Series: Mortal Allies
Story Title: Episode 4, My Turn
By: Passion4Spike
Chapter 26: River of Dreams
Chapter Notes:
Thanks to all of you for reading! It means so much to me, like Fortune Cookies for my muse! Sending all the sloppy, joyful doggie kisses to everyone who has left a note, a like or a kudo. I'm working on replying to all your lovely comments and treasure every one of them.
Thanks also to my other wonderful beta readers and friends: All4Spike, Paganbaby, and TeamEricNSookie. Holi117 has switched to a pre-reader, which I'm so happy she's finding time for that. All mistakes are mine because I keep fiddling with stuff. If you see any, PM me and I'll fix it.
Chapter 26: River of Dreams
When Buffy came out of her bedroom after leaving Willow and Oz, she heard the shower going—her mom must be in there. This was her chance. With Willow and Oz ensconced in her bedroom, her mom in the shower, and Giles and Xander out, she could give Spike some more of her blood. A voice inside her head sniggered, snidely mocking her, 'This is detached? Better consult the OED.'
Buffy clenched her jaw. This wasn't un-detachment; it was just... just fair. Spike gave all this blood to save Giles, who ended up saving everyone with the magic dust. It's only fair that Spike be given blood in return.
Another helpful voice in her head wondered how much she'd already given him, but Buffy dashed it aside. It didn't matter. After what he'd done, he deserved it. Another voice reminded her that by giving him her blood, he'd heal faster and, thus, be able to leave faster.
Where the hell were all these voices coming from and why wouldn't they just shut up?
But that last one had her steps faltering on the stairs as that thought rattled around in her brain. Maybe instead of giving him Slayer blood, she should give him watered-down pig's blood, slow his healing instead of speed it up. It would still be blood… sort of.
She came around the splintered banister and turned into the living room, chewing her lip in consideration, but when Buffy saw the mangled vampire lying on the floor, her heart took over. She couldn't let him be in pain any longer than necessary just because she was selfish and wanted him to stay. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. And it wasn't who she was. She'd been fighting to stay true to herself the last few days, battling with everything she had to be Buffy—and Buffy took care of her friends, no matter what.
Except she was supposed to be detaching from her friends. Argh! This was all too confusing, and too hard, and she was too tired right now to sort it out. She'd… she'd do the detaching thing later, after she had some sleep. There. She had a plan. A solid plan for disengagement. Do it tomorrow. That's always a valid life choice.
Her dog looked up from where he'd been guarding the vampire, making sure he didn't wake and try to move, as Buffy dropped to her knees on the sleeping bag at Spike's head. She quickly retrieved the scalpel she'd been using from the first-aid kit and slashed a deep cut into her forearm, keeping an ear out for Giles and Xander returning or her mom coming out of the shower. Buffy held her arm over Spike's mouth and let the thick stream of blood flow from her veins to his lips.
Spike's demon sprang to life beneath the dripping blood, fangs extending, forehead wrinkling. Buffy thought she saw his eyes flutter open, a flash of gold in the darkened room, but it was gone before she could be sure. Spike's tongue darted out, capturing the falling manna, swallowing desperately. But then, as before, he began shaking his head, trying to turn away from the life and healing Buffy was offering.
"Damn it," she hissed, pressing her free hand down on his forehead trying to hold him still. "You need this. What is wrong with you, you crazy vampire?" Buffy shifted and got his head wedged between her knees as she knelt on the floor above him, her free hand shifting to hold his jaw still as her blood fell in a waterfall of crimson, splashing over his lips and tongue. But instead of swallowing, he had begun trying to spit it out and it ran over his face, his chin, down his neck.
"Fuck," Buffy growled as she heard the water upstairs shut off. "Eat, you goddamned stubborn, shirty, smartass vampire."
** X-X-X-X-X **
Spike fell through the TV and landed in a pool of velvety, liquid warmth. He floated in the comfort of it, drifting on softly lapping waves. He couldn't ever remember being so warm. William had been warm, of course, he still had memories of that, but since his heart had stopped beating, Spike couldn't remember being this perfectly, wonderfully warm. As he savored the pleasure of it, his mind went back to those summer holidays with his parents, 'taking the air' at the seaside. The sun had been bright, the air had been humid, the sand had heated his bare feet, but the water had been what everyone called 'bracing', not balmy like the ocean he reclined in now.
This was perfection. The thick, red liquid surrounded him, supported him, embraced him in its elegance. He blew out all the air in his lungs and sank into it, into what turned out to be a flowing river of blood. He drank deeply, the taste of it as close to heaven as he'd ever hope to come. He swam beneath the surface, his bare body diving and twisting, as he gulped huge mouthfuls of the sweet, coppery nirvana. He laughed gleefully, swimming against the current, his lithe form undulating, strong legs kicking, propelling him forward to the source of this manna.
It was heaven. It was the stars and the moon and the sun. It was as red as rubies and as thick as warm honey. It tasted of strength and power with a light dusting of hopeful innocence atop it all. It was at once familiar and foreign. It was something he'd longed for but had never hoped to touch, a forbidden fruit, a faraway dream—of that he was certain.
