Lost

If someone had asked her, Buffy couldn’t have explained how she managed to get back home with her reluctant companion. Not only did she have a hard time convincing Spike to leave the church, he also didn’t want to go to Revello, protesting that he was a monster and didn’t belong in a house. Between cajoling him, half threatening him, and simply ignoring his complaints, Buffy was able to lead him home, pulling him gently but forcefully for half the way. After a while, he stopped trying to struggle, stopped talking. His eyes were unfocused, and he held on to her hand so tightly it almost hurt.

Buffy wasn’t sure what to think about what was happening to him. The incident in the park had clearly affected him deeply, and she could only hope it was only temporary. Surely, after getting some rest, he would be calmer, more lucid. He had to be. She didn’t know what she would do if he was not. He had talked about hearing voices. She could do nothing about that. It would have been so much easier if his problem was due to a demon. Demons, she could slay. What could she do about his soul? It wasn’t a curse, and shagging him into perfect bliss, as appealing as it sounded, wasn’t a solution, and would probably only bring on another round of ‘I don’t deserve you’.

When they arrived home, she led him to the kitchen and asked him to wait for her. He looked at her with glassy eyes, and she wasn’t sure he had understood, or even heard her. He didn’t move when she let go of his hand however, so she figured he would be fine for a few minutes.

Glancing back at him a couple of times, she joined the people assembled in the living room. Giles, Dawn, Steven and Angel looked at her with various degrees of expectation and worry as she let herself fall into an armchair, mentally exhausted.

“We found Manon,” Angel said finally, filling the awkward silence. “She told us what happened. The guy will be OK.”

Buffy nodded, feeling a bit numb.

“Spike is losing his mind,” she said slowly. “When he was somewhat coherent he admitted his soul is hurting him. He said he hears voices.”

Her voice broke, and her eyes traveled to the people around her. All seemed concerned, though their relationships with Spike were all completely different.

“We have to help him,” Dawn said firmly, despite the tears in her eyes.

“But how?” Buffy asked tiredly.

She looked up at Angel. He was the one who potentially held the key, because he had been in Spike’s place, or almost. She didn’t voice the question, but Giles did.

“Angel, maybe your experience can help him,” he said slowly, almost reluctantly. “Did you hear voices when you first got your soul back? How did you silence them?”

“I never did silence them,” the ex-vampire replied morosely. “I just learned to live with them.”

“So, how did you learn?” Steven asked, frowning.

Angel passed a hand on his face. Obviously, these weren’t memories he was fond of.

“I had a century to get used to them. And I found…someone.”

There was no need for him to say whom he had found, especially when he was looking at anyone, anything, but her. Spike didn’t have a century; he had barely more than a week until the big battle. But at least he already had Buffy.

There was some noise in the kitchen, and Buffy rushed there in time to see Spike taking a mug out of the microwave. She grimaced as she caught the smell, and berated herself for not having gotten rid of the now useless blood packages immediately. She gently but firmly took the cup away from him before he could sip.

”Love, you can’t drink blood,” she said kindly.

“Why not?” he whined. “I’m hungry.”

“I’ll make you some chocolate. You can even have marshmallows. How is that?”

“I want blood,” he insisted. “I’m a vampire. Vampires drink blood.”

“You are not a vampire anymore,” she reminded him softly, watching for his reaction.

He looked at her for an instant, head tilted, obviously puzzled. Then he frowned, a deep look of concentration on his face. He touched his features lightly, and his frown only deepened.

“I can’t change,” he whispered.

There was such a sense of loss in his voice that Buffy felt her eyes fill with unwanted tears. She fought not to shed them. Spike needed her support, not her tears. Unsure about how to comfort him, she simply hugged her lover, hardly noticing the four people who were watching them from the kitchen’s entrance.

“Spike? Are you…”

Dawn’s quiet concern was interrupted by a deep, mournful moan from the bleached blonde. He extricated himself from Buffy’s arms and crouched on the floor, arms around his knees, rocking back and forth. He was muttering under his breath, bits of sentences that made sense in a painful way.

