Story Title: Spirit Indestructible


Season 5. Begins with ‘Spiral’ in the abandoned gas station, and goes far off-canon almost immediately.

When Dawn makes the ultimate sacrifice to save her sister, friends, and the world, Buffy’s mind snaps. When Buffy's friends give up hope of her ever recovering, and become afraid that she’ll turn violent and uncontrollable, they call in the Council to help. Fearing what the Council will do, Spike, forgotten and ignored by her friends, steps in. Will he be able to reach the Slayer when no one else could? Will he be able to keep her out of the hands of the Council and away from her ‘helpful’ friends? How much heartbreak, guilt, and failure can one girl stand before her indestructible spirit finally resigns the fight and gives up hope?




3. Eclipse


Music Referenced:

Pink Floyd - Brain Damage/Eclipse

Nelly Furtado - Spirit Indestructible


ScreenCaps courtesy of ScreenCap Paradise:



Thanks to Paganbaby for taking time out of her hectic life to beta this for me! Her suggestions and commentary that always makes me smile!

Rating / Warnings:

NC17. Spike/Other. Threesome B/G/G action involving Spike, Buffy, and BuffyBot. Main Character Death. Plenty of angst.

Content is only suitable for mature adults. Contains explicit language, sex, adult themes, and other adult situations that some people may find objectionable. If you are under the age of 17 or find any of these themes objectionable – GO AWAY.


Buffy’s head swam. She felt like she was spinning on a demonic Tilt-a Whirl and she had to take deep breaths in through her mouth to simply keep from retching. When the feeling had subsided enough to be tolerable, she blinked her eyes open.


“Mom?” she whispered, barely audible.


When her eyes finally focused, she was met with bottomless pools of concern shadowed in the azure depths of Spike’s eyes.


“Spike,” she rasped.


“Oh, Buffy…” he breathed with relief, lifting the hand he’d been holding up to his lips and pressing a soft kiss on her knuckles.


Buffy’s eyes fluttered closed again as she tried to figure out where she was. It was only a moment later when the distinct aroma of her surroundings hit her nostrils and registered in her muddled brain.




The stench of death, illness, and despair was barely veiled by antiseptics and the ubiquitous cherry Jell-O. It seemed that all hospitals smelled just the same, and she hated the memories and feelings her olfactory senses stirred in her.


Cousin Celia.

Der Kindestod.



“Go,” she ground out through dry, chapped lips and tight vocal cords. She swallowed and gripped Spike’s hand as hard as she could, she hoped he would understand this was a demand, not a question. “Home.”


“Not yet, luv … gotta stay ‘ere a just a bit longer,” Spike answered, trying to sound assuring.



Fix Dawn.

No die.


Buffy blinked her eyes open again and looked around, trying to find an escape. To Spike’s back was one of those flimsy cloth ‘privacy’ curtains in puke-yellow. Presumably there was another bed, or several, beyond it. On the other side of her bed was a solid-looking wall with a small window. The window, she noted, was very narrow and up near the ceiling, high above head height, and there were steel bars over it.


Not hospital.

Loony bin.


More disquieting memories flooded through her from the time she’d spent in such a place when she had first been called, back in L.A. She pushed them back – she couldn’t deal with that now, didn’t want to remember the pain of her parents not believing her. She took a few more deep breaths to calm down, still gripping Spike’s hand to make sure he didn’t leave her here, and continued her perusal of the room.


BuffyBot stood leaning against the wall, her eyes open, but unblinking, unseeing. Her clothes were covered in blood.


Buffy looked back at Spike. “Bot?” Buffy asked, her voice still husky from disuse.


Spike looked up at the Bot. “Just in power conserve mode, luv. If ya touch her, she comes right out of it.”


“Sleep,” Buffy summarized.


Spike shrugged. “Reckon so.”


“Blood,” Buffy commented.


“Yours,” Spike replied simply.


A lock of hair fell into Buffy’s face and she reached up to tuck it back behind her ear. Her arm only made it a short distance from the rails on the side of the bed before it was stopped short. She looked down – her arms were held to the rails with wide canvas straps. Then she realized Spike hadn’t actually lifted her hand to his lips to kiss her so much as dropped his lips to her hand.


He reached up and gently slid his fingertips across her forehead, pressing the hair back out of her eyes and hooking it behind her ear.


“Arrested?” Buffy wondered.


Spike shook his head. “Just under … observation,” he allowed.


Buffy snorted. “Same.”


Spike shrugged. “Not quite. Ya got better drugs and fewer birds shagging in the shower, if the movies are t’ be believed.”


Buffy closed her eyes.




She tried to laugh. Couldn’t remember how.


“Go,” she repeated.


Spike lowered his voice. “We can get ya out whenever you’re strong enough t’ leave,” he replied. “But I think we need t’ wait a bit, luv. You lost a lotta blood … need t’ get your strength back good and proper.”


Buffy nodded her understanding, never opening her eyes.


Break out.


“Telling ya now, though, won’t do it unless you promise t’ not try somethin’ as daft as that again, Slayer,” Spike warned, his voice a mix of fear, pain, and anger.


Buffy flinched from the rebuke, but nodded. She felt tears leak from her eyes and run into her ears. She couldn’t even lift her hands to wipe them away.


“No die,” she assured him. “Sorry,” she croaked out, her voice shaking.



Hands bloody.


Buffy opened her eyes and blinked to get them to focus as she looked down at her hands. She released her hold on Spike, flexed her fingers, and then curled them into fists over and over again as the blood dripped from them in an unending torrent.


“Blood,” she whispered to Spike.


Spike took her left hand into both of his and held it, stopping her fist from opening and closing. “There’s no blood on your hands, luv. None of us saw it comin’ … me included. Dawn wouldn’t want this. She loved you. Don’t let ‘er sacrifice be in vain, luv. Please, Buffy – stay with me, let me help you.”


Buffy nodded as she clamped her eyes closed again. Her tears came harder, streaming down her cheeks and dampening the pillow beneath her head. A moment later they turned into keening sobs that wracked her entire body.


Spike tried to soothe her, murmuring words of comfort, smoothing her matted, blood-soaked hair. He held tightly to her hand, trying to keep her from slipping away and drowning beneath the waves of utter madness, afraid of losing her forever.




