Chapter Thirty-Five

Morning Song




“Well, well,” Wright drawled as the doors to the Hyperion whisked open, allowing Lindsey McDonald entrance. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

The lawyer glared at him, rubbing his brow as if to banish himself of an oncoming headache. “Could you possibly think of something a little more cliché, because that just wasn’t cliché enough.”

“I’m sure I could if I tried.”

“Well, for my sake as well as yours, please don’t.” He shook his head heavily, casting a heavy eye to Cordelia, who—of the two—earned the most compassion. “What happened, do you know?”

The question prompted a snicker from the demon hunter. “What? And we’re supposed to believe that you don’t?”

“They didn’t tell me anything, all right? I couldn’t even get clearance to leave the building until an hour ago. By the time I got to my office, my things had been removed and, for all I know, disposed of.” Lindsey chuckled wryly, hand persistent at caressing his brow. There was truth in what he said; his appearance wafted the illusion of a man that had been hit and rolled over with a semi-truck. “I guess I owe Lilah a thank you. In some perverse way, she saved my life.”

Cordelia frowned, motioning him to the vacant plush cushion in the middle of the lobby. “What do you mean?”

“No, no,” the demon hunter interrupted, making a very stringent gesture with his hand. “He’s not staying,”

“Zack, he looks like hell.”

“Thanks.”

Her brows arched in sympathy. “Well, you do.”

“I don’t care if he looked like the Pope. He’s not staying.”

“Just out of curiosity,” Lindsey volunteered, “do I know you?”

“We have a mutual acquaintance.”

The lawyer’s eyes widened incredulously. “Great. That shortens the list to people in this and approximately fifty surplus demon dimensions. Way to help.”

“I do my best.”

“GUYS!” Cordelia held up a hand, her patience notably on edge. “It’s not like fighting’s going to change anything. Quite frankly, I already feel a headache coming on, and if there can ever be a day when I don’t have one, I’d really prefer it to be now. ‘Cause you know. Seer. Headaches. Kinda acts like an accessory to the action figure package.”

As though acting in direct defiance to her decree, Gunn and Wesley strolled into the foyer from the Watcher’s office.

“What’s Evil doing here?” the former demanded.

The Seer tossed an acerbic smile to the ceiling. “Thanks PTB. I appreciate it. Oh, by the way, when I die from severe hemorrhaging, it’s so going to be your fault.”

“Now, now, Gunn,” Wesley said lowly. “We don’t want to jump to any conclusions.”

“Right,” came the disbelieving retort. “We end up with a sired Slayer on our hands and now a spokesman from Hell Incorporated shows up? I don’t really consider that jumping to conclusions. More a very unhappy coincidence.” He crossed his arms and jutted his chin at McDonald, eyes dark and serious. “You gonna talk, bro?”

“Sired Slayer?” Lindsey demanded worriedly, jumping to his feet as he glanced to Cordelia for confirmation.

Wright couldn’t suppress the snicker that climbed into his throat. “Yeah. Like you didn’t know.”

The snippy remark earned a sharp glance of warning from the Seer. “Back off, Zack. He’s telling the truth.”

“And what? Your magic powers tell you so?”

Gunn’s hands went up and his eyes grew wide. “Hey man. Chill. If Cordy says it’s cool, it’s cool.”

There was a moment’s consideration—the demon hunter so swamped with contempt that his eyes refused to bow to even the slightest hint of leeway. The attack was unprovoked and would remain as such, but one could not dismiss the radical strain of tension ringing through his form. In such a state, he was prone to direct his anger at anyone. Even the person in the room that mattered the most. For what was said, he could not help himself. “Oh. Right. Because Cordy’s all wise, all knowing, all powerful.”

At that, the woman in question reeled with a slap of instant offense. Wright nearly felt it before she did, and his expression instantly softened. “I didn’t mean that,” he said softly. “That was out of line. That was…I’m sorry.”

She glanced down, avoiding his gaze. “Sounded like you meant it.”

“I didn’t.”

The lawyer raised his hand. “I’d like to second Cordelia on this one.”

Zack smiled at him unpleasantly. “Well, I’d like to see you castrated. I’ll give you yours if you give me mine.”

