Title: "Buffy Anne Summers: Therapist for the Theologically Insane"
Spoilers: Runs the gamut from "Dead Things" to "Selfless;" allusions to "Fool for Love" and "Doomed"
Summary: Buffy realizes that she is the only one standing between Spike and insanity. What will she do about it?
Disclaimer: Spike, Buffy, Willow, Dawn, Anya, et. al are not mine. They belong to Joss Whedon and M.E.
Author's Note: Spike? Redemption? Good times.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Willow jogged down the stairs into the darkened basement of the school, checking her watch. Hopefully she would find Buffy here, but she couldn't imagine why her friend would be down in the basement, unless. . . .
Angry shouts greeted her ears. Willow sighed, peering into the largest room. A painful sight awaited her -- Spike was pressed against the wall, eyes shut as if expecting a blow, face contorted. Buffy was inches from him, screaming at him.
"Get out of this basement, Spike! This place only makes you worse! Besides that, what are you going to do if someone finds you down here? Huh?" Buffy's hair had fallen out of the bun at the nape of her neck; her face flushed with anger. "Get out of here, find yourself a nice crypt with lots of dead things, and get on with your unlife!"
"I can't," he whispered, shaking his head. He sank to his knees, his trembling visible even from where Willow stood, fifteen feet away. "Ican'tcan'tcan't." He clutched his head, moaning. "Can't do it, can't do it, luv. . . ."
"I don't want to see you in here again, Spike," Buffy said, breathing heavily. "Ever." She turned and strode purposely to the doorway, then stopped, spotting Willow. "Will! What -- what are you doing here?"
Willow swallowed, looking at Spike, who was now sitting against the wall and staring at the ceiling. She turned to Buffy. "One of my classes got canceled, Buffy. I, um, was thinking we could go to lunch and I stopped by, but you weren't in your office and I -- I thought you might be down here." She shrugged uneasily.
"I was, um, talking. To Spike," Buffy said, not meeting Willow's eyes.
"I kinda got that," Willow said evenly.
Buffy hurried past Willow and to the stairs, then turned, a large, unnatural smile on her face. "Well, we'd better get going to lunch then, huh, Willow? I only have an hour left of my break -- what do you think, burgers or Chinese?" She said this all very quickly, and Willow took a deep breath.
"Chinese. I'm just not in the mood today for, you know, charred cow gristle." She watched as Buffy began to climb the stairs, and followed suit. Behind her, Spike let out a long, tortured groan, and Willow closed her eyes.
*****
When the voices of Willow and Buffy faded Spike straightened up from the wall and began to pace, snapping his fingers, his eyes wild. "Get out of here," he muttered, "got to get out, somewhere else, make her happy. Try so hard and fail like always. What do I do? What do I do?" Suddenly he let out a cry and dropped down to the ground, shielding his face.
He crouched in the empty basement, muscles taut, face contorted. His eyes were glazed, focusing not on the cheerless gray walls, but on something only he could see.
In the darkness of his mind, the memories echoed. He saw faces, heard voices, felt flesh, smelt and tasted blood. He took a deep, rattling breath, and buried his face in his hands.
The faces of little children stared accusingly at him. They were white, pinched, so petrified that they were beyond tears. The terror in their eyes burned him; their soft youthful voices cut into his mind, his heart. They pleaded with him -- "Please, Mister, don't hurt me, please, stop!" -- and then, horribly, fell silent. He remembered the sudden lightness of their small bodies and he recoiled from the thought, knowing he and he alone had done that to them.
Other memories flooded him. He felt the softness of the flesh of a human neck against his lips, felt the way his fangs broke the uppermost layer of skin to puncture the dermis, to slide through the fat. The blood spurted into his mouth, hot, delicious, copper-sweet liquid trickling down his throat. He drank and drank until the body in his arms went limp and the blood turned cool. And he dropped the useless corpse upon the ground and sloped away, still hungry, so hungry, always so terribly hungry --
He screamed in agony. He leapt to his feet and searched for some way to remove the misery, the fear, the pain that he had wrought. His eyes, wild and lolling, landed upon the window in the door across the room. Panting, he ran to it and punched through the window, shattered glass going everywhere. Shards stuck out of his hand at weird angles and he savored the pain, managing a twisted smile.
