Slip Of Mind, by Trisha H.
Summary: Takes place directly after Dead Things. It's a response to a challenge posted by Nos on Crumbling Walls (http://cgi.komodo-skin.com/forum/). I'll post the challenge first, then my story. The Super Geeks gain control of Spike's chip and use him like a weapon, but since they are the Super GEEKS, things don't go quite the way they planned. B/S in nature.
Rating: R to be safe. I don't really know.
Disclaimer: They're not mine. If they were, I'd be nicer to them. I'd set them up in a condo on the beach and make them have long, happy, boring lives that no one would want to watch on tv... wait, maybe not. But anyways, they're Joss's to torture, not mine. And he does such a good job at it.
Spoilers: Through Dead Things.
Dedication: For Nos, since she created this really neat challenge, and since she's been so supportive of my other fics. Thank you! Oh, and everyone should go read her story, "When Darkness Falls". It's wonderful.
**********************************************************
-------Requirements:
-The Trio of Nerds find out what Spike's chip does, and somehow (you decide) are able to control it.
-Spike confesses something sinister to Willow
-Dawn/Spike friendshippyness!
-Post Dead Things
-A song by Bush, Dave Matthews Band, or Candlebox
-A near death (or dust) situation involving a main character. (Buffy, Spike, Dawn, Willow, Xander, Anya...)
-------Other Requirements: (Optional)
-A crossover with Angel
-A scene where Buffy tends the wounds she gave Spike in `Dead Things'
-Mention of the De Soto
-A starving vampire
-Mr. Gordo
**********************************************************
"Who's hotter, Counselor Troi or T'Pol?" Andrew said, the light from the computer screen reflecting off his eyes as he read the website. He swiveled around in his seat. "Troi. Definatly."
Jonathan drained a can of Mountain Dew and tossed it in Andrew's direction. "No way. T'Pol is way hotter than Troi. She has the..." He cupped his hands six inches out from his chest.
"Yah... well... Troi's are bigger." Andrew cupped his hands a foot from his chest. "They just make T'Pol's look all fancy in her space suit."
"What's wrong with that?" Jonathan grabbed the computer mouse. "Here, dickbreath, I'll show you..."
"Boys, boys," Warren said, tsking them. "We have better things to play with than space boobs."
Exchanging a blank stare with Jonathan, Andrew said, "Better than boobs? No such thing."
Warren whipped a remote controller from behind his back and raised his eyebrows. "We have this."
"So?" Jonathan gestured at the television. "We watch TV all the time. How's that better than boobies? `Specially in the daytime. There's nothing on until after dinner."
Andrew turned off the computer monitor and walked towards the television. "That's not true. TLC has this show called Maternity Ward. Sometimes you can see... things..."
"Eww, Andrew. There's like... blood, and stuff. And they're moms. That's just gross." Jonathan grabbed the controller from Warren and studied it. "This isn't for the television. You've modified it. This... what is this?"
"When you two girls are ready, I'll tell you," Warren said, straightening to his full five foot, six inch height and holding his head proudly aloft.
Jonathan and Andrew sat on the floor at his feet, looking up at him with adoration- though Jonathan's appeared slightly worn at the edges. Warren took note of that, then grabbed a chair from the computer terminal and spun it around. Straddling it, he smiled at his fellow villains.
"What we have here," Warren said, brandishing the remote controller with theatrical flair, "is the key that will solve our biggest problem. What is the one thing that's stopping us from ruling all of Sunnydale?"
Andrew tentatively raised his hand. "Umm... the Slayer?"
"Exactly. And what do we need to do to her?"
Snorting, Jonathan said, "Well, let's see. We've already made her think she's gone insane and made her think she's killed someone. Gee... I guess the only thing we haven't done to her so far is kill her."
Warren's mouth twitched. "Exactly," he repeated.
Jonathan jumped to his feet. "You... you're crazy, you... you... you crazy freak! We are not killing another girl!"
Warren stared him down. "We're not killing another girl," he said soothingly. "Spike is."
"Newsflash freak-o. Spike's on her side now. Remember what we saw when we bugged his crypt?"
Andrew rubbed his chest, his eyes dreamy. "Yeeeaaaahhh," he said. "That was... hotter than Troi and T'Pol together."