Lindsey blinked at him. “Do I know you?”

“I don’t care if you know me. I know you. And I know you’re affiliated with the corporation that murdered my friend’s girlfriend. That’s all I need to know. So take your fucking business elsewhere. We’re out of rooms.”

Gunn frowned at Wes. “We are?”

The former Watcher shook his head. “It’s a metaphor. Albeit, not a very good one, but a metaphor nonetheless.”

“That’s too bad,” McDonald replied, gaze refusing to waver from the demon hunter. “I was so hoping for a vacancy.”

“Tally another notch for the Bad Metaphors Party,” Cordelia muttered, rolling her eyes.

“Sorry. We don’t let ruthless killers stay with a smile and a nod.”

Wesley’s brows arched at that. “Well, actually…”

“It’s all right,” Lindsey said, waving dismissively. “I’m a lawyer; I’m accustomed to hypocrisy.”

That was it. The proverbial breaking point. Wright stormed forward heatedly, flashes of anger coloring his face with such potency that rage could have formed a tangible companion. Not one inch of him failed to ripple with ire. “Fuck the rest of it,” he growled, breaking without precedent and shoving the lawyer with the reserves—the energy he used only on demons. The sort of strength that required years of training to accumulate. The other man fell back with more surprise than anything else, making no attempt to retaliate, despite his nose for it. As if he thought such manners of defense were outlawed to him for what he was and what crimes he had committed.

The accusation came again. Heated. Raw. Black. Completely void of compassion, despite the cries of protest swimming around them. “You murdered my friend’s girlfriend.”

Lindsey found himself on the floor, panting harshly. The desolation that overwhelmed him was brief, all things considered, but enough revealed to merit his sincerity. The marksmanship for genuine regret. It was bad fortune that Wright did not see it. “Actually,” he said, fighting to his feet. “I was incapacitated. I knew too late, all right? I was in my office waiting for Gregori, and the next thing I knew, I was in the medical wing. They had me unnecessarily stabilized for eighteen hours as Lilah pulled every string she could to get me out of there in a taxi rather than a body bag. There was nothing I could do, all right? Not a damn thing.”

“Nice,” Gunn appraised with a whistle. “What I wouldn’t give to have friends in high places.”

“Friends?” the lawyer sputtered indignantly. “Hardly. I don’t know why she did it. I really don’t. Call it professional courtesy, or don’t. Call it whatever the fuck you want.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. What I do know is that I woke up without a job, a car, or an apartment. Everything’s been seized by Wolfram and Hart.” His spread his hands helplessly. “I’m homeless.”

Wesley frowned. “They fired you?”

“I’m saying so. And hey, I’m not complaining. In retrospect, firing me was the tamest thing they could’ve done. I’m surprised, quite frankly, to be standing.”

“Why?”

Lindsey perked a brow. “Why am I surprised to be standing? Do I really need to spell it out for you?”

“No. Why did they fire you? There must have been a reason.”

The answer to that inquiry seemed equally obvious, but there was something in the man’s countenance that betrayed an understanding that he was most certainly not at the advantage here, and cooperation was his saving grace from being abandoned and completely vulnerable. “Because I’m a liability.” He emitted a long, burdened breath. “Because since Buffy was escorted into my office, I have done nothing but torment myself on both my responsibility in her being there and how to get her out. And yes, while my actions were not fast enough, while…while everything I did or didn’t do bit me in the ass…I did try.”

“Yeah,” Wright agreed sharply. “You failed.”

Lindsey’s eyes narrowed. “With all due respect, so did you. And…do I know you?”

“He’s a friend,” Cordelia offered.

“Yeah. That I gathered.”

“He’s also somehow gotten the idea that this is his hotel,” Gunn observed. “Yo, man. I like you. I really do. But you can’t just waltz in here and start playing boss. We all voted Wes in. Deal.”

“Well, Charlie,” Zack retorted, ignoring the flare of annoyance that sparkled behind the man’s eyes. “I don’t work for Angel Investigations, and even if I did, at this point, I wouldn’t give a flying fuck.”

“We’re all worried,” Wesley offered softly. “These past few hours have been easy for no one.”

“You can say that again,” Lindsey muttered.

