Part II


When she reentered the living room, Spike was struggling to sit up, wincing with pain as he did so.

“What are you doing, you dope? Stay still.”

“Was goin’ to see if you had any blood.”

“I’ll look. You stay here. I think there might be a bag in the freezer, left over from when you used to be…” Her voice trailed off as she remembered why he was no longer as welcome in the house as he had been while she was dead.
“I’ll get some more tomorrow,” she announced, as if expecting an argument. “We should always have some here, just in case…”

“In case what? In case you feel the need to beat the bleedin’ hell out of me again?”

“You shouldn’t have tried to stop me,” she said without turning around. “It wasn’t any of your business.”

“Anything that happens to you is my business.”

She could hear the possessive growl that trailed off in a moan. She wanted to argue with him; to call him on how very much she was NOT his business, but the lingering guilt over what she’d already done to him kept her uncharacteristically silent.

With another guilty shiver, Buffy hastened to the kitchen and rummaged in the freezer until she located the container of pigs’ blood she knew was still there. She thawed it in the microwave, then poured the defrosted blood into a mug and warmed it to body temperature. She waited, her hands resting on the counter until she noticed her bloodied knuckles. With a start, she snatched them back, then ran to the sink and scrubbed them until they were pink and dripping water.

The microwave dinged and she quickly dried her hands. She took out the mug of blood and stared at it for a few seconds, then set it down on the counter. Reaching for one of the few good knives they had left (I’ve got to stop using my kitchen knives for slaying!), she ran the sharp blade across her wrist and watched as her fresh blood dripped into the mug to mingle with that of the unfortunate pig.

She rinsed the small cut and draped a dishtowel over it to hide the already closing wound; then entered the living room to find Spike staring at her intently. His eyes immediately went to her covered wrist.

“What happened?” he demanded.

“Nothing happened. What do you mean?” She pushed the mug into his hand and retreated to the easy chair. “Drink that while it’s still warm.”

“Smell your blood,” he growled, still staring at the arm that she was trying, somewhat conspicuously, to hide behind her back. He eyed the mug suspiciously and sniffed its contents, then raised wide eyes to her red face.

“Are you daft?”

“Drink it,” she repeated, her expression embarrassed but firm. “You need it.”

Without taking his eyes off her, he raised the mug to his lips and began to gulp greedily. With only a few hearty swallows, it was gone and he was running his tongue around the rim to collect any remaining drops. He set the mug on floor and held out his hand.

Ignoring the gesture, Buffy asked, “How do you feel? Are you better?”

He sighed and dropped his arm, closing his eyes to savor the new blood singing through his body. Instead of answering her, he let himself go limp as the healing process began. His pained wince as broken bones tried to knit themselves together had Buffy flying across the room to hover anxiously.

“What’s wrong? I thought that would make you feel better. What’s wrong? Is there something wrong with my blood?”

He shook his head without opening his eyes. “Don’t be stupid, Slayer. Your blood is every bit the tonic you expected it to be. I’m just letting myself bask in the way my body reacts to it, is all. Stings a bit, the healing does; but feels wonderful just the same.”

“Oh. Oh, I’m…glad then.”

This time when he reached for her, she allowed him to steer her to his side and she sat down on the couch, careful not to jostle his still injured torso. She ghosted a tentative hand over his face, drawing her attention to the fact that her newly-washed hands were the only non- blood–spattered things she could see.

She could feel the sticky blood in her hair, and knew it was probably on her face too, as well as having dried on the now-stiff blouse she was wearing. Spike’s face, of course, was also covered in blood – to the point that it was difficult to see the bruises – and his own shirt and coat were stiffening up as it dried.

Jumping up in spite of his mumbled protest, Buffy ran to the kitchen and soaked the towel with warm water, wringing it out and hurrying back to him. With great care, she gently patted his face and head, softening the dried blood and washing it off. She made two trips back to the kitchen to rinse the towel out before she was satisfied that she had cleaned him up as much as was possible without causing more pain.