Ignoring Andrew, Warren pulled Jonathan aside. "Look, numbnuts. The Slayer knows we killed Katrina. Yes," he said, as Jonathan started to argue, "WE killed her. She knows you better than the rest of us- she will find you. Do you really want to spend the next thirty years playing girlfriend to Bubba the serial killer?"
Jonathan flushed. "No."
"Okay then." He turned to include Andrew. "Remember when Spike came and made me check out his chip?"
Andrew shuddered and glanced at the Boba Fet figurine for reassurance. "Trauma! Trauma!" he cried shrilly. "We don't talk about that day!"
"Don't pee your pants again. The Fett is fine. That was a difficult day, I know, but what came out of it will save us all a lot of trouble. After a lot of work, I finally discovered what the deal is with Spike's chip. Every time he tries to hurt a human, it puts out electrical energy which causes him a lot of pain. It doesn't stop him from wanting to hurt people, but it is an effective muzzle. I found the frequency of the signal that the chip works on, and I've figured out how to manipulate it so that the electrical output triggers certain chemicals which cause specific behaviors. This remote controller is our link with the chip. By pressing the right buttons, we can command Spike to do... well, pretty much whatever we want."
Jonathan grabbed the controller. "It looks pretty normal to me," he said, frowning with doubt. "How can you be sure it works?"
Standing, Warren pointed at the door. "I'll prove it. To the van Kemo Sabe's! Victory awaits us."
Andrew walked out dutifully, as directed. Jonathan hesitated, then followed Warren to the door.
*****
Buffy paced nervously outside Spike's crypt, her face still swollen from crying. The frosty grass crunched under her shoes, reminding her that if she wasn't so distraught, she'd be freezing cold. No, she thought, not distraught. Distraught described her earlier that night, as she beat her fear and anger out on Spike's face and sobbed her shame out on Tara's lap. Now she felt empty, but not in the disassociative sort of way that had plagued her since her return. This emptiness held an aspect of relief. She'd managed to let out her dirty, little secret. Tara knew she was sleeping with Spike, and had accepted it. She'd even understand the possibility that Buffy loved Spike. Then again, Tara had also thought it was alright if Buffy was simply using Spike. But she had listened to her, had held her as she cried. She'd helped her upstairs and ran her a hot bath, then waited downstairs to intercept Dawn. When Buffy, tear-weary but clean, opened the bathroom door, Tara had been
standing in the hallway with a cup of tea in her hands. She'd tucked her into bed and held her hand as she fell asleep. No matter how flawed she found Tara's belief that there was nothing wrong with using Spike, she was grateful for the comfort of a friend.
Looking down at her hands, Buffy thought of all the things they had done. Lots of good things, she knew, things she could take pride in, things that made her who she was. And some things that were less then good. Committing robbery with Faith. Beating information out of Willy. Sending Angel to Hell. Many things that fell into the gray area between right and wrong. Still, there were lines she would not cross. Lines like murder. She'd never killed anyone without reason. And lines like abuse. She had never exploited someone's emotions for her own benefit. She'd never used anyone, never. It was against everything she believed in. And she wasn't using Spike. She had feelings for him, real feelings. Good feelings. Scary feelings.
It's okay if you love him, Tara had said, her voice and eyes radiating kindness. He's done a lot of good, and he does love you. Buffy replayed the words in her mind as she paced. Spike has done a lot of good, she told herself. But does that make him good? Can evil doing good actually become good? She kicked a rock with the toe of her shoe in frustration. What about good doing evil? Warren certainly wasn't born evil, and now he defined it. If good becomes evil by acting evil, wouldn't it make sense for evil to become good by acting good? Or, good enough?
Good enough for what? Buffy shook her head, annoyed with herself. Good enough to sleep with? Good enough to bring home? Good enough to love? No, that would be irrelevant now. Love didn't seem to care whether or not its object was a saint or a criminal. It simply existed inside of her, ignoring all her pleas for it to leave, disregarding all the logic she attacked it with. If only Tara had told her she'd come back wrong. If only she'd given her a scapegoat for her feelings. Being damaged had been her last weapon to use in her battle against loving Spike, her last line of defense. Buffy faced the crypt, taking deep breaths to calm herself. She had to go inside, had to face what she had done to him. With no weapons, with nothing to guard her heart, she had to see him.
Or, she thought, I could just go home...