“But bickering amongst ourselves isn’t going to solve anything. I don’t really suspect anyone here to be without some share of the blame for what has occurred.” The Watcher turned his gaze heavenwards and heaved a troubled sigh. “Until Buffy awakes, we do not know what to expect.”

“Except that Spike’ll stay with her,” Gunn observed. “It is not easy tryin’ to get that boy to move.”

Wright cleared his throat and cast his eyes downward. “What…what do you think she’ll…what do you think she’ll do?”

“Besides whup his ass several times from Friday for turning her into a member of the pulseless society? Beats me. I don’t even know this chick.” He turned his attention to Cordelia and Wesley, who were exchanging a series of thoughtful glances. “You guys know her. What do you think she’ll do?”

“Don’t ask me,” the Seer said, throwing her hands in the air. “With as much as I’ve changed since high school, I’m willing to bet it’s double for her.”

“I’m willing to bet it’s not,” the former Watcher countered. “Slayers cannot afford to change, Cordelia. No matter how long they live. Waking in a world such as this where she has been transformed into the very creature she was chosen to kill…I do not envy Spike in his task to calm her. There is a reason Slayers are not turned. It’s a dangerous business.”

“So glad you’re going over the ‘dangerous’ part now,” Wright remarked dryly. “Lord knows it wouldn’t have been good to do anything rash.”

“You did what you thought was right.”

“I can’t begin to tell you how much comfort that does not bring me.”

“Guys,” the Seer said neutrally, stepping into the line of fire. “This is getting us nowhere. Standing around and speculating’s not high on the helpful list. The best thing any of us can do right now is give Spike some peace. I’m sure when Buffy wakes up, the last thing he’s gonna want is a bunch of people around to watch—”

It was times like these that the acoustics in the Hyperion were noted for being superbly underestimated. The first touch of Cockney brogue nearly shook the place to the ground, seemingly emanating from all corners, all walls. It touched the air, soared to a life of its own, and reverberated with haunting stillness even after the tag died without ceremony.

“CORDELIA!”

A long, uncertain moment passed. All eyes fell on her.

“You were saying?” Lindsey asked, arching a brow.

The Seer shrugged. “I could be wrong, you know.”

*~*~*


He awoke slowly, encased in sweetness. Drifting down pathways perfumed with vanilla, sunshine, and Buffy Summers. As though light could manifest itself into a tangible being and accompany him through the woods—an old friend visiting for the weekend. It was a bizarre feeling. Spike rarely dreamed; when he did, the visions produced were so realistic that he seldom knew they were conjured out of falsity until he awoke. He had dreamt of holding the Slayer once, of tasting the sweetness from her lips and hearing her confession of wanting just above his own of love. The same dream that had fueled him for countless miles.

He knew not how long he had been here; it didn’t matter. Buffy was beside him. She was beside him. He felt her hand in his. Felt the cool satin of her skin. If he inhaled, he would be flooded with her fragrance. It was more than one person could ever ask for; he was asking. He was asking and he didn’t imagine himself ever stopping out of worry of avarice.

Something was squeezing his hand. Very, very gently. Cautiously. As though worried any additional strength would break him.

Spike’s eyes fluttered open. And he froze.

Buffy was looking at him.

Every nerve, every impulse wrought into his system drew to an enigmatic standstill. It was unsettling; watching her remember. Watching realization cloud her eyes. Watching the wondrous understanding flood her perspective.

He didn’t know how long she had been awake, and the notion bothered him.

There were so many things he wanted to do; impetuous senses flooded him without prerogative to action. God, simply seeing her look at him was enough to knock the proverbial wind from his lungs. It was astounding—the clarity behind those eyes that had been all too recently dead. The want of knowledge. The confusion marred only with comprehension. God oh God, this had been a bad idea. Being in the same bed with her while she took her first minutes as a vampire was unspeakably intimate; he felt as an intruder that wished to steal the log from the fire when everything else was already in his possession.

It came slowly. Recognition. He remembered those first few minutes of waking all too well. One of the few things that time and age had failed to whither to its own molding. The fear. The bewilderment. The body’s craving for blood—a hunger unidentifiable until the first sip was ingested. The lack of warmth. The lack of a heartbeat. All the things that mere mortals took for granted every day. Every idiosyncrasy that separated vampires from everyone else.

