Chapter Five

Sensation screamed through torn, bruised muscle and flesh and he felt his body tighten in protest. Exhaustion could not express how completely thrashed he felt, not ever having been so decimated in his vampiric memory. Blackness swamped all his efforts to drag himself to the present and he felt unable to catch the slightest whiff or clue as to where he was. But the unbearable stinging of his shoulders had eased enough to tell him abstractly that he was no longer dangling from the human pup’s ceiling like some demented marionette.

His back was straightened along a hard surface, and in his fragmented understanding he got that he was either ready to become dust and they wanted him steady on the floor before stakingperhaps so they could get in a few really good kicks or that he had been saved. The way his luck had turned lately, he felt more confident in the staking. Then again, the pain that raced through his body, reminding him agonisingly of his activities since he left Buffy, made him think that staking would be too good for him. So, maybe he should go with the being saved.

Bollocks.

That couldn’t be right. The only one who would attempt it, who knew what had been happening, was Lindsey, and he wouldn’t have crossed Darla, even if she wouldn’t suck him off. The little prick didn’t care that much anyway, outside his little morbid curiosity.

The gradual clarity of his thoughts was what began to give him the ultimate clue. He knew enough to know he’d been slightly out of focus for the past couple of weeks. That he had a clue now about himself meant blood. Someone had been feeding him. He slowed all his senses till nothing mattered, no false breathing, no sniffing for scent, eyes closed as they had yet to be able to open. His centre became one with awareness and he had an understanding of his condition without using anything inherent to his nature.

He knew of the blood, felt through the healing that it was human, though no remnants of heat could convince him of the nature of the donation. His recent experience had been from the fountain, and the thought that he might have been force fed from another victim made his tear ducts react in negativity. His insides cramped and he felt a lurch in his belly, could see in his mind the coagulation of red sickly plasma and he heaved, trying desperately to rid himself of the taint.

Sheets of blood surrounded him and he heard a gasp of shock close by before the retching closed his mind off and he kept with it, his mission to not allow any to remain settled within his bloodstream. He would rather be empty than let the Slayer be right about him. He might have fucked it all up, but he couldn’t continue being manipulated by his clan women.

Sadness enveloped him in his stark realisation; he no longer belonged with his family. He had changed, remade himself to be different and less ugly to the population of heartbeats, even if those he called his second family couldn’t stand the sight of him.

He had drifted on a tide of change, no longer blood-filled, just to be a little more right for Buffy, and even though he felt violently in need of throttling her, he knew that he couldn’t go back. His reactions over the past weeks showed him that.

William had surged within him and he felt stunned at the lack of disgust. In actuality, he welcomed the nancy git, hoping that in William he might find the one to support him that he had not located within the Scooby fold. After all these years, over a century of death and deliverance, could it be William that would save him, show him the love that no other ever seemed interested in bestowing?

The tears rushed for exit and for the first time he could squint his eyes open to slits, shaking at the glare of light he encountered. It was like a signal for the rest of his body to kick in and before he could rein it in his sense of smell began to tell a story; one that he was both eager and loathe to believe.

Curled up on his side in a fetal position, he tested an eyelid for further endurance against the light, and moaned heavily in relief as it dimmed and he could peer out at his surroundings. It was confirmed. Angel sat on a chair facing him, leaning forward in a defeated slump, knees parted and hands dangling from them, head hanging low and miserable. As if he could hear the muscle of the eyelid creaking in motion he raised his head and his gaze clashed with Spike’s. They sat, silently contemplating the other until Spike felt his head begin to thrum with the warnings of a colossal headache on its way. His body was unable to move, not a stretch of even one tiny muscle and he could do nothing but wait for either speech or the stake that would tell him with finality of his fate.

“Peaches…” ‘What the bloody hell am I doing here?’ His husky, ill-used voice was unable to finish his thought, but Angel had pre-empted him anyway, and was looking at him thoughtfully.

Angel ignored the question, and with the odd look in his eye Spike began to feel uneasy. Unconsciously falling back a bit, he flinched when Angel blinked. His skin picked up on another sensation, this one even more excruciating than the pain of torture, the uneasiness of position. He had no clue where he stood with his Sire, teetering on the edge of either final eradication or hope. He couldn’t even fathom a guess as to which he would fall, but his lack of balance was becoming more alarming the longer Angel sat unmoving and silent.

But as the quiet stretched onward, neither moving toward any kind of progressive pace, Spike began to wonder at the grim twitch to Angel’s lips, his brow held frozen in a pose of wonder and perhaps… jealousy? Confusion blistered on his already torn lips, his face aching and on fire from the burn of holiness, resembling that of any horror but the recognised form of William the Bloody.

With unified acceptance, Angel stood and moved to hand a mug to Spike. He still lay unmoving amongst the splayed effects of his bloody purging, sheets sodden beneath his face. Now that the fluid was up, he was able to discern the elements that made it rich with life for himself, but not stealing breath from the giver. It was donated blood that had coated his stomach in strength, and now he was to begin from scratch to replenish that which he had forcibly evacuated. His eyes lowered in apology and submission, he reached out with trembling hands and took the mug, breathed in the heady but acceptable scent of human blood in warmth, and drank it down in lustful need.

Without word, just meaningful action, he determined that Angel, the one on the edge that had set his own sire and childe on fire, was here to help him. He finished the mug of blood just as hot tears of happiness and relief forced their way out from under his tightly closed lids and he collapsed sobbing into the arms of his Sire, grateful at last for finding the hope he had thought he could only get from Buffy. Angel could accept William, receptive through his own soul, and could accept Spike as his own creation. He could layer the hurt below acceptance and help him to locate his own steel of resolve and help him remake himself.

In the meantime, he had to regain his strength; maintain the ability to stand on his own two feet. And he needed to wrench his mind away from thoughts of Buffy just to keep a tentative grip on his sanity. He had no idea how Angel would go about it, but he held on to hope with the clinging intensity of a man on the edge.

If he was in possession of his right mind, he would wonder why he was so sure that Angel, the one he’d had tortured and hoped for his final and dusty death not so long ago, was the one he prayed could bring him into light. How had Angel displaced Buffy in his desire? And how had his desire slipped from being ‘all about Buffy’, to just wanting to be good?

He had given up hope that she could ever want him, and he even admitted to himself that, while under the hypnotic effects of the Hellmouth, his motivation to change had a Buffy shaped impetus. But now he had left her and she had left him hollow of feeling he craved just to be a little of what she might admire. He wanted hope that one day she might see him as worthy of friendship, strained or otherwise. He just wanted her acknowledgment that he was different, not the same type of vampire that she vanquished night after miserable night. That he had depth, an existence beyond being the annoyance that the Scoobies had only observed and embraced as a cover for their disinterest in having him closer.

That last thought hurt. It opened a sliced welt on his heart that they had never wanted him around. He had strived to make it easier for them, never letting on that he had their interests in his empty chest cavity that reeked of heart. But insults and rejection had shunned him every step.

Being dumped by Drusilla had driven him into a state he had never been amidst before, a loneliness that was foreign, even in his human days. He had never been so alone and in pain, and that could be the only reason he had weathered the attempts by Giles and Harris to keep him under their thumb, to keep him low and weakened in the eyes of the women in the group. They hadn’t wanted him there but put up with him because he was neutered and they felt sorry for him. He just wanted to belong, to be theirs, to have someone’s loyalty. Sure, mainly he craved Buffy’s loyalty, but just one spark of human affection from any of them would have brought tears to his eyes, and given his heart an ache of pure joy. And as weak and poofterish as that made him out to be, that was still what he wanted.

He wanted to be theirs.

Until he died.

Death was her gift.

Huh!

She definitely hadn’t seen that one coming. For the three hour long drive back to Sunnydale from the desert the revelation had been stuck on replay like a cracked out mantra. Death was her gift. The chills hadn’t abated yet, either. In fact, each time she said the phrase, her chills got chills so that she was certain that if she stripped off her clothes she would find a Mount Vesuvious of chills ready to go Boom!

