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 ::
Buffy came down the stairs to find Tara cooking breakfast, specifically, pancakes. "Hey, smells good," Buffy said, thinking that she hadn't come down to a morning like this one since her mother had died.
"Funny shapes or rounds?" Tara asked with a welcoming smile. "Dawn asked for funny shapes, but I can make whichever you prefer."
"Funny shapes taste better," Dawn supplied, taking a huge bite of pancake with syrup.
She smiled at her sister. "Well, I guess I'll go with the expert advice and say funny, then." The Slayer gave her new roommate a measuring look. "I'm glad you're here, Tara, and not just because of the gourmet breakfasts. Though they're much appreciated," she hurried to assure her.
Since the spell gone wrong at the Magic Box, Tara had been staying at the Summers' residence. It had been an awkward decision all around. While Tara had been the one to leave Willow, and it had only made sense that she be the one to find a new place, no one had expected Buffy to offer her use of their home. Willow had been understandably upset, but Buffy had found herself to be less than sympathetic. For one, having her memories expunged, only to get them back, had been incredibly painful, not to mention dangerous. She, like Tara, was worried about Willow, and what Spike hadn't said was painfully obvious: Willow might prove a threat to all of them with her recklessness. This hadn't been the first time she'd worked her will on the rest of them through magic, and it hadn't been the first time she'd placed their lives in danger.
Tara was a nice roommate to have around, however. Spike had willingly vacated Joyce's old room in favor of a cot in the basement, and having the shy Wicca around had made perfect sense after only a couple days. Tara was sweet, stable, understanding, and a wonderful cook. Buffy couldn't help but wonder how Spike had figured all that out on his own.
"It's good to be here, Buffy," Tara admitted quietly. "I wasn't sure where I was going to go after—you know."
"Well," Buffy replied frankly, "you can thank Spike for that. He's the one who suggested I talk to you."
"Spike? Really?" Tara asked, a thoughtful look on her face. "He isn't what you'd expect, is he?"
"No," Buffy said wryly. "He was much less complicated when he was just trying to kill me."
"Speaking of Spike," Dawn interrupted, staring into the refrigerator, a carton of juice in her hand. "I thought you usually got his blood on Mondays."
Buffy came over to see what her sister was looking at and was surprised to see a full week's supply of blood in the fridge. And it was Saturday. "Have either of you seen him recently?" she asked quietly.
They looked over at each other, exchanging guilty looks. It was immediately clear that he hadn't been seen, and no one had thought anything of it. Buffy felt a bolt of shame go through her. He could have been dust and she would have never known. At least, not for a while. He had disappeared into her basement like a rabbit down its hole, and she hadn't even thought to check on him, knowing full well that his death wish was stronger with each passing day. In spite of his good work at the shop that night, he had been entirely too willing to throw his unlife away. Fear joined shame as she thought of what her life would look like without the bleached vampire. Her logical mind clamped down on her emotions and reminded her that he was a soulless fiend. If he dusted, not a big deal. But her heart was still beating just a hair faster than it should have if she truly hadn't cared for him.
"I'll go down and check on him," she said, her own breakfast forgotten.
"Buffy?" Dawn said, fear in her eyes.
She gave her sister a reassuring hug. "I'm sure he'll be fine, Dawnie." But as her eyes met Tara's, she acknowledged that he might be too broken to fix, and she was grateful for the other woman's presence. Of all of her friends, Tara was the one most sympathetic to him.
"I'll heat some blood up for him," she said to Buffy. "He'll need it."
Buffy descended the stairs to her basement, relieved when she saw Spike's still figure on the cot. Ignoring her logical mind, she followed her instincts and sat down on the bed next to him. "Spike?" she called softly, touching him on the shoulder.
He faced away from her, his chest bare, his skin cold, much colder than it normally was. "Spike, you need to wake up." A moment's pause, and Buffy said, "I know you're not asleep, so you can quit pretending."
"Go away, Slayer."
That was it. Three words she thought she'd never hear from him and nothing more. "I also know you haven't been eating," Buffy continued, as though she hadn't heard him. "Why?"
