CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Buffy gripped the white porcelain so hard that her knuckles whitened; her eyes unfocused. Her breath came out raggedly, the smell of what she’d just thrown up making her stomach churn. Her blood was pounding in her ears, and she straightened her arms, leaning forward.

She couldn’t handle this. She couldn’t...

“Buffy?”

Buffy turned her head. Spike was standing in the doorway, both hands gripping the doorframe to his left. His eyes were still open. She exhaled shakily, turning on the cold tap and cupping her hand under the flow, drinking down the water she captured. A few loose strands of hair were clinging to the side of her face, and she pushed them back behind her ear.

“Slayer?” He made a move to enter the bathroom, and his hand slipped on the towel bar. “You alright?”

“Yeah, sorry. I’m fine.” Buffy told him, swallowing back the taste of bile still in her mouth. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She straightened purposefully, trying to calm herself. Convince herself. “I’m fine.”

“You sure, love?” Spike took another shaky step forward.

She sighed, gritting her teeth. She still refused to face him. “Yes. Now, just... go. Please, go.”

“I—“

“NO! Get out!” Buffy found herself yelling at the vampire, turning around and shoving him hard enough to force him out the door. “Get OUT!”

She slammed the door in his face, spinning back to the sink. She took one look at herself in the mirror, met her own eyes, and threw up again.

 
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Spike stood leaning against the wall next to the bathroom door, his hand clutching at his side where she’d pushed him. One of his bruises throbbed there, and he closed his eyes, his jaw set. Leaning his head back against the cool paint of the wall, he bit down on his lip.

He never saw Buffy like this. Apart from the night a few weeks ago when he’d sat with her on the porch, he wasn’t used to her being like this. She was always so strong; quick with the witty comebacks and quicker with the punches. He wasn’t used to her being... broken.

And it terrified him.

“Spike?”

“Buffy?” Spike’s head turned towards the voice, and he straightened, using the wall to stop him from losing his balance.

“No... It’s me, Dawn.” The brunette answered softly, her eyes checking towards the bathroom door, “She in there?”

“Yeah,” he replied, leaning back against the wall carefully, his hand still on his side. He kept his eyes closed. If they had been bad enough to have Buffy— the Slayer— react the way she did, he didn’t want to imagine what it could do to the littlest Summers. “She, uh... she needed some time alone.” He heard the lock click, barring them both from the room.

“Okay. How... how about you?”

“Hmm?” Spike was listening to the sounds coming from the bathroom, and started slightly at Dawn’s question. Buffy was retching again, and he could hear her heart throbbing. Forcing himself not to push his way back into the little room, he turned his concentration back on the Slayer’s little sister.

“Are you... are you okay?”

“Getting there, nibblet.” Dawn was watching his profile, and caught the edge of the small, reassuring smile he managed to give her. “I’ll be fine.”

Dawn quirked a worried eyebrow at that, but didn’t comment. Instead, she tried for a patented Summers habit: try and lighten the mood by ignoring the bad. “Well, I don’t think Buffy’s coming out anytime soon... Blood?”

Spike hesitated. He wanted to wait for Buffy to come out; to make sure she was okay. But helping Dawn deal with what happened to him was what was happening now, and he knew that more blood would help to speed up the healing process. Nodding, he straightened again and felt the girl take his hand. “Sure, bit. Thanks.”

 
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Buffy wiped a shaky hand over her face as she let the tap run, washing down the remains of her second upheaval. Breathing heavily, slowly, she stood, one arm wrapped around herself while the other smoothed her flushed cheek. She headed towards the door, and with an uncertain hand, she turned the lock.

She thought she’d be fine. She’d seen a lot of damage since becoming the Slayer both on her own body and on others. She’d seen bruising and blood and burns, and while Spike’s were significantly worse in some places, she could handle that. But when she’d seen his eyes...

She swallowed heavily and squeezed her eyes shut. She could have been like that. If it hadn’t been for Spike, she would be helpless, lost and destroyed and her eyes... her eyes would be those white, empty... things. Spike had always had such expressive eyes... derision, hate, anger, laughter... she could always see what he felt, even when he kept his face masked and straight. But now they were gone, that bright blue that she was so used to was covered in bloody white, masking not only his sight but his... well, not soul, but his being.

And that could have been her.

Buffy felt her stomach churn again, and she jerked forward, landing in a kneel in front of the porcelain of the toilet bowl. She dry heaved for a few moments, managing to cough up only a small amount of bile before she sat back on her haunches, brushing her hair out of her face.

She could dimly make out the sound of Spike talking to a higher, feminine voice... Dawn... and she glanced towards the door. Even Dawnie seemed to be handling better than her. She heard their footsteps move away from the door, and she pushed herself up to standing, wiping her mouth again with the back of her hand. She pulled the lever on the toilet tank and the sound of water rushing filled the room as she wrapped her arms around herself.

Spike’s blank eyes flashed behind her own green ones and she choked down a sob, clenching her jaw.

He saved me.

She stepped into the bath and sat down at the end, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. Resting her temple against the cool tile of the wall, she stared into nothingness.
 

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“Um, how hot does this have to be?” Dawn wrinkled her nose at the thick red liquid in the coffee mug in her hand. She’d used the oldest mug she could find, but she was still a little more than slightly grossed out by the cow’s blood in her hand. She had her back to the vampire, but she could hear him trying to arrange himself on the stool by the counter without falling off.

“Ninety-eight point six.” Spike answered, wincing as his knee bumped against the island.

“Right...” Dawn hesitated for a moment, her nose still scrunched as she checked the thermometer she’d put in the mug. “Well... I got it... kinda close, I guess.”

“It’ll be fine, bit.” He assured her, feeling her press the mug into his hand. He gripped it tightly, pressing it to his lips. He began coughing heavily as scalding blood hit his throat. He groaned loudly when the movement throbbed in his chest, aggravating his bruises. Dawn rushed towards him, her hands up.

“Oh god, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I wasn’t sure how long to put it in the microwave, and I thought you would let it sit for a while,” she apologised, her eyes growing wet. “I didn’t mean to!”

“It’s alright, nibblet.” Spike coughed, setting the mug down. “I’m alright.” His found her shoulder and he patted it gently.

She calmed, and sat down beside him, sighing. “I guess I’m no Slayer, huh?”

“What?”

Dawn gave a wry smile. “I don’t know how you did it Spike, but Buffy knows how to do all that. How to clean you up, how to take care of you. Hell, she knows how to get your blood to exactly ninety-eight point six and she only puts in the microwave once!” She sighed, “You’ve got her trained or something.”

Spike chuckled and the girl next to him grinned. “I don’t think you could say that, bit.”

“Well, whatever it is, do you think you could get her to clean my room?” Dawn giggled, before sighing again and standing. “C’mon, let’s see how much of a medic I really am and get you cleaned up before she comes downstairs.”