Series: Mortal Allies

Story Title: Episode 4, My Turn

By: Passion4Spike

Chapter 32: Oops

Chapter Notes:

As I noted on the last chapter, I have my second COVID vaccine scheduled for the end of this week, so I'm going to post early, just in case I feel really crappy for a day or two afterwards. So, I'll post today and Thursday, rather than Thursday and Saturday.

Chapter 32: Oops

Spike didn't think about it—he just stood up. He rose from the bathroom floor, first shifting onto his knees, before bringing one foot to the ground in front of him and pushing up to his feet in one fluid, graceful motion. And he did it all with Buffy in his arms, one arm around her shoulders and the other under her knees, like a child.

"Spike," Joyce breathed, her voice shocked, her eyes wide with wonder. "You… how did you do that?"

He stopped then, realizing what he'd done—what he'd done without effort, without pain. "Bloody hell," he muttered, twisting and testing as best he could with the hard shell covering his front half and Buffy in his arms. There was no pain. His ribs didn't shift. The daggers and searing fire in his stomach were gone. He looked at Joyce with wide eyes. "The bloody bints did it," he admitted with awe. "Just hope I don't have to wear this sodding shield for the rest of my unnatural life. A bit constricting. Can see it being a hinderance to… some activities I'm fond of."

"Badminton?" Joyce guessed with a wry smile.

Spike snorted. He almost said something about a different sort of 'cock' being involved, but bit back the retort in the nick of time as some dim part of his brain reminded him who he was talking to. "Something like that," he agreed instead.

"Well, I'm sure Mr. Giles will be able to fix it," she assured him, backing up as he started out of the bathroom with his precious cargo.

"The little witch better hope so," he muttered under his breath, the words punctuated by a rumbling growl.

"You know Willow was only trying to help," Joyce said, though Spike doubted she'd actually caught his words. "She's young. She just made a mistake."

As good as Spike was feeling, he was having a hard time staying brassed off about it, and the witch did seem to be on his side, wanting to help him with the Slayer. "Yeah, yeah—just don't like being a bleedin' science experiment gone wrong," he grumbled as he reached Buffy's bed and tried to bend to put her down. The shield over his chest dug painfully into his underarms and hipbones, and he had to squat, keeping his back more-or-less upright, in order to place the Slayer down on the soft mattress without dropping her.

"But this means you'll be able to get back to Dru sooner. I'm sure you must be happy about that," Joyce suggested from the doorway.

'Back to this now, are we? Tryin' to get ol' Spike outta here. Well sod that.' Spike clenched and unclenched his jaw a couple of times, trying to get his frustration under control. He wanted to scream at her that he and Dru were over. Permanently and undeniably over! That all he wanted to do now was stay in Sunnydale, stay near Buffy just on the chance that, one day, she'd deign to allow a monster like him into her heart. He wanted to tell Joyce that he loved her daughter, that he'd do anything for her—anything for either of them—if he could just stay. And hadn't he proved that? Hadn't he shown where his loyalties lay in these battles?

But he was sure none of that would go over well with Buffy's mum. If anything, that sort of declaration might get him tossed out sooner—or worse. The woman did know which end of a stake to plunge in, after all. He took a breath to try and calm himself, but the shield restricted his lungs and the edges of it dug into his sides. He swallowed back his frustration as he rose from his task and turned to face the woman.

"Overstayed my welcome, have I?" he asked. It was said without rancor, in a solemn, almost miserable tone.

"Oh, Spike, no, not at all," Joyce rushed to assure him—the habit of proper manners and her honest affection for the vampire making it impossible to do otherwise. "I just thought… you'd want to get back to, you know… the love of your life… your eternity."

Spike fought to keep from glancing down at Buffy as he heard those words, but managed to keep his gaze, which he knew was desperate and made him look like a git, trained on the woman. "Even eternity needs a break now and again," he admitted, ducking his head and rubbing his palm across the nape of his neck. "And I wouldn't want to miss the Slayer's do, 'specially if there's more bashing to be done."

A sleepy voice from the bed added, "Spike needs… to stay… for… science."

