NO REST FOR THE WICKED

By Medea

medealives@hotmail.com

 

 

 

 

Shadows clung to the walls like shrouds, as if this section of the basement were a storage space for forgotten things; a cave of mystery and abandoned hope beneath the bright, airy halls of the new school.

 

Willow found it oddly comforting.

 

She walked through the corridor, squinting in the darkened labyrinth and listening for telltale sounds, but only out of force of habit.

 

It was the despair that was really guiding her.

 

Still new to her attunement with the earth, Willow wasn’t quite used to her ability to sense power, good, evil, suffering, and the like, so it was a little disorienting to rely on it as a beacon. Yet there was no mistaking the pure despair which glowed like a flame in this place and cried out with a longing too subtle for human ears to hear.

 

It stood out in stark contrast to the dark malevolence that bombarded Willow’s senses whenever she turned them toward the Hellmouth. This was the despair of the fallen – not evil itself, and not beyond the pale of grace.

 

Willow knew it was leading her straight to him.

 

And there he was, huddled in the dust at her feet.

 

Crouched like a gargoyle and just as stone-still, Spike stared into the distance, his eyes fixed and bloodshot. His hair was disheveled and his clothes hinted at neglect. Willow grimaced, remembering a time not so long ago when she’d felt as bad as he looked.

 

Hesitantly, she stepped forward, then slowly dropped to her knees. Peering into his eyes, she prompted, “Spike?”

 

A minute went by, but Spike gave no sign that he’d heard her.

 

Willow reached out her hand and nudged him gently on the knee.

 

Spike recoiled violently and scooted away from her until his back was pressed against the wall.

 

“No touching! Don’t touch the girl…don’t hurt…”

 

“Shh…Spike, please don’t be afraid,” Willow attempted to reassure him. She held her hands up, palms forward in a pacifying gesture, and stood relaxed in her place. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

 

Blue eyes were glassy as they focused on her. Shivering, Spike opened his mouth, then paused and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He dropped his gaze to the floor and muttered softly, “You punish bad men. I-I’m a bad man. I hurt. Ithurtsithurtsithurts…I hurt…her.”

 

“Who?” Willow prompted, cautiously edging closer to the confused vampire.

 

“Buffy.”

 

His head was still bowed low, so Willow almost didn’t hear him, yet she could have guessed. There were still a lot of things she didn’t know about what had happened between Buffy and Spike last year, but what she did know was that she’d only seen Spike this broken twice before.

 

Once, over Drusilla; the other time, after Buffy’s death.

 

Whatever had happened, Willow decided not to press him on it. Not only did she doubt that she’d get a coherent answer, but this was something she should hear from Buffy first. Buffy was her friend, and deserved to be able to share it (or not share it) with Willow in her own way, in her own time.

 

“So did I,” Willow admitted. Not wanting to scare Spike into running away (and the irony of that certainly wasn’t lost on her), she eased slowly toward the wall until she could slide down beside him. “I hurt all my friends: Buffy, Xander, Dawn. I nearly killed everyone in the world – even you.”

 

A low, strangled cackle erupted from Spike’s throat. It sounded like spiders scurrying through air. “The witch has been playing with Pandora’s Box.” He craned his neck, as if straining against an unseen chain, before leaning toward her on his left hand and fixing her with a knowing gaze. “Nearly let out all the nasties, you did. They’re still below, but you stirred them up good. You feel it, don’t you? I feel it…below…beneath…”

 

Spike’s gaze turned inward, his expression growing almost vacant as he whispered, “From beneath you, it devours. Always consequences with magic…always…consequences…”

 

Willow’s chest tightened at his cryptic remarks. This had been one of her greatest fears when Giles told her she had to come back to Sunnydale. The magnitude of her powers frightened her. She was nowhere near feeling like she was in control. Worse, though, she’d had a sinking feeling that the recent surge in Hellmouth activity was connected to what she’d done last Spring. Xander may have stopped her from destroying the world, but if there was even a tiny grain of truth to Spike’s incoherent rambling, it meant that she had disturbed something dangerous.

 

And it was getting more and more restless.

 

“Spike, do you know about these consequences?” Willow asked.

 

Abruptly, Spike jerked back and glared at her suspiciously. “Why are you here?”

 

His expression was so vulnerable, so embattled, that Willow couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy – this, despite his bloodthirsty past and many attempts to kill her. Yet in this moment, Willow saw mirrored in Spike her own fears of being alone, of being condemned, abandoned, and slowly forgotten. He was in a prison of his own making and she wasn’t likely to get anything lucid out of him until he began healing.

 

More importantly, though: he needed it.

 

He just needed to heal.

 

It was something she could offer easily.

 

“I came to thank you for helping Buffy and Xander find the cave,” Willow answered honestly. “You saved my life. I was trapped with a demon who would have skinned me alive. They might not have gotten to me in time without your help. So…thank you.”