Really, she was officially giving this year the heavyweight title of Crappy! With her mom sick, Glory after her sister, Riley leaving, Spike leaving, she was hard pressed to give the ‘sending Angel to Hell’ event the recognition it deserved. No, that year had been usurped. This year was by far the outright winner as far as she was concerned. And the worst part of it was, it was nowhere near over. Oh no, instead of drifting off to a closed curtains end of the year, Glory had decided that she hadn’t found her key quickly enough and was stepping up the intimidation. She had to come up with a plan soon, and death being her gift and all, she couldn’t see how she could lose. Pffft.

With Giles’s little red ‘skirt attracting’ car, Buffy felt the dread wash over her and settle like thick, gluggy black oil. It had shifted on their way out of town but now she wondered if the Hellmouth emitted some kind of force of evil that stuck to your body like glue if you were stupid enough to enter. She wanted to turn around, and go bury her head under a mountain of oblivion and forget that Glory was searching under every Sunnydale rock to locate her precious key.

Truthfully, she just wanted to find Spike. She wanted to get all the Scoobies out of there before they all were dead. Before Glory decided that she wasn’t getting anywhere and decided to start brainsucking them all. Besides, it wasn’t like they were having much impact right now on all the demons that had flooded the Hellmouth since the news that Master Spike had deserted the place.

Leaving, left, gone. The imagery was a suggestion that she couldn’t help but latch hold of desperately. Spike had promised he would still be there for her, and she knew he loved her mother and at least liked Dawn a little. Little pictures of her friends getting killed, being brainsucked to give Glory her sanity, Willow going psycho on magic to revenge those that she loved…all she could see if they stayed now was major uber badness. Suddenly, getting the hell out of town sounded like a perfectly plausible plan to her. And she knew exactly where they all should go.

“Giles. I think we should have a Scooby meeting. I have a plan.”

Giles nodded in acceptance and felt his body loosen a little of his tension in relief. He had hoped this sojourn on a mystical Slayer pilgrimage would provide some suggestions of where they could go from here in this battle, and so had succumbed to the ridiculous spectacle of shaking his gourd and doing the hokey pokey like Buffy had teased. It had lightened her serious demeanor fractionally, so he hadn’t minded too much just grateful that the stress that had been lumped on her shoulders since the departure of Spike was lifted from her concern for a few hours.

The purpose he had expected her to reappear with had not been evident however, and instead he had felt the blanket of despair and fear settle around her, almost suffocating the pair of them. He must remember to record in his diary that this trip had not been a raging success.

“I’ll drop you off first so you can check on your mother and Dawn, then we can all meet at the shop. I assume you want to do this immediately? Although it is rather late…”

“No Giles, it needs to be now…we can’t waste any more time. She’s closing in on us…I have a really bad feeling.”

A quick glance to the side confirmed for him that she did indeed look miserable, and frightened. Not an emotion he had ever seen reflected on her face. Not even in meetings with Angelus. Not even the Master. After her dreams it had seemed more like angry determination or a desperate need to escape. Not true garden-variety fear. It did not bode well.

When he stopped outside Buffy’s house he could see all the lights still on and Xander’s car was parked in the drive. He decided to alight from the vehicle with his Slayer and they both rushed into the house. Really, Joyce had been dangerously unwell and didn’t deserve to be in the middle of this much drama. If he could, he would take on Glory himself and let the Summers’ finally feel safe. But he couldn’t, and he feared that this time even Buffy might be out of her league.

The inside was relatively calm, though the shocked faces of those sitting around the living room told a tale of scared hopelessness. A quick count confirmed that all were present but they all remained still and silent under a burden of story telling that would be frightening.

“I don’t want to know.”

Buffy’s voice went off like a gunshot, making everyone jump in guilt.

“Listen up. Mom, Dawn, go upstairs and pack a bag to cover you for maybe a week. Xander, go home. You and Anya do the same, call your boss, and make excuses. Do whatever you think needs to be done. Don’t tell anyone anything. Giles, same. I’ll phone Willow and Tara. We’ll all meet at the Magic Box in about forty minutes.”

Nobody moved. “We’re on the clock people. Move.” Buffy turned her back and raced up the stairs to her room, first stop her phone to relay the message to the witches.

Exactly forty minutes later had everyone jammed inside the Magic Box and thrumming with the surprise action of Buffy wanting to run. It was not typical behaviour; she usually ran after the fight, not before. Still, no one was ready to challenge her when the rest of her actions were embedded in ‘take charge’ land.

“Listen up people. This is the deal. Glory is closing in on us. I can’t fight her on my own, I don’t know how to stop her, and Spike isn’t here to add to the superhuman strength factor. Magic has only gotten us so far, so we have no choice. We have to get out before she picks us off one by one, and hope we can stay hidden long enough for her to miss her window of opportunity. I have no idea when that is, but I think it must be soon by how frequent her attacks are getting. So Giles, you take Willow and Tara. Anya and Xander are together. Mom, Dawn and me will be in our car. We’re heading to LA and before anyone starts to argue, we are going to Angel and he is going to help us find Spike, even if I have to kill him to do it.”

The ferocious look of determination had everyone startled to momentary silence, but then Xander hesitantly raised his hand.

“Um, Buff? I think Angel’s already on it.”

She raised confused eyes to him, hedged off her defended path toward Spike by a sledgehammer blow from outfield.

“Huh?”

Xander chuckled nervously.

“I, uh, called the big guy about a week ago and asked him to find Spike for us.”

As she continued to look at Xander in surprised amazement, she felt tears prickle at the tight dryness of her eyelids and she bestowed upon him a radiant though watery smile. Relief slackened her limbs and she nearly fell to the floor.

“You did?” Her voice was wobbly with affection and friendly love, and she could see similar faces revealing their support and understanding and she rushed upon them to offer hugs of strength and comfort.

“We’ll find him, Buffy.” Willow circled her with her arms and squeezed. “Then we’ll make him come back.”

Buffy stepped back, looking from one face to the next and her bottom lip wobbled. When she encountered the goofy, yet confident grin of her only male friend, she collapsed within his arms sobbing her gratitude.

“Why?” she asked, shocked by the uncharacteristic insight and support of Xander.

He gave her a sheepish look, and by the curl of his mouth she could tell that what he was about to say creeped him out on pretty spectacular levels.

“I guess I never realised before how much of a support Spike was to all of us. To you,” he affirmed, making sure to catch her eye. “He can protect you like none of us can, and Dawn and Mrs. Summers.”

Buffy could feel herself shake with the repressed need to collapse sobbing in relief. They did see it could feel her need for the bleached vampire.

“There’s only so much we can do though, Buffster. You’re gonna have to make him want to stay.”

She looked into his face and nodded understanding, happiness filtering through every pore of her body. Rubbing the tears from her face, she grabbed the arms of her mother and Dawn and pulled them towards the door.

“Let’s go then, people. Last one to LA is a rotten egg.”

Picking up bags and shuffling along in a strangely ebullient mood for a group with a price on their heads, they moved toward various vehicles and angled for the highway leading them out of Sunnydale.

The mission the same, just on hiatus.

Buffy grinned in hope. Death was her gift, was it? Well, she had lots of experience in putting prophecies on their heads.

For the first time in weeks, Buffy’s skin began to warm.

 

 

Chapter Six

Two days of comfortable quiet and endless mugfuls of blood had brought him to a stage of talking without causing him pain.  Brought him to a stage of being propped up in bed without cringing every time a limb would flex.  Brought him closer to tears at remembering how he had reached this impasse in his unlife.

Buffy.

It always came back to her.  He had known the first step he took away from her that he was a fool.

A fool for not belting the Little Bit for opening her mouth and parading all his secrets- like she had the right.

A fool for giving in and giving his proclamations a shot at hopeful, despite the looks of dawning horror on Buffy's face.

A fool for thinking he could get her to admit that it might be possible that he could change, and a bigger fool for not realising that she would never consider herself important enough to be the focus of such a change, the pivotal element for the want of change.  But the most foolish thing he had done was walking away from her and untying Dru, allowing himself to be dragged to a social cycle that held nothing of importance for him now.

His final memory of her was her frozen expression of shock as she sat tied with ropes to his chair.  Probably disgust had also mingled in reaction to his stolen kiss.  It finally began to sink in that she had felt nothing for him but hate.

As his eyes blurred, he thought of all the reasons he had been unable to accept it till now.  He had association, familiarity with her like no other vampire had.  Well, except for Peaches, and the soul elevated him to a whole different category.  No, he wasn't like the regular Joe vampire she turned to ash on a nightly basis.  She had spent time with him, gotten to know him, seen him.