Suddenly, the door to the crypt swung open, and Spike stood before her. His pale skin glowed in the darkness, like a beacon. She reached out to him, only to find the doorway empty, the door shut. Blinking, she tried to focus. He had been there... or maybe not. Maybe time was still hiccupping, thanks to Warren.
Taking her vision as a sign that she should act, she gave the door two, quick knocks. No one answered, so she let herself in. "Spike?" she called, her voice hoarse.
The crypt smelled of candle wax. Buffy knew he must be on the lower level. She slowly climbed down the latter and paused at the bottom to allow her eyes to adjust to the soft candle light. "Spike?" she said again, walking over to his bed.
He lay on his stomach, fully clothed, his eyes so swollen that Buffy couldn't tell if he was awake or asleep. Bruises blackened the whole of his face. Dried blood crusted under his nose and mouth, and in lines on his forehead where there had been ridges when he was in vamp face. A deep gash lined his left cheekbone. His skin looked overripe with swelling. She touched a fingertip to his right eye gently, where the worst of the swelling bloomed. "How the hell did you make it home?" she whispered, kneeling on the bed beside him.
Spike stirred, wincing as he tried to open his eyes. "Buffy?"
"Shh," she said, stroking his hair. "It's me."
"Buffy," he repeated, the word slurred with pain. He tried to sit up, only to fall back weakly against the pillows. "You didn't kill that girl. Don't go to the police." Fresh blood welled up around his mouth as it moved.
"I didn't kill her," Buffy said, leaning over his feet and unlacing his boots. She eased them off, then moved to his waist and unbuckled his belt. "It's okay. I did go into the station, but I never talked to the police. I overheard the desk clerk talking about the girl who died. Then... well, the details aren't important. Remember Warren?"
Spike tried to nod, but it hurt too much. He opened his mouth to say yes. That hurt less, but still caused him to flinch.
Buffy touched her fingers to his lips. "Sorry," she said, her eyes bright with guilt. "No more questions, I promise. Anyways, her name was Katrina. She used to date Warren, and he killed her. Then he sicced those demons on me. They're the ones that made time loopy. Warren wanted me to think I killed her. He almost succeeded."
Spike struggled to a sit. "We'll... get him..." he mumbled before flopped backwards.
"Hey there," Buffy said, taking him by the shoulders and easing him into a more comfortable position. "Slow down, Superman. You're not going anywhere tonight. I'm going to clean you up, then you are going to rest and heal. Warren and his flunkies will still be waiting to get their asses kicked tomorrow night. That's soon enough."
The look Spike threw her as she left the room said that in his mind, yesterday wasn't soon enough. She smiled at him, but kept moving. After gathering supplies, she hurried back to the bedroom and climbed onto the bed.
"I'm going to clean you up," she whispered, staring into Spike's battered face. He twitched slightly as she touched the wet cloth to his forehead, but let her tend to him.
The cloth caused the slightly healed wounds to reopen. Buffy bit back a curse as blood ran into her lover's eyes. ""Sorry about that," she said, sopping up the red fluid before it could run onto the pillowcase.
He touched her knee gently in acceptance, and she continued to bath him. Sorry about that, she thought bitterly. About *that*! Why not sorry about beating him up to begin with? Had he been human, she would have killed him. He'd accepted it, had told her to put it all on him, all her feelings, all her fears. And she had. Somewhere between the first punch and the last, she'd realized that it was her own face she was punching, not Spike's, her own soul that she worried was missing, her own wrongness she was punishing. As she nursed her handiwork, she could still taste the horror that filled her in that alley when she realized what she'd done.
You only hurt the ones you love, pet.
Even after taking her beating, he'd still smiled as he said those words. No one else in the world would have allowed her such a release.
He does love you.
She stroked a damp curl from his forehead. Tara thought he loved her, she'd said as much with pure certainty. And she would know, Buffy thought, rinsing the rag in the bowl of water and dabbing it over his lips. She'd been there all summer while Buffy was dead. She'd seen parts of Spike Buffy never would, parts that had convinced her of his love.
You can't feel anything real.
Buffy choked down tears, remembering her harsh words. It was she who couldn't feel, not Spike.
This isn't real, but you can make me feel...
She'd sang that to him, months before. She'd convinced herself that the only emotions she could feel- her emotions for Spike- were not real, that he wasn't real. And why? Out of shame? Out of fear?
You're dead inside.
She shuddered, her hand jerking away from Spike's face.
