Red Redux

Title: Red Redux

Author: Tiana

Feedback: tianabelle@hotmail.com (thanks!)

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Joss and ME own everything.

Rating: R for violence and angst

Summary: In response to a challenge by gutter_snipe, I’ve rewritten part of Seeing Red. In her words: “You can use as much or as little of [the episode] as you want but The Bathroom scene has to go.” The goal is to maintain the arc of the ep, so Spike still leaves, but for a different reason. I am only rewriting Buffy & Spike, not the other parts of the ep. This fic picks up right after Buffy gets knocked over a tombstone by a vampire in the cemetery – right before the bathroom scene in the original ep.



* * *


“Alright, luv?” Spike’s voice comes out of the shadows and Buffy flinches, her pain not entirely in her back.

Her voice is cold and hard, cutting through the night air. “I’m fine and for the last time, I’m not your ‘luv.’” Buffy bites off the last word, mimicking Spike’s accent. The sound of Spike sighing is audible, but his next words barely carry far enough for her to hear.

“I’m sorry...”

“Not like it’s the first time you’ve called me luv…just don’t do it aga-”

“Not what I’m sorry for, Buffy.”

Buffy slowly gets to her feet, ignoring the pale hand extended to her from the shade of an oak tree. Her face hardens and sets in an instant, the events of the previous night rushing back over her in a nauseating flood. Him with Anya, kissing her, holding her…and why the hell does she care, anyway? Why does that image replay over and over in her head, twisting the knife deeper with every gyration, every moan?

“Doesn’t matter, Spike. Do what you want.” Buffy grimaces slightly, rubbing her back. Spike takes one step out of the shadow of the tree, his platinum hair glowing in the moonlight, his face twisted in concern.

“You’re hurt.” He cocks his head to the side, considers reaching out his hand again, but the tension in her body makes him withdraw it.

Straightening, Buffy turns to him. Her eyes are green glass as she locks gazes with him, her voice brittle. “Been hurt worse before.” A flash of pain mars the surface before her eyes shut their doors to him again.

Spike bites his lip, studying her, unsure of what to say next. For a vampire seldom short of words, he finds himself increasingly tongue-tied with Buffy. He’s mucked up everything even more than it already was. The pain she is hiding burns into him, an ember burrowing deeper into his skin, insistent and searing. “Don’t know what else to say, Buffy. I…didn’t go to Anya for…it didn’t mean…”

She smiles a smile both bitter and wry. “Save it, Spike. I just let myself forget what you are for awhile there. Won’t make that mistake again.” Flipping her hair over her shoulder, Buffy strides away from him, not sparing a glance for the aftermath of her words, for the wound struck deep.

She is much too far away for her to hear by the time he speaks again, his voice caught between despair and anger. “I won’t either, Slayer.” Spike kicks the nearest tombstone before storming off in the opposite direction, coat flaring behind him.

* * *

Buffy walks slowly back towards her house, her head pounding from the encounter with Spike as her back continues to throb from her encounter with the tombstone. She decides her head hurts worse and most annoyingly, an ache in her heart is coming up from behind to take the lead. Slayer powers will take care of the back, but she doesn’t know what can be done about the heartache. No matter how angry Spike has made her in the past, he has never hurt her in this way. Truly deeply hurt her. Until now. Despite all else, he had been loyal to his love for her. She may not have wanted that love, but she still burrowed into his arms for comfort. And he always gave it. And there he was, using those arms to give comfort to someone else. The burning surge of jealousy when she saw him on the hidden camera sent her reeling. She tried to convince herself her reaction was purely physical, but the fact is it plain old hurt. And the thought that she drove him away, possibly drove him to Anya, just left her confused. She cared somehow. Cared that she hurt him first. All her protests that he was nothing to her grew quite hollow in her own mind. The anger she threw at Spike just now was half-directed at herself for getting things into such a tangle. What did she think when she broke it off with him? That he would turn into a monk and never touch another girl? She wounded him to the core, of course he was going to seek something to dull the pain. Or someone. Buffy sighs, realizes she is standing on the porch of her house, lost in thought. Turning the doorknob, she slips in and upstairs, seeking the peace of sleep, hoping for clarity to come with the rising sun.

