Disclaimer:  I don’t own or profit from BtVS. 

Spoilers:  What’s My Line?

Remember When

Chapter Four

Buffy was exhausted.  Her hair and clothes smelled like smoke, and she was covered in soot and blood.  She shimmied up her tree, quietly entering her room.  It was too late to take a shower without waking up her mom, but if she was quiet enough she could wash up in the sink.

She hauled Angel back to his apartment with Kendra’s help, and she had never been so glad to have another person present when she was with him.  She could tell he wanted to talk about what happened, but she honestly didn’t know what to say.  She was still trying to process her own emotions.

Spike was dead.  She didn’t know how she felt about that.  Of course, there was a sense of relief.  After all, he had been trying to kill her since he came to town.  He ruined parent teacher night, struck a deal with Ford to trap her, and worst of all he put Dawn in danger when he summoned the Order of Taraka.  All so he could capture and torture her boyfriend, and use him for some bizzaro ritual to heal his crazy girlfriend.

Just the thought of it made her blood boil.  Honestly, she was more pissed off about him siccing the maggot monster on her house than she was about him kidnapping Angel.  Because, and this was the real gut twister, she felt betrayed by him.  How sick was that?  She felt betrayed that a blood-sucking fiend of the night followed his natural inclinations and tried to hurt her and her family.  The fact she felt that way, only proved she was losing her edge.  Because Spike was not a good guy.  He just wasn’t.  And if she ever needed a refresher course on the evilness of vampires, then all she had to do was remember his last words to her. 

She turned on the bathroom sink, hissing as she ran her hand under the tap.  The sharp sting of the burn that ran lengthways on her palm brought tears to her eyes.  She watched her reflection in the bathroom mirror as a single tear cut a swathe through the soot on her cheek.

“Snack Size been takin’ any late night strolls lately?” 

She could hear his voice in her head as clearly as if he was in the bathroom with her.  She closed her eyes, the sense memory of smell the strongest.  The wood decay from the rotten floorboards and broken pews, dustiness from the heaps of canvas laying about, underpinnings of varnish from when the church had been lovingly seen to so many decades ago.  The scents of leather, whiskey, tobacco and the cloying hint of Drusilla’s perfume she always associated with Spike.  Later, all that was burned away with the lung itching odor of smoke and blood.  Behind her eyelids she could see the tumble down church, Angel and Drusilla strung up like sides of beef, a ceremonial dagger thrust through their hands.  The fire casting devil caricatures on the shadowy walls.  It was all so vivid.  She didn’t know if she would ever forget this night.

Oh, how his comment lit a fire under her ass, reminding her why she was so mad at him in the first place.  It was bad enough he’d come to her town causing all kinds of mayhem, but he’d gone too far.  The crunch as she popped him in the nose was satisfying.  As was the tingle of excitement in her belly when her blow barely snapped his head back.  Fighting with Spike was always such a pleasure, and if anyone found that dirty little secret out, she’d kill them.

 “What do you care, you jerk?  Because of you some disgusting maggot monster has been camped outside my house for two days.”  She pushed him back with a series of blows, her tirade punctuated with pants of exertion.  “What if Mom hadn’t been out of town?  Then Dawn would have been there instead of staying at Janice’s.”

Spike retaliated with a rounded punch to her ear that staggered her.  He followed up with a kick to the ribs, and she heard more than felt something crack.

“So what?” he snarled.

So what?  He hadn’t even cared.  There hadn’t been a flicker of remorse in his ice blue eyes.  Why had she thought he would care?  Because he didn’t kill them on Halloween?  Because he escorted Dawn safely home when he could have left her corpse cooling on their front porch?  Just because Dawn had developed a weird kind of hero worship for the guy, didn’t make him into something he wasn’t.  Spike was a soulless killer.  A killer that Dawn happened to like more than Angel who had a soul.  If that wasn’t a world of wrong then Buffy didn’t know what was.

Clean, she pulled on her bathrobe and headed for her bedroom.  She quietly closed the door, relying on the moonlight from her windows to navigate the shadowy room.

“Wha’cha doin’?”

Buffy nearly jumped out of her skin.  She glared at the ambiguous shadow on her bed, before tightening the belt of her bathrobe, and heading to her dresser for some pajamas.  Stupid kid sister always sneaking around.  It was a wonder Buffy had any secrets with the super sleuth pester brat always nearby.

She stalled for time by searching for her most worn, comfy pjs.  She was going to need as much comfort as she could for what was about to come.  She knew as soon as the organ collapsed, Spike’s death wasn’t a secret she was going to keep from Dawn.  She dropped her robe, dressing quickly before turning around.