He opened his eyes, catching her look of guilt and confusion. Slowly, he reached for her and stroked a hand through her hair. She leaned her cheek into his palm, the coolness of his skin calming her.
"Pet," he whispered, drawing her closer to him.
She laid her head on his chest, tentatively at first. He wrapped his arms around her. Sighing, she surrendered to herself and snuggled her head under his neck.
"Spike," she said, tracing the curve of his ear. "I'm... I'm so sorry."
"Hush, love. I could've stopped you if I wanted to, you know that. You needed it. And I..." He broke off, rubbing his temples. "I... oh God, it hurts..."
His eyes opened wide, then wider. He jumped up, screaming with pain, clutching his head between his hands. Staggering across the room, he fell to his knees and beat his head against the cement floor. "Buffy!" he yelled. "Buffy!"
A series of violent tremors ran through him. When they subsided, he turned to meet Buffy's eyes. What she saw on his face sent her scrambling backwards. Even in vamp face, he shouldn't look that feral. Animals look like that, she thought. Not humans. Not vampires.
"Spike?" she said, rising from the bed and moving warily towards the ladder. "Something's happening to you. I'm going to go get help."
He growled at her, a low sound that reverberated in her chest. She gave up the cautious approach and raced to close the last few feet between herself and the ladder. Spike launched himself towards her and grabbed her from behind. He swung her onto the bed.
"No," she cried, struggling as he bared her neck.
She brought her knee up hard between his legs, but it didn't phase him. He reared back, his mouth open. "Spike, don't do this, please don't do this," she muttered, grabbing at the bedclothes in search of a weapon. Suddenly, she remembered what she wore around her neck. With one hand, she ripped open her shirt.
Spike fell back from her with a shriek, shielding his eyes from the pain of her cross. She held it out in front of her like a shield as she left the bed in search of a stake and the pair of handcuffs they'd played with earlier that day.
When she found them, she dropped the cross. Immediately, he charged towards her, berserk with fury. Whispering an apology, she punched him in the face with all her strength. He flew back against the far wall and landed in an unconscious heap.
"I don't know what's wrong with you," she said as she lifted Spike and cuffed him to the bed. "But this isn't you. I know this isn't you. Whatever is making you act this way... I'm going to fix it. I'm going to go get help, but I'll be back soon." She leaned over his face and kissed his forehead, taking comfort in the familiar scent of his hair. "I'll fix you. I promise."
*****
"That," Andrew said, climbing into the driver's seat of the Super Van, "was way, way cool. We're like... his zombie masters."
"Yeah, real cool," Jonathan said, rubbing his face with both palms. "We made Buffy's boyfriend try to kill her. Aren't we just awesome. Gee, maybe we should go tie up her little sister and torture her. I think that's the only part of Buffy's life we haven't screwed with yet. We're sociopathic enough that a little thing like child torture wouldn't bug our consciences, right?"
"Very funny," Warren said, turning away from the monitor that displayed the lower level of Spike's crypt. "Okay, so it didn't go as planned. The Slayer is still alive. But at least we know that our remote control vampire is really under our power. I push this button, and his chip buzzes his adrenal gland, plus a few others, that flood him with so many chemicals he'd kill anything that moves. All we have to do is stick whoever we want dead in front of him, push the button, and boom! All our troubles go bye-bye."
"Wrong, moron. He's under Buffy's power. You can click on your controller all you want, but she's the one with the keys to the handcuffs." Jonathan snatched the controller from Warren. "What do I push to make him Spike again?"
"Umm..." Warren looked down at the buttons. He pointed to `mute'. "That one."
Jonathan pressed it and looked up at the monitor expectantly. They watched Spike growl and scream, straining against the handcuffs, not effected at all by the mute button.
"Try it again," Warren said, licking his lips. "Maybe it's stuck. That thing was the controller to my mom's TV for years. It's sort of worn."
Jonathan glared at him and tried again. Spike roared furiously, obviously still effected. "Great," Jonathan muttered, tossing the controller back to Warren. "Now what?"
"Now nothing. We have no control over him whatsoever," Warren said smoothly, running his fingers through his hair. "Well, hey. We tried. No harm no foul, right guys? I mean, he's a vampire. It's not like we hurt a person."
"Not this time," Jonathan said, pushing Andrew out of the way and sitting on the driver's seat. He turned on the engine with a snap of his wrist and drove back to the lair.
