Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from BtVS.

Many thanks to Sunalso who gave me medical advice in regards to medication and administration. She was extremely helpful. Any errors are due to my faulty imagination.

Also to ObscureBookWyrm, the best beta ever!

Awakening

Chapter Seven

It was nearly noon before he realized something was wrong.

Spike had finally drifted off, two days without sleep and extreme tension taking its toll. Typically, once asleep a herd of elephants couldn't wake him, the stillness of his slumber a profound difference from his usual manic exuberance while awake.

But Spike was also a survivor. A hundred and twenty years of unliving didn't lend itself to stupidity, especially while being the sole caretaker of an insane woman who rarely showed an instinct for survival, only for chaos.

He dozed more than slept, a half-waking slumber that allowed his senses to be on alert for any disturbance. Oddly enough, it wasn't the whimpers that alerted him, but the change in temperature in the cave. A human wouldn't detect the subtle increase, but to a cold, lifeless thing heat signified life, drawing the predator instincts inside him up tight, and made his fangs peek from his gums.

The night had been cold, and although Buffy was nestled in the down sleeping bag, Spike had made sure to keep the fire stoked. The survival of humans wasn't something Spike knew much about, but he did know that the temperature drop at night was enough to kill a man from exposure. He hadn't pulled Buffy off that rebar, patched her wounds, and removed her to the relative safety of the cave only to have her freeze to death.

By midmorning he'd let the fire lapse as he drowsed, the cave's temperature remaining temperate as long as the sun shone overhead. Normally, Spike might not have even noticed the slight degree shift, but his nerves being what they were, he sprung into consciousness fully aware, honing in on Buffy, who'd only just begun to shift beneath the heavy weight of the sleeping bag.

He grabbed the canteen and walked toward her, running into a wall of heat Buffy was radiating like a bloody furnace. Bright flags of fever burned on her cheeks, and her usually pink lips were pale and chapped. Her dry skin stretched papery thin over her bones, eyes sunken into dark hollows, making her look more dead than alive.

He smoothed his hand over her dry brow, wincing at how hot she felt in contrast to his coolness. Her eyes opened, a deep, glassy green shot through with red with wide-blown pupils that looked right through him.

"Mom?"

"Slayer? You with me?"

"I'm not feelin' so hot," Buffy slurred. "Can I have some chicken and stars?"

Spike glanced at the dying embers in the fire pit and the pot of congealed rabbit stew. "How about some nice cool water, luv?"

She hummed in the back of her throat and Spike took that as agreement. Gently, he lifted her head, dribbling a little water in her slack mouth. She grimaced when she swallowed, feebly fighting him off when he tried to offer more.

Suddenly, her vacant gaze fixed itself on him with haunting intensity. She twisted her fist in his shirt, stretching the cotton taut across his shoulders, pulling him closer. Two lines of concentration creased between her brows, her mouth drawn in a firm line. He recognized the look. It was her 'I'm gonna slay' look and he'd been a recipient of it more than once.

He wrapped his larger hand around her fist, ready to jerk away if she attacked.

"You shouldn't be here, Mom. The der Kindestod is hunting," Buffy told him, reciting the name with a perfect German accent that Spike found more than disconcerting. He didn't know the Slayer that well, but from what he observed, she was the epitome of the 'dumb blonde'. Her being able to pronounce anything in German surprised him.

She pulled him closer, curling upwards off the bed, bringing a waft of putrid stench from the wounds on her back. The movement should have been agonizing, but the Slayer barely flinched.

"It killed Celia. Don't worry, Mom. I'll kill it," the Slayer growled, and Spike swallowed. Hard.

"Alright, luv. How about we get you fixed up, and we'll go a-huntin' when you're better?"

Spike needed to get a good look at her wounds. If his nose was anything to go by, they were infected. He didn't know what to do other than clean them and change the dressings. Human wounds confounded him. If left to fester didn't the flesh start to die? Did it need to be cut away? Gangrene would kill her; that he knew for sure, had seen enough of that in the trenches of Somme.

