Chapter Five: Death or Glory

            Spike paced up and down the hospital corridors, his face so pale it made his hair look darker, heavy boots thudding on the linoleum floors, nails digging into his palms.  A door opened and he whirled around, but it was just a couple of nurses with piles of clipboards, heading towards the lift.

            He turned away, heard the lift doors open then close, and then a voice said, "Hey there, Precious," and he reached out without looking and grabbed Glory by the neck, slamming her against the wall.

            "I should bloody kill you right here, right now," he snarled, his face inches from hers, "eviscerate you and wrap your cheap, slimy guts around your scrawny little neck."

            "Hey, look, I've said I'm sorry," Glory said, "but she did start it."

            "I don't give a fuck who started it," Spike rammed her back against the wall just a little harder, "you could have bloody killed her, and the baby.  She could be dying in there," he said, determined not to cry, "and they won't sodding tell me anything."

            "She's very healthy," Glory said tentatively.

            "Yeah, well, maybe she was until you fucking picked a fight with her," Spike slammed his fist into her broken nose, and he heard a satisfying crack as the reset bones split apart again.  "Now get out of here, don't stop for help, I'm sure your plastic surgeon can fix that up nicely, and if you ever come near me or Buffy or the baby," he closed his eyes and prayed there still was a baby, "ever again, I'll fucking kill you."

            "You sound just like Buffy," Glory whispered.

            "Good for me," Spike said, and shoved her to the floor.  "Go on, fuck off."

            Glory scrambled away, into the lift, and Spike slid down the wall, head in hands, trying really hard not to cry.  No one would tell him anything, they'd just rushed her away from him, out of sight, and told him to wait and be patient.  How the hell could he be patient?  She was bleeding, lots of bright red blood, and her eyes were closed, and the doctors kept yelling unfamiliar words to each other, medical words that sounded bad, and he was so sodding frightened...

            "Mr. Dashwood?" someone asked, and Spike, as he had the rest of his life, didn't bother to correct him.  He looked up, and it was a doctor, the front of his white coat stained with blood.

            "What?  Is she okay?  The baby-?"

            "The baby's heartbeat is a little fast," the doctor said, "but it is strong.  The bleeding has stopped - there was a minor placenta abruptio, but-"

            "What does that mean?  Is that bad?"

            "It can be.  But in your wife's case," the doctor added hurriedly, "it's unlikely it will cause much harm.  The placenta partially detached from the wall of the uterus, which is what caused the bleeding, but the damage was minor.  Mrs. Dashwood is a strong, healthy woman.  There shouldn't be any complications."

            Spike let out a long breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.

            "So - they'll both be okay?"

            The doctor smiled.  "They'll both be fine."

            "Can I see her?"

            "She's sleeping now," the doctor said, and then saw Spike's face and added kindly, "but you can go and sit with her if you like, just so long as you promise not to disturb her.  She'll need a lot of rest."

            Spike barely heard the end of that as he dashed into Buffy's room and saw her hooked up to a drip.  Her face was pale, her lips white, her skin waxy.  She looked very small and fragile, and he had to curb his first impulse, to rush over and throw his arms around her.

            Instead he took a seat by her bed and touched her fingers gently.

            "Buffy?"

            She slept on.

            "Buffy, love, they told me what happened.  If it's any consolation, you gave Glory a terrific broken nose.  I smashed it up a little bit more for you, I know you'd want that.  Soon as you're back up to strength we'll make a voodoo doll of her together, eh?"

            Her lashes made shadows on her cheeks - or were they dark circles under her eyes?

            "I haven't been spending enough time with you, pet.  Truth is, I don't know what I'm doing up in the fields, either.  Next couple of weeks, it's just you and me, eh, love?"

            He ran his hand over the large bump of her stomach under the blankets.  Something stirred and he realised it was the baby kicking again.  He smiled tiredly.

            "See the kid's getting on okay.  Take more than a catfight to bring her down, I guess.  Like mother, like daughter."

            Buffy's eyelids fluttered.  "Daughter?"

            Spike looked up in surprise.  "You're awake - I'm sorry, love, I'm supposed to let you rest-"

            She gave him a weary smile.  "I'm sort of bored with resting."

            "Well, you're gonna get a whole lot more bored with it, pet, 'cos that's all you're gonna do from now until this kid makes itself known."

            She rolled her eyes.  "You said you wanted a daughter?"

            "Daughter, son, don't care really.  No, actually, a daughter.  Little girl just like you."

            "What if she looks like you?"

            "Then she'll be an ugly bugger, but I'll still love her."

            Buffy felt for his hand.  "What happened to Glory?"

            He squeezed her fingers angrily.  "I re-broke her nose and threatened her with death if she ever came back."

