Chapter 15: Aftermath

The whole gang awaited Spike and Xander at the house when they dragged in the unconscious demon from Xander's car. Spike noticed that Buffy had been moved up to her bedroom while they were out demon-hunting, and the Scoobies had assembled in the living room, with the exception of Dawn, whom he guessed couldn't be persuaded to leave her sister's side.

Willow stuck a fork unceremoniously into the Glarghk guhl kashma'nik's arm, causing the stinger to shoot out. She broke it off and headed to the kitchen to finish the antidote, leaving the others to linger uncomfortably in a semi-circle around the demon sprawled on the floor.

“I suppose we should, ah, keep it alive,” Giles ventured, “until we know the antidote worked… in case we need more.”

Spike took that as his cue, slinging the limp body over his shoulder and heading for the basement. “You got chains?” he asked.

“B-Buffy is… um…” Tara stuttered. Her eyes flicked up toward the stairs, her face full of regret, and Spike understood. “She was, um… you were right. When she woke up…”

Spike nodded then turned to Xander. “Bring the gun. I'll keep watch 'til Red's got the juice ready.”

He sat alone in the dark, dank basement for fifteen minutes, the tranquilizer pointed at the still-unconscious demon. He could hear all the comings and goings above him, could distinguish every word of their conversations - mostly about him, and Buffy's condition, and whether the two were related - and it all just served to make him feel even more sickened about the whole thing. Finally, just when he thought he couldn't stand it anymore, Willow descended the stairs, chains in hand.

“Buffy's asleep,” she said. “We had to force-feed her the antidote, but I think she'll be okay.” She held out the chains. “I figured you could use these for the demon. If he's chained and tranked… and I could put a spell on the door to keep him down here, so you probably wouldn't even have to stay.”

“Right,” Spike said, helping her chain the demon to a support post. “Know when I'm not welcome.”

“No, I -” Willow stammered. “I just meant, you know, stay here, in the basement.”

Spike just shook his head at her, yanking the chain tighter with a grimace. He left Willow behind to do her spell, striding up the stairs and past the others in the living room.

“You can't go up there,” Xander said, stepping into Spike's path, blocking his way to the stairs.

Spike stared at him for a moment, sizing him up as though debating whether to stay and argue, or just knock him aside and deal with the pain from the chip. “What's the matter, Harris?” he asked, his voice mildly taunting. “'Fraid I'm gonna fall off the wagon?” He leaned in unnervingly close; if Spike had been breathing, Xander would've felt his breath on his neck. “Maybe I'll take a bite out of you next?”

“You're already off the wagon,” Xander replied, shoving Spike backwards out of his personal space. “You're not even in the vicinity of the wagon. You fell off the wagon train!”

“Xander…” Tara interjected hesitantly. “It wasn't -”

“You almost killed her,” he went on. “Don't think you can just walk upstairs like nothing's changed.”

“Spike, perhaps it would be best if you went home,” Giles suggested. “Until Buffy's feeling better…”

Letting out a sound of disgust, Spike shoved past Xander, who was taken off-guard enough to keep him from resisting, and headed up the stairs.

Xander started after him, but Willow's voice from the kitchen doorway stopped him. “Let him, Xander,” she said.

“But -”

“He'd probably just go outside and climb back in her window anyhow,” she reasoned.

*****

Spike slowly pushed open the door to Buffy's room, so as not to disturb her sleep, and slipped inside. Dawn's tear-stained face turned to greet him. The sight of her sister in chains, screaming and thrashing like a tethered animal, had taken a toll on her, and she was curled uncomfortably on Buffy's desk chair, her chin resting on her arms, crossed over the top of the chair back.

His righteous indignation at the Scoobies dissipated as he took in the somber scene before him, giving way to the guilt swelling in his chest. Xander's words echoed in his mind, Don't think you can just walk upstairs like nothing's changed. As much as he wanted to hate the boy, the shard of truth in his statement embedded itself Spike's heart, and he wondered if this one night had ruined everything they'd had.

“Bit, I…” He broke off with a sigh, unable to find the words to explain. “I'm sorry,” he said finally.

“It's not your fault,” she replied quietly.

“You don't know that.”

Dawn tilted her head up to look at him. Though it was hard to believe that it was the same night, he was still the guy who'd bought groceries and cooked them dinner earlier, just to make things easier for Buffy. “You wouldn't hurt her. And you wouldn't let anything else hurt her if you could've helped it.”

Spike didn't answer, just ran a hand through Dawn's hair, all the while keeping his gaze focused on Buffy. Neither of them spoke until Tara poked her head in to send Dawn off to bed.

Spike kept vigil over Buffy's sleeping form throughout the night. The Scoobies had made it no secret that they were wary of Spike, but they could see he would not be persuaded to leave her side. Xander, Anya, and Giles reluctantly went home, though Xander required some cajoling from Willow, and a promise that she and Tara would stay the night in the room that used to be theirs. As they and Dawn finally settled down to sleep, Spike continued to wear tracks in the carpet in Buffy's bedroom, worrying and waiting.

A few hours later, Buffy's eyes fluttered opened to the sight of a dark shadow pacing at the foot of her bed. “Spike?” she said weakly. Her head felt clearer than it had before, but she still hesitated to trust her senses. She had to work to keep from flinching when his head snapped toward her at the sound of his name, subtle flecks of yellow in his eyes sending a bolt of fear through her, even though her brain told her it was irrational.

“I'm here, Buffy,” Spike replied, rushing to her side. He'd worked himself up so much with stress and concern that he was on the verge of vamping out, but he buried his demon when he realized she was awake. When she met his gaze again, his eyes were solid blue. “Love, I'm right here.”

“I…” Buffy started, struggling to sit up.

