Chapter Two

“Can I ask you something?” Spike asked quietly, staring intently at the chessboard. He couldn’t seem to force himself to meet the Watcher’s eyes.

Giles looked up from contemplating his next move. He must have heard something in his voice, because when he spoke, his tone was encouraging.

“What is it?”

He ran his hands restlessly over his face, before he dug their heels into his eye sockets, pressing in. This was so hard – fighting his fears. But he could do it. He was strong. Hadn’t Buffy told him so?

“Spike? What it is?”

Finally, he raised his face to the Watcher, not even attempting to hide his emotions. “I’m sorry to bother you with this, but I – I didn’t have anyone else I could ask,” he began. He was genuinely sorry to be asking the Watcher this question. He didn’t really understand why, but he felt the question was intrusive, inappropriate in some fashion. He shouldn’t be bothering Giles with it, disturbing him.

“Spike?” Giles had risen, and he was frowning now, his concern evident as he took a step closer to Spike.

He swallowed, almost unable to voice his question. Haltingly he forced out the words.

“Is she… Buffy, I mean… Is she – real, d’you think?”

Giles laid his hand on the back of Spike’s neck, massaging. His voice was low, kind, as soothing as his touch.

“Yes, son. I think she’s real.”

~*~

Spike came awake with a little jolt. He couldn’t remember ever dozing off here on the roof before. His mind replayed the brief dream, and he shifted restlessly.

That had been damned odd. A bit unsettling, too.

At the same time, the Watcher’s words had been reassuring, even coming in a dream.

They hadn’t been able to reach Giles, who was still visiting relatives, and doing research on some sodding words spoken in a vision, in England. Spike hoped the old codger’s heart was up to the shock when he returned.

She’d only been back a few days, really, and maybe with time, this feeling would dissipate. This feeling of – unreality. He still wondered, often, if this – Buffy’s resurrection – was just another vision of some sort. He supposed it wasn’t so unusual that he’d subconsciously seek reassurance that it wasn’t. He’d found Giles’ words, and his tone of certainty, calming.

Except that bit where he’d called him ‘son’. That had bloody well been uncalled for.

~*~

Her heartbeat sped up first, and his body tightened. By the time her breathing had changed to soft gasps, he was already in her room, a silent shadow moving to her bed.

Dreams happen in mere seconds, and nightmares, though they may seem to be drawn out in endless, mindless, terror, were no different. Before he could reach her side, she had already begun to thrash, her entire body writhing on the bed, and she’d thrown up her arms, her hands curled into claws.

“Help me!” she called out, her voice quaking.

Her breathing and heartbeat were becoming increasingly erratic.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Spike pulled her up, capturing her hands between their bodies, and wrapped her tightly into his arms. Through trial and a few memorable errors, he’d learned that this was the best position to take. The first nightmare she’d had, he’d captured her hands in his and pushed them down onto the bed near her head, trying to force her into immobility. Not one of his finest moments. Holding her down had obviously added to her feeling of being closed in, trapped. Still asleep, she’d begun struggling wildly against him, ultimately succeeding in tossing his carcass across the room. He’d returned, changing tactics.

In those first shocking hours after her return, he’d felt a desperate need to clutch her to him and sob out his fears and anguish against her living flesh. That need still writhed through him, at times almost sickening in its intensity. But he buried it, suppressed it. He didn’t think she could take that from him now, didn’t think she could – handle it. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Right now, she needed this – his strength, his comfort. He could do this, he’d told himself more than once; push away his own fears and needs, and see to hers. For her. Be strong. Be what she needed.

“Buffy.” His voice was firm, but low, trying to soothe her without waking the household. “Love, wake up.”

He began to move his hands in long, slow strokes over her back, but it was his voice near her ear that seemed to do the most to calm her.

“Shhh, love. It’s just a nightmare. You’re here in your own room. You’re safe. No coffin. No –” his voice hitched, “– no dirt falling into your face. No rocks falling on you. You’re okay. You’re here, love. You’re safe. Safe.”

She’d begun gasping in earnest, frantically trying to draw in needed air. The short rapid bursts of inhalation tore into him. God, she seemed so helpless right now, suffocating in her own terror. He’d have savored it at one time, but now he hated seeing her like this.

He knew what she was feeling, remembered it. And he could almost feel it with her now, the mindless terror.

