Rating: R
Timeline: Post Season 6 with no reference to Season 7
Summary: Spike, struggling with his soul and his love for Buffy, is offered redemption from a very surprising source. However, when signs of an uprising evil begin to appear, he must face his fear and guilt and return to the place it all began for him—Sunnydale.

Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Joss Whedon. They are being used for entertainment purposes and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.

[Prologue] [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17] [18] [19] [20] [21] [22] [23] [24] [25]

[26] [27] [28] [29] [30] [31] [32] [33] [34] [35] [36] [37] [38] [39] [40] [41] [42] [43] [44] [45] [Epilogue]

*~*~*

He felt it.

An ache streaked across his back, and he felt it. A pounding echoed in his ears, and he felt it. Water dripped against his skin, and he felt it.

It felt so good to feel.

What an amazing sensation. Nearly a century and a half dwelling in only the memory of human candor rendered all vibrations new and unexplored: lodged somewhere within his conscious as the oddest sense of déjà vu. Something that existed within the depths of logic. Cold, dark, and unidentified. Feelings he never expected to again experience enveloped him with chilling possession, tightening every muscle in his body, stretching his brain until he thought it would ooze from his ears—forcing his eyes to escape behind their sockets as a silent scream fought its way to freedom. Agony? Perhaps a bit. But what was done was done.

Perhaps some disconcertion was in order. A restored soul was not supposed to do that. All at once, he felt limber and energetic, though he remained stationary on the ground. His lungs filled with air that he didn’t need, veins coursing with life—as though reflecting the best feed of a century.

It was odd to feel pain and bliss at the same time. It was even stranger to not crave pain as he had with such fervor.

It was odd for pain to hurt.

The soul was supposed to make him ache. Instead, it made him feel alive.

Good things never last, of course. Vampires in all senses were forbidden to feel alive. Consequences weigh heavily when they breech that unspoken barrier placed by nature between themselves and mortal man. A few minutes were granted before the first wave struck, attacking his gut with such force that it would have killed him were he not already dead. The next did not wait, nor was it any simpler to endure. Again and again, a foray of long-forgotten faces, long forgotten kills swarmed accusingly before him. Eyes flashed with the continuous silent recitation of Why? Why? Why? Do I dare? His throat tightened with a soundless scream, a hand struggling to find his eyes, to bat the images away. But they would not leave him. A soul was a curse for any aged vampire.

It was not his curse, though, and William recognized this. After witnessing the self-inflicted torment Angel put himself through, he had vowed never to let himself lower to that stage of desperation should a similar disadvantage befall him. Of self-loathing for something he could not change, could not have prevented. The promise had been empty at the time. Never had he seen himself in this position. Enduring the silenced pleas of those long dead.

He understood pain. He had tasted his share time and time again, enjoying it often. The thrill of the hunt, of the kill, of a good torture session involving railroad spikes. The taste of good blood. Motives came in all shapes and sizes, however ineffectual. Because he was bored. Because he was irritated. Because it was fun.

It wasn’t a curse. William knew the difference between himself and the demon Spike—knew because he felt the monster’s humanity, had for a long while. Toward the end, the line separating him from the killer had become so pale that it was nearly nonexistent.

Because of her. All because of her. She whom had led him here. She who had fueled his holy crusade. She who had given him life after taking it so many times. She who supplied his lungs with such blissfully unnecessary oxygen. Over and over again she had gone to him to die, and yet he was the one who fell cold. Spike had placed himself in the midst of the deadliest stare imaginable all for the feel of her skin under his. He had endured bitterness that came in the guise of pointed hate to cover her self-resentment. For her, he allowed himself to take the fall. Oh and how that stung! To be hurt time after time for her own misgivings.

How it felt to hurt her…

Spike…no…no Spike…please don’t do this.

William’s eyes snapped shut as a sharp pain jittered up his spine. An ache harboring in his chest begged for a second gulp of futile air and was denied. His insides were too clogged with the barriers of self-loathing for anything to pass. The back of his head began to pound with echoes of her protests, each stabbing at his brain with painfully sharp intent.

The biting venom of her rebuttal—(Ask me again why I could never love you)—was the most difficult to endure.

Spike had never known remorse or guilt. As the bloodsucking fiend, he had taken life after life, drank from countless suppliers, and did so with a song in his heart. And that was the way it was—the way he accepted it. The way all vampires accepted it. A soulless demon was not supposed to bear a conscience. No, no, that would get in the way. Chip or no chip, nothing was believed to affect his Jiminy Cricket. And truthfully, nothing had for a hundred years. There was Drusilla, those months with Harmony—stupid bint—and the span of a thousand lifetimes simply watching the idiocy of people. Long wasted years.

She had given him feeling. Feeling! He was Spike, the Big Bad, the baddest of the bad. No woman, no human woman was supposed to make him feel. But the demon could not lie. The demon knew love and loved the Slayer. The enemy. No matter how many times she brushed him off, he came back. No matter how she attempted to push him away, how she hurt him without a care, he always returned whenever she was in the slightest danger. Whenever she raised her voice in his direction. When he saw what he had nearly done to her, he would have gladly shoved a stake through his heart, if only to save her from himself.

He had hurt her. Hurt the woman he loved.

The demon whispered it was a fair trade for all the suffering it had endured in looking after her, and immediately silenced with the knowledge that she could never love anything so vile. So dangerous. So…him.

Irrefutably, things would have been easier had he never returned to Sunnydale. If he had taken his chance when he escaped with Drusilla and never looked back.

Even then, had she called, he would have come. Even then, she was his Slayer. His to keep and kill when he wanted. His to enjoy fights with. His to dance with. The thrill of the century, despite how she annoyed him. Despite how he wanted to rip her throat out with every encounter.

God, how things had changed.

You know, you got a willing slave…

He would have been, too. For months it seemed he was. There at her beck and call, there to help her whenever she inquired. Periods of tenderness always preceded her venting of self-disgust in the only way that made sense to her—inflicting as much pain on him as humanly possible. True, she wasn’t sadistic, but the Slayer loved a good fight, even if her opponent was rendered helpless.

Spike had been perverse. He loved pain, fed off it. Every punch seemed to satisfy more than hurt. Or so things had before he knew his love for her. Then it was thrust and parry; Buffy fought enough for both of them. The confession of love buried within his throat only fueled her rage. He was a demon, after all, and it was conventional knowledge that demons could not love.

But he had. Spike had loved with more fervor than many humans ever experience. Even before the dream changed his unlife, a softness covered by layers of rough exterior shaped him to care for Drusilla. He knew that she had never wholly loved him—never like he had her. A century has passed with her by his side, and he would have laid his life down for her if it was asked of him.

Demons weren’t supposed to know the humbleness of self-sacrifice. They weren’t supposed to know anything but bloodlust and mayhem.

For Buffy, though, he would have done so much more. He had held a stake to his old love’s heart, awaiting the word to turn her into dust. What he felt for the Slayer provoked a personal reform. Everything he had built himself up for—thrown away in a heartbeat if he thought she could ever reciprocate his feelings.

The very same Spike that had bragged proudly about the two Slayers notched in his belt. The very same Spike that had told Angel that demons never change. The same who ridiculed said vampire for being whipped and housebroken. The same who had time after time plotted her death.

The same who had saved her. Saved her so many times from vampires, demons, herself, in his dreams.

But never from him. Never from whom she truly needed saving.

William’s eyes slammed shut as the first wave of tears poured down his cheeks. In a century, he had only cried over her. Pain like he had never experienced shuddered through his system. It was as if he had bathed in holy water, if he was surrounded by a shrine of crosses, if a priest were hovered over him, reciting holy scriptures.

No. Worse. He had never known pain like this.

How could he have loved her and…

A demon felt guilt—the man beneath seethed in the repercussions and roared with the sacrament of consequences. His chest constricted and he grasped at his shirt, vision blurred with tears. A few seconds passed before he made the first fruitless attempt to stand, a few more before the second, and he finally conceded. His weary form crashed to the ground without rite as screams tore at his vocals. Long, agonized cries for the one he hurt. Screams that sounded his plight to a never-ending foray of darkness where he would never be heard, much less saved.

William saw his victims, the many he had killed, but ignored them all but to behold her face. That face wrought and twisted with the worse sort of betrayal.

All his victims were without ceremony. Spike had killed, but they both loved. Toward the end, it was both the man and the monster. They had both loved, they both lost.

Neither would ever see her again.

Chapter One

Since before time began, it was common knowledge that the air carries a growing musky scent identifiable to all living things when a storm approaches. Consciously or not, humans could detect rain long before it hits without having to consult the sky for an impending forecast. Old-timers would associate it with an uncomfortable twitch or pain; others might note the atmosphere tingled with a twitch of variation. Compact with moisture and forewarning. Of course, there were the more subtle hints. A crash of thunder following a streak of lightning, the pre-storm drizzle. Cloudy skies rolling with treacherous clouds: all signs that the weather is about to change. That God was preparing to throw another temper tantrum.

For vampires, the sensory was especially receptive. It was accepted and never questioned: demons of the night carried a higher will to sense such things. The lowest of mortal men could smell blood if they knew how to identify it, but vampires knew exactly when a person was cut. The rich scent tackled the air and stomach with little forewarning, rendering them helpless to do anything but obey and follow their noses. As was such with rain. Even before he peeled his eyes open, William perceived the telling aroma permeating the air. It was several hours away still, but he sensed it nonetheless.

Vampires would make the best meteorologists.

There was something else. The long years had taught him never to be unprepared for the oddest of events. Besides his ability to detect an oncoming storm, his mastery of location allowed him to never be caught off guard, should he awake in an environment that he did not close his eyes to. William knew the scent of Paris before it rained and could identify it anywhere. Likewise, the raw dryness of Prague was lodged deep into the layers of his cranium. Prague. He could never forget Prague. Even as a man, feeling nothing but sorrow for Drusilla, was defenseless to suppress the shudder from shimmying up his spine.

There was Sunnydale where every gust of wind carried the salt of her skin, a whiff of her hair, a tease of her perfume. Where he could not go anywhere without seeing something to remind him—something to bring her again and again to the tortured palace of his mind. She was housed there comfortably, watching him watch her. Taunting him. Teasing him. Loving him, if only in his dreams.

It was a nice fantasy.

Now, though, William was far from Sunnydale. It took only a huff of air to determine his location. Then it all came back as it always did. Every painful last recollection. Every stab at his broken soul.

London.

The room he occupied was dark, chilly, and not too unlike the crypt back home. A similar knowledge of the intricate sewer systems had allowed travel for nearly a month. It felt odd being back in the old country. A part of him stressed that he never really had left, and yet so much had happened. Conversely, at times it didn’t seem too long ago that he crawled to his feet with his newly acquired soul and made a break for the only other place that felt remotely close to home.

Nothing could be further away than the day he last held her.

Life after leaving Africa had been more or less the same old. To William, doing the things birthed into his system as only Spike would know it came simply. Guilt struck at intervals—seeing a familiar face in a crowd of many to remind him of some aged kill. However, the torment wasn’t constant. It wasn’t a curse.

There was that stable harboring of secreted agony that deactivated him every time he left to search for blood. Unlike Angel before him, William refused to revert to the readily accessible animal essence if an alternative was available. Granted, he couldn’t kill for his meals even if he wanted to, but there was a lovely underground society that rightly suited his needs. A bill here, a pint there. Willy the Snitch came to mind more than once.

The chip was ineffectual now. William’s desire to remove it remained intact only for its uselessness. It left only shock waves of superfluous pain through his head. Spider-webbing patterns of futile restraint. He was long accustomed to feeding from bagged blood and animals or whatever he could locate—the lack of the killing drive was nearly second nature.

Bloody well housebroken…

Watching people was fascinating.

Long ago, William had related to the slayer that people were only happy meals with legs. The infestation of his revived consciousness added greatly to structured perception. Hours were spent at cafés: hours in which he watched this oblivious creatures act out their lives.

It was better than Passions. So much better. The anger, the joy, the anxiety, the laughter, the betrayal expressed all through colorful eyes and contorted faces—voices raised or whispered hushes. Tears that poured against the strongest will. Confessions of uncontained love, similarly unkempt as husbands and wives made excuses to fornicate with their various paramours.

The greatest understanding of life came from watching it unfold. So many things Spike had never comprehended were painfully evident to William’s eyes. A small part of him whispered that it shouldn’t surprise him, but it did. Understanding humanity was a necessity of life that not even the living could grasp. In fairest regards, the demon had come closer.

That, and the irrefutable knowledge that time and experience had worn him down, and that he was eerily similar to the monster that inhabited his body. Together they screamed their plight, voices mending into one calling. Not because they used the same vocals, rather because it was the same provocation. They loved the same woman, spoke the same language, used the same words, and led damn near the same life. But for all the similarities, he had to remind himself that they were not one. There was Spike and there was William.

Which one was he?

So much. They shared memories, yearnings, even personality. William was far from the creature he was before humanity was stolen from him. Spike made him confident. Knowing the things he did, having committed the monstrosities he had, having felt as much fervor as any creature could. Demons couldn’t—by definition—experience guilt or remorse. Spike had. It had fueled his escapade and led him here.

He had willingly given William back. The demon had risen above everything that structured the flow of life and understanding. It was something Angelus was not capable of. Something no self-respecting vampire could feasibly accomplish.

A campaign for his freedom had brought him to his knees. Spike sacrificed himself because he loved her so much. To protect her from his capabilities—leaving a shell of a man in his place. William felt her still, but unlike his persistent demon, he bade himself to stay away. No good could come from a return to the States. It ensured only heartbreak and resentment and the fortunes of bad tidings. No penance.

He wanted to write again.

The sensations alone were inspiration enough to course a thousand pages. To feel alive again after being dead so long. To walk in the shoes of a man reformed. To see the things he saw. A world filled with as much poetry as this could not be forever caught in so many words, but he would be damned before he spent an eternity without trying.

The world flowed with poetry. Poetry as he could never have captured without the multiple lifetime’s experience weighing on his shoulders. Earth had many places for William the Broken-Hearted

His hair was somewhat longer now. Bleached streaks were beginning to fade at long last, his natural brown bleeding through after years of neglect. Characteristics that had died with him fought Spike’s trademarks to surface for power. He did not want to avert to either self that had formerly hosted his body.

This was a new man.

Again his mind wandered across the ocean as he raised a mug of blood-flavored coffee to his lips. With a little provocation, he contemplated what she doing. Thinking. If her thoughts rested with him.

If she missed him at all.

A bitter chuckle coursed through his system. Missed him. Hah! William ignored the scorn of sorrow that reverberated in affect and shook his head. “Bloody likely…”

So this was the way it would be from now on. Rather than mourn the hundreds of people he killed, eternity would be spent mourning the one he lost. Likely long after she was cold in the ground, he would still be bleeding—repenting—for what he did to her. It was a punishment centuries in the making, and would undoubtedly last until man saw his last era.

And it was deserved. William felt no unjust resolution in his punishment. After everything he had done to her, loving her from afar for the rest of his days was a minimal sentence. He had practice enough.

There was a nagging eating at his insides, however, that he could not deny. Though he did not doubt for a second that she could not thoroughly take care of herself, he had witnessed her slipping in the last year of their acquaintance. After everything that had happened to her—to them—it was only fair that she be granted the long awaited calm. The idea of anyone robbing her of her life pumped him with rage beyond control.

However, were she to die, he hoped to whatever deity that her friends knew to leave well enough alone. With as selfish as he was, he knew has he had known then that resurrection of any soul was risky business. It had damn near killed her the first time around. Satirical. Restoration nearly killing someone.

Ah, with perpetuity on his hands, he had time to stop and appreciate the irony.

Surely they would know enough by now. With the exception of Harris, the Scoobies were not entirely dense.

William grinned in spite of himself. Even in his transformed state, he could not abide the idiocy of her platonic associations. Xander annoyed him immensely as he had Angel. The boy simply gave off a bad vibe for vampires.

He had wondered more than once if Harris had abandoned Anya at the altar because of harbored feelings for Buffy. William snickered. While his sire had never made a hard habit of it, he had from time to time revealed how very much the boy rubbed him the wrong way.

Some people never surmount the memory of their first love. Of course, it would be hard to get over Buffy—especially if he had the luxury of seeing her when none other could. When she was carefree. Happy. Smiling.

Not with him.

These meditations likely would have ensued for some time had a recognizable scent not tackled his senses. Immediately, William perked, body tense and alert. His eyes scanned the crowds of passing civilians, seeing no familiar faces. It didn’t matter. He knew who was near—visual confirmation was uncalled for. The question—why?—arose, unbidden. Wherever he went for sanctuary, his past was waiting there to flaunt its violent self in his face. Despite the knowledge beckoning his wits, he didn’t want to accept the primal senses of higher perception.

After a minute, he forced himself to concede that it made sense. Out of everyone that could be there, this clicked within the lines of plausibility.

When he raised his eyes, William realized that he had similarly been detected. The man studied him strangely—confusion and more than confusion sprawled across his face. A face that demanded compensation in answers.

William understood immediately that he could not express anything that weaned toward humanity. The last thing he needed was someone to announce to the slayer that she had pushed another vampire fuckbuddy into a further soulful change. It wouldn’t matter that instead of driving one away she had inspired him to reclaim his. While he trusted the man not to betray his confidence—they both wanted the best for her, and would both agree such terms meant he had to stay as far from her as possible—even if one person knew of the transformation, it was one too many.

Thus he did what came natural, what had been natural for a century. With confident casualness, he leaned back and propped his feet over the café table, smirking unpleasantly. “Well, looky looky. Hello, Ripper.”

Rupert Giles blinked his surprise away, stepping forward to gauge a better look at him. A briefcase was clutched protectively to his chest, hand adjusting his glasses best to his ability as if to sharpen the focus, unbelieving. “Spike. Wha…what are you doing here?”

“Don’t look too surprised, old man. This is home for me, too.”

“Buffy mentioned that you had left Sunnydale.” If Giles noticed how William flinched at the reference, he wisely ignored it. “I thought perhaps you had returned to Los Angeles. That scene seems a bit more…you.”

He quirked a brow. “To what? Work beside Angel and friends? No can do, Ripper. The old country was calling me home.”

Giles’s eyes narrowed skeptically. “You’re not here at all because of Buffy?”

He flinched again. Visibly. The Watcher caught the reaction with ease and stepped forward, deciding against a discreet confrontation. “Ah, so it is. Must have been something to drive you out of town. After all the years we spent trying to get you to leave, they managed to finally discover the killing method. Tell me…how did they accomplish the feat?”

The man’s tone was justifiably cold, and William understood there was no reason to remain diplomatic. Of course he knew. Buffy wouldn’t hide something like this. With a sigh, he removed his feet from the table and leaned forward, letting his head fall into his waiting hands. “Good God,” he rasped, voice losing its permanent confident backing. “You must hate me.”

