Breathe

TITLE: Breathe
AUTHOR: Mnemosyne

It was the loud crowing laughter of one of the minions that attracted Spike's attention.

The British vampire was circling the graveyard, as he did most nights, looking for a fresh prey. He'd returned to Sunnyhell a month ago, still Druless. //Damn trolls! How was I to know she went in for that kind of thing?// Why in Hades he had chosen to return to this sickly, nowhere town in bloody CALIFORNIA he would never understand.

So far he'd managed to keep his presence under wraps- just give the minions a good talking to, slaughter a few to set an example, and their lips were easily sealed. Spike didn't need the Slayer chasing him down with a blunt stake. Or her soulful boyfriend. Or any one of her Slayer buddies, for that matter.

At first, he was inclined to just ignore the near maniacal laughter circling through the dead //No pun intended// air. But that idea quickly left as the grating quality of the cackling began to tell on his nerves.

Finally, Spike turned off his circuitous path and began to head towards the annoying sound. //No minion is ever that happy without having done something insanely stupid.//When the other vampire came into view, Spike saw a figure collapsed at it's feet. A wave of anger coursed through him.

"Shut up, you bleeding imbecile!" he bellowed. "Or do you want every damn person in this town to come investigate your little laugh riot here?"

The minion looked towards the sound of Spike's voice, his insane laughter choked off in mid-guffaw. "Spike!" he called, a wide grin on his face. "Spike, Master! I've done it!"

"Yes you have, cretin. You've bloody well almost blown the cover of every damn vampire in Sunnyhell." Spike advanced on the now cowering minion. "You have twenty seconds to convince me not to kill you." His eyes flashed.

The dark-haired vamp was silent, demonesque eyes wide with fear. Spike raised an impatient eyebrow. "Tick, tock, tick, tock," he prompted, tapping his foot.

It was all the incentive the other vampire needed. "I've done it, Master! I've killed her!"

"Killed who? Your granny?" Spike growled in annoyance.

The vampire before him shook his head wildly. "N-no, Spike. Her! The Slayer!" He pointed an almost accusing finger at the motionless figure on the ground beside them.

The world stopped spinning. Spike hadn't bothered to look at the body on the ground, but now he forced his eyes in its direction. Blonde hair. Petite frame. Pixie features.

The Slayer.

The minion was still babbling on in front of him, and Spike raised cold, emotionless eyes to watch the gibbering fool.

"...So then I went 'Hah!' and 'Bammo!' and she went 'Flop!'" The minion gesticulated wildly, punctuating each expletive with a wild punch or kick to the air. "Yeah, and then she went down, and I kicked her a few times to be sure she was finished, like this," and he mimed his earlier moves with three swift kicks to the air at his feet. "And then she wasn't moving anymore, and I won, and now she's dead, and aren't you proud of me, Spike? Aren't you pr-" His words were cut off as Spike's hand plowed through his chest, directly over his demon heart.

The minion's face went from wild glee to absolute terror in a split second as his Master's hand plunged into his chest, grabbed hold of his heart, and pulled.

There was a sickening sound, like suction, and then Spike held the black, dead heart in front of the minion's face. With his own face blank and his eyes dead, Spike said, "Not good enough. You die." And the minion collapsed in a pile of dust. Spike threw the heart on top of the ash heap and wiped his hand clean in the wet grass before turning to the still figure beside him.

He knelt next to the Slayer, reaching out a slim-fingered hand to her throat in search of a pulse. "Come on, luv. Come on," he urged, not quite knowing why he wanted to feel that flutter against his fingertips.

Nothing.

Noth- No, wait. A beat.

Spike felt his muscles loosen with relief. "That's it, pet. You just keep that heart beating and let me do the rest." Gently turning her so she was on her back, the vampire began to examine her injuries. He paused. //What am I doing?// he thought. //She's my mortal bleeding enemy. I'm supposed to kill her, not save her bloody life!//

But no. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. Spike was not going to let the best Slayer he'd ever fought die from an ass-kicking she'd gotten from some nameless minion. "No, pet. Not like this."

But he couldn't tell if he was comforting her or himself. //No time for that, my boy,// he scolded, and pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind. Concentrating totally on Buffy now, he began to examine her wounds.