Dirt falling, falling, rocks in his face, trapped, couldn’t get out, couldn’t break free, and the hunger, the hunger driving him wild…

Of course, Buffy wouldn’t have felt the hunger. But then, he hadn’t been so frantic for the air. Or perhaps he had. He’d certainly been frantic. He wasn’t sure now if he remembered all the reasons why. Rational thought hadn’t played a large role – just instinct, and terror.

He shook her a little, even as he continued to try to remove her fears with his voice and hands.

“Can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t breathe,” she cried out, her voice rising on each word. But then she grew still, and he knew she’d started to wake up. Her hands were suddenly clutching at him, her curled fingers digging into the hard muscles of his arms. Her forehead fell onto his shoulder. “Oh god, oh god,” she muttered.

The bedroom door opened soundlessly, and Tara and Willow stood silhouetted against the light from the hallway. Seeing them over Buffy’s shoulder, Spike glared. For a moment he was so furious with her friends, he could hardly think of anything but the ferocious need to tear into their flesh, to destroy them. The hunger to kill filled him, and he almost growled out his frustration at being unable to appease it.

“Shhh, love. Shhh. You’re safe. You’re here in your room. You can breathe. Just take it slow.” Sometimes he thought it was a bleedin’ miracle he could keep the black rage running through him out of his voice. Buffy must be completely out of it, or it was a sure thing she’d be pulling away from the waves of tension gripping his body.

He clenched one hand into a tight fist against the small of her back, and slowly, forcibly, pushed the anger away. Control. They’d brought her back, he reminded himself. She’s suffering, yes, but still, she’s here now because of them.

His fist unclenched, and he drew in a calming breath, inhaling her.

Buffy was taking little sobbing breaths now, not crying, really, but plainly still quite caught up in her nightmare. She didn’t say anything more. She just burrowed her face further into his shoulder, and her body continued to shake as she struggled to breathe normally.

The door closed again. Spike was glad the witches hadn’t dragged Dawn in here with them. Hopefully little sis was sound asleep.

His hands stroked softly down the curve of Buffy’s back, over and over, and his voice murmured soothing, meaningless sounds against her ear until she fell back asleep. Touching her soothed him as well, and he felt the remaining darkness leaving him. Long after he’d laid her back against her pillows, he stayed beside her, staring into her face. Even in sleep she looked troubled, and little shudders occasionally ran through her body.

Some time later, after her tremors had stopped, and she appeared to be sleeping peacefully, Spike climbed back out the window, and took up his usual spot on the roof again.

He tried to take comfort in the night, but he remained restless.

In another hour, he could smell the approaching dawn. Vampires became experts at timing the coming sunrise by smell and sight. If they didn’t, they died.

Spike listened to the steady heartbeats and calm breathing from two beds inside the Summers’ house. His girls were sleeping soundly, deeply. By this hour, most demons had wreaked whatever mayhem they would for the night and had disappeared back into their lairs, so it was safe for him to head back to his crypt. Still, he lingered another half an hour before he leapt lightly to the ground, and moved off toward the cemetery.

He’d almost left it too long. The sky was lightening dramatically, and Spike broke into an easy run, reaching his crypt as the first rays of deadly sunlight broke over the horizon and shone upon his door.

~*~

Willow knew she needed to talk to Buffy, but, even after giving it a lot of thought, she still wasn’t sure of the best way to broach the subject she wanted to discuss.

It hadn’t really bothered Willow much that Spike had been sitting out on the on the roof almost every night since he’d – well, since he’d come out of that coma like thingy. She knew he’d gone in to Dawn lots of times, soothing her from nightmares; of the tower, of Glory, and of her mother’s death. Even though she thought it wasn’t a good idea to have Spike around so much, Willow had to agree with Tara that it was kind of sweet seeing him so protective of Dawn.

But for some reason, it had really disturbed her to see Spike soothing Buffy in the same manner. She wondered if last night had been the first time, or if he’d gone in to her on other occasions since she’d come back. It was somehow even more disturbing to her that Buffy seemed so willing to accept the comfort Spike was offering her. Almost, almost – snuggling – into him like that. It wasn’t right.

When Spike had chained her up with Drusilla in order to declare his love, and boy, there’s your definition of weird love, Buffy had been coldly rejecting of him. And though she seemed to have softened to him in the weeks after that, Willow was sure there hadn’t been any real change in Buffy’s feelings for the vampire. At least, she didn’t think so. She had seemed to come to rely on him a little more, and to trust him with Dawn and her mother, but still...