“Believe it or not, Spike, you have never held my high opinion.” Giles stalked forward like a predator, the epitome of a protective father. “But I never suspected that you would sink to such a low. I should have, but I didn’t. How we ever came to…” He paused, the word tasting wrong on his tongue. “…trust you in such an implicit and illogical manner is beyond me. What you did to her was unforgivable, and—”

“I know!” William finally erupted, releasing straining tension as his eyes welled with tears. “Don’t you think I…I’m not a complete idiot. I just—Oh God—I—” And then he couldn’t speak, couldn’t support himself. He fell to his knees at Giles’s feet, sobbing until he could produce no more tears. When the tremors subsided, he held his head to the ground, awaiting a kick to the gut or a punch to the face; something a person—a thing—of his crimes deserved. There was nothing. Baffled, he speculated the man would simply walk away and allow him his eternity to wallow in misery. He wondered if Giles would laugh at the display, if he would mock that he had driven William The Bloody to tears with nothing more than words.

However, the Watcher was more the wiser and did none of these things. He merely set the briefcase beside him on the ground, quieted, and studied him. What William did not expect was a hand to grasp his and help bring him to his feet. His eyes remained on the ground, unable to meet Giles’s gaze, looking up only when he sensed it was anticipated. A shade of confusion and reluctant faith had replaced the arctic storm behind the Watcher’s eyes. Comprehension blossomed and dawned, and he knew.

He knew.

The burden of being released was too magnanimous for William to pause and consider the negative consequences of his breech. Former convictions be damned. Someone knew. Someone knew. In that wonderful moment, nothing else mattered. Not the likelihood of his exposed cover, not the knowledge that would likely tell the Scoobies. It didn’t matter that instead of facing an eternity being hated he would face it pitied instead. It simply didn’t matter. Someone was here and they understood and that was all he cared about.

He wondered idly how she would react, but knew somewhere that she was only prone to feel compassion beyond seething hate. William The Once Bloody. William The Pathetic.

“They have cursed you, haven’t they?” Giles concluded with suspended disbelief. “Somehow…to make you more docile.” His eyes sought answers, finding them to his expectations before a response was vocalized, and he furiously whipped the glasses from his nose. “Fools! How can they not see that this will—”

“Calm the bloody hell down, Ripper,” William berated softly; pulling himself together in a manner that nearly seemed too simple even as tears still skidded down his cheeks. “Scoobies didn’t do anything to me.” He met the questioning gaze and continued without waiting for the inevitable question. “I did it. All on my own. Went to Africa to get this sodding chip out of my head, and got all souled up instead.”

For a minute there was nothing but balanced silence. Gazes exchanged in rapidity as Giles digested the new information, disbelief evident. Hesitance to think anything so…noble could— “You…you got a soul. You chose a soul?”

“I’m not sure,” William answered honestly, heaving out a sigh. “I didn’t ask for the chip out, if that’s what you mean. I asked for what she deserved, and they gave her this. Me with a bleeding soul.” Emotion welled within him, threatening to produce more tears. His chest constricted with familiar pain, the sort that sought air despite the host of a body that did not need it. “It was right, you know. I earned this soul, and she deserves it.” He huffed out another ineffectual breath. “I need to stay away from her, Ripper. After what I…I don’t suppose you’ll believe me if I say that I never meant to hurt her. Then, I mean. I know I’ve meant to hurt her plenty of times, but not then. I wouldn’t…I’ve never…”

Gaze still suspicious, Giles motioned for the table he had occupied a few minutes before. “Sit, Spike. With credibility, I learn to forgive many things. Angelus killed Jenny, but I forgave Angel. Spike hurt Buffy, but—”

“I didn’t mean to!” he cried defensively, tears rising again. “You’ll believe me, right. Because I’m all souled up with no place to go, but believe the demon, too. I was there, remember? I know what I was feeling, just as Peaches knew what he felt when he made Dru go all topsy turvey.” Eyes shining like birthstones, he leaned forward and emphatically pounded his fist onto the table. “I. Didn’t. Want. To. Hurt. Her. The truth, mate, is I’ve been…in this state of euphoria for a while. The soul can’t take all the bloody credit.”

“But you would have done it,” the Watcher accused coldly. “Had she not—”

“I know!” William cried strenuously. “That was the demon. And it kills me. But the…I loved her. I do love her. That includes the monster.” When he saw the man’s disbelieving gaze, he gave up, head crashing into waiting arms. “I know I’m to blame, Ripper. Don’t get me wrong. But you don’t understand. You can’t. You don’t know what it’s like to have your entire belief system set up and lived by for a hundred happy years, then crushed by the girl whose supposed to be your enemy. I don’t understand it half the time; how the bloody hell should I explain it?”

“Because it’s impossible, Spike!” Giles spat. “Demons CAN’T love!”

At that, William grew angry. The demon within him raged to be released and correct that overstated misconception. Everyone stressed the point. Did they think he was deaf? “Explain it to me, then, how I could have stayed with Dru all those years? If it was sins of the flesh, why wouldn’t I not have left her the minute she lost her strength for someone strong and durable? Cor, you can’t get a bloke to stay married to his honey for three months in this world anymore. I was with Dru for a century, faithfully, before I ever heard the name Buffy Summers. You can’t tell me it was fun for me, mate. I saw Dru do some damn near intolerable things, things that make the black hearted squirm when they’re not too busy squealing with delight. She played me like a bleeding yoyo, but I stayed. Because I loved her.” Seeing no response in Giles’s cynical expression, he rolled his eyes and bristled. “Forget it. Anyone who hasn’t walked a mile in my shoes would never understand.”

“Forgive me if I fail to see the redeeming light while knowing that that very same demon tried to rape Buffy.”

“The demon, mate. She brought out the humanity in the demon. I wouldn’t—it wouldn’t…whatever, wouldn’t have changed for just anyone.” William scoffed, hurt, but convictive. “She played me, too, you know. Worse than Dru ever did. At least she—”

He suddenly found himself with a faceful of fist, a blow that knocked him out of his chair. Then he knew he had gone too far. There was no way to explain this without going too far. Rubbing his jaw agilely, he clamored to his feet.

“How dare you?” Giles rasped. “How dare you compare Buffy to Drusilla? How dare you insinuate—”

“It’s the bloody truth!” William roared, the volume of his voice alone provoking attention. “Stop acting like a sodding father who can’t stand to hear something about his girl unless it makes her look like a bleeding model citizen. I am not trying to defend myself! I wanted to die that night. I’ve wanted to die every night since getting this blasted soul. All I’m saying is that Buffy…she would show me tenderness, then kick my arse. She kissed me then socked me, slept with me then beat me to a bloody pulp. I deserve all I got, and more than. But I didn’t then. All I did was love her, and she…she used me. Said so, too. Said she was using me, then beating me senseless to vent the rage she had at herself.” Calming at last, he looked up and waited for another punch. Another well-deserved punch. It didn’t come. Instead, Giles sat down again, his eyes trained with distrust. “Neither of us did right by that.” Silence then, allowing time for the Watcher to collect his thoughts and reply. A few minutes passed with nothing; just the noisy streets behind them, people passing and speaking of random things. Nothing of interest.

Finally, William stood, shaking his head. “What’s the point? Whatever I say, whatever I do—”

“How did you…the demon feel after Buffy kicked you out?”

“I already told you, Ripper. Like I wanted to stake myself.” His shoulders relaxed, hands finding home at his hips. “Demons aren’t supposed to have a bloody conscience. She made me…humane. The monster.” He shook his head and looked down. “It hurt more than anything I’ve ever—”

“And you wanted the chip out?”

“I thought so.” William shook his head again heavily, closing his eyes. “I really thought so. I…think so. Bloody hell, I don’t know what I wanted. Mostly, I wanted rid of the cursed sense of…loving but not having. Of loving at all.”

“And now?”

“Wha? Oh, the chip? Yeah…I want it out. There’s no point, mate.” Discreetly, he pointed to his heart and shrugged. “It’s there. Bleeding soul, and everything that comes with it. Guilt and likely years of excessive brooding.” He scoffed. “Maybe I do belong in LA with Peaches. He could gimme some pointers.”

Giles frowned. “Is it just Buffy…what you did to her that drives your guilt?”

“Honestly, yes. Because mate, a part of that was me. Not all of it, but a part. Demon or no demon, it loved her and I love her. It wasn’t me who killed all those people. That was the demon before it was tamed.” He laughed unpleasantly at the insinuation. “Domesticated. Point is I rather doubt I hurt anyone ever again without putting a bloody stake through my chest two seconds later. The chip just…hurts.” At that he paused, considered, frowned, and retracted. “You know, forget I said it. Take it all back. Leave the sodding chip in. I deserve it.”

“You do,” the Watcher agreed. “Just remember that.”

Bitterly, William scowled at him. “If this is the best thing you have to do then I suggest you bugger off, Ripper. I give myself enough hell. I don’t need any pointers from the peanut gallery.”

The air turned cold and nothing passed between for another long minute. The vampire managed to maintain contact, not about to admit that he did not feel worthy enough to even look Giles. Despite the unfortunate circumstances, he had to attempt to preserve one shred of dignity. Finally he sighed, looking away and shaking his head with culmination. “Forget it. Do me a favor: don’t tell Buffy that you saw me when you see her again. Don’t tell her anything. I don’t want her to stop hating me just because I got me a soul.” He sighed, turning away. “She won’t, I know, either way…but she can’t know. She can’t know that I’m…”

Without turning back, he sensed Giles rising behind him. Then a hand was at his shoulder, oddly comforting.

“Whatever happened between you and Buffy wasn’t good for her,” the Watcher observed coldly, unapologetic for the reference that made the vampire’s flinches more and more perceptible each time it was recycled. “It put her in a place that might take years to bring her out of.” There was a sigh. “I can’t believe I am about to say this. You don’t deserve to hear it, but here it comes anyway. Spike, I don’t believe she would have reacted as she did if she did not feel something for you. But I agree. It is right that you two stay apart. Nothing good could ever come from—”

“Right then.” William stepped out of arm’s reach and turned to face him. “Then it was good seeing you, Ripper. Take care of her for me.”

A vague look of surprise cascaded over Giles’s face. He frowned and stood—the embodiment of British etiquette whenever one, even a lowly bloodsucking fiend, was the departing party. Conflict sprawled across his features, and just as the vampire stepped near the boundaries of earshot, he called after him.

Witnessing Giles jog was a sight to remember. One arm swinging gracefully at his side, the other tucking his briefcase tightly near his chest, he stopped and caught his breath, ignoring the look of bewilderment that William was shooting in daggers. At that, the Watcher sneered and gathered himself, making a move to straighten his tie. “Don’t even bother,” he suggested. “You can’t be anywhere as surprised as I am.”

William’s eyebrows perked and he reached into his coat pocket—notably not his duster—and withdrew an unopened pack of cigarettes. “Wanna place a pretty wager on that?”

“You still smoke?”

“Bloody right, I do.” He lit the cigarette and blinked, scowling in confusion. “Just out of curiosity, why would I not? Not going to die of cancer anytime soon.”

“Well…I know Angelus smoked, but Angel never expressed the—”

The vampire scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Bollocks,” he sneered. “Is this the way it’s going to be every five seconds? ‘When Angel has a soul, he does this. When Angel has a soul, he does that.’ Angel’s a bloody pedestal. Do I look like Angel to you?”

Giles looked at him resignedly.

“Right,” William continued. “I’m not Angel. Angel couldn’t love her without a soul. I can. I did. I’ve been there. Think Angelus would have let her lead him around like a sodding dog on a leash?”

“Are you going to make me hit you again?”

He blinked in surprise, words miraculously stolen from his lips. “Are you asking permission? That’s a first.”

“Do not test me, Spike,” he warned grimly. “Soul or no soul, you’re still rather harmless when it comes to the living.” The skies began to thunder, a streak of lightning painting the shadows of a cloud before fading to black. Neither made note of it, simply continued walking as couples scurried from the sidewalks in search of shelter.

“What is it you want, old man?” William asked at last, puffing the last of his cigarette away before tossing it aside. “With as much as—”

“I want your help.”

He stopped cold in his tracks as the heavens opened and it started to rain. Giles paused a few strides ahead of him and turned, manifestly unashamed of the reference that nearly provoked tears from his companion. A few wayward flashes of surprise streaked across his face with timely cracks of lightning, but he did not withdraw his statement or leap to an explanation. They simply watched each other: one untrusting, one unworthy. One willing, one hesitant.

A war raged within him. Helping the slayer’s former watcher would likely not do much to banish her from his mind, however futile the task was predetermined to be. The inward voice he had grown so accustomed to listening to screamed that no good could come from this. Any remaining associations with—

If he helped Giles, he inadvertently helped her. He owed her that much.

“Why?”

“To prove that you love her, Will.” The man simply astonished him. The intractable use of his given name, spoken without hindrance. With understanding. Almost Man-To-Man. “To start from the very bottom and make as many amends as you can within this lifetime. I have to take Willow back to Sunnydale in a few days. There I do not intend to stay for too long…” He broke off and sighed, looking down. “I need to see her do better. To finally progress. Last year was such a…hard year on all of us.” Wisely, he ignored the flinch that crossed William’s face. “In order for her to grow, she must do so without me there telling her what to do. But as you might understand…” He laughed slightly. “I cannot stay out of her life. I cannot stop watching after her. I have for so long. It feels wrong not to.”

“Then why don’t you stay there? Or somewhere closer to there?” The vampire drew a hand across his head, swiping elongated strands of browning hair from his eyes. Rain continued to pour, and they both ignored it. “She’ll need you eventually, Ripper. She’s the slayer, but she’s different. Don’t you get it? The slayer without friends and family to support her is the one who dies. You think either of the slayer’s I did in had a support system? Think I’d be here if they did? Bloody no. You, Red, Soldier Boy, Peaches, even Harris and the Nibblet have kept her alive this long, and—”

A pained look crossed the Watcher’s face, and William could see what was coming. More words that were earned in a rite of passage, but made no less comfortable to admit, much less vocalize. “You forget someone. You have too, Will. Much as it pains me to admit it, you’ve done a lot of good in your day.” A shadow crossed his face. “But still managed to cause a world of hurt. I do not know if she will ever be able to forgive you, but allow me the chance to help her try.” Giles spoke casually, though it was obvious that every word was stinging him as though he had walked into a barbed wire fence, and each step was digging into him a little bit more than the last. “When I return from Sunnydale, I will maintain my watcher duties by researching prophecy dates and keeping steady contact with Xander. He told me he would…watch out for her and alert me to all the demonesque happenings back home.” He stepped forward again, beyond the fence and into new territory. Willful evolution passed residual prejudices. “I could really use your assistance…your knowledge and your experience about vampire habitués and what upcoming dangers she might face. If prophecies do look to be occurring, you can…well…”

“In other words,” William sneered, shaking his head, “you want me to be your replacement Angel? Lost yours a few years ago, you did. Your helpy helper with all the books and…” He broke off when he saw Giles’s face, smirk fading, resonance setting in immediately. “You know I would do anything for her.”

Though he nodded, the Watcher could do nothing but observe him doubtfully—the sort of look that read: You’re my only choice, but you’ll do. “You keep saying that,” he noted. “Prove it. Help me.”

“I will.” And that was that. A contract constructed through dialogue. An understanding. A comfort zone. The promise was made and would not be broken. No fee was offered and none would be asked. This was not a job—it was retribution. His way, however meager, to compensate for multiple wrongs. “What do you want me to do, then?”

“Keep quiet, firstly. We do not need Willow seeing you and passing along the news back home. The more people who know of your condition, the more likely Buffy is to find out.” The promise was still unspoken, but William understood with no ceremony that Giles would keep to the request and remain silent about these matters. “I suggest you stay in for a few days. When I return, we will begin our studies.”

So simple. “Right.” William blinked then as though his eyes had just opened and realized he was sodden from head to toe. “Ummm…when did it start raining?”

“A while ago, Spike.”

“Will. I liked it better when—”

“I’ll call you what I like. Where will I find you, when I return?”

Making no move for shelter, William stood back and turned to the vacant tables outside the café, lights still spry as people hovered over warm cups off coffee to shake off the storm. “Good a place as any. I’m there mostly every night.”

“Doing what exactly?”

“Watching. People are so…”

“Inedible.”

He grinned wickedly. “Have been for a while, pops.” He pointed with familiar matter-of-factness to his cranium and tapped. “Then it is, then. I would say hi to Red, but…”

“Yes, yes.” Giles began moving with more fervor, as though just realizing that he, too, was drenched with rainwater. “Then it is. When I return, I—”

“Just find me, old man. I’ll be lurking about somewhere.” William turned as the Watcher did and they stalked in their separate directions.

The rain continued to beat for a few seconds before ceasing with cold asperity. He did not notice. Like a reptile, the climate was rarely a concern. Same old. His thoughts were far away. Wondering, debating if he had made the right decision for her.

A part of him wanted her to know so badly, but he knew it was wrong.

No, no. This was much better. He would help without involvement.

This way, he could protect her without harming her with his presence.

Chapter Two

Ten days passed with the same slow monotonous tenor. A number of random doings piled onto his work list—nothing he would ever construct into cold habit. Errand followed errand infinitely to pass time, and did so with ever unchanging slowness. William understood. In the old days, life sped with little interest to the timetables of others. Same old filled his plate like a reliable ice cream flavor. A kill here, a hunt there. Tedium in all its glory.

He had only had occasion to count the days once.

How he had ever gotten away with the never-ending complaints of ennui was beyond him. There were the slopes, yes, but everyone experienced those. The century had birthed him into a world-class complainer. Defending champion of the first rank.

He wished he could go back to that selfish waste of flesh and snap him out of it, though knew Spike would likely break his neck in retribution—in the heat of denial that he could ever reach such a lowly state. The only thing that would save him was the indisputable presence of the demon’s bigheadedness. That and perhaps the need to satisfy some perverse fantasy conjured up by Drusilla. Regardless of what she said about being ill, he knew that she enjoyed being petted in the way he had cared for her.

And so it was for ten days. Nightly visits to the café and the retreats that commenced at closing. Uneasy, disturbing sleep from dawn until sundown and begin again. Day by day trips made to the underground supplier of blood to paying vampires. There he remunerated with stolen funding, sampled, cringed at the foul secondary taste, then coughed up the extra bucks for an additional bag. Willy the Snitch had sold better stuff, but vampire regulars assured him that it was an acquired taste. He would get used to it, though he had never before tasted foreign packaged blood from inferior sources. As all things, he supposed it would take some getting used to. What choice was there?

