Certainly, there are three names in his emotional past, and only one (or two, or three, if you count his way. I count one) in mine. (It must be said that the numbers are more even when you look at sexual experience—demon-possessed orgies have to count for something.) But now-- now I love him alone, and he is ill, and I should be doing something to help, not leaving it all to the youngsters. I may have put Buffy in charge, but I can still ask for a job to do.
"Buffy?" They all stop, and turn towards me, a little startled. I ignore most of them, and focus on her. My Slayer.
"Buffy, I need to be doing something, anything. Waiting isn’t helping and I can’t just sit here any more."
She hides her surprise quickly behind a mask of understanding. Well, in time the understanding may become real. "What do you want to do? We’ve got spaces for researchers, magicians, scientists, umm…"
"Something simple-- not so complicated that I’ll mess it up. I can’t think. I just need something to do."
"Um-- how about coffee and doughnuts all round?" Xander asks. "As I’m trapped under the large pile of books that’s normally your job, maybe you should take mine."
"And when you get back, Tara and I will need an extra pair of hands with these test tubes," Willow offers.
I must sound pathetic to them -- I know I look that way in my own mind-- but they are all grown-ups, now. They’ve all loved, and worried for their loved ones. I nod, and smile as best I can. "Espresso, everyone?"
- * *
Hours later, the sun has set and Buffy has left to patrol, taking Riley with her. Willow stopped giving me things to hold when my shaking hands spilt one too many carefully prepared tests, so now I’m sitting upstairs, by the bed, waiting with my lover. What I’m waiting for him to do I don’t know, but something inside me says: something has to happen, and soon. Be there for him. So here I am, and where else would I be? He’s been there for me so often, when I was ill, or frightened, or depressed, to hold me or joke with me.
Since that first night in the days when he was still officially chained in my bathtub- since…
No, Rupert. Think it through. Tell the whole story, so you remember it as it really happened. It’ll calm you down, and pass the time until Willow or Tara—or, dear God—Xander or Anya, can give you some information to work with.
That night I was tired and depressed. Lonely. Normal practice would be to get drunk, but I was all out of alcohol and couldn’t be bothered to go and get more. I went to the bathroom, looking for painkillers or sleeping pills to-- I’m not sure what, now. In any case, what I found was Spike.
Somehow, Houdini-like, he’d slipped his chain and was perched on the rim at the end of the bath. I didn’t notice him at first-- perhaps I’d even forgotten he was there-- just moved to the cupboard, avoiding looking in the mirror on its door, and opened it.
For a moment, I simply stood there, staring at the packets. During that long minute, he spoke, that soft English voice more tender than I’d ever heard it before. I’ve heard it often since then, that gentle tone: when we’re alone, and I’m not feeling so good. He saves it for those times.
"Got a headache, pet?" he asked.
I didn’t reply—part surprise at his speaking, and part at his tone: depression, or exhaustion. All I could do was lean my head forward against one of the white plastic shelves, and close my eyes. I heard him move then, swing his feet round to the floor, and step across to me. Every nerve in my body told me I was about to be attacked, that I should run or at the least fight back, but I didn’t. I didn’t have the will to do it. Carefully, he slipped his strong arms round my waist and turned me to face him, then pulled my body tight to his. I recall a thrill of fear—William the Bloody is holding me!—but then it passed, and I relaxed into his arms.
"Come on," he whispered, "Bedrooms tend to cure headaches faster than bathrooms. Trust me." And I did; oh, I did and still do.
I'm not sure why. He's hardly trustworthy.
We haven’t been a couple all the time since then—not (is formally the word? Not openly, maybe) until quite recently. I think the breakthrough for me was a throwaway comment Buffy made about her friends consisting of three couples now. They have been very accepting, but on the other hand, they accepted Willow and Tara very easily, too. I don’t know if it will last long; I’m not sure how Spike feels about Buffy now, if he really loves me or if, like Harmony, I just serve a purpose. All I know is that I love him, though I can’t find the words to say that aloud.
I blink hard, tears pricking my eyes painfully, and look away from the beautiful face in front of me—so still when it should smile and speak—to see Willow and Tara standing in the doorway.
"Giles?" Willow says, her voice low. "We think we may have something. If you come downstairs, we’ll explain."
It takes me a moment to comprehend what she has said, but when I do, I stand, glancing down at the prone form on the bed once more.
"I’ll watch him for a while," Tara says, moving towards the chair where I was seated. In a daze, I follow Willow down the stairs.
She has me sit by the table on which she’s set out an impressive array of scientific and magical apparatus.
"Do you want the long, technical version, or the Cliff's Notes?" she asks.
"Shortest version possible, please," I say, knowing that we must observe some of the ritual of banter and joking, but impatient for answers.
"Okay then-- Spike’s wound was inflicted by a human, who had some kind of blade with a poison on it. A person or a human-type demon would only have like, a bee sting, but because a vampire doesn’t have a functioning circulatory system, the toxin doesn’t dissipate. So where you would just have flu-like symptoms for a week, and a little cut, Spike’s wound is all festery.