Title: "Buffy Anne Summers: Therapist for the Theologically Insane"
Feedback: Criticism, praise, and suggestions will be happily taken at gjohnson@willamette.edu
Spoilers: Runs the gamut from "Dead Things" to "Selfless";
also, allusions to "Fool for Love" and "Doomed"
Summary: Buffy discovers that the puzzle Spike has become
is definitely not one of those ages two-to-four deals.
Disclaimer: Spike, Buffy, Dawn, Willow, Xander, etc., are not
mine and never will be. They belong to Joss Whedon and M.E.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Dawn, get your butt down here!" Buffy yelled up the stairs. "Xander's gonna be here any minute!"
"Jeez, I'm coming," Dawn said crossly, appearing at the top of the stairs. "Just chill *out.*"
"As long as you're ready," Buffy muttered. She grabbed her bag and headed for the door, when there arose a pounding from the next room, followed by muffled shouts. She sighed and followed the source of the noise, coming to the basement door.
"Where am I?" Spike's voice roared. "Bleedin' hell, what's going on?" The door shook as he pounded on it.
"Spike!" He quieted. "Spike, you're going to stay in there until I come home, all right? It's daylight, and you're not going anywhere anyway."
"But I'm hungry." He sounded pouty, and she tried not to smile.
"Um -- we got bagels --"
"*Other* kind of hungry."
"You know, I'm fresh out of pig's blood, Spike," Buffy said, exasperated. "Somehow I must have forgotten to put it on the grocery list. You'll survive for one day. Calm down."
"Can't I at least come out of here? I -- I don't like it, down here."
She sighed, unlocked the door. "Come on out, Spike."
He stepped warily into the kitchen, his eyes darting back and forth. His gaze fell upon the open windows and he scowled, as Buffy walked to the window and jerked the curtain closed, blocking the sunlight. He began to walk around, muttering under his breath, his hands twitching. His shirt was wrinkled and his eyes looked puffy.
"There, you happy?" she asked.
A voice behind her made her whirl. "No, can't really say I am."
Xander stood there, frowning deeply, his eyes narrowed. Dawn stood behind him, peering over his shoulder. "Um -- Buffy -- Xander's here."
Buffy gave her a withering "Duh" look, then turned to Xander. "Hey, Xander. Guess you're ready to go, then," she said, sounding a lot more cheerful than she felt.
"Why the hell is he in your *house*?" Xander asked, anger in his voice. "Did he -- did he stay the night? Are you crazy?" He shot a glare at Spike, who was standing with his hands on the counter and his eyes closed, talking to himself.
"As if." She took a deep breath. She knew she was going to have to tell Xander sooner or later about Spike; it looked like it was going to be sooner. "I've been -- helping him. Come on, we're gonna be late."
"You're just gonna leave him here?" Xander asked incredulously as Buffy brushed past him and headed for the front door. "Leave him to do his evil, Spikey things?"
"What's he gonna do, try and eat the couch?" she retorted, highly annoyed. "It's daylight, he's not going anywhere. We have places to go, people to see, come on, get moving."
"Buffy --"
"We can talk on the way, Xander," Buffy said harshly, and he fell silent. Dawn, Buffy and Xander walked out the front door, and behind them Spike wandered aimlessly through the living room, avoiding the sunlight pouring through the door. He looked up at her, eyes haunted; Buffy closed the door.
*****
She half-heartedly poked a pencil into the pencil sharpener, listening to the whir of the machine and thinking back to the turbulent ride to the school. Xander had been so incredibly pissed that it was nearly impossible to talk to him, and it was only when they pulled up to the school that she finally convinced him Spike was down for the count (for now) and not dangerous. Dawn, meanwhile, had declared them both idiots and had run to her first class almost in tears. The day had not begun well at all. Now, four hours later, she still couldn't get the fight out of her head.
Buffy put her head down on her desk, sighing mightily. Xander, in all his blustering anger, had brought up a point that she couldn't forget, and it was weighing heavily on her mind.
"Fine. You're helping him. Helping him *do what?* Get him back to being his evil self? Make him all tame like Angel? Do you even *know?*" Xander had snapped.
