Chapter Sixty-Four




She couldn’t stop thinking about him.

It must have been the claim, Buffy told herself. Because she wasn’t really like this…she wasn’t this selfish, this bad of a person. In her right mind, she would never have put a lover above her responsibility to her own flesh and blood. And she hadn’t done that now. Not really. After all, she was here in the hospital with Dawn; she wasn’t holed up with Spike in some dank cemetery lair. So what if her thoughts were there with him, wondering if he was okay, if he had eaten that day? So what if she felt sick with worry that she might have unintentionally injured him when she shoved him in the cave? It wasn’t her fault. If she had been in her right mind, he would have been the farthest thing from it. If it weren’t for the claim, she would be focused on Dawn’s recovery the way she was meant to be. She would be able to hold a conversation with her friends who were, after all, doing their very best to mend fences. Instead, she found her thoughts constantly returning to the vampire. That stupid, destructive vampire who somehow simultaneously was and was not the person she had fallen in love with in London.

God, it would have been so much easier if she could just hate him.

If it weren’t for the claim, I would hate him, she thought bitterly, and that’s the whole point. That’s why he did it. Because he knew that something like this would happen…that he was going to mess up…and he wanted to make sure he didn’t lose me when it all went wrong. He didn’t count on me being strong enough to resist it.

“But I should have known what he would do.”

She spoke aloud and although she didn’t turn her head to look, she could sense Giles twisting in his chair, his eyes wide and slightly wary. She didn’t blame him for his surprise. After all, she hadn’t spoken to him in over four hours.

It was just the two of them now. After Dawn had been moved to a semi-private room (that had been elevated to the level of a private room by the sheer luck of having no one else checked into it) the rest of her friends had gone home. It had been a long vigil at the hospital, and they were ready to shower and sleep, to eat a meal that did not taste as sterile as the institution in which it was cooked. Buffy didn’t resent them for that; in a way, she was relieved. As well intentioned as their presence had been, their constant demands on her attention had quickly become grating. So, she thanked them and watched with genuine relief as they departed. Only Giles remained and, oddly, Giles’ presence did not bother her. He was quiet and he allowed her to be, and they had passed the time together, side-by-side in matching armchairs, staring out at Dawn’s sleeping form. Buffy knew that Giles thought she hated him for what he had done, and that he remained at the hospital anyway because he loved her. And as flawed as it might be, she needed his love. She needed someone strong to sit beside her, to offer her support. She didn’t have anyone else.

Now, she had surprised him with her words, but she wasn’t really speaking to him. She was merely giving vent to her own feelings, which had remained locked inside for so long she was beginning to feel as if they were strangling her.

He hesitated a moment before answering her, clearly weighing his words carefully, searching for the ones that would offer her solace and not threaten the fragile civility that had settled between them, the possibility of forgiveness on her part.

“Buffy,” he began slowly. “It’s easy to place the blame for this on yourself; in a way, it’s really only natural. But you aren’t responsible for anyone’s actions but your own, and I was wrong to insinuate otherwise. You aren’t a fortuneteller. How could you possibly foresee what Spike would do?”

“But I should have,” she insisted, more to herself than to him. “I mean…I saw him back then, Giles, in London. I knew him. I was…with him. And he was obsessive. He was the same a hundred years ago as he is now; he hasn’t changed. He watched me all the time. If I left a room, he’d follow me. He would trail after me like this protective, overanxious puppy. He had some kind of work he did in the city; I still have no idea exactly what it was. But he was supposed to spend a part of every day at it, or if not every day, then at least three or four mornings each week. When I—when we—well, after that he just stopped doing it. He stopped doing everything just so he could be at home with me, so he could focus on me exclusively. He was fixated and it wasn’t healthy. I knew that.”

There was a long silence, and then Giles asked quietly, “And did you enjoy that?”

“What?” Buffy looked at him sharply, wishing that she could summon some righteous indignation in response to the question. But she couldn’t, because the truth was that she had enjoyed it. She had. She’d been touched by his devotion, flattered by it. Her hungry, lovesick Victorian. She’d laughed at his obsessive behavior; and, while she’d teased him about it, she had also encouraged him with every caress. By the time she finally took it upon herself to help him—by the time she began to realize how destructive it was for them both—it had already been too late. She’d disappeared almost before the lesson had begun; she had confirmed his worst fears. Losing her had helped mold him into what he was today. No matter what Giles might say to the contrary, Buffy knew that she was to blame for everything that had happened. She should have seen a disaster coming. She had seen it coming. She’d just chosen to ignore it.

A gentle hand came to rest on her arm, but the touch was so hesitant, so uncertain, that it offered her no more comfort than the words that followed.

