When Buffy comes back down the kitchen's empty. The door to the basement is slightly ajar.
She clears up a little, throwing away take out boxes. From the living room she grabs a blanket from the coach before heading down, shutting the door behind her.
He's sitting on a trundle bed watching her descend the stairs.
"Come to tuck me in, have you?"
She rolls her eyes, sitting down next to him, folding the blanket over the both of them.
"I meant what I said Buffy, you don't need to be here for this."
"Yes I do."
They sit in silence for a long time. Buffy starts to fidget against the cold wall of the cellar.
"How does it usually start?"
"You'd be a better judge of that. Never seemed to be myself when it happened," he lifts an arm so she can lean into him, "why don't you try to get some sleep? If it starts you'll know."
"I'm not really tired yet."
She shifts a little deeper into him. There's a tickling sensation at the back of her neck and she realises he's playing with her hair, slowly curling a lock of it under and over and round his fingers. The soft sensation is hypnotising, makes her feel a little drowsy. Cool fingers winding through her hair, every so often catching bare skin at the back of her neck.
"Can I ask you something?"
He cocks an eyebrow down at her.
"You don't normally ask permission to."
"…When did this stop being hate for you?"
His fingers pause. He shifts against the brick wall of the cellar, not meeting her eye.
"It was never really hate, luv."
"Bull."
"No. Even at the start," He pulls his fingers out of her hair, taking his arm back from her, cracking the knuckles of his hand. "Hate is... cold. What I felt at the beginning was more like greed. I wanted you to myself. I wanted to tear you to shreds, would get a blind rage thinking about someone else being the one to do that. It was possessive. Thinking about it, it's not really a wonder that Dru left. In her mad way she probably understood what it was turning into. I was so mad at her for that. When I came back I wanted to kill you to prove something to her. To myself."
She rearranges herself away from him a little. He tries not let the hurt rise in his face. Why did I think she would understand….
Buffy catches the look in his eyes though. Sighs a little.
He's being honest. More honest than I am.
"And then?"
"... When I thought the chip was out of my head. The fight in the surgery suite. That moment when I dove on top of you, felt you in my hands. There was a moment I thought I wouldn't be able to. And then when I couldn't- when that soddin' chip fired- it was agony but along with the agony was relief. That I didn't... And I knew I couldn't. Even without the chip I knew I wouldn't be able to. That night I dreamed of you, and the dream showed me the truth."
She's quiet for a long time. His fingers tentatively brush against hers underneath the blanket. She doesn't flinch away but she doesn't take his hand either.
"What about you?"
She meets his eyes then, takes a breath.
Honesty for honesty I guess..
"When mom got sick. That night on the porch. She was packing for the hospital and I thought I was going to die. I really did. After everything you said that night about Slayers having a death wish, if I'd fought anything that night I would've lost. I really felt it. And then you were there and it was like you knew. And you didn't tell me it was ok, or try and fix it, you were just there. Until I could get back up again. It meant something to have that. The men I've been with were always trying to fix things. Fix a problem, or fix me. Save me in someway. From my job, from myself. But you were just there, letting me fight for myself, reminding me that I could."
He winds his fingers under hers and she lets him in, slotting together underneath the blanket. His warm fingers stroke her hand.
Warm... oh.
"It's starting."
He nods.
In the harsh cellar light his face softens, changing a little each time she blinks.
"You should go."
"I'm not leaving."
"You need to." His breathing is starting to hitch, like he's breathing through water in his lungs. He coughs into his hand and it comes away bloody. Bruises bloom over his face, down over his neck. Blood seeps through his shirt, like a stain spreading.
"William."
"Buffy... you need to get out... run, Buffy." His voice changes with each word, more polished. Clipped tones comes through around the pain. Teeth marks, deep cuts flower over his lips, opening on their own, blood gushing down his face, from his mouth.
"I'm not going."
He stands up from the cot, wavering like he'll fall over.
"You can't..." he's mumbling, through lips cut to ribbons, "can't..." his voice weakens to barely a whisper. He moves further into the cellar out of the glow of the light into shadow. He's whispering, pleading, words interjected by whimpers of pain.
And then sudden silence.
"Spike?" Buffy gets up off the cot, moving towards the shadows at the back of the cellar.
There's a strange noise, like something sucking in breath but... wetter.
Spike steps back out of the shadows, no limp to his gait, and when the light hits his face it bounces of thick ridges, yellow eyes... jagged fangs.
"Hi honey," the blood and the bruises are gone, "did you miss me?"