He had believed that the small position he had held in their group might have been enough to humanise him a little in her prospect, make her see him as three dimensional, rather than a one level vampire.  He had done enough good to scatter her opinion on evil, soulless monsters and perhaps cut him a little slack.   He was sure that proximity often worked to dim the distaste for even the most awful nerd a girl could have in her association- didn't they often become friends in schools these days.  The beauty became best buddies with the class freak and he became less the social outcast?  Known less for his bookish ways and liked more for being friends with the glory girl?

Well, it hadn't worked with him!  Association had meant nothing except convenient muscle when the uglies got too close.    She could trust him with the welfare of her family, but not her bloody heart.  Oh no!  Not the precious Slayer, couldn't let that shrivelled  handful of tissue ever heal from the pounding brought upon it by the brooding, ensouled one.  That bitch...he can change but she can't?  How fucking typical...just like her to....

He buried his face in his hands and sobbed, flinching from the pain of his ribs expanding on his heaving breaths, the fuel to keep the savagery of his loss going full steam.  No matter how he tried to blame her, he couldn't.  He was the one in the wrong- an abomination.  Who was he trying to kid that he could change?  None of Angel's gloomy brooding silences could convince him that he had achieved anything in all his efforts.

He had fed, hadn't he?  He'd caused those people to be dead.  He'd sunk his fangs into their throat and sucked out their leftover humanity.  Buffy would hate him forever now, whether he still had the chip or not.  She would only see that he had drunk human heat, letting smooth life glide down his throat and coat his stomach.  That it made him feel worse than he ever had wouldn't matter to Miss There Is Only Good And Evil In The World And You Spike Are Evil With A Capital E.  Nothing he had ever done had mattered.  Not to Cecily, not to Dru or Angelus, and certainly not to the more judgmental Scoobies.

Carefully resuming his reclining position he craved rest, or rather oblivion.  He wanted to be gone from this world where everything hurt, where he was never allowed to have anything his heart yearned and cried for.  Where he was to be played for a fool every time he opened his eyes.

The tears continued to fall from his open and glassy haunted blue eyes as he told himself that whether he did the right thing or not, he had no purpose in this world.  He had nothing to lever himself against this mortal point, and he wished- for the first time since he had realised he was different- that he was finished trying, finished struggling.  He felt tormented resignation that Angel had saved him.  He might have died hanging from that ceiling, he'd heard of vampire's dying from starvation, but he couldn't see where he belonged anywhere else.  That beaten hungry existence was retribution for all he had been, a failure, a major fucking disgrace to both vampire and human.

He wished Angel had just let him hang.

 

Angel felt embarrassed at the comfort he clung to from having Spike under his roof.  They had barely exchanged words, let alone had a conversation about what was going on with the blonde.  But he could tell.  The pain and humiliation was obvious, as was the torment and the eventual resignation.

Angel could see that Spike had accepted death, final rest.  He could see that Spike craved it.  Spike.  The one who sought out Slayers to have a worthy battle and kill.  Spike.  The one who could look after a murderous and insane vampiress merely because of devotion and love.  Spike.  The one who existed merely to be a pain in his ass.  Spike.  Who now wanted to be rid of the world for good.

Angel felt his throat clog with useless grief.  He had dusted Darla once to save Buffy, and had tried to set his sire and childe alight because of fear, shame and a loss of his own way.  Having Spike here with him now had helped him, hearing the stories from Lindsey and on the streets- of a dishonourable vampire of the Aurelian line who was not souled- shamed him into courage.  He felt useless as to how to help Spike find meaning in his existence, mainly because he was only just recapturing it himself.  But he felt a sadness that Spike wanted to be gone from his ties, and the only tie he had now was to Angel.

The rejection stung.

He couldn't help but feel sorry for Darla and Dru, knowing that they must have experienced the same from both the males of the family.

For two days, Angel had repressed any thoughts on the origin to Spike's misery.  He refused to delve into why his childe, always so full of verve and excitement, was so destroyed that he wanted to retire to dust and damnation.

But it hadn't lasted, and he was brought back to the phone call from Xander Harris that had mingled with his own feelings of inadequacy and rejection.  That one of the two Scooby men - the two least supporting of a demon in their midst- wanted Spike back within their fold had been a little hard to accept.

It was a sharp slap in the face.

That he had detected an element of favour for his Grandchilde in Harris's voice at the time had disgusted him, but then later he had grieved for the fact that none of them had ever spoken for him in such a craving, protective manner.  No, instead they did it for Spike. They needed him, they wanted him and so went to lengths to have him returned.

He had denied himself a call to Buffy, not prepared to hear that tone of yearning in her voice that he was so sure would be there.  He could deny it to himself no longer.  Spike didn't have to open his mouth for him to recognise the signs.  Such complete emotional devastation could only be caused in their order by one woman. That she hadn't called, and Harris had, was telling enough as it was.

Standing outside the door to Spike's room, he could feel a tear glide down his cheek as he listened to the blonde vamp sob his heart out.  It killed him to acknowledge that Buffy had gotten close enough to his childer to affect such a reversal of character, but for once he knew where his loyalties lay, and that was with Spike.  He couldn't let Spike down, even if it meant forcing Buffy into the picture.  Spike was changing- he could feel it within his psyche, within his blood, and he knew that that was why Drusilla had punished him so fiercely.  Just like she had done to Angel while he had a soul.  She refused to allow their loss, but instead forced them away.

Spike had run from Sunnydale, and Harris's silence on the reason why seemed confirmation to him.  It could only be Buffy.  Finding himself back at the front desk, he picked up the phone and dialed the Summers's house.  The ringing tone continued on until it cut out and, with a concerned look at the time, he replaced the receiver in the stand.  It was close to morning and no one was home.  Dread had no time to fully whip up action before there was a flurry of activity at his front door. He braced himself for attack, slumping only when Giles and Joyce stepped gingerly through, followed by the whole Scooby contingent as well as some faces new.  They all stopped suddenly when faced with his confused figure.

When he caught sight of Buffy he breathed in agonised relief.  He forgot to feel amazed at her presence, overcome by her beauty, or drugged by her proximity.  He felt nothing but hope that he could give Spike something to hold onto, and in the first real facial expression besides melancholy the group had ever witnessed on him, he sighed in almost euphoric pleasure.

She had come.

Embracing her enthusiastically, he took a second to wonder why they were here, then another to acknowledge his lack of hurt that she wasn't here for him, before pulling back and making a second action out of character.  He grabbed Xander's hand and pumped it in an enthusiastic handshake before directing them all to take a seat.

Reluctantly they sat, watching him apprehensively and, almost as one, decided to leave the speaking to Buffy.

"Um, Hi..." she mumbled nervously, cowering.  "Probably should have said that earlier.  Ah, you'll never guess why we ended up on your doorstep like this..."

"Buffy..." Angel interrupted.  He watched her carefully. "Look, I found Spike, and he's a bit of a mess."

She shot to her feet, agitated.

"What kind of a mess?"  She wrung her hands together, rubbing and squeezing in mounting fear.

Angel no longer felt the cause of Spike's anguish to be ambiguous.

Buffy.

It was always about Buffy.

But what he witnessed in her actions gave him hope for his childe.  She wanted to help, and he could see that she reeked of fear for Spike's welfare and condition.  He bowed his head in sudden resigned sadness before resolving to get over it, to let it go.  He had to give William hope.

"When I found him..." He looked at the women of the group and just in time caught himself from relaying the gore of the scene he had encountered.

Surprisingly it was Joyce who refused to let him cover the truth.

"We want to know exactly what is going on with Spike.  Don't hold back," she instructed, and his guilt that never lessened in the face of this woman had him lowering his eyes but nodding in supplication to her wishes.

"Darla and Dru had been torturing him.  They had him chained in an apartment, were starving him, though I think he might have been doing that to himself before they chose to hurt him.  At least that's what Lindsey told me.  Anyway, they poured holy water on him, cut him, stabbed him, pretty much mutilated every bit of skin on his body."  He shared a meaningful glance with Giles and Harris and they shared the cringe of solid male understanding.

Looking back at Buffy he felt nothing but satisfaction at the tears that streamed down her cheeks.  A little of the demon resentment surged within him and he felt eager to plant the boot in, protecting and seeking vengeance for his closest male relative.

