Chapter Nine

Buffy shut off the tap and picked up the large clay bowl she had filled with cool water. Perhaps she had gotten a little carried away; the water reached the lip of the bowl and when she pushed the bathroom door open with her elbow, water sloshed out onto the tiles. She decided to ignore this. It was a bathroom, after all. It was made to have water spilled on it.

She made her way slowly and carefully down the hallway, bearing her cumbersome burden as gracefully as she could. Small drops of water dotted the carpet in her wake, and by the time she reached her bedroom the bowl seemed much lighter than before, but she ignored that, too. The carpet would dry and, besides, she had more important things on her mind.

She placed the bowl on her nightstand and looked down at the bed. Spike was sprawled across the narrow mattress, his head thrown back in dreamless repose. He had kicked the bedcovers off so that they lay dangling off one bedpost, twisted and rumpled, and the pillows that she had so carefully arranged under his head now lay in a heap on the floor. His hair, which had not been bleached in several weeks, looked dark and messy in the moonlight. He didn't wake up as she sat down beside him.

Buffy slowly worked a washcloth in and out of the clay bowl, allowing it to soak up the water like a sponge. Spike's eye and cheek were caked by blood, which had dried hard and black on his skin. Buffy dabbed at it with the dripping cloth, gently cleaning the wound. A rivulet of water trickled from his face down his throat, over his chest until it came to rest in the small hollow of his navel. Buffy watched its descent even as she worked carefully on cleaning his face. When every trace of blood had been wiped away, Buffy dipped the washcloth in the bowl again. The water tinged pink as she wrung out the washcloth.

She opened his bloody, frayed shirt and pressed the washcloth against his bare flesh, painstakingly washing his neck before moving on to his bare chest. Tiny hairs, which were invisible when he was dry, suddenly sprang to life, so that his smooth chest seemed to have erupted in goose pimples. She stroked the cloth downward to his stomach, until she reached the V of flesh just below his navel, where his belt buckle was. He was clean now, but she rinsed out the cloth and started again, working her way up from his stomach this time. When she reached his breastbone, he opened his eyes.

"Am I dead?"

His voice was small and soft and slightly hoarse. There was no trace of his usual confidence and, because of this, the vowels sounded softer, the accent less Cockney and more like London. Like Giles.

Buffy dropped the washcloth in the bowl. "No," she whispered, reaching to brush his rumpled hair off his forehead. "Not even a little bit."

His eyes were unfocused slits. The one that was less swollen moved in the direction of her voice, but he seemed disoriented, as though he couldn't see her very well. "I feel…dead."

"Well, you're not," she promised him.

Her hands were in his hair and he closed his eyes. "Where am I?"

"You're in my room. Don't you recognize it?"

"Can't see it too well."

Buffy touched the lump on his temple very gently. "Don't worry…you will when that goes away."

He opened his eyes again, started to speak. "You—"

She pressed her fingers against his lips. "Shh. Don't talk anymore. You need to rest."

He nodded and she pulled her hand away. She stroked his mop of unruly hair, which was really more brown than blond now. It was damp and soft, slipping easily through her fingers as she petted him.

"Are you sure I'm not dead?" he asked, apparently forgetting her instructions.

"I promise you aren't," she told him. "Why do you think you're dead?"

"This…feels like heaven."

Buffy swallowed the lump that developed in her throat at his words. "Spike," she whispered. "Open your eyes."

He did his best, though the left one was so swollen it allowed him to open it only a little bit. The right eye looked clearer now, though his expression was just as dazed. Buffy leaned down and kissed the lid of his swollen eye. "Does this hurt?"

"No." His voice was very hoarse now.

Her lips danced butterfly-soft down the bridge of his nose to caress his wounded cheekbone. "…this?"

"No…" Said in a mere whisper this time.

She drew his full bottom lip between both of hers, kissing him softly. "This?"

He didn't answer. He didn't have to, didn't want to. She was kissing him again and again...softly, slowly. Unlike their previous kisses, there was no sense of urgency in them…just affection and a steadily growing warmth. He opened his mouth just a bit and welcomed her inside, reveling in the feel of her satin-smooth tongue exploring every millimeter of his hot, dry mouth. Her hands were in his hair again, fingers combing through as though to smooth the strands. It was a useless task; his hair was much too disheveled. But it didn't seem to matter.