Buffy’s eyes clarified as she looked at him. Remembered him. Remembered herself. She shifted, and his body flowed with her as though under a whim uncontrollable by earthly forces. Her hand constricted around his until she realized that she was likely hurting him; her touch became soft and torturous.

Oh God…

Spike didn’t realize his own eyes had drifted shut until they shot open when she whispered his name against his lips. When he looked at her, she was close. So close. There was no revulsion in her gaze. Nothing to betray herself for repaid debts. Just simple acceptance. Dazed acceptance.

He realized all too late that she wasn’t with him. Not entirely.

“Buffy?”

She blinked twice at the name before allowing a small smile to cross her lips, snuggling deeper into the pillows. “Spike…” Her hand found his face and the effect of her touch was nearly enough to render him helpless for the rest of his days. How long had he wanted this? He rightly couldn’t imagine a time not wanting it, though he knew it had to exist. Had to. She had not been around forever. And now with everything he had ever craved in his possession, he had to give it back.

Buffy didn’t know that, of course. She wasn’t entirely to herself. Her caresses continued softly, waving ripples over his skin. It awed him when her eyes became watery. As though the contact could stimulate her as it did him. Such things were impossible.

But there were tears. There were tears in her eyes. Her gorgeous, vibrant, alive eyes.

“I’m dead,” she said simply. The understanding there was enough to knock him off the bed if he hadn’t been so thoroughly grounded. However, before he could intercede and explain, she plowed through without objection. “Is this Heaven?”

Numbness swept his body.

“Heaven, sweetheart?”

“It’s warm.” That was likely the comforters covering her body—warmth had no place amongst vampires. It was always artificial. Always borrowed. Always not theirs. “It’s warm. I don’t hurt. He’s gone, isn’t he? Angelus is gone.”

Spike nodded slowly, carefully. “’E’s still around, luv,” he clarified. “But far away from you. ‘E won’ touch you again. I won’ bloody well allow it.”

“You’re here.” She smiled sleepily and the image nearly broke him. God, he must be such a disappointment. Giving her everything she wanted only to rip it away within seconds. “And I can finally touch you.”

Her hand ran lovingly through his unkempt platinum locks. Every move she made, every word she spoke, everything that embodied her as she was made his heart constrict to points that were nearly unbearable. He trembled beneath her exploration, battling the incursion of emotion that threatened to spill forward in all his bumbling glory

She remained oblivious to his suffering. Her hand ran the length down his stationary arm until finding his once more, linking them together in a way that seemed all too personal. “I’ve wanted to touch you forever,” she murmured, nearing provocatively. “But I couldn’t. Couldn’t…no matter how I reached…I—”

Spike’s vision blurred. “Buffy—”

“You found me, though.”

“God, I—”

“I’m sorry. I tried, Spike. I tried so hard.” Her grip on him tightened needily. “I knew you were coming for me. I knew it. God, I felt it. I felt it and then he was there. And he—”

The peroxide vampire nearly tore himself from her arms. He couldn’t stand that. Couldn’t stand the account of her death. Having lived as he had for the past twenty-four hours, living it through her eyes would likely kill whatever was left of him. Feeling her pain. Her fear. Her expectations and aspirations of him. That blinding faith that had gotten her killed. It was the epitome of selfishness and he hated himself for it.

Nevertheless, he remained as he was. Curled against her. Against his Slayer.

She was going to hate him, and he couldn’t stand the thought.

“Buffy…” he whimpered hoarsely. “Oh God, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Please…god, forgive me.” He buried his face in her hair and inhaled appreciatively, clutching her to him with sudden possessive restriction. “Please oh god please…”

“Spike—”

He pulled away with more of the same and couldn’t help himself. If this was all he was going to get, he would take it without reservation. His mouth found hers and drew her in—needy and desperate. Kisses intermingled with tears. He could taste the salt of his own sorrow flood with her sanctuary. She denied him nothing; gave him whatever he wanted and more. Pressed herself against him in a manner so intimate he had never, even in his wildest, considered possible.