And she *didn't* know.
"What do I do?" she murmured. She knew she didn't want the old "Big Bad" Spike back. She'd had enough of that Spike's constant death threats. But she didn't want last year's Spike back, either, not his hurt eyes, his hushed voice, his kisses. And she didn't want the ugly bruises she'd given him, and she didn't want the memory of that night in the bathroom. She closed her eyes. She hadn't been lying when she told him she would never forget that night. It was etched into her memory, and she was helpless to remove it. It, and so many other terrible things. . . . Without realizing it, she slipped into sleep.
"Ms. Summers?"
She jerked upwards, looking around wildly for whomever had spoken. Principal Wood stood in her doorway, looking at her with mild curiosity. "Is it naptime? Why wasn't I informed? I know I could use one."
"Oh! Principal Wood, I'm -- I'm very sorry," she stammered. Thinking quickly, she offered, "I -- was up late last night." It was true enough; the only problem was that she was up late *every* night. But Principal Wood didn't know that.
"Mm-hm." He cocked an eyebrow. "Doing. . . ."
Her mind raced. "Paperwork. Lots and lots of paperwork." She looked down and shuffled some papers as if to underscore her statement. "Just like this. See?"
"Oh, yes." He regarded her for a moment, then said kindly, "You know, I think we'll be okay today if you'd like to go home a little early. You seem a little -- preoccupied."
She looked up at the clock -- barely lunchtime. "Oh, no, I couldn't -- I'm fine." She stifled another yawn.
"Go on home, Ms. Summers."
Flustered, she said, "Well, I -- I do have company --" Spike's face filled her mind. "I'll stay late tomorrow," she offered, grateful for the chance to go home, but also uneasy about missing work.
"Of course," he said with a small smile. "See you tomorrow." He left, and she stared at her desk, sighing. Despite her words to Xander, she wasn't entirely comfortable about leaving Spike alone in the house. It would be good to check up on him and see what exactly had happened last night -- he had been doing so well.
The bell rang; she gathered her things and prepared to leave. Just as she was locking the door, she felt a tap on her shoulder. It was Dawn.
"Hey, sis. Wanna run out for a quick bite to eat? Anywhere other than Doublemeat Palace," she added hastily.
"No. . . . I'd better not. We're kinda low on cash right now," Buffy said. "You'd better stick with the school lunch."
Dawn was about to complain when she noticed Buffy's things. "Hey, are you leaving or something?"
"Um, yeah. The principal gave me the rest of the day off."
"Lucky you," said Dawn enviously. "I never get the rest of the day off. So what are you gonna do? Go back home and check on the crazy guy?"
"Pretty much," Buffy admitted. "I know you still don't trust him, but he's different. You saw how he was last night. That was *not* the old Spike we all knew and, uh, tolerated."
"Yeah, now he's new and insane," Dawn grumbled. "Xander was right. He might be crazy, but he's still, you know, evil."
Buffy frowned. "Well, if he is, he's the best evil vampire I know." She considered this. "I think." She thought again. "Never mind."
Dawn was giggling. "I know it's not funny, but somehow, it is." She forced herself to stop smiling. "I still can't believe what you're doing, what with . . . you know. What he did."
Buffy sighed. "Okay, I'm going now, Dawn. I'll see you when you get home, all right?"
"Sure," Dawn said, looking miffed. "I guess. See ya."
Buffy waved goodbye to her sister, and wove a path through the sea of teenagers, wondering how on earth she had gotten herself into this.
*****
Buffy quietly closed the front door behind her. "Spike?" She glanced around the living room, looking for him. The house was quiet and dark; the shades were all drawn, save the shade of one small window where a ray of sun peeked out. "Come on out, Spike. It's me."
The plastic bag she was carrying rustled as it brushed against her leg; she had stopped by the butcher's and picked up some blood. She sighed, making her way to the kitchen to stow the bag in the refrigerator. "Spike, I got you something to eat," she called. She closed the refrigerator door and turned to go back into the living room. She heard footsteps. "Spike?"