The river narrowed and grew shallower as Spike swam beneath the glittering surface. He emerged to find it dwindling down into a stream, then a brook, then nothing more than a tiny rivulet. Its source was a blur in the distance, obscured by the shimmering heat and brightness of the sun overhead. The river of red cut through dunes of bone-white sand beaches, which rose high on each side. He stood and began to walk, the dazzling sun above tingling his blood-soaked skin. His bare feet splashed through the thick, red liquid, moving toward the source, staining the pure white sand along the banks. Crimson droplets rolled from his chiseled body as he prowled forward, the drops rejoining the river beneath him as it flowed to the sea.
And then it was there, coming into view as he crested a dune: the source. The source of all this joy, all this beauty, all this warmth, all this life.
He stiffened, his eyes widening into disbelief, his dead heart clenching in his chest.
"Buffy," he muttered, standing atop the rise, his feet trapped by the shifting sand, unable to move. Spike stood there, frozen in place, staring at the small form of the girl, her body limp, crumpled, her face buried in the sand. Her chest didn't rise and fall, her heart didn't beat. The only movement was the flow of blood from two punctures on her neck. The source of the river he'd been reveling in.
The blood he'd swallowed returned, burning like holy water as his muscles spasmed and expelled it from his stomach. He folded over at the waist, clutching his middle, as wave after wave of nausea gripped him, spewing the thick crimson liquid onto the dry, white sand. He gasped in unneeded breaths of overheated desert air between each wracking contraction that forced the Slayer blood out of him.
'No means no.'
He stumbled forward, his stomach still twisted in knots, the burn of the disgorged blood still stinging his throat, mouth, and lips. And then he was running, struggling through the deep sand, his feet sinking to the knee with every futile step. A heart-wrenching panic ripped at his guts, knotting them even tighter. The warm blood that remained in his veins turned to shards of ice. The joyful laughter turned to howls of terror.
"Buffy!" Spike's scream rolled over the barren landscape like a bomb blast, flattening the dunes and sending a plume of dust into the bright sky, blotting out the sun.
Spike fell to his knees at her side, his arms reaching for her, gathering her against him like a ragdoll. Cold. Lifeless. Lost. "Buffy!" he cried again, cradling her to him, rocking back and forth as if trying to comfort a child. Tears rolled down his cheeks and dripped from his chin, leaving streaks in the blood that coated him—her blood. Her life. "Buffy… no, no, no… please, no," Spike croaked, his unbeating heart shattering as he turned her face up to his.
Spike's blue eyes widened to saucers as her lank, disheveled hair fell away, revealing golden eyes and deadly fangs. Spike shook his head violently, disbelief warring with horror on his features. His mouth gaped opened, but nothing came out. He wouldn't… he couldn't… not Buffy. Not anyone. Not after his mother.
"You promised you wouldn't," Buffy lisped around her fangs before lunging for his throat.
** X-X-X-X-X **
Spike jerked awake with a yowl of shock that quickly became one of pain as newly healed flesh ripped apart. Above him, Buffy jumped back in surprise, falling onto her butt, clutching her bleeding arm with her hand and holding it against her chest. The dog lurched to his feet, ready to fight or restrain the vampire, whatever proved to be needed.
"Spike! You're okay! Stop!" Buffy shouted, the shock passing quickly. She lunged for the vampire who was trying to rise, his blue eyes wide but somehow lost and unseeing, the demon suddenly gone. "Spike!" she cried again, as she pressed down on his shoulders, doing all she could to keep him still. He was determined, but still disoriented and woozy with drugs and pain. He fought against her clumsily and with far less than his normal strength. Still, he didn't stop trying to get up as more and more gashes and wounds opened all across his torso.
"William!" she tried in desperation as the dog flung himself across the struggling vampire, pressing the smaller Spike down with his considerable weight. The vampire writhed beneath them, but, finally, most of his motion was arrested by the Slayer and the Guardian.
Spike's vision whirled with images blood and death, of accusing green eyes turned to the molten gold of a demon that matched his own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer now a vampire… his childe, his doing, his horror, his promise broken. His head spun, disoriented and confused, as images blossomed like fireworks then faded, one atop the next. Nothing seemed real and yet it all did, swirling like a vortex in his mind. Spike's ears rang with remembered words—Buffy defending him, saying he was part of her team, her friend, that she trusted him, then turning around and agreeing with Joyce that he had to go. But the worst was her accusing him of breaking the truce, of taking her blood, of killing her, of turning her.
His nostrils flared with the sweet, heady scent of Slayer blood, he was sure he could taste it, hot and ripe on his tongue, feel its heat and strength in his veins making his demon sing. But he wouldn't! Would he? His stomach began to churn again, twisting and writhing like a basket of angry snakes. What had he done? What the hell had he done!?
"Nooo! Please!" he begged, still struggling to get free. But his limbs were leaden, weighed down by injury and drugs and something heavy pressing down on him. "Buffy, no!"
"Spike! I'm here! Stop! Please stop," she pleaded as blood ran down her arm coating her hand and his shoulder, dripping onto the bedding beneath.
Was this real or another hallucination? Spike couldn't tell the difference, it all felt real, and it all felt like a faraway dream. He blinked, once, twice, trying to clear his foggy vision, and recognition began to creep into his gaze as their eyes met.
"God, Spike… don't move. You're ripping everything open," Buffy gasped, letting up a bit on the pressure against his shoulders when his struggling subsided.
"Buf—" Spike began, but was cut off by a coughing fit which sent blood spilling from the freshly opened wounds on his torso and spluttering from his lips.
