14.
Unable to contain her excitement, Buffy ran over to Giles’ apartment, eager to share the good news. He awoke abruptly from a perfectly exquisite erotic dream featuring a luscious strawberry blond reciting Whitesnake lyrics while covered in ready to spread frosting. There seemed to be bison stampeding through his home. A sour frown and cursory check of the alarm clock eerily glowing 3:56 a.m. were the next steps in his rise and shine regimen. Giles forced himself to the front door and opened it before Buffy pounded a hole through the solid oak. He looked groggy and disheveled and had pillow wrinkles imprinted on his cheek. He wanted Buffy to go to her own house and call at a respectful hour. Further, he wanted his music video fantasy girl complete with unhealthy glazed topping back. Neither seemed likely.
Buffy stood before him bristling with excitement. Giles stood half awake and repositioned his glasses on his nose. It was far too early for any kind of energetic display. Yawning was his preferred method of communication. Unfortunately for Giles, Buffy launched into a breathless speech that she obviously wanted him to pay attention to. She immediately informed Giles that Spike was in possession of his soul. She was sure of it. She squeaked and grinned and bubbled over with glee.
It was all a little too much for such an early hour. Giles managed to reach a chair in his living room and sat down. He said little in response while Buffy outlined the basics of the evening’s events. He sat sleepy-eyed, in his tartan pajamas, wrapped in an old bath robe that had seen better days.
“Buffy…” All Giles could manage was a sigh. A deep and weary sigh. He knew Buffy so well and he knew that above all she would grasp even the thinnest threads as a sign that Spike was going to be himself again, that he was going to be hers again.
“Don’t give me Giles face. It’s going to be okay. I can read Spike. He knows he has a soul. I know this. I can tell by the look on his face.”
“The soul drove him mad once.” Buffy was ready for Giles’ requisite nay saying. Her brain had cart wheeled through any number of scenarios. The mania she felt was invigorating and immune to Giles’ big bag of negativity.
“Okay, that’s true; but to be fair, that was the First more than the soul and besides, he was extra vulnerable then.”
“And he’s not vulnerable now? Buffy, need I remind you a demon has plowed through his brain leaving who knows what other damage?”
“I’m feeling optimistic, Giles. Let me feel optimistic. It’s going to work out. He’ll come home and–“
Giles snapped to attention at that line. “Hang on! He’s not ready for that. None of us are ready for that. Research has–“
“Not been very helpful, has it?” Buffy folded her arms in exclamation. Giles looked at her with resignation in his eyes. He couldn’t deny that research had not been exceptionally helpful in this matter.
“It’s gonna happen Giles, Spike is going to come home. I can feel it. I know him.”
“We cannot control the variables outside of that room, Buffy. He’s a vampire. He’ll want to hunt, to feed. What of those instincts?”
“I’ll help him meet those needs without putting anyone at risk.”
“Anyone else at risk, you mean.”
“He won’t hurt me.” Giles knew she had a reckless streak. He did not know whether her continuing faith was well founded or wishful thinking. “I made promises to him, Giles, you know that. You were there. Maybe the words weren’t exactly ‘for better or worse’, not to mention legal, but I meant it then and I mean it now.”
“I’m not saying it’s beyond the realm of possibilities Buffy.” Giles knew enough about Spike to appreciate that his actions could not be predicted with any measure of statistical reliability. “I suppose Spike could very well choose you again. He was a surprising fellow.” That amounted to actual praise from Giles. It was yet another hopeful sign. Buffy smiled and hugged him tightly and then she left him standing on his parquet floor as she breezed back out the door with a wave and a smile.
Giles sounded hopeful. He said it was possible. Buffy skipped home through the well lit streets. Once inside, she scampered up the stairs and began brushing her teeth. Unrestrained optimism lasted a further seven glorious minutes. While Buffy brushed the length of her hair a few doubts elbowed their way into her mind.
She’d been here before. After the chip had been removed, Buffy was sure the soul would curb Spike’s behavior. She was certain he could be a good man by virtue of his soul alone. That he would. For himself. For her. Was this different? Would he now choose something different? Would his soul be a new and terrifying weapon? The shells of soul filled humans littered human history; maniacal dictators, serial killers and criminal opportunists proved a soul was no passport to goodness.
Maybe possession of a soul alone wasn’t the entire equation. Buffy was most comfortable with absolutes, that had always been her currency, but Spike broke that rigid way of thinking. He made her see something else. He had been both a soulless demon who did good deeds and an ensouled demon who acted as a mindless killing machine. Clearly there were few absolutes where Spike was concerned.
