Series: Mortal Allies

Story Title: Episode 4, My Turn

By: Passion4Spike

Chapter 27: Sprinkle n' Splash

Chapter Notes:

Check it out! Not only before midnight, but before NOON!

Thanks to all of you for reading! It means so much to me, like Beignets 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 27: Sprinkle n' Splash

Buffy ran into the kitchen and straight out the back door, never setting the dirty mug or baster down. She hit the back porch and then her bare feet were thumping down the steps into the cool grass of the backyard. Though she didn't leave the yard, she didn't stop moving, her legs carrying her in frantic circles around her dog's old agility training equipment.

"What the hell are you doing?" she hissed to herself, keeping her voice low enough that even the supernatural occupants of the house couldn't hear her. "Are you out of your mind?" Buffy continued chastising, her breaths coming in short, panicked gasps. "Buffy the Relationship Slayer… remember? Broken heart, betrayal, abandonment… He doesn't want your crappy heart! He's already told you that! Argh! You are so stupid."

She stopped pacing near the porch steps, her adrenaline-fueled alarm beginning to subside, though her heart was still beating a staccato rhythm against her ribs. Her body thrummed, and she knew it wasn't just from Xander and Giles walking in on… on whatever that was with Spike. It was from… whatever that was with Spike.

Buffy touched her fingers to her lips. She'd barely kissed him, but she could still feel the tingle of his breath and the spark of desire that shot through her, lighting up every nerve ending with the contact. Just that small touch was better than anything she'd ever imagined it could be. Even those times she'd brought herself to orgasm with his name on her lips didn't compare.

This was badness. This was so much badness.

A sudden flash of rage boiled up and over in an instant. Why couldn't she be a normal girl with a normal life? Someone who could be loved—truly loved—by a man. Why couldn't she be someone who didn't drive everyone away? Someone who didn't always end up alone? The one girl in all the world?

Buffy drew her arm back and hurtled the mug in her hand at the oak tree at the back of the yard. To her immense satisfaction, it flew across the intervening space like a rocket and shattered against the rough bark, the plastic baster falling harmlessly to the ground amid the shards of pottery. She looked around for something else to break and found an ashtray her mom must've put out for Spike. She hefted the heavy green glass in her hand and dashed it against the tree, as well. Another rewarding explosion hit her ears as it splintered into a thousand pieces. Then her eyes landed on the crystal vase that still lay in the grass, the flowers from her father little more than dried twigs next to it. Buffy snatched it up and flung it at the tree. The crystal sparkled in the moonlight as it shattered, the pieces falling like stars to land amidst the other debris.

All shattered. Just like her heart would be if she didn't stop this right now.

Detached. It was the only way she could survive.

All Buffy's emotions coalesced into a painful sob, which exploded from her throat. She covered her face, trying to stifle the sound, and moved away from the house. She dropped down onto her knees in the soft, damp grass beneath the oak, close enough to touch all the glinting fragments of glass. Fragments that could just as easily be her heart if she didn't back away from Spike, and now.

* X-X *

Buffy groaned in the pre-dawn light, curling into a tight ball, in an attempt to stave off the cold. Where was her quilt? Where was her pillow? She blinked her tear-crusted eyes open. Where was her bed? Where was her house?

She pushed up to a seated position as everything came rushing back to her. Spike. The kiss-not-kiss. Her flight from the house. Her raging emotions. Crying herself to sleep on the cold, hard ground.

She scooted back against the trunk of the oak, carefully avoiding the shards of broken pottery and glass. She drew her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, dropping her face down to rest atop her knees. She took a deep breath and let her eyes fall closed, trying, once again, to sort through everything.

Her world had been turned upside down in the last few days. Had it only been a few days? She'd gotten beat up by that big carrottop vamp and called Spike that same night, then had the dream with Dru, which had turned out to be scarily accurate. Being soul-sisters with the looney vamp was a whole other ball of smelly cheese that she couldn't even think about right now. The next day her mom told her about the poisons and took Spikey back to the vet to confirm it, which they did. Then that night Kralik had put Willow in the hospital and Giles had admitted he'd been the one making her weak as they waited in the hospital to hear how Willow was. Spike had shown up that same night and fought to protect her mom, though Kralik still managed to kidnap her dog. She and Spike had no sooner dusted the crazy-ass vampire and his Council fledge, than another threat appeared on the horizon. Two nights later, the Council's wet-works team arrived to wreak havoc on what remained of her life. And now the Council had left—not for good, of course—but for now.

