Chapter 7

Buffy sat curled up in the rocking chair next to Spike’s bed, where she’d been sitting every spare moment for the past three days. She chewed on her thumbnail, watching him anxiously. He looked peaceful, like he was sleeping. But his chest didn’t rise and fall like a human’s would. He was perfectly still.

He looked dead.

She winced. He’d need blood soon. Three days without blood. He wouldn’t heal if he didn’t drink. She’d swallowed her pride and gone to Willy’s – he’d need the good stuff to get better, pig’s blood from the butcher wouldn’t cut it – and brought home several pints that now sat in her refrigerator, hidden in carefully-labeled paper bags so no one would be grossed out if they went poking around for a snack. She wondered if she’d be able to force feed him, tilt his head back and pour the blood down his throat. Would he choke on it? Did vampires choke? If they didn’t breathe…

She swallowed the lump forming in her own throat. “Wake up, Spike,” she pleaded, her voice no more than a whisper. “Please, just wake up.”

She couldn’t stay here anymore. She couldn’t sit here and watch him like this. The waiting would drive her crazy. Maybe she was already crazy. Pushing herself up on the arms of the rocking chair, she unfolded her legs from under her body. She had to get out of the room. Take a walk. Slay something, maybe. A little adrenaline to get the blood flowing again.

She was almost at the door when she heard him whisper her name.

“Buffy?”

She whirled around and was at his bedside instantly. “I’m here.”

His eyes opened slowly, painfully, his eyelids stiff. His voice was hoarse when he spoke. “Did we win?”

“Yeah, Spike, we won.” Perched on the edge of the bed, she smiled at him, stroking his forehead.

His eyes darkened. “Niblet shouldn’t have –”

“Shh. Don’t worry about it. She’s fine. Everything’s fine now.”

“How long was I out?” His voice was getting closer to normal now. He struggled to sit up, and she propped up the pillows behind him and eased him back against them.

“A long time. How’re you feeling?”

Spike groaned. “Like I got run over by a truck.”

“I should get you some blood.”

“Not just yet. Stay.”

His hand was lying on top of the covers, near her thigh. She took it in hers and began making circles on the back of his hand with her thumb. “Do you know what happened?” she asked. “Why you conked out?”

Spike tilted his head back, resting against the headboard. “I dunno. Dawn came into the spell and it was like my brain just… exploded.”

Buffy nodded. “Willow has a theory. Or – or, anyway, she said it was a possibility, when you woke up.” She looked at him. “Hit me.”

“What?” He furrowed his brow, confused.

“Pinch me, anything. Just try to hurt me.”

Spike looked down at her hand holding his, and he wrapped his hand around her middle finger, bending it back almost to the point of snapping it.

“Ow!” she cried, yanking it out of his grasp.

“Sorry, love, I – wait. That didn’t hurt.”

Buffy nodded again. “Will thinks the magic may have fried the chip. Something about too much mystical energy making technology go wonky. You also knocked out the power on the whole block, by the way. But that’s – that’s not the point. That pain you felt –”

“Was the chip malfunctioning. Brilliant.” He settled back to ponder this new development. “So I guess all bets are off now. You gonna kill me, Slayer?”

“Not unless you hurt somebody.”

He glanced up in surprise and found her looking at him tenderly.

“Spike, you’ve done more than enough to prove…” She trailed off and started again. “I know you really meant it, when – when you said you wanted to be good.” She understood that now, more than ever, and she wanted desperately to believe in him. Risk the pain. “You have that chance now. Without a muzzle.”

Spike gazed at her in wonder. “You mean that, Buffy?”

She took his hand again. “Yeah.”

“What about the others?” he asked, intertwining his fingers with hers. “Rupert, your friends, they’re not gonna like the idea –”

“Let me worry about them.”

Buffy ran the fingers of her free hand through Spike’s hair. Without really thinking about it, or the consequences, she bent down and kissed him softly, like she had when she was pretending to be the Buffybot, except this time it wasn’t about saying thank you. As she pulled away, he stared at her, his eyes full of awe and affection.

She gazed back at him, seeing his love for her so evident in his expression that she wondered how she’d ever denied it existed. How did he manage it? How could he face rejection so many times and keep coming back to her, never daunted or discouraged? How did he find such depth of love for someone who’d never returned his feelings, who’d never even shown him a scrap of kindness until he’d almost died to save her sister?

Chastened, she started to get up, to go downstairs and warm up some blood so he’d have something to eat, but he stopped her, pulled her first by the hand, then both his arms drawing her in, wrapping around her, urgently pulling her close to him. Then he kissed her, with every ounce of strength left in his body, pressing his lips firmly against hers, not so soft anymore, full of desire and passion, all the emotions he’d been holding inside for months, pouring out of him.

She kissed him back, giving in, melting into him, felt his lips parting as the kiss deepened and their tongues mingled, swirling, dancing, to the ever-present cadence of a slayer’s voice: Love… give… forgive…

She pulled away first, needing to catch her breath. She paused, her face inches from his, and she studied his eyes. So blue. His hand came up and brushed the side of her face, his beautiful blue eyes questioning, hoping, searching for assurance.

She wasn’t sure if she could give him what he asked for, but she felt her past resistance fade away, replaced with tenderness and affection, willing to see where this might lead. They considered each other for a moment longer, neither of them speaking, then she got up.

She shut the door behind her, but stopped before going down the hall. She reached up and laid her hand on the door, her fingertips caressing the wood as gently as she had Spike’s skin, almost as though she could still feel him across the distance. She tilted her forehead until it, too, rested lightly on the door, and she sighed, a slight smile on her face.

*****

the end