Seeing her lying there, unconscious and bleeding, a desperate instinct took over. Spike placed a firm hand on Buffy’s chest in case she came to, positioned her injured leg and sank his fangs into the torn flesh. Carefully sucking where the serpent’s teeth had done the most damage, he spat each mouthful of blood away from them both. Thankfully, she didn’t wake up.

He repeated the process on her damaged hands, only more gently. The markings on the back of them were still intact and almost glowing a fiery red; his were the same. Rather than impelling him to join with Buffy sexually, the tingles on his skin simply signalled that his mate was deeply hurt and needed to be touched and soothed.

Spike didn’t know how he managed to reach their home. After binding Buffy’s still bleeding injuries with strips torn from his sodden shirt he’d stumbled back through the woods with her clutched to his chest, ribs burning from the strain of carrying even such a small weight. Most likely the serpent had broken something. Now, looking down at the little girl lying so still on their bed, he wondered how long she had left and why he’d bothered trying to save her.

After stripping off her wet clothes he removed the makeshift bandages, cleaned and stitched the worst of the wounds from supplies in his army field pack and applied fresh dressings. All business, he barely saw her soft curves and firm muscles or the way her blonde hair spilled down to the tips of her breasts. She was a wounded soldier in need. Bruises painted her skin with livid colour and her hands, lacerated from pulling at the creature’s jaws, were completely bound in white now. And just how had she managed to do that?

A faint blueness about the mouth betrayed the hidden battle continuing inside her body; the lacuna bite contained deadly poison and there was no cure. With growing dread Spike sensed something else. The strange weakness stealing through his limbs was more than could be blamed on exhaustion and a few cracked ribs. Far more. He’d been an avid reader of epic tales in his youth, immersed in poems and histories describing battles from ‘before’ when cunning and carnage went claw in claw. But it was the passionate union of warrior lovers that really appealed, especially when the heroic couple formed a ‘life-blood-bond’, a mystical joining of spirits that even death couldn’t break. These stories rarely ended well but had always appealed to his romantic and wistful heart.

Ancient myths. Not real. And yet, with a cold certainty Spike could feel his strength ebbing as the girl before him grew sicker. It wasn’t fair. They hadn’t even mated properly and this was his reward? Hell, he didn’t even like her! ‘In sickness and in health.’ Bloody humans were right about that.

Funny really, he’d imagined his wife conveniently dropping into the jaws of a ravening beastie and now he had his wish she was drawing him with her into death and the Beyond. He ruefully hoped their relationship would improve once they got there.

Drawing the soft blankets up to her chin for warmth, he found a towel and carefully dried her long hair as best he could before stripping off his own wet clothes and lying down too.

Stroking her pale cheek, he leaned over and gave her a barely there kiss on her lips.

“It’s okay, love, you’re not alone. I’m here.”

Moving cautiously until he was nestled against her, Spike watched as her breathing grew shallow. Waiting patiently for the end as his own body began to fail.

His last thoughts were all sad ones.

***

The Beyond wasn’t what he expected. In fact, it felt a lot like being slapped across the face. Blinking slowly he woke and focussed on his tormentor.

“Niblet?”

“Don’t you dare die!”

Wide eyes stared back into his, full of fear and tears. A curtain of brown hair fell over him. She buried her face in his neck and wept.

“He won’t if I can help it. Dornie, please help me here.”

He knew that endlessly patient voice. Released for the moment, Spike turned his head to see the motherly form of Tarah. The healer was applying poultices to his wife while being hampered by the girl’s violently shaking form.

Buffy wasn’t dead. And neither was he.

Not yet anyway.

He felt as weak as a day old tribble but somehow managed to raise himself on one elbow. Leaning over, he rested his other arm over his mate to hold her as Tarah deftly attended to the wound. Dorn had recovered enough to move to Buffy’s side of the bed, placing a wet cloth on her forehead. Cold spring water blended with beading sweat.

Completely unaware of what was happening, Buffy was burning up with fever.

Spike marvelled at his bride’s strength as she fought the venom in her veins. Ever calm and practical, Tarah instructed her helper to take one of the sheets and soak it in the stream outside. She returned scant minutes later with a dripping wet bundle in her arms and between them they swaddled the girl from neck to toes. Tarah was crooning softly to her patient, weaving her healing spells, pausing now and again to chant over him too, stroking his head, over his heart, his hands. Too tired to keep his eyes open, Spike welcomed the dark.

***

This time, when he came to, it was to discover his fangs embedded in Dorn’s wrist. She looked exhausted but happy and he could feel her energy bonding with his, giving much needed strength. Family blood was always best and she was the only family he had left. He withdrew with care and smiled up at his precious girl. Taking in his surroundings he could see Tarah curled up on the floor, asleep on a bed of cushions. Her own wrist bore puncture marks and Spike knew that she’d been feeding him too. Beside him was Buffy, sleeping and flushed but her breathing was even and heartbeat stronger.