And Spike had woken up.

Buffy counted on her fingers... five days and nights of hell. Going on six now that the sun was rising on another day. It felt like six hundred... years.

And then Spike had kissed her... or she'd kissed him? Or almost kissed. She licked her dry lips, remembering the feeling. Even that small contact had been... yowza!

Vampire kisses were bad, reckless!

No, not reckless. Oz said the liking of Spike was non-reckless. Spike could follow the leash laws. Willow even agreed.

So, Spike kisses were good.

No, Spike kisses were bad!

He's still a vampire. You're still the Slayer. Pretty sure the Powers That Be don't care about leash laws. Apocalypses ensue when the streams cross.

But you don't know that for sure! That's what the science was for, to figure that out. Do the science!

How can you expect to 'science' with someone whose gotten nothing but pummeled into very bloody hamburger around you?

Maybe if you help him heal and be his friend, then you can try the science thing, and who knows where it could go?

Even if that happens, you're forgetting Buffy the relationship slayer! Taillights driving away, heartbreak, remorse, misery.

But maybe this one time it could work?

How many times do you have to be eviscerated to get the idea? He doesn't want your heart! He just wants to be your friend.

But... kisses!

He was just... just grateful for your help. Like he said, no one had ever been that kind to him before.

Which is so sad! I should be more with the kindness! I should go in and cuddle him and...

NO! No Spike cuddles. See above re: heartache, misery, and apocalypses.

But Spike said I should trust my heart, that it takes me to the right path... and even Giles said my heart was magnificent!

Spike and Giles agreeing on something? If that's not the first sign of an apocalypse, I don't know what is!

Buffy groaned aloud as her mind started back through its unending litany of arguments and counterarguments yet again. She lifted her face and scrubbed her hands over her tired eyes, trying to wipe away all the confusing thoughts and emotions.

"Facts," she croaked through her tear-and-sleep-roughened throat. "One. Spike is your friend. Two. Spike has a lot of healing to do. Three. Spike is a vampire. Four. Spike needs blood. Five. You can't keep giving him your blood; he was totally freaked when he woke up and thought he'd had your blood. Six. We need more human blood for him to make with the healing. Conclusion: Operation 'Continuing Kindness' requires more human blood for Spike."

Buffy nodded to herself resolutely. Now she had a plan. The fact that the plan would take her out of the house and away from a certain vampire that stirred up Sybil-esque voices in her head was just a quirky coincidence.

* X-X *

Buffy knocked on Angel's door a little after dawn. A kink had settled in her neck from sleeping on the cold, hard ground. In truth, she felt achy all over, most especially on the inside, but she was determined to stop that ache before it turned into full-blown agony. She'd just keep her distance from the blond vampire, help him get healed up, and then force herself to be happy when he moved on to greener pastures, or, you know, less hazardous ones.

Her dog leaned against her legs, making her take a step to the side lest she be knocked over, but she appreciated his strength next to her. She scratched his ears lovingly. At least she'd have one Spike left when this was all over, and she was sure the furry one would never break her heart.

Buffy knocked again, rolling her head around on her shoulders, trying to get the knots out. This was ridiculous. Where was Angel, anyway? She looked around as the courtyard lightened with the rising sun. It wasn't like him to cut it this close.

"What do you think, boy?" Buffy asked the dog, looking down at him.

Spike shook his head, his big ears flopping, then looked back up at her with an uncertain expression in his soft eyes.

Buffy sighed. "Yeah, weird, right?"

Spike huffed out a breath in agreement.

The Slayer tried the handle and the door swung open easily. "Angel?" she called stepping into the high-ceilinged living area, Spike right at her side. There was no fire in the grate and the familiar scent of melted candlewax was also missing. "Angel?" she tried again, coming in further and looking around.

"No peeing on anything," she admonished her companion, frowning, taking everything in.

Spike whined petulantly, but stayed next to her, not straying or sniffing around to find a wayward pair of shoes the brown rabbit had foolishly left out.

"Seriously, you never pee in Spike's boots," Buffy observed as she checked the kitchen.

The dog's mouth fell open into a doggie grin, his pink tongue lolling out happily.

Buffy rolled her eyes. "I know… he buys you cheezeburgers," she muttered. The kitchen was spotless. Not a dirty mug left soaking in the sink or a clean one left drying on a dishtowel. There wasn't even any blood in the fridge, though there were a couple of packs of human blood from the hospital in the freezer. She took them out and examined them. There were expired, but only a few days. "So, Spike was right about Angel taking the expired blood," she mused, putting them back. She'd actually had no doubt that Spike had been right—in fact, that was why she was here. Spike needed blood to heal—good blood, human blood… and not Buffy blood. Buffy blood led to a distinct lack of detached-ness. If Angel had a deal with the hospital, then Buffy wanted in on it, at least for as long as Spike was in Sunnydale.