She stepped into the living room and looked around, shaking her head when she spied him. Spike was standing in a shadowed corner, head bowed. His chest and feet were bare.
She approached him hesitantly. He refused to look at her, staring instead at the floor. She reached out and touched his shoulder.
He cried out and jerked backwards. "Mustn't touch," he commanded angrily. "No touching. None. Get yourself dirty, you will." He took a deep, ragged breath.
She looked up to the ceiling as if to say, "Why me?"
He straightened up suddenly, dropping his hands to his sides. He began walking slowly around the room, speaking in a soft voice that lacked his normal confidence and sharp accent. "Got dirty once. After -- after services. I saw her waiting for the carriage. She looked so lovely," he murmured, his eyes unfocused, a faint smile on his face. "Sun in her hair, and her eyes all sparkling, in her Sunday finest. Her voice like -- bells. I wanted to speak with her -- wanted to hear her sweet, little laugh -- and the carriage came." He stopped, frowned, shook his head. "Dropped her handkerchief, and I ran to fetch it for her -- to be a gentleman. But I was so clumsy. I stumbled, you see, and I fell into the mud before the horses. I broke my spectacles." His voice trailed off; tears filled his eyes. "I broke them. And I was all muddy."
She swallowed, looking at him standing there, misery in his face and every line of his half-naked body. As she watched he raised one hand and wiped his nose on the back of it, like a child. He sniffed, looking lost. Helpless.
"Spike --"
Quietly, as if to himself, he continued, "But now the filth's *inside.*" He reached up with his hands, his fingers scrabbling over his bare chest.
"Shh," she said. "Look, Spike, why don't you go get dressed, and I'll --"
"Do what, pet?" he asked sharply, his eyes gleaming. He giggled, a long, high, unnatural laugh. He jerkily thrust his left hand out at her, pointing at her. "You don't --"
She noticed suddenly that the hand pointing at her was red all along one side, shiny and weeping fluid. "What did you do?"
He examined his hand, surprise evident on his face. "Well. That was stupid, I expect." Understanding dawned on him. "Wondered where you went, is all. Went to open up the curtain, thought I might see you outside, but -- bloody sun. Burned."
She gaped at him, shaking her head in disbelief. "What, you just completely forgot that the sun will *kill* you?" He shrugged, not meeting her eyes. She took his right hand in hers and pulled. "Come on, I've got some bandages upstairs, Spike. For God's sake."
She led him up the stairs and to the bathroom. She let go of his hand at the doorway and knelt, absently looking through the drawers for first aid materials. As she looked, she became aware that Spike was breathing heavily. Confused, she glanced at him and saw that he had checked at the threshold, his hands clutching the doorframe. He stared at her, his eyes wide in horror.
"Oh, God, I -- I -- what did I do?" His voice was small, frightened, and she realized what was wrong. She at once felt numb, frozen; how could she have forgotten what happened the last time they were in this room together? She flinched, staring up at him.
"You were crying," he whispered. "I wouldn't stop. I hurt you, I scared you, and I didn't -- couldn't -- stop --" His face was whiter even than usual; tears spilled onto his cheeks. "Oh, God, I can't -- no --" He let go of the doorjamb and balled his hands into fists, then viciously lashed out at himself, punching himself in the jaw once, twice, three times. He staggered backwards, out into the hall. His legs buckled and on hands and knees he crawled out of her sight.
Tears filled her eyes. She swallowed and took a deep breath, hearing dry, desperate sobs from the hall. "Oh my God," she said faintly. Weakly she got to her feet and stumbled out of the bathroom.
A few feet away, Spike was on his hands and knees, trembling violently. He was retching; the sound tore at her, and she began to cry in silence. Between heaves, he sobbed, "I hurt the girl. I hurt the girl."
She took a few steps forward and let herself fall to her knees beside him. Clumsily she reached out and forced herself to touch the bare skin between his shoulders. She suppressed a shudder and began to awkwardly, gingerly pat him. Her lips refused to form words; instead, she concentrated on the carpet, blurred by her tears, and wished that night would come.
