By the time they reached the motel, and Buffy finally worked up enough nerve to turn around in the seat and face her mother and her mate – Spike had fallen into an exhausted sleep.
He had wept silently, but deeply, on Joyce’s shoulder, until she had finally felt his sobs subsiding, and he had allowed more and more of his weight to rest upon her as he had begun to drift off, cradled gently in her arms, weary and utterly drained by the trauma he had endured.
She had scooted carefully down across the seat, lowering his body so that his head rested in her lap; and she had spent the rest of the ride just quietly sitting there, running her fingers gently, idly through his damp blonde curls.
Buffy’s eyes welled with tears as she took in the sight of the vampire’s tear-stained, pain-ravaged face, clearly not at peace, even in sleep. There were still faint traces of the bruises she had left there earlier in the evening, under the fresh ones dealt to him by Travers and his men – though the potent blood he had drawn from her had made most of his physical injuries mostly disappear.
If only that was the extent of the damage that had been done!
Buffy felt her mother’s eyes on her, and raised her own to meet Joyce’s calm, steady gaze. She steeled herself for anger and condemnation – and was surprised to find instead, tenderness and compassion. Joyce lifted the hand that was resting on the sleeping vampire’s shoulder, to gently caress her daughter’s cheek – and Buffy closed her eyes, swallowing back a sob of relief at the touch that spoke of acceptance…love…
Forgiveness.
“It’s gonna be okay, Sweetie,” Joyce assured her gently. “It’s just gonna take some time. He’s been traumatized, Buffy. He’s gonna get past it, eventually – but you’re going to have to let that happen on *his* terms.”
Buffy opened her eyes as her mother removed her hand from her cheek, gazing into her serious eyes for a moment before casting a regretful look on Spike again.
“He hates me now,” she whispered, her voice achingly sad and bereft.
*God, there’s got to be *something* I can do…*
“No, Buffy – he loves you,” Joyce softly corrected her. “That’s why this is so confusing to him – why it hurts so much. She – she hurt him badly, Buffy…”
“Yeah,” Buffy whispered, anger in her smoldering eyes as she remembered the things she had been forced to witness and carry out at the same time, while having no control over her own body. “And she wore my face – she used my hands to do it!”
At that very moment, Spike began to stir, gradually roused by their quiet voices, and he opened his eyes, blinking as his vision came into focus – on Buffy’s angry face, less than a foot from his own.
He started violently, jerking back first against Joyce, his eyes wide with momentary panic – and Buffy reacted just as strongly to his reaction, scrambling back against the steering wheel, her hands upraised in a gesture that said clearly that she was backing off.
“I’m sorry!” she said hurriedly. “Spike, I’m sorry – it’s okay…”
“It’s okay,” Joyce echoed gently, trying to calm the vampire as he quickly sat up, drawing back away from Buffy as far as possible across the seat. “Hey – Spike, it’s okay…”
The vampire had just barely awakened, and in his half-asleep state had assumed the worst. He was now in full game face, a soft, rumbling growl sounding deep in his chest, as he stared at the Slayer with gradually fading fear, as disorientation gave way to reason – fading, as before his eyes the Slayer broke down in anguished tears.
She did not see through the tears that flooded her eyes, as Spike’s features slowly shifted back to his human face, a look of concern and regret coming over his face as he realized how very upset she obviously was. Now that he was fully awake, it was obvious that she was no threat to him, not now – but the damage was already done.
“I’ll – I’ll just go. Get our stuff,” Buffy whispered hurriedly, her voice shaking as she fumbled over her words, and to open the car door. She staggered out of the vehicle in her haste to just get away, one hand wiping away tears as she just tried to put as much distance as possible between herself and her mate, who was clearly still terrified of her, no matter how he tried to hide it.
“Slayer!” Spike called out anxiously, reaching for the door; and then, although she was already too far away to hear him, “*Buffy*!”
Joyce gently stopped him, reaching across him to place her hand on the handle before he could. “Spike – are you sure that’s a good idea?” she asked softly. There was a soft frown of anxious concern on her face, as she searched his eyes for the incredible strength she knew he would need to have the conversation he seemed intent on having.
She found it there, mingled in with his resignation and determination to do whatever it took to reach his mate.
All traces of fear had faded away at the sight of her distress. No matter how hard this was for him, how terribly confusing, he knew that he could not let this thing go on the way it was right now. If he did, the distance between him and Buffy would continue to grow – until eventually, it was too great to span at all.
