the cut, chapter 26, a tear and a smile, part III

Spike was perched on the ledge of a rooftop, peering down into the battle torn alley.

The witch and the giant winged angel were standing, facing each other, wrapped in a thick black fog as bolts of lightening and orange flames leapt from the nucleus of the cloud. The buildings on either side of the narrow passageway seemed to heave and sigh, taking a last choking breath before the outcome became clear. That might take a while, he thought, as Willow and Shemhazi appeared to be balancing on a precipice, staring into the eyeballs of hell, preparing to struggle for an eternity.

Even though they moved only a little, except for slinging the occasional magic fire ball, Spike could sense the last assault was imminent, whether they knew it or not. That’s when all bloody hell would well up from the cracks in the ground and break the world apart, he figured. It wouldn’t make sense in the natural order of things if this battle between two such powerful beings was only about them. It had to be the harbinger of an Apocalypse. Spike hadn’t seen much of anything else since he’d arrived in Sunnydale and he’d expect nothing less in this version of New York. But he didn’t want to be around when it happened.

Testing his legs, he clenched his thigh muscle and felt the twinge of a cramp. Bugger, he thought, that was a good sign. He then willed his foot to move forward an inch.

But nothing happened. Spike was still trapped, watching.


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A cool breeze brushed his cheek and he looked up at the sky. The sun had disappeared and it was getting dark. He moved his hand across his brow. The sweat had dried on his face.

Finally, he could feel something other than the heat and the madness running through his head. The vigil he thought would never end had lasted hours, and doing nothing but looking over the edge of a rooftop, unable to move his feet or to make a choice, was driving him sodding mad.

Spike turned to look at the vampire next to him. Jacob was sitting on the edge of the roof, his legs dangling over the side, his eyes cast down, staring calmly at the scene below.

Jacob wasn’t as bothered by their plight in this melodrama as he. Back when they’d been fledglings in Darla’s house, Jacob could sit silently crouched in a corner for days, hiding from her wrath. Choosing to starve rather than budge before she nodded in his direction, he’d wait patiently for her to give him permission to exist. That ability to create the illusion of blind obedience had served him well then and had saved his arse a dozen times since, Spike was certain. But playing a part was how Jacob had outlived Darla and might well be the way he’d outwit Willow and Shemhazi.

Spike didn’t have that kind of patience, especially when he felt like his world was crumbling to bits.

He tried to move his leg again.

His feet shifted on the rooftop and his soul rejoiced, as the bricks and mortar swayed beneath him. He stepped aside as sheets of metal snapped apart under his feet. Blocks of cement were breaking off from the walls around him and avalanching down into the alley. The rooftop was quaking under the strain of trying to hold itself together, and splitting into segments.

Spike cocked his head at Jacob and arched his eyebrow. The other vampire returned his glance as a glee-filled smirk spread across his lips. He seemed to get the message, thought Spike.

Jacob bound up onto his feet and stepped onto the ledge next to him.

When Spike tilted his head to the sky, Jacob raised his eyes and followed his gaze.

The sun was setting in the horizon, brilliant strips of orange and blue and white were stacked on their sides in the distance, peeking between the tall shaking buildings. Spike knew they both were having the same thought: How long had it been since either one of them had been able to watch the end of a day?

With a collective sigh, they looked down into the alley and then at each other and in agreement together stepped off the roof.

Spike’s feet slammed into the concrete a second later and he landed hunched forward, hands flat on the ground. He sprang into an erect position as he heard Jacob land nearby.

Willow and Shemhazi were less than ten feet in front of him, and his legs were trembling so hard, he wondered if he’d be able to stay on his feet.

Being this close to them, his blood boiled in his veins and cold shivers darted up and down his spine. He shook his head, angry and puzzled. Why had they chosen him? Did he belong here with them more than any other place else in the world? Was this his destiny to serve the devil and a vengeful witch?

What about Jacob? How’d he fit into this bizarre game?

Jacob had been changed, just like him. But his body didn’t strain from the need to know why as his did.

Bloody hell. Why change a vampire into a man, a human being, and force both to exist fully realized inside the same body?

Spike had blamed the portal jumper’s burning stare for his transformation. But what if it was all about Willow and the devil from hell?