The Slayer continued calling Angel's name as she and the dog checked the rooms on the first floor. Buffy started with what she knew was his bedroom, only because she'd seen him come out of it before. She'd never actually been in there. The room was neat, the colors subdued, the bed made. A book in some language other than English sat on the nightstand with a bookmark about halfway through. All the furniture, art, and sculptures he'd had in his pre-Angelus, small, underground apartment were in there, set up almost exactly the same. It was the same bed, possibly the sheets were the very ones... An icy shudder ran down Buffy's spine, the room conjuring too many painful memories. She pulled the door closed.

"That's not creepy at all," she muttered as she headed for the next door.

Spike pressed against her again, lending some comfort. Buffy gave him a grateful smile and buried a hand in his thick mane as they made their way from room to room.

After checking the entire mansion and not finding Angel or any sign of where he might be, she decided to just leave him a note. After rummaging through the kitchen drawers for five minutes, she finally found a broken pencil and an old, faded receipt. She knew he had writing paper and fancy pens in the desk she'd seen in his bedroom, but she was not going back in there.

Buffy wanted to tell him to call her, but she hadn't seen a phone anywhere in the house, and he'd never called her before. She sighed and scribbled a brief note for him to come by and see her when he got back. She debated where to put it so he'd see it, finally deciding on looping it through the handle of the microwave, since she couldn't find any tape to stick it up anywhere.

On her way out, she took the two pints of blood from the freezer; a down payment on whatever deal they struck.

* X-X *

Spike woke to a herd of elephants stomping around and sounding much too close. He blinked his eyes open but found no elephants, in fact, for a moment, he saw no one at all. Then the clomping started again and Xander came into view in the foyer, his boots heavy on the wood floor.

"Bloody hell," Spike complained. "Ever heard of respect for the dead?"

Xander stopped whatever he was doing and came into the living room, still making enough noise for the dead man on the parlor floor to wince. "Aren't you just a big bowl of sunshiny-goodness this afternoon?" the brunette taunted, sliding a pencil behind his ear as he clipped a chunky yellow tape measure to the tool belt around his hips.

"Vampire, you pillock, not a bloody Care Bear," Spike retorted. "What the fuck are you doin'?" he wondered, as he tried to push up to a seated position without really thinking. It only took a moment for him to remember—shattered ribs and shredded guts. Spike gasped and stopped moving about halfway up, not wanting to either drop back down and appear weak in front of the boy, or keep going and rip everything open again.

"Helping Mrs. Summers repair all this damage," Xander explained, waving a hand around.

"And that requires you clomping around like a three-hundred-pound troll?" Spike ground out through clenched teeth. He pushed up a tiny bit more. Something tore in his abdomen and he stifled a curse and once again halted his motion.

Xander scowled at him. "Excuse me, Sleeping Beauty. I did all the quiet, spackle-y stuff down the hall this morning," he defended. "I thought you'd be awake by now… and, look! You are!"

Spike rolled his eyes, the muscle in his cheek twitching from holding back the howl that wanted to erupt. "Well, there's a self-fulfilling prophecy if ever I heard one," he grumbled through his teeth.

Xander frowned. "Do you need some help?" he asked, tramping his heavy size-twelves across the floor to the vampire.

"See why Buffy keeps you around—got the observation skills of a blind ostrich with his head in the sand."

The Scooby's frown turned into a scowl, as he got to the vampire and pushed him the rest of the way to a seated position with one fast shove against his back.

Spike growled and gasped but held back the shriek that wanted to come out as more things inside him shifted and ripped and otherwise protested the movement.

"You all right?" Xander asked as Spike panted for unneeded breath, clutching at his ribs and abdomen.

"Bloody perfect," Spike hissed, looking for something he could lean back against. The chair he'd tried using to pull up on the previous night was to one side, but he needed to shift around for it to be of any use, and he wasn't sure that was possible. At least not without screaming like a git, which Spike wasn't prepared to do in front of Buffy's boy.

"Can I…?" Xander began.

Spike gave up trying to maintain any semblance of dignity. "Get the sodding chair and put it behind me," he gasped, his muscles beginning to spasm as he tried in vain to hold everything in place.

