Dirty Back Road Sequel, Part 6
Nov. 11th, 2004 01:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thedeadlyhookOkay, I haven't even answered people yet who've commented on the last one, but I figured it would probably be preferred if I moved to resolve the cliffhanger as fast as possible. Buffy has found Spike. And now... Previous chapters here.
Chapter Six
Buffy let out a relieved sigh. Tension drained away from her body, leaving numb gratitude in its wake.
He was really there.
Spike lay on his side a few feet away from her. That same strange light that illuminated her outlined his form too, photo-flash bright. He was curled up on the inky-black floor, his suede coat pillowed under his head. Body turned mostly away from her so she could see little more than the curve of his back.
Asleep. He was asleep. Buffy laughed, the sound bubbling out of her in a irrepressible flood.
That was so like him.
She kept laughing. It sounded a little crazy, maybe, and the sound fell ominously flat in the still air, but Buffy didn't care. For all her screaming and hysteria and having to kick dogs unconscious and tearing up the skin of her hands with thorns, everything had worked out. Everything. It wasn't such a tragedy after all, not such a disaster. And for a moment there, she'd really been sure that it was--she'd felt it, that horrible sense of dread she got when it seemed like the whole world was crushing down on her like an immense and impossible weight, an onrushing freight train of bad. Nothing ever seemed to happen to her in small doses. When things started to go wrong, they went really wrong, and then hurried on to the next stop, which tended to be apocalyptic. Spike saying he was leaving her had felt like the opening overture in some opera of evil to come.
But she was wrong. She'd been wrong. They weren't center stage in some badly scripted melodrama and all this... this was just something they would have to get through, get past, get over. They'd talk, and they'd fight, and they'd do what they always did, but they'd get through this. She knew it.
Nothing was impossible. It was okay.
And this time, she even had proof. He was here. She'd conjured him back to being just by the power of her belief. Wishes really do come true.
Things like that couldn't happen if the universe was really conspiring against her. No way.
She got to her feet, still laughing, a half-chokey, almost hysterical sound caught in her throat. Funny. Tottered around his still body in an unsteady circle, around to where she could see his face. Dropped to her knees and leaned over him to shake his shoulder, wake him up. Honey, c'mon, open those eyes. It's time to go. He would love to hear that.
Then she really saw him, and gasped.
__________
Spike had been right about the time difference. Six minutes. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth.
His face was... not just thin. Thanksgiving, that first Thanksgiving when he'd come to her door for help after having been newly chipped--he'd looked thin then. Pale and sickly, eyes ringed in shadow, but not like this.
He looked... ancient. Like The Master had... maybe worse. Dessicated. White as parchment, his skin stretched tight over the bone, mouth a shriveled line. His cheeks were sunken, far more than was normal, even for him, and his eyes...
Spike had talked about it, she remembered--whined, really--complained in that really irritating voice he used when he felt like being annoying, about what would happen to vampires who went too long without blood--
Living skeletons, mate.
His hands, curled loosely near his face, were bony claws.
He looked like a mummy. She was afraid to even touch him.
How long had it been?
He'd been trapped here, all alone. Waiting for her. With nothing around him but darkness. Waiting for her.
Starving to death.
A whimper escaped her, an awful cry of grief muffled by the back of her hand, and tears spilled down her cheeks from too-wide eyes as she sat there, frozen, looking at him.
She sat there like that for a long time.
But eventually, the grief began to retreat. A sense of unreality crept in over it, slow and sure like the tide, flooding her agony, hiding it deep.
She couldn't think when she was so upset. She'd learned that a long time ago. The only way to get things done was to put her feelings aside.
She was calmer now. Rational.
It was easier to think if you didn't feel. Or rather... not think, maybe, but act. Much easier to do what had to be done.
Buffy stood. Wiped her nose with the back of her hand and skirted around Spike's body as if it were a coffee table. Something that was just there. She felt around on the ground then for the tarp, realized with dim surprise that she was damn lucky to find it. The fabric had faded into invisibility in the darkness. And hadn't she begun her little meditation trick because she'd realized that things probably weren't exactly anchored here in time or space? Stupid. She was lucky it was even still there. And if six minutes away had left Spike a dried up old corpse, what would a second trip to get a replacement have done? Hah. Right. She couldn't afford a mistake like that again.