Buffy started to relax, and Spike tried to angle her to the side to check her bandages. Just when he thought she'd passed into an exhausted stupor, she snapped up, wrapping her hot hand around the nape of his neck and pressing her brow to his.

"I'll protect you. You know that, right? I protect the world. It's my duty. You believe me, don't you?"

"Sure, Slayer. Badass protector, you are. A hero."

Buffy grimaced. "Please say you believe me, Mom. I'm not crazy. I'm not. Vampires are real. Monsters are real. They really do live under the bed, in the closet, just beneath the mud waiting to crawl out of their graves. I'm not making it up. They're out there. And if I don't fight then they'll get you, Dad, Willow, Xander, and even Giles. They're out there in the dark. Waiting to eat you. Eat us. Eat the world. I have to stop them. You believe me, Mom? Don't you? Don't you?" Buffy's hands gradually curled into the claws the more frantic she became, fisting his shirt and lightly scoring his skin.

A hundred years of loving and caring for a deranged woman had taught Spike how to be whoever she needed during her bouts of delusion. It brought only comfort, and no harm he could see. Later, Dru would sigh dreamily, telling him of the conversations she had with her dead family members, never knowing it was he she had conversed with the entire time.

"Yeah, Buffy. I believe you." Unable to resist he smoothed his hand through her hair, pushing her bangs off her dry, hot brow. "Lay down now and rest."

He pushed her down, afraid of hurting her when she resisted. "I can't rest. I don't get to rest. No rest for the wicked," she giggled.

"I've seen wicked; you're far from it, luv."

Buffy gazed at him, her eyes surprisingly clear. "But I am. I was selfish and I took something for myself and it almost ended the world."

Spike frowned at that, not understanding what she meant. He couldn't ever imagine her doing anything selfish. The heroic bint had an altruistic streak a mile wide. It made her a damned annoying chit.

"I don't get to rest until I die. Do you think I'm going to die, Spike?"

His name from her lips startled him. Dru rarely breached reality when sunken in her delusions, but Spike had never nursed a fevered human before. Was she cognizant or just barely aware enough to recognize him?

"Not on my watch you're not. Though it would be bloody helpful if you'd start healin'."

"Too bad," she mused. "I'm so tired. I'm ready to rest."

Anger surged in Spike's veins, clouding his vision. If she was bloody well going to give up, then why did he bother nursing her in the first place?

"I didn't know you were such a rotten coward, Summers. Givin' it up to Death with barely a fight. The least you could do is go out in a blaze of glory, not to some soddin' illness."

"Shush." She fitted her forefinger over his lips to hush him. He broke off his rant, staring at her like she was some unrecognizable species he'd never encountered before. "I am a coward. I go out and fight every night. Brave little girl marching to her death. But it's not the monsters that scare me. It's me. I'm the monster."

Spike's dark brows drew down into a point. "Now, I know for a fact that ain't the fuckin' truth."

She looked him straight in the eye, her expression unrecognizable. "She's in me."

Ice slithered down his spine and right into his arsehole. He shuddered, trying to draw away, only to find himself leashed to her good and proper by her small, powerful hand.

"Do you believe me? About the monsters? You aren't going to send me to the institution again, are you? I promise to be good. I promise."

"The hell? Institution? Who'd do such a shoddy thing like that?" In his day institutions, places like the famed Bedlam, were hell on earth. Places of atrocity and neglect. Awful places that bred nightmares. Later, after Dru turned him, she introduced him to her near fanatical fascination with their cold, stone walls, their tiny, filthy cells housing the most desperate of human beings. Men, women, and even children.

Places of torture, they were. All in the name of science. It was enough for even him to feel pity.

Buffy didn't reply, and Spike stared down at her unfocused eyes, bereft at losing her again. She was limp in his arms and he laid her back. She didn't move as he turned her on her side and removed her bandages. Her back was a mess of black and purple bruises, yellow-green pus oozing from her wounds. Colorful and disgusting. Spike felt a stab of helplessness at the sight. He could protect her from the men and beasts, but healing was beyond his scope.