But it wasn't enough. A memory came howling back at him, so strong it sent him reeling into the concrete column behind him. His jaw went slack as he remembered the face of the young blonde woman, filled with her fear and her shock as he forced her down to the floor, determined to do what he wanted with her, determined to have his way. She sobbed, struggled against him, crying out in pain and horror as he pressed himself against her. He heard the sound of ripping cloth, the feel of soft flesh beneath his groping hands. With one last burst of effort she flung him to the wall, and he stopped, stunned. Seeing her face he fled, ashamed --
"Evil," he gasped. "Monster. Wrong, so wrong." He closed his eyes in pain, choking back a sob and wiping the sweat from his forehead. The feel of his hand against his skin stung.
Puzzled, he looked at his hand and saw as if for the first time granules of glass glinting in his flesh. His eyes narrowed. It had not been enough. He would have to punish himself more harshly to drive out the evil festering within him.
He whirled and saw before him the concrete column. He smiled grimly, then darted forward and slammed his head into the structure with supernatural strength.
Pain exploded around him. Stars danced before his eyes on a curtain of inky pitch; a throbbing, red slice of pain bisected his vision. He staggered backwards, his movements jerky, sloppy. He moaned and pawed clumsily at his face, then stumbled and fell to the cement floor.
His breath came in quick gasps. Rivulets of blood mingled with the tears and sweat on his face. He lay there on his side, knees drawn up, arms tucked in to his chest. He shivered, though it was not particularly cold.
His lips formed words, formed them over and over again. Desperately, weakly, he muttered, "I'm a bad man. I'm a bad man."
Blessedly, consciousness soon took its leave as the whirling pain inside his head overwhelmed him. He lay slack and limp on the floor, blood caking in small lines on his forehead, his face.
Silence filled the basement.
*****
Willow picked anemically at the rice on her plate, realizing she had been doing so for five minutes only when Buffy asked, "Willow, are you planning on eating that, or do I need to eat it for you?"
"Hm? Oh, sorry. It's just --" She stared down at her plate, wondering how to put words to what she was thinking.
"What?" Buffy asked, concern in her face and voice.
Willow hesitated. "It's Spike."
The concern vanished, and Buffy let out a short, sharp laugh. "*Spike?* You're worried about *him*?" Disbelief was in her eyes.
"Yeah, I am." Willow fidgeted with her chopsticks, continuing to poke at her rice. "Buffy -- why can't you just -- why can't you help him?"
Buffy stared at Willow, her mouth falling open. "Help him? Will, are you insane? He's a vampire!"
Willow set down her chopsticks and rested her elbows on the table, leaning forward. Her face was earnest. "That never stopped you before."
Buffy looked away. "That was different. I was -- I was confused then. I was -- stupid."
"He still needs your help."
"Why should I want to help him?" she asked bitterly.
"Buffy. . . ." Willow bit her lip. "Look. Imagine that you have no control over yourself. That you're -- evil." Her voice fell to a whisper, and Buffy leaned forward to catch her words. "Imagine you do something terrible -- something *foul* -- and you're *proud* of it." Willow realized her nails were digging into the thin tablecloth, and carefully disengaged her hands from the table, setting them in her lap. "It's such a powerful feeling. It's like a drug. You want more. . . ." Her voice hitched, and she looked down at her plate, tears in her eyes.
"Willow --"
"Listen to me!" Willow snapped. Buffy stared. Quietly, Willow continued. "Then you realize what you did. You realize just how *evil* you are. And it hurts --" She choked back a sob. "It hurts so much, Buffy." She wiped her eyes with her napkin. "I'm never going to forget what I've done. Never."
Buffy reached out and took Willow's hand, squeezed it. "But, Will --"
"I know what you're going to say. 'What does this have to do with Spike?' Just hear me out. How old is he?"
Buffy shrugged, pulling her hand back. "I don't remember off the top of my head. A hundred and thirty, or so."
Willow folded her napkin and dropped it onto her plate. "I lost myself for just a few days, Buffy." Her voice was low. "Think of what he did in so many years. Think of what it's like to -- to *realize* -- after all those terrible things -- just *think.*"
Buffy's lips formed a hard, thin line. Her eyes were cold. "He hurt me, Willow, and I can't forgive him for that. I won't. I trusted him, and he tried to *rape* me, and I can't --" Buffy stopped. "Wait -- Will -- did you know?"
