Summary: Spoilers for "The Gift" and S6. Spike manages to save Dawn, but pays a terribly high price. Will he be able to find meaning in his suffering?
Author's Notes: The title and some of the philosophy behind this story comes from Viktor Frankl's book Man's Search for Meaning, a must-read if you haven't already. In any case, it's basically about the importance of finding meaning in our suffering, since that's the only way we can avoid giving into despair. On a side-note, not everything in this story may be physically possible. But I didn't have Spike to experiment on, so you'll just have to take it as a plot device and leave it at that. As always, thanks and love to my beta, Heather.
Rating: PG-13
1 :: 2 :: 3 :: 4 :: 5 :: 6 :: 7 :: 8 :: 9 :: 10 :: 11 :: 12 :: 13 :: 14 :: 15 :: 16 :: 17 :: 18 :: 19 :: 20 :: 21 :: 22 ::
It wasn’t an ideal set-up to begin with. It was a lot safer for him to sleep in her mom’s old room, where there wasn’t any direct sunlight during the day, but that meant carting him up and down the stairs, which he hated. They’d found him a wheelchair, but Buffy’s house wasn’t really a great place for maneuverability, and so he had a hard time getting around when he was downstairs as well. Buffy was trying to keep all of that in mind as she dealt with him.
But he was not only cranky, he was also demanding, rude, snarky, and downright pissy. He continually insulted her and her friends, just to get under their skin. And at no point did he show any kind of gratitude whatsoever. About the only person that was safe from his acidic tongue was Dawn, with whom he was uncharacteristically gentle.
Well, Dawn and Tara. The only time he’d tried to snipe at her, she’d just given him this look. Buffy had watched the exchange, and to her surprise, Spike had immediately dropped his eyes and offered a muttered apology. She was still trying to figure out how the other woman had managed that, because she had no clue how to get him to shut up. The others were lucky enough to be able to avoid him, but Buffy didn’t have that luxury since he was in her house. Still, she made Dawn deal with him as much as possible.
By the third week, she was ready to see the last of him, and absolutely couldn’t imagine keeping him around until he was back on his feet. Plus, she’d started to worry about bills, and college in the fall, and taking care of Dawn, and all the other little mundane things that were beginning to make up her life. Taking care of a crippled vampire was not on her list of good times.
“Back from patrol early, Slayer?” he asked snidely as she let herself in. “Not much creeping about tonight?”
“Spike, just shut up. I’m not in the mood,” Buffy said tiredly. What she wanted was a hot shower and then bed. She looked over to see Spike in his chair and Dawn laying on the couch, idly flipping the channels.
“Losing your touch, pet?”
“Don’t,” she warned him. “Really not in the mood for your mind games tonight.”
“Then why don’t you come over here and make me,” he invited, tauntingly.
Buffy ignored him and turned to walk up the stairs. “You’re losing it, Slayer,” he called out after her. “The Hellgod took everything you had, and you don’t have anything left. One of these days, you’re goin’ to find yourself wishin’ it’d been you on top of that bloody tower.”
It was way too close to home. How Spike had guessed, how he’d known what she thought of in the dead of night, was beyond her. The dreams she’d had of jumping to save the world, of dying, of being finished, were something she’d told no one about, and the fact that he’d somehow known was the last straw. “That’s it, Spike,” she hissed turning to face him. “I think it might be time for me to put you out of your undead misery.”
Buffy marched across the living room and hauled him out of his chair and up against the wall. She could see the sneer on his face, and her world narrowed to him and the stake she was reaching for. “Buffy!” Dawn’s alarmed voice barely penetrated her concentration.
“Go upstairs, Dawnie,” Buffy ordered.
“But—”
“Now,” she said, in a tone that brooked no opposition. If she was going to stake him, she really didn’t want her sister watching.
Dawn hesitated and then whirled out of the room. “If you kill him, I’m never going to speak to you again.”
Not even that dire threat was enough to make Buffy hesitate. What stopped her was the look in his eyes, the look that didn’t match the nasty snarl on his face. It was hope. For a second, she stood there, frozen, realizing that Spike had spent the last couple weeks trying to get someone angry enough to kill him. He’d promised not to hurt himself, but that hadn’t stopped him from trying to get someone else to kill him. “I can’t believe you,” Buffy said, dropping him back into his chair and releasing him.