Xander shifted the heavy chair, sliding it around so that Spike could lean against it. Spike sighed in relief, letting his head fall back against the cushions as he slowly released the iron grip he'd been holding on his torso.

"You're welcome, Rip Van Winkle," Xander mocked, moving back over to the foyer and the work he'd been doing.

Spike bristled, finally getting his breath back. Having something to lean on relieved most of the pressure on his abused body. "Should be thanking me, you pillock. You snoozed through the whole sodding fight! Left it all t' me and the Slayer to take care of the berks."

Xander stopped and turned back to the vampire. "The way I hear it, Giles stopped them with some kind of magical mystery dust. All you did was turn yourself into one of those silhouettes they use for target practice," he observed.

"Pffft!" Spike disagreed. "Saved the Watcher's life, didn't I? Means anything he did goes on my scorecard. Sounds like I'm a bloody hero," he asserted cockily.

"'Bloody' being the operative word," Xander snarked. "Mrs. Summers says you left half your blood on the ground outside and the rest is soaked into that sleeping bag you're sitting on. They kept refilling you and it just kept squirting out, the Hellmouth's version of a 'Sprinkle n' Splash'."

"You're just jealous wasn't you being the big hero," Spike asserted with a contemptuous sniff.

"Oh, right, since it's always been my life's ambition to be a leaky pincushion," Xander shot back, gesturing at Spike's stomach.

Spike looked down. 'Bugger.' He'd managed to rip some of the wounds open again. Blood trickled from the gashes, rolling down his abdomen to be soaked into his already blood-soaked jeans.

"Where's Buffy?" Spike asked the boy, who had taken the pencil back out and had starting writing something down on a pad of paper.

Xander looked up from recording the measurements for the new glass. "She and Spike—you know, the less grumpy one—left before anyone was up. There was a note saying she had some errands to run. She left you some blood there," the brunette pointed out, lifting his chin to indicate a thermos and a mug on the floor, luckily still within Spike's reach.

Spike frowned, looking at the thermos, and only then noticing the mutt was also missing. Double bugger. The fleabag could've fixed this in a blink. Spike scowled, looking around the floor and finally finding one of the rags that Buffy had used to wipe him up with. It wasn't exactly clean, but it was dry. He pressed it against the oozing wounds; at least they weren't gushing. "What kind of errands?"

"Dunno," Xander replied, slipping the pencil back behind his ear.

"Where did she go?"

"Dunno."

"When will she be back?"

"Dunno."

"Anyone ever tell you you're about as useful as a condom machine in the Vatican?"

"Yeah, but I'm so pretty, no one cares," Xander replied with a chuckle as his heavy boots plodded back down the hall.

Spike sighed, rolling his eyes. He reached for the thermos, opened it and sniffed. Human, and still relatively warm. He didn't bother with the cup, but just drank directly from the container, his mind wandering back to the previous night. Buffy's lips on his. Soft. Feather-light. Sweet as honey. Where would that have gone if Tweedledee and Tweedledum hadn't walked in at that moment? He felt a familiar stirring below the belt as his imagination took over, and was happy to know that some parts of his anatomy were still in perfect working order.

Spike shook his head, trying to sort out everything that had happened over the last couple of days. Had he been dreaming about Buffy saying he needed to leave? Or had her calling him a friend been the dream? She'd allowed him to feed off a human—not a very upstanding human, as it went, but still—human. And she'd taken care of him afterwards, giving him blood, setting his ribs, cleaning him up, having the hound slobber on him. And that kiss that didn't happen? It wasn't the kiss of a 'friend'.

What the bloody fuck did it all mean? She'd been very clear about them just being friends. Had something changed?

Spike finished about half the blood and put the cap back on the thermos, setting it back down next to him. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the cushions of the chair, wanting nothing more than to get his ass up and go find the silly chit and find out what the fuck was going on. He pulled the old rag away from his abdomen and looked down. The bleeding had stopped again, but if he tried to get up to his feet, he knew there'd be a whole new geyser of blood dripping down his body. Blood he needed to heal. Not to mention if he tried to get up now, he'd probably fall on his ass and need the handyman to help him… again. 'Sod that.'

The vampire sighed and closed his eyes. He'd just have to wait for Buffy to get back. "Wait," he muttered to himself dourly. "One o' your favorite pastimes."

* X-X *

"It's good to see you up," Giles commented as he limped into the living room, waking Spike from his doze.

