Buffy had stopped crying by the time she walked into the mansion. There was too much to worry about, to figure out how to deal with, to waste time on useless, self-pitying tears. Overwhelming guilt swept over her as her eyes fell on the unconscious form of the vampire across the room, laid out on the sofa and mostly ignored at the moment by the other occupants of the room.
Dawn sat by his side in a small wooden chair, holding his hand, unaware yet that they had entered the house, her eyes focused solemnly and fearfully on the battered, bloodied form of her best friend.
*Yeah, Buffy – like *you’ve* got a reason to cry!* she berated herself silently, suddenly filled with disgust and anger at herself for what she had done, whether she had meant to or not.
Xander and Giles were completely unconcerned with the condition of the battered vampire, and met her as she and her mother were coming in the door, both talking at once as they tried to get her attention.
A few yards away, Anya was standing with Willow, talking emphatically in an animated tone; they seemed to be having an argument. Buffy noticed Willow shaking her head adamantly. Apparently, Anya was trying to convince her to do something that she did not want to do, though Buffy had no idea what that might be.
By the desperate, sidelong looks Willow was casting her way – Buffy had a feeling it would not be long before she knew.
“*Mom*!” Dawn called out the moment she realized that they had come in. “Come here!”
Buffy went automatically to follow her mother to Spike’s side, but was stopped by Giles.
“Buffy – are you quite all right?” he asked, his eyes focused on hers in a frown of obvious concern, as he took her arm and stopped her progress toward the vampire across the room.
She watched her mother continue on to talk to her sister, with more than a little irritation, because she wanted to be there too – but would Spike even *want* her there at the moment? And what was Giles saying to her now, anyway? He was asking her something about Dawn, and what the two of them had done, and how did she feel now…?
Did he really expect her to have any answers to this situation? -- because all that the unbelievable events of the past couple of hours had left her with was more questions.
She finally met her Watcher’s eyes, looking up at him so suddenly that he stopped talking for a moment, as Spike’s warning, his concerns, from earlier came back to her. She wondered momentarily if Spike’s suspicions regarding Giles and the Watcher’s Council could have any grain of truth to them.
Should she even be trusting this man at all?
Xander used Giles’ silence as a chance to throw his own two cents worth in. “Buffy – what *was* that out there? That was amazing! Did you beat it? Is the thing gone now? Is it over?”
Between the two of them and their almost frantic questions, and the swirling confusion of thoughts and emotions in her mind, Buffy had never felt so cornered and claustrophobic in her life.
*Why won’t they all just back off and stop *talking*?* she wondered desperately. *I don’t have any answers, I don’t have a clue, I just need to *think* -- why won’t everybody just…*
“Okay, everybody just shut up!”
Her mother’s strong, authoritative voice startled her out of her reverie – and was clearly convincing enough to make everyone else take notice as well. The room fell silent, and all eyes turned expectantly to where Joyce stood beside the couch. Buffy stared at her mother, stunned and a bit awed by the determined, angry fire she saw in her eyes.
“We’ve got a lot to handle here, and maybe not a lot of time to do it in, so standing around and speculating about the situation is not going to accomplish anything – and neither is giving Buffy the third degree about what happened out there. I’m sure she’s every bit as confused and shaken up as we all are – more, in fact – and could use a little space at the moment.”
Buffy felt an overwhelming sense of relief and gratitude to her mother for saying what she had not wanted to have to say herself, as she looked down, avoiding the questioning looks that Giles and Xander gave her. Her refusal to meet their eyes was confirmation enough that Joyce’s assessment was accurate, and both men, thankfully, stepped back a bit, giving the traumatized Slayer room to breathe.
“Now, first things first,” Joyce went on, her voice calmer, but still strong and commanding. “Spike is very badly hurt. We need to…”
“How is that putting ‘first things first’, exactly?” Xander broke in, indignant. “I think out of all the things we have to worry about, the evil dead over there should be *last* priority. Why should we…?”
“Xander Harris,” Joyce broke in sharply, and the boy immediately stopped talking.
She had used her “mom voice” – he really had very little choice.
“I am not your mother, but I still think that I’m deserving of a little bit of your respect. I was talking. If you could *not* interrupt me, I’d appreciate it.”
Embarrassed by the deserved reprimand, Xander muttered defensively, “Sorry, Joyce. I just – don’t see why it matters so much.”
“It matters,” Giles interjected in a tone of irritation and impatience, “because apparently Spike knows something important about what is happening to Buffy, and if he *does* possess such knowledge, then…”
“No, it *matters*,” Joyce cut him off, her eyes blazing with fury as she stalked across the room to face him, her eyes meeting his in a challenge, “because Spike is a *person* -- a person who just placed himself in terrible danger to protect my baby girl, for that matter. He stood up to that – that thing that’s trying to take over Buffy -- *knowing* that he couldn’t really fight he – that she could kill him – and if he hadn’t, then my little girl – Dawnie could be…”
Her voice broke off, as her powerful emotions momentarily got the better of her, and she stepped back a bit, looking away from Giles as she struggled for control of her emotions and the room fell silent around her.
