Title: And It Felt Like a Kiss
Author: Mayfly
Spoilers: Post Dead Things
Disclaimer: Never been Joss, never will be Joss. The
characters are his, even if he is mean to them at
times.
A/N: genders swapped in Carole King lyrics to suit the
story. You'll get the picture. This story was begging
to be written. Thought DT was one of the more
disturbing episodes ever, and I felt Spike needed to
process what happened.
She hit me and it felt like a kiss
She hit me and I knew she loved me
'Cause if she didn't care for me
I could have never made her mad
She hit me and I was glad
---lyrics by Carole King
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And It Felt Like a Kiss
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shadows spread out across the darkened streets as Tara
made her way back to her apartment. Cursing herself
for nodding off at the Magic Box while studying for a
sociology midterm, she knew the morning would come far
too soon. Her clutch stuck as it always did when she
shifted her Escort into third gear, and a skinny tabby
cat darted across the roadway in its search for late-
night adventure.
Sunnydale had turned in for the evening. Nearly
three-thirty, the last of the Bronze revelers had long
headed back into the night. Only the demons wandered
the streets at this hour.
Tara made a left at the blinking stoplight and steered
toward the cemetery on her way back to her Spartan
apartment. Humming to the tune on the radio, she
barely noticed the staggering figure limping his way
down the sidewalk, his lean frame hidden by a long,
black coat.
A leather duster.
In an instant she recognized the man. But Spike's
confident swagger was oddly missing from his stride.
In fact, aside from the clothing and shock of platinum
hair, this man barely resembled the vampire she knew.
His gait was stiff and tentative, his head hung low
with defeat. She slowed her car to watch him as he
stopped momentarily and leaned awkwardly against the
wooden telephone pole before resuming his painfully
slow journey.
Pulling her Escort over to the side of the road, she
leaned over, rolled down the passenger side window and
tried her best to shout out the opening. "Ss-spike?"
she stammered.
But the man kept walking, not bothering to look back
as he limped past the car. Maybe she'd been mistaken,
and it wasn't the vampire. Mustering up the courage
to call out louder, more confidently, she took a big
breath and shouted, "Spike!"
Slowly, the man turned, and Tara grimaced when she saw
the gory evidence of recent abuse heaped upon his
battered body. Bloodied and bruised, he squinted at
her. His right eye was nearly swollen shut, a black
and blue shiner spreading under his pale skin. Sticky
blood rimmed his nostrils, and his lower lip was split
open with an angry gash. Whatever he'd faced had
obviously had the upper hand.
"Innit past your bedtime?" he asked, his tone guarded
and flat as he resumed his trek down the pavement.
"Wouldn't want you to be caught with some filthy
beasty, now would we?"
"Wait," she added, gently pressing on the gas and
urging her rusty car to follow him. "Are you okay?"
Halting once again, he let out a nervous little laugh
before answering, "Bloody well been better, that's for
sure." A cough tore through his body, doubling him
over with a painful spasm. His eyes screwed tightly
shut for a minute before he added, "Really, I'm fine.
Go home, Glinda."
"Get in," she insisted, proud of her new found
assertiveness. She wasn't going to let him off that
easy. Teasing the lock and opening the passenger
door, Tara continued. "Spike, I mean it. Let me take
you home. You don't look like you'll make it to the
end of the block."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," he sneered. "But
really, I'm a big boy. I can take care of m'self, luv.
It's what we demons do."
"You...y'know," she stuttered. So much for being sure of
herself. She hated it when he glared at her like
that. "This testosterone thing - it doesn't work on
me, remember? Look, I just thought you might need a
little help. Let's face it, Spike, you're not looking
too big or bad right now. Just let me do this for
you, alright?"
The vampire let out an obligatory sigh of concession
and wordlessly slid into the passenger's seat. Tara
couldn't miss the they way his head lolled back to
lean wearily on the headrest or how his hand shook as
he carefully swiped at the blood under his nose.
Broken, it was a good word to describe what she saw.
"On second thought," she said, putting the car in gear
and merging into the main traffic lane, "let's go back
to my place."
"No," he quickly replied.
Before he could even argue, Tara added, "You wouldn't
stand a chance if whatever did this to you came back
for round two."
Staring intently out the passenger window, he
retorted, "Might be a right, merciful thing. Put me
out my misery once and for all."
"Spike..." she pleaded, trying her best not to be
annoyed with his stubbornness.
"Fine," he interrupted with a hiss.
Taking a quick right before driving past campus, Tara
was a bit surprised that his vocal protests died as
quickly as they had erupted. His will to fight was
gone, and his apathy actually frightened her more than
his physically injuries. She'd have time later to ask
him about it, but for now, she settled for comfortable
silence for the remainder of their short journey.
She was happy to find a parking place close to her
building. Hopping out, she waited for him to pull
himself to his feet and follow her up the steps. She
fumbled briefly with her keys before opening the door
and heading inside.
"It's not much to look at," she explained as she
flipped the lights on and nervously tucked her long
hair behind an ear. "But the housing options are
pretty slim when you move in the middle of a
semester."
Turning toward the door, she felt her cheeks flush
with embarrassment when she realized that Spike
silently stood at the doorway, unable to cross the
threshold. "Oh, god," she stammered. "I'm so sorry. I
forgot, Spike!" Taking his hand she quickly drew him
inside. "Come in."
