Buffy’s hand hovered over the cuts, coming to rest next to the “B.” No movement, which was a horrible sign. Any pressure near a cut that size, and he should have been through the roof.

Better examine him a little more closely. It wasn’t like she’d never seen him wounded before, right? Seen him beat near to death on more than one occasion, for that matter.

But those times, even if he’d been coated with cuts and bruises, he’d looked more or less like himself. His face… He’d always had sharp features, but now you could slice metal with them. Like a redefinition of “sucking chest wound” – like someone had hooked a Hoover up to those letters and sucked everything they could right out of him.

Buffy’s stomach wrenched and she turned her face away from it – him. God, it was really him. They had to have pulled over in a little middle-of-nowhere town with no butcher’s or hospital in sight. Not that there was anything else within spitting distance of Sunnydale, but still…

Couldn’t afford to let her thoughts wander like that. Every second she stared into space, he just lay there drip-drip-dripping blood. Blood. If you need blood, go straight to the source. You’re sitting in a whole hotel full of people who had seen him burn up to save them a few hours back. Slayers, all of them all juiced up with healing properties that would get him back on his feet this evening.

But even now… Impossible to imagine Kennedy opening a vein for him. Hard to imagine any of them, really, and the look on their faces if she just busted in on their girlish giggling with a gallon bottle and a knife… Not tonight, not after…

Buffy took a calming breath. If she was really honest with herself – and hey, this was Official Unpleasant Reality Day in Buffytown – that wasn’t really the problem. Half of them clearly expected to be Spike’s midmorning snack, and the other half stared like he was the midmorning snack. They’d do it. And they’d go right back to their giggling after rushing up to press themselves against the window and see if he was really there.

It just… She just didn’t like the idea of filling him up with them. And it wasn’t just because she could see the look on his face, an amplified version of the flinch when one of the girls looked at him with half-concealed terror. Because he’d want it that way, he’d want it to be her because he wouldn’t want to hurt anyone and no one else would volunteer, not really, and even if they did he’d argue. But if it was her blood, then he couldn’t argue, goddammit, because he was hers, and she loved him, she DID and she was going to be the one… It just had to be her, that’s all.

She could still close her eyes and see his face when she’d pulled him out of the First’s cave. It wasn’t such a different expression, really, from the one he often gave her. That tilty, dizzy look like she’d just walked down from the clouds and if you looked at her wrong she’d walk back right into them. But that time… God, he’d glowed, around all of his bruises and those creepy cuts. And this time…

If he were carved up twice as bad, this time he would shine twice as bright.

She wrinkled her nose, feeling around in her purse for the knife she always kept handy. That had come out grosser than she had meant it to. It wasn’t like she liked to see him all ripped up. Well – not anymore. Not since… it had been a long time, and they’d buried that, all of it, the both of them.

The blade hovered over her wrist, and she paused. Was it enough, to do it here? Safer, certainly. A smaller vein there, one she had a fighting chance of pulling him off if things went too far. You don’t forget something like that, the way Angel had just sucked and sucked and it had felt so good, but dragged through jagged glass and everything got all dark before you could really get a handle on it all. So intense, utterly unstoppable.

Buffy brought her index finger up right above her collarbone. Tiny, but still there. A little scar to mark the place where Angel had been, and with all of those creepy blood ties and preternatural senses Spike must know it. He’d know that she took the risk for Angel and not him, but he wouldn’t say anything and just store it away in his little treasure chest of Reasons Buffy Must Not Be in Love With Me.

Stupid vampires with their stupid senses, because if she did it now, with Spike, Angel would know and that lead inevitably to round two of the Cookiepalooza, New and Improved with Real Fighting Action! Maybe if she led Spike to the other side of her neck? Adding but not replacing, right up there and equal?

A raspy noise shook her out of her thoughts. Spike, mouth working a little, eyes still screwed shut, was trying to move his head. God, could this get any grosser? He was clearly snuffling toward the wet spot on the blankets, though he didn’t even seem conscious.

