Title: Reassessment
Author: Sanguine
Email: Amanda@sidhe.org
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and 20th-Century Fox own the characters. The situations presented here come from my own twisted brain.
Distribution: With permission.
Rating: PG

Spike dug his black fingernails into his palms, as he watched his sire, his lover, Drusilla lunging at the Slayer. Drusilla’s hand connected with Buffy’s face, sending her flying backwards. Buffy quickly recovered, and dove for Drusilla’s jeweled knife. Spike’s blood screamed that he should help Drusilla, he should stop this . . . but he knew he was helpless. He couldn’t hurt the Slayer, even if he wanted to . . .

Suddenly, the tables turned. Buffy lay on the ground of the cemetery, Drusilla’s knife pressing against her neck. "I hear your blood singing to me," Drusilla crooned.

Then the world rippled before him. Stake hard in his hand. Thrusting forward. Into Drusilla’s back. And then nothing. Dust hanging in the air. Anger. Remorse. Sadness. Anger. His hand on the Slayer. So fragile . . . She cried and cried. He had grief too. He bloody well did.

Spike woke up with a start. The dream again. Three days in a row. Three days of reliving the thing he’d done, saving the Slayer, killing his sire. "Pathetic. You are so bloody pathetic." He took a large swig from the bottle on his nightstand. Thrashing out of his bedsheets he tore around his crypt, inflicting damage on the things around him. A chair flew against the wall, shattering. One of Harmony’s stray unicorns. Smash that too. Candles. Made a satisfying thud on the concrete floor. When there was nothing left to destroy in the room, he looked at the bottle in his hand and considered flinging it against the wall. "Nah," he shrugged, taking another swig. I still need you." Absentmindedly he picked up the crushed head of the Slayer mannequin that he had destroyed the night after Dru’s death and caressed its plastic hair. "I have to do it. I have to do it."

"Buffy. Buffy." Willow gently shook Buffy awake. "Time for class."

Buffy groaned and rolled over. The Scoobies and Giles had been watching her like hawks since her near miss in the cemetery three days before. Spike had delivered her to Giles’s apartment that night, a shaking wreck. Giles’s first impulse had been to kill Spike, but Spike—an unusually subdued Spike—had managed to convince Giles that he was telling the truth about what happened, about Drusilla’s untimely appearance and subsequent death. Buffy barely remembered any of it. Just her wanting to die . . . really wanting it, and then her wish being denied by Spike of all people. Why had he saved her? She didn’t want to be saved, especially by him. Maybe that was why he did it. He wanted to keep her around, torture her some more . . ."

"Buffy!" Willow shook her friend’s shoulder again. "Up and at ‘em. French History II remember? We have a test."

"OK, OK." Buffy sighed. She wished Willow hadn’t spent the night. She wanted to stay in bed. "Just let me grab a shower."

"Bloody hell! Bloody. Sodding. Hell!" The stream of profanity continued as Spike shook his hand erratically, ripping his fingers free from a tangled mass of duct tape. Maybe his coordination would have been better if he hadn’t already drank a half a bottle of mescal . . . whatever. Taking another swig, he taped his old T.V. antenna to the top of a head-sized metal bowl. Carefully, he tried it on. A perfect fit. "Now all I need is a good lightning storm. Then I can short circuit that bloody chip right out of my brain. Then I can stop being a pathetic wanker. Then I can have myself a nice bit of Slayer . . ."

Entering Spike’s crypt, Xander Harris came upon a very strange sight. Spike sat on the floor, bottle in one hand, a metal bowl with an antenna on his head. Xander dissolved into helpless laughter. "Spike! Who are you supposed to be? My favorite Martian?"

Spike’s eyes glinted dangerously as he removed his precious contraption. "No. I’m not your favorite anything. I’m. . . I’m your worst nightmare, or I will be if you don’t get THE HELL OUT OF MY CRYPT." Spike launched himself at Xander. He wanted to rip out his bloody self-righteous throat! "Owwwwww!" Naturally the chip activated. Painful that.

"Serves you right Spike. You know the rules."

Spike sighed. "What the hell do you want?"

"I want to know what you did to Buffy."

"What do you mean? I saved the bitch’s life the other night."

"I know . . . and I can’t really figure that one out." Xander considered Spike’s slumped shoulders and decided to go easy on him. "Look, I don’t care about how the stakage of the insane ex fits into your new evil plan. I’m here because I’m concerned about Buffy."

"It’s always Buffy this, and Buffy that. What about me, huh? What about my pain?" Spike petulantly kicked the mannequin head into a corner.

Xander’s eyes followed the crushed head. "Yeah, well, Buffy kinda indicated that you might have had something to do with Riley’s departure."

"Maybe I did. I just showed her the truth about him."

"So you were the one who told her about Riley’s, uh, dances with vamps?"

"Yeah. And now she hates me. And now Dru’s dead." Spike threw the remnants of the bottle against the wall and sat down heavily on his bed, the only piece of furniture he had left intact.

