Summary: Spike stops a warlock's spell, inadvertantly getting himself into deep trouble. Will Buffy be able to accept the changes in him? And what are they going to do about Glory?
Rating: PG-13
Spike suppressed the urge to whistle as he neared 1630 Revello Drive. The burden of the curse had lifted significantly with Buffy's offer of friendship. On this night he'd thought to ask Buffy if she'd like company on patrol, and he had every hope that she'd accept. He wasn't precisely certain what had changed over the last few days, but something had. Buffy seemed to warming to him in more ways than one, and he was beginning to hope that perhaps his love was not as hopeless as he had thought.
There were no lights on when he approached, and something about the darkness unsettled him. He had expected Joyce to be home at least, and had half-hoped that if Buffy wasn't available he might have a nice chat with her or the Niblet. But when no one answered the door at his knock, he turned to go, his hands tucked in the pockets of his duster uncertainly. Spike thought about waiting on the porch, or maybe-
The vampire went around back, and knocked on the back door, then tried the knob. It turned easily under his touch, and he frowned in concern. It wasn't right for the Summers' place to be so easily accessible. House should have been locked up tight. And he could smell it when he entered, the smell of sickness and sudden death.
Spike took two steps into the kitchen, fear gripping his chest. A noise at the front door warned him that someone was coming home, and he was torn between leaving before anyone could discover that he'd snuck in and finding out what had happened. Curiosity won out, and he passed through the kitchen into the hall to find Buffy, Dawn, and Giles at the front door. The Watcher was asking them if they wanted him to stay, and the Slayer was shaking her head.
"No, that's okay, Giles. I think both Dawn and I are just going to try and get some sleep. It's been a long day." She turned to see Spike standing there, a dawning realization on his face. "Spike? What are you doing here?"
"Came to see if you wanted to patrol, but-" Spike broke off. "What happened?"
Dawn shot over to his side, wrapping her arms around his waist. "Spike, it's Mom."
The vampire could feel her shaking, and he reflexively tightened his grip on her. He looked from Giles to Buffy, and it was the Watcher who answered, his own demeanor softened by the look of grief on Spike's face. "Joyce had an aneurysm earlier today. There was nothing to be done."
Spike wasn't sure what to say. He felt just as he had that night on Buffy's back porch when he'd found out that Joyce was sick; it was a feeling of complete helplessness. His eyes met the Slayer's, and he nodded. "How long you need me to take patrol for you, Buffy?" he asked.
Buffy gave him a grateful look. "Maybe the next couple days?" she suggested.
"Will do. I'll see you around, Slayer." Spike gently disengaged himself from Dawn's grip. "Keep your chin up, Bit," he said softly, gently touching Dawn's cheek.
He was on his way out the door, Giles just in front of him, when Buffy took him by the arm. "Come by after patrol, Spike," she murmured. "Please?"
"Sure thing, luv." He followed the Watcher out the door, pulling a stake out of his pocket.
"Spike?" Giles stopped him with his call. "Thank you for taking patrol. It is a help."
Spike shrugged. "No worries, Watcher."
"How are you? With the curse?"
"What, with the unbearable torment?" Spike's smile was self-deprecatory. "Those are the good days."
Giles looked as though he wanted to say something, but grief and uncertainty closed his mouth, and he said nothing.
Spike took out his worry and anger and grief on the demons and vampires he ran across that night, getting as much of it out of his system as he could before going back to meet the Slayer at her house. It was nearly unbearable to think of Joyce as dead; he wasn't sure how it was possible. She had been so alive such a short time before that it didn't make any sense to him.
When he'd finished his rounds he went back towards Buffy's house, his heart much heavier than it had been when he'd begun his evening. Spike knocked on the front door this time, rather than going around back, and Buffy opened it. He met her eyes reluctantly, unsure of how to comfort her, how to tell her how very sorry he was.
"Liked your mum," he finally murmured after a long silence. "Joyce was decent. She always had a cuppa, and she never treated me like a freak."
"Thanks, Spike," Buffy replied. And then she motioned him inside. Spike decided not to question why she was coming to him for comfort, why she wasn't going to one of her friends or the Watcher. Perhaps she knew that he, too, wanted to be comforted. "It was horrible," she said into the darkness of the house. "I found her when I came home today. She was on the couch, and I thought maybe she'd just gone to sleep, but..."
Spike wanted to hold her, to pull her into his arms and offer her the comfort of touch. It was what her friends had most likely done, but it was something he was afraid to offer her. "If there's anything you need, just name it, luv."
"Stay," she replied in answer. "Please. I don't think I want to be by myself tonight."
"One of your friends..." he began.