Spike blinked his eyes open and looked up at the former Watcher, then down at himself. He was still seated on the floor, the easy chair at his back. "For someone with 'Watcher' on their CV, your skills of observation seem t' be a bit off."

Giles settled down gingerly on the sofa, wincing as he bent his wounded leg and put pressure on his cracked ribs. He gave Spike a stiff smile. "I simply meant awake and coherent," he explained. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I had a sodding clip o' bullets blasted into my body at point-blank range, how do you reckon I feel?" Spike snarked back. "Bullets that were meant for you, I might add."

"I-I do seem to owe you a debt of gratitude."

Spike snorted. "See your next poor career choice will be working for Hallmark, writin' heartfelt thank you cards," he snarked, patting down his jeans pockets to see if he had any fags on him. Of course, he didn't.

"Point taken," Giles admitted. "I suppose it means I owe you my life, but since you have a truce with Buffy, I'm uncertain how you will collect."

"Pfft. Got no use for old Watcher's blood. Tastes like mothballs an' desperation, and the tweed gets stuck in my teeth," Spike scoffed.

Giles scowled. "I can assure you that my blood does not taste like mothballs," he defended. "I'm far from needing eldercare or having Friday night bingo be the highlight of my week."

Spike smirked. "Well then, only one way to know for sure. If you're offering, I'll have a taste and let you know."

"I can assure you that I am not offering," Giles corrected immediately. "You may choose some other… dispensation as a token of my gratitude. Perhaps I could get in touch with Drusilla for you? Have her retrieve you from this… situation?"

Spike arched his scarred brow. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to get rid of me, Rupert. Not very hospitable, seeing's how I saved your life and all."

Giles removed his glasses, retrieved his handkerchief, and began scrubbing them as he spoke. "I simply assumed you'd want to get back to your life, out from under the Slayer's thumb and the constrictions of the truce, as soon as may be."

Spike wasn't under the Slayer's thumb, more like wrapped around her little finger, even if she had no idea—but he wasn't about to mention that to anyone, especially her Watcher. And he certainly wasn't going to let on about him and Dru being on the outs. "Not in any hurry. Dru's having her 'girl time'… you know women, needin' space to indulge in their female falderols and trumperies."

"I see," Giles replied dryly, replacing his glasses, and looking over at Spike. "In that case, is there anything else I could offer you?"

Spike smirked. "Well, for starters, a pack o' smokes and my lighter," he suggested.

"I don't suppose either of those things would be downstairs," Giles replied glumly, eyeing the stairs with dread.

"Likely not. Probably in m' room, upstairs… you know, the one next to Buffy's."

Giles huffed out a breath. "I'm sure you mean the guest room… which is for temporary guests," he pointed out. "As in people who are not staying beyond the accepted polite limits of a guest. Namely, a few days at most."

Spike's brows went up. "Debts of gratitude don't go far these days, do they?"

"It would likely go much further if the bearer wasn't a dangerous vampire with an open invitation and an unknown agenda."

"Unknown agenda?" Spike repeated incredulously, leaning forward with an effort and wishing he could get to his feet and loom over the older man. "Told ya I'd protect the Slayer and I did. There's no other bloody agenda."

"Oh yes, I'd forgotten—you're a regular Gandhi," Giles scoffed. "May I point out that your rash version of 'protection' nearly got her abducted!" he continued. "Did you know Weatherby was about to dust you? Had the stake raised, ready to plunge into your heart? That Buffy had to save you… take on Weatherby on her own? How do you think she got those bruises on her face, or hadn't you noticed them?"

Spike hadn't actually known that, only that she'd let him feed off Weatherby at some point, but he wasn't backing down now. "Well, it seems like it worked out all right—Slayer and her mates are all safe and sound, tottering about, not letting dead men sleep."

"Only because the dog managed to get Weatherby off her and I was able to employ magics to subdue them," Giles retorted.

"Which you wouldn't have been able to do if I hadn't saved your ungrateful arse," Spike reminded him. "So that all comes onto my side o' the ledger, doesn't it?"

"Fine, then, just how many points do I get for removing the wooden bullets from your heroic self?" Giles wondered, his eyes shifting to Spike's torso.

Spike's brows went up as if in surprise, though Buffy had already told him about that. "Oh, so it's you I have thank for all these crosses getting added to the damage? Forgot that crosses burn a vamp, did you? Can see why Council of Old Wankers sacked you," he contended haughtily, waving a hand down at all the X-shaped marks on his ravaged torso.

Giles frowned. "They're not crosses, they're 'X's," he countered skeptically.

