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A/N Through completely selfish need of telling this story, events of The Body have been post-poned.


Chapter Five

Sensation screamed through torn, bruised muscle and flesh and he felt his body tighten in protest. Exhaustion could not express how completely thrashed he felt, not ever having been so decimated in his vampiric memory. Blackness swamped all his efforts to drag himself to the present and he felt unable to catch the slightest whiff or clue as to where he was. But the unbearable stinging of his shoulders had eased enough to tell him abstractly that he was no longer dangling from the human pup’s ceiling like some demented marionette.

His back was straightened along a hard surface, and in his fragmented understanding he got that he was either ready to become dust and they wanted him steady on the floor before stakingperhaps so they could get in a few really good kicks or that he had been saved. The way his luck had turned lately, he felt more confident in the staking. Then again, the pain that raced through his body, reminding him agonisingly of his activities since he left Buffy, made him think that staking would be too good for him. So, maybe he should go with the being saved.

Bollocks.

That couldn’t be right. The only one who would attempt it, who knew what had been happening, was Lindsey, and he wouldn’t have crossed Darla, even if she wouldn’t suck him off. The little prick didn’t care that much anyway, outside his little morbid curiosity.

The gradual clarity of his thoughts was what began to give him the ultimate clue. He knew enough to know he’d been slightly out of focus for the past couple of weeks. That he had a clue now about himself meant blood. Someone had been feeding him. He slowed all his senses till nothing mattered, no false breathing, no sniffing for scent, eyes closed as they had yet to be able to open. His centre became one with awareness and he had an understanding of his condition without using anything inherent to his nature.

He knew of the blood, felt through the healing that it was human, though no remnants of heat could convince him of the nature of the donation. His recent experience had been from the fountain, and the thought that he might have been force fed from another victim made his tear ducts react in negativity. His insides cramped and he felt a lurch in his belly, could see in his mind the coagulation of red sickly plasma and he heaved, trying desperately to rid himself of the taint.

Sheets of blood surrounded him and he heard a gasp of shock close by before the retching closed his mind off and he kept with it, his mission to not allow any to remain settled within his bloodstream. He would rather be empty than let the Slayer be right about him. He might have fucked it all up, but he couldn’t continue being manipulated by his clan women.

Sadness enveloped him in his stark realisation; he no longer belonged with his family. He had changed, remade himself to be different and less ugly to the population of heartbeats, even if those he called his second family couldn’t stand the sight of him.

He had drifted on a tide of change, no longer blood-filled, just to be a little more right for Buffy, and even though he felt violently in need of throttling her, he knew that he couldn’t go back. His reactions over the past weeks showed him that.

William had surged within him and he felt stunned at the lack of disgust. In actuality, he welcomed the nancy git, hoping that in William he might find the one to support him that he had not located within the Scooby fold. After all these years, over a century of death and deliverance, could it be William that would save him, show him the love that no other ever seemed interested in bestowing?

The tears rushed for exit and for the first time he could squint his eyes open to slits, shaking at the glare of light he encountered. It was like a signal for the rest of his body to kick in and before he could rein it in his sense of smell began to tell a story; one that he was both eager and loathe to believe.

Curled up on his side in a fetal position, he tested an eyelid for further endurance against the light, and moaned heavily in relief as it dimmed and he could peer out at his surroundings. It was confirmed. Angel sat on a chair facing him, leaning forward in a defeated slump, knees parted and hands dangling from them, head hanging low and miserable. As if he could hear the muscle of the eyelid creaking in motion he raised his head and his gaze clashed with Spike’s. They sat, silently contemplating the other until Spike felt his head begin to thrum with the warnings of a colossal headache on its way. His body was unable to move, not a stretch of even one tiny muscle and he could do nothing but wait for either speech or the stake that would tell him with finality of his fate.

“Peaches…” ‘What the bloody hell am I doing here?’ His husky, ill-used voice was unable to finish his thought, but Angel had pre-empted him anyway, and was looking at him thoughtfully.