Spike was a new breed, all human and all demon, but more alive than he’d ever been. His had been a half-life before Drusilla had sunk her fangs into his throat. But after she’d killed him, he’d felt more alive than he ever felt when he was a man.

Now, he had the best of both worlds. Or did he?

Spike’s eyes widened and he clutched at the ache in his chest. His heart was slamming against his ribcage, beating hard and fast.

He hadn’t bloody asked to live again. He’d been doing fine as one of the undead.

Sod it all. He knew the chip was for shit, but he could still kill. Demons were fair game and even if he missed the taste of human blood, he’d been doing just fucking fine without it. Hadn't he?

His breaths burned his throat. Bugger. There was something more—something else stirring around in his brain, tickling at the edges of his consciousness, insistent and demanding him to—remember. Something he needed and it didn't have a damn thing to do with watching Willow’s and Shemhazi’s war.

The earth crackled again and he flinched dodging the falling bricks, which barely missed his head as the dust settled in his eyes.

He maneuvered his body sideways a few steps, distancing himself from the fight. He couldn't watch it any longer.

Then suddenly he felt an emptiness tugging at his heart, and a sharp sense of regret surged through him.

What hadn’t he done? What had he left unfinished?

Spike’s eyes frantically searched the alley and stopped. A form caught his eye in a dark corner and his breath hitched as he made out a body, a small woman lying next to a dumpster, shielded from the falling debris.

She looked familiar. Though covered in blood and nasty bruises, there was something about her. The long slim legs, curled beneath her tiny body and her hands clenched into fists, pounding at the dirt. She was a fighter, and she was keeping death at bay.

The smell of her blood intoxicated him. Powerful, strong and vital, it was spilling into puddles on the ground around her. He inhaled and closed his eyes, remembering.

Oh, god—it was Buffy.

His eyes flew open.

He hadn’t remembered her since—the apartment. There, the memory of his love for her had saved him from destroying her and Dawn and the boy. He could do that now. Kill them all. He’d realized that then, and that’s why he’d run away, to get away from her—from them. Nothing could stop him if he wanted to kill. Not a slayer, not even his Slayer could keep him from maiming or feasting or destroying. If that was what he wanted, then that was what he would do.

But here she was, bent and broken, her body heaped in a dark corner, fending off death. Spike swallowed the sob in his throat and tilted his head up and glared at the witch.

“Let me help her!” He screamed. “Dear God, Willow. Release me so I can help her!”

He pointed, his finger shaking, toward the body as he yelled at Willow to look and see what she had done. Desperate, he begged with her to let him go. He had to help her. Buffy had come after him. He remembered that now. Followed him into this alley, left Dawn, alone, to come after him, and he’d forgotten about her.

She was lying broken and bleeding five feet away from him. This was his fault. How long had it been since he'd forgotten her? Weeks? Hours? Or just this one endless day? Impossible to bloody tell in this pseudo facsimile of a City. When he had arrived in the alley, he'd wanted to reason with Willow. But now all he knew was the sound of Buffy’s sobs vibrating in his heart and her cries screaming inside his head—and he knew that it might kill him if he couldn’t make them stop.

“Please, Willow. I’ve got to help her.”


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In a vampire blink of an eye, Willow and Shemhazi were gone and Spike was holding Buffy in his arms. He didn’t know how it had happened, and he didn’t care.

They were free.

His thighs were trembling and a muscle in his neck made a popping sound from the strain of lowering her body slowly, carefully onto the bed. He couldn’t stand it if he made her scream again.

He had picked her up, he remembered that, and heard her whimper when he moved her. So soft a sound he could barely make it out at first, even with his super senses. Then the portal came, and it had been a portal, but not one of his making. Suddenly, it was swirling around them and Buffy had screamed a loud, rasping, horrible noise. It made him want to cry out with her.

Spike moved strands of matted sweat and blood soaked hair away from her damp forehead and adjusted her body gently on the mattress. He then sat on the bed next to her and buried his head in his hands, twisting his hair with his fingers.

He needed a few bloody moments to gather his wits. Figure out where they were. He hadn’t jumped, he couldn’t while under Willow’s spell. Willow hadn’t released him. Some other power had pulled up a chair and sat down to play. But the how and who would have to wait.

