Part Thirteen: Sweet Sacrifice
“No?”
“No,” Wesley repeated.
“You’re…telling me no?”
“Buffy wants—”
“Buffy doesn’t…know what…what she wants, you great big git.” Spike closed his eyes and felt his way through the sharp pain that decided to attack his abdomen. “Now…you’re gonna help me, or I’ll—”
“You don’t look to be much in the condition to do anything at present, if I may be so blunt.”
Spike blinked dully at him. What the hell was this? Had the wanker sporadically grown a pair in the last two minutes?
“Of the two of you, I am more prone to trust Buffy’s judgment when it comes to what she wants,” Wesley explained. Then his voice dropped. “Moreover…she threatened me.”
At that, Spike couldn’t help but grin. “’Course…she did.”
“So, as you can see, I—”
“Y’wanna…know how I see it?” Spike willed his eyes shut for a long minute, his shaking arms pushing his body off the bed so that he might rise to full height. While it hurt like hell, there was an odd mixture of relief in being in charge of himself once more.
Going to Angel’s meant pulling all of his remaining strength together, and he intended to do just that.
“I see…a watcher…scared of his own Slayer…to the point where…where he’d rather save a soulless, murderous…” His mind searched for another adjective. “Evil vampire…rather than a bloke…who has…a sodding mission of redemption.” He licked his lips and staggered forward. “This isn’t about me…and Buffy…as much as I’d like it to be. You’re a watcher. You’re supposed to make good, emotionless judgment calls. Bearing that in mind…can you really, really say that savin’ me is in the world’s best bloody interest. Huh?”
The conviction in Wesley’s eyes had wavered a little, but he said nothing.
“I am a killer, boy,” Spike said with a bit more bite. Mind over matter. “I did me two slayers before…before Buffy. Killed them and liked it. I have…nothing.” He staggered forward. “And yeah, while I’m not feeling proper…I could still snap your neck…before you could do anything about it. The…the only thing…keepin’ me from not is…her. Angel…has a soul. He has more than a bloody…bloody girl to keep him in line. Innit right that…he get to live?”
Wesley’s bravado dissolved. He looked again like a lost puppy. “But Buffy—”
“But nothing. Either you help me…or I’ll leave on…my own. After I knock you out.” Spike flashed an unpleasant grin. “And in this condition, mate…I’m liable not to get there…at all. Then you’d have two…two dead vamps on your hands. Don’t think the Slayer’d be too happy with…that.”
There was a long pause. “But Buffy—” Wesley protested again.
“Is not the boss of you,” Spike interjected. “And if you’re gonna be the man…of this relationship, Wes. I’d advise you start now…by helpin’ me over…to Angel’s.”
He had him now; he could feel it. Saw resignation in Wesley’s eyes, knowing that he had again been talked into a wall. Almost sad. Almost. Spike knew all too well how it felt to be pushed around. It wasn’t pleasant. In fact, had circumstances been different, he would have it in himself to feel sorry for the bloke.
But the circumstances weren’t different. And time was running out.
“I do not understand,” Wesley said finally.
“It’s really not that—”
“No, I mean…why?” Wesley’s eyes narrowed, and he cocked his head. “As you said yourself…you are a vampire, Spike. A nasty, soulless vampire. Your relationship with Buffy is unnatural as it is—it goes against everything you are. A demon in love with the Slayer is bad enough. You’re a demon without a soul. And here you are…in this relationship with your game—”
“She is not my bloody game.”
“No,” the other man agreed. “She is not. She is your lover. And you have everything you want, don’t you? The woman you love, and even a chance to take out the only possible competition for her affections, with her permission. And yet you persist on…what? Giving that up? For what? To save the life of a vampire that you do not care for anyway, stating that it is because he has a soul…a mission for redemption…all the things that you claim to lack. Why? Why would you ever—”
“Because,” Spike said, grasping his side in anticipation of the sharp pain that attacked his gut. “I love her. I…love her too…bloody much to ever have her resent me. And it’s Angel she loves. Angel she’s always loved.”
“Did she tell you that?”
“No, she…” Spike released a long sigh, his mind dragging him back to the words she’d said—the words he’d lived to hear her say—but thinking about that was dangerous. He shook his head and released a long sigh. “Look, we’re doing this. It’s better that she feels whatever she feels now…than to resent me later. Hate me later…for cheating her boy from what he deserves. Are you gonna help me, or not?”
“Yes,” came the reply. Low. Defeated. “I’ll help you. But not because—”
“Good. I don’t care why.” Spike flashed a weak, but grateful smile. “Grab the goods. We gotta leave now.”
