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 ::
Author's Notes: I had to fiddle with the lyrics, and for that I'm sorry. Joss is a much better lyricist than I am. Since I admitted it, though, you all don't have to be too hard on me, right?
Spike could feel the change in his bones. Something was going on, and the best thing he could do would be to lock himself in his room and wait until it went away. The music tickled the back of his throat, and all he could think was that it was a good thing his legs weren't working at the moment, because he'd probably have itchy feet as well.
But a vampire had to eat, and so he found himself down in the kitchen when Buffy came in from patrol. "Spike, is there something a little weird going on tonight?"
"You tell me, Slayer," he replied, some of the old snark back in his voice. "You were the one out and about tonight."
She gave him an odd look for his short answer. "Well, you and Dawn didn't, you know, start singing and dancing tonight or anything like that, right?"
"Niblet's been doin' her homework and I've been sleepin', so no." Spike gulped down his blood quickly, wanting to get back to his room as soon as possible.
"Are you sure?" she asked, her voice uncertain and a bit worried. "Because there was something really strange going on tonight."
"Quite sure," he said, swinging himself towards the stairs as fast as he could. This was going to be bad if he didn't get out of there immediately.
Then he felt a hand on his arm, and he froze. It was happening, and he had no way to stop it, no way to prevent what was going to come out of his mouth.
"You hold me here.
Promise-bound, you hold me here.
I kept my word and fell for you.
Don't you know I died for you?
You hold a dead man here."
The words, the tone, were accusatory, almost angry, the anguish of the past months filling his voice. He could see the surprise on Buffy's face, though he didn't know whether it was because he wasn't half-bad or if the words surprised her.
"What is there left of me,
but the promises I made?
I would be dust but for you,
Greet the sunrise one last time.
But my love is like a chain."
Buffy found his eyes hypnotic, the haunting minor key of the song reminding her of what she'd sung earlier. And her gut twisted as she realized that his death wish had gotten stronger, even if he'd hidden it better. Yet she found herself unable to let him go.
"It binds me to this place,
and you hold the keys.
I know that what you feel,
can't be more than pity.
You can't love the monster or the beast.
My heart that isn't beating,
would beat for you again.
But all I want to find is my release.
You know that I'm not healing,
I'll never be whole again,
so let me rest in peace.
Release me from the promises that hold me.
What am I to you?
I'm useless, nothing now.
Why is it that you keep me?
Release me."
The last note was a plaintive cry, and Buffy stood frozen. He was right, of course. She should let him go if that's what he wanted, and she couldn't. When she said nothing, he turned and swung himself away, and she eventually heard the door of his room closing. Out of her own mouth came the truth, sung in the same minor key. "I need you." And she went to bed before any more hard realities could come out.
~~~~~
Spike stayed put and kept his mouth shut all that night and into the next day. He wasn't coming out for all the O neg in the world. After that embarrassing display in front of Buffy, he wasn't risking another run-in. At least, that was the plan until he heard a ruckus coming from Dawn's room. "Here now, what's this?" he asked, coming out the door reluctantly.
He froze when he saw the three—well, whatever they were grabbing Dawn, who had let out a little shriek. "Let go of the girl," he said, his tone menacing.
It was more than a little annoying when the masked demons completely ignored him as though he wasn't even a threat. "I said let go of her," he repeated, not really sure what he was going to do to stop them. The altercation, if you could even call it that, was over in a moment. One wrong move, and he was tumbling end-over-arse down the stairs. His last thought before he lost consciousness was that he had failed.
When he woke, hours later, the sun had gone down, and he was still sprawled at the bottom of the stairs. He lay still, wondering if he should even bother getting up. He'd been right, what he'd sung to Buffy. He was useless. And yet—and yet Dawn was in danger, and he might not be able to do anything about it, but he would try until he was dust or until the world ended. He had promised, and Spike kept the promises that mattered.
The crutches were scattered to either side of him, and he bit down the shame that rose as he pulled himself over to the first and then to the second, thankful that no one was there to see. Once he was out the front door, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, knowing that he didn't have the time it would take to find Buffy and tell her what was going on. He needed to find Dawn first, and then find some way to free her.
The air still carried faint traces of her scent, and he followed his nose, swinging himself along as quickly as possible. Spike could have run twice as fast as he was going, but his pace was a bit more than a fast walk, so it wasn't as bad as it might have been. The music fluttered in the back of his mind, but he resisted valiantly, concentrating on the movement of his feet and arms and keeping his balance, the rhythm soothing him, even as he softly sang, "This promise I made is destroying me. And Buffy's laughing I've no doubt. If only I could die—I'd be free of this life. I have to help her out."
Spike was late. He always was it seemed. Buffy and the rest of the crew had gotten there earlier, and Buffy was already singing. The vampire knew what was going on as soon as he saw her. She sang of her death wish, of the fact that she was tired of all the things life seemed determined to throw at her. The Slayer sang of desiring rest and peace and an end to things.
"Please give me something..." she demanded of the demon, who shook his head and watched her begin the dance that would kill her.
Spike might have found it ironic that she was actually going to die dancing if he'd had time to think about it. As it was, he was amazed that the Scoobies were still standing there, transfixed by her revelation. "Stupid prats," he whispered, as her dance grew wilder. "Don't they see—"
But if they saw, they weren't moving, and he hurriedly swung himself forward, out of the shadows that had held him. He had to time it precisely: drop the crutches and grab Buffy at the same time, hope that her reflexes were quick enough to hold him up.
They were, and he accomplished his goal of stopping her mad dance before she burned up. "Life's not a song, life isn't bliss. Life is just this: it's living." His eyes bored into hers, willing her to see what he wasn't singing. That he'd been broken for her, that he had given her a gift, that she had what he could never grasp. "You'll get along. This pain that you feel, you only can heal by living. You have to go on living. So one of us is living."
He wanted to touch her, to kiss her. To somehow imbue her heart with all the passion for life she seemed to have lost. But his hands stayed where they had gripped her arms, a cold necessity if he wasn't going to fall over. The sound of clapping hands interrupted the moment, and Buffy took the opportunity to help him pick up his crutches as Sweet determined who the culprit that summoned him was. Spike gave a snort of disgust when he found out it was Xander, but he kept his mouth shut.
He watched as Sweet dissolved into little red sparks and flew off to whatever hell dimension he'd been called from. Dawn started them off on a little group-sing, and Spike hung around for the first few bars before he decided to head back out into the darkness. Hard to do the choreographed ensemble number on crutches. What he hadn't expected was for Buffy to follow him.
"Spike!"
"Look, Buffy, just let it go, alright?" He didn't bother turning around; too much effort.
"You stopped me from burning up, and you want me to just let it go?" she asked incredulously.
He did turn to look at her. "I let Dawn get taken. I'm—" Spike stopped, unwilling to say it without the music forcing it out of him.
"You aren't. You—" What she wanted to say got caught in her throat. "You aren't." Buffy stepped closer to him and touched his face hesitantly. "I touch the fire and it freezes me. I look into it and it's black."
"All I want to find is a release. Why do you hold me here?"
"I need you here. And I just want to feel..."
Their lips met, and the moment seemed frozen in time. A perfection that made Spike definitely reconsider his death wish. Until he realized that something else had been broken.
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