"I said, go away," he replied, his tone harsh. He finally turned to face her, and Buffy was shocked. He'd been pale and drawn after he escaped from the Initiative and come to them for help. (Was it really the same vampire?) She knew he hadn't fed for some time then, but now his face was even more hollowed out, dark shadows ringing his eyes. He looked beaten, more so than he had at any point in the past. More than when he'd come to them that Thanksgiving, more than he had after he'd been tortured by Glory. All the fight had left his eyes, and that frightened her more than anything. Spike was supposed to be the one who never gave up.
"You have to eat," she replied. "You know vampires can't starve themselves to death, so I don't know why you're even trying it." Worry made her words come out more sharply than she'd intended.
He glared and then tried to roll back over. "Maybe not, but if I wait long enough I might not wake up."
Spike was serious, she realized immediately. He really didn't care that he was starving himself into oblivion. And she wasn't completely certain that he wouldn't starve to death. If he really didn't eat for long enough, he might get dusty from lack of nourishment. "Absolutely not," she said, her hand on his shoulder preventing him from turning his back to her again. "I don't plan on accessorizing my basement with a dessicated vampire. You're eating if I have to pour it down your throat myself."
His glare was even more impotent than it usually was. Lack of food had made him weak, and he didn't stand a chance at resisting her. "Buffy." The word was softer, pleading. "Let me go."
She shook her head, offering him a mute apology with her eyes. "No. I need you here too much, Spike."
"You don't," he objected.
"What about the other night, at the Magic Box? Or with the dancing demon?" She tried to will some life back into him, not bothering to question why it meant so much to her.
He didn't have an argument to counter her objections, as much as he wanted to. He'd thought he would get away with it this time; after three days, when no one had come to check on him, he figured the basement meant out of sight, out of mind. Spike had nearly been right. He closed his eyes and felt Buffy's weight rise from the cot. For a minute he thought she'd finally succumbed to his request, but the voices disabused him of that notion in a hurry.
He heard Tara's voice, soft and questioning, and then Buffy's answer. A silence followed, as though they didn't want him to overhear what they had to say. The scent of blood hit his nostrils, and he could barely contain his blood lust. As it was, he couldn't prevent the mask from slipping. He opened his eyes to find Buffy looking down at him, her eyes sure and unafraid. "Hold on," she murmured.
Spike didn't want to drink, didn't want to give into her demands that he (un)live, but the Slayer wasn't going to give him a choice, and neither was his demon. She helped him to sit up and lean back against the wall, and then handed him the mug. The feel of the ceramic in his hand and the even sharper scent was enough to break down every defense he'd carefully erected. He drank down the contents in mere seconds, glancing away from Buffy even as he licked his lips to get every drop available.
"Geez, Spike," Buffy said, her tone as light as her eyes were serious. "You know we have plenty of that upstairs. No need to go hungry in this house."
He shook his head, his face shifting back into its human guise. She didn't, couldn't understand. "I'm alright."
As though sensing that she wasn't going to get any more from him, she nodded. "I have errands to run, among other things today, so I'll be out, but Tara should be around and Dawn too. I'll have them check on you every so often."
"You don't have to do that," he objected.
"I think I do," she replied. "Look, Spike, I don't know what all this is about, but I think we need to talk after I get back from patrol tonight. Fair warning."
He nodded, not having the strength or the will to argue anymore. He felt, rather than saw, her hand press his shoulder, having closed his eyes again. It was easier to drift back to sleep, now that he'd fed, but even so, the sleeping left him wishing that he'd never wake.
Spike was awakened midafternoon by a serious-faced Dawn. "I brought you some more blood."
He blinked owlishly at her, frowning slightly. "Bit? 'M not really hungry right now, but thanks."
"Spike," she said, exhibiting the long-suffering of a fifteen-year-old, "you haven't eaten anything in, like, a week. Don't tell me you don't need this."
He sighed. There was really no getting around it. Apparently, everybody was going to be pouring blood down his throat until they thought he'd had enough. Unfortunately, his stomach growled at that instant, so he couldn't even argue that he was still full from what Buffy brought down earlier. Sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he took the warm mug from her and drank.