Living skeletons, he'd said living skeletons, she reminded herself distantly. Living. That meant she could still save him, because he wasn't dead yet, he wasn't dust.
She could try, anyway.
Recrossing the floor to where Spike was laying, Buffy gently wrapped his body in the canvas tarp, with with the suede coat around him too for good measure. His limbs were stiff and brittle--she held her breath as she tucked the fabric around him, half-convinced that he would disintegrate under the pressure of her fingers.
For the first time she noticed that he'd grown back a full head of hair.
Sandy brown. Surprisingly curly. Nearly chin-length--well, at least that gave her one clue at how long the relative time had been. Although she didn't have much of an idea how fast vampire hair grew, come to think of it--that summer he'd been away he'd let his hair grow out, it had been shaggy and bleach-tipped, but that had been starting from--
Not now. She combed her fingers through the thick locks before for a moment before draping the canvas over his face.
Lifting him was easy. He felt hollow and light, even shrouded in heavy canvas. She cradled his head against her shoulder, held out the device, and pushed the button down for what she hoped would be the last time.
__________
They rematerialized back in the garden, back in the thorns. Lights still flaring in the house, voices audible now in the distance. The dog lay unconscious at her feet. Buffy hugged the wrapped bundle close to her chest, stood stock-still, assessed.
No smoke rising, so the canvas was proof against the light at least. Good. A cautious look in the direction of the house. Not so good. Movement there, hazy through the back windows. People would be out here soon, maybe even police, other dogs.
She considered. She could jump the wall, take off at a run, find safe shelter. Get him some blood, keep feeding him until he was strong enough to move. A garage somewhere, or an abandoned building, or...
That might take awhile. In this part of the city, there weren't a lot of unoccupied places. And taking him down the sewers, tending to him there... that was only a last resort. He was so... fragile right now. She didn't relish the idea of leaping and running too far while carrying him, never mind dodging questions from possible bystanders or leaving him alone somewhere while she found blood. She was horribly afraid that jostling him too much might start things breaking off.
The tool shed was at least temporary shelter. And he needed blood right now. Buffy took off at a run, and was back inside the dark space almost before she could register having moved.
Laying Spike down, she unwrapped the canvas. Winced again and how bad he looked, put it out of her mind. Not now. Moved stealthily to the door, peeked out, then slid to the ground and crept outside, through the grasping thorns until she found the unconscious dog. Wrapped a hand around its collar and dragged it back with her to the shed.
The dog was a doberman. Those are dangerous dogs, she reminded herself, trying to think of some news article she might have read. They attack people all the time, right? That's why they're used for guards. They're nasty and violent, a-and... it attacked me, anyway. If I hadn't been the Slayer, it probably would have torn my throat out. So hey, one less vicious attack dog in the world? No big loss.
It wasn't much of a trade, really, the life of some Italian family's probably unloved and badly treated miserable guard dog to save Spike. Really, it was a no-brainer. Seriously, she'd been willing to stick a knife in Faith's gut to save Angel. Be pretty silly of her to quibble over something like this.
She shoved the furry body at him, made sure the pulsing vein in the throat was under his nose.
Feed, Spike, she pleaded inside her mind. Feed. Take it. You need it.
He didn't react. He just lay there, like an inanimate object. Shriveled and dead.
She shoved the dog closer. She could feel the tears inside her now, welling up and surging, backing up in her throat. Not now. She dug her fingers hard into the dog's neck, drew blood, ignored the animal's sharp whimper. Clamped down hard on a feeling of nausea as she lifted her bloody fingers to Spike's mouth, painted lines across the still lips. She kept the other hand firmly twisted in the dog's leather collar as the doberman began to muzzily wake, to kick and thrash.