*****
Feedback: does an author good.
Feedback: Criticism, praise, and suggestions will be happily taken at gjohnson@willamette.edu
Spoilers: Runs the gamut from "Dead Things" to "Selfless";
also, allusions to "Fool for Love" and "Doomed"
Summary: Buffy discovers that the puzzle Spike has become
is definitely not one of those ages two-to-four deals.
Disclaimer: Spike, Buffy, Dawn, Willow, Xander, etc., are not
mine and never will be. They belong to Joss Whedon and M.E.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Dawn, get your butt down here!" Buffy yelled up the stairs. "Xander's gonna be here any minute!"
"Jeez, I'm coming," Dawn said crossly, appearing at the top of the stairs. "Just chill *out.*"
"As long as you're ready," Buffy muttered. She grabbed her bag and headed for the door, when there arose a pounding from the next room, followed by muffled shouts. She sighed and followed the source of the noise, coming to the basement door.
"Where am I?" Spike's voice roared. "Bleedin' hell, what's going on?" The door shook as he pounded on it.
"Spike!" He quieted. "Spike, you're going to stay in there until I come home, all right? It's daylight, and you're not going anywhere anyway."
"But I'm hungry." He sounded pouty, and she tried not to smile.
"Um -- we got bagels --"
"*Other* kind of hungry."
"You know, I'm fresh out of pig's blood, Spike," Buffy said, exasperated. "Somehow I must have forgotten to put it on the grocery list. You'll survive for one day. Calm down."
"Can't I at least come out of here? I -- I don't like it, down here."
She sighed, unlocked the door. "Come on out, Spike."
He stepped warily into the kitchen, his eyes darting back and forth. His gaze fell upon the open windows and he scowled, as Buffy walked to the window and jerked the curtain closed, blocking the sunlight. He began to walk around, muttering under his breath, his hands twitching. His shirt was wrinkled and his eyes looked puffy.
"There, you happy?" she asked.
A voice behind her made her whirl. "No, can't really say I am."
Xander stood there, frowning deeply, his eyes narrowed. Dawn stood behind him, peering over his shoulder. "Um -- Buffy -- Xander's here."
Buffy gave her a withering "Duh" look, then turned to Xander. "Hey, Xander. Guess you're ready to go, then," she said, sounding a lot more cheerful than she felt.
"Why the hell is he in your *house*?" Xander asked, anger in his voice. "Did he -- did he stay the night? Are you crazy?" He shot a glare at Spike, who was standing with his hands on the counter and his eyes closed, talking to himself.
"As if." She took a deep breath. She knew she was going to have to tell Xander sooner or later about Spike; it looked like it was going to be sooner. "I've been -- helping him. Come on, we're gonna be late."
"You're just gonna leave him here?" Xander asked incredulously as Buffy brushed past him and headed for the front door. "Leave him to do his evil, Spikey things?"
"What's he gonna do, try and eat the couch?" she retorted, highly annoyed. "It's daylight, he's not going anywhere. We have places to go, people to see, come on, get moving."
"Buffy --"
"We can talk on the way, Xander," Buffy said harshly, and he fell silent. Dawn, Buffy and Xander walked out the front door, and behind them Spike wandered aimlessly through the living room, avoiding the sunlight pouring through the door. He looked up at her, eyes haunted; Buffy closed the door.
*****
She half-heartedly poked a pencil into the pencil sharpener, listening to the whir of the machine and thinking back to the turbulent ride to the school. Xander had been so incredibly pissed that it was nearly impossible to talk to him, and it was only when they pulled up to the school that she finally convinced him Spike was down for the count (for now) and not dangerous. Dawn, meanwhile, had declared them both idiots and had run to her first class almost in tears. The day had not begun well at all. Now, four hours later, she still couldn't get the fight out of her head.
Buffy put her head down on her desk, sighing mightily. Xander, in all his blustering anger, had brought up a point that she couldn't forget, and it was weighing heavily on her mind.
"Fine. You're helping him. Helping him *do what?* Get him back to being his evil self? Make him all tame like Angel? Do you even *know?*" Xander had snapped.
