Chapter Nineteen

He was in pain. Mind-numbing, soul-searing pain. His ribs were broken, his body covered in innumerable cuts and bruises. His skin was on fire. He could feel each welt, each scrape, as if it were being freshly made. He tried to move, but couldn't. Tried to open his eyes, but one was already swollen shut and he couldn't bear to make the effort.

It was cold were he was. Hard and cold. His body stretched out flat on an uncompromising slab. It just added to his agony.

A door opened, somewhere close by. He heard it slam shut a second later. Spike knew that sound. It was the door to his crypt. Bloody hell, what had happened to him?

As the echo of the slamming door faded away, he heard the unmistakable sound of light footsteps coming toward him. Her footsteps. He'd know that sound anywhere. She came to stand beside him, the intoxicating scent of vanilla assaulting his nostrils, clouding his already befuddled mind.

"Spike, you're covered in sexy wounds," he heard her say, an uncharacteristic chipperness to her voice.

"Oh God," he groaned to himself. He knew now exactly where he was. When he was. It was another bloody nightmare.

Spike forced himself up to a sitting position. He cracked open one battered eye and stared at the girl before him. She was wearing that ridiculous pink pleated skirt with the pink top. He knew she hated it, but he had always kind of liked it. He eyed her suspiciously. "What are you doing here?"

"I came for you Spike. To see if I could help you. You're hurt." She moved closer to touch him, but he pulled away.

"No you're not. You're here for somethin' else."

She stared at him, momentarily confused. Then her demeanor changed and she offered him a small smile. "You're right. I am here for another reason Spike." This, finally, was Buffy. "Do you know what it is?" she asked, cocking her head to the side and taking a step closer.

"Let me guess, pet? You want to kill me? Want me to beg you to kill me?"

"Isn't that what you deserve?" she asked, putting her hands against his chest and pushing him down onto the sarcophagus.

"Yeah." He laughed. "You gonna give it to me Slayer? You gonna do it?"

She got on top of him, straddling his body and pressing a stake to his heart. "Is that what you really want Spike?" She started drawing slow circles on his chest with the point of the stake.

He stared up at her, his pain long forgotten. He couldn't feel anything anymore. Not his broken bones, not the sore spots scorching his flesh. Just Buffy. Only Buffy. Sitting on top of him, her body pressed to his in the worst possible places. He drew in a heavy breath. "Yes," he forced the word from his throat.

"Really?" she questioned him with wide, hazel eyes.

"Yes."

She dropped the stake by his side, and began running a solitary finger along the lines of his chest. "Are you sure?"

"Yes Buffy. Yes. It's what I deserve."

"All right," she said. "If you say so."

Before he realized what was happening, she stuck her finger deep into his chest and started twisting it into his organs.

Spike screamed out in pain. Buffy just laughed.

"You wanted to give me what I deserved Spike. Isn't this what I deserve? Killing you is too easy," she said, as she reclaimed the stake and drove it into one of his lungs. "Spike the Human Pincushion. You know? I kind of like the sound of that." She raised the weapon again and found a fresh place to penetrate, being certain to steer clear of his heart. "You won't get away with it that easy Spike. No quick little dusting for you." She smiled. "I'm going to take my time." She twisted the stake.

He screamed again.

"After all, it's what you deserve."

The pain was excruciating. He wanted to fight back, but knew he couldn't. He couldn't move, couldn't touch her. All he could do was stare up in horror as she exacted her revenge on his already broken body.

The blood was now pouring from him, seeping out of his wounds and trickling down his sides. How long did she plan to keep him alive? How long was she going to torture him?

"Spike," she whispered his name and wriggled her hips against his pelvis, instantly taking his mind off the pain and getting his full attention. "There's a good little puppy. You know you deserve to suffer right?" She began using her fingernails to cut fresh grooves in his flesh. "For all eternity? You don't even deserve this, but you have to accept it Spike. Take what I'm offering and be a good little doggy." She pouted.

"Buffy," he rasped.

"Yes Spike?" she leaned closer, laying her chest flush against his.

"Kill me."

She laughed - a cold, viscous, hollow laugh - as she picked up the stake again and stared down at him. "Oh in time. In time. I promise." She brought the stake up and drove it into him, ripping a fresh whole in his gut.

Spike screamed, as she continued to laugh, the sounds mingling somewhere in the back of his mind. Then everything went black.

Spike opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. He was in his crypt. He was. He knew it. But not upstairs. Downstairs. He was staring at the cave-like ceiling of the lower level of his crypt. He could feel the borrowed blood rushing through his body, the fear and the pain still aching in his limbs.

He still felt trapped in his own nightmare. Tortured and confused by it. Why hadn't Buffy killed him, in his dream? She had killed him in the last one, the one that had led him back to Sunnydale. What were The Powers That Be, or his damned soul, or whoever was responsible for the soddin' nightmares, trying to tell him? He just wished that whoever it was, would finally stop screwing with him and let him die in peace.

He had done what had been asked of him. He had come back to Sunnydale to give Buffy what she deserved, the chance to be the one to kill him, to seek her revenge and find peace. What the hell did they want from him now?

Spike sat up and tried to connect with reality. He was on the floor. Sitting on an old, musty blanket he had found among the rubble. His bed having been destroyed by dear old Soldier Boy, he was left with little choice.

Spike stood and began pacing, trying to relieve the pent-up energy that was threatening to consume him. Where the hell was Buffy? It had been three days. Three bleedin' days since she had said she would kill him. What was so damn difficult about keeping that promise?

He had half a mind to seek her out, and ask her that very question, but he knew it would only make things worse. He didn't want to see Buffy again until she had come to kill him. He'd see her one last time and then he could die a contented man.