* * *



Spike slams the door open to his crypt, letting it bang against the wall with a resounding clang. Whipping off his coat, he slings it across a sarcophagus before snatching a bag of blood out of the fridge. Snarling, he rips into it and sucks it dry in seconds. The Slayer makes his blood boil. So, he’s still a thing to her? After all this time, all his work to be more? Spike bangs the fridge door closed, nearly knocking it off its hinges. He takes the bottle of whiskey off the top of the fridge and heads for his chair, pulling the cork out with his teeth on the way. He drops into the chair, draping one leg over the arm. Staring off into the darkness, Spike grimaces as he replays their conversation. Bint wouldn’t even let him apologize, explain why he was at the Magic Box in the first bloody place. He takes a swig from the bottle, lets the burning liquid sear his throat on the way down, a trail of heat that does nothing to warm him. The only heat he ever craves is from her. The soft yielding warmth of her skin, the tickle of her breath on his neck. Spike moans, throwing his head back against the chair. Why? Why does he have to love her? Thought he could use magic last night to drive these feelings from his unbeating heart, but instead he fell into the arms of another woman. And she saw. And for Christ’s sake, he actually cares. It makes his chest ache to imagine the look on her face when she saw him all over Anya. Because, of course, all she could see was the physical, not the cavernous emptiness they both felt, filled temporarily with alcohol and each other. Afterwards, he felt more than empty, he felt completely hollow. There was no solace there for him. Only regret and more sadness. She should have let the whelp take his head off with that ax. Put him out of his bloody misery. Half-draining the bottle with his next tip, Spike sends himself closer to oblivion. Closer to quieting the words in his head, to helping him forget for one more night.

* * *

The next night…

Buffy walks lightly through the cemetery, wishing she could be at home, consoling herself with ice cream and bad movies instead of here. As usual, traipsing through a dark graveyard, actually looking for trouble. Only not the platinum-haired kind. Him she wanted to avoid. Stake a few and head back home. It just never seemed to work out that way.

A few minutes past midnight, Buffy perches on a headstone, eyes closed to send out her Slayer senses through the quiet. Every once in awhile, she tried to sense the vampires like this. Giles would be so proud of her for trying to train on her own.

Something. She senses something off to the right. She has tried to explain the sensation to Willow before, but it seems to be something you have to feel to understand. A swirling uneasiness in her stomach as the vamp moves closer. Clearly, the vamp thinks he is silent, that she doesn’t ‘see’ him just because her eyes are shut tight. Buffy fights the urge to smile, letting him approach. A shiver runs over skin suddenly and she knits her eyebrows together just slightly. Something is off. The sensation has stilled. The vampire has stopped coming closer. But her body is starting to send off flares into the night, humming with something else on top of her normal reaction to a member of the undead. A cool chill goes down her spine as she realizes what it is. Or rather, who it is.

“Spike.” The voice cracks the darkness and Spike straightens up from his spot under a low, spreading oak. He holds very still. He only wanted to see her. See her resting lightly on the stone, back straight as a rod, entire body sending out waves of strength and warmth. Spike wishes he could go up to her, take her back into his arms, but he knows he can’t. He wishes he could figure out how to explain things, to make it better. He’s always been better at the undoing of things, not the putting them back together.

“Spike.” Again. She knows he is near, but refuses to open her eyes. “Go away. I’m patrolling.” His presence lurking there makes her angry. It boils up in her. Always watching her, trying to get back into her life. No more. It hurts too much. It’s wrong. It ends tonight.

Spike studies her back, deciding how to answer her this time. No approach cuts through her veneer so he settles for an old favorite. Snarky. “Looks to me like you’re sitting on your ass, pet.”

Wrong choice.

In a blur of blond hair and tanned flesh, she is in front of him, stake poised over his undead heart. Her eyes throw sparks of electricity as she pushes the point into the fabric. “Spike. I’m not kidding. Leave me alone.”

Never one to stop when he is only slightly behind, Spike half-smiles. “Was here first, Slayer.” He drops his eyes to her hand holding the stake, notes that it is trembling just a little bit. “Planning to use that?”

Sighing in exasperation, Buffy lowers the stake. “I sensed a vampire in the area. It’s what I do, y’know, the slaying of vampires?”

Spike’s smile drops away. “You knew it was me.”

“So?” Hands on hips, she looks up at him. He has never seen her so crystallized in her anger. So damn hard.

“Right. Just another vampire for staking. God, Buffy, is there nothing left in there?” Spike gestures towards Buffy’s heart.

The voice drops an octave, burrowing into him. “Don’t you dare talk to me about my feelings, Spike. YOU have no part of them.” She starts to turn away, but Spike reaches out to grab her upper arm. She pulls away, but he tightens his grip.