Joyce and Spike both looked at Buffy with creased brows, waiting for more. Her eyes had never opened and apparently that was all that she was going to say.

"What does that mean?" Joyce wondered.

"No bloody clue," Spike admitted. "But I'd be much obliged if—"

"Of course, you can stay for the party, Spike," Joyce cut him off with a wave of her hand, though her stomach was knotted with conflicting emotions. She liked Spike, and she owed him more than she could ever repay, but she couldn't bear to see her daughter hurt again, and that's the only place this could lead. "It's me that's obliged to you—well, all of us are, really. Don't think another thing about it. I just thought, you know, Dru must be missing you and you'd be anxious to get back."

Spike cleared his throat and gave her a tight smile. "A few more days won't go amiss between us."

Joyce smiled and nodded. "Can I get you some blood o-or anything while we wait?" she wondered backing out of the doorway.

It was clear she wanted Spike to follow her, but Spike didn't want to leave Buffy. What if this red bollocks started doing something new? With magic, you could never tell.

"Stay," Buffy croaked through a rough throat, reaching for and catching Spike's hand just as he lifted a foot to follow Joyce.

Spike stopped and looked back at the girl, her eyes were open, looking a bit more alert than they had thus far. He dropped down to a knee next to her, and smoothed her hair back with his free hand. "How ya feeling, pet?"

"Was there a baseball bat?" she wondered, blinking to get her vision to focus. She lifted her hand toward the side of her head. "I feel like there was a bat and Buffy was the ball."

Spike smiled knowingly. "Magicks can make ya feel that way," he agreed as Joyce came in and stood behind him, looking down at her daughter.

"Ow," Buffy pouted, tenderly running her free hand over the goose egg that had formed just above her ear.

Spike gently brushed her hand away and examined the lump. "Must'a hit your head in the melee."

"Master of deduction, Dr. Watson," Buffy grumbled as her fingers found the hardened goo on her face and neck. She began trying to peel it off. "What the hell…?"

Spike stilled her hand with his. "Don't, pet. It's some magic rubbish. Watcher's working on a way to get it off."

Buffy sighed and let her lids fall closed a moment before they shot open again, a flash of memory suddenly flooding her, filling in the last blanks. "Willow! Is she—?!" she began asking, trying to sit up.

Spike released one of her hands and pressed Buffy back down. "Red's fine," he assured her. "Went with the Watcher to get what they need to get this off."

Buffy sighed and let her eyes fall closed again as little comets started shooting across her vision from the sudden change in elevation.

"Lydia's okay too," Joyce added.

The Slayer squinted up past Spike at her mother. "Who?"

"Lydia… the woman from the Council. She was helping Willow with the spell."

"Is that her name? Are you sure? That doesn't sound right," Buffy muttered, lifting a hand to her pounding head. "What was the spell supposed to do?"

"Heal Spike," Joyce said. "And it seems to have worked—except for the hard shell plastered to you both now."

Buffy's eyes shifted to the blond kneeling next to the bed, her hand dropping, itching to reach out and touch him, but holding back, contenting herself with the comfort of his hand still holding one of hers. "You're… healed? Like… all healed?"

Spike shrugged a shoulder. "Seems like. 'Course, won't know for sure till the Watcher gets this armor off me." He tapped a knuckle against a spot on his chest, which made a hollow thudding sound.

"Oh," Buffy muttered, lowering her eyes. "So, I guess that means… you'll be… leaving soon."

What the bloody fuck was it with everyone wanting him gone? Spike cleared his throat. "Thought I might stay for the Hot Chocolate celebration… I'm something of a fan, ya know?"

Buffy's gaze lifted, her gaze beseeching. "Yeah? You'll stay?" she asked hopefully.

Spike gave her a smile. "Wouldn't miss it, Slayer. Can always use a spot of violence, and I hear your bashes are a magnet for carnage."

Guilt washed over Buffy. "As if you haven't been dunked headfirst into a bloodshed blender already."

Spike's smile turned wolfish. "Vampire, yeah? Can never have too much bloodshed," he asserted.

Buffy snorted, then winced, raising her hand to her head again.