Angel ignored the question, and with the odd look in his eye Spike began to feel uneasy. Unconsciously falling back a bit, he flinched when Angel blinked. His skin picked up on another sensation, this one even more excruciating than the pain of torture, the uneasiness of position. He had no clue where he stood with his Sire, teetering on the edge of either final eradication or hope. He couldn’t even fathom a guess as to which he would fall, but his lack of balance was becoming more alarming the longer Angel sat unmoving and silent.

But as the quiet stretched onward, neither moving toward any kind of progressive pace, Spike began to wonder at the grim twitch to Angel’s lips, his brow held frozen in a pose of wonder and perhaps… jealousy? Confusion blistered on his already torn lips, his face aching and on fire from the burn of holiness, resembling that of any horror but the recognised form of William the Bloody.

With unified acceptance, Angel stood and moved to hand a mug to Spike. He still lay unmoving amongst the splayed effects of his bloody purging, sheets sodden beneath his face. Now that the fluid was up, he was able to discern the elements that made it rich with life for himself, but not stealing breath from the giver. It was donated blood that had coated his stomach in strength, and now he was to begin from scratch to replenish that which he had forcibly evacuated. His eyes lowered in apology and submission, he reached out with trembling hands and took the mug, breathed in the heady but acceptable scent of human blood in warmth, and drank it down in lustful need.

Without word, just meaningful action, he determined that Angel, the one on the edge that had set his own sire and childe on fire, was here to help him. He finished the mug of blood just as hot tears of happiness and relief forced their way out from under his tightly closed lids and he collapsed sobbing into the arms of his Sire, grateful at last for finding the hope he had thought he could only get from Buffy. Angel could accept William, receptive through his own soul, and could accept Spike as his own creation. He could layer the hurt below acceptance and help him to locate his own steel of resolve and help him remake himself.

In the meantime, he had to regain his strength; maintain the ability to stand on his own two feet. And he needed to wrench his mind away from thoughts of Buffy just to keep a tentative grip on his sanity. He had no idea how Angel would go about it, but he held on to hope with the clinging intensity of a man on the edge.

If he was in possession of his right mind, he would wonder why he was so sure that Angel, the one he’d had tortured and hoped for his final and dusty death not so long ago, was the one he prayed could bring him into light. How had Angel displaced Buffy in his desire? And how had his desire slipped from being ‘all about Buffy’, to just wanting to be good?

He had given up hope that she could ever want him, and he even admitted to himself that, while under the hypnotic effects of the Hellmouth, his motivation to change had a Buffy shaped impetus. But now he had left her and she had left him hollow of feeling he craved just to be a little of what she might admire. He wanted hope that one day she might see him as worthy of friendship, strained or otherwise. He just wanted her acknowledgment that he was different, not the same type of vampire that she vanquished night after miserable night. That he had depth, an existence beyond being the annoyance that the Scoobies had only observed and embraced as a cover for their disinterest in having him closer.

That last thought hurt. It opened a sliced welt on his heart that they had never wanted him around. He had strived to make it easier for them, never letting on that he had their interests in his empty chest cavity that reeked of heart. But insults and rejection had shunned him every step.

Being dumped by Drusilla had driven him into a state he had never been amidst before, a loneliness that was foreign, even in his human days. He had never been so alone and in pain, and that could be the only reason he had weathered the attempts by Giles and Harris to keep him under their thumb, to keep him low and weakened in the eyes of the women in the group. They hadn’t wanted him there but put up with him because he was neutered and they felt sorry for him. He just wanted to belong, to be theirs, to have someone’s loyalty. Sure, mainly he craved Buffy’s loyalty, but just one spark of human affection from any of them would have brought tears to his eyes, and given his heart an ache of pure joy. And as weak and poofterish as that made him out to be, that was still what he wanted.

He wanted to be theirs.

Until he died.



Death was her gift.

Huh!