“What? You changed your mind, Slayer?” There was a touch of disappointment in his tone, which confirmed her suspicions.
She shook her head. “You were trying to get me to stake you.”
His face grew serious and hardened. “Then why don’t you do it? You know you want to.”
Buffy might have said more, but Dawn came back into the living room, a deeply betrayed look on her face. “You want her to stake you?”
“Bit, stay out of this,” he said softly.
She stomped her foot. “You were going to leave me.”
He had the grace to look guilty. “Niblet, you don’t need me.”
“You’re my friend,” she protested angrily.
“I’m the guy your sister asked to be your bodyguard!” he snarled. “That’s it.”
Dawn’s lower lip started to tremble. Buffy was watching the scene with interest. She knew her sister was upset, but she could smell a truly masterful guilt trip from about a mile off. This was going to be one of those. “So you’re not my friend?”
Spike looked startled. He had been fairly certain that he didn’t have any friends; the Scoobies had made that clear not too long ago. No one, not even Dawn had stood up for him then. And yet apparently the girl no longer felt that way. “I don’t have friends, Bit. Evil vampire, here.”
“So you’re saying I can’t choose my own friends.” Buffy was truly impressed. Dawn had gone from weepy to pissed in about two seconds, and Spike was looking completely bewildered. He might be a master manipulator himself, but he had nothing on a teenage girl.
“No, I never said that,” he denied, and then realized the trap he’d thrown himself into. “Are we friends?” he asked. There was a look of vulnerability on his face, and both girls realized that he wanted it.
“Only if you don’t get yourself staked,” Dawn said. “Do you really hate me that much?”
His eyes widened. “’Course not. Why would you think that?”
“Because I should have been the one who died,” she said. “If I had died, then you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”
“Bite your tongue, girl,” Spike replied, almost harshly. “Even if I’d known what was goin’ to happen, I wouldn’t change one thing. Don’t even let me catch you thinkin’ that, Bit.”
“Then you promise not to get yourself killed?” she asked, coming over to him, and laying her hand on his arm.
He sighed deeply. “Yeah, I promise.”
“And you’ll be nice?”
Both eyebrows went up. “Evil here, remember? Nice isn’t in my vocabulary.”
Dawn rolled her eyes. “Fine. Less of a pain, then.”
His lips twisted into something resembling a smile. “Do my best.”
“Good.” Dawn leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek, turning before she could see the poleaxed look on his face. “I think I’m going to bed,” she announced. “’Night.”
Buffy responded in kind, and looked over at Spike, who still looked stunned by the gesture of affection. “Do you want to go outside?” she asked softly.
He looked over at her, shook his head. “No. Go to bed, Slayer. You look knackered.”
Buffy hesitated, then nodded. “All right. Will you be okay—”
“Go on, Buffy,” he said, and his voice was tired, seemingly weighed down by every one of his years. “Promised the Bit I wouldn’t off myself, didn’t I?”
Not knowing what else to say, she nodded, and headed up to bed. “Good night, Spike,” she said softly, but there was only silence behind her.
~~~~~
Spike sat on the back porch, staring out into the darkness. Two weeks of hard work had been completely wasted; he could tell by the look on Buffy’s face when she had come into his room this evening. There was no way he would get her to stake him now, and he found himself between a rock and a hard place. Not only had he promised Buffy that he wouldn’t kill himself, he’d promised the Bit that he wouldn’t get anyone else to do the job. It looked like he was here for the duration.
There was a sound behind him, and he didn’t even turn to see who it was. Her scent had been burned on his memory. “How was patrol?”
“Quiet,” she replied. “It was kind of nice, actually.” Their silent truce hung in the air between them, much as it had after the affair with Glory and the ‘bot. There was everything and nothing to say. “I brought you something.”
He said nothing, waiting until she came up beside him, handed him a small, rectangular package. His lips curled up in a pleased smile. “Ta,” he murmured, shaking a cigarette out of the pack, and taking the proferred lighter from Buffy. He drew in a lungful of smoke and exhaled. Oh, how he’d missed this.