 

The haggard lines and dark shadows on Spike’s face smoothed over in mild surprise. He blinked at her, his lips parted slightly and twitching every now and then as if he wanted to speak, but couldn’t. Moisture glistened in the harsh, red corners of his eyes as he finally managed to croak haltingly, “Thank you?”

 

Willow graced him with a sad smile. Bowing her head, she followed the pattern her fingers traced across the dusty floor. “Yeah, thank you. It’s what you usually say to someone who’s helped you.”

 

Hope glimmered briefly in Spike’s eyes before wavering uncertainly, then slowly fading to quiet despair. Fiercely squeezing his eyes shut, Spike hugged his knees to his chest and shook his head. “No. No. I’m a bad man. Never helped…nothing helps. Not good enough. All wrong, I’m always wrong. Bad. There. Is. Nothing. Good. In. Me.”

 

Willow shifted to her side and hesitantly reached out to comfort him, pulling her hand back once before resting it gently on his forearm. “That’s not true, Spike. You have helped us.”

 

Spike stilled at her touch, but didn’t look at her. Willow felt his rigid muscles relax ever so slightly beneath her hand. Encouraged, she continued.

 

“True, you’ve killed more people than I could possibly count.” His arm tensed again. Spike tried to curl up in a fetal position, but Willow steadied him. Clasping her right hand more firmly on his arm, she brought her left up to his chin and gently nudged him to look at her. “But I’m not in a position to judge anyone any more, and however bad you might have been in the past, that doesn’t mean you haven’t also done some good things, too. Remember? You helped us stop Glory. I wouldn’t have sent you up the tower if I hadn’t trusted you to fight with everything you had. And you were the one to take Dawn to the hospital after *I* completely lost it and hurt her.”

 

Blue eyes stared at her for several seconds, then closed in blessed surrender to her compassion. Spike inclined his head, brushing his cheek against her hand like a cat, bathing himself in the contact. “But I can’t be good…They tell me all the time…voices talk to me. Say I’m a monster. Evil, dead thing…Can’t trust me, have to stop me.”

 

Willow held her breath as Spike slowly leaned toward her and rested his brow against her shoulder. She was at a loss for words, having no idea how to counsel a demented vampire about the voices in his head.

 

However, she was spared when Spike remarked, his words muffled against her side, “Haven’t we done this before?”

 

A forlorn grin quivered on Willow’s lips as she remembered his bizarre confession in the factory. "Yeah, I think we have."

 

In silence, Spike rested against her. Several moments passed before he murmured, "So tired...so tired of fighting."

 

Speaking to herself as much as to Spike, Willow answered softly, "I know it's hard. But it's worth it. You just have to take it one day at a time."

 

"One day at a time," Spike echoed, his voice hollow and distant. "I can't tell them apart any more. The dreams and the days are all the same...so tired..."

 

On impulse, Willow began lightly stroking Spike's head, running her fingers through his unkempt, now only partially dyed hair. Spike reacted instantly, leaning eagerly into her hand, so starved for touch.

 

"How long has it been since you slept?" she asked.

 

"Three days. Maybe four. Don't know any more. Hard to tell the days passing. All I know are the voices. They won't leave me alone, I can't stop them...but," Spike sighed and huddled closer to her, "you make the voices go away."

 

Hesitantly, Spike began to slide down and curl up beside her. Willow made no protest, but instead guided his head down to her lap and whispered, "Sleep."

 

As she laid her palm on his cool, smooth temple, a relieved smile spread across Spike's face. Willow couldn't tell if he was asleep; he had no breathing pattern to watch. He merely lay cuddled halfway on her lap, one arm clinging to her hip, completely still. All traces of care seemed to have been washed from his face. So serene was he that Willow couldn't detect so much as a twitch of his closed eyes. She wondered if he was even dreaming.

 

Willow sat with him like that for over an hour, resting her hand on his head and letting her thoughts wander. It felt oddly comforting. She'd only wanted to thank him, as part of her effort to acknowledge the people who helped her, to reach out. So much of her problem last year had stemmed from keeping the pain to herself, from withdrawing – she just wanted to reconnect, even if it was with Spike.

 

And he so desperately seemed to need this.

 

Or perhaps what felt so comforting was the fact that what she offered was freely accepted, without suspicion, without reservation. Even if her friends were justified in regarding her with a little wariness, it still brought a small, quiet ache to her throat when she saw the doubt in their eyes.

 

Spike, wretched as he was, showed her nothing but gratitude.

 

Theirs was the shared consolation and regret of two who had fallen from grace.

 

At last, Willow carefully extracted herself from the sleeping vampire, rose to her feet, and silently crept away. She wanted to make it back to Buffy's house before it got dark.

 

On the cold, basement floor, Spike lay sprawled and smiling, his dreams untroubled for the first time in months.

 

 

THE END

 

Continue to the sequel, O Soft Embalmer of the Still Midnight

 

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