"You say po-tay-to, I say po-tah-to," Spike tossed back. "Bloody bushel o' fun having all these branding irons sticking into my guts. Slows down the healing process, I can tell you. Could give you a demonstration if you'd get my sodding lighter."

"That's ridiculous," Giles asserted. "You're simply taking the piss now. Crosses have a vertical length longer than the horizontal. Those are equidistant, clearly 'X's."

"That's the Roman cross you're talking about. Ever heard of a Greek cross or a saltire?" Spike asked, giving him his most innocent look, the one that had even the most jaded native New Yorker inviting him into their home. "Council's really falling down on the job with their book learnin'."

Giles paled slightly, his eyes traveling to the vampire's stomach. The 'X's he'd made were still quite red and inflamed. Could Spike be telling the truth? It was preposterous… and yet.

"Pro'ly have to extend my stay a bit longer than a polite guest might," Spike suggested smugly, clearly pleased with the ex-Watcher's reaction. "You know, to get over the trauma o' your gratitude."

Giles' eyes snapped up to Spike's and hardened. "Don't push your luck, Spike. Joyce and Buffy may be taken in by those puppy-dog eyes, but I can assure you I am not," he asserted, pushing up to his feet with the aid of his cane and a small grunt of effort. "While I am grateful for your assistance in this matter, and for the part you played in gaining a positive outcome, I cannot help but wonder what is behind all your heroic actions. Vampires do not simply perform selfless acts for no good reason."

Spike smirked up at the man. "Maybe I was just bored and wanted a bit of the rough and tumble," he suggested.

Giles huffed out a breath as he began hobbling away. "Or, perhaps, you are simply biding your time, waiting for an opportunity to turn on Buffy and kill your third Slayer."

Spike snorted. "Could'a done that when I first arrived, you pillock! Buffy was ripe for the picking, thanks to you! Not even the bloody mutt could'a stopped me," he called after the man. "Just sodding jealous that your little plan to win the Slayer back and be the big hero backfired and I had to save your sorry arse."

Giles' back stiffened, the words hitting too close to home, but he continued making his slow way toward the kitchen. He knew that Spike was right—there had been nothing stopping the vamp from killing Buffy, Joyce, and the Guardian. For that matter, all Spike would've had to have done was sit back and let Kralik take Joyce when the insane vampire first showed up, and things could've turned out very differently. But years of training and first-hand experience told Giles that vampires didn't just fall in on the side of the Slayer with no ulterior motive—he simply didn't know what Spike's was… yet. Of course, it was at least partly the fault of those years of Council training that Buffy had been put in the position to call the blond menace in the first place. Giles sighed. One thing was certain, Buffy's feelings for the vampire were growing and for that reason alone, Spike needed to be on his way as soon as possible.

"Oi!" Spike shouted as Giles' back retreated. "What about my smokes and lighter, you ungrateful git?"

"Buffy doesn't allow smoking in the house," Giles called back over his shoulder and kept walking.

"Buffy's not sodding here!" Spike tossed back, but the ex-Watcher ignored him, turning the corner and disappearing from view.

"Bugger," Spike groaned, leaning back against the chair again with a sigh. He could really use a smoke right about now.

* X-X *

"Spike looks better," Willow whispered to Oz as they stopped in the foyer, looking in at the sleeping vampire, not wanting to wake him.

"Seated instead of prone is always a bonus," her boyfriend agreed. "Probably be on his feet in a day or two."

"Yeah," Willow agreed sadly. "Then it'll be, 'Adiós Hellmouth' for him, according to Buffy."

"She did seem pretty decided about his imminent exit," Oz agreed.

"Yeah, you know, being the Slayer and all—kinda comes with the territory, I guess." Willow sighed as the two redheads turned and headed for the kitchen.

Spike blinked his eyes open, his brow furrowed. Not just the Watcher trying to get rid of him, but the Slayer, too? What the bloody fuck was goin' on around here? Could understand the Watcher being suspicious, but Buffy? He thought they'd been getting on right nicely, of late. She'd sodding kissed him just a few hours ago—or nearly had—and now? Now what? Now she wanted him gone as soon as he could walk?

Spike's mood, already low, darkened even more. She'd run off and not come back during the night, then had been gone all bloody day. What had he done to send her scurrying for the hills and wanting him to do the same? Was it that almost-kiss? Bloody hell! He hadn't started it, she had! He'd been perfectly happy with 'friends', she's the one who'd taken it beyond that… or at least hinted at it with that kiss.