"One of the few rules I've gotta play by," he
sheepishly explained.
She set her backpack on the dinette and tossed her
coat over one of the mismatched plastic chairs
arranged around its periphery. Afterward, she helped
Spike slide out of his coat, careful not to stir up
any new agony from the large bruises riddling his
body. He stiffened and bit back a groan as he wriggled
his arms out of the long leather sleeves.
"Let me get a washcloth," she explained before
vanishing into the darkened hallway.
When she returned, Spike was leaning heavily against
the kitchen counter and hunting the cupboards for a
glass. Successful in his search, he filled it from
the faucet, he took a small sip, swished the water
around his mouth for a few seconds, than spat a
mouthful of bloody water into the sink. He repeated
the process two more times until the backwash was no
longer a gory shade of red.
After he set his glass on the countertop, Tara pressed
the dampened washcloth to his nose and gently blotted
away the crusted blood. "Let's get you cleaned up,"
she offered. He winced once but never protested,
letting her continue her careful ministrations.
"Do..." she faltered, unsure if she had a right to ask.
"Do you think it's broken?"
"Pro'ly," he answered into the washcloth. "Wouldn't
be the first time."
"Are you still bleeding?" she asked. "I mean, I think
you're supposed to pinch your nose to stop a
nosebleed."
Pulling the cloth away, he offered her a small smile
and limped toward the brown plaid couch in the living
room. Typical college furniture, second-hand and
tattered. Slowly he lowered himself into the waiting
cushions. "Think the worst of the bleeding is over,
luv," he answered. "But could I have a bit of ice?
Can't see much out of m'eye."
"Ice," she repeated with a small nod. Did she hear
correctly? Was Spike actually being polite? "Sure, I
think I can come up with something that resembles a
cold pack."
She bumped into the scratched coffee table on her way
back to the kitchen. Rummaging through the freezer,
she groaned when she realized the ice-tray was
completely empty. But she found a bag of frozen peas.
They'd work fine in a pinch, cold and compact.
Returning to the living room, Tara sat down on the
coffee table, wrapped the pack of frozen vegetables in
a clean dishcloth and handed it to the injured
vampire.
"What's this?" he tried to joke, eyeing the package
suspiciously. "Some wonky vegetarian version of a
cold steak?"
"I...I didn't have any ice cubes," she explained handing
him the impromptu cold pack. "Besides, my mom used to
use these all the time when one of us got hurt. It
works the same."
"As long as it's cold," Spike answered as he pressed
the bag against his right eye and cheekbone and leaned
back, "I really don't care what it is."
She studied him for several minutes, watching the
silent ebb and flow of his chest. He certainly didn't
need to breathe. Perhaps it was habit, something that
made him feel a bit more human and less of a vampire.
Maybe she'd ask him about it some day when he was
feeling better.
Glory had taught her that vampires bled the same
crimson as humans, and Buffy's death had taught her
that they also were capable of very tangible emotions,
including devastating grief. She'd seen that first
hand as she'd held the keening vampire and had wiped
away his tears in the wake of the slayer's death.
He'd looked so utterly lost then. Just as he did now.
"Would an aspirin even help?" she asked, not sure of
its effects on the undead.
"The way I feel," Spike answered with a sigh, "I'm way
beyond 'take two and call me in the morning.'"
"Wait, I have an idea," Tara said, her face
brightening as something came to mind. "I...I could
make you some tea. You know, some chamomile, arnica,
stuff like that. They have some pain killing
qualities."
"That would be lovely," he answered.
"If you'd let me..." she continued, uncertain how
receptive he would be to her idea. His distrust of
magick was well known. "I could add a few other
ingredients that might make it more effective."
Slowly the vampire lifted the pack from his face,
opened his eyes, and flashed her a suspicious glance.
"No thanks. I'll pass on the black arts."
"No dark magick. Honest." she insisted. It was one
area she didn't want to explore anyhow. "Just some
herbs and maybe a healing spell to hold it together.
Think of it as a vampire Tylenol."
Pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand,
Spike answered with a nod, "No funny stuff."
"Scout's honor," she promised with a smile. "It might
make you a little sleepy. But I promise, nothing
funny."
It didn't take long for the water to come to a rolling
boil. Tara carefully wrapped her collection of herbs
in a thin cloth, and steeped it in the bubbling water,
softly whispering her incantation of healing comfort.
The brew slowly darkened to a deep amber hue, and she
poured a generous amount into a ceramic mug before
returning to the couch.
"You're too kind," he smiled through his swollen lip.
Setting the cold pack on the sofa arm, he reached out
for the steaming mug, firmly clasping it with both
hands as though seeking its warmth between his palms.
Tara took a seat on the coffee table. Her house, her
rules. Her father wasn't there to scream at her for
sitting on the table. "So..." she began, resting her
elbows on her knees to get just a touch closer to her
guest. He looked like he needed an ear to bend. "You
going to tell me what happened?"
He stared at the swirling eddies above the cup for a
moment, then took a small sip. Spike didn't bother to
look up when he finally answered. "Not much to say,
pet. Face versus fist. Fist won."
She let out an annoyed sigh. He knew that's not what
she meant. They obviously hadn't beaten his
notoriously stubborn streak out of him. This wasn't
going to be easy. "I can see that," she countered.
