Chapter Two
He was on time.
But then, he was always on time. 9:00. Time to walk Dawn home from the Magic
Box, spend a couple hours with her ‘til the witches were back. Spike stood just
inside the door of the shop, silent and remote, as he waited for Dawn to finish
up some chore Anya had assigned her.
“You don’t mind, do you?” Dawn had asked, her eyes
lightly pleading, and of course, he’d nodded in agreement. Wasn’t in any hurry
anyway.
She wasn’t ‘quite ready’ to leave most nights now when
he arrived, but he didn’t let on that he knew it was deliberate. She would try
to persuade him to come in, sit with Xander or Giles until she was ready to go,
but he preferred to remain by the door.
Apart.
“Good evening, Spike,” Giles said as he came out of the
back room. He kept his voice carefully even these days, almost pleasant. “Right
on time, I see.”
Spike inclined in head in acknowledgement, which seemed
to be expected of him, but he didn’t speak, and his eyes avoided those of the
Watcher.
Giles’ lips tightened almost imperceptively. He took a
couple steps in the vampire’s general direction and tried again.
“I appreciate your willingness to help out. We all do.”
His head dipped toward Xander and Anya, who nodded in agreement – Xander
hesitantly, Anya with enthusiasm.
Giles made another attempt to make eye contact with
Spike.
And failed. Again.
Spike didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge Giles in any way.
Instead his intense blue eyes followed Dawn from their sunken sockets, and the
air in the room seemed to tighten around the occupants. Thinning to the point
where it seemed difficult to draw breath. If you needed to, that is.
Dawn finished shelving the books in the pile Anya had
given her, and stood, surveying the shop. There was really nothing else that
needed doing right now. Besides, it wasn’t working. Spike never actually came in
to the shop, never really acknowledged anyone but her – except for those
sort of nod thingies he did with Giles – and he never spoke. Ever. To any of
them. Only her. And even then, he only talked when they were alone. She’d tried
so hard to pull him into the group – at least a little. But so far, all her
attempts had been complete failures. Her hands fisted in the fabric of her
t-shirt for a moment; then she smoothed it out and forced a smile onto her
face.
“I’m ready,” she announced and some of the tension left
the room.
Spike stepped back, opened the door and held it for the
young girl. Dawn threw a somewhat helpless look over her shoulder at the others
before preceding him out the door.
“Okay, then,” Xander remarked into the tense silence
that fell once the over-the-door bell stopped its jangling. “Really not getting any easier, there.”
“Quite.” Giles agreed. “I had hoped perhaps by now…” he
let his voice trail off.
“Well, he’s not as bad as he was.” Anya pointed out.
Which was, of course, a vast understatement. “He’s up and moving and doing
something useful. Even if it is something we sort of – created – to make him
feel useful.” She nodded her head. “I think it’s working.”
“Ahn, honey, you have noticed that he still hasn’t said
a word, right?”
“Which I continue to find remarkable considering how
much Spike always seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice.” Giles added.
“Actually, I think it’s creepier the way he won’t look
at anyone. Kind of makes me shivery.”
“Me too.” Xander shuddered as he agreed with his
girlfriend. Giles looked at the younger man with the somewhat pained expression
he often had on his face when looking at him, and Xander grew defensive.
“What? It’s damned creepy. He walks around like some
pale ghosty thing. Never talks, never looks at you. Eyes all black and cheeks
all sunken in like those voice stealing gentlemen guys.” He paused, “And they
were majorly creepy.”
“I still say he’s getting better.” Anya was often more
optimistic than those around her. “He certainly looks better than he did a few
weeks ago, and Dawn says he talks to her regularly.”
“Really?” Giles asked.
“Yes. I believe they have real conversations.” Anya
opened the cash register and put the last pile of receipts in. Normally she
would tally everything at the end of the day, but Xander wanted to watch a
movie tonight, so they were heading home as soon as she was ready. It bothered
her to leave the end of day bookwork undone all night, but when one was engaged,
even secretly, certain concessions had to be made for one’s fiancé. All the
bridal magazines said so.