"Spike man, I’m sorry about Dru. And Buffy will get over it in time. She’ll be your friend . . ." Xander paused, realizing how ridiculous that sounded. "OK, maybe she’ll still hate you, but she probably won’t try and kill you again, you being all helpless and stuff."

Spike moaned and put his head in his hands.

Xander’s eye caught Spike’s bedside table. A rather attractive picture of Buffy stared back at him from a gilded picture frame. "Spike! What the hell are you doing with Buffy’s picture?"

"Uh . . . well . . . " Spike grabbed the picture and hid it under his pillow. "It’s . . . it’s . . . none of your sodding business!"

"Spike, my idea of fun is not hanging out with you in your crypt on a sunny Sunnydale afternoon. Just stay away from Buffy, OK? We’ve got this whole Glory situation, and the last thing she needs to deal with is you."

Spike’s face emerged from his hands, his interest piqued. Glory? "Ah, yeah. That Glory. She’s, uh, really bad."

"Yeah. She’s all goddess-like and scary with that brain suck maneuver of hers . . ."

"Playing with peoples heads, eh? That sounds bad. Very bad." Spike’s eyes began to glint as he hurried Xander towards the door. "Well, by gum, let me know if I can be any help, Mr. Xander. I haven’t killed something really challenging in a while."

Spike smiled for the first time in many, many days. He wouldn’t be pathetic much longer.

Xander walked away from Spike’s crypt shaking his head. What was up with all the Buffy memorabilia? The blonde mannequin head, the picture? And then his reaction when he said Buffy hated him? Surely . . . "Nah. Spike couldn’t possibly . . . " Xander began to laugh. "Spike wuvs Buffy . . . Spike wuvs Buffy!" Cackling, he ran right into . . . Buffy.

"Talk to yourself much Xander?"

"Uh, Buffy." He tried to contain himself. "Missing any pictures?"

"Only the ones that idiot Spike stole from my basement a few weeks ago."

"You know about that?"

"Yeah. He’s probably throwing darts at them right now."

"Nope. One of them has shown up on his bedside table, all framed and pretty." Xander stifled a giggle. It was really just too silly.

Buffy’s face turned bright red. "What the hell! Is he trying to ruin my life? He must be using the picture for some kind of ...of ... voodoo curse."

"Why the frame then Buffy?"

"I don’t know. Maybe it’s a weird Martha Stewart kind of voodoo."

"Maybe Spike’s got himself a little crush."

Buffy laughed hollowly. "Not likely Xander. Remember, he just tried to kill me, oh, a few weeks ago. Wanted to suck me dry? Remember that? Come to think of it, I really don’t know why I didn’t stake him then and there."

"I can’t argue with that. But what about him saving you from Drusilla?"

"I dunno. Guess he was sick of being rejected by a loon."

"Uh, uh Buffy. I just saw him. He looks bad. Really bad. Remember when he came back to Sunnydale a few years ago after Drusilla dumped him? It’s that bad. He thinks you hate him and want him dead."

"Well I do." Buffy paused. "But don’t worry Xander. I won’t do it . . . yet."

She turned and sprinted away.

Xander shook his head. "I obviously haven’t gotten the ‘help Buffy’ thing down yet."

Spike drew a long drag from his cigarette. "Willy, mate. Guinness."

"You’re risking your ass being in here. You’re not exactly Mr. Popularity."

Spike shifted his weight on the barstool. "Yeah, well I’m not planning on staying long. Look Willy. I need information."

"It’ll cost ya. Lots." Willy set the dark brew in front of Spike.

"Look mate," Spike drew a fairly thick wad from his pocket. "It’s all I’ve got."

Willy considered it briefly and then grabbed it. "Talk quick Spike."

"What do you know about Glory?"

Willy’s eyes opened wide. "Glory. What do you want with her? Are you crazy?"

"What I want with her is my business. I’ve paid you."

"All I know is she’s rented a fancy uptown apartment. Her little demon monk comes in here every so often for a drink. The guy talks about her like she’s, well, a . . ."

"A goddess?"

"Yeah. All ‘beneficent one,’ ‘most gorgeous shining, splendid. . ..’"

Spike looked around nervously as four big Zulasha demons growled at him. "Um, Willy, if you know her address, best write it down now."

Willy scribbled down the address on a crumpled cocktail napkin and tossed it at Spike. "You’re as nuts as that wacko ex-girlfriend of yours."

Spike’s fury exploded as he pulled Willy towards him, his game face on. God! he wished he could bleed the bugger dry. "Never mention her again."

Those were the last words he managed before . . . Slam! A large meaty fist connected painfully with his skull.

Spike whirled around, landing a crushing blow between the Zulasha demon’s horns.

"Right then. A bit of violence doesn’t sound so bad after all."

Spike staggered away from the demon bar, bruised, battered, but happier than he had felt in weeks. Wiping blood from the corner of his mouth he walked through the cemetery towards his crypt, reliving the brutal fight . . . Zulasha demons made a pleasant squishy splat, they did . . .