He stared straight at Buffy and took evil satisfaction at her flinch.

"Do you happen to know why he was back with them?  He won't tell me much, but I can tell you that whatever it was it destroyed him before he ever got to LA.  They punished him because he refused to be like them.  He refused to feed from humans and it got him tortured.  They wanted him to hurt and he didn't care if he died."  Angel's voice cracked with unsteady and unusual emotion.  "He still doesn't care if he dies."

Buffy gasped, the tears gaining momentum until her face was thoroughly wet and red.

One look and she knew that Angel had guessed that it was because of her that Spike had left Sunnydale and allied himself with his family.  That it was because of her that Spike was giving up on himself.

His expression hardened as he faced her.

"Whatever the hell you did you will fix it. If he dusts himself because of your narrow-minded view of what vampires are capable of, I'll..."

"We get the idea, Angel."  Giles had taken to his feet at the threatening stance of the souled vampire, his own guilt and shame causing horrifying images of a bloodied Spike chained and beaten to insanity.

"Perhaps you could take Buffy to see him.  I take it you have him here where you can easily care for him?"

"Of course.  There was nowhere else for him to go."

The group shared a look weighed heavily with guilt and remorse.

"I'll take you, Buffy.  But if you do anything to hurt him or make him feel less important than he already does, then you will all have to leave.  I don't care why you have come here.  He is my priority right now."

Buffy nodded her head, agreement to his terms shining in her eyes.  Her heart thumped painfully, recognising her position of power and still, lacking.  He had talked of priorities and she had so many of those right now, all lined up on sofas around her.

But her heart ached to feel Spike against her, to give to him the crumbs he had begged metaphorically from her.  She craved the touch of his hands, and suddenly she burned from the memory of his lips, gently caressing hers in the sweetest love.  A love he had braved despite knowing of her attitude toward him, and ultimately her rejection of him.  A love she truly didn't deserve but strangely felt she wanted.

A love her friends suddenly didn't seem to mind if it brought Spike back home with them and culled off the bad demon population.  Amazingly his selfless action of patrolling on his own and ridding the Hellmouth of a great deal of demon activity had allowed the Scoobies the proof they needed to accept Spike as one of their own, and Buffy's gratitude was enormous.  It made her emerging feelings for the vampire something she no longer needed to convince herself of as being neither disgusting or inappropriate.

She was thrown.

Angel seemed to suspect the origins of this whole mess.  Without words he had conveyed his displeasure that she had managed to break a Master Vampire without even lifting a finger.  Of course her hands had been tied behind her back at the time or that might have factored into the argument as well.  In some kind of confusion, she recognised that his affection for her seemed to have waned at a similar rate to that of hers for him, and she wondered what elements exactly were in control here.

Everything had changed right out from underneath her and she felt disorientated.  If she didn't know better she would suspect that a spell had been cast on her emotions and thoughts, causing her to fall out of love with one vampire and in love with another.  In love with one without a soul, and as much as she wished it didn't, that fact still seemed to be a bit of a stumbling block.

She pushed all inner musings away however, determined that there would be nothing negative shading the meeting that was about to occur.  She took desperate, calming breaths as she walked along the corridor, Angel finally stopping outside a door.  With a sharp realisation Buffy knew she wasn't ready.  Angel paused, hand hovering over the door handle, and listened.  With a paternal smile that left her motionless in surprise, he silently indicated that Spike was asleep.

With a gentle twist of the knob, the door swung inward and all the heat of eagerness left Buffy's cheeks in a rush.  Curled painfully on his side, Spike's naked shoulders peeked out from above the sheet that covered the rest of his body, but the colour shocked her.  A furious red of burnt and blistered skin interspersed with great ink splatters of bruising, even inching up his neck and into his hairline.  She gagged in revulsion.  His face was swollen, bruises blackening his complexion into ugliness, lips blistered and weeping, as well as his eyes, she acknowledged at last.  His face was wet with tears that he had obviously shed until his recent escape into slumberland.

It was because of her. Because she hadn't wanted to believe or accept that he was different.  So he left and was punished because he was.

She felt so ashamed.

Falling to her knees in a silent prayer of forgiveness, she buried her own wet face in her hands and surrendered to her guilt and grief.

She never even noticed Angel walking back out and closing the door softly behind him.
 
 

 

 

Chapter Seven

Long mindless minutes scratched by as Buffy felt her eyes riveted to the unmoving form of the vampire she had come to recognise and catagorise as hers.  Awareness clawed at her spine and every delicious tingle of anticipation pushed her further into a panic and drove her instincts into flight.  She could see the cuts, the welts and bruises that deformed his beautiful skin and knew that the fault was hers.  But more than that, she saw the vampire.  The being she had been trained to hate, to eradicate.  And it scared her.

They had come a long way from Sunnydale, driven from their homes and security on the whim of a demented hellgod, and on the long drive to the Hyperion her thoughts had been focused on Spike, on how they could find him.  It had never occurred to her that Angel might have found him already, and as grateful as she was that there would be no search- that Angel hadn't dusted him- her current nerves of jelly proved to her that she wasn't ready to confront the latest vampire to run out on her.

Two long years of disturbing history between them tainted her moment of reconciliation.  He was a vampire for God's sake; and just because he'd wiped out a few demons for her, really didn't mean that he did it to make her job easier.  The motivation could simply have been survival, or the need to kill.  She had seen that force, that thirst for violence within him often- hell- she had often intentionally fuelled it just to watch him go off and be impotent in his retribution.  They had put a lot of stock into his claims of change, and within seconds of breathless desire and hope, she was returned to suspicion and distrust. Questioning her feelings, unsure in the strength of her love.

'What had they been thinking?' she asked herself slightly hysterically.  Giles, Xander, they were now encouraging her to bring the pest back home, convinced he was worthy of their group membership.  One mention to him of how they seemed to need him would make him insufferable and even more arrogant.  No, this was all a very stupid mistake and she needed to get out of this room fast before she made a fool out of herself.

On shaking legs she stood, and quietly let herself out.  The figure on the bed hadn't moved even a fraction in the time she had been in there and she had to wonder how out of it he was after two or so days of recovery time.

Slinking out of the barely open door she bumped abruptly into something hard and immovable.  She looked up swiftly in surprise and encountered stormy and angry brown eyes.

"Where exactly do you think you're going?"  Angel spat out, barely controlling his fury.

Buffy gulped, finally wounded by his seeming lack of feeling for her and confused by his temper.

"I just thought I should get out before I did something foolish.  I suddenly came to my senses.  I don't need to align myself with vicious vampire, Angel.  I'll work something out with Giles about Glory."

Her defensiveness was fuelled by fright  and before her eyes she could see the skin of his face tighten and her heart began to beat with alarm.

"Why, you insecure, ignorant little..."

He closed his eyes at her gasp of outrage, and tried desperately to reign in his feelings of intolerance.  He had made her be this closed woman, lacking in real knowledge and understanding of the things she hunted, and so without the true weapons to know how to fight this particular burden.  He had guided her prejudice, keeping himself in her little pocket of exceptions, and now paid the price for not allowing any room for her to slot his Childe.

"He hasn't said anything much.  Mainly just groans of pain.  But I know.  He left Sunnydale because of you, didn't he?"  His eyes tore into her with all the intensity of a firestorm.

She nodded her head hesitantly, conceding his point but enlightening him no further.

"He's in love with you."  It was not a question and she looked up at him sharply.

"William always loses direction and does a runner because of love.  Don't you know him well enough to know that, Buffy?"

"Yes..." she answered almost ashamed.  She did know, she knew that it was her that had given his feet wings, that had forced more love from her life, and her cowardice rose to bite her in the ass.

What had happened to her resolve?  To death being her gift?  Nothing had prepared her for the suffering Spike might have endured.  She had been so sure that even though she had finally worked out that she might have feelings for him, that she could admit to needing him both for her work and in her life, that she had forgotten the practicalities of romance on the Hellmouth.  More particularly, her own disastrous romantic efforts that went straight to hell without  a seconds hesitation.

And her friends, her mother and Giles and Xander.  Were they saying it was okay for her to give him hope for a requited love?  Or was it something else they were encouraging her to do to make sure he stuck around?  Surely they wouldn't be promoting a relationship between the Slayer and a soulless, evil vampire.  That would be just too wiggy.