"It's okay… shhh… it's okay," Buffy cooed, reaching for a bottle of water that someone had left on the nearby table. She opened it and held it out, offering it to the vampire, but he wasn't looking at it— he was looking at her. When his hands came up, Buffy tried giving him the bottle, but he brushed it aside, instead cupping her face with his palms.
"Buffy…" he rasped through the end of the coughs, taking her face in his hands and turning it from side to side, examining her. He ran his hands down to the pulse points on each side of her neck and sighed in utter relief as he felt the warm, steady rhythm of her blood beneath his fingers.
"Bloody hell," he muttered, letting his head fall back, and his eyes drift closed in relief. Was it all a dream? She'd been speaking French... badly. Did Buffy speak French? Another vision surfaced—a dream or a memory, he couldn't tell, fading almost as quickly as it had come. Buffy at the Bronze. La vache... doit me... touche... de la... jeudi. What happens on Saturday? I kill you.
Spike shook his head, trying to get all his marbles to fall back into their proper slots. It didn't really work—they just kept rattling around, clacking against each other in a whirl of disorienting chaos. "You're alive… bloody hell…" he repeated after a moment, giving up on trying to sort out dreams from memories. "I thought… thought I'd… blood… there was blood. So much blood."
Buffy grimaced, extending her arm to the dog so he could close the wound before Spike opened his eyes again. The Guardian took the cue and quickly licked the slash in her arm, sealing it well enough for now. She pulled back and grabbed one of the rags left over from earlier and began wiping the vampire's face and shoulder, using the bottled water to rinse away the evidence of her reckless behavior. No, not reckless, not according to Oz's definition anyway. She revised it to 'un-slayer-like' behavior. Extremely un-slayer-like.
"Mostly, it was your blood," she informed him, trying to sound casual, even as tears of relief pooled in her eyes. He was awake, he was semi-lucid, he was going to be okay. They turned bittersweet when she remembered that also meant that he'd probably leave soon… as soon as he was coherent enough to remember that she was the cause of all the pain he was in. 'Detach!' "Welcome back, you stubborn vampire," she murmured, wiping the last of her blood from his neck and shoulder.
Spike's head was still spinning, dreams and reality melding in a confusing mash in his mind. He blinked his eyes open just as she dropped the rag onto the floor behind her. He reached up again, skimming his knuckles lightly over her cheek then down the side of her neck, double-checking, not trusting himself to know what was real and what wasn't. Warm. Breathing. Heartbeat. Alive. Not bleeding.
"Are you real?" he asked in a husky voice, his eyes searching hers, trying to see the truth.
"Is that an existential question? Cos, not sure I'm up for that right now," Buffy replied, giving him a wan smile.
Spike's brows furrowed as he tried to pull free from the web of painkillers, pain, and exhaustion that clung to him, keeping his mind slightly submerged beneath a veil of uncertainty. "Serious…"
Buffy snorted. "Whether I was real or not, I'd probably say I was, so I'm failing to see the point of telling you that I'm real when you probably won't believe me anyway."
The knot in his stomach eased and his splintered heart began mending, knitting back into one cohesive piece. "Only the real you is this bloody annoying," he croaked, looking around with just his eyes for that bottle of water she'd had a minute ago… or was it an hour ago, or had he just imagined it?
Buffy seemed to know what he wanted because it appeared, almost empty. She opened it and tipped a bit into his mouth and he swallowed it gratefully. As he licked his chapped lips, he still thought he could taste the river of blood… Slayer blood, Buffy's blood. He shook his head again, trying desperately to sort out fact from fiction.
"Says the reigning champion of Sunnydale's 'Most Annoying Vampire' contest for two years running," she retorted.
Spike snorted. "Guess that means we won, eh? Otherwise you wouldn't be here t' give me shite," he observed, suddenly realizing he was being held down by a heavy, hot, shaggy weight. His gaze shifted to the dog and he frowned. "Let off, Dumbo. Bloody hell, weigh as much as a sodding wooly mammoth."
The dog huffed out a breath and pushed himself to his feet, backing carefully off the supine vampire. He paused then and began licking the wounds that had reopened on Spike's torso between the wrappings that held his ribs in place, closing them again.
"Oi, what the buggering fuck...?" Spike started, lifting his head, but then subsided, realization dawning.
"He's healing you… again," Buffy provided belatedly, placing a hand on Spike's bare, clean shoulder, stilling him. "You need to try and be still."
Spike settled back down, the soft weight and warmth of her hand on his shoulder allowing him to ignore the slick, hot goo the dog was coating his stomach with. "How long was I out?" he wondered, looking up at her. She was too thin. Too haggard, with dark circles under her eyes and a very un-Buffy-like pallor to her normally glowing skin, making the swollen bruises he could see stand out vividly.
"Uh…" Buffy shook her head, looking around for a clock, trying to think, trying to remember. "Almost a full day... twenty-four-ish hours."
Spike shook his head. "Seems longer."
"Yeah, well, that's probably what happens when you get shot with a whole bunch of non-vampire-friendly bullets," Buffy replied more harshly than she'd intended. "What the hell were you thinking?" she demanded, her green eyes suddenly blazing with anger, but something else too. Fear? Worry?
Spike laid one hand over hers were it still rested on his shoulder. "Was thinking you couldn't bear to see the Watcher bleeding out on your front walk. Was I wrong?"