“Besides, Spike is in mourning,” she continued, as she
gathered her purse and sweater, “and it can last a long time. Months, sometimes
even years. There’s no telling how long it will last with Spike, because it’s
different with everyone. But I do think he’ll start talking to people other
than Dawn soon.”
Giles looked at her with interest. “Is it normal for
vampires to go into mourning?”
“I really didn’t do a lot of vengeance work with
vampires. They prefer to take their own vengeance. So I don’t have a lot of
personal experience with them. But, yes, mourning the loss of a loved one is
common for most beings – human and demon.”
“And you don’t feel the lack of a soul…?”
“I really don’t see the connection. Vampires are very
passionate beings. They love – well, many of them do anyway, they hate. And
they mourn. Pretty straight forward if you ask me. Don’t any of these books
cover this stuff?” She gestured to the thousands of volumes housed in the shop
and there was a certain incredulity in her tone.
Giles became slightly
flustered. “Mostly, the council deals with how to kill vampires, not, with,
well…”
“Understanding them?” Anya finished for him. “I thought
‘know thine enemy’ was some sort of motto among humans.” She caught herself.
“Us. Among us. Humans. Like us. Like all of us here in this room right now.”
She smiled, nodding to herself in approval, sure she had covered the slip that
she still, sometimes, thought of herself as other than human. They probably
hadn’t even noticed, she thought, happily. “You might want to consider stocking
some books in your resource library that are not on the official ‘Council of
Watchers’ Approved Reading List.’” She
shrugged, dismissing the subject as she turned to Xander. “Ready, sweetheart?”
“You bet.” He was on his feet, anxious to be home.
Escape into a movie. The Matrix was waiting – well, maybe not. A little too
much black leather for his mood right now. Or Cujo – always a good scare in
that one, and it would probably lead to Anya huggage. Or, again, maybe not. He
could almost hear her now; ‘This isn’t realistic, Xander. First; rabid dogs
would never... blah, blah, blah.’ Well, they’d find something. Anya had been
wanting to see some chick flick. Anything. It didn’t matter. Just something to
provide some escape, however brief.
~*~
Giles poured himself a drink after Xander and Anya
left. He acknowledged his habit of reaching for alcohol in times of stress,
knew it was a sign of weakness, thought disparaging thoughts of himself for it,
and did it anyway.
He feared, too, that he was losing his battle with
depression. Buffy’s loss alone was an horrific happening he had hoped never to
have to deal with. He had loved her so much, had admired her spirit, her
independence, her strength, her vitality. But he had seen how the last months
before they lost her had drained her, aged her and saddened her beyond what
anyone of her still very young age should ever have to endure. And he felt that
he had failed her in so many ways. He still cringed when remembering the way
Buffy had looked at him as he stated that Dawn would have to die, the betrayal
he had seen in her eyes. And the guilt mounted daily, because he was forced to
admit to himself that, even now, every time he looked at Dawn, he felt angered
that she – this unreal personage – lived while the daughter of his heart was de
– gone – forever gone.
He wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to say ‘dead’.
Or ‘died’. Or ‘death’.
He knew it was a form of denial. Another weakness.
Dawn had not turned to him for comfort, for which he
supposed he should be grateful. In those first dark days, she’d given him the
occasional hug, and had seemed comforted by his presence. Even now, she never
displayed any animosity toward him, but even while she didn’t avoid him, she
held herself somewhat aloof. Instead she turned to Tara, the quiet and gentle
woman who seemed to have blossomed into a wonderful anchor for the teen.
And then, of course, Dawn turned to Spike. Though Giles
wasn’t at all sure who was doing the comforting there, and who was seeking it.
Perhaps it was a mutual need met.
The attempts made to locate Hank Summers after the
showdown with Glory had delayed Buffy’s funeral, and the ceremony had not been
held until almost two weeks after her loss, a rather lengthy delay. Even then,
Hank Summers was not present. Dawn, angered by the continued inability to
locate her father, had been insistent that the ceremony be held after sunset so
that Spike, at least, could be there with her. She’d been devastated when only
one vampire had been in attendance – that being Angel. None of them had seen
Spike since the morning after the final battle with Glory, but notes left in
his heavily disarrayed crypt had informed him of the time and place of the
service. Dawn had been certain he would come. She had insisted that the service
itself be delayed for well more than an hour while they waited in vain for the
blond. When Angel stated his opinion, backed up with visible disgust by Xander,
that Spike had probably either left town or was collapsed in a drunken stupor
somewhere, Dawn had stiffened in anger and given a nod to the clergyman to
proceed. She hadn’t spoken to Angel after the service, and when he tried to
offer his sympathy, she had rebuffed him quite rudely. She hadn’t been
particularly pleased with Xander either.
