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Chapter Four
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“…Buffy?” Spike spun around, gaze darting frantically. “Buffy!”
Where the sodding hell had she gone? She’d just been there. He was certain of it. He looked around again. For that matter, where the sodding hell was he?
“She’s pretty worried about you.”
Spike whirled again, coming face-to-face with…Fred? Stunned, he stood gawking like a school boy in a brothel.
Fred smiled indulgently. “Thing is, she shouldn’t be. She’s only going to mess things up.”
Giving his head a quick shake, Spike resisted the urge to pinch himself; but only just. “Fred…” He squinted then straightened. “Hang on. You’re not Fred.”
“You always were a lot smarter than most people gave you credit for being.” She tilted her head. “It’s probably the hair.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m not too inclined to take fashion hints from somethin’ that can’t even wear its own body. Speakin’ of…” He leaned forward, voice dropping to a dangerous level. “Get. Out of. Her. Face…Now.”
“Fred” laughed lightly, slapping playfully at his shoulder. “Oh, stop it, silly. We don’t have time for things like that. Haven’t you even wondered where you are?”
Spike frowned as he shot a sideways glance at his surroundings. He had been, actually, just before the appearance of the thing that looked like Fred. But he’d been momentarily sidetracked. Truth was, he’d never been that good at multi-tasking. He’d always been more of a straight-to-the-kill, focus-on-the-goal type vampire. Which was odd, since his thought processes weren’t the most structured, and he loved nothing so much as a good, chaotic brawl. But even then, he usually took it one brawl at a time. The soul hadn’t affected that part of him much, merely made him a little more discriminating about what kind of chaos he embraced.
He sniffed. “Matter of fact, I have. Doesn’t look much like LA.” Didn’t look much like anything he recognized. It seemed to be some kind of void, filled only with the two of them and an endless, shifting sea of mist and fog. Everything, including the not-Fred, was cast in a soft, pink glow.
He hated pink. Such a bloody ridiculous color. Didn’t have the balls to be red, wasn’t good enough to be white. He couldn’t imagine anything worse than living out the rest of his days bathed in such a namby-pamby hue.
That’s it. Must be hell.
“Oh, stop it. You’re not in hell. Honestly, Spike, sometimes you’re such a drama queen.”
“Oi! Out of my head!” He glowered at her. “Nobody invited you to go pokin’ about in there. Wouldn’t catch Fred doing something like that. She had more respect for people. She was something special, not like some nosy, pain-in-the-ass, pale imitation.”
Not-Fred merely folded her arms, looking enormously amused.
“Anyway, ’s warm enough to be hell,” he groused. “Snuffed it, didn’t I? In the big battle. So, what are you…some kind of gatekeeper?”
“What I am isn’t important, but you’re not in hell, and you’re not dead. At least, not in the strictest sense of the word.”
Spike sighed. Apparently, gutting a Kaznar demon would be easier than trying to get information from this bloody bint. “So where am I, then?”
“In between.”
“In between,” he echoed, eyebrows quirked as he waited for more. When it didn’t come, he clenched his fists and his jaw. “In between what? Life and death? Good and evil? Clay and Ruben?”
Not-Fred shrugged. “Just…in between.”
Spike snorted. “Bloody typical. You get your rocks off givin’ me a bunch of nothin’ and I’m left flapping in the wind. You can at least tell me about the others, right? What happened to them? What happened with the battle?” He sobered. “Did anyone survive?”
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
Head cocked, he squinted into the nothingness. “Remember the alley. Remember the fight. Remember a bloody strange sound and a big wind.” He stopped, his brow furrowed. “And…a room. With people.” He frowned harder, trying to recall. “Rupert…and Red. And Illyria, too, I think.” His gaze turned back to hers. “I wasn’t in the alley.”
She smiled. “Nope. You were there…in England. They pulled you out, you and Illyria.”
“Or maybe I only imagined them,” he challenged. “Like I’m probably imaginin’ you.”
“You big knucklehead.” She laughed lightly, her tone affectionate. “They were real enough. So am I, just not the way you see me now.”
Giving that some thought, he slowly nodded. “Fair enough. What about the others, then…Angel and Charlie?” He swallowed. “Are they dead?”
She shook her head and sighed. “Why do you always jump to the worst conclusion? You’re dead, they’re dead, none of this is real…there are other options, you know.”
“Really. Why don’t you tell me about them then?” he asked, sarcasm in full swing.
Before his eyes, all semblance of Fred vanished. The body was still there, but the face was a blank mask devoid of any emotion. The voice, when she spoke, was deeper than before – more like a cross between Fred and Illyria.
“Prophecy is not set in stone, and destiny can be rewritten. You taught us that, William.”
For once, Spike was at a loss. Before he could recover his snark, the being in front of him morphed into Illyria.
