They Have to Take You In
Disclaimer: Joss and Mutant Enemy own them, but I'm working on a way to own Spike.
Rating: PG-13 for language.
Summary: So, Spike has a soul. And Buffy and Spike have a relationship. But it didn't have to be this way, you know. Trace it back, and it all comes down to one moment, one decision. Come with me, back to the depths of season four, to when it all began.
Spoilers: Set just before and during Season 4 "Pangs."
Feedback: Yes please! You can always write to me at beckyg19@yahoo.com
****
He sits in the shadows and faces a hard truth. He needs help.
Being a vampire is all about self-preservation. For half the day, just to venture outside is to court death. Fire is not your friend. And you never quite realize just how many sharp wooden objects there are in the world, until those things can kill you. To live as a vamp, you have to learn to stay alive.
For Spike, staying alive has just gotten a lot harder.
He's seen a lot of things change in his one hundred and eighteen years of being a vampire. He's embraced most of these changes, delighting in new pleasures, the new ways to hunt and kill. Most demons avoid technology, and are afraid of it. Spike has always loved it.
Until now.
They've done him good this time. This time there may be no accepting the change.
This time, it might kill him.
He tried killing a homeless man earlier today. Thinking how useless the guy was, what a waste, nobody would even miss him. But the sensor or microchip or whatever they put in his head can't be reasoned with. The pain sent him crashing to his knees, howling with agony and rage and despair.
If he can't feed, he's worse than dead.
Oh, a vampire can't starve to death, he knows this. But it's a fate worse than death. A vamp that doesn't feed becomes a walking skeleton, and then a vegetable. Can't walk, can't talk, can't do anything but lie there and feel the hunger. He's terrified of this happening to him, of being helpless again, like those cursed months when he sat in the wheelchair and watched his carefully constructed world fall apart around him. He won't end up that way. He won't.
Can't feed. Can't kill. He tells himself not to be a wanker. Don't panic. There are other ways, right? Look at Angelus. The poof has managed to survive for a century on rats and pigs and who-knows-what. It didn't have to be human blood, did it?
Involuntarily, he snarls in hatred. No and no and no. He'll never be like Angel. Never. He has no soul, never will. He's a demon, he's a vampire. He'll never sink that low. Somehow, he'll find a way.
He and Dru ruled this town once. Maybe he can do it again. Make the other vamps bring him kills. He might be able to feed that way. Maybe the chip wouldn't go off then. But he is too weak right now to fight anybody and prove his dominance. He doesn't stand a chance against them. Hell, he couldn't even persuade that bitch Harmony to help him.
Besides, he thinks miserably, he does have some pride. If the vamps and demons in Sunnydale know he is weakened, they'll come after him in force. It'll be Prague all over again, except this time it won't be Dru on the receiving end of the mob's fury - it'll be him.
What he really needs -- what he really *wants* -- is to find those lab boys and crush their skulls. Snap their necks and drain them dry. Wallow in their blood and stomp on their suntanned faces. Force them to take the chip out of his head and let him be a vampire again.
He utters a sound, somewhere between a sob and a laugh. Can't always get what you want, Spikey boy. The lab boys are safe from him now. He can't hurt them, no matter how much he wants to. They've done him good.
But he won't give in without a fight, by hell. He's never bowed to authority before, going all the way back to Angelus. And when Darla kicked Angel out with his bright shiny new soul and announced that she was returning to the Master's side, Spike had refused to go with her. He and Dru were striking out on their own, he had declared. They didn't need anybody else. For over ninety years it had been that way.
Well, he needs help now. He can't fight this alone.
And oh, isn't life funny and strange? He's been here before, hasn't he? So desperate to win, to stay alive, that he'll do anything.
Even make alliances with mortal enemies.
He peers out at the sun-drenched alley, hesitating. Last time, he did it for Dru. And she laughed at him and threw it back in his face, calling him soft. She left him for it, even, and he's learned the lesson the hardest way there is. Never again will he do anything for love. Never again will he try to change, all for one girl.
He told the Slayer once that he liked this world, and he hadn't lied. He wants to stay alive. He'll do whatever it takes.
Even if it means going back to that blonde bitch.
Even if it means asking her for help.
She has a strange code of honor, that one. White hat, and all. If he throws himself on her mercy and makes her see that he's helpless, she probably won't stake him. He's nearly certain of this. Just in case, he'll make it worth her while. He'll promise her information. She must be curious about those commandos, those college boys playing at being soldiers. They could be either a threat or an ally, and one thing he already knows about Buffy is that she likes to know everything. She'll hear him out, let him say his piece, if only so she can learn about the new kid in town.