Buffy shook her head. "No, not tonight." Spike met her eyes, wondering silently if she knew what she was doing, but she nodded, as though in response to his unspoken thoughts.
"If that's what you need," he agreed.
They didn't go into the living room, not where Joyce had been. It was easier for the both of them to go into the kitchen where her presence was tangible, but not overwhelming. "You want something, pet?" Spike asked.
Buffy shook her head. "No, not really."
"You should try to sleep y'know," Spike said gently.
"I don't think I could."
Spike was at a loss, unable to find the words to say to make it better, unable to do anything to ease the pain. "I should have stayed," he finally said. When Buffy looked at him in surprise, he explained. "Last night, I should have stayed. I would have been here."
She gave him what might have been a smile, except that it was so sad. "I said the same thing, that I should have been here. The doctor said that there wasn't anything anybody could have done, it happened so fast. Mom probably didn't even know what had happened." Buffy was suddenly desperate for something, anything to take her mind off of the day's events. She wanted to feel something other than this numbness, this sense of helplessness. Perhaps that was why she had wanted to be with Spike; there was so little of her life that was connected with him, even though he seemed such an integral part. His role had been at the periphery of things, and sitting here with him held less sadness than it had with Willow or Xander or any of the others.
"Remember the first time I saw your mum," Spike said suddenly, with a small wistful smile. "You remember that? She hit me over the head with an ax, told me to get the hell away from her daughter." He looked at her with a tenderness barely hidden. "You have her strength, Buffy."
"I'm not sure I do," she replied. "I don't know what I'm going to do, Spike." It was somehow easier to admit it to him than to anyone else. Changing the subject, she asked, "What about your parents?"
He looked startled. He truthfully hadn't given any thoughts to his human origins until recently, preferring to focus on the beauty of being a vampire. But he remembered all too well what had become of both of his parents, and he hardly wanted to tell the Slayer. "I don't think you want to know."
"If you're telling me that because you think I can't handle it, I know what probably happened, Spike. But I need-" Buffy stopped, unsure of how to tell him that she needed to not think about her mom for a while, because tomorrow would be full of funeral arrangements and the mundanities of grief. There were so many things to consider, things that no one ever told you about. They didn't tell you that you had to pick out a casket and flowers, that you had to call relatives and friends and try not to forget anyone. They didn't tell you that you had to do all of that while swimming in a sea of grief so deep that you thought you'd never touch bottom, until all you wanted was to forget it had ever happened. No one ever said anything about that.
But Spike seemed to read all of that in her eyes, and he could not refuse. "My father died when I wasn't much older than the Bit," he replied softly. "Still remember the funeral an' all that. He was a good man, y'know?" It got harder to look into her eyes after that. "Mum was sick with consumption when I was turned. I went back..." He made a pattern on the counter with his finger. "You know. I wanted to cure her, and instead I turned her into a monster, so I killed her."
Spike looked up, expecting to see disgust or anger in Buffy's eyes, but instead saw only a shared grief. "What was she like?" Buffy asked quietly. It wasn't a question she had ever asked anyone before, she didn't think. Angel certainly hadn't wanted to talk about what he had been like as a human, and Buffy had half-thought he didn't even remember sometimes. Riley had rarely spoken of his parents; Buffy had often wondered about that, since what he did say was relatively positive. Perhaps he had simply wanted to escape his farm-grown Iowa past. But she thought perhaps Spike had always been more connected to his human roots than most vampires.
Spike was surprised at her question, and part of him was hesitant to share anything with her, because whatever he did say would tell her that he had lied to her that night in the Bronze. She would know who he was, who he had been, and he feared such exposure.
But he told her anyway, telling her about his mother, about her gentle spirit, the way she had always listened to him. (He didn't tell her he had been a poet.) From there, he found himself weaving stories of growing up in Victorian England, of traveling over the world, of sights he had seen, the smells, the tastes. And for a few hours he gave her the distraction she needed.
The sun had to rise, however, and life had to go on. As on the previous night, just before dawn, Spike took his reluctant leave. "I need to go, luv."
"I know," she said. "Thanks. For staying tonight."
"Anytime." Spike paused on his way out the back door. "Do you need me to do anything, luv? Other than patrol?"
Buffy was quiet. "If you could look after Dawn-I have to make arrangements, and it might be easier for her to have a place to go to get away from everything. If you don't mind."
"Send her over, Slayer. Do what I can."
"I know, Spike. Thank you."
The vampire turned, suddenly feeling helpless again, sensing that the weight of her responsibilities was coming back to rest on her shoulders, even if she'd had some time to forget. "Make you the same offer, luv," he murmured. "You need a place to get away, a shoulder to cry on-" Spike deliberately made the last comment just a little bit suggestive, knowing she'd either laugh or punch him in the nose, figuring either might make her feel better.