Dawn sat down next to him and watched as he consumed what was probably lunch. Or breakfast, depending on whether or not they ever let him get back to sleep. "Your roots are showing," she pointed out suddenly.
"Huh?" he asked, licking his lips, yellow eyes becoming blue again.
"Your roots. They're showing," she repeated, and held a thumb and finger about a half-inch apart. "By about this much."
He cocked an eyebrow at her. It was difficult to be depressed when the Niblet was around, mostly because he never knew what to expect from her. "Looks bad, then, does it?"
She shrugged. "It's not terrible. I've never seen it get that long, though." And then she grinned at him. "I could bleach it for you."
He returned her grin with a dubious look. "Don't think so, thanks anyway."
"What? You really think you're going to impress my sister looking like that?"
He gave her a sharp glare, silently telling her to mind her own business. "Not lookin' to impress anyone, Bit. If you'll excuse me—"
He'd planned on getting her to leave so he could go back to sleep, especially since the conversation was going places he didn't want to go. "I'm not leaving just so you can start moping again and try and starve yourself to death," Dawn interrupted, giving him a glare that matched his own in ferocity.
"Wasn't trying to starve myself," he finally admitted, trying to find a way to tell her what it had meant, him not eating. Mostly it had to do with the fact that he didn't have the energy to put the braces on, to climb the stairs. It had been easier to just lie there, not brooding, not thinking, just laying there, empty-like.
Dawn must have understood some of what he couldn't say, because her face softened, and she said, "You know, if you didn't want to climb the stairs you could have yelled at one of us. I would have brought something down."
He shrugged, not wanting to talk about it. "Come on," she said, abruptly. "I'll get a basin and I can do your hair down here."
Before he could say absolutely not, she was gone and up the stairs, moving with a speed and an ease that he envied. And then she was back with a large bowl and a box of dye, acting for all the world as though he was actually going to let her touch his hair.
His eyes narrowed suddenly when he saw the box though, because he knew Buffy didn't have that much extra cash lying about, and he was certain that she wasn't going to be forking it over for his hair products. "How'd you come up with that?" he asked, his voice deceptively soft.
For a moment, he was certain she was going to lie, and then she tilted her head defiantly. "I stole it."
"Right then," he said. "And when you get caught, the government blokes will probably drag your arse away."
"I'm not going to get caught," she replied hotly, but there was a shade of doubt in her eyes, and Spike knew he had her attention.
"What else have you been takin'?"
"Little stuff," she replied. "Nothing big."
A flash of insight came as he remembered the singing demon fiasco. Dawn had been wearing his talisman, even though she hadn't summoned him. The revelation that Xander had been the one to call Sweet had distracted everyone from noticing what a lame excuse she'd had for having the necklace on in the first place, but now that he thought about it, it made sense. "Like the necklace?" he asked. "What else have you taken from the shop, Bit?"
"I told you, little stuff," she replied, but most of the defiance had gone out of her, and she sat down, deflated, on the edge of the cot.
"So you take the stuff hoping someone will notice, sooner or later, just so they'll pay attention to you?" he asked. Made sense to him; it was the reason he'd killed his first Slayer, really, to make Angelus pay attention to him.
She leaned back against the wall with a deep sigh. "It sounds really stupid when you put it that way."
"I've done stupid, pet," he said sympathetically. At the moment he was thinking of chaining Buffy to a wall. Oh, yeah, he'd done stupid. "Look, I won't tell your sis if you put the stuff back." She looked as though she were about to protest. "If you can steal it, you can unsteal it," he said reasonably. "Take it back one or two things at a time and leave it in out of the way spots. Anya'll find it when she's cleaning and think someone picked it up and misplaced it. As for the rest of it, just don't do it anymore. You get caught, someone'll have your hide for sure, and I'm not just talkin' about Buffy."
"You're really not going to tell Buffy?" Dawn asked, relief in her voice.
