Part Twelve: Equal in the Presence of Death
“Drink this.”
Spike offered Buffy a weak smile as she elevated his head and brought the mugful of pig’s blood to his lips.
When she wasn’t feeding him blood, she was softly stroking his hair and occasionally feeling his forehead. Whatever tension had separated them at the library had vanished since she’d announced that they were moving him home.
Strange. Earlier that afternoon, he had ambushed her in the library because he missed seeing her within these walls. Seemed fitting that the last thing he’d see would be her, sitting here where he wanted her all along.
God, he didn’t want to leave her, but death was better than the alternative. Her offering, Angel’s death, and her eventual resentment. There simply was no comparing what they had to whatever had made her relationship with Angel so bloody special, and Spike had been daft to think it could ever be otherwise.
Happiness and love, it seemed, could not coexist.
“Thank you,” he murmured when she moved the mug away, licking at his lips absently.
“Any better?”
“Makes it a little…more…doesn’t hurt as…much.” He closed his eyes and pressed through the pain. “But, Slayer, it’s like keeping…a patient on life support. Just lemme go.”
Tears flooded her eyes. He hated it when she cried. “No. I can’t.”
“Buff—”
“Giles called while I was warming the blood. He’s taken as much from Faith as he thinks he can without killing her.” She neared and brushed a watery kiss against his lips. “Xander, Will, and Wes are all on their way. You’re gonna be all right, Spike.”
It took a minute for that to register.
Then his eyes went wide.
“No. No. You can’t. You—” He tried to sit up and was pushed back immediately. “Buffy…if…you’ll regret it. And…I never…I never wanna be something that you…regret. Please, baby. Just…just give it to Angel. Give it—”
“No.”
“Please—”
She shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. “No. You’re not gonna die. I won’t let you.”
An exasperated sigh climbed through his throat, and he collapsed against the pillow in defeat, his own vision blurring. “Why?” he demanded hoarsely. “You know it’s what you want.”
“No, what I want is you,” she replied. “Spike, I love you.”
For a long minute, he thought he had imagined it. It wasn’t until he noticed the tension in her eyes that he realized it was real. The words had been real. And she had spoken them.
She had spoken them.
“Can you…” he rasped slowly. “Can you…what did you say?”
She smiled through her tears, a fucking vision, and grasped his hand under the blankets.
“I love you, William. I do. I don’t know why it took me so long, or…” Her tears were coming in stronger waves, her lips brushing softly across his. “I love you, and I won’t watch you die.”
Release. For a few blissful seconds, he felt it. He had needed to hear it for so long. It seemed he had been waiting for those words since time began. Seemed he would always be waiting, in one way or another.
But he knew. Damn well, he knew. Things were never what they seemed.
Because there was more she wasn’t saying. Hell, he’d told himself this might happen. It was the polite route to take, after all, when one was dying. And yes, while she might believe what she was saying now—that she wanted him to live, damn the repercussions—it would not always be that way. Not when she realized, really realized, what choosing him had cost her.
Despite everything they’d shared, he wasn’t what she wanted. He was a pit-stop. A vacation from her regular life. That was all he’d ever be.
“Spike?” Buffy’s voice was shaky. “Spike…did you hear me?”
He blinked and focused. “Yeah. I heard you, sweetheart.”
“Well? Is that it? I just told you that I love you—”
“No.” A faint smile crossed his tired lips. “No, pet, you don’t. And that’s…that’s okay. But thanks for saying it.”
Spike didn’t particularly care to analyze the way her face fell, how her eyes widened with shock and hurt, filling to the brim with new tears. He hated himself for it—for saying what needed to be said. For acknowledging the truth she was either ignoring or couldn’t see. He hated himself like he hadn’t known to hate.
It was fortunate the others arrived before she could express her hurt.
“Here it is,” Xander announced loudly. Buffy bolted from his side the next minute. Before he could rub salt in a wound that was already screaming.
Sound carried well in the house, as he knew from experience—had known since the day Buffy had caught him in the bathroom, wanking off in the middle of the night. Of course, that had turned out all right. She had been flustered that he still thought of her while masturbating, and oddly touched that he’d chosen to sneak off and deal with it rather than wake her up. Not that they hadn’t surprised each other in the middle of the night with a lovely round of shagging. She’d just had a particularly hard day that day, and he’d thought it wiser that she rest.