No, Willow was sure Buffy’s basic opinion of Spike had not changed. After all, she was her best friend. Buffy told her everything, didn’t she?

So why, now that she was back, did it seem she was even more accepting of him? Willow would have thought that with the direct threat to Dawn that Glory had presented out of the way, Buffy would have pushed Spike back out of the circle.

Willow was almost certain she knew the reason Buffy hadn’t done so, and it worried her.

Buffy had been trapped in some horrible hell dimension. Blackness, and evil, and dark forces. Was she spending more time with Spike now because he represented those things? Because Spike himself was evil and darkness? Had Buffy been somehow corrupted in hell? Like a – like a hostage developing a relationship with their captor? She’d read about the Stockholm Syndrome, had studied the still debated case history of Patricia Hearst. They’d discussed these issues in psyche class earlier this year.

It’s not like she thought Spike was totally evil or anything. She knew he had his good points. One or two, anyway. But – Hey! Vampire! And – no soul. The chip could never take the place of a soul. They all knew that Spike belonged in the darkness, right? Cause, um, still mostly evil. And, well – Spike!

Sometimes, Willow thought that the fact that Spike’s fangs had been pretty darned close to her neck on more than one occasion had kinda put a damper on the whole issue of her trusting him.

And if Buffy was drawn to that darkness because of the time she’d spent in hell, wasn’t it their responsibility as her friends to try to draw her back away from it? To at least discourage it?

If only they could get Spike to back off. But Willow had almost no hope of being able to appeal to his better nature, if, er, he even had one, exactly. And, as she’d been made aware again and again over the summer, the blond could be very difficult to control. God, he’d frustrated her so much sometimes! Always going off on his own, ignoring the plans she’d carefully come up with. Argh! No, she couldn’t talk to Spike. She just didn’t think it would be wise, or effective. She would have to talk to Buffy.

Willow had been up half the night thinking about it. Ideas darted through her active mind, and little whispered conversations took place. Ideas were presented, discarded. What might work, what might not. She tried to figure out the best words to use, the most persuasive, the words that would settle into Buffy’s mind, making her think things through carefully. Think about Spike.

After Dawn and Tara left in the morning, she lingered. Once the door had closed behind a chattering Dawn, Willow took a deep breath. No time like the present.

Buffy was perched on a stool at the kitchen island with a cup of coffee sitting in front of her. It looked untouched. She’s so empty looking, Willow thought. Hell must be truly, um, hellish, to have left her so drained of any emotion or spark. And the nightmares she was having… Was Buffy reliving her experiences in hell over and over? How horrible. She wished she could help her forget…

“Hey,” she said quietly, taking the stool next to her.

Buffy looked almost surprised to see her. Hadn’t she seen her until she’d spoken? Willow had to admit the thought that she could sneak up on Buffy – on the Slayer – seemed like something they should all worry about.

“Hey,” Buffy replied. She stood up and moved to the end of the island, leaning her elbows onto the countertop, as she folded her hands around her cup of coffee.

“How are you this morning?” Willow kept her voice gentle.

“Better. Fine.” Buffy paused, then added politely, “Thank you for asking.”

“I’m so sorry you’re having nightmares. It must have been so horrible – where you were. If there’s anything I can do...”

“No. There’s not.”

“If you’d like, I could look into some spells that might help you sleep.”

“No,” Buffy refused. “Not yet. Maybe – we’ll see. But not yet.”

“You should be happy, Buffy,” Willow said earnestly. “We got you out of there. You’re back, and living, really living, again.”

“Yes, I’m back.” Buffy nodded.

“Pretty soon, everything will be just like it was before. You’ll be slaying again full strength – Buffy: Back and Better Than Ever,” she teased. “Xander and I will be researching, and I’ll be coordinating everything – the plans of attack, like I did this summer. Giles will be back – being, you know – Gilesy. Tara can start helping more, and Dawn can take over, like, um, food pick up duty or something…

“And, you don’t have to rush into anything, but hey! before ya know it, I bet you’ll be back with the quippiness, and the – other stuff. If you’re not ready, though, no biggie. We can handle things for you. We did, you know, while you were gone, and we can keep it up ‘til you’re feeling more like your old self. So – no hurry. No pressure.