Two days later Spike and Buffy managed to convince the caseworker and psychiatrist that had been assigned to Buffy that she was stable and could be released into Spike’s care. Given the fact that she had no insurance or assets, it wasn't that hard a sell. This saved them the trouble of actually breaking her out of the psych ward. Spike was slightly disappointed; he’d spent a few hours scoping the place out and formulating a plan – a good plan, a solid plan – to break her out. It would’ve worked, he was sure.


So, with an appointment to return in ten days to get her stitches out, a prescription for an antidepressant, and a referral to a psychologist, Spike brought Buffy 'home' – back to Paradise Lost.


“How about I take you out to dinner t’ celebrate, luv?” Spike asked after they’d gotten back to their room. BuffyBot was ‘asleep’, lying on Spike’s bed charging.


Buffy shook her head and wrapped her arms around her torso in a protective gesture. “Safe here.”


Spike nodded. “No worries – we can order in, watch a movie. Got ten porn channels ‘ere. There’s a classic on t’night: ‘Deep Throat’,” Spike suggested, waggling his brows and running his tongue slowly over his teeth.


She turned away from him and began rummaging through her bag to find something clean and comfortable to change into. “Pig,” Buffy retorted after a few moments.


The timing of the come-back was late by about fifteen seconds, and her tone was flat, there was no inflection to her voice either of disdain or anger, but just saying the word was some improvement, in Spike’s estimation. At least she had the wherewithal to insult him. Not her best shot, by far – but a good first volley.


“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Spike replied, his tone teasing.


Fix Dawn.




Buffy rolled her eyes. Spike caught it in the mirror over the dresser.


An actual eye roll! Spike’s eyes went wide and his heart nearly flew out of his chest in exaltation.


Buffy gave up her search. Spike hadn’t packed any of her comfy, grungy clothes at all – and no PJs. She found the white t-shirt she’d slept in when they’d first gotten here laying on a chair and picked it up, considering it.


“Buffy, not that I don’t fancy that … outfit, luv. But … errr … if ya don’t want t’ go the porn route, maybe you’d be more comfy in one o’ my shirts,” Spike suggested, grabbing one of his black t-shirts and holding it out to her.


Buffy took it and held it up to her shoulders, sizing it up, then pulled it up to her nose, closed her eyes, and inhaled.






April-fresh Downy?


Spike smiled as he watched her breathe in his scent. So, he wasn’t the only one with an aroma fetish. He studied her face, trying to decide if she liked 'Eau de Spike', but her expression remained neutral – he couldn't tell.


She nodded.


Buffy lowered the shirt and opened her eyes. She looked down at her hands. There was still blood on them – standing out bright red against the black material. It didn’t drip from her fingers in rivers of crimson, but it was there.


Not your fault.

Not anyone’s.


“Mommy?” Buffy said aloud, looking around with wide, eager eyes. She was sure she'd heard Joyce's voice.


“No, luv,” Spike said softly, moving up to her. “It’s me, pet, Spike.”


“Spike,” Buffy repeated, scanning the room again, just to make sure.


No Mom.

Mom dead.

Dawn dead.


Buffy help Dawn.


Buffy finally looked at him. He thought the flashes of lucidity were more frequent – more … lucid. But right this minute she looked like a lost kitten, desperately searching for its mother.


Buffy closed her eyes and tried to get her jumbled thoughts to coalesce into something – anything – that made sense. Single words and short phrases were all that made it through that crimson shroud that covered everything – a shroud of guilt, of pain, of failure. She knew enough to know this wasn’t right, but couldn’t find a way to escape the river of blood that swept her thoughts away like fallen leaves in a mountain stream. She'd gotten it to ease before, she knew, but couldn't think how she'd done it – or had it been her doing at all? Everything was just too muddled and disjointed. Was she on some kind of drugs? Was that the problem? She didn't know, couldn't remember.


“Yer gonna need help with the shower, luv,” Spike said, pulling her from her futile efforts to make her brain function properly. “Can’t get your bandages wet,” he pointed out, laying a tender hand on her right forearm.


Buffy frowned, looking down at the bandages on her arms. Why were there bandages on her arms? She struggled to remember. Concentrated hard. Couldn’t. Gave up.


“I could … give ya hand,” Spike offered in earnest. When she didn’t dismiss that idea out of hand, his heart fluttered in his chest – or it felt like it did.


Buffy’s frown deepened.




Spike help Dawn.

Spike heart.

Spike loves.

Can't deny.



She closed her eyes again. There should be more. More thoughts, more … something, but she was unable to find what the ‘more’ was. She felt like there was a word – or perhaps a whole dictionary of words – right on the tip of her tongue, so close she could taste it, and yet utterly elusive. All she could see was blood. The blood kept the words and thoughts from forming properly, kept them obscured from her.





Don’t fail Dawn.

Dawn needs you.


Buffy’s hands began to tremble, still gripping Spike’s t-shirt. She opened her eyes and looked up at him, silently pleading with him to help her – help Dawn.


Too much blood.


“Help me,” she begged, leaning against him heavily as her knees wobbled beneath her.


Spike wrapped his arms around her and supported her weight easily. “I gotcha, Slayer. No worries now – Spike’s ‘ere. Won’t leave ya, luv. Never leave ya. Gonna get through this, we are.”




“Buffy … luv, ya can’t stand like that. The water’ll get on your bandages, pet,” Spike cajoled as Buffy stood in the shower stall, her back to him, her arms crossed over her bare breasts.


He’d wrapped her bandages in plastic bags, but that would only stop water that splattered on them, not a direct flow from the showerhead.


Buffy’s chest heaved, her heart raced, and fear made her adrenaline levels spike.






“Buffy, you’re still covered in dried blood. Nurse Ratched and her cronies couldn’t be bothered t’ clean anything but your arms. Gits.” Spike spat the last word before shifting back to a cajoling tone. “Need t’ get it off. You’ll feel better once you’re cleaned up. You’re gonna have to raise your arms up above your head, out of the flow of the shower so I can turn it on,” Spike told her, his exasperation growing. He just wanted this over with – and at the same time wished to stand here and look at her naked backside for all eternity.