"I mean, what did this to you? Some demon or other
messed-up nasty?
"Something like that," he answered, withholding as
much information as possible while he shifted the mug
in his hands and took another sip of the tea. He was
definitely hiding something.
Something about his hands caught her attention
immediately. They had been bloodied and torn after
their battle with Glory. His knuckles had been
shredded when a group of Fyarls had ganged up on him
last summer. Battle scars, he'd once explained, proud
of the injuries, a badge of honor. But tonight, his
hands were untouched, not even a ragged hangnail
marred his fingers. He hadn't been in a fight. He
hadn't even raised his hands to protect himself. He
had let whatever had done this to him attack him,
brutalize his body, and leave him for dead. He'd been
a willing recipient.
There was only one person that he would ever yield
this much power to.
"She did this, didn't she," Tara thought out loud, her
voice barely above a whisper. An assertion, not a
question. Bile rose in her throat at the image of her
friend beating him to a bloody pulp. She was supposed
to be one of the goody good guys, not an ugly bully.
"You let Buffy do this to you."
His one good eye widened. Was it guilt or fear?
Perhaps even a bit of shame flashed across his face.
"I don't know what you're talking about, luv," he
denied as he set his mug beside her. He was such a
hideously poor liar when he was nervous.
"Why?" She didn't know what else to say.
Yes, Buffy was the slayer. She was supposed to kill
vampires. But Spike was different. The evil façade was
just that - a thin veneer, an illusion for the outside
world to believe. He'd done a lot of good, she
reminded herself. He fought by their side long after
everyone had expected. She vaguely remembered his
kindness when her own sanity had been stolen. He'd
watched over Dawn like an overly-protective big
brother. He'd loved Buffy with every part of ounce
unbeating heart. He didn't deserve this. Not even
dogs deserved this.
His face tightened and a sharp edge of defensiveness
crept into his voice as he tried his best make a hasty
exit. "Right, then," he said, "I'm not much in the
mood for an inquisition. So if you don't mind..."
Tara quickly leapt to her feet and followed him to the
door. She couldn't let him leave. He wasn't in any
shape to head home on his own, not after the hornet's
nest she'd just stirred up.
"Spike, wait!" she called out as she wrapped her arms
around his waist in an attempt to prevent him from
leaving. Immediately he bit back an anguished cry that
reminded her of a wounded animal. "Oh my god," she
added, releasing him and trying her best to suppress
the anger bubbling up from within. The slayer had
inflicted some serious damage. "How many ribs did she
break?"
"One," he groaned, twisting away from her grasp.
"Maybe three."
"So it was her."
Spike didn't answer. Rather he closed his eyes and
hung his head in defeat. His dirty little secret was
out. With a tiny nod, he whispered, "Yeah."
"Talk to me, Spike," Tara urged. He was one of her
friends. She wasn't sure when he went from enemy to
ally. It didn't matter. She might not be able to
patch him up very well, but she wanted to do something
to take away his pain. "I want to help."
"Look," he stuttered, pacing the room anxiously,
cornered, "you know too much as it is. What happened
is strictly between me and Buffy, and I'd be much
obliged if you left it that way. Those Scoobies would
just as soon come after me with a stake for rattling
her cage. They wouldn't understand."
"Well *I* want to understand, and what's said in this
room, stays in this room," she promised. "You have my
word on that. I won't tell them."
He put up no resistance as she lead him back to the
couch. Not saying a word, she resumed her perch on
the table and waited. She would have felt better had
he at least feigned some big bad refusal. Instead he
gave her something she'd never seen in him -
hesitation.
If he was going to talk, it was going to be at his
pace and on his terms. But it seemed like he was
willing to sit there forever. For several minutes, she
granted him his wish for silence, but when she grew
tired of him silently staring at a ragged spot on the
carpet, she again asked, "Why?"
"My fault, really," his confession began, but he
wasn't looking for absolution. "Got in her face,
pushed a bit too far."
"You're always getting in each other's faces," Tara
tried to reason. He was minimizing the situation, and
it made her uneasy. "But she's never gone this far
before. Spike, she could've killed you."
"But," he insisted, "she didn't."
"And that's supposed to make it better?"
"No," he sighed "But it was something she needed to
do." That defensiveness was back. He was one step
from bolting again. She'd never seen him so skittish
before.
She cupped his face, trying her best to get him to
look her in the eyes. "Why are you defending her?"
"I let her down once," he tried to explain. Guilt, it
was such an agonizing bedfellow. "I don't want to make
that same mistake again. It cost Buffy her life last
time. I don't think I could deal with losing her
again."
"No," she said shaking her head. How could he still
feel responsible? "No, it wasn't your fault. You did
everything you could. We all did. Don't blame
yourself for her death."
"Not that easy, ducks," he answered, picking nervously
at a cuticle as he continued. "When she was...gone, I
saw her every night in my dreams. Came up with bigger
and better schemes to save her. Was quicker, got to
her little sis in time, kept Buffy from jumping. I
saved her every one of those hundred and forty-seven
nights. But on the one night, the one bloody night
that it counted, I let her down. Might as well have
been the one who tossed her off that soddin' platform!
"I had to do something tonight. I wasn't going to
lose her again. It was either take it out on me - and
I can handle what she dishes - or take it out on
herself."
