Residual

It had been hours (days?) before Spike regained consciousness. His blue eyes popped open violently as a burning section spread through his leg. A thin ray of light traced across the dark room, ending directly on the fallen man's left leg.

"FUCK!" He yelled, attempting to roll his body away from the ray. Pain seared through his entire body, not just from the sunbeam, but from hundreds of broad, deep cuts and a dislocated hip. He hissed as he began to roll again, using his one working leg to nudge himself behind the smashed piano. He looked around in lethargic confusion, questions slowly entering his mind. What had happened the previous night? Who in the bloody hell had bested him in a fight? Where was he?

It had come back, in vivid flashes. Drusilla above him, screaming declarations of hatred and she shredded his torso with sharpened nails. The deal with the Slayer. Witnessing the Slayer sending her lover to hell. His love being dragged into the portal, and disappearing into blinding light.

A dry sob he had been holding for hours had detached itself from his throat. If he only had the strength, he would've punched the wall, continuing his furious assault until he either brought the entire mansion or his fists disintegrated into bloody stumps. In his present state, he could only dig his fingernails into the hard wood of the piano and hope that it would release some of his stress.

Spike felt it before he saw it – a pair of eyes hollowing glancing in his direction. As soon as he whirled his head and caught sight of the blonde, she dropped her gaze to the ground and continued her distant stare. It was the slayer, presumably, curled against the corner with her arms wrapped around her knees. The first thought that rolled through his mind was a sneering "Pathetic", at least, that was the first thought he wanted to think. A mutinous stab of muddled sympathy shifted through him as he watched this small, shattered woman fold into herself.

"Slayer…" He whispered, not quite finding his voice through the mucus and blood coagulated in his throat. She didn't look up from the spot her eyes were fixed upon. "DAMN IT, SLAYER!"

The blonde looked up at him with a forlorn gaze, before returning to the familiar spot on the ground. A rage shot through Spike but faded one moment later when he moved slightly to the side, and his leg spasmed again. The vampire was growing very tired of the mutilated limb and, as he glanced around, he noticed the battle the night before had caused numerous fissures in the wall. Although he had regretted his survival from the night before, the quiet threat of the sun was becoming direr as the minutes ticked by.

Spike bit his tongue, swiveled on his back, aligned his leg against the wall, and surged forward. A roar of agony escaped his lips, one that went unnoticed by the tiny blonde in the corner.

"Slayer!" He called, becoming more annoyed as she failed to acknowledge him. "SLAYER! A little help here, hm?"

The Slayer, killer of his kind, glanced at him solemnly but made no attempt to move in his direction. Spike gritted his teeth. "Listen, Slayer, we had a deal. The deal was to ensure survival, and as far as I'm concerned, I'm not quite out of the woods yet." He gestured around at the multiplying rays of light.

Silently, she stood up and then immediately collapsed against the wall again. Deep cuts ran across her torso, her right wrist bent at an unnatural angle. Spike's eyes widened. Clearly, he wasn't the only one with perilous injuries. Incorrectly he had assumed that her standing victoriously, literally at the gates of hell, meant that she had remained relatively unharmed.

"Shit, Buffy, I –" Spike stopped himself. "Maybe we can help each other out, yeah? You fix my leg, and I get you to some sort of hospital?"

The Slayer shook her head. That bloody little bitch, reigning in on their deal! Anger coursed through his veins, and as a ray of light nudged against his boot, resignation toward his fate was not far behind. Instead, she stood up again, bracing herself against the wall and began to stumble toward him, a trail of blood and torn clothing following in her wake. The century-old vampire froze and stared at her, amazed at her struggle toward him. She finally reached him, and slowly – agonizingly – grabbed his boot and raised his leg up toward her chest.

For the first time in hours (again, Spike wondered, days?), the Slayer spoke, "This may hurt a bit," before pushing her entire weight against the heel of his boot. An inhumane cry escaped Spike's lips as the pain jolted throughout his body, every nerve on excruciating fire. So engrossed in his agony, he did not notice his ally drop to the ground, completely drained of energy.

With a hiss, Spike wiggled his toes, slowly at first and then more vigorously as he realized feeling had come back to his leg. Just a few weeks prior, he had been confined to a wheelchair – courtesy of the woman who just now fixed his leg – and a fear had gripped him. A tiny thought had crossed his mind, cruelly presented in Drusilla's sing-song voice - Maybe this time it's permanent, dear boy.

A small surge of victory warmed him, as he stood up unsteadily but effectively. The Slayer laid strewn across the floor, eyes open, staring toward the pedestal. Just an.. undeterminable, but recent time before, Spike had everything he loved – Drusilla – cruelly torn from him. The demon in him wanted revenge, and at this vantage point, he could clearly claim his third slayer. Rip her throat out, spread her viscera across the room. Snap the little bird's neck with the simple twist of his hands. He would walk out of the mansion as the last man standing, a very broken man maybe, but Spike was always a survivor. The trail of legends that shadowed him would grow deeper and wider – He'd be known as the vampire who destroyed his grandsire AND the slayer all in one night. Drusilla, of course, would go unmentioned.. or maybe she would be romanticized as the dark beauty who sacrificed herself to save her lover. Yeah, that would do. The hurt of losing Dru would never dissipate, but maybe having an even larger chunk of the demon underworld trembling before him would be a nice consolation pri-

The small woman below him, too lost in her grieve to notice her wounds, began to moan in a low pitch. Her narrow arms gripped her sides in an attempt to keep her innards from spilling out, but she was doing a poor job as Spike could clearly see torn muscle and even some bone from his vantage point.

Well, Spike reasoned to himself, it wouldn't be quite the same story if he preyed upon a weakened slayer – weakened by his grandsire of all demons - like some sort of vulture. Without another thought, he swooped down and slung the lightweight woman over his shoulder.

As he walked toward the door, a nagging thought entered his mind, once again narrated by Drusilla. It also wouldn't look good if you saved a Slayer's life.

To the empty room, Spike answered the taunt.

"Shut up, Dru."