When she sat back, mentally cringing at the bruises now more visible on his face, he opened one eye and peered at her.

“Look prettier now, do I?”

Buffy shook her head. “No, you still look like you went a few rounds with a…”

“With a Slayer?” His lips twitched and she tried to suppress an answering smile.

“Yeah,” she said softly, causing confusion to fill his eyes when she ran her knuckles along his chin – taking care not to touch with enough force to make the bruises worse, but firmly enough that he could feel the reluctant affection in her touch.

He turned his head towards her hand, keeping one wary eye on her face as he kissed the back of the fist that had done so much damage. When she didn’t pull away, he plucked up his courage and turned her hand over so that he could kiss her palm. Rather than pull it away, as he expected, she cupped his face and smiled when he pressed into her palm like a cat rubbing on its owner.

In spite of enjoying the unusual attention, his still broken body insisted that he rest while the blood continued its work, and his head dropped back onto the pillow at the end of the couch. Seeing him struggling to keep his eyes at least partially open, Buffy leaned in and whispered, “Go ahead and go back to sleep. I’m going to go take a shower and get some clean clothes on.” She paused to examine his shirt, then began to unbutton it.

“Let me have this – I’ll wash it when I wash my stuff.”

Without opening his eyes, he tried to be helpful as she gently tugged off first his coat, and then the shirt, and slid them out from under him. When she had the bloody shirt, and the vampire had relaxed again, she draped his duster over him and stood up.

I guess that tee shirt could stand a wash, too, but I can’t get that off him without hurting him too much. I’m sure it’s not the first time he’s fallen asleep wearing bloody clothes.

Buffy gave him one last lingering glance, then trudged upstairs, shedding her own clothes as she went. She threw the bloody clothing into the sink, filling it with cold water so they could soak; then she stepped into the shower and began to wash the blood and sweat out of her hair. She leaned against the wall, letting the hot water run over her head and body while she tried to figure out where she was going next. Moving robotically, she turned off the water, dried off, and combed out her tangled hair, blowing it just dry enough to keep her from getting chilled while she rinsed out the bloody clothing.

As she stood, naked, watching the pink water swirl out of the sink, she tried to reconcile her hard-wired belief that an unsouled vampire couldn’t love, couldn’t be loyal, and was completely unworthy of her, with the feelings she was beginning to realize she might have for him.

Oh my god! Do I have…feelings…for Spike? Is that what this is? Not just guilt, but…some kind of…Okay. There will be no using of the “L” word. Not an option. He’s got no soul, his chip could go at any time…it doesn’t matter how he makes me feel, or how Dawn feels about him, or how much I…

She stared at herself in the mirror, correctly reading the panic in her eyes as her carefully crafted worldview began to develop giant cracks.

Leaving the stained shirts in the sink, she went to her room and got into her warmest flannel pajamas and a pair of warm socks. She eyed her bed longingly for several minutes, then snatched the quilt off it and hurried out of the room before she could change her mind.

Spike was still on the couch, but after the infusion of warm blood, he now had some color in his face and was more animated looking than before. Buffy carefully lifted the blood-encrusted duster off his body and replaced it with the quilt, pausing to gaze at his relaxed face.

Where are we going from here? Am I falling in love with another vampire? A soulless one this time? How do I justify having a relationship with Spike to the people who remember what Angelus was like? CAN I justify it?

She double-checked the drapes, making sure that no stray sunbeams would sneak into the living room, and said a small prayer of thanks that the front of the house faced north and west, keeping it safe from direct sunlight until late afternoon. Deciding that finding out what was what with the girl she thought she’d killed was more important than worrying about how, when or if to tell the Scoobies about Spike and the relationship she had been keeping from them, she carried the coat into the kitchen and put any thoughts of it’s owner out of her mind.

The leather coat responded better than she had expected it to when she carried it into the kitchen and used the damp towel to sponge the dried blood off. When she finished, she draped it over a stool and stood back to admire her work.

“There. A little bit of leather preservative or something, and it’ll be as good as new.”