And she *didn't* know.
"What do I do?" she murmured. She knew she didn't want the old "Big Bad" Spike back. She'd had enough of that Spike's constant death threats. But she didn't want last year's Spike back, either, not his hurt eyes, his hushed voice, his kisses. And she didn't want the ugly bruises she'd given him, and she didn't want the memory of that night in the bathroom. She closed her eyes. She hadn't been lying when she told him she would never forget that night. It was etched into her memory, and she was helpless to remove it. It, and so many other terrible things. . . . Without realizing it, she slipped into sleep.
"Ms. Summers?"
She jerked upwards, looking around wildly for whomever had spoken. Principal Wood stood in her doorway, looking at her with mild curiosity. "Is it naptime? Why wasn't I informed? I know I could use one."
"Oh! Principal Wood, I'm -- I'm very sorry," she stammered. Thinking quickly, she offered, "I -- was up late last night." It was true enough; the only problem was that she was up late *every* night. But Principal Wood didn't know that.
"Mm-hm." He cocked an eyebrow. "Doing. . . ."
Her mind raced. "Paperwork. Lots and lots of paperwork." She looked down and shuffled some papers as if to underscore her statement. "Just like this. See?"
"Oh, yes." He regarded her for a moment, then said kindly, "You know, I think we'll be okay today if you'd like to go home a little early. You seem a little -- preoccupied."
She looked up at the clock -- barely lunchtime. "Oh, no, I couldn't -- I'm fine." She stifled another yawn.
"Go on home, Ms. Summers."
Flustered, she said, "Well, I -- I do have company --" Spike's face filled her mind. "I'll stay late tomorrow," she offered, grateful for the chance to go home, but also uneasy about missing work.
"Of course," he said with a small smile. "See you tomorrow." He left, and she stared at her desk, sighing. Despite her words to Xander, she wasn't entirely comfortable about leaving Spike alone in the house. It would be good to check up on him and see what exactly had happened last night -- he had been doing so well.
The bell rang; she gathered her things and prepared to leave. Just as she was locking the door, she felt a tap on her shoulder. It was Dawn.
"Hey, sis. Wanna run out for a quick bite to eat? Anywhere other than Doublemeat Palace," she added hastily.
"No. . . . I'd better not. We're kinda low on cash right now," Buffy said. "You'd better stick with the school lunch."
Dawn was about to complain when she noticed Buffy's things. "Hey, are you leaving or something?"
"Um, yeah. The principal gave me the rest of the day off."
"Lucky you," said Dawn enviously. "I never get the rest of the day off. So what are you gonna do? Go back home and check on the crazy guy?"
"Pretty much," Buffy admitted. "I know you still don't trust him, but he's different. You saw how he was last night. That was *not* the old Spike we all knew and, uh, tolerated."
"Yeah, now he's new and insane," Dawn grumbled. "Xander was right. He might be crazy, but he's still, you know, evil."
Buffy frowned. "Well, if he is, he's the best evil vampire I know." She considered this. "I think." She thought again. "Never mind."
Dawn was giggling. "I know it's not funny, but somehow, it is." She forced herself to stop smiling. "I still can't believe what you're doing, what with . . . you know. What he did."
Buffy sighed. "Okay, I'm going now, Dawn. I'll see you when you get home, all right?"
"Sure," Dawn said, looking miffed. "I guess. See ya."
Buffy waved goodbye to her sister, and wove a path through the sea of teenagers, wondering how on earth she had gotten herself into this.
*****
Buffy quietly closed the front door behind her. "Spike?" She glanced around the living room, looking for him. The house was quiet and dark; the shades were all drawn, save the shade of one small window where a ray of sun peeked out. "Come on out, Spike. It's me."
The plastic bag she was carrying rustled as it brushed against her leg; she had stopped by the butcher's and picked up some blood. She sighed, making her way to the kitchen to stow the bag in the refrigerator. "Spike, I got you something to eat," she called. She closed the refrigerator door and turned to go back into the living room. She heard footsteps. "Spike?"