“H... how did you know we were in trouble?”

“Droo, stupid, who else? She might be a crazy person but she does have useful visions and we got the message loud and clear. Every Seer on Aurelia must have a headache from it. I could hear you as well... you were hardly there, but I heard you. Tarah came running and told me to help her gather her things and I brought us straight here... we were almost too late,” she whispered. Dorn looked stricken for a moment then, mercurial as always, her expression changed and she slapped his arm. “And what were you doing getting married to a human! That’s just eww! And, more to the point, why wasn’t I invited?”

Spike laughed weakly, grabbing her arm. “Stop hitting me, Bit, wasn’t my doing. It’s you bloody women that are to blame, so don’t take it out on me!”

“Hey, dominant female here!”

“You’re also my baby sister and that won’t ever change.”

***

When Buffy finally woke up she saw the golden gaze of her husband regarding her. He looked almost beautiful in the soft light. The ridges along his brow, the thickening at the bridge of his nose and the planes of his face reminded her of pictures of lions she’d seen. Hair a white riot, spiking in all directions, mouth curled into a little sharp-toothed grin. Forgetting that she was supposed to hate him, she smiled back.

Strangers were present too. Dressed in the familiar Aurelian style, the youngest girl was all in green, the flowing fabric decorated with tiny red flowers at the wrists and hem of her dress. She was hovering at Spike’s side looking at her with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. The older of the two, a woman with voluptuous curves, barely restrained in a dress of muted browns and yellows, gave her a kind smile and came forward to place a palm on her brow.

“Greetings bride of Spike, you’re going to live.”


***

They made terrible patients. Buffy insisted that she could feed herself, but with her hands so thoroughly wrapped there was more soup on the sheets than in her mouth so she finally gave in to Tarah’s raised eyebrow. Spike hid a smirk until Dorn insisted on spoon-feeding him as well. He scowled and wriggled his fingers to prove his hands were perfectly fine, but all he got was a mischievous smile and a rap on the nose with the spoon. It was another day of blood, broth and bedpans before Buffy was allowed to get up, Spike going outside whenever Tarah discreetly assisted her. He always made his shaky and very grumpy way back to bed afterwards. Between feedings the pair slept. There were no dreams but at each waking they were holding hands.

***

It was glorious daylight again when Buffy was finally allowed up. With Tarah’s support they made their way outside to a shady tree, a small mountain of cushions piled up against the bark for her to sink into gingerly. Satisfied that she was comfortable, Tarah went off to do whatever healers did when they weren’t fussing over invalids.

Spike and Dorn were laughing, exchanging insults as they prepared food by the fire; in human guise they looked like any loving brother and sister, and the clear affection they shared made her jealous. Life had been tough on Buffy, after her mother’s death she’d withdrawn inside herself for a long time, no longer a perky, popular girl with lots of equally shallow friends. Her super strength, when it arrived, had only set her further apart. Nobody had excluded her, and she’d joined in all the usual activities of people her age with a proper degree of enthusiasm, but the sidelong glances, quickly changed conversations and nervous laughter remained at the edges of her awareness.

At night she’d sometimes lain awake imagining what it would be to have someone to share her hopes and fears with, someone to care for. In her head she’d created a little sister; annoying, challenging, endlessly seeking attention. Someone who loved her unconditionally, who she would love back, protect with her life if necessary.

Her mother’s death was just another reason to hate the creatures sharing a domestic scene in front of her. No, don’t think about that. Not now. Lowering her head she pressed her bandaged hands against her eyelids. Blocking out the view.

Becoming aware of a muttered argument going on between Dorn and Spike, Buffy pulled herself together and sat straight. Spike was striding towards her carrying a plate of food. Sinking fluidly next to her, legs crossed, he stabbed the thick stew with a spoon and raised it full of meat and vegetables, his expression clearly daring her to object. She clamped her lips into a thin line, but he merely kept his hand still and waited. When her belly gave a traitorous gurgle, she reluctantly gave in. Spike smothered a smile and posted food into the open mouth of the sulky baby bird before him.

The stew was wonderful and eventually Spike’s expression grew more playful, it was getting harder to stay indifferent to his presence and pretty soon he was only inches away, dabbing a bit of cloth to her lips and chin, catching up imaginary gravy with mock seriousness, a new teasing light in his eyes.

When she could eat no more Buffy raised a hand in protest and without a word he laid down the remains. When he began to rise she quickly placed a hand on his knee to keep him there and looked up intently.

“Thank you, Spike, for saving me. I don’t know why you did but thanks.”

“You’re my wife, Buffy… till death do us part.”

She thought she caught a flicker of something else in that response but couldn’t work out what, so she let it go.

Now it was his turn to say something.

“What are you, Buffy? You can’t be human, so what are you?”

***