Red had once made the transition from regular to diet soda by mixing the two to wean herself on the weaker product. While he couldn’t mix pig’s blood with humans unless there was a willing donor or an especially hot delivery to his supplier, it was blood-flavored coffee for him. Not completely despicable. It helped drain away the bad taste.

“It doesn’t taste as sugary,” Red had told him at the Magic Box as she popped open two cans and poured both into the same glass. It was one of those rare moments he had with her alone. Spike had always liked to think that the chip had forced him to forge the ridiculous alliance with the Scoobies, but truth be told, he had liked Willow for a long while. Long before he knew his love for Buffy. While they had never been particularly close, she treated him as close to a man as any of them ever had when they spoke. She was his first non-victim after the Initiative planted the chip in his skull. She gave him the cookie to get the Buffy taste out of his mouth. She was Red, plain and simple.

That particular day, she had been in a chipper mood. It was during one of her ‘on’ phases with Tara. “Takes some getting used to is all,” she had observed, more to herself but loud enough to welcome commentary. “Soon I’ll quit cold turkey and it’ll be tasteless diety goodness for me.” Then, with a slightly less enthusiastic grin, she had mimicked a cheerleader whoop and twirled her hand in the air. “Yay diety goodness.”

On the tenth night, Giles approached him. Appearance worn and demeanor fatigued, he breathed a near inaudible greeting and took a seat without awaiting invitation. William nodded and took a hearty drink.

“You’ve looked better, Ripper,” he noted casually after a few seconds. “Jet-lagged?”

There was a nod of confirmation, though no reply until the Watcher had ordered a latte. Perhaps it was the lack of jest in tone, but William was genuinely surprised at the man’s passive conduct. No biting remark or stinging retort. Nothing to suggest he was the scum of the earth and deserved to be hated instantly by anyone who approached him. Best not to waste it; he was too smart to think such could last. He thought it wise to wait until addressed before speaking again.

Keeping Spike silent—soul or no soul—was a trying activity. Fortunately, his wait was not overly emphasized. As the waitress brought his order, Giles leaned forward and drew in a breath. “The trip lasted longer than I anticipated,” he observed, taking a deep drink of much-needed caffeine. “Rehabilitating Willow into life without…she reacted better than I would have guessed. Buffy asked me to stay for a few days and accompany them to the regular places. The Bronze, and what have you.” He paused thoughtfully. “For better or worse, Willow is staying with Xander until we know that she has fully recovered.”

“Recovered?” William understood that Red had experienced a dark aversion into the black arts, but had yet to hear anything of the chaos that ensued following his departure. She had performed a number of potions and spells that somehow went awry over the past few years—often with what he considered to be amusing and self-beneficial consequences.

Giles regarded him with surprise. “Oh. I forgot you were elsewhere. Yes, Willow had a…rather serious episode last year.”

Concern was the initial response, though he understood that if anyone was seriously injured the old man would have told him by now. Still, his thoughts were trained and he would not be at rest until he heard verification. “Is everyone…how are they?”

“Alive,” Giles replied. “Though I suppose you guessed that.” Then his voice grew grave and weary—an all around solemn air overcoming him. “My mistake. Tara…well, Tara was killed. It’s what…”

William’s eyes went wide and he leaned forward. “Oh God. Red…she…”

“Willow couldn’t cope. Her repression into the dark arts presented itself with the deadliest of forces. She killed Warren and attempted to destroy the world.”

He blinked disbelievingly. “Red? Destroy the world?”

“Xander brought her out of it.” The Watcher sighed heavily. “It wasn’t really her, Spike. It was almost like she was—”

“A vampire?” He pressed forward cautiously, aware that anything was liable to blow into his face. “Angelus?” It wasn’t the best example he could have provided, but the only one that instantly sprang to mind. Angel was the only vampire the Scoobies had seen both sides to.

“A demon,” Giles covered quickly, though he had reddened, as though scorched. “As if a demon had possessed her or…something. She was reacting to Willow’s emotions, but she wasn’t Willow.” Though conviction splayed across his face, William could tell it was difficult convincing even himself. It was always complicated when a loved one goes bad.

Almost as hard as it was when a natural-born killer has a sudden attack of conscience.

Then the vampire’s eyes darkened. Though he felt no justification at responding to a negative insinuation, the thought still made him writhe. And he couldn’t stop himself. “Oh, so it’s that… You can forgive Red for trying to wipe out all humanity. A demon inhabits for a century and everything is still my fault.”

As soon as it was out of his mouth, William’s pupils dilated with the foreknowledge of his ignorance and he looked away in shame before Giles could conjure a reply. Hearing confirmation was unneeded. He understood he had again crossed the line. It was difficult not to now that he didn’t know where it was drawn. “I’m sorry, Ripper. I’m a bleeding fool. I…” he trailed off in desperation. “I just want to make everything right. I know I can’t, but I’ll spend the rest of time trying.”

Silence still. He would not look up. Even now, the wrong word, the wrong thing, spoken before he could consider the consequences. The soul had not affected his already-suffering judgment. Lord knew he had done it time after time in her presence. Knowing what he felt, knowing what seemed most logical to him but speaking so insensitively that no one would give him a second’s deliberation. Same old song but set to a different tune.

He had tried. He had tried so hard to understand compassion. No one had ever credited his attempts.

Though unsafe, a few silent seconds later he hazarded a look at the Watcher, surprised not to discover Giles’s eyes arctic as he had suspected. Rather, he drew in a breath and looked down, reaction not reflecting through his expression. “I understand your aggravation, Spike. However, this is going to be difficult. Much more so than it was with Angel. We knew him before he lost his soul, and we understood how to talk to him. React to him. With you, we’re all so accustomed to—”

“But even before that, Ripper!” William erupted, unable to help himself. He slammed an angry fist against the table, ignoring the crack that sprang beneath his fist and ran the length of the surface. “I was trying so bloody damned hard. Do you have any sodding idea how hard it was for me? How…I’m a demon, man! Soul or no soul, the demon is there. It will always be there. It’s eating away at my insides, paining me with every turn—every time I crave blood, the demon begs to take over.” He shook his head heavily. “But I’ve tamed it. I tamed my monster.”

The Watcher’s eyes were dark but not accusing. “How can you know?”

“I’ve been able to hit…hurt Buffy for…since before we were…” The word ‘together’ did not fit anywhere in their relationship. And gauging the expression on Giles’s face, elaboration was not needed. “A kink in her revival. If I wanted to kill her…I’ve had plenty of opportunities.” With a sad smile, he gazed off thoughtfully. “I used to just…just watch her. That first night…I couldn’t stop watching her. As she slept…she breathed. Cor, I’d never seen anything so beautiful. She was warm. She was so small and deadly. So—”

“Not yours,” Giles growled. Though he didn’t twitch beyond his lip curling in disgusted—however bottled—rage, William was sure he saw his punching fist flex ever so slightly.

“Not anyone’s,” he agreed. “The point, mate, is that I came to a point where the sodding chip didn’t matter anymore. If I wanted her dead, I would’ve killed her during—or—when I had a chance. When she was most vulnerable. I didn’t.” He exhaled deeply and took a sip of blood-coated coffee. “Maybe she was right. Maybe it wasn’t love. I’ve never known anything else. It felt…it was stronger than what I had with Dru.”

“What you had with Drusilla wasn’t—”

“Don’t bloody judge until you’ve bloody been there, wanker,” William snapped, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have to walk on bloomin’ eggshells around you. We’ve already covered this.” Contradiction was written clearly on Giles’s face, but he ignored it and gazed off with thoughtful indifference. There were so many swarming emotions in his head; things he knew, things he remembered, things that were so new and viable that it took his breath away. It had been two months since he acquired his soul and the adjusting had yet to wear off.

“I didn’t understand until now,” he reflected gravely, unsure if he intended to speak aloud but continued when he saw no harm in it. “I couldn’t grasp that loving meant leaving when she asked me to. It was all ‘I want, so I stay until I get.’ Bloody idiot.”

Giles’s gaze was unsympathetic and wary, though still far from furious. It seemed palpable to the place he was at, though he had made no attempt to grasp it. The vampire felt it every now and then, heard it creep into his voice, but the Watcher never allowed it to consume him. He was putting out every effort. “I’m not entirely inclined to disagree with you.”

“But it doesn’t matter at all that I was trying? It wasn’t all for her, you know. I helped the Nibblet when big sis was bloody six feet under.” William closed his eyes painfully. “I went against my nature willingly. I—”

“You can stop trying to convince me. I believe you, Spike,” Giles announced without preamble. His voice was soft-spoken but carried the force of a massive storm—perhaps the four most liberating words in the English language. All at once, he felt himself swell with release and hope. The rarest form of hope.

I believe you, Spike.

That was all he would get from Ripper, and astonishingly, it was enough. Never before had something so meager been enough to sate his appetite. It was more than he had been allowed from a living being in the entirety of his demonic existence. Trust. Faith. From a man.

From Giles.

“Thanks, old man,” he murmured, barely audible with the enormity of his gratitude. “I appreciate it.”

The Watcher nodded and took a sip of latte. “I know.”

“Still hate me?”

“With a passion.” He smiled grimly. “And who are you to call me ‘old man’?”

“You prefer Ponce? Or Poof? Or bloody poofter?”

“Unless I am mistaken, you turned one hundred twenty nine this year. Or was it a hundred thirty?”

“Yeah,” William retorted with a cocky drawl, relaxing his hands behind his head. “Might as well say it if I can get away with it.” His grin was authentic. It felt good. He hadn’t smiled in weeks. “So, aside from Red, how was everyone?”

“Better. Xander is trying to win back Anya with a variety of…well—”

There was a perceptible huff. “Poor bloke. His girl all…well…she still demony?” The subject of Anya was a sensitive one, and he wasn’t about to bring it up for the unlikelihood that Giles wasn’t aware of that portion of his indiscretions.

The Watcher merely quirked a brow and took another sip of his drink. “Not really a remedy for that that we are comfortable working. Willow is completely off magic now, or should be. Buffy has to be sure to keep her away from the Magic Box, and Xander performs nightly inspections of her room and sorts through her personal things. All things witchcraft have been banished from the house. Beyond what did it for her the last time, Anya remains rather…demony, as well as cold to Xander’s attempts. Repellant. No one said anything, but I believe everyone—or at least, no everyone—thinks you are to blame.”

The smile dissipated from his face and blunt coldness washed over. Cold hardly affected him, but this did. It shook him until his insides rattled. “Because—oh, bloody hell. I really did bugger things up for myself.”

“Putting it lightly,” Giles agreed.

William sighed and snapped his eyes shut. The next question was futile and he knew what his answer would be, but it had to be asked. Just for that shimmer of hope that something had passed. That someone had made reference. Had remembered. Had forgiven. “So…no one…she didn’t, mention me, did she?”

“No. Furthermore, they don’t know that I’ve seen you.”

It was difficult to feel disappointment at something that was manifest in answer, but it seethed still. “How’s the Little Bit?”

“Cold and impervious to most everyone. She said all of three words to me over my visit. Dawn was glad to see Willow and appeared closer to Buffy than I have seen in…well, ever.” The Watcher shook his head as though astonished. “I only saw her establish meaningful dialogue with her sister and Xander. Buffy’s working with her, I think. Helping her learn how to defend herself and slay demons.”

The vampire grinned but felt no joy behind it. “Good for her. The Bit deserves it.” The thought that the man had been so close was nearly intolerable. Exhaling again quickly, he nodded and looked away. They needed to discuss something else. Quickly.


What else was there to talk about?

Shop.

“So, any big evil arising?” he drawled conversationally, best he could. “Anything I can—”

“Where are you staying, Spike?”

The question successfully astounded him and broke his line of thinking. “Below. Found me a place not as nice as home, but reasonable. Right near a finicky eatery for vamps. Sweet little set-up.”

Giles grinned humorlessly. “You hate it, don’t you?”

“With a bloody passion.” For a minute, he thought the Watcher might do something completely out of character and offer him room and board. Under such circumstances, he would have to decline. The man had only recently gone from wanting to stake him to this level of civil conversation.

Besides, he couldn’t afford to look like a bloody poofter. He might not be Spike any longer, but he had the demon’s reputation to live up to.

As he suspected, his worries were in vain. Giles had far too much dignity to even hint toward suggestion and was still miles away from trusting him. It was understandable. In these early stages, he was learning still how to trust himself.

“I wonder, Spike…have you considered taking on an actual occupation? Something that would make a decent living?”

“Living?” he scoffed, curious but not about to reveal his interest. “Do I look alive to you?”

“Well, to the untrained eye, yes…I would say you do.”

A brief pause. “That’s beside the point. Sod the bloody untrained eye. Do you know how long it’s been since I put in an honest days work?”

“An honest day’s work is not what it used to be, and furthermore, such is all the more reason to hear me out,” Giles retorted with annoying insistence. “It won’t be overly difficult. I have become aware of a position open that I thought might tickle your fancy.”

Pointedly, William sat back and quirked a brow. “Go on, mate. I’m at the edge of my seat. Although, I warn you, if it’s not as medical assistant for the Red Cross, I’m liable to up and leave.”

“And what a shame that would be. The…well, a library near me has a curator position open. I know you are slightly less than…couth in such areas, but you do possess a first-person knowledge of various historical occurrences.” Pause for input. Nothing. As his unimpressed gawk grew longer and more blasé, the Watcher only frowned and continued. “You would be required to remain indoors during light hours, I expect. As long as you stay away from windows, which shouldn’t be any difficulty. There is a spacious basement with—”

“In other words, Ripper, you want me to do something that you would be great at.” William’s eyes narrowed skeptically. “We might be on better terms, mate, but I am not a younger…looking version of you.”

“It could help us, Spike. I need a safe hold for my volumes and a quiet place to research.” Then, in a lower voice he added, “It could help her.”

That was it. That was the killing blow, and Giles knew it. Briefly insinuate her in any form and he would obey like a well-trained dog. With a resigned sigh of defeat, he looked down and shook his head. “Dirty pool, old man. The things a bloke will do for a sodding dollybird.”

The Watcher grinned victoriously. It was odd watching the man gloat; he hardly made practice of it. “Excellent. Now, there are some preparations—”

“Preparations?”

“—that we need to cover. You’ll have to get cleaned up…” His eyes studied William’s appearance dryly from head to toe, as though he had just seen him. In truth, the vampire varied little in look excluding the coloring of his hair and the absence of the duster. There weren’t many bathing opportunities when you lived underground, but in all fairness, he made due with what he could and cleansed as much as possible. “Considerably. And you’ll need some respectful attire. A—”

“Wait just a bleeding minute! I refuse to become your dress-up doll.”

Giles frowned at him. “For Buffy,” he said shortly, deactivating his fire with instantaneous reflex.

“Garr!” the vampire growled. “Fine! Fine! Fine! Say the magic name and I’ll do your bidding.”

The Watcher grinned and had the decency to look mischievous. “That is the idea,” he agreed. “I’ll arrange a meeting with the administration tonight. Would…” Again he trailed off, features not as pleasantly occupied as before. A scowl tickled his lips before the façade of resolve set in. A disagreeable but essential condition. “You will have to stay with me tonight. I have some…suits you may borrow and I need to quiz you on your qualifications. Produce some paperwork and so forth.” Giles looked up, saw he was about to protest and silenced him significantly by arching his brows, not needing to say the name again before the hint was taken without rebuttal.

William slumped in defeat. The echo of her name reverberating in his mind silenced the smaller voice that screamed, Bloody poof! “Fine,” he grumbled. “Fancy me up, mate. You can take the bleeding paperwork, too. But I’ll tell you right now—I’m not about to take any history lessons from you. I was born when the most interesting history was happening. My grandpap fought in the Revolutionary War and I can guaran-damn-tee you that my schooling as a youngster was much more—well, thorough than any of the Scoobies’. The World Wars, well…I had a bloody bloodfest with Dru. Damn near tasted all the warm foreign blood I could. As I recall, wars were the best times to feed. I—”

“And no guilt, how astonishing.” The remark hit a barb and earned a glare; both of which went ignored. “Spike, I don’t need an illustration of your experience.”

“And I, Ripper, don’t need you to tell me things that I would know more about than you.” The vampire leaned back with a familiar tang of arrogance. “I speak several languages and can read a dozen more, have caused history as much as I witnessed it, and have more natural schooling than any twenty-year old poofter could imagine. So put that in your bloody pipe and smoke it.”

Either the Watcher was too offended or too amused to reply. The look projected suggested neither and both at the same time. After a second, his lips curled in a grin and he arched his brows. “Well,” he said with conservative air. “If you tell them that, perhaps with slightly less colorful language, I believe you will suffer no impediment in acquiring the job.”

“Your artsy fartsy proprietors won’t appreciate me calling them poofters.” William retorted inquisitively. “But if I tell them that I survived a concentration camp, they’ll step aside—no questions asked?”

“You can answer questions about demonic ritual, despite how very little you yourself participated in fulfilling the structured text.” He was joking! The old English gent was actually joking with him! It was liberating. Encouraging. The smile on his face lingered only a minute before he recalled something and frowned in confusion. “You were in a concentration camp?”

“It was just an example, Ripper.”

“Oh…of course. I knew that.”

The walk back to Giles’s hacienda was silent though comforting. They strode side-by-side, a respectful distance apart. There was no want or need for conversation. A million inquiries filled the vampire’s head, but he dared not voice them. The information the Watcher provided was reluctant at best. To attempt and divulge any more would be disrespectful, and beyond futile.

Truthfully, Giles’s residence was not altogether different than the one he had left in Sunnydale. The floor plan was notably dissimilar, but William felt a pained intake of familiarity as he beheld his surroundings. Everything was situated just so that made it so…Giles.

So unwrapped was he that he didn’t notice he was already standing over the threshold. When he had been invited in, he did not know. He had not heard Giles speak, but somehow it didn’t matter. What mattered was the faith that tinted the Watcher’s gaze a shade darker every time their eyes met. The civility of simple conversation. The knowledge that a man who had thought so little of him could put prejudices aside so effortlessly and offer him that one sliver of redemption was beyond moving. If he lived a thousand lifetimes, if he saw the end of time and spent eternity doomed to repeat his mistakes, he would never be able to make it up to him.

“Lower the blinds,” Giles said suddenly, indicating the windows along the far wall. “There isn’t a spare room, I’m afraid. Well, there is, but I made it into a library a while back. The sofa is all yours.”

William eyed the designated chaise with a quirked brow. “Where did Red sleep?”

“In my room. Don’t expect the same treatment.”

“I wouldn’t take it if you offered on a silver platter.” It was the truth and they both knew it, despite how colorfully he accentuated his tenor. The vampire approached the windows and estimated the variety of angles that morning sunlight might strike the sofa, settling finally to do things the easy way. “What’s with the friendly reminder about the sunlight? After a hundred years, it’s a habit no bloody new scruples can get you out of.”

