"Yea, Though I Walk"
A Spuffy Fic by Carol A. Addison
caamich@myfastmail.com (a/k/a, callitspuffylove on Yahoo!)
PG-13 for very subtle sexual suggestion
DISCLAIMER: The following characters and their original plot lines were created wonderfully by Joss Whedon and his imaginative writing team. I am merely writing this for my enjoyment and others' enjoyment as fans of Joss and his team's hard work and creativity. No money is gained by this.
Buffy Summers sat on Spike's bed with one knee bent toward him and one foot on the floor. She placed on the bedside table behind his head the bowl she held in her hands, then reached over to brush his temple with her fingers.
"How're you feeling?"
"Better'n I was," Spike answered, then looked away. "Not as good as I could be, though."
Buffy reached over to the nightstand again, this time getting the washcloth from the bowl and wringing it in her hands before turning back to him. "Let me see your chest."
He didn't even bother with a snide remark. First, he was too weak to come up with anything good. Second, she deserved better after all she'd been through--after all she'd done for him.
He obediently pulled the fleece blanket down to his waist, watching her as she gently dabbed at his many wounds with the cloth. Such exquisite torture.
"They do look smaller than they did yesterday," she told him. "Do they still hurt, or is it just your insides, now?"
"Pretty much inside," he said, then winced and flinched at her touch to a particularly deep wound. "There are exceptions, o' course."
She gave him a squinchy smile. "Sorry." Her touch softened noticeably.
"So," Spike ventured as he watched her ministrations, "how's slayer training going?"
Buffy shrugged, her eyes never leaving her work. "Okay, I guess. I haven't really been involved lately. Kennedy is pretty much doing it."
He looked up at her, then. "Sure that's wise?" He put his hand on her working one so that she'd look at him. "Girl has no field experience, aside what you've given 'er."
"She's what the potentials need right now." Her chin went up a touch. "They're weak. They need strength training."
"What of reflexes?" he asked. "I've watched you use the eyes in the back of your head and the hairs on the back of your neck more than once to save their asses. What's going to happen when you aren't there? Strength is only half the battle won, as many a pile of vampire dust could tell you."
She took her hand from his, standing and turning to the bowl, soaking and wringing the cloth several jerky times in the lukewarm water. "I know what I'm doing."
"No one said you didn't."
Her motions stopped, but she didn't turn around. He would have to choose his words carefully, now...
"Buffy, you know I want to help you any way I can," he began. "In my present state, I'm afraid the only way is in an advisory capacity, and even that's a bit of a stretch for someone like me."
She turned around, then, glancing at him, then avoiding his eyes. She still made no move to come back to the bed, but he was encouraged by her apparent attentiveness to his words. She hadn't completely closed her mind to him.
He sighed inwardly, then continued. "You've been Slayer longer than any in my history as a vampire." He attempted a shift to a less painful position before continuing after a grunt. "I know, I'm not the longest lived vampire, but I've seen my fair share of Slayer lifetimes. No one has even come close to touching yours, Luv."
She looked at him, then. "Some of them had kids. I'm barely out of high school. Something's wrong with your calculator, Spike."
"They didn't start slaying as young as you," he replied easily. At her doubtful expression, he added, "What, you think 16's the magic age of slayerhood?" She shrugged, and he continued with a derisive chuckle. "Shows how much you know. Didn't that librarian tell you anything?" He shook his head, then noticed Buffy's folded arms and tapping foot. He rushed on. "No, the next Slayer in line doesn't start until her predecessor dies."
"Hey, Spike, get this!" She said, waving her hands at her sides, eyes wide. "Water? It's *wet*. Can you believe it???" Her face fell, and she sighed. "Gimme a break, Spike."
He fought down his angry retort and persisted with his original topic of discussion. "Well, no one knows how each Slayer is chosen as the next. Believe me, if we vampires had figured that one out--and we did try--Slayers would never have gotten to us before we got to them. No, there doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to it. Doesn't matter what age, what race, what country, even what upbringing--only thing that matters, apparently, is that she believes in the Cross."
"Your point is?"
"I'm getting to it...!" he said with a defensive pout. He shifted again. "Right. My point. The point is, Buffy, that you've lived longer than any Slayer in history, to my knowledge, and there must be a reason for it. What I've seen, it's your reflexes. You've faced a lot worse than vampires, and, so far, you've won every battle. Other Slayers? They were all killed by vampires. See the difference?"
"So, I have a better research team on my side." She gave a dismissive shrug.
He tipped his head and shook it slowly side to side, puckering his lips in disbelief at her stubbornness. "What are you hiding from, Buffy?"
She developed a wild, wide-eyed expression. "What do you mean, 'hiding'? I'm the only one who's been doing any of the footwork around here."
"Getting burnt out, are you?"
She glared at him. "Like a Slayer has that luxury."
"So, why are you suddenly backing out of everything and letting poorly trained, less experienced birds take your part? Why aren't you out there leading them, showing them what and how they need to be?"
She threw the cloth in her hand at the floor. It landed with a sharp splat. "I thought I was helping *you*."
He nodded. "And so you are." He sat up straight again, hissing as internal abdominal injuries tugged at him. "But, do you really need to be?"
"If you don't want me here, just say so." She bent to pick the rag up off the floor.
He took the opportunity to reach out and touch her hair. Her eyes snapped up to his immediately. "Did I say I didn't want you here?" he asked so softly that she almost couldn't make out the words.
Still, she wouldn't give in. "You didn't have to."
He could hear in her voice that her shell wasn't as thick as she was doing her damnedest to make it seem. "Sit down here, Pet." He patted the bed beside him.
Her chin tucked in a notch, and she eyed him warily. "Why?"
"Would you quit being such a stubborn mule and just sit your pretty little ass down?"
She stayed frozen in place, then sat beside him on the bed without a word, still keeping one foot on the floor.
"Right," he said, nodding and taking her hand. "'s better."
She just looked away. He couldn't tell if she was embarrassed or annoyed. Either way, he knew her attention span toward him was getting shorter by the minute. Maybe that wasn't such a bad thing, though. Huh. New tactic, maybe? He gave her hand a gentle shake, and she returned her eyes to his.
"Look, Luv, I know, now, that when I really need you, you'll be there for me. I don't have to worry 'cause you've got my back. That knowledge alone's going to make me heal faster. Don't need you licking my every wound--" Both he and Buffy winced-- "sorry, bad choice of words--but, I don't--to know you'll be there, 'right?" She nodded hesitantly, and he lifted her hand to his mouth to place a reverent kiss on the back of it. "Now, go teach those girls how to be as rough-n-tumble as you are. Go on, then. Shoo."
She got up, then, gave him one last longing look, and ran out of the room. He shook his head, folding his arms across his chest.
"My little slayer's growing up." Then, with an agitated fidget and a reach just under the covers, "Maybe someday I'll be able to take advantage of it."
Fade to black