Flicking the light off, she went back into the living room to find him lying on his side and gazing at her with an inscrutable expression. His face was partially buried in the quilt and she could see him visibly inhaling her scent off it. He held one corner up and waited to see if she would accept the silent invitation.

When she didn’t move, but only stared at him with frightened eyes, he sighed and nodded, letting the quilt drop back into place.

“Right, just some cold comfort for the injured vamp, then.”

“What did you think it was?” she said stubbornly, knowing full well that she had probably given him good reason to be hopeful, but wishing he would let it go.

“Nothing,” he said flatly. “I thought it was nothing. Might have felt like something for a minute, but my mistake.”

“What do you want from me?” Her voice rose in spite of her attempt to keep it low and controlled. “What do you want from me, Spike? I brought you home, I’m taking care of you, I even gave you my blood. What the hell else do you want?”

She whirled and headed back into the kitchen, away from his disappointed gaze and the battered face that managed to look lopsided, sad and sexy at the same time.

“An apology might be nice,” he finally sighed. “But I guess that would be a bit much to hope for.”

She froze, her hand still on the doorway to the kitchen; her shoulders began to quiver as she struggled to control her emotions. Spike’s soft, apologetic “Buffy?” broke her resolve and she whirled to stare at him with damp eyes.

“I’m sorry!” she blurted. “I’m sorry I beat you, and I’m sorry I don’t let you hang out here anymore, and I’m sorry that I killed that girl and I’m sorry that I think I need to---I’m sorry…” Her voice trailed off to a whisper. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“Com’ere, luv” His quiet plea washed over her, drawing her towards the couch where he was leaning against the cushion and holding out his hand. She reached forward and allowed him to wrap her fingers in his. He pulled her slowly towards the small space in front of him, shaking his head when she tried to pull back so as not to push against his bruised ribs.

“No, Slayer. You won’t hurt me. Need a bit of closeness now, yeah? The both of us, I think.”

“I can’t believe you want me to be close to you,” she whispered, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “You should hate me for the way I treat you – even for a vampire, it’s got to be… I beat you, I yell at you, I won’t let you into the house to see the girl that you took care of while I was gone.” She stopped and sat up straighter. “And I almost killed you for trying to help…even if you were trying to let me get away with murder.”

“I heard what the Bit and Glinda had to say, pet. You don’t know that you did anything wrong. The more I think about it, the more likely it is that somebody sent those demons after you.”

“And they knew that near your crypt was a good place to find me? Terrific!”

She missed his flinch at her obvious distress over the idea that someone might know where she spent her nights. But she did notice that he wasn’t holding her hand anymore and had dropped his head back onto the pillow, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Don’t,” she warned. “I know how you feel about keeping this a secret, but now isn’t the time. The important thing right now is that I treat you like crap – and that you let me do it.”

“So, it’s my fault, is it?” His eyes were open again and she wasn’t sure that she didn’t see flecks of gold in them as he glared at her.

She stood up and threw her hands into the air. “No! I’m not saying it’s your fault – although all that “you belong in the dark” and “you’re just like me” isn’t exactly music to my ears, you know. I’m just saying that I do all that…stuff… to you, and there must be something wrong with you if you just take it.”

“Because god forbid that I could be putting up with you because I love you.”

She dropped to her knees beside him, biting her lip with frustration as she tried to express what she found the most unsettling thing about their volatile relationship.

“And I’ve been…been using you. Using the way you feel about me and the way you let me do anything I want – just to make…just so I can feel.”

“Buffy…love…” He sighed softly and leaned out to put his lips to the top of her head. “It’s not as bad as all that, is it? Yeah, you beat on me – but most of the time I give as good as I get, don’t I? And when you yell at me – don’t I yell back just as loud?”

Skipping past the very legitimate issue of the way she had cut off his access to her sister and her house, he stroked her cheek, pushing the still-damp hair off her face.