Willow nodded painfully. "Xander told me a few days ago. I -- I'm sorry, Buffy."
A look of disgust lit her face. "So you see why I shouldn't help him."
Willow looked up at Buffy, compassion in her eyes. "It was terrible of him. We both know that. But -- you hurt him, too."
Buffy glared at Willow. "He didn't have a soul then, you know. If it wasn't for the chip he would've drank Scooby Delight a hundred times over. There wasn't much to hurt."
"Then why did you have anything to do with him in the first place?" Willow asked, an edge to her voice.
Buffy's cheeks went pink. "I told you I was stupid then. I came back from the dead, remember? I wasn't exactly thinking straight," she said stubbornly.
"Look. The fact is, you led him on, you used him. You were doing it because you were desperate, but he saw it as -- as -- I don't know exactly," Willow finished lamely. Hurriedly she added, "He did feel for you, you know he did."
"He also tried to kill us all *numerous* times," Buffy reminded her. "That kind of thing, it's just not good for cultivating friendships."
"You think he doesn't remember all that now?" Willow asked. A waiter approached them and asked if they would like take-out boxes. Willow nodded impatiently, then continued as soon as the man left. "You have to give him a second chance, Buffy."
"*No.*"
"You have to! That's -- that's what makes us human, that we can forgive things. If we don't have that, Buffy -- if we don't have that --" Willow convulsively grabbed her napkin and began twisting it. In a whisper she said, "You've seen what happens when we can't forgive."
Buffy stared at her, indecision on her face. She seemed to be torn between anger and pity. At last she replied, "Since when have you become an advocate for vampire rights?" Angrily she stabbed at a piece of sweet and sour pork. "Willow, you still haven't told me why he deserves a second chance."
The waiter brought them boxes and Willow hurriedly shoved the remains of her food into one, looking up at the clock on the wall. She was going to be late for her next class. She stood and grabbed her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. "Because," she said, calming herself, "you gave *me* one."
*****
Here endeth the chapter.
Suggestions, criticisms, and comments will be gladly accepted. Make an author's day, give feedback. :) Chapter 2 will be along shortly.
Spoilers: Runs the gamut from "Dead Things" to "Selfless;" allusions to "Fool for Love" and "Doomed"
Summary: Buffy realizes that she is the only one standing between Spike and insanity. What will she do about it?
Disclaimer: Spike, Buffy, Willow, Dawn, Anya, et. al are not mine. They belong to Joss Whedon and M.E.
Author's Note: Spike? Redemption? Good times.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Willow jogged down the stairs into the darkened basement of the school, checking her watch. Hopefully she would find Buffy here, but she couldn't imagine why her friend would be down in the basement, unless. . . .
Angry shouts greeted her ears. Willow sighed, peering into the largest room. A painful sight awaited her -- Spike was pressed against the wall, eyes shut as if expecting a blow, face contorted. Buffy was inches from him, screaming at him.
"Get out of this basement, Spike! This place only makes you worse! Besides that, what are you going to do if someone finds you down here? Huh?" Buffy's hair had fallen out of the bun at the nape of her neck; her face flushed with anger. "Get out of here, find yourself a nice crypt with lots of dead things, and get on with your unlife!"
"I can't," he whispered, shaking his head. He sank to his knees, his trembling visible even from where Willow stood, fifteen feet away. "Ican'tcan'tcan't." He clutched his head, moaning. "Can't do it, can't do it, luv. . . ."
"I don't want to see you in here again, Spike," Buffy said, breathing heavily. "Ever." She turned and strode purposely to the doorway, then stopped, spotting Willow. "Will! What -- what are you doing here?"
Willow swallowed, looking at Spike, who was now sitting against the wall and staring at the ceiling. She turned to Buffy. "One of my classes got canceled, Buffy. I, um, was thinking we could go to lunch and I stopped by, but you weren't in your office and I -- I thought you might be down here." She shrugged uneasily.
"I was, um, talking. To Spike," Buffy said, not meeting Willow's eyes.
"I kinda got that," Willow said evenly.
Buffy hurried past Willow and to the stairs, then turned, a large, unnatural smile on her face. "Well, we'd better get going to lunch then, huh, Willow? I only have an hour left of my break -- what do you think, burgers or Chinese?" She said this all very quickly, and Willow took a deep breath.