"But, Spike," she replied, "you can't help her at all
if you're dead. What if she'd been holding a stake?
She could've killed you."
"You've said that," he interrupted. "Besides, I'm
already dead, remember?" Damn him and those well-
honed defenses. That bitter edge crept into every
word. "You know, evil, unclean, and empty on the
inside. Who better to take it out on? Sure as hell
can't have her working out her frustrations on
somebody with a soul, now could we?"
Her heart ached for him. After everything he'd done
for Buffy, did he still think so poorly of himself?
Sure, he wasn't all the way to good, but he was
working on it. It was a start. "You really don't
believe that, do you?"
"Why shouldn't I?" he said, running a hand through his
disheveled hair. "I'm reminded of it every bloody
day of my unlife. But answer this for me - if I'm
supposedly so soddin' empty on the inside, why is this
so hard?"
"Because you're not," she answered, gently placing her
hand over his heart. The tremble in his hands
returned, and that chink in his impenetrable armor had
just grown a bit larger. "Because they're just that -
words. They're only true if you let them be. You're
not empty. You're far from empty."
Spike leaned back in the couch to stare at the cracked
ceiling. "But what if that isn't enough?" he asked.
"I want you to listen to me, Spike," she insisted,
realizing for the first time how much she sounded like
her own mother. "Nobody expects it to be enough.
You've proven that you don't need a soul to love. And
that counts for a lot. Buffy's been in a dark place
since she's come back. She may not admit it, but she
needs your love right now. But don't lose yourself in
the process. It's not your job to save her."
"Tara," he began, his voice cracking, betraying him
with every word he spoke, "have you ever loved
somebody so much that a little part of you dies every
time they hurt?"
She could feel her own heart begin to ache with his,
and suddenly she understood why he felt this
compelling need to protect Buffy. She'd made the same
sacrifice herself.
"Every day," she answered. "I thought if I could just
try a little harder, I could keep Willow from slipping
further over the edge. In...in the end I couldn't save
her from her cravings. For the longest time I thought
that it was all my fault."
"Leaving her was one of the hardest things I've ever
done," she continued. "But now I realize I was
drowning in the process and would have only pulled her
under with me.
"If you want to help Buffy, don't drown, Spike. Don't
let your love for her get in the way. She needs to
find her own way out of this. You can help show her
the way, but the journey is hers."
"You make it sound so easy," he replied.
"I never said it would be. But some days will be
easier than others," she answered, getting up and
heading to the window to pull the curtains shut. "She
needs all of us to be there for her.
"She's scared and angry. Can you blame her? She needs
us to listen and give her space to work through these
feelings at her own pace. She needs our support,
Spike. And there will be some days when she isn't
going to want our help. But her journey, no matter
how hard, doesn't give her the right to hurt anyone -
including you."
"But..." he started only to be quickly interrupted.
"But nothing."
She wasn't going to back down on this one regardless
of whatever compelling excuse he was about to spin.
"Spike, nothing - not being a demon, not having a
soul, not even loving her so much you'd do anything
for her - makes hurting you okay. You're her friend.
And friends don't do this to each other. I know you
want to help her, but this isn't the way."
The telephone's shrill chirp echoed on the against the
cider block walls, ringing three times before Tara
could reach it. "I better take this," she explained,
worried that the call announced some sort of middle of
the night emergency. No one in the right mind would be
calling her at that hour. Grabbing the receiver, she
answered, "Hello?
"Buffy...where are you? What's wrong? Will and Dawnie
are okay? ...Oh, that's a relief. I got worried when
the phone rang. I figured it was bad news...No, no one
ever calls this late. That's why I panicked."
Spikes eyes were immediately on hers. The slayer's
name had quickly gathered his attention. Holding a
finger up, she silenced the vampire as words were
about to form on his tongue.
"...N-no, you didn't wake me...Yeah, I was at the Magic
Box studying...Uh, no, I haven't seen Spike...He's not in
his crypt?...Maybe he went to Willie's...I'm, sure he's
safe...I don't know, I just have that feeling...Yes, I
know he can take care of himself. I'm sure he's
fine...Sure, I'll do that... You too. G'night."
Replacing the phone in the cradle, Tara put her hand
up again to halt Spike. He was already on his feet and
obviously ready leave again. "She's at home," she
explained. "She's safe."
"Thank god," he interrupted.
"And so are you," she continued. "Let's leave it that
way for tonight, Spike. Stay. You've been through a
lot, and what you really need is some rest."
Amazingly, he didn't put up the fight she'd imagined.
She half-expected him to be rushing out the door,
black leather swirling behind him, as he rushed to
Buffy's. Instead, he gave her a slight nod and leaned
back into the couch.
"It's really late, and the sun'll be up in a few
hours. You can crash here. I've got a mideterm at
ten, so feel free to sleep as long as you want. No one
will be here to wake you up. So why don't you finish
your tea, and I'll go get you a pillow and some
blankets."
"Tara," he said, the second time tonight he'd actually
called her by her name, must have been a record.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome," she smiled. His eyes spoke of
gratitude he'd never be able to express. Evil? Hardly.
He'd left that back about two exits. Turning toward
the hall, she added before vanishing into the shadows,
"And Spike?"
Tugging his boots off, he looked up and answered,
"Yeah, luv?"
