The Tower of Learning
It was surprisingly simple—leaving Wolfram and Hart constituted nothing more than just that. There was no opposition, no demeaning glances, nothing but airs of haughty normalcy. A lifeless Slayer bound in a leather duster and held tightly in the vampire's arms. Wright walked intently alongside his companion, but the reaction would not sway with difference. There was no reason to hamper their leaving—the damage, after all, had already been accomplished.
They had discovered Lindsey McDonald's office vacant; nothing to the man's credit saved a few packed boxes and a date inscribed in his day-timer with G the LS. Nothing else.
Too late, anyway, to attempt any venue. Too late for anything.
A woman named Lilah Morgan met them in Lindsey's office and diplomatically offered to see them out without dispute. They followed with more of the same. No words. No exchanges. There was nothing to offer.
Spike had Buffy cradled to his chest, wrapped gracefully in the prize marking her kind. It was a Slayer's coat, after all. He had pulled it off a dead one in New York—poetic justice that he should arrange it on another after her passing. Especially since the woman who wore it also owned his heart.
He did not want to think how she would hate him when she awoke. Hate him for not being fast enough. For not saving her. For turning her into what she was meant to destroy. For making her a creature of his own following. She was not meant for this sort of existence; and he had condemned her. It was not by choice, and yet he felt the burden of responsibility.
If she hated him, truly hated him, after what they had shared, he did not know what he would do.
That was all in retrospect. Too late now. He had graced Lilah with a dark, accusing glare and turned his attention back to areas of more noteworthy consequence. It concluded in following Wright when prodded, not to look back.
There was nothing to see should he turn and try.
They were ultimately led to the sewers that Angel had made habit of utilizing prior to his transformation. Their journey was long paced and awkwardly silent—Spike occasionally nudging the Slayer's head with his cheek, inhaling the fullness of her scent. Reassuring himself with her presence. Cherishing these last minutes when he could pretend that she did not hate him. That the stanch respect and trust that had shone behind her eyes when he last saw her would be what greeted him when she awoke. When she returned to him. Before she realized how he had betrayed her.
And yet stillness consumed her—and him in turn. Stillness rendered them both hollowed shells of reason. With each step, the path to the Hyperion seemed to lengthen in context.
It was a cold reckoning of several combinations. The vampire had not spoken since leaving Buffy's torture chamber, and whatever needed to be said would remain indefinitely reserved. Zack wasn't sure what even drove him anymore. The few full glances that they shared were void of any or all emotion. A pure nothingness to counter with everything that had occurred.
Whatever the circumstance, it couldn't last. Silence alone could drive a man insane—in such conditions, the damage was potentially irreparable.
Wright glanced to his friend mindfully. "Spike?"
A few beats of waiting. Then nothing.
"Spike?"
Nothing.
"Spike, for Chrissake, say something."
The vampire's eyes darkened and his jaw set with immeasurable hardness. "There's nothin' to say, Zangy."
"I think there is."
"Yeh. I'd wager so. An' as we all know, you're burstin' with brilliant ideas."
"It was all..." Wright sighed and ran a hand through his ashburn locks. "It was everything...all that we could do. All that I could do."
"You've ruined her." Spike stopped dead in his tracks, eyes blazing with levels of fiery contempt. "You've...how can you not know what you've done? You out of all the bloody people in the fucking world oughta know that. You dedicated your life to this. To..." He fell silent again, the incursion of objection too overwhelming to answer. Instead, he opted for a low but equally dangerous, "You know what you've done."
"It...she..." Zack closed his eyes briefly and paused to gather his bearings. "She will retain her soul. Wes and Cordy assured me that if she was turned, she would retain her soul."
"Right. Small compensation for losin' everythin' else." He willed himself to another standstill, turning to face the other man completely for the first time since leaving. "Wes an' Cordy assured you? Why would they have need to—"
"I wasn't planning this and you know it. It came up in passing conversation. I was worried about what would happen if Angelus turned her. I didn't..." Another sigh painted the air. "I didn't want to have to approach you with the possibility of having to kill her."
There was a moment's pause. Spike's gaze hardened imperceptibly, and he turned to continue without forward offer. "'F she doesn' hate me for the whole of eternity..."
"She won't."
"I din't save her."
"You didn't kill her, either."
"No. I jus' handed her an existence that she's never gonna forgive me for. That...she..." The vampire shuddered with a lingering beat of resented rage. "I can't believe you did this."