He listened to her labored breathing as he re-bandaged her wounds. What good was there in having an uberbitch beneath the skin if the body was dying?

As he started to settle her on her back, he changed his mind, flipping her on her side instead.

He sat beside her, watching her profile. She wasn't relaxed in repose. Her brow crinkled in pain, her teeth worrying her lower lip. Hesitantly, he moved a long tendril of hair from her cheek. It didn't feel right to touch her. Almost like a desecration.

Yanking his hand back, he grabbed up the medical kit, methodically tearing through it to read the small packets of medication. There had to be something to help her, but he couldn't discern what was what. He didn't know the difference between acetaminophen and ibuprofen. In his day, it was headache powders and laudanum. Neither of which were helpful here.

He picked up one packet of Tylenol proclaiming to be a fever reducer and another that said Vicodin for pain. He vaguely recalled a medical breakthrough in the late 1920s with mold spores. Penicillin, he remembered, was an antibiotic. He didn't see anything labeled as such. Dammit, why hadn't he paid closer attention to human ailments and their doctoring?

He knew why. Sickness reminded him too much of his mother, a memory he preferred to remove to the farthest reaches of his mind.

He had discarded several long, rectangular packages wrapped in a waxy kind of medical paper. He thought they were empty syringes, but upon closer inspection they were labeled Cefazolin. Cefazolin and Penicillin shared the same suffix. Did that mean they shared the same medicinal distinction? Did they do the same thing?

He tore open the packet, staring dumbfounded. Inside was a preloaded syringe, filled with a clear fluid. Taped to the side was a 21 gauge needle covered in plastic to keep it sterile. All he had to do was attach the needle to the syringe.

He looked for instructions. Nothing. No directions on what the medication did, where to inject it, or how much to use.

He looked at the liquid in the syringe again. It seemed logical that it would be preloaded with the proper dose, but weren't doses based on body weight and all that bollox?

Sod it. He'd just inject her with everything. Either it killed her or it didn't. Glancing at Buffy's fever-flushed face, he shrugged and loaded the needle. At this point, he was willing to take the chance.

Finished, he pulled up Buffy's sleeve and held up the needle. It was a soddin' big needle, and for a superpowered arse-kicker, the Slayer was a stick-thin little thing. Maybe sticking her in the arm wasn't such a good thing.

Critically, he glanced over her body. The most padding she had was her rounded little bum, but Spike wasn't quite confident the uberbitch wouldn't take offense to being jabbed in the arse. Finally, he settled for sticking her in the thigh through a tear in her jeans. The muscle was large enough he figured, and her virtue remained intact.

When he was finished, he threw the needle into the corner of the cave. Environmental conservationist, he was not.

He picked up the two packets of Tylenol and Vicodin, studying them. Would there be a reaction if he gave them both to her at the same time, in addition to the Cefazolin? In the end, he decided to wait. It would be his luck to kill her due to a drug reaction while trying to save her.

8888

Spike sat with her as her fever raged on, getting worse throughout the day. He thought about bathing her with cool water, but all he had was in the canteen, and she needed it to drink. Only a mile away, the lake filled with snow run-off beckoned. Ice baths had been popular in his day and he was certain it was the ticket to getting her fever down, but it might as well be on the moon for all his ability to reach it while the sun shone. Even if he managed to dodge sunbeams while ducking through the shadows beneath the trees, the lake itself sat directly in the sun. There was nothing for it but to wait until the sun sunk below the cold, forbidding mountains.

"I'm so hot."

"I know, luv. Can feel it rollin' off you. Here, drink." He crushed the Tylenol and Vicodin and added them to the water. He hoped it would be enough until he could get her to the lake. She drank, then pressed the cool canteen to her cheeks, moaning in appreciation.

"Spike, I'm burning up." In a direct contradiction to her words she gave a full body shudder.