“Buffy, listen to me. This was my doing, not yours. Had I not taken it upon myself to insist upon that ultimatum—a mistake I assure you I plan to remedy now—”

“The ultimatum wouldn’t have mattered in the long run,” she interrupted wearily. “Not with Spike. Your not giving it would have just delayed the inevitable. You were a bastard, Giles, but you were right when it came to him. He doesn’t have a conscience. In what other direction could this have gone? I was just being stupid.”

“You were confused,” he corrected kindly. Buffy shook her head.

“I was selfish. I fooled myself into believing that I could just get him back, make him what he had been back then. I wanted him.”

She looked over at her Watcher, her eyes hardening. “That’s why I did what I did. What about you? You knew how bad things were for me and for Dawn. How could you do that to us?”

“I thought I was protecting you. I saw all that Angelus put you through; I experienced plenty of my own pain at his hands. Spike is no different. He might care for you, but that doesn’t make him safe. You said as much yourself.”

“And you thought that justified your actions.”

“Yes,” he said softly. “I did. It was arrogant of me—I realize that now—and I am trying my best to right that wrong. The Council is still willing to provide you with compensation for your work; they know nothing of Spike or any ultimatum regarding him. Therefore, in regards to money—”

“I’m all set,” she finished bitterly. She sighed and wiped her eyes, willing herself not to cry in front of him.

“Thanks all the same, Giles, but I’ve got to tell you…right now that doesn’t really make me feel better.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




It would have been easy to hate Giles for what he had done, even if his suspicions about Spike had proven correct. Buffy wished that she could. Things would have been so much simpler that way; she would have had someone to blame, someone to focus her anger on. But trying to hate Giles was as useless as trying to hate Spike. She was too tired to hate anyone, and when Giles left the hospital a few hours later, she missed his company.

Buffy wished she could leave, too. It would have been such a relief to go home to a hot bath and a warm bed, maybe even to eat a real meal. She knew that her sister wouldn’t mind if she did. The cocktail of painkillers provided in her IV drip made Dawn drowsy; she probably wouldn’t even notice Buffy’s absence. But Buffy couldn’t bring herself to do it. It felt too much like abandonment. Instead, she spent the night trying to nap in the narrow confines of a lumpy vinyl armchair. It seemed like a fruitless effort at first, but she must have fallen asleep because the next thing she knew it was well after midnight and someone was gently shaking her.

“Angel?” He seemed like a dream, a hallucination; something conjured by her own confusion and exhaustion. Then, Buffy became aware of the heavy weight of his hand on her shoulder, the tepid, dry breath against her cheek, and she knew he was real. “What are you doing here? Did Willow…?”

Angel shook his head and then looked uneasily at the bed where Dawn lay, seemingly asleep and seemingly completely unaware. He spoke in a hushed tone. “It’s a really…really…complicated story. Do you think we could go somewhere and talk?”

He meant alone, Buffy realized. She glanced at Dawn, who looked so pale and small in the hospital bed, surrounded by machinery, and she felt a superstitious shudder. If she left and something happened…

“We can just step out into the hallway if you want,” Angel suggested quietly. “We might wake her otherwise, and I don’t think this is the kind of thing she needs to overhear right now.”

Intrigued, Buffy nodded, allowing him to help her out of her chair and onto her feet. She was grateful for the assistance; her legs felt stiff and clumsy from sitting so long. When they reached the corridor, he released her and she had to lean against the wall in order to keep her balance.

“How’s she doing?”

Buffy rolled her head to the side, following Angel’s gaze to the half-open door next to them. “She’s okay, I guess. Better. Stoned a lot of the time, which is probably a good thing considering that her intestines were split open.”

“But she’s going to be…?”

“So they say. As long as no infection sets in and aside from one seriously badass scar, the doctors think she should be fine. Eventually.”

He nodded.

“And how are you doing?”

A brief and entirely inappropriate burst of laughter escaped her, and Angel raised his eyebrows.

“Sorry,” she said, clearing her throat. “It’s just you have no idea…the past few months have been…” She paused, unsure of how to finish the sentence.

“Yeah, I heard that things haven’t been going so well here, that you’ve been having some money problems—”

She quickly cut him off.

“Oh, there aren’t any money problems. A completely insane and morally bankrupt individual took care of that for me. Or a group of very stupid old men did. I guess it all depends on how you look at it.”

“A group of men?” he echoed and Buffy sighed.

“Long story. The upshot of it is that after six years, the Council has suddenly decided I deserve a little compensation for my work. Imagine that. Giles arranged it.”

“When did that happen?” Angel asked, surprised.

“Again, I say: that all depends on how you look at it,” Buffy replied. “Anyway, I should get my first official paycheck in a few days. Cool, huh?” Her words were full of disdain.

“It seems to me that it would have been cooler had he arranged for the compensation a little earlier,” Angel answered. His resentful expression perfectly mirrored hers as he added, “For instance, it might have kept Spike out of trouble and Dawn out of the hospital.”

