The Rescue

Author: Jen
Rating: G
Disclaimer: I own nothing, yadda, yadda, yadda
Feedback: You betcha! jen_nsync_landl@yahoo.com
Summary/Setting: My idea of what happens when Buffy
gets Spike out of the First's den. Written after BOTN
but without the knowledge of "Showtime."

***

"Spike?"

Oh, God. It was starting again. The voice sounded
far away, but Spike still flinched at the sound of it,
as if the word struck and stung his skin. The thought
that the voice sounded different somehow flickered
through his mind, but he couldn't quite put his finger
on why.

Pain. Searing pain, blinding pain. Don't move. If he
could just lie still enough, maybe the voice would go
away again. Maybe they would all go away. If he
could just concentrate hard enough on those other
words, her words...

Wait, he knew now why the voice sounded different.
There was a question in this voice, and she, the dark
one who pretended to be her, never sounded uncertain
or questioning. The dark one had just whispered those
honeyed words to him in *her* voice and made him do
things he knew he musn't.

"Spike?"

The voice was closer. Stop, stop, stop. The things
the dark one had said to him came flooding back. So
seductive, so easy. Or they would have been. before.
Now they just beaded up and ran off, like rain on a
newly waxed car.

Buffy believed in him. *Believed* in him. He tried
to remember what else she'd said, but it had run
together like inked words smudged by careless fingers.
Something about fighting the monster inside him.
Yes, that was it. That he didn't see the man he could
be but she did. She saw him.

The earth below him started to shake. From
beneath.... Oh God, no.

But the shaking never became a rumbling. It was
something else. Footfalls. A heavy tread. No,
running. Someone was running close by. Eyes shut,
eyes shut. No problem there. He doubted he could
open his eyes even if he wanted to.

Buffy caught a glimpse of him, and her breath stuck in
her throat.

He was stretched out awkwardly on the ground, as if
he'd been unceremoniously dumped on his back and
hadn't had the strength to move a single muscle. The
darkness of his bruises, the welts on his face, looked
even more striking next to the shock of unkempt
platinum hair. Her eyes were drawn to his chest, to
the patterns of dried blood. She could make out the
wounds, strange symbols carved in his flesh. She
winced. Her heart thudded heavily in her chest,
looking at him like that. God, he looked dead, she
thought. No, stupid, ashes would have been dead. A
vision of Spike in his crypt after the Glory-beating
leapt to her mind. "You're all covered in sexy
wounds," she'd said then, trying to trick him into
confessing what he'd told Glory about Dawn. She had
no words now, as she dropped the axe she'd been
carrying and knelt beside him.

She slid the strap of her bag off her shoulder.
Bandages, antiseptic, pain killers, blood. She
wondered if he'd been drained dry. She lifted up his
head gently with one hand, trying to manuever a towel
beneath him with the other. Thank God he was
unconscious.

But he wasn't. He groaned. Or it would have been a
groan if he'd had any voice to give to it. His eyes
flickered open for a moment, and he caught sight of
her face.

"Dawn?" he asked hoarsely, running his tongue over
parched, bloodied lips. His eyes were closed again.

"What?" Oh, God, he was delirious. Or maybe it was
the other thing that had him. "No, Spike. It's me.
Buffy." Her voice was gentle, and for a brief moment
he thought it was the dark one. But she was touching
him, this Buffy, and the feel of her hand was soft and
cool. He knew the other one couldn't touch him.

"Is it Dawn?" The words were so low that she had to
bend down to his mouth to hear.

"What?" Then the realization struck her. He thought
something was wrong with Dawn. "No, Dawn's fine.
Why? Did they say something to you about Dawn?"
Buffy fought to keep panic out of her voice.

He shook his head almost imperceptibly, and Buffy let
out the breath she didn't know she'd been holding.
"Your face. You looked so worried," he whispered.

"Oh." She paused in her ministrations. "I *was*
worried." Suddenly she realized that she needed to
say it as much as he probably needed to hear it.
"I've been looking for you for days. I was worried
about you."

He pried his eyes open through sheer force of will to
look at her. She met his gaze evenly. Bloody hell.
She was worried about him. Her hand closed on his for
a moment, and he closed his eyes again. He could rest
now.