“Angel made it back, and you can, too. And, gotta say, Buffy, you’re doing a lot better than Angel was when he first came back from hell, so I’m thinkin’ – good sign.” Willow widened her eyes and smiled softly, encouraging Buffy to smile with her. She was so anxious for Buffy to really come back to them.

Willow drooped a little at Buffy’s failure to join her in a smile. Maybe Buffy just wasn’t ready for anything lighthearted yet.

“Speaking of Angel – have you called him yet? Let him know you’re back?”

Buffy just stared.

“Do you want me to call him for you? Explain things?”

“I’ll, um, let you know,” Buffy said. She took a couple of steps back, coming to a halt with a little jolt when her hips hit the counter near the sink. She leaned back against the cabinets, holding her coffee carefully in both hands.

Willow hesitated. Okay, maybe she wasn’t ready to talk about Angel yet either. Which seemed kinda weird, but, then, what wasn’t the last few days?

Willow went on to her original reason for approaching her this morning. “I’m kinda concerned about something, though,” she began carefully. “About Spike.”

Buffy gave a small frown. “What about him?”

“It’s just – do you really think it’s a good idea to let him into your room like that?” she said in a rush.

Buffy turned away from her, dumping the untasted coffee into the sink. Carefully, she rinsed the cup out and put it in the dishwasher.

“He is – um, you know, Spike...”

“I thought – my sister told me that he’d been around a lot lately. That he helped,” Buffy murmured. Willow wondered how her voice could remain so monotone. Then she realized it probably wasn’t all that hard if you said practically nothing. Willow was willing to bet that, if she made the teeniest, tiniest effort, she could recall every single word Buffy had said since she’d saved her.

And the words she hadn’t said.

“Oh! Well, yeah, he does. In, um, some ways, you know. And he is really good with Dawnie.” Willow had to give credit where it was due. “But still, it’s Spike.” Saying ‘it’s Spike’ had always seemed more than sufficient in the past. She said it to herself a lot now, reassuring herself that it was in all their best interests to send the blond vampire packing. “And, um, I don’t know – it just seems like it would be better if he backed off a little. Let you settle down. I think it would be best if you told him that.”

“I’m not worried about him,” Buffy replied. She was still gazing into the sink, and Willow wondered what she was thinking. “Can we just – let it go for now?”

Wow! Two whole sentences, Willow thought, but then she relented, feeling bad about thinking such a – well, a sorta sarcastic-y – thought. Buffy sounded so tired, so completely worn out. Not to mention, she’d been in hell. Hell, Willow. No matter how awful you think that must have been, it was probably ten times worse. Or more. It was only natural that Buffy was having trouble, that she wasn’t really behaving the way she – should.

Eyeing Buffy’s slumped posture, Willow decided she’d probably said enough for today, for now. She’d planted a few ideas. Buffy’d been all with the nightmares, and the gasping during the night and maybe this wasn’t the best time for in depth discussions on the state of her psyche.

“Sure,” she agreed. “I’m just worried about you. And I don’t want Spike taking advantage of you or anything. You were in hell, and he’s all sorta dark and stuff... I know it might feel comfortable to be with him right now.”

There, now she’d planted a few more things. Things for Buffy to think about.

“I have a class in half an hour. I’d better get going.”

Buffy turned back to her.

“I’ll tell you what; when you’re ready to talk to Spike, I’ll go with you. You know – be supportive girl. Let him know we’re serious.”

Ignoring the small frown that appeared between Buffy’s brows, Willow rose, and reached into the refrigerator to pull out a bottle of juice to take to class with her.

“Bye, Buffy. Take it easy today. Why don’t you take a nap this morning? If you do, I bet things will look better this afternoon.”

“I – maybe,” Buffy said. “Bye.”

~*~

Buffy watched the redhead leave the room. She wasn’t quite sure what was causing her concerns, or even exactly what they were. Perhaps the fuzziness that seemed to be permeating her entire being made it too difficult to figure out any but the most basic things. She shifted a little uncomfortably. She was almost afraid to acknowledge how much even the basic things were confusing her.

It was odd.

She kept forgetting where things were, or how to do simple everyday tasks. Yesterday, she’d stared at the control panel of the washing machine for five minutes before she could remember how to turn it on. A few days earlier, the microwave had taken twice that long. She couldn’t remember where they stored garbage bags, or the pasta strainer, or the new bottle of shampoo.