“What?” Spike reached out to help her. “What do you need, pet?”

“I think I'm gonna hurl.”

Spike scooped her up and carried her to the bathroom, planting her in front of the toilet moments before the retching started. He crouched behind her, holding her hair as she vomited up the indigestible ingredients of Willow's antidote. Once there was nothing left but dry heaves, Spike reached up and flushed the toilet, settling back down to massage Buffy's shoulders. She collapsed against him, a sheen of sweat on her face.

“You all right, pet?”

“Yeah,” she croaked, her throat hoarse.

“Want some water?” She nodded. As he handed her the glass, he asked, “Buffy, what did you see?”

She froze, the glass hovering at her lips.

“The hallucinations,” he explained, when she didn't answer. “I know what mine were like, and I figured if yours were as…”

I watched you die, he thought. I watched you die again, and it was the worst thing I've ever felt in my life. And then I almost killed you.

Buffy blinked at his admission. She hadn't been sure until just then that he'd been hallucinating, too. She wanted to believe it, didn't want to think he would hurt her, but the illusions were unremitting, washing over her in waves, never giving her the chance to breathe. His cruelty had stung her, his words ripping through her defenses as he tore her down, beat her into submission with words and fists, until finally, Willow's antidote had knocked her out and she slipped into peaceful oblivion.

“Anyway,” Spike finished, when he realized the anguish on her face probably mirrored his own, “you don't have to… talk…”

Drusilla's words haunted him, and as he watched her recover her composure, curled on the bathroom floor next to the toilet bowl, he was afraid that somehow she knew what Dru had said. That she knew he would betray her.

Of course, hadn't he already proved that? He couldn't tell from her current dull expression whether she was mad at him for biting her, but he had seen that look in her eyes just before she passed out. That look that said she knew it was real, and that their relationship had suffered irreparable damage.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

Buffy's hand immediately went to her throat, where Tara had placed a bandage over the bite mark. He caught the brief flash of distrust, before her eyes resumed their vacant stare.

Spike traced the pattern of the tile floor, running his fingers along the grout lines. “You've every reason not to trust me, Buffy, but I promise, I would never hurt you.”

He looked at her earnestly, hoping for some sign that she believed him. But all Buffy could see was the image in her mind, his face too close to hers, invading her personal space as he slammed her back against the wall of his crypt.

Spike reached out his hand toward her, and Buffy jerked back violently, smacking her head against the porcelain toilet bowl. “Don't touch me.”

Hurt by her sudden aversion to his comfort, Spike recoiled, easing backward on his knees. “I - I'm sorry,” he said again.

Buffy shook her head, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them protectively. She closed her eyes to hold back the stinging tears that threatened.

“Yeah, that's it. Cry,” Spike snarled as he sat astride her, flat on her back, holding her arms pinned above her head. “It's not worth it if you don't cry.”

“Buffy…” The soft reality of his voice cut through the remembered hallucination, and she opened her eyes. “I didn't mean to bite you,” Spike insisted.

“But you did.”

He felt his heart sink. “It wasn't - I saw… You weren't you.”

“I'm sorry, Spike,” she replied, fixing her gaze on the toilet. “I - I can't… I can't see you right now.” Her eyes flicked to his face, and he took in her distraught expression and nodded. Silently, he picked himself up off the floor and walked out of the bathroom.

As soon as he was gone, Buffy let her head fall forward until it rested on the toilet bowl, and began to cry.

*****

Fighting back the clenching pain in his chest, Spike barreled down the stairs, desperate to get out of the house. The sun wasn't far from rising, and if he didn't make it back before dawn, he'd be tempted to let it take him. As he headed for the door, Tara stopped him, cup of tea in hand. “Spike?”

He turned guiltily to face her. “Thought you were asleep, pet.”

“Couldn't sleep,” she said with a half-smile. She gestured to the cup. “I made tea, if you want some.”

Spike shook his head. “Just on my way out.”

“You're not… you're not gonna stay?”

His face clouded over, remembering Buffy's reaction in the bathroom. “No.”

The witch furrowed her brow. “Spike, don't let what Xander said… I'm sure Buffy would want you to -”

“She doesn't,” he cut her off sharply. Giving a nod upstairs, he added, “She's awake now. Could probably do with some tea.”

Tara's expression softened with realization. “Oh, Spike…” She reached out a sympathetic hand, but he jerked away from her touch, knocking the tea cup out of her other hand as he tore his arm away. The porcelain shattered on the hardwood floor, sending tea splattering across their shoes.

“I-it's okay,” Tara said quickly, bending down to pick up the broken pieces. “We can just… Spike?”

He barely heard her speaking. Lost in his own thoughts, he stepped around her and the mess and into the kitchen, stumbling down the stairs to the basement. Tears nearly blinded him as he made a beeline for the Glarghk guhl kashma'nik, still chained to the pole.

The first punch snapped the demon's head back against the support post, and it momentarily eased some of the tension Spike felt. He let loose another punch, and then another; and each one was easier than the last, like a pressure valve repeatedly being opened, and then closed again in the next instant, a whoosh of relief followed by the clamped-down force of tightly-packed air. Over and over, until he fell into a rhythm, swinging his fists and feeling them connect with solid muscle and crunching bone, the only part of this whole horrible night that he could fight back against.

Finally, when his hands went numb, he stepped back. The demon was not much more than a bloody pulp lashed to the pole, slumped over with only the chains keeping it upright. Glancing down, Spike realized his knuckles were torn up and covered in blood - both his own and the demon's - and his arms and shoulders ached from the repetitive motion.

With a last shuddering breath, Spike grabbed the demon's head in both hands, and the crack of its neck seemed to echo in the bare, cement room.