He thought about booting the Bot up and having her take over this task, but he had reservations about just how much water the Bot's outer skin could repel.  In addition, he wasn't entirely sure the Bot had any idea how to do this. She might scrub Buffy's skin off, he reasoned as he let his eyes wander over Buffy's nude form. Definitely better if he do this, he concluded with little mental opposition to the idea, even if it kills him.


Spike fought to compose himself, to maintain a sense of aloof propriety – like having her standing there naked had no effect on him whatsoever. “Bloody hell, woman – you don’t ‘ave anything I haven’t seen before,” he practically growled at her when she didn’t raise her arms.


Buffy flinched at his hard tone and moved as far away from him as she could get in the shower stall.


Spike immediately felt a stab of regret and pain. “I’m sorry, pet,” he continued, running a hand through his already mussed hair. “Didn’t mean t’ frighten you. Not gonna hurt you, Buffy,” he assured her, keeping is voice low and melodious.


Buffy’s small voice echoed off the hard tile of the shower and came back to him. “One good day.”


Spike sighed and dropped his head back in frustration. He had to try and look at this from her point of view, he knew. He closed his eyes and tried to suss out what he could do to just get this over with. After a moment he turned and left the bathroom, only to return a moment later with a stake from his bag. He handed it to her, tapping the blunt end against her upper-arm to get her to take it.


Buffy grabbed it out of reflex, and clutched it to her like a child would clutch a security blanket.


“Right,” Spike began again. He laid his hands on her hips and gently guided her toward the back of the shower, away from the showerhead, keeping her turned away from him. His fingers rejoiced with the contact – her skin was soft and warm under his cool touch. It called out to him to touch, to explore every inch of her; with a Herculean effort, he pushed the thought away. Now was not the time for that. She needed his help, not his overactive libido. He positioned her so her body was sideways to the showerhead, facing the tiled back wall of the shower opposite the curtained side where he stood.


“Now, stand ‘ere and raise your arms up over your head. Can’t hurt you, can I? Slipped ya that lovely bit o’ hard wood, didn’t I?” Spike groaned at his double-entendre, but Buffy didn’t seem to even notice. “Safe as houses, you are.”


Buffy’s fear waned slightly as she held the familiar weapon in her hands. She looked down at her body and the dried blood that covered her skin.


Rinse away the blood.

Dawn’s blood.

Help Dawn.


Slowly she raised her arms, both hands wrapped around the stake tight enough that her knuckles turned white with the effort.


“There’s m’ girl…” Spike cajoled. He stood outside the narrow shower enclosure as he leaned in and turned the water on. He angled the showerhead away from her until the water got warm, then tilted it until it hit her around the shoulders.


Buffy let out an unconscious moan of pleasure when the warm water sluiced over her skin. At the sound Spike felt his cock jump in his jeans, which he’d purposely kept on. If he didn’t get this over with soon he’d either cream his jeans again or his balls would turn blue, possibly permanently.


Spike closed his eyes and took a deep breath meant to calm his libido down. It was only marginally successful.  Giving up on that, he grabbed the washcloth and the little bar of hotel soap – he’d have to remember to get Buffy some proper soap tomorrow – and began to rub the two together. His hands moved almost angrily as he took his frustrations out on the defenseless bar of generic soap, creating a bubbly lather on the washcloth.


Spike tried his best to think of her as the Bot, not Buffy, as he moved her long hair out of the way, flipping it forward over one shoulder, and began washing her back. He started at the back of her neck and scrubbed the grime and blood off her body, trailing small circles of bubbles over her soft skin.


Buffy moaned again, let her head fall forward, and leaned more heavily on the wall. She still held the stake in her hands above her head, out of the spray of the shower, but her grip had visibly loosened on it.


Spike swallowed hard and struggled to push back his desire to kiss her, to shimmy out of his now heavy, water-logged jeans and press his body to hers, to make love to her, to devour her.


Just take care of her, you tosser, Spike admonished himself. It’s not about you.


When Spike got her entire back soaped and scrubbed, he hung the washcloth on the towel rack at the back of the shower and began gently massaging Buffy’s tight trapezius muscles. Working from the base of her neck out to her shoulders and back again, he kneaded the stress away with strong, talented fingers.


Buffy’s moans of pleasure nearly drove him to the edge of madness as his hands skimmed over her slick, soapy skin. He could feel her relaxing beneath his touch, though, and that was worth every ounce of self-control he had to expend. He moved his hands lower, working the hard strap of muscle on either side of her spine into relaxed submission. Spike couldn’t take his eyes off the gentle hills and valleys of her back as he slid his hands over her, her body slowly submitting to his ministrations.


She was beautiful. More beautiful than the Bot by far – perhaps only because he knew that this was real. Her skin shimmered under the white foam of the soap, and her curves were luscious, tantalizing, as the spray of the shower rinsed the suds over them in snaking rivulets of rich lather.


Weeks of stress and tension had been trapped in her body, in her muscles, ever since that horrible night in the desert. Spike could feel it under his hands as he gently pressed fingertips and knuckles into her bowstring-tight body. And, as he worked, he could feel all that stress flowing out of her with each soft moan that fell from her lips. Each slow, deliberate pass of his strong hands over her back, across her shoulders, and up her arms released more of the toxic guilt and tension from her body.


It gave him something else to focus on, and he actually felt himself relax as he concentrated on taking Buffy’s pain away, or at least relieving it for a short while. His deep, undeniable desire for her hadn’t gone away, but it had morphed, at least momentarily, from something sexual to something even more basic: the simple desire to help another person in need, specifically to help the woman he loved.  She trusted him to help her – he would not betray that trust; not now, not ever. Everyone has a need to touch and be touched, and Buffy had had no one to soothe her in those weeks after Dawn's death. He'd tried in the cemetery as she sobbed, but he knew it hadn't been enough. Her friends, he guessed, might've tried – a hug, a short embrace, a moment of solace – but she needed more, anyone would. She needed to feel like she was connected to someone in this cold, hard world, someone she could count on, someone she could trust. He vowed to be that person if it killed him. It very well may.


