A/N: Thank you to Legen for helping with the medical bits!

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Chapter 86 - Wounds

The tires skidded as Xander recklessly pulled up at the front of the mansion. A cloud of dust drifted in the air behind the car.

Giles hurried to open the back door, and Spike slipped in with Buffy. Xander slid over into the passenger seat, and Giles had barely slammed the driver’s door before the car was in motion.

Xander wondered if he should have gotten out and walked back with Willow and Oz. He caught a glimpse of Willow’s stricken face as Giles pulled out on to the darkened streets.

He suddenly wished he had, despite being worried about Buffy. The atmosphere inside the car seemed horribly uncomfortable. Not tense, but uncomfortable. Or maybe it was just him.

The vampire in the backseat seemed oblivious to both him and Giles, and was murmuring a constant stream of nearly incomprehensible words. Like he really cared about her.

“…don’t die, Buffy, God, please don’t die, don’t die…”

Xander glanced to the back of the car.

Spike was holding her, one hand still pressed to her middle as he rocked her. “…can’t leave yet, just hold on…” He ran his hand over her face and then wiped at his own.

Was he crying?

He might have brushed away any tears, but he left a wide streak of blood on his cheek.

Xander turned back around.

“Maybe we should have called an ambulance,” he said aloud.

“We’ll be there in under a minute,” Giles said. He ran another stop sign, swerving into the other lane as he skidded around the corner.

Xander glanced at the speedometer. He didn’t know Giles could drive this fast. He didn’t know this car could go this fast.

True to Giles’s word, they were at the emergency room in less than a minute. A benefit of Sunnydale needing a centrally located hospital, he supposed. Xander was the one out of the car before it stopped moving this time, opening his door and then the door to the backseat.

Spike was out the door with Buffy in an instant, Giles close behind them. Xander was left standing on the sidewalk. He felt like he should go with them. But he supposed that he should at least move the car away from the doors. Then he sighed.

“I guess I’ll go get Willow and Oz,” he said to himself.

-----

Giles followed Spike through the sliding glass doors. Immediately, Spike turned to the left, going down a short hallway that came out in the ER. The attendant at the reception station stood up straight away when she saw Buffy’s condition.

She moved across the floor, gesturing to them and calling for urgent assistance.

“She’s been stabbed,” Giles rambled, as Spike was laying her down where directed. “She lost a lot of blood, she needs a transfusion and…”

The attendant nodded at him, even as two others took the cart and wheeled Buffy to a station near the wall.

“Do you know her blood type?”

Giles opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Why couldn’t he remember that? It was in her medical history, was something a Watcher should know about his Slayer—

“O positive.”

Giles turned. The vampire had answered.

“Any known allergies?” she asked, addressing her questions to Spike.

“No.”

“Is she on any medication?”

“No.”

Giles began speaking to her again, repeating things he’d said before. She gave him forms, asked about Buffy’s family.

Spike watched as Buffy was surrounded. Hooked up to an IV and blood. Vital signs monitored. Shirt cut off to examine the wound. Stabilize her and stop the bleeding. Stop the bleeding.

It took everything he had not to get closer. Twenty feet, yet she was farther away from him than she’d ever been. But he knew there was nothing he could do, knew he wouldn’t be helping her. So he stood.

It was easy to block out every other sound in the room but her heartbeat. He could hear the beeping of the monitor, but even that was pushed into the background when he focused on her. She was still losing blood, but there was more going into her now.

Her heart was slow but steady. Slow but steady.

“Sir? Sir?”

Spike realized the attendant was talking to him. He tore his eyes away from Buffy, concentrating on the woman in front of him.

“Sir, you need to be examined.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You’re covered in blood.”

“It’s hers.”

She glanced down, looking at his ripped jeans and bloody leg.

“It closed up,” Spike said flatly.

“I really must insist—”

“Nothin’ to see. Just like everything in this town.”

Without another word, he turned and walked away. He stopped when the room separated them, though stood in a place where he could still see Buffy. He could hear the staff talking as they dashed around her.

Ten minutes later, she was gone from the room, whisked to the OR. Disappeared down a hallway, double doors closing behind her.

The Watcher approached him. “I’ve called her mother.”

“Yeah.” Spike nodded. “Good.”

Spike knew he wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the OR, nor would his trying to get there be conducive to saving her life. There was nothing to do but wait. But he wanted to do something. Anything. He needed to do something besides just sit there.

He needed to get out of these clothes.

He was drenched in Buffy’s blood, and it was starting to make him feel sick.

Just then, the rest of the group arrived, all asking questions at once.

“Where’s Buffy?” “How’s Buffy?” “What did they say?” “Is she okay?” “How long?”

Giles started talking, relating what they knew, which was nothing except that she had been stabilized and taken to surgery.

Spike saw the car keys dangling from Xander’s hand. He plucked them away. “Need to borrow these.”

“Hey!”

“Now, see here—” the Watcher started.

“Need to change clothes,” Spike said.

