Spike looked at Buffy as she lay propped up on pillows in his bed, a
sidelong glance that lingered until she caught his eye, and then
flicked away. He had never seen her like this and it was bothering him
more than he wanted to admit. He reached over to pat her hand
tentatively for the tenth time in two minutes, reassuring himself that
she was there. Buffyâs eyes rolled. “Spike, would you stop that?”
He stood up, glad of the chance to release some of his turbulent
emotions. “I canât bloody well help it! Seeing you like this, how I
found you tonight - itâs doing my head in. Suppose I hadnât come along
in time? Suppose Iâd gone back in for a weapon, or had another beer?
Youâd be dead now. God, I hate this.”
He leaned his forehead against the wall, resisting the urge to bang his
head against it. One of them was clearly brain damaged. Be a pity to
make it a matching pair.
“Iâve got a bad cold from getting soaked the other night. Itâs not the
end of the world. And I would have managed to fight that vamp off, I
think. Not that Iâm not grateful -” Her voice faltered as the memories
clawed to the front of her mind, impossible to ignore but too painful
to face.
***
Spike had gone out to meet her as she patrolled, intending to help her
tidy up the cemetery in record time so he could take her back to his
place to do all the things heâd dreamed of doing to her for so long.
Except ‘to herâ had changed to ‘with herâ and reality had exposed his
dreams as the crayon scribbles of a toddler, enthusiastic and
imaginative but destined for the trash. He had pictured Buffy writhing
beneath him, skin sheened with sweat, lips hungry and hands demanding.
Heâd got that, and more. But had his dream girl ever gone on to demand
a box of tissues by the bed so she could mop up afterwards? Heâd have
to say no. He grinned to himself as he walked along, eyes busy,
listening out for any sounds of fighting. Bossy little madam she was at
times, and he loved it when her assurance dissipated with each kiss,
each caress.
He turned down the path that led to the main gate and saw her, his feet
rooted as the seconds dripped away in a slow, syrupy stream. Then he
began to run, feeling his face shift and change, hearing himself growl,
a detached sense of heightened unreality cushioning him from the sight
before him.
Buffy. His Buffy. On the grass, a vampire lying on her, head up as he
prepared to bite. Spike knew that moment of the hunt so well, had
thrown back his own head in a mindless roar before plunging fangs deep
and drinking deeper. She had no chance to escape. Her struggles were
weakening as he watched. Even as he drew near, he could see the vampire
grip a fistful of her hair, using it to wrench her neck into position.
Three steps to go and he was screaming mindlessly, his anger requiring
an outlet before he exploded with fear and rage, challenging the other,
hoping to distract him, for a moment, just a moment -
Two steps to go and yes, the head was twisting round to gape
uncomprehendingly at approaching death.
One step and his hands were on him, rending and tearing, meting out
punishment, granting merciful oblivion only when her weak voice called
his name, brought him back from the edge, and claimed all his attention.
***
“I just canât believe you went out patrolling when youâre sick like
this. Didnât anyone tuck you up with a toddy or hide your stakes so you
couldnât go out to get bloody killed?”
“Whatâs a toddy? It sounds naughty. Never mind. Yeah, Dawn fussed and
Xander offered to go instead, but Iâm the Slayer, Spike. I donât get
time off for sniffles.”
“âSniffles!â” He began to pace again. She wished he wouldnât. There
wasnât room and it was making her dizzy watching him take two steps,
whirl around and pace back again. “Slayer, your face is whiter than
mine. If I speak above a whisper you wince because your headâs aching
so badly, you can barely talk and your nose is -” He paused, debating
his choice of words, “itâs a snotty red mess, is what it is.”
“Oh!” Her face crumpled as she pictured what he was looking at and she
looked moments away from tears. Knowing that he couldnât bear it if she
cried again he flung himself at her, pulling her onto his knee and
cradling her to him.
“Youâve never looked more beautiful. Youâre alive. Itâs all that
matters. Ignore me, Iâm a stupid git. Iâm just not used to this being
poorly lark.”
She twisted to look up at him, sniffing rather comprehensively, groping
about on the bed for the tissue box. They were getting through them
very quickly for one reason or another, she reflected. “So Iâm guessing
vampires donât get colds?”
He shrugged. “I never have, so Iâd say the odds were against it.”
“Turn me. Turn me now,”
“Buffy!”
“Well,” she said, her pout disappearing as she enjoyed the rare sight
of a shocked and disapproving Spike. “Itâd be worth it to never go
through this again. I canât taste, I canât smell. I feel like death so
I might as well be -” He tipped her off his lap unceremoniously. “Hey!
Invalid here!”
“If you ever joke about me turning you again, Iâll - no, donât cry!
Anything but the crying!”
“Make me feel better,” she begged.
He bent to kiss her. It lasted fifteen seconds before she squirmed
away, panting. “Whatâs the matter, love?”
She gave him a patient look. “What happens when you kiss me, Spike?”
“You moan a bit and usually your hand ends up on my backside.”
“If I didnât feel so sick Iâd make you pay for that. No, I canât
breathe with my nose like this. Think about it.”
He thought and his face fell ludicrously. “I canât kiss you when youâre
sick? Isnât there a spell Willow can do?”
“Way ahead of you. No. Thereâs nothing she can do.” Her voice was
fading, the brief flash of animation receding, racing away, leaving her
stranded and gasping.
Spike looked at her anxiously. “Let me get you home.”
She shook her head, suddenly drowsy, leaning back and snuggling down.