"I had to."
"Funny. A vampire hunter forced to make a vampire."
"It had nothing to do with that and you know it. I did it because it meant something for..." Wright shook his head with a deep breath. This line of understanding deserved a far more open approach—meager excuses were meaningless. He had to share reason. "When I lost Amber...it nearly killed me. It probably should have, given how naïve I was at the time. How secure and blissfully ignorant. If I had had the opportunity, I would've done anything to save her. Anything."
There was no missing the subtext of that revelation. Spike made a noncommittal sound, eyes drifting implicitly to Buffy once more. "Sirin' her wouldn't have saved her."
"I know."
"It wouldn't have even been her when she—"
"I know."
"Vamps have the memories an' the—"
"I know. But she would...she was Amber. And I would've done anything..." Zack sighed evocatively. "It's different now, of course. I wouldn't wish that on anyone."
"Anyone except the woman I love. 'S that what this is, Zangy? Gettin' back at me for bein' a vamp at long bloody last?"
He frowned, clearly insulted. "Don't be ridiculous."
"'m not entirely convinced that—"
"You know why I did it, asshole. She's...I couldn't stand to see someone go through what I went through, especially when there was a way to stop it. She's a Slayer. She—"
"She doesn' deserve this. She doesn' deserve an eternity of pain to spare my feelings."
"You have the power to fix it now if you feel that I was that out of line."
Spike stopped shortly and glared at him. Every twitch he betrayed was wrought with disdain. "You son of a bitch."
"Well what? If I did such an injustice to her, kill her before she rises. It'd be the merciful thing to do, wouldn't it?"
There was a long, dangerous pause. Then, slowly with marked resignation, he expelled a deep breath and allowed the tension in his shoulders to roll off in waves. When he spoke, the defeat in his tone was nearly unbearable. "You know I can't."
"You mean you won't."
"That's right."
Wright arched a brow and waited.
"I won't," Spike reiterated. His voice dripped with self-hatred and failure, but he did not waver an inkling from the truth he knew inherent. It was fruitless to deny something that was written so plainly within his eyes. "I won't lose her again. I'm not...I'm too bloody selfish to lose her twice."
"I know."
His head shot up, gaze gleaming with tears laced with umbrage and malice. "Don' do that. Don' for one second pretend you're better than me when you've jus' told me that—"
"I'm not, Spike. We're even. Completely." Zack shook his head heavily and they continued walking. Silence marked with undeclared respect. "There've been a lot of things that I've done and I'm not proud of. A lot. The decision I made back there is not one of them. I might doubt myself, I might hate myself, but I know...I know that it's better to try and save someone from what I went through than sit from the goddamn sidelines. You're a vampire and I hate you for it. You know I hate you for it. But I think I hate you for being a man more than anything else." He smiled when Spike glanced to him in surprise. "It's easier when monsters behave like monsters. When they prove to be men, that's when you question your integrity. I'm not better than you, Spike. I'm the same. We're the same. We're both men with monsters locked inside, and there's not a damn thing either one of us can do about it."
For a few seconds, it seemed the entirety of the Los Angeles underworld to be kept in grim solitude, such that even the rats that frequented the sewers could not be placed. It took only a beat or so in retrospect for Spike's eyes to soften. For any leeway to be allowed from the staunch resolution he had so depended on. It wasn't much, but it was enough. It was enough for both of them.
A sigh coursed through the vampire and his guard slipped without reservation. "You don' know what you've done to her."
"I know," Wright replied quietly. "Just as I know it had to be done. Angelus murdered her because he knew that you were coming for her. I'm not about to give him that advantage."
"This is more than Peaches."
"I know."
"Do you?"
"It's about her. It's also about you. I know suffering well enough to know when it's on the verge of destroying someone. It would've destroyed you. It would've made you into one of them." Zack smiled grimly and turned to continue. "There might be a lot of wrong in what I did, Spike, but neither one of us is gonna fix it. You would've grieved, then you would've lost it. You would've...you would've become dangerous."
A scoff seized the vampire's throat and he arched a brow in offense. "'m already dangerous, Zangy. You forget who you're dealin' with."
"No, I don't. I can't afford to. But I also know that you're a good man, despite being a bad vampire."