“Yes, yes,” Giles acknowledged airily. “Can’t take any chances. I’m terribly fond of that settee.”

“You have a telly in here?”

The Watcher looked at him cynically. “Don’t tell me you still watch that dreaded soap opera. Passions, or what is it?”

There was a rich chuckle. “I got a soul, didn’t lose my mind. Passions is still the best damn show in syndication.”

“Well, I haven’t checked, but I’ll pray that those awful American soap operas aren’t—”

“I have a bloody telly, mate. Think I could have survived underground with nothing better to do than count the cracks on the walls and wait until the shop down the sewage pipe opens up for business so I can cough up damn near highway robbery for a pint of cold pig’s blood?” On cue, his stomach grumbled and a look of uncultivated hunger tackled his features. “Speaking of which, I don’t suppose you—”

“No.” Giles removed his glasses wryly and approached the kitchen. “When I came to London, I never thought I might again be playing host to a vampire, soul or no soul. But…umm…I’ll be sure to keep some stocked, should this highly unlikely scenario find occasion to repeat itself.” He was rustling with supplies where William could not see, and had not bothered to follow. “However, if you’re that terribly hungry, I do have some Brandy and all the basics you would require to construct an absolutely splendid turkey sandwich.”

The vampire coughed back a snicker, voice dripping with familiar cynicism. “Mmm. Right. Sounds nummy, but I’ll pass. Do you have any gravy?” William had backtracked and was grinning tightly to himself. “Remember what she said, right after I got all chipped out?”

“It has blood in it?’ Giles did a thorough scan of his refrigerator and shook his head cagily. “I’m afraid not. We’ll get some—”

No sooner was the suggestion voiced that William shook his head with sudden persistence, eyes going wide. “No! No. I don’t want you to go to any bloody trouble, Ripper. No more than you have already. I don’t want to get too comfy here—I very doubt you’d like to sublet your sofa to a guy like me. You can’t pretend it’s your favorite set-up, either.” The vampire shook his head and sighed. “’Sides, I should get that new place, according to you, a decent…” A pause as he struggled with the terminology, grinning against his better nature. “…living, so I’ll have my legal means of getting the goods.”

For a minute, all Giles could do was stare. Disbelief and more blazed behind his wide eyes—mouth gaped as he estimated the stranger before him. This thing that was neither demon nor man, but somehow more humane than anyone could ever credit. Despite everything that colored their painfully bright history, despite every minute annoyance, the singular display served as the most unexpected of epiphanies.

“You are William,” he concluded in awe. “And…you are Spike. I—”

Befuddled, the vampire arched a brow, regarding him as though a chicken’s head had suddenly replaced his own atop his neck. “Yeah…what of it?”

The most astute realization took place when their guards were down, when William wasn’t trying to convince and Giles was actually willing to listen. To stand there and be convinced that a character such as the Big Bad’s was deserving of redemption. It came not in the form of a test or heroic identity—simply the willful cross of the emphasized line of separation. The consideration of others.

When at last his astonishment dwindled, the Watcher shook his head and brought himself back to the present. “Oh…oh…”

“What was that about?” To make the situation more extraordinary, William hadn’t realized his step across the parallel—initiative move that blended word with action.

Giles cleared his throat, arching his brows briefly and offering a tight grin. “William,” he said. “You are welcome to stay here as long as you like.”

The invitation, presented any other time, would have made the Watcher consequentially flinch his regret and Spike snicker something not terribly flattering. Now, however, now with everything that had passed, the vampire felt his cold body fill with warmth and his heart burst with song. He would never accept, he knew, but simply knowing that within two weeks he could change the man’s disposition into such a reverse was more rewarding than any tangible pat on the back.

To respond with similar compassion would have made both parties too uncomfortable, and neither wanted nor expected a heartfelt reply. When he smirked and arched a brow the tension dissipated. As his eyes screamed his thanks, his mouth returned, “Right. That’s a good idea. Because we don’t already look like a pair of bloody poofters.”

The Watcher grinned. “I suppose you have a point. We don’t want to over-emphasize our relationship. I should have thought. You know, I can hardly stand the sight of you.”

There was nothing in his tone to convince. William snickered and nodded. “Oh, I know, mate. I’m the Big Bad, after all. Can’t like me.” Then, with a significant breath, he looked down, smile fading away. “I hope you don’t mind, though, if I look up to you from time to time.”

So it was to be. A cordial exchange followed immediately by a quick stab of banter to avoid a scorn on male pride. The look on Giles’s face was more confirmation than he knew to trust with any language to portray.

The silence was cut only a goodhearted smile. William snickered in spite of himself. “Right, then. Hate you, too, Ripper. Can’t stand the bloody sight of you.”

Unaffected, the Watcher chuckled. “Likewise.”

Despite the pleasantries, it would be conceivably easier for both parties if the vampire acted as he should by nature. Rather—as normal as Spike could. The development of sentiment would only stand in the way, and neither could afford to forget the impending circumstances if one or the either lapsed.

Still, he was believed. William knew not to let the implicated residency of faith wear his ideals for reform—he understood that was not Giles’s motive, and would play if it were so. He accepted there would never be a full redemption. That no one would ever truly forgive him—that he would never forgive himself.

The soul was there to stay. Regardless if he ever found a place within his sacrament to seek out complacency—it was his. He could not lose it by obtaining true happiness, and would not be concerned if that were so. The dry state of being he inhabited was a place so far from happiness that he doubted he would ever again feel its warmth.

“So, couch then,” he said, indicating the waiting sofa with a jerk of his head. “Don’t suppose you have any Weetabix, do you?” When the Watcher arched a skeptical brow at him, William could not resist an eye roll. Would the comparisons ever end? A growl lodged in his throat. “Bloody hell. Yes—I still eat Weetabix. Still thinks it gives my diet texture. I still smoke, and I still watch Passions. I still drink blood and would prefer the bona fide human over pig’s any day. Not to say I would take it, even if I did get this sodding chip out of my skull. Couldn’t—have a bleeding soul. Bleeding conscience. Doubt even that ponce, Peaches, could say he’d prefer to drain an animal than taste the good stuff.” He huffed significantly, chest constricting as his body struggled with the preemptory need for air that he stored in empty lungs.

Silence again. Once more, the contempt he expected to reflect behind Giles’s eyes never came. How many times would he speak out of turn and be forgiven? William knew not to press his luck, but his wits were tested in the same manner every time he opened his mouth. And yet, the Watcher had not shown him hostility since that first day. Every word that came from his mouth was patient and understanding, harsh at times but not without compassion.

This time was no different. With a frown, Giles stepped forward, crossing his arms. “You have my support, William,” he said softly, as though that was the issue at hand. “I understand you are not Angel. I understand that your circumstances differ considerably. I would to engage in research—but there might not be an explanation. You just might be the one vampire in history who kept more of his soul than lost when you were sired.” He sighed meaningfully. “My first instinct is always research. However, in this instance, I believe I know to leave well enough alone. What you are—whatever you are, is enough. You are not Spike—I would not have invited you in if you were. You are also not William. With the restoration of your soul, I believe the balance was settled. The man within you had been surfacing for a year in full before it was allowed this second chance, and I can see that now. The demon was beaten back by the man to the point where they were forced to live together and not wrestle for dominance.” Another heavy pause; Giles removed his glasses and cleaned them with the edge of his shirt. “I…we—and I use this term lightly…we befriended the man over time and could not accept it. How could we? How could anyone who has not seen you before now?” Then, without any warning or conclusion, the Watcher reached for the remote, flicked his seldom-used television on, and tossed William the controller. “Weetabix is in the kitchen. Do try to not eat all of it.”

It began and ended quickly. Before the vampire could attempt to conjure up any form of reply, Giles was gone, retiring to his bedroom with a subtle shut of his door. The telling turning the lock was singular only that the undead guest understood the quest for undisturbed privacy.

To the empty room, William blinked in growing confusion. “This has been a bloody weird month,” he concluded.

Chapter Three

For any vampire to sleep more than four hours undisturbed was unheard of in the modern day. More than enough research had cued Giles in to the normal sleeping gestations, and he marveled at his houseguest who remained unmoved, even when the coffee cup shattered against the kitchen floor. It had been a while, he supposed, since the vampire received adequate accommodations for rest. William remained pretty much dead throughout the morning—despite the Watcher’s uninhibited execution of all rituals. He made breakfast, read the paper, ran the shower and shaved. Even the telling flick of the telly could not perturb the dead man’s slumber.

A bizarre sense of déjà vu had grasped him upon seeing William sprawled across the couch. It was stranger than bursting into song unwittingly. It was an all-around time warp.

Then the phone cut through the air with a shrill. Giles leapt a foot in surprise, making a mad dash for the kitchen. The receiver clutched closely to his chest, he hazarded another glance at his unconscious company. William had purred slightly and rolled over. Nothing more. Heaving a sigh, he shook his head in amazement and clicked the connect dial on the phone. “Hello?”

Whoever he thought to expect—there was no way he could prepare for the onslaught of surprise. As if the atmosphere within the studio apartment wasn’t awkward enough, the fates decided to throw her in the mix. He berated himself for not anticipating it. Life, thus far, was proving to be a raging sitcom.

“Hi, Giles!” she said chirpily. “What’s up?”

The aftershock of astonishment had yet to wear off. “Bu—” He looked wearily William, who stirred slightly in his sleep. If nothing else were to wake him up, it certainly would be the sound of her name, regardless whether it was whispered or shouted. “Good morning. What—umm—is anything wrong?”

“Nothing. I…oh, God…is it like midnight there or something? I didn’t think…did I wake you up?”

“No.” The Watcher eyed the snoozing vampire again. Still asleep. “No…I’m just surprised. You haven’t…ummm…I just left yesterday. There isn’t anything wrong, is there?”

There was an artificial huff of air, carrying the tenor of being terribly offended. “What? Can’t I call my former watcher just to—”

Giles smiled dryly. “Buffy…” he scolded softly.

Wrong thing to say. William’s eyes popped open. With sudden urgency, he bolted upright and sought the Watcher’s gaze, his own shrouded in confusion. He understood immediately what had disturbed his sleep, but…

His eyes widened as he observed the phone, a look of the most remarkable pain Giles had ever seen overcoming his features. Beyond reasoning, he portrayed the vestige of a man whose entire world had been torn from his grasp. As though some sadistic soul had intently murdered his family, mutilated their bodies, and sent him the picture.

As though Jenny Calendar had died all over again, only a thousand times worse.

Giles did not know how he could endure that. Have the woman he love alive and well, and hating him. And then he couldn’t do it—couldn’t confirm that it was she one the phone. It was meager compensation, but the most he could offer. Clearing his throat, the Watcher shook his head. “Ummm…right. It’s just been, as you can imagine, a while sense you called—”

Fortunately for both of them, she remained blissfully oblivious to the searing tension emanating from the other line. “Well, I really can’t lie to you, can I? I’m worried—”

“What is it?” Giles raised his eyes to William once more, who stalked forward in a steadfast, broken manner. Though it was manifest that he did not crave sympathy, to ignore a creature of such raging pain was cruel and inhumane. He blurted the first invention he could into the receiver, though he knew not for whose benefit. “Taxes? Trouble with the IRS?”

It was the first cover that came to mind and succeeded in halting the vampire’s approach and silencing the befuddled slayer. A grimace wrestled his features, but he held it at bay, determined to take the route constructed—however poorly.

“Ummm…” Buffy said after a minute, throwing it all to waste. Silence was shattered by her voice, and his face fell along with it. “No…I have all the help I need in that department, but thanks for checking up. You’re a real pal.”

“Right then. What is it you need?” Giles shot an apologetic look the vampire’s way, one that screamed, ‘I tried!’ The hurt in William’s face was replaced with confusion and gratitude. With a huff of ineffectual air, he shook his head and smiled sadly.

“Don’t worry about me, Ripper,” he assured him. “Like I couldn’t avoid it. Bollocks. If I’m gonna help her, I need to come to terms with the fact that she exists somewhere in the world. She’s your girl—your slayer. You can’t avoid talking to her.”

The Watcher smiled at his humility, touched and continuously impressed with the characteristics that were so similar but split in half. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“Giles?” The tiny voice prodded him away. “Giles! Who’s there? Who—”

William’s eyes widened and he moved away from the phone with a fury, as though distance alone was the decisive factor in his imminent identification.

“My…umm, cousin is here to visit,” Giles invented rapidly, catching the vampire’s gaze, eyes blaring in warning. “Fitzwilliam. Yes. I’ve told you about—”

“Probably,” Buffy said dismissively, eliciting a sigh of relief from the two men. William put on a frontage of endurance, straining his keen hearing to savor her voice—distorted by static but still as sweet. “Listen, we have…not necessarily a problem, but…” They both heard her frustrated growl. “I don’t even see why he’s having me call you. Willow and Anya are on the entire research thing. They haven’t found anything extraordinary, but Xander insisted I call you to get your opinion.” There was a brief pause. “Does your cousin know about the family business?”

Giles blinked. “Pardon?”

“Vampires? The whole slayage thing?”

“Oh.” He chuckled nervously. “Yes, yes. In fact, Fitzwilliam was training in the Watcher’s Guild before the Council…” At seeing William’s eyes widen at the implication, he trailed off, ignoring the questioning look. “He’s a curator of a library around here.”

“Wow. Like cousin like…cousin.” They both grinned at her—William’s features empowered by almost boyish sheepishness. It was the sort of expression that read, ‘All those little inconsistencies are just so…darn cute!’

Even still, Giles did not regret lying to him. The trip back home had been keen with stress and tension. Everyone welcomed Willow back with smiles and open arms. They were especially cautious—had removed and destroyed all things Wiccan from the Summers’ residence. Pictures of Tara remained but in scarcity. The first few days were the worst—everyone was on pins and needles, watching Willow as though she was a time bomb waiting to explode.

Xander took care of her. In Anya’s absence, he had admitted that his apartment was bare and lonely. Now in the stages of recovery, they were especially close. The few outings to the Bronze had proven as much—Willow had not allowed him out of arms reach all night.

However, with all his love for Willow, Xander could not resist a garb at the missing vampire. Bitterness coated his tone, and while he spoke out of line, it was understandable. The entire foundation of understanding in his strange little world was based on the knowledge that Buffy hated Spike, would never, ever sleep with him, and that Anya was his reserve only. One night had taken that safe hold away forever. “You know,” he had said, not at all discreetly. “I really like this. Just us. No annoying non-pulsers lurking around. Almost like old times.”

Giles had immediately looked to Buffy for reaction. While there was nothing to condone Xander’s presumptions, she similarly did not rush to the absentee vampire’s defense. Rather, her eyes went off in that dark way they had so often in the past year, a quiver seizing her lips. The Watcher had seen his slayer cry before and had long ago memorized all the characteristics that preceded an outburst. Fortunately, no one else was aware of her mood swing and thought nothing of it when she excused herself and made a dash for the ladies’ room.

It was the only event that merited consideration was far as William was concerned. Giles had purposely withheld—he hadn’t been certain until the night before that the vampire’s intentions were as pure as he claimed. Now there was no point in sharing. It would only wound him further, and William, as loathed as he was to admit it, did not deserve further heartache. The hell he inhabited now was enough retribution for the wrongs of the past.

“What seems to be the problem?” he asked, attentively avoiding the use of her name. Every time it was spoken, a barb struck William in the heart. And yet he was not reduced to dust as he so plainly craved. Instead, he was made to tolerate reference after reference, and rendered him helpless to do anything that was asked him upon mention.

“Well,” she mused thoughtfully. “Normal stuff, really. God, I’m so glad to be getting back to the normal stuff. Patrol last night—the usual places. Ran into your basic run-of-the-mill vamp. You know—not too bright but fangy in all the right places? Didn’t appear anything special. Got a couple of good garbs. Made him bleed. After I dusted him, I went home and cleaned up and…”

William had neared again, stilling his body to deathly perfection. Giles waved him back a few paces ineffectually and encouraged Buffy to continue.

“Well, this is gonna sound really weird…his blood was black.”

“Black?” The Watcher echoed, looking to the vampire questioningly and was rewarded with a shrug. “Uh, ummm…are you sure it wasn’t a trick of light or—”

“Giles.” There was sharpness in her tone—the voice she only used when she meant business. “Honestly, how long have I been doing this? Eight years now? I think I know what blood looks like in the dark. This was like…oil. Oily blood. Any clues? Ideas? Research or whatnot?”

Another look at William confirmed a non-standing perspective. “No ideas off the top of my head, but I will look into it. Call again if anything of a similar nature happens.”

“Right. Will do.”

With a smile, Giles placed the phone back on the receiver. Without looking up, he gauged the reaction from his suitemate. Helpful but devastated. He would have liked to comfort William and assure him all would be well, but that meant to sacrifice pride for the sake of false hope, and he wouldn’t do that to anyone.

And, of course, there was Buffy to consider. Buffy who possessed more of his loyalty than William could ever hope to touch.

Undeniably, the vampire before him was not even a shadow of what Angel had been.

William smiled sadly and shrugged. “S’all right, Ripper. Like I said, had to happen sooner or later. Better sooner. Makes it easier to deal with. If I’m gonna help, I gotta get used to it.”

The Watcher frowned and started to say something, but thought the better of it and nodded. “You better start getting ready,” he observed. “I arranged your meeting with the administration last night after you retired. We will need to leave in an hour and a half.”

The vampire scoffed and shook his head, gesturing to the shut window with arched brows. “Uhhh…something tells me that won’t be setting anytime soon. Air still stinks of sunrise.”

“You’ve maneuvered in daylight before,” Giles returned. “Much to everyone’s dismay.”

“Right. That’ll make a fucking-a good impression if I run into the bleeding library before bursting into flames.”

“You’re going to have to. This is how people conduct business, Will.”

William snickered. “Right. I see. You know, my internal clock is going to be all wonky. I’m used to sleeping through the day, mate. Not getting up to pick out neckties.”

There was a wry smile. “What can I say, Spike? I’ll do everything in my power to make a man out of you, even if it kills me.”

The words escaped with such ease that it took a minute to digest. All at once, Giles reddened and looked away, clearing his throat and casting his eyes downward. “Mmm…my apologies. I didn’t mean to insinuate—”

“But you did,” William observed, stepping forward. “You meant it. I want you to mean it. Like it or not, mate, you’re the only sodding chance I got of making it here. I’m not used this. Well, I’m used to not killing, but not to all these bleeding warm fuzzies. To knowing I wouldn’t jump your bones and suck you dry if I had half a chance.” He cleared his throat and looked away. “Because I…” Cough. Titter. Twitch. “Ilikeyou.”