"Don't drown."
Author: Mayfly
Spoilers: Post Dead Things
Disclaimer: Never been Joss, never will be Joss. The
characters are his, even if he is mean to them at
times.
A/N: genders swapped in Carole King lyrics to suit the
story. You'll get the picture. This story was begging
to be written. Thought DT was one of the more
disturbing episodes ever, and I felt Spike needed to
process what happened.
She hit me and it felt like a kiss
She hit me and I knew she loved me
'Cause if she didn't care for me
I could have never made her mad
She hit me and I was glad
---lyrics by Carole King
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And It Felt Like a Kiss
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shadows spread out across the darkened streets as Tara
made her way back to her apartment. Cursing herself
for nodding off at the Magic Box while studying for a
sociology midterm, she knew the morning would come far
too soon. Her clutch stuck as it always did when she
shifted her Escort into third gear, and a skinny tabby
cat darted across the roadway in its search for late-
night adventure.
Sunnydale had turned in for the evening. Nearly
three-thirty, the last of the Bronze revelers had long
headed back into the night. Only the demons wandered
the streets at this hour.
Tara made a left at the blinking stoplight and steered
toward the cemetery on her way back to her Spartan
apartment. Humming to the tune on the radio, she
barely noticed the staggering figure limping his way
down the sidewalk, his lean frame hidden by a long,
black coat.
A leather duster.
In an instant she recognized the man. But Spike's
confident swagger was oddly missing from his stride.
In fact, aside from the clothing and shock of platinum
hair, this man barely resembled the vampire she knew.
His gait was stiff and tentative, his head hung low
with defeat. She slowed her car to watch him as he
stopped momentarily and leaned awkwardly against the
wooden telephone pole before resuming his painfully
slow journey.
Pulling her Escort over to the side of the road, she
leaned over, rolled down the passenger side window and
tried her best to shout out the opening. "Ss-spike?"
she stammered.
But the man kept walking, not bothering to look back
as he limped past the car. Maybe she'd been mistaken,
and it wasn't the vampire. Mustering up the courage
to call out louder, more confidently, she took a big
breath and shouted, "Spike!"
Slowly, the man turned, and Tara grimaced when she saw
the gory evidence of recent abuse heaped upon his
battered body. Bloodied and bruised, he squinted at
her. His right eye was nearly swollen shut, a black
and blue shiner spreading under his pale skin. Sticky
blood rimmed his nostrils, and his lower lip was split
open with an angry gash. Whatever he'd faced had
obviously had the upper hand.
"Innit past your bedtime?" he asked, his tone guarded
and flat as he resumed his trek down the pavement.
"Wouldn't want you to be caught with some filthy
beasty, now would we?"
"Wait," she added, gently pressing on the gas and
urging her rusty car to follow him. "Are you okay?"
Halting once again, he let out a nervous little laugh
before answering, "Bloody well been better, that's for
sure." A cough tore through his body, doubling him
over with a painful spasm. His eyes screwed tightly
shut for a minute before he added, "Really, I'm fine.
Go home, Glinda."
"Get in," she insisted, proud of her new found
assertiveness. She wasn't going to let him off that
easy. Teasing the lock and opening the passenger
door, Tara continued. "Spike, I mean it. Let me take
you home. You don't look like you'll make it to the
end of the block."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," he sneered. "But
really, I'm a big boy. I can take care of m'self, luv.
It's what we demons do."
"You...y'know," she stuttered. So much for being sure of
herself. She hated it when he glared at her like
that. "This testosterone thing - it doesn't work on
me, remember? Look, I just thought you might need a
little help. Let's face it, Spike, you're not looking
too big or bad right now. Just let me do this for
you, alright?"
The vampire let out an obligatory sigh of concession
and wordlessly slid into the passenger's seat. Tara
couldn't miss the they way his head lolled back to
lean wearily on the headrest or how his hand shook as
he carefully swiped at the blood under his nose.
Broken, it was a good word to describe what she saw.
"On second thought," she said, putting the car in gear
and merging into the main traffic lane, "let's go back
to my place."
"No," he quickly replied.
Before he could even argue, Tara added, "You wouldn't
stand a chance if whatever did this to you came back
for round two."
Staring intently out the passenger window, he
retorted, "Might be a right, merciful thing. Put me
out my misery once and for all."
"Spike..." she pleaded, trying her best not to be
annoyed with his stubbornness.
"Fine," he interrupted with a hiss.
Taking a quick right before driving past campus, Tara
was a bit surprised that his vocal protests died as
quickly as they had erupted. His will to fight was
gone, and his apathy actually frightened her more than
his physically injuries. She'd have time later to ask
him about it, but for now, she settled for comfortable
silence for the remainder of their short journey.
She was happy to find a parking place close to her
building. Hopping out, she waited for him to pull
himself to his feet and follow her up the steps. She
fumbled briefly with her keys before opening the door
and heading inside.
"It's not much to look at," she explained as she
flipped the lights on and nervously tucked her long
hair behind an ear. "But the housing options are
pretty slim when you move in the middle of a
semester."
Turning toward the door, she felt her cheeks flush
with embarrassment when she realized that Spike
silently stood at the doorway, unable to cross the
threshold. "Oh, god," she stammered. "I'm so sorry. I
forgot, Spike!" Taking his hand she quickly drew him
inside. "Come in."