The next day Dawn found Spike.
Had any of them even been aware that there was a lower
level to Spike’s crypt? Giles couldn’t remember ever having noticed it or
having heard about its’ existence. Seeing the chains hanging from the ceiling
during one of his earliest visits to this newly discovered realm, Giles
supposed that this was where Spike had chained Buffy and Drusilla in what was
undoubtedly his most disastrous attempt to win Buffy’s heart. Buffy had never
gone into great detail about that night, and the opening leading to the lower
level could easily be overlooked if one wasn’t aware of its existence.
Giles still didn’t know exactly how Dawn had discovered
it. Perhaps she had just been more determined than any of them had been during
previous visits to the crypt when they had been attempting to locate Spike. Or
perhaps she had simply been deeply brassed off. Determined to find the vampire
and vent her anger. Either way, it still horrified Giles that Dawn had been the
one to find Spike, that she had seen him in that horrendous condition.
God, it still sickened him, and he had seen some pretty
terrible things, especially since coming to Sunnydale.
First, there had been the wounds. He knew the deep stab
would to Spike’s lower back had come during the battle with Glory. Dawn had
told them that Spike had been stabbed atop the tower by the little man they had
called ‘Doc.’ At the hospital the following day with Dawn, he had shrugged off
Giles’ questions about the wound, and Giles had assumed vampiric healing had
kicked in. Apparently it had not. When Dawn brought them to Spike after finding
him, more than two weeks after the stabbing had occurred, the wound had still
been open. Other injuries were consistent with Spike’s fall from the tower –
several broken ribs, and numerous broken bones in his both legs and in his
right arm. Like the stab wound, they had not healed.
Giles wondered how the vampire had managed to stay
patiently by Dawn’s side while the doctors worked on her after Buffy’s dea –
leap. The blond had accompanied Dawn to the hospital, had stayed, a silent,
soothing presence at her side, while the doctors examined her wounds, cleaned
them, and stitched them up. Dawn had clung to his hand fiercely, and Giles
could remember the strangeness he had felt at seeing Spike gently stroking
Dawn’s hair, calming her throughout the process. He had stayed until the
doctors assured him that Dawn would recover fully, that she would have very
little, if any, scarring from the wounds, and that the sedatives they had
administered would keep her asleep for several hours. Then, without speaking to
any of them, he had disappeared into the tunnels running under the city, not to
be seen again until Dawn found him the day after the funeral.
There were other wounds – deep burns in his chest and
on his hands. Giles really didn’t know how those had occurred. Flesh and bone
alike were blackened, and the stench was horrid. Xander had thrown up when he’s
seen Spike’s chest, and Giles and Tara had been the ones to cut away the dead
flesh and dress the wounds.
But as awful as the wounds and injuries had been, they
were nothing compared to the general physical state Spike was in.
It had been almost like finding a survivor of Auschwitz
or Dachau. Emaciated to the point of looking almost skeletal, they had, at
first glance, thought Spike had passed into some strange and heretofore unknown
form of vampiric death. Giles had been shocked to the core, and he was quite
sure he hadn’t yet recovered. He’d never seen a vampire in that state before,
couldn’t even remember having read about it in any of his hundreds of books.
Upon closer examination, it was clear Spike was still – alive – on some level.
He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but his eyes were still cognizant, or at least
alert on some deep level. They moved, sometimes focusing on a face or a motion.
Mostly they were empty, deadened pools of blue, burning out of their sunken
sockets in a manner that gave Giles nightmares still.
Of course, Giles knew of torpor, the state in which
vampires could supposedly exist for long periods of time without feeding. But
his knowledge suggested that a vampire in that state would never turn down
blood, was, in fact, almost mad for it. That hadn’t been the case with Spike.
