Title: The Crow and the Pitcher

Author: freak-pudding

Disclaimer: Buffy: The Vampire Slayer and all associated articles are the sole property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. No copyright infringement intended.

Summary: She hated the heat, hated what it made her feel. Post-Intervention

Author's Note: A humungous thank-you to my wonderful new beta, Lindsay. XD As for the rest of you… Savor the darkness, baby.

Chapter Four: Onus Probandi

On Thursday they all came down to clean out Giles's apartment. Willow stayed in the kitchen with Tara, and at noon they made everyone peanut butter sandwiches. Xander and Anya were relegated to organizing the living room. This left Giles and Buffy with the back bedroom and the darkest area of the small flat.

Still uncertain of what he'd find, Giles brought his entire first aid supply, even making Buffy dig beneath the sink for a white tin box that probably hadn't seen the light of day since the Englishman moved in. Balancing boxes and bags, Watcher and Slayer moved with reluctance to the door of the vampire's room.

Once inside, they were even more unsure of what to do. Seeming to realize it was still his role, Giles moved around the room and turned on all available lights. Dust exploded from the shades, and Buffy coughed into her hand.

"Dear lord…" Giles whispered, bending over Spike's motionless body. "What the hell happened to him?"

"You already know the answer to that," Buffy replied, astonished at how cold she sounded. Giles cast her a glance before peeling the light cotton blanket back. Bits of Spike's flesh clung to the fibers, and Buffy stuffed it in the first of many garbage bags.

"Perhaps we should, um… catalog his injuries?" Giles suggested with an almost apologetic note. Buffy nodded, retreating from the room to fetch a notebook and pencil. Little to her surprise, Giles swiftly followed.

"Anya, I need you to do something for me," he said, ushering the petulant blonde from her recline on the stairs beside Dawn. "I need you to go get some supplies from the hospital."

"You mean steal?" Anya asked, popping a bubble in her gum with an audible crack.

"Yes," Giles replied, closing his eyes in momentary exasperation. "I'll write you a list, and I want you to go right away."

"Is it that bad?" Dawn asked, her voice seeming too small.

"He'll be fine," Xander said breezily, dropping a box of books at the teen's feet. "Sort."

But Dawn's eyes remained on her sister, and Buffy made no sign as she held up the notebook to Giles.

"Good enough," the Watcher sighed, and together they plunged back into the abyss.

Giles flitted around the bed for several moments, hesitant of where to begin.

"Start at the top, work our way down?" Buffy suggested reluctantly.

"Right…"

Giles pushed his glasses further up his nose and cleared his throat.

"Um… There are several deep gashes on his scalp and along the sides of his face, both eyes are swollen and bruised, covered in cuts…"

Carefully, he pried apart Spike's eyelids.

"The eyes themselves are… the whites have turned completely red. We may be looking at retinal damage, perhaps even nerve damage… His nose appears to be unbroken, though a little swollen. Teeth and tongue are intact, bruising along the jawbone… I can't really see far enough into his throat… It appears that his larynx and trachea are damaged…"

He turned Spike's head gingerly, briefly examining the back.

"There's really too much blood. We ought to clean him a bit… Perhaps a few skull fractures, and there seems to be a large amount of blood in and around his ears. This might indicate ruptured eardrums, but we can't be sure until Anya gets back… Torso is heavily bruised, with cuts that begin above his breastbone and stretch past the pectoral muscles. There's a small hole, perhaps just over a centimeter in diameter, beneath his left clavicle, um… Bruising along his sides indicates several broken ribs, perhaps a few punctures…"

His fingers reached slowly for Spike's right arm, but they never made contact.

"Um, s-severe burns on the right arm, down to the bone in most places, it goes all the way up to his elbow… Little to no flesh or muscle on his hand; a few bones appear to be missing… I'm afraid we'll have to amputate. His left arm is only dislocated, perhaps from his fall onto the elevator, and his wrist is broken."

"I, um, I think that's my fault," Buffy interjected quietly. "When I pushed him off the tomb, I heard something crunch, and…"

Giles twitched the sheet lower, and Buffy flushed.

"No apparent damage to the, er… groin area…"

A bit of blush tinged Giles's cheeks, and he quickly replaced the blanket.

"M-moving on… Uh… l-legs appear heavily bruised; his right ankle is swollen, perhaps a fracture or sprain… Christ, these cuts are deep."