Couldn’t waste any more time. Should she yell for somebody, so someone would know, so they could pull him off of her, just in case… No, too much time, too much time to explain it and too intimate, really, to have someone standing there. He’d like it, he’d always liked to sex her up in public… Always, always before… It was just too awkward.

She raised the knife to her throat, the tip near Angel’s bitemark, hesitated. Could you even reach the jugular from the other side? God, who even knew? Maybe if not – maybe it would be safer on the other side. But then… The knife hovered, then flicked out to nick the unmarked side of her throat. Couldn’t waste any more time.

She scooted a little closer to Spike’s body, preparing to gather him up, then froze. What if… All wrapped up like a horrible imitation of a gift – what if he’d been brought here by the First? What if she was signing some kind of mystical evil contract by fixing him? Maybe she should get blood from everybody else… No, what if the contract had to do with keeping him? Extra strength - maybe not her own muscle but somebody else’s, because nobody else fought with her like Spike, whirling leather and weird half-telepathy, never so much as stepped in her way unless he meant to.

She screamed, actually full-out screamed before she could stop herself. His hands… God, they felt like paper, like refrigerated paper, far too cold and dry and fragile. How had he got up so fast, he hadn’t looked up to it, and now his head was butting toward the trickle of blood on her neck. So fast, and that disgusting crackle… Was that his FACE? All dry, too dry to sustain the change to vamp face and it had cracked and ripped and Jesus Christ this was gross. It’s Spike, it’s Spike and he’ll be back soon and this’ll all be worth it… She cupped the back of his head and pulled his face to the little wound on her neck.

She’d forgotten how much it hurt. Of course it would hurt, being chewed on was bound to hurt and no one ever went near her throat unless they were too far gone to be careful. Blinding, blinding pain, oh god how she wanted him but can’t touch him or more of him might crack and it must be safe to touch his hair, that’s supposed to be all dry, and why did he have to keep chewing, his teeth were already in and she didn’t remember that from before. God, it hurt hurt hurt, so good, so good, and it was hard to tell dizzying pleasure from just plain old dizzy and maybe better safe than sorry this time?

She wrenched him off her, his fingers clutching at her arms with a little more strength, but not much, certainly not enough to hold her. That had been too easy. Maybe she had pulled him off too soon…

A wave of dizziness nearly sent her to her knees when she stood up. Maybe not too soon after all. He was just that far gone… She resisted the urge to go nearer, see how he was doing. She’d just have to fight him off again, do him more damage. That was no good. She stumbled over to the little nightstand, leaving as much distance between them as possible. Shouldn’t temp him.

The icky feeling of something warm on her collarbone… What kind of idiot was she, standing there bleeding when they both needed as much of her blood as possible? She dodged into the bathroom and grabbed a handful of toilet paper, pressing it to the messy wound on her neck with one hand. There. At least that would stop her losing it. Now to get some back… Even a town like this had to have a Chinese takeout place, or at least pizza. Don’t make it through years and years of fighting monsters with attendant blood loss without knowing a thing or two about getting it back. No Chinese in the little visitor’s guide. All right, pizza it was. Broccoli beef would have been best, but plenty of protein in pizza with everything… Well, she could afford the calories. She turned her head so that she wouldn’t have to see him while she dialed, all cracked and smeared with her blood and his… He’d forgive her, he’d have to…

“Pizza Palace. How can I help you.”

“Um – do you have something like a Meat Lover’s?”

“Yeah, the Carnivore.”

“Ok. I’d like one of those, the biggest you have and…. Do you have orange juice?”

“No, miss.”

She swallowed. She felt guilty doing this, but… Well, leaving Spike just wasn’t an option, and it was true really… “Listen, I really hate to ask this, but… Well, we ran out of Sunnydale this evening, and I was thinking… You know how when you give blood, they always make you drink orange juice so you feel better before they let you go?”

“Sunnydale? Miss, do you need the hospital?”

