CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER CREDITS: I paraphrase the song "I Ran" by A Flock of Seagulls. And I also take some lines out of "Tabula Rasa".

CHAPTER NOTES: This is the one where she figures out what Spike really is.

.

He ran.

He ran so far away.

He ran.

He ran all night and...

Ugh. Just get her to safety, ya bastard!

Spike had taken the girl's books when he thought they were weighing her down. Then he had tightened his grip on her hand, pulling her with him. At first, he had tried to lose the monsters. But after a bit of it, three things had become apparent: first, that those creeps were everywhere; second, that they seemed to have specific targets; and third, that this girl was getting exhausted. He had changed course then, leading her to where he thought she'd have a genuine chance of being safe: his newly-obtained crypt. He'd hazarded a guess that these floating nightmares were responsible for all of those recent crimes he'd jealously read about, and, if so, they'd be unlikely to search for victims in the cemeteries.

He hoped now that this change of scenery wouldn't put the frightened girl off too much. Though, he reasoned, she'd already accepted help after he had indicated he was a vampire. This was not something he'd had experience with, he had to admit. But, there was no time for that now. Squeezing her hand reassuringly, Spike led her further south towards Restfield Cemetery.

.

.

Tara was slowly starting to think that this guy wasn't a foreign exchange student. No, he was much more familiar with Sunnydale than even she was. At first, she had thought that he would just find them a quiet hiding place somewhere on campus, which made her concerned that they'd have to keep relocating, keep putting themselves in danger. But, instead, he'd woven an uneven weft down alleys and through small parks, apparently to throw the monsters off their trail. Then something must have given him an idea, because he had pulled her closer and led her on a more straightforward path. He knew where he was going, without hesitation.

When she had looked up into his eyes, he had squeezed her hand in reassurance.

Where they ended up, however, was both farther and stranger than she had expected. Restfield Cemetery. There were more of those creepy guys in this part of town as well, but they didn't seem to follow the two of them past the gates. Her blue-eyed hero hadn't stopped there, though. Instead, he had quickly ushered her into a crypt, shoving the solid door closed behind them.

They both peered out of the dusty, leaded glass windows, searching for signs of the ghouls. Although Tara didn't see any, she gestured to a heavy bar which her companion understood could be used as a sort of latch. When he lowered it, sealing them inside, she slumped to the floor in relief.

Panting to catch her breath, she glanced around the space. Despite existing as someone's final resting place, it had the touches of being lived-in: a heavy blanket on the sarcophagus, books on an upturned box, well-used candles, even a little fridge that appeared to be plugged in to an extension cord from somewhere.

He was living here.

This poor guy wasn't an exchange student; he was a gutter punk. And here he was with nothing, offering it to her anyway. Her heart swelled a little, compassion absorbing the bit of her rational mind that reminded her of what happened to girls who ran off with strange men.

While he was sorting her books for her on the stone slab before them, she read his aura. Just to ease my mind, she said to herself in justification. What she saw mirrored the messages his eyes had held. His aura was mostly shades of red—the clear red of power and competitiveness, mottled with the dark red that signaled he was survival-oriented and had a strong will. He'd keep her safe, of that she now had no doubt. But indigo also burst through his aura from quite the depths. And that made her understand why she stuck with him without even really knowing who he was. Her own aura was filled with that color as well—the color of intuition, of sensitivity and deep feeling. Already, they had been able to work together, to trust each other; being homeless, she imagined he wasn't all that trusting of a person, seeing as how other people could be so cruel and violent. And, the final color in his aura—black—proved that to her. He had been hurt in his past, had long-term unforgiveness, whether towards others or himself, she didn't know. It flickered around him, almost as if it were guarding him.

"Are you okay?" he mouthed to her when he had all of her stuff together. His face had softened, and he peered at her with what looked like genuine concern.

Tara nodded in response, pointing to one of her notebooks. After a moment or two of charades, he brought her one and a writing instrument.

"I'm Tara," she wrote. "What's your name?"

He crouched down to look at her message. "Spike," he replied in a practiced script. His handwriting was somewhat elegant, not at all what she expected from someone that reminded her of Billy Idol.

Her eyes caught his again, and she studied the stormy colors that flickered across them.

.

.

"Sorry it's not much to look at," Spike wrote. "Just moved in."

He reached down then and pulled out a cigarette. The way she looked at him just now made him almost ashamed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt that way. Well, outside of that awful experience recently being engaged to the Slayer. Bloody incompetent witch. This one, Tara, looked at him with such hope or trust that he almost couldn't bear it. Don't see me like that, he scolded her in his head. I'm worse than any man you'll ever meet.

Spike closed his eyes, taking a deep drag. After a moment, he glanced back down at the notebook. She had written "No, its perfect. We should be safe here."

A sigh rested within his throat. "Suppose we never get our voices back?" he scratched out.

He sensed her hand dared to touch him once she read his question, asked rhetorically. What he didn't know was that her aura reading had already seen the pain hidden in the answer; she knew something more was going on behind those glossy eyes.

"That's what my books are for. I've got some ideas." She held the notebook out to him with a light, crooked smile on her face. "We'll figure it out, I promise."

The tension slipped a bit from his face as she continued to tug at his heart. What was wrong with him? The chip hadn't completely neutered him, had it? Was this another of Red's spells-gone-wrong? People were food, dammit. Not...whatever this was right now.

He forced himself up then and headed to the refrigerator.

.

.

She sensed his worry as he moved to the fridge. It tugged at her heart. She'd find a way to make this right. Flipping through the marked pages of her books with one hand, she felt in her pocket with the other. Hopefully Spike had a bowl or a cup in here that she could use to mix the ingredients she managed to bring with her. She had expected to meet up at Willow's room, so it hadn't even occurred to her that she'd need something to burn some of these herbs; but she saw that Spike had a working lighter, so that took care of that. She wondered idly if Willow was working on a spell to fix this problem. A smile rose to her lips as she excitedly thought they might have come up with the same things. And, if so, how cool would it be if both of them were doing their spells at the same time? Not only that, but how strong that spell would be!

Tara looked up then, renewed vigor at her task. She caught Spike out of the corner of her eye, pulling packets of something from his jacket pockets to put in the fridge. They looked kinda like CapriSun juice packets. She hoped, selfishly, that he'd offer her one until she realized—really realized—what they were. What he was.

Oh. So that's what he was trying to tell me.

She couldn't stop watching him now. He had torn through the last packet of blood he'd pulled out with his fangs—quite silently, she had to admit. His eyes were closed, but the tell-tale vampire ridges were there on his forehead. He hadn't gone all grrr argh with it. Or on her. In fact, he'd had at least a hundred opportunities now to make a meal out of her, and he hadn't taken one. Instead, he put himself in harm's way for her. Was feeding from donated blood.

The scenarios began to grow in her head, fueled by her aura reading of him. The pain of having been turned, having been forced out of his life into one of eternal undeath. The remorse of having to survive by killing. Never being able to enjoy all the wonderful things we take for granted during the day. Being so alone, so isolated. Living in fear of being hunted, of being thought of as a monster... Especially for someone so passionate and sensitive.

And here he was, trying to do right. Surviving on so little, taking in nourishment like a beggar, passively, trying not to harm anyone even while forced into a predicament where blood was the only thing he could have as sustenance.

Oh, it broke her heart, this noble vampire! A good guy. On a mission of redemption. He helps the hopeless. Or the helpless, like me today. He's like...a vampire with a soul!