Spike's eyes slowly opened. Her heart gave an answering leap, and she breathed his name. Spike. Not dead. His gaze shifted toward her at the sound, eyes dusty-white and blind, filmy, unfocused. Bright red blood painted on his lips, vivid against the pale skin, he looked like a leathery geisha.
Not dead.
Then he moved, whiplash fast, and Buffy nearly cried out in surprise as the dog was jerked out of her grasp. Clawlike hands wrapped around the dog's body, fangs out and buried in the dog's neck with the speed of a striking snake. Buffy hadn't even seen his face shift.
The dog shrieked and howled, scrabbled with its own claws. Spike's bony hands moved again in a single, impatient twist, broke the dog's neck. She had a quick glimpse of Spike's face, alien and terrifying in its withered state, mouth slathered with blood, before he dipped his head again and began to feed, shaking his head a little as if trying to get good purchase, worrying at a tough piece of meat.
Empty hands trembling, Buffy scooted herself backwards on her butt. Her back came up against a pile of hoses and garden rakes and she settled there, drew up her knees. Sat there and watched him, listened.
She'd never really seen him like this.
Well... she sort of had. She'd seen the vampire side of him enough times. Enough to never forget that about him, no matter how many years he'd had to drink his blood out of a glass. A mug and a straw. Kiss the Librarian. She'd seen him attack people right in front of her in the bad old days, when he was still Spike the happy vampire, throat-ripping machine. He'd attacked her too, with game face on, plenty of times--that was certainly not an unfamiliar sight. And... okay, getting into topics her mind was alll too happy to shudder away from, she'd certainly seen him drink blood before, seen him feed--
Face bumpy and ridged and wolfen and he's eating out of her hand, drinking from a plastic bag she's holding over his face...
Coming at her, that same ridged face, all perverse sneer and it doesn't look like him, it isn't him, ready to drink the blood from her throat while the vampire children he made are right there, holding her...
Do you have the slightest idea what I'm capable of?
The dog was certainly dead now. Legs sticking out stiff and rigid, it looked like a husk, a stuffed dog. Spike was still working at the corpse, sucking at it hard like he was trying to slurp up the last dregs of a furry milkshake.
The sounds he was making were uncomfortably close to the sounds of sex.
Liquid slurpings, suckings, and the movement of his head... She closed her eyes. What was it he had said once about blood? Makes you warm, makes you hard...
Makes you something other than dead.
She made a joke once, about how vampires got it all confused, sex and death. Only for them, death--blood--was... life.
Blood is life.
She'd done this for Angel.
Fed herself to him, let him penetrate her throat with his fangs, drink her blood just like Spike was doing right now with the dog.
It had been... one of the most intense experiences of her life. Terrifying. Angel had nearly killed her. Poisoned and delirious, he'd still refused to drink her until she'd forced it on him, punched him in the face until he'd reacted like an animal, grabbed her and latched on, sucked on her throat till she was almost dry. And she'd... part of her had... enjoyed that.
The giving herself to him. The pain. The utter surrender.
She'd saved his life. Her body had been ecstatic with that, shivering. Even if he'd killed her, she'd at least have given him something. Given him everything.
She couldn't do that for Spike. Not now. Starved as he was, he'd drain her without being able to stop, just like the dog. That was a vampire's nature.
She hugged her legs tighter. It wasn't that she was playing favorites. No, that wasn't it. She couldn't afford to be helpless. Not now. She needed to be strong, needed to be able to face down angry homeowners and police and guard dogs, to carry him out of here, keep him safe.
Spike had never bitten her. Never. She'd begged him to do it once, to have that feeling again, that surrender, although she couldn't say for sure what it was she'd wanted then. Pain, or the release of death, or something else... either way, he hadn't taken her up on it.
She'd bitten him instead. Made him gasp and cry out and...
She found herself wondering if that's what he had felt then. Like he'd given all of himself to her.
Buffy curled her hands around her knees, watched him until he was done, her eyes drinking in the way the lines smoothed out in his face, skin plumping, bony lines disappearing. Not normal, no, not nearly, but... better. Healing. Better.
Better.
She slid forward on her knees, reached out to him past the hollowed-out corpse of the dog.