He shook his head. "No, I'm not. But if you're smart, you'll 'fess up. Chances are, she'll find out sooner or later."
"I can't," Dawn replied, her tone panicked.
"Up to you," he returned. "Remember that, Niblet. In the end, it's always up to you."
She dropped her eyes from his gaze, and then looked back up at him pleadingly. "So you'll let me do your hair now?"
Tara was down later that evening to check on him, the third in a string, though by no means the last. Spike was aware that Buffy would be back down later, after she got home from patrol or whatever it was she was doing. And while he dreaded their talk, he also looked forward to it, to seeing her, being near her. She was the sun around which his universe spun.
There were days that he wished she would punch him in the nose like she used to, if only because it would prove that he wasn't a glass-Spike to be protected. It would mean that he was whole again. He also knew that it was only because he had been broken for her that she allowed him to stay, to get as close as he was. The moment he was back on his feet again, he would be relegated to the shadows. He truly was between a rock and a hard place; as long as he was crippled, he could be close to Buffy, and yet he could never be with her. When he healed, he would be sidelined from her life, but he might actually be able to touch her, to give her what she needed.
So he sat, waiting for her to come, to comfort him, to torment him. It was all the same these days.
He glanced up from the book he was reading as Tara came down the stairs, coming to sit next to him on the cot. "How are you?" she asked quietly.
"Been better, Glinda," he replied honestly, finding it difficult to lie to the shy Wicca. Like Joyce, she demanded the best from him, all the remnants of the Victorian gentleman coming to the surface for her.
She handed him the ubiquitous mug. "Drink."
Not daring to disobey, he did so, looking up in surprise at the taste. "What's in here?"
"Herbs. Nothing weird, just stuff that's supposed to lift the spirits." She leaned back against the wall on one shoulder, considering him. "You let Dawn bleach your hair."
"She wasn't going to take no for an answer," he replied with a rueful smile. They sat in silence as he drank, and it wasn't uncomfortable.
She laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Spike, what's wrong?"
The tears came up unexpectedly, choking him. He was not going to cry, not in front of someone. He hadn't truly let anyone see him cry since he'd been turned, since that night Drusilla had caught him in the empty stable. "It's okay," she said. "I won't tell anyone."
It was a permission, of sorts, and he put his hands up over his face and let the tears flow where she wouldn't see, even though he knew that she knew. When he spoke, his words were muffled by tears and his hands. "I'm not healing."
"Oh." He heard the hesitation in her voice as she searched for words to comfort him. "You have to give it time. This happened before, I know, but you have to be patient—"
He cut off whatever else she might have said. "Last time I was getting some feeling back after three months, Glinda. Only reason I stayed in the chair as long as I did was because I didn't want Angelus to know I was almost back to full strength. Could move about more freely if he didn't know. Now, there's been no change and it's been over six months."
His voice broke on the last words, and Tara put a gentle hand on his back, rubbing in slow, soothing circles, like one would do for a friend or a sick child. "Th-there's a spell," she finally said.
"I don't think—"
She hastened to explain. "Not a healing spell, but it tells you if there's something preventing healing from the outside, something unnatural."
"And if it shows nothing?" His voice was bitter.
Her hand slowed, stopped, started again. "Then it just means you have to wait a little longer. I need some stuff for it, but I could do it tomorrow night maybe."
He thought about it for a moment, realized that knowing might be better than not knowing, nodded. "Alright."
"You should try to sleep," she urged, putting a hand up to his forehead as though checking for fever.
He shook his head in response. "Waking up's too big of a bitch, luv," he said with some of his old wry humor. She smiled at him then and might have left, except that he stopped her with a gentle hand. "How are you?"
Tara looked at him in surprise and a touch of wonder. "I'm okay," she replied honestly. It was hard to be away from Willow, but she knew she had made the right decision, that her lover would have consumed her if she had stayed.
"You did the right thing," he said, as though reading her mind. "Red was getting out of control. Leavin' was the only option you had left, y'know." He said it earnestly, and Tara wondered then how much he knew, how much he saw. He was like a satellite moon, orbiting around their little group, never getting any further or any closer, doomed always to see and never to touch. She wished she could wave a magic wand for him, remove the pain and the fear. Bring him in, close enough to touch.