“She meddles in things she does not understand. This cannot be allowed, or the prophecy will be altered and a new page written.”
Spike shook his head, bewildered. “Prophecy? What prophecy?” He squinted. “Is this about that shanshu bugaboo? And who is this ‘she’ you’re talkin’ about?”
“She will call you back. You must not go. Whatever happens, you must resist.”
“Who the hell are you talkin’ about?” Spike yelled, his patience snapping.
Her head tilted. “The Slayer.”
That stopped him cold. “The…Buffy? You’re talkin’ about Buffy?” Worried now, he started to pace. “What’s she got to do with this? Is she all right? Not hurt is she? Woman never could mind her own business. But she’s okay, right? Otherwise, she couldn’t be meddlin’ in whatever it is you won’t tell me about.”
He looked up to find Not-Illyria striding away. “Hey! Hang on there…answer me!” He started after her. “Blue! Answer my bloody question! Is she all right?” He started jogging, trying to catch up, but even though she seemed to be moving at the same speed, the distance between them grew. He finally gave up and skidded to a halt.
“Blue! Don’t leave me here like this!” he bellowed after her. “I need you to tell me! Blue!”
An instant later, the leather-clad figure was swallowed up by the pink fog.
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“I swear, Giles, he knew me. He woke up! He said my name! And it wasn’t just the fever talking.”
“I believe you, Buffy. Unfortunately, he seems to have slipped away again.” Giles rose from his seat at the bedside where he’d been examining an unresponsive Spike. “It is quite encouraging, however, and he no longer has a fever. Did something happen?”
Buffy froze. “Something? What…something?” She surreptitiously tugged at the sleeve of her robe, making sure it still covered the cut on her forearm.
“I don’t know. Some…sign that he was coming out of it? Something you said, something you did differently? Anything out of the ordinary.”
Buffy licked her lips, which had suddenly gone very dry. “No. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
For a vampire.
Giles gave a slight shrug. “I’m at a loss to explain it. There’s something else rather odd, as well. It almost seems as if his injuries are healing at a faster rate. Not that they were healing at all before, really, other than a somewhat slight improvement with some of the lesser cuts and bruises. But looking at him now, I can definitely tell the difference. Perhaps we should try the intravenous feeding again.”
“No!”
He was obviously startled by her vehemence, and Buffy offered a weak smile. “It’s just that…if he is improving, and I think you’re right, then we don’t want to do anything that might interfere with that. Right? I mean, you’ve been feeding him and he didn’t get better. Last night, you didn’t and he did. Maybe we should hold off a little bit. See what happens.”
She waited, holding her breath, until Giles slowly nodded.
“Perhaps you’re right. We don’t know what we’re dealing with here. For all we know, he may not be responding in a way that’s normal to a vampire. As long as he doesn’t get worse, I don’t suppose there’s any harm in waiting a bit.”
Giles moved toward the door then stopped. “Buffy. Promise me, that whatever happens in here, you won’t take any unnecessary risks.” He turned to look at her. “If anything should happen to you, even if Spike recovered because of it, do you really believe he would thank you? How long do you think he would stay in this world, knowing he had been the cause of your death?”
Buffy’s shoulders sagged. She should have known. “I was careful, Giles. I didn’t let him take too much. I won’t give him more than a little at a time, I swear. And there’s no real danger. He couldn’t even do it on his own; I had to help him. Believe me, he’s not a threat.”
“Now, perhaps, but what about later as he grows stronger? How much of a threat will he be then?”
“I can handle it. Trust me on this, please.”
He stared at her solemnly. “It would seem I have little choice.” At the door, he paused. “Buffy, I know your blood replenishes itself faster than that of a normal human, but there are limits. Please, don’t forget that.”
“I won’t,” she promised, and smiled reassuringly.
It was only after the door had closed that her smile faded away.
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Over the next three days whenever the fever appeared, Buffy “encouraged” Spike to feed. Each time he did, the fever quickly abated. A small part of her acknowledged that she got off on the erotic nature of the feedings more than a little, but mostly she avoided thinking about that aspect, focusing instead on Spike’s rapidly improving condition. Rapidly improving in the physical sense, that is. No matter how hard she tried, there was no further sign of recognition on his part, no random moment of lucidity to give her hope. Trying to suppress her bitter disappointment, she redoubled her efforts.
She was equally discouraged that the coven seemed no closer to locating Angel, despite Willow’s continued attempts to reassure her otherwise. When they spoke on the phone, Willow seemed eager to cheer her up. Maybe a little too eager. Something in her voice smacked of desperation and it gave Buffy the sinking feeling that all of their efforts wouldn’t be enough. That Angel was lost to them forever, and that Spike, somehow tied to his fate, would slip away from her without any hope of stopping it.