Summary: Takes place directly after Dead Things. It's a response to a challenge posted by Nos on Crumbling Walls (http://cgi.komodo-skin.com/forum/). I'll post the challenge first, then my story. The Super Geeks gain control of Spike's chip and use him like a weapon, but since they are the Super GEEKS, things don't go quite the way they planned. B/S in nature.
Rating: R to be safe. I don't really know.
Disclaimer: They're not mine. If they were, I'd be nicer to them. I'd set them up in a condo on the beach and make them have long, happy, boring lives that no one would want to watch on tv... wait, maybe not. But anyways, they're Joss's to torture, not mine. And he does such a good job at it.
Spoilers: Through Dead Things.
Dedication: For Nos, since she created this really neat challenge, and since she's been so supportive of my other fics. Thank you! Oh, and everyone should go read her story, "When Darkness Falls". It's wonderful.
**********************************************************
-------Requirements:
-The Trio of Nerds find out what Spike's chip does, and somehow (you decide) are able to control it.
-Spike confesses something sinister to Willow
-Dawn/Spike friendshippyness!
-Post Dead Things
-A song by Bush, Dave Matthews Band, or Candlebox
-A near death (or dust) situation involving a main character. (Buffy, Spike, Dawn, Willow, Xander, Anya...)
-------Other Requirements: (Optional)
-A crossover with Angel
-A scene where Buffy tends the wounds she gave Spike in `Dead Things'
-Mention of the De Soto
-A starving vampire
-Mr. Gordo
**********************************************************
"Who's hotter, Counselor Troi or T'Pol?" Andrew said, the light from the computer screen reflecting off his eyes as he read the website. He swiveled around in his seat. "Troi. Definatly."
Jonathan drained a can of Mountain Dew and tossed it in Andrew's direction. "No way. T'Pol is way hotter than Troi. She has the..." He cupped his hands six inches out from his chest.
"Yah... well... Troi's are bigger." Andrew cupped his hands a foot from his chest. "They just make T'Pol's look all fancy in her space suit."
"What's wrong with that?" Jonathan grabbed the computer mouse. "Here, dickbreath, I'll show you..."
"Boys, boys," Warren said, tsking them. "We have better things to play with than space boobs."
Exchanging a blank stare with Jonathan, Andrew said, "Better than boobs? No such thing."
Warren whipped a remote controller from behind his back and raised his eyebrows. "We have this."
"So?" Jonathan gestured at the television. "We watch TV all the time. How's that better than boobies? `Specially in the daytime. There's nothing on until after dinner."
Andrew turned off the computer monitor and walked towards the television. "That's not true. TLC has this show called Maternity Ward. Sometimes you can see... things..."
"Eww, Andrew. There's like... blood, and stuff. And they're moms. That's just gross." Jonathan grabbed the controller from Warren and studied it. "This isn't for the television. You've modified it. This... what is this?"
"When you two girls are ready, I'll tell you," Warren said, straightening to his full five foot, six inch height and holding his head proudly aloft.
Jonathan and Andrew sat on the floor at his feet, looking up at him with adoration- though Jonathan's appeared slightly worn at the edges. Warren took note of that, then grabbed a chair from the computer terminal and spun it around. Straddling it, he smiled at his fellow villains.
"What we have here," Warren said, brandishing the remote controller with theatrical flair, "is the key that will solve our biggest problem. What is the one thing that's stopping us from ruling all of Sunnydale?"
Andrew tentatively raised his hand. "Umm... the Slayer?"
"Exactly. And what do we need to do to her?"
Snorting, Jonathan said, "Well, let's see. We've already made her think she's gone insane and made her think she's killed someone. Gee... I guess the only thing we haven't done to her so far is kill her."
Warren's mouth twitched. "Exactly," he repeated.
Jonathan jumped to his feet. "You... you're crazy, you... you... you crazy freak! We are not killing another girl!"
Warren stared him down. "We're not killing another girl," he said soothingly. "Spike is."
"Newsflash freak-o. Spike's on her side now. Remember what we saw when we bugged his crypt?"
Andrew rubbed his chest, his eyes dreamy. "Yeeeaaaahhh," he said. "That was... hotter than Troi and T'Pol together."