“You can’t walk in your condition!”
If there was one thing he hated, it was being told what to do. He scoffed. “We’ll see.”
*~*~*
Spike couldn’t walk in his condition.
Well, he could, but not very well. Truly, he didn’t understand it. He had seen vampires in Prague run marathons while hours deeper into the illness than he was. Of course, said vampires were always hunting down a cure. Hunting down something that would stop the slow deterioration that would inevitably kill them. He found little need in pumping his dead veins with false hope and had accepted that he wouldn’t be around this time tomorrow.
Perhaps that was why the disease was taking him faster than he’d seen it take others. Because, instead of pursuing means to an end, he had simply embraced it.
But now, he needed the last of his strength—all of it. Approaching Angel would be tricky business, but it had to be done. He didn’t trust Wesley to do it on his own; the man was still deathly afraid of the Slayer, funny as that was.
Still, Spike had enough presence of mind to recognize that what he was about to do would likely speed up his own demise. Using whatever strength he had left to appear right as bloody rain before Angel would probably shave precious hours off his life. But he was willing to do it. He had to.
It was his last gift to Buffy.
Wesley’s driving was erratic—either due to panic or for his admitted unfamiliarity with driving the ‘American way’, as he called it. Spike figured the former since the poor git looked seconds away from a heart attack.
“When we…get there,” Spike said slowly. “Just…park by the curb. I’ll only be five minutes.”
“What of Oz and Cordelia?” Wesley demanded. “I thought they were looking after Angel until Buffy arrived. And—speaking of which—how can you be sure that Buffy herself will not be there?”
Spike couldn’t help but grin at that. “Have you…ever had to wait for her to get…ready, mate?”
“You believe she would worry with cosmetics, even in these circumstances?”
“Not consciously, ’course. But she…she thinks she has to tell Angel that… That I’m dying and she chose to save me instead of…of him.” Spike released a wheezing breath and wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Not a conversation I’d…look forward to.”
There was a hefty silence at that. Wesley pursed his lips in thought.
“What?” Spike barked.
“Nothing.”
“Don’t get dainty on me now, Prissy.” He curled his hand around the handle attached to the passenger door as Wesley made another remarkably sharp turn. They were nearing their destination. All would be over soon. “What’s that…look for?”
“I just wonder.”
Another silence.
“About…?” Spike demanded, gesturing with his free appendage.
“Well…suppose you’re wrong…about what Buffy thinks.” Wesley tore his gaze from the road to toss him another glance. “Or, better yet, what she feels. You’re about to give away the cure to someone she left for you. Someone she has already seen die once. She knows what his death means to her…or will mean to her because she’s already suffered through it. Doesn’t it say something to you that, bearing in mind how harshly she took it the first time around, she still opted to save you instead?”
There was something rather freakish about the man when he got like this. Only—no—he never got like this. This was not Wesley. Not as anyone knew him. This was not the frightened little git who was too easily pushed around, too easily concerned about the repercussions to something that the others faced on a day-by-day basis. Spike didn’t know who this was, or why a watcher would try to talk a soulless demon as himself from doing the one selfless thing he could think to do for the woman he loved. For the first time since Faith’s arrow sank into his chest, Spike began to wonder if life had turned into an allusion. If reality as he knew it was just another figment of his admittedly bollixed imagination.
“I’m not wrong,” he argued.
“She dropped everything for you, you know. Everything. She stopped asking about Angel unless someone brought him up. The only reason she is going over there tonight is to satisfy her guilt in allowing him to die again when she knows she can cure him.” Wesley hazarded another glance his direction. “I believe she knows what she’s doing.”
“Well, bully for you.” Spike closed his eyes and mentally slapped himself. “I don’t. She’s worried…about me ’cause of…of us. And yeah, she cares about me. I know that. ’Course I do. But…it’s Angel she loves. Not me. If it was me, she wouldn’t’ve waited…” But he couldn’t say that. “Whatever it is…it’s worth it. She’s worth it. Angel’s her boy. Always has been. It’s better for her to be angry with me…now and appreciate it later…than to hate me for stealing him away…for the rest of eternity. Besides, mate. I think I already told you…soulless wanker, here. You’re…I’m not paying you to think!”
“You’re not paying me at all.”
“Well…and there’s a reason for that.”
Wesley frowned a little and cleared his throat. “Nevertheless, I—”
Spike’s eyes rolled inside his head. “Oh thank god.”
“What?”
“We’re here.” He took in the sight of the old mansion as though it was the homecoming he had always dreamed of. The Watcher would be lucky if he didn’t toss himself out of the vehicle as their speed began to subside.
