THERE'S SOMETHING IN MY BLOOD
He remained in the alley long after Tara had run away. The cut on his neck stung, and he reached up to run a finger over it. At the rough motion, the sting flared up to a slow burn, and then ebbed to a tingling itch. He again licked the blood from his fingers – and then spat disgusted with himself. He didn't even know who he was anymore. Preoccupied with Buffy, castrated by his chip, reduced to drinking pig's blood – or worse, his own -- he needed a change.
For a fleeting moment, his thoughts drifted back to Dawn – wandering the streets of Sunnydale alone – and the promise he'd made to Buffy. He growled, pushing the thought from his mind and strode off, determined, in the direction opposite that which she'd run. Dawn, Buffy, and the whole bloody lot of them were no longer his concern – in fact, the sooner he could force himself to forget them, the better he'd be.
First, though, he'd stop for a drink.
"Did you hear?" A demon grabbed Spike by the arm as soon as he entered Willy's bar.
"Try not to hear much of anythin' if I can help it," he answered. "Man could get into trouble if he knows too much."
"You'll hear this one sooner or later," the demon answered, a long, forked tongue coming out to lick his wide, black lips. "Human over there," he gestured over his shoulder in the general direction of the bar, "claims he shot the Slayer."
If Spike's heart still beat, it would've stopped at that very moment. As it was, he found himself thankful that his lack of a heartbeat left him immune to shock and vertigo. His sense of foreboding was amplified by his absolute certainty in the veracity of the demon's news. Rypognaq demons can't lie.
He looked in the direction the demon was pointing, and saw a solitary figure crouched on a barstool nursing a wine cooler. He recognized him almost immediately.
Spike didn't even pause to contemplate what his next step would be. He pushed the 450 pound demon out of the way and strode over to Warren. Pulling him from the barstool by the collar of his shirt, Spike held him several inches off the ground and glared at him silently.
Spike's nose wrinkled in disgust as the contents of the other man's bladder trickled onto the top of his Doc Martens, but he remained silent.
Warren filled the silence. "You c-can't hurt me," he stammered. "Y-you've g-got a ch-ch-chip, and you c-can't hurt me w-w-w-without h-hurting yourself."
"If I were you, I wouldn't be puttin' that theory to the test just yet, Robot Boy," Spike slipped into gameface as he spoke. All he wanted to do was hurt him – as badly as he'd hurt Buffy. He would've done it even with the chip's punishment. That the chip seemed to no longer function was only icing on his cake.
Warren paled further. "Th-this is a safe haven. Y-you can't touch me here."
Spike pulled the other man a little bit closer. "Wanna bet?"
"What do you want with me?" It came out several octaves higher than his normal voice.
"I want to know what the bloody hell you did to Buffy, you sodding git! Did you shoot her?"
"Yes . . ." Warren squeaked.
"What about the witch?" Spike twisted the collar of Warren's shirt, threatening to cut off the circulation above his neck.
"What witch?" He was crying now, and his cowardice only served to further fuel Spike's anger.
"Tara – Willow's girlfriend. She got shot, too."
"She got shot? Oh, God – I didn't mean to. I just meant to kill Buffy."
The world seemed to stop at that moment, and the bar fell silent, all the patrons watching to see what Spike would do next.
For his part, Spike found himself filled with a sense of sudden calm and purpose. Buffy had been shot. Buffy was dead. And he was going to return the favor.
"It was an accident?" Spike asked again by way of confirmation.
"Yeah . . ." Warren nodded enthusiastically.
"You didn't mean to do it?" He repeated his voice calm, soft, reassuring.
Warren again nodded, the power of speech seemingly beyond him at the moment.
"Oops!" he whispered and twisted Warren's neck until it broke. "My mistake." He dropped Warren's lifeless body to the floor and strode from the bar without looking back. His chip never fired.
As he walked the streets of Sunnydale, the same three truths echoed through his mind. Tara's a vampire. Buffy's dead. My chip doesn't work. It should've been a time for celebration. He no longer had to worry about Buffy's reaction to Tara, and better still, Buffy's entirely edible, and completely helpless little sister was back at his crypt waiting for him.
Maybe he wouldn't leave town so quickly after all.
People passed him, seemingly oblivious to the danger that he now posed to them. He now had the power to make any one of them his next meal, and yet he couldn't bring himself to eat them. He told himself that he just wasn't hungry – if you deny a man food long enough, he no longer has an appetite no matter how hungry he may be.
He knew, though, that he was deluding himself. Buffy, the Hellmouth – it'd done something to him. With a roar he turned and drove a fist into the nearest wall, roaring again in frustration as he pulled it back and noting the knuckles were already bruised and bloody.