Ignoring Andrew, Warren pulled Jonathan aside. "Look, numbnuts. The Slayer knows we killed Katrina. Yes," he said, as Jonathan started to argue, "WE killed her. She knows you better than the rest of us- she will find you. Do you really want to spend the next thirty years playing girlfriend to Bubba the serial killer?"
Jonathan flushed. "No."
"Okay then." He turned to include Andrew. "Remember when Spike came and made me check out his chip?"
Andrew shuddered and glanced at the Boba Fet figurine for reassurance. "Trauma! Trauma!" he cried shrilly. "We don't talk about that day!"
"Don't pee your pants again. The Fett is fine. That was a difficult day, I know, but what came out of it will save us all a lot of trouble. After a lot of work, I finally discovered what the deal is with Spike's chip. Every time he tries to hurt a human, it puts out electrical energy which causes him a lot of pain. It doesn't stop him from wanting to hurt people, but it is an effective muzzle. I found the frequency of the signal that the chip works on, and I've figured out how to manipulate it so that the electrical output triggers certain chemicals which cause specific behaviors. This remote controller is our link with the chip. By pressing the right buttons, we can command Spike to do... well, pretty much whatever we want."
Jonathan grabbed the controller. "It looks pretty normal to me," he said, frowning with doubt. "How can you be sure it works?"
Standing, Warren pointed at the door. "I'll prove it. To the van Kemo Sabe's! Victory awaits us."
Andrew walked out dutifully, as directed. Jonathan hesitated, then followed Warren to the door.
*****
Buffy paced nervously outside Spike's crypt, her face still swollen from crying. The frosty grass crunched under her shoes, reminding her that if she wasn't so distraught, she'd be freezing cold. No, she thought, not distraught. Distraught described her earlier that night, as she beat her fear and anger out on Spike's face and sobbed her shame out on Tara's lap. Now she felt empty, but not in the disassociative sort of way that had plagued her since her return. This emptiness held an aspect of relief. She'd managed to let out her dirty, little secret. Tara knew she was sleeping with Spike, and had accepted it. She'd even understand the possibility that Buffy loved Spike. Then again, Tara had also thought it was alright if Buffy was simply using Spike. But she had listened to her, had held her as she cried. She'd helped her upstairs and ran her a hot bath, then waited downstairs to intercept Dawn. When Buffy, tear-weary but clean, opened the bathroom door, Tara had been
standing in the hallway with a cup of tea in her hands. She'd tucked her into bed and held her hand as she fell asleep. No matter how flawed she found Tara's belief that there was nothing wrong with using Spike, she was grateful for the comfort of a friend.
Looking down at her hands, Buffy thought of all the things they had done. Lots of good things, she knew, things she could take pride in, things that made her who she was. And some things that were less then good. Committing robbery with Faith. Beating information out of Willy. Sending Angel to Hell. Many things that fell into the gray area between right and wrong. Still, there were lines she would not cross. Lines like murder. She'd never killed anyone without reason. And lines like abuse. She had never exploited someone's emotions for her own benefit. She'd never used anyone, never. It was against everything she believed in. And she wasn't using Spike. She had feelings for him, real feelings. Good feelings. Scary feelings.
It's okay if you love him, Tara had said, her voice and eyes radiating kindness. He's done a lot of good, and he does love you. Buffy replayed the words in her mind as she paced. Spike has done a lot of good, she told herself. But does that make him good? Can evil doing good actually become good? She kicked a rock with the toe of her shoe in frustration. What about good doing evil? Warren certainly wasn't born evil, and now he defined it. If good becomes evil by acting evil, wouldn't it make sense for evil to become good by acting good? Or, good enough?
Good enough for what? Buffy shook her head, annoyed with herself. Good enough to sleep with? Good enough to bring home? Good enough to love? No, that would be irrelevant now. Love didn't seem to care whether or not its object was a saint or a criminal. It simply existed inside of her, ignoring all her pleas for it to leave, disregarding all the logic she attacked it with. If only Tara had told her she'd come back wrong. If only she'd given her a scapegoat for her feelings. Being damaged had been her last weapon to use in her battle against loving Spike, her last line of defense. Buffy faced the crypt, taking deep breaths to calm herself. She had to go inside, had to face what she had done to him. With no weapons, with nothing to guard her heart, she had to see him.
Or, she thought, I could just go home...