Not that she’d ever been exactly domestic girl, at least, she didn’t think she had – had she? – but she’d usually known where stuff was in this house. Her house.

Where she lived with her sister, Dawn. And some other people. Willow. And Tara. Maybe others. She wasn’t positive. There always seemed to be so many people coming and going.

She’d begun to accept that a lot of things were unfamiliar, strange, and so very fuzzy.

Worse, it was wrong.

It was all wrong.

Several times recently, she had been walking down the hall, or up the stairs, or across the lawn, and she’d stopped, sometimes in mid-step, because she suddenly had no idea where she was, and she had to stand still long enough to figure it out. I don’t belong here, she would think, at those times, and she couldn’t understand why she wasn’t where she had been. Where she was supposed to be.

Then she would remember. The people living with her, living near her, had torn her out, torn her away. They’d brought her here.

She seemed to be almost frozen in a state of deep disorientation. She didn’t have any idea how long she would stay encased in this fuzzy state, or even, if she was honest, how long she’d been there. Had she been here a month? Two? Six? Longer? She started to feel a little panicky at the realization that she had absolutely no idea, so she pushed the thought away and just refused to think about it.

She was beginning to think that not thinking about things might sometimes be the way to go.

Buffy ran a little water into the kitchen sink and washed the pan Tara had used to make some pancakes for Dawn’s breakfast. The two of them had laughed and chatted happily while they’d prepared their morning meal. Buffy had watched them, smiling faintly from time to time, and had tried to stay out of their way. It was nice. They sort of went on as if she wasn’t there. They didn’t spend their time staring at her, questioning her with worried eyes, like Willow and Xander seemed to, trying to see inside her, trying to make her…make her what?

Buffy didn’t know. Didn’t understand. But she thought maybe they wanted something from her.

“How are you? Are you better? Feeling better today? How are things this morning? This afternoon? This evening? How’s the Buffster? Feeling a little more like your old self? Feeling more like the old Buffy? How about today? Maybe this afternoon. Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow. How about now? This minute? Better than a minute ago? A second ago? Better? Better? Better?”

I’m not supposed to be here!, she wanted to cry out to them.

And then softly, fearfully, to herself, Am I?

It’s wrong. What happened? Why am I here? I thought…

Did I do something – wrong? Did I have to come here to make up for something I did?

And then the last, quiet, internal whisper, sad beyond sound, What was it?

It had taken her days, maybe weeks, she thought, to figure out that Willow and Tara were living here in this house in order to take care of her sister. And then that had confused her. For some reason, she’d thought Spike was taking care of Dawn. Wasn’t that…? Isn’t that what he did?

Promise me.

“‘Til the end of the world…”

Buffy pushed a soapy hand into her hair, pressing it against her temple as the confusion over that issue returned. To make it worse, she didn’t understand why she felt confusion, so that confused her more. She groaned lightly in frustration. Apparently, the whole issue was just another one of those fuzzy things.

And, god, there were so many fuzzy things. So many. And just to make it worse, those fuzzy things seemed to go in and out of that state, being clear one minute, then completely out of reach, encased in fuzziness and confusion again, the next.

“‘Til the end of the world…”

Spike.

Her mind went back to what Willow had been saying, about asking Spike to back off, to stay away.

On that point, Buffy wasn’t confused or fuzzy at all. Not one bit. She had no intention of asking Spike to stop keeping his vigil on the roof. She was terrified, absolutely terrified, to fall asleep. The waking memories of the coffin were bad enough. But when she was asleep… The nightmares were worse, much worse. It was as if she was actually back in the ground, back in the coffin, fighting, clawing, reliving it all endlessly…

She’d been resting, so warm, perfect peace enveloping her, comfort and love surrounding her, cushioning her, and then…

Terrible, screaming pain, wrenching at her, tearing her apart, and terror, horror, fear. Fear. She would never, she couldn’t, she couldn’t…

Buffy squeezed her eyes shut. She could feel the terror building in her, rising, taking her over. And the loss, oh god, oh god, oh god, the loss…

Can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t breathe…

She tried to push them down, the coffin memories; terror, pain, loss. But instead of lessening, the feelings increased. She was descending into full-scale panic. In an effort to halt the downward slide, she spun back toward the sink and turned the water on full blast. Cold. As cold as she could get it. She began splashing water onto her face. Handful after handful.