"I'll get some ice for that," Joyce volunteered, backing up.

Spike began to rise also, but Buffy tightened her grip on his hand. "Stay," she whispered, her eyes meeting his, almost pleading.

Spike's expression softened and he gave her a small nod. "I'll just keep an eye on our stubborn girl," he called to Joyce. "Make sure she stays put."

Joyce nodded and disappeared.

"Are you really okay?" Buffy asked, reaching her free hand out to touch the hardened shield covering his chest. "Last I saw you… you looked like okay was a distant relative from the wrong side of the tracks." A small shudder ran through Buffy at the memory of Spike's rigid body arching painfully against the magic, the agony straining his handsome features into a grotesque mask. Her vow of detachment had shattered yet again when she'd seen him, crumbling into a billion tiny shards of wishful thinking, littering her heart with the debris. Then the monster had come out to gobble them up like so much dropped popcorn—the green-eyed monster who had growled when it had seen that woman's hands on Spike. She'd already blocked the woman's name from her mind… L-something.

Spike tilted his head, his gaze intense, studying her. "Seem t' be. Don't really remember much after the chits started chanting."

Buffy nodded and caught her lip in her teeth as her hand slid down the translucent barrier that covered his torso. Everyone seemed to be able to touch him but her. Faith. Willow. The L-woman. But that was only fair, wasn't it? Since she'd been the one to drop him into that bloodshed blender and turn the power up to 'liquefy.' He was better off if she couldn't touch him and, though she'd asked him to stay, she knew they'd all be better off if he didn't. Because she couldn't touch the part of him that she really wanted, anyway—the part that lived beneath the armor, beneath the skin and muscle and bone. His heart.

"Probably for the best," she muttered sadly, as her gaze followed her hand, trying to see through the shield to assess his okay-ness. The color and thickness of the armor distorted everything just enough to keep her from really being able to tell.

"What's that, pet?" Spike asked softly.

Buffy jerked her hand away, her eyes flying back to his. "Um, probably for the best that you don't remember," she covered. "It looked like the pain was turned up to eleventy billion."

'The painful bit was waking up and seeing you there, hurt,' Spike thought, but held back the comment. Let her come to you, don't push. "Reckon you ended up with the worst of it," he said instead.

Buffy sighed and touched her fingers to her skull again. "Who knew Willow could pack a punch like that?" she grumbled as her fingertips danced around the edge of the lump. "You never hit me that hard."

Spike smirked. "Never gave me much of a chance. Couldn't get ya to hold still. Always hittin' back like a wild banshee, keeping me off-balance—then sending in the bloody mutt t' lick me to death."

"Aw, poor baby. Did the big, bad Slayer and her whittle doggie beat you all up?" Buffy chided in a baby-talk voice.

Spike flashed fang and growled at her.

"That'd be a lot scarier if you weren't on your knees holding my hand," Buffy chuckled.

Spike scowled and rolled his eyes, but didn't release her hand or stand up. "Bloody women, always taking the fun outta a perfectly good threat."

"Here you are, honey," Joyce announced, reentering the room with the ice pack.

"Thanks, Mom," Buffy said, taking it and gingerly pressing it against the side of her head. "I don't think I'll be able to help get the groceries put away."

"That's okay, I got the cold stuff put away. Maybe William can give me a hand with the rest?" Joyce suggested, giving Spike a hopeful look.

Spike looked at Buffy. "Stay put till the Watcher gets back, yeah?" he said to the girl as he pushed up to his feet, reluctantly releasing her hand.

"I'm feeling a distinct need for immobility," Buffy agreed, shifting the ice pack a bit.

Spike's hand was warm from where her heat had seeped into his flesh. He immediately missed the contact, and noted a small frown of what might've been discontent cross the Slayer's features. Or was he just seeing what he wanted to see again? He sighed and turned to Joyce. "I'm all yours, luv. Lead the way."

Buffy's fingers curled around her palm as if holding onto the essence of Spike that had been left behind there, watching him walk away. He looked damned good from the back, no sign of the magical mystery goo. His shoulders were square, his arms strong, his back a chiseled sculpture of pure maleness. Maybe he was holding himself a little stiff as he moved because of the armor coating, but otherwise there was no limp, no slump to his shoulders, no clutching his ribs.