Suddenly, the door to the crypt swung open, and Spike stood before her. His pale skin glowed in the darkness, like a beacon. She reached out to him, only to find the doorway empty, the door shut. Blinking, she tried to focus. He had been there... or maybe not. Maybe time was still hiccupping, thanks to Warren.
Taking her vision as a sign that she should act, she gave the door two, quick knocks. No one answered, so she let herself in. "Spike?" she called, her voice hoarse.
The crypt smelled of candle wax. Buffy knew he must be on the lower level. She slowly climbed down the latter and paused at the bottom to allow her eyes to adjust to the soft candle light. "Spike?" she said again, walking over to his bed.
He lay on his stomach, fully clothed, his eyes so swollen that Buffy couldn't tell if he was awake or asleep. Bruises blackened the whole of his face. Dried blood crusted under his nose and mouth, and in lines on his forehead where there had been ridges when he was in vamp face. A deep gash lined his left cheekbone. His skin looked overripe with swelling. She touched a fingertip to his right eye gently, where the worst of the swelling bloomed. "How the hell did you make it home?" she whispered, kneeling on the bed beside him.
Spike stirred, wincing as he tried to open his eyes. "Buffy?"
"Shh," she said, stroking his hair. "It's me."
"Buffy," he repeated, the word slurred with pain. He tried to sit up, only to fall back weakly against the pillows. "You didn't kill that girl. Don't go to the police." Fresh blood welled up around his mouth as it moved.
"I didn't kill her," Buffy said, leaning over his feet and unlacing his boots. She eased them off, then moved to his waist and unbuckled his belt. "It's okay. I did go into the station, but I never talked to the police. I overheard the desk clerk talking about the girl who died. Then... well, the details aren't important. Remember Warren?"
Spike tried to nod, but it hurt too much. He opened his mouth to say yes. That hurt less, but still caused him to flinch.
Buffy touched her fingers to his lips. "Sorry," she said, her eyes bright with guilt. "No more questions, I promise. Anyways, her name was Katrina. She used to date Warren, and he killed her. Then he sicced those demons on me. They're the ones that made time loopy. Warren wanted me to think I killed her. He almost succeeded."
Spike struggled to a sit. "We'll... get him..." he mumbled before flopped backwards.
"Hey there," Buffy said, taking him by the shoulders and easing him into a more comfortable position. "Slow down, Superman. You're not going anywhere tonight. I'm going to clean you up, then you are going to rest and heal. Warren and his flunkies will still be waiting to get their asses kicked tomorrow night. That's soon enough."
The look Spike threw her as she left the room said that in his mind, yesterday wasn't soon enough. She smiled at him, but kept moving. After gathering supplies, she hurried back to the bedroom and climbed onto the bed.
"I'm going to clean you up," she whispered, staring into Spike's battered face. He twitched slightly as she touched the wet cloth to his forehead, but let her tend to him.
The cloth caused the slightly healed wounds to reopen. Buffy bit back a curse as blood ran into her lover's eyes. ""Sorry about that," she said, sopping up the red fluid before it could run onto the pillowcase.
He touched her knee gently in acceptance, and she continued to bath him. Sorry about that, she thought bitterly. About *that*! Why not sorry about beating him up to begin with? Had he been human, she would have killed him. He'd accepted it, had told her to put it all on him, all her feelings, all her fears. And she had. Somewhere between the first punch and the last, she'd realized that it was her own face she was punching, not Spike's, her own soul that she worried was missing, her own wrongness she was punishing. As she nursed her handiwork, she could still taste the horror that filled her in that alley when she realized what she'd done.
You only hurt the ones you love, pet.
Even after taking her beating, he'd still smiled as he said those words. No one else in the world would have allowed her such a release.
He does love you.
She stroked a damp curl from his forehead. Tara thought he loved her, she'd said as much with pure certainty. And she would know, Buffy thought, rinsing the rag in the bowl of water and dabbing it over his lips. She'd been there all summer while Buffy was dead. She'd seen parts of Spike Buffy never would, parts that had convinced her of his love.
You can't feel anything real.
Buffy choked down tears, remembering her harsh words. It was she who couldn't feel, not Spike.
This isn't real, but you can make me feel...
She'd sang that to him, months before. She'd convinced herself that the only emotions she could feel- her emotions for Spike- were not real, that he wasn't real. And why? Out of shame? Out of fear?
You're dead inside.
She shuddered, her hand jerking away from Spike's face.