Spike retrieved the washcloth and the soap again and knelt behind Buffy to work the same magic on her legs as he had her back. The water splashed down on his head and over his bare chest and back as he knelt on the shower floor, soaking him now from head to toe. The fact that Spike’s nose and mouth were so close to her sex in this position barely registered with him as his entire focus was on working every knot, every tinge of tightness and pain from her muscles. He wanted her hurt, her guilt, and pain to wash away with the water, to flow down the drain and allow her some peace. She deserved to feel at peace; she'd given so much to the world, his strong Slayer, it was about time the world started giving something back to her.


He began by scrubbing her legs and feet, hip to toe, top to bottom, front to back with the washcloth and soap, getting every hint of blood and grime off her skin. While he was down there, he did the same with the shapely globes of her ass, although he deliberately avoided venturing between them lest he undo all the good he’d done for her. He didn't want to freak her out. The fact that she still had that stake clutched in her small but deadly hands hadn't slipped his mind, either.


When he was satisfied with the cleaning part of his task, he laid the soap and cloth down on the floor of the shower and turned his attention to her tight muscles. His hands traveled first over her hamstrings, kneading and squeezing the hard cords as Buffy groaned her approval.  When he ghosted his fingers over the back of her knees, Buffy jerked and danced a small step to the side.


“Ticklish, are we?” Spike asked with a small glint of evil glee in his eyes.


When she didn’t answer, he leaned around the side of her body to see her face. Her eyes were closed, but he could see the smallest hint of a smile on her lips. His heart soared in joy. He would do anything if he could only get her to smile again … to laugh.


Spike bit his lip and filed that small bit of information away for future use as he returned to his mission. He reached around her body and massaged the strong quadriceps muscles on the front of her thighs, careful not to get too close to her naughty bits. He didn’t want to do anything to ruin this now. Directly, he slid his hands down to the tight muscle that ran the length of her shin and raked his fingertips up and down the length of it several times until it, too, relaxed. Finally, he came back to her shapely calves, which he worked by squeezing them like stress-balls between his strong fingers and thumbs.


When he’d finished, he picked up the soap and washcloth, and stood back up behind her.


“Gonna need ya to turn around, luv,” he coaxed, using his hands on her hips to turn her all the way around to face him.


Buffy kept her hands up above her head, the stake still held between them, as she turned around. She’d had her eyes closed, but when he stopped her spin, she blinked them open to look at him.


Spike was struck with how defenseless she looked standing here like this, stake notwithstanding, and how hard this must be for her to do. It made his heart ache to see his strong Slayer looking so very unsure and vulnerable.


He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile and cleared his throat somewhat uncomfortably. “Just gonna … get your neck here, luv … and your tummy. Let you get the … other bits in the sink, yeah?”


Buffy nodded slightly and shifted her gaze to look past him. “Thank you,” she murmured sheepishly.


“It’s all in it, yeah?” Spike replied, trying to sound nonchalant and business-like. “Said I’d help ya, and I will … whatever ya need, pet.”


He lathered up the washcloth again and began cleaning her neck and face, careful not to scrub as hard as he had on her back and legs. His eyes wandered over her face as he worked, taking in every line, every curve. The shape of her eyes, the contour of her nose, the sweetness of her lips, the strength of her jaw, and the smoothness of her skin all combined to reignite his desire for her.


He shifted uncomfortably in the warm spray and dropped his eyes away from her face – and that was the absolutely wrong thing to do. Suds ran over her bare breasts, which stood out even higher and tighter than normal with her arms held overhead. Spike nearly dropped the soap and washcloth as he tried to draw his eyes away from the perfection of her body. It was a lost cause. The soap bubbles slid over the curves of her breasts, across her dusty-pink nipples and down her flat stomach, mesmerizing him. His fingers twitched in longing, desperately wanting to reach up and swirl the foam around those lovely peaks, hardening them into pebbles under his touch. His lips and tongue tingled, yearning to suck them into his mouth, lavish them with the adoration and attention they deserved. Spike’s chest heaved with unneeded breaths and his cock came back to life in his jeans as image after image flashed through his mind.


“Arms tired,” Buffy said after a few moments of him not washing anything. “Done?”


Spike’s eyes shot up to her face and he swallowed guiltily. “Uhhh … yeah … No! … ummm … hair,” he stammered out. “Gotta wash your hair, luv,” he managed finally.


Buffy nodded but turned to face the back of the shower so she could rest her arms against the wall.


Spike turned away from her slightly as he tried to get his racing mind to race in some other direction. He retrieved the small bottle of shampoo and conditioner from the little shelf in the shower stall and stuck one into each of his front jeans pockets.


“Right – lean back a bit and let’s get your hair wet,” he instructed as he forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand. He put one hand on the small of her back and one hand on her shoulder and helped her lean back into the shower spray soaking her head completely while still keeping her arms well out of range of the shower.


Buffy sputtered some water from her nose and mouth when he stood her back up straight. “Sorry, luv… haven’t done this kinda thing in a good while,” he offered, grabbing a hand towel and wiping her face off with it.


“Dru,” Buffy said, it was more a statement than a question.


Spike shrugged. “Yeah,” he agreed, a touch of sadness in his voice. He’d taken care of Dru for a over a century – seen her through everything, stood by her, forgave her when she hurt him, when she strayed, when she dragged his heart through the mud, when she … chose Angelus over him – and what had it gotten him? Dumped. Abandoned. Left lonely and utterly alone.


He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly as he pushed Dru from his mind. Buffy was not Dru; she could never be as cold, cruel, uncaring, and hurtful as Dru had been.


Spike pulled the little bottle of shampoo out of his pocket and emptied easily half of it on top of Buffy’s head before he began massaging it into her long, golden hair. The blood and dirt from the alley that had matted in her tresses began to loosen and discolor the suds and water as it ran down her back.  Before long, Buffy had a giant foam halo atop her head and she had to keep her head tilted back to keep it from running down into her eyes.


“Too much,” she complained as some of it ran down into her face despite her efforts to stop it, and she was forced to close her eyes and try to wipe her face on her raised arms.


“Sorry, luv…” he said again as he ran his hands down her hair to sluice some of the shampoo away. He grabbed the towel and wiped her face again before returning to her hair.