“Oh, no, somebody saw me… It’s just, I lost a lot of blood and I don’t really want to wander around…”

“Listen, let me talk to my manager.” Rusting on the other end of the receiver, the burbling of voices. “We’ll have him bring you a couple gallons of orange juice, ok miss? And it’s on us.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t – it’s enough that you’re bringing it. I’ll pay for it, for sure.”

“Um, whatever you want. Least we can do.” More rustling. “Well, the pizza’ll be fourteen ninety-five, and whatever it is for the orange juice… Where should we bring it?”

She glanced at the cover of the hospitality book. “Come On Inn, room 209. And… Thanks.”

“Sure. We’ll um, we’ll rush this right over.”

“Um – thank you. Very much.”

Amazing, how the little things could drive the big ones right out. She’d almost – almost – tuned out the whole mess while talking to the pizza guy. Spike looked almost… Still too thin, nothing to him, but a little better. Less like he’d fall apart unless you found some string to tie him together with. Those horrible carvings – they’d scabbed over, at least. Handy stuff, her blood.

But he was still just… frail. Spike. Frail. He needed a whole body’s worth of blood, and small as he was, that was way more than she could give. Quantity more than quality…

God, she was an idiot. A whole cooler of thawing blood sitting there in the bus, because they’d been prepared. Well, not prepared for this, but prepared for Spike, have to feed him somehow with the butchers as long gone from Sunnydale as everyone else. Just right in the bus, right in the parking lot.
She got all the way to the door before her feet slowed to a stop all on their own. Every time she left this room – God knows what would happen if she left him alone here, after the way he’d been left last time. Not safe, not even for the five minutes it would take to run to the bus and back. At least if she was here, she could fight whatever it was… A good ass-kicking could dislodge the stupid fright that still crackled up and down her nerves. Stupid indeed, but enough shocks all in a row and even she…

Wasting time again, time he really couldn’t afford. She made her way back to the phone, pressing herself as far from Spike as possible. Her fingers hesitated over the numbers. Giles must be asleep by now… She straightened her shoulders. Stupid instincts, telling her to hide him here, away from everybody until… She plunked her fingers down on the right numbers. Gotta do what you gotta do.

It rang six times before someone picked up. “Willow?”

“Buffy…” Some rustling, a whiny but unintelligible drawl in the background. “Uh, kinda busy.”

“Kinda urgent. Spike… he’s back.”

“Back? How?” More drawling. “Baby, just a sec. I know I said… This is important!” More rustling. “Sorry, Buffy. Wow.”

“Yeah, wow. But the shape he’s in – not so wow.”

“Wow. Wow.” Willow paused for a long time. If it hadn’t been for the rustling, Buffy would have been afraid she’d hung up. “I don’t think I could work up any more mojo if my life depended on it.”

“Good thing I don’t need you to. I just need you to run to the bus and grab that cooler – you know, the really old blue one we dug out of Xander’s house – and bring it here. He needs the blood. And don’t bring anybody. It’s just… He’s really beat up. Like, really beat up. Like, scarring-for-life-to-look-at style beat up.”

A deep breath, audible over the phone. “Oh, wow. Buffy, what happened to him?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll ask him when we get him conscious.”

Her fingers drummed on her knee as Willow paused for another long moment. “I’ll be right there.” Buffy gritted her teeth. Stupid Kennedy, whining in the background before Willow could even hang up.

That wasn’t fair, she knew it wasn’t. She wouldn’t want to be interrupted if she had someone here… Except she did, and maybe Kennedy wasn’t so crazy after all, if all Buffy wanted was to hole up with Spike, even like this, to keep him here and prove that he was real and solid and not all burned up somewhere.

It was unnerving, to just stand there and stare at him out of the corner of her eye. Better to do something, anything… Better to clear out the room a little bit, before the pizza guy showed up and called the hospital anyway. Anyone who saw him would… For that matter, anyone who smelled the place would. The windows, then. It was hard to be grossed out by grimy window fastenings. Not now.