Buffy looked automatically toward her little sister, still clasping Spike’s limp hand in hers, though she was half-turned and watching and listening to her mother. Though there was no longer any anger or accusation in Dawn’s solemn gaze – not now that she knew what her sister was struggling with – Buffy felt condemned, and could not hold the younger girl’s gaze.
Her face grew hot with shame, as she stared at the floor and swallowed back a hard lump of tears that had formed in her throat. Not only had she brutalized Spike without mercy, but she had almost killed her own little sister. In her guilt, she imagined that they were all staring at her, all blaming her for the horrible things she had done.
But that was not the case at all.
Most of the group had missed too much of what had happened, and were simply too confused by what they *had* seen, to know who to blame for any of it, if anyone – and those who would have sought to lay blame would surely have attempted to lay it on Spike. They had not taken Buffy’s abuse of the vampire very seriously thus far, and had not witnessed her attack on her little sister.
But the beaten, broken creature on the couch was evidence that this had gone far beyond the usual “punch in the nose to shut Spike up” approach that they had all become used to seeing Buffy use – and if what Joyce was saying was true, Buffy had beaten him so severely only because he had been trying to prevent her from hurting Dawn.
The primary emotion of the moment was not anger or blame, but rather confusion.
They did not know what to think – what was going on – and they wouldn’t, until the whole situation could be explained.
“Okay,” Joyce spoke softly when it was clear that no one else had anything to say, and in the stillness, her quiet voice was easily heard. “The way I see it, we have too very important matters to take care of here. First of all – in any situation like this, the first priority is to care for anyone who’s hurt. After that, we can figure out what we know so far, what the situation is exactly – basically, why we’re all here.”
“Which we can’t do until Spike wakes up,” Giles quietly inserted, obviously attempting to be helpful – but he immediately fell silent again when Joyce shot him a disgusted glare that told him clearly that she felt his priorities were badly misplaced.
“Anybody hurt?” Joyce asked, looking around the room at each of them, her eyebrows raised in a challengingly expectant look.
No one said a word, or even dared to meet her gaze.
Her point was very clear.
“Good,” Joyce said in a quietly decisive voice, nodding her satisfaction. “Then I guess it’s obvious what our priority should be right now, isn’t it?”
No one said a word, and Joyce knew that the silence was as close as she was going to get to an agreement from most of them. So, she took it for what it was worth and went into action.
She crossed the room to Spike’s side and carefully reached into the pocket of his duster, feeling around until she found what she was looking for. Taking out Spike’s car keys, she walked back across the room to face her older daughter.
“There’s a first aid kit in the backseat floorboard, and a cooler in the trunk. Please bring them in.”
Xander looked up at her sharply at her words, and she returned his gaze as Buffy nodded, took the keys and hurried to obey. The boy knew better than to question the contents of the cooler aloud, though his accusing look said that he wanted to. Joyce held his gaze defiantly for a moment longer before turning to go back to Spike’s side.
“Xander, Giles – help me move him. I already looked, and there’s a perfectly all right bed in the next room. We need to make him more comfortable – and he doesn’t need a dozen pairs of eyes staring at him while we’re trying to help him,” Joyce said curtly, but not unkindly – and amazingly, both men moved to obey without question.
Dawn gazed up at her mother through wide, barely believing eyes, as she stood up from her seat beside the couch to move out of the way. The sense of awe she felt for her mother was growing stronger by the moment.
She and Anya followed closely beside the three people carrying the vampire into the bedroom – much more carefully this time, due to Joyce’s powerful influence. Willow went along too, mostly because she wasn’t sure what else to do. She wanted to help somehow, painfully aware that this was at least in part her fault, but not sure what exactly she could do.
“Willow could do a healing spell,” Anya suggested anxiously, and the red-headed witch looked up at her in alarm at the words that seemed to echo her train of thought. “He’s really bad, isn’t he? Maybe if she just…”
“*No*!” Willow snapped, her green eyes wide with fear, and Joyce gave her a questioning look as they laid Spike gently down on the small bed.
This had apparently just been a spare bedroom, and the bed was little larger than a twin size – but Joyce thought that was actually better; it would give her more room to work and move as she tried to treat his wounds.
Willow continued to protest in a shaky voice, her eyes wide and full of a trapped sort of expression. “There’s – there’s too much magic already going on here! We have no idea exactly what kind either, so there’s no way of knowing what another spell might do!”