“I’m certainly not giving you my car.”

“I’ll go with him,” Willow spoke up. She started down the hallway before anyone could protest, pulling Spike behind her. “He’s hardly heading for the border. We’ll be right back.”

“You’re all right, Red.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I think.” They walked outside. “Though, really, I wouldn’t have figured you’d actually want to leave the hospital. Y’know?”

“Can’t do anything. Can’t help her. Can’t even be with her.” He paused. “Her blood’s on me. Have to get it off.”

Willow nodded. Spike had blood on his hands, blood on his face, even blood in his hair. Doubtless there was blood soaking his black clothing. He looked like he’d just murdered someone and not done a very good job of it.

But she could see where having so much of Buffy’s blood on him would be something he couldn’t stand. He’d looked disturbed when he said that. Her blood’s on me.

Actually, he looked disturbed and jittery in general right now.

“Uh, maybe I should drive,” she said.

Spike paused in the parking lot. “Yeah, whatever.” He tossed her the keys.

She was getting good at ordering vampires around. Well, this vampire. And only when Buffy was injured. Go wash your hands… Give me your keys…

She led him to where Xander had parked the car, and a moment later they were on the road. Spike was silent except for instructions on where to turn. It was only a few minutes later that they pulled into an apartment building’s parking lot.

He looked surprised when she got out after him and started to follow him up.

Spike paused on the metal stairs, glancing down at her in question. He really looked very vampire-y at the moment—looming above her, skin splattered with blood, coat blowing ominously.

“She’s, uh, gonna need stuff,” Willow said. “When she wakes up. She said she had stuff here since she was staying over?”

“Right.”

He turned around and kept going. Willow went after him.

Spike unlocked the door and went in. He disappeared into the bedroom, quickly coming back out with a change of clothes. He gestured toward the room. “Make it quick.”

Then he shut the bathroom door, and she heard the shower come on.

Willow found a bag in the closet. She hastily tossed in under things and some loose, comfortable clothing. Minutes later, when Spike came out of the bathroom fully dressed, she darted in and threw anything that looked like Buffy’s into the bag.

Then they were gone.

-----

Spike had thrown away the clothes he was wearing. He’d draped the duster over the bathroom counter; it would have to be cleaned. He’d showered as fast as possible, even using Buffy’s fruity bath gel and loofa sponge because it had seemed like the speediest way to scrub his body.

Despite knowing there was absolutely nothing he could do at the hospital, he was beginning to wish he hadn’t left. But he’d had to get her blood off. He couldn’t sit for hours with the scent of her on him like that. Couldn’t stand her blood on his hands.

He put fresh clothes on still damp, hair still dripping. They were back at the hospital in seventeen minutes.

They needn’t have hurried. Buffy was in surgery for three and a half hours.

The whole group was set up in a waiting area when he and the witch returned. The Watcher still smelled like her blood, though he had obviously tried to clean himself up. But there was a streak on his shirt. The car had smelled like blood as well.

Spike sat a small distance away from them for the most part. Once, Joyce came over and sat next to him. She didn’t say anything; she just sat. The others filled her in about what had happened. They had all talked at the beginning, but now it was mostly silent.

Everyone waited differently. Joyce would sit and then get up and pace. Willow made continual runs to get something to eat. Her boy was completely silent. The other two sat a couple chairs away, the demon girl chattering about anything but what was going on at the moment. Which, bizarrely enough, seemed to help. Giles was distant.

Spike had stopped feeling agitated once he was planted in a chair. He was doing what he should be doing, and was doing all that he could do, even if it was nothing. But after sitting for some time, he ceased to be on edge. He was still uneasy, but there was also an odd feeling of calm certainty. If she had made it this long, she was going to make it. It was only a matter of time until he could see her.

He didn’t move for over an hour. Only when he was watching the witch suck on a juice box did he realize how hungry he was, how much blood he must have lost. He stood up without a word. A detour to the blood bank suddenly seemed like an excellent and necessary distraction.

When he came back, the Watcher still looked deep in thought.

“She can’t die,” Giles suddenly announced. They all looked at him. “The prophecy. She’s to be the longest-lived Slayer.”

Spike gave a hollow laugh at the mention of the prophecy. “You work the rest of it out?”

“What?”

“You know, the other bit.” He looked lopsided at Giles and raised an eyebrow.

Moments later, comprehension dawned. “You.”

“Yeah.” He grinned. “Me.”

“You know, she could just stay in a coma or something,” Anya said.

Giles closed his eyes in exasperation. “Yes, thank you, Anya. That did occur to me, but I was endeavoring to be positive.”

“She’s gonna be fine,” Spike said, voicing what he’d been thinking. “She’s a Slayer. If she made it in there this long, she’ll make it out. Slayers don’t die in hospitals after the fact.”

“What do you mean?” Joyce asked.

“It means,” Giles said, “that in all likelihood, the greatest danger has already passed. Once she was stabilized, her body should have started mending itself. Slayers have accelerated healing.”