She hauled the windows open, even cracked the door a bit. Now came the hard part. When you looked at it, there really wasn’t that much blood on the comforter. Oh, there was enough, enough that any self-respecting bystander would dial 9-1-1, but maybe not enough to have soaked the bed through. It seemed mostly clotted anyhow, not really likely to soak. And one more time – ewww. She really needed to find another line of work.

She worked her way to the far corner of the bed, grabbing the comforter and the weird little foam blanket underneath. Spike slid with them when she tugged. Figures. Nothing was gonna be easy tonight. There had to be some way to hold him with one arm, whip the covers from beneath him with another, without getting all chewed up or doing him too much damage…

That shy tap – the “am I welcome?” knock – was pure patented post-destroyer Willow.

Buffy let the comforter drop. Yech. It had been sketchy enough pre-blood. Her hand was slippery on the knob as she opened the door. Great. More blood.

“Hey, Willow. Thanks for…”

“Buffy!” . The cooler thunked to the ground and Willow began to pry open a smaller, white case. “Your neck!”

Buffy’s hand flew to the cut. Yowch. Shouldn’t poke at that, maybe. And it was high time she pulled her toilet paper compress off it. “Forget it for a sec. Help me get the blankets off the bed?”

“That looks pretty bad, Buffy. I don’t think…”

She took a deep breath. “I’ll have to hold him while you get them off, and he’ll probably bite again.”

Nobody looked dubious like Willow, but she moved to take hold of the quilt anyway. Buffy swooped in and scooped Spike up in one smooth motion, trying to touch him as little as possible. No way to hold him far enough away to keep him off her neck, though. God, the feel of him, all papery, hands skittering at her as he struggled to hold on…

“Yah!” Now that just straight-up hurt, the gnawing in the half-healed skin of her throat. Buffy turned to glare at Willow. Willow’s face had crumpled up; she plucked at the blankets with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

“Any time now,” Buffy ground out.

Willow uncrumpled, then recrumpled again as she got a good look at Buffy. “Sorry, sorry,” she muttered, frantic in her apology but thankfully also frantic with the cover-tugging. They were off the bed in no time and the sheets were, remarkably, pretty clean, and free of gooky old blood.

“Top sheet,” she gasped. Oh, this was bad. Her vision was getting all swimmy, and he’d managed to get his fangs latched at least enough to open the cut on her neck, enough that she could feel something runny on her collarbone.

Finally, finally, the bed was ready for him. Buffy pried him off her, dumped him down. She took a couple of breaths to steady herself. She was not going to topple over like some… And then she was on her knees in spite of herself.

Willow was right behind her, mopping at her neck with something that stung. Scratch that. It burned. Buffy grit her teeth as it fizzled its way over her neck, followed by the sticky-soft feel of some gauze. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding as Willow’s hands left her neck.

She moved to get up, but a hand on her shoulder pressed her back down. “Nuh-uh, missy.”

Buffy tilter her head up imploringly. “The pizza guy!” Willow looked at her like she was a specimen. “No hallucinations here. I called for pizza. Am I all call-9-1-1, or do I just sort of look like your standard issue disaster victim?”

“Let’s just say… I’ll get the door for the pizza guy when he comes.”

“Thanks.” Buffy stuck her hand down her shirt, fished for the twenty she always kept tucked in her bra. Kind of stupid, these days, with the shops all closed down, but you never knew when you’d have to buy something and with so many people around to get their hands on the cash.

Willow had the weirdest look on her face, like she didn’t know whether to laugh or just be sketched out. “Uhm, it’s ok. I’ve got it, Buffy, really.”

“Aha!” She produced the bill, crumpled, a little sticky from the day’s exertions.

Willow wrinkled her nose. “It’s more than ok.”

Buffy looked at the bill, all munched up and limply damp. “Fair enough.” She braced herself against the floor, and prepared to lever herself up.

Willow was back in an instant, face all apologies. “You’ll get sick.” Was it bad that she missed the old Willow, who would have told her to stay put or she’d stick her to the floor?

“Yeah. I told the pizza guy to bring some orange juice. You know, for blood sugar.”