"Spike?" she said, voice quavering. "Can you hear me? Can you... understand? We have to... leave here now." She extended a hand.
He growled at her.
She halted. Left her hand hanging there in space, just above his head.
His face was still bestial, ridged and fierce. Bloody lips drawn back from red fangs. He scented the air, wobbled his head blindly toward her hand. Snapped at it.
She yanked her hand back, heart beating fast.
That had definitely never happened before. Her mind stumbled over the possibilities--he wasn't thinking straight, he was still hungry, there was some aftereffect of the dog's blood... whatever. It surely couldn't be what it looked like, that he was reacting like that to her...
No. That couldn't be it.
She steeled herself, reached out again. Placed her hand right on top of his curly head, ignoring his loud growls. "Quiet!" she told him through closed teeth. Tried not to let herself notice that the command sounded more than a little like something you'd say to a dog, and oh, she was so not going there...
"You have to be quiet," she said again. "We have to leave here, Spike, can you hear me? We. Have. To. Leave." She pressed down with her hand, on the top of his head, a plea in her mind for him to understand. To submit.
God, she so couldn't stand thinking about this.
She moved fast then, without waiting for a reaction. One hand kept pressed to the top of his head, she tugged the canvas back around him with the other. Wrapped him up again like a mummy, removed her hand just long enough to pull the cloth over his face.
The moment the fabric was between them, he began to thrash and struggle.
"Don't, Spike, stop it," she begged him through the canvas, positioning his head on her shoulder again, pulled him close. Both arms around the bundle, she lifted it. Oof. Heavier.
"I'm going to have to run, okay? You understand? Don't fight me. Spike, listen. Don't fight me."
There was another growl, and then the sounds from the bundle grew quieter. His frantic movements slowed and then ceased. She passed a soothing hand over where she hoped his temple was. There, there. It's okay.
"Just hold on," she said then, and kicked open the garden shed door to the suprise of a couple of sleepy Italians dressed in their bathrobes. A woman, hair still up in curlers, let out a blood-curdling shriek.
Buffy ignored them. Without sparing the couple a second look, she bolted past them and took herself and Spike back over the garden wall in one running leap, landing catlike on the other side and setting off down the street at a run.
Free.
Chapter Six
Buffy let out a relieved sigh. Tension drained away from her body, leaving numb gratitude in its wake.
He was really there.
Spike lay on his side a few feet away from her. That same strange light that illuminated her outlined his form too, photo-flash bright. He was curled up on the inky-black floor, his suede coat pillowed under his head. Body turned mostly away from her so she could see little more than the curve of his back.
Asleep. He was asleep. Buffy laughed, the sound bubbling out of her in a irrepressible flood.
That was so like him.
She kept laughing. It sounded a little crazy, maybe, and the sound fell ominously flat in the still air, but Buffy didn't care. For all her screaming and hysteria and having to kick dogs unconscious and tearing up the skin of her hands with thorns, everything had worked out. Everything. It wasn't such a tragedy after all, not such a disaster. And for a moment there, she'd really been sure that it was--she'd felt it, that horrible sense of dread she got when it seemed like the whole world was crushing down on her like an immense and impossible weight, an onrushing freight train of bad. Nothing ever seemed to happen to her in small doses. When things started to go wrong, they went really wrong, and then hurried on to the next stop, which tended to be apocalyptic. Spike saying he was leaving her had felt like the opening overture in some opera of evil to come.
But she was wrong. She'd been wrong. They weren't center stage in some badly scripted melodrama and all this... this was just something they would have to get through, get past, get over. They'd talk, and they'd fight, and they'd do what they always did, but they'd get through this. She knew it.
Nothing was impossible. It was okay.
And this time, she even had proof. He was here. She'd conjured him back to being just by the power of her belief. Wishes really do come true.
Things like that couldn't happen if the universe was really conspiring against her. No way.
She got to her feet, still laughing, a half-chokey, almost hysterical sound caught in her throat. Funny. Tottered around his still body in an unsteady circle, around to where she could see his face. Dropped to her knees and leaned over him to shake his shoulder, wake him up. Honey, c'mon, open those eyes. It's time to go. He would love to hear that.