Joyce just stared at her for a long moment, wondering why the redhead did not seem to be able to hold her gaze. Then she decide that they had bigger things to worry about at the moment. Spike was still bleeding badly, and was obviously desperately in need of help. Besides, from what she had learned in her short time of being the Slayer’s mom – or rather of *knowing* that she was the Slayer’s mom – Joyce knew that what Willow said was true.
It *could* be dangerous to mix magics like that.
Besides, she knew Spike well enough to know that he had never been the biggest fan of magic, and would certainly rather that they try their best to help him without using it.
“That’s fine, Willow,” she said absently, barely noticing as the witch let out a deep breath of relief and hurried out into the living room again.
Joyce’s attention was already focused back on Spike.
“Is there – anything I can do?” Giles asked politely – and his tone made it clear that he *was* just being polite.
“Yes,” Joyce said calmly. “Please leave the room. Like I said – this isn’t a job for a dozen people.”
Giles stared at her for a moment, his jaw setting momentarily with irritation at her dismissal; he was not a man who was used to being dismissed so easily. But without a word, he turned and left the room as she had requested, and Xander followed him.
Dawn assumed – correctly – that the command was not meant for her, and resumed her spot by Spike’s side, on the opposite side of the bed from her mother, sitting on the edge of a bedside chair and turning her attention to her friend. She glanced up with a frown at Anya, who was heading toward the door, a bit reluctantly, but with an air of acceptance.
“Anya.”
She stopped at the sound of Joyce’s voice, turning around with a hopeful smile on her face.
“Please stay.”
Joyce met her eyes with a warm but tired smile, beckoning her back over to help them. Honestly, she did not know what the ex-vengeance demon would be able to do to help – but she *did* know that she had tried to help Spike before. She remembered the story Spike had told her, and how Anya had been the first one to actually make an effort to protect him from his abusive mate.
Anya’s eyes shone with gratitude as she moved quickly back to the bed, standing beside Joyce and looking up at her with expectant resolve as she spoke softly.
“What can I do to help?”
Buffy hurried back inside on trembling legs, the first aid kit balanced a bit precariously on top of the heavy cooler – surprisingly heavy, in fact. She knew that her mother had brought a supply of pig’s blood from the house along for Spike in the cooler – but from the feel of it she might just have brought the whole pig.
When she got back inside, a surprisingly sullen Willow directed her toward the bedroom they had taken Spike to – to Buffy’s relief, not the same one she had shared with him on that fateful night they had spent here, but a smaller room on the other side of the house.
She paused just inside the bedroom door, taking in the scene before her.
Between the two of them, Joyce and Anya had managed to get Spike out of his duster and shirt, though he was still unconscious. Joyce seemed to be taking stock of his injuries, looking him over and feeling cautiously for broken bones, and did not notice her older daughter’s slow, cautious approach.
Buffy watched as her mother quickly took off the soft cotton overshirt she was wearing and began tearing it into strips. Apparently she felt that they would need more than the small packet of bandages that was ordinarily kept in the first aid kit.
Buffy lowered wide, sobered emerald eyes, steeling herself to take in the sight of the damage she had inflicted on her mate – and gasped in shock and horror.
It was worse than she had expected.
His face was bruised and bloodied by her fists, and the back of his hand, lying listlessly at his side, was black and blue and simply shattered from where she had cruelly crushed it against the car door, in a deliberate attempt to cause him pain – to punish him for a simple gesture intended to protect her helpless little sister.
Buffy felt sick at the memory.
But that was not the worst of what she had done.
What was most upsetting of all, what had caused Buffy’s reaction of dismay, was the terrible purple bruising around his ribcage. His lower torso was basically just one massive purple bruise, from the many savage kicks she had dealt him while he lay on the ground, utterly helpless and unable to defend himself.
Her eyes widened in alarm as they were drawn to her mother’s working hands, gently blotting up the thin trickle of blood that still flowed, slowly but steadily, from the side of the vampire’s mouth – and she knew that there should have been more of it.
*Internal bleeding.*
The words flashed into her mind in a moment of understanding, as she realized what it was that she was seeing. Her brutality had caused internal injuries that were draining him, slowly but surely, of the borrowed blood that was keeping him alive. She did not know what happened to a vampire that was completely drained of blood – but she did not want to find out.
She quickly drew herself from her thoughts and set the cooler down, kneeling in front of it and opening it. Her eyes widened again at yet another surprise, as she saw the tremendous amount of blood her mother had brought for Spike. They had not had time to stop somewhere on their way to the mansion.
Joyce must have had all this blood on hand for Spike already, at the house.
Buffy looked up at her mother through fresh sight, taking in her busy, nervously trembling hands, her slightly disheveled hair, falling loose as she worked, and framing intent, troubled blue eyes full of fear, worry – and love.
Her mother really loved Spike.
Buffy had known it before, but somehow, in that moment of clarity, the knowledge became more real to her – and it was a comforting, reassuring thought.