“No,” he replied honestly. “I’m not – but I have to, Joyce. I can’t let her be by herself – not in this state.”
Joyce nodded slowly, understanding completely. “Go on. We’re right here if you need us, Spike.”
He got out of the car and made his way up the staircase to the second floor room that Joyce and Dawn had stayed it. All of their luggage had been in the one room, as the second room had only been required in the first place for the completion of the ritual.
The very thought sent a shudder down his s pine at the memory of all that had gone on in that room.
Still, he made himself go on, pushing open the door that the Slayer, in her distraught state of mind, had left standing partially open. Buffy was standing with her back to him, stuffing clothes into a suitcase on the bed – apparently completely unaware that he had entered the room.
“Not too bloody bright, Slayer,” he commented quietly – and the startled expression on her face as she whirled around to face him confirmed his disturbing suspicion that she had not even known he was there. “Any vamp could sneak up on you in here – you in this shaken up condition – and have himself a real good day. A bloke’d count himself right lucky, catching a Slayer off her guard like this.”
Buffy did not respond for a moment, taking in his casual stance, his cautious eyes that never quite made contact with hers, before she lowered her gaze to the bedspread beside her, trying to gain enough composure to respond.
Finally she spoke softly, “Maybe that’d be better. For everyone.”
The words were barely over a whisper, but Spike heard them clearly – and they infuriated him.
He had been all set to offer her comfort, support, and at least a measure of verbal forgiveness – until he had heard her frighteningly desolate, despairing words. The sick fear he felt at the thought of losing her forever fueled his anger, and he reacted without considering the possible consequences.
As usual.
Without thought, he stalked across the room toward her, his eyes blazing as he snapped, “No, you bloody don’t, Slayer! You do *not* get to do that!”
“Do what?” she asked defensively, raising her eyes to meet his, a frown of surprise on her face at his unexpectedly aggressive stance.
“The ‘pity Buffy’ party!” he replied angrily, then proceeded with mockery in his voice, “ ‘Oh, boo hoo, poor me – the latest in the never-ending line of nasties that seems to always find my friends and family happened to come about because *I* made a bloody mistake! Think I’ll go throw myself off the nearest bridge so the next one that comes along can bloody well finish ‘em all off!”
The scathing disgust in his voice made her flinch – but it also aroused her anger. She fought to keep it at bay, knowing that another dose of her vicious temper was the last thing Spike needed at the moment.
“I didn’t say I was going to kill myself,” she replied, her voice low and trembling, her downcast eyes flashing with rising anger and frustration.
“No, but you might as well,” he shot back. When she looked up, stunned by his words, he went on, “Well, it’s the truth! You’re bloody well giving up now, Slayer, is that it? Things get bad – you *make* them get bad – so now you just wanna run away from it, and just accept defeat? That they’re not gonna get any better?”
“I *didn’t say* that!” Buffy snapped, her voice more forceful now, as she took a step toward him. If there was anything that aroused the fight in her, it was the suggestion that she would *not* fight – that she was too weak, or scared, or incapable, to fight back.
“You didn’t have to!” Spike shot back, his tone still strong and aggressive – but there was no mistaking the flash of fear in his eyes at her unconscious advance toward him.
“What do you expect me to do?” Buffy demanded, her voice trembling with a combination of anger and unshed tears, as she backed up, taking the step she had gained back. “I know I messed up, okay? I know it! And it hurt you, and I’m sorry! But what am I supposed to do about it now?”
Her words might have sounded defensive and defiant, if not for the sheer desperation in her voice; she really wanted to know what she could do to fix what she had done.
The problem was – Spike had no bloody idea.
“You’re afraid of me now – you hate me – and you’re bound to me for the rest of your life,” she pointed out, her voice flat and desolate. “How am I supposed to make this okay, when there’s no way that you can possibly trust me now?”
“I – I don’t hate you, Buffy,” Spike argued, his voice softer now – and there was no missing the way he did *not* argue with her other assessments of his feelings.
Because they were correct.
She was silent for a moment, taking in the self-conscious downward shift in his gaze, the way he took a sudden step back, without realizing he had, as she moved cautiously nearer tohim.
“But you don’t trust me,” she concluded, her voice soft and sad. “You *are* afraid of me.”
Spike opened his mouth, presumably to deny the truth of her words – but then closed it again, swallowing hard. With a weary sigh, he slowly shook his head.
“I don’t,” he admitted, his voice barely over a whisper. “I am.”
The pain that shot through Buffy’s heart at those words was almost a physical ache in her chest, and she choked back a sob as she looked away.