Helplessly, he glanced around looking for anything that could help cool her. Scrubbing his face with his hand, he stood up, grabbing the hem of his shirt.

"Don't stake me for this, yeah?"

He heard no reply as he pulled off his shirt. Briefly he thought of taking his trousers off, but thought better of it.

Sliding in next to her, he pulled her up so she lay draped over his chest. She melted over him like paraffin, so bloody hot he thought he might burst into flames.

"That's nice," she sighed.

"Not for long. It'll be nothin' flat afore I'm as scalding as you."

She nuzzled his chest, releasing a little moan that went straight to his cock. Spike went rigid beneath her in shock. He craned his neck to look over Buffy towards his crotch. "None of that now, you wanker. The lady's half out of her head with fever. Even we aren't that depraved," he growled.

"No! Don't! I'm not dead. I'm not! Please don't."

Spike jolted, automatically wrapping his arms around her shoulders, only to jerk away when he came into contact with her wounds. Helpless, he settled for palming the back of her skull, holding her close.

"Shush, I know, luv. You're right here with me. Live and kickin'."

"Don't bury me! I'm alive. I'm right here. Can't you see me? Why can't anyone see me?"

"I see you, Buffy. I got you. No one's going to put you in an early grave. You hear me?"

She looked straight at him and for a moment, Spike thought she saw him, really saw him, but then her eyes became glassy. "I'm not ready yet," she whispered.

"I know. We'll fight, yeah? To the bitter end. We'll make the world bloody before it takes us down."

"I'm not ready. But I will be soon."

"Not soon. Never," Spike swore. A small, furious corner of his mind knew he was being irrational, but the thought of her dying made him howling mad. He'd put so much time and effort into healing her, her dying now would be an insult.

Any other feelings he might have on the matter where just a manifestation of his insanity from being in forced isolation. Right? The plane crash, surviving in the arse-crack of nowhere, being hunted by an unknowable thing. He was just suffering from whatsit. PTSD. Yeah.

Bloody, soddin', buggerin' woods. If he never saw another damned pine tree it would be too soon.

"I'll be ready to do my duty soon."

Spike frowned. "No need for that. Let's get you better, then you can go back to what you do best. Fightin' that glorious fight."

"I'm sorry for everything, Giles. I promise to do my duty. I'll kill him. I know that won't bring back Ms. Calendar. But I'll kill him. I will."

Spike inhaled swiftly. Buffy looked broken. A wretched imitation of herself.

"I never wanted to disappoint you. I know why you let them lock me in that house with Kralik. I failed you. Failed my calling. I loved a demon and it nearly destroyed us all. I'm defective and wrong. I deserved it. Deep down, I knew that, but I just couldn't let myself be executed. I couldn't let him kill Mom for my mistakes. I fight, Giles. That's what I do. I'm just sorry I didn't fight soon enough. That I didn't save her. But I promise, I promise never to love again. It's not right for a Slayer to love. I know that now."

A sense of dread spread through Spike's chest, a knowledge that somewhere along the line the slayer he'd admired when he first saw her dancing at The Bronze had somehow been broken. Crushed under the feet of those who were supposed to love her. And that's what really chafed his hide.

For all his gluttony and destruction, Spike was a romantic. He believed in love. In its power. The thought of someone going through their life without love…well, he knew all about that. Spike hadn't truly been loved in over a century, but he still had love itself. He loved Dru, even if she didn't love him in return.

He thrived on love, despite it only being in a half-measure. He couldn't imagine banishing love from his heart entirely. Even now, scorned by Dru, as bitter and resentful as he was, he still loved her.

Once love ceased to exist, the body might as well die. That's what truly terrified him. The Slayer unable to love, leaving her to embrace her death wish. After all, who could bear to live without love?

He pulled her up until she was cradled in his arms, her heartbeat resonating in his chest, her heat wrapping around him until he felt human himself. Pressing his cheek to hers, he whispered in her ear. "Now, listen to me. Everyone needs love. And you have it in spades. Your mum loves you. Those Scoobie snacks of yours adore you, I'm sure. And your old man, he forgives you. He does."