He opened his eyes, catching her look of guilt and confusion. Slowly, he reached for her and stroked a hand through her hair. She leaned her cheek into his palm, the coolness of his skin calming her.
"Pet," he whispered, drawing her closer to him.
She laid her head on his chest, tentatively at first. He wrapped his arms around her. Sighing, she surrendered to herself and snuggled her head under his neck.
"Spike," she said, tracing the curve of his ear. "I'm... I'm so sorry."
"Hush, love. I could've stopped you if I wanted to, you know that. You needed it. And I..." He broke off, rubbing his temples. "I... oh God, it hurts..."
His eyes opened wide, then wider. He jumped up, screaming with pain, clutching his head between his hands. Staggering across the room, he fell to his knees and beat his head against the cement floor. "Buffy!" he yelled. "Buffy!"
A series of violent tremors ran through him. When they subsided, he turned to meet Buffy's eyes. What she saw on his face sent her scrambling backwards. Even in vamp face, he shouldn't look that feral. Animals look like that, she thought. Not humans. Not vampires.
"Spike?" she said, rising from the bed and moving warily towards the ladder. "Something's happening to you. I'm going to go get help."
He growled at her, a low sound that reverberated in her chest. She gave up the cautious approach and raced to close the last few feet between herself and the ladder. Spike launched himself towards her and grabbed her from behind. He swung her onto the bed.
"No," she cried, struggling as he bared her neck.
She brought her knee up hard between his legs, but it didn't phase him. He reared back, his mouth open. "Spike, don't do this, please don't do this," she muttered, grabbing at the bedclothes in search of a weapon. Suddenly, she remembered what she wore around her neck. With one hand, she ripped open her shirt.
Spike fell back from her with a shriek, shielding his eyes from the pain of her cross. She held it out in front of her like a shield as she left the bed in search of a stake and the pair of handcuffs they'd played with earlier that day.
When she found them, she dropped the cross. Immediately, he charged towards her, berserk with fury. Whispering an apology, she punched him in the face with all her strength. He flew back against the far wall and landed in an unconscious heap.
"I don't know what's wrong with you," she said as she lifted Spike and cuffed him to the bed. "But this isn't you. I know this isn't you. Whatever is making you act this way... I'm going to fix it. I'm going to go get help, but I'll be back soon." She leaned over his face and kissed his forehead, taking comfort in the familiar scent of his hair. "I'll fix you. I promise."
*****
"That," Andrew said, climbing into the driver's seat of the Super Van, "was way, way cool. We're like... his zombie masters."
"Yeah, real cool," Jonathan said, rubbing his face with both palms. "We made Buffy's boyfriend try to kill her. Aren't we just awesome. Gee, maybe we should go tie up her little sister and torture her. I think that's the only part of Buffy's life we haven't screwed with yet. We're sociopathic enough that a little thing like child torture wouldn't bug our consciences, right?"
"Very funny," Warren said, turning away from the monitor that displayed the lower level of Spike's crypt. "Okay, so it didn't go as planned. The Slayer is still alive. But at least we know that our remote control vampire is really under our power. I push this button, and his chip buzzes his adrenal gland, plus a few others, that flood him with so many chemicals he'd kill anything that moves. All we have to do is stick whoever we want dead in front of him, push the button, and boom! All our troubles go bye-bye."
"Wrong, moron. He's under Buffy's power. You can click on your controller all you want, but she's the one with the keys to the handcuffs." Jonathan snatched the controller from Warren. "What do I push to make him Spike again?"
"Umm..." Warren looked down at the buttons. He pointed to `mute'. "That one."
Jonathan pressed it and looked up at the monitor expectantly. They watched Spike growl and scream, straining against the handcuffs, not effected at all by the mute button.
"Try it again," Warren said, licking his lips. "Maybe it's stuck. That thing was the controller to my mom's TV for years. It's sort of worn."
Jonathan glared at him and tried again. Spike roared furiously, obviously still effected. "Great," Jonathan muttered, tossing the controller back to Warren. "Now what?"
"Now nothing. We have no control over him whatsoever," Warren said smoothly, running his fingers through his hair. "Well, hey. We tried. No harm no foul, right guys? I mean, he's a vampire. It's not like we hurt a person."
"Not this time," Jonathan said, pushing Andrew out of the way and sitting on the driver's seat. He turned on the engine with a snap of his wrist and drove back to the lair.