely inquired, "What happened?"

"Othanyskr demons," Spike replied and he helped remove Buffy’s blouse, wincing a little as the smooth cotton fabric stuck to the multiple lacerations on her upper body as Giles gently peeled it away after soaking it with some distilled water.

"Oh, dear God," muttered Giles as he applied disinfectant solution liberally all over her torso, heedless of the splashing on his sofa.  "She’s been scratched."

"More than once," nodded Spike grimly.  "You’ll have to clean out the wounds really thoroughly," he added. 

"Othanyskr poison is fatal at all times," Giles said grimly as he continued to debride the scratches, a worried thoughtful expression haunting his face.   "Do you know anything that we can do?"  He didn’t bat an eyelash at asking Spike for advice.  The vampire had knowledge that he needed, and he would use it to help his Slayer.

"For most humans, yeah," replied Spike as he tugged at the tear in the Slayer’s trousers near her left knee, ripping them down to her ankle and exposing an ugly bruise and several deep abrasions, but thankfully, no further claw marks.  "But I think her Slayer healing should keep her from developing the most severe symptoms." 

Giles nodded, then noted that already treatment had stopped the production of the bile green matter, and now the scratch wounds were just swollen with an angry red color. 

"I’m not sure, but don’t the victims fall into a coma, suffer respiratory distress, then arrest?" Giles almost sounded like he was thinking out loud, his hands never ceasing in his treatment. 

Spike had snagged some cotton wool and was using some of the disinfectant to treat the abrasions on her leg and responded, "Don’t know, Watcher.  Just seen what it does to vampires, which is not a pretty sight."

"Yes, well, quite," intoned Giles, finally finished with his cleaning.  "The wounds look much better.  We’ll have to keep a close eye on her.  Light bandages, I think," he added, matching action to his words, giving a surprised thanks to Spike as the vampire handed him several sterile bandages.

Between the two of them, they managed to get Buffy cleaned and bandaged.  Giles produced a light cotton sheet and covered her up, brushing his hand across her forehead.  "She appears to have only a slightly elevated temperature," he noted thankfully.

"Good," Spike replied, noting that the room had taken on an odd grey/green cast and was wavering at the corners of his eyes.  He stumbled over to a chair and sank into more by luck than by actual intent.  He tried to call out to Giles, who was occupied with picking up the dirtied first aid supplies and putting them into a rubbish bin, but it came out garbled and strange.

"What was that Spike?  You really need to speak up, I can’t be expected to…" the Watcher trailed off as he turned and got a good look at the Vampire.  It wasn’t a pleasant sight.  In his wild rush to get treatment to Buffy, Spike had obviously overlooked that he’d sustained some injuries himself.  Giles noted no less that four deep scratches on his chest and one on his right leg.  The oozing bile green discharge was clearly visible on his black t-shirt and jeans.  As Giles watched, the vampire slid both into unconsciousness and down to the floor with a thud.

TBC

Title: Butcher's Blue

Author: hisluvpet

Series: BtVS

Genre:  Drama/Romance

Part: 3 – So Black and Blue

Rating: R

Started:  09/21/04

Summary: Spike's interaction with Buffy in Something Blue kicks off a hellish voyage of discovery that might just be the making of the man.  Manifestly AU after that delightful episode, but I pull bits & pieces from other eps as I go. 

Pairing:  Spuffy, Wara, Xanya, Spander-lite

Disclaimer: I've got a wine cellar for any lawyers that stop by.

Posting: Let me know...then sure!

A/N:  For Melissa – who made me feel so welcome again – Thanks so much!

A/N2:  This is an AU that branches from "Something Blue", the setting is Season 5-ish, Riley’s around but Buffy and him haven’t gotten deeply involved.  Joyce is ill but still OK.  Dawn’s around so Glory’s around.  Willow and Tara are together and out.  Crush & IWMTLY have not happened, nor will they.  IOW, I’ve rearranged it all to suit myself, because, as I’ve mentioned a time or two, I’m evil :p

A/N3:  The story now is moving into some slash-type stuff (Spander), nothing graphic, but if you don’t go there, don’t go here! I’m exploring my take on Xander’s complicated relationship with Spike.

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Blessed are ye, when men shall hate you, and when they shall separate you from their company, and shall reproach you, and cast out your name as evil….

--Luke 6:22

What did I do to be so black and blue?