“You’ve been fighting.”  Buffy’s bruises were a mottled purple now, but would be gone in the morning, and mom would be none the wiser.  Dawn dropped down to all fours and fished around under Buffy’s bed.  She pulled out a first aid kit, expertly flipping it open.  Silently, Buffy sat on the bed, extending her hand palm up.  She watched with sad eyes as Dawn tsked over her burn, salving it with silvadene and wrapping it in pretreated gauze that wouldn’t stick to the wound.

When Dawn was done, and the kit hidden away, Buffy scooted over on the bed.  “I have something to tell you,” she said solemnly, patting the bed beside her.  Dawn obediently sat, but instead of leaning into Buffy, she curled her coltish legs up so her knobby knees were under her chin.  Her eyes were big and blue and Buffy thought she might already know what she was going to say.

“There was a fight tonight.  Angel was in danger.”

“You saved him.”

It was less of a question, and more of a statement of unquestionable faith.  It warmed Buffy that her little sister had so much belief in her abilities.  When Buffy first explained what she did, Dawn was only eleven at the time.  Buffy went through the whole spiel.  Chosen One, Vampire Slayer, warrior of the light, yada yada yada.  When she was through Dawn turned those big baby blues on her and simply said, “So you save people?”  It hadn’t really been a question then either.  Just a description of what Buffy did.  She saved people.

“Yah, I saved him.”

“Cause, that’s what you do.  Even if they don’t deserve it.”

That sent warning flares through Buffy’s psyche.  “You don’t think Angel deserves to be saved?”

“I didn’t say that,” she replied noncommittally, but she looked away.  Buffy knew Angel made Dawn uncomfortable, but she didn’t know why.  He never did anything inappropriate around her.  He would get a little quiet, but it wasn’t like he was a Chatty Cathy in the first place.  When she asked him about it, he said it was because he felt badly for scaring her the first time they met.  With the bumpies and everything.  Dawn assured her that wasn’t why.  She just said she didn’t like the way he looked at her.  It gave her the willies.  Buffy thought it was nonsense.  Angel was intense, that’s all.  He was still a predator, even with a soul.  But his soul made him one of the good guys.  He would never hurt Dawnie.

Spike didn’t have soul, and he hadn’t hurt Dawn either, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t have eventually.  He sent the Order after her, knowing they would take out anyone who was in their way to get to her.  Point of fact the bitch who opened fire in the school.  In a school!  Surely, Spike had to of known that meant her family too.  That it meant Dawn.

She deflected his punch, slamming her elbow into his sternum.  He folded over with a whoosh, and she grabbed a fistful of hair, levering his face up.

“So what?” she raged.  “She could have died, Spike.”

Spike shoved his fist low into her gut, and she let go of his hair with a grunt.  He wrapped his hand around her throat with lightening fast agility.  He pulled her into his chest, anchoring her to his body with an unyielding arm around her waist.

“Slayer.  Why are you rantin’ at me like I’d give a rat’s arse?”  His tone was silky.  The din of the battle faded away until there was only the blue of his eyes, the violence in his tightly coiled body, and the laced threat in his voice.

She stopped struggling, allowing herself to be held by him.  Hurt at his callousness unfurled in her chest, and it infuriated her.  Why was she screaming at him like he should care?  He was a cold-blooded murderer on a mission to kill her.  A few stolen, awkward moments didn’t change that.

“Dunno.  I’m stupid I guess.”

Something flashed in his blue eyes and she cocked her head as if by changing her angle, she’d be able to decipher what it meant.

“Right, then.”  He shoved her away.  Drusilla screeched and the moment was lost.

“Spike was there.”  She tangled her fingers with Dawn’s.  She didn’t want to do this.  She really didn’t.  Dawn had a connection with Spike that Buffy couldn’t understand.  She was sure it was one-sided.  Dawn was a just a little girl.  She was impressionable, and Spike was charming in a bad boy kind of way.  He was all about adolescent rebellion, and sticking it to The Man, and all that crap that appealed to a twelve year-old constrained not only by the rules of society, but added compliance to the Slayer way of life.  Spike was Dawn’s rebellion, that’s all.

Except it wasn’t.  Buffy knew it wasn’t.  She could approach it as grown up as she liked, but Dawn’s acceptance of Spike went beyond preadolescent rebellion.  There was something there.  Buffy couldn’t put her finger on it, but she could feel it too.  A certain attraction.  Not sexual.  A world of no on the sexual.  More of an attraction one feels for family.  A sense of belonging.  Spike belonged to them.  And that was so wrong, Buffy wasn’t even sure where to find right again.