He felt more than heard her contented sigh when he began massaging her scalp in earnest. Her body once again began to relax as he worked. He knew he had succeeded in working the fear and tension from her body when the stake fell from her hands and clattered down onto the tile floor of the shower.


Buffy didn’t react to the loss of her weapon, but kept her arms raised, out of the direct spray, and just let him wash everything down the drain. The blood, the fear, and the guilt flowed away with the steaming water. His hands felt so good on her skin, on her body, on her scalp – strong and steady and sure – everything she wasn’t at that moment. As Spike massaged her scalp, Buffy opened her eyes and looked up at her now-empty hands. She turned them over so she could see her palms – the blood was nearly gone. She rubbed them together and looked again … yes, even less now. She heard her mother's voice echo in her mind ...


Her blood is not on your hands, Buffy.

Not yours, not Spike’s … not anyone’s except Glory’s.

Not your fault.

Only one to blame is Glory.


She felt Spike’s hands gently urging her to lean back so he could rinse the shampoo from her hair and she let him guide her and support her as she did. The water felt like heaven as it rinsed all the oil, grime, and blood out of her golden tresses. She could feel her hair shimmy silkily over her shoulders and back as the water flowed through it and Spike urged the last of the shampoo out with his fingers. She closed her eyes and let herself get lost in the feel of it – the hot water pounding against her, the warm steam that rose all around them, Spike’s strong hands flowing gently against her skin, the way her spine tingled with his presence … and the way other parts of her tingled, which had nothing whatsoever to do with generic vampire tinglies, and everything to do with the specific vampire standing next to her.


Just as it had done the other night in the alley, the shroud that blocked her thoughts and emotions from reaching the surface of her conscious mind began to slowly lift. The river of blood that carried her words and thoughts away slowed to a trickle as Spike worked the crème rinse into her hair. Ideas, conversations, thoughts, fears, dreams all came flooding back to her with overwhelming clarity.


Dawn. Dawn was trapped. Make a baby … with Spike. Get her out of Limbo … a baby with Spike. Think about Dawn … the Monks will fix it. Have to help Dawn – get her soul out of Limbo – give her another chance.


“Think that’s got it, luv,” Spike said from behind her as he ran his fingers through her silky, tangle-free hair. After assuring himself that all the soap and crème rinse was gone from her hair and body, he mashed the water control knob and stopped the warm spray.


Buffy lowered her arms thankfully, rolling her shoulders a bit from the strain of holding them up, then turned around – facing him squarely. Spike had started reaching for the towel which hung just outside the shower stall – averting his eyes from Buffy’s wet, naked bits. Buffy watched him with clear eyes for the first time in … she didn’t know when – before Dawn died. How long had that been? Seemed like yesterday – or several millennia ago, she wasn’t sure.


He was taking care of her. She remembered that. Her friends were gonna put her in a loony ward – the Council’s loony ward, no less. She clearly remembered Spike telling her what he’d overheard at the Magic Box, but she also remembered hearing Giles, Willow, and Xander talking about it at the house. They were afraid she’d get dangerous – they wouldn’t be able to control her. Afraid she’d hurt someone or hurt herself. Giles had been the one to suggest that the Council would be Buffy's best option for recovery. The Council, who she hated with every fiber of her being. How could Giles suggest that? He knew how she felt about them. The memory was painful, and Buffy wished that had been one of those things that had simply stayed locked behind the wall of blood.


She also remembered that Spike had gotten her away from them – took her where the Council couldn’t find her. But even before that, on her nightly sojourns to the cemetery, he’d been there every time, watching her, holding her, protecting her. He’d stood with her even when she didn’t acknowledge him or even seem to know who he was. He stood with her when no one else did.


You love him, don’t you? I know he loves you, her mother's words rang in her head. What did it say about her to know that a soulless vampire was capable of love but she wasn't? It didn't matter ... Dawn needed her help. The mission came first – her duty, as always, was the important thing.


“Spike…” she murmured, standing facing him, one arm now crossed modestly over her breasts while the other covered parts lower.


His eyes shifted and met her gaze. So blue. Had his eyes always been that blue?


“Yeah, luv?” he asked, head tilted, waiting for her to continue.


His hair fell in wet ringlets around his face. So cute. Had he always been so cute? No, not cute. He’d hate that. Adorable? Definitely not. Devilishly handsome, in a Standard Poodle sort of way, with Shirley Temple hair, luscious lips, razor-sharp cheekbones, and cobalt blue eyes.


“Uhhh …” Buffy stammered a moment as she tried to sort through her myriad of thoughts, which had suddenly bombarded her when the blood-red barrier had lifted.  “I … uhhh … think you missed my tummy,” she said at last.


Spike’s brows lifted straight up and his eyes widened in surprise. Her eyes! He couldn’t pick out one thing to attribute it to, but her eyes looked alive, sparkling, they looked like, “Buffy? Are you … Is that you, pet?”


“Yeah, Spike … I’m here,” she replied, her voice gentle and even a little shy.


He bit his bottom lip and his head tilted again, regarding her with a look of school-boy wonder and awe. She was back! Buffy was back! His chest heaved with unneeded breaths as his heart rejoiced – shouting his gratitude to the Powers for bringing her back to him.


“Spike?” she asked sheepishly after a few moments of silence filled the space between them. "You ... missed some spots. Maybe you could ..." she shrugged uncomfortably, her eyes dropping to the floor. "... ummm ... get them for me?"


“Buffy …” he murmured, unable to stop himself from leaning forward and kissing her soft, wet lips.


Their mouths met tentatively – a first kiss – exploring, tasting, testing, teasing. Spike drew her bottom lip – that sweet, pouty lip – into his mouth and nibbled on it gently. Her tongue darted out and flicked against his teeth and Spike released her pouty lip to allow her entry. His tongue met hers and they twined together, each circling the other in a slow, sensuous discovery.


Buffy’s hands settled gently against Spike’s sides, just above the waistband of his jeans. Her fingers ghosted like feathers over his skin and he longed to feel her touch every inch of him.


"You sure, pet?" Spike murmured against her lips when Buffy pulled back to breathe. "Maybe we should ..."