“I’m sorry, love – can’t bloody well help it,” Spike went on, his voice softer now with the vulnerability of his confession. “I know you didn’t mean to – know it was beyond your control – but that doesn’t…it doesn’t change the fact that….” He shook his head, his voice trailing off, as he could no longer find the words.
They weren’t really necessary, anyway; she knew what he meant.
“Spike,” she said softly, pleadingly, without looking at him. “I’m sorry. I’ve said it before, and I know it doesn’t mean very much – but I’m so sorry I did this to you. I – I *love* you – and I just want to make this right again – but – but I don’t know how to make you believe me…”
The slight wince that passed across his face, the way he lowered his head to hide his expression of pain, told her that her words had touched him – but still, he could not even bring himself to look at her.
“I wish I could tell you, Slayer,” he said quietly, taking another step back away from her. “I do – but – but I don’t know how…I just know…it’s gonna take time, Slayer…it’s gonna…”
“*Buffy*.”
“…just have to give this thing time to sort of…fade…”
“Spike,” Buffy interrupted him again, her voice low and intent, as she moved forward to close the distance between them, without really thinking about what she was doing. She had no intention of further frightening him; she just wanted him to acknowledge her as other than the one who had tortured and abused him. “My *name* is Buffy…”
At her advance, the vampire took another hasty step backward, his fear obvious as he felt his back reach the wall already, in the very limited space the motel room allowed them. His voice trembled as he replied in a defensive voice, “I *know* what your soddin’ name is, Slayer, that’s not the issue here, now would you…”
“Then say it,” Buffy challenged him, her voice rising in strength, as she moved forward again, standing directly in front of him, her eyes intent and piercing as they sought his averted eyes. “Say it, Spike. It’s not ‘Slayer’ – my name is *Buffy*.”
“I *know* that, Slayer, just back off!” Spike demanded in a shaking, angry voice, raising his hands as if to ward her off, still refusing to look at her as she edged nearer to him.
Buffy knew in a part of her mind that she should do as he had asked, and just back off. She had done too much of forcing her own way lately; that was the cause of all of this. But a new understanding was dawning within her, and the determined side of her personality that refused to let go in a fight, now refused to let go of the potential solution she thought she had found.
As he held up his trembling hands to push her back, she caught his wrists, holding them back and leaning in closer, preventing him from shutting her out any further.
“Spike,” she said, her voice soft, even and unthreatening, as she tried to catch his gaze, her eyes wide and solemn. “Look at me.”
“No…”
“*Look* at me!” she demanded, shaking him slightly in her frustration, as new tears welled in her eyes.
He finally complied, his own eyes shining with moisture that did not mask the resentment and anger in his gaze.
“You keep calling me Slayer…”
“You *are* the bloody Slayer!” he snapped, trying to jerk out of her restricting grasp, looking away again as he fought a wave of sick fear that rose up in him against his will at her touch.
She pushed him back forcefully against the wall, not hurting him, but effectively stopping his struggles, her penetrating emerald eyes relentlessly drawing his reluctant gaze back to her face. “Spike – I’m not *her* -- okay? Yes, I’m the Slayer – but I’m not her! I’m *Buffy*…”
Spike looked away again, swallowing hard, his jaw working with emotions that he was struggling to control, before he looked up at her again in furious defiance. He was becoming more convinced with every moment that this whole ordeal had taught her nothing – that for Buffy to understand how wrong her way of looking at things was, he was going to have to teach her.
And if that happened – one of them was going to end up hurt.
“Really? You’re not?” he asked, biting off the words with bitter resentment, his eyes narrowed skeptically as they focused on hers.
Buffy froze, her eyes widening and her face paling with shock at his words, which struck her as hard as a physical blow. And in that moment, Spike seemed to remember his own strength. He was no longer chipped, no longer at the mercy and whim of this powerful woman, no matter what she seemed to think. He did not have to let her push him around and force him to accept her decisions, just because she thought she knew what was best for everyone concerned.
Suddenly, he brought his arms forward sharply, taking advantage of her stunned reaction to shove her back away from him hard, sending her stumbling a few steps away from him.
When she caught her balance, she looked up at him, shaking her head slightly, a look of hurt and confusion on her face.
“That’s funny, Slayer,” Spike went on, a strangely calm note settling into his voice that was, to Buffy, reminiscent of the vampire he had been before the chip, as a challenging, defiant smirk rose to his lips, “because you bloody well *act* just like her!”
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