Buffy's lips compressed as she shook her head. "Not wrong." 'But seeing you bleed out… seeing you almost dusted, it wasn't any better,' she thought, but didn't dare say. She needed to detach. This was not detached. "You're still a stupid vampire… but… thank you."
Spike shrugged a shoulder and gasped as pain radiated out from his chest.
"I told you to not move," the Slayer chastised again, pushing down on his shoulder harder. "You have shattered ribs and your whole chest and stomach were nothing but a super-gross mess of blood-soaked maggot bait. I thought I told you before I never wanted to see your intestines again. You are soooo unattractive with your guts hanging out."
"Impossible for me t' be unattractive," Spike chided dryly, doing his best to remain still.
Buffy rolled her eyes with an exasperated sigh. "Going for the 'Most Modest' crown, too, I see," she snarked back, looking down at him. Their eyes met and Buffy felt a wave of gratitude wash over her. He was okay… or would be. Even if he left—when he left—at least he was okay. She hadn't killed him. He wasn't dust. "Some of those bullets were wooden," she revealed in a solemn tone. "Giles had to get them out." She reached down and touched a finger to a couple of the angry, red 'X's on his stomach where there was no gauze or tape.
Spike's brows rose, taking that in as his eyes followed the track of her hand on his stomach. He wished he hadn't when he saw the barely healed gashes and too-thin flesh in a mottled kaleidoscope of reds, purples, blues, and blacks. It was evident that some areas were being held together with little more than crepe paper and a prayer.
"The Watcher? So, he's alright then?"
Buffy shrugged. "Better than he would've been with twenty-five bullets in him. He had to cut you open more to get all the splinters out. That's what all these 'X's are," she continued, her fingers a feather-light touch, jumping from one wound to the next across his stomach. "But he got them… finally."
"Wooden bullets. Whoever heard of such bollocks? Bloody Council…" Spike grumbled. Then realization hit him—why would the Watcher be taking the bullets out? Why not the Slayer? "Were you hurt, pet? Shot?" he asked hastily. 'Bitten?' his mind added, but he dared not say, as his eyes darted back up to hers, concern evident in his gaze and tone. He was unable to think of any other reason she wouldn't have done the honors herself and was suddenly aware that he hadn't really checked more than her neck and that she was breathing.
"I'm fine… fine-ish. Not shot, just hit by flying glass and beat up a little," Buffy told him, holding up her arms which still had red marks from the shards of glass.
Spike reached a hand out to touch one that seemed fresher, redder, more inflamed than the others. His brows furrowed as he tried to sort out dreams from reality, and utterly failing. He could feel the demon's healing power tapping his energy to restore his muscles and knit everything back into place. But it would need blood for that. Where had the blood come from? His eyes skimmed over Buffy. Nothing looked like a bite mark, not on her neck or her arms, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he had Slayer blood coursing inside him, fueling his body's restoration. But that was impossible. If he'd broken the truce, taken her blood, the Slayer would've staked him on the spot… right?
Buffy pulled her arm away and tugged the long sleeves of her shirt down to cover the marks, unable to meet his eyes.
"What about the others? Yer mum… the wolf and the witch?" Spike asked, his eyes searching her face. He'd promised to protect them. Had he failed? Had he somehow hurt them? Was that what those dreams and visions had been about?
Buffy shook her head, her eyes shifting around the room, looking at anything but Spike. "They're all okay. Giles got the guys de-spelled and woken up, but they're a little hungover, I guess, from the magic. Well, mostly Willow is. Giles and Xander went to get some stuff to try and patch up all the holes in… well, everything, and Mom's in the shower… or she was. Maybe she laid down. Oz and Willow are in my room, resting."
Buffy kept fidgeting with the cuffs of her sleeves, pulling them down further, stretching them until they covered her palms and part of her fingers. She still couldn't meet Spike's eyes, so, instead, she watched her dog, who had just finished healing the opened tears on the vampire's abdomen. He sat back on his haunches, looking extremely pleased with himself, thick, ropey tendrils of drool hanging from his jowls.
Spike followed her gaze, a memory surfacing. "Do you speak French?" he asked out of the blue, looking back up at Buffy who was kneeling above his head.
Buffy blinked. "Wow, random much?"
Spike raised his brows, looking at her upside down from where he lay on the floor, urging her to answer.
She shrugged. "Uh… well, not sure you would call it speaking French as much as mangling it. Why?"
"Were you speaking French in the last few hours?" he continued, not answering her question.
"Noooo…" she drawled. "Spike, what's…"
"Is there a… cheeseburger plan?" he wondered, cutting her off.
She arched a brow, but gave up trying to figure out why Spike was asking such weird questions. Drugs. Must be the drugs. "Not exactly a plan. I told Spike that I'd buy him all the cheeseburgers in town… and that you'd drive us."
"I don't get a cheeseburger?" the vampire wondered, looking at the dog.
"You can have the onion rings," Buffy offered with a sly half-smile.
"Ungrateful lot, you are," Spike complained, his mind working, trying to sort out what had been real and what hadn't. It was all too confusing and too mixed up in his mind.
He looked down at the very red blood that had seeped onto the gauze and tape that was holding his ribs in place. It was too fresh to be from before the fight with the Council. A memory or a vision of his fangs sinking into flesh flashed through his mind. A vivid image of Lisa from Fairplay jumped to the fore of his thoughts, but he shook it away; she wasn't here, of that he was certain. "What about the berks from the Council? Are they…?" He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously in his throat. "Did I… bite them?" he asked, searching her face for the answer, fearing what he'd see. Had he killed any of them? Is that where this blood was from?