No dirt, no rocks falling on her, no dirt filling her mouth, her eyes. Breathe. Just breathe. There’s air.

But she couldn’t seem to draw it in.

She started gasping, trying to capture needed air. Frantically, she threw more water into her face. More. Faster. One of her struggling breaths caused her to inhale some water, and she began to choke, coughing harshly. The gasping stopped, and strangely, she began to calm a little, coughing until her air passages were clear.

Slowly, carefully, Buffy turned away from the sink. Water was dripping unheeded from her face onto the floor, and the hair framing her face was soaked. She was breathing hard, but it was a more normal out-of-breath panting now, as though she’d been running or – or fighting. Air was flowing in and out of her lungs.

She could almost hear Spike’s voice, soothing her.

“Shhh, love. It’s just a nightmare. You’re here in your own room. You’re safe. You can breathe. Just take it slow. You’re safe. Safe.”

Every night, often more than once each night, his voice was there, in her ear, in her mind. His soft, deep tone was fatal to her fears, her panic. His voice battled them, and won.

He might not understand everything she was feeling. How could he? She didn’t herself. Couldn’t. But he understood the coffin, the suffocating entrapment of being buried alive.

That was part of the reason she knew she wouldn’t ask him to stay away, no matter what the redhead, or anyone else for that matter, thought. Knowing he was there, sitting just outside her bedroom window in the night, ready to come in to her if she needed him, to offer comfort, even a degree of peace, was the only thing that allowed her to close her eyes at all. The only thing that allowed her to even attempt sleep.

~*~

Although he’d almost never used it, the bed he and Dawn had painstakingly chosen to liberate from Angelus’ mansion was damned comfortable. He rarely slept, and when he did it wasn’t deeply or for long, and his bier was good enough for that. It had bothered him that he’d dozed off on the roof last night, fallin’ down on the job like some bleedin’ wanker, and he’d sought the bed this morning thinking it would offer a better chance at getting some actual bloody rest. That remained to be seen, but he was currently enjoying the state of peaceful almost-slumber, and the cool smoothness of the soft cotton sheets against his bare skin. Even dozing, he could feel the slide of the fabric across his chest and thighs.

The air changed. Something was added. Something – something…

Buffy.

Another vision, then? he wondered, not fully aware. Her name escaped his lips, a breath of sound.

“Buffy.”

He could taste her essence in the air around him. Was she real? The Watcher had said she was real. Of course he’d said it in a dream, but still…

“Buffy?”

His eyes opened, and she was there, sitting at the foot of the bed, her pale arms wrapped tightly around the knees she had drawn up close to her chest. She was wearing a little tank top, and a pair of loose cotton knit pants – her usual sleepwear. Little bits of newly mown grass clung to the sides of her bare feet, and her hair was disheveled, hanging in damp strands around her white face.

He frowned. Was it raining? He couldn’t hear anything…

No, her clothes were dry.

She was rocking a little, he realized. Her large eyes were locked on his, and for the first time since she’d been brought back, those eyes held strong emotion, easily read.

Fear.

He’d felt it in her body in the night, the shaking terror from the nightmares, but her eyes had been hidden from him in the dark of her bedroom, closed. And when she was awake, those eyes, so expressive in the past, had seemed, for the most part, empty. Seeing the crippling fear there now filled him with a renewed and powerful rage, deep and primal. She was the Slayer, for fuck’s sake. Strong. Fierce. Magnificent. Her sodding friends had done this to her. They’d interfered, played with fate, and reduced her to this frightened, shaking shell.

He forced himself to keep his fury, with them, and with a fate that would do this, or allow this to be done, to one of its chosen warriors, from showing in any way.

“I can’t breathe,” she told him, and the fear was in her voice, too. Even though he could see, hear, feel, that, aside from the fact that her breaths were a little too shallow, she was breathing almost normally, he didn’t argue the point.

Wordlessly, he reached out a hand to her, and she flowed into his arms, the rumpled sheet and her light clothing separating her from his bare flesh. Somewhere in the almost fragile body he held in his arms, that powerful warrior still dwelled. He had to believe that. Had to.

Because doubting it would kill him.

“You’re doing fine,” he assured her.