Gaining reassurance from her thoughts and straightening her backbone in determination, she allowed her voice to fall in at normal volume, allowing no more weakness to give her away, and despite the confidence in the words, she screamed internally to stop being such a bitch and stop making excuses.

"Angel.  His feelings aren't important."  She paused, guilt making her insides clench in self-disgust as Angel blanched and then resumed his angry frown, no longer being able to even look at her.  But she pushed on, her own words to an extent burning her with the unwanted vitriol. "He is a vampire, one that is only helpful to us now because he has a chip in his head preventing him from hunting people and killing them.  He needs the violence, and for that alone is why he has been helpful to us in the past."

"God, do you even listen to the garbage you are saying?"

His outburst shocked her into mortified silence.

"You think that chip stopped him from hunting?"  At her slow nod he barked out a sarcastic laugh.  "Oh baby, he's been hunting.  Not killing, Dru and Darla did that for him, but it didn't stop him hunting."

At this startling confirmation Buffy lost all colour in her face along with the hope that she had been wrong to doubt his desire to change.  She fell hard against the door and reached behind her with an unsteady hand to pull a stake from her waistband.  A solitary tear squeezed out of her left eye and her hand grabbed for the doorknob, about to twist it and put an end to the evil lying motionless in the room.  Before she could make the action though, Angel had grabbed her wrist and turned it sharply, pulling it behind her back in a show of strength he had rarely used on her.

"I think you and I need to have a little talk before you really do go and do something foolish."

Her lips straightened into a line of menace as she tried to jerk her arm out of his grip, and then winced as the muscles in her shoulder pulled painfully.

"Angel, what the hell has gotten into you?"

His face was an implacable mask and instead of answering he pulled her down the corridor and thrust her into an empty room before shutting the door with a  determined click. Looking at his face, cold in both temperature and emotion, she sucked in a breath to try and counteract her sudden nerves.

"Okay, Angel.  What exactly is this about?"

"This is about you not understanding the basic, elemental nature of the people you are set to kill."

"They aren't people.  They're monsters.  I need to eradicate them, not work out which bedtime story they like best."

"How stupid am I?  I thought you saw me as a person."

"I do...but you have a soul.  That makes you different."

The darkness he had been struggling with since Darla's return threatened to swamp him, to make this confrontation as bloody and violent as it deserved to be because of her ignorance.  But thoughts of Spike, devastated underneath a cold, white cotton sheet strengthened his resolve.  Remembering, caring for Spike brought the sanity back, the determination of his mission to the forefront of his existence.

"Even with a soul, I'm still a vampire.  I hunt too.  Just not people, right now."  His cloaked reference to Angelus was deliberate and he smiled in secret satisfaction as her heart indicated her sudden change in confidence.

Her nerves ratcheted up several notches to outright apprehension before she backed a few steps away, rubbing her man-handled and sore wrist while striving to concentrate on the situation at hand.

"The hunt is what it is all about for a vampire, Buffy.  You rejected him, and I'll stake my hotel you told him he couldn't change, that it was impossible for him to be good."  He grinned in angry acceptance when she grimaced tellingly.  "What did you expect him to do when you cut him free, Buff?  You told him he couldn't possibly be good but you still expected to have him sit away somewhere continuing the mission you felt him incapable of.  And now you are disappointed that he did exactly what you expected of him, anyway.  Make up your mind."

She slumped against the door, defeated and miserable that Spike hadn't proved her wrong.  That he had killed, and had fed on humans once again.  She couldn't protect him from that, and she couldn't take him back from that either.  The Scoobies would never allow it. She shouldn't even want it.  But it hurt anyway.

"I think it is time you let yourself be open to the truth now, don't you?"

Her head shot up in an instant, her bottom lip quivering delicately as the only sign of her emotional upheaval.

"What are you getting at?"  She was getting really tired of his cryptic meandering path to the story; tired of having to kill the ones she...had strong feelings for, but knowing that Spike had to be taken care of, and Angel was wasting her time.

"He returned to his family, Buffy, and he tried to make them proud of him."

Flashes of his beaten and broken body from only moments before gathered in her mind and she looked at him startled, but with a glimmer of understanding.  And mounting hope.

"They weren't though, were they?"

He didn't speak, just shook his head in the negative, and waited for her to catch up.

"So, why weren't they?  He was hunting, feeding...why weren't they immensely pleased to have him back?  Why did they do...that...to him?"  She waved her hand absently at the direction of the other rooms down the hall, toward the one where Spike lay unconscious.  Thoughts of his suffering suddenly made her feel ill, and she felt herself falling back to those soft feelings of depth that had carved her heart into ribbons when he left.

How could hunting not be enough?  Consuming be wrong?  He was a vampire and he had acted like one, probably with relish, yet Dru and Darla had tortured and rejected him.

Comprehension made her green eyes glitter as she raised them to capture the brown ones filled with answers and knowledge.

"He stopped hunting, didn't he?"  Her voice was filled with awe and excitement as she watched his nod of agreement, and she let out a sigh of gratitude and sunk bonelessly to the floor.

Tired of trying to sort it all out for herself, she surrendered to the elder vampire and with her eyes pleaded with him to unravel the truth for her.

"Tell me..." she whispered, and he did.

"He was starved when I found him; looked like an Ethiopian a step from the grave.  This lawyer I know was with him, Darla had taken over his apartment...long story...anyway, he told me what had been going on.  Spike would talk to him, was a bit delirious, but you know Spike, can't shut the guy up, ever.  But I'd already heard a lot of it, on the streets.  He started hunting, Buffy.  But he stopped."

He paused, watching her reaction and feeling reassured by the shimmering crystal of her eyes.

"Killing humans, or at least leading Dru and Darla to them to kill, was making him heartsick.  He only went out with them for the first few nights, then stayed at home.  They began to bring meals home- he wouldn't touch them.  That's when they chained him and started to beat him...torture him.  He was in bad shape.  Worse shape than I have ever seen him.  He's my childe, and he has been trying to be good.  He might have slipped but he's done the best he could without guidance.  Without faith and support.  I won't turn my back on him, and I won't let you stake him."

Buffy raised wet miserable eyes to him, and began one last ditch effort to refute the possibility.  One last argument to herself that the white-haired nuisance was not for her.

"It's the chip, Angel.  As soon as the chip is out he'll be back there in it in no time."

Angel snapped and started up to punch the wall in frustration.  He stepped away, remaining quiet, thinking.

"Think about this then.  If Angelus had been caught and had a chip put in his brain, do you think he would have come to you for help?"

Buffy blinked, the thought never having occurred to her.

"To tell you the truth, knowing Spike like I thought I did, I'm stunned that he did it.  He could have gotten any one of his minions to collect his food; he could have still organised attacks.  He found that Gem right under your nose."

He relaxed a little at her short giggle, acknowledging the tale before he started back in with the crippling facts.

"He did plenty of wily things that I don't think you ever gave him credit for, or if you did, it disappeared as soon as you eliminated him as a threat.  That he went to his enemy for help is amazing.  That he helped his enemy in her fight to do good, is astonishing.  That he then fell in love with you and promised to be the opposite of what he was raised for you is miraculous.  He has turned his back on his demon, on his nature to be something no other vampire has ever been, and you continue to kick him down for it.  I might have a soul Buffy, but for him to do what he is trying so hard to do without one? In my book, that makes him better than me."

Her silence was unnerving, no reaction to show which way she now leaned.

"I think there is something you need to understand about my soul, too."

Her eyes were drawn back to him in surprise, sure that he had finished with his revelations.  She waited for him to continue, her thoughts fighting to stay in the room with him while her body was eager to go back to her vampire and offer him the affection and comfort that he deserved.  And the penance she owed for doubting in her newly claimed affection.  Offer him her thanks and apologies, while she attempted to give him the support that had been lacking throughout their association.

"It wasn't my soul that put me on the path to redemption."

Her shock was confronting to him, he didn't want to reveal how miserable and pathetic he had been for the hundred years following its return to him.  Not wanting to lose face in the eye of her devotion.  But Spike needed for her to end her judgmental attitude, and the only way lay in her need to know the truth about souls and motivation.

"It was you."

She gasped in shock, Spike's words surging forth in her memory.  He had claimed to want to be good for her, and now Angel said she was the reason for his repentance.