He was fine. Buffy's eyes filled with tears as his pale back turned the corner and was lost to view. Part of her was grateful for that fineness, glad that he wasn't in pain any longer. Another, less pleasant, part of her was jealous that it hadn't been her who had healed him, and that now he didn't need her help any longer. He could feed himself, get himself up and down the stairs and, worst of all, he could leave anytime he wanted.

The Slayer swiped at her stupid eyes, smearing the dampness away. This whole detached mission was way harder than she'd ever imagined it could be. Staying mostly detached from Giles, at least emotionally, had been fairly easy. She just avoided him and, barring that, she kept everything purely Slayer-Watcher centric. But keeping herself detached from Spike had been nearly impossible. Every turn she took led her into a mire of attachment quicksand, leaving her to struggle and fight to get back on solid detached ground.

It was exhausting.

She wished it wasn't necessary.

But getting attached led only to badness. To broken promises and broken hearts… and even broken bodies. People around her got hurt—sometimes badly. Willow's voice rang in her ears, 'I hate to be the pointer-outer of obviousness, but you're already attached, Buffy.'

Buffy sighed and laid her curled hand, the one that held the memory of Spike's, over her heart. "What am I supposed to do?" she whispered to the empty room. Or what she thought was an empty room. Her dog rose from the floor and pressed his cold nose against her warm arm, nuzzling beneath it to rest his chin on her stomach. His tail wagged lazily, stirring the air with every pass. Buffy smiled and began petting him, running her fingers through his thick, soft coat.

"What do you think, buddy?" she asked him. "What should I do?"

Spike shifted until his head was up on her chest, covering her heart, his big, brown eyes imploring her to understand his meaning.

"But he doesn't want my heart," Buffy muttered glumly.

Spike whined and pressed down harder, as if trying to bury his chin into her ribcage.

Buffy sighed, shaking her head, still petting her best friend with her free hand. "Just because you love me, doesn't mean—"

The dog interrupted her with a small snarl of impatience, turning his head this way, then that against her, his big ears flopping, slapping at her, before settling his chin back into place over her heart.

Buffy snorted and rolled her eyes. "I'm not so sure. Nothing good has ever come from Buffy letting her heart out into the wild," she hedged, drawing another small rumble from the dog.

Buffy sighed. "What if it all goes horribly wrong—as it always has?" she demanded. "Isn't there some saying about doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results is the definition of insanity?"

"RRrwwwwrf!" Spike grumbled, not letting up.

Buffy rolled her eyes. "If you're wrong, I'm sooo not buying you any more cheeseburgers—ever. And do you know why? Cos I'll be in the looney-bin—locked up with the nice men in the white coats eating green Jell-O and lima beans, because I'm insane!"

Spike huffed indignantly, as if he could ever be wrong about anything. His hot, damp breath washed up over the red armor stuck to Buffy's neck to bathe her face in clammy, doggy-air.

"Ewww! Dog breath," Buffy complained, scrunching up her nose. "I have dog germs! Get some hot water! Get some disinfectant! Get some Lysol!" she cried in her best 'Lucy' voice.

Spike released the pressure on her chest as he opened his mouth into a happy grin, panting even harder, clearly pleased.

* X-X *

"Still say that was a waste of perfectly good single malt," Spike complained as he skipped down the stairs ahead of Giles, who had to take each step one at a time. "Bloody goddess could'a done just as well with some blended rubbish—saved the good stuff for me."

Giles sighed through his gritted teeth. "It worked, didn't it? The hardened unguent was released. You should stop your whingeing and be grateful. You're healed and, apparently, none the worse for it."

At the bottom of the stairs Spike turned back to look up at the man. "Broom-Hilda could'a dusted me good and proper with that magic bollocks. Think ya should'a saved some of that Glenlivet for yours truly—the primary victim in this cockup."

"'Broom-Hilda' can hear you," Willow pointed out huffily, coming down the stairs behind Giles.