“Is he okay?”  Dawn’s eyes were big and shimmery in the moonlight, and not for the first time, Buffy wondered how she did that.  How she managed to look like some sad anime cat that made you want to gather her up, and hug her until it was all better again?  It wasn’t lost on Buffy that Dawn hadn’t asked the same question of Angel.  Whether it was because she figured Buffy save-age meant he made it out unscathed or she just didn’t care as much for Angel as she did Spike.

“We fought,” she hedged.

“You fought, Spike?”

Buffy wrapped her arm around Dawn’s thin shoulders.  “I know you don’t get this, but Spike and I are enemies.  He kills slayers.”  She didn’t know why she said that.  Maybe she thought it would make it easier if she could just get Dawn to understand how evil Spike was.  She knew it was useless though. 

“He’s not okay, is he?”  Buffy slumped.  Dawn was too smart for her own good.  There was no way Buffy was going to escape this.  She shouldn’t escape it.  She needed to own up to her responsibilities, and Dawn and Spike were hers.

“No, Dawnie.  He’s not.”  She gripped her sister’s hand tightly.  “He’s dead,” she whispered around the lump in her throat.

He launched her into a wall, whirling towards his lover.  As Buffy fought her way out the debris she felt a wave of shame.  She had been so absorbed in Spike she had completely forgotten about Angel.  She focused her shame into anger and she snatched up a silver censor, nearly engulfed in the fire Spike had set.  The metal chain burnt the palm of her hand as she swung it above her head.  She released it with unerring accuracy, striking Spike in the back of the head as he tried to escape with Dru in his arms.  She watched with a growing sense of horror as he was knocked into the huge pipe organ, already weakened by years of neglect and decay.  Spike struck the support strut and the entire weight of the mahogany frame and copper piping collapsed, burying them both under a half a ton of debris.

“You couldn’t save him?”  Buffy heard the waver of faith in Dawn’s voice and something cold slithered around in her chest.  For the first time she felt a mortifying sense of distance between them.  Dawn was pulling away from her, and to her shame, she knew she deserved it.

“I—“  Buffy closed her eyes. 

Buffy took a step towards the pile, intending on digging Spike out, but screams from behind stopped her.  Flames were leaping along the walls and thick black smoke was choking her.  There was no way to save him, and she had other people depending on her.

She hurried to Angel’s side, hauling him up, and supporting him on her shoulders.  She studiously kept her face averted from his speculative gaze, and she absolutely did not look back at the burning church as they poured out onto the dark street.

“No.  He wasn’t for me to save.”  She hugged Dawn close, but her sister was unyielding.

“But you save everyone.  I told Spike you save even those who don’t deserve it.  Why didn’t you save him?”

“I’m sorry, Dawn.  I really am.”

Dawn wrenched away from her, scooting off the bed.  “No.  I don’t think you are.  You saved Angel and left Spike.  But as long as you got what you wanted, right, Buffy?”  Dawn was standing beside the bed, her little hands knotted into tight fists.  Tears were streaming down her elfin face, dripping off the point of her chin. 

Buffy reached for her, intending to pull her down on her lap like she had when they were small.  Dawn dodged away, heading towards the door.

“You killed him!” she screeched.  “I’ll never forgive you.  Never!”  She ran out of the room, and Buffy launched after her, uncaring if they woke their mother.  She had to get to Dawn, explain to her, tell her she was sorry for all of it.

She reached Dawn’s door just as it slammed in her face.  Behind the thin wood she could hear her sister sobbing as if her heart was broken.  Buffy pressed her hot palms, and her flushed cheek against the cool wood.

“I’m sorry, Dawn.  I really am,” she whispered, but Dawn kept sobbing, and Buffy’s heart kept breaking.  She slid down the door, crumbling on the floor.  She realized she was crying too.  She was crying for her sister.  She was crying for all the badness her calling brought to her family.  But mostly, secretly, she was crying for the loss of Spike.

&&&&&&&

Spike awoke to total darkness.  And pain.  Intense, blinding, burning pain.  This is my punishment.  The thought drifted disjointedly through his agony-ridden mind.  Punishment for what?

“She could have died, Spike.”

Right.  The Slayer’s little sis.  The church.  Drusilla’s ritual.  An angry, self-righteous Slayer screaming at him for endangering Snack Size.

Spike tried to turn his head, but it felt like a million fire ants had taken up residence in his skull.  He closed his eyes against the darkness, inexplicably comforted when the complete blackness was of his own doing.  It gave him a sense of control.  He could tell he was laying on something hard.  He twitched his fingers, and he thought he felt the smooth planks of wood, but it was hard to tell through the searing pain shooting up his arm.