He had to keep Buffy safe, give her time to mend. With her slayer healing, she would be fine in a day. He turned and looked at her, and hesitantly reached out to touch her forehead. She had to be okay, and he had to believe—to hope, that Dawn would be fine until they got back to New York.

The smell of perfume, dense with spice and roses, suddenly filled Spike’s nostrils.

He pulled his hand away from Buffy's brow and looked around the room.

A dresser nestled in a corner was cluttered with girl things. Small boxes, small bottles, and a can that read hair spray, a rhinestone and pearl brooch, and hanging from the dresser's post was a crucifix on a long silver chain draped over the side of the mirror. His eyes moved to another corner of the room. The closet door was open. Clothes spilled out onto the floor in front of it in a heap. Black, brown, white and red boots with three inch square heels lined a wall. A skimpy, short denim skirt and pale blue skimpier tee shirt hung on a hook on the inside of the closet door. He recognized this place.

He jerked his head toward the open window near the closet as a breeze rustled the curtains. Tree branches, filled with leaves that looked purple in the moonlight, swayed outside in the wind. It had to be July or early August. The strong, sweet scent of the Queen of the Night flower saturated the air. He could never forget Angeles’ favorite plant of Saturn.

The seeds had been tossed into the dirt surrounding the front porch amidst the late blooming azalea, forming a beautiful ring of color in late spring and throughout the summer. Drusilla had told Spike about Angelus' visit to the Slayer’s home to sprinkle a pocketful of seeds. Years later, while Spike stood outside of the Slayer’s window all night, smoking his fags and waiting for Captain Cardboard to leave, he’d inhale deeply, drowning in the scents, and think about Angelus and Dru to pass the time.

This was Sunnydale.

He stood up, careful not to shake the bed. The medical supplies were in the bathroom, and he needed to get them. She was bleeding badly, the blood was drenching the sheets in patches and had pooled beneath the wound in her side. He moved quickly. The smell of the blood was clotting his pores, making him think terrible things—things other than trying to stop the blood from flowing.

He hurried into the bathroom, pulled open the cabinet under the sink and found the first aid kit instantly. It was sitting on top of a small box of detergent and inside a large white basin, which he also grabbed. Spike filled it with lukewarm water and then dropped a bar of soap and a washcloth in it, snatched the kit up with his free hand and raced down the hall.

As he rushed to Buffy’s bedroom, he noticed the silence. There were no heartbeats besides his and Buffy’s in all of Sunnydale. In the yard, outside, there were no beetles flapping their feet together, no night creatures nestled in the grass near the kitchen door making their whimsical night noises. No water dripped from the faucets in the bathroom or in the kitchen. And he couldn’t smell the night-blooming jasmine or the azaleas as he ran down the hall.

Did Sunnydale only exist in Buffy’s bedroom?

It reminded Spike of when they had jumped from the Night World to the fake New York City. It had looked right, at first, but it didn’t have any of the smells or noises that made a City alive—made it real.

That appeared to be true about this version of Sunnydale, too, and Spike knew that didn’t bode well for either of them.


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He was lifting her t-shirt over her head, blessedly avoiding the bruises on her face and neck. She helped him a little, raising her arms and holding them up for as long as she could. Then she quivered as she felt the sweat beading on her brow, and she dropped her arms like lead on top of the sheets as he pulled the shirt away.

The pain was bad, even if she was lying in a soft bed in a room that smelled like a summer bouquet drenched with her mother’s favorite perfume. But still, it didn’t make a difference, everything hurt.

An overwhelming desire struck her. She wished she had enough strength to smile at Spike. Show him that she knew he’d saved her, gotten her home. As soon as he laid her in the bed, she’d known they were back in Sunnydale and that she was in her room on Revello Drive. The sheets smelled fresh, like fabric softener and Dawn’s shampoo, a lemon rinse. The scents had lingered from that last night they’d cuddled and talked and waited for the clothes to dry.

The two sisters had turned the house into a ramshackle mess as they darted around, packing furiously. When they’d finally rushed out to the cab the next morning—Giles or Xander couldn’t help because of the spell—they’d lugged four suitcases and two knapsacks stuffed with their warmest cloths and assorted personal items. Buffy had shoved all she could into those bags, everything they’d need for the few weeks she thought they’d be in New York City.