His voice softens, drops to a quiet murmur. Desperate to cut through this shell of rage encasing his Slayer. “I meant it, Buffy. I’m sorry.” She doesn’t move for a minute, facing away from him, her arm still trapped. He can feel a shudder in her body as her every muscle coils and tightens. “I still lov – “

“NO!” With one violent jerk, Buffy pulls her arm free and turns on him. Her eyes flash and Spike swears they are slightly wet. “You will NEVER say that to me again. EVER. Do you understand me?” She jabs her finger at him, emphasizing her fury.

Spike tries to remain calm. “But I do. I lo-“ In the space of a breath, her fist comes flying out of the darkness and catches him off guard. The force of her blow knocks Spike back into the tree trunk. He slides to the ground, head throbbing where it hit the wood.

She stands over him, chest heaving. “Never.” Spike sees that she is still clutching the stake in her other hand. She notices at the same time and looks down at it. She half-laughs, the sound completely mirthless. “Not even worth it.” With a dull thud, the stake hits the dirt at Spike’s feet and she turns to walk away.

Spike sits there for a few seconds, torn between hurt and anger. Bloody Slayer telling him how he can feel, where he can be, what he can say. It’s too much. And now, just turning her back on him. Fine, if that’s the way she wants it. He’s done being her lapdog, her punching bag. Does nothing to change the way he feels about her, but fuck it. He’s still a vampire as she loves to point out. Still a soulless, evil thing. She said she wouldn’t forget it again and yet there she goes, walking away from him, no stake, pretending he is no threat. The anger is winning and Spike feels a familiar surge of power as the promise of violence grows. His hands tighten into fists as he launches himself to his feet, a low growl rolling across the graveyard. Buffy hears him, pauses in mid-step. Rotating slowly on her heel, she faces Spike.

In one smooth glance, Buffy takes him in. Body taut, ready to spring. Fists tight, eyes dark with rage. This Spike she can face. The one spilling forth love and flowers, she can’t. But this, this is just what she needs tonight. Get it all out and stop avoiding him.

“Not too bloody bright to turn your back on a vampire, Slayer.” His normal voice, lilting and deep, is replaced by this new one, this taunting tone he saves for their knockdown, drag-out fights. She hasn’t heard it in years. It is meant to provoke her and it succeeds.

Spike remembers that he loves Buffy, but right now, he can’t. He can’t try to make her believe him anymore, try to make her feel it, too. He is weary with the effort, sorry for his mistakes, aching with her rejection. Spike falls back to what he knows, to what the two of them seem to do best. Fists and fangs, it is.

Buffy’s eyes narrow at Spike. He wants to fight, she wants to fight. Why not? She takes three strides back to him, closing the distance quickly before leaping into a spinning kick. Well-reading her intention, Spike blocks her foot with his forearm, knocking her to the ground.

Slightly stunned, Buffy pops back to her feet, circling him slowly. “Look who’s not too bright, Spike. Didn’t the other vampires tell you not to tick off the Slayer?” She is amazed how quickly they are regressing to years ago, how complete the retreat from their recent memories.

“Not too good at doing what I’m told, luv.” He smirks at her, dropping the endearment like a gauntlet.

Buffy blurs again, her speed stunning. A kick to the head and three rapid punches and Spike is on the ground again, on his knees. Grabbing Spike by the hair, Buffy jerks his eyes up to meet hers. She is startled to find they have gone gold. The bones in his face finish shifting and she hears the growl, quieter but growing louder. “I. Said. Not. To. Call. Me. Luv.” On every word, she swings at his face, punctuating her sentence with a knee to the chin that sends Spike sprawling.

He lies still for a split second, allowing the fury to race through his veins at breakneck speed. It is working. He doesn’t have room in himself for love and tenderness when she drives him this hard. He lets the demon back into the driver’s seat. Licking his lip to catch the blood flowing freely, he sweeps his leg out, dropping Buffy to the ground on her rear end.

Then he smells it. The heady scent floors him. Slayer blood. Snapping his eyes over her he spots the source. Her hand is cut. Looks like she sliced her knuckles on his fangs when she was punching him. Spike licks his lip again, realizes her blood is mixed there with his. He smiles at her, darkly. Glaring at Spike, she lunges at him, taking him to the ground beneath her, her knee cracking into his ribcage.

