Chapter Sixty-Two




“Spike…what’s wrong with me?”

Dawn’s voice was so weak that Spike had to strain to hear her, and looking into the pale, pained look on her face almost felt like being kicked in the gut. He started shaking and couldn’t stop.

“Nothing, Bit.” He tried to sound casual, reassuring, but the words caught in his throat; they came out in a single, pained breath. “Y—you’ve just got a scrape. Just a little scrape is all. We’ll fix you right up—”

Even as he spoke, Spike eased her onto the floor so that he could pull off his coat. He ripped off his outer shirt and wrapped it around her middle, knotting it as tightly as his trembling hands would allow and hoping that it was enough to keep the wound closed. Then, he folded her in his duster and gingerly lifted her up. The small moan that followed burned into his heart like a brand.

“’s okay, Niblet. It’ll be just fine—just don’t—don’t fall asleep on me. All right? Just—don’t—”

How fast could he safely carry her? Spike had no idea. Suppose the jostle of a run made things worse? Suppose her innards worked their way out of the wound and she—

But she was white and cold, shivering with shock. Wasn’t it better to hurry?

He sprinted out of the cave and skidded down the hill, cradling her tightly in an attempt to make the descent as smooth as possible.

The hospital was so fucking far away, and he didn’t know what to do. He kept shouting at her. Every time her eyelids fluttered—every time her head lolled—he yelled at her to wake up, to speak, to show him that she wasn’t slipping away. Her heartbeat was thready, hard to hear, and her breathing sounded shallow…He had no idea what he could do to help her.

“Stay awake, Bit. Just stay awake.”

At the base of the hill, he turned right, following the narrow footpath that was a shortcut around the cemetery and into the street. By chance, a car was parked on the curb close by, a beat-up green station wagon peppered with peeling novelty stickers. Inside it, a pockmarked teenager was smoking a joint.

Spike kicked the passenger side door so savagely it was a surprise his boot didn’t go through the metal. The kid immediately stubbed out his roach and looked around, clearly expecting to see a police officer. When his bleary eyes finally landed on Spike—on Dawn—his mouth dropped open.

“Open the door, you stupid bastard! She needs help!”

Spurred into action by Spike’s screams, the boy threw open the passenger’s door. He looked stone cold sober now, and more than a little sick. Once he had started the engine, he swung the car into the street so sharply that the door—which hadn’t yet been shut—slammed back against Spike’s shin.

“Jesus Christ. What the hell happened to her anyway?” The kid was ogling Dawn’s wounds out of the corner of his eye.

Spike could feel blood soaking through his t-shirt: hot and sticky, the sweet and vaguely metallic odor something that had never failed to arouse his appetite before. Now, he just felt ill.

“Does it even bloody matter?” he demanded. Then, “You stupid prat, if you don’t drive faster I’m going to rip out your goddamn throat!”

“Hey, hey,” the boy said quickly, looking even more alarmed. “Chill out, will you?”

“Chill out?” Spike asked disbelievingly, his voice caught somewhere between a growl and a sob. “I’ve got a girl bleeding out her intestines…and you’re telling me to chill out? You thick son of a bitch, when we stop I ought to—” Dawn groaned slightly and Spike paused, wondering whether he should hold her tighter or loosen his grip, wondering if he was hurting her more, making things worse. Rivulets of blood were snaking from beneath her makeshift bandage and onto the floorboard of the car.

“Can’t this shitbox go any faster?”

“Hey, eighty is the best I can handle.” The kid sounded defensive. “Anyway—we’re here.”

Spike’s head jerked around to the window. In possibly the first intelligent act of the stoner’s life, he had stopped directly in front of the emergency entrance. He leaned across the console and opened the passenger door for Spike, who quickly and carefully carried Dawn out.

“Good luck, man. I’d help you carry her in, but…you know.” He nodded to the bag of pot that sat on the dashboard. “Don’t want any narcs asking me questions.”

“Thanks,” Spike muttered back, even though he was already halfway to the entrance and the kid probably couldn’t hear him.

The glass door to the emergency lobby opened automatically, but Spike shouldered his way through even before it was fully ajar. Inside, the hospital was full of white, with brilliant fluorescent lighting glaring off the tiles and paint. Spike had never been inside a modern hospital before, but it looked just like in the movies. He shoved his way through the crowd of chairs and bodies in the lobby, quickly making his way to the reception window.