Buffy chewed on the end of her pen, wishing Giles would just wrap it up already. When the Watcher finally stepped away, it was only to ask her for the dagger on the counter and the sharpening stone he kept beneath the end table.

She turned back, handing over the dagger with a nauseous feeling growing in the pit of her stomach.

"I'll get some water," she blurted, dashing for the door. "To, um, to… clean him. And stuff."

The bathroom door slammed behind her, and Buffy pressed her back against it, willing away the bewildering tears flooding her eyes.

She crossed to sink and turned on the faucet. She kept her fingers beneath the jet, waiting for the water to be cold enough to bite. Silently, she stared at her reflection.

"What the hell am I doing?"

The staccato burst of sobs shocked her, and she stuffed her fists into her mouth, willing them to stifle the sound cracking against the mirror and reverberating back to ripple across the cream tiles beneath the window. Stabbing pains up and down her thighs came suddenly as the Slayer's legs gave out, and she crumbled against the tub, clinging desperately to the porcelain.

Tara's timid knock on the door didn't even startle her from the floor.

"Buffy? Buffy, Mr. Giles needs your help. H-he thinks that S-Spike might be w-waking up."

Buffy reached out and pressed her palm flat on the door. Splaying her fingers, she caressed the hollow wood and tried to imagine it was a momentary veil against the rest of the world. There was no sound from the hall, but she knew that Tara was still standing there.

Buffy made no reply.

After several long moments, she heard the faint rustling of linen against Berber, and Tara's voice seemed to be right in her ear.

"I… I know that th-there's nothing I c-can say to… that will m-make it better, Buffy, but… there's this thing? My m-mother always used to t-tell me th-that it only gets w-worse before it gets b-better, y'know? B-but, I always thought, huh, isn't that funny? Y-you'd think it'd only get w-worse, no matter what, right? B-but that's not how it goes."

Buffy closed her eyes, sinking until her head hit the linoleum.

"You can't believe it'll only get worse before it gets better, Buffy. If you do, you'll never stop seeing the bad. You've gotta believe it gets better. Because it really does. S-sometimes it just takes a while."

Her fingers curled against the door.

"I promise you it'll be better soon."

It seemed she had nothing left to say, and Buffy heard the soft tap of her footsteps fading away. After only a few seconds, she lifted her head from the floor and crossed to the sink. Giles kept his rattier towels underneath the sink, and she filled a bowl with warm water.

Her fingers clenched and unclenched themselves as she stood outside the bedroom door. She stared at the knob, almost willing it to turn itself and let her in.

She jumped when it moved.

"Oh, Buffy, good," Giles nodded, stepping aside to let her in. "Is Anya back yet?"

"I… I didn't see," Buffy replied, setting the bowl on the end table. "T-Tara told me that he was…"

His left hand was twitching. A lump built in the back of her throat as she robotically followed Giles to the bedside.

"I'll just clean him up then," she said, her voice small. Giles nodded, setting to work at Spike's right arm. The vampire shuddered almost imperceptibly as Giles's blade bit into the flesh just below his shoulder.

They worked in silence as the vampire thrashed weakly; Buffy thought she might vomit if she spoke. Willow's shrill announcement of lunchtime had them scurrying rapidly from the room, desperate to be away from their gruesome task.

In eating, Buffy managed to find a brief peace. But, things being as they were, it did not last long.

"Buffy, Dawn's presence might help to calm Spike."

"Giles, I am not subjecting my little sister to that… that!"

"Well, I can't help him if he doesn't calm down—"

"Why are we helping Spike again?" Xander interrupted, setting down another box of books with a small grunt. "Okay, so he did get tortured by Glory, but I mean, the guy is evil, and he built the Slayer Sexbot—"

"Xander," Willow admonished, giving a pointed nod toward the stairs where Dawn was sulking.

"—not to mention the fact that we all hate him," the carpenter sighed. "Look, I'm just the guy movin' the couch, but I gotta wonder… ooh! Penny!"

"Ah, the joys of monetary distraction," Anya beamed, marching through the door in a riot of sunshine and pink rayon. "Got the stuff."

With a relieved sigh, Giles took the paper bag from her and perused its contents.

"Any trouble?"

"Not really," Anya yawned, flopping onto the couch in an undignified heap. "I had to flirt with a couple orderlies, but I doubt they'll remember me."