A gash in her forehead had soaked her hair and covered her right temple and ear with blood. But the bleeding appeared to have stopped now, and Spike moved on. Buffy's face was bruised, and one eye was beginning to swell shut. He winced in sympathy, but nothing too serious appeared to be wrong with her head, so he continued downwards.

Buffy's torso was obscured by a black silk, button-down blouse. Spike hesitated only a moment before quickly unbuttoning the shirt. "Sorry, luv, but Spikey has to see where it hurts," he comforted the silent Slayer. Using deft fingers, he quickly had it undone and spread apart.

The black lace bra was enough to make his body freeze and hold him motionless. "Bloody hell," he muttered. But his attention was quickly diverted by the bandages wrapped around the girl's torso.

Reports from the minions began to filter back into his memory. From about a month ago, if he recalled correctly. Stories of a car accident. Of the Slayer being in the hospital. Of the easy pickings around the graveyard while she was gone...

"Fool," he muttered. "Pretty little fool. You shouldn't have been out fighting yet. Not yet." His cool fingers traced over the bandages, imagining the cracked ribs underneath, probably newly broken again. Silently, he wished he hadn't killed the minion quite so quickly. //Roasting slowly over a brazier with a million firecrackers jutting out his orifices would have been befitting.//

No wonder the moron had been able to beat her singlehanded. Suddenly, Spike's fingers touched wetness. He brought them up and gazed at the dark liquid that glittered in the moonlight.

Blood.

Spike cursed silently. He'd assumed the smell of blood came from her head wound. Now this showed itself....

Cat-like, he circled her body until he was on her other side. A dark patch of blood was spreading across the snowy bandages. "Bloody hell, Slayer. You can't make it easy on a bloke, now can you?" Resisting the urge to lick the blood from his fingers, he cast about for something to staunch the bleeding. Finally, shrugging off his black leather duster, the vampire ripped a sleeve from his red silk shirt. No big loss; he had a hundred just like it back at the mansion.

Pressing the red cloth down on the bloodied bandage with one hand, Spike arranged his duster over the Slayer with the other. She was getting cold, both from blood loss and the night air. "Just stay with me, luv. Just stay with me." He was aware that there was an edge of panic in his voice, and he didn't like it one bit. But he was powerless to stop it.

Buffy was paler now; even in the silvery moonlight it was evident.

Reaching up, Spike pressed his fingers once more to the pulse point on her neck. That hollow flutter was weaker now. "Damn it!" he swore. "No, Slayer. Don't you dare do this to me. Don't you dare die like this!"

But she must not have been listening, because before he moved his fingers away, the slow pulse stopped altogether.

"NO!" he howled. Compress forgotten for the moment, Spike pulled himself up to her head. Leaning down so that his ear was near her lips, he listened for breathing he knew wouldn't be there. None came.

"No, no, no, no, NO!" he growled, pulling back and looking down into her face. Even in the early stages of death, face bruised and bloodied, she was beautiful. Seemingly at peace. Spike reached out a trembling hand and smoothed her hair back from her forehead. Blood red tears sprang to his eyes, and with them, anger.

"NO!" he roared. "I will not accept this!" He remembered movies he'd watched- medical dramas, often filled with blood and anguish, which he loved. Whenever they tried to save a patient in those movies, they'd do that CPR thing, with the hands and the lips. This didn't seem much different.

Arranging his hands on her chest, he pushed, feeling her rib cage creak underneath his fists.

Down. Up. Down. Up.

He didn't know how many times he was supposed to do this, so he went a few more, then sat back to turn his attention to her face. Pinching her nose and tilting back her head as he'd seen the doctors do in movies, Spike bent down, took a breath, and placed his lips over hers.

He almost forgot what he was doing at the feel of her mouth against his, still warm and sweet. But Spike quickly shook off his euphoria and expelled his breath into her lungs.

It was pitifully small- his respiratory system, long dead and dormant, just couldn't pull in a deep enough breath. But it was all he could do.

Pulling back, Spike once again laced his fingers over her chest and began pumping.

Down. Up. Down. Up.