Joyce looked up and caught her eyes, pausing for a moment as she took in the various emotions unusually obvious on her daughter’s face. After a moment, she snapped out of her thoughts and spoke in a mildly reproving voice.
“It doesn’t do him much good sitting in the cooler, does it, Buffy?”
It was the gentle reminded Buffy needed to pull her back to the seriousness of the present moment, and the intense need *she* had created. Buffy took out one of the bags and cut the corner open with the small pair of scissors from the first aid kit, rising and going to Spike’s side to hold the bag to the vampire’s lips.
She had hoped that the scent would help to rouse him – but there was no response at all.
“He’s not gonna want it,” Joyce said softly. “It’s cold.”
Buffy felt an odd little twinge of regret at just another reminder of how well Joyce knew Spike – and how much better she *could* have known him by now, if she had tried, instead of treating him so cruelly.
Even before the claim from hell – she had been terribly cruel to him.
“He doesn’t have to want it,” she said in a quiet, grim voice of resolve, pushing back her own guilt for the moment and focusing on Spike, and helping him. “He just has to drink it.”
She gently parted Spike’s lips with her fingers, allowing a little of the cold pig’s blood to trickle into his mouth – but he did not swallow, did not respond at all. Buffy tried again, with the same result, and the vile fluid simply ran back out of the vampire’s unresponsive mouth.
Buffy felt her frustration rising up with a sense of helplessness. How was she supposed to help him if she couldn’t get him to eat? She knew that the pig’s blood would not have as powerful of healing properties as human blood would, but she had to get him to eat *something* or he was not going to get better at all. He had lost so much blood by this point that his vampire healing did not seem to be working at all.
If only she could just make him…
Suddenly, her eyes widened in realization, as she knew what she had to do. She set the bag of pig’s blood back down on the nightstand, reaching the fingers of her other hand slowly toward her mark on his throat.
She would have thought that she had pulled out a stake, judging by the reactions of her family.
“*Don’t*!” Dawn cried out, reaching a hand toward the mark to shield it from her sister’s touch, glaring up at her suspiciously.
“Buffy!” Joyce said warningly, moving to get between her daughter and the vampire. “What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to help him,” Buffy replied, her eyes flashing with frustrated anger. Something in her stirred to life with anger at the thought of their trying to keep her from Spike – but the deadly rage that had consumed her before was buried deep now, so deep that she knew it would be a while before it could resurface again.
“Mom,” she insisted when Joyce did not move, just stood there, studying her daughter’s face dubiously. “I promise. I’m not gonna hurt him. I know what to do; I know how to make him drink.” She paused, before adding softly, almost desperately, “I have to fix this, Mom. I *have* to make this better. *Please*.”
Joyce stared at her for a moment longer, before reading the reassurance she needed in her daughter’s eyes. Slowly, a bit warily, she moved out of her way, though she stayed close by in case she was needed.
Buffy moved in close to Spike again, reaching out a hand to gently brush over the mark on his throat. “Wake up,” she whispered, focusing all of her energy, all of her strength, on her mate.
If she could share emotions, thoughts, sensations – perhaps she could share a bit of her strength, as well.
It seemed to work after a moment, when Spike let out a soft moan, his eyes fluttering open, unfocused at first, until he slowly became aware of who it was he was looking at.
The momentary flash of sheer terror in his eyes hurt Buffy worse than any physical pain could have – but she knew it was no less than she should expect.
*It’s all right,* she told him silently, her mental voice soft and soothing as her finger caressed the mark on his throat in a slow, repetitively soothing circle. *It’s all right, I’m not going to hurt you…I want to help you, Spike…I want to make you well…but you have to do something for me…okay?*
His eyes stared into hers, confused, questioning, seeking an answer, but finally, he nodded slowly, still to weak to speak aloud. Even as it was, he was operating only on borrowed strength from his mate, and his eyes almost fell closed again once or twice, as Buffy fought to keep him with her for a few moments longer.
She knew he would not have the strength in his condition, even to make the change to his game face, so she picked up the tiny pair of scissors from where she had laid it on the nightstand and quickly, before anyone could even think to stop her, made a small, straight cut on her arm, near her wrist.
Spike’s eyes widened, darkening with desire, the moment the sweet, rich scent of her blood hit his nostrils. And a moment later, there was a fear in his eyes, as he searched hers anxiously, and she could feel his concerns.
Did she really want him to do this?
What would this act do to the power inside her?
What if she lost control in the middle of it? What if she was angry with him for daring to…?
“Spike,” she whispered, bending her wrist slightly, so that she could bring the cut within reach of his trembling, longing lips without breaking the comforting contact with his throat. “I *want* you to. I do. You have to – it’s the only way you’re gonna get better.”
She pressed the wound nearer to his waiting, desperate mouth, as she whispered a command that his desire, rather than her authority, would not allow him to refuse.
“*Drink*.”
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