Spike found himself smiling. That hadn’t been too long ago. Not really. And god, what a week or so could do to a relationship. Here he was at his deathbed, refusing the help he craved. Refusing her help when she at least pretended she loved him now. He couldn’t go from love to hate and survive, even if the love wasn’t real, and that’s what would happen if he denied Angel his due. She had to know that.
But sound carried. He knew that well. Sound carried, and while he could guess that there were several people crowded in the living room, he couldn’t tell how many. He couldn’t feel them—couldn’t hear their distinctive heartbeats or detect their separate scents. His senses were clouded with disease—the blood Buffy had provided rejuvenating him just to the point where the dullness had worn off. But there was no mistaking the tantalizing scent that filled the air.
They had brought him blood. Faith’s blood.
Bugger. All.
Couldn’t cut him a fucking break. Stupid sods were wasting time. Soon they would have two dead vampires on their hands, and all would be for nothing. Didn’t they see that?
They were drawing nearer still. Close enough now that he could hear what was being said.
“…twenty-four hours. Three books all said the same thing.”
“Giles was able to find it?”
“Wes, actually. Big with the surprise and all.”
Wesley flustered. “I beg your pardon!”
There was a sigh and a head crowned in the doorway. Xander. “The longer he goes without revving the slayer juice, though, the weaker he’ll get. By the time twelve hours rolls by, he’ll barely be able to stand. And there might be fits toward the end.” Another long, serious pause. “Are you sure you wanna handle Angel?”
Handle Angel? What did that mean? If she was going to do what he thought she was going to do…
“Yeah. I should be there.” He hated the defeat in her voice. “It’s the least I can do.” He heard her shuffle restlessly as another long sigh claimed her body. “I don’t want to leave Spike, though…”
“It’s okay, Buff,” Willow assured her. “He’ll understand. Really. With the way he was carrying on earlier about—”
“Yeah, yeah.” Another heavy breath. “I just wish I…I want to be here when he’s better.”
“You will.” A speculative beat. “How is he?”
A slight pause. Spike closed his eyes right before Buffy peeked in. “Looks like he drifted off,” she said a moment later, farther away. “He’s been in and out…saying things…I don’t think he means.”
Oh, pet…
“Like what?”
“Not important. Look, I need to run home and shower. Get an overnight bag, too. Will?”
“I’m coming with just to make sure you’re all settled, then I’m coming back here.”
“Good. Spike’ll need you here.” The direction of her voice changed again. “Xander?”
“Going to the library for much fun in the researching of Ascensions. If anyone wants to trade, feel free.”
“Babysitting for vampires?”
“Perhaps not.”
“Thought so,” Buffy said dryly. “Guess that leaves Wes to look after Spike until Willow gets back.”
The young Watcher had, evidently, not been expecting that. “What, I—”
“There’s no one else, man,” Harris replied. “Cordy and Oz are watching Angel. I have to leave, and Spike’s all with the sick. You have to make sure he, you know, doesn’t do that thing where he dies.”
It was so bizarre hearing Stay Puft speak about him like that. He figured he was withholding all his ‘How-I-Hate-Spike-Let-Me-List-The-Ways’ commentary for Buffy’s benefit. And for that, Spike was more than grateful.
“Wouldn’t you be better suited for this?” Wesley asked. “I’m sure Rupert needs me in the library.”
“Oh no, Watcher Man. I called library duty for a reason.”
Spike could practically see Buffy’s raising her eyebrows. “You forgot about the vamp babysitting alternative?”
“You are hasty but not incorrect in your assumption. Besides, vampires go with the Watcher territory. Wes here happens to be a watcher. An inept watcher, but a watcher nonetheless.”
“Yes, and speaking of…” A long pause followed. The reality of everything happening around her becoming too much for Buffy to bear—he knew that without needing to ask. And while Spike wanted to die with her by his side, he figured a small detour to Angel’s wouldn’t hurt. If he had his way, it wouldn’t make much difference.
But then, Buffy was talking—no, she was threatening the watcher git. “Anything happens to Spike that does not end in a happy, non-fatal way, and I will personally see that you suffer as no man has suffered before. You get me?”
“I—”
“I mean it, Wes. No screw-ups. No calling the Council. No would-be heroics. No nothing. If he’s not in that bed—or better—outside causing all sorts of Spikey hell by the time I get back, you better hope some magical Hellmouthy interference causes your green card to expire tonight.”