--Andy Razaf (1895–1993)

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Giles looked at Buffy, who appeared to be stable for now, sighed, and went over to where Spike lay slumped on the floor against the chair.  His innate sense of fair play told him that he owed the vampire at least the courtesy of basic first aid, while his rage against Spike’s kind urged him to dump the bleached blond out into the street and let something nastier-than-him take him out.  Neither won out, due to the fact that Spike awoke and blearily peered up at him.

"What’s this then, Watcher?" he murmured, his diction and tone remarkably toff sounding compared to his usual parlance. 

"I’m rather afraid you passed out," replied Giles wryly, reaching down to help him up into the chair.

"Oh, sorry about that," Spike offered, sounding for all the world like he was apologizing for dropping a biscuit on the carpet during tea, and Giles’ eyebrows rose a bit.  Spike rubbed his hand through his hair, dislodging his careful grooming into a mass of curls.  "I don’t feel very well," he added quietly.

Giles caught him just as he was pitching forward again and seated him back into the chair, pulling out his legs to prop him up.  "Try to stay put, Spike.  I’ve got to get some more bandages and disinfectant," he awkwardly patted the vampire on one shoulder as he moved toward the kitchen.

"I’ll just stay here then," Spike agreed, and his head lolled to right, coming to rest on the padded wing of the chair.  The room continued to go in and out of focus, it grey/green color now augmented by occasional bursts of light on the edge of his vision.  He looked over in Buffy’s general direction, but her form remained fuzzy no matter how much he blinked his eyes.  He listened carefully and discerned the beat of her heart; it was slightly elevated, her breathing slow and harsh.  Not well, but not in any acute distress he decided, hazily noting that the lamplight made her hair shine golden.

Giles returned with yet more supplies just in time to catch Spike as he listed to port then started slumping forward.  The Watcher swore he heard the vampire murmur "Something effulgent…" as he shoved him none too gently back upright in the chair to get him to stay that way.  He proceeded to clean the vampire’s wounds in a brisk, yet not unkind manner.  Beyond a low hiss at the contact the disinfectant liquid had with the wounds, Spike didn’t say anything further. 

Giles could not remember a time when the vamp had been so quiet.  It worried him in an odd sort of way, rapping at his inner Watcher as if to say, "Well, you’ve gone and decided he’s worth saving now, haven’t you?".  He then proceeded to quash that particular reaction and concentrated on his first aid.  Knowing that there was little he could do beyond cleaning the wounds, he decided against bandaging the vampire.  His supernatural healing ability should take care of him.

"That’s the best I can do, Spike," Giles said as he rose up from where he’d been kneeling on the floor to attend to his leg wound.  Getting no response, he took the vampire’s chin in his hand and lifted it up.  "Spike!" he called out louder, but the vampire was out for the count.  The Watcher sighed and decided to leave him where he was. 

Crossing back over to where his Slayer lay on the couch, Giles reached out and put a hand on her forehead gently.  Her temperature had risen; he could feel beads of sweat forming on her brow.  "Oh, Buffy," he lamented in a low tone.  He went into the kitchen to get a bowl of cool water, catching his cordless phone in one hand on the way.  Time for a Scooby meeting.

After a short call to Willow, who assured him that she would gather the other Scoobies, Giles took the bowl of cool water and began bathing Buffy’s face with a wrung out cloth.  His heart contracted at seeing his Slayer’s feverish countenance.  A low moan from Spike made him glance over at the vampire.  He was still collapsed bonelessly, multiple dark bruises mottled his skin, and he had an odd cast to his normal pallor.  He was also sweating, something Giles was certain was impossible for a vampire to do.  The doorbell rang, and Giles got up to let the Scoobies in.

"Giles," Willow’s voice was low and full of concern.  "What happened?"  She glanced over to where Buffy lay on the couch and her face became even more troubled.

"And what the heck is the Bleached Wonder doing here?" snarled Xander.  "And, did he have anything to do with what happened to Buffy?"

Tara didn’t say anything but she looked worriedly at Buffy and spared a glance of care for the vampire, who was not looking very well at all. 

Anya just looked sleepy and slightly put out as she came to stand next to Xander.  Then, she took a better look at Spike and Buffy.  "Are those Othanyskr demon scratches?" she asked with no little horror in her voice. 

"Yes," Giles replied to the ex-demon, always a little surprised when Anya showed her experience and knowledge of the demon world.  "What do you know about them?"

"Just that their wounds are fatal to humans, and often to vampires, too," she replied bluntly, but her eyes betrayed her sorrow.

"Who cares about Spike," came Xander’s unsurprising reply.  "What’s gonna happen to Buffy?" his agitation clear.