It was not until she pulled away from him that Buffy notice the wetness on Spike's cheeks. "Darling," she said, using the word so unconsciously she surprised them both. "Are you crying?"

He shook his head, but Buffy knew he was lying. Even in the dim light, she could see his lashes were damp. She brushed the tears from his face, leaned to kiss his cheek. "There is something I need to tell you," she murmured, pressing her face into his neck. "But I can't tell you now…not when you're so weak and in pain. When I tell you, I want you to be able to take it in completely. Do you understand?"

He didn't speak, didn't even nod, but the expression in his eyes told her he understood completely.

She swallowed, her breathing coming infinitesimally faster as she pressed herself against his side. "I'll tell you just as soon as you feel up to it…so please get better in a hurry."

"Yes," he said very softly, leaning his cheek into her palm. Her mouth approached his again and he parted his lips expectantly—

"Buffy!"

The shout, combined with the sharp rap on the door that followed it, startled them both. Buffy leapt to her feet.

"What?" she snapped, straightening her clothes before throwing open the door.

Xander glanced at her, then at Spike, and his lips tightened, though he was wise enough not to say anything. "Scooby meeting. Downstairs. We need to talk."

She pushed him out into the hall, shutting the door behind them. "Damn it, Xander, if this is one of your jealous, bitter lectures about Spike, save it. I'm not in the mood to listen to you bitch."

"It isn't about Spike," said Xander defensively. His tone softened as he went on. "It's about Willow. She's…done something."

Buffy sighed.

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Dawn peeked around the corner of the living room door. She hadn't been informed of the Scooby meeting, much less invited to attend; but you would have had to be deaf not to hear all the shouting that was going on. She was eager to know what it was all about.

She had assumed it had to do with Spike; most of the fights around here seemed to as of late, and since Spike had been brought to the house earlier that night it seemed the most logical choice. When she made it downstairs to see for herself, however, it became very clear that Spike was the least of everyone's worries right now.

Willow was huddled in one corner of the sofa, her head buried in her hands. On the other end of the sofa Buffy perched nervously, dividing her attention between shooting Willow sympathetic looks and glancing up at the ceiling. Xander was sitting in a chair, looking for all the world like a dog that has been kicked. Giles was the only one standing. He was glowering down at Willow with intense anger and disappointment.

"I can't believe this!" Giles said, his voice quiet but hard. "After all we have been through with you—after all of the promises you made—and here we find you up to your old tricks again! Stealing from the Magic Box! Don't you realize that by doing that you were stealing from me, from Anya? How could you?"

Dawn leaned against the doorframe, inhaling sharply. Willow stealing from the Magic Box? When did this happen?

Willow looked up, her face streaked with tears. "I wasn't stealing, Giles, I wasn't! I promise you I was planning to return those as soon as I was finished with them."

"Regardless of what you were 'planning' to do, taking something without permission is still stealing," Giles retorted. "And of all things to steal! How did you even get them out? Did you jimmy the cash register open? Or just skip the key altogether and simply open the safe with a spell?"

"I didn't use magic!" she wailed.

"I'm going to ask you a question, Willow, and I demand that you answer me honestly for once. Did you steal those books so that you could finish what you started with Andrew and Jonathan?"

"No!" she said, sounding horrified.

"Then why?"

She drew a deep, shuddering breath. "Spike—Spike came to me for help. He was afraid the demon's spell didn't work properly and he asked me if I could find out why. That was all I wanted the books for—to find out why!"

"Did he help you break into the shop?"

"No," she said quickly—too quickly. Dawn was certain Willow was lying.

Giles must have been suspicious also, for he frowned even more deeply. "Did he ask you to do a spell to fix him if the original spell was incorrect?"

"No." Again, the word came out with just a little too much protest.

He sighed. "Honestly, Willow, I am at a loss as to what to do with you. You seemed to be doing so well lately, going to classes, spending time with us…Now I wonder if it all wasn't simply a cover."

"It wasn't!" she insisted.

Giles removed his glasses, wiped them with care. "Well, even so we can't very well let this go. Something has to be done with you."

"What?" she asked. Her voice sounded so tiny, so frightened. Dawn felt sorry for her.

"I don't know." Giles replaced his glasses. "Go to your room now. It's late and I for one am tired. We will discuss this further in the morning."

Willow stood up, made a beeline for the door. Just as she reached it, though, Buffy said something to stop her.

"Willow, was the spell used on Spike incorrect?"