“And if by usin’ me, you mean coming to my bed and letting me love you any and every way I know how…” He smiled and shook his head. “Yeah, don’t know if I can ever forgive you for that, pet. Throwing that body at me night after night, forcing me to hold it, to kiss those pouty lips…”

His eyes glazed over and in spite of his injuries, Buffy could read his body’s reaction to his thoughts. She glanced at his face and gave a shaky laugh.

“Earth to Spike.”

“Sorry, love. ‘s what you do to me. Made all an old vamp’s dreams come true, you did; and now you want to apologize for it?”

“But, I’ve been using you. Taking advantage of …of the way you fe--”

“Of the way I love you,” he corrected softly.

She nodded reluctantly. “Of the way you love me. Knowing you would always want me – no matter what I did. That I could count on you to make me forget for a little while… I use you, Spike.”

“Really not complainin’ here, luv,” he murmured. “There’s nothing you could do to make me sorry about what we’ve been doin’. I wouldn’t give up a single minute that you’ve spent in my bed--”

He was interrupted by Buffy’s snorted, “We haven’t spend very many minutes in the actual bed. How often do we even get that far?”

“Was speakin’ metaphorically, Slayer. Now you’ve interrupted my train of thought…” He growled as she smothered a smile. “Where was I?”

“You were trying to make me feel better about using you for my own personal sex toy.”

“Oh yeah.” He peered at her sideways. “Was it workin’?”

She sighed and shrugged. “Probably.” Then she raised her head to meet his gaze. “But it shouldn’t be. It’s a terrible thing for me to do to somebody who loves me – to someone I…care about.”

She tried not to see the hope that sparked in his eyes at her stumbling admission that all her lies about hating him and being disgusted by him were just that – lies. When he opened his mouth to speak, she quickly touched her fingers to his lips and shook her head.

“Don’t,” she whispered, trying to ignore that he was kissing her fingertips with his still-swollen lips. “Don’t try to make this more than it is. You know I care about you – that I have feelings for you. If I didn’t, it wouldn’t bother me how much I might hurt you by using you, by letting you think-- I wouldn’t care.”

He interrupted her by putting her thoroughly kissed fingertips back against her own lips. “Yes,” he said firmly. “Yes, you would. Wouldn’t matter how you felt about me – you’d never willingly hurt a bloke. You’d care.” He continued to press her hand against her own lips. “But you wouldn’t be letting me make love to you every night. Not if you didn’t feel something. Don’t have to call it love if you don’t want to – but don’t try to tell yourself you’d be with me if you didn’t care. That’s not you, Buffy. That’s not my very special girl.”

She gave a guilty flinch as his words reminded her of those in the alley and her violent reaction to being called “his girl”. Before she could cover her flinch, the ever-perceptive vampire tightened his fingers around hers.

“You are my girl, love. All the denying in the world can’t change that. You’ll be my girl until I’m dust. Not saying you’ll always want to be, or that I’ll even be a part of your life, but you have to know that no matter where I am, what I’m doing, or who I’m with, you will never stop being my girl. Same as Dru’s my sire and Angelus is my family. Some things can’t be changed, they just are.”

“You’re putting me in the same category with Dru and Angelus?” She suddenly remembered his whispered words about the darkness within her and stiffened, trying to pull away. She stopped when she heard him hiss as he tightened his grip and put pressure on his ribs.

“Stop,” she gasped, guilt returning instantly. “Don’t hurt yourself any more.”

“Then don’t get your knickers in a twist and try to leave,” he growled, shifting into a more comfortable position and letting his arm slip to her shoulder. “All I meant was that lovin’ you is a part of me now. It’s a fact of my life – just like they are. Won’t matter if we’re together or not; what you are to me isn’t ever going to change.”

Not sure how to respond to the idea that an immortal being thought he would love her forever, Buffy settled for looking away and standing up. Searching for a reason to get away from the conversation, she said, “I’m going to go get you some more blood. Do NOT move off that couch! You hear me?”

“I hear you, Slayer,” he said, sinking back with a weary sigh. “Not sure I could go anywhere if I wanted to. Ought to be able to get out of your hair by tomorrow, though.”