"Tasting your own blood again Spike?"

Spike’s elation quickly faded.

"Buffy."

Her mouth twisted into a wry smile. "Don’t worry. I’m not going to kill you."

"I . . . I wasn’t worried."

"Why don’t I believe you? You seem worried."

Spike couldn’t reply. He just stared.

"Boy, you’re full of talk."

She was mocking him.

Suddenly the Slayer’s face changed, her eyes softened. "I’m sorry about Drusilla."

Spike nodded and walked quickly towards his crypt. He didn’t look back. He didn’t want her to see.

"I think he’s up to something, Giles." Buffy swung at the punching bag, her fist sending it flying. "He seemed all weird tonight. He almost ran away from me. Not even one one-liner."

"Maybe he’s genuinely distraught about killing Drusilla. He did spend over a century with the woman."

"Yeah. I know he cared about her, but . . ." she punctuated her sentence with a hefty punch, "there’s more to it. He’s been acting weird for a while Giles, even before this thing with Drusilla. He’s been hanging around outside my house. Oh, and one time I found him in my basement, stealing pictures of me."

"Hmmm. Fascinating. Go on."

"And when I asked him about the Slayers he killed, he made me take him to the Bronze for beer and chicken wings."

"Well that part doesn’t sound so unusual Buffy. We’re talking about a vampire who put Weetabix in his blood for texture." Giles shuddered at the memory. He still couldn’t eat that cereal.

"I didn’t tell you Giles, but some of the things he said that night . . ." Buffy’s eyes welled up with tears. "He said all Slayers had a death wish. That I wanted death. That I was a little bit in love with it. That’s how he said he killed them . . . and would kill me." Buffy completely broke down. "And Giles . . . sometimes I wonder if what he said is true. Maybe I do want to die sometimes. It would be so easy. I wouldn’t have to do this anymore. . . "

"Shhh. Buffy." Giles stroked her hair. "Spike doesn’t know everything. Sometimes he’s remarkably dense for a vampire who’s lived as long as he has. Whatever’s causing him to behave this way, we’ll find out. You’d best stay away from him until we know what he’s planning. You need your strength to deal with Glory."

Buffy nodded against Giles’s shoulder. But she wasn’t promising anything.

Spike paced his crypt. Things had been so clear. So easy. The mangled Buffy head sat on his bed, looking up at him. She’d said she was sorry. Maybe she understood what killing Dru meant. What she meant . . . Spike cleared his throat and looked the mannequin head in the eyes. "Buffy, there’s something I need to tell you . . ."

Crash!

A beautiful blond woman in strappy red shoes stood in the midst of swirling dust. "Are you sure this is the guy?"

A cowled demon cringed and cooed next to the blond, "Yes, your most munificent benevolent highness."

"He looks kind of weird. What’s with the head?"

"Hey now!" Spike turned, insulted. "What are you doing, I might ask, breaking down my door. Doesn’t anyone ever knock?"

"I heard you wanted to see me."

"Glory?" Spike looked at her appreciatively. "You don’t seem that bad."

A ray of light shot from Glory’s hand, pinning him against the wall. "Oh believe me, I’m bad. And I’m short on time, so let’s skip the chit-chat." She released him and inspected her carefully polished fingernails, allowing him to slide to the floor.

"Fine. What do you want?"

"The Slayer. I need to find something, and she’s really getting in my way. It’s getting very, very boring."

"Why do you think I can help you?"

Glory pointed to Buffy’s picture on his bedside table. "Don’t play dumb." She stomped her foot impatiently, shaking the foundation of the crypt. "You know her. She knows you. Now I want you to kill her."

"Can’t do it."

"What if I got rid of your little problem?"

Spike looked at her in amazement.

"The chip stupid."

Spike’s jaw dropped.

"Don’t look so surprised you idiot. Everyone at that demon bar . . . that’s one of their favorite stories! ‘How Spike was neutered.’"

Spike growled. He really wanted to hit her, but thought better of it.

Glory seductively approached Spike. "You know you want it." Then his head was in a vicelike grip. He felt a twinge of intense pain as her energy flowed through him. And then, nothing. He slumped into unconsciousness.

"Spike! Spike!" Glory slapped his face. "Wake up."

Spike’s cloudy eyes tried to focus. The monk was holding onto a struggling girl. Blond.

"We brought you something. Something to test it out. A little present."

Glory grabbed the girl and threw her towards Spike. "Drink up. You’ll need your strength!"

Was the chip really gone? Spike looked at the pulsating neck of the girl, and licked his lips. Could he kill her? Drink deep? After the butchers’ blood it would taste so good. The girl squirmed. She had brown eyes like Buffy.

"Please," she sobbed. "Let me go. Just let me go."

"I’m sorry pet. Can’t do that." Spike plunged his fangs into her neck and felt the rush. He raised his head from his victim and smiled bloodily at Glory. "It worked. Don’t worry about the Slayer, love. I’ll take care of her."

"You have two days Spike. After that, I’m coming after you."