“Got a girl here—bad hurt—she—”

“Sir, you’ll have to wait a moment. As you can see, I’m trying to—” The receptionist’s eyes suddenly fixed on Dawn, the bright spots of blood dripping onto the clean white floor. “Oh, my word. What…”

“She got attacked by an animal. In the woods.” The woman was picking up the telephone receiver at her elbow, but her movements seemed too slow; she seemed entirely too calm for Spike’s overwrought nerves to bear. He kicked the wooden base of the counter and roared at her, “Call a fucking doctor, God damn it!”

The nurse hit a button on the phone, quickly muttering words that Spike was too distraught to hear. A moment later, a number of people dressed in white burst through the double-doors at the back of the lobby, pushing a stretcher.

“Don’t—what’re you—” A possessive snarl rose in Spike’s throat as a man began to pry Dawn from his arms. Spike tried to hold onto her; he tried to tell the man that he would carry her wherever they needed her to go, but the fellow didn’t listen. When Spike struggled, one of the orderlies pinned his arms behind his back and pulled him away.

“Wait, where are they taking her? Which one is the doctor—?”

“Calm down, sir. Just calm down. She’s in good hands.”

“But—” He effortlessly jerked out of the man’s grasp and looked toward the door through which Dawn had disappeared, but the orderly quickly moved around to block his path.

Behind him, the receptionist was conversing with a nurse, who then pushed her way through the crowded waiting room. She had a clipboard in her hand and a set look on her face.

“I need some information, sir.”

“What?” Confused, he turned his attention to her, momentarily forgetting about fighting his way through the doorway.

“For starters, we need to know her name.”

“Dawn—Dawn Summers—she’s fifteen—” He twisted around to look at the orderly. “I need to go back there—I’ve got to be with her—”

He took a step in that direction, but the nurse behind him shouted, “Sir!” so loudly that he was startled into obedience. “This is what we need in order to help her!” she snapped at him. “I suggest you calm down and tell me what you know of her medical history.”

Completely ignoring the bewildered look on his face, the nurse poised her pen over her clipboard. “Do you know if she has insurance? I’ll need to see the card for our records.”

“Insure—what? I don’t know.” He had no clue what she was talking about. Why was she asking him questions about insurance when Bit’s intestines were about to fall out? Where had they taken her?

Not bothering to take the time to explain herself, the nurse plowed ahead. “Are you aware of any allergies? Prior medical conditions we should be aware of.... Medications she is currently taking?”

“I don’t—she’s not—” Spike wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence, but the nurse’s expression became even more sour.

“You are not a relative, are you?” She sounded suspicious, as if she had suddenly found herself in the presence of an obvious pedophile.

“What? No—no—she’s my—I—”

“That being the case, we need to contact her parents immediately.”

“She doesn’t have any. Her mum died—father ran off somewhere—she lives with her sister.” He didn’t know if that was pertinent information or not, but it was all he had. The nurse scribbled something onto her clipboard.

“Name of her sister and her telephone number?”

Buffy. Oh, God. They were going to call Buffy. They had to call Buffy.

Slowly, Spike recited the digits they needed, but when the woman asked him if he would prefer to call Dawn’s guardian himself, he couldn’t bear it anymore. He leaned over and retched onto the nurse’s immaculate white shoes.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




By chance, Xander was nearby Buffy’s house when he got the call. He was on his way to an all night pharmacy; he’d been nursing a massive cold and had suddenly found himself to be out of NyQuil. But when his cell phone rang—when he heard the desperate, tearful voice on the other end—he swung his car into a sharp U-turn and sped back in the direction of Revello Drive.

Buffy had composed herself by the time she climbed into his car, but Xander could tell by her wide, red-rimmed eyes and shivering limbs that she was teetering on the brink of a complete breakdown. He chose his words carefully.

“Did they tell you what happened?”

“They didn’t tell me anything,” she answered hoarsely. “They said I need to wait to speak with her doctor, but that she’s alive. Alive! As if, there was some question of her not being. She’s in the trauma unit on the third floor; that’s all they would say.”

He reached over and squeezed her hand. “Didn’t they at least tell you how she got there?”

“Yeah…they said…they said someone had brought her in.”

“Someone,” Xander echoed. “That means a person, not an ambulance.”

“I guess…” She sounded uncertain.

“But who—”

“Xander, I don’t know! I told you everything they said, and they didn’t say anything else about that. Just that someone had brought her in.”

Flinching as the grip on his hand became painfully tight, Xander gasped, “Sorry, Buff.”