"Huh?"  She felt beyond words now, the steady list of revelations too burdensome for her to absorb them totally.

"Whistler took me to see you when you were at Hemery.  I followed you to Sunnydale to help you in the fight.  I fell in love with you as soon as I saw you, and chose to get my act together and fight against evil instead of wallowing in it. I wanted to keep you safe, alive.  I think Spike has done the same without the benefit of a soul, with his demon in complete agreement of his motivation and action.  It was his demon that rejected the taste of pumping, human blood.  Something I am sure I could never have done. He deserves a second chance, Buffy.  And a bit of loyalty."

Loyalty.

He had recently given her that.

He had given her so much, and she had given him nothing but doubt and harsh, hateful words.  And even in the face of revelation- her own feelings for him tender and new- her forceful run from the commitment ejected further recrimination.  She had become the carbon-copy tourist flyer for the Council of Watchers, the embodiment of hard automaton Slayer.  She had believed the lie, perpetuated it.  Stood rigid in her disbelief of possible demon evolvement.

Self-realisation and confrontation was a bitch.

Pushing herself unsteadily to her feet she again tried to claim the door handle, but more words from Angel stopped her.

"There is something else, something I'm not sure about...but I am concerned."

"What?"  The tone of his voice set her teeth on edge, every cell of her body poised for fight or flight, whatever was necessary.

"I've been giving him human blood to heal.  While there has been a small improvement, after two days he should really be a lot better.  I think he might be dying."

She spun around then and slapped him, no Slayer strength, just old-fashioned girly fear.  Her hands rushed to cover her mouth and the tears she had thought under control now returned swiftly to wet her cheeks.  So close, and yet her fear had allowed her to turn her back on him.  Buffy shuddered, escalating terror for Spike's unlife seeking release.

"How?"

"I think he is so sick of being rejected and hurt, that he has talked his body into shutting down.  I told you he's given up.  He wants to die."  Angel was quiet for a few minutes, staring heatedly at her face before raising desperate eyes to hers and both pleaded and demanded.  "You had better fix him and make him want to live, or so help me..." His voice broke and he turned away from her.

Her hand turned on the knob and the door began to swing open.  As she set one foot out she thought she heard him speak again, but it was just a whisper.

"I need him alive to give me light."

In confusion, she relocated Spike's door and re-entered the room, kneeling next to his still figure and gently took his hand.  No indecision remained, no panic or lack of understanding stood in the way of her decision.  She couldn't let him down, couldn't let him leave her permanently.

They needed him, they all needed him.

And in the face of all that was topsy-turvey, apparently Angel needed him too.

Was there any doubt that an apocalypse was in the wind?
 
 

 

 

Chapter Eight

He came to with a rush of anxiety at the harsh whispers behind the door.

"Where exactly do you think you're going?"  Ah, Angel, his unlikely savior and unwitting witness to his end.  An answer took a short pause before delivering the final blow.  Her voice made him suck in unneeded breath, shed useless aggravating tears of hopelessness, and he sunk further into despair.

"I just thought I should get out before I did something foolish.  I suddenly came to my senses.  I don't need to align myself with a vicious vampire, Angel.  I'll work something out with Giles about Glory."

Oh God!  She had come and he was useless, gone for good in her eyes.  His leaving had meant little to her except for his final promise as he walked away, to help her against Glory in saving the life of her sister.  But now she had seen him, swathed in useless white cotton as his body floundered and wasted away despite Angel's nursing efforts to entice him back to health.

He drifted in and out under waves of understanding, voices only circling him with words that made little sense to his shattered mind.  It was the tones that he heard, confusing him until her bitterness and loathing cracked through, and he shrunk back against the mattress, knowing that finally his end was near, and embracing it for the final escape from emotional anguish that it was.

"His feelings aren't important," he heard as those detested tears fell from eyes resigned to being the windows of his soul, sharing unwelcome love to those who would rather live without it, without him.  "He is a vampire, one that is only helpful to us now because he has a chip in his head preventing him from hunting people and killing them.  He needs the violence, and that alone is why he has been helpful in the past."

His last tether to hope was torn from him forever as he digested her hated summary of his worth. He covered his face weakly with his unblemished pale hands, one hand sealing with all his remaining strength his mouth before his devastated whimpers could be heard on the other side of the door.

All the feelings he had been swamped and buried amongst for the past weeks rose to drown his motive, and all he saw were the lifeless limp bodies of women he had chosen for Dru to crack, falling with a final thump to the ground as he drained them of life.  It didn't matter that he had stopped, that he had wanted to stake himself rather than feed on those that Buffy was meant to protect.  It was too late for him; he'd given in to the temptation of gaining his old existence back and found himself shrinking from the experience.  How could he complain when Darla and Dru pointed out to him the error of his ways in the most brutal and cruel way they could imagine?  They were vampires after all, and it would do him well to remember.

"You think that chip stopped him from hunting?"  Oh Angel, now you've done it, mate.  She'll be hell bent on staking me now.

He couldn't help but let out an hysterical giggle, though was relieved that his weakness kept it quiet and Buffy would never have heard, though he couldn't guarantee Angel's ignorance of the weakness of his childe.  Spike rolled to his back, careless of the cuts that refused to fuse together and still wept blood onto the sheets, the pain making him bite the inside of his cheek but bringing him a bitter relief in distraction.

"Oh baby, he's been hunting.  Not killing, Dru and Darla did that for him, but that didn't stop him hunting."

He felt rather than saw her hand on the doorknob, ready to fling the wooden rectangle in-ready to pounce on him and slamming the sharp edge of the stake to his chest.  His eyes squeezed shut as he tried to project for the last time his love for her, his forgiveness to Angel for shortening his possibility of redemption, and succumbed to what hideous tortures the afterlife would hold for him.  His body gave in to jolting shudders as he waited for the weight of her over his body in promise of death, eyes screwed tightly shut to block out his final look at her face, not eager to see anymore of her disgust.

After tense excruciatingly slow minutes, he opened them to find the room still empty and silence outside.  His disappointment was obliterative, ashamed that she couldn't even bring herself to face him one final time before he was no more.  The shudders calmed but his mental anguish escalated to a pitch unrecognisable to him.  He didn't understand, and was now past his ability to grasp even the simplest concept.  He did, however, receive one with a magnitude that was gargantuan in its ugliness.  She saw him again for what he was after almost eighteen months of him shaded in goodliness and favour, now the Big Bad was back out to play and she remembered. And she hated him.  And he could do nothing for her or the Nibblet but pray that she would make it quick.  Make his dusting quick so that the pain of waiting would be over and they could go on without him blackening up their existence.

The endless shaking of his form reduced his stamina and he fell into a recline that seemed deadly in its stillness.  Indeed, his skin drained of more blood than excess, and he weakened further just by lying inert.  His heart had accepted defeat and the functions of his demon fell into a grief so deep that he was unable and further, unwilling to rouse himself from its depths.  The lack of voices concerned him no longer as his psyche surrendered him to a void deprived of feeling, deprived of hurt, but also deprived of love.

He had hunted, now it was his turn to be prey.

 

Silence was bound within the four walls of the hotel room; failed engagement of sound as one unconscious vampire lay undead and uncommunicative on the bed, and one Slayer sat uncomfortable but jittery on the floor, the pads of her feet bouncing in resistance to her bent knees. The stillness corrupted her panic as her eyes rested upon the figure of Spike; her vampire crushed and torn to a nearly unrecognisable mass.  Buffy sat almost two metres from the bed, watching intently.  Thoughts ran rampant through her mind and provided the only action abound.  Her focus was within, questioning herself and her reactions and berating herself over her cowardice and self-inflicted misery and suffering.  Her wounds were only emotional however, unlike the disintegrating health of her helpless vampire.

His lean repose was granted through horror and violence, rejection from his known, as he was deemed unworthy of their acceptance.  He had embraced his past, encountered a small roadblock in his first baby steps back from the side of Good, but pushed beyond it to gain the favour of his familial women and a spot within the family that could make him feel whole-give him back the sense of belonging that he craved.
But the truth that had seeped from his inner core made his action abhorrent and he tried to cut loose from the death he was becoming both witness and instigator of.