Buffy cleared her throat and looked off into the distance, not meeting his eyes. "We captured them… used them as leverage like we planned. Traded them back to the Council in exchange for them promising to leave us alone… or mostly alone. They're sending a new Watcher; I have to work with them, but we sort of knew that might happen. One of the few things that actually went to plan."
Spike furrowed his brows, his heart sinking. She didn't actually answer his question. "Seem t' have some fresh blood in me," he pointed out carefully, worry tightening his throat.
Buffy continued tugging nervously at the long sleeves of her shirt. "Uh, yeah," she stuttered, shifting uncomfortably. "We… that is, Mom, got you some blood from the hospital. I got you to swallow it. Knew you'd need it to heal." Buffy pushed herself to her feet, bringing the rag with her blood on it with her, surreptitiously stuffing it into the waistband of her sweats and covering it with her shirt.
Her body protested the sudden change in elevation. She grabbed onto the edge of a table for balance, the other hand going to her head, which seemed to be floating off all on its own, detached from the rest of her. How much blood had she given Spike? Enough to make her dizzy? Apparently. "I'll just… I'll get you some more. I've been giving you Giles' pain killers, but…" She made an apologetic face. "I sorta, kinda, nearly used them all up already. I probably need to leave him some. He's pretty beat up."
As the Slayer hurried toward the kitchen, the vampire looked over at the dog sitting beside him. "What the bloody hell was that, about, Cujo? Something she's not tellin' me, I can feel it."
The big dog sneezed, rattling his tags and flinging slobber all over Spike, the bedding, and the floor beyond.
"Bloody hell!" Spike complained, wiping hot, sticky goo from his face. "Next time, just say ya dunno, for fuck's sake."
The Guardian huffed out a breath before walking his front feet out and settling onto his belly, resting his head on his paws and coating them with a liberal sheen of slobber, as well. His big brown eyes were pleased and unapologetic as he gazed over at his counterpart.
"Fat lotta help you are," Spike grumbled, laying back and letting his eyes fall closed. "You could speak perfectly respectable English just a bit ago. Need t' work on that."
The dog huffed indignantly and just continued watching the vampire with wary concern.
Spike once again tried sorting through everything he could remember, but parts of it were fading and what was left was coming in fits and starts, flashes of images or snippets of conversations. He couldn't tell what was real and what wasn't… though, come to think of it, anything with the bloody mutt talking was likely not real. Likely. There was a cheeseburger plan of sorts, and it was the mutt who'd been talking about that, sooo…
Spike sighed. Must've been some good drugs the Watcher had. Or maybe Buffy had just overdosed him on them… she'd used nearly a whole bottle in a day? Even for a vampire, that would likely do it.
Spike heard the microwave 'ding' and began to sit up. He rolled to one side and tried to push up to a seated position, gritting his teeth against the wave of pain that surged through him with the movement. He could feel the ribs that Buffy had mentioned, they ground against their neighbors with every move and every breath he took, so he stopped breathing, but continued trying to rise. Down in the muscle and sinew, the bullet wounds burned like fire. Sharp jolts of pain radiated from them with any small move he made. Buffy's advice to not move was starting to sound better and better, but he was determined to sit up and drink the blood she was bringing.
The dog stood up and started whining in protest, his cold nose snuffling along Spike's shoulders and back, as if he could sniff out a way to stop the vampire without hurting him.
"Spike! What are you doing?!" Buffy demanded as she came back into the living room to find him struggling to sit up.
"What's it bloody look like?" he ground out through clenched teeth, reaching for the arm of a chair to try and haul himself up with.
"God dammit," Buffy growled, putting the mug of blood down on the coffee table and hurrying over to him. "If you screw your ribs up again, I'm not putting them back in place!" she threatened. "Lay back down," she ordered, pressing a hand down on his shoulder.
"No! Not gonna have you feed me like a sodding invalid," Spike protested, a growl slipping through his control as the pressure she applied blanketed his body in a fresh wave of misery.
"Dammit," Buffy muttered, pulling her hand away. "You stupid, stubborn vampire. What do you think I've been doing the last twenty-four hours?"
Spike's arms quivered with the strain, one trying to push and one trying to pull him upright while his ribs creaked and newly formed scabs cracked open again. He swore under his breath, struggling valiantly—or was it foolishly?—to sit up.
"Are you done yet?" Buffy wondered, standing over him with her arms crossed.
Spike let out a cry of defeat and pain and dropped back down onto the sleeping bag, panting in unneeded air and clutching at his ribs.
Buffy sighed and rolled her eyes. "Why can't you just do what I say for once?" she wondered, picking up the mug of blood and the turkey baster from the table. "Would that be so hard?"
"All I bloody do," Spike gasped out, his arms wrapped around his torso as he held himself unnaturally still.
"Not hardly," she argued. "Case in point," Buffy continued, waving a hand at him as she settled down again on the floor above his head. She set the mug of blood down as she gently lifted Spike's head and scooted forward until it was pillowed in her lap. "Pretty sure I also told you to not go out the door and get yourself shot."
"Was me or the Watcher," Spike replied, finally getting his breathing and the pain under control. "Did it for you."
