Chapter Ten: Angel of Mercy

It takes me a second for it to hit me.

He guessed? What's that supposed to mean?

Wait a minute. What the hell do I care? Someone knows I'm me. Quit smelling gift horse breath and appreciate the gesture, you brainless idiot.

Spike cups my face in his hands, staring into my eyes as if he's addicted to the sight. You'd think it was Christmas morning and he just got the dirt bike he'd asked for, the way he's looking at me. "It's really you in there, Slayer? No joke?"

He can't bring himself to believe it. I don't blame him.

I squirm out of his grasp and wrap my arms around his midsection, savoring the smell of leather and cigarettes I'd missed from the crypt. Who'd have thought cigarettes could ever smell this good? I hug him tight as I hear myself say, I'd be awfully flexible if I could hug you like this and pull your leg at the same time, Spike.

He chuckles over my head, and says, "Now, there's a thought," before he bends a little and kisses the top of my head.

Oh, God. Kiss. I kissed Spike.

You know, the last time I thought that, it was basically an "eww, gross" reflex. Now, I just think it was a horrible thing to do to the guy. I pull away from him and step back, and I'm sure I'm about as bright red as they come.

About the kiss, I start to say, but he waves me off.

Spike's ice blue eyes bore into me, but it isn't the least bit creepy or uncomfortable. He keeps looking at me like that, I'm going to spontaneously combust. "I know, Slayer. Don't worry, love. I know where it came from," he says.

And then he smiles, and I don't feel so bad about the kiss.

It's just ... wow.

Spike ignores my sudden quiet, and reaches out to take my hand. I don't even think twice about it. Just take his hand like the girlfriend in a kindergarten couple and let him lead me to the nearest bench.

The cool stone bench chills the back of my legs, and I move closer to Spike for whatever warmth I can get off of him. Maybe that was what he was looking for, since his hands are immediately stroking my face again, drawing my gaze back to him. I kind of expected the whole touchy-feely thing out him, but this is starting to touch on that warm and tingly feeling you read about in Harlequin romance novels.

Not that I'm complaining. But still.

His hands run through my hair, as if to test that it -- and I -- actually exist. "How did this happen?" he asks, totally in awe.

I shrug, not sure what to make of it myself. Big mojo from the gang in charge, I say. They needed a Slayer who wasn't psychotic, and I was free, so ...

When my voice trails off, he waits a moment, then looks me over curiously. "But if you're in there, then where's the previous occupant?"

I say, Heaven, I guess. I don't bother to add that it's a big "I guess." The last day or so, I haven't been quite so sure anymore.

But right now, I switch over in my brain from the Faith channel to the Spike channel, and I ask, How'd you know it was me?

There's a mischievious twinkle in his eyes. "Honestly?"

I cock an eyebrow. No, make something up, I say, not able to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

He smiles at that, recognition in his warm gaze. After a moment, he shrugs and says simply, "You smell like Buffy."

I wonder if I'm supposed to take that as a compliment. I say, Thank you?

"Let me put it this way," he says, a hint of laughter in his voice. "I doubt that every Slayer who signs up for the job gets issued a lifetime supply of strawberry shampoo, aloe vera conditioner, vanilla body lotion, raspberry body spray, baby powder deodorant, mint whitening toothpaste, and cinnamon dental floss."

Whoa. Okay, everyone who's impressed, please raise your hand.

Makes sense, though. It might explain why Angel hadn't figuratively caught the scent in L.A. -- because I didn't literally have it until I was back in Sunnydale and using my own stuff again. But still, I can't keep myself from asking, That's it?

Spike reaches up and strokes the dark hair from my face, studying my expression thoughtfully. When he speaks, his voice is solemn and strong. "Trust me, I can see you in there. Your actions, your expressions ... I'd know them anywhere. But the scent's definitely Buffy Number 5. Besides, your blood ..." He looks almost embarassed as he says, "I can't explain it. It just smells like you."

My blood smells like me? How is that even possible?

He bends forward, looking me in the eye and smirking. "Gee, Scott Bakula, I don't know. You tell me."

I can't help but smile. Spike returns it, and I feel a little guilty. I'm latching onto the guy. Suddenly, someone knows who I really am, and mentally, I'm just stuck right to him. Just call me Krazy Glue.

I mean, look at me. Sitting on the bench next to him, about this far away from him, holding his hand and not about to let go anytime soon ...