He spoke so quickly—buried under an avalanche of reluctance—that it was impossible to catch in one breath. What was said was beyond the lines of probability, but it sounded too…

“What was that?” Giles whispered, awestruck.

There was a growl. “I said I like you! God, bloody hell, you need me to spell it out? You gave me a chance when you coulda—and let’s face it—shoulda walked away. And now with all this…” Frustrated, he grasped at his heart and screamed. “Sodding soul! Bleeding chip! I don’t know what I am anymore. There should be more than this, right? More than regret and guilt. Bugger it all. What am I s’ppsed to do? Make my sodding peace—yeh—then what? I’m so new at this. It feels familiar, but it’s the same old thing. It hurts so bloody much, Ripper. Like tiny soldiers knit-knacking away at my insides.”

“It’s supposed to, Spike,” Giles replied softly, his own voice having to elevate to be emphasized in the same degree. “You chose and you have your reward. No one said that it’s going to be easy. No one agreed that it should be easy. I’ve given you a chance—perhaps against my better judgment—but that doesn’t mean it’s going to be easy sailing. After what you have done…”

Darkness glazed over his eyes and his entire being quaked with impact. “I need no bloody reminders about what I’ve done.”

“I know.” And he did. Truthfully, Giles understood the cruelty of making mention of past indiscretions for spite. Out of all feasible punishments, it was the one he did not deserve. “I’m just saying…these coming months are going to be difficult. I have reason to believe that you might be more deeply affected by your acquisition than Angel was. You seem to be able to differentiate the line between yourself and your demon whereas he never could, but you have admitted that you committed many of your atrocities yourself, or that you were at least implied. You might never fully recover, but as long as you try, I can expect no more.”

The morning progressed as normally as it could. William made use of the shower as Giles overviewed the agenda. Clothing selections were a minimum—the Watcher and the vampire were of similar height, but William was practically skin and bones. All the proffered attire hung off his body like a parachute.

“Bloody hell, yah wanker,” he muttered, glancing into the mirror that reflected nothing in the room. “You’re bigger than you look.”

There was a pregnant pause when the Watcher walked in. Their gazes caught and held before Giles burst out laughing. It was too much. The image of the Big Bad in an oversized tweed jacket, long dangly necktie, and baggy dress pants resembled some horrid circus attraction.

Discouraged by the reaction, the vampire rolled his eyes and scoffed proudly, reaching to straighten his tie. The ensemble was truly ridiculous, but there was nothing else. It was too late to run out for last minute shopping and there was no way anyone would hire him if he sported those black jeans and spandexy top. This was it. “That’s right. Laugh at the neutered vamp. I’m dressed up like this for her and you…mostly her, you bloody ponce. Least you can do is let me walk out of ‘ere with my dignity.”

“You mean, when you rush out of here with a blanket over your head?”

William smirked at him. “Is it too late to take back my self-righteous speech? I’ve gone back to hating you.”

Giles rumbled with light chuckles and offered a nod. “All right. Out with you. Might as well pick up some breakfast on the way, unless you’ve filled yourself up on Weetabix.”

In front of him, the vampire paused in mid-stride and pivoted to arch a brow at him. “Hullo? Have you gone all loony? I’m always peckish.” At the implication, his mouth twisted into a familiar grin and his eyes danced. “One way or another.”

There was a brief silence at the unvoiced inference that couldn’t help but tag along with the statement—and both grins were wiped from their faces. When the air threatened to become uncomfortable, William coughed and turned again, continuing down the hallway. “This isn’t a good idea,” he said casually, attempting with futility to hide the quake in his voice. “I highly doubt you’ve had your windows tinted for a man with my skin condition.”

“This windows are tinted—the sunlight will be indirect only.”

William snickered. “Well, well. How handy. So I might only explode a little. Thanks for thinking of me, mate.”

“Quiet,” the Watcher admonished as he slipped on his jacket. They stopped outside where the sun struck the curb. Immediately, the vampire brought an arm up to shield his eyes, fighting the urge to hiss at the unwanted light. Giles arched a brow at him. “If you’re going to be like this, I won’t take you by the butcher shop.”

The sudden blaze behind William’s eyes informed him that he was touched by the notion, but arrogance stood in the way of returning with any sort of thanks. “I see. Dress me up like a poof, burn me to a crisp, but gimme a nummy treat to make up for it.” His words were a direct contradiction to the gratitude seething in the hidden layers of his tone. The elevation to admitting he liked the Watcher was enough of the aforementioned warm fuzzies for one morning. Or lifetime. “But the tummy is making some rumblies, so let’s go.”

Thankfully, William had turned away before the other man’s smirk could burn into his back.

There were upsides to this arrangement. In broad daylight, all he had to do was follow the smoke.

“Hurry up!” the panicky vampire yelped, performing an impressive hop dance outside the passenger window. “My blanket’s beginning to fry!”

“Just out of curiosity,” Giles said calmly as he strode up and unlocked the door, pausing long enough for William to bolt inward. “What happened to your duster?”

An emotional pause—the Watcher identified the resignation easily, regarded the telling fall of his eyes and the lower lip that quivered whenever she was in any means concerned in their discussions. The answer was coming, but not for a minute. With a sigh, Giles closed the door and made his way to the driver’s side. Despite the promised darker tinting, he found William in the backseat, cradled beneath his blanket before the door had a chance to shut.

By the sharp, unnecessary intakes of breath, Giles could tell his answer was not forthcoming. The car pulled out and was a quarter mile down the street before dialogue broke the silence. His voice was sullen, as though he was speaking to himself. “Bet she burned it.” A desolate sound—barely above a whisper. “Wouldn’t bloody blame her.”

There was nothing else. The Watcher exhaled and offered no reply, resigning himself as always to the recesses of his thoughts. That was what had been different about her. It looked so odd on anyone else. He had long ago grown accustomed to her hauling around that jacket Angel gave her so many years ago, but hadn’t been able to identify her new coat until he was halfway across the ocean. None of the Scoobies had taken note of it, and if they hadn’t by then, chances were they never would.

“You left it at her house, then?”

“Just drive, you sodding ponce.” There was an uncomfortable twitch followed by a long silence. He cleared his throat. “Could we not talk about this, Ripper?”

“Of course.”

The air fell silent once more, void of discussion. There was nothing left to say.

“I can see now why you wanted me in this job,” William observed, turning down another isle of books, nodding toward the sunshine pouring in through numerous skylights. “Move a bleeding foot in the place and I’ll add to the dust.” With a crooked brow, he shot Giles a weary look. “Remind me again why I’m the one being interviewed. This really seems to be more your department.”

“Because, believe it or not, I have a job. And you were just last night discussing the nobility of paying with your own hard-earned money.”

“I said I didn’t want to mooch, I never said—”

The Watcher silenced him with a look, removing his glasses and waving away the cloud of dirt hovering over the volume he had just closed. “Some miscellaneous recovery work for the Council. I’m supposed to…well…recover. Our last endeavor wasn’t as—”

“I heard. Everything went all wacky. And you’re helping them because…?”

“Same reason you’re here,” Giles replied, hands finding his pockets. “Because I believe it will eventually help her. Help them—Willow and the rest. As it is, you likely won’t be required to do much around here. During day lit hours, you can settle yourself in the curator’s apartment or do something helpful—like study the manuscripts downstairs. This vampire that attacked Buffy, for starters. Anything coming that would make its blood turn black. I can manage everything else.”

William snickered, unable to conceal the strain that crossed his face to hear her name. It would take some conditioning. “What makes you so sure I’ll get the job?”

“Well, other than blind luck, as long as you refrain from calling the administrators ‘bloody ponces’ or ‘a useless lot of poofters’…your credentials—those I forged in addition to your knowledge of history—are impeccable.”

“You shouldn’t talk like that, mate,” the vampire returned with a leer. “It’s bloody disrespectful.”

But the Watcher’s focus was driven elsewhere. Heaving a sigh, he turned away to estimate the size of the room. A gallery of books could be seen in every direction. It was much grander than the position he had once held in Sunnydale, and something told him these editions would not simply waste away with only their eyes to seek higher knowledge.

“Bollocks,” came from behind. “I’m going to get lost every time I turn around in ‘ere.” An exaggerated pause. “So where are these ponces? Don’t they know how to keep a date?”

“Spike, I know patience isn’t a virtue where you’re concerned, but—”

“But nothing! I get all dressed up like a sodding poofter to meet the wankers, and if I didn’t know better, I—”

A throat cleared behind them and the room grew deathly still. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” a stuffy voice grumbled. With deliberate slowness, the vampire and the Watcher turned. If he had a pulse, William would have turned an interesting shade of red.

Once satisfied that he had their attention, the pudgy little man turned and directed over his shoulder. “The others are inside the foyer. If you would follow me…”

They fell into step quickly—too embarrassed to opt for anything else. Through a confusing labyrinth of isles and dusty titles, they maneuvered. It was nearly a surprise when the maze ended, even more so when Giles abruptly seized William by the collar and jerked him back.

The meeting room was completely encompassed with fiery skylights—the table inconveniently position in the center. A large ray displayed heavenly across the mahogany, bouncing off balding heads and hitting the vampire directly in the eyes. He bit his tongue to wan away a scream but couldn’t help the loud—“BLOODY HELL!”—from escaping his lips. It was the most primal of reactions and he was its slave, powerless to do anything but obey.

The sound of heavy Cockney filled the room, not echoing away until every pair of eyes was fixated on him in appalled surprise. Even then, the walls and volumes seemed to capture its hum, holding for prolonged seconds before everything once again fell to silence.

William, however, was not paying attention. His hand—oddly not decorated with trademark black nail polish—was caressing the blind spot over the ridge of his nose, comforted by an agitated Giles who pat his back reassuringly.

A sea of blank faces was still waiting for an explanation when attention was finally averted. The vampire might have had the decency to look mortified if he wasn’t preoccupied by a sudden headache.

Giles cleared his throat—seeing he would receive no support—and turned to their waiting audience. “Ummm…my cousin has a rather serious skin condition. He reacts violently to direct sunlight. Is there any way this meeting could resume elsewhere?”

A disgruntled murmur sprang through the crowd before they decided to comply. Each shot William a rather nasty look before exiting. The agitated vampire ignored them with grave disinterest, his consideration with the Watcher. He had so wanted to do a good job and had the irreplaceable feeling that he had already messed everything up beyond the brink of no return. “Don’t ask me how I know this,” he grumbled, attempting unsuccessfully to gauge his reaction. “But I think that just buggered up my chances.”

To his surprise, Giles wasn’t as dissatisfied as his frontage would portray. Instead, he offered a grim headshake and shrugged. “Don’t be too soon to dismiss yourself,” he retorted, his sentiments too easily discerned. “They haven’t heard you speak yet.” At that, he paused and cracked a good-natured though concerned smile. “Take that back. We are doomed.”

“Bleeding sunlight,” William sneered, hopping artfully to avoid another beam. “I thought libraries were supposed to be dark and musty.”

“That’s the stereotype, Spike.”

“I like the sodding stereotype. Fits my character. Has a nice ‘no dusty’ policy that comes along with it.”

“For heaven’s sake, lower your voice.”

The attic—the least likely place to hold a meeting of this nature. The only place where they were guaranteed no natural light. It was amusing to see a group of suits hovering over crates. William had not fully recovered from his sunlight excursion and to refrain from rubbing his eyes. Something told him it was unprofessional.

Sod professional. It’s over before it started.

A minute adjustment passed before the first cleared his throat and began.

“Now…that we’re all comfortable…” There was unnecessary emphasis at the end of the sentence, which the vampire decided to ignore. “What is your full name?”

“William…ummm…” Somehow, he didn’t believe ‘the Bloody’ would cut it with these gents. With quick desperation, he glanced at Giles and invented, “Ripper. William Ripper.”

The Watcher threw his head back and moaned lightly to himself. No one seemed to notice.

Amused by the concealed burst of what had to be pride, William smirked and added, “the second. William Ripper II.”

“Right.” One of the administrators tossed Giles a discreet, disbelieving glance. “Now then, Mr…Ripper. Tell me, why do you believe you would be the correct choice to fill this position?”

William had never been to an actual interview before. Vampires, by common knowledge, didn’t attempt to incorporate themselves into conventional society. He knew Angel ran that investigations shindig like only Angel would, but this was different. An actual bona fide job. Something anyone could do. Something to fit the shoes of Joe Average. Honest money to buy his own goods with. That was, of course, assuming he had the qualifications as set by this lot of poofters. The questions were ridiculously simplistic—allegedly conjured up by some brain behind a big desk who probably didn’t have to do a lot of his own thinking. Everything they asked was known territory in the land of demonhood. He indulged in lengthy accounts of both notable and unknown historical events. Those he hadn’t witnessed had long ago been crammed into his cranium by over zealous parents who had wanted him to do something with his life.

Oh yes. Wouldn’t mum be proud now?

There was, of course, the part of history only known to his kind and the hunters of his kind. It took a bit of stamina to separate what was conventionally recognized and what was fact. What the history booked cleverly omitted from record.

None of this, however, seemed to matter in the end. Despite his knowledge and qualifications, the board members were unmoved. None warmed up to him, even if he gave a particularly scholarly answer. The only confirmation he had to know he wasn’t digging himself into a larger trench than he could afford was the continuous stream of approving nods coming from the Watcher in the back.

“You are aware of the loopholes in your background?” one of the suits asked. “You claim to have been born in 1969, but there is no birth certificate.” They hadn’t had time to get all the goods just yet. William’s counterfeit citizenship was slow in the making. “And you were allegedly educated at Oxford. There is no record of your attending there during any of the specified dates on your résumé.” The man flashed a PR smile for good sport. “We can’t lie to you—there’s a psychiatrist with an absolutely flawless record to his credit competing for this job. Why should we hire you, a man of rather ambiguous background—not to mention serious skin condition, in this place? There are no flaws in his qualifications, and he knows his material more thoroughly than any man I have ever met.”

William’s fists curled tightly at his sides. Ignorance could be a bliss, but it tasted foul along with natural stupidity. There was no one who could beat him in qualifications for this job, unless it was Peaches or some other demon. But that was impossible. Demons by nature were thieves—if they wanted something, they took it. No questions asked. It was what they did. But to make an honest living? An honest normal living? He had to be the first in history. Simply the prompting urged him to release his demon and show them exactly why he was preferable over any sodding shrink. Just a little show and tell for the nice men. And he couldn’t bite them if he wanted to…no harm done.

A look from Giles confirmed that his thoughts had been read, and that it was in the worst manner of approach. He had to swallow a grumble. Fine then, mate. The hard way.

“Ummm…well…” There was no sure way to get around this. “I can’t offer anything concrete, I’ll admit. But—I, of, bloody hell. What I can give you…I know I know more than this poof. I can’t tell you how, but…” William growled. He was slipping—badly—and he knew it. “Unless you really want…” Desperately, his eyes shot back to Giles for permission. Pleading.

When he received no instruction, the vampire took that as the go-ahead. There was no way he could bugger this up any more for himself—might as well go all out. With a primordial, throaty growl, he jumped to his feet and flexed. “You wanna know why I’m your man?” he hissed. “This is why.”

Before Giles could leap forward, before he could raise his voice in opposition, William’s human vestige melted away and the demon emerged. It felt weird at first—he hadn’t had cause to morph in over two months. And yet here was. Unchanged in so many ways. William the Bloody—Spike—growling deeply as his yellow eyes flickered over the wave of mortified faces. “This is why. Because I, you sodding buffoons, am the…well, neutered Big Bad. I’ve lived history, mate. I’ve been there. I’ve tasted it. I’ve—”

“You’re…” One of the men was so startled by the transformation that he had fallen backward over a few crates. “Not human. You’re—”

“A vampire.” He nodded. “Right, git. But I’m a, well, not good vampire, but I haven’t been bad for a while.” William looked desperately to Giles, who was muttering incoherently to himself while cradling his head in shame.

“Like I was saying,” the vampire continued. “I’m right for this job because of who I am, because of what I’ve seen. What I’ve done. Tell them, Ripper! Tell ‘em everything!”

“It’s true,” the Watcher said firmly, voice angry but compliant. He answered with unexpected rapidity. “Spike—William, rather, has a chip in his head that prevents him from feeding on humans.” When the vampire cleared his throat, Giles irately rolled his eyes and added, “Oh. Yes. He has a soul, as well. He’s comparable to an immortal human in many regards. As harmless as a puppy.” A flash crossed William’s eyes, but he knew it was just. In truth, these accusations of wholly goodness hadn’t annoyed him for some time. It was habit that made him react rather than will. More over, he felt himself yearning for approval with every day that passed. He saw that he had edged to the Watcher’s sour side with his audacity and couldn’t convince himself that he didn’t care. He did. He cared a lot.

Thankfully, the weight measured equally on either side. The anger in Giles’s tone was counterpoint to the growing comprehension. Perhaps the slipup was forgivable. The administration hadn’t asked them to leave and had yet to decline William as a potential candidate. Perhaps this position of power by suggestion could come in useful—only used for dire emergencies, of course. On a softer note, the Watcher continued. “William really is the best man for the job. He is attempting to incorporate himself into society. Who could be better for reference than someone who has been there?” Irritation was vacating his eyes slowly, and William allowed himself an unneeded sigh of relief. “I can vouch for his character. Spike—Will—whatever has admittedly enjoyed as much mayhem as any other demon in his time, but for reasons unknown to me, he changed. He has saved the lives of those he once considered his enemies as many times as he attempted to kill them, perhaps even more so. He changed then and again. Acquiring a soul was simply the next level.”

The vampire smiled, touched.

A cautious voice dared make the first move. “So…he won’t attempt to—”

William shook his head and sat back conversationally. “All right. So I lied. Haven’t been the Big Bad for a few years. I was in spirit the entire time, don’t get me wrong.” He stopped himself to chuckle at the irony. “In spirit,” he repeated to himself, shaking his head dryly. A look of warning from Giles sent him back on topic. “Anyway, I mean, for a while I still tried to do bad, evil things. But that ended about two years ago. I’ve been—well—” Even soulful Spike had difficulty with the terminology. “Bugger, I need to accept it. I’ve been a bloody boy scout ever since. I got me a soul. Even endured torturing from a bitch Hell-goddess without telling her what she wanted, and—”

“Fine!” the head suit said hurriedly. “I don’t need any more convincing. You got the job.”

William grinned. “Cor, mate. You don’t hafta plunder outta ‘ere. I was just listing my qualifications, since you asked. If ya wanna—”

“Spike,” Giles said sharply. “You’re still in game face.”

The smirk was stolen from his lips. “Oh. Right. Sorry about that.” The contours of his face relaxed and masked over once more as human. An audible breath rippled through the men, who were slightly pale on a collective whole. One in particular was studying him hard, as though still uncertain.