Afterward, well... He'll deal with that when the time comes. Let the Slayer worry about whether to go after the soldiers boys, or send them a gift basket for helping her out. They may have done him good, but he's damn well going to make sure they're her problem, too.
With the blanket firmly over his head, he steps out into the afternoon. He'll try her house first, then the Watcher. She's bound to be at one of those places, sitting down to a nice Thanksgiving dinner, never once thinking of the poor creatures who can't eat, who can't do anything but watch in fury and frustration.
He stalks through the streets, staying in the shadows whenever possible. As his boots hit the asphalt, a litany of hatred runs through his head, as bright and clear as the electricity the chip punishes him with. Hate you, bitch. Hate you, Slayer. Hate you, bloody soldier boys. Hate you, white- coat scaredy-cat fucking thieves. Taking everything from him, his entire way of life, leaving him nothing but this desperation, this fear.
The Slayer isn't at her house. He curses some more, then makes his way to the Watcher's, still seething. He can hear them inside, their voices raised in argument. He stands there in the courtyard, glaring at the door. Hate you all, he thinks in useless fury. Going to kill you the first chance I get. Starting with you, Slayer.
He tugs the blanket about his head and heaves a sigh, forcibly letting go of the hatred. In some ways, the Slayer is a soft touch, and he knows this is the best way to go. Appeal to that core of goodness, get her to pity him. As loathsome as it is, pity will keep him alive right now. And that's all he wants. To stay alive.
He slumps his shoulders. Puts on his most desperate look. Knocks on the door, then scurries back into the safety of the shadows.
The door opens, and there is the Slayer. She steps forward, into the courtyard. Her brow furrows as she looks around and sees nobody there.
Spike stares at her, and hesitates. There's still time to turn away. He doesn't have to do this.
But dammit, he wants to live.
He rushes forward and grabs her by the arm. "Help me."
****
END
Author's Note: I know we're not supposed to, but I always feel so sorry for Spike in this episode. I thought it would be fun to explore how he managed to work himself up to going to Buffy for help. Hope you enjoyed the ride. The title is from the Robert Frost poem that Buffy and Riley quote, "Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in."
Disclaimer: Joss and Mutant Enemy own them, but I'm working on a way to own Spike.
Rating: PG-13 for language.
Summary: So, Spike has a soul. And Buffy and Spike have a relationship. But it didn't have to be this way, you know. Trace it back, and it all comes down to one moment, one decision. Come with me, back to the depths of season four, to when it all began.
Spoilers: Set just before and during Season 4 "Pangs."
Feedback: Yes please! You can always write to me at beckyg19@yahoo.com
****
He sits in the shadows and faces a hard truth. He needs help.
Being a vampire is all about self-preservation. For half the day, just to venture outside is to court death. Fire is not your friend. And you never quite realize just how many sharp wooden objects there are in the world, until those things can kill you. To live as a vamp, you have to learn to stay alive.
For Spike, staying alive has just gotten a lot harder.
He's seen a lot of things change in his one hundred and eighteen years of being a vampire. He's embraced most of these changes, delighting in new pleasures, the new ways to hunt and kill. Most demons avoid technology, and are afraid of it. Spike has always loved it.
Until now.
They've done him good this time. This time there may be no accepting the change.
This time, it might kill him.
He tried killing a homeless man earlier today. Thinking how useless the guy was, what a waste, nobody would even miss him. But the sensor or microchip or whatever they put in his head can't be reasoned with. The pain sent him crashing to his knees, howling with agony and rage and despair.
If he can't feed, he's worse than dead.
Oh, a vampire can't starve to death, he knows this. But it's a fate worse than death. A vamp that doesn't feed becomes a walking skeleton, and then a vegetable. Can't walk, can't talk, can't do anything but lie there and feel the hunger. He's terrified of this happening to him, of being helpless again, like those cursed months when he sat in the wheelchair and watched his carefully constructed world fall apart around him. He won't end up that way. He won't.
Can't feed. Can't kill. He tells himself not to be a wanker. Don't panic. There are other ways, right? Look at Angelus. The poof has managed to survive for a century on rats and pigs and who-knows-what. It didn't have to be human blood, did it?
Involuntarily, he snarls in hatred. No and no and no. He'll never be like Angel. Never. He has no soul, never will. He's a demon, he's a vampire. He'll never sink that low. Somehow, he'll find a way.