“No. Theyâll fuss and itâs too hot there. Nice and chilly here.”
He stroked her forehead and she murmured gratefully as his cool hand
stole the heat from her burning skin. “You feel really hot, Buffy.”
His voice seemed to float just out of reach but the concern reached
her. “Get me undressed then.”
It was easier than he had expected. Her eyelids fluttered but she was
sunk deep in sleep, her body reacting to the stress of the night,
retreating into oblivion to heal. He stripped and joined her in bed,
lying spooned beside her, his arm curled protectively across her
stomach. As she snuggled against him her hand brushed his, latching
onto it, holding tightly.
Spike sighed, the tension leaving him.
***
She woke not in stages but in an upward dive towards awareness. She was
still cut off from taste - and that was a good thing as she had slept
with her mouth open, gasping, fishlike for air - and her nose was
stuffed so full that not even a microscopic smell atom could wriggle
through. Her eyes were closed against the pain that lay tight across
her forehead and her body had burned away to ashes that would
disintegrate if touched by one probing finger.
Sensory deprivation and overload at the same time.
Nice.
The voice was a background hum, as unremarkable as the motor on the
fridge, white noise to match the roaring pain in her head. Focusing on
it was impossible, answering it an effort quite beyond her but she let
it slide over her as his hands had done earlier. A cooling stream of
consciousness.
“ - poetry Iâve memorised over the years? Thousands of verses and you
know what? Itâs all about love. Itâs all we think about, living or
dead. Love and killing. Both the same. I want to hold you like this and
recite it all but youâd die of boredom I suppose. And I shouldnât
borrow their words, should make up my own but they never seem to fit,
somehow. ‘Deep as first love, and wild with all regret.â Thatâs not me;
itâs you, you and him. Do you regret it still? ‘Ere seen I loved, and
loved thee seen.â Thatâs me. Knew who you were and I should have hated
you but I didnât. Couldnât. You scared me. Think I always knew youâd
win, one way or another. ‘That I should love a bright, particular
starâ. My star, my Venus, my evening star. My North star, guiding me,
showing me a different way. Sometimes. Sometimes it felt like you were
watching me drown. But if weâre picking stars, Iâm Lucifer, Star of the
Morning. A fallen angel. Oh, back to him again. He fell but they picked
him up. Me, I lie in the gutter and no one cares. Do you care, love? My
love, my sweet Slayer -”
I care, she tried to say but the words were stuck in her throat and she
lay helplessly listening as he laid out his thoughts, flinging them
around her feet for her to trample or ignore. She wanted to lie on them
instead, roll in them, clutching them to her for warmth, the warmth of
being loved, being desired, being known so thoroughly and so well.
She sank back into dreams, still clinging to his hand.
***
She woke hours later, moving from dream to reality in a decisive snap.
Her head was clear, as was her nose - she took a blessedly fulfilling
sniff - and she felt better. “Iâm better,” she said firmly.
“Whu -” Spikeâs arm jerked, tightening around her as he woke. “Buffy.
Youâre back in the land of the living. About time too.”
She twisted round to face him, moaning as the blood rushed into her
arm. “Ow. Pins and needles. Ow.”
He took her arm and began to rub it. “Your nose is pink again,” he
discovered. “Thought youâd be sick for days.”
“Slayer mojo. If I get something, I get it bad but itâs over fast.
Concentrated ickiness to get me slaying again in no time.”
He considered this and nodded. “Makes sense.”
She paused, searching his face. He looked back, a slight smile on his
lips, giving nothing away. It took all her courage to say it, but she
had never lied to him and pretending that sheâd not heard what he said
would have been a lie. “While I was out of it -”
“Yeah?” he drawled, his hand sliding up her thigh to rest in the curve
of her waist.
“I heard you talking to me.”
“More like talking to myself, Slayer. Thought you were asleep.” His
voice was mildly chiding and she almost let it drop.
“No. You were telling me how you feel. I, it was - Iâve never had
anyone say things like that to me before.”
He would have looked away but her hand slid up to his face, holding him
in place. “Tell me more.”
He grinned reluctantly. “Youâre bossing me around. Must be better.”
She snuggled closer and kissed him, a long, lingering kiss. When she
paused and looked at him with raised eyebrows, waiting, he reached
around and moved her hand up. “Told you,” he remarked.
“Youâre not going to do it are you! Talk more to me; tell me sweet
things - William.”
He rolled her onto her back and straddled her in one fluid movement.
Taking her wrists he pushed them above her head, then brought them
together. He let go of one and captured it with his other hand. She lay
still, held by a grip she could break with one look, one word. His cock
was rigid, swollen with need and he pulled back, spreading her legs so
that it could nudge inside her. He stayed like that as she began to
squirm, his face unreadable. Then he began to talk to her, low voice
regaining the cadences of youth as he slid slowly inside her, his
strokes matching the rhythm of his words. He released her hands and let
her hold him, let her bite and scratch, kiss and lick but he kept
talking to her, until the words were as deep in her head as he was in
her body, until he faltered and his measured words became incoherent
pleas until silence was all that was left for him to say.
***
When she left, he was sleeping, sprawled out, the red quilt tangled
around his hips. His hair was rumpled, his face defenceless, the sharp
angles softened by his dreams. She smiled at him and turned to go.
“Love you,” she whispered, words she had never said to him while he was
awake. She turned to go and missed Spikeâs smile.
He waited until he heard the door close behind her and then murmured,
“Love you too, Slayer. Always did.”
Return to Home
Part Four
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