There were a few blood packets lying about on the floor
upstairs, opened, their contents spilled on the ground next to them. It hadn’t
taken them long to figure out that Spike had been unable to keep any blood
down. Or that he still couldn’t. Not pig’s blood. Not human blood. Not blood
fresh from Giles’ arm. And yes, he had offered. It wasn’t that Spike didn’t
try. He did. It was the only time he seemed to move at all. He would take some
of the human blood, would instinctively put his mouth to the wound Giles would
slice into his own arm. It didn’t matter. Within minutes – seconds sometimes –
he was gagging, vomiting up whatever he had taken in, almost choking on it in
the process. And in his terribly weakened state, the heaves wracking his body
were frighteningly terrible to see. It didn’t seem to matter what opinion each
of them held of Spike, they were all shaken and horrified by what Spike was
going through. The young women – Willow, Tara and Anya – clung to each other
over this, one more shock after so many others. Even Xander, whose dislike of
Spike almost equaled his hatred of Angel, seemed deeply affected.
And Dawn. Oh my, Dawn. The poor girl had been reduced
to a dreadful state, bouts of hysteria intermingling with an almost catatonic
state of blank staring, and flare-ups of temper. They had done their best to
shield her from his continuing decline, but what she had seen when she first
found him had been permanently burned into her mind’s eye. Further, Giles had
been certain that somehow Dawn was getting in to see Spike, even though they
all agreed it was best to keep her from him, and the others all denied the
possibility of her finding a way on her own.
They had no idea how to help. Or if help was even
possible. Willow and Tara, even Anya and Xander had read, and researched, and
read, and searched the web, and read yet more, trying to discover what was happening to Spike and how they
could restore him to his usual annoying self. But they had been rather
spectacularly unsuccessful. After nearly two weeks of watching Spike’s
condition worsen, Giles had come to a very difficult decision.
They must consult Angel.
The decision to call Angel had been a painful one.
First off, Giles didn’t know if Angel would have the knowledge to help. Even
more uncertain would be his willingness. Giles knew the two vampires had an
exceedingly rocky history. Knew too, that only the two of them really
understood the extent of and reasons for their private war. He did know that
their shared past was complicated in ways that humans would probably never
fully comprehend. Giles held out some hope that despite – or even perhaps
because of – some of those very complicated issues, Angel would have sufficient
residual feelings for the younger vampire to want to be of help. After all, the
two were still part of the same vampiric family. No matter how dysfunctional
that family was.
There were other drawbacks to phoning Angel. Giles had
felt sure that Spike himself would react negatively to the idea. Well, to be
blunt, Giles had thought Spike would raise himself up from what seemed to be
his deathbed and throw him out of his crypt. From the lower level. But Spike
hadn’t reacted at all. His eyes had remained lifeless and bleak, void of any
emotion at all.
At that point, Giles knew that the only remaining
stumbling block to calling Angel was his own undiminished – distaste – for the
dark haired vampire.
Giles felt that he had honestly tried, over the years,
to forgive Angel the acts of Angelus. But, inside, where he lived, where
remnants of Ripper, and more importantly, Jenny, still dwelled, he knew that he
never would.
He had accepted that – that inability to forget, to
forgive.
Giles removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes in a
mixture of habit and exhaustion. The entire experience had been more than
horrifying. It had been unutterably strange and, at the same time, strangely
fascinating.
To see a person – well, not a person, perhaps, but a
sentient being, at any rate, in such a state. To know that said being had
reached that point, at least in part, one must assume, by being unable to eat,
but to not know why...or even how they had deteriorated so rapidly. It seemed
only common sense to Giles that the weight loss visible in Spike should not
have occurred in less than a good many weeks, possibly months. Yet only two
weeks had passed when they’d first found him, and he’d already looked skeletal.
The same could be said for the loss of strength and power. Dawn had told them
that Spike had been stabbed by the little man on top of the tower, and Giles
felt sure that some sort of poison had entered the vampire’s bloodstream.
Although this didn’t comfortably gibe with the fact that Dawn had been cut by
the same blade, with no apparent ill effects, Giles still leaned toward it as
the best possible explanation.
By that time, though, they were more concerned with
cure than cause. Not that they had any information in that area either...