The hand relaxed.

“No, I’m sorry. I’m just…I’m worried about her. It’s all my fault. I didn’t even realize she was gone until they called. I was upstairs with Willow and Tara; I thought she was still in her room, or down in the living room with Spike.”

“Spike?”

There was an obvious change in Xander’s tone; Buffy heard it and quickly became defensive. “Don’t start, Xander. This isn’t the time to start bitching about Spike.”

“I’m not bitching about him,” Xander said quickly. “I’m blaming him. It’s a whole different concept.”

“Blaming him for what, exactly?”

Their hands unclasped and Xander’s quickly returned to the steering wheel.

“Where is Spike, Buffy?”

“He—” She paused, suddenly realizing that she had no idea where Spike was but that he was certainly not in the one place he had said he would be. He wasn’t at her house. “He’s…out,” she finished lamely.

“And you don’t know where.”

“That doesn’t mean anything!” she exclaimed, her temper flaring.

“Really? ‘Cause it looks awfully suspicious from my end. First Spike disappears, and then Dawn…and then the hospital calls telling you that ‘someone’ brought Dawn into the ER with some mysterious injury. Doesn’t that strike you as odd and awfully coincidental?”

“Spike would never do anything to hurt Dawn, and—and even if he wanted to, he couldn’t. There’s the chip in his head, remember?”

Xander shrugged, his shoulders and mouth tight.

“All right,” he answered. “I’m not trying to argue, and I’ll drop it now. I just think it’s a coincidence, that’s all.”

They were silent for the rest of the drive and during the walk across the hospital parking deck. It wasn’t until they reached the elevator bank that Xander finally grabbed her arm.

“Look, I’m sorry. All right? I’m not trying to make this any worse for you.”

“Yeah?” she asked, jabbing her finger on the button for the third floor. “Well, maybe you should think before you open your mouth.”

“Well, I believe that maybe you should be a little more realistic about things. You treat Spike like he’s some kind of cuddly puppy dog, and he’s not. He’s a killer, a monster. And apparently, he’s not done the great job of leashing that part of himself that we first thought. I mean, for God’s sake—look at your neck—”

Shit.

Buffy hunched her shoulders, trying to sink down into her coat and hide her throat. She hadn’t thought that Xander would notice the bandage.

“How do you—”

“It’s not that hard to figure out,” he answered. “Unless you’ve suddenly taken to lying in the graveyard, inviting vamps to bite you. How else would it have happened? None of the bloodsuckers in Sunnydale are actually strong enough to take you by force, and if they were you’d be dead. So…it’s got to be Spike, hasn’t it?” He paused, and then asked with a touch of bitterness, “You still want to tell me that the chip is working?”

“Yes, it is!” she snapped. She turned her face away so that he wouldn’t see through the lie that followed. “I—I let him bite me, okay? The chip didn’t even have to work because he never meant to hurt me…and because I allowed him to do it.”

“Right. Of course you did.” He was sarcastic. “Because that’s, like, the best idea I’ve ever heard. Give the insane, soulless vampire a little slayer’s blood to get him revved up. Bet he’s a real demon in the sack after that—”

Buffy whirled around, wondering for a split second if she would actually have the stones to hit her friend. Then, the elevator doors slid apart and they continued on their journey to the TICU.

And there, pacing the length of its small lounge, they found Spike.

When he saw them, he pulled to an abrupt halt. There was a tormented—and frighteningly guilty—look on his handsome face, and a quick dart of her eyes showed Buffy two things: he wasn’t wearing his duster and his hands and arms were streaked with blood. His ancient gray t-shirt, which was the second of only two t-shirts he owned, was almost more blood than cotton, most of it already half-dried to an ugly shade of brownish-red. When she finally looked back up, she found that his blue eyes were searching her face.

“Buffy—I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—”

She could hear Xander shifting behind her, could feel his uncertainty. She was uncertain, too. This was Spike; this was William. Her lover, her love. And he was covered in her sister’s blood. He was apologizing for what, exactly? What had he done?

“This is your fault, then.” It amazed her how dead she sounded, how emotionless, when inside she was bewildered and bleeding.

“I’m sorry—” he began again.

Something in the repetition of the apology sparked anger, and her voice, which had been hardly more than a whisper before, suddenly became a shout that made the entire room take notice. “You did this, Spike? You hurt her?”