Angel's speech had struck her hard, forcing her to open semi-closed eyes to the possibilities of struggle; that not all defeat meant that the war was lost.  She had been a fool as well as a failure in her stubborn blindness.  He had seen things in a few days that had been obvious- or at least should have been obvious- to the Scoobies for the past six months.  They had been unseeing in their prejudice, and so by continuing to discard the validity of Spike and his attempts at transformation, they relegated it to some selfish impulse on his part.

Her eyes rested on his hands; pale and motionless they held the fate of death and defeat at their fingertips.  They were also the only unmarked patch of flesh on his entire body, she recalled, and flushed hotly in embarrassment at the recent memory of how she discovered that little fact.  She had peaked under the sheet to check the extent of his damage, never even considering the possibility that he might be naked.  Well, okay, she might have hoped.  But her disgraceful voyeuristic moment had quickly brought back the gravity of the situation as she finally understood what that strange look that had passed between the men had meant.  He was damaged.  All over.  Black and red, with small slashes of white in relief.  Angel had only barely cleaned the worst of the torture from Spike's body and she cried as her eyes fell again to those pale, white hands, fingers smooth and unbroken.  The marred beauty of his flesh began at the wrists.

 Seeing his body at such close range-covered in splashes of a colour palette macabre-Buffy felt like she could almost see his process.  The need to hunt and prove that he wasn't different to his known self, that he hadn't transformed under the influence of the Scooby gang and, more rightly, the Slayer herself.  The breakdown of his resolve to kill and feed mindlessly as he began to put faces to 'happy meals on legs'.  And finally, his broken heart at the realisation of himself as an evil killer who had wanted to change, but rejected the effort when help was denied to him.  Looking at him now, Buffy felt it all: the uselessness, the grim ugly truth of her own part in his downfall.  She saw his craving for end on the straight lines of his lips, by the inanimate hanging of his arm over the edge of the bed, and hung her head in defeat, sad and miserable, but above all terrified.

Too late.  She was always too late.

A moan beholden of pain broke the glutinous shield of inactivity, fear holding all still for far too long as Buffy's stiff limbs began to bear witness as she slowly pushed vertical. She made no step toward him, shame dictating her movements from this point as her reliance on instinct and her heart had never been at the forefront of her power.  She watched his awakening with longing, wanting to touch his unblemished hand and offer her tardy support, but afraid that he wouldn't let her be near him.  As if she deserved it, anyway.  She didn't belong on the pedestal that he and her friends kept her on.  She was fallible, she was blind and she was ignorant.  Angel had uncovered it all in his desperation to protect his childe and get him the support he deserved.

Shining baby blue eyes blinked open to stare at the ceiling and she held her breath, unsure and frightened about where this was going to go.  The flesh along her limbs began to buzz and tauten as she watched his awareness, felt the moment he could sense her presence.  But he didn't move, didn't blink, didn't even flinch.  The previous stillness resumed, and her heart ached for the damage she had caused.  She may not have rent blood from his body, but she had crushed his heart and will to exist.

Her hate within clashed with her voice of reason as the rising knowledge of affection for him asserted itself.  While she held herself as still as stone she felt her emotional self leaning forward, eager to snatch some contact with the vampire that was stealing her heart while she was trashing his.  Her vision blurred as the tears she hadn't wanted to acknowledge slipped silently down her cheeks, setting off a scent of wetness that was confusing to a vampire in the clutches of melancholy.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew that it had to be his choice to move, to call out, to imply any kind of contact.  Selfish again she knew, but she didn't want to force him, or overburden him with her own pain when he was drowning in buckets of his own.  Really, she had no rights here- no right to pain for she had created all of it, her own loneliness while she had fractured the very core of the man and demon that Spike had been.  She wasn't expecting the coming confrontation to be easy.  But at the bitterness his voice projected when it finally filled the room, she took a step back and clasped her arms around herself in a protective stance.

"Where's your pretty stake, Slayer?"  He continued to stare at the ceiling, the blank expression in his eyes separate from the frost coating his voice.

The shaking of her body continued through to her voice as she attempted to step closer to him.

"Why would I need a stake?"  She queried back, honestly bewildered by his opening correspondence after weeks of being apart.

His jaw clenched in stubborn defense, and she gasped as she saw a tear fall from his eye.

"Heard you and Peaches outside discussin' my hunting abilities.  Really wasn't expectin' to wake up, luv.  You must be slippin'."

Buffy stood shocked in place, her face draining of all colour as she internally went over the conversation she'd had with Angel outside the door.  Her panic had led her to say things in a manner that she really never would have done if she hadn't been desperate to pitch one last attempt in talking herself out of falling for Spike. Now that she had been sorted out again, she was to be shafted due to her own stupid mouth.  Her stupid fears and insecurities had thrown up roadblocks that they both could ill afford and she knew now that to convince Spike that she didn't want to kill him- that she in fact wanted to be the one to help guide him and show him his powerful worth- would be ultimately consigned to the difficult basket.

It wasn't fair.  Everything was always so hard, every small concession in her life had to be fought like an apocalypse to gain any headway.  And she was so tired of it.  If she had just offered him a crumb, he would never have left.  Then again, if he had never left, she may never have admitted her feelings for him and the Scoobies may never have recognised his value in their group.

"I'm sorry, Spike.  What you heard, it was me just reacting...you know...badly.  But I've calmed down now. I don't want to fight you, and I'm not going to kill you."  Her voice had never risen above a whisper and all the apprehension she felt was embedded in the strains of sound.  It shook embarrassingly, and she shielded her eyes by looking at the floor, just in case he turned his head to look at her.

Coward, she taunted herself and in stubborn acceptance she raised her eyes again and nearly fainted when they fixed on the hurt of shining blue across from her.  No longer caring what caution dictated to her she took the remaining steps to his side and lowered herself to sit beside his reclining form.

"I'm so sorry, Spike.  I was wrong.  About everything.  It's been miserable since you left."  She adopted a small, safe smile, hoping for a positive response from him, but remained bewildered when his face didn't flex one way or another.

Finally she gave in to impulse and gently took one of those perfect hands in hers and stroked the skin softly, emotion rising to her throat and immobilising her voice box.  Her eyes fixed on the activity, clinging to something meaningful, clear and pleasant, but her eyes couldn't stay fixed forever and they wandered to the bed, too nervous to look at him outright.  Around him clouds of red fanned artistically and she sucked in an alarmed breath, reaching out fearfully to swipe a finger over the blood.

Her eyes sought his in panic.

"You're bleeding," she told him stupidly.  Until now she had ignored Angel's caution about Spike's apparent unwillingness to heal.  He was a vampire who had been sucking up blood like there was no tomorrow.  It wasn't possible that he wouldn't heal.

But the terrifying evidence lay before her in crimson tie-dyed sheets.  Her breath caught on a sob and she forced his hand, still clasped within hers, to her lips where she kissed the pure white flesh in temptation.  Her tears leaked from her eyes and fell to his palm and gathered as it was cupped to her lips.

He looked at her actions in confusion and awe.

"What are you doing, pet?"

"Spike, don't do this.  Please don't give up."

Suddenly, he felt overwhelming rage against her and snatched his hand from her grasp, flexing his fist experimentally as he felt all his strength seep from his other limbs.  He could feel the steady release of blood continue from his wounds and knew that he wouldn't have too long.  He felt weary and mad as hell that she had to appear during his last moments- to offer him useless hope in the form of her sweet lips and tears.  It was too much, to know that he had failed, that he had lusted after someone so far above him that his dust would barely even reward her level of light.

He could never take back all that he was, and he just needed her to be gone.  Away from his side so he could go out alone, like he deserved.  His pain was wrenching, gutting, and he hated her eyes on him, judging and knowing the evil that he was.  His demon shifted within and he felt himself begin to drift, searching frantically for that small space within his mind that might offer refuge from this awful searing failure he felt throughout his being.

She saw the life fade in his eyes, the blue turning pale when she was used to seeing them sparkle with vitality, and wondered absently how she had known that when she had always tried to ignore his appearance.  His pupils turned glassy without focus and she knew that he was disappearing, his body still useless on the bed but mentally distancing from her and whatever humiliation she continually brought on him.

In furious tides of panic she rushed to him, grabbing his bruised and blistered face with her hands and started to shout.  She called for him to come back; to not be a coward, to return to her so they could work it out.  But his distance only increased.