“I don’t want you out of my hair,” she muttered. “I just don’t…”

“You just don’t want to risk getting’ caught being all…girlfriendy-like. I got it, pet. It’s not a problem, I just though maybe we had…” He let his voice trail off, clearly reluctant to say aloud what he’d been hoping for.

“We have,” she responded quickly, moving closer to the couch and kneeling down beside it. “I mean, I think we have. We…it’s different. I know that. We can’t go back to…” She shook her head in frustration. “I don’t want to go back – I just don’t know how to change it without setting off world war III. Tara’s fine with it – she’s a fan of yours, apparently,” she added with a sharp glare. “If I didn’t know that she still loves Willow and isn’t into guys, I’d wonder just what…”

“She’s a nice girl, Buffy. Warm and loving, and curvy in all the right places…” He smiled as she stiffened indignantly. “But, ‘m taken, love. Thought we’d settled that already. You’ve got nothing to worry about there. She’s a good friend, is all. To both of us,” he added softly. “Tryin’ to steer you right, she is.”

“I know,” Buffy’s shoulders slumped and she relaxed against the side of the couch, letting him stoke her hair and falling into the sensual pleasure of being petted. “I didn’t mean to go all jealous-Buffy on you.”

“You’ll never hear me complain about that,” he chuckled. “Makes me feel all manly and wanted, it does.”

Buffy snorted at the smirk she could hear in his voice.

“The thing is, except for Dawn – who would think anything that brings you around here more is fine - I just don’t know how Willow and Xander would take…Nobody’s forgotten what happened the last time I had a vampire boyfriend.”

“So, I have to pay because Angelus is a wanker?” His voice was deliberately light, but his hand paused it’s gentle stroking for a telling second.

Buffy raised her head to meet his gaze, wondering, as she did, how he could put so much into one pair of eyes. Hope, anxiety, anger, resignation and the overwhelming affection that was never absent were all present; for all that his face remained carefully neutral.

“It’s not like you’ve never tried to kill any of us, too,” she reminded him, softening her words with a small smile. “They do have some reason to be afraid of you.”

He nodded, but contradicted her. “They do, pet. But it was a long time ago. I’ve saved their lives way more times than I tried to take them – especially while you were…” Reluctant to remind her of where she’d been for those long months, he didn’t bother to finish his sentence. “If I didn’t off anybody while you weren’t here to protect them, why would they think I’d throw away my chance with you by doin’ it now? Even Harris isn’t that stupid.”

Buffy tried to smother her yawn, but succeeded only in drawing his attention to the way her eyes were drifting shut.

“Boring you, am I?” he said, subtly shifting his body so as to make more room on the couch. “You should probably take a little nap; try to catch some kip before you get the nibblet off to school.”

“I was paying attention to you,” she protested, sitting up straight and stretching. “I’m just getting sleepy…a nap would be good. I’m going to have to get up when Willow does so I can tell her what to look for tomorrow.”

Once again, he silently raised the edge of the coverlet, waiting patiently for her response. In one graceful movement, she rose to a crouch and carefully slid onto the big couch. The quilt settled around her shoulders and she sighed in contentment as she curved her body into his.

“Just for a little while. Just so I’m not all no-sleep Buffy when I talk to Willow in the morning,” she murmured, squirming carefully until he was spooning her. “You’ll tell me if I’m too close, right? I don’t want to hurt you.”

He gave a weak snort. “Don’t think there is such a thing as havin’ you too close, love. But if there was, I’d let you know. Eventually.”

“Mmmph” was the only reply as the slayer feel into a deep sleep, desperate for some respite from the emotional roller coaster of the night’s events.

Spike allowed a restorative sleep to take him again, his body comforted by the warm, breathing presence next to him and his heart encouraged by the sounds of her trusting snores. Neither one of them heard Willow tiptoe in an hour later; and she was too tired and anxious to get to bed to even look at the quilt-covered lump on the couch.