Did Willow’s face ever uncrumple? You could tell she was just dying to ask a question or lay the verbal smackdown or something, but instead she just nodded.

Then everything got kind of uncomfortably silent, with only Spike’s small rustles to break it up. OK, he seriously had to either quit moving or open his eyes. Because the combination – just unnerving. Like his self was gone, all scooped out like his blood was, with nothing left but crackly skin and some hair bleach. What if that was true? She couldn’t help it, turned an anxious face toward him. Was it possible to just kill everything but the demon, and all that was left of him was a mewling feeding machine that wouldn’t so much as open its yellow eyes?

She could see Willow out of the corner of her eye, eyes flicking back and forth between Buffy’s neck and Spike, lip all curled. Clearly distressed. It was cowardly, Buffy knew, but she went back to staring at the floor. Like she was really sick and taking a minute to recover. Easier than trying to explain it, because she didn’t know any more than anyone else except maybe she did and how do you tell someone they might have switched over to evil and that was that, game over?

Feet? Not that interesting. At least she hadn’t died wearing these ugly, practical shoes. And this was getting seriously old, this staring into nothing business with Willow’s gaze prickling the back of her neck. Could you, like, count the loops in the carpeting or something? Anything, to keep her mind from drifting back to…

A knock on the door and they both jumped. Buffy scooted back against the wall as Willow scrambled to the door, fishing a legitimate wallet out of her pocket. She had to throw her whole weight against the door, which opened complete with stupid creaky groan.

Willow had wedged herself in the door so the pizza guy couldn’t see inside, but it was clear there was more orange juice than hands. Buffy wrenched herself up and toddled over, snatching a gallon jug from Willow. The sweaty teenager in the doorway stared at her bandage with obvious interest. “Thanks,” she said, and his eyes snapped to hers. He had the grace to look a touch guilty. Buffy smiled at him. “I really appreciate you taking the trouble.” She leaned over to Willow, wishing she had kept a little cash more accessible. “Leave a big tip,” she whispered. She felt like a terrible person, mooching off Willow like this, but you couldn’t stiff the pizza guy, not when he’d run to the store for her and everything.

“With the juice and all, it’s twenty two ninety four, but the manager said to tell you, no big deal with all you’ve been through.”

Willow smiled, a chirpy Willow smile, and pressed some bills into his hands. “Tell him thanks for us, but I just wouldn’t feel right.”

The kid nodded, gnawing on a lip. “Ok. Um… I’ll leave you to rest or whatever. But… Did the whole town really fall in? Like, the whole thing?”

“Nothing left but a pit,” Buffy chirped. The kid goggled at her, probably because of the cheery tone, nodded and ran for it.

Willow materialized at her elbow with a little plastic cup and grabbed the bottle of oj. “You better sit down,” she muttered.

Buffy slid into a chair obediently, flipping the pizza box open. “Want a slice? It’s meat lover’s.”

Willow looked.... relieved almost. “Sure.”

And just for a change of pace… More awkward silence! It made sense, kind of. What do you talk about, after this afternoon? Can’t talk about the creepy corpse in the bed because, hey, kinda covered that. And everything else… Either you’ve been there, or it’s too trivial on a day like this. She freed a slice of pizza, catching the stringy cheese with an index finger. But this weird silence…

She glanced over to Willow, who was staring at the pizza like it held the secret to straight A’s in college. What do you say, at a time like this? She turned back to her own pizza, shoving as much of it into her mouth as possible. The faster she ate, the faster she got better, the faster there was more blood to give… It wasn’t half-bad, this pizza, even wolfed down at lightning speed.

She worked through another slice in record time and shot another look at Willow. Now she was picking at her crust, looking at Buffy all sideways. Ok. Enough was enough. “Ta da! New, improved, nourished, and all filled up with blood sugar.”

“Now for the fun part.” Willow nudged the cooler with her toe.

“I don’t want you here when I feed him.” A Willow-cringe, and Buffy reached for her, not quite touching her shoulder. “Not like that. He’s a little… volatile. You know, starving.”