She definitely hadn’t seen that one coming. For the three hour long drive back to Sunnydale from the desert the revelation had been stuck on replay like a cracked out mantra. Death was her gift. The chills hadn’t abated yet, either. In fact, each time she said the phrase, her chills got chills so that she was certain that if she stripped off her clothes she would find a Mount Vesuvious of chills ready to go Boom!

Really, she was officially giving this year the heavyweight title of Crappy! With her mom sick, Glory after her sister, Riley leaving, Spike leaving, she was hard pressed to give the ‘sending Angel to Hell’ event the recognition it deserved. No, that year had been usurped. This year was by far the outright winner as far as she was concerned. And the worst part of it was, it was nowhere near over. Oh no, instead of drifting off to a closed curtains end of the year, Glory had decided that she hadn’t found her key quickly enough and was stepping up the intimidation. She had to come up with a plan soon, and death being her gift and all, she couldn’t see how she could lose. Pffft.

With Giles’s little red ‘skirt attracting’ car, Buffy felt the dread wash over her and settle like thick, gluggy black oil. It had shifted on their way out of town but now she wondered if the Hellmouth emitted some kind of force of evil that stuck to your body like glue if you were stupid enough to enter. She wanted to turn around, and go bury her head under a mountain of oblivion and forget that Glory was searching under every Sunnydale rock to locate her precious key.

Truthfully, she just wanted to find Spike. She wanted to get all the Scoobies out of there before they all were dead. Before Glory decided that she wasn’t getting anywhere and decided to start brainsucking them all. Besides, it wasn’t like they were having much impact right now on all the demons that had flooded the Hellmouth since the news that Master Spike had deserted the place.

Leaving, left, gone. The imagery was a suggestion that she couldn’t help but latch hold of desperately. Spike had promised he would still be there for her, and she knew he loved her mother and at least liked Dawn a little. Little pictures of her friends getting killed, being brainsucked to give Glory her sanity, Willow going psycho on magic to revenge those that she loved…all she could see if they stayed now was major uber badness. Suddenly, getting the hell out of town sounded like a perfectly plausible plan to her. And she knew exactly where they all should go.

“Giles. I think we should have a Scooby meeting. I have a plan.”

Giles nodded in acceptance and felt his body loosen a little of his tension in relief. He had hoped this sojourn on a mystical Slayer pilgrimage would provide some suggestions of where they could go from here in this battle, and so had succumbed to the ridiculous spectacle of shaking his gourd and doing the hokey pokey like Buffy had teased. It had lightened her serious demeanor fractionally, so he hadn’t minded too much just grateful that the stress that had been lumped on her shoulders since the departure of Spike was lifted from her concern for a few hours.

The purpose he had expected her to reappear with had not been evident however, and instead he had felt the blanket of despair and fear settle around her, almost suffocating the pair of them. He must remember to record in his diary that this trip had not been a raging success.

“I’ll drop you off first so you can check on your mother and Dawn, then we can all meet at the shop. I assume you want to do this immediately? Although it is rather late…”

“No Giles, it needs to be now…we can’t waste any more time. She’s closing in on us…I have a really bad feeling.”

A quick glance to the side confirmed for him that she did indeed look miserable, and frightened. Not an emotion he had ever seen reflected on her face. Not even in meetings with Angelus. Not even the Master. After her dreams it had seemed more like angry determination or a desperate need to escape. Not true garden-variety fear. It did not bode well.

When he stopped outside Buffy’s house he could see all the lights still on and Xander’s car was parked in the drive. He decided to alight from the vehicle with his Slayer and they both rushed into the house. Really, Joyce had been dangerously unwell and didn’t deserve to be in the middle of this much drama. If he could, he would take on Glory himself and let the Summers’ finally feel safe. But he couldn’t, and he feared that this time even Buffy might be out of her league.

The inside was relatively calm, though the shocked faces of those sitting around the living room told a tale of scared hopelessness. A quick count confirmed that all were present but they all remained still and silent under a burden of story telling that would be frightening.

“I don’t want to know.”

Buffy’s voice went off like a gunshot, making everyone jump in guilt.