            "No, really."

            "Yes, really.  She could have done you some serious damage, love.  I mean, I knew she was a psycho bitch, but I never thought... God, Buffy, if anything happened to you-"

            "It didn't."

            "It nearly did."  He touched the three long scratches down her face, the skin around them bright pink.

            "Hey, now we match."

            "They'll fade," Spike said firmly.  "They'll go, and you'll be fine."

            "They said I have to stay in here overnight," Buffy said glumly.

            "I'll stay too."

            "You don't have to-"

            "Yeah," Spike said, "I do.  I'm not leaving you here all on your own."

            "And when we get home?" Buffy looked up at him.  "And you go out to work all day and I'm sitting in bed, resting some more?"

            "I'll stay with you."

            "You can't.  Besides, we'd drive each other crazy."

            "Then-" Spike looked at a loss.  "Well, your mum will be coming back over soon, and the little bit - or maybe Red and her girlfriend could come back up."

            "Willow?" Buffy thought about it.  "I guess... Yeah, that might be cool... If Giles lets them loose from the museum."

            "He will if I have anything to do with it," Spike said.

            "Glory!"  Ethan looked shocked as she walked in, looking sullen, bruises on her exposed neck and a plaster across her broken nose.  "What happened?"

            "That vicious little bitch broke my nose," Glory threw herself at an eighteenth century chair.

            "Buffy?  How - why?"

            "I was trying to get her out," Glory said, "and she just flew at me.  It was completely unprovoked."

            "Completely?" Ethan raised an eyebrow.

            "Well, mostly."  Glory gave a catlike smile.  "Anyway, I didn't deserve this."

            "And your neck?"

            "That was your son, threatening me."

            "She's a bad influence."

            "Oh, please, he's always threatening people-"

            "She's a bad influence," Ethan said more firmly.  "We have to try harder."

            "Well I thought she might have miscarried," Glory sighed," but she appears to be revoltingly healthy."

            Ethan drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair.  "Did you mention Finn?"

            "To her, not to him."

            "We need to step this up."

            Glory smiled.

            Willow and Tara were waiting on the steps of Spellingdon Hall when Spike drove the Range Rover right up to the front door.

            "Buffy," Willow cried, "how are you feeling?"

            "Okay," Buffy lied.  She was horribly tired, all she wanted to do was sleep.  But she summoned a smile for her friends and let Spike help her up the steps into the house.  Davis was there and he bowed to her, and Jones was hovering in the background, looking vaguely anxious.  She pushed forward a wheelchair and Buffy laughed.  "Spike, what is this?"

            "You're supposed to be resting, love, I don't want you walking all over the place-"

            "I won't."

            "You bloody will, I know you.  And look, pet," he wheeled her over to where a section of the wooden panelling had been removed and an ornate iron grill took its place, "I got the elevator working."

            "I thought they were 'lifts' in this country?"

            "Something this grand has to be called an elevator," Spike grinned, opening the iron door and pushing her inside.  The walls were panelled with oak, there was an Art Deco light in the centre, and velvet seats around the edges.

            "Very cushy."

            Willow and Tara hopped in after them, and Spike hit a button.  The elevator creaked a little, but it made its way up to the first floor without any major disasters.  Nevertheless, Buffy found herself holding Spike's hand all the way up.

            "When was the last time this was used?"

            "Oh, I dunno.  1920-something."

            "Oh, God.  I think I prefer the stairs."

            They proceeded along the wide corridors, but Buffy soon realised they weren't going in the right direction.

            "Did you move our rooms, too?"

            "No, love," Spike was smirking, "just got something to show you."

            Willow and Tara were grinning.  They knew what it was, but they wouldn't tell Buffy, no matter how much she begged and pleaded.

            Eventually, with Buffy sulking and pouting in the wheelchair, and Spike grinning widely, Willow and Tara pushed open a pair of double doors and Buffy entered a beautiful room, painted in pale pastel colours, with stars on the ceiling and fluffy animals dotted around.  There was a dais on the far side, away from the muslined windows, and on it was a large crib with a lacy canopy.  It was the most ornate thing she'd ever seen, and the most beautiful, and her eyes welled up.

            "I've been fixing up the nursery, love," Spike said as she looked around.  "What d'you think?"

            "It's beautiful," Buffy sobbed, and Willow and Tara tactfully withdrew.

            "And through here," he wheeled her over to another door, "is the nanny's room, so she'll always be on call.  My old nanny has a niece who's trained at Norland, I can get her up here in time for the birth.  Highly recommended, keeping it in the family..."

            But Buffy was frowning.  "Nanny?"