Giles had actually found himself praying for the knowledge
to help Spike. A vampire. A soulless creature that had harmed them and
threatened them, and – helped them. It had all been so very – well – unsettling
hardly described it.
Then, before he actually picked up the phone to consult
Angel, it was over.
It had been on Xander’s watch. While Tara stayed at the
Summers house with Dawn every night, the rest of them – he, Xander, Anya, and
Willow – had been taking rotating shifts staying in the crypt with Spike during
the day, and had agreed that each night, one of them would spend the long, dark
hours upstairs. They didn’t openly call it a death watch, but they all knew
what it was. And because Spike had fought beside them against Glory, because
Buffy had seemed to put a lot of trust in him in the last weeks of her life,
they had done this. For her. Because they felt she would have wanted them to.
And perhaps, somewhat reluctantly, and to their
surprise, for Spike himself.
Xander had been watching television on the main floor
of the crypt, dozing perhaps, as the night passed. And in the morning, he had
opened his eyes to see Spike standing over him. Giles imagined that had led to
one of Xander’s less than manly reactions, though Xander would never admit to
such a thing. And Spike... Well, Spike still didn’t speak. Except to Dawn. When
they were alone. Or at least Dawn claimed he spoke to her. Even, if what she
told Anya was to be believed, that they had actual conversations. Giles had yet
to hear him utter a sound.
And they had absolutely no idea what had occurred.
What had happened, changed, that Spike was suddenly
able to drink blood again? To keep it down, and – digest it, or whatever it was
vampires actually did internally? Spike had been in such a weakened state by
then that Giles was really at a loss to understand how he had even laid his
hands on a blood source. And Giles had looked – for an empty bag, or a bottle
or jar, or a dead rat for that matter. He had found nothing.
He wondered tiredly if any explanation for the whole
experience – cause and cure – would ever be forthcoming, either from Spike
himself, though Giles was unsure how much, if anything, Spike remembered of the
experience, or from some reference source they hadn’t found in their exhaustive
research.
Giles replaced his glasses and took a hefty swallow of
his scotch. And now he really needed to talk to Spike about an entirely
different matter.
Damn the Hellmouth.
Giles could remember his early reactions upon learning
that Sunnydale rested on a Hellmouth. He had felt – well, damn and blast – a
form of excitement. There had been a certain amount of anticipation then, in
those early days, of the challenges they would face. And though he had felt
outright fear at the fate of the world resting on the shoulders of one slender
and rather, well, strange, teenage girl and her friends, he had still been able
to view the glass as ‘half-full’, as he had put it at the time, rather than
half-empty.
Perhaps he had just been too young and foolish himself.
Five years had changed his perspective.
And his life.
Yes, well, he couldn’t afford to dwell too much on
things past right now – Jenny and Joyce, The Master, the mayor, Faith, Angel.
His beloved girl, Buffy. Oh dear lord, he had promised himself he would not do
this now. Just – focus, Giles, old man.
The opening of the dimensional portal that night on the
tower had released some particularly nasty creatures into this dimension. In
the first days after that final battle, there hadn’t been much noticeable
activity. Giles had hoped that most of them had disappeared back to their own
dimensions when Buffy jumped. And undoubtedly many had. Others had most likely
been killed by the effects of the dimensional leap, or by an inability to
sustain life in this dimension, or by some nasty already residing on the
Hellmouth. And some had perhaps gone into seclusion while trying to come to an
understanding of what had happened to them, and where they now were.
But in recent days they seemed to be coming out of the
woodwork, so to speak. The reported sightings he had received the last two days
of a dragon in flight had been particularly unsettling.
In addition, Glory’s unstable and powerful presence had
served to reduce what Giles had come to see as a ‘normal’ level of demon
activity on the Hellmouth. Now, with rumors of her demise circulating, combined
with the first whispers of the possible dea— absence of the Slayer, demonic
activity had undergone a decided and very unwelcome surge in the last week or
so.
Giles had decisions to make.
And he wanted to discuss some of them with Spike.
It was a pretty depressing indicator of the current
sorry state of affairs, when a trained Watcher of his experience was convinced
his most likely source of help was one William the Bloody, former Scourge of
Europe and Slayer of Slayers.
~*~