“Are you going to need help with that?” Wesley man asked, indicating to the briefcase that was supplied with bag after bag of Slayer blood. It almost felt like a dirty transaction; the type he was always watching on the telly. So many unmarked bills in return for a death.
Spike shook his head. “No. But I’ll need help back into the car.”
“Why?”
He paused meaningfully and clutched the briefcase to his chest. He closed his eyes and indulged several deep breaths before kicking the passenger door open. “’Cause I’m using the rest of my strength to do this,” he explained before hopping out of the car, near buoyant and versatile. It felt odd after even a few hours of mandatory immobility—and hurt like hell—but was strangely liberating in some fashion. His last hurrah. “After I’m back, my batteries’ll be out.”
And that was all he said. All he could say. Every second counted now.
His one shot at making everything right. For her.
Before goodbye.
*~*~*
In such a state, Angel wondered when exactly he realized Cordelia and Oz had left. It wasn’t as though he had been paying them much attention to begin with. But he felt it—the ripple through the house that told him someone else was here. A ripple to coincide with the scorching heat and the delirious waves of nausea. Somewhere in between, a change had been made.
It wasn’t Buffy. He would know her anywhere.
No. It wasn’t friends. Or ex-girlfriends. Or anyone he would expect.
It was family.
Angel blinked wearily as his unchanging view of the blurred ceiling was replaced with an equally blurry Spike. He didn’t react; couldn’t—but figured somewhere that the peroxide pest was here for a reason. Perhaps calling of a late truce—which seemed unlikely—to finish him off for good—more likely but he somehow doubted it—or to make effort in delivering Faith’s blood. And in that, he allowed himself a sliver of hope. So much time had passed, it seemed. He’d figured Faith was gone, or dead, or her blood was unusable, and no one wanted to tell him.
The scent of blood hit the air then. Rich, bagged, slayer blood.
He did it. I can’t believe he did it.
While he had been mostly conscious when Spike stormed out of the library earlier that evening, he had figured the better part of the performance to be exactly that—a performance. There was no love lost between them; never had been, and never would be. And, for the most part, Angel reckoned that was his shortcoming. He’d never treated Spike well, soul or no soul. He’d been condescending, mocking, and downright abusive. It amazed him that vampires with reputations such as theirs could act as they did and not find themselves at the wrong end of a stake. They behaved like children. Bickering, scorned children. And as the elder of the two, he had always taken it upon himself to make sure the baby in the family never stepped out of line. Never doubted his inferiority. The innate knowledge that whatever Spike had was only his because such pleased Angelus, and he could lose it ay any time.
It was different as Angel. He was different. While he’d still been dismissive and condescending, there had been something else at play. He recognized that now, and it filled him with shame.
He was jealous. Not of Buffy or the unusual understanding Spike had with the Scoobies—rather, he was jealous of Spike’s humanity. Of his ability to be decent without depending on a conscience. It hadn’t been like this the first time as he’d wandered around Romania, clawing at citizens, trying to force himself to feed. He had seen Spike just two years following the slaughter of his first slayer. No. There had been no jealousy then.
Jealousy hadn’t come until he’d returned from Hell. Until after he heard accounts of Buffy’s battle with him in all their wondrous detail. How Spike had come to her to save the world. How, were it not for him, Acathla would have sucked everything into a vat of endless torture and pain. How, though he’d ultimately bolted, Spike’s presence had been pivotal in the winning of the day. Oh yes. Angel had been jealous. Fiercely so. If Spike could recognize the difference between good and evil, even to a minimal degree, how much more monstrous did that make Angelus?
Of course, he knew that answer already.
Buffy’s involvement acted as the breaking point. The birthday ritual that went awry and the way she’d shut everyone out afterward. At first, it was as though she was missing a piece of herself. Then, as days had turned to weeks, her depression had becpme full-blown anger, and she’d taken it out on everyone. Anger for feeling the way she did. Anger at the person who had left her. Anger at anyone who couldn’t help.
He had known then. Really, he had known since that first night, but despite the overwhelming evidence, he hadn’t wanted to believe it. Had fooled himself into thinking he might have it wrong. That his mind had been playing tricks on him. That things hadn’t been what they’d looked—or smelled—like.
And then Spike had returned and the truth had come out. The truth that everyone knew without knowing. Talked about without speaking.
Angel didn’t like to consider how Buffy’s attitude had completed a damn near perfect one-eighty since the night she’d told him the truth. How she smiled after she and Spike had gone public. How she laughed more. How she was more productive. She even spoke with Angel more now. As though it was okay now that the big bad secret was out in the open. As though the peroxide pest on her arm made everything just peachy.