Buffy felt hot tears spring to her eyes and she blinked, trying to keep them back. "I know," she whispered, picking up the mug and the baster. "You're hurt because of me, all of this is because of me, so do me a favor and let me help you."
"Not because of you, pet," Spike assured her, reaching a hand up to stop her motions. "Was the Council and their bollocks. Not your fault."
Buffy snorted her disagreement. "If I hadn't called you, you wouldn't even have been here and none of this would've happened to you. It's my fault… just please let me try and help. I know it's not enough… not enough for you to forgive me, but—"
"Buffy, luv, there's nothing to forgive," Spike began, hating that he couldn't sit up, wasn't on level ground with her, but he reached up and touched her face, urging her to look at him. "Would've been here anyway. Was on my way here when I got your message."
Buffy stared down at him with shimmering eyes, disbelief evident in her gaze. She clenched her jaw determined not to cry. Detached people didn't cry.
"It's true, pet. I… I'd left Dru and… needed a friend. I was on my way here, to you… a-and yer mum," Spike added self-consciously, not wanting to admit that Buffy was the one he had really wanted to see. No need frightening the girl off when all she saw him as was a friend.
Buffy closed her eyes tightly against the flood of tears that pressed against the back of her eyes, her resolve for detachment faltering. "Friend," she repeated softly, clenching her teeth over the word. All he wanted was a friend. All he needed was a friend. He didn't want her heart. That was good. That was detached. That would keep them both from getting hurt. He would get well, and he would leave. He'd send her postcards and… and she'd be detached and no one would get hurt and it would be better. It would all be better.
So why did it hurt already? Why did she keep hoping that somehow he'd change his mind or suddenly see her as someone he could love? As more than a friend. It happened in the movies all the time. Where was the magic of a Julia Roberts rom-com when you needed it?
Buffy cleared her throat and swallowed the hurt, forcing the tears away. She put a feeble smile on her lips and opened her eyes to look down at him. "Then let me be your friend and help you before this blood gets cold and even more gross," she insisted, pulling her arm away from his hand where he'd stopped her earlier. She dipped the turkey baster into the mug and filled it with the warm human blood. "Do I need to make choo-choo train sounds or are you going to open your mouth like a good boy?" she wondered, arching a brow down at him.
Words rang in Spike's ears, 'Gettin' rid of you. Only room in this house for one good boi, and you ain't it.' Spike scowled, cutting his eyes at the dog lying next to him. He quickly opened his mouth, suddenly feeling the need to show the stupid mutt that he, the vampire, was the best good boi.
Buffy carefully shifted the end of the baster from the mug to his lips and squeezed gently, letting the blood flow in. Flashes of memory or dream—Spike still wasn't sure—came back to him with each mouthful she fed him. The feel of the plastic against his lips, the way his mouth filled with the blood, the taste of it, the feel of it—they'd done this before. Yes, she'd said she had, but it hadn't seemed real to Spike until then.
A warm glow suffused him, beginning in his chest and spreading through his body, and it wasn't from the blood. Buffy had taken care of him, cleaned him up, set his ribs, had the hound heal his wounds, and given him blood. He remembered Dru tossing him onto their bed at the factory when he'd had his back broken and leaving him there all alone for hours at a time, unable to move, not even turning the telly on for him. He'd been starving as his body tried to heal all the damage and wild with hunger when she'd finally remember to send a minion in with someone—or something—for him to eat. But Buffy… she'd been taking care of him herself, giving him blood, setting the breaks so they'd heal faster and less painfully. He reminded himself that even as a friend, Buffy was better to him than Dru had ever been. If that was all he could ever have, it would be enough.
As she continued filling his mouth with helpings of the blood, memories of Buffy urging him to swallow, begging him to, surfaced. But then the memory shifted, and it was Slayer blood dripping into Spike's mouth, coating his lips and tongue. Another feeling emerged, his fangs sinking into flesh as hot, thick blood flowed into him. He shook his head, trying to sort through the images and sensations, trying to make them make some kind of sense.
"Spiiike," Buffy chastised, drawing his name out, as the last of the blood splattered over his face when he moved. She pulled the baster back and set it in the empty mug on the floor, reaching for a towel to wipe it up. "I swear, you're the messiest eater ever. Not even Spi—the dog spills this much."
The vampire grabbed her wrist, stopping her from finishing wiping up the blood that had dribbled down his jaw. "Buffy, did I bite you?" he asked, his tone hard and serious. "And no dancing about this time. Tell me the sodding truth." His eyes bored into hers, looking up as she looked down, demanding honesty.
"No, you didn't bite me. I told you before—"
"Who did I bite?"
Buffy clamped her lips together, trying to look away from him, but Spike's gaze held her trapped with their intensity. "One of the goons… you bit Weatherby, the one that shot you. But it wasn't your fault and he's not dead!" she added quickly when his eyes widened in surprise and confusion. "In fact… it was my fault. I… fed him to you."
"You what?" Spike spluttered, his confusion growing. The memory of what had to be a dream flashed through Spike's mind. 'Sucked him down like a hemorrhaging Slurpee.' He shook it off, focusing on Buffy. "You said—"
"I know what I said," Buffy ground out. The next words came out in a rush, one long breath, "But you were in pain and you had wooden bullets in your chest and you were too strong, I couldn't hold you down and you could've dusted and Weatherby was all tranquilized and I knew the tranquility would transfer and it was the only thing I could think of and—and I couldn't let you dust because I… because I… because we're friends and this is my fault and I should've probably just let you do it your way to start with and none of this would've happened and… and…" Buffy's throat constricted and no more words would come. She stared down at him, willing herself to find some small fragment of detachment that would keep her from bursting into tears.