"'m not—"
There was a dry chuckle of challenge. "Right. You're not. Come on. Falling in love with the Slayer? Going against your Order? Becoming the honorary leader of Angel Investigations—the crime fighting squadron? Yeah. You're not. Tell that to me again, but this time try to sound like you believe it."
Spike went still for a minute. "'m not the honorary leader."
Zack gave him a look.
"'m not!"
"Right. And everyone's just sitting on their tail ends waiting on word from you because it's so much fun, not to mention productive."
The vampire went rigid for a minute with implication but brushed it off with more of the same. "They jus' knew how important it was to get Buffy out."
"Important to you."
"She's the Slayer, mate! It doesn' get more important than that."
"There would've been others. So is the lifeline of the Slayer." Wright's hands came up in measure of defense when that observation earned a particularly nasty glare. "I'm just saying. I came into this not knowing shit about Slayers, but I've done my reading and Cordy's filled me in on all the gray areas. Slayers aren't meant to grow old, Spike. Buffy's death was inevitable any way you looked at it. Trying to save her, while noble, would've ultimately proven...ineffective."
"Well, thanks to logic, you've taken care of that."
"What I did had nothing to do with her being the Slayer. I had to get her back."
The vampire snorted. "Right. 'Cause you know her so well."
"No. But I know you...better than I'd like to. Buffy is your link to humanity, Spike. I'm not so stupid that I can't see that. She's the reason you're here with me at all. She's the reason you're not the monster you're supposed to be." A sigh rolled off his shoulders. "And aside my pettiness, I couldn't risk that you'd revert to form. 'Cause then I'd be forced to kill you."
"You might hafta yet."
"I know."
"'S a part of havin' a vamp as a chum, Zangy."
"I know."
"So you jus' thought you'd spare yourself an' instead condemn the woman I love to an existence that she's gonna bloody well hate me for...for havin' any part of?" Spike sighed and shook his head. "I'd rather 'ave her dead an' feelin' whatever she was feelin' 'bout me toward the end than alive an' hatin' me forever."
Zack nodded. "How selfish of you."
"Bloody right." The vampire grinned wryly at his friend's surprise that he would accept such a calm resignation. "For the firs' few years, mate, I could live with it. I could live with it as long as she's happy. 'F by the grace of God she overcomes her transformation an'...'f she can be happy, that's all that matters."
"Why do I sense a big ole nasty 'but' in that clause?"
"Because there is one. Eventually, mate, her friends are gonna snuff it. Then she's gonna be left alone." Spike expelled a deep, mournful breath, and the sobriety in his countenance betraying everything that he didn't really need to say. "An' when it comes down to that, I don' want her seekin' me out 'cause I'm all she's got left. I don' want her...like that. Whatever happiness she has for the whole of fifty years 's gonna be nothin' compared to the loneliness after that. There'd be no one else for her. No other vamps. No Peaches. No one. I don' wanna be the last resort. Not after what we've shared." He shook his head. "I don' want her to spend the whole of eternity hatin' me for bein' too bloody selfish to give her up. I don' want her crawlin' to me for bein' the only one left. I jus'..."
There was no reason to clarify. Wright understood well enough.
"But you still won't kill her."
"No. I can't." The vampire made a pitiful sound and shook his head. "I can't kill her, mate, an' spare her that. No matter what I...I lost her once today. It nearly destroyed me. Those few seconds nearly destroyed me. I can't do it again."
There was a snort. "What we have here is an ethical dilemma."
"For two blokes who don' really favor ethics, 's a pretty sizey one."
"I don't regret it, Spike. I don't regret what I did. It saved you both." Wright smiled softly. "Maybe you're wrong. Maybe she'll see that."
A pause settled between them. Heavy and coated with incredulity. There was no want of belief. No want of anything beyond solitude. "...Maybe."
There could be no truth in supposition. Both knew enough to see that.
But neither decided to raise challenge. Not to what was already known. Not when they were battling the enemy that sat atop an uphill front. Not when they were out of ammunition.
Not when everything seemed over.
Arrival at the Hyperion went, for all intents and purposes, as was expected. Cordelia nearly doubled over when she saw them standing in the doorway, shielding Rosie's eyes and demanding that she return to her coloring book. As though the child was a stranger to such things. As though she had never before seen a body before. As though she hadn't predicted it with the morning's rise.
There was some comfort in selective ignorance. No one thought to question her.
"Oh my God," she gasped, approaching tentatively. "Spike...I'm so sorry."