Buffy gulped back a sob, the memories of that day and the pain from her wounds, felt as if they were collecting in the back of her throat.

Then Spike was touching her and tugging at the zipper of her pants.

She drifted back to the night before she’d left Sunnydale. The packing and rushing and now Spike’s fingers on the waist of her jeans—reminded her of something pleasant and so inconsequential. She had packed two pairs of cut-off jeans, one for her and one for Dawn—thrown them into the suitcase at the last minute. She couldn’t explain why she had to have them. But she did.

Spike was pulling the jeans over her hips and down her legs, slow and careful, making certain he didn’t hurt her anymore than he had to, she imagined. The cool, dry air on her thighs made her flesh pebble from the chill. But then he pulled the sheet over her partially nude body, tucking it snugly beneath her chin as if the sheets could protect her from his lusting eyes and beating heart.

Her head was foggy and she couldn't stop her mind from wandering, like a lost child in an amusement park. She wondered why Spike hadn’t taken off her panties. The thought was so strong in her head, she hoped she wasn’t blushing. Maybe he was being chivalrous, which was sweet and not entirely unexpected. He could be a gentleman.

Then he was gone. She heard him walk out of the room. She tried to cry out, call him back. Beg him to stay. But her throat wasn’t working.

Spike, please don’t leave me. I can’t do this alone.

She heard the water running in the bathroom. The doors to the bedroom and the bathroom had been left open. Knowing she’d be afraid, he’d left them open so she’d know he wasn’t leaving her. He wasn’t going anywhere. He’d be back.

Gradually and carefully, Buffy straightened out the leg that wasn’t cracked into as many fractured pieces as the other one.

Gets the blood flowing to your toes, she thought. Achy toes never a good sign.

She moved her hand, the one at the end of the arm that wasn’t as badly hurt as the other, and traced the wound on her side. Shemhazi’s claw had swiped at her, slicing a donut-sized chunk below Buffy’s ribcage. At least that’s how bad the pain had felt. She moved her fingers carefully along the wound to the top of her waistline and picked at the dry, sticky drops of blood. She sighed with relief. The cut was not as deep as she had believed. That had to be good.

She pushed her head into the pillow and moaned as warm fingers, his not hers, moved cautiously over the wound.

Spike was back. He was getting ready to fix her up and had grabbed supplies; she could hear the tin of a basin being placed on the table next to the bed and the swish of moving water. He had dampened a cloth, preparing to clean her wounds.

Come on Buffy, open your eyes. But she couldn’t. The pep talk wasn’t working.

The urge to see him was sudden and stronger. If she could look at him, it would make her feel better. Then she could see how she was doing by the expression on his face. Her eyelids fluttered, but she couldn’t keep them open. They were swollen, especially the left one. It was puffy and pumped full of dirt and grit.

Spike made a hissing sound as he pulled the sheet down to her ankles.

She must look bad. Real bad. He hadn’t been able to mask his concern. But he had to clean the wounds. It would help her get better fast. They couldn’t stay in Sunnydale forever. The feeling that something was off about this town crept into her head. As much as she wanted to be home, she wasn’t certain if this was where she needed to be. It was just that she’d been hurting for so long, she didn’t know if she could stand it.

“There, Slayer,” his voice was steady. “You’re going to be okay, Pet. Just need to clean you up a bit.”

She gathered the sheets into her fists and twisted them tight. Spike was digging the dirt and blood from the cut in her side and the bruises on her chest.

“I’m sorry, Buffy.”

Oh, dear god. He’d called her Buffy. That never happened. And, his voice, oh god, it was sandpaper and gravel. It sounded like he was hurting more than she was.

So much—so very much she didn’t understand, couldn’t even guess about. He was hurting but nothing was broken on his body. Buffy wasn’t even certain if Spike could be hurt any more. Still, he had sounded in pain.

Did he hurt because she hurt?

Maybe he’d noticed her digging her nails into the mattress. She unclenched her fists, releasing the sheets and then patted them absently. “I’m good,” she said.

Spike’s hands moved quickly over her body then. The washcloth wet and warm paused and cleaned and settled on another wound and then the next. The intermittent sound of the water swishing around in the basin near her ear was comforting. She was being cared for, lovingly. She felt it in his every touch.