"Dad? Dad? Where did you go? I can't find you."

Spike held her tighter. His words weren't piercing the veil, only upsetting her more.

"Shush, I'm here, luv. Don't cry."

"Dad. Please don't go. Daddy. Daddy. I'll be a good girl. I promise. No more crazy, just please don't go, Daddy."

"You sure do a lot of promisin'. Does anyone ever make promises to you?" he snarled.

Buffy's whimpering cries struck a hateful cord in Spike. She sounded so much like Dru calling for her precious daddy that he couldn't contain the growl rumbling up from his throat. For a century he had cooed and coddled Dru even as she called for another man, but not once had he held it against her, condemned her for it. His love would allow no less than total devotion. But that was before she thrown him away, accusing him of being less than a full demon, and bizarrely unfaithful, if only in his mind.

Hearing Buffy call for Daddy, even as a plea for her biological father, made him fiercely angry. The word daddy from her lips made him want to snarl, smash and bash, until all he could hear was the pounding of panicked heartbeats and gushing blood.

"Rufus?"

The slayer lifted her hand, running her finger through his hair. The action startled Spike into silence, his rumbling snarl dying in his throat. Eyes still closed, head lolling to the side, Buffy frowned.

"No more? You mad at me, baby?"

Buffy flexed her fingers, scratching Spike lightly behind the ear.

"Rufus?"

Spike growled again. Who the fuck was Rufus?

Buffy's lips curved, and she scratched Spike a little harder.

"There you are. You like that don't you?" Buffy cooed, plunging her fingers deeper into his loose curls, eliciting a shiver of pleasure from Spike.

"Yeah," Spike croaked before realizing he'd responded to her coaxing tone. "Fuck." He jerked his head away, feeling a little frisson of shame. It wasn't his place to take pleasure from the Slayer.

When he looked back, Buffy's eyes were clear, but her pupils were dilated so there was only a slender band of green.

"Angel promised to love me. But he left. I guess it's not really a broken promise if he still loves me even when he's far away, but it sure feels like it. Does Dru keep her promises to you?"

The muscle in Spike's jaw jumped. "No, she's broken every single one."

Buffy nodded gravely. "I make promises and I keep them. I am a good girl, but it doesn't seem like it because saving the world ends up causing a crap load of trouble. I've tried really hard to be a good Slayer for Giles, but things haven't really been the same between us since Angel came back from hell. I promised to love Angel forever, but…"

"But, what?"

"If I'm broken, how can I love?"

Spike's chest ached at the lost look on her face. Hadn't he asked himself the same thing every time Dru threw him away? Hadn't he questioned himself every time? Wondered if there was something wrong with him that made him so completely unlovable?

"You're not broken, Slayer." He ran the edge of his thumb down her cheek to the point of her cheek. She leaned into him, her smile faint in the dim light of the cave. Spike glanced at the entrance, noting the creeping shadows.

"We're all broken, Spike. None of us make it out of life undamaged. Not even Beaver Cleaver. He probably grew up to be some creepy Gacy serial killer."

Spike laughed. It was an unexpected sound, even to himself. She surprised him, this Slayer. He liked her quirky humor.

"I suppose. But damaged doesn't mean defective. You'll love again; you just need to find a man worth it. Not some wanker only lookin' out for himself."

"Don't leave."

"Not goin' anywhere till we're safe, Slayer."

"Don't leave me, Angel. I'll do anything. I betrayed my friends for you. Defied my mother. Disrespected my Watcher. All for you. You promised to love me forever. You promised."

Heartsick, Spike moved away, unable to stomach any more. From the entrance he watched the sun approach the horizon while he listened to the Slayer beg for her honey never to leave her, for her friends not to turn their backs on her, for her Watcher to forgive her, for her mother to accept her.

Bloody hell. Did anyone not disappoint the girl? Had no one ever fought for her, sided with her, supported her? Not the support based on their judgments of what the slayer should be; friend, daughter, champion, but what she actually was; a woman to be loved and respected.