She stepped into the living room and looked around, shaking her head when she spied him. Spike was standing in a shadowed corner, head bowed. His chest and feet were bare.
She approached him hesitantly. He refused to look at her, staring instead at the floor. She reached out and touched his shoulder.
He cried out and jerked backwards. "Mustn't touch," he commanded angrily. "No touching. None. Get yourself dirty, you will." He took a deep, ragged breath.
She looked up to the ceiling as if to say, "Why me?"
He straightened up suddenly, dropping his hands to his sides. He began walking slowly around the room, speaking in a soft voice that lacked his normal confidence and sharp accent. "Got dirty once. After -- after services. I saw her waiting for the carriage. She looked so lovely," he murmured, his eyes unfocused, a faint smile on his face. "Sun in her hair, and her eyes all sparkling, in her Sunday finest. Her voice like -- bells. I wanted to speak with her -- wanted to hear her sweet, little laugh -- and the carriage came." He stopped, frowned, shook his head. "Dropped her handkerchief, and I ran to fetch it for her -- to be a gentleman. But I was so clumsy. I stumbled, you see, and I fell into the mud before the horses. I broke my spectacles." His voice trailed off; tears filled his eyes. "I broke them. And I was all muddy."
She swallowed, looking at him standing there, misery in his face and every line of his half-naked body. As she watched he raised one hand and wiped his nose on the back of it, like a child. He sniffed, looking lost. Helpless.
"Spike --"
Quietly, as if to himself, he continued, "But now the filth's *inside.*" He reached up with his hands, his fingers scrabbling over his bare chest.
"Shh," she said. "Look, Spike, why don't you go get dressed, and I'll --"
"Do what, pet?" he asked sharply, his eyes gleaming. He giggled, a long, high, unnatural laugh. He jerkily thrust his left hand out at her, pointing at her. "You don't --"
She noticed suddenly that the hand pointing at her was red all along one side, shiny and weeping fluid. "What did you do?"
He examined his hand, surprise evident on his face. "Well. That was stupid, I expect." Understanding dawned on him. "Wondered where you went, is all. Went to open up the curtain, thought I might see you outside, but -- bloody sun. Burned."
She gaped at him, shaking her head in disbelief. "What, you just completely forgot that the sun will *kill* you?" He shrugged, not meeting her eyes. She took his right hand in hers and pulled. "Come on, I've got some bandages upstairs, Spike. For God's sake."
She led him up the stairs and to the bathroom. She let go of his hand at the doorway and knelt, absently looking through the drawers for first aid materials. As she looked, she became aware that Spike was breathing heavily. Confused, she glanced at him and saw that he had checked at the threshold, his hands clutching the doorframe. He stared at her, his eyes wide in horror.
"Oh, God, I -- I -- what did I do?" His voice was small, frightened, and she realized what was wrong. She at once felt numb, frozen; how could she have forgotten what happened the last time they were in this room together? She flinched, staring up at him.
"You were crying," he whispered. "I wouldn't stop. I hurt you, I scared you, and I didn't -- couldn't -- stop --" His face was whiter even than usual; tears spilled onto his cheeks. "Oh, God, I can't -- no --" He let go of the doorjamb and balled his hands into fists, then viciously lashed out at himself, punching himself in the jaw once, twice, three times. He staggered backwards, out into the hall. His legs buckled and on hands and knees he crawled out of her sight.
Tears filled her eyes. She swallowed and took a deep breath, hearing dry, desperate sobs from the hall. "Oh my God," she said faintly. Weakly she got to her feet and stumbled out of the bathroom.
A few feet away, Spike was on his hands and knees, trembling violently. He was retching; the sound tore at her, and she began to cry in silence. Between heaves, he sobbed, "I hurt the girl. I hurt the girl."
She took a few steps forward and let herself fall to her knees beside him. Clumsily she reached out and forced herself to touch the bare skin between his shoulders. She suppressed a shudder and began to awkwardly, gingerly pat him. Her lips refused to form words; instead, she concentrated on the carpet, blurred by her tears, and wished that night would come.
*****
Feedback: does an author good.