"Thanks, Spike." And they sat there for a long time, two moons in orbit.
~~~~~
Buffy came in late, though not as late as she sometimes had when she had a slaying partner. At this point, there seemed to be more waiting for her at home than there was out in the darkness. Tara was waiting for her when she came in, and Buffy smiled. "Hey."
"Hey. How was patrol?" the witch asked.
"Fine. Quiet. We're still researching that frozen security guard, but so far, nothing. How is everything here?" Buffy asked.
"Good. It's good."
There was a long pause and Buffy finally asked, "How is he?"
"Depressed," Tara replied. "I put something in his blood that's supposed to help with moods, and we may want to keep doing that." She paused. "He doesn't think he's healing, Buffy."
The Slayer looked off into space, fully aware of Spike's fears. He had sung them to her, after all. And she couldn't say it hadn't crossed her own mind. "I know."
"There's a spell," Tara began. "It's just to tell whether or not there's something unnatural interfering with the healing process. I told him I would try it tomorrow."
Buffy nodded. "That might be a good idea. At least we might have a better idea of what's going on." She hesitated. "Tara, can I talk to you about something?"
"Anything, Buffy. What's wrong?"
Tara's large eyes showed nothing but concern, and she took a deep breath. "That thing, with the singing, and the dancing. Spike and I kissed. I mean, it wasn't a good idea, I know, but—"
"Buffy, Spike isn't a bad guy," Tara said softly. "He's done a lot of good things, and he's changed. I don't think it's wrong that you kissed him."
"It's just, he's a vampire, and I swore I was never going to do this again."
Tara laid a hand on her arm. "There are a lot of people who would say that Willow and I were wrong to be together. Sometimes you can't go by what people say, you have to go with how you feel." There was a significant pause, and then she asked, "How do you feel about him?"
"I don't know," Buffy confessed. "I like him. As a friend. But what I feel around him is very unfriendlike. Not that I want to hurt him, just that I want him. As more than a friend." She buried her face in her hands. "I am so screwed."
"Do you think you could fall in love with him?" Tara asked.
Buffy didn't look up. Could she? Could she really love Spike? Spike, of all people? "I don't know." And then whispered, "Maybe."
"Don't be afraid of love, Buffy," Tara said. "No one knows how much time they have here. Any of us. So don't be afraid of it. If you love him, that's okay. And if you don't, that's okay too. You have time to figure it out." She reached over and gripped Buffy's knee, forcing her to meet her eyes. "But I think Spike needs you right now, whatever you can give him. If you don't want to lose him, you're going to have to give him something to hold onto if you can."
Tara's words rang in Buffy's ears as she went down to the basement to talk to him. She went empty-handed this time, uncertain of what she was supposed to say, what she had to give him that might give him the strength to hang on. "Hey."
Spike glanced up from the worn notebook he was writing in. "Hey."
"You look better."
"Thanks."
There was a long silence, neither of them sure what to say to the other. Pulling something out of her pocket, Buffy came close to the cot and held it out to him. "Picked something up for you."
"You didn't have to, luv," he said, taking the pack of smokes from her.
She shrugged. "I know, but I figured it was probably the best way to get you out of the basement. No smoking inside the house, you know." He looked at her, and his silence made her nervous. "Come upstairs?" It was an invitation, not a demand, and he could not refuse.
"Give me a minute, Slayer," he said quietly, blue eyes serious.
She watched him as he began to pull the braces out from under his cot, and she did the one thing that was taboo. "Let me help you."
He stared at her in shock, not even believing that she would offer, breaking the unspoken rule. She knelt down next to him. "Let me help, Spike."
The amazing thing was that he did. Sitting back, leaning against the wall, he allowed her to encase his recalcitrant legs within the stiff plastic, pulling the straps tight. And when she had finished he let her grab his crutches for him and help him to his feet, the expression on his face unreadable.