Late at night, as she lay beside him, she couldn’t help wondering if it might be too late already. That even if he came back all the way, it wouldn’t be to her. Other than that brief moment of recognition, her name never passed his lips. His fevered monologues were filled with references to his life in LA, but nothing about her. Nothing about Sunnydale. Nothing to indicate he’d ever had a life before last year.
Through his disjointed ramblings, she gathered bits and pieces of the time he’d spent away from her, but the picture they formed was a hard one for Buffy to accept. Plagued by nagging questions, one in particular, she knew that if she really wanted to help Spike, she had to get an answer.
Even though it might be one she didn’t want to hear.
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She found Illyria in the garden, bent over a large yellow flower that Buffy didn’t recognize, studying it with an intensity that gave new meaning to the phrase “communing with nature.” She looked strangely at home among the colorful flower beds, far less alien here than she had seemed in the formal parlor of the house.
“Did he love her?”
The demon lifted her head and with one fluid movement rose to face Buffy. “Her.” The tilt of her head was quizzical, though it didn’t sound like a question.
“Fred. Did Spike love her?” Buffy stood with fists balled, staring her down.
Illyria regarded her silently, the breeze playing with her blue-tinged hair. Buffy was about to repeat the question when she spoke. “Yes.”
The answer caused a strange constriction in her chest. “Was that why he stayed in Los Angeles? To be with her?”
Illyria seemed to study her much the same way she had examined the flower. “You ask why he stayed, but what you really wish to know is something else. You wonder why he did not seek you out. Humans are predictable.” Something flickered in her face. “All but one.”
Buffy took a deep breath, reminding herself she was there for information, not to antagonize. “So, what does he call you?
“He has many names for me. It is his way.”
“If you’re talking about ‘love’…or maybe ‘pet’…sorry to break it to you, Illyria, but he uses those a lot.”
“Perhaps. He did not use them with me.”
Oh.
Buffy looked away.
Probably didn’t use Goldilocks, either, considering.
Her eyes swung back as her chin rose. “Did he call you Blue? Was that one of those…many names?” A cold stillness settled over her. She knew the answer, had known it, really, from the moment he’d first started calling out to her. But there was always a chance…
“It was.” Illyria’s expression gave nothing away. “I called him Half-Breed, in the beginning. I would not call him that now.”
“So, you two were…close?”
“Yes. Frequently. I enjoyed our intercourse. I liked the noises he made when I hit him. He challenged me. And he took me out. He was the only one.”
Buffy realized then that suspecting something wasn’t as bad as knowing it. She’d thought the not-knowing would be harder, but she’d been so wrong. The chill in her heart should have numbed her, robbing the truth of its sting, but it knifed through her, cutting and slashing with stone cold clarity.
“I would have claimed Spike as my pet, but Angel would not permit it. Perhaps it would be allowed now.”
Suddenly, Buffy wasn’t cold anymore. She burned with fury and disbelief. “Your pet?” She spat out the word. “That’s all he is to you?”
“You are angry. Why? I would do him great honor. It is no small thing to belong to me.”
“First off, bitch-god, Spike doesn’t belong to anyone. Second, if he did, it would be me. So if all you can offer him is a collar and a leash, then back off!” Tossing her head back, Buffy barked out a harsh laugh. “God, I don’t know why I was stupid enough to think you could help. He doesn’t need you! He’s not some thing, some lap dog. He has feelings and –”
She froze.
Oh god.
Illyria said something in response, though it barely registered. Who she was yelling at – the demon god or herself? All those things, all those terrible, terrible accusations. She’d been guilty of all of them, and never once had she apologized to Spike. Even at the end, when she’d known how wrong she’d been, Buffy had never actually said the words. Deep in her heart, she’d still thought of him as hers – as something, or someone, to own. As a vampire, less than human and therefore less worthy of her consideration.
The kind of consideration she had freely given to another vampire.
Oh god.
Raising her gaze to meet Illyria’s, she searched for an answer, some reassurance that she wasn’t the same Buffy who had looked at Spike as her personal property to do with as she would. But no answer lay there.
A noise on the gravel pathway broke the silence. As Buffy turned, a slightly out-of-breath Xander slowed to a stop.
“You’d better hurry,” he said. “Something’s happened.”
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TBC in Part 5
A/N: Sorry to leave you with an evil cliffhanger, but anticipation is the spice of life, yes? ;-)
Now I'm off to respond to the lovely feedback from previous chapters. Thank you all so much!
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Author's Chapter Notes:
This is currently a WIP written in response to a Spuffy Kinkathon challenge. The story requirements were as follows: The requested kink was hurt/comfort. Three other requests were to show Spike reluctantly biting Buffy, include Dawn and/or Xander in the story, and set it anywhere from Season 5 to Post-NFA.