Subject: [SpikesSalvation] (New Story) Friends and Strangers- Rated PG Date: Sun, 2 Nov 2003 12:01:44 -0800 (PST) From: Jerusha Hancock Reply-To: SpikesSalvation@yahoogroups.com To: SpikesSalvation@yahoogroups.com Friends and Strangers By enigmaticblue Rated PG Summary: Post-Grave fic. No spoilers for season 7. S/B if you wait for it. Disclaimer: Not mine, blah blah blah. Joss is a genius, blah, blah, blah. I write happier endings. ;) A/N: This story is for anyone who ever wanted Spike to have a friend and who got fed up with how he was treated in S6. September 1 Limbs whirling, body swerving, barely pausing in the deadly dance. Contact made and broken in swift seconds that made all the difference between life and death. The harsh planes of his face contracted with devilish joy, his lips pulled back in a rictus of grim laughter. He felt alive only in the midst of death now, the blood lust pumping through him, the rhythm of the dance pounding in his head. He was a god in a good fight. He was the lord of the dance. When it was over, and his enemies lay in puffs at his feet, he was covered in dust and ashes. And in dust and ashes he cried his lament to the skies, for all the things he'd done, and all the things he hadn't. For dying, and for not dying. And for the pain that threatened to rip him from the inside out. He called his pain to the skies like a dying animal until darkness descended and took him. September 14 When he woke, it was to the pain of hunger. Groaning, he picked himself off the floor of the crypt and stumbled to the fridge. He had no idea if there was even anything in there worth eating, and one look told him that he'd been unconscious since the fight. He'd come home to find that Clem had vacated the place in favor of a very nasty gang of vampires. Spike had been longing for a good fight, thinking it would clear his head, but instead it had triggered one of the flashbacks that took over mind and body. If he had to guess, he'd say he'd lost at least a week, and possibly two. Hunger left him weakened, and in no state to meet and greet anyone who might come calling. He needed to find food. He checked his cash supply and found it seriously wanting. His place was trashed and needed major repairs and redecorating, but a quick hunt found the former occupants' stash of valuables. You could get just about anything in Sunnydale, provided you had the cash. He had a deal with the slaughterhouse for cheap blood from before, so it would be easy to renew the agreement. It was just a matter of getting over there before he collapsed completely. The voices, the thoughts, they haunted him, day and night. He knew he was holding on to his sanity by his fingertips. If it wasn't flashbacks by night, it was nightmares by day, and they wouldn't let him go until he'd relived every sordid detail, leaving him chilled to his bones. He was concentrating on not being crazy with all his might when he was stopped in his tracks by a very hard fist in the nose. At first, he wasn't quite certain if it was merely another memory or if it was real, but the ground was hard beneath his back, and the blood trickling out one nostril was real enough, and the hazel eyes staring down at him were definitely pissed off. "Spike." It took him a second to gather his scattered wits. "Slayer. How nice to see you again." "What are you doing here?" Buffy demanded. Spike sat up cautiously. He wasn't entirely sure that she wasn't going to use the stake she was white knuckling, and he had a feeling any sudden moves on his part and he'd be dust. "I was on my way to get dinner." He swiped his nose with the back of one hand, seeing the bright red streak and resisting the urge to taste. He had nothing left, no reserves at all. If she wanted to take a swipe at him, he'd let her do it, and welcome the oblivion. "I mean, why did you come back," she replied. Buffy wasn't entirely sure what she was going to do with him. He looked like he was in pretty bad shape, as though he was ready to collapse at any moment. In spite of herself, she felt a stab of pity, and when she searched her heart for enough hatred to stick him, all she found was a kind of emptiness and a deep sense of loss. She wasn't even sure what it was she'd lost. Spike looked a bit surprised at the question. He wasn't sure why he'd come back, except that he was drawn here, by her, by the hellmouth, by the sense that Sunnyhell was the closest thing to a home he had. It was the last reason that was probably the most acceptable answer, and so it was the one he gave. "This is home, Buffy." "Home?" she asked incredulously. "Please, Spike. You could be at home in a back alley." He shrugged slightly, picking himself off the ground and dusting off his black jeans. Spike was careful to keep his distance. "Maybe, but you might need me." Buffy's face hardened, even as she rammed Mr. Pointy back into the pocket of her blue windbreaker. "I don't need you, Spike. I don't need you and I don't need your help." He wasn't surprised, but it still felt as though someone had knocked the wind out of him. If he'd had any wind. A small part of him knew that if he told Buffy he had his soul back, she might feel differently. She might even feel safer around him; maybe even stop looking at him like he was going to jump her at any second, but something kept his lips sealed. "Alright," he said quietly. He started to go, but stopped. "Buffy, I know it doesn't make a difference, but I'm sorry for what happened, for what I did." "You're right, Spike. It doesn't make a difference." Buffy pushed past him. "I don't want to see you, and I don't want you near my friends," she called back. Spike looked after her, glad for the moment that he didn't need to breathe. He wouldn't have been able to after that. His jaw tightened and tensed, and he clamped down on the emotion. He deserved nothing less from her. ---------------------------------