"I'm sure," Buffy cut him off, ghosting a soft, reassuring kiss against his lips. She was so warm, her lips so soft, her voice so inviting that any argument to the contrary sputtered and died in Spike's mind before it could reach his lips.


Spike trailed his tongue down her wet skin. Over her jaw, down her neck, momentarily nuzzling and nibbling on the spot where her neck met her shoulder. Her blood thrummed beneath his lips, he could feel it pulsing a staccato beat just beneath her hot skin and he moaned against her, his desire growing by leaps and bounds. He waited there, suckling gently against her neck for a while – waiting for her to stop him, to push him away, to call him a 'pig', to change her mind; giving her every possible chance to say ‘no’. She didn’t.


His hands wandered down her flanks, this time allowing himself to savor the curve of her breasts before sliding down over the hourglass of her waist and hips. His mouth followed his hands down her body as Buffy’s fingers slid up and tangled in his wet curls. She moaned, low and throaty, when his lips encircled her right nipple and his tongue teased it to stiff attention.


“God, Spike…” she murmured as her whole body tingled and shivered in delightful anticipation. As missions went, she'd had worse.


Spike thought he’d never heard anything sweeter than his name rolling from Buffy’s lips, full of pleasure and desire. He slid over to give her other beautiful tit equal attention, nibbling the pebbled nub with his blunt teeth until she moaned and her back arched into him.


“So beautiful you are, Buffy,” he whispered to her as he went lower, covering her flat abdomen with lazy kisses and licks.


He dropped down to his knees in front of her, lifted one of her legs up, and draped it over his shoulder as he found the nirvana he’d dreamed of for months.


Buffy’s hands roamed up from his shoulders to his head and tangled in his curls, silently encouraging him to continue. The heavenly aroma that assailed him when he lifted her leg told him that he had found the Promised Land. The scent of her arousal sent waves of desire flooding through him, threatening to drown him. He wanted to be buried in that sweet quim, feel her surrounding him, holding his body as surely and strongly as she held his heart. But first he wanted a taste of her sweet nectar.


He spread her pussy lips with two fingers and buried his mouth in her dark, springy curls. Buffy’s hips bucked against him when his tongue touched down on her clit then circled the throbbing nub, teasing her body to the edge of oblivion.


“Spike … God … please … yes … Spike … so good,” she panted from above, her words flowing over him like warm honey as he worked his magic on her. No one had ever done that to her before. The feel of it surprised her – so different than the rough, inarticulate fingers that had bungled their way around down there in the past. His tongue was cool against her hot skin, strong but pliable, rough and soft at the same time, as it stroked her throbbing bundle of nerves. Buffy felt herself getting lost in the utter pleasure of it as her legs quivered uncontrollably with every touch of his lips, tongue, and teeth against her sex.


Her body sang with his every touch, every teasing flick of his tongue, every suck, every nibble. She was like a Stradivarius and he was Stradivari himself; every note flowing into angelic chords, chords forming a moving, flowing concerto, all building to an earth-shaking crescendo.


As Spike worshiped her clit with his lips and tongue, taking her right up to the edge of the harmonious climax, he slid one long finger into her slick, wet heat.


Buffy’s body jerked, pressing her mound harder against his mouth and hand, increasing the symphony’s tempo, racing for the finale. Even this was so much better than anything she'd had before. How did he know exactly where to touch her? How did he know just how and when to vary his strokes and nibbles to keep her hovering on the brink of heaven? He kept the waves of bliss washing over her, but never allowed them to break. It was at once the most incredible feeling she'd ever known and the most frustrating.


“Spike … more … more … so good … please … more,” Buffy gasped, her hands now painfully tangled in his hair as she pressed him to her with unbridled desire.


Spike moaned against her, indicating that he was more than happy to oblige. He slipped a second finger into her tight, wet hole and a third, stretching her opening to accommodate them. He began sliding in and out of her, matching the ever-increasing rhythm of her heartbeat, which rang like a clarion against his eardrums. Her hips matched him, slamming against him in perfect time, driving his fingers deeper into her. Bolts of pleasure shot out through her limbs every time her clit banged against his mouth and teeth, making Buffy’s legs twitch and weaken. Spike curled his fingers inside her just enough to rake hard over the sensitive g-spot with every thrust, and the walls of Buffy’s channel spasmed and shuddered around him in violent, blissful waves of pleasure.


Suddenly Buffy’s words, which had been flowing from her lips in an unconscious stream, were swallowed by a breathless gasp. After a moment, the brief silence was replaced with a wordless, primal exclamation of orgasmic ecstasy that undoubtedly woke every guest in the motel. Paradise Lost had just been found again.


Buffy’s body tensed, her sex seized around his fingers, and her cum flowed over him as she ground her clit against his luscious lips and inscrutable tongue. Her whole body shuddered in the throes of the orgasm, which broke over her in wave after wave of furious bliss the likes of which she’d never felt before.


Spike moaned his pleasure again as she came, her sweet nectar coating his fingers, and pooling in his palm and between her pink petals. He suckled her folds, lapping hungrily at the slick ambrosia she had bestowed upon him. He'd never tasted anything sweeter than his Slayer's bliss – it was everything he'd dreamed of and more. He could've seen to her sweet quim all night, never moving from this spot, if the leg Buffy was standing on hadn't buckled at that moment.


Unable to stop the inevitable, her body slid down the wall and slumped to the floor of the shower bonelessly. Spike felt her slipping and quickly extricated himself from her embrace and grabbed her hips. He helped lower her to the tile so she didn’t land awkwardly or do anything to tear her stitches out. Buffy’s breath came as rasping gasps, her chest heaving to replenish the oxygen that had been depleted so thoroughly by Spike’s touch. She looked up at him through heavily-lidded eyes, the green of her irises nearly completely engulfed by the black of her dilated pupils. Her beautiful eyes were a deeper green than he'd ever seen in them before, full of passion and ecstasy. He thought she'd never looked more beautiful than that moment.


He leaned in and began dropping gentle kisses over her face, pressing his lips to her eyelids, the tip of her nose, her bottom lip, cheeks, forehead …


“God, Buffy … so passionate you are. So bloody sexy, so beautiful … love you so much,” he murmured to her between each touch of his lips to her heated skin.


