Bloody hell his head hurt.
That was the last time Spike picked up his blood supply at a black market blood bank. No quality control whatsoever. It had been over a century since he'd felt this way, and he hadn't expected to ever feel it again. It was easier to make sure your blood wasn't contaminated when you were feeding right from the source. Stupid chip, causing all kinds of trouble. Now his head felt as if it would split in two, his throat burned as if he'd been drinking gasoline, and the flu infested blood roiled in his stomach. He had to admit, though, the fever wasn't all bad. He felt it spreading outward down his limbs, into his fingertips. His muscles felt heavy and awkward, his eyelids drooped, and the heat… well, even if it wasn't pleasant, it made him feel almost alive.
He shoved open the heavy crypt door and stumbled to his tattered arm chair, collapsing into its worn upholstery. The light layer of perspiration against his skin cooled that wonderful heat and brought with it a biting chill and he shivered, drawing his leather coat around him like a blanket as he drifted off to sleep.
Buffy was surprised to find Spike asleep so early. Three in the morning was usually the perfect time to sneak by his crypt for some after patrol action. Something was odd, but she couldn't put her finger on it. She shut the door behind her and snuck over to the chair, pouncing on him, with her hands pinning him to the chair.
"Bloody Hell!" Spike's eyes snapped open and looked around for a moment, unfocused, before they came to rest on Buffy. "Oh, it's just you little bit. Well, sorry to disappoint, but I'm in no mood to play tonight." He shoved her weakly to the side and settled back under his coat.
"Come on Spike, quit playing games, it's late. Let's just do this thing so we can both get some sleep this morning."
" 'M not playing," he opened his eyes halfway to glare at her. "Go find someone else to tickle your fancy tonight, slayer."
"Oh, don't be so melodramatic, I just came over to have some fun. You're usually up for a little—" She reached out to touch his face and stopped suddenly when her fingers made contact. "Spike, you're hot."
"Thanks luv, but I could have told you that."
"No, you idiot. You're hot, as in you have body heat, your skin doesn't feel all cold and corpsified…are you sick?" Her brow furrowed in concern as she laid the back of her hand against his forehead.
He brushed her hand away, it felt so cold and comforting against his skin, but this was just embarrassing. "Of course not, pet. Everyone knows vampires can't get sick, superhuman immune systems and all that. Immortal, that's me, remember?" He stood up, a bit too quickly and swayed back, catching himself against the television. "See? Picture of heath."
"Oh my god, you are sick!" Buffy couldn't suppress a giggle, but she tried to hide it, clearing her throat, "'hem, I mean, you poor thing, how did you get sick?"
"Bloke has influenza, bloke goes and donates blood, vampire buys bloke's blood from slightly less than reputable blood bank, vampire drinks blood, vampire gets the flu. Cause and effect, there you have it, luv." He slumped back in the chair, looking up at her with those irresistible ice blue eyes, tired and fever bright. "So, here I am, completely ridiculous, laugh it up, I don't mind."
Buffy let out an exasperated sigh. "It's not funny, I'm sorry you're sick. Well, it is a little funny, but I'm still sorry. Now, are we going to keep having this conversation, or are we going to get the big bad into his big bed?"
"Patronizing alliteration aside, yes, bed sounds like a fine plan, little bit, long as you're there with me, that is." He winked at her as she helped him to his feet.
When he opened his eyes again, it was dark in his bedroom, and there was a cool hand stroking his forehead. He couldn't stop shivering, despite the fact that he felt as though there were fire raging through his veins. His mouth had a sour, metallic taste, like bad blood, and he coughed, raising his head to look around.
"Shhh, it's all right, I'm here." The slayer pushed him firmly but gently back onto the pillows and held a mug of blood to his lips and let him drink. When he'd had his fill, she put the mug aside and resumed stroking his fevered brow. Just as he drifted off, he thought he felt her lips brush against his.
He came to himself again awhile later. The lamp by his bed was on, but the room was empty. Spike flexed weak and tender muscles and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Weak as a bloody kitten, he muttered to himself. As he dressed, he noticed that there was no mug by the bedside, nothing to suggest that another person had even been there with him.
Stepping out of the crypt, he cupped a hand around his mouth and lit his first cigarette in days. "Looks like it's pig's blood for me from now on," and he slammed the door behind him.