He and Dru ruled this town once. Maybe he can do it again. Make the other vamps bring him kills. He might be able to feed that way. Maybe the chip wouldn't go off then. But he is too weak right now to fight anybody and prove his dominance. He doesn't stand a chance against them. Hell, he couldn't even persuade that bitch Harmony to help him.
Besides, he thinks miserably, he does have some pride. If the vamps and demons in Sunnydale know he is weakened, they'll come after him in force. It'll be Prague all over again, except this time it won't be Dru on the receiving end of the mob's fury - it'll be him.
What he really needs -- what he really *wants* -- is to find those lab boys and crush their skulls. Snap their necks and drain them dry. Wallow in their blood and stomp on their suntanned faces. Force them to take the chip out of his head and let him be a vampire again.
He utters a sound, somewhere between a sob and a laugh. Can't always get what you want, Spikey boy. The lab boys are safe from him now. He can't hurt them, no matter how much he wants to. They've done him good.
But he won't give in without a fight, by hell. He's never bowed to authority before, going all the way back to Angelus. And when Darla kicked Angel out with his bright shiny new soul and announced that she was returning to the Master's side, Spike had refused to go with her. He and Dru were striking out on their own, he had declared. They didn't need anybody else. For over ninety years it had been that way.
Well, he needs help now. He can't fight this alone.
And oh, isn't life funny and strange? He's been here before, hasn't he? So desperate to win, to stay alive, that he'll do anything.
Even make alliances with mortal enemies.
He peers out at the sun-drenched alley, hesitating. Last time, he did it for Dru. And she laughed at him and threw it back in his face, calling him soft. She left him for it, even, and he's learned the lesson the hardest way there is. Never again will he do anything for love. Never again will he try to change, all for one girl.
He told the Slayer once that he liked this world, and he hadn't lied. He wants to stay alive. He'll do whatever it takes.
Even if it means going back to that blonde bitch.
Even if it means asking her for help.
She has a strange code of honor, that one. White hat, and all. If he throws himself on her mercy and makes her see that he's helpless, she probably won't stake him. He's nearly certain of this. Just in case, he'll make it worth her while. He'll promise her information. She must be curious about those commandos, those college boys playing at being soldiers. They could be either a threat or an ally, and one thing he already knows about Buffy is that she likes to know everything. She'll hear him out, let him say his piece, if only so she can learn about the new kid in town.
Afterward, well... He'll deal with that when the time comes. Let the Slayer worry about whether to go after the soldiers boys, or send them a gift basket for helping her out. They may have done him good, but he's damn well going to make sure they're her problem, too.
With the blanket firmly over his head, he steps out into the afternoon. He'll try her house first, then the Watcher. She's bound to be at one of those places, sitting down to a nice Thanksgiving dinner, never once thinking of the poor creatures who can't eat, who can't do anything but watch in fury and frustration.
He stalks through the streets, staying in the shadows whenever possible. As his boots hit the asphalt, a litany of hatred runs through his head, as bright and clear as the electricity the chip punishes him with. Hate you, bitch. Hate you, Slayer. Hate you, bloody soldier boys. Hate you, white- coat scaredy-cat fucking thieves. Taking everything from him, his entire way of life, leaving him nothing but this desperation, this fear.
The Slayer isn't at her house. He curses some more, then makes his way to the Watcher's, still seething. He can hear them inside, their voices raised in argument. He stands there in the courtyard, glaring at the door. Hate you all, he thinks in useless fury. Going to kill you the first chance I get. Starting with you, Slayer.
He tugs the blanket about his head and heaves a sigh, forcibly letting go of the hatred. In some ways, the Slayer is a soft touch, and he knows this is the best way to go. Appeal to that core of goodness, get her to pity him. As loathsome as it is, pity will keep him alive right now. And that's all he wants. To stay alive.
He slumps his shoulders. Puts on his most desperate look. Knocks on the door, then scurries back into the safety of the shadows.
The door opens, and there is the Slayer. She steps forward, into the courtyard. Her brow furrows as she looks around and sees nobody there.
Spike stares at her, and hesitates. There's still time to turn away. He doesn't have to do this.
But dammit, he wants to live.
He rushes forward and grabs her by the arm. "Help me."
****
END
Author's Note: I know we're not supposed to, but I always feel so sorry for Spike in this episode. I thought it would be fun to explore how he managed to work himself up to going to Buffy for help. Hope you enjoyed the ride. The title is from the Robert Frost poem that Buffy and Riley quote, "Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in."