Spike abandoned her mouth to sample the sweetness of her tears. Her relief. Her trust. Her sacred trust that he had broken in the worst manner. Taking everything he could before she thought to shove him away for what he had done to her. “God,” he cried again. “’m so sorry, baby. I…I din’t mean it. I swear I din’t mean it. I…god, please…”

“What—”

Then he couldn’t stand the separation. They were pressed together, but he needed to feel his arms around her. To swallow her with his being without sullying her any further. His body nearly trembled with respite when she reciprocated his possessiveness, curling her arms under his and nuzzling the hollow of his throat with such delicacy. As though she thought he might break.

Spike pressed a trail of wet kisses up and down her alabaster neck, unable to cease the sobs that had commanded him. “Forgive me,” he pleaded softly. “I din’t mean it, luv. My love. Oh Buffy, forgive me.”

It could have gone on forever—this knowledge of her. Holding her to him without the willingness to forfeit what was not rightly his. And he would have been satisfied.

When he felt her fangs sink into his throat, his body wanted to cry out its pleasure. Logic, however, forced no boundary.

She was a newly risen vampire that needed to feed.

And he had made her thus.

The verification of such knowledge was enough to drive him away. Out of the bed, away from the allure of her kisses and the tempestuous fire behind her embrace. The shades of pained confusion that overwhelmed her was the final piece—he needed nothing further. She wasn’t herself. She hadn’t been since waking. She hadn’t even realized that she had bitten him.

It was not a difficult decision to make. He couldn’t be in the room alone with her like this. She was far too tempting.

So he called for the first person that came to mind.

“CORDELIA!”

It took very little. Panting, he stood at the side of the bed, refusing to look away from his girl. He couldn’t.

Her eyes were filling with tears again. Not the good kind.

“Spike,” she said softly. “Tell me what’s going on. Am I dead? Is…what is this?”

Words and confessions halted mercilessly in his throat. It was fortune that Cordelia answered his call before he lost the last ounce of self.

“Hey,” the Seer said in a manner that was both breathless and entirely too casual for anything he could begin to relate to present circumstances. “What’s up?” It was a futile question; her eyes fell on the bed with curtailed realization. “Oh. Hey, Buffy.”

The Slayer frowned. “Cordelia? What…”

“Cordy, pet,” Spike said, his tone all the indication she needed to know that he was teetering on the edge of reason. “I need to feed her.”

He didn’t want to say blood. He didn’t want to have to acknowledge to both her and himself what it was that Buffy’s body was lamenting.

Fortunately, that was all the explanation required. With a short nod, Cordelia disappeared down the hallway. The silence that followed her absence was some of the darkest—not to mention loudest—he had ever known. He refused to look at Buffy. He didn’t want to risk seeing the understanding there. Her dazedness, her failure to yet grasp at reality…he didn’t want to be the first thing that came under a gaze of hatred when she understood that she wasn’t dead. Not really. That he hadn’t saved her. That he had, rather, condemned her for all eternity.

It was inevitability, as all things were.

“Here.” Cordelia was in the room again before he knew it; a mug of crimson goodness at her disposal. A waft of heavenly fragrance that, for the first time since his death, succeeded to turning his stomach rather than exciting it. He found himself holding it the next minute and knew the rest was up to him.

“Do you need me?” the Seer asked courteously. “I could get Zack if—”

“No.”

“Really, it’s no—”

His eyes flared and his tone became clipped. “No.”

She nodded, pursing her lips. “Right. We’ll be downstairs if you need anything.” Her gaze fell upon Buffy once more and she offered a small smile of little compensation. “It’s really, really good to see you.”

Bewilderment flooded the Slayer’s tone. “Cordelia?”

“Cordy—”

“Right.” The Seer held up her hands. “I’m gone.”

Buffy glanced back to Spike, eyes ablaze with uncertainty. “What’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” he promised, stepping forward with the cup of thick liquid red temptation. “Firs’, I need you to be a good girl an’ drink this up for me. Can you do that?”