“Are you sure…”

“Go back to Kennedy.” Ouch. That came out sharp, and the little flinchy thing Willow did confirmed that she caught it. “You should be with her, tonight. You know… And I’ll feel better with you safe.”

“I’d feel better with you safe,” Willow muttered, but she slipped out the door anyway. “Call – you know, if you need somebody.”

“I already did.” Willow smiled at that, looking so hopeful Buffy half-wanted to seize her up and hug her till she looked like Willow again. But then she vanished down the walkway, and Buffy turned to deal with the more immediate problem.

She was still a bit shaky on her feet and wary because of it. He was only going to get stronger, and she wasn’t in much of a state to defend herself. There had to be something to keep her a little farther away than a mug or the blood bags would. Plus, bags were bad, what with the drooling and the blood everywhere… Not after they’d just finally got him out of the pool of blood he’d started in.

Should have kept Willow around for the inventiveness thing. What would hold blood…

Duh. Idiot Buffy. What holds orange juice will hold blood. She hefted the gallon jug bottle and shrugged. Nobody here to yell at her. She stuck her mouth right on the jug and started gulping.

Blech. Chugging orange juice was a truly disgusting pastime. It was nice in sips, but in big gulps, with the pulp and the sour… Just yuck. She wrinkled her nose and ran a tongue over teeth. It was so hard to resist the urge to check the nutrition label. She needed the sugar, right now, and it would be all right, what with the aerobic value of the smashing and slicing and running on rooftops.

Still, you could only drink so much orange juice at once. She reached out to pour some of the excess into the cups Willow had left on the table. God, a gallon was a lot. But there was less than half a gallon left… All right. One more good glugging session and… gone!

She dodged into the bathroom, one foot propping the door open. It was stupid, but every time she turned her back on the living room… Still, blood and orange juice might just be too gross a combination even if you were starving. A little, water, a good shake, and ta da! Instant blood-delivery goodness. Now, where had she put the knife? Out there on the nightstand. She sawed the top off. There. A little square with a handle. Easy to pour the blood in, but how to get it out to him? Maybe a hole, good and far from the handle. At the seam where the sides of the bottle met the bottom, maybe? A little square mouth hold should be fine to drink from, right?

“Ow!” You’d think, with super coordination and blah blah blah, she could keep from slicing up her thumb when cutting up a plastic jug. But noooo, not stupid clumsy Buffy. Ok… That was more like a jagged triangle than a square. Whatever.

She edged around the bed and found the cooler. Maybe it was better to set it on the bed, so she could keep pouring blood in the jug as he drank? She hefted it onto the bed corner and slid her fingers under the cover, snagged the top bag. Now, tilt the jug back so the blood would stay in the back corner until Spike got his mouth on it, pour in blood, and voila! She scuttled a step forward, jug extended in front of her. He was stirring, could probably smell it. One more step… She was going to have to prop him up again. No way he could drink lying down. God, this was so awkward! She held the jug where he could smell it, reached out with her other arm, stuck it behind his back and flipped him upright before he had the chance to catch her with his fangs. His hand smashed into the headboard. Ouch. Well, she’d apologize later. Now, she’d better catch him and keep him half-sat-up so she could feed him. She shoved the jug right next to his face. His mouth latched onto it and she tipped it forward a bit, just enough to trickle some of the blood in. That slurping noise was really unsettling, but hey. Drinkage. Drinkage with a minimum of bloody drool, for that matter. At least something was going right.

It was gone in no time, that one bag. Better get him some more. Could you feed a starving vamp too much at once? Like how if you gave a lot of bread to starving people their stomachs couldn’t handle it? Not-starving vamps regularly drained people dry, so maybe not. At least not without giving him a whole lot more. So, new problem. He was already moving a little, all restless, and her arms were getting tired from propping him up and holding the jug at such a weird angle. Plus, one arm too few for the whole “refill the jug” plan. Ok.