William rolled his eyes. “Look, I’m not going to eat you if you wankers don’t hire me. Wouldn’t even if I didn’t have a pretty piece of silicon lodged in my head. I was a good vampire—best to my ability; got the sodding job done before the change—and even a good man, once. Long time ago, true, but that little prat is somewhere within me. Here.” He tapped on his chest—a habit becoming more and more secondary. “Like Ripper says, I know more about any bloody historical event than whatever educated doc you have on the list. I’ve lived it—don’t need schoolin’. Gimme a chance at least. If yah don’t like, you can fire me, and I still won’t eat you. Just tell me somethin’ real. I need work.”

“You got the job,” the same man warily acknowledged. “All right? Just…for god’s sake, shut up! Good lord, is there a mute button on this rambling buffoon?”

“Believe me,” Giles chimed in. “I’ve looked.”

However, little attention was paid to the side commentary. The head administrator squared his eyes levelly with William’s and he said courageously, “Don’t make us regret this.”

The vampire issued one of his patented cocky grins and leered victoriously at the Watcher. “No worries, mate. I don’t intend to.”

After dark, the library obtained that highly sought stuffy feel, as if all the pages of the numerous volumes decided to mend together. The administrators had left hours before in a humorous frenzy, all conjuring up falsities of other priorities to tend to. William was issued the key to his curator’s apartment as well as a brief though edited guideline to etiquette expectations. Despite the frequent claims of integrity, most of the board members remained on pins and needles around him—half-expecting him to reveal his demon at the slightest prompting.

Knowing the position was his, honestly, no less, gave William a sense of accomplishment he had never before experienced. In his practice, if you wanted something, you went out and took it. Didn’t matter if it was held, owned, or loved by someone else. The law didn’t apply to demons, and the years had molded him into the craftiest pickpocket on either side of the Atlantic. To stand in the middle of the library—the LIBRARY in all its musky goodness—and know that the employment he sought was his by honest means, by, ironically enough, being himself, made him swell with pride.

“There now, Ripper,” he said to Giles as he tested the door he had locked. Sturdy as a post. “And you were worried I’d bugger it’d up. Tsk tsk tsk. Next time, try to have a lil faith me, eh?”

The Watcher came into view, a thick ancient book cradled in the nook of his left arm. He appeared engorged in the text, but William had seen this before. Giles was perhaps the one man alive who could read, process unrelated information, and speak without confusing his thoughts. When he had digested the concluding sentence, he made his soft reply without looking up. “Mmm, yes. You handled yourself brilliantly today, Spike. You firstly made a fool out of yourself by not watching where you were stepping, then you scared the management into hiring you, else you eat their children in the dead of night.”

William frowned. “Hey, wait a sodding minute, you old git. I—”

There was a sight not many had the privilege to witness. A devious spread nether with Watcher’s lips as he finally closed the book and glanced up. “My, my, aren’t you quick to jump to your defense? Actually, I thought you did quite well today, Will. I admit you have had better moments—(William Ripper II?)—but when things got rough, you did something that I never thought possible.”

“What?”

“You told the truth.” Giles smiled kindly. “Without prompt, at your own discretion. You won yourself this job by being you. Spike. William. Whoever you are. You did yourself proud today.” There was a good-natured sigh as he slipped on his coat, moving for the front door. “I suggest we hit the butcher’s before they close.”

A smile of pure pride anointed William’s pleased expression. Imagine, two nummy treats in one day! With uninhibited eagerness, he tossed the keys into the air and caught them with a closed fist, turning to lock the door before slipping them into his pocket. “That’s me, all right,” he decided smugly. Then, without warning, he fell serious, running a hand through browning hair. “Listen…ummm, Ripper. I know things have been weird—”

“Spike, there’s—”

“No. Lemme say this.” He huffed out a breath. It was odd watching William at times. Unlike other vampires, it was easy—it had been easy for a long while—to forget that he didn’t need food like humans do, that air was optional and water was just as effective if left alone. Regardless of his abbreviated list of needs, he always indulged in additional pleasures. Breathing came as naturally to him at times as it did Ripper or any mortal—he often felt he might fall over dead if he didn’t inhale quickly. Human food was a delight he would not soon give up. Gives the blood texture, he had explained a lifetime before.

It was easy to forget he was dead.

“You took me in when you didn’t hafta, old man. After what I did…everything I did. I’ve put you through hell more than once, I know. Balls, I’ve put everyone I’ve ever encountered through hell.” His feet shuffled uneasily. “I don’t know…I haven’t figured out where I end and Spike begins. Things that I usta love have just lost all their…I’m—”

“Lost.” Giles’s lips pursed. “It’s all right.”

“No! It’s not!” The words came violently; the Watcher blinked and stepped back in surprise. “I mean…you’ve been so bloody damned nice to me since last night. I know I ‘aden’t done nothin’ to deserve it. I’m a ponce, Ripper! Wanderin’ around, not knowing what’s what or why anything’s the way…’s just wonky, that’s what it is.” He sighed again, heavily, chest constricting as though he needed the air he robbed from the earth in which to fill his lifeless lungs. “It, and don’t take this the wrong way, mate…it was almost easier for me when you were all Watcher like. Defendin’ her to the bleeding tenth degree, scrutinizin’ every look I gave you in that way that screams, ‘What is that sodding bastard thinking now?’ I’m suddenly worried that whatever comes out of my mouth might have serious consequences. I know I’ll never have your friendship, or even your trust. I don’t want it. I don’t deserve it.” Another long, exaggerated breath. Where did he store all that air? “But I’m afraid that one day you’ll forgive me. Forgive me fo’ what I did to her. What I’ve done to you.” A last pause for emphasis. Clear blue eyes set into his with the coldest sincerity he had ever seen. “You can’t ever let yourself do that.”

The request hit Giles like a bucket of ice water—stealing the air from his body. There was no correct way to respond. What was there to do? Nod and confirm that forgiveness would never be an issue, so there was no point in even bringing it up? True, the Watcher was a long way from ever considering clemency. William might be himself now, but he was too much a shadow of Spike to ignore the past’s numerous indiscretions. Last night, he had stopped hating him. Hating him for what he did to the girl he reflected as the daughter he never had, hating him for trying to kill the Scoobies over and over even when they offered friendship, hated him for being human without being alive. For expressing more humanity than some people ever got around to revealing. Hating him for loving her with such purity that it took two deaths and a rebirth for anyone—Giles, the least likely of the entire gang, to realize the feelings were genuine. That a demon could love and feel his share of guilt. That Spike might have been the offender, but he was also the savior of his own darkness. He had left to change himself, and, for better or worse, here he was. The man time and the past two years had made him into. The man. The man. He had never thought of Spike as a man before, but with more moments like these, the notion didn’t seem as far away. It was near. Tangible.

But forgiveness? How long had it taken him to forgive Angel for murdering his girlfriend? For torturing him mercilessly? Giles had the fuzzy memory of Spike rolling in and preventing Angelus from spilling his blood onto the carpet of the mansion. He knew now, of course, that at the time, the vampire had been working in cahoots with Buffy and his motives were anything but pure. He also knew that Spike had abandoned the slayer when he could have fulfilled his end of the bargain and kill Angelus.

It was fortune for everyone that he hadn’t. Even then, however, he had splayed his humanity. His tough, impenetrable humanity. Giles knew Spike could never be good simply for the effect of being good, but what did it matter as long as he was? His love for Buffy had morphed him into something none of them were prepared for. A man.

And now, here he was. Standing in all his suffering—the extended misery that would remain until the end of time for the knowledge of what he lost, what he could not have—begging the man who should have hated him never to forgive him of his crime. William the Bloody.

Giles exhaled slowly and regained his breath, shaking his head to wan away conflicting thoughts. He stepped forward. “Why?”

The returned question was unexpected—William had obviously thought to find no conflict in his request. It seemed most natural, after all. “Why? Because I don’t want anyone to. I don’t want forgiveness. Yours will do me no good—I know I will never forgive myself. Why should you?”

“Because that’s what people do, Spike,” the Watcher replied softly. “We hurt, we bleed, we cry, we heal, and we forgive. Sometimes it takes days, other times…well, a lot longer. What you did to Buffy was terrible. Terrible. I know that. I can’t think of anything worse…anything that you could have done to violate her more than what you did. But I also understand that you had no control over it, and that a part of you realized that at the time. I won’t fancy myself into believing you would have stopped yourself had she not. We both know the answer to that. You’re a demon. Demons hurt people. It’s what they’re made for. I know you tried to overcome that and weren’t given the fairest chance. You must realize that we were so accustomed to you trying to kill us that this New And Improved Spike was simply…an enigma. You did really noble things as a demon. You saved Dawn, Buffy, and the others countless times. You would have given your life to Glory if you had had the chance.” A perceptible flinch from the bewildered vampire. Giles could relate. He had died that day and remembered well Spike’s reaction. A sullen sight—the broken-hearted, guilt-wrenched vampire, moping and sobbing, but protecting as he promised. Ah, that was another thing. “You kept your promises. Buffy trusted your word as strongly as she trusted any man’s. But your inner nature was evil, it still is—you can’t deny it. Darkness courses through you as it does Angel, but you ignore it. You mastered ignoring your dark side long ago. So you see, Will, when you ask me never to forgive you, I can’t say that I ever will, but I can’t promise that I won’t. I’m not sure if that is the sort of thing you ever can forgive. This is a unique situation—what hasn’t been that we faced? It’s in the past. You can’t do over again, and I don’t believe either of us could say things would go over differently even if that were an option. What you can do is help her here. Help her through me. Help me watch her and protect her.” Giles sighed and stepped away to admire the building they had exited. “You’ve braved yourself into things this far.”

There was a short silence and a huff of air. “It’s hard,” William said begrudgingly. “Knowing I’ll help her but never see her, and know it’s what I deserve. I deserve it, Ripper. I bloody well know it, too. I’m not gonna complain. Just being allowed this…” He gestured meaningfully at the sky, arm waving toward the library. “It’s more than I coulda hoped for. I don’t deserve it.”

“I know.” Cold, hard acceptance. The vampire didn’t deserve his chance at redemption, but here he was. Weary, afraid, but willing. “But try to, Spike. Try to deserve it.”

He snorted. “Believe me, mate. I’ve never wanted to deserve anything this badly in my entire existence.”

The air fell silent and they walked. Side by side. Hands stuffed respectfully into their pockets. One pair of eyes cast upward, the blue gaze fixed steadfast on the toes of his boots. Both somnolent and cagey, both with one person in mind. The girl that shared their similar affections. Daughter to one and love of his life to the other.

To them, the night breathed for her. She resided an ocean away, and yet raised such angst wherever her name was mentioned. She owned both their hearts and didn’t realize it yet. Didn’t realize the magnitude of that devotion: the power that drove two very unlikely enemies to this state of awkward friendship and compliance. That which prompted Giles to offer his couch one more night so William would not have to be alone.

Chapter Four

The first year of any new adjustment was supposed to be the hardest, and in many aspects, it was. Settling in. Conforming. Surviving the first week alone nearly killed him. True, the general populace was educated and prim, but William tended to more manuscripts and questioning than he knew could exist. Books were not his forte; as a vampire, he had purposefully avoided ritual, trying to break away from the conformity that defined the demon moniker. Surrounding himself with dusty titles was new but liberating. He had even jotted a few verses of poetry into an empty notebook Giles provided him with in the instance that he found anything of use concerning the black vampire blood.

By the second week, Giles had arranged his schedule around library hours, performing his duties for the Council with less frequency. William came to understand them as loose ends. Tying up what he could while severing as many as possible.

Little by little, attitudes began to differ.

It amazed him that he hadn’t found time for books as he did now. Every page of every volume was filled with fascinating information—things his black demon heart would have loved to attempt, once upon a time. It had nothing to do with ritual and everything to do with brazen fun. Never had he suspected the two could be combined with such beneficial consequences.

It’s a good thing, he reflected late one evening, that I can’t lose this bloody soul. Some of these things are just…neat.

He shuddered to think of how Angelus would have reacted to uncover such little treasures.

Above ground living was another adjustment that took getting used to. William could not recall the last time he slept comfortably in a regular bed. The curator’s apartment was modest and efficient. He required little space and was rarely home as it was. The library demanded all his time. Many nights were spent in the solitude of the basement, pouring over passages and analyzing new threats of uprising evils. Cryptic hints of what was—or what could be—approaching.

Things were quiet, though. There was no mention anywhere of vampires that bled black blood, or the implications of what such could represent. William concluded it was an isolated incident and explained to a rather disgusted Giles that the blood of the undead could possibly tint to match a variety of colors. It depended on what they consumed, and if any other chemical imbalances were added to circulation.

“You think I’m the only chap who likes gettin’ a little somethin’ on the side, mate?” he had drawled late one night, kicking his feet onto a bare library table as he plucked an unlit cigarette from his lips, reminded of the strict ‘no smoking’ policy. “Don’t fancy I ever told you that I fed off a flower child once. Cor—it was amazing! All the spinnies and sensations. Nothing like the smokes, though. As much fun as that was, I didn’t like being out of control of myself. Everything we eat, or consume, you see, will affect us somehow. I remember Dru got sick—well, before she got sick—once after feeding on a bloke with sickle cell anemia. Didn’t last, o’course. We feel the burn, but it doesn’t bother us too long. Some vamps love it—the newer ones, especially. Those who were heavy on narcotics before they were turned, and even some who feed on druggies and get buzzed. I’ve seen my blood, Ripper, and I know it’s darker than what’s ‘normal.’ Dunno much about human blood, except that it’s nummy, but I think it affects the undead differently. In the end, I’d wager that Buffy stumbled onto a vampire that enjoyed all shorts of illegal goodies, and that’s that. Wouldn’t make a big fuss unless it happens with more regularity.”

It was information he couldn’t locate elsewhere. Giles secretly congratulated himself on his new acquisition—the things he could learn from William! Things that exceeded the text, the real grub of vampiric existence. This new sliver of information was only the beginning: what didn’t affect mortals could potentially advocate some irregular side effects for the undead. He related his discovery to Xander, cautioning Buffy to be watchful, but not to worry unless the episode gained numerical value.

Aside from the black-blood mystery, supernatural occurrences over the Hellmouth were surprisingly subdued. There were demons, of course—things to slaughter on patrol, things to research, but no outstanding mutinous evil that demanded instant investigation and a quick solution.

Contact was kept, of course. Giles managed constant communication with Buffy, careful not to speak with her when William was around. The vampire never again played houseguest but visited often, dropping off books and what-have-you, trading inside information and imploring for new projects. Most of their time was spent at the library, and homes were considered the break needed from shop. They were never what was conventionally thought of as friends, but understanding blossomed as time went on. Little by little, William stopped hazarding concerned glances at the Watcher, worried that he had put his foot in his mouth and cost him their alliance. With similar regularity, their discussions stopped visiting the terrain of the past and ventured to what the future held—rarely concerning Buffy even as her name hung above each conversation like a rain cloud willing to burst.

His suffering didn’t alleviate, but his ability to tolerate it progressed by leaps and bounds. Soon he was able to smother it from his expression, tired of the people who approached and asked, “What’s wrong?” in a manner that foretold nothing but meddlesome curiosity and the hope of good scandal.

Watching people was still a favored pastime. Those numbered evenings when his presence was not required with books and prophecy were spent at the café—watching life pass before his eyes and jotting down a few stanzas at a time. It felt odd to want to write again. He didn’t believe his ear for poetry had improved any, but experience was the best sort of inspiration. There was no mindless worry with rhyme schemes or technique; William discovered free verse and marveled in the ability to simply write and not worry with the mechanics of creativity.

The sense of satisfaction he received every time upon handing over his hard-earned wages in return for blood and Wheetabix never lost its stinging edge. Giles had long ago shared some tedious tale of his first job and how it felt to see his name on a paycheck, but there was nothing compared to actuality. The management was pleased with his work and efforts.

“It’s not simple,” he told them once, during a routine evaluation. “I dunno why I thought it would be. Seemed easy ‘nuff at the time. Used to be a poet. Yeh—long willy time ago. It’s comin’ back to me as the days pass. Whatever’s me and whatever’s…whatever anymore is so loopy. Knew I loved books once—back when the blood actually pumped—but I spent a good century hatin’ the sight of ‘em. I mean, books and more books—sod ‘em all, you know? Never thought I’d actually fancy a job where liking them’s all important, but I do. Stake me, I love it ‘ere. A lot more than I would’ve ever thought.” Then he had chuckled, leaning forward to draw a hand through his almost fully brown hair. The tips remained highlighted, giving him reason to laugh at those who asked if he spent too much time in the sun. “Oh, bollocks. Look at this! Not even a year yet and you wankers have managed to pass me off as a sodding poof.”

The administration, over time, grew to appreciate his humor and harmless name-calling, and a few even became comfortable with his indisputable demon nature.

He was definitely the least conservative curator the library had ever known, and he grew more popular by the regulars as days progressed. Female students swarmed to tend to their studies if only to bask in his company and implore question after question of information they already had memorized. Within the first two months, he had already memorized the layout of every skylight and recorded the times when the sun passed through with a direct beam. It made travel around the floor plan quick and simple.

Yes, the first year was the hardest. It was also the quickest. There was so much adjusting to do—so much to see and envelop. An entire existence he never believed possible was at his fingertips. Stacks of wistful sonnets and unfinished poems adorned empty closets and filled notebooks until the pages were worn and wrinkled. Writing was an escape he never before fathomed. He had enjoyed it long ago, yes—poured his worthless soul into poorly constructed cantos only to be mocked by society. Now it served as a break. Words no longer struggled for freedom; they came willingly, all the time, blasting him from place to place, rendering him powerless to do anything but obey.

However, with a relatively oblivious town resting atop a fiery Hellmouth, things could not hope to stay tranquil too long. The day inevitably arrived when Xander’s phone call was tainted with panic instead of the customary sense of unneeded obligation. William was with Giles when the phone rang, cautious always to still to perfection in knowledge of whom the caller might be. He stood near enough to hear, though. It became habit. Should Buffy or one of the Scoobies arise a question that merited vampiric opinion, he needed to be close enough to avoid a repeat.

That day he could have been standing anywhere in the apartment and heard every word to eerie faultlessness. Any time her name was mentioned, he drew himself in and listened with ardor he didn’t know he possessed.

“Listen,” Xander was saying breathlessly, as though returning from a long jog. “Buffy wanted me to call you. I took her home a few minutes ago; she didn’t want to upset Dawn. It happened again. That entire creepy: ‘my blood is the essence of the dark side’ thing. Two vamps this time. Scraped them both up before she got a chance to lay it to the ole stakey, and both of them just started…pouring this black goo everywhere.” Nothing moved within the apartment. William was in the study researching, down the hall and a room away from the conversation, but he heard everything to painful articulation. He waited for Giles to speak, but Harris started again, voice more than panicky. “Here’s the weird thing, G-Man, and let me know if it means anything to you. It won’t come out. The blood. It got all over her clothes and we scrubbed it together but it’s like…like it’s apart of the design, or something. It…made a symbol.”