Then she really saw him, and gasped.
__________
Spike had been right about the time difference. Six minutes. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth.
His face was... not just thin. Thanksgiving, that first Thanksgiving when he'd come to her door for help after having been newly chipped--he'd looked thin then. Pale and sickly, eyes ringed in shadow, but not like this.
He looked... ancient. Like The Master had... maybe worse. Dessicated. White as parchment, his skin stretched tight over the bone, mouth a shriveled line. His cheeks were sunken, far more than was normal, even for him, and his eyes...
Spike had talked about it, she remembered--whined, really--complained in that really irritating voice he used when he felt like being annoying, about what would happen to vampires who went too long without blood--
Living skeletons, mate.
His hands, curled loosely near his face, were bony claws.
He looked like a mummy. She was afraid to even touch him.
How long had it been?
He'd been trapped here, all alone. Waiting for her. With nothing around him but darkness. Waiting for her.
Starving to death.
A whimper escaped her, an awful cry of grief muffled by the back of her hand, and tears spilled down her cheeks from too-wide eyes as she sat there, frozen, looking at him.
She sat there like that for a long time.
But eventually, the grief began to retreat. A sense of unreality crept in over it, slow and sure like the tide, flooding her agony, hiding it deep.
She couldn't think when she was so upset. She'd learned that a long time ago. The only way to get things done was to put her feelings aside.
She was calmer now. Rational.
It was easier to think if you didn't feel. Or rather... not think, maybe, but act. Much easier to do what had to be done.
Buffy stood. Wiped her nose with the back of her hand and skirted around Spike's body as if it were a coffee table. Something that was just there. She felt around on the ground then for the tarp, realized with dim surprise that she was damn lucky to find it. The fabric had faded into invisibility in the darkness. And hadn't she begun her little meditation trick because she'd realized that things probably weren't exactly anchored here in time or space? Stupid. She was lucky it was even still there. And if six minutes away had left Spike a dried up old corpse, what would a second trip to get a replacement have done? Hah. Right. She couldn't afford a mistake like that again.
Living skeletons, he'd said living skeletons, she reminded herself distantly. Living. That meant she could still save him, because he wasn't dead yet, he wasn't dust.
She could try, anyway.
Recrossing the floor to where Spike was laying, Buffy gently wrapped his body in the canvas tarp, with with the suede coat around him too for good measure. His limbs were stiff and brittle--she held her breath as she tucked the fabric around him, half-convinced that he would disintegrate under the pressure of her fingers.
For the first time she noticed that he'd grown back a full head of hair.
Sandy brown. Surprisingly curly. Nearly chin-length--well, at least that gave her one clue at how long the relative time had been. Although she didn't have much of an idea how fast vampire hair grew, come to think of it--that summer he'd been away he'd let his hair grow out, it had been shaggy and bleach-tipped, but that had been starting from--
Not now. She combed her fingers through the thick locks before for a moment before draping the canvas over his face.
Lifting him was easy. He felt hollow and light, even shrouded in heavy canvas. She cradled his head against her shoulder, held out the device, and pushed the button down for what she hoped would be the last time.
__________
They rematerialized back in the garden, back in the thorns. Lights still flaring in the house, voices audible now in the distance. The dog lay unconscious at her feet. Buffy hugged the wrapped bundle close to her chest, stood stock-still, assessed.
No smoke rising, so the canvas was proof against the light at least. Good. A cautious look in the direction of the house. Not so good. Movement there, hazy through the back windows. People would be out here soon, maybe even police, other dogs.
She considered. She could jump the wall, take off at a run, find safe shelter. Get him some blood, keep feeding him until he was strong enough to move. A garage somewhere, or an abandoned building, or...
That might take awhile. In this part of the city, there weren't a lot of unoccupied places. And taking him down the sewers, tending to him there... that was only a last resort. He was so... fragile right now. She didn't relish the idea of leaping and running too far while carrying him, never mind dodging questions from possible bystanders or leaving him alone somewhere while she found blood. She was horribly afraid that jostling him too much might start things breaking off.
