Disclaimer: All the characters and any familiar dialog belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. I don't make any money off of this.

Author's note: I had written myself a bit of a challenge: What would it be like if the Buffy we saw in the alley in Bargaining didn't get better so quickly? What would happen if that confusion and those feral qualities had remained? And what if she had found Spike in the meantime? This was the story that resulted.

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Fallen Angels by BuffyMeetsSpike


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Prologue
 
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Endless warmth and light. This was what her time consisted of now. A mother’s love, never ending, never leaving. Peace, stretching out in all directions like a blanket. Rest, at long last.
 
Then a voice. Familiar, but unwelcome. Jarring, like someone shattering a glass in a silent church. “Here lies the warrior of the people! Let her cross over!” Then a horrible fall, like the last one, only worse because she was falling away from the light this time. Her mother’s presence unwinding from around her, stretching, then snapping like an overloaded rope. She fell, and fell, the light receding from her as she cried out and struggled. The horrible voice, calling her out of her bliss, echoing in her ears painfully. No! she screamed silently. I’m sorry! Whatever I did I’m sorry! Please, don’t take me away! Please!
 
Her fall ended in a gasp, and she woke to darkness and suffocation. Instinctively she ripped and tore, clawing and digging, collapsing gasping on grass slick with blood. An earsplitting roar came next, as a hot, loud, ghastly machine ripped through the night. She huddled behind a stone in terror as the machine flashed past, controlled by a twisted, deformed figure who laughed and shouted to other such creatures. She curled herself into a ball, willing herself into invisibility as they rocketed past. They flashed by without seeing her, but she stayed curled up for a long time. It was cold, and the blood from the grass had gotten on her hands, and she was coughing dirt out of her lungs. The place she was in was surrounded by carved stones and sinister looking trees.
 
She was in hell, she concluded. Someone had punished her and pulled her out of the warm place, and she had no idea why. Coherent thoughts seemed to come in broken bits and snatches. A lucid moment would be followed by dark confusion in which she could form no words in her mind. She stayed in a fetal position, shuddering and weeping for a long time until the cold got too much for her. She got shakily to her feet, walking nervously in a random direction with her arms wrapped around herself. Soon the trees gave way to pavement, but there was fire and destruction everywhere. More demons, and a dismembered manikin that seemed to look familiar, with its blonde hair and pink sweater. It mocked her, as if to say, “This is your fate.” She whimpered and shied away from it, retreating into the shadows.
 
She wandered on, then suddenly came around a corner to find herself face to face with three of the large demons. As they advanced on her some unknown instinct took over and she fought and kicked and struck them until they fell at her feet. But the second the rush of battle was over the fear and confusion set in again and she ran, blindly, through streets and alleys, trying to somehow flee the chaos.
 
She had run down an alley, looking for a space to hide when suddenly she came upon four figures. They didn’t seem like demons, although they all held weapons, but she was wary, poised to flee as they advanced on her. Then the one with red hair had said, “Buffy?” and her eyes had grown wide with terror. The voice. That had been the voice that had ripped her from the warm place. She shrieked and turned, sprinting off into the night with the four of them calling after her. She still didn’t know what they were, but if they were in league with the one who was punishing her she wanted nothing to do with them.
 
After a while the fires and the broken glass and the hard pavement gave way to more grass and stones and trees, which seemed less completely terrifying to her. Shivering, she made her way deeper into this green space, instinctively seeking shelter. A stone building ahead seemed familiar somehow, like something from a forgotten dream. Letters were carved over the door which meant nothing to her. She slowly, fearfully opened the door listening for any signs of occupation before scampering in and closing the door behind her. The room was dark, lit only by moonlight, but a faint glow came from a small square opening in the corner of the room. Safe place, her mind echoed, although why she thought it was safe, and from whom she thought it was safe she could not say. Warily creeping across the dark room, with its coffins and ironwork throwing weird shadows, she saw a ladder leading down. She crept down the ladder and was astonished to find a room, lit by candles. There was something off about the room. The bed was ornate and luxurious, but the walls were rough stone and dirt. The floor was covered with carpets, but there were weapons and containers that seemed covered in blood. Still, this was the least frightening place she had found since she had been sent to this hell, and she wanted nothing more than to close her eyes for a while. She found a dark corner, a little ways into a tunnel that led off the room, where she felt she would be sheltered. With her back to the wall she curled up on the floor and fell asleep with tears drying on her face.
 