            "Well, yeah.  Didn't expect to have to come all the way out here yourself, did you?"

            Buffy stared.  "Where exactly are we?"

            "South wing."

            "And our rooms are..."

            "North bit of the main house."

            "The main house which is several acres across."

            "Yeah.  Bit of a trek, especially in the middle of the night.  Look, I know how you've been missing your sleep-"

            "You want to put our baby in a nursery wing on the other side of the house with a total stranger?"

            Spike suddenly detected her tone of voice.  Ah.  Maybe she wasn't totally happy about it.

            "It's the way it's always been done, pet," he said, kneeling down in front of her.  "She's properly trained, Norland's one of the best-"

            "A nanny?" Buffy repeated, staring around.  "Spike, I don't want my baby being brought up by a stranger on the far side of a house that's bigger than Sunnydale.  Do you know how damaging it is for a child to be brought up without its parents?"

            "Hey, it worked for me."

            "You hate your parents!  You despise your father and he never sees you.  Spike, he walked out of your wedding.  I don't want that with our children."

            If Spike noticed the plural, he ignored it.  "So what do you want?  Crib in our room?  Waking up every half hour because the baby can't sleep?  Changing nappies yourself?  Buffy, we have all these rooms-"

            "But why do we have to use the ones that are so far away?"

            "Because that's how it's always been done!"

            "You're doing this because of tradition?"

            "Well, what the hell else am I supposed to do?  I've never done this before.  I'm sorry if I don't have any great paternal instincts kicking in, but I don't know what this is all about.  Maybe you see something when you look on the ultrasound, but all I see is a blob.  I don't have hormones to hide behind.  I don't have instincts to help me out here.  The only thing I know what to do is what people in my family have always done, and you know something else?"   He gestured around the lovely room.  "I did this for you.  I was trying to help.  Screw you if you don't want it."

            And with that, he got up and walked out, and Buffy yelled after him, but the only people to come in were Willow and Tara.

            Buffy put her head down and cried.

            Worse was to come.  Willow helped her into bed and Tara mixed up some aromatherapy oils to calm her down, and Buffy was just curling up to try and sleep some of it away when the phone rang.

            "You want me to get it?" Willow asked.

            Buffy nodded.  "If it's Jones tell her I still haven't got my bathroom light fixed."

            Willow picked up the phone.  "Hello?  Er, Lady Buffy's room."

            "It's Lady Dashwood," Buffy sniffed, half to herself.  "I don't get to be Lady Buffy, not ever."

            "Oh," Willow said.  "Buffy, it's an outside call.  It's your sister."

            Buffy thought about talking to Dawn, and knew that in the state she was in, she'd just collapse into more tears.  Talking to home made her so tearful these days.

            "Can you ask her to call back later?  Tell her I'm asleep.  Or ill."

            Willow looked doubtful, but she nodded and said, "Hey, Dawnie.  Buffy's been having a rough day and she's got to try and get some sleep, so how about you give her a call later, maybe?  ...Oh.  Well, I-" she glanced at Buffy.  "I guess you should speak to her, then..."

            Buffy looked up, puzzled, as Willow held out the phone and whispered, "She says it's really important.  About your mom."

            Oh, God, Mom.  She'd been getting more of her migraines recently and Buffy hadn't wanted to talk to her too much in case the phone radiowaves made it worse or something.  Often Joyce had to go in a dark room and lie in silence all day until her head was better.

            "Dawn?"

            "Buffy," Dawn sounded terribly relieved.  "I have to talk to you."  Was her voice wobbling?  "It's Mom.  She's really sick."

            Buffy sat up.  "How sick?"

            "I don't know what's wrong with her.  They keep using long words and I don't understand.  They took her in for scans and there's something - I don't know, like a tumour?  She won't tell me.  Like she's trying to protect me."

            Buffy felt hot and cold all over, all at the same time.  "A tumour?  Where?"

            "In her head."  Dawn was sniffing hard, her voice squeaking as she tried not to cry.  "Buffy, I'm scared."

            You're not the only one, Buffy thought.  "Listen, Dawn, is Mom there?"

            "No, she's at the hospital."

            "Where are you?"

            "Xander's."

            "Is he there?  Can you pass him over?"

            Xander came on the line, and she could tell from his tone of voice that he was desperately worried, even though his words were cheerful.  "Hey, Buffster.  How's her Ladyship?"

            "More like her LadyTitanic," Buffy joked feebly.  "I'm huge.  Xander, what is all this about Mom?"

            Xander gave a short sigh.  "Those migraines she gets?  Turns out they weren't just headaches.  Her doctor sent her for tests and it's some sort of tumour.  They're trying to figure out how benign it is."

            "Benign?"