The tool shed was at least temporary shelter. And he needed blood right now. Buffy took off at a run, and was back inside the dark space almost before she could register having moved.
Laying Spike down, she unwrapped the canvas. Winced again and how bad he looked, put it out of her mind. Not now. Moved stealthily to the door, peeked out, then slid to the ground and crept outside, through the grasping thorns until she found the unconscious dog. Wrapped a hand around its collar and dragged it back with her to the shed.
The dog was a doberman. Those are dangerous dogs, she reminded herself, trying to think of some news article she might have read. They attack people all the time, right? That's why they're used for guards. They're nasty and violent, a-and... it attacked me, anyway. If I hadn't been the Slayer, it probably would have torn my throat out. So hey, one less vicious attack dog in the world? No big loss.
It wasn't much of a trade, really, the life of some Italian family's probably unloved and badly treated miserable guard dog to save Spike. Really, it was a no-brainer. Seriously, she'd been willing to stick a knife in Faith's gut to save Angel. Be pretty silly of her to quibble over something like this.
She shoved the furry body at him, made sure the pulsing vein in the throat was under his nose.
Feed, Spike, she pleaded inside her mind. Feed. Take it. You need it.
He didn't react. He just lay there, like an inanimate object. Shriveled and dead.
She shoved the dog closer. She could feel the tears inside her now, welling up and surging, backing up in her throat. Not now. She dug her fingers hard into the dog's neck, drew blood, ignored the animal's sharp whimper. Clamped down hard on a feeling of nausea as she lifted her bloody fingers to Spike's mouth, painted lines across the still lips. She kept the other hand firmly twisted in the dog's leather collar as the doberman began to muzzily wake, to kick and thrash.
Spike's eyes slowly opened. Her heart gave an answering leap, and she breathed his name. Spike. Not dead. His gaze shifted toward her at the sound, eyes dusty-white and blind, filmy, unfocused. Bright red blood painted on his lips, vivid against the pale skin, he looked like a leathery geisha.
Not dead.
Then he moved, whiplash fast, and Buffy nearly cried out in surprise as the dog was jerked out of her grasp. Clawlike hands wrapped around the dog's body, fangs out and buried in the dog's neck with the speed of a striking snake. Buffy hadn't even seen his face shift.
The dog shrieked and howled, scrabbled with its own claws. Spike's bony hands moved again in a single, impatient twist, broke the dog's neck. She had a quick glimpse of Spike's face, alien and terrifying in its withered state, mouth slathered with blood, before he dipped his head again and began to feed, shaking his head a little as if trying to get good purchase, worrying at a tough piece of meat.
Empty hands trembling, Buffy scooted herself backwards on her butt. Her back came up against a pile of hoses and garden rakes and she settled there, drew up her knees. Sat there and watched him, listened.
She'd never really seen him like this.
Well... she sort of had. She'd seen the vampire side of him enough times. Enough to never forget that about him, no matter how many years he'd had to drink his blood out of a glass. A mug and a straw. Kiss the Librarian. She'd seen him attack people right in front of her in the bad old days, when he was still Spike the happy vampire, throat-ripping machine. He'd attacked her too, with game face on, plenty of times--that was certainly not an unfamiliar sight. And... okay, getting into topics her mind was alll too happy to shudder away from, she'd certainly seen him drink blood before, seen him feed--
Face bumpy and ridged and wolfen and he's eating out of her hand, drinking from a plastic bag she's holding over his face...
Coming at her, that same ridged face, all perverse sneer and it doesn't look like him, it isn't him, ready to drink the blood from her throat while the vampire children he made are right there, holding her...
Do you have the slightest idea what I'm capable of?
The dog was certainly dead now. Legs sticking out stiff and rigid, it looked like a husk, a stuffed dog. Spike was still working at the corpse, sucking at it hard like he was trying to slurp up the last dregs of a furry milkshake.
The sounds he was making were uncomfortably close to the sounds of sex.
Liquid slurpings, suckings, and the movement of his head... She closed her eyes. What was it he had said once about blood? Makes you warm, makes you hard...