"Yes, well, let's hope not," Giles said distractedly. Anya stole a cookie as Willow passed by with a new batch. "This will help Spike a great deal, thank you, Anya."

"I got some extra stuff, too, but it's back at the Magic Box," Anya nodded. Tara fanned herself with a sigh, throwing open the windows.

"There's still some lemonade in the kitchen if you're thirsty," Willow said, picking up the feather duster again. "Giles, don't you know how to alphabetize?"

"Of course I do," the Watcher said indignantly. "I was a bloody librarian!"

"I don't hate him."

Dawn's voice was at first small and almost unnoticeable. The typic of teenage petulance, she straightened defiantly as the attention shifted her direction.

"What?" said Buffy.

"I don't hate him," Dawn repeated loudly, glaring at Xander. "He got hurt trying to save me."

"Yeah, but—"

Xander cut himself off, throwing his hands in the air.

"For pity's sake! Dawnie, he doesn't even care about you. He can't. He's just trying to get in Buffy's pants!"

Dawn jumped down from the landing, facing off with her former friend.

"You're such a jackass," she spat, slapping him.

"Dawn!"

The girl turned and ran for the bathroom, slamming the door hard enough to shake the flat. Buffy sighed, burying her face in her hands. Xander's jaw flapped open and closed uselessly.

"You look like a fish," Anya observed from the couch, prompting her boyfriend to glower. There was silence.

"I need to get back to Spike," Giles said reluctantly. "Buffy, do you think you could, um, you could…"

His strange squeamishness resurfaced, but Buffy couldn't find the strength to take pity on him.

"Could you… get rid of the—the, um, the…"

"Yeah," Buffy said tersely, cutting off the stutter. "Xander, I need help."

They returned to the room as a group. Buffy went immediately for the garbage bags, Giles to tend Spike's torn face, but Xander stayed in the doorway. Irritated beyond measure at the waves of stupidity and blind obstinacy surrounding her, Buffy thrust the two lighter bags at Xander.

"C'mon."

Obediently, he followed.

They trudged in relative silence around the apartment complex. When Xander made to toss his load into the communal Dumpster, Buffy shook her head violently.

"We can't," she said simply, continuing to Tara's truck.

The witches had decided shortly after Joyce's death that someone other than Xander and Giles ought to have a car. The truck was once a chipper green, but now the bed was rusted out near the tires and the air conditioner broken.

Buffy tossed her bags over the side and climbed into the sweltering cab. Late April, and it was already hotter than Hell. Bewildered, Xander clambered in beside her and started the truck with a dissatisfied grinding of corroded gears.

"Stop," she commanded when they'd reached the city dump. Resolutely, she stumbled from the cab and hurried to the side, needing this task to be over and done with.

They chose a half-full Dumpster near the edge, and Buffy was careful to arrange several other bags over top of theirs. Exhausted, Buffy leaned against the side of the bin and wiped at the hair plastered to her forehead.

Xander leaned beside her, watching his friend carefully.

"Just say it, Xander."

He opened and closed his mouth for several minutes, surprised and uncertain how to begin.

"He didn't look that bad," the carpenter blurted. Buffy cast her eyes in his direction. "I mean, okay, his burned arm was a little bad—"

"What arm?" Buffy replied pointedly. His eyes widened.

"You mean, we just threw out his—"

Buffy grimaced, giving a small nod. This provided a nice, stunned silence for at least a couple minutes.

"Still… I mean, doesn't he deserve that? After everything he's done?"

"Who are we to decide who should be maimed and who shouldn't?" she shot back irritably. He gaped.

"Buff, don't tell me you're defendin' the guy. He chained you up—"

"I know what he did, Xander," she interjected, rubbing her face. "And he didn't just… I mean, he got hurt for Dawn. For me."

"So?"

He crossed his arms, facing her down.

"That doesn't change anything."

"I know…" Buffy sighed. "It's just…"

A soft chorus of crickets began behind them, a gentle warning of impending dusk.

"He was crying, Xander," Buffy said, tears forming in her own eyes. "He knew what we were doing, he knew that we were taking his arm, and he was crying."

Wiping uselessly at her smearing mascara, Buffy pushed off of the Dumpster and started away, hands shoved deep in her pockets.

"How'm I supposed to hate him now?"