But there was still so much hostility. So much. The same left there between him and Spike for over a century. So much that he’d never thought that when Spike had left earlier that night, it was to genuinely find a cure to save Angel’s life.
And yet, here he was. Curling his hand under Angel’s throat to elevate him. Persuading his mouth to the first bag of slayer-filled goodness.
His relief from the pain he suffered.
“Come on.” Spike sounded very far away. “Open up.”
For whatever reason, he couldn’t get his jaw to cooperate.
“Time’s a wasting, you big git.”
Yes. Yes it was. That didn’t make drinking any more or less feasible.
“Of, for crying…” Suddenly, the bag was gone. Gone—and opened. The scent intensified to the point where he didn’t believe he could stand it anymore. Had no idea how Spike was making such easy game of it. But he was. He saw him clearly, now. And he looked irritated.
Then, the bag was coming back. Full speed.
“Open up for the airplane!”
For whatever reason, that prompted his mouth to oblige. And then he was drinking. Drinking, drinking…oh, and it was good. He downed three bags in less than a minute. Felt strength resurge with such intensity that it was a miracle his heart didn’t start beating.
Angel blinked wearily, his own hand seeking out the next bag. He eyed Spike with skeptic gratitude before his fangs pierced the plastic.
His bleached relation wasn’t making it any easier. The boy had a ridiculous look on his face. “That’s my boy,” he encouraged with such high falsetto Angel was afraid he might spit out a mouthful of blood for snorting.
But his pride wouldn’t let him do that. “Shut up,” Angel growled instead into the baggie.
Spike snickered, shaking his head. “What a way to show your gratitude, huh?”
“Mmmhpmhf.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, mate. Or did your mum never teach you manners?” He grinned and slapped his jean-clad thighs with exertion before forcing himself to his feet. “Well, delivery’s here. Late, but here. And you’re strong enough to guzzle the rest yourself. My work is done. I’m gone.”
Angel discarded a drained bag and reached for another, sinking his fangs in before he thought to offer his thanks. And true, while it was totally uncharacteristic of him to even think to do so in the first place, he found he wanted to. After all, Spike had saved his life. Saved his life in a way he had never before fathomed.
It was with that sentiment that he said, “Sphff. Phfnk phew.”
Spike stopped at the door but did not turn, as though considering his response. He sighed after a minute and nodded. “Don’t mention it.”
Then he was through the door. And gone. But Angel didn’t mind. Solitude was infinitely better.
“Ahemph,” he said decisively to himself as he tossed an emptied bag to the side and reached for another.
Much better.
*~*~*
Spike didn’t make it to the car.
He didn’t even make it to the street curb. He fell to the ground just yards outside the mansion’s entrance, his entire body shutting down. His once firm muscles were pliant and sore. The burning in his gut extending to the length of his body and the waves of nausea hit him with full force. Over and over. One right after the other.
I’m not gonna make it.
“Come on.” Someone was tugging at his shoulders.
Wesley. He had nearly forgotten about Wesley.
“Come on, Spike…dear me, you’re heavy. Where do you hide all that—never mind. I must get you back.”
Spike forced his eyes open, but everything was a blur. And the ground looked very far away. “Back…”
“Yes. Back to your house. Remember? I must get you home.”
“Home,” he repeated before everything went dark.
Home. Home was where he belonged. Home.
Buffy.
*~*~*
“Buffy.”
They stood opposite each other for a long minute. Buffy’s eyes wide with surprise, her heart pounding.
Of all the scenarios she had envisioned, this was not one of them.
“Angel?” She took a deep breath. “You’re…you’re okay.”
He nodded, frowning. “Yeah. It worked pretty fast. I still feel a little dizzy, but that will go away on its own. Really, by the time I was to the third bag, I—”
That was it. That second. That was when the world stopped.
“The third…what?”
Angel’s frown deepened. “Bag. You weren’t here with him? I didn’t feel you near, but I thought you would be.” There was a long pause. “Well, either way, I appreciate you checking up on me. Or…did Giles find something? Spike didn’t mention…Buffy?”
“No.”
Such a small word.
“Buffy?”
“No!”
She didn’t wait to see Angel’s reaction; didn’t wait to analyze the lost look on his face. Didn’t wait for anything. At her heel, she turned and ran. Ran hard. Ran as fast she could remember running. Put shame to the old adage that people ran with Hell at their heels. She had more than Hell chasing her. She had Heaven, too.
But not for long.