CHAPTER SEVEN

“Uh... Spike?”

“Yeah, pet?”

“I need to check your torso.”

“Okay.”

“So, I need you to take off your shirt.”

“Oh.” Spike reached for the edge of his shirt, hissing as the muscles in his sides pulled. He tried again, but Buffy’s hand touched his, stopping him.

“The shirt’s ruined anyway, maybe I should just do it.” She suggested, before grabbing two fistfuls at the neck and pulling, tearing the front of the shirt completely open.

“Never knew you were into the kinky stuff, love.” Spike muttered as she slid the sleeves off his arms. Buffy gasped. “What? Didn’t want me to find out that dirty little secret?”

Buffy didn’t respond. Her eyes were fixated on his chest. She was sure it was usually a perfectly delicious torso... not that she’d ever admit it... with alabaster skin, amazing pectorals and what looked like a killer set of abs. He would have looked like some sort of Greek statue carved out of marble.

But now, instead of flawless white skin, his chest and stomach were riddled with bruises, the whole surface covered in shades of deep blue and purple. There were a few, now no-longer bleeding scrapes from the rubble along his torso and arms, and a few burn marks around his neck where the goo had dripped. Hesitantly, she reached out and ran her fingers over one of the darkest and largest of bruises on his chest.

Spike inhaled sharply at her touch, and she looked back up at his face. She could no longer see his eyes of course, but his lips were parted, his head tilted back slightly. His muscle twitched under her fingertips.

She cleared her throat. “I... I don’t think we have enough ice to help cut down the amount of bruising. It’s pretty bad, and it’ll be worse tomorrow, but maybe a cold towel or—“

“I’ll be fine, Slayer.” Spike shifted slightly, and Buffy dropped her hand. “They’ll heal quick enough.”

“Right, well... okay.” Buffy stood, gathering up the rest of the first aid kit and stacking it on her dresser. She knew that if it was anybody else she’d be threatening them so they’d let her treat their injuries, but she felt awkward with Spike. He wasn’t like the others. “Well, um, bed I guess. You should get some rest, seeing as painkillers aren’t gonna help.”

“Right, love. I, uh...”

Buffy quickly bent to remove his boots, before standing and taking a hold of his elbows. She pulled him up to stand, and surprised, Spike fell against her. Buffy gasped as his weight hit her, and he gasped as his injuries came in contact with her body. Buffy found herself looking at his face again, now only a few inches from hers. Clearing her throat again, she righted him more gently, both of them holding the others elbows. Touching a hand to his waist, she reached around him to pull back the sheet and blankets on the bed. Carefully helping him to sit, she swung his legs around and tucked them under the blankets.

“Slayer... you don’t have to give up your bed. I’d be fine on the couch.”
“Please, that thing has like, no lumbar support. You can have my bed tonight and I’ll set up the cot tomorrow. It’ll be fine.”

I’m never going to fall asleep buried in your bloody scent, Spike thought as he inhaled, the vanilla-and-peach aroma filling his nose. Thank god breathing is just habit. “I can’t take your bed, love.”

“Spike, please, I’ll be fine on the couch. You need the lower-back comfy-ness more than I do right now. Besides, it’s a lot easier to work on the sun-screening up here.”

Spike nodded, swatting away her hands gently as she tried to push him back in the bed. Lying back carefully, he felt her pull the blanket up to cover his chest. The bandage over his eyes felt strange, an alien tightness around his head. He touched a hand to it, hissing when the action caused the material to pull against his skin.

“You, okay?” Buffy looked up from the other side of the room. She’d been uncertain for a moment, before deciding to change into her pyjamas there. It’s not like he can see me anyway, and I’m less likely to wake up Mom or Dawn. She paused when she heard him hiss, turning to him, pyjama shorts on and the matching flannel shirt on but unbuttoned.

Spike nodded.

Buffy quickly adjusted the curtains and closed the blinds, effectively blocking what would be a sunny day in about four hours. Buttoning her shirt, she grabbed the spare pillow off the bed and the quilt from the foot of it.

“I’ll be downstairs, okay? I’ll come and get you in the morning after I explain everything to Mom.” Buffy glanced once more at Spike, switched off the lamp and headed for the door.

“Buffy?”

She froze with her hand halfway to the door knob. “Yeah?” He never used her name. Not her first one, anyhow.

“Stay here?” The hope in his voice was easily masked by his physical pain.

Buffy hesitated for a moment.

“Okay.”

With that, Buffy settled herself on the floor, laying out the quilt and lying on top of one side, folding it over to effectively cacoon herself in its folds. She loosened her hair from its ponytail, tucked a hand under her pillow and rested her head on top of it, her body turned to face the bed. Her eyes found the form above her, his chest completely still. Uncertainly, she reached up and touched her hand to his arm. She felt him jerk slightly in response before he relaxed. “You’re going to be okay, Spike. I promise.”

“I know love,” Spike other hand came up to cover hers hesitantly. She twitched slightly, but didn’t pull away. Still, Spike didn’t curl his fingers over, or entwine them with hers like he wanted. He left it as it was, enclosing her small hand between his own and his forearm. “Thank you.”

Buffy’s eyes closed, and she fell asleep.