“I…” Any want of denial halted in her throat as he drew nearer. He had sensed her hunger intensify the minute Cordelia brought the blood into the room; now it was nearly burning him from the inside. If she accepted him, it was over. Everything was over. Any want of denial he had wanted to place between himself and the unhappy truth. She could not know what she was doing to him—what she could do with a look. A touch. The smallest flicker of recognition.

“Yes.”

Yes.

“Right.” Spike neared and gave her the mug. He felt oddly pious tied in with inherent bonds of sacrilege—as though he was finalizing her pollution with something he could undo if he wanted it enough. As though the blood on her lips would signify every mean to every end. Drink of the cup. It is my blood, and is poured out for you. Do this in remembrance of me.

The cup was not filled with his blood; it did not need to be. His blood was already within her. It had brought her this far.

He watched her with sadness that knew no final plunge. Watched as she downed every last, sacred drop.

So it was. If not for the death, if not for the rising, if not for the fangs, if not for knowledge, then definitely for this.

Buffy was a vampire. He made her into his own image.

He had damned her.

Spike collapsed wearily to his knees, hiding his face. She mustn’t see his tears.

It couldn’t last—he couldn’t hide from her forever. Wanting would never make it so. Thus when she implored him, he did not deny her.

She was examining the empty mug with the worst form of knowledge. “What happened?”

There it was.

“I…” he gasped, fighting to his feet. “I din’t mean it, Buffy. I tried. God…you were there an’ you were dead. You had left me. You…” A sigh of defeat rolled off his shoulders. No more lies. “I made you into what I am. You’re a vampire.”

The silence that embraced them was as fatal as any he had ever endured.

Then she blinked. Once, twice, and retreated within herself. “Oh.”

Spike reeled. It was neither casually accepting nor fueled with hatred and demands of repaired glory. Her mind was piecing itself back together. She didn’t understand; she couldn’t understand. Whatever level of comprehension she needed to aspire was blocking her from the truth. From what she had known since she opened her eyes. Since looking at him.

She was living in a dreamworld.

The knowledge broke his heart all over again.

“Come on,” he said hoarsely, begging her near. “’m gonna give you a bath.”

She didn’t need it. He did. He needed something to distract himself. Space between them was unbearable even though her presence was nearly noxious to his existence. Now when she could destroy him with a look, a word, a gesture of significance. Still, the fact that she was perfectly clean seemed to escape her, and she nodded her compliance.

Spike decided then that the best way to avoid a breakdown was to continue talking. To console her with words while similarly forbidding himself to think. He began idly chattering about the Hyperion. How her former Watcher and Cordelia were running a nifty little set up. He mentioned Wright and his affinity for weapons. He told her of Rosalie, the amazing little Seer that had tied herself to him. That had become his link to the Powers That Be. He shared his adventures as though reciting a history book. He did anything and everything to keep her occupied as the bath began to draw.

“Sung me a piece down at Caritas,” he was saying as he lifted her shirt over her head, unable to suppress the gasp of pain that shuddered through his body when she immediately trembled to be thus exposed so close to her release. The marks aligning her skin were close to fading, and she looked to him as Aphrodite. He did not tell her that. He wanted to draw her attention as far from herself as possible. To comment on his favoritism to her seemed to be falling very out of integrity. He didn’t care how she was presented to him: she was Buffy. That was all there was to that. “Gunn wanted me to do Billy Idol—ha bloody ha, right?—but I figured I’d stun the crowd with some sentimental rot. Din’t really matter to me what it was. ‘S not like your fortune changes dependin’ on the song you sing.”

She nodded dazedly and turned from him, allowing him to draw her hair over her shoulders.

“Lorne sent me to meet Zangy after that. ‘E was…” Spike trailed off when he realized that he had lost his audience—that whatever delayed attention she had given him was no longer his for the taking. When he looked up to see what had caught her eye, he felt dead blood freeze within his veins.

There it was. There it fucking was.

At that moment, he didn’t know what was worse. The horror on Buffy’s face, or the understanding it protected. That wretched understanding. The knowledge that finally surfaced above her confused lethargy. The same that would seal whatever was left of either of them.

She was cemented on the floor, staring at the mirror with the worst form of realization. Of comprehension. Of truth.

But nothing stared back.

Nothing.









To be continued in Chapter Thirty-Six: Sacrament…





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