Spike licked his lips. He thought he could still feel the tingling sweetness of her lips against his, just barely a touch, soft as lamb's breath. He shook his head and let his eyes fall closed again. Just when he thought he had the girl sussed out, she went and did a 180, making his sodding head spin.

* X-X *

The aroma of fresh, warm blood made Spike's nostril's flare and pulled him from his slumber. He blinked his eyes open, only then realizing he'd nodded off. Next to him, Joyce was setting down a tray. There was a mug of blood and one of cocoa, along with a few biscuits on a plate. The cocoa was covered in mini-marshmallows and the blood was human. The biscuits seemed to be from a tin, but looked appealing all the same.

"I thought you might be getting hungry," she explained backing up to sit down on the couch nearby.

"Ta… appreciate it, pet," Spike replied, reaching for the blood.

"How are you feeling?"

Spike tilted his neck back and forth on his shoulders, working out the kinks with audible pops. Sleeping sitting on the floor wasn't really the most comfortable thing he'd ever done, but he dreaded the thought of trying to lie back down now that he'd managed the challenge of being somewhat upright. He continued to loosen up by rolling his shoulders a couple of times, then lifting and lowering them. Finally, he gingerly sat forward, straightening his back, which elicited more pops from his spine, and used his decimated abs to hold the position without aid of the chair behind him. Nothing started bleeding, which was a plus, though he could feel things in his stomach stretching and straining with the motion. He held his breath, waiting for the excruciating pain, but it didn't come—just mild discomfort punctuated by the occasional stab of a dagger into a particularly tender spot.

He nodded and looked up at her. "Seems a bit better. Thanks for asking," he replied, taking a sip of the blood. "Buffy around?" he asked causally.

Joyce shook her head. "She came back for a few minutes but took off again with Oz. She said she was trying to get you some blood, since you seem to be going through quite a bit, you know, with the healing. She said the more you were able to drink, the sooner you'd be back on your feet."

Spike stiffened. 'And the sooner she'll have me gone.' "None at the hospital?" he wondered.

Joyce crinkled her face up guiltily. "I think I maybe took too much the other night. There was a news report this morning that they were running low, asking for donors to come down. Buffy says that since she hasn't been out patrolling for a few days, probably the vampire population is up and… well, I'm sure you know what that means."

Spike took another sip of the blood, feeling an irrational mixture of jealousy and anger about that. Sodding fledges running about, having fun, doing as they pleased, causing neck trauma and cutting the blood supply short—blood that he could be drinking. Wankers.

"But clearly you needed it. It seems to be helping," Joyce continued when Spike didn't say anything. "You've been sitting up all day... maybe tomorrow you could even stand up. I'm sure you'd like to get out of those grimy jeans and get a shower. I bet you'd feel like a new man."

Spike looked down at the stiff, mud-and-blood-crusted jeans he was wearing. He hadn't really paid much attention to them, but now that Joyce mentioned it, they were pretty disgusting. He doubted even she could salvage them. "Standing's one thing. Not sure I'd be able to make it up the stairs," he pointed out. "Maybe if Buffy was here to lend a hand…" he posited.

Joyce frowned. "Oh, I hadn't thought of that," she admitted. "I think everyone's going to try and go back to school tomorrow… but maybe tomorrow night."

Spike's brows furrowed. He'd lost track of what day it was in the tumult. Apparently, it was a weekday. "So, everyone's feeling alright, then? Up for a full day o' lectures and whatnot? Back to normal."

Joyce gave him a small smile and nodded. "I think so. Buffy's still not at full strength, but she says she's better—stronger—and certainly good enough for school. Thanks to you."

Spike shrugged, finishing the last of the blood and reaching for the cocoa. "Apparently, I wasn't as clever as I'd imagined. Watcher said she had t' save me."

"Well, you had been shot full of bullets, so I think it's understandable," Joyce reminded him. "Buffy was pretty upset when she realized some of them were wooden."

Spike perked up at that. "Was she, now? Worried 'bout me, eh?"

"Yes, worried… and exhausted, too. That's why Mr. Giles had to finish taking them out. She just… she was just spent. The, um, wounds from getting them out… the 'X's… do they really burn you?"

Spike smirked at her over the rim of the mug, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously, before taking a large sip of cocoa and marshmallows.

Joyce gave him a reproachful look. "You really should try being nicer to Mr. Giles," she admonished him. "He has been trying to make amends with Buffy, trying to help make up for his mistakes."