Oh, God. Giving him hope, Buffy. Bad Buffy. Let go of the hand, and no one gets hurt.

I yank my hand back, but truth be told, I'd rather it have stayed right where it was. It was getting comfy, and since when is that a bad thing?

Since you came back from the dead a week ago, moron. Not exactly the best time to date.

Would you look at me? I'm having an internal monologue. Someone stop me, huh?

Spike's blue eyes flash with a little anger when I pull my hand away, but I can tell he's trying desperately to understand the situation, and his gaze almost immediately softens. Yeah, pal, I'm a little lost myself. But I'm trying.

After a moment, I say, Spike?

"Yes, love?"

I know, I say.

Spike looks more confused than he was a second ago. Then again, I was being a font of nothing, so he's got an excuse. His brow furrows as he says, "Know what?"

That this whole thing ... with you and the love and ... I know it's real.

He freezes, and hope flares in his gaze. See, Buffy? Look at what you're doing to the guy. "Oh," he finally says.

Wow, that's wordless, I say.

Spike's a little dazed when he says, "I think I lost all of my words."

Been there, I say. But still, I know.

"How?" he asks.

My hand sneaks back over and holds his again, and he looks down at it as if a squid has just latched onto his arm. I saw you cry, I say. When my soul was ...

My voice trails off. I can't even bring myself to finish saying what I was getting at. What am I supposed to finish up with? "When my soul was a'floatin' off to the afterlife after I splattered all over the pavement." Oh, yeah, that'd go over really well.

I look away from him, shake my head and smile as I say, I've really got to start finishing my sentences.

He says and does nothing. Just keeps staring at my hand.

My thumb is gently caressing his palm. I hadn't even noticed.

Not that I stop doing it.

Besides, I say, you're still here. And I just figured you should know that. That I know what you're feeling isn't a joke. I didn't get to tell you that last night, and I just --

"Buffy?"

I don't expect Spike to say anything. I was kinda hoping he'd let me ramble a little, but no luck, apparently. I spook at the sound of his voice and snap, Yeah, what?

This strange smile crosses his face. Calm, peaceful, satisfied. If he was ever going to try for another kiss, it'd probably be right after whatever he has to say next. "Nothing. I was just afraid I'd never hear you answer again."

And I smile right back at him.

And then he proves me right.

When he leans forward and kisses me, it's not the passionate outpouring of emotion I let loose with. It's more subtle than that. It's thankful and tender, his simple touch more striking than the depth of it. It's meaningful brushes of his lips against mine, soft caresses that whisper how grateful he is for the second chance.

I refrain from telling him he's not the only one who's grateful.

Suddenly, I pull away. Oh, God, I say. You can't tell anyone.

I don't think I've ever seen Spike more shocked. The hopeful, joyous look he'd had going on a minute ago is replaced with abject disbelief. "Why not? Nibblet alone --"

Mentioning my sister is a low blow, but I still manage to say, Spike, no.

"She hasn't slept in her own bed since you died."

He can't believe he just blurted that out, and I can tell he wishes he could take it back. But it certainly explains why she keeps showing up at breakfast in the clothes she'd been wearing the night before. Spike stares me down and says, "On the couch in the new apartment, on the floor in the Wiccas' dorm room, at a friend's house ... never at home. She goes out off sometime before bedtime, and comes home before Giles wakes up."

I get it. She can't sleep in our house if I'm not there.

Out loud, though, I hear myself say, I can't. They said that that everyone had to find out on their own.

Spike's expression darkens. "They who?"

I open my mouth to answer, but my gaze is drawn to something in the bushes behind him. Something rustling the leaves as it walks through, a shadowy presence that drifts through like a spirit.

My hands pull away and reach for the spare stake I've got tucked away. I don't take my eyes off the bushes as I ask, Did you see that?

He turns a little, not quickly or all the way, just enough so that if there is something back there, he'll catch a sight or a scent of it. "What?"

I frown, squint into the darkness and try to get a better look. What I see stuns me at first ... the same dark, mysterious woman who was in the Magic Box.

What the hell is going on?

I don't want to give Spike any bad ideas. I slowly rise, stake in hand, and start walking towards the bushes. I say, I see her. She's right there.

I hear him behind me, getting up slowly. Like I'm a bomb about to go off. "Buffy, it's just you and me," he says, but I ignore him. I don't care what he says. I see her. She's following me. I would like her to stop now.