"Bloody hell, pet," Spike sighed when she faltered. "You did that for me?" His heart swelled again, a glow as warm as the sun suffusing him with a feeling he knew too well, one that he couldn't express to her lest he scare her away. He wouldn't be able to stand it if that happened.
Buffy bit her bottom lip and nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Of course I did. What do you think, I'd just let you dust? You're my vampire… no one else gets to dust you," she answered, trying to sound irritated.
A smile quirked Spike's lip. "Gonna get me some tags like the mutt's? 'If found, return to owner: Buffy Summers, the Slayer, from Sunnydale.'"
Buffy rolled her eyes. "I might tattoo it on your smartass," she snarked, regaining her composure.
Spike's grin widened. "Say the word, Slayer. I'll drop trou right now if you—"
"Yeah, yeah… you talk big for someone who can't even sit up," she dismissed airily.
"Raincheck then," he promised with a smirk. Then another thought came to him. "Anyone else see the show?"
Buffy sighed. "Mom and Giles. Giles wasn't thrilled," she admitted with an eyeroll.
Spike snorted, releasing her wrist and taking the cloth from her hand. "Suppose not," he agreed as he finished wiping his face and neck. "Sorry… sorry I put ya in that position, luv. Know it's not your nature."
Buffy huffed out a disgusted breath. "I don't know what my nature is anymore," she admitted dourly, taking the rag back from him and setting it and the mug off to the side. She began to lift Spike's head but he took the hint and held it up until she could slide out from beneath him and slip the pillow back.
"C'mere, pet," he requested, tugging at her arm and indicating the empty space between him and the shaggy lump sharing the sleeping bag with him.
Buffy looked at the blood coagulating in the bottom of the mug. "I need to clean this up," she protested.
"Later. C'mere, need to talk to you."
"That's all you've been doing," she complained. "Geez, I'm gonna have to steal more of Giles' pills just to shut you up."
Spike gave her one of his looks. One of those looks that spoke volumes—like Encyclopedia Britannica volumes—a look that conveyed more than he could ever say with a million words. A look that said he was serious, that he wasn't just taking the piss or being piggy, that what he wanted to say was important—at least in his mind. A look that both begged and demanded. A look that was impossible to ignore.
Buffy sighed, shifting around to lay down next to him on her side, her head propped up with one hand.
"Closer," Spike requested, opening his arm for her to slip beneath.
Buffy hesitated. This was not detached. This was sooo far from detached she couldn't even see it on the horizon… with the Hubble Telescope and binoculars. Her eyes met his. There was that look again. She felt like she could fall into the blue ocean of those eyes. Every emotion Spike felt shown in their bottomless depths. Right now, they were earnest, caring, sincere. Then Buffy remembered that she was starting detached tomorrow. Not tonight, tomorrow. Right. She carefully slid against him, pillowing her head on his relatively uninjured shoulder, trying to avoid jarring his broken ribs.
"Want me t' tell you your nature, luv?" he asked when she was curled against his side, her long hair draped over his bare chest and arm like a fine, silk scarf, her warmth like a balm down the length of his body. He breathed in the scent of her—the sweet fragrance of her shampoo and soap mingling with the tang of barely contained tears and the hint of earthy perspiration that touched her skin. It was heaven.
"Is this gonna be like a fortune cookie or something?" she wondered, her breath tickling lightly over his skin. "'Life is a series of choices. Yours suck.'"
"No, don't speak Chinese, so no fortune cookies, just someone who knows Slayers and who knows you, telling you the truth."
"This should be good," Buffy groused, trying to sound put out, while at the same time enjoying the feel of Spike's arm around her, of his body next to hers, and the deep rumble of his voice in her ear. She wanted to enjoy this now, while it lasted. Tomorrow she'd be detached and soon he'd be gone. As soon as the drugs wore off and he was thinking straight, he'd realize this was all her fault and leave her staring after his taillights as he sped away to somewhere safer—like a nuclear bomb testing site.
"You're a hero pet—that's your nature," he continued, ignoring her sarcasm.
Buffy scoffed, but didn't move. "You clearly haven't been paying attention," she suggested. "Or maybe those drugs have fried what few brain cells the peroxide missed."
"Been payin' attention, and my brain cells are still spry enough to suss out what you are. You take the weight of the world on your shoulders every sodding day, Buffy. Everything that goes wrong, you feel responsible for. If you can't save everyone by yourself and keep your hair lookin' like a shampoo commercial, then you think you've sodding failed."
"You think my hair looks like a shampoo commercial?" she asked, lifting her head from his shoulder and looking at him.
Spike rolled his eyes. "Yer missin' my point."
"I'm ignoring your point because it's pointless," she contended, settling her head back down.
"Not pointless—pointy as one o' your deadly bits of wood and bloody true. You're a hero, pet. You walk into a world full of greys, into the fog of uncertainty, and your heart leads you to the right path. Maybe not the path those old geezers in tweed would choose, but the path that saves the world, the path that keeps your mates safe… the right path, the best path for you."
Buffy shook her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes against the guilt that brought tears up. "My heart's got a horrible sense of direction. It's the last thing I should be following," she contended.