All Buffy knew for certain was that she loved him and couldn’t lose him. She would not lose him. But to keep him in a box separated from the world? How was that a good thing? Was he only a shrine in her mind and heart? The whispers in her dreams?
Buffy shook her mind free and clear of those questions. They didn’t need to be answered today. Today she felt fresh and clean. Today she believed Spike’s soul was whole and full and hers.
Again sleep proved elusive. She wanted Spike so badly her skin hurt. In an attempt to calm herself, Buffy revisited the past few weeks in her memory. She’d almost forgotten how fun it was to fight with Spike. It had been years since she’d screeched at him in rage. That was a kick. He exasperated her and excited her. As if on cue, Spike came into her mind in the sweet darkness of their bedroom. The memory of his voice vibrated her toes.
“I think somebody wants to play. Does kitty need a scratching post?”
“You fuck like you fight?”
“Did you every way from Sunday.”
“Bet you come like a steam whistle.”
“I want to taste you.”
Whatever the incarnation, she wanted him. Soon her breath thickened in her throat. How inadequate her own fingers seemed. They failed to match his unique skills. As she arched off the bed her mind churned. She saw his narrowed icy eyes and hawk like countenance and climaxed hard, jerking through one prolonged orgasm.
“Spike…” Tears streamed down her cheeks. Still she had no relief. The pain returned as her desperate arms stretched across the empty expanse of their bed. There was no rest that night. Buffy tossed and turned, a helpless witness to her own loneliness. The sun rose high in the sky before sleep came and took the worry from her mind.
Later in the day, Giles delivered Spike’s blood. As he was expecting Buffy at the door, Spike was not pleased to see the Watcher instead.
“You tell that girl of yours to come back in here and do some bloody explaining.” Spike threatened the air with a savage finger thrust. It was all he could do to affect a threatening posture. He wasn’t sleeping well either.
“I, uh, understand there’s been some developments.” Giles stood outside the open door, protected by the barrier Willow put up.
“Bloody right there’s been developments.” Spike complained bitterly while he paced. “She thinks she can lay that bomb blast on me and run away? She’s got another thing coming! You tell her to get her arse back in here. You’re the Watcher, you have her number. Go start dialing.”
Giles tossed Spike a bag of blood and began to close the door.
“Watcher.” Spike’s practiced arrogance dissolved completely away. “You got a bottle of something tucked away? Anything? I’ve got a bit of a thirst.” Giles paused in thought. He’d probably regret it, but he did have a little something in the back of his filing cabinet. At that moment Spike looked completely bewildered, not angry or bent on revenge, but completely out of sorts. At sea. Giles’ reply was almost inaudible.
“I’ll see what I can find.”
Spike stretched out on the cot, morphed and pierced the blood bag. It was her blood again. He hardened painfully and opened his jeans. He didn’t want it to mean anything. It was just blood stirring him up like it always did. Buggering slayer blood. Spike returned to an old reliable fantasy: Drusilla in satin and chains. It was a favorite that had worked for decades. Soon frustration gripped his face. Nothing. As if on cue, Dru’s face melted into the Slayer’s. At this point he wasn’t going to argue.
A scene swiftly configured in his mind’s eye: glowing candlelight, handcuffs, the slayer on top, and a pouty look of erotic purpose on her face. Definitely working. It was an elastic little fantasy. First she was on top and then he had her handcuffed to a bedpost. He could hear her cries of passion, begging him to do wicked things to her. Jesus, that was sweet. Who was he kidding? We wanted her. Her blood, her body. His hand accelerated and as he came he could have sworn he heard her whisper his name.
It was only then that his attention wandered to the bag of blood. A few final slurps and it was empty. Something was off; he didn’t taste her sorrow this time. There was another flavor present. It was unusual and try as he might, Spike couldn’t place it.
Differentiating subtle flavors in blood was never his forte. Angelus was more that kind of connoisseur. Paralyzing fear was always so heavy in the cocktail there was never an impulse to discriminate subtleties. Besides, Spike was not one to play with his food. It was a holdover from his human days.
It dawned on him then that he’d never tasted fear in the Slayer’s blood. He’d been missing out. Without the fear chaser, the blood was incredibly decadent, like liquid rubies. Spike was a knowledgeable vampire but that revelation gave him pause. Her blood tasted thickly sweet, full of light and strength. It filled his dark recesses. Maybe the difference was that this blood was an offering. He didn’t take it, but rather she gave it freely.
The question turned over and over in his mind. What was that elusive flavor? He couldn’t place it. No wonder, vampires don’t get much experience with hope.
Hope.
Buffy had hope coursing through her veins.