To his astonishment, she managed a wan smile. "Nice try, buddy." And then, surprisingly, "I might take you up on that."
~~~~~
Spike awoke knowing that he wasn't alone in the house, and he dressed quickly and went downstairs to find Dawn watching TV listlessly. "Buffy said I could come over."
"She said you might." He came to sit next to her where she leaned against the wall, her arms linked loosely around her knees. "You okay?"
"What do you think?" There was really no malice in Dawn's tone, just a weariness that he hated to hear in a child's voice.
"Stupid question," he agreed.
"They were talking about her funeral," Dawn said quietly. "Buffy said if I needed to get away I could come stay with you for a while. They're all busy."
There was a lonely ache in her voice. "I'm not."
"I know." And she laid her head on his leg and slept.
~~~~~
Spike woke Dawn up and walked her home as soon as it was dark, dropping her off at the front door and leaving to patrol without going in. He could hear the voices of Buffy and her friends inside, and he thought it might be better if he stayed away. He wasn't comfortable around them, and knew very well that they felt the same. Again, as he had before, he took out his anger and frustration on the members of the undead population he could find, and then he went home to sleep, though he was tempted to see if the Slayer was as welcoming as she had been previously.
He knew when the funeral was, of course. Dawn had relayed the information. And there was no way he could attend; Sunnydale did not hold funerals after dark. But he went that evening, after the sun had gone down, and he wore his nicest shirt and best pants. There would be no one there to see him, but Joyce would have appreciated the gesture, he was certain. And he brought daisies, because he thought she might have liked those as well, and they reminded him of her.
Spike had no way of knowing that Buffy had stayed, unwilling to leave her mother's grave on the first night. He certainly couldn't have known that the great Poof would have shown up to comfort his beloved by the light of the moon. Because honestly, if he had known any of that, he most likely would have put off paying his respects for at least another night, having no desire to air his grief in public.
As it was, he approached the grave from upwind, unarmed, and not thinking of attacks that came from the side. Imagine his surprise when Angel tackled him.
Spike was too surprised to fight back at first, but he soon regained enough equilibrium to get in a few good hits of his own, and for a second it even looked like he might get the upper hand when he heard Buffy shout, "Angel! What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Her voice stopped both of them in mid-punch, and Angel looked at her in surprise. "It's Spike," he replied, as though that explained everything.
She was hardly appeased. "And?"
"Buffy, it's Spike." Angel was surprised at his obtuseness, and the younger vampire took the opportunity to throw his grandsire off and put a few feet in between them.
Buffy rolled her eyes in response. "I know that, Angel. But he has a chip; he doesn't hurt people now. And besides, he has a soul."
The look on Angel's face was almost worth Spike's sore jaw. The poof looked as though someone had hit him on the back of the head with a board; it was really rather satisfying. At least until Angel's eyes narrowed. "Look, Buffy, I don't know what kind of a game he's playing with you, but Spike doesn't have a soul."
"Sod off, Angelus," Spike growled, feeling himself growing angrier by the second. "You don't know anything about it."
Buffy shook her head. "Spike was cursed, Angel. He's different."
Angel shook his head more emphatically. "I don't care what he's told you, Buffy, or what he wants. He's lying. I can't smell a soul on him."
Spike frowned, suddenly feeling the first pangs of fear. What if it was true? What if the curse that warlock had laid on him was simply an extension of the first, no soul involved? In that case, however Buffy happened to be treating him now wasn't going to last for very much longer if she believed his grandsire. And suddenly, Spike thought he might believe his grandsire. Maybe he just hurt, aftereffects of being hung on a wall. Maybe he was still just half-crazy with the pain.
"Spike-" Buffy looked at him, and he could see it in her eyes, see that she believed Angel, and that whatever she might feel for him was a fleeting thing. He wasn't the one she loved. She hadn't asked him to stand vigil at Joyce's graveside, she'd asked Angel. She would always choose Angel.
And quite suddenly he couldn't take it anymore. He was tired of being Love's bitch, tired of always falling in love with women who couldn't or wouldn't love him back. He was really and truly tired of hurting. "Forget it," he growled, stalking off into the night, leaving the daisies where they had fallen, crushed, by his and Angel's tumbling. He would find another place to take his grief, and leave her to her own.
A/N: Let me just say this before I get flamed. I tried to save Joyce, I really did. But I did my research on cerebral aneurysms, and it didn't look like there was ever much of a chance for her. Hopefully that appeases those of you out there who might be inclined to be angry with me.
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