Words could not describe the extent to which Spike would miss her. Wherever he ended up.
“Y-yes, B-Buffy,” Wesley stammered in agreement. “Sure.”
Christ, how had this bloke survived primary school? Spike knew that times had changed drastically, but he wagered spineless wankers like this still got abused—both verbally and physically—by the tougher brutes. He had been up that road, himself.
Had a hell of a time getting back at the so-called bullies of his day.
Oh yeah.
“Right then,” Buffy was saying. “That settles that. I’m just…I’ll be right back.”
The next thing he knew, she had reentered the room and was at his side again. Drawing up blankets to see if that enhanced his comfort. Cautious fingers tracing his skin, making him burn even more. Then her lips were at his, kissing him so tenderly that he would have thought it a breeze had he not known otherwise.
“I’ll be back, Spike,” she told him. “Please…just drink for me.”
Spike’s eyes remained closed. He refused to betray himself. Refused to acknowledge the mutinous cry rising in his chest.
He would hold on until she got back. Cruel as it might be, he wanted his last minutes to be with her.
“Please,” she whispered again, her mouth at his forehead this time.
He still didn’t move. He refused. And the seconds ticking by felt like hours.
Finally, Buffy sighed and pressed another kiss to his unresponsive lips. “Just…don’t… I’ll be back soon. I have to go do this thing. Willow and Wesley will be here for you…if you need anything.” Another pause. “Just don’t leave me, Spike. Please.”
Then she was gone. And he was breaking. Surely death couldn’t be any worse.
A few minutes passed. He listened as Buffy, crying softly, left alongside Willow. As Xander confirmed his plans again and told Wesley not to screw anything up.
Then it was just him and the watcher. Spike imagined the watcher was poking around, curious at how real live vampires lived. And he wasn’t disappointed. A few minutes later, the bloke was in his room—something Spike felt rather than saw or smelled. His senses were going fast.
Time to give this wanker the scare of his life.
Then put him to good use.
“Subject’s skin appears tinted rouge,” Wesley was whispering into what had to be a tape-recorder. “Indicating an elevation in body temperature and stimulation of previously retired blood-flow.” A pause, then the git inched forward. “Such suggests the poison rejuvenates the lifeline of a deceased victim in order to enact its effects. Breathing is minimal, but being that the subject is a vampire, superfluous. Note—researcher has observed the subject breathing numerous times over the past few weeks. A rather interesting phenomenon. Researcher has yet to conclude if this is due to some ingrained human habit or a result of prolonged exposure to humans—”
“If you wanted to make a study outta me,” Spike growled, popping open his eyes and seizing the wrist closest to him with strength he didn’t feel. It provided the desired effect; Wesley’s jaw dropped and he released a shrill shriek, tape-recorder and notepad spilling onto the floor. “You coulda said ‘please.’”
The fact that Spike could speak at all served as evidence he could get through the next hour without falling over himself. What he was about to do demanded a certain measure of control. The same that he needed with such fervent desperation. Whatever else came about it, he knew this was the end.
Wesley, for his part, merely offered him a blank look. Then screamed again.
Spike flashed an evil grin for show. Might as well squeeze in a few kicks for old time’s sake.
“What’s the matter, mate?” he asked, gathering what was left of his strength to sit up. “You seemed so comfortable a second ago.”
“Spike, I assure you, I had absolutely no idea that you were conscious or—”
“Oh. So that makes it better, then?”
Wesley’s eyes widened further. The poor sod was positively terrified. It felt good. “I—”
“Don’t worry, Prissy. I’m gonna give you the chance to make it up to me.”
There was a pause. An intrigued pause. “Sorry?”
“A favor. Y’know…the kind you’re…volunteered for.”
“Spike, I have strict orders from Buffy—”
“But Buffy’s not here, is she?” Spike tossed his legs over the side of the bed, masking a frown at how badly the movement hurt. Oh well. Deep breaths and all that rot. He could do this. “She’s not…but I am.”
That argument seemed to serve as sufficient persuasion.
“What do you need me to do?”
“Simple enough. Don’t…have the strength, exactly, to navigate…myself around town. You’re gonna help me.”
“Help you do what?”
Spike smiled wryly and nodded toward the adjoining hallway outside his bedroom door. “Make a special delivery.”