"Apparently, the only reason Buffy is still alive is because Spike brought her here for treatment so quickly," the Watcher replied tersely, having no time for Xander’s insecurities.  "I’ve done all I can for her.  Spike seems to think that her Slayer healing will help her overcome the toxins.  I confess I know little to nothing about this particular species of demon.  Anya, can you tell me anything else?" his voice growing desperate.

"I think that Spike could be right," Anya began, scrunching her face up as she thought back through over a millennium of memories.  "All I can remember is that the poison causes a high fever and hallucinations." She looked sad, "I’m sorry, I can’t remember any more.  Perhaps we could research?" she added hopefully.

Giles nodded and began selecting texts.  Tara gravitated to Buffy, taking the cloth from the bowl and wringing it out.  "Do you have any icepacks, Mr. Giles?" she asked quietly. 

"In the freezer, some of those blue ice things," he called over his shoulder as he went upstairs for a few more volumes that he kept in his bedroom.

"I’m on it," Anya called out as she moved toward the kitchen.

Xander motioned to Willow and they moved over the opposite side of the room.

"What?" Willow was puzzled by Xander’s need for privacy.

"Are you as bothered as I am by the presence of Spike?" he asked her.

"Well, it seems that he was helping," Willow replied slowly.  "Giles did say he brought Buffy here for help, so, he was with the helpage, which should be Ok, right?" she trailed off, looking at the growing anger in her friend’s face.

"How do we know he’s not the one responsible for her getting hurt in the first place?" he said with malice, his fear for Buffy taking a handy outlet – his anger for Deadboy, JR.

"Well, I guess we can’t say for certain until we talk to Spike," Willow looked over at the vampire.  "And, I’m guessing that won’t be for a while.  He looks pretty bad."

Xander looked over at Spike and had to agree, but he didn’t have to say anything, so he didn’t.

With Tara caring for Buffy, Giles and the others set up research shop at his kitchen table and began looking for any and all information regarding Othanyskr demons.  After a few hours, they pooled all available data, but nothing particularly helpful had sprung out at them.  Most of the information confirmed what Spike and Anya had said.  Giles sighed, terribly worried and frustrated because there was apparently nothing they could do but wait. 

"Mr. Giles," Tara called out suddenly.  "I think Buffy’s waking up."  The Wicca continued to bathe the Slayer’s face, but Buffy became restive and pulled away from her ministrations.

Giles came over immediately and knelt down next to his Slayer.  She was tossing her head and mumbling, then called out, "Spike!  Don’t…help…No!"  The Watcher took her shoulders to help calm her agitation.  Whatever hallucinations she was seeing, they bothered her a great deal.  She slumped back, still mumbling in distress. 

"That’s it!" Xander ground out.  "He’s dust," he added crossing over to the vampire and tugging a stake out of his pocket.  Spike remained as still as he had been the whole time, but his skin held a greenish cast, and he was still sweating.

"N-no!" Tara called out and she crossed over to where Spike sat slumped in the chair.  "I mean…we don’t know he’s responsible for Buffy’s injuries, right?" she appealed to Willow and Anya, who had joined them around the vampire.  She glanced over at Giles, who was busy with Buffy and paying no attention to the Scoobies.

Anya wanted to abstain, because she knew this was a hot button issue for Xander, but her innate frankness and practical nature prevented her from presuming guilt on the part of the vampire.  "I think we should wait and see what Spike says," she finally said.

"What?  Ahn, you can’t really mean that," Xander sputtered.

"Xander, I know you have conflicted feelings about Spike," Anya replied conciliatorily.  "But, we don’t know exactly what’s happened, and he’s occasionally useful, especially on patrol.  That means, you patrol less and stay whole a lot more," she finished nodding her approval at this situation.  She didn’t even add that a less injured Xander made for more orgasms for her.  And they said she didn’t have any tact.

"And, she’s probably hallucinating right now, so what’s she’s seeing is probably not exactly what happened," Willow tried to appease Xander, who was still looming over Spike.

Xander was mystified, "Why are you defending this bloodsucker?  He’s tried to kill us all more than once."  Once again, Xander found himself reacting with an almost irrational anger regarding Spike.  It was like he was watching himself from afar, reacting and overreacting.

"Well, not me," Tara offered quietly.  "He’s only tried to help me."  She ducked her head, not comfortable with speaking out in the group, even though she did feel strongly about this.

"I know, honey," Willow said putting an arm around the blond Wicca.  "But, Spike’s, well, he’s not really been the nicest person, uh, vamp," she trailed off at the look on her lover’s face.  "But, hey, we don’t have to stake him now, right Xander?  I mean, we can just, like, take him back to his crypt.  He’ll be ok there, then no Spike problem, huh?" she tried to be supportative friend and lover at the same time, all the while doing her best Willow-babble.