Spike barely feels two ribs snap, the bloodlust fogging his mind further. The scent of her blood is like a drug to him. Buffy rears her arm back for another punch only this time Spike catches her fist as it reaches his mouth, freezing it in mid-air. Before Buffy can do anything else, he darts his tongue out to lick her knuckle. Buffy gasps at the cool touch, then the fury swamps her. Her blood. He just wants her blood. For reasons she will examine later, this hurts her and pisses her off all at once. She tries to pull away, but Spike has an iron grip on both of her hands now. With a twist of inhuman strength and agility, she is suddenly pinned under him on the cold ground. Spike holds her hands above her head. She looks up into his game face and feels a fleeting sadness. It’s been a long time since he’s worn that face. The back and forth of her emotions during this fight are not exactly helping her win it. The fact that she is struggling with her emotions only aggravates her further.

She struggles under him, but Spike has his thighs squeezed around her waist. Her voice is nearly a growl. “Get off me, Spike.”

“Tell me I’m not just a thing.” The words are out of his mouth before he knows what he’s going to say. In that moment, he realizes this is what hurts him most. She can’t see past the face he wears sometimes. It is a convenient excuse for her. He’s a thing, doesn’t have feelings.

Buffy continues her struggle and wonders at how strong Spike is. The anger is fueling him. And now it is fueling her. “No. You are.”

Three words. Not the three words he has waited two years to hear, that he has dreamed of her saying to him late at night in his arms. No, these are not those words. Each of these words is a dagger into his heart. Piercing. His mind operating only barely through the red haze of his bloodlust, it is really too much. Lunging forward more out of instincts born of a hundred plus years than any actual decision, his fangs are in her neck in the next breath.

Spike feels the teeth sink into her pulsing neck with one smooth slice. Instantly, the hot thick flow of her blood fills his mouth. The fact that it is Slayer blood should make it all the more delectable, only it is not. In truth, the first drop burns his tongue. The next course of blood tastes like acid, bitter in his throat. In almost the same breath he bit her, he pulls back out. Scrambling off her body, Spike stumbles backwards, the back of one hand to his mouth. The game face slides away in an instant, but her blood glistens on his mouth, one slow drip running down his chin.

Buffy remains on the ground, hand to her neck to slow the blood. He bit her. Spike actually bit her. Had he planned to kill her? Her eyes are wide, fury draining from her body more quickly than her blood. The wash of horror and fear leaves her nauseated. He bit her.

Spike struggles to take in breath, gasping in the night air. Knowing he doesn’t need it is of no help. Tears run down his cheeks unheeded as he looks down at her. His Slayer. His Buffy. Right to think of him as an animal, a thing. Look what he did. Pushed too far and he sank his fangs right into her jugular like so many before her. Oh God, the blood is still in his mouth. He wants to retch, but he has to get away. Has to leave. Her eyes are so wounded. The anger that pushed them to fight vanishes, leaving only these raw feelings as he stands and she sits on the ground a few steps away. He is sick with himself for what…trying to kill his third Slayer? Is that what he was trying to do? Would he have done it? Spike shakes his head. No, no. no. He stopped. That must…oh god. The coat. In a struggle born of disgust with himself, Spike rips the duster from his back and flings it to the ground in a heap. Symbol of a Slayer killed. He has to have it away from him. In the next moment, he tears his shirt from his back, uses it to wipe his mouth clean of her blood. Buffy still has not moved. He can tell the blood has stopped. She’ll be fine. His skin gleaming in the harsh moonlight, Spike meets her eyes. His voice is soft, choked with tears. “I’m sorry, Buffy. I’m so sorry.” Tossing the shirt to the ground, he runs. He hears her calling out, but he can’t stop.

“Spike, wait. I’m oka-“ But he’s gone, his light skin swallowed by the distant shadows. Buffy is unsure why, but she didn’t want him to leave just then. Not until she understands why he bit her. And why he stopped. For some reason, she finds herself wondering if she’ll ever see him again. Ridiculous. Spike always comes back. Whether she wants him to or not. She crawls forward, reaching the pile of leather. Her hand sinks into the cold coat before looking into the darkness. And why did he leave his coat?

* * *



Spike looks over his shoulder at the lights of Sunnydale. Rubbing his bloodshot eyes, he turns to face the long road ahead of him. One last glance over his shoulder. “Sleep tight, Buffy. I’ll be back. Things are going to change. They have to.” Kicking the motorcycle into gear, Spike revs the motor. Done looking back, he fixes his eyes ahead on a quest of unknown destination. For the love of a woman, he will find his way back to the man he used to be. Being a thing is not enough, spending every night soulless is not enough. Not anymore.