The base of his back was throbbing, and he desperately needed to relieve the pressure.  He bent his knee to push himself onto his side, but nothing happened.  His leg didn’t move.  His knee didn’t bend.  His toes didn’t twitch.  He wasn’t even sure if he had toes.  He couldn’t feel anything below his waist.  Nothing.

“Dru,” he gasped, panicked.

There was a scurrying, but it was too small to be anything other than a rat.  Other than that, there was no response to his call.

“Dru.”  Bloody hell, it hurt.  It felt like his lungs were on fire.  His throat was scorched and raw.  His jaw pinched and oozed when he opened his mouth.  He reminded himself not to breath.  To keep himself as still as possible.  But he needed to draw breath to yell.  He needed to yell to get help.  He didn’t want to be alone and helpless in the dark.  He desperately needed to know what happened.  He needed to know where his legs were.

“Anyone!”  His strangled yell was cut off by his gasp of agony.  Tears welled up behind his closed lids, seeping out of the corners of his eyes.  The liquid washed grit and ash from his eyes, scratching his corneas.  What a miserable, soddin’ way to die.

There was a scrapping sound.  Much larger than a rat.  He tensed, feeling vulnerable, and shamefully afraid.  He couldn’t defend himself.  Couldn’t do anything except lay there and wait to die.

Light guttered around the room.  Spike could see the dance of it behind his eyelids and hope surged in his chest.  He opened his eyes, blinking as shadows took shape.  He wasn’t blind!  Merciful heavens.  At least he could see!  He tilted his head to the side, clamping down his scream behind straight, white teeth.  His faithful minion Dalton was lighting candles at the nightstand beside his and Dru’s bed. He glanced down, realizing he lay on the broken down door just inside the room, strewn across it as if he had been discarded as so much refuse.

Thank the fucking gods, his legs were still there.

“Dalton,” he rasped.  His minion hurried over, a distressed look upon his scholarly face.  He fluttered about, his hands hovering over Spike, but not settling anywhere.

“I did not know if I should move you, Master.  I did not want to worsen your injuries.”

“What happened?”

“I do not rightly know.  Mistress brought you back in this condition.”  There was vague disapproval on Dalton’s face.  Spike ignored it.

“Where’s Dru?”

Dalton turned his face away, and the lenses of his glasses flashed in the candlelight.  “I’m not sure, Master.  She---she seems to have wandered off.”

Spike knew what Dalton left unsaid.  It was a bloody miracle she kept her senses about her long enough to get him back to the factory in the first place.  Now that she was restored to full strength she was more than likely dancing her way down the streets of the town, looking for something fresh to fuck and eat.  In her eagerness, she couldn’t even be bothered to walk the few feet to the bed and place him there.

“Help me onto the bed, Dalton.”

The man fluttered again, and Spike couldn’t help but to be reminded of Dru’s many pet sparrows.  The man’s anxiety was telling.

“Is it that bad?”  Spike whispered.

Dalton ducked his head, frowning at the floor.  “It’s not good, Master,” he said softly.  “I think your back may be broken.”

Spike felt his heart harden.  Fucking Slayer.  She did this.  His black goddess could be excused for her neglect.  She could barely care for herself, much less another.  But the Slayer.  She had willfully attacked him while his arms were full and his back was turned.  She was a coward, and she would pay for this newest humiliation.

“Woman.  Why are you rantin’ at me like I’d give a rat’s arse?” 

“Dunno.  I’m stupid I guess.”

Maybe he should start with Snack Size.  Killing the Slayer’s baby sis would destroy her.  It was stupid of her to assume he wouldn’t hurt the little girl, just because he had been merciful in the past.  He didn’t deserve the look of intense betrayal she directed at him.  It was her own damn fault for thinking he should care about the little half-brained twit.  He was a killer.  A vampire.  The Big Bloody Bad.

He’d suck down that sweet as sugar baby bint then he’d go for the Slayer.  ‘Coz he was the Slayer of Slayers.  It’s what he did.  Nothing could keep him down.  Not a broken back.  Not a neglectful paramour.  And sure as hell not a brassed off slayer.  He’d be back.  And when he was, they’d better watch themselves.

“Put me on the bed,” he ordered fiercely, and Dalton was driven to obey. 

His minion wedged his arms under his shoulders and knees, and try as he might, Spike couldn’t hold back the screams of agony that reverberated through the abandoned factory.  The last thing Spike was conscious of was being lifted in the air, and the searing burning that covered every inch of his flesh.  He felt himself being burned alive, and he had never been so thankful for the darkness to well up and swallow him whole.