" If we’re right about this—and we’ve double checked it—the proper magical charm should destroy the poison, because it’s mostly Hellmouthy energy."
"Good," I say. "There’s a book of charms on my desk, let’s get on with it."
"We’ve looked at the book," Willow frowns, "and it’s not that simple. All the charms that would work on something similar for a human involve crosses, holy water, or sunshine. They’d kill Spike rather than cure him."
"Oh." What more can I say? "What do you propose to do now?"
"Tara and I think we can write a spell that would do the job, but we’ll need some pretty dangerous ingredients."
"Such as?" I might as well know the truth.
"Such as the blood of the lover of the one to be cured."
"Not a problem." I can say that. I know he loves me, though he's never told me.
"And the dried liver of a dragon."
"We have them at the Magic Shop."
"And the blood of Spike’s sire."
"Angel?"
"Or maybe Drusilla, I’m not quite clear. Angel will know, anyway."
"Phone Los Angeles."
"You know that this is dark majik?"
"Yes, I know. Do it."
Perhaps that is the wrong choice, but I couldn’t say anything else. Willow went to the phone, and I back upstairs to wait by his side until the witches were ready.
"Oh yeah. The hard way." Olivia nodded at Fred. "But we pulled it off and everyone gets a prize, you know? Even though there was no real contest? Angel gets his Big Brainy Boys functional again without all the River in Egypt shite. Our Watchers got rather a lot of lovely swag. And we get an hour tomorrow with the Titanium card, to buy whatever we want." Her voice changed, softening. She reached out a hand to Fred. "And we got to understand a few things about ourselves as well. Didn't we, darling?"
"That's a big hell-yes." Fred slipped her hand into Olivia's, giggled suddenly, and kissed her. "My very best shopping buddy!"
---
There. That's better. Line added to Olivia's bit.
Well, since you ask...
It took two long months (yes, too long) before I was recovered fully from the infection that the demon gave me. During that time he cared for me as Drusilla could not: with patience and true sympathy. The spell dealt with the bacteria, but it further weakened me -- though I will admit, now, on paper that will never be read, that I enjoyed the feeling of being cared for and acted up a bit. I’m sure he figured that out, but he never mentioned it.
Since then we’ve had a quiet spell—well, for Sunnyhell—and he’s been giving the Slayer (Buffy—he likes to know that I can use her name. Maybe it reassures him I’m not in love with her anymore, because I can’t say Dru’s name aloud, though I never stop thinking it) more evenings off. We spend them together, sometimes patrolling, more often at home. I still go out alone in the evenings, for a smoke or a drink, but I don’t pick fights anymore. Why waste my time on violence, when I could have something so much better without the ‘kill, torture, maim, make blood run like wine’ bit?
Tonight we’re curled up in front of the television, not really watching but a bit tired to do anything else. It isn’t a good kind of tired either; it’s the stayed-up-all-night-to-save-the-Slayer-and-her-friends-and-then-had-to-hide-in-the-shop-all-day kind. The kind I’m not very keen on. I twist round so my back is to the telly, and I’m sitting in his lap, looking straight into deep, heavy-lidded eyes. I kiss him, gently, always aware that he's just a human and can't take all my strength, before murmuring, "Wanna go to bed, Rupert?"
When it’s just us, I mostly call him Rupert. Giles in company, luv or pet to tease, and Ripper when he’s drunk or bossy, but mostly Rupert. He calls me William, especially since I let my hair grow out, back to its natural colour- to please him, though I said it was because I was too lazy to keep bleaching it. He says it’s ‘honey blond’ but I think it looks like porridge with mud in. And don’t say—'no mirrors, you can’t see it' because now it’s got long enough that I can. If I want to. The bloody Scooby Gang are having a fine old time of pestering me about it—Xander in particular.
"Carry me, William." Dear lord! My brain works much too fast. Maybe I was trying to block—no, it must be that babbling is infectious, but vampires only get it in the brain, not the mouth. I hope so, anyway. Inside my head babbling I can deal with. Have to.
I stand, trying not to groan as my cramped muscles complain. I have developed a sudden deep-seated hatred for sleeping in shops, I note, bending to slide my arms under his body. It’s been a while since I last did this—he is noticeably lighter than before.
"Bed it is, then." He snuggles—that's the only word for it—up against my chest as a reply.
"Shall we attempt undressing, or just crash?" My accent wanders more when I’m sleepy, and with him around it starts to try and match his. It frightens me how easily I slip back into William’s habits, the ways of being proper and nice that I worked so hard to lose because only evil brought me love.
"Crash," he says, so I do, careful to keep him on top. He is asleep within minutes, but I remain awake a little while longer, comforted by his presence, but still feeling a little scared at the changes he invokes in me, and my inability to protect myself. I’m still not sure if he knows that what I’ve been referring to as ‘the germ demon’ was a human. I don’t really want to think about it, but something honest (something I should have killed long ago, if I knew what was good for me) prevents me from sinking all the way into Sunnydale denial syndrome.
When I wake, hours after dawn but early by human standards, I have a brief moment of panic—he's gone. Then I hear noises in the kitchen, and realise: it’s a weekday. He’ll have got up to make breakfast and get ready to open the Magic Box. I consider lying under the covers for a while longer, but then decide against it. This is my last chance to see him before sunset, unless he closes the shop during the day.
And Anya will be there. It's going to stay open all day.
Still fully dressed from last night, I roll off the bed, only narrowly escaping a belly flop onto the floor.
Woken up enough to walk, I stumble downstairs to the main area of the apartment and stand on the last step for a moment, watching him as he pours boiling water into his teapot, turns the toast under the grill—he can’t cope with the toaster, mornings like this, or so he says—and puts a bag of blood in the mirocw…
Hang on just one bloody moment! He doesn’t know I’m awake yet—I haven’t—
"I heard the floorboard creak, Spike," he says, coming to the foot of the stairs and grinning at me. I take the last step down and grin back—into the kiss. He’s changed his clothes—one set of tweed for another—but he still tastes of the pizza we had for dinner last night. The man is coming round to pizza as a good thing to eat, particularly when you’re half asleep already, and would be fully given over to slumber’s embrace if your stomach weren’t rumbling like a tiger in a cage. See? William the Bloody Awful Poet again.
When the microwave beeps, I break the kiss, and say, "Food now, naughties later, Rupert?"
He nods, and goes to see if his toast is done. I put my blood into a mug, and fetch the marmalade for him as well as picking up his glasses. It seems he needs all the help he can get with getting sorted out today.
We hardly speak over breakfast, choosing to maintain our companionable silence until he's by the door, ready to leave. I get up from the table and saunter across to him.
"Come home early," I say. "Buffy can use a night off after yesterday’s fiasco, and so can you."
He looks torn between smiling at my mock-stern tone, and sighing at the reminder of yesterday’s events. I lean in for a goodbye kiss, to spare him the trouble of doing either.