They walked upstairs and onto the back porch in silence, Buffy watching as he lit a cigarette. "What happened?" she asked.
"I was tired," he replied, giving her no more explanation than that, but she needed none. When even standing was a chore, she couldn't blame him for not wanting to move.
She didn't try to give him a pep talk, didn't try to tell him everything was going to be fine. It might not be true; they both knew that. "Can I ask you a question?"
He gave her a look that measured her words carefully, sifting the ulterior motive from the innocent request. "Yeah."
"Why haven't you said anything about our kiss?"
It seemed to be a night for breaking the rules: ignore Spike while he struggles to stand, ignore Spike while he struggles to walk, ignore kisses shared with former Big Bads. "Why should I say anything?" he replied, a note of bitterness in his voice. "It's not going anywhere, Buffy."
His answer surprised her. For Spike to admit that their relationship wasn't going anywhere, it was out of character. It was completely at odds with the vampire who chained her to a wall in order to convince her of his love. Spike pushed; Spike didn't know when to leave well-enough alone. "Right," she replied, slightly stung. "Like that's ever stopped you before. Come on, Spike, I think I know you better than that now."
"Let it go, Slayer," he said, his voice low.
She laid a hand on his arm. "Spike, I'm not saying it is going somewhere, but the kiss? It was nice. I just—was it not okay?"
He looked over at her in surprise, all her insecurities reflected in her eyes, and he couldn't stand to see her hurting. "It was good, luv, but it was one kiss. Can't build anything on one kiss."
"What is it, Spike? What aren't you telling me?" She let her hand drop as he struggled to get to his feet.
"Leave it alone."
"Spike..."
He stood by the door, his back stiff with tension, and she knew he hadn't told her everything. 'What was it?' she wondered. Was she suddenly not what he wanted? He'd spent too much time with her and had seen her for who she really was? "I can't," he finally said flatly.
"Can't what?" she asked, confusion coloring her tone. She stood to face where he stood. "What can't you do, Spike? You can't love me now?"
"I can't love you, Slayer!" he cried, pain evident now. "I can't give you anything, okay? Happy now? You can go tell all your little friends that Spike finally did get neutered."
He went into the house, and Buffy let him go. Hard to make a dramatic exit on crutches, but she thought she'd do him the courtesy of letting him get into the house before she followed him. His admission stunned her though; whatever she had thought, this hadn't been it. She followed him slowly, managing to call to him before he could start down the stairs back to the basement.
"Spike." He paused, as though waiting for a blow. "You should probably get cleaned up."
The vampire looked back over his shoulder. "Huh?"
"I know it's been a while, you know, you being all hibernating, but maybe you should get cleaned up." She hesitated and then said, "Think of it as a strong suggestion."
"I'll need to get some clean clothes," he said.
She shook her head. "I'll get them." Buffy waited until he nodded and started up to the bathroom before she went to the basement to get clean clothes. It became obvious fairly quickly that Spike hadn't done any laundry recently; she had to really dig to get something that seemed halfway decent. And she remembered what it was she pulled out: dark cargo pants and a gray pullover. His "normal-person" clothes he'd tried to impress her with. She hadn't been that impressed, but as she realized what it was he'd done, she was curiously touched. He'd tried so hard and screwed up so royally. The look on his face when he realized that his invitation had been revoked, what Dawn had told her had been said in the Magic Box later. And he'd still protected her secret, he had still promised her, and he had kept his promise.
Who was this man? And what was he to her? He was no longer an enemy, definitely an ally. He was a friend for whom she had feelings that went just beyond friendly. It wasn't love, but she cared. She smoothed her hand over his shirt where it lay on his cot, and then put the rest of his stuff on top of the washer. She'd need to do a load of his laundry when she did the rest of it. Taking a look at the sheets on his bed, she figured she'd probably do his sheets too. She stripped the bed and put the sheets on top of the washer, finally heading up the stairs, a plan forming in her mind. Something friendly and then some.
Spike leaned back in the tub, letting the hot water soothe. He couldn't believe he'd actually told Buffy about his "little problem." His life was now over. She was probably laughing at him, telling herself that it was a good thing, him living in her house and all. Kept her safe from unwanted attentions. He should just kill himself now, get it over with. He was too pathetic for words.