"Bollocks. Your heart's what makes you shine, what makes you glorious and bloody magnificent. It's what gives you your fire and burns away the fog, it's what shows you the way, Buffy. The right way… the righteous way."
She snorted derisively. "My heart set Angelus free," she reminded him.
"Fuck that. Sodding Angelus set Angelus free—he just used you to do it. Wasn't your fault," Spike insisted vehemently. "Not saying every turn along the path will be perfect, pet, but you find your way out of the fog and into the light in the end, and that's what matters. You're able to sort out the right from the wrong, improvise and adjust. You need to forgive yourself for missteps along the way, Buffy. No hero is perfect. What makes them a hero is they never give up, they keep fighting, keep trying, keep caring. Never knew anyone with a heart like yours, who cared like you do. No one's ever…" Spike cleared his throat uncomfortably.
Buffy frowned, raised her head, and looked into his eyes. "No one's ever what?"
Spike's teeth closed over his bottom lip as he met her eyes, gathering his strength. "No one's ever been as kind to me as you have, pet."
Buffy tilted her head, the look in her eyes softening as she remembered Dru on the road trip, how she'd seemed unable or unwilling to help him when he'd been hurt. She gave him a sympathetic smile. "That's what friends do… right?"
"Friends," Spike repeated hoarsely, blinking back a sheen of moisture from his eyes, not sure if it was joy or disappointment that brought it up. Spike reached over and brushed her hair back from her face with a finger, trailing it down her temple and slipping the golden lock behind her ear tenderly.
"Friends," Buffy echoed in a whisper, a tingle of warm pleasure rolling down her body from the spot where Spike's fingers lingered on the nape of her neck.
Their eyes locked together, neither willing nor able to look away.
Spike licked his lips, his tongue darting out nervously, hopefully.
Buffy leaned closer, her own tongue moistening her soft, pink lips.
Spike's hand slipped behind her neck, cradling her head in his long fingers.
He turned his head, bringing their lips even closer.
He could feel her breath on his mouth coming in soft, little gasps. Her heart was beating like a stampede of unicorns against his side. Her eyes were sparkling, the irises dilated, swallowing the shades of amber and green.
Spike's breath caught as he tilted his mouth to hers.
Buffy bowed her head, matching his slow, tentative movements.
Their eyes fluttered closed just as their lips touched.
"I'm telling you, we're gonna need more spackle. We should've gone to the store," Xander declared as he opened the front door and stomped in.
"We can go tomorrow, Xander. This day has been difficult enough without a trip to the DIY center," Giles argued, limping in behind him, supporting himself with the cane.
Buffy and Spike jerked apart. Spike yowled in pain as his ribs shifted and daggers ripped through his torso. Buffy scrambled back, bumping against the dog behind her before changing directions like a pinball. She was on her feet in the next instant looking flustered, her flushed face burning as hot as coals.
"Xander! Giles! You're back!" she announced too loudly. "We were just… uh, blood! There was blood… for Spike… cos vampire and – Hey! Look who's awake!" she stuttered, waving a hand at the vampire who really wanted to writhe in pain but arrested the motion since it only brought more pain.
Xander and Giles looked at Spike, then at Buffy like she'd lost her mind.
"Right, I'll just take this back to the kitchen, which is what I was about to do right before you walked in," Buffy declared, picking up the mug and the turkey baster from the floor and fleeing for the kitchen.
"She needs to lay off the caffeine and get some sleep," Xander decided, trudging down the hallway with a toolbox in each hand.
"Indeed," Giles concurred as he began working his way painfully up the stairs to check on Willow and Oz.
Spike tried to get up again, to follow Buffy. His broken ribs shifted, grating against each other, and the freshly resealed wounds tore open again. He gasped against the pain, but endured, pushing up nearly to a seated position with quavering arms before his strength and determination gave way to the agony. He flopped back down onto the pad, which had him biting back curses and clutching his ribs.
The dog was already up, standing over him, looking down at him with an odd mixture of scorn and compassion shining in his chocolate-brown eyes. The dog sighed, apparently resigned, and began healing the reopened wounds.
Spike dropped his head back and let his eyes fall closed, equally resigned to his fate—at least for now. What the bloody fuck had just happened between him and the Slayer? Or didn't happen? Or almost happened? Was he dreaming again? If he was, it was a damn sight better than the dreams he'd been having. He licked his lips. The barest taste of Buffy lingered on them, warm and sweet.
"Friends. Like sodding Poo and Piglet," he muttered dourly. Spike didn't reckon Poo and Piglet had ever kissed though... or almost kissed. And which was he in that scenario? Piglet, o'course. Always calling him piggy, wasn't she? His mind whirled, scrambling his thoughts more, as a fresh wave of exhaustion suffused him, the demon once again demanding its due for the healing. Spike's head swam, whether from the tang of Buffy on his lips or the strain he'd put on his body and brain since waking, he didn't know. He tried to fight the haze that was dragging him under, but found he had no choice but to give in to the fatigue. He floated away again, back into the abyss, clinging to the hope that this hadn't been a dream.
End Notes:
Spike's awake! Yay! There was a kiss... kind of? What does it mean? What will happen now? Will things **gasp** get less frustrating? (Don't bet on it!)
Thank you so much for reading and for your patience as I try to catch up with your wonderful comments! I thought things would slow down a bit for me, but so far no luck with that. But I'll get there – I love reading all your notes! They keep me inspired!