"Chinese. I'm just not in the mood today for, you know, charred cow gristle." She watched as Buffy began to climb the stairs, and followed suit. Behind her, Spike let out a long, tortured groan, and Willow closed her eyes.
*****
When the voices of Willow and Buffy faded Spike straightened up from the wall and began to pace, snapping his fingers, his eyes wild. "Get out of here," he muttered, "got to get out, somewhere else, make her happy. Try so hard and fail like always. What do I do? What do I do?" Suddenly he let out a cry and dropped down to the ground, shielding his face.
He crouched in the empty basement, muscles taut, face contorted. His eyes were glazed, focusing not on the cheerless gray walls, but on something only he could see.
In the darkness of his mind, the memories echoed. He saw faces, heard voices, felt flesh, smelt and tasted blood. He took a deep, rattling breath, and buried his face in his hands.
The faces of little children stared accusingly at him. They were white, pinched, so petrified that they were beyond tears. The terror in their eyes burned him; their soft youthful voices cut into his mind, his heart. They pleaded with him -- "Please, Mister, don't hurt me, please, stop!" -- and then, horribly, fell silent. He remembered the sudden lightness of their small bodies and he recoiled from the thought, knowing he and he alone had done that to them.
Other memories flooded him. He felt the softness of the flesh of a human neck against his lips, felt the way his fangs broke the uppermost layer of skin to puncture the dermis, to slide through the fat. The blood spurted into his mouth, hot, delicious, copper-sweet liquid trickling down his throat. He drank and drank until the body in his arms went limp and the blood turned cool. And he dropped the useless corpse upon the ground and sloped away, still hungry, so hungry, always so terribly hungry --
He screamed in agony. He leapt to his feet and searched for some way to remove the misery, the fear, the pain that he had wrought. His eyes, wild and lolling, landed upon the window in the door across the room. Panting, he ran to it and punched through the window, shattered glass going everywhere. Shards stuck out of his hand at weird angles and he savored the pain, managing a twisted smile.
But it wasn't enough. A memory came howling back at him, so strong it sent him reeling into the concrete column behind him. His jaw went slack as he remembered the face of the young blonde woman, filled with her fear and her shock as he forced her down to the floor, determined to do what he wanted with her, determined to have his way. She sobbed, struggled against him, crying out in pain and horror as he pressed himself against her. He heard the sound of ripping cloth, the feel of soft flesh beneath his groping hands. With one last burst of effort she flung him to the wall, and he stopped, stunned. Seeing her face he fled, ashamed --
"Evil," he gasped. "Monster. Wrong, so wrong." He closed his eyes in pain, choking back a sob and wiping the sweat from his forehead. The feel of his hand against his skin stung.
Puzzled, he looked at his hand and saw as if for the first time granules of glass glinting in his flesh. His eyes narrowed. It had not been enough. He would have to punish himself more harshly to drive out the evil festering within him.
He whirled and saw before him the concrete column. He smiled grimly, then darted forward and slammed his head into the structure with supernatural strength.
Pain exploded around him. Stars danced before his eyes on a curtain of inky pitch; a throbbing, red slice of pain bisected his vision. He staggered backwards, his movements jerky, sloppy. He moaned and pawed clumsily at his face, then stumbled and fell to the cement floor.
His breath came in quick gasps. Rivulets of blood mingled with the tears and sweat on his face. He lay there on his side, knees drawn up, arms tucked in to his chest. He shivered, though it was not particularly cold.
His lips formed words, formed them over and over again. Desperately, weakly, he muttered, "I'm a bad man. I'm a bad man."
Blessedly, consciousness soon took its leave as the whirling pain inside his head overwhelmed him. He lay slack and limp on the floor, blood caking in small lines on his forehead, his face.
Silence filled the basement.
*****
Willow picked anemically at the rice on her plate, realizing she had been doing so for five minutes only when Buffy asked, "Willow, are you planning on eating that, or do I need to eat it for you?"
"Hm? Oh, sorry. It's just --" She stared down at her plate, wondering how to put words to what she was thinking.
"What?" Buffy asked, concern in her face and voice.
Willow hesitated. "It's Spike."