She coiled up and shoved, jug and all, until Spike was more or less propped against the headboard. He’d have a few bruises to blame on her but… She took her lip between her teeth. All right, that didn’t look so comfortable. She nabbed the thin hotel pillow and slipped it behind his back. Ok. Still didn’t look comfortable, but maybe she should just focus on getting him fed. Gotcha, stupid cooler! Ok, one problem solved, but she’d still half to stand there half-bent over to reach his mouth. No reason for it, really… It would be fine to sit, if she just paid attention. Keep the blood coming and maybe he would just sit and drink it, ignore the fountain right next to him... Well, a girl could hope. She emptied another bag into the jug and perched on the edge of the bed, near his knees. There. This was much more comfortable. And one-handed, so she could pour more blood in without moving the jug.

She kept expecting him to get pinker or something. You know, filled with blood. Which was stupid, because no to the circulation and getting de-starved wasn’t exactly the same as blushing or recovering after a visit with the Red Cross. It’s just… She expected something. Like, when Angel had drunk from her… Well, fine, she’d hit the deck but when she woke up he had been just fine. And that weird seeping blood poison was pretty heavy-duty. Spike… He still seemed far from fine. Less with the cracking and the bleeding, maybe… Maybe it hadn’t been so stupid to feed him her… Ok. Now, that really wasn’t a sentence. And it sounded either dirty, or gross. Maybe both. Anyway, without some healy-Slayer in him, maybe he’d have just bled this stuff right back out. His jaw stopped as the flow became a trickle. Time for another packet. Look, ma! One hand!

So fragile, his jaw, working and swallowing without cease. His bones were really tiny, without the muscle all around them. Like bird bones. And was she imagining things, or was he less crispy? More… skinlike? Maybe she’d add two packets this time. It couldn’t hurt, really. Save her from reaching back and forth quite so much.

No, she definitely wasn’t imagining things. He was looking less scaly. She tipped the jug a little more, so more could flow out of its opening. If a little could do that much good… She emptied one more packet in for good measure.

Her fingers twitched but she couldn’t quite reach to touch his hair, not without some serious jostling. It was weird, feeding him without touching him. Ungentle, almost. One more bag… or maybe not. His jaw was slowing. His mouth fell away from the jug, blood running off his limp tongue and down the side of his face. She didn’t dare wipe it, not with his fangs right there… maybe that was enough, then.

She eased off the bed, backing into the bathroom. Can’t just leave a bloody jug lying around, but she was scared to take her eyes off him. He might tip over or come at her, or whatever it was might come back and finish what it had started… Over her dead body, after all of this mess and trouble.

Maybe another slice of pizza wouldn’t hurt. She was still annoyingly woozy. That was always when something really dreadful happened, when you weren’t quite in fighting form. Better get that way, in case… Well, whatever. Just in case. Even if putting something in her stomach on top of all that orange juice had zero appeal.

The slices stuck together, which was clearly a sign. Better eat both of them. She should settle in the chair, really she should. But he didn’t look like he was going to be attacking anyone anytime soon and… Well, it was kind of stupid, but he was here, he really was, and she just wanted to sit by him. That’s all.

Maybe… Well, he was as fed and clean as she could get him. Maybe he’d like the television on? It was always buzzing in the background at his crypt. Maybe he stopped liking it after the soul… Was it just the crowded house that had kept him away from it? Or had it changed his tastes? So much she didn’t know…

She frowned at the remote like it could answer her. Well, maybe if there was a soap opera on… He liked those, weirdly enough. Used to sneak into the house and fill her mom in on what she'd missed while she was a the gallery. She swallowed a little harder than she should, after all this time. Hey, mom. I’m taking care of him.

God, she was not gonna cry. Not after all this… She lunged for the remote and the momentum knocked her off the side of the bed. Her arms jerked out, catching her against the nightstand and perilously close to Spike’s hip. She tried to catapult herself back up, wincing as a flying elbow impacted a bony chin. Stupid, Buffy! Stupid. Was it so hard to not hurt him worse?

She turned to survey the damage and met his eyes. His blue eyes. His open, blue eyes.