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Robin Wood groaned as his dream pleasant dream, involving a brunette with a very talented tongue and, disturbingly, a redheaded vampire with equally talented hands, was suddenly torn away from him by a heavy pounding on his door. Throwing back the duvet, he slid his green, flannel robe over his black pyjamas and strode to the door, his scowl promising bad things for whoever had interrupted his rest.

Wrenching the door open, he gave a muttered ‘Holy shit!’ as his Slayer glared at him, his arms wrapped securely around the tiny, dirty woman in his arms. Wood felt his nostrils curl as the woman’s smell assaulted him, the reek of unwashed body, blood and other unknown bodily secretions seemingly not disturbing to the younger man. He stood back, motioning impatiently when Spike merely continued to wait. Then,

“You need to invite ‘er in.”

The Watcher spluttered. “What?! You want me to invite an unknown demon, unknown and potentially lethal vampire into my home? Are you insane?”

“Look, she said somethin’ ‘bout being a former Slayer, Buffy somethin’, still got a soul yadda yadda yadda. ‘m not gettin’ the dangerous tinglies from this one either. An’ it’s not like she can fight or anythin’. So, if you don’t mind…”

“Spike! Just because she says she’s a former Slayer, it doesn’t mean she is. And a soul? Please… Don’t you look at me like that, boy. Oh, for… Come in, vampire.” It was with a very obvious lack of grace that the tall man gave the invitation, but it worked nonetheless. Spike rushed through the door, noting that Wood discreetly locked it after him. A wise man, his Watcher.

Carrying his burden through to the spare bedroom he’d used before they rented his apartment, the Slayer gently settled the unconscious vampire on the hard desk chair, unwilling to dirty the sheets she’d be sleeping on. Rushing through to the bathroom, he slotted in the plug and started to water running, pouring a vanilla-scented bath oil into the water… Wait, vanilla-scented? Spike smirked. Got some explainin’ to do, Watcher.

Shaking his head, he darted back across the hall and settled himself on the end of the bed, examining the features of the woman slumped opposite him. It was obvious that she’d been starved, she weighed hardly anything even for someone her size, and she’d suffered terrible abuse, judging by the faint marks he could see covering her arms and legs. Strangely, her face was untouched, only grimy from what he assumed was days without washing.

His study was interrupted by the return of the dark-skinned man, who had a book clasped in his hand and frameless glasses perched on his wide nose. His eyes flicked from the blissfully unaware girl to the book, widening on about the third repetition.

“Good God…” he breathed, dropping the book negligently to the floor in a very un-Wood-like gesture. He dropped to his knees in front of the girl before, “I don’t believe it!” It was a reverent sigh, filled with awe and admiration.

“What?” Spike was getting irritated. He really didn’t like being left out of the loop for long. In answer, the tall Watcher motioned to the dropped book. Spike picked it up, scanning the paragraphs eagerly, before he too looked at the fainted vampire. His response was a lot louder and a lot more amused than Wood’s.

“Well bugger me. She was a Slayer after all.”

“Not just a Slayer, Spike. Arguably the best Slayer to ever live. She thwarted numerous apocalypses, she died twice before being turned and she disappeared fourteen years ago after her first lover reappeared in her life and they had a night of drunken passion together. Buffy Summers is a legend.”

They stared at the tiny slip of a woman in dawning horror as she shifted in her coma-like sleep, the tattered edge of her garment riding up to reveal bruising and barely-healed lacerations on her inner thighs, as well as a grossly swollen and infected, crude carving of the word ‘mine’ that decorated the top of her more intimate area. Spike fought down a wave of nausea as Wood rushed to the bathroom, turning off the running water before retching into the toilet, though he refused to throw up.

Gently lifting the fatigued body into his arms, Spike ferried her to the bathroom, passing her into Wood’s waiting embrace as he stripped the sack away from her body, making a mental promise to her to burn the cursed thing as soon as the chance arose. The thought was promptly forgotten under a wave of fury as he beheld her nude body.

Most of her torso, previously hidden by the scrap of rough material, was in worse shape than her feet. He heard Wood give a strangled curse, though his own tongue felt too clumsy with rage to move. Her ribs stood out in stark relief against her battered skin, so much so that he could see where one had healed badly after being broken. Her hipbones jutted out in a similar fashion, making what would have once been a lush, curved body into a study in angular hollows.

The worst came when he gently turned her around, his Watcher’s broad chest supporting her as he drew back the curtain of her greasy hair. Weeping lash-marks criss-crossed her flesh, probably torn open by her frantic flight; at the base of her spine, a long, thin stripe of blackened flesh told a tale of gory pain. Dropping her hair so it fell to cover the blue-black flesh of her shoulder blades, he scooped her back into his arms before lowering her into the water.

With gentle hands, he washed the tender flesh of her battered body, using the mildest soap he could find in Wood’s bathroom cabinet to wash her hollow, pain-ravaged face, noticing that she looked almost peaceful now, as though she knew she was safe. When they were done, he lathered shampoo in his hands before scrubbing it through her tangled hair. Rinsing her clean was a simple task after that, as she didn’t need to breathe and couldn’t drown, but when they finally removed her from the brown water, her injuries seemed even more severe against her clean skin.

Spike lifted her, bidding Wood a firm goodnight before closing the bedroom door with one foot. Settling her in the large bed, he stretched out on his side next to her, stroking her damp hair absently as he tried to put himself in her shoes, imagining fourteen years of never-ending agony. He knew, without a doubt, that it would’ve driven him mad. Whether she was psychologically well was something that was yet to be seen.

His breath caught when her eyelids suddenly flickered open, revealing glassy but still brilliant emerald irises to him, dilated with her hunger. He watched as her nostrils flared, the muscles that had tightened when she detected his presence only relaxing slightly when she realised who he was. Her voice was a harsh, weary croak.

“If you’re going to stake me, do it now before I have a chance to totally wig about it.”

He chuckled. “I’m not gonna stake you, luv. You’re the stuff Slayer legends ‘re made from.” Answering her unspoken question, he continued. “You’re at my Watcher’s house. ‘e can be a bit cold, but he’s a good bloke. ‘M Spike the Vampire Slayer. You’re Buffy. No need to talk, pet. You hungry?”

Suddenly aware that he was babbling, he abruptly shut up, cursing himself for the blush that rose in his pale cheeks. He dared a glance at her, only to find her eyes half-closed, her full lips turned up at the corners in an amused smile.

“Yeah, major pig-out required… Wait, you’re a guy?” She suddenly seemed to bite her lip, and he let a smirk slide onto his lips as she turned her head away from him in a mixture of shyness and embarrassment. Duh, Buffy, he’s only the hottest guy you’ve seen since… Ok, moving on. “I can wait; doubt you’ve got any of the red stuff at hand. Nice to… meet you, Spike.”

He smiled to himself as her voice trailed off, her eyes closing as she drifted into a healing sleep. Curling his body around hers, one arm snaking around her tiny waist, he gave a contented sigh and soon followed her.





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