Buffy’s eyes flew open, wild with guilt and fear. Suddenly the crimson shroud began to fall down on her like a heavy metal gate slamming closed on a prison. What right did she have to feel pleasure when Dawn was dead? What right did she have to be loved when her hands were dripping with the blood of her sister? But she needed to … to do something. There was something she was supposed to do – a mission – for Dawn. Her thoughts were suddenly swept away in the river of blood, ripped from her grasp once again.


No love.

Don’t deserve.

Blood. Too much blood.


Buffy began scrambling away from Spike, pushing wildly against his bare chest, and kicking at him with her feet as she slithered along the wet floor trying to escape the confines of the shower.


“Buffy,” Spike began, confused, but his voice was cut-off when a foot caught him squarely in the chest and drove the air from his lungs with a grunt and a 'whoosh' of expelled breath.


Buffy’s hand found the stake she’d dropped earlier. She grabbed it as she stood up on the bathroom floor, facing him. She held the stake in front of her, the blunt end pressed against her chest. She clutched it with both hands as she tried to cover her nude form with her arms, looking like a terrified, cornered animal. She couldn’t actually strike him with it from that position, or at least not very accurately, but it would keep him from coming too near.


“Buffy … luv,” Spike finally managed as he struggled to his feet, holding his hands out in a conciliatory gesture. “What’s wrong, pet?” he asked, but he already knew. He could see it in her wild eyes, frightened, guilty eyes.


“Back,” she ordered, her eyes scanning the bathroom with quick, jerking motions of her eyes and head. She found the towel and pulled it from the rack with one hand. “Stay,” she commanded as she backed up to the door, opened it with one hand, and stepped out into the motel room.


Spike sighed as the door slammed shut and he heard her drag something – the dresser perhaps? – across the floor and put against it.


His head dropped back and he roared in frustration. He’d just gotten her back, she’d just allowed him to touch her and now she was gone again. And if he didn’t get out of this bathroom, he might lose her forever. Suddenly fear outweighed the frustration as the image of her cutting her barely-closed wounds open again flashed across his mind. He shoved a shoulder against the door, but it didn’t budge.


“Buffy!” he called through the door, trying not to sound as angry, afraid, and frustrated as he actually was. “Buffy, luv … not gonna hurt you, pet. Just let me out and we’ll … get dinner, like we planned. Remember – you wanted t’ order in? Watch a movie?” he pled through the door as he leaned both hands on the frame on either side of it, his head slumping forward in defeat.


He could punch through the door – or the wall for that matter – but would that just serve to frighten her more? He stood still, abruptly stopped his frantic breathing, and listened. He could hear her moving around in the other room … perhaps getting dressed? He couldn’t tell for sure.


Then she began talking – or perhaps ranting would be a better term for it. He could tell she was pacing back and forth across the room by the sound of her voice as it came to his sensitive ears.


“No, no, no. Don’t have. Can’t give. Don’t take. Too much blood. Blood all over. Oh, God, Dawn! No! No! Not looking. Mom! Please! I … what is it? Can’t remember. What am I doing? No – not love. There's no love. Yes, I know! Heart! I get it! Ok. Try. Ok. The gerbil ran away. No, it died! I’m not five! Council wankers. Hide. Just … hide. In the blood. Hide in the blood. Won't look there. No finding. No looking. Ok. Stay. Hide. Safe. Ok.”


Spike heard more furniture being moved and shoved around the room for the next few minutes, then everything went silent. He strained to listen, to hear something. Finally, he moved to the wall and pressed his ear against it. He went all along the wall of the bathroom like that until he finally heard it: her heartbeat. It was muffled and racing with barely-contained fear, but it was there. She was still there.


He sighed with relief and rubbed tiredly at his eyes. He’d forgotten how exhausting it was to be around someone who was off their gourd. Not that anyone else better say that about Buffy – or Dru for that matter – but he loved them, so he had the right.


He berated himself for pushing her tonight. Shouldn’t have … taken advantage of her. But she was there with him – Buffy had been there, he was sure. She wanted it too – he was equally sure of that. But he'd known in the back of his mind that he should've waited, he shouldn't have listened to her. But nooo  ... couldn't just turn away from her, could ya? Bloody git! But she'd wanted it, there had been no doubt. Bloody fucking hell!


Maybe he’d made a mistake thinking he and the Bot could take care of her and protect her. But who else was there? Her friends? They were ready to turn her over to the Crazy-Slayer police.


Then she began talking again, pulling Spike from the silent argument he was having with himself. Quietly, whispering, barely audible through the wall and whatever she’d piled around her out there. “Shhhh. Quiet,” she began, then, in a sing-song voice she began murmuring, “Hush little baby, hush little baby, hush little baby…” over and over again.


Spike blew out a breath and settled down on the floor of the shower to wait. He leaned his back against the wall nearest Buffy where he would be sure to hear her if she moved. Maybe when she’d calmed down a bit, she’d let him out. Barring that, she’d have to pee sooner or later, he reasoned.


He sat there growing increasingly colder in his wet jeans and listened to her chant, “Hush little baby,” as he tried to suss out where her mind had gone. He’d gotten to be a fair hand at untangling Dru’s ramblings, but it had taken him years and years of trial and error. He didn’t even know where to start with Buffy’s.


“Love you, Buffy,” he said to the empty room, laying his palm against the wall that separated them. “Please come back t’ me.”





Despite his best efforts to stay awake, Spike had fallen asleep sometime during the night. He was awoken when he heard the dresser – or whatever it was Buffy had shoved against the bathroom door – move. He pushed himself stiffly to his feet, tilting his head from side to side and popping the kinks out of his neck, as he waited.


“Spike! Why have you barricaded yourself in the bathroom?” BuffyBot asked curiously when the door swung open. “Is this a new ritual?”


Spike rolled his eyes and pushed past her. “Can’t bloody barricade yourself in from the outside,” he pointed out as he stepped out and looked around for Buffy.


