Betas: DawnofMe and Tanit


The mix of emotions Spike was feeling as he hung up the phone made him crave either blood or violence, or preferably both. He rushed to the kitchen, grabbed a pack of blood from the refrigerator and morphed into his vampire visage. Taking out his anger on the packet, he immediately sank his teeth into it and ravenously guzzled every last drop of blood. With blood in the corners of his mouth and on his hands, he somberly walked over to the sink to wash up and compose himself.

He walked to the kitchen island and took a seat on one of the stools, resting his elbows on the island and burying his face in his palms. He had not the slightest clue what to do about Buffy. A bit calm again, he suddenly noticed that he wasn't able to hear Buffy's heartbeat or breathing any more. He jerked his head up, alarmed.

He quickly headed upstairs, straight to Buffy's room, the one Red had occupied when Buffy was... He stopped himself from even thinking about what had happened to her. He feared that if he did, he would wake up and find himself only dreaming, only having a nightmare. And what a nightmare the night has been so far. But the fact still remained that he wouldn't trade Buffy's life for anything.

Spike slowly and carefully turned the knob and pushed the door open. When he saw that no one was on the bed, he flicked the light on and walked in. She wasn't there.

He looked around the room and saw that the window was open. He was fairly sure it had been closed before. “Damn it!” he said with a grunt when he realized Buffy must have slipped out the window. He ran a hand through his hair, blaming himself for not hearing her sneak out. He was a vampire, enhanced hearing and all, for Christ's sake. He never should have let his anger at Willow cloud his thinking.

He walked further into the room and remembered the night the Scoobies decided to leave. Willow had been packing when he passed by the open door. Had he not seen her, he knew they wouldn’t even have told him they were leaving. Maybe the little bit would have, but not the others. Not even after everything they'd been through.

The witch promised him they were coming back and to prove it, she'd taken out a few pieces of clothing from her bag and tossed them on the bed. “See?” she'd said with that adorably awkward smile. And he’d believed her; if he hadn't, he would have been long gone from Sunnyhell.

He would have been long gone from Sunnydale and wouldn't have seen Buffy again. Wouldn't have known that she’d come back. And for that alone, he was glad that he stayed.

Willow had also left a few candles, some of her books, and other odds and ends, all of which he'd dumped on the floor.

An old, large text lying in the center of the empty bed caught his attention. He sat on the edge of the bed and when he lifted the book into his lap, some pages fell out. The text on the loose pages were written in a language he'd never seen. The crease between his eyebrows deepened and he wondered what Buffy could want with the cryptic-looking text.

He hurriedly stormed out of the room, torn pages in hand, and descended the stairs. He went back into the living room to grab his coat from the sofa where he had left it, and started towards the front door. A flicker of light shone through the curtain; the sun was rising. He slumped his shoulders and muttered, “Great. Perfect timing.”

He paced across the living room, wondering what he could do. If it was back in the old days when demons and other vampires didn't want to kill him, he could have been in the sewers already, asking around, finding out what the pages meant. But he had no allies left, except for the Scoobies, and they’d decided to leave the minute things went from bad to worse.

He sat down, exhaled sharply, and concentrated on the text, concentrated on the text, hoping something would spark a memory to help him puzzle out what the pages said. After a few moments of staring cluelessly at the pages, he stood up with a frustrated roar and began to pace once again. He walked to the house's threshold, wanting to go out and do something. Find Buffy or someone to help him translate the mystery text. He put his hand on the doorknob, but held back. He wasn’t going to do anyone any good if he were a pile of dust.

The doorknob turned under his hand, and he hastily stepped back, preparing to fight. The door swung open and he was surprised to see Buffy standing in the doorway. She glanced at the pages in his hand with a look of surprise and anger.

Caught off guard, Spike wasn’t prepared when a fist came flying at his face. He stumbled back, his hand reaching up to cover his nose. “What the... What was that for?” His mouth gaped while Buffy walked past him into the house. She'd found her clothes – the slutty looking ones which reminded him of the body switch Buffy had told him about – and had put them on. She had also brushed her hair back into the bouncy shampoo commercial hair it was once.

“For snooping around my stuff.” Buffy spun around to face him, eyes still narrowed at the papers in his hand possessively.

Spike tightened his grip on the bunch, which crumpled its edges. He held them up, waving them before her, and argued, “Well, technically, these aren't yours, are they?” She didn't answer. He sighed and put his hand down, not breaking their gaze. “Something's wrong with you, Slayer. The magics Willow used to bring you back --”

Buffy's face lit up, like something clicked in her mind. “Willow. You talked to her?”

“Yeah, and by the sound of her voice when I told her that you're alive, I reckon she'll be here in a few hours.”

“She's a witch,” she suddenly stated, as if she'd only realized it. “And she's smart.”

Spike cocked his head to the side. Buffy sounded almost like the BuffyBot, minus the funny smile and enthusiastic tone. “Yes,” he said slowly. “Where have you been?”

Buffy looked at him squarely. “Heaven.”

Spike eyes widened and his jaw dropped. His hand loosened on the pages as complete realization hit him.

Buffy saw the opportunity, snatched the pages from Spike’s hand, and started to head out. “Find me when Willow has come back.”

Spike tried to catch his breath from what he'd just learned. That little bit of information explained so much. Maybe Buffy had been so angry that she was pulled out of heaven that she'd turned into a monster. Maybe it didn't have to do with magic after all. Getting over the shock, he stopped Buffy by the wrist. “Slayer, we have to talk about this.”

“We have nothing to talk about, Spike,” she said while she tried to free herself from Spike's grip.

“I know what you're up to.”

One eyebrow was raised as she smirked. “Do you?” She knew he hadn't the faintest idea.

“I know it's nothing good. You've gotten yourself a bleeding cohort of demons!”

“What I do is none of your business.”

Spike put up a shaky hand and cupped her cheek, stroking it with his thumb. “It is. I'm here for you, love, and if you'll just let me help --”

She slapped his arm away. “I was told that you'd be a major pain in the ass.”

Spike tilted his head and let go of her wrist. “What?”

Buffy's gaze shifted, and instead of answering, she punched him square in the jaw. Spike fell back onto the first steps of the stairs and groaned when his body hit its edges. As he slumped to his knees on the floor, he looked up at Buffy and saw pure anger in her glassy eyes.

A knee flew to the side of his head and he fell to the side. He panted when Buffy hauled him up by the shirt. “That's right, just let it out. Let it all out,” he said.

“You'd like that, wouldn't you?” she whispered, throwing him across the living room and he landed on the coffee table – one of the few things which was still whole in the entire house.

She was stronger, he noticed. He could barely stand on his wobbly legs when he managed to get up. “Did some training in heaven, did you?”

Buffy placed the papers on the stairs near Spike's coat, walked toward him and said, “Something like that.” She did a roundhouse kick, and Spike landed on his back again. She straddled him and began punching him with abandon, her body trembling with rage.

When Spike’s body lay limp, only moving with each successive blow, and once she'd gotten over her rage, Buffy stood up. “Nosy little son of a bitch!” She flipped her hair, grabbed the papers she came back for and left without looking back.