"One of the few rules I've gotta play by," he
sheepishly explained.
She set her backpack on the dinette and tossed her
coat over one of the mismatched plastic chairs
arranged around its periphery. Afterward, she helped
Spike slide out of his coat, careful not to stir up
any new agony from the large bruises riddling his
body. He stiffened and bit back a groan as he wriggled
his arms out of the long leather sleeves.
"Let me get a washcloth," she explained before
vanishing into the darkened hallway.
When she returned, Spike was leaning heavily against
the kitchen counter and hunting the cupboards for a
glass. Successful in his search, he filled it from
the faucet, he took a small sip, swished the water
around his mouth for a few seconds, than spat a
mouthful of bloody water into the sink. He repeated
the process two more times until the backwash was no
longer a gory shade of red.
After he set his glass on the countertop, Tara pressed
the dampened washcloth to his nose and gently blotted
away the crusted blood. "Let's get you cleaned up,"
she offered. He winced once but never protested,
letting her continue her careful ministrations.
"Do..." she faltered, unsure if she had a right to ask.
"Do you think it's broken?"
"Pro'ly," he answered into the washcloth. "Wouldn't
be the first time."
"Are you still bleeding?" she asked. "I mean, I think
you're supposed to pinch your nose to stop a
nosebleed."
Pulling the cloth away, he offered her a small smile
and limped toward the brown plaid couch in the living
room. Typical college furniture, second-hand and
tattered. Slowly he lowered himself into the waiting
cushions. "Think the worst of the bleeding is over,
luv," he answered. "But could I have a bit of ice?
Can't see much out of m'eye."
"Ice," she repeated with a small nod. Did she hear
correctly? Was Spike actually being polite? "Sure, I
think I can come up with something that resembles a
cold pack."
She bumped into the scratched coffee table on her way
back to the kitchen. Rummaging through the freezer,
she groaned when she realized the ice-tray was
completely empty. But she found a bag of frozen peas.
They'd work fine in a pinch, cold and compact.
Returning to the living room, Tara sat down on the
coffee table, wrapped the pack of frozen vegetables in
a clean dishcloth and handed it to the injured
vampire.
"What's this?" he tried to joke, eyeing the package
suspiciously. "Some wonky vegetarian version of a
cold steak?"
"I...I didn't have any ice cubes," she explained handing
him the impromptu cold pack. "Besides, my mom used to
use these all the time when one of us got hurt. It
works the same."
"As long as it's cold," Spike answered as he pressed
the bag against his right eye and cheekbone and leaned
back, "I really don't care what it is."
She studied him for several minutes, watching the
silent ebb and flow of his chest. He certainly didn't
need to breathe. Perhaps it was habit, something that
made him feel a bit more human and less of a vampire.
Maybe she'd ask him about it some day when he was
feeling better.
Glory had taught her that vampires bled the same
crimson as humans, and Buffy's death had taught her
that they also were capable of very tangible emotions,
including devastating grief. She'd seen that first
hand as she'd held the keening vampire and had wiped
away his tears in the wake of the slayer's death.
He'd looked so utterly lost then. Just as he did now.
"Would an aspirin even help?" she asked, not sure of
its effects on the undead.
"The way I feel," Spike answered with a sigh, "I'm way
beyond 'take two and call me in the morning.'"
"Wait, I have an idea," Tara said, her face
brightening as something came to mind. "I...I could
make you some tea. You know, some chamomile, arnica,
stuff like that. They have some pain killing
qualities."
"That would be lovely," he answered.
"If you'd let me..." she continued, uncertain how
receptive he would be to her idea. His distrust of
magick was well known. "I could add a few other
ingredients that might make it more effective."
Slowly the vampire lifted the pack from his face,
opened his eyes, and flashed her a suspicious glance.
"No thanks. I'll pass on the black arts."
"No dark magick. Honest." she insisted. It was one
area she didn't want to explore anyhow. "Just some
herbs and maybe a healing spell to hold it together.
Think of it as a vampire Tylenol."
Pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand,
Spike answered with a nod, "No funny stuff."
"Scout's honor," she promised with a smile. "It might
make you a little sleepy. But I promise, nothing
funny."
It didn't take long for the water to come to a rolling
boil. Tara carefully wrapped her collection of herbs
in a thin cloth, and steeped it in the bubbling water,
softly whispering her incantation of healing comfort.
The brew slowly darkened to a deep amber hue, and she
poured a generous amount into a ceramic mug before
returning to the couch.
"You're too kind," he smiled through his swollen lip.
Setting the cold pack on the sofa arm, he reached out
for the steaming mug, firmly clasping it with both
hands as though seeking its warmth between his palms.
Tara took a seat on the coffee table. Her house, her
rules. Her father wasn't there to scream at her for
sitting on the table. "So..." she began, resting her
elbows on her knees to get just a touch closer to her
guest. He looked like he needed an ear to bend. "You
going to tell me what happened?"
He stared at the swirling eddies above the cup for a
moment, then took a small sip. Spike didn't bother to
look up when he finally answered. "Not much to say,
pet. Face versus fist. Fist won."
She let out an annoyed sigh. He knew that's not what
she meant. They obviously hadn't beaten his
notoriously stubborn streak out of him. This wasn't
going to be easy. "I can see that," she countered.