“I do not understand this behavior,” BuffyBot continued, following him. “The Other Slayer has covered herself with the bedding and will not come out, and you were hiding in the bathroom. Is this a new form of 'Hide and Seek' where everyone hides and no one seeks?”


Spike shook his head and waved a dismissive hand at the Bot. "No ... just ... it's a bit complicated, luv."


"My reasoning abilities are stellar, and I have an unlimited capacity to understand complicated equations," the Bot assured him.


"Later, pet," Spike put her off as he quickly located Buffy.


In one corner of the bedroom area of the motel room, Buffy had made a fort of sorts out of the mattress and box springs of one of the beds, leaning them against the walls at right-angles to each other. There was a small opening where the two met. Spike crouched down in front of it and looked in. Buffy was curled into a fetal position on the small floor space behind the fortress walls. She had her head covered with a pillow, so Spike couldn’t see her eyes, but her heartbeat told him she wasn’t asleep. In her hands she clutched the stake and one of her little-girl keepsakes that he'd packed: a stuffed pig that used to sit on her bed back in Sunnydale.


“Buffy? Why don’t ya come out, luv?” he asked gently. “Get some breakfast, we can. Spend the day watching some shows … then we’ll go out t’night if ya want. Come to the casino with me if ya like. Have a grand time, we will.”


Buffy neither moved nor responded.


Spike sighed and stood up.


“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” BuffyBot offered helpfully.


Spike began to berate her less-than-helpful ‘fun fact’, but he hesitated, thinking, then pulled the Bot forward and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Brilliant, you are,” he told the Bot as he reached for the phone.


“Of course I am. And pretty,” the Bot replied, smiling proudly.


Within the hour the smell of bacon, sausage, eggs, pancakes, fresh cinnamon buns, hash browns, and, perhaps most importantly, coffee, filled their motel room.


Spike could actually hear Buffy’s stomach growling in hunger as she stubbornly stayed within her mattress fort. Barmy and stubborn – perfect bloody combination that is.


He crouched back down in front of the small opening with a cup of coffee and held it out where she couldn’t help but see it if she looked. “Hot coffee, luv. Just how you like it: three sugars and two creamers. Got some o’ that fancy Bailey’s creamer here too. Too bad there’s no one ‘ere that can’t breathe without coffee in the morning,” he taunted, taking a slurping sip of the syrupy-brew.


When she slid the pillow off her head, Buffy’s glare could’ve melted the Terminator into a puddle of spare parts. Spike gave her his best smile through the small opening and took another overly-dramatic sip of the coffee, ‘mmmm’ing as he did so.


Buffy reached her hand out to try and snag it from him, but he was ready for that tactic and pulled it out of her reach. “Gotta come out t’ get it, luv,” he informed her, practically waving the cup in front of her like a red cape being waved in front of a bull.


“Gimme!” she demanded, her arm still reaching out for the cup.


“Come take it from me,” Spike challenged, as he stood up and stepped back.


“GIVE!” Buffy screamed at him, pressing out further against her make-shift fort.


“What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand, Slayer?” Spike retorted, moving back further. That fort was gonna come crashing down any moment and he didn’t want to be under the mattress when it fell.


Sure enough, not ten seconds later, both the mattress and the box springs tumbled to the floor away from the enraged – and deranged – Slayer.


Enraging a deranged, caffeine-deprived Slayer by teasing her with coffee is something akin to poking a bear with a stick: Neither ends well, unless you’re the bear … or the Slayer.


Before Spike could properly enjoy his victory or bask in a smug moment of superior intellect, he found himself flat on his back atop the other bed, the mug of coffee gone from his hand without a drop being spilled. He rubbed his jaw, which hurt despite him not actually seeing the punch Buffy must’ve thrown.


“Spike!” BuffyBot exclaimed, worry evident in her voice.


The Bot hurried over to his side, but he waved her off with a, “No worries.”


He pushed himself up to his elbows, his eyes locked on his Slayer. The self-satisfied smirk he’d been denied a moment ago curled his lips as he watched Buffy tuck into not only the coffee, but the tray of food, with wild abandon. His smile quirked into one of wonder when he realized that she had put on his t-shirt last night after she’d locked him in the bathroom. It hung down past the curve of her ass and he could just get a glimpse of pink knickers beneath when she moved. He thought his shirt never looked better as he mused over just what that meant.


He let out a breath and admonished himself to not over-think it. It was hard to not be pleased, and a little confused, however, given her mental relapse and angry, frightened reaction to him the previous night.


He shook his head, giving up trying to suss her out just then, and lay back on the mattress. One hurdle cleared: she was out of her hidey-hole and was eating. And, despite everything, including how the previous night had ended, hope bloomed in Spike’s chest: Buffy was still in there somewhere. He hadn’t imagined what had happened between them in the shower – she had been there with him, at least for a while. The sound of his name rolling blissfully off her lips was something he'd never, ever forget and he longed to hear again.


Just how many more buildings would he have to leap to get his Slayer back permanently? He hoped not too many; his tights and cape were at the cleaners.



Pink Floyd - Brain Damage/Eclipse



The lunatic is on the grass
The lunatic is on the grass
Remembering games and daisy chains and laughs
Got to keep the loonies on the path

The lunatic is in the hall
The lunatics are in my hall
The paper holds their folded faces to the floor
And everyday the paper boy brings more

And if the dam breaks open many years too soon
And if there is no room upon the hill
And if you're head explodes the dark forebodings too
I'll see you on the dark side of the moon

The lunatic is in my head
The lunatic is in my head
You raise the blade, you make the change
You re-arrange me 'till I'm sane

You lock the door
And throw away the key
There's someone in my head but it's not me

And if the cloud bursts, thunder in your ear
You shout and no one seems to hear
And if the band you're in starts playing different tunes
I'll see you on the dark side on the moon

All that you touch
And all that you see
All that you taste
All you feel
And all that you love
And all that you hate
All you distrust
All you save

And all that you give
And all that you deal
And all that you buy
Beg, borrow, or steal
And all you create
And all you destroy
And all that you do
And all that you say

And all that you eat
And everyone you meet
And all that you slight
And everyone you fight
And all that is now
And all that is gone
And all that's to come
And everything under the sun is in tune
But the sun is eclipsed by the moon



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