Quickly, he shook his head, his blue eyes darting from side to side, struggling to find words, struggling in a manner that usually made her feel tender and warm and very protective of him. Now, she felt only fear and disgust. Because this was her lover—this was her love—and he was admitting to—

What, exactly?

“I—I—I didn’t hurt her,” he insisted, the stutter of a hundred-plus years ago suddenly reemerging, “and I never meant for this to happen. If—if you’ll let me explain—I—”

“I don’t want to hear your explanations,” she answered, trying to push past him to the reception desk. “I just want to see my sister—”

“Wait!” Spike grabbed her shoulders “Buffy, please—the bloody bastards won’t tell me anything—I need to know how she is—”

He jerked away from her so quickly, Buffy thought for a moment that he must have stumbled. Then, she saw Xander slam him up against the blank white wall next to the door.

“You really are a piece of work, you know that?” he spat. “You did this and now you’re asking her for favors? Like you even care about Dawn. The only thing you care about is yourself and getting into Buffy’s pants!”

He pulled Spike back and then smashed him into the wall again, even harder, the vampire’s already chip-sore head striking the plaster with a force that made Buffy wince in spite of herself.

“Xander, stop it!” She yanked him off and half-threw him into one of the lounge’s plush chairs. “Sit down and shut up. I don’t have time for this crap.”

She turned and began to march toward the reception desk once again. She could hear Spike’s footsteps behind her, and with lightening speed, she turned around and shoved him in the chest, sending him sprawling to the floor.

“Don’t follow me.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




She had no idea who called Giles. It could have been Xander; he had called Anya, Willow, and Tara. Or, it could have been any of those three. Or, perhaps, he knew already, through that mysterious telepathy that all good parents—and parental figures—seemed to possess. It didn’t really matter either way. She hadn’t been inside a hospital since her mother was ill, and she was glad to see him.

“How is Dawn?” he asked gently, after an embrace that made it seem as though they had never been apart.

“I—I’m not exactly sure,” Buffy answered softly. Now that Giles was there with his assertive, paternal presence, she had the overwhelming urge to cry. Instead, she cleared her throat and continued bravely, “They had to perform emergency surgery…they had to…sew her up and give her blood. She’ll be in TICU until she stabilizes and then they’ll move her to recovery. They won’t let me see her yet. They…they said they’re optimistic.”

“That’s good news,” he said with false relief. “I’m sure she’ll be mended in no time at all.”

Buffy sighed, refusing to be comforted. “Did Xander tell you what happened?”

“Quite to the contrary, actually. Xander told me that he doesn’t know what happened; only that it somehow involved Spike…who is, incidentally, pacing the hallway just outside the lobby.” He paused and then asked quietly, “What did happen, Buffy?”

“I have no idea,” she told him honestly. “Nothing more than what Xander already told you. So far…it looks like the only one who really knows, besides Dawn, is the one you say is walking the halls right now.”

“Yes, well…” Giles was clearly at a loss as to how to respond, and Buffy didn’t blame him. He had no idea what footing her relationship with Spike might be on now. Come to think of it, she didn’t really know herself. He asked finally, “What do the doctors say?”

“They say it looks like what he said it was…a wound from an animal attack, but if they’re saying that because it does or because he put the idea into their heads, I couldn’t venture to guess.”

Giles raised his eyebrows.

“Spike told them that it was done by an animal?”

“She’s got a big gash here—” Buff indicated her midsection “—and I guess it must have looked like something done by a wild animal. Anyway, that’s what Spike said, and they don’t seem to be arguing with him at this point.”

“Do you think by any chance he might have—” Giles began. Buffy quickly cut him off.

“No,” she said, a little more forcefully than she had intended. But he was certainly not the first of her friends to ask that question, and it was beginning to wear on her nerves. Maybe it was because, with each repetition, her uncertainty in her own answer grew. Still, she stood her ground.

“Whatever happened, he didn’t attack her himself. He couldn’t have even if he wanted to. The chip…”

Giles looked at her steadily, and Buffy tugged at the collar of her leather jacket, checking to see if the bandage on her neck was adequately concealed. It was, but she had a feeling that it might not matter. Xander had probably told Giles all about it already. However, her watcher didn’t argue with her, and whatever his private suspicions were, he kept them to himself.

“I suppose it’s safe to assume that it was not an animal attack,” he said instead. “Some type of demon, perhaps—”

“I guess. I don’t know.” She was agitated and unwilling to discuss it. Why did he have to ask so many questions now when all she wanted to do was sit quietly and enjoy the comfort of his presence? She knew he was merely trying to piece together what had happened so that they could remedy it, but she was already hanging on by a thread. The last thing she wanted to do was go into slayer-mode.