“Listen up. Mom, Dawn, go upstairs and pack a bag to cover you for maybe a week. Xander, go home. You and Anya do the same, call your boss, and make excuses. Do whatever you think needs to be done. Don’t tell anyone anything. Giles, same. I’ll phone Willow and Tara. We’ll all meet at the Magic Box in about forty minutes.”

Nobody moved. “We’re on the clock people. Move.” Buffy turned her back and raced up the stairs to her room, first stop her phone to relay the message to the witches.

Exactly forty minutes later had everyone jammed inside the Magic Box and thrumming with the surprise action of Buffy wanting to run. It was not typical behaviour; she usually ran after the fight, not before. Still, no one was ready to challenge her when the rest of her actions were embedded in ‘take charge’ land.

“Listen up people. This is the deal. Glory is closing in on us. I can’t fight her on my own, I don’t know how to stop her, and Spike isn’t here to add to the superhuman strength factor. Magic has only gotten us so far, so we have no choice. We have to get out before she picks us off one by one, and hope we can stay hidden long enough for her to miss her window of opportunity. I have no idea when that is, but I think it must be soon by how frequent her attacks are getting. So Giles, you take Willow and Tara. Anya and Xander are together. Mom, Dawn and me will be in our car. We’re heading to LA and before anyone starts to argue, we are going to Angel and he is going to help us find Spike, even if I have to kill him to do it.”

The ferocious look of determination had everyone startled to momentary silence, but then Xander hesitantly raised his hand.

“Um, Buff? I think Angel’s already on it.”

She raised confused eyes to him, hedged off her defended path toward Spike by a sledgehammer blow from outfield.

“Huh?”

Xander chuckled nervously.

“I, uh, called the big guy about a week ago and asked him to find Spike for us.”

As she continued to look at Xander in surprised amazement, she felt tears prickle at the tight dryness of her eyelids and she bestowed upon him a radiant though watery smile. Relief slackened her limbs and she nearly fell to the floor.

“You did?” Her voice was wobbly with affection and friendly love, and she could see similar faces revealing their support and understanding and she rushed upon them to offer hugs of strength and comfort.

“We’ll find him, Buffy.” Willow circled her with her arms and squeezed. “Then we’ll make him come back.”

Buffy stepped back, looking from one face to the next and her bottom lip wobbled. When she encountered the goofy, yet confident grin of her only male friend, she collapsed within his arms sobbing her gratitude.

“Why?” she asked, shocked by the uncharacteristic insight and support of Xander.

He gave her a sheepish look, and by the curl of his mouth she could tell that what he was about to say creeped him out on pretty spectacular levels.

“I guess I never realised before how much of a support Spike was to all of us. To you,” he affirmed, making sure to catch her eye. “He can protect you like none of us can, and Dawn and Mrs. Summers.”

Buffy could feel herself shake with the repressed need to collapse sobbing in relief. They did see it could feel her need for the bleached vampire.

“There’s only so much we can do though, Buffster. You’re gonna have to make him want to stay.”

She looked into his face and nodded understanding, happiness filtering through every pore of her body. Rubbing the tears from her face, she grabbed the arms of her mother and Dawn and pulled them towards the door.

“Let’s go then, people. Last one to LA is a rotten egg.”

Picking up bags and shuffling along in a strangely ebullient mood for a group with a price on their heads, they moved toward various vehicles and angled for the highway leading them out of Sunnydale.

The mission the same, just on hiatus.

Buffy grinned in hope. Death was her gift, was it? Well, she had lots of experience in putting prophecies on their heads.

For the first time in weeks, Buffy’s skin began to warm.


A/N...so, sorry but Lindsey and the girls are gone...I know people were looking forward to their involvement in the story, but ultimately, this is about Spike's journey. Hopefully, you will all still enjoy that. Thank you so much to my enthusiastic reviewers...you guys keep me so excited about writing. Please keep going, and new readers, it's really easy to say whether you like the fic and it makes my day.





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