She pried her eyes open, finally able to look at him.

Spike was sitting on the bed, his back facing her, with his head in his hand. His shoulders were shaking.

Damn, he’s crying. Shit. I’m worse off than I thought.

He must have sensed her looking at him because he turned slightly, and glanced at her sideways, his eyes narrow slits. The expression on his face confirmed her fears—there was something bad he had to tell her. Okay, she thought sighing through her pain. She could take bad news. The worse he could throw at her. She would handle it.

But there weren’t any tears on Spike’s face. She’d expected tears. There should have been tears. Instead, his jaw was set, clenched tight and his lips a thin pink line, without a hint of sympathy.

She looked into his eyes again. They had a yellowish hue, sprinkled with flecks of red. She couldn’t recall having seen him look that way—ever. Even when he was about to indulge in one of his vampire pastimes, like sucking the blood out of the nearest human being, this was not a Spike look.

Buffy touched his arm. He jerked away and stood up his body shaking, but he didn’t move too far away from the bed. His kept his head bent forward, appearing to stare down at his feet as his arms hung limply at his side.

“Spike, I’m gonna be okay.” She could only manage a whisper. “Slayer healing and all. Just needed—needed to get away from that alley. And you got me out.”

His eyes locked on her face, he licked his lips in slow motion.

“Are you going to bite me?” The words slipped out of her mouth. Unexpected question, maybe. But the way he was leering at her and how the muscles in his body had bunched and tensed in his neck and chest, Buffy was pretty certain he wasn’t thinking about giving her a back rub.

“I’m trying not to.” His body trembled as if the strain of not being able to reach out and touch her was overwhelming him.

God, she hoped her Slayer instincts were out of whack. Perhaps being beaten to within shoveling distance of a new grave had put her off her game. Besides, she seriously wasn’t in shape to fight a superhuman vampire anyway.

“Maybe we should talk. Get your mind off the blood lust and all.” Pushing her palms into the mattress, Buffy struggled to scoot up in the bed.

“It’s not that, Love.” He whispered the words, as she watched him rub one hand over his bare chest, and then slowly move it down to his stomach, where he lingered before stopping at the top button of his jeans. “Well, maybe you're right."

His eyes moved from her face to her bare breasts. She’d forgotten about being naked, and reaching out with her arm, fingers searching, body bending at the waist slightly, she found the sheet. Then pulled it tight around her neck.

“My blood is Shemhazi’s blood.” Spike was saying as she fingered the sheet nervously. “And he and Willow will find us by tracking me here.” He gestured with a small wave of his hand over the bed. “And you need at least a day or two to heal.”

His voice was shaking.

“Yes, I know I will.”

"I've got to diminish their hold on me." He was staring at her neck. "Make it so it takes them longer to figure out where we've gone."

"So you want to bite me?"

“I need you, Buffy.” He sat on the bed and without hesitating took her arm and raised it slowly to his lips.

Buffy closed her eyes.

His tongue traced over the veins in her forearm delicately traveling from her elbow toward her palm, adding pressure until his lips were sucking on the pulse point on the inside of her wrist. The warmth of his mouth scorched her as he worshipped her skin, igniting her body with his heat.

She moaned, involuntarily. How could he touch her there and she feel him on her breasts, her stomach and on the inside of her thighs—and there. "Oh, god. Spike." His hand had moved beneath the sheet and moved to her thigh. His fingers were digging into her flesh, their kneading matching the sucking motion of his mouth on her wrist.

Then his fingers were separating the folds of her sex, and she cried out as he pushed inside her. He was making her feel so good, it was hard to remember that she had felt so bad. The aches and pains in her body had disappeared as his ministrations intensified and he brought her closer to her release.

Then his fangs sunk into her wrist and her blood was rushing into his mouth. Spike groaned and stiffened against her. Buffy opened her eyes. Somehow he was lying next to her; his cock pressing through his jeans was long and hard against her side as he sucked her life down his throat.

“Don’t take too much,’ she whispered.

She could barely get the words out of her mouth. Too sleepy. She wanted to close her eyes—just for a little while. A few minutes rest was all she needed.

to be continued...



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