The knock on the door startled him out of his brooding. "Yeah?"
"Can I come in? I've got your clothes."
He hesitated and then sighed. There was no way he was going to be able to get to his stuff unless it was at least inside the door, and preferably on the counter. "You've seen it all already, Slayer."
She came in and put the clothing down on the counter, within easy reach once he managed to get out of the tub. "Why don't you leave the braces off when you're done?" she suggested.
"Why?" he asked, his voice tired.
"Because I'm not going to ask you to go down two flights of stairs tonight, and your sheets majorly need to be washed," she replied. "You can have my bed."
"And where are you going to sleep?" he asked, eyebrow raised and head cocked.
"In my bed." The look on his face turned bitter, and she hastened to add, "It's not because of—you know. I just want to give you something tonight. Let me help you."
He looked at her, pain and naked longing in his eyes. "I don't know if I can," he said honestly.
"Then just don't put the braces on," she replied. "I'll take care of the rest." As she was leaving, she looked back at him. "I'm going to leave the door open a crack. Just let me know when you're finished."
She waited for him to call, pulling the covers down, butterflies dancing in her stomach. What was she doing, letting an evil vampire in her bed? Angrily, she punched one of the pillows. He wasn't evil, not really. Six months of living with someone gave you a pretty good understanding of their character. Spike was still a bad boy: rebellious, impetuous, stubborn and a pain in her ass. He could also be courteous, sweet, and gentle, depending on his mood and who he was dealing with. But Buffy had noticed that to treat him kindly was to disarm him completely. A gentle touch could elicit more from him than a punch in the nose. So tonight she would bind him to her with chains of kindness; she would keep him here with something akin to love. Because she needed him more than she cared to admit.
His soft call broke her chain of thought. She went into the bathroom, and he sat on the toilet seat as he had so many months ago. Nothing had changed: his useless legs still hung in front of him. Everything had changed: she knew she couldn't lose him now. "Just a second," she said, picking up the regalia of his crippled body, taking it into her room. She came back for him, and she awkwardly managed to get him into her room and onto the bed. "Why don't you take off your shirt?"
He looked at her, swallowed, did as she suggested. His pale skin shone in the dim lamplight, the well-defined muscles of torso and arms moving like corded steel. "Lay down, Spike," she said softly, amazed that he would do as she asked, no question. "On your stomach."
It was an extremely vulnerable position, she knew. He wouldn't be able to see what she was doing, and wouldn't be able to move away quickly enough if she struck. But the trust in his eyes was complete as he did what she asked, and she knew that he would have followed her directions even if she had held a stake in her hands.
But she was empty-handed, and once he had laid down, she began moving strong fingers over his neck and shoulders, soothing away the tension. It felt good to have her hands on him, she would have to admit. Even broken, he was beautiful, and as she massaged his back she knew that she was probably enjoying it as much as he was.
Spike had tensed at first, not understanding, not knowing what she was doing, but he could feel the stress flow out of him, and he let out a happy little sigh. He didn't think anyone had ever given him a backrub before. He lapsed into a sleepy, contented trance as Buffy's hands found knots and worked them out. Eventually, her hands slowed and stopped, and he could feel her settle down next to him. Cracking one blue eye, he looked over at her with something resembling awe. "What was that, luv?"
"That was me saying thank you for saving the world and sticking around afterwards," she replied. It was more complicated than that, but it would do for now.
He rolled over so that he was facing her, both eyes open now, reaching up to brush her hair out of her face in a tender gesture. "You're welcome."
Slowly, giving her room to pull back, he drew her face down to his and kissed her. It was long and deep, filled with unrequited love and unfulfilled passion. It was a kiss that would never be more than a kiss. And when she finally broke it to breathe, he trailed one cool hand down her face and shoulder, setting her skin on fire. "I love you," he whispered, his voice trailing off as sleep overtook him. "Love you."
Buffy smiled. Yeah, he really did.
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