Buffy, the crimson armor gone from her neck and face, and the dog were bringing up the rear. Getting it off had been quite a lot less disturbing and painful than getting it on. Once the new offering of pulverized bone—the skull of an infant—and the scotch had been made to the goddess, the red shields had just let go, coming off in one piece, like hard, plastic molds. There had been some chanting in Latin, too. Giles had explained they were basically begging for forgiveness and promising not to take the power for granted again. But there hadn't been any light show or near-electrocution. Just—boom—done. Muss-less and fuss-less.

And, as Willow and Lydia had hoped, Spike had been healed. His chest and stomach were perfect. No bruises, no bumps, no gouges, not even any scars. It was like, well, magic.

"Yeah, well, that was the point, wasn't it?" Spike retorted, pulling his t-shirt on over his head, covering up all the smooth, sculpted, healed flesh. Despite all his complaining, he felt amazing. Every ache, pain, break, bruise, and contusion from the last few days was gone. He could move without wincing, bend and stretch without groaning, trot up and down the stairs as if weightless.

"No one made you do it! It's not like we twisted your arm or anything," Willow pointed out petulantly.

"Sodding magic. Knew better than to let you muck about, using me as a guinea pig," the vampire grumbled as he patted his pockets, making sure he had everything. "Anyone know where my boots and duster are?" he wondered, looking around the foyer.

"I took your coat back to the repair shop. Your boots are still outside on the front porch," Joyce said, coming in from the dining room. "I cleaned them the best I could and left them outside to, um, air."

"Where are you going?" Buffy asked when she reached the landing. Her head still ached, the knot was still there, but the ice had helped, and it would probably be fine in a few hours, or a day at most. Like Spike, she was also starting to feel like her old self, healing faster, feeling stronger—but she wasn't quite there yet.

Spike had gone out onto the porch and picked up his boots. One sniff told him why they needed to 'air'. The mud and blood and—bloody hell, was that bile?—had gotten imbedded into the leather. He'd need to get them cleaned properly to get that stench out. Or just toss them and nick a new pair.

"Out," he answered brusquely, stuffing his feet into the offending leather. "Need a bit of air."

"Do you… I mean…" Buffy stammered, suddenly tongue-tied and shy. "Want any company?"

Spike, still bent down, stopped tying the laces and looked up at her through his lashes. His expression was surprised, even hopeful, and for a moment, and Buffy was sure he was going to say 'yes'. She'd already started moving toward the coat rack when Spike's mien changed, darkening, and he suddenly shook his head. "Not this trip, ducks. Maybe next time," he offered, as he quickly finished securing his boots to his feet.

The dog, who had also started moving forward, his tail wagging happily, froze like a statue, a soft whine of disappointment burbling in his throat.

"You either, Cujo," the vampire admonished, and in a flash, he was gone into the night, disappearing like a wraith in the darkness.

Buffy frowned, her motion toward the door arrested in mid-stride like her dog's. She cleared her throat uncomfortably and shut the door, as if that was what she'd gone that way to do. She scowled down at her dog, giving him a 'I told you so' glower as the door slammed closed. Spike seemed just as confused as she was, looking from the closed door and back to her a couple of times, before shaking his head in bewilderment.

"Where did he go?" Joyce asked.

"To get air?" Buffy guessed, still sounding off-balance.

"Do vampires need air?" Willow wondered. "I mean, they don't actually have to breathe, right?"

"Indeed, they do not," Giles agreed, his own brows furrowed as he leaned with both hands on his cane.

"He's not… you don't think he's… going hunting, do you?" Willow suggested, looking worried.

Buffy's eyes shot up to meet her friend's, her own expression turning from confused disappointment to concern. "Maybe I should just…" she began, reaching for her coat.

"Perhaps we should ring Faith," Giles suggested. "You're still recovering from…" He cleared his throat and began again. "You're still not at full strength and that bump on your head is concerning."

"I'm fine. Spike won't hurt me," Buffy asserted.

"You can't possibly know that," Giles insisted.

Buffy turned, coat in hand, and glowered at him, her eyes narrowing dangerously. She did know that. She had to know that. If she didn't know that, then not only was she the biggest idiot to ever live in Idiots-vile, but so was her dog. "He hasn't ended the truce," she pointed out.