The vampire smiled gratefully, too overwhelmed at the moment to explain any further what had happened. To his credit, he tried. Several times. Tried to open his mouth and explain what would come about in the evening. What to expect when the Slayer discovered her fate. But he couldn't say it—he couldn't bring himself to for any reason. Thus instead, he turned to Wright and explained calmly that the demon hunter would fill her in. For the time being, he was going upstairs.
"Why?" she asked.
"To clean her," he explained. "'m not gonna let her stay like this."
And that was all he said—there was nothing else to say. He carried her to the master suite that Cordelia had set up for him the day of his arrival. The same that had gone virtually unused. It was comfortable, even posh, but his attention was far removed. In the adjoining bathroom, he stripped Buffy of his duster, turned the shower on hot, and entered with her in his arms. It was a quick excursion—holding her bare, dirty and abused body against his clad form as he washed the grime from her skin and massaged shampoo into her scalp. Watching the spiral of blood and dirt dance down the drain. Feeling the fresh wounds inflicted on her flesh. Feeling where Angelus had hurt her the most.
Feeling the rage he thought impossible to influx any further instead expand and nearly break his chest.
He didn't linger in the shower; merely dampened her skin and shampooed her hair. Got the worst of her clean before moving them to the tub.
It was a strange angle and he would be the first to admit it. Time and experience had taught him many different ways to care for someone who was otherwise incapable of caring for themselves. He couldn't fathom how often he had tended to Drusilla in a similar manner. Bathing her. Feeding her. Making sure she had all the essentials for survival. Even before Prague, his deranged ex-lover had never possessed the central knowledge on how to care for herself. She relished the kill, no doubt, but she also entertained whims that were far too capricious for her own good. And it had been that way for years—he had accepted the reality that he was her saving grace. Without Angelus and Darla, she wouldn't have survived. And after they were gone, there was no one but him to give a damn.
That had changed, of course. Everything changed.
Spike found himself smiling at Buffy's frozen face, despite the invasion of self-aimed horror that such inevitably bore. Yes, everything changed. He had changed. He had changed so much.
And now he was taking care of the Slayer in a way that he never would have wished upon her. One of the things he loved about her was her ability to not only tend to herself, but also care for others in a manner that succeeded in both vexing him greatly and increasing his admiration for her in massive proportion. He had never wanted to see her so weak. So needy. Drusilla had needed him, and that knowledge had provided sufficient substitution for his desire for her to love him as he loved her. He wanted Buffy to love him completely—not depend on him.
Despite how he tried, he couldn't see beyond tomorrow. Beyond the face of admiration turned into staunch hatred. The thought alone was nearly enough persuasion to lead him to the sun. One could not touch her, make her smile, share the wealth that was her joy and have it turn to ash with the whim of such a fatal mistake.
But try as he might, he could not bear the thought of taking it back. Even his condemnation for Wright's actions had halted resolutely in his mouth.
He had a feeling the night would be a plague of these thoughts. Right now, he had to devote his time elsewhere. Into making sure she woke up warm and loved. That she found the world a better place than the one she had left. That she knew, despite how things might have changed, that she was safe here. With him. And always would be.
Thus he bathed her. Thoroughly. He worshipfully eradicated every stain that befell her ivory skin. He cleaned her cuts and mended her wounds even as he knew her own innate fortitude would serve just as well. The marks of transformation were beginning to claim her. Vampirism in cahoots with her Slayer power.
He smiled poignantly at the notion. The gods themselves do tremble.
It was finished, then. Everything he could have done to make her wake comfortable. To make her reemergence—her rebirth, for lack of a better term, as wholly gentle as possible. He dried her off with more of the same and adorned her in some of Cordelia's things that he found set across his bed. At any other time, he would have found it odd that he hadn't heard her come in. But not now. Not with his thoughts so singular that nothing short of the apocalypse could hope to break his walls.
Spike gently laid Buffy in bed and pulled the comforters to provide falsified warmth. Seeing her alabaster skin set against the white of the sheets was discomforting. She was too pale. She had always been paler than any other normal Californian due to her duties, but her color now was nearly nonexistent. Kept too long from the sun and subject too often to torment and pain. And now this. Lifeless. Dead.
He hated the notion.
