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It hurts.
It shouldn't.
I'm so hopped up on drugs that I can barely feel Will's hand in my own. And the sheets are ghost memory. I think I'm feeling them cause I know they should be there. Like my eye.
"So, you're the one who sees so much." The words jumble in my mind. I've dissected and replayed them so many times I don't think I can remember the original sentence. Cause that's not the point.
The point is, years of being fall-back guy, donut-guy, the zeppo, the wiseacre, the grownup. And suddenly I have a superpower ? And I discover it as I'm losing it ?
Superman needs his ass kicked. The wuss. He had years before he discovered kyrptonite.
Although, Batman was formed from tragedy. So is this where I am ? Being formed ?
Except I've been fighting the good fight. I've got scars on my body far too ugly to ever be called sexy. Especially since there's no good reason to have them there. And a construction worker with scars is an insurance menace and maybe that's why I'm a foreman now. Hide the scars, hide the truth underneath suits and ties and Drakkar Noir.
And yeah, I wear it. I have to. The irony is just too good. The sarcasm.
I can remember Spike smiling, as he flipped out a cigarette, lit it and shook his head. It was the day after my promotion and I'd bought it to feel like a grown up and yet still hold on....and he'd just...
I haven't worn it since he and Anya, did...what they did.
Willow's holding my hand and soothing another down my arm. She's got this look in her eyes, not grief or fear but just a hint of something black. I'm no Tara. But how much further before his finger dug into my brain?
The thought makes me wince and Willow's right there, asking questions I can barely hear through drug haze and gauze.
I focus on Buffy instead. Her patented, 'It's my fault' look.
Someone needs to snap her out of herself.
My head hurts, I want to sleep.
"Spike..."
My voice is a croak.
Willow comes nearer and I work hard on hearing her. " Took...home...Giles..."
I blink, it's funny, realizing my eyelid is twitching over an empty socket. The thought makes me sick. But...home with Giles and the potentials. Spike's on protector duty.
I nod. "Talk to Buffy."
Willow moves to get up, but I hold on, surprised at my fingers' strength. "Get Spike here, talk to Buffy."
Willow looks at me confused, but I close my one eye and rest back.
Trust me.
If I see, then know I see that Spike's the only one who understands the level of her recrimination. Except he turned it around. He got a soul - went crazy and killed a few people, but I doubt that was in his 'pull m'self up by my boot strap' plans.
He can help her. She needs the help. There's evil in a winery. Feud over.
And besides, antiseptic covers up the smell of leather and saddle soap and cigarettes. And that might be the only way I'll get any sleep tonight, listening to Spike make pirate jokes.