"I mean, what did this to you? Some demon or other
messed-up nasty?
"Something like that," he answered, withholding as
much information as possible while he shifted the mug
in his hands and took another sip of the tea. He was
definitely hiding something.
Something about his hands caught her attention
immediately. They had been bloodied and torn after
their battle with Glory. His knuckles had been
shredded when a group of Fyarls had ganged up on him
last summer. Battle scars, he'd once explained, proud
of the injuries, a badge of honor. But tonight, his
hands were untouched, not even a ragged hangnail
marred his fingers. He hadn't been in a fight. He
hadn't even raised his hands to protect himself. He
had let whatever had done this to him attack him,
brutalize his body, and leave him for dead. He'd been
a willing recipient.
There was only one person that he would ever yield
this much power to.
"She did this, didn't she," Tara thought out loud, her
voice barely above a whisper. An assertion, not a
question. Bile rose in her throat at the image of her
friend beating him to a bloody pulp. She was supposed
to be one of the goody good guys, not an ugly bully.
"You let Buffy do this to you."
His one good eye widened. Was it guilt or fear?
Perhaps even a bit of shame flashed across his face.
"I don't know what you're talking about, luv," he
denied as he set his mug beside her. He was such a
hideously poor liar when he was nervous.
"Why?" She didn't know what else to say.
Yes, Buffy was the slayer. She was supposed to kill
vampires. But Spike was different. The evil façade was
just that - a thin veneer, an illusion for the outside
world to believe. He'd done a lot of good, she
reminded herself. He fought by their side long after
everyone had expected. She vaguely remembered his
kindness when her own sanity had been stolen. He'd
watched over Dawn like an overly-protective big
brother. He'd loved Buffy with every part of ounce
unbeating heart. He didn't deserve this. Not even
dogs deserved this.
His face tightened and a sharp edge of defensiveness
crept into his voice as he tried his best make a hasty
exit. "Right, then," he said, "I'm not much in the
mood for an inquisition. So if you don't mind..."
Tara quickly leapt to her feet and followed him to the
door. She couldn't let him leave. He wasn't in any
shape to head home on his own, not after the hornet's
nest she'd just stirred up.
"Spike, wait!" she called out as she wrapped her arms
around his waist in an attempt to prevent him from
leaving. Immediately he bit back an anguished cry that
reminded her of a wounded animal. "Oh my god," she
added, releasing him and trying her best to suppress
the anger bubbling up from within. The slayer had
inflicted some serious damage. "How many ribs did she
break?"
"One," he groaned, twisting away from her grasp.
"Maybe three."
"So it was her."
Spike didn't answer. Rather he closed his eyes and
hung his head in defeat. His dirty little secret was
out. With a tiny nod, he whispered, "Yeah."
"Talk to me, Spike," Tara urged. He was one of her
friends. She wasn't sure when he went from enemy to
ally. It didn't matter. She might not be able to
patch him up very well, but she wanted to do something
to take away his pain. "I want to help."
"Look," he stuttered, pacing the room anxiously,
cornered, "you know too much as it is. What happened
is strictly between me and Buffy, and I'd be much
obliged if you left it that way. Those Scoobies would
just as soon come after me with a stake for rattling
her cage. They wouldn't understand."
"Well *I* want to understand, and what's said in this
room, stays in this room," she promised. "You have my
word on that. I won't tell them."
He put up no resistance as she lead him back to the
couch. Not saying a word, she resumed her perch on
the table and waited. She would have felt better had
he at least feigned some big bad refusal. Instead he
gave her something she'd never seen in him -
hesitation.
If he was going to talk, it was going to be at his
pace and on his terms. But it seemed like he was
willing to sit there forever. For several minutes, she
granted him his wish for silence, but when she grew
tired of him silently staring at a ragged spot on the
carpet, she again asked, "Why?"
"My fault, really," his confession began, but he
wasn't looking for absolution. "Got in her face,
pushed a bit too far."
"You're always getting in each other's faces," Tara
tried to reason. He was minimizing the situation, and
it made her uneasy. "But she's never gone this far
before. Spike, she could've killed you."
"But," he insisted, "she didn't."
"And that's supposed to make it better?"
"No," he sighed "But it was something she needed to
do." That defensiveness was back. He was one step
from bolting again. She'd never seen him so skittish
before.
She cupped his face, trying her best to get him to
look her in the eyes. "Why are you defending her?"
"I let her down once," he tried to explain. Guilt, it
was such an agonizing bedfellow. "I don't want to make
that same mistake again. It cost Buffy her life last
time. I don't think I could deal with losing her
again."
"No," she said shaking her head. How could he still
feel responsible? "No, it wasn't your fault. You did
everything you could. We all did. Don't blame
yourself for her death."
"Not that easy, ducks," he answered, picking nervously
at a cuticle as he continued. "When she was...gone, I
saw her every night in my dreams. Came up with bigger
and better schemes to save her. Was quicker, got to
her little sis in time, kept Buffy from jumping. I
saved her every one of those hundred and forty-seven
nights. But on the one night, the one bloody night
that it counted, I let her down. Might as well have
been the one who tossed her off that soddin' platform!
"I had to do something tonight. I wasn't going to
lose her again. It was either take it out on me - and
I can handle what she dishes - or take it out on
herself."