“Bad man. Bad Spike. Left Bit. Cry. Hurt. Bleed. Blood. Drink blood. Vampire. But no more. Still Spike but no blood. Just burn. Spike burn. Spark burn.”

Buffy knelt by his side, drawing him against her, and rubbed his back soothingly.

“He doesn’t like being called that anymore,” she said to the others, wishing she had thought about telling them before. She had found out the hard way as she was bringing him home. “It just makes him more agitated.”

“Try calling him William,” Angel suggested quietly as he came a bit closer to them.

As the name passed his lips, Spike looked up at the brunette, his muttering stopping instantly. He scrambled back to his feet, a bright smile lightening his features.

William Spike William Spike approached the man. He was the solution. He had the gift. He could give it again. Make him alright again. Fix him. Take the spark away. Stop the burning. Stop the hurting. He implored with his eyes as he pulled on his shirt and bared his neck, but still Angelus was immobile, making no move to take what William Spike William Spike was offering. Oh yes. Angelus liked begging. That was why. And he would do anything. Anything to be right again. Even begging.

“Please,” he murmured, arching his neck a little more. “Make me again. It hurts too much. Please.”

William Spike William Spike expected mocking laughs at his admission of weakness. Or maybe blows. And he hoped for a bite. What he didn’t expect were tears on the brunette’s cheeks, and the embrace he was pulled into. Confusing. Why would his Sire cry? Why wouldn’t he take offered blood? William Spike William Spike tried to focus on the words the other man was saying, but they didn’t make much sense.

“I can’t. I swear I would if I could, but I cannot make it go away. You have to be courageous, Will. I know it hurts but you are stronger than the hurting, aren’t you? I know you can be. You were always so brave. We need you to be.”

He pulled away from his Sire’s arms – no, not his Sire anymore, he wasn’t a vampire anymore – and looked around the room. The Bit was crying softly, cuddled against Steven. Why was she crying? Was she hurt again? The Watcher looked worried, but then, he always did. Angelus – or was it Angel? – seemed so sad. Why was he sad? Oh, right. Dru. He had to be sad about Dru. Dru was gone. Maybe he couldn’t change William Spike William Spike because she had to bite first. Like the first time. Yes, that was why. And Buffy. His Buffy. He didn’t deserve her, but in his mind at least he could call her his. Her eyes were red and she was looking at him with such love – love he wasn’t worthy of. Something was wrong, he didn’t know what, but they were all affected by it. He needed to be strong. Courageous. Angelus had said so. Be strong for them. For Buffy. Because if he let them – her – down again, the burning would just get worse, he was sure of it.

He tried his very best to smile, and said, to them all as well as to the others, inside:

“I’ll be strong. I will.”

He wasn’t too sure which ‘I’ it was, and he wasn’t really quite sure he knew who they needed, but he would try.

Buffy woke with a start. Something was wrong. A noise. Something breaking. Then a whimper. She realized that she was alone in the bed. Shaking off the remains of sleep, she got out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom, where the sounds were coming from. The door wasn’t closed completely, and when she pushed it open she couldn’t repress a gasp. Spike was in front of the sink, his hands clutching it, and staring at the mirror on the wall. Except that the mirror was broken, pieces scattered in the sink and on the floor. His right hand was bleeding heavily, the blood dripping along the white porcelain, mixing in the water from the faucet. He was mumbling, too low for her to catch what he was saying.

Quietly, she walked to him, trying to avoid stepping on the broken glass, hissing when she still nicked her toe. He turned his head toward her then, but did not look at her face, his gaze going down to her feet.

“You’re hurt,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and soft.

“It’s nothing,” she replied just as softly. “You’re hurt more.”

Reaching his side, she carefully pried his right hand off the sink, pulling it under the warm water. She washed away the blood and made sure no glass was embedded in his skin before wrapping it in a towel.

“You’re hurt,” he repeated, mumbling. “My fault again.”

“It’s not even bleeding anymore. But your hand is. Let’s go fix it.”

She turned off the faucet and grabbed the first aid kit under the sink, then coaxed Spike out of the bathroom. She made him sit on the bed, but he refused to let her look at his hand.

“You first,” he said, gesturing at her foot, still avoiding looking at her face.

