Timeline: Immediately post Chosen.
Disclaimer: Buffy and Spike belong Joss, and I thank him for their creation. I merely take them out and play with them occasionally.
Chapter One
It was all he could do just keep his legs under him. It wasn't the total exhaustion that was bringing Spike to his knees, though it easily could have been. Having a million or so watts of electricity flowing through your body, channeled into a beam of light intense enough to lay waste to a horde of rampaging über vamps was certainly enough to take it out of a fella. But he was still man enough – vampire enough – to stand tall under even those circumstances.
No. What was currently causing his body to tremble so badly that he needed to lean against the bathroom doorjamb for support, was the small, unmoving body sprawled across the motel bed in front of him.
Buffy.
Alive. In one piece. More or less.
It was the more or less that had finally caught up with him.
He watched the steady, slow rise and fall of her chest under the blood soaked remnants of her shirt. The blood of innocents. Baby slayers risen only today under Willow's spell – many falling only minutes later in the face of the First Evil and its hellish army.
The vampire’s gaze strayed to the light from the streetlamp filtering through the thick polyester drapes of the motel window. Dust motes swirled in the muted light; moving, dancing, and falling—just like those young girls. They’d paid such a high price for the victory they were now savoring. Loved ones gone, new friendships ripped asunder before they'd even had a chance to grow.
Anya.
Chao-ahn.
Amanda.
He looked back at Buffy.
And almost her. Almost.
He caught the tears in his throat, battling them down into his chest where he held them tight. He wasn't going to lose it. Not here, not now.
Buffy had been so strong these past weeks, months . . . years. She needed her rest; didn't need to be worrying over him. She wasn’t alone now; a sisterhood of slayers surrounding her. Now she had different challenges to face; new hurdles to jump in helping to train up these young slayers. They’d been born by the sword and christened in the blood of their friends and loved ones, and now Buffy had to give them the tools they needed to go out there and continue the fight. It was going to be a heavy burden for Buffy, and Spike knew that now, more than ever, he needed to be strong for her, to help her face what lay ahead in this new world they’d created
The aching muscles of his back and shoulders at last convinced him that what he also needed was a hot shower. Some scalding hot water to loosen him up and wash the dirt and blood from his body, if not the horror from his soul. Yet still he was unable to make his legs move. It physically hurt him to be separated from Buffy; even going into another room made him feel as the tug of abandonment. He hadn’t been more than a foot from her side since they’d run from the crumbling Hellmouth, racing after the school bus, and flinging themselves atop it as it sped out of Sunnydale.
With Buffy still bleeding and his own flesh scorched and smoking under what little protection his shredded duster had provided, they’d been hauled inside the bus, then ridden off into the setting sun. A new night, that of the rising moon, had greeted them, and they’d all sat in silence soaking it in. Also soaking in was the reality that they’d won. They’d lived to see another night, another moon, and tomorrow, another day.
When Giles could no longer keep his eyes open, he’d pulled the bus over in search of a place to rest for the night. The motel was nothing to write home about, but then again, they were all homeless now. Buffy was sound asleep when the bus had pulled into the parking lot and as Giles' returned with a handful of room keys, Spike snatched one up, lifted Buffy into his arms, and prowled off to find their room.
She’d woken briefly when he’d placed her on the bed, reaching up a hand to cup his cheek. She even managed to smile at him, but before he could respond, her hand fell away as exhaustion claimed her once again. But the look she’d given him—he’d have fought the devil himself for that smile. Perhaps he already had.
A champion. That’s what she’d called him. Before the fight, in the darkness of the basement where they'd spent what might have been their last moments together. And now, for the first time, dead or alive, he felt like a champion.
Her champion.
The hell with humanity; she was his humanity. Even his soul, still stinging in his chest, didn’t hold half the power over him that this girl held in one of her tiny fists. But if saving her meant saving the world, he’d be there at her side, over and over and over again, until the sun or a stake claimed him.
At last he pulled his gaze away from her and moved into the bathroom. He clicked the light on, the harsh florescent bulb snapping and strobing in its displeasure, and shut the door behind him.
Stripping off his jeans and t-shirt, he reached behind the mildew stained shower curtain and turned the shower on full hot, full blast. The room quickly filled with steam as he slipped into the shower stall, the water plastering his hair to his head, streaming in rivulets over his shoulders and back.
He let out a small sigh as the heat began to permeate his skin, easing the stiffness from his muscles. Eyes closed, he slowly turned toward the showerhead, the needle sharp spray peppering his face and chest. Leaning against the cold tile wall, his head drooped, chin to chest, and the water continued to pound into the muscles of his neck. His hands slid over the slick tiles, calloused fingertips finding the roughness of the grout and digging in.
The shower revived him, cleared his head. He could still feel the residual tremor of the long muscles of his legs and arms, however. The tension was still there; that fight or flight high that he would've blamed on his endocrine system, if he had one that actually functioned. It had always been like this. After a big fight. Nerves on edge, beat down or high on victory, he was always ready for one more round.
But that was before. Before the soul, before Buffy, before the chip. Before he'd have been relishing the thrill of this battle, wanting to revel in the blood, looking for a way to work off the energy, take the edge off. Before, it usually ended when he'd found his way home to where he could rely on Drusilla and a good hard fuck.
He moved one of his hands from the tile wall, sliding his fingers down his water-slicked chest and abdomen to grasp his burgeoning erection. Now he was used to relying on his good left hand.
To Be Continued
Author's Chapter Notes:
This story was written for beanbeans as a get-well present – it was supposed to be a simple little porn-without-plot, but of course, I can do nothing simply or without plot Thanks go out to katmeowkat and nnaylime for the expert beta.