She looked at him sharply.

“You know about Spike?” A stupid question, given than he had just told her he did. And Buffy wasn’t surprised, exactly, because why else had she thought he was here? But she was curious. Who would have thought to telephone Angel in the midst of all the recent chaos? And why on earth had they thought it would be of help?

“Much to my dismay…I do.” The shrewd and slightly sour tone of Angel’s words made her suspicious and she narrowed her eyes.

“Okay, color me confused. You already said that Willow had nothing to do with your being here, but if she didn’t call you then how do you know what happened to Dawn? How’d you know what room to find us in?”

Angel sighed, his dark eyes turning sullen and mutinous. For a moment, he was so quiet that she wondered if he would answer at all. Then, he muttered almost unwillingly, “Actually…Spike told me.”

“Spike told you?” Buffy was certain she must have misheard him. Spike hated Angel; he would never have called him with news about Dawn. Unless…

“This wasn’t some stupid macho pissing contest was it?” she demanded. “Don’t tell me he’s been calling you up, bragging about how great he’s been taking care of things here, rubbing your nose in the fact that he and I…that we…” She stumbled, uncertain of how to finish the sentence.

“Buffy, do you honestly think that I would have just sat idly by if I had known what Spike was doing to get you that money? If I had known he was getting you money at all? He might have been idiot enough to believe that things would work out—and to assume that the end would justify his means—but I’m not. I wouldn’t have let him do something that would risk hurting people, not even if it did pay your bills.”

“Well, then…?”

“He showed up at my door yesterday morning.” Again, Angel sounded almost reluctant to part with the information. “Just a couple of hours before dawn. I’m not entirely sure what happened to him; there were some holes in his story, I think. But he looked like complete hell—”

“I know exactly what he looks like,” she cut in. A trifle defensively, because it had been a clue, of course, and one she had willfully ignored in the interest of getting money. She didn’t need Angel reminding her of that. “What’s your point, anyway?”

He raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised by her harshness but just as clearly seeing through it. “I guess I don’t have one,” he answered slowly. “It was just an observation.”

“I don’t want your observations. I want to know why the hell Spike decided to take a road trip to Los Angeles the day after he nearly killed my sister, and I want to know why the hell you decided to make a road trip to Sunnydale tonight to tell me about it.”

“He wanted my help.”

“Your help?” Buffy asked sarcastically. She wasn’t intentionally trying to hurt him, but she was angry and confused, and Angel was there. He was convenient, and she could think of no better person at which to direct her anger. And then there was the absurdity of his claim, the very notion of Spike asking Angel for anything. Spike would have rather been staked than to ask a favor of his grandsire. It must have been some sort of trick, and Angel had just been naïve enough to fall for it.

Except that naivety didn’t really fit well with her image of Angel. And she couldn’t imagine what kind of scheme might send Spike running to him with a plea of help.

“Trust me, no one was more surprised by his visit than I was,” Angel said dryly, cutting across her thoughts. “But that’s what he wanted, Buffy. I’ll admit that it was genuine. He wanted me to…he wanted…”

“He wanted what?” she pressed when his voice trailed away.

Angel cleared his throat and rubbed a hand across the top of his head; she could almost feel him gathering the courage to say what came next.

“He wanted me to help him get his soul back, Buffy.”

Buffy’s heart clenched as disbelief and a completely unexpected feeling of hope flooded through it. Because a soul would fix everything, right? If Spike got his soul back, it would wash away all his sins—or at the very least, it would make them forgivable. It would make him trustworthy and good, a completely different creature than he was now. She’d seen it with Angel, and her brain stubbornly insisted that it was so. A soul would give him a conscience; it would make him a man. It would mean that she could forgive him—

“Buffy?” Angel was looking at her with concern, and she realized that she hadn’t answered him. She shook her head.

“Sorry. I was just…this was just…I mean, it’s kind of a surprise in that it’s really a surprise. I didn’t even realize he was gone. I haven’t seen him since—” She paused and then asked eagerly, “What did you tell him?”

“I told him that I couldn’t help him. I’m cursed, Buffy. I didn’t go out to seek my soul; I don’t know in what ether it hides when it’s not inside of me. Believe me, if I had the power to return other vampires’ souls, I would have been doing it. God knows that I’ve had enough reason to want to in the past few years.”

There was a story there, but Buffy wasn’t interested in pursuing it, and she didn’t ask him what he meant. Instead, she forced her gaze to the wall opposite them and tried hard to hide her disappointment.