Chapter 1
 
Spike was more exhausted than he ever remembered being.
 
The usual Dawn minding gig had turned into a battle royal with the biker demons who had figured out that Sunnydale had no Slayer. He had gotten Dawn away from the house, only to lose track of her once they found the Buffybot. She had screamed and run for cover as more bikers had converged on the scene of the robot’s demise. Spike had vamped and roared, fighting more demons than he could count. When he finished, Dawn was nowhere to be found, and he had panicked, combing the streets on his motorcycle. For reasons he couldn’t understand, the bikers seemed to have decided to give up after a while. Doubt it was my fighting skills scaring them off, but I’ll take it, he had mused. When he finally circled back to the Summers house to find that she had made her way back there, the relief had hit him like a wave. The Scoobies had come running in saying, “Is she here?” just as Spike had finished his threat to kill her for giving him the fright of his unlife.
 
What was up with that lot anyhow? Spike wondered idly to himself as he continued making his way to his crypt. When they had run in, they had seemed relieved to see Dawn, but also somewhat… disappointed, as if they had been expecting something else. They had seemed more interested than usual in getting Spike to go home, practically shoving him out the door. They’re hiding something, but damned if I know what, he mused. As his crypt appeared in the distance, he decided that whatever it was would have to wait until he had some blood, some whiskey, and some sleep, in that order.
 
He entered his crypt, pausing to light a few candles before he took off his duster. As he did he noticed a faint scent that distinctly and heartbreakingly reminded him of the Slayer. Must be from Dawn clinging to me on the bike, he guessed. Dawn’s scent reminded him constantly of her sister, which was both comforting and painful by turns. He tossed the duster on his one armchair and examined his t-shirt. A demon had raked him good with his claws, shredding both his shirt and his chest. Great. Must be the tenth shirt I’ve destroyed this month. Grumbling he pulled off the shirt and tossed it in the corner to deal with later. His chest didn’t look as bad as it felt, just scratched a bit, so he decided to forgo bandaging it and just go straight for his blood supply. In between sips he cleaned the dirt off his face with water and a handkerchief, which did a lot toward improving his mood. He downed a pint of blood, followed it with about half a pint of whiskey in one go, and decided it was time to crash for a few hours. He kicked off his boots and socks and made his way, barefoot and bare-chested, to the trapdoor leading to his lower level.
 
At the top of the stairs he stopped. He could hear a heartbeat. Someone sleeping in my bed? he wondered. He turned and grabbed a knife off a nearby sarcophagus and slowly crept down the stairs, all senses on full alert. The scent of Slayer was there again, stronger this time. Puzzled, Spike continued stalking around the room, following the scent and the heartbeat until he reached the far corner of the room and spied a small figure, curled up in a ball. As he approached she startled awake with a gasp and cringed back away from him, eyes wide and terrified. Spike’s jaw dropped and his blue eyes grew enormous as he tried to get his brain around what he was seeing. “Buffy?” he breathed. He took in the green eyes, the deceptively delicate limbs, and the long blonde hair of the woman he had loved and lost. How..? All at once he became aware that she was frightened and put the knife down on a nearby dresser, opening his hands and slowly kneeling down to her level. “Buffy? Is that really you, love?”
 
She had wakened and instantly went on the alert for whatever new torment was going to be thrown at her. Then this new creature said Buffy. That was the second time she had heard that word tonight, so she assumed it meant her somehow. But where the red haired woman frightened her, this voice was warm and soothing. The blue eyes of the figure in front of her were concerned, awestruck, and worshipful. Her racing heart slowed a little as she took in his white skin and hair glowing in the candlelight.
 
Spike had no idea how she came to be here, but it was her, and he could swear that his dead heart had started beating again for a moment. But along with his elation was a rapid realization that something was very, very wrong with her. She looked terrified, feral, and seemed unaware of what was going on. Still speaking soft and low he said, “It’s me. Spike. Not gonna hurt you, pet. I’m a… a friend.” He wasn’t sure that word actually fit their previous working relationship, but it was close enough for now. He looked her over, noting her filthy hair and her bleeding, ragged hands, and his stomach turned over as he realized what it meant. Moving slowly so as not to scare her, he gently took her hands in his. “Had to dig your way out of your coffin, didn’t you. Did it myself once.”
 