Makes you something other than dead.
She made a joke once, about how vampires got it all confused, sex and death. Only for them, death--blood--was... life.
Blood is life.
She'd done this for Angel.
Fed herself to him, let him penetrate her throat with his fangs, drink her blood just like Spike was doing right now with the dog.
It had been... one of the most intense experiences of her life. Terrifying. Angel had nearly killed her. Poisoned and delirious, he'd still refused to drink her until she'd forced it on him, punched him in the face until he'd reacted like an animal, grabbed her and latched on, sucked on her throat till she was almost dry. And she'd... part of her had... enjoyed that.
The giving herself to him. The pain. The utter surrender.
She'd saved his life. Her body had been ecstatic with that, shivering. Even if he'd killed her, she'd at least have given him something. Given him everything.
She couldn't do that for Spike. Not now. Starved as he was, he'd drain her without being able to stop, just like the dog. That was a vampire's nature.
She hugged her legs tighter. It wasn't that she was playing favorites. No, that wasn't it. She couldn't afford to be helpless. Not now. She needed to be strong, needed to be able to face down angry homeowners and police and guard dogs, to carry him out of here, keep him safe.
Spike had never bitten her. Never. She'd begged him to do it once, to have that feeling again, that surrender, although she couldn't say for sure what it was she'd wanted then. Pain, or the release of death, or something else... either way, he hadn't taken her up on it.
She'd bitten him instead. Made him gasp and cry out and...
She found herself wondering if that's what he had felt then. Like he'd given all of himself to her.
Buffy curled her hands around her knees, watched him until he was done, her eyes drinking in the way the lines smoothed out in his face, skin plumping, bony lines disappearing. Not normal, no, not nearly, but... better. Healing. Better.
Better.
She slid forward on her knees, reached out to him past the hollowed-out corpse of the dog.
"Spike?" she said, voice quavering. "Can you hear me? Can you... understand? We have to... leave here now." She extended a hand.
He growled at her.
She halted. Left her hand hanging there in space, just above his head.
His face was still bestial, ridged and fierce. Bloody lips drawn back from red fangs. He scented the air, wobbled his head blindly toward her hand. Snapped at it.
She yanked her hand back, heart beating fast.
That had definitely never happened before. Her mind stumbled over the possibilities--he wasn't thinking straight, he was still hungry, there was some aftereffect of the dog's blood... whatever. It surely couldn't be what it looked like, that he was reacting like that to her...
No. That couldn't be it.
She steeled herself, reached out again. Placed her hand right on top of his curly head, ignoring his loud growls. "Quiet!" she told him through closed teeth. Tried not to let herself notice that the command sounded more than a little like something you'd say to a dog, and oh, she was so not going there...
"You have to be quiet," she said again. "We have to leave here, Spike, can you hear me? We. Have. To. Leave." She pressed down with her hand, on the top of his head, a plea in her mind for him to understand. To submit.
God, she so couldn't stand thinking about this.
She moved fast then, without waiting for a reaction. One hand kept pressed to the top of his head, she tugged the canvas back around him with the other. Wrapped him up again like a mummy, removed her hand just long enough to pull the cloth over his face.
The moment the fabric was between them, he began to thrash and struggle.
"Don't, Spike, stop it," she begged him through the canvas, positioning his head on her shoulder again, pulled him close. Both arms around the bundle, she lifted it. Oof. Heavier.
"I'm going to have to run, okay? You understand? Don't fight me. Spike, listen. Don't fight me."
There was another growl, and then the sounds from the bundle grew quieter. His frantic movements slowed and then ceased. She passed a soothing hand over where she hoped his temple was. There, there. It's okay.
"Just hold on," she said then, and kicked open the garden shed door to the suprise of a couple of sleepy Italians dressed in their bathrobes. A woman, hair still up in curlers, let out a blood-curdling shriek.
Buffy ignored them. Without sparing the couple a second look, she bolted past them and took herself and Spike back over the garden wall in one running leap, landing catlike on the other side and setting off down the street at a run.
Free.