            "Yeah, whether it's cancerous or not.  I'm pretty sure not," he added quickly.

            "And if it is?"

            "Well, then they can operate to remove it.  She's gonna be okay, Buff.  She's gonna be fine."

            Buffy talked to him a bit more, then Dawn again, then she lay back on her pillows and closed her eyes, tears leaking out.

            "Will?" she called.  "You there?"

            The bedroom door opened and Willow's head came round.  "You okay?  Was it bad news?"

            "My mom has a tumour.  They're going to operate on her."

            Willow looked appalled.  She came in, Tara close behind, came over and hugged Buffy.  "But I'm sure she'll be fine," she said.  "Your mom seemed pretty healthy to me."

            Buffy clutched her friend's hand.  "But, but... what if she's not?"

            Clem found his lord and master sitting in the darkened conservatory, now clean of the blood Buffy had spilled everywhere, a bottle of bourbon in front of him, half of it gone.  Spike sat there glaring into the dark garden, the rose maze planted by his great grandmother, the fountain commissioned by his great aunt, the Temple of Athena some potty relative had built up in the hills a couple of centuries ago.

            All this was his, yet all he ever seemed to do to it was screw it up.

            "Clem," he said, making his estate manager jump, for he hadn't realised he'd been seen, "you want all this?"

            "All what?  The house?  The estate?"

            "All of it.  I don't want it.  I'm giving it away.  All it's ever done is mess things up."

            "Did you fight with Buffy again?"

            Spike downed another shot.  "She didn't like the nursery."

            "I thought it was very pretty.  Or was it too pretty?  Maybe she was hoping for a boy."

            "Everyone's sodding hoping for a boy.  A glorious heir.  You know Mum told me when Darla was born my dad didn't speak to her for three days, because he'd wanted a boy so much.  And then look what he got," he spread his hands.

            "You haven't turned out so badly."

            "I knocked up an American teenager."

            "She's twenty-two."

            "Thought you didn't like her, Clem?"

            "I was prepared to not like her.  She's grown on me."

            "Yeah?  Well, everyone else hates her.  The servants, Dad, bloody Glory..."

            "Glory's always been a problem."

            "Damn right she has.  I never thought she'd stoop so low... You know she's not allowed anywhere on the grounds now, right mate?  Nowhere near Buffy or the house or anything.  I don't care what Dad says.  She nearly killed Buffy."

            "I didn't think it was that bad."

            "Yeah?  I read up on that placenta abdominator or whatever it was called.  You know it can kill either the mother or child, or both?  The mortality rate's about thirty percent."

            Clem looked shocked.  "She really could have died?"

            "Yeah.  Because of an abdominal injury.  Caused by Glory shit-stirring," Spike suddenly grabbed his shot glass and aimed it at Aunt Rosemary's ornamental fountain, where it fell, eventually, after smashing through two panes of conservatory glass.

            There was silence for a while as the glass settled.  Clem said nothing.  Spike glared moodily at the dark garden.

            "You think she's asleep?"

            Clem doubted that anyone was asleep after that crash, but he shrugged.  "She could be."

            "I should go see her."

            He couldn't think of anything to say to dissuade Spike.

            "Be gentle."

            "Of course I'll be sodding gentle.  I'm not bloody Glory."

            Spike stomped back through the house, ignoring the servants who came running to see what the smash had been, and loped up the stairs two at a time to his room.  He paused in the little sitting room outside, stood at the bottom of the stairs, listened carefully.

            There was nothing.  She was asleep.

            He pushed open the doors and what he saw nearly broke his heart.  Buffy had had the big crib moved into the room, just by the bed, and she was curled loosely under the covers with a big teddy bear in her arms.  Her eyes were pink and her face was damp from crying.

            He rushed over.  "Buffy, I'm so sorry.  I didn't know it would hurt you like that.  I didn't mean to hurt you.  Buffy, I'm sorry..."

            Her eyes opened and her lashes were glistening wet.  She must have been crying for hours and not stopped very long ago.

            "Spike?"

            "Yes, love."

            "My mom's sick.  She has a brain tumour."

            For a second Spike was relieved that she wasn't crying so broken-heartedly over the nursery - of course, Buffy would just get on and do what she wanted, no crying, bugger him - and then he realised what she'd said, and he felt horribly cold all over.

            "Will she be alright?"

            Buffy shrugged helplessly.  "I don't know.  I want to go there but I can't, the airlines won't take me and the doctors won't let me and you want to keep me wrapped up in cotton wool and..." she dissolved into tears, and didn't resist when Spike put his arms around her.  "Spike, I'm so scared."

            "She'll be fine, Buffy.   I know she will," Spike said, but he didn't believe himself.