How could she?!

Spike knew that she hadn’t been handling being pulled out of heaven well, but to… His stomach threatened to heave again, just thinking about it.

Once the fight had ended up in that abandoned house…both beating the crap out of each other…she’d pushed him. Pushed him into making it about survival. Into rage. And he struck hard.

She said some particularly nasty remark, he saw red…Punched her hard, towards the wall, following right up to press her too-thin body against that wall and plunge his fangs in her throat. Didn’t mean to hurt her, even then…just take enough to make her admit that he’d won, and then she’d uttered his name.

“Angel…”

The name of his grandsire. Moaned it like a bitch in heat. His demon reacted then, taking a strong pull on her potent blood, then another…as Spike felt her go limp, not fighting him, he sensed it, felt it, TASTED it…

She wanted him to end it.

That’s what her goal had been all along…to goad him into bagging his third Slayer.

Spike jumped back in shock and horror, still in game face, with eyes wide in disbelief. She stared at him, slumped against the wall, but still healthy. Her blood slowly trickling down her collarbone. He slapped her, then.

“You BITCH!” he roared. “How could you?” he sobbed, and stumbled backwards and away as she stared at him, longing for him to finish what he’d started.

Spike spit out the blood in his mouth, and made it to the front lawn of the house before retching on the grass, his body refusing to contain the lifeblood of his beloved.

He’d told her how it had been for him while she was gone, how he had counted the days, and she still wanted him to…

Buffy ran after him, sobbing. “Spike! PLEASE!” She collapsed to her knees just outside the house. His back was turned to her, but he could feel her grief.

In a voice low and controlled, he gave her his answer. “Find some other way, Slayer. Slit your wrists, swallow a bottle of pills…stand in front of a fucking bus…but I’m not gonna do it for you. You don’t own me that much.”

He ran, then. Ran away from her tears and sobs and grief. Didn’t even notice his own tears until he got half way back to the crypt. When an idea struck. He’d changed direction and ran for the Magic Box.

Spike rooted around in Anya’s desk until he found the number he was looking for.

“Hello?” came the answer in a British voice. It was morning in England.

“Rupert, just listen and don’t hang up on me. Your Slayer is not well, Watcher. I don’t care what she may have told you about being alright with you leaving…about handling things on her own. She can’t. Not yet, anyways,” Spike grimly relayed.

Giles was about to yell at Spike about finding this number and harassing him, when he noticed the utterly flat and serious tone the vampire’s voice held. None of the sarcasm and disdain was present, like normal, and this disturbed the Watcher more than most things could.

“What makes you say that, Spike?” he asked carefully.

“She tried to kill herself tonight…before you get yourself in a tizzy, she’s fine, physically. You need to come back and help her, Rupert. She won’t let me, Dawn’s too young, and the others are too blind to notice. I…I can’t watch this, Rupert…what she tried tonight…” The vampire’s voice broke as he struggled to rein in his emotions.

“Alright, Spike…I..I believe you. I’ll be on the first plane I can find.”

“She’ll appreciate it, Watcher.” Spike hung up, then, his mission accomplished.

He kept an eye on things over the next 24 hours. Watched the next evening as a surprised and grateful Slayer welcomed the Watcher back into her home. She’d be okay now…he hoped. Giles loved the girl like a daughter, so the man wouldn’t want to bury her twice.

Once he heard the Slayer drop into a sound sleep that night, Spike snuck up to his Niblet’s room, and left her a note. Wouldn’t do to leave without saying goodbye.

Spike stubbed out his cigarette on the tree, then started walking back to the cemetery. The Desoto sat on the street, loaded with his few precious belongings. One day, when she was better, he’d be back, but until then…

Well, until then, he’d try to drive the memory of the taste of her blood out of his head, and the picture of her face as she cried for death.

A man could hope, right?