No wonder the girl was ready to die. The only thing keeping her alive was her own sense of self-respect, and that was being eroded every day.

Buffy thrashed on the bed as the fever burned her up from the inside. Spike stalked to her side, hauling her up in his arms, cradling her against his chest. The shadows had deepened enough to allow him to skirt through the underbrush in relative safety.

Spike opened his senses. On the far side of the lake a mountain lion slinked along the bank in search of a cool drink of water before returning to its bed beneath a cool shelf of granite. A herd of nearby deer's heartbeats increased, then settled. Birds chattered in the canopy. Wherever the beast hunted it wasn't in the small valley at the moment.

Buffy moaned, and Spike held her closer, anxiously watching the sun sitting on the crest of the purple mountain, painting the landscape in oranges and reds. Holding Buffy was like holding the sun, bright and hot, and near exploding him into flames.

Realizing that he couldn't dunk her in the water while still clothed, he pulled the ragged remains of her clothing off. Her pants were tricky, and he nearly lost his balance twice trying to pull them off without setting her down. He briefly thought about undressing himself, and decided against it. He wouldn't catch ill for being in damp clothes, and he could withstand a little discomfort.

In a testament to how worried he was, he didn't ogle Buffy's naked body. Much. Only enough to confirm she wasn't a natural blonde. By the time he gathered her back up against his chest, the sun had set completely behind the mountain. He bolted from the tree line, hissing when he hit the cold water.

He prepared himself for her to struggle once immersed in the water, but even still she damned near knocked him off his feet with her Slayer strength. She erupted into involuntary squeals of discomfort, her breath coming hot and fast against his neck.

Spike held her tight as she floundered, relief surging through him as he felt her temperature drop. Eventually she settled against him. When he glanced down, she was looking up at him. Outlining the clear green of her eyes was a band of glowing white. It took all of Spike's self control not to drop her in the water and run for the hills.

Oddly enough he didn't feel the same repressive power of predestination he felt the previous times the uberbitch made an appearance. The snapping of the ozone heated the water, but the power remained restrained.

"Spike."

He swallowed when she reached out a hand to caress his cheek. Despite the glowing eyes, it was Buffy who spoke.

"I'm glad you're here."

"Can't rightly say the same, Slayer. If I have to be in the cold, rather it be in the Swiss Alps where I can snack on some long-legged, Nordic snow bunny."

Her lips curved into a faint smile, fingers curling into his hair.

"We've been waiting lifetimes for you."

Spike blinked. It was still Buffy speaking, but her words must have been hijacked. Isn't that always the way with the supernatural powers? Parasitic arseholes, the lot of them.

Except, this seemed less like the previous vessel and possession relationship and more of a blending. Two beings merging into one.

Very disconcerting. Worrisome even.

Downright, fuckin' terrifyin' actually.

Buffy, souped-up and turbogized, just about scared the wrinklies right off him.

"Don't be mad, Spike. If I had to choose, I think it would've been you. I always knew it was you."

His brow creased. It sounded like Buffy, and the glow in her eyes dimmed to nothing, only increasing his confusion.

Who was talking to him and what about?

Buffy's eyes drifted closed, and her hand slid down his chest to plop limply into the water. Now that he'd cooled her body, he needed to warm her up again before she became hypothermic. He hauled her higher in his arms, the water making her slippery, and turned to study the bank.

Something moved in the far distance, inside the gray shadows of the woods. Or he thought it did. Something tall, slender, and sticklike. He stared at the spot, willing it to move again. At this distance, and in the gloom, the trees were dark, twisted things, poised and ready to reach out and strangle a man.

Give him a dark, dank alley any day.

Opening his senses, he listened for a heartbeat that didn't belong, but only heard the frantic beat of Buffy's as it tried to rush blood to her extremities to fight off the cold.

Spike abandoned the ragged remains of her clothing, knowing there was no point in redressing her, and raced back to the cave, instincts screaming that he was being hunted every step of the way.