My Slayer gear kicks in. I'm practically buzzing with anticipation as I duck into the thick underbrush.

Low, throaty laughter sounds off to my left and I turn towards it reflexively.

That's when it hits me. Literally.

Whatever it is, it slams into me from the right, knocking me to the ground. My elbow digs into the ground as my head slams against the grass. Something heavy, reeking of wet fur and sweat, leans heavily on top of me, panting hot breath across my face. My stomach turns as another one comes at me from behind, landing on top of me and biting down on my shoulder. I scream as a third drops onto my legs, and I feel one of my ankles crunch under its weight.

I can hear Spike calling my name, and the sound keeps me from sinking into unconsciousness. I'm not sure whether to be happy about that or not.

The beasts on top of me, whatever they are, seem to vanish into thin air, and where they were are Spike's hands, running over my broken ankle and the bite marks on my shoulder.

And the next thing I know, everything goes black.

Oww.

My ankle's numb. And my shoulder's just a general "oww" area. This is not good.

The cool night air rushes over my bare injured arm, tucked gently on top of my body, as I'm carried towards my house. My head rests against Spike's shoulder, and I hover somewhere between totally awake and blissfully unconscious.

Oww. I just can't say that enough.

He's running as fast as he can, but Spike's arms hold me so tight and steady I can barely tell. It's only the slight breeze I feel that tells me how fast he's going. At this rate, we'll get there last Thursday.

Spike, I say. My voice is raspy from trying to restrain the pain.

He gently kisses my forehead. "Hush, love," he says. "We'll be home in no time."

No tattling, I hear myself say.

Then it's back to Never Never Land.

Screw knocking. Spike busts the door open.

I awaken to the sound of the door slamming against the wall. My face is coated with sweat, and I wince when Spike shifts me in his arms.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see flashes of color. Willow's red hair. The teal tank top Dawn had been wearing. Giles's pale, tired face. We don't stop, Spike carrying me up the stairs as the others trail close behind.

"Faith?" Dawn's voice. I nearly smile when I don't hear a drop of excitement or happiness in her voice that I'm in pieces.

"Oh, God." Giles this time. I wish he wasn't seeing this. Two dead Slayers in one week can't be good for the mental stability of any Watcher.

We duck into my room, and Spike gently lays me out on the bed. Hands run over my arms, legs, torso. I tense as someone's fingertips graze over my shoulder, and whimper as someone else's hands clutch too hard on my injured ankle.

"What happened?" Willow asks softly. "Is she okay?"

I think I see Spike shake his head. "Don't know. We were talking, and all of a sudden she goes bounding into the woods like a bloody puppy. The next thing I know, I find her looking like a chew toy."

"What attacked her?" Giles asks.

"Don't know. Didn't see 'em or smell 'em."

Spike doesn't know? What is he, blind or brain damaged? I had three big, hairy beasts on top of me. How could he miss them? I mean, the stench alone ...

"You're kidding," Willow says.

Spike sounds like he's ready to snap, probably out of worry, when he answers, "Why, is it funny?"

The world's getting fuzzy. But it's not tears that are doing it to me. It's the sharp, biting pain coursing through my veins. Oh, God ... those demons better not have been poisonous. Demon poison's not half as much fun as it sounds.

"Any ideas?"

"Beats me," Spike says to Giles, sounding frustrated. "Giant weasels with rabies, maybe?"

Rabies. That's probably worse than poison, right?

I wince as a small, warm hand drifts over my shoulder. I'm sure as the hand lifts off me that it comes away bloody. I must be ruining my sheets with blood or gore or whatever the hell is soaking my upper body in sticky wetness.

"Giles, she doesn't look so good," I hear Dawn say. She sounds worried.

Dawn? Worried about me? I must be dying.

Everyone moves in closer, nearly suffocating me. I curl up in pain, closing my eyes briefly against the pain of the light from the bedside lamp. I open my eyes when I feel Giles beside me, his tall frame blocking the light. "Faith? Faith, wake up."

A white-blond head hovers in my line of sight, a blur in the haze of my pain. Cool hands grip mine fiercely, and gently all at once. "Come on, Slayer, snap out of it. Slayer?" Spike's voice cracks with concern. As if I didn't feel awful enough ...

And then he says it, just loud enough for me to worry.

"Buffy?"

Uh-oh. Not good.

And here comes Passing Out, take three.

Chapter Eleven