“All right. So, you’re saying that Spike told you everything that happened here during the past few months? He told you about London? About Dawn and the eggs and—”

“He told me everything,” Angel cut in. Despite the impatient tone of his voice, suddenly he looked depressed, as if he wished he could be anywhere except here with her, although Buffy couldn’t imagine why. After all, he had chosen to come to Sunnydale; he had chosen to become involved in this mess. It wasn’t as if he had been living in the utter hell that was her life during the past few days. She felt another flash of irritation.

“Well, if you couldn’t help him then why’d you even bother coming to tell me about it?” she snapped. “What good does that do any of us?”

He heaved another sigh.

“Look, Buffy, I can’t give Spike a conscience and neither can you. He’s never fully going to understand right from wrong, even if he wants to. To him, the right thing is doing what he thinks you want him to do. Doing what he thinks will help you. He’s always going to believe that, and he’s always going to make mistakes. He’s always going to struggle—”

“I already know all this,” Buffy told him shortly. “In fact, if I want proof all I have to do is look in a mirror.”

Overwhelmed by a sudden desire to shock him, she yanked down the collar of her shirt to expose the wilted white bandage that was still taped to the side of her neck. Angel’s nostrils flared when she peeled it away, but he didn’t look surprised by the wounds, only aroused by the scent of blood. Which meant, of course, that he had already known about it. Spike really had told him everything.

“He bit you.” It wasn’t a question.

“He claimed me, Angel. As in permanently and against my will. He was completely aware of what he was doing, and he did it anyway. He tied me to him for the rest of eternity.”

“Buffy—”

“He took over my mind! I can’t even think for myself—I—I can’t even—”

I can’t even bring myself to hate him for almost killing my sister. I can’t stop wanting him.

Buffy had no idea whether she spoke the last words aloud or only in her mind, but in the next moment a white-clad orderly stuck his head around the corner, looking startled.

“Everything all right here?” he asked, an uneasy smile on his lips but nowhere near his eyes. Clearly, he had overheard at least part of their conversation and he thought they were both out of their minds.

“We’re fine,” Angel assured him in an even tone, overriding the orderly’s next words with a decisive, “and we’ll take care to be quieter from now on.”

He waited until the nervous orderly withdrew, and then he whispered to her, “I know you’re upset, Buffy. Trust me, I understand. I would feel the same way if I were in your shoes. But screaming isn’t going to get you anywhere—”

“Then tell me what will get me somewhere,” she interrupted hoarsely. “You’re the centuries’ old vampire with all the experience; give me answers. Tell me how to fix this. Tell me how to make it stop!”

“How to make what stop?” He looked bewildered.

“Whatever it is that’s making me feel like this. There has to be some way to reverse it, to take away the claim.” She looked at him accusingly. “Don’t tell me you don’t know—”

“Buffy, I don’t know!” Clearly angry, yet still mindful of the nearby hospital staff, Angel raised his voice as much as he dared and then leaned closer for more emphasis. “I don’t know how to reverse a claim any more than I know how to restore a soul. I don’t know one damn thing about claims because they don’t exist!”

Buffy dismissed this with a snort, and Angel narrowed his eyes.

“It’s a myth, Buffy! Just like the fable that vampires can’t walk into churches, or that they’re afraid of garlic—”

“But if that were true, then Spike would have known it,” Buffy argued. Feeling suddenly dizzy, she reached out with one hand and gripped the doorjamb beside her. A sick lump rose in her throat, but she swallowed it back down and forced herself to say, “If that were true, he would never have bothered.”

“It’s like with the churches,” Angel repeated heavily. “It’s just a story, but one that a lot of vampires buy into. I doubt Spike really believed that what he was doing would create some mystical hold over you; he’s old enough to know better. But if he’d heard the stories…if he was feeling uncertain about the two of you…maybe he decided to go ahead and try it. Maybe he fooled himself into thinking it would work. I don’t know because he didn’t tell me what he was trying to do. All he told me was that he’d bitten you.”

“Yeah, well. Believe me, that was what he was trying to do. And I don’t see why you’re defending him—”

“I’m not defending him,” Angel retorted, “but I’m also not going to help you delude yourself with fairytales. For once in my life, I’m actually trying to be honest with you.”

He looked down for a moment, focusing his gaze on his clasped hands. He seemed to be debating with himself whether he should say more. Eventually, he continued in a strained voice, “Spike told me that he wants his soul back because he doesn’t want to hurt you anymore, Buffy. The thing is…people who have souls hurt other people all the time. They rape and kill each other; they start wars. Some of them struggle with morality the same way he has, and they do it for their whole lives. And—if he wants to be good—if he’s trying to be good—then—” He couldn’t finish.

Her breath caught, a small, hard knot suddenly rising to the center of her chest. “Then…what?” she whispered.

He sighed and looked up, his dark eyes meeting hers squarely for the first time.

“The fact is…if Spike wants his soul back…if he’s actually trying to find a way to retrieve it…that pretty much says he doesn’t need it in the first place.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~