“What?” There it was—the telling eruption from a concerned watcher. Impatience coated his tone. “A skull with crossbones? An ‘x’? What?”

“Calm down. Trust me, we’re freaked out enough. It’s an upside down cross with three sixes covering the front.” Several rooms away, and William could still see Giles’s eyes widen as Xander exerted a deep breath and continued. “Unless I’m wrong—and, please…let’s not rule that out. I’d be happy to be wrong—we’re talking full apocalypse here, aren’t we? Like God’s wrath—‘ye unable to prevent’?”

“Well…” And that was it. An unspoken cue for the vampire to evacuate his post and join the Watcher in the kitchen. They stood opposite each other. It astonished him to see Giles as concerned as he was. They had survived a number of things—more end of the world prophesies than anyone could count, and he voiced his sentiments to the concerned man on the other end, not at all convincingly.

Anyone within a ten-mile radius could hear the falsity in his tone.

“Yeah,” Harris agreed. “But this is different, right? I mean—you have seen The Omen, haven’t you? That entire triple six thing is just…creepy and…biblical. We can’t stop anything biblical, can we?”

A hefty silence and the tension rolled off Giles’s shoulders, his body relaxing into a helpless sigh. “I don’t know how to prevent the end of the world, should it be by heavenly means,” he acknowledged. “But I’m not entirely convinced that this…symbol is an indication of the approaching Antichrist. There are a number of demons that enjoy masquerading by old text prophecy. Buffy and I have stopped several. Whatever this…thing is…it might be using biblical references to induce this sort of panic. These indicators are easily recognized by the public. On the whole, I would say it’s more likely.” The Watcher glanced to William in silent offer of an opinion, but he had nothing to add. “Believe me, I will be on the first plane to Sunnydale if anything else of a similar nature occurs. I don’t believe that the end of the world would be spelled out in the random killings of your ordinary vampires. They were newly risen, correct?”

“Yeah. That’s what had us wigged out. It wasn’t like they had done anything apocalypse-worthy, or anything. I mean, bad vampire: kill kill, sure. But as soon as they got roughed up a bit, on came the black blood in spurts. But…no. They were newbies.”

“Then we’re likely not dealing with an unpreventable day of reckoning,” Giles reassured him, though he was sweating bullets. “I don’t believe you could elicit such a reaction from the newly risen unless he was significant in life, somehow. Was it anyone you know?”

“Yeah…” Little by little, Xander’s voice was relaxing. “It was a coworker. Real brain-dead guy. The other was a chick we knew back in high school. Neither of them struck me as ‘Big Bad of the Year’ material.”

A sense of unspoken relief spread through the room. The Watcher shook his head heavily, tossing a fleeting glance to William, who was staring at him in wonder. “Now…Xander…listen to me. This is important. If there are any other indications…you know the routine. Call me and I’ll fly out immediately. This report still seems a bit too vague to draw any radical assumptions.” Without ceremony, he hung up, heaving another deep breath. “Right…” he said to no one in particular, though there was only one other occupant in the room. A minute passed before he had gathered himself, looking up with dead fast seriousness. “We have work to do.”

The next few weeks were spent buried in ancient text. Demons were investigated and consequentially dismissed. There weren’t many demons Giles was aware of that would go to such extents to conceal themselves. The foes she had faced in the past were never shy with exercising their powers or announcing various intentions. A year had passed since the last report. Whatever it was definitely wanted attention. Attention, but not to be identified. It had patience—a great deal of patience—and was waiting for the perfect time to strike.

Research was tedious and ineffective. Book after book studied, analyzed, and discarded.

There were demons of every sort. Demons that exaggerated their powers and used their various talents to attempt to bring about the end of the world. Buffy had defeated a variety of those, and Giles would not be concerned if he thought it was nothing more. However, such creatures had never hid before. Had never waited the time span of a year before making a second and more ambiguous attack. Similarly, there were demons that lived lives as regularly as any human—looking to both cause and receive no trouble. Such were numbered, of course, but not nonexistent. There were others like Whistler—those sent to correct various wrongs. And yes, even biblical demons. Creatures out to condemn mankind for multiple sins.

There was only one consistency. Behind every demon was the slayer waiting to kill it if it so much as twitched in the wrong direction. The slayer and the slayer alone.

Unless that slayer was Buffy Summers, in which case, exceptions were always made.

There were volumes of books the Watcher had never seen before, never even heard of. Night after night was spent locked in solitude, pouring over one page after the other. Reading. Digesting. Research meetings stretched into the wee hours of morning—leaving William to slumber until sunset and Giles to tend to the curator duties. Eventually, they traded off nights of rest. The vampire had experience going prolonged periods without sleep and understood that he would be the first to relinquish, should the situation fester to that degree.

“There’s a demon that specializes in biblical prophecy,” the Watcher noted one evening. It wasn’t the pinnacle of all discoveries; William always knew when the old man was on to something—despite if the resolution turned out to be another dead-end. Giles’s eyes alighted with intensity and he would begin speaking with such haste that it was difficult to keep up. “But it’s not hostile. More, it researches to prepare for Judgment Day while warning mortals of its imminent loom. Some even use the guise of being Mormon to get their point across.”

“The Mormons are demons?” The vampire snickered his amusement. “I’ve been around for a while now, Ripper, and that’s a new one by me.”

“Not all of them,” the Watcher amended quickly. “But…ummm…for demons such as these,” he gestured broadly at the text, “it makes for a good cover.”

“Hmph. I always guessed there was something wacky about those blokes,” William huffed. “Demons get their jollies with whatever they do best—even if it is act as a sodding televangelist. Had to be a reason they stand at those bloody corners all the—”

“Will. Please. On topic.”

Lead after lead withered. The library books proved interesting but not useful, and the newness soon wore off. After thoroughly investigating every last page of the Watcher’s private collection, Giles implored other libraries to lend their manuscripts. He even approached the Council’s aid while somehow maintaining the secrecy of his motives.

Every clue directed them to a blind alley.

“You know,” William said one day as he made a grab for Giles’s Wheetabix. “I’ll bet your Council has full lot of books full of gibberish even they can’t make out. They don’t want you to, either. You’re not with ‘em anymore, and I bet they know you’re the chap who could make all the little funny words make sense.”

Serious allegations once upon a time, and without thought, the Watcher considered and offered a shrug of concession. “It is a possibility,” he agreed, standing to pour himself some more coffee. “Though I doubt they would go to such extents. The Council strives for the exposure of knowledge. I have deciphered a lot of text in my day, but the ancient volumes—those that predate the books I possess that already predate history—might be a stretch. It would take a…” He looked up suddenly, eyes shining with recognition. “Those…pricks.” The word was comical, rolling off the old man’s tongue, counterpoint only to the fire behind his gaze. William bit back a smile. “They know.”

“Know?”

“They must. The Council’s policy on human interaction with vampires is…stringent. It’s their only regulation that exceeds the quest for knowledge.” Giles’s eyes darkened in frustration and he slammed his mug ceremonially into the sink. A perceptible flinch shuddered through both as the glass shattered into a thousand shards. Violent temperament was rarely exhibited by either of them—William hadn’t vamped since his interview the year before. Neither wanted the reminder of where they came from. “Dammit! If those imbeciles would…it nearly killed Angel once, despite the special circumstances of his nature. I’m sure that doesn’t mean a lot to you.” The Watcher glanced upward, reflecting his surprise when William’s demeanor had not changed. Over the past year, they had not discussed the grand-sire to any extent, and small changes in behavior still had the potential for an all-around shock. After years of knowing Spike, it was understood that it would take a considerable amount of time to grow fully accustomed to his new and improved mannerisms. Much had changed since they met that first day at the café, and still they inwardly referred to old battles and conclusions for guidance. However, they were beyond analyzing every whim; replacing lengthy discussion with a mutual smile of embarrassed acknowledgment before continuing. “Anyway, I’m willing to guarantee that they have been to the library while neither of us were acting particularly observant. It was bad enough that Buffy was involved with the enemy. I’m supposed to know better.”

The Watcher scoffed heartily, ignoring the minor flinch that resounded immediately after her name. Amongst other things, William’s reaction to anything associated with the Slayer had progressed to the point of barely noticing his slip-ups. No longer could he be manipulated simply by mentioning that Buffy would like this or Buffy would find that droll. Giles used it occasionally to test him but not often. Their discussions rarely progressed over that dangerous terrain unless the topic was shop.

“So,” William drawled after pouring a mouthful of Wheetabix down his throat. “These gents would keep books from being read just because of my skin condition and special diet? That’s not right, Ripper. That’s—”

“Precisely one of the reasons my work for the Council decreases by the year.” He sighed. “But they’re the only way to keep a steady lookout on Faith. Establishing our connection is painfully essential. No, the Council would not meet my requests if they thought it helped you in any way, and the fact that I am asking for ancient manuscripts of demon ritual doesn’t assist our plight.”

“Why not just tell them the world’s about to end…again?”

“We have no concrete proof. Black blood is odd, I grant you, but it doesn’t exactly spell out apocalypse.”

“Yeah, but the upside down crucifix thingy can’t be all sunshine and daisies. It’s important, mate. Has to be if you can’t find it in your home library.” Irately, William pulled himself to his feet. “And what about mine? We’ve searched every inch of that place. Nothing about black blood.”

“That might mean that it’s not important enough to document,” Giles observed.

“Or unheard of in all senses.” The vampire arched his brows meaningfully as a sigh rolled off his body. “Listen: how do you think all those bloody prophesies got written in the first place? Someone got an idea and someone got stopped. The idea was recorded in the theory that a more powerful bloke would try it again someday. Some of it’s real—yeah, I get that. But consider this, Ripper…sometimes these hoity toity prophets just sit there and belly out a bunch of nonsense that just might come true if some wanker reads too much into it. Vamps study prophecy just as much as you bloody watchers do. Where there’s a will, there’s a way. And where there’s a way, there’s a good idea how to get there the quickest. Then there are the demons that want to make their own history by doing things their way. I don’t know about you, mate, but I don’t wanna sit around on the off chance that this is a bunch of unrelated humbug. I don’t think you wanna, either. Better safe than sorry. Better sorry than dead.”

And thus they delved into more research. Neither were terribly talented at operating a computer, though given the definite lack of Willow, Giles grudgingly conformed and began exercising the power of search engines and the alike. He was never good at it, though, never grasped where the right spots were and accidentally found himself on more porn sites than he would like to admit. The other links were likewise ineffectual. Somewhere between the cynical and the psycho prophets, to whom every day is the last of the world.

The vampire in question could not be found anywhere.

However desperate the situation could have become, it all abruptly ended one day with another phone call from Xander. They had killed a demon, they said. A big nasty demon with an upside down crucifix branded into his chest. It didn’t bleed—rather dissolved—but everyone was fairly confident that the link had been made and that the situation was resolved. His description didn’t heighten much in the fervor. The demon was dead, after all—why identify it? Should an army of a thousand attack Sunnydale, then they could fill out a profile sheet. As of now, it was unimportant.

Giles was more than a little peeved with the news and refused to let Xander off the phone without quizzing him thoroughly, receiving further questions rather than answers. He was in the middle of growling how the youth had no respect for the efforts put out by others as long as the pieces fit together in the end, and looked ready to give the man an ocean away a good scolding when his expression suddenly softened and the fire left his eyes. William stood a few feet away, ignoring the conversation for his own minimal exasperation, but he detected the attitude change as though someone had switched the music from heavy metal to contemporary.

It was Willow. Nothing she had said or done, just hearing her voice on the other end. Broken but mending. Surviving as warriors do. The sound brought a quaint smile to his face. It was not nearly as painful as it would have been a year before. Voices of home.

Then shop talk was over. Though still notably aggravated, Giles enjoyed his exchange with Willow, promising to visit sometime soon and imploring her to give his love to the rest of the gang. He hung up and stuffed his cell phone back into his slacks, his face adapting a neutral tenor, as though unknowing what to think.

There was a long silence.

“Well,” he decided finally. “I suppose…our efforts were…”

“I don’t believe it for a sodding second,” William offered, kicking his feet back onto the library table, spreading the newspaper wide before him. When the Watcher stared, he rolled his eyes and sat up. “Oh, not that they didn’t kill a demon. I believe that. But…it’s…them! Nothing is ever that simple. It’s not just ‘oooh, cryptic message, slash/kill/end of story.’ The Scoobies always ‘ave someone after their hides—somethin’ that isn’t killed with a simple roundabout slaying.”

“Can’t we believe in good luck?” Giles did sound tired, leaning against an aisle of books. Then he frowned, realizing his words. There was one thing he did not believe in, and that was luck. Frustrated, he shook his head and continued. “I understand the improbability, but we can’t presume anything with the information we have—or lack thereof. They killed a demon with related markings that had been getting away with this sort of thing for a year. There. End of story.”

William scoffed at him disbelievingly. “Can it be true? Did the Watcher just boohoo the chance that something is conjuring up some serious mojo? I’m shocked. After all, you all have thought you killed something before only to have it come back and laugh at your blind arse. Rupert, I never thought I’d see the day. Brush it off all you like. I have these tinglies that won’t go away, and I don’t care what you or Harris says—I trust my tinglies.”

Giles rolled his eyes and edged away from the book stack. “We cannot be sure of anything, Will. However, I think it rather foolish to spend time researching a demon we still know nothing about—other than the fact that it appears to be very much dead. We’ll just have to assume for now that our worrying was in vain. Buffy handled the situation without encumbrance.”

The vampire arched his brows and fought off another scoff. “Feeling useless?”

“No. It’s good. She’s finally…” the Watcher grinned tightly to himself. “Grown up.”

And so the days returned to their monotonous beat, passing with regularity, spent day in and day out in the library. Everything back to its mind-numbing normality. The simplicity of life without life.

A small apocalypse to start out a new year. Yes—the world was as it should be.

Chapter Five

Time progressed, a tedious repertoire of each day’s passing. William tended to the library—a thoughtful caretaker to be sure, if not otherwise bored and misplaced. Things were quiet on the home front. There were weekly reports, of course, the occasional threat of world domination, but, to the proud Watcher’s delight, nothing the slayer was not capable of handling on her own accord.

Yes, things were quiet. Experience stressed, however, that silence meant the brewing of some catastrophic evil. And still it stretched endlessly. There were the usuals, of course. A vampire here, a demon there, perhaps one or two actual threats, but nothing that couldn’t be handled. Thus, there was no further reason for conjugal research parties, though Giles and William met still out of habit and the need for company. When they weren’t discussing demonology, they made long talks of cultural references; books they had both read and enjoyed, engaging in long and often amusing debates to the higher points of good literature. What surprised the Watcher the most was the idea that his vampire friend had read many of the works they discussed while evil pumped through his veins. There was no doubt that William was more scholarly than Spike, but their similarities leaked through with further intent as each day passed.

It wasn’t until the day that the vampire had requested off that Giles finally stumbled onto some old notebooks that had seen more wear and tear than any in his private collection. A pile had been abandoned along with some other interesting reads; a few books for recreational enjoyment, a collection of Edgar Allen Poe opened to The Raven, and several volumes of demon ritual for furthered though futile research.

The notebooks, however, held the most surprise. Page after page was documented with thousands of poems, all flowing with rhythmic beauty and description, each coursed and linked, different but alike. Sorrowful works written with such pain that it stole the breath from his body. Poems composed with overwhelming beauty and insight, concerning love and life, and the sensation of watching those around you live without being able to join them. Giles was lost from the first word. He waned away patrons and students who approached him, muttering something about the card catalog before returning to the words. The words! William definitely possessed a bleeding heart, and while the Watcher would have guessed that the woman he loved inspired his work, the simplistic magnificence of the sonnets was the progression beyond the physical and to outlook on life itself. Unquestionably, there were dedications. Odes to Buffy without so many words, often written with grief but lined with splendor. He never named her specifically, but the way the pen seemed to move so freely, there could be no doubt.

Giles had never known poetry like this. His first instinct compelled him to approach William in question, but he decided against it with second consideration. No, the vampire would rebuke in the namesake of pride. He was a tough git—compassionate but straining to maintain his reputation, and would either insist that those were idle ramblings or that he had never seen them before, much less written them. Then he would do something foolish and brash like incinerate his work to maintain his esteem. That wouldn’t do. To deprive one man was to deprive the world.

But now was not the time. He would wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Two entire years passed without single mention. There were activities to fill in the holes—the occasional demon to research—and honestly, the Watcher allowed it to slip from his mind at intervals at a time. Then the feedback started to roll in. Critics. Reviews. Little by little at first, and then the massive outburst. And that was when he could not take it. Giles presented William with his gift on what he believed to be his one hundred and thirty second birthday.

The reaction was not as he thought.

“You what?!” the vampire erupted. Before him was a collection of his work, bound by a thick navy cover, spanning the course of over five hundred pages. And every word was his own, every thought, every image. Everything he had conjured up from the bottom of his unbeating heart. “I…I…how could you? And not ask…not bloody TELL me…who gave you permission to—”

Giles frowned. “I didn’t think you would mind. Your confidence has never lost its swagger.”

“But…the…invasion…” The look on William’s face truly was pathetic. He was strained, too pale, even for a vampire, and almost to tears. For a minute, all he could do was stare at the print on the front. William the Bloody—Giles had used his original moniker for the penname. “Bloody hell, Ripper,” he murmured as the fire within began to wither. “Do people even like it? I can’t…my work! Out there…it’s…”

“They love it, Will,” he said softly. “The London Press can’t stop raving—I can’t believe you haven’t heard before now. My apologies for…taking without asking. It simply never occurred to me that you would…”

The vampire sighed. “Yeah…I see that. Really. It’s just…poetry’s a soft-spot with me. I wrote a lot before I was changed, though I think you probably knew that.”

“Actually, no.”

“How the bloody hell did you think I got my sodding nickname?” He pointed emphatically to the author of the text.

The Watcher arched a brow. “That railroad spike trademark comes to mind for some reason…”

“Well…” William grinned tightly to himself. “Yeah. There was that. That’s when I changed my name to Spike, sure. William the Bloody was before I died. I was poet then, too. William the Bloody for my bloody awful poetry.” Good lord, there were tears glistening through his gaze. The Watcher had not seen his colleague actually weep since that first day, so long ago. It didn’t last long. He wiped his eyes angrily and picked up the book, giving it a good shake. “But they like this? People do? It’s not awful?”