How long he sat with her, he knew not. Time had no qualm of passing without his consent. He sat in disturbed silence, watching her for all her stillness, contemplating the hours ahead with such growing dread that he thought it possible for his heart to begin pounding. With each passing second, the threat of her hatred threatened to shatter whatever was left in him to shatter. The proverbial noose tightening around his neck. The same being that didn't need air now depended on it; he felt whatever notion of decency moved within him threatening to leave with more of the same if he did not find some sort of consolation.
The only consolation that could satisfy was through her touch, and he knew she was unreachable.
He had come so close. So fucking close.
But it wasn't about him. It never had been.
Sometime past dark, the door creaked open and the scent of warm blood hit the air. Spike found himself jarred out of whatever perpetual reverie he was destined to relive until she awoke and found himself more than grateful for the disturbance. He turned to the door and was greeted by Cordelia's warm, sympathetic smile. She extended the proffered mug and sat down at the corner of the bed, more than mindful not to disturb Buffy's seemingly endless slumber.
The vampire regarded her carefully before turning his attention to her gift. It seemed forever had passed since he last fed, and he knew he likely would have forgotten to had she not made the gesture. "Thanks," he said hoarsely, indulging a large gulp.
She shrugged. "I thought you could use a friend."
There was a telling snort and he arched a brow. "'S that what we are?"
"Oh, don't. Don't even."
"'m not doin' anythin'."
"Yes, you are. You're brooding." When his eyes widened comically at the implication, she brought her hands up in ode of innocence. "I'm just stating a fact, here. And trust me, I'd know. Hello, worked for a brooding vamp for two years. I think I'm well enough skilled in this level of expertise to pinpoint the signs."
He sniggered appreciatively and took another drink. "That was below the bloody belt, you know."
"Of course. I'm Cordelia. I only aim below the belt. It's the only surefire way to get the point across." There was a shadow of a smile before he melted away to nothingness again, his eyes traveling to the still woman that had been cared for to the extent of his abilities. No matter how he exercised himself, there always seemed to be something lacking. As though more could be done in preparation for her wake, even if he knew it otherwise.
So in danger was he in immersing himself in his thoughts once more that he would have forgotten the other woman's presence had she not placed a warm hand on his knee and jarred him back to the present. "You did everything you could," she told him softly.
Spike couldn't help it; he snickered. "Yeh. Sure did."
"I wasn't talking about that."
"Doesn' matter; I was."
"And again with the brooding. I'm going to need to whack you upside the head every few seconds to keep this from becoming a dangerous habit, aren't I?" She sighed when he didn't answer, detached and overdrawn. "He did what he thought was right. You know how he feels about this."
"Y'know, after today, 'm seriously beginnin' to have my doubts."
"Right. And that's why you made his acquaintance at the wrong end of a crossbow."
"Luv, at my age, you're not lookin' to find many things that I haven't seen the wrong end of." A sigh coursed through his agonized body, and he leaned forward in despair. "She's never gonna forgive me for this."
Cordelia pursed her lips, rubbing his back softly. "Sure she is."
A bitter chuckle rumbled through his lips. "'S not that simple."
"Of course not. But everything's forgivable, Spike. Even for stuck-up Slayers."
"Watch it."
She arched a brow. "You speak as though it's not the truth."
The vampire glanced upward, tormented eyes glimmering with beads of hidden amusement. "'Aven't you ever heard of respectin' the dead?"
"Yeah. Kinda figured that one's a pick and choose type of thing. Selective respect. Wouldn't want to be respecting the wrong sort of dead."
Spike smiled ruefully. "Got that for bloody right." His gaze once again fell upon the Slayer. She remained as she had before. "This is a terrible feelin'."
Cordelia nodded, her hand resuming the artless patterns of comfort that drew across his back. "Being afraid?" She smiled warmly when he glanced to her with astonishment, disliking that he was that simple to read. "It's okay to be afraid from time to time, you know. Even for a vampire."
"'ve never been afraid before."
"Yes you have. You've been terrified since you first came here. Terrified that she'd die." When he stiffened in implication, a sigh of concession rumbled through her lips. "It wasn't your fault, Spike. You did everything you could. Absolutely, positively, one-hundred-percent everything you could. I've never seen anyone care for anyone the way I saw you care for her these past few...however long you've been here."
An embittered chuckle rumbled through his body. "Funny how you lose track of time when you're havin' fun, innit luv?"
"That's not how the saying goes, and you're purposefully steering me from my point."
