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I only want you to see my favourite parts of me and not my ugly side, no not my ugly side.


He hadn't truly known what he was doing until her eyes drifted shut. Everything in him had latched onto her trembling weak body as though biting her would force the Slayer to come back to life. Maybe Angelus and Drac had been allowed to wound her but him? Spike touching the saintly risen bite marks would set off alarms. Or at least that was what he had hoped.

Even with a soul he didn't see himself as the same as her. She had commanded an army of women made to kill his kind and banished magic in the process.

What did one measly soul compare to her acts?

He studied her ruined face again. It reminded him of the damage done to Dru in Prague. They had beaten her until her heart had nearly broken, ripping at clothes and skin and the very daintiest parts of her. When he had managed to feed her enough blood to knit the basics back together, it had taken years for the softer parts to return. Her ruined skin had probably spent the better part of a decade fading away the horrible scars caused by irate villagers.

Buffy didn't have the same luxury. Everything about a Slayer read: "rare parts, refunds not available". Her body was made to wear and tear until the moment it simply couldn't. Spike, in his juvenile blood-sucking days, had liked to imagine the Slayers as very well made dolls. It would take ages to wear down the joints that made them move but oh the joy of it all when you cracked the shell! It was like one of those Spanish contraptions where candy fell to the ground and they all danced, except that he always became covered in blood.

And then Dru would shag me senseless. Spike couldn't help the smile that drifted across his face. The blood of a Slayer was probably the only thing that Dru could love besides Angelus. And he had given it to her.

Maybe that was why he had gone for the bite. It wasn't to wake her up but maybe to make her belong to him. The Powers That Wanked knew that he had never been the true chosen one in any sense of the word. But maybe he didn't need to be anymore. Spike could be the guy who came after, the bleach punk vampire with a vengeance who sorted out the Great Poof's mess.

The one who saved Buffy Summers.

It was a daunting idea and it said something that Spike was only thinking it after he had abducted the girl. His first instinct had been to take her the moment he walked through the door but a cranky inconsolable Slayer had not seemed like a willing runaway. So he had waited, snuck up to that soft skin that was raised with wounds and pain and buried himself in, until he could barely think about where his fangs ended and she began. If he sat still for long enough Spike could still feel where her blood had touched him. He glanced at his hands, marveling at the strength two sips could create.

If Buffy could create such a change in him, what could he do to her?

Wonder and just a hint of hope surged through Spike's body. He almost stopped the car then as though he could conduct all necessary experiments and ideas on a sleeping Slayer on the side of a forgotten road. He tried to imagine the 'old Buffy' response of indignation, nose punches and an eye roll, but it was hardly useful. There was no pretense that he could latch himself to, not when he looked at her thin leg and lax body. She was different again from when she had been in heaven. It was like the hardness that had seeped into her bones from the Earth had evaporated until she was as weak as a newborn child. Spike didn't know whether he wanted the old Buffy back or this new version of her. He had the manual for the old Slayer: distract her as much as possible until she can relax. But this time? Spike didn't know what to do with a helpless Buffy Summers. The concept was as antithetical to him as soap to the Whelp. And yet she had said nothing, only sighing in that soft little way of hers that meant that she was ready, ready for her last good day.

Spike was damned if he could accept her meeting a bloody end.

He didn't try to fool himself when she gave that 'I love you' speech as he impersonated Joan of Arc. He had known it for what it was: 'thanks for sacrificing yourself. Ps: we were friends.' But it had still meant something, enough that when he became corporeal he didn't suffer the need to try again and convince them both that it could work. He simply knew that it couldn't.

What were they now? Friends? Enemies? Frenemies? Spike wished that he had Dawn there to bubble out an explanation that made sense. She may be a mum-in-waiting but her heart was still too young. He couldn't see her as anything but a lanky teenage girl with auburn hair. And yet she had convinced him on the phone to come within a single minute.

'Spike, she needs you. She won't talk to anyone, won't eat. I can't even let Faith know because of the whole Giles thing.'

Buffy lay there lax in the car seat. Her eyes looked bruised from a lack of sleep but otherwise she still breathed. He cursed to himself.

He still couldn't forget loving her.

It enraged him in a way that made the soul feel positively sick. After everything that had happened with Angelus, love and Buffy Summers should've been the farthest thing from his mind. Instead the warmth inside of him had surged the moment he entered her room.

He didn't understand it.

He had been love's bitch, 'had' being the operative word, but Spike had been sure that he had moved on from her, from their doomed relationship. Blue herself had helped him to overcome it.

He slammed his head into the back of the headrest, not wanting to picture the godking's face when he showed up with an ex. Then there was Rose and the others to think about. He had barely managed to convince his wanton group of women that he was fine just going to visit the chit. What would they do when he arrived with a pissed off, mutilated Slayer?

Mutilated . It made his stomach twist into horrible snake-like patterns just thinking that word. But it was real. All of the anger of the vengeful Slayers had found its way onto Buffy's body. She was like a breathing artwork of Twilight, depicting the death and destruction that it had brought to everyone.

It wasn't enough that everyone hated her, the murderous gits had taken it to another level.

Part of the steering wheel cracked beneath his hands. "Buggering fuck!" Spike slowed onto the side of the road as anger threatened to spill from his lips. He needed to remain calm, he needed to do the right thing whatever the hell that was, he needed –

"Spike?"

Anxiety gripped his throat as Spike turned to stare at the Slayer.

She was rubbing the back of her hands into her eyes as though to banish a bad nightmare. He hadn’t found her any clothes yet so the hospital gown rode up her thigh as she struggled in the seat.

"Spike, what's going on? Why am I not at Saint Andrews?" There was just a hint of panic in her voice and it made him want to drag her into his arms. He settled for shoving his hands into the front pockets of his jeans.

"Couldn't leave you, love. 'T wasn't right."

She sputtered for a moment, likely formulating words to tell him to take her back or face her fury. But then her gaze faltered as though attempting to control anything was a waste of energy. Without him even touching her, she calmed, folding herself deep into the passenger seat like a compressed flower on a page.

Jade eyes stared at a dark grey carpet. Both of her feet should have been resting against it. She half expected to stretch out her limbs and feel her big left toe bump the dashboard. And then she remembered and it all became a waste of time. Let him do what he wants, she thought. Wherever he kills me won’t make a difference. Dawn's face all rosy cheeked and blue eyes flooded into her mind. Dawn would want to know where to find the body.

"Where are you taking me?"

Spike looked at her, hoping that their eyes would connect. What good would nursing her back to some form of life do him? He had a soul. He even had a life that didn't involve any of the Scoobs or their bleeding Council. He didn't need her to feel like a man anymore.

But she needs me.

It was an epiphany for him to realize that it wasn't about sex, or her friends or wanting someone to help save the world. Buffy had been forced to let go of it the moment she lost her leg. And even before, when he had been wolf ramming Angelus' heart, she had still managed and excelled at dominating the world on a global scale. Buffy had taken care of the Slayers and her friends for practically a decade and with it all the silly needs of a world that didn't want her.

What she truly needed was peace and arms to hold her when she couldn't bear to breathe.

I can do that, Spike thought. There was something burning under his right breast that he hadn't felt since that night in the abandoned house. It clawed at his chest, forcing him to breathe in hope.

"Spike, I'm serious." Buffy paused at the strange look that fled across the vampire's face. She took a deep breath to continue, "where are we going?"

"Home," he said softly, finally feeling like his undead heart could stop it's fitful lurches of movement. "'M taking you home."





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