Chapter 27

Buffy didn't sleep at all. She didn't patrol. She didn't leave her room. All she could do was sit up in her chair and stair out the window while thousands of horrible memories danced in front of her eyes in hues of scarlet and black. She had blocked these memories, or tried to at least, but they were never gone completely. She knew she did horrible things to Spike, but she never allowed herself to really think about exactly what she had done to him.

She broke him. He left because she broke him, with wild words and well aimed punches. Fuck. How could she fix him?

How do you apologize for pounding somebody to a pulp? How do you apologize for calling him degrading names, laughing at his pain, abusing him, and taking his love for granted? How do you even begin?

Buffy understood that she was the reason he wandered through the world as a zombie for ten years. She stole a decade from his life and her actions forced him to change on the most fundamental level possible.

How do you apologize for that? No wonder he hated her.

She hated herself.

The tears fell freely from her eyes, and she didn't bother wiping her face. Her nose ran too, but she didn't notice.

The knock on her door startled her out of her morose thoughts. She sniffed and wiped her face, doing her best to hide the evidence of her crying lag before she invited her visitor in.

"Do you know how to get her back?" Spike asked quietly as he shut the door behind him.

"Yeah." Her voice was strained and quiet, as she did her best to keep the flood of tears from bursting through.

"Right then, who do we have to kill?"

"Nobody."

"What do you we have to do?"

"I don't know Spike. I mean, I know, but I don't know how to do it."

"Can I help?" Spike asked.

"Maybe. Well, yes, actually."

"What do want me to do?"

"Why do you want to help me, Spike?"

Spike frowned, "What kind of question is that?"

"Just, why?"

"Because I want to get Joyce back. She's a special girl."

"You weren't going to come back, were you?"

Spike sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. His hair was long, hanging in his face, and Buffy thought that maybe she'd offer to cut it sometime. "Originally," he said, finally. "I planned on coming back."

"What happened?"

"There were several trials I had to perform to get my soul. Pretty standard feats of strength. It took a long time—so I long that I lost track. But halfway through, I realized that I didn't really want the soul, and I didn't want to come back. But by then it was too late to stop."

"Is that why you were…"

"Crazy? Yeah. You are my last trial. It's not finished yet. I don't really know what the deal is."

"Why were you going to get a soul?"

"Well, for you of course. I thought if I got a soul, I'd be able to help you."

"Why?"

"Buffy, brains were coming out my ears when I made this decision. I wasn't exactly thinking clearly."

That shamed her into silence.

"So, Buffy, what's the deal?"

"It's all my fault," she muttered.

"What? Buffy, no, we've already covered this. It wasn't your fault. You couldn't have…"

"No, Spike. It's my fault. Willow said that I—the greater the sin, the greater the punishment."

"What are you saying, Slayer?"

"I'm being punished, Spike. For what I did to everybody…to you."

Spike blinked. "That doesn't make any sense."

"Of course it does! Spike, you said it yourself that you had brains leaking out of your ears when you left. I can't even begin to comprehend all the ways I hurt you. And that's the thing, I haven't."

"So what? If you apologize to me, we'll get Joyce back? Great, I accept your apology."

Buffy sniffed, "I think we both know that's not enough."

"What would be enough, Buffy?"

"I don't know. But Willow said that Joyce is safe, so I guess we have enough time to work it out."

Spike picked up a book that was near him and flung it at the wall in anger. Then he looked for something heavier and glass to throw, but Buffy quickly stood to stop him. He turned to face her, his nostrils flaring with anger. "That's not right, Buffy. You don't deserve to go through this because of what happened. I'm not worth it."

"Why do you think that? Why do you think that I should get away with beating and abusing you?"

"Because you were in a bad place and—"

Buffy's voice rose above his, "That's no excuse."

"And you didn't know better!"

"I knew it was wrong, Spike!" Buffy yelled back. "I knew it was wrong, the things I did, the way I acted. But I didn't stop. You were the one who loved me the most, and you were the one I hurt the most."

"But it doesn't matter anymore, Slayer. It really doesn't. I'm fine, you're fine, everything is fine." Spike looked up to ceiling as if you to yell at God, "Did you hear that? We're all good down here, so you can give us the little girl back!"

"Spike, stop shouting, the rest don't know."

"What if isn't about me at all, Slayer? What if you misunderstood? I mean, you didn't exactly treat your friends and family right."

"Spike, I've spent over nine years making amends for that. Sending Dawn to school, raising Joyce, apologizing to all of them on a regular basis; we've all made our peace. But making amends to you is just as important."