She took a seat on the stairs not far from him. “I got to thinking, you know. And I’d heard one of the problems with quitting cold turkey is the irritability. So, I figured since you’ve been bad-moody guy lately, that might help.”
It was a peace offering, and a gift. “Yeah, well, sorry ‘bout that. Had to bloody well try though, didn’t I?”
She looked over at him and realized that he probably would have had an easier time of it if she had been cruel. If she’d been nasty to him, he would have stubbornly insisted on surviving because it would have been done to spite her. He was just that persistent. By treating him nicely, she had removed the goad that had sustained him the last time. “I’m sorry, Spike.”
“Don’t,” he replied, drawing in more smoke. “Like I told you, like I told Niblet, I did it because I wanted to. I’d do it again if it meant neither of you got hurt.”
She believed him. Unbelievably, she knew he was telling the truth, if only because he sucked at lying. “I think you would.”
“I’ll be fine, Slayer. Did this before, never wanted to do it again, but it’s about my luck.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “Never could do much right.”
“You did this right, Spike,” Buffy replied, offering him comfort without really knowing why. Realizing that he wasn’t so bad when he wasn’t trying to get himself killed. “I’m going in. You going to be okay out here?”
He nodded. “I’ll lock up in a bit. Think I’ll just smoke another fag.”
She rolled her eyes, not even trying to understand his slang, and then gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder as she went inside. Spike went back to his contemplation of the darkness, the red-orange glow of his cigarette the only point of light.
~~~~~
Xander had no clue what he was doing. He hated Spike, he had no reason and no desire to help him at all. Which meant he had no reason for lying to his friends about being sick to get out of going to the Bronze. Instead, he was at Buffy’s house, planning on putting an evil vampire back on his feet. He must have been hit on the head one too many times.
Shifting the bundle in his arms, he let himself into the house and called out cautiously, “Hello?” When he got no response, he started for the back porch. Buffy had said that Spike spent most of his time out there, brooding. The Slayer had admitted to being concerned for him, just because he’d seemed uncharacteristically depressed for the last few weeks.
Sure enough, when Xander opened the back door, Spike was sitting in his chair, smoking and staring out into space. “If you’re lookin’ for the Slayer, she already left,” the bleached vampire said without even turning around.
Xander hesitated. Last chance to back out. “I was looking for you.”
That got his attention. Spike spun his chair to face the other man. “What for?”
“I have something for you.” He took his bundle and dumped it on the porch with a clatter.
Spike’s eyes widened as he took in the pair of crutches and leg braces. “You have got to be kidding me,” he said flatly.
“Look,” Xander said, in his most persuasive voice. “You’ve got the strength and the balance to drag around your own dead weight. I figured it was worth a shot.”
“What? So you can laugh at me when I fall on my face?” he asked cynically. “Forget it.”
“If I wanted to laugh at you, I wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of getting this stuff.” At Spike’s still sceptical look, Xander took a leap of faith and explained. “I had this great uncle, right?”
“And I care because?” Spike interrupted.
He continued without acknowledging the vampire’s comment. “He got polio way back when, and he pretty much lost all use of his legs. But, he managed to drag himself around with a pair of crutches because he didn’t want to be stuck in a chair. I figured if some old guy with arthritis can do it, a vampire could.”
The look on Spike’s face changed from one of distrust to one of hesitant hope. “Why are you doin’ this, Harris? You hate me.”
“I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing it for Buffy,” he replied. “I figure it’s all good if she doesn’t have to cart your sorry ass around all the time.”
Spike looked from the other man to the pile of gear on the porch. He still wasn’t so sure about all of this, but he’d never been one to resist a challenge. “All right,” he conceded. “But if you start laughing the first time I fall on my face, I’ll bite you.”
“I’m shaking,” Xander replied sarcastically, but they were on even ground now. Threats had been made and disregarded; they could now get back to the business at hand.
He didn’t offer to help Spike as he struggled to get the braces on his legs. They were the type that people with knee surgery typically used afterward. The joints could be adjusted for tension, and they weren’t the heavy, metal braces his great uncle had used. Xander had managed to get a couple from the guys at work, more than a few of whom had had knee surgeries. He’d explained he’d had a friend who’d had both knees operated on and had a long recovery ahead. They’d been more than happy to help. The crutches he’d gone out and bought; he just had to hope that his investment wouldn’t be wasted.