"Din't know you had one of those."
She smirked. "Thanks. My point is, this is the first time that your job saving her has entailed you to do nothing but wait. That's why you're feeling your fear now."
He shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I don' like it."
"Well, Pouty McPoutsAlot, what are you gonna do about it? Sit up here and brood?" Cordelia followed his gaze to the bed, where Buffy lay still unchanged. "She'll forgive you."
A choking sob that he didn't even realize he had been harboring spilled from his lips, desperate and unbidden. Funny how emotion could creep up on him of its own entertainment. He had never thought himself so fucking open. "You can't know that. You don' know...God, what have I done to her? She's gonna hate me, Cordy. An' I can't bloody well—"
"Anyone who's seen you at all since you got here knows damn well what you've been going through to get her back. And if you're that transparent to us, then I can't begin to imagine just how much you've revealed during your private time with Buff." She covered his hand with her own, encasing his cold with her warmth. "She'll understand. It wasn't your fault, Spike. She'll have to see that."
He shook his head. "She's gonna hate me."
"Then, frankly, she doesn't deserve you." When his head whipped to her with nearly accusing rapidity, she offered nothing more than a sincere smile. Nothing out of malice or cruel suggestion—it was the truth of feeling. And at that moment, he knew for the first time what it meant to have friends. Real friends. People that would stand by him, through the good and bad decisions. People that accepted him for what he was.
It was spectacular, and only served to terrify him more.
Things were so much simpler when one lived alone.
"I'm gonna head back downstairs," the Seer announced, patting him twice in support before standing once more. "You really oughta come with."
"No. 'm stayin' here." Spike turned back to fully face the bed. "'m not gonna leave her until...'m not gonna leave her."
"Man," she remarked teasingly. "Talk about commitment."
"Cordelia..."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'll be back up in an hour or so...just to see if you need something."
"Thanks, pet. I appreciate it."
She knelt forward to kiss his forehead, again reveling in the look of shocked wonder her warm actions received. "No prob. Anything's better than sitting around while Wes is in research mode. Something about the girl I saw in my vision earlier."
The vampire nodded noncommittally. "Oh."
"Yeah, it was a thing before...well, it was a thing." She moved for the door. "Remember, we're all downstairs if you need anything."
Spike grinned expressively without facing her. "Kinda hard to forget."
There was nothing in reply, even though he sensed her linger for a few minutes thereafter. It was easy to detect when she left, though his mind was far detached from present to make definitive note about it. It was difficult to consider anything while Buffy slept.
So he sat in silence. Satisfied with that as his fate. Watching her in death.
And waiting.
He ended up on the bed beside her; couldn't explain why fully.
Well, he could. Sure he could. The separation was enough to kill a weaker man—he was feeling it through every unholy strain in his body. The connection their combined blood had forged. Anything and everything. Whatever there was in the world of metaphysics that pulled him to her. Even a few feet at this stage was intolerable.
And if he were entirely selfish—a crime to which he had already confessed his guilt—he would acknowledge that he wanted the opportunity to hold her once while she slept. Just once. Once before the world he had created for them shattered. Before his nightmares became reality. Before he looked into her eyes and saw hatred bounce back at him.
That would come tomorrow. He was allowed this. This peace. This solace at her side. This, if nothing else.
Spike rested then, his hand finding hers. Entwining his fingers with hers, gracing the inside of her wrist with a kiss before moving his tender touch to her temple. He berated himself when he felt his eyes well with tears once more. God knows he had cried more these past two days to satisfy the rest of eternity for the both of them.
And then, there they were; the words he hadn't allowed himself to voice. Not aloud. Not to her. He could hold them back no longer, even if she couldn't hear them. Just once, they had to be said. Just once without the fear of revulsion in return. He needed it. For himself. For her. To satisfy any end out there that remained untied.
"I love you."
There. A weight lifted. Despite what the morrow brought, it was out there. His confession. What had driven him this far. What had prompted him into that self-made inferno. What had served as his cause for everything.
It was more than enough.
With that, Spike's eyes fluttered shut. His hand tightened around hers, depending on that connection. And for the first time in days, sleep apprehended him. He allowed himself this. This rest. This last before the tears the next day was bound to bring.
Rest at the side of the one he loved. A dreamless sleep before the fall.
It didn't seem too much to ask.
To be continued in Chapter Thirty-Five: Morning Song...