Reluctantly, she found her thoughts drifting back to Spike and the part he had played in all this. No matter what had happened, she knew it was his fault. His job was to protect Dawn, and he had obviously failed to do so. Given the vehemence of his apology, she had a feeling that there was something more to the tale than a simple failure to perform the task that had been given to him. What frightened her most was the fact that she was starting to suspect just what that something might be.

For the most educated man she had ever met, William certainly could be stupid. That much hadn't changed in the last century at least; Spike was still letting his emotions rule his brain. As long as he believed what he was doing was right…as long as he thought he was helping her…

She forced the idea away, locking it in the dark corner of her brain where frightening ideas went.

As if reading her mind, Giles suddenly asked the question she had been dreading. “What do you propose we do about your melanin-deprived sentry in the hallway?”

“Let him stay there,” she said wearily. “He left the lounge after he and Xander got into it…again. If he wants to stand around out there by himself, that’s his prerogative; I’m not interested in talking to him right now.”

“He’s waiting for information about Dawn, I suspect. He’s concerned.”

She turned to him in surprise. Xander had refused to believe that Spike’s interest in the matter had anything to do with Dawn; he saw it as another indication of Spike’s obsession with Buffy herself. But now Giles—who had only a moment ago expressed his suspicions that Spike was behind it all—was acknowledging the fact that the vampire did care for her sister? That he was capable of an emotion like concern or guilt?

He sighed and fiddled with his glasses, reading her expression as easily as he would have read a book.

“I do believe that he is capable of affection,” he said unwillingly, “and I do believe that he has feelings for you and Dawn. But that doesn’t make a relationship with him any less dangerous. He’s a loaded weapon with the safety off, Buffy. Leave him lying around the house long enough and someone is bound to get hurt.”

She wished she could argue with him on that point.

“Still,” Giles continued. “I don’t blame him for what happened to Dawn.”

“No?” She felt almost dizzy. Oh, God. Could this night—could this conversation—possibly get any stranger?

“No,” he answered. Then, after a moment of hesitation, “Do you know what he’s been doing, Buffy?”

She sighed.

“I know it’s nothing good, but I don’t know what. I’ve tried not to question it.”

“But you know about the money? You know that he is the one who sends it?”

“That part’s been getting harder and harder to ignore,” she admitted. “But how do you know about it?”

“It wasn’t that difficult to figure out. The others…they want to believe in the innate good of humanity. It makes things so much easier, doesn’t it? However, I…”

“…knew that my father would never do something that unselfish.”

He nodded. “Sad as it might be, yes. Knowing that, it wasn’t too much of a leap to guess who might be behind it all.”

“And you think that has something to do with…this?” She motioned to the sterile, unfriendly space around them.

“I suspect it, yes. Whatever he did to Dawn—or whatever was done to her in his presence—I believe it is related. I don’t know precisely where he has been procuring the money, but I think we can agree that he could not possibly be earning that much of it so quickly in any type of ethical manner.”

“I don't get it, Giles. You say that you don't blame Spike for all this, and then you start talking about the evil things he must have done to get the money. Whose fault is it, if it's not his?”

His bottom lip trembled, and for an agonizing moment, Buffy wondered if he might be about to cry. But no. It was only that the words were coming to him with such difficultly; he had to force them out and it was clearly painful for him.

“Buffy…I…I am terribly ashamed of myself and of my actions. I thought I was doing right…I assure you, I thought I was…but…”

“But what?” Her breath had caught around the sudden, painful lump in her throat. Not Giles, too. Terrible enough that one man in her life had so betrayed her tonight. Now, it seemed she might have two.

And she was right.

He bowed his head into his hands and suddenly, briefly, he looked like a tired old man. “Buffy, when I went to the Council…when I told them that you must shirk your duties as the slayer if something wasn’t done about your financial problems…they were quite willing to help you. For all their bluster, they realize how much they need you; Faith is less than worthless. They agreed to give you a wage. Not a handsome one, perhaps, but generous enough to provide for you and Dawn.”

Valiantly, he made the effort to look up. When he did, his eyes were bloodshot and full of shame.

“The Council agreed to give you the money, Buffy, but the ultimatum was entirely my own doing.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




“I can’t believe I ever let myself trust him.”