His frustration and confusion disoriented him, and he stopped dead in his tracks, not knowing whether to move forward, or backward, and not entirely sure which way either was. In the end, some primal instinct drove him back home – to the seclusion, safety, and sanctity of his crypt.
To Dawn and the promise he'd made to a woman that was no longer even alive.
Dawn was sleeping when he arrived. Curled up on the hard stone sarcophagus one hand fisted under her chin, it looked almost as though she'd fallen to sleep right there waiting for him. Which, he realized upon reflection was probably exactly what had happened.
He watched her for a while; her mouth was pursed into a tiny rosebud, her chest rising and falling with every breath. He wanted her, wanted to consume her in every sense of the word, and yet, all he could do was stand there and watch her. He sighed, reflexively, and strode across the room. If he couldn't eat her, and couldn't fuck her, he may as well wake her up.
"Hey," he touched gently on the shoulder, wanting to rouse her without scaring her. "Hey!" He tried again, this time shaking her slightly.
"Oh. . ." she blinked, and looked up at him. "Spike. Hi. What time is it?"
"'lo," he answered glumly, ignoring her question, and sat next to her.
"What happened? Did you kill Tara?" she asked, excitement and something akin to bloodlust glistening in her eyes.
"Not yet," Spike replied, his disappointment etched on every feature.
"Don't worry," she tried to lift his spirits. "My sister's probably lookin' for her, too." She spoke with such certainty that Spike couldn't look at her. "I stopped by the house on the way back and she wasn't there, so that's probably where she is, out lookin' for Tara . . ."
"'bit," Spike interrupted.
"What?" Dawn looked up at him, her eyes wide.
"Buffy . . . your sister's been shot."
"Spike that's not funny!" She paled and her voice shook.
"She was shot when Tara was shot. Warren shot them both." Spike informed her, putting a hand on her shoulder and gently squeezing as though that would diffuse the magnitude of the news.
"Liar!!" She jumped off the sarcophagus and began pummeling him with her fists. "You're a liar!"
He let her hit him until she didn't have the energy to do so anymore, and she collapsed against him crying, sniffling, and hiccupping. He awkwardly patted her back trying to soothe her. "Shhhhh . . . I know . . . shhhh . . . it'll be okay . . . shhh." He tried to convince her though he himself was unconvinced.
There was a part of him that hated himself at that moment, for being such a pansy ass as to comfort her. There was a part of him that hated himself for being the monster that broke the news to her in the first place. He didn't know which part of himself he hated more.
The transition from sleeping to waking was not as painful the second time. The hum, a constant buzzing, was the first thing she noticed. The electrically driven machinery was everywhere – the machinery that was monitoring her vital signs, the machinery that was breathing for her, the machinery that was cleaning the air, the machinery that was keeping the room lit as bright as day.
She felt herself quickly growing mesmerized by the constant whooshing thumps of the respirator, and forgot she was no longer dreaming.
The tube down her throat made her gag, and she began to cough again, trying to expel it.
"Awake?" It was someone different. She turned her head to look in the direction of the voice – and saw a man in a white lab coat, making notes in her chart.
Buffy nodded, and gestured to the tube in her throat begging wordlessly to have it removed.
"You're Miss Summers," the doctor pronounced – ignoring her frantic hand signals, and instead shining a penlight into her eyes.
She nodded, her eyes tearing at the intensity of the light.
"Good, good," the doctor nodded. "I'm Doctor Davis – we're gonna do what we can to get you out of here. Can you move your toes for me?"
Buffy complied, her frustration growing, and again motioned to the breathing tube. "Fine, then; you're healing just like we expected." He nodded in satisfaction. "How about sitting up? We'll get the tube out, and then get you out of here."
Buffy attempted to comply, moving slowly as the room swam around her. She gripped the bar on the side of her bed and trained her eyes on a random spot on the wall across from her until the feeling abated.
"Good . . . good girl. Now, cough for me." As he spoke, he wrapped one hand around the chest tube. She coughed, and he pulled. She gagged, and he pulled again. The tube came out, and he quickly dropped it to the floor.
Exhausted, Buffy lay back on the bed.
"Not now!" Dr. Davis scolded her. She felt him slide his arms underneath her – lifting her from the bed and transferring her to a gurney. In the back of her mind, she wondered why she hadn't noticed him bring it in with him.
He buckled the straps around her, and she stiffened against their confinement. She opened her mouth to argue – to scream – to protest – but instead succumbed to the blackness that once again pressed in on her from all sides.