Buffy’s breathing slowed a bit more and she tilted her head slightly to look at him more closely. He knows, she thought. He knows what happened. She still didn’t really recognize this quiet, gentle man, but she felt she was safe with him. Gradually she calmed down, not entirely sure what was coming next, but not trying to burrow into the wall to get away from him either.
 
Spike was at a loss for how to help her. Someone had clearly brought her back to life, but she wasn’t anything like herself. Still, she was Buffy, or a very close facsimile, and she definitely needed help. “Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?” he said. He stood and guided her first to her feet and then to sit on the edge of the bed. “Sit here a moment while I get some bandages. Do you understand?” His accent softened somewhat as he tried to sound nonthreatening. She stared at him blankly, but made no effort to move when he released her hands and moved slowly away. He dashed upstairs to grab his first aid kit and set it down on the bed next to her. Then he grabbed a pitcher and filled it from a leaky pipe in the tunnel that he was in the habit of using for wash water.
 
While Spike got the supplies, Buffy sat very still, trying to get her bearings. Soft, she thought. This thing she was sitting on was the first soft thing she had encountered in this hell. Bed. It’s called a bed, she remembered, but words were still few and far between in her mind. Spike returned and knelt in front of her. He gently cleaned her bleeding, torn knuckles, applied some ointment, and bandaged them tenderly. He winced at her torn fingernails and trimmed and bandaged them where needed. Then he got a washcloth and gently cleaned her face and her arms, and brushed the dirt out of her hair. All the while, Buffy was watching him as he smiled reassuringly, murmuring soothing words and tending her. She realized that he reminded her of the luminous beings she had sometimes been aware of in that other place, the good place. Angel, she decided. That’s what he is. His beautiful white chest was scratched – perhaps he has also had to fight the demons here. She felt certain that he was an ally in this terrifying place. He’s an angel, and he came to find me and help me get back.
 
Unaware of the impression he was making, Spike continued his ministrations. He wondered if he should try to get her out of the filthy black dress she was wearing, but wasn’t sure how she would react to him undressing her. Last thing I need is for her to come to her senses and stake me for taking liberties. In the end he decided she would have to live in the dress for a little while until she understood more of what was happening. If that ever happens, he thought sadly. He had seen Dru like this before, after particularly savage treatment by her ‘Daddy’. It had taken a few solid months to get her to her usual level of functional madness after that. Spike had no idea what coming back from the grave did to a human, but it didn’t look good.
 
Spike knelt to take off her shoes and stockings and wipe the dust off her legs. “Should be a little more comfortable now,” he said. “Are you thirsty?” She didn’t respond, but Spike could see her lips were dry. He found a semi-clean glass, rinsed it out, and filled it with fresh water. She looked at the proffered glass with a blank expression until he wrapped her hands around it and held it to her lips. Something seemed to click then and she drank deeply. She held out the glass with a question in her eyes and he refilled it, watching as she guzzled that down as well. He took it from her and then coaxed her to lie down on the satin sheets. “You should rest, pet,” he urged her. “Had a long trip, yeah?” She didn’t resist as he covered her up and tucked her in, stroking her hair like a parent soothing a child after a bad dream. “You’re safe here. You can rest.” The sheets felt cool and soft, and Buffy understood that the angel would protect her. She gave him a tentative half-smile before closing her eyes and drifting off, relieved to shut out this loud, confusing world for a while.
 
Spike threw himself into a chair and watched her for a while, tears flowing down his face. She’s alive. Oh God. He was content to watch her chest rise and fall, to memorize every golden strand of hair as it splayed out across the red satin pillow. He was still shaking his head at the idea that this could be possible when a thought occurred to him in a flash of understanding. Willow. That’s what she and the others were so agitated about tonight. They did this somehow. His expression hardened as he thought of her having to dig her way out of her own grave after already being traumatized by wherever she had been. Stupid bastards. What the hell were they thinking? And how much of what’s wrong with her is because of whatever spell they used? Meddling fools. He watched the sleeping Slayer, fuming, while he waited to be sure she was really asleep. He was clearly going to need to have a few choice words with her friends. 

TBC