Spike collapsed on the bed. "I wish you guys never found me. How the hell did I make it all the way to L.A.?" Spike held his head in his hands, "I always manage to mess up your life, one way or the other. You should have let Angel kill me, I'm sure he wanted to."

"What are you talking about me Spike?"

"Whose fault is it you died? Mine. Who didn't stop them from dragging you out of heaven? Me. And now I'm back, and you've lost your daughter. Why? Because of me."

"No!" Buffy protested loudly, and then quieter, "No. Spike, none of that was your fault. None of it." 

"Buffy, if I had been faster or stronger or a little bit smarter, you wouldn't have died and none of this shit would have happened."

"We can all take responsibility for what happened that night, Spike. You can't blame yourself…"

"I can blame myself, because I know it's my fault."

"You're so stubborn. Jesus Christ, what does it take?"

"Just admit that I'm right, then we start doing whatever it takes to get Joyce back."

"You're not right!" She punctuated this statement with a punch to the nose. They both froze as blood dripped from his face onto the carpet.

"Oh. God."

"Buffy…"

She started waving her hand, tears welling in her eyes. "Oh god, oh god, oh god."

"Slayer, don't cry. Look, I'm fine."

"I can't…I don't deserve to have her back, or your forgiveness. I don't deserve any of it." She moved quickly to the door, evading Spike's reach. Tears were rolling down her face and her body was hitching in sobs. "I have to…

~*~

go, Spike thought. Gotta go.

The problem was, Spike couldn't move. He thought it would only take a day or so to get better, but he must have been more injured than he realized. Each day passed slowly in a haze of pain and hunger. He didn't have any blood downstairs, and he needed that to get better.

He alternated between hoping Buffy would come back and dreading her return. She didn't though. The stake wound in his chest was still dripping blood, and it didn't look like it would close anytime soon. He wondered if vampires could get infections.

Even if he could walk, he couldn't go out and buy blood. He was too weak; wouldn't be able to defend himself if he ran into one of his many enemies. He'd be fine though. He had been through much worse and lived to tell the tale.

Of course then, he had Dru and dozens of minions to take care of him. Didn't matter though, he could take care of himself.

He passed his long, painful convalesce by making plans. He decided that he would get to Africa the old-fashioned way, by steamer. It would be faster to fly, but much, much more difficult. He had heard of a Shaman there, someone who was supposed to have the ability to call souls out of the ether. He had investigated it a bit after Angelus got cursed at Darla's request. She wanted to figure out how to get rid of the soul. Spike rolled his eyes, if they had only known.

If the Shaman was still in Africa, he'd be set. If not, he'd just have to get a bit creative. But either way he'd have to come back as quickly as possible. It would not be a good idea to leave everybody alone in Sunnydale for too long. They needed his help to stop the demons. And to stop Buffy.


At one point during the long period of pain and waiting, he finally lost too much blood and passed out. But there wasn't even any release in his dreams, because they became agonizing replays of the night on the tower, and the night Buffy came back. Over and over and over, she fell right in front of him. Over and over he was forced to look at her battered and broken body, lying on the rubble, so close to him, yet so far. And there was no escape. He couldn't force himself to wake up.

Finally the taste of sweet blood pulled him through his dream world, and when he opened his heavy eyelids, Dawn swam into focus.

"What are you doing here?" He mouthed. He didn't have the energy to force sound past his lips, still swollen and bloody.

"I'm making sure you aren't dead. Just drink this."  She forced bagful after bagful of blood down his throat until he felt his strength returning. Finally he stopped her.

"Don't say anything," Dawn said. "Save what energy you have. I can't come back. But I'm leaving this blood here by the bed for you."

"How did you know?" Spike asked.

"Buffy."

"She told you?"

"She didn't have to. Take care, Spike."

That was the last time he saw his lil bit in ten

~*~

…years? How could nothing change in ten years? Was she really that evil, that awful? Would she ever hit Joyce for talking back to her? How could she hit him again? How could she do that again?

The last time she hit him and ran, she was full of black tar. But now she didn't have any feelings at all. Just an empty numbness that covered her entire body, making it difficult for her to even think. She would have to let him leave again, because he didn't deserve this. Nobody deserved it.


Tears of frustration, guilt, disgust, and anger overwhelmed her and she sunk to the cold ground and leaned against a headstone. She thought she was better. She thought she had it all together, and at the first provocation she made him bleed again.

Bleed all over her mother's carpet.

She wished she didn't love him. If she didn't love him, it wouldn't be as painful. For either one of them.