Startling insight gripped her as she watched in powerless fixation the man that offered her hope and love slip forever from her grasp.  Angel had given him blood, human blood, but it did nothing to heal the open wounds of Spike's heart.  He was empty of hope, of reason.   He needed faith, love, and by God, he needed Buffy.  It was like a blinding flash from somewhere higher, he needed her.  Her belief in him, her power to restore his aching romantic heart.  Her power lay in her blood.  It was always about blood.

The room was clear of anything sharp and she felt like time was running out, no chance to go searching for a blade of some kind.  A shoddily built bedside table sat alongside the bed and in a fit of desperate temper she kicked it hard, wincing as it splintered easily.  Grabbing a jagged piece of wood, she tore it into her flesh and allowed her power to seep from the cut.  Without thought to her own pain-or even putting a plan in motion- she had thrust her forearm to his lips, almost screeching in raw panic for him to drink.  Nothing happened; he lay there inanimate staring unseeingly at the ceiling as her blood dripped from her arm to his chest.  Wasting.

And yet, there was something.  A spark of recognition, something light in his eyes, a resurgence of something buried deep in the shadows.  She held her breath and waited for whatever it was to surface.  As suddenly as the strike of a hidden rattlesnake he pounced, lips suctioning onto her arm and he gulped, pulling great mouthfuls of her source past his tongue to glide down his throat and replenish his diminishing strength.

Her heartbeats skipped radically then began to slow, and the demon raised his senses, locating the giver and shrunk back a little in fright, pushing the wounded arm from his lips while searching the face of his second savior.  While he observed her, collapsed and breathing heavily, he smelt her scent of completion and smiled happily.  The recognition flared and he snorted in surprise, but possessive pride.  Her blood had filled him up with purpose, provided within him a sacred swelling of warmth- of healing, of joining, of hope.  She had come for him, had saved him, had made him hers forever more.  Then Spike surged forth and he recognised her and he fell back in perplexed awe.

He watched.

And when she at last raised her head there were tears in her eyes and a smile on her lips.

Unable to speak, her throat too clogged from emotion, she sniffled.

He captured her gaze, seeing strength from her acceptance of events, and rewarded her with a brilliant smile.

As if being wiped like a magna-doodle, his bruise-blackened skin faded, cuts in his skin melded, and the blood finally stopped flowing.  Bones knit stubbornly back together, and health began to radiate from every inch of exposed skin, causing her to shiver in a let down of her fear.

She reached out a shaking hand to his cheek and let it rest, becoming lost in the soft mystified reflection of his eyes.

"Don't ever do that to me again," she whispered hoarsely, fingers barely touching his cold skin.  She shifted closer on the bed, unaware of the leaking blood from her arm as it stained her clothes.

Her eyes watered up some more as she determinedly cupped her hand around his jaw.

"I believe in you," her voice barely there, relying on his superb hearing as she pulled him forward, her body drifting closer.

Then everything stopped as she placed her lips over his and massaged them with her tongue, clinging and suckling with a need so deep she felt swept away on something unknown.

Swept away on true love.

As their desperation to feel each other escalated, the kiss became deeper, more open and tongues matched rhythms perfectly.  It was as if they were made to fit, to slot together in belonging.  So at last she knew her place, beside him, within him, over him.  She could never let him go again.

Their lips clung to each other even as they slowly pulled apart; Buffy's eyes misted over in desire and gratitude.

Spike tilted his head, looking for the change in her, seeking the truth and despite the warming promise of her lips, hardening his heart for what truth she might expound.  She had always been contradictory, but still his lips slid high in a smile at the dreamy look of completion on her face.

"Wow," she told him saucily, bending forward again to place a too brief kiss on his neck while reaching and taking his hand in hers.  She threaded their fingers together, united.

He sat up in the bed, feeling a need to be on a level with her and she scooted closer still, winding her other arm around his neck and loosing the curls at the back of his neck with her busy fingers.

"Buffy?" he questioned in a bewildered tone, almost fearful that he might prompt her to let go.

Instead, she smiled secretively, seductively as she again placed her lips against his, playing gently and nibbling softly before again pulling away.  His heart objecting violently, too soon.

"Hi..."

He looked at her in wonder, guessing that perhaps he had turned finally to dust and was visiting her in some future where he was deemed worthy enough to enter her otherworldly realm.  It felt like Heaven, but he knew it wasn't possible with his past.  The last few weeks rushed back at him and he sunk further into a depression that was singular in its dependence on him to fuel and refuel with his murderous memories.

She saw the shift from happiness as his eyes began to dull and she gripped his hand hard.

"Don't," she pleaded desperately.  "Don't give up again, Spike.  I don't think I can give you any more blood just now, and I can't stand to see you like that again."  She waited a beat, a fraction of time.  "I believe in you."

That phrase again, the one that suggested that she trusted him, that she would help him.  His demon and William rose together in warmth, hoping that this finally, would lead him to the man he was meant to be.  That she would guide him to the man he could be.

His surprise was captivating, but her resolve stood strong.

"We want you to come home, Spike."

His confusion was almost hysterical if it weren't so sad, and she bit her lip to hold back further rounds of tears.

"Well, after we sort out Glory, and keep Dawn safe."

Recognition had his blue fire eyes flare, and he looked quickly around the room, searching for clothes.  He came up empty, eyes swerving back to her and he gulped, knowing she wanted him to say something but not able yet to speak.  She had shocked the hell out of him and he still didn't know what it all meant for her.  To her.

She couldn't keep her hands still.  She surrendered his hand and let hers join her other around his neck, almost bringing her chest flush with his.  The heat between them burned and he found his arms encircling her waist, one palm sneaking under the hem of her top to rest against her skin.  He raised his eyes to hers in amazement.

"I want you to come home," she whispered against his lips, and they kissed again, immediately with open mouths and swirling possessive tongues.  He sunk without explanation, casting out doubt for this one moment where he could claim all his dreams and hopes in her, even if she kicked him when she was done.  For now, he had her, and as his arms held her solid against his chest, his eyes washed with moisture not befitting a man but broken, while he restructured himself in her promises.

When he felt her again draw away he tugged her possessively, before letting her pull back from him.

And then her words began to crystallize in his head.

"Who's we?"

She looked at him, her lack of understanding blatant and funny as she was swept away in a haze of attraction.

"Huh?"

"Who wants me to come home?"  He braced himself for the knowledge of who wouldn't make it onto the list, and was surprised when it was recounted in full.

"All of us.  Even Giles and Xander.  I didn't know it but Xander actually called Angel to ask him to find you."

His eyes widened in delirious delight and the moisture increased to tears- relief and happiness giving them colour as they slid down his face.

With a shaking finger and a wobbly lip Buffy traced their path along his cheek and leaned in to do the same with her lips.  When she fell back her own eyes brimmed over with emotion.

"I was so wrong, Spike.  I can love you.  Please let me try."  Her voice broke as she pleaded for a second chance and she clung to his neck at his ecstatic expression of possibility.

"Do you mean it?"  He had difficulty in believing, so long had he been rejected and denied, it seemed impossible that things could change.  But he was so eager, so needy for a show of devotion that he was about to believe it all. But something lagged behind in the rush, something forced him to question, to deny.  Something held him on guard, held him away from falling into her arms and declaring himself hers.

Fear.  It held him in thrall; urging him against rashness, against haste.  So he held steady.

Staring back and recognising his attempt at withdrawal, she knew that patience had lost, that she was too late to hold out, to take things slow. Her opportunity had disappeared, and only one thing she hoped could drag him back now.

She let him watch as she lowered all defenses, rid herself of all walls surrounding her heart.  She lay herself bare to heartache and rejection, as the emotion welled within and displayed obvious on her face.  Taking a deep breath she held it while searching his face for encouragment.  He kept it blank.  She began to shake as she focused first on his lips, then as courage flagged sought desperately for his eyes, beautiful cerulean eyes that shined with everything he embodied.  Love.  Loyalty.  Hope.

It was time.

The breath released, her voice clawed for volume as it lay cracked and withered in her throat.

"I love you."

And the dam broke free; he held her to him tight with purpose, refusing to let go as his body dissolved into emotional shudders of relief.  They held each other as both cried out their happy reunion.

And rejoiced in finally knowing each other.
 
 
 

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