Willow glanced toward Buffy, who sat with Giles, out of earshot, some distance away. Then, she turned her gaze back to Xander. “Did you though?” she asked him.

His stormy expression changed to one of mild confusion. “Did I what?”

“Trust him.”

He thought about that for a moment, clearly struggling to put his anger aside long enough to formulate an accurate response.

“Maybe I didn’t actually trust him,” he said finally. “I mean, he might have a chip, and he might love Buffy; but he’s still soulless and kind of evil. Right? So…who could really trust that? But I never would have thought he’d hurt Buffy…or Dawn.”

“Well, I—I don’t think he really hurt her,” Tara began tentatively. Xander quickly cut across her words.

“Okay, well got her hurt, then. I trusted the bastard not to let anything happen to them…hell, I thought he’d keep the bad things at bay. He’s a freaking vampire, right? He’s got all that super-strength and hyper-speed…the heightened senses. He ought to have been a good bodyguard for her…” Xander paused and then added bitterly, “You guys realize that he’s somehow connected with this, right? You get that he wasn’t just an innocent bystander when some kind of nasty jumped out at Dawn?”

“We don’t know that—” Tara seemed determined to play Devil’s advocate, but Willow glanced at her doubtfully. She gently supplied the answer that Xander opened his mouth to give.

“We kind of do, though, honey.”

“He practically shouted it from the rooftop,” Xander jumped in. “‘I’m sorry, Buffy. I never meant for this to happen,’ those were his exact words.”

“He could just be blaming himself,” Tara said.

“Yeah. Because he did it! To be perfectly honest, I’m surprised that we’re surprised. That we could have been so stupid. Barring everything else that’s wrong with him, what the hell can you expect from someone whose only friend in the world is a fifteen-year-old girl? Doesn’t really speak too highly of his maturity level…”

He said more, but suddenly Willow wasn’t listening.

His only friend in the world…

A sudden and completely unexpected wave of pity washed over her, because she knew what Xander said was right. Dawn was Spike’s only friend, the only person besides Buffy who cared about him. He might be soulless—and she definitely couldn’t vouch for him not being evil—but he did care about them. Regardless of how hard she’d tried to avoid seeing it, Willow had witnessed more than her fair share of affectionate moments between them not to realize that he loved Buffy. And—if for no other reason than because she was an extension of Buffy—he clearly loved Dawn as well. Whatever happened to hurt Dawn that night, it couldn’t possibly have been intentional on his part.

After a moment of perplexed silence, Willow finally began to speak—maybe even to defend the unfortunate vampire. However, at that very moment, Giles appeared at their sides, and what came out of her mouth wasn’t what she originally intended.

“Where’s Buffy?” Because a quick glance told her that her friend was no longer in the lounge.

Giles sighed and rubbed a hand across his tired face.

“Dawn’s doctors have reduced her condition from critical to stable, and Buffy is now allowed to see her. Dawn will be moved to a room shortly, where they will closely monitor her. There are, of course, the usual concerns for a postoperative patient.”

Xander started to stand up. “Can we see her—” he began.

Giles shook his head. “Family only for now. Even Buffy is permitted no more than five minutes.”

The four friends were quiet for a while as they struggled to digest this information. Then, Willow climbed to her feet.

“Where are you going?” Tara asked, her question immediately echoed by Xander. But Willow only shook her head.

“I’ll be back,” she said.

She made her way across the cramped lounge and then out of it. In the short hallway that led to the elevator bank, Spike was still waiting. Now, however, he was sitting down, his back against the wall and his knees pulled up almost to his chest. When he heard Willow’s footsteps, he favored her with a single, anguished glance.

“I’m not leaving ‘til I hear how Niblet is doing,” he said resolutely.

“I’m not asking you to,” answered Willow. Her voice was soft with pity, and Spike’s quickly dropped as well.

Still, he sounded surprised when he said, “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m here because—because the doctor just gave Buffy news—”

“And?” He was impatient.

“Dawn’s doing better. They’re going to move her soon; they’ve let Buffy back to see her.”

Spike leapt to his feet. “You’re sure? You’re sure she’s all right?”

Willow nodded.

“I mean, she’s not out of the woods yet, obviously. The doctors are still worried about hemorrhages and infections…stuff like that…but they’re definitely feeling more optimistic. Hey—” her voice rose in alarm as Spike suddenly turned on his heel and darted across the hallway. “Where are you going?”

But his body was almost a blur as it shot into the elevator, and Willow doubted he even heard her question.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~