"But, Spike," she replied, "you can't help her at all
if you're dead. What if she'd been holding a stake?
She could've killed you."
"You've said that," he interrupted. "Besides, I'm
already dead, remember?" Damn him and those well-
honed defenses. That bitter edge crept into every
word. "You know, evil, unclean, and empty on the
inside. Who better to take it out on? Sure as hell
can't have her working out her frustrations on
somebody with a soul, now could we?"
Her heart ached for him. After everything he'd done
for Buffy, did he still think so poorly of himself?
Sure, he wasn't all the way to good, but he was
working on it. It was a start. "You really don't
believe that, do you?"
"Why shouldn't I?" he said, running a hand through his
disheveled hair. "I'm reminded of it every bloody
day of my unlife. But answer this for me - if I'm
supposedly so soddin' empty on the inside, why is this
so hard?"
"Because you're not," she answered, gently placing her
hand over his heart. The tremble in his hands
returned, and that chink in his impenetrable armor had
just grown a bit larger. "Because they're just that -
words. They're only true if you let them be. You're
not empty. You're far from empty."
Spike leaned back in the couch to stare at the cracked
ceiling. "But what if that isn't enough?" he asked.
"I want you to listen to me, Spike," she insisted,
realizing for the first time how much she sounded like
her own mother. "Nobody expects it to be enough.
You've proven that you don't need a soul to love. And
that counts for a lot. Buffy's been in a dark place
since she's come back. She may not admit it, but she
needs your love right now. But don't lose yourself in
the process. It's not your job to save her."
"Tara," he began, his voice cracking, betraying him
with every word he spoke, "have you ever loved
somebody so much that a little part of you dies every
time they hurt?"
She could feel her own heart begin to ache with his,
and suddenly she understood why he felt this
compelling need to protect Buffy. She'd made the same
sacrifice herself.
"Every day," she answered. "I thought if I could just
try a little harder, I could keep Willow from slipping
further over the edge. In...in the end I couldn't save
her from her cravings. For the longest time I thought
that it was all my fault."
"Leaving her was one of the hardest things I've ever
done," she continued. "But now I realize I was
drowning in the process and would have only pulled her
under with me.
"If you want to help Buffy, don't drown, Spike. Don't
let your love for her get in the way. She needs to
find her own way out of this. You can help show her
the way, but the journey is hers."
"You make it sound so easy," he replied.
"I never said it would be. But some days will be
easier than others," she answered, getting up and
heading to the window to pull the curtains shut. "She
needs all of us to be there for her.
"She's scared and angry. Can you blame her? She needs
us to listen and give her space to work through these
feelings at her own pace. She needs our support,
Spike. And there will be some days when she isn't
going to want our help. But her journey, no matter
how hard, doesn't give her the right to hurt anyone -
including you."
"But..." he started only to be quickly interrupted.
"But nothing."
She wasn't going to back down on this one regardless
of whatever compelling excuse he was about to spin.
"Spike, nothing - not being a demon, not having a
soul, not even loving her so much you'd do anything
for her - makes hurting you okay. You're her friend.
And friends don't do this to each other. I know you
want to help her, but this isn't the way."
The telephone's shrill chirp echoed on the against the
cider block walls, ringing three times before Tara
could reach it. "I better take this," she explained,
worried that the call announced some sort of middle of
the night emergency. No one in the right mind would be
calling her at that hour. Grabbing the receiver, she
answered, "Hello?
"Buffy...where are you? What's wrong? Will and Dawnie
are okay? ...Oh, that's a relief. I got worried when
the phone rang. I figured it was bad news...No, no one
ever calls this late. That's why I panicked."
Spikes eyes were immediately on hers. The slayer's
name had quickly gathered his attention. Holding a
finger up, she silenced the vampire as words were
about to form on his tongue.
"...N-no, you didn't wake me...Yeah, I was at the Magic
Box studying...Uh, no, I haven't seen Spike...He's not in
his crypt?...Maybe he went to Willie's...I'm, sure he's
safe...I don't know, I just have that feeling...Yes, I
know he can take care of himself. I'm sure he's
fine...Sure, I'll do that... You too. G'night."
Replacing the phone in the cradle, Tara put her hand
up again to halt Spike. He was already on his feet and
obviously ready leave again. "She's at home," she
explained. "She's safe."
"Thank god," he interrupted.
"And so are you," she continued. "Let's leave it that
way for tonight, Spike. Stay. You've been through a
lot, and what you really need is some rest."
Amazingly, he didn't put up the fight she'd imagined.
She half-expected him to be rushing out the door,
black leather swirling behind him, as he rushed to
Buffy's. Instead, he gave her a slight nod and leaned
back into the couch.
"It's really late, and the sun'll be up in a few
hours. You can crash here. I've got a mideterm at
ten, so feel free to sleep as long as you want. No one
will be here to wake you up. So why don't you finish
your tea, and I'll go get you a pillow and some
blankets."
"Tara," he said, the second time tonight he'd actually
called her by her name, must have been a record.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome," she smiled. His eyes spoke of
gratitude he'd never be able to express. Evil? Hardly.
He'd left that back about two exits. Turning toward
the hall, she added before vanishing into the shadows,
"And Spike?"
Tugging his boots off, he looked up and answered,
"Yeah, luv?"
"Don't drown."