Spike didn’t think Joyce looked entirely convinced, but she looked slightly less worried, which was something, he supposed.

An hour later, a doctor approached them. “Mrs. Summers?”

Joyce stood, followed by Spike and Giles. “Yes?”

“Your daughter is out of the OR. She’s stable, but her condition is still serious. The wound bled excessively and was fairly deep. She’s lucky it missed her kidney. She was caught just under the ribs, and there is some internal organ damage, but nothing permanent. The next twenty-four hours are critical, but we’re expecting her to make a full recovery.”

“Thank goodness. Where is she?”

“In ICU.”

“Can we see her?” Spike asked.

The doctor turned to him. “Are you family?”

“Yes, she’s my wife.”

He said it without hesitation, without the pause that someone who wasn’t family would give. Buffy had complimented him once—he’d taken it as a compliment, at any rate—about his being good at casual lying.

“She most certainly is not,” Giles said.

Spike spun on him. “Were you there?” he barked.

The horror on the Watcher’s face would have been comical had the situation been different. He was obviously contemplating the possibility that they might actually be married.

Joyce, for her part, said nothing one way or the other. “I want to see Buffy.”

“Of course. If you’ll just come with me.”

No one said anything as Spike walked behind them.

-----

The room was silent except for the steady hum of the machines. Wires and tubes and bags all hooked up to her. She looked frail and pallid.

But she was alive.

And she was going to stay alive. She was patched up. She might be weaker and more fragile than she’d ever been, but Slayers didn’t die once they were fixed. They got better, bounced back. Spike had no doubt that she was already healing inside.

Though he couldn’t forget the way it had felt when he wasn’t sure they’d make it to the hospital in time, when he wasn’t sure the ER staff could stop what was so quickly going downhill. There had been no relief then, just a horrible existence of second to second anticipation and anxiety.

And even now, the knowledge that she would live did nothing to combat how much he hated seeing her like this.

“What happened?”

“What?”

“What happened?” Joyce repeated. They stood on opposite sides of Buffy’s bed. The doctor had left. “The others said things, but you never did.”

Spike shrugged, sighing. “Not much to tell. Everything happened fast. I went down, she turned around, and he cut her. She dragged herself up and drove a stake through his back. We won. It was over, but she was out. Then we got her here.”

“You were hurt?”

“I was.”

She frowned at his tone of voice. “But you’re not anymore.”

“No.”

“I see.” Joyce looked back down at Buffy, running a hand over her forehead. “I hate this. I hate it, and I hate that there’s nothing I can do about it. I hate that she has to fight.” She shook her head. “I knew it was dangerous, but I never thought—”

“Yeah, this is bad. But she’s gonna pull through.” Spike paused. “And she’ll never be fighting alone.”

“I’m glad that she has someone to rely on.” She glanced back up at him. “You saved her.”

Spike shook his head. “She saved me.”

-----

Buffy’s friends went home after midnight, after they’d spoken to Joyce and it was clear that she wasn’t going to wake up anytime soon. The Watcher might have left sometime after that. Spike wasn’t sure, as he’d never left her room.

He stayed the night, as did Joyce, though she had eventually gone just out of the room and into the hallway where there were several chairs to stretch out on. Spike sat on a chair in the room, awake. Not that he would have slept if he’d wanted to. He hadn’t said anything aloud, but there was a small but unlikely chance that some vamp would hear about the Slayer being in the hospital. It was a bit too soon for word to get around, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

So he sat in the near darkness, watching her all night. His eyes were automatically drawn to her again and again, only to sadden at how bad she looked. She didn’t have any injuries showing—no cuts, no bruises on her face—but she just looked so little and sick. He hadn’t even touched her besides one brief stroke of her hair, too afraid that he’d mess up something that was attached to her.

He talked to her some, in between the nurse’s rounds, his voice low as the words flowed. Sometimes they were mindless words; sometimes they were things he would have told no one but her. But they were nothing that he hadn’t said already when she was awake. She knew.

And she loved him.

Spike had known it was there, had sensed what she’d felt, but hearing it was different. So different. It was everything he’d wanted. When she’d first said it, it had been almost too much to bear that he might never hear those words again, that she might not make it.

But sitting her beside her bed now, he knew she wasn’t going to be snatched away before they had a life together. So he thought of the future, instead of replaying the past.

-----

The group was back throughout the next day, or so he heard. Joyce was in and out. She left several times, getting something to eat and talking to the others.

Buffy opened her eyes in the afternoon. He was alone with her.

Spike was at her side as she slowly looked around in a daze. Even when her gaze finally settled on him, he couldn’t tell if she was coherent or merely conscious but out of it from the morphine.

Her lips twitched, and the words that escaped were so soft that even he barely heard them. “Hold me,” she breathed.

Spike put a hand on her shoulder, as much contact as he was willing to risk without upsetting something. He leaned down and planted a kiss against her forehead, pausing before he pulled away.

“I’ve got you.”