Willow turned to give her friend a watery smile. "No. It worked just the way it was meant to."

Dawn ducked out of sight as Willow exited the living room and ran up the stairs.

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When Spike woke up again it was still dark. The room was bathed in the blue-black shadows that preceded dawn. A quick pitter-patter on the roof overhead told him it was raining outside.

It took him a moment to realize where he was and, when he did, he remembered it as one would a dream. The soft touch of her hands, the gentle caress of her lips…it all seemed unreal to him. He was beginning to doubt that is was real until he noticed the clay bowl that rested on the nightstand. Then he smiled.

So lost in his memories was Spike, that he didn't even notice he wasn't alone until he felt a small, soft hand on his arm. Willow.

"Hey, sleepy head," she greeted him. Her voice was a whisper. "How're you doing?"

"Agonizing pain," he said. "You?"

"Same."

He looked at her with some concern. Her voice sounded funny, tight. Moreover, he could see moisture glistening on her cheeks in the glow from the street lamps. She had been crying. "Hey…Red…" he said, making an awkward attempt to pat her on the arm. "Are you all right?"

"I'm great," she said with false cheer.

He didn't believe her, but he also saw she wasn't in the mood to discuss what was bothering her, so he let it go. Instead, he asked, "How did I get here?"

"Buffy brought you here. She and Giles and Dawn found you, and they brought you back here."

"How did they find me?"

Willow smiled a little. "Well, I helped a little."

"You?"

"And you. You called to me."

"What does that mean? Called you how?"

"When I was, uh, not myself, Giles imbued me with some very powerful magic he had gotten from a British coven. It was meant to get me in touch with my humanity, which it did; but it also gave me the ability to know what other people feel. I can…sense their anger, their pain, their hate…and for some reason I could actually feel yours tonight."

"You mean you…uh…"

"Channeled you. Yes, I did. I didn't know where you were or even what was happening to you…but I could feel everything. Something I said made Buffy guess it was you I was channeling and she, Dawn, and Giles set off to find you. Clem was at your crypt and he told them what had happened."

Spike was silent.

"Buffy was nearly mad with worry," Willow went on, as if to please him. "When they brought you here you were unconscious, and she was afraid, so afraid you might die. She stayed with you every minute."

"Where is she now?" he asked, hoping to hear the "something" she had to tell him.

"Sleeping. She checked in on you and you were asleep, so she decided to get a few winks for herself. She's crashing on the sofa tonight. Giles went to a motel."

He bit his lip. "Does she know about me?" he asked.

"Does who know what?" Willow asked.

"Buffy. Does she know how…fucked up I am? Does she know the spell didn't work?"

Please say yes, he silently prayed. Please, Willow, say yes and that it doesn't matter to her.

Willow cleared her throat. "Actually…I wanted to talk to you about that."

"So talk."

"I read up on the demon you described and I also did a little research on vampires themselves…"

"And?" he interrupted impatiently.

"The spell worked."

"What?"

"The spell worked. At least…the demon did what he set out to do. He followed your wishes to the best of his ability."

"What do you mean 'to the best of his ability'?"

She hesitated. "Well…you asked him to make you what you were before, to return you to your former state, right?"

"Yes." There was an edge to his voice, a sense of impending doom.

"That was what you asked for…to be human, to have a soul. The demon knew that was what you wanted. Yet you couldn't be returned to your former state because you were never a human."

"What?" he demanded. "Are you high? Of course, I was a human, Willow. I spent twenty-six years on this earth as a human before Dru turned me!"

Willow shifted uncomfortably. "Spike, just please try to stay calm and listen to what I have to say…and know that I am not trying to hurt you by saying it."

He was almost hyperventilating as he said, "Go on."

"Like I said, I did some research on vampires, and I found out a lot about their origin." Willow cleared her throat nervously. "See…a vampire is not a human that was turned into a demon, Spike. It's a demon that inhabits the body of someone who has died by a vampire's bite…someone who, just before death has drunk from that vampire. The soul that was in the victim is gone—replaced by a demon."

Spike sat up, looking at Willow with horror. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that when a demon enters the dead body it instills into that body the powers of its kind. That's why vampires are stronger than people…They are very powerful demons. When the demon in Africa heard your wish to become a human, to obtain a soul, he granted it as best he could. You are mortal now—your heart beats, your flesh bleeds. You have a soul and a conscience…yet you are still the same creature in the same body as before. He didn't take away that power then he changed you."