Once Spike had gotten the braces on, he double-checked the brake on the chair, and then he grabbed the crutches and got himself on his feet in one awkward motion. He managed to swing himself across the small expanse of porch a couple times before he turned towards the stairs. They might have looked like Mt. Everest, but he got himself down, and then began practicing in the yard, his face a picture of concentration.
He fell twice. The first time one of the crutches got caught in a hole, and Xander was there almost immediately, helping him to his feet again, silently. Spike nodded to him, a “thank you” of sorts, and kept going. The second time he fell, he simply lost his balance. And when he landed with a thump, Xander was there, offering him a hand up again. This time, Spike waived off his assistance, struggling with the crutches awkwardly, trying not to think about the fact that he had an audience. He knew he’d better figure out whether or not he could get up on his own, otherwise he could be stuck on the floor for a long time if he ever fell when no one was home. Been there, done that, thank you very much.
After a few minutes of feeling like a fish out of water, Spike managed to get himself upright again, and swung over to where Xander was sitting on the porch steps. Spike watched him, thankful that the whelp was at least pretending not to have seen any of that. He hesitated, unsure of himself, and unsure of the motivations of the other man. It seemed that it was kindness that was his undoing. Swallowing, he managed a gruff, “Thanks, mate.”
Xander stared at him, the words were the friendliest he’d ever received from the vampire, excepting the small conversation they’d had while on the run from Glory. “Yeah, well, don’t mention it.”
“Spike?” The voice was Buffy’s, and came from inside the house. “You out here?” She stepped out onto the porch, surprised to see Xander standing there. “Xander? I thought you were sick.” Her eyes traveled from her friend to Spike, who stood, leaning on his crutches. Her mouth fell open.
“Hey, Buffy,” Spike said softly. “Guess old dogs can learn new tricks after all.”
She smiled at him. “Good. Now I won’t have to worry about hauling you up and down the stairs all the time.” Her tone was light, however, and he took no offense. She looked at Xander then and mouthed a silent, “Thank you.”
He shrugged. “I should get going. I’ll see you, Buf. Spike.” The complete lack of animosity in his tone as he spoke the name suggested a new level of their relationship.
They watched him go silently, and then Spike wearily climbed the stairs to the porch. Buffy wordlessly held the door open for him and then followed him inside. “How are you?”
He looked at her with a touch of his old humor. “What? Now that I’m back on my feet again? Nice to be able to move about a bit easier. Not the same though.”
“I know,” she replied. “Look, Spike, I know this hasn’t been easy for you.”
He looked away from her. “Statin’ the obvious here, pet.”
“How close were you to staking yourself? Regardless of the promise.”
Spike’s blue eyes dropped to the countertop, and he murmured softly, “Maybe a week, maybe more.”
“Does this help?” she asked.
“Yeah, a bit.” He looked down at his fingernails, bitten to the quick. “Pretty pathetic, huh? Chipped vamp that can’t even walk. About as pointless as it gets.”
Buffy felt a sudden surge of sympathy. What did he have now? What was he now? She couldn’t think of him as evil exactly, not after he’d been tortured by Glory and held his tongue. Not after he’d taken that flying leap from the tower for Dawn. Not after he sat there, completely broken. “If it makes you feel any better, I probably wouldn’t have lasted nearly as long, if I were you.”
Spike looked up and met her eyes with a kind of knowing that made her uncomfortable in the extreme. “No, you wouldn’t, luv. You’ve got too much holding you here.”
“Not enough.” Buffy froze, suddenly aware that she’d said it out loud. She stared at him, waiting for him to say something unflattering.
Instead, he just smiled, gently, understandingly. “It’s enough if you want it to be, Slayer. Your decision.”
His words were too close to home, just as they’d been the other night when she had almost staked him. How could he know of her weariness, of her need for a long vacation from everything life seemed to be determined to throw at her? “Would you like some cocoa?” she asked, changing the subject. “I think I know how to make it like mom did, and I have some of those little marshmallows.”
Spike knew exactly what it was that held him here. The Slayer and the love of a child. For now it would be enough.
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