With a sigh, she made a show of putting a band-aid over the little cut on her toe, then sat down by his side.

“Your turn now,” she said in a decisive tone.

As she pulled antiseptic, cotton and bandages out of the box, he remained immobile, looking at what she was doing, but never returning her gaze.

“Why did you break the mirror, love?”

She was dabbing antiseptic on his cuts, wincing because she knew it had to sting, but he didn’t make a noise, didn’t shiver or give any hint that he felt the burn.

“He was looking at me,” he replied, almost too quietly for her to make out the words.

“Who was?”

“Him. The demon. The killer.”

His voice broke, and then he added, tonelessly:

“Me.”

Carefully wrapping his knuckles in bandages, she hesitated about what to answer to that. She had thought they had managed to reach him downstairs. He had talked sanely for a little while with all of them, had shared some hot chocolate with her, then they had gone to bed and he had spooned against her as he usually did. But obviously nothing was any better. As she was done with his hand, she placed the kit on the floor and moved up the bed until she was leaning against the headboard, pulling him to rest against her.

“You are not a demon,” she said softly as she threaded her fingers through his hair. “You are not a killer. You were once, yes. But not any more. You haven’t been for a long time. You have been helping people and doing good things.”

He started laughing then, his head still against her chest. But soon the laughter turned into tears.

“You have no idea,” he sobbed. “So many of them. I hurt so many…”

She rocked him lightly against her, murmuring comforting words, trying to soothe him.

“I know. I know you have hurt people,” she said after a while. “But it was your nature then. A tiger hunts to feed, so did you. We can blame neither.”

Again, the laugh, almost maniacal, in sharp contrast with his suddenly sane sounding voice.

“You dust vampires, Slayer. For no other reason than that they kill to feed. You should have staked me long ago.”

It was the first time he had called her ‘Slayer’ in a long time, and the word sounded very strange coming from a man who was clutching her shirt, now damp with his tears, as if holding on to it for dear life.

“It’s my job,” she replied quietly. “You can’t blame me either for doing what I was born to do.”

“Not blaming,” he said quickly. “Just love. Love you so much.”

She pressed her lips to the top of his head, sighing softly.

“I love you too. And I don’t blame you. Nobody blames you. We all love you and need you.”

He shook his head slightly, which was strange with his cheek pressed to her.

“Don’t,” he said bitterly. “Not love, just need. Pretend to because I wish... But they see the monster. They always did. And so did you. Hate is all I have. All I deserve.”

“Look at me.”

He did as she requested, his head raising slowly and turning until he was looking at her, almost shyly, as if he didn’t dare meeting her gaze. She pulled on the collar of her nightshirt, and his eyes were drawn to her neck.

“Remember what this means?” she asked softly as his fingers came up to brush on the healed scar, the last one he had given her.

She saw him hesitate, biting on his bottom lip, a habit she knew he had picked up from her.

“Mine?” he whispered, the question clear in his voice.

“Yes, yours.”

Catching his wrist, she drew it to her lips. She placed a soft kiss on her mark and felt her lover shiver at the touch.

“I claimed all of you,” she said softly. “Spike and William. The one who used to kill and the one who is good now. I love all of you. And I need all of you. Are you still mine?”

This time, there was no hesitation. “Always yours.”

“Then never say you don’t deserve my love or that I will stop loving you again. Because neither is true. You are the best thing that happened to me in a longer time than I can remember, and I love you. Promise you won’t say it again?”

William-who-was-also-Spike stared at his Slayer for a long moment. She wanted a promise, but he wasn’t sure he could keep it if he swore. She didn’t know what she was saying. Soon she would see, realize he had been right. Like they all had realized it. But then, she only asked him not to say it. So he was free to think as he pleased as long as he didn’t voice it.

“I promise,” he whispered.

She pulled him tighter to her, holding him as she had earlier, in the church, with his head tucked under her chin. She was whispering sweet reassurances that he wanted very much to believe, but he knew better. He let her words caress him, listening to the tender voice rather than what she was saying, concentrating on her warmth, on her fingers playing in his hair.

Closing his eyes, he allowed her to lull him in to a sleep he had been fighting since he had learned he would be human again.