"That you're aware of," Giles shot back. "How do you expect him to end it, precisely? By sending you a certified letter in the post? He's a vampire, Buffy. He'll end it by killing you… or at least attempting to. The battle with the Council is over, he's completely healed. There's no reason for him to continue the truce."

Buffy's jaw clenched and unclenched. Spike wouldn't do that. He just wouldn't! She felt her whirling emotions turn into a cyclone in her chest, threatening to explode in tears and fury and fear. Her heart thudded heavily against the spackle and paint that was holding her together, threatening to rip it all down.

There was complete certainty, an unwavering conviction in Giles' eyes. He believed without a single doubt that Spike would turn on her without warning. She refused to believe that. Her heart couldn't accept it. If that happened then… well, then her emotions would be leading her to her death right now. It would certainly be the ultimate 'I told you so' in the fight between her mind and her heart, between cold logic and intuition, between detachment and attachment.

"You think that because that's what you'd do," Buffy accused bitterly, her voice an icy blade meant to cut deep into her former Watcher. "Turn on someone with no warning, maybe shoot them full of drugs to begin with so they couldn't even fight back."

"Buffy…" Joyce admonished, drawing the Slayer's razor-sharp gaze to her.

"You're on his side now? Have you forgotten why Spike's here in the first place? Because he," Buffy jabbed an accusatory finger at Giles, "drugged me and poisoned our dog, then he set insane-o vampires loose on all of us."

Buffy knew that wasn't strictly true. Spike had told her he'd been on the way here anyway, but that wasn't the point. And the vampires hadn't exactly been let loose, but had escaped. To-may-to, to-mah-to.

"I'm not…" Joyce stuttered, shaking her head. "I'm simply saying, perhaps there is room here for some compassion and understanding."

Buffy snorted scathingly. "Like he's showing to Spike? How about even a little gratitude for him saving your miserable life?" she challenged, her hands curling into fists over the fabric of her coat.

"I am simply concerned—" Giles began, but Buffy whirled away from him, snatching the door open.

"I need some air," she announced, snapping her fingers at her dog, who was beside her in an instant, eager and excited.

"Buffy, please, do be careful," Giles called after her as she stomped onto the porch, pulling her coat on. "You're injured and not at full strength."

"Yeah, I wonder whose fault that is?" she shot back over her shoulder before she and her furry Spike descended the steps and headed into the night.

"Should I call Faith?" Joyce asked worriedly.

"Only if you want to piss Buffy off more," Willow advised. "She knows what she's doing, which is more than I can say for you two."

Joyce and Giles started, surprised by the redhead's harsh tone and forwardness. It surprised Willow, too, but she continued, "She likes Spike, and he likes her. Are you completely blind?"

"I wish I were," Giles muttered dourly, slipping his fingers beneath his glasses to rub at his eyes.

"But… Drusilla," Joyce reminded the girl. "William's completely devoted to her. Buffy's setting herself up for another heartbreak if this continues. I just can't let that happen and, frankly, I'm shocked at you. As Buffy's friend, you shouldn't be encouraging her, knowing it can only end one way—with William leaving and Buffy shattered. I'm really disappointed in you, Willow. I thought you had better judgement."

Willow bristled. As if she'd do anything to intentionally hurt Buffy. "What are you talking about? Spike and Dru broke up before he even got here!" the girl blurted out, her indignation getting the better of her. "So there doesn't have to be shattering and leaving, there could be hearts and roses—unless you two drive him away first," she charged vehemently.

"What?"

"Oh, dear Lord."

Seeing the shocked expressions on the adults' faces Willow flushed, her shoulder's slumped, and her anger melted into chagrin. "Oops."

End Notes:

Well—you guys wanted Joyce to know... she knows. What will happen now? And why didn't Spike want Buffy to go with him... what is he up to?

Lucy – Dog Germs is from the Peanuts comics

A shuttlecock (also called a bird or birdie) is a high-drag projectile used in the sport of badminton.

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 incredibly inspired!

Thanks also to my 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.