Xander shook his head, then conceded the point, out-voted as usual, but not happy, and for darn sure not accepting it.  "Ok, ok, I can see that you aren’t gonna see reason on this.  I still say he’s probably responsible for this mess.  Let’s get him the hell outta here so we can concentrate on getting Buffy better."

"I’ll help you," Tara said walking over to Spike, at a loss as to what to do to help the vampire, but feeling very bad for him.

"Umm, Tara, why don’t you stay here and help take care of Buffy," Willow suggested carefully, well aware that Xander was not going to tolerate her lover’s more gentle approach to Spike.  "I’ll help Xander."

"All right," Tara replied, her worry for Buffy warring with her concern for Spike.  As she passed by Willow on her way back to Buffy’s side, she said in a low voice, "Please make sure that Xander doesn’t hurt him, Willow.  He’s very angry right now.  I don’t like his aura."  Willow nodded, happy that she’d struck a balance between her friend and her lover without further conflict.

"We’re relieving you of the Bleached Wonder, G-man," Xander came over and spoke quietly to the Watcher.

"Ah, yes," Giles was distracted; his only concern right now was his Slayer.  "You can take him back to his crypt and he can rest.  Nothing really to be done for him except wait and see if he survives I suppose."  With that, his attention returned wholly to Buffy, who continued to be restive.

"Has anyone called Buffy’s Mom?" asked Tara.

"Not yet," replied Giles.  "Perhaps I should do that now," he glanced at the clock, noting that dawn was not far off.  He gestured to Tara to take over with Buffy and he picked up his phone.

In the meantime, Xander, Anya, and Willow had managed to get Spike out of the chair and were in the process of carrying him awkwardly out the door.

"We’d better hurry," panted Willow.  "It’s almost dawn."

"No, we wouldn’t want that," muttered Xander, as he hefted up the torso of the compact yet muscular vampire who was the bane of his life.  He steadfastly blocked out any notice on his part of what could only be called the beauty of Spike’s features, despite the obvious illness that plagued him.  These feelings only added to his anger.  A confused Xander was not a happy Xander he maintained.  The train firmly back on the track to Denialville, they finally got Spike into his piece of crap car and made their way to the vampire’s cemetery. 

The skies in the east were tinged pink and gold as the three friends vamp-handled Spike into his crypt, laying him on his bier.

Panting a little, Willow frowned at the vampire and said, "He doesn’t look very comfortable."

"And I’m all broken up about that, Wills," Xander snarked, rolling his shoulders, glad their task was done.

"I mean, his clothes, they’re all bloody and icky," Willow replied wrinkling her nose.

"Oh, for Pete’s sake," Anya interjected.  "I’ll take his clothes off if that means we can get out of here."

"No way, Ahn," exploded Xander.  "You’re not getting anywhere near Deadboy, JR without his clothes."

"That’s nice of you, Xander," Anya patted her boyfriend’s shoulder.  "You can see what you’ve been wondering about all this time while you help him," she added beaming.

"Thank you, Anya," Xander muttered, ducking a red-tinged face and avoiding Willow’s quizzical gaze as she and Anya moved to leave the crypt. 

Xander groaned silently as he moved over to the bier and looked at Spike’s unconscious form.  He really looked like shit.  Added plus that his shirt was torn and dirty, likewise his jeans.  Only his faithful duster had survived intact, if muddy.

"Ok, Xan-man," he thought to himself.  "Watcha gonna do now?"  He could dust Spike at will, and no one was there to stop him.  In the truth voice reserved only for himself, he admitted to being in denial about his feelings toward the vamp.  He was alternately scared, angered, and intrigued by the bleached vamp who lay before him.  Now that Spike was sick, really sick, he had to also deny worrying about him. 

Not liking the discomfort that all this introspection caused, he sighed and began removing the vampire’s clothing.  The duster was salvageable, and he draped it over the end of the bier, but the rest of his clothing was a loss.  He tugged off boots and dragged off the shredded t-shirt and jeans, steadfastly not looking there.  But, like not thinking of the pink elephant, the second he turned, blanket in hand to cover Spike up, his gaze zeroed in on the vamp’s chest and ran inexonerably down. 

"Oh, God," he thought, this is not happening.  He flung the blanket across the still form, and with a last panicked glance at the vampire’s ill countenance, he quitted the crypt at a dead run.

TBC