The question seemed so completely ridiculous that he was tempted to laugh. “I would not have submitted it for publication if it was awful,” he replied honestly. “Will, it’s some of the most…breathtaking work I’ve ever read.”

“Why the name?” the vampire rubbed his finger over the place his forename was embroidered in gold letters. “Why not William Ripper II or something equally stupid? If Buffy sees this—”

“Actually, I was hoping she does.”

And that was it. That was the end of the discussion. No more would they talk of poetry or publications. No more would William hang his head in sorrow that his secret passion had been unveiled. He would never ask how Giles wheedled his notebooks away without his knowledge, and the Watcher would never tell. Over time, he grew comfortable with the assumption that he had hired a typist to dictate the pages to computer.

After a while, seeing his book in stores, in eager students’ bags, even receiving a stock for the library, William allowed himself to grow with deserved pride. He was the first published vampire in history. The first with the will and the talent to have something to write about. If he never composed again, he felt complete. Vindicated.

Haha, Cecily! Beat that! Nana nana na na!

News from the home front remained unchanged. Three years without major developments. What was originally construed as tedium eventually became habit. Surprisingly, the more time that passed, the less William seemed to mind. He grew comfortable in habit—satisfied with his mended status in life. The café was less and less visited; nights occupied with trips to the butcher and grocery store for Weetabix and all those humanly foods he enjoyed, despite rationality. He was completely adjusted to the taste of foreign packaged blood, though his method of weaning and resigned him with an unhealthy caffeine addiction.

One particularly boring day, William buried himself in research. Not looking up anything of notable importance—just the reassurance that he would be prepared for the sudden rising of an unspeakable evil. Giles agreed that excessive silence indicated the coming of something big, and the longer things festered, the larger the mutinous evil would be.

It hadn’t been mentioned for two years, but suspicions that the Council’s confiscation of the ancient text was holding them back from the truly pivotal discoveries. There was no way known to either that would provoke the Watcher’s former employers to utilize an ode of trust.

So William, during one of his routine smoke breaks, concluded a surprise package was in order for the Council. He composed a very civil letter and enclosed it in a copy of his poetry volume. The play was cheap, he understood, but any attempt was a good one. Perhaps if those gits could see that he valued life as much as the next bloke then they would look at him like a man. Demons might be good at masquerading a good show, but honesty was a virtue none could feign. Especially since the Council made themselves to be a band of experts on the grounds of every vampire that walked the earth and had made special note of his case when he first came to Sunnydale. It was shooting in the dark, but blind faith was better than none.

Two weeks passed before he received a response. It was none more than he expected.

ATTN: William the Bloody

– We appreciate your inquisition, and will gladly add your donation to the archives. However, it is manifest that the Council does not negotiate with demons, nor accept petty efforts of subornment. Despite the special circumstances of your condition, we regrettably cannot authorize the shipment of time’s oldest volumes to the betterment of your personal projects. Such reaches are so implicitly unrelated with the cause. Sincerest apologies.

To that William only scoffed, unhampered. The next day, he composed a shorter letter: strict and to the point.

I’m sure the world will understand your unmoving position once she’s destroyed, you crazed gits.

He related the situation to Giles and invited him to add his signature. There was nothing more effective than his involvement. The Council would have no reason to believe a vampire—the former Watcher’s opinion was still respected in a sense, despite the bitterness of his release.

Next to his colleague’s rugged though classy William the Bleeding Bloody Baby!, he added Rupert Giles (Ripper).

Two more weeks passed before the library received its delivery.

In his time, Giles had seen thousands of books. More volumes and collections than any one person could view. For years, he had lived under the assumption that his private assortment was of the oldest in history. However, the books before him were outmatched by any other. The pages were so old and tarnished that the lettering had long ago meshed into a display of black swirls and aged colors. Some of the passages were written in dialects he didn’t even know existed. William was equally enthralled—not so much by the content as by the thrill of the arrival. For a full ten minutes, all he could do was singsong, “Someone beat the system… Someone beat the system…”

Then it was all business. Days were spent locked in basements, those overcast upstairs. They traded off working days, tending very little to library visitors, giving rash and nonsensical answers to avoid hefty explanations. Passages at a time were translated—others discarded until they could identify the various unknown tongues. Uncovered information was fascinating—some relevant, some not. Some simply repeated old foretelling any myth. There was so much to get through, so much to absorb.

“Bollocks! Listen to this,” William said, eyes triumphant with conquered translation. “There’s a prophecy in ‘ere about the fall of the Roman Empire. Oh! And ‘the bloodfest of the eighteen-hundredth year of documented time.’” He arched his brows and looked up. “Civil War, I’m guessin’. Bloody hell, there’s somethin’ in ‘ere about that chap that was at Christ’s side when he was crucified. Immortal demon! I don’t believe…oh, looky looky: here’s somethin’ about the coming of the Chosen One.”

“There have been several Chosen Ones, Will,” Giles retorted absently. “And even more prophecies surrounding their origin. I don’t think—”

“No! Bugger, it’s about Buffy. Honest to bleedin’ God. The slayer who lives ten years after her calling…” Eagerly, he whirled the book to the Watcher, pointing emphatically at the indicated text. “Three slayers will stand out as the most capable. The most confident. The most…basically, the most of the most. Live to see…” He frowned suddenly, leaning forward. “Hey…wait a tick…”

But Giles was already a step ahead of him, effectively grounded. They traded uneasy gazes for long minutes before the silence snapped in a whirlpool of action. In the same beat, they bounded to their feet, fighting for a place above the book—the Watcher turning away once his visual concern was verified. Then he could do nothing but sit. He leaned against the table, back to the vampire, whose muttered recital heightened in volume and panic with every word that escaped his lips.

“I…I didn’t believe it was true…” Giles whispered to himself. “It was myth, Will. All myth. There are two sorts of myth in the Watcher’s Guild; that you know for fact and the idle curses made of rambling idealists in the ages before the sun began to burn. All my life, I was told this was about as factual as professional wrestling.” No response from the floored vampire. “Every slayer dies usually within the first three or four years of their calling. Buffy is different. We both know that. It’s been what, nine years now? Since…” Then his voice trailed off, eyes going blank with blunt understanding. “Since I met her. Oh God…”

Finally, William found his voice, slamming the book shut and kicking it to the floor. Both eyes followed as it slid ineffectually under an aisle of text. “Let’s not jump to any bleeding conclusions,” he decided, tone not at all convincing. “I mean, she—”

Words were silenced by a growing rumble quaking the earth. They looked up breathlessly and moved by instinct to the various doorways, bracing themselves as car horns sounded crashes outdoors, as lights flickered and book racks toppled over. It was over as quickly as it began, rendering the electricity useless and one of the skylights shattered with a fallen cable wire.

Predictably, the vampire was the first to speak. “Well,” he drawled. “That was weird.”

“No.” There was a dangerous edge to the Watcher’s tone. That ‘Oh-God-I-Know-Something-Horrible-Is-Coming-And-I-Can’t-Bloody-Stop-It stitching value. “It was timely, whatever it was.” Another silence—not as brief. “I need to call Buffy.”

The phone lines, however, did not agree. After several useless attempts, Giles was inconsolable. His air was awry, part of his sweater tucked into his trousers, hand caressing his eyes as he attempted futilely not to tremble.

Modesty was not betrayed through voice, nor the knowledge of their impending situation concealed. More over, William was not used to being the calm one, but he knew that if he lost it, neither of them was going to be of much help. “Ripper, we don’t know what it says. The lights went all out before—”

“What are the chances—tell me—that it says something good?” Giles snapped. “Good God, I should have known. The inactivity, the—”

“Don’t assume—”

“How can this not kill you?!” The biting menace in his voice was almost more than William could tolerate. He understood the Watcher was upset but there was no need to revisit old questions of manifestly resolute faith. “You claim to love her, and—”

“Sod off, you old bint before you say something that makes me wanna bite you.” They exchanged fiery glances through the dark—the vampire with a bit more luck. “I’m half mad as it is; I don’t fancy a headache. Why are you so buggered up?”

“Because the last slayer who lived ten years was killed by the Master.” Giles exhaled. “The Master that Buffy killed.”

“So?”

“So she—the other slayer—had killed the Master before him.” The man was gasping, nodding as comprehension bled into William’s eyes. “I never…according to folklore, there’s a succession in the line of Masters. A line that waits for their separate calling, much like the Slayer only with advanced training and years. Buffy killed the oldest, and this…myth that I never believed in…claims another rises on the tenth anniversary of his death. One stronger than his predecessor, one who will torture his killer if she is not already dead. It has only happened once before, when the Master arose.” He heaved significantly, eyes glossing over. “I can’t do it again, Will. I can’t. I’ve watcher her die twice now, only to hurt herself beyond death in the process, and it’s all but destroyed me. I can’t do it again.” Another pause. “He will be…he will have ties over her. She can beat him, but things are different now. The succession of the Masters is as old as predated history—an incidence that only occurs once a millennia, if that. This new arising is only the third since the world began, and he has had thousands of years to prepare for surfacing.”

William’s eyes were cast downward somberly, his body unable to cease its quivers. For the first time in a hundred years, he felt cold. Truly cold. Genuine anger coursed through his system—he hadn’t felt it in so long. Accusingly, he glared upward, voice biting with venom. “Why didn’t you tell her?”

“Because when she was threatened with the idea that the Master that killed her could arise again, it destroyed her.” The Watcher shook his head. “I thought she could make it this far. But it wasn’t supposed to be real, Will! It’s speculation dismissed by everyone involved in the demon world. I thought about mentioning it from time to time…idly…but there was no point. It wasn’t real. I didn’t want her to worry, especially if…”

“In case she died?” The vampire shifted uneasily. “Sod your excuses, you shoulda told her, mate. And you bloody well know it. Buffy’s faced a lot of things wackier than the Master. I mean…she killed Angelus, for god’s sake! True, he wasn’t the baddest of the bad, but she stuck a bleedin’ sword through her boy’s chest.” It killed him to admit it, but personally, William was still regretting that he hadn’t been there to see it. Thoughts of Angel and Buffy together were not happy ones—with or without a conscience. “I’m willing to bet kittens that that was more traumatic for her than physical death. Heartache is the worst, old man. Take it from someone who’s had a bit of both. Then after Peaches, there was the mayor and that renegade slayer bint. And that mad-scientist creation. Then the hell-god, who she bloody died ‘cause of. And me, o’course. The Big Bad.” William heaved a breath. “You shoulda told her. She’s not a tike anymore. She’s had her lot of death. Bugger her readiness—you were yellow, Ripper.”

“Of course!” Giles snapped. “If you had an inkling of feeling, if you knew what she went through when the Master…she was just a girl. I had to protect her.”

“She’s not a little girl now. She hasn’t been for a long time. And protect her from what, exactly? Where’s the bloody harm if you didn’t think it was real?”

“I don’t spend a lot of time making guesswork about idle mythology,” the Watcher muttered, surprising him with the degrees lost in volume. “It makes sense now.”

“What?”

“Everything. The inactivity, the selection of those demons that decided to make themselves known.” Giles sighed heavily. “This earthquake was only the start. More will follow across the globe.”

“How yah know the earthquake—”

“After so many years, you learn to decipher nature from ritual.” A long pause. “We need to go to her.”

The room became deathly still and remained frozen for what seemed like hours. For the longest time, all William could do was stare at the old man; the nonexistent need for air seizing his chest and constructing harsh breaths to crash passed his lips. And then he was overtaken with pain. Simply seeing her face flash before his eyes, the hurt and betrayal, the biting sting of her retort. The pained hate. The hate.

Go back to that?

“I can’t!” he choked at last. “Ripper, you can’t ask me to do that.”

“I need you for this, Will. It’s not a matter of your willingness. I’ll also need…need to call LA. Angel—”

That was too much. Buffy and Peaches? He couldn’t fathom the weight. “Bloody no. I—”

Suddenly he forced back, surprised his night-vision hadn’t caught the Watcher moving forward. A grip tightened around his throat and forced his back to bend along ways the table, cracking him over books and notes and uncovered prophecy. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me,” he growled. “I. Need. You. There is no choice. You’re coming if I have to pay every vendor in this town to rid their supply of blood for the next year and every store to stop their shipments of Weetabix. I need someone there to watch out for her.” Then his gaze soften and he released his grasp. William coughed and sat up, own hand compensating for the absence of Giles’s around his throat, caressing the bruise undoubtedly forming. “I need to feel that she is safe. I know I can count on you for that.”

A longer silence along with a stare of pure astonishment. For minutes, all he could do was stand and gape at the old man. The words sounded foreign, and he could not, for the life of him, decode the higher value. Long ago, he had asked the Watcher never to forgive him of his trespasses. Wasn’t that what trust was: understanding mistakes made in the past, granting pardon, and allowing a fresh start? William didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Tears were so overdone now and not nearly as efficient as silence.

And then it was too much. With a frustrated growl, the vampire tore himself away, stalking further into the darkness, beyond fallen bookshelves where Giles could not see him. “No, no, no, no, NO!” he screamed, loud and violent until his throat ached. “This is wrong! You’re not supposed to…” Unsatisfied, he came forward again, light surviving his eyes if nowhere else. “How could you, Ripper? You promised me…you promised me that you would never forgive me. You bloody well can’t go back on that now. Don’t say you trust me with her, you bleeding wanker. Don’t give me a sodding clean slate. I’ll bugger it up somehow.” Desperate and not receiving a response, he collapsed to his knees, at last unable to stop the tears. “Don’t trust me. Don’t treat me like nothing happened. I don’t deserve that.”

The air fell silent save the long chokes of endless sobs. William lowered his head, grasping onto Giles’s coat, asking—pleading for an answer. Anything to counter still nothingness. No matter how many barriers he crossed, this was one boundary beyond his reach. For the past three years, he had been comfortable with that. Sure, it hurt like hell, but it fit the crime. Loving from afar, standing steadfast in the same place, knowing he could never look at her again, let alone touch her. Protect her.

Trust? Faith? Forgiveness? Such words had no place here. No matter how much time passed or how he progressed, that part of him was rendered forever still. There could be no advancement—it was not craved or warranted. Punishment was in order, and he was—or had been—certain that this incessant, intolerable distance was what satisfied the severed means.

To see her? After all this?

“I never promised not to forgive you,” Giles said finally. “You begged for that release, and I could not grant it. Truthfully, Will, I haven’t forgiven the demon. How can I? But you…I forgave you a long time ago. I know a part of what happened was because of you, but I don’t believe things would have gone so badly if it had been you and not Spike. I doubt many things that happened that year would have concurred. These past few years have changed my outlook tremendously. And whether or not you like it, that is how we stand. You cannot help my forgiving you, and you could have prevented it. I didn’t even realize it until after it was done. You earned it, Will. I need you now. I need someone I can trust her with.” A degree lower. “I need my friend to come with me.”

The vampire’s eyes watered again, a hand coming to his mouth as he retracted his grasp on the Watcher’s coat and clamored to his feet. “We’re friends?” he asked meekly. “Since when?”

“We have been for a while,” Giles replied, a kind smile tickling his lips. “People don’t ask for these things, Will. They happen. Trust me, friendship was the last thing I wanted from you. You have caused me more grief than you’re worth, but things are different. They have been for a long time.”

With some reluctance, William nodded, wiping the last of his tears from his eyes. “I know,” he replied softly. “So, what now? We waltz back to Sunnydale? What makes you think she’ll let me get near her or the Little Bit? Or anyone, for that bleeding matter? Even if I could protect her…who would it be from?”

“I’ll tell her,” Giles decided. At the panic that spread through his colleague’s eyes, he amended, “About our working together. Buffy trusts my judgment. It’ll be easier for her to believe I put up with a noisy Fitzwilliam Ripper II rather than William the Bloody. As for your soul, that’s for you to decide. You got it for her, Will. Despite your attempts, she will find out, sooner or later. How she finds out depends on you.”

“I know.” He heaved a breath of concession. “I’ve always known she’d find out…somehow. But I’m not ready for it, Ripper. I’ll do what I can, but I…she can’t know. Not at first.”

“Then I suggest you dye your hair,” Giles observed casually. “And slip back into the Big Bad.” A heavy breath rolled off his shoulders. “We have to get ready. I’ll call Buffy as soon as we—”

“What about this?” William stood indicatively in the middle of the library, surrounded by debris. “What about my job? What about everything—”

“Contact the administration and explain an emergency has arisen overseas. They will have to find a replacement curator for now.” Giles paused. “Perhaps that psychiatrist they mentioned when you first got the job. Don’t worry. The management likes you too much to let you go without a fight.”

The vampire twitched and grumbled. “Bloody well hope so. Right, I better stay ‘ere, then, while you run out and make your phone calls.” He gestured to the wreckage. “I gotta clean up this sodding mess and make it all fancy before we leave.”

“Right. Then we better plan to meet at my flat later tonight. I want to be out on the first available flight tomorrow. Go to your place and grab whatever you think you’ll need.” And that was that. Tasks ready and issued; there was no going back. Promises constructed through air. What a world, what a world.

He appreciated that level of understanding they shared. Verification was rarely needed anymore. Unless something completely unprecedented came up, spoken word was stronger than any forged contract. William nodded and huffed, bent forward and collected a few books, paused, and called after the departing Watcher. “Ripper…one more thing.” He cleared his throat. “Do you have an orb?”

Giles paused shortly in stride. “What?” he demanded without turning around.

“Yah know—an orb. Of…soul keepin’ and all that magicky stuff.” As the Watcher finally offered him a frown in question, William’s hands came up peacefully and he stepped back, though the space between them could have been marked with mileage signs. “Hey—I’m a trusted bloke, but I figure that this new ponce will…you said make the Master’s killer suffer, right?” He sighed. “I’m not sure if he could, and I’m not sure how I’d react, but this git might be able to take what’s mine. If that happens, you gotta be ready to curse me. To work that mojo or whatever. I don’t think I’d be a prat. I mean—I love her no matter. But there’s always a chance.” When Giles did not extract his dubious expression, the vampire again stood back quickly and quirked a brow. “What? Did I say somethin’ worth a staking? I just want to keep my bloody soul, dammit. Do you have one? The ritual? The orb?”

“I do,” the Watcher said softly, at last. “It’s just…three years of tolerating your inconsistencies and you can still astonish me.” There was a comfortable pause. “I will likely have retired by the time you arrive this evening. Goodnight, William. And do look up. Daresay, Buffy might surprise you with her reaction.”

“Yeah…she might not stake me immediately. Might go a few rounds of a good beating before she decides it’s time to spike old Spikey.”

Giles grinned though there was no humor behind it—just simple, sad understanding, perhaps a shimmer or so of sympathy. “We’ll see.”

That was it. He was gone— and it was time to prepare.

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