The concern vanished, and Buffy let out a short, sharp laugh. "*Spike?* You're worried about *him*?" Disbelief was in her eyes.
"Yeah, I am." Willow fidgeted with her chopsticks, continuing to poke at her rice. "Buffy -- why can't you just -- why can't you help him?"
Buffy stared at Willow, her mouth falling open. "Help him? Will, are you insane? He's a vampire!"
Willow set down her chopsticks and rested her elbows on the table, leaning forward. Her face was earnest. "That never stopped you before."
Buffy looked away. "That was different. I was -- I was confused then. I was -- stupid."
"He still needs your help."
"Why should I want to help him?" she asked bitterly.
"Buffy. . . ." Willow bit her lip. "Look. Imagine that you have no control over yourself. That you're -- evil." Her voice fell to a whisper, and Buffy leaned forward to catch her words. "Imagine you do something terrible -- something *foul* -- and you're *proud* of it." Willow realized her nails were digging into the thin tablecloth, and carefully disengaged her hands from the table, setting them in her lap. "It's such a powerful feeling. It's like a drug. You want more. . . ." Her voice hitched, and she looked down at her plate, tears in her eyes.
"Willow --"
"Listen to me!" Willow snapped. Buffy stared. Quietly, Willow continued. "Then you realize what you did. You realize just how *evil* you are. And it hurts --" She choked back a sob. "It hurts so much, Buffy." She wiped her eyes with her napkin. "I'm never going to forget what I've done. Never."
Buffy reached out and took Willow's hand, squeezed it. "But, Will --"
"I know what you're going to say. 'What does this have to do with Spike?' Just hear me out. How old is he?"
Buffy shrugged, pulling her hand back. "I don't remember off the top of my head. A hundred and thirty, or so."
Willow folded her napkin and dropped it onto her plate. "I lost myself for just a few days, Buffy." Her voice was low. "Think of what he did in so many years. Think of what it's like to -- to *realize* -- after all those terrible things -- just *think.*"
Buffy's lips formed a hard, thin line. Her eyes were cold. "He hurt me, Willow, and I can't forgive him for that. I won't. I trusted him, and he tried to *rape* me, and I can't --" Buffy stopped. "Wait -- Will -- did you know?"
Willow nodded painfully. "Xander told me a few days ago. I -- I'm sorry, Buffy."
A look of disgust lit her face. "So you see why I shouldn't help him."
Willow looked up at Buffy, compassion in her eyes. "It was terrible of him. We both know that. But -- you hurt him, too."
Buffy glared at Willow. "He didn't have a soul then, you know. If it wasn't for the chip he would've drank Scooby Delight a hundred times over. There wasn't much to hurt."
"Then why did you have anything to do with him in the first place?" Willow asked, an edge to her voice.
Buffy's cheeks went pink. "I told you I was stupid then. I came back from the dead, remember? I wasn't exactly thinking straight," she said stubbornly.
"Look. The fact is, you led him on, you used him. You were doing it because you were desperate, but he saw it as -- as -- I don't know exactly," Willow finished lamely. Hurriedly she added, "He did feel for you, you know he did."
"He also tried to kill us all *numerous* times," Buffy reminded her. "That kind of thing, it's just not good for cultivating friendships."
"You think he doesn't remember all that now?" Willow asked. A waiter approached them and asked if they would like take-out boxes. Willow nodded impatiently, then continued as soon as the man left. "You have to give him a second chance, Buffy."
"*No.*"
"You have to! That's -- that's what makes us human, that we can forgive things. If we don't have that, Buffy -- if we don't have that --" Willow convulsively grabbed her napkin and began twisting it. In a whisper she said, "You've seen what happens when we can't forgive."
Buffy stared at her, indecision on her face. She seemed to be torn between anger and pity. At last she replied, "Since when have you become an advocate for vampire rights?" Angrily she stabbed at a piece of sweet and sour pork. "Willow, you still haven't told me why he deserves a second chance."
The waiter brought them boxes and Willow hurriedly shoved the remains of her food into one, looking up at the clock on the wall. She was going to be late for her next class. She stood and grabbed her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. "Because," she said, calming herself, "you gave *me* one."
*****
Here endeth the chapter.
Suggestions, criticisms, and comments will be gladly accepted. Make an author's day, give feedback. :) Chapter 2 will be along shortly.