He shook his head. "You're wrong. I was a human—I lived and breathed and was reborn a vampire when Drusilla found me. Dru changed me into what I am—I didn't start out that way."

"William is dead, Spike. Drusilla killed him—and just before he died, she allowed him to drink from her, which opened the gates to let you inside. You moved into his body and you used his brain. You looked like him, spoke like him, shared his memories…but you were your own separate being. That is why you retained your strength—your strength doesn't lie in your physical makeup or your immortality—it is in your spirit. It is the power you were born with. It was not given to you by Drusilla or anyone else, nor was it mistakenly left behind when you were granted humanity. It was yours, a part of you since the very beginning. You may be mortal now…but you're still you."

"You mean I'm evil."

"Not all demons are evil. Look at Whistler—look at Anya. You may have started out evil but you have grown considerably since then; you have become better. If you hadn't then you wouldn't have sought the soul in the first place. You aren't evil Spike—and you aren't a demon anymore. You just aren't an ordinary human being. You're special."

"Special?" His voice was hoarse, disbelieving. "Special? You are telling me I am a creature created in the image of Satan himself and sent to earth to inhabit a corpse…and you think that's special?"

"Does it matter how you started out? Isn't that what you told Dawn? That it doesn't matter?"

"Maybe it doesn't to me," he retorted. "But it will to Buffy! She—she said I was an evil thing…that there was no good in me…and she was right!"

"Spike, you're being ridiculous," she said, watching with growing alarm as he threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. "Buffy loves you."

"Yeah, but she doesn't know about this, does she?"

Willow didn't know how to answer that.

Spike's eyes widened. "Does she?" he demanded.

"Why does she even have to know?" Willow countered. "You don't have to tell her if you don't want to. She'll never know otherwise. If you are so worried about it then don't tell her."

"I'm not doing that to her," he said. "Not again. I'm not going to fuck up her life again."

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"I'm leaving! The last thing I want to do is destroy the little bit of happiness she has gained since I went away! I'm not as evil as that!"

He lurched into the dark hallway, slamming the door behind him. The noise echoed through the sleeping house, drawing theatrical groans from Dawn's room. Her door opened and she peeked sleepily out of it, her long hair wildly disheveled. She saw Spike rushing past her and her eyes widened.

"Hey—"

He kept on going.

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"Buffy…"

She raised her head from the sofa cushion, muttering sleepily, "Huh?"

Xander was standing in the doorway, watching her uncertainly. "I know it's late, Buff, and I'm sorry I woke you…but I have to tell you something."

She sat up slowly, struggling to orient herself. "Come on in."

He sat down beside her. "I'm sorry, Buffy."

She yawned into her hand. "Sorry? Why?"

"For going off on you earlier. You were right…I don't know anything about your relationship with Spike, and it isn't my business to tell you how to handle it. And…I was being a hypocrite. Spike did some pretty horrendous things, but he is trying to atone for them. I guess I didn't really get that until I found that book in Willow's room. I mean…if we can forgive her for everything that happened when Tara died…if we can keep forgiving her now, who am I to say you shouldn't

forgive Spike. I guess I got angry because some part of me is jealous of him—just like I've been jealous of every man in your life."

"But Anya—"

"I love Anya. Even despite all our current problems, I love her. It's just that some part of me won't let go of the idea that someday you and I might…" His voice trailed away.

"It's okay," Buffy said.

"No it isn't. I had no right to tell you how to live your life…and I didn't mean that about you being a—a—"

"I know," she whispered. "It's all right, Xander. I knew you didn't mean it. I'm not angry anymore."

Xander opened his arms and Buffy folded herself into his embrace. "I love you, Buff. I would never hurt you intentionally."

"I love you, too, Xander. You're my best friend and I never want anything to change that—"

Before she could finish her sentence, a loud banging from upstairs startled them into silence. There was a loud thumping of footfalls on the stairs, a heavy thud as someone jumped from the bottom step. Buffy and Xander stood and rushed to the door just in time to see Spike charging by.

"Spike—what's the matter?" Buffy called.

Long before she could reached him Spike threw open the front door, leapt off the front porch and plunged into the rain. Buffy rushed out into the storm after him.

"Spike!" she called, shielding her eyes with her hand. She could barely see his retreating form through the sheet of rain that lashed at her face and body. "SPIKE WAIT!"

But it was too late. He was gone.

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End of Chapter Nine