He felt warmth suffuse his body as she settled against him, and he tucked her closer, pressing her face into his throat. For a moment the warmth almost seemed to heat up the air around them, and as the shock of the unnatural sensation ran through him, he could swear the room actually glowed for a second, a soft flash of blue light. Buffy gasped and pressed closer, and he thought maybe she’d felt it, too. It was a good thing, he thought, that he was getting used to damned unusual goings-on, because they bloody well seemed to be occurring with increasing regularity. The heated air and the glow quickly waned, but the warmth remained. It was still strong inside him, radiating from his chest into every part of him.

His usual reaction to anything he felt was unnatural was edginess. But strangely, this warmth had the opposite effect. It calmed him, eased the rage.

“Listen to me, to my voice. I’ll breathe with you. Slow and deep, love. In.” Spike drew his breath in. She followed suit. “Out.” She exhaled against his skin, a warm mist. Real. “In. Out. Calm down, love,” he cautioned when she took three or four breaths in a row that were too fast, too shallow. “Shhh. Calm. In. Out. In. Out. You forgot out, there, Slayer,” he chided gently into her hair. “Shhh. Be calm, love. You’re doing fine. In. Out.”

He kept up a steady repetition, breathing with her, until he felt most of the tension leave her body. Then he began to substitute soothing sounds as his hands stroked her back.

“Keep talking,” she murmured a few moments later, her breathing almost normal. The tremors running through her body had slowed. “Don’t stop.”

He’d never stop if it meant he could continue to hold her like this. He concentrated on the feeling of the weight of her body against his, on listening closely to the soft sound of her breathing, the rhythmic sounds of her beating heart and the blood pumping through her veins. These feelings, these sounds were doing a lot to assure him that she was real; that she was really here, alive.

And he needed all the reassurance of that truth that he could get.

He’d imagined it so many times, so many, and he didn’t think he could…

“You’re safe,” he said, close to her ear. “Safe. I have you, Buffy. Shhh.” His hands continued to caress her, further easing her trembling, as his voice rumbled on. “You’re safe, love. You’re here. I have you.”

She moved against him, a silent ghost. Through the soft bedding, her legs entwined with his.

Not a ghost, he told himself. She’s not a ghost, a vision, nothing like that. She’s real. Real.

“Don’t stop talking,” she asked of him again. “I can breathe when you talk.” Her words vibrated against his throat. One of her hands had twined into his hair, and the other curved over his hip.

“I won’t, love. I won’t stop,” he promised. “You’re here. I have you.” The whispered words flowed out, unplanned, and he thought she was listening to the timber of his voice more than to the meaning of the sounds, which were offered to soothe and calm her.

Just as she seemed desperate for reassurance that she could breathe, that she wasn’t buried in the ground, alive, and alone, he was equally desperate right now in his need to know that she was real. Although he didn’t speak of it openly, on some level she seemed to recognize it; to understand that he needed reassurance, too.

“Don’t…stop.” Her voice was fading, and she seemed to be almost on the verge of sleep. “Don’t…”

His hands touched her, grazing lightly over an arm, her waist, the firm line of her outer thigh. She’s here. They touched her throat, her hair, lingered on her face in disbelieving wonder. She’s real. Living. Breathing. They smoothed over her shoulders, and flowed easily down the gentle line of her back, over the curve of her hips, coming to rest on her bottom, cupping the globes of flesh.

Their hips began rocking together very gently, just hinting at a soft, ancient rhythm, and although they were both participating in the motion, neither one of them was even vaguely aware of it. It was just another part of the comforting, mutual now, unconscious, unacknowledged.

“You’re safe, love. I promise, I’ll keep you safe.” His lips touched her temple, and his face lingered in her drying hair. “Promise, love. I have you. Shhh.”

She’s here. She’s alive. She’s real. His mind repeated the words over and over.

Believe.

“You’re here, love. Safe. You’re here, you’re with me. I have you. I have you, Buffy.”

~*~

He’d spent days shifting through the new knowledge he had of the slayer and her friends. He weighed different scenarios, different possibilities.

What might work, what might not, what would give him the best advantage. Finally, he made some decisions.

He would contact an old friend here in town, enlist his help. He smiled, that gentle, endearing smile that had long served him so well. The friend he had in mind was always up for something interesting. He would enjoy this assignment. All the – details – involved.

Then, when his health was more completely restored, he would take himself off to L.A. And he would explore all the intriguing possibilities residing there.

It was good to be alive.

And least for now.

~*~

NEXT PART

PREVIOUS PART

BACK TO MARY'S FIC PAGE

RABID'S FANFICTION