Spike snorted. "A mistake is nicking regular smokes when you wanted mentholated. What he did wasn't a sodding mistake. It was a decision. A decision to turn on the Slayer, to fill 'er and the mutt with poisons, make her weak and scared and vulnerable. It could've cost Buffy her sodding life—could've cost you yours, for fuck's sake! A mistake! Pfffft!"

Joyce sighed and sat back against the cushions. "I know… I just… he's really sorry and…"

"Oh, well, that makes it all peachy, then doesn't it?" Spike shot back.

Joyce bristled at the harsh tone of sarcasm dripping from his words. "No, it doesn't, but he's trying and Buffy's… well, she's trying too, so, as a guest here, I'd appreciate it if you'd give him a break," she chastised.

Spike froze, the mug nearly to his lips. There was that word again: guest. When she'd first said it—when he'd first arrived—it had chuffed him to no end, but now it sounded more like a deadline, almost an ultimatum.

"I know it isn't easy," she continued, her tone softening. "Believe me, I understand your perspective, but it won't be for too long. I mean, I'm sure Dru is waiting for you and you'll want to be going as soon as you can, anyway."

Spike's chest constricted, his heart twisting with guilt for lying to Joyce about Drusilla. But it didn't seem worth setting the record straight now—he was clearly getting the boot soon regardless of his relationship status. Words—real or imagined, he had no idea any longer—came back to him. Joyce asking Buffy, 'You know that Spike will be leaving when he's able, right?' And Buffy replying, 'I know.'

Apparently, there was a limit to friendship—even if you had taken a fuck-ton of bullets and saved their sodding lives. And clearly, the expiry date on his with Buffy and Joyce was fast approaching.

Spike swallowed the rest of the cocoa and marshmallows in one long pull and put the mug back on the tray, banging it down a bit harder than necessary. "Right, not long," he agreed, crossing his arms over his cracked ribs and leaning back against the chair again. "Best get some rest… help with the healing so I can get outta your hair," he said gruffly before closing his eyes.

"William, I…" Joyce began apologetically.

Spike waved a hand in the air, never opening his eyes, forestalling her. "No worries… you're right, need to be moving on. Got places to go and neck trauma t' inflict."

Joyce frowned, feeling bad for even suggesting he had to go, but she reminded herself that it was for Buffy, to protect her daughter from getting too attached to what amounted to a married man. She stood, picked up the tray, and took it back into the kitchen without another word to the sullen vampire.

Spike clenched his jaw, trying to suss out what he'd done wrong to make even Joyce turn on him, want him out. She had called him, after all, just as Buffy had. All well and good to turn to the soulless demon in a time of dire need, he supposed, but when the threat was over, then he was no longer fit to be in the same town, let alone the same house. His heart ached, feeling betrayed and scorned, but he should've known this would happen. A vampire and a Slayer being allies, being friends… or more? That just wasn't how things worked, was it? He'd been a fool to think otherwise. An utter fool.

Spike slid sideways, lowering his right shoulder gingerly to the musty, stained sleeping bag. Once down, he grabbed one of the pillows and curled into a ball on his side, hugging the pillow against his ravaged torso, but more importantly against his aching heart. How could things have got so cocked up in such a short time? Last night he'd felt cared for beyond anything in recent, or even distant, memory. And now… now he felt abandoned, utterly alone.

Spike buried his face in the pillow and gave up trying to stop the tears that had been threatening. At least when you were alone, there was no one there to see you cry.

End Notes:

Oh, poor Spike! Feeling like everyone is ganging up on him. What will happen when Buffy is forced to finally stop avoiding him and comes home? We'll find out on Saturday!

Will Spike EVER come clean to Joyce about breaking up with Dru? Yes. I promise you, he will. Eventually. Hang in there! And where is Angel? Still off trying to prove Spike is the one who did this to Buffy and the doggie? Well, yes, yes he is.

Would it kill Giles to give Spike some credit? Apparently so. Grrrr! Also, not really his business anymore, but clearly he's not figured that out.

References:

Sybil is a 1973 book by Flora Rheta Schreiber about the treatment of Sybil Dorsett for dissociative identity disorder (then referred to as multiple personality disorder) by her psychoanalyst, Cornelia B. Wilbur. The book was made into two television movies of the same name, once in 1976 and again in 2007.

'Don't let the streams cross' is from the movie Ghost Busters

A Sprinkle n' Splash is an outdoor play mat for kids (and adults